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.