I hate me! I'm never speaking to me again.

Walking down the street in Stockholm last weekend, I noticed a distrustful looking individual coming down the path who was coveting what appeared to be a half eaten cream bun. As we approached each other, he suddenly veered off his line and careened uncontrollably toward me. Unable to avoid impact, we collided, decimating his cream bun and sending it flying off in all directions.

"Prushecta!" I managed after wiping down my front, pleased that I had remembered the Swedish expression for 'Excuse me' but still spitting it out with vehemence.

After we fled the scene I turned to Cath and rolled my eyes. "Geez," I said, trying not to sound flustered "was that guy wasted!" A keen observation if ever there was one.

"Disabled." she corrected.

"What?" Observation skills crumbling.

"You mean disabled. There was a group of them. Didn't you see the woman next to him in a wheelchair?"

Great. Like I needed another memory to feel disproportionately guilty about. So what does that make it: the speech I gave my sister at her wedding, calling my friend's mother Sandra when her name clearly isn't Sandra, ridiculing my friend's softballing skills when he was standing right behind me, and now: Disabled guy whose cream bun I ruined.

I'm sure there are more memories that I also cringe over, it's just that they only tend to make themselves known at 3 in the morning when insomnia has you by the balls.

--

If you thought this post was slightly humorous, or even downright offensive, why not embellish a little and vote for it proudly over at humor-blogs.com. It will seriously only take a jiffy, which in case you were wondering is a time unit originally specified by the Commodore 64 development team as being 1/60 of a second. You see? Now we're all embellishing a little. It's totally what all the kids are doing these days. Well.. that and crack.

World Tour of Burger Establishments

With thanks to Charlie


We live in the United Kingdom, which enjoys a fine culinary history of hastily delivered dining. Not only do we have McDonalds and the Colonels Fried Chicken, but we even have a place called PFC (the P stands for perfect, although I assume its in a 'love you just the way you are' kinda perfect).

The king of the hill, so to speak, has always been the greasy tarmac known as Burger King.


United Kingdom



Which got me thinking. Are we alone in our enjoyment of burgers that have more than cheese than common sense? What do other countries partake in when it comes to foodstuffs that even mould tends to avoid?



I decided to find out.







Germany








Monaco






Japan







United Arab Emirates





Vatican City



That's all we need; A burger joint run by people who for 2000 years have traded solely on guilt.

At least it'll be convenient in the event of needing your last rights read out.

Eating in Vietnam

It's a pity that nothing ever remains the same same.

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 Stumblor Guide to: Communication (updated)

The Belated Birthday Text

I'm completely hopeless. For 10 years I have followed a rigorous process of carrying a diary with everyone's birthdays neatly highlighted in yellow for visibility, but do you think it helps? Forget everytime. The only thing it really achieves is not leaving enough room in my diary to jot down the days I'm supposed to be doing things, like winning the Nobel Prize, karate fighting the ghost of Bruce Lee or taking my delusion inhibitor medication. It's so annoying it makes me want to eat the Eiffel tower.

Happy belated birthday! This message, contrary to appearance is not in fact late, but is instead from the FUUUTURE (belated due to technology not being 10o% accurate). I am pleased to say that you are happy, healthy, and more radiant than ever. Also, Israel and Palestine have settled their differences, petrol cars have become passé and John Farnham is actually not doing any more shows. Ever.

The 'Missed Connections' Gumtree Message

I love these things. I could read them for hours. Does anyone truly meet people this way? And by 'people' I'm not referring to doll collecting weirdos called Festus Jude Lewdbody, although I would totally meet someone who was called that. I expect we would bond over the middle ground of series one Star Wars figurines and their role in modern day nerd culture. Did I mention we wouldn't have any friends? Totally no friends.

Looking For: Pregnant Lady who Stole My Heart
You were the beautiful pregnant lady who got onto the central line tube at Liverpool street. I was the middle aged gentleman in blue slacks who refused to get up for you; despite the verbal lambasting I received from the other standing passengers. Was it just me, or did we share a moment?

The Party Invite

I'm heading back to Australia in a few weeks and am completely giddy with the excitement of it all. One of the first things I'm going to do is see my toddler nephews and bring them up to speed on London drug culture. Although this is a weighty responsibility in itself, I also intend to get plastered with my mates.

Heyas!

As you may already know, I'll be back in Australia in a few weeks time. Although an empty bait packet to the tides of responsibility, I have been allowed some small windows to do with as I please -- and what I please is to see all you guys in a dingy bar type setting having one too many drinks with the potential for boozed up emotional outbursts. Doesn't that sound ace? I'm veritably psyched!

Gaslight Inn
278 Crown St, Darlinghurst
xpm xxxx, xxth Feb

The Gassy is like our old hangout. It's a bit like a big kids clubhouse but with less porno. We laughed so hard at a joke once that the owner heard us from two floors down. We've tried to explain the joke a few times since, but it always falls flat; apparently you have to be manically depressed to appreciate the subtle nuances. Sounds unlikely though, as I don't even know what a nuance is.

I would ask you to bring some Dippity Bix, but the Gaslight culinary specialty is Cheezels in Tabasco; as pioneered by Will during his 'cheese snacks from south of the border' phase. Personally, I try to avoid anything that is south of anything; it almost always leads to Tasmania.

Please come.

(I have a bet going that you will so don't let me down)
D A V E Y

The Phony Rockstar Reply

Step 1.
Find a kickass Led Zeppelin poster at the Camden markets you just know a certain friend back in Australia will burst over.

Step 2.
Remember that she told you once in drunken confidence that as a kid she sent the band a fan mail letter full of her hopes and dreams, to which she got no reply.

Step 3.
Send the poster to Australia, along with the following letter:





Happy Communicatin'



UPDATE

The bastard post office returned the Led Zeppelin poster! I assume because all the gaffer tape made it look like a large pipe bomb. Pussies. But what am I going to do now? Wait until I get to Australia and then go over to my friends house saying "Oh hi! Hey, look what I found on your front step! Heh Heh." And then I have to be there when they open it and... ahh its ruined.

My Contribution to Political Discussion

Because everyone else is doing it, I've decided to jump on the proverbial band wagon and write lil' somethin' about the imminent election. Incidentally, I'm also going to start smoking, wearing skinny leg jeans, and listening to 'Emo' music -- despite only having vague notions as to what that actually entails.

Below is a conversation I had over email this afternoon with Simon The Questionably Diagnosed Aspergers Sufferer. Simon The Questionably Diagnosed Aspergers Sufferer is a guy I met at Oktoberfest this year. I advantageously stole his friend Malcolm's seat, and then his beer, but somehow managed to lay the charm on so thick that they forgot my indiscretions and let me stay. Even Malcolm didn't seem to mind much when he returned to find a lager swilling, sea shanty singing Australian stealing his, well, everything.

Basically Simon has been diagnosed with Aspergers because he's weird. And smart. He revels in the fact that this somehow vindicates his behavior. I like him because he's got an excuse to be weird.


Me:
Did you make it down to the Australian High Commission to vote this week dude?

Simon:
For the Aussie elections? I'm a New Zealander dude.

Me:
Oh yeah. Sorry. Must have already claimed you along with Crowded House.

Simon:
Yeah. It's usually rather annoying, but we're kinda thankful that you relieved us of Russell Crowe. I guess you're lending your fulsome support to John Howard? He was great as that ginger kid in "Happy Days", but I don't rate his work as a director.

Me:
I voted for Chachi. Not too sure of his fiscal management experience, but that chick he dated was dope.

Simon:
I'd vote for Chachi because he went on to star in "Diagnosis Murder". I've never actually watched the show, but I intend to, once I'm in my 70s.

Rumor has it that his "Happy Days" spin-off "Joanie Loves Chachi" was hugely popular in Korea because - so the story goes - "chachi" is Korean for penis. Seems unlikely though, as it was only shown in Korea on the American Forces Korea Network, in English without subtitles. Moreover, the Korean transliteration for the name Chachi is , which does not mean penis. However the Korean word for "penis" is the similar sounding jaji, which is spelled . It's a shame really, because it's a good story.

Me:
I really hope you've got Wikipedia open right now, weirdo.




So yeah. Happy election everybody. If I wake up and Chachi is in power, you're all getting smacks.

Job Description: Boring

Life when you're a computer programmer sure is sweet. You get to stare at a lifeless computer screen for the majority of your working life, talk in a completely justifiable nasal voice, and understand those strangely unsettling jokes on the Internet referred to as 'nerd humour'.

Yep, the fun never stops for us code monkeys. There's just one thing that I'm yet to get a proper handle on: being able to to discuss my job in a social setting. Take the following as a rough example. The scene could be any bar where you have just recently been happened upon by a comely lass of questionable virtue. It happens a lot, trust me. Us programmers must give off some kind of musky scent that attracts 'da ladiez'. An 'odor de coder' if you will.


her: So, what do you do?

you: I'm a uh... a computer programmer.

her: ...

you: Which has many additional benefits such as knowing the quick-key to bringing up your desktop.

her: Do you know the quick-key for escaping without ever having to talk to you again?

you: ...alt-e?


You see my predicament. Its not that I can't be thoroughly engaging, its just that I can't be engaging on any social, personal, emotional, or theoretical level. Like, big deal!

Recently I've decided that the best way to combat the problem is to engage in a little process I like to call 'complete dishonesty'. Originally I was just going to reinvent myself as a Harley Davidson riding bounty hunter called 'bruiser' who wears cutoff denims with the reckless abandon of someone who 'just doesn't give a crap about having warm arms', but lately I've come to the realisation that the whole thing will be so much easier if i just steal someone else's identity. It will give the ruse an air of realism, and has the added benefit of saving me countless hours in development time. Everyone gets ice cream!

So, thanks to Jared's Dad and a great story that he told us over daintily held scotches in the Soho district of London last night, I am now a courageous firefighter who used to work in the second response truck in the fire department of Hobart, Tasmania. Pretty cool, eh? Here's some background on my coolness:

One night while we were sitting around playing cards in the station, the alarm suddenly sounded: A fire had broken out during the renovations of the Theatre Royal. Being part of the second response truck, we arrived at the scene to see that things were slowly sliding out of control. The fire was being fought hard on the lower levels of the building by the first team, but it wasn't hard to see that the flames were climbing toward the roof at an alarming rate. The dense, hot air forming toward the top of the building needed to be cooled, and quickly.

Noticing that the outside of the building was covered in scaffolding due to the renovations, I immediately signaled to the rest of the team to get the hose ready for a roof-based position. It seemed an obvious choice at the time, I knew my way around these kind of structures from working odd jobs in construction over the last few years. Once I'd climbed to roof level, I threw down the retrieval rope and pulled up the hose as soon as it was safely secured. By this stage, the fire had vented through the roof and the air around me was a howling wind of sucking , super heated oxygen. Corrugated iron sheets were being torn off indiscriminately and thrown skyward by the thermal currents, coming precariously close to shearing me in two. Kneeling down, my eyes a blur from the chocking clouds of black smoke, I turned on the hose and pointed the flow of water down the flaming turret.

After 6 intense hours (that seemed like 1), we managed to save the Theatre. During the struggle, a opportunistic photographer from the local paper took some pictures of the 'hero on the roof' who managed to 'thwart the fire and single-handedly save the historic Theatre'. I'm sure the boys at the station would have been none too pleased had those photos ever come to light. To this day I still haven't seen them.



You know what, this is never going to work. I think I'll just stick to 'single handedly saving the database' from the evil grasps of the 'stored procedure bug'.

I'm more of your 'ones and zeros hero' kinda guy anyway.


Small article on the Theatre

I still don't get it

Waking up in San Sebastian to find the day outside a bit overcast, we quickly decided against going to the beach. Ryan and I filled in the morning doing the obligatory internet and email thing before quickly getting bored and deciding that we needed to get out of the house. By this stage, our host Morten had groggily entered the lounge room and after a very involved eye rubbing session, suggested we go for a drive. His football training didn't start until five after all. We had wanted to go and check out the Guggenheim museum in nearby Bilbao, and since we did not mind at all being chauffeured around in his brand new, football club provided Mercedes, we happily accepted. To Bilbao sir, and don't spare the mustard!

The Basque region of Spain really is jaw droppingly beautiful. Green rolling hills, pine trees everywhere, and those little tunnels that go through mountains like the ones you see in model train sets.



I tried to take about a million photos, but only too late did I realise that I had stupidly set the camera to 'incredibly blurry'. I should have had it set to 'Awesome pictures to make your friends back home jealous', but what can I say, it's an easy mistake to make.

Truth be told, I didn't really know a great deal about the Guggenheim. If i was asked during Trivial Pursuit two weeks ago in what country it was located, I would have answered 'Germany', quickly followed by a 'Well it sounds German!' remark to deflect any patronising guffaws. After taking in it's stainless steel kitchen-esk exterior, my first impression was that the architect was a bit of a prankster - reason being that the stairs leading to the entrance are the kind whose length is configured so perfectly that they result in being uncomfortably long. You even have to do a feet switcharoo halfway up to give each leg a turn at climbing. Strange thing to notice, hey? It's true, we are a culturally deficit mob of yokels.


But at least we are street wise enough to be visibly afraid when flower-cyclone death is imminent.

The museum was exhibiting an artist called Anselm Keifer that I'd seen before while working at the Art Gallery of NSW, so I immediately began gloating to my comrades at having an extensive taste in cultivated arts. Of course, as soon as I was asked for further information about him I had to reluctantly back down from my effrontery, due to knowing absolutely nothing about him. We were finding it difficult to understand his work too; large metal-bolstered concrete stair structures secured one by one up a high wall. An engineering marvel to be sure, but quite unintelligible to the likes of the yokel party.

Looking at one of his massive, 20ft high collage works, I started to imagine what his neighbours must think when he began putting one of these things together. "Oh Anselm," they'd chuckle, shaking their heads and having another sip of their morning coffee. "What in Gods name are you creating now? Hey Anselm! Quit fucking around and go and trim that hedge like we asked you last week!"

After reading one of the descriptions posted on the wall, I discovered that he lives as a hermit in an old converted factory in Barjac, France. The place has numerous interconnecting warehouses, living quarters and greenhouses that he uses to create these massive constructions. The place has got loads of secret tunnels and rooms connecting the different areas. He has spent the last decade fashioning the place into a living piece of art, piling up fragile concrete structures and letting the elements do the rest. Calls himself an alchemist. Cooool.


I'd probably go a little bit loopy in that environment. I'd start wearing a 24-7 monocle, developing a cackle, and answering the door saying things like "So doctor! We meet again, at last!"

Not ol' Anselm though. He's still keeping it real, driving his big construction cranes (I assume, otherwise he's just REALLY strong) and waxing lyrical about life.


The book, the idea of a book or the image of a book, is a symbol of learning, of transmitting knowledge.. I make my own books to find my way through the old stories.

-- Anselm Kiefer

Propaganda

Speaking of Copenhagen's general aversion to anything non-law-abiding, have a crack at this:

Can you spot the two things wrong with it? Here I'll help you.. you're taking too long.

1. People would not idly stand by without trying to immediately turn ducks into duck pancakes. Even if they were Danish. As everyone knows, it's contrary to human nature.
(formula being: life = willingness to eat duck pancakes x Pi)

2. People would not be smiling at this blatant disregard for the Dansk pedestrian road processes! They would be CHASING them with STICKS and singing viking war songs loud enough to chill the blood in your veins. Believe me, it's fuckin frightful.


No disrespect to Hans Christian Anderson, or indeed, any of his subsequent offspring; I'm sure they're all delightful. But it has to be said here and now that the man was A CHARLETON.

I think the abundance of evidence here clearly speaks for itself.

Four fucked cars and a skatepark

Auntie warning - indiscriminate drug references and usage of big words like 'dichotomy' that know one really uses anymore but have the ability to give you the appearance of being a bit of a wanker at dinner parties. Not that I'd know.


Copenhagen is a city of opposites, a hotbed of dichotomy if you will (bam). The scale is skewed between an obstinately law abiding public spurning even the most pedantic of criminal discretions, and the hash hazed underbelly of the little suburb republic known as 'Christania town'.

Our interest in this differential anomaly spurred us into further research. The public had to be informed! Unfortunately, our overall knowledge of the scientific method was a little rusty, so we had to improvise a little. This improvisation basically meant we hung out in all the seediest areas of town and jaywalked a lot. Wouldn't you know it? At the time we weren't even aware that we were conducting field research! That's called avoiding the observer uncertainty my friends. Our lot don't do things by halves.

Firstly, let me describe jaywalking in Copenhagen. Happy as Larry, you arrive at the road in question, humming along to 'Road Trippin' by the Chilli Peppers because the Eftpos machine you just used was called a 'Blu Chippen', so you started substituting that into the lyrics for your companion's supposed amusement (she WAS laughing, so it was funny, ok?). Everyone is waiting by the side of the road, patiently awaiting the little green man to do his walking thing. Due to the street being completely empty, you decide to make like Young MC and bust a move. Whamo! Everyone turns on you faster than a backbencher in a prostitute scandal. They pursue you for streets, and it is only through utilising your expertise in Judo that you manage to beat your non-too-hasty retreat. Immediately afterwards you get a "thug fo' life" tattoo on your bicep, and feel quite chuffed at the penmanship and the way the colour of it matches your eyes.

Then there's Ye Olde Christiania town. We'd gotten wind that it was a marvelous place to pick up some embroidery gems and that the local fauna was quite charming, so you can imagine our horror when we discovered some of the local dignitaries openly selling blocks of hashish in full view of anyone who happened to look. Biting off chunks for sale with their blemished incisors no less! In their defence, there did seem to be a very strong anti HARD drug stance, as we discovered when a foolhardy wastoid deemed to presume that our chunk biting trafficker might be holding anything *stronger* than the sticky brown stuff. The uncomfortable atmosphere that ensued following his inquiry positively gave us the willies.

Fortunately we managed to regain some of our composure by regaling a young gent skateboarding with uncharacteristic skill in the local skateboarding emporium located not far from our former scene of barbary. Patrick, one of the more vivacious in our fellowship, did not appear to be joining in with the general euphoria and seemed quite inconsolable after the incident.

"What's up dude?" One of our party inquired of him. "Feelin bummed or somethin?"

Patrick eyes blurred dreamily. "I used to skate." he explained sadly. "Probably would have been better than that dude too, back in the day."

Ah yes. That old chestnut. Numerous times have the vintage 'Thrasher' and 'Skateboarder' magazines showing Patrick's younger motif been presented to us during the early hours of a particularly intensive research trip. Quite impressive really; Unequivacably radical was his form, his demeanor authority challenging.

As it turned out however, our chum was creating a devilish ruse. His dispondance was simply a mechanism for which to present us his whimsy.

"I mean, whose bright idea was it to take me to a skate park?" He bellowed in Australian twang. "I'm bloody turning 30 in under five hours! Here's this little blonde dude systematically ripping the skate park a new one, and I'm stumbling around goin 'Got any hard drugs mate?'"

Don't stress Patty, I'm pretty certain that even at 14 you were still a crack toting scumbag. There there.




Names, places, faces and facts have been changed to protect, well, me really.

Once this baby hits 88 mph

Marty and the Doc used to get in all sorts of zany hjinx when it came to getting jiggy with that ol' chestnut, the space-time continuum. Steal a Sports Almanac here, criminal infested death town trouble there. If I had a dollar for every time THAT'S happened.

It was during a quiet moment recently reflecting on Back to the Future that I starting to think about what the world would have been like had certain plants never been invented by Issac Newton or by those guys from the curiosity show. Imagine the possibilities!

You know, evolution is a crazy old girl sometimes, and the kaleidoscopic forms that life takes is generally a reflection on the economy of design and the ability survive and reproduce, rather than whether a particular species will tickle the interest of the human race. Or so say the science nerds in those Washington think tanks (perhaps more eloquently however, or even differently, how the hell should I know?).

In any case, I'm calling their bluff. I've managed to invent an amazingly complex time machine out of some old boxes I found in my garage. Cool huh? I'm a fricken genius!! Who knew?? My plan is thus: Go back in time and remove some of the more useful species of plants to gauge the effect it has on the human race, then go forwards in time and pick myself up a dope hoverboard. I'll be back for high fives faster than you can say biscuits.

These are the plants I'm targeting:

Davey's Top 5 Plants - without which the world would be a terribly different place.

---

Plant 1: The Cotton Plant
Potential Substitutes: Polyester, Spandex, Taffeta
World difference potential: Substantial, particularly in under-garmentry.

---

Plant 2: Rice Grass
Potential Substitutes: Polenta, Cous Cous, Turnip Mash
World difference potential: Drastic, due to the lukewarm reception of Sweet and Sour Pork on a bed of polenta. Turnip mash crackers not such a big hit. World unrest sure to follow.

---

Plant 3: The Chilli Plant
Potential Substitutes: Horseradish, Malic Acid, Hot Warheads (myth?)
World difference potential: Hot to very hot. Keep in mind we would also be missing that episode of the Simpsons when Homer goes on an spirit-animal guided acid bender due to eating to world's hottest chilli. The mind boggles!

---

Plant 4: Cacao Tree / Cocoa Bean
Potential Substitutes: Carob, which is a crap substitute at best. Remember when Mum used to do the ol' switcharoo thing thinking you wouldn't notice? Nice one Mum. How about next time you don't make it taste like shit?
World difference potential: Just imagine. Close your eyes and conjure up all the times over all the years that you've blissed out over chocolate. All the different, varied varieties. Now think about Charlie and the Chocolate factory. SCARY huh? Mind you, when that fat kid fell in the drink it was hilarious. Swim fatty!

---

Plant 5: Tobacco
Potential Substitutes: Marijuana (obviously), Corn Silk, Banana Skins
World difference potential: Bars become completely unusable due to the now unmasked odors of stale beer and BO.

---

Plants I'm still considering: Coca, Rubber Tree, Poppy, Chernobyl, Robert.


Wish me luck. Let me know if you want me to bring you back any dinosaurs. x

Formin' a bikie gang

How do you say 'really fucking want one' in French?



You can't reaaaally see it, but this bike is tiny. Like, comes up to my thighs tiny.

I know that my road-cred will probably drop dramatically after people realise that its only 50cc's, but I'm willing to trade all that in to look like a highly intelligent circus racing chimp when I go to the shops for milk.

All that and more, actually.

Revised Postcard writing technique

Postcards are great. The only thing that doesn't make them great is a long winded, circular diatribe debating the differences between a church and a cathedral. (We think size and locality)

So, to counteract this alarming trend in the authoring of postal cards, I have conjured a new writing mechanic deigned to bring about it's downfall. There's only a few points to remember, so bear with me.

• Banal discussions of where you went for lunch should be avoided, unless of course you ate so much cheese you puked.
  
• Must at least attempt to be funny. If funny is outside of one's reach, then aim for entertainingly whimsical

I think thats it. Here's an example of one I sent my brother in law:




You see? SURELY he's going to get at least a small kick out of that one. Yes, I also aim for entertainingly whimsical.




Now all i need to do is stop my writing fist from resembling that of a struggling pre-schooler with learning difficulties, and the world's my proverbial oyster.

The fate of the cobra handler

Kho Phi Phi, Thailand.



Much to my disappointment, I discovered that the cobra handling facility had been closed until further notice.

I quickly decided against trying to ascertain why.

Annual strategy and brainstorming meeting for Doorsigns Inc.

CEO: Well, we've had a pretty prosperous year all things considered. The 'No junk mail' signs have been a big hit, and I think we'd be wise to invest some heavy marketing dollars into the public awareness of them during the first fiscal quarter of this year.

The long term outlook for our 'Beware of the dog' signs have suffered to some degree due to a resurgence in the popularity of cats, but I think that with some broadening of our colour scheme we can safely reclaim some of that allusive market. I hear that cerulean and magenta are hip with the younger 'x-treme' generation, who could be key in this area. Take a note, Brian.



Now I'd like to open the floor to anyone who might have some new ideas for potential signage.



Bob: Personally, I'd like to see some 'No prostitutes here' signs introduced. You know, so that people know not to knock on my door when they're looking for hookers.



CEO: Bob, you've done it again.

Not. Even. Fuckin. Joking.

county coffee

Back in the UK again. This morning we returned to London from visiting a friend in the northern county of Oxfordshire. The place can be pretty much summed up in a conversation I had when trying to get coffee.

me: G'day (trying to sound aussie)

sweet old biddy: 'ello love.

me: Could i grab a latte please?

sob: Sure thing love. Now, do want milk with that?

me: ....

sob: ... ?

me: uuuumm.. naaaah, just the latte. Thanks.


We had a laugh we did. Innit?

Slowly creepin in

Turning thirty is a weird one. As soon as you make it past the quarter century, every year that passes seems like the countdown of a death sentence. Then, at 29, you all of a sudden realise you don't give a shit. The looming conclusion to a decade that was fraught with indecision, bad hangovers and debt realisation suddenly doesn't seem so confronting. In fact, it could even be good. Saturday mornings could be spent reading the paper instead of trying to darken ones room and quieten ones sing-song birds. Books could be read, clubs joined. Hell, even embroidery could be discovered by those more crafty individuals in our midst.

It does pay to actively ignore the fact that these little epiphanies are most likely the body's natural reaction to dealing with the inevitable end of one's youthful exuberance, but by thunder, ignoring shit is easy. After all, there's always alcohol; natures fail-safe brainwasher!

What certainly doesn't help when approaching the so called dirty (translation: grotty) 30s is to be reminded by ones well-meaning (translation: piss-taking) friends that there are in fact some drawbacks to getting older. Such as how tired and old you've been looking recently. Or how many hours of being 20 you have left. Or how many you have now. Or how interesting it is that the steak you are currently eating will be the last one you will ever eat during your misspent youth. Fuckers.

As is what happened to our dear friend Patty last weekend when we decided to celebrate his 30th birthday in Copenhagen, Denmark. The plan of attack was simple: Go to Denmark with the aim of going to the Roskilde festival, setup camp, and proceed to get completely wasted on duty-free vodka to the backdrop of some of the worlds best bands. By heck, even a monkey would split his bananas on a plan this salubrious.

One problem. Roskilde was experiencing one of it's 'wet' years. I'd never even heard of the phenomenon until I was informed of it's existence one week too late via the quintessential street mag Vice. What this 'wet year' equated to was the crew getting blasted with record breaking torrential rains, fortunately for me, the day before i arrived. Their eventual response to which was to retreat back to the comfort of an opportunistically priced Copenhagen hotel. I know you're thinking what complete festival pussies they were by boo-hooing over a little rain, but let me break it down for you one time homie:

• Stinking mud as far as the eye can see.
• One foot deep flood water (+ piss + rubbish + vomit) in and around the camp site.
• Completely wet and freezing EVERYTHING
• Broken phones, cameras, passports, wills to live

The short term solution was much like the usual fare - drink shitloads and ignore the problem. The plan worked peachy until Pat and Amy retired for the night to find their air mattress floating in a one foot tent puddle of water and begotten festival crap.

The scene erupted.

"What are we gonna do?"
"I dunno! What are we gonna DO?"
"How should I know? WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO?"
"Fuck i DUNNO! WHAT ARE WE GONNA TO DO?"

*Splash*

"Fuck it I fell over in this CRAP!"
"Don't bump our tent Patty!"
"FUCK YOU GREG!"

And so it goes. Now, is the colloquial term 'Happy campers' supposed to sound so sarcastic? My kroners are on 'yah'.

Patty's actual 30th was the following night in the hotel. We thoroughly irritated the very patient guy down at the front desk with numerous requests for ice, convinced some Nordic thrash metal band that we were Basement Jaxx (nooooo, there's THREE people in our band. Do your research, Evald.) and probably should have called it quits after breaking the bedside lamp and deciding to send it down to our friend in reception via the lift. I say SHOULD have called it quits, because 2 seconds later we also broke the bed. In our defence, closer inspection the following morning revealed that it had already been broken by some nefarious individual on a previous occasion. So that, like, basically means we did nothing wrong. Anyway, it wasn't anything a bit of gaffer tape didn't fix, and even though the people whose bed it was had to sleep on a sagging bed after we broke it, it's still gotta be better than shivering your ass off on an inflatable island approximately one midget square surrounded by a sea of sheep poo mud and the potential of contracting projectile dysentery.

But then, i can think of at least one other thing better than that.

Dream-maker, heart-breaker

I woke up this morning to a heart warming message from Will back in Australia:

Hey dude. Dreamt last night that you recorded a hit song before you left. Woke up this morning singing it. Pretty sure this is the money maker we've been looking for. Send help.

My interest was piqued, and I immediately set about requesting more details. It took very little encouragement to receive a follow up text. After all, he'd already recorded a demonstrative work-in-progress MP3 outlining the finer points of the catchy little ditty.

By 'work in progress' I mean a scratchy recording of Will singing the tune in an sleepy early morning falsetto, and by 'catchy little ditty' i mean Zanadoo on a bad acid bender.

Oh wait up. Zanadoo was a bad acid bender. Having said that, there's no denying that their outfits ruled. *Writes reminder in phone to procure ruling outfit and matching skates*

Anyway, for your enjoyment (but mostly mine), here's the MP3:



I hope Will doesn't mind me posting this. After much deliberation I came to the conclusion that the publishing rights have got to be at least 50% mine anyway, considering that dream-me came up with the concept. I really must remember to investigate the potential copyright infringements regarding the 'yummy yummy yummy I've got love in my tummy' vocal. I mean, something that amazing couldn't possibly be original, and I've been burnt in the past.

Copenhairgen

Right on Denmark. Fricken Hairstyles. Those baldies have got it easy.

Guy, Guy Incognito

A lot of emphasis these days is placed on blending in while travelling; Understanding the language, the people, being culturally sensitive, visiting places of historical significance - it's all a load of shit really. Why fly under the radar when you can make a mockery of your host nation and bring so much reflected discrimination upon other travellers trying to do the right thing? Pussies.

I've managed to devise an ingenious points-based system designed to aid those people wishing to gauge their travelling footprint. I really can't take all the credit for this scaling methodology, and owe a debt of gratitude to the guy who stood in front of at 7-11, Sukumvit district, Bangkok. His faultless 20 point display was nothing short of inspiring; a culmination of everything wise and good in the modern day travelling man.

• Wear Velcro sandals. Bonus points for teaming them up with thick woolen socks. If sandals prove to be unavailable, points will be allocated for donning those rubber croc shoes that, and lets face it, were only designed so that homeless people's feet could breath. (5 points)

• Wear backpacks as frontpacks at all times, thereby turning the whole insidious naming convention on it's head. (5 points)

• Request Dr Pepper from local outlet. After receiving incredulous looks as to the nature of your request, bemoan country's foodstuff stocking policy at length. (5 points)

• After finally consolidating your order of 5 phone cards and a coke, spend large amounts of time fumbling local currency. After realising that you are bereft the required funds needed to ratify the transaction, offer American dollars instead. Again, loudly grieve any refusal to accept alternative currency. (5 points)

Please keep in mind, this is only a draft proposal. Dealing with restless natives is always an onerous task, as is making appropriate decisions in the structure of ones garb. Revise, devise, but never sympathise my friends.





Unless their currency is stronger of course, which as we all know is the the only fair way of determining superiority.