|Ah, it was a poker night, not a casino night.|
Image courtesy of George Kouroumalis.
Although works had started earlier that year on bulldozing the terraces, work on the social club hadn't really got far. The casino night therefor was meant to be the pre-redeveloped social club's final official usage. I think I got roped into helping out by virtue of the fact that I was at Port Melbourne watching a game, and one of my companions got a phonecall from one of the movers and shakers, and all of a sudden we were off to Lakeside.
Anyway, the job done we chucked the TV above the bar on to watch the footy, some pedestrian affair that I think Hawthorn was winning in a canter, so I said to one of the blokes 'change it to SBS'. Now Friday nights of course at the time being SBS' soft-porn night, and after giving me a quizzical look he changed the channel, and there was Diary of a Nymphomaniac, with its inventive use of a glass coke bottle on a lithe female body.
See, the last the four years without a social club haven't been completely terrible! As for the timer, if we never end up getting a social club, let it stay there like the Mark of Cain.