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.
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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
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