When I was but a wee lad – less than 5 years ago, to be exact, but who’s counting? – I lived in Adelaide for a few months. Wonderful town – at least Ben Folds seems to think so. And why wouldn’t he, seeing as he married an Adelaide chick. Yay Ben, whom I will incidentally be seeing live in San Francisco a week from now, unless jet lag gets me first.

Anyway, even if at the end of the day I just had to escape, I have many fond memories of Adelaide. One of them would definitely be Coopers Stout on tap at the Crown & Sceptre. If you’re ever in town, do yourself a favour and go there, if for nothing else, then at least to marvel at the recursion in the symbiosis of the bar and the painting depicting the bar hanging on the wall behind it.

The Coopers brewery is kind of the Olvi of Australia – an independent brewery that is not exactly small but definitely not a megaswillery (is that a word? I guess it is now) either. In addition to the Stout, which by the way is perfectly fine in the bottle as well, they do a mahvelous Sparkling Ale, identified by its red label. Walking back from the Brisbane Powerhouse, where I indeed indulged in a stubby of the Stout, I was inspired to swing by a bottle-o and grab a six-pack of said ale.

But oh! Woe is me! Being the carefree lad that I am, I did not take appropriate precautions and ask for a plastic bag. Instead, I foolishly thought the flimsy cardboard binding the six torpedoes of bliss together would suffice as an implement of transportation. How wrong I was. Suddenly and without any warning, the evil cardboard decided to give way in the middle of Merthyr Road, cruelly letting gravity do its worst to the contents.

The story has a happy ending, though. Not one of the bottles broke. One of the twist tops did come loose, which meant I had no option but to consume the attached stubby on the spot. Which I then swiftly proceeded to do.

It baffles the mind, though, to think that if the stubbies truly are that strong – how come they get recycled along with other glass garbage, instead of heading straight back to the bottling plant after a quick shower? Answers on a postcard please.

…to the show that never ends, or, as Canada’s poet laureate Neil Peart would have it, “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

In case you were already reading this blog when Jesus was a boy and dinosaurs roamed the streets of Brisbane in search of an establishment that would serve a decent meal after 9 pm, you might recall that I used to publish each and every entry in two languages. I have decided not to do this any longer – if you can’t read English, feel free to give me a call and I’ll give you a quick synopsis. Our operators are standing by. Your call is important to us. Please hold.