Groin's Grab

Better than Oysters: Updating Status Reports

2011-08-09T05:08:00.001+10:00

Chicago, IL – For Richard Ditke, a lifetime ‘3’ consultant, time stood still for a moment last Tuesday in the over-crowded 15th floor windowless office of an un-named Midwest P&C Insurance company. His five-person project team were low on resources, with the Project Manager and two of the senior consultants responsible for running current state workshops and a consultant on PTO. This left Richard’s Project Manager with very little choice, and it was with a slight hesitation in his voice that Richard heard those magic words.

“Richard, I need you to update this week’s status report while we’re all running the workshop”

After weeks of trying to make himself stand out, by interjecting with what he thought were smart comments in weekly meetings, it came as no surprise to Richard to find himself in such a puissant position. What he didn’t expect, however, was the moment of slight embarrassment that followed thereafter, with an unexpected visitor arriving in the form of a bulge in his pants.

Dr Trevor Smithson, from the University of Chicago, has been a leading researcher into Inflated Ego Erectile Dysfunction (IEED) for the past 15 years and he has noticed a disturbing trend.

“Over the past 15 years, we have seen rates of IEED rise, much like a teenager at his first prom night, causing embarrassment in offices nationwide,” explains Dr Smithson. “However my research shows there are two other related trends that should be a basis of much concern.”

Higher incidence in IEED appears to have a direct relationship with the growth in MBA programs. Disturbingly, this suggests that individuals are not embarking on MBA programs to further their education, or even their career prospects. Dr Smithson believes his research “suggests that MBA programs tend to attract a certain type of student, who is more likely to be in love with themselves than the average post-graduate student”

Additionally, Dr Smithson believes that there is an inverse correlation between the rate of increase in IEED and the level of quality of output from consulting firms.

“Over the past 15 years, perceived output of consulting firms has increased, with consultants working more and more hours in the office. However, this has not been matched in terms of either quality, or even quantity, of real output. Most of the difference can be attributed to face time”

Dr Lenny Withers, a psychologist from Wisconsin Psychotherapy Institute, takes the argument one step further.

“What we’re seeing here is not mere face time, it is an extrapolation of the need to feel important by being seen by one’s peers to be important. The best expression of importance is the amount of time one is either at work, or talking about work. It is therefore a small step from considering one’s own belief in one’s self-importance, to loving one’s self-importance.”

“When we say we’re seeing an epidemic of IEED, what we’re really seeing is an epidemic of self-love.”

None of this matters to Richard Ditke, however. When asked how he felt updating his first status report, he exclaimed “Amazing! This is the ultimate aphrodisiac!”, as he struggled to cross one leg over the other

Nouveau Bogans

2010-03-16T18:31:00.007+11:00

Etymology - the study of the history of words and how their form and meaning have changed over time.

Does anyone know the etymology of the word "etymology"? I think originally from a German word meaning "Spanish Onion" ... anyways, that's not important right now, because there's something I've been meaning to do for a very long time ...

For a while now, I've been meaning to understand Bogans. You know, those stereotypes who are perceived to be unsophisticated, with speech and mannerisms that are considered to denote poor education and uncultured upbringing. The kinds of people who include drinking beer, smoking, religiously following sport and having an interest in Australian-build cars (eg. Holdens, Fords etc.) and Aussie rock music as their hobbies.

Of course, this description of who is and isn't a Bogan describes pretty much everyone I know... and the most educated / cultured people I know fit into that category better than anyone else.

Bogans have fascinated me in recent times and, with all this fuss around Michael Clarke and Lara Bingle, I believe there needs to be more investment in Bogan studies, because only then can we start figuring out ways to stop them once and for all. My task: to create a series of Bogan Hypotheses that would enable society to understand and destroy Bogans.

Perhaps if we discover the etymology of the word, we'll start to understand where bogans come from?

Google "etymology bogan" and you'll get 14,400 hits. Wikipaedia, the source of all truth when truth is redefined as "a close enough guess" suggests that the word bogan dates back to Australian literature circa 1900 and that it may or may not come from the Bogan River. Banjo Patterson used the word to describe something of poor or little quality.

Bloody enlightening, this etymology business... I can see how etymologists get paid the big bucks... we're obviously going to need to do a bit more investigating, but to effectively research Bogans, I would need a representitive sample size, and there's only one place where I was going to be able to find enough Bogans...

The Big Day Out.

The metaphorical Bogan's den. Mecca for Bogans.

And given, for the purposes of research, that there were no car races, monster truck extravaganzas or rugby league games in January, the Big Day Out would have to do.

Bogans operate very well in their natural environments, but not so well when placed into non-Bogan situations. This is why Bogans tend to congregate in places frequented by other Bogans and the Big Day Out is like the Olympics for Bogans, where the best of the best attempt to outdo each other to gain the title of Bogan Champion of the World.

It has also been observed that Bogans don't like it when placed into non-Bogan environments alone, but are happy to congregate with other Bogans in non-Bogan environments. Over time, the Bogan congregations will learn to adapt the non-Bogan environment to suit them. It explains why traditional Spanish festivals such as Running of the Bulls or La Tomantina are now frequented by more Bogans than Spaniards. It explains why a case of VB would not look out of place at Oktoberfest. It explains Lagos. It explains Ios. It explains Bali. It explains Phuket.

Hypothesis 1 - The Bogan is a highly adaptive creature, capable of evolving its environment to suit itself. (call this the Shtinetime Adaptive Bogan Theory)

So, back to the Big Day Out and this researching Bogan-hunter. What was I meant to look for?

The stereotypical Bogan brings to mind mullets, flannel shirts, King Gee stubbie shorts, trackpants, yet this Big Day Out had none of these. Not an AFL beanie in sight. Moccasins on no-one.

Obviosuly, this Bogan stereotype is a highly dated concept, bannished to the 1980s.

Which didn't really help me, if I couldn't figure out what I was meant to be looking for.

"Such is Life"

It was then I had a flashback. Big Day Out 2005. Racial tensions between Aussies (white people) and Men of Middle Eastern Appearance (MOMEAs). I remembered the organisers deciding that they didn’t want people appearing with Australian flags, because they were said to incite racial violence. The theory being – ban the flag, prevent the incitement which would otherwise have been small in comparison to the nationalistic fervour incited when news of the ban arose.

These white people - they must have been bogans! The ones who ensured there were more flags than people at the Big Day Out. All i needed to do was find white people with Australian flags - surely then I would find the bogans I was looking for!

Yet there was not a flag in sight. Not even a shoulderblade or an ankle tattooed with the Southern Cross out of ritual nationalistic fervour on a working holiday to the UK. Not even one done on a Contiki tour.

What happened to all these 2005 vintage bogans? Where are they now? In jail? Married with kids? CEOs of investment banks? (All of the above?).

"Such is Life"

Yet, there exists a fatal flaw in the Shtinetime Adaptive Bogan Theory.

If Bogans adapt, then that explains why I can't see any flannel shirts. However it DOESN'T explain why flannel shirts are still sold at Lowes. Someone must buy them - surely Bogans!

Hypothesis 2 - The Bogan adapts and moves on, but is replaced by new Bogans who take their place.

This would explain why I saw no flannels, yet flannels continue to be sold. But it doesn't explain what happened to all the Bogans of yesteryear.

"Such is Life"

Hypothesis 3 - The Bogan is a photosynthetic creature

Just like plants use the energy from sunlight to convert carbon dioxide into oxygen in the process of staying alive, the Bogan reacts to the energy from the public spotlight to convert attention from other Bogans into memorable careers on reality TV shows and appearances in the Sunday gossip pages.

However, a combination of overexposure to too much spotlight short-circuits the conversion mechanism and while the Bogan will continue their Bogan behaviour, they are unable to do it under the glare of too much spotlight.

Ok, so now we understand that Bogans adapt and are forced to move out of the spotlight due to overexposure. But still, I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be looking for.

"Such is Life"

Why do I keep having the words "Such is Life" running through my subconscious?

And then it dawned on me. I was at the Big Day Out. All I had to do was open my eyes - they were everywhere. By definition, I was surrounded by Bogans... covered in weird tattoos...

Nouveau Bogans

The Bogans at the Big Day Out still have tattoos, just not the Southern Cross tattoo. Instead they get tattoos of expressions written in cursive handwriting. "Such is Life", "My Brother's Keeper" and "Carpe Diem". They also get highly decorative tribal markings, often located on the shoulder or the lower back.

But the nouveau Bogan extends far beyond choice of tattoo or choice of clothing (I believe it's leopard skin print at the moment).

I realised that a fundamental shift had occured. The Bogan of today has metamorphosised into an all-encompasing creature. You can't just describe it in terms of hobby or dress sense, it is a complete all-encompassing lifestyle choice. The bogan of today is a Nouveau Bogan

Nouveau Bogans are more than just Bogans. They are members of a religion and its name is Boganism and their Lord is the lowest common denominator. Boganism is a habit. It's a lifestyle. It's a rite of passage.

Boganism is the books you don't read, the movies you don't watch and the important things going on all around you that you have no idea about. Boganism is a choice to not choose reality, because reality TV is way more interesting.

It's the places you go because you know other Bogans who've been there. It's the pursuit of vacuousness because other Bogans place importance on irrelevance.

Does the spread of Boganism explain why newspapers today now represent gossip columns? Why a visit to the Sydney Morning Herald's online website can sometimes be confused with Perez Hilton's?

Is it a coincidence that the proliferation of Boganism has coincided with the spread of budget airlines, Twitter, Facebook and Youtube?

Budget airlines have given Bogans the ability to stretch their wings to Bali and Phuket with other Bogans, effectively exporting Boganism to other places whilst retaining a facade of culture. Twitter and Facebook have provided a platform for Boganism to spread itself, creating millions of generic Bogan spawn And Youtube has given Bogans the ammunition and social spread to ensure that no Bogan exploit goes unnoticed.

Are these symptoms? Causes?

Is anyone still reading this?

Never mind... I'm pretty sure Australian Idol is about to start.

Krazy Korean Kulture

2008-03-13T15:18:00.005+11:00

First Impressions ...

You know you're in Asia when the name of the suburb you need to remember is called Gangnam-gu, but nowhere in the pronunciation does the letter 'G' take effect.

You know you're in Asia when the breakfast buffet involves eggs being cooked with chopsticks, with a side of cabbage and seaweed

My first impressions of Seoul are of a massive, modern Asian city nestled amongst some beautiful mountains. Seoul somehow blends tradition with modernity, with the contrast of ancient Buddhist temples visible next to towering skyscrapers, nestled amongst bustling local markets. All in all, an incredibly cosmopolitan city with better than expected coffee and every food you could imagine.

The food...

Let's just say dinner was still moving when it went down. I hate to think what dinner cost, especially when our hosts kept saying things like "Abalone... very expensive..." Also, everything is medicinal in some way... "This fish, good for your heart. This soup, cancels out the effects of alcohol. This fruit, good for your blood. Raspberry wine... good for making you piss and break the urinal"

I'm completely stuffed, which is impressive, although after 9 courses, you'd expect to walk away full... - they left some sushi rolls on the table pointed at me, which was cue for "You have to eat this or the chef will get offended"... I got a round of applause when I finished it, quickly followed by rounds of laughter as I realised that the joke was on me. Nonetheless, training for the last 28+ years with my Jewish grandmother on Friday nights has come in handy once again.

To my knowledge, I haven't eaten dog yet, but am looking forward to it...

To be honest, after a few days in Seoul, my guts are in trouble and that's really saying something. I survived anal bullemia in South America, I survived battery acid burritos in Mexico, I survived the worst bout of food poisoning ever from a Pakistani guy in Cambodia and the second worst bout of food poisoning during the marriage proposal paella incident in Spain, but I may have finally met my match in Seoul.

Dinner last night consisted of Oysters, chili and beer. They segment their restaurants here by animal. Lamb, cow (dinner tonight was cow heart, stomach and intestines), octopus, prawn and oyster.

Dinner the night before consisted of oyster chili salad and a couple of Cass beers (or Ass beers as we like to call them.) Interestingly, their slogan is Cass... the sound of vitality, although I can't understand how a beer has a sound and I've been putting my ear to the bottle for hours now. It sounds like the ocean and I guess the ocean sounds like vitality.)

In summary, there are finger marks on the porcelain and I am Johnny Cash reincarnate.

The work/work balance

Work is interesting. I'm busy pretending, sorry, presenting all day and the Koreans sit there and nod. You know how everywhere else in the world, you can pause and usually someone will fill in the silence? Well, in Korea, that someone is me, because g-d knows if I was waiting for one of the locals to actually talk... um... they wouldn't...

I thought I actually did business today, but then I realised I didn't. Meeting culture here is incredible. It becomes an exercise to see how many individuals you can pile into one room who have no ability or permission to contribute in any way, shape or form to the actual meeting. Chairs line the perimeter of the room and are full of doting, silent note-takers. Meanwhile, a seat at the table means that an opinion is mandatory. Of course, none of the opinions are ever offered in English, meaning that my participation in a meeting is to ask a question, wait 15 minutes as the 12 people around the table debate in Korean and the 20 people sitting against the wall studiously take notes, finally to get back a response:

"No."

Business in Seoul is a 24 hour a day proposition, not including the fact that people sit in the office all hours of the night. Business is actually what happens in the hours that occur after 8pm and before 6:30am. 17 year old bottles of vintage scotch, served by girls of the same vintage, with elegant fruit platters accompanying any deal you want to make.

The culture

I've got to give it to the Koreans - they know what they want. They want what we want. And if what we want changes, then they'll want that instead. To understand how Korea works, you need to understand how Japan works. Post World War II, the Japanese economy grew incredibly due to their ability to copy things - mostly things that were made in America. Korea figured out that copying was the way to go, so they copied the entire Japanese model and learnt how to copy better than anyone could copy.

They may not even like it or know what it is, what it does or what it's meant to do. Scotch, clothes, perfume, whatever - it may taste, look or smell like ass, but if it's a brand and it's the "best", they want it.

The street life

I've now seen everything. Racing Model Billiards on TV, wedged in between 4 golf channels. Out of a total of 20. There's a massage parlour here with the Ferrari logo, one for Bentley and another one that claims to specialise in school girls.

People exercise weirdly here. They walk like my mum (as in, with 2 legs oscillating and generally one in front of the other in fairly quick rotation), but imagine my mum with a designer surgeon's mouthcap and walking backwards and you're starting to get the idea. I saw a guy barefoot crawling through a park for exercise. The hotel I'm staying in has a little park (10 metres by 10 metres) outside and Asian businessmen walk laps for exercise.

The night life

A travel blog to Korea wouldn't be complete without mention of Karaoke - the national pasttime, performed in private rooms with people who take themselves it as seriously as the Indians take the cricket. Which is alarming, especially considering there's no Barnsey here... what am I meant to sing?

The national drink is Soju, which tastes kind of like liquid ass, only not as strong. Soju must be poured by someone else at all times (which means you have no opportunity to regulate / restrict your intake) and

Our client is HEAVILY connected - the kind of guy who wears a dark suit and has a massive posse. When he coughs, 75 people get assassinated, when he has a cold, whole villages get wiped off the map.

He took us to a nightclub tonight where he knew the owner... it was its opening night, so of course, Brand New Heavies were playing for about 200 people. We, of course, were in the VIP balcony section... which of course was not good enough for our hosts, who took us into the lounge VIP section within the VIP section, where we got to rub elbows with the Bland New Heavies

Then they took us to a sports massage bar. Who am I kidding... it was a brothel. We got driven there in the black car and dumped off and were forced into dressing gowns. How the fark are you meant to handle that situation? You KNOW there's cameras recording...

Anyways, so after I f*cked her... hmm... I knew I was going to push the boundary in a travel email one day, and there it is. Is that what it looks like? I was expecting something more...

Ok, I'm sloshed and off to sleep... more again soon...

My Catalan Marriage Proposal

2007-08-12T17:44:00.001+10:00

Last night was the most romantic night of my life.

Even if it was a little unorthodox. How you ask?

Well, let's just say that most people get down on one knee to propose.

Pete was down on both.

As was I.

I then realised it was true love ... when you've shared this experience with someone, nothing else can ever tear you apart. Let me explain...

It was a romantic evening. Having just arrived in Barcelona, Pete and I decided to stop for a quiet meal... a seafood paella. From a Chinese restaurant. Nothing unusual about that.

After dinner, we took a stroll through Las Ramblas, found a quiet little bar, stopped for a couple of cervecas and were home and in bed by 4am.

Fast forward until about 430am, when I wake up and think ... "Hmmm... something´s really wrong here." My stomach was completely cramping. I remember thinking "I hope it´s not the alcohol. Wait a minute, I only had 2 drinks ... Wow, what if someone spiked my drink... Maybe if I just lie here, the pain will go away."

And of course, the pain didn´t go away, in fact, it just got worse... Finally, I get up to go to the bathroom. The closest bathroom of 3 which were attempting to service the 100 or so people in our immediate living quarters. Which was of course locked. I knock on the door and hear a familiar voice.

A voice that reminded me of Pete's, except in far more pain, saying "Yeah, waddayawant?"

At this point, I'll relay Pete's point of view, as he words it far better than I ever could ...

"The first 2 minutes was spent trying to shit it out...unsuccessful...then the captain yelled down periscope, we´re surfacing, I grab the edge of the sink and proceed to expel the first third of my seafood paella,...sink just under half full...then I hear a knock on the door and a muffled groan¨"Pete is that you"...its grunners and he sounds like he is in as much pain as I was in. Then I hear him run to the next bathroom...then I decide it would be a good idea to lock the door and pull my pants up from my ankles.

The next half an hour or so would prove to be one of the finest tandem spews in history, I was lead guitar to Grunners rhythm guitar...if i may I want to just paint the picture for you all...the hostel floor is shaped like a square with a smaller square in the middle where all the windows pretty much face each other meaning sound pretty much travells everywhere....needless to say grunners and I woke up the ENTIRE FLOOR.

I could hear the poor bastard dry wretching and knew he was shoving his hand down his throat...about 15 minutes later groon knocks on the bathroom door again and in another painfull groan "pete give us the bog roll"...big mistake...after I exhaled round 2...the biggest of all...sink full...then I needed to crap, so went on a mission to the free bathroom to procure the only other bog roll on the floor...then went back and produced what can only be described as the most rotten thing that has ever come out of me...it smelled of rotten seafood...another knock on the door and a french accent "pissss"...my reply "fuck off mate i am spewing"....then I felt round 3 wanting to surface ... lucky for me and the cleaners it was small (but the most painfull)....surface tension of the spew holding it in the sink...here comes the most disguting bit, its 530am and I am wading through a sink full of chunder with my bare hands trying to unblock the fucking drain...throwing bits into the toilet...finally unblocked the thing and dragged myself out of the bathroom to see heads peeping out of all the doors along the corridoors...I went to find my new spew brother on the other side of the floor and this american dude goes to me "your buddys finished barfing"....then went to bed..."

Ah, love at first spew... Photos to come

Croatia - Don't mention the draw

2007-06-27T22:05:00.000+10:00

Croatia. That should be Croatija. If Scrabble exists in Croatia, the scoring system would be completely backwards and the letter 'j' would be worth 1 point. The Crojat languaje usjes the letter j likje it's goijng out of fashijon. Policia becomes Policija, Popeye is Popaj, Hero is Heroj, there is a freaking brand of shoes here called "J".

As we pull into the absolutely stunning Adriatic port of Split, we cant wait to get off the boat and explore. Partly due to cabin fever, mostly due to the fact that we've been made to feel extremely unwelcome on our ferry ride from Ancona, Italy.

So, we've been in Croatia for a total of 5 minutes and have already been accosted. Our crime? Approaching a street vendor selling soccer jerseys, bargaining over the price of a hat and asking if he had any Harry Kewell jerseys . A brutal looking street-worn man cum-moustache, he mumbled something angrily in Baltic tongue, leaving us very sure of the translation by finishing his sentence emphatically "F*ck your mother."

Moustaches are the new black here. Or the old black that never went out of style. Long, bushy and stereotypically Eastern European.

Croatia is at first glance an extremely unfriendly place. Customer service at cafes consists of little more than the stunt double for Drago in Rocky IV barking "Vot do you Vant?!" as though your presence is a massive disturbance. Perhaps a lesson there for the Sydney barristas who get annoyed when people ask for double decaf soy lemon cappucinos - intimidation can go a long way to making your life easier in the customer service industry.

As expected, the coffee is atrocious. It tastes like someone burnt toast and then evacuated the contents of their stomach onto it. Everyday sets a new standard for the worst coffee I've ever had. If you ask me on a given day in Croatia "Was today the worst coffee you've ever had?", the answer would invariably be "yes".

Unnervingly efficient in their grasp of the Engligh language language, it is not uncommon to hear Croatians come up with expressions like "Put girl on phone", replacing normal sentence structure and tone with deliberate, military precision.

One can't help but feel that these guys are geared for war. Tensions run high in this alpha male dominated society. The training grounds are evident in everyday social interactions, from the cafes, to the driving, to the beach. Pedestrian crossings are merely target practice zones and are to be avoided whenever a car is in the vicinity.

Like a young brother and sister who niggle each other into a submission point when either or both start crying, the young males of Croatia rumble at the beaches with a policy of brinkmanship. They grab clumps of dirt and mud and throw them at each other with force, then gracefully await retribution. They crash into each other, driving each others faces into the dirt with the subtlety of a rugby league tackle.

The little ones get picked on first, the irony here being that the little kids are larger than most of their Australian counterparts (except those of Croatian extract). A fight breaks out in the water as one adolescent clocks another in the jaw with a roundhouse haymaker. Things only settle when the older brothers and cousins come across to sort out the commotion.

And all the while, we can't help but feel that these antics are for the benefit of the groups of girls who gather and occasionally get involved in flirty mock fights, giggling as they feign anger at the male attention thrown in their direction.

The one thing that this trip has affirmed is the need for an International Beach Commission. Not to regulate the behaviour at the beaches, but to regulate what is and isn't a beach at all. I feel like the term 'beach' has been thrown around way too much, to the point that it has completely devalued the word.

I mean, surely there's a few things that make a beach a beach. If a beach didn't have water, would it still be a beach? No. It would be a sandpit.

So, surely it must apply that if there is no sand, there is no beach. This would automatically eliminate 98% of the beaches in Croatia, where locals are content to set up shop anywhere (on a rock, on concrete, on a patch of dirt).

There is no classy way to enter the water, as one stuggles to step over pebbles and avoid sea urchins (which sting like a b!tch, trust me), but the worst is that there is no coordinated way to exit the water. No standing buff, no jogging out, no spraying the hair... but rather a look that is more akin to what it would look like if you rolled your ankle while trying to cross a bed of hot coals.

Truly, we are blessed down under.

And so, we find ourselves in a trendy bar in Split. The remains of a 2000 year old palace form the nerve centre of this Adriatic port, as modern commerce and a modern lifestyle have been completely enveloped within the antique rooms, punctuated by a labyrinth of cobblestoned streets.

We wander through a back alley and find a trendy bar built on an ancient staircase. As the drinks flow, we get a bit rowdy with some of the locals and the conversation inevitably twists towards a common point ... football.

Now, for those who don't know or remember, the history of Australian-Croatian relations began in June 2006, when Australia unexpectedly eliminated Croatia in the World Cup, with Harry Kewell snatching a late draw with a contentious (read: offside) goal with minutes remaining.

So, it's around this point of the story where we commit a cardinal sin, by striking up the chant...

"Harry Kewell, Harry Kewell, Harry Kewell, 2-2, 2-2, 2-2"

Now, it's important to recognise that at first the singing was in good spirit - solid, drunken banter.

However, out of no-where, we heard a deep gutteral rumble that was the unmistakable sound of swearing in a foreign language. One again, the rough English translation:

"Shut... your... f*cking... mouth"

The bartender goes over to settle things down. Realising he was unable to do that, he did the next best thing

"If you guys leave now, you'll have a 3 minute headstart"

We didn't need a 2nd warning and we evacuate our seats, turn completely the wrong direction and spend the next 20 minutes attempting to navigate the labarynth, finding several dead ends and having to hide around a corner when we saw our mate with a couple of his friends, a mob of hooligans intent on some alcohol fuelled ethnic-based football violence.

Welcome to Croatia ... don't mention the draw.

How to for Girls and Boys - Volume 1

2007-05-17T17:20:00.002+10:00

Somehow, our species has survived millions of years of emotional incompatability.

All too often (in fact, universally ... literally every relationship I've ever been in) I've been accused of not being in touch with my emotional side. I don't know how to "relate" to a girl.

Whereas, I always thought I knew how to "relate" to a girl. Apparently, a girl's definition of "relate" and my definition of "relate" are completely different.

This situation is exacerbated, because I work in a team full of girls, none of whom have patience in my abrupt nature and all of whom are susceptible to periodical emotional swings, often lasting days at a time, which incidentally seem to occur around the same time each month.

Anyways, the girls at work seem to have had a bit of an effect on me, so I'm publishing a preview of volume 1 of my love life guide for all the single people out there in the world. All care given, no responsibility taken.

Chapter 1 - Mark promised me (Laura) a date, but then never got back in touch

Mark,

Just so we're clear, I never thought it would work between yourself and myself - relationships precipitated by random pashes seldom do.

However, I am interested in knowing the cause of your lack in interest as I am gathering data for statistical purposes. I am writing a book called - "Men and why women would be better off as lesbians"

Please tell me why you didn't call me back after agreeing on Friday to a date with me

a) You met a girl last weekend. Did you sleep with her? I'll never forgive you if you slept with her.

b) You're trapped under heavy machinery, in which case, never fear - I will continue to care for you even if you have been horribly mutilated.

c) You're afraid of committment, yet can't reconcile this with the intensely strong and strange feelings you have for me

d) I made you realise you were gay.

Please don't hide in your emotional coccoon. You need to connect with me, Mark. Please get in touch soon.

Lovingly yours,
Laura.

- The important thing to remember here is that Mark IS actually waiting for your email. He's testing you and your resolve to see if you're the kind of person who has the character that he is looking for in his child bearer.

Chapter 2 - You are Mark and receive the email above.

What you should NEVER write back.

Laura,

How about option (e) None of the above?

I've felt really bad for not calling, but my grandmother's been ill all week and I'm been behind the 8-ball all day at work. I was literally about to call you when I got your email.

How about we meet up for dinner tonight? I know a great Italian place...

Mark xo

- This is a weak response. It shows that you have no strength of conviction and that all she has to do is send you a pitiful email for you buckle at the knees and come crawling.

2(b) - What you probably should write back

Laura,

Hey, you know those shits where you have a big fruit brekky with muesli and a large coffee before going to the train station and you just miss a train and you're sitting on the train platform for like 10 minutes needing to explode, trying to think of anything else, and the train finally comes and you're holding it and sweating and finally get to Town Hall and walk to work, struggling, and you walk in and drop your bag and try to run, but someone walks to talk to you and then finally you get to the bathroom and rip your pants down and let rip a massive explosion and it stings on the way out and you completely destroy the porcelain and stink out the room and come out covered in sweat?

Well, I had one of those this morning, but I'm fine now ... wanna meet up for a root tonight?

Mark.

- This response is 2 things: confident and honest, and we all know how much girls love confidence and honesty in a man.

CHAPTER 3 - Mark calls for a follow up date, only to be told by Laura "It's complicated"

Complicated means different things to different people and it's important here that Mark translate the situation correctly. Spoken by a girl, "Complicated" is girlspeak for "My wiring is incapable of handling this situation". From a guy, "Complicated" is more likely to mean "I'm seeing three girls this weekend and can't remember which one I had the booty call with last Saturday night." You'll notice that the Facebook phenomenon of the relationship status "It's Complicated" will never be mutually agreed to by a guy and a girl who are technically in "Complicated" situations with one another.

Mark should partly blame himself for all this, because it was unfair to assume that as far as girls go, there are emotionally stable girls in the stable. Laura will blame herself, because, let's face it, it's "Complicated".

The important thing here is to learn a valuable life lesson ... and lengthen your disclaimer. The reason disclaimers are so long is because lawyers learn from every bad experience and add another paragraph to the disclaimer.

In the laws of love, you need to do the same. My disclaimer now reads "yeah, from what I know of her, she's a cool chick but she's been in at least 2 prior relationships and could be related to one of my sister's friends. so I make no emotional stability guarantees"

Conclusion

Stay tuned for further Laura and Mark chapters, including:

I like you, but I can't stop flirting"
"The perils and pitfalls of double dating"
"Why blind dating should be exactly that... blind"

and more...

Why bring flags when you can just sell drugs - Big Day Out 07 Part 2

2007-04-04T13:35:00.000+10:00

Lily Allen – Boiler Room –3:00pm

I’m getting nowhere and must stop rambling at some point if I’m to maintain any hope of finishing this piece of writing. Next time I forget what I was trying to say, can someone please stop me from breaking off into a tangent? This task is enormous and hard enough to finish without so many non-sequiturs invading my head. I need to resist stopping my writing, because clarity and freshness of the day is key to communicating it effectively. This is as intellectually drained as I’ve felt for a long time.

OK, so it’s really dark now. Dark and loud, but a really crisp loudness. The only sources of light right now are the strobe flashes and lasers shooting out from stage. It must be dark, because my notes have begun to take on an air of unreadability, if that’s a word. For some reason, I started to think everything was moving in slow motion at this point.

The Boiler Room is a massive cavern and the stage seems miles away. As I drive through the crowds, I feel like something strange is happening. The crowd at this BDO seems to be different to events of yesteryear. It’s as though the bogan element has diminished or disappeared.
Bogan. What a great word. I must do research at some point to discover the origin of this word.
It seems like BDO has attracted a slightly classier crowd this year. Everywhere I turn, I see packs of made up girls, with expensive haircuts and pretty dresses. Clean cut is the new grunge.
Wait a minute? Is that the girl from outside?

To my left, I spot a skinny girl sporting a black singlet and short black shorts who looked remarkably similar to a junkie girl from outside the event at the entrance. If it was the same girl, she had come down and calmed down immeasurably, because the girl outside was a fiend and an animal. Desperation was etched across every line in her face, a contortion of evil, random and assorted drugs pulsing through her system. All of this swelled into a liquid emotion which passed upward through her body and out from her throat in the direction of any security guard willing to listen.

“My fucking boyfriend stole my ticket! I can’t believe it! He ripped the ticket straight out from my pocket, look! I paid $120 to stand outside here looking like an idiot! I’m going inside to call him!”

This girl in the Boiler Room certainly looked like the girl from outside, but much, much calmer, as though she’d taken some kind of tranquiliser. Maybe all she needed was a dose of happy music. Lily Allen were certainly providing that. A unique blend of funk, dance and cheese, it was good to see a horn section once again at a Big Day Out.

Years from now, historians will look back to study what we call modern music and ask the question, where did all the horns go?

Such a bad idea, taking notes on the back of my programme. Why do people who actually care what is on next not have programmes? I can understand people who want to wander around and make discoveries not carrying a programme, but for people who have a vested plan for the day, you’d imagine that a programme is a pretty fundamental element when executing the plan.

Of course, now I need to explain what I’m writing on the back of my programme. My explanation was that I’m a Rolling Stone magazine reporter, trying to write a story on the effect experimental drugs have on the experience of the average concert-goer. Of course, this was the explanation I came up with hours later when no one was asking.

When the couple standing next to me asked, I mumbled a fairly incoherent response that only drew up more questions that it answered. Caught in a web of white lies, completely of my own creation.

This is hard work, taking all these notes. You become a complete outsider, stuck on the inside.
It’s contradictory to the intent of my day. The idea was that a certain experience would occur and I would be able to document it as it happened. The problem with this logic is that while documenting my experience, I was stepping outside the experience of being part of the BDO and into the role of a journalist, observing the BDO occurring around me. It’s an uneasy feeling and I resolve to minimalise my note taking. This project is doomed for failure.

Time to move on again. People, people everywhere.

Outside the Boiler Room, there is an ice cream truck with a Caribbean guy on the roof with big dreadlocks. Is Caribbean the correct word? Is Rasta a politically correct expression? I was originally going to write Jamaican, but what if he was from Trinidad and/or Tobago? Surely, he’d get insulted.

More to the point, why was he on top of the truck? There are girls up there with him, who look more like crowd members than musicians, and one of them has a microphone, and…

OW!! DEAR G-D!!!!! MY EARS ARE BLEEDING!!!

This would honestly have to be the worst cameo performance in the history of mankind. Someone must take the microphone away from this girl immediately, and preferably have here removed for a savage beating.

It’s at this point that I notice something else different about the crowd. There are breasts absolutely everywhere. OK, not whole breasts, but cleavage. The suggestion of breasts. The promise of more breast.

And large breasts.

Girls have been cheating a lot more in recent years as breast technology has improved and become more accessible. Push up bras, clothing designed to amplify breast presence and surgery have created a generation of breasts. Breasts are the new black.

I inform Boogie of this insight.

“Breasts are the new black”

“What!?!?!?”

Obviously, Boogie wasn’t on my wavelength. I explain that breasts are everywhere, a sentiment he concurs with.

All of a sudden, Boogie turns to me.

“Healthy is the new black”

Now, it was my turn to draw a blank.

“What!??!!?”

“Dude, when you said breasts are the new black, I looked around and the first set of breasts I saw was wearing a t-shirt that said ‘Healthy is the new black’”

Coincidence? I think not. The universe works in strange ways.

WHOA! Who is this monster in my face? She looks like a girl, but a lot shorter, heftier and far too proximate to me for my liking.

“Yeah! Someone spilled on me!”

I pull away. Who knows what kind of venom this creature is capable of spitting out of her mouth?

Boogie is starting to feel a certain edginess to the crowd at this point.

“I can feel a fight brewing”

I have to admit, there is a certain electricity in the air at this point. Volumes of trashed people are wandering in every direction, floating around like random molecules. Electrons and protons, forces of attraction and repulsion. It’s true. A fight could break out at any minute here and over nothing. The day is nearly over for some of these people and it’s not yet 3:15 in the afternoon. Hard, fast and early, like a heavyweight boxer who’s thrown all his haymakers in the first round and completely exhausted himself. Fools! This is a 15 round boxing match and the only way to come out alive is to be dancing as hard in the final round as you were in the first.

Boxing? How did boxing come into this? Where will it all end?

Expatriate – V Energy Local Produce –3:20pm

My notes list this band as being called Expatriot. Whoever they are, they were easily an early highlight of the day. The stage is intimate, which is another way of saying small with a crowd to match, but as can often be expected by the smaller stages, they pulse with an energy that is seemingly unmatchable by crowds exponentially larger.

There’s something else about this crowd. They seem on average, much cooler than the rest of the BDO population, as though everyone present is a member of a secret organisation. Even the mandatory girls in team uniforms seem much cooler than other teams – each girls is beautiful, decked out in bright yellow 80’s gear – midriff tops, cut off at the shoulders.

Anyways, Expatriate are going off and everyone in there knows it. And everyone knows that everyone knows that the few people in there are the cool minority. Especially the band. They remind me of a super-band that hasn’t quite made it big yet, or hasn’t quite yet been discovered by everyone, but surely will be soon. The sound of New Order with the stage presence of U2 spring to mind as analogies. The lead singer doesn’t disappoint, pulling out his best Bono impression by leaning over the first of three rows of spectators and getting intimate with the crowd.

My Chemical Romance – Main Stage –3:45pm

The day is moving thick and fast at this point. My Chemical Romance are belting out their brand of rock and roll, which is proving to be a little to heavy for Boogie and Diana, so they move on in search of greener pastures. My mentality at this point is to ignore my instinct to follow them and to instead counter with logic. The logic being, that someone has gone to all the trouble to fly these guys out from far away and at some point they would no doubt be playing a local gig to a few thousand mad fans, with tickets costing a day’s earnings. As such, they must be worth a listen.

First things, first though. Getting to a bathroom is, at best, a mission at the BDO. It usually involves negotiating some stairs, which only fulfil the role of speedhumps to all human traffic flow. As such, I put it off for as long as possible, but with my bladder at bursting point, I decide to venture forth and empty my bladder.

There are 3 truths of all bathrooms at music festivals.

Truth 1. No matter what time it is, all bathrooms will have scungy floors, with some kind of viscous matter that is part dirt, part water and part caked urine or other matter.

Truth 2. You will never see more than 1 person wash their hands

Truth 3. There will always be girls in the male bathrooms.

One thing I have always had universal thanks for is my male bladder. Male bladders must be several times larger than female bladders. This generally means we can wait a longer time between drinks before we have to discharge. Regardless of this size difference, the process for a female to empty her bladder is, time-wise, several times larger than that for the male.
I’m not sure if the process itself requires more steps, or the same steps are more time consuming. After all, I’ve never experienced the joys of being a girl.

What I do know is that nature has played a very cruel trick on women, for not only do they take longer to partake in the bathroom process, but they have further been cursed with the universal truth that girl’s bathrooms will always have longer queues than boy’s bathrooms. There are no exceptions to this rule, including the modern traditions which dictate that the queues to the cubicles in the men’s room will always be longer than the queues to the urinal. Thank g-d for party drugs.

The thing that very few females actually get to realise as a matter of experience is the pure brutality, the masculinity, the hormonally charged atmosphere that is the men’s bathroom. There is a certain amount of shame that a girl needs to sacrifice to succumb to the temptation to alleviate the suffering of one’s bowels through usage of a men’s bathroom.

After all, it’s not often I find myself nodding in agreement with a drunken yobbo screaming out “Show us your dick, or fuck off”. Not only that, but looking around the cramped restroom, I see the rest of the room nodding in silence. This moron hasn’t just shown off his own low intelligence – he’s achieved consensus. Somewhere, at some similar music festival long ago, a creature crawled out of this primeval soup and became a modern day politician. How does such nonsense rule supreme when we are reduced to the mob?

OK, remember what you’re writing about – GET A GRIP, MAN!!!

My Chemical Romance are energetic, and I use that word simply because I struggle to find a compliment. What they possess in energy, they lack in originality. They are a symptom of music as a consumable item – they fit a certain image and target a certain demographic. I can’t figure out what they are doing at this festival – apart from the fact that they add a certain international flavour.

Australia suffers from a cultural cringe at the best of times, the prevailing attitude being that if it’s foreign, it must be superior, with the most superior force being that of anything produced in the U, S of A. Therefore, an American band imported into our clearly inferior Australian music festival must be, well … better. After all, we’re paying more for the privilege … they MUST be good.

Unfortunately for the organisers of the festival, I see through their clever ruse. This band has been brought out specifically to fill the bill – a big name act to draw in the punters. Surely they realise that the rest of the audience is as cynical as I am? Or is this just my marijuana-induced paranoia speaking through my head again?

Speaking of which, surely it’s time to catch up with my mates. After all, Boogie and Diana have all of the supplies for the day and supplies are crucial for pacing oneself at a music festival, especially one that prides itself on being a Big Day Out.

TO BE CONTINUED

Why bring flags when you can just sell drugs - Big Day Out 07 Part 1

2007-03-21T16:33:00.000+11:00

It’s at least one and a half hours after the fact now. There is a serious premise to this story, namely that of one man’s Big Day Out. There were about 60,000 other people who will have their own completely unique stories. Some stories will be similar, many will not. Some will share parts of the story that is my story and some played a unique role in ensuring this story.

Right now, I’m completely overwhelmed with the task at hand – documenting the 12 hour mayhem that is the carnage of the BDO. I have to admit, I’m feeling extremely negative about this project and part of that has to do with the quality of my note-taking during the day.

My pages of notes range from meaningless to indecipherable. Quality of handwriting, detail and general note-taking is completely dependent on a number of factors, including

1) my general state of mind at the time,
2) my environment, which was often squashed mosh-pits, and
3) general surroundings, which included the people I was writing about.

Combining points 1) and 3) and giving an example from the day, let’s imagine that I wanted to document the grotesque couple standing next to me who were clearly experimenting with mind altering drugs and who were consequently doing what is known in the trade as “getting onto each other”, clearly a sickening, disgusting act. Now, bearing in mind that my brain was in a marijuana-induced paranoia frenzy and that for all intents and purposes in my head, they were reading every word that I was writing as well as the unwritten ones. You can imagine, my note-taking became slightly less accurate.

Wait a minute, note taking? How did that happen?

I’ve been meaning to document a BDO for quite some time now. The sheer volume of people of all shapes and sizes, the colour exploding in conjunction with a cacophony of noise… the parts of the day that pictures and film cannot possibly begin to capture. The dark corners of a back-street that few will ever wander down.

This story starts at the International Human Rights tent.

Well, not really. My note-taking started at the International Human Rights tent. I think it’s fair to say that a BDO is one of few occasions that I will converse with people who actively work for International Human Rights. The rest of us, myself included, are content to do our bit by generally not breaching any Human Rights. Only a few will actually go so far as to become active in such an organisation. Why is this? Are the majority deluded into thinking it’s not important? Are the minority deluded into thinking that they’re actually making a difference?

Who could say?

The point is, I needed a pen and paper if I was to go about documenting my day. Some authors would say you don’t need even that. I know of stories where a writer only had a pen and ended up scribbling his notes all over his body. Every limb was covered – arms, legs, torso, nether regions.

But I digress, yet again. I feel like this won’t be the last time I do that.

The point is, for a gold coin donation, I managed to obtain a pen from the International Human Rights tent. I further managed to avoid signing their petition. I’m happy to support International Human Rights, but apparently not so much as to put my name towards them. Who knows what dodgy schemes I’d be petitioning in favour of?

My notes were written on any piece of paper I could gather my hands on. As I sit here trying to decipher my illegible handwriting, I count no less than 7 sheets of paper – 1 concert programme, 2 notepad sheets ripped out of a notebook, 1 pink post-it note, 1 restaurant pad, 1 raffle ticket and the receipt to my BDO ticket. Not to mention the text messages I sent myself when I ran out of paper.

The worst sheet to write on was actually the largest sheet of paper, mostly because it happened to also be the copy of the programme. Not a smart idea, taking notes on a programme. Especially when people are constantly asking to borrow the programme so they can see what band’s up next. You never know where your notes will end up. All you can guarantee is that the sheet will have crease marks over words that are key to the structure and meaning of the sentences that you have jotted down, scrapping any message or story you wanted to capture and condemning them to the pits of writing hell.

Evermore – Main Stage – about 2:30pm

My first sight at the BDO could not have been more symbolic or appropriate.

A teenage girl, probably about 16, although maybe I’m being generous. Barely clad in an Australian flag bikini, with a matching temporary tattoo on her stomach. She was heavily armed, with a UDL in one hand and her mobile phone flailing about in the other as she attempted to sing the words of her current favourite song to an unfortunate friend who either didn’t have enough money or didn’t get their act together quickly enough to attend the day.

BDO is a mecca for many people, no doubt the highlight of the year. For some reason, the music festival scene has over the last few years been attracting young, generic tourists – people intent on capturing the moment on behalf of others, at the cost of what would seemingly be their own personal enjoyment. Except, enjoyment is clearly obtained by the mere presence at a festival such as BDO. Experiencing the moment is secondary, the main priority being establishing one’s presence at the enent.

I fear for concertgoers of the future. Rock and roll is dead. Not the music – that’s alive and well, but the attitude that came with rock and roll. The lifestyle. People tend to forget the reason why music takes on so much significance – that is, the relevance of various forms of music to the social surroundings of the day. Rock and roll embodied a lifestyle that began with rebellion. Modern day rock and roll encourages conformity and is continually blighted by thousands of youngsters who have lost the rebellious streak and come to a rock concert to … behave.

I feel like I’ve started to lose the plot here a bit. I had several points I wanted to make in that last paragraph and they’ve all jumbled together. I’ve also just noticed that the “last paragraph” I’m referring to was actually 3 paragraphs ago. I’m rambling.

OK, I’ll start with my first point. The overwhelming presence of Australian flags.

I really have to congratulate Ken West on this one. Paris Hilton wearing an Aussie flag would not have created the fuss that the BDO organisers managed to, ensuring that the number one worn item of the day was some form of Australian flag.

I could never have written this story without at least paying mention to the controversy that unrolled over this BDO. It’s funny to think how the fashion statement of the day stemmed from a race-oriented brawl at a beach in Cronulla in December 2005.

It’s true, at last year’s BDO, there were racial tensions between Aussies (white people) and Men of Middle Eastern Appearance (MOMEAs). For this reason, the organisers decided that they didn’t want people appearing with Australian flags, because they were said to incite racial violence. The theory being – ban the flag, prevent the incitement.

Incitement, which was small in comparison to the nationalistic fervour incited when news of the ban arose.

The stupidity was mind numbing. Surely, the organisers weren’t attempting to control the behaviours of an alternative, rock and roll audience, which, although it has lost its rebellious streak, is still cheeky enough to treat any orders with the disrespect they deserve.

I wonder if the organisers of the BDO bought shares in a flag production company before kicking off the controversy. Australian flags dominated the day, appearing in every form imaginable. T-shirts, tattoos, headbands, bikinis, ‘We’re number 1’ giant inflatable hands, there must have been more flags than people at the BDO.

Before yesterday, the Australian flag at the BDO was a fledgling tradition. Now, it’s an institution. It’s gone mainstream.

Flags aren’t the only thing to have gone mainstream. The mandatory tennis team has arrived in uniform and I’m sure they won’t be alone today. Forget attempting to stand out as an individual – this festival is full of freaks. The only way to truly stand out is to make it a team effort and the tennis team has not disappointed. White headbands, white polo shirts, each one 1 size too small, which shorts matching in both size and colour, calf length white socks and white tennis sneakers. Are they enjoying the music? I can’t tell for sure, but I can guarantee that they’re enjoying their experience.

Let’s get back to the music. Evermore are belting out a cover of “Stand By Me”, a brave move for any band looking to establish itself as one of credibility. They seem to be doing OK, with their unique brand of slightly whiney Urban pop-rock. It makes for easy listening and at worst is inoffensive. At best, they have the potential to grab an audience and hold on to them for dear life.

Scribe – Main Stage –2:45pm

TRANSITION!

A massive human wave brushes past me. Exodus, as far as the eye can see. The design of the main stage is key to this flow of bodies, mostly because the main stage is not one stage, but two. Bands alternate from stage to stage and the resulting changes throughout the day create a ripple effect that seems more like the largest tennis match in history, with the mass of thousands of people playing the role of the ball flying back and forth.

Hip-hop largely originated from the poorer suburbs of New York, where poverty and an oppressed lifestyle, coupled with the relative affordability (when compared to musical instruments and amplifiers) of turntables (formerly known as record players) and records, bred and nurtured a generation of inspired people who improvised over pre-existing songs with spoken word.

Scribe has launched into his set of New Zealand brand hip-hop. White Australian kids throb from side to side, making gangsta symbols with their hands.

Truly, this crowd is the globalised generation.

Wishing to explore further, I undergo the difficult process of untangling myself from the web of people and extracting myself from the stadium that encompasses the main stage arena.

JESUS!! A giant monsterous contraption appears out of nowhere, spurting forth indecipherable phrases. Why is this thing here? Is its sole purpose to freak out the stoners? Did someone plan in advance to have obstacles dotted throughout the event grounds to slow the stoners down? Or is this just more paranoid thought?

Move, move, gotta keep moving. There are people everywhere, massive queues of people lining up. To my right, I see a massive queue lined up next to the dance arena, or the Boiler Room as it is so appropriately named. What are all of these tortured souls lining up for? Access to music? Hopefully not. At a music festival, the one thing that should be accessible at all times to all folks is music. Queuing up for music at a music festival must be a sign of the end of our society as we know it.

I walk past the queue in despair, knowing that when I get to the front, an abrupt U-turn will shortly follow. As I get to the front, I quickly realise that the queue was for absolutely nothing. Incredible! An exercise in conformity, an imaginary bucket of gold at the end of a fool’s rainbow.
Wait a minute! Where are my friends?

This is probably a good point to introduce Boogie and Diana. My partners in crime for the morning and early part of the day, Boogie and Diana are built for this festival. Boogie is full of insight as we walk through this thronging mass and his efforts from the morning are largely responsible for my current state of mind. Diana, meanwhile, is highly personable and excitable at all times. Her most striking features are surely her big brown eyes, which constantly take in the world around her in awe. Certainly, I have been blessed for the day with this choice of accomplices.

Crowds are captivating, that much is certain. Cafes in Europe place all of their seats facing the street, with none facing towards the restaurant. This makes absolute sense – the highlight of going our in Europe is seeing what everyone else is up to. People are beautiful and dress sense is eccentric.

Even an amateur people-watcher such as myself, or perhaps due to my amateurish people-watching skills, I’m constantly distracted as I walk through the mob. Chaos rules supreme, with people of every flavour moving in every possible direction. Focus is an expensive commodity and mine trails at the best of times.

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, I lost Boogie and Diana at this point. I thought for a minute that they were standing next to me. Then I realised that I’d actually lost them. Then I thought I saw someone who looked like Diana, so I started chasing after her on what turned out to be a wild goose chase. I looked left, no sign of her signature green t-shirt, or Boogie’s black and white stripes for that matter. Nor behind me. And I was sure that they hadn’t gotten that far ahead of me. At least, I thought I was sure.

A thought which was soon proven correct, as I noticed the pair of them standing just to my right, scouring the crowd for me. The throng of the Big Day Out human traffic cannot be described in a word other than carnage.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Customer Service - I salute you.

2007-03-14T11:40:00.000+11:00

ShtineTime officially has a nemesis. Nemeses, actually. Three of them. All good things happen in threes. Three blind mice, Three wise men, Three-some … to quote De La Soul, 3 is a magic number.

Do you know what nemesis means?

Nemesis – “A righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent. Personified in this case by an 'orrible c*nt... me.”

The beauty of a nemesis is its ability to extract the most rampant uncontrollable of human emotions – revenge.

In this instance though, my nemeses are companies. Companies with what amounts to, essentially, monopolies. Due to the nature of the industries within which they operate, these are companies that, through no choice of my own, I will be forced to do business with for the conceivable future. So, not only am I pissed off, but I can’t exact revenge through conventional means of not using their services in the future.

No, revenge will need to come in another form… poetry. And in honour of St Patrick’s Day coming up … limerick.

Virgin Blue (by Shtine Time)

An airline called Virgin Blue
Messed up my flight, it’s true
When I caused a spill
They offered goodwill
And to them, I say “F*CK YOU”

It must be bad karma to bag an airline whilst on one of their flights, but ShtineTime is now officially mobile.

Let me explain. On Sunday morning, I flew from Melbourne to Sydney. I had a return flight booked back to Melbourne on Monday morning, at 6am, but on account of the public holiday in Melbourne, I decided to spend Monday in Sydney, then return to Melbourne on Monday night.

It was 7am at Melbourne airport and I was being served by the lovely Vanessa. Virgin Blue have an unofficial policy of only hiring hot people – this would actually be an official policy, except they would no doubt get in too much trouble if they wrote it down anywhere. Instead, Virgin are happy to implement the policy for our aesthetic benefit and let’s face it, who am I to complain? Certainly, Vanessa was no exception to the policy.

One thing apparently missing in the policy is an assumption of competence.

Vanessa changed my flight to Monday evening and I was good to go.

Or so I thought.
See, it turns out that something went wrong. Somewhere between Vanessa telling me she’d changed my flight in the system and my next communication with Virgin on the phone at 4pm the next day, the change hadn’t gone through. I was classified as a “no-show” and had lost my flight.

I demanded to speak with someone who could deal with this and was presented with a very gay-sounding American. (Can you even say that these days? Mental note: write a blog discussing if one can use the expression “very gay-sounding American”) This guy was flaming.

So, the conversation goes as follows:

ST (Shtine Time) – “What are you going to do about this?”

(annoying American voice inflections are in bold)

VGSAPL (Very Gay Sounding American Phone Lackey) – “Well, I’m thorry, thir, but there’th not much we can do becauthe you’ve mithed your flight. The betht thing I can do ith to forward you to our ethca-lation department, where you can leave a methage. Al-ter-na-tive-ly, I can book you on another flight right now. What would you like to do?”

ST – (voice dripping with sarcasm) “Well, what I’d really like to do right now is leave a message on an answering machine. I mean, obviously, right now, I can think of no better way to resolve this than by talking to a machine. Can you?”
* Sound of brain breaking *

VGSAPL – “Tho, does that mean you want me to tranthfer you to our eth-ca-lation department?”

ST – “Can I ask you a question? Do you call yourselves Virgin because when you fuck your customers, it hurts like it hurt the first time?”

* Silence *

VGSAPL - “OK, I’ll forward you thir. Thankth for your call, have a good day.”

What’s more annoying? That the poor bastard on the other end of the line has done absolutely nothing to help me or that the band of misfits that he works for doesn’t give him the ability to?

As far as I could tell, this guy’s job is to be the person who the phone call is escalated to when pricks like me ring to complain. He doesn’t have the power to actually do anything – all his job description entails is receiving abuse, then forwarding people to an answering machine.

In the times of the Roman empire, his job would have been Christian.

“What do you do with yourself?”

“Oh, I’m a Christian. I spend most of my time getting thrown to the lions. It’s got some great perks – I get to spend my time outdoors, meet all sorts of interesting people…”

Anyways, I leave my message on the answering machine. First thing the next morning, I get a call back from a girl, voice sugar coated and dripping with honey, who explained to me that the situation was clearly my fault, because the PROCESS dictates that I should have received a confirmation.

The penny dropped. OF COURSE!! It was my fault because I didn’t understand Virgin Blue’s internal flight changing process. It’s not enough these days to merely tell a company what you want from them – these days, you need to understand their internal PROCESS.

To Virgin Blue’s credit, they did credit me with the cost of the flight, minus $15 for every subsequent flight that I would book with the credit. This, the girl explained to me, was not because Virgin thought they had done anything wrong, but as a gesture of goodwill.

Silver Service Taxis (by Shtine Time)

For a taxi, I was in need
To get to the airport with speed
Silver Service was looking
But they stuffed up my booking
Because f*ck ups are part of their creed

So, finally, I manage to book a new flight with Virgin leaving at 10:15 the next (Tuesday) morning. No dramas there, I thought, I’ll book a taxi to pick me up at 8:45. That should give me plenty of time to get to the airport.

Apparently not.

The taxi industry in Sydney is predicated on an inability to actually catch a taxi at a time when you’re likely to need to catch a taxi. These times include, but are not limited to:

- Getting to work
- Getting from work
- Trying to get home on a Friday or Saturday night
- New Years Eve
- When you need to catch a flight

or any other time when you could conceivably need a taxi.

As a general rule, taxis will always be available in a window between 5:16am and some other ungodly hour when you will never need a taxi. The system has never failed me at this time.

So, when I call back at 9:07am to check on where the taxi is, I’m not surprised to be told “5 more minutes”

And when I call back at 9:20 am to check on where the taxi is, I’m told “it’s on its way and should be there shortly”

Finally, I call back at 9:35. “Oh, I can see you’re waiting for a taxi. Can I please put you on hold?”
At this point, the receiver is inundated with porn music.

Chicka bow chicka wow wow.

“Your call is important to us and you have advanced in the queue. Please hold”

Wakka wakka wakka. Boom chicka bow … wakka wakka

Finally, a new, dopey voice comes on the line

DV (Dopey voice) - “Good morning, Silver Service, how may I help you?”

ST - “Um… I’m still waiting on a check for my taxi”

DV - “OK… oh, you’re still waiting for that taxi to the airport? OK… there should be one there in 5 minutes.”
ST - “Don’t bother … I’ve missed my flight.”

DV – “Oh. So, do you still want the booking, or should I cancel it?”

I felt like saying “What do you think?” but the very question is redundant. That’s the point. She’s not paid to think. She’s the paid representative voice of an organisation that couldn’t care less.

How do I know this?

This is a company so resigned to its own ineptitude that it’s willing to settle for “Silver” Service. Why be number 1 when you can settle for number 2? Gold Service? Gold is for losers who try too hard. Let’s be mediocre… and while we’re at it, let’s corner the incompetent market and start a spin off brand called “Bronze Plated Service”

Ticketek (by Shtine Time)

There once was a bloke named Fred
Who took a bad hit to his head
Once good with tools
Now he sits and he drools
And works in a Ticketek outlet

So, I give up on any ambitions of arriving in Melbourne before evening and head into the Sydney office. It’s hard to get too angry with the mouthpieces I’ve interacted with over the previous 24 hours – after all, they’re just doing their job. It’s far from their fault that the companies they work for choose to not empower their employees to use their brains.

These organisations are merely a symptom of the unfortunate, yet endemic consequences of a world that values process more than it values people. After all, Virgin Blue phone staff don’t make the ticketing rules and aren’t allowed to make the changes. Silver Service phone staff aren’t responsible for the appalling state of the taxi service in Sydney. They are merely actors in a far greater saga of clumsiness.

Where my patience begins to wear thin is when someone actually has a choice, between making my life easier or making it more difficult, and chooses the latter option for no other reason other than that they are clearly miserable about the fact that the highlight of their day is that they are given this choice in the first place.

Allow me to explain. A few months ago, I purchased tickets for a band called the Mars Volta (highly recommended if you’re into something a bit different). Late last year, the show was postponed and I receive an email saying:

"Existing tickets remain valid for the new concerts and do not need to be
exchanged. Simply rock up on the night and present your original ticket to
gain admittance.

Fans unable to attend the new concert dates in Sydney, Melbourne and Perth
can secure a refund from their original point of purchase."

With the concert being on Thursday night, I went into the Ticketek office to get my refund.

Old miserable lady (OML) – “This was announced late last year. You were meant to either take the new tickets or get a refund”

ST – “Yeah, I know. I’m here for the refund.”

OML – “Well, why has it taken you so long to come for the refund?”

ST – “Is that relevant? I can’t get to the new date and I want a refund”

OML - "Where did you get the tickets?"

ST - "Online or Elizabeth St, can't remember"

OML - "Well, you need to go back to the original point of purchase"

ST – “Are you really going to make me walk all the way across town just so I can get a refund?”
OML - "Let me check with my manager"

Here we go again. Another manager called because another foot solder didn’t have or wasn’t allowed to have the mental capacity for independent though. Now, her manager, who is sitting next to her, is also an old miserable lady, but, to paraphrase Hunter S. Thompson, she looks a lot more like what a ticketing lady would look like if the Nazis won the war.

At this point, the little Nazi commences her cross-examination of the witness.

OMNL (Old Miserable Nazi Lady) – “So, you can’t attend the show on Thursday night?”

ST – “No”
OMNL – “Do you mind if I ask you why not?”

ST – “(thinking yes, I do mind) I’m going to be in Melbourne”

OMNL – “Did you know that the show was cancelled?”
ST – “What, when it was postponed in November? Yes.”

OMNL – “When did you find out that you couldn’t attend? How come you’ve waited so long to cancel? You know, you’ve known about this for a very long time.”

ST – “You know what, you’re right. What I should do now is apologise for my terrible behaviour – after all, it’s me who’s inconvenienced you here. I didn’t mean to disturb you from sitting behind your booth all day – I’ll tell you what. As a gesture of my goodwill, I’ll let your company keep the money. That way, they’ll think you’re a model employee.”

Ok, we all know I didn’t say that. But, what possible answer could she have been expecting from me? What difference did any of this questioning make? Surely, it wasn’t written into Ticketek’s refund policy that in order to obtain a refund, the customer must be subjected to dumb and pointless questioning from a Nazi she-male in the hope that they get intimidated and walk away?

The point is that the Nazi chose to flex her muscles for no reason other than to try and annoy me. After all, she knew what I knew - were I not trying to get a refund, I could have cold blank refused to answer these questions. Where is the relevance? How could any answer to those questions led to me not getting the refund? Surely I could have answered "I now have plans to sit at home, turn on some dirty movies and have relations with myself on Thursday night" and they would have to give me the refund.

Finally, after waiting a few minutes, the Nazi puts on her most robotic voice and, through an anguished face and clenched teeth, spat "The money will be in your account within 48 hours." It actually physically hurt her to say it.

Salute to Customer Service, otherwise known as Dumb companies work in threes (by Shtine Time)

If you’re a dumb, bald, fat, ugly slob
And you find you’re in need of a job
Don’t feel alone
Just get on the phone
And go work for Ticketek, Silver Service or Virgin Blue. You’ll feel right at home.

Melbourne Part 1

2007-03-07T10:35:00.000+11:00

Broadly speaking, everything you do in life can be brought back what you did, what was good about it, what was bad about it and what you would have done differently.

My work calls these ABCDs - Achievements, Benefits, Concerns, Do-Nexts. It's a joyless way of summarising your life into bullet points and categorising.

Anyways, seeing as it's my 3rd day here in Mexico (Melbourne ... south of the border, for those who've never heard Victoria referred to as Mexico) and I'm here for work, here goes for a Shtine Time corporate-style status update.

Achievements

Arrived in Melbourne office on time for a 9am start Monday morning. This meant making my 6:45 am flight. This meant a 5am wakeup. All of the above are firsts for me.

Went to my neighbour's house (aka - Crown Casino) on Monday night. It was packed full of people at 10:30 pm. Put $5 on 23 red and it came up.

Went for a 10km jog along the Yarra River. Like Bondi, except you die if you enter the water. Melbourne is a very healthy looking city - there are literally hundreds of people jogging and riding bikes home.

Have communicated with the Mumbai and Bangalore teams who I will be working with over the next 5 weeks. Communicated is possibly the wrong word. I definitely had phone connections with them. They talk faster than ... the fastest talking Indian person you've ever met.

All my mates here have kids. The one I went out with last night has a 2 year old and one a few weeks old. Both of them made stinky when I was there last night. This was more their achievement, then mine...

Benefits
Girls in Melbourne are so friendly ... Last night, one invited me home and before I knew it, she'd taken off her pants... Pics below.

Accomodation is a 4 minute walk to the Office and is cleaner and larger than my permanent residence in Bondi.

There are approximately 120 coffee shops between my Accomodation and the Office. The coffee in Melbourne is very good. My project team drinks a minimum of 2 large lattes every day. I've heard rumours that the project manager is hooked into a drip which feeds him caffeine intravenously 24 hours a day.

Client office is in Port Melbourne - the foyer looks like a car dealership and I've already been informed I'm not allowed to take photos, or for that matter, bring out my camera phone (or for that matter, even own one). We are in a room the size of my bedroom - 3 x 4. There are 6 of us in this room and I have a view of a wall painted off white. They have a cafeteria which looks like a prisoners eating area and the food tastes appropriately. (I realise this shouldn't really be in "Benefits", but my "Concerns" list was getting a little long and I don't really enjoy complaining...)

Concerns
5am wakeup? Are you kidding me? I didn't know there was a 5am in the morning... at night, sure, everyone knows there's a 5am at night, but in the morning?

Flight was pretty ordinary - Virgin was crowded and full of suits and carry on bags and tired looking people - it looked like the crowd at the end of a wedding - haggard looking, poorly tied ties hanging at awkward angles... and who designs the seats? Upright or non-upright (What is the opposite of upright? They never tell you that on the planes. They never say "Please ensure your seat is in a 'non-upright' position) - regardless, I couldn't sleep because my head kept sliding off the seat and waking me up.

There is a newspaper here called the "Herald Sun" which is published every day. This explains why everywhere I went, there was copies of the Sunday papers lying around. It took me until today (Wednesday) to figure this out because I'd never picked one up ... after all, why would I bother reading Sunday's paper? The giveaway was the contemporary headline on the front page, underneath the title - "HERALD SUN - Wednesday, March 7"

Driving in Melbourne CBD seems normal until people try to turn right. To turn right, you need to pull over to the left hand side, wait for all traffic to pass, then turn right across all the lanes. When traffic in both directions is attempting to do the same thing, there is a beautiful, synchronised effect that looks like cars going around a non-existent roundabout. At some point, I must set myself a task to camp out on the busier corners with a video camera and send film of the imminent crashes to Australia's Funniest Home Videos.

Have been in Melbourne for over 48 hours already and have not set foot into a bar or restaurant.

Do Nexts
Set foot into bars and restaurants. DG to take ownership. Estimated time until delivery: approximately 9 hours.

Organise to go to Formula 1 Grand Prix

Summary

There are subtle differences between Melbourne and Sydney. There are also massive differences between Melbourne and Sydney, but I'm only interested in the subtle ones.

At first observation, there appears to be a lot of places for gambling here - clubs and pokies open until 3 in the morning, even in the suburbs on a Tuesday night. And, there are seemingly 7-11's on every corner.

From this (and all of the above), I can deduce that the culture here is very much one of: Wake up, get coffee, get snacks, gamble, make babies, repeat.

Dirtiest of all dirties - the end of an era

2006-11-17T17:20:00.000+11:00

Castlereagh St is in the heart of Sydney. There is almost nothing distinct about Castlereagh St, other than that it is between the Hyde Park bound Elizabeth St and the pedestrian mass of Pitt St.

But, for all its lack of charm, Castlereagh St contains a diamond in its rough exterior, and I’m not talking about the Tiffany’s jewellery store.

The dirty laksa.

Actually, the dirtiest laksa.

An institution nestled in the bowels of the heart of Sydney. Those who knew and loved her, will mourn her loss, as she closed her doors for one last time.

Laksa, for those not in the know, is a giant bowl of Malay inspired cuisine, full of coconut milk, chili, noodles and tofu, without a vegetable in sight, unless you count those bean sprouts they add to the mix. Or if you ordered vegetables, in which case, your explosive bowl would contain some green beans.

Sometimes, I wonder if the laksa was really that good, or if it was just the atmosphere of the place where we were eating.

Resembling a giant underground soup kitchen, expectant diners would bound down the stairs covered in carpet that dated from the Ming dynasty (the stairs, not the diners).

Halfway down the stairs, a specials board hung flaccid. I never understood why this place advertised food other than laksa. I guess it was in the hope of generating enough curiosity such that someone, anyone would order something, anything other than laksa. Perhaps it was for those weaker of stomach, used to more amateur ingestive interpretations of Oriental cuisine.

The sights and sounds of the place will be forever etched in my memory. The din of the kitchen, as workers struggled to turn around soup orders within 2 minutes. The tinny sound of the microphone as a broken Asian accent would call out the number on the raffle ticket that they would hand you to keep track of who had ordered what.

My favourite sight, however, was the little old lady with the bucket. Reportedly the grandmother of the owner of the establishment, her frail figure would navigate between the tangle of chairs and bodies, hunched over whilst stacking the bowls and emptying the leftover soup into the bucket which she would carry with one hand, while wiping down the tables with her other available hand. All the while with the largest, toothy grin you have ever seen.

The furniture resembled the same kind that you would see in someone’s backyard, in use for a gathering around a barbeque. The room was packed tight with large, clumsy plastic chairs and tables that matched in material, but not colour. The chairs were complete with arms that bent at completely the wrong angle, perfect for eating a burger and nearly impossible for using both chopsticks and a soup spoon without completely hunching over the table.

This underground cavern was always guaranteed an eclectic crowd. White Anglos in suits would hunch over their bowls in groups. Young professionals, seemingly more suited for the up market lunch venues, would mingle as though completely at home. An Asian boy and girl would stare lingeringly over their soup bowls, completely ensconced in a second or third date. Trendy groups of Asian mid-twenty-somethings sit efficiently devouring their lunches, showing off the latest trends in mobile phone technology.

For a while, it was a Thursday lunchtime tradition with some of the boys. Lewko and Gellert the 2 main stayers, but often flagged with cameo appearances by other troopers keen to partake in this lunchtime stomach destroying tradition. Every Thursday, in preparation for soccer training followed by a large night out, I used to line my stomach with a bowl in the hope that maybe this Thursday I wouldn’t end up slobbering my problems to the guy in the kebab shop.

The colour of the laksa was distinctive – a spicy red slick floating on a yellow sea of water. The colour of laksa, however, is even more distinctive when contrasted with the background of a pressed white cotton work shirt.

And thus, a great proclamation went out across the land and mankind shouted to the Almighty “Oh Almighty, thou art great” and the Almighty responded by inventing the bib.

For 30 cents, we would all forgo our social inhibitions to avoid looking like drooling 12 year olds to attach a tissue paper dry-cleaning insurance policy to our necks. After a while, it started to get competitive to see who could wear more laksa on their bib without getting any onto their clothes.

The bibs weren’t the only place our competitive tensions ran deep. Eventually, our manliness got put to the test and we began to compete over the amount of chili we would add to our soups.. It started with an extra teaspoon. Followed by a heaped teaspoon and soon 2 teaspoons. Finally, we reached chili saturation point with 2 heaped teaspoons. For those who’ve never tried, 2 heaped teaspoons of chili gave a laksa the equivalent level of toxicity as battery acid. The soup would take on a pungent look, almost swamp-like, as though it were capable of swallowing a car if one could be driven into it.

You know those commercials raising money for starving children in Africa, or raising money for disease? Surely it’s a matter of time before the following hits our TV screens.

“In the modern, multicultural world of today, where food has been introduced from overseas for unfit Western stomachs, there is a disease that is killing millions of Westerners every year. Chili overdose is a serious condition and cannot be taken lightly.

Symptoms of chili overdose include sweating, sniffling, coughing, sneezing and over-anxious bowel movements. Chili accidentally going down the wrong pipe will result in a hacking fit that cannot be quenched by any volume of Coca Cola. Mild overdoses of chili often result in making the men’s bathrooms at work uninhabitable, while severe overdoses of chili resulted in paralysis, unconsciousness and eventually death. But YOU can help…”

And now, it’s over. No more hacking fits. No more struggling to walk back to work. No more wheezing fits at soccer training, completely unable to breath or run. No more dirtiest of all dirties. As I sweat and sniffle for one last time, bib completely covered in soup, I mourn the loss of one of Sydney’s institutions while my stomach breathes a sigh of relief.

Naïve stomach. Now to find something else to destroy you with.

Horse racing is not a sport

2006-11-07T10:24:00.000+11:00

Late October and early November are officially the bane of my existence.

Late October, early November (let's call it Lamber - pronounced "Lame-beer") is the time of year when all football codes have finished for the year and cricket hasn't quite yet started.

Lamber should be a time of year full of promise, where you plan for the next part of the year when little blonde things run around wearing not much.

Lamber is the month long period where you start to contemplate getting in shape for summer while planning various debaucherous summer activities designed to get you completely out of shape.

Lamber is also the time of year when newspapers go out of business.

I've done some research (ie. made it up) and here's a little history of the newspaper.

A long time ago, someone decided to pulp some trees and circulate relevant things that had happened to the population.

Obviously, there were different categories of things that were relevant to the population.

Some of these things were local happenings. These went under the heading "News".

Some things happened elsewhere and were placed in the section "World"

Early newspapers that reported "News" and "World" went out of business pretty quickly.

It was only when some smart editor started to publish a different section that newspapers began to establish profitible businesses. Happenings around the world involving balls, be they round or oval shaped, were reported under the heading "Sport. These happenings tended to be of most significance to the population and they began buying newspapers. Once they began buying newspapers, they realised that there was all these other sections in the newspaper and occassionally even started to read the Local and World sections.

Herein lies the issue for newspapers. In the month of Lamber, there are no happenings with round or oval shaped balls to report on. Newspapers quickly realised that unless they put something into their sport sections during the month of Lamber, they would go out of business.

That something was horse racing.

As far as I know, horses get raced all year round. So, why is it that there is a one month period where seemingly nothing else takes place?

Sometime between the beginning of newspapers and now, there was a shift. Instead of publishing information relevant to the population, it was decided that what got published was what defined what was relevant to the population. It's a technique called propoganda and has been used to great effect by Nazi Gemany, Communist East Europe and the horse racing community.

In an effort to sell newspapers and promote horse racing, the 2 groups banded together to convince the rest of the population that:

a) Horse racing is a sport
b) Horse racing is of significant importance to the population such that it warrants being reported on.

This con job culminates in the biggest event in the national calendar - a horse race - which coincidentally happens to take place exactly one week before cricket season starts.

The Melbourne Cup.

The so-called "Race that Stops a Nation."

Yawn.

What a pathetic excuse for a bit of nation stopping.

Sure, there's often heaps of alcohol involved and it allows this great country to fulfil the greatest of all Australian pasttimes - gambling.

Seriously, though, there are countless things that you could stop a nation for.

When the Socceroos made the World Cup earlier this year, the nation stopped sleeping for a couple of weeks, but definitely kept ticking over.

But a handicapped horse race stops the nation. To clarify, the horses themselves aren't handicapped. That would be impressive - I'd even considering watching that.

Instead, what we watch is 24 horses of varying weight, age and gender run 2 miles carrying miniature versions of human beings dressed in ridiculous, shiny colours.

Yep. That's the "Race that Stops a Nation."

I've decided enough is enough. Next year, let's get the 24 midgets and the 24 horses and put them on a field chasing a round ball with a stick.

We'll call it Jockey Hockey. It may not stop the nation, but it's got to be better than horse racing.

Pigeon Politics

2006-07-26T13:28:00.000+10:00

Last night I killed a pigeon.

I had to. I mean, I didn't want to kill the pigeon.

I was pulling my car out of my garage, on my way to dinner, and I see this pigeon with a broken wing and it was thrashing and writhing around on the ground in absolute agony.

I was stuck with a conundrum - what to do? I quickly summed up my options as follows:

1. Take it to a vet, who would put it down
2. Get a towel and a hammer.
3. Run it over with my car.

I did what any humane person would have done in the circumstances.

I chose option 3 and ended the pigeon's life with my car. I even backed up over it to make sure I finished the job. I definitely heard a loud cracking noise, akin to a dog chowing down on a bone.

The pigeon is currently resting in pieces, its insides on its outside, wing pointing upwards in an accusing manner.

Anyways, everything was going fine until this morning when I got a phone call from Kofi Annan.

What I'd missed is that over the last few days, a new organisation had sprung up in the Australia known as PIGEON, which stands for Political Incitement - Guerilla Exchanges On Neutrals. They describe themselves as a completely pacifist political entity hell bent on the destruction of western society and especially Israel through non-violent militant means targeted at civilian populations.

What started as me killing a pigeon with a broken wing had warped slightly by the time it got to the UN.

Kofi accused me, as a proxy of Israel, of attempting to destroy PIGEON because of the behaviour of its militant wing.

When I tried to explain that it was actually a pigeon with a broken wing, which I ran over with my German car, he claimed that I used disproportionate force on a civilian population due to the actions of a militant minority.

"I had to kill it. The problem was with the wing - you can't separate the wing from the body," I protested, "they're one and the same."

Annan started screaming like a madman possessed "Your response is completely disproportionate. I demand an immediate ceasefire to be brokered by myself. If you don't accept my demands, rest assured, I will write an extremely strongly worded letter"

I hung up at this point and went to buy a Sydney Morning Herald.

Apparently, by this point, the press had gotten hold of the story.

Israeli disproportionate force against PIGEON, innocents killed

Hopes for peace in the Middle East were shattered last night, as a Jewish settler in Australia last night slaughtered a PIGEON activist in Bondi.

Shocked onlookers reported in horror that the settler ran over the activist several times in a manner that brought back memories of Israelis running over peace activists with bulldozers.

Middle East scholar Chamana Chamana said "I mean, sure, these activists have antagonised him in the past. They would have attacked him from above on several occasions and may have stolen food from him. But to respond in this manner is surely a use of disproportionate force and will only serve to make the relationship between us and them even more unstable."

Leader of the ATO (Aviary Terrorist Organisation), Col. Koh Katoo responded in an ominous warning, saying "We will unleash holy terror from above."

It is understood that the pigeon was engaged in a cross-border raid at the time of its cold blooded murder.

Apparently, it wasn't just the Herald that reported this story. I've later discovered the story to have been reported around the world:

Fox News - Hero kills homicide militant pigeon

The Guardian - US stands by as Israel slaughters innocent pigeon with German tanks

The Sun - Beckham slept with PIGEON - photos on page 3

al-Jazeera - Martyr pigeon slain by infidel

CNN - Yankees lose 3 straight

Meanwhile, some of the local newspapers picked the story up as well.

Daily Telegraph - Serial killer on the loose in Bondi.

Socialist Left Weekly - New Industrial Relations laws lead to death of carrier pigeon at work.

Do you think I wanted to kill the pigeon?

I was going out to buy my dinner, not slaughter it.

I'm completely traumatised by this and one thing's for sure - I'll never be able to eat chicken again.

Except chicken schnitzel. Mmm... schnitzel.

Working with wankers

2006-06-17T11:41:00.001+10:00

It's a beautiful Saturday morning in Sydney. I'm completely hungover, and I'm starting to notice that a lot of my more recent blogs have begun in the same fashion, but this is not a story about my gradual decline into alcoholism.

I'm saving that story for my 2nd biography. I've decided that if rock stars and sport stars can have multiple biographies by the age of 30, then there's no reason I shouldn't. Even though my sporting and musical achievements to date wouldn't fill a page of the book, there's still no reason why I can't both partake in and document my slide into substance abuse before recovering magnificently to lead a solid, suburban life.

But I digress.

See, I'm actually meant to be in Melbourne this weekend. Last night's bender was brought about by a late change of heart by my current employer, who decided that my presence in the office was required on the weekend. I decided to grace them with solely my physical presence (think a corporate equivalent of Braveheart "You can take away my life, but you cannot take my freedom!!") and I'm sure I reek of cheap gin right now.

It's not that bad. I actually really like some of the people I work with (barring those mentioned in previous stories)

But it's in the inherent nature of the management consultant that they (we?) have to be as fastidious as possible in everything we do.

Fastidious: having high and often capricious standards, difficult to please

Fastidious : showing or demanding excessive delicacy of care

Fastidious : reflecting a meticulous, sensitive, or demanding attitude

And it's not just that we're anal.

It's also that we pride ourselves on "thinking outside the box".

Thinking outside the box is possibly one of the wankiest expressions you'll ever hear. It typically means "not capable of spotting the obvious, even if it's in front of your nose".

And now we arrive at the crux of the issue.

I'm running a tipping competition at work for the World Cup. Should be pretty easy, right? I mean, you just send out an Excel spreadsheet for people to fill out, they fill it out and send it back to you, no questions asked.

Right?

Apparently not.

So, for the enjoyment of one and all, here are the genius replies to my email from people attempting to enter the tipping competition. Please remember that every email below comes from a holistic, free-spirited, all-rounded genius who "thinks outside the box" and is capable of collaboratively adding value to your business going forward. And, more importantly, is billed out at at least $2000 a day.

Apparently, I offer excellent customer service

"Hi David; may I say what an excellent service you're running here, nice one!"

Not everyone actually seems to read their emails

"Hi David, What are the details for the world cup tipping comp?"

Apparently, my instructions weren't crystal clear

In response to "Just so you know, you've only sent me tips up to match 16."

"Hi David.Yeah that's right .... the rules say to submit your tips:"For the group games - by the start of the 1st game of that round"

By 1st "round", i took this to mean:- The bunch of games that all countries play first (e.g. match 16)

By 1st "round", i took this to mean:- The bunch of games that all countries play second (e.g. match 32)etc

So by the 1st round, does this actually mean the whole group stages?"

And some people just don't know how to follow instructions. And feel the need to brag

"Here you go mate, I'm off to German next Thursday, can't wait. For the matches have just done like a betting slip (1, 2, X). One thing, for the novices they may not be sure about putting in a draw for the group games."

Some people think they could do it better

"Great to see your effort to set this up. It'll be a big effort to maintain this. Have you seeked any web option to manage this comp ? ie http://www.oztips.com"

While others don't seem to think they could do it at all

"With absolutely no idea about football... except Footballers Wives (so I was wondering why there are not categories for best cat fight and frock??), here are my tips."

Some people clearly have too much time on their hands

"Very good initiative! Made me think about what the result will be of the pool games. Made some improvements on the sheet, and thought that I'll share them with you. (Included 1,2,3 selection, points gathered by team, and auto selection of pool winner). Haven't finished completing the form, need to revise some pools (but of course winner is simple pick)"

Some people just HAVE to make a comment

"Please find attached my world cup tipping sheet.. If I don't with the ultimate prize then the whole things a rort!"

Some people think sarcasm is a form of wit

"I'm *so* excited."

Some people are obviously penny pinching at the moment

"Guys, am guessing the competition is free? who is providing the prizes"

Someone takes themself way too seriously

"This is my forecast..."

Someone (who left an indecipherable tip, in response to my email "Just quickly - what was your selection for when Australia gets knocked out?") needs to learn how to spell the word "call"

"sorry can you please cal me"

Or the word "tip"

"Here are my tipps ..."

Or the word "is"

"Attached if my entry for the world cup tipping comp."

Some people struggle with basic grammar

"Here are my World Cup Tipping competition."

Some people obviously are in more than one tipping competition

"Sorry I sent the worng one . This is the correct one."

One of the Asian guys at work obviously has a rasta influence

"Here 'tis. Thanks .... have a great one and good luck to da tipping."

Someone mistook me for a girl with the surname Grundner

Dave, Got that by mistake - over to you.

Of course, I couldn't just be ORGANISING this tipping competition... I'm also FACILITATING it.

"Please find attached my entry into the competition...good on ya for organising/facilitating this competition!!"

But lastly, my absolute favourite. The management consultant who has enough foresight to predict the future.

"Pls. find enclosed my tipping competition form. My only observation is you have not provided options to fill in winners for Round of 16 and QF any where"

Remember - Consulting. Constantly adding value at $2000 a day.

Don't you know who I am?

2006-02-24T15:54:00.001+11:00

Have you ever had one of those mornings where you woke up feeling disconnected from your entire body? Where you just didn't feel too good?

I'll give you an example. It's 7am, you've had 3 hours sleep, you've polished off enough rum and coke to match the sugar production of Queensland and the humous stains on the front of your shirt are drying nicely. Your alarm goes off and you're not exactly sure why.

It's Friday morning (again), which means that last night was Thursday night (again), which means that I'm dizzy and craving greasy food.

I decided this morning to put a more positive spin on these recurring incidents. Indulge me for a moment as we try to unravel the synergy of the Thursday night - Friday morning.

For those of you thinking "Shtine's become a bit of a wanker ever since he started this consulting gig," I'll define the word 'synergy' and then explain the context.

Synergy - a mutually advantageous conjunction of distinct elements.

The massive Thursday followed by painful Friday is clearly synergistic, as each brings its own unique advantages to the flow that is an average week in my life.

Massive Thursdays provide a necessary opportunity to unrelentingly release any emotional energy or stress, built up over the week, on an unprepared group of backpackers in the Bondi area.

Painful Fridays provides the perfect end to an imperfect week, effectively shortening the work week and lengthening the weekend by a day.

Synergy. (For more on the Thursday night - Friday morning relationship, click here)

To further explore other synergies that exist, I'd like to turn to the teachings of my learned brother, Jamaal.

The Book of Jamaal covers the Thursday night - Friday morning synergy by posing a question.

"Has anyone tried shaving after being really hungover and possibly still shmished?"

This is a "If a bear shits in the woods and no-one is around to hear it..." style of questioning. Deep, profound and full of shit.

The Book of Jamaal then goes on to attempt to answer the question, by saying "I can tell you my face looks like an army field hospital today."

I was lucky enough to bear witness to the culmination of Jamaal's lifetime worth of work - a new form of synergy that will transform the human culinary experience for generations to come.

Important to remember is the biblical setting of the synergy.

A night out with a group of boys at a steakhouse.

Once again, we see the synergy represent itself in the form of a question.

"Steak or ribs?"

For many generations, scholars have pondered this question only to wind up with a steak knife, no bib and a rack of ribs, or even worse, a bib, no steak knife and a bloody mass of meat in front of them.

With the wisdom of his forefathers, Jamaal synergistically (I've been waiting years to use this word in context. Such a great word. Repeat after me ... synergistically.) devours the dilemma faster than you can say "pepper sauce"

"The answer is simple. You will order the steak. I will order the ribs. You will cut the steak. I will cut the ribs. I will choose the piece of steak. You will choose the serving of ribs. We will each have french fries AND a baked potato."

Synergy. The Yin meets the Yang, life balances and all is beautiful.

But sometimes, life doesn't balance. Sometimes, life isn't beautiful.

Sometimes, the Yin won't meet the Yang.

Sometimes, if you quote Yin and Yang in a university paper, a professor will give you a mark of 35% with the feedback "more smarter writing" and question the use of the terms "Yin" and "Yang", saying "they should have been listed as references in the bibliography (a list of the books used as reference material)." Some lecturers will admit they have "no idea" what the terms mean and assumed they were references to people's names. [see more]

I quote the above story because it's a good read.

Why?

Because we relate to it.

Why?

Because, often in life, for inexplicable reasons, we find ourselves in the position where we have an antagonist. We become answerable to someone in a position of authority who is any of the following (choose the words that relate to your predicament) - dumber, slower, uglier, smellier, more idiotic, more imbecilic, fatter, skinnier, taller, shorter, of uncertain sexual disposition, an alcoholic, a drug user, a snob (really hate these ones), a patroniser, a womaniser or an all around BIATCH! And all of them have no idea whatsoever.

When we encounter these people, and we've all encountered these people, they tend to project their own insecurities onto us and usually this is because they're in a position to do so. Often it is incomprehensible that they were able to get into the position whereby you become answerable to them. And always are they the same people who had their heads flushed down the toilet in primary school.

Gregory

I've sought advice over this next paragraph, and most people have warned me to be careful in publishing this. This is one of those pieces of writing that you hear about in the news. Usually, the headlines start "Man fired for writing about his boss in a blog". So, I've thought about it and weighed up the consequences. It would be hypocritical of me to disagree with the majority stance of not publishing the Danish cartoons if I wasn't prepared to write about something I strongly believed in, even with the risk of adverse reaction. And at the end of the day, I reckon this bloke's a dick and needs to be exposed. And what better place to expose dicks than on the Groin's Grab?

Gregory. There's the 1st giveaway. When someone has a name that lends itself to an obvious abbreviation and they insist on you calling them by their extended name, it smacks of purported intellectual snobbery and superiority. The relationship between snobbiness and pretentiousness is direct. It took me a week to realise that intellectual snobbery is no substitute for intellect itself. So, what does someone do when challenged by an 'inferior'? Easy. When challenged by an inferior, always reinforce that person's inferiority. Do it successfully and two things will happen.

1. You will start to believe it.
2. They will start to believe it and behave accordingly.

It's phychological bullying done from a perceived (by both parties to the bullying) height. And as we all know, all bullies are trying to do is project their insecurities onto other people. And it's all done in a Canadian accent, which is close enough to an American accent and as we all know from the movie Office Space, there's nothing worse than copping it from above in an annoying North American accent, m'kay?

Example 1

"Yes?"

"I've just come up to see the outcome of that sales presentation I worked on"

"Oh, well, as general feedback, don't."

Example 2

Having just worked a 60 hour week, receiving an email that began "Between you and me, you need some help" (his emphasis, not mine) He concludes the email with "These are examples from some past work I've been involved in. Please study them and then schedule 30 minutes with me in a couple of weeks to discuss your observations." 30 minutes? How about 10 rounds of 3, out in the alley behind work, right now, biatch!

The way this guy talks is obtuse. You never get a document, you "collate and distil information". You never fire employees, you "undergo a process of resource liberation" This guy is a seagull. He shits on you from above and then flies off leaving you to clean up the mess.

So, what do you do with people like this? Well, something that worked well for me at a former place of employment was to create a hotmail account in the person's name. Then I found out a few tidbits of personal information - like his wife's name, his address and his home phone number. Then I entered into conversation with a Nigerian email scammer. Nothing too serious of course, more of a "here's my home number, give me a call at 3am our time" Revenge is a dish best served when the recipient has no idea where it's coming from. Which leads me to my next group of sociopaths.

Bouncers.

Most bouncers actually break the rule on having had their heads flushed down the toilet. If anything, they were the one's doing the flushing.

How many dumb bouncers are there out there? More to the point, how many thoroughly frustrating bouncers are there out there?

There was the bouncer who wouldn't let me into an empty bar because I was wearing 3/4 pants and he said they were shorts.

There was the bouncer at Forster RSL who wouldn't let us in because my "shorts were frayed", even though the next group had frayed shorts, whereas in reality he was too polite to say "because you're from the city and you drink lattes and this is the one time when I get to make you my inferior."

The countless bouncers who haven't liked my shoes has left me with a complex. One time I did say "If the purpose of a shoe policy is to filter the classy people through the door, why don't you look at the post code on my drivers license" but that didn't really get me too far.

The bouncer who kicked my mate out of the Bondi Hotel (and let's face it, you have to be catatonic to get kicked out of the Bondi Hotel) because he blinked for too long and was deemed to be asleep and therefore too drunk to stay.

Lately, I've started noticing bouncers engaging in race relations. Watch this sometime at places like Cargo Bar. If anyone of the dreaded demographic group with a "middle-eastern appearance" makes it to the front of the line, all of a sudden, the bar will have a guest list.

I got stopped the other night in Kings Cross at the door.

"Where are you coming from?"

My answer - "Bondi Beach."

"Nah, I meant, where've you been drinking"

There is only one correct answer to this question.

"Oh, just had a glass of wine with dinner."

As it turns out, the photo has rubbed off my ID to the point where it is unrecognisable. Not that it's an issue surely - a quick glance at my chest will prove that I'm older than 17. Still, always an issue for the dumbasses that adorn the front of most houses of drink in this city.

"Mate, I can't let you in with this. Do you have anything else?"

At this point, there's an answer that always works as well.

"Just 3 credit cards."

Why do bouncers feel the need to assert their superiority? Why do bar owners let them? When did it become good business to turn customers away? When did it become a race to see who could be the trendiest bar that went out of business first?

OK, done with bouncers - which antagonist group shall I attack now?

University lecurers? Bunch of socialists too inept to put their theories into practice

Politicians? Bunch of back scratchers who already receive more publicity than they deserve.

Taxi drivers at 3am who refuse to pick you up?

Nah. None of them.

I'm too good for all of that.

Son of a beach

2005-09-05T14:53:00.000+10:00

Well, I shaved my hair a couple of weeks ago. Not completely off, but certainly short enough to reveal that the corners of my fringe are a little bit further back than last time I checked.

I believe the technical term for this effect is "receding"

And I, for one, am not going to stand for it.

I'm going to enlist the help of some lawyers and start a class action in genetic negligence.

I can see the trial now.

"Dr Grunstein, is it not true that you are bald?"

"Mrs Grunstein, is it not true that you have a paternal history of baldness in your family?"

"David Grunstein, is it not true that someone pissed in your gene pool?"

In life and in general, we have a lot to thank our parents for. They frame us as people, through a combination of genetics and environment.

When I was a child, my parents taught me never to accept anything from a stranger. Nothing revolutionary here - my understanding is that this is a hard and fast rule, legislated by all parents out of pure common sense and a fear of the unknown (and possibly perverse).

My question is as follows. How do American parents reconcile the above rule with their kids trick or treating on Halloween, a cultural phenomenon requiring the breaking of the above rule?

Oh, and by the way, this is not a crack at Americans. I hate how trendy it has become to be anti-American - it's like, if you totally want to score some points in public, make some comment about how America is evil and Bush is evil and you'll be the most popular person around.

In fact, I would go so far as to say that I am now Pro-American. I love America. America IS the greatest country in the world. They have the best sports, the hottest and sluttiest girls and the best pizza - open, 24 hours a day every day. What a land of opportunity!! The rest of the world has NO idea what they're missing out on.

Let's think about it for a second. Over in Iran, we've got some religious nutcase building a nuclear bomb. Think he's ever spent a summer in Cancun?

Doubtful. Doubtful he's even seen a beach.

And here's the crux of the matter. Around the world today, there are many hotspots. Look at them on a map and they've all got something in common.

No beaches.

Middle East, Central Africa - the list goes on. These areas have 2 things in common. Lots of sand, no beaches.

Australians are descendents of the English. So, why are the English so much more uptight than the Australians?

They don't have beaches.

I am a firm believer of the theory that the vast majority of the problems in the world would be resolved if more countries had a beach culture.

I still am, even given the "racial riots" (media expression, not mine) we have seen in Sydney over the past week. (By the way, can anyone actually pinpoint when Australians forgot about being racist to Asians and started on people from the Middle East?)

Bondi over the weekend was absolutely brilliant - Blue skies, 30 degrees, warm water, an empty beach, no traffic and a thoroughly entertaining police operation in place for 2 days straight.

This morning's newspapers claimed a victory in the battle. The effective placement of "heavy police presence at several Sydney beachside suburbs at the weekend averted a potential disaster"

So, how effective were the police?

Well, when 6 Japanese kids on the beach decided to have a running race over a distance of about 20 metres, they attracted the attention of 3 cop cars (sirens blazing from around the corner) and 10 foot soldiers.

Then, there was the group of 10 cops gathering on a corner next to a pizza place. Clearly set up to monitor traffic, but having no traffic coming past, they were in a circle being briefed on the strategic priorities of Operation "Keep the Middle East out of the East."

You could just imagine the conversation ... "So, we've got 3 margheritas, 2 Supremes ... hold the anchovies, 1 BBQ Meat Lovers ... did anyone want garlic bread ..."

How about the plumbing van with "persons of Middle Eastern descent" (I love that expression) that, surprise surprise, had a heap of pipes in it?

And of the 25 charges laid over the weekend, all were for drink driving or traffic violations as morons attempted to break the law whilst going through police roadblocks.

Hmm... so the threat for potential disaster was clearly huge.

But the worst part about this "threat" is that the government actually came out and said "Don't go to the beaches this weekend". As distinguished from "Be careful at the beaches this weekend."

In a country like Australia, where beach-going is as much part of our national being as Pommie-bashing, whinging and Tall-Poppy cutting, this is an alarming development.

It would be like telling an American that they weren't allowed to bear arms. A Canadian they weren't allowed to have maple syrup on their pancakes. A French person that they weren't allowed to surrender in battle.

Our rights as Australians have been abused, thousands of local beach businesses have been damaged by a lack of business and the government is claiming a Pyrrhic victory in an imaginary battle.

And the worst part of it all?

My mum never let me go trick or treating.

Top law firm in fight ... with itself

2005-09-05T12:58:00.000+10:00

The following is extracted from an email chain between 2 co-workers at one of Australia's most prestigious law firms ... Allens Arthur Robinson.

I wonder what matter number "Bitchfight" goes under and more importantly, who's paying for this (thoroughly entertaining) exchange?

-----Original Message-----
From: Nugent, Katrina
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 9:39 AM
To: sydflr19A - Senior Associates; sydflr19L - Lawyers; sydflr19S - Support Staff
Subject: My lunch...

Yesterday I put my lunch in the fridge on Level 19 which included a packet of ham, some cheese slices and two slices of bread which was going to be for my lunch today. Over night it has gone missing and as I have no spare money to buy another lunch today, I would appreciate being reimbursed for it.

Katrina Nugent
ext 4739/4434

-----Original Message-----
From: Bird, Melinda
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 9:55 AM
To: sydflr19A - Senior Associates; sydflr19L - Lawyers; sydflr19S - Support Staff
Subject: RE: My lunch...

Katrina

There are items fitting your exact description in the level 20 fridge. Are you sure you didn't place your lunch in the wrong fridge yesterday?

Regards

Melinda x4142

-----Original Message-----
From: Nugent, Katrina
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:06 AM
To: Bird, Melinda
Subject:

Melinda

Probably best you don't reply to all next time, would be annoyed to the lawyers. The kitchen was not doing dinner last night, so obviously someone has helped themselves to my lunch. Really sweet of you to investigate for me!

Katrina Nugent
ext 4739

-----Original Message-----
From: Bird, Melinda
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:14 AM
To: Nugent, Katrina
Subject: RE:

Katrina

Since I used to be a float and am still on the level 19 email list I couldn't help but receive your ridiculous email - lucky me! You use our kitchen all the time for some unknown reason and I saw the items you mentioned in the fridge so naturally thought you may have placed them in the wrong fridge. Thanks I know I'm sweet and I only had your best interests at heart. Now as you would say, "BYE"!

Regards
Melinda

-----Original Message-----
From: Nugent, Katrina
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:15 AM
To: Bird, Melinda
Subject: RE:

I'm not blonde!!!

-----Original Message-----
From: Bird, Melinda
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:16 AM
To: Nugent, Katrina
Subject: RE:

Being a brunette doesn't mean you're smart though!

-----Original Message-----
From: Nugent, Katrina
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:17 AM
To: Bird, Melinda
Subject: RE:

I definitely wouldn't trade places with you for "the world"!

-----Original Message-----
From: Bird, Melinda
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:19 AM
To: Nugent, Katrina
Subject: RE:

I wouldn't trade places with you for the world...I don't want your figure!

-----Original Message-----
From: Nugent, Katrina
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:21 AM
To: Bird, Melinda
Subject: RE:

Let's not get person "Miss Can't Keep A Boyfriend". I am in a happy relationship, have a beautiful apartment, brand new car, high pay job...say no more!!

-----Original Message-----
From: Bird, Melinda
Sent: Thursday, 1 September 2005 10:23 AM
To: Nugent, Katrina
Subject: RE:

Oh my God I'm laughing! happy relationship (you have been with so many guys - yep really happy relationship with Gav BACKHOUSE), beautiful apartment (so what), brand new car (me too), high pay job (I earn more)....say plenty more.....I have 5 guys at the moment! haha.

This is the quality of personnel from a firm that describes THEMSELVES as "a leading Australian law firm" with "focus on excellence and our clients."

Now hiring ... dyslexia, sluttiness and superficiality are attributes that will be highly rewarded with "a beautiful apartment, brand new car, high pay job".

No wonder that after buying all of those things, employees "have no spare money to buy another lunch today."

Update: Getting some good publicity at independentsources.com

Huge Thursdays = Painful Fridays

2005-07-01T14:21:00.000+10:00

Out around town, hordes of people are effecting the 4 day week by destroying themselves and their livers on Thursday night.

In our case, it was the early hours of Friday morning. About 4 early hours, from memory.

See, when you enter Friday in a daze, not only can't you do anything productive, the day moves a lot quicker.

It hurts, though.

This morning, I woke up before my alarm. I find it impossible to sleep on a hangover. This makes Friday the one day I'm capable of getting to work on time.

I believe the trigger to waking up was my parched state. My mouth felt as though it had crawled through a desert, as the last traces of moisture dried up.

My brain felt as though it had just gotten off one of those crappy rides at an amusement park - one of the ones that spin you in heaps of directions leaving you really dizzy, short-changed and wondering how anyone with a sense of balance finds them fun.

Every morning personal routines, such as showering, brushing your teeth and using the bathroom (hopefully in that order) are requisite on a hangover. This morning, I had problems brushing my teeth. A major field of research in biology, there are some sensitive spots at the back of the mouth, whereby if you poke them with a toothbrush whilst hungover, your stomach is triggered to slam on its brakes and shift into reverse.

However, getting ready for work is not really the issue. It's getting to work that's a problem.

There's nothing worse then getting to work on a hangover.

The train feels extra rocky. In your mind, there's no way it hasn't already derailed.

I happened to be lucky enough to be standing directly beneath a slightly broken loudspeaker. By 'slightly broken', I mean a loudspeaker that is capable of emitting sound at amplified volumes, but incapable of rendering a sound that is at all consistent with the originating message.

Essentially, the final message communicated, at significant volume into my throbbing skull, was "crackle crackle buzz passengers PLEASE hum snort sniffle durka durka get off the train clunk CRUNCH (buzz)"

Frustrated by his efforts, eventually, mid journey, the announcer communicated the message he intended to. This only served to raise my ire.

"If you're trying to get onto the train and the door's closed, please move down to a carriage where a door is open."

Failing to see any insight in his message, on account of the fact that his audience consisted entirely of people on the train, I concluded that:

1) He had a big Thursday night. Or,
2) He's having a lot of fun with people who did.

I can tell it's Friday today. The city smells like bacon.

So, I arrive at work with all the telltale signs.

My eyes, which normally resemble coins, now resemble coin slots.

My hair's a habitat for native wildlife.

My clothes have the contours of a topographic map.

My 5 o'clock shadow from yesterday has officially hit stubble status.

And everything happens that split second slower.

You know you're hungover when someone random in the lift says to you "Thank God it's Friday" and instead of complaining to yourself about being subjected to inane banter, you tend to agree.

You know you're hungover when you go to get a coffee and the barista laughs at you.

You know you're hungover when you have to eat something that has toasted cheese.

As an aside, I happened to get the coffee and the toasted sandwich from 2 different coffee shops. When I arrived at the 2nd coffee shop with my coffee in hand, I was abused...

"Where did you get that from?"

The coffee cup I was carrying happened to have no unique markings - it was black and it had a ribbed surface.

This prompted the following comment from the girl serving me. "Here's a tip ... ribbed isn't necessarily better."

These questions and comments only come at you when you are in no state to answer them.

You know what they need in the city?

Beds. Available for hire.

Not for illicit activities. Just for that point in the middle of the day when it feels like the building is shaking and you need to lie down.

I had to go to the park for a sleep. It's demeaning. There I am, sleeping next to a homeless guy who smells less like alcohol than I do.

I'm back at work now. As you can see, this Friday is particularly productive.

Well, I'm at 750 words. It's 4pm. My brain's broken. I'm done.

I'm off to the pub. It's the only cure.

Won't someone please think of the whales?

2005-06-23T15:12:00.000+10:00

Australia, I'm proud. We stood up for what we believed in and won a referendum on whaling.

For those who don't know, whaling was one of Australia's first industries. Unfortunately, during the 20th Century, too many whales were killed, forcing the creation of an International Whaling Commission. The Commission was set up to 'to provide for the proper conservation of whale stocks and thus make possible the orderly development of the whaling industry'.

During the 1970's, Australia decided that it wasn't going to kill whales anymore. We remain part of the Commission in order to make sure that no-one else does either.

Anyways, to cut a long story short, Japan wanted to kill a whole heap of whales for scientific research, even though everyone knows they just want to eat them.

Or to quote The Australian - "Japan will argue that it be allowed to double its minke whale massacre and add endangered humpback and fin whales to its sushi trains ... sorry, legitimate scientific laboratories. "

Um... did someone say "objective journalism," or did I just hear a toilet flush?

There was a vote and Australia won. We finally showed those sushi eaters that they can't kill our whales and get away with it.

I don't remember Australians being as passionate about anything water-based that didn't involve tight Speedos, a latex cap and 50 metre laps.

A few of my mates got passionate last night, but that was when the bill came at dinner. Someone shortchanged, even though others left a tip. In the ensuing melee, accounts were settled and eventually a 20 cent tip was left.

But, I'm proud nonetheless. Conservation is an issue seldom understood by my compatriots.

We've introduced animals - predators and farm animals - that have either destroyed habitats or food sources, or have just gone after the animals themselves.

We've destroyed habitats in the name of industry.

In fact, over the history of this country, 19 mammals have become extinct, with a further 10 being extinct on the mainland. More than anywhere else over the same time period. Hundreds more threatened. Australia is home to more endangered species than any other continent.

Not bad for 200 years work.

So, how did we manage to psych ourselves up to Save the Whales?

It was actually pretty easy to get Australians worked up over the issue. All the anti-whaling lobby had to do was say that the whales were 'Australian'. Headlines screamed across newspapers, "Japan to kill Australian whales"

Guess that makes Japan un-Australian?

Just a quick question - what makes a whale Australian?

Because, unless the whale has appeared in a Victoria Bitter commercial, it can hardly be seen as a true Australian.

Anyways, it's always been easy to stir the emotions of xenophobic Australia.

Typically, emotive Australians come up with some amazing unworkable and illogical ideas. One idea is the call to ban all Japanese imports until they stop slaughtering the whales.

Genius. Japan is Australia's largest trading partner, accounting for 13.0 per cent of Australia's imports and 19.5 per cent of Australia's exports.

Wonder how the Japanese would react to an Australian ban on imports?

Not to mention the practical implications of an import ban leading to a distinct lack of cars and stereo systems?

But I digress. Back to the un-Australian whales.

Do they have passports? They'd better be careful entering Australian waters - the navy might chuck them in a detention centre.

And here lies the issue.

The whales enter and leave Australian waters once a year. It's called migration. This whale season coincides with winter and spring (June to November) when the whales migrate north from the Antarctic to warmer Australian waters and then head south again. (It's only once the whale is outside Australian waters that it's at risk.)

Interesting. So, if I wanted to, say, watch a whale, I'd be able to go to the Australian coast between the months of June and November for a birds-eye view.

What am I getting at? What does this all come down to?

The usual stuff - money.

"Whale watching in Australia is growing at an even faster rate than previously estimated - twice as many (approximately 1.6 million) tourists engaged in whale watching in 2003 than in 1998. Direct revenues from the whale watching industry doubled in that period, while indirect revenue is estimated to have increased four-fold". - Source

Dollar amount? Over US$200 million. - Source

Meanwhile, over at Sushi Train, meat from the whales killed for research is sold commercially, with the proceeds - about US$52 million in 2003 - going back into funding the annual hunts. - Source

So, how did Australia suddenly become so conservationist?

I guess we just needed to.

Game, set, match - whales.

Thought of the day

2005-06-04T00:53:00.000+10:00

Just got home from the football...

You know, the cleanest thing in a football stadium is the tap handles in the bathrooms.

You could eat dinner off them.

Of course, let's not talk about the hands of the hundreds of men walking out of the bathrooms at half time...

The hot blue Jedi

2005-06-03T16:30:00.000+10:00

OK, so I saw the 3rd Star Wars the other day. It's a masterpiece.

I don't want to get into a discussion about the intricacies of the film, or how it's a reference to George W's evil empire.

But, I did find it interesting that after the film, the 10 blokes I was there with congregated to discuss the highlights of the film.

And the following comment came out...

"How hot was that Jedi chick?"

9 out of the 10 nodded in absolute agreement.

The 1 guy in the group (who has a girlfriend) responded "What, the blue one with the tentacles hanging off her head?

"Yeah. She's got a great rack".

Anyways, the internet being the way it is, she's also got her own website.

So, to all those Star Wars fans, or you sickos who dig blue chicks...

Enjoy

Ayala's Unofficial Homepage

Ayala's pics

At least it's not David Hasselhoff.

Gosford. Bloody Gosford.

2005-06-03T16:12:00.000+10:00

So, I went to Gosford on Saturday night.

I went with my brother, Simon, and my mate, Matt, to watch my football team (the Roosters) play a "home game" in front of a fan base that either:

a) Retired from Sydney to Gosford; or
b) Had nothing else to do with their Saturday night.

Gosford, for those unaware, is a town in the Central Coast, about an hour and a half north of Sydney. It's small enough to have a feel of everyone being completely drunk before the sun sets, but close enough to Sydney to have a big city attitude.

Supposedly, issues in Gosford involve "a range of pressures including unemployment, limited child supervision resulting from parents commuting to Sydney for work, lack of recreational and employment opportunities for young people, lack of transport and the prevalence of drug and alcohol use in the region."

Anyways, the purpose of this article is not to bag Gosford.

It's just something I want to do to get my point across.

Our plan for the evening consisted of:

Arriving in Gosford
Throwing a frisbee
Watching the Super 12 Final on a TV while eating dinner
Going to the Roosters match
Leaving Gosford.

All in all, not a very complicated plan. Little did I realise the problems we would have in its execution.

As Roosters season ticket holders, myself and Simon are given cards that admit us into all home games. This "home game" being far from home, I wanted to see if our cards would admit us into this stadium.

It was at this point I realised that Gosford Stadium had something that I'd never seen before at a stadium.

Bouncers.

Not security staff.

Bouncers.

Anyways, I approached one of the bouncers and asked him if our cards admitted us to the match.

Bouncer - "Dunno, mate. Doesn't matter. You can't come in here with that frisbee."

Me - "OK, I'm not planning on coming in now. I just want to know if our cards work."

Bouncer - "Dunno. But you're not bringing that frisbee in."

Anyways, we went in search of someone who could tell us whether our tickets would work. Failing to find someone, Simon and Matt went to the gate and tried the cards. Lo and behold, they worked and the 2 of them walked in.

Walking out was the problem.

Bouncer - "Sorry mate, no pass outs."

This is a policy that I have never understood about sporting events. I mean, it's not like a nightclub, where if you offer ability to leave, you open the door to your patrons abusing all kinds of recreational drugs. Then again, this is Gosford...

Matt - "But this is ridiculous. We're members. We want to watch the Super 12 final."

Bouncer - "You might give your tickets to someone else."

Noting now that it was 2 hours before the match was due to start.

Matt - "Why don't we give you our tickets then?"

Bouncer (to me) - "Your mate's not doing himself any favours. One more word and he won't be allowed in at all."

The bouncer then had his attention distracted by a 12 year old girl who was trying to bring a flag into the match. Having had enough of arguing about the pass out policy of Gosford stadium, we bought some tickets and wandered into town to try and find a venue with an under-18's policy that was showing the Super 12 Final.

Which of course, was easier said than done.

The first bar I walked into was a dive. The kind of bar where, when a stranger walks in, the record needle scratches, the music stops and everyone stares.

There was a sign on the counter saying "Swearing will not be tolerated."

Freedom of speech implications aside, how dodgy does your bar have to be that you need to put up a sign saying "Swearing will not be tolerated"?

It was at that point I realised that everyone staring at me was a bikie.

Not to be deterred, I continued through to the bar.

Bartender - "Whaddaya want, mate?"

Me - "Well, my younger brother's 17 and ..."

Bartender - "Can't come in here, mate."

Me - "No, I appreciate that. I was just wondering

Bartender - "Nah. He can't come in."

Me - "OK, I understand. Is there a bar somewhere in Gosford..."

Bartender - "Dunno. Can't come in."

Me - "Yeah, but is there anywhere in town where ..."

Bartender - "Nah. Can't come in."

I needed a new approach.

Me - "What about a restaurant that's showing the Super 12 final?"

Bartender - "Dunno. Try Dinnan's up the road. Can't come in here, but."

I've never understood people who end sentences with the word "But." I shook off my confusion and we continued up the road towards Dinnan's.

Dinnan's was a brasserie style venue that appeared to be under-18 friendly. It was perfect - there were TV's, we'd watch the final and eat dinner.

Only one problem. They weren't showing the game.

At this point, our grand plan was under threat. If our situation wasn't soon rectified, the evening would be reduced to:

Arriving in Gosford
Leaving Gosford

So, we continued up the road to Hotel Gosford, which was a massive pub peppered with signs saying "You must be at least 18 to be in this section of the Hotel."

Walking into the restaurant section of the hotel, we sat down next to a table that had young kids sitting at it. Within 30 seconds, a security guard appeared asking us for ID.

Me - "It's quite apparent that my brother's not 18, but I'm responsible for him."

Security - "I'm sorry, he's got to be 18 to come in here. Why don't you take him to Dinnan's"

(Again, notwithstanding the kids at the next table)

Me - "Look mate, we've been all over town, we've been to Dinnan's, and this is the only place that's showing the Super 12 Final."

Security - "Oh... you want to watch the rugby? Yeah, no worries, he can stay."

The Australian Identity

In summary...

1. Small towns need to hire bouncers at football stadiums because everyone is drunk
2. A frisbee is a weapon
3. Rational, logical thought is impossible. Discretion tending towards common sense is non existent.
4. Listening and compassion are irrelevant
5. Rugby is a perfectly good excuse for breaking the law.

Some might argue that the above is a perfect example of how Australians have lost our way. To argue this, it is first necessary to understand what our way is, or was, and how it became our way.

A large part of the Australian identity was formed back in the days when we were a convict colony. Australian ideals that prospered include getting a fair go, mateship and being a larrikin. This is the reason that our national heroes include individuals like Ned Kelly (a champion of the people, enemy of the state), Errol Flynn (the man responsible for the expression "In like Flynn") and Chopper Reid (a convicted criminal who killed drug dealers but defined it as garbage disposal).

Often, these ideals are subsumed by large quantities of alcohol.

From the Aussie backpacker in London - "I'm a bloody Australian, mate, and it's because I'm a bloody Australian that I'm getting on the grog" to my well educated mate studying a post-graduate degree at a prestigious university in the US - "it is incumbent for Australians to be seen at all events where alcohol is involved!" it is apparent that alcohol consuption is an imporant part of our culture.

After all, is David Boon remembered more for his exploits on the cricket pitch, or for his beer drinking record between Sydney and London?

To a certain extent, I question whether alcohol transforms the larrikin Australian into one who is dumb, dodgy and ignorant.

In fact, there is no better example of this than in Gallipoli. Gallipoli was more than just a battle - it was a moment of nation building, a history point where Australians could draw on the characteristics that were shown under adversity, of mateship, of larrikinism, of a fair go, and say "I am proud to be Australian."

Much commentary was made of the behaviour during this year's Anzac commemorations, including references to drunk Aussies who littered this historical site whilst sleeping on graves.

How much can we blame use and abuse of alcohol for the "ugly Australian"?

During my annual pilgrimage to Byron Bay, I met 3 people within 24 hours. (This was the 24 hours before I departed from reality for about a week). Each of these I met under entirely different circumstances and each had something in common.

Lumpy the miner

Lumpy was a friendly guy I met in Brisbane just prior to the Dave Matthews show. He had been living in London for a couple of years, working as a handyman, and had a general gripe against Londoners. His complaint was that he had quite a heavy work belt to carry and that every time he had to walk through a crowd to get to a bus, Londerners wouldn't get out of his way.

Of course, it was a matter of time that such a congestion incident occurred within moments of him having left a pub. What was less predictable was his reaction, where supposedly, he starting swinging his sand grinder through a crowd of people, clearing his path to the bus and injuring enough people that it made the next day's newspaper. Lumpy left London fairly soon after this incident.

At this point, Lumpy stepped up to buy our table 2 jugs of beer.

Thommo from Lismore

I picked up Thommo as a hitchhiker whilst on the way to Nimbin. He was a pretty nice bloke who lived quite close to Lismore.

Anyways, Thommo was laying quite low at that point in time. Apparently, his brother had gotten into an argument with a group of Aboriginal men. Having had a few beers, Thommo thought it a good idea to throw a full garbage bin at the group.

At this point of the story, we reached Thommo's house. He gave us a couple of dollars for petrol.

The trucker

On the way back from Nimbin, (just after I'd left reality for the next week), we were driving down a fairly nondescript road. I waved an oncoming truck down to ask him for directions.

The driver was a youngish bloke and extremely friendly. He gave us directions and asked us if we were "jumping" (apparently referring to the gates of the music festival we were attending).

He seemed disappointed when I told him that we'd actually bought tickets.

That didn't deter him from raising the Rum and Coke can that he was drinking, as if to say "Cheers." Then he said,

"Cheers. Just remember, when you jump, make sure you've had plenty to drink beforehand," as he droveoff.

3 stories. 3 Aussie larrikins. 3 good blokes.

3 dodgy, dumb, criminal incidents.

The common link - alcohol.

So, is alcohol the problem?

Does alcohol cause Australians to revert from mateship minded larrikins to dumb, dodgy criminals?

No.

Events of the past week have seen a 27 year old Australian girl jailed in Indonesia for 20 years for the importation of 4.1 kg of marijuana.

The purpose of this article is not to judge whether or not Schapelle Corby was guilty of the crime for which she was convicted.

After all, I, like most Australians in Australia, have no idea as to the intricacies of the case, the trial or any of the evidence.

Of course, that didn't stop many people from forming an opinion.

Don't get me wrong here. Personally, I don't believe marijuana should be illegal at all. If it is, I don't believe she should have gotten 20 years. And notwithstanding her guilt or innocence, I feel extremely sorry for the girl.

But there has to be a reason that even with a lack of knowledge of the case, an overwhelming majority (between 80% and 90%) of Australians polled believe(d) Corby to be innocent.

I would argue that most of these people formed their opinions through what they read in Australian media. Corby's trial by media, for the most part, based its case on 3 assertations.

1. She must be innocent, because no one would be stupid enough to take 4.1kg of marijuana to a country where it is less expensive than the country it originated from.
2. There is a criminal ring of baggage handlers operating at airports that smuggle drugs throughout Australia.
3. Indonesia is a corrupt country

This became self perpetuating - as reporters realised the weight of public opinion to be in Corby's favour, they became less likely to write articles that damaged her case in any way. Indeed, the chief of Australian Federal Police, Mick Keelty, was vilified through the media for comments he made that were interpreted to be adverse to Corby's case.

Essentially, the trial by media had no prosecution team. If there was a prosecution team in the media, they may have asked questions like:

"What did Schapelle do in the months prior to going to Bali?", or

"If no one would be stupid enough to take marijuana into Indonesia from Australia and given the lack of security in Indonesia, why were the airport security looking at her bag in the first place?", or

"If Indonesia is corrupt, why didn't she pay the bribe?"

These questions did not get asked by the media. Instead, the media catered to the lowest common denominator in Australian society. By virtue of our apparent distrust in Indonesia, she must have been innocent. In fact, not only was she innocent, but it was the Indonesian justice system that was on trial.

Also, she's white, they're not.

Samples taken from Sydney's radio stations effect this.

2GB (on the Indonesian President)

"I believe right now Bambam Yodhoyono is sitting up there and his hands are tied because it’s a legal matter. Wham Bam Thank You Mam Yiddi-yono is going to be called into all of these — well, that’s what he is, isn’t he — have you ever seen them? Whoa, give them a banana and away they go ..."

2GB (on the Indonesian judges)

Malcolm: The judges don’t even speak English, mate, they’re straight out of the trees if you excuse my expression.

Caller: Don’t you think that disrespects the whole of our neighbouring nation?

Malcolm: I have total disrespect for our neighbouring nation my friend. Total disrespect.And then we get this joke of a trial, and it’s nothing more than a joke. An absolute joke the way they sit there. And they do look like the three wise monkeys, I’ll say it. They don’t speak English, they read books, they don’t listen to her. They show us absolutely no respect those judges.

Alan Jones

"The judges she addressed yesterday don't speak English and won't get a translation of her comments until today. What's that say about justice, Balinese style. I thought she did brilliantly Schapelle Corby in very difficult circumstances...And in the fair dinkum stakes this ought to mean game, set and match."

John Laws

"What a weird person...If it was who I think it was, I think it might have been that Ron Bakir. The fellow who's promoting Schapelle... Apparently he smuggled a reporter from another radio station into her jail cell. But how the hell do you smuggle a grown man into a gaol cell? Huh? Maybe Ron Bakir put him in Schapelle's boogie board bag."

Perhaps, the most dangerous example was that taken from the Daily Telegraph, which stated "In a double standard that has outraged the Australian nation...Corby received ten times the sentence given to accused Bali terror mastermind Abu Bakir Bashir."

See if you can notice the key word in that sentence.

Accused. In fact, the 3 terrorists convicted of their role in the Bali bombing received the death penalty.

So, what has our response been?

In a word, xenophobic. Please explain?

Corby's guilty verdict was assured by virtue of the attention the media gave the case. To acquit someone caught in possession of drugs based on a defence of dodgy baggage handlers would set a precedent of making conviction of any drug smugglers impossible by virtue of the same defence. As a nation, our outrage should be with those performing the illicit activities in the first place.

The call for Australia to rescind its aid to Indonesian victims of the tsunami is brutal. The person or group who mailed a biological agent to the Indonesian embassy is a part idiot, part lunatic.

But with mass media encouraging mass racism, is there any wonder that the average Australian is unable to distinguish who is and isn't a victim?

Somewhere in Indonesia, there is a radio talkback host equivalent of Alan Jones or John Laws. He's having a laugh about the racist monkeys who live to the south of Indonesia. His listeners are calling in about how Australians have nothing better to do with their time than interfere with Indonesian judicial independence and perform terrorist attacks on Indonesian embassies.

He's drawing frank comparisons with the Australian treatment of convicted Indonesians. He's laughing at how we lock up in refugee camps, and on occasion, deport our own citizens.

He's complaining about the obnoxious behaviour the "Oy! oy! oy!" crowd of Australians bring with them when they visit.

By now, he's worked himself into a frenzy. "Australians walk around constantly drunk, incapable of rational, logical thought. They don't know how to listen, nor do they show compassion. The only time you'll see an Aussie using any part of their brain is when Rugby is involved."

Funny thing, he just described Gosford.

Losing my religion - the dating game

2005-05-13T11:51:00.000+10:00

JDate.

An internet love match site bringing Jewish singles together worldwide.

Did you know that JDate is a subsidiary website of the company Spark Networks?

Well, check out this for a scoop.

JDate Subscription

1 Month - $34.95, $34.95 monthly thereafter
3 Months - $99.95, $33.95 monthly thereafter
6 months - $149.00, then only 24.95 thereafter

American Singles Subscription

1 Month - $24.95, $24.95 monthly thereafter
3 Months - $59.95, then JUST $19.99 monthly thereafter

The cost of subscribing to JDate is nearly double that of subscribing to a general, non-Jewish singles website. Even though both sites are owned by the same company, with the same look, feel, technology and presumably, set up cost.

Why?

I believe that this represents the desperation amongst singles in the Jewish community to find their significant other.

This leads me to the following conclusion.

Some of the biggest anti-semites today are the youth of the Jewish community.

Sweeping statement? Let me explain.

I have no time for racism.

Racism can be defined as "a form of discrimination based on race, especially the belief that one race is superior to another. Racism may be expressed individually and consciously, through explicit thoughts, feelings, or acts, or socially and unconsciously, through institutions that promote inequality between races."

As a white, Jewish, Eastern suburbs 25 year old male (read: as an insulated member of the Jewish community), I have been extremely lucky such that my experiences of anti-Semitism have been restricted to the aftermath of Bulldogs games, where a cavalcade of souped-up cars from the Western suburbs descends upon Bondi and the occasional moron proclaims "a Roosters victory had to be the result of a Jewish conspiracy, man."

Maybe I'm making too much of a generalisation here. I would hate to lump together all the fans of a football team, especially a team with as much moral fibre as the Bulldogs, the football club synonymous with the expression "gang rape". I'm sure there are plenty of people associated with the Bulldogs who aren't gang rapists.

See how easy it is to stir racist attitudes? This is a trick of language employed by the right-wing 'shock-jocks' on talkback radio, consisting of the following steps.

1. Refer to something bad that a person has done. This arouses emotional feelings of contempt for the person.

2. Imply or draw particular attention to racial characteristics of that person. This stimulates imagery of what the person looks like, how they sound and how they act. This also stimulates generalisation of the types of actions we can expect from people with certain racial characteristics.

3. A passive exception to the generalisation. Often this will be worded "I'm not trying to say that all people from this race are bad". What remains unsaid here is "Not that I'm trying to disuade you from coming to this conclusion."

It's the power of language combined with a strong, unwilting preconception of a particular group of people.

In short, it's racist.

Racism touches everybody. Wars have been fought on the basis of racist attitudes and religious differences.

So, as an insulated member of the Jewish community, I belong to a club that has struggled for survival against preconceptions for over 5000 years.

Typically, each time anti-Semitism prospered and someone tried to kill us, we survived. Generally, we celebrate this survival by eating fatty food, such as gefilte fish and potato latkes, in large quantities,.

Today, however, the Jewish community faces its greatest threat.

Assimilation. Literally meaning, the process whereby a minority group gradually adopts the customs and attitudes of the prevailing culture.

The death of a culture. Powerful stuff.

There are plenty of ways for a Jew to assimilate.

Some of them are really tasty, such as seafood dinners and hungover bacon breakfasts.

Others include going to work drinks or hitting up a nightclub on a Friday night.

One of my favourites was the Jewish sporting organisation that played all its matches on a Saturday.

The list goes on.

More often than not, the most exemplary form of assimilation is marrying out of the religion.

This makes single Jews the biggest threat to the Jewish race.

And as is the guilt-ridden nature of our religion, don't think we don't know it. The subtle hints from mothers and grandmothers - "Wouldn't it be nice if you settled down with a nice Jewish girl?". Ok, maybe not so subtle, but certainly persistent.

Assuming that a person will marry someone Jewish, there is a fairly large chance that their life partner will come out of the community of people that the person is surrounded by.

1. We know everyone else

As is the nature of community, everyone seems to know everyone else. What is disgregarded here is the extent to which everyone knows everyone.

I have my close circle of mates - my nearest and dearest.

Extending past that is a throng of people who I barely know.

The issue, however, is not that I barely know them. It's that I've barely known them for so long.
So, assuming I'm to end up with someone in my community and that I'm not about to marry one of my mates, I'm probably going to have to get to know someone, who I've barely known for quite a long time now, a lot better.

Surely, then, this is where dating comes in?

2. The stigma attached to dating

My understanding is that this is fairly specific to the Sydney Jewish Community, but I would say that dating is a taboo topic. This is probably because the fact is that dating a girl from one social group automatically eliminates any chance of ever dating:

i) one of her friends
ii) anyone from a social group that doesn't like her social group
iii) anyone else who hears that you dated her and jumps to automatic conclusions about you

Girls know this and don't date boys for the same reasons.

Notwithstanding that all this goes on under the spotlight of anyone who is remotely affiliated with either of the potential daters.

And all of these points are moot because dating is taboo to begin with.

We know this, so socialising and flirting with members of the opposite sex will generally take place in a group environment in whatever bar the community congregates at. Of course, not only does this make the Jewish bar-of-the-month go out of business due to lack of alcohol consumption, but these interactions generally lead nowhere because we've barely known each other for so long, that there seems no reason to get to know someone now.

I would go so far as to say that these weekly (sometimes more frequent) gatherings of the community actually inhibit our ability to make connections with people, as we barely know so many people who we see so often, we become accustomed to accepting a superficial connection with a large number of people.

3. So, how do I meet someone new?

Great question. Most people don't have this issue because they're not trying to limit themselves to finding a life partner amidst an extremely small sub-segment of the population. To people whom religion is not important, a life partner can easily be found through having something in common, such as work or a hobby. Want to meet someone new? Join a club. Start playing a sport. Learn salsa dancing.

For the Jewish community, it's entirely different. Options include hanging out in Coogee waiting for American exchange students, or hitting the internet.

And this brings me to the latest phenomenon sweeping the Jewish community.

JDate.

You know what the biggest problem with JDate is?

I'll give you a hint. It's not that they charge for a monthly membership.

It all comes back to the stigma. I guarantee that every person who logs on to JDate to look at a profile thinks at some point,

"Wow. Look at all these desperate people. As if I would ever go out with anyone desperate enough to put their profile up on here."

That's like walking into a bar, declaring yourself too classy to stay, but nonetheless stumbling home at 4am, with a lamb kebab tucked under your arm and vomit encrusted to the soles of your shoes.

The only way we can break down the dating stigma is by saying, "Hey, maybe the person I'm looking at is looking for the same thing I'm surfing this website for?"

4. I'm too good for this party.

My sister summarises this quite well in saying, " "Everyone rates themselves too highly. They need to waiver this idea of 'choice and standards' and let an objective neutral observer match people. Everyone over-estimates their league."

Now, I would never accuse my sister of having standards. However, I do accuse her of having made many choices.

Anyways, she makes a very good point. Perhaps, as individuals, we socially rate ourselves so high, to the point of snobbery, that we are unable to lower our social expectations to the level of a normal human being.

The solution is as follows. Next time you go to a bar, ask someone from the opposite
sex to rate everyone in the bar (1-10). Then, subtly (hours later), ask the same person who in the room they could see you with.

Whatever score that person had, that's your score. You should then be looking for people of the same score.

5. Party? What's a party?

Working around the theory that single Jews polarise towards the "too cool" segment, there is an equally large proporation of single Jews sitting at the other extreme.

The Nebish. The little nerd. The loser.

The best word you can usually use to describe someone nebish is "nice".

They are the ones on JDate with profiles saying

"I am a passionate guy that loves life and all that it has to offer."
"I am easy going, open-minded, down to earth, happy guy."
"I'm a caring and loving person."

Would you introduce yourself to someone like that? No wonder you're single.

If you had to define yourself in a sentence, why would you start like that? To make yourself impossible to differentiate from the other singles in the pack?

It's because you're Nebish.

Don't get me wrong. I'm Nebish. I like Nebish. Nebish is wholesome.

But when Nebish makes you the kind of guy who takes a girl out for drinks and goes 50/50 on the first round?

When Nebish means that you're out with a girl and the sun goes down, but you don't suggest dinner because your mum has never let you eat out at dinnertime?

C'mon boys - sometimes you've got to take responsibility for yourself.

6. Well, what am I looking for, anyways?

Looking around, I see many examples of people my age facing the predicament of finding the perfect, Jewish person for them.

Note, the two characteristics here - Perfect and Jewish. Separation of these suggests that it is possible to find:

a) Someone who is perfect for you, but not Jewish
b) Someone who is Jewish (and you could introduce to your mother), but far from a perfect match.

And given that this is the person you theoretically have to spend the rest of your life with, you need to work under the false assumption that as a Jewish boy, you won't end up marrying someone who fills the role of your mother.

By the time my parents were my age, they had already given birth to me. This suggests that perhaps they were more focussed at settling down than I am. A quick survey of my mates conveys similar experiences.

In fact, what my mates are looking for are the kind of girl who they could marry, but who is willing to enter into a non-committal relationship, with an implication that while they may one day get married, discussion of this should not exist under any circumstances and any references to the relationship, including the discussion "Where is this going?" should be had between girlfriends, preferably at their time of month.

So, in summary, what we are looking for is a girl who is:

* Good looking
* Intelligent
* From a wealthy background
* Who dresses well without spending too much time and money on her appearance
* Who will not become my mother
* Who is single (ideally)
* Who does not have crazy parents
* Who doesn't mind a non-committed long term relationship.

and who is

* Jewish

Want to know why you haven't found what you're looking for? IT DOESN'T EXIST!

7. Conclusion

I reiterate that the greatest threat to the survival and continuity of the Jewish community is the anti-social behaviour of young, single Jews. In fact, it defies logic that Jewish youth are so pre-occupied with fighting this anti-social behaviour with the intention of propogating it for generations to come.

So, to fix the problems facing my people, I've decided to throw a party. A massive party. An appeal.

I'm going to call it the Jewish Sex Appeal.

Keynote speaker Ron Jeremy.

The largest game of Spin the Bottle in Jewish community history.

A room full of closets that potential couples can be locked in, until magic happens.

It will break down the walls of inhibition for good.

Sex to save the religion. Now, there's a concept we can all get into.

The Shortest Blog Ever

2005-05-08T14:16:00.000+10:00

Sometimes, a picture speaks 1000 words.

Bed Bugs

2005-04-05T14:41:00.001+10:00

We had a run in with these nasty little critters at our Bondi pad. Probably picked them up from the backpackers down the road via furniture of the street. Had to fumigate twice. Serious deteriation in my mental health resulted from the anxiety and paranoia the bugs bring out. Trapped one of them in an air tight plastic container with no food or liquid and it lived for days. The first round of fumigation killed the plants, but not the bugs. Now have red spots on the paint from where I squished a couple of them running off with my blood. Tried to intoxicate the bugs by raising my blood alcohol level, but results unknown. Girlfriend refuses to sleep over. The bugs are taking over. Be afraid, be very very afraid.

Korporate Krap

2005-04-05T10:43:00.000+10:00

"Human beings were not meant to sit in little cubicles staring at computer screens all day, filling out useless forms and listening to eight different bosses drone on about about mission statements."

- Office Space, 1999.

I was asked once to participate in the writing of a mission statement for our department. I volunteered the following:

"Our mission is to proactively deliver professional resources and timely benefits and efficiently build sustainable solutions to exceed customer expectations"

My boss's reaction - "That's fantastic. How did you come up with that?"

My response...

Dilbert's Mission Statement Generator.

So, I've been in my job for over 1 year now, which I think counts as my longest ever relationship. Anyways, it's starting to feel a bit monotonous.

I'm wondering if monotony is hormonal.

It's the only logical explanation for why I experience monotony in a 5 day cycle. I'm starting to understand how women feel once a month.

"Look, I realise that what you're saying makes sense ... but it's just not part of the process."

The other day, I was in a meeting that involved "working through a process to deliver an artifact" (writing a document).

The person who owned the artifact (was responsible for writing the document) decided to interrupt the meeting to discuss that the process we had engaged to deliver the artifact was inefficient. (That it was taking too long to write the document)

Of course, the conversation took up the rest of the meeting (1 hour), as we discussed the pros and cons of the process. No doubt, had we spent the time actually writing the document instead of discussing how we should write it, we could have just finished it instead.

I guess the thing that annoys me about being process driven is that it removes a person's inability to think for themselves. After all, as long as you follow the process, you will arrive at a result.

This is true, but only if the process you create was correct in the first place.

For example, if you were to tell a process-driven person that the first thing they should do when they wake up in the morning is urinate, they would piss their beds because you didn't tell them that they had to stand up and walk to the bathroom.

How every day becomes a step in a process

I blame the process-driven nature of the corporate world for making my week so utterly predictable.

My weekdays inevitable start a little something like this.

9am (or thereabouts) - Step into the lift.

See someone I recognise who's name escapes me.

"How's it going?"

"Yeah, good. You?"

"Yeah good"

Conversation takes place, depending on what day it is.

Monday - "How was your weekend?"
Tuesday - "Can't believe it's only Tuesday."
Wednesday - "Good old Wednesday. Gotta love that hump day"
Thursday - "Thursday today. Not long now."
Friday - "TGIF. Got any plans for the weekend?"

9:05am - Make myself a bowl of cereal in the kitchen.

Inevitably, someone will walk into the kitchen, observe the situation and ask me

"Breakfast?"

Intended to be rhetorical, you're actually meant to answer that question, due to its role of being a filler of uncomfortable silence.

What is it about the corporate world that people seem to feel this need to make inane conversation, even if it involves stating something so obvious, that stating it is completely redundant?

I mean, would you ever go up to someone in a pub holding a beer and ask them if they were drinking a beer?

They'd answer - "Yeah, Tooheys New, thanks mate." The thought that you were asking someone if they were doing something that you were watching them do in front of you would never enter your mind anywhere else except in the corporate world.

Maybe that should be my response next time.

"Breakfast?"

"Sure, toast with peanut butter please, mate."

9:10am - Arrive at my desk.

Generally, I will have about 10 emails in my inbox on arriving to work.

Of these, 6 will be irrelevant, 3 will be a 'funny' (and I use the term loosely) joke or picture sent by a bored co-worker, and 1 will be porn-related.

I find it amazing the amount of time spent working on the text of emails that are NEVER read.

Minutes from a meeting that you attended but which was completely irrelevant to you and probably most people who attended.

Weekly newsletters.

Occupational health and safety updates.

The countless births, marriages and job changes of people who I will never meet.

This list expands exponentially if you include the documents that I will never read that are attached to emails that I will never read.

Is it any wonder that monotony is impossible to escape when the day starts like this?

Korporate Konversation

Why is it that people use (dare I say 'use' is too soft a word, and perhaps 'murder' might be more appropriate?) language in an office setting that they would NEVER use anywhere else?

The answer -

1. To hide that they don't know what they're talking about
2. To cover their ass

Example 1.

"We need to develop a strategy that matches our objectives, going forward."

This roughly translates into:

"I have no idea what I'm doing here, but hopefully noone else will notice"

Example 2.

(after I asked someone to do something)

"I will attempt to faciliate your request."

Note that nowhere here is there an indication that they will actually DO what I asked them to. This is substantiated by the fact that person has not actually DONE what I asked them to.

The bastardisation of language is invasive.

Problems become "Issues"

Problems you have no idea how to fix become "Risks"

Of course, you never actually fix a problem, you "resolve" it.

Something that makes sense is a "Synergy"

Things you need to do are "Actions"

When you are responsible for something you need to do, you are the "Owner"

When you're making sure that you've done the right thing, you're said to be "Ticking all the boxes"

When you're referring to all time after the moment I finish this sentence (assumed by any sentence in the future tense), you are "Going forward"

Barbeques become "Sausage sizzles"

Even humans become "Resources."

Nothing is safe. And all in the name of obfuscating the fact that the process-driven nature of the corporate world results in people who:

1. Don't know what they're talking about
2. Are covering their ass

Kovering your ass

I'd like to credit Johnsie for this section. Mostly because I don't honestly believe this next section is of very good quality. If it was, I wouldn't credit him.

Rule 1. If something is going to go wrong, you need to make sure that there is no way it can be tied back to you.

Rule 2. Always assume that something is going to go wrong.

This results in the situation that you will spend more time warning someone of the potential issues and risks (problems that you can fix or have no idea how to fix) in something that they want you to do, than you will in actually doing whatever it was that they wanted you to do.

Put it this way. If a mate called you up and said "Can you please cook me a steak?", you would ask "How would you like it done?" and then blast it so it was black on the outside and pink on the inside.

Simple, right?

Well, if someone in the office asked you "Can you please cook me a steak?", you would need to respond as follows:

I am not sure what you refer to when you say steak, as there are many different varieties of steak from many different animals. I will be working off the Assumption that when you say "steak", you are referring to Cow-based Meat Consumable. Under official corporate TLA policy (Three Letter Acronyms), Cow-base Meat Consumable will henceforth be referred to as CMC.

1. Cooking CMC is dependent on many variables upon which I have no control. Before I cook CMC, I will need to document these in an "Issue and Risk Log"

Issue and Risk Log

a) There are procurement issues, as the CMC supplier may not be able to supply us with the quantity of CMC required to fulfil your requirement
b) Furthermore, as the CMC supplier is a third party, there are no guarantees as to the quality of CMC available. This is a dependency.
c) Resources may not be available to cook the CMC.
d) There is a further dependency on equipment being available to actually cook the CMC. This is an issue, as we are not responsible for maintenance of CMC-cooking equipment. If the knifes are not sharp and the pans not well scrubbed, we may not be able to satisfactorily fulfil your requirement.

2. In line with our new Workflow, we will need to see a finalised and approved Implementation Plan, signed in triplicate by all stakeholders after an extensive review process.

3. Before we cook this CMC, we need to satisfy our Occupational Health and Safety requirements. I need you to confirm that you are not allergic to CMC and that you will floss immediately after consuming the CMC.

4. Finally, in order to cook this CMC, we will need to perform a full impact analysis of cooking this CMC. It is important for us to determine that consumption of CMC is within our corporate strategy objectives.

It is expected that we will be able to cook your CMC within 6 months for a total cost of $112,000. This is dependent upon all assumptions being met.

The Korporate Animal Kingdom

zoo n.

1. A park or an institution in which living animals are kept
2. Slang. A place or situation marked by confusion or disorder.

I often wonder when humanity decided that the future of our species was dependent on a zoo, complete with cubicle enclosures, 15 stories above the ground.

And just like the real zoo, I have my favourite animals.

I really like the persoanl assistant who sits on the phone all day.

I'm a fan of the English bloke who checks for soccer results 3 times an hour.

There's the group of girls in the corner who chat weddings and women's magazines.

If I had to pick a favourite?

It's the guy who is understandably cynical of the corporate world. He is so cynical, that he has printed up quotes from "The Office" (a British satire on corporate life) and pins pictures of its characters up in his cubicle. This guy sees the corporate world for what it is.

Yet, for some reason, the link completely fails to register in his mind that notwithstanding his acceptance of the bleak realities of the corporate world, he is still sitting in his cubicle. Which he has, no less, decorated with the realities of the corporate world.

Enlightenment leading to ... acceptance? Only in the corporate world.

State Sponsored Sexual Assault

2005-03-31T15:17:00.000+10:00

A good friend of mine who studies psychology heralded an interesting fact the other day. Supposedly, men are far more likely than women to avoid a visit to the doctor for a test or health check because they would rather not know that something is wrong with them.

This was anecdotally confirmed at breakfast on Sunday morning. When questioned as to why he didn't enjoy medical tests, my mate responded "They don't do anything. You wait for ages to go into this room, where they stick something into your throat, ask you to cough..."

At this point, I interrupted him with a memory that had clearly been repressed for a very long time.

"... and they grab your balls to check they're both there."

This was met with a stunned response from my breakfast companions.

My male companion looked as though he'd just been slapped with a serve of smoked salmon, because clearly he too had been repressing this memory since the age of 7. My female companion sat staring with her jaw dropped (and not because she was eating roast chickpeas).

Obviously, this was a traumatic experience that I'd kept bottled for many years. I must say, Sunday breakfast marked the first time in a while I'm managed to feel some form of closure.

The details are sketchy, but this is roughly what I remember.

Childhood was carefree. School involved a lot of running around, tennis balls, marbles, footy cards, monkey bars, forts, swings, see-saws, merry-go-rounds.

And then one day, we were lining up outside the nurse's room.

At first, playground rules applied. Single file was a very loose single file. There was a rush to get to the front. Once in line, the 'frontage-backage' technique was employed to get all your friends standing around you.

And then, the first boy walked in. 2 minutes later, he walked out... completely white.

"What happened? What did you do?" were the inevitable questions from those about to go in.

"They ... they grabbed my balls"

The rumour spread through the line in record time.

"What's going on?"

"They grabbed Mark's* balls."

(* name changed to protect innocent young boy who had his balls grabbed)

"Really? Are they grabbing everyone's balls?"

As is the nature of 'Chinese Whispers', any message passed down a line will be distorted by the time it gets to the back, sometimes to incomprehension. This, coupled with a general distrust in anything said by a school child, left a bunch of shaking, green schoolchildren, hands over pants.

The next boy walks in, shaking. Walks out 2 minutes later, white as a ghost.

"Did they grab your balls?"

"Yep. They grabbed my balls."

The rumours increasingly confirmed, my memory was of being towards the back of the line and becoming increasingly traumatised by the number of confirmed ball-grabs, possibly hoping that the nurse would forget. The nurse didn't forget.

Didn't even buy me a drink.

And the worst part of it all? I don't remember the nurse. At all. Name. Face. Gender. Not a thing.

I've completely shoved it out of my memory.

After all, how many early memories do you have?

The earliest memory I have is of throwing some kid's shovel over a cliff when I was 4 years old. Of course the shovel was a tiny plastic spade and the cliff was 1 metre high.

Anyways, the only reason I remember this is because I copped the belting of a lifetime from my mother. Literally. I don't remember ever having been hit harder.

Fast forward to my next memory. Some faceless nurse with their hands on my private parts, saying "Cough".

I'm pretty sure that this day marked a change in my daily response to the question "How was school?", from an excited and descriptive:

"It was great!! I learnt times tables and grammar and I played handball and tip in the schoolyard"

to a rushed one word response:

"Fine."

But, back to breakfast...

"I can't believe this!!," my female companion started. "Does this happen to everyone? Why don't I remember these medicals?"

Gee, I wonder. What would they have been looking for?

But, it does beg the question. What were these medical examinations really about? Are they even legitimate medical examinations? How long have they been going on for? Does the general public even know about them? Parents? Are you aware that you are sending your children to school so they can have their balls manhandled?

Independent research (performed by myself) suggests that every child across Australia was subject to one of these tests in school. Surely, therefore, there would be some form of government policy on this issue, accessible by all and sundry over the internet.

A Google search of the words "medical examination doctor grab testicles cough" results in a lot of medical jokes.

Similarly useless was the expression "state sponsored medical exam grab balls school childhood trauma"

Lastly, the search "sick weirdo school nurse grab children's balls" turned up some interesting sites, but none useful for the purpose of this article.

Whatever the answer is, it's a secret. And, as everyone knows, behind every secret is a government conspiracy.

Why would any government would want to grab the male child population by the balls at such a psychologically crucial age?

(So they know what it feels like to pay taxes? Boom boom, tssss)

But there is truth to every (poor) joke. The government has an inherent interest in controlling its citizenry and what better way to control your citizens than by traumatising them from a young age. Who's the boss? The government. Who do you listen to? The government. Who can get to you no matter where you hide? The government. Who's got you by the balls? The government.

No wonder my mate refuses to get a medical examination.

Naturally, there are social repercussions of this flagrant attempt to brainwash society.

For starters, let's talk about the inability of males to commit. I mean, every male has had their balls grabbed by a stranger, without explanation, at the age of 8. No wonder we find it hard to open up to people, to let ourselves get close and intimate.

Furthermore, I am extremely wary of letting this knowledge hit the public forum, on account of the potential for exploitation.

For example, say there is a girl who has been maligned by her male partner, who has cheated on her with by sleeping with her best friend. She wants revenge in a hurry. So, the next time she's intimate with her partner, she grabs his balls and tells him to cough, psychologically screwing him for life and guaranteeing his inability to sleep with anyone ever again.

It's a dangerous game.

And I for one, need closure.

Revenge will be twofold for me.

1. I need to find the 'nurse' who grabbed me. And grab them back.

2. I want to know the name of the minister who legislated this violation of my basic personal rights. And I want his balls on a platter.

More on snobs

2005-03-04T15:05:00.000+11:00

Apparently, my last post on snobs touched a chord with some people. It seems that everyone has been snobbed off at least once in their life.

So, I've tried to come up with a definition for 'snob'. The best I could do was in quoting Mac, an American friend of mine who's cynicism for life exceeds my own.
http://halmustdie.blogspot.com/

"A snob behaves characteristically because of a deep seated desire to other exclude members of its species in order to inflate its own ego. You see, where most animals aquire energy (food) in order for its body to survive, snobs cultivate ego in order for its self-worth to survive."

But, surely snobs need to get laid, right? How do they partake in 'relations' whilst socially excluding their species?

Underlying psychology enables us to understand the complex mating rituals of the snob.

The snob doesn't require the same features in a partner as the rest of the population. Where most people look for a sense of humour, fun, or just a nice smile, the snob is merely seeking to fertilise their ego. The only way to do this is to go out with an even bigger snob. Scientists have labelled this theory 'Survival of the snobbiest', which suggests that over time, our society will evolve a race of super-snobs.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that it is a massive generalisation to define a 'snob'. I don't believe there is any such thing as a pure snob, but rather snobbery as a concept can be categorised. In doing so, I also realised I was a bit more of a snob than I first thought.

1. The fashion snob.

Due to the phenomenon of metrosexuality, this type of snob is easily recognised by matching features that cross gender boundaries.

These include tell tale "von Dutch" headgear, tight $500 jeans specially designed to look like they have been worn in, perfectly straight ironed hair and Havaianas thongs (no other brand will suffice).

The essence of the fashion snob is to spend hundreds of dollars and man hours on sculpting a look that makes it look like absolutely no effort has been put into the look. Whilst, of course, at the same time ignoring everyone around them who is not at least equally as snobby as themselves.

2. The music snob.

These are the people who are always listening to an artist that you've never heard of, or the obscure album from the artist you have heard of, or the obscure B-side track from the album you have heard of.

Every now and then an artist comes out of nowhere and becomes extremely popular. Of course, the music snob was listening to them 2 years before. "Yeah, I've listened to some of that guy - he used to be cool - you know, when he was doing all that old-school shit with Dr Dre before he sold out".

Someone else liking an artist is just one more excuse for the music snob to dislike the album. By the time the artist is 'discovered', the music snob must have moved on.

But, there are clearly some artists out there that even the music snob must respect. Examples include the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd, etc. How does the music snob justify listening to these classics when so many other people do as well?

To justify this, the music snob keeps a running formula in their head - a matrix that compares the talent, musical and historical contribution of the artist with the volume of people listening to the artist. Clearly, the Beatles have made such a contribution, that the size of their audience would never reach saturation point for the musical snob to call the Beatles overrated.

And not enough that the music snob won't listen to albums or artists that they deem to be lacking in musical integrity. A music snob is only satisfied when they have completely denigrated an artist or album to the point, where someone who does enjoy listening to the artist or album feels inferior for the experience.

3. The Job Snob

Ever been out at a bar/pub/club and been asked "What do you do?"

Even better, ever been out at a bar/pub/club where the last question you got asked was "What do you do?"

It's a loaded question.

Q: "What do you do?"
A: "Well, I'm a school teacher."
Q: "Hey, that's great. Good for you."

Best answer: Don't answer it. Deflect the question.

Ever since "Princess" Mary raised the bar for gold diggers worldwide, if you don't answer "Well actually, I'm a prince", then the answer is wrong.

I mean, you don't honestly believe that someone asks you that question because they're interested in your personality?

The very nature of the question is artifical, designed to shoe box you into an income (and therefore, social) bracket.

The question should be re-worded, "What is your future income potential?"

4. The coffee snob

"Do they make good coffee? Because I only drink good coffee."

A coffee snob is probably as concerned with the quality of their coffee as a skydiver is in ensuring his parachute is packed correctly.

It's a cup of coffee. Beans. Hot water. Milk. Get over it.

5. The travel snob

Preoccupied with a primeval need to find the 'authentic travelling experience', the travel snob refuses to accept that they are not a local of the country they are visiting.

I always understood backpacking to have very few rules, being more an expression of free spirit in a foreign environment. Thus, backpacking requires respect for everything around you - geography and people.

Inherent in this is the conclusion that backpackers are tolerant for the circumstances of all other travellers.

The travel snob shirks this conclusion, insisting that their form of travel is correct, implying that anyone who travels in a manner different to their's is merely wrong.

I recently had the fortune to meet a travel snob in Cambodia - in this instance, a Swiss girl riding around Cambodia via motorcycle.

She seemed to have issues with my format of travel that were summed up as follows.

1. It is wrong to sit on a beach in a tropical beach location and to not know where the local town is. This is especially true if you choose to eat a $2 meal at a restaurant on the sand, instead of hiking up the hill to the rat infested markets.

2. Travelling for a period of 3 weeks is inherently wrong, because it suggests that routine and normalcy are your definining characteristics, instead of intransiency. This is especially true if you need to return to a job, because that means you have sold out to capitalism and The Man.

Apparently, if you don't travel with the locals (at a tropical beach location) and eat with the locals (at a tropical beach location), and rough it with the locals (at a tropical beach location), then you just aren't travelling properly.

Question: How far does this principle extend?

Well, it happens to be a fact that medical care in Cambodia is poor. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the average Cambodian would never have had a Typhoid vaccination.

Apply the above principle.

Needless to say, the Swiss girl contracted Typhoid.

I mean, I'm all for freedom of spirit.

But when such 'freedom' leads to the decision between contracting a highly contagious, yet easily preventible disease and the pursuit of an authentic travelling experience ... do I even need to finish this thought?

Conclusion

I'm too good for all you snobs.

Snobbery, Sydney Style

2005-02-14T17:19:00.000+11:00

I should have known.

From the second I walked through the door, I had them picked.

It was the way that their heads just didn't move.

You can tell a snob by their reaction when someone walks into a room. The snob is the one who doesn't look up to see who it is.

In this case, there was a table of them.

The incident?

A good mate of mine's family owns a holiday house 4 hours north of Sydney in a pristine lakeside location. His girlfriend's friend happened to have a birthday and my mate was generous enough to open up his house to all their girlfriend's for a weekend away. I got the call up to keep him company over the weekend.

Somehow, though, he was a visitor in his own house. And to add insult, an unwelcome visitor. It was as if he'd intruded on a girls weekend in his own home.

Which brings me to a new endangered species of homo sapiens.

The snob (aka, socialis wankerus)

I've often been out in Sydney and wondered about the psyche of the individual who is seemingly incapable of and completely disinterested in meeting new people. I've never understood such sociopathic behaviour, which I believe is one (large) step removed from defecating on someone's garage floor.

Well, the social wanker now has a group of faces and names.

Have you ever seen a person invite everyone to a party, only to be excluded from the party?

Have you ever tried to include yourself in a conversation, only to have the entire conversation walk away from you?

Have you ever met people who are more than happy to tell you how wonderful they are, but never ask you a question about yourself?

If so, then you have come face to face with a Sydney Snob.

I mean, it started off OK. We all sat down to play a good old fashioned drinking game, with playing cards. Shouldn't be an issue, right?

Well, this card game more closely resembled Israeli-Palestinian negotiations. Line down the middle of the table, both sides talking feverishly amongst themselves, with very little communication and interaction.

Let me say this. There are certain facts in life and one of them is that playing a drinking game with a group of people is a 100% guaranteed ice breaker. One of the most disturbing results of this weekend is that it completely breaks my definitions of the laws of nature. What I once believed to be truth is now a tattered wreck.

Same went for cooking. You'd imagine that with 2 groups of people sharing a kitchen, it would be impossible to avoid bumping into one another and possibly asking a question, or, dare I dream, have a conversation. Once again, apparently not.

My highlight of the weekend? Twofold.

The SuperBitch

The model cum actor. Otherwise known as the SuperBitch.

Me - "What do you do?"

SuperBitch - "Oh, I'm a model and an actor"

(This is snob-speak for 'I'm clearly way too good to actually be in your presence, let alone talking to you')

Me - "Oh yeah, what have you acted in?"

SuperBitch - "Well, the last thing I did was this feature length film called 'Something you've never heard of', it was made by 'Some guy you've never heard of' and had 'Some soon to be washed up actor you'll never hear of' in it."

This last sentence was said as she was walking away from me and closing a big glass door in my face.

SuperBitch had no cause to speak to me for the rest of the weekend ... that is, until I picked up a disposable camera that was lying around and took a photo.

"Hey, that's my camera."

"Oh. Nice camera."

"Stop taking photos with my camera."

"OK, sorry. I've only taken one photo"

"No you haven't, I've been watching. Give it here (takes the camera) ... Look, there's only 9 photos left."

"Yeah, and there was 10 when I picked it up."

"No there wasn't."

------- FAST FORWARD 20 MINUTES ---------

"I can't believe you took photos with my camera."

"For the last time, I only took one photo."

"No you didn't, I was watching you. What do you think I am, stupid?"

Big mistake.

"No, I don't think you're stupid. I think you're intellectually challenged."

SILENCE.

"That's just not funny. I'm going to bed."

Within 2 minutes, the lights were out.

What happens on tour, stays on tour.

Courtesy of shared sleeping space, I woke to the female equivalent of the boys locker room on Saturday morning.

See, owing to the fact that I was invisible to these girls, they proceeded to have the conversation that they would have had had I not been there.

And I discovered the following.

"Chris* has a clit ring. She was told to wait 8 weeks before having sex, but fuck that!! Apparently, it's fantastic."

"Well, Gina* just got her nipple done. I had to hold her leg the whole time. She said it was so painful."

"Wow. When she breast feeds, does that mean that it's going to go everywhere?"

"Why?"

"Well, she's got 3 holes now"

"No, it's like under the nipple"

"Oh."

"Hey, speaking of breasts, did you hear that Lisa* is heading off to Thailand to get her boobs done?"

"Yeah, apparently the hospitals there are really good"

"Yeah, but you hear stories about people who have terrible jobs there."

"Hey Amanda*, how are you feeling now that you've come off the pill?"

"Oh, I'm OK. I've been taking it for 8 years now, so I feel different now I've come off it. You should speak to Erika* about it though. She's came off it after 5 years and she hasn't had a proper period for about a year now."

"How does she feel now though?"

"Well, she's obviously upset because of the damage she's clearly done to her body. Like, when she was taking it, she was clockwork to the day. But now, she just can't have a proper one."

* names changed to protect the identity of Sydney Snobs.

I will never ever complain about waking up to an alarm.

I don't understand.

2005-02-11T06:30:00.000+11:00

So, the police did not agree to come round and fingerprint or DNA test the pile of steaming turds in my garage. As such, it was time to remove the evidence.

This was done through a highly complicated process involving

1. A bed sheet (pre-stained)
2. A broom
3. A bucket of disinfectant
4. A fan and
5. A bottle of Pot Pouri spray.

The broom unfortunately didn't make it. Condolences have been sent to the mop.

There are still several aspects to all this that I find confusing.

For starters, the size of the pile. I find it hard to believe that anyone who needs to steal is capable of eating enough food to produce a pile that big. I mean, stereotype suggests that the person who took my bike was either a whacked out tattood ex-convict with more holes in his arms than an acupuncture patient, or one of the many permanent residents of Sydney's streets. Either way, you imagine that they can't just produce piles like that on call.

Which means one of two things.

Either this sicko waited until he had to do a crap before finding something to rob, just so he could go to the bathroom. Or...

He hung out in my garage until he had built up his unholyness to release upon the world.

Either way, we're talking about the mind of a criminal genius sociopath.

And, I realise that this is kind of an obvious question - so obvious, I initally forgot to ask it.

What did this guy wipe use for toilet paper?

The only items I can think of are as follows.

1. The bike.
2. The fan.
3. The spare phuton.
4. The clothes drier.

You know what? I'd rather live in ignorance on this one.

Apparently this kind of thing happens all the time. Supposedly the number 1 calling card at a robbery is the insides of the robber's stomach. Apparently, if you ever get robbed, you should throw out your toothbrush.

Personally, I understand this kind of behaviour when associated with vengeance. An age-old tale about 2 mates of mine and a dare involving the contents of a stomach and a shaving stick, but that's a whole other story.

What I don't understand is such vitriol aimed at an indiscriminate target.

"I'm going to crap on your floor. Not that it's you ... it's me. It's not personal - you're a great person, it's just, I'm going through a tough time now and this is something that I need to do for me"

The scary thing is, to that extent, I can see a bit of this kind of person in me. In fact, there's probably a bit of this person in everyone.

I blame the lack of an outlet for sick and depraved people in Australia. I mean, if we had Jerry Springer in Australia, there'd be a forum for whackos to get together. They'd realise that no matter how screwed up they think they are, there's always going to be some midget out there who's cheating on his sister with his uncle.

Holy Crap!!

2005-02-09T11:25:00.000+11:00

I feel violated.

For two reasons.

And I’m not sure which is worse.

My bike has recently disappeared from my garage.

Which is not to say that it has been ‘stolen’, per se.

See, I believe in God. Or at least, I believe in the existence of a higher power. A lot of this has to do with the fact of God’s existence being drilled into my head from an age where my bullshit-meter was ill formed.

I mean, let’s face it. At the age of 4, when someone tells you that there’s this all powerful, all seeing, all knowing being, what else are you meant to believe? At the age of 4, everything is massive. Playground swings feel like they’re going really fast. Monkey bars feel really high. Your parents look like giants. And when these giants tell you that there’s something out there that’s bigger and better than them, you tend to listen without applying a great deal of critical analysis.

Notwithstanding, in my older, slightly more cynical state, I’ve attempted to apply more logic to this question. Is religion a pure human construct, designed to deflect the answers to questions that seemingly have none? Perhaps it is a tribal mechanism that allows us to satisfy an overwhelming human urge of belonging?

It is fair to say that there appears to be an inverse relationship between those who apply science to explain the unanswerable questions, and those who have absolute conviction in faith in a superhuman as being the source of their origin.

Which brings me back to my bike and its Houdini performance.

Technically, I’m sure there are perfectly good scientific explanations for my bike’s disappearance. It may have entered a localised black hole and been transported to a parallel universe. There may have been some sort of interruption in the space time continuum. Perhaps it merely spontaneously combusted.

However, to my knowledge, there is no bank of scientific research into the metamorphosis between bicycle (2 wheeled vehicle) and human faeces (a pile of steaming turds).

To the budding scientists out there who have just been inspired to write a Nobel winning thesis, I ask that you find some way of turning the pile of excrement on my garage floor back into my pink and yellow Malvern Star, as this bike has significant sentimental value for me.

To those of you still reading the excrement spewing forth from my keyboard, I believe that there is no scientific explanation for the conversion that took place in my absence and can therefore posit that God is responsible for what can only be defined as a miracle.

Of course, some of the crazier readers might try and argue that there was some form of human intervention in my garage. They would revert to an obvious social stereotype and suggest that a person or persons unknown (possibly homeless, deranged, on drugs or in need of drugs) entered my garage, relieved their bowels and made a fast getaway on my bike.

To those people, I ask the following.

Did God drop the ball by not including a commandment “Thou shalt not take a crap on thy neighbour’s floor”? I would have assumed that this was an automatic; to be assumed; inherent in human existence. Clearly this person does not believe in social order whatsoever.

And herein lies my conclusion.

That is, God is an all-seeing (mechanism for maintaining law and order in society) and all-powerful (able to answer all questions unanswerable) social fabrication. Not only does belief in God give us comfort in our own existence, it saves us from the existence of those around us.

Have you ever watched 2 professional sporting teams, where all the players on the field, prior to the game, stop and pray? Every time they score a goal, make a tackle, hit a home run or score a basket, is an occasion to stop and pay respect to God. And when they’ve won, it was because God gave them the strength and talent to win.

In sports, 50% of all teams will end up losers on a given day. I can guarantee that 50% of all sporting teams would not describe their religious attachment as atheist or agnostic. Nor will you ever see a sportsperson in a post match interview say “Well, we tried our hardest on the day, but I guess God didn’t like the lamb we sacrificed last night”

So, here are the hard facts.

In life, there will be people faster than you, stronger than you and in general better than you. In life, there will be people worse off than you, less socially integrated and with a lower sense of morality.

My bike is missing and there is shit on my floor. And I’m pretty sure it’s not Holy shit.

What would you like to shoot today, sir?

2005-01-17T09:41:00.000+11:00

Question.

Would you trust a plane that looked like this?

I mean, surely the only reason you would paint a plane this colour is to make it easier to search for. And what else are mates for, other than parting advice of, "If the propellors stop, remember when you climb out onto the wing to rotate them clockwise."

And as the plane landed in Bangkok International - and by landed, I mean it hovered over the runway at an alarming speed, bounced off the left tyres 3 times, the right tyres twice, the left again before settling into a fishtail across the runway - I said goodbye to 3 most memorable weeks in Laos and Cambodia to begin my journey back home.

So, what exactly am I saying goodbye to?

They call New York the city that never sleeps. Well, Cambodia and Laos never sleep when I'm trying to. I think these are the only places on earth where people wake up the roosters. Well before the crack of dawn, Phnom Penh drowns in a chorus of motorcycle engines and
construction work. These are usually followed by a couple of confused crows by roosters, no doubt intent on complaining to their union about demarcation.

This also means that the night life in Phnom Penh is fairly underground, making it an extremely scary city to walk around in after dark. Picture this scene - you're walking down a paved road lined with slummy apartment blocks at night. Then, you turn into a dirt road, lined with mansions that are fenced in by massive compound walls and barbed wire. There is not a single street light, no noise, no cars on the road, no cars parked by the side of the road and no people. Now, imagine that you've had a couple of beers, you've taken a wrong turn and you end up at a massive roundabout that heads off in 12 different directions, you remember that your place is near a photo shop, but every store is closed and they all look the same from the outside anyways ... and you are the only thing moving and making sound. Kind of makes you wish for the roosters and the motorcycles.

Speaking of motorcycles, once again words cannot do justice to the mayhem that is traffic in Phnom Penh. After a while, you actually get used to the 4 lanes of traffic. These include the 2 lanes that are driving in the right direction and 2 lanes on the outside going the wrong direction, but which are trying to cut through oncoming traffic to get to the other side of the road.

And just quickly, speaking of traffic, I'd personally like to thank the NSW Infringements Bureau. Having received a parking ticket just before leaving Australia, I took the infringement notice with me so I could pay it on the internet. Let's just say that it came in extremely handy when I received a bout of traveller's diahorrea and had no toilet paper available.

And speaking of toilets, let's talk about the French.

The French have left a lasting colonial impression across Asia. These include French style mansions and coffee houses and one can sit by the river in Phnom Penh wearing a safari suit and drinking beer and coffee all afternoon. My favourite legacy from the French, however, is the "bun gun", a high powered spray found in Asian bathrooms that serves as a hand-held bidet.

So, what do I think of Cambodians?

Cambodians are a highly flexible group of people. We had been told of an 'underground' shooting range that existed in Phnom Penh, full of excess army stock and our guide, Easy Tiger, took us there one morning. We arrived, not at an 'underground' shooting range, but at an active army base. Slipping the guards a little green piece of paper that read "In God We Trust", we found ourselves inside a Cambodian army base, with access to whatever weaponry we desired. We were greeted by a host, who asked us to take a seat, producing some menus. I'd already eaten breakfast and wasn't hungry, but then realised that this menu was slightly different to any other I'd seen. It read as follows.

AK-47 (Russian) - 30 bullets
M-16 (American) - 30 bullets
M-60 (American) - 100 bullets

And so on. Also available on request were grenades, rocket launchers, anti-aircraft missiles and (for the real sickos) a live cow.

Cambodians are an extremely friendly group of people. One afternoon, I challenged some locals to a game of chess in a park - little did I know that the Cambodians play with completely different rules and moves. However, with a bit of help from a mobile phone call, I took advantage of my distracted opponent and seized the game. He turned out to be a Tuk-tuk driver, who, on losing, became my driver for the rest of the afternoon.

Cambodians are a resilient group of people. As a country, they are beginning to recover from the Khmer Rouge regime, or at least, on the surface. Having seen first-hand the prisons and killing fields of the Khmer Rouge, I was repulsed, hearing how Pol Pot poisened the minds of children against their families, emptied the cities, and drove everyone out into the fields to work. The Khmer Rouge regime killed anyone with an education (having first tortured them for a 'confession', using such techniques as tying their hands down, ripping their fingernails out with pliers and then pouring alcohol on the wounds). The killings were done in fields and to save on bullets, the Khmer Rouge used to bash their victims in the head with gun butts.

Cambodians are an extremely proud and nationalistic group of people. In this context, I met an amazing person. In the massive marketplace at Phnom Penh, there is a Cambodian equivalent of a Food Court. Don't imagine Boost Juice, sushi and sandwiches, however, think more of a cross between an abattoir and Chinatown. Anyways, tucked into the corner of these markets was a coffee shop. I sat down to get an ice coffee and started chatting to the owner. He explained the whole process of how he makes his coffee and how fresh his beans are and all of a sudden, the conversation turns to Cambodian history.

This man started to tell me about the history of Cambodia, a story about what 800 years ago was a massive empire, but whose modern history includes being involved in a political tug of war between Thailand and Vietnam, becoming a French protectorate but having little to no social support from the French, becoming a battlefield for the Cold War and one of the most heavily land-mined areas on the planet, having 5 years of civil war finally followed by 5 years of Khmer Rouge rule, which left 2 million Cambodians dead.

At this point, the friendly coffee shop man nearly broke down and started crying. It occurred to me that he would have lived from the French colony period onwards, throughout Civil War, throughout Khmer Rouge atrocities, and here he was, a coffee shop owner, proud of his
coffee shop and proud of his country.

At the end of our conversation, he took out a 100 Riel note (about 2.5 cents) and ripped it in half. On one half he wrote his name and gave it to me and I reciprocated. My cup of coffee turned into an extremely humbling and eye-opening experience.

So, I met a lot of amazing people in Cambodia. Unfortunately, I met a lot of wankers as well, except the wankers seemed to all be Westerners. This next piece might sound a bit aggressive, but I've never met so many annoying travellers in such a short space of time.

Dumb Dave - This guy was the stereotypical whinging pom. He would make outlandish statements, such as "The women in this country don't go out - they stay at home, while the men go out. We should have that back home - that way, there would be less problems." and "The only contribution the Irish made to this world is potatoes". Dumb Dave hated everything about Cambodia - he hated the people, he hated the food, he couldn't stand the place. This was why we couldn't figure out why he was looking for a permanent job in Phnom Penh. Which he was having trouble with because "Everyone wants me to get up so early for interviews - 10am, what's that all about? I go out at night and get drunk - how do they expect me to get up before midday?" It'd be funny if he wasn't so serious.

Patty and Selma - These 2 full bodied, chain smokers were a Dutch equivalent of Marge's sisters from the Simpsons, basically minus the blue hair and the pet iguana. They jumped into our Tuk tuk unannounced, then on arrival at our accomodation, insisted that Rob and myself share a double bed while they take the twin because "We are not a couple ... she snores" (you've got to actually hear it and see them to understand just how gratingly annoying these women were). The irony was not lost when we bumped into them at the next town we visited and they were looking for accomodation ... Rob and I quickly offered them the spare double bed at our guesthouse.

The Rooster - A girl from Newcastle, who was constantly drunk and constantly falling on top of you and announcing how drunk she was. Worse still, she was one of those "Because I'm Australian, I went out with other Aussies and because I'm an Aussie, I had to have a drink
with them". Funny how I didn't feel inclined to have a drink with her. The worst part was, she talked to our group of 4 Aussies as though we weren't Aussie, not that she actually asked where we were from, she was too busy telling us how drunk she was. We nicknamed her "The Rooster" because a rooster is loud and annoying at the wrong time of the day.

The Reality TV Show Tour Group - We only caught these guys at the end of their tour, but somehow they had had such a bad day, they turned against each other. Faced with the opportunity to explore a beautiful limestone cave on a tube in (admittedly freezing) water, we caught the following comments. From an Aussie girl - "We've seen caves all day, I just want to go home". From and English guy - "How do you expect us to go in there? We're not the SAS". The only thing this group lacked was home viewers to see who was going to get voted off.

I don't know where these people come from, or why they bother to go travelling, but wankers aside, Laos was an incredible experience. A country I never intended to visit at the start of my trip, Laos was a gem. Containing spectacular views of gorgeous mountains and merging rivers, Laos was a stereotypically beautiful Asian countryside. It's possibly the most chilled out country on earth, which is pretty amazing, considering it is also supposedly the most bombed country on
earth, thanks to some US carpet bombing post Vietnam.

Highlights included a bus trip from Vang Vieng (affectionately nicknamed "Bang Bang" by our crew) to Luang Prabang (equally affectionately nicknamed "Gang Bang"), where the driver managed to negotiate a series of switchbacks and hills by throwing the bus around at high speeds whilst completely burning out the brakes.

Our group went tubing down the Han Song river, which turned out to be the most painful experience of my trip. Throughout the course of the 4 hour trip, I managed to completely smash my tailbone against some rocks. As a result, it hurts to sit down, which made the bumpy 6 hour
bus ride all the more enjoyable. Additional injuries include rope burn, muscle soreness and cuts from jumping off cliffs, swinging off ropes and climbing bamboo ladders. These may also be slightly attributed to all the longneck bottles we consumed on the way down the river.

On my final morning in Gang Bang, we woke up before the roosters and motorcycles to watch what is essentially a monk ticker tape parade - at dawn, all the monks in the city (about 400) walk in procession through the streets of the city while the locals place food in their urns - an extremely spiritual and unnecessarily early start to the day - and as always, the natural habitat for the endangered Western tourist, who for some reason thought that the monks would enjoy having SLR cameras shoved in their faces at 6am.

And that was Asia. Khawp jai lai lai for a great trip and stay tuned for "Adventures of some guy who has a full time job and a routine"

Cambodia - it's Phnomenal

2005-01-04T18:44:00.000+11:00

There are many titles that I could have givenh this piece of writing, but I believe that this one best sumhs up this Phnomenal country.

It's tricky to explainh - something about the combinationh of the extreme warmth of a very troubled people, the hectic nature of the city streets, the rich history and culture and a solid amount of some kind of herb that looks a bit like basil.

Anyways, here are some of the titles of this email that I rejected, that I feel give more of an idea about this country.

Cambodia - Welcome to TempleTownh.

Angkor Wat. Imagine some of the world's best preserved ruins, dating between 800 and 1200 AD. Picture, if you can, the dominating structures of a series of 5 towers built on top of another series of structures, with a kilometre of carvings twice the height of a normal humanh wrapped around the outside of the building that detail the history and culture of an extraordinary group of people that dragged the stones from kilometres away, all in the name of satisfying the ego
of a megalomaniac king.

Now, imagine several of these temples in an immediate radius, each bigger and better than its predecessors.

Now, imagine these temples being run by Disney.

Once againh, my quest for Indiana Jones style scenes from around the world (and in this case, the set for Tomb Raider) has brought me face to face with the most wretched of native species.

No, not the bed bug.

Once againh, I have been brought face to face with the endangered Westernh tourist. Armed with digital cameras, camcorders and tripods, this breathing cacophony of clicks, buzzes, flashes and the like gradually descend on this remote forest for sunrise.

Not satisfied with breaking the peace, the endangered Westernh tourist feels an uncanny need to touch absolutely anything in its path. Fingering 1000 year old carvings, clambouring over elaborately constructed columns, the endangered Western tourist will stop at absolutely nothing to get the perfect photo.

Easily spotted by its mating call - "Excuse me ... could you please take a photo", they can often be seen gathering in large numbers to create a dinh at the most serene times of the day.

The temples themselves are breathtaking and probably the best preserved that I have experienced. They are a complete occupational health and safety risk - for some reasonh, the Cambodianh authorities have no problem with tourists climbing steps 5cm wide, maximumh, with a vertical step of just over a foot, up to heights of 20 metres, with no railings and no order as to who goes up and who comes downh. Crowds gather at the bottomh of these temples, cameras poised, at the odd chance that someone slips and falls.

Cambodia - Try the Soup

For a country that warns at the border of exterminationh in the event of possession of illegal drugs, everyone seems to possess copious amounts of a certain greenh herb.

And they put it in everything.

Soup. Fruit juice. Milkshakes.

So here's a tip. Beware ordering any food with the prenounh "Happy", for you will be unable to converse in a normal plainh for several (for me, about 8) hours.

And just a tip - next time you do try one of the "Happy" Shakes, do NOT under any circumstances bargainh a motorcyclist to take you into townh, for they will surely be the fastest vehicle on the (extremely hilly and potholed) road.

Cambodia - The House that Marxism built

The history of this country still hurts Cambodians, who I have found to be an extremely proud race of people. Notwithstanding the extremely visible effects of land mines, the psychological scarring of this country is evident. Pnomh Penh, the capital, is developing, but extremely disfunctional - the bus station is non existent, but rather a small parking spot at a petrol station in the centre of town, which is a marketplace. This is no doubt a direct result of the Khmer Rouge having banned commerce, the currency and having murdered the educated class. I will be able to comment more on this over the next couple of days as I see the killing fields and the prisons of the Khmer Rouge. The agrarian class that Pol Pot dreamt of is toiling the land, living
in absolute poverty under thatched roofs with mud floors. Given its turbulent history, Cambodians truly are an amazing group of people.

Cambodia - The Friendly Country.

How friendly? Real friendly. So friendly, you think there's got to be something wrong, because no-one's that friendly.

I'll relate a story from New Years Eve, which was spent at a tiny remote beach townh called Sihanoukville, or more correctly, on Serendipity Beach.

We were drinking buckets at a bar on the sand. For those of you who don't understand that expression, a bucket is a traditional sand bucket (in this instance, minus the spade), filled with vodka, whiskey and redbull, for the princely sum of $2.50

So, anyways, midnight comes and we all decide to strip off (the locals here have nicknamed me "Mr Monkey") and go for a midnight skinny dip.

I get back to my clothes and my wallet is sitting on top of my clothes, opened and emptied. (To put this into perspective, we're talking about $6, but more importantly, my drivers license, which is of no use to anyone but me).

I notice a kid next to my stuff, who proclaimed his innocence by emptying his pockets and pointing down the beach yelling "Little boy!"

Resigned to having lost my license (and $6), I returned to the party. Anyways, 5 hours later (5:15 am), I bump into the same kid next to the bar. A little more sloshed this time, I decide to confront him.

"Listen, I don't care about the cash, I just want back my f***ing driver's license. You keep the f***ing cash".

No doubt understanding absolutely nothing of the above except my emotion, the kid taps the bartender, who immediately produced my driver's license.

How good is this country? Even when they screw you, they're nice to you!!

Cambodia - Traffic Mayhemh

In this country, motorcycle is the mainh (and sometimes only) means of travel, with up to 4 people on a bike at any one time, meaning that motorcyclists rule the road. The locals wear thongs, shorts, singlets and other body-protecting gear and this is one area where backpackers
have no troubles blending.

The road rules, as far I can determine, are as follows.

1. All cars must honk at all times.
2. Stop signs, give way signs and traffic lights are all ornamental.
3. When overtaking around a blind corner, honk to warn of impending destructionh.
4. When going through an intersectionh, look left and right at all other cars going through so you can judge your line and speed. NEVER
EVER COME TO A COMPLETE STOP AT AN INTERSECTIONH.
5. Fastest car on the road should give way. This includes to pedestrianhs, who should continue walking, as all road users will judge their speed and avoid accordingly.

This led to the peak hour chaos scene we experienced in Pnomh Penh today, with 3 blokes on our bike, piling into a corridor of traffic where, even though we never came to a complete stop, were always withinh 3 inches of a vehicle at all times.

Cambodia - The Frisbee Players

Every child in Cambodia is a natural at the frisbee. From the 5 year old girl who caught one-handed whilst balancing a basket of eggs on her head, to the 12 year old boy who was throwing forehands between his legs after 15 minutes.

This country has the potential to become the best in the world - all they need are coaches, facilities and frisbees.

It's an amazing toy - sometimes it's easy to forget that the kids who are forced from a young age to sell their wares to tourists are just kids. I throroughly recommend travelling with a frisbee to everyone.

(Good sales pitch - maybe I should get into selling frisbees.)

Cambodia - It's pretty sweet, mate.

There is one final thing that disturbs me about this place. It seems to be fairly Australianised. What is it about the Australianh culture that it feels the need to trumpet its greatness to the rest of the world? This beach? Yeah, it's pretty good - but it's not Bondi. This beer? Not bad, but how good would a VB go downh. Hear that? It's Crowded House - They're Australianh. And in Australia, we do things this way. And in Australia, ...

Which leads me to wonder why there are pubs here called the "G'day mate"? Or why the guy running my hostel introduced himself as "Easy, Tiger"? Why do we feel the need to dominate a cultural place with such a clear lack of class???

Or am I just being un-Australianh?

OK, until next time...

Asia - open today only

2004-12-29T13:14:00.000+11:00

Firstly, let me assure anyone who is concerned about my whereabouts (all 2 of you) that I am in Cambodia and going about altering my travel plans to Ko Phi Phi island, which is obviously no longer a travel destination for the immediate future.

Now, Bangkok.

Apparently the city of Bangkok is open today only. See, today is a public holiday, so everything that there is to do and see in Bangkok is open TODAY ONLY. And for 20 Baht, I can take you there on my Tuk Tuk.

I wonder how well a business would do in Sydney, if it was only open TODAY. You could call it "Only open TODAY!!!". Of course, the business itself sells nothing of any interest - the money is made in the taxi drivers who take unsuspecting tourists too and from. I suspect it would do OK, as long as you somehow targeted tourists who were coming directly from Bangkok

And thus beginneth my Asian travels.

Actually, my Asian travels began at the airport. Most emails I have read about Bangkok describe the 'hustle and bustle', a 'vibrant city', are amazed at the 'incredible traffic' and that it is buzzing '24 hours a 'day'.

I was most impressed at the smell.

The airport smells like fart. A really tangy fart.

My hotel lobby smelt like a spicy urine

Even the pollution smells like Pad Thai.

Everything has this incredible smell of herbs, spices and chilli, mixed in with the smells on the natural human function.

And the chilli is amazing. Chilli for breakfast is something that needs to start featuring in my daily habit on return to Australia.

So, what are the weird things I saw in my 24 hours in Bangkok?

- A dog urinating inside a travel agent
- An elephant walking down the street
- A woman popping a balloon by shooting a dart out of her nether regions.
- Street sellers barbequing satay sticks at 6am.- A plethora of foreign brands of clothing, at ridiculously cheap prices.
- 5 Westerners (possibly us) piled into the back of a Tuk Tuk (designed to hold 2) zipping through traffic.

This, mind you, within the first 24 hours.

And since then, I have caught a 14 bus trip to Cambodia, where we will spend the next little while, having altered our travel plans due to the tidal waves.

At first glance, Cambodia is an eye opener. It appears to be poorer and less developed that any other country I have ever visited.

I was warned whilst playing frisbee at a stop during our trip that if the frisbee gets thrown off the track, I shouldn't fetch it due to risk of land mines.

More to come as I become more acquainted with this place.

How much do our trains suck?

2004-11-22T13:17:00.000+11:00

I was standing on a train platform the other day. I do a lot of that, these days. I probably spend more time on train platforms than on the train itself, which isn’t that hard, I guess, since I only travel two stops and my average waiting time is about ten minutes.

Generally speaking, I’m a positive person who likes to see the upside in any situation and the dysfunction of our train system is no exception. So, instead of bemoaning my inevitable tardiness, I’ve turned the train system into a source of entertainment.

I’ve created a game, by applying a formula based on the times displayed on the board, to predict what time the next train will arrive. For example, the scenario where the train is meant to arrive in 2 minutes time, but the board says the train is expected in 5 minutes time. Under Costa’s law of ineptitude, you add the two times and the train will arrive approximately 3 minutes after that.

It’s not just me who’s pursuing distraction on our platforms. How about the times you arrive to see the next train leaving in 28 minutes time, followed by one leaving 2 minutes later and another leaving 2 minutes after that one? Frustrated? Don’t be. This is just the station staff trying to keep themselves entertained because the trains never arrive.

Ever since litter was classified as a security risk, forcing the removal of garbage bins from platforms (Did someone say “Cost cutting”?), passengers have become more and more creative with where they place their rubbish. The other day I saw an apple core shoved up a tap. I also saw it the next day, the next day and the next day. Clearly, the train platform has evolved into a habitat for our refuse. It’s a matter of time until we see a nature show set in a Sydney train station. “Urbanis debris, otherwise known as garbage, loves the cool climate of a vending machine dispenser.”

The other day, I arrived on a packed platform to be welcomed by an announcement that the next train would be terminating and that all passengers should not board the train. Clearly, the sound system was as functional as the train system that day, because the announcement repeated itself ad nauseum for 10 minutes. Imagine my surprise when the next train arrived and the entire, seemingly deaf, crowd pushed to board this supposedly “terminating” train. Of course, it was the previous train that had terminated, no doubt due to the impending lunch break of the person who had pressed play on the tape.

I have formed a solution that does not involve replacing the current Government, although as a stunt, I suggest the Opposition consider launching their next election campaign on the tracks at Town Hall station during peak hour. Their safety is guaranteed.

The solution?

Sydneysiders pay a fortune for shows as entertaining as this. Sell tickets and use the money to fix the train system.

Bush and Saddam share the same bed

2004-10-08T13:30:00.000+10:00

It’s election time again and in the land of the compulsory vote, Australians once again have to determine which candidate they dislike least.

Pretty pathetic that the best this sunburnt country has to offer is the choice between your conservative grandfather and your drunk uncle. It’s the choice between “I don’t mind them gays and immigrants, I just wish they wouldn’t do it in front of me” and “You know what I reckon is school and hospital and beer should be free and I wanna stop paying bloody tax. Now f*$# off, the lot of yous.”

Of course, there’s a lot of smaller parties you can vote for. There’s the fanatic religious group, otherwise known as ‘Family First’. There’s the anti-economy, pro-ecstasy, “we used to hug trees, now we hug terrorists” group known as ‘The Greens’. If you’re into 4 wheel drives, gay marriage, marijuana or 3 day weekends, then there’s a political party for you.

So, I guess democracy creates choice. At least we don’t live in a country like Iraq, right? In theory, the bigger the democracy, the greater the choice, right?

In the self proclaimed “Land of the Free” (aka the USA), choice is king. Go to any number of mega-supermarkets located a close drive to you and there are hundreds of products to choose from. There’s any sport you want on TV, 24 hours a day. Don’t like sport? Choose from one of the hundreds of other special interest channels available.

So, I guess politically there would be hundreds of candidates to choose from?

Actually, there’s three. Two of them legitimate chances (although not necessarily legitimate candidates) and one who should receive about 1% of the vote in protest.
Isn’t it ironic that the biggest democracy in the world generates such a lack of political choice? The increasingly competitive political climate has caused the main parties to polarise around an ideological median, at the expense of the causes and policies that formed the main parties in the first place. As a result, the voters are left with 2 essentially homogenous candidates.

Can we extrapolate this to say that implementation of the U.S. electoral system, the choice to not choose, actually works to minimise the amount of choices you have available? In the strive for the perfect democracy, the US has stumbled into a duocracy.

George W. Bush would probably disagree with me at this point. Having mastered the art of political spin (saying what you want to believe, ad nauseum, in complete contrast to obvious truth), Dubya would no doubt go to great lengths to highlight the great freedoms that democracy has created and maintained in this terrorised world in which we live.

“Look at Iraq,” he would say. “Saddam Hussein is a person who killed a lot of people.”

I hate to draw this to Dubya’s attention, but there are many vast similarities between the U.S and Iraq and they don’t just stop at lack of effective political choice.

Ignoring the obvious social differences, let’s talk economics. Coming into government after many consecutive years of growth under Clinton, there was no question that the economy was starting to slow down. The difficulties Bush would face were compounded after September 11, as billions of dollars were wiped from the economy.

George Bush has managed to implement trillion dollar tax cuts and extremely low interest rates. In an impressive application of Keynsian economics, his government also increased spending to create huge budget deficits in an effort to kick-start the economy.

What are they spending the money on, I wonder?

Well, during the second quarter of 2003, when the war in Iraq was in full swing, some 60 per cent of the 3.3 per cent GDP growth rate was attributable to military spending.

Need a job? Join the army.

Of course, military expenditure is usually the least effective way of spending money, because it doesn't build infrastructure that gives you returns over time. But it does create a short-term gain.

Just ask Iraq, who came out of an 8 year war with Iran that had an estimated cost of $1.2 billion (in 1980’s terms), effectively ending Saddam Hussein’s plan for the development of Iraq. Not to mention that Kuwait had lent Iraq a lot of money during the war. Not to mention that Saddam had to pay off his soldiers, who had been fighting for the motherland for the past 8 years. Not to mention that Kuwait is extremely oil-rich.

The decision to invade was simple[1]. The resultant looting would pay the soldiers’ wages; the oil would revamp the economy. Saddam rejuvenated the Iraqi economy through war; essentially, Dubya has managed to out-Saddam Saddam.

“He kills his own people,” Bush claims. A quick glance at the Texacutioner’s resume will show that over a 6 year period as Governor of Texas, George W. Bush presided over 152 executions. That’s one every fortnight. How about the thousands of Americans and Iraqis who have died as a result of this economic crusade into Iraq?

"Good riddance. The world is better off without you, Mr. Saddam Hussein”

I’m not denying that for a second. I just wouldn’t mind seeing Bush following after.

[1] (Where Saddam may have erred was in invading all the way to the Saudi border and building up enough of a presence such as to be considered a threat to Saudi Arabia. Having rolled over Kuwait, Saddam already controlled over 20 percent of the world's oil reserves. Saudi Arabia contained an additional 20 percent. Even though to this point, Saddam was an ally to the US, having had his war with Iran financed and armed by the US, it was not in US interests to have 40% of the world’s oil supply in the hands of one man.)

Why women are like a pair of jeans

2004-09-10T13:37:00.000+10:00

Have you ever owned a pair of jeans that were the perfect pair of jeans? They fit better than any other pair. Broken in and aged perfectly. Hugged the bum. The best pair of jeans you ever owned.

And then, one day you wake up and those jeans no longer fit? Or, they're too faded? They've got holes, become loose, whatever.

So, you've got to go out and buy another pair of jeans.

But, you can't remember what it was about those jeans that made you want to buy them in the first place.

So, you go back to where you got them from, but they don't have that line anymore.

You start looking around - nothing fits as well, looks as good, costs the same.

You hit a wall where you have to realise that you will never replace those jeans, but try to find something to substitute in their absence that you hope you could grow to love as much.

But the question still stands ... what is it you look for in a pair of jeans? Do you take a chance with any jeans and hope that they eventually grow on you, or do you wait for the perfect pair to come along.

You can learn a lot about someone from their answer to this.

Some girls buy 2 of the same brand.

Some just move on.

Personally, I looked for ages and eventually settled - but I'm not as happy with them and pine for the days when I had my other jeans.

After all, you don't get very long on this planet, so why should you spend that time with a pair of jeans you really don't enjoy wearing?

Why France is like Britney Spears

2004-09-04T13:26:00.000+10:00

Britney Spears was the golden girl once upon a time. Like Rapunzel in her tower - a maiden, untouchable and untouched by mankind. Getting her bigbreak at age 11 on the Mickey Mouse show, Britney shortly managed to rocket to stardom combining sexuality with innocence.

When she appeared in her school uniform in her film clip debut, we were flabbergasted. When she followed this up with her red leather bodysuit-cum-camel-toe, we were left to pick up our tongues. Sure, there had been women as beautiful as this in the past. But how many of them were self-proclaimed virgins? With long term boyfriends? Who seemed to know everything about how to move their body in a sexual manner?

It became the hot topic. How could such a good looking girl also be so good? She was religious, she didn't drink, she didn't smoke, she didn't have sex. She managed to combine the pressures of being idol to girls across the world with having her relationship in the public spotlight without succumbing to the influences that fame brings.

Could it be the Britney was perfect?

France, in true form, engaged in traditional Gallic thumb-nosing at U.S. leadership when it presented the moral high ground as its case for not entering the war in Iraq. They argued international law. They argued principle. They argued innocent victims. They went as far as to use its veto on the UN Security Council to stop any resolution authorising war, ensuring that any adverse circumstance arising out of the war would rest squarely on the shoulders of the U.S whilst France would appear as beacons of light to the rest of the world. France became the moral crusaders, there to prevent a unipolar world dominated by US multinationals, oil and money, there to defend the lives of innocent victims and the principles of international law.

France claimed that the US had made the world a more dangerous place, all the while claiming immunity from terrorism to which the US had been subject. Their logic - if more countries behaved like France, terrorism would not exist in the first place. How utopian!!

Could it be that France was perfect?

Then the truth emerged.

Britney was no longer a virgin. She'd smoked cigarettes, drunk alcohol and even flirted with stronger, more illegal drugs. She broke up with her long term boyfriend and started being seen out with naughty boys. On a NewYears binge, she got drunk, went to Vegas, got married and then annulled the wedding. She snogged Madonna in a public effort to add momentum to both of their lagging careers. She became engaged to a dancer with a pregnant wife. And all the while, her career started to slow down as shewas seen to be desperately attention-seeking whilst being overtaken by younger, fresher and sluttier girls far more capable of handling the pressures of stardom.

We loved it. Britney wasn't perfect. It wasn't that she was doing stuff that we'd never done. It was that she put herself on a pedestal by saying that she would never succumb to the vices that we all enjoy. In falling off the pedestal, we were vindicated. When Britney proved that she was the white trash that we all knew she was, we all felt better for it.

Not to mention that prior to the war, France had 11 oil contracts withIraq. France was owed $3 billion for French aircraft, missiles and munitions. France was Iraq's biggest trading partner in Europe, at $1.5 billion annually. France handled all of the money collected for Iraq in the food for oil scheme run by the United Nations, worth $70 billion to France's Banque Paribas.

So why is it that the world has stood silent whilst France has legislated racism in schools? A non-targeted law with regard to religious articles in schools has clear targets - Islam and Judaism. Perhaps because it is a secular twist of the historical formula to religious conscription. Instead of actively engaging religious differences in society, France would prefer to sweep these issues under the carpet for schools. The effect of this law will be counter-intuitive, creating pockets of culture in a fragmented society, causing inevitable clashes of religion and culture through ignorance and lack of integration. Am I alone in thinking this?

No. Some radical Muslims in Iraq happen to agree with me, so much so that they have taken 2 French citizens hostage and threatened their execution if France doesn't change this law. The French have been caught with their noses in the air, having thought that they were immune to terrorist attack due to their objection to the war in the first place. Apparently, taking the moral high ground doesn't count for much when someone wants to enforce their way of life upon you and will go to extreme lengths to bend your behaviour to theirs.

Hmm. Maybe Britney isn't as perfect as we first thought.

You're all un-Australian.

2004-08-27T13:21:00.000+10:00

The Sally Robbins rowing debacle (For those of you who don't like sport or who live in a cave, Sally Robbins is the women's 8's rower who stopped rowing 500m from the line at the Athens Olympics) has raised a huge debate of who is in the right and who is in the wrong?

Unfortunately, the answer seems to be reverting to the question of what it means to be Australian and, conversely, what it means to be “un-Australian”.

Anyone who stops mid race is "un-Australian" as they are not exhibiting bravery and are letting the team down. Anyone teammate who complains about it is "un-Australian" as they are a whinger.

Anyone who chastises either side is "un-Australian" because they aren't elite athletes; they don’t know what it’s like and aren't giving anyone a fair go.

For there to be a concept of “un-Australian”, there must be a definition of what it means to be "Australian". This is distinguished from being an Australian. Furthermore, it's possible to be non-Australian, yet still be "Australian" by exhibiting the characteristics that are becoming of Australians.

So, what is “Australian”?

Well, it’s “Australian” to cut down the “tall poppy”, it’s “Australian” to worship anyone successful who has ever had a link to this country and it’s Australian to go for the underdog.

It’s “Australian” to stand by your mates and it’s “Australian” to unleash physical and verbal abuse when they do something wrong.

“Australian” is a meat pie with sauce and “Australian” is a prime fillet steak with garlic infused mash and honey jus, washed down with a bottle of Shiraz.

No wonder we have a case of confused identity.

Our defining moment as a country, as opposed to an English colony, goes back to the First World War, where we were thrown into the trenches of Turkey under our own flag. To be “Australian” meant to exhibit bravery in futility without complaining.

It is not surprising, given such heritage, that one of the biggest insults you can attach to someone is the tag of "un-Australian".

What is disgraceful, however, is how the term “un-Australian” has become one of the most over-used expressions in our language. It has reached a point where "un-Australian" is used to replace logical argument.

One example that springs to mind is the question of our detention centres. Should we let these foreigners integrate into our society, or should we lock them up in the desert for years while we process their claims?

To lock them up is clearly "un-Australian" as we are bullying refugees, something many of us have been at one time, and aren’t giving them a fair go. However, to integrate them into society is "un-Australian" as they are queue jumpers.

Surely the refugees are "un-Australian" - they weren't even born here.

So, who is Australian?

Well, back in the 1980's, we had a Prime Minister named Bob Hawke. He made a lot of outlandish promises that he broke. He holds 2 world records for drinking beer. When Australia beat America in a sailing race, he declared a public holiday. I’d say that he definitely classifies as a model “Australian”

Don’t agree with me? I don’t care … you’re un-Australian.

No-one will sit next to me

2004-04-02T14:24:00.000+10:00

Maybe it’s this new brand of deodorant that I’ve started using. Is something caught in between my teeth? Is there something about the way I look that is objectionable?

There is a phenomenon I’ve started observing - I’ve come to the realisation that I am someone who people don’t sit next to on public transport. I could be on the most packed bus, train or ferry and the only guarantee is that if there is an empty seat next to me, it will stay that way until all other options are exhausted by my fellow passengers.

I can’t say that I was initially disturbed when I first noticed this talent, rather the converse. No doubt, it must seem quite a handy skill to possess – after all, who hasn’t boarded a hot, crowded train after a hard day and dreamt of a bit of space? Most people head straight for the 3-seaters, no doubt hoping the empty seat beside them will somehow get overlooked in the mob rush. My strategy has always been far simpler – I sit in the 2-seaters, because I know that even on a delayed, overcrowded, peak hour, midst-of-a-train-strike journey, no one will sit next to me.

My glee quickly dissipated, however, as I began to notice a repetition in this behaviour. People don’t just ignore me … they stare, as if to read my deepest, darkest secrets. With one quick glance, every passenger decides that I have got some kind of stigma, such that they can’t handle being in close quarters for a twenty minute ride to work. Over a period of hundreds of days and thousands of passengers giving me evil stares, I’ve begun to form a complex.

The culmination for me was this morning when a woman, bus filled to capacity, stared at me for a good 5 seconds, clearly contemplating whether she should compromise herself and her safety, before sitting down.

I’ve learnt that regardless of my body language, my fellow passengers are indiscriminate. Whether I am upright or lounged, whether I squeeze all the way into the corner to create space, or spread myself out to take up as much room as possible. Whether I greet each passing passenger with a smile, or put on a blank and sleepy expression. Whether I am travelling in school uniform (not that I travel in school uniform much anymore), casual clothes or am on my way to work, the results are the same. I am destined to travel a lifetime alone on public transport.

If this is a real condition, there must be a method of diagnosis. I posed the question to a co-worker this morning – “Are you the kind of person who people sit next to on public transport?” He looked at me as though I’d just lost the plot. Another co-worker knew exactly how I felt, having travelled solitary on numerous occasions. Clearly, therefore, the question is the test itself – if you understand the question, chances are you suffer this cursed affliction.

Maybe, like in air travel, the issue is that I look like a conversational neighbour - something to avoid wherever possible. I guess my solution should be to carry a sign around my neck saying “It’s OK, I won’t talk to you.” Then, everyone will want to sit next to me. Right?

Abuse me all you like, I've got your number

2003-05-30T17:32:00.000+10:00

May 30 2003

Abuse. David Grunstein loves it, can't get enough of it. And tonight might be your turn.

It's 7.30pm. You've had a long hard day at work. That meeting scheduled for 20 minutes at the end of the day lasted two hours. You didn't have lunch and breakfast was a $3 lukewarm coffee that you queued up for five minutes to buy.

Your wife/husband would give you a kiss hello but they've got the flu. You have one child hanging off each leg trying to explain a recent bad test result/sporting injury/strife with another child at school. You sit down for a nice relaxing dinner, crack open a bottle of wine and try to unwind ... and the phone rings. And I'm on the other end.

Due to the recent economic downturn, I've found myself in a form of employment that I never imagined for myself. I never thought that one day my degrees in law and commerce (majoring in information systems) would qualify me to make and receive calls at a call centre.

My task is to communicate with shareholders of an Australian company in the midst of a highly publicised and controversial takeover by an overseas organisation.

I'm not content to be slandered for merely disturbing the peace. My job responsibilities also include being verbally ripped apart for playing a role in the destruction of an Australian icon.

If you think you're irritated by my calls, remember that I'm doing it for the next eight hours, straight off a script. Any break from the monotony of my script is an epiphany. You may not realise that abuse is the most entertaining part of my day. Sometimes, it's the only thing that gets me out of bed.

And it's not just abuse. It's incredible how imaginative some people get on the phone to call centres. In response to being informed that it was our policy to record calls, one clever woman asked if I minded if she recorded the conversation. And you would not believe the number of people who, when waiting on hold, think how amazingly brilliant they are for placing me on hold. In a given day, I speak to over 200 people. It takes me a split second to hang up on you. You mean nothing to me, but I do thank you nonetheless for sharing enough creativity to break the drone of my day.

Sometimes, however, the abuse gets personal. I have been screamed at for being un-Australian (don't get me started on that expression) and a disgrace to my country. I was told that "while I understand that a bloke needs to earn a crust, if you can't sleep at night, consider taking a Valium".

Are you people stupid? I have your names and phone numbers. I know where you live.

Do you think I enjoy my job? Do you think I feel like I'm adding value to our society?

No. I don't. I just enjoy the abuse. So, keep it coming, because the only satisfaction I get in my day is knowing that I just helped dent someone else's. And if anyone knows of any work going at any law firms, let me know if I can arrange a convenient time to call you back.