Was watching the cricket today, and the introduction is to the tune of 'SHINE' by none other than Shannon Noll...
That explains their shit cricketers then.
Monday, 11 August 2008
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
#32 Hustled.
One thing that has stood out like a honeymooners dick on this trip is the amount of people choking the capitals of the world asking for a handout. I have no doubt a lot of these people, maybe even the majority, are living in poverty, probably even homeless; to be clear, if you have enough, these people are deserving of your money.
I am also positive there are some cunts out there who have their own money, but want more; specifically yours, and will spew utter bullshit out of their mouths to get it.
I have mentioned before my cynicism to life in general, also my closet optimism. These two trains of thought are polar opposites when it comes to being stopped in the street by random strangers; one wants to hear them out, give them a chance; the other knows they only want my money, fuck them, despite what they have to say. The longer this trip continued, the automatic response to the majority of people became the cynical bastard. Sad but true.
I noticed that as you get closer to tourist sites, the beggar population explodes, and they seem to get more aggressive too. A majority of the beggars in France are completely quiet, just sitting on a street corner, cup tilted to accept coins; there's a sort of dignity in their asking for change, by not asking. As soon as you get near the Louvre, the bastards nearly rip your arm off pleading for change for a sickly aunt/daughter/mother/nan. Imagine telling a woman you have no change while drinking a MacDonald's coke; burger in hand. Its not easy, let me tell you.
And I didn't have any, by the way.
The Italians, as they do everything, do it in style. For some reason every beggar I passed had to be carrying some sort of tick or disability. The standard fare seemed to be a little old lady who shook uncontrollably, until she was rock solid as the coins were directed into her cup. Near the Spanish Steps (for those not in the know, a fucking great lot of steps) there was a kid wheeling himself around on a skateboard; legs out in front of him, with what looked to be a deformity of the feet. Of course he had a change cup tucked between his legs. (whose got the market sewn up on those fucking things?) Now be it my inquisitive nature, or the fact I thought he was full of shit, I was probably one of the only people walking past that gave him a good look. I'm not certain, but I swear all he was doing was sticking his feet out as far as he could and tilting them to look bent. Impressive if he kept it up all day, sure, but worthy of my 50 cents?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I don't want to come off a complete cunt, I did give change to people where I could. Buskers in particular were of a great standard. Britain of course had its thousands of loud bastards who swallow balloons and bend through tennis rackets lining the squares; but Europe had some great musicians playing in the parks, streets and subways; sometimes even on the subway, which made a nice change from the grinding of the wheels on the track...
Towards the end of the Europe journey I was living by credit card, as the real money had dried up. It would have been interesting if I had told one of the beggars they had more money in their cup than I had in my bank account...do you think they would have believed me??
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Another thing that surprised me was the length people would go to get your money; elaborate little stories with a kicker of an ending. In Florence, I had just stepped out of a museum when I was accosted by an average looking woman.
Well, of course I would! Wow how great to have people trying to fix a problem by taking it to the streets. People power, right?
She starts telling me how she herself was a victim of drugs (that explains the poorly appearance) and how she's now clean and sober, and they aim to help other people do the same.
As she's talking I've signed, put my country of origin, city of origin, and...hang on a minute...
The bastards got me...She spoke again.
The last line on the form was donation amount, sneaky buggers!
I had to give her something now!
I was pretty broke by this stage, so at least I was being honest about what I could afford...
Can you believe it? I'm in negotiations with my own money!
We settled on 4€ and I still walked away feeling like a cunt, how did that happen!
I walked past another stall in Rome and before the guy even got his first sentence out I said 'I gave in Florence' and kept on walking...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Without doubt the best scam I was almost party to was in Rome. Now this scam was so good I am still not completely sure it actually was one...and as I'm sure they all do, it started so innocently.
I was walking towards the Colosseum from my hostel. Now I should point out that the Colosseum is pretty fucking big, and considering the road I was walking down was perhaps the main road leading to it, alarm bells should have gone off early. I was at an intersection with a minor road, when a car pulled up in front of me, and the guy driving it motioned me to come over.
I walk over to his car and the enthusiasm coming from him is already at 10. He was lost he said, where was the Colosseum? As I said, it's big and close, how could he have missed; he's basically just driven from it!
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Something else I've found on this trip is related to something I mentioned much earlier (and have always know). I hate having to look for directions, but I bloody love giving them to other people. It must be an ego thing; and lets face it, anything that boosts the ego is worthwhile, but the amount of times I've helped people find where they are going in cities I don't even know is extraordinary.
Extraordinarily fucking gratifying...
The only times I've been no help have been when they have spoken to me in a language I don't understand, or they were the little Asian fella in Edinburgh who rudely came up to me a said 'Supermarket?' It was this expected ego trip that suckered me into his Little trap...
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Showing him on his map where we were, and where he needed to be impressed him no end.
He looked and sounded Italian...no alarm bells yet.
As soon as I told him I was Australian, the enthusiasm, as spinal tap would say, went to 11.
He doesn't know Tasmania, but that doesn't matter. Australia! his wife's Australian!
A handshake and shoulder grab later, he's hit hyper drive.
He then garbles something about the French consulate, and points to his fuel gauge, and asks again, where is the consulate?
I tell him I don't know, he looks a little upset. But it doesn't last.
A little confused, I tell him.
I should say that he is well dressed, and the car is a nice one; this may all help his clever plan...
I say sure, knowing the name but never having seen anything from Versace.
He takes the orange bag from the passenger seat, surely an employee of Versace who had 'samples' would have more than one with them right? Still no alarm bells.
He brings the orange bag to the window, and fleetingly opens it to show a leather jacket, then snaps it shut again.
Now, I'm of the age where if I was ever going to buy a leather jacket, I would have fucking bought one by now.
I haven't.
Again the slight glance I saw of the 'sample' did not set the bells off, he has played me that well. My helpful nature is about to net me free expensive shit; who wouldn't like that?
I won't, I tell him, and thank him very much for his generosity.
Then the kicker finally shows up.
I was actually considering it!!!
ding.............ding............ding.
The alarm bells have started, but they aren't winning the argument yet.
I looked into my wallet, thankfully I only had 20€ in there. Like I mentioned earlier, I was now living off credit, and that was emergency C.O.H.
Still, he had me that good, I offered it to him.
ding...ding...ding...ding...ding.
The alarm bells finally tell me this isn't all it's cracked up to be, so I make an attempt to end the conversation.
DING.DING.DING.DING.DING.DING.
He looked so disappointed when I walked off; probably thinking what a waste of ten minutes...although I'm positive he nailed someone with his little scam.
That's the worst part; I know if I'd have had 50€ on me, I would be walking around in a 'sample' Versace leather jacket as we speak.
30 degree heat be damned...
I am also positive there are some cunts out there who have their own money, but want more; specifically yours, and will spew utter bullshit out of their mouths to get it.
I have mentioned before my cynicism to life in general, also my closet optimism. These two trains of thought are polar opposites when it comes to being stopped in the street by random strangers; one wants to hear them out, give them a chance; the other knows they only want my money, fuck them, despite what they have to say. The longer this trip continued, the automatic response to the majority of people became the cynical bastard. Sad but true.
I noticed that as you get closer to tourist sites, the beggar population explodes, and they seem to get more aggressive too. A majority of the beggars in France are completely quiet, just sitting on a street corner, cup tilted to accept coins; there's a sort of dignity in their asking for change, by not asking. As soon as you get near the Louvre, the bastards nearly rip your arm off pleading for change for a sickly aunt/daughter/mother/nan. Imagine telling a woman you have no change while drinking a MacDonald's coke; burger in hand. Its not easy, let me tell you.
And I didn't have any, by the way.
The Italians, as they do everything, do it in style. For some reason every beggar I passed had to be carrying some sort of tick or disability. The standard fare seemed to be a little old lady who shook uncontrollably, until she was rock solid as the coins were directed into her cup. Near the Spanish Steps (for those not in the know, a fucking great lot of steps) there was a kid wheeling himself around on a skateboard; legs out in front of him, with what looked to be a deformity of the feet. Of course he had a change cup tucked between his legs. (whose got the market sewn up on those fucking things?) Now be it my inquisitive nature, or the fact I thought he was full of shit, I was probably one of the only people walking past that gave him a good look. I'm not certain, but I swear all he was doing was sticking his feet out as far as he could and tilting them to look bent. Impressive if he kept it up all day, sure, but worthy of my 50 cents?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I don't want to come off a complete cunt, I did give change to people where I could. Buskers in particular were of a great standard. Britain of course had its thousands of loud bastards who swallow balloons and bend through tennis rackets lining the squares; but Europe had some great musicians playing in the parks, streets and subways; sometimes even on the subway, which made a nice change from the grinding of the wheels on the track...
Towards the end of the Europe journey I was living by credit card, as the real money had dried up. It would have been interesting if I had told one of the beggars they had more money in their cup than I had in my bank account...do you think they would have believed me??
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Another thing that surprised me was the length people would go to get your money; elaborate little stories with a kicker of an ending. In Florence, I had just stepped out of a museum when I was accosted by an average looking woman.
Excuse me sir, would you like to sign a petition for us against drugs?
Well, of course I would! Wow how great to have people trying to fix a problem by taking it to the streets. People power, right?
She starts telling me how she herself was a victim of drugs (that explains the poorly appearance) and how she's now clean and sober, and they aim to help other people do the same.
As she's talking I've signed, put my country of origin, city of origin, and...hang on a minute...
The bastards got me...She spoke again.
'So we're a not for profit organisation, and we rely on donations from the public. Anything you could give us would be great.'
The last line on the form was donation amount, sneaky buggers!
I had to give her something now!
I was pretty broke by this stage, so at least I was being honest about what I could afford...
'I haven't got much, how's 2€?'
'That's fine, fine. What about 5€? That would feed 1 person lunch and keep them off the street.'
Can you believe it? I'm in negotiations with my own money!
We settled on 4€ and I still walked away feeling like a cunt, how did that happen!
I walked past another stall in Rome and before the guy even got his first sentence out I said 'I gave in Florence' and kept on walking...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Without doubt the best scam I was almost party to was in Rome. Now this scam was so good I am still not completely sure it actually was one...and as I'm sure they all do, it started so innocently.
I was walking towards the Colosseum from my hostel. Now I should point out that the Colosseum is pretty fucking big, and considering the road I was walking down was perhaps the main road leading to it, alarm bells should have gone off early. I was at an intersection with a minor road, when a car pulled up in front of me, and the guy driving it motioned me to come over.
I walk over to his car and the enthusiasm coming from him is already at 10. He was lost he said, where was the Colosseum? As I said, it's big and close, how could he have missed; he's basically just driven from it!
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Something else I've found on this trip is related to something I mentioned much earlier (and have always know). I hate having to look for directions, but I bloody love giving them to other people. It must be an ego thing; and lets face it, anything that boosts the ego is worthwhile, but the amount of times I've helped people find where they are going in cities I don't even know is extraordinary.
Extraordinarily fucking gratifying...
The only times I've been no help have been when they have spoken to me in a language I don't understand, or they were the little Asian fella in Edinburgh who rudely came up to me a said 'Supermarket?' It was this expected ego trip that suckered me into his Little trap...
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Showing him on his map where we were, and where he needed to be impressed him no end.
'Thank you! Thank you very much friend! Where are you from? I'm French!
He looked and sounded Italian...no alarm bells yet.
As soon as I told him I was Australian, the enthusiasm, as spinal tap would say, went to 11.
'You're Australian! My Wife's Australian! Sydney!?!'
He doesn't know Tasmania, but that doesn't matter. Australia! his wife's Australian!
A handshake and shoulder grab later, he's hit hyper drive.
'You're Australian! My wife's Australian! I'm French!'
He then garbles something about the French consulate, and points to his fuel gauge, and asks again, where is the consulate?
I tell him I don't know, he looks a little upset. But it doesn't last.
'How tall are you!'
A little confused, I tell him.
'I work for Versace! You are friend, you help me! My wife's Australian! I give you sample! You like Versace, right!?!'
I should say that he is well dressed, and the car is a nice one; this may all help his clever plan...
I say sure, knowing the name but never having seen anything from Versace.
He takes the orange bag from the passenger seat, surely an employee of Versace who had 'samples' would have more than one with them right? Still no alarm bells.
'You help me! I like you! I give you sample! It's Versace! 900€!'
He brings the orange bag to the window, and fleetingly opens it to show a leather jacket, then snaps it shut again.
Now, I'm of the age where if I was ever going to buy a leather jacket, I would have fucking bought one by now.
I haven't.
Again the slight glance I saw of the 'sample' did not set the bells off, he has played me that well. My helpful nature is about to net me free expensive shit; who wouldn't like that?
'Don't you sell it now! It's expensive!'
I won't, I tell him, and thank him very much for his generosity.
Then the kicker finally shows up.
'I tell you what, I have no petrol, and I don't know where the consulate is, why don't you give me a small amount for the sample?'
'Well, how much?'
I was actually considering it!!!
'Nothing, just petrol money, 40 or 50€.'
ding.............ding............ding.
The alarm bells have started, but they aren't winning the argument yet.
I looked into my wallet, thankfully I only had 20€ in there. Like I mentioned earlier, I was now living off credit, and that was emergency C.O.H.
Still, he had me that good, I offered it to him.
'Will 20€ do?'
'No. Please, friend! It's worth 900€, it's Versace!'
'It's all I have...'
'Really? nothing else?'
ding...ding...ding...ding...ding.
The alarm bells finally tell me this isn't all it's cracked up to be, so I make an attempt to end the conversation.
'I tell you what, you're a good man; keep the gift, thanks
anyway. Just head down that street and you will see the Colosseum.'
'Please, friend! How about your credit card. You could give me your details?'
DING.DING.DING.DING.DING.DING.
'No, seriously, I have to go. Thanks for the offer, your a good man, goodbye.'
He looked so disappointed when I walked off; probably thinking what a waste of ten minutes...although I'm positive he nailed someone with his little scam.
That's the worst part; I know if I'd have had 50€ on me, I would be walking around in a 'sample' Versace leather jacket as we speak.
30 degree heat be damned...
Saturday, 26 July 2008
#31 Closest I've come to a blowjob this trip.
Although, in the world of proportions, they don't do the old boy any favours...
Friday, 25 July 2008
#30 People I hate.
I'm not usually one to have full on hatred of people. Sure I've got dislikes and people I flat out avoid, but my nature, unlike one or two of you I know out there, has never been for such a strong word as hate to be used...
But fuck I hate cunts who stand in front of me in line. Specifically the two times I was waiting in line in Florence to see museums; both times a guy was eating the face off the woman he was with, directly in front of me.
I had to endure one of these for over an hour...
I'm all in favour of public showing of affection. There's nothing wrong with a kiss or a lick, a bit massaging or rubbing of parts, perhaps even a sly bit of penetration; but really folks, must we have someones face sucked off to prove they're a couple? Both times, I might add, the chick didn't seem that into it, but at least she didn't have to spend an hour staring at random things on the wall in an attempt to look at something else, anything else...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
While I'm at it, the following people should be stoned to death*, then gutted and fed to pigeons.
But fuck I hate cunts who stand in front of me in line. Specifically the two times I was waiting in line in Florence to see museums; both times a guy was eating the face off the woman he was with, directly in front of me.
I had to endure one of these for over an hour...
I'm all in favour of public showing of affection. There's nothing wrong with a kiss or a lick, a bit massaging or rubbing of parts, perhaps even a sly bit of penetration; but really folks, must we have someones face sucked off to prove they're a couple? Both times, I might add, the chick didn't seem that into it, but at least she didn't have to spend an hour staring at random things on the wall in an attempt to look at something else, anything else...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
While I'm at it, the following people should be stoned to death*, then gutted and fed to pigeons.
These are the types of arseholes who turn what would have been a minute or two getting a couple of photos into a half a fucking hour, waiting as every dickhead tries to come up with a 'cool' way of taking the photograph.
'Look mum, there's me with my head wedged under the pyramid, aren't I fucking clever???'
Would have enjoyed it more if it had broke and speared him through his fucking forehead...
I feel better now, it's good to share.
*I realise some of these are children. Stuff 'em, they annoyed me that much.
#29 Easy Rider.
Was walking though Florence the other day, when I turned a corner and saw an Italian downey sitting on a Moped...for some reason it took me by complete surprise.
I didn't fuss over it in front of him; don't worry I'm not a total cunt, but it did get me thinking...
Are people with down syndrome allowed to ride motorised bike? or bikes in general?
I cannot ever remember seeing a black or Asian person with down syndrome, do they exist??
Why does every one with down syndrome look the same? Despite the fact he was Italian, he looked like all the others except with a tan; he did seem pretty impressed with his bike though.
Good on him, I reckon...
I didn't fuss over it in front of him; don't worry I'm not a total cunt, but it did get me thinking...
Are people with down syndrome allowed to ride motorised bike? or bikes in general?
I cannot ever remember seeing a black or Asian person with down syndrome, do they exist??
Why does every one with down syndrome look the same? Despite the fact he was Italian, he looked like all the others except with a tan; he did seem pretty impressed with his bike though.
Good on him, I reckon...
#28 Mona Lisa is a slut.
Twice I saw the Mona Lisa while I was in Paris, both times the room was packed. The old, the young, the dense, people who actually had an interest in art, and a shit load of Asians...To be honest, I don't really know what the fuss is all about (let's face it, I know more about art than you, so listen to my opinion or fuck off). Sure, it's a nice enough painting, but there are literally hundreds in the rooms around it that show the period just as well, if not better. Quite a few Da Vinci's are actually right out the door, and I could have stood and looked at those uninterrupted all day; to see this little picture you've got to physically push your way through the crowd, in an art gallery!
It's worse than a fucking mosh pit...
I was surprised they let you take pictures of it though. This entire trip has been a crap shoot as to who lets you take photos and who doesn't... They asked for no flash use but there were still plenty going off. Give them an inch...
So she just sits there, behind the glass, lapping up all the attention; probably the most famous painting in the world. I will take take back the title of this post, however; she's not a slut...
At these prices, a better title would be Mona Lisa is a whore...
No wonder she's smiling.
Saturday, 19 July 2008
#27 Whorefucker...
In the world of black and white, I believe you can separate us into two types.
Those who'd pay for it, and those who wouldn't...
You know what I'm talking about...
After a trip through Amsterdam's Red Light District, I saw the world through the payers' eyes.
Windows adorned with women of all different shapes, colours, and fetishes are just a handful of notes away, coaxing it from business men almost as fast as they would soon pull their seed.
Bizarre would be the word that best describes this small row of streets. A dual business thriving off sex and tourism. Walking behind a family, having brought their souvenir dildo or condoms, eyes wide and knowing nudges, it wouldn't surprise me if the father was back later, balls deep in whatever he desired. Or the mother for that matter...
I, safe to say, fall into the latter type. I just can't wrap my head around someone fucking you for money, or should I say the only reason they are fucking you is for money. I guess it's the whole war bride syndrome; they fuck you for a better life, the girls of the District just don't cook your dinner or iron your clothes...
It is an interesting place, I can say that much for it; eye opening to be sure. If you walk the strip, prepare to be inundated with offers for every drug known to man (a handy guide book claims a majority of these are bogus) and for the women to open their window to you if they think you're a chance.
For those in the former type, you have been warned...
Those who'd pay for it, and those who wouldn't...
You know what I'm talking about...
After a trip through Amsterdam's Red Light District, I saw the world through the payers' eyes.
Windows adorned with women of all different shapes, colours, and fetishes are just a handful of notes away, coaxing it from business men almost as fast as they would soon pull their seed.
Bizarre would be the word that best describes this small row of streets. A dual business thriving off sex and tourism. Walking behind a family, having brought their souvenir dildo or condoms, eyes wide and knowing nudges, it wouldn't surprise me if the father was back later, balls deep in whatever he desired. Or the mother for that matter...
I, safe to say, fall into the latter type. I just can't wrap my head around someone fucking you for money, or should I say the only reason they are fucking you is for money. I guess it's the whole war bride syndrome; they fuck you for a better life, the girls of the District just don't cook your dinner or iron your clothes...
It is an interesting place, I can say that much for it; eye opening to be sure. If you walk the strip, prepare to be inundated with offers for every drug known to man (a handy guide book claims a majority of these are bogus) and for the women to open their window to you if they think you're a chance.
For those in the former type, you have been warned...
#26 Obvious lesson number 2.
THE DUTCH
FUCKING
LOVE
BIKES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
...............AND DRUGS...............Wednesday, 16 July 2008
#24 A question.
Alright, I'm not sure of the answer so I'll put it to the floor.
But first, a proviso.
This question is coming from someone who hasn't had the sex in two months, and hasnt rubbed one out in the better part of one.
QUESTION:
Is it wrong to get aroused by a painting???
But first, a proviso.
This question is coming from someone who hasn't had the sex in two months, and hasnt rubbed one out in the better part of one.
QUESTION:
Is it wrong to get aroused by a painting???
Admit it, a chick bent over washing her hair.
That's pretty fuckin' hot...
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
#23 Bastille Day 2008.
Well people, Bastille day came and went. The weather was beautiful, the crowds were huge, and I apparently missed most of the good stuff...
To start with I ballsed up the parade in the morning. I decided I would start at the Place De Bastille and walk along Rue De Rivoli to the Champs Elysees. Place De Bastille was packed, every corner of the round-about was overflowing, and despite none of them moving I still set off down the road. There were a few people wandering in the same direction, so I thought I couldn't be doing too bad. By the time I got to the Champs Elysees an hour had passed, and there were a shitload of empty seats...
Watching the news later the President of France had been there for some ceremony; couldn't really tell what was going on because it was in French...
After getting to that point I decided to follow what was left of the crowd up to the Arc De Triomphe. That is one massive monument; huge. Again the throng of people leading up to and around the Arc was beyond comprehension. Even getting my soon-to-become-staple lunch of Macdonalds was a difficult task (obviously made a shitload worse by my speaking pethetically little French).
A few photos and a lunch later I headed back to the hostel, waiting for the fireworks that night.
It was there I watched the news, apparently their had been a bunch of skydivers jump down to where I had started, so I missed that to!
Still, I managed to fuck the fireworks up as well...
Without knowing where they actually were, I headed back towards the Arc. Again it was packed, and again because I can't understand a word anyone's saying, I just followed a crowd into a big open area (this is after wandering around like an idiot for half an hour) with a view of the Eiffel Tower, and waited for the fireworks to begin.
And waited...
Then they began. Well, we heard them...
You've never seen several hundred people move so fast as when firework's have started an none of them can see...
I have to say, after everyone had spilled onto the street, and we had all found a spot to see, they were pretty fucking awesome...
My camera went flat so you'll just have to trust me, or look here.
My favourite part of the day?
Without doubt it was the two times I walked past a big haired black woman, obviously drunk, with a can of Kronenberg tilted oh-so-delicately in her hand. She was laughing randomly, usually followed by a sentence or two in French, then another laugh. Tight white jeans. Big pointy shoes. Fantastic. I had visions of her falling on her arse later in the night, I'm pretty sure she would have kept laughing and gobbing off...
I couldn't understand any of it, but I think one of them was directed at me...
To start with I ballsed up the parade in the morning. I decided I would start at the Place De Bastille and walk along Rue De Rivoli to the Champs Elysees. Place De Bastille was packed, every corner of the round-about was overflowing, and despite none of them moving I still set off down the road. There were a few people wandering in the same direction, so I thought I couldn't be doing too bad. By the time I got to the Champs Elysees an hour had passed, and there were a shitload of empty seats...
Watching the news later the President of France had been there for some ceremony; couldn't really tell what was going on because it was in French...
After getting to that point I decided to follow what was left of the crowd up to the Arc De Triomphe. That is one massive monument; huge. Again the throng of people leading up to and around the Arc was beyond comprehension. Even getting my soon-to-become-staple lunch of Macdonalds was a difficult task (obviously made a shitload worse by my speaking pethetically little French).
A few photos and a lunch later I headed back to the hostel, waiting for the fireworks that night.
It was there I watched the news, apparently their had been a bunch of skydivers jump down to where I had started, so I missed that to!
Still, I managed to fuck the fireworks up as well...
Without knowing where they actually were, I headed back towards the Arc. Again it was packed, and again because I can't understand a word anyone's saying, I just followed a crowd into a big open area (this is after wandering around like an idiot for half an hour) with a view of the Eiffel Tower, and waited for the fireworks to begin.
And waited...
Then they began. Well, we heard them...
You've never seen several hundred people move so fast as when firework's have started an none of them can see...
I have to say, after everyone had spilled onto the street, and we had all found a spot to see, they were pretty fucking awesome...
My camera went flat so you'll just have to trust me, or look here.
My favourite part of the day?
Without doubt it was the two times I walked past a big haired black woman, obviously drunk, with a can of Kronenberg tilted oh-so-delicately in her hand. She was laughing randomly, usually followed by a sentence or two in French, then another laugh. Tight white jeans. Big pointy shoes. Fantastic. I had visions of her falling on her arse later in the night, I'm pretty sure she would have kept laughing and gobbing off...
I couldn't understand any of it, but I think one of them was directed at me...
Monday, 14 July 2008
HISTORY.JPG)
IS.JPG)
BUSINESS!!! Sunday, 13 July 2008
#21 I took a dump in Anne Frank's house. (Part two in a series)
Well, another historic house, another opportunity to use the facilities.
It must be all the crap food i'm eating...
It must be all the crap food i'm eating...
Wednesday, 2 July 2008
#20 Big Day Out.
I must have looked a cripple. Physically, I was absolutely shot. My hips felt they were grinding into their sockets with every movement. My thighs brought to mind overcooked sausages needing to be pricked, so close did they feel to bursting. Each step made my knees squeak – in my head, if not in reality – asking to be oiled. And my calves? To be honest I couldn’t feel them by this stage, or my feet for that matter. But for the fact I was still moving towards my destination, I would have assumed them lost to the Scottish Highlands...
If the superfluous array of adjectives doesn’t spell it out.
I was in fucken pain...
The day had started well enough. I had earlier decided I wanted go for a bit of a walk. Being in Inverness, and close to Loch Ness, that was where I would head. A track called the ‘Great Glen Way’ stretches down the Loch from Inverness to Fort William, a distance of 73 miles. I wanted to get to Drumnadrochit, which was about 18 miles down the track. I knew I didn’t have a single piece of suitable clothing for it; grey track pants, a tee shirt, and the ubiquitous converse hi-tops being the clothing for the day; but I figured the walk wouldn’t be that long for it to be an issue.
The fucking Chuck Taylor’s were to be the biggest hindrance; the pain they caused my feet the first four hours will attest to that. Their lack of cushioning is something you don’t pay attention to in day to day wearing, but by Christ I noticed it then! The bad habit they have of squishing your toes into a point also provided problems, but both these faded as I lost the feeling below my knees...
I hadn’t gone in totally blind. I had read a couple of paragraphs out of a small book - while standing in the bookshop - which mentioned it was a day trip. I took that as 5 or 6 hours.
I was wrong.
When talking about it to a guy working at the Hostel (Who has to be the closest thing I’ve ever seen to someone being part down), he mentioned he thought it only took 3 hours.
He was wrong too.
Full of confidence and dodgy information, and despite the hit my map reading ego had taken in recent weeks, I purchased a map of the area, along with a couple bottles of water and some rolls, and hit the road...
I was happy to find out early on that the walk was fairly well signposted. It also dawned on me the 3 hour timeframe was well out the window when it took me 40 minutes to get to the hills of Inverness. ‘6 hours it is’ I thought.
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So, 8 1/2 hours and some pretty fucking amazing scenery equalled one awesome nights sleep, and some sore legs for the rest of the week.
In all honesty it was an awesome thing to have done, and I wouldn’t take the experience back for anything.
Even if the bus ride back only took half an hour...
If the superfluous array of adjectives doesn’t spell it out.
I was in fucken pain...
The day had started well enough. I had earlier decided I wanted go for a bit of a walk. Being in Inverness, and close to Loch Ness, that was where I would head. A track called the ‘Great Glen Way’ stretches down the Loch from Inverness to Fort William, a distance of 73 miles. I wanted to get to Drumnadrochit, which was about 18 miles down the track. I knew I didn’t have a single piece of suitable clothing for it; grey track pants, a tee shirt, and the ubiquitous converse hi-tops being the clothing for the day; but I figured the walk wouldn’t be that long for it to be an issue.
The fucking Chuck Taylor’s were to be the biggest hindrance; the pain they caused my feet the first four hours will attest to that. Their lack of cushioning is something you don’t pay attention to in day to day wearing, but by Christ I noticed it then! The bad habit they have of squishing your toes into a point also provided problems, but both these faded as I lost the feeling below my knees...
I hadn’t gone in totally blind. I had read a couple of paragraphs out of a small book - while standing in the bookshop - which mentioned it was a day trip. I took that as 5 or 6 hours.
I was wrong.
When talking about it to a guy working at the Hostel (Who has to be the closest thing I’ve ever seen to someone being part down), he mentioned he thought it only took 3 hours.
He was wrong too.
Full of confidence and dodgy information, and despite the hit my map reading ego had taken in recent weeks, I purchased a map of the area, along with a couple bottles of water and some rolls, and hit the road...
I was happy to find out early on that the walk was fairly well signposted. It also dawned on me the 3 hour timeframe was well out the window when it took me 40 minutes to get to the hills of Inverness. ‘6 hours it is’ I thought.
The next hour is what I would describe as the honeymoon period of the walk; everything had a rosy glow, the smile was still on my face, the trees themselves seemed to be alive with light; such a shame it all turned to shit...
The heavily wooded area of the beginning was replaced by an hour or so of walking through scrub. The wind was at its worst in this bare valley, its sole purpose seemingly to cause me grief.
This in turn gave way to a quiet country road. I will mention that to this point I had seen perhaps 8 walkers in the preceding 2 1/2 hours. There were no more.
The country road sloped around a small hill; thankfully it kept to the lower reaches. The burn had begun along the scrub, and was only going to get worse...
A short sit down in the grass next to the road provided a good look at the journey so far. Less than three hours down and well over half way according to the map. Looking good.
About another half hour along and the track departed the road, again for a track through the bush. About fifteen minutes down along I could hear a sound in the distance; the mind wandered.
It was the sound of a chainsaw. Is this it? Could a Scottish Leatherface be waiting to hack me up, eat the remains? The end brought about by Scottish inbreds?
As I got closer, the sound muted; changed. It was a Whipper Snipper. Still... weird enough, I thought. Closer still, I came across a sign.
‘FRESHLY BREWED COFFEE.'
What.The.Fuck.
Next to it.
‘CAMPSITE/VACANCY.’
In the middle of freaking nowhere? I don’t think so.
That’s like the oldest serial killing trick in the book. I’d imagine the coffee is a variation of Mick’s ‘special water from the top end’ for unsuspecting tourist types – just like me.
I decided to pass the lovely place by, and continued along the track until it intersected with a road. This was at about hour 4. A sign lead me to confusion, and a slight pain in the stomach.
INVERNESS 9.8miles / DRUMNADROCHIT 9 miles.
What? The map CLEARLY showed I was about three quarters of the way there. How the fuck could it be only half way?
I dismissed the sign as bullshit, and had a rest. A few texts picked up the spirits, me still thinking I was within 2 hours of my destination.
Setting off, the track joined onto a forestry road, which wound into the mountains around the Loch.
And wound. And wound...
This was my undoing. The majority of the track to this point had been fairly straight, that was all about to change.
So four previous hours walking straight to this point, and now I had four MORE hours walking through the winding hills at the end!
These next four hours are where I believe you find your inner fortitude. Fuck me if I didn’t come up smelling like roses.
I had a sleeping bag, and could have easily lay down and slept.
No, I started this journey with the intention of finishing it that day, and that was exactly what I was going to do.
The first time I laid eyes on the Loch was moving; beyond words. Being at hour 6 and being less than the full quid notwithstanding, it will go down as one of the most beautiful natural sights I have ever seen. As it came into view through a view of Scottish Oak trees, I wish I had said something profound, unfortunately all I could muster was ‘Fuck me, it’s the Loch’
I have found I am really shit at keeping things charged. I have some retarded functioning in my head where I cannot charge things until they are flat. Despite everything going flat just when I want to use it, I cannot get myself to charge them beforehand. My camera went flat before I got to the Loch. Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s a great camera, but because it’s got a specific battery I can’t just stick AA’s into it. Luckily I’ve found I can get a last gasp of pictures out of it by rubbing the battery. Staring at the Loch through the trees, that’s exactly what I did. The trees parted and I got a really good look at her. Again, she’s pretty fantastic to look at. The water is a really dark blue, seeming darker than it should. There were no reflections from the surrounding trees, as if they themselves had been swallowed by the Loch.
The pain briefly subsided while taking in the wonder, but the trek had to continue; the pain to return. A rash had formed around my ankles, perhaps from the stupid early decision to wear thermals in case it was cold. They lasted the first hour until the sweat forced me to rip them off.
Hour seven provided me with a touchstone moment. A small path branched off the main track for about 20 meters, going onto a rock face that had commanding views over the water.
I sat; thought; hell I even talked to myself for a bit. Then it came over me, I felt this feeling well up from inside. Standing up, I briefly glanced about (I was in the middle of nowhere, but come on, I’m not in the habit of making a total dick of myself...am I?) and did it.
I screamed as loud as I could into the Loch.
God it was good!
Not as good as weak at the knees sex mind you, but it will keep me going for a while.
Re-energized, I continued on. It didn’t last, about a half hour later I was almost a cripple. The pains had hit their peak. I was hobbling noticeably, and had been reduced to sit down’s every ten minutes. To look at me you would have assumed I needed to do a shit...really, really bad.
When I finally reached the main road the elation was amazing. This meant I was close to Drumnadrochit, close to a bed. I knew it wasn’t over yet. One part of the plan I hadn’t sorted out was a place to sleep. The sleeping bag had been an early option, but by halfway the thought of a comfy bed was a big part of the drive forward. A few hundred meters along the footpath brought another rest. I had run out of water about an hour before, and was pretty thirsty by this stage. The last half mile or so saw more rest. I’m pretty sure I only made it 10 meters between them at one stage.
Then I saw it.
Drumnadrochit Hotel! That place looked fucking fantastic through my eyes. I hobbled inside, threw myself on a bar stool and ordered a glass of water. That was quickly followed by a beer. Smiling, knowing the magnitude of my achievement - to myself if no one else - I asked the bar wench a question.
‘How much for a room?’
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So, 8 1/2 hours and some pretty fucking amazing scenery equalled one awesome nights sleep, and some sore legs for the rest of the week.
In all honesty it was an awesome thing to have done, and I wouldn’t take the experience back for anything.
Even if the bus ride back only took half an hour...
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
Post-Script to #18
My post has appeared on The Mercury website, vulgarities included.
I am satisfied...
Now if only it could make it to print...
I am satisfied...
Now if only it could make it to print...
Monday, 30 June 2008
#19 Motherly Advice.
I love my mum, she truly is an individual. I rang her from Scotland to let her know I would be up there for a while.
Her advice?
Gee thanks mum. Here I was busily hoping to have a good time, I hadn’t thought I should be careful lest I be mugged, beaten up, or heaven forbid stabbed to death.
Noted and appreciated.
Her advice?
‘Watch your back.’
Gee thanks mum. Here I was busily hoping to have a good time, I hadn’t thought I should be careful lest I be mugged, beaten up, or heaven forbid stabbed to death.
Noted and appreciated.
#18 A blog by any other name...
It's a question I've been asking myself since I started dribbling on this page.
What exactly is a blog??
I don't mean in the technical sense - although to be honest I don't know that either; heard it once, didn't care to remember - I'm talking about as a writing style. What is it?
Before starting this blog I had little reading experience of them. The only one I had read was the fantastic reasonsyouwillhateme.com, by the brilliant Marieke Hardy - yes her of Triple J fame. Since starting this I have also read parts of Ricky Gervais' hilarious blog entries. This lack of knowing what to write led, does lead, to problems. Is every post expected to be humorous? Is their leeway for insight, interesting-if-not-particularly-amusing experiences? Would a shopping list suffice as a post? Does anyone really give a shit what I think, say or do? (don't answer that one)
This problem has caused a sort of self editing I'm not entirely happy with. I have several perfectly good posts I won't put up for fear they don't fit in with the sites overall theme.
Fuck it.
You'll get what you're given.
What exactly is a blog??
I don't mean in the technical sense - although to be honest I don't know that either; heard it once, didn't care to remember - I'm talking about as a writing style. What is it?
Before starting this blog I had little reading experience of them. The only one I had read was the fantastic reasonsyouwillhateme.com, by the brilliant Marieke Hardy - yes her of Triple J fame. Since starting this I have also read parts of Ricky Gervais' hilarious blog entries. This lack of knowing what to write led, does lead, to problems. Is every post expected to be humorous? Is their leeway for insight, interesting-if-not-particularly-amusing experiences? Would a shopping list suffice as a post? Does anyone really give a shit what I think, say or do? (don't answer that one)
This problem has caused a sort of self editing I'm not entirely happy with. I have several perfectly good posts I won't put up for fear they don't fit in with the sites overall theme.
Fuck it.
To be or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing, end them.
You'll get what you're given.
#17 A letter to The Mercury I wouldn't expect to see published.*
The following is taken from a thread to an artice in The Mercury. Had to post it in parts there as it was too long. Enjoy.
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The subject of swearing (coarse language) and its place in society has always been of interest to me. From reading this thread it appears it is of interest to others also. I will, however, bite my tongue and not comment on previous posts; commenting on the article is my purpose here. I admit, the rare times I find myself reading a Barnes article, he is usually at the other end of the playing field to myself. That's fine, each to their own and all that.
Not today.
I love swearing. I fucking love it. It can emphasize a point, ram it home; diffuse a situation, cause a giggle; create comfort, cause threat, break ice.
I believe it is unique in our language, which in turn is the most prolific of all, in that it can be substituted into and or enhance nearly any sentence available in it. If you haven't dropped one into greeting a friend, then you simply have not lived.
I understand Barnes has stopped short of flat out appreciation of the words, but his article is well pointed. The underlying fascination I have had with the subject has always stemmed from a similar standpoint.
Why do people give these words so much power? Our society is built on language, sure, but in essence each word is surely equal to the other. They are building blocks; allowing us to emote feelings, thoughts, desires. It is strange to me to think certain words should be considered vulgar, beneath us as a society. Where would such an idea come from, a hangover from the class structure, perhaps?
It’s a catch 22, I understand that much. Take this power away, and they may very well lose what I love about them. Perhaps it’s better for me they keep on truckin’. Perhaps.
Its supposed vulgarity has been an easy out for many a public figure; take the moral high ground on the subject and you're sure to have someone mention it somewhere, this very article attests to that. I'm naive, yes; my lovely friends (the shits, cunts, and fucks of the world) will perhaps forever be outcasts, or at the very least treated with some form of disdain.
And that, people, is a fucking shame.
----------------------------------------------------------
* But there is always hope.
------------------------------------------------------------------
The subject of swearing (coarse language) and its place in society has always been of interest to me. From reading this thread it appears it is of interest to others also. I will, however, bite my tongue and not comment on previous posts; commenting on the article is my purpose here. I admit, the rare times I find myself reading a Barnes article, he is usually at the other end of the playing field to myself. That's fine, each to their own and all that.
Not today.
I love swearing. I fucking love it. It can emphasize a point, ram it home; diffuse a situation, cause a giggle; create comfort, cause threat, break ice.
I believe it is unique in our language, which in turn is the most prolific of all, in that it can be substituted into and or enhance nearly any sentence available in it. If you haven't dropped one into greeting a friend, then you simply have not lived.
I understand Barnes has stopped short of flat out appreciation of the words, but his article is well pointed. The underlying fascination I have had with the subject has always stemmed from a similar standpoint.
Why do people give these words so much power? Our society is built on language, sure, but in essence each word is surely equal to the other. They are building blocks; allowing us to emote feelings, thoughts, desires. It is strange to me to think certain words should be considered vulgar, beneath us as a society. Where would such an idea come from, a hangover from the class structure, perhaps?
It’s a catch 22, I understand that much. Take this power away, and they may very well lose what I love about them. Perhaps it’s better for me they keep on truckin’. Perhaps.
Its supposed vulgarity has been an easy out for many a public figure; take the moral high ground on the subject and you're sure to have someone mention it somewhere, this very article attests to that. I'm naive, yes; my lovely friends (the shits, cunts, and fucks of the world) will perhaps forever be outcasts, or at the very least treated with some form of disdain.
And that, people, is a fucking shame.
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* But there is always hope.
Sunday, 29 June 2008
#16 Unusual conversation with an Australian Hostel Worker in Scotland.
Him (While putting doonas in their covers): So, how long you over for?
Me: Three months.
Him: That all?
Me: Yeah, was gonna stay longer, but you’ve got to give your DNA and stuff now to get a VISA.
Him: Geez.
Me: Yeah, didn’t think it was worth it in the end.
Him: Don’t want to give them your DNA, hey. What have you been doing?
Me (Laughing): Yeah, It’s more what I might do later.
Him: I’m heading back in October, then off to Ireland. (Pausing in thought) I wonder if they need all that stuff over there.
Me: Not sure, I only checked for the UK. Why, what have you been up to?
Him: Nah, that stuff was when I was a kid, couldn’t get me for that.
Me: .......
Him: Besides, my mates got done for it, so I doubt they’re even looking.
Me: .......cool.
Me: Three months.
Him: That all?
Me: Yeah, was gonna stay longer, but you’ve got to give your DNA and stuff now to get a VISA.
Him: Geez.
Me: Yeah, didn’t think it was worth it in the end.
Him: Don’t want to give them your DNA, hey. What have you been doing?
Me (Laughing): Yeah, It’s more what I might do later.
Him: I’m heading back in October, then off to Ireland. (Pausing in thought) I wonder if they need all that stuff over there.
Me: Not sure, I only checked for the UK. Why, what have you been up to?
Him: Nah, that stuff was when I was a kid, couldn’t get me for that.
Me: .......
Him: Besides, my mates got done for it, so I doubt they’re even looking.
Me: .......cool.
#15 Sights to behold.
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Well that sounds alright! Any prison that's prepared to treat cum with the respect it deserves is alright by me.
Communal cum room is a bit of a worry.
Isn't that just a fancy way of saying showers?
HOW SMALL IS THAT FUCKING HORSE!!!!!!
Now this one had me totally confused.
Is the rider a head mental?
Are they allowed to ride a horse?
Is it wrong of me to ask that?
Then, my brother came to the rescue.
We can't see his legs.
His mother's too drunk to look after him. Happy now?
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
#14 A memory...
Was walking by some freshly cut grass today. It is one of natures greatest smells. I think I like it so much because it reminds me of my old man mowing the back yard in his short shorts...
Ahh to be a kid again, folks.
Ahh to be a kid again, folks.
Saturday, 21 June 2008
#13 Can dinner be breakfast?
First night in I thought it proper of me to eat the local dish for dinner. This being Scotland that is, of course, Haggis.
Fuck me, that stuff is rich!
For those not in the know, which I'm happy to say I was until after I ate the stuff, It's prepared in the following time honoured tradition.
Take all the shit of a sheep that you wouldn't normally give to your dogs, chuck it into the same sheep's' stomach, of all places, and stew the fucker up.
When It was sat in front of me It didn't look too bad. It's served with potato and turnip, and gives off a Shepherds Pie vibe...
This stuff is Shepherds pie on Ice.
The old lady who served me(she also cooked it, this place was small. 10 bodies would have it packed to the door)seemed to hover while I ate. At one stage I thought I wouldn't be able to finish, and she politely bent down and asked, through a smile.
Just to spite her I finished it off...
That fucker repeated on me all night, and I could still taste it after I woke up, and had chewed gum. For a brief panicked moment I thought I may taste it forever...
Proud to say I made it through, but have stuck to things I've known off menu's since.
I'm a learning, People.
Fuck me, that stuff is rich!
For those not in the know, which I'm happy to say I was until after I ate the stuff, It's prepared in the following time honoured tradition.
Take all the shit of a sheep that you wouldn't normally give to your dogs, chuck it into the same sheep's' stomach, of all places, and stew the fucker up.
When It was sat in front of me It didn't look too bad. It's served with potato and turnip, and gives off a Shepherds Pie vibe...
This stuff is Shepherds pie on Ice.
The old lady who served me(she also cooked it, this place was small. 10 bodies would have it packed to the door)seemed to hover while I ate. At one stage I thought I wouldn't be able to finish, and she politely bent down and asked, through a smile.
'Had enough, or just resting on your laurels?'Well fuck you, polite old lady. I'm not done!
Just to spite her I finished it off...
That fucker repeated on me all night, and I could still taste it after I woke up, and had chewed gum. For a brief panicked moment I thought I may taste it forever...
Proud to say I made it through, but have stuck to things I've known off menu's since.
I'm a learning, People.
#12 HELLO EDINBURGH!
I know, it's been a while, but this is honestly the first chance I've had to touch a computer on a week. Sue me.
Arrived into Edinburgh on a lovely Wednesday evening. First people I met?
The hostel was run by a Kiwi, the bar staff that night were two Aussies, and a Sudanese dude. The two handymen were Australians, and the tour guide was a Yank!
My Edinburgh, aren't you cosmopolitan!
Begs the question: Where the fuck are all the Scots??
Arrived into Edinburgh on a lovely Wednesday evening. First people I met?
The hostel was run by a Kiwi, the bar staff that night were two Aussies, and a Sudanese dude. The two handymen were Australians, and the tour guide was a Yank!
My Edinburgh, aren't you cosmopolitan!
Begs the question: Where the fuck are all the Scots??
Thursday, 12 June 2008
#11 Two random and unrelated sightings...
Wandering about today brought many interesting sights through my eyes, but two stand out as things I didn't need to see.
1/ An absolute nob was walking around with his jumper knotted around his collar...are you fucking kidding me! All it needed was for the jumper to be pastel coloured and I would have freaked out and thought I had somehow been sucked into the movie Animal House. Please somebody stab this man to death!
2/ Looking around the train station whilst sitting and waiting, something caught my eye at my feet. Someone had hacked up a big loogie, which was splattered next to what I'm guessing was a carefully placed, half unfurled - unused! - condom. Oh! how pleasant...
Till next time, find the joy. Someone else obviously did, bareback presumably.
1/ An absolute nob was walking around with his jumper knotted around his collar...are you fucking kidding me! All it needed was for the jumper to be pastel coloured and I would have freaked out and thought I had somehow been sucked into the movie Animal House. Please somebody stab this man to death!
2/ Looking around the train station whilst sitting and waiting, something caught my eye at my feet. Someone had hacked up a big loogie, which was splattered next to what I'm guessing was a carefully placed, half unfurled - unused! - condom. Oh! how pleasant...
Till next time, find the joy. Someone else obviously did, bareback presumably.
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
#10 WTF!?!
"Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em."
My old mate Bill’s quote comes in handy at times like these, as written it’s said by an idiot...Really folks, what the fuck is wrong in the seat of Franklin?
For those of you not up with current events in that neck of the wood, Paul Lennon’s resignation caused a recount of his seat. This was from the 2006 state election, when Vanessa Goodwin had her arse handed to her, but took that as a sign she should be in federal politics...and had her arse handed to her again.
Well, long story short, the recast votes gave the seat to Ross Butler...What.The.Fuck.
Ross Butler, some of you will well remember, was principal of NNHS during the 90s.
He was also a cunt.
Really, this man couldn’t teach a prison bitch how to take it in the arse.
Disliked by students and staff, I was fortunate enough to be there for his departure. I’m not a particular fan of violence, and I don’t even know if it’s true, but the rumour that floated regarding his departure (I’ll let those that know it fill you in) from his next position, and indeed teaching in general, brought a smile to my face.
It still does.
Now because he was lucky enough to have ‘big red’s’ redistributed votes land in his lap, he’s gonna be making the big bucks for a while. We’ve always known what a shit judge of character Lennon’s been so it shouldn’t surprise us he chose to have a fuckwad like old ‘Fatneck’ be his third man up...
For those of you living in the region, I pity you.
"Asses are made to bear, and so are you"
WRITERS NOTE: I realize this post is incredibly specific, and it doesn't bother me in the slightest. Also, those thinking this blog will degenerate into political ramblings are kidding themselves...
Monday, 9 June 2008
#9 Things I've learnt part one.
1/ I hate looking like a tourist. It is ridiculous, I know; that's exactly what I am. But there you go. I've learnt it, didn't say I could explain it...
2/ I’m far worse with maps than I thought. This hasn’t been too much of an issue because point 1 stops me from looking until I’m utterly lost...And even then when no one's about.
3/ I like taking photos but don’t really like being in them, mostly because I’m shit at taking them of myself, which also leads back to point 1. I’d ask a stranger to help, but am paranoid they’ll run off with my camera...And I’ll be too lazy to chase them.
4/ Big Brother is much better when everyone talks in British accents I can barely understand...I have no doubt they are just as headfucked as our own contestants, but a few ‘allo guvnah’s and go on son’s! go a long way.
5/ Cunt seems to be considered a much more vitriolic noun this end of the world; I’ve even had people gasp upon my littering a sentence with the c bomb...This pleases me no end.
6/ I’ve just become a fan those free standing swinging seat things. I’ve been sitting here reading pointless webpages and writing this for the afternoon...In the sun. That’s right, I went there.
2/ I’m far worse with maps than I thought. This hasn’t been too much of an issue because point 1 stops me from looking until I’m utterly lost...And even then when no one's about.
3/ I like taking photos but don’t really like being in them, mostly because I’m shit at taking them of myself, which also leads back to point 1. I’d ask a stranger to help, but am paranoid they’ll run off with my camera...And I’ll be too lazy to chase them.
4/ Big Brother is much better when everyone talks in British accents I can barely understand...I have no doubt they are just as headfucked as our own contestants, but a few ‘allo guvnah’s and go on son’s! go a long way.
5/ Cunt seems to be considered a much more vitriolic noun this end of the world; I’ve even had people gasp upon my littering a sentence with the c bomb...This pleases me no end.
6/ I’ve just become a fan those free standing swinging seat things. I’ve been sitting here reading pointless webpages and writing this for the afternoon...In the sun. That’s right, I went there.
Sunday, 8 June 2008
#8 For the love of darts...
Darts is for retards and cunts.
There, I said it.
Ordinarily that’s a bit of a nothing statement. Women's golf/lesbianism, if you will. Here, and I don’t have a clue how, it’s almost a national fucking 'sport'.
I am, of course, rubbish at it. That doesn’t stop me from having an opinion though...
The only saving grace is the drinking time involved, which, in a word; brilliant. That and I can’t remember the last ‘sport’ I played in someone’s hallway at midnight.
My brother loves it...
There, I said it.
Ordinarily that’s a bit of a nothing statement. Women's golf/lesbianism, if you will. Here, and I don’t have a clue how, it’s almost a national fucking 'sport'.
I am, of course, rubbish at it. That doesn’t stop me from having an opinion though...
The only saving grace is the drinking time involved, which, in a word; brilliant. That and I can’t remember the last ‘sport’ I played in someone’s hallway at midnight.
My brother loves it...
Saturday, 7 June 2008
#7 Is that your final answer?
Was watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire today, as you do, when I was surprised by the question for 50,000 pounds.
Who is the current Prime Minister of Australia?
Remember, this was for 50,000 pounds people...
What's worse is the moron didn't know, so he phoned a friend...
He didn't know either.
This shocking revelation leads me to two conclusions:
1/ There is something seriously wrong with the education of these Britons.
or
2/ It's possible we're not quite as important in the world as we like to think.
The Australian in me thinks they're a pack of deadshits...
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Next up: Paul Lennon's resignation shocks the world's leaders. Most questioned provided similar answers.
'Til next time, Find the Joy.
Who is the current Prime Minister of Australia?
Remember, this was for 50,000 pounds people...
What's worse is the moron didn't know, so he phoned a friend...
He didn't know either.
This shocking revelation leads me to two conclusions:
1/ There is something seriously wrong with the education of these Britons.
or
2/ It's possible we're not quite as important in the world as we like to think.
The Australian in me thinks they're a pack of deadshits...
----------------------------------------------------------
Next up: Paul Lennon's resignation shocks the world's leaders. Most questioned provided similar answers.
Paul who?
'Til next time, Find the Joy.
Sunday, 1 June 2008
#5 I took a dump at shakespeares' birth house...
...and all I got was this lousy blog entry.
Truth be told, it was the entrance building next door that accepted my waste donation, but who's paying attention anyway??
Well as you can guess this week I paid (and $paid$) a visit to a fellow literary great. (Don't pretend this isn't some of the best shit you've ever read. No? Well fuck you, get out of my house.)
To say the least, his house was rubbish. No coffee, no biscuits; just some tossers banging on about people I care nothing about, which was everyone except Bill himself. Apologies to the lovely old lady entertaining us with tales of poppa Speares' glove making business. You were fantastic.
Walking into the house is fairly underwhelming. Dare I say it, to the untrained eye the place was Boring.
It would surprise you then, to hear the house was positively dripping with excitement...Provided you were the heavily goggled older gentleman standing next to said glove lady. I swear he got the horn and his glasses fogged when she waxed lyrical on the various farm animals and finger holes...
Dirty old fucker.
So, apart from the David Stratton looky likey, we all appeared quite sick of it...Unless you were the fucking American family...who asked questions! Are you kidding me? Who gives a shit about how the fucking hide was prepared before stitching started!
It was around this time I walked out.
This may be my cynical side talking, but I have this sneaking suspicion I'm only going to these places for the souvenir shops...
POST SCRIPT - When the time comes that my birthplace is to become a point of pilgrimage, how 'bout we all just say I was born in a barn. An excuse will be needed for why this was the case, of course. Maybe all the inns were full?? People'd buy that, surely??
Truth be told, it was the entrance building next door that accepted my waste donation, but who's paying attention anyway??
Well as you can guess this week I paid (and $paid$) a visit to a fellow literary great. (Don't pretend this isn't some of the best shit you've ever read. No? Well fuck you, get out of my house.)
To say the least, his house was rubbish. No coffee, no biscuits; just some tossers banging on about people I care nothing about, which was everyone except Bill himself. Apologies to the lovely old lady entertaining us with tales of poppa Speares' glove making business. You were fantastic.
Walking into the house is fairly underwhelming. Dare I say it, to the untrained eye the place was Boring.
It would surprise you then, to hear the house was positively dripping with excitement...Provided you were the heavily goggled older gentleman standing next to said glove lady. I swear he got the horn and his glasses fogged when she waxed lyrical on the various farm animals and finger holes...
Dirty old fucker.
So, apart from the David Stratton looky likey, we all appeared quite sick of it...Unless you were the fucking American family...who asked questions! Are you kidding me? Who gives a shit about how the fucking hide was prepared before stitching started!
It was around this time I walked out.
This may be my cynical side talking, but I have this sneaking suspicion I'm only going to these places for the souvenir shops...
POST SCRIPT - When the time comes that my birthplace is to become a point of pilgrimage, how 'bout we all just say I was born in a barn. An excuse will be needed for why this was the case, of course. Maybe all the inns were full?? People'd buy that, surely??
Friday, 23 May 2008
#4 shituation
shit-u-a-tion (shit-yew-aye-shun)
noun
1. When your current predicament is undesirable.
Well this is one hell of a shituation.
2. When the predicament of your friend is undesirable.
You're in quite a shituation then, aren't you.
3. The potential result of actions.
If I don't say anything, I could avoid a big shituation.
Juice might not have caught on, but I'll be damned if this baby doesn't catch fire. Use as liberally as possible.
noun
1. When your current predicament is undesirable.
Well this is one hell of a shituation.
2. When the predicament of your friend is undesirable.
You're in quite a shituation then, aren't you.
3. The potential result of actions.
If I don't say anything, I could avoid a big shituation.
Juice might not have caught on, but I'll be damned if this baby doesn't catch fire. Use as liberally as possible.
#3 Time flies...
I've always known my sense of time and management of it is shithouse, most of you would be well aware of this fact to. The amount of occasions I can recall being late for something, or just not making it at all, are too numerous to mention. I will, however, share with you when latest this affliction did show...
Time 3:45pm. Exiting National Gallery.
Can’t wipe the stupid look from my face after walking around with an artistic hard-on for the better part of two hours (Will describe how fucking fantastic that place is another day) Check the time, heaps left I think, how long does it take to get to Dursley? An hour maybe... Better get my bags from the Hotel (Bed was amazing, price not so good) Off to the tube...
Time 4:30pm. Exiting Hotel.
Doing well, proud of my new found ability to get things done on time. Now back to Heathrow to get my backpack...
-------------------------------------------------------
It occurs to me that I seemed a tad harsh towards the Flight Centre lady in my previous post, so I should explain my dislike (hatred) of her.
When I finally got into London, 30 HOURS AFTER LEAVING HOBART, and made it through passport inspection (The guy asking questions didn’t like me much) I headed to the baggage carousel and waited for my backpack...
And waited...
And waited...
By the time I went to the customer desk, another planes luggage was doing the rounds.
I was there a while.
Tired, exhausted, and probably looking like the bastard child of Kramer, I approached a well dressed Indian behind the counter. Despite a shaky start (he was adamant my bag didn’t exist) we found my bag...in Melbourne...
Desk Guy: You really should have checked your bag in Melbourne.
Me: I wasn’t supposed to. The idea was I checked it in Hobart and that was it. When I checked in in Melbourne I asked and made sure my bag was good to go. She said it was fine.
Desk guy: OK... But you really should have checked it in.
Cue me looking at him like he’s a small retarded child...
We went like this for a while, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe my story, but thankfully this story ended with my bag on the next flight to London, to arrive the following day...
I had the option of getting the bag delivered to an address, but he couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t ring prior to delivery. Considering the address was my brothers - and he didn’t know I was in the country - I really didn’t want my bag beating me to his door...
And so I decided to come back to Heathrow and get it. As we parted he couldn’t resist.
Desk guy: Just remember to check your bag in next time OK.
You cunt...
The one good thing about going back to Heathrow was I got to do the arrival walkthrough twice. I felt like those Home and Away actors at the Logies who walk the red carpet, walk back down, and then do it again.
----------------------------------------------------------
Time 5:30pm. Standing at car rental desk.
Got everything together, backpacks heavier than I remember, but am good to go. After being told the price of renting a car for the day, I decide trains the way to go. Back to the tube...
Time 6:30pm. Paddington station.
Going good. Bought ticket to Cam train station, with a change at Bristol. Didn’t ask how long it would take, guy behind the counter had the highest pitch voice I’ve ever heard...on anyone... freaked me out a bit to be honest. Train leaves at 7:30, time for some food...
Time 7:30pm. We’re off to Dursley!
Nice to sit that fucking backpack down. Hate it already, resorted to dragging it round towards the end... We set off, can’t understand a word of the chick over the intercom, although I swear she said we get into Bristol about 9:30! That can’t be right, can it?
Time 8:30pm. Still going...
The two pissed Welsh dudes next to me are cool, been tipping some spirits into empty Red Bull cans since we started, gotta respect that... Poor bastards just came from watching Cardiff lose the FA cup, but the grog seems a good mistress for forgetting. Dursley is more than an hour out of London, I am discovering...
Time 8:45pm. We’ve stopped...
...In the middle of nowhere. Apparently there’s been an ‘incident’ on the track ahead and we are waiting till it’s cleared. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Time 9:50pm. Bristol, Finally!
I’m definitely too late for tea, but then again I’m too fucking tired for food anyway. Thought it would be colder, now where is this train for Cam? After two laps of the station a guy in a reflective vest looks the go to give me my answer.
Me: Mate, where’s the next train to Cam and Dursley?
He speaks into a walkie talkie, gibberish comes out, he looks up...
Him: None more from here tonight, fellar. Last one leaves Bristol Parkway in about fifteen.
ME: Shit! How far aways that?
Him: Bout ten, fifteen. Cabs out the front, you might make it...
Gave him my thanks as I’m dragging my bag up the stairs. Should’ve got a backpack with wheels. Rank of cabs right out front, excellent! Welsh dude from the train is talking through the window to a cabbie, he’s still pissed...I dive into the same cab. Bristol Parkway thanks. Twenty five quid? Cool, let’s go.
Time 10:08pm Bristol Parkway.
That cabbie was fucking crazy! He nailed it though, got me there with a couple to spare. Tipped him five pound, which I immediately regretted when I converted it in my head, but I’ve got to get going. Dragged the bag across the car park, into the station, up the stairs...and the train is waiting. Spot on; jump on; sit; a minute later the last train for the night is on its way.
Time 10:45pm. Cam and Dursley train station.
As soon as I stepped off the train I smelt cowshit. This is not so much a station as a slab of cement in the middle of a paddock. I am not in Kansas anymore. Had to drag the FB up an overpass to the road on the other side. The cab rank from Bristol is nowhere to be seen. In fact, there isn’t a cab, car, or person in sight. There was an info board but I couldn’t see any cab numbers on it. Fuck!! Thousands of miles and I get fucked over by the last ten! Gave the board another crack, right at the top in small print were some cab numbers....
Time 11:00pm. Waiting...
A serial killer could abduct and kill me and no one would ever know...
Time 11:15pm. Dursley
Cabbie dropped me off, and I knock on the door... Nothing.
Again... A window opens on the second floor, my brother’s wife.
Donna: Who’s there?
Me: Are you gonna let me in or what?
--------------------------------------------------------
Next up: I’m also crap with directions...
Till then, find the joy people.
Time 3:45pm. Exiting National Gallery.
Can’t wipe the stupid look from my face after walking around with an artistic hard-on for the better part of two hours (Will describe how fucking fantastic that place is another day) Check the time, heaps left I think, how long does it take to get to Dursley? An hour maybe... Better get my bags from the Hotel (Bed was amazing, price not so good) Off to the tube...
Time 4:30pm. Exiting Hotel.
Doing well, proud of my new found ability to get things done on time. Now back to Heathrow to get my backpack...
-------------------------------------------------------
It occurs to me that I seemed a tad harsh towards the Flight Centre lady in my previous post, so I should explain my dislike (hatred) of her.
When I finally got into London, 30 HOURS AFTER LEAVING HOBART, and made it through passport inspection (The guy asking questions didn’t like me much) I headed to the baggage carousel and waited for my backpack...
And waited...
And waited...
By the time I went to the customer desk, another planes luggage was doing the rounds.
I was there a while.
Tired, exhausted, and probably looking like the bastard child of Kramer, I approached a well dressed Indian behind the counter. Despite a shaky start (he was adamant my bag didn’t exist) we found my bag...in Melbourne...
Desk Guy: You really should have checked your bag in Melbourne.
Me: I wasn’t supposed to. The idea was I checked it in Hobart and that was it. When I checked in in Melbourne I asked and made sure my bag was good to go. She said it was fine.
Desk guy: OK... But you really should have checked it in.
Cue me looking at him like he’s a small retarded child...
We went like this for a while, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe my story, but thankfully this story ended with my bag on the next flight to London, to arrive the following day...
I had the option of getting the bag delivered to an address, but he couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t ring prior to delivery. Considering the address was my brothers - and he didn’t know I was in the country - I really didn’t want my bag beating me to his door...
And so I decided to come back to Heathrow and get it. As we parted he couldn’t resist.
Desk guy: Just remember to check your bag in next time OK.
You cunt...
The one good thing about going back to Heathrow was I got to do the arrival walkthrough twice. I felt like those Home and Away actors at the Logies who walk the red carpet, walk back down, and then do it again.
----------------------------------------------------------
Time 5:30pm. Standing at car rental desk.
Got everything together, backpacks heavier than I remember, but am good to go. After being told the price of renting a car for the day, I decide trains the way to go. Back to the tube...
Time 6:30pm. Paddington station.
Going good. Bought ticket to Cam train station, with a change at Bristol. Didn’t ask how long it would take, guy behind the counter had the highest pitch voice I’ve ever heard...on anyone... freaked me out a bit to be honest. Train leaves at 7:30, time for some food...
Time 7:30pm. We’re off to Dursley!
Nice to sit that fucking backpack down. Hate it already, resorted to dragging it round towards the end... We set off, can’t understand a word of the chick over the intercom, although I swear she said we get into Bristol about 9:30! That can’t be right, can it?
Time 8:30pm. Still going...
The two pissed Welsh dudes next to me are cool, been tipping some spirits into empty Red Bull cans since we started, gotta respect that... Poor bastards just came from watching Cardiff lose the FA cup, but the grog seems a good mistress for forgetting. Dursley is more than an hour out of London, I am discovering...
Time 8:45pm. We’ve stopped...
...In the middle of nowhere. Apparently there’s been an ‘incident’ on the track ahead and we are waiting till it’s cleared. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Time 9:50pm. Bristol, Finally!
I’m definitely too late for tea, but then again I’m too fucking tired for food anyway. Thought it would be colder, now where is this train for Cam? After two laps of the station a guy in a reflective vest looks the go to give me my answer.
Me: Mate, where’s the next train to Cam and Dursley?
He speaks into a walkie talkie, gibberish comes out, he looks up...
Him: None more from here tonight, fellar. Last one leaves Bristol Parkway in about fifteen.
ME: Shit! How far aways that?
Him: Bout ten, fifteen. Cabs out the front, you might make it...
Gave him my thanks as I’m dragging my bag up the stairs. Should’ve got a backpack with wheels. Rank of cabs right out front, excellent! Welsh dude from the train is talking through the window to a cabbie, he’s still pissed...I dive into the same cab. Bristol Parkway thanks. Twenty five quid? Cool, let’s go.
Time 10:08pm Bristol Parkway.
That cabbie was fucking crazy! He nailed it though, got me there with a couple to spare. Tipped him five pound, which I immediately regretted when I converted it in my head, but I’ve got to get going. Dragged the bag across the car park, into the station, up the stairs...and the train is waiting. Spot on; jump on; sit; a minute later the last train for the night is on its way.
Time 10:45pm. Cam and Dursley train station.
As soon as I stepped off the train I smelt cowshit. This is not so much a station as a slab of cement in the middle of a paddock. I am not in Kansas anymore. Had to drag the FB up an overpass to the road on the other side. The cab rank from Bristol is nowhere to be seen. In fact, there isn’t a cab, car, or person in sight. There was an info board but I couldn’t see any cab numbers on it. Fuck!! Thousands of miles and I get fucked over by the last ten! Gave the board another crack, right at the top in small print were some cab numbers....
Time 11:00pm. Waiting...
A serial killer could abduct and kill me and no one would ever know...
Time 11:15pm. Dursley
Cabbie dropped me off, and I knock on the door... Nothing.
Again... A window opens on the second floor, my brother’s wife.
Donna: Who’s there?
Me: Are you gonna let me in or what?
--------------------------------------------------------
Next up: I’m also crap with directions...
Till then, find the joy people.
Tuesday, 20 May 2008
#2 What's In A Name?
Hey, good taste is universal...
Although I would like to know why they abbreviated Great Russell St, but not Little Russell St...
#1 Every End Has A Beginning...
Greetings and salutations, good people, and wecome to the beginning. This may become a regular diatribe, this may be incredibly irregular, this may well be the one and only entry I make (those cunts who know me best would be doing well to get dibs on the middle choice. Myself, forever the cynical optimist, expect the first but am dreading it will be the last...)
Despite the frequency, don’t expect a blow by blow account of this faraway place. You will not be told of every trip to Tesco’s, and its subsequent purchase; every time I take a piss, and the amount of shaking afterwards. Quality will be the aim of the game, people, not quantity. It will be random, it will most likely be largely pointless, and it will hopefully be smile worthy. I have no doubt this first entry will be the longest, And considering I’m three parts asleep it may be incomprehensible. But I’ll give it a crack, that you can bet on...
-------------------------------------------------------
Two things I’ve learnt about the kindly people of Malaysia...
1/ It appears to me their entire language is based around ‘dung’ and ‘dong’. How the fuck they can create a knowledgeable society around two words is beyond me. To provide example, allow me to translate my flight captain.
Captain in Malaysian: Sera dungadong gungudung, maradongo sepa dong, sheeta cuntee, pungadong Malaysia gonadung. apoodungo 13 DUNG dungadong, ding...
Captain in English (of sorts): Good afternoon Passengers, I am your captain, sheeta cuntee, and welcome to Malaysia airlines. We hope you enjoy your 13 HOUR flight, enjoy...
-------------------------------------------------------
2/These people must be the worst shot in the world! I’m guessing their death penalty doesn’t include firing squad these days... And yes that is mostly piss on the floor, the bottom of my jeans can attest to that. Connoisseurs will note the colour of the water. I haven’t used it yet, by the way. I do have some class for Christ’s sake. Apparently they like to let the yellow mellow on the equator...
WRITERS NOTE: I know what you’re thinking, I said I wouldn’t be talking about my own piss, not others... So suck on that.
Aaah, I feel my horizons broadening already...
Well that’s me for the minute folks. I’m sitting in a hotel room for the price of which I would normally sell a kidney, or at least be considering an offer from a big black sailor named Willy May, and would like to get my moneys worth in sleep.
Until next time - if there is one - Find the Joy, people.
PS. If any one else is thinking of travelling, and the lovely lady at Flight Centre tells you of ‘a new system that allows you to check your bags at Hobart and not worry about them till you get to London.’ Punch your fist up her vagina, and pull out the women's bits...Idiots like her need to be stopped from ruining the gene pool.
Or at the very least say no...
Despite the frequency, don’t expect a blow by blow account of this faraway place. You will not be told of every trip to Tesco’s, and its subsequent purchase; every time I take a piss, and the amount of shaking afterwards. Quality will be the aim of the game, people, not quantity. It will be random, it will most likely be largely pointless, and it will hopefully be smile worthy. I have no doubt this first entry will be the longest, And considering I’m three parts asleep it may be incomprehensible. But I’ll give it a crack, that you can bet on...
-------------------------------------------------------
Two things I’ve learnt about the kindly people of Malaysia...
1/ It appears to me their entire language is based around ‘dung’ and ‘dong’. How the fuck they can create a knowledgeable society around two words is beyond me. To provide example, allow me to translate my flight captain.
Captain in Malaysian: Sera dungadong gungudung, maradongo sepa dong, sheeta cuntee, pungadong Malaysia gonadung. apoodungo 13 DUNG dungadong, ding...
Captain in English (of sorts): Good afternoon Passengers, I am your captain, sheeta cuntee, and welcome to Malaysia airlines. We hope you enjoy your 13 HOUR flight, enjoy...
-------------------------------------------------------
2/These people must be the worst shot in the world! I’m guessing their death penalty doesn’t include firing squad these days... And yes that is mostly piss on the floor, the bottom of my jeans can attest to that. Connoisseurs will note the colour of the water. I haven’t used it yet, by the way. I do have some class for Christ’s sake. Apparently they like to let the yellow mellow on the equator...
WRITERS NOTE: I know what you’re thinking, I said I wouldn’t be talking about my own piss, not others... So suck on that.
Aaah, I feel my horizons broadening already...
Well that’s me for the minute folks. I’m sitting in a hotel room for the price of which I would normally sell a kidney, or at least be considering an offer from a big black sailor named Willy May, and would like to get my moneys worth in sleep.
Until next time - if there is one - Find the Joy, people.
PS. If any one else is thinking of travelling, and the lovely lady at Flight Centre tells you of ‘a new system that allows you to check your bags at Hobart and not worry about them till you get to London.’ Punch your fist up her vagina, and pull out the women's bits...Idiots like her need to be stopped from ruining the gene pool.
Or at the very least say no...
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