Cabaret Era

Courtesy of My Generation.

The ditzy days of 6 o'clock closing didn't just seriously impact on working and domestic life. It shackled Saturday night society in the era preceding "night-clubbing", the time when tarted-up New Zealand flocked to tee-total cabaret. Who was kidding who?

MAURICE SMYTH looks back to the late 1950's/early '60s in Wellington to recall how straight-up citizens broke the law, regular as clockwork, partly because there was nothing on the telly. There was no telly, just a lambent lampshade in a corner of the lounge.
 
Whether it was the Majestic in the city centre or the Pines along Wellington harbour's tricky coastline, Saturday night was when a week of pent-up steam found a way out, cabaret style. The fact that the law said drinking alcohol while having fun in a big room after dinner was prohibited was neither here nor there. Cabarets throughout the country back then had as much booze on the premises as the Customs-clamped bond store of any alcohol importer.
 
The law was an ass and mostly behaved like an ostrich. Just observing people approach a cabaret was a dead give-away.
 
HE was dressed smart as a new pin - trousers pressed, Brylcreamed and Old Spiced, overcoat (balmy nights no exception) tossed over a bent elbow concealing banned booze - anything from a flagon of Red Band to a bottle of Scotch and a muffled clink of bottled beers in between. Bouncers were either non-existent or all smiles and welcoming gestures.
 
SHE was powdered, sprayed, primped and primed as though Cinderell's slipper was a given. Hair-do was paid for that morning, outfit of whatever hue and style picked up from the drycleaner same day, embalmed after last weekend's havoc. Where she sequestered and smuggled bottles of the beastly-named but popular Horse's Neck, never mind Pimms and Merry Widow, is a curly one. As my dear old mum used to say, a policeman wouldn't ask you that. She knew nothing of New Zealand and got it wrong.
 
All cabaret punters paid at the door and strode in head held high, social soldiers guilty as sin and they knew it ..but the braggarts in their step would have passed a drama school audition.
 
The atmosphere smacked of the hit song "Hernando's Hideaway" ..."I know, a dark, secluded place..."   It was created by a "dancing with the stars" ambience long before such exhibitionism was thought of. Carefully planned lighting was the key. The fulgent, soccer ball-size spectrola hanging and slowly revolving from the ceiling cascaded a galaxy of sparkle into every nook and cranny. It was always wreathed in a veil of Scotch Mist as every table gave up tobacco smoke.
 
Cabaret clansfolk tabled in groups of mostly six, mingling with others only when they took to the floor to cha-cha or make a midnight conga chain. By this time the cops could have been shooting fish in a barrel as they pondered where to strike. But the party prancers were counting on an as-yet unwritten Abba hit : "Take a chance on me!"
 
The earnest "nothing to do with me constable" expressions when the force confiscated bottles and noted names could have kicked off a television reality series. The embarrassment of being caught was like taking your spinster great-aunt Myrtle to the zoo just as the baboons decided to hold a red-ass day.
 
A regular in my sextet was the girlfriend of a mate who struggled to discipline herself at the dining table. She hid her avoirdupois within layers of tulle, always good for a laugh and a flash as she hoisted to grasp a miniature of gin tucked into her suspender belt. It was a tight fit in there among the top-shelf denier of shiny silk.
 
Her paired nylons struggled against over-lapping thighs and when she quick-stepped she created enough static to light a small village. When she shimmied, then stopped, all moving parts settled down in their own time.
 
Six o'clock closing was introduced as a temporary wartime measure in December 1917 but made permanent the following year in what became known as the "six o'clock swill." For people like me who arrived during its latter tenure in 1957, it was a perplexing disgrace. The shipyard and aircraft factory hard men in my home town of Belfast never knew such before-dinner inebriation. Then again, they could hold their own against the world on pay-day Friday night.
 
A mood for change swelled in the '60s and a second referendum in 1967 saw a majority opting for a return to 10 o'clock closing. To this day there are social comentators who blame the era for creating a binge-drinking culture.
 
The menfolk cabaret smugglers of half a century ago were not fussy. If it tasted like hops or malt it was under the coat and there were gems in the good-natured banter. "Look at you Herbie. Dick Turpin had the good grace to wear a mask for god's sake."
 
Women tipplers were more discerning. Horse's Neck was always a starter, consisting of burbon, ginger ale and lemon peel, especially when pared from the fruit in one continuous strip for some arty-farty reason.
 
Merry Widow was indeed a hangover hoot. It consisted of three parts gin, three parts vermouth and dashes of angostura bitters, Benedictine liqueur and French vermouth.
 
As if that wasn't enough, Pimms always came in numbers. My Generation found the recipe for No 6 : vodka over ice, flesh and juice of a passion fruit, a dash of syrup and a sprig of mint.
 
"Excuse me constable, but have you any idea how much trouble I've gone to to get this pissed?"
 
As that rascal of an Irish house painter-turned author Brendan Behan wrote: " Hold your hour and have another."
 
Countless did, and it cost them. 

print