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