Corkman Irish Pub demolition and the Western Bulldogs unite our city

Some things have the ability to pull us together, like the Dogs’ Grand Final win. But the destruction of a much-loved pub was almost as unifying, writes Justin Smith.

The Corkman Irish pub in the 1940s when it was the Carlton Inn. Picture: Alex Coppel.

THERE have been two things that have really pulled this old town together in the past month.

The first was the mighty Grand Final win by the Bulldogs — when most of the city turned out to chant for the Doggies and champion the west. It brought us closer knowing that a team of lovely blokes and stoic fans could still win the big one.

And the other was the knocking down of the old Carlton Inn — an event that turned us all into passionate pub crawlers and amateur historians of Melbourne architecture.

A week ago, the Corkman Irish Pub — as the inn became known — was turned from a 159-year-old monument to beer and memories into a mass of single bricks and construction fencing.

There had been a fire there about a week before, so the demolition team rolled in over a weekend and knocked the lot down before a bureaucrat with a clipboard had the chance to talk about demolition and planning permits or heritage overlays.

The whole of Melbourne saw it for what it was — one of the most selfish and arrogant manoeuvres we’re likely to see.

The Minister for Planning, Richard Wynne, understood the anger that was starting to push through the city and described developers Stefce Kutlesovski and Raman Shaqiri as “cowboys”.

I have to disagree with him. With the exception of the odd shot-up chandelier, cowboys show great respect for their saloons.

There wasn’t much respect shown to the Corkman Irish Pub.

Our disdain for the wealthy developers has pulled us together once more — it’s just as if we were wearing the blue, red and white scarfs again.

But you wonder if there would have been the same roaring passion if it was the knocking-down of an old bike shop in Camberwell or a haberdashery building in Williamstown.

We may have had a few petitioning locals or the local council fighting its case in VCAT, but you’d never have ministers and lord mayors showing their fury, or talkback callers bellowing their outrage, or unions slapping bans on the worksite, or the social media outrage that’s been reserved for poor old Nick Kyrgios.

That is what a pub does to us. There’s a real connection to these places. It’s far more than a shopfront. The Melbourne University law students have been making good use of the Corkman for years. And this is personal for them. So much so, they’ve begun a petition to have the developers rebuild the place.

To them, it’s more than just handles that pull beer and stools to plonk on. They were counting on the pub to hold their memories for years. When they’d finished their studies and moved on to success at another kind of bar — with luxury vehicles, clean suits and Mont Blanc pens — they wanted to be able to drive past the old Corkman and remember what it was like to fiddle around in their pockets for change just to get another beer.

HENRY Hamilton Lindsay — a third-year Melbourne Uni student who already has the makings of a good lawyer with that name — said: “I once spent four consecutive evenings there, and regretted not a single second.”

And it’s not just the academically scruffy who have lost.

Phil Copsey's family ran the now demolished Corkman Irish pub in the 1940s when it was the Carlton Inn. Mr Copsey is devastated and so are relatives. Picture: Alex Coppel.

Patrons of the old Carlton Inn — long before the Irish pub revolution of shamrocks, Dublin street signs, and fiddle music — have to look at a hole in the street now. They remember the chook raffles, the darts and the footy-tipping competition. They recall singing loudly to songs and only knowing a quarter of the lyrics.

And they still think about the quick pash in the beer garden while the ash fell from their cigarettes.

All pastimes and habits they don’t do any more.

The pub was supposed to hold on to their stories. They didn’t need to go there — they just needed to know it was upright and their memories were stained into the walls and the carpet.

And fuelling the collective passion was the penalty for the developers. It’s as weak as a spilt 7oz shandy. For pulling down all those stories and moments, they may be fined several hundred thousand dollars.

But as we found out in this paper last week, one of the developer’s cars is a shining Maserati Grand Turismo worth $350,000, so it’s not much of a fine or a deterrent.

It more like the kind of penalty you’d see for a Vermont South renovator who went centimetres over on his pergola permit.

The Melbourne Uni drinkers are right. We should make them rebuild the pub.

But the boutique beers and soft, creamy stout should flow free for the next decade, every night should be half-price parma night with fillets the size of two plates, and Stefce and Raman should apologise to the crowd every evening at 9. And the 2016 Grand Final should be played on a big screen every Saturday.

That would be justice.

What a month of unity it’s been for Melbourne. Go the Doggies, and down with selfish developers.

Justin Smith is a Herald Sun columnist and 3AW presenter