VICTORY AT THE VICTORY

Last Sunday night I had occassion to visit the Victory Hotel in Edward St Brisbane. Now, I have had prior to this quite a negative experience at the aforementioned venue. not because of anything that happened to me there but because of what DIDN't happen. I had arranged to meet certain people there who failed to show, thus destroying my faith in pub culture, mateship and what it means be be part of a team. At the time it felt like this would last forever, but fortunately my faith in the fun side of human nature has been restorred. From the outside the Vic as it is known is nor particularly impressive (See pictures here), although there is a whopping great neon sign on the outside. Also outside was an enormous queue which was a surprise. I was a bit concerned as to the criteria for entry as a well-dressed albeit young and inebriated looking couple were knocked back, but I managed to squeeze past the hostiles at the entrance after a bit of loitering outside.

I didn't visit the beergarden - packed to the gills, and also the scene of the uncrime last time - but headed straight upstairs to the pool room to marry up with my contacts (you know who you are). Not seen. Right turn into a little corridor and ran straight into them. On this subject the place is a veritable maze of winding passageways and staircases just like grandma's house - but instead jam-packed full of drunken punters on a spree. Off to the bar upstairs which is a kind of square arrangement bridging two separate rooms, one a kind of dance floor and the other I didn't care tolook into. Whatis it with pubs and dance floors? It has to a kind of hybrid intensity to it - not quite a pub, not quite a nightclub -with the end result being that you take your pots (guys) and Archers (girls) onto the dance floor to have a suck while you boogey the night away. This is obviously thirsty work as one of the keynote dancers (IMHO) I sailed straight over to the bar for a water with not much of a wait and the bar babe not missing a beat, simultaneously knocking up a vodka and orange.

Back to the dancefloor to mingle with the fashion tragics (Are satin boob tubes really coming back? And ladies, yes, tight denim jeans really do make your bum look big) and groove along to the DJ - reasonable choice of music - a little 80's, a litlle 90's, a little now, all competently mixed to a thumping bass line. It is my theory (although not tested) taht the drubker one gets, the quieter music sounds, thus necessitating a proprtionate response of volume. So it was loud, but not too bad, as a shouted conversation directly in another's ear could almost be heard.

I had to exfil early but overall I can happily say that my faith in human nature has been restored and I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Although the music was loud and the fashion was poor, this, combined with the sweaty press of hundres of drunken yobs, merely added to the cahrm and caharcter of the moment. Because of its rustic appearance and plethora of bar options, the old Vic stands tall in my books as a venue worthy of patronage. Well worth an investment of your time and money. Cheers.