The Cat Empire, a night out in Frankston

As I didn't get a photo of The Cat Empire, here is a meerkat instead

Before leaving Aus I had to sample at least a little bit of the Victorian nightlife; although of course when I say Victorian this refers to the state of Victoria, not the historical period under the British queen who reigned for about a million years. So rather than taking me to a gin shop full of street urchins and vagabonds, followed by some jellied eels and a cheap ticket at the music hall, cousin Sydney took me to Frankston to see Melbourne band The Cat Empire.

This was a gig filled with potential; the venue, Pier Live, was filled with Cat Empire fans who knew all the words to all the songs, and the band comprised talented musicians (despite some rather long, self-indulgent solos and rather a lot of wailing from one of the vocalists). But with a terrible sound system, sadly it sounded as if the band were playing in the pub next door rather than on a stage maybe forty feet in front of us. And to add to any sensory deprivation, anything we could see was partially ruined by a couple dancing/simulating sex right in our line of sight. Yet it was a good night, probably especially for the couple in front of us.

But to the management of the Pier Live venue, you really need to sort out your facilities. One trip to the ladies’ room meant wandering forlornly from cubicle to cubicle, trying to find:

a) A clean cubicle
b) A clean cubicle with a door
c) A clean cubicle with a door that shuts
d) A clean cubicle with a door that shuts and bolts.

Well no such luck there. I think one cubicle may have had all of these qualities but only the brave would have ventured inside because the toilet seat was down - and we all know what that means. And so it was the old thing of having to hover while jamming a foot against the cubicle door. Yes, yes, it is all part of the nightlife experience, but is it really necessary? So please, Pier Live Management, sort it out!

Yet it was probably all in keeping with Frankston, which at night turned out to be a bit rough around the edges. Syd and I ended up in a late night chip shop surrounded by late nighters who staggered into the shop and outside on the street, shouting and, in some cases, gibbering. As we walked along the pavement towards the car, I overheard a young woman asking a young man if he made sausages. Keep in mind that we were no longer in the chip shop. “No but do you make real sausages?” she said in a voice loaded with meaning.

Ah, and who said romance was dead?