The A-Z Of 2005...

WELL folks, that's 2005 nearly over, with not a great deal happening in the world.
Actually, I'm lying like a politician just before an election: apart years where there were additions or subractions to the family, 2005 has been easily the most memorable out of the 25 that the world has had to put up with my presence.
There were trips overseas, job-quittings, rumours, disputes, drinking, movie-themes, searches for people in strange places, drinking, cricket, trains, planes, automobiles, drinking, stalkers, South American mating movements, budgie-smugglers, drinking, topless women, drinking, internet follies and drinking.
Might have been some drinking in there somewhere as well.
Anyway, in honour of the year, I've put together the A-Z of 2005.

A is for Ashes, Australia losing the.
I admit, it had to happen eventually. Australia held the Ashes since 1989, and had rarely looked like giving them back ever since. England had been steadily improving, but weren't expected to win them back.
Until I visited England that is.
We won't go into too much detail, but needless to say the ribbing I copped while over there wasn't what I was expecting as Australia's batsmen all decided it was a good time to stop scoring runs.
A special thanks as well to the MCC media person, who only answered enquiries about my media pass application for the First Test the day before, despite getting the application in on time.

B is for Batting, try to hit the winning runs while.
It's every cricketer's dream: the last ball of the match, one run to win and you on strike. The field is in, but there's nobody back for the straight hit over the top, so why not try that eh?
The fielders are all on their toes as the bowler comes in and releases the ball. The batsman (me) takes a few steps down the pitch, takes an almighty swing... and hits it straight back to the bowler, who then takes the bails off for a tie. Got pissed that night anyway.

C is for Cooma, Canadians and clubs.
After nearly two years in town, I've now left Cooma. I'd like to say there's nothing but happy memories there, and while I will cherish some of the friendships I made, I can't say that it was all peaches and cream. One of the strangest things was that while I got the respect of most the community, I couldn't say that about the people I worked with.
Along with Australians, Canadians would have to have been the most represented group of people I met while travelling. Despite the fact they get a bit of stick from Americans, I reckon they've got to be one of the friendliest groups of people going around, even if they do say "aboot". And just like Australians, they all seemed to come from one or two places: Toronto or British Columbia, although I did meet two girls from country Saskatchewan. True story.
Finally to clubs, which I hereby declare I loathe.When it comes to going somewhere for a night out, just give me some of that rock 'n' roll music, any old way you choose it, gotta back beat you can't lose it, any old time you use it, gotta be rock 'n' roll music, if you want to dance with me.

D is for Dave.
They reckon you haven't had a night out in Australia unless it involves some kind of drunken story with a bloke named Dave. I know of at least two girls who definitely had that, although whether they'd be wanting to repeat the dose is doubtful.

E is for Elegance.
Something rather lacking after pretty much any big night out.

F is for Friendships.
Those who travel get to make lots and lots of different friends: even one as socially inept as yours truly. It's part of the reason some people never stop travelling, but more importantly, it enriches your life to no end. So to all my new friends from this year (and the old ones for that matter), I raise a glass in salute.

G is for Great Barrier Reef, The.
One glaring omission from my life experiences was cut the other day when I went scuba-diving on the Great Barrier Reef. We went out to the outer reef: so far out in fact that you could see the waves breaking on the very far edge. The light was poor, it was raining and the ride out was hairy to say the least, but I tell you what, it's worth every cent.

H is for Hamish.
During the year some of you may have noticed certain abusive sentences about a certain New Zealander who thinks he's a Pom. Every time Australia lost at something (and gosh, didn't we lose at a lot of things this year?) Hamish would be first in with a text message. Given this year was so shit sporting-wise, I reckon I'll have plenty back at him next year...

I is for Iceland, girls from.
In Venice a group of us sat around, singing songs while someone played guitar (as usual I was looked on to provide most of the lyrics). There were a group of girls from Iceland there as well, stunningly beautiful in the Northern European way. One of them told me everyone should go out with an Icelandic girl once because they took all the beautiful people from Ireland. I said she should go out with an Australian male once because we're at home Down Under. She left after that.

J is for Jumping for balls.
During the trip I played in two sand sports, scoring the most goals in beach soccer at Venice and jumping around like a kangaroo on cocaine during beach volleyball in Ireland. It was during the second one that one jump came off wrongly: I tripped as I went to dive, and didn't just fall on level sand but into a hole thoughtfully dug earlier seemingly for that very purpose. Got out ok, and still lost the match to a team that included a couple of Kiwis (when will the humiliation stop?!?)

K is for Kissing in dorms.
There's nothing worse than hearing a couple going at it when you're trying to sleep; unless of course you've picked up yourself.

L is for Lying, Lord's and London.
Actually, the only thing worse than that is when someone lies to blame someone else for their own actions.
Lord's is considered the home of cricket, and as such was the only place I just had to go to during my time overseas. That it is in London was a bonus, which also happens to contain a few backpacker pubs where there was much drinking, or in one person's case, chucking on the floor of a dorm in a hostel we weren't even staying in.

M is for Man-Whore.
Davo, Matt and Braddles are the other members of this exclusive Port Douglas community. Members can be found by greeting each other with "Davo. Man-Whore." etc etc.

N is for No way I'm doing that.
Of course we nearly always did.

O is for Oh my goodness I can't believe he just did that.
Whether it was impersonating Steve Irwin to try and pick up, trying to hustle money while playing pool or dancing in just a g-string, everything was pretty much covered (not all by me I must add).

P is for Pub crawls.
And didn't everyone get completely f*cked up on those?

Q is for Questioning looks.
Especially when you fail to take heed of welcoming looks from members of the opposite sex.

R is for Rome.
Some people think of Romans, really old buildings and the Roman Catholic Church when they think of Rome; I think of a crap karaoke competition, cheap beer and a small set of speakers. Not to mention worrying the hell out of the entertainment coordinator who thought I hated him.

S is for Searching.
But not in the way you may think. In Prague I was talking to Susan and some Danish students when Yeliz went missing. Two hours and a massive search later we still hadn't found her, so I crashed in Susan's dorm, waking up when Yeliz made it back (and was met with an impressive bitchkreig). Meanwhile back at my hostel Tash had begun her own search after I didn't come back with everyone else. All ended well.

T is for Teasing.
How to get guys offside in four easy steps. Step one: find a good-looking guy. Step two: hit onto him. Step three: dance suggestively and play ten rounds of tonsil hockey. Step four: drop him cold. Saying that men do it is no excuse either peoples.

U is for Unknown.
Which is pretty much what Europe was until this year.

V is for Venice.
Home of canals, romance, beach soccer and toga parties, even if I missed the toga parties.

W is for Wales.
Went with Hamish to Cardiff to watch the Wales vs New Zealand rugby match. The Kiwis won (dammit!), but most memorable was the Welsh singing before the game, and the Welsh people who kept buying me pints of Guinness even though I was less than halfway through the previous one. Spent the train trip back asleep in the toilet.

X is for X-ray vision, people wishing they had.
Although why people would want to see other people's skeletal structures is beyond me.

Y is for Yellow.
As you can see I'm running out of things to say, which brings me to...

Z is for Zzzzzzzzz....
Although I'm hoping I haven't sent you to sleep.

Anyway, hope you've had a top 2005, and here's hoping everyone has a sensatioanl 2006.

'Tis The Season To Be Jolly...

CHRISTMAS is almost upon us.
Actually, you should already know that, what with the Christmas carols blaring out the radio, Christmas decorations in the stores, airline prices going up quicker than bank balances going down, etc etc.
This Christmas is significant to me: it's only the second I've spent away from either parent and the fifth without a younger sibling(s) to share the moment and/or annoy the hell out of me. I had planned on heading down to Brisbane for the inevitable family functions, but aforementioned plane tickets and work commitments have combined to keep me in sunny Port Douglas. Good thing is though that the hostel is doing a feed for us "orphans", so it's not like any of us will be alone.
Fortunately Mum's sent up the Christmas presents; unfortunately I'm barred from opening them until Christmas Day. I can guess a few of them by feeling and holding them up to the light, but there's two packages that I have no idea about. Needless to say it's driving me crazy.
When we were kids the presents were only ever put out on Christmas Eve. Early Christmas morning Matt and I would bolt to the tree, have a look at the various presents in our names, look eagerly at the Christmas stocking, eat a token Weetbix (had to have breakfast), then attack the lollies with great gusto.
The younger two would generally be up by this stage as well, and we'd all be comparing box sizes until Dad came out and told us to leave them alone until they were handed out. This would take waaaay too long (had to wait for all the grown-ups to wake up and get dressed), but eventually Dad would dole out the presents one by one to the sounds of delighted kids or the occasional "what's this?".
I can still remember the last Christmas we had with Grandma before she passed on. Of course we didn't know it would be our last Christmas with her: she had just turned 49 and was as bubbly as ever.
We have photos of the day, although given the horrid clothes and even worse glasses I was wearing at the time I'm yet to be convinced that I need to see them again. Maybe the ones without me in them!
The following year we made a long-overdue trek to Mildura for our first (and so far last) Christmas down there with Dad's family; another nine months later and after a brain tumour had robbed her of pretty much everything, she was gone.
Then there was the last Christmas where Mum and Dad were together. It was up at Grandad's property in Nanango, we took the dogs (who delighted in sleeping on the stretchers and running around trying to kill the chooks), my aunt did the bolt with her step-brother, and my uncle showed once and for all he doesn't have the body figure to play Santa Claus.
In recent times either Hannah or Liam have handed out the presents, and one time at Dad's we had a massive game of street cricket that was memorable for the fact that Matt couldn't catch to save his life, with or without a beer in his hand. Come to think of it, neither could anyone.
To me, this is what Christmas is about. Not the presents (although I do enjoy getting enough clothes in December for my birthday and Christmas to not buy any for the rest of the year), but the fun had with those nearest and dearest; be they friends, family, or that strange kid who kept hitting my leg-breaks next-door.
Merry Christmas.

I Am, But These Pricks Aren't Australian...

TWO recent events in Sydney have shown both the good and the bad of modern Australian society.
Let's start with the good, because the bad is a fucking disgrace.
At Telstra Stadium (formerly Stadium Australia, the main stadium during the 2000 Olympics) on November 16, the Australian soccer team (the Socceroos) qualified for their first World Cup in 31 years after beating Uruguay in a penalty shoot-out. Photos after the events showed Australians of all backgrounds dancing in the streets to celebrate the fact that their team had finally made it through.
And why wouldn't you describe as their team? As Michael Cockerill said in the Sydney Morning Herald the next day:

In a multicultural nation in a fractured world, the Socceroos can bring together the sum of their parts: Muslim, Catholic, Orthodox, Anglican. German, Lebanese, Polynesian, Croatian, Italian, Melanesian, Greek. It is a rich tapestry but last night they - and we - were one thing only. Australian.

While that may have been the case nearly a month ago, it certainly wasn't yesterday.

After a disgraceful attack on two lifesavers last weekend in Cronulla, on Sydney's southside, text messages and e-mails had been flying around, urging "Anglos" (those of European, mainly English, extraction) to get revenge on the "Lebs" (which basically means anyone who looks Middle Eastern).

Sure enough, large groups of people gathered at Cronulla throughout the day - at first peacefully, before the effects of alcohol, sunshine and testosterone combined. Beginning with one man being punched around 11am, the mob surged every time they saw a person of Middle Eastern appearance, attacking them with fists, beer bottles, cowardice. No one that looked like a "wog" was spared - not even young girls. One "hero" even ripped off a girl's headscarf as she tried to get to safety.

Of course this racist show of aggression wasn't going to go unpunished by those who felt their brethren had been attacked. So we then had the fun of more testosterone-filled hoons attacking the original mob or burning the Australian flag.

Onya guys. Between both groups, you've successfully managed to get the ugliest part of any society into the world news, managed to undo any good work the Socceroos victory had achieved, managed to get your revenge(s) in the most despicable way possible.

But you know what the absolute pits was?

The original mob draped themselves in Australian flags and sung the Australian national anthem while beating the crap out of people they didn't consider Australian enough.

Excuse me?

What do they want: a return to the white-bread Australia, where a special meal was meat and three veg instead of the usual two? And anyway, why does it matter when one's ancestors came over here? If that were the case, then those idiots that started the trouble yesterday would absolutely revere our indigenous people as being the most Australian of them all, although if many of them could even spell "indigenous" or "Aboriginal" I'd be surprised.

If you're going to use OUR flag and OUR national anthem, do it somewhere that's going to help national pride. And for those from both sides that participated in the riots: don't bother cheering for the Socceroos in Germany next year.

You've clearly shown you're not Australian.

Girls On The Avenue...

I LOVE people-watching.
Work is located upstairs with a verandah overlooking the main street, so on those nights when I decide not to go out and make a spectacle of myself it's often good fun to watch the people go by.
Pubs are good for these as well. Just by walking along said main street you get the chance to watch the locals sit around and talk shit, then kick on next door as everyone that's out piles in and makes a beeline for the dancefloor.
There you get to see older men and women who look like they just escaped from the local pound shake their bodies in a way that's more suggestive of a South American bird's mating patterns than anything that actually fits the song being played.
Just about every night there's a group of younger women taking advantage of a night out with the girls, which largely consists of getting themselves so plastered they get poured into a taxi rather than getting in of their own accord. These women are usually responsible for any pinched male arses.
Then there's the younger men.
These range from 18-year-olds with an inflated sense of maturity and coolness; the packs of men who seem to have a very good time jumping around and knocking your beer out of the glass; and the men whose sole purpose is to get laid.
Can there be anything more funny than a man (or woman for that matter) who just won't take no for an answer?
The other night our group was treated to a rather determined effort by one chap to get into the pants of an English tourist.
The guy tried so hard. He spoke to his "target" continuously, tried a few moves on the dancefloor, and generally made sure that she was never out of his sight.
It wasn't until she went to bed without inviting him that he gave up, a forlorn figure at the top of the stairs finally realising it just wasn't going to happen.
Of course it got kinda scary when he spent the next day stalking her and her friend, but that's another story.
Twice on my European travels I saw someone go in for the kill; twice they were knocked back.
Actually that should be three times, given that two guys were both trying to get a kiss of a fair maiden (not) during one particularly drunken night in Nice. Time after time either of the two would lean in for the magic moment that would make the night unforgettable; time after time she would move her head back as far as possible and reject their advances.
The other time saw a girl trying desperately hard to begin a few rounds of tonsil hockey with my mate, who at the time was in a state of emotional turmoil. Every time you looked at them she had her head tilted, eyes closed, lips in readiness. Never got the message.
Then there's the guy at the hostel whose eyes light up every time he sees a XX-chromosoned person.
Never mind the fact that he's in his forties with the most ridiculous ponytail you could imagine, there's rarely a girl at the hostel that hasn't had "Fabio" unleash his charms on. Most politely listen and get out of there as soon as possible, although the smarter ones let him pay for a few drinks before bolting.
People. If you can't beat 'em, watch 'em.

The Drugs Don't Work...

WHY on Earth would you try to take drugs in or out of South-East Asia?
Countries like Singapore, Indonesia and Malaysia have pretty strict anti-drug laws (you're cuaght, you're dead), yet stories here in Australia have told of four different groups or individuals who've gambled with authorities and come off second best.
The earliest of the four was Nguyen Tuong Van, who was caught with 396 grams of heroin at Singapore's Changi Airport in 2002. Van had agreed to smuggle the heroin from Cambodia to help pay off the debts of his drug-addicted brother, but was caught as he passed through the security gates at Changi Airport. Those steps through the gates were his last as a free man; he is due to be executed on December 2.
Then came Schapelle Corby. The young Queenslander was found with 4.1kg of marijuana in her boogie board bag when she landed in Bali in October 2004; while she says the drugs weren't hers, two customs officials and two police officers say she admitted they were. Further adding to the intrigue is that the bags weren't locked, police never used gloves when holding the outer bag, while the inner bag was apparently not checked for fingerprints.
Corby is now in jail serving 15 years for the offence.
Then came the big one: the so-called "Bali Nine" in April this year. This case is on-going, but from this article it seems the Australian Federal Police knew what was going to happen, contacted the Indonesian authorities beforehand and gave them free reign to take action.
Five people were arrested at Denpasar Airport in Bali, with four found to have heroin strapped to their bodies; while another four were arrested at a nearby hotel. All nine are on trial or will face trial shortly; all nine face the death penalty, including the four "drug mules" who say they were forced into doing the run.
Just to finish things off, former underwear model Michelle Leslie was found outside a Bali party with two ecstasy tablets in her handbag. Leslie's case was newsworthy not just because she was the latest in a line of Australians caught with drugs overseas, but also because her good looks made for good photos. Leslie is now free after serving three months in a Bali prison; she had been found guilty but only had to serve that time because it was said she was addicted to drugs of some kind (news reports generally suggest this was a prescription for attention-deficit disorder).
Four cases, four lots of headlines; four of the same or four very different cases?
They're all very different cases.
Take Van for example. It's generally acknowledged that he did his drug run to help his brother, who had allegedly run up a huge drug bill. The drugs weren't meant for sale in Singapore; the bad luck for him was that he was caught there, where any more than 15 grams is grounds for a hanging.
Given that at the time of writing he had just over three days to live, it would appear a harsh price to pay for his brother's sins. This is the position taken by many protesters both here and in Singapore, especially since Van has cooperated with authorities fully and has shown remorse for his actions.
Yet as the Singapore Government rightly points out, heroin is a killer: that's why it's illegal. The Singaporeans also point out that as a sovereign country they have the right to make their own laws, which people living or visiting must abide by.
While it's easy to have sympathy for Van and suggest his death sentence should be reduced to life imprisonment or a long sentence, calls for a nation-wide minute's silence or for Prime Minister John Howard to miss the Prime Minister's XI cricket match agains the West Indies because of the hanging are wide of the mark.
We use such things to remember those who served our country, not for those who've been caught breaking the law.
Corby is a case unto herself. Many in Australia believe her story that the marijuana was put in her bag by an airport baggage handler, yet there is still the suspicion that she was perhaps a little naive and perhaps thought she could get away with it. Her story has never changed though.
The Bali Nine face an uncertain future. Indonesian prosecutors want the death penalty for all nine; it remains to be seen if the four drug mules - who all seemed to be scratching for a penny beforehand - are spared because of their circumstances. The fate of the other five seems to be about as promising as an American walking down an Iraqi street wearing the stars and stripes and a t-shirt saying "Fuck the world, I'm American".
The less said about Michelle Leslie the better: her case changed so often that it's hard to tell the difference between fact and fiction.
But all four cases beg the one question:
Why use drugs?

Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again...

I GOT a smile from a stranger the other night.
Not just any stranger though: this one was an attractive young lady who smiled and started playing with her hair as I left the fish and chip shop up here in Port Douglas. It certainly made an otherwise mundane trip for food more exciting than normal, and helped ease the pain of having to pay $4.40 for a serve of chips and a potato scallop/cake.
I'd like to be able to report that I got chatting with said girl, kicked on with a few drinks later on, then went back to her room and swapped recipes for scones, but I can't. She was with a group of friends, and I was walking out of there in the first place, so a combination of nerves and a desire not to appear desperate scotched that idea.
Shame really. Was looking for some new scone recipes too.
All this just confirms that I'm part of a group of males I like to call The Pessimists. To be a Pessimist you have to know exactly when a girl isn't interested, but don't have the foggiest idea when they are.
For example, if a girl starts giving off positive body language - say playing with her hair, physical contact, watching you intently - a Pessimist will realise that, then begin thinking that perhaps she is interested, but maybe I'm reading it wrong, but on the other hand... Meanwhile, the window of opportunity is rapidly closing, eventually snapping shut with the girl walking off disappointed and the Pessimist suddenly realising he's seriously fucked up.
This is something I'm really good at. While overseas I had one memorable night where a girl kept putting her hand on my chest and saying they were hanging around, then her friend buggered off when we were on the dancefloor. I did nothing, friend came back, moment's over. My excuse was that every guy in the club was hitting onto her, so I didn't want to appear like a sleaze.
That's the other thing about Pessimists: they tend to be described as "good guys", a description they like to keep.
Of course, this is a complete opposite to the Optimist, who thinks every girl on the planet is attracted to him, and any that say they aren't are clearly suffering from a major hormonal imbalance.
Anyway, enough rambling. In the words of the Angels, I might wait at the bar; maybe she might show. Am I ever gonna see her face again?
Hopefully I won't get "no way get fucked fuck off" in reply.

From The Depths To The Peaks

IT'S often said that to fully appreciate ectasy (the feeling as opposed to the drug), you first have to go through some form of agony.
Australian soccer fans will now all about this. Since the national team, known as the Socceroos, last qualified for the World Cup, they have put their fans and themselves through every range of emotion. Their plight has been well-documented, but it's worth repeating again: losing thanks to an own goal in a playoff against Argentina in 1993; leading 2-0 with about 10 minutes to go against Iran, only for them score twice and go through on away goals; and finally winning the first game against Uruguay in 2001 1-0, only to lose the return 3-0.
It's been a ride nto many would particularly care for.
So last night when Uruguay peppered the Australian goal early in the match, many had the feeling of "oh no, not again."
But it didn't happen again.
First Marco Bresciano ensured he'd become a household name by scoring twoards the end of the first half, giving Australia a 1-0 lead, and more importantly levelling the two-match series 1-1.
Try though they might, Australia could not break through for a second, decisive goal. This just upped the pressure, as any Uruguayan goal meant Australia would have to score twice more because of the away goals rule (away goals count for double if the aggregates are tied).
Time passed slowly. One English gent (the upgrade of the century, truth be told) reckoned that Australia would score in the 89th minute. That came and went, and we were into extra time, where again Australia just couldn't get the goal.
Full-time extra time. Time for a penalty shootout: surely the ultimate indignity, as it was about the only way we hadn't been knocked out at this point.
The crowd at the pub cheered madly when Harry Kewell scored the first for Australia, and even louder when Mark Schwarzer saved Uruguay's first attempt. The cheering continued when Tony Vidmar converted his shot, only for a hush to come over the room when Uruguay kicked their next goal.
Mark Viduka is one of the better strikers in the English Premier League, so when he strode up most were confident; a confidence misplaced when he produced a kick so soft and flaccid it needed Viagra to get up. Fortunately Schwarzer again came to the party with a brilliant save, so if John Aloisi kicked his, Australia were through.
Aloisi ran in...
And kicked it.
People around the country (actually, I'm only assuming this; the crowd at the pub certainly did) went nuts. After 32 years, with more heartache than a collection of country and western songs, Australia were through.
As you may have guessed, I enjoyed watching this. It certainly made for a better mood than earlier in the day, when someone you'd think would know better cut me off based on misinformation. I've not idea if he read my reply, but it's a sad world when someone accuses you of doing something when they know it's a lie; and even sadder when others believe it.
C'est la vie. I've no time for liars or hypocrites.
I'm too busy celebrating life and the soccer.

I Was Born A Rambling Man...

THIS year my life seems to revolve around hostels; ironic really when you consider that at the start of the year I was staying in a town (Cooma) that no longer had hostels (or if they do I've no idea where).
During the course of my travels since May I've stayed in hostels or dirt-cheap hotels in London, Paris, Brugge, Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague (although that was a cheap add-on to an otherwise expensive hotel), Vienna, Budapest, Munich, Nice, Barcelona, Madrid, Lisbon, Bordeaux, Edinburgh, Inverness, Dublin, Galway, Kilkenny and Port Douglas.
There were also camping grounds (much like caravan parks here in Australia) in Venice, Rome and Florence, and apartments in Cinque Terre and Lagos.
Some of these were brilliant, although given they are cheap accommodation, you can generally find fault anywhere you stay. For example, Berlin's City Stay hostel was brilliant: except that the lights in the showers went off if you didn't keep moving around, and you had to hold the tap in to keep the water going. Those of us who enjoy standing under a hot shower often had to jump around waving our arms while trying to keep the stupid button pressed in, which is no mean feat when you're hungover.
The really, really good hostels will have some kind of entertainment with cheap drinks available. The Generator in London was good for this: 1 pound pints for three hours, by which time you'd got a taste and forgotten you were trying not to spend so much money. You could also win booze for doing silly things, including singing karaoke, pole-dancing, and on one memorable occasion, dancing in a g-string (think tall, strange man).
Rome was alright, although their efforts to make money from the bar were thwarted by a combination of high prices and the fact people were allowed to bring in their own opened beer bottles, which were available across the road at 1 euro a piece.
But by far the greatest "entertainment" in a dorm comes when a young couple begins coupling.
You'll be lying in bed, trying to mind your own business, when all of a sudden you hear what sounds like a cow chewing on gum.
Then the bed might start to shake or squeak, followed by the inevitable short, sharp breaths. If the couple is drunk, these may be loud enough to wake the whole dorm up and allow them to share the experience.
Of course, if you really need to sleep there are a few options. The one I used best was to turn on the iPod and listen to music, while others try the pillow-over-the-head trick.
If these don't work (ie the bed/floor is shaking), then all you can do is grin and bear it, and give the offending couple a knowing look first thing in the morning.
That or throw a cold cup of water over them mid-stroke.

What's your best travel story? Post them below; be warned they may be taken off if too rude/crude/prude. It can be about anything you like, although I'd prefer it if you didn't mention that one time, on band camp...

That's An Interesting Question...

AS A journalist I get to ask some really insightful questions.
Unfortunately, most of the questions I ask veer between "how do you feel about the win/loss/court case against you for fradulent cheques written on the sides of cows" to "so, what now?"
On one memorable occasion I couldn't even think of a question at all. I had to speak to a local school principal about some new funding or whatever, and took so long trying to get the quesion out that he eventually just said to put down quotes along the lines of that they were very happy to get the money and it would go to a good purpose.
I'd like to be able to say that the published article contained quotes from that particular principal saying how the money would go towards his retirement fund, but I can't. When it came to controversial quotes, all I could think about was a judge telling me no to do that ever again and awarding 100% of my earnings for the next 30 years to the soul I defamed.
Of course the Fourth Estate doesn't have exclusive rights to stupid questions. I've applied for jobs where they ask some of the most inane questions.
One job I applied for asked about last book read and favourite movie. Again, much as I'd like to say that I wrote Dr Suess' Green Eggs And Ham as last book and A Very Brady Christmas as my favourite movie, but I wanted the job and put down The Blues Brothers and Steve Waugh's autobiography.
Mind you, I can see what they're getting at: after all who wants someone working for them when their favourite movie is Dude, Where's My Car?
Come to think of it, who hasn't asked a stupid question? Here's something to remember though next time you hear sniggers or smartarse comments after asking a question: at uni, we were taught that the only stupid question is the one you don't ask.
I still reserve the right to snigger or be a smartarse though.

Random thought of the week:
When putting in a contact lens, no matter how good you are at it, make sure there's something stopping said lens from dropping straight down the drain. Good thing I still have glasses.

Won't You Take Me To | Funkytown?

I'VE recently decided to listen to every single track on my iPod.
Well, not every track: I've skipped some 12th Man stuff because that's better when you listen to the full thing, and in the interests of my sanity I've skipped any Britney Spears tracks that pop up.
It's a fairly long task, but then listening to and writing notes about 3394 different tracks generally is. There's a few that the Internet searching service got wrong, but other than that it's all pretty good. It'd be nice to get past songs that start with "b" (songs beginning with "al" to "an" took forever and a day).
But, I know what you're thinking. Why has he got Britney Spears on his iPod? Actually, if you think that's bad, I've also got John Denver's Annie's Song, a distinctly unmemorable track from manufactured (but very pretty) 90s band the Teen Queens (Be My Baby for those wanting to get a copy), and most heartbreakingly of all, Billy Ray Cyrus telling everyone about his Achy Breaky Heart.
Before you all excommunicate me, I would also like to present Men At Work's Down Under, a sampling of Coldplay, U2, Matchbox Twenty and Maroon 5, and any of the important stuff sung by one Jimmy Barnes.
So why keep so many songs? For one, I own a 40-gig iPod that isn't close to being full as yet, so any culling has been postponed for a while.
The second and most important reason is that I have a portable collection of songs that are very handy if someone wants to listen to a particular track. Generally these requests come form those saddled with two x chromosomes, although I have played requests from males. Why Jason Warren-Smith wanted to hear Peter Andre's Mysterious Girl will forever remain a mystery to me.
Again, I hear you ask, why do you have that on cd to start with? I buy a lot of compilation cd's, so there's generally a mix of classics and crapulence. Thus the same box set that gave me Jimmy Barnes and INXS telling everyone about the Good Times they are about to have also chucked in some horrendous 80s pop by Kids In The Kitchen. For every Sounds Of Then (I laugh and think that this is Australia), there's a Mysterious Girl.
Sometimes you come across gems though. At one stage I had the whole playlist on random, and came across the George Baker Selection's Little Green Bag, which will be familiar to those who've seen the Toyota ads here in Australia where a guy wearing a "Make My Dinner" t-shirt joins in a women's rights rally.
There could be more, but at any rate I reckon I've got most requests covered. Provided, of course, people would rather listen to the Traveling Wilbury's or the Cockroaches rather than Madonna or Bruce Springsteen. Or even Achy Breaky Heart. What were people thinking?!?

Imagine There's No Bullsh!t...

THERE was a short while after I came back from overseas that I had to look in the jobs section of the local rags.
This always frightens me. Really frightens me. This is largely because employers will either ask for super-experienced workers for an apprentice position, or the ones that do look like they could use my work abilities are the ones that look like they could go under any day now.
To make life really interesting, go too far in some newspapers and you end up looking up the personals section.
This section doesn't so much scare me as make me laugh. All these people write in saying how beautiful and wonderful they are, tempting you like a doughnut does to Homer Simpson. (Mmmmmm... doughnut....)
Yet you always get the feeling that answering these is only going to leave you disappointed. Sure, you might find the six-foot stunner is in fact six feet, but that's more likely to be six feet wide rather than six feet tall.
Likewise the girl who replies to the man who owns his own business and house could be a shade unhappy when it turns out the business is a dodgy fish and chip shop and the house is an illegally parked caravan.
But what if employment and personal ads were combined?
Imagine the ads then. You'd be able to tell the difference between male and female advertisers, simply because female advertisers would ask for "lots of experience necessary", while male advertisers would have "less experience the better. In fact, those with no experience will have the inside running."
Of course you would need more truth in advertising. Those "kilo-rich" people would need to make sure potential partners had all the right licenses (heavy vehicle, forkift etc), while those of us with large families will need someone with experience in catering for hundreds and thousands.
For the record, here's my ad to kick these new, "combined" ads off:

Girlfriend wanted

Do you like Pina Coladas? Or getting caught in the rain?

Are you not into health foods? But rather champagne?

If so then SAJ INC has the position for you.

We are currently looking for the right girl to fit a new role

in our ever-expanding business.

Applicants will need good catering skills,

a sense of humour, and the ability to watch cricket all summer

(or at least keep quiet while it's on).

Applicants should be between 18 and 27 years old,

be under 5 feet 10 inches tall,

and not spend all their money every time there's a sale on.

The successful applicant will be placed on probation for three months,

during which they may be released at any time.

There will be plenty of opportunities to travel,

So don't delay in getting your application off today!

(Applications must include photos)

To apply, simply e-mail sajjittarius@yahoo.com.au

or click on one of the icons below.

SAJ INC is not an equal opportunity employer.

And Now For Something Completely Different...

AUSTRALIA is a large country.
It's the sixth-largest country in the world and the only country that's both a country and a continent: yet it's also one of the least-densely populated places going around, with just 20,090,437 people spread across 7,617,930 sq km of land (both figures from http://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/geos/as.html). That's just under 3 people per square kilometre.
This is slightly misleading though. People in Australia mostly live in the various capitals around the place.
The character of these capitals varies from place to place. As expected, sub-tropical Brisbane is a trifle more laid-back than the southern capitals, while Perth's isolation means very few from the east coast (which is pretty much everyone) know anything about it other than Alan Bond.
But for those who aren't from Australia or don't do much in the way of travelling, here's some details of six of Australia's eight state and territory capitals. I haven't included Hobart (Tasmania) and Darwin (Northern Territory) for the very good reason that I've never been there.

Canberra (Australian Capital Territory)
Ask 99 per cent of those unlucky enough not to come from Australia what our capital is and 99 per cent of them will get it wrong. That's ok though: Canberra's a hole.
Oh, I suppose there are various things about it that are worthwhile. Floriade, held during spring, is a rather spectacular time to pay a visit, while it still astounds many as to how a whole city of around 350,000 people can be so well hidden (yet so full of bloody roundabouts and traffic lights that don't let you through more than one at a time).
Frankly though, Canberra's big problem is that it's full of public servants. Sure, like any stereotype there are exceptions to that rule (those who receive my e-mails for one), but I'm sure even they would admit that their city is full of boring bastards whose idea of a good time is to buy a new sweater.
It's cold, the city doesn't really support its local sporting teams, and it sometimes can seem empty. A few pubs within walking distance of houses wouldn't go astray either.

Sydney (New South Wales)
Welcome to Sydney dahling *air-kiss, air-kiss* (can't believe what that bitch is wearing), no, Mike and I split up, it wasn't working out (bastard didn't earn enough), no I haven't met your partner, pleasure to meet you (how'd she get him? Wonder how serious it is), this old thing? Found it sitting in the back of the wardrobe (cost a fucking fortune at Gucci's) etc etc.
Sydney is the largest city in Australia, the host city for the "Best Olympics Ever" (by Juan Antonio Samaranch and the Fat Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons), and to be perfectly honest, a bit of a showpony really.
It's the place to be if you're an aspiring actor, musician or drug abuser (or all three). Everybody's who's anybody lives there, although you'll generally only see the nobodies rather than the anybodies at any particular function or red carpet special.
Mind you, it does have a lot to be proud of: the Sydney Opera House would make a great addition to any self-respecting city, while the harbour view when you're coming by plane is superb. Just a pity the place is full of Sydneysiders.

Melbourne (Victoria)
Where Sydney likes to think it's the fashion capital of Australia, Melbourne just is. In fact, it's probably fair to say that to thrive in Melbourne you really only need two things: an ability to dress well, and an unabiding love for Australian rules football. You can theoretically thrive with a love of cricket, but you really do need to follow a footy team in Melbourne to be socially acceptable.
Melbourne weather is a bit strange though. I'm not sure if it's true, but there have been plenty of people that say Crowded House's classic Four Seasons In One Day was based on a day in Melbourne. It's true: any trip down south should contain clothes to cover all eventualities.
Melbourne is also the only city in the country that still has a substantial tram system. This brings its own problem though, not least trying to turn right at some city intersections (you get to wait on the far left because the trams take the far right), while it's generally not a good idea to hoon down the left-hand side of a tram since people tend to get out that side.

Adelaide (South Australia)
There are some that feel John Saffron was a little bit harsh, when in his Not The Sunscreen Song, he wrote "never live in Adelaide. It's a hole." Those people are generally people that live in Adelaide.
It's hard to say much about Adelaide, simply because it doesn't really come up all that often. Sure, they have a couple of handy AFL (Australian Football League) teams, and a nice beach or three, but what else really happens there?
Adelaide's status as a fairly uninteresting place can be summed up by the fact that Sir Donald Bradman chose to spend most of his adult life there. Despite the fact he's the greatest batsman ever (by a long way too), he really could be a bit of a boring bastard, and Adelaide suited him fine.
Sounds like Party Central eh?

Perth (Western Australia)
Perth suffers because it's a long way from anything. It's the most isolated big city (1 million-plus people) in the world, and is actually closer to the Indonesian capital Jarkata than it is to Canberra.
Theoretically Perth (and Western Australia) is part of Australia: practically it's not. The people of Western Australia actually voted to secede from Australia in 1933 (66 per cent in favour), although that was scuttled when the British Parliament said the Australia Parliament had to give it the ok. They didn't.
Perth has given the world some useful things: Dennis Lillee, INXS, Simon Black; but they also gave us Bondy, who ripped shitloads of people off. he did help us win the America's Cup in 1983 though.
I suppose Perth would be more interesting if it weren't so bloody far away.

Brisbane (Queensland)
Those from Brisbane claim it's one of the world's most livable cities: and they're right. They also claim it's the most livable city, and any fancy-dan survey that suggests otherwise just didn't look at its facts properly.
As mentioned, Brisbane is the capital of Queensland, the place in Australia where you can find youself a loopy in local, state and national governments. It's also unique among the big Australian cities: it holds less than half its state's population, although there's a fair few more that live in nearby.
Up until the 80's Brisbane was described as a "big country town", and there are many from Sydney or Melbourne that'll still agree with that. It's a fairly laid-back kind of place, with warm winters and stinking hot summers. This is why no one really gets dressed up that often: it's too bloody hot.
Brisbane now is like a teenager making the big decision: whether to stay child-like and keep that big country town feeling that attracts so many people, or whether to boldly leap forward into worldly sophistication and pretend it's one of the grown-ups now.
It's also where my family calls home, and I guess where I'll call home.
One day.

I'm completely underwhelmed...

NEWS headlines around the world: Supermodel Kate Moss was allegedly caught sniffing cocaine.
Wow. Couldn't see that coming.
While Blind Freddie could see that one coming, especially given the number of rumours floating around over the years regarding Ms Moss and illegal substances, apparently this was newsworthy because it's so rare to get photographic evidence of celebrities using the stuff.
Personally I couldn't give a rats. Despite being one of the most popular - and certainly bigger earning - of the supermodels, to paraphrase Robert G. Barrett, she looks like a good root and a green apple would kill her.
But then again the fashion industry is something that I do not profess to ever understanding.
In the Leisure Suit Larry computer game series, Larry gets around in a tacky white leisure suit (hence the name). For most of the games he's considered a throwback to a time best forgotten, until in the final game leisure suits become popular again and he's suddenly the hippest thing in town.
My approach to my wardrobe is something similar to that. One day football jerseys and dodgy t-shirts will be back in fashion: until then I'm happy to walk along the fashion highway at my own pace.
Really, while I can see that those mini-mohawks don't look too bad on some people, anyone caught with a mullet is either a yobbo or dedicated fashion victim. When the two combine, like one bloke tried to do in Europe, it makes them not only look like a fashion victim, but a reptilian one at that.
And caking on the makeup? Eewwww. I know a girl that's quite attractive, but cakes on the makeup so thick you'd need a chisel or a blast from a firehose just to get it off each night. Then there's girls who deliberately try to look like trailer trash, guys with way too much bling for their own good, anything that resemble 80's fashion etc etc.
Nah, give me normal clothes. In fact, if I ever opened a clothes store, the catch-cry would be "normal clothes for normal people".
Life's too short for trying desperately to keep up with the beautiful people. And as Kate Moss has shown in recent times, it's not necessarily a good thing either.

Don't Go Breakin' My Heart...

I'M going to put it all on the line here. Lay my heart out for those that aren't aware, perhaps didn't pick up on various mentions around the place.
It's tough. I've been hurt before. So many times I've thought "this is it", only to be thwarted at the very end by men whose sole purpose in life is to go around hurting men like me. So many chances, so little success... and yet there have been times when life just couldn't seem to get any better: those moments where time stands still, where everyone is slapping your back in congratulations, where it just doesn't get any better.
So here goes:

I SUPPORT THE NORTH QUEENSLAND COWBOYS, AND I REALLY HOPE THEY WIN THE NRL GRAND FINAL!

Yes, the former laughing stock of rugby league are a mere 80 minutes of very good football away from erasing the pain of the past year. Pain so bad, that I'm not sure what I'll do if the Cowboys get done (especially if it's with 30 seconds to go. That's about the time that I pull out the .22 and shoot the tv).
Let's go over this year of pain for a fairly typical Queenslander:

1. Queensland Bulls host both domestic cricket finals. And lose them.
This was even worse than last season, when in the Pura Cup final they had to content with a Victorian team playing at home and still grieving the loss of coach David Hookes earlier that year.
This year the Bulls played Tasmania in the ING Cup final at the Gabba. The Bulls were expected to win, but despite a Jimmy Maher century Tassie's batsmen were too good on the day.
In the Pura Cup final Queensland played arch-rivals NSW. Twice they looked like getting flogged: firstly when NSW bowled them out for 102 in their first innings, and secondly when NSW reached 4/158 chasing 183. The Bulls clawed back, only for Wade Seccombe to drop a chance off Nathan Bracken with NSW just short of their target. The Blues won.

2. Queensland hosts two Origin matches. And loses the second one to lose the series.
This hurt. At 19-0 up in the first match everything was going to plan, only for bloody NSW to lead 20-19 with fuck-all to go. Jonathan Thurston kicked a field goal to take it into golden point, and Matt Bowen took an intercept to give Queensland the lead.
NSW won a fairly tight second match in Sydney, then came out in the third and flogged us. Really brought out the whip. They whipped us so bad it wasn't just the jerseys that were maroon: our backs (and backsides) were a similar colour from excessive flogging. To make it worse, the match was at Lang Park. Ouch.

3. Australia wins the First Ashes Test. And loses the series.
Fair dinkum, this had to be the banker didn't it? Australia hadn't lost an Ashes series since 1986/87, and had just come off a rather successful domestic season and tour of New Zealand.
After eventually winning the First Test at Lord's comfortably, it all went downhill. Glenn McGrath trod on a ball and was ruled out just before the start of the Second Test, Ricky Ponting sent England into bat on a road, Jason Gillespie bowled tripe, Brett Lee was good in patches but still doesn't use his head when bowling all that often, and none of the batsmen really got going.
All through this Shane Warne was like the single sane man in the asylum, trying his damndest to stave off the inevitable. Now we have to listen to gloating Poms for the next few years (remember, they lost 1-0 to Northern Ireland and 3-1 to us. It tends to shut them up).

So folks, you can see why I'm a little bit hesitant about putting too much hope in NQ this Sunday. I hope against hope that my heart won't be broken again; alas, all I can see is another round of phonecalls from gloating friends.

It Ain't Over 'Till It's Over...

AND yes, after nearly five years in what can best be described as cold conditions, my Southern Sojourn to Canberra and Cooma is now at an end.
It doesn't seem all that long ago that we loaded the old Pug, tidied up the insane mess of papers and the like that masqueraded as my bedroom of the time, and left the bright lights of Bris Vegas for the cold of the nation's capital.
I headed south in 2001 to study Sports Media at the University of Canberra (the only place in the country that it's offered) with the full intention of getting work back in Brisbane in 2004. Fate stepped in, and in late August 2003 I began working at the Cooma-Monaro Express (the Distress to its friends), where I remained until heading overseas in May this year.
Once overseas it was obvious I wouldn't be going back to Cooma, although this knowledge didn't make it any easier to say goodbye to friends in Cooma. I didn't get the chance to get to friends in Canberra: rest assured though I will visit before I go back o/s.
Life down south was tough: I lived in four different places in two and a half years in Canberra; while Cooma brought its own challenges to someone reared in the big smoke. All these things though brought about a much more rounded me, and one slightly more tolerable (but just as messy).
At any rate, here are some of the highlights of Stuart's Southern Sojourn.

Canberra = Brisbane Lions premierships
For those trying to figure out how that worked, it's fairly simple: the three years I was down in Canberra (2001-2003), the Brisbane Lions won AFL premierships.
The first was perhaps the most memorable. Cagey and I had driven down to Melbourne for reasons lost in the mist of time, and watched the game on the big screen at the Crown Casino. I got talking to two Carlton fans who were both going for Brisbane (on account of us playing Essendon), and sledged the little old Essendon fan sitting in front of me. That night we went out to a pub near Lygon Street (Pug's, I believe it's called), possibly watched Australian Idol finalist Millsy sing (this was before Idol), and ended up yelling very loudly at a security guard that we'd finally won. He smiled and let me stay, which was rather nice.
I spent the second flag sitting on the floor with my then flatmate, cursing some dodgy umpiring decisions that seemed to keep Collingwood in the match. The good guys prevailed eventually, then came out and slaughtered Collingwood in the 2003 decider after being written off beforehand. I got written off during this match though, and ended up stealing a wheelie-bin to break into the place I was staying after the other bloke hooked up with some chick.

Personal sporting premierships
Until moving to Canberra my out of school sporting activities were limited to one season of indoor cricket as a child. This multiplied somewhat down south: four seasons of cricket, two of Aussie rules football, four in total of mixed netball, three in total of indoor cricket, three of oztag and three of indoor soccer (mixed and male).
The first premiership (and indeed my first) was in the first season of indoor cricket in Canberra. We had a shit-hot side, with an old pro in Richard, a man with Gadget arms in Bort, a handy all-rounder and good leader in Honks, and just a bloody good all-round cricketer in Blaise. I bowled right-arm leg-spin around the wicket, generally getting people stumped when they came forward and missed the ball.
We lost our trial games convincingly, then came out and only lost one game all season before taking the premiership. It was a great team with everyone enjoying themselves immensly.
Down in Cooma we won a B-grade mixed netball comp, as well as three consecutive mixed indoor soccer finals. Jason and I were the only two to play in all three grand finals, and both of us contributed. We won the first easily, but came close to oblivion in the semi-final in the second season when the opposition's striker unleashed a thunderbolt. If it went in we were two down with a few minutes to go: instead the ball hit my arm and we ended up winning. It was a similar story in the third final, with me in goals and Jason up front setting up the win.

On the grog
We did some strange things on the grog. Those there will remember a karaoke night at the West Belconnen Leagues Club where we all got smashed. To make matters interesting there was precisely one attractive girl: at one stage Ivan was trying to chat her up when Cagey literally pushed him out of the way before beginning his own chatting.
There were some interesting nights with the ladies as well. Cagey missed out in Melbourne when we rebuffed the advances of the girl rubbing her arse against his groin, while I did a pretty good impersonation of a rabbit in the headlights one night in Canberra when I spotted a ring on the wedding finger of the girl hitting onto me. Turned out she was on the rags anyway.
Perhaps the best story from a night out though was one night at King O'Malley's in Canberra. I was out with Blaiser and the Cagey, with the latter two mentioning the same girl over and over again. After Cagey left (coincidence? maybe...) two of the girl's friends came over to chat to us other two, before one of them tag-teamed with the original soon after.
End result? Blaise and Kirsti are now happily married after a beautiful wedding in Brisbane. Not that Cagey and I were totally appreciative after Cagey won at the casino the night before. Mum had to drag us home about 3am the day of the wedding after we'd told her we'd be out for a while longer.

There's more to it than that, but I can't possibly include everything. If there's something stupid we did, why not post a comment and let the world know; otherwise, have fun, and see y'all next post.

Oh the pain, oh the igonomy...

ALRIGHT, let's get this over with quickly.
England have won the Ashes series for the first time in donkey's years, defeating Australia 2-1 after a draw in the Fifth Test at The Oval in London. Kevin Pietersen anchored England's second innings with his maiden Test century, scoring 158 to keep Australia's bowlers at bay.
Ok, that much you should all know already.
Seriously though, what can we take out of this series? More to the point, what can we take out of it that hasn't already been done to death in the papers?

This is truly the age of marketing men
After England held their nerve (just) in the Second Test to win by 2 runs, the England and Wales Cricket Board (ECB) immediately put out a DVD called "The Greatest Test".
The Greatest Test?!?
Sure, this was a good, nay, great Test match. Australia were gone for all money at stumps on day 3, 8/175 chasing 282 with just Shane Warne, Brett Lee and Michael Kasprowicz standing between England and a series-levelling victory. It's history now that this unlikely threesome got Australia within 3 runs of victory, only to be denied by a stunning Geraint Jones catch off Kasprowicz.
But The Greatest Test? Surely either of the two Tied Tests would have to come into consideration. The Second Tied Test - India vs Australia at Madras in September 1986 - finished with Greg Matthews taking the last Indian wicket with the second-last ball of the match. Matthews took 10 wickets for the match while bowling in a sweater: lunacy when you consider that Dean Jones scored 210 before being taken to hospital and put on a saline drip.
And what about the First Tied Test between Australia and the West Indies at Brisbane in 1960/61? Australia weren't just gone: they were dead in the water at 6/92 chasing233. Yet somehow Richie Benaud and Alan Davidson dragged them to within striking range, only to be foiled courtesy of a Joe Solomon direct hit from side-on.
Therein lies the difference. Benaud and Davidson had to battle the clock to bring their team close; Warne, Lee and Kasprowicz had two days to make their runs. A brave fightback yes, but The Greatest Test? I think not.

There has to be a middle ground
When Andrew Flintoff began hitting out later in the series, Australia seemed to have one plan: spread the field. Come to think of it, they tended to do that as soon as he got in.
Compare this to what happened every time Adam Gilchrist came in. England captain Michael Vaughan kept an attacking field, meaning that if Gilchrist stuffed up early on - as most batsmen do - there were fielders waiting for the edges. Even when Gilchrist hit a few fours, Vaughan kept an attacking field. End result? Geraint Jones scored more runs than the Australian number 7.

Swingers are back
Not the Austin Powers style - although he'd have been stoked with the result - but the Simon Jones and Matthew Hoggard style. Throughout this series the English bowlers (and to the same extent Shane Warne) have shown that a moving ball will cause all kinds of problems for batsmen, no matter how good they are.
The last true Australian swinger was Damien Fleming, and despite being injured a hell of a lot and bowling in allegedly hostile swing conditions, he still took 75 wickets in 20 Tests at an average of just under 26. England's success shows that a good swing bowler adds a lot to your attack: especially if the conditions are right.

They're my thoughts anyway. Again, well played England: let's hope other Test series can match this one for sustained intensity.

Sing us a song: Actually please stop!

I WISH I could sing.
Actually, if you listen to my mother, she'd say she wished I could still sing.
I was in a Tournament of the Minds competition once, where the team's most memorable moment was me singing my own lyrics to the Star Trek spoof song Star Trekkin'. After that, Mum decided that her little darling needed to get singing lessons so as to make the most of his precocious talent.
Unfortunately for Mum all little darling wanted to do was play sport (in particular cricket), and that soon died a slow and painful death. Since then breakouts of Spontaneous Karaoke Syndrome have met with the following conversation:

Mum:
"Why can't you still sing? You used to be able to sing really well."
Son:
"Let's see Mum. I know: when a child reaches a certain age, they go through this thing called puberty. This ushers in a range of changes to the child's body, which include in the case of males, extra body hair, facial hair, growth spurts and a deeper voice. Do you think having a changed voice might've finished any hopes of a national number 1 hit?"

Of course, this is the same mother who, when I was 19 and with reasonable sideburns, exclaimed at the top of her voice: "you've got stubble!"
Wow. Fancy that: nearly 20 and some signs of facial hair.
This isn't about Mum though (there isn't nearly enough room, and besides, she still has embarassing photos of me). This is about singing, and my current lack of ability to do that task with any kind of acknowledgement of how the original was sung.
Before I go much further, I must add I won a karaoke competition at a campsite in Rome by singing Frank Sinatra's New York, New York. I must also add that none of the other singers could carry a note more than two steps without dropping it. But other attempts at karaoke have ended with people either laughing at the dance moves, high-pitched voices or ability to forget about a verse rather than the sheer brilliance of the vocals.
At any rate, there's a "Jim Beam Idol" on up in Port Douglas for the next month. My plan is to head in on Sunday night, check out the competition, and see if it's worth embarassing myself yet again.
Should be fun.

I don't want to have to say I want you...

DEFINITION of surreal: having travelled around Europe for the last three months, seeing sights that are famous the world over and others that you don’t see in the younger countries, I’m now back in Brisbane.
Don’t get me wrong: I love Brisbane. My family lives there (with the exception of a brother in Sydney for work), and every time I come back I know there’s a bed, great friends and a cold beer or 36 waiting for me.
What is strange though is coming back to things that are so familiar. Just about everywhere you go in Europe is something different: travel for a few hundred kilometres in any direction on the continent and chances are you’ll end up in a different country with a different culture. Travel the same distance in parts of Australia and you’ll be lucky to find anything.
One thing that did strike me about Australia and Europe is that our wonders are mostly natural. Where in Europe things like the Eiffel Tower, Stonehenge and any of Antonio Gaudi’s works in Barcelona are justifiably famous, with the exception of the Alps I couldn’t think of one natural wonder that would make me come back. Compare that to the variety of natural wonders scattered around Australia: the Great Barrier Reef, Uluru, the Tasmanian wilderness and the Daintree rainforest, with the Sydney Opera House the only truly famous Australian building.
Back to coming back home, and mentally your head is in about thirty different places, not least because of that bloody jetlag. There’s always a sense of what if after a trip like this: what if I’d got my working holiday visa straight off, what if I’d stayed longer in London, what if I could pick up signals from girls in pubs and clubs. They have a tendency to haunt you, not least the first-mentioned. You have such a blast over in Europe, meeting more people than you can poke the proverbial stick at, and at the end of it you go back home with only e-mails and phone calls to keep you in touch. If you stayed Europe to work, you never know what could happen…
But these are all what ifs, a past that cannot be changed, decisions that cannot be undone, paths that generally close off once you pick a different one. My path is one that will take me up to Port Douglas shortly, and from there? Who knows.
Should be fun though.

In my head this week: Split Enz Message To My Girl.
One of the many songs about a boy who's scared of telling a girl that he really is rather fond of her. The version sung by Neil Finn on the ENZSO (Split Enz Symphony Orchestra) album is absolutely brilliant - so brilliant it's copped a flogging on the iPod in the last week or so.

The death of Sir Joh

SIR Johannes Bjelke-Petersen is dead.
For those not from Queensland, this has about as much relevance as the deaths of any number of people in the southeast Queensland town of Kingaroy.
For those from Queensland - and I would suspect those who aren't but are of a certain age - Sir Joh was a man who didn't just leave footprints on the beach of history, but instead altered it forever by performing a series of burnouts in a hotted-up, Queensland-made car.
As any Queenslander who has travelled will know, the Queensland stereotype under Joh was hardly flattering. In the "Our Queensland" series published by the Courier-Mail, Mike O'Connor gave his view of what people thought about Queensland.
"We were the hick state, hicks from Hicksville who lived in the hick Deep North."
Hardly a good look, eh? But it got worse:
"I went back to work on a newspaper and suffered through the excesses of the Joh years. Not content with making my home state the butt of the nation's jokes, it seemed that he was intent on making it the laughing stock of the universe. They were dark times and I clearly remember travelling south on business and being ashamed, when introduced to a group of strangers, of admitting that I came from Queensland."
"The southern journos wouldn't even drink with us, such was the odium of living in Queensland. It was guilt by association. Somehow, it was felt that as journalists we should have done more and that because we had not we sanctioned, by default, what was happening in the streets. "
"Maybe they were right. Maybe we should have done more. They were, by any reckoning, dark days."
I can't actually vouch for that. I was close on seven when Joh left office, and had only been in Queensland for about four of those.
He hasn't been in power for 18 years, but still his legacy is being debated.
Some say he was good for the state, some that he was bad.
This muddled thinking is reflected in a list of the top 10 best and worst decisions in Queensland's history.
Six of the best decisions came about because of support from Joh's government, if not the man himself, while six of the worst decisions were begun or perpetuated by Joh.
There's no doubt that Queensland has moved a long way from where it was. One thing that boggles the mind was that between the 1930s and the early 1950s no new secondary school were built in Queensland - apparently because the then Labor government thought educated people wouldn't vote for them, and anyway they didn't want Protestants getting an education.
As would be expected with an official government policy like that, sectarianism was a major problem, while a lack of enthusiasm for international migrants means Queensland is one of the least ethnically diverse states.
Add to this a lack of an upper house in the Queensland parliament since 1922, and you've got quite a shambles.
One of Joh's better decision was to abolish death taxes (taxes on inheritances) in 1972. All of a sudden old people from other states flocked to Queensland.
Joh also supported foreign investment in Queensland, as well as the development of places like the Gold Coast. Just like the building of the Snowy Scheme would be almost impossible today, there's very little to suggest any other government at any other time could have helped the Gold Coast to where it is now.
Other infrastructure projects included the South-East Freeway and the Gateway Bridge, the building of the Wivenhoe and Burdekin Dams and Brisbane hosting the 1982 Commonwealth Games and 1988 Expo.
Then there's the bad parts - not least the massive corruption in the police force.
Former police commissioner Terry Lewis was charged, imprisoned, de-knighted and even had his portrait taken down from police headquarters.
The only reason the Fitzgerald Inquiry, which exposed this corruption, came about was because Joh was busy gallivanting around the country trying to be elected as Prime Minister. Acting premier William Gunn decided he'd had enough after the ABC's Four Corners aired a segment called The Moonlight State. Gunn wanted the allegations investigated - which they were.
There was also the demolishing of some of Brisbane's historic buildings, including the Belle Vue Hotel, the handing out of knighthoods willy-nilly, the use of police in a way more associated with dictatorships, and at one stage, the banning of street protests altogether.
It's no wonder the older population has trouble deciding on the good and the bad of Joh's reign - but what hope is there for my generation?
Perhaps Queensland's history until the 1990s should be part of the school curriculum - not only can we learn about one of the more turbulent periods of Australian history, but also learn from the mistakes and successes. It explains a lot.

Holy toledo Batman...

WELL folks, hasn't time been flying past quicker than a Ben Johnson circa 1988, what with the Pope passing on and Prince Chuck marrying Camilla Parkya-Balls all in two days.
It's been very busy down here too, dodging knives, drinking, playing sport, drinking, trying to sleep, drinking, and counting down the days until it's time to head of to Europe for three months of drinking.
The world is increasingly becoming a bizarre place - at least it would if it wasn't so bizarre to start off with. In good news, I see that Toowoomba Grammar School (from where I graduated as opposed to grew up) has won the First XI GPS competition. Apparently they won the 2000 comp as well, but given there doesn't seem to be a central register of these things anywhere on the net, it's hard to check this up.
If this is true, then there are some lucky students who have been at the school for two GPS premierships. When I was there (96-97 for those playing at home) we came close to the cricket in '96 and the soccer in both years.
Both times they finished top three (may have even been top two - I can't remember every little thing). The cricket team in '96 was captained by a nice young fellow called Lachlan Stevens, whom I impersonated during a talent night at one stage.
Strangely enough, I next met Lachlan at Manuka Oval while he was playing for the South Australian second XI. I was down studying sports media, and he'd moved to Adelaide in a sports admin role. When the SA 2nd XI came to Canberra to play the Comets, I had a team of four or five commentating the game for a community radio station. Needless to say the station closed soon afterwards.
But that's how small the world really is.
Another example: day off work on Thursday. Had a few bob burning a hole in the pocket, decided to go to the second-hand bookstore to see if thy had any Bill Bryson in stock (they did). As I was browsing, a bloke I used to work with in Brisbane recognised me and said g'day.
Apart from the immediately obvious question about what the guy was doing in a bookshop in Cooma (I'd've picked him being in Cooma Jail or on the way to the snow, but anyway), who would've thought that we'd meet up again in a country town 1400km away from where we knew each other? Bizarre.
At any rate, it's now just five weeks until I shoot off to the Northern Hemisphere. During that time I'll still be updating this site (maybe even more regularly!), but will be sending message from a different e-mail address.
In the meantime, be good to one another/that's the way it is/say hi to your Mum for me, and try not to get too disheartened about the footy tipping.

Getcha 'ead round this...

GEE gosh, golly and durn it, it's been a wee while since my last bout of verbal diarrhoea, hasn't it?
This is in part because of the nice little white thing connected to my head through some nice little white headphones. I bought myself an iPod the other week and it's proved quite an addictive little piece of equipment, not least because it takes a rather long time to drop somewhere in the vicinity of 200 cd's onto it.
At the moment's there's something like 1357 songs on there, of which more than a few are doubles (live and studio versions), and some are "Good Morning Vietnam" excerpts ("It's 0-600 hours, what's the 0 stand for? Oh my God it's early").
Add this rather worthwhile distraction to the changes we've just made at the paper, which now require me to work at work, and it's all been busier than a one-warmed man with crabs down here in sunny Cooma.
Not nearly as busy as down in Taswega though, what with Crown Princess Mary of Denmark and her husband (some Danish fellow) visiting her home state for the first time since their fairytale wedding etc etc.
I'm rather fatigued about the whole damn thing though - Miranda Devine of the Sydney Morning Herald put it best when she said that many men felt she was "just a pretty Tassie chick who struck it lucky at the pub".
And that's pretty much what she is.
Yes, I know she's amazingly pretty and her husband's a bit of a spunk (between them they've pretty much got the looks down pat), and I know she's learnt the horribly difficult Danish language, but really.
I've had to learn the horribly difficult beaureaucratic language that council staff like to use when they're talking to you, as well as putting up with the delays they have in getting reports to you, but last I checked No Idea and Women's Folly weren't trying to stalk my every move with photographers desperate to catch me with an attractive member of the opposite sex hanging off my arm.
What has been more of interest to me was the revelation of former Australian Test cricketer Michael Slater's bipolar II diagnosis.
Being an unabashed Matthew Hayden fan (being from Queensland and all), I'll admit I always thought Slater was taking Hayden's place in the team.
Having now grown up (to five feet) and having the chance to look at footage of Slater, it's hard not to like the guy.
He lived life, and played cricket, at full blast. Both times he was dropped it seemed to be for a reason unrelated to his on-field efforts, and as we know now, there was quite a bit happening off the field.
Perhaps the lesson we can take from that is bottling up inner demons isn't the manly or Australian way to do things - it's a surefire way to oblivion.
Just because someone's talented doesn't mean they haven't got problems elsewhere. Nobody's perfect.

Oh no, not them again...

WELL folks, another year, another "night of nights", where the stars all decide to rock up somewhere in absolutely horrendous outfights that no one really has the guts to say are terrible.
It’s a night where celebrities get to get up on stage, make some banal comments thanking everyone they’ve ever come in contact with, and go off and get intoxicated on their drug of choice.
It’s a night that feeds the gossip mags for the next six months, where they can sit there and analyse stars who are overweight, underweight, drugged out or breaking up with their partners after being spotted with Angelina Jolie at an after party.
I’m talking about the Oscars of course, although it could just as well be the Brownlow Medal, the Logies, the Allan Border Medal etc etc.
Apart from the obvious attractions of people far more wise (apparently?) than me deciding which movies should get awards, there’s very little interest.
Ok, that’s a lie - I like checking out what the young females are wearing as much as the next chick, although it is for slightly different reasons.
But the rest of it? Utterly, utterly boring.
Speaking of celebrities, there’s a few hum dingers coming down to Australia.
Prince Frederick and Princess Mary are already back in Mary’s home country, leading to more people gushing about how lucky we are to have our very own royal, and isn’t it just wonderful?
Sweden’s Princess Victoria - who despite being from the land of the blondes isn’t really someone you’d jump over rivers for - and our own Prince Charles, future head of this great land, will be coming as well.
Given that none of them will be coming down to Cooma for a feed at the local, I’m not really all that interested.
Yet, time and again, because these people are famous we’re supposed to sit there and gush all over them.
Here’s a tip that should get the punters interested: why not get Roy and HG to commentate from the Oscars?
It’d be great - Aussie wit meets Hollywood looks and egos.
Now THAT would be interesting.

I'd rather visit the city...

TWO things brought the name Paris Hilton to my attention recently. Well, three actually, but the third wasn’t anything new.
The first was the appearance of a rather interesting caricature of Ms Hilton on that bastion of family values, South Park.
For those who weren’t lucky(?) enough to be watching, or were doing the patriotic thing and watching Lleyton Hewitt get through in five against some Spanish dude, it really was a far better piss-take of Hilton than most of us would even dare to think about.
In it, Hilton went to South Park to open her latest "Stupid Spoiled Whore" franchise, where young girls can by the clothes and makeup to make them look like whores as well. Not only this, discerning shoppers could also buy their own amateur sex-video playsets.
Which brings us to the number two Hilton moment - apparently she went to a newsstand in the good ol’ US of A, bought some magazines, got her change, noticed a copy of her very own home movie for sale, threw the change back at the guy behind the counter, took the tape and said she wasn’t paying.
Wow.
The final Hilton reminder was in a book by an English cricket commentator.
Eh?
BBC commentator Henry Blofeld put out a book called "Henry Blofeld’s Cricket Year". Rather imaginatively titled, and a bargain down the local second-hand book shop here in Cooma.
In it, Blofeld described one of the Hilton hotels (in Trinidad I think) as being overpriced and overrated.
Funnily enough, I happen to have the same feelings about young Paris and her sister Nicky.
Ok, probably not overpriced, but they really are overrated.
Paris’ sole attempt at working seems to have been to go on a show with Lionel Ritchie’s daughter Nicole on "A Simple Life", where the two of them attempt to live in the real world.
Actually, no, there’s a book about how to behave like an heiress. I had a peek in a bookstore once and given the lack of women without a) clothes or b) four tonnes of makeup, put it back down and ran to the sports section.
Yet tell most young men (including those closely related to myself) that you really don’t rate Paris Hilton, the standard response is "you must like the other one then".
Nope.
That’s not to say that if one of them took their clothes off laid down on the bed in front of you and said "take me, I’m yours", you wouldn’t proceed to do so - if only so you could say that you f**ked one of the Hilton’s.
Yet this seems to be way of the world today (I can’t comment on before today because as anyone will tell you, I was only born yesterday).
People are more widely feted because they fit certain guidelines - thus we know more about Paris Hilton than new Australian of the Year Fiona Wood (sadly, I had to look that one up), Michael Kasprowicz doesn’t get the credit he deserves because he’s taken Brett Lee’s place in the Test side, and Australian Idol finalists get coverage when they get done for drink-driving.
Paris Hilton - over-blonde, over-madeup, over-rated. I’m over it.

Yada yada yada...

IN last Sunday’s Sun-Herald, there was an interesting article in one of the many magazines that fall out at inopportune times.
This article was about a group in Melbourne called "Reclaim the Pants", which basically consists of a group of blokes sitting down at a pub, having a feed and a few drinks, and basically talking crap.
If this doesn’t endear you to them (and believe me it sounded good already), then their creed would surely appeal to most Australian men.
"I believe in a world where no one has to get up off their fat arse, where empty pontifications are duly admired, where the principle of all-talk-no-action prevails, and where these truths are held to be self-evident, so help me God."
Spectacular, isn’t it?
The best thing about this group is that you have to have a y chromosome to join in. If you’re not male, you’re not going.
To me it sort of seems like a sporting club for those that don’t get the chance to play sport for one reason or another.
In the sporting clubs I’ve played for, after training or after the game is always a great time to sit with your mates and talk absolute shit.
Not pretend shit, or that serious, semi-non-humorous talk that you have to do when the missus is around, but pure, unadulterated shit.
Because let’s face it, men do talk a lot of shit when they’re together.
An example in the article was about which was Spandau Ballet’s greatest hit - Gold or True (the first-mentioned was way better).
And that’s basically what we do.
Sure, there’s always the occasional period of introspection that happens when one of your number is going through a bad time, but the rest of it is basic nothingness.
This is actually quite a good thing - crapping on about the differences between Warney and Magilla or who is the best-looking of the pop princesses gallivanting around the place sure beats sitting at home moping because the footy doesn’t start until some other garbage finishes.
For some of us, talking shit is the best way we have of releasing the stresses that modern life seems to throw at us.
There was going to be more, but I’ve just realised the Tsunami Appeal cricket match is on, and Ricky Ponting and Brian Lara are batting against Muttiah Muralitharan.
Good thing to watch, crap thing to cause it.