Red Harian Nation

As we shuffled slowly across Victoria Park, I chatted tentatively with Colin in the manner of new friends. He seemed like a great bloke, happily dispensing conversation that drifted quickly away from the stagnant topics we were forced to begin with. Luckily we had his imminent wedding to discuss, which was always going to give us a base camp from which to go foraging. I was looking forward to the wedding; excited to be visiting the Shetland Islands for the first time and secretly hoping to see a plethora of miniature ponies, hopefully being ridden by miniature monkeys. I decided after some deliberation to keep that information to myself; I had learned the hard way that some people react strangely to flights of fancy involving equidite riding simians. Particularly small ones.

The group arrived at Victoria Park Pavilion. Colin and I stood around trying to look like men while the girls busied themselves poking Amy's two year old son Ruban. The little ginger haired chap wore the expression of someone who simply couldn't fathom why everyone was still hanging around being boring when they could instead be at home watching Pingu on repeat. Not getting the reaction they were looking for, the girls continued to prod.

Remembering that the guests had been invited to attend a dancing class a few nights before the wedding, I asked Colin about it. We wouldn't be able to attend and I was loathe to miss it: unless traditional Scottish dancing shared some kind of similarity to Axl Rose's hip sashé, I was going to be in a lot of trouble.

“So I’m a bit worried that I won't be able to remember how to strip the Willow.” I confided.

It was true. The last time I tried I'd lost the group I was dancing with on the very first change. My partner pretended she didn’t mind, but I could tell she was upset. I could plainly see that to her, failing to strip the Willow was paramount to contracting an odious yeast infection. At the time I felt no humiliation over my error. After all, I wasn’t even sure what the Willow was.

“Not a worry mate.” said my new ginger haired friend. “Getting it wrong is all part of the fun. In fact, Céilidh dancing was invented so that Scottish men had an excuse to beat their women.”

An uncomfortable silence formed between us. A coyote howled in the distance.

“That’s a joke, right?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh good. Just thought I’d clarify.”

“When you didn’t laugh I thought uh oh. Now he’s going to think I’m a wife basher.”

“Nope. Comedian. Got it.”


But I didn't get it. I was no closer to realising my goal of appropriate Willow stripping. So, lacking the necessary technical know-how to pull off a barn dance heist I settled on a compromise: As long as I could get through the night without falling over and revealing the darkside of my kilt, I would consider it a win.

Sometimes, when I feel low, I go and try on the wedding dresses over at humor-blogs.com. It's comforting to know that I look good in a taffeta veil, even though I'm destined to always have the hips of a bridesmaid.

Old Man BMX

The other day when I was walking down Well Street to grab the paper a really old guy whizzed past me on a bike. While this is nothing that usual, what caught my eye was that he was dressed head to toe in a fluoro Kappa tracksuit, wearing a huge gold medallion and backwards cap and that his bike was a hotted up BMX.

"Woaaah," said my very impressed internal monologue. "He'd be amazing for the blog. I could explain that he was a perfect example of what you would look like if you'd just woken up from a 60 year coma caused by a BMX accident. I'd need a picture of him, so I could say that I work for BMXing Australia and that I was doing an article on the implications of wearing incontinence pants while freeriding. Hopefully he won't ask for a card, but if he does I'll just say that I've already given them all out down at the Sunny Vista estate and that he could grab one down there from Beryl if he liked, so long as he didn't ask about her recent divorce. 'Yikes' I would then say, for effect."

It was brilliant.. until I remembered that:

a) I didn't bring my camera
b) it had taken me two hours to make up the joke about the coma
c) the old guy was long gone

I was left feeling vaguely uncertain, as though I'd somehow invented the entire scenario in my head; just like in the Labyrinth where that chick wakes up and can't believe David Bowie could actually be the head of the muppets, while at the exact same time have such enormous hair and bad dress sense.

Paying for my newspaper, I cautiously asked the lady behind the counter whether she had seen any old guys getting around today, you know, like on a BMX or something. She turned her head and looked at me out of the corners of her eyes; the way people do when you walk into a bookstore and ask if they have any other books in a similar vein to 'The Notebook', because you're on a bit of an emotional roller-coaster right now and that book made you feel as though you had something to live for and you have every intention of keeping that buzz going, man.

"Forget it." I said quietly and walked out, not collecting my change. Then it occurred to me that the old guy and the paper lady probably have a racket going and are taking over the world, 20p at a time.

I'll find you, geriatric BMX bandit. And when I do, I'm taking the best damn picture of you the world has ever seen. And then I'm taking my 20p back. I'm taking them all back.



More tales of delusion and grandeur over at humor-blogs.com. Please click that link for me? It helps me out a lot while at the same time helps starving kids in that place.. overseas. The dusty one. It's totally win win.

While They're Young

A friend of mine Ben has a little brother who has just started going to primary school. Alongside learning about the wonders of numbers, letters, and Transformers, he has also been exposed to a variety of new social structures. Specifically, he's started bringing home the sailor talk.

Unfortunately for him the lesson plan for discussing the different applications of the verb 'to ho' falls a bit short around the playground, which leaves our wee protagonist a bit confused most of the time.


"Ben, what does gay mean?"

"What do you think it means?"

"I don't know."

"Why do you ask?"

"Well all the kids at school call me gay. And each other. That call everyone gay."

"What do they think it means?"

"They don't know either. Their brothers call them gay."



Lo, another generation indoctrinated into sexual ambiguity.



I don't wanna start nothin, but Humor Blogs has been asking difficult questions about your sexuality too. Better go there now and set them straight.

LOLCets

Overheard on the train back from Brighton:

"You know Mery's cet? Yeh, the fet one. Wull it got run over by a car end lost ets tail. Et must heve bin bed, because now et kearn't crep!"

"Hey?"

"Mery's cet. Et kearn't crep! Et'd do my hid in."


A very tired Cath rose grumpily from my lap, not being able to contest any further with the tales of feline constipation. "Mery's cet is doing a lot of people's hids in today." she explained to me, and at least 3 other people within earshot.

Kiwis. As ubiquitous as Australians, but just a smidgen noisier.

Dear God, why Me-me? Part 1.

Ok, it seems there is no avoiding this meme thing. Eleanor Bloom and the blogger formerly known as Milly Moo are only too delighted to push the format, and although it all feels scarily reminiscent of being passed 'So, who do u like? Pass it on.' notes in Mr Clews' History class, I must be pretty convincing in my assurances of participation because the requests keep rollin' in. Heavens knows why; I'm lying through my teeth.

Lying is a bit strong. It's more like when you have every intention of taking out the garbage right up until the point where your house starts smelling like fish. Which is strange because you can't remember having recently eaten fish. Considering that's about the best simile I have ever come up with, it really is a wonder why people are requesting me to write more. Perhaps they're suckers for punishment, who knows? People's preference for bdsm is none of my hoo-ha.

So anyway. I've got like three memes to do. Don't worry, ye of little attention span; I'll totally fudge it. I've got a plan.


Meme 1 -- Earliest Memory

My sister used to be a massive fan of Barbie; an anomaly among children in a district that was more used to rearing cattle-rustling femme fatales and World War I flying aces (in the case of myself). Many Barbies and their ill-pink accoutrements were purchased for her growing collection. Along with the pink Cadillacs and obscenely long maned ponies of fluttering eyelidded virtue came packaged many Barbie-related information pamphlets coaxing the world's future cheerleaders into joining the latest Shopping Mall Appreciation Society, the Cookie Bakers Council, or some other no doubt worthy NPO.

Attracted to the vibrant pink paper, I seized one of the Barbie fan club applications. I managed to get the gist of it through the patient explanation of Mum, but then promptly forgot about it; probably because it had very little to do with planes, pilots, or things that flew.

A few months later, Mum found me in my bedroom at one o'clock in the morning bawling my eyes out. Apparently I had suddenly realised that we had missed the cut-off date for sending in the application, and although I wasn't sure what prizes I had missed out on, if any, I was pretty certain that they would have been great, and that I would have liked them. A lot.

Before we all get carried away with the implications of my being heartbroken over not getting into a club for girls, let's first examine the alternative explanations. Personally, I think this says more about how much importance I place on the punctual submission of documents. At least it would, had I any semblance of punctuality. Which I don't. Punctuality issues notwithstanding, I still think that this story shows that from an early age I liked to while away the twilight hours conjecturing and pondering. About plastic dolls, sure, but I bet you I was just thought they were GI Joes with 60s haircuts. And frankly, that level of zietgiest understanding shows merit, and not you or my twice a week, 80 pound an hour psychiatrist is going to tell me any different.



That's Eleanor's done. Milly's next, then Eleanor's other one. Will the pain never stop? Yes, indeed the pain will stop; in just two memes time. Quit yer bellyachin.

Get Rich.. and Quick.

So, tell me your concept?

Well, we got loads of lead, right? Tons of it. And some pretty good shape making tools. You know, those things that make shapes?

I'm listening.

Well, I'm thinking... we could be counter-fitters!

Hold on mate, I was always pretty terrible at maths.

I've done the sums stupid. You and me right, we'll get minted turning all this lead into coins!

Two pound coins?

Nah, pound coins. Two pound coins are all multi-coloured and that.

Fuck it.

Yeh right, fuck it! We'll make poind coins!

How much lead we need to use per poind coin?

Bout 90 p's worth.

Result!

Yeh, but we gotta spray em gold like.

Gold?

Yeh, bout 5 p's worth of gold paint we need to use, each one.

How much does that leave us then?

Well mate, let's just say this next round's on me!

Reeesult!

or

Airport Tales: and Other Hijinx

Arriving at Sydney airport on departure day and sporting the niftiest in high-flying attire, I sauntered up to the arrival desk and proudly presented my passport. No sooner had I begun loudly exclaiming how well travelled I had become in recent times that I was interrupted by the attendant with some shocking news. My Vietnamese visa had expired!

"That's not right." I angled lamely, my stomach descending rapidly. "It starts today."

"Well according to your passport, it ends today." offered my observant but unavoidably hateful attendant. Snatching my passport back, I confirmed that the Vietnamese embassy in London had assigned me the wrong dates for my visa. That dastardly embassy -- The same embassy who had closed for Chinese new year knowing full well I harboured suspicions that Vietnam was another country altogether. The same embassy who only 3 days before I was due to leave had hung up in my ear when I demanded that Ho Chi Min himself track down my missing passport. The same embassy who had now conspired to ruin me at Sydney airport and who no doubt had a camera trained on me this very second to enjoy the spectacle of my destruction.

Despite suspecting worse, I summed their provable indiscretions to be two - hanging up on me, and foiling my visa. So while this was only strike two for them, I was nonetheless happy to dispense with tradition altogether and forever relegate them to the category of 'you're out'. Unfortunately this did little to balm my rising frustration, and I began making what I now affectionately refer to as 'a spectacle' but could more accurately be described as 'a tantrum'.

Clearly taking pity on those within my close proximity, Singapore airlines hatched a plan; fly to Singapore, my original stopover, and fix my visa at the embassy there. Even if this couldn't be done, I could still stay in Singapore for 6 days and catch my return flight out, meaning that I wouldn't have to fork out for extra flights. Ingenious! I vigorously shook the hand of the helpful staff member, who eyed me with barely concealed dread and encouraged me to leave them alone immediately. I agreed, and turned to the nearest camera to begin scowling menacingly.

"Thought you had me that time, eh? Look whose laughing now!"

I broke into a rumbling cackle that quietened the room. When I eventually concluded laughing and had wiped the tears from my eyes, the only murmurings I heard came from the helpful attendant who was busy whispering some recommendations into her handset that might have included the word 'security' and definitely included the word 'risk'.

I trundled off happily, knowing that adventure awaited.

The Diet of Superheros

"We're on our way up to Sydney to meet your Uncle Davey."

My Mum was on the phone to my nephew Olly, attempting to explain her absence from his usual routine of habitual nanna harassment. Olly is a smart kid. A month ago his interest in birds was such that he asked my Dad what bird he would be, assuming we lived in a world where people were birds. Not really having thought much on the matter of poultry affiliation, Dad thought instead that he would choose a bird that Olly had heard of. "Well, a seagull I guess. I guess I would be a seagull."

"Hmm." replied Olly, mentally weighing the pros and cons of his choice. "Nah... Too beachy." It will be years before he works out that all the best birds hang out at the beach, but no matter which way you fly it was a pretty inspired response. I suspect that his understanding of where I've been for the past 9 months is less developed however, but he hides it well.

"Would you like me to give him a message from you?" Mum asked.

"Of course you can." Olly replied, stalling for time while he searched for some profundity. "Tell him... Elephants."

Although I've been fortunate enough to spend a great deal of time with him over the 3 year tenure of his nephewship, I've got to admit that his point alluded me. Was he communicating his capacity not to forget some wrongdoing I had previously inflicted, or simply informing me I had an elongated shnoz and was frightened of mice? I made a mental note to ask him about it, but was pretty sure I had been out-foxed.

When I made it down to Canberra and starting spending time with him and his wont-be-left-behind brother Gus, I was reminded that when it comes to kids, conversational direction is seldom controllable.

"Davey," Ollie turned to me during dinner one night, his brow furrowed with a thought that had obviously been causing him some distress. "Davey, is it true that Spiderman eats spiders?"

I put my knife and fork down, giving the question the attention it deserved. "Well that all depends on which camp you're aligned with mate. Those pro-cannibal Spidey pundits would have you believe all kinds of misnomers about the great webslinger, but take it from me little man; this is one case where dude aint what he eats."

He seemed relieved. I mean honestly, the lengths some people will go to frighten kids. I was about to continue explaining the origins of Spiderman's power due to being bitten by a radioactive and potentially lethal lab spider, but was distracted instead by the little dude inspecting a booger he'd just retrieved from his nose. "Well I aint going to eat that, Davey."

Time for me to be relieved. As an uncle, I'm pleased that my responsibility starts and stops with super hero myth debunking, rather than the higher moral teachings of snot consumption abstinence. I failed that subject if I recall.

Your ideas intrigue me and I wish to sign up for your newsletter

The company I work for has long recruited its staff privately. I believe the policy originated back when it was discovered recruitment agencies regularly sold their unborn babies to Hitler so that he could send them into war zones submerged in tanks of Piranhas infected with Typhoid, but I'm not really sure; it was all before my time. We often get calls from agencies demanding to know why it is we operate this way, and they are surprisingly unperturbed when we explain our preference for wishing remain the lone proprietors of our everlasting souls.

The Other Dave took a call this morning.


The Other Dave: I'm very sorry, but we recruit privately.

Underling: Absolutely, but have you ever considered the benefits of specialised help in this area?

Dave: Again, sorry, but our company doesn't require specialized recruiting.

Underling: Fantastic! Because I actually specialise in recruiting for companies that don't require specialised recruiting companies.

Dave: ... ?

Underling: ..I see that my razzle dazzle has left you speechless. Allow me to explain further.

Dave: *click*

---

UPDATE:


I'm currently standing in Singapore Changi Airport on free internet next to a gentleman who is very provocatively clearing his nose every 30 seconds or so. Whoever said travelling isn't glamorous has clearly never rolled like me.


If I don't get the chance to update, or to read your lovely blogs over the next 2 weeks please forgive me. I can only assure you that upon my return I will be refreshed and full of great new ideas and perspectives, and more than likely with a plethora of new Vietnamese curse words. And scurvy.


A big happy birthday to Rosie too! Your hovercraft etc. is in the mail -- I like totally promise and shit.

Deer Diary

London was beautiful yesterday. Cath and I went for an amble through the sun glazed Victoria park, which ended with us feeding deer at an enclosure found at the eastern end. Nearby we overheard a boy querying his mum: "All deer can fly, right Mummy? Not just the ones in the rain?"

I'm Big Kev Excited

Hey tigers. Guess what day it is on Saturday? I'll give you a hint: It's the best flippin day in the whole world.

Now if you answered 'Doris Day' to the previous question, congratulations. You're an idiot. I would continue chastising you, but I'm way too excited because Saturday is, in fact, AUSTRALIA DAY! Kaboom!

It's actually a bit of a sad day this year as I'm usually getting burnt to a crisp at the Big Day Out music festival in Sydney and discussing in increasingly slurred tones the hilarity of BDO organisers inadvertently turning the Australian flag into a symbol of rebellion.

Last year also had double decker layers of ace because I was involved in one of the coolest festival fence jumps ever: I helped my boss at the Art Gallery, a 10 year member of Australia's notorious subterranean exploration gang Cave Clan and 15 of his screwball mates break into the festival through the sewage tunnel next to the main arena.

I *know*. And I seemed like such a quiet, polite boy.

Once we had arrived at the festival, my friend Bud, who had initially agreed to help me lift the heavy iron grating blocking the tunnel, was starting to have reservations.

"I dunno man. Lots of people about."

Although not necessarily keen to incriminate myself either, I was preoccupied with the thought of getting retrenched because I left my boss wallowing in effluent. "Listen," I cajoled. "I'll shout you a bourbo if you help me do this."

"Done." He said, skulling one of the bourbon and cokes he was carrying. You can also get him to eat BBQ grit using the same tactic.

We eventually found the grate near to the entrance of the main arena. Three pairs of white, pleading eyes stared up at us from the depths below. Bud and I looked at each other, looked down, swallowed hard, and then purposefully walked over to a nearby pylon to put our drinks down. A hand tapped me on the shoulder.

"You gonna break into the storm water drain?" asked the 14 year old Fear Factory fan, his eyes wide in anticipation. Observant kid.

My dry mouth minced the words. "Not exactly. Watch."

We walked over to the grating and yanked it open with surprising ease, expecting it to be heavier. Nothing happened for 5 long, heart thumping seconds, but when the first head popped out through the hole an excited cheer erupted from the surrounding crowd and people ran over to help pull out gate dodger after gate dodger -- as fast as they could climb the ladder. When all 16 were out, everyone cheered and clapped and slapped backs and then immediately dispersed.

The only person left hovering around the grate was a yellow shirted security guard, frantically looking left and right but finding nobody to grab by the shirt collar. The mob had won.


And we had a courageous story to tell for the rest of the day.

How to Win at eBay and Influence People

1. Decide that a beautiful new sunburst lawsuit-era Ibanez guitar with pretty pictures on it will exponentially increase your quality of life and your chances of hooking up with babes.
   
   
2. Studiously scour eBay during office hours until such a guitar appears.
   
   
3. Notice with disdain as two hateful eBay novices start a bidding war for the object of your affection, paying no heed to the eBayers code of last-minute engagement.
   
   
4. Decide to balk convention yourself and immediately contact both members, kindly pointing out that bidding on an item 6 days out is fruitless and serves only to increase the final sale price. Feel confident that you are being helpful and avoiding unnecessary condescension.
   
   
5. Receive no reply from the first member, and the following message from the second:
   
   
   
   
   
   
6. Wrinkle nose at lack of punctuation and civility. Shake head at overly clichéd war-cry. Begin devising cunning retaliation.
   
   
7. Download eBay sniping program Auction Sentry. Marvel at application's ability to automatically place winning bid on item 30 seconds before auction close. Configure winning snipe on lusty guitar and cackle in pre-emptive glee.
   
   
8. Win guitar.
   
   
9. Send following message to Strummer69:
   
   
   
   
   
   
10. Take receipt of guitar at work from long haired death metal rocker that smells of Vicks Vapour Drops. Impress pink haired ladies at the front desk with less than adequate rendition of Stairway to Heaven. Receive no reply from substandard rival. Live happily, guitar playingly, ever after.
    

From May 2007, no chance I could afford this now.

I make hamburgers, I get all the girls

Although this probably won't satisfy the requirements of Miss Bloom's meme request, it is none-the-less a story. It is set in the past. It does contain two or more primary actors. The main hitch I can see is that it's not one of my earliest memories -- though considering the amount of self inflicted amnesia I was suffering at the time due to the excesses of high living, I'm pretty certain I can contest that point with some success. Perhaps not in a court of law, as they say on the telly, but in any court that ol' Hell on Wheelsanor would be privy to I dare say.

When I was only a little Davey of 19 years I decided to take a year off from the pressures of first year Uni (retroactive scoff), move out of home, and get myself a job at the high class catering establishment known as 'Pizza Hut'. It was a shitty job. I smelled like pizza most of the time and after paying the rent I only had about 100 bucks left over to live on. Most of that was inevitably spent on weed, with everything left being spent of booze and petrol. I guess we figured that sustenance could be established through the ritualized consumption of pizza. I can't remember being that concerned with the effects that this diet was having on my health, but as you might imagine, being healthy didn't rank too highly on our give-a-shit list.

I was working under a new government initiative at the time that was putting fast food workers through a monthly Tafe training program. A 'catering traineeship' I think it was alluringly called. While this seemed great in theory, the entire process was a complete farce. The lesson plan at Tafe revolved around simple sums and role playing scenarios such as:

A customer approaches the counter and makes a complaint about finding a hair in their food. Do you:

A) Laugh and say 'Plenty more where that came from!'
B) Ignore them and hope that the problem goes away, hiding behind the counter if necessary
C) Apologise and offer an immediate replacement for the food, followed by a refund.
D) Ask for the box. The box!

In exchange for this wealth of information the powers that be had devised an ingenious trainee compensation plan. Firstly our pay was docked to cover the course, then we were given longer hours to make up for those lost studying, and finally we were allocated extra responsibilities so that we could 'practice' what we were learning -- so long as it wasn't during work hours of course. It was a grueling schedule, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I had an illustrious career ahead of me working at like, Hungry Jacks. Tops.

I used to ride my skateboard to work. We were pretty big into skating at the time anyway, and due to never having more than 5 bucks worth of petrol in the car driving was out of the question. It was a boring and routine life, and I did it 5 days a week. Week in and week out. Nothing really changed in my schedule until one morning.

Opening the store, bleary eyed and pot hazed, I yawned my way toward the back of the kitchen. Suddenly, surreality wearing a balaclava and brandishing a shitty looking knife jumped out from behind the cool room door and yelled "Drop the board man!".

Although my stoner reactions were probably still grappling with the nuances of the previous evenings Simpsons episode, some olfactory sense must have kicked in and my hand immediately let go of the board. I was astonished at the speed of my reflexes to be honest. If only I could pull the same moves during Datona I'd be the undisputed rally driving king of Port Jackson Crc.

"I don't want to hurt you man!" my intruder blurted excitedly, ripping me from my dreams of racing accolade and manhandling me into the back room. "Just open the safe and you and the girl will be fine! Ok?"

Girl? Oh shit. Michelle. "What have you done with her?" I demanded with transparently false bravado, thankfully remembering to omit the suffix 'you cad'. "Is she ok?"

"She's fine. She's tied up in the cool room." Oh what a relief, only lifelong counseling to deal with then. "So just shut up and open the safe man!"

Sensing a disruption in the force, I immediately executed a perfectly timed roundhouse kick to the face, immediately knocking myself unconscious. The next thing I remember is that I got two paid days off work. Score!

Ok, ok. That bit is made up, obv. In reality I opened the safe, got tied up on the floor with plastic slip ties and began accusing the guy of picking up his crappy knife at a Woolworths sale on the way to the gig. It was a completely stupid and reckless thing to do in hindsight, but then most of my behavior was in those days. He laughed and said that's exactly what he did, and then took off. I waited for a few minutes, pulled out of the ties and barreled into the cool room. I found a hysterical Michelle gagged and bound. I got rid of the tape around her mouth and her hands. She was a limp kneed mess of tears and anxiety.

"I didn't know what he was going to do to you!" She finally managed through the sobs. I just held her and waited until we could call the cops.

I did get two days off work out of it. Undoubtedly I had to make it up later. Michelle was given much longer, thankfully. I'm not sure whether they helped her get counseling for what happened as she didn't really work there much after that, which is completely understandable. I never thought to get any help myself. It didn't really seem necessary.

Maybe the 19 year old pseudo tough guy in me was still making the decisions. Who knows.



sorry for the long post!

Two Tales of a City (Part 2)

The mob was growing louder as their numbers increased, culminating around the inactive Gothic fountain at the center of town. Flaming hand torches were being passed around by the more organised among the crowd, as the aggressive chants and slogans were delivered with rising ferocity by the incensed blowhards toward the rear. A pitchfork or two dotted the peripherals, as if trying desperately to complete the caricature.

"Harlots!"

"Painted vixens!"

The mob screamed it's encouragement and echoed each sentiment with relish.

"Women of unseemly virtue!"

Not as much support for that one, though it didn't particularly matter. The intention of the party was clearly set. Vicar Dibley, eyes shining like fire hardened brimstone, was pleased. Standing a foot taller than most of the partisans gathered, he walked briskly among the throng, loudly proclaiming God's unwillingness to be mocked and the inherent righteousness of the party in doing, as he called it, 'The Lord's Work'.

Sensing that the animosity of the group was reaching a critical mass, he moved quickly to the front of the pack, and upon grabbing a flaming baton from a greasy bystander, commanded the crowd to follow him. They did so, and his courage swelled as a result. His leadership of the congregation had finally been confirmed. Never again would his moral guidance by branded as too authoritarian or archaic. Tonight the house of sin would be damned to hell, and he would bask in God's glory for being the main catalyst in it's obliteration.

Within minutes the crowd had surged through the outside gates of the small East End building. Handing his torch over to another, most likely greasy, associate, Vicar Dibley rapped loudly three times on the door; timing each knock so as to give the impression of his supposed authority. The vicar prided himself on his capability to deliver a robust knock.

A crooked woman dressed in rags answered the door, a look of bewilderment and anger arresting her grey, aging demeanor. Her features demanded an explanation, even though her voice failed to follow suit.

An uncomfortable silence developed. It remained long enough to allow a cough to be heard from the back of the crowd.

"Harlot." Dibley finally said, although it lacked the force required to make the utterance sound like anything other than a question. "Painted... umm.. vixen."

"Ye damned fool!" The crone screeched. "Can ye not read th' sign I 'ammered to th' front door?"

As one, the mob turned to read the notice nailed to the wooden entry.






"Ooo.." said the Vicar. ".. Awkward."




Two Tales of a City (Part 1) - here

Not that anyone will remember my other post, but this is actually a completely new 'No Hos' sign that I found on a London door in Shoreditch. Considering that this type of signage may be just about to explode fashion wise, I've decided it's high time to invest in a sign for my door that reads 'No Triceratops here - Triassic era herbivores only'. It'll clear up soooo many misunderstandings.

Two Tales of a City (Part 1)

He flew out the house, leaving his father's menacing roars having only the slamming door to reprimand. It was not the first time he had been forced to escape these drunken outbursts. Not the last time either, he thought sadly, lowering his head and jumping smoothly onto his skateboard, pushing the ground away and picking up speed down the bike path. Away from that house. Away from the neighborhood. Everything in it.

Could he help it if poetry had chosen him? No more than he could help his fathers distaste for it, surely. His love of words and of the esoteric relationships that existed between them had transfixed him from very early on, and it was true that his determination to consume the work of others had surpassed any other interest that had tried to impress upon him since.

He lifted his front foot, skidding the board to a halt halfway through Turnham Green. In front of him stood the brick wall that bolstered the overground rail; a place he often came to when he needed to be alone and think. That wasn't on the cards today. He pulled a greasy spraycan out of his backpack and walked purposefully up to the wall. The discerning simplicity of Frost, the bombast of Kerouac, the unfaltering support of a thousand long dead poets culminated in his mind as he slowly enabled the trigger of the can.








He stepped back, exhausted, admiring his work. For all it's profundity, he nevertheless accepted his inevitable role as an unappreciated artist. "One day," he told himself, "One day someone will blog about this, and only then shall my life have meaning."

The Final Day

9th November, 1989. Günter Schabowski, East German propaganda minister walks into a seemingly routine press conference nursing the tail-end of a blistering hangover. His recent vacation had been a memorable one, and his head is swimming in the deluge as a result. Wading his way through a yawn inducing tirade of pre-rehearsed questions regarding the status of the German textile industry, the press conference suddenly takes a decisive and unexpected turn.

What is the nature of these questions being directed at him? How is he expected to be responding to inquiries regarding the freedom of the German people to travel? He had successfully managed to miss the press briefing this morning, a point he had congratulated himself on repeatedly since. The only thing he had been given was..

THE BRIEFING MEMO. Brilliant. Deftly removing the typed page from his briefcase and expertly positioning his stylish reading glasses, Günter begins reading, for the first time, the highlighted sections of the page before him.

"..we have decided today (um) to implement a regulation that allows every citizen of the German Democratic Republic (um) to (um) leave the GDR through any of the border crossings."

The audience is stupefied. What did he just say? Temporarily regaining his composure, one of the reporters present manages to raise his voice above the resulting media squall.

"Without a passport? WITHOUT A PASSPORT?"

Again consulting the document, Schabowski confirms that to his knowledge, the new changes would replace any previous requirement for travel documentation. His political comrades on the sidelines wince at the omission, their animated hand-to-throat motions signaling 'please stop now Günter' going obliviously unheeded by the drowning minister.

A timid reporter, who has so far been quiet for the during the conference, stands up, squeaking out his decisive, and historical, question.

"And when do these changes come into effect?"

Schabowski, only now realising both the enormity of the situation and the length he has yet to endure his poor aching head, searches in vain across the page for a date in which to attribute these changes. He finds only the date at the top of the memo, written directly next to the words 'TOP SECRET' in bold red font. He replies softly, a man defeated.

"According to my information, immediately."

Schabowski could not have known that these changes were intended to have come in over the course of years. They had only been discussed and proposed that morning, probably at the same time Günter had been swallowing his first aspirin.

Armed with this incredible story, several reporters leave the conference at once, breaking the news across East Berlin within hours. People begin to crowd checkpoints all across the city, demanding immediate access to the West. The Guards at the gate are confused; they have received no orders from their superiors regarding the wholesale immigration of East Berlin residents. Frantic calls are made, but no minister is willing to give the order to use lethal force. Yet still the gates don't budge.

His confidence bolstered by the exponentially growing numbers of his fellow countrymen, one brave Berliner, using his friend as leverage, hoists himself onto the wall. Ignoring the aggressive shouts from the guards below, he looks out over the west - a part of his city that he has never seen before. Suddenly, he feels a thudding jolt slam into his lower back, and immediately fears he has become the final casualty of his city's lethal duality.

But he remains. Far from being shot at, he has been targeted instead by a water cannon! This joyous epiphany spreads across the mob within seconds. Feeling no reservations in facing a barrage of water, people begin to scale the wall in droves. Resigning themselves to the inevitable, the border guards finally relent and open the checkpoint gates. East Berliners, for the first time in 27 years, walk freely into the West.

West Berlin news crews rush up to some of the first people across the border. Asked what they are thinking, most people echo remarkably similar sentiments.

"Crazy" they breathe, shaking their heads. "Just... crazy."




Transcribed from a story told by Andrew from New Berlin. The more important details of the story I made every attempt to check, but is still sure to contain many inaccuracies and/or poetic license.

Play that funky music

Things were not always this grim. I used to have a very interesting job. Once upon a time was a very popular Sydney DJ.

Don't laugh, it's true.

Well, I may be stretching the truth slightly, considering that maybe five percent of the people I ended up talking to about it had actually heard of me, but that's beside the point. What was most noticeable during these exchanges was the veritable tirade of questions that could be launched as a result of mentioning my occupation.

"Oh really! What clubs do you play at?"
"Oh really! What style of music do you play?"
"Oh really! You must be really worried about your future, yeh?"

I could never really understand the general fascination, but was always pleased with amount of conversational attention it elicited. I mean, most of the DJs I knew, while being completely lovable in their own right, were at heart music nerds of the highest order. Not unlike computer nerds in many respects.

Eventually, I made the decision to give it up. There were a multitude of reasons for doing so, but I very quickly found myself explaining them ad nauseum to a throng of incredulous scensters each time I went out.

"But why?" they would lament, shaking their beer to enunciate the point.

"I simply couldn't do it anymore." I would respond defensively. "Working 9 to 5 during the week, and then going out every Friday and Saturday night. Being forced to go to clubs when you didn't want to, missing peoples birthdays, going away parties, weddings. Hanging out with people younger than I was, who weren't my friends. And look, even if I did make it big, I really couldn't see myself being a travelling musician and being away from my (very hypothetical) wife and kids."

"I see." they would say, scratching their chin and nodding solemnly. "But tell me this, why did you quit?"

It wasn't long before the momentum of such conversations led me to feign drink emptiness and back away slowly, trying unsuccessfully to avoid eye contact.

It was pretty tiresome. The interesting thing was, no-one in the industry who was working a similar circuit to me ever questioned the decision. They understood completely, perhaps even better than I did. I think my closest friends Will and Spook were disappointed, mainly because it meant that they would have one less friend to heckle, draw texta on the face of, and buy indigestible concoctions of alcoholic beverages with questionably inspirational titles (The flaming funktrust, the kanga cricket, etc). But as they were well aware, there's only so long that your stomach allows you to drink something that was previously on fire.

During my last few months of DJing I began working at a place called Cargo, which was to all appearances a swish Darling Harbour nightclub. In reality, it was an arse pinching thoroughfare of oily haired bogans with delusions of class. It was here that I met Mikey, a beer swilling, sailor-talking ray of sunshine in this womanising wasteland. We had a simple approach to dealing with the place: Drink a lot of beer and make up jokes at other peoples expense.

It was during one of these cycles that I was approached by a girl of extremely questionable age who was obviously about to request something I'd never heard of, as was the usual fare in the place.

"Hi," She said, attempting to catch me in her doe eyed tractor beam. "Can you play [something I'd never heard of but five bucks says she saw it on video hits that morning]?"

"Sure," I said "Or alternatively, you could just wait until your next blue light disco and then hear it there."

I then erupted in peals of laughter, slapping Mikey in the stomach and retelling the story paying particular attention to my brashness and wit. When I turned around, she was still there, scowling at me. She raised her hand to her head, formed the letter 'L' with her finger and thumb, the international teen-symbol for 'loser'.

"Oh my God!" I bellowed, spilling my beer. "Could you BE any more from high school? You're like a really bad parody of yourself!"

By this stage Mikey and I were having the time of our lives; jumping around and spilling drinks all over ourselves. The track on the turntable could have been running out for all I cared, I was beyond doing anything but hoot with delight. I'm pretty sure the girl wasn't having quite as good a time as us, she made another offensive hand to mouth gesture (which made me almost die, I can tell you) and then left, never to be seen again.

Needless to say I didn't play her track. Looking back now, you'd be forgiven for assuming that I'm an arrogant, opinionated bastard. But you gotta admit, I'm a bastard who comes up with some pretty damn good drunken quips.

I'm going to pay for that night one day, I'm sure.