It's Not You, It's Me

So I need a break.

I'm in this weird head space at the moment where I seem to be veering from cutely cynical to bitter, and I don't know why. Maybe I just need to get back to my mates in London. Maybe I need to sort out my life. Maybe I just need... something.

All I know is that everything I write at the moment seems to make me mad. That and the fact I'm currently in New York City and completely underwhelmed. Whereas most people would be all "woo hoo, NYC baby! I heart NYC!" I'm just "eugh, it's London but with a bad attitude".

So in order to spare you all I'm having a hiatus. At least until the fun, frivolous me is back.

I'll let you know when that is.

Give Me a Home Among the Gum Trees

Even though my last post may have sounded like I was glad to be getting out of Australia and back to London, there are few things about Australia that I am definitely going to miss. Aside from the obvious like Vegemite, twisties, ginger nuts and my family. Mainly, the people. People from overseas just don't get how laid back and... not laconic but chilled Aussies are. Sure, there are fuckwits here, like anywhere, but generally the Aussie attitude of No Worries, Mate hasn't really changed.

This was made perfectly clear to me as I left Sydney airport for the USA. I always dread going through those X-Ray machines at the airport. I don't know why - I never, ever, EVER have anything I shouldn't on me. Well, except for that time I forgot my 110ml deodorant was in my handbag, but aside from that, nothing. I don't even carry a lighter in my hand bag for fear of it being confiscated. But nevertheless, there is something about the officious looking people with their big X-Ray machines and list of rules which send me cold with fear.

Of course, some international airports are worse than others. London Gatwick will only let you through with ONE item of hang luggage, even though the airlines let you have a carry on bag and a hand bag. Gatwick makes you shove your hand bag into your carry on luggage. And then they make you take off your shoes. London Stanstead made me X-Ray my Havaiana thongs on a weekend trip to Florence. Cairo airport practically had me down to my undies before they'd let me attempt the metal detectors. Every time I go through Kuala Lumpur I seem to get set off the machine and get patted down by a serious looking Malaysian woman.

So I approached the X-Ray machines at Sydney with a little fear in my heart. Especially since I looked, well, dodgy. It was about a thousand degrees Celsius the day I flew out. Everyone else in the airport was wearing thongs, singlet tops, shorts and baseball caps. I, on the other hand, was wearing knee high boots, jeans, a long sleeve t-shirt and carrying sweater AND a thick winter coat. Clearly heading to cooler climes than Sydney's current heat wave. I was also carrying a hand bag and a carry on bag which had my laptop in it. Which means I had to unpack the laptop before they could scan my bag, etc etc.

As I approached the X-Ray machine I smiled apprehensively at the official X-Ray Dude. At which point he cracked into a big smile and started joking with me about all my coats / jackets / sweaters. As I got my clear plastic bag with liquids not over 100mls out of my handbag he was chatting about how today would be a great beach day. As my laptop was scanned through the machine we discussed global warming.

Not once did he pay a scrap of attention to the image on the X-Ray machine. Not once. I could have had a bag full of rare bird eggs (not that I did, I'd like to point out) and he would have had no idea whatsoever. Instead we chatted about my inappropriate summer attire.

And that is why I love Australia. Even the people with terribly terribly serious jobs are still willing to have a chat about shit. In London you're doing well if they don't glare at you and treat you like a criminal. In the US they're more interested in trying to find out whether you were planning any illegal activities while you were in their country. In Australia they smile and chat about the bloody weather. Most excellent.

Sayonara Sydney

Well, I should be packing right now. But I'm not. I'm surfing the net looking for stupid jobs for when I get back to London. Sigh.

I leave for the US of A tomorrow, then on to London (Where it's apparently blizzarding. My tan will look even HOTTER!). While it's been good being back in Sydney, it's helped me realise, this is not where I'm meant to be right now.

I love this city. It's great. But the past six weeks have made me slowly go a little bit mad. I've come to the realisation many of my friends have gotten older and dull. I've talked about house prices, the rental market, the global financial crisis, hair straighteners, babies, tupperware, whether a paint was more lemon or tan, how I'm an insult to the feminist movement, the job market, etc etc. These were people I used to have fabulous discussions about fun topics with. They're now boring, career / relationship obsessed poseurs. But still my friends.

I've discovered Australia is becoming a nanny state. No shots after midnight?? Plastic glasses only? For fucks' sake, I went to the beach the other day and they had a sign banning ball games, kites and barbeques! Harden the fuck up, Australia, lest we become like the English and everything fun is banned.

I still don't have a plan. For which I have been largely crucified. Over and over again.

I'm leaving the country beyond broke. Some arsehole skimmed my credit card in South Africa and I'm STILL waiting for $1,500 of fraudulent transactions to be cleared. However, I'm kind of happy to be getting out of here, money or no.

So Sydney, it's been interesting. One day I'll be ready to come back, talk about property prices and my future, but not right now. Right now I just want to get to the bloody Walkabout for a snake bite or eight (in a glass glass, no less).

Bogans United

It used to be that you could spot a bogan at 50 paces by one distinguishing feature.

No, it wasn't their mullet. Or their ute. Or wearing a wife beater and stubbies. These items may all be owned by bogan, but are not necessarily always on their person. Even a mullet can be hidden under a hat.

No, it was the tattoo they all choose to have emblazoned somewhere on their bodies. The Southern Bloody Cross:-



I've seen Southern Cross tattoos on all manner of body parts. The shoulder blade. The whole back. The pecs. The lower arm. The calf. Even behind a guy's ear once. It is a common way of marking a bogan, so that an observer is able to see said tattoo, identify the owner and cross the street to avoid them.

However, since returning to Australia, I have discovered a new and horrifying tattoo embraced by bogans in at they very least our Eastern States.

It's what I like to call "Established" Tat.

I scoured the net looking for an appropriate example, but couldn't find any. Probably because anyone who has this tattoo almost immediately regrets it.

To give you a picture, imagine for a second I am born in 1981. Which shouldn't be so hard, because I am. Then imagine that I felt it was important for everyone to know this. How is the best way, I wonder to myself on a daily basis. A newspaper advertisement? A skywriter?

How about instead I tattoo the phrase Est. 1981 on my person and be done with it.

Bogan. Total bogan. There is nothing more to add. Except that asking for such a tattoo should be a prerequisite for being denied any form of government assistance for ever more. And possibly being ejected from your suburb to a suburb full of fellow bogans. Preferably with some form of birth control crushed into the water supply.