Chris Deal

Handsome Dan and I don’t always agree on everything, but in this case we’re pretty much unanimous on our appreciation of Banksy.

On Saturday’s Old Street expedition, we came across a brilliant little book shop called the bookartbookshop selling lots of arty, handmade, homegrown type books. Sort of like Borders but without the massive racks, the hundred staff, the CD department, the adjoining cafe, the wireless hotspot, and strategically placed add-on sale items near the registers. But they do both sell books, one of which was “Wall And Piece”, an extremely clever collection of stencils plastered about town by the artist informally known as Banksy. Dan very cleverly parted with his cash, and I very cleverly am getting his full money’s worth out of it.

The website doesn’t really show the really good stuff, like the stencil on the walking bridge that says “concealed trap door in use”, or the stencil of the Tower Guard graffiti-ing “God Save the Queen”, or the wall on Portobello rd where he stencilled “THIS WALL IS A DESIGNATED GRAFFITI AREA – by order National Highways Agency” which was then completely covered in tags only three days later, but it gives you a rough idea. It’s funny, it’s well designed, and best of all there’s more of a point to it than “I’m gunna write me name on that wall cause it’s there n that”. Thank god for Banksy, hopefully all graffiti writers will take note of this extract:

“The time of getting fame for your name on its own is over. Artwork that is only about wanting to be famous will never make you famous. Fame is a by-product of doing something else. You don’t go to a restaurant and order a meal because you want to have a shit.”

I tell you, when I spot one of his pieces, I’m going to get more starry eyed than when I saw Jeremy Irons out walking his dogs the other day.

2. You will know if you are walking a high street if someone asks you to sign a petition or make a donation to a charity. The best way to avoid this is to broaden up your Aussie accent and say things like “Crikey mate I’ve only been here for two bloody days, I don’t think I’m ready to start givin’ me hard earned to any other bastard just yet”. They will either agree with you or not understand a word you have just said and let you pass. I reckon I’ve got at least two month’s worth of getting away with that one.

3. The Hummingbird Bakery on Portobello rd, while not strictly English, is the best smelling store I have ever been in.

4. A pork pie, is not hot.

5. Russel Square, Warren Street and Cockfosters are by far the most Aussie sounding underground stations on the map.

The Five Things trademark is under strict licence of Gregor Strongbad Enterprises. All rights reserved.

If you know me, you’ll know that I love walking like Superman loves Kryptonite sandwiches. People who walk everywhere are scum. They’re fit. They’re healthy. They smile all the time. They say things like “Oh I must tell you I feel SOOO much better after my morning walk”. I, on the other hand, do not. For the past week I have been picking a spot on the tube map, figuring out which way is north, and literally marching the high street.

Monday it was popping out at Oxford Circus and walking the city centre, Tottenham Court rd, Leicester Square, Soho, across the Thames then back to Westminster. Tuesday it was up to Camden Town for a sub zero meander round the disgusting hippy-ville then into Chalk Farm. Wednesday it was out to Notting Hill Gate, through Holland Park, into Shepard’s Bush then through Kensington to Hammersmith. Thursday it was the Northern Line down to Clapham North, across Clapham Common into Balham. Friday was Islington up to Highbury, then off to northern side of Notting Hill, Portobello rd, Ladbroke Grove and Bayswater. And finally Saturday over to Old Street, tube to Mile End then walking back west through Bethnal Green and Shoreditch.

OH I MUST TELL YOU I FEEL SOOOOOO MUCH BETTER AFTER MY WEEK OF WALKING.

I now have a physio looking after my failing knees, a Mr Joe Shotbolt, who is very nice and stuck electrodes on me and made my leg muscles spasm. Actually that was pretty cool. Basically he has his very own legal torture device, the things I could do to a cat with that thing. Sort of like Mel in Lethal Weapon when he’s hanging from a chain on the ceiling with water dripping all over him and that bad asian dude who plays the bad asian dude in all 80s Hollywood movies that needed bad asian dudes electrocutes him with sponges and a car battery. Come on they hate the water anyway, adding 4,000 volts to the mix shouldn’t matter.

So far the game plan, though tiring and detrimental to my health, is working. London is a bloody big place, and now I feel confident enough that if someone were to drop me anywhere in the joint, I could pretty much figure out how to get home without having to ask too many questions. I think it took me about 20 years to figure Sydney out – drop me near Coogee and I’ll hit Uluru before the beach. Although I still have a bit of trouble around Brick Lane – each time I go there I swear those little dudes from the Labyrinth come round and move the street signs around when I’m not looking. The trick with this town is that just like nature, London does not make a straight line. You’ll happily be walking east down a street, but by the time you’re at the end of it it’s elusively skewed you 90 degrees and it takes you a good five minutes of fighting your pride to crack the AZ out and figure out just how far off the map you’ve come.

The end game of course, is not only to understand how this jigsaw puzzle fits together, but to find out where I would like to live, then where I can afford to live. So far I have my preference, now I’ve just got to find out how much the Australian peso can buy me. Any Aussies who have previously lived in London may start laughing now.

You wanna know something? If the London Underground were to go toe to toe with CityRail, there’d be a lot of convict blood on the tracks. A lot of blood. The Tube dear readers, is bloody marvellous. Well, so far it’s been good to me. I seem to have no trouble understanding where I’m supposed to swipe my travel pass in (known as an Oyster card – look at that you’ve learnt something useful from me for a change), where the line I want to find is, where that line goes, where I have to change to get to the next line… and so far I haven’t had to wait more than two minutes for a train. Bit of a change from Sydney, where the lines are confusing, the trains aren’t late they just don’t come, it costs squillions, and understanding a single word the announcer says is like solving the Da Vinci Code. Only even more boring. “Eh mumble mumble standaclear, doorsa closinga”. Yeah cheers for that. I do miss the old Pete Smith-esque voiceover guy who comes on every now and then. The dulcet tones of his “This train is now due to depart, please stand clear” is much sexier than the limp wristed “Mind the gap” bloke over here. But apart from that, it’s Vote 1 Tube until the day I die.

I must admit too, I am completely in love with the Tube map. I stare at it constantly like gazing into the eyes of a new girlfriend who you can’t believe is letting you stick your tongue down her throat. Though I have pulled up short of saying “Hi Schmoopie!” every time I catch sight of it, I must admit that I’m completely infatuated. The map apparantly is the legacy of a Londoner from back in the day when the world was all black and white, Harry Beck, an electrical draftsman who based his design on the style of circuit diagrams. The only thing you need to be wary of is that he’s paid absolutely no mind to keeping distances in proportion, so there’s no real way of telling if taking the Picadilly line from Hammersmith to King’s Cross is quicker than taking the Hammersmith & City line. I guess electrons or whatever don’t really care about distances like humans do.

Ok next post I’ll actually talk about some stuff what I done. Dan wants the use the computer to download more porn ‘n that.

ps – That pic of the Underground map I as pinched from a blog wot I just found. Check it out, there’s some really cool images on there.

Done some strange things in my time. Actually no I haven’t, I’m particularly boring and normal. Which is why currently I’m going internally berzerk on the hour every hour wondering why I can’t see the Harbour Bridge from my bedroom and why none of my mates seem to be answering their mobile phones anymore. For today, I am in London. And I still can’t quite figure out why.

When I got to Korea I thought I should take a quick walk around the hotel to get the jist of a winter climate. That was a brisk five minute walk and enough I thought to give me an idea of what was to come. 12 degrees it was. Landed at Heathrow the next day – 6 degrees. 6 degrees of bone chilling appendage shrinking separation. Suffice to say I noticed it. Look I know it’s boring as watching CSI Miami to talk about the weather, but when you’re in a new city, the weather is the one thing that you do have a point of reference of. I don’t understand where the roads go. Don’t really understand how the money is valued. But I do understand that 6 degrees knocking off probably another 2 or 3 for wind chill is not quite what I’ve been groomed for in the fair land of Oz. If the first step to fixing a problem is admitting that you have one, then “hi, my name is Chris, and I’m rather chilly at the moment. Can someone be a love and put the kettle on”.

For a while I found it quite refreshing. And I felt rather comforted when Dan said “Mother [INSERT SWEAR WORD HERE] it’s mother [INSERT SWEAR WORD HERE]-ing cold at the moment”. If he’d have said “tshirt weather come on we’re going streaking!!!” I fear I would have hunted down a travel agent and boomeranged straight back into shame. So now the novelty of “well it’s not quite like it is back home” has worn off, and now I’m fully into survival mode. And I’m actually quite liking it. Get your jumper. Your coat. Your scarf. Your gloves. Take a beanie. In London you can take a backpack around the city and not feel like you need to chuck in a book or an ipod to justify it. And you can wear all this stuff and not feel like a pretentious twat for doing so. A scarf in Sydney? Get your hand off it mate. Seriously.

So now I am a dosser. The lowest of the low. I’m bunked up with Handsome Dan in a fantastic four storey place in Islington (which I really should take a photo of so I can spare you the tedium of explaining the layout), and the clock is now ticking. Learn the city. Get your bearings. Figure out the transport system. Do the math and figure out just how long your savings are going to last you. Actually forget the sums – the answer is “not bloody long matey”. I’d love to take a room at Dan’s but whoa baby the rent is out of control. And until you earn pounds, EVERYTHING is even more expensive that people have warned you about. Things that cost ten dollars in Australia still cost ten pounds in the UK, and it’s far too easy to think that it’s not really that bad. And I thought New York was expensive. Nuh uh. But wow, I’ve seen more stuff I’ve wanted to buy in one day here than pretty much the last ten years of my life. Could this be my town? Maybe. If I can afford it.

ps – Shopping tip #1: Old Street. Brick Lane. Sunday Up Markets. My first purchase for the UK…

Come in Mike Skinner, your time is up…

Why do some people travel like they’ve literally just stepped off a mountain? Glomesh jackets, hiking shoes, backpacks with caribiners and pictures of moose on them - you’re going from an airport hotel to one of the biggest cities in the world. You will not pass out at these altitudes and you just won’t be needing that harness on the tube. Oh no look out - BEARS!

It’s clear to me right now that while I am most certainly travelling, I’m not yet ready to be a traveller. I don’t really feel the urge to strike up meaningful yet transient one night stand conversations with people in sandals yet. I just don’t see the point. I wonder if I ever will. I did have a brief but pleasant conversation with a mother daughter combination from Frankfurt on the bus to the hotel last night, but once we reached the hotel I didn’t really feel the need to keep the vibe going. Plus, Germans eh. What’s all that about.

The quick convo with the Chinese guy at dinner was kind of interesting though. He talked about going home to China as if he was going back to Melbourne. It made me realise that everything is so close here. China on the left, Japan on the right. And just above you some complete freaks who are all brainwashed by some short guy in a grey suit with big glasses. Hang on I don’t do political, just flippant. I’ve never experienced proximity like this before. Drive for a day out of Sydney and all you’ll spot is a broader accent and different beer at the tap. In this neck of the woods you’ve got ten vastly different nations all bumming the same reception from one TV antenna. But the funny thing is, THEY ALL LOVE RICE. Huh, fancy that.

ps - Last night’s post cost me about $25 Australian dollars. So GO BACK AND READ EVERY BLOODY WORD YOU BASTARDS I’M NOT RUNNING A FRICKIN’ CHARITY.

So they tell you get to the airport early as you can, two hours before the flight to go through. If you’re late you’ll get stuck behind an American tourist trying to ask the customs door bitch where “the down under is?”, but if you are early of course you breeze straight through and end up sitting on your butt for two hours watching groundstaff wander about like little Lego men. When I get to customs early I want a bloody internal body seach at least. I didn’t get out of bed in the dark for nothing. Sort of like when you get stuck in a traffic jam for hours. I don’t want just a merging lane – I want a body on the ground, preferably minus a head.

So anyway Korean Air. Why the hell are you going Korean Air? Props to the web designer cause that site really sold the dream to me. All I wanted was a screen at my seat so I could chain movies from take off to touch down. Instead I get a dodgy communal trinitron hanging procariously from the ceiling playing the best entertaiment South Korea has to offer. I’ll give them a nod on the food and the babes, but as far as music and cinema goes – LOCK EM UP AND AWAY WITH THE KEY.

Still, I will say one thing in the airline’s favour – you’re pretty much assured of a whole row to your self cause no one seems to fly with them. I have a neat double ensemble, two seats I call my own. The Japanese girl across the way has a king sized 4 seater to herself – don’t look now but she’s just cracked out a frickin banana lounge. Ooh I changed tense then. The pressure of quicking penning thoughts while the meter is running could be getting the better of me.

As predictable as the topic of conversation is, it still must be mentioned. Airline food. I found myself eating anything and everything that wandered past. I missed out on some disgusting looking gelatin bar thing, and though watching the girl in the seat infront chow down on it made me want to spray paint the aisles, I still craved it simply because it was there. What is it about airline food? We eat it like it’s our last meal on earth. Subconsciously that’s probably what we all believe. Try not to stare at the wing for too long. Let the laws of physics battle the whim of your paranoia. At least I got adventurous and asked for the traditional Korean option over the beef. Rice and weird shit in a bowl – you can’t go wrong.

So now I sit in Incheon NOT Seoul (which annoys me slightly because I’ve been humming that Billy Joel song “It’s all about soul…” for the past two hours FOR NO REASON WHATSOEVER), kicking back at the Hyatt, a literal stone’s throw from the terminal where I depart tomorrow morning round 11 for the final leg. What amazing stories shall ensue from tomorrows wild adventures, time will only tell.

Good morning madame speaker, ladies and gentlemen of the press. It has come to my attention of the last few weeks, that I may not have been acting all that normal. I may not have been the Chris you all know and tolerate. And while these things I do deeply regret, I must take this opportunity to state, for the record, that HOLY CRAP I AM ABOUT TO MOVE OVERSEAS AND IT’S FREAKING ME OUT.

As a male, I often struggle with doing more that one thing at once. Breathing AND thinking – these are actions that weigh heavily on my CPU and when one adds moving my entire life to another country for god knows why – well, social graces begin to fail me. These last two weeks have been somewhat of a blur. Though I may have appeared to hold interesting and meaningful conversations with you all, if you were to quiz me about any of the content items held in said meetings, I fear I would come up short of any details, be they minor, or earth shatteringly huge. So please allow me to apologise in this massivly impersonal way, thereby vindicating myself of any blame when I write you all emails next week crying about how “no one emails me any more”, even though I probably haven’t responded to your last 5 emails and you all have the tom tits.

Tomorrow my body departs, yet my mind has been on a baggage carousel in Heathrow for about 7 days. Round and round and round it goes. Clear a space folks, I’m about to be sick.

ps – for the final installment of nostalgia, I bring you a “book”, I wrote when I was in kindergarten, penned (or should I say “crayonned”) at either the age of 4 or 5 (I started school early, what a twit). There shall be no commentry for this work, the genius of this autobiographical tome for itself…

Me

I am a big happy boy. I have blue eyes. My favourite colour is blue. I like to play soccer.

Mum

My mum is nice. She has a light car. She has a light blue car. She likes chocolates. Mum does not like work.

Dad

My dad has green eyes. He some-times mows the lawn. When he was a school boy he used to play on the metal-bars.

Friends

Friends are people who crae for us. Friends do not like rough games. A special friend is someone who is a big helpful person. My best friend walks home with me.

Games

Games are sometimes fun to play. Some games are incredible like b.m.x. My favourite game is soccer. We play it at school and I play it with simon.

Food

All living things nead food and water. When I go to dinner mummy gives me proper meal. Animals and people all need meals to ceep them alive.

Going to Bed

I go to bed at 7.30. Befor I go to bed I watch television. Some-times I walk in my sleep. In the morning I can hardly get out of bed.

My Holiday

On Sunday I slept at my friends place it was grate fun. Paul had a bunk-bed I slept on the top. His dad let us stay up to 10-o-clock. We had grate fun. I played soccer with Paul. We had

The green over coat

Once upon a time there was an old troll and he wanted a green over-coat. One day the king said every

I cannot begin to tell you how good this photo makes me feel. Cannonball Bob. Danny the Daddy. Gary Spaz. Nate Dogg. Back at 7/11 Mosman as if the last ten years hadn’t happened. We’ll meet again in another ten kids, and I now know that it will feel exactly the same. Ew that sounded just a little bit schmaltzy then. Er… ya gaylords stop trying to bum me when I’m trying to take a photo.

ps – This is one of the few times I will ever wear a trucker hat and yes I’ll tell you why, no need to ask. The hat that I’m wearing is another artefact from my recent archaelogical dig. On the front it has an Australian coat of arms on it, and on the inside underneath the rim, written in magic marker are the words “Christopher Dean, W.I vs N.Z, 9/3/85. So, I’m old school and you know, how rad is 80s cricket.

Ladies and gentlemen, the tipping point at the tip has finally been reached. The quagmire has been quashed, and I can now see the forest has no trees. In other words – there are more empty spots in my room than non-empty spots. I exported 5 neat plastic boxes to me Dad’s yesterday, have amassed another 5 full of paper and magazines ready for recycling (green power rules salutations my earthly brothers and sisters bong on), and another substantial pile is ready to shuffle off to Vinnie’s. That’s charity store St Vincent De Paul by the way, not Doogie Howser’s mate who comes into the window while Doogie is… actually I have no idea what Doogie did in that room. And besides, we’re too booked watching Degrassi Jnr High at the moment to even consider another 80s revival.

Either way, I can now present you with a short piece of creative writing I found yesterday. The handwriting on this one is even worse than yesterday’s so I’m thining I might have been about 7 or 8 when I penned this one. Without further ado (Adiue? Ado? Sorry, I neither speak French or Tosser), I bring you today’s masterwork.

Redhed and Blackhead: The Mathe Match Brothers

One day in a normal suburban home, the father wanted to light the barbecue but he didn’t have any mathes matches. He went down to Warringah Mall in his Porsche Turbo (doing 180 km/ph) because the shops would shut in ten minutes.

He parked the car and raced into Franklins, they were about to shut up. He went to the counter, took out $1.20, bought the matches and got 60c change. He then burned out of the shop, jumped in his Porsche Turbo and zoomed off, this time doing 190 km/ph. He then walked into the house, took off his shoes (I don’t know why) and while opening the box, he fainted! because there were onty only three matches in the pack, And what’s more one outh out of the three Redheads was black! He took one read head out and lit it. While all this was going on the other matches came to life!

The Redhead was a nice match cause it lit barbecues and log fires that kept everyone warm and cosy. Thouth Though the blackhead was a naughty math match because it lit bush fires and burat burnt down homes. Well that perticuld perticular day Redhed wanted to go on adventures. So he setoff looking for something to have an adventure on, but he remebered his mother and fathed father allways told him to stay away from water!

Meanwhile the trouble-some blackhed was looking for something to lite. He looked at abit of fur but when he came close to it, it wasn’t that small he climed the bundal of fur until he reached the top. The fur starud started to move, it was adog, it took one look at black hed and gobbled him up!

Getting back to Red head he saw the same bundle of fur but he knew what it was sow so he ran off that was close he said to hiself hiself, I’ve had enough adventuring for one day just as hewas about to top hop back into the box he saw that the father was looking for him, he didnd didn’t wan’t to be a nother blal blackhed so he stood still, the farther noticed the match and to[ok] him over to the barbecue. Maybe it won’t be sobad being a blackhead!

Teacher’s comments: The basic idea of the two groups of matches was good but needed to be developed a bit more. A little bit too conversational for written work. Try to avoid saying things like “Well…” and “Getting back to…”. You have a good vocabulary so try to use some of your interesting words as sentence beginnings. Speech needs new paragraphs and inverted commas. Overall a good start.

My comments: This is a faultless work by a clear master of the craft. As with all geniuses beating a track untouched and unimagined by the human mind, their early work will never be understood or accepted by critics; only those with enough foresight and faith not to fear the unknown. The detail in this piece is astounding. It’s not just any shop – it’s Franklins at Warringah Mall. It’s not just any car – it’s a Porche Turbo doing 180 km/h (sometimes 190km/h). Sure, there have been some to criticise this piece as stirring racial hatred through ignorance, Tolkien had his critics too. Though Blackhead clearly the villain of the piece, one might be swift to draw a parallel of generality, yet ignore the fact that the hero is of no allegorical stock whatsoever. And must we not forget, as the title clearly states, were they not brothers? Put simply, this is not a work that should be poured over with a fine tooth comb. It’s a rollicking, devil-may-care adventure story witten for children by children. Leave your adult mind, affected by so much violence and anger, at the door. Enjoy this for what it is, and what it can be if you open up the endless possibilities of your imagination.

Ok the rubbish tip in my room is getting a little smaller, and yet still more nuggets of nostalgic genius keep popping out of the woodwork. Here’s a “play” I wrote when I was maybe… I’ll say 10 again. How old are you when you start to get running writing going? Whatever, I was young and needed the pocket money.

The Boy From Outer Space

Characters: Greg, Miss Newberry, Zagphod & The Gang

SCENE 1: THE LOCAL CRICKET GROUND. MRS NEWBERRY IS STICKING HER HEAD IN GARBAGE CANS

Greg: There’s that ol’ bag again. Lets tease her.

Gang: Yay! (THE BOYS BASH STICKS ON THE CAN)

Mrs N: You, You, you boys go away or I’ll ring the police.

Greg: That’s if you ever reach the phone (THEY LAUGH. A BIG EXPLOSION ERUPTS IN THE DISTANCE. THE BOYS RUN OVER TO SEE WHAT HAS HAPPENED).

Mrs N: Change the subject why don’t you. Ha! You think you can fool me by saying a big eruption has gone off in the distance (POINTS). The next thing you’ll say that an alien walks over and says “Hello”. You can’t fool me you silly boys.

SCENE 2: THE BOYS ARRIVE OVER THE HILL.

Greg: What the…!

Zag: Hello.

Greg: (FRIGHTENED OF THE ALIEN) Um, er, pleased to meet you.

Zag: What is this world?

Greg: Um, it’s kind of earth, I think. Don’t ask me hard questions I’m only in the fourth grade. Anyway who are you?

Zag: I’m Zagphod.

Greg: I’m Greg.

Zag: Wow, you kind of earth I think people have weird names.

SCENE 3: BACK TO SCENE 1. MRS NEWBERRY HAS JUST WALKED ONE STEP.

Mr N: In just a minute I’ll be at the telephone and ringing the police.

Greg: Oh shut up you old bag.

SCENE 4. AT GREG’S HOUSE. THE BOYS HAVE GONE HOME.

Greg: There’s that kid that asks me hard questions. Hey you, come here. I don’t like you. I’m going to beat you up (ZAGPHOD LIKES THE SOUND OF THIS AND ZAPS HIM. GREG IS DOWN ON THE GROUND READY TO CARK IT. HIS LAST WORDS:)

Greg: Don’t bully, one day you’ll meet your match.

THE END

Chilling isn’t it. It’s not often you chance upon a script that so effortlessly transcends age, gender and species barriers, that has a real message for everyone to digest and help enrich their lives, and also makes you laugh as well as think. This is that raw, bled onto the page stuff that playwrights dream about. And here’s me, no doubt in the fourth grade, having it ooze out of me like I was born to it. There are so many levels to explore, so much light and shade. The character depth is unprecedented in the genre and some might say has rarely come close to being matched since. Remember everyone, this was the 1980s. We didn’t have the internet, or ipods, or DVDs. Yet it still stands the test of time to this very day. I urge you to read it again, come with an open mind, and you will be rewarded.

More from the vaults tomorrow.

1. It was yesterday.

2. It was great.

3. It was a relatively dickhead free environment.

4. It wasn’t in the middle of bloody nowhere requiring three buses, two trains, a compass, and an Aboriginal Tracker to find.

5. It didn’t have any “crowd pleasers” in it like Linkin Park or some crap to get the punters in, yet it still sold out (er, literally not figuratively).

6. Lots of people I knew were there and YOU COULD ACTUALLY FIND THEM MORE THAN ONCE.

7. The chick from The Ravonettes has awesome boobs.

8. Pretty Girls Make Graves were on early enough to not have to accidentally walk past and see for 5 seconds.

9. It’s what “alternative” music festivals should be and aren’t anymore.

10. The Hold Steady are the loudest band in the world.

11. The Posies are the oldest band in the world.

12. Les Savy Fav are the weirdest band in the world.

13. Broken Social Scene are the most amazing band in the world. This could be the best band I see all year which on one hand is great but on the other is bad becuse I may have peaked too early. One thing’s for certain though – orchestras are BACK.

14. iJono and I made Darren Hanlon laugh by shouting out “Cock!” and “Tits!” and that is a fact.

15. If someone came up to you during the day and shouted “YESSSSSSS!!!” in your ear, it was Cannonball Bob.

16. It actually was in a lane.

As you may or may not know, I am currently going through the long and arduous process of whittling down every single material posession orbiting around my apartment and packing it neatly into large plastic boxes in preparation for “HiberNation ‘06 – ‘07”. I never liked to label myself as “a hoarder”, much like an alco would say “Sure I love a drink every five seconds but hey, I’m not a piss-head”, but clearly the crap that I’m currently wading through nipple-height would make up a fairly convincing argument for the prosecution. There’s stuff everywhere. Bits and bobs and trinkets – anything that has ever once meant even the slightest to me has somehow been chucked in a box and stuck on a shelf. And no matter how much I chuck out, it just keeps coming. It’s like the bloody Magic Pudding, only slightly more mustier with a hint of cockroach. And of course I couldn’t just “chuck it all out”. Oh no. Every little shred of sentimental evidence needs to be examined, processed and filed. I know, I have a problem, but I just can’t help it.

So to make me feel like there is some productive reason for all this useless personal archaeological expedition, I’ve decided to pull out a few extracts, a few nuggets of pure genius from the vaults of my life. We’ll kick it off with a few “poems” from when I was about, oh 10 or something. I’m not sure of the exact age – whatever age it is that you start thinking that you’re actually quite clever and creative where in reality you can barely spell your own name and still wet the bed not that I would know it’s just what I’ve heard from stories from the neighbour’s kid honest. Now you’ll notice that I’ve made deliberate use of quote marks in the previous sentence because the only way I knew that these were poems was because I luckily wrote “POEMS” in large colourful writing at the top of the page. I always thought that teachers made their kids do that kind of stuff to make assignments more interesting but now I realise that it’s so they can understand what assignment they’ve been handed in the first place. I could have handed this in to my maths teacher and he would probably have given it better marks. So here we go, poetry recital is go!

Ice Cream

Going down to the shops,
a dollar in my hand.
Thinking of chocolate,
strawberry or vanilla.
Pepermint, or all four.

Arrived at the shop.
“I’ll have chocolate please”.
Sorry kid,
we’ve run out.
How about a milk shake?

I know. Truly staggering isn’t it. You can almost taste the sugary sweet anticipation. Feel the disappointment drip from the boy’s face cruelly turned down. I’m… I’m sorry we’ll have to take this up again tomorrow it’s just too hard for me to continue.

ps – download this track, it’s awesome.

‘Calling Thermatico’ – Centro-Matic

So I could fill up today’s entry with all this crap like “I spent all morning putting things in boxes and chucking out old crap” or “I had lunch with Karin and we talked about getting our hair cut” and other such things that only help to confirm people’s suspicions that I am actually gay. Which reminds me the other week I was talking to a girl at work who was going to give me some contacts for the UK and she said “Ok I can give you Trish’s email address, she’s lots of fun – and single” [insert knowing look completely unprompted by me leading me to think that I looked totally desparate or that Trish is a total minger]. “Or I can give you Kevin’s email address, you know, if that’s your thing”. So I said “What do you mean if that’s my thing??? You think I could be gay don’t you!”

Not that there’s anything wrong with that of course. Hello to all my fruity friends out there – how good is that new Madonna album no seriously it’s killer. Track two – get into it.

And then Julie-Ann a cubicle over pops her head up and says “Well I thought you were gay for a bit” to which I cried out at the top of my voice “OH GREAT SO EVERYONE THINKS I’M GAY, WELL THAT’S GREAT” which isn’t the best thing to do when you’re on a quiet floor inhabited entirely by chicks and fags. Oh and by the way, I feel like I can use the word fag every now and then thanks to a weekend spent with a few extremely cool gay guys in Melbourne (I swear I wasn’t looking at their bums I just happened to glance at their shoes and well it is on the way). As we were cutting through the Myer cosmetics department Chris suddenly stopped and said, “Hey everyone check out the fags at Mac” in much the same way a tour guide announces “and to your right you can see Federation Square…”. When a gay guy is calling you gay, you’ve probably got a pink stripy poodle on your head or something because you are now in a WHOLE NEW REALM of gay. I’ll try and find a picture of something that even comes close to the fagginess of the Mac counter fags.

Not even close, but gettin there.

If you’re cruising Burke St Myer seriously, take a camera. They won’t get offended. You don’t dress like a twat and not crave attention. They’ll probably pose for you if you tell em it’s for Harper’s or something.

Aaaanyway, I could talk about all that but I’d rather talk about the moment when I went to log in to my myspace account only to find out that Jono had forgotten to log out from his the last time he used my computer and suddenly I had access to his whole account. Not his fault by any means, BUT, there are penalties for such things so, enjoy.

Yeah so it’s a one joke show that we all knew wasn’t going to last but who cares. I got my first glimpse of the third series tonight and for the first time I got that big time “Comedy Company” vibe. When the actually audience starts hooting and cheering when Vicky Pollard hoves into view or Daffyd drops a catch-phrase, it’s probably time to let it go with some dignity. Wait a minute, it’s Little Britain. There’s never been any dignity. There I’ve just argued against myself and lost. And the defence rests.

Still, this new charachter “Mrs Emery” is unreal. I’ve only seen one sketch so far, but I’m pretty sure that ALL her scenes are going to involve her unknowingly dumping a keg of piss onto the ground while making pleasant chit-chat with the locals, and I’m going to laugh EVERY TIME. In fact, she’s the only reason I even wrote anything today. Wow I hope something flippantly insightful happens in my life soon so I can chalk it up blimey charlie can’t keep filling like this forever ergh and now a word from our sponsors…