How to hide things....

The news today tells me that "Dubai authorities have announced that controversial body scanners will not be used at the Emirates' airports, in a blow to US security authorities who are facing a continued domestic backlash against the machines."

This bothers me!

I can just imagine the pervy wannabe security men in Dubai are bothered by this too. They've probably been filing applications for the position for months! They must now be gutted that there's STILL no way to see beneath women's abayas without marrying them.

Anyway, unfortunately for all, Dubai has announced that such scanners, designed to help security see through clothing "do not correspond with national customs and ethics," and this is what bothered me more than anything. Some of the practices in Dubai don't correspond with innocent, visiting holiday-makers either, like chucking every other drunk or "suspicious looking" person in the slammer.

One bigwig called Brig Ahmed bin Thani says “I do not feel that it is necessary for us to implement such a technology while we are operating different methods and have different avenues that have worked so far.”

Hmmm. Ok, what methods are those then Ahmed? Ooooh yes, that's right, the method of locking everyone up till they're proven innocent. Of course... who are we to impose on that? You've long been ruining happy lives on the assumption that the dodgy looking man with a poppy seed from a bagel stuck on his shoe is a drug mule, harbouring oodles of heroin in his underwear and haven't lost a moment's sleep over it. Great job! Of course there's no need to start scouting for the real criminals who walk your midst,... as that might stop you chasing the people bouncing cheques, which in turn might stop you blaming them for being the ones causing your economy to crumble. Doh!

Dubai's rejection of the technology could apparently prompt other sheep in the Middle Eastern states to follow their lead, like Abu Dhabi and Oman, in spite of the region being the fastest-growing airplane port in the whole wide world!

Amazing.

Google knows me...

Well it doesn't really know ME but it just picked up the provisional title of my new book, which is very exciting, innit! LOOOOK!!! (Click and it shall grow)

Shame I can't actually click on this link as I'm not a subscriber. To subscribe and read it would cost $20, and I'm cheap.

Anyway, oh blog how I've neglected you. Things have been impossibly busy as P and I are planning our next big adventure - a tour around the whole of Australia in seach of the REAL Australian man. We're sorting out trips and cruises and flights and buses and camel rides and everything else we'll need to do along the way, including securing our places on organic farms - wahey! I will come back with a more detailed itinerary once we're a little less stressed. It's like putting a gigantic jigsaw puzzle together, trying to get magazine commissions and places on press trips in return for coverage, finding out where we should and shouldn't go and learning something new every day, concerning what we really shouldn't miss. This is an effing HUGE country. It might just be the biggest adventure P and I have ever had - aside from Dubai.

In other news - I had a date the other week who hooked up with another girl, while we were still out on our date. Yes. Probably the most hilarious online endeavour ever. I took him to a pub with a bunch of my friends and fair enough I was talking to another bloke, but I turned round to find him MAKING OUT with another girl. Haha!! I meant to write it down properly but I'm still processing it. Sydney men are awesome *

*LIE

Back soon xxx

Stackhouse in the house...

I'm officially excited. Jason Stackhouse is coming to the studio on Wednesday, and he just so happens to have the hottest body on Planet Earth. Even better than Taylor Lautner's in Eclipse. I mean.... look at him! It's ridiculous.

If he doesn't want a photo with me, I'm going to grab him in a headlock, force his arm around me and pose for one anyway. FACT. He's not getting away without me touching him. Be afraid.

Jason's real name of course, is Ryan Kwanten. He just plays the character of Sookie's brother in the show 'True Blood'. I've only seen the first season but I reckon Paul and I are gonna have to buy the second one to perv over when we're on our trip. More about that later. I've been so busy lately I haven't managed to blog, but I'll be making up for that shortly. Lots to talk about!

For now though, let's all perv over Ryan some more, shall we....

Oven baked dress...

Last night's mystery party at a secret location in Sydney saw me, Paul and 500 others getting into a fight with holi festival powder, all the colours of the rainbow! Thank God we were instructed to wear black and issued with goggles. it was AWESOME!!!

The thing is, being covered in colourful powder isn't a look most bar and pub owners favour, so we decided to head to a friend's house to clean up afterwards - at which point my dress got washed and then dried in the quickest way we saw possible. With the oven!

Check out our impromptu infomercial, hehe!

Aussies in the red...

Whoooop whoooop!! It’s a good day for Australia! Not only does Oz have its very first female Prime Minister following 26 men, but she’s a read-head. A ginger. An auburn-haired source of hope for the whole country. This is a turning point in my experience of human acceptance. This would NEVER be allowed in Britain. She’d have been egged the second she put her hand up for the job.

Brits are mean though. British people make fun of rangas. Up until today, I’m ashamed to admit I never knew where the word ranga came from. I’d heard it being thrashed about in (mostly drunken) conversation but just assumed it was mean-spirited piss-taking and put it out of my head. However, the fact that we now have a ranga PM, and that people have been referencing this all day on the radio; playing songs by famous red-heads – well that had me turning to Google. Where does the word even come from?

Wikipedia says: “Ranga: a term for people with red hair, possibly derived from the Maori word for blue, rangi, or the animal orangutan known for its red fur.”

Ah haaa. Orangutans, That explains it. Although I much prefer Urban Dictionary’s explanation: “Ranga: Derived from Orangutan… or from the Latin “Orange Utan” meaning red pubic hair, commonly known as Fanta pants.”

HAAAAAAAA! Fanta pants!!! I love that. LOVE IT. Although, technically Fanta is orange, and so are orangutans, and red-haired people’s hair is red. Although…thinking about it, red-haired people’s hair is orange too, isn’t it. It’s just that people call it red, to be polite. Although… if they really mean to be polite regarding these people, they wouldn’t call them rangas. I’m confused.

Anyway, the point is that Julia Gillard is a shining testimony to the power of dreams. She knew she could do the job and she wasn’t about to let a stereotype about her hair colour put her off (like she may have done in Britain). I salute you Australians! It would have been so easy for her to get the bleach out last night and have a go at changing herself before attempting to change Australia, but she decided to charge forth anyway. Good for her.

"First woman, first redhead, and I'll allow you to contemplate which was more unlikely in this modern age," she joked today, proving her sense of humour. Bless.

It is marginally disturbing though, that when you type the word ‘ranga’ into Google search, Julia Gillard news stories appear in the third highest position. Even the search engines are still dissing the colour of her hair! With great power comes great responsibility. If Julia does good, she’ll change the world for rangas everywhere. Ranga will stand for justice, truth, positivity and reform, instead of scorn and drunken mockery.

But if she fucks up… well, it’s back to the drawing board for them all. What’s it gonna be, Gillard?

The most fashionable fashionista...

Nicole Richie was in Sydney to open a new shopping complex today, but she spared half an hour to grace us with her presence at the radio station.

She faked an afternoon tea party with our lovely presenter actually, as her entourage of eight fussed about behind the scenes. I haven't ever seen an entourage as big as hers, except maybe the crew that accompanied British popstrel Alexandra Burke the other week (she even had a hairdresser brushing her locks straight before I could snap her!).

Nicole didn't have a hairdresser... seeing as her weave is probably glued on anyway.... but she did have own photographer. I'm not sure whether he was hired to give the media the impression that she has a permanant pap at her side, but he took a lot more photos than we did, that's for sure. Maybe he uses his photoshopped snaps of her to trade with the media who threaten to print the raw ones - who knows. But anyway, she was very sweet and surprisingly non-Hollywood once we shut the studio doors. I even had a little chat with her. Oh yes I did! It went something like this:

Me: "Hello... how are you liking the Sydney weather?" (it was raining)
Nicole: "It's not too bad, it was sunny yesterday"
Me: "Yes it was much nicer yesterday wasn't it."
Nicole: Silence.

We also shot a video, which we were assured would be fine to post around the Internet... only once we'd spent the vast majority of our respective days editing, photoshopping, faking paparazzi flashbulbs over footage of her smiley, skinny self, we were informed "Nicole doesn't like the lighting" so could we please delete all history of it ever having been in existence. Which was nice.

What was left, after we deleted the parts she didn't like, was this. It's interesting enough in a 15 second, pointless sort of way, and shows her in a reasonably lovely light, but I know, the editor knows, her private photographer knows and now our computer trash folders all know... she's still living a lie.

Bless her.

The Cutlery Crusaders...

I just got a bit of a weird email delivered to my work inbox. Behold:

Team,

A rather embarrassing email to send you. Over the last 2 days, the cleaners fished out of the bins the following items:

• 11 forks
• 8 tea spoons
• 12 spoons
• 6 knives

I don’t know what to say……………………

This is the last email of this type.

Thanks.

General Manager

I thought I left this kind of behavior back in Dubai, where the lifestyle was so very decadent that the disposal of metallic cutlery was understandable… acceptable even: “More where that comes from”, “I have tons of knives and forks thanks to daddy’s silver emporium”, etc. Also, no one in Dubai did any washing up. We all had cleaners to do it for us. If my cleaner didn’t show up for some reason, well, maybe THEN I’d feel the urge to bin my dirty goods instead of tackle them with soap suds and my own fair hands. But the cleaners here come every day. Without fail. And even if they didn't, it's not like this filthy cutlery is cluttering up anyone's home, making it smell bad, putting us off our evening TV shows or making us not want to have sex in the kitchen.

THERE IS NO EXCUSE.

To know that people, in my very office here in Sydney, are chucking away these items… well. It’s not surprising the manager doesn’t know what to say.

It’s not me, by the way. Can I just say, I have never thrown a piece of metal cutlery in the bin (in Australia). Mainly because I don’t use real cutlery, obviously. All my takeaway food comes with its own plastic cutting and stabbing devices, so I’ve no need.

Whoever it is must be feeling really guilty though.

The ONE day I take off work...

The one bloody day I take off work, I miss out on meeting my dream man. Ain't that just the way the cookie crumbles. RUSSELL BRAND was here. For all of my imaginings, he was actually within in my reach. I could have touched him, like Merrick here. I could have met hs eyes. I could have spoken to him. I could have cracked a joke and told him about my dream, in which he and I were two of the few survivors of a scary natural disaster and he met my mum, and we made friends with a chiwauwa. That was a great dream. We really bonded, even though we kept getting hit by tsunamis.

The fact that I took a day off work on Friday, means Russell Brand still doesn't know I'm alive. How tragic is that? How utterly, soul-destroyingly awful. I might not get a chance to meet him again. Or rather, he might not get another chance to meet ME. We'll continue on our separate paths, he'll marry Katy Perry in October and then it will all be over. Unless I write another book - about him - so he has to read it. (I have actually considered doing this).

Yesterday when I was walking down the street, a man yelled out 'Katy Perry' in my direction, which was kind of cool because of course, Russell likes Katy Perry a lot. Would he have thought the same thing, even for a second? Would he have swapped his American popstar for her British doppleganger (with bigger thighs and less straight teeth and zero money and no house and no record deal)? I WILL NEVER KNOW. Waaaaa. I don't even know why I'm so infatuated with a former heroin junkie who spouts Dickensian nonsense at every opportunity, in black skinny jeans. But I am.

So close and yet SO far. (sigh). Get the audio and video of Merrick and Russell Brand's chat here

Sex And The terribly insulted City (2)...

***Spoilers ahead! Don't blame me, I warned you :-)


The first Sex And The City movie was released briefly in Dubai, under a different name. Most of us expats, and undoubtedly a fair few Muslim ladies in the area were aware that the film poster with its big black scribbles over the word ‘sex’ had been tampered with, but I don’t think any of us expected every single scene bearing an inch of flesh to be slashed from the movie. The end result of ‘Friends And The City’, so I’m told, was an hour (ish) of random footage, pasted together with the good stuff cut out. And it turns out, when you cut the sex from the city, all you really have is four women moaning, for all the wrong reasons.

Thank God for the Dee-Wee-Dee man, who sold us a dodgy copy of the original, in full, that’d been recorded elsewhere. We huddled in a friend’s flat last year like naughty delinquents and got our fix the illegal way… which makes it even more bizarre to me that the sequel, ‘Sex And The City 2’ is set in the Middle East.

OK, so Abu Dhabi didn’t actually let them film there; new movie-making hub Morocco stepped up. But Abu Dhabi agreed to let them use their name when Dubai told them to get stuffed. Or did they?

At first I thought, were they that desperate for money during the dreaded GFC that they let their ‘no sex’ values slide when it came to the movie business… or did they just not read the script before shooting started? I looked it up. Turns out, Abu Dhabi officials did read the script. They also told them to get stuffed. But the Hollywood bigwigs/bigots decided to film it anyway. The end result is a whole lotta angry and undoubtedly upset people in the United Arab Emirates. Way to go America!

Maybe I’m being extra sensitive because I’ve lived in Dubai, but I have to say, the scene where Samantha grabs a man’s erection in front of an Arabic couple eating dinner… er… what the fcuk?? And when she drops a stash of condoms in the middle of a bustling souk, gets “let off” for snogging a bloke on a beach, and makes fun of ‘Paula’, aka a gay Arabic staff member called Abdul… GASP! I’m all for escapism, but if she were a real woman behaving like that over there, she’d be locked up in jail with her “Lawrence of my labia” nothing but a distant dream.

Elsewhere in the movie, as Samantha’s busy insulting Muslim culture, Carrie’s pashing her ex, Aiden - a kiss which in contrast to Samantha’s experience, goes entirely unreported. Samantha’s the aging, single slut who used to be sexy, so it’s fine for her to be degraded throughout the movie, of course. When it comes to Carrie, who’s married, we’re more concerned about defending her whiny ingratitude over a couch and a TV; both gifts from an exasperated Mr Big, who’s trying to do the right thing but just isn’t buying her enough jewellery. Insensitive swine!

In fact, unlike Samantha, who loses her pride, dignity and mind thanks to having her hormone pills confiscated at customs, married Carrie loses nothing more than her passport, which a friendly Arab man gives back to her at the end, along with some brand new shoes. Aaaah. Oh, and when she gets back to NYC, faithful Big has decided that in order to keep her eyes from wandering again, he’ll sell his TV and buy her a diamond after all. Double aaaaah. (How much did that TV cost?!!)

Disgusting isn’t it. If that’s being happily married, forget it. I want diamonds AND flat screen TVs.

The movie does focus on the exciting opulence of Abu Dhabi and the caring nature of its people, which isn’t far off the mark, I suppose. But if you’re going to get all deep and analytical about it, this movie is a pretty insulting fantasy, even with conservative Miranda reminding Samantha to cover up at all times (probably an afterthought for her character).

I used to be a massive fan of the show but in spite of Hollywood covering its back, via Miranda' in the off-chance someone will cause a fuss, not only do our fab four now look like aging Western clothes-horses on the outside, they now appear as racist, patronising morons on the inside, too. They’ll have to make a third movie just to redeem themselves, I reckon. Even the Dee-Wee-Man, who smuggled our first slice of Sex into our Muslim City is probably thinking twice about doing the same with this one. It’s such a shame that by taking Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte out of New York City, the only thing we’re shown is that all the money and glamour in the world can’t buy class.

(Did I mention a pained looking Liza Minella dances to Beyonce in nothing but a shirt and boots in this movie? For some reason, my conscious is still trying to block that bit out).

Presenting: Womb Idol...

Word on the street is that there’s a new Justin Bieber on the block. I know. Surely having one roaming the planet is enough, right? WRONG. 
 
Don’t be ridiculous. Bieber’s not even old enough to form zits, yet he’s squeezing zillions of dollars out of impressionable pre-pubescent tweens. Why stop now? The ball’s rolling before his have dropped… quick, quick, who else can we sign up!?

Well how about this kid? Aussie Cody Simpson is just THIRTEEN YEARS OLD. Oh yeah. A prime target. He sings OK and plays OK but more importantly, he’s of the same twinkle-eyed ilk that first got hearts pounding over Bieber. That little Canadian cash-spinner bought Usher a new set of wheels and a new-found respect from the teeny-bopper market, and now everyone wants a slice of the pop-tween pie.

And let’s face it, there’s nothing like a tousle-haired, surf-loving, family-friendly Aussie boy to follow suit. Way to go Usher, you’ve opened up a can of warbling worms and years down the line, when these kids grow up and no one buys their records anymore and they’re ridiculed around the streets of Hollywood, they’ll keep the tabloids happy with stories of their sad demise in the eyes of their once adoring fans. TONS more money to made there. Maybe a movie deal or two?

AWESOME!!! Everyone’s a winner!!

They’re plucking ‘em practically fresh from the womb these days. Actually… I reckon someone should commission a reality TV contest called ‘Womb Idol’. Hell yeah! That’s a great idea, and totally budget-friendly. Parents-to-be who deem themselves musically talented will line up around the block to strut their stuff before a panel, in order to secure their unborn children’s future as the pop-star they themselves never were. The winner’s eventual birth will be filmed and set behind a track composed from the beat of his/her heart and a sponsor from You Tube will knock on their door every month until they’re 18 years old, demanding a musical score (as agreed to in the contract).

I can’t help but feel for Cody Simpson. A few months ago he was strumming for friends at backyard barbecues on the Gold Coast, and now he’s shooting his first single, the abysmal ‘iYiYi’ featuring Flo Rida’ with his doting dad and sister accompanying his every move/milking his sudden shot to fame.

Puberty is still a foreign concept to this singing sperm, who admits his first song was actually about putting a nappy on a chicken (er, OK). He’s another You Tube “sensation” who was spotted/scouted out by songwriter and producer Shawn Campbell (the bloke behind Jay-Z and Missy Elliott). The grooming has well and truly commenced. It won’t be long before he’s being ushered into restaurants with his jacket over his head, dodging the pounces of mentally disturbed twenty-somethings and being stalked by every pedophile in his post code. What a life, what a career! Who’s next, I wonder?

Here’s one of many videos he’ll look back on and inevitably wish he didn’t post (bless)

I can’t stop thinking about this “sink hole”...

...The one that swallowed a three-storey building in Guatemala City yesterday. It’s blowing my tiny brain. Imagine!

It’s absolutely fascinating isn’t it, to think that the ground just opened up in the middle of a bustling city and guzzled everything up like the gaping mouth of a giant muddy monster. Like, some heinous, vengeful creature lying dormant beneath the surface just went “Enough! I’m trying to sleep, you’re so loud, bloody human irritants, I’ve had it with you all,” and inhaled a giant breath, sucking up the annoying Earthlings and their measly buildings like a malevolent vacuum cleaner.

“Let that be a lesson to you” the monster belched, burping up the odd bit of rubble and maybe a lizard (they have lots of them in Guatemala, I think), although no one heard because they were too busy trying to clamber out the windows and grab their stuff and… well, not die.

Bloody brilliant, for all the catastrophe it caused. Geologists are apparently getting all excited about it, too, although allegedly it was forming for thousands of years before it happened – they just didn’t know when it would actually occur.

The way the “sink hole” really formed was a bit more boring, according to the geeks. It was actually due to “groundwater percolating through layers of rock in the earth’s crust”, like a coffee-maker I suppose, dissolving it and forming underground caves, thus making the soil weak on top.

I prefer the monster theory.

Makes me wonder though, where else is this happening, unseen by human eyes? Bruce Hebblewhite, head of mining engineering at the University of NSW / aka ‘Earth Nerd’ told the Sydney Morning Herald it’s "highly unlikely" a sink hole would ever form in NSW: "There might be very localised areas in this country where we have such limestone but certainly not in urban areas and it's not common," he said, counting down the seconds with the pesky media till he could call his friend ‘Victor the Volcano Scout’ in Nepal in order to quantify the amount of seismic energy currently powering his computer. (Probably).

Not that Guatemala has anything less to lose than say, Sydney’s CBD, or Manhattan’s Times Square, but I can’t help thinking if, say, the Empire State Building suddenly got sucked back into the Earth’s crust... what then? If Hebblewhite’s wrong and these “sink holes” / underground monster attacks do start occurring on a regular basis in cities round the world, we’re gonna lose a whole lot of really cool stuff. Insurance companies will have a field day.

And what if Sydney’s Harbour Bridge disappeared into a votex, leaving cars, buses and bridge-climbers from Belgium spinning in a sudden, mysterious waterspout right down to the volcanic core of our very planet? That would be terrible for getting to work in the morning... all those people, stranded! And who would take the blame? You can't blame terrorism for something like that; even Bin Laden's not that sneaky. Mother nature shows no mercy and neither do her pet monsters.

If yesterday’s disaster had happened anywhere else, something tells me we’d be hearing much, much more about it than we’ve heard about Guatemala. This terrible occurrence hasn’t even registered in most of the world’s press. I mean, go to the UK’s Guardian newspaper website and search “sink hole” and the story “A Japanese plot to wipe out the Andrex puppy simply won't wash” pops up. How lovely!

If another "sink hole" does appear, and there's a power out there controlling when and where the miracle occurs, may I just request it sucks up something useful next time. Something that will make the world a better place for its miraculous non-existence? I can think of a few things...

Must Twi Harder...

Today, my good friend Amy surprised me with this extra special Photoshopped gift, which brightened my day considerably more than my encounters with poppy-men Usher and Craig David. I got my photo with them, too, which was nice, but when it comes to the men of my dreams these days, you can keep your Grammy Awards, your 45 million record sales figures, your penthouse apartments and fussing entourages. I like my men dead, cold, sparkling and lusting for the taste of my blood. And failing that, I like them howling outside my windows, bounding on four legs through forests and “imprinting” on me when the moon is as full as a wheel of Gouda. Mmmm...

With this one little picture, Amy has rendered me at one with Twilight, in a way I never deemed possible. Sure, you might think this is a bit sad… perhaps a little weird. You might think, don’t you have anything better to do with your life than wish you were dead, destined to spend all eternity as a vegetarian vampire, fighting the urge to pash a werewolf? Well, the answer is no. I don’t have anything better to do than think about this.

Sure, I do other stuff with my days; mundane things like breathe, eat food, hang out with humans, but when it comes to that stuff being BETTER than getting my blood sucked out through my neck by a man who sparkles in the sun and flies me up to the treetops after school... don't be ridiculous. What could be better than that? I’m just killing time until I’m killed by the love of my life, really.

No man is good enough unless he’s part mythical creature, these days. Amy knows this. Thank you Amy. You are a true friend. (And thanks for calling me Bella when I ask you to).

Beards of a feather flock together...

A magazine arrived in the office mail the other day, with a picture of Alan Jackson on the cover. His moustached mouth was curved seductively into a grin as he posed, leaning up against a haystack, (probably). It was out of the shot so I couldn’t tell it was a haystack, but I imagine it would be. I bet he likes haystacks. A lot. Anyway… it made me want to pinch his cheeks and snuggle up against his face. I’d be safe there, wrapped up in his hairy smile. I bet he smells like freshly reaped hay. I bet he has shirts in many shades of beige.

Something about men with moustaches has been strangely appealing to me as I’ve neared the middle of my twenties (oh alright, 30), even though I’ve never really been a fan of facial hair in any form. I had a teacher at school once who hated facial hair so much that she used to pencil in her own eyebrows. Well… I thought it was because she hated it, but I later learned that Mrs McManus had some weird disease, because her other hair fell out too. I felt bad about that.

Back when I lived in New York, my friend Ebeth had an ex in town who had a beard that would have made Jesus and all his disciples weep. This beard was amazing. This beard was the longest, most wiry, most incredible example of extreme masculinity I have ever seen. Other facially inferior men would stop in the streets, beard-envy brewing in their eyes as he strolled on by in oblivion. Glenn was the beard. It became more than a part of him.

Ebeth would often talk about the Glenn she used to know; the smile she used to love, the smooth skin of his cheeks that once would glow. Glenn would nod as he sipped his pint next to her, remembering the days when he too could look in the mirror and see his face. But my, how he loved his new look. He would twist clumps of his beard into little points that stayed on their own when he let go. He would stroke this hairy monstrosity into shapes like a pet he’d been training for years, and Ebeth would occasionally reach out into its masses, hoping for a part of it, like the relentless lady who lost her man to the tramp.

When Glenn left New York, we missed his beard. People would no longer have as much reason to talk to us in bars. You should have heard the conversations – ”So, my friend, how long’ve you been growing yours?”, “Do you find your pillow gets sweaty in the night when you sleep on your stomach?”

Beards follow beards it seems. Beards of a feather flock together, perhaps.

Glenn kind of ruined it for other people with beards though. I mean, you simply couldn’t top that thing. It really wasn’t worth anyone even trying. If a bloke was to say “Hey, ladies, do you like my beard? I’ve been growing it for two months,” any girl who’d been a part time traveler in Glenn’s thirteen month facial expedition would have to shake her head, shrug her shoulders and say “Sorry, I’m not interested. I’ve seen ‘beard’ in its truest form and I’ll accept no imitations.”

I’ve never really locked lips with anyone with a big beard. I’m not sure it wouldn’t feel a lot like practicing french kissing on your favorite teddy bear. They’re nice to look at though. I think, maybe, it’s a comfort thing with me. I’m attracted to people who make me feel comfortable and many bearded people are associated with such feelings. Santa Claus, of course is the main one. Then there’s my oldest friend Dave’s dad, who’s always laughing and pouring huge measures of alcohol into his tea cup when his wife’s out of the room. Then of course… there’s one more,…oh yeah, Jesus. So, hmmm,… maybe it’s more an inner peace thing I need to find, not a piece of beard.

Alan’s still looking mighty fine, though.

As the rain lashes down on Sydney...

...after months of sunshine, I can’t help but feel a little smug that this time next week I’ll be sipping booze from coconut shells and feasting on fresh fish, in Fiji. Yes siree. That little hut right there could well have a whole lotta ME in it! Hurrah!

Obviously I’ll also be failing miserably to suck in the muffin top that may or may not have baked above my bikini bottoms lately as a result of my own laziness and swivel-chair-to-restaurant lifestyle, but as long as I’m sucking it on a sun-bed, I’m fine with that. (Sucking myself, obviously. I mean… god that sounds just as bad, but you know what I’m trying to say).

I’ve always wanted to go to Fiji. I actually had some crazy idea a while back that one day I’d get married there with a little furry monkey as a ring-bearer and a parrot on my shoulder, trained to squawk our first song. A crowd of my nearest and dearest would look on beneath a sky of birds-egg blue and smile, thinking, we always knew she’d do it, and then we’d all dance away the evening on the sand, surrounded by more overly-intelligent animals and a big cheese fountain. We’d dip the fresh fish into the cheese fountain of course. No matter where I get married eventually (if it ever happens) there will most definitely be a cheese fountain involved. This has always featured in my wedding dreams… always. Without fail. So has karaoke. In fact, this could well be the reason I’m still single, when I think about it. If a potential partner is not put off by my unhealthy appetite for cheese, he’s bound to run a mile when I mention singing animals and karaoke… and weddings for that matter.

But you know what, I don’t think you should ever sacrifice your dreams. Even if I’m scandalously poor and can’t afford any other food at my wedding, or decorations, I’ll just get the cheese fountain delivered and get my guests to bring their own crackers. And we’ll sing by the light of a Fijian moon… and say “Bula” a lot. And admittedly, most people will regret flying all that way when they realise we could have done the same thing in a community hall in Bethnal Green, but hey, you only get one wedding day. Or do you? Actually, most people get more than that these days… ok so maybe I’ll do Bethnal Green for the first one and then have my real wedding, to the RIGHT person, in Fiji. Two weddings, two cheese fountains. Works for me.

I digress. I am really looking forward to Fiji. We leave bright and early on Saturday morning and are spending seven glorious nights in the Yasawa Islands, which is a broken up mass of volcanic surface to the right of the mainland – slightly further away from the bit where all the piss-heads go to drink kava and pretend watered down, overpriced cocktails are exactly what they came for. It’s also quite comforting to know that these particular volcanic peaks are quite dormant, so there’s to be no ash-cloud (imaginary or otherwise) putting a dampener on my plans to do absolutely bugger all for a week.

Bliss.

Volcanic rumbling ramblings...

It’s all just blimmin’ miserable in the UK at the moment isn’t it? When it’s cold in my current hemisphere it would be nice to feel the warmth of a lovely news bulletin from my homeland; the comforting embrace of a nice English story about postmen and gingerbread me and frolicking lambs in the Devonshire countryside. But no. It’s all political screw ups and ash clouds. How depressing.

The latest volcano eruption is currently trapping my friend Tracy in London, something she’s not particularly happy about. I suppose they’re just trying to be careful, in that typical overly-cautious British way. But even the king of planes himself, Richard Branson, thinks it’s all a bit silly. He actually made me laugh when he said: "It is obviously dangerous to fly through the mouth of a volcano, as has been demonstrated time and time again on television by what happened to the BA plane (do’h). However, the volcano is hundreds of miles away from the UK.”

Yes. It is. Come on people, listen to Richard. It’s bloody miles away! Just because you can see a bit of smoke, doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a fire. Does it?

I don’t really understand all this ash stuff anyway… I mean, how is an ash cloud different from a really big rain cloud, full of thunder? Well, OK, so it might be a bit hotter, but if planes are built to withstand getting struck by lightning, how’s a little flick from the equivalent of a volcanic cigarette butt gonna bring one down? I just don’t get it. But then, I guess if I was on a plane and my pilot said “Hey guys, buckle up tight, we’re flying through a volcano in a bit,” I’d be an incy bit scared. I might even do the whole putting my head in my crossed arms thing and hide under my tray table. I might even sue the airline, or at least demand more complimentary vodka for the turmoil. Maybe it’s a case of laughing at the stupidity, until you’re actually in that situation, zooming through the barf of an ancient mountain.

Maybe it's not even a volcano thing. When it comes to the prospect of experiencing whinging Brits, maybe you just can't be too careful.

Bloody hell, Britain...

Will someone just make a decision? It's British to the core isn't it, all this faffing about. We never say how we really feel. To outsiders, we're a nation of flustered Hugh Grants, beating around the eternal bush, and now the people supposed to be drawing conclusions for the good of the confused, are so bloody flummoxed themselves that no one knows what the hell's going on. We can hardly keep up on this hemisphere. HELLO?!

Let me get this right. Poor Gordon's continued presence in Downing Street was seen as harming Labour's chances of reaching a deal, so he's shut himself away to tuck into some nice digestive biscuits with his gran, who'll tell him over and over again what a lovely boy he is and how he's simply misunderstood (probably). Meanwhile Labour and the Tories try desperately to woo the Lib Dems with promises on electoral reform, when everyone knows they're all greedy control-freaks in disguise as a beacon of hope, anyway. It's all just soooooo dramatic.

David Miliband might be up against his brother, and we're warned that someone called Ed Balls, the school secretary (Ed BALLS, the SECRETARY for gods sake!) also wants a look in as the leading Labour man, now Brown's out of the picture. It's a reality TV show in the making, isn't it. The eviction process is always screwed when someone actually quits, but it just makes it all the more riveting. As it stands now, no one's in charge. No one. It's so embrassing to watch from afar. But it does leave an opening.

I think Britain should take a leaf out of this guy's book. Sharkey the Vampire has got it all figured out. He's a self-described vampire who'd previously announced plans to run for governor of Minnesota on the Vampyres, Witches and Pagan's ticket.

It might seem like madness but at least he has a bloody plan. (Bloody being the operative word). He might not have thought about taxes, or schooling, or who's gonna pay his expenses when the public next refuse, but when he originally announced he was going for the gig, this man who admittedly looks like a murderer, stated very clearly his plans for people who abuse children:

"They'll be tried by me, beaten, tortured, dismembered, decapitated, impaled, and their heads will be put on display... This is the Viking State. Start acting more like Vikings. You got a problem? Take it to the streets. People need to get a set of balls and a spine."

Good for him, I say. Even crazy people understand politics better than the British. Make a plan and stick to it. Don't do things half-heartedly and then wiggle out of the consequences any which way you can. You don't see vampire clans shuffling back on their agenda, whinging, crying, quitting and whimpering things like "I couldn't POSSIBLY make such a grand decision on behalf of everybody else. I wouldn't want to impose. Will someone else just deal with it, please?" No. They just swoop on in there and get the blimmin' job done.

Back to Ed Balls. You can see the newspaper puns already, bless him.

John Mayer's body is a wonderland...

“Thanks Sydney!” John Mayer shouted into the screaming masses tonight, as he wound up another tune and pretended he was done (even though we still had half an hour left on the clock!)

“We’ve had the best week here!” he carried on, “It’s really kind of blown me away ‘cause it’ feels like home! Usually when I’m away, I count the clock ticks towards the next place and the next place, but in Sydney, I’m not counting.”

Bless him! John Mayer could have counted 12,000 faces in the crowd at Sydney Entertainment Centre tonight, if the neon lights hadn’t been shining in his eyes. As he brushed a mass of crazy curls away from his face and turned to the spotlights, he cradled one of the seven guitars he had on stage with him in his arms like a danced-out lover. Oh, to be that guitar!!

I wasn't alone. The girls in the front row shrieked like a pack of rabid chimpanzees, wishing no doubt that they too could feel his fingers on their bodies (ahem), but Mayer looked straight at them, grinned and said:

“I don’t think these girls will ever be as excited in their lives, as they are right now. I think you should take that energy, put it in a box and bury it in your gardens, ‘cause you’re gonna need that in 15 years time, trust me!”

Mayer’s definitely got the showmanship down these days, but as such, his AMAZING talent for guitar playing sometimes plays second fiddle to those insightful lyrics and husky vocals that make his albums fly off the shelves. This is a man who needs to be appreciated live. Not only has he mastered playing with the guitar over his shoulders, but at one point, the instrument was flat on the ground and Mayer was practically doing a shoulder-stand on a patterned rug as he performed a solo. Sounds impossible when you write it… but trust me, it happened. You could hardly hear the notes for the screaming and god forbid anyone had epilepsy down near the stage – there were more flashing lights than a rave on a spaceship whenever a song ended.

Looking at Mayer live on stage, in plain black trousers, a t-shirt and white trainers reflecting the yellow stage lights, it’s easy to believe this guy really does just want to play his guitar, above all else. The money, the fame, the fortune, they’re all just bonus products he’s attracted, just by following his dream. As the camera flashes and mobile phone screens glistened in the crowds like fireflies where cigarette lighters would have been waving 20 years ago, I couldn’t help but think back to when I first heard John Mayer’s songs, in New York City, almost ten years ago. Hardly anyone had heard of him then. Everyone’s heard of him now.

He didn’t forget to credit his support act too – the lovely Orianthi (Michael Jackson’s ex guitarist, no less):

“Sometimes you meet some bad musicians who are bad people, and that’s just BAD. But then you meet awesome musicians who are just awesome people and then you know they’re on a skyrocket to wherever they wanna go. Orianthi is one of those people, give it up for her, and shout so she can hear you!” His orders were followed.

“Thank you for giving me Australia,” Mayer said, not once, but twice after he’d finished his final set of songs, including the gorgeous “Perfectly Lonely” from new album Battle Studies, and “Who Says”, to which a group of guys in front of us delighted in echoing every “Who says I can’t get stoned” line as loudly as they could, while waving their beers about enthusiastically.

“I feel like you’ve given me a key to this country and now I can come back here and play little shows for you whenever I want!” His Sydney PRs are gonna love that.

More rapturous applause confirmed that yes, John Mayer is welcome in Sydney any time he wants to drop in, though he confirmed he’s off to Japan with his crew first thing in the morning. He also admitted to taking a moonlit jog through Luna Park the other night with a member of his band, when the rest of the world was sleeping. Such a shame I didn’t know that in advance...

Mayer and his act bowed in a line at the end, like a troupe of circus performers, which was quite fitting in a way, as Mayer’s an act like no other. He plays the clown, he acts the fool and then he blows your little brain away with a show so amazing you feel different, just from being in the audience.

When, oh WHEN will you notice me, John? *sniff

The Candy Man who couldn't...

I've seen a lot of bad theatre in my time. The most excruciating encounter was probably 'The Man With The Iron Mask - The Musical'. I sat with my friend Z through an hour of what can only be described as pure torture, watching the lead character try unsuccessfully to sing his lyrics in a decipherable manner, due to a big fuck-off iron mask strapped over his mouth.

Another theatrical faux-pas was 'Menopause - The Musical'. I'm not sure this really needs explaining as it was pretty much exactly THAT; a group of pained, ageing women not only attempting to recreate the agonizing process of the menopause through a serious of atrocious, morbid tunes, but failing miserably to engage anyone except their mortified husbands in the front row: "Why must you play out this private matter to absolutely everyone we know, Gladys??"

Last night I took my lovely friend Pam to see a show called 'The Candy Man', based on the life of Sammy Davis Jr. I didn’t really know what to expect, as the show description was very vague, but alarm bells sounded pretty much from the first act. A short, white, sweaty man completed the number ‘The Candy Man Can’, and announced that he was obviously nothing like Sammy Davis Jr, but the show was an intended tribute to the great member of the Rat Pack and famous vaudeville performer. And he sure did hope we enjoyed it.

Fair enough, I thought. He made for an enthusiastic MC, even though his mediocre attempts at singing made him sound a bit like an over-enthusiastic karaoke host, or a wannabe cruise ship entertainer. When he spoke, he was seriously out of breath, too, like he'd run a mile backstage on a treadmill first, whilst smoking a warm-up cigar.

He started another number... danced in a fairly average manner between some scantily-clad showgirls and attempted the splits. It was then that I realized he intended to perform the ENTIRE tribute act himself. This short, white, asthmatic individual was hell-bent on wowing an audience of a thousand people with a black man’s sacred repertoire. The earth moved beneath my feet. It could have been the tap, tappity tap of his tap dancing shoes reverberating through the theatre as he began another cringe-worthy attempt at entertainment; but I figured it was Sammy Davis Jr himself, turning in his grave.

We left at half time, along with most of the audience; went to get a rack of ribs and a very large glass of wine. I apologized profusely to Pam, told her that theatrical tragedies such as this are almost as memorable as the awesome ones, and promised to take her to CATS.

I do feel sorry for the performers in ‘The Candy Man’ though. Prior to the show starting, the producer, a woman in her 60s in a slinky black dress stepped onto the stage and told us all she was so thankful we’d come; the show had taken four years to put together and had all started with a vision she and a friend came up with in her own back garden.

Somehow, this doesn’t surprise me.

Unfortunately, I’m sorry to say that along with 'The Man With The Iron Mask - The Musical', and a line up of wrinkling moaners singing songs about age, ‘The Candy Man’ most definitely CAN’T on this occasion.

Upon first glance, you might not notice Charlotte...

...She is carefully camoflaged against the blue of the wall behind her in this photo. I'm not sure that was intentional on her part. Although I'd like to believe she spent a few months touring the homes of Australian citizens in search of the perfect colour scheme, before relocating to her favoured ocean-blue hued residence, it was probably a fluke. But Charlotte sure does LOVE her home. And now, I love Charlotte.

I wouldn't want to touch her. It's the same as you love things like electricity, and standing on the edge of endless gushing waterfalls - you appreciate them for all their vast, impressive power, but you wouldn't want to stick your finger in, or step any closer than you have to.

She's always there when I walk to work in the morning, hanging out in her home-spun hammock; right in the middle, like a happily intoxicated royal on holiday, sipping fly-flavoured cocktails and occasionally reaching out a spindly leg to flick a stray leaf off her doorstep. She takes up the entire space between the lower branch of that tree there, and the bush below. And what's really cool about Charlotte is that she's gone one step further than regular spiders in her trapping methods, by creating not one, not two, but three separate webs that all intertwine, creating a sort of spider-woman vortex that no living creature (smaller than a grain of rice) can possibly escape.

RESPECT.

My walk to work isn't complete unless I've had a glimpse of Charlotte, and I think she knows. If she had a face visible to my rubbish human eyes, she would smile as I walked past, and possibly wave with every single one of her eight legs; "HELLOOOOOO BECKY!!! MY HUMAN FRIEND!". Well, maybe seven legs - she couldn't levitate herself completely, that would just be weird.

It's a bit of a shit photo, this one below, as I don't like to get close enough to warrant obtaining the perfect shot and focal point. I'm not THAT accepting just yet. But Charlotte is growing on me. She's awesome actually. Here she is, as close as I dare to get. Bless her.

Today I met Alf Stewart...

...And I honestly feel like a little chapter of my life is complete. As the rest of Sydney (or at least its pre-teen population) sobbed into their Hello Kitty tissues over the cancellation of a Justin Bieber-based day of media mingling and his concert/shameless public display of child abuse, one of my dreams came true.

Although I too may have obsessed over teenage heroes in my youth, specifically Joey from New Kids on the Block, it was Alf I raced home for every evening after school... Home and Away that was always there. It never cancelled on me. And if it did, it always had a bloody good excuse. None of this "Oooh I'm so sick, I just got mobbed by 7000 pre-pubescent girls waving crop tops and copies of Twilight at my ferry in Circular Quay" type shit. Grow some balls Bieber; you wanna take a leaf out of Alf Stewart's book. He's been on that show for 22 years AND he's done 17 pantomimes in the UK (so he told us). Did he ever moan about his schedule and hole himself up in a hotel away from his fans? NO. Alf is a man. Alf welcomed his fans. And he didn't need YouTube to help him get to the top either (although that would be cool - sing us a song about "babies", Alfie?)

Respect to the Stewart. We're best friends now, as you can see. And yes, he may look like he's standing there, rigid as a Robert Pattinson waxwork, thinking "Who the fuck is this freak draping herself about my person" but he's actually thinking how nice I am and how he's going to invite me over to his house for some tea.

Justin Bieber, eat your heart out. You could have come Home to Mama, but you chose to go Away (geddit?). Alf wins. You lose. CRY ABOUT IT.

I always thought I’d make a good paparazzi...

...but after today I know I was wrong. Very wrong. At one point, as I was standing on the deck watching Kim Kardashian step off a boat, a big man stood on my foot. Another knocked my pathetically small camera and another turned as he was zooming past me to shout: “If you wanna be a pap, you’ve got to run!!!”

Eff off, I thought. I don’t run for anyone. Patronizing bastard.

She was rather beautiful, in an overly made-up, orange way. Although I didn’t much like her dress. Or her 12 inch heels. Or her whinging American drawl when she asked her fleet of homosexual hottie men and female cling-ons where her sunglasses had gone. I stood behind her as the commotion commenced and took a picture of her ass, as I hear she’s had implants in her butt cheeks to give her more curves. It definitely looks like she has. Fucking stupid if you ask me… why doesn’t she just shove more cake down her face and get a job on a swivel chair like the rest of us? Oh…. right… because that would stop her making workout DVD’s, sex tapes with her boyfriend (the last one leaked and scored her a $5 million deal with with Vivid Entertainment – kerching!!) and trashy TV shows about her life, which basically consists of doing not much at all, really. Apart from looking hot.

I’ve considered the fact that maybe I’m jealous of Kim Kardashian. Hmmm. She does have nice hair I suppose. But seriously, I think I’d rather be anonymous with a modicum of talent and dignity than rich and famous for flashing my body parts. I mean… she’s gonna be old one day. Her bum implants will be somewhere round the base of her spine while her tits are round her knees and who wants to go out with a circus freak?

And what does she actually DO, anyway? I hardly care enough to Google her and find out. Oh, alright, I will…. Hmmm…

Ah right… OK, so according to Wikipedia, in July 2008, Kardashian announced on her blog that she was “working on her own perfume line to be released in 2009.” That’s nice. Bet she labored for hours in that laboratory, mixing all those chemicals, shoving her barnet into a hairnet and conversing with the “cool sciency people”.
“The perfume, Kim Kardashian, was released into stores in February of 2010.” Was it? Bloody hell, I must have missed that. Shit. I really want to smell like an it girl now… all leather handbags and chiwawa! But wait, there’s more.

“In March of 2009 Kardashian launched an endorsement with Shoedazzle shopping…. Kardashian co-owns a clothing boutique called D-A-S-H with her sisters Kourtney and Khloe.” Ah that’s awesome, I guess. She must spend aaaaages behind that desk, sorting out the tills, dealing with the accounts and… oh wait, no, she doesn’t. She just gets on boats and planes and… her tits out… while everyone else flounders in the shadows of her awesome presence and watches as she takes the credit.
Nice Kim, love your work.

I have to say though, it was good to see life through a pap’s eyes. They’re the people behind the person behind the person who made someone else famous. They’re the bottom of the Hollywood food chain, the plankton in the ocean of fame. God… how depressing.

I guess I could do it as a hobby. You never know, I might get a hot-shot that’d propel me to the top. I might end up making a fortune!!! Or at least… enough to get an ass reduction.

I just woke up from the weirdest dream...

...which may or may not have been a result of eating half a chocolate rabbit for dinner, after getting back from work at 10pm, (it’s the dairy products, so I’m told). I can’t remember the start of it, but basically I was out with mum, dad and a younger version of my brother (back when he was 11 I reckon), when a giant tsunami struck. It swept us up… and instead of screaming for her life and demonstrating the ultimate motherly panic, my mum popped her head up from the frothy waves and said quite calmly: “We’d better swim towards Market Rasen”.

Now, for those who don’t know, Market Rasen is actually a town and civil parish within the West Lindsey district of Lincolnshire, England. And it’s shit. Why anyone would want to swim there having survived a giant tsunami in Australia is beyond me, but hey, that’s the logic of dreams… and maybe of my mum.

Anyway, so we get to Market Rasen, having been swept up in about three more tsunamis on the way, and there’s a little red house made of wooden planks, and an elderly man who beckons us inside. Only inside, it’s more like a youth club, complete with scruffy couches, Russell Brand and a chiwauwa. Yes, Russell Brand had also survived the tsunami, which started in Australia and swept us quite effortlessly into Market Rasen.

Well of course I was delighted. Russell’s my dream man, so should he be the only male survivor of a global tragedy eligible for mating with, God’s done a fine job of answering my prayers… albeit whilst ignoring absolutely everyone elses:
“Prevent global disasters, you say? Well how can I possibly be doing that? I have to make sure Becky Wicks ends up with Russell Brand!”
“Awww, thanks God, that’s really nice of you but…”
“Oh, no, no, don’t be silly Becky. You’re perfect for each other! Here’s a little tsunami to kill off all competition.”

The chiwauwa was so cute and even smaller than a regular chiwauwa, which are all pretty bloody small anyway. Towards the end of the dream, when our little red house had been struck with about 15 more tsunamis and a wall of fire which was actually a moving pier with a flaming fairground on it, the dog was all wet and dead in my arms… very sad. Everyone kept on surviving all these disasters until the very end, when we all spotted the biggest tsunami of all coming towards us. At this point, my friend Autumn, who miraculously appeared from nowhere as friends often do in dreams, put a spade next to me and said that if it sliced me in half when the wave struck, it would be better than drowning, which I thought was remarkably considerate of her.

They say that if you die in your dream, you actually die in real life. I’m not really sure who presented this theory, as surely anyone with proof would already be dead. But true to form, just as the wave was about to strike and the spade was about to hit me, I woke up, made myself some coffee and wrote it all down. What do you think it means? I’ll be damned if I know, but I won’t be eating any chocolate rabbits for dinner again tonight, that’s for sure.

This week I've been thinking...

...rather a lot about working on a farm. Everyone I’ve told this to so far has furrowed their brow and dipped their chin in the same disparaging fashion, but their cynicism is only making me want to do it more. Screw them all; I think I’d be a great farmer! Of course… I wouldn’t want to muck shit or milk cows, or wake up at 4.30am to harvest crops, or lug a hoe about. If anyone’s gonna lug a hoe about, it’ll be the hot farm boy who takes a shine to me and my well-disguised lust for rugged country men in checked shirts, dungarees and tattoos of roosters on their upper arms. Cock-a-doodle? Yes I do. I’d play it cool for a while, obviously, but he’d charm me eventually with a moonlit horse-ride, the squishing of a deadly spider and the words: “Care for a spin on my combine?” Imagine how romantic it would be!! Like Brokeback Mountain… only… not.

I’ve looked into various options, but the one I like the sound of the most is one called WWOOF. Sounds a bit like a dog with a stutter, but it actually stands for ‘World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms’. The concept is that you pay $60 for a book which lists all the organic farms in your chosen country. This automatically makes you a member, and you’re free to pack your rucksack (or in my case, bright pink wheely bag, darling), find a nice piece of hay to chew on and hitch a ride on out to whichever participating farm sounds most appealing.

I’ve heard there’s one lady out in the bush in Victoria, who needs help looking after injured baby kangaroos. There’s another which encourages daily yoga practice and one that helps the women learn to cook with all the organic stuff they produce! I think this last one sounds most appealing. I can barely open a can of ravioli, so cooking up a treat around a giant wooden table, wearing a gingham apron, having flour flights with the cowboys before feeding them my warm, apple pie sounds right up my alley. (And no, that wasn’t a metaphor. Filth-wizards!!)

I’m aware I may be romanticising farm life just a little, but in all honesty, I romanticise everything, so I’m used to dealing with regular reality checks by now. I think I can handle it. Farm life sounds like fun. I stayed on a sheep farm once, in New Zealand. It was run by this zany woman from Alaska who wrote books about herbs and grew marijuana in a plot behind the parsley. Her husband was a Kiwi who built airplanes in his shed – just little ones mind – but he had dreams of flying that stayed with him, even when he wasn’t high. I remember looking at that couple as we all sat round the dining table at night, thinking, one day, I want to live like you do. And why should I wait until I’m 60?

Oh feet, how you itch!! How you shuffle under that desk, and oh head, how you dream. These voices, they’ll be the death of me. But then, maybe Sydney will. Or… maybe Sydney guys will. They’re all a little self-centred in my experience. If I work on a farm, I will get to spend lots of time with Australia’s “real” people, who are not, as I’m quickly beginning to realise, ego-crazed radio presenters and pretentious fashionista posers, hanging out in overpriced bars. Real Australians work on the land and drink beer from the can, and wear hats with those funny corks hanging off the rims, to ward off flies. Real Australians hunt crocodiles and dive with stingrays and call each other Sheila. They live in tribes, in towns of three or four people, with only one satellite dish between them. They make pies from road-kill. They murder big, scary bush-beasts with their bare hands… even the girls.

Can a city girl survive in the outback? Can a spoilt princess, changed immeasurably by Dubai’s glitz and glamour swap it all for some rubber gloves and a cow’s ass? Probably not… but something’s making me really want to see. You don’t actually have to pay for anything on the WWOOF scheme, except the journey there, so there’s really very little risk if I do it... aside from the fact that if I do give up my glamorous media job in the city and wind up sunburnt, knee deep in possum shit and organising the nightly hoe-down for a bunch of middle-aged gay farmers with beer-guts and gumboots every day, I might not be allowed to get it back. But that’s a small risk, isn’t it? I mean… there will always be other jobs…. won’t there?

Electrifying encounters…

So here I am, drinking my coffee, checking up on Perez Hilton, when I get an early morning text message from The Electrician. It’s kind of taken me by surprise… I mean, I never thought I’d hear from him again. It’s been a whole week. But the text reads: “Are we cool? I kind of thought you’d call.”

I’m angry. I’m really quite angry that he’d say this, because this is a guy who just last Sunday, accused me of being a double-dating slapper and I swore I’d never speak to him again. He didn’t come right out and say it of course, but he texted it, so it was just as insulting.

Basically, what happened was, I met The Electrician late on Friday the week before, for a drink in a cocktail bar, conveniently located just a 15 minute walk from my house (my rule is that if the other person has a car, I’m not bussing/cabbing/training it to any first date… the man can come to me). So we actually had a really nice night. He showed up a little late but I forgave him when he walked in because he was hot. Being hot always adds a few points back onto the chart if you’ve fucked up, of course.

Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised by this down-to-earth, humble English guy, who’s lived in Sydney for the last ten years and makes an honest living as an electrician, drives about in a huge van with his company name on the side, and in his spare time… wait for it… hosts game fishing expeditions in far out places for the rich and famous. Thrilling or what?! He even rides with them in helicopters! I was hooked. Leaning over my Bundaberg I was already imagining the awesome trek we’d take through the Russian wilderness in search of the rumoured Mutant Milligan Spike fish… only visible to human eyes between August and September, on a full moon.

We had a great night getting to know each other, the game-fishing electrician and I… and before I knew it, I realised I actually quite fancied him. There was no little voice in my head screaming his faults, even though he had a bit of a wonky smile and his shoes were quite possibly a little too shiny… it was all blocked out thanks to the fact that he was calm, intelligent and sexy in a rugged, tradie, fisherman sort of way. He even insisted on buying all the drinks… something I’ve noticed Aussie men just don’t do. We ended up making out in a jazz bar and I agreed to a second date.

We went to Bondi Beach for date two. Ate Italian whilst watching the wind pick up a storm over the sea and then he drove me home in his clapped out van, which he calls ‘the Titanic’ because it’s so fucking huge he can never park it anywhere. Adorable, right? We’d had another night of chatting during which he asked me if I was dating anyone else, to which I answered no. Well, I wasn’t. In all honesty, I was totally wrapped up in him; the fisherman-electrician and our sparks.

Date three, he came to meet me from work and drove me to a gig I was supposed to be photographing. He didn’t come in though. He went home and then came all the way back to fetch me afterwards, took me out for a cup of tea before driving me home again and promising to take me to Palm Beach the next Sunday. I could feel a beautiful romance budding… something fun for once, someone slightly mysterious who I couldn’t quite read, who liked me and wanted me exclusively already. I was mentally packing for the fishing trip – though I’d have to buy a new hat in Russia, obviously. I think you know the kind I mean.

So, Sunday morning rolled around and I hadn’t heard from him… bar one text the day before, asking what time I wanted him to collect me in honour of our beach trek. It had graduated to a picnic and he was, apparently, planning an entire day for us in his head. Only, I woke up with a mouth tasting like I’d spent all night licking carpet. Having met some old friends from NYC down in the Rocks the night before, we’d got a little pissed on red wine. I asked if we could go a little later when I got his text. He’d sent it at 8am on a Sunday… I mean for Christ’s sake, only God and joggers are up at that hour on a Sunday. Our textual exchange went something like this:
Him: It’s OK if you wanna make it another day.
Me: Ugh. If it’s really OK, that might be gd. How bout easter fri?
Him: Thanks
Me: ?
Him: I spent lots of money on food n wine and didn’t go up the coast with my mates, I feel like a fool. Plus u probably met someone else and stayed over at his and ur still with him now n that’s why u can’t go.

I know!!! Of course, that last text was enough to make the voices start screaming again “NEXT, DELETE, ERROR”, but I was hungover and angry, so I replied:

“I was out with my friends and I said sorry. You’re being a bit harsh accusing me of things like that. Take someone else to the beach.”

And bar one text saying how much I’d “hurt” him (ugh!) I never heard back. Until now. And he’s asking if we’re cool! AND he’s saying he hoped I might have called. What. Ever, Mr Fisherman.

I just wrote back and said to be honest, anyone who says its fine to change a plan and then insinuates I’m some sort of double-dating hussy and acts like a needy princess after one week of meeting me, is not driving me to an idyllic beach in a car that looks like the fucking Titanic. I told him I had a jealous, possessive boyfriend once and I wasn’t about to go down that path again.

Shame as I really liked The Electrician. And now I really do want to go game-fishing in Russia with a helicopter full of celebrities. There must be another way…

Scariest woman alive...

My friend just sent me this video of a very, very scary woman, who he said will be me in 20 years. I think it'll be more like 10 years if I keep working late nights. Someone's lost a mum/gran/sister/aunt to this mess of a human being though. Very sad.

Running away from boys...

Having had a rather hectic day in the office, running around and rushing out late, I rocked up to the bar in which I’d arranged to meet my Internet date, slightly out of breath, with my strapless dress hanging marginally below my bra (as usual). He didn’t stand up. He clearly saw me come in, but for some reason, pretended he hadn’t. THE CHEEK! Had he been hot, I would have been pretty upset at this. I would have thought something like “F*** am I REALLY that gross? I mean I know I’m a sweaty wreck and my underwear was just on display in public, but am I honestly so bad that he’s pretending he’s not my date, right in my line of vision?”

However, because he was slightly ugly… well, not ugly, but definitely odd looking, I just adjusted my dress and thought “How annoying, I can’t believe I rushed here.”

He cocked his head like a confused Labrador and grinned only as I plonked myself down next to him. He revealed two wonky teeth set in his gums at a very disturbing angle. I tried not to reel back in my seat as I performed a quick analysis. Up close he looked like a middle-aged, Kendal mint-cake eating lesbian woman crossed with an inebriated Cheshire cat – absolutely nothing like the slightly grainy, black and white profile picture he’d posted online, in which he was poised with a cello, making him look arty, sophisticated and deep (so I thought). Ok so my own picture wasn’t exactly me as I look having run three blocks in a dress that’s too big for me, but still. I felt a little deceived as he bore his beady eyes into my face and wrapped his fingers round his beer like an evil old man about to ask a very naughty question to an innocent child (ahem).

I waited for him to offer me a drink, as his glass was almost empty and I was clearly in need of one. His eyes never left my face, or chest, as he started talking about himself. He’d had a flood in his office two days before we met. Uh oh. It was pretty bad and he’d been forced to mop. Apparently... wait for it... the office hadn’t been designed with flooding in mind and it had also been built with certain materials that I’d never heard of before. I tried to sound intrigued. Big mistake. “Oh really? You’ve never heard of that material before?” he replied incredulously. “Oh well… it’s a very versatile form of blah blah...." EffingHELLblahBLAH whatever-where's my drink?!?!

I called the barman over and ordered my own drink, at which point he stopped talking and hurriedly ordered another one for himself… and then proceeded to talk about his time living in Japan. Apparently all the girls were dying for a western boyfriend over there and he was swamped with offers. There were too many numbers in his phone to call… so he says. I asked if he knew any Japanese. Even bigger mistake. He knew ten popular phrases, and he was damn well gonna list them for me, one to ten, with in-depth explanations for each one. Jaaaysus!

Now, maybe I’m a bitch but in the first five seconds of meeting someone, who clearly needs a drink and perhaps some form of greeting, (in no particular order), at what point does it even cross your mind to talk about materials prone to help in the prevention of flooding? And Japan?? I’m all about a decent conversation covering randomness… I recently spent about an hour discussing the attributes of cockroaches with a guy who used to live in Costa Rica, but this was just a little too much.

It got worse. I ordered another drink. He never asked me anything about me… my absolute favourite topic, obviously. He just talked and talked and talked me into a bored stupor until I sent “the text” quite sneakily under the table. “The text”, of course, is the one all girls send to their best mate when they’re on a first date – a progress report if you will. Mine read: “I’m running away. Put the kettle on.” I looked up to find the Cheshire cat staring at me intently once more and before I knew what was happening, his hand was reaching for my face, and he was stroking it. This time I DID reel backwards, asked him what the FCUK he was doing, to which he just grinned that gummy grin again. Uuurrgh.

I stood up, told him I had to go and he followed me outside, at which point he grabbed me again and tried to kiss me. I pushed him off, seeing his freakish mouth bearing down on mine in slow motion, imagining an actual repulsive, gob to gob encounter and wanting to puke. “Um… that’s not going to happen,” I said quickly, before turning round and running away. Yes, I actually RAN down Crown Street, all the way back to my house. I’m 30 years old, and I’m running away from boys.

When I got back, he’d sent me a text. It said: “I just wanted to confirm. When you said ‘that’s not going to happen’, did you mean just then, or never?”

Something tells me he should probably go back to Japan. And I should go back to Oasis Active… or perhaps not follow the crowds online anymore. There must be someone decent left in the real world... somewhere? Hello???

A is for Alphabetised CDs...

The date I had last night was an hour and a half of my life I will never get back. What an absolute douche. Seriously. I’m getting a bit sick of online dating in Sydney if I’m honest. When I first activated my profile, I thought the free site ‘Oasis Active’ was a gateway to all sorts of exciting adventures, a wonderland if you will, full of interesting men all dying to wine me, dine me and,… well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I couldn’t wait to get going… was practically chomping at the bit to have my pick of the crop, but what I’ve plucked from cyberspace so far can only be described as fucking awful. Maybe it’s me? No, SURELY not? Is it me?

Well, maybe a bit of it’s me. I do tend to scrutinise every man who sits before me like a mad professor prodding at a beetle under a microscope. Sometimes, the guy won’t have even made it through the door and to my side before I’ve dismissed him for having shit hair or bad shoes. A little voice in my head shouts “NEXT” before he’s even bought me a drink and therein lies my problem. I’m too picky. I’ve been spoilt.

Sometimes I think I might have just dated way too many men from the Internet in the past, and now a little part of my brain sparks up in their actual presence and categorises them without me even asking it to, like a computer: Too short. Too fat. Older than he said he was. Libra. Taurus. Won’t sing karaoke with you. Warning Warning. Warning. Delete!

There’s too much choice for single people, these days, isn’t there? I mean, why linger on something or someone who’s not absolutely everything you desire, when chances are, everything you desire is right around the next corner? And hey, if the next awesome boyfriend’s not around the next corner, he might be around the one after that? Or the one after that. But if you don’t keep turning those bloody corners, you’ll never know.

Back to last night. To be honest, before we met up, I just wanted to cancel. We’d spoken on the phone quite late the night before and he’d sounded a bit dull, but determined to silence that irritating voice in my head, which at the time was screaming: “He’s probably wearing stripy pyjamas and sipping hot chocolate, surrounded by his alphabetised CD collection – DELETE HIM!!”, I agreed to meet him anyway. Even better, he said he really didn’t mind whizzing by my workplace once I’d finished for a quiet glass of wine round the corner, which meant I didn’t have to go to any effort at all to give him the chance he rightfully deserved. Perfect.

I finished work late… another night of filming and uploading a video of the presenters at the radio station performing a stupid task (last night it was snorting Whiz Fizz – how delightful) but I still managed to arrive before he did. I had a bit of a flirty exchange with the cute barman in the pub, who knocked 50 cents off my glass of Merlot, and settled myself into a chair. I was texting Stacey when he turned up. Part of me wanted to run away. As he stood grinning like a full moon in front of me, the first thing that went through my head was: “Karaoke man”. He looked exactly like the kind of guy who might run a mobile karaoke business. Usually I love people like this – they’ve given me HOURS of pleasure – but not because I’ve dated them.

I realised I should probably get up and do the obligatory peck on the cheek thing, so I did, and it was then that I clocked the mass of wrinkles round his eyes and mouth. His profile said he was 34. He looked about 50. Holy shiz!!!

In all my years of online dating I have never, ever actually met someone who’s lied about their age on their profile. I mean, you hear about it happening all the time… maybe I’ve always been lucky in that respect, but this guy had clearly not only told one huuuge fat porker of a lie about his age, but he’d also uploaded a photo that didn’t look anything like him. The guy in the photo had been 20 years younger, tall, slim and very, very smooth.

Just when I was thinking it really couldn’t get much worse, I was struck by the fact that his head was massive and he actually had a pot belly. He looked like a helium balloon wrapped in a black and silver cowboy shirt. Ugh. Everything about him was ugh. No wonder my freak-radar had picked up the image of his middle-aged pyjama wearing lifestyle. I will never doubt that little voice again.

When he came back with another glass of wine, he sat down and grinned at me again, eyed my crossed legs in my new pink skirt and said absolutely nothing. I thought I’d initiate a conversation, which went something like this:
“So, how old are you?”
“I stopped counting at 36”
“So you’re older than 36?”
(more grinning)
“But your profile said you were 34”
“No it didn’t!”
“Yes, it did, because I don’t go out with guys who are older than 34”
“No, you must have read it wrong”
“I’m sure I didn’t. Anyway, how old are you really?”
“I told you, I stopped counting at 36”
“That’s nice, but mother nature didn’t. So how old are you really?”
“You’re not going to leave it, are you?”
“Well, I kind of want to know the person I’ve agreed to go out with isn’t lying about his age… I think that’s kind of creepy.”
“I stopped counting at 36”

At this point the voice in my head was screaming so loudly I thought I was going to pull my hair out, but I did a pretty good job of finishing my wine, listening to him talk about how much he loves to travel and how much he loves working from home (probably wearing pyjamas) without acting like a bitch. When we were done, he offered to drive me home. This would have been a nice gesture if he hadn’t shown up quite tipsy after being at a dinner with friends (or another bad date, probably) and then proceeded to drink even more. Again… ugh.

I walked outside with him, told him I’d be fine in a cab, at which point he stopped outside a silver hybrid sports car that looked like a fucking space pod and asked “Are you sure?” with another infuriating grin. He was clearly waiting for my jaw to drop open at the greatness of his awesome, zillion dollar vehicle, but I decided I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction, so I acted like I hadn’t noticed. He got out his keys, waved them about a bit, obviously disappointed he wouldn’t get to demonstrate a drunken wheelspin at the next set of lights and waiting for me to change my mind. He asked: “How much is a taxi home gonna cost you?”

“I’ll stop counting at 36” I replied, before walking off into the night. Tosser.