ONE FLU OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST Just another Corona jab.

    Well spotted those of you who realised that last blog was absolute bullshit as far as time-truth was concerned. Indeed, I have passed through Sydney and Brisbane and Sydney again with the alacrity of asparagus through a bladder and am currently in Auckland digesting asparagus, having already spent a fortnight in Christchurch. Where asparagus made no intrusion upon my life.
    But let’s unwind our watches, stop the asparagus references, and go back a few weeks…

    Can one’s own culture give one culture shock?
    You know you’re back in God’s Own when the loud Italian-Australian man watching a local teenage soccer match with you is impelled to call out some colloquial encouragement to one of the foot-savvy lads on the field who is clearly from Nigerian stock, or thereabouts. Incredibly black. Consequently “Good one, blondie!” is the most obvious choice of cheer from one New Australian to another. Welcome home.
    It’s the day after my brother-in-law’s 50th birthday bash at my sister’s home outside Brisbane. I might feel like a witch just spat me up, but have promised to attend my 15-year-old nephew’s semi-final some 45 minutes drive away. There is only one place I would rather be and that is a little town called Anywhere Else. One loves one’s nephew but watching 80 minutes of soccer on a hot Queensland day through eyes that already feel like they’ve been on the barbie with last night’s steaks is not how I wish to spend my Sunday morning. It feels as natural and right as licking a nun in a supermarket queue. Or power-walking. Both very, very wrong. I mean, come on…does anyone want to be here? How any child is ever taken to anything on any weekend ever is beyond my ken. And I was in Bangkok only two days ago walking past shrines every few feet and smelling incence and tuk tuk fumes. Suddenly I’m surrounded by soccer mums and dads and the odd faded Noosa t-shirt. The sky is clear and shiny and all I can smell is warm grass and pies. So…can one’s own culture give one culture shock? I’m here to tell you that it can. In the midst of such a miscellaneous itinerary, Australia is nudged into a new category, that of This Place Should Feel Familiar But It Doesn’t. (It’s just above This Place Shouldn’t Feel Familiar But Surely I‘ve Lived Here Before. Which is alongside This Place Frickin’ Rocks Yes I’d Love Another Beer What’s Your Name Oh Lord I Have To Do Two Shows In A Few Hours When Am I Going To Learn?) I’m not used to understanding the local language. Or being able to read the advertising billboards. Or recognising the food. Or the body language of the natives. But all of this I get. It’s English, it’s Bunnings Warehouse, it’s a sausage roll, and we all like a bit of personal space. The shock is in not having to ask questions of myself or anyone around me to ascertain these facts. I can relax. So the question you do ask is: Do I prefer this? Is knowledge or ignorance bliss? Am I relaxed being this relaxed? Or do I want to get back to where the food is unguessable and the writing as clear as runes?
    My nephew’s team win by four goals (hooray), I leave the jacket I bought in Italy on the stands (boo), and I know I still feel like a sackful of Satan crap. Questions about where and what and why slip away as we drive back to my sister’s home through the burnished suburbs of Brizzy.
    A few days later and I’m back in the air and heading for Christchurch, New Zealand. Another culture completely. Or is Jetstar always like this?
    Me? I love New Zealand. Nice scenery and everyone turns into Frank’N’Furter after a glass of wine. I’ve said that for years and I’m hoping nothing has changed. Also, the excitement of doing this show for the first time in ten months in front of a crowd that actually speaks English is too intense for words. Unless I use the word ‘intense’. It’s intense. On stage, we will use not only the words, but inflection. How exciting. After performing in many venues where you just know the translation screens have been far more enthralling than one’s face-pulling, this is an exhilarating time.
    And indeed, it is very much the case. As one, the cast are blown sideways after Act One. We can’t believe how a show we’ve done a million times suddenly takes on colour and life and nuance and clarity. We all discover it anew. We are like children with a new toy or lawyers with a new malpractice suit. Incredibly excited. The crowd love it. And we love them. We exchange comments about how New Zilland is clearly going to be a wonderful time! Not so much Culture Shock as Culture Surprise!
    It lasts for two days. Word gets out that we are enjoying ourselves too much and the waves of audience enthusiasm ebb until we can only hear the occasional ‘splish’ upon the stage’s shore. The raucous laughter and zealous hand-clapping diminish to the point of Slovakianism. We are by turns dazed and confused. How dare they tease us with such zest, only to snatch it back and save it up for rugby?
    Fortunately, the weather is good. The NZ possibilities for reckless sport and the indoorsy Poms collide, smashing apart and producing highly charged particles of exhilaration trapped inside bodies that are suddenly prepared to risk their life force for anything that involves moving very quickly over water, air or land. Contractually, we are allowed to do exactly none of these things. Which is why everyone says they’re off to yoga. Despite people yoga-ing themselves out of boats or planes or from horses (tick), the only casualty is Matt who comes off in the middle of some extreme bicycling meditation and breaks his wrist. Not a great moment when you are the show’s bass player. He’s back in England now but they sent us a new one.
    So, yes, Christchurch. It was named thusly in 1856 after a Scottish émigré woke up late one Sunday and exclaimed “Christ! Church!”  I made that up. But you don’t call a town by that name unless you intend a fairly Christian bent to the local culture. I fear the forefathers’ concerns have been left aside. They were certainly not evident in Cruz when I was determinedly chatted up by an 18-year-old Papua New Guinean. I stuck to my No-One-Under-Thirty rule and very sensibly bade him good evening. No really, I did. There were no cross-cultural references that night.

    And so back to real time. Watches forward. Asparagus digesting. I’m in Auckland. Where things have happened.

    Hasta Mañana ’til we meet again.