We'll Meet Again

It's been a week of goodbyes at The Pink House. A handful of long termers have done the off and headed their separate ways. During the day, Aidan and Hannah made their way to the airport, and by the time I arrived in the evening Richie and Dave were all packed up ready for the 12 hour Greyhound bus journey to Byron Bay.

Richie and Dave, two thirds of Team Rave, had been with us for 4 weeks and so were part of the family (God knows what that makes me at 5 months). One immediate upshot was that because of Raj's decision not to go on the road with the other two members, the "Raj-less" Dave and Rich had to be be renamed Team Ditch - something which the new duo accepted immediately.

As we all gathered to give manly pats on the back to men overloaded with backpacks the size of Hotpoint Dishwashers, leaning foward to stop themselves falling backward, we realised how much camaraderie there is in The Pink House, as the air was filled with the usual exchanges: "...cool, take care, yeah?"; "keep in touch, you've got my email, right?", and Franc's typically ascerbic, but not serious "....I never liked you, anyway...".

Usually goodbyes don't really have an immediate effect if the person leaving is still stood in front of you. It's only later you feel it - when the courtyard is one voice missing, or the conversation is one joke short. The silence that falls is not an absence of noise, but an absence of atmosphere, and of feel. The Pink House is essentially an empty recepticle coloured by the characters who grace its creaking bunk beds, and now we are five of our most vivid people down, there's no telling what hue The Pink House will adopt. It probably won't be Pink.

A La Recherche Des Lunettes Perdu

God, I'm a clever bastard, aren't I? Starting off with a reference to Proust. In French. I should be on QI or something.

For those of you who don't speak French, this means Searching For Lost Sunglasses - which is what I seem to spend most of my time doing these days. I am now convinced The Pink House is riddled with pan-dimensional anti-matter holes through which any object smaller than, say, a packet of Findus Crispy Pancakes, will always fall.

Where does this stuff go? I mean really - where could it possibly be? I'd like to think there's a TARDIS-like room somewhere containing everything ever lost - like Shergar, my Lando Calrissian figure or Chris Langham's external hard-drive.

The problem, you see, is not theft. It's because due to the sheer volume of objects in the room of a backpacker.......rucksacks, guidebooks, towels, iPod chargers, pants, shorts, trainers, cutlery, deoderant, instant noodles, international adapters...... the chances of you losing one of these objects in the melee of bric-brac increases exponentially. Socks go missing most often. Followed by phone chargers. Then toothbrushes. Then sunglasses. Occasionally stuff turns up, looking like it's a had a hell of a week jammed down the side of the bed, or stuffed down the arm of the wrong coat, but more often than not, you're left scratching your head.

I haven't done too bad so far. Whilst other people have lost passports and wallets and phones among the debris, the most precious thing I have misplaced is my sexy Samsung USB Drive containing around 200 photos. Luckily, some sets had already been burned to CD, some were still on Chris's computer, and the world beating, David Bailey-baiting photos of the SH Bridge I took can always be taken again.

Let's hope I don't lose my dignity. Actually, it's probably too late.

Rough and Tumble

When people get to know each other well generally they begin to open up, perhaps become more animated, broach subjects previously off limits, share more personal details.

When people get to know each other really well they start arm wrestling, play naughty Twister, have piggback races and bodyslam one another.

The Pink House currently home to a number of long-term residents who have known each other long enough to allow indulgence in the odd intimate caper. Thus, last night was Body Twister night where coloured blobs on the floor were replaced with body parts. Each contestant, then, labels up parts of their body with sticky numbers and hopes to be touched, or not to be touched there.

Some were braver than others, and whilst I stuck my number 1 to my belt buckle, Richie went the whole way and stuck it on his crotch. Meanwhile Goonie had stuck a number 5 on her tit, and so it wasn't long before I had someone's hand on my arse and my hand on someone's tit.

The evening ended with a piggy back race round the Potts Point fountain in full view of the Police Station.

There's also a rise in bodyslamming and pile-ons over the past few weeks. This usually involves waiting until someone is asleep before doing a Shirley Crabtree and belly flopping on their sleeping form. If you've organised it properly, there should be a queue of people behind you waiting to pile on and, as person after person dives on the next, the effect is a kind of human lasagne.

Occasionally it can go wrong. Last week, a decision to bodyslam Raj whilst he was asleep in the TV room resulted in Aidan taking a blow to the cheekbone. After scrambling out from amongst the pancaked, collapsed scrum, we saw his eye was cut - very much like a boxer. Within minutes a frozen bag of peas was strapped to his face to get the swelling down.

Throughout this an ageing Belgian couple had looked on aghast at such childish behaviour. But then again, they live in Belgium - I don't think they have much exposure to excitement.

Ava Nice Day

So as predicted our Lord and Saviour, Ava, has been booted out. Actually, not booted out, more gently shooed away like some seagull encroaching on your cod and chips.

Apparently, he went quietly but not before being central to another couple of leftfield incidents. Last week he decided to accompany Matin from Iran shopping. When they got to Woolworths Matin was already getting a bit fed up with him, not really being religious himself. But it all came to a head in the pasta aisle when Ava suggested Matin's indecision over whether to buy penne or rigatoni could be solved by asking God. He closed his eyes for a few moments, and then, as if receiving a flash of divine inspiration, said "God wants you to choose this one". "As I expected...." said Matin, whose improvements in English have revealed a dry sense of humour, "....it was the cheapest".

Then Franc, who has long been fascinated with The Man In White, but observed him from afar (as you would nuclear testing), became involved in a particularly telling incident. By all accounts, Franc had tried to engage him in conversation, but Ava had become increasingly erratic in his responses until the point where he accused Franc of having a hidden earpiece through which he was receiving his "dialogue". He went on to claim that the instructions were coming from Foxtel (Oz equivalent of Sky TV), and continually motioned towards the windows in a nearby towerblock overlooking the courtyard, saying "Well done, the script is working", presumably at some unseen director.


At this point Franc realised that, joking aside, and in all seriousness, this man might actually be mentally ill and so altered his line of question accordingly. The Man In White clearly needed the men in white coats.

We rapidly came to the conclusion that actually this man's religion is not the reason for his unsettling behaviour. In fact, he probably is ill in some way, and does have social problems, and has turned to religion as a way of masking, justifying and curing his self.


Cruel as it may sound, we were just beginning to feel relief at his leaving, when on Sunday (of all days) we received a "sign". In 50ft high letters in the sky was written "Jesus = Hope".


Joking, we immediately suspected Ava. God, some people will go a long way to prove a point.

Quizteam Aguilera

Sunday was Challenge Night at The Pink House. It's like a cross between Fifteen to One and It's A Knockout...so maybe Knock One Out if you will. Or The Krapton Factor, perhaps.

Rounds 1 and 2 were general knowledge followed by name the country, flag and currency respectively. Round 3 was burst your opponents balloon. Round 4 was a MENSA test featuring question like "If the man in white is left of the man in blue who did your Auntie Mary marry at her second cousin's wedding?". Round 5, though billed as a "physical challenge", was essentially "who can do the longest handstand against a wall?". Richard, on our side, was doing very well until he was distracted by his money dropping out his jeans and falling up his nose.

Our team, Challenge Rajika (Raj's bastardisation of 90s teatime show Challenge Anneka) was, of course, victorious. Our prize was a duffed up 1980s Kenwood Coffee maker that looked suspiciously like the one in the kitchen not two minutes previously, which Raj duly held up and kissed as if it was the Jules Rimet Cup itself

Our team are victorious.....

Ava Almighty prays for a handstand to end all handstands..........

Flight Of Fancy

So here's something you don't hear every day: "Miranda.... erm....someone has just fallen out of an upstairs window and is lying on the floor outside".

This was announced to the throng in the courtyard which, up until that point, had been engrossed in a game of poker. There was a silence for a second whilst everybody looked at each other in slight disbelief before, like true rubberneckers, mobilising en masse. When I arrived at the scene, a man was smashed on to the floor in the mangled shape of a Swastika, breathing, his eyes open but utterly immobilised. Alan, from Aberdeen, was stood at the side of him holding a laptop bag: "Trying to steal my laptop eh? I hope you die" he said. Ouch.

As it transpired, a local junkie had somehow gained access to the hostel, managed to make a grab for a laptop and in the ensuing panic fell out of the window 15ft on to the floor. The situation rapidly developed into a kangaroo court, however, with those people who had had stuff snatched circling agitatedly, wanting to lay the boot in, whilst religious freak Ava lay at the side of him, prayed with him and continually assured him that God loved him.

An ambulance was called immediately and, with a police station only 20 feet away, it wasn't long before they were on the scene. The police recognised him straight away. They started calling his name even before they had got close to him, and spoke to him like he was a drinking buddy. "Don't move" they said " the ambulance is on its way". 20 minutes later he was being carted away on a stretcher complete with surgical strapping and collar - it was like some scene out of Holby City.

The debate continued after the sirens had faded. Some were harsh and hoped he had done himself a proper mischief. Others were more liberal, attributing his behaviour to the drugs. Me - I think he was punished accordingly. When a man steals a laptop, but then moments later falls through a window, bounces off a hefty metal fuse box on the way down and lands mangled on a brick floor, I think, in this case, we should probably leave it at that.

Hard Corps

When Joni Mitchell said "you don't know what you've got till it's gone", she was spot on. But then again she also said "They paved paradise and put up a parking lot" . And as Partridge put it: "that's a measure that would have alleviated congestion on the outskirts of paradise - something which Joni singularly fails to point out".

It's a year since I've graced an office and I was actually quite looking forward to returning to the environment . Banter and witty repartee, maybe, challenges and solutions, a chance to test myself. But actually I have found myself in a corporate environment so antiseptic, so dead, so numbing that it makes me realise how vibrant the Drum office was.

At Drum, the decibles never dropped. Whether it was our attacks on Dave's fuchsia jumper or jeering at my love of Subway sandwiches, verbal sparring matches between myself and Ivan on the subject of The Libertines vs Muse, or attempts to establish whether SJ was posh enough to be in line to the throne, the office was always buzzing with activity; rapid fire phone calls, agitated photocopying and blustery meetings - all against the against a backdrop of a chattering digital radio.

Here is different. The office is not only big enough to swing a cat in, but also big enough to swing a barge round in. This means everyone is sat about 10 feet apart and silence reigns supreme. The funereal hush is punctuated only by the barely audible, ever-present hum of the aircon and odd clatter of the odd keyboard.

It's easy to cross-reference it against pop-culture fallout. It's Gervais's The Office. It's Orwell's 1984. It's Gilliam's Brazil. It's hell with neon lighting.

The office seems populated mostly by middle aged men between the ages of 35-55. 2/3rds of whom have spiffing moustaches and salt & pepper hair. They sit hunched over keyboards, staring intently at the screen, not looking left or right, not speaking to anyone. Occasionally, one breaks protocol and ventures into somebody else's booth to mumble something like: "Have you got the status report for the EKR project?" or "Bob says he needs it to fill in the Progress Matrix spreadsheet, and I shan't be here Tuesday morning because I'm going to the chiropodist" and then, realising he could have sent that on email, mumbles something else and saunters away.

So far I have spent my time here in a state of confusion. Though everyone has been perfectly pleasant and amenable, they speak only in acronyms and abbreviations and seem to keep forgetting that I don't know what a DCMS Recombination Datagasm is, nor an Integrated Berk Spanner Network either.

And do you know what? As I've said before the maths are not stacking up. Roughly, as a general rule you should budget about 1000 pounds a month for travelling. And because I am not an idiot with the booze (as most travellers are) I am coming in at just under that, at around 850-900 pounds.

This job pays $20 an hour which at 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, 4 weeks a month MINUS TAX means I will be earning around $2400 or 960 pounds. In other words for a month's work will have made 60 quid profit. Thus in order to neutralise, lets say 2000 pounds of debt, I would have to work for about 30 months. That's nearly 3 years.

In short this job only allows me to subsist, but not to save.


However my new frugal lifestyle has begun. And if I make more of a significant saving than I anticipated, I will continue to temp until I have enough money to move on. If however, by the end of the month I have gained nothing, I am going to damn it all to hell and just bugger off and do the rest of the country and maybe a few others. I hear Singapore is very good at this time of year.

Bloody hell, I love this travelling lark. I've been to a gig in the Opera House, across the Harbour Bridge, met some people who I would dearly love to stay in touch with (except Mr Tumnus, Ava Almighty and Granny Poop), earned the nickname The Oracle, got caught on the hostel's CCTV being mucky with a girl, got drunk in The Hunter Valley whilst sampling peppermint fudge, climbed up through the Blue Mountains at dusk and generally had a blast.

I wish I could do it forever but, alas, it costs something called "money" and you can't earn any "money" updating a Product Interface Fudge Toboggan Development Protocol Spreadsheet.

Donations are welcome.

The Rail Thing

I have a job.

I know. I can hardly believe it myself. It's only for one month but has the potential to be for longer depending on workload and performance.

I will be working at Rail Corps, the Oz equivalent of Rail Track and will be in the HR department doing the odd Word document and Excel spreadsheet. Unfortunately at $20 an hour the maths isn't exactly stacking up. I still need to make savings on a daily basis in order that this money can be used to build a warchest for further travel, rather than simply allowing me to subsist.

So it's bargains at the supermarket, making use of the Pink House laundry rather than the laundrette, and swapping bacon sandwiches for The Pink House free breakfast which, previously, I've never been up early enough to catch.

I started as I meant to go on and yesterday bought some "value" chocolate biscuits. They were shit. So shit, in fact, that out of sympathy Chris immediately nipped out and bought two packets of Tim Tams. Tim Tams are the Daddy of Biscuits in Oz. They kick a Penguins ass.

So, I don't know how this job will pan out, or indeed if there will be any work for me when I've finished, but it's a start if nothing else.

The Tooth Of The Matter

Had a dental related accident yesterday. We were playing coin football, a game I remember playing when I was in the Scouts years ago.

Explained briefly it consists of shoving a coin to the edge of the table, flipping it up, catching it and after spring loading your thumbs catapulting the coin through a goal framed by your opponents hands.

This was all going swimmingly until Richie, with whom I was playing, fired a coin a little high of the crossbar and, at great speed, ricocheted a 20c piece (about the size of a UK 50p) off my right canine.

Instinctively, we both clapped our hands over our mouths. Me because it hurt. Him because he thought he'd knocked my teeth out.

"Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Sorry! Sorry!Sorry!Sorry!Sorry!Sorry!" babbled Richie as I ran to the toilet and to a mirror to check out the damage.

Sure enough a bit was missing from my tooth. Only the smallest, smallest amount and only enough for me to notice, but where the tip was once sharp it was now ever-so-slightly blunted.

Certainly not enough to warrant a pay out from the tooth fairy. Although I have been spending a bit of money recently so maybe we should play it with ballbearings from now on.

Things People Are Least Likely To Say

Last week we made a list of the things that certain people are least likely to say.

This really is a great way to find out about people. So here, in no particular order, here they are.

Things People Are Least Likely To Say

Dan - Sorry, love you're just not my type

Franc - You're right. I concede the point

Richie - I don't think I'll say that. In fact, I'll just keep it to myself.

Raj - I think I'll go to work today

Brian - Look at the tits on that

Me - I don't know

Dave - I won't wear that. I'll get laughed at

Aidan - Led Zeppelin? Never heard of 'em!

Emma - Can't we just cuddle instead?

Russ Abbott's Mad House

It's been quite a week at The Pink House. We've not had one or two, but three guests who have tested the patience of the staff and residents alike.


Mr Tumnus

They arrived in order proportional to the havoc they were to create. First up an Australian who we started referring to as Mr Tumnus an account of his resemblance to the half-man-half-fawn creature in CS Lewis's The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. His slightly " just popped in from the magical forest" look, with his curly hair, doe-eyes and fluffy goatee beard belied a brutish, drunken lout and a man who instigated himself into conversation by bellowing loudly about his achievements, and punctuating his proclamations with lager-fuelled belches.

It wasn't long before he'd upset Martin from Germany and incurred the wrath of Emma too, by constantly referring to her as "sweetie" and "chick" and other patronising nicknames. Emma, despite firing back a string of well-proportioned invective, only succeeded in eliciting the response "You Pommies need to learn how to take a joke....Jeez"

Actually, his problem was that he was just drunk. And over the next few days he altered his behaviour accordingly.


Mrs Brown

This couldn't be said of the next two guests. Bizarrely, an 81 year old woman bowled up to the house armed with nothing much other than a tartan shopping trolley and a rain hat. When Manager Miranda told us of this, naturally we assumed that, even at 81, this woman must be reasonably independent, perhaps in good nick for her age. Maybe a golden oldie, or a silver surfer.

But no. We were shocked. Mrs Brown was 81, but looked 801. A cross between Yoda and Gollum it beggered belief how she had got here. Rapidly Miranda realised that something was fishy, and aside from the contents of her handbag.

The next morning the old lady was to leave, in order to free it up for two other people who had booked it (both a respectable 20 something). But that's when the problems started. First it was clear she was having problems actually getting out of the bed and second when she had vacated the room the staff discovered that whilst she had been to the toilet in the night, she hadn't bothered to get out of bed to do so.

A fuller picture was beginning to emerge and Miranda decided to call the Social Services. The old woman was long gone after calling a taxi - but how did she afford it? And where did she go? We immediately began postulating what could have happened. Had she escaped from an old folks home? Had wandered out of a hospital?

The task of cleaning the room still remained. Step in Franc who had already snapped on thick crimson Marigolds earning him comparisons to Frank N Furter from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. He binned all the sheets and set up a open gas hob to burn off the smell.

Long after she had left the mystery of the old woman remained in the air. And so did the smell.


God Almighty

Then, the most challenging guest of all wandered in. Oh yes, this man was to test the patience of all. I first found out about him thus:

Miranda: He's back
Me: Who
Miranda: "He" is. "Him".

Her vague pronouns confused me. How bad is it when someone is referred to, simply as, "him".
No one knows his real name or where he comes from because he changes it on a daily basis, but the man who calls himself Ava is banned from every hostel in King's Cross on account of him being a nutter.

The only reason he is at the Pink House is that Aidan was on reception the day he checked in and, unfortunately, knew nothing about him. Short of having a wanted poster saying "Warning - Do Not Give This Man A Room", there's not much we can do.

Dressed in all white and with a mobile handsfree kit permanently jammed in his ear, he is a violent Christian Fundamentalist with the emphasis on the mentalist. He makes loud proclamations, even when on his own, can clear a courtyard in 5 minutes and when told to shut up, claims that he's busy talking to God and that you are forgiven. He lies about his name, his nationality and generally confunds people with his off-kilter statements and increasingly madcap utterances.

Yet, until he actually does anything wrong it's difficult to evict him. However, it didn't take long last time he was here, so here's hoping.

I suggested getting on the hostel tannoy and announcing "Oooooh.... Ava....this is God speaking.....please leave The Pink House......thanks bye......"

Pie Eyed

Was killing time yesterday between interviews and decided to treat myself to a pie and chips from the shopping mall food court underneath Pitt St.

There wasn't much space, so I plonked myself down one of the few remaining tables, but was joined within minutes by a grey haired bloke about 64-65 in a knitted pullover (presumably a Christmas present).

Straight away, I just had a feeling that he might be a nutter. Well as it turned out, maniacal enthusiast is closer to the mark. When he learned I was from England he launched into a treatise about how Shakespeare was the greatest ever playwright, and how he liked British actors, particularly Albert Finney.

I was beginning to warm to him with his flyaway hair and his chunky fireside sweater when he dropped a bomb. "My favourite actor...." he proclaimed "...is John Nettles". Er...OK.

He went on, "I love Midsomer Murders. We get that over here." and then proceeded to delve into John Nettles's personal history "...did you know his mother was admitted to a psychiatric ward at 28 leaving him to fend for himself". I thought, " No.....but I know someone else who should probably be admitted".

Anyway, it turned out he was harmless and it's not every day you have a conversation about Bergerac whilst 10,000 miles away from Jersey. Nice old bloke. The kind of person who you might find in Midsomer come to think of it.

He should move there. At least if he got bumped off, he could rest in the knowledge his favourite detective was on the case.

Gizza Job

I really didn't anticipate it being this difficult to find a job. Initially I was pursuing leads in media. And, initially, signs were good: skill shortage + need for recruits= job. Or so I thought.
Because soon it became apparent that I am too "siloed", as the Australians say - meaning I am too specialised.

You see the Oz media industry is still stuck in the 1990s. Step into any office and they're drinking Tab Clear and talking about how it's great that the Berlin wall came down, isn't it fantastic that Strictly Ballroom won all those Oscars, and how it's fabulous we have still icons to look up to like The Pope, Princess Diana and Michael Hutchence.

My role doesn't exist in Australia. It's collapsed into a broader role for which I have no experience on account of me being too specialist. Thus finding a job is like finding Pete Doherty's needle in a haystack.

"That's OK" I thought "I'll get some generic office work", but that hasn't been easy either. I am so pissed off. I can't work out what I am doing wrong. Am I under-qualified? Am I over-qualified?

One thing, like Ko-Ko out of the Mikado, I am adding Recruitment Consultants to my "little list", alongside double-glazing salesman, telemarketers and car salesmen. "Just looking through your CV now. Degree qualified. Good. 6 years office experience. Good. Yes, we have hundreds of jobs for you. I'll call you tomorrow".

Then.....silence. When you chase them its "Erm...what was your name? Oh, don't really have anything at the moment". Twats.

I have done Word tests. I have done Excel tests. I have done Powerpoint tests. All of which I passed with flying colours. I even did a customer service test for which I received 89%.

Questions included:

If a customer is angry, do you:

a) Keep a level voice, and attempt to explain what you are doing to rectify the situation, by way of apology.

b) Shout "la, la, la, la - not listening, you fucking old trout" down the phone before stuffing the receiver down your Calvin Klein's and doing a trump into the mouthpiece.

c) Say "You think you've got problems. Yesterday, my wife found me in bed with the cast of Grange Hill"

d) None of the above.

They are that easy. Obviously the answer is b), by the way.

I have signed up to 12 agencies in total. They have found me nowt. What am I doing wrong? Maybe I should stop waving my nob about in interviews. It must be distracting, I admit.

Pub Quiz Champignons

After two second places resulting in a free jug of beer and tickets to some shonky experimental theatre, it was high time we claimed a pub quiz crown.

Off to the Bourbon, then, on King's Cross for was pupported to be a quiz with a $2000 prize. Luckily it was by far the easiest one we've done so far and at the end round one we were already home free.

But, by the end of the quiz despite thrashing the opposition into submission and knocking the nearest team into 2nd place by 10 points, the prize was decided by calling up a team member to the front to scratch some circles off a poxy scratchcard. Obviously, we didn't win.

Disappointing, as despite demonstrating our triv prowess, it would have been easier to nip next door to the newsagent and buy a Scratch-To-Win-Lucky-Dip instead.

Return To The Zoo

Went back to the zoo. This time with a bigger crowd. It really is very good.

A couple of animals were more active this time, although the Tasmanian Devil was as elusive as ever, preferring to skitter in and out of bushes as if on a hike, desperately looking for somewhere to do a wee, but finding walkers around every corner.

Other highlights included a chimp pissing on another chimp's head, Raj claiming a wombat looked like across between a pig and a cat (hence him naming it PigCat) and Richie, on the bus home, despite being 31 and unshaven, bounding up to the driver and saying in the most juvenile tone he could muster "One child's ticket, please".....and getting away with it.

And then Aidan, also 31, also unshaven, and greying slightly saying "Same again, please"....and getting away with it too.

Unlucky Dip

As assortment of non-sequiturs and meandering monologues, loosely drawn together under one tenuous banner. More random than picking a dice out of a lucky dip in a roulette wheel and then throwing it at a one-armed bandit.


1. Cluedo has landed in The Pink House and nobody appears to be very good at it. Yesterday nobody won. As in no one guessed the correct combination of weapon, location and murderer. That's really bad.

This is because no one ever really concentrates in the Pink House. They're distracted by the TV, or an iPod, or most often another conversation. Raj is particularly guilty of this. When pressed for a Cluedo "accusation" the other day he said, in a Cockney accent:

"Yeah, I fink it was Mr Custard in the thing wiv the thing"



2. Franc is a master of the barbed put-down. When I informed him of my plan to woo a fellow hostel inmate by talking her for a scenic walk, he said: "Who the fuck are you, Jane Austen?"


3. Nicknames are commonplace in the Pink House. In fact, it's like Grange Hill in here at the moment. I keep expecting a sausage on a fork to hove into shot accompanied by the "wan-it-wow-wow" sound effect. So, in no particular order, here are some monikers and an attempt to explain their origins:

Goonie Pig is so called because she drinks of a lot of goon. So much so that it's almost an experiment to see what happens to someone who drinks so much. Like a Guinea Pig. Except with goon. Hence Goonie Pig.

Raj: Remember the two trendy Indian kids in Goodness Gracious Me played by Sanjeev Bhaskar and Kulvinder Ghir ("kiss my chuddies"). That's Raj. He is so trendy that it's only fair we give him the most normal, pedestrian, mundane nickname. Thus Raj Anandanesan becomes Reg Anderson. He hates it. That's why we use it.

Brian and Franc: In the same way as Brad and Angelina became known as Brangelina, and Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner became known as Bennifer, Brian and Franc are known as Branc. As in "what does Branc think?"

Assorted Nicknames:

Other nicknames include Uncle Slam, some bloody American who wouldn't stop slamming the pissing door. Niels from Germany was known as Herr Flick, as he really did look like the Gestapo officer from 'Allo 'Allo and Simon was known as Whinge Commander Hawkes on account of his tendency to moan about everything.

Also, any collection of people with a common characteristic are known as Team...... so for example Team Canada, Team Austria, Team Germany. Andy and Jamie were known as Team Smith an account of them both having the same surname. When Richie, Raj and Dave knock about together they are known as Team Rave (it's an amalgam of all of their names). Occasional fourth member Chris sometimes makes it Team Crave. And when, due to unforseen circumstances, Raj and Richie pull out to replaced by Miranda, this makes it Team Mavis


Yours Truly

Embarrassed to admit it, but my nickname is actually very positive. I am called The Oracle. This is because early on I managed to establish myself as the house smart arse/know-it-all. People often use me as a repository for useless information, and when playing Trivial Pursuit they steer well clear. Could be worse I suppose.

The thing is these nicknames are used freely. A typical tannoy announcement may sound thus:

"The following peope owe rent: Branc, Room 5. Goonie, Room 1. Reg Anderson, Room 9. The Oracle, Room 1. Team Canada, Room 7"


4. I've had my head shaved again. Franc has been doing a sterling job with the clippers. Had a shock yesterday though. Whilst shaving my head he announced jokingly, "Don't look at my crotch. I haven't got any underwear on and these shorts are a bit baggy".

But as he was concentrating on ironing out what he called my "Friar's Fringe", Dave from Donegal had sneaked up behind him and whipped down his shorts. And, no, he wasn't wearing any pants.

I know this because I was about 8 inches away. It will haunt me forever.

Hunter Valley: A Day In Quotes

In The Beginning

Chris: What are you doing Sunday?

Phil: Nothing. Why?

Chris:Thought about going to the Hunter Valley wine tasting. They have all these vineyards and you razz about between them sampling all their free wine and getting pissed.

Phil: Brilliant. How do we get there?

Chris: Hire a car. I don't mind being designated driver because these places do cheese and chutney and chocolate as well. Whilst I do that, you get the Chardonnay down you.

Phil: Deal

Recruitment

Phil: So how many are coming now?

Chris: We've filled three cars. Me, You, Franc, Etienne and Claire in one. Miranda, Martin, Dave and Lindsay in another. And now Richie reckons he can fill a third with Fanta, Raj, Goonie and Carolyn. Come with me to Avis tomorrow and help navigate back to the Pink House - they've closed off William St because of the Fun Run, so we'll need to find a way back.

Phil: OK. No problem (in my head thinking - "Shit, I'm not very good at navigating")

In Miranda's Car, Circumnavigating William St

Miranda: Shit. This doesn't look right. I think we're on the toll road heading out of the city. Can I U-turn?

Phil: Wait. What's this sign say?.....Woolloomooloo straight ahead. Yes! We've come the right way.

Miranda: Thank God for that. I'm just going to zigzag my way back from here. Are they still behind us?

Leaving Sydney

Sat Nav: At. The Next Exit. Turn. Right.

Chris: What? Bollocks to that. I'm going straight on.

Claire: I think the car behind is waving at us.

In Warawee

Franc: Where are we?

Phil: Warawee

Franc: Yes. Where are we?

Phil: Warawee

Franc: That's what I said.

Phil: Yes I know. Warawee

Franc: Oh forget it

At The First Vineyard

Somelier: Can I interest you in a Shiraz?

Phil: Yes, please.

Somelier: 2003 or 2005?

Phil: Erm.........

Franc (prompting) I think the 2003 is less aggressive

Me: ....er.....yes.....I agree......less aggressive...actually, I think I'm pissed already.

In The Fudge Shop

Me: Can I try some vanilla, please?

Me: Can I try some caramel, please?

Me: Can I try some chocolate, please?

Me: Can I try some jaffa, please?

Me: Can I try some peppermint, please?

Me: Thanks. Bye

In The Chilli Chutney Shop

Chris: Try this chilli paste

Phil: That's nice.....I like that....oh....hang on.......aaargh......shit......hot......tastes like burning........phwwwwwwwwwwwwwooooooooograhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Chris: That was 8 out of 10 on the heat scale. Try this. It's a 10.

Me: No way. I'm still ablaze.

Franc: I'll have a go. Oh that's good.......ouch.....sweet baby Jesus and the orphans........argh......Holy Mary Mother of God......give me your Coke....quick!.....glug glug glug glug glug glug glug glug........

Chris: My teeth hurt......quick....drink....glug glug glug glug glug glug glug glug

In The Car On The Way Home

Chris: It's the police doing breath tests. Turn that music down.

Phil: Chris, you haven't been drinking. They're not going to arrest us for listening to

A-ha........actually, they might. Let's turn it down.

Some purchases...

Spaced Out

I've been in Sydney for so long now that I think I've nearly wrung every last drip out of the tourist sponge. A couple of things remain though and yesterday I ticked off another: Sydney Observatory.

With a clear night sky and 6 interested people, we made our way over to the Observatory perched high above the city in an area called The Rocks. Hosting the evening was Xin, a twentysomething stunner of Chinese descent with a postgrad in astronomy. I nearly proposed on the spot.

After being ushered into a 3D theatre for a rather amateurish film complete with Bontempi Organ demo music, the evening really took off. We made our way on to the lawn where Xin had a kick-ass laser pointer which she fired miles into the sky, ringing constellations and dotting planets. I want one. You could have probably blinded an astronaut on the International Space Station with it.

After craning our necks to see constellations unique to the Southern Hemisphere (Southern Cross and The Teapot) we made our way into the Dome and to the actual telescope. It was about the size of two dustbins and aligned with a letterbox slit pointed out into the night sky. Xin invited the crowd to begin queueing to peer down the eyepiece at Jupiter.

At this point it dawned on me that I was actually going to see Jupiter. Not a photograph. Not a computer generated image. Not an artist's impression. Ashamedly, I started elbowing little kids out of the way to get a glimpse - well they were bigger than me anyway.

And then there it was : Jupiter - a sandy disk about as big as a 10p coin streaked with what looked like strawberry jam. It managed to be awe-inspiring and slightly underwhelming at the same time. Awe-inspiring in that I was looking at a planet billions of miles away. Underwhelming in that it looked a bit like someone had stuck a small sticker on the end of the lens.

Course, you can't take people anywhere, and it wasn't long before Chris had suggested we ask her to point the telescope at Vulcan. Or the Death Star. This was followed by Franc whispering in my ear "Say to her: can I see Uranus, please?".

Return To Katoomba

Organisational Behaviour

I've been a little hostel-bound of late. So when Claire suggested a trip to The Blue Mountains I thought "why not....?". What with Claire having a proper job and everything, it was left up to me to organise it.

So, here's a life lesson: Never try to organise anything for backpackers. Their motto appears to be: why make a decision now when you can wait until tomorrow when it's too late.

I didn't do it out of the goodness of my heart, I did it because if I hadn't, it wouldn't have got off the ground, but when a third person says "I don't know whether I'm coming Friday or Saturday. Or at all", it's tempting to say, Partridge-style "Oh forget it. You people!"

Nevertheless, I perservered. By Friday morning I had booked a space for 9 people - 7 in a dorm and 2 in a tent in the back garden. By Friday evening we were on a 1970s train rattling idly through the night. By Friday night we were stood, icy-breathed, on Katoomba station. God, it was cold. Agonisingly cold. Chest-constrictingly cold.

Thanks to Chris's TomTom we found our way to the hostel quick enough. I had been warned by the owner when I had booked it over the phone that he didn't want a large rowdy crowd. I assured him that we were coming to the mountains to escape rowdy crowds.

However, nothing prepared me for quite how funereal this place was. Upon entering the common room we were greeted by a librarial hush punctuated only by the occasional turning of paperbacked pages. I know he said this place was quiet, but I think I'd find more excitement in the queue at The Antiques Roadshow. Naturally, our over-excited babbling had soon filled the air and the gathered throng were soon staring at us reproachfully over the tops of their copies of Harry Potter 7.

Despite the air of reverence, the hostel was great: small, cosy, warm, quiet, very quiet with a few plush sofas, an open fire and soft Latino jazz wafting through the air. We hit the Thai restaurant and hit the sack.


One Small Step For A Small Man

Brian, Claire, Chris and I had arrived on the Friday and by Saturday Emma, Jamie and Andy had arrived too, minus two people who had dropped out. One of whom claimed he was on a promise, although we later found out she'd promised him nothing.

We wasted no time and set out for the main observation deck overlooking the Blue Mountains and Three Sisters. After a day down amongst the canopy, we finally reached the Giant Steps. 956 metal stairs awaited us set into the rock at a formidable angle. The top wasn't going to get any closer so, inevitably, with our heads down we began the upwards tramp.

Actually, I was expecting it to be far worse. Within a few moments the smokers had fallen to the back, wheezing like punctured accordions, whereas I had powered on ahead, my Peak District altitude training kicking in. The climb took 35 minutes and with legs burning I reached the top of the Three Sisters breathless but satisfied.

The next day we rose early and made our way over to Wentworth Falls. We were picked up by possibly the most inept bus driver, who appeared to have little or no mathematical ability when working out change (even when he was given exact money) and, alarmingly, spent the entire journey driving with his head spun round 180 degrees like an owl, chatting to Brian who had foolishly sat at the front.

We watched him through splayed fingers hoping his occasional glances at the road would be long enough to spot various obstacles - mini roundabouts, trees, traffic lights, cyclists and corners.
Brian later confessed to not understanding a word he'd said.

The Wentworth Falls walk was harder. The path took us down the side of the waterfall, weaving left and right, down through, and up and over the canopy.

The drops were enormous, the inclines were steep, the legs were burning, but the photographic evidence below says more than I ever could.

See the rest at:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=42574&l=9cbf1&id=828255013



Chris checks the map....unfortunately he's pointing to Africa. This photo was taken in 1932


Jamie refuses to help to erect the tent.......

At the bottom of the Giant Steps.....

At the top of the giant steps.......

At the top of Wentworth Falls.......

....and round the side......that's a very, very, very big drop

......at the bottom of the falls

Question Time

Apologies but this entry will contain a lot of swearing. You'll see why in a minute.

Franc and I are quite similar and as a result have an amiable yet rather adversarial friendship. He's a very clever man with endless stores of trivia, an acid tongue, a keen intellect and a working knowledge of history that makes Simon Schama look like Simon Le Bon. He has also been on 15-to-1. And he did better than me. Bastard.

We are constantly challenging each other or pedantically highlighting the other's mistakes. We were made to be in a quiz team together.

So on Thursday, myself, Franc, Brian, Chris and Dave made our way down to Scruffy Murphy's on George St for the pub quiz. The advert boasted a prize of A$100 and a possible star prize of A$1400. Note "possible".

Clearly, we didn't know what we'd let ourselves in for, however, as the host, one Pommy Andy, was the most dim-witted, vulgar, boorish and egotistical car-crash of a human being I've seen in a long while.

Self-styled "Cockney comedian" Andy looked like a cross between Timmy Mallet, Des Kay from the Fast Show (Wicky-Woo Des Kay!) and one, if not both, of 80s Disco twats Black Lace. And one of them is dead.


Also, he sounded like Mike Reid (dead) and had repertoire of jokes he'd thiefed of Bernard Manning (also dead). Not so much end of the pier, then, as end of the road. Maybe even the end of civilisation as we know it. As my mate Chris says "He could get a job as a hyena silencer".


He introduced himself thus: "Right, listen up you fackin' cahnts...." and then proceeded to
pepper his quiz questions with jibes against the audience, where he ran the whole gamut of insults.


To a woman in the audience he said "If you didn't want me to stare at your tits, sweetheart, you shouldn't have worn that top. Stupid cow"


To two twentysomething Germans he said "Facking hell, it's the Nazis".


To the Americans "Fack you, you facking cahnts!"


And three totally unassuming suited guys who had clearly nipped in for a pint after work he said "Where you've been? Up Kings Cross taking it up the arse?"


Didn't see what happened next, but Pommy Andy had called over to hulking Maori bouncers to sort out one of the suits, claiming he'd had a pop at him. Ironic then that he had to call on the help of two members of an ethnic minority - the very people he had just ridiculed in a previous question. Clearly, someone should lay the twat out.


We considered leaving, but thought it more fun to take his money off him. We came second by one point and won a free jug of beer which we drank quickly. We left never to return.


There were two laughter tracks in there that night. One borne out of the amazement at what a fuckwit this guy was and another, predominantly the older generation, who took the jokes at face value.


Pub Landlord Al Murray is an ironic joke. When Ricky Gervais calls Third World Sweatshop Workers "Lazy" it's a persona. When Warren Mitchell first played Alf Garnett, it was a character.


I think Pommy Andy's idea of irony, to paraphrase Baldrick, is that it's a bit like goldy, silvery and bronzey.


This is his site. Techy people please find someway of defacing it.


http://www.pommyandy.com/

Rugger? Bugger!

I've not been particularly active of late. I've not been particularly active since 1995, if the truth be told.

The last serious exercise I did was during the first week of University when Sam and I joined Ninjitsu class, only to find that it hurt and it clashed with our tea, so we never went again.

Last Thursday was the first sunny day we'd had in ages, and not wanting to miss the rays we made our way down to Rushcutters Bay, a mini-marina/harbour at the back of The Pink House, equipped with benches, a coffee shop and big grass thing.

Those present: Dave, Chris, Dan, Sean and then Jamie and Andy who were particularly pleased at finding a big rugby "H" as they were both Rugger Buggers. So whilst they spent the afternoon pretending to be Johnny Wilkinson and booting the ball left and right of the posts, the rest of us hung about and read, chatted and drunk Ribena.

I had a brief moment of physical exertion when I ran to fetch a wayward ball and hoof it back across the field, but thats as far as it went. Possibly the fastest I've moved since 1995. If it's another 12 years before I exercise again, I'll be 42.

The afternoon took a nosedive, however, when the ball went over Andy's head and into the water. Everyone gathered to look at the leather oval slowly floating away from the harbour wall towards a short-masted boat, bobbing gently in the breeze. Andy, the least clothed of all of us, took a look around. Clearly no one was keen to dive in, so he began stripping off.

Within a few moments he was in, had swam across and punted it back out on to the grass. But as the big lads hauled him out, he realised he was covered in blood. Andy had a deep cut in his foot and blood was pouring out like someone had punctured a milk carton.

In typical rugby lad style he was unfazed: "Strange" he said "Didn't feel that happen".

"That's going to need a stitch" said Jamie, who looks like a cross between Martin Clunes and Rhino from Gladiators

"Naah" said Andy using his white t-shirt to bandage up his foot, and limped back to the hostel.

The next day I was stiff from my bout of impromptu exercise. I think the application for the Sydney Marathon will have to wait.

I'm Ready For My Close Up

Beth is on make-up duty.....

My God, I'm gorgeous

The next cover of Vanity Fair

Brian from Dublin has a good grope....

Dan and Raj......

Marcos from Chile gets a bit carried away.......

Me and Raj.....

Me and Sean......the Two Fat Ladies make a welcome return to TV

From Bra to Bar

Up For The Cup

Last night the bunk above me was host to a lovely girl called Emily. In the morning I woke to find a bra on the pillow next to me.

For a moment I wondered what had happened in the night, and wondered why I wouldn't remember something like that happening. But soon I realised it must have fallen down the gap in between the beds.

She had already left for the airport early that morning, so I thought I'd keep it as a "souvenir".

Little did I know that later that evening, it was to prove a most useful find. It was a 34C by the way.


Dame Edna Average

So last night was Dan's birthday celebrations. As it was a Tuesday it coincided with the World Bar's Ladies' Night.

Ladies' Night means free champagne for the ladies only, whilst the men drink their one free drink and stand around to watch the women get drunk and dance with their arms in the air to Club Tropicana by Wham. Not usually a great night.

But, however, here is the twist. If you are prepared to dress up as a woman you too can drink free champagne. And you too can disappear off to the toilet in groups of 5 to touch-up your make up.

Previously male inhabitants of The Pink House have been resistant to dressing up in drag, but seeing as it was Dan's birthday, it rapidly and inexplicably became compulsory. I don't know how that happened.


Danny La Rue The Day

Within half an hour men were rummaging around for dresses and wigs and hassling the women for lipstick and eyeliner.

Luckily I had the bra. Stroke of luck. I stuffed it with some socks, borrowed room-mate Emma's spangly top and pashmina and made my way upstairs to Room 15 where Beth from Montreal was applying make-up.

I'd already had a go at putting some lipstick on, but like a 4 year-old child was pretty wide of the mark and had given myself a big pink clown mouth. I'd also poked myself in the eye twice with the mascara wand.

When Beth saw my handiwork she decided to keep it consistent and applied eye shadow which she then smeared down face to give the impression that I had been crying. When she had finished I looked like Liza Minelli after a night on the absinthe.

Raj was already there with his hair in bunches. Earlier in the evening he had been caught ironing his shirt for work whilst wearing a lovely floral print skirt. It looked like a scene from the "I Want To Break Free" video by Queen. He wasn't as attractive as Roger Taylor though.

His dress was so tight that he couldn't fit any fake tits up his top.

"Ha, you've got no tits" said someone

"Doesn't matter" replied Raj "It's personality that counts"


We gathered in the courtyard to admire each other's choice of dress and feel each other's tits. It's amazing. Usually, tits are completely out of bounds. But under these circumstances, we were like kids in a sweet shop. A dirty sweet shop obviously:

"Come here, let me feel yours. Oh yours are harder than mine"
"Yeah, but your nipples are more realistic"
"Oh shut up. Yours are nicer than mine"
"Steady, you'll burst them"

It didn't matter that we looked like a we'd been dragged through Anne Widdecome's wardrobe backwards, if there was chance of a grope we were going to take it.

I was really getting in touch with my feminine side. At one point I went to take off my jumper the bloke way (grab the back with both hands and wrench), but realised that, with baps, I had to do the whole woman-cross-your-arms-over-thing. Now I know why women do that.


Man, I Feel Like A Woman

The rest of the evening passed in a predictably drunken fashion. Bizarrely, it's amazing the amount of female attention you get whilst dressed as a woman. How does that work? I'm only interested in talking to you if you're dressed like me.

At the end of the evening I had a clever escape route. I'd brought my jumper, so I could dump the bra and wash off the make-up. Not so for Big Jamie who, at 2.30 in the morning, was breaking up a fight in a kebab shop whilst wearing eyeliner from Max Factor and foundation by Rimmel London.

I got to bed at 3am. I felt washed out. I think it might be my time of the month.

Dad, if you are reading this - I am not on the turn.

Sausage Envy

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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".

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.....

Dan tries to force open the back doors.

Franc tries his plastic skeleton key....

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.

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.

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