Around the World in 100 Pubs

Times Square is like that remote-control car I always wanted when I was a kid. When I finally got it I only used it a handful of times and from then on it sat on a shelf, gathering dust. Times Square is built up as something big, something special, a must-do in Manhattan, but whenever I go there I’m surrounded by other tourists trying outdo each other’s selfies, the lights flicker, taxi horns screech. When I get there all I can think of is planning an escape. I ran from Times Square in search of some respite and Jimmy’s was there, Jimmy’s was the answer. A narrow, blink-and-you-miss-it, old-school dive bar, with walls plastered with boxing memorabilia and a piece of plain white paper pinned to the bar, surrounded by dollar notes, written in capitals, ‘Let’s not discuss politics here.’ It sums up Jimmy’s Corner. It’s an escape, a fantasy world, a break from the hustle and bustle of the city, life, politics and all the demons. A world of only bourbon, beer and boxing. A stark and ref...

Crocodiles may well be fearsome beasts but their meat tastes like chicken and when it’s 50 degrees Celsius in the shade Carlton Draught tastes better than any craft beer on the planet. I learnt these valuable life lessons in the Northern Territory at a table (in the shade) at the Humpty Doo Hotel. I walked to the bar to buy a drink. A horde of ragged men in soiled high viz glared at me. I thought to myself, this is the outback, this is 'Straya. The bartender, with more beads of sweat on his forehead than a skipping boxer in Dubai, looked up and said, ‘Geez you’re a tall c**t.’ What do you say to that? At least it’s more original than, ‘how’s the weather up there?’ or ‘you should play basketball’. ‘A couple Carlton Draughts thanks,’ I said. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand spraying perspiration across the bar and turned to pour me a beer. https://www.humptydoohotel.com.au/

Like a decent work of art the Tele changes under different lights and different days. Wednesday night is rambunctious and loud. The uni students come out from their decrepit share-house hovels. They look under-age but drink with complete and utter abandon. The steins are dirt-cheap and the chicken parmies even dirtier and cheaper. Friday is an older more white-collar crowd – even some suits here and there. Whilst Saturday night is deafening and full to the brim. You’ll no doubt hear a cover band playing Bon Jovi, and it’s fitting because the Tele is like Bon Jovi – aged and leathery with a shaggy blond mullet, it rocks, and is an incessant crowd pleaser. http://www.telehotel.com.au/

As we walked through the doors a storm began. A bloke at the bar asked if we were sheltering from the storm or actually there to have a beer. I was unsure if he was trying to quote Bob Dylan or if he didn’t like our type. The room was dim and a bluegrass band, drowned out by the rain pelting the roof, strummed ditties from another time. The old-duck at the bar served us beer in jam jars and cooked our burgers at the same time. The toilet wouldn’t flush and a foul smelling sticky substance dripped from the roof. When we sat at our table a river started flowing at our feet – the storm was encroaching and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the whole establishment drifted away around us. Ice cold beer never drank so good. http://dinosnashville.com/