I was having a few social beverages at the Box Hill R.S.L. club the other day (what a great establishment, by the way…) and approached the bar as it was my ‘hook’. I had two issues with the encounter with the bar staff that ensued;

1)      Before I’d even opened my mouth to politely ask for a few ’10 ounce’ Carlton Draughts, the woman behind the bar shouted excitedly, “Geez you’re massive!” at me and then proceeded to tell me how tall her second cousins were, or some shit.

2)      After I finally got my drink order out, she stared at me with a puzzled look on her face like that of a possum caught in the headlights of a muddy late-model Toyota Hilux dual-cab on a remote fire trail in northwest Tasmania. I swear that I actually saw a sliver of drool escape from the corner of her perplexed mouth.

Let me address these two points separately so that you can understand my frustration.

Point 1 – Everywhere I go I’m advised by absolute strangers that I’m tall, as if they’re the first ever person to come to the astounding realisation that this is the case. I don’t have so much of a problem with this to be honest. I’m so used to being asked if I play basketball or footy that I’m pretty much immune to the conversation. Every now and again I’ll act really surprised just to freak people out.

“What? Really? I’m tall? What the hell? I thought I was just normal height. How did I not know? Thanks for bringing it to my attention, I really appreciate it!”

They even spell it out, for fucks sake.

What makes me laugh is when people ask a specific question about how tall I am, only to then regale me with a story about how their second cousin/uncle/nephew is actually conveniently taller than me. It’s funny that this statement always comes after you’ve given them your height, as if it’s a competition and I’ve somehow just lost it (and as if I give a shit). Fuck, I’d rather be 3 inches shorter, at least then I’d be able to buy a decent pair of jeans without paying 300 bucks for them and wouldn’t have to get every suit I’ve ever bought altered to stop the pants from looking like pedal-pushers.

Point 2 – In Tasmania, I grew up calling what Victorians call a ‘pot’ a ’10-ounce’. Why, you ask? It’s because a pot holds 10 ounces of beer, pretty clear-cut, right? Indeed, I would often interchange my beer order between ‘pot’ and ’10-ounce’ and would always end up with the same thing with absolutely 0 hassles whatsoever. Cut to Victoria and bartenders having absolutely no idea what a 10-ounce is, with some of them actually getting offended that I’d ask for a beer in this way like I’ve just suggested a threesome with them and their mother…

Now, I’ve never worked behind a bar and even I know what a pot holds. It’s just common fucking knowledge. I shouldn’t be made to feel like a fucking leper just because the bartender doesn’t know the fucking difference.

The next time I order a pot, I’m asking for a ‘half-pint’ just to fuck with them. Fuckers.

/end communication