Some poor bastard in a Santa suit
My dorm in the the Beachouse YHA has seen more than a fair share of crazies in the ten days I've been in Bondi. There was an Italian guy with a diamond nose stud and a hair dryer, an Australian kid who wheeled tracks of sand from his BMX all over the room, a German man who has been making daily trips to the airport for two weeks in the hope of a last-minute cancellation to fly him home for Christmas, and Simon from New Zealand. Simon is 48, works on a submarine base in Adelaide and is rather special. He has saved two months of holiday to come to Bondi, but he doesn't surf or sunbathe. He comes to the hostel so he can "save money to actualise in my pension." This phrase crops up quite often. Most of the time he seems to be expressing his internal monologue but then making a conversation of it with whoever is unlucky enough to have heard. The actual holiday seem to consist of going to a rugby club to eat roast dinners for $8 bucks. He reminds me of the 'Meaning of Liff', in which words are ascribed to things that have a meaning but no name. Simon from New Zealand reminds me of 'the kind of family that go to the beach and sit in the car with the windows rolled up, reading newspapers'. He was about to ask reception to swap rooms because the clasp on his locker had a slight ding which could "damage the design, create a structural weakness, you see. I want to keep my passport in there, and I can't very well do that if it has a structural weakness, can I? Not my passport." He was getting quite agitated, and it seemed for the best that I swapped lockers with him before things got out of hand. Then he started to fret about sleeping on the top bunk. "You're going tomorrow, you say?" I confirmed that this was indeed the case. "Hmmm. And Alfonso is going the day after?" Again, I agreed with him. "So the question, then, is should I take your bed tomorrow or wait another day and take his bed?" He looked at me for several moments with watery eyes before I realised he wasn't being rhetorical. I looked at my bed, and then at Alfonso's. Alfonso had his nose buried in a German novel and hadn't said a word since I came in and interrupted Simon lecturing him on the dangers of driving in Australia. The really curious thing is that Alfonso is Spanish and can't read German. I looked again at the beds. "Does it matter?" I asked. Simon looked at both beds, and at me, and at both beds, and seemed a little crestfallen. "No," he said. "I suppose not, if you're going to be like that."
I arrived from Katoomba about ten days ago. Checking in ahead of me was Louis from Quebec. He has a big afro and works as a computer graphics artist. Like so many of us out here, he's reached a dead end and has taken some time out to think things through. I hope he manages it better than me. We ended up in the same dorm room with Alfonso, who is on another surfing holiday. He has surfed his way round America - both north and south - Europe and North Africa. This is pretty much the only time except in Cairns and with the Coral Trekker crew at Airlie Beach that I've fallen into regular company with people I like. I've taught them how to play El Presidente, which anyone worth talking to will tell you is the best drinking game of all time. We speak a lot of French and drink a lot of VB.
The surfing is OK - Bondi has regular waves and on sunny days the beaches are crowded with topless girls. There was a man with a ponytail at the top of the cliff taking pictures with a long lens and a tripod. It's better in the wind and the rain, when the sea is rough and the beach is deserted. I've done some surfing with a longboard but the waves are big and I am amateur - fighting the swell to get into a decent surfing spot is tougher than falling off the wave is worth. I ended up using a bodyboard instead and having much more fun. Having decided 'one more' would finish me for the night, I immediately saw a cracker chasing down and rearing up towards me - paddling frantically, the wave picks me up - tide and gravity, the wave breaks - I raced towards the beach and the wave doesn't die, it builds every time and breaks again, twice, three times, four times to deposit me at high speed on the beach and leave me laughing out loud in the sand. A total fluke, yes... but the best wave I will ever catch.
I've done the last of my meagre Christmas shopping in Westfields mall at Bondi Junction, where some poor bastard in a Santa suit sweats out another shift of yelling kids. There are pet shops with animals in the windows where people AWWWW and OHHHH at the sleeping tumble of a dozen kittens or the puppies that fall over and can't work out why. There is cheap sushi for lunch, local cricket on the way home and pasta bolognese for my dinner. It's a bit of a party hostel but not quite my cup of English. I mostly just sit on the big sofas and read. The only time I've gone out I was forbidden entry in the Bondi Hotel on the grounds of intoxication. I would like to point out that I'd drunk a liver-threatening, socially disreputable four beers. That's four beers. Four. Alfonso had drunk two bottles of wine and Louis was pickled on rum and jetlag and we were in the company of a Norwegian and two 18-year old Canadians who had been drinking all afternoon; but the bouncer picked on me. I was mortified. He realised almost immediately that he was wrong, but he couldn't back down any more than he could look me in the eye. A bouncer's IQ shrinks to match his collar size come the weekend. We stood by the queue for ten minutes haranguing the security and warning all passers-by that they weren't allowed into the Bondi Hotel if they were intoxicated. It was funny to everyone except the bouncer, and eventually the manager came out with a wounded expression and asked us to go away. I went back to the hostel. Four beers.
There is bookshelf for free exchange in the hostel. I've been able to thin out some of the dross I've been carrying and read another half-dozen books in the last ten days. Out of desperation I read some Dean Koontz horror novel. I was 450 pages through before I realised that I'd already read it when I was fifteen. Things improved - I caught up on 'Empire of the sun' which is an extraordinary novel, much better than the rest of Ballard's work. But Paul Di Fillippo's 'Steampunk trilogy' was utter tosh and made me quite angry... then one of the interminable 'Dune' prequels... then a 'Da Vinci Code' style money-spinning spin-off... then some detective nonsense. Americans have forgotten how to write detective fiction - I blame Hollywood. DISCUSS. And Paul Auster doesn't count, Bob.
Yesterday I caught the Greyhound from Sydney to Canberra. When I woke up and sat up, Simon from New Zealand stuck his head over the edge of the top bunk. "You're going today, aren't you?" It was 6am, he was fully dressed and gave no impression of having slept at all. "Can I have your bunk when you've gone?" I looked at him, upside down, and the rising sun glinted off his massive bald head. On the bus I was sitting next to kid in a Spiderman suit who wouldn't stop fidgeting. Three and a half hours of kicking my ankles when he missed the chair in front of him. The only salvation was listening to Mogwai and watching the face of the poor bugger in front... 'Ex-cowboy'! Take that, Spiderman! His head implodes, leaving only a fine mist and stunned passengers.
Cousins Ali, Anna and Kate, Kate's finace Kees and Anna's Japanese friend Chi met me at the station. We just about packed everything into the Red Dragon, Ali's long-suffering van. It reminded me in spirit of the Millenium Falcon back in London. You can tell immediately when you're in a van with character, and the grinding noises coming from the Dragon were neither a surprise nor a disappointment. We made our way to the supermarket and spent $500 on food and drink. Ali is an instructor for the outdoor adventure charity Outward Bound, and we're all staying on the company compound for Christmas. There is kangaroo shit everywhere and it's fantastic to be out of the city, out of a hostel, staying with people I know. The mosquitos are phenomenal. I couldn't sleep for the whining, the droning in my ears. It's the first time I've regretted owning a three-season sleeping bag. Impossibly hot underneath, savagely bitten above. I tried counting the bites the next morning but gave up after finding more than fifty on my left hand; it was only once we went swimming in the mighty Murray river (waist deep) that the others saw my back - I've probably got about three or four hundred bites on my back, shoulders, arms and chest. I've got bites on my fingers and the palms of my hands. Typing all this seems to have finally triggered a vicious itching, and my hands feel like they're on fire.
It's a strange Christmas Eve. Last year Ruaridh and I drove from London to Inverness in seven and a half hours. This year I was caving in Wee Jasper. Gravel roads and dead wombats is a bit different from the M6 Toll and the A9. It's about a forty-metre abseil into the first cave, and confused bats are silent against the sunlight. The abseiling was good, dropping down into total darkness. We crawled and climbed and walked for an hour or so. Some of the rock shapes are incredible, including an absolutely unbelievable profile of Elvis Presley (photo to follow). The caves that are riddled with tunnels and chutes. It is dry at the moment but some of the shapes conjure up the waters that carved them... and even down here, even forty metres underground, even in the middle of nowhere in Wee Jasper, 'Ronald loves Marcie' and 'Steve loves Susan'.
I haven't said anything about the cricket. My friend Ali has said it better than I could - the following was in response to my sarcastic comment last week that I was looking forward to the start of the Ashes...
"...I too can't wait for the Ashes. I think we've got a really good chance of holding on to the urn. Our bowlers are ruthless and operate as a fearsome team, while our batsmen are tenacious and sell their wickets dearly.
We've generally ironed out sweep shots and cheap strokes, now using them only at opportune moments. Our selection is perfect: thankfully certain players have had over a year without cricket, meaning they are well rested in order to play to their best ability. Our young spinner I hear will be left out of the first two tests, which is an excellent decision given the reason above and the coach's description of him as 'the best drinks carrier' in the world. The Aussies won't be able to carry drinks in anything like the fashion he does.
Best of all, this England side is now ruthless and, having seized a lead, will never squander it but press home their advantage, quashing all Aussie resistance.
It's going to be great."
Ain't it just?
Happy Christmas, people. I hope things is good where you are.
I arrived from Katoomba about ten days ago. Checking in ahead of me was Louis from Quebec. He has a big afro and works as a computer graphics artist. Like so many of us out here, he's reached a dead end and has taken some time out to think things through. I hope he manages it better than me. We ended up in the same dorm room with Alfonso, who is on another surfing holiday. He has surfed his way round America - both north and south - Europe and North Africa. This is pretty much the only time except in Cairns and with the Coral Trekker crew at Airlie Beach that I've fallen into regular company with people I like. I've taught them how to play El Presidente, which anyone worth talking to will tell you is the best drinking game of all time. We speak a lot of French and drink a lot of VB.
The surfing is OK - Bondi has regular waves and on sunny days the beaches are crowded with topless girls. There was a man with a ponytail at the top of the cliff taking pictures with a long lens and a tripod. It's better in the wind and the rain, when the sea is rough and the beach is deserted. I've done some surfing with a longboard but the waves are big and I am amateur - fighting the swell to get into a decent surfing spot is tougher than falling off the wave is worth. I ended up using a bodyboard instead and having much more fun. Having decided 'one more' would finish me for the night, I immediately saw a cracker chasing down and rearing up towards me - paddling frantically, the wave picks me up - tide and gravity, the wave breaks - I raced towards the beach and the wave doesn't die, it builds every time and breaks again, twice, three times, four times to deposit me at high speed on the beach and leave me laughing out loud in the sand. A total fluke, yes... but the best wave I will ever catch.
I've done the last of my meagre Christmas shopping in Westfields mall at Bondi Junction, where some poor bastard in a Santa suit sweats out another shift of yelling kids. There are pet shops with animals in the windows where people AWWWW and OHHHH at the sleeping tumble of a dozen kittens or the puppies that fall over and can't work out why. There is cheap sushi for lunch, local cricket on the way home and pasta bolognese for my dinner. It's a bit of a party hostel but not quite my cup of English. I mostly just sit on the big sofas and read. The only time I've gone out I was forbidden entry in the Bondi Hotel on the grounds of intoxication. I would like to point out that I'd drunk a liver-threatening, socially disreputable four beers. That's four beers. Four. Alfonso had drunk two bottles of wine and Louis was pickled on rum and jetlag and we were in the company of a Norwegian and two 18-year old Canadians who had been drinking all afternoon; but the bouncer picked on me. I was mortified. He realised almost immediately that he was wrong, but he couldn't back down any more than he could look me in the eye. A bouncer's IQ shrinks to match his collar size come the weekend. We stood by the queue for ten minutes haranguing the security and warning all passers-by that they weren't allowed into the Bondi Hotel if they were intoxicated. It was funny to everyone except the bouncer, and eventually the manager came out with a wounded expression and asked us to go away. I went back to the hostel. Four beers.
There is bookshelf for free exchange in the hostel. I've been able to thin out some of the dross I've been carrying and read another half-dozen books in the last ten days. Out of desperation I read some Dean Koontz horror novel. I was 450 pages through before I realised that I'd already read it when I was fifteen. Things improved - I caught up on 'Empire of the sun' which is an extraordinary novel, much better than the rest of Ballard's work. But Paul Di Fillippo's 'Steampunk trilogy' was utter tosh and made me quite angry... then one of the interminable 'Dune' prequels... then a 'Da Vinci Code' style money-spinning spin-off... then some detective nonsense. Americans have forgotten how to write detective fiction - I blame Hollywood. DISCUSS. And Paul Auster doesn't count, Bob.
Yesterday I caught the Greyhound from Sydney to Canberra. When I woke up and sat up, Simon from New Zealand stuck his head over the edge of the top bunk. "You're going today, aren't you?" It was 6am, he was fully dressed and gave no impression of having slept at all. "Can I have your bunk when you've gone?" I looked at him, upside down, and the rising sun glinted off his massive bald head. On the bus I was sitting next to kid in a Spiderman suit who wouldn't stop fidgeting. Three and a half hours of kicking my ankles when he missed the chair in front of him. The only salvation was listening to Mogwai and watching the face of the poor bugger in front... 'Ex-cowboy'! Take that, Spiderman! His head implodes, leaving only a fine mist and stunned passengers.
Cousins Ali, Anna and Kate, Kate's finace Kees and Anna's Japanese friend Chi met me at the station. We just about packed everything into the Red Dragon, Ali's long-suffering van. It reminded me in spirit of the Millenium Falcon back in London. You can tell immediately when you're in a van with character, and the grinding noises coming from the Dragon were neither a surprise nor a disappointment. We made our way to the supermarket and spent $500 on food and drink. Ali is an instructor for the outdoor adventure charity Outward Bound, and we're all staying on the company compound for Christmas. There is kangaroo shit everywhere and it's fantastic to be out of the city, out of a hostel, staying with people I know. The mosquitos are phenomenal. I couldn't sleep for the whining, the droning in my ears. It's the first time I've regretted owning a three-season sleeping bag. Impossibly hot underneath, savagely bitten above. I tried counting the bites the next morning but gave up after finding more than fifty on my left hand; it was only once we went swimming in the mighty Murray river (waist deep) that the others saw my back - I've probably got about three or four hundred bites on my back, shoulders, arms and chest. I've got bites on my fingers and the palms of my hands. Typing all this seems to have finally triggered a vicious itching, and my hands feel like they're on fire.
It's a strange Christmas Eve. Last year Ruaridh and I drove from London to Inverness in seven and a half hours. This year I was caving in Wee Jasper. Gravel roads and dead wombats is a bit different from the M6 Toll and the A9. It's about a forty-metre abseil into the first cave, and confused bats are silent against the sunlight. The abseiling was good, dropping down into total darkness. We crawled and climbed and walked for an hour or so. Some of the rock shapes are incredible, including an absolutely unbelievable profile of Elvis Presley (photo to follow). The caves that are riddled with tunnels and chutes. It is dry at the moment but some of the shapes conjure up the waters that carved them... and even down here, even forty metres underground, even in the middle of nowhere in Wee Jasper, 'Ronald loves Marcie' and 'Steve loves Susan'.
I haven't said anything about the cricket. My friend Ali has said it better than I could - the following was in response to my sarcastic comment last week that I was looking forward to the start of the Ashes...
"...I too can't wait for the Ashes. I think we've got a really good chance of holding on to the urn. Our bowlers are ruthless and operate as a fearsome team, while our batsmen are tenacious and sell their wickets dearly.
We've generally ironed out sweep shots and cheap strokes, now using them only at opportune moments. Our selection is perfect: thankfully certain players have had over a year without cricket, meaning they are well rested in order to play to their best ability. Our young spinner I hear will be left out of the first two tests, which is an excellent decision given the reason above and the coach's description of him as 'the best drinks carrier' in the world. The Aussies won't be able to carry drinks in anything like the fashion he does.
Best of all, this England side is now ruthless and, having seized a lead, will never squander it but press home their advantage, quashing all Aussie resistance.
It's going to be great."
Ain't it just?
Happy Christmas, people. I hope things is good where you are.
posted by real sly shady at
2:52 AM
7 Comments:
Great blog and glad you found the Roses - or vice-versa!
We woke up this morning to a beautiful crisp and clear day, just right for a Chrissy drinks party. Gav, Guylin and Keith Baldwin came round with their parents and were sorry to miss you.
Lots of people liked your painting of Baker!
Have a great time and keep up the good writing. Happy Christmas.
loadsa love
x
Hope your mossie bites are being controlled now - sounds horrendous for someone who isn't normally attacked by them!
Be sending stuff to Perth.
xxx
Doesn't anyone wish to make a comment about the cricket?
Where are you off to next, Simon? It sounds like you've had the trip of a lifetime.
Hope everyone had a great Christmas and will have a very happy New Year.
Jeremy (Sly)
No, Jeremy. No-one wants to make a comment about the cricket. No-one even likes cricket. In fact, until this moment I'd never even heard of this "cricket" you're talking about. And whatever it is, it doesn't sound very good.
I'm back in Byron now - be in W.A. come the 9th January and hopefully catch up with you shortly after that...
simon
Cricket is a very good game. Australians are good at it, Englishmen aren't. Cricket has its own God. He is called Shane Warne.
Look forward to seeing you!
Cricket's that game with the twigs right, and you throw a goolie (googly??) at them from across the other side of the parched grass rectangle?
Is it three or four twigs that go in the ground?
Abbé Busoni
Bush and the Republicans were not protecting us on 9-11, and we aren't a lot safer now. We may be more afraid due to george bush, but are we safer? Being fearful does not necessarily make one safer. Fear can cause people to hide and cower. What do you think? What is he doing to us, and what is he doing to the world?
Are we safer today than we were before?
We have lost friends and influenced no one. No wonder most of the world thinks we suck. Thanks to what george bush has done to our country during the past three years, we do!
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