The Creek

Friday afternoon some say never comes too soon
And sure as hell, I wouldn’t disagree
So there I was one arvo with a thirsty sense of bravo
When my mates called up to ask me where I’d be

I said “Wouldn’t it be good if we could have one off the wood!
A golden coldie better for the pour
With a steak of grain fed beef heading south behind the teeth
In an atmosphere that legend can’t ignore

And that one almighty brew might just quickly turn to two
Then with three and four, we’ll reminisce the week”
And as if to oxy-weld it, simultaneous, we yelled it
“In the name of Queensland fame, let’s hit The Creek!”

‘God pray for those poor tragics who have never known its magic!’
I was thinking as my elbow nudged the bar
In a room where generations shared their amber celebrations
Father, son and granddad smoking his cigar

Well, with a couple done and dusted, to the Staghorn Deck we blustered
Like a ship, the night was sailing nice and steady
Then the speaker begged my pardon in the brand new Spanish Garden
As its voice informed ‘my barbeque was ready’

And the froth continued flowing as the knives and forks went hoeing
Into monster steaks and spuds with bits of bacon
The mushy sauce was awesome and the coleslaw made a foursome
While that huge tomato slice was not forsaken

And the group gave commendation to the Hotel’s renovation
A fresh glaze on a century of glory
“God help me,” shouted Rat, “If these walls could have a chat
I bet they’d bloody tell a ripper story!”

Now my father always said that a beer must have good head
But what came next went well beyond the joke
For as my lips began to share it – Cross my heart, I swear it
The beer that I was drinking softly spoke!

“Tis more than just a fairytale,” proclaimed that pot of sparkling ale
“It delves beyond a sense of mere tradition
An institution – sure, but I believe a whole lot more”
And with that, the twelve-ounce gave me its position -

“It’s the ghost of William Galloway - a place where you can have a say
A Brisbane afternoon in full-blown colour
It’s the broom of Mrs Cavill – it’s the Kingsford Smith Drive gravel
It’s the cricket bat and ticket book of ‘Lulla’

It’s a birthday drink to herald – it’s the voice of Pat Fitzgerald
It’s a storm on the horizon’s distant rumble
It’s a bar to go through paces after losing at the races
It’s that all too damned familiar homeward stumble

It’s a journey – it’s a feeling - it’s a secret worth revealing
It’s a memory engraved upon your slate
It’s a spirit – it’s a taste – it a breeze forever chased
It rings constant like an old undying mate”

And although the night proceeded, well…that was all I needed
The other boys? – They hadn’t ceased their squawking!
When I asked them if they’d heard, they considered it absurd
‘I was drunk’, they said, ‘and now the beer was talking’

Well forgive me if I’m mad, but in actual fact, it had
So I eyed it like a loyal loving brother
Then I let that baby slide and it felt so good inside
That I found the strength to order me another

And to celebrate the fun now that all was said and done
And before this frosty had the chance to speak
I raised it to the sky with a teardrop in me eye
And I cried with honest pride ‘HERE’S TO THE CREEK!”

Now the patrons live in fear of that famous talking beer
But the Breakfast Creek Hotel is not concerned
Because whatever tales they tell, good beers always tell them well
And the end result is something that we’ve learned

Yes, it comes back to the fact that the legend’s still intact
And no matter what your thirst or what your age
In the chapters of the saga, you can bet your final lager
That yours will be another famous page

Rupert McCall
December 2002