Life is Nothing But Stories

The Kindness of Strangers

2010-05-19T09:46:00.002+10:00

http://www.artofbackpacking.com/the-kindness-of-strangers/

another article published on the art of backpacking website, please check it out, comment and support the site

Travelling Alone

2010-05-14T11:49:00.002+10:00

You can read this article on the website the art of backpacking

Please comment and support the site

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“Aren’t you worried about travelling alone?” It’s a question I get asked all the time. Friends and colleges who have never backpacked always ask this. “Don’t you worry about making friends?’ The answer is always the same. Of course not.

Travelling alone is the only way I can do it. I’ve tried travelling with friends, and yes, it has its benefits, seeing a familiar face every day, having someone to eat with, talk to, and do things with. But, personally, I’ve always found that a well known friend on my travels stopped me from doing what I loved. Exploring, meeting new people, and finding new things.

So today I’ll dispel a few worried thoughts about travelling solo, share a few tales, and give a few tips for those who are still concerned.

When you’re travelling alone, you’re rarely travelling alone. In any given hostel around this wonderful world, there are many others doing the same as you. Exploring a new part of the world with nothing but a budging backpack and a Mack in a pack. You have so much in common with every single person. Go downstairs early enough and you’ll find a lonely German who’s going to explore the local area. Come down at lunch and you’ll find an Irish clan starting to drink. Make you way down around dinner and some lonely English girl will want to go to the local cinema. You will not be alone unless you really want to be.

The beauty about backpacking, and living in hostels, is that everyone is your friend. You sit down on a bus to travel 12 hours back to Bangkok and the person on the seat next to you is suddenly your new best friend. In a hostel in South Africa; the person in the bunk above yours is your new buddy. You’ll sit down with your beans on toast in the dining area on a cold Austrian night, and the person opposite is your dining partner. This is the beauty of the backpacker’s world. We’re all in it together. You can walk up to any person in the hostel and start a conversation. ‘Where are you from, where have you been, where are you going’. Those 3 questions will keep you going for a long time (though I warn you, after 5 months of answering this, you can start to get a little bored, so try to keep things interesting).

The best place to meet people is the dining area, or anywhere that has tables and chairs. If you sit there long enough, someone will sit next to you, or across from you, and you’ve got yourself a chatting buddy.

Sometimes it can be a bit difficult to break the ice. But here are a few tips of mine on how to make friends in a backpacker environment:

Cake Fishing
Go to the supermarket, buy a cake (or make one, if you have skills). Cut a few slices, sit down at a dining room table, and wait. I guarantee you that someone will come up and make a comment. When they do, put a slice in front of them, and invite them to sit down. You now have a new friend (this is based on the sound scientific reasoning that no one can be angry after eating cake). The bonus with this is that later on in the evening when people are drinking, they’ll remember you as ‘cake boy/girl’, and offer you a drink for giving them a slice. Cake isn’t a treat, it’s an investment.

Sock puppets
Go down to the dining area/bar with a sock puppet on, and just have a chat to it. Someone will eventually come up to you and ask what you’re doing. Introduce you’re sock to them, and have a round table conversation (it helps to have thought up a good back story for the puppet, name, where they come from, how the evil wizard turned them into a sock puppet etc). Obviously, some people will think you’re insane. But some won’t. Or some will, and will WANT to be friends with you because of that. Either way, you’ll get people talking

Goon
In my last article, I talked about the wonders of Goon in Australia. It is the classic friendship maker. Buy a box, sit down with a few glasses, and offer one to whoever ends up next to you. They will have had a Goon night, and will tell you their Goon story. You’ll probably have one of your own too. Share, reminisce and grimace away. Then do it all again

Have a Party
Many of those who are travelling are there to have a good time. We’re young, we’re free, we’re ready to explore, and we’re ready to mingle. We’ll take hikes, we’ll go to museums, and we’ll visit art galleries through the day. And when the eve comes, we’re ready to make something of it. So make something of it. Find an interesting part of the hostel and have a party. Play some music, get some balloons and whenever anyone turns up, party along with them. My favourite place to do this is in a lift. Lift parties are epic. People have to use them all night, so you have a steady stream of party goers. Give them some drinks, give them some party food, and make them dance. You’ll have a great one. (Warning- spending a whole evening in a lift can make you feel a little sea sick or rather lift sick). You can also use dining areas, receptions, your room (if your room mates are willing), smoking areas, cupboards, sofas, or any other interesting room a hostel possesses.

Backpackers are some of the friendliest people in the world. They’ve come to another country, wanting to see new things, and meet new people, and all of them are happy to talk to you. So please, never be worried about travelling alone

dragging love

2010-05-07T15:18:00.000+10:00

Angus lit his cigarette slowly and felt the acrid smoke fill his throat. The metallic click of the lighter echoed around the empty town square. Silence is golden. Silence is safe.

He straightened his upturned collar against the cold and let out that first smoky breath. Watching the smoke mingle and merge with the fog and smiling. Simple pleasures. It’s all life was really.

A mere few months ago, Angus has rolled high. His suits were immaculate. His cars were fast. His food was always expensive. He used to feel he had it all. He used to feel he needed it all. Then that day came. That day that still sends a shiver down your spine. That day when it all began. When most things ended. Now he stood. Unshaven. Unwashed. Muddied boots and stitched up jeans. Trench Coat hanging heavily off his shoulders. Shotgun cocked. Cricket bat bloodied. Ready to go. Ready to fight. Desperate to survive.

Today, a cigarette was heaven. A whiskey was utopia. A 3 day old sandwich was freaking Shangrila.

It was Angus’s turn to watch the square. The rest of his troupe were huddled in the basement of ‘The Bear and Wheelbarrow’. He didn’t even know where they were. They’d be on the move for weeks now.

It was quite tonight. So quiet he could hear the cigarette paper burning. So quiet he could hear the gravel move under his boots. So quiet he could hear them coming.

The sound was always the same. The dragging feet across the ground. The moan. Angus got ready. How many were there? He only had 3 shots in the gun. The bat would help, but not if there were lots. Maybe it was best to run? It was getting closer. The moan echoed around the square. Angus crouched, ready and waiting. He whispered the mantra to himself

“Come on you fucker. Come on you Zombie piece of shit”

Then it came. Hunched and crooked. Mangled and distorted. Disjointed and...Strangely arousing.

Maybe it was the weeks living off dry rations. Maybe it was the unclean feeling that running for your life will give you. Maybe it was because all the women in his troupe were totally dykes. But this zombie was beautiful.

“No...come on Angus...it’s a zombie. They killed your brother. They’ve destroyed your life. Keep Focus”

“MMMMAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHH” it spoke in the most luscious bass.

“Kill it man...kill it”

“MMMAAAUUUGGGHHHH” the way it moved. Dragging those hips this way and that.

“It’s Gonna Kill You”

“MMMAAAUUUUGGGHHHH” but still he couldn’t do it. The way her head hanging to one side. Hair blonde hair matted together with the dried blood of her victims. The way one of her breasts had fallen off. She was magnificent.

Angus dropped his gun to his side and stood. The zombie ambled towards him

“Hi...I’m Angus”

“Brrraaaaiiiinns”

“Erm...wow, I don’t normally do this, but I noticed you across the square and...”

“Brrrrraaaaiiinnnns”

“...well, could I maybe buy you a drink?” Angus laid on his most charming smile. The one he once used to arrange an orgy with the entire cast of Cats.

The zombie stopped he slowly crawl across the square and gave, what Angus guessed was, a coy zombie smile.

“Brrains” she seemed to giggle.

Angus pulled out one of his Molotov cocktails, removed the material from the top, and handed it to the Zombie. He noticed a blood splattered name tag on her top.

“Amanda” he read. “Such a pretty name”

“Brains” she sexily moaned with a flick of her hair. He was entranced but this woman. Her limp, her scabs, the blood trickling from the side of her mouth. He wanted her. He Needed her. He’d do anything for her

“This may be a little forward Amanda, but...you are so beautiful. I want you Amanda. I’d do anything to be with you....anything”

“MMMAAAUUUGGH” she replied in those luscious tones.

“What do you want my darling, what do you need?” Angus pleaded

“Brains” she answered. Looking longingly into his eyes

“Yes, of course, how silly of me...I will get you brains”

Angus skipped away with a fluttering his heart. He hadn’t felt this way since his School girlfriend Miranda before she became a whore and kissed Scott Mackintosh. Amanda was beautiful, interesting, mysterious. He needed to show her he was worth it. He had to make her love him. He ran back to the Bear and Wheelbarrow and gave the secret knock (the Addams Family theme tune). ‘It’s Angus, open up’

The door creaked open and John looked up at him.

“Angus...is everything okay?” John asked. His brow sweaty and dirty. His breathe stank of gin.

“Yeah, yeah, fine, awesome. I just erm...I just need to speak to Rowan quickly” he replied, ushering past the balding stinking man.

On the walk back Angus had considered his options. He knew he needed a brain for his woman. And he knew where there were many brains. But who’s to pick? There were 6 of them left now.

Cynthia was in her 30’s, had worked in an office for most of her adult life. Liked cats and before the Zombie Apocalypse had watched every Sex in the City episode at least 30 times. While she refused to admit it sober, she always thought about Kim Cattrel on the lonely nights. While she was utterly useless with a weapon, she was a slow runner, and if he needed a human shield, she was probably the best bet.

Anthony was the last to join their group, found defending himself with only a roll of wallpaper and a sack full of golf balls on top of a Volkswagen. While it annoyed Angus, the way he pronounced ‘Cheese’, Anthony was tougher than a week old baguette. He was a good guy to keep around

As was Linda. A shaven headed punk with more nose rings than leg waxes. She was a bitch like no other. But Angus had seen her decapitate a zombie with a toilet seat. And he respected that.

John was a snivelly weak willed alcoholic who had trouble breathing on cold nights. His stories went nowhere, and they were all fairly certain he hadn’t dated anyone his entire life. However his pathetic loneliness had left him with so much free time, he knew the details of every tiny village across Western Yorkshire. He was useful to the cause.

Rowan however...

He’d worked in a shop since he was 16. He liked Rugby, though had never played in his life. His claim to fame was completing Grand Theft Auto. He was partially deaf after he went to a Motorhead concert when he was 13. His life was going nowhere, and the zombie apocalypse was probably the most exciting thing that would have ever occurred in his life. It was time for him to die.

“Rowan, hey man, can I talk to you?” Angus smiled a Cheshire cat smile and lead Rowan to the back of the room.

“Sure thing Angus”

When they were far enough away, Angus whispered “Look Rowan, you and I...we...we get it, don’t we?”

Rowan looked confused. Or normal, whichever way you want to look at it.

“We’ve got a connection, haven’t we? We get each other. We know what’s going on?” Angus tried to whisper in the most motivating way possible

“Erm...yeah, I guess”

“Well, look, I don’t mean to be horrible about anyone here, but...well they just...they’re fodder Rowan. We’re champions. I can see it in your eyes. We’re going to survive this”. Angus was a wonderful motivator. He’d once got his paintball team to not only win the game, but claim the territory as their own. It took a 3 day standoff with the police to get them to leave.

“While I was in the square, I found something that’s going to help us. I need you to help me with it. It will be our little secret”

Rowans eyes glowed with intrigue and wonder. No one had ever trusted him before. Not even after he’d bought in those cookies for everyone at work. He never got the respect he deserved.

The two of them slipped out to the square, crouching as they walked, like two crabs dressed as hoboes. When they reached the fountain, Angus turned to Rowan and in a whispered voice he told him to stay here; he’d be back in a second.

Quickly searching the square again, Angus found his Amanda in an alley, lumbering after a stray cat. The cat was merely toying with her, being the nimble feline she was, there was no way a zombie could ever catch her. That seemed no reason to leave however. This was the most excitement she’s had in weeks.

Angus arrive and cleared his throat. “Hi”

Amanda slowly turned with a moan and began limping towards him, lust, both blood and pelvic, coursing through her.

Angus backed away to lead her towards the waiting victim, and gave her the international sign for quiet, which even zombies understand. Slowly they sneaked and slouched like a mentally challenged caterpillar towards the dim witting Rowan, who was happily humming to himself and thinking not upon the danger he found himself in.

In fact, Rowan was currently thinking about his favourite pair of Rugby Boots. He’d never bought them or even tried them on. But the advert for them made them look so comfy and useful. He was just going over the finer points of the lacing when Amanda reached him, and sunk her dirty teeth into his mildly large forehead.

He screamed like a black woman from a 20’s cartoon as the blood poured over his face and into his lap. Angus worried himself over the others hearing and coming to the rescue. Images flashed through his mind of Linda’s Doc Martin buried deep into his crotch. His crouch was now Amanda’s, and Amanda’s alone. So he quick stuffed the old Molotov material into Rowans caterwauling mouth. He stood back and watched as Rowan flailed around and pleaded with his eyes. They seemed to say ‘OH GOD OH GOD PLEASE GOD HELP ME AHHHHH’.

He looked up at the gnawing image of his reanimated girl. She was so beautiful. The way her dimples seemed more pronounced as she ripped of chunks of his hair with her teeth. Her bloodshot eyes. Her nipples were erect. And so were Angus’.

He could feel something happening to him down below. In his special place. As he heard the crack of the broken skull he could help himself no longer, and started caressing his throbbing manhood.

Amanda slurped and chomped at the exposed brains, groaning passionately. Angus kept whacking away at his bugling underpants stick. He had never been so turned on to see a dead person suck the quivering brain out from a crushed skull before. It was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

‘Oh Amanda, I can’t take it anymore, I need you’ he screamed in passion

“Brains...”

“Yes, yes, Brains...”

He grabbed Amanda from behind and delicately kissed her writhing neck. His hands felt every mouldy curve of her shapely leprous figure. He squeezed her breast and felt some oozing fluid dampen her shirt. He caressed the wound where her right breast once sat. She moaned with pleasure

‘Braaaaiiinnns’

He slowly moved his hands up to her hair, stroking and pulling at the crusty locks. Clumps of hair and scalp came apart in Angus’ fingers. He flicked them away and bought his strong masculine hands down to her legs. Slowly hiking up her skirt to reveal soiled and moistened underwear, which he quickly pulled away.

Grabbing Amanda’s hips and thrusting them into his pulsating pelvic region, he bit his lips and went to work. Amanda continued to devour the brains of dearly departed Rowan while Angus ploughed that zombie pussy like a Monkey in a wind farm. She squirmed with brain fuelled ecstasy while he blitzed her undead beaver until it began seeping zombie love juice. This was the best sex he’d ever had.

After a good two minutes of vigorous pounding he felt the wonderful tingle of exodus in his magic sack, his knees buckled and he slumped to a halt against the fountains edge.

“Amy word...Amanda...that was...unbelievable”

“Brains” she replied, giving the zombie equivalent of a wink.

“I love you” he softly said, looking deep into her vacant eyes.

Her face remained passive and blood stained, but he could feel the warmth between them, she opened her arms, he went to embrace her.

And she bit his dick off.

a question i asked the blogess

2010-05-03T14:54:00.004+10:00

the Harbinger introduced me to a favourite website of hers a while back http://thebloggess.com/. Since then, she's also become one of my favourites. INsane humour, genius pointlessness, jsut truely wonderful. She has a brilliant advice column on http://askthebloggess.pnn.com/, and i finally got around to asking her a queston, it amused me, so here it is-

Bloggess, last year, with my drinking buddies, we started a drinking rule that if you fart, you had to say 'mackerel’ (if someone else said it before you, everyone got to punch you until you named 5 fish). While it seems a little strange, this has totally helped those first few embarrassing moments with my girlfriend. I told her this story, and now any time I fart, I say ‘mackerel’ and it totally breaks the tension. Because she’s vegan, she has decided to say ‘Anemone’ whenever she bottom burps. Again, this works so well, you can’t help but smile when someone does this. So I wondered, what word do you think should we use when she lets out a Queef?

Goon

2010-05-03T14:54:00.001+10:00

Goon.

You just had a little shiver down your spine when you read that, didn’t you? Which means one of two things- You’ve either been travelling in Australia, or you can see the future, and your body is scared.

Goon is quite legendary. Not a hostel in Australia has a night where no one drinks Goon. It’s boxed wine. Usually bought for about $10 for 4 litres. It’s cheaper than mineral water. And after drinking it you’ll realise why. It doesn’t taste good. Imagine the kind of bottle of wine you’d buy when you’re 14 and wanting to make an impression on your new ‘girlfriends’ family. Then imagine you poured the entire bottle over a mattress that someone which a quite violent flu had spent the week on watching old Jerry Springer reruns. You let that ferment for a week maybe, and then squeeze that mattress out, collecting every last drop. That’s the best way I can describe the taste of Goon.

And everyone who’s ever had it has a story to tell about it. Seriously, ask any of your friends who’ve stayed in a hostel along the east coast of Oz

‘So, what’s Goon?’
‘Ah’ they’ll shake their head “Goon...goon...goon...I remember one time on Goon...”

So far science has not been able to explain the effects of Goon*. It is the only alcohol known to give you a hangover before you get drunk. You get a headache, you feel a little sick, and you start hating everyone around you.

There are rules to Goon. The official way it is to be drunk is in a mug. No one knows why, but drinking it out of a real glass is not acceptable. You may also use saucepans, jugs, or anything else that will make you look quite silly.

After 10pm, any Goon left on a table is communal. Well, it sort of is. Everyone’s so drunk you don’t really remember what’s yours.

Goon should be drunk within the confines of a drinking game. Ring of Fire is a classic, Eyes on keeps you moving, shot a minute is not recommended, but Goon is never recommending in general. You can drink Goon solo and slowly, but it’s just stupid. Goon is there to get you drunk, very drunk, very quickly, very cheaply. Even if you will regret it.

Red Goon is rarely enjoyed. White Goon is the preferred option in many people. Officially it’s wine. So with a white wine, you can get a drinkable bottle quite cheap and it gets better with price. Red wine is different; you can’t go for cheap Red. Unless you really want to forget the night and wake up next to a guy named Mandy wearing only a leopard skin thong.

Goon is made with Fish and Eggs. It says so on teh bottle. But don’t get freaked out, it’s just a finishing agent. And honestly, if you’re on a travelling budget, you’ll agree that if someone told you smoking a Mars bar would get you wasted, you’d probably try it. The best part about this fact, is that when you are drinking with GV’s (Goon Virgins), after the 5th or 6th mug, you can point this little disclaimer out to them, and see the colour on their face change rapidly.

Ice is recommended. The only thing worse than Goon is warm Goon. Some like to make ‘Magic goon’ and add lemonade, or another mixer. However Goon Cocktails are very hit and miss, I do warn you.

Some feel that goon is not enough on its own. And these are the sort of people that invented the Goon Bomb. Some of you who are more party types will be aware of Jagerbombs. Where you drop a shot of Jagermesiter into a glass of Red Bull, and down the whole thing. Well, a Goon Bomb is like that. Only with Goon instead of Red Bull. Yeah. Take a minute to think about that.

A night on Goon is different every time. But they’ll usually be blackouts. They’ll usually be incredible mistakes your friends will not let you live down. And the next morning, you will completely re-evaluate your life. It’s the vomit equivalent of an epiphany. You’ll realise where it went wrong, what you need to do, and that you defiantly will never do it again. Until the next night of course...

Some of you reading this may wonder why we do this. Pure hedonists, don’t care about your health, don’t care about the consequences, blah blah blah. And you know what, you’re maybe right. Goon will make you feel worse than most other drinks. However, you’ll also have one of the most entertaining nights on the stuff. You’ll make friends quicker than you ever thought possible. You’ll sing the words to songs you never even heard. You’ll smile all night, and you’ll enjoy it, and to me, this is what backpacking is all about. Putting your body on the line to meet people, have a great time, and do things you never thought possible.

*I have no scientific basis on this, but don’t feel like searching Wikipedia for a ‘reference’

the best morning ever

2010-05-03T14:53:00.001+10:00

I awoke one day upon an overcast morn in Durban, South Africa. The Beach Front hostel I was saying in had more cats and guests, I drank my coffee with a beautiful smile. Life seemed interesting this day. I wandered up to the hostel owner, burly guy by the name of Steve, huge hands, great moustache.
‘What can I do today? I’ve got some really awesome caffeine related enthusiasm’
‘Hmm...well you’re about 5 minutes late. The bus just left going to Ushaka Marine Park’ he said, looking genuinely bad for my bad luck
‘Oooh, I like fishes!’ I exclaimed ‘Is there another way to get there?’
He explained that a local bus service goes there, it’ll drops me off right at the door, very easy. He gave me the numbers and directions, and I set off on my little journey.
I stood waiting for the mythical number 7 bus, where I was told I should wait, and a rather rotund gent walks up to me ‘Where are you going?’ he asked in the Afrikaans drawl
‘Ushaka Marine Park’ I happily answered
‘Oh yes, yes, come with me’ and beckons me away. ‘Wonderful!’ I thought to myself, South Africa is so nice to tourists, a meet and greet service for the buses even.
We arrive at a small van. The kind builders would use. The one’s that look like the evolutionary path the SUV has taken (and taken the hard way). It could probably, safely, fit 5 people in there. There are 10 people in there already.
Being English, I am way too polite; I can’t refuse the invitation, so I hop on in. Sitting there, a little amused at myself, and suddenly realising I’m wearing a quite bright pair of shorts. I’m the only white person. The man next to me looks a little scary. This is going to be awesome.
5 more people get on. One of the women is carrying a chicken in a cage. We set off. Inside my head I am having the most amusing time. My inner voice has gone totally Mary Poppins. ‘Well look at this, that’s me, you, I think it’s Pimms O Clock!’
We get about 10 minutes down the road, and the driver turns to me and asks ‘Where you go?’
‘Ushaka Marine Park’ I reply, bright with smiles
‘Oh, we no go there. But will find you a way’
‘Wonderful news, anyone else for tea?’ My eyes are wide, I’m having the best time.
Getting out of the vehicle over the chickens and giving a rather tall man a crotch face, I am led around the corner to where another of these taxi services are waiting. The two men ramble in Afrikaans and I am wished luck by taxi man 1, and left with Taxi man number 2. Taxi man Number 2 looks like a homeless person and is reading Dostoevsky. I promise you, this is true. He looks at me and smiles, the way a tiger would look at a weasel. I figure, the bright shorts and rather insane t shirt were probably a good look today. Sure, people may think about mugging me, but I look like I haven’t got enough sense to have money me. And there’s equal chance I might just start barking
After a few minutes he leads me to my second taxi, and again we’re bundled on. Only 15 this time, and one of them sits on his mother’s lap. We are cruising. ‘Golly Gosh, look over there, that man has an Afroed hair Cut!’
Then, 10 minutes into the journey, the Dostoevsky reader turns to me and says ‘Where you go again?’
‘Ushaka Marine Park’
‘We no go there’
‘Ah’
‘Don’t worry, we find you way there’ he nods and smiles.
‘Does anyone have a chocolate digestive? I’m finding myself a tad peckish’ my inner voice says
We get into the heart of Durban City, which is, rather insane and scary. The Dostoevsky man jumps out, and tells me to come. He walks fast through the city, shouting and waving at hawkers and stall owners. People on all sides of me babble and scrabble for me to buy their rugs and children and beads. I’m weaving through them trying to keep up with my Guide. We go through a tunnel and arrive at another taxi rank. He stands in the middle of the road, getting high fives from passing cars, and trying to wrangle another taxi. Eventually we get one, it’s blaring out music at a level only to be appreciated when on mind altering substances, I get thrown in the back, and I am once again whisked away
‘Sweep Your Chimney Governor?’.
This time the music is so loud I can’t even ask the driver if I’m going the right way. A moment of panic flitted across my mind. Stabbings, hidden bodies, big warehouses where they cut up people, wolf creek, texas chainsaw massacre, Suddenly, breaks get slammed, the music is shut off, I’m pointed at, and told
’16 rand’.
‘Erm...Ushaka Marine Park?’
‘Yeah, over there’ and they all point at a gateway down the next street. I hand over my money, and wander into a nearby pub to write about the best morning ever. I order a dusty coke from the bartender while he smiles along to Abba songs. I spent the rest of the day listening to Black Sabbath and walking around a Marine Park full of white people. It was a quite simply epic day.
When finally back at the hostel (using the more sensible and quicker way), I tell Steve my story of the day. He nods his approval and assesses me up and down
‘You’ve got guts man. People get murdered on those things all the time, not many white folks use them’.
I am so freakin’ hardcore.

A little Asian Jet Lag tale-

2010-05-03T14:52:00.001+10:00

I travelled to Borneo during my RTW trip, had a grand old time. Hiking Mountains, seeing Orang-utans, all was awesome. I flew from Kota Kinabalu to Singapore, stayed a day, and then took a couch trip to Kuala Lumpur. I arrived on very little sleep, tired legs from lots of hikes, very little decent food but an intrigued mind.

I wandered around the big malls of KL and appreciated the air conditioning. After a while and a few too many coffee’s this guy walks up to me and asks where I bought my bag, he really liked it. ‘Brighton in England’ I explained, maybe a little too loudly, and a conversation was begun. Turns out, ironically, that his sister was going to England soon, to study nursing, his mother was worried, and he wondered if I, a polite young English man, could go speak to his mother, and explain everything was going to be okay. ‘Why of course!’ I replied and followed him, joyous in the idea of meeting locals and being a real traveller.

He took me to the taxi rank and opened the door for me. Luckily, no matter how jet lagged I was, I wasn’t that stupid. I told the nice man ‘No Thank you’ and walked away, inner monologueing it down the street. ‘Man, If I was Hulk Hogan and not a kinda small with skinny arms, I totally would had hit him, grr’.

After a few minutes of walking I suddenly became aware that I had walked into the more ‘rural’ area of KL. The Slum houses, the angry looking people, and me, the lone white boy with Hawaiian shorts on.

‘Oh Boy’ I commented to myself ‘Maybe I should get a taxi...wait...what would Hulk Hogan do? Would the Hulkster get a taxi? No. NO! No way brother, Hulk Hogan would eat his vitamins, rip his shirt off and find his own way home Gosh Darn it’

So I walked, or rather, stomped, around the strange neighbourhoods of KL singing ‘Voodoo Chile’ to myself and working out the best way to leg drop someone.

Eventually I arrive back to the mall, quite pleased at myself, but even happier to be reacquainted with the air conditioning, when this guy comes up to me, and asks where I got my bag, he likes it.

I turn to him with an insane glint in my eyes ‘I bet you do, and I bet your sister is going to be a nurse in Manchester!’ I exclaimed. He looked worried and confused. ‘Leave me alone Brother, don’t make me run wild on you’.

Jet Lag Rules.

emo cat

2010-05-01T17:59:00.002+10:00

so my cat is a self harmer. what can i possibly do about this? every time i'm walking somewhere, he runs straight into my legs. luckily, he's very small, so rather than tripping i merely kick him across the room wih my stride. he then looks up at me like 'how could you do this to me', and i'm all like 'dude, i have tea in my hand, don't fuck with me'.

is there therapy for emo cats? do i simply have to wait for him to grow out of it? Would Black Sabbath help?

course it would, black sabbath helps everything

bitch, cheese me up

2010-04-30T16:03:00.000+10:00

a story I put together thanks to an insurance claim from someone called "Hoogdenboom"

2010-04-29T15:53:00.002+10:00

Hoogenboom Wandershnat sat wistfully at the front of his blue windmill. Methodical and moist as he always found himself on a Wednesday, he cleaned his gun. Clouds in the sky had taken the shape of Palm Trees who had turned to violent communism. He contemplated his life and wondered merrily upon the simple thought of suicide. His life had been full and interesting. He had married the girl of his dreams, Esmeralda Kakadon Rambledown. He had sired many a bouncy bundle of babyhood, and he’d watched these squishy flesh wanderers consume the food he put on the table, rip the clothes he placed upon their back (two backs in the case of Hickmanstool, the 3rd child, and the disturbing result of Esmeralda’s duck sucking phase whilst pregnant), and destroy any toy his nimble hands had made them. Yet still he loved them. They had now grown old and found personal conquests. Jaggledoone had found a wife. Manatash looked after llamas. Rapplebottom-Dodokins was now mayor of a nearby town (though currently involved in a terrible scandal in relation to his extreme admiration for yogurt). Even Huickmanstool was famous in local circus routes. His life was truly a success. And he wondered what else there was to experience. Maybe it would be best to finish the game now. On his terms. In his favourite seat. With a lovely meal in his belly. With his wife inside by deaf as a table and forgetful as the letter G. This would be a good way to go. But then he saw in the distance, Yoyomontague, his youngest, running full pelt up the road. Pursed to his lips was the trumpet of impending attack. The Moose were back

Seven things that would make my life awesome

2010-04-29T15:23:00.000+10:00

A jet pack
Kind of self explanatory really. With a jet pack I could go lots of places really quickly. As far as I know, you don’t need a drivers licence for a jet pack, so it would be pretty much instantly available to me. Plus- who would not want to hang out with a jet packed fellow? I would,. I’d totally buy you a banana milkshake if you had one. And not just a fake banana one. One that had REAL Banana’s in it
A Banana Milkshake
I really want one now
A Windmill
I want to live somewhere really awesome and funky. A windmill sounds like the right kind of fit. Methinks it will have to be black and red, cause that just looks bad arse. I’ll probably have a big back garden and employ local grandad’s do keep in maintained for me. I don’t like gardening, and old people need to do something with their time other than stand in doorways. Everybody wins.
A nuclear heating facility in my chest
It’s getting cold. Waking up cold sucks donkey bollocks. Having a small nuclear powered heater in my chest that could regulate my body temperature to a cosy degree, it would just be cool, and i think others would also enjoy this, i would be alike a walking talking heater. If I went to Canada on my jet pack, Canucks would be all up in that shit.
A stroke
Okay, while there are many down sides to a stroke, I realised the plus side- Currently I have facial hair, and it itches. Not constantly like chicken pox or those weird little flowers they always plant near schools that the class bully always discovers first and uses it as itching powder on all the people wearing glasses, but just...weirdly uncomfortable. If I had a stroke, my face would be numb, and I could happily wear my facial hair without the issue. Having a stroke does numb your face right? Hope it does, otherwise I’ll be doubly fucked.
The Moon.
No one would mess with you if you had the moon. No one. Cause if you did, you’d be their only chance to get to the moon. And everyone, no matter how good, clean, and pure, everyone needs a place to hide out. And if you want to hide out, the Moon would probably be the best place. My moon would be kind of like the Red Cross. You can go there and you have immunity. And pogo sticks. Yeah, it’s like the Red Cross on pogo sticks. And they’d be jelly, because I believe jelly is vitally important to the well being of hidden criminals. Non criminals could also come. It’d be kind of like a theme park. With people dressed as anime characters. Just because I think people look awesome when they’re pretending to be animated. I once knew a girl who wore the same style black polo neck and beige trousers every single day. That was the only thing in her wardrobe. It was freaky yet awesome.
Bunny Ears
Those who have seen pictures will agree, God made a mistake when he didn’t give me bunny ears. Simple as.

dream...

2010-04-22T16:53:00.000+10:00

I had a dream last night that I never wore trousers to work. Never. My office had complained and I refused to see the problem, and blamed them for stopping my creative flow.

Phone Names

2010-04-20T09:27:00.001+10:00

Some time ago I met a girl who changed many things in my life. And she started something wonderful and amusing in my mind that continues to this day. Each time it still amuses me, and brings grins of exasperation from my friends. But still, I adore.
Her name was Lani. I was sitting watching football one day when she sat down next to me, and we began a conversation. Instantly we clicked and joked, started abusing each other (all good friendships actually revolve around abuse, and not comfort). The next day during our first non drunk conversation, I somehow renamed her ‘Lani the Racist Bowling Champion’, the next time we talked; I was called ‘George the Funky Rapist’. I changed her name on my phone to reflect this amusing nickname, and thus it began.
Nowadays, hardly any person on my phone is under their real name. If something funny is said, by them, or by myself about them, I change their name. This proves quite entertaining. Especially when (as Lani found out later) I am so drunk I need assistance getting home, and one of my friends needs to find someone on my phone to help me.
Nowadays, my girlfriend is the one who gets the most of this little trait. I will happily say I think she is the most amusing person I know, and has not only a wonderful grasp of the English language, but also a very surreal train of thought also. So here are a few examples of the names my girl has been called on my phone.
Pocket O Nuts
I write my name in cancer on your penis
Semi Permanent State of Quiver
Kiddie pool of Whale Cum
Bedaggered Dong
Blue Ukulele
Crotchular Topographer
My Magic is erection dependant
Tapping the tail
Toning the Boom Boom
Markesian Jelybride
Hoo Ha Splat
Weasel on Learning Drugs
Claustrophobic Wang
Fuck My Door
And my personal favourite- Harbinger of Ornithological Demise

felines

2010-04-20T08:26:00.001+10:00

Recently our household acquired a kitten. My housemate got it, but as she is rarely in the house, it’s basically our cat now. But it’s quite strange having it around. My maternal instincts have kinda of kicked in. I know it’s only a kitten, but its a little life. A little ball of life. A little fluffy ball of moth chasing life. And I’m realising how important I am to him. I want to show him that he is loved and cared for, yet I want to set boundaries, and let him find his own way. It’s such a confusing time. You play with him, because, you know, he’s a kitten and it’s so much fun to play with a kitten. At first he was pawing and clawing and biting a little, all was fine ‘ooooh cutielittlebabykitten. Whosawooshamushawoo’ etc. I didn’t want to reprimand him for biting or anything, because no cat of mine is gonna grow up to be a pussy. He’s gonna need to learn to hunt and kill and bite and start wars. But last night during a rather entertaining game of ‘what’s that on the end of my arm?’, he bites my finger, then my knuckle, then totally sinks his little teeth into my hand. Hurt like beggary (well, not literally, I hear beggary hurts a lot more). But I’m not about to say ‘bad Yosarian’ (that’s his name by the way), and rap him on the head, or do that thing where you pick them up by the neck and they go all stiff and chinesey. It was my fault he bit me. And I’m kind of glad. I felt a tang of pride parents must feel when their daughter rides her first bike, or their son learns the joys of masturbation. He can bite. He can bite well. Some damn fine teeth going on in my little guy. One day some stupid arse bird or mouse is gonna totally feel the wrath of Yosarian. And I helped him towards that. I sat back on the bed, and watch him with a feeling of completion. Parenthood isn’t so tough after all.

the hills are alive

2010-04-19T15:57:00.000+10:00

Once upon a time, an email landed in my inbox from my fantastically Irish friend Fi. A quick perusal of the message told me about an upcoming festival deep the heart of the Victorian countryside. For a mere $50 I could partake in this whimsical event. So I agreed upon it, booked my ticket, and awaited the wonderful days.
A few weeks later the day arrived. I taxied to a friend of Fi’s, and awaited the crew to arrive. Much to my amused horror, almost all the collection going with us were of Irish decent. I have nothing against Irish in general, they are lively, funny, crazy, well meaning people with the taste for alcohol and singing into the night. Exactly the type you want at a festival. But they are also known for the dreaded Fianna Buama. The Irish Ninja Bomb. Ninja Bomb, as you well know, is a wonderful drinking rule to add to any eve. If a person is to say something that stops any conversation dead, you shout ‘Ninja Bomb!’ at them, and they drink. The Fianna Buama, is a variation of this, where an Irish person will begin to talk exclusively about Ireland, Irish things, or Irish places. Meaning, anyone who isn’t from Ireland, is basically excluded from the conversation, and unable to say anything at all.
But I continued my smile; this weekend was about music, drinking and fun. And I’d be darned if ‘The Craig’ was gonna get in the way.
We travelled down by car to South Gippsland to the wafting tunes of The Kooks and Wolfmother. A simple drive, broken twice by cigarette and McDonalds breaks. At one point we were informed that one of the cars had blown up. But eventually it was discovered that this was an incredibly dramatic interpretation of ‘the bonnet it open’. We arrived after a few hours of motoroways, farmland, and rolling hills. Amazingly, through the simple application of a blue wristband, I was allowed to enter this wonderland.
The car park had been set up and hand painted signs showed us the way. A farmer drove a tractor around for everyone to throw their gear on, and make the trek over the hill to the campsite. A pleasing site arrived at the camp where all festival goers were helping unload and sort out the bags. We were all working together. Like hippies should. Fi, Kev and I collected out tent, set ourselves up, and looked at the surrounded area. Beautiful rolling hills on each side, lush forests, and many a cow.
The camp was a short walk from the stage and performance area. A small crowd sat and watched the first few bands. A few of the more early drinkers had started to dance. We found ourselves a spot, plotted, and started our drinking adventure.
The bands were all local and relatively unknown bands. They sounded good, they seemed to have some fans, and I merrily watched them wail away. Briefly I explored the local area, finding a ping pong hut, where Kev and I battled some amusingly podgy women. A few games of tetherball, and a quite wonderful chill out tent.
When I first walked in there, I found a big circular room with cushions lining the floor, and instruments resting, awaiting a skilled person to pick them up and pluck them. At this early stage, only a few high school girls sat around, playing small tunes with my pauses and inquiries as what to do next. While I may adore this kind of thing, I felt it rather seedy to sit and watch High School girls. So I wandered away.
The bands continued to play, the rain also came. In true Hippie spirit we refused to stop us, and simply donned our ponchos and garbage bags made into ponchos, and kept on dancing.
Between one of the bands I made my way back to the Chill Out tent, and I wasn’t the only one. The room was packed with many a festival goer, seated and smiling, all eyes focused on the one standing giant. He was calling out a tune, to which everyone repeated back. The chorus (if one could call it such) was ‘Calamine, Calamine, Calamine LOTION!’. Smiles were thick in the air and you couldn’t help but mingle. I met some wonderful people and shared a laugh with them. They invited me to join a rather amusing drinking game, that mainly involved making funny noises and drinking a lot. My kind of game. Suddenly, a head poked through the door and shouted ‘They’re on!’ and most instantly left. They turned out to be Direct Influence.
They were a reggae hip hop funky soul band. Playing rather chilled and funky danceable tunes, to which we rather chilled and funkily danced to. After Direct Influence came ‘Cockfight Shootout’ who I personally thought were band of the night. Hard rock, laced in Black Sabbath like riffs and bounded drums. I hit the pit instantly and was very pleased to get bruised up. They done what they done really well, and I was impressed.
Once they had finished their wares, lack Market Rhythm Co. Entered the fray. The next morning I wondered upon a question- Where they really good? Or was I just so drunk by then , that anything would have been amazing? What I remember was dancing a lot, screaming along, jumping up and down, and smiling all the way through. But I believe more investigations should be made before I make such a wonderful statement.
Around this time I retreated back to the Chill out tent, where a few stragglers sat around, playing the instruments and talking wondrous drunk bullshit. I joined in with them and had many a deep conversation about racism, and the rights of women. At least I think I did. By this time, the room had started to get a little funky. And not ‘James Brown in sparkles’ kinda funky. As one person quite brilliantly put it- ‘it smelt like Horse and Incense’. So Sadly I had to soon leave
I wandered back to the tent with the intension of ‘Just chilling for a moment’, but secretly wanting to lay my head down, and not have it up again till morning’, but Soon after I attempted this, Fi burst in through the door screaming ‘marku marku, come dance, come dance’ and who was I to refuse an enthusiastic Irish girl?
Back to the dance floor I arrived where ‘polo club’ played away. White people can rarely rap that well, and my issues with apple are that thanks to their hardware, anyone with a Mac now thinks they’re a DJ. What they played was fine, I didn’t hate it, I danced, but it was by no means spectacular. After them, two old guys came to the stage dressed...well...kind of like Hitler. One stood behind the decks, the other to his side. They played obvious ‘get everyone dancing’ songs, and proceeded to run around the stage like silent movie characters being chased by the police. The music was good, songs I would listen to and happily dance along to on any given night. However, they simply played each song to the end, then played the next. A CD played could have done the same thing, and would have got rid of the kind of ludicrous sideshow they put on. It was at this point I called it a night for real and collapsed into my tent.
Awaking the next day to the sound of vomit from another patron of the festival was not the best alarm clock ever witnessed, I must say. But once the gent had finished his business, the relaxing early morning calm began. I laid in the tent and daydreamed upon life and love. Eventually waking, packing my things, and stepping outside. I walked to the stage to see the other early morning raisers walking around, picking up rubbish left from the night of frivolity. Smile. Hippies are awesome. While they do nothing. They’re awesome.
I stood in a long line for a coffee, the sun was slowly climbing through the sky, and the mornings first performer entered the fray. ‘Uncle Tim from Around the Way’ jumped on stage, and began yodelling. Epic.
As the morning progressed, we collected our things, reminisced over the night. Commented on hangovers, and by midday had decided it was bet to leave, and sleep of the rest of the day. We travelled home in mostly silence, happy silence, but silence just the same. I arrived home to my jelly bride, and the weekend was over. A beautiful time, and a great old festival.

Harold the banana

2010-03-11T13:59:00.002+11:00

Harold the banana sat on the pillar high above the town square of Atlantis, and sighed. Well, he would have sighed if he could have. But he was a banana. And bananas are unable to evoke such a desolate sound. Which is unfortunate, because if there was ever a time to sigh, it was now.
Harold had known his life would be short and dramatic from the first moment he could remember. Being the only banana living in Atlantis, it was bound to be an interesting and turbulent affair. And that was before all the flooding started
Harold felt pretty bad about this. As he should to be honest. It was his fault. But at the same time, who in their right mind would employ a banana as guard to the flood gates? A mad man, that’s who,. and this mad man went by the name of Jeremy.
While Harold had done the best he could do, he was woefully under qualified for this job, having no opposable thumbs, no arms attached to these non existent thumbs and no mouth to shout a warning of ‘Oh God, There’s Blue stuff coming through’ (Atlantis had never correctly named water…one of the many reason Gigomond, lord of this world decided it was time to end the crazy façade).
All in all, it had bene pretty bad day for Harold. He had to sit there, watch his home wash away, and then go brown and manky at the bottom of the ocean.
It’d been a shitter

my rules

2010-03-08T16:22:00.000+11:00

Always Do Something Interesting
The 2 years before coming out to Melbourne were…well, terrible. I had grown very boring, depressed, and unmotivated. When I looked at why, it was obvious. I sat around doing the same things again and again. I’d watch TV shows and Movies I’d seen before. I’d read books for a second, third, or tenth time. And then I’d have the gall to complain that nothing good was out there. So I made it a rule. Rather than sitting back to an old Family Guy episode, or Harry potter. I’d get something new. Always do something more interesting than something you’ve done before.

Never Pointlessly Complain
This was made after being so annoyed by English and Irish travellers. All they do is complain. It’s too hot, it’s not hot enough for Australia, they don’t have money, the beach is too far away. I hate that level of complaints. I’ll take a rant happily at any time. But don’t just complain for the sake of complaining. And I noticed I did it. When I felt awkward, like the conversation was slow, bad silences, I’d complain about something to fill the gap. And what a terrible way to be.

There is always something to do
the worst words in the English language are ‘There’s Nothing to Do’. Utter nonsense. There is ALWAYS something to do. I hate when other people say it, I hate it more when I say it. I have hundreds of things I could do at any given time. I just choose not to.

This is happening Now
Kind of a way of saying ‘Appreciate the moment’. This is the only time this moment will ever happen. Are you enjoying it? If not, why not? Don’t wait for tomorrow, or keep thinking about the past. This is Happening Now.

Honestly Promise, Honestly Deny
Had a really annoying situation with an Irish Girl who said she’d look into something for me. And never did. I called her, texted her, and went to her place to check on it, and she just ignored the calls, and ‘Oh, I couldn’t get round to it’. It was obvious she never intended on doing it, but it sounded nice to offer. And we all do this. How often have you said you’d come to a party, or a gathering, with no intension of going? You say yes, then ‘something happens in the last moment’, or you ‘forget to check your phone’. And when people do this to us, it infuriates us. Yet we do it to others. So don’t. It’s nicer to say ‘Sorry, but no’.

Open Your Eyes
Again, appreciate the moment, but in a different way. Right now, open your eyes. Look around at wherever you are. Really look. It’s quite wonderful isn’t it. It’s best to do this outside. Whenever you’re stressed and annoyed by something, just Open your yes, look around, and relax. It’s pretty great out there.

Energy is Inspiration, inspiration is Energy
You ever noticed how the plans you make when in bed are a lot easier and slower than the one’s you make in the shower? I realised this, and extended it. I noticed that when I’m walking around, I have more ideas than when I’m sitting (pacing is a big part of writing). And When I have ideas for stories and characters, or just general thoughts, I have more energy than when I’m thinking about boring things. So it became obvious. If I woke up feeling low. Get out of bed immediately. Go for a walk. The more energy you have, the more energy you’ll get

If you say it, Be it
This one has become tricky, and was one of my big reasons for leaving Mildura. I’m a pretty opinionated person. As you may have realised already. I have my thoughts and ideas, and I will say them out loud. But, in Mildura, in that situation, I found it very difficult to stick with my principles. On one of my jobs, digging holes to put wires down, I worked with a lot of tradies. Tradies talk about girls, about coloured people, and why they are both stupid in various ways. I hate racism. It’s stupid, it makes no sense, and I want to argue with anyone who is a racist, to attempt to stop their idiotic thought process. But I couldn’t. Not there. I wanted to keep my job, to make friends, to not cause a fuss. So I let it slide. I listened and smiled along while this freakin’ morons went on and on about scoring with fat girls because no one else would sleep with them, and about how the blacks were lazy, and ugly, and idiots. I hated myself, because I couldn’t stand up for what I believed in. And I should. If I’m going to claim I’m for things, or against things, I should stand up for it.

mumble

2010-03-08T16:18:00.002+11:00

i find myself sitting bored at my computer. i'm unemployed. if i wasn't, i wouldn't do anything anyway. i go through post secret to see what people have said, hoping to find some amusement/motivation/care. but i don't. not in this mood. maybe i'll watch another dexter and hope to be entertained. this is why i smoke. cause i'm lazy. because on or off, i feel this thought slipping through. don't do anything. there's nothing to do.

but there is...there always is

surrealist erotic fiction

2010-03-07T01:31:00.002+11:00

while at my last job I had much free time, and during some of that free time I started writing surrealist erotic fiction to my girlfriend. Here is one of the last one's (in a moment of panic I might have lost the original, but I'll find it and post it later)

Reginald lay back on the crumpled haystack and sighed the long beautiful sigh of post coital joy. It had been a magnificent ejaculation, even if he did say so himself. He gave a brief look at Holly, who seemed to have also enjoyed the experience, for she was staring at the barn ceiling with the vague look you get when you seem to have forgotten how to use your legs.
‘Wow’ she said between the heavy breathes, to confirm Reginalds suspicions that her knees were certainly a quiver. ‘Wow’ she repeated ‘Thanks’ he smiled back without looking at her, smiling up at the rivets and internally giving a high five to his quite unbelievable penis.
He remembered how, as a child, he was mocked in the locker rooms of his local swimming pool. ‘Oooh, it’s all bumpy’ cringed the girls ‘It looks like an old sausage with warts’ giggled the boys It was amazing how ashamed he once felt. But it wasn’t until he was thrust into the obscure damp world of puberty, that the true mastery of his trouser package proved its true wonder.
He was watching his favourite afternoon show in his favourite chair with his favourite banana, peanut butter and leek sandwiches.
Suddenly upon the TV he saw a magnificent creature. Her golden hair flowed onto her blue dungarees like a curly waterfall of lemon jelly.
He felt something in his Batman underwear he had never felt before. A Longing A desire A Hardening Looking around nervously he considered calling for his mother, but he knew she was busy with the Shrimp. His father was at work, and his sister was never of any help unless it involved calling him obscure names. He decided it was best to investigate this new predicament, and pulled down his trousers. His penis, once lumpy and looking like an elongated mouldy potato was suddenly transformed. It now resembled a zombie hand, plunged out of the earth, ready to reek it’s brain ravaged vengeance on the world. The young Reginald stood awed at the change that had occurred in his nether regions. And wondered what else his body could show him. He dared to touch the newly discovered phalletic wonder, and investigate the height depth and girths of this beautiful monstrosity.
To his astonishment his man sausage was no longer the spongy fleshy floppy appendage his hand was used to holding. It was somehow defying gravity and hanging in mid air, like an autumnal branch, devoid of leaves.
He held it is his hands and a sensation like never before rippled through his whole body It was as if his testicles had been given a marshmallow to toast. A new Toy car to play with A new ant to mutilate under a magnifying glass It felt fantastic. It was as if his penis had been given a puppy, and then discovered after hours of playing and getting bored with the puppy and now hungry, it was in fact made of chocolate.
He was bewildered by these new thoughts rushing through his head like salmon through a bear infested river. Suddenly Linda, the pigtailed girl in his mathematics class was a siren of magnificent beauty.
Olivia, the bakery assistant was no longer simply the hands that held the tongs that held is jam doughnuts. And had somehow transformed into a vixen of heaving bosoms and winks.
All thanks to one tug of his bulging rod of wonder. To his absolute astonishment his fleshy truncheon of desire was still moving, growing of its own accord. With each pull and grip upon his gracious shaft, it changed, manoeuvring, like an obscure blow up mattress with a hearty blower with their mouth around the nozzle.
More images flooded his mind. His best friend Jimmy’s sister Sophia and the way she walked with a wiggle and a shake The weather girls his father always grunted about while drinking beer His teacher Miss Wanderslice and the way she collected crumbled paper from the floor Reginald opened his eyes and looked down at the full brilliance of his manhood. It was as long as the 9 inch mark on his ruler, and to his utter disbelief, it was an exact replica of Nelsons Column. He delicately caressed every bump and crevice of the statuesque appendage and felt his knee’s considering their usual stance of rigidness.
Suddenly he felt a pleasurable cramp in his sweaty, bald personal fun bag and without even thinking his eyes rolled back, he bit his lip, and before he could stop it, Nelson Head exploded in a shower of sticky white wonder all over his mothers newly bought rug.
The next day he ran to school so excited. Eager to learn if his friends had discovered their own personal trouser monuments.
As the bell rang for their first break, he quickly rounded up as many people as possible to inform and show them of the testicular miracle his underwear hid.
In a small circle behind the bike sheds he dropped his school shorts and fondled the flesh package with thoughts of his new favourite soap opera star.
The boys looked on in petrified admiration as the bumby pink tube slowly became a towering pole of love. The girls felt their hymens quiver and tense. And just as Reginald was about to complete the moment, Mrs Russlemouth, the school Librarian entered the circle, to see his Column throb with pubesant delight to an adoring crowd.
‘REGINALD BARKLEY MASSACUSES!” she shrieked in that voice that only old Librarians are capable of The throng of young admirers scattered like rice dropped onto the kitchen floor in a drunken moment of munchies, and all that was left was a sweating young Reginald, shorts around his ankles, and a throbbing flesh pole stick out from his beneath his pale blue uniform shirt.
He gulped his fear down as Mrs Russelmouth stood open mouthed at the sight in front of her. She had only read about Penis’s in books. Yet none of the respected medical journals had ever noted upon the contusions and shapeliness of this…majestic creature.
Her mind raced with thoughts and desires. She had not been so excited since she first discovered the vibrate feature on her mobile phone (she enjoyed both silence and vibration)
‘Pull up your shorts and come with me young man!’ she sternly shouted. Embarrassed and quickly blushing he followed her instructions and trailed behind her to the intrigued and giggling looks of the schoolyard throng.
Behind her he scampered and considered his fate. Would he be expelled? Would he be forced to tell the evil Headmaster Mr Serganhoose what he had done? Would it be chopped off? He considered a life without his newly discovered ability. That was not a life he wished to live. Should he make a break for it? Should he dramatically leap out of the open window they were about to pass, head for the woods and start a new life among the squirrels and badgers?
Would they too exclude him for his strangely shaped manhood? Do forest creatures also have strange dongs? While in the midst of considerations upon the penetic qualities of woodland animals, he didn’t even notice that they walked straight past the Headmasters office, down the corridor, up the stairs, and all the way to the Library.
Ms Russellmouth knew the Library well, having worked there for most of her life. She knew that for the next 2 hours, no student would enter. No teacher would come through. No prying eyes would be upon them.
But just to be safe she locked the door. Reginald stood there petrified and confused at what was happening. Ms Russellmouth slowly turned around to face him, intrigue in her eyes, and while Reginald would have no concept of this for many years, her vagina was moistening like cheese left out on the counter on a hot day
‘Reginald…what were you doing out there for the other children?’ she asked with her normal crisp pronunciation Reginald looked around nervously and could only produce an ‘Erm’ ‘Come on now Reginald, tell me’ ‘I…I’ ‘You had your penis out, didn’t you’ her eyes burrowed into him like a mole on speed ‘Erm…yes’ he felt like a frog on a hot plate Like an alien on an autopsy table Like the final Brussels sprout in a roast ‘Show me’ Reginald was a simple boy who had never been told much in the way of sexual education. So he done as he was told and whipped it out
The walk and fear had returned his member back into the squidgy squashy Quasimodo of an appendage it had been for so many years.
Ms Russellmouth looked at it with vigour ‘Play with yourself’ she told him over her glasses

Question of the Day

2010-03-05T12:13:00.001+11:00

Seeing that Jesus is no longer relevant in today's society, who's birth should we now celebrate and exchange gifts in memory of?

the vomit isn't so bad

2010-03-05T01:10:00.002+11:00

all you can hear are you own thoughts running around your head

WWWAAAAGGGHHHHH

between lumpy liquid pounding porcelain

HU HU HUUUAAAAGGHHHH

what the fuck do you say to something like this.

Ka- he huuh hu h Huuu...

Do you scream and shout at them, try to get them out of it?

HHHHAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHH

Do you sympathise, pat them on the back and tell them it's all gonna be okay?

hu hu hu hu

Then just lots of silence. He hasn't died has he

Plugh. Ploooop

No. Thank fuck

Do i go in? do I stay outside? Does he come out? What the fuck do I say

Eventually i decided to go in. And Alfonso is sitting cross legged and lurched against the bathroom wall. Vomit dying on the side of his mouth. And the only thing that came to mind was

How you doin' Champ?

He looked up at me and smiled.

Awesome.

Strange thing was he meant it. You could see it in his eyes. He was actually okay. My whole plan was out the window.

Great...so

Don't worry man. I've had an Epiphany

oh here we go. Why can't people have epiphanies without there being slight poo stains coming through their jeans thanks to vomiting?

Sitting here...this is the worst position I've ever been in. Look at me.

He was pretty pathetic

I look like I'm an 80's metal reject covered in the regurgitated remains of two microwaved micro pizza caffeinated vodka and 20 vitamins. I have no job. I have no girlfriend. I have nothing. I'm a waste of fucking space

No...dude...come on...

No...No

He stuck his finger out, it must be important

No. This is who I am. And this isn't good enough. I need to change

Oh Fuck it. This is not what I need right now to be perfectly honest. Alfonso having a break though. Don't you enjoy having those friends who are utterly useless? Makes you feel so much better about your position. And then those bastards go and change things and become one of those arseholes who demands to tell you what you're doing wrong with your life. I'm perfectly happy with my boredom thank you. So this puts me in a position.

Is it wrong to reverse this break though? Put him back in the box?

the silence is killing me

2010-03-04T23:39:00.001+11:00

That silence is what kills you. That hum of nothing. They say time stands still, but it doesn’t. it stretches. Hearing the movement and noise from the other room. The silences in-between just destroys you. All you can wonder is what you’ll say afterwards. What can you say? What can you do?
Alfonso decided to kill himself at 10.46pm on a Tuesday Night over a loss of a girlfriend. He made the choice to swallow an entire bottle of the medication his flatmate had left in the cabinet. He used some old vodka bespeckled with coffee grounds that remained from the last party they threw. And at 11.06pm he called me to tell me what had happened.
The barely audible slurring voice told me no one loved him. He couldn’t carry on. It was all over. He’d put his phone on private, so I thought it was prank call. And I told my suicidal best friend to leave me alone; I had work the next day.
He started crying and my attention peaked a little more. Jodie’s name was garbled through the receiver. It’s over man…all over….no point…fuck it.
When I arrived he was on the couch in a contorted position usually restricted to magician’s assistants. Droll dribbled from the side of his mouth. The empty vodka bottle sprawled on the floor. I ran to his side in a panic. Wake up, God please Wake Up, Please God Please.
And he did. He came too quickly, and with bleary eyes he recognised me.
You Fucking Idiot
It was all that came to mind, I reached for the phone to call the ambulance, get him some help when I noticed the bottle on the floor. I picked it up
I just can’t take it man, I just can’t take it
Dude…you tried to OD on Vitamins?
His eyes locked into mine and that look ran over them. That look where you thought you’d hit rock bottom. Only to realise you’d done it with your fly open.
Fuck it
Turns out you can have all the effects of an Overdose with a placebo. If you want it enough.
It also turns out that 20 Vitamin D pills make your mouth taste like ass.
So Alfonso was locked in the bathroom dry wrenching the pills into the toilet bowl, while I sat outside trying to work out exactly how you deal with someone too stupid to even attempt to kill himself.
And the silence in between heaves was killing me.

a Letter to kings of Leon

2010-03-02T16:40:00.001+11:00

Dear Kings of Leon,

How are you? I hope you are well. I felt I needed to write to you, and discuss a few things on my mind. I don’t want to sound horrible, but I needed to get it off my chest.A friend of mine went to the Reading Festival this year, and he told me that you…well, that you weren’t very good. Maybe this was just his opinion, he does like strange things at times (he doesn’t grate his cheese when having a cheese and cucumber sandwich for Christs sake. He slices it!). But this piece of news made me worry.I’ve been a fan of you guys for some time. I was at my friends house party when I first heard you. Milk came on the stereo, and I was a fan instantly (probably helped by my rather attractive friend Mel slowly drunkenly dancing to it). Bought your album the next day, and got any others as soon as I could. I’ve listened to your songs on my various travels, and had smiles many times because of it (the whole Youth and Young Manhood album got me through some tough nights in South Africa, and I had a really great sexual fantasy to Milk some time later in Singapore)But then this last summer came around. The ‘Sex on Fire’ summer. I first listened to the album, and I liked it. Sex on Fire and Use Somebody were good songs, and there were a good few more on the album that I really liked. I thought that given a few more listens, I’d come to love it (your albums always get better the more you listen). But I never got round to listening again, because from that day onwards, I couldn’t go anywhere without those two songs being played.Now, it’s not your fault it became so popular. You obviously wanted some fame, you finally wanted some recognition for your brilliant music, I understand. After years of not releasing the best song on your album (Milk, Fans, Joe’s head…) and going under the radar because of it, you wanted people to stand up and say ‘Hey, those guys with the beards are pretty good’. I get it.But here’s the problem, now, you’ve built yourself up. When you hid away your good stuff, it was only people who actually liked your music who heard them. We bought the albums, listened to them a lot, and learned the LYRICS. Now, thanks to THAT song, a bunch of idiotic normals have got hold of you, and think they are fans because they can scream the YEEEEAAAAH part of Sex on Fire, or the OO OO Oh part of ‘Use Somebody’. Some people think this means you’ve ‘made it’ finally. But a bunch of bleached blonde drunk Irish People screaming to a very simple lyric at a music festival they went to because it’s an excuse to drink beer all weekend and not shower is not making it. Irish people will cheer anything (U2 for example)And this is where my worries come. You’ve shot out albums pretty quickly, and they’ve been great. But if you don’t take your time, to find your genius again, you’re going to be one of those crappy bands that get really famous and sing pop records. Look at Green Day. While they were never actually that good, they had some decent punky records that gave them a good fan base of people who liked that music. Then they went and realised American idiot. Which, again, wasn’t actually that good, but it made a point, and a point that lots of people could relate to. Had some catchy lyrics, some nice sing along sections, and the MTV crowd ate it up (thanks to some clichéd magazines telling them that this was the most important political statement ever).Then the pressure was on. How could they follow up this brilliant album? What could they do? For a while we all wondered, and then we forgot about it. Then we remembered and wondered what they were planning, and then we forgot again and got onto better things. Then they finally released it. And wow…I almost broke my jaw yawning. Rather than try something different, new and clever, going back to what made them have fans in the first place. They released American Idiot all over again, only this time with much less of a point, repeated singalong parts (while not actually doing the math, I am fairly certain Billie Joe repeats the same line at least 50 times in one song) and really terrible rifts.Don’t let this happen to you. You guys have talent. Please God take a breather, drink some moonshine, write some good songs and bring out an album next year that knocks us over again with its simple brilliance. Listen to your own music and tell me, honestly, if Sex on Fire is anywhere close to what you are capable of (if you’re confused and not sure, go and listen to the whole Aha Shake Heartbreak album, and I think the answer shall come)

Yours in Intervention

Marku

more forum forays

2010-03-02T10:42:00.000+11:00

Another evening of magic and wonder, one that only an intrigued mind and a city of wonder can give. I arrived from work at the Forum, an excellent looking building on a Melbourne street, and collected the tickets from a haggard looking punker who informed me he was happily looking forward to his cigarette break. I waited outside for my friends and wrote an amusing journal entry about the hilarity and insanity of the night before.Manek and James soon arrived, and we entered in a search for beer.The forum is a beautiful venue. Made up like an outside courtyard, with classic statues lining the walls. A blue ceiling above us pretended to be a night sky, and while we saw right through it’s façade, we appreciated it all the same. We grabbed an overly priced beer and sat in a booth where we regaled each other with various tales of amusing conquest while the resident DJ spun the wheels and evoked feelings of wonder and brilliance with various eclectic tunes from around the world. Kev and Fiona soon joined and we all conversed upon the joy of the impending night.The first band appeared; a straggly bunch of misfits by the name of Barons of Tang. Like a pirate battalion marooned at a folk festival they warbled and shouted away on stage, strummed a double bass, thrashing away at the drums, fiddling away like they were in Georgia and their soul depended on it, and a curly haired well braced huff of a man lurched around the boards raucously pumping away at an accordion. The crowd mingled around, some dancing, some swaying to the hypnotic rhymes, as the band slowly welcomed them in to the wonder of a whimsical evening. Their style was classical and rapscallionesc with a hint of punk (one of their songs was named ‘Even with No Fingers, you can still make a fist’) but never fleeing too far from their singsong shanty style.By the end of their brief sojourn into the surreal the crowd were barking and screaming along, and happily joining in with the sing along anthem, which, to the best of my recollection went ‘la la la’ in a deep baritone.The Barons of tang left the stage with waves and applause and I went back to our booth, happy that my plan to skank had been successful.We briefly talked between ourselves and exited for a cigarette before the lights were once more dimmed, and Paprika Balkanicus entered to forayAs they waved to a cheering crowd, I realised that the 4 gentlemen onstage would not look out of place hunched in a small pub behind a table, awkwardly eyeing, but never talking to, the 40 year old divorcées that only a Wednesday night happy hour can produce. But onstage, behind their various instruments, they were Gods. They beamed their smiles and explained to us that, now, it was time to dance.In a flurry of Balkan magic they got the crowd cheering, clapping, spinning and laughing. To my left was a metrosexual pirate (though I doubted his actual nautical prowess) bopping and ‘hey’ing to the frantic beats. To my right a dreadlocked and corseted vampress was hoeing down with the best of them. And all around, various attractive Melbournites smiled and boogied away.They moseyed decadently through a collection of eastern European countries and styles invoking curious passions of gypsy dreams and exotic nights. The music slowed and accelerated through various lands, showing the wonderful abilities of the band, fast hands on strings, wonderful fingers on accordions and a violinist who could bring even the most fervent of sailors to tears. The wide eyed watchers of this fiendish collaboration couldn’t help but be whisked into wonderful turmoil and beautiful music. The band made sure everyone got involved, shouting for us to clap, stomp, join hands and dance as often as possible. And the assembled clique did do with gusto, do-si-doeing, kosaking, jiving, skanking and partying like refugee’s celebrating their pagan gods and being damn grateful for the opportunity.I did get to hear, what I consider to be, the greatest heckle I have ever heard. The lead singer, or, at least, person who shouted into his microphone the most, asked the crowd what we would prefer to hear Polka, or Rumba.The crowd called their answers into the air resulting in a strange obscure mishmash of language, and the singer shook his head‘See? Democracy doesn’t work’ From the back of the floor came a shriek and then a loud Spanish cry of “Communista!” Simply wonderful
Only when the music ended, the applause had died down and the crowd began to part, did I realise that I had been dancing with strangers, frantically grabbing their hands and swinging them round, slapping their backs and laughing hysterically while arm in arm. Sweat poured down my face and I smiled. I’d had a freaking brilliant time. I continue to simply adore my life. Hungarian Polka on a Thursday night in Melbourne. ¡Viva!

Erindalese

2010-03-01T23:13:00.001+11:00

through the magic of emails between myself and the Harbinger, we created a new language to keep ourselves sane (snort).

Dénouement - literal German name for the button on the back left strap of the lederhosen one wears only on January 27th (the feast of Saint Angela Merici).

Tribbicle - the piece of sweat that refuses to drip off no matter how much you sway Swathe - a dance move that can only be performed in very tight trousers.

Chocottle- the chocking sound made when you are caught eating pet food.

Faradiddle - the strong yet fine hair located above the 2nd knuckle on a man's index finger.

Kaas - a fizzy drink burp that tastes strangely more like the competitors drink

Bombardment - that curious sensation you get after your 5th chocolate biscuit when a 6th biscuit seems both inevitable and will possibly taste like strawberry.

Kuroops - small pieces of potato on your plate that have soaked up the gravy and/or sauce turning them a slightly murky colour

Filigree - the bits of clay leftover after a large ewer and basin have been made. NB can be any colour except rose.

Peiwinkle - an box of non descript size used for amusingly shaped almonds

Fuente - a companion to whom one owes a large tin of loose leaf spearmint.

'Cashmanov!' literally- 'Wow, I am surprised that there is a tiger (or any other large feline) under my desk'

Coovee Bataar - the shrill shriek a metrosexual makes when surprised by a marsupial

Shirk - the feeling when one wishes to pretend to be a horse but lacks the confidence to be more than a pony.

Koof Koof - a low warbling sound you make to advise oncoming pedestrians of coquettishly cut grass

Yashmak - a type of butter only found in a very remote mountain range 1 month in every 7 years that tastes curiously like licking the underside of an indoor tap.

Cubbie Ruze- the wavy imprint on the side of your face after a night spent sleeping on a cow.

Ramen - the feeling that one is wearing the exact same outfit in a dream as a leading news anchor was wearing 2 nights previously in someone else's dream.

Oblixitor - the awkward silence that ensues after a Swedish gent mentions

Madonna Curlicue - the exact spot on a cat's paw that pressure is applied to to make the claw come out and disembowel a dishcloth.

Zubiop - the lollipop of consolation given after a failed leapfrog attempt

Barbican - the moment one realises one is no longer wearing paisley ironically but in earnest.

Mylombe- puffy fingers as a result of Milo overdose

Bindle - the feeling of bewildered shame one experiences when, having been stared at all day, one finds there is only one red mark left from one's spectacles, not 2.

Peccadillo - the moment you realise it's not possible for the sausage you're eating to be kosher pork, then reread the packet to find it says 'khoser prok'.

Gooblim- a rash gained from listening to Billy Idol

Flagella - the moment of panic one experiences in the bathroom, just at the moment of no return, when one realises there is no toilet paper.

Kabertow- an ache in the small of the back from doing the funky chicken for 6 hours straight

Shamjew- a coloured gentlemen who pertains to Jewish ideology

Shamwow- that same coloured gentlemen who pertains to Jewish ideology wearing rainbow spandex and earrings.

Shenandoah - a damn good excuse for a party.

Huglum- a cough that sounds suspiciously like Muddy Waters early work

Sorghum - the ability to simultaneously identify several types of cheese in one blind taste testing.

Rushmumba - the dance you do when you think no one's looking and you and you finally got that piece of corn out your teeth

Flagella - the moment of panic one experiences in the bathroom, just at the moment of no return, when one realises there is no toilet paper.

Koomblah - sores of the foot that appear after your chemically imbalanced housemate stored cashews in your shoes

cookie considerations (continueing from the bells)

2010-03-01T23:12:00.001+11:00

Broadly smiling I walked back into the city, where the bridge had been revamped and all the lights now had lamp shades hanging over them. I smiled. This truly is My City.My friends were in a bar called Cookie, which I had heard of but never entered. The large Mauri gent at the door did not enjoy the look me, and refused my entry, but Manek used his gift of the gab to gain me entry, and I walked up to the establishment. Michael Jackson played as I walked through the door and I simpered the smile of disappointment. I got myself an expensive and not that nice beer and joined those that I knew, weaving my way past the suits and make up.The Friday night crowd is a scary one. The suits finish work and decide that a drink is their right. They hit the most expensive and badly put together place they can find and then attempt to make drunkern friends with other suits, eventually culminating in a pelvic thrusting dance next to any girl drunk enough to care, in a vein attempt to score, and have a story to tell their smirking colleges on Monday.I found my friends in the smoking area, which was a small balcony overlooking the active Swanson Street. We talked merrily and awkwardly, they were just drunk enough to not make a whole lot of sense, I was sober as a Wednesday, and recent issues bubbled under the surface resulting in silences and strained smiles.There was james and Manek, both friends, and a blonde girl I didn’t know sat in the corner. She announced obvious blonde clichés into the conversations, giggling about how drunk she was, how often this happens, her love of sex in the city, and how she normally begins a day with vomiting up the previous nights brightly coloured alcohol. I could barely care to make conversation with such a normal, and soon after Manek took her to the dance floor to boogie.I stayed with James were we talked about things and stuff. Soon we joined them on the dance floor. I can dance, I make no qualms about it. I got skills. One day those skills may pay my bills. Unfortunately, I care not for the boring obvious chart music they push out there in leiu of real beats. I shuffled and smiled like a good plebe, and started to feel that age old voice in the back of my head. Yes, the cynical wizard was back.The normal (who’s name was Carol or something, we never found out) did a normal dance, pretending to be a stripper to Beyonce, doing that straight legged dip that all good hookers do. Manek seemed drunkenly impressed and I foresaw the upcoming one night stand. The girl attempted to ‘show me how to dance’ which didn’t impress me. Cause I got moves.She obviously wanted Manek that eve, and attempted to pair off both me and James so she could tongue wrestle. She was too drunk to hear me say ‘I have a girlfriend’, and her first attempt to ditch us was with 2 lady boys. Or two women who looked scarily like men. I was texting Heidi at this point begging her to come and not be allowed in, so I could leave. Amazingly, and annoyingly, the bouncer let her in. She was wearing Birkenstocks for monkey’s sake! But she came, we danced, and when the 3rd Michael Jackson song of the night came out, I decided enough was enough. The nameless blonde and successfully paired James with another skank, and had subsequently jumped on Manek. It was time for me to go.I told Manek I was going, and he asking why I was leaving. I told him this wasn’t my kind of place, and I had no money. He launched into a tirade, how I was only leaving because of Heidi, and this used to be my kind of place. Which annoyed me. But I took it as a drunk rant, and plan to make sure he hasn’t totally got me wrong later. Heidi and I walked home and bought ice cream, while I spilled my vitriol about pretentious w.a.n.k.e.r.s.We awoke together on Saturday and had the wonderful Saturday morning spoon and surrealism. Heidi and I are very much alike in humour and thought, we just talk nonsense and it makes sense, and makes us laugh. It’s….brilliant. We listened to Bob Dylan, and I once again realised that my life kicks it old school. Eventually we went to the market and then to her friend Sam’s. Sam reviews toys of an adult nature. And is very funny too. I sat on her couch and watched Heidi and Sam look through various websites. Ever seen two girls one cup? You know the reaction videos? It was just like that. Seeing two girls stare at the screen going ‘Oh…oh.OOH OH OH OW’ was quite funny. And the lines that came out of it were genius. ‘Why is HE wearing a strap on?’ ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t care how sensual it is, it isn’t good footwear’. ‘No, a d.i.l.d.o shouldn’t be attached there’. ‘Oh, it’s his arm.’ And my favourite‘I’m all Donged Out’I left on that one, no way I was gonna peak it.I took Heidi to see the Bells, and we made a beautiful salad to take with us. We also got a tea set and bought some vodka and orange. We arrived, set up, and my friend Claude came along. We talked, and the performance started again. It was brilliant once more, Heidi and Claude were suitably awed and a great old time was had.Manek joined us after and we chatted ad jested upon the simply wonderful life we lead. Then Heidi and I returned home and continued the brilliance. A truly epic day of wonder. A great old time.

mysterious bells

2010-03-01T18:32:00.000+11:00

So Friday I decided to walk home from work with a smoke by my side. I can walk along the Yarra river into the CBD from my office. About half an hour walk, beautiful views, and had some darn funky music playing too. As I came near to town I noticed a lot of people moseying and remember it was the start of the arts festival. So following the crowd like any good sheep I was whisked to Alexandra Gardens, a place of many a smoke and hackey sacked day, where a crane stood high and platforms circled. Many sat and awaited and I awaited the show, with very little idea what was happening.Two old French clowns wandered through the seated audience, babbling in nonsensical French (I found out later that they were basically saying things like ‘Carwash Carwash, I go job said Frank, are you French, have you cheese?’). Wearing typical clichéd French clothing and drinking from red wine bottles. The fawning crowd giggled and gabbed at them and warmed to their wonderful charms. Soon they found their way to the stage where the eldest slowly and dramatically climbed a robe ladder on the crane, leading to a bell. He struck with much gusto, and the show beganAcrobats in tight attire ran through the crowd cawing and singing with flames held aloft, they reached the centre stage and began to alight the performance stages that circled it. Once the flames were lit, they showed the stages to be Bells, an obvious theme for the evening. The centre bell was rung aloud again and caterwauling and hollering from the far off tents could be heard. Eight fantastically dressed performers weaved out through the crowd, each with various bells, cheering and rallying the crowd into applauds and generally whooping. Their costumes were medieval and theatrical. Something tragic, yet whimsical. The used the bells to answer the centre stage’s call, and slowly made their way to the stages.With another ring of the bells and a joyous laugh, they began their performance. There was a sense of classic comedy to it, mimery and buffoonery, they whisked up the crowd into clapping and cheering, signing and laughing. And upon and strike of the bell, they changed places, and began again. Slowly they started syncing the stamps and claps into a frenzy of tap dancing mayhem until the bell rung again, they turned excited and ran to the centre stage. The bell rang against and again as the acrobats climbed the structure into the air to an awed crowd. As the main bell stopped, the real music began.The clowns and performers had attached themselves to elaborate contraptions of bells and drums and began to play this beautiful haunting and magical music. And as the rhythm increased they were slowly raised into the air, like a surreal living mobile, and at 50 feet in the air they were twirled and spun into a mesmerizing cacophony. The crowd (and myself) sat and stood opened mouthed and astounded at the sight. The lights flashed and changed, shining bright white and subtle amber in time with the music. The performers were raised and lowered in a brilliant dance high above the adoring masses as the acrobats started their piece, twisting and twirling, stretching and swirling high above the ground and into the starlit sky.A truly amazing event. Broadly smiling I walked back into the city, where the bridge had been revamped and all the lights now had lamp shades hanging over them. I smiled. This truly is My City

Question of the Day

2010-02-28T15:11:00.000+11:00

If it wasn't socially unacceptable, would you eat a kitten?

Hmm

2010-02-28T14:47:00.000+11:00

So, after many years saying I'm going to do it, I finally start a blog. Instantly a problem arises when I discover that my laptop crashes each time i try to copy and paste anything from Word Processor to the net. Damn you crappy mid nineties word processor.

Hopefully I will discover how to solve this issue, add a few old thoughts and rambles and later be able to write lots of things that I like. But who knows.

Anywho...