The World According to Spaz

Prognosis: World Cup Fever

garyspaz — Fri, 23 Jun 2006 09:04:00 GMT

Yes that's right, it's the obligatory world cup post. I'm sure ever blogger sitting on his or her purdy white iBook is currently waxing poetic about "the world game" and that I am only adding more salt to the wound, but god damnit at this point I'm far too drunk on Fosters and Aussie spirit to care. For tonight, Australia, are through to the top 16.

The World Cup does funny things to people. A notoriously slow and often scoreless game that "is mainly played by wogs and foreigners", is suddenly the most enthralling, exciting, uplifting game ever devised by a man. For three odd weeks every four years, it is captivating beyond explanation. Even the birds like it. (that's English for "women" btw). You can hear them sprouting off match statistics and player profile information with the same gusto they normally reserve for who they really hate or don't really hate that much but still basically hate overall in the Big Brother household. I can't tell if it's treachery or a turn on.

But it's not just the ladies. Oh no. Everyone is suddenly an authority on the subject. Everywhere you go, complete strangers seem to know exactly what is best for England's chances, who should be coaching what, with whom, and with what blunt instrument up where. And I'm no exception. The six or seven odd years I spent playing centre half for Beacon Hill back in the 80s (ahem, Under 7 Pumas undefeated thank you very much) seems to give me enough credibilty to decide who really is offside and who should be given a bloody red card I mean come on why don't you ask him out to a movie first get your bloody hands off him you [insert derogatory pseudo racist generalisation here]. There seems to be a PC cease fire during the World Cup. Suddenly everyone's accents become that little bit broader, clothes become a tad more uniform-esque, and you can pretty much say whatever you want to whoever you want as long as the referee doesn't blow the full time whistle.

Whether it's patriotic or idiotic is bye the bye. You can put a million stupid flags on your car or you can say things like "mate who cares, it's only a game". The one thing you can't deny, when you're chewing your own fingernails, sweating sitting down, and shouting at the television screen, is that you actually care about where you are from. The litmus test has come back green and gold, and right now my name is clearly at the top.

That is of course until we play Italy, which by then my ego will swiftly turn to the slightly more realistic prospects provided by the boys from Blighty. England England England, oi oi oi!

The Traveller

garyspaz — Sat, 10 Jun 2006 21:22:00 GMT

Travelling has never really appealed to me, and after my last two quick jaunts to Norway and France, a highly odd couple if you asked me, I’ve been trying to understand exactly what has been holding me back, and the conclusion that I came to is something that I’d consider to be fact more than opinion.

No one likes travellers.

No one. And why would you blame them? Travellers smell. They dress badly. They pollute internet cafes filling up their travel blogs with inane travel anecdotes about experiences like "well everyone, the Parthenon, well, you just have to experience it, WORDS CAN NOT DESCRIBE". They have stupid accents and are constantly and rather vocally amazed when they meet another one of their kind who has the same stupid accent that they have. They don’t really know how everything works round here and as they’re catching the night train to Milan in a few hours they probably don’t care to find out. Sure they’re putting their fancy foreign money into the local coffers, but by their very nature travellers are a stingy lot and are not going to even feign a reach for your top shelf. They like to walk around all day looking at statues and parks and monuments and other free things, so what makes you think they’re going to be any different round the shops? Plus travellers listen to a whole lot of crap music on crap buses and love to sing and dance to anything crap just because they’re happy and damn it why the hell should I even pretend to give them the time of day let alone tell them which is the way to the post office. Not LOCAL??? They should be bloody well hunted in the summer. They are cashed up vagrants polluting the world with their foreign unsightly ways. Filth.

And then… I went travelling.

If you’ve never been travelling, I tell you it’s bloody unreal. You can smell. You can dress badly. You’ll be in some strange far off town in Scandinavia and you’ll meet an Australian and even though back home you’d have nothing in common and would probably take the piss out of them for wearing a Shins t-shirt like 5 years too late, you are instantly BEST FRIENDS! You can breeze into a new town, just potter around doing nothing all day and it’s not boring. You can fall asleep in a park because you’ve fulfilled your agenda of eating for this hour and the next window for eating isn’t for another twenty minutes. You don’t really want to carry too much stuff so you don’t really spend any money, and besides there are loads of really mundane things that you will take pictures of thinking that they are amazing because the English translation of a Bicycle Shop in Norway is “Big Fat Dyke Fruitbat” or something. Then you can put a picture of it up on your travel blog so that all your travel blog mates can link to it from their travel blogs. Plus you’ll be in a bar somewhere in Toulouse and suddenly Jet will come on the stereo and although you completely hate Jet and consider them to be the musical equivalent of an ingrown toe-nail operation, by crikey they’re an Aussie band mate and if there is one person left in this bar that doesn’t understand that I’m Australian and that Jet are Australian and that Jet and I are Australian together, well then you may as well have been up on the cliffs at Gallipoli eating Turkish delight and taking pot shots at top Aussie blokes who died so that you could have a bloody grouse life.

But the best thing about travelling, is that you can wake up in the morning, brush your teeth, have breakfast (take an apple now Kate, even though you’re not hungry slip one in your bag for later, get me and Josh one too), and embrace the day safe in the knowledge that you don’t have to go to work. And this is why I'm pretty sure that 90% of the bums you see on the high street haven't had a woman break their heart or a family disown them. Nope, they're just travellers who forgot to go home.

RE: Ni Hao!

garyspaz — Fri, 19 May 2006 08:51:00 GMT

Not that I want to brag or anything, but I totally rule when it comes to emails. Some of the stuff I've written to mates and friends, even people I hardly know or even like, is, to be blunt, Pulitzer material. I often imagine the scene when someone sees my name pop up in their inbox. Their eyes lighting up. Their instant reaction to stop whatever they were doing, maybe even gather some friends around, and bask in the wonder of whatever crap I've spat out onto the page. I even imagine a little ray of sunshine just peering in the window, giving the room that warm kodachrome like glow, making them feel happy, special, content. So I had a brainwave. Why bother re-writing things I've written to people for the blog... why not just copy, cut, paste an email conversation I had with a mate in Shanghai, VERBATIM, into the Nomads and make you ALL feel special. A little piece of the rainbow you can all share. And don't worry, there's always enough love to go round. So, straight from the horses mouth, live and uncut, in an email conversation spanning almost the entire globe, I bring you "RE: Ni Hao"!

=============================

> so where are you ? are doing ok? I sense that you be a bit unsure if
> you have made a good decision? Forgeddaboudit. I wake up to that every
> day in a hotel in china as I wait for the driver who speaks no english
> to pick me up to drive to a factory next to a jail where we have no
> running water and I am sharing an Internet connection with an other.
> you my friend have as you identified moved outside a comfort zone -
> and this adds to your character at all times whilst testing it to the
> utmost.
>
> tell me a story?
>
> I can fly there for 1300 AUD . Cheap. and it is only 12 hours from
> shanghai.... happy days.
>
> I have so many pirate dvds so let em know if I can send you some.
>
> take care and all that.
>
>
> -t.
>

=============================

You know what? When you don't have a computer, emailing people is a complete nightmare. It's like a chore. I write about 10 and then I start sending people really lame one line emails that are neither funny nor interesting. Consider these few lines the email equivalent of War And Peace. Am angling to get a computer soon but there is an issue with the new Intel macs and software so as usual everything is a pain in the arse.

I can only imagine what you are going through in China, but then again you do thrive in this stuff. You know what though, I've been absolutely kicking myself that we didn't do more/any trips to tropical islands when we all lived in oz. Travel to me has been a foreign concept (no pun intended), but soon I'll be popping over to Norland, then France, then Spain and hopefully the concept will be a little less foreign. You know what, I think i might just copy and paste this entire email as my next blog entry. Might take out the swearing though. Which will be weird to people who are reading this because they'll be all like "what swearing?" Wow, I think I might be making internet history as the first person to pen a "concept blog". Concept albums though - name me a good one. You'll say Streets "A Grand Don't Come For Free", but now that I am in London I fail to see how any of that geezer stuff is possible since the whole place is full of bloody Aussies and Kiwis. Noted that I am part of the polution not the solution, but at least I don't sound like Steve Irwin and spend all my time downing Fosters in the Walkabout. Ok so I went in there once for Anzac Day but that's surely a get out of jail free card? Is it un-Australian not to get emotional about Anzac Day? A few Aussies I've spoken to said they went to Gallipoli and teared up - thing is I really love Pide and Turkish Delight so I'm a bit conflicted.

Hey Trev I wonder if you'll read this on my blog before you read it in your inbox? Send me more pictures of decapitated pigs heads in Shanghai street markets.

Chris

ps - Is there an anti-Chinatown over there? Let me know, send photos.

Five things I learned about London this week

garyspaz — Thu, 11 May 2006 03:45:00 GMT

1. As far as I can decipher, London has no native insects. None. Presumably the legendary fierce wrath of the English summer might lure a few stragglers, but I can't really see myself rushing out to track down mozzie coils and aeroguard any time soon. I did see a little daddy long legs crawling across my bed the other day, but it did have a backpack and sandals so I don't think it was a local.

2. Summer in London is all about drinking in the sun, and in the city, that pretty much means anywhere within a 500m radius of a pub. While drinking on the street is great and everything, the only downside is that every other mug also thinks the same way and before you know it, it's half way to morning before you've made it to the bar. Rather than fighting the unstoppable force that is the curvature of the earth, the thinking man's solution is to nip off to the off-licence, pick up a few pints of Kronies, maybe even a few packets of crisps, and head back to the "pub" to spread the cheer. Cheaper, quicker, and if you have the foresight to buy in bulk you could even make yourself a tidy little profit for your troubles.

3. Previously I thought there was only two prices in London: F@$king expensive, and "just what it costs". I have since learned of a third: "stolen". On the weekend I bought two pairs of shoes at Brick Lane markets for £9. Either somebody died in them, or they don't know they're missing, or both.

4. London water tastes like crap. That is a fact, though somewhat a subjective one. The urban myth that I've been fed is that "they reckon London water has been through people 8 times before you drink it", but I can't find anything to verify it. Still, it's got all the hallmarks of a great urban myth: it's weird but not that far fetched, it's something that can't really be proven or disproven, and it's something deep down everyone probably believes anyway. And that's why I brush my teeth with Colgate and Coke.

5. Don't ask who's going to be in the Premiership League final. There is no final. It's all worked out on points. Great.

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

Dead man working

garyspaz — Sun, 30 Apr 2006 07:03:00 GMT

The great thing about not working, apart from the fact that you are not working, is that you have the time and the energy to maintain a healthy web journal about how much time you have to maintain a healthy web journal now that you're not working. It's one of the major perks of being an unwanted nerd.

It was all going so well. I enjoyed writing a post each day, people actually seemed to read it, some of those even left comments, and I felt like I was a sort of trans continental gate keeper, I alone holding the magical crystals required to show you all fanstastic glimpses of a life at the furthest corners of the globe. It was the online time of my life... except of course all that stuff about hating life, being trapped in the house all day sending off job applications, and basically having no fun at all. None of that mattered though, none of it, because we had eachother.

Then as fate would have it, I landed some work, and nothing would ever be the same again. It's been two weeks on the job now, but it feels like two bloody years. As part of a bizarre work exchange programme with my pommy mate Hurricane Marklew, somehow I've managed to help get him employed at my old job back in Sydney (again, won't be working on Vogue mate, you won't be working on Vogue), and he's returned the favour by giving me a contact for some freelance work in London. Two days, that turned into three, that spilled over to a fourth, then gushed into an extra fortnight. If my calculations are right, which they seldom are, three week's work will pay for my rent for three months, so if I can get work for say 6 weeks, I could probably pay my rent for... uh... I dunno I'll work it out later. Suffice to say it should keep me going in the manner of which I have become accustomed to for a while.

Unless of course I die first, which is entirely possible. I can honestly say that I've never worked so hard in my life. It's at this point that I'd just like to say a hearty "g'day" to my old boss Capn McWhinney - Adam I swear I never slacked off on the job apart from that one time when I went on that "research trip". Remember the good times Capn, the good times.

The problem with freelance, young players, is the indisputable fact that between the hours of half nine to whenever the hell you leave - THEY OWN YOU. There's no checking the email. There's no taking "social calls". There's no popping off to lunch with the boys from accounts payables because a) there is no accounts payables here, and b) THEY OWN YOU, REMEMBER? You're not a member of the team, you're a ticking money clock that sits in the corner and everyone is all too aware that they're virtually sticking 50p into you every couple of seconds to get you to keep grinding the organ. So to be brief - the pressure is ALWAYS on, and when you're working in a creative field, it's not quite as simple as "just knuckling down to it". Designing is not a linear process. There's no equation for what makes a good piece of creative. Sure there's form and structure and basic principles of "what looks good and what looks shit", but half the time I have no idea where the good stuff comes from, all I know is at the eleventh hour, a small platoon of pixel pixies descend upon my computer and I end up coming up with the goods. And until those tricksy little sprites show up, I am completely creatively drained and end up walking home in a murky fog of semi-consciousness, smiling at the trees and saying "purple purple" to any stray dogs that cross my path.

But on the upside, the people are great, the money is great, the office looks like something out of Nathan Barley, I'm getting that much sought after "London experience", I'm being challenged, there's the outside chance that I could be actually be learning something, it's 5 minutes walk from my apartment which means no peak hour tube brain aids, and I don't have to think about selling The Big Issue on Upper Street anymore. And while I'm happy that I have this "direction", there's a part of me that just wants to be Tim from The Office for a while. Just do something that pays the bills and doesn't drain my miniature brain. If I was selling reams of A4 copy paper at 2 pounds a packet while Gareth sets up a stationery demarcation perimeter around my workstation and Finchy pops in to regale the office with conquest stories, I think I could actually be happy. Because when I'm doing creative stuff, I can't not care about what I do. I go home at night and dream of photoshop layers. I chat to people in the street and all I'm thinking about is possible layout concepts. It's like fortnight of the living dead in my brain at the moment, and it's obviously having detrimental effects to this much loved hotspot of the blogosphere (I swear I would never EVER use that phrase and now I have. Bugger). So I've come up with an idea that I'd like to pitch to you all now. It's called the "buy Chris a laptop so he can write posts in the comfort of his own home then upload them at the end of the day" ~~scheme~~ program. For only, er, 5 10 quid a month, you could sponsor a poor blogger, and be rewarded with virtue, peace of mind, and ongoing witty insights into London life. Say yes, donate today, the future of the internet is in your hands.

Oh and I'd also like one of those folding bikes that all the urban hipsters have so please, dig deep.

A new dawn

garyspaz — Mon, 17 Apr 2006 20:50:00 GMT

Note to self: when long weekends pop up, don't spend them in London, cause no one else does. The place is a ghost town. Hardly any shops are open, only a handful of wayward cars patrol the streets, hell I can't even get stopped on a high street by a charity mugger. I don't know how tumbleweeds made their way to England but at the moment they're blowing through town like nobody's business. They should employ skywriters to write "London: closed for the weekend" all over the heavens, but they'd all probably be abroad and grey on grey doesn't really make for compelling viewing anyway. Ironically it's a clear blue day as I write this, but give it an hour and the gods of gloom should iron that little kink out.

So the Easter long weekend. My beautiful friend Nicole Loves To Party calls me on Saturday night and gives me a complete itinnery of what I should do on Easter Sunday. "What you want to do is get the tube down to Waterloo, go for a walk along the Thames past the London Eye, nip in to the markets at Borough, the Tate Modern, take a book, take a notepad to write about all the fascinating people, pop into the church and say a quick one for me... you'll love it darling". And though she is a dirty hippie, I have to tell you, they way she sold it to me with that ever enviable Loves To Party thirst for life and pursuit of pure joy, she really pulled me out of my slump and made me want to explore this city with fresh eyes.

Then I figured out how to make the telly work and I stayed at home all day.

It was brilliant. Digital TV (ok it's not Sky so you can't get all the matches and movies and stuff), a hundred odd channels - I spent three hours watching Scrubs. Never seen it before - and though it does at times stray towards the cutesy quirkisms of Ally McBeal, it's still a pretty good show. Hours upon hours of channel flicking, mind numbing bliss. I didn't even have a shower. Just sat there on the couch, house to myself, cup of tea, watching the box. Now what could be more British than that.

ps - On the Saturday Handsome Dan and I went to Backstreet rehearsal studios so Dan could practice his drums and I could muck around with a guitar and amp. Magic. So we're at the front desk and we notice on the schedule board that some garage band with a sense of humour thought it would be funny to pretend the they were The Buzzcocks. The guy at the counter goes "Er, no that is The Buzzcocks, they're auditioning a new drummer". Walked past the room and they're playing "Ever Fallen In Love With Someone" which I swear I would have rolled my eyes at and gone "bloody cover bands" if I hadn't known better. Sure beats meeting Craig McLachlan at Troy Horse that time.

Room and bored

garyspaz — Sat, 15 Apr 2006 20:49:00 GMT

Not that I don't love spending three weeks sleeping on the floor of my mate's bedroom, comparing snoring patterns and giving him tips on what to wear in the morning, but sometime the good times just have to end and you need to leave the party before it starts getting stale. Actually all bummer jokes aside, I've had a lot of fun being Handsome Dan's room mate, and a part of me hoped I was never going to find a place of my own. Most likely the part of me who thinks about not spending copious amounts of money. So foolishly I have found a neat little place down in Clerkenwell, sort of halfway between Angel and Chancery Lane. For the money it's actually quite good, and now Dan can get back to the old fashioned method of getting to sleep at night.

Brain and position vacant

garyspaz — Wed, 12 Apr 2006 03:45:00 GMT

The other day we were in The Gap or something and Handsome Dan wanted to know what size the belt on the mannequin was. I never thought I was such a homophobe, because I nearly gagged undoing it. I sat through the whole of Brokeback Mountain watching Heath repeatedly give it to Donnie Darko and didn't flinch for a second, but ask me to remove a belt from a PLASTIC DUMMIE and suddely I turn into a fag bashing redneck. I expect I'll get hate mail from gay mannequin rights groups any day now.

In other perhaps more PG13 news, I just realised that for the first time in years I am acutally hiring friends. The budget has come through from head office, strategy have signed off on the job decs, and a small but dedicated team is currently posting "friendship positions vacant" ads all over my forehead. Let me run you through some of the fantastic opportunities we have available.

====================

Position: Daily meet and greet friend
Location: Central London
Salary: Witty banter and toilet humour, plus benefits

This not so busy Aussie Ex-pat is looking for a conversationally skilled buddy to hang out with and go to the pub sometimes when Dan isn't around. This really is a fantastic opportunity to talk with one of Australia's most sought after friends. No time wasters.

====================

Position: London local knowledge officer
Location: North London
Salary: Place to stay if ever visiting Sydney, pro rata

Newly established resident in North London currently has an opening for a competent font of local knowledge who can quickly and effortlessly get him up to speed with local customs, places, and sayings. This position would suit someone who is cool but doesn't have a lot of friends, and wants to feel culturally superior for a while. Working knowledge of British comedy and indie music essential.

====================

Position: Director in charge of football fan tuition
Location: Central London
Salary: Will do some web design for you or something easy

Our client is an emerging football fan and currently has an opening for either a graduate or second jobber well versed in the art of football fandom. This is not a technical role! The off side rule will not need to be explained. The right candidate will be fluent in Premiership and Champions League teams and should be willing to spend many hours going over what team I should go for both for ladder success and local kudos.

====================

It sort of came to me last Friday night when I wanted to go to the movies and realised I didn't have anyone to go with. Grab a Kleenex ladies, it's sad stuff isn't it. In Sydney I literally didn't have any more room in any of my inner circles, and though those close friends are still clutching validated ticket stubbs for the front row, now that the show is on tour suddenly I've got a load of empty seats that need bums on them. Personally I think that's why they say travel broadens the mind. Not because you see amazing landmarks or that the electrical sockets are all different, but because it forces you to stop being caught up in your own world and actually take the time to get to know different people. And also so you have someone to go to the movies with on a Friday night.

The honeymoon is over

garyspaz — Wed, 5 Apr 2006 19:16:00 GMT

It's a funny thing, comfort zone. When you're in it you're constantly wishing for more challenges, wanting to be thrust out of it so you can feel like you're in control, that you can overcome any adversity because I AM MIDDLE CLASS HEAR ME ROAR PLEASE IF YOU DON'T MIND. But when you're on your ass sitting out the front in the wind and the rain wondering how you're going to ever inch back towards the womb-like warmth of doing what you know, suddenly you start to wonder what kind of stupid idiot the voice inside your head really is, and what kind of stupid idiot you were to listen to it in the first place.

Back home, I was pretty much running rings around my home and job life. Quite often I'd poke at it with sticks just to taunt it, all the while chanting "nah nah ni nah nah, you can't catch me". So I quit the job, said my farewells to my home since birth, and moved to London. London is as most would attest, a fairly bigger brother to Sydney, and right now he currently has me pinned to the ground and is forcing me to say "uncle" while he drops big balls of spit into my mouth. Kids eh, they do the darndest things.

I knew it was going to be tough, but maybe not as tough as I had thought. The roughly hewn together with sticky tape plan in my head was to arse about a bit, live the transient life of a cashed up vagrant before I got back into the world of work, but right now I feel so far out of my comfort zone that the only thing which can possibly point me back in the direction is a wad of cash I can call my own. The honeymoon is well and truly over, and it's back to work boys for yours truly. So I am now in the world of C.V's, job agencies, and tiresome self promotion that I find eternally soul crushing. I know I'm a genius, you know I'm a genius, I just don't see why I should have to go through the laborious process of making other people understand that. I mean, you just end up sounding like a wanker don't you?

Gallery: First impressions of London

garyspaz — Thu, 30 Mar 2006 01:21:00 GMT

Five things I have learnt about London this week

garyspaz — Thu, 30 Mar 2006 01:16:00 GMT

1. When you are on an escalator at a tube station, stand on the right to allow others to pass. This is a practice vehemently adhered to by the locals. If there were escalators in Elizabethan times, there probably would have been an "off with your head" on the spot fine.

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.

Walk the line

garyspaz — Tue, 28 Mar 2006 02:11:00 GMT

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.

Hopelessly devoted to tube

garyspaz — Sat, 25 Mar 2006 07:06:00 GMT

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.

I wanna know what cold is, I want you to show me...

garyspaz — Wed, 22 Mar 2006 18:37:00 GMT

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 my good friend and resident tour guide 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...

Preface

garyspaz — Thu, 16 Mar 2006 15:14:00 GMT

Hi there. Welcome to the "blog". It's a very strange thing to write, some might say an even stranger thing to read. I write this accounting for the fact that hundreds of people may chance upon it and actually read it, yet prepare myself for the response of a ghost town after 11 o'clock closing. So if you are one of those weirdos who habitually read travel blogs and are considering coming back to these here parts, I thought I should furnish you with a little bit of exposistion before the expedition. How good was that little bit of flair eh? A bit of effortlessly dazzling wordplay? Jeez I'm giving this shit out for nothing here! Unbelievable. Oh by the way I reckon there could be a few nuggets of swearing as the days clock over, so if you're the type of wowser who blushes at the sight of a baby's bottom I suggest you piss off now before I start saying words like scrote, bumhole, and trouser bandit. For the last 29 years I've been holed up in a town at the bottom part of this big rock scientists call "The Earth". It's been a good innings in ye olde Sydney town, you'll get no complaints from me fair lassie of the Australian east coast. As is customary when you're a white middle class so and so, just ticking over from your teens to your twenties, like the uncontrollable urges of puberty, at some stage you will for some unexplicable reason have an overwhelming desire to go and live in the United Kingdom. However, the take no prisoners rebel who I delude myself to think I am, has never had such desires. Though I have pashed loads of chicks and I reckon about 80% will regard me as an excellent kisser so don't believe what you hear. All througout my torturous twenties, I have never once had the travel bug. Never once dreamed of distant shores. Never read a Bill Bryson book. Never thought it would be a good idea to pack up my whole life into a suitcase and trudge off to a place that so far only exists to my mind in myth, second hand news, and repeats of East Enders. In short, I have never REALLY wanted to partake in the UK right of passage pilgramige, and though tomorrow I take the first step along that well tread path, I still with complete honesty, can say to you that I still don't feel any excitement in the slightest. In fact, I feel quite ill. So far I have quit my job, sold my car, and disposed of all my bulky worldly possesions either to friends, family, charity, or the bin. Everything I own weighs about 30kg, and is currently residing in two bags that I hope will not get lost from Sydney, to Seoul, then to London. Two bags. My life is in two bags. What the fuck is so exciting about that??? I don't see what you people get out of this caper, but damn it I'm determined to find out. My theory is that it's all hype, that no one has ever had a fantastic time overseas, and that they all come home and tell people how good it was in Venice or Stockholm or Barcelona or wherever they went to just so that they didn't feel ripped off and their mates wouldn't rip the piss out of them. And believe me, if I get a whifter that it's all a con, THE MAGIC DIES TODAY. I will find the wires. I will clear the smoke and smash the mirrors. I will expose this Da Vinci Code for what it is, and it will never be Christmas for travel heads again. So this is my mission, dear readers. Fly to London. See how long I can live at my mates house before he starts demanding rent. Soak up the culture. Become what I believe I could never be, and write about it once a week so I can keep my travel insurance ticking over. Day one, and dusted. Gary Spaz