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So tonight we found ourselves in a room full of people ready to win some cash. I was so excited for our first big adventure I was watching the clock to ensure that we left the house with plenty of time to spare/socialise. We have recently learned about a lot of subcultures that exist in Brisbane such as: Irish Dancing, Barbershop and Lion Taming (okay maybe the last one isn’t real but imagine if it was!), so we weren’t surprised to find ourselves playing Bingo in the largest and longest standing Bingo hall in Brisbane. We arrived at what I was hoping would be a cute and welcoming place decked out with homemade bunting and sweetly scented with that well known old person aroma that we all know and secretly find peace in.
As we approached the doors of this foreign world commonly known as a bingo hall, Michael turned to me and confidently said, “Let me do the talking.” He then took my hand and we walked on in. Yet to our surprise/disappointment/displeasure, as we walked through the doors we were not to be greeted by lovely old ladies honoured to interact with the youth of today. Instead we were abruptly ushered to the counter of a middle-aged lady. She probably explained the rules to us; however spoke using a mixture of English and Bingo-nease. She informed us that the minimum spend was $15 and told us to pay over there, pointing in the direction of a little booth. We didn’t hesitate.
Before we knew it we were the only ones seated at table set out for 12 about to play, what we thought, would be a light-hearted game of Bingo. The biggest shock was yet to come. As a middle-aged lady, all dressed in black took her seat in a raised booth located below a large black screen, I got the sinking feeling there was no Bingo Cage at this Bingo hall. Without as much as a hint of excitement or a sneaky smile the first game was off. I was a frantic mess, there was definitely no mercy given to the new kids on the block, especially when those numbers were being called out, there was no time for mucking around not even for asking questions.
Michael and I were taking it in turns to press the buttons on our oversized calculator that we were using as a bingo board, so whenever it wasn’t my turn I would pause and take in the scenery. Behind us, an old couple who were not shy about being professionals, to our side a mother and her child, a young boy still trying to hold on to his innocence despite his 50m rats tail gently placed over his right shoulder. Sitting near the number caller was a lone middle-aged man who was addressed by name when the thrill of getting a bingo leaped out of his body like a tiger leaping through rings of fire. And the most interesting interaction I witnessed was what looked like two lonely older ladies interacting like dear friends seated at separated tables. As the night ended and we made our way back into the frosty winters night, we didn’t entertain the thought of returning.
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When it was decided that we would attempt to try a new activity each week, Jess and I decided to start with the seemingly most harmless one on the list.
Bingo.
After all, what could produce more warm, fuzzy feelings than spending time participating in community games with the ail and frail of society? We made dinner at home and headed out to our local Sports Club hall, where competitive Bingo is the name of the game. All we had to go on was our primary school experience of writing down nine numbers and ticking them off so before arriving, we failed to really look up the rules. I mean really, Bingo’s Bingo right? Wrong.
Yes sir, nothing screams ‘I’m under the age of 65 and have no clue what I’m doing’ than rocking up to your local community Bingo Hall with nothing but a grin on your face and five minutes to spare. I think our first mistake was assuming that this would be a laid back experience.
For some reason I’d prepared myself for my cheeks to be pinched by a multitude of ever-loving grandmother types who would guide me through the simple bingo process, offering scones and hand-written birthday cards at every turn.
I’m not sure what surprised me more. That there was in fact no scones, or the fact that I felt like speaking in anything above a whisper could have me thrown into Waycol. We were greeted by a middle aged woman who laughed menacingly and shook her head upon our declaration that we’d never played. She handed us what looked like a large, electronic calculator, saying something about ticking off numbers and tickets and books and jackpots and collections and targets, concluding with a much welcomed “Good luck!”
You know for a Tuesday night in the middle of nowhere, Bingo was really going off. Forty or fifty other people were there, most of them mid to late forties, with stacks of paper and special pens, heads down ready to rock. We quickly took our seats along one of the endless rows of white tables, placing ye olde faithful calculator brick in front of us.
And then the fun really began. Stepping up to the microphone was our host for the evening, a middle aged Martha Stewart look-a-like who seemed to have just walked out of the 50’s. She began calling out numbers. Five nines, fifty nine. Two together twenty two. Unlucky for some, thirteen. Where she found the time to be able to breathe, I’ll never know but we were finding it hard to keep up. Just when we thought our oversized credit card machine would conk out, someone grunted, “Eh.” and the numbers suddenly stopped. The officials rushed over the table of our grunter friend and started checking his numbers.
What? Since when did the word ‘Eh’ become synonymous with the word Bingo? Either way, the officials seemed to be pleased and the cash in hand deal was done. The numbers started up once more and we were again scrambling to keep up with our shoebox contraption.
Fifteen rounds were played; not one of them being won by using the term ‘Bingo’, but by various other shout outs including ‘Yo!’, ‘Yep’, ‘Right here’ and the all-time favourite, ‘Gfgrlmsiv!’
As Jess and I walked away from the bizarre experience with no cash and the slight aroma of mothballs clinging to our clothes, I was sad not to have met any ladies named April, Gladys or Beatrice. And although I’ll never understand how the words ‘a crutch and a duck’ can somehow equate to the number seventy-two, I’m still glad to have tried my hand at Community Bingo.
