I said, you look like a frog

So yeah

2009-06-23T05:58:00.002+10:00

As you may have noticed I'm not really blogging any more.

I could write a self obsessed, long winded post about why, but really it's because I've got no time. Who knew working as an events manager was so bloody time consuming? Who knew living in London would mean I'm out every night? Who knew I'd meet the two most fabulous girls ever in my life and spend all my time hanging out with my new besties instead of over-analysing everything?

I may be back. I may not. Don't trash the place while I'm gone...

Why I Am An Idiot # (I've Lost Count)

2009-03-22T01:08:00.002+11:00

I went to Edinburgh last weekend. I love Edinburgh. It's got great bars, great food, it's a cool mix of old and new, and the Scottish accent is fucking hot. It is on my top five places to live, even though it's bloody cold.

So I drove in on Saturday, parked my car at my mate's place, and set off to meet said friend at the local pub.

The Scottish are, generally, a friendly bunch. When I lived in Glasgow I could barely walk down the street without someone wanting to stop me for a chat. Or sell me The Big Issue. But mainly just have a chat.

So imagine my surprise when , traipsing through the streets of Edinburgh, I was being met with angry, hostile glares. And mutterings from locals. I was concerned. Did I have a big "I Heart England" tshirt on? No. Was I wearing a sandwich board proclaiming "Robert Burns Sucks"? No. "William Wallace Deserved What He Got"? Again, no. I was dressed quite normally in jeans, a tshirt and a jacket.

It wasn't until someone made a rude comment about my Irish luck coming to an end I realised the problem.

Ireland were playing Scotland in the rugby that night. And I was flitting through Edinburgh with my warm, comfortable, bright green winter jacket on.

I spent the rest of the night shivering in my cardigan, with my jacket shoved unceremoniously into my bag.

I Have So Much To Say

2009-03-14T09:13:00.003+11:00

... but I can't get the right (or write?) words out.

I mean, it's all here.

I'm in love.

I have an exciting new job.

I feel "at home" in London.

And yet... nothing. No words come to me. The best I can do is some Bridget Jones-esque ranting about what will happen when it becomes clear I am in love with a man who has no interest in me. Eugh, derivative much?

Will this block never cease??

It's Not You, It's Me

2009-02-12T12:10:00.002+11:00

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

2009-02-07T10:22:00.001+11:00

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

2009-02-05T08:39:00.002+11:00

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

2009-02-03T00:08:00.003+11:00

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.

Unemployment Blues

2009-01-20T11:23:00.002+11:00

Being unemployed sucks sometimes. Everyone else is at work, so there's no one to hang out with. You've got no money so you can't go out and do anything that requires funds of any sort at all. You're expected to cook and clean for your family.

But the worst part is, you can't afford a car. And therefore it takes you an hour to get to the beach by public transport. An hour, people.

I think The Australian government needs to implement a new housing relocation scheme. All unemployed people are moved into houses by the beach on weekdays, so they can actually enjoy it. Employed people have no time for the beach on weekdays, and yet they are the ones who live there. So they are shipped back in on the weekends when they can use the beach, and those who are unemployed have mates to hang out with again.

I think this is the platform that Kevin 07 should introduce for the new year. Forget budgets and deficits. Unemployed relocation to beaches.

Alcohol Control Gone Mad

2009-01-18T16:56:00.002+11:00

I was at a pub in the city the other day, catching up with some mates. As I am currently on the world's most hardcore detox, I was drinking water. I am a party ANIMAL! The rest of my mates were drinking beer.

At one point, my mate from Germany went to the toilet. Since she was going past the bar, I asked her to grab me another glass of water on her way back. Two birds, one stone, etc.

When she got back she was empty handed. I just assumed she had forgotten the water. But no. She had been refused service at the bar because she didn't have her ID on her.

She turns 30 next week.

Is this the new method of preventing binge drinking in NSW? Cause Lord knows how crazy people get when they drink too much water.

The Anti-Feminist

2009-01-14T10:02:00.002+11:00

I was at a dinner the other night with a group of my (female) friends. Since everyone I know has either got partnered up, married or caught children since I left Australia, the talk soon turned to child rearing. As in, if we had kids how we would raise them. And I managed to go from all-round-pal t social soiree outsider in the space of one sentence.

I admitted that, should I ever have children, I would like to be a stay at home mum.

I have never been so quickly cast from a group in my life. Not even when I told a movie nerd mate that I hate Pulp Fiction. Not even when I admitted to a tv producer friend that my favourite tv show was Temptation Island. Not even when I asked my friend's mother (who happens to run alcohol rehab for the state of Queensland) if she wanted some of the straight vodka we were drinking.

Apparently, by voicing my desire to become a stay at home mum, I have dissed the feminist cause. There were many cries of "what did our foremothers fight for if you plan on abandoning your degrees to bring up kids?" and "why don't you just quit your job as soon as you get married like my grandmother did?". But mainly, I was accused of being an Anti-Feminist.

Since when did feminism get so single minded? I pride myself on being a feminist, but I thought the idea of feminism was equal rights. As in the right to choose. No longer did women have to be shackled to their place in the home, we could go out, get careers, do what we wanted to instead of being forced into a lifestyle many did not choose. The main point of feminism though, I thought, was choice.

Somewhere along the line though, this appears to have changed, at least amongst my friends, into the point of feminism being that women have to go out, get degrees, and careers, and eschew any "traditional" roles for women, including the raising and care of children. In voicing my choice I was reverting back to stereotypical female/male roles and therefore didn't believe in equality.

When did this happen? Why is it that by voicing what my choice would be did I become an outcast? It goes further though - these are the same people give me grief every time I confirm that I don't want to be a lawyer any more. Just because I have decided that the whole "must have career" lifestyle isn't for me, I am out.

I was reading a book recently which had a very poignant line in it (for me at least). I can't recall it exactly but the essence was "I wonder if women knew that by fighting for equality they would actually get the worst of both worlds - expectations abound to have not only a career, but also a family, and there are still only 24 hours in the day". More than ever at that dinner it struck a chord with me.

I'm not saying that I think we should revert back to the bad old days where women couldn't vote, were expected to be baby-making / house cleaning machines. But where has the idea of equality gone? Or choice?

Ad I'm not a fucking anti-feminist, thank you. Bah!

Gay As Christmas

2009-01-12T23:14:00.003+11:00

I went to the opening of the Sydney Festival on Saturday night.

I saw something which made me cringe. Actually, worse than that. It made me embarrassed to be from Sydney.

It's called the Sydney Dance.

Sadly I cannot find it on YouTube. And I'm having trouble working out how to describe it.

It has moves which were variously described as "Hi There! Hi There!" and "Pick The Apples!" and my favourite, "Hair Flick".

It lasts for 45 seconds. But the memories burn forever, a bit like a bad STD.

Seriously Sydney, why do we sometimes try too hard? We're cool. We don't need to be such knobs. Melbourne may have a shuffle - we really don't need to have the world's gayest dance to try and compete.

So embarrassed.

POSTSCRIPT: Just found it. Oh dear Lord. Learn it here.

How to Make An Australian Movie*

2009-01-09T15:39:00.001+11:00

TAKE 1 typical "Australian" location

E.g: The Kimberlies, Great Barrier Reef, Sydney (only as long as you get lots of shots of the harbour bridge and opera house), Uluru, Daintree Rainforest

ADD 1 insipid female star with a vaguely Aussie accent - accent must be sufficiently American-ised or Engli-cised though in order to prevent international viewers from feeling they don't have a part in the movie

Note: in a pinch, Kylie Minogue will do, despite her lack of any acting talent (see The Delinquents / 1980s Neighbours for clarification)

ADD 1 big name action movie star as male lead, preferably Australian

Note: it is not important if they actually are Australian, so long as people think they are. New Zealand, English, Canadian actors will do so long as they at least have visited Australia and can do a passable accent

MIX one "indigenous" child, preferably that can be described as "enchanting"

Note: if more than one indigenous child is required, it is not necessary to actually find indigenous children. Children with Greek, Italian, Islander or similar heritage will be fine. It would be un-PC to mention their heritage anyway, so noone will.

INCLUDE every Australian actor you can get your hands on

Bill Hunter? Check
Brian Brown? Check
David Wenham? Check
Jack Thompson? Check
Charles 'Bud' Tingwell? Negative
David Gulpilil? Check
Ben Mendelsohn? Check
Barry Otto? Check
John Jarrat? Check

ENSURE to have as many extraneous shots of sweeping countryside as possible

Note: it is not important that the movie is filmed in the same location as it is set, so long as people THINK it is. Any desert scenes can be said to be, for example, in the Northern Territory, but can actually be filmed in Queensland to save our time going there. Any bush scenes can be filmed in Sydney's northern suburbs so we don't have to leave home.

TAKE the story from a great movie classic (e.g. Gone With The Wind) and tweak it so it fits into an Australian context

CHANGE the ending so it is happy

Note: not just happy. Try so sugary, sweetly happy it gives you a toothache.

SET the film in a period where everyone can wear fantastic clothes (whether or not they would have is another matter)

E.g: the 1920s for flapper girls, the 1940s for women in gloves and hats, the 1960s for hippies, etc

WATCH as the millions roll in from overseas

LAUGH at the fact that you've actually just created a huge piece of drivel, which cost millions and fuels racial stereotypes about Australians.

* Baz Luhrman style

Just Pretend

2009-01-08T09:09:00.002+11:00

So imagine that just before you left your new home for a 5 month "holiday", you met a guy. You had this really intense *insert word other than relationship* for the 3 weeks prior to your leaving. So much so that you've shortened your holiday down to 3 months.

Then imagine that, very suddenly, without warning, your email correspondence (whilst you were overseas, traveling, perhaps in somewhere like Africa or something) went from an email every couple of days to nothing. As in zero - no email, no Facebook, no nothing. And you know the other person isn't dead because they are active on Facebook (not that you would stalk them or anything - just making sure they've not been kidnapped by international terrorists or aliens).

Then, after six weeks of NOTHING (oh, and maybe your friends subtly trying to find out where he is as they are still back there) you get an email. It doesn't mention their falling down a well for weeks or being hospitalised with temporary amnesia. Just a "hey how you doin' where you going for NYE okay have fun in Sydney bye" email.

Is it okay for me to:-

curse his name, and refuse to use it in conversation, referring to him instead as "the fuckwit"
refuse to respond to said email for 6 weeks
be depressed about the fact he is clearly "just not that into me" and thus is shagging everyone else in the world while I am away
become convinced I am going to die a lonely old spinster, surrounded by cats

In that order, as well.

Budget of a Travel-holic

2009-01-05T18:23:00.003+11:00

Current bank balance: AU$500

Estimated income for next 3 weeks: AU$500

Estimated outgoings for next 3 weeks: AU$500

Upcoming trips and estimated outgoings

Melbourne (4 days)

Accommodation: AU$free!

Food: AU$possibly only lunches

Drinks: AU$a fuckload

Entertainment: AU$ditto

TOTAL: AU$lots

Gold Coast (5 days)

Accommodation: AU$might not be free any more, damn!

Food: AU$do people eat on the Goldie?

Drinks: AU$surely I can scam free ones from surfer boys

Entertainment: AU$ditto

TOTAL: AU$hopefully less than Melbourne

San Francisco (5 days)

Accommodation: AU$couch surfing with a mate's sister

Food: AU$it will be cold, I will be hungry

Drinks: AU$will my cute accent help me score free drinks?

Entertainment: AU$tourist attractions take VISA, don't they?

TOTAL: AU$the Aussie dollar better shape up a bit

New York (5 days)

Accommodation: AU$150 (I may be staying in Harlem though...)

Food: AU$more than I could possibly imagine thanks to VISA

Drinks: AU$seriously, does a cute accent even work any more?

Entertainment: AU$see San Francisco

TOTAL: AU$I'm fucked

TOTAL COST OF TRAVELS BOOKED: AU$prostitution pays well, doesn't it? and it's tax free...

I've Not Changed a Bit

2008-12-28T14:11:00.002+11:00

Since I have returned to Sydney on my mini-holiday, I keep getting told how much I've changed. By friends, relatives, randoms... it seems all people want to do is tell me how changed I am since last they saw me.

And I think it's bollocks.

I have not changed. I have tanned. I have blonde hair again. I have more trashy stories. But I've not changed at all. And I can prove it.

I have decided whilst in Sydney to embark on a healthy living plan. I have cut back on the drinking, I have quit smoking, I am eating more healthily. And in addition, I have started a regime of exercise. This regime involves walking the dog, swimming laps at the local pool and, starting yesterday, jogging. Or that was the plan.

Since I haven't jogged in ages, I felt it was best to take someone else to set the pace for me. Someone who can run for hours without stopping. Someone who needs the exercise. Someone like my parents' dog. It was a seemingly brilliant plan. I harness the dog, get her out of the house and then jog around the suburb with her at my side, exercising us both and tiring the dog out for the evening. It doesn't take much, after all. Did I mention the dog is a chihuahua cross?

So I did. I found my sneakers, put on appropriate clothes and set my iPod playlist to up tempo songs. It all went swimmingly well. At least, for about 20 minutes.

That was when the dog decided she was a bit over this jogging thing. And what she'd prefer to do is sniff the grass verges we were jogging alongside. However, she decided to d this in a rather sudden manner - by stopping directly in front of me.

In order to avoid the dog I did the only thing one could in the circumstances. I tried to stop and leap over her mid-jog. Sadly, however, I am not a Russian ballerina. And thus what in any stage performance would have been a beautiful move of athletic precision, turned into me KO'ing myself on the footpath of a major Sydney arterial road.

See, my friends think I've changed. But I know that it's always been the same. If anyone is going to make a dick of themself in front of several hundred holiday motorists by tripping over a chihuahua, it was always going to be me.

Let's Get One Thing Straight

2008-12-24T09:51:00.004+11:00

Yes, it's very nice being home. Even if it is for six weeks. And I'm broke. And working back in the evil corporate world of lawyers and their underlings. And all my friends having settled down and got real jobs and steady aprtners. Despite all that, it's still nice.

However, before we continue with this conversation (monologue?) let me get one thing straight. On the record, for once and for all, etc.

I have no plan.

Please do not ask me how long I plan to stay overseas. Because I don't know. Please don't ask me when I will settle down and get a real job. Because I don't know. Please don't ask how long I think my liver can sustain the punishing I give it on every tour. Because I don't know. Please don't ask how my alleged boy in London is. Because I don't know. Please don't ask whether there is any future there. Because I don't know. Please don't ask me when I plan on moving back to Sydney. Because I don't know.

Are we seeing a pattern emerge?

I have no plan whatsoever. Nor do I have an idea, a concept or a vague outline. My life is a blank slate (except for my imminent travels to San Francisco and New York in February en route back to London). Yes, I do find that terrifying sometimes. But most of the time I just try not to think about the future. At all. At least, not beyond what I''m doing this weekend.

As long as we have that straight, I am happy to continue this conversation. Just don't ask about my plan. Because the only plan I will then have it to punch you in the mouth. No jokes.

Strange But True

2008-12-11T13:40:00.002+11:00

It's very strange being back in your home country BUT on the opposite side. I am currently in Perth, where everything SEEMS the same as Sydney (except, obviously, the size, the vibe and the number of people) but is all a little unfamiliar. And yet it's still my home country.

However, in teh last 3 days, whilst I have been sleeping in and drinking too much bogan-esque beer, I have come to realise I missed the following things that I had forgotten about:-

Cottees Lime Coola Cordial
Carlton Draught and VB
Drive through bottle shops (especially those that provide me with cartons of Carlton Draught)
Supermarket checkout chikcs putting stuff in the bag for you
the Aussie inflection of sentences where everything sounds like a question)
The fact that the answer to any question asked of an Aussie is "oh yeah", even if you ask something stupid
Beaches allowing you to topless sun bathe even if they aren't nudist beaches
Cars driving on the left hand side - and more importantly me looking to the right every time I cross the road means I won't die under some heavy vehicle
The general sunny attitude of everyone in this fair country

That's all. I return to the lovely Sydney this Sunday, and will probably cry when the aeroplane lands. And then again when my best friend picks me up even though she doesn't know who she is collecting. And then again when I surprise my mum at home. Awesome.

See ya

2008-10-23T00:49:00.002+11:00

So I'm off to Africa on Saturday. For 6 weeks. And then HOME!

Won't be in for a while. Please don't leave a mess while I'm away...

POSTSCRIPT: SO of course just before I leave the country for 5 months I meet and fall in lust with the most perfect guy ever. God fucking hates me. Bastard.

Everybody Poops

2008-10-10T04:57:00.004+11:00

So I've been on a hotel tour of Europe for the past 10 days. Whilst on this tour I have had much time to ponder the wonders of life, mainly because I am ill and have nothing better to do than watch dubbed tv in bed every night instead of painting the town hypercolour. And there is one thing about hotels which concern me.

Why do they never, ever have enough ventilation in the bathrooms?

See, cause everyone poos. I poo, you poo, George Clooney poos, George Dubya poos, Angelina Jolie poos, your mum poos, even your partner poos (whether they do it when you're home or not). Pooing is a part of life. Maybe not the nicest part of life, but it is kind of essential.

And yet every single hotel I have stayed in has no window in the bathroom, or ventilator fan in the bathroom, or even fucking air freshener spray in the bathroom! Personally I hate air freshener because it just smells like you've taken a shit in a pine forest, but anything would be better than sitting in a very small room being slowly suffocated by the smell of your own shit. Just a tiny fan would be an improvement.

If politicians want to get elected, maybe this should be their new platform. Actually, it should be a double headed platform - the first section of which is to provide proper ventilation in hotel bathrooms, the second part is to restore the old Facebook layout. I'd vote for that...

Sigh

2008-10-01T07:07:00.001+10:00

I have fallen in lust.

With a boy.

And by boy I mean an actual boy.

He is several years my junior. But ever so cute, energetic and, well, enthusiastic about everything. Including me.

How young is too young, though? Answers on a postcard...

Top Reasons I Miss Home

2008-09-18T05:55:00.005+10:00

I've been in the UK for over 18 months now, and it's beginning to hurt. I love my job, I love my friends over here, but I just really, really miss home. I've lived overseas before, and never really got homesick. In fact, last time I moved back home after being overseas, I sobbed the whole way to Australia because I wasn't ready to leave yet.

This time, though, I do often get... not homesick, but a yearning to be at home. I;ve only been properly homesick once or twice, and it's a horrible, awful feeling. I just wanted my mum, and speaking to her on the phone made it worse.

So, in honour of the fact I am returning back to Sydney for a 3 months holiday starting December, I have compiled a list of things I miss dreadfully about home. Mainly so when I get home and my family is driving me insane I can look back and remember how much I wanted this.

Good weather. Call it cliched but I am over London's shitty, drizzly, miserable weather. Europe has great weather, but nothing beats a stinking hot day in Sydney - so hot that the tar on the road is melting and everyone is at home in their knickers. Gold.

I miss the "melting pot". Call me strange but I miss the fact that, where I come from in Sydney, you're more likely to have a Thai restaurant next to a Greek grocer next to a Lebanese tobacconist than anything else. My neighbours at home are WASPs, a Korean couple, a Big Greek Family, the Lesbians across the street, the crazy Lebanese guy on the corner who used to hose his footpath in the dead of night and the token bogans at the end of the block. Over here you get ghettos. I officially live in the Antipodean ghetto, which backs on to a black ghetto, then down the line is a Sub-Continental ghetto. No one mixes...

Food. To continue with the cliches, English food is shit. Fucking chips with everything! I already have a meal plan when I get home - Thai Red Duck Curry night one, Yum Cha lunch two, Greek Feast night two, Aussie burger (with pineapple and beetroot) lunch three, Woodfired Italian Pizza night three, Turkish Doner Kebab lunch four, Chicken Schnitzel with green salad dinner four. Bring the taste sensations on!

I look forward to getting rat arsed with mates, getting home from the pub and taking a big swig of water straight out of the tap without it tasting like arse. Urban legfends claim London water has been through 8 people by the time it gets to you. It certainly tastes like it's come straight from the toilet bowl.

Actually knowing my way around. Yeah, so I can find my way around a million differnet European cities with nothing more than the sun for direction and a hastily drawn map on the back of a beer coaster, but I miss actually knowing my way round. Dumb things like the 412 bus will drop me at my mate's front door place. To get to Neutral Bay go to stand C (I think) on Carrington Street in Wynyard and catch any of the buses that are there. Change at Strathfield for Sydney Olympic Park. Take the Anzac Bridge home from the city for the cheapest taxi fare after 7pm. I can get places without thinking. It's so comforting.

My mates. I haven't spoken to some of them since I left. LIke, literally no emails, no phone calls, nothing. I'm a gypsy who can never call, they don't have email. But I know that I will go home and slot straight back into where we were before. At least, I hope I will. Fuck, I have mates getting married and I haven't even met their other halves!

Expensive cigarettes. I'm quitting again. SMoking in Europe is cheap. And you can do it indoors. Smoking in Australia is fucking pricey. I can't afford it, therefore I am not doing it any more.

The people. Yeah, I'm from Sydney where we are a big more standoff-ish, but there's still something about Aussies. You can go to a pub and just start talking to someone without them looking at you like you're a raving psycho. You can chat to the person next to you in the queue at Woolies without having security called. People smile as they are walking down the street, and you don't assume they're simple. I miss it.

Triple J. There is nothing like it in the world. I miss it so very much. I know I can listen to it on the net but I am NEVER on the net. The music, the people, the ibe. It's Mabo, it's the vibe.

My family. They're only last on the list because they are my top reason for going home. I miss mum and her stupid conversations about people I don't know. I miss dad telling me to go to bed at 8.30pm on a school night. I miss my brother and the fact he thinks he is far too cool for school. I miss just being around them. Sometimes so much it hurts. Talking on the phone isn't the same - I even want to have a dumb, stupid, blazing row with dad face to face and storm out of the house to steal his car and drive too fast with no purpose or direction because he makes me so mad but we both know we'll be over it in an hour.... Yeah, I miss them.

Of course, I could write a list about the reasons I'm coming back after 3 months. But I'm sure I'll have PLENTY of time for that when I'm at home, going insane and wishing I wasn't living with my family again....

So, that's it. December 15 I get home. Fucking excited.

Best Excuse Ever

2008-09-17T07:24:00.000+10:00

No, no, Axle Whitehead isn't just a silly prat for "exposing himself" at the ARIAs a couple of years back. Clearly we should feel sorry for him because he has ADD.

Is this the new thing now? Craig Whats-His-Face from the Vines isn't an arrogant prat, he just has Asbergers. Axle Whitehead has ADD. What next - Dani Minogue isn't a bad singer, she just has vocal chord problems? Lindsay Lohan isn't a media attention grabbing whore, she just has boundary issues? The Red Hot Chili Peppers aren't sell outs, they just have an inability to say no to huge sums of money for shite music?

And more importantly, next time I do something dumb can I just claim that I have some sort of condition? I didn't trip over, I actually have depth perception problems. I was going to come into work today but I have a mild form of agoraphobia. I didn't mean to snog that guy, but my lips suffer from separation anxiety if left alone for too long.

Brilliant.

Oops

2008-09-15T01:56:00.000+10:00

I may have done something silly.

I may have been out the other night with coworkers. I may have had a few beers. And this schnapps stuff which is about 40% alcohol. And some more beer.

And I may have hooked up with one of our managers.

On the plus side, he is quite cute. And a delicious kisser. And, I believe quite discreet.

On the negative side, he's management. Not quite my boss but almost. And one of my friends is in lust with him. And half of the office saw us snogging on the dance floor towards the end of the evening. But mainly,he's management.

Oh well. Chalk it up to experience, I say.

2008-09-13T02:26:00.000+10:00

I'm usually pretty good at celebrating birthdays. I like the idea of being able to have all my friends in one spot and have a few drinks just because I was brought forth into the world on that particular day. I'm not a present person, per se, but I love the general hilarity that can come from something as simple as a birthday card.

However, this year my birthday can fuck right off. It is being cancelled due to lack of interest. I refuse to acknowledge the passing of another year.

I was fine when I turned 25. The whole quarter-century thing I was down with. And it gave me a good excuse for my subsequent quarter-life crisis. For my 26th birthday I got horribly drunk on Jagerbombs - so drunk in fact I can drink them any more - and danced on the bar before ending up curled around a toilet bowl watching the return of the Jagermeister.

But 27 can just fuck right off.

I do not want to be 27. Actually, I could handle being 27 if I had some sort of plan for my life. But no, instead I am a dirty gypsy who lives on a tour bus and out of a suitcase. I have no idea what I want to do with my life, I can't maintain a relationship and I am basically financially destitute.

Fuck the presents, I'm calling it off a month in advance. Birthday? Fuck no.

2008-09-07T18:30:00.002+10:00

Do you ever have one of those days where nothing is as you expect it? Everything that you were dreading turns out fine, everything you were looking forward to goes to shit?

I had a major day like that yesterday.

See, it started with seeing my bestest friend in the UK. I haven't seen her for about 6 months, so whenever we do see each other we get really excited. Anyway, we had all this stuff planned to do together... only for her to turn up with a massive chest infection and instead i got to spend our first day together in a shitty West London hospital trying to get the nurses to understand that even though she's German and I'm Australian we really do live in London and have NHS numbers.

Then I had to go into my employer's head office to "debrief" after my most recent trip, and speak to the CEO of the company about a complaint they received about me. I was shitting myself. Our CEO is awesome but the complaint they received about me is pretty damning. Even though it's a pack of lies, I thought I was about to get either a severe warning or sacked. Yeah, good day. However, I go into this meeting shaking with nerves...

... and I come out with an offer to take a management position in our head office. I'm still not really sure how that happened. But all I know is that the meeting I've been dreading for the past 4 weeks was amazing and culminated in this job offer.

Then finally, last night I was planning a quiet night in, until my boss called me for a night out. I wasn't really interested but decided to go along anyway. So glad I did! We had this awesome night where the two of us were both on fire, we danced, we sang, we both kissed random hot boys. And this morning my hangover feels completely justified!

Sometimes I love it when things don't turn out how you expect them to...

Things I Am Excited About Today

2008-08-16T23:24:00.002+10:00

I am officially coming home for Xmas. Flying in to Sydney on 15 December to surprise my mum. Stoked!
I am currently in Istanbul, one of the most amazing cities in the world, for the first time ever.
My hang over is not as bad as I expected.
I can make it to my ex-boyfriend's wedding at Xmas, and may very well be about to be promoted to the position of grooms(wo)man.
My boss does not believe the bull shit story an ex-passenger made up about me in a completely false complaint email, and in fact rebuked HER for being such a shit stirring whore. I love my boss!
My best mate is coming to Australia from Germany in January and February to stay with me!!
I get to see one of my bestest friends in a week for TWO WHOLE DAYS.
A girl I really didn't like and who was shit at our job got sacked! Finally...
I am possibly being posted in Croatia for a month to be a rep there for my company. And by rep I mean lie by the beach and occassionally check people in for sailing holidays.
The boy I am not in lurve with is possibly coming to Africa with me for 42 days in October.

It's been a good day.

Lurve

2008-08-11T18:54:00.002+10:00

I got told the other day I was in love. What made this quite random is that the person I am (apparently) in love with is one of my best mates. Let us call him Pez, for no apparent reason other than there is a Pez on the desk of this internet cafe.

Pez is my boy. He is a driver for the company I work for. We have worked together a lot. We get each other. We start a conversation and three months later will just randomly finish it without mentioning the fact we are returning to our old convo. He helps me pick up boys, I play quality control on his girls.

We make each other laugh. We know how to wind each other up in a heartbeat.

We worked together for about 4 months at the beginning of this year. And since we separated I miss him. Not just miss him, but really, really, ridiculously miss him. We text daily. I spend my life telling my drivers what he would have done differently to them. I accidentally call them Pez when they do something the same. And he keeps doing the same to his new tour guides.

We miss each other so much we've requested to work together once our current trips finish. As in I sne t my boss an email BEGGING her to put us back together. Adn he did the same.

But love? I don't think so. I do love him... the same way I love my baby brother. I adore him and would fight to the death for him. But I really don't want to have sex with him. Eugh.

But apparently I am in lurve with him. It's all any of our colleagues can talk about. That we are officially in LURVE.

Can't guys and girls ever be mates without being in LURVE??

Tired

2008-07-29T00:46:00.002+10:00

At the moment I feel flat. Always tired, not really interested, just going through the motions.

Problem is, I'm only 9 days into a 40-something day tour with 45 people. Shit.

I keep trying to shake it but I can't. I miss my best mate at the company I work for. I miss my last driver, who is one of my greatest friends. I miss my mates in London. I just want my very own holiday, instead of oganising someone else's all the time.

I want some me time.

Thought That Kept Me Awake Last Night #I've Lost Count

2008-07-12T20:44:00.001+10:00

Why do we call them aeroplanes, yet they live at an airport?

Law = Evil

2008-07-03T22:36:00.001+10:00

So I read this the other day, and my immediate response was "And....?".

I used to be a lawyer. We used to bill for everything. And I mean ev-er-y-thin-g!

For example, I would bill a client at least one unit (i.e. 6 minutes) to read their email, then another 2 units (i.e. 12 minutes) to respond.

I billed one unit to read anything.

I would write form letters for different matters, maybe 10 letters in 10 minutes, then charge each client a unit per letter (i.e. the equivalent of an hour's billed time). It's one of the oldest scams in the book!

I went to a client's Xmas party one year and was actively encouraged by my bosses to charge the clients for my attendance. So I did.

We would send useless emails just o charge people for them.

I was encouraged to "up-bill" - i.e. charge 4 units for a letter I wrote in no time because it looked complicated.

But my favourite was when a client sent me an email querying his bill, so I "perused" said bill, then wrote a response, then charged my client for said response!

The legal industry operates on this FUCKING STUPID chargeable units system. Which is a roart AND means that the more crap your lawyer, the longer it takes them to do stuff and the more you get charged. Basically, it rewards inefficiency.

And yet.... they keep doing it.

Reason number 9,362 why I left.

Men in Uniforms

2008-07-01T18:04:00.002+10:00

Got dumped this week. Yay, such fun. After he met my dad too. Awesome.

So of course, I'm on tour and totally looking for a rebound shag. My theory being that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Judge me if you want - I just don't care.

On my tour we go to Switzerland for a couple of days, where one of my bestest friends in the world is our on-site manager. I had texted her to tell her of my dumpage when I get this response:

No way OMel - I have 42 hot marines here to help you get over that stupid boy. Clearly you will be having a giggle in Switzerland.

Oh yeah, bring it on. Of course, I get to Switzerland and my bestie is pimping me out to everyone. This is my friend OMel, she's on the rebound. Do you want to have sex with her? Subtle? No. Does it work? Yes.

I end up in my caravan (I'm all class) with a marine who is an instructor for skiing, climbing, shooting, something or other. Who cares. All I know is that between the hours of 1 am and 7.30am I got precisely half an hour's sleep. I heard the church bells at 6 and woke up for the 6.30 bells. And then he was off again.

This is not my first rendezvous with an armed forces man. Earlier this year I hooked up with an army boy for a one night thing. One of the best nights of my life - similar story, got very little sleep. And when I was much younger I lived in a navy town and maybe spent some quality time with a few sailors. Again, judge me if you wish.

But basically, all of my experiences with armed forces boys have been the same. We're talking stamina, we're talking skills and we're talking fit.

So, despite the possibility of catching new and exciting STDs, I've decided I am becoming an armed forces whore, and only hanging around where the navy, army or air force do. I'm going to be GI friggen Jane. I think Skyhooks had it right when they sang about women in uniform, they just had the wrong sex.

2008-06-10T22:10:00.002+10:00

So I think I'm about to get dumped... again.

And I'm spending a lot of time wondering why, at the tender age of almost 27, I still haven't sorted my shit out. Or maintain a relationship.

I'm so fucking over it all right now.

Who the fuck breaks up with someone when their grandmother has just died anyway? Surely there's some rule of etiquette about that? Fucking men...

So...

2008-06-01T20:41:00.002+10:00

My nan died the other day. Remember, the one who kicked me out of her house for no reason then sent letters to family i'd never met telling them i was a sponging whore? Yeah, that one.

Moral dilemma. Is it bad that I am not really effected by her death, but rather am stoked to be seeing dad again as he is flying over for the funeral? And really moer disappointed because my mummy and brother arent coming over too?

Long Distance Relationship

2008-05-29T00:16:00.002+10:00

So I'm currently having one. Long distance relationship, that is.

It's really fucking hard. But, with my job and his broke-ness, it's the only option. I see him maybe for 3 or 4 days every 3 or 4 weeks, and miss him terribly when I'm on the road. But I also LOVE my job.

So, just wondering, what are people's thoughts on long distance. Can it ever work? Am I flogging a dead horse? Should I just give up and go back to fucking randoms in every country?

It probably doesn't help that he really isn't one for the dirty texts or phone sex. I tried. HE's quite reserved (in a good way) and obviosuly not big on the dirty texts. Whereas I regularly get pissed and send him highly inappropriate (well, mum would think so) text messages (on my work phone no less!). The usual response? "It's not fair to tease". Come on - give me SOMETHING!

Topics discussed on my bus today...

2008-05-16T01:39:00.002+10:00

Is it cheating if you are on a different continent and you will never, ever see the person you cheated with again?
Did the World Wrestling Federation have to change to the WWE because of the World Wildlife Fund?
Why is it that the more sex you have, the more you want, yet at other timesyou can happily go for several weeks without a shag and not actually notice?
Who is my favourite driver and why?
If your surname was Hitler would you change it?
At what age does it become inappropriate to still worry about your knife being dirty when you cut your birthday cake and thus having to kiss the nearest member of the opposite sex?
Why did my brother not buy mum a mothers day present, despite repeated reminders from me?
What if my new man sees me on Monday after 28 days apart, realises the spark has gone, or I'm not as fun as he remembers, and dumps my arse? (thanks ever so much to my driver for planting that seed of doubt in my mind)
Is it funny or juvenille that I laugh every time I see the words "kunst" and "ausfahrt" in Germany?
Are olives the new black?
What was my mother doing at my age? (thanks to my passengers for bringing this up, thus making me feel old and barren)
Why does my boss insist on getting me to work with drivers I have previously slept with?

I Have a Secret

2008-05-14T02:49:00.002+10:00

So, I have this MASSIVE secret that I can't tell anyone in real life because I am terrified that it will get back home. But fuck it, I am going to tell everyone here because (a) most of you don't know me and (b) those that do won't tell my family.

I am coming home for Xmas.

Yes, it's all planned and almost booked. I am coming home via Africa and Western Australia to surprise my mum and dad and brother for Xmas.

Do you understand how difficult it is for me to not tell my mum?

I tell mum almost EVERYTHING. I talk to her on a weekly basis. We text on a daily basis. And ye tI am trying desperately to keep this from her as I really, really want to surprise her. So I also can't tell dad as he will forget it's a surprise and tell her, and same goes for my brother. I also can't tell my best friends as they are (apparently) in constant phone contact with mum to find out where I am and what I am doing, because I am so shit at emailing people. So the only people that know are my friends over here in the UK. And it's KILLING ME!

Of course, it's not permanent. I am planning on coming back to the UK next year via America and continuing with my job. But I just really, really, REALLY want to see another Aussie summer. And see the look on mum's face when I turn up early one morning on her doorstep.

Fuck I hope they're in that day. What if they go away?

Things I pondered in the chemist today

2008-04-30T21:08:00.002+10:00

Why do they put tampons, pregnancy tests and nappies in the same aisle? Is it a way of scaring people? You know - if you don't have your period you're obviously pregnant and thus will need to buy nappies. Or are chemist marketing managers just evil bastards who want to make us women paranoid?

Why are condoms kept with the men's shaving goods? Is it a way of making blokes feel more masculine - you're such a man you need to shave AND buy condoms. All at once. Or i it just to make it obvious when a girl is buying condoms? Like a big "I'm a slut!" sign.

Is electric blue eyeliner seriously coming back into fashion, or is Revlon just laughing at us?

There are 50-million different types of toothpaste, yet no one make triple stripe any more. Why not? It was so my favourite.

Seriously, why are there about fifty different types of pregnancy tests? What is the difference? I know some have crosses, some have lines, some have smiley faces (which is the worst idea EVER), but surely they all do the same thing i.e. tell you you're knocked up not. Why confuse the issue with too much choice?

How do you say "Kleenex Aloe Vera tissues" in French?

Do I really need more nail polish? Are six bottles too much, considering I bite my fingernails and only wear it on my toes, which no one can see at the moment due to bad weather?

Is it bad to have a kebab for breakfast?

Is it pretentious of me to complain to my family about being in Nice? I mean, Nice is a shithole, it's dirty and dodgy and the people are not as classy as you'd imagine. But surely I should be happy with the fact I am in the French Riviera, and not complaining about Nice being not very nice?

Am I really pregnant or am I just paranoid? Fuck it, I'll get a test anyway.

This is Horrible

2008-04-21T08:12:00.002+10:00

Eugh. I have a shameful admission to make.

I have met this guy and I think I am falling completely and totally head over heels for him. It actually makes me sick how much I like him. I want to punch myself in the face.

I never lose control of my emotions like this. I am totally emotional control girl. And yet I am having fantasies of us together and weddings and shit, and can't help smiling like a loon every time we spend time together.

Can I be cured? Will my revolting lust-joy never end? Am I turning into a (gasp) girl?

This can only ead to heartache and recriminations.

Hilariously Gross

2008-04-17T18:19:00.002+10:00

Okay, before I start, this is a story which really, truly did not happen to me. It is a real life friend, not the elusive "friend" you talk about when you're too embarassed to admit you did something dumb. I swear.

So, I was drinking with a mate of mine the other night. We were discussing her new boyfriend (who just quietly is quite hot) when she dropped this bombshell of a conversation stopper.

They were maybe getting down and dirty the other night, when suddenly her boyfriend stopped mid-thrust. An then uttered the phrase no girl wants to hear in bed. "Oh shit". When she stopped having a mini-freakout and asked what was wrong, he explained that the condom had come off. And he couldn't find it.

"How do you lose a condom mid-thrust?" No answer was forthcoming. So he simply grabbed another and coninued what he was doing.

The next day my friend started a hunt for the elusive missing condom. And couldn't find it anywhere. She searched in the bed sheets, under the bed, even in the doona cover, but without any success. So she simply assumed that her boyfriend was so drunk he either forgot to put one on in the first place, or he had found it later and disposed of it himself.

Three days later my mate is wandering through town when she gets this weird sensation. She explained it as "that feeling you get when your tampon is at maximum capacity and starts almost working its way out" (yes, I have classy friends). She didn't have her period though, and just thought maybe she was in need of a pee. So she went to the nearest public toilet.

Only to finish peeing, turn around to flush the loo and discover the elusive condom sitting in the toilet bowl! Turns out when her boyfriend had "lost" it it had obviously just come off inside her. And the poor girl had been wandering around for three days with it slowly working its way south. Of course, I reacted in any normal way for a friend.

I laughed my arse off. And she is now to be known by our friends as CD, or "the condom dispenser". Why keep them in your wallet / bedside drawer / bathroom cabinet?

To-GA! To-GA!

2008-04-14T22:45:00.002+10:00

Back when I was at uni, for some reason the law society was always organising toga parties. I'm pretty sure it was an excuse for the slightly dodgy male members to get to see drunk chicks with their sheets slipping off them ever so slightly. However, it did make me a genius at being able to tie a sheet so it looks hot AND YET does not fall off when I'm pissed.

Which is a skill that has come in handy in my current job. See, we have a toga party every time we're in Italy. Everyone gets dressed up in a sheet and dances on the bar. Lots of people have to do the walk of shame wearing only a sheet. Even more people end up falling out of their togas during the evening.

But not me. I am happy to say that in all the toga parties I have had, I have managed to keep my bits to myself.

I am thinking of adding this fabulous skill to my resume. Surely it must come in handy for some other job too?

In No Way Sad

2008-04-10T18:49:00.002+10:00

I have now watched this clip like a gazillion times. DFor those who can't be arsed checking it out, it is New Kids on the Block OFFICIALLY CONFIRMING that they are touring again.

It si in no way sad that I am very, very excited about this. Even if Joe is in no way my favourite any more. Give me Donnie or go home!

Oops

2008-04-08T20:04:00.003+10:00

So, have you ever slept with anyone you're really not meant to?

I had an ex sleep with his best mate's sister once. That was a fun few days of the best friend trying to kill him (especially since when he slept with the sister he cheated on me, so I was trying to kill him too).

A mate of mine also slept with my bestie's step-brother once. He's 10 years younger than her and... what's the nice way of putting it, incredibly unatttractive. We laughed at her for weeks.

Oh, and my bestie managed to sleep with the IT woman at her work, thus causing her all sorts of computer "issues" when she ended it. Let's just say the internet policy was never so strictly enforced as when the IT woman got dumped.

So, all in all, the fact I slept with a person I may or may not be employed to take around Europe really isn't that bad, if you look at it in perspective? I mean, sure, if my boss finds out I get fired, and if my other passengers find out they can complain to my boss about it, oh yeah and my driver could also bring a complaint against me as technically it was in the room we were sharing. But aside from that, it really isn't that bad, is it?

On the plus side, he is very hot. And lovely as well. And did I mention HOT?

Feel Good Story Time

2008-03-31T20:24:00.002+11:00

I am often amazed by just how, well, shit London can be. Don't get me wrong. I love my lifestyle in this polluted and over-populated city. It has amazing bars, clubs, restaurants, night life, museums, art galleries and monuments. However, Londoners are just so damned unfriendly. I could tell a million stories of general angry London (most of which take place on the Tube), but I will save that for TNT magazine's letters page.

Instead, today, I wish to share my amazement at the wonder of a nameless and faceless Londoner who touched my life yesterday.

Yesterday was Sunday. And as many of you will know, I do like spending my Sundays at Church. Not Church where you sing songs about ascribing greatness to our God the rock (which I always like to think is actually titled "Ascribe Greatness to our God, The Rock"), or where a bloke in strange attire reads bits from an old book to you then tries to make it seem relevant to today's life. No, rather I mean The Church, a London staple for any Aussie or Kiwi which I have previously mentioned my love for. So, since I am back in London for a short appearance, my mate's and I decided it was necessary for us to go to The Church and get totally wankered. As one does.

Of course, this then lead to us deciding, at 4pm when we The Church closed, that Shepherd's Bush Walkabout was an excellent venue to head to. On the Tube. Drinking cans of Strongbow. Ever so classy.

So we went to She Bu and had a few Snake bites. And a bit of a dance. And managed to avoid the lesbian kiss off. By this point it's about 7pm and we are not just a little drunk, but well and truly fuckfaced. Slurring our words, pashing random guys in a great competition we called "The Rash Pash and Dash Match" (I came second by one pash, just for the record), generally being drunken fools. IT was at this point my non-boyfriend called me to see whether I wanted to catch up with him. Why yes, yes I did!

So I negotiated the streets of London, made it to the train station and hopped on the Central line to meet him at his office. At least, that was the plan.

I woke up in Zone 5. ZONE FRIGGEN 5! With no idea of where the hell I am. So I hop off the train and catch the one back into the centre of town, hoping I'm not too late.

It is then I discover I have not got my phone on me.

Cue a drunken (and very public) search of my bag, pockets, jacket, everywhere. I have no phone and no idea of my non-boyfriend's number. Nor any of my friend's numbers. I'm meant to be dossing at a mate's place this week - no idea of where she lives or her number. Shit bugger bum bollocks. So I head back to my trusty hostel, beg them for a room and promptly fall asleep / into unconsciousness.

It is this morning I wake to find I have a thousand phone messages. Some lovely soul found my phone on the Central line, and when my non-boyfriend started calling to find out where I was, they answered and told him they had my phone. They chatted a bit and these kind, sweet, generous Londoners are going to post it to me.

They also sent text messages (before speaking with my non-boyfriend) to my parents, three of my mates who texted me, my brother and my boss (in my phone as "The Boss") asking for my address to return my phone. So, of course, everyone has called me to tell me.

Bless these kind Londoners. Next time some wankstain on the Tube does something truly unfriendly I will think back to these amazing Londoners who made an effort to reunite me with my phone.

Lucky I have a shit phone no one wants to steal, really...

You've probably noticed

2008-03-23T23:07:00.001+11:00

I'm not around much any more. I have gone back on the road and finding time to do anything except organise my tour group is near impossible.

I'll be round when I can, but in the meantime, don't trash the place in my absence...

2008-03-08T23:56:00.003+11:00

A very good mate of mine just announced his engagement.

I am in shock. Hardcore, serious, think the bottom is falling out of the world shock.

Not for some My Best Friends Wedding "I want him back" kind of reason. Mainly because he is a massive party animal. He puts me to absolute shame. In our relationship I am the serious, sensible one. And hes getting fucking married!

I, on the other hand, am shagging a guy who is besotted with me, who I don't even really like, simply so I don't have to pay for accommodation in London when I'm not on tour. And when I am on the road I am trying to get as many international flags as possible.

And he's getting married!

What the fuck???

Once, Twice, Three Times a Weirdo

2008-02-22T21:39:00.001+11:00

So Steph seems to think Jebus is into the whole smiting thing, with her as his main target. Oh Steph, we have so much in common. Let me tell you my story of Jebus smitage. Gather round, children.

I have been a bit of a dirty stop out recently. Don’t judge. But, for some reason, 2008 seems to be my year. Or rather, my vagina’s year. It may be the newfound confidence I recently discovered I have developed since moving to London, or it may be I’m just a skanky whore. Whatever.

So, this morning I was making my way into work from a young gentleman’s house up North. This meant negotiating the Northern Line, apparently the busiest Tube line in London. For those of you who have never travelled on the London Tube in peak hour, it is not something you can easily explain. Imagine this – a Sydney train carriage, but half as tall. And half as wide. Then cram 150 people into it. Oh, and make sure they all have assorted books / newspapers / umbrellas / giant handbags / suitcases with them. And the main rule is you’re not allowed to look anyone in the eye. So you and 149 of your closest strangers stand there staring into the middle distance, despite being close enough to know whether the guy next to you is circumcised or not.

This was the melee I entered this morning. Of course, I ended up crammed into the space near the seats (which were all taken, of course). When at the next stop, this little old lady tries to negotiate her way from a seat out the doors.

Of course, this means everyone tries to let her past but also block anyone else from getting her seat. So the girl next to me moves a quarter inch, at the most, and grandma can’t get past unless I give the guy sitting behind me a lap dance. As I am trying to manoeuvre myself, the train jolts.

Next thing I’m sitting on the guy behind me. Only problem is, I’m also sitting on his very pointy and cold umbrella. I know it’s cold because as landed it ripped through my skirt, and my tights and is now resting on bare skin.

Of course, despite me laughing hysterically and apologising Mr Umbrella pretends nothing has happened and ignores me. Yes, he totally ignores the girl with the gaping hole in her skirt who was in his lap a moment ago. But then it gets worse.

I get to the station where I have to change lines, and it has this ancient escalator. Which, when I board, I discover has gaps exactly the right size for my stiletto to become wedged in. This is not the first time this has happened to me. And knowing the glares I got last time, I start to panic, and try and wrench my stiletto free. The guy behind me on the escalator sees what has happened and, bless him, tries to help. Imagine a girl with a massive tear in her skirt attempting to pull a stiletto shoe from the escalator. Imagine the slapstick possibilities.

Imagine her wrenching it free as she reaches the top of the escalator, only to fall over with the momentum. And sprawl at the top of the escalators, the contents of her bag (including what little dignity she had left) going every which way. I don’t know about you, but I'd laugh and offer her help.

Only one person offered me help! The rest literally stepped over me and continued on their merry way! Yes, the same guy who had been trying to help with my shoes helped me out, then suggested a shop nearby where I could obtain a new skirt and shoes before work. Bless.

But clearly baby Jebus still wasn’t done. Because as I go to enter said store I don’t see the small step down from the footpath, and enter the store by falling most ungracefully through the doors. And slightly twisting my ankle. So now I’m hobbling from a twisted ankle and mangled shoe, and my skirt has a huge tear in it. I did get served in record time though, probably because the staff thought I was some weirdo freak.

In all honesty, they’re probably not that wrong…

12 Steps?

2008-02-21T00:00:00.003+11:00

I've had at least a dozen people tell me in the past few months I have an alcohol problem.

My mother has been telling me for some time. Although, given my mother has been drunk precisely once since I was born (which was at my graduation party, when she had 4 white wines and nothing to eat), she considers that anyone who drinks beer from the bottle is an alcoholic.

Then it was my ex-crackhead friend's turn. Sure, she was in rehab at 18. Sure, she's known alcoholics. But she's also a little to quick to see the addiction signs in others (I am also apparently addicted to pain, coke and sarcasm, in her eyes).

Then a few others got on board. Why? Because I like a drink. Sure, I have a drink or two every day. I live in a hostel and my loungeroom is a bar - who wouldn't?!?

However, for the past two days the bar at my hostel has been closed. So, instead of buying cheaper booze and drinking it with my mates in the tv room, I have had 2 alcohol free days.

Which was a piece of friggen cake.

Okay, it was weird not socialising in the bar. And yeah, a few friends were shocked (and appalled) that I didn't have a beer / cider / snakebite / vodka in my hand. However, surely if I was an alcoholic it should have been harder for me?

So to all those who keep telling me I have an alcohol problem, I have this to say to you. Rack off, hairy legs!! The only 12 Steps I'm taking are to the nearest pub.

By the way, I'm having an "end of two alcohol free days" party tonight, if anyone's interested. You'll find me at the bar.

Is it weird

2008-02-18T23:29:00.002+11:00

if you pick up a guy at a suitably classy establishment (say for example's sake, a Walkabout pub), and go back to his place for a little something something, only for him to get up a couple of hours later to go get himself a kebab?

Seriously. He woke me up to ask if I wanted anything, then left me in his apartment to wander down the road for a kebab. As if this were the most normal thing in the world.

At least I got a double bed to myself for a while. Been a long time since I've had my own double bed...

Why is it that...

2008-02-15T04:18:00.000+11:00

The ones we don’t want are always the ones that are most interested?

I met this guy on the weekend. Well, I say "met". Really, he was only ever meant to be a one night stand. Don't judge me, just go with it.

So imagine my surprise when I get to work on Monday and old One-Night Neil, as he shall henceforth be named, has Facebooked me. Yes, there large as day was a notification "One-Night Neil has sent you a friend request". First and most important, how the hell did he get my surname? I sure as shit didn't tell him. Second, thus began the endless discussions with my mates - do I act like a bitch and hit ignore OR do I accept him as a friend and maybe have to actually be his friend?

Opinions were polarised. Most people swung towards the "hit ignore and let it be" end of the pendulum. However, a few of my closer mates insisted I accept. One dared me to. Another one responded with the line "if I have to have Crazy Ex as my friend, you have to have One-Night Neil". Another declared "you still have Text Dumper as your friend, why not this guy?". My bestie's opinion was "consequences - maybe this will teach you to think them through before acting?".

So I still hadn't decided, when suddenly on Tuesday I open Facebook (yeah, I'm hooked, okay?) and there's amessage from him in my Inbox. Along the lines of "hey, how you going, did you get home okay the other morning". Well I cracked. I felt like such a huge bitch I accepted his friend request. And gave a short but ambiguous response of "yeah, a few beers with lunch helped me soldier on".

Of course, since then he has kept up a steady stream of correspondence. I respond about 2 hours after his last message and within 10 minutes he has responded again. So very keen. Bless him.

And now it's Thursday and he's invited me out this weekend. To a show I really really want to go see. Just not with him.

He's nice, I suppose. But he's really not as cool as he thinks he is. And he talks way too much. About crap. And I think he's a bit shallow. And he has no tattoos, scars or piercings, which is a first for me. And I think he's a bit of a dork.

And he just doesn't give me that feeling, you know? When I think about him I do not get that funny feeling in my tummy. Nor do I get a better funny feeling further down. I'm not going to see him across the Tube station and get excited. To be honest, I'm probably going to be inwardly groaning.

And yet I really want to go see that show, and therefore am considering saying yes just so I can go for free. I think that officially makes me a bad person.

Walk of Shame

2008-02-12T00:30:00.000+11:00

There is nothing worse than the walk of shame. Especially if it's quite clear you're doing the walk of shame. Like my mate who did it in full Cure outfit and makeup. Or a story I heard once about a guy dressed as a pirate. Or many of my friends after various balls at uni.

So, imagine doing it the day after Waitangi Day*. Dressed in a New Zealand tshirt. And wearing a New Zealand flag scarf**. And having to do said walk of shame from North London (zone 3 of all places!) back to west London. Oh yeah, and my Tube station was closed so I had to walk from one two stations away.

Could this get any worse?

Of course it could! You're on my blog here, you all know I'm nothing if not unlucky!

So after losing my tshirt in the sneaking out while he was still asleep, finding the nearest bus stop, getting on the wrong bus and being redirected by the bus driver, I finally made it to a north London tube station. Bleary eyed I was wandering towards my line, when I heard someone call my name. I ignored it, thinking there was another Original Mel nearby - I mean, who would know me here?

Only my mother's, best friend's daughter. And her husband. Looking all fresh and chipper and not vilely hungover.

So I sucked it up and smiled. Tried to flatten my hair. Crossed my arms over the New Zealand flags adorning my outfit. We had a bit of a chat and then came the question. What are you doing up this end of London?.

Quick brain, think. What would I be doing in northern London at 10am on a Sunday looking like shit and smelling like a brewery? Oh you know, went on the Waitangi Day pub crawl and ended up partying back at a mate's place until after the Tube closed...

It was then that she did a quick appraisal of my outfit. And grinned. And you also appear to have lost your top in said party. Yeah, I look down and my jacket zip has been inching lower as I walked along, now revealing my delightful hot pink bra and lack of tshirt to everyone in north London.

My mother is so going to hear this story...

* Apparently New Zealand's answer to Australia Day, which I had never heard of until I moved to London. Work that one out!
** Hey, I missed Australia Day, and they're like our eighth state anyway...

2008-02-09T21:54:00.000+11:00

So as you may or may not know, following getting evicted from my grandmother's house for no reason, I moved into a hostel. As in a hostel where people stay for a few nights when they are in London on holidays. I joined the little known ranks of people who live in hostels for a long period of time. We are known simply as The Longtermers.

Anyone who has stayed in a hostel for more than a few days will know our type. We know all the staff by name. We get jumped to the front of the reception queue when we lose our keys because the staff know we are hopeless and keep a spare for us at all time. We order our dinner directly with the chef and he cooks it exactly as we like it, whcih is slightly differently to how everyone else gets it.

Basically, it's fabulous. I love it.

However, there is one tiny little issue. My lounge room is a bar.

Yes, on the ground floor we have a bar. Open from 4pm week days (12pm weekends and 8am on Waitangi Day and Australia Day, not that I'd know....). I may have come to the realisation I may occassionally be a drunken fool. The last thing I need is alcohol on tap in my lounge room. And yet....

To say I am the bartenders' favourite patron would be pushing it. However, I do know that without me the bar would probably go broke. I went away for 10 days the other week and when I got back my favourite bartender damn near cried. And then he gave me a free drink. And hugged me. Yeah, I think I keep that place afloat.

So imagine my horror when I started getting an allergic reaction when drinking at the bar. It started a few months back. All of a sudden one night I went red. Not a little red, I'm talking fire engine red. But only my face. My neck went completely white, except for these big red splotches everywhere. It looked like I had leprosy.

Obviously I was mortified, finished my drink and went to bed. The next day I was fine.

Cue a couple of weeks later. Same thing happened. Only this time I was drinking different alcohol. Same reaction.

A few weeks later, a whole new alcoholic beverage and same thing. My mates here start wondering if it's them. Someone says maybe I'm allergic to alcohol. I try and ignore them.

Then last night the EXACT same thing happened. Now all I was drining last night was beer. Sweet amber goodness. Which I have been drinking for about half my life and thus am definitely not allergic to. So what the fuck!

It turns out I am allergic to the chemicals they use in the industrial dishwasher here! I was chatting with the cleaning staff this morning and they mentioned that sulphates are used in the cleaner to make the water really hot or something. For fuck's sake, I'm allergic to sulphur!!

The moral of the story is, I am now getting my own glass to drink out of at the bar. The staff here think it's so funny they are investing in a glass with my name on it and are going to hand wash it for me on a daily basis. It will be better for the company than me not drinking, and the bar potentially going under.

2008-02-08T20:24:00.000+11:00

I was watching MTV the other day, and I wondered whether Justin Timberlake's mum ever calls him to congratulate him.

Not on being a star, mind. I was wondering whether she ever calls him to congratulate him on dodging the bullet that is Britney Spears. Do you think, every now and then, she leaves him a message saying she's proud of his decision to break up with her?

Hi dahling it's yo mamma he-yah (cause he's from the South, right?). Ah wahs jurst cahling to say con-grad-u-lations. I wahs watching the news and app-ah-rent-lay Brit-neh is too mayd foh even Doctah Phil! You cert-tain-leh dawdgded a big old pot o' cray-zeh dahling. Ah am glad ah always tawght you tah wrap yo' tool before pokin' some fool! Aids may kill but cray-zeh is fo' laife. Yo' mamma lurves you, jurst you remembeh thayt. Bah-bah, dahling boy"

I'M NOT PREGNANT

2008-01-29T03:20:00.000+11:00

And I'm having a fucking beer to celebrate.

I mean, how would I explain it to the phantom child in a few years time?

Who's your dad? Well, mummy think his name may have been Liam. Or maybe Lee. Possibly Lenny. Or she could be wrong and it was James. But she's pretty sure he was from Queensland. Or maybe the Northern Territory. It definitely wasn't New South Wales. Or was it..? Let's just say mummy had a few too many Magners and remembered shagging him three times, but only found two condoms the next morning. You were the result of the elusive third shag!

Yeah, all class. Raise your fucking glasses, kids. I've shagged and shagged and shagged and all the buggers have missed! Time to get pissed and pick up! It worked out last time...

Hell Is Not Just Other People

2008-01-28T07:24:00.000+11:00

I went to hell the other night.

People often wonder how you can tell hell. Well, I'm pretty sure that if you have just arrived at a place and, before you have even got to your gate number three people have tried to get money from you "for a bus fare to see my dying kids", one guy has been lead out kicking and screaming by the cops for trying to nick someone's wallet and there is a strong smell of urine, you're there.

Yes, I spent the evening at Victoria Coach Station, London. Trust me, the devil stinks of piss, not sulphur.

In these days of low cost airfares, one would think long bus rides were a thing of the past. Oh how wrong they would be. It's just that the bogans who can't even afford Easyjet are instead taking advantage of the £9 London to Amsterdam rates offered by various coach companies. Yes, bogans who can't afford Easyjet. Until the other night, I never knew there was such a thing either.

In many ways it's like travelling by air. The constant security announcements. The uncomfortable seats. The ridiculously expensive snacks. But I'm pretty sure airports don't have blue lights in the toilets, nor do they charge you 20p to pee. Nor do quite so many people travel with those stripey gypsy bags from a £2 shop.

And let's not even mention the 12 hour drive itself. Wedged into a most uncomfortable seat, the two gentlemen in front of me reclined their seats before the coach was even started, and then proceeded to have a loud conversation in another language ALL NIGHT LONG. And I was paranoid about my bag getting nicked. And the driver was a sleeze who tried to chat up every single girl on the bus, including the six 10 year old Korean students I was shepherding. Amazing.

I'm never complaining about Easyjet again. At least they are only uncomfortable for one hour. This is a whole night of my life I'm never getting back. And the smell of urine seems to be following me around, haunting my dreams.

The Saddest Australia Day

2008-01-27T02:39:00.000+11:00

I'm not your flag waving, "Aussie Aussie Aussie" "Oi! Oi! Oi!", boganesque Australian. Well, maybe a little bogan. We all have a little Kath / Kel in us, let's be honest. But I'm not one of those Aussies who has a Southern Cross tattoo, wears a flag as a cape to the Big Day Out and thinks Oztraya is the best place ever yet has never been anywhere else. But I am quite proud of my little nation.

Plus I think Australia Day is a bloody good excuse for a national holiday.

So imagine my disappointment when I discovered this year I would be spending Australia Day in Munich. Hmm, not too bad, I hear you thinking. There's beer in steins, there's lusty beer wenches - what is this girl complaining about.

Well, I'm on a tour. With 10 school children. Who speak no English. And their hopeless teacher who wanders off shopping, leaving me looking after these bored, disinterested kids who'd rather be playing Gameboy than looking at the Marienkirche.

I honestly could cry.

The fact my mates in London are all at the Shepherd's Bush Walkie / our hostel jelly wrestling / at Action Town Redback and keep sending me drunken texts is not helping one little bit. It is making it worse.

The worst part is, I was hoping to sneak off tonight. Head into town when the kids had finished dinner and try to find some Aussies to play with. Maybe make this day a little less depressing. But no. Now she has decided she wants the kids to see Munich BY NIGHT.

I really think I am going to cry. If I don't get one fucking beer today, I will be inconsolable. I am not joking.

This may well be the saddest Australia Day EVER.

That Girl

2008-01-25T09:58:00.001+11:00

Some people have never had a one night stand.

Others have had fairly uneventful ones.

Then there are those of us who have had shockers. Absolute shockers. Either the person was a psycho, or did something horrific, or you just couldn't recall their name the next day and had a very awkward conversation.

Well, I am the bad one night stand girl. You know, the one who features in the stories when you're sitting around with your mates and one of them tells you about this god awful one night stand he had. Yeah, I'm the girl he's talking about.

Imagine this: You're a young man about town, in a bar. Some time around midnight these two girls next to you at the bar start talking to you and your mate. You have something in common, as one of these girls lived about 40 minutes from you up north, and may or may not support the same football team as you. Her friend mysteriously disappears, leaving you and this girl talking.

You hit it off. Conversation flows... as does the alcohol. She sees something in you she likes, and you see something in her which isn't repulsive.

Around bar closing time she suggests taking the party elsewhere. Like back to yours. And you are so thrilled that she has made the suggestion you take her up on this offer.

You have sex (well, the details here may or may not get hazy). Maybe a couple of times, and quite energetically. Eventually you both ~~pass out~~ sleep.

Then, who knows how long later. You are awoken by her struggling from bed. Falling over. Barely able to walk. She needs to know where the bathroom is and STAT!

You're still groggy. You kind of shove her in the direction of the bathroom. You go back to sleep.

You awaken the next day to an empty place. Well, almost empty. There's no girl, but there are all of her clothes. And her bag. And a lovely pool of vomit on your floor. But no girl. She may have woken at some hour, wrapped in a towel in the bathroom, stupidly drunk and made it back to hers. Wrapped in only a towel. She isn't quite sure though, as when you find her (to return her clothes, bag and phone which has been ringing since 8am) she doesn't quite know who you are or where she is. She may or may not be still drunk. And wrapped in a towel.

Imagine this story EXCEPT that you are the cousin of the guy that manages a hostel. And you and she live at the hostel. And she had to get a new key from reception, which is who you also had to ask about which room she was in. So everyone knows she ended up in yours. And, did I mention, she's spewed on your floor.

Imagine your greater horror if you are the girl. Who shall henceforth be known as "The One Night Stand Who Spewed". Forever. By everyone at the hostel.

It's enough to make you drink and pick up another guy at the same bar a few nights later. Or something.

2008-01-18T03:21:00.000+11:00

Back in Aus it's traditional to drive past a work site and see a group of about four or five guys leaning on their shovels, whilst one lone guy actually does some work.

In Ireland last week I discovered the Irish equivalent.

I mean, because it's so cold, they don't do the shovel lean. Instead, there will be one guy working and eight guys standing around... with their hands in their pockets.

It's like they aren't even trying to pretend to work...

2008 - The Year of the Whore

2008-01-16T03:56:00.000+11:00

I don't do new years resolutions. They always seem a bit too Bridget Jones-y for me. Instead, I kind of have a loose idea of what I will do differently in the coming year to better my life / myself as a person.

Last year it was a loose decision to loose weight as I was sick of being fat (not phat). I managed to stick to it too.

This year it was a loose decision to not sleep with randoms simply because they are there and I am drunk and / or horny.

That one lasted thirteen days.

THIRTEEN FUCKING DAYS!!

And it gets worse:-

I wasn't quite sure of his name
I was in a room which had no one else in it, but there was a door to the room next door where two girls were staying who probably heard everything
He left his beanie behind which I then had to give to the receptionist of the hostel and explain why I had it
We both live at the hostel as long term residents

So I decided to try harder at this "no shagging randoms" thing. Try and have a little respect for myself, blah blah blah.

That lasted 36 hours.

36 FUCKING HOURS!

Again, had to ask one of the receptionists here HIS name, oh and of course he just happens to be related to the manager and is going to be here for a while. And I left all my stuff in his room and he had to bring it back to me today. So yeah, everyone here knows about it.

I give up. 2008 is officially the year of the whore. Bring it on.

I'm In Love

2008-01-09T02:44:00.000+11:00

I'm currently on day three of a self guided tour of Ireland and I've fallen in love...

... with Belfast. And every Northern Irish boy I have had the pleasure of flirting with.

Sadly I'm traveling with my family, and keep getting in trouble for flirting with the locals. So, my question of the week is, surely flirting with the locals is a cultural experience?? And sleeping with them is truly experiencing all Northern Ireland has to offer?

As usual, answers on a postcard / in the comments.

Where are you going for New Years?

2007-12-30T04:32:00.000+11:00

Just thought I'd ask because I'm off to PARIS BABY!!!

My life is so hard.

I don't know how I cope...

POSTSCRIPT: Paris didn't have fireworks. I'm from fucking Sydney. We have fireworks because it's a day that ends with 'y'. I demand fireworks for New Years, and Paris didn't deliver.

So we set off our own and risked arrest by the heavily armed police. Twas amazing!

2007-12-20T21:14:00.000+11:00

Reasons why I quite like the idea of a white Xmas:

A big, roast turkey for lunch with roast vegetables and christmas pudding finally makes sense (even if I still hate turkey).
I can go ice skating on an outdoor rink in a park, in the manner of all schmaltzy Xmas movies.
The holly berries are red, not green.
And apparently you can go picking mistletoe
Mulled wine is delicious!

Reasons why I don't like the idea of a white Xmas:

Severe lack of prawns, oysters, smoked salmon, crabs, balmain bugs, etc...
I should be wearing a swim suit and summer dress, not seven thousand layers of jumpers, jackets, hats, scarves and thermals.
Lying by a pool is out of the question. As is spendnig Boxing Day on the beach.
You have to spend the day indoors, lest you catch pneumonia. Which means less ability to escape from your family (and by family I obviously mean grandmother)
Christmas tv. Apparently in England it is a ratings bonanza. And yet this "bonanza" is made up of such fabulous shows as Coroation Street, To the Manor Born, Religious bloody programming...

2007-12-19T20:50:00.001+11:00

Another blogger linked to this, and all I have to say is I think this is my life right now.

That is about it for this frosty Wednesday. In true Xmas movie style I am off ice skating in Hyde Park tonight. Clearly I will have a hilarious crash with a dorky but hot stranger (we'll probbaly then bang heads as we try and help each other up) and we will fall in love and live happily ever after.

Or my brother and I will have a few beers beforehand, piss off the locals with our brash Aussie accents and our ability to enjoy ourselves and end up with lots of bruises. Either/or.

BA(stards)

2007-12-18T21:11:00.000+11:00

There's always a moment. When you arrive at the airport to collect a loved one, there's a moment when, scanning the list of flights to work out whether said loved ones have landed yet, you notice a flight which has been cancelled. And even though you know deep down that this particular flight is not the one your loved ones are arriving on, you quickly recheck the flight numbers, departure destination and time of arrival in breathless anticipation just to make sure it's not your loved ones.

Imagine if you checked the flight time and it was, indeed, the flight your loved ones were meant to be arriving on.

Yeah, that's what happened to me yesterday when I went to collect my family from the airport. God hates me.

Sure enough, the flight which was flashing CANCELLED was my family's final connecting flight, from butt-fuck nowhere in Scandinavia to London. Why my parents decided to fly via Scandinavia from Sydney is anyone's guess (something about dad getting a "bargain" flight with some dodgy arse carrier).

So, after calming myself down, I went to airport information. "Excuse me, I'm looking for my parent's and their flight seems to be cancelled. I need to know where they are before I start crying" The man at Heathrow information was lovely. He checked the flight and said it was a British Airways flight share, and I should go down to their information desk and they could help me.

I fucking hate British Airways. Last time I flew with them my seat was fucked, so I had to sit upright the whole time; my brother's tv wasn't working (for the entire 27 hours to London); they gave said 6'5" brother a middle seat instead of an aisle seat despite us pointing out he doesn't fit in the middle seats; they "forgot" to give me dinner; and one particular hostie was so rude I wanted to take the bottle of wine I finally was given, smash it and shove it into her bitch face before she gave me another sneering look. And I paid lots of money for this "privilege".

So when I found out that my parent's flight was a flight share with BA, I knew I was in for a treat. Mainly because BA have no idea of what the term customer service means. No idea at all.

I duly wandered downstairs to find their customer info area. Much harder than you think. In fact, all I could find was the check in counter, with a very angry looking woman bossing people around and telling them they are in the wrong queue. So I decided to ask her where customer info was

OMel: Excuse me, I am looking for customer information
Angry BA employee: What? Why? What flight are you on?
OMel: I'm not. My parents are meant to be arriving today but their flight has been cancelled. I'm trying to find out what flight they have been moved to.
Angry BA employee: Well this is departures. I can't tell you that unless they are going somewhere.
OMel: I know. That's why I asked where customer information is.
Angry BA employee: I'm only departure information.
OMel: I know. Where is the more general information desk? I could only find these check in counters. I want customer information.
Angry BA employee: Well I'm only departure information. You'll have to go to section L, that's the information area.
OMel: That's all I wanted.

So I head to section L. Only to find it's not fucking customer information, it's bloody ticket sales. With a massive friggen queue of people trying to buy tickets. I almost wanted to tell them not to bother, they'll only encounter rudeness and bad service. But I was starting to worry. Where was my family? Why hadn't they called me? Were they stuck in butt-fuck nowhere, Scandinavia forever?

Eventually I found a relatively okay airport employee, who pointed me to the BA customer "service" desk. Which had a queue like something out of the depression up to the one, also angry looking, "customer service" officer. Yay.

After a lengthy period (I swear I could have been impregnated, gone to term, delivered a child and watched it grow to primary school age) I finally reached the front of the queue. Whereupon I told my tale of woe, and explained I just wanted to know what flight my family had been put on, if any.

"I'm afraid we can't give you that information due to privacy laws."

No no, they are my parents and brother. I need to know what flight they're on so I can collect them.

"Sorry, but privacy laws prevent us from giving that information."

Well how the fuck am I supposed to collect them if I don't know what flight they are on?

"They will probably call you once they have been re-routed. But we can't give out private passenger information."

COMPLETE

FUCKING

BULLSHIT!

I may have yelled a little. Told the arsehat behind the counter I was a lawyer and privacy laws have been grossly abused so fucktards like him don't have to do their job, they can just hide behind the magical phrase "privacy laws". Fucktards.

So eventually I lost my temper, went back up to departures and thought I';d hang around for a bit. I mean, there was another plane from butt-fuck nowhere in Scandinavia arriving half an hour after the one my parents should have been on was meant to arrive. Maybe they would be on that??

After being at the airport for an hour and a half, my mobile rings. It's my brother's Aussie mobile.

OMel: Where the bloody hell are you? (Ironic, considering that I was using the Aussie advertising slogan in London...)
Stick: At the baggage counter. Apparently our mobiles don't have reception in butt-fuck nowhere, Scandinavia. What a surprise.
OMel: Tell dad he is off my Xmas card list. I'll see you in five.

So they arrived. After much drama and mayhem, they arrived. Slightly jet lagged, very rumpled, but here in London town. And no thanks to BA.

God it's good to see them.

2007-12-13T21:29:00.000+11:00

Dear Transport for London,

Every morning when I get on the Tube, it is swelteringly hot, despite the outside temperature being in the vicinity of 3-4ºC. I understand it is near impossible to air condition the Tube. I really do. If you could do something about maybe installing more air vents in the carriages I would appreciate it, as that way at least when the trains are moving we cuold get some fresh (well, relatively speaking) air.

Thanks,

OMel

Dear Mr Corporate Suit,

Thanks for catching me as I fainted this morning. I realise I am not waif-like in any way, and appreciate you have probably done yourself an injury whilst being all chivalrous and ensuring I did not hit the ground.

If it helps, I have lost over 30 kilos in the past year, so consider yourself lucky you didn't have to catch me a year ago! I probably would have squished you.

Thanks for restoring my faith in Londoners,

OMel

Dear Brain,

Sometimes I wonder if you and my mouth have met. Because quite often my mouth says things it has clearly not run by you for initial screening. However, I would like to thank you for today's efforts. I mean, you had only just regained consciousness (after a breif period of "reset") when you brilliantly came up with the lie "I'm pregnant", in order to ensure everyone around you thought not that you were viley hungover and thus should be ignored, but rather you were frail and delicate and thus required a seat on the Tube.

The only issue is that I hope no one on the train recognised / knew me, otherwise I will have some explaining to do in the next few weeks.

Keep up the good work!

OMel

Dear Camden Council,

It is very difficult for one to, hypothetically speaking, vomit in your well located garbage bins given that they all seem to have strange, immovable covers over the top of them. Whilst I understand this prevents industrial / commercial garbage from being dumped in said bins, it causes problems as people instead have to vomit under trees or in the gutter. I think this should be addressed as a matter of urgency.

Kind regards,

OMel

Dear Smirnoff,

In this age of public liability and excessive litigation, I feel your excellent vodka beverages should carry the warning "excessive consumption may lead to you waking up half an hour late, with a hangover and a Kiwi" and "side effects may include: fainting and/or vomiting on the way to work".

Still a fan,

OMel

Dear Work,

Oh, fuck off will you!

OMel

Most Bizarre Ever Xmas Gifts

2007-12-11T23:04:00.001+11:00

My family can be weird. Well, not so much my little part of the family (being my mum, my dad and my brother), but more my extended family. What with dossing psycho aunts and grandparents who evict you for no reason, they can be a little nuts.

So, over the years, my family and I have managed to accumulate a rather astonishing set of crazy Christmas gifts. Not just inappropriate, but also weird, strange, and some downright rude. In anticipation of yet another amazing (read: shiteful) cache of gifts this year, I bring you the Top Five, Most Bizarre Ever Xmas gifts received by my immediate family. If you wish to print it out and carry it with you on Xmas day, in order to make yourself feel better about assorted shit you receive, feel free.

Number Five

My aunt and uncle are quite well off. Not ridiculously wealthy, but quite well off. Not short of a few bob. Cashed up. Get the picture? And yet it is always with great trepidation we open their presents. Mainly because my aunt seems to put no thought into Christmas presents whatsoever, and just buys whatever she sees first when she graces David Jones with her presence.

So after I moved back to Australia (last time) and moved into a new apartment, my aunt's gifts developed a theme. They were all quite domestic. Because I am a well known domestic goddess. OR maybe she was trying to tell me something.

Anyway, for Xmas I received a rather unusually shaped gift. It almost looked like a bucket had been employed to give some shape to an otherwise tricky / breakable present. How excited I was. Upon being advised we could open the presents I leaped with great excitement upon this strangely wrapped but surely fabulous gift.

It was a bucket.

Okay, okay, maybe a silver bucket which (apparently) was the cutting edge in home rubbish receptacles. But still, let me make two points:

It was a bucket

Whose sole purpose was to be used as a rubbish bin

Tops.

Number Four

My cousin married a young man who, while quite wealthy, has a distinctly odd mother. Let's pretend her name is Helen. The entire family thus knows her as "Mad Helen". To the point where my mother has to actively stop herself from calling her Mad Helen to her face. I live in the hope that one Xmas mum will forget and fuck it up, just for shits and giggles.

Helen dutifully comes along to every family Xmas, and every year brings presents for my parents despite their distant relationship. My brother and I, however, are not so lucky.

Given that Helen barely knows my parents, her gifts are usually bland 'filler' type gifts. Until she hit on a winner.

It was Xmas and mum was trying to make an effort with Mad Helen. Who knows why. So when mum opened Helen's present, mum reacted with joy and excitement. The present consisted of a Cheese Knife and a Pate Knife.

Which had jersey cows as the handles. Classy.

Of course, mum's joy (read: acting skills) were so great that Helen discovered a theme. And ever since, mum has received increasingly odd presents which have a cow theme.

Mum regrets trying to be nice.

Number Three

Yet another one from my aunt and uncle. Bless them. My brother is not a blokey bloke. He isn't really that interested in watching sports, however will pay attention to big matches (eg he watches the World Cup in Rugby and Soccer, the Ashes, NRL grand finals, etc). So it was quite a surprise one year when my aunt provided him with the fabulous Xmas present of a Wallabies scarf and beanie.

Then we realised that, given the recent defeat of Australia, Lowes were selling all 2003 Wallabies merchandise at bargain basement prices. And hence my brother's incredibly personal and in no way cheap arse gift.

Number Two

When I was growing up my parents were good friends with the childless couple next door. They loved my brother and I and used to spoil us rotten. Sadly, as the years have passed they still see my brother and I as we used to be, and not as the mid-twenty "adults" (I use the term loosely) that we actually are. So our gifts from them are often interesting forays into some bizarre, Michael Jackson-esque, Peter Pan Never Never Land.

I once received from them a rather normal present of a black bag. Sure, it wasn't really my style. But it was okay, and I could probably use it for, I don't know, storage or something.

So I had left it lying around, when my brother got his hands on it. In fact, I think mum and I may have been watching the Dancesports finals on tv when my brother bounded into the room, nearly wetting himself laughing.

Oh my God, who gave you this?

Uh, Childless Couple did.

It's fucking hilarious. Can I keep it?

What do you mean, hilarious? It's a black bag. Are you on crack.

No dude, seriously. Check this out.

He then proceeded to undo several zips and reclasp a few buttons, when he produced... a hat.

Yes, my fabulous bag was actually a bag which doubled as a hat*. I had not read the instructions which were inside the bag, but my baby brother had. I let him keep the hat/bag for all future comedy/fashion stylings. And despite numerous internet searches, I have never been able to work out where she found this amazing gift.

Number One

The corker also comes from my fabulous aunt and uncle. My aunt's dislike for my father is well documented, and well known amongst my family. This is the woman who, when my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer, said to mum in relation to his extensive (and shiteful) treatment "oh well, it gives you something to do with your time". Yeah, she's lovely.

A few years back my uncle retired, and my aunt took to calling themselves "poor pensioners". The fact they are living fairly well of a self managed superannuation fund and have never set foot inside a Centrelink office notwithstanding.

Thus, the year they retired the family got strange and wonderful gifts from them. My aunt obviously was getting rid of some of the stuff they didn't want in their new place (they also moved from one expensive property where all the weekend farmers have their "country homes" to another expensive "pad" up on the Sunshine Coast). My cousin's husband got some strange prints. I got a fruit bowl from their kitchen. Mum got some used crockery.

But my dad got the best present of all. My dad got a keeper. He received a shoe box full of my uncle's old ties, including my uncle's school tie from a hundred years ago.

I shit you not. In a poxy, half wrapped shoe box.

For the next year we were really hoping he'd get some second-hand undies from my uncle, and maybe a used tissue.

*okay, not so much a bad gift, as a bizarre and thought provoking gift. Mainly thoughts like "why, for the love of God - WHY?"

2007-12-10T02:12:00.000+11:00

I usually hate Christmas. It usually brings out feelings of "bah humbug"-iness, for a number of reasons.

It's expensive.

I get forced to take 2 weeks annual leave, because my cmpany shuts down, which eats into my other holiday times.

There are a thousand fuckwits circling the city doing their shopping when I want to eat my lunch / get home / go to the pub.

People I see every day send me cards and expect me to send them one in return.

I have to spend the day itself with my horrifically revolting extended family.

I am single yet again.

Etcetera.

However, this year I have become the queen of fucking Christmas spirit. And it scares me. I even started writing Christmas cards the other day - fucking Christmas cards! And not once in this post have I referred to it as Xmas!

The reason for my newfound Christmas spirit? My mummy, daddy and baby brother arrive very, very soon from Australia. And I get to spend time with them for the first time in 9 months. I am so freaking excited that I am counting down not only the days, but also the HOURS until their plane arrives.

And I may be making a massive sign to hold at the airport to greet them. In no way sad, okay.

I have not only purchased, but also wrapped, all of their presents. And discovered I must really miss my little brother, because he has scored a whopping seven presents from me this year. Mum has scored four and dad gets three. They better friggen like them.

Not only that, I have decorated my little hostel room (well, my corner of it) with Christmas decorations. And I bought a mini-tree and put it on our window ledge. Just to really get into the spirit.

I am making myself sick.

Bring back the bah-humbuggy Original Mel, I say...

Score One for Me

2007-12-07T21:19:00.000+11:00

Most of my stories involve me being the world’s unluckiest, or more aptly, clumsiest, girl alive. I’m usually walking into things, getting seriously injured, getting lost, being drunk and stupid, disconnecting my brain from my mouth, getting locked in things, suffering from girly hysteria, or suffering from brain freezes. Not often do I come out on top.

Until yesterday. Finally, karma decided to show me some good luck.

A few months back I met this guy who I quite liked. We hooked up a few times before he gave me some half arsed excuse and ripped my heart out before stomping on it. In public, if I recall rightly. Original Mel’s arsehole-ometer got a few more points that night.

Anyway, sadly he works quite near where I live, and where my friends and I often go drinking. Or, where we often went drinking. Because after being shown the door I steadfastly avoided going anywhere he might be. The bars he mentioned he went to after work, I shunned. The station he caught the train home from, I tried not to change lines at. The food joint he mentioned he liked, I avoided. Yeah, I was being a pathetic girl. Sometimes I’m allowed.

Last night a friend and I met for drinks. She asked to meet me right in the heart of my no-go zone. I swallowed my pride and agreed, using the reasoning that I could convince her to have beers at a bar somewhere else. So when I arrived and she suggested me go to a bar he mentioned he frequented, I paused. And in that pause she read me like a book.

"Oh for fuck’s sake, will you get over Arsehole already? It’s been forever! You have just as much right to be having fun in London as him. You’re always claiming you’re not a fucking pathetic girl, now stop acting like one and let’s have a fucking drink”
…Or words to that effect were then shouted at me in the street. She’s right, of course.

So we waltzed* into the bar, heads held high**, and proceeded to get drinks and grab a seat. After a few drinks I relaxed and even began to enjoy myself. And then I went back to the bar for another drink.

“Hey! How are you? It’s been a while!”
A random girl at the bar was talking to me. Well, clearly not so random, but I could not, for the life of me work out who she was. All I could figure was she was about my age and she was Australian. Narrows it down to almost every Aussie I have met in London. As usual, this did not deter me from continuing our little chat.

Original Mel: Awesome! What have you been up to? (note: keep the conversation general until you can figure out who the fuck you’re talking to)
Random: You know, the usual, working a dead end job, drinking a lot, trying to save for a holiday to somewhere sunny to get out of this shitty weather. And try and get a tan - a bit like yours, really.
Original Mel: This old thing! I just came back from Egypt. It was amazing, plus I got a great tan to make everyone else in London jealous.
Random: Oh yeah, Arsehole did mention something about you going away…

Fuck. It’s his fucking flatmate, who I maybe met twice, both times as I was leaving their place early in the morning and possibly still a bit drunk. Shit on a swizzle stick.

Luckily, however, his flatmate is actually quite nice. We had a chat about, you know, stuff for a while, and then she mentioned she knew Arsehole had given me the flick:

Random: Was he a bit of a dick about it?
Original Mel: Eh, not so much. These things happen. (note: never get into a slinging match with their friends - said friends WILL tell them that you are bitter and not over them; be the bigger person and keep your mouth shut)
Random: He can be a dick about these things. Strings girls along and then gives them the arse for no reason other than he wants something new. And then repeats the process again.
Original Mel: Sounds like the usual guy prerogative, really.
Random: Yeah well, maybe he made a mistake this time. You are looking really good. The tan is working for you. And so is your dress.
Original Mel: Uhhh, okay…
Random: No, seriously. You look great. I’ll make sure I tell him tomorrow I ran into you and you look great. Tanned and hot. Talk you up a bit to give him a taste of his own medicine. Are you here with a guy? Fuck it, who cares. I’ll say you were.
Original Mel: I think maybe I love you…

Hurray! Finally my back luck may have swung around for the better. I don’t particularly want to see him again, but maybe, just maybe, I can score a few minor points for all the girls out there who have been fucked over by wankers.

Or maybe she was just a lesbian and hitting on me. Either way, score one to me!!

* she waltzed, I faux-waltzed, scanning the bar for a familiar face
** well, hers was

How Do Mums Know?

2007-12-06T00:26:00.000+11:00

Is it that their bonding time with us during our first few years gives them a psychic link? How is it they can they tell when something has gone wrong? Or when you might need some "mum time"? Am I secretly being followed by a bunch of private eyes who do her bidding? Or is she tracking my texts / emails to find out what is happening in my life?

See, as I mentioned, my grandmother lost the plot the other night* and kicked me out of her flat. Well, told me I had to go. Same difference.

Obviously, being told this at 10pm, when I have nowhere to go and lots of shit to move, came as a shock. And lead to a sleepless night as I worked out what the fuck I was going to do.

I really just wanted my mum. But she's in Australia. And I knew calling her would just make her worry. So eventually, I realised I had friends, I had options, and I would abuse those friendships until I could move into a hostel for the forseeable future. And I became calm. And decided "fuck the stupid gits I have for family in this country, fuck them all".

I texted a few friends. Sought options for places to stay this week. You truly work out who your friends are at a time like this.

Then, out of the blue, at about 9 the next morning, my phone beeps. It's a text from mum, asking "is everything okay?". My mum texts regularly, but usually important things like "I;m having turkey chops for dinner" or "send me money to pay your credit card - and what did you spend $500 in Prague?"

So I gave her a quick rundown on the situation. She freaked. I eventually emailled her and told her what had happened, and what I was going to do as alternate accommodation, and her response was "I knew something was wrong - I just knew it". She hadn't spoken to nan. She hadn't spoken to anyone. She just kneew there was a problem.

How the fuck does she always do it?? When I got that text message the other week, she called me the next morning "for a chat". When I was on a particularly bad tour this year she would send me messages when I was at my lowest, despite me not mentioning the hell I was in to her.

Even back home mum would be able to tell when I was having a shit time, even those times I put a brave face on and pretended nothing was wrong. She just knows. Now I'm thouasnds of miles away and she can still do it.

How? I want to know.

*I would share the story but, well, I don't really know what happened. One minute I was hanging up my washing, the next I was being told I had to be out of the house by Saturday, with no apparent reason for her mood swing.

There's No Place Like Home*

2007-12-05T20:34:00.001+11:00

The Rig Veda claims "By getting up early in the morning one also gets more time at his disposal for work as compared to late-risers. Scholar and thinkers get up early in the morning and contemplate.

Well, I'm never going to be a scholar or a thinker. Because I am not a morning person.

I am hopeless first thing in the morning. I can do gross motor functions. But my fine motor skills are shot to hell. I can remember my name. But asking me to remember a list of tasks is asking for trouble. I can speak in short sentences, so long as you don't ask me to conjugate too many verbs. But full conversations are out. It takes a while for my brain to warm up and start functioning properly.

Even on those mornings I have had my full 8 to 10 hours sleep, I still don't wake up all perky and bright. People who do amaze me. They seem to leap out of bed, ready to face the day head on. While I roll out of bed and try to remember which way the toilet is.

So this monring when people on the Tube started looking at me strangely, it didn't penetrate my brain. Okay, I was already behind the eight ball thanks to a slight hangover after a very boozy dinner with friends last night. In fact, it wasn't until after I had changed lines I noticed that the people around me on the Tube were taking a great interest in me. Or, more specifically, my legs. Which was strange in itself as I don't consider my legs my best feature. But hey, if people want to perve at my legs, so be it.

It wasn't until a bit further along the Piccadilly line that my brain started to kick in. Mainly because I was thinking about how warm my feet were. And then I started thinking about how unusual that is. And people had been looking at my legs.

You guessed it. I had left the house wearing my gorgeous, but not wholly work attire appropriate pink slippers (with multicoloured polka dots). Which, while comfy and stylish in a kicking about the house kind of way, maybe aren't the most sensible shoes to be wearing in a corporate law firm.

Luckily Dorothy Perkins is on the way to my office, so I was able to grab a pair of £25 black work shoes, and shove the slippers further into my bag, lest they be seen by a work colleague.

Sadly clicking my be-slippered heels and claiming there's no place like home didn't work. It was my first option.

*An ironic title, considering last night my darling gran told me I had to move out by Saturday. Wheeeeeee!

Drunky Mc Trashmo

2007-12-03T23:31:00.000+11:00

Reasons why you should not get very drunk before an international flight:

Although packing will be much more fun and interesting than usual, you will probably put your passport in a "very safe place", which you will then forget and have to unpack again to find it.

Once a taxi to the airport has been acquired, you will only remember to load half of your stuff into it. Luckily, sober friends who are not travelling with you will point out that you might want to take all of your stuff home, not just some of it.

Exiting the taxi will not be as graceful as you thought. In fact, you are likely to fall unceremoniously from said taxi, cutting your leg on the way and flashing your knickers at the world (as you are, of course, wearing a skirt despite going back to cold, cold London). Uniformed men with guns will be present to witness this excellent spectacle.

You have to pay for a taxi. Drivers get narky if you forget, even in foreign countries.

It will be damn near impossible for you to work out how to get to your check in counter. Luckily those heavily armed, uniformed men will be able to assist you.
Check in will take quite some time, as you insist on having a conversation, at length, with your friendly check in representative. And the "have you packed your own bags?" question will, for some reason, be the funniest thing you have ever been asked.

Despite being in a largely Muslim, and therefore mostly non-alcoholic, country you will feel that duty free vodka should be purchased and consumed with your lunch of McDonalds. In fact, you and your three mates will insist upon a bottle each. And proceed to drink said bottle each in the two hours between check in and boarding the plane.

Your name, being read out for your first, second and final boarding call, does not sound the same in Arabic as it does in English. When you think someone has just announced your name over the PA, they probably have. Do not ignore it.

Security bag checkers will view the four raucous Aussies swaying and singing with suspicion. And thoroughly check all of your hand luggage. Twice.

If you're really lucky, you might get patted down by another heavily armed uniformed man as well.

Despite your obvious drunkeness, air hostesses will continue to serve you free alcohol. This is not your cue to ask for "two vodka and tonics, and when the glasses are empty just keep them coming".

The people behind you will complain about your loud behaviour within about five minutes of the seat belt sign being switched off. This will be the hosties' cue to cut off your drinks.

Flirting with the guys in front of you will enable you to continue drinking unabated by getting them to order you drinks.

Drinking continuously until your 5 hour flight has ended will seem like a brilliant idea.

Locating your luggage will become a monumental challenge. As will picking it up the third time it's gone past you on the luggage carousel.

Immigration will not see the funny side to your friend having an out of date visa. They will want to question both you and him. Being unable to remember your own address will not help in getting your mate through immigration.

More duty free alcohol? Yes please!

When you arrive at the hostel you booked into for the night, and discover your booking has been lost. Drinking in the hostel bar until your mate who works there gets back will seem like a brilliant idea. It's not.

Reasons why you should not continue drinking the next day:

You're probably still pissed. So having a beer at 9am on an empty stomach will immediately top up your blood alcohol level.

A mars bar is not breakfast.

You will be unsure whether your mother hung up on you because you were slurring your words, or if it was because you threw "the c word" (you know, the bad one) into conversation.

Drinking on the Tube will be a necessity. Other Tube passengers will change carriages to get away from your still rowdy mates and you. Especially when you start pole dancing.

The Church. Then Shepherd's Bush Walkabout. Enough said.

You and your friends will agree it is okay for you all to pick up gappies (ie 18/19 year old kids working in schools in England on their year off between high school and uni) despite the youngest of your friends being 25. And then you will go forth and snog random gappies for the sheer hell of it.

You will convince yourself he is going to turn up to the Walkie, then get absurdly upset when he doesn't.

This will then lead to you snogging a guy whose name you can't recall.

And drinking and dialling your mates back home in Australia. At 4am Sydney time. Asking why you have such a disastrous love life.

You will wake up at 5am Monday morning in bed with the boy whose name you can't recall. In a hostel. Naked. Which means that at least five other people got to hear you having sex the previous night. And you're not sure where your other shoe is.

You will probably have to start a new temping assignment with a hangover / only one shoe.

You will have a severe case of the guilts all Monday, and decide chocolate is an acceptable breakfast, lunch and possibly dinner.

Or so this girl I met once told me...

Love Stinks Part 2

2007-11-26T00:32:00.000+11:00

It turns out I was dumped.

By fucking text message. Yes, at the tender age of twenty-something.

Boys suck. I am going to become a lesbian or a nun.

Is the Catholic requirement really strict to be a nun? What about the no-sex thing? Just wondering...

Love Stinks

2007-11-15T20:43:00.001+11:00

No, seriously it does.

Well, maybe not love. I don't know what I'm in but I do know it's making my tummy all achey - sometimes in a good way, but mostly in a bad way.

It has also turned me into a bloody girl!

See, I pride myself on being not your average girl. I don't do shopping. I don't do whining about men. I don't do princessy. I have mainly male friends, and have oft been described as "just a cool guy with long hair".

I rarely, if ever, read things into texts from boys. Boys say what they mean. They don't do subtext. I don't freak out if he hasn't called me within x number of days. In fact, I usually just call him instead. I don't get lost in day dreams about our wedding, or what our future children will look like. I just kind of float along until... well, usually until he rips out my heart and puts it in a coffee grinder.

But then I meet a boy who is totally and completely not my type, and I turn into a bloody girl!

I am currently sitting at my desk convinced he has decided he doesn't like me. All because:

We didn't have sex last time I stayed over at his place

I haven't spoken to him since Monday

He didn't answer my call yesterday

I leave for a 3 week holiday tomorrow and we didn't make firm plans to meet up before I left

Of course, the rational reasons for these are (1) both too drunk; (2) out of credit and broke; (3) busy at work; and (4) I never make firm plans for anything.

This sucks! I've got from being a "cool guy with long hair" to a neurotic female. Just last week I was, well, a little smug and content. Now I'm all he's realised he'd rather shag that annoying chick from Brighton he works with or he saw my favourite artists on Facebook and hates my music. I mean, who doesn't have phone credit for four whole days?!? And of course, I can't call him again and say "hey, let's go out tonight", because I will be a clingy, annoying girl who he then definitely will dump, and tell all his friends that I'm a crazy stalker.

I think Bridget Jones said she's not sure how men and women ever get together, given the dating warfare which goes on all around us. Seriously. How the hell to people live through this horrible, awful tummy aching situation and then decide that they want to spend the rest of their lives with the person who gave them that tummy ache? Does the tummy ache ever go away? Is it a good thing, or a sign my body is rejecting said boy even if my mind is not? Or, as my best mate ever so delicately put it when I spoke to her about it, am I just pregnant*?

And, more importantly, why the fuck hasn't he called me????

* The answer is obviously no. I believe in combining as many contraceptives as possible to prevent any "accidents" from happening.

Confessions of a Drunken Fool

2007-11-14T21:04:00.000+11:00

Things you shouldn't do when pissed:

Fill out your vote for the Federal Election

Dance. In a bar where there is no dance floor and very little music

Especially not dance on your (slightly rickety) table

Tell the bartender that he reminds you of Burt Reynolds. In Boogie Nights

Confess to your mate that you slept with a mutual friend. Whose girlfriend just happens to be your confessee's really good mate

Attempt to catch a public bus home

When you discover you're on the wrong bus, demand that the driver changes his route to take you home

Make yourself toast when you get home, then decide to "eat" it in bed

Use said toast as a pillow

Conversations you shouldn't have when pissed:

Telephone conversation on Original Mel's mobile phone, with one of her bestest mates... back in Australia. It is 11pm London time, 10am Sydney time. Bestest mate is at work, and Original Mel is rambling.

Bestest mate: So do you remember my mate Lex?
Original Mel: Lex... was she the red head? Thought of herself as a Julia Roberts, looked more like the Weasley twins?
Bestest mate: Well, yeah she's a redhead, but the Weasley twins...
Original Mel: Oh yeah, I remember her! She was the vacuous whore at Tim's party who had the opinion of whoever she was talking to. I remember Tim nicknamed her "the sock puppet" - stick your hand up her and she talks! Pretty sure Tim's flatmate stuck something else up her that night. Although, as I said,vacuous whore.
Bestest mate: Lengthy silence
Original Mel: Anyway, why do you ask?
Bestest mate: Uh... We've been dating since just after you left. I moved in with her on the weekend... I thought you of all people should know.
Original Mel: ... I meant vacuous whore in a nice way ...

Test messages which should not be sent when drunk:

Text message to the new boy
In my drunken state the other morning I left my top at your place. Should I come over tomorrow night and collect it? And by "collect" I obviously mean put it on the next morning when we stop having sex

Response received not long after
Call me when you get home. We obviously need to talk, young lady. Mum.

For real. You can't make this shit up, people.

2007-11-12T22:07:00.000+11:00

I have a friend who was in bed with a girl when she asked him what his thoughts on bestiality were. Dead set. But not in a kinky way. For some reason the thought fluttered into her head and, whilst naked, she felt it was an appropriate question for the moment.

My mate stuttered some reply and suddenly had to find an excuse to get her out of said bed.

Another friend of mine was asked by a guy, again in the bedroom, what her feelings on golden showers were. This was maybe the second or third time they'd got pelvic. Turns out he was a fan. She made her excuses and never called him again.

I have another mate whose performance was marred by a query as to the well being of his grandmother, whilst he was, uh, mid-stride, so to say.

A well timed question about whether his ex-girlfriend performed similarly in the sack made another friend lose his mojo...

---

Why do some of us decide that when naked, and quite frankly getting on exceptionally well with someone in a full frontal nudity manner, we feel that this is the moment to ask those questions that we haven't quite gotten around to yet?

Yes, I say we. Because I am one of the members of this elite group.

Sure, mine wasn't that bad. And yes, I have been reminding myself of all of the above questions on an hourly basis since my mouth ran away without checking with my brain. See, the other night, when getting pelvic with the new boy, I felt that this was the perfect time to ask him to allay a concern my mate had planted in my head earlier that day. So my stupid, stupid mouth went off without permission and decided to ask whether the has a girlfriend.

WHAT THE FUCK?

Thank God he thought it was funny. In fact, I think the exact response was "You're straddling me and you want to know if I have a girlfriend? Is this a trick question? Is there any right answer?"

Okay, not the most straightforward answer. But he did inform me later he wondered if it was a strange girly way of testing to see whether he considers me to be his girlfriend. So I had to advise that I may have had a few issues recently of falling for not-so-single men, he understood. And laughed at me some more. So at least I might not be going down in the annals with the "how's your nan?" girl.

So tell me, weirdest question you've asked / been asked in bed. Make me feel better about myself.

(shi)TCard

2007-11-10T03:26:00.000+11:00

I just don't understand how, after years and years of promises, Sydney's TCard system has gone to the dogs. I really don't.

I mean, I am a bit of an international ~~woman of mystery~~ traveller. And in most of the big cities they have something like a TCard. London has the Oyster Card. Rome has Bip and Go. I mean seriously - if the Italians can get it together enough to have a functioning single card transport system, why can't we?

I love London's Oyster card! It's wonderful. I can either top up money on there and swipe it all day long (only paying a maximum daily rate no matter how many journeys I make), or I can add my weekly train ticket onto it and just swipe in and out as I catch my various trains and buses to work. And, if I lose it, it's registered so I don't lose my money!

Not only that, London Transport is so keen on the old Oyster cards that it is cheaper for me to have one than not. To catch a bus is 90p with my trusty Oyster (who I've nicknamed Olive). But if I were to pay cash, it's £2. Why wouldn't you haev an Oyster card?

And yet poor Sydney still doesn't. Anyone would think the technology isn't available around the world for the TCard makers to simply rip off...

Although it is related to Sydney transport. And we all know that transport in Sydney is rarely on time, usually late and quite often cancelled for no apparent reason. Kind of like the TCard really.

Okay already!

2007-11-06T20:56:00.000+11:00

Yes there is a new boy.

Yes I am very smitten.

Yes, that is all you are getting out of me for now. I'm not jinxing this one.

2007-11-06T03:00:00.000+11:00

I was walking along the street when a motorbike rode past. A beautiful, shiny, new Ducati to be exact. Very sexy. And as a motorbike fan, I kept watching it as it drove past me.

I really should have stopped walking to do this.

But no. Instead I kept walking whilst watching the bike go behind me.

And then I walked smack bang into a bus stop sign. Cue a lovely bruise on my forehead.

I'm just really glad that I was walking along with the new boy at the time. I hate to think he got the wrong impression of me early on. At least now he knows if there is some catastrophe which could take place, it will to me.

Does anyone else ever feel like their life is a slapstick movie that everyone has forgotten to tell them about?

Oops

2007-11-02T22:08:00.001+11:00

So, as you diligent readers will know, whilst I am here in the land of eternal rain and chips are a whole meal (aka Engerland) I am living with my nan. My very old, very English nan. Anyone who thinks this has the potential for disaster is correct. Let's just say my nan has been living by herself for about 40 years, and is very stuck in her ways. And her upstart of an Aussie granddaughter waltzing in and changing things (like, for example, fixing the toilet so it takes 5 minutes to refill instead of an hour) is not a good thing. But it's free and I'm poor so I suck it up.

Anyway, I've been in the bad books this week. See, I went out on Sunday, for a mate's farewell. We were going out during the day so I thought (somewhat stupidly) that yes, I would be home for dinner, and I'd also be able to grab some groceries on the way home too. Forgetting that I was going out to get blind and would probably end up at Shepherd's Bush Walkabout like I usually do after a day drinking on a Sunday. No, no, I thought, I'll totally be able to get home.

How wrong I was.

Not only did I go to the Walkie, but I may have also picked up a young gentleman. And never quite made it home until the next morning. This is not an issue - my nan is used to me not coming home until the morning. The issue was, I missed dinner.

I know. I missed a sumptuous feast of probably fried spam and greasy fucking chips, which I would have pretended to eat and thrown out anyway. I was in trouble. She called my mum to complain (mum's response? Why didn't you just stick it in the fridge and she could have eaten it the next day? She's 26, I'd be more worried if she didn't go out partying with her friends!). She wouldn't talk to me all day. She muttered under her breath about ungrateful Australians.

So I tried to get back in the good books. I bought the groceries on Monday instead (and got in trouble for buying the "expensive" Corn Flakes). I cleaned the bath (and got in trouble for using "too much" cleaning fluid). I bought a bottle of wine to have with dinner (and got in trouble because she already has a bottle of wine in the liquor cabinet).

So eventually, I told her to shut the fuck up about dinner, cause I'd make it for her on Wednesday night.

So I did. I slaved over a hot stove. Or rather, I made a stir fry cause that and spaghetti bolognaise are all I can cook. It was delicious. I enjoyed it. Nan, of course, complained that I'd cooked too much and wasted the chicken. I told her to stick the leftovers in the fridge for my lunch.

That was two days ago. Yesterday I went out with friends after work. This morning was the first time I'd seen Nan since that dinner.

I'm still in trouble.

Turns out I gave the poor old bat food poisoning. She's been sick as a dog ever since. I'm now banned from cooking ever again.

Oops.

To ask, or not to ask

2007-11-01T21:31:00.000+11:00

I have a confession to make. Yesterday when I was surfing the Sydney Morning Herald website, I accidentally stumbled across my blog nemesis's blog - Ms Samantha Brett of Sam and the City (no, I'm not linking to it, she already has too many hits for such a vacuous, (w)hor(e)iffic blog). And, like a spectacular car crash, I had to read on, because the particular topic seemed to speak deeply to me.

It was all about predatory women. Or rather, women who have given upon the idea that men will ever get it together enough to ask them out, and instead do the asking.

The reason this spoke so deeply to me is because I am about to do the same thing.

See, I met this guy. He got my number, he got in contact, he asked me out. Sadly I really was busy, and I offered an alternate. We met up again. He kissed me, but I was the one who propositioned him (hey, if you don't ask you don't know, right?). Since then fucking mobile phones and text messages have been about as far as it has gone.

(On a side note, text messages have, in my opinion, ruined romance. Back when I was young a boy would get your number, wait the requisite two days before calling you, he'd ask you out and it would be done. None of this flirting via text. None of this asking someone out without having to have a conversation with them. I prefer a man who calls, no matter how scary it might be. For fuck's sake, if I didn't think you were alright I wouldn't have given you my number - I would have given you a fake one!)

But the flirtatious texts aren't getting me laid. So, I last night decided to take the bull by the horns, and ask him out. But not until later today. When I have composed the perfect text to do so (who knew I could be such a girl sometimes!).

But then I got to reading Ms Brett's blog, and apparently women who do all the chasing are a turn off. Men like to be the hunters, according to her. Guys get put off by a woman who asks them out. It ruins all their fun.

And now I'm in a dilemma. Do I spend fuck knows how much more money on flirtatious texts in the vain hope he'll eventually get around to asking me out again. Or do I just fuck it and ask him out myself.

More importantly, why the hell have I suddenly gone all Bridget Jones over this guy? Bloody men...

Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

2007-10-31T22:18:00.000+11:00

I speak English, right? Sometimes badly, but generally the language I use to converse is a form of Australian English.

Well apparently here in the good old UK I speak some strange foreign dialect which is unknown to the locals. Everything I say I get asked to repeat. They laugh at my use of Aussie words and phrases. Apparently using theterm "bugger" is enough to send a group of 30-something year old women tottering like school girls.

But today was the final straw.

Catching the fabulous Tube into work, I was once again treated to the experience of a lifetime - that of being crammed into a very hot train rather like a sardine in a tin. Of course, when it gets to my stop about a zillion people are still trying to push onto the train, despite all the others trying to get off. No one is listening to the annoying mechanical woman telling us to "let everyone off the train before boarding". I am trying my hardest to get off the train before the doors close and I end up at the next station.

So, in my very politest voice, I say to the woman standing next to me (who is, incidentally, blocking my way and making no effort to move) "Sorry, could I just smoosh past to get off?"

It's not a hard sentence to understand, is it?

"What?!?" was her gruff reply

I held back. Instead of telling her to get the fuck out of my way before I knocked her out of the way, I smiled (unheard of on the Tube) "I said could I please get past you and off the train."

"Oh, well if you learned to speak English I would have understood you the first time."

Say what?! Okay, I used the word smoosh, which is perhaps not technically a word, but one which I quite like anyway. It sums up how one feels on the Tube - smooshed. And it's not like it's a hard concept to understand, as we all stand there, face to armpit, nose to nose, breathing our neighbour's morning breath without so much as a "how you doin'?"

But before I lost it, a knight in shining thongs came to my rescue.

"Oi lady, she was speakin' Austrayan not fuckin' English. You'd think with the number of us here you'd make an effort to learn our fuckin' language. Now let her through!"

I love Aussies. Pure fuckin' gold.

Forgive Me Father

2007-10-29T23:31:00.000+11:00

There is an establishment in London which has an unfair reputation.

Actually, it has a totally and completely fair reputation. Maybe my problem is that when I tell people I'm going there I get an unfair reputation. Work colleagues look at me in horror. People make snide comments. They generally judge me.

It is a place which is packed to the rafters with Aussies, Kiwis, Saffas, a smattering of Yanks and a few scared looking Poms. A place only open one day a week. A place where you get your drinks in a plastic bag you tie to your waist. A place where you leave, it's still daylight, and you're smashed.

This place is called The Church. And I'm very much in love with it.

Sure, it's probably the reason why people hate antipodeans in London. Sure, when it closes at 3.30pm the streets of Kentish Town are full of pissed antipodeans yelling, screaming, over-running the Tube station and drinking on the train. Sure, sometimes people are pissed knobheads.

But that being said, I love it because everyone who goes there is out to have a good time. There's no fancy dress rules, or a bouncer who won't let you in wearing those shoes, or anyone standing around generally giving you attitude. Sure, everyone is out to get hammered, but in good spirits. Sure, they have a stripper, but in good spirits. Sure, us girls all get our boobs out, but in good spirits.

Not to mention the age old saying:

"If you can't pick up at The Church, go to Shepherd's Bush Walkabout. If you can't pick up at Shepherd's Bush Walkabout, go to Action Town Redback. If you still can't pick up at Action Town REdback, you're probably a hideous freak."

It's more ass than class, and that's why I love it.

2007-10-24T22:45:00.001+10:00

He Said

He didn't get mad
He said he knew about the other guy
He said he would wait for her to get over him
He said that he would go back to being friends
If that was the only alternative
He said that he would spend their whole friendship hoping to be more
He said was that the other guy would never leave his girlfriend for her
He took the whole breakup with remarkably good grace
He didn't yell
He didn't get mad

She Said

She cried on the way
She said she didn't want to be a cliche, but it really wasn't him
She said she had been faithful
She said she had never wanted to hurt him
She said she really wanted to be friends
She said she was in danger of turning into a cliche
She cried
She flinched when he said he adored her
She didn't regret breaking up with him
She didn't shrink away when he put his arm around her

They said

They said it meant nothing
But he held her close
And she stayed the night
When he kissed her goodbye in the morning
She kissed him back

First Day

2007-10-23T22:38:00.000+10:00

Things I learnt on my first day in a "real" (read: office) job in London:

Just because the exit you choose out of the Tube station has the name of your street on it does not mean that when you go out that exit you are really on that street. It actually means that your street is about 200m behind you on the right. You will only discover this once you have been walking for 20 minutes in the wrong direction only to reach another Tube station - the one that you changed lines at about 25 minuted ago.

Turning up late on your first day with a hilarious story about getting lost in London does not make you endearing, no matter how funny said story sounds in your head.

Law firms are the same the world over. You will get shown to your desk, given a pile of files and tapes and told to start typing. You will be given no training as to how their paritcular system operates, let alone how to open a letter when the tape starts and says "open the letter to the client dated...". You will spend the whole day asking the secretary nearest to you for help, and receiving her eye rolls in exchange.

Chances are the person in the corridor you stop to ask which one Martin is will be Martin. And chances are no one has told you he's the managing partner.

Listening to the phrase "hglmumbech vzt nizgitpit" over and over again will not make it any clearer. Chances are the lawyer dictating the tape was drunk. Write any old phrase - they'll amend it anyway.

Your ex-boyfriend will text you every time the managing partner is in your room, despite the fact that for the other 99% of the day when he hasn't been texting you have been sitting in said room alone. This will mean that the managing partner will think that the new temp was tardy because she was busy texting her mates.

Try to remember that you are too tall for the staircase. The photocopy guy will think it's weird that every time you walk into his room you're rubbing your head and talking to yourself. No one likes a mental case in the workplace.

Even if it is very cold outside when you leave the house, chances are the Tube and your new office will be attempting to pretend that London is actually a tropical clime. You will need to start stripping off several layers the second you get on the over heated train. And then put them back on to walk to your office. Then take them off again when you get inside the front door. Repeat all day.

There will be very few people less popular than you on the Tube if you are the girl whose stiletto gets caught in the escalator, thus forcing it into emergency stop. In fact, the only person less popular than you will be the tourist who decided that peak hour would be a good time to travel on the Tube with one massive wheelie suitcase and a very large cabin bag. And even she gave the stiletto girl a withering look as she dragged her bag down the stopped escalator.

Thank God I'm going on holiday in 25 days...

The Election - Making Problems for Young Australians

2007-10-18T20:53:00.000+10:00

Perfectly Lovely Boy: Why haven't we had "that conversation" yet.
Me: Which conversation?
Perfectly Lovely Boy: The "how many people have you slept with" conversation. Usually a girl brings that question up within about a week of coming to the agreement that this is a Serious Relationship™.
Me: Oh... because we're both ex-sluts. I thought you new that.
Perfectly Lovely Boy: Ex-sluts? You've finally agreed that we should be exclusive? YES!! I win!!
Me: Damn you and your wily ways.

Taken Boy: I think I have a problem.
Me: You have several. But which one are you specifically refering to?
Taken Boy: I think I have a problem with you dating Perfectly Lovely Boy.
Me: But you guys are semi-mates. Surely you should be happy we're both happy?
Taken Boy: But I don't want you to be happy with him!
Me: And who do you want me to be happy with?
Taken Boy: Therein lies the problem. No one.
Me: Jealous much?
Taken Boy: Maybe a lot.

Me: Ugh, I'm overseas when we have to vote. Shit! Now I'll have to organise a postal vote. Bugger the Electoral Commission and their tricksy paperwork!
Perfectly Lovely Boy: I signed a form saying I was overseas and I don't have to vote. Why don't you just do that?
Me: What if John Howard gets in by just one measly vote, and it's all my fault.
Perfectly Lovely Boy: What's wrong with John?
Me: Uh, how about his stance on asylum seekers, his scare tactics to win the last election, he sent us to a war that we're opposed to, the fact he steadfastly refuses to say sorry to the aborigines, his theory that Australia is simply an economy and not a land of civil liberties, his unswerving loyalty to George 'Wanker' Bush... need I go on?
Perfectly Lovely Boy: But our economy has streangthened under his leadership. And all those other arguments are really just the Greenies poisoning your attitude with their "free love for everyone" bullshit.
Me: Oh my God. You're a Liberal voter. I think I need to rethink our relationship.

Me: Are you voting in this election?
Taken Boy: Of course. It is compulsary in Australia, you know.
Me: Oh. How about that John Howard, hey? He's pretty, you know, awesome.
Taken Boy: Are you joking me? The Libs are the devil incarnate. How about their last campaign of "Terrorists are Going to Get You!"? Or the whole children overboard deal? Or the GST they swore they wouldn't bring in??
Me: Oh yay! Another Libs hater!
Taken Boy: So that was a trick question, was it? To what end?
Me: Oh, you know, so I can now torment myself with whether I am doing the right thing and whether I should maybe be making a few difficult decisions based on recent conversations with certain people who appear to be Liberal voters when I always swore that such an admission was an instant dumping offence so now I seem to be rethinking both that particular offence and also the entire spanse and reason for said relationship.
Taken Boy: What?
Me: I'm fucked up, basically.

Is it a hint?

2007-10-16T21:53:00.000+10:00

This article taken from a recent Metro newspaper:

If your partner serves you bangers and mash you're about to be dumped. The dish topped a poll of foods people are most likely to cook before a break-up. But if the meal is steak and chips look out, your loved one wants a big favour. The online poll of 1,000 people was conducted by cookware firm Le Creuset.

Why am I sharing this with you? Guess what my grandma cooked me for my birthday?

Yep, bangers and mash.

Is she trying to tell me to move the hell out of her house?? Answers on a postcard...

2007-10-15T18:15:00.000+10:00

You may be surprised to hear it, but I've met a boy. A perfectly lovely boy. One who I have spent quite abit of time with recently and like very much.

I know. Me of all people!

However (and you all knew there had to be a however, didn't you? Really)

... the problem is, I like another boy more. Much more. Sadly this other boy has a girlfriend, however confessed to me the other night when we were both slightly drunk and maybe a little high that he's not real sure about her. And did I mention all his friends really don't like her?

It's not like I don't like perfectly lovely boy. He is really very nice. And sweet. And hott (that's with two t's). I have liked him for some time, it's just we only hooked up recently. But I just like taken boy more. And have done since we first met.

It's so bad I even wrote a list. Reasons for sticking with the perfectly lovely boy and reasons against. Is it bad that "we're both quite tall" was one of the reasons for keeping him? Surely that list should have things like "he makes me laugh" (sometimes, definitely not as much as the taken boy) and "he treats me well" (almost all of the time, in fact, but so does taken boy).

I know, I know. Yet another boy with a girlfriend is fucking me around, and I'm not even sleeping with him. And I've gone from whining about not havin enough boys to suddenly drowning in a sea of perfectly decent (even if one of them is taken) boys. Karma really does have a funny sense of humour.

Job Hunting Sucks

2007-10-11T21:23:00.000+10:00

So it's coming to the end of the summer work season. Which means my job is winding down. Sadly, my job is only really a summer job. Ordinarily, I would apply with my company to do a winter rep job in the ski fields, however my lovely family is coming to visit me at Christmas time. Which means I need to find work in London, not somewhere in Europe.

So I'm back to this old job hunting lark.

One word - eugh!

I think the problem is I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I know, I know, I've just turned 26, so I really should have some idea. But I honestly don't. My problem is I want to work to live, and yet every workplace these days expects you to live to work. Not only that, I really can't be bothered starting off at the bottom of the pile in some new industry. Because not only does the bottom of the pile mean the bottom of the pay heap, but also the bottom of the respect list. I have worked enough hours in varying fields to know that I am good enough at any job given to me to avoid being shunted to the bottom of the pile any more.

So I am looking at going back to an old staple - legal secretarial work.

Two words - ew yuck!

I've been registering with various temping agencies around London, explaining that I am looking at starting work next week. However, why is it that human resources never, EVER listen to you. I got a call the other day, from an agency, asking me to work this week. Wednesday to Friday. Um, no, I said next week dumbarses. Which I explained to them. They didn't even have the decency to say "oops, our fuck up".

And do they bother reading your CV? No. If another HR type asks me what my experience is, I'll scream. How about a fucking Bachelors degree in Law, and I started a Masters degree before I left home? Oh, and six years working in the legal industry in Australia, two of which were as a lawyer. Enough fucking experience for you??

And the thing is I don't even want to go back to law. But I don't know what I do want. I feel like I'm back in year 12, trying to work out what uni course to apply to do after my HSC. Ha, I ended up dropping out and moving overseas, and not going to uni for two years!

Could be worse. I keep reminding myself at least I have job options. Just too fucking many of them. What I'd really like to do is a job where I get to tell people my fabulous opinions on anything and everything... and get paid for it. I have lots of opinions. And if John Laws can do it, surely a nice girl like me can? I'm way more attractive than him...

Facebook Etiquette

2007-10-05T20:15:00.000+10:00

So this fabulous phenomenon called Facebook is addictive, right? I'm hooked, my mates are all hooked - I actually have a friend who goes to an internet cafe twice a day on weekends to check to see if anyone has left him a message / written on his wall / nominated him for one of the many hilarious Superlatives. Sad.

BUT, there is much etiquette which is unclear on Facebook. For example, I have two Facebook profiles - one for my real life actual friends, and one for the passengers off my tours. Sometimes a passenger is also a real life friend so they get joined to my real profile, but my other one is simply there so, well, my passengers think I care.

Anyway, earlier this year I had a real arsehole passenger on my bus. Total wanker. Wished he would just fall off the face of this planet and die. Wrote a missive to my boss about what a "c u next tuesday" I was, despite me being lovely to him the whole freaking tour. Arsehole.

So he's a "friend" of mine on the passenger profile. And then a few days ago I get a friend request from him on my actual, real life profile.

What the fuck??? He basically slags me to everyone on the bus AND my superiors, and now he wants to be my Facebook friend? Fuck you, buddy! Click IGNORE

And then I keep getting requests from people from high school to be my friend. Now I may have mentioned before, but at high school I was not terribly popular. And I largely hated all the overindulged, spoilt private school princesses I went to school with. So why the fuck do they think I would want to be their Facebook friend?? Click IGNORE

But is that wrong? My bestie seems to think I should accept everyone as a friend, and then post really hot photos of myself having a ball in Europe so they're jealous. But why? I don't care if they're jealous or not. She also thinks it's the height of rudeness to reject someone as a friend. It's like someone coming up to you in a bar to talk to you and you flipping them the bird and talking to the hottie next to them (apparently). But, well, I'd probably do that if I didn't like them. My bestie seems to think you should accept them but only with a limited profile.

So, etiquette question - is it wrong to reject wankers you don't like? Or should we share the Facebook love? Where is that posh English bird from Australian Princess when you need her in moments of real life etiquette ethics?

It's Official

2007-09-19T20:25:00.000+10:00

Yes folks, that's right, it is now official that I have moved to, and am living in, Eng-er-land.

You probably thought that me buying a one way ticket here would have made it official. You were wrong.

You probably thought that me packing up my entire life in Sydney would have made it official. You were wrong.

You probably thought that my actual coming over here and getting a job would have made it official. You were wrong.

You probably thought that making my family come over for Xmas to visit me would have made it official. You were wrong.

No, what actually, really, truly makes it official I only did today. Almost 6 months after I actually landed. And what was that? I hear you all ask.

Today I traded my NSW drivers' licence in for an English drivers' licence. A shiny, new, official drivers' licence which officially documents my residential address here in London. And has a much hotter picture of me on it than my NSW licence did. Much hotter. I expect to be able to get off driving infractions simply due to the hotness of my new photo.

Now all I need to do is cultivate a dodgy English accent (kind of in the style of Kylie Minogue) and write letters into TNT moaning about the fact that Aussies come to London and hang out at The Church or The Walkabout with other Aussies... Then my transformation into a London dwelling Aussie will be complete!

God Hates Me

2007-09-17T20:05:00.000+10:00

Sometimes I wonder if life is just an elaborate joke being played on me by some higher power - like the writters of East Enders have this grand plan to turn my life into a reality soap opera or something. Except my sister isn't really my mother. And I haven't been to gaol, nor has any member of my immediate family. But otherwise, sometimes I seriously think it's all a big joke.

Take my weekend for example. Since I have hardly spent any time in London since I moved here, I don't have that many friends who actually live in London. Mainly because all my mates work for teh same travel company as me, but also I have spent zero whole weekends out in London - I've only been here a few nights at a time, all during the week.

But last weekend two of my boys were out in London, and I was actually here for a whole weekend. So I agreed to (after a work outing) meet up with them for a night out.

Cue the East Enders' script writers.

See, the other week I gave Lusty Boy the flick. Nothing dramatic, I just realised what is the point?? So of course, I'm having drinks in a dodgy London bar with my mates, and some of their mates, when who should walk in but Lusty Boy. And walk straight over to us. and then sit at the table to join us.

Oh, did I mention he was with his ex-girlfriend? The one who thinks I'm his cousin!!!

So that was fun, as I was madly trying to communicate with my boys why Lusty Boy was talking about me as if we were related when they know quite clearly we are not. Later in the night, once I'd explained to my boys, they agreed that sometimes my life does spiral into a parallel universe from which they wonder how I escape into the real world. But then my night really went into a nose dive.

A very, very ex-boyfriend of mine walked into the bar. Very ex, as in we dated 10 years ago. And hanging from his arm was his new wife.

Cool, we haven't seen each other in 10 years, we broke up in a blazing row (I can't really remember why but at 15 it was all very dramatic), I'd quite like to know what he's up to now. however, Mrs Ex did not think this was a good idea. In fact, once she worked out that we dated about a gazillion years ago, she became, well... a bitch.

So my night consisted of the folllowing:

trying to avoid difficult questions from Lusty Boy's ex about his childhood
getting followed around by Mrs Ex every time I went to the toilet (I think she thought we were planning on popping in there and rekindling our very, very ex relationship)
convincing Lusty Boy in hushed whispers that I was really not going to go home with him
getting generally ribbed mercilously by my boys about the weirdness of my life.

That's it. I'm never going out again. I'm going to invest in a good doona and stay home for the rest of my stay in London. It's just not safe.

Sex is Over Rated Anyway

2007-09-10T20:38:00.000+10:00

I was out with a mate of mine the other night, drinking warm beer and keeping one eye on the Euro 2008 qualifiers, when I came to a horrible, shocking and downright revolting realisation.

I think that I would quite like to find myself a boyfriend.

Even writing those words makes me feel like a horrible traitor to... who I'm not sure. Eugh. I've always sworn not to be one of those pathetic girls who whinges and whines about being single and can't live without a boyfriend, no matter how crap he is. And now I think that I'd really quite like to have a boyfriend, thanks very much.

I mean, it's been a while. I managed to convince myself (but not him or anyone else) that Non-Shag was not a boyfriend. Before Non-Shag there was a very large gap, owing to the fact that my ex before him was a total and complete arsehole and broke my will, spirit and heart. And the ex before him left me for his best mate's girlfriend (cue broken heart thus aiding in a mini-nervous breakdown I suffered in my 3rd year at uni). And... well, let's just say I don't really make the wisest choices when it comes to men.

When I started my new job in Europe, I sent all my mates and email. And there was one clear common thread which pervaded the emails I received back:

"You lucky bitch - you will have so much sex!"

It's been six months. Six long, hard months. But sadly there hasn't been that much long and hard around me (hilarious, I ripped that very bad pun straight from the writers of Another Teen Movie, I think).

Okay, so there is Lusty Boy, but that is just sex, not a relationship. I mean, he cheated on his ex with me. Despite my thoughts on being a co-conspiring cheater, I'm not getting invovled with a known cheater. Then there was a colleague (let's hope the office never officially finds out about that night), a random Essex boy, some bad choices, you see where I'm going?.

The problem is, I don't know how to pick up blokes unless I'm drunk. I pick 'em up, and then skip the whole dating thing, I just kind of shag them on a regular basis until they decide I must be their girlfriend (I, meanwhile, am sort of uncaring about the whole girlfriend divide, usually). But now I've decided I'd quite like aboyfriend I'm thinking this isn't the best option. And at the tender age of almost-26, have to learn how to date men all over again. Sigh.

Add that to the fact that.. well, I'm not fat but I am certainly "curvy". Certainly not a skinny little waif ready to hang off your arm. And I'm loud and outgoing. I think I scare guys. Well, not too much, since most of my mates are guys, but that's because I can drink as much as them and have as many stories to tell as they do. But see - I'm a bloody tomboy, which doesn't help. Does this mean I have to become a whole new me to find someone? Because if that's the case, fuck that.

Oh, it's all too hard. Fuck it, hand me a beer instead. Who needs a boyfriend really?

PS. Mex, why the fuck am I not invited to the party? Bitch.

I Love Beer!

2007-08-30T18:46:00.000+10:00

Guess whose going to Oktoberfest?

That's right - your favourite drunk is leading two groups of 45 people astray on Oktoberfest tours. TWO OF THEM IN FACT!

I'm practising my beer drinking songs (here's to *insert name here* he's true blue), and working on my stein muscle (a lesser known muscle in the upper arm). And obviously looking forward to getting paid to drink large quantities of beer. FUCKING TOPS!

Broken

2007-08-23T01:08:00.000+10:00

Since I moved to England I haven't had the opportunity to wax my legs of bikini line in London. Actually, that's wrong. I've had the opportunity, but not the cash. Instead, I've been doing all my waxing in Amsterdam. ASide from the fact that it's about half the price, the waxers understand the subtle diference between bikini line porn-star topiary and regular human hair requirements. Also, you can have a couple of "Amsterdam specials" outside before your appointment, and then the irritation of having all the hair on your legs / vadge / eyebrows / underarms ripped out by the roots seems so much less.

However, last time I was in Amsterdam, in dire need of a full leg and bikini wax following six weeks of camping around Europe, I discovered my waxer has closed down! Damn them!! Given I was maybe a little stoned I really couldn't be arsed wandering round trying to find a new waxer, so I put off my waxing escapades until I returned to London. Oh how foolish I was.

I should have run for the hills when I saw my new waxer. A hu-uge woman from Ghana, whose voice was so booming that when she spoke the trees outside shook with fear. I think she was qualified in the ancient Ghanese torture method by hot wax. She probably taught other ninja waxers how to inflict maximum pain with minimal wax. Bitch started on the back of my calves. THE BACK OF MY CALVES!! After 10 years of waxing, the back of my calves are still the most painful part of my anatomy to get done (or so I thought). Worse than the armpits. Worse than the bikini line. Friggen painful. So she's having a conversation with me (largely one way) about the weather in Australia versus England, and I'm gritting my teeth and trying not to scream whilst I answer such questions as "is it hot in Australia" and "if I go in January is it summer or winter?". After an eternity of the world's hottest, stickiest wax on the back of my legs, she moves on to my arsehole.

YES, I JUST WROTE SHE WAXED MY ARSEHOLE! Anyone ever felt hot wax being ripped off their poo chute? Well, let me tell you, it is a strange and bizarre feling. And not in a good way. I was a little affronted to be honest with you. I swear she got the wax right up their and wrenched it out without so much as a "how do you do". And for a girl who consideres the dirt track a no go zone, it was a bit of a waste of time, to be completely honest.

Anyway, then I get flipped over and she starts on the front of my legs. It is then I notice that she's using what looks like a glue pot to spread wax over my legs. "How odd", I thought, "back home (and in Amsterdam) they use a spatula thing". Not in London. Is this normal??

We then get to what they euphemistically call the bikini line. Also known as my giney. It's at this point the story gets a little... painful. Usually the lovely waxer is very delicate with this particular sensitive area. No my Ghanese Torturess. She starts wrenching my flaps from side to side, drizzling them in hot wax and ripping it off. YES I SAID HOT WAX! Now back home, they use this special giney wax that goes on cool, hardens and then you rip it off and it doesn't hurt as much as hot wax. Oh no no, not in England. Hot fucking wax on my girly bits. Which isn't exactly what you want. But it got worse.

As I'm lying there in pain thinking "please let this be over soon", I get a peculiar sensation. The sensation of, say, someone putting hot wax on my poor little clit, old Miss-C. Before I could even say "please do not rip that wax off you evil Torturess" suddenly she had. Yes, poor little Miss-C got used and abused. And not in a good way.

Pain and agony. Unbelievable pain and agony. And a strange burning sensation. And then a little bit more pain and agony. As if that weren't enough, once the evil torturess had finished ripping the hair from my giney, she put some sort of evil torturing lotion on Miss-C which caused her (I swear to God) to retract inside me in further pain and agony. I swear it was some awful form of menthol torture, which had me hoping around the room (pantless) and squealing like a girl. Fu-u-uck!

So she sends me on my merry way, and I'm fucking limping down the road. Limping! Every step was unbearable. Miss-C was screaming in protest (still). People were looking at me like I was a fucking leper. I eventualy manage to make it onto a bus home, only to be unable to sit because of the pain.

So of course, karma hates me in a massive way because I am not simply spending a night at home with my pain am I? Oh no. Miss-C and I have an evening of "dips and spreads"* with Lusty Boy**. Tops. I get my shit together. Wash all the excess wax off. Try to consol Miss-C with a more soothing lotion which contains no menthol / eucalyptus oil. Make myself look fabulous. And head off.

However, Miss-C is out in protest. Every touch, every nudge had her screaming in agony. As I shrunk away from Lusty Boy for the hundredth time I had to explain why I suddenly found him repulsive. Many sporting euphemisms such as "I've torn a pelvic hamstring" and "my girly bits are on the bench with injuries" were employed (okay, he's a sports freak). Which, once he understood, he thought was hilarious. Hilarious. And entertaining enough to want to call his mates and tell them. Awesome. So despite much coaxing, Miss-C would not come to the party. More pleasure for him, less for me.

So this morning, after a night of (relative) rest, I thought I'd give it another shot. See if poor old Miss-C was over her trauma, and ready to have some fun. Apparently not.

I think my clitoris is broken. Do you think I can sue my waxer for pain and suffering caused by a broken clitoris? And lack of fulfillment for having a broken clit when trying to have sex? Torturess she-devil...

* A mate of mine insisted she wasn't shagging a bloke, they were simply going out for corporate cheese and wine evenings. One night, when we were pissed, another mate challenged her - "Cheese and wine nights my arse. More like dips and fucking spreads, eh?". And a golden euphemism was born.
** Depsite a recent vacancy in the position as Lusty Boy's girlfriend, my name is not being considered for the position as yet. In fact, I'm still not sure whether I want to submit my CV for consideration. At the moment I'm simply temping on a short term basis on those few occassions we are both in London.

Sigh

2007-08-20T20:09:00.000+10:00

So at the moment I'm sitting in London, all alone, and I'm pretty sure I'm about to lose my job.

There is a very long story invovled here which, to be honest, I just can't be bothered going through again right now. I think I've cried enough in teh past few days to start crying in a random internet cafe.

Just thought I'd let you all know though there is a good chance I'll be back blogging more regularly sooner than you expected. I'm not sure if I consider this a silver lining yet or not. I'll get back to you about that.

I just wish one of my mates hadn't left on tour on Saturday. I could really use one close friend right now.

Sorry for the maudlin post after so long. I'll explain everything soon.

You Know You're Old When...

2007-07-05T20:24:00.000+10:00

You sign up to Facebook and it takes you two days to work out how to add a picture of yourself. And even then you only managed to do it because some young pup sitting next to you overheard your dramas and stepped in to help.

Your father asks when you're going to stop gallavanting about and get a "real job"

You realise that the guys you are showing around Europe weren't alive when Madonna released Papa Don't Preach. Worse still, you realise this because one of them thinks that Madonna has covered Kelly Osbourne's version, and not the other way round. What are they teaching kids in schools these days?

You are out partying three nights in a row and then sleep all day the fourth day because you are so exhausted. There once was a time when you could back it up every night of the week and still work a part time job and ocassionally show up at uni. Not any more.

An ex-school mate is having her third child.

People won't accept your passport as proof of id, as the photo was taken 9 years ago and they simply don't believe you are the same person as the fresh-faced 15 year old gracing the pages of your almost expired identification.

Your ex-boyfriend is getting married this month.

You sign up to MySpace in order to do some internet stalking of a bloke you met and really liked (not in a Fatal Attraction way, more in a cute teen movie kind of way) and cannot, for the life of you, figure out how to make it work. Seriously. I have been trying to work it out for half a week and still can't make it look pretty. It looks like the standard shitty MySpace template and I don't like it.

You start making lists of why you're old.

I'm back! And a little scared...

2007-07-04T20:39:00.000+10:00

Yes, I'm back. 28 days around Europe leaves little time to send emails, write posts, wax one's legs, etc etc (seriously, my legs are so horrifying even I don't want to touch them). But I'm back now with more news. News of the scary...

See, I have noticed this horrfying trend. Maybe it's been around for a while - I wouldn't know. As many of you will know, I am not a girly girl. I don't wear pink, my makeup is limited to a bit of eyeliner and a splash of mascara, I take five minute showers, and I hate shopping. also high on my list of things I don't do is dancing. Back home i would never, EVER go out for a night of dancing UNLESS (massive caveat here) I have taken a few little pills and want to dance AND tell complete strangers just how amazing I think they are. And even then the dancing often only takes about three seconds and then I wind up in a very involved conversation with someone about how fantastic their skin looks under flourescent lights.

However my new job takes me to bars and nightclubs all over Europe (oh yeah, my life sucks). And because many of my passengers are dancing queens, I have to join in. i also must admit I love a bit of a boogie after I've consumed a number of mojitos, it's just usually I hang with boys at home, and boys don't dance... unless they're gay or trying to pick up. And this new dancing trend has introduced me to a new form of dancing I have never noticed before.

Back when I was a youngster, when we went out dancing the de rigeur female dance was to shake your arse as much as possible. I must admit, i'm a bit of a rump shaker. And a hip wiggler. And I have a couple of long forgotten belly dancing moves which I can stil try when not too pissed. However the new way of dancing has me all lost.

Apparently I am meant to dance like a stripper.

It goes like this. All the young girls get out on the dance floor. Then all the girls start bending over. Wrapping themselves around poles / chairs / anything they can. And gyrating. If there isn't anything nearby to make faux love to, they start dry humping each other. Lipstick lesbian is apparently chic on teh dancefloor. I was informed by one American passenger a massive part of dancing is known as "grinding", where you grind your girly bits against anything not nailed down. Hair flicking also plays a huge part in this new form of dancing.

If they do manage to locate a young gentleman to dance with, they immediately mount his leg, and begin dry rooting that. Or they stick their arse in his crotch and wiggle it about. Just like, as i mentioned before, a stripper.

I don't like it.

What's wrong with the old Aussie two step? you know, step clap, step clap, occassionally wave arms in the air and yell "woooooo!"? Why do i now need to dry hump everything in sight? Or pretend to be a lesbian? Can't I just shake my bum and that be it?

Toy Boys

2007-06-15T23:29:00.000+10:00

I have this rule. I call it the "nothing younger than my brother" rule. Which means that any guy I date / shag must be older than my brother. Since my baby brother is four years younger than me, I think this is a perfectly acceptable rule

I know some people have the "half plus seven" rule for similar circumstances. I would still feel weird introducing my brother to a guy younger than him, and calling that guy my boyfriend / random shag.

However....

I am currently on tour, and four of my passengers are 19. They announced to the rest of the tour on day 3 that by the end of the tour they would get into my pants and my chef's pants. Luckily not all of them - two have picked me, two have picked my chef. They're nothing if not fair.

My question is, is it wrong of me to break my rule? One of them is totally cute. And my type. Of course, I won't do anything until the end of the tour (except maybe flirt quite a bit) BUT is shagging a 19 year old really so wrong? Really??

And yes, I realise I have swung from one end of the spectrum to the other. Deal with it.

Life Can be Such a Challenge

2007-06-02T19:56:00.000+10:00

The Good

My next trip is about a month of pure unadulterated fun
In which I spend three days lying on the beach of a beautiful Croatian island
Possibly that island over to the right
And I also get free days in Barcelona, Venice, Rome, Florence, Prague, Berlin and Amsterdam
Working with one of my bestest friends I have in this job (so far)

The Bad

One of the guys I'm working with I think I slept with
Eight years ago
He was also one of my trainers
And I find the whole situation slightly creepy
Especially since I can't remember if I did sleep with him or not

The Ugly

There is no ugly
Can I gloat about three days on a Croatian island a little bit more?
Bring on the sun!

What is the Protocol?

2007-05-31T19:18:00.000+10:00

So when I moved to England about six or seven weeks ago, I met this boy. This lovely, Aussie, damn hot boy. *Sigh*. And I fell in lust.

But, as is usual in my life, he has a girlfriend. Of course he does, you say - I like him therefore he is either seeing someone, a closet psycho or gay. Anyway, I backed off. And, as usual, I became "one of the boys" (I swear, my curse in life is to be one of the fucking boys).

However...

We maybe went out the other afternoon. And had a few drinks. And the following conversation took place:

Lusty Boy: Am I walking funny at the moment? I think my balls are so choc full they're affecting my manly swagger, as well as weighing down my soul.
Original Mel: How so stud? The old lady not performing her womanly duties regularly enough? Or you just taking too long to perform?
Lusty Boy: Trust me, at the moment I'm a sprinter, built for speed not stamina. No, the "old lady" hasn't been putting out for a while. Five weeks, in fact.
Original Mel: Fuck me! Even I've had sex in the last five weeks, and I am single and fucked up! How the hell does that work?
Lusty Boy: Well, she's been backpacking in France with mates for the past two weeks. But even before she left I asked her for a farewell shag... and she told me not to be such a typical bloody male. I got nothing! NOTHING!
Original Mel: Harsh. You should have come to Amsterdam with me - I hear it's €50 for a suck and fuck.
Lusty Boy: Thank you for feeling my pain.
Original Mel: Any time, blue balls...

Momentary pause as both LB and OM watch the football game on tv

Lusty Boy: So I don't spose you want to help me out at all?
Original Mel: Pardon? Did you just tell me you were a below average performer at the moment and then proposition me?
Lusty Boy: Um.... yes?
Original Mel: *momentary pause as I consider the huge ramifications of what I am about to agree to* Alrighty then. It'll have to be your place. Finish your drink stud, you've pulled.
Lusty Boy: Really?

So anyway, we'll draw a veil over the exact shenanigans which went on, suffice to say the next morning I was in the kitchen wearing the night before's clothes and trying to work out how to have the "that was fun but you have a girlfriend, I have a crush and I really think we should leave it be and not have a repeat performance, so to say, as my crushed little heart just couldn't handle it" conversation, when there is a knock at the door (I swear to God, I should write a movie of my life).

Lusty Boy goes to answer the door, thinking that it's his flat mate who's lost his keys again when (wait for it)...

The girlfriend walks in. Fuck me sideways, I'm wearing clothes that smell like a pub and drinking coffee like I own the goddamned flat. Oh, and I'm blushing with embarassment because I fucked her boyfriend several times last night! How am I going to talk my way out of this one without being called a whore, getting slapped and possibly involved in a domestic?

How I hear you ask? By telling her I am Lusty Boy's cousin! From Sydney!! Who's just moved to London and was so pissed last night I had to be carried back to my cousin's flat! Brilliant.

Only one problem. She now wants to spend time showing me London. Since I've just moved here and all. And she asked me various questions about Lusty Boy's childhood embarrassments which I had to skillfully deflect (ie pretend to be overcome with nausea and hide in the bathroom to avoid answering).

So, what is the protocol here? Do I go sight seeing around London with her and maintain the ruse? Do I suddenly have a very busy schedule and am unable to meet her every time she calls/texts me (so far she's texted me with invites to various get togethers three times)? Do I smack Lusty Boy in the head for having such a (seemingly) nice girlfriend and sleeping with me anyway, blue balls or no?

Or do I just do the scardey runaway back to Australia and never speak of my disastrous sex life ever, ever again? And possibly join a nunnery.

The Watergate Scandal

2007-05-30T20:22:00.000+10:00

There's this sign just down the road from where I live in London:

For those with crap eyes like me it says:

"SmartWater is in this area
You are in an area where premises are forensically protected by SmartWater."

And I don't understand it. What, pray tell, is SmartWater? And what is it protecting? There isn't a drought in London (far from it at the moment), I can't understand why anyone would steal water from another house, is it maybe INSIDE things? I just don't understand and it is driving me insane.

Any assistance would be appreciated.