Dry as a dead dingo’s donger

Having been raised in tropical heat with a sea breeze, I never understood the concept of dry heat … until just recently.  Phoenix taught me, particularly when I went for my regular, weekend, outdoor run and I barely sweated.  The surrounding desert seems to suck the life out of everything.  I usually associate dry lips with winters in London and New York but this week in balmy Phoenix turned this association on its head.  It was so dry that even walking around in my formal work attire at near 30 degrees Celsius didn’t make me break a sweat.  You can’t do that in Australia!  It was damn strange.  I drank heaps of water but I still felt dry as a dead dingo’s donger.

Fortunately, the problem of excessive dryness has an obvious solution; I found my way to many a fantastic brewery.  The whole craft beer scene there was popping, with plenty of modern brewpubs offering large, wooden surfaces and hip furnishings.  My favourite was probably Perch Brewery, which served stout milkshakes and included a large beer garden full of caged rescue birds, who seemed to enjoy the company of the quaffers.  Better to share a room with drunks than to wallow in a career that never took flight, I suppose.  The cockatoo had centre-stage and was a cheeky little bugger as he rocked up and down to try and make people headbang along with him.


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