On the night Bob Hawke died, the John Curtin hotel in Melbourne’s inner north was packed – its usual crowd of trendy twentysomethings rubbing shoulders with old trade unionists and ex-journos.
Armed with cans of lager named in his honour, the Curtin was the natural place for mourners to remember Hawke, who in the heyday of the 1970s when he was ACTU president, would roll into the pub every Friday evening.
