Election week was last week.

He just had nothing to say at all. They were talking about the election again.
The frustrating thing was, he was a glutton for news. He read the Herald and Telegraph online every day. He could recite by heart every single name of every single child who had been killed by neglected parents. He often rememembered important social calendar dates on the Dianne Brimble Case Index.

---

I had nothing to say at all. I was hanging out with a group of people I kind of knew through an old housemate. They were normal Newtown-y types, just with the political aggression turned up to nine, and the ability to laugh at themselves set to heavy fade. They were about 20 minutes into loudly discussing the federal election in a curious fashion in which they would all argue the same point, with the winner decided by who could affect the loudest, pushiest, high school drama-est manner. When the conversation turned to Richard Neville, Germaine Greer and starting a Oz-like publication RIGHT NOW, I understood it as my signal to do what my colleagues could not, despite four decades of popular culture chanting the word "irrelevant," and move on.

I was not interested in going home just yet. I didn't have to get out of bed for anything in particular the next day, and I was pretty sure none of my housemates were missing me too much. I contently wandered off King St and down Missenden Rd, at least in the vague direction of home. As I passed the RPA hospital and the convenience store I saw a group of jocular young fellows trying to roll a Streets ice cream fridge out through the sliding doors.
"Do you guys go to college?"
"Yeah," responded the bloke in the pastel bonds singlet and white footy shorts with a St Pauls College emblem just above the "CCC" logo.

It was a pretty easy prediction to make, but I was still proud of myself. Whenever drunk, it is generally my philosophy to let people know that they are dickheads in such a way that will probably only irritate them.

A few steps further down the street and I was drawn in by a bouncer of completely normal appearance at the Grose Hotel (actually called the Prince Alfred for as long as I've known it, but the old name stuck, apparently). I passed him and walked straight past various groups of drinkers, mostly unattractive, mostly male. I ordered myself a lonely Reschs (the darker colour of Reschs always makes this beer appear lonelier than say VB or a premium pour would whilst sitting alone) and wandered through to the outdoor area that smelt slightly less like vomit than the enclosed area.

There was only one other person sitting out there. An older bloke, dressed all in denim and with ridiculous hair. He had that rock-a-billy hairstyle that I often joked is considered extremely correct in some areas of Melbourne. Not here though. This could only be one person.
"Don't let me be/Something sour in your coffee," I tested the waters.
"Well it's very flattering that you know my lyrics, but my schooner's still empty."

I wandered back inside to the public bar and ordered another Reschs. Reschs being available on tap in NSW, and being a beverage traditionally associated with working class inner-Sydney, I hoped that my new temporary friend may have included its name in a song I hadn't heard. Maybe one of the demo tracks that was later culled from Hourly Daily? This would undoubtedly stimulate conversation.

I got back to the table where I was greeted as "a gentleman and a scholar," and got ready to chat with this mysterious character of Australian music whose songwriting and lyrics had occupied so much of my attention over the last ten years. Considering that when I found him, he was drinking alone at the Grose Hotel on Missenden Rd at 2:17am on a Wednesday night (Thursday morning), I assumed he would probably want to talk about what inspired him, the meaning behind his work and how little money he has made from it.

"So Tim, I hear you were the school captain of Oakhill College?"

I have hazy recollection of most of the conversation, but he pretty much just talked about the plight of the North Melbourne Kangaroos, and at one stage he uttered the words "Good Sir" and "60 metre drop-punt" in the same breath. We chatted about the various nuances of gentlemanly etiquette and their practical applications, both agreeing that hats should always be removed inside, particularly if ladies are present.