Pink’s Manly Skiff Club rejection shows sad state of Australia

Pink may be a global superstar that everyone in Australia knows but that didn’t stop the nanny state having the last laugh.

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Australia’s nanny state laws against having even the smallest modicum of fun have reached new heights this week as global megastar Pink was denied entry into a Sydney venue.

The singer, 44, visited Manly Skiff Club on Monday evening with a party of about eight people but was turned away at the door.

Was she threatening to beat the living daylights out of the urbane northern beaches patrons? Was she screaming with fury at the doorstaff after a 48-hour bender?

It certainly would have made a good story but the truth is a lot more mundane, and frankly embarrassing for Australia.

She didn’t have a piece of plastic with her name, date of birth and photo on it. That’s it.

It didn’t matter that she had made a large booking and paid a deposit – a point she reportedly patiently made clear to staff.

It didn’t matter she was a global pop star who almost everybody in Australia knows either. Rules are rules according to the Manly Skiff Club. No plastic, no dinner.

Of course, the whole episode is not really the club’s fault. The Registered Clubs Act 1976 – a law drawn up 48 years ago – requires visitors of clubs to provide an ID proving their address to gain temporary membership.

Pink was overheard telling a staff member that she had a booking at the sailing club. Picture: Burak Cingi/Redferns

Pink was denied entry to the venue because she didn’t have any identification on her, according to reports.

I’m not suggesting people can break the rules just because they are famous. But, when looked at in the cold light of day, the facts of this case show the rules are out-of-date and pretty silly. Surely common sense has to come into play at some point.

Pink just wanted some seafood with a nice view over Manly Cove. Surely that is an act that is so universal and innocuous that it doesn’t require her to be identified via a card. It’s not like she was trying to cross into a sovereign territory or register a business.

It’s all part of a “dem’s the rules” mindset which has left Sydney fending off accusations of being the world’s most boring global city.

As a resident of this great city, I can attest to how this seemingly endless list of rules has put a sour note on many trips into town.

With two young kids, it’s seldom I get to go out for a few beers but fairly recently I went out in Surry Hills with a couple of mates.

The first pub was OK, although it was very quiet for a CBD pub on a Friday night. Some crazy bloke sat next to us and chewed our ear off about how he was a bouncer at a strip joint and that he was the toughest guy in Sydney. All pretty normal stuff.

Then we saw another bloke and his mates at the bar. It was his birthday by the looks of things and they ordered a round of beers. His mates encouraged him to down the beer, which he did with some effort.

None of them were outrageously drunk. They were a little loud, but it was his birthday and they were at the pub.

They went to buy another round and the bar staff informed the birthday boy he couldn’t have any more drinks because he’d skolled his last one. The bar was almost empty at 8pm. It was one of the saddest and most petty things I’d seen in a long time.

Thinking we’d find somewhere with a bit more atmosphere and fewer crazy strip-club doormen, we strolled up the road to another establishment.

There we were greeted by a doorman, despite there being no queue, and, of course, he singled out me for his inspection.

Sydney’s night-life is suffering. Picture: Christian Anstey

There was no friendliness in his voice or his demeanour. No “how are you going?”. He just stared at me menacingly and squared up like he was trying to intimidate me.

“How many drinks you had?” he growled.

“Three schooners,” I replied, honestly.

There was an awkward silence as he stared at me for about five seconds in utter silence. I could see the cogs going in his mind, trying to think of some reason not to let me in.

“Can I go in?” I asked.

He just grunted and stepped aside.

I’m so used to this sort of interaction with doormen that it barely phased me. It’s a sad state of affairs really because it’s not really the sort of thing you want to happen when you’re trying to let your hair down and relax with your mates.

I wasn’t drunk, loud or staggering. I just wanted one or two more beers before catching the tram home.

I made sure I had a few and, on the way out, I approached the doorman, who was desperately trying not to make eye contact with me.

“I know you’ve been very invested in my drink intake tonight so I’d thought I’d give you an update,” I said. “I’ve had three pints. They were lovely and now I’m a bit drunk. Have a nice night.”

I could see the rage in his eyes building so I quickly closed the door and lightly jogged down the hill to the tram. He was 6’4, stacked like John Cena and could break me in two with one hand. I was in no mood for a physical showdown.

That was several months ago and I haven’t been to a pub since. Honestly, why bother? It’s expensive, the atmosphere is dead and you have to contend with the likes of Kmart’s John Cena at the door.

But then again, I should count my blessings I was let in. That’s more than can be said for global pop superstar Pink.