Well, well, well. It's been far too long since I last wrote a blog. To be honest, I gave up on this blog completely and wanted to start a new one about politics, life etc. bla bla. But, me being ever true to form, broke my laptop and that never happened. But now I'm sat in a hostel in Seoul trying to lull myself to sleep. So I figured I'd bore myself sh*tless with my own writing to try and help. And me being the ever sharing, caring person I am, decided to drag you all down with me with my notes!
I'll just speed you up-to-date quickly, as no-one can ever keep up with where I am and what I'm doing (including myself). Last time I wrote, I was stuck in the arsehole of nowhere in the Australian bush and was working harder than a Syrian undertaker. Now I'm in the capital of South Korea working as hard as a vegetarian butcher. How did I end up in Korea? Long story short; during my travels, I've met plenty of people from Korea and I liked them so much I decided I'd go to their homeland and see what the crack is. Thus far, I have not been disappointed!
The first thing that springs to mind when people say 'Korea' is North Korea. Those lovely people in the North that have given Communism as good as name as Josef Stalin himself. I could sit here right now and tell you all how I am dodging Russian-made Katyushas (missiles to those that don't know!) every day. How I single handedly fended off ten human waves of bloodthirsty North Korean warlords, whilst I was armed with only an umbrella and a copy of the Sunday Times. But, I'm sorry to tell you, the truth is a lot more tame than that. As is always the case with travelling, you see a country is just normal people going about their everyday lives. Don't get me wrong though, South Korea is the dogs bollocks.
I must admit though, going from the 30 degrees beaches of Sydney to the ball achingly cold mountains of Asia was a big shock to the system. Luckily my quarter-Austrian, hairy bastard side kicked in and I've adapted well to the cold. In fact, I've now come to realise that I'm definitely a mountains and snow man over sunshine and beaches, although I wouldn't kick the latter out of bed! A bigger shock to my system, than the cold, was the Korean's attitudes to motorbikes and where they should be driven. In Korea, a motorbike has more rights than a pedestrian. It's not out of the ordinary to be stood at the traffic lights with a pizza delivery ped to your right and some Korean, Hells Angels wannabe to your left. Coming from a country with the biggest Health and Safety Nazis in the world, it's actually quite refreshing to come to a country where people don't give a toss. Although I do hold my breath and pray to God everytime I have to walk past a building site.
I've also found my favourite foreign food, by a country mile. Korean food is the unsung hero of the food world. England seriously needs to wake up to this spicy orgasm on your tongue. I will cry when I return home and can't get myself some kimchi jun. Ah kimchi. Kimchi to Koreans is like tea to English people. Even more so I might say. I actually think their body depends on it for survival. If a Korean doesn't have kimchi for 6 days, then they will collapse on the spot and be taken straight to the morgue. What is kimchi? Kimchi is traditionally fermented cabbage that is left in pots in the ground for a long time. Essentially, it is mouldy cabbage. I'm not exactly salesman of the year here, am I? Well trust me, it's amazing. I can't eat rice without it now. But if you're not a fan of out-of-date cabbage, then worry not. For Korea is the proud owner of the best chicken in the world. When my Korean friend told me this, I shooed it off as another patriotic man boasting his country has the best this and that. But it turns out, the man lies not! There is no such thing as dry chicken here. It's amazing. I soon found out that one reason behind this, is that there is a University course on raising chickens! These people seriously don't mess about.
There's a good night life scene here too. I will post you up some drunken tales soon enough. But today I thought I'd just set the scene a bit. This is my first blog post in over half a year, so my writing is as rusty as a sunken ship. I can't even bring myself to read over the post as I know I will probably not be happy with it and delete it all! So apologies to the grammar Gestapo for the horrendous grammatical errors!
Anywho, sorry it's been so long since writing. To be honest, I want to focus my writing skills in another area now. But that's for another time! Over and out.
Wednesday 29 February 2012
Monday 8 August 2011
Totally F*cked in Toolybuc- A Dull Tale from the Aussie Bush
Miles away from any internet, this blog is far from a live up-date. But it’s idle moments like these that I’ll become complacent and pack in the blog all together. So I’ve given myself a bit of a kick in the arse and forced my fingers to play friends with the keyboard. Here is my story thus far:
Last time we spoke, I do believe I was moving to a new town for a new job so I could save lots of money. After the irritating chore of packing, we all said our farewells to the people staying behind. We’d been staying at a nice campsite which was located right next to the river, I was a bit gutted to leave actually. After months of pure backpacking accommodation (I.e. squalor), these cabins were a welcome change. But I need to work, so to move on was a must. Me and my merry men (and woman) hit the road for our next adventure.
The journey took over an hour. The journey was pleasant at first, but after the first 60,000 eucalyptus trees and eleventy nine paddocks, it gets quite mundane. It’s journeys like these you realise just how sparsely populated this country is. You can’t say you’ve been isolated until you’ve been in the rural areas of a country the size of Australia. My parents moved to a hamlet in Cornwall, which I considered to be in the arsehole of nowhere, but a supermarket is just ten minutes away. Coming to a country this size has changed my perspective A LOT on things like this.
The bus pulled up in a ‘town’ called Wood-Wood. Our boss has told us to get the bus here and then phone him. No drama. We tried to phone him, no answer. Loving it. Wood-Wood had about three houses and one shop. The clear blue sky was retreating from a ghastly horde of black clouds and hunger was starting to creep up on us all. Low on funds and travelling light, I didn’t exactly have a picnic basket with me. Even better still, the shop was closed. We sat outside the shop and pondered what the f*ck we could do. Finally we managed to get hold of Eddy, he was an hour and a half away. So we had to sit outdoors in the pissing rain with famished stomachs for two hours in the end.
The only food I had left was weet-a-bix (they call it weet-bix here) and a jar of jam. So using my backpacking wit, I proceeded to dip the weet-a-bix in the jam jar and eat them. The travelling life can be far from a luxurious life at times. The kind lady in the shop sympathised with us and opened up for us to grab some essentials. At first I was grateful, I grabbed a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk and a can of beans. This come to the sum of $15. That’s £10! I wish she had never of opened the shop now.
Our chauffer finally arrived and we all piled in. Luckily our new home wasn’t far away. Our new destination was a village called Toolybuc. Toolybuc has one pub, a shop and a school. The population is a whopping 275. There’s really not a lot to do here, as you can imagine. I thought there would be some decent hiking about, but the Murray River is impressive for about one-mile. Then you realise once you’ve seen one bit, you’ve seen it all. But this didn’t matter, as Eddy said we were going to be working seven days a week. We were going to be too busy with work and making money to get bored…weren’t we?
Since coming to the Murray River, it has brought me nothing but bad luck. Along with everyone else in my group. The Murray River is just one fast flowing artery of bad luck. Forever pumping her bad luck into the lands around here. Then in the lands, grow crops that contain bad luck. We then proceed to eat these crops and are now hosts to the bad luck of the Murray River. It turns out, the farmer we were supposed to be working for, has had to post-pone the work as his father died of cancer. A tragic event that’s completely out of anyone’s control.
So now we were in Toolybuc, with no work, no internet, no supermarket, no form of entertainment, not even a ball to kick around. We spent seven days at our caravan park, this sounds like a holiday to some. But I can assure you, it was far from a f*cking holiday. Ever heard of the term cabin fever? Our sanity danced with death. Here’s what I wrote for one of my diary entries (I have hidden the identity of one chap here for obvious reasons):
“I am going doolally. My sanity is merely a pile of, once glorious, rubble. The Cabin has weaved my helpless soul in a web of pessimism and doom. There is no way out. I am trapped here forever like a cannon ball riddled galleon on the ocean floor. Time stops for no man… except for those in The Cabin. Time has abandoned us altogether, for The Cabin does not permit us to die. To die would mean to leave, The Cabin would never allow this. The Cabin replaces light with darkness. Love with hate. Dreams with nightmares. Bravery with cowardice. The Cabin rots the fresh. Puts thirst in the water. Hunger in the food. Even the wickedest of sinners would sooner bathe in the fires of hell than rent a night in The Cabin.
Not only is it mental deterioration that’s scavenging away at the inhabitants of The Cabin. There are signs of physical mal too. ****** has fallen victim to a severe case of a burning urethra and an itchy bellend. He has not yet been to a doctor, as such facilities are scarce in this location. But through self-examination and past experiences of other inhabitants in this cabin; it has been concluded he has probably contracted an STD from unprotected sex with a Swedish girl. It is an itch only anti-biotics can scratch. The Cabin will never allow such provisions amidst her realms. God have mercy on his bell.
We are Truly Fucked in Toolybuc.”
Okay, so perhaps it’s a slight dramatisation. But, let’s just say, I can sympathise with Elizabeth Fritzl after this experience. The whole being locked up in a confined space thing that is, not the raising a family with my Dad part (I only moved to Cornwall, I’m not from there!). I tried to get outdoors and go for a walk, but there is only one straight road that leads to nowhere. There is just paddocks and eucalyptus trees here. Far from an ugly sight, but the problem in Oz is (trust a ‘whinging Pom’ to point a problem out), you can’t just wander off into the woods. It’s best to stick to the path, otherwise you may fall victim to a nice dose of snake poison. Also, I don’t want to be that mongoloid backpacker on the news who got lost because he can’t follow a path.
To make things better, my money was diminishing fast. I had f*cked up, once again. I was spending my money willy-nilly as I was relying on my tax return to come through, but thanks to my useless twat of an accountant, it hasn’t materialised. They asked me to fax or email my payslip through, I done this. Then they sent me another automated message asking for my payslip. With no internet or fax machine where I am, I’m pretty f*cked on that front for now. I managed to use my friends Blackberry to send them a pretty blunt message that my patience was wearing thin. As I write this, I have no idea what they have sent back, as my friends internet has run out.
Let me speak about the internet briefly, the world has become way too reliable on this bloody thing. Me included. We need it to get our news, to do our tax forms, to apply for jobs. I applied for a job at Marks and Sparks last Christmas, as they do great overtime at X-Mas, perfect travel saving work (a tip for those who want to travel). I go in there with my C.V. and my friendliest smile. They tell me that they do have jobs going, but to apply, I must go on there website and apply through there. So now we can’t even apply for a job face-to-face anymore. Long gone are the days that your confidence and wit can score you a job. Now you have to email facts and figures through and cross your fingers that they call you back. What a load of bollocks. I am a slave to the internet though. I can’t keep off it, I’m that annoying prick on Facebook who will tell you that I’m going to have cheese and pickle sandwiches for lunch today. It’s not healthy, so this time away from the internet, has done me some good really. The internet is the biggest gift and curse to this planet since the Industrial Revolution. The gift being free porn, the curse being slow buffering.
Moral was at an all-time low. Only one thing could restore it, goon. We invested in a box of goon and let the good times roll. Most of the jokes that night are too explicit to type on here, but a good time was had by all. Somewhere between the story of one of the group unintentionally having sex with a 16-year old and me giving the usual drunken rant about how I hate people who aren’t Irish and celebrate St Patrick’s Day. We all passed out. That’s the only way a night can end with goon.
Just a quick one on the St Paddy’s Day thing. Every time I query someone on this who isn’t Irish, they reply to me “Well it’s an excuse to get drunk isn‘t it?”. Since when did anyone in the Western world need an excuse? I went to the pub one morning to drop a DVD off to my friend, I ended up coming home two days later with no recollection of what the f*ck had happened in that time. As if we need St Paddy’s day to get lashed up. It’s an American marketing scheme that we’ve all fallen for once again. Just like Valentine’s Day and Mother and Father’s Day. Although saying that did you know that people in Kazakhstan celebrate Australia Day? Of course that isn’t true though is it, because that would be f*cking retarded…
ANYWAY (I tend to sidetrack myself a lot), a post-goon day is not a day at all. It’s a complete write-off, your so hungry you can’t move, yet you’re so hung-over you can’t be arsed to cook. Still no work and still no money. People were starting to leave for greener pastures, I decided I would do the same. I messaged my mates from Canberra who said I can see them at anytime. Canberra is meant to be boring, but these Aussie lads told me that because I know them, they can sort me out with work, booze and pretty females. Throw in a plate of ham, egg and chips and I’m pretty much in heaven. No need to follow a religion with offers like that.
The thought of going back to a city excited me so much. I was actually going to see REAL people. I can actually drink water out of a tap. This is insane! Then on a quiet Sunday, Eddy got us drunk and talked us into staying in Toolybuc. The drunken man is a fickle man. It’s actually paid off really well now though. We’re staying in a house for $50 a week and work has started to come through. Our first job was just pulling fence wires out of these wooden post thingys. Sound boring as f*ck. But with gorgeous 25 degrees weather last week, I wouldn’t want any other job. The farmers here have all been so sound. After my Mildura experience, I was expecting the metropolis of Toolybuc to be even more inbred and ignorant. But I have been pleasantly proven wrong, this place of full of what I see as, true Australians. The pleasant and down to earth ones. One farmer even apologised for the reception I received in Mildura, obviously that’s just ridiculous. As if I can hold this man responsible for the mongs in Mildura. When I told my contractor the story (he’s Cambodian), he showed me the knife wound scars he received in Mildura for being foreign. Turns out I got off lucky!
So now, I’m in a house with no toaster and no kettle. No tea or toast in the morning. It’s an absolute nightmare. But my eyes have been opened to a whole new cuisine. Noodles and eggs. When you cook noodles in the saucepan, drop a couple of eggs in and it poaches them. Absolute genius. I’m fully addicted to this now. I know a lot of people who would want to go back home after the shit and mundane weeks I’ve had. But this is the thing with travelling, amongst all the mind-numbing boredom and brain cells swiftly abandoning my brain. It’s still a great memory for me. In these weeks, I have made friends for life. Friendships move faster in travelling, you can make a best friend in a week. Easily. They will know all your dirty secrets and insecurities in this time. It’s one of the best things about travelling. You can be in a cabin for a week straight, eating noodles and eggs, maybe pasta and tuna to spice things up. But you’re still having the time of your life, thanks to the people around you.
I’m able to get on the internet now. We drove into the nearest town the other day and stocked up on essential supplies. I managed to get a mobile Wi-Fi thingy-majig. It’s amazing. I have full signal in the arsehole of nowhere. The kind girl in the shop sold it to me in four sentences. Either she’s good at her job or I’m easily manipulated. As I was buying it, she commented on how she loves my accent. I have heard this so much since travelling. Yet, I never get tired of hearing it. I don’t think I ever will. Every time I hear this it’s like hearing it for the first time. The swelling of my head knows no boundaries.
My plan from here is to work for another month or so. Hopefully I can get in shape for the summer, I’ve moved in with some Korean lads. These boys all do national service, so one of them is helping beast me into shape. He’s an ex-Special Forces machine. I have never ached so much in my life. Bring it on. I know it will all go out the window once I move somewhere with a Hungry Jacks. Obesity is worth it for Hungry Jacks though. I also have my mind set on what I will do when my visa expires in February. I won’t say just yet, but I can say, I won’t be back in England for a long time. I don’t have the travelling bug, the travelling bug has me.
Last time we spoke, I do believe I was moving to a new town for a new job so I could save lots of money. After the irritating chore of packing, we all said our farewells to the people staying behind. We’d been staying at a nice campsite which was located right next to the river, I was a bit gutted to leave actually. After months of pure backpacking accommodation (I.e. squalor), these cabins were a welcome change. But I need to work, so to move on was a must. Me and my merry men (and woman) hit the road for our next adventure.
The journey took over an hour. The journey was pleasant at first, but after the first 60,000 eucalyptus trees and eleventy nine paddocks, it gets quite mundane. It’s journeys like these you realise just how sparsely populated this country is. You can’t say you’ve been isolated until you’ve been in the rural areas of a country the size of Australia. My parents moved to a hamlet in Cornwall, which I considered to be in the arsehole of nowhere, but a supermarket is just ten minutes away. Coming to a country this size has changed my perspective A LOT on things like this.
The bus pulled up in a ‘town’ called Wood-Wood. Our boss has told us to get the bus here and then phone him. No drama. We tried to phone him, no answer. Loving it. Wood-Wood had about three houses and one shop. The clear blue sky was retreating from a ghastly horde of black clouds and hunger was starting to creep up on us all. Low on funds and travelling light, I didn’t exactly have a picnic basket with me. Even better still, the shop was closed. We sat outside the shop and pondered what the f*ck we could do. Finally we managed to get hold of Eddy, he was an hour and a half away. So we had to sit outdoors in the pissing rain with famished stomachs for two hours in the end.
The only food I had left was weet-a-bix (they call it weet-bix here) and a jar of jam. So using my backpacking wit, I proceeded to dip the weet-a-bix in the jam jar and eat them. The travelling life can be far from a luxurious life at times. The kind lady in the shop sympathised with us and opened up for us to grab some essentials. At first I was grateful, I grabbed a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk and a can of beans. This come to the sum of $15. That’s £10! I wish she had never of opened the shop now.
Our chauffer finally arrived and we all piled in. Luckily our new home wasn’t far away. Our new destination was a village called Toolybuc. Toolybuc has one pub, a shop and a school. The population is a whopping 275. There’s really not a lot to do here, as you can imagine. I thought there would be some decent hiking about, but the Murray River is impressive for about one-mile. Then you realise once you’ve seen one bit, you’ve seen it all. But this didn’t matter, as Eddy said we were going to be working seven days a week. We were going to be too busy with work and making money to get bored…weren’t we?
Since coming to the Murray River, it has brought me nothing but bad luck. Along with everyone else in my group. The Murray River is just one fast flowing artery of bad luck. Forever pumping her bad luck into the lands around here. Then in the lands, grow crops that contain bad luck. We then proceed to eat these crops and are now hosts to the bad luck of the Murray River. It turns out, the farmer we were supposed to be working for, has had to post-pone the work as his father died of cancer. A tragic event that’s completely out of anyone’s control.
So now we were in Toolybuc, with no work, no internet, no supermarket, no form of entertainment, not even a ball to kick around. We spent seven days at our caravan park, this sounds like a holiday to some. But I can assure you, it was far from a f*cking holiday. Ever heard of the term cabin fever? Our sanity danced with death. Here’s what I wrote for one of my diary entries (I have hidden the identity of one chap here for obvious reasons):
“I am going doolally. My sanity is merely a pile of, once glorious, rubble. The Cabin has weaved my helpless soul in a web of pessimism and doom. There is no way out. I am trapped here forever like a cannon ball riddled galleon on the ocean floor. Time stops for no man… except for those in The Cabin. Time has abandoned us altogether, for The Cabin does not permit us to die. To die would mean to leave, The Cabin would never allow this. The Cabin replaces light with darkness. Love with hate. Dreams with nightmares. Bravery with cowardice. The Cabin rots the fresh. Puts thirst in the water. Hunger in the food. Even the wickedest of sinners would sooner bathe in the fires of hell than rent a night in The Cabin.
Not only is it mental deterioration that’s scavenging away at the inhabitants of The Cabin. There are signs of physical mal too. ****** has fallen victim to a severe case of a burning urethra and an itchy bellend. He has not yet been to a doctor, as such facilities are scarce in this location. But through self-examination and past experiences of other inhabitants in this cabin; it has been concluded he has probably contracted an STD from unprotected sex with a Swedish girl. It is an itch only anti-biotics can scratch. The Cabin will never allow such provisions amidst her realms. God have mercy on his bell.
We are Truly Fucked in Toolybuc.”
Okay, so perhaps it’s a slight dramatisation. But, let’s just say, I can sympathise with Elizabeth Fritzl after this experience. The whole being locked up in a confined space thing that is, not the raising a family with my Dad part (I only moved to Cornwall, I’m not from there!). I tried to get outdoors and go for a walk, but there is only one straight road that leads to nowhere. There is just paddocks and eucalyptus trees here. Far from an ugly sight, but the problem in Oz is (trust a ‘whinging Pom’ to point a problem out), you can’t just wander off into the woods. It’s best to stick to the path, otherwise you may fall victim to a nice dose of snake poison. Also, I don’t want to be that mongoloid backpacker on the news who got lost because he can’t follow a path.
To make things better, my money was diminishing fast. I had f*cked up, once again. I was spending my money willy-nilly as I was relying on my tax return to come through, but thanks to my useless twat of an accountant, it hasn’t materialised. They asked me to fax or email my payslip through, I done this. Then they sent me another automated message asking for my payslip. With no internet or fax machine where I am, I’m pretty f*cked on that front for now. I managed to use my friends Blackberry to send them a pretty blunt message that my patience was wearing thin. As I write this, I have no idea what they have sent back, as my friends internet has run out.
Let me speak about the internet briefly, the world has become way too reliable on this bloody thing. Me included. We need it to get our news, to do our tax forms, to apply for jobs. I applied for a job at Marks and Sparks last Christmas, as they do great overtime at X-Mas, perfect travel saving work (a tip for those who want to travel). I go in there with my C.V. and my friendliest smile. They tell me that they do have jobs going, but to apply, I must go on there website and apply through there. So now we can’t even apply for a job face-to-face anymore. Long gone are the days that your confidence and wit can score you a job. Now you have to email facts and figures through and cross your fingers that they call you back. What a load of bollocks. I am a slave to the internet though. I can’t keep off it, I’m that annoying prick on Facebook who will tell you that I’m going to have cheese and pickle sandwiches for lunch today. It’s not healthy, so this time away from the internet, has done me some good really. The internet is the biggest gift and curse to this planet since the Industrial Revolution. The gift being free porn, the curse being slow buffering.
Moral was at an all-time low. Only one thing could restore it, goon. We invested in a box of goon and let the good times roll. Most of the jokes that night are too explicit to type on here, but a good time was had by all. Somewhere between the story of one of the group unintentionally having sex with a 16-year old and me giving the usual drunken rant about how I hate people who aren’t Irish and celebrate St Patrick’s Day. We all passed out. That’s the only way a night can end with goon.
Just a quick one on the St Paddy’s Day thing. Every time I query someone on this who isn’t Irish, they reply to me “Well it’s an excuse to get drunk isn‘t it?”. Since when did anyone in the Western world need an excuse? I went to the pub one morning to drop a DVD off to my friend, I ended up coming home two days later with no recollection of what the f*ck had happened in that time. As if we need St Paddy’s day to get lashed up. It’s an American marketing scheme that we’ve all fallen for once again. Just like Valentine’s Day and Mother and Father’s Day. Although saying that did you know that people in Kazakhstan celebrate Australia Day? Of course that isn’t true though is it, because that would be f*cking retarded…
ANYWAY (I tend to sidetrack myself a lot), a post-goon day is not a day at all. It’s a complete write-off, your so hungry you can’t move, yet you’re so hung-over you can’t be arsed to cook. Still no work and still no money. People were starting to leave for greener pastures, I decided I would do the same. I messaged my mates from Canberra who said I can see them at anytime. Canberra is meant to be boring, but these Aussie lads told me that because I know them, they can sort me out with work, booze and pretty females. Throw in a plate of ham, egg and chips and I’m pretty much in heaven. No need to follow a religion with offers like that.
The thought of going back to a city excited me so much. I was actually going to see REAL people. I can actually drink water out of a tap. This is insane! Then on a quiet Sunday, Eddy got us drunk and talked us into staying in Toolybuc. The drunken man is a fickle man. It’s actually paid off really well now though. We’re staying in a house for $50 a week and work has started to come through. Our first job was just pulling fence wires out of these wooden post thingys. Sound boring as f*ck. But with gorgeous 25 degrees weather last week, I wouldn’t want any other job. The farmers here have all been so sound. After my Mildura experience, I was expecting the metropolis of Toolybuc to be even more inbred and ignorant. But I have been pleasantly proven wrong, this place of full of what I see as, true Australians. The pleasant and down to earth ones. One farmer even apologised for the reception I received in Mildura, obviously that’s just ridiculous. As if I can hold this man responsible for the mongs in Mildura. When I told my contractor the story (he’s Cambodian), he showed me the knife wound scars he received in Mildura for being foreign. Turns out I got off lucky!
So now, I’m in a house with no toaster and no kettle. No tea or toast in the morning. It’s an absolute nightmare. But my eyes have been opened to a whole new cuisine. Noodles and eggs. When you cook noodles in the saucepan, drop a couple of eggs in and it poaches them. Absolute genius. I’m fully addicted to this now. I know a lot of people who would want to go back home after the shit and mundane weeks I’ve had. But this is the thing with travelling, amongst all the mind-numbing boredom and brain cells swiftly abandoning my brain. It’s still a great memory for me. In these weeks, I have made friends for life. Friendships move faster in travelling, you can make a best friend in a week. Easily. They will know all your dirty secrets and insecurities in this time. It’s one of the best things about travelling. You can be in a cabin for a week straight, eating noodles and eggs, maybe pasta and tuna to spice things up. But you’re still having the time of your life, thanks to the people around you.
I’m able to get on the internet now. We drove into the nearest town the other day and stocked up on essential supplies. I managed to get a mobile Wi-Fi thingy-majig. It’s amazing. I have full signal in the arsehole of nowhere. The kind girl in the shop sold it to me in four sentences. Either she’s good at her job or I’m easily manipulated. As I was buying it, she commented on how she loves my accent. I have heard this so much since travelling. Yet, I never get tired of hearing it. I don’t think I ever will. Every time I hear this it’s like hearing it for the first time. The swelling of my head knows no boundaries.
My plan from here is to work for another month or so. Hopefully I can get in shape for the summer, I’ve moved in with some Korean lads. These boys all do national service, so one of them is helping beast me into shape. He’s an ex-Special Forces machine. I have never ached so much in my life. Bring it on. I know it will all go out the window once I move somewhere with a Hungry Jacks. Obesity is worth it for Hungry Jacks though. I also have my mind set on what I will do when my visa expires in February. I won’t say just yet, but I can say, I won’t be back in England for a long time. I don’t have the travelling bug, the travelling bug has me.
Saturday 23 July 2011
Goymer goes poetic
If the world is my oyster, then England is the pearl
Just writing about you now, makes my stomach swirl
I love my life, the freedom, but there is one major issue
Whenever I see you on TV, I really start to miss you
I
But oh how I wish to be back in the Green and Pleasant Land
Give me a decent pork pie or maybe cheese on toast
Actually, forget all that, where
They do it in Australia, yes, but it
A fry-up is serious business, yet Aussies treat it like a game
From the white cliffs of Dover, up to Hadrian
How can so much greatness, be in a land so small?
I miss proper English pubs and a kick-about down the park
Without you I am naked, like a tree stripped of it
I miss your sense of humour, I miss a good old moan
Please don
This poem comes from how I feel about the motherland every now and again. This home sickness usually strikes when you least suspect it and is usually triggered by something ridiculously minor. The TV is the main antagonist for this feeling. I got it the other day when an Australian news reporter was standing outside the Houses of Parliament. All of a sudden, this sinking feeling hit my stomach. It was heart breaking. Home sweet home. F*ck I miss you. And just to get rid of any shadows of uncertainty that it was England in the background. The sky was grey and cloudy and a massive Carlsberg lorry full of lager drove by in the background. Yep, that’s Ol’ Blighty alright.
The most ridiculous time my homesickness fuse was ignited though, was when some really, really obscure English show was on TV. I have no idea what it was, it was f*cking awful though. Anyway, there was a scene when a man was going through some woods, in England. There was no dialogue or music, the only noise that could be heard was the cooing of a wood pigeon. This noise instantly took me back to a very young Sam Goymer in English summertime, early Sunday morning, looking out the back window of the house I grew up in. The sun is gleaming, lawnmowers are mowing, my neighbours tall green trees are swaying in cool summer breeze and the pigeons are cooing. How the f*ck this picture found it’s way into my head God only knows. I probably spent the rest of that hot summers day in my back garden; either digging up old 18th and 19th artefacts scattered in the soil, like the Indiana Jones wannabe I was/am. Or I was starting a war between red and black ants. Trying my hardest to aid the kind black ants against the bastard red ones who would bite you so much. The reds always won though, wankers. It gave me a warm feeling inside to think of this, along with sadness that I’m so far away from home.
Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t mean I start acting like a whiney little bitch, crying into my pillow that I want to go home. I really don’t want to go home, yet. But every now and again, you remember who you are and where you come from. No matter where you’re from, home is home. Me and an Englishmen spent 20 minutes yesterday discussing different sweets, biscuits and ice creams from England. It’s when you’re so far away from home, you think of things like this. On that note, do you remember those ice creams with the bubble gum ball in the bottom? It came with a small plastic spoon, we couldn’t think of the name for toffee. So if someone can tell me, then I can sleep easy tonight.
Anyway, enough of that. Let’s talk about Australia. Me and Australia had a bit of a falling out the other week. But we have since kissed and made up. We both said and done things we both regret, but that’s all over now. Now the dust has settled and my eye is beautiful again, the hate has diminished. I can‘t let one town change my judgement of all Australia. I have since left that inbred shit hole and am now in a different place with a different job. I’m living in a nice little cabin with 3 English lads (A Scouser, Yorkshireman and a lad from Wolves) and an Italian girl. We’re like a happy little family and there’s guaranteed, well paid work for the next few months which will get me my 2nd working holiday visa. There’s not a lot to do out here, which is good as I need to save money!
So tomorrow we move town again, to a place called Swan Hill, which is also on the Murray River. The Murray River can only be described as: F*CKING MASSIVE! It’s huge. I don’t know how far it goes for, but it makes most of the Victorian/NSW border. It’s swarmed with, the all Australian, eucalyptus trees. People outside of Australia don’t realise just how many trees there are in this country, especially in the East. That’s why you hear about so many bush fires in Oz, it’s just one massive tinder box. Despite the dangers of bush fires and poisonous creatures, it does make for great hiking.
I’m reading a book by a man called Paul Theroux, he’s a travel writer. The book I’m reading now is called Dark Star Safari. Bored of the monotony of life at home, working, getting home, eating dinner, waking up, working, getting home, eating dinner etc. he decides to throw himself into the big bad world for some adventure. I can relate 100%. In this book, he travels from Egypt all the way down to South Africa. This book has reignited my lust for adventure. As much as I love Oz, for an Englishman, it’s really not anything new or exciting. There’s not a lot of bravery involved in coming here as an Englishman. The culture and language is pretty much the same as home. So this book has got me thinking, f*ck a career or emigrating to Oz permanently right now. I’m 22, single and handsome. The world is mine to conquer. All the settling down nonsense can wait. This book has got me wanting to travel to some random countries again, like when I went to Israel. South East Asia doesn’t appeal to me. As beautiful as it may be, it’s just going to be full of backpackers. I have nothing against that, but, for me personally, I don’t think it would teach me anything new or improve me as a human being.
So, I’m looking at my options right now. I’m not going to say what or when yet, as the travelling man doesn’t know where he will be tomorrow, let alone in a few months time. All I know is, I’m so happy I was born to travel. The scariest thought in my head is if me and my ex hadn’t of broken up 2 years ago. I would probably be living in Newquay, working, eating dinner, waking up, drinking alcohol, working, eating dinner, waking up, working etc. There’s nothing wrong with living a settled down life. I will one day settle down with a wife, family etc. And I‘ll be the dogs danglys at that life. But right now, it’s not for me. Like I said before about travelling, you either have it in you to do it, or don’t. So thank f*ck I do!
P.s.
I would like a moment to thank all my readers for the words of support regarding my blog. I never expected it to get such a popular reaction. The number of times this blog has been read is deep into the thousands (blogspot lets me check the stats). Thanks to you lot, I have re-found my passion for writing. I stopped writing this blog, then I met with one of my Aussie mates: Bec, who said I need to start writing it again. So thanks for that Bec! I got lazy, but now I’m back on it. Who knows, maybe one day when I finally finish my travels and settle down, I may just write a novel. That has been a secret dream of mine since school; when writing was the only thing I was shit hot at. I will have to hire an editor though, because my commas, semi-colons etc. are all over the shop (as I’m sure you grammar Nazis have noticed!). But until then, I hope you enjoy reading the absolute bullshit I write!
Toda raba. Nitra’e bekarov bitches!
Just writing about you now, makes my stomach swirl
I love my life, the freedom, but there is one major issue
Whenever I see you on TV, I really start to miss you
I
But oh how I wish to be back in the Green and Pleasant Land
Give me a decent pork pie or maybe cheese on toast
Actually, forget all that, where
They do it in Australia, yes, but it
A fry-up is serious business, yet Aussies treat it like a game
From the white cliffs of Dover, up to Hadrian
How can so much greatness, be in a land so small?
I miss proper English pubs and a kick-about down the park
Without you I am naked, like a tree stripped of it
I miss your sense of humour, I miss a good old moan
Please don
This poem comes from how I feel about the motherland every now and again. This home sickness usually strikes when you least suspect it and is usually triggered by something ridiculously minor. The TV is the main antagonist for this feeling. I got it the other day when an Australian news reporter was standing outside the Houses of Parliament. All of a sudden, this sinking feeling hit my stomach. It was heart breaking. Home sweet home. F*ck I miss you. And just to get rid of any shadows of uncertainty that it was England in the background. The sky was grey and cloudy and a massive Carlsberg lorry full of lager drove by in the background. Yep, that’s Ol’ Blighty alright.
The most ridiculous time my homesickness fuse was ignited though, was when some really, really obscure English show was on TV. I have no idea what it was, it was f*cking awful though. Anyway, there was a scene when a man was going through some woods, in England. There was no dialogue or music, the only noise that could be heard was the cooing of a wood pigeon. This noise instantly took me back to a very young Sam Goymer in English summertime, early Sunday morning, looking out the back window of the house I grew up in. The sun is gleaming, lawnmowers are mowing, my neighbours tall green trees are swaying in cool summer breeze and the pigeons are cooing. How the f*ck this picture found it’s way into my head God only knows. I probably spent the rest of that hot summers day in my back garden; either digging up old 18th and 19th artefacts scattered in the soil, like the Indiana Jones wannabe I was/am. Or I was starting a war between red and black ants. Trying my hardest to aid the kind black ants against the bastard red ones who would bite you so much. The reds always won though, wankers. It gave me a warm feeling inside to think of this, along with sadness that I’m so far away from home.
Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t mean I start acting like a whiney little bitch, crying into my pillow that I want to go home. I really don’t want to go home, yet. But every now and again, you remember who you are and where you come from. No matter where you’re from, home is home. Me and an Englishmen spent 20 minutes yesterday discussing different sweets, biscuits and ice creams from England. It’s when you’re so far away from home, you think of things like this. On that note, do you remember those ice creams with the bubble gum ball in the bottom? It came with a small plastic spoon, we couldn’t think of the name for toffee. So if someone can tell me, then I can sleep easy tonight.
Anyway, enough of that. Let’s talk about Australia. Me and Australia had a bit of a falling out the other week. But we have since kissed and made up. We both said and done things we both regret, but that’s all over now. Now the dust has settled and my eye is beautiful again, the hate has diminished. I can‘t let one town change my judgement of all Australia. I have since left that inbred shit hole and am now in a different place with a different job. I’m living in a nice little cabin with 3 English lads (A Scouser, Yorkshireman and a lad from Wolves) and an Italian girl. We’re like a happy little family and there’s guaranteed, well paid work for the next few months which will get me my 2nd working holiday visa. There’s not a lot to do out here, which is good as I need to save money!
So tomorrow we move town again, to a place called Swan Hill, which is also on the Murray River. The Murray River can only be described as: F*CKING MASSIVE! It’s huge. I don’t know how far it goes for, but it makes most of the Victorian/NSW border. It’s swarmed with, the all Australian, eucalyptus trees. People outside of Australia don’t realise just how many trees there are in this country, especially in the East. That’s why you hear about so many bush fires in Oz, it’s just one massive tinder box. Despite the dangers of bush fires and poisonous creatures, it does make for great hiking.
I’m reading a book by a man called Paul Theroux, he’s a travel writer. The book I’m reading now is called Dark Star Safari. Bored of the monotony of life at home, working, getting home, eating dinner, waking up, working, getting home, eating dinner etc. he decides to throw himself into the big bad world for some adventure. I can relate 100%. In this book, he travels from Egypt all the way down to South Africa. This book has reignited my lust for adventure. As much as I love Oz, for an Englishman, it’s really not anything new or exciting. There’s not a lot of bravery involved in coming here as an Englishman. The culture and language is pretty much the same as home. So this book has got me thinking, f*ck a career or emigrating to Oz permanently right now. I’m 22, single and handsome. The world is mine to conquer. All the settling down nonsense can wait. This book has got me wanting to travel to some random countries again, like when I went to Israel. South East Asia doesn’t appeal to me. As beautiful as it may be, it’s just going to be full of backpackers. I have nothing against that, but, for me personally, I don’t think it would teach me anything new or improve me as a human being.
So, I’m looking at my options right now. I’m not going to say what or when yet, as the travelling man doesn’t know where he will be tomorrow, let alone in a few months time. All I know is, I’m so happy I was born to travel. The scariest thought in my head is if me and my ex hadn’t of broken up 2 years ago. I would probably be living in Newquay, working, eating dinner, waking up, drinking alcohol, working, eating dinner, waking up, working etc. There’s nothing wrong with living a settled down life. I will one day settle down with a wife, family etc. And I‘ll be the dogs danglys at that life. But right now, it’s not for me. Like I said before about travelling, you either have it in you to do it, or don’t. So thank f*ck I do!
P.s.
I would like a moment to thank all my readers for the words of support regarding my blog. I never expected it to get such a popular reaction. The number of times this blog has been read is deep into the thousands (blogspot lets me check the stats). Thanks to you lot, I have re-found my passion for writing. I stopped writing this blog, then I met with one of my Aussie mates: Bec, who said I need to start writing it again. So thanks for that Bec! I got lazy, but now I’m back on it. Who knows, maybe one day when I finally finish my travels and settle down, I may just write a novel. That has been a secret dream of mine since school; when writing was the only thing I was shit hot at. I will have to hire an editor though, because my commas, semi-colons etc. are all over the shop (as I’m sure you grammar Nazis have noticed!). But until then, I hope you enjoy reading the absolute bullshit I write!
Toda raba. Nitra’e bekarov bitches!
Tuesday 12 July 2011
The hot potato of racism and Aussie English.
Right, this blog is starting off on a serious note then I‘ll point out some cultural observations of Australia. Goymer’s going to go political and give my 2 pence on an issue that the Western world has become obsessed with since the end of World War 2: Racism. Racism is arguably the hottest of potatoes. Everyone has a strong view on it and a debate on the matter is guaranteed to spiral out of control. It can make you a worldwide hero (Martin Luther King) or it can destroy your career in a split second (Ron Atkinson). After Europe was almost devoured by the fascist empire of Nazi Germany, the Western world has gone on a crusade to destroy racism…or so we like to think anyway.
Every one of us has a racist inside. I have always had an underlying hatred for Irish people. When Westerners picture a terrorist now, they picture a brown man in a turban strapping himself with explosives. When I was growing up, a terrorist to me was a white man in green combat fatigues, a black balaclava with a thick Irish accent and planting bombs in public bins. There was a lad at my school with Catholic Irish parents, I used to give him such a hard time for being an “IRA cunt”. I’ve since apologised to him and we get on quite well now. But even after this, if I met an Irish man who on the surface it appeared we were getting along well, deep down inside we both know a few pints of beer could bring out our hatred for one another. I suppose it’s because I instantly assumed they hated me, so I hated them back.
Since coming to Australia, I have met plenty of Irish people. Away from our homelands, it seemed easier for us to talk about the history and bloodshed between our nations. It’s opened my eyes up a lot. I’ve finally been able to shake off the shackles imbedded into my young mind whilst growing up in the 90’s. Not all Irish people want us dead…just the Catholic ones. That’s a joke by the way, with racism, you have to make clear you’re joking.
Not in Australia you don’t. Aussies are constantly cracking racist jokes. We crack them in England too, but you have to look over your shoulder to make sure the subject of the joke isn’t around. One of my Aussie work mates was calling the Indian lads a bunch of “curry munchers” and even called them “Pakis”. In England that’s an instant sacking, no questions asked. In Australia, the Indian lads just called him a “Milk bottle c*nt” back. Everyone laughed and we get on with things. In that sense I like Australia. Because countries like England don’t actually get rid of racism by punishing people harshly for using these words, if anything, it makes it worse. The bigger an issue you make racism, the stronger you make it. For example:
John Smith is working at a car factory. John Smith makes a joke about Mr Khan being a terrorist. The boss over hears this and sacks John Smith. John Smith now hates the political correctness and in turn hates Asian people too.
Where as, if John Smith had not cracked this joke to Mr Khan. But waited until he was down the pub with his white friends, then no punishment is given. This is deemed okay. Political correctness only makes things worse. It’s not removing the problem at all. It’s dictating people how to think and talk and in turn is making people angry. Thus making racism worse. It happens behind closed doors, let’s just be more honest and stop trying to sweep it under the carpet.
White American comedian Doug Stanhope puts it best:
“I hate when ethnic minorities tell me I can’t understand racism because I’m white. I tell them I don’t think you can understand racism if you’re NOT white…we hear the shit they say when you leave the room!”. Ain’t that the truth.
Racism is prevalent in every society. England has it’s fair share of mongoloids. As does Australia, but Australian racism baffles me. I can understand people in England being racist, our people have a long connection with the land for thousands of years. The castles and palaces that scatter our countryside were built by our ancestors. This is our land. Whilst not excusing the racism in my home country, I can see where it comes from. I personally have no problem with immigrants racially. I do have a problem that our country is over-populated. 60 million people on such a small island is too much. But I would sooner deport all the so-called white Englishmen who do f*ck all and live on the dole, then moan that foreigners are taking their jobs than a foreigner who move to England for a better life. I’ve worked with plenty of Eastern Europeans, they’re generally decent people who work hard and save money. They’re more than welcome to my country. Just as my Grandmother was 60 years ago when she moved to England from Austria. The demographics in Europe have shifted too fast and it hasn’t worked out too well.
Australia on the other hand is built on immigration. I find it hard for an Aussie with the name David Williams to tell me that these “dirty Asians are taking over, they need to f*ck off to where they came from”. So why doesn’t David Williams f*ck off back to Wales then? Oh that’s right “I was born here, I‘m Aussie not Welsh”. So what happens when Mr and Mrs Chinaman have a child in Australia, will you accept that child as a true Aussie? Will you f*ck. I’m not speaking about all Aussies here…but it is a lot of them. If I have children in this country, then I will give them a slap for speaking ill of immigrants who want to move to Oz for a better life.
How can they complain about someone emigrating here? When that’s how their family came here not that long ago. IT MAKES NO F*CKING SENSE! Just as it makes no sense for the Aussies who complain what bastards the British Empire were. Wait a minute, you mean the same Empire that stole this land for you in the first place? Aussies like to claim all the good in their history as their own, but all the bad history as the Brits. Makes me chuckle. There was a battle in World War 1 called Gallipoli. It was a joint Commonwealth and French operation in Turkey against the Ottoman Empire. It was a complete failure. It’s big in Australian and New Zealand history because it was their first big moment on the international stage as an independent nation. A lot of Aussies are under the impression that the Brits sent the ANZAC’s (Australian New Zealand Army Corps) out into battle to get slaughtered whilst the Brits laid back and watched. I have no doubt the historically inaccurate film starring, a fresh-faced, Mel Gibson has something to do with this. They are genuinely shocked when I tell them that over 20,000 British soldiers died in that battle alongside the ANZACs. More than any of the other allied armies in that battle.
The same that some Aussies believe the ANZAC’s got captured alone by the Japanese in World War 2 because the British abandoned them. Again, they couldn’t be more wrong. They got caught alongside the British. British and ANZAC’s got tortured side-by-side in Japanese POW camps. It really pisses me off when I meet Aussies with these anti-British feelings. Our countrymen died side-by-side. Our nations connection couldn’t of been more obvious as when I went to the ANZAC day parade and all the songs being played, but one (Waltzing Matilda), were British Army songs. I knew every single song being played.
My theory is, Australia sub-consciously feels like they are in our shadow and have something to prove to us. Because they come from us, but we don’t come from them. If not genetically, then culturally. An Aussie in England is treated like a long-lost relative. But when I speak to Aussies here; I sometimes feel like some Aussies are trying to prove to me how different from the English they are. I usually end up embarrassing them and showing them how the apple really doesn‘t fall far from the tree. Example, the ol’ football discussion. Australian’s have their own football. An Aussie colleague once said to me “Yeah, but you can call it footy, cos that’s how we say it in Australia”. I then had to say that we also say it in England too. Then there was just an awkward moment where I actually felt sorry for him and almost felt like saying that we don’t really…but we do.
Same with the Aussie chant “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, OI! OI! OI!”. That comes from the Welsh mines when they would shout “Oggie, Oggie, Oggie, OI! OI! OI!”. The list is endless. Australia has an identity crisis. Because alongside all these UK traits, they have also been Americanised to f*ck. The biggest example of ‘The Great Australian Identity Crisis’. Is the chip dilemma.
In England, we call French-Fries- Chips
In America, they use the word chips for what we call- Crisps.
Australians use the word chips for proper chips. But then proceed to make tits out of themselves and call crisps chips. I ask them how the how can you tell the difference? Apparently they call crisps: ‘Potato chips’. Stop me if I’m wrong…but aren’t proper chips also made out of potatoes?! I really can’t get my head round that one.
They try too hard. We have a lot of informal words in England which we only use in conversation. Not in our newspapers. Aussies will use the word ‘mate’ in the newspaper. I even saw a shop selling baked potatoes as ‘baked spuds’. We use the word spuds too, but not to this extreme. I see what you’re trying to do here…but no. Again, trying too hard to sound cool and different from the English. When really we use those words anyway. But we don’t have to make such a point of the fact we use them that we put them in our formal life. Aussies invented the word “mateship” for “friendship”. It sounds retarded. Stop it. Please. You’re just embarrassing yourself.
So my advice to Australia is, stop being so insecure. You don’t have to try and prove to me how good your country is like a young neglected child who just wants to be loved. I love your country, no more needs to be said or proven. Stop hating on people coming here for a better life just like your ancestors did. Finally, and most importantly, stop using American words!
It’s a pavement not a sidewalk
It’s a shopping centre not a mall
It’s pronounced Project (‘O’ in pot) not Prohject
They’re crisps not chips
And by the way, we say Tomato sauce in England too. That’s not yours, stop trying to claim our words. You can keep doona (Aussie for duvet)…it’s a f*cking awful word. I’m nicking “f*cking oath” though. That phrase more than makes up for all the things I dislike about Aussie English.
P.s. I don’t mean to cause offence when I generalise in my blogs. So if the shoe doesn’t fit, don’t worry about it. Simple. I write this purely as a foreign observer in your country. I can’t write too much about England’s bad points, because I would get too angry and have a stroke whilst doing so.
Every one of us has a racist inside. I have always had an underlying hatred for Irish people. When Westerners picture a terrorist now, they picture a brown man in a turban strapping himself with explosives. When I was growing up, a terrorist to me was a white man in green combat fatigues, a black balaclava with a thick Irish accent and planting bombs in public bins. There was a lad at my school with Catholic Irish parents, I used to give him such a hard time for being an “IRA cunt”. I’ve since apologised to him and we get on quite well now. But even after this, if I met an Irish man who on the surface it appeared we were getting along well, deep down inside we both know a few pints of beer could bring out our hatred for one another. I suppose it’s because I instantly assumed they hated me, so I hated them back.
Since coming to Australia, I have met plenty of Irish people. Away from our homelands, it seemed easier for us to talk about the history and bloodshed between our nations. It’s opened my eyes up a lot. I’ve finally been able to shake off the shackles imbedded into my young mind whilst growing up in the 90’s. Not all Irish people want us dead…just the Catholic ones. That’s a joke by the way, with racism, you have to make clear you’re joking.
Not in Australia you don’t. Aussies are constantly cracking racist jokes. We crack them in England too, but you have to look over your shoulder to make sure the subject of the joke isn’t around. One of my Aussie work mates was calling the Indian lads a bunch of “curry munchers” and even called them “Pakis”. In England that’s an instant sacking, no questions asked. In Australia, the Indian lads just called him a “Milk bottle c*nt” back. Everyone laughed and we get on with things. In that sense I like Australia. Because countries like England don’t actually get rid of racism by punishing people harshly for using these words, if anything, it makes it worse. The bigger an issue you make racism, the stronger you make it. For example:
John Smith is working at a car factory. John Smith makes a joke about Mr Khan being a terrorist. The boss over hears this and sacks John Smith. John Smith now hates the political correctness and in turn hates Asian people too.
Where as, if John Smith had not cracked this joke to Mr Khan. But waited until he was down the pub with his white friends, then no punishment is given. This is deemed okay. Political correctness only makes things worse. It’s not removing the problem at all. It’s dictating people how to think and talk and in turn is making people angry. Thus making racism worse. It happens behind closed doors, let’s just be more honest and stop trying to sweep it under the carpet.
White American comedian Doug Stanhope puts it best:
“I hate when ethnic minorities tell me I can’t understand racism because I’m white. I tell them I don’t think you can understand racism if you’re NOT white…we hear the shit they say when you leave the room!”. Ain’t that the truth.
Racism is prevalent in every society. England has it’s fair share of mongoloids. As does Australia, but Australian racism baffles me. I can understand people in England being racist, our people have a long connection with the land for thousands of years. The castles and palaces that scatter our countryside were built by our ancestors. This is our land. Whilst not excusing the racism in my home country, I can see where it comes from. I personally have no problem with immigrants racially. I do have a problem that our country is over-populated. 60 million people on such a small island is too much. But I would sooner deport all the so-called white Englishmen who do f*ck all and live on the dole, then moan that foreigners are taking their jobs than a foreigner who move to England for a better life. I’ve worked with plenty of Eastern Europeans, they’re generally decent people who work hard and save money. They’re more than welcome to my country. Just as my Grandmother was 60 years ago when she moved to England from Austria. The demographics in Europe have shifted too fast and it hasn’t worked out too well.
Australia on the other hand is built on immigration. I find it hard for an Aussie with the name David Williams to tell me that these “dirty Asians are taking over, they need to f*ck off to where they came from”. So why doesn’t David Williams f*ck off back to Wales then? Oh that’s right “I was born here, I‘m Aussie not Welsh”. So what happens when Mr and Mrs Chinaman have a child in Australia, will you accept that child as a true Aussie? Will you f*ck. I’m not speaking about all Aussies here…but it is a lot of them. If I have children in this country, then I will give them a slap for speaking ill of immigrants who want to move to Oz for a better life.
How can they complain about someone emigrating here? When that’s how their family came here not that long ago. IT MAKES NO F*CKING SENSE! Just as it makes no sense for the Aussies who complain what bastards the British Empire were. Wait a minute, you mean the same Empire that stole this land for you in the first place? Aussies like to claim all the good in their history as their own, but all the bad history as the Brits. Makes me chuckle. There was a battle in World War 1 called Gallipoli. It was a joint Commonwealth and French operation in Turkey against the Ottoman Empire. It was a complete failure. It’s big in Australian and New Zealand history because it was their first big moment on the international stage as an independent nation. A lot of Aussies are under the impression that the Brits sent the ANZAC’s (Australian New Zealand Army Corps) out into battle to get slaughtered whilst the Brits laid back and watched. I have no doubt the historically inaccurate film starring, a fresh-faced, Mel Gibson has something to do with this. They are genuinely shocked when I tell them that over 20,000 British soldiers died in that battle alongside the ANZACs. More than any of the other allied armies in that battle.
The same that some Aussies believe the ANZAC’s got captured alone by the Japanese in World War 2 because the British abandoned them. Again, they couldn’t be more wrong. They got caught alongside the British. British and ANZAC’s got tortured side-by-side in Japanese POW camps. It really pisses me off when I meet Aussies with these anti-British feelings. Our countrymen died side-by-side. Our nations connection couldn’t of been more obvious as when I went to the ANZAC day parade and all the songs being played, but one (Waltzing Matilda), were British Army songs. I knew every single song being played.
My theory is, Australia sub-consciously feels like they are in our shadow and have something to prove to us. Because they come from us, but we don’t come from them. If not genetically, then culturally. An Aussie in England is treated like a long-lost relative. But when I speak to Aussies here; I sometimes feel like some Aussies are trying to prove to me how different from the English they are. I usually end up embarrassing them and showing them how the apple really doesn‘t fall far from the tree. Example, the ol’ football discussion. Australian’s have their own football. An Aussie colleague once said to me “Yeah, but you can call it footy, cos that’s how we say it in Australia”. I then had to say that we also say it in England too. Then there was just an awkward moment where I actually felt sorry for him and almost felt like saying that we don’t really…but we do.
Same with the Aussie chant “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, OI! OI! OI!”. That comes from the Welsh mines when they would shout “Oggie, Oggie, Oggie, OI! OI! OI!”. The list is endless. Australia has an identity crisis. Because alongside all these UK traits, they have also been Americanised to f*ck. The biggest example of ‘The Great Australian Identity Crisis’. Is the chip dilemma.
In England, we call French-Fries- Chips
In America, they use the word chips for what we call- Crisps.
Australians use the word chips for proper chips. But then proceed to make tits out of themselves and call crisps chips. I ask them how the how can you tell the difference? Apparently they call crisps: ‘Potato chips’. Stop me if I’m wrong…but aren’t proper chips also made out of potatoes?! I really can’t get my head round that one.
They try too hard. We have a lot of informal words in England which we only use in conversation. Not in our newspapers. Aussies will use the word ‘mate’ in the newspaper. I even saw a shop selling baked potatoes as ‘baked spuds’. We use the word spuds too, but not to this extreme. I see what you’re trying to do here…but no. Again, trying too hard to sound cool and different from the English. When really we use those words anyway. But we don’t have to make such a point of the fact we use them that we put them in our formal life. Aussies invented the word “mateship” for “friendship”. It sounds retarded. Stop it. Please. You’re just embarrassing yourself.
So my advice to Australia is, stop being so insecure. You don’t have to try and prove to me how good your country is like a young neglected child who just wants to be loved. I love your country, no more needs to be said or proven. Stop hating on people coming here for a better life just like your ancestors did. Finally, and most importantly, stop using American words!
It’s a pavement not a sidewalk
It’s a shopping centre not a mall
It’s pronounced Project (‘O’ in pot) not Prohject
They’re crisps not chips
And by the way, we say Tomato sauce in England too. That’s not yours, stop trying to claim our words. You can keep doona (Aussie for duvet)…it’s a f*cking awful word. I’m nicking “f*cking oath” though. That phrase more than makes up for all the things I dislike about Aussie English.
P.s. I don’t mean to cause offence when I generalise in my blogs. So if the shoe doesn’t fit, don’t worry about it. Simple. I write this purely as a foreign observer in your country. I can’t write too much about England’s bad points, because I would get too angry and have a stroke whilst doing so.
Sunday 10 July 2011
Inbred Aussies and a black eye.
Mum, excuse my French in this blog, but I’m not best pleased. I got f*cking sparked last night. I saw it coming from the moment I set foot in this shit hole. I’ve been living in a city for 3 months and felt no threat walking the streets at 2am. Here it’s different. I knew something was going to kick off here and I was going to be at the centre of it. I get a Wickerman feeling about this place. The locals can smell my unincestual blood, they know I’m not from round here. The girls love it, the guys feel threatened by it. Even when I’m just standing at the traffic lights, everyone in the cars driving by stare at me like I’ve got four arms and a penis for a head. I’m in f*cking hill billy land.
I haven’t been in a fight for 4 years. I’d much rather spend my night drinking, laughing and trying to score with the opposite sex than get in a ruck. Some people don’t feel this way. Let me go back to the beginning…
After spending all Saturday daytime standing in a field pulling vines off a wire, I feel that I deserve a beer or ten. This is the general feeling in camp, so everyone stocks up on booze and gets ready for the night. Standard. So once you’ve bought the drinks, the next step from there is to drink them. I drink, he drinks, she drinks, we all drink. Everyone is happy, we have downing competitions and rip each other for our different accents. I’ll later find out that my accent is no laughing matter according to some redneck, incest f*cks.
Mildura has a population of 30,000 and is located in the arsehole of nowhere. The closest city is a 6 hour drive away, it’s a long, long way from civilisation. The people here like to fornicate with their siblings and start fights with people born with ten toes. As you can imagine, the nightlife here is not exactly summertime Ibiza. But after sinking many beers, it seems the best thing to do is go to town and flirt with the local wildlife. To be fair, the pub wasn’t too bad. It had a good selection of alcohol and there was a bit of totty on the dance floor. Sorted. I sink a few more pints, have a boogy on the dance floor, charm the local slags with good looks and wit and crack a few jokes with my mates. I recall one not-so-good -looking bird saying to me “You’re not from round here are you?”. But the way she said it, was weird, it was like the way that us civilised folk joke about hill billys saying this. Even in Cornwall I never got this shit.
Anywho, the night goes from good to weird when I go to the toilet. There’s a load of lads in there who also like to point out the fact I’m “not from round here”. Then three girls walk into the men’s toilet and all walk into a cubicle together, I jokingly say:
“What’s that all about?!”
Then hilly billy number one says:
HB1: “You’re in f*cking Austraya now mate. This is how we do things here, if you don’t like it then you can f*ck off”
Me: “Alright mate chill out, I don’t give a f*cking shit. I’m literally just having a piss, no need to be a weirdo about it.”
Then your token ‘Aussie with an English mother” steps in and chills everything out because he has a soft spot for English people. So I leave the bog and go back to drinking. Let me tell you what I know about some Aussies, they’re insecure f*ckers. They’re so ‘proud’ of their country, but they want you, as a foreigner, to tell them how great it is. Like your girlfriend wants you to compliment her on how beautiful she looks today. They need you to tell them how great their country is. I almost feel cornered into bigging Australia up more than I actually like it; just in case they go mental and put a glass in my face. If you know how great your country is, then you don’t need to do a song and dance about it. Because it’s just common knowledge to you, like the sun sets and rises everyday, your country is great. But these redneck f*ckers are like “Aw yeah, it’s the best country in the f*cking world.”. Considering they have probably never been 10 minutes away from their town, I find it hard for them to make this statement. But I’m a foreigner in their territory, so I keep schtum.
It’s about 1am and I’m pretty smashed by now. So smashed I throw up in the toilet. No drama, that just means more room for more alcohol. I go back the bar and resume normal business. I buy a pint, turn around and my mate Andy is there, we crack a few jokes, comment on how weird the locals are etc. Then out of the blue two c*nts start shoving us, I don’t even know what the geezer pushing me is saying, I’m pretty f*cking hammered and have just yacked my guts up. Andy reckons he was saying something about his girlfriend. I had spoken to a few birds that night, obviously word had spread amongst the inbred, mongrel grape vine that some pommy bastard was trying to steal their girls. The shoving turns into a scuffle; I miss my footing and fall on the floor, I get kicked out and feel like a dickhead for falling over.
I go round the corner of the pub and say to the bouncer “Get that fucking prick out here now so I can smash the cunt up!”. One of the lads comes out and starts babbling some bollocks, I don’t even know what he’s saying. I already know what’s going to happen. I introduce his nose to my forehead and it bursts open like a water balloon and he hit’s the deck. Boom. I’ve won, I’m the f*cking man. The bouncers say I seriously need to go, so I start to make my way home with a victorious spring in my step. Then I hear this running noise behind me, I turn around, BANG! The cunt catches me right in the left eye with a running punch and I go down like a sack of shit, then two lads proceed to boot me in the ribs. Luckily the bouncers get them off me, otherwise it could of got REALLY fucked up. It’s kicking people on the floor that get you manslaughter charges.
I went from hero to a nobhead on the floor with a swollen eye in a matter of seconds. Fair play to the old boy for the punch, it was a f*cking beaut. I’ve got a right shiner today and my ribs hurt when I laugh. After it was over, the bouncer warns us that the police are on their way. Mildura police aren’t exactly the straightest of coppers. They’re on mafia pay roll (so I’ve heard) and I can’t imagine they look at foreigners scrapping with locals favourably. Bouncer asks if we want to press charges, both of us agree we don’t want that. Then the rozzers turn up and the bouncer explains that we’ve been scrapping but neither want to press charges. The copper says “Well this is a waste of time ain’t it”. And drives off. For once I’m happy a copper wasn’t doing his job properly, I really couldn’t be arsed with spending the night in a cell. The bouncer warned me that I need to go home and watch out because the man is probably calling his mates to get me now. I can barely see out my left eye, I didn’t fancy losing the right one too. My phone was dead so I couldn’t ring anyone and I didn’t want to stick around in case the coward brings 20 of his mates to shoe me in. The walk home was a paranoid one.
I wondered why I was alone and none of my mates came out to help. I later learnt that whilst I had this mini-drama outside, there was a massive rumble erupting inside. We will never know why this fight started. I’m pretty sure it’s down to isolated, inbred retards being threatened by funny and extremely good-looking Englishmen flirting with their women. I’m going to address the hypocrisy of Aussie racism in my next blog. The last thing I want in Australia is to fight, because it’s shit like this that can get me deported. I’m not letting this taint my view of Australia or the good people of Australia, we get muppets like this in England too. Just a couple of inbred rotten apples. I’m hungover, aching all over, my head is f*cking killing me from where it hit the concrete. I don’t know if I can work tomorrow because my ribs are f*cked, pulling vines is the last thing they need. All I need is a proper Full English Breakfast and a massive wank. But to do either of those is too painful for me now. Fuck Mildura.
I haven’t been in a fight for 4 years. I’d much rather spend my night drinking, laughing and trying to score with the opposite sex than get in a ruck. Some people don’t feel this way. Let me go back to the beginning…
After spending all Saturday daytime standing in a field pulling vines off a wire, I feel that I deserve a beer or ten. This is the general feeling in camp, so everyone stocks up on booze and gets ready for the night. Standard. So once you’ve bought the drinks, the next step from there is to drink them. I drink, he drinks, she drinks, we all drink. Everyone is happy, we have downing competitions and rip each other for our different accents. I’ll later find out that my accent is no laughing matter according to some redneck, incest f*cks.
Mildura has a population of 30,000 and is located in the arsehole of nowhere. The closest city is a 6 hour drive away, it’s a long, long way from civilisation. The people here like to fornicate with their siblings and start fights with people born with ten toes. As you can imagine, the nightlife here is not exactly summertime Ibiza. But after sinking many beers, it seems the best thing to do is go to town and flirt with the local wildlife. To be fair, the pub wasn’t too bad. It had a good selection of alcohol and there was a bit of totty on the dance floor. Sorted. I sink a few more pints, have a boogy on the dance floor, charm the local slags with good looks and wit and crack a few jokes with my mates. I recall one not-so-good -looking bird saying to me “You’re not from round here are you?”. But the way she said it, was weird, it was like the way that us civilised folk joke about hill billys saying this. Even in Cornwall I never got this shit.
Anywho, the night goes from good to weird when I go to the toilet. There’s a load of lads in there who also like to point out the fact I’m “not from round here”. Then three girls walk into the men’s toilet and all walk into a cubicle together, I jokingly say:
“What’s that all about?!”
Then hilly billy number one says:
HB1: “You’re in f*cking Austraya now mate. This is how we do things here, if you don’t like it then you can f*ck off”
Me: “Alright mate chill out, I don’t give a f*cking shit. I’m literally just having a piss, no need to be a weirdo about it.”
Then your token ‘Aussie with an English mother” steps in and chills everything out because he has a soft spot for English people. So I leave the bog and go back to drinking. Let me tell you what I know about some Aussies, they’re insecure f*ckers. They’re so ‘proud’ of their country, but they want you, as a foreigner, to tell them how great it is. Like your girlfriend wants you to compliment her on how beautiful she looks today. They need you to tell them how great their country is. I almost feel cornered into bigging Australia up more than I actually like it; just in case they go mental and put a glass in my face. If you know how great your country is, then you don’t need to do a song and dance about it. Because it’s just common knowledge to you, like the sun sets and rises everyday, your country is great. But these redneck f*ckers are like “Aw yeah, it’s the best country in the f*cking world.”. Considering they have probably never been 10 minutes away from their town, I find it hard for them to make this statement. But I’m a foreigner in their territory, so I keep schtum.
It’s about 1am and I’m pretty smashed by now. So smashed I throw up in the toilet. No drama, that just means more room for more alcohol. I go back the bar and resume normal business. I buy a pint, turn around and my mate Andy is there, we crack a few jokes, comment on how weird the locals are etc. Then out of the blue two c*nts start shoving us, I don’t even know what the geezer pushing me is saying, I’m pretty f*cking hammered and have just yacked my guts up. Andy reckons he was saying something about his girlfriend. I had spoken to a few birds that night, obviously word had spread amongst the inbred, mongrel grape vine that some pommy bastard was trying to steal their girls. The shoving turns into a scuffle; I miss my footing and fall on the floor, I get kicked out and feel like a dickhead for falling over.
I go round the corner of the pub and say to the bouncer “Get that fucking prick out here now so I can smash the cunt up!”. One of the lads comes out and starts babbling some bollocks, I don’t even know what he’s saying. I already know what’s going to happen. I introduce his nose to my forehead and it bursts open like a water balloon and he hit’s the deck. Boom. I’ve won, I’m the f*cking man. The bouncers say I seriously need to go, so I start to make my way home with a victorious spring in my step. Then I hear this running noise behind me, I turn around, BANG! The cunt catches me right in the left eye with a running punch and I go down like a sack of shit, then two lads proceed to boot me in the ribs. Luckily the bouncers get them off me, otherwise it could of got REALLY fucked up. It’s kicking people on the floor that get you manslaughter charges.
I went from hero to a nobhead on the floor with a swollen eye in a matter of seconds. Fair play to the old boy for the punch, it was a f*cking beaut. I’ve got a right shiner today and my ribs hurt when I laugh. After it was over, the bouncer warns us that the police are on their way. Mildura police aren’t exactly the straightest of coppers. They’re on mafia pay roll (so I’ve heard) and I can’t imagine they look at foreigners scrapping with locals favourably. Bouncer asks if we want to press charges, both of us agree we don’t want that. Then the rozzers turn up and the bouncer explains that we’ve been scrapping but neither want to press charges. The copper says “Well this is a waste of time ain’t it”. And drives off. For once I’m happy a copper wasn’t doing his job properly, I really couldn’t be arsed with spending the night in a cell. The bouncer warned me that I need to go home and watch out because the man is probably calling his mates to get me now. I can barely see out my left eye, I didn’t fancy losing the right one too. My phone was dead so I couldn’t ring anyone and I didn’t want to stick around in case the coward brings 20 of his mates to shoe me in. The walk home was a paranoid one.
I wondered why I was alone and none of my mates came out to help. I later learnt that whilst I had this mini-drama outside, there was a massive rumble erupting inside. We will never know why this fight started. I’m pretty sure it’s down to isolated, inbred retards being threatened by funny and extremely good-looking Englishmen flirting with their women. I’m going to address the hypocrisy of Aussie racism in my next blog. The last thing I want in Australia is to fight, because it’s shit like this that can get me deported. I’m not letting this taint my view of Australia or the good people of Australia, we get muppets like this in England too. Just a couple of inbred rotten apples. I’m hungover, aching all over, my head is f*cking killing me from where it hit the concrete. I don’t know if I can work tomorrow because my ribs are f*cked, pulling vines is the last thing they need. All I need is a proper Full English Breakfast and a massive wank. But to do either of those is too painful for me now. Fuck Mildura.
Wednesday 6 July 2011
A long overdue update and an appreciation of Australian girls.
Good morning, afternoon and evening everyone. Just thought I’d cover all the time zones reading this, as I’ve got a lot of arse kissing to do. It’s been over THREE MONTHS since my last entry. That ain’t on at all. I don’t know why I stopped writing, because so much stuff has happened. Either I forgot how to write, or my reintroduction to weed made me lazy. I think that answers itself. I can’t write out story-for-story what has happened in the last 3 months. So I’ll speedily bring you up to date.
Last time I wrote, I was monging about in a Melbourne hostel without a penny to my name. Long story short, I found a job, worked hard(ish), got paid, spent money on booze and food, met loads of people, got wasted and made a dick out of myself, bla bla. The usual stuff. Now I’m in the arsehole of nowhere in a town called Mildura. I have to be here so I can work towards a 2nd year on my visa. Which requires 3 months of fruit picking. I was dreading coming here, I had become addicted to Melbourne. I had initially planned to be there 2 weeks but I ended up being there for 3 months; oops. So going from the amazing city of Melbourne where a hot girl is only seconds away to a town which is in more bush than a 70’s porn stars genitalia; really wasn’t faring too well with me. I was expecting tumble weed and toothless simpletons. But I have been proven wrong; there isn’t a tumble weed in sight!
I’m living in a working hostel, which is a hostel that finds me work in the local area. I’ve landed on my feet here, the work is horse shit, but the people are sound as f*ck. Most of us here are English. As much as I love travelling and meeting foreign people, it’s nice to be around your own sometimes. These aren’t the gap year student types who Mummy and Daddy are paying for on their credit card. I’m with the type of English people who can talk about footy and actually know what they’re on about. The type who turn every word in the English language into a football chant when wasted. The type who shout “WHEEEEEY!” when someone falls over or drops their beer. The type who don’t get all whiney and defensive if you take the piss, instead they just take the piss back with something wittier and harsher. I never felt so much at home as the moment on Saturday night, when I was slouched on the setee, beer in one hand, spliff in the other, mid-way through ripping one of the Yorkshire lads for being a dirty coal miner, a Scouser pokes his head round the corner and says “Oi lads, John’s fallen asleep…let’s bundle him!”. Instantly all the Englishmen’s faces light up. We know the drill. No questions asked. I haven’t been involved in a bundle since I was 16 years old, but it’s just like riding a bike, you never forget. Only the English lads get up, no-one else knows what’s going on. They’re all confused as to why we’ve all just upped and left. We follow the Scouse to John’s room, we bang the door open SAS at the Iranian Embassy style. Minus the explosives of course, but we do execute the bundles with SAS swiftness and precision.
“BUUUUNDLLLLEEEEEEEES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” echoes the famous playground war cry across the battleground. Before the victim even knows what’s going on, he has the weight of eight fully grown men pushing down on top of him. Being at the bottom of a bundle is about as enjoyable as eating a bowl of urine soaked sand for breakfast. You literally feel like you could die if they push down on your lungs enough. So why am I writing about bundles? Because, it was only that moment that, I remembered how fun it is to be English. Europeans all see us as loud, uncultured aggressive idiots. They couldn’t be more right. Look back in the day, when Europe was making beautiful music and art with the likes of Picasso and Mozart. What was England doing? I can picture it now.
Random hairy European: “You hear this music I make? It is beautiful, it is like thousand angels have orgasm in ear. So, tell me Englishman, what is your culture? You have beautiful song to show me? Or maybe a poem expressing your love to the woman you love?”
English nobleman: “Er…not quite… you see that fox there? I’ve got some dogs here, watch me release them and tear the fox to shit…who fancies a cup of Bovril?”
I wouldn’t want to be any other way.
So, back to Australia. My love for this country has only strengthened since I last wrote to you all. The quality of life here is unreal. I was making $20 an hour for my last job, which works out about £16, I was packing clothes into boxes and playing cricket with a ball made from tape. It’s sad to think that I get paid more than someone with a decent profession in England. Everything is more expensive than England, yes. But when your on Aussie wages, it works out a lot better. If I earn $20 an hour and pay $6-7 for a pint of lager, that’s less than half my wage. If I’m on £6 an hour in England, then it’s rare to find a pint of lager less than £3. The quality of life is just too good here, I would be mental not to consider staying here forever. England is in a bad way, all I read in the news is doom and gloom. Unemployment is sky high, the NHS is burning to the ground, David Cameron has been a complete let down who U-turns the moment someone disagrees with his decision, kids are taking drugs from as young as 13, the schools don’t teach the children anything about English history. I will sum up the state of modern day England. We are not allowed to be taught the National Anthem at school. We are the ONLY country in the world who do this. I need to stop writing about England, my blood is boiling. I’ve had some great discussions with the English lads here. We all agree, England is the best country in the world. To be born English is to win the lottery of life. But shit, she is sick right now. So sick it breaks my heart. Australia is not without it’s flaws, but it’s got a lot more going for it than England has. Australia, society-wise, is like what England used to be.
Speaking of Australian society, I need a moment to comment on Australian girls. I am pretty sure that they’re my new favourite (it changes weekly). Aussie girls are funny as f*ck. That’s the biggest compliment I can pay to any girl EVER. I can talk to an Aussie girl without my cheeks hurting from fake smiling and laughing so much. They’re just so down to earth. If an English girl talks to me about some random guy she had sex with at the weekend who had a massive cock, I would be thinking “You really do talk like a slag, tone it down love” in my head. Yet, when an Aussie girl talks about it, I don’t think like this. If I had a penny for the amount of times an English girl will speak of a one night stand and then turn around and call a girl a slag for doing the exact same thing. Aussie girls are more genuine and comfortable with who they are. Don’t get me wrong, you get the stuck up slags who look at you like a furry, dog turd if you’re not wearing a $10000 rolex watch. But the sound ones are SOUND…and fit as f*ck. They’re funny, smart, aren’t shy of watching sport and I’ve even had discussions with some about my intellectual porn; history. They were fit too! Aussie girls definitely make my penis feel funny. God bless you Australian girls. Salt of the earth.
So, my plan for now is to work towards my 2nd visa for a bit, then who knows. I need to see a bit more of Oz, I may go to Korea for a month in September, I have to see an Oriental country. I will probably go back to Melbourne after a while though. If I settle down here, I will live in Melbourne. Standard.
That’s enough for now, I will write more of my analysis of Australia soon (they can't cook a fry-up for shit) and I’ll write some stories next time. Ciao for now niggas.
Last time I wrote, I was monging about in a Melbourne hostel without a penny to my name. Long story short, I found a job, worked hard(ish), got paid, spent money on booze and food, met loads of people, got wasted and made a dick out of myself, bla bla. The usual stuff. Now I’m in the arsehole of nowhere in a town called Mildura. I have to be here so I can work towards a 2nd year on my visa. Which requires 3 months of fruit picking. I was dreading coming here, I had become addicted to Melbourne. I had initially planned to be there 2 weeks but I ended up being there for 3 months; oops. So going from the amazing city of Melbourne where a hot girl is only seconds away to a town which is in more bush than a 70’s porn stars genitalia; really wasn’t faring too well with me. I was expecting tumble weed and toothless simpletons. But I have been proven wrong; there isn’t a tumble weed in sight!
I’m living in a working hostel, which is a hostel that finds me work in the local area. I’ve landed on my feet here, the work is horse shit, but the people are sound as f*ck. Most of us here are English. As much as I love travelling and meeting foreign people, it’s nice to be around your own sometimes. These aren’t the gap year student types who Mummy and Daddy are paying for on their credit card. I’m with the type of English people who can talk about footy and actually know what they’re on about. The type who turn every word in the English language into a football chant when wasted. The type who shout “WHEEEEEY!” when someone falls over or drops their beer. The type who don’t get all whiney and defensive if you take the piss, instead they just take the piss back with something wittier and harsher. I never felt so much at home as the moment on Saturday night, when I was slouched on the setee, beer in one hand, spliff in the other, mid-way through ripping one of the Yorkshire lads for being a dirty coal miner, a Scouser pokes his head round the corner and says “Oi lads, John’s fallen asleep…let’s bundle him!”. Instantly all the Englishmen’s faces light up. We know the drill. No questions asked. I haven’t been involved in a bundle since I was 16 years old, but it’s just like riding a bike, you never forget. Only the English lads get up, no-one else knows what’s going on. They’re all confused as to why we’ve all just upped and left. We follow the Scouse to John’s room, we bang the door open SAS at the Iranian Embassy style. Minus the explosives of course, but we do execute the bundles with SAS swiftness and precision.
“BUUUUNDLLLLEEEEEEEES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” echoes the famous playground war cry across the battleground. Before the victim even knows what’s going on, he has the weight of eight fully grown men pushing down on top of him. Being at the bottom of a bundle is about as enjoyable as eating a bowl of urine soaked sand for breakfast. You literally feel like you could die if they push down on your lungs enough. So why am I writing about bundles? Because, it was only that moment that, I remembered how fun it is to be English. Europeans all see us as loud, uncultured aggressive idiots. They couldn’t be more right. Look back in the day, when Europe was making beautiful music and art with the likes of Picasso and Mozart. What was England doing? I can picture it now.
Random hairy European: “You hear this music I make? It is beautiful, it is like thousand angels have orgasm in ear. So, tell me Englishman, what is your culture? You have beautiful song to show me? Or maybe a poem expressing your love to the woman you love?”
English nobleman: “Er…not quite… you see that fox there? I’ve got some dogs here, watch me release them and tear the fox to shit…who fancies a cup of Bovril?”
I wouldn’t want to be any other way.
So, back to Australia. My love for this country has only strengthened since I last wrote to you all. The quality of life here is unreal. I was making $20 an hour for my last job, which works out about £16, I was packing clothes into boxes and playing cricket with a ball made from tape. It’s sad to think that I get paid more than someone with a decent profession in England. Everything is more expensive than England, yes. But when your on Aussie wages, it works out a lot better. If I earn $20 an hour and pay $6-7 for a pint of lager, that’s less than half my wage. If I’m on £6 an hour in England, then it’s rare to find a pint of lager less than £3. The quality of life is just too good here, I would be mental not to consider staying here forever. England is in a bad way, all I read in the news is doom and gloom. Unemployment is sky high, the NHS is burning to the ground, David Cameron has been a complete let down who U-turns the moment someone disagrees with his decision, kids are taking drugs from as young as 13, the schools don’t teach the children anything about English history. I will sum up the state of modern day England. We are not allowed to be taught the National Anthem at school. We are the ONLY country in the world who do this. I need to stop writing about England, my blood is boiling. I’ve had some great discussions with the English lads here. We all agree, England is the best country in the world. To be born English is to win the lottery of life. But shit, she is sick right now. So sick it breaks my heart. Australia is not without it’s flaws, but it’s got a lot more going for it than England has. Australia, society-wise, is like what England used to be.
Speaking of Australian society, I need a moment to comment on Australian girls. I am pretty sure that they’re my new favourite (it changes weekly). Aussie girls are funny as f*ck. That’s the biggest compliment I can pay to any girl EVER. I can talk to an Aussie girl without my cheeks hurting from fake smiling and laughing so much. They’re just so down to earth. If an English girl talks to me about some random guy she had sex with at the weekend who had a massive cock, I would be thinking “You really do talk like a slag, tone it down love” in my head. Yet, when an Aussie girl talks about it, I don’t think like this. If I had a penny for the amount of times an English girl will speak of a one night stand and then turn around and call a girl a slag for doing the exact same thing. Aussie girls are more genuine and comfortable with who they are. Don’t get me wrong, you get the stuck up slags who look at you like a furry, dog turd if you’re not wearing a $10000 rolex watch. But the sound ones are SOUND…and fit as f*ck. They’re funny, smart, aren’t shy of watching sport and I’ve even had discussions with some about my intellectual porn; history. They were fit too! Aussie girls definitely make my penis feel funny. God bless you Australian girls. Salt of the earth.
So, my plan for now is to work towards my 2nd visa for a bit, then who knows. I need to see a bit more of Oz, I may go to Korea for a month in September, I have to see an Oriental country. I will probably go back to Melbourne after a while though. If I settle down here, I will live in Melbourne. Standard.
That’s enough for now, I will write more of my analysis of Australia soon (they can't cook a fry-up for shit) and I’ll write some stories next time. Ciao for now niggas.
Friday 1 April 2011
Melbourne, Special Salesmen and a sick bastard named Paddy
Right then Ladies and Gents; it’s that time of the month again. So ladies; turn off Desperate Housewives (or any of the other generic show with EXTREMELY fit but equally boring birds in it) and gents; put the hand lotion and tissues away. It’s been over 3 weeks since I last wrote to you all. The last time we spoke, I was having my tonsils devoured by a confused lesbian and I was just about to start my sales job in Brisbane. I’m sure I mentioned before the unpredictability of travelling. Because I have no job and nor am I in Brisbane. So please remain seated, turn your mobile phones off and I shall explain all…
Brisbane is a dull city. I was told how great it is by some Aussies, but I was still not enjoying myself. My hostel was full of gimps, the city is rank and the river makes the Thames look like somewhere in the Caribbean. Anywho, as all was looking up and I was going to start this new job, I received a phone call from my good friend Paddy. Paddy comes from Yorkshire and moved to Australia after the evil wench Margaret Thatcher closed down his coal mine and sent all his children to work on sugar plantations in Virginia. I met Paddy back in England whilst working in the pub. He’s a sick bastard, who drinks too much, has a disgusting sense of humour and is an all round ‘orrible bastard. Basically, he’s my sort of guy.
After much catching up and exchanging tales. He tells me of this mystical land where the buildings aren’t all tacky post 1950 builds and to go 10 seconds without seeing a hot girl is unheard of. Like a wide-eyed child fixated on his Grandad’s war stories, I asked him more and more about this place. He tells me this place is called; Melbourne.
After much drinking and a poor show of girls, I tell Paddy I’m f*cking my job off and I’m going to Melbourne with him. So me being as spontaneous as ever, books the flight and pisses the company off in the process. But after the time I’ve had in Melbourne, I really couldn’t give a toss. The flight was cheap and only took a couple of hours. No drama. We both got off the plane, onto the shuttle bus and instantly I loved Melbourne already. The bus wasn’t even IN Melbourne yet, but Melbourne was in the bus. And by that I mean the bus was crammed with stunning Melbourne girls. Me and Paddy made sure to speak extra loud to each other so they could all hear our accent. Works a treat every time.
This is what had annoyed me so far in Australia. In Israel I could make a thousand heads turn towards me when I spoke. Purely because they rarely met English people. But the backpacking scene in Oz is crammed avec Anglais. So the accent has lost it’s novelty to most the backpackers. This is when Paddy let me in on a little secret. The best thing to do is, is not to go out in the clubs in the centre where all the backpackers are. He took me to some random suburb in a shitty small club that you would have to pay me to go to in England. But it was paradise for an Englishmen. We strutted around that place like Gods. Literally all we had to do was go up to a girl and ask “’scuse me luv. Do ya know where’s good tonight?”
Instantly they say:
“OMG! Where are you from?!!?!”. The rest is history. This is what travelling for a single, handsome, witty and funny Englishman should be about.
But enough about my sleaze trips for now. Let me tell you about the city itself. I have been far from impressed by Aussie cities. Coming from a country with cities like London, Manchester, Portsmouth etc. I have been spoilt. We as English people are spoilt with these. Sure they have their rough areas where you will be greeted with a knife to the face if you don’t hand over your bus ticket to hooded youth. But the centre of these cities are always decorated with beautiful, old buildings that are full of character. Aussie cities are boring as. If you see one street, you’ve seen it all. Well not Melbourne. Melbourne has maintained a lot of it’s original beauty.
The buildings here scream out the Empires glory. It literally gives me a hard on. The general vibe here is very laid back too. Sydney was hectic, Brisbane was depressing, but Melbourne has that happy feel to it that everything is going to be alright. I don’t know if the hot girl every half a second has anything to do with this. It certainly helps!
The nightlife is great too. There are some dodgy places though. Me and Paddy ended up somewhere full of Somalians who were openly selling cocaine in the club. No-one gave a shit. I was having a cigarette and was talking to one of them, he was telling me if anyone f*cks with them then they will all group together and attack (typical skinnies). When I returned inside, Paddy was naively chatting up this surprisingly fit Somalian bird. She was loving it. But I had to run over and burst his bubble when I pointed out the 10 pirates eyeing him up like an unguarded trade ship. Thanks to me, we both left the club stab-free that night.
So if any of you visit Australia, you MUST go to Melbourne. Sydney is overrated. If I decide to stay here in Australia, then Melbourne is, without a shadow of a doubt, the place that I will live in. Not all is perfect though. There’s a lot of crazy, trampy drug addicts in the city centre. They are constantly in your face asking for money. We have tramps in English cities too, but no way near as compressed into one place as they are here. I suppose it maybe because English major cities are big and spread out, so they can hustle for money in different areas. Here in Aus they all cram into the CBD (Central business district, f*cking Yank talk!). But I can cope with this. What I am about to comment on next is the REAL issue that pisses me off.
Australia is a great country with arguably the friendliest people in the world. So here’s what I don’t understand. In England and Australia, we have something called “The Big Issue”. This is a magazine that tramps sell on the street to make an honest buck or 2. In England, this is only restricted to tramps. In Australia, you have mentally disabled people who are parked up on the street corner and given a load to sell. Some of them don’t even have Big Issues, just a sign saying give me money. WHAT THE FUCK! How third world is that?! I am Socialisms biggest critic, but at this time, I will say this is bollocks. It literally made my blood boil seeing this. By mentally disabled, I mean the types who will not leave one window unlicked. The type we see in England being driven round in a blue mini bus eating their own shoulders. Because in these blue mini bus’ they’re being taken out by carers to the park or something. Not stuck on a street corner in the burning sun to beg for money all day. It is sick. Sort it out Australia, a country with your economy can definitely afford to look after these poor bastards.
Rant over. I have fallen in love with this country. The backpacking scene is sh*t. For me it is anyway, all the English people I meet are posh wankers who are on an adventure paid for by Mummy and Daddy and then their going to go back to England to study Art and waste the taxpayers money. I meet these people everyday and it makes me physically ill. They all hated me and Paddy here. We were in a backpackers club full of up themselves English girls; who the guys were all over. Me and Paddy took another approach and spoke to these two cute Japanese girls instead. All the English girls were giving us the dirtiest looks ever. One of them came over and was desperate for us to dance with her. I bluntly told her to leave me alone and Paddy told her to go and shave her armpits. Priceless.
So what I recommend doing is, is getting to know Aussies. Aussies are pretty much English, without the negative parts. Sure you get your dickhead ones, but what country doesn’t? I judge people A LOT on their sense of humour. Aussies are just as brutal and love to take the piss as us English do. I went to my first Aussie BBQ the other night. It was unreal. If we have a BBQ in England, we just stick the meat on, cook it until it’s done, eat it, then piss off indoors and watch shit Saturday night TV. When I went to a BBQ here, the food lasted for about 5-6 hours. And f*ck me they know how to cook it. I wish I could tell you more about the night, but the combination of a stupid amount of beers and potent bud has disabled me from being about to do so.
If you ask an Aussie for directions, they will draw you out a map. If you ask an Englishman, he will tell you he doesn’t know, go down the road and ask someone else (I am guilty of this haha). England, for me, is better in many ways. Mainly because it’s my home. But the Australian people are what would make me consider staying here (plus the ridiculously high wages!). I have a huge decision to make by February next year. Stay here, continue travelling or go home and start my dream career. I can’t tell you what the latter is right now. But I’m not going to stress about it. I’ve yet to make a bad decision in my life. So I’m confident what ever I do next year will be equally as awesome as the one before it. Which is pretty damn awesome! Can I just say, Mitchell Burton, I know your reading this. It’s because of you I use the word awesome. You wanker! You don’t understand how much I hated this gay American word before Israel haha. Now it’s all I bloody say!
So my next move is, stay in Melbourne, get work, save money. I want to do labouring work, in order to do so I need something called a white card. My course isn’t until next Friday, which is a massive bollock ache as my cash is loooow. I’m literally going to have a week ahead of monging around at the hostel with me and my left hand. Good times.
Going back to my accent quickly. As much as it is an advantage. It is also a disadvantage. People say my accent is quite aggressive, which I suppose it is. People from my hometown, reading this, will have no idea what I’m on about. Because to us it’s normal. I’ve been told plenty of times out here and in other areas in England, where the accent is different. to ‘calm down’ when I’m not even pissed off. Does my head in! Even then, if I said “does my head in!” in my loud accent, people would think I’m angry haha. So some Aussie lads will wanna try and start a fight because they think I’m trying to act like bertie big bollocks…which I am :p But I’m not looking for a ruck. Mugs.
I will also stick my neck on the line and make the bold statement that Englishmen are BY FAR bigger pissheads than Australians. Aussies love a piss-up, but they can’t do a marathon like we can. I put this down to the fact that booze is A LOT cheaper in England. So we go ape-shit. It’s such an issue in our country the Government have no idea what to do. I was in Sydney on a Friday night. At 4-5am the club was empty, apart from 6 people. All of us English, we still wanted more. I think the heavy weight title is ours. The Irish are overrated.
There’s so much more I wanted to write, but when it comes to it, it all clogs my brain up and I leave a lot out. I’m sure I’ve kept you long enough anyway. Thanks for reading. It’s good to know people enjoy this. I literally would not write anything if you didn’t all keep nagging me. So thanks a lot. Over and out.
Brisbane is a dull city. I was told how great it is by some Aussies, but I was still not enjoying myself. My hostel was full of gimps, the city is rank and the river makes the Thames look like somewhere in the Caribbean. Anywho, as all was looking up and I was going to start this new job, I received a phone call from my good friend Paddy. Paddy comes from Yorkshire and moved to Australia after the evil wench Margaret Thatcher closed down his coal mine and sent all his children to work on sugar plantations in Virginia. I met Paddy back in England whilst working in the pub. He’s a sick bastard, who drinks too much, has a disgusting sense of humour and is an all round ‘orrible bastard. Basically, he’s my sort of guy.
After much catching up and exchanging tales. He tells me of this mystical land where the buildings aren’t all tacky post 1950 builds and to go 10 seconds without seeing a hot girl is unheard of. Like a wide-eyed child fixated on his Grandad’s war stories, I asked him more and more about this place. He tells me this place is called; Melbourne.
After much drinking and a poor show of girls, I tell Paddy I’m f*cking my job off and I’m going to Melbourne with him. So me being as spontaneous as ever, books the flight and pisses the company off in the process. But after the time I’ve had in Melbourne, I really couldn’t give a toss. The flight was cheap and only took a couple of hours. No drama. We both got off the plane, onto the shuttle bus and instantly I loved Melbourne already. The bus wasn’t even IN Melbourne yet, but Melbourne was in the bus. And by that I mean the bus was crammed with stunning Melbourne girls. Me and Paddy made sure to speak extra loud to each other so they could all hear our accent. Works a treat every time.
This is what had annoyed me so far in Australia. In Israel I could make a thousand heads turn towards me when I spoke. Purely because they rarely met English people. But the backpacking scene in Oz is crammed avec Anglais. So the accent has lost it’s novelty to most the backpackers. This is when Paddy let me in on a little secret. The best thing to do is, is not to go out in the clubs in the centre where all the backpackers are. He took me to some random suburb in a shitty small club that you would have to pay me to go to in England. But it was paradise for an Englishmen. We strutted around that place like Gods. Literally all we had to do was go up to a girl and ask “’scuse me luv. Do ya know where’s good tonight?”
Instantly they say:
“OMG! Where are you from?!!?!”. The rest is history. This is what travelling for a single, handsome, witty and funny Englishman should be about.
But enough about my sleaze trips for now. Let me tell you about the city itself. I have been far from impressed by Aussie cities. Coming from a country with cities like London, Manchester, Portsmouth etc. I have been spoilt. We as English people are spoilt with these. Sure they have their rough areas where you will be greeted with a knife to the face if you don’t hand over your bus ticket to hooded youth. But the centre of these cities are always decorated with beautiful, old buildings that are full of character. Aussie cities are boring as. If you see one street, you’ve seen it all. Well not Melbourne. Melbourne has maintained a lot of it’s original beauty.
The buildings here scream out the Empires glory. It literally gives me a hard on. The general vibe here is very laid back too. Sydney was hectic, Brisbane was depressing, but Melbourne has that happy feel to it that everything is going to be alright. I don’t know if the hot girl every half a second has anything to do with this. It certainly helps!
The nightlife is great too. There are some dodgy places though. Me and Paddy ended up somewhere full of Somalians who were openly selling cocaine in the club. No-one gave a shit. I was having a cigarette and was talking to one of them, he was telling me if anyone f*cks with them then they will all group together and attack (typical skinnies). When I returned inside, Paddy was naively chatting up this surprisingly fit Somalian bird. She was loving it. But I had to run over and burst his bubble when I pointed out the 10 pirates eyeing him up like an unguarded trade ship. Thanks to me, we both left the club stab-free that night.
So if any of you visit Australia, you MUST go to Melbourne. Sydney is overrated. If I decide to stay here in Australia, then Melbourne is, without a shadow of a doubt, the place that I will live in. Not all is perfect though. There’s a lot of crazy, trampy drug addicts in the city centre. They are constantly in your face asking for money. We have tramps in English cities too, but no way near as compressed into one place as they are here. I suppose it maybe because English major cities are big and spread out, so they can hustle for money in different areas. Here in Aus they all cram into the CBD (Central business district, f*cking Yank talk!). But I can cope with this. What I am about to comment on next is the REAL issue that pisses me off.
Australia is a great country with arguably the friendliest people in the world. So here’s what I don’t understand. In England and Australia, we have something called “The Big Issue”. This is a magazine that tramps sell on the street to make an honest buck or 2. In England, this is only restricted to tramps. In Australia, you have mentally disabled people who are parked up on the street corner and given a load to sell. Some of them don’t even have Big Issues, just a sign saying give me money. WHAT THE FUCK! How third world is that?! I am Socialisms biggest critic, but at this time, I will say this is bollocks. It literally made my blood boil seeing this. By mentally disabled, I mean the types who will not leave one window unlicked. The type we see in England being driven round in a blue mini bus eating their own shoulders. Because in these blue mini bus’ they’re being taken out by carers to the park or something. Not stuck on a street corner in the burning sun to beg for money all day. It is sick. Sort it out Australia, a country with your economy can definitely afford to look after these poor bastards.
Rant over. I have fallen in love with this country. The backpacking scene is sh*t. For me it is anyway, all the English people I meet are posh wankers who are on an adventure paid for by Mummy and Daddy and then their going to go back to England to study Art and waste the taxpayers money. I meet these people everyday and it makes me physically ill. They all hated me and Paddy here. We were in a backpackers club full of up themselves English girls; who the guys were all over. Me and Paddy took another approach and spoke to these two cute Japanese girls instead. All the English girls were giving us the dirtiest looks ever. One of them came over and was desperate for us to dance with her. I bluntly told her to leave me alone and Paddy told her to go and shave her armpits. Priceless.
So what I recommend doing is, is getting to know Aussies. Aussies are pretty much English, without the negative parts. Sure you get your dickhead ones, but what country doesn’t? I judge people A LOT on their sense of humour. Aussies are just as brutal and love to take the piss as us English do. I went to my first Aussie BBQ the other night. It was unreal. If we have a BBQ in England, we just stick the meat on, cook it until it’s done, eat it, then piss off indoors and watch shit Saturday night TV. When I went to a BBQ here, the food lasted for about 5-6 hours. And f*ck me they know how to cook it. I wish I could tell you more about the night, but the combination of a stupid amount of beers and potent bud has disabled me from being about to do so.
If you ask an Aussie for directions, they will draw you out a map. If you ask an Englishman, he will tell you he doesn’t know, go down the road and ask someone else (I am guilty of this haha). England, for me, is better in many ways. Mainly because it’s my home. But the Australian people are what would make me consider staying here (plus the ridiculously high wages!). I have a huge decision to make by February next year. Stay here, continue travelling or go home and start my dream career. I can’t tell you what the latter is right now. But I’m not going to stress about it. I’ve yet to make a bad decision in my life. So I’m confident what ever I do next year will be equally as awesome as the one before it. Which is pretty damn awesome! Can I just say, Mitchell Burton, I know your reading this. It’s because of you I use the word awesome. You wanker! You don’t understand how much I hated this gay American word before Israel haha. Now it’s all I bloody say!
So my next move is, stay in Melbourne, get work, save money. I want to do labouring work, in order to do so I need something called a white card. My course isn’t until next Friday, which is a massive bollock ache as my cash is loooow. I’m literally going to have a week ahead of monging around at the hostel with me and my left hand. Good times.
Going back to my accent quickly. As much as it is an advantage. It is also a disadvantage. People say my accent is quite aggressive, which I suppose it is. People from my hometown, reading this, will have no idea what I’m on about. Because to us it’s normal. I’ve been told plenty of times out here and in other areas in England, where the accent is different. to ‘calm down’ when I’m not even pissed off. Does my head in! Even then, if I said “does my head in!” in my loud accent, people would think I’m angry haha. So some Aussie lads will wanna try and start a fight because they think I’m trying to act like bertie big bollocks…which I am :p But I’m not looking for a ruck. Mugs.
I will also stick my neck on the line and make the bold statement that Englishmen are BY FAR bigger pissheads than Australians. Aussies love a piss-up, but they can’t do a marathon like we can. I put this down to the fact that booze is A LOT cheaper in England. So we go ape-shit. It’s such an issue in our country the Government have no idea what to do. I was in Sydney on a Friday night. At 4-5am the club was empty, apart from 6 people. All of us English, we still wanted more. I think the heavy weight title is ours. The Irish are overrated.
There’s so much more I wanted to write, but when it comes to it, it all clogs my brain up and I leave a lot out. I’m sure I’ve kept you long enough anyway. Thanks for reading. It’s good to know people enjoy this. I literally would not write anything if you didn’t all keep nagging me. So thanks a lot. Over and out.
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