Forgetting oneself – Pelican, St Kilda

Still, by this time three bottles of wine had been polished off (the Sauvignon Blanc proving superior to the Reisling, much to Bruce’s surprise) so Mr Pub Grub enjoyed the ribbing. What’s more, he and his partner were extremely grateful to have been introduced to the Pelican, in Fitzroy Street, something of a St Kilda institution with its scattergun approach to tapas, wide selection of wines and great location close to the promenade – one of the few places Bruce and Fran miss since moving north (Banff pizzas, Mart 130 and the Taphouse pub in Carlisle Street the other major notables). And, come 2.45am, he wasn’t the one dropping his trousers on the Big Mouth dancefloor like a grinning 16-year-old leaving Fran to explain to the very friendly, but thoroughly bemused bouncer that, yes, unfortunately this man was indeed her husband.

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Paul Kelly @ the Palais Theatre, St Kilda

What is soon apparent is not just the quality of the songwriting, but the strength of his voice; often employed simply as a spoken word tool, it’s in a live arena – especially one of this scale – that his power to soar is revealed. Complemented by a tight band and his impeccable harmonica skills the music switches from gentle picking through blues and gospel to iconic singles such as Before Too Long and To Her Door. His humility even allows Kelly to get away with the likes of You’re 39, You’re Beautiful and You’re Mine, a song that could as easily have been written – and massacred – by Chris De Burgh

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Turning Aussie part 42: Paul Kelly in concert

Fran was the first to fall for his iconic Aussie charms. And boy did she fall. One afternoon she started crying while walking along Smith Street just thinking about How To Make Gravy. That’s right: thinking about it… When Bruce surprised her with tickets for the show it was like watching a five-year-old susceptible to sugar rushes being force fed half a kilo of Redskins washed down with a gallon of Coke and a couple of sherbert fountains then let loose on a bouncy castle. When she later got hold of Songs From The South vol. 2 and realised he penned Every Fucking City – the tune she rewrote into an Ancient Mariner-type odyssey with her road sisters while travelling the States in pre-Bruce days – it’s a miracle she didn’t shift a couple of tectonic plates.

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F1 Melbourne: From angry hornets to simpering Friesians

Hanging out the first of the day’s many washes in advance of tomorrow’s royal visit from Mr and Mrs Bruce Snr, Bruce’s ears were filled with an unfamiliar sound. There, in the background behind the welcome tootin’ of the Khamun birds that moved to Collingwood from the Yarra Bend around the time of Black Saturday [...]

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Riverland: the place to be (apparently)

Clearly, one can. On a recent blisteringly hot Saturday afternoon in St Kilda, they were amazed at the lack of any of the above. Instead, they were faced with a sea of fake tits, slicked back hair, designer shades and lumpy collagen lips. It got even worse when they were invited to the bar attached to the end of the marina, but then what else would any sane person expect from such a venue, especially at the start of Spring racing season?

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