Free The Grand Hotel by Gregory Day Page A

the outside were the new coolroom on the Dray Road side of the house, and the blue and yellow floral curtains Nan insisted on putting in the windows of the upstairs bedrooms; oh, yes, and also the little wooden sign Darren had carved in beechwood and tacked above the door:
    THE GRAND HOTEL. LICENSEE: N. LEA
    NO SHEEP NO SHENANIGANS NO SERVICE
    The first interesting thing that happened on the opening night was when Kooka unwittingly changed Gene Sutherland’s name to Joan. We’d been open since three and, what with the word around town and the instant success of Duchamp the Talking Urinal, the place was nearly full only half an hour after the tradesman’s knock-off of 4.30. I soon realised that the sunroom was gonna become a favourite hangout, running between the bar and Duchamp as it did. Men and women kept emerging from the dunny doing up their overalls or rearranging their hair with either astounded or amused looks on their faces at what they’d just experienced. The stock country phrase was ‘Well, it’s different’.
    Of course they couldn’t quite get their heads around us boarding up the ocean-facing windows in the bar either and when Happy Hour began at 5.30 with Pope Benedict’s angelus live-streaming on Vatican Radio from St Peter’s Square in Rome, the heads were shaking thick and fast. But the drinks were going down fast too. Rennie Vigata’s Dancing Brolga Ale was much approved of, and everyone seemed genuinely happy to have somewhere local to drink again.
    As the early hours of that first afternoon passed and people stopped to look at some of the stuff we’d put up around the walls, and as they talked to Darren or Nan or me about what was going on, the goodwill was beginning to turn into good cheer. By 6.30, when the Vatican Radio was exchanged for Jacques Delors videos on YouTube and the first plates of our opening-night entrée, whiting rollmops, were being handed around, the good cheer was really taking off. At 7.30, as new locals kept turning up to check it all out, we paused the proceedings to read out The Grand Hotel Charter. It was brief and to the point.
    Kooka stood in front of the bar, his bronzed shoulders shining under the bleached hoops of his white singlet, and as he flicked the ‘record’ switch on the old Grundig we called for a bit of shoosh.
    â€˜The Grand Hotel Charter has four main components, each of which commence from tomorrow,’ Kooka began. ‘NUMBER ONE: in keeping with the original Grand Hotel that stood right here on this site, and that caught fire over one hundred years ago, no light beer will be served. The Dancing Brolga it is, ladies and gents. And stubbies of your choice, within reason of course. NUMBER TWO: as there is no car park provided on the grounds, drinks will be twenty per cent cheaper to those customers who have walked or ridden their bikes. This has nothing to do with political correctness and everything to do with lack of space. NUMBER THREE: The Grand Hotel, at the discretion of the owner and his committee, will close during long weekends and holiday periods. Make of this what you will but consider that the architecture of Noel’s old house is hardly equipped to cope with the summertime hordes of the Showcase Coast. And lastly NUMBER FOUR: in The Grand Hotel mirth is the object and liquor the licence. Gentlemanly conduct is considered preferable and the more good natured the conversation the more nuts will appear in your bowl. The licensee, Noely here, has asked me to pass on that any objections, enquiries or even commendations on the way the hotel is run should be directed to Frankie the Canary or his spaniel, Pippy. Each evening after stumps Noel has promised he will sit down with Frankie and Pippy, share a few cuttle and chop bones, and discuss the issues. Thanks, ladies and gents. Enjoy yourselves and please let’s raise a toast to the reopening of The Grand Hotel, Mangowak!’
    As the