The one with the Bum

Firstly apologies for not updating this sooner. Surprisingly (to me anyway) I had a few people ask if I was done with the whole Blog thing, and although I probably should be it is apparent that too many crazy things happen in my life not to share with everyone.

The girl and I went to see the Wallabies game in France, and while the match was a little poor the weekend in itself was good if not a little too rushed. After a heavy night on the booze after the game, we arose at an hour that can only be described as way too early to head for our Eurostar back to London. Luckily enough I was still rather intoxicated so the effort was made a little easier.

We left our mate’s house that we were staying at and hit the Metro. We figured it good fortune that it arrived straight away and promptly boarded. We were greeted by a fairly off putting smell before our eyes caught the offender towards the front of the carriage. A resting bum still curled up in his sleeping bag. Over the next few stops more people got on which cause the bum to rise from his slumber and commence to light up a cigarette. I mentioned to the girl where was he going to brush his teeth and go to the loo. The question was answered at the next station when he jumped out the doors and began to relieve himself. The girl was shocked, I was amused, but even more so when the doors started to close and with a last minute lunge he threw his hand into the door. We stood there for a few moments before a young lad went over to help him pry open the doors so he could get on. Once back in the carriage, he re-lit his cigarette before putting his old fella away.

Unfortunately this is where the tale ends as Gare du Nord was the next station. From this I concluded that Bums on any form of public transport = hilarity.

The one with the Runner

Last night we had a work function which was a cruise along the Thames. This was a rather funny night in itself but the way the evening ended was the stranger part.

We had ended up at a bar somewhere near the river for a few extra pints. Before midnight I made a quick dash for the last train home. At that time the gates are all open so I figured a free ride was in order. I sat down on the train with my earphones in when there is a tap on my shoulder. Turning around I am confronted by a woman asking me for my ticket. At this late stage of the evening I put on my best ‘are you serious’ expression and casually pull out my weekly travel card. On inspection she mentions that I am clearly not on the Sutton to Wimbledon route. I explain I was on a work function and still travelling home from work so assumed it would be ok. Clearly not buying it I explain further that I fell asleep and went past my stop and was on my way back. Again she disagrees with me stating that the Sutton train does not travel this route.

As a last resort I mention that perhaps I could buy her a drink sometime instead of tying her up with this paperwork. She responds rather positively and scribbles her number on some paper to give me. I tell her I will call and smile smugly at my good fortune. There was certainly no intention of calling her and even less on doing the dirty on my girl.

As we arrive I depart the train and head for the exit when I hear my name “Steve, Steve” (you didn’t think I would give her anything but my fake?) and as I turn around she is standing with another gruff looking ticket inspector. “How about we go for that drink now?” At this stage I thought I would be nailed if I declined as she had brought her friend along. I reluctantly agree and we head towards a bar. Racking my brain to try and work out what my options are for getting out of this - I come to only one conclusion.

At which point I leg it down the street and don’t stop running until I hit the flat.

Interestingly enough I didn’t really feel all that guilty until today when I found out the ‘on the spot’ fine was £20 – which had I known would of certainly coughed up to save the final predicament I ended up in.

The One at the Wedding

I suppose I cannot write about my trip home without mentioning the main attraction why I was there - the brothers wedding. It was a grand day that had many highlights. It was great to catch up with all the relo’s that many I hadn’t seen for a number of years. The Bride was stunning (looking like she was well out of the bro’s league) and the bridesmaids looked gorgeous as well. I suppose us lads scrubbed up alright as well.

The ceremony and reception were at the Cromer Golf club so we had the opportunity to have a spin in the golf carts between the two. This was a lot of fun. Especially when I tried to make it up a steep incline in the wet, spinning my wheels before the top, causing the poor bridesmaid in the cart with me to leap from the vehicle (claiming it was going to tip) and sinking into the mud. Determined as I was, I attempted it a second time only to fall a metre short and then slide down the hill through a safety net. It took me a good five minutes to burst my way through the netting, leaving a gaping hole that needed to be repaired (apologies to the Bird if he got any stick for it).

On returning to the reception I took it upon myself to try and have a catch up drink with everyone I hadn’t seen for a while. Needless to say my best attempt failed miserably but I had fun trying…

The one at the Shag

J and I got up rather late after an intense drunken PS3 session that lasted until 5am. We decided to head somewhere close and settled on one of my old favourites – the Lucky Shag. We had a fairly good possie on the water and were well on our way when a cruiser pulled up to the wharf in front of us. A couple of wealthy looking gents tied it up and jumped off to head to the bar for a couple. They left their trophy wives (who seemed past their used by date) on the craft.

We continued drinking and realised a fair bit of time must have past when one of the wives started pointing to her watch towards the gents. Paying no attention they continued drinking. A little more time past before the less irate wife decided to hop off the boat and talk to the men. Joining the men she proceeded to share a drink with them.

A little while later it became apparent that they were rather drunk when the 2nd wife came back to appease the 1st. As she crouched down and leaned on the boat to talk to her, the boat began to inch outwards and she hung on helplessly as it arched her over the water. Our shouts had become in unison “Fall, fall, fall, fall”, as it drifted further. Just as it appeared the inevitable would occur the mooring lines became taught and the gap grew no further. She managed to scramble back onto the wharf to our disappointed cries. I guess to settle her nerves she went back to the men to drink some more and we continued on our conversations.

A short while later she meandered back to the boat and we repositioned our stools for a chance to see her second attempt. The crowd had grown a little larger by this stage and we again rose up in unison “Fall, fall, fall, fall”, as she knelt down it appeared she had an epiphany that this method was flawed. Thinking she wasn’t going to give the crowd what it wanted she rose to her feet and moved towards the back of the vessel. She decided to leap down a drop of around a metre onto the Marlin board and landed with what looked like a prefect stick befitting a Chinese gymnast. It appeared to us in slow motion as her hand thrust out to catch the rail, swiping more air than Barbara Streisand, she took a few steps backwards before plunging into the water.

The boisterous cheers that ensued I had heard only once before after those immortal words “ and the winner is….. Sydoney”. Her sunnies had been lost as she waded to the boats ladder. By this time her husband had made it onboard and they both failed miserably to bring her into the boat. A full 10 minutes passed before she had been dragged out of the water to receive her standing ovation. The heckling was rampant as a rather embarrassed boatful of people made there way into the evening.

The one back in Perth

A fleeting visit through Perth to catch up with everyone was on the cards. An accurate account of the weekend is hard to attain because of the state I spent most of it in. Arriving at 3am I went back to my old apartment to try and kip for a few hours before the onslaught of the weekend was to occur.

I went into Tiger Lils around midday to meet up with Hols and the Diver for a few to catch up, before shifting to ‘negies. Hols was already asking about the ‘red buses’ as we consumed some beers and had a spot to eat. By the time others arrived we were pretty well on our way. It was the Worms birthday and in order for him to catch up a rather large portion of shots were bought in his direction – his night ended shortly after. J decided to high-5 everyone in the bar but instead of following through would draw his hand away and tell the other participant how much they sucked. This was a game that he found hilarious although I believed the random strangers caught in the prank disagreed.

It was towards the end of the evening that we realised most of our party had exited. I decided to exit myself and was greeted by a phone call from LD. He sounded a little more sober than I so I grabbed a Mac and Cheese and proceeded over to his place to continue the festivities.

Arriving back at Chelsea I was greeted by the sight of a very drunk Worm who had passed out on the couch. LD and I proceeded to make the Mac and Cheese a decent size Nacho’s. It was while we were devouring this that we heard a large thud and looked around to see an accusing worm on the ground looking at us as if we had something to do with his falling off the couch.

LD and I proceeded to catch up over a couple of games of Mario Kart. About an hour later that we realised the Worm had been missing since his fall. A quick search ensued resulting in us finding a very drunk Worm enjoying a kip on the loo – head in his folded arms on the bench to the side and a bellowing snore from his lungs. Unable to wake him initially we had a pillow under his head before he regained consciousness to stagger to his bed.

Our night ended in a fit of laughter, especially at the thought of how much fun showing the photo evidence of this event would be the next day. The quote from the Worm summing up it up the next day: “With friends like you guys – who needs enemies?”

The one at Oktoberfest

We left for Oktoberfest on the Friday morning in order to get 4 good days of drinking in. The girl stayed at home as she doesn't drink beer so I was rowdier than usual. The first day/night was rather story free so I will jump to day 2.

Day 2: The opening of Oktoberfest is apparently a highlight of ones drinking life. Having seen it before I was not all that keen to get out of bed at 6am to try and head for the tables. Instead we slept in and let the others in our apartment make the early dash for glory. This was in itself a brilliant idea as we rocked up and jumped on there table anyway (with the beers not being tapped until midday). The extra 4 hours sleep meant we lasted well into the night.

For some reaon the Running Man decided to make a game out of drinking out of shoes. The shoe was removed from the unsuspecting victim (usually by force) before beer being poured inside and then drunk by the victim. While hilarious it also conjured up thoughts of where the shoes had been. Towards the end we had a massive crowd of locals who rather enjoyed our game and joined in our shouts of "shoe shoe shoe shoe" everytime we nabbed someone new. We had a few variations on this game "Thong thong thong thong" and "boot boot boot boot" which appeared to be just as popular.

At the end of the evening we played a carnival game where you shot at pineapples with a little gun. It was a rather fun game until I shot one, only to see it get stuck in the pineapples fronds (is that what they are called?) The attendant was a little embarressed when I started proclaiming "Shenanigans" at the top of my voice. He knocked over the pineapple claiming fair shot but I wasn't satisfied until he bought me off with a squeak toy.

Day 3: Hangover in tow we headed back to the main arena and found ourselves in the Hoffenbrau tent. An oversight on my part had left my boxer shorts on. Soon they were ripped off and thrown at the pig (a giant pig hanging from the roof - covered in underwear). The only consollation was the marks the next day around the running mans torso from where I busted his jocks.

Towards the end of the day a group of germans came and sat at our table. I eyed off the expensive looking boots of the female and asked if she would like to drink out of them. She said a polite no and her friend said she had paid €850 a day earlier. This led to me being rather surprised when later (after several pints) she offered it up for service. The roar was in unison from the crowd as I filled it up with a whole stein. "Boot boot boot boot" as I began to chug away before realising what the whole stein was in fact a litre where it was passed around the table for everyone to sample the expensive wears.

As the eveing closed it became a messy affair - especially after a group of girls (lets call them kiwi bitches) and one bloke tried to muscle in on our table. They were politely told to be as seen as the kiwi army and reluctantly gave up. A little later they came back and a pair of undies was thrown at (a nameless girl that was travelling with me, is from Melbourne who used to work with me offshore and has been referred to as Cans). She didn't stand for it and in one of the most hilarious scenes - jumped the barrier to confront the KB's. It took me a while to pick myself up from the laughter and follow her over to break it up. Some friendly Italians had rescued her and chased off the KB's. After promising not to mention the story to anyone (who really reads my blog?) we proceeded home. In between my fits of laughter, I harrassed anyone implying "keep those undies in your pants or I will unleash the cat fighter onto you"

The one at the F1

I wasn’t sure I would make this one as I was flying with Alitalia who a few days earlier said they would be cancelling flights. Fortunately for me that didn’t include mine.

I arrived in Milan on the day of the race and luckily for me the bus / metro and train tickets appeared to be free (well actually I never bought a ticket and nobody stopped me). I had tried for a helicopter to the track from the airport (that at £60 was a bargain) but unfortunately because you landed inside the track had to have your ticket with you and I was meeting my Kiwi mate at the track to grab it. Nevertheless I managed to leg it there and arrived a couple of hours before the start. Once I met the Kiwi we entered the track and had to walk near on 20 mins to our seats – in misty rain and boggy mud.

For those that know the track we were situated on the right hand side of the first chicane after the main straight. I would like to say ‘seats’ but alas it was just a bench.

I was a little dubious at how the F1 would pan out at Monza - the home of Ferrari. It is a very fast track and the field usually spreads out with little overtaking. It was rather exciting that Vettel was on pole, and even more amazing he had done it in a Toro Rosso. The fans were mainly for Ferrari but there was a strong contingent of Brits there barracking for Hamilton.

The weather was a light drizzle that kept the track saturated and extreme weather tyres were compulsory. This made for better viewing as there was more overtaking and spins than usual – a fair few in front of us.

I think we were the only ones on the track that were cheering for the leader, Vettel the whole race. The majority of fans came around by races end and applauded the achievement of his win. It was good to have a walk around the track after the race and feel the closeness of the atmosphere. We watched the presentation and walked half the track before bailing to the pub.

Unfortunately the next day I could not get an early flight home so endured a day around the city. I rather liked the place and can certainly say it was probably a shoppers paradise (which was confirmed by the girls excited reaction after I showed her some pictures I had taken of the Prada store).

I toured the city anyway taking in the sites. A lot of the monuments and buildings were covered in scaffolding for repairs but in true Milan style (I presume) they had giant billboards covering them with the latest fashion.

At the end of the day I found my way to the Ferrari store. Admittedly I felt a slight chill entering (kid in a candy store style) at the range. You could pretty much buy everything and anything with a Ferrari logo (although I didn’t see a kitchen sink). A few of the noted Ferrari items were: Key chain (€45), golf balls (€40), snow skis (€2600) and a replica F1 steering wheel (€12,000). I picked up a pair of green leather shoes for €80 which I thought was a bargain.

A final thought on Milan: While the city contained some rather ridiculously attractive women (discounting the quality boney models), the men seemed rather old and certainly didn’t bathe.

The one with a guide to Marrakech

So you may know that the girl and I headed to Marrakech for a few days and while some pretty cool stuff happened I thought I might offer some tips for survival:

Haggle at every opportunity – when I first tried to haggle I was a bit concerned with aggressiveness of the seller. Once I realised that it is like a sport to them it became a lot more fun. If you don’t haggle they won’t sell to you because you’re robbing them of their fun. A lot of the times we got them down to a ridiculously cheap price but threw a couple of extra dirham to them anyway.

When walking the streets ‘La Shukran’ is your best friend – People approach you in the street and talk French or English to try and ‘guide’ you somewhere or sell you something. Uttering the Arabic phrase means you may understand a little of their culture and they will leave you well alone – just in case.

Riad’s are cool…. Period – If you ever want to feel like a Sultan or Prince then a Riad is for you. The room is amazing and they all open into a central area with a pool or fountain.

Moroccan’s lack ability to insult – A boy who tried to show us around was quiet annoyed with me when I told him to go away several times. On the last “I will kick your arse!” he got pretty upset and unleashed some insults at me. The only coherent one was when he stated “You are sex!” Which confused the hell out of me because I thought, awesome who doesn’t like that? He came back and said we were “sex and f&*ks” which again confused me, thanking him for his compliment we walked off.

Moroccan wine is rather tasty – we were very dubious of sampling the wine in Morocco as the climate doesn’t scream out with favourable grape growing weather. I am glad we did though because we were both impressed. If you can find it a drop called ‘Les Vins de Cepage’ was exceptional and at 100 dirham’s (£7) a bargain.

Market food is great… however – it will give you the dodgy belly. We waited until the last night for this one and I am glad because it gave me the trots for a couple of days after. Thankfully I still felt fine in my stomach.

There are way too many storks in Marrakech – Every wall tower or high point contains a large nest and pair of storks. My main concern was that they would drop a baby into the girl and mines room at night - so the door was securely locked.

Cous Cous, cheap wine and belly dancing is essential for every dinner – Meals cooked in Tajines not only look cool but taste amazing. When finishing off the evening with a show you can relax back in the cushions and enjoy.

When you’re in the Atlas mountains – and the guide says “We go a little higher up the cliff – don’t worry there are 2 of us to help you up”, take note that there is NO safety ropes. Don’t get me wrong they were rather good at holding your feet in the footholes and pulling you over ledges but I seriously doubt whether or not they would of hung on had you slipped and I am sure they have no insurance for these matters. We did come through unscathed and I must say was rather proud of the girl for accomplishing it considering I don’t think I know any girls that would of attempted – especially wearing thongs.

Cactus have fruit….. tasty fruit at that – Can anyone tell me they knew that cactus provided fruit? Have all the cartoons I watch left out this vital info for a reason? Most corners in Marrakech have a cactus fruit vendor selling the fruit cheap. I highly recommend a sampling because it is surprisingly delicious.

If your afraid of snakes, keep aware in the main square – the locals are likely to come and put a snake, chameleon or monkey on your shoulder if you are standing around unaware in the hope you give them some money. The more you scream the more fun they believe you are having and expect more money.

If you venture into the square at night intoxicated, expect to do something to get chased out – After a rather long afternoon of drinking at Kosybar we headed towards the Square for dinner. There was a show about to start and a woman was coming around to everyone asking for money. She heckled us for a while and explained that firstly I haven’t seen them do shit yet so wasn’t going to pay and secondly I hadn’t seen a single person give her any money. She let us be. The show started and if the exclamations I made that the dancers “were all dudes” and dressed in a female belly dancing outfit the final straw was when I took a photo. The original woman screamed and started towards us. I didn’t fret until I saw the two large guys behind her that turned us to flee. As we pushed through the crowd I grabbed a handful of change, throwing it on the ground shouting “Free Money!” a la Bond (See mum those years of couch potatoing finally had a pay off). I am not exactly sure if they had already stopped pursuing but I like to think my my quick thinking saved us from the death penalty.

The one with the Angry Saffa

We left on the Friday (for Marrakech) from Heathrow which involved a 2hr boozey lunch with the work lads before heading off to the airport. I was in a rather happy mood and was trying to rub off on everyone we met. Unfortunately the x-ray guy was a complete tosspot and tried to rub us the wrong way. The girl had 2 clear bags full of liquids (as required now on flights) and we were told that this was unacceptable and could only take one. Deciding to make this guys day turn a little worse I decided that while the girl was combining hers in with mine to argue the point. It is not written anywhere that we are only allowed one anywhere near the x-ray machine. He said it was on the sign – which it wasn’t. He then said it was only on the sign at the start of the line – to which it wasn’t. He then said it was in the ‘flight regulations’ to which I replied I was happy to wait while he produced these ‘regulations’ for me to see. By this time we were ready to be on our way when someone in the line actually produced the e-ticket which states it. Alas this snooty man was correct. Unfortunately for him though I also read the fact that it was supposed to be a 1 litre plastic bag. The one they had provided was not even close to a litre so I decided to describe my disgust to this man for holding not only myself up but also the whole line with not providing us with a correctly sized bag. He was rather silent as I asked him to apologise to the whole line for this unnecessary delay and the fact that he should be leaving his attitude at home. His response was an embarrassed silence and I contently walked away.

After a resounding victory we had a bit of time to kill so we went to grab a 2 way ear phones plug so we could watch a movie on my PSP and both have sound. It took me some time to actually find what we were looking for and the Girl had lined up in anticipation as the queue was massive (which is a rather usual sight in the UK – I swear they see a line here and join it). As I reached her we had just hit the front of the line which had taken her about 10 minutes to get to. As the clerk called for the next person a gentleman quickly jumped in front of us (from the side) and asked a question about a camera. I figured it would be relatively quick and after the clerk said he did have the item in question the man said he would take it.

Deciding that I was on a role and not going to let this man interfere with the queuing system, I proceeded to let him know of his indiscretion. He turned around and in his most annoying Saffa accent declared that he was going to miss his flight because he was late. I stated that if he was going to miss it then there was no problem to join the back of the queue – a point the man ignored. Before I could say anything further, the girl jumped in front of the man and explained to the clerk about the line and we would appreciate he respect that. At this stage the Saffa was furious (if it was a cartoon there would have been steam shooting out the ears) and he through his package down and stormed off.

Content that we had beaten the queue jumper we apologised to the clerk for losing his 400 quid sale and produced our 2 pound item. While the girl was paying the Saffa decided to return to try and get some satisfaction from a verbal onslaught. “How can I explain to my son that I couldn’t get his birthday present because of some rude people not letting me grab things in a hurry?”
“The question is how can you look your son in the eye and tell him that you waited until the last minute to try and get a present for him, and didn’t have the decency to ask the people who queued up before you if you could please go ahead of them.”
“But my gift is more important and more expensive!”
“Are you that arrogant to believe that you are more important than anyone else in this line to even ask permission to go ahead because you’re in a hurry?”

At this stage I thought he was going to explode with anger so I mentioned about the apparent impending departure of his flight and wished him well in trying to convince his son that he actually does love him when he brings home no gift.

The one that's not about me

Not sure if anyone is still reading this but for those that are please take a fiver out of your day to check on the progress of my old man. While I am going to be doing it tough in a Riad in Marrakesh this weekend - he is going to be walking the Kokoda trail (you know the one from WWII?) over the next couple of weeks. The link is in the side bar so have a look if you can to offer some support.

The one with the annoying hangover

Following the epic day of ‘catching up’ with Hols and K, I had to take the girls on a sightseeing tour of London. Understandably after the previous night my head was running fire drills and stomach made me feel like a bulimic after eating a meat pie. I forced myself to get up and drink several litres of water, curiously wondering why I my thirst was so large - concluding I probably needed to drink more the previous night!

The day turned out to be the hottest this year for London – over 30 degrees, and while I had been waiting 6 months for such a day, was rather disappointed it occurred on a day much preferred on the couch nursing wounds caused from the previous night.

We set out from Wimbledon and the scummy feeling had no effect on Hols ability to spot the red buses “Argh – a red bus” she grumbled. Once on the tube we travelled on the District and Piccadilly lines that according to the girls contained 2 of the funnier stops of Barking and Cockfosters. Sore heads aside they erupted in giggles at both.

We began the walking at Piccadilly Circus and headed up to the Queens residence. Grabbing an ice cream on the way my stomach was twisting but held its nerve to keep it down. I proceeded to take the girls to my clock and Trafalgar Square. The fountains looked way too inviting that we decided to move on after a brief discussion whether or not I would get away with stripping down and wading. My argument (not well thought out) was that why are children allowed to meander naked in them while we sweat ourselves through the heat.

So I was dragged from my argument as we headed for the London Eye and a walk along the South Bank. The girls were surprised at the ‘street entertainers’ there (I use that term very loosely) and their ability to have no shame. We slowly progressed along the river up to Tower Bridge stopping at Bridget Jones place above the Globe for K’s enjoyment.

After London Tower we headed back to Putney for a well earned beverage. I g-pedometered the distance and it was almost 15kms. I also realised we could of done one of the get on / get off bus tours that would of stopped at every place we went. We ended up at the boat house on the river, met the girl and got a nice table outside. Hols continued to spot her buses.

I found great joy in watching what I can only describe as a ‘crazy lady’ interact with all the patrons outside of the pub. Not only was she talking to herself but everyone (and every object) around her. She had a table with a couple of chairs but yet wanted to stand. Because the place was packed everyone wanted a chair but she wouldn’t let up and kept them. Eventually she lost the lot when she went for another drink and I was forced to stop watching her as all 3 girls were scared she would come up and want to chat to us.

After a couple of hours it was getting late so we decided on some Mexican at Exquisito’s for dinner (and by ‘we’ decided I mean ‘I’ decided) which gave us an opportunity to fulfil Hols fantasy. A ride on a big red bus (I thought this might quell the bus spotting but as I later found out this was not the case). We had some rather tasty food and a fair bit of sangria before heading home. My hangover continued (possibly reoccurred) the next day but I would much rather have a hangover on the companies time when I am getting paid rather than on my own time.

The one with all the buses

Our Friday was a relatively quiet one (by my standards) so I will move straight on to the Saturday. Waking up on Sat morning the girl and I headed to the Larrick fairly early to get a good possie for the rugby. Unfortunately the rest of the punters (mainly kiwi’s) arrived before us so we were confined to the back of the pub but at least we got some comfy couch seats. Considering the time of morning and my belief that beers are an after midday type of beverage I started on the ciders.

I (like most Australians) was extremely happy with the result. It is good to see a coach finally get the best out of the Wallabies however unfortunate it is a Kiwi doing so. I also find it amusing after 2 losses in a row the “NZ rugby is in crisis!” headlines are out.

After the rugby the girl headed off to a friends BBQ and I headed back to Wimbledon. I met my Cousin and CM at the Dragon (what our local pub has changed its name too) for a couple of quiet beverages in the beer garden. From there I headed to Sth Wimbledon station to pick up Hols and K who were visiting me from Aus. They had just been through China, Mongolia and Russia and were very keen to hit it hard in an English speaking country (which I was happy to oblige). After dumping their gear we headed back to the Dragon for a catch up and to prep ourselves for the rest of the day. We sat outside so that Hols could see the double decker buses going past – apparently this is rather a novelty for people that haven’t seen them before. It was rather amusing to see someone get so much joy out of spotting them – until after about 20 minutes when at least 15 buses had gone by.

One of our other friends was in Kings Cross so we had to trek ourselves to Nth London. Jumping on the tube the girls couldn’t contain their laughter about heading through ‘Tooting’. I mentioned they should try and come to grips with it as over the next couple of days they would be hearing some much funnier stations.

Arriving at St Pancreas station we decided on a nice restaurant for some chow. We sat at one with I nice big window onto the street so Hols could continue to spot her buses. She was concentrating pretty hard on her task that by the time the waiter came to take our order she had no idea what she was getting and sent him away. The waiter frustratingly departed and we half joked that her meal would be receiving some massive loogies mixed in, but knowing it would probably be all of our meals receiving them.

After our meal it was apparent that our friend Maggs had come to the wrong bar so we had to trapes across town to Bricklane. Realising that the night was slipping away from us we jumped into a taxi which fulfilled one of K’s requests – sitting on the backwards seat of a black cab. Hols continued to spot her buses on the journey “there’s one, there’s one…… ooooh there’s another one!”
“No Hols that’s the same one!”

Alas we arrived in Bricklane and found the bar we were looking for. After a number of beverages later it was brought to my attention that the last tube was imminent. My sensible gene kicked in so we downed our drinks and made a beeline for the tube. Outside the station Hols jaw nearly hit the pavement when she saw close to 20 buses lined up. I had to grab her arm to continue on and make the tube.

While we were on the tube the discussion turned towards a bar in Clapham that some other friends were at - my sensible thoughts began to vanish and upon hearing the word Bierodrome (Belgo’s bar) my fate was sealed. So we alighted at Clapham and headed to the bar. Hols was now further impressed that the buses ran well into the night so her spirits were running high.

We entered the bar and tried a few standard Belgian beers before moving on to the Frulli. Frulli is a strawberry beer, that because of colour and name I don’t usually drink but unfortunately after a few regular beers (or many in my case) it tastes exceptionally good. After a couple of these the girls went to the bar and discovered the paddles. The paddles are a plank of wood with holes cut out for shot glasses filled with different types of Vodka. I cannot accurately remember what size paddle was purchased but the smallest is a 12 shot and I have the feeling I took the brunt of them.

I am told we left about half 3 to head home. I vaguely remember introducing the girls to the drunk mans best friend - the 99p mini fillet from the Colonel. As we walked I was in 2 minds whether or not to grab a taxi or the bus home, when I figured I should introduce the girls to one of the lesser known London icons – the minicab.

I walked up to one of the dodgy looking people loitering to the side of the road and heard the little “minicab?” whisper they use to get attention. (For those that don’t know they are not allowed to solicit business that is not from a phone call or call in to minicab shop. They use the whisper method at late nights to drum up some quicker business. This leads to anyone with a car with nothing to do on a Fri/Sat to head out and earn some cash. The fare is negotiated before you leave and is usually cheaper than a black cab).

After the driver got my attention he must have been surprised when I told him (without negotiation) he was taking us to Wimbledon via Tooting for a tenner and jumped into his car. The girls followed suit and the driver must have been cursing himself for not locking his car doors as a direct minicab from Clapham to Wimbles is usually £15 on its own. Never the less we were on our way to the sound of “Oooh there’s one, look another one….”
So we got home without any drama’s and hit the hay in order for some sleep before a day of sightseeing.

The one with Kylie's ex

The girl and I decided to have a little jaunt to Paris for the weekend. I had a mate there from Perth that I was going to catch up with. We were staying in St Germain in the 5th in a hotel I had gotten way too cheap. We had taken the Eurostar after work on Friday and gotten in about 8pm.

After checking in we walked down towards the Latin Quarter looking for somewhere to eat. The randomness of Paris means you can find a couple of good places next to each other or walk around for hours trying to find something. We had been walking for about 10 minutes when there was a manky dog slowly following his owner ahead of us. The girl was a little hesitant about the dog so we crossed over to the other side of the road to pass. As we were walking she stopped dead in her tracks upon realisation that the dogs owner was Olivier Martinez. For those that don’t know (like I hadn’t known) he is Kylie Minogues ex. Upon telling me this revelation her phone came out furiously texting her friends the information.

As he had stopped on the corner I crossed the street to give the dog a pat. My figuring was that being Kylie’s ex’s pet it is highly likely that she had also given the dog a good rub down (at the very least a scratch behind the ears). So any contact I had with the beast meant that I had also been in contact with Kylie. As I type this it appears to sound a little loose but rest assured I am sure she feels the same – we are now kindred spirits! After a good rub down, his tail was wagging and I could tell he instantly liked me - wanting me for his masters former flame.

Au Revoir!

The one with the Championships

For those reading this who don’t know (as you have been living under a rock on Mars) I live in Wimbledon. It is very well known (possibly not to Australians) by its postcode: SW19. The papers use that more than its name I guess because it is smaller to print which brings me to when they use it the most - The Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Club Championships. Back home we just refer it as Wimbledon but being the local now I have gotten well into the lingo. It was the girl’s birthday so we took the day off to go and spend it in the sun watching sport.

To get tickets to the tennis there are probably 6 options to go about it. Firstly they have a ballet in December the year before where you can obtain them. You can buy a corporate section for an astronomical amount. Date a tennis player to get into their box. Grab some tickets off a scalper (although there didn’t appear to be any outside as it was well patrolled). What most people do is actually sleep outside the venue overnight to get the tickets. The final option (and possibly the best) was to log onto ticketmaster at 8.30 the night before and grab them that way. It is apparent that nobody over here knows this option because everyone I have met are amazed I had gotten tickets. We got centrecourt seats, had a good night sleep / slept in and promptly turned up to the gate around midday to get straight in.

Once we arrived we grabbed some drinks – Pints of Pimm’s that cost 6 squidies each. I felt it was a massive ripoff but we were at the tennis with a bunch of snobs – and I was rather parched. Anyway we headed to centrecourt to see the first match – Federer vs Hewitt. Was rather lucky we got to see the little Aussie scamp (or knobhead as some of you may refer to him) but also the number one player in the world. The first set was a cracker – with Hewitt going down in a tie break. It was enough to get the Fanatics really excited and the Aussie chants were flowing. I don’t think we saw any emotion (or a clap) from Bec except a couple of squeaky “C’mon Lleyton!” I was wondering if she felt duped into marrying a former #1 who is well out of his prime and now has to suffer a couple of early round victories before defeat before the quarters. Perhaps she could cling to the fact that Hewitt was actually the last player to win Wimbledon before Federer’s streak commenced but I doubt it.

So onto the second and third sets. They were over quicker than I could type that sentence. It didn’t stop the Aussie chants – even after Hewitt had cleared off to the dressing room.

So we departed from centrecourt to grab some more gold laced Pimm’s and headed to ‘the hill’ to relax in the sun. We watched Nadal on the big screen demolish his opponent and I said at the time he might go all the way this year (he just appeared to have a bit more determination than Federer but I was thinking to attribute this to the fact that Federer was playing Hewitt). The hill wasn’t all that interesting. A massive crowd of people watching a game on the big screen. The fact that it was a sunny 28 degrees increased the atmosphere but I was reluctant to feel the worth of spending a bit of money on tickets to get into SW19 to over pay for drinks and watch it on TV. I was very glad to have seats. After a while we left the plebs to grab a bite to eat and return to our seats on centrecourt. The women’s game was finishing up and I had taken less than zero amount of interest in the female draw since Sharapova was felled the previous week.

The final game was between a plucky Frenchman against “the future of British tennis” as he is referred to here when he is winning, Andy Murray (he is actually a Scot). The first 2 and a half sets presented the Brit with a massive touch up and I figured to be home at an early hour. Finally towards the back end of the 3rd set, the Brit showed some fight and came from down match point to steal it. Game on. I think the Brit had gone to the “Hewitt school of motivation” because he had a little scream at every point he won and was trying very hard to get the crowd involved.

I won’t bore anyone with details but it was a pretty exciting match from this point and four and a half hours later the Brit won over the Frenchy. The circumstances were a little controversial as the light was very poor when the Brit was serving for the match – but the crowd (except me) got what it wanted and the Brit moved on to face Nadal. If you didn’t know Nadal beat the Scot (following the papers lead he is referred to as a Scot after he loses – I kid you not) in game more one sided than a Zimbabwe election.

I was very thankful for the awesome weather we had and rated the day highly. We were rather fortunate to get some good matches as well which probably made the difference. The only thing I will be changing next year is 1. Make sure I see Sharapova and 2. Sneak in some booze.

The one with the £625 glass of Whiskey…

Well my Saturday started off pretty much the same as usual – with a nasty hangover and some morning rugby. This one was different however because instead of drinking throughout the afternoon we decided to take it easy in anticipation of the evening. I can tell you now what a smart option that turned out to be.

The girl and I went to meet Penfold and Boss Hog who were visiting from Sydney at a bar near Victoria Station. We were there for a while and had a number of drinks before moving on to another bar. Penfold’s brother decided to lead us not far to a rather exclusive and ritzy bar called Boisdale.

We walked up to the door and had to knock on the window only to be greeted by a large gruff looking man who I assumed ate small puppies for snacks. Penfold’s brother is pushing 5ft so I figured it would be a rather amusing story if he had of said the wrong thing. He asked if the manager was working and I found out later that he works at a similar one in central (and actually used to be his boss while working at this particular club).

Once the manager appeared to let us in we were led down past a 3 piece jazz band who were playing some lively tunes. It didn’t occur to me until later that they were actually facing the wall while they played (whether for show and effect I wasn’t so sure).

Finding our table we were seated to have a look around at the various stuffed animals, old guns and tidbits lining the walls. The best description I can give of this place is a cross between a 1930’s style gun club with an old prohibition gangster bar. Probably the coolest thing was an AK-47 across a boars head over the bar.

We had a couple of bottles of particularly expensive Champagne (yes the real stuff) before the boys decided to move onto the whiskey. I don’t think I have ever seen a list quite like it – the list of whiskeys was 22 pages long and had some interesting selections.

Upon scanning the list I found that for a measly 625 squid you can get “The Macallan 1946, 56 year old.” Check out the range here: http://www.boisdale.co.uk/pdfs/belgravia/wisky08.pdf. Unfortunately nobody decided to give that one ago so I don’t have any feedback. Penfold’s brother and friend decided to have “The Macallan Vintage 1974, 30 year old” that was exceptional. It had a slight smokey flavour and although the price tag was a little exorbitant (to say the least), I think is probably one of the finest alcohols I will ever taste.

It was when Penfold’s brother headed to the boys room that I had a devious idea. We called the manager over to grab us a glass of the cheapest (and hence worse tasting) whiskey and swapped out the glass with his 30 year old vintage. Being a manger of one of these bars should mean he has a keen nose (probably taste as well) for the finer types. The funny thing was on his return to the table he didn’t immediately clue in to the stitch up. After a couple of sips and a bit of nose turning from others who sampled he compared it to the good stuff in his friends glass. To his disgust he realised that something was a miss and clued in to the culprits after we rolled around howling with laughter.

Just after the prank my sophisticated side (read drunk side) decided that I needed to up the stakes and move onto my martini. Alas it wasn’t on the menu which gave me the opportunity to slip into my best British accent “a dry martini in a deep champagne glass, three measures of Gordon's gin, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet vermouth shaken not stirred [long pause for effect] Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon-peel.” Ahhh the Vesper – a drink oozing of class and respect. Unfortunately none of the traits made me look any better in my tatty t-shirt and yellow sneakers (mind you I was still oozing of quality swagger which the ladies clearly noticed).

By the time we left there was a substantial amount of the rich and snobby fellow patrons rolling around in a drunken state. It is good to see that the “social elite” (in their minds anyway) have the ability to get blotto with the rest of us. I am now saving my pennies for a return trip, to find out what a £625 glass of whiskey will taste like…

The one with the indoor golf

A couple of the girls at work decided to organise a night out in central. Being the committed to work type of guy I am it was only fitting to attend. I headed in with 2 of the other guys in my team and met at a place called Bar Red next to Carnaby St. On arrival we were told that we were 2 drinks behind. It made perfect sense to me that I would have to down a pint and shot to catch up. For some reason they got me a shot of Wild Turkey thinking I might find it repulsive but was shocked when I complained it wasn’t the stronger tasting Rare Breed.

The group decided to all throw in for a kitty (which as a fairly reasonable drinker usually always works out in my favour). When we learned the destination of our dinner was closed for renovations we decided to skip looking for another place in favour of a more liquid meal.

Several drinks later we ventured off to the main act for the evening – Urban Golf. This basically involved you teeing up and hitting a ball at a giant image being projected onto a big screen. Somehow it calculates from where the ball contacts the screen, the direction, speed etc it is travelling and displays accordingly. It was quite a novel idea – especially after a few drinks.

What I have now come to realise is there is a direct relationship between how much alcohol has been consumed to how much ones ability (or lack of) deteriorates with a golf club. I must say that my putting was exceptional – especially considering I had forgone the putter option to roll the ball at the hole. My chipping improved when again I rid my self of the club in favour of a decent throw. Unfortunately I must throw like a girl because on the drive I couldn’t seem to throw all that far. This brought on my Happy Gilmore style and although I had to jump a small barrier on my run up – I produced the best drives of the day.

We certainly must have been playing rather slow as in 2hrs we only managed three and a half holes. I don’t exactly remember where we went after leaving but I know I was buying drinks (completely forgetting the kitty) and a few lasses (unknown to me) threw an order in with mine. They thanked me and walked off but it was only later someone told me what they had done.

After a couple of more bars we eventually decided to call it an evening. As it was rather late, I was not sure exactly what time only that I had missed the last tube home (1am). It was apparent that I had to try and get the night bus. Being the former Boy Scout my preparedness was rather shallow as I had no clue where it left from or what number to get. Deciding to follow my mate who lives in Kingston in the direction of his stop I was fortunate enough for an offer to crash on his couch. Jumping on the bus, we set off. The thing with the bus is it goes in every direction before arriving at your destination.

We began chatting but after an hour my mate had nodded off to sleep. He had told me it would be about 2 hours to reach his place so I decided to watch the scenery go by. A couple of minutes later I realised we were going past Wimbledon station. What luck I had thought jumping up to get off. I pressed the bell and tried to wake up my mate. His snoring got louder. Shaking him violently and lifting his eyelids did nothing so I decided to leg it off the bus and send him a text message.

I sent the message and decided to grab an evening delicacy for the short walk home. Within minutes I arrived home, kebab in hand and dropped to find my resting place on the couch.

My phone woke me the next morning with an SMS. I sat up with half the kebab encrusted on my face and some Saturday morning cartoons in the background. My mates reply to my message was a confused “What the hell are you talking about?” so I went into my sent messages and looked at the one I had sent “Got off on Bus so no need to come back to urs cheers anyway.”

It took a little explaining to get out of that one especially considering he didn’t remember us getting a bus home at all.

The one with the memory loss

This story might turn into a long one so I will start from the beginning….

I woke up at a reasonable hour on Saturday morning to go and watch the Wallabies game from the Larrick in Putney. I had taken along the girl and the Muppet met us there. The game started at 10am and considering it was before midday I wasn’t prepared to start drinking beers……. pause for shocked gasps……. so we decided a nice cider might be appropriate (it’s like a fruit juice right?).

The game was not all that convincing but a win is a win and I thought the new look team, only having been together for 2 weeks, with a new coach, faired pretty well. If anyone is asking (which I am sure you are not but it is my Blog so I will type it anyway) I probably wouldn’t have started Barnes with Giteau, instead bringing on Cross at inside (yes I am aware of the position change) to shore up the backline’s defence a bit better. I thought the pack did well but our front row is still appalling (more noticeably without the ELV’s in place) and Sharpe should be shelved for good (bring on the young talent) as he is only there because of his dominance in the lineout. But I digress…

After the rugby finished the girl headed off to get her hair done – which looks fabulous (is that what I am supposed to say?). The Muppet and I continued drinking before we were surrounded by Saffa’s for the next match. For some reason we decided to stay and cheer on the Welsh team. They certainly impressed me in the first half so it was quite a good afternoon with lots of drinks. After the game finished I was required to head to the Albion in North London to meet with a mate from Perth that was working in Paris. The Muppet had a ‘blindish date’ that night (he had only met her while being very drunk and didn’t recall what she looked like) so decided, contrary to my beliefs and persistent taunting, an afternoon drinking with me was not going to prepare him for it.

We downed our beers, left to some glorious sunshine and went our separate ways. It was about mid afternoon and I was feeling a little drunk but figured a tube ride may help to sober me up. I arrived at the bar and was (jealously) told I looked a little smashed. Taking this as a complement we continued to drink. There had gathered a large number of antipodeans so the drinking progressed rather well. At about 6pm the memory gets a little hazy, and this is where the story should of been ending…

Disclaimer: The following is a recount pieced together from the reports of the people who may have seen me that evening. I cannot attest to the accuracy of these facts (and as you all know I am not one to embellish a story…).

According to my mate from Paris we had some shots before I departed around 7pm to go meet the girl, my cousin and CM for dinner. I met the girl in Bank tube station before heading to Tooting Broadway. It was said that I was running all over the place trying to get phone reception as it is a large station and also connected to Monument, so the girl did an excellent job in finding me and getting me to Tooting. CM mentioned I had told her later upon exiting the tube I had gotten confused and thought that because it was still rather light (around 9.30pm) I had thought it was first thing in the morning and we had been out all night. We found my cousin and CM and headed to the restaurant. Apparently the restaurant was a vegetarian Indian cuisine type of place.

Allegedly I did enjoy the food (although without meat I am not convinced this was the case) and was rather talkative with the wait staff (which is probably the case). The reason for the dinner was to thank my cousin and CM for picking me up at the airport when I first arrived (all those many months ago) so I had kept demanding they eat more food. Towards the end of the evening Matt had some menu envy of CM’s dessert and I took it upon myself to order another one for him. I can only imagine his horror after the dessert arrived, as a joke, I swirled the spoon in it and sent it back exclaiming it was finished.

A few bottles of wine later we ended up being herded out of the place – but not before my lecturing of the owner on the 2 fundamental problems with his restaurant. The first being the fact I could only pay with cash and the second being the fact there was no meat on the menu. Apparently my argument was anytime I go into a place accommodating meat eaters there were always a few token veggie dishes to appease the grass eaters, and thus we should not be persecuted when entering the vegetarian domain. I hope he took it all in good fun because I would actually like to go and see if the food is any good (in a state where I would remember it).

From there I believe we headed back to SW19 for some well earned slumber. It was estimated I got to bed at around 2am. Surprisingly, after a good 16hr session, my hangover was only a Force 7 on the Beaufort scale. I am thinking that it was a direct result of my Nacho / Fajita breakfast combo but will try my theory out this weekend and let you know.
Thinking back about the whole day I was rather impressed by my efforts to crawl around all the different areas of London (clearly most of it in a less than quality state) and wind up home unscathed. On further consideration (I can’t believe I am going to type this) the new alcohol ban on the tube probably helped me out in giving me a few small ‘breather’ sessions in between.

The one with the Foo Fighters

So I got a text on Wednesday that said "Do you want tickets to Foo Fighters on Friday" to which I had to reply "Shit yeah".

They played Wembley.

They were awesome.

There was a minute long triangle solo...

The one with the Sunday Session

My tenure here in London was finally rewarded with a beautifully sunny day yesterday that we had to take advantage of. We had spent all morning getting our couch into the living room (having spent the last 3 months in my room). This was not an easy process as the hallway was too narrow to manoeuvre it through the door and when we stood it up it clashed with the glass panel above the door. The only 2 solutions were to either remove the glass panel or bring it in through the window. Being up on the first floor the second option was not preferred so I took it upon myself to try the second. In the end I had removed the glass pane and door frame and 4hrs later we managed to squeeze it through. By this time it was about 1pm and my cousin and I had decided to set out for some well earned beers and lunch.

I invited along the girl I have been seeing and in no time we were sitting in a beer garden in Wimbledon Village with our first pint of Staro (for those wondering Staropramen is a very nice Czech beer that a lot of pubs serve over here – in fact it has replaced Kronenberg 1664 as my first choice). The sun was shining, the drinks were flowing and the randomness was occurring. There was a guy painting the street and our table was included in his painting. I was stoked to find we were actually in the painting (well the back of us anyway). After I had spoken to the man about what I actually thought of the painting he took it upon himself to remove us from it and replace us with some old fogies. The beer garden is right next to the Wimbledon Stables so it was rather amusing to see the poor stable hands have to come out and clean up the horse mess with many drunken hecklers.

Although I have been meaning to have a traditional Sunday roast from a pub here (even as it was beef with Yorkshire pudding) I was swayed by the burger adding Brie cheese and bacon, and a side of chips. I must say it was a rather tasty burger.

Once the sun went down we decided to head (stagger) back down the hill and for some reason stopped for a drink at an Irish bar. My cousin kept going to catch the +1 of big brother (which he is addicted to). For some reason he thinks a cross dressing blind man, an American albino who talks like a gangster, and a fake wedding between a 19 year old glamour and a 42 year old hairy Italian is entertainment. (Although I must admit the Tourettes winner from a couple of years ago was hilarious).

The thing with Irish bars is that people are either really drunk or working there (not necessarily separate). I don’t know what was funnier. The old guy who fell off his stool many times (to his credit never spilt a drop), the guy who ordered a shot with every beer to pour over his head or the lady who was serenading (rather loudly) her poker machine in order for it to pay out (I don’t actually think she put any money in). What was stranger, these individuals, or us for not thinking anything unusual was occurring (I had to ask about it today for confirmation that I hadn’t dreamt it up)?

After we left the Irish bar it seemed like a good idea to grab some more alcohol and head home to order a pizza. I would be lying if I could tell you what was on the pizza or what actually occurred after we ate it but I do remember stumbling into bed around 2am.

Deservingly I woke up at 9.30 with a massive hangover. Rather than take the day off I foolishly jumped on a train for work. At lunch today I took my full hour and went for a sleep in the park. I was woken up by a dog licking my face only to realise I had missed the start of a meeting (lucky for me it had been cancelled). Why is it that the days you know are going to be slow always turn into massive workloads after a previous night of indiscretion?

I thought about the day and was pretty happy a traditional Perth style Sunday Session had been achieved – minus the Cott/OBH and late night kebab. I don’t actually think there will be too many more Sunday Sessions, as while I type this my head is pounding and knowing I should have been home over an hour ago....

Gatecrasher Line-up

I did see a number of artists over the weekend – and needless to say I probably cannot remember them all, however for anyone interested here are my grades of some of them.

Paul Oakenfold – Noted as one of the greatest Trance DJs of all time he produced a harder trance set than usual but worked though some good mixes. He threw in some samples from a few of his albums that I recognised (and had “Southern Sun” from Bunkka - one of my all time favourite tracks). The tent was rigged with the usual lasers, fireworks and giant screens that were used to full advantage. All in all a grand performance that I was impressed to be in attendance of. An A+ when comparing to any other act in the arena but by Oakies standard: A-

Alex Metric – He played a wicked beats set early on in the day that I am not usually a fan of. He kept the tempo consistent with the crowd and seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. Having never heard of him I was definitely impressed with his set enough to want to further investigate some of his work: B+

Chicane – They got started rather well but seemed to drag themselves into a repetitive slumber about midway through. They could of definitely done better in the playlist but I believe they were resting on the “live band experience” to pull them through: C

Paul Van Dyke – This was a hard one to judge as I caught the first and last parts of the set which I believed were rather good (prossibly worthy of an A). However others that saw the set as a whole tell me he went awol in the middle with some strange mixing. So on that basis have decided: B

DJ Yoda – On the name alone I was intrigued to see how this went but it was good to see that his mixing included not only the sound but was integrated into the visuals on screen. Maybe I was swayed by some of the Star Wars clips but it was very well done: B+

Prodigy – Having seen these guys about 10 years ago (and not remembering them to be impressive) I wasn’t jumping out of my shoes to catch them. The set itself was good but I can only imagine it hasn’t changed in the last 10 years: B-

Audio Bullies – These guys had a very English crowd there that annoyed the socks off me. I felt it was the same poxies that usually hit the drum and bass stages – although a bit more savage. The set was opened with “Shot you down” (the sampled Nancy Sinatra song) that went on for a little too long. It did get the crowd into it. Unfortunately that’s the same song they ended the set with and by that stage I was looking to be shot down: D

Chemical Brothers - Unfortunately due to the inclement weather the Chemical Brothers could not play on the main stage. Other bands were relocated to tents but due to CB’s popularity they were cancelled amid fears for peoples safety with overcrowding of tents: F

The one with the Festival

(I had thought to name this “The Running Man part III (The Sleeping Man)” but decided against it to give him a reprieve this week)

Last weekend I went to the Summer Sounds Festival up near Silverstone with my cousin and a few of our mates. We were fortunate enough to be driven there by Chrystal (which led me to quote one of my favourite bands – when somebody asked me how we were getting to the festival I got to reply “We are taking the Crystal Method”) however the other less fortunate lads had to get a bus there. This meant we had the luxury of leaving for the festival when we wanted.

The story began on the Friday night, when I had decided to catch up with the Running man in Clapham Junction for a couple of pints after work. The Wolf and his flatmate also came along. Unbeknownst (yes - I had to spell check that one) to me they had arranged to head to a birthday party in Clapham Common for a girl they new. As this was close to the tube station on the line to my place (Clapham Junction is not) I thought this to be a good idea.

We proceeded to the bar and found out that our table received free shots for booking in advance. This was rather good considering there was about 7 of us – although we told the barkeep there was 20 of us (for a couple of shots each) which set the tone for the evening. Just after midnight I realised my last tube would be soon so I made a hasty goodbye to everyone and departed for home. Needless to say I was in a rather drunken state but managed to find my way home and into bed.

I got up about 9 (with a rather sore head) to make my way to Chrystal’s to go for a quick shop and grab a lift to the festival. Having seen 3 missed calls from the Running man (logged at around 3am) I figured the festivities must of dragged on further into the evening. The drive was rather long (bank holiday traffic is a nightmare I am told) so I took the opportunity to grab a few extra z’s on the backseat.

Once we arrived we carried our gear (probably only a mile but seemed like I was walking 10 with a collection of gym weights), set up the tents and headed into the arena. At this stage I texted a few of the boys with no response. I didn’t find this particularly surprising considering the event of the festival.

As the afternoon progressed into the evening we headed to the main stage where I was confronted by a very desperate Running man exclaiming, “Holy shit I can’t believe I found you!” He then proceeded to tell me the past events of the evening. Basically, he had not really remembered me leaving the bar – and certainly had not remembered how he got home, but woke up at around 11.45am with his bus leaving at midday. Not really knowing what his next move should be he frantically searched for his phone only to come up empty. (At almost a simultaneous moment in his recap my phone buzzed a message from the Wolfe enquiring as to whether or not I had seen the Running Man, apparently they had been calling him for the last 9 hours trying to find out what had happened). After he realised he didn’t have a phone the Running Man headed into the bus station to see if he could grab a lift on one of the later ones. It had taken until the last bus of the day for a spare seat to crop up, but he was finally on his way around 3pm. I am still at a loss how he had expected to find anyone at a festival of 60,000 punters, with no phone or clue where to look for people. I guess it is one of the good things about these events – you do actually bump into people regardless of how packed it gets.

The festival had fantastic weather (I don’t know how to type sarcasm but the last sentence was soaked with it). The wind howled, the rain fell from the sky and the pitch turned muddier than last nights curry. I was rather glad I had gotten a half decent tent as everyone else I know ended up sleeping in a river. By the Monday afternoon, with the wind and rain still causing havoc I decided to ditch the tent where it lay, and not surprisingly estimated at least 90% of my fellow campers had done the same.

The drive home was met with another well deserved sleep and I would have to say a rather good weekend was had by all. Unfortunately on the first night a man was found dead in one of the tents. The circumstances have not been released but I must say it is good to go to a festival with a group of close friends so that everyone looks after each other.

I will now post my highlights in case any of you were wondering my thoughts

The one with the Clown Shoes

I have often wondered what a sure-fire way of approaching girls was without immediately getting rejected. Last Friday night I believe to have found what could be described as being the closest. In my search for the solution it appeared that I had not thought ‘outside of the box’. It is not the process of approaching the girl that is the key – just the fact that the conversation is initiated.

Friday night began by gathering at a friends house who I had worked with in Perth, to have a couple of pre-drinks before heading out. He lived in a nice area in Clapham Common. There were a few people there and we had the Nintendo Wii cranking to get into the party mode. On a side note may I suggest you not play the Olympics game on this before you go out because it relies on some pretty intense physical activity that will draw a massive sweat.

Anyway we played a number of different events that had us all in stitches. I was a little while into my second beer before I noticed the footwear that the Wolf had chosen to don for the evening – clown shoes. I was wondering how I had missed these as they stood out fairly prominently. The background on the shoes was that on a trip to Dublin the previous week, the Wolf had picked them up rather inebriated. This was confirmed by the ‘left’ and ‘right’ scrawled on them in case it wasn’t clear which feet to put them on. The shoes themselves looked like oversized bowling shoes, were about twice as long as normal, half red, half yellow, with a massive bulge at the end like somebody’s toes had been attacked by a mallet.

After we had downed a couple of more beverages we decided to head to a bar and to my surprise the Wolf continued to wear the shoes. We arrived at a place in the Common called the People’s Republic (a cocktail bar of sorts). I had grabbed my drink and gotten a good possie to see if the Wolf actually was allowed in. He was let in and to my further surprise the bouncers did not even bat an eyelid.

This is where the shoes begin to work there magic. However silly they look, once the females caught sight of the shoes they were instantly intrigued. I am not sure if it is in their genes but I found that something inside of them wanted to find out more. As I spoke to the Wolf, ladies started to come up to begin conversations with him, and the subject was rarely about the shoes. I pondered this further and realised they didn’t really care to know about the shoes – they wanted to know about the guy who wears them.

I am not really sure that the Wolf knew how powerful the shoes were, but once it caught on, all of the gents in the party wanted to have a go. As the night wore on it progressed to a dance off in the shoes with each guy trying to outdo his predecessor and still the ladies came up for a chat.

At the end of the night proving the power of the clown shoes, the Wolf woke up in a bed that wasn’t his own - minus the shoes (that no doubt Gollum had claimed as his precious). It is safe to say that once this power is found out we will have a mass of Ron McD look a likes trooping around the bars. I am almost intrigued enough to purchase a pair of my own.

The Jogging Fox

I am finally home from offshore. Having just come off night shift I am waking up at 4am in the morning with no chance of going back to sleep. This morning it got to about 4.30 before I decided to go for a jog. I left my flat and started off only to be confronted by a fox on the other side of the road about 100m along. He looked at me with an expression of “are you seriously jogging at this time of the morning?” Now I wouldn’t say Wimbledon was a particularly rural area, although there are a number of large parks in the vicinity, but I had seen a couple in the distance late at night.

What happened next amazed my socks off. As I kept jogging the fox crossed the road and came up beside me. It freaked me out a little bit to say the least as I wasn't sure how aggressive these things were considering my only experience with foxes was from Basil Brush. I figured (like all Australian wildlife) that it should of been afraid of me, scampering away and not stalking me as his prey. But no he decided to run along beside me presumably to keep me company.

He probably figured I was a bit of a loon being up so early for some exercise and thought something interesting may happen. Either that or was enjoying the Matt Darey set blaring out of the earphones. Every time I looked down at him he was looking back with a questioning, “What else would I be doing this morning?”

So we jogged on for a rather long way before we hit Wimbledon Common (which has a big park). The distance – 3km (I gmap-pedometered it). Can you believe I had a faithful fox jogging with me for 3km (which probably tells you more about my pace than anything). It was rather impressive and yes, I was making grand plans in my mind for the two of us to jog the London marathon together.

Unfortunately though this is where he decided to depart from me. He caught sight of a grey squirrel (in my defence the squirrel was particularly tasty looking so I took no offence) and bolted. I didn’t see if he actually caught the thing but given the jog he had just been on I wagered he hadn’t.

I now had to turn around and head home solo. I had run a little further than I anticipated (I have only been jogging 5 kms offshore) but the tired muscles were worth it.

I am going to try and get out of bed tomorrow at the same time just in case he is waiting. I might even grab my camera. Failing that (and you all know this is the likely scenario) I shall wait until the weekend and look for him as I stagger home in the wee hours.

UPDATE: I did get up this morning and went for my jog only to be disappointed the critter was nowhere around. I was an hour later so I presume he got sick of waiting around.

Aussies – the butt of English jokes?

Working offshore is a funny occupation that draws all types from around the world. My past experiences have involved working mainly offshore in Australia / NZ and parts of Asia. Working in these places usually has a large proportion of Australian and NZ crews so the whole experience is familiar.

It probably took me a couple of days offshore to realise that being the only Australian I was the butt of all the jokes. Being an engineer offshore you usually cop a fair bit of playful abuse and this was compounded by the fact I was an Aussie.

It was a rather strange experience for me – being the foreigner. I think every other situation I had been in had me in the majority. I had certainly taken liberty to dish out a fair amount of (deserved and undeserved) nationality heckling. I guess that is my playful nature and you would all know how much I can love a good argument. And without trying to sound pigheaded I feel have probably won my fair share of them as well. This was always bound to change at some stage and offshore my ‘uppance’ had come.

The problem with the heckling I was receiving – I had very little (but mainly no) comeback.

The rugby was a favourite of theirs and reaffirms my position that England are the worst winners possible. Is this because they rarely win and never expect too, so when they finally do they don’t know how to react but want to gloat for as long as possible? The last match we had been beaten by them. End of story. This argument will not change until the Wallabies get revenge on the 15th of November at Twickenham. And if revenge is not served – mum I am coming home early.

Cricket is off the cards as we haven’t played them for a while and most of the crew don’t give a shit about the game anyway.

Rugby League? I haven’t actually found anyone living here that watches it.

I was at a loss to find a sport that we were currently better in. If only Webber was driving for Ferrari.

Finally I tried to argue how good our country was to live in – I could see they all agreed but then a quick “why are you not living there” shut me down.
“The reasons I am here are for an adventure and the ease to get to Europe.”
“So Australia is not so great on location?”
“No it is awesome – especially because its so far from England”
“So why are you living in England?”
“To watch the Euro Cup”
(For those that don’t know this is the only way to shut down a Pom this year. England failed to qualify for the European Cup and this is a rather sore point, however do not use it frequently because they will realise that Australia is not part of Europe and could never qualify)

I think living in London, however far from home, I have been sheltered from feeling like the foreigner probably as it is truly an international city. I know I have to eventually succumb to the fact that I am far from home, but I hate losing to the Brits – especially on their home turf.
Note: If anyone does have some valid sledging I can use for the next time I go offshore please post it – I am going to need it.

Offshore Entertainment

I am not really sure how to approach this subject so I will try to just relate the facts and let you make your own judgement. It is rather common knowledge that most of the offshore crew have a rather large hard drive filled with all kinds of 'performing ladies' that they utilise in the privacy of their cabins. I am certainly not passing judgment, I mean who can blame them? Some of the guys are here for 6 months at a time.

Anyway, I am currently on a dive vessel called the Pelican. It is not a new vessel but as per all North Sea boats has been fitted out with all the glam. Internet, phones, and most importantly - satellite TV. We have about 20 channels (mainly British), a couple of Norwegian ones and (for those of you who have travelled over here) Canal+. During the day Canal plays mainly movies with the odd sitcom. Around midnight (until usually 3am), canal takes a slightly different approach to entertainment, by throwing on a couple of 'Adult entertainment' movies.

Being on the night shift (midnight to midday) I have never really gotten the chance to experience this channel - until tonight. I got up a little earlier this evening to clean out the nights work so by about 2am I would be free to go and watch some of the NBA finals which were showing on Five. As I walked down to the main TV area I heard an unusual sound of moans and grunts. Entering the main area I was confronted by you guessed it - Hardcore pornography. It puzzled me a little to see a member of our crew (hopefully off shift) sitting there on the couch glued to the set. He paid no attention whatsoever to myself or several others of the crew walking by.

Now this TV was situated in the most public area - right in the middle of the apex where the galley, locker rooms and accommodation meet. It was a little strange that he had chosen this TV location as there were 2 other more private areas with dimmed lighting that could of been utilised for a little bit more discretion. Unfortunately I couldn't go to the other areas because there is no paging service in case I am required up in dive control. Alas I figured the poor man had been away for a rather long stint and was trying to fill up his spank bank before retiring for the evening, so I left him in peace. Bumping into the cook on my way out our conversation turned to the horny individual and I was a little perplexed to learn that he had only been on the vessel for 4 days. I couldn't believe after 4 days this chap had resorted to a dose of public pornography.

About an hour later I headed back down to see if this man had moved on - only to find that he hadn't. He had however found a blanket to throw over himself while continuing to watch his stick flick - and let me tell you his hands were no where to be found. I was shocked. I made a beeline for the exit etching into my brain which couch to NEVER sit on again. 4 Days people! I am very thankful that I should be off this boat on Saturday sometime as I don't really know how this fella is going to cope when he hits 8 days - that's a spectacle I don't want to see.

Just a quiet night out in Scotland

I headed to Aberdeen for a couple of days before I went offshore to get my head around the procedures and meet the crew. We were scheduled to go offshore on the Saturday but it was delayed until late Sunday. I headed out on Saturday morning to purchase a book and a pair of joggers which seemed a lot harder than you would expect. Do the Scots not exercise? The extra night was a good opportunity to catch up with a friend I used to work with in Perth. He had played rugby all day so I met him for a couple at his rugby club so we could feast on some cheap chow and beers.

After a couple we headed into "town", which is actually only one street (Union st) to begin the festivities. Where we ended up spun me out big time. The place is called "Soul Bar" which is inside an old church (Mmmmm Sacrilecious). I thought this was very cool especially seeing the DJ up in the pulpit mixing away. Apparently there is also a Casino upstairs. Unfortunately this bar was rather tame (from my blogging point of view) but cool none the less.

What actually struck me as a ridiculous thing to do was the way the young lasses dressed. It appeared that practical warm clothing (including as very little as a coat) are out this season and skimpy (well ok slutty) outfits are in. I understand that these girls like to catch the eye of a bloke while walking down the street but catching pneumonia as well? It wasn't just in transit either these girls were "hanging out" in the street - nipple tents pitched.

We ended up in a bar with the rugby team and it was familiar surroundings. Lots of Saffa's, Kiwi's and Aussie's - and lots of shots. This is where the memory fades and I can only recall waking up to my phone ringing at 8am with a voice proclaiming "The boat is early I will pick you up in halfa."

Struggling out of bed I made it to the boat on time and managed a couple of hours kip before my shift. The thing that confused me however was finding a receipt in my wallet for £35 for the taxi ride - that should of been a tenner. I can only come to one of 3 conclusions 1. I was ripped off, 2. In my drunken happy state I generously gave the lad a massive tip, 3. I tried to navigate us home myself using my in built navigational system and the stars. Unfortunately I don't think I will ever find out but I am thankful I had asked for the receipt so the mistake is burden on the company.

The Running Man (part II)

This could turn into a running saga (no pun intended)….
Friday afternoon arrives and it is decided to have a couple of drinks at ‘Revolution’ in Clapham Jn. Those who may know this place as a Vodka bar (that does awesome Nacho’s) would know it has about 50 different flavours of Vodka. So meeting a couple of guys from another offshore company for a few Friday drinks there seemed a rather nice idea. After a couple of beers (and nachos) the Running Man decides that a couple of flavours of Vodka should be tasted. Enter the shots – luckily he was talked out of trying them all. We receive a couple of paddles of vodka flavours (Rasberry, strawberry, and a couple of others that I couldn’t grasp the taste of).

A bit later I needed to head to Shoreditch to a farewell party for some of my cousins mates that are heading back to Australia. It was essential that I turned up because they have rather generously given us a lot of furniture, kitchenwares, tv etc to fill our flat. Now I bring the Running Man and another mate, who will be known as the Wolf (ok probably not the hardest Alias to decipher), along as it should be a good club. The Wolf picks up some beers for the trip and we head on our merry way. The trip there was rather rowdy and it was noticeable that nobody was sitting near us in the carriage. We arrive at Old St station and the Wolf makes a dash for some amenities as The Running Man and I slowly make our way out. After leaving the station and finding the Wolf it is apparent that the Running Man has vanished into thin air. After a couple of attempts to call him, he finally answers the phone with an “I have no idea where I am!” After several minutes of searching the Wolf finds him outside of a service station munching on some chow – and being leered at by some very nefarious characters. Making a quick exit and heading to our party it is clear that the Running Man is almost out of a comprehensible vocabulary.

Arriving at the party we grab some beers and the Running Man decides to talk to anyone within his vicinity about whatever slurs from his mouth. At this stage of the evening (about 10.30) it is advised by the host that he should be taken for a walk around the park to sober up a tad before he can continue. The Wolf decides to drag the Running Man out never to be seen again. Now I cannot elaborate on the rest of their evening because I have only spoken to the Running Man whose memory vanishes around about the time we left the Vodka bar. But I can imagine the Wolf realising a lost cause when he sees one, escorting the Running Man home.


The rest of the evening turned out to be a rather big one for myself, as once the club closed we went back to the hosts house to kick on. The night is a little blurred from here but I remember walking a ridiculously long way to the tube stop to get the Northern line home (5km I am told – although it seemed a lot less). Once on the tube I had a little snooze which made me go past my stop. Luckily it was near the end of the line and I actually woke up as the tube was heading back North. It was a bit of a shock thinking I had timed it well until I came out on the wrong side of the carriage and slowly worked out what must have happened. I remembered a few other people in the tube who had still been asleep and wondered had they done something similar. You’ve got to love getting the tube home this early in the morning with a large crowd of stragglers whose evening has been as big as yours.

Movie Review - Vantage Point

For those who want to go and see the movie no need to read on. Please by all means go and judge this one for yourself (snicker, snicker) then come back and read my thoughts.

For those wanting to hear whether or not it is worth it: What a piece of crap. Let’s film 23 minutes worth of a movie, and replay it over 7 times ‘from different peoples perspective’ that essentially is the same story, so that people will be duped into paying good money to see it. The concept was so ridiculous that I initially thought – “Wow this could be interesting.” Well let me tell you, NO IT’S NOT. This must have been written during the writers strike because I feel pretty comfortable with my ability to write a movie about a dwarf on a pogo stick talking like a pirate that would surpass this as entertainment.

The last straw was when Forest Whitaker was running with a video camera (continually filming) following some secret service guys who are in pursuit of a cop. I mean come on Forest Whitaker? Are we to believe that he can chase down anything other than a one legged blind man? This was when the last ounce of credibility was destroyed. And to be honest there was very little to begin with.

Star Rating: Blackhole

Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul. – Billy Madison (1995)