HOW DO YA GET THERE, MATE?

SO ANYWAY, STU FORWARDS me an email from a reader, the one who reads my monthly rubbish, who suggests I do a piece about getting to the pubs each month and like most ideas that people hit me with I thought, that’s a bloody decent idea so I’ll put my yarn on Boree Creek on the back burner for a month and see what I can cobble.

DISCLAIMER: I’m not ‘into’ bikes. Not into them any more than Dan, my carpenter mate, is into hammers. He’s got a few, each for a different job. When he knocks off and hangs with buddies, they don’t sit around sipping beers and talking hammers: “Mate what’s the curve ratio of the claw on your claw hammer?”

Or tape measures. Have you ever overheard tradies sitting around in a pub discussing, “Mate, how long’s your tape measure? You got imperial as well as metric? Where’s it made? Current model?”

Fuck me! It’s a tape measure.

So, I never understand why, when I tell