Irrational Hatred #6 The Guildford Hotel

I’ve just about had enough of The Guildford Hotel. In the light of some more ineffectual protesting highlighted by Outrage Cohen, (the socks being another pathetic example), let me throw my weight behind the demolition option, so Guildfordwegians can have closure and can start to suck up the hangi based humiliation of having to patronise The ‘Ling down the road. Reclaim the night. No-one went to Le Gill when it wasn’t burnt anyway. No skimpies, no hangis, no nothing, why should they? Time for a Liqorland, preferably built out of light brown brick or, failing that, a place where concrete swan planters and old hand tools can be sold in the ruins without need of a roof.

About The Lazy Aussie

Commended Haiku writer. A lover of The West's Worst. Perth stand-up comedian, photographer and writer.
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40 Responses to Irrational Hatred #6 The Guildford Hotel

  1. Rob says:

    Wouldn’t that be Guilfordians?

    Like

  2. orbea says:

    the guildford heritage nazis are increasingly irrelevant and increasingly boorish

    spending other people’s money to maintain “THEIR” view of architecture and history is their whole reason for being

    Like

  3. Jaidyn-Jaxxon says:

    I don’t think you understand TLA. The Guildford Hotel was more than a landmark; certainly a lot more than a public house – even, perhaps, something more than a way of life. Now of course we never went there to drink (preferring the professional-friendly, Kenwick-proof charms of the nearby [and truly nestled-in-the-heart-of-antiquity] Rose & Crown, where one can feel like a real human being again as one enjoys a platter of scones with one’s antipasto tapas) but nevertheless, the semiotics were all right and we responded, albeit by purchasing rattan fixtures for the pool area and mulling over whether Pears shampoo really was a better choice than Indian Rice. It lent a certain, scarcely even tangible charm to the whole experience of allaying the approach of a screaming divorce by shepherding the family through a chain of dingy shoppes in search of the perfect hardwood boating accessory. I still remember that afternoon when little Chablis, truffling around one such dusty corner, chanced upon that simply charmant little tin mule that dispensed cigarettes in an ever so comical allusion to the valeur of the Diggers whose history one can almost smell as one treads those visceral streets beneath the Guildford’s sentinel gaze. That was the day – the day we knew she’d grow up worthy of her dowry, that painstaking collection of hardwood spindles and lacquered oars, assembled through all the sweat, tears and double King Island’ed Devonshire teas enjoyed in that balmy twilight reverie that only an early afternoon in the midge-struck mud at the arse-end of the Avon can deliver (like so much organic chicken manure – remind me to stop at Bunnings!)

    Like

  4. Jaidyn-Jaxxon says:

    Sorry TLA that was my mum, I told her to get her own login but she doesn’t understand such things

    Like

  5. David Cohen says:

    No comment from Bento on the lack of balconies at the Guildford…

    …because – you read it here first – there is a little Bento now in the world.

    I have no details on sex, weight, or if it was born in a small bar.

    But remember who is first with the big stories.

    Congrats Bento (and Mrs Bento).

    Like

  6. David Cohen says:

    I can’t rule out IVF.

    But I hear a seven pound, 13 ounce boy.

    Sources say the infant has already been signed up for membership at an exclusive golf club.

    Like

  7. Bento says:

    Aww you guys.

    TLA – does the Bad Graffiti Masterpieces tee come in a 000?

    Like

  8. Outrage, why haven’t you updated us? I have to hear from Chanel Number 9 that Guildford Hotel proposal in with Swan?

    Like

  9. Pingback: My cobra’s eyes flash menacingly when I brake… Your argument is invalid‏ | The Worst of Perth

  10. Martyn says:

    Necroposting a bit here to register disagreement. I guess there’s an argument to be made that flattening all the grandiose colonial pubs in favour of tres moderne biscuit-development Taverns with attached TABs and pre-stickied sticky carpets is Progress, but it’s the argument of a cunt and I’ll have none of it. ;p

    Like

  11. Martyn says:

    mrsstone, a bit, a bit. I get TLA’s approach here, don’t misunderstand; mock fatalism born of disgust is part of my schtick too. (From around 2005 onwards I’d make remarks like “ooh look, that hasn’t burned down yet, astonishing” or “it looks so very flammable, doesn’t it?” when driving past the building.)

    I drank there a few times and I agree the business was clearly nonviable as things stood. Some redevelopment was inevitable but the Mysteriously Flammable Heritage Pubs phenomenon just gives me the shits big time. I’m quite happy to have an eyesore shell standing around forevermore if it needles those responsible, and even more so if there’s the slightest chance of it actually leading to some heritage law that is actually worth the paper it is written on.. Mandatory minimum insured values and some kind of public trust authority to hold the monies and pay them only for necessary immediate stabilisation and rebuild costs would be a start. (God, it’s like I’m some kind of commie.)

    Like

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