I am experiencing deja vu. We are once again back in Kings Cross, in Sydney, in desperate need of work. As stated previously the rational behind this move was that we should theoretically be able to find regular work with relative ease. This seems to be proving the case with Bob, who has already had an interview and been told off the record that there should be a position pressing buttons and shouting at computers available to him if she want it. I have had somewhat less interest. Luckily I have firm, high buttocks and a pretty mouth, so if worst comes to worse I can always sell my body for spare change and jelly babies.
Happily Bia and Liana, ze two german girls that we met on the Great Ocean Road tour are here, so we are currently cramping their style by hanging around with them. We're also meant to be meeting up with Erin and Tia this coming weekend. The former is hosting some sort of tea party to raise money for cancer charities. I don't like tea, but I hate cancer more so I suppose I will be donating. Till then I shall content myself searching for jobs and taking photos of all the things that I didn't the first time round.
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Thursday, May 17, 2012
I Knew I Shoulda Taken Dat Left Toin at Alberquerqe
Hello from Tasmania. You should come here. It's windy. You won't find me here though, as I'm leaving in the next few days.
We landed in a small city called Devonport. It's one of those Australian towns that consists of a splatter of low rise, low density housing that eventually gives way to a few strips of drive thru eateries, before spluttering into a half hearted city centre and then falling uncerimoniously into the sea. Bob likened it to Chester-le-Street, except with a port, and in all honesty he's not far wrong. It's not a bad town, nor is it a good one. It's one of those places people come from, rather than go to.
The hostel, on the other hand, is a bit shit. It has the clinically threadbare air of a second rate care home, is at least five degrees colder inside than out and the hob in the kitchen is so crap I am unable to boil water on it. Oh, and it smells a bit. They did, however, help us find work on a nearby farm peeling leeks, plucking carrots and getting very, very muddy. It was bloody cold work, but easy and compared to the banana farm the atmosphere was much more positive.
Unfortunately we're only employed on a casual basis, which means that we could work forty hours a week or we could work six. This became an issue for two reasons. Number one we received our visa extension forms back from Greg, our employer back in Mareeba (henceforth known as "the fat prick"). For reasons that I am charitably putting down to incompetence rather than maliciousness he has credited us with working fifty three days rather than the eighty four we're legally entitled to or the fifty eight that the fat prick initially said he'd give us. This isn't much of an issue for me as I don't intend to extend my stay, but it's a kick in the nuts for Bob. Secondly, Bob's English bank have shafted him, removing his overdraft without informing him and charging him a small fortune for the privilege.
Therefore the work we've got is not going to be enough to get us either an extension on our visas or allow us to save enough for further traveling. Bob therefore wants us to return to the mainland, where he's confident that he can find a fairly well paid computer doctor thingy job with a minimum of fuss. Personally, I'm leary about leaving paid employment as I don't share my traveling companion's confidence that I'll find a new one. But if I stay here I'm essentially going to be doing little else but tread water for the remainder of my time.
It's a bit of a shame though, as I quite like Tasmania (or the little I've seen of it anyroads). It's very green and reminds me of England. The rest of Australia seems to have two cliche's about here. Number one it's climate is subartic (which is melodramatic bullshit) and number two it's inhabitants are weird. I don't know if the latter is true. Beardier? Yes. Given to a slightly more *ahem* husky build? Perhaps. But generally the people here seem incredibly genuine and friendly. That said I did pass a wifey the other day, feeding a mob of seagulls through her car window with a spoon, which struck me as a tad unusual.
So it's been a bit of an abortive exhibition. Never mind. On to wherever.
Love and Fishes.
Dave Denton
P.S.
Here is a short educational film about Tasmania:
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
The Perfect Blend
I'm not much of a fan of camp. This is mainly because I find it hard to ironically enjoy something and would much rather genuinely enjoy something. I am, however, a big fan of sentimentally and nostalgia. This is one of the reasons that I have never, ever been considered cool and also why I found myself attending a Neighbours evening at a pub called the Elephant and Wheelbarrow.
Neighbours, for those who are neither British or are younger than twenty five, is an Australian soap opera of some renown. It follows the American template for soap operas (pretty people overcoming ludicrous problems) as opposed to the British (ugly people overcoming problems marginally less ludicrous), it's served as a starting point for more than a few Ozzie talents such as Guy Pearce, Kylie Minogue and Natalie Imbruglia and it is utterly naff. My understanding is that it only ever found a modest audience in its native country, but when they exported it back to the mother country we poms went absolutely mental for it. This was mainly due to a canny bit of scheduling. The show was broadcast in the dead hour between the end of CBBC and the time that most people had their tea. This being in the days before we had hundreds and hundreds of digital channels to choose from, it therefore had a captive audience of tweens and early adolescents who lapped up whatever twaddle Toadfish, Lou and the rest were getting up to this week, confident that Ramsay Street in that Erinsborough was the most glamorous place in the world*. The audience demographic and the easy on the eye cast also meant that Neighbours also served as a sexual awakening for more than a few young men and women and part of the reason we were going was to give Bob a chance to wiggle his eyebrows at Libby Kennedy.
Like most people, the last time I watched the show Bill Clinton was still regarded as a loving family man and I wasn't feeling that enthused. The fact that the venue was half full with housewives and studenty types didn't help either. An over excited Irishman bounced around a stage, telling us we were about to have the night of our lives, which seemed a bit optimistic to me. After a few drinks, however, the stick up me arse shifted slightly and I began to enjoy myself. The lovely Libby didn't show (perhaps forewarned about Bob's eyebrows), but her dad, Dr Karl (or Alan Fletcher, as he insisted on being called), did along with an attractive young man and woman who are apparently a couple on the show and looked like they would rather be anywhere else. They did a Q & A and then wandered round the room, asking us if we'd like a picture with them. I now have a photo of me and the anonymous actress. Needless to say, I look fantastically awkward; partly because I detest having my photo taken, partly because the young lady in question is undoubtedly very beautiful and my Mr Potato Head mug is always going to suffer in comparison, but mainly because I didn't have the first fucking clue who she was and she blatantly thought that I did.
The evening culminated with several competitions of the and a quiz. We won a tour around the neighbours set. Which was great. I suppose. The tour consisted of us driving at paedophile cruising speed past the school that used to double for Erinsbrough High School, another Q & A with another actress who I didn't recognise and about half an hour stood at the end of Ramsay Street (In reality it's called Pin Oak Court) waiting to see if they would let us up to have a peek at Harold Bishop's old house (they didn't) and trying not to look bored (we failed). I'm very relieved we didn't pay any money.
The great ocean road tour on Tuesday was much more edifying. The road was a government infrastructure project initiated to link the various coastal communities of Victoria and to provide work for the thousands of squaddies returning from WW1. The road is noteworthy - the logistical dificulties involved in it's construction aside, for winding through some of the most spectacularly beautiful countryside Australia - or indeed the world - has to offer. Every few kilometers there are limestone and sandstone rock formations, most stunning. I also spent money that I don't have on a helicopter ride over the twelve apostles - which was probably the most fun I've had with me pants on for quite some time. Also - you lucky, lucky people - I have finally come to terms with the fact that the camera that I brought with me is not going to miraculously fix itself. So I've bought a new one and can therefore bore you with the various pictures what I gone done took:
We were also lucky enough to find ourselves part of a very lively tour group. Jude, our Aussie guide, was a lovely, personable woman, who was a mine of interesting facts and anecdotes about the various sites and did a great job of geeing everybody up. There was a definite sense of camaraderie within the group and Bob and three German girls (Bia, Liane and Katie) arranged to go to a AFL game the following day - I was invited, but had romance related duties to attend to. By all accounts they enjoyed themselves, despite the fact that none off them were sure of the rules. We saw Bia and Liane a couple more times; first on a failed penguin hunting expedition, at a comedy club (or Bob did. I was again occupied elsewhere) and yesterday at the museum of moving images. They depart on their own separate journeys today. They are lovely girls and I wish them all the best and hope that their futures include nothing but nice things, like flowers and puppies.
My date on Tuesday went well. Well enough that I've spent the majority of the week with her. I can't escape the feeling that if I wasn't leaving this might have been the start of something. But I am. So it is. This has bummed me out slightly. But - he says, trying to put a positive spin on things - I'm lucky to have met and spent time with her.
We sail to Devonport in Tasmania later today. Everybody tells us we're going to freeze our nuts off and have a bastard of a time finding work. I have no reason to doubt they speak the truth.
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
* Additional fun Neighbours fact! Many people mistakenly believe that the national anthem of Australia is 'Waltzing Matilda'. This is wrong. The national anthem is in fact the theme tune for everybody's favourite daytime soap, with the word "neighbours" changed to "Australians". Try it. It sounds so right.
Neighbours, for those who are neither British or are younger than twenty five, is an Australian soap opera of some renown. It follows the American template for soap operas (pretty people overcoming ludicrous problems) as opposed to the British (ugly people overcoming problems marginally less ludicrous), it's served as a starting point for more than a few Ozzie talents such as Guy Pearce, Kylie Minogue and Natalie Imbruglia and it is utterly naff. My understanding is that it only ever found a modest audience in its native country, but when they exported it back to the mother country we poms went absolutely mental for it. This was mainly due to a canny bit of scheduling. The show was broadcast in the dead hour between the end of CBBC and the time that most people had their tea. This being in the days before we had hundreds and hundreds of digital channels to choose from, it therefore had a captive audience of tweens and early adolescents who lapped up whatever twaddle Toadfish, Lou and the rest were getting up to this week, confident that Ramsay Street in that Erinsborough was the most glamorous place in the world*. The audience demographic and the easy on the eye cast also meant that Neighbours also served as a sexual awakening for more than a few young men and women and part of the reason we were going was to give Bob a chance to wiggle his eyebrows at Libby Kennedy.
Like most people, the last time I watched the show Bill Clinton was still regarded as a loving family man and I wasn't feeling that enthused. The fact that the venue was half full with housewives and studenty types didn't help either. An over excited Irishman bounced around a stage, telling us we were about to have the night of our lives, which seemed a bit optimistic to me. After a few drinks, however, the stick up me arse shifted slightly and I began to enjoy myself. The lovely Libby didn't show (perhaps forewarned about Bob's eyebrows), but her dad, Dr Karl (or Alan Fletcher, as he insisted on being called), did along with an attractive young man and woman who are apparently a couple on the show and looked like they would rather be anywhere else. They did a Q & A and then wandered round the room, asking us if we'd like a picture with them. I now have a photo of me and the anonymous actress. Needless to say, I look fantastically awkward; partly because I detest having my photo taken, partly because the young lady in question is undoubtedly very beautiful and my Mr Potato Head mug is always going to suffer in comparison, but mainly because I didn't have the first fucking clue who she was and she blatantly thought that I did.
The evening culminated with several competitions of the and a quiz. We won a tour around the neighbours set. Which was great. I suppose. The tour consisted of us driving at paedophile cruising speed past the school that used to double for Erinsbrough High School, another Q & A with another actress who I didn't recognise and about half an hour stood at the end of Ramsay Street (In reality it's called Pin Oak Court) waiting to see if they would let us up to have a peek at Harold Bishop's old house (they didn't) and trying not to look bored (we failed). I'm very relieved we didn't pay any money.
The great ocean road tour on Tuesday was much more edifying. The road was a government infrastructure project initiated to link the various coastal communities of Victoria and to provide work for the thousands of squaddies returning from WW1. The road is noteworthy - the logistical dificulties involved in it's construction aside, for winding through some of the most spectacularly beautiful countryside Australia - or indeed the world - has to offer. Every few kilometers there are limestone and sandstone rock formations, most stunning. I also spent money that I don't have on a helicopter ride over the twelve apostles - which was probably the most fun I've had with me pants on for quite some time. Also - you lucky, lucky people - I have finally come to terms with the fact that the camera that I brought with me is not going to miraculously fix itself. So I've bought a new one and can therefore bore you with the various pictures what I gone done took:
 | |
| The Grotto. Where Santa lives. |
 |
| The 12Apostles. If you noticed that there are less than 12 of them, congratulations you win a jelly bean |
 |
| Bob at Loch Ard Gorge. Moments later he went for a bit plodge. |
We were also lucky enough to find ourselves part of a very lively tour group. Jude, our Aussie guide, was a lovely, personable woman, who was a mine of interesting facts and anecdotes about the various sites and did a great job of geeing everybody up. There was a definite sense of camaraderie within the group and Bob and three German girls (Bia, Liane and Katie) arranged to go to a AFL game the following day - I was invited, but had romance related duties to attend to. By all accounts they enjoyed themselves, despite the fact that none off them were sure of the rules. We saw Bia and Liane a couple more times; first on a failed penguin hunting expedition, at a comedy club (or Bob did. I was again occupied elsewhere) and yesterday at the museum of moving images. They depart on their own separate journeys today. They are lovely girls and I wish them all the best and hope that their futures include nothing but nice things, like flowers and puppies.
My date on Tuesday went well. Well enough that I've spent the majority of the week with her. I can't escape the feeling that if I wasn't leaving this might have been the start of something. But I am. So it is. This has bummed me out slightly. But - he says, trying to put a positive spin on things - I'm lucky to have met and spent time with her.
We sail to Devonport in Tasmania later today. Everybody tells us we're going to freeze our nuts off and have a bastard of a time finding work. I have no reason to doubt they speak the truth.
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
* Additional fun Neighbours fact! Many people mistakenly believe that the national anthem of Australia is 'Waltzing Matilda'. This is wrong. The national anthem is in fact the theme tune for everybody's favourite daytime soap, with the word "neighbours" changed to "Australians". Try it. It sounds so right.
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