It's Sunday and I'm blogging because I made a promise before I left that I would. Events back home mean I'm flying back. Therefore this will be my last post. Thank you to anyone who's taken the time to read it.
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Art for Art's Sake
Summer continues to slowly stagger into Sydney. For every afternoon of grey downpour we now get a morning of blazing sunshine. The streets smell of evaporating rain, coupled with a tang of brine that blows in from the ocean. Blossom covers the trees. A couple of weeks ago it was a violent, electric blue, but it's now mellowed to a bruised violet.
Following my (I hope) out of character drunkeness last week, I had the opportunity to witness somebody else's drunken shame on Tuesday. The American gentleman in question managed to pass out at 9pm, was put to bed, climbed into another guys bed, pissed everywhere, climbed into at least two other people's empty beds and then, once he'd regained consciousness, staggering round the room, sighing and trying to start an argument with the guy whose bed he'd been using as a toilet. Not wanting to share a dorm with the smell of piss, me and Bob went for a wander round the block. This wouldn't normally be noteworthy save for the slightly pie-eyed opera singer we came across who had decided to give an impromptu performance on the street corner. Despite obviously being in the middle of a night out she was brilliant and got a standing ovation from us, her friends, the restaurant patrons across the street and the people who'd come to listen her from their balconies. This is the sort of thing that you tend not to get in County Durham and the sort of thing that makes me glad I came.
Having tired of the hostel routine me, Bob and a Canadian lad named Kyle went down Darlinghurst for a change of scenery. Ended up in a rock pub that's more in tune with our collective sensibilities than the high heels and testosterone vibe that predominates in many areas of the cross. It was fun. More importantly it was different.
It's generally agreed that change is a great remedy for any sort of existential funk, such as the one both me and my traveling companion have found ourselves in. It's not escaped my notice that all I seem to have been doing the past couple of weeks is go to work, go to sleep, go out for a drink on the weekend. I made a point of visiting the Gallery of New South Wales on Saturday. They've got a Picasso exhibit on at the minute that I thought might be worth a squint. Unfortunately the overwhelming majority of Pab's work were only viewable by paying money that I don't have. Instead I contented myself with the rest of the gallery's collection. In truth, the pre nineteenth century collection ain't all that, although they have their share of Rembrandts and Rubens etc. The twentieth century collection is much better though and I spent a pleasing couple of hours wandering round.
There's also a fine collection of work by various aboriginal and Torres Straits artists. I got told off for taking a picture of one. Damn the Man.
Today we went to the Outpost street art festival that's being held on Cockatoo Island. Despite the name, the islands actually a disused industrial complex that can only be reached by ferry. It's a fantastic place to hold an exhibit. Canvases and installations are arranged down tunnels dug through rock, next to rusting industrial machinery, in the centre of empty warehouses and painted directly on to the skin of the complex itself. The art itself is witty, crude, irreverent and chaotic. My previous knowledge of street art doesn't really extend beyond Banksy and that person what does them space invaders and that. They also had ping pong. Cool as pants. Unfortunately, due to laundry related complications, we had to leave after what felt like half an hour. We will be back. And next time we'll bring sandwiches.
That's if I can afford sandwiches. My agency back in England never paid my accrued holiday pay into my account, which combined with a CPP payment that I wasn't anticipating has tipped my English account, which I never intended to look at for the duration of this trip into the red. I've now accrued several hundred dollars of charges, despite not spending a penny from the account.
When I'm in charge the bankers will be the first against the wall. Then it'd be me next, for being such a wally and allowing myself to get into this situation.
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
Following my (I hope) out of character drunkeness last week, I had the opportunity to witness somebody else's drunken shame on Tuesday. The American gentleman in question managed to pass out at 9pm, was put to bed, climbed into another guys bed, pissed everywhere, climbed into at least two other people's empty beds and then, once he'd regained consciousness, staggering round the room, sighing and trying to start an argument with the guy whose bed he'd been using as a toilet. Not wanting to share a dorm with the smell of piss, me and Bob went for a wander round the block. This wouldn't normally be noteworthy save for the slightly pie-eyed opera singer we came across who had decided to give an impromptu performance on the street corner. Despite obviously being in the middle of a night out she was brilliant and got a standing ovation from us, her friends, the restaurant patrons across the street and the people who'd come to listen her from their balconies. This is the sort of thing that you tend not to get in County Durham and the sort of thing that makes me glad I came.
Having tired of the hostel routine me, Bob and a Canadian lad named Kyle went down Darlinghurst for a change of scenery. Ended up in a rock pub that's more in tune with our collective sensibilities than the high heels and testosterone vibe that predominates in many areas of the cross. It was fun. More importantly it was different.
It's generally agreed that change is a great remedy for any sort of existential funk, such as the one both me and my traveling companion have found ourselves in. It's not escaped my notice that all I seem to have been doing the past couple of weeks is go to work, go to sleep, go out for a drink on the weekend. I made a point of visiting the Gallery of New South Wales on Saturday. They've got a Picasso exhibit on at the minute that I thought might be worth a squint. Unfortunately the overwhelming majority of Pab's work were only viewable by paying money that I don't have. Instead I contented myself with the rest of the gallery's collection. In truth, the pre nineteenth century collection ain't all that, although they have their share of Rembrandts and Rubens etc. The twentieth century collection is much better though and I spent a pleasing couple of hours wandering round. 
There's also a fine collection of work by various aboriginal and Torres Straits artists. I got told off for taking a picture of one. Damn the Man.
Today we went to the Outpost street art festival that's being held on Cockatoo Island. Despite the name, the islands actually a disused industrial complex that can only be reached by ferry. It's a fantastic place to hold an exhibit. Canvases and installations are arranged down tunnels dug through rock, next to rusting industrial machinery, in the centre of empty warehouses and painted directly on to the skin of the complex itself. The art itself is witty, crude, irreverent and chaotic. My previous knowledge of street art doesn't really extend beyond Banksy and that person what does them space invaders and that. They also had ping pong. Cool as pants. Unfortunately, due to laundry related complications, we had to leave after what felt like half an hour. We will be back. And next time we'll bring sandwiches.
That's if I can afford sandwiches. My agency back in England never paid my accrued holiday pay into my account, which combined with a CPP payment that I wasn't anticipating has tipped my English account, which I never intended to look at for the duration of this trip into the red. I've now accrued several hundred dollars of charges, despite not spending a penny from the account.When I'm in charge the bankers will be the first against the wall. Then it'd be me next, for being such a wally and allowing myself to get into this situation.
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
Sunday, November 13, 2011
In Which Our Protagonist Makes a Surprising Discovery and a Small Man's Hat Provides the Vital Clue
Had another work's do on Friday. Well it was meant to be a work's do. The majority of the work faction dropped out and, as there needed to be a minimum number of people, Lavi, my team leader, recruited various relatives instead, so I was essentially at someone else's family reunion. I have not somehow become good at bowling since the last time I played. The place was classier than the bowling alley I used to work at, with a distinct absence of spotty charvas drinking white lightning outside the entrance. Ended up in the karaoke lounge. A mic was thrust into my hand and I was asked to sing Living on a Prayer. The noise that came out my mouth was not singing as such, more the lowing of a depressed cow as it is led to the abattoir. I blame the choice of song.
Bob was off wining and dining a young lady. However, it wasn't a date. Or maybe it was. He was a bit confuddled over this point prior to leaving and remained so upon his return. Regardless he's meeting up with her again in the near future, with a promise to teach him to bake. This seems to indicate that she enjoys his company. This is just as well, as I predict Bob will be shite at at baking.
Because I suck and will probably remain single until Britain has sunk the sea, I did nothing so interesting yesterday, and instead stayed in the hostel. Had a few drinks. I was a bit drunk. Correction, I got drunker than I have been for years. The sort of drunk where the world lurches from side to side and the only noise you can make is a slippery rush of vowels, words now being beyond you. I cannot stress enough that this wasn't intentional. I can normally gauge how much I can drink tolerably well and I'm long past the age where drinking till I pass out holds any sort of attraction. I would like to blame food poisoning or some other factor, but unfortunately I'm going to have to chalk it up to me being a wanker. I somehow managed to make it to my room. At which point I spewed. This may count as my lowest ebb thus far and I am not my favourite person at the minute. Luckily today's hangover has managed to block out the sense of shame that I can feel squatting at the back of my mind like a toad.
The moustache is still present. I call it Arthur and have got into the alarming habit of stroking it when lost in though. I am counting down the days till I can shave it off. I have gained a new pair of glasses, which apparently make me look like Jarvis Cocker and lost the USB charger for my e-reader, which is, it must be said, a bugger.
I'm sure other stuff's gone on, but at the moment I'm too groggy to remember them.
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
Bob was off wining and dining a young lady. However, it wasn't a date. Or maybe it was. He was a bit confuddled over this point prior to leaving and remained so upon his return. Regardless he's meeting up with her again in the near future, with a promise to teach him to bake. This seems to indicate that she enjoys his company. This is just as well, as I predict Bob will be shite at at baking.
Because I suck and will probably remain single until Britain has sunk the sea, I did nothing so interesting yesterday, and instead stayed in the hostel. Had a few drinks. I was a bit drunk. Correction, I got drunker than I have been for years. The sort of drunk where the world lurches from side to side and the only noise you can make is a slippery rush of vowels, words now being beyond you. I cannot stress enough that this wasn't intentional. I can normally gauge how much I can drink tolerably well and I'm long past the age where drinking till I pass out holds any sort of attraction. I would like to blame food poisoning or some other factor, but unfortunately I'm going to have to chalk it up to me being a wanker. I somehow managed to make it to my room. At which point I spewed. This may count as my lowest ebb thus far and I am not my favourite person at the minute. Luckily today's hangover has managed to block out the sense of shame that I can feel squatting at the back of my mind like a toad.
The moustache is still present. I call it Arthur and have got into the alarming habit of stroking it when lost in though. I am counting down the days till I can shave it off. I have gained a new pair of glasses, which apparently make me look like Jarvis Cocker and lost the USB charger for my e-reader, which is, it must be said, a bugger.
I'm sure other stuff's gone on, but at the moment I'm too groggy to remember them.
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
Sunday, November 6, 2011
GroMoNo
We are currently in the midst of Mo'vember. For those that don't know, this is a world wide charity event in which participants grow (or - just as often - attempt to grow) a moustache. As such I'm currently rocking, if that is the right word, a luxuriant carpet of pure masculinity on my top lip.
Honestly, it's not really a look that I am able to pull off and I suspect that it makes me look like a cross between a slightly confused Kevin Kline and a sex pest. Somebody did say it made me look like Dave Grohl the other day - which was nice, I guess. Somebody else said it put about ten years on me - which was less nice. Nevertheless, I am committed and shall have to endure the itchiness and the disquieting feeling that I have crumbs stuck on my top lip for the next three weeks. Bob is also partaking and has gone for the handlebar he's had previously.
Got taken to one side at work. Apparently I'm doing too much work and, when in future I've done all the work assigned to me, rather than asking for extra stuff to do, I should instead insert my thumb into my arse and whistle (note: this may not be the exact phrasing used). I now spend five hours a day staring listlessly at my computer screen, mouth hanging loosely open, eyes glazed. Next week I'll probably start laying minesweeper and solitaire, because I'm just mental like that.
There was a bit of panic at the beginning of the week. After weeks of waiting, it became apparent that Bob's immunosuppressants had somehow disappeared between Blighty and Oz. For those unaware, this situation is of the sort that gets filed under Big Fucking Deal, as he needs these so he doesn't fart out his transplanted kidney, turn purple and die (or something similar. I don't know. I'm not a doctor). After being assured by the British Post Office that the package had landed here ages ago and by Australian post that they had received diddly and squat, he contacted home base to get fresh supplies sent express delivery ASAP... at which point the missing drugs arrived (natch). Luckily a visit to the pharmacist revealed that items like prednisone and fauxnamezine can be got here at a price that ain't cheap, but at a price that wouldn't necessitate the sale of a limb.
Not really much to report other than that. Number of people went surfing. Couldn't join them because of work. Korbi returned rocking the burns victim look. Temperature is steadily increasing. It now hurts a little to go out without sunglasses. It's Schoolies at the moment (Aussie equivalent of Spring Break) and we found ourselves at a club rammed with 18-19 year olds who like to shout 'Whoooo!' a lot. Alone, tipsy, feeling slightly old and very aware I'm rocking the worst tache since Stalin, I ended up kissing the same girl that I had at the beginning the trip. As far as I'm aware, there are no pictures this time. Sat in the botanical gardens yesterday enjoying the weather, doodling and reading. Bob showed us the casino where he works. It's very shiny and modern and smells of wealth and desperation. There is also the world's greatest cake shop (a title I do not bestow lightly). One was in the shape of the catbus from My Neighbour Totoro. If you don't know what that is, then congratulations, you're cooler than me, along with 6,999,999,998 other people on the planet (Because fuck you Paul Reubens. Loser)
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
 |
| Me: Yesterday |
Got taken to one side at work. Apparently I'm doing too much work and, when in future I've done all the work assigned to me, rather than asking for extra stuff to do, I should instead insert my thumb into my arse and whistle (note: this may not be the exact phrasing used). I now spend five hours a day staring listlessly at my computer screen, mouth hanging loosely open, eyes glazed. Next week I'll probably start laying minesweeper and solitaire, because I'm just mental like that.
There was a bit of panic at the beginning of the week. After weeks of waiting, it became apparent that Bob's immunosuppressants had somehow disappeared between Blighty and Oz. For those unaware, this situation is of the sort that gets filed under Big Fucking Deal, as he needs these so he doesn't fart out his transplanted kidney, turn purple and die (or something similar. I don't know. I'm not a doctor). After being assured by the British Post Office that the package had landed here ages ago and by Australian post that they had received diddly and squat, he contacted home base to get fresh supplies sent express delivery ASAP... at which point the missing drugs arrived (natch). Luckily a visit to the pharmacist revealed that items like prednisone and fauxnamezine can be got here at a price that ain't cheap, but at a price that wouldn't necessitate the sale of a limb.
Not really much to report other than that. Number of people went surfing. Couldn't join them because of work. Korbi returned rocking the burns victim look. Temperature is steadily increasing. It now hurts a little to go out without sunglasses. It's Schoolies at the moment (Aussie equivalent of Spring Break) and we found ourselves at a club rammed with 18-19 year olds who like to shout 'Whoooo!' a lot. Alone, tipsy, feeling slightly old and very aware I'm rocking the worst tache since Stalin, I ended up kissing the same girl that I had at the beginning the trip. As far as I'm aware, there are no pictures this time. Sat in the botanical gardens yesterday enjoying the weather, doodling and reading. Bob showed us the casino where he works. It's very shiny and modern and smells of wealth and desperation. There is also the world's greatest cake shop (a title I do not bestow lightly). One was in the shape of the catbus from My Neighbour Totoro. If you don't know what that is, then congratulations, you're cooler than me, along with 6,999,999,998 other people on the planet (Because fuck you Paul Reubens. Loser)
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Samhain
First off, happy birthday again to our Alice. Now that you're a proper grown up you get to smoke a pipe, wear tweed and tut at young people hanging around bus stops. You've certainly blossomed into a fine young woman since that day, many, many years ago when we found you behind some bins and decided to take you in and teach you the ways of mankind.
Not much going on this week. Well, there has been stuff going on, but I've been on the periphery, mainly. Midweek was like the last days of Rome. People were playing a game called Amy Winehands, wherin you tape a couple of bottles of wine (and the wine in question was real $2 a bottle tramp juice that could, if needed, be used to sterilise wounds) to your hands and are not allowed to take them off before they're empty. A number of people downed both within half an hour. The lesson I subsequently drew from this is that just because you can drink booze, it doesn't necessarily follow that you can hold it. It got fairly messy. There may be pictures floating round. If you look hard you might be able to see me in the background, sipping from a mug and looking vaguely dissaproving. Went to bed early, but was kept up by one of my roomates pleading with the girl who had had to put him to bed to perform certain favours for him. This went on (unsuccessfully) for several hours in a variety of languages. With several days hindsight, i'm vaguely impressed by his persistence, but at the time my thoughts tended to the more *ahem* uncharitable.
There was a big Halloween do on a boat in the harbour. Unfortunately work related circumstances conspired against me, meaning I couldn't go. Bob - who could - got his Blue Peter on and constructed a quite nifty Sweeney Todd costume, using approximately fifty cardboard boxes to create two small, bouncer friendly, cut throat razors.
Due to my aversion to blindness, I had to go to the opticians at the end of the week. This was something I was hoping to avoid during my stay, but due to the hostel's rather over zealous approach to tidying, which involves throwing out a perfectly good pair of spectacles that I left in the bathroom, it's something of a necessity. Total trip ended up costing me in the region of 300 bucks. I'm hoping that I should be okay for the rest of the trip, but I'm guessing, giving my propensity towards carelessness, that I'll be back in a couple of months.
Twice last week I found myself sitting opposite the same crazy person on the train from work. He was loudly talking to himself about tying someone up and bleeding them to death. I may have spent too long in the big city, as I primarily found this annoying rather than disturbing. Currently drawing and reading a lot. Rereading Wuthering Heights or, as I like to call it, Grumpy Yorkshire Buggers, Up a Hill.
Sorry that this has mainly dealt with the going ons of other people. I've been boring. Next week I shall fight a dinosaur and - more importantly - win.
Love and fishes
Dave Denton
Not much going on this week. Well, there has been stuff going on, but I've been on the periphery, mainly. Midweek was like the last days of Rome. People were playing a game called Amy Winehands, wherin you tape a couple of bottles of wine (and the wine in question was real $2 a bottle tramp juice that could, if needed, be used to sterilise wounds) to your hands and are not allowed to take them off before they're empty. A number of people downed both within half an hour. The lesson I subsequently drew from this is that just because you can drink booze, it doesn't necessarily follow that you can hold it. It got fairly messy. There may be pictures floating round. If you look hard you might be able to see me in the background, sipping from a mug and looking vaguely dissaproving. Went to bed early, but was kept up by one of my roomates pleading with the girl who had had to put him to bed to perform certain favours for him. This went on (unsuccessfully) for several hours in a variety of languages. With several days hindsight, i'm vaguely impressed by his persistence, but at the time my thoughts tended to the more *ahem* uncharitable.
There was a big Halloween do on a boat in the harbour. Unfortunately work related circumstances conspired against me, meaning I couldn't go. Bob - who could - got his Blue Peter on and constructed a quite nifty Sweeney Todd costume, using approximately fifty cardboard boxes to create two small, bouncer friendly, cut throat razors.
Due to my aversion to blindness, I had to go to the opticians at the end of the week. This was something I was hoping to avoid during my stay, but due to the hostel's rather over zealous approach to tidying, which involves throwing out a perfectly good pair of spectacles that I left in the bathroom, it's something of a necessity. Total trip ended up costing me in the region of 300 bucks. I'm hoping that I should be okay for the rest of the trip, but I'm guessing, giving my propensity towards carelessness, that I'll be back in a couple of months.
Twice last week I found myself sitting opposite the same crazy person on the train from work. He was loudly talking to himself about tying someone up and bleeding them to death. I may have spent too long in the big city, as I primarily found this annoying rather than disturbing. Currently drawing and reading a lot. Rereading Wuthering Heights or, as I like to call it, Grumpy Yorkshire Buggers, Up a Hill.
Sorry that this has mainly dealt with the going ons of other people. I've been boring. Next week I shall fight a dinosaur and - more importantly - win.
Love and fishes
Dave Denton
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Splishy Splashy Splish
It's late and I am being pestered by Bob to play the game and blog. While I'm perfectly fine with this in theory, I'm finding it hard to find something to write about. This is mainly because I seem to have settled into a bit of a routine of late. I get up, go to work, return to the hostel, maybe go out for a quick drink, watch a film and then go to bed. Rinse and repeat. While this is far from a trying existence, it has got a bit same old, same old. The solution for this torpor is to try new things; exciting things; shiny things; Australian things.
Luckily we do know Australians, so we've been knocking around with Erin and her associates this weekend. Yesterday we went to New Town. Ironically, despite the name, the place is slightly worn looking and full of thrift shops. It was excellent, far more chilled out than the cross, with a nice bohemian vibe to it. Definitely intend to go back at some point.
Today Erin and her mate Tia took us to Coogee beach. Bob (still dressed in trousers, T-shirt and shoes) took one look at the water, declared himself "not a beach person" and plonked himself on a towel. While I would hesitate to describe myself as a beach person, I figured when in Rome and proceeded to take on the sea with all the convincing vigour of an anaemic chess player throwing down against Giant Haystacks. I can now tell you that, despite what it says in all the brochures, the Pacific is bloody cold. Also, being hit in the face by a ten foot wave hurts a bit. It was also very enjoyable. Bob, after some token grumbling, eventually decided to give it a go. After nearly drowning he decided that he "wasn't a beach person" and went back to sit on the beach. A side effect of the dangerous amount of fresh air I've been receiving is that I'm now a fetching shade of pink. This is the English way.
A spider the size of small cat came and watched the rugby final with us. James, the hostel manager, tried to kill it with a spear and a flaming torch, but in doing so he dislodged it from the ceiling and it ran off flipping us the bird and saying rude things about our collective mums. If I find it I will exact my revenge (nobody says shit about me mam), but if it gets me first, remember that I love and miss you all.
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
Luckily we do know Australians, so we've been knocking around with Erin and her associates this weekend. Yesterday we went to New Town. Ironically, despite the name, the place is slightly worn looking and full of thrift shops. It was excellent, far more chilled out than the cross, with a nice bohemian vibe to it. Definitely intend to go back at some point.
Today Erin and her mate Tia took us to Coogee beach. Bob (still dressed in trousers, T-shirt and shoes) took one look at the water, declared himself "not a beach person" and plonked himself on a towel. While I would hesitate to describe myself as a beach person, I figured when in Rome and proceeded to take on the sea with all the convincing vigour of an anaemic chess player throwing down against Giant Haystacks. I can now tell you that, despite what it says in all the brochures, the Pacific is bloody cold. Also, being hit in the face by a ten foot wave hurts a bit. It was also very enjoyable. Bob, after some token grumbling, eventually decided to give it a go. After nearly drowning he decided that he "wasn't a beach person" and went back to sit on the beach. A side effect of the dangerous amount of fresh air I've been receiving is that I'm now a fetching shade of pink. This is the English way.
A spider the size of small cat came and watched the rugby final with us. James, the hostel manager, tried to kill it with a spear and a flaming torch, but in doing so he dislodged it from the ceiling and it ran off flipping us the bird and saying rude things about our collective mums. If I find it I will exact my revenge (nobody says shit about me mam), but if it gets me first, remember that I love and miss you all.
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Heffalump
As way of making up up for the late post, here's a poem what I wrote at work:
The elephant is a curious bird
It flies from tree to tree
It builds it's nest from sugar lumps
And has pickled buns for tea
But fear the vengeful pachyderm
For if you should get his goat
He'll grab you with his trunkleton
And shove you down his throat
I must say, it's a fucking miracle that I haven't been given a book deal yet.
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
Got Round to It Eventually
Apologies for the lack of a Sunday update. I'll try harder in the future.
Had a do at work on Monday. In the end I opted to forgo the tie. It was a bit of a mixed evening. Everybody was really canny and I finally found out what a Chicken Schnitzel Parmagiana is (rather disappointingly it's just parmo), but for some reason that I've still not identified beyond my traditional discomfort with large groups of strangers, I regressed a bit back into my teenage self. Thankfully this didn't mean my skin broke out and I thought about girl's botttoms constantly, but it did mean I found that I couldn't bring myself to make any other sound except a few squeaks and the occasional mumble. My normal recourse in this situation would be to take advantage of the limitless bar tab that the company had laid on, but I'm big enough and ugly enough to know that often does more harm than good and, besides, I was back in work the next day.
My sterling social performance put me in a bit of a funny mood for the first half of the week. Wont say I felt homesick. I don't particularly miss England, only a certain select group of English men and women. Midweek I went into the corner had a quiet word with myself and rallied somewhat. Actually did some writing on Friday, this despite looking back through the most recent chapters of the Great British Novel earlier and being shocked how crap it is.
I've been bouncing round the rooms of the hostel a bit. Summer's coming and as such the Blue Parrot's taking a lot of bookings and, as I'm the living embodiment of forward thinking, I neglected to book my old room sufficiently in advance. It's been nice seeing how the other half live. In room four I only had to share with five other people and room eight has it's own loo. Swish. I thought about sending the plebs in room seven a postcard, but I'll probably be back there before it reached them.
Sunday was meant to be a lazy day, but I ended going for a walk through the botanic gardens and to the Rocks with Aurore, who is a happy bunny now she's found a waitressing job that doesn't entail dressing as a ballerina and dealing with her boss (who as mentioned in a previous post, sounds like a massive, massive wanker). When we passed the Opera House, we found that they were organising free tours of the opera house. Not sure about the preponderance of concrete in the atrium, but the concert halls themselves are really nice and I can now say that I've been on stage at a world renowned concert venue (which I have, to the point that the joke has now been run into the ground). Afterwards we went to a pattiserie, drank (admittedly slightly shite) red wine and ate (actually very nice) cakes. It was nice, at least to the point where it made me think that the French might be onto something with the whole cafe culture thing. As we walked back we noticed a huge fire at one of the places we'd been to earlier. I swear it was nothing to do with us.
With Korbi managing to finally wrangle a labouring position yesterday, the last of the long term residents of the hospital now appear to be gainfully employed. Bob is being giving a different job role ever few days and has been promoted and demoted around five times this week. We're both getting slightly itchy feet, but for the moment Sydney's a good place to be.
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
P.S. My old housemate, Mike Foster, has recently had a short story published. You should read it. Which you can, along with more of his work, at
Had a do at work on Monday. In the end I opted to forgo the tie. It was a bit of a mixed evening. Everybody was really canny and I finally found out what a Chicken Schnitzel Parmagiana is (rather disappointingly it's just parmo), but for some reason that I've still not identified beyond my traditional discomfort with large groups of strangers, I regressed a bit back into my teenage self. Thankfully this didn't mean my skin broke out and I thought about girl's botttoms constantly, but it did mean I found that I couldn't bring myself to make any other sound except a few squeaks and the occasional mumble. My normal recourse in this situation would be to take advantage of the limitless bar tab that the company had laid on, but I'm big enough and ugly enough to know that often does more harm than good and, besides, I was back in work the next day.
My sterling social performance put me in a bit of a funny mood for the first half of the week. Wont say I felt homesick. I don't particularly miss England, only a certain select group of English men and women. Midweek I went into the corner had a quiet word with myself and rallied somewhat. Actually did some writing on Friday, this despite looking back through the most recent chapters of the Great British Novel earlier and being shocked how crap it is.
I've been bouncing round the rooms of the hostel a bit. Summer's coming and as such the Blue Parrot's taking a lot of bookings and, as I'm the living embodiment of forward thinking, I neglected to book my old room sufficiently in advance. It's been nice seeing how the other half live. In room four I only had to share with five other people and room eight has it's own loo. Swish. I thought about sending the plebs in room seven a postcard, but I'll probably be back there before it reached them.
Sunday was meant to be a lazy day, but I ended going for a walk through the botanic gardens and to the Rocks with Aurore, who is a happy bunny now she's found a waitressing job that doesn't entail dressing as a ballerina and dealing with her boss (who as mentioned in a previous post, sounds like a massive, massive wanker). When we passed the Opera House, we found that they were organising free tours of the opera house. Not sure about the preponderance of concrete in the atrium, but the concert halls themselves are really nice and I can now say that I've been on stage at a world renowned concert venue (which I have, to the point that the joke has now been run into the ground). Afterwards we went to a pattiserie, drank (admittedly slightly shite) red wine and ate (actually very nice) cakes. It was nice, at least to the point where it made me think that the French might be onto something with the whole cafe culture thing. As we walked back we noticed a huge fire at one of the places we'd been to earlier. I swear it was nothing to do with us.
With Korbi managing to finally wrangle a labouring position yesterday, the last of the long term residents of the hospital now appear to be gainfully employed. Bob is being giving a different job role ever few days and has been promoted and demoted around five times this week. We're both getting slightly itchy feet, but for the moment Sydney's a good place to be.
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
P.S. My old housemate, Mike Foster, has recently had a short story published. You should read it. Which you can, along with more of his work, at
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Hippy Bathday
What did you get for your birthday? I was hoping for a new train set and a box of colouring pencils. What I got instead was a bottle of gin and a lap dance off a transvestite. You may think I'm joking. I assure you I'm not.
http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10150844080810461
Maybe this is normal. When I was younger I always thought as I got older birthdays would involve wine, cheese, grapes and maybe a bit of Michael Bolton. This has so far not proved to be the case. Maybe I'm hanging round with the wrong crowd.
Turning 29 was less traumatic than I feared. I'm as little older, a little wiser, my eyebrows are a little bushier and I seem further than ever away from any sort of responsibility. I'm no better at any of the stuff that I thought I'd have mastered by now (chatting up women, fixing a tap, giving even the slightest shit about cars), while I've become reasonably adept at things that only have a passing relationship with practicality (actor filmographies, doodling, sausage casserole). Ms Christina Dior's attentions were retaliation for revealing Bob's real age to the rest of the hostel. This wasn't the result of any malicious intent on my part, but an unfortunate side effect of the fact that, unlike him, I had no qualms about revealing my own age and it's public knowledge that I'm a day younger than him.
Despite his thirst for revenge, Bob also managed to enjoy his own birthday without breaking into tears, shaking his fists at the stars and cursing an absent God for inflicting him with this cruel mortality. The evenings celebrations were cut somewhat short when I was refused entry to the next bar. This had less to do with my boyish looks and more to do with the fact that Sydney bouncers are absolute cocks. I have never had as much trouble getting into places as I've had here. Normally I'd take it personally, but almost everybody seems to have experienced the same difficulties at least once. This includes Bob, who when asked how many drinks he'd had, replied - truthfully - none and was turned away for being wasted. Korbi, a German lad who has just completed his RSA (Responsible Service of Alcohol - maybe), explained that staff are trained to ask everybody they have even the slightest suspicion about how many drinks they've had. If the answer is anything higher than two and the venue is anywhere other than your hostel/hotel/home, then your liable to be sent packing. The only loophole I can see is if you're blonde and have a cute arse. Unfortunately, I'm not dyeing my hair for anyone, so I'm hoping this is primarily a Sydneyside thing.
A quick round up of other news: the French contingent have been surprisingly gracious about knocking England out the world cup - though they're both girls and I suspect they don't really care. Beginning to suffer Rugby fatigue now, but hope the Welsh do well. Bought a hat. Ate Mexican food for the first time. Bob lost his lap top cable, swore. Bob found his laptop cable. Repeatedly tried to ring home, without luck. Saw a man covered in pigeons.
Got to go out for a works night out tomorrow. I shall wear a tie and be sociable.
Love and Fishes
Dave
http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10150844080810461
Maybe this is normal. When I was younger I always thought as I got older birthdays would involve wine, cheese, grapes and maybe a bit of Michael Bolton. This has so far not proved to be the case. Maybe I'm hanging round with the wrong crowd.
Turning 29 was less traumatic than I feared. I'm as little older, a little wiser, my eyebrows are a little bushier and I seem further than ever away from any sort of responsibility. I'm no better at any of the stuff that I thought I'd have mastered by now (chatting up women, fixing a tap, giving even the slightest shit about cars), while I've become reasonably adept at things that only have a passing relationship with practicality (actor filmographies, doodling, sausage casserole). Ms Christina Dior's attentions were retaliation for revealing Bob's real age to the rest of the hostel. This wasn't the result of any malicious intent on my part, but an unfortunate side effect of the fact that, unlike him, I had no qualms about revealing my own age and it's public knowledge that I'm a day younger than him.
Despite his thirst for revenge, Bob also managed to enjoy his own birthday without breaking into tears, shaking his fists at the stars and cursing an absent God for inflicting him with this cruel mortality. The evenings celebrations were cut somewhat short when I was refused entry to the next bar. This had less to do with my boyish looks and more to do with the fact that Sydney bouncers are absolute cocks. I have never had as much trouble getting into places as I've had here. Normally I'd take it personally, but almost everybody seems to have experienced the same difficulties at least once. This includes Bob, who when asked how many drinks he'd had, replied - truthfully - none and was turned away for being wasted. Korbi, a German lad who has just completed his RSA (Responsible Service of Alcohol - maybe), explained that staff are trained to ask everybody they have even the slightest suspicion about how many drinks they've had. If the answer is anything higher than two and the venue is anywhere other than your hostel/hotel/home, then your liable to be sent packing. The only loophole I can see is if you're blonde and have a cute arse. Unfortunately, I'm not dyeing my hair for anyone, so I'm hoping this is primarily a Sydneyside thing.
A quick round up of other news: the French contingent have been surprisingly gracious about knocking England out the world cup - though they're both girls and I suspect they don't really care. Beginning to suffer Rugby fatigue now, but hope the Welsh do well. Bought a hat. Ate Mexican food for the first time. Bob lost his lap top cable, swore. Bob found his laptop cable. Repeatedly tried to ring home, without luck. Saw a man covered in pigeons.
Got to go out for a works night out tomorrow. I shall wear a tie and be sociable.
Love and Fishes
Dave
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Bridges, Bridges, Rickety Old Things.
Aren't bridges brilliant? If I made a list of my very favouritest kind of architecture I would rank it right at the very top (Yes, even ahead of Victorian follies). I suspect this is because they're public in the truest sense of the word. The London Shard may be the well be the biggest skyscraper in all of Europetown when it's finished, but only about 0.0000001 percent of the population are ever going to use it, in which case it becomes like a gigantic middle finger, forever reminding you that - hah, hah - you're poor and forever destined to remain so. When I visited Rome, what I took away from the Vatican was that, yes, the built environment was spectacular, awe inspiring, insert-adjective-here-to-suggest mintitude, but it was of an arrogant, bullying, "what do you you mean you don't have faith, ain't you seen the size of this fucking statue" kind Bridges, by contrast, are constructs that are used by the entire population; rich, poor, young, old, sharks, jets. Both symbolically and practically they perform a linking function that I find appealing and even the most basic is enduring proof that, despite all evidence to the contrary, humanity can be capable of great things when it pulls its finger out of its bumhole.
Sydney, of course, has a hell of a bridge and it's my daily commute over it that has inspired the above meandering. Disappointingly, you can't really see much of the harbour from the train line, but I get a great view of the structure of the bridge itself, which like it's diddy cousin in Newcastle stands as a monument to the busy ingenuity that came easy to the western world in the hundred years between 1850 and the second world war, which now seems to be lost. The job that lies at the end of the commute (approx 12 miles from the hostel; Sydney sprawls like a Mackem lass after a night on the alcopops) is less gratifying, but I appear to be getting a hang of it and I reckon I'll be okay till Christmas.
The hostel in general has moved onto a work footing. Bob continues to complain that he has to work, but was mollified that he is able to dine for free in the swanky canteen downstairs (his lunch on Monday was, and I quote: "three steaks, vindaloo and then ice cream). The rest of the hostel all seem to be searching for work with varying levels of success. One of the trio of Brum Lads we've got staying here, Tom, managed to secure a position as a butcher's counter assistant, but left after a day as his new employer was "a massive, massive wanker." Somebody else took up the now vacant post and promptly left after a day because his new employer was "a massive, massive wanker." Another of the brummies, Ollie, had an interview this morning, and although he turned up on time for it his potential employer didn't, as it's a bank holiday here at the mo. The difficulty in finding work in Sydney is prompting a number of people to move on. A lad named Niko (Finnish) is off to Perth Wednesday, despite having what I would have assumed was the exceptionally desirable skills of an electrician. He may be followed shortly by a guy named Korbi (German), who is concerned that he's hemorrhaging money, Sydney not being exactly cheap. Not everyone is having such difficulties though. Aurore and Laury (both French) are holding down two and three positions respectively (at the hostel, a local restaurant, with Laury pulling weekend shifts at a chocolate factory), although listening to Aurore talk about her boss at the restaurant, it does sound like he might be a massive, massive wanker.
All this activity means that, despite being fairly full, the hostel's been much quieter recently. There was an outing to a rather swish place called The Ivy in the CBD the other day in order to celebrate the long weekend. The place had free drinks, free food and a plentitude of beautiful people living it up. It was brilliant. Apparently. I wouldn't know. Because I'm a daft twat I left my passport at the hostel and couldn't get in. I instead went back and watched the Rugby.
It's mine and Bob's birthday this week. I'm unsure whether I want to do anything to mark it. I'll let you know what happens. Sorry about the irrelevant rambling at the start. It's what I do.
Love and Fishes
Dave
P.S The post title comes from a poem that a childhood friend wrote. It went as follows:
He was an odd child.
Sydney, of course, has a hell of a bridge and it's my daily commute over it that has inspired the above meandering. Disappointingly, you can't really see much of the harbour from the train line, but I get a great view of the structure of the bridge itself, which like it's diddy cousin in Newcastle stands as a monument to the busy ingenuity that came easy to the western world in the hundred years between 1850 and the second world war, which now seems to be lost. The job that lies at the end of the commute (approx 12 miles from the hostel; Sydney sprawls like a Mackem lass after a night on the alcopops) is less gratifying, but I appear to be getting a hang of it and I reckon I'll be okay till Christmas.
The hostel in general has moved onto a work footing. Bob continues to complain that he has to work, but was mollified that he is able to dine for free in the swanky canteen downstairs (his lunch on Monday was, and I quote: "three steaks, vindaloo and then ice cream). The rest of the hostel all seem to be searching for work with varying levels of success. One of the trio of Brum Lads we've got staying here, Tom, managed to secure a position as a butcher's counter assistant, but left after a day as his new employer was "a massive, massive wanker." Somebody else took up the now vacant post and promptly left after a day because his new employer was "a massive, massive wanker." Another of the brummies, Ollie, had an interview this morning, and although he turned up on time for it his potential employer didn't, as it's a bank holiday here at the mo. The difficulty in finding work in Sydney is prompting a number of people to move on. A lad named Niko (Finnish) is off to Perth Wednesday, despite having what I would have assumed was the exceptionally desirable skills of an electrician. He may be followed shortly by a guy named Korbi (German), who is concerned that he's hemorrhaging money, Sydney not being exactly cheap. Not everyone is having such difficulties though. Aurore and Laury (both French) are holding down two and three positions respectively (at the hostel, a local restaurant, with Laury pulling weekend shifts at a chocolate factory), although listening to Aurore talk about her boss at the restaurant, it does sound like he might be a massive, massive wanker.
All this activity means that, despite being fairly full, the hostel's been much quieter recently. There was an outing to a rather swish place called The Ivy in the CBD the other day in order to celebrate the long weekend. The place had free drinks, free food and a plentitude of beautiful people living it up. It was brilliant. Apparently. I wouldn't know. Because I'm a daft twat I left my passport at the hostel and couldn't get in. I instead went back and watched the Rugby.
It's mine and Bob's birthday this week. I'm unsure whether I want to do anything to mark it. I'll let you know what happens. Sorry about the irrelevant rambling at the start. It's what I do.
Love and Fishes
Dave
P.S The post title comes from a poem that a childhood friend wrote. It went as follows:
Bridges, bridges
Rickety old things
I hate bridges
He was an odd child.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
It's Dark and I Now Sell Sunglasses
Those that read my infrequent facebook postings will be aware that I'm now gainfully employed. At least I will be, until they figure out I don't know my arse from my elbow and kick me to the curb. The job in question is processing telephone and internet orders for a sunglasses retailer. Went for a drink with my new colleagues on Friday. They seem canny, but fuck me they talk about sunglasses a lot. Compared to my old job, which entailed listening to some of the most horrifying tales of human crapitude I've ever heard and then trying to find some way to help them, this seems fairly pressure free, though the fact that the operating system I'm using is half in Italian hasn't helped ease me into the roll. Nevertheless they seem fairly impressed with me - mainly because the lass who was doing the role before me was shite - and this hopefully means that I'm set till December.
This doesn't mean that the debauchery - or at least my mumbling, head sunk in shoulders, do you mind awfully if I stand here awkward version of debauchery - has stopped, only slowed down. I thought I was coming out of my shell at one point, but was then kindly informed that I came across like I was pissed out my tree drunk and so I crept back into it before I disgraced myself further. I was later told off for being too quiet so I don't fucking know anymore. On Thursday I won free drinks at tranny bingo (it's like normal bingo, but with more trannies) which I believe is the first thing I've won since I got a book token for a comic I drew when I was thirteen.
Bob continues in much the same vein as ever. At the moment he has developed the habit of schmoozing a girl over the course of a evening, gradually working his way into her affections, only to find out at the end of the finish that she has a boyfriend that she's got absolutely no intention of cheating on. Somehow he seems to taken on the role of the hostel's entertainments officer on a purely voluntary basis, which he's fine with as mouthy drunkeness is kinda his gig. He's less pleased about the new IT job, which starts Monday, but not so displeased that he's not going to take it. Now that we both have jobs, and the lovely, if oddly sized, money that goes with it a trip to the blue mountains is on the cards at some point in the future. Oh, and if you're ever in Sydney and fancy trying the monorail, don't bother; it's shit.
Love and fishes
Dave
This doesn't mean that the debauchery - or at least my mumbling, head sunk in shoulders, do you mind awfully if I stand here awkward version of debauchery - has stopped, only slowed down. I thought I was coming out of my shell at one point, but was then kindly informed that I came across like I was pissed out my tree drunk and so I crept back into it before I disgraced myself further. I was later told off for being too quiet so I don't fucking know anymore. On Thursday I won free drinks at tranny bingo (it's like normal bingo, but with more trannies) which I believe is the first thing I've won since I got a book token for a comic I drew when I was thirteen.
Bob continues in much the same vein as ever. At the moment he has developed the habit of schmoozing a girl over the course of a evening, gradually working his way into her affections, only to find out at the end of the finish that she has a boyfriend that she's got absolutely no intention of cheating on. Somehow he seems to taken on the role of the hostel's entertainments officer on a purely voluntary basis, which he's fine with as mouthy drunkeness is kinda his gig. He's less pleased about the new IT job, which starts Monday, but not so displeased that he's not going to take it. Now that we both have jobs, and the lovely, if oddly sized, money that goes with it a trip to the blue mountains is on the cards at some point in the future. Oh, and if you're ever in Sydney and fancy trying the monorail, don't bother; it's shit.
Love and fishes
Dave
Saturday, September 17, 2011
A Brief, Parochial Rant About Australian Coinage
I don't make many claims for the UK. It's cold, it's wet and the national culture seems to be devolving so that it now revolves around a particularly grim brand of alcopop scented joyless hedonism. One thing we do well, however, is making money. To clarify, I'm not talking about the aquisition of money, which increasingly seems to be the sole preserve of a particular breed of chinless moral degenerates, but the creation of physical tokens of nominal amounts.
Australian money, by contrast, is retarded. The notes aren't too bad. They're made of plastic which means that they're essentially indestructible. Unfortunately it also means that they're incredibly slippy, which isn't necessarily a quality you want in your notes.
The coins, however, are a massive pain in the arse. For some reason they have not only opted to make the highest denomination, the $2, about the size of a tiddlywink, but also make it almost exactly the same size of the 5 cent piece, making it impossible to tell whether your pocket full of change is enough to buy a meal or half a peanut. At the other end of the scale, the 20 and 50 cent pieces are both the size of a baby's head and could probably kill a man if thrown hard enough. The end result is that at the end of any night out you have pockets so loaded with shrapnel that your trousers are in constant danger of falling down.
May soon be glad of any shrapnel I have though. Still don't have a job. Went for an interview for a waiter's position the other day. This basically consisted of them throwing an apron at me and telling me to do the job. As the place was absolutely heaving and I've never done the job before I basically stood there like a stunned rabbit, trying not to let my bottom lip wobble. I don't think they'll be calling me back.
Bob, as predicted, is now gainfully employed. In fact, he has been offered two jobs, one starting shortly after the other finishes. Rather sweetly he made a point of asking if I was okay as I've been killing myself with worry over the work issue and he hasn't. Having known him most my life and not being a sour faced bastard who begrudges others their success I assured him this was unnecessary.
In other news, went to the aquarium. Unlike the zoo, they did have penguins. Tiny, little fairy penguins. They were awesome and I wanted to take one home, but the man wouldn't let me.
Love and Fishes
David
Australian money, by contrast, is retarded. The notes aren't too bad. They're made of plastic which means that they're essentially indestructible. Unfortunately it also means that they're incredibly slippy, which isn't necessarily a quality you want in your notes.
The coins, however, are a massive pain in the arse. For some reason they have not only opted to make the highest denomination, the $2, about the size of a tiddlywink, but also make it almost exactly the same size of the 5 cent piece, making it impossible to tell whether your pocket full of change is enough to buy a meal or half a peanut. At the other end of the scale, the 20 and 50 cent pieces are both the size of a baby's head and could probably kill a man if thrown hard enough. The end result is that at the end of any night out you have pockets so loaded with shrapnel that your trousers are in constant danger of falling down.
May soon be glad of any shrapnel I have though. Still don't have a job. Went for an interview for a waiter's position the other day. This basically consisted of them throwing an apron at me and telling me to do the job. As the place was absolutely heaving and I've never done the job before I basically stood there like a stunned rabbit, trying not to let my bottom lip wobble. I don't think they'll be calling me back.
Bob, as predicted, is now gainfully employed. In fact, he has been offered two jobs, one starting shortly after the other finishes. Rather sweetly he made a point of asking if I was okay as I've been killing myself with worry over the work issue and he hasn't. Having known him most my life and not being a sour faced bastard who begrudges others their success I assured him this was unnecessary.
In other news, went to the aquarium. Unlike the zoo, they did have penguins. Tiny, little fairy penguins. They were awesome and I wanted to take one home, but the man wouldn't let me.
Love and Fishes
David
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Bibbity Bobbity Boop
The shit call centre job in Sydney has not, at this point in time, materialised. This is not for lack of trying. I have a slightly rumpled suit, an easy smile and an air of slightly desperate willingness. Bob was initially pinning his hopes on finding work within the hostel, which wouldn't have paid anything, but would have given him his accommodation free. Unfortunately he lost out to a French lass name Laury and so is now sending out CV's to respective employees. He is doing this somewhat begrudgingly, but, given that his skill set is infinitely more marketable than mine (which amounts to being able to draw a really good cartoon of a confused looking child holding a banana) he should be sorted as soon as he can be arsed to commit to it with any sort of energy. Still, I've had a couple of interviews so far and the situation is still far from desperate.
In the interim I've continued with the general tourist thing: going to climb the bridge, noticing its $140 cheaper to climb the pylon and doing that instead. Midweek we met up with Erin again, who was showing Tony and Sarah from Canada around Sydney before they returned home. We caught the ferry to Taronga Zoo which gave me the opportunity to take the requisite photos of lions and tigers and bears (oh, my!). The penguins were hiding, which saddened me, but I saw a platypus, which pleased me and learnt their offspring are called puggles, which delighted me. I have yet to locate a photo of a kangaroo with it's knob out for Michelle. I shall have to make her one myself.
The rest of the week has been spent pickling my liver on goon. Goon, for those unfamiliar with the term, is cheap Australian plonk. It comes in a large box, costs about $10 and will make you blind if you drink enough of it. It does, however, serve the primary purpose of all alcohol, which is to be a social lubricant. True, drunk Dave is only slightly more outgoing than sober Dave, but, man, does he like to dance (though that didn't help him even slightly with the lass he spent two nights trying and failing to cop off with).
The week culminated in a fancy dress party that I had been trying not to think about. This was in order to wave goodbye to Chris, the hostel's entertainment officer, who is a good lad and camper than Butlins. It was, in fact, a laugh. The theme was Disney and the costume choice was Merlin. This proved to be one of those choices that sounds simple (bed sheet, pointy hat, fake beard, sorted), but actually proved a complete arse. After fumbling around with needle and thread for the best part of an hour Aurora, one of the girls in the hostel, took pity on me and helped me knock together a half decent robe. Thanks to her I didn't spend the night bopping around with my boxer shorts on display. For this I am eternally in her debt.
Next week promises more of the same, or maybe less of the same or maybe something completely different. We shall see.
Love and fishes
Dave Denton
In the interim I've continued with the general tourist thing: going to climb the bridge, noticing its $140 cheaper to climb the pylon and doing that instead. Midweek we met up with Erin again, who was showing Tony and Sarah from Canada around Sydney before they returned home. We caught the ferry to Taronga Zoo which gave me the opportunity to take the requisite photos of lions and tigers and bears (oh, my!). The penguins were hiding, which saddened me, but I saw a platypus, which pleased me and learnt their offspring are called puggles, which delighted me. I have yet to locate a photo of a kangaroo with it's knob out for Michelle. I shall have to make her one myself.
The rest of the week has been spent pickling my liver on goon. Goon, for those unfamiliar with the term, is cheap Australian plonk. It comes in a large box, costs about $10 and will make you blind if you drink enough of it. It does, however, serve the primary purpose of all alcohol, which is to be a social lubricant. True, drunk Dave is only slightly more outgoing than sober Dave, but, man, does he like to dance (though that didn't help him even slightly with the lass he spent two nights trying and failing to cop off with).
The week culminated in a fancy dress party that I had been trying not to think about. This was in order to wave goodbye to Chris, the hostel's entertainment officer, who is a good lad and camper than Butlins. It was, in fact, a laugh. The theme was Disney and the costume choice was Merlin. This proved to be one of those choices that sounds simple (bed sheet, pointy hat, fake beard, sorted), but actually proved a complete arse. After fumbling around with needle and thread for the best part of an hour Aurora, one of the girls in the hostel, took pity on me and helped me knock together a half decent robe. Thanks to her I didn't spend the night bopping around with my boxer shorts on display. For this I am eternally in her debt.
Next week promises more of the same, or maybe less of the same or maybe something completely different. We shall see.
Love and fishes
Dave Denton
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Drunken ramblings
It's hard being social sometimes. Temperamentally I sit somewhere between the guy who sits on street corners and mumbles to himself about pigeons and that one room mate you had who nobody ever sees and everyone suspects crap's in boxes rather than risk meeting someone en-route to the loo. These tendencies have been magnified slightly by a case of jet lag that will just not fucking shift. I seriously believe that I now have a little bit of insight into the life of a narcoleptic. I will be quietly getting on with something when a wave of blackness will well up behind my eyeballs and inform me that, yes, it may be sunny outside and, yes, my watch does say 3pm, but it is in fact 4 in the morning and I should have been in bed hours ago. Luckily people here are kind and respond to my snooze attacks by quietly propping me in a corner, a thin trickle of drool leaking out of my mouth.
My fellow hostellers either haven't noticed that I am reticent bordering on the socio-phobic, don't care or are too polite to mention it. As a result my first week in the fine city of Sydney has been spent visiting numerous nightspots, dancing like no one is looking and eating out - in other words being sociable. I think I've coped reasonably well, although at times I've felt as out of depth and place as a paraplegic in an arse kicking contest. For the most part we've been going out down King's Cross, which is a neon mess of boozers, strip joints, massage parlours, night clubs, kebab shops and tourist tat shops. Despite a preponderance of what Bob refers to as "pigeon kickers" and the two or three large, bald who hang around outside each girlie joint, pulling off the not inconsiderable trick of simultaneously hailing you like you're their best mate and glowering at you like they can't wait to push your teeth through the back of your skull, the area's actually quite nice, with far less of the latent threat of violence that I've felt in other cities. On a couple of occasions we've left KX (as T-shirt vendors insist on calling it) behind and travelled further into the city itself. I have now experienced my first foam party, which left me feeling like I'd been doing the washing up with my face. Bob suffered some sort of allergic reaction to the foam or, as he insisted on calling it, "chemical burns", that left his face looking like he'd been bobbing in tomato puree. It's since gone down, but he has so far refused to let any photos be taken of him, which may prove to be problematic as Australian CV's may or may not (we've received conflicting advice) require a phot to be included. On another occasion we went to an indie night in a city centre pub, which was pretty much like every other shit indie night throughout the world, with the notable addition of seemingly limitless free sangria. This proved to be my undoing somewhat and there are apparently photo's circulating of me over-enthusiastically getting off with with a girl I had met earlier in the night. I haven't seen them. I do not want to see them. Bob has been in his element, sharing none of my curmudgeonliness, and has already proved his worth by blocking various torrent sites, which has endeared him to the hostel staff, but probably not to the creepy guy in the dorm next door who was apparently downloading porn. Nevertheless he's been complaining that he's not yet regained his Canadian era confidence and swagger. Personally I think it's a matter of time and he needs to put things in perspective, we shall see.
Outside the hostel I've been exploring down town Sydney on foot. The opera house and harbour bridge are, of course, instantly recognisable, though I was slightly taken aback by the scale of both, especiallyy the bridge, which is indeed stamped with the name of the great okayish town of Middlesbrough. I'm also quite taken with the botanic gardens, which you have to pass through to get to central Sydney. There was a bit of a kerfuffle midweek when it emerge that my phone had slipped out my pocket during one of my perambulations. Luckily it was picked up by a lovely Thai lady, who, instead of keeping it or selling it for jelly babies and fizzy drinks as someone in England might do, instead waited while me and Bob came to retrieve it. My immense gratitude was tempered by a slight sense of shame at being such an immense wally, this was compounded by the revelation that the lady wasn't a little old wifey as I'd pictured, but a rather attractive twenty something. On Wednesday we met up with Bob's Australian friend, Erin, and her mate Lilly, both of whom were lovely. There is talk of seeing her again, plus random Canadians, later this week. In the interim, this week should mainly be about job hunting. With any luck by the end of the week I'll have swapped my shit call centre job in England for a shit call centre job in Australia. I shall let you know how I get on
Love and Fishes
Dave
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sidderknee
So I've successfully landed in Sydney after two days on various forms of transport. No major incidents to report beyond a minor panic when I thought I'd lost my passport (it had dropped out of my pocket on the coach, but I managed to ninja it back). After removing his cast, Bob's hand has turned a fetching shade of purple, but seems to be on the mend.
The cab driver who took us from the airport seemed very keen to offer us accommodation at his place free of charge. We politely declined, due to visions of being slipped rhohypnol and waking up in too small sailor outfits, and instead opted to stick with our original choice of hostel, The Blue Parrot.
The hostel's situated on the edge of King's Cross, Sydney's red light district. Despite this, the area doesn't seem too bad, with a strong backpacker presence. The hostel itself is small, but friendly and accommodating. First impressions of Sydney are positive. The people are friendly, the City centre is relatively compact and the pedestrian crossings make a noise like a laser blaster when it is time to cross - this alone has made the trip worth while.
Love and Fishes
Dave
The cab driver who took us from the airport seemed very keen to offer us accommodation at his place free of charge. We politely declined, due to visions of being slipped rhohypnol and waking up in too small sailor outfits, and instead opted to stick with our original choice of hostel, The Blue Parrot.
The hostel's situated on the edge of King's Cross, Sydney's red light district. Despite this, the area doesn't seem too bad, with a strong backpacker presence. The hostel itself is small, but friendly and accommodating. First impressions of Sydney are positive. The people are friendly, the City centre is relatively compact and the pedestrian crossings make a noise like a laser blaster when it is time to cross - this alone has made the trip worth while.
Love and Fishes
Dave
Friday, August 26, 2011
Goodbyes
So it's been a week of goodbyes. Last Friday I rolled into work to find that my colleagues had decorated my desk with Australiana. I was far more touched to receive an akubra hat - complete with corks - than I thought possible. In a bizarre way will miss the place I've spent the last year planning to escape from, if only for the people and the occasional entertaining crazy you get calling through.
That evening it was goodbye to the wider family as our Rosie had organised a going away bash. Later on Bob said goodbye to his dignity when, more than a couple of drinks to the good, he punched a wall, breaking his hand - the silly twat.
On Tuesday I said goodbye to Ms Myers, my best friend who doesn't need to shave. She teared up once or twice, but didn't actually cry. I felt cheated and contemplated kicking her in the shin to push her over the edge. I warned her I expected her to achieve great things in my absence. She said she hopes to continue with her current diet. I can't help but feel that she's set the bar rather low.
On Wednesday Bob's family were holding a do, so it was goodbye to the adopted family. I was pleased I got to see Lindrew and Sunley before I left. There was also some feller called Max there, who I've never seen before in me life. But he seemed okay, so it was goodbbye to him an' all.
On Friday it was goodbye to me mam and me sisters who I will miss like crazy. It was also goodbye to various other little things like North Road in Durham that I which I wont.
And finally it was goodbye to my Grandma Domigan, who passed away on Friday night. I don't want to go that far into it on here, except that she was very loved and I'm glad that she's now at peace.
And now I'm sat on a typically pissy horrible bank holiday weekend morning waiting for me lift to airport. Will next post from Sydney
Love and fishes
Dave
That evening it was goodbye to the wider family as our Rosie had organised a going away bash. Later on Bob said goodbye to his dignity when, more than a couple of drinks to the good, he punched a wall, breaking his hand - the silly twat.
On Tuesday I said goodbye to Ms Myers, my best friend who doesn't need to shave. She teared up once or twice, but didn't actually cry. I felt cheated and contemplated kicking her in the shin to push her over the edge. I warned her I expected her to achieve great things in my absence. She said she hopes to continue with her current diet. I can't help but feel that she's set the bar rather low.
On Wednesday Bob's family were holding a do, so it was goodbye to the adopted family. I was pleased I got to see Lindrew and Sunley before I left. There was also some feller called Max there, who I've never seen before in me life. But he seemed okay, so it was goodbbye to him an' all.
On Friday it was goodbye to me mam and me sisters who I will miss like crazy. It was also goodbye to various other little things like North Road in Durham that I which I wont.
And finally it was goodbye to my Grandma Domigan, who passed away on Friday night. I don't want to go that far into it on here, except that she was very loved and I'm glad that she's now at peace.
And now I'm sat on a typically pissy horrible bank holiday weekend morning waiting for me lift to airport. Will next post from Sydney
Love and fishes
Dave
Monday, August 22, 2011
Air Hair Lair
So. Right then. This is it. My blog. My very own electronic two acres and a mule. Truth be told, I'm a little out of my comfort zone, a toaster being the level of technology I can usually handle before I start to have panic attacks. I also find it hard to shake the feeling that I am, in essence, talking to myself.
So why choose this moment to subject myself to the crushing indifference of the digital void? Mainly because following riots, economic depression and the return of Big Brother I've decided to up sticks to Australia. I'm under no illusion that the antipodes will be experiencing the same shite as Britain, but at least it's warm and they have kangaroos.
This blog is therefore primarily a meansto keep the friends and family (hi, Mam) I've abandoned in the loop as to what I'm doing, what I plan to do and what I'm avoiding doing at all costs. Plus, considering I like to think of myself as a writer (Well, kinda, sorta, maybe), I've not been doing a lot of actual writing of late and doing this may encourage me to put pen to paper more often. It's probably far more likely that I'll end up distracted by alcohol, women and general bad behaviour (sorry, Mam) and this here blog will end up abandoned like a ginger stepchild.. But for the moment I have only good intentions and fully intend to get back to you when I've more to report.
So why choose this moment to subject myself to the crushing indifference of the digital void? Mainly because following riots, economic depression and the return of Big Brother I've decided to up sticks to Australia. I'm under no illusion that the antipodes will be experiencing the same shite as Britain, but at least it's warm and they have kangaroos.
This blog is therefore primarily a meansto keep the friends and family (hi, Mam) I've abandoned in the loop as to what I'm doing, what I plan to do and what I'm avoiding doing at all costs. Plus, considering I like to think of myself as a writer (Well, kinda, sorta, maybe), I've not been doing a lot of actual writing of late and doing this may encourage me to put pen to paper more often. It's probably far more likely that I'll end up distracted by alcohol, women and general bad behaviour (sorry, Mam) and this here blog will end up abandoned like a ginger stepchild.. But for the moment I have only good intentions and fully intend to get back to you when I've more to report.
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