Everyone was staring at me. Why?
Because in my hand I had the most beautiful object in the world: a bacon and sausage bap.
Some men wear nice shades, a funky hat or a nice suit. That's how they turn heads. Turns out all they need is a bacon and sausage bap.
I'd nipped to the cafe for a takeaway brekky and returned with what looked like The Silver Surfer's wanger - huge foil torpedo. Immediately I had the attention of the floor.
"That looks nice and I don't even know what it is yet" said Feidhlim from Donegal.
"Oooh, that looks mint, mate" added Raj eyeing the package hungrily.
As I unwrapped the roll began utching forward, leaning in transfixed, basking in its glow. I held it up to the light in preparation for consumption, but became self-conscious and acutely aware that an audience was gathering piercing me with their jealous, hungry stare.
"Where did you get that?" they'd ask..
"How much?"
"What's on it?"
"Is it nice?"
To the last question I answered, "I don't know. I haven't had chance to eat it yet"
The harshest comment came Feidhlim who eyed the roll enviously and, shaking his head in resignation, uttered "....bastard...." as if I'd just won an Oscar and The World Cup and The Lottery all at once.
But their covetousness didn't last long. Soon I'd finished it. The heavenly music had stopped and the throng had blinked themselves back into reality.
Behold the Power Of The Bacon Bap
l
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Assorted Thoughts
Here is a list of non-sequiturs as they came to mind:
1. Watched Transformers last night. It was entertaining drivel. In 20 years time when the special effects look shit, people will wonder what all the fuss was about.
I was into Transformers between the ages of 7 and 10. I had Kickback, Scourge, Cosmos, Astrotrain and some others.
Watching it made me feel old.
2. Last week the greatest album of all time (in my opinion, naturally) celebrated its 10th anniverary. OK Computer was released in June 1997. At the time, I was at University trying not to look scallies in the eye and writing essays about the recent New Labour landslide.
I listened to it again the other day and it still sounds as fresh and innovative today as it did back then. In fact, on the way back from the town, I was listening to it on my iPod just as a stretch limo slinked past. Before I knew it some slags had poked through the open sunroof and began gyrating to some bland techno beat.
At the time I was listening to Thom singing "I'll take the quiet life, a handshake of carbon monoxide, and no alarms and no suprises please". I looked back at the women writhing with their arms in the air trying to attract the attention of the some rugby shirted lads at the side of the road and thought "What do they know about proper music? What do they know about anything?"
Watching them made me feel old.
3. Had a random email from someone who used to work on Storm FM, the student radio station we helped set up. Apparently it's 10 years since the first broadcast. Me, Paul and Antony used to do The Night Shift from about 12 till 7 or something. I used to play a lot of OK Computer.
The email mooted a reunion. Obviously I won't be attending on account of my being 10,000 miles away. However, even if I had been in England I'm not sure I would be attending. Quite a lot of people on that station were total, total twats.
The website still exists in its original form all these years later: http://www.stormfm.co.uk
Looking at it makes me feel old.
4. It's funny the things you see in internet cafes. I have just watched a man, presumably very gay, spend over an hour watching You Tube videos of men arm wrestling.
I am also madly in love with the woman who works here. She wears calf length suede boots and a floral skirt.
Looking at her makes me feel young.
1. Watched Transformers last night. It was entertaining drivel. In 20 years time when the special effects look shit, people will wonder what all the fuss was about.
I was into Transformers between the ages of 7 and 10. I had Kickback, Scourge, Cosmos, Astrotrain and some others.
Watching it made me feel old.
2. Last week the greatest album of all time (in my opinion, naturally) celebrated its 10th anniverary. OK Computer was released in June 1997. At the time, I was at University trying not to look scallies in the eye and writing essays about the recent New Labour landslide.
I listened to it again the other day and it still sounds as fresh and innovative today as it did back then. In fact, on the way back from the town, I was listening to it on my iPod just as a stretch limo slinked past. Before I knew it some slags had poked through the open sunroof and began gyrating to some bland techno beat.
At the time I was listening to Thom singing "I'll take the quiet life, a handshake of carbon monoxide, and no alarms and no suprises please". I looked back at the women writhing with their arms in the air trying to attract the attention of the some rugby shirted lads at the side of the road and thought "What do they know about proper music? What do they know about anything?"
Watching them made me feel old.
3. Had a random email from someone who used to work on Storm FM, the student radio station we helped set up. Apparently it's 10 years since the first broadcast. Me, Paul and Antony used to do The Night Shift from about 12 till 7 or something. I used to play a lot of OK Computer.
The email mooted a reunion. Obviously I won't be attending on account of my being 10,000 miles away. However, even if I had been in England I'm not sure I would be attending. Quite a lot of people on that station were total, total twats.
The website still exists in its original form all these years later: http://www.stormfm.co.uk
Looking at it makes me feel old.
4. It's funny the things you see in internet cafes. I have just watched a man, presumably very gay, spend over an hour watching You Tube videos of men arm wrestling.
I am also madly in love with the woman who works here. She wears calf length suede boots and a floral skirt.
Looking at her makes me feel young.
Oh Say, Can You See
Whilst we get quite a few Canadians in the hostel, we don't get many Americans.
According to the manager Miranda, this is because Americans tend to prefer hotels and are less au fait with the concept of "backpacking", preferring organised tours.
So when two Americans turned up last night, it was a rare occurence. A couple of people wasted no time and immediately queued up to take the piss. And lets face it, it's not difficult. Cliched descriptors can be rolled out with ease: stupid, fat imperial aggressors, less grasp of geography than an undiscovered tribe in Borneo etc
The couple took the jibes on the chin, choosing to smile through their perfect teeth. I was prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt; it's unfair to pigeonhole 300 million people, and being English I certainly wouldn't want people to assume I'm a lager drinking football hooligan.
However, the next morning they popped into the TV room to say hello and tell us they were visiting the botanical gardens. When someone mentioned they should also check out the "Chinese Garden" the American girl responded, admittedly in jest, "Well, maybe I should dress as a Geisha Girl then".
There was a silence for a couple of seconds, before I was forced to point out that Geisha Girls were, in fact, Japanese.
"Oh" she said, and realising that there and then she was confirming our faith all the worst stereotypes she added "...that's was a really bad thing to say wasn't it", before slinking quietly away.
Oops
According to the manager Miranda, this is because Americans tend to prefer hotels and are less au fait with the concept of "backpacking", preferring organised tours.
So when two Americans turned up last night, it was a rare occurence. A couple of people wasted no time and immediately queued up to take the piss. And lets face it, it's not difficult. Cliched descriptors can be rolled out with ease: stupid, fat imperial aggressors, less grasp of geography than an undiscovered tribe in Borneo etc
The couple took the jibes on the chin, choosing to smile through their perfect teeth. I was prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt; it's unfair to pigeonhole 300 million people, and being English I certainly wouldn't want people to assume I'm a lager drinking football hooligan.
However, the next morning they popped into the TV room to say hello and tell us they were visiting the botanical gardens. When someone mentioned they should also check out the "Chinese Garden" the American girl responded, admittedly in jest, "Well, maybe I should dress as a Geisha Girl then".
There was a silence for a couple of seconds, before I was forced to point out that Geisha Girls were, in fact, Japanese.
"Oh" she said, and realising that there and then she was confirming our faith all the worst stereotypes she added "...that's was a really bad thing to say wasn't it", before slinking quietly away.
Oops
Creature Comforts
Do you know what? I'm sorry to report this, but I think I'm about ready to leave The Pink House.
There's nothing wrong with it. Nothing. It's just that recently I've found myself yearning for creature comforts. Don't get me wrong, I understand this is a hostel. Furthermore, I, myself, have been critical of those who misunderstand this.
A month back we had a group of Polish Pensioners who repeatedly barracked reception because their bedsheets hadn't been turned over and because they had no phone on which to call room service. There's an "S' in hostel. Otherwise it would be a hotel. And because there's an "S" in it, and because it's only costing about 8 quid a night, you expect less and you muck in with everyone else.
However, alas, after a while it does becomes a bit like being on an extended camping holiday. And no one wants to be on a camping holiday for 3 months. My bed sheets are fridge cold, my socks always seem to be damp and I haven't had one night where I've slept right through without being woken up by someone falling over a rucksack in the dark or letting the door slam.
Case in point. This morning I needed a poo. Regular as clockwork. I kept it in the docking bay for as long as possible, but eventually relented and made my way upstairs to the toilets. When I arrived I discovered, as usual, no toilet paper.
A second later Raj arrived and, peering into the three cubicles and dispensing with his Nepalese/Indian heritage in favour of a Wimbledon/Cockernee accent, uttered: "Vere's no fackin' bog roll". At this point with a full bowel and a turtle's head I began to examine my options. Luckily I knew of the mythical "Secret Toilet" - a Narnia-like WC in the back courtyard.
I had reassured Raj that I would return momentarily with a secret stash of paper, but on arrival realised I actually needed to open my bomb bay doors immediately. Five minutes later after the activity had reached its natural conclusion, I realised that Raj was probably still waiting and so grabbed the paper and raced round to find him at the top of the stairs, hopping from one foot to another.
"Christ!" he said "There you are". I hurled the bog roll up the stairs, unfurling it like a magnolia comet with a long Andrex contrail. He caught it expertly with one hand and darted from view dragging the zig-zagging paper up the stairs behind him like Lady Diana's wedding train.
So, with heavy heart I now freely admit I am looking for comfort. I am looking for a good night's sleep. I am looking for a hot shower and clean duvet under which I can watch my own TV.
The Pink House has been great. I've met some smashing people and had one or two interesting "adventures". But, alas, once I have a job it will goodbye wooden picnic tables and lukewarm showers and hello double bed and dishwasher.
There's nothing wrong with it. Nothing. It's just that recently I've found myself yearning for creature comforts. Don't get me wrong, I understand this is a hostel. Furthermore, I, myself, have been critical of those who misunderstand this.
A month back we had a group of Polish Pensioners who repeatedly barracked reception because their bedsheets hadn't been turned over and because they had no phone on which to call room service. There's an "S' in hostel. Otherwise it would be a hotel. And because there's an "S" in it, and because it's only costing about 8 quid a night, you expect less and you muck in with everyone else.
However, alas, after a while it does becomes a bit like being on an extended camping holiday. And no one wants to be on a camping holiday for 3 months. My bed sheets are fridge cold, my socks always seem to be damp and I haven't had one night where I've slept right through without being woken up by someone falling over a rucksack in the dark or letting the door slam.
Case in point. This morning I needed a poo. Regular as clockwork. I kept it in the docking bay for as long as possible, but eventually relented and made my way upstairs to the toilets. When I arrived I discovered, as usual, no toilet paper.
A second later Raj arrived and, peering into the three cubicles and dispensing with his Nepalese/Indian heritage in favour of a Wimbledon/Cockernee accent, uttered: "Vere's no fackin' bog roll". At this point with a full bowel and a turtle's head I began to examine my options. Luckily I knew of the mythical "Secret Toilet" - a Narnia-like WC in the back courtyard.
I had reassured Raj that I would return momentarily with a secret stash of paper, but on arrival realised I actually needed to open my bomb bay doors immediately. Five minutes later after the activity had reached its natural conclusion, I realised that Raj was probably still waiting and so grabbed the paper and raced round to find him at the top of the stairs, hopping from one foot to another.
"Christ!" he said "There you are". I hurled the bog roll up the stairs, unfurling it like a magnolia comet with a long Andrex contrail. He caught it expertly with one hand and darted from view dragging the zig-zagging paper up the stairs behind him like Lady Diana's wedding train.
So, with heavy heart I now freely admit I am looking for comfort. I am looking for a good night's sleep. I am looking for a hot shower and clean duvet under which I can watch my own TV.
The Pink House has been great. I've met some smashing people and had one or two interesting "adventures". But, alas, once I have a job it will goodbye wooden picnic tables and lukewarm showers and hello double bed and dishwasher.
Friday, July 06, 2007
We're On The Road To Nowhere
Had the journey from Hell yesterday. I had an interview at a company way out of town on the North Shores of Sydney in a place called North Ryde.
The email from the recruitment consultant already acknowledged the inaccessibility. "Don't think there's a train station, so you might have to take a bus. Or something.", it said vaguely.
I had been given several pieces of contradictory advice, so when I got to the window at Kings Cross station, I asked the woman if I could buy a combined train and bus ticket to North Sydney and then on to North Ryde.
"Completely wrong way of doing it" she said "Go to West Ryde"
"Right" I said "Is there a bus from West Ryde to North Ryde ?"
"Don't know" she said "Ask the guy at the barriers"
Eh? How come she didn't know? Throughout all this there was a woman behind me who, because my conversation had lasted more than 1 minute, was now going :Ooooh. Ooooh. Oooh. Come onnnnnn. Come onnnn." Like she needed a wee.
So I moved over to the guy on the barriers. Here was my second problem. By complete coincidence he was already talking to somebody I wanted to avoid. About a month ago Matty met another Persian bloke in the hostel. Initially, they knocked about together, but Matty soon realised he was a weirdo and did everything to avoid him. He had also pissed off people in the hostel by being smelly, asking women strange questions and invading generally people's personal space. I felt sorry for Matty; he was so embarrassed that his fellow countryman was such a twat, he kept apologising on his behalf.
And now Weird Persian was talking to the bloke at the barriers. I kept my distance in case I was recognised. So much distance in fact that someone else jumped in front of me. When I finally got to the guy and asked him how to get to North Ryde he began banging his fist on the counter and making horse noises. It was at this point I realised he had Tourettes. Seriously.
After a 3 minutes of flicking through a book and yelping he, too, declared he didn't know how to get there. Brilliant. Wanted to go back to the window, but there was a massive queue. Went to the ticket machine. Wouldn't accept notes. Luckily had exact change. Machine wouldn't accept my $2 coin. Had to join queue again. By this point I had been in the station 20 minutes and hadn't gone anywhere yet.
When I finally got to North Sydney, the buses were so sparse I ended up getting a taxi. Couldn't take the risk seeing as it was for an interview.
The return journey wasn't much better. This time I ended up wandering around MacQuarrie shopping centre multi-storey car park looking for the bus stop, and when I did find the correct bus, it meandered and dawdled through cul-de-sacs and residential side streets bashing into mini-roundabouts and speed bumps for the best part of 90 minutes.
I felt sick. The kind of travel sickness only a rickety diesel bus can create. And when the bus stopped for 10 minutes to change the driver, and then when that driver later took the bus down a road which was closed and had to reverse a 30 ft vehicle in a gravel pit, I thought I would never get home.
If I get this job, I think I will sleep in the office.
The email from the recruitment consultant already acknowledged the inaccessibility. "Don't think there's a train station, so you might have to take a bus. Or something.", it said vaguely.
I had been given several pieces of contradictory advice, so when I got to the window at Kings Cross station, I asked the woman if I could buy a combined train and bus ticket to North Sydney and then on to North Ryde.
"Completely wrong way of doing it" she said "Go to West Ryde"
"Right" I said "Is there a bus from West Ryde to North Ryde ?"
"Don't know" she said "Ask the guy at the barriers"
Eh? How come she didn't know? Throughout all this there was a woman behind me who, because my conversation had lasted more than 1 minute, was now going :Ooooh. Ooooh. Oooh. Come onnnnnn. Come onnnn." Like she needed a wee.
So I moved over to the guy on the barriers. Here was my second problem. By complete coincidence he was already talking to somebody I wanted to avoid. About a month ago Matty met another Persian bloke in the hostel. Initially, they knocked about together, but Matty soon realised he was a weirdo and did everything to avoid him. He had also pissed off people in the hostel by being smelly, asking women strange questions and invading generally people's personal space. I felt sorry for Matty; he was so embarrassed that his fellow countryman was such a twat, he kept apologising on his behalf.
And now Weird Persian was talking to the bloke at the barriers. I kept my distance in case I was recognised. So much distance in fact that someone else jumped in front of me. When I finally got to the guy and asked him how to get to North Ryde he began banging his fist on the counter and making horse noises. It was at this point I realised he had Tourettes. Seriously.
After a 3 minutes of flicking through a book and yelping he, too, declared he didn't know how to get there. Brilliant. Wanted to go back to the window, but there was a massive queue. Went to the ticket machine. Wouldn't accept notes. Luckily had exact change. Machine wouldn't accept my $2 coin. Had to join queue again. By this point I had been in the station 20 minutes and hadn't gone anywhere yet.
When I finally got to North Sydney, the buses were so sparse I ended up getting a taxi. Couldn't take the risk seeing as it was for an interview.
The return journey wasn't much better. This time I ended up wandering around MacQuarrie shopping centre multi-storey car park looking for the bus stop, and when I did find the correct bus, it meandered and dawdled through cul-de-sacs and residential side streets bashing into mini-roundabouts and speed bumps for the best part of 90 minutes.
I felt sick. The kind of travel sickness only a rickety diesel bus can create. And when the bus stopped for 10 minutes to change the driver, and then when that driver later took the bus down a road which was closed and had to reverse a 30 ft vehicle in a gravel pit, I thought I would never get home.
If I get this job, I think I will sleep in the office.
Crisps
Trust me, this was funny. It probably won't translate, but I'll tell it to you anyway.
Sean is 20. He's a lovely lad from St Helens, and works on a building site here in Sydney. He's quite quiet and thoughtful, but there's a Peter Kay-esque, down-to-earth quality about him.
Last night we were all eating Chinese food - me and Sean digging into a big bag of prawn crackers. He'd been quiet up until this point, when suddenly he held up a cracker to the light and pondered it thoughtfully.
Within a few short seconds he appeared to have a reached a conclusion. I suspected that whatever he had decided was to be earth-shatteringly significant. Profound. Revelatory.
There was a short gap before, in a broad Johnny Vegas accent, he announced:
"They're just like big Quavers aren't thee?"
It took me about 3 minutes to stop laughing.
Another tale: The other night we were all watching Empire Strikes Back on VHS when Sean got up to leave.
"Don't worry Sean" said Franc "We'll tell you how it ends".
Sean is 20. He's a lovely lad from St Helens, and works on a building site here in Sydney. He's quite quiet and thoughtful, but there's a Peter Kay-esque, down-to-earth quality about him.
Last night we were all eating Chinese food - me and Sean digging into a big bag of prawn crackers. He'd been quiet up until this point, when suddenly he held up a cracker to the light and pondered it thoughtfully.
Within a few short seconds he appeared to have a reached a conclusion. I suspected that whatever he had decided was to be earth-shatteringly significant. Profound. Revelatory.
There was a short gap before, in a broad Johnny Vegas accent, he announced:
"They're just like big Quavers aren't thee?"
It took me about 3 minutes to stop laughing.
Another tale: The other night we were all watching Empire Strikes Back on VHS when Sean got up to leave.
"Don't worry Sean" said Franc "We'll tell you how it ends".
Breaking and Entering
If you remember, Room 2 turned back into a common room back in May, the German Porn Star got angry and I contracted bed bugs.
Anyway, as the hostel is now jampacked again, plans were afoot to turn Room 2 back into a bedroom.
Unfortunately, this was to prove more difficult than originally thought. News reached me about 8 o' clock that the lock on the door to Room 2 had sheared off and no one could get in. I wandered round to Room 2 to see Aidan and Niels (from Koln, Germany) on their knees - Aidan jostling the key in the lock and Niels with a pallete knife trying to splay open a gap in the frame.
It was imperative they gained access to the room that night as soon they would have three backpackers in the hallway, fresh off a 26-hour flight and wanting beds. And, so far, success was not forthcoming.
But when word got around that a door was stuck, a wave of testosterone was released into the atmosphere. And in the same way a shark can detect a single drop of blood in the ocean, men began naturally gravitating towards the "situation"; their chance to be manly, their chance to play "Bob The Builder".
Within minutes there were 8 men stood around - some scratching their chins or their heads - all throwing ideas at the door. At least 6 of the 8 talked about kicking it in. But this was not a solution. Then someone suggested a master key. Then someone suggested kicking it in again.
When Big Franc from Dublin heard he too came racing over. Franc "don't call me Francis" Neary has a degree in Medicine from Gonville and Caius College, Oxford and Masters from Trinity College, Dublin. Naturally he treated the whole thing as a fiendish intellectual challenge and put his big brain to work.
"Right" he said "Get me some scissors", and began carving up an empty plastic container previously home to a Sweet and Sour Chicken. When he'd finished he proudly displayed his plastic origami sculpture before jamming it in the lock and jiggling it expertly.
Meanwhile, outside in the cold distance, Aidan and Dan were trying to force two double doors open. Again, to no avail. Dan had fashioned a rudimentary loop from a coathanger and with his tongue sticking out was attempting to hook it round the door handle and open the door.
Meanwhile back at the door Franc's genius plastic skeleton key had failed miserably and he taken to shoving anything to hand through the gap. This included some free magazines and an A4 ringbinder entitled "Sydney - What's On?"
Meanwhile Dan was in. He'd used the palette knife to break open the window lock, and within seconds opened the door with a huge grin on his face, and began shaking hands with the assembled throng. It was like that time the French and English diggers met at the middle of The Channel Tunnel.
I think Franc was secretly disappointed. Here he was, a man with degrees from Oxford and Dublin, beaten by a man with an BTEC in Business Studies from Welwyn Garden City College For Further Education.
The best suggestion of the evening came from Niels from Koln. He said:
"In a situation like this I always like to ask myself 'What would David Hasselhoff do?".
So I think we should come running down the stairs in just our pants and shoulder barge it open"
After you.....
Anyway, as the hostel is now jampacked again, plans were afoot to turn Room 2 back into a bedroom.
Unfortunately, this was to prove more difficult than originally thought. News reached me about 8 o' clock that the lock on the door to Room 2 had sheared off and no one could get in. I wandered round to Room 2 to see Aidan and Niels (from Koln, Germany) on their knees - Aidan jostling the key in the lock and Niels with a pallete knife trying to splay open a gap in the frame.
It was imperative they gained access to the room that night as soon they would have three backpackers in the hallway, fresh off a 26-hour flight and wanting beds. And, so far, success was not forthcoming.
But when word got around that a door was stuck, a wave of testosterone was released into the atmosphere. And in the same way a shark can detect a single drop of blood in the ocean, men began naturally gravitating towards the "situation"; their chance to be manly, their chance to play "Bob The Builder".
Within minutes there were 8 men stood around - some scratching their chins or their heads - all throwing ideas at the door. At least 6 of the 8 talked about kicking it in. But this was not a solution. Then someone suggested a master key. Then someone suggested kicking it in again.
When Big Franc from Dublin heard he too came racing over. Franc "don't call me Francis" Neary has a degree in Medicine from Gonville and Caius College, Oxford and Masters from Trinity College, Dublin. Naturally he treated the whole thing as a fiendish intellectual challenge and put his big brain to work.
"Right" he said "Get me some scissors", and began carving up an empty plastic container previously home to a Sweet and Sour Chicken. When he'd finished he proudly displayed his plastic origami sculpture before jamming it in the lock and jiggling it expertly.
Meanwhile, outside in the cold distance, Aidan and Dan were trying to force two double doors open. Again, to no avail. Dan had fashioned a rudimentary loop from a coathanger and with his tongue sticking out was attempting to hook it round the door handle and open the door.
Meanwhile back at the door Franc's genius plastic skeleton key had failed miserably and he taken to shoving anything to hand through the gap. This included some free magazines and an A4 ringbinder entitled "Sydney - What's On?"
Meanwhile Dan was in. He'd used the palette knife to break open the window lock, and within seconds opened the door with a huge grin on his face, and began shaking hands with the assembled throng. It was like that time the French and English diggers met at the middle of The Channel Tunnel.
I think Franc was secretly disappointed. Here he was, a man with degrees from Oxford and Dublin, beaten by a man with an BTEC in Business Studies from Welwyn Garden City College For Further Education.
The best suggestion of the evening came from Niels from Koln. He said:
"In a situation like this I always like to ask myself 'What would David Hasselhoff do?".
So I think we should come running down the stairs in just our pants and shoulder barge it open"
After you.....
Dan tries to force open the back doors.
Franc tries his plastic skeleton key....
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Yum.........
Such is my diet, I have always made friends very quickly with owners of local take away emporia.
Wherever I am, in whatever part of the world, it doesn't take long for me to establish a rapport with these people. We have an understanding. We have a symbiotic relationship: I make kebabs; you eat kebabs; you pay me for the kebabs and I'll make some more kebabs.
I was on such good terms with the owners of Curry World on South Lambeth Road that a year after one of the brothers had left to become an AA Driving Instructor, upon spotting me, he stopped his shiny new car, got out and shook my hand, asking me how I was and what I was up to. That's how well I knew them.
When Curry World closed I was naturally devastated, and took to feeding my paltry poultry addiction in the Taste More Chippy, next to Stockwell station. And, it wasn't long before they knew me as well.
One morning I was returning from breakfast with Andy and saw the head chippy walking towards me. I'd never seen him in daylight before, nor away from the lumiscent glow of flickering neon light, so it took me a while to realise who he was.
As we passed, he gave me "the nod". Like a Masonic nod or a Fight Club nod. It said "I know". It said "We have an understanding". It said "You and me....we're the same". It said "I'll see you on Friday night for a small chips and a turkey stick".
Andy saw the man give me the nod. He looked at me, and in an instant realised what the nod meant. He just shook his head. Yeah, well we can't all be Top London Chefs, can we?
Later that year in Tokyo, I established the nod-based relationship with the lady behind the counter of the Akabane branch of Mr Donut. As soon as I was through the door, with one slight inclination of the cranium, I had ordered a ham and cheese pie (heated up ), a custard cream donut and a small Coke. I was operating at maximum efficiency.
And now Sydney in 2007. Two days ago I was walking past Indian Curry Point on the Cross, an eaterie which I have not frequented particularly often, but have patronised an occasion.
As I passed the burly Indian behind the glass topped counter looked up and, on seeing me, gave me the nod. This must be my all time record. I think I've only been in there 5 times and already I am a familiar face to him. On this particular occasion I wasn't even going in there. I was visiting Pie Face next door.
They must just know. See it in my eyes. Recognise a fellow appreciator of The Turkey Stick, The Bondi Burger, The Meat Lovers Pizza, The Thai Chicken Pie Stack (with extra mash).
However, you should know that I am balancing out this "evil" with a nice weighty helping of "good". I don't think I have eaten quite so many vegetables in my life before. Yes. I know it's difficult for you imagine, but I now don't mind the odd pea, or red onion, or sweet potato and have even developed a liking for baby corn and sweetcorn.
No, I haven't been kidnapped. Yes, it's still me. Just don't assume therefore that I am now perfectly happy to load my plate up with dirty forestry and soiled bulbs, like cabbage and cauliflower, come Sunday dinner.
Shhhhh....
A weird thing happened yesterday.
The Pink House for one reason or another is beginning to thin out; people are leaving for sunnier climes eg Perth, Brisbane, Darwin and further afield Thailand, Singapore and Fiji.
On top of this, two of the long term residents in my room, Siah and Simon have left for Western Australia and by 9.30 last night what people remained had left for The World Bar.
I didn't join the them as, to be quite frank, after two months of World Bar every Tuesday and Thursday it's delights no longer move me in the way they once did.
So at 9.45, the weird thing happened. Silence. Total and utter. The first time I'd ever experienced this in the The Pink House. And I am including late nights and the early hours.
It was a bit like hanging around after school after the kids have gone. An eerie quiet reigned in the corridors, save for the thrum of passing cars and I could hear the blood in my ears. It's only when something like this happens you realise, in its absence, how vibrant this place is.
In fact, if I wanted to get sentimental about it (before I've even left) at a time like that, it would be nice to wander round the empty rooms and, like some scene from Goodbye Mr Chips, or another ITV Drama Premiere, listen to the past echoes of the conversations that have taken place in the rooms.
Worlds Bar tonight? What do you mean, no?
Whose is this washing up? I can't get to the tap.......
The following people owe rent....
Who's that Swedish bird? Is she in your room? Got a boyfriend? Bugger.....
What time did you get in last night?
Can I nick a beer? I've run out......
Is this a bed bug bite or a mosquito?
Of course it wasn't long before the rabble returned.
And soon I was being woken by the rattle-clack of the door catch, the hushed-up bumping, the over cautious rustling, the dull throb and thrump of people padding up carpeted stairs, the barely contained drunken cackles, the snoring and then, in the morning, the ineffectual stealth of people trying to leave the room as quietly as possible.
The Pink House for one reason or another is beginning to thin out; people are leaving for sunnier climes eg Perth, Brisbane, Darwin and further afield Thailand, Singapore and Fiji.
On top of this, two of the long term residents in my room, Siah and Simon have left for Western Australia and by 9.30 last night what people remained had left for The World Bar.
I didn't join the them as, to be quite frank, after two months of World Bar every Tuesday and Thursday it's delights no longer move me in the way they once did.
So at 9.45, the weird thing happened. Silence. Total and utter. The first time I'd ever experienced this in the The Pink House. And I am including late nights and the early hours.
It was a bit like hanging around after school after the kids have gone. An eerie quiet reigned in the corridors, save for the thrum of passing cars and I could hear the blood in my ears. It's only when something like this happens you realise, in its absence, how vibrant this place is.
In fact, if I wanted to get sentimental about it (before I've even left) at a time like that, it would be nice to wander round the empty rooms and, like some scene from Goodbye Mr Chips, or another ITV Drama Premiere, listen to the past echoes of the conversations that have taken place in the rooms.
Worlds Bar tonight? What do you mean, no?
Whose is this washing up? I can't get to the tap.......
The following people owe rent....
Who's that Swedish bird? Is she in your room? Got a boyfriend? Bugger.....
What time did you get in last night?
Can I nick a beer? I've run out......
Is this a bed bug bite or a mosquito?
Of course it wasn't long before the rabble returned.
And soon I was being woken by the rattle-clack of the door catch, the hushed-up bumping, the over cautious rustling, the dull throb and thrump of people padding up carpeted stairs, the barely contained drunken cackles, the snoring and then, in the morning, the ineffectual stealth of people trying to leave the room as quietly as possible.
Brrrr........
It's very cold here at the moment.
And The Pink House is to insulation what Aldi Supermarket is to lobster thermidour in white truffle sauce.
Due to a shortage, people barter blankets like prisoners trading cigarettes; it's a form of currency in here.
Pssst. Over here.....do you want a blanket?
How much?
Well, let's say you do my washing up. How's that?
No deal. I'll do your plate, but your saucepan has rice burned on to the bottom.
OK. Wash the plate, dry it, put the saucepan into soak and the blanket's yours.
Done
Sucker
The temperature isn't particularly low, but there's something unsettling about being in a country famed for its heat, but spending your time wondering whether your teeth might be shattering through chattering.
In England at least we have the facilities to cope with sub-par weather. Years of drizzly afternoons and blustery evenings have led to the development of the East Midlands Electricity Storage Heater (as advertised by Brian Clough) and the Calor Gas Fire.
No such luck in Oz. After all what do you need them for? Just grin and bear it as the wind whistles up your board shorts.
People have also taken to filling huge 4 pint milk cartons with boiling water from the super-heated nozzle/billabong in the kitchen (which saves boiling the kettle 554 times a day). They then sit out back hugging the boiling cartons like teddy bears with their sleeves pulled over their palms so as not to burn themselves.
By the morning the wooden tables at the back resemble some modern art exhibition with 30 plastic cartons of clear liquid, complete with their variety of coloured lids, strewn artistically and chaotically around the courtyard.
We are in the midst of the Australian Winter, I hope it hurries up.
And The Pink House is to insulation what Aldi Supermarket is to lobster thermidour in white truffle sauce.
Due to a shortage, people barter blankets like prisoners trading cigarettes; it's a form of currency in here.
Pssst. Over here.....do you want a blanket?
How much?
Well, let's say you do my washing up. How's that?
No deal. I'll do your plate, but your saucepan has rice burned on to the bottom.
OK. Wash the plate, dry it, put the saucepan into soak and the blanket's yours.
Done
Sucker
The temperature isn't particularly low, but there's something unsettling about being in a country famed for its heat, but spending your time wondering whether your teeth might be shattering through chattering.
In England at least we have the facilities to cope with sub-par weather. Years of drizzly afternoons and blustery evenings have led to the development of the East Midlands Electricity Storage Heater (as advertised by Brian Clough) and the Calor Gas Fire.
No such luck in Oz. After all what do you need them for? Just grin and bear it as the wind whistles up your board shorts.
People have also taken to filling huge 4 pint milk cartons with boiling water from the super-heated nozzle/billabong in the kitchen (which saves boiling the kettle 554 times a day). They then sit out back hugging the boiling cartons like teddy bears with their sleeves pulled over their palms so as not to burn themselves.
By the morning the wooden tables at the back resemble some modern art exhibition with 30 plastic cartons of clear liquid, complete with their variety of coloured lids, strewn artistically and chaotically around the courtyard.
We are in the midst of the Australian Winter, I hope it hurries up.
Ugh....
Men really are disgusting creatures. I should know, I am one.When left to their own devices, this is the kind of thing they get up to:
The other day, one guy proudly announced to the courtyard that he had spent the day making Top Trumps cards for all the women he had had sex with. He also mentioned the categories were to be: looks, personality, drinking ability.
We all agreed the categories weren't specific enough. Initially someone suggested "flexibility", and then I proposed "volume".
"Eh? " said Brian from Dublin "Volume?"
"Yeah" I replied "As in decibels".
"Oh" he responded "I thought you meant volume as in centilitres...."
"Well both of those are relevant, I suppose" I said
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Game On
Games play a big part in Pink House life. Thank goodness that everyone takes being childish so seriously.
Aside from cheapo Jenga clone "Tumbl-O-Block" and ersatz Connect 4 knock-off "Connect-O-Line", the main game in the courtyard is cards.
"Shithead" is of course most popular, although due to arguments over the rules we now enforce strict "Pink House Shithead Rules" to stop arguments like this happening:
2 goes on anything, doesn't it?
No, 3 goes on anything. 10 clears the pack
Unless someone laid a 7 first. Because 7 means next person goes lower.
No. You can put a 10 on a 7, because 10 is a magic card.
No it's not
etc etc etc
The whole thing resembles the "Go Johnny Go Go Go Go" sketch from the League Of Gentlemen: "Name your pairs. Well you can't look at 'em! This is Go Johnny Go Go Go Go, not Bamalama-Fizz-Vadge.
See here for the rules to the League Of Gentlemen Game:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Go_Johnny_Go_Go_Go_Go
My favourite game, however, is Spoons. Exceedingly pointless and utterly, utterly childish it's a like a pre-school cross between Snap and Musical Chairs.
The aim is thus: everyone had four cards and must discard one of their choice (to their left) whilst picking up someone else's discarded card (from the right). The moment a player has four identical cards he makes a grab for one of the spoons on the table, prompting the other players to a mad scramble for the remaining spoons.
Of course, like musical chairs, there's one less spoon than there is players. So someone ends up getting nothing. Apart from the hump.
Some very, very short clips:
Here Fletcher from Massachusetts isn't quick enough on the draw. Danny from Buxton celebrates his victory like a true Derbyshire lad: "Yes!"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QcEUrLM_SeI
Here Siah beats everyone to the spoon, leaving some bloke called Alistair in a mood.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bB1mQi57GgM
Although it may not look like it, it's actually bloody good fun.......
Friday, June 22, 2007
Jobs: A Good 'Un
So I now need a job.
The several leads I had when I arrived didn't pan out. It's just a pity I had wait two months for it not to pan out, but you can't have everything. Where would you put it?
But I need an income. So last week I went about the task of signing up to a slew of recruitment agencies. I've never been particularly impressed with the recruitment agencies I've encountered in London; they promise much but deliver little.
First up, Geoffrey Nathan. Technically not a recruitment consultant rather a payroll agency. This means they specialise in helping foreign visitors claim employment benefits - tax relief, living away from home allowance etc. In turn they then pass your CV and details on to a host of affiliated recruitment consultancies.
"Keep your mobiles on" said the bloke after the induction "You'll get calls this afternoon". A week later I had received nothing.
Next up, Hudson Recruitment which a friend of the lovely Charmaine's passed on to me. Called them and fired off an email. Had a response within the hour aksing me to come in for an interview at 10am the next morning. Fast work, I thought.
Hudson had a department devoted to advertising/marketing and PR. The woman said they "...were crying out for people..." and also said "...call me in a week if you've heard nothing..."
A week later I'd heard nothing. I called. It went to answer phone every time. I left a message asking her to call me back. So far, zero.
Finally, Chris and I discovered that we had a mutual acquaintance in Sophie who worked at EMAP in London. What's more, she was now in Australia. Chris emailed her asking for recruitment leads on my behalf. Duly she responded with three: KPMR, People Connect and ICUR.
Immediately, I rattled off emails/phone calls to them all. KPMR responded immediately saying their person was in London for 2 weeks. Ironic. No, wait, not ironic. Inconvenient. People Connect said to call back on Monday. ICUR didn't even bother to respond.
Frustrating.
Soon, I will get to the point where this trip may have cost me too much. And so far I've only seen Sydney. So I need a job. Or I need to take what money I have and go and see the rest of the country. I am not travelling 10,553 miles across the planet only to pass Ayres Rock on the flight home.
It's not that I'm skint, but I've seen Sydney and hanging around in the Pink House is now a waste of money.
Need a plan, man.
The several leads I had when I arrived didn't pan out. It's just a pity I had wait two months for it not to pan out, but you can't have everything. Where would you put it?
But I need an income. So last week I went about the task of signing up to a slew of recruitment agencies. I've never been particularly impressed with the recruitment agencies I've encountered in London; they promise much but deliver little.
First up, Geoffrey Nathan. Technically not a recruitment consultant rather a payroll agency. This means they specialise in helping foreign visitors claim employment benefits - tax relief, living away from home allowance etc. In turn they then pass your CV and details on to a host of affiliated recruitment consultancies.
"Keep your mobiles on" said the bloke after the induction "You'll get calls this afternoon". A week later I had received nothing.
Next up, Hudson Recruitment which a friend of the lovely Charmaine's passed on to me. Called them and fired off an email. Had a response within the hour aksing me to come in for an interview at 10am the next morning. Fast work, I thought.
Hudson had a department devoted to advertising/marketing and PR. The woman said they "...were crying out for people..." and also said "...call me in a week if you've heard nothing..."
A week later I'd heard nothing. I called. It went to answer phone every time. I left a message asking her to call me back. So far, zero.
Finally, Chris and I discovered that we had a mutual acquaintance in Sophie who worked at EMAP in London. What's more, she was now in Australia. Chris emailed her asking for recruitment leads on my behalf. Duly she responded with three: KPMR, People Connect and ICUR.
Immediately, I rattled off emails/phone calls to them all. KPMR responded immediately saying their person was in London for 2 weeks. Ironic. No, wait, not ironic. Inconvenient. People Connect said to call back on Monday. ICUR didn't even bother to respond.
Frustrating.
Soon, I will get to the point where this trip may have cost me too much. And so far I've only seen Sydney. So I need a job. Or I need to take what money I have and go and see the rest of the country. I am not travelling 10,553 miles across the planet only to pass Ayres Rock on the flight home.
It's not that I'm skint, but I've seen Sydney and hanging around in the Pink House is now a waste of money.
Need a plan, man.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
All Glass and Waiters
So Monday 18th June is my 30th birthday.
That's a bit depressing. By the time my Mum and Dad were my age they had been married nearly 9 years and had had a baby (eg me).
However, all is not lost because I made the decision to see the world. So, as it happened, my 30th birthday drinks were held in the swankiest of bars on Bondi Beach. Could be worse.
I have Charmaine and Rebecca to thank for this, and by proxy, Giacomo. I described what I was looking for - somewhere posher than a pub but not too expensive - and they filled in the blanks.
They chose Icebergs.
So, in a black, howling gale I made my way over to Bondi. Icebergs was located on a craggy outcrop of rock at one end of the beach. It was a modern three-tiered mini-palace. All glass and waiters. Low, moody amber light. Posh leather sofas and two nifty hanging birdy-basket seats overlooking the ocean.
In the height of Summer, this place must be awesome. Trust me to have a birthday in the heart of the Australian winter. All we could see were the flickering lights of the bars on Bondi, and the Iceberg swimming pool which was situated right by the sea where, due to the storm waves, it had been totally inundated by the black, foaming Pacific Ocean. The only indication that it was a swimming pool was a silver half-ladder poking up out of the salty depths.
Anyway by 8.30 most people had arrived and we sat around chatting and drinking and swinging in the bird cage seats until we realised that at $8 a beer the money wouldn't go very far. And so we moved on to somewhere vaguely more pub-like.
Another two bars later and it was 1am. Time to go home. But not before a drunken trip to a shonky kebab house on The Cross for a slice of heat-lamped pizza.
A good night, but today, I think my colon might fall off.
L to R: Matty, Simon, Me, Charmaine (in front of me) Chris, Siah, Elmer and Rebecca
Lama Lama Ding Dong
So the Dalai Lama decided to swing by and I thought it might be nice to pop in and see him. Find out how he is, ask him if he's read any good books recently, seen any good films.
In all seriousness, the Dalai Lama was visiting Sydney and I didn't want to pass up the opportunity of seeing him in the flesh. So Chris and I set off in search of His Pyjamad Holiness after hearing his free concert was being held in The Botanical Gardens.
Actually, concert is not the right word is it? We weren't expecting him to do a few numbers from Evita, or balance a unicycle on his bonce. No, talk. He was giving a talk.
As it happens it wasn't a talk. Rather a fractured, echoing, rambling monologue.
OK. So I am sure he is a lovely man; kind to trees, mends kitten's paws and hands out free Twixes to orphans. And I am sure he is as wise and sagacious and his words are loaded with import, meaning and insight.
But in all these cases, the message is only as good as the medium, and if the delivery and/or method of communication is lacking then even the most potent of oratories will be lost in the noise.
I couldn't hear the Dalai Lama. And when I could hear him I couldn't tell what he said. It felt like that scene in Life Of Brian when Jesus' sermon is interrupted by Terry Jones's shrill cry of "Speak up!"
He mumbled and rambled and rambled and mumbled. His English was poor, he had no script at all and occasionally turned to a similarly jim-jammed fellah to his left when searching for the correct word.
The cumulative effect was something like this:
"...mumble.....ramble...... too much hatred in world.....mumble.....ramble...... erm.....for example Iraq.....mumble.....ramble.....need for compassion...mumble.....ramble.....how you say? materialism?.....mumble.....ramble.....happiness can be achieved....something about Buddah. ...mumble.....ramble.....What's that word? (turns to the man to his left)...Aaaah yes, illusion of contentment....mumble.....ramble.....something about science not having all the answers otherwise a scientist wouldn't have an argument with his wife........erm......erm......erm.....erm.....(huge silence)......erm......(turns to the man to his left......man on his left offers no help)......mumble.....ramble.....Sankyou veddy mach (polite applause).
I could have improved the whole thing with two easy changes:
1. I know he's speaking from the heart/off the cuff - but get that man a script. He sounded like a wino slurring his way through the Little Book of Calm.
2. If he followed a script, you could put subtitles on the big video walls that flanked him. And turn his bloody mike up as well. And hand out some leaflets for Buddha's sake.
If the message is so important then make sure that every one is given the opportunity to hear it. In theory his words could have potentially been life changing. And because I only heard every fifth word, I would never have known.
Poor show, Mr Lama, poor show.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
A-a-a-a-Choo!
I've got a cold. Sore throat. Coughing. Sneezing. My head feels like someone has been inflating it with a bicycle pump.
This morning, with a bunged up nose, I sneezed. I was wearing my ear plugs. I could feel the pressure building up inside my brain. I thought if I opened my mouth that might relieve it. But no, it didn't.
So I took the earplugs out and I swear I heard the hiss of escaping air.
Please email your sympathy.
Try not to worry. I'll pull through.
This morning, with a bunged up nose, I sneezed. I was wearing my ear plugs. I could feel the pressure building up inside my brain. I thought if I opened my mouth that might relieve it. But no, it didn't.
So I took the earplugs out and I swear I heard the hiss of escaping air.
Please email your sympathy.
Try not to worry. I'll pull through.
Bill Giles
As I write we are in the midst of a purple-skied storm.
Curtains of water batter the window shutters. People arrive in the hallway breathing hard, wiping the steam from their specs, damping down their matted hair, huffily brushing at darkened, soaked patches on the tops of their thighs.
Sydney is no fun in the rain. Kings Cross is like Coventry. The Pink House is a prison. Stir crazy.
People loll on their beds exhaling loudly and puffing out their cheeks. Some lay with their hands behind their head staring at the bunk above them.
Some stretch and yawn. Some stand up suddenly as if the action will somehow trigger inspiration. It doesn't.
Some are strewn randomly across the TV room, under blankets, gazing half-heartedly at a flickering screen.
We try to think of things to do. We fail.
Can't wait till the weather changes.
Curtains of water batter the window shutters. People arrive in the hallway breathing hard, wiping the steam from their specs, damping down their matted hair, huffily brushing at darkened, soaked patches on the tops of their thighs.
Sydney is no fun in the rain. Kings Cross is like Coventry. The Pink House is a prison. Stir crazy.
People loll on their beds exhaling loudly and puffing out their cheeks. Some lay with their hands behind their head staring at the bunk above them.
Some stretch and yawn. Some stand up suddenly as if the action will somehow trigger inspiration. It doesn't.
Some are strewn randomly across the TV room, under blankets, gazing half-heartedly at a flickering screen.
We try to think of things to do. We fail.
Can't wait till the weather changes.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
I have a love/hate relationship with my hair. There is a period approximately 4 weeks after it's been cut where it's optimal: the right length, it behaves itself and actually, looks OK. Outside of that period it's just so unwieldy, messy and unmanageable daaahling.
Recently it had become particularly annoying. Each morning, when I got up and looked in the mirror I groaned: two morning wood style flaps/appendages would stick out at the sides, making my head into a huge Concorde-style delta wing. If Terry Christian was fused with a tawny owl this would have been the result.
Yesterday, I'd had enough. So I asked around to see if anyone had any clippers. Dan had some, but he could only do a number 2 or number 1. Insert your own toilet joke here.
I wanted a number 4, but I knew I wasn't going to get it. So reluctantly, I agreed to a number 2. Step in Polly, Dan's younger sister, to perform the surgery.
By 8 o' clock I was shirtless in the back courtyard and a small crowd was gathering as if to watch a public execution. Polly started at the neck and that all seemed fine, but then as she moved on to the bulk the clippers started to pull and I started to wince like a big girl.
"Sorry" she said "the blades need sharpening".
Then the thing conked out.
"Dan....." said Polly "It's stopped again....."
By that point I had cyberpunky undercut thing going on. Probably the most daring haircut I'd had, but certainly not good for interviews/meeting the Queen. I really hoped that I wasn't going to be stuck looking like Limahl from Kajagoogoo.
Luckily after a bit of blowing it started up again. The whole thing took about 30 minutes as Polly hacked away with the clippers. At one point she gave me a magazine to read and asked me where I'd been on my holidays. But unlike a hairdressers, there was no mirror and I had to follow the progress by reading the expressions on spectators' faces. That's difficult to do. At least once or twice someone started laughing and that made me worried.
Finally, it was over. And by the looks on everyone's face the operation appeared to have been a success. I went up stairs to have a shave and a shower and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Christ, it's short. I mean US Marine Short. I mean Bruce Willis short. I mean Kevin Spacey in Se7en short. I look like a little version of Dara O Brien.
Anyway, people tell me it suits me. I think I look very hard. So don't mess, OK?
Are you looking at me?
I do have some photos of the whole incident, but they are on someone else's camera. When I can grab them I will post.
Recently it had become particularly annoying. Each morning, when I got up and looked in the mirror I groaned: two morning wood style flaps/appendages would stick out at the sides, making my head into a huge Concorde-style delta wing. If Terry Christian was fused with a tawny owl this would have been the result.
Yesterday, I'd had enough. So I asked around to see if anyone had any clippers. Dan had some, but he could only do a number 2 or number 1. Insert your own toilet joke here.
I wanted a number 4, but I knew I wasn't going to get it. So reluctantly, I agreed to a number 2. Step in Polly, Dan's younger sister, to perform the surgery.
By 8 o' clock I was shirtless in the back courtyard and a small crowd was gathering as if to watch a public execution. Polly started at the neck and that all seemed fine, but then as she moved on to the bulk the clippers started to pull and I started to wince like a big girl.
"Sorry" she said "the blades need sharpening".
Then the thing conked out.
"Dan....." said Polly "It's stopped again....."
By that point I had cyberpunky undercut thing going on. Probably the most daring haircut I'd had, but certainly not good for interviews/meeting the Queen. I really hoped that I wasn't going to be stuck looking like Limahl from Kajagoogoo.
Luckily after a bit of blowing it started up again. The whole thing took about 30 minutes as Polly hacked away with the clippers. At one point she gave me a magazine to read and asked me where I'd been on my holidays. But unlike a hairdressers, there was no mirror and I had to follow the progress by reading the expressions on spectators' faces. That's difficult to do. At least once or twice someone started laughing and that made me worried.
Finally, it was over. And by the looks on everyone's face the operation appeared to have been a success. I went up stairs to have a shave and a shower and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Christ, it's short. I mean US Marine Short. I mean Bruce Willis short. I mean Kevin Spacey in Se7en short. I look like a little version of Dara O Brien.
Anyway, people tell me it suits me. I think I look very hard. So don't mess, OK?
Are you looking at me?
I do have some photos of the whole incident, but they are on someone else's camera. When I can grab them I will post.
Blind Dates
The other night I spent the evening with three women I'd never met before.
Wait. How did this happen? Re-e-e-wind.
Flashback. A few weeks back Giacomo phoned me to tell me that his friend Charmaine was back in Sydney after her English work visa had run out and was pining for English company. He asked if I would take her out for a drink, and I said yes.
After some prevaracation and procrastination I finally got round to organising it and arranged to meet Charmaine via text message.
To be honest, I'm not always the most social of animals, so I began to wonder what I'd let myself in for (sorry Giacomo).
I arrived at the pub early, armed myself with a pint and stationed myself by the stairs. About 10 minutes later an attractive Indian girl made her way up the stairs, eyeing people up conspicuously. When her gaze fell on me, I nodded as if to say "Yes....it's me!"
Charmaine laughed and immediately we fell into conversation. All I can say is "Thankyou Giacomo" because Charmaine had more energy than a van full of Red Bull and her lovely friends Rebecca and Carolyn were super. We hit it off right away swapping stories about London, Giacomo and later when, the drink was flowing, naughtier stuff.
"What did you expect?" Charmaine asked halfway through the night
"Don't know" I responded "You so could have been a minger or a nutter. Or both"
"Oh, you arsehole!" she retorted in mock-anger "I can't believe that Giacomo would introduce me to someone like you"
When In Rome....
The next day I had a call from Charmaine and Rebecca. They were at an Italian festival in Kings Cross. I joined them straight away.
The festival was just one street closed off and packed with stalls selling gelato, pizza and chocolate, a band playing what sounded like a rocked up version of "Just One Cornetto" and some models hired to look very Italian (big Jackie-O glasses, swirly haute-couture frocks and twirly umbrellas).
In the midst of the kerfuffle we heard a man shouting very loudly into the phone: "Yeah, I'm a photographer and I was just wondering whether Sophia Loren is coming today"
Turns out she was in town for an Italian film festival, and they were trying to rope in to turning up to this as well. Don't think she could be arsed.
Predictably the day ended in the bar drinking cheap wine from a plastic carafe. I'm no good at day drinking and so by the time I arrived at Circular Quay for a shepherd's pie, I was falling asleep.
Had some coffee which didn't seem to help. Got a taxi home. Slept for half an hour then, as the caffeine kicked in, spent the rest of the night staring at the inside of my eyelids.
Still, a good day.
Wait. How did this happen? Re-e-e-wind.
Flashback. A few weeks back Giacomo phoned me to tell me that his friend Charmaine was back in Sydney after her English work visa had run out and was pining for English company. He asked if I would take her out for a drink, and I said yes.
After some prevaracation and procrastination I finally got round to organising it and arranged to meet Charmaine via text message.
To be honest, I'm not always the most social of animals, so I began to wonder what I'd let myself in for (sorry Giacomo).
I arrived at the pub early, armed myself with a pint and stationed myself by the stairs. About 10 minutes later an attractive Indian girl made her way up the stairs, eyeing people up conspicuously. When her gaze fell on me, I nodded as if to say "Yes....it's me!"
Charmaine laughed and immediately we fell into conversation. All I can say is "Thankyou Giacomo" because Charmaine had more energy than a van full of Red Bull and her lovely friends Rebecca and Carolyn were super. We hit it off right away swapping stories about London, Giacomo and later when, the drink was flowing, naughtier stuff.
"What did you expect?" Charmaine asked halfway through the night
"Don't know" I responded "You so could have been a minger or a nutter. Or both"
"Oh, you arsehole!" she retorted in mock-anger "I can't believe that Giacomo would introduce me to someone like you"
When In Rome....
The next day I had a call from Charmaine and Rebecca. They were at an Italian festival in Kings Cross. I joined them straight away.
The festival was just one street closed off and packed with stalls selling gelato, pizza and chocolate, a band playing what sounded like a rocked up version of "Just One Cornetto" and some models hired to look very Italian (big Jackie-O glasses, swirly haute-couture frocks and twirly umbrellas).
In the midst of the kerfuffle we heard a man shouting very loudly into the phone: "Yeah, I'm a photographer and I was just wondering whether Sophia Loren is coming today"
Turns out she was in town for an Italian film festival, and they were trying to rope in to turning up to this as well. Don't think she could be arsed.
Predictably the day ended in the bar drinking cheap wine from a plastic carafe. I'm no good at day drinking and so by the time I arrived at Circular Quay for a shepherd's pie, I was falling asleep.
Had some coffee which didn't seem to help. Got a taxi home. Slept for half an hour then, as the caffeine kicked in, spent the rest of the night staring at the inside of my eyelids.
Still, a good day.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
I Was Never Confused
Poor old Matty. I think his life in Tehran has been somewhat sheltered.
Let me explain. A few nights ago a visit to The World Bar resulted in a drunken gay man making a pass at me and my Buxton friend Danny.
We had to let him down gently.
"We're not gay. Neither of us" we professed.
"Oh, you are so boring" said the Only Gay In The Village (he was from Wales actually), "You are both such poofs" he slurred.
Later on that evening, the Welsh bloke ended up in our room, sharing a bed with a girl friend (not, obviously a girlfriend) as he was too drunk to get home to his own hostel. Nothing wrong with that; I've shared a bed with a woman before on a strictly platonic basis.
But this confused Matty greatly.
"I don't understand this" he said "Why would a gay man sleep with a woman?"
"Because they know nothing could happen" I explained
"But if nothing could happen, then why would they sleep together?" he asked
The following night the same girl brought home another man. This time the result was completely different. There was no doubt this man was not gay.
Poor old Chris on the top bunk was rocked awake, and I was woken up by the noises. I won't go into detail suffice to say that I really needed the toilet and had to wait until it was all finished before I dare move.
I was tempted to reach for the guitar and knock out a few wah-wah licks to accompany the action, but couldn't see how big the bloke was and didn't want to get lamped.
The next morning Matty was even more confused.
Matty: Did you hear the gay man and the woman? They were having sex. I told you!
Me: It was a different man
Matty A different man? Oh. Now I understand. So this different man is gay too?
Me: No!
Matty: How do you know?
Me: Because they were having sex
Matty: But the gay man and the woman had sex two nights ago
Me: No, they didn't Matty. They are just friends
Matty: Then why are they sleeping together?
Me: Because he was drunk
Matty: But the man last night was drunk...
And off it went round and round.....
The girl in question was mortified when she found out we had all heard. "But I was soooo quiet" she said. And that's true. She was quiet. But she was also 4 feet from everyone. And when someone turns over, farts, snores, sneezes or coughs, you hear it.
So when, in the throes of passion, someone whispers "Go easy. You're going to wake everybody up..."
....you usually wake people up.
I'll post the video in a few days. The Sun just need to clear it with legal.
Let me explain. A few nights ago a visit to The World Bar resulted in a drunken gay man making a pass at me and my Buxton friend Danny.
We had to let him down gently.
"We're not gay. Neither of us" we professed.
"Oh, you are so boring" said the Only Gay In The Village (he was from Wales actually), "You are both such poofs" he slurred.
Later on that evening, the Welsh bloke ended up in our room, sharing a bed with a girl friend (not, obviously a girlfriend) as he was too drunk to get home to his own hostel. Nothing wrong with that; I've shared a bed with a woman before on a strictly platonic basis.
But this confused Matty greatly.
"I don't understand this" he said "Why would a gay man sleep with a woman?"
"Because they know nothing could happen" I explained
"But if nothing could happen, then why would they sleep together?" he asked
The following night the same girl brought home another man. This time the result was completely different. There was no doubt this man was not gay.
Poor old Chris on the top bunk was rocked awake, and I was woken up by the noises. I won't go into detail suffice to say that I really needed the toilet and had to wait until it was all finished before I dare move.
I was tempted to reach for the guitar and knock out a few wah-wah licks to accompany the action, but couldn't see how big the bloke was and didn't want to get lamped.
The next morning Matty was even more confused.
Matty: Did you hear the gay man and the woman? They were having sex. I told you!
Me: It was a different man
Matty A different man? Oh. Now I understand. So this different man is gay too?
Me: No!
Matty: How do you know?
Me: Because they were having sex
Matty: But the gay man and the woman had sex two nights ago
Me: No, they didn't Matty. They are just friends
Matty: Then why are they sleeping together?
Me: Because he was drunk
Matty: But the man last night was drunk...
And off it went round and round.....
The girl in question was mortified when she found out we had all heard. "But I was soooo quiet" she said. And that's true. She was quiet. But she was also 4 feet from everyone. And when someone turns over, farts, snores, sneezes or coughs, you hear it.
So when, in the throes of passion, someone whispers "Go easy. You're going to wake everybody up..."
....you usually wake people up.
I'll post the video in a few days. The Sun just need to clear it with legal.
Sine Riters
I hav nevver scene such pore spelling as I hav in Ostralia.
Particularly their signs. If I see one more incorrect spelling of "accommodation", I am going to do someone a mischief.
Same goes for "vegatarin kebabs", "DVD's & CD's" and my favourite "....it is absolutly this bar's policey...."
So my question is this: if you are a professional signmaker, is it not a key requirement for you to be able to spell? And second if you are the proprietor of a hostel/hotel/motel, have you not come across the word "accommodation" before?
"Here's the 20ft sign you ordered"
"Let me just check it. OK. Acomodation. One "c", one "m". Yep, that all appears to be in order. Hoist that up on to the front of the building where everyone can see it, would you, mate?"
Still, we are all fallible. Whilst I rarely make spelling errors, I am prone to the odd typo.
The best one I've ever made: I wanted to type "discount" and instead I typed "discocunt".
Particularly their signs. If I see one more incorrect spelling of "accommodation", I am going to do someone a mischief.
Same goes for "vegatarin kebabs", "DVD's & CD's" and my favourite "....it is absolutly this bar's policey...."
So my question is this: if you are a professional signmaker, is it not a key requirement for you to be able to spell? And second if you are the proprietor of a hostel/hotel/motel, have you not come across the word "accommodation" before?
"Here's the 20ft sign you ordered"
"Let me just check it. OK. Acomodation. One "c", one "m". Yep, that all appears to be in order. Hoist that up on to the front of the building where everyone can see it, would you, mate?"
Still, we are all fallible. Whilst I rarely make spelling errors, I am prone to the odd typo.
The best one I've ever made: I wanted to type "discount" and instead I typed "discocunt".
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Zooooooooooooooooo
What do you call a zoo with nothing but one small dog on display? A Shit-Zoo
Zoos. They can be a bit disappointing, can't they?
I know from bitter experience (well from a school trip to Twycross actually) that the reptile house is usually just a collection of plants and twigs behind a pane of glass, and the monkey enclosure usually consists of some trees, some tyres and some seemingly invisible monkeys.
A few years back I visited London Zoo and that wasn't much better ; there's nothing particularly edifying about peering through a wire cage at a camel doing a shit on some 1970's concrete.
Taronga Zoo in Sydney, however, is effing great. $40 gets you a boat ride and a cable car up to the zoo plus entry. But the point about Taronga is that first, it's big. Second, it's well laid out. Third, and crucially, it has a decent selection of animals.Highlights were the kangaroos, the tiger and my favourite the Red Panda.
Red Panda
Koalas - couldn't even be arsed to look at the lens
Tony The Tiger relaxes between scenes in the new Frosties commercial
Siah baits a python.
Zoos. They can be a bit disappointing, can't they?
I know from bitter experience (well from a school trip to Twycross actually) that the reptile house is usually just a collection of plants and twigs behind a pane of glass, and the monkey enclosure usually consists of some trees, some tyres and some seemingly invisible monkeys.
A few years back I visited London Zoo and that wasn't much better ; there's nothing particularly edifying about peering through a wire cage at a camel doing a shit on some 1970's concrete.
Taronga Zoo in Sydney, however, is effing great. $40 gets you a boat ride and a cable car up to the zoo plus entry. But the point about Taronga is that first, it's big. Second, it's well laid out. Third, and crucially, it has a decent selection of animals.Highlights were the kangaroos, the tiger and my favourite the Red Panda.
Red Panda
Koalas - couldn't even be arsed to look at the lens
Kangaroos - Rolf Harris not in shot
Tony The Tiger relaxes between scenes in the new Frosties commercial
Siah baits a python.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Taggart: There's Been A Moardah!
All week at the Pink House it's been Murder Week.
Names are all put in a hat and players then draw three pieces of paper listing victim, location and murder weapon. All the information is, obviously, a secret.
The week is then spent holding a frying pan whilst trying to cajole your victim into coming into the back courtyard with you, whilst simultaneously looking askance at anyone holding a cricket bat and asking you "to give them a hand with something in the kitchen".
When you kill someone, you take on their intended victim and the person with the most kills presumably wins a prize.
So far, I have killed Jamie from Scotland. I drew his name along with the cupboard in the back courtyard as the location and football as a weapon.
As luck would have it he was in the back courtyard playing cards sat between some bird he was trying to pull and Marcos from Chile. Still not close enough to the cupboard though.
I bided my time and waited until Marcos, his room mate got up, before diving in. "Jamie. I need to kill Marcos" I whispered "Come over here, you need to tell me what room you're in". At first I didn't think he'd go for it, but after a lull he got up from the bench.
Closer, closer. Come on. He was level with the cupboard. Now! I tapped him with the football.
"You're dead" I said.
"Shit" he said.
"Give me your card" I said
He did. Who did I have to kill now? Me. He was tasked with killing me in the computer room with the cricket bat. Since I would have to be very stupid to kill myself, I had to draw again.
This time I got Fiona in the Front Courtyard with....wait for it......a unicycle. I assume they were running out of ideas for weapons. The problem with this was that I didn't know Fiona very well, and certainly couldn't talk her into coming to the Front Courtyard with me with a unicycle tucked under my arm.
So I waited until Tuesday night when everyone goes to The World Bar, exiting through the front courtyard. I placed the unicycle outside ready, and as we all set off I pounced.
"Fiona, I need to know how to kill Lyndon (her boyfriend). Come here, I need to know what room you're in."
It worked once. Maybe it will work again, I thought.
No. It didn't.
Fiona looked at me like I was an actual murderer. For a second, I thought she was going to go for it, but after a few microseconds of contemplation she went "No. Get away from me, Phil" and half trotted/scurried away into the crowd whilst looking back over her shoulder at me.
This is what it must be like to be a real-life pervert, I later thought.
There's no way I can now kill Fiona as she's rumbled me. Never mind, and anyway, no one has killed me yet.
It's been a fun week. Not least because everyone has been looking so shifty. And it's not unusual, as happened to me, for people get the wrong end of the stick and think that you are supposed to murder them.
A couple of times I have walked into a room only to see a girl bolt for the door.
Of course, that could be for entirely different reasons.
Names are all put in a hat and players then draw three pieces of paper listing victim, location and murder weapon. All the information is, obviously, a secret.
The week is then spent holding a frying pan whilst trying to cajole your victim into coming into the back courtyard with you, whilst simultaneously looking askance at anyone holding a cricket bat and asking you "to give them a hand with something in the kitchen".
When you kill someone, you take on their intended victim and the person with the most kills presumably wins a prize.
So far, I have killed Jamie from Scotland. I drew his name along with the cupboard in the back courtyard as the location and football as a weapon.
As luck would have it he was in the back courtyard playing cards sat between some bird he was trying to pull and Marcos from Chile. Still not close enough to the cupboard though.
I bided my time and waited until Marcos, his room mate got up, before diving in. "Jamie. I need to kill Marcos" I whispered "Come over here, you need to tell me what room you're in". At first I didn't think he'd go for it, but after a lull he got up from the bench.
Closer, closer. Come on. He was level with the cupboard. Now! I tapped him with the football.
"You're dead" I said.
"Shit" he said.
"Give me your card" I said
He did. Who did I have to kill now? Me. He was tasked with killing me in the computer room with the cricket bat. Since I would have to be very stupid to kill myself, I had to draw again.
This time I got Fiona in the Front Courtyard with....wait for it......a unicycle. I assume they were running out of ideas for weapons. The problem with this was that I didn't know Fiona very well, and certainly couldn't talk her into coming to the Front Courtyard with me with a unicycle tucked under my arm.
So I waited until Tuesday night when everyone goes to The World Bar, exiting through the front courtyard. I placed the unicycle outside ready, and as we all set off I pounced.
"Fiona, I need to know how to kill Lyndon (her boyfriend). Come here, I need to know what room you're in."
It worked once. Maybe it will work again, I thought.
No. It didn't.
Fiona looked at me like I was an actual murderer. For a second, I thought she was going to go for it, but after a few microseconds of contemplation she went "No. Get away from me, Phil" and half trotted/scurried away into the crowd whilst looking back over her shoulder at me.
This is what it must be like to be a real-life pervert, I later thought.
There's no way I can now kill Fiona as she's rumbled me. Never mind, and anyway, no one has killed me yet.
It's been a fun week. Not least because everyone has been looking so shifty. And it's not unusual, as happened to me, for people get the wrong end of the stick and think that you are supposed to murder them.
A couple of times I have walked into a room only to see a girl bolt for the door.
Of course, that could be for entirely different reasons.
Sandy, #9
Yesterday, Chris came back into our room with look of glee in his eye.
That morning he had found a scrawled note stuck to the fridge with sellotape. In broken English it said (all errors are faithfully recreated):
"If you like Pink Bacardi and it's gone, yes, it was me. Tell me who you are and I'll buy you what I've killed. Sorry Sandy,#9 "
Sandy, it turned out, was a skater chick from Germany with a Purple hair and a vicious left hook. Immediately Chris saw potential here and asked me if I could think of any other notes we could write "from Sandy" to stick alongside this one,
Within 10 minutes we had come up with five more ranging from :
"If you owned a blue BMW 3 Series, and it's gone, yes, it was me. Tell me who you are and I'll buy you what I've killed. Sorry Sandy,#9 "
to
"If you owned a small dog, and it's gone, yes, it was me. Tell me who you are and I'll buy you what I've killed. Sorry Sandy,#9 "
Then within half an hour other people had begun adding their own. One began "If the human head in the fridge was yours.......etc etc Sorry Sandy #9"
I love it when a plan comes together.
That morning he had found a scrawled note stuck to the fridge with sellotape. In broken English it said (all errors are faithfully recreated):
"If you like Pink Bacardi and it's gone, yes, it was me. Tell me who you are and I'll buy you what I've killed. Sorry Sandy,#9 "
Sandy, it turned out, was a skater chick from Germany with a Purple hair and a vicious left hook. Immediately Chris saw potential here and asked me if I could think of any other notes we could write "from Sandy" to stick alongside this one,
Within 10 minutes we had come up with five more ranging from :
"If you owned a blue BMW 3 Series, and it's gone, yes, it was me. Tell me who you are and I'll buy you what I've killed. Sorry Sandy,#9 "
to
"If you owned a small dog, and it's gone, yes, it was me. Tell me who you are and I'll buy you what I've killed. Sorry Sandy,#9 "
Then within half an hour other people had begun adding their own. One began "If the human head in the fridge was yours.......etc etc Sorry Sandy #9"
I love it when a plan comes together.
Ja. Das Gut, Ja!
Was in the shower this morning when I heard The Porn Star pop her head into the men's showers to shout for Robert, her German friend (pictured below).
Robert, it turned out, was in the cubicle next to me, and confirmed his presence by jabbering a retort in German.
When I realised it was him I piped up from the next cubicle. "Hey bruder. Wie gehts?" I shouted above the din of the showerhead, prompting The Porn Star to ask quizzically "Who are you talking to, Robert", this time in English.
"Tell her we're in here together" I hissed to Robert through the partition and he immediately began to translate for The Porn Star.
"Wass?!" she retorted in confusion
"Can you do my back, Robert" I said
"Sure how's this?" replied Robert adding "I'll just bend down to pick up the soap"
The next thing we heard was the door slamming. Think she bought it.
Robert, it turned out, was in the cubicle next to me, and confirmed his presence by jabbering a retort in German.
When I realised it was him I piped up from the next cubicle. "Hey bruder. Wie gehts?" I shouted above the din of the showerhead, prompting The Porn Star to ask quizzically "Who are you talking to, Robert", this time in English.
"Tell her we're in here together" I hissed to Robert through the partition and he immediately began to translate for The Porn Star.
"Wass?!" she retorted in confusion
"Can you do my back, Robert" I said
"Sure how's this?" replied Robert adding "I'll just bend down to pick up the soap"
The next thing we heard was the door slamming. Think she bought it.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Texas Pete. Or, Rather, Dave.
Forgot to tell you about this. Few weeks back I came back to my room to find a Texan loading a 7 foot long harpoon gun.
I thought it best to make friends with him.
Actually Texas Dave turned out to be alright. He had been in the Outback for a month catching his own dinner with his harpoon.
Now. When you get into customs in Oz you realise how paranoid they are about allowing anything into the country that could destroy their delicate ecosystem. Things like soil, bats, Fanta, tulips, Nutella, weevils, Tracker bars or air.
When, after re-entering Oz after a brief trip to NZ, Texas Dave got to customs they said to him "What's in the box, mate?"
"A didgeridoo and a harpoon gun" responded Dave
"Oh my God! " said customs "Have you any idea how dangerous that is? A didgeridoo? It's made of wood for Christ's sake. "
"What about the harpoon gun" said Dave
" Never mind about that" said customs "Get that didgeridoo in quarantine. Now!"
And so Dave's didgeridoo was impounded, X-rayed and probed six ways from Sunday, and kept in storage at Sydney airport for three days at a cost, to Dave, of A$75.
When Dave left the hostel he annoyed me, however. He turned on the light at 4.30am and decided to start packing. Why he didn't do this before he went to bed is not obvious.
I wasn't going to say anything though in case he came over all Captain Ahab.
I thought it best to make friends with him.
Actually Texas Dave turned out to be alright. He had been in the Outback for a month catching his own dinner with his harpoon.
Now. When you get into customs in Oz you realise how paranoid they are about allowing anything into the country that could destroy their delicate ecosystem. Things like soil, bats, Fanta, tulips, Nutella, weevils, Tracker bars or air.
When, after re-entering Oz after a brief trip to NZ, Texas Dave got to customs they said to him "What's in the box, mate?"
"A didgeridoo and a harpoon gun" responded Dave
"Oh my God! " said customs "Have you any idea how dangerous that is? A didgeridoo? It's made of wood for Christ's sake. "
"What about the harpoon gun" said Dave
" Never mind about that" said customs "Get that didgeridoo in quarantine. Now!"
And so Dave's didgeridoo was impounded, X-rayed and probed six ways from Sunday, and kept in storage at Sydney airport for three days at a cost, to Dave, of A$75.
When Dave left the hostel he annoyed me, however. He turned on the light at 4.30am and decided to start packing. Why he didn't do this before he went to bed is not obvious.
I wasn't going to say anything though in case he came over all Captain Ahab.
Bye Bye Pink House?
My lovely friend Jen decided to move away from the Pink House to travel but, when she then got as job as a nurse, decided to move back to Sydney.
She decided to try another hostel. She picked the Rooftop Lodge Travellers Hostel in Glebe, and asked if I wanted to come and have a look at it.
So at 10.30 we rocked up to the hostel. And do you know what - it's very nice. The rooms are closer to university accommodation, nice carpets, MDF wardrobes, en suite bathrooms, free internet in every room, free laundry and a rooftop terrace with room for about 100 people, with a view of the Harbour Bridge and 4 barbecues all regimentally lined up like tanks on a military parade. The price was roughly the same as well.
My only concerns were that, first, it's a bit out of town and second, the place appeared dead. The atmosphere in Pink House is great. The standard of living is not. So I have a decision to make. Should I stay or should I go? Could I be trading in for a better model only to discover some hidden costs? The grass is greener indeed.
So Jen is to be my little guineapig. She's going to try it out and give me some feedback. And if she likes it, I might swap. Or I might not.
She decided to try another hostel. She picked the Rooftop Lodge Travellers Hostel in Glebe, and asked if I wanted to come and have a look at it.
So at 10.30 we rocked up to the hostel. And do you know what - it's very nice. The rooms are closer to university accommodation, nice carpets, MDF wardrobes, en suite bathrooms, free internet in every room, free laundry and a rooftop terrace with room for about 100 people, with a view of the Harbour Bridge and 4 barbecues all regimentally lined up like tanks on a military parade. The price was roughly the same as well.
My only concerns were that, first, it's a bit out of town and second, the place appeared dead. The atmosphere in Pink House is great. The standard of living is not. So I have a decision to make. Should I stay or should I go? Could I be trading in for a better model only to discover some hidden costs? The grass is greener indeed.
So Jen is to be my little guineapig. She's going to try it out and give me some feedback. And if she likes it, I might swap. Or I might not.
Radio Gaga
Chris, 27, from Eastbourne, is also in my room.
Me: So what do you do?
Chris: I work in radio
Me: Oh really, I worked in radio. What did you do?
Chris: Just a producer. Did some stuff on Capital, EMAP, Chrysalis
Me: Me too
Chris: Who did you work for?
Me: Drum. Part of PHD
Chris: Oh I know them.
Me: You know the Guardian Guide ads on Chrysalis?
Chris: Know them? I produced them
Me: I did that deal!
Chris: No way. Do you know the scriptwriters Jo and Sophie?
Me: Yeah. They were shit. I used to have to rewrite all the scripts before they were recorded
Chris: Ha! Yeah I know.
Me and Chris: Eeeeeeeh (the noise of two people going "well, would you believe it. What a small world)
Me: So what do you do?
Chris: I work in radio
Me: Oh really, I worked in radio. What did you do?
Chris: Just a producer. Did some stuff on Capital, EMAP, Chrysalis
Me: Me too
Chris: Who did you work for?
Me: Drum. Part of PHD
Chris: Oh I know them.
Me: You know the Guardian Guide ads on Chrysalis?
Chris: Know them? I produced them
Me: I did that deal!
Chris: No way. Do you know the scriptwriters Jo and Sophie?
Me: Yeah. They were shit. I used to have to rewrite all the scripts before they were recorded
Chris: Ha! Yeah I know.
Me and Chris: Eeeeeeeh (the noise of two people going "well, would you believe it. What a small world)
Health and Efficiency
I have decided to give up drink for a week. Not that I've ever been a boozer but it's so easy to claim your free beer here, or blag a mug of goon there.
I never overdo it, but I think it's beginning to take its toll. Poor quality alcohol, poor quality pizza slices and poor quality sleep are not among Gillian McKeith's recommendations for a healthy lifestyle.
All drink and no sleep makes Phil a grumpy boy, so last night (Thursday 24th) was my last drink for a week. I'm hoping I'll stop feeling grotty and get a bit of energy back.
I'm nearly 30. Just can't keep up, like I used to.
Pass me my slippers and that copy of Saga magazine, will you? Oh good the Antiques Roadshow is on tonight. An hour special on Wedgewood Pottery? Can't wait.
I never overdo it, but I think it's beginning to take its toll. Poor quality alcohol, poor quality pizza slices and poor quality sleep are not among Gillian McKeith's recommendations for a healthy lifestyle.
All drink and no sleep makes Phil a grumpy boy, so last night (Thursday 24th) was my last drink for a week. I'm hoping I'll stop feeling grotty and get a bit of energy back.
I'm nearly 30. Just can't keep up, like I used to.
Pass me my slippers and that copy of Saga magazine, will you? Oh good the Antiques Roadshow is on tonight. An hour special on Wedgewood Pottery? Can't wait.
Treemendous
When I am a millionaire, when I have a supermodel girlfriend, when I have won the lottery, when I have won an Oscar, I will probably have a holiday home in Watson's Bay. Or Vaucluse, I'm not fussy.
This is the posh part of town. No wait, it's the if-I-kept-all-my-money-under-my-mattress-and-fell-out-bed-it-would-take-me-5-minutes-to-hit-the-floor part of town.
Gated communities, intercoms, Porsches parked in front of remote control garage doors, stunning views of the harbour, tree lined avenues. You know the sort of thing.
Speaking of trees and views, here's a short story about a tree and a view.
Some mega-rich local resident contacts the authorities complaining that his view of the harbour from the upper mezzanine is ruined by one of the trees on the tree-lined avenue. He tells them unless they do something about the 50 year old tree which has been there longer than his split-level, gravel-drived, faux-Spanish villa he will cut it down.
Authorities say "Don't even think about it" and the millionaire backs down.
Then a little while later the tree mysteriously begins to lose all its leaves and dies. Poisoned say the experts. The authorities have no proof as to whodunnit, but lets say they aren't looking for any suspects.
Instead they take to hoisting this banner over the dead tree saying "This tree has been poisoned. If you have any information then call......." in attempt to guilt trip the perpetrator into confessing.
So far no such luck.
Watson's Bay is a little further round and is home to Doyle's World Class Fish Restaurant and a nudist beach full of old men with shrivelled willies.
I know which I'd rather visit.
I can't stand fish
This is the posh part of town. No wait, it's the if-I-kept-all-my-money-under-my-mattress-and-fell-out-bed-it-would-take-me-5-minutes-to-hit-the-floor part of town.
Gated communities, intercoms, Porsches parked in front of remote control garage doors, stunning views of the harbour, tree lined avenues. You know the sort of thing.
Speaking of trees and views, here's a short story about a tree and a view.
Some mega-rich local resident contacts the authorities complaining that his view of the harbour from the upper mezzanine is ruined by one of the trees on the tree-lined avenue. He tells them unless they do something about the 50 year old tree which has been there longer than his split-level, gravel-drived, faux-Spanish villa he will cut it down.
Authorities say "Don't even think about it" and the millionaire backs down.
Then a little while later the tree mysteriously begins to lose all its leaves and dies. Poisoned say the experts. The authorities have no proof as to whodunnit, but lets say they aren't looking for any suspects.
Instead they take to hoisting this banner over the dead tree saying "This tree has been poisoned. If you have any information then call......." in attempt to guilt trip the perpetrator into confessing.
So far no such luck.
Watson's Bay is a little further round and is home to Doyle's World Class Fish Restaurant and a nudist beach full of old men with shrivelled willies.
I know which I'd rather visit.
I can't stand fish
Here is video blog #4
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Roll Call
This last two weeks at The Pink House has been brilliant. Brilliant. I don't know why, really. I just think that people are beginning to bond. It's so important to find decent people. Here are some decent people I have met. I love you all!
Matin (or Matty for short)
I've spoke about Matin before. He is from Tehran and is learning English. He is really coming out his shell and has decided to pretend that he is Mexican for no other reason than to amuse himself.
He has started calling himself Diego, moaning that the American's stole Texas from him and claiming he can make Tequila.
He came unstuck the other night though. He was chatting up a woman and casually dropped into conversation that he was Mexican. "Oh" said the woman "I am from Chile" and launched into Spanish.
"I'll be right back" said Matty/Diego and promptly did a runner.
Siah
Siah is a stunner from Vancouver Island. Her Dad is a hippie and she has 7 brothers and sisters all called things like Vertical Porridge Incident, Doncaster Bypass Expectation and ATM Parsnip Wildebeest.
I have been spending a lot of time with her on account of her being a massive Radiohead and Muse fan and also being almost as intelligent as me. We visited Coogee together. She took this photo. As you can see, she went arty.
Jen
Jen is a star. She is a nurse from Cambridge and so has a proper job. Whenever she talks to me about her profession I feel guilty; nursing is such a tough job. She is also a bit mental and is not afraid to indulge in the odd skydive, bungee jump, canyon swing, white water rafting expedition.
I have been hanging around with her a lot. I like to think of Siah and Jen as "my bitches". Of course if they knew that they would probably beat the crap out of me. This is Jen's website. On there you can find a video of her doing the biggest Bungee in the world in NZ. Please visit and say nice things.
Phil and Phil
Two top guys from Weymouth, both called Phil. We shared a room meaning there were three Phils in Room 2 at one point. They are the best dancers I have seen who are not black or gay. They know all the words and dance moves to 5ive's greatest hits. Little Phil can do the best Jar Jar Binks impression I have ever heard. I was sad when they left.
Mark and Dave
Spent a lot of time with the guys from Bracknell. Both are doing a bit of travelling before they go to Uni. They are both football fans. I shan't hold it against them as they came in handy udring the sports round in the pub quiz.
Sour Kraut
It's been a soap opera round here the last few weeks. Like a budget version of Neighbours.
So here's an update split into handy themed paragraphs.
All Change
I've had to move rooms. The Pink House has decided that my room, Room 2, was to be turned back into a common room. I am now one door closer to reception in Room 1.
This pleased me because it pissed off a German porn star. Well, she's not a porn star, but she dresses like one, and has as much elegance and social grace.
She is the single most annoying woman I've met in the hostel so far. Rumours were already abound when she was living in room 17 about her habit of turning on the big light in the night and playing her iPod through her portable speakers at 3am in the morning.
Then a rumour uglier than her hideous beaked nose emerged - that she was to move to my room, Room 2.
A Chat With Claire
Spoke to Claire, her previous room mate, or rather room enemy. She'd had several slanging matches and sleepless nights with the German. "You'll get no sleep" said Claire, shaking her head in a resigned fashion.
Went to see Aidan at reception. "Mate, I don't want that woman in my room" I said. "Don't worry" he said in his broad Belfaaaahst accent, before winking conspiratorially "I'll sort something out"
Except the problem was that he wasn't on in the morning. Sonya was. And Sonya knew nothing knew of mine and Aidan's arrangement. So imagine my surprise when I awoke to see a bleach blonde tattooed troll with Double-F knockers dragging her suitcase through my doorway.
And true enough. By 3am that morning she had already turned the big light on and started to play her iPod through her speakers.
"Turn that off" I said
"It's OK" she said
What's that supposed to mean? No, it's not OK.
"Turn it off" I said "Matty's got to be up in the morning for college"
Chuntering, she gave in.
And, so next morning, when the news that everyone had to leave Room 2 reached us, it was full on Blitzkrieg. She was one Sour Kraut.
"I haff just moved down here" she railed "Zey have sent me back to Room 17. I not like Room 17. Zere iz zis woman who is always tellink me to turn ze light off and turn my music off". She was, of course, referring to Claire.
I had the pleasure of telling Claire.
Me: Guess who's moving back into your room
Claire: No!
Me: Yes
Claire (more serious): But....no!
Me: Yes
Claire: Aidan....tell me that's not true
Aidan: Erm.....
Claire: Aidan! No!
Aidan (looks at the ground and sheepishly nods)
Meanwhile, The German was giving Miranda, the manager of The Pink House, a full on Teutonic Tantrum. But I was glad she'd moved out. And I glad she was pissed off.
I don't know much German, but I do know one word. Schadenfrauder - the act of taking pleasure in another's misfortune.
Bug Off
20 minutes later the German was down at reception claiming she had been bitten by bed bugs. At first, reception suspected her of concocting the story in order to get moved again. But, would you believe it, she was actually telling the truth.
There followed a fractured conversation about which rooms she had stayed in, which hostels she had visited and where in Australia she had been.
As a rule, you should not take sleeping bags to hostels as they transport bed bugs easily. Usually, you should use the hostel linen as it is cleaned industrially.
Of course The German had had bed bugs at her last hostel. Of course, she had a sleeping bag. Of course the German had not washed her sleeping bag. Of course the German had stayed in my room.
10 minutes later I found myself absentmindedly scratching my back when I realised I had found a reddened lump. Could be a mozzie bite, I thought. I asked Claire to look at it. "No thanks" she said when she realised it was so low on my lower back that technically constituted my arse.
"Go on" I said. Reluctantly, she had a prod. Within seconds, Miranda, the manager had steamed in. She was on bed bug watch and wasted no time in diving to her knees to firk about. At one point Claire pulled my shorts down so far I was perilously close to exposing my arsecrack.
A verdict was reached. They were bed bugs. "Everything in the tumble drier. Now!" was the instruction from Miranda. Everyone in the new room was very sympathetic. They expressed this via a barrage of questions:
Have I touched you at any stage?
Is it like Alien, where it bursts out of your chest?
Can they get into your brain?
I am now in recovery and am hopefully parasite free.
Try not to worry. I still have a decent quality of life
So here's an update split into handy themed paragraphs.
All Change
I've had to move rooms. The Pink House has decided that my room, Room 2, was to be turned back into a common room. I am now one door closer to reception in Room 1.
This pleased me because it pissed off a German porn star. Well, she's not a porn star, but she dresses like one, and has as much elegance and social grace.
She is the single most annoying woman I've met in the hostel so far. Rumours were already abound when she was living in room 17 about her habit of turning on the big light in the night and playing her iPod through her portable speakers at 3am in the morning.
Then a rumour uglier than her hideous beaked nose emerged - that she was to move to my room, Room 2.
A Chat With Claire
Spoke to Claire, her previous room mate, or rather room enemy. She'd had several slanging matches and sleepless nights with the German. "You'll get no sleep" said Claire, shaking her head in a resigned fashion.
Went to see Aidan at reception. "Mate, I don't want that woman in my room" I said. "Don't worry" he said in his broad Belfaaaahst accent, before winking conspiratorially "I'll sort something out"
Except the problem was that he wasn't on in the morning. Sonya was. And Sonya knew nothing knew of mine and Aidan's arrangement. So imagine my surprise when I awoke to see a bleach blonde tattooed troll with Double-F knockers dragging her suitcase through my doorway.
And true enough. By 3am that morning she had already turned the big light on and started to play her iPod through her speakers.
"Turn that off" I said
"It's OK" she said
What's that supposed to mean? No, it's not OK.
"Turn it off" I said "Matty's got to be up in the morning for college"
Chuntering, she gave in.
And, so next morning, when the news that everyone had to leave Room 2 reached us, it was full on Blitzkrieg. She was one Sour Kraut.
"I haff just moved down here" she railed "Zey have sent me back to Room 17. I not like Room 17. Zere iz zis woman who is always tellink me to turn ze light off and turn my music off". She was, of course, referring to Claire.
I had the pleasure of telling Claire.
Me: Guess who's moving back into your room
Claire: No!
Me: Yes
Claire (more serious): But....no!
Me: Yes
Claire: Aidan....tell me that's not true
Aidan: Erm.....
Claire: Aidan! No!
Aidan (looks at the ground and sheepishly nods)
Meanwhile, The German was giving Miranda, the manager of The Pink House, a full on Teutonic Tantrum. But I was glad she'd moved out. And I glad she was pissed off.
I don't know much German, but I do know one word. Schadenfrauder - the act of taking pleasure in another's misfortune.
Bug Off
20 minutes later the German was down at reception claiming she had been bitten by bed bugs. At first, reception suspected her of concocting the story in order to get moved again. But, would you believe it, she was actually telling the truth.
There followed a fractured conversation about which rooms she had stayed in, which hostels she had visited and where in Australia she had been.
As a rule, you should not take sleeping bags to hostels as they transport bed bugs easily. Usually, you should use the hostel linen as it is cleaned industrially.
Of course The German had had bed bugs at her last hostel. Of course, she had a sleeping bag. Of course the German had not washed her sleeping bag. Of course the German had stayed in my room.
10 minutes later I found myself absentmindedly scratching my back when I realised I had found a reddened lump. Could be a mozzie bite, I thought. I asked Claire to look at it. "No thanks" she said when she realised it was so low on my lower back that technically constituted my arse.
"Go on" I said. Reluctantly, she had a prod. Within seconds, Miranda, the manager had steamed in. She was on bed bug watch and wasted no time in diving to her knees to firk about. At one point Claire pulled my shorts down so far I was perilously close to exposing my arsecrack.
A verdict was reached. They were bed bugs. "Everything in the tumble drier. Now!" was the instruction from Miranda. Everyone in the new room was very sympathetic. They expressed this via a barrage of questions:
Have I touched you at any stage?
Is it like Alien, where it bursts out of your chest?
Can they get into your brain?
I am now in recovery and am hopefully parasite free.
Try not to worry. I still have a decent quality of life
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
United Nations
Now, I usually have a dislike for the pretentious uber-traveller. You know the kind:
"Well I lived rough in the jungle for six months, living on nothing but bark and jaguar's tears "
"Oh really, because I was made Chief of an Incan tribe after I introduced them to fire. Amazing what you kind find in the back of Lonely Planet"
"That's nothing. I was in the Arctic Tundra for two years in just flip-flops and a tie-dye T-shirt and nursed a family of sub-Arctic Grouse back to health"
Tossers. Sometimes it can all be a bit of competition.
However, I'm a bit of a hypocrite because the other day I found myself pondering over everything I had seen and the all people I had met, and what I'd learnt. And it was eye-opening.
Here is a quick list of some things I found out, or conversations I've had as a result of being in The Pink House. They may seem inconsequential, but I think they're quite interesting. Think of them of as "International Titbits". Actually, I think I have a DVD from Amsterdam with the same title.
* Swedish jokes centre around the Norwegians being thick. Norwegian jokes centre around the Swedish being thick
* In Chinese and Japanese, because there are 12,000 characters in their language, crosswords are impossible. They tend to stick to Sudoku
* In Thailand you can get all your clothes washed, dried, ironed and bagged up all for 50p. Even my Mum charges more than that. Mum, you're sacked!
* Italians think Southeners are lazy bastards. Southerners think Northeners are stuck up twats. Kind of like England, except vice versa
* Listened to a Quebecois and a Belgian discuss differences in their accent. Apparently, Quebecois sound like they are from Revolutionary France and speak as if they have been released from the Bastille straight into the 21st Century. Sacre Bleu!
* Mein Kampf is banned in Germany. It is exists elsewhere in the world but only in English. Christian, from Ulm, says he suspects the meaning will be lost in translation. He is not a Nazi, but he is keen to get hold of a copy in Oz
* Finnish learn Swedish, but the Swedish usually can't be bothered to learn Finnish.
* Compulsory national service is still in force in many countries. Met an Israeli Tank Commander (aged 23) and a Iranian Tank Driver (24). Matin, from Tehran, described National Service as "bullshit" and the went on to detail how he totalled two tanks when the brakes on the one he was driving failed. Well, if we go to war, that's two less tanks we have to worry about.
* Handwriting in Hebrew is entirely different from official typescript that appears on for example TV, road signs or 2-for-1 vouchers at KFC. Hebrew handwriting is curly, Hebrew typescript is blocky and square. I told him I only see the square stuff on TV because it is on ambulances, army vehicles and police baracades. He said it was a shame that I only ever see that side of Israel.
OK. So it's not a particularly serious list but there is a serious point here. That you really do learn from travelling, and you really do expose yourself to things you ordinarily wouldn't.
And that can only be a good thing.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
It's All So Manly
Took a boat across to Manly from Circular Quay. It's a 40 minute trip across Sydney Harbour, past the ubiquitous Opera House and into the coves and inlets that typify Sydney.
Manly itself is one street; a wide but short boulevard lined with Aboriginal art shops and kebab houses together with a central reservation of al fresco cafe tables and palm trees.
At one end the marina. At the other Manley beach. The beach is great. Even though thousands of people visit here every year, it still feels untouched ; a well-kept secret. Had a wander along from one end to the other.
The sea in Australia is deceptive and unpredictable. You can wade in to the sea to what initially seems like shin height, thinking you're safe. Then you realise every fifth wave comes in at waist height and every 14th at elbow height.
Furthermore each ebbing wave dissolves the shelf beneath you, and before you know where you are you're stuck into the floor like a telegraph pole.
Was watching Bondi Rescue on TV a few weeks back. At the height of Summer, lifeguards on Bondi effect a rescue every 40 seconds. People usually totally underestimate Australian tides and routinely get washed out in the direction of New Zealand.
Anyway, Manly is a great day trip and a must for people who want to work on their tan.
Click Below for Video Blog #3
Sydney Tower
First tourist day in a while due to what can only be described as "British Weather"tm.
I'm talking white and grey clouds of nothing. Maybe a breeze, maybe not. Will it rain? Might do. Neither nowt ner summat. Half expected to see a pensioner sat in a deckchair with a knotted hanky and a melting Mr Whippy.
To be honest, under these conditions, Sydney can seem a very mundane city.
However, when, one day I pulled back the curtains to see blue sky I dived out of bed. Well actually I slid out of bed. At 10.30.
I'm talking white and grey clouds of nothing. Maybe a breeze, maybe not. Will it rain? Might do. Neither nowt ner summat. Half expected to see a pensioner sat in a deckchair with a knotted hanky and a melting Mr Whippy.
To be honest, under these conditions, Sydney can seem a very mundane city.
However, when, one day I pulled back the curtains to see blue sky I dived out of bed. Well actually I slid out of bed. At 10.30.
Set off along the walk I did last week. Down to Woolloomooloo over to Circular Quay, but this time had a proper wander round the Botanical Gardens.
A good walk. The highlight was peering up at what appeared to be about 100 black rugby balls hanging from the trees, only to realise, when they started moving that they were in fact bats. They were very black and very flappy.
Over to the Sydney Tower. The cheapest ticket was A$24 which was for both the Tower and "Oz Trek".
Tower was very good. It's only when you see Sydney from above you realise what a fractured and splintered city it is ; a collection on beach, coves and inlets lashed together by bridges, tunnels and ferry rides. Could see Coogee, King's Cross and, I think, the Blue Mountains.
Then on to "Oz Trek" which was meant to be a ride through Australian History via virtual reality. In reality, it was virtually pointless. It was a hydraulic seat plonked in front of three tv screens that synched the action with an appropriate movement.
Flying sequences worked very well, but they also seemed to think that any other experience could be recreated with a few jarring jolts to the spine. You're walking through the jungle. BANG BANG BANG goes the seat. CRACK CRACK CRACK goes your coccyx. You're sailing in a ship. THWACK THWACK THWACK goes the seat. BOSH BOSH BOSH goes your head into the head rest.
Not my idea of virtual reality.
Still, the tower was really good and when I got home I realised that The Pink House did a 20% discount voucher. Too late. Arse.
Click below for Video Blog #2
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