ACG Rants

• Madi
  • Growing Old
  • Kirsty McColl
  • The good old fscking days
• David W
  • Trainspotting
• Neef
  • Whats wrong with goths, goth clubs, and goth music today
  • From Deep Vein Thrombosis to Deborah Sutton
  • Sandro
  • Boycott PVC
• Sandro
  • Red velvet lines the black box, the Punter's is dead
  • My Pet Lev
• D.A.P
  • Get a real one
• Barbarella
  • The Eighties
  • vidi vici vini
• n4cat
  • I'm Me
• Loom
  • In My Day....

ACG

• The aus.culture.gothic FAQ.
• The ACG Short Story Collection - SubPlots
• 1998 ACG Show and Tell compilation.
• 1999 ACG Show and Tell compilation
• 2001 ACG Show and Tell compilation
• Classic ACG Quotes
• Vurt.net

From: Sandro
Subject: Red velvet lines the black box, the Punter's is dead

the cockroaches have left the pot glass
the victims have been bled
red velvet lines the speaker stacks
The Punter's is Dead

(apologies to bauhaus)

After all the rumours had died down, with strange tales of
Country Road outlets springing up in its place and other such
blasphemy, the executioner's axe has finally fallen, the
Punter's Club is dead. Well, in a few months at least. That pains
me more than I can express. I was reborn in that fucking pub,
its dark confines seeing me grow from boy to older boy, as many
a man, woman, band and beer crossed my path in my search for
gods know what and gods know why at all times of the day or night.

I spent close to two years in that place, the way other kids go
to Europe or the States as exchange students, I became educated
in the ways of the "lifestyle", leaving a banal life in
the 'burbs for multiple stabs at adulthood. And copious amounts
of the sex, the drugs and the rock and / or roll. No current
pub / club can possibly replace the Punter's shaped hole that
would be in my heart if I hadn't lost my heart on a serious
bender. Probably at the Punter's :)

Wow. This is like finding out that your ancestral home has been
turned into a 7-11 or a Blockbuster, both of which now reside
on Brunswick Street, which used to stand for something different,
and now is starting to stand for the banality of commercialism,
and the replacement of the past with monuments to greed.

To grow old is not the problem, getting older and idealising
places and times of the past is natural, yet I am less
susceptible than most. What pains me is that the world around
me has to change, and seemingly not for the better. How can some
fucker of a landlord justify ending his/her to-date highly
profitable relationship with Matt Everett? Wasn't the hundreds
of thousands of dollars worth paid in rent enough? Jesus fucking
Christ I can abide other people's greed only so far, but this
is the height of ridiculousness.

Where will the cockroaches go? Ask yourselves that. The Punter's
is dead, the Fitzroy I knew is dying, and this leaves me mournful
and sad.

Sandro - there is no fucking justice in this bleak, cold universe

Vale to my memories of Liz, Lars, Michelle, Milton, that Rob
guy, that Rob guy that used to own the Punters, Nino, his
delectable wife, Snorkel, Carl and Tabitha, Tasha, Naomi, Oldben
and NewBen, Clayton, Mark, Patsie, the other Mark, VJ, Cecilia,
Jane, her silly friend with the top hat, Justine I think, the
hundreds of bands I saw there, the thousands of beers I slew,
Paul, his annoying sister, Mick, Sarah, Eliza (the crazy woman),
Atlanta, Zoe, a different Mark, Quentin, Leah, Rez, Yuan, Soph,
Catriona, and a million more memories of years of dissolute
living. It was good while it lasted, but I'm not the same
person, and everything needs must die lest it become a shambling
parody of itself. End transmission.