Skimpies and Scaries

The Husband and I recently visited a delightful establishment, a local gem called the Karratha Tavern, or as it is affectionately called, The Tav. A night of entertainment is guaranteed by all who pass through its doors as it is not only a bar. Oh no, it is so much more than a bar. The Tav is a betting office, restaurant, off-license, bar, dance club and virtual strip joint all rolled into one pleasure palace. Additional entertainment also comes in the form of the inevitable fights that break out between its clientele each night. We were lucky enough to witness one such brawl between two rather meaty men, both clearly inebriated, one of whom was manhandled out of the bar by security with his trousers halfway down his derriere (and quite a derriere it was, I can assure you).

I had a wonderful conversation with a man suffering from a slight perspiration problem who found it difficult to formulate whole sentences and who clearly didn't need the pint he clutched to himself like it was his most prized possession - which at that moment it probably was. The genteel customers that frequent The Tav are entertainment in themselves. It was people-watching heaven, although you have to be careful not to look too much or you might not make it home in one piece. I suppose that just gives a night out at The Tav an extra thrill factor though. A rather large woman (or it could have been a man, it was hard to tell at first glance) bumped into me as she walked past on her way to the bar, and then scowled at me as if it was my fault that her wide load couldn’t fit through the crowd. I wasn’t about to argue with her though so I gave her a meek, apologetic look and quickly looked away. I saw her move on out of the corner of my eye and breathed a sigh of relief, feeling that buzz people get after narrowly escaping death. Adrenaline junkies should definitely experience a night out at The Tav – they’ll never bother base jumping or swimming with great whites again.


I thought I had seen the last of women parading around the local wearing nothing but a bit of dental floss and two plasters in Thailand, so, as you can imagine, I was overjoyed to discover that I can also be served a glass of wine by a pair of boobs right here in Karratha. Oh, but it’s fine because they wear nipple coverings (often supplied by local businesses who brand them – they know exactly where every man’s eye will be) so it’s quite respectable. Apparently skimpies, as they are tastefully known, are common in country Australia, and especially in towns that house a heavy population of miners and other shift workers, here without their wives or girlfriends for weeks at a time. Unlike Thailand, sex is not on the cards – there’s a strict ‘look but don’t touch’ policy – and for most of the girls being a skimpy is not a full-time career. They do it to pay their university tuition, to save enough money to start a business, or to get onto the property ladder. They show (marginally) less than if they were a stripper and they don’t have to lap-dance or swing around a pole, but it’s still sad that some girls feel they have to subject themselves to being ogled by dozens of big, sweaty miners to earn a bit of extra cash. I also think it sad that, in a first world, civilised country, girls barely covering their dignity can serve drinks in a regular bar. This isn’t a dark and dingy basement strip club, it’s a normal bar. You expect that sort of thing in Thailand, but not here in Australia.

So, if your idea of a quality night out is to place a bet, watch an in-house fight, narrowly avoid a fight of your own, and get served by women wearing nipple patches and thongs, then The Tav is the place for you.