From London Bridge over the Thames. 

My weekend and a table.

It’s been a weird weekend, which has left me wanting to do absolutely nothing, but sit at our new table, drink a cup of tea and relax in front of some football. The windows are open to savor the rare rays of sunlight and I feel good. I didn’t feel great all weekend, ups, downs, vomits, scoobs, working and a couple of punches thrown in for good measure. I know my weekend is interesting, but I love the new table we have so want to start there. I’m sitting at it right now. My book from the chigwell charity shop to the left of me, cup of PG tips tea in a floral mug on the right of me and a clear piercing view into the epping forest ahead of me. The feng shui is good in this spot, or it’s just the sunlight giving me that much required melatonin hit that becomes so lack living here. I love England, Essex and my house mates Em and Dan. They are too good to me here. Anyway apart of them addition of a table and some shelves I was involved in a one-on-one street fight against an Albanian fuck wit outside the pub I work at. I cannot remember if I got him at all. My first street fight and I was pretty happy with how it went. I stood up tall and kept to all the basics I have learnt. The routines I have practiced in my car port or at footy training with the bags and gloves stayed together, contrary to my beliefs that they would fall apart come to the crunch and I would be throwing fists looking like an octopus on MDMA rather than a fighter. Coward is the only way this man can be defined. Spitting in a gay mans face because of his sexuality and then hitting a woman surrenders any sceric of the word ‘man’ he can cling to. I said I would be willing to press and I’m sure justice will prevail. I cannot say enough about the British polices response to the call.Four vans and a riot vehicle within 5 minutes of first word and picking up the fleeing culprit in less than that was an impressive act of enforcement. I earned a few beers and a shot of tequila from witnesses in the bar for my efforts, which warmed the heart and settled the nerves of the ordeal. Was an event. The silence of the bar when I walked back in was incredible. A packed English pub that wouldn’t of registered a decibel for those few long seconds. I had no idea if I had been hit or my hand was broken or I was going to be in trouble or I was going to crumble or I was going to cry or I was going to go on as normal. I got a shot of tequila and pinched a strong camel cigarette of zsofiah and then I was fine. I couldn’t hold back a few smiles when the old bloke I was previously serving shook my hand and bought me a beer. Even if it was my bad hand. Zsofiah hugged me and all was back to normal. That was the biggest event of the weekend, but I am much more impressed with the neat sorting of the shelves and the positioning of the table in all honesty. Yeah.  I couldn’t help notice a present under the tree saying ‘to barney from Dan and Em’ wrapped in red paper and a bow. I’m so thankful that, that is the only bow I have in my life, one under the tree rather than living in one. (see last post to get that).

Shelves, table and Mitch playing a morning game of fifa.

 I think I have grown as a person over here. I feel stronger than I normal do. A dependency on no one that I have relied on for so long. I cook, do my washing, do the dishes, walk to work, pay rent, pay travel. Live entirely on my terms. I cannot wait to get back into my studies and line up on the back flank for Upwey-Tecoma as I think I am more motivated to do these things than I have ever been. Travel is amazing, I love it, I love the thought of being in the Uffizi gallery looking like I understand Botechelli’s one day and sleeping under the Gare de Lyon clock tower the next, but it makes you realize one thing. How good we have it back home, I never want to live anywhere else. As unstable and as fickle as my mind can be, that thought is as stable and consistent as the beat of my heart. I also vomited on the tube on a previous unfight related night, consisting of guiness, glens vodka and a tuna sandwich. Was a sight, felt bad for a bit, but remembered I paid 35% tax last month so I'll call it even London. 

Photo from the new work space. feat tube map photo. . 

Bow

Above and the following photos show us smiling and having one of many great times in our bow house, which lies a 25 minute tube ride East of the central districts of London. Bow is no made in Chelsea, it’s more where Halal chicken shops meet the needs of the broke, where the Eastenders Snooker Club’s purple script front sends my heart beating a little quicker and Muslims sell push brooms and blue-tack in shops entitled ‘pound busters’ or ‘99p store’. It is nothing short of a ghetto neighborhood by an Australian’s standards, I saw a man yelling “I’m gonna stab that nigger” and run out of the chicken shop, as I paused a bite of my 1 pound burger and watched as the chicken man continued turning crispy breasts completely unbewildered. Despite this we made it here for a month, living on day old sandwiches and prêt soups, listening to post rock on stolen speakers and banging the football around our concrete back garden to pass the time between working and thoughts of being broke. Sara the girl we were staying with describes the situation perfectly by quoting her mum “I don’t care what you do as long as you’re moving forward” and we could all agree that this place wasn’t pointing us forwards or sustainable for or needs as wide eyed travelers, especially when the allures of home’s community spirit and it’s exceptional coffee shop cloud us. Mitch and I would kill to lose another day lost between Greeny sounding out the daily quiz and a slice of fresh carrot cake at Have Ya Bean cafe. These thoughts loomed all the while Mitch and I worked at the pub, Mel cleaned hotels under management of stout Romanian women and Sara tried for Jobs to no prevail. The times weren’t all as bad as they sound, you cannot throw 4 good people into a room and not have a good time. The conversations were great, everyone helped each other out and we became an odd, small family. I enjoyed not having a TV for once; I was able to catch up on some reading, always trying to see how others write and word. I have found salvation in UK’s free Vice magazine’s, reading about young writers describing the aesthetic views out of American desserts from open freight train draws as they hop the country or the ridiculousness of the fictional, always out of luck character Combover. Combover is extreme and I want to construct my own style character in a blog to which I can live the hypotheticals of life through a pen, as fucked up and as twisted as they might be. I always think great thoughts but don’t pen them down as I read, which I should do. I picture an early 20’s Neil Young shacking up after leaving Canada in a place like this, with the walls cracking and shower busted , writing with a joint folded under the E string at the headstock, a pen in the mouth and a creased look as he tries out the chords and tones that will one day revolutionise the listening world. Great stories come out of places like this, no example bigger than Dizzie Rascal growing up on the curbs of Bow. To me it’s really not that bad, but I know a lot of people who wouldn’t live like this. I read an article on Jacob Holdt the Danish renegade photographer of the 70’s and 80’s who lived on the streets of America for 2 years. I look at his albums often and bought a 98’Minolta Vectis panoramic film camera for 2 quid at the bow op shop to try and do some of more original works, not just shooting rose heads in crystal clear macro like a year 12 media student. The only barrier on this is that I just cannot afford a roll of film right now haha. I cherish my time at Bow, a chapter in my Europe story I hope is not forgotten by memories of the Sistine chapel 3 months ago or the northern lights in the upcoming months. It enabled me to save rent free, thanks to the others and I’m in debt to them for that. Bow was fine as long as we were getting food in our mouths, coffee was on the boiler and Barneys Bow Bar was fully stocked with beer.

This one snuck under the radar on my computer. I love the country side, low flog and the traditional houses

Club Seven in Nerjca,  Spain (L-R Willsy, Georgie, Myself, Finch)

A suspected Banksy I found in London. Regardless it is amazing

London, killing me slowly.

London is slowly chewing me up and getting ready to spit me out. I'm not sure which end I will come out of at the moment though. I'm feeling like even if I was to miraculously get a phone call from an employer asking me to join the team, I will be eating from bins, staying on floors, drinking from down pipes and pissing in the thames. I'm running out of money fast, accommodation, 7 pound a day to use the tube and the always tempting and overpriced night of sitting at the corner of Hately's bar talking guff and forgetting what's outside. Washing comes in to play when I start smelling like a hungarian garbage man and the fact that I must eat something doesn't help the cause. I have been smashing gumtree everyday, sending my CV to all corners, waiting for the phone to light up, but it's always sits, still and silent. I'm still hopeful that I can get work somewhere, but applying for jobs I'm not experienced in (hospitality) and no grass around to show my expertise on the brush cutter, I'm feeling less hopeful as time progresses. I had high aspirations to finish my trip on. Working for a few months, saving a few quid and heading to scotland for my last experiences, but it looks I may have to leave an amazing 3 month trip on the note of sitting on facebook in an east london hostel and playing in store fifa 13 at HMV on oxford street (training for the tournament in which I can win a PSP). Going home would be great, seeing my loving family, getting a home cooked meal from mother dear and scratching my dog freddy on the belly, while the more placid pooch Barney boy sits on my lap is so tempting, but all there for me in a couple months time. I watch the BBC weather report daily, where people are sending in pictures of the nothern lights (Aurora Borealis) from the top of Scotland, which is the most bright and visible it has been in over a decade and wishing my phone would light up. One lady said it was so beautiful she couldn't focus her camera because she was crying too much. It's good to see images on TV where people are crying for the world in joy, because the papers are so god damn depressing here. The most depressing aspect is that good journalism storys are put in the back burner, because Kate Middleton, wore a smart dress, dropped her guts or spoke to an insincerely to  an indonesian child with a terminal illness.

Related but unrelated story.

The child delayed a blood transfusion to fit in with duchesses' busy schedule. The boys mother said  "her son was tired and weakened due to delaying of the transfusion in the hours before the visit and although not really knowing who he was talking to it was like the pain had gone away". Pay the kid a visit after he has been pumped with some blood. The Duchess to think a visit from her is worth being weaker and in more pain than usual pains me. If I was writing that story I would have let her have it. The cutting edge journalism follwed with "The duchess' performance was great". Sincerity must not have been required.

The papers here can be summed up by reputable paper "The Sun" having a topless girl on page 3 everyday. you see males (finch and I included) walk into newsagents of a morning and lift their brows at the stunning chest of a young women, with syrian war headlines around it when shifting the first page. What a paper. I'm planning on plugging away for another week or so, but if nothing prevails I will be heading home. This blog will be over or retitled (I love writing) and I will be sitting outside ha ya bean cafe drinking a coffee thinking about where and how I will be able to go next.

Unrelated photo of Hatley excitedly bombing a hill in the Jungfrau. 

Lisbon

I have written a ripper post on oktoberfest, but is pending due to needing some pictures. I was sleepless again, with my brain doing it's usually cognitive gymnastics, ruining any chance of sleep with floods of minor shit, flowing from the sub-conscious to the conscious. My brain is fucked. It's about 2 pages long and I think it's my funniest, most accurate piece of writing I have done. Recently I haven't been blogging and there is not excuse for that, but I have been looking for a job in London, I have had half of me mates from upwey tipping beers down my gullet and worst of all I had to go to that festival in munich around the time of october I have forgotten the name of. I have this little tale that I hope I can satisfy the people who care about this.

Lisboa.

Shots were down on the table, a cheap house liquor called an erasamus, dropped in each, with the final touch a choclate peanut. The peanut was nice, but the blue straight tasted like lpg and I'm not talking premium octance. The third night in a row we had done this. Would we ever learn. Finch and I had been going out everynight on the Lisbon pub crawl, with all the new faces we had met at the hostel we now called friends. Callum, Lauren, Nicky, Hayley, Danny, Big Bobby Bredan, Nick, 2nd Nick, Matt, Shannon, Blacky, Sauce, steve, prue and many others I have forgotten due to the drunken amnesia that clouds over my memory stores when I punch Lisbon into it. The scene for the following picture involves a shot called a '666' or hospital shot. only the 6 absinthes finished of with a dollop of tabasco sauce in this one. The brew sits on the table bubbling like the fires of mordor as you register what you have just purchased as you hand the keep the 2 euro charge. You look your drunken comrades in the eyes, take in the cool interior of the cool greens and blues of the bar before you tip the glass. wait for the kick. By kick i mean a fucking kick in the throat. The power of the 6 absinthes of all different colours, with the sinus blowing sting of the tabasco to finish. I had done this 2 nights in a row, but come the third I had, over did the pre game, had no chaser and  was soon running for the nearest exit. I was jumping around trying to hold it in and when blacky told me to let the little european coupe have it I took aim. The hood of the opel messed with my brand of ingests. We had looked at this white opel every night, wondering why it was so dirty and parked in such an odd spot. parking your car outside of a shooters bar is like parking behind the goals (once saw a mt eve local park his glass truck, with a full load of panes behind the goals at their home ground) It's risky. Blackys mate, washed it off with a water bottle. My mouth was on fire, tasted like an old jock strap and I was suddenly in all sorts. Finch was lost. I didn't care. The good samaritan with the water bottle had left, round 2 was coming. Blacky directed me to the car. bam. another load of salsa looking hot spew for the opel. The duco may or may not have been slightly burnt from the heat, but this is unconfirmed.

Lauren and I next to the spew 1 week on. 

Finch and i headed to Porto to recover from Lisbons liver annihilating regime of nightly beer pong tournaments and shooters bars. There we took it easy. seeing the sights, playing checkers, watching some movies. Caught up with Callum, which was a nice little outing to a bar, but was a quite leg of our trip. We returned to Lisbon to fly out, giving ourselves a couple of days to catch up with all our new mates. We were told on arrival that the spew lived on and that the car was yet to move. I was elated. Possibly the best spew of all time. Big call, but valid. a week in the elements and still showing the remnants of last mondays lunch and pasta dinner.

3 weeks on.

3 weeks on and I was sent a photo by spew enthusiast Juliet, who had just began working at the G-spot hostel when I left. We got along well and she instantly was impressed at my abilty to produce long-lasting, weather resistant projectiles. She sent me this photo via facebook 2 weeks after the first update. I was ecstatic once again to be making the local papers and on-going media interests of Lisbon for my sick. I haven't had an update on the state of the white opels hood since then, but I really hope that it is still caked loud and proud. Thanks for reading. 

I realise my last 2 blog entrys have been polar opposites in feel. At least this keeps it interesting I reckon. Stay tuned for my oktoberfest entry. I hope you'll enjoy it. I enjoyed writing it. 

Taken outside of the Anne Frank house in Amsterdam. It's eyre to think of the beauty that this photo has knowing that Anne would have hardly ever of seen the outside of her building. Free birds flying over the canals, over worn rooftops, over the tree partly shading the warm evening sun.  This intensifies the sadness you feel when you reach the boarded room where Anne and sister Margot Frank resided, exiled in her fathers office building. The three of us walked around the house, reading the innocence in Anne's quotes on the walls, watching and listening to projector screens of the people involved in the ordeal and watching people move in a lifeless sadness that such a darkness the rooms set on every one. The quote that hit me most said by a sullen faced Otto Frank (father) on the projectors, went along the lines of "A parent will never be able to know the real feelings of their child". This quote on the screen as mothers and fathers pushed their young children along through the rooms. It occurred to me then that even the people who know us best, are still clueless to how we feel.  You could hear nothing, maybe some faint sobbing or a child too young to be engaged running around in another room.  Their was a board game set up on a small table. She Wrote of the excitement she felt when she received the board game. The final room showed Anne's release forms to the concentration camp. The form reading 'Anne Frank; status: Deceased' 10 metres further on. People couldn't hold back the tears, or never wanted to. The tears came mostly from the jewish, reading these forms, one man barely able to hold himself up. I didn't tear. I watched the heart felt emotion of those most affected, the jewish older men and women apart of the war, deserve to cry over me. We are all humans though and I should have cried. I felt nothing but sadness and hate for the cowardice acts carried out by the nazis. If only someone had driven a bullet into that combover fuck when he was growing up, writing letters, playing in the open fields. Being a kid. Anne Frank dreamed of riding a bike on the streets outside. You really gain a perspective when you think of your dreams. A young girl and her family, sent to a camp, set to do hard labour. Anne and her sister worked in the fields until nightfall, where their hell continued in crowded bunks, where disease ran rampant. Anne and her sister were badly covered in sores from scabies. Their mother stopped eating to feed her weakened girls. She died of starvation. Margot fell off a bunk bed and died. A weakened Anne soon followed. Her death, only two weeks before the liberation of the camp by British troops.

Everyone deals with sadness differently, but we all should have cried in that room.

 Taken early in the trip. An Australian artist bombing the Berlin wall in broad daylight, with his girlfriend watching on from the grass. I'm unclear about the the laws regarding graffiti on the Berlin wall, but it seems that if you are any good then the monument is your canvas. This is taken on the eastern side where the art, music and hipster lifestyle thrives, due to it's student housings, low rent and abundance of underground nightspots. I intend on looking into some english speaking courses where I can live apart of this fantastic movement.

Taken in Monte Marte, Paris from the  Sacré Cœur cathedral. It is stunning, looking out over the city, you gain a perspective of it's size and vastness. Paris has it's pros and conss (It has it's rich history shown by amazing monuments around every corner, telling stories of an all conquering empire, whilst on the other hand it is over populated, expensive, unclean and has a poor reputation for manners and etiquette) but this land mark is beautiful despite anyones opinions.

Sevilla

Finch and I were drinking vodka, with our new found mixer Sunny Delight Florida (the most artificially coloured, sugar dosed drink I’ve ever tasted, which was researched on the grounds that kids began turning orange) when nature called and I had to go to my room to drain the dam. I was feeling a little oiled (finch is trying to steal that phrase) which had me thinking to slow down a little once I peed on the ensuite seat had a look around, and left. I entered the room to find our 14 bed dorm full (had previously been the 2 of us) of drunk dudes, some half clad and others drinking from straight bottles. I was shocked, I introduced myself to everyone and was getting along quite well, until the big fella came out of the showers. One of the biggest burliest blokes, wearing nothing but a towel (I suspect may have been a foot towel as it was only halfway down his leg) swinging a bottle of mean looking poison in his right hand. “Drink up little fella, this is a fine polish liquor” he shouted in a thick polish accent. What can you say to a man who was definitely Ivan Drago double in Rocky 4, other than a squeaky “yep”. Half a glass of this shit was down my throat before I could say Warsaw and to tell you the truth it made the throat feel a bit Warsaw. I coughed, spluttered and cursed to the big fella as he chuckled and a slapped me on the back (was an Ivan hit which nearly hurt more than the shot). I headed for the exit in the politest way possible, just to get away from this brute before he smashed me over the head with the bottle, to find Finch continuing on the 8 euro smirnoff. I was for the 4 euro wodka brand but Finch wouldn’t take. I met a couple European fellas downstairs. “Where do you come from mate” I asked one of the fellas. “Australia”. “You taking the piss mate?”. he laughed “Austria”. My apologies. haha what a mix up. They were pretty nice and the girl with them had legs. The pub crawl heads to three places, the first two are reasonably priced shot bars and the third being the somewhat prestigious looking outdoor bar called Alfonsos. The outdoor allure is one that is substantial as the mercury pushes 40 on a regular basis here. at the first bar we watched Real Madrid taking on the unconquerable Barcelona, while drinking a few of the complementary shots and cool euro cervezas. The cool part is important as some places will crack you a warm beer over here without remorse. We chatted on the street with Andrew R (psych student and amateur photographer), Libia (Wild Venezuelan girl, loves the 1.80 red) and the entity only known to Finch and myself as the Israeli wrecking ball. 

After shooting with Andy.

Ahh the ball. Finch and I came across this beast on the first night of the pub crawl, dancing up on some young, thin German girls, whom didn’t seem overly enthused to be danced on by such an imposing figure. Little did we know that he was staying at our hostel and we were going to have a lot to do with him over the next few days. he hung around with us from sun rise to sun fall, he was a pretty nice dude, but I began checking corners with a mirror to gain a break from the man. A few beers in the name ‘The Israeli wrecking ball’ came to me in a shot, like the cartoon light bulb hoovering over my head. The name came due to the sudden realisation that he was the most spherical man on the planet, a short dumpy man that you could measure the area of with the equation pieR squared. I mean I have never seen a more circular human in all my life, this guy was a medicine ball with eyes. The five of us began having a few beers on the street where the prices were better, when we brought it up with him that he was now to be known as the wrecking ball and that we wanted him to give us his best shot. Finch and I braced our selves on the narrow but crowded street, waiting to take the hit of our lives. He kicked his feet like a bull, lining us up with a mean glint in his eye before stopping, laughing and having a vigorous sip of his beer. I was relived to say the least. I mean it would have been like copping a direct hit from a Boeing 747. we partied on not mentioning it again in case the extra beers throughout the night gave him the confidence to carry out a wrecking ball like hit. When we got home (a little under the weather) we logged onto the hostel computers where we watched clips of the juggernaut from X-men running through buildings with his head down, picturing the damage our bodies would have received if he had of decided to get a head of steam up and barrel us. haha. Now whenever we see a sturdy wall or ancient city protecting fortress one of us says “You reckon he could get through it” to the reply “like butter”.

My favourite shot from that night.

I’m going to try and regain some structure again after the Wrecking ball tangent so I’m going lead us off from the second bar which was in the lovely Sevilla gardens. I mingled as Finch was staggering around by himself trying to convince me someone had spiked his beer. Fuck of you drunken fool. I conversed about health reform with some criminal psychologists and spoke about their work. They were really intelligent and well spoken with opinions that were what I call expert. Everyone's entitled to an opinion, but when I meet people like this I believe some do more so than others. They were so informative and interesting to speak with, but I was getting loose and needed someone who could talk some mindless guff. With finch pinging off his brain from his spiked carlsberg. I began talking and later pissing on tree with Ozan, the big, thin turkish cat, whom sported waist long dread locks and a calmly spoken demeanor. He liked pot. We headed onto Alfonso’s where we were questioned about our dress code once more as it’s shirt and pants. We had t-shirt and thongs, but knew we were untouchable, being on the pub crawl. We danced with Andy and Libia, before Libia pounced on me attacking my face with hers. She was kissing me like it was going out of fashion, which I didn’t like so I ducked off. She turned and attacked finch with the same force. Finch also was on the Lam for a bit to get away from this crazy South American. I danced a little longer after having a chat with Brisbane DJ chris, who was alright, before andy and I decided to make tracks. I emptied my pockets in search of a few euro to eat one of the primest burger stands in all the lands. I pulled out a lone 5 euross to hoe into one of these bad boys. I explained to the depressed unkempt worker that I wanted the lot and to build it to heaven. “To Heaven!!”. It was to heaven and it was the best burger my buds have ever had the pleasure of experiencing. “That’s how you make a burger” I babbled as I scoffed, looking at Andy who I thought might lock his jaw the way he was going about devouring his burger. We had no money for a taxi as we had been chowing down with our last remaining euross converted into burger form, so we started off in the direction of our hostel. We chatted about anything and everything. How we were good guys and someday we'll catch a break with a nice girl. We chatted about Libia. I had noticed her habits before hand and we both agreed she probably needed some help. Andrew and I had briefly met in Madrid 3 weeks prior so we knew each other quite well. He is an interesting bloke to talk with and we never experienced a lull in conversation for the entire time. He is like a yankee me but a little more advanced. (He is greater traveled and undertaking a Phd in transpersonal psychology). He loves coffee, loves traveling and his greatest love is photography. In my eyes he is a pro. We went shooting together the next night and he has a true eye for it. I was able to learn heaps from shooting with him and I think my photos have been a little sharper for it. An hour and a half later we were drinking juice from cartons and watching youtube videos as the clock ticked over 5 am. It was the night I met so many good people. Ozan, the wrecking ball, Libia, Andy, the Austrians, The Pol, The psychologists, Clara the sweed, DJ chris and a couple from Slovenia.

Thanks for reading. 

The swiss mountains

The Journey through Liechtenstein had not treated me well. I managed a poor meal in town with my last remaining euros and was fighting with an ATM machine that refused to convert me some Swiss francs. I was warring with this machine for 5 or so minutes, before giving it a Tommy Lockett* to the mid section before heading back to the bus with my tail between my legs and nothing, but failed receipts from the dodgy teller in my wallet. I entered the bus saving face, wondering how I was to keep my expensive lifestyle up of Pizza for lunch and a few dozen beers by night. I had barely been seated when I was called upon to perform the dreaded coachie-okie in front of the bus for being late the prior day in Munich. Coachie-okie is a contiki rule, where the last person on the bus has to get up the front on the mic, put some ear buds in and belt out a tune. I was played by Millie the tour guide (that British, tea drinking babbler!) as I had asked her whether I would be able to get a bottle of water while we waited for the driver to finish packing the bags, to her all clear. Hustled! Alike all bus trips I had forgotten to charge my ipod so I borrowed Georgies in front of me and began wading through the unfamiliar pop, trying to find a track which suited my rough and ready pipes. I settled on Big girls don’t cry by Fergie and dedicated it to Millie as she had cracked it back in Liechtenstein at the manager of the restaurant for their attempted efforts at service and meal making. I was nervous, but quietly confident in my vocal abilities having practiced at home in my spare time to one day live my dreams of becoming the next Dallas Green or Mitch Miller. I was shaking a little bit during the first verse, trying to prevent my voice from cracking and on pitch, but halfway in I was growing in confidence and I could see that the crowd was beginning to give me a more rousing reception then I’d expected. When the chorus hit I took it up a notch and giving it a few extra decibels, before turning to Millie looking her straight in the eyes, easing the volume and giving her a heart felt husky falsetto of “and big girls don’t cry”. She couldn’t hide her cute little smile. If I had of known I was going to be performing to an audience I would have gone down to a small studio in the stein, cut a few tracks and sold them on a fold out card table in the aisle for 5 euros a piece, hence solving my Swiss money woes. Coming down from the high of my performance I noticed that we were now crossing the border into Switzerland, the home of Roger Federer, cheese fondue and everything overpriced. Millie described Switzerland as being a prosperous country and after buying a coffee I realised why. It was in the ball park of 6 francs for a small cappuccino and as the lady spoke english as well as the dog lying at the bar, I had to pour my own cap. It was one of the best coffees, I’d had in Europe and I somehow place some of that success on the fact that I had poured it. It was here I gained some wifi access to check my account to try and solve the issue of me not being able to access any money. My account was empty, needing mother to reload the rest of my savings into it. I borrowed money off Mitch for the next few days and wondered the impending karma I was to face for dishing out a plugga to that innocent ATM.

Switzerland sticks in my mind for two things. Having one of the best days I’ve had over here on the mountain, getting wasted atop with the locals and the second being Mitch browning himself after a day of slogging it out on the swiss porcelain. The day starts with waking up after a rare sleep in and gathering a crew to head for some increased altitude in Switzerlands Bernese alps. Mitch was not looking the goods, but knew he could not miss a day like this, looking down on the swiss valleys, watching the low fog settle and enjoying the green and lushes offerings of Jungfraus mountains. We purchased tickets for 41 francs and to save money bought baguettes, cheese, ham and water to repent a rash decision in buying food for astronomical prices up there. We were packed and ready to begin the walk to the cable car when Mitch turned to me in his brown t-shirt to say “I can’t do it man”. He looked shabby to say the least, probably touching cloth at the very moment, so I accompanied him back to the room. I was disappointed that I was not going to be able to spend such a day we had both been highly anticipating together, but it wasn’t long before it hit me that i was now to be enjoying two lunches in his absence. He hit the bed and groaned. “See ya knackers” I called as I shut the door on the sad and sorry figure. The group was set and we walked the trails through the cottage town to the car. The weather was glum and drizzly and I was worried that I was going to get highly exposed pictures, which would have annoyed me no end, partly as I’m a keen photographer and partly due to the fact I wouldn’t be able to rub it in Mitches face with some spectacular snaps capturing all the beauty and aesthetics that he was to miss. We got to the top and It was raining, cold and miserable. We needed to get inside for some warmth and with the others peckish we settled down at a genuine swiss restaurant. The genuine Australian waiter handed us some menus and at first glance knew it was to be a side of chips and a table water appearing on my bill. The restaurant made for some interesting conversations with big V, the two Canadian girls and the ever complex Mish. As we conversed I continuously looked out the window, where I began to realise some promising weather sweeping in from behind a distant mountain as more and more time elapsed. With the weather coming through, I also noticed a crowd of strangely dressed people amassing on the streets in front of us. The crowd grew outside as big V polished off an oversized bowl of sea food inside. I could hear the crowd begin to cheer and as I looked closer I could see cows with odd flower head dresses, clinking their large cowbells as they plodded along down the street. We paid our bills, to see what was going on to find a full on festival underway to the tune of the cows bells. It was so cultural and traditional, watching girls walking by in lederhosen offering white wine, the blokes and older women with trays of schnapps and a whole town chanting and laughing as they marched down the narrow hillside streets. I was thinking of having a glass of schnapps to turn around to Steve with an empty glass. This was were it began. We walked taking photos of the now blue skies and picturesque ice capped mountain scapes. I had my finger on the trigger more often than not, taking more photos than anywhere we’d been previously. We followed the crowd, marching amongst the floats, drinking white wine, to wash down the schnapps. The crowd went up the hill and we stayed on the main street taking photos and soaking up the view. Some decided to begin the descend, but being overwhelmed by the beauty of the hill a few decided to have a few beers before saying our final good-byes. myself and an unusual group of 4 remained. Andy and Steve, the two Manly meatheads, Mish, the Perth IT consultant and the always pretty Darwin brawler Hannah. We searched for a bar to drink in and look out over the valley to no avail. After searching for a while we noticed the festival had settled in a hall on above the town. People were selling traditional food, Sunflowers and what we were looking for beer. The hall was packed and it was apparent that we were the only foreigners in the hall. We drank beer, followed by beer, followed by some shots (thanks to Hannah), then some more beer. we were looking worse for wear. Misha bit toilet paper, Andy and I were dancing on the tables with the locals, Hannah stole one of the band members hats and I don’t remember what Steve was up to, but I’m guessing he was shaking his T-shirt to get some ventilation into his famously salty pits. We left the hall completely sideways, having deep and meaningfuls in the cable car, telling embarrassing story's like a bunch of plain old drunks. We had a 40 minute walk back to the camp, which was filled with Stevo vomiting to fit in another beer, some pissing in the woods, wearing a jacket Hannah managed to swipe from a poor man named Grimwold and an unexplainable position steve got himself into on the bridge. To say we were bent, is an understatement.

Steve, Andy, Hannah and Mish crashed as soon as they got in due to their Swiss alps annihilation. I was on my last legs, but pushed on, watching the Olympics and talking some guff with the new Zealander's and Canadians. After seeing Australia’s dismal medal tally I began going for Canada, by singing the national anthem that Jaclyn and Kim had taught me in my drunken state. I began singing it when they won, which lead to when the placed, which lead to every time I saw the flag. I have no idea how I was still functioning at this point. haha. alright here it is. I’m putting this together from what Andy and Mitch have told me, but this is how it happened. Andy stumbled into the room and crashed on the bed above Mitch, whom looked in the same state as he had in the morning, spending most of his day in the third cubicle on the left, changing from a seated position to a kneel according to which end was required. He had managed to spit out 15 shits and couple vomits since we left for the Alps that he could remember, but the 16th was the fatal blow. The room was full of people checking up on both Andy and Mitchell as they lay there. Mitch with crippling gastro and Andy from being plain old fashion pissed. The room was finally clear and Mitch nodded off on the bottom bunk, while Andy lay on the top trying to get some rest. An almighty smell arose through the bunk hitting Andy who couldn’t believe the brutal stench that Mitch had manufactured below, so opened the window and tried to sleep through the unpleasant odour. 5 minutes passed and the smell was still as intense as it had been when it first presented itself, so Andy decided to wake the sick Hatters up to get a better read on the situation. Mitch awoke to noticed that in his sleep he had violently squirted himself and had been lying in his own diarrhea. Mitch sprung to his feet after realising that one had snuck through the gates and began dancing on the spot freaking out, in his own hysterical way he does when he needs to vomit. He couldn’t believe the guards had let him down. He rushed to the shower, washing the caked mess from his body before returning to Andy in disgrace. Andy describes it as no runway strip, but a full blown puddle left on the sheets. The average man would have thrown their duds out after such an event, but not Hatley, just a rinse under the tap would suffice before putting them back in the bag. haha. The sheet was rolled up and left in the rubbish crate outside for disposed bottles. Switzerland has a strict recycling scheme. This fitted in no category. Embarrassed, Mitch went back to sleep trying to forget all that had just happened. I had not idea what had transpired until morning and although I wasn’t there it is still one of my favourite tales to tell from Contiki. Andy caught the bug going on to misjudge one and liquid fart the following night, losing a brand new pair of CK’s in the process. haha. What times.

*Tommy Lockett was Andy’s attempt at naming football player Tony Lockett, which Hatley and I found hilarious. Any kick from then on was known as the Tommy Lockett or the big Plugga.

The Most Interesting Man on Earth.

Seeing Trent leave and no where to stay prompted us to take a risk in getting from Amsterdam to Barcelona/Madrid in a single day. This proved an impossible feat and not wanting to pay 77 euros extra for the over night train, we were stranded halfway in the both wonderful and awful French capital, Paris. after tossing up numerous options yet all looking to hurt our back pockets we reserved a seat to Figueres (spanish border), where branches to both Barcelona or Madrid were possible come lunch time the following day. Faced with the options of getting a hotel room or sleeping at the station we elected to do the latter and see the Tower once more at night. Armed with my camera, tri-pod and a full battery, I was happy to line up the tower through the view finder one more time before I left the amazing landmark. We relieved our spines by dropping our packs at the luggage storage, before setting out out on foot, which was a nice change considering we had been sitting on the locomotive all day. The mild sun beat down on our heads and I felt more perceptive walking along the river seine than the previous times, enjoying the street performers as they busked jazzy tunes, the Latin dance lessons on the riverside and the sound of boats creating light wakes while couples drank wine and laughed on the decks. This area I can assure you does not speak for the entirety of Paris, merely covering the overpopulated, dilapidated, crushed urban scape in which residents gobbled up by the machine that is Paris reside, but I loved the covering on this night. Stranded in Paris is not the worst situation that has ever happened to anyone as long as they have some money and wits. We walked for three quarters of an hour and we had hardly put a dent in the journey, so a few beers were in order to take the edge off our stress ridden day. We disappeared into a small Irish pub to chat and regather over a beer that went down better than ever, giving me a collected mindset for the rest of the travel. The sun was going down and the Towers lights could be seen from a distance. The monument in sight is not an indication of being there, The shear size of the landmark creates a perception of being closer than you really are. It seems the same size for half an hour after you first see it and being my third visit to the tower I was not fooled. We got there eventually and grabbed spot on the grass where we lay with a bottle of wine I bought from a gypsy, in silence letting ourselves take in the lights and atmosphere the tower emits. After a glass of red, a brief talk with some girl I gave a huge glass of red (the gypsy red wasn't much chop) we took our last look at the tower before commencing the return journey. This is where we met him.

Walking the streets of this side of Paris at night is not a hassle. the odd homeless or rambling drunkard, but you'll find these people whichever city in the world you're in. we strolled along chatting for around a quarter of an hour before walking up behind a man with large white headphones, relaxed tweed shorts, surf t shirt with a stone washed shirt over the top. He was around 25, 6 foot one, lean, a marginally brown complexion and a small non tight afro. A pretty cool, relaxed looking dude humming French tunes and smiling. He stopped after seeing our shadows removed his headphones and said 'hello'. We greeted him back and before long we were chatting whilst we walked. We had only been chatting for around 2 minutes before he asked us where we were intending on traveling to come morning. We explained our situation the prior day and told him that we were catching the first train out of Paris to Spain. I never saw the next words from him coming, and I don't think even the highest credentialed human behaviorist could have. He said "I'll come". We all had a laugh and when he started laughing excessively I began to get a little concerned with this guy and his mind. He almost had a serious glint in his eye about the whole, going to Spain with us notion. He said that he was nearly home when we had caught him, but the idea of having lunch in Spain the following day was too exciting to resist. We walked in silence for a bit before he took off his head phones and introduced me to his favourite 80's French band. It was pretty average, but I said that I liked it. He gave us a history lesson with his perfect English on every building, bridge, restaurant and sight we passed. He had a unique air of intelligence and charisma. It became apparent about three quarters of the way home that we knew nothing about him although he had been talking the whole time. I asked him of his profession to yet another reply of laughter and "I guess I sell some things". I initially thought drugs and began to further distance myself. He continued laughing to the point Kris and I were getting really uncomfortable. A madman indeed. He said he cannot help it as he loves seeing peoples reactions when he laughs for a minute straight. some laugh with him, some freeze and some run he explained. We just stood there. Does this guy have a Job to go to in the morning? it's 2.00 am on a Monday night for god sakes. We made it to the station to find it completely closed. The front entrance was lined with homeless, drunks and no-gooders, some sleeping others hanging around and a group of them playing cards. We decided to get out of there for the moment and asked the man whether he knew where a place to buy food was. He wasn't certain, but started off down a main street, chatting the way. A drunken bum rambling and stumbling down the street with a bottle of wine and an impressive beard walked past, at which point I turned to the man and said "is that one of your friends". He laughed and replied "haha Yes, I'm that crazy". I was on edge with him after that. Finch and I every now and then had been turning to each other behind his back and miming things like "what the fuck" or "Who is this guy" under our breaths. The whole thing was weird. He pulled out his blackberry and called a friend for his birthday, but being 2.30 am understandably got the answering machine. He said happy birthday and that he would see him after Spain. he put the phone to our ears to give a little message. We were growing comfortable with him by now so we sent our best wishes to his friend Charles as we walked. He found us a couple of cokes after persuading the closing up shop owner with his charm, which hit the spot. We walked back to the station but with just over an hour until it opened we lay on our back packs near the Gare de Lyon Mercure. The safest looking spot to sit and wait. We chatted with him further and I asked him in all seriousness what his job was. He laughed and explained that he was a entrepreneur who had made it with a website offering discounts to events, restaurants and products around France. He explained that he makes a commission from the companies that list the deals on his site. It was the only thing that made sense and I completely believed him. He had been so honest and sincere with everything that he had told us previously. I began to warm to him and his quirks and kind of hoped that he would come to Spain with us, but was still skeptical about things. My human instinct had labelled this odd man as a threat. somebody I couldn't understand, work out or fit into any category. An entrepreneur that had conquered the world, without a great deal of toil, leading him to live instinctively and act irrationally for kicks had never occurred to me. It was the only thing that made sense. He was interested that I was taking psychology, "I bet you couldn't profile me”. I replied “mate you’re not wrong”. He said quote “with people you won't stop studying for a life time”. He was wise with his words and I took in everything he said that night. He knew so much about Kris and I, but now I longed to know more about him. He told me that there was nothing better in life than silence. He was too interesting to ignore. The three of us were growing weary so we lay against the barrier poles on the curb looking up at the impressive and illuminate clock that shone above us. The concrete was hard on my back, but despite this I couldn't keep my eyes open. I wrapped my arm around my bag tight to prevent anyone from taking it before letting myself drop off.

 Finch and I woke up 15 or so minutes later to find him gone. We sprung up and checked our stuff. I knew he hadn't taken anything. He came laughing out of the terminal saying "it's open, but I didn't want to wake you". At this point I said "Sorry mate, I never caught your name, I'm Tom" to the reply "ahhh that's because I never gave it to you, mine is Jonathan". Yet another remark I found interesting. He searched for an open machine for a ticket, but they were all closed. He bought one croissant and filled up Kris' drink bottle. He offered us the single croissant before taking the first bite. We lay and tried to sleep in the terminal, but funnily enough couldn't drop off like we had earlier on the street. I had my phone on charge and Jon asked politely if he could listen to my music for a while. I put on some God is an Astronaut, which he was really get into with a few head bobs. Finch and I went and grabbed our bags, to find Jonathan gone. He reappeared 5 minutes later with a ticket to Spain, a book on spirituality and some water. He had the clothes on his back, his headphones, his phone and his new book. The essentials for 5 hour international trip. We discussed where we were going to stay and when I mentioned a hostel, he thought that it would be great idea as we could save money. Saving money, not the characteristics of an internet tycoon. We boarded the train, with him two seats ahead of us. I was mainly sleeping, but every time I looked up he was further and further into the book. He didn't utter a word to us for the entire trip. He finished the book before arriving in Figueres and didn’t even look tired. No wonder his language was impeccable. departing the train we had no idea whether to head to Barcelona or Madrid and lacking the spontaneity of Jonathan we momentarily sat calculating the best move to make. He couldn't sit still. In this brief period he struck up a conversation with the most beautiful Spanish girl. What ever he was saying in Spanish, he had her full attention. He has a gift when it comes to people. Finch and I discussed what to do while he chatted with everyone he could find. The girl was off to a reggae festival he informed me and said that it looked pretty good. He went and chatted to a few guys outside and had made yet more friends. He moved onto the Bus drivers, chatting away before coming back to us and saying "Hey guys, I'm going to jump on that bus it was nice meeting you, I want you to add me on facebook". He ran to the service desk wrote his name down on an old lotto card and said "don't be surprised when you see me on TV" before turning to chase down the already in motion bus. The bus came to a halt, let him on and that was the last we saw of Jonathan. Kris and I in shock at what had just happened were speechless. A man we were speaking to on the street in Paris after 2 minutes spontaneously decided to come to Spain for no apparent reason on a Tuesday morning after sleeping under a clock in Paris, then leaving on a Bus to who knows where, to never be seen again.

We bewilderedly walked to the shops in the station and ate while we tapped into the Mc'donalds Wifi. I removed the scrunched up lotto card from my pocket to search the name Jonathan Besnainou. The results shocked me as I read. Jonathan Besnainou is Ceo of 300 million euro a year company ohmydeal.com. His company is set to move around 8 billion euros in total in 2012, up 3 billion since 2005. I watched a video of him on Youtube. The same curly hair, the same intelligent speak, the same quirky mannerisms, the same exact man lying next to us sleeping on the concrete under the clock tower in Paris. I still can't believe it. I can honestly say that I have met one of the most interesting men on earth.

I am Sterdam

 

Hey all, I'm back. I was on a wild contiki known as the 25 day escapade, which ate all my available blogging time. The tour was better than I could of ever imagined. I saw everything from the Eiffel to the Vatican, from Davids wang in Florence to Steve Sirianis (after being dacked) in Venice. Was wild times and I loved every minute of the tour. It would be too hard to paint you the whole tour as it would be the most epic task and anne frankly I'm in Amsterdam right now and nobody really breaks a sweat over here. I'll put some pics up and talk about them when I can but my computer is currently out of action with a broken keyboard.

I read today that 12,00 bikes and 52 cars are fished out of the Amsterdam canals per year. I also read that 35 people on average fall in per year and that my dickhead friend coxhill is the only man in history to voluntarily jump into the disgusting system amassed of sewage, dead bodies mixed together with some water. The stuff looks like motor oil at night and I'm sure even the yarra wouldn't swim in this gunk. Non the less Cocka ran this idea through his skull and gave it the all clear and hence now has two heads. This is the result of the famous Amsterdam pub crawl in which we cannot say we completed due to losing the group after a trip to my favourite dutch chain known as chipsy king. After cursing chipsy king for being such a delicious and alluring food we headed for the red light district where we decided a few more beers would be in order. It was at this point where we lost Coxhill, until we found him later  looking like a drowned rat and talking like a Queenslander due to his new thongs. We had met a bloke earlier at the hostel from Blackburn who was keen as mustard to see the district. Finch, Blackburn Alex and myself sat in the tiger bar and watched the seediest of seed bags pulling the curtains and leaving the booths, reshelving their nut sacks and sniffing their fingers. One guy we saw came out, t-shirt tucked into his jocks, jeans tucked into his runners, hand down the pants, sweat on the brow and a look of shear terror on his face (he may or may not have had a limp, I was pretty blind). The girls in the windows are not what you expect a sex worker to look like. They are amazing young stunners. As ironic as it sounds the dutch sex trade came about due to protests by a women's rights lobby. They believed that prostitution was a legitimate form of business and that they should be recognised as tax paying contributors of Holland. The bloke in charge at time caved like a house of cards and with the women over here I can sympathise with him. I can do this as we ended up in a shady strip joint in the district. When in Amsterdam. I planned on going in there and spending not a cent, but when Blackburn Alex got a dance without any money I knew we were in trouble. He left and the heat was on me and finch to cover it. We were arguing with the biggest brute of a women, topless and smacking either me and finch back in to line with her riot norks whenever we tried to escape. she put her hands in my pockets looking for money to find 3 euro. I had strategically dacked my wallet as I knew it would probably come to this. Finch not being the thinker I am (I was the winner of the Contiki trivia) left his phone in his pocket, which she grabbed and headed for management. At this point I handed her a 10 and got the fuck outta' there before any other bare chested pitbulls could have a crack at us. We met Blackburn Alex outside and came to the agreement that he owed us a kebab each for our troubles. If prostitution is legally accepted then I think kebabs should be an EU recognised currency as between our group you never get paid back, you get a garlic soaked wrap assembled by a back alley turk. We had a laugh and headed en route back to the Hostel, via chipsy king, via the hotdog stand. 3.30 am and the stoners were still occupying the smokers area. I don't know how those smoked trouts do it. Once at the top of the stairs I could hear a familiar cackle echoing around the hallway. Coxhill looking like ratatouille after falling in a bowl of soup was stomping around putting 'ay at the end of every sentence. Couldn't even look at him. He smelt reasonable considering the circumstances, but then again I have been doing the smell tester on my jocks every morning for the last couple of months, so a grimy Coxhill didn't match some of the punches to the face I have copped doing that. So much more, but I have to see Anne Frank, after a visit to chipsy king.

Thanks for reading (it's good to be back on the Blogging scene I have really missed it)

Struggling

Listening to some crack heads music at the train station at 6 am

Cannot explain the week I have had so far, but the fact that I’m writing this on the shitter drinking water concerned for my heart beating like a double kick should help set the scene. I’m on the French Riveria, one of the most beautiful places in the world, crystal blue water, lushes mountain ranges, rustic cafes, French perfume every where, but unfortunately I’m in a cabin, sweating buckets and watching myself cringe in the mirror as I befoul yet another ensuite. Maybe writing down what I have done for the past couple of days might help pin point the cause of my present struggles. I met Mitch at the hotel when he arrived. I was excited as hell as it had been 3 months with out seeing the greek bastard and 3 months is along time. In this 3 months he had managed to grow his hair to his shoulders and grow his stomach to the floor. Hahah I hope he reads this. We instantly were to go out for dinner next door, which I felt a little nervous for as I was about to make 51 one first impressions and I know that mine and mitches vulgarity can be confronting for a first timer. We nestled ourselves down at the finely laid table and ordered a few beers for courage. I instantly realized that of this 51 people only about one third are male and I instantly did the math and created a mental calculation as to my chances of maybe finding one I like. I like those odds. I instantly realized that this is basically an Australian group and that bar a few south African and US voices among the chatter, Melbourne was where the majority hails from. I chatted with a girl from Melbourne opposite me to find myself with the expected question “what part of Melbourne”. “I come from the Dandenng ranges” Ok, I know where Dandenong is. Fuck, Great start to the trip. For those who don’t know the area the dandenong ranges have tourists flocking and ogling it’s beautiful landscapes where as Dandenong is where the dregs of the suburbs, congregate to live and smoke bongs fashioned from coke bottles and sprinkler heads. This looker began to look elsewhere. Hahah good effort. After dinner straight to the Eifel tower. I as usual wasn’t listening so couldn’t get the canon to capture the spectacular sight that is the tower at night, but Mitch snapped a few on his newly smashed Iphone. We were walking on the second tear of the eifel when he lost his grip on the phone, smashing on the concrete then being stepped on byself dazedly walking and looking at the view. Haha I was glad that my trodding on it was the sealer. The tower was more beautiful than I had ever imagined. The place greatly exceeded my expectations. A great day of sight seeing and touring. The group seemed great with no dickheads or louts (Besides Hatley) and I was looking forward to how this tour was going to pan out.

The next morning we were dropped in the main section of Paris and set free to walk at our own device. The three of us walked around map in hand, twisting and turning it in attempts to make some sense of the thing. So impressed by the tower the previous night we grabbed baguettes, cheese and salami for lunch on the grass. Was one of the highlights of my trip so far, sitting in the shadow of the famous monument, eating the finest bread and watching the dumbass asians shoot thousands of photos of them 500 metres away to create the illusion they are holding the top of the tower. I obviously knew she wasn’t holding it as saw her take it, but I’m sure such trickery will be assumed legit by her pacific rim friends back east. I took some really good snaps, including one point of view photo of me giving the tower the bird. After the tower we headed to the top of the hill to a restaurant where we ate escargot and drank red wine. Me and O’dwyer sat talking to a few blokes Hung and Dan, who were great company and definitely as keen to suck down the bordeux as I was. After a bottle of red in the system we headed down to an irish bar a couple of doors up from Moulin Rouge. It was awesome and being the first opportunity we all had to party, we did just that. I was well oiled after the red, but a few pints in the guts put me over the edge. Everybody’s true personalities were appearing and I got to laugh and fool around with the whole group. The bloke on the tour we call Phelps due to his unbelievable resemblance to Swimmer and acclaimed bong head Michael Phelps, began dancing with a big bootied black woman and I knew the night was on. The place was awesome and some of the others from the tour were coming back from the Cabaret show( I gladly skipped on) and soon the entire group was dancing and drinking like animals. I knocked off phelpsy glasses and began trying to pick up women using extra intelligence I thought the glasses gave me (there was nothing of intelligence coming out of me I’ll assure you). Street florists where leaning over the smoking barriers and trying to flog roses to give to girls. I told a rose dealer to piss of like 5 times and wondered why he kept persistently asking me when I kept telling him no. I got a look at the sexy New Zealand girl. “Quick mate give me one of those”. Hahaha. She loved it, and danced with me for a while until she was flanked by another pissed romeo who gave her a second rose. The rose manouvre is a sure thing but I was out rosed. I was hammered so I thought it necesssary to buy a pack of cigarettes (I don’t smoke and after one puff I remembered why). I gave them away after one butt. Mitch in the smokers area got chatting to a homeless guy who looked like Morgan Freeman, and the resemblance compelled him to donate to his cause. Mitch dropped him a couple of Euro and said “c’mon mate get a beer”. Turns out he wasn’t a homeless guy and asked why he was given money. Haha. Mitch decided to buy a rose, but had different ideas of its use. He did not agree with my ways of finding a pretty girl and presenting it boyishly, he just ate it. I bumped into Dan at the bar and he shouted a round of tequila shots, which I fucked the routine of, by sucking the lemon first. This was lights out. Pissed as Frothies Mcbitters after breakfast, I walked onto the street for some air and to gather some composure, so as not to do something that could be used against me for the next 25 days. Out there I got chatting to a bloke and we worked out we were walking in the same direction. The hotel was an hour walk and I needed to work some of the beers out of my systems. My head was pounding and the taste of tequila loomed in the pockets of my mouth. So we bought a couple of beers for our journey home. Hahah what logic. The hotel is located in the roughest area of Paris, but managed to avoid being mugged, raped and/or murdered. Phelpys turned up to breakfast with his glasses bent out of joint and I immediately thought of my escapades playing the drunk scientist may have played a rolein the damaged optics. Turns out he dropped them and some girl (probably the curvy black chick) had danced right over the top of them. Hahah fuckin Phelps.

Paris behind us and the trip to Beujolais in progress I decided that this will be the death of me. The body bent out of joint from the previous night and Bangarang amongst other dance songs filling my head with a dull ache. I will probably murdeer nicky minage if I bump into her. I was working out that the bus rides are going to be a tedious task and that forgetting to charge my ipod to be the costliest mistake I’ve made on the trip so far (although an ipod is no match for the bus speakers playing skrillex). I tried to sleep but I knew it was going to be a tough gig. I thought of home a little bit and the thought of my couch watching Simpsons, with the warmth of my dogs. I missed home a little bit the night before Contiki as I knew I was lone wolfing it to Paris in the morning. I think leaving Kris and Trent was the cause as it might sound weak, but those two people are home to me. You cannot say you don’t feel a little homesick at points, but loving it to death, experiencing this is worth it. I feel guilty that I’m not home as my brother has just broken his wrist and helping him out with some support and morale I feel is a duty as the big brother. hours, seems like days when such a preoccupation hits. We arrived at beujolais at around 5 o’clock and got it under way with some wine tasting. Some arrogant Canadian from another tour kept cracking gags and his lack of ability to realize that he was a moron peeved me.  a good call or quip cannot be manufactured at the rate he was trying and I hope we don’t see him again to soon. The smell in the air of the Vat rooms made my head spin, but I tasted the red and I’ll assure you it had nothing on bowlers run. The chateu is fucking awesome, the building the views, the pool. It is paradise. The night began with the fall of the sun over the vineyards and such a place has to be soaked from a far. You can only be startled with such a joint. I quietly eazed myself back onto the suds and before I knew it me and Mitch were singing, could have been champions songs. Fuck, this place is classy and singing “Deep in our hearts everyone barracks for Fitzroy” could be seen as a sub class. The new joke was everytime the sensor light gave in we would clap and when it came back on. We’d say it’s a clapper. Childish stupid, but intrinsically funny for us. 2 girls came up to us that hadn’t spoke a word and introduced us with the phrase “I feel like taking a shit in the pool”. Fucking rad. I kept offering to walk her down so she could carry out the ghastly act in the deep end but she was all talk. I was disappointed. Got a little tipsy, had a great night. Met a few people, made up a few new gags to run and had an all round blast in the French countryside.    

Typical Tourists on the Eifel Tower (L-R myself, Mitch H, Chris O)

A girl patting a goat after a boy in her class hit him in the head @ Munich Zoo

Leipzig shop window. Seen too much good street art over here. 

The Night of all Nights.

I know this is going to be the most enjoyable entry to write and I am going to try and leave no detail of the night out. This was not only my favourite night here but also one of my favourite nights of all time. It starts in Joel Pennings living room drinking beers and watching 300. The flow of German lagers and Captain and drys commenced at 5 o’clock to the war crys of King Leonadias and Australian David Wenham (Best known for his role as diver Dan in seachange) as they fought to secure the longevity of Sparta. I couldn’t help think of the honor of Leonadias and the Spartan society, compared to today’s Greek society of riots, unpaid debt and cheap souvlaikis. If such a battle was to be carried out today, Xerexes could take the land in the hours roughly between 1-5pm, when the nation stops spreading the yoghurt sauce and lays down for a hard earned nap. Such a movie is great for beers as it’s all action, leaving plenty of dialogue to talk over with our regular drinking guff. During the flick I looked up the route for my first leg of the night and also to avert my jealousy toward Gerald Butlers masculine physique. I was to leave at 7.30 for an estimated arrival time of 8.30 to see defeater and to catch all the brutality of openers Code Orange Kids. I knocked 3 tergsteen hell beers (my favourite German beer to date) and dabbled in a few smooth captains before setting of for the Bus. I knocked the top off a beer to go and double-checked I knew my route before setting off. I was a little tipsy and ready for action, a combination both dangerous and exciting when you are alone in a foreign city. On the train I was really bored, no ipod to occupy my mind so I decided to open notepad on my phone and do what has been entertaining me a lot of late and write. Here are some excerpts.

- “fat man with a scooter just got on the train, he is puffing for dear life. Looking around at some of the body types here it’s safe to say Gerald Butler as Leonidas could pillage munich alone”

- “Guy carrying a new color jet printer. I bet his afternoon has been cleared for printing”

This is only some of the pointless minutia I wrote, but it always kills the time. I asked a man for some bearings when I got off at the stop and he pointed me in the right direction. I must have been in the hardcore district as this place had three small buildings. One contained local HC, the other hack punkers poison idea and the third and final gig I tried, Defeater and supports. I was already sobering up so I decided to get a pint of augistiner, not to get futher drunk but to prevent the collapse into tiredness that comes from a sober up. I entered the venue to find the perfect small stage and ground space a successful and intimate HC gig needs. Being at a gig alone is something I’d done only a week prior and I was definitely looking for a companion to share the experience. I searched around but no possible buddies were in the area so I decided to drain the old sea monster. Descending to the bottom of the stairs where the toilets were I noticed there was no signs just a D and a H. I thought H was for Herr (mr in german) but was unsure of the D. Knowing a wrong entrance could be embarrassing I froze in front of them both sidling toward H but then pulling back every time I looked like committing. The American merch guy saw me, laughed and told me he’d had the same problem. Good advice and a new buddy. I chatted with him for a bit at the stand and noticed the chick guitarist from Code Orange Kids was selling merch. I chatted with her awkwardly for a bit before buying a T-shirt. I’m not sure why I was nervous because I did not find her that attractive, more star struck by the small time band member. What the fuck is wrong with me. I left the stand and sat on the skirting of the wall where I met a dude from Austria. He was a rad dude and had never heard of COK, but I informed him they were awesome. We sat at the bar while the tidal sleep finished and he bought me a beer. A genuinely good guy who played in a few bands himself. We got good positions for COK and from the first notes (a chaos chord) you could tell these kids were not here to muck around. I thoroughly enjoyed them and Austria (can not pronounce his name) concurred. Following the COK’s performance of anarchy and female vocals, average band Former Theives came on, so we decided to grab that Beer I owed him. After this bev I was definitely loose and got myself prime posy for Defeater. They came on with a burst and knowing every word (also being in a country speaking deutsch helps) I got about 5 mic grabs in the first song. After doing some improv HC dancing and a few stage dives at opportune times. I saw the acoustic come out and got all teeny bopper in the front row. He played and extremely slow version of I don’t mind, which I sang to and then a rocky version of But Breathing. Finishing up they played Prophet in plain clothes, which is probably my all time favourite song, so I decided to jump on stage for my favourtie verse. The singer gave me the mic and I turned to the crowd and yelled “Homes never, Home”. My all time greatest gig moment. After the gig I said my fair wells to Austria and headed for the station as quickly as possible to meet up with Finch, Cocka and Joel at the clubs. Fuck I was sweaty.

Getting off the train, before meeting up with the others I decided to have a piss behind a lone tree. Being in agony to piss, I hurriedly jerked at my pants to get them open, resulting in the central button going flying into the bush. No biggy still the inside one.  50 metres down the track I could see cocka waving so I picked up the pace before noticing my pants heading south. The inside button had given way and I was outside some pretty suave (by my standard) looking clubs. I found a maccas straw and tied a make shift support to hold up the trousers. Sweaty as fritzl at a family reunion and a maccas straw holding up my duds, it was a safe bet I wasn’t picking up tonight. I ordered a Vegetarian kebab at the stand (which I copped a lot of shit for) and put my game face on to tackle the clubs. Haven’t been clubbing in a while but I watch Jersey Shore occasionally, so am pretty familiar with the fist pump among other patented guido moves. We got in there and ordered a hoard of drinks. Long island ice teas for 3 euro was a delight and it wasn’t too long before finch and I were slurring words into girls ears on the dancefloor. Joel had equipped me with a pick up line. Du bist sehr schoen (you are very beautiful), which was working a treat as a few took an interest in us. We chatted with them for a bit but they had to leave as the had uni in the morning. Confidence high and a some vodka redbulls under the belt we began dancing like absolute gumboots, which people began to enjoy. The sight of us doing this resulted in Trent running onto the dancefloor busting out the Will from the inbetweeners movie. Was a bad option watching that movie the day before. We kept dancing and I for once was actually enjoying a boogie, which isn’t always the case for me. I tried the old ‘Du bist sehr schoen’ on a pretty blonde girl in a blue and green dress, she laughed. We went and sat down at the back of the room and chatted. She in was indeed very beautiful, with the most amazing smile when she laughed. She told me she was driving and I instantly began to act sober. Was hard but I surprisingly wasn’t feeling intoxicated and spoke confidently, without really too many signs of prior drinking. I put my arm around her and she responded exactly as I had hoped. She told me she was a flight attendant and lived near the airport, and was interested in eventually coming to Australia. She said it would only cost her 100 euro and I forwardly invited her to stay in the hills with me. She laughed again. She put her name in my phone to add on facebook. Mara Blabla, sounds fake. The others left for the saint rippers, but I was well occupied and stayed. I asked her what she was doing the next night and whether she had time for a drink somewhere before I left for Paris, to the reply ‘I’m not sure my boyfriend will like that too much’. Shattered, a string of bad like, the button on my pants and then this gut-wrenching discovery. I continued chatting with her for the rest of the night at the back and I know it sounds gay, but I just enjoyed holding this beautiful girl. I thought about the goodnight kiss when we decided to leave at around 6.30 am, but I knew she wouldn’t and I respected that she was taken. We got out the front to find it completely light outside. As my eyes were adjusting to this rush of light to my brain, I saw a bloke in a blue t-shirt at the Kebab shop annoying the owner with drunkard speak. It was finch and apparently he had been waiting, badgering the greasy kebab man for an hour and a half. He was clearly angry at me, but I swear to this day he never said that he was going to wait. Finch, Mara, her friend and I were chatting, and I was wondering how the hell to get home. Mara offered us a trip to maccas and as I was in love with both Mara and the idea of a big mac, we headed for the car. Her friend called ‘shotgun’ to which finch retaliated ‘double shotgun’ and jumped straight into the front. Mara laughed but her friend did not. She called him a dick and then complained to me, to which I naturally replied. Sorry love, ‘I believe the man called double shotgun’. She instantly hated me. I made a crack about her unsuccessful attempts to fuck the DJ and her hatred for doubled. She was nothing but a stuck up bitch so I had not a care at all for giving her some dry Aussie flack in the backseat. Finched chirped to Mara all the way to maccas. When we got to maccas and realized it was closed Maras friend made us both get out for my words in the backseat and that was it. Me and finch were loose and getting home didn’t bother us at all. We took heaps of pictures of us with bums, riding a statue of a pig, listening to some junkies head phones and just causing a ruckus. We got home at 7.30 greeted Mr. Pennings having a regulation Friday breakfast and fell asleep as soon as our head hit the pillow. An Amazing night.

+ in the morning Kris looked at his phone, to see a message from Trent saying I’m shitting so much. He informed us it was sent from the Cubicle at the dingy German strippers. Another weird and wonderful bowel conversation

+ Me and O’dwyer looked up the name today. She is real and her boyfriend is a Policeman hunk. O’dwyer said that he had a better head on him. I undoubtedly agreed.