Mystery Pub: Getting Metaphysical at the Morphett Arms

 

Glen Campbell gave us ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’ and failed contestants of the ancient quiz show Sale of the Century were gifted a diamond encrusted stick pin by host Glenn Ridge. So, what jewel does Glengowrie offer us?

 

Why, of course, the muscular boozer that is the Morphett Arms.

 

It was an act of bravery but also necessity. The pub is large, aggressively functional and a shrine for disciples of the Friday Meat Tray. None of these generally hold much appeal for Claire, but it’s seven minutes from home, and it would be a snobbish oversight to not swing by at least once as curious locals. Mystery Pub, as you well know, is underpinned by egalitarian principals and a dedication to exploration, geopolitics and post-modern art.

 

It’s not just a shameless monthly excuse to get on the gargle for an escapist hour.

 

The courtyard is a fine place to nurse, or if required, attack an end of week refreshment. The sole maple tree offers shade, beauty and a certain conspiratorial atmosphere, enhanced by us having the space almost entirely to ourselves.

 

There’s a decent range of tap beer but my Coopers XPA lacks punch. I suspect I’m the first to have one for the afternoon and so the keg’s still asleep. On occasion, being a beer pioneer comes at significant personal cost and if I weren’t of a buoyant mood this might have represented an existential crisis. Fatigued ale claims many a hapless victim. Don’t be next.

 

Claire’s white wine is white and winey in her etched and apparently complimentary glass.

 

We debrief our week and anticipate the next which with the Fringe now underway includes many Auslan interpreting gigs for Claire at the Holden Street Theatre and in town for various comedians such as Lloyd Langford, our funniest Welsh import. He could read from a phone book (explain this to the kids) and it’d be amusing.

 

I discuss going to Kapunda for work in a few days’ time and how this’ll be a euphoric treat despite the continuing sadness of the 2022 fire in Eringa. I love going home.

 

We sit happily at our elevated table and a few groups of post-work folk now drift in. Behind me on the large screen the cricket’s on in Delhi and local boy Travis Head comes and goes without me noticing. I’m probably more disappointed that the next Test has been moved from Dharamsala. It’s the most spectacular setting for a cricket ground with the snowy Himalayas looming just above the grandstands.

 

Our barkeep has a name badge with Rourke on it so when I return for round two of cuppage that’s what I call him. ‘Can I have a Pirate Life thanks, Rourke?’ His badge must be vaguely accurate as he replies, ‘Sure.’ My wife opts for a gin which is fair enough in mid-February. We have a funny conversation about Rourke, and the often-surprising helpfulness of a clearly visible nametag.

 

On our way to the motor, we duck into the front bar and the meat tray raffle’s away. Despite his microphone and a decent PA system, the spruiker’s a shouty chap and he barks, ‘That’s it for the pink tickets.’ I note a rise in the pub hub-bub, probably that of the singular discontent generated by the sudden pang of knowing you’re not going home with a pack of neck chops, chicken snags and lumpen rissoles.

 

Still, all blue ticketholders are alive and well. They might be in carnivorous luck yet.

 

Claire and I had also been in luck having just spent a lovely hour chatting beneath an unexpected maple tree. The tree is spectacular and although trees are not unknown in beer gardens, its green canopy made our occasion snug, and invested the visit with gratitude for our good fortune and mostly easy city and even Glengowrie. At all of this I felt a tiny whiff of wonder.

 

This, my friends, is what Mystery Pub is really about.

 

More from Mickey Here.

 

 

To return to the www.footyalmanac.com.au  home page click HERE

 

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

 

Do you enjoy the Almanac concept?
And want to ensure it continues in its current form, and better? To help keep things ticking over please consider making your own contribution.

 

Become an Almanac (annual) member – CLICK HERE

 

 

 

 

 

About Mickey Randall

Now whip it into shape/ Shape it up, get straight/ Go forward, move ahead/ Try to detect it, it's not too late/ To whip it, whip it good

Comments

  1. Peter Crossing says

    Thanks Mickey. Enjoy your hostelry ramblings.

    The Morphett Arms
    Now a thriving local. Although I do prefer The Broadway.

    The not so recent make-over/takeover has probably more to do with pokie percentages from the room of gloom than the income from blue/pink meat tray tickets.

    I have encountered similar problems with first beer from the Coopers Pale Ale tap in several pubs.

    The Highway Inn often takes preference on our way home from a Central Market therapy excursion late on a Friday afternoon. Dollar oysters and glass of champers very appealing to 50% of the contingent.

    The myrtle tree survives indoors at the Morphett Arms. Unlike the indoor gum tree that existed within the Burnside shopping precinct in that leafy eastern suburb. Metaphysics at work.

    Way back, at a barbecue at a local cricket club on the eve of the Adelaide Test, some likely lads over from Port Lincoln won the meat tray raffle. “You beauty”, they said, “We’ll have that later in the weekend”. The meat tray was subsequently cloaked at the Casino for a couple of hours while some damage was done before being deposited in the fridge in the North Adelaide apartment where the lads were staying. The Test match and other activities meant that the lads forgot about the meat tray and the fact that it had been placed in the fridge and not the freezer. The outcome was not pleasant.

  2. Hello there Peter. Thanks for your thoughts.

    In the same vague area as ‘Winemakers and their dogs’ I reckon a pictorial calendar with the theme: Beer Garden Trees would be a winner. The Broady’s frangipani gets a month. That North Adelaide pub and its peppercorn tree, although I think its closed. There must be more!

    I have no reason to doubt that Port Lincoln meat tray story! Was likely an annual occurrence.

  3. Ah Mickey, the gentrification of boozers continues apace. My memories of 50 years ago are bars full of racehorse trainers, stablehands, jockeys, touts, spies, urgers and hangers-on. As the pub closest to Morphettville racecourse and the surrounding stables the Morphett Arms was the repository for the flotsam and jetsam of the racing industry. I fitted right in.
    You need to go back and investigate further on a Saturday when the Chancellor of the Exchequer is not around. Surely the pokies are not the only “room of gloom” at Adelaide’s premier licenced victualler to the racing industry.

  4. PB- such is the success of the gentrification of the pub that it appeared utterly devoid of racing memorabilia or shady folk. Just suburban types out for a Friday drink and feed. Maybe this is the greater story here: increasingly the local doesn’t exist and pubs are simply photocopies of each other. Denuded and decontextualised. Still, I’m happy to continue the search!

  5. Daryl Schramm says

    The words seem to get bigger on each comment. Very ‘flowery’ all round.

  6. Thankfully some pubs retain an alternative reality. Which is my illusion, and I live in it.

  7. Thanks for reading Daryl. You can get it milkin’ a cow.

    JTH- was in the Exeter before a Fringe show Wednesday. Surely the ‘Tourist dies of thirst’ poster is soon heritage-listed!

  8. Peter Crossing says

    Mickey
    The meat tray was treated with greater dignity on other occasions.

  9. Thanks Peter. Meat trays deserve nothing but the best! Almost sounds like that Lincoln trip was for the cricket country carnival. A chap I played with in Kimba was part of a country carnival side that was dismissed for two. I’d love to read the story of that match.

Leave a Comment

*