Cruisin' For A Bruisin' In The Bull Bar

Sydney Morning Herald

Saturday July 25, 1998

Emma Tom

WHEN it comes to entertainment, nothing beats an RSL club. Nothing beats a beef "shazlick" from the carvery washed down with a cheap schooner or 12. And how about the excitement of winning the meat raffle then beerily mistaking one of the chops for an ashtray? When was the last time entertainment like that was laid on at a rave party or techno bash, eh?

As a dyed-in-the-wool westie chick I try not to travel north over the bridge for my kicks in case my uncouth ways and all-flannelette outfits upset civilised locals. But the line-up at the Mosman Returned Servicemen's Club the Friday night before last was simply too good to miss. On stage were the Zips, a five-piece showband specialising in Elvis, Village People and Roy Orbison impersonations, plus Harry the mechanical Mexican bull. It was the sort of quality double billing rarely seen this side of Kogarah. How could any self-respecting thrillseeker say no?

To get a grip on the finger-snapping mystique of the Zips, think snazzy suits, crushed velvet polo shirts and diamante cummerbunds. Think Footy Show-style drag routines and a portly lead singer armed with a cordless mike and what looks suspiciously like a perm. But above all, think medleys and lots of 'em.

To get a grip on Harry the mechanical bull, grab hold of his neck rope, grip with your knees and try your hardest to ignore the inevitable shout of "ride it like a woman" from the drunken chap standing ringside. (One can only speculate on his confusion upon finding that real, live women rarely come with neck ropes.) Don't worry if you become airborne and miss the inflatable bouncing-castle crash pad. All glass-covered prints and photographs have been thoughtfully removed from nearby walls to make any collision as shard-free as possible.

Although I arrived in the civilised surrounds of the Mosman RSL well before the Zips were due to crank out their opening number (a kick-bottom rendition of Bob Seger's Hollywood Nights), the only table left was sandwiched dangerously between Harry and a hotly contested pool table. It was here that a local lass overheard my speculations on whether the colour of my companion's ruffled dress shirt was "lemon" and took it as some sort of slight on her no doubt quite civilised sexual preferences. There but for the grace of "incredibly rapid backtracking" went an ear-ripper of a scrag fight, the like of which probably has not been seen this side of Mortdale.

As the night progressed, the Zips demonstrated keen professionalism by pumping out medley after medley even though great chunks of the audience were more interested in the NTN Interactive Trivia competition on the TV screens overhead. News that "Dorcas" was the actual name of a chick who performed good deeds for the poor in Joppa (unfortunately a far more biblical approach than performing good deeds for the rich) caused great oohings and ahh-ings among civilised players from all corners of the room.

Harry was also a serious distraction. Even though you had to buy a disgusting novelty tequila beverage for a ticket to ride, the mechanised jerker was bruising bottoms and popping jeans buttons like no-one's business. "You got to stabilise yaself, Johnny," a particularly civilised pack of blokes told a mate in a T-shirt with ironed shoulder folds as stiff as tent peaks. "You got to move with the cow. You got to hold it firm this time, Johnny. We already wasted three margaritas on ya."

By midnight, the tension was electric. This had less to do with the Zips' bizarre impersonation of the entire Riverdance troupe than the fact that some Mosman cow hero had stayed on Harry so long the whole place seemed to have short-circuited. By the time the flashing lights had been rebooted, Johnny had ditched rough riding for stripping, and one amorously civilised couple had hurled themselves onto Harry's bouncing castle where they engaged in some very vigorous bouncing.

Quite frankly, I hadn't seen such enthusiasm this side of Hen and Chicken Bay. And as I fled from the club - pausing only to steal a Zips poster from the front door and ash one last durry into the meat tray - I couldn't help but feel grateful that I had made my home in Sydney's unfashionable and leafless west and not among all this sophistication in its north.

etom@bigpond.com