Marrickville’s Rissole

A letter from a fellow princess….

Lit up like a spastic fibreoptic ornament in your grandad’s pool room, it looks like a harbinger of great, glitzy things, a Soviet-designed block monument to glorious kitsch in need of a good dusting. Bleeping pokies. Red, blue, green and pink neons: it’s the Marrickville RSL.

I always wondered if the real Elvis might wobble out from behind the stage set one day and surprise the punters over their $6.90 steak and veggies special.

One day, I had to stop wondering and find out.

Remember when you discovered there was no Santa?

It was one of those blustery summer days when to walk two blocks along Illawarra Road is to wedge yourself under the wet, smelly armpit of a 20 stone man on a peak hour train that’s broken down.

It was time for a beer and the Rissole’s Vegas siren song could not be resisted.

Happy Joe was there to greet me at the front desk. All hairy forearms and waxed silver hair, if I remember correctly. He was a man of few grunts and even less time.

Happy Joe was not really happy at all to sign me in. I needed a membership. All fine and good and I dutifully filled in the forms, squinting my eyes against the small black and white form. No mean feat, considering I already felt like a ‘roo in headlights – and this just from the swirly carpet, front of house neons and raffle barrel in the Rissole’s foyer.

$2 and an oblong piece of plastic later and I was feeling my way into the main bar area. I think. A few false turns here and there and not a few bumps as I negotiated my way around the shiny black - did I mention neon? – walls.

The bar!!! I finally found the bar!!!

Now, this was before the days of topless Vegas shows – or at least they weren’t on when I was there that day. Which you would’ve thought would be a good thing, except that I think it meant that my ample shape in a summer dress was the show. There were at least four blokes at the bar that day and not a dozen teeth between them. As the bartender plonked my icy beer in front of me, I couldn’t thank him for blushing.

It was a hot day, though, and I was thirsty. True to the odds, it was the quickest inhalation of a VB that ever was seen this side of the Murray. Then I left.

This is all a shame, because the Marrickville Rissole should be a far more fabulous place than it is, don’t you think?

If the inner west has its own Vegas, then why is it being commandeered by dirty old men rather than being utilised by all the natives, including the befrocked ones?