Monty.

If you run out of money, it is important to get some more straight away, before you get Poor.

Due to an extended string of circumstances, I have found myself spending Tuesday evenings back pouring beers at my grandmother's lawn bowling club. The Tuesday 5-8pm or the 'Rotary' shift has been the property of me and my siblings for several years now. I have never been the primary custodian of the shift, rather it has been passed around between my two younger brothers - with me making the occasional guest appearance.

However, they are busy, I am not - so there I am. Each Tuesday I gratefully receive $57 in an envelope and a handwritten payslip. I arrive to each shift the expected 45 minutes late, leaving exactly 15 minutes early. I don't need to turn on the beer lines as Richard (the cook) has already put away three schooners while preparing the Rotarians meal.

Now then. The scene is set, I am free to talk about Monty...

At around 6:30, the Rotarians start plodding in to launch their Schlieffen-esque sub-committee offensive. They approach me at the bar, usually to order a middy of light or a glass of De Bortoli Colombard Chardonnay - direct from the silver handbag, a steal at $2.20. They are mostly from that ever expanding generation of elderly Australians: 60s and 70s, too young for WWII and The Depression but old enough to be casually racist and believe that corrugated gherkins and squares of tasty cheddar are a pretty decent canape.

Monty is my pick of the bunch. Standing around 5 foot 9, he is too large for small man's syndrome, yet demonstrates most of it's characteristics. Moustached and combed over in a short-sleeve-and-tie combination, he resembles an aged, slightly slimmer version of The Office's David Brent.

'Have you pulled one off the light keg yet?'

'Not yet, but it's been on all day. I just got here.'

'It'll be flat then.'

'That's not really how it works, Monty.'

Monty is in Real Estate Sales - which, of course, anyone in the vicinity can read on his name tag. According to him,  he owns the East Lindfield area. He has twice told me this, while gesturing to his wrist: 'it bought me this mate. Biggest Rolex on the market. Solid Gold.' 

I present him his middy and he eyes it suspiciously. 'More head than I'd usually expect.' Unbeknownst to Monty, nearly every comment he makes about beer has a far better use as sexual innuendo.

'Any less and it'd go flat. $2.60.' I say.

He pulls an estimated $30 in 10 cent pieces from his pocket, drops them on the bar and walks away to set up the PA. I'm left to salvage the money in his wake. Monty spends the next five minutes floating around the bar area - at one point embarrassing a man in his 70s by asking (in front of a group of ladies) if his 'new girl's a good root?' Seconds later I overhear him in a completely unrelated conversation use the term 'young jewess.'

Around 6:45 he returns to his drink at the bar and stares at me for attention, lips slightly parted. 'It's disgusting isn't it?'

'What's disgusting?'

He jerks his head in the direction of a man standing a few metres behind him. 'There's no excuse for being that fat... Despicable.'

I stumble. 'Everyone's different.'

'Nope.' Says Monty. 'No excuse. He's a pig. A doctor once told me that you can look as good as you like.'

I try to take the high road of silence, but let myself down. 'Right?'

'I reckon I look pretty good for 65 mate.'

'-'

Our conversation was unfortunately cut short - the official gong told us that it was 6:55PM, which means everyone takes a seat for a series of toasts. Besides, beef stroganoff won't eat itself. After dinner, Monty entered the meeting in an official capacity, in his role as quiz-master. He took his place on the podium and announced that tonight's topic would be tennis. He looked pretty good, too.

-