Friday, October 21, 2005

Random things to make Londoners snigger at the quaint little Australian


How to be truly vile-slash-plain-weird without even meaning it

Over lunch:

“Jason Donovan was a spunk.”

Which, when translated into England English, is akin to saying “Jason Donovan was a jizz.”

And, pushing home the theme:

“Oh, yes, Jason Donovan, in his time, was very very spunky!”

Which is akin to saying “Jason Donovan was, in his time, very very jizzy ... like an ectoplasmic explosion, even.”

Earlier, at the sandwich bar:

“I'll have tasty cheese, please.”

Which is akin to saying “I'll have delicious cheese, please.”

Apparently it's “cheddar”, which may or may not taste good. No assessment has been made on its tastiness.

And from Miri, in her studio:

“My pants got soaking, they've been wet all day.”

Which is akin to saying …

Er …


“Pants” apparently means underpants, not trousers.

Friday, October 14, 2005

The voices behind my head

Australians, they're everywhere - particularly in Australia, I find, but also in London.

I went and saw The Drones the other night at Garage in Islington, with some Australians, Em, Adam and Andy. While negotiating the drop zone that is the Old Street escalators, racing for a nouthbound train that, due to signal failures, was announced as the last of the evening (at 7.30 pm), I juggled my cone of chips, brolly, and hurtled down my journey to the centre of the earth while eloquently mumbling to no one in particular:

“Christ! If I run any faster, I'm gonna go a gutsa!”

And then, right in my ear, was an Australian voice:

“That'd be a cracker!”

I thought something weird was going on with the space-time continuum and it was one of the voices ahead flipping back at me in some metaphysical wormhole. But no. It was just some random Australian dude I hadn't noticed riding pillion on my backpack and, though I can't be sure, possibly eating some of my chips, the mug.

Later, at the bar, I was fixing my hair in the mirror behind the booze because, plainly, I'm vain and will seek out any reflective surface at all times. There was a sigh.

“You're fiiine. Help me with this foreign money, will ya?”

And it was another random Australian, like a wee puzzled drunken possum on my shoulder, thrusting coins at me. I snorted at his misguided request for financial advice, but obligingly picked out £3.20 for his beer and sent him on his merry way, pocketing a pound* for my Samaritan duties.

*Well, I thought about it.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Hangin' ten in the emotional wringer

When life throws me curveballs and I don't know how to deal, I find it helpful to concentrate on my appearance. There is nothing quite like staring hard in the mirror, trying on skinny jeans and skimpy swimsuits, and standing in warm light to scour for split ends to make the bigger things in life seem all the more insurmountable.

On that note: I turn 30 in three weeks precisely.

Not that I'm getting all weird about it or anything. Like, it's not as if I'm waking up in the middle of the night and completely flipping the hell out, wondering which drain my winsome youth has slipped down to make way for those crow's feet clawing my eyes, ever so gently, or anything. But I have decided to start lying about my age. I'm going to tell people I'm 40 and wait for compliments about how gobsmackingly young I look.


Speaking of which, do check out two of my mates' totally genius Flickr sites*. Aside from their brilliant holiday snaps to Barcelona and NYC and neighbourhoodly places in our neighbourhood, if you dig and dig, you'll even see photos of me. And my crow's feet.

There's Miri.

She's got many wonderful photos, including one of me and my new Adidas sneakers. A present to myself for my 30th birthday. Just need a matching tracksuit.

And Gilly. My housemate.

You'll see all her truly awesome Lomos, including me in our housewarming party, looking rather ...


Yeah, go on. Go on, young people and your winsome youth. Go on, old people and your crow's feet. Go on, go look at photos of me. Stare long and hard. It'll help.

*For some reason I can't do links at the mo.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Random story from Bangkok

Courtesy of T-bone:

[Walking down a Bangkok street and spotting some guy he recognised]

T-bone: [All happy to actually recognise someone] G'day! You look familiar. Do I know you, mate?

Random guy: I hope not!

T-bone: [Outraged] What the fuck's that supposed to mean?!?!? That's a shitty thing to say.

Random guy: [Shrugs]

T-bone: [Accusingly] Did you go to Mentone Grammar?!?!

Random guy: Nope.

T-bone: Did we work together?!?!

Random guy: [Shakes head]

T-bone: Well, how do I know you, then?!?

Random guy: [Walking off] You'll figure it out.

And so T-bone was left all puffy chested and ready for a random punch-up on the street with some random obnoxious guy. Infuriated, he assumed it must have been non-work, non-high school nemesis he'd forgotten about. Or a disgruntled client.

Later, he realised it was some blond-haired blue-eyed bogan toolbag from last season's Big Brother.


Monday, October 03, 2005

On the buses

And, so, anyway, I was on the bus the other day, the top deck, steaming down Clerkenwell Road on my way home from work. Just as the battery ran flat on my iPod I saw a wine glass fly through the air and, before I had a chance to wonder if indeed I was in an especially upmarket (on account of the vino) wild west saloon bar, there was an almighty


on the floor.

The very drunk Jamaican dude who took it upon himself to throw the glass toddled over to the stairwell, stepping over the glass. Taking a moment to blearily group us together, he addressed the top deck.

“I would clean it, you know.”

[Accusing stares from all of the top deck]

“But you know I'm not gonna.”

[Accusing stares continue]

“But the reason I'm not gonna ... ”

[Shrugs in a lovable comical fashion]

“ ... is I haven't got a broom, mon!”

And then the whole top deck, we laughed riotously. And then stopped abruptly to stare stonily out the window. After all, this is London.

A couple of stops later, a young Chav in Fubu furiously hurled the remainder of the glass out the door onto the street, screaming something that went a little like: