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.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
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...
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
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?".
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
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
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
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/
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
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
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
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.
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