Company, Without, With again.

Why I live in Essex over London. 

Went out with a girl the other night right. Bit out of the ordinary I know, but yeah, anyway it was well
shit. She was actually pretty (believe it or not), well pretty and it became apparent real quickly that I was out of my league here. She enjoyed chatting and well I was mainly enjoying the cocktails. I felt a little like I had to lie if I was any shot at making this work. I was not up to the level of stories clearly. Jean shopping with Rhys Darby, lines off of fire extinguishers, hanging out with Bon Iver, getting on it with Tiki Taane, just applied for a job as Hugh Grants nanny etc. It was going in one ear and continuing on through the other despite my best efforts to concentrate. It was some Jazz bar we were at and they had a portrait of Louie Armstrong on the wall behind her head. I couldn't help but keep diverting my attention to Louies fully inflated cheeks and wondering how much air he could direct with those two fleshy parachutes on the sides of his face. I even pointed her attention to it. She seemed a little less interested in Louies lips than I was. I had thoughts such as to how many cheese burgers Louie could house at once in there, or how long it would take him to blow up a ly-lo at the beach. My thoughts had run wild, our conversation had gone to absolute shit and I was feeling like just going home. We talked about money and when she heard how much I make at the pub, she asked why I worked there? and why I lived in Essex? then on to my rent?, which finally lead to me sleeping on a couch. And of course why? She made me feel like I needed to sort myself out. I didn't feel I did, but it made me feel shit. Discussing me as If I was some fucking charity case. I even felt a touch of anger at that point. I knew it was going to be shit all along. Like I'm pretty sure I met her because she was looking for drugs and I had a sort of an unkempt columbian look going on at the time. I was feeling kind of lonesome and shit that day. A weekend off and everyone else working. Well it was shit. I hugged her, punching the window in the process by accident, after forking out 25 of my hard earned. I was broke as well at the time and it really depressed me to be cutting my life savings in half for such a lousy time. She will find some musician blower, which she can power snort blow off of fire retarding aids, but I'm really not like that. I thought back to conversations with other girls I'd had, I remember talking to a girl once about the origins of the saying "Happy as Larry" and we laughed and had a time. The gag I made was that surely Larry felt down at some point and, boy was a I feeling like larry when that time hit. I decided to take the underground to work, where I knew I would be able to feast on some complimentary beverages to drown the sorrows. I stopped at Euston, having to walk about a half a mile to Kings Cross to ride a metropolitan. I told you i was feeling lousy and then the rain came down and all the amber lights reflecting off shiny red buses and all the guys out on the town for a friday night holding their gals and all the puddles splashed with the traffic and a siren went off in the distance and I kind of wondered why I was in this place. A crushing place, where the rain makes you feel 10 times heavier than when you're at home. I felt shit. This hair gel I used ran into my eyes from the downpour and I decided to sit for a moment outside the sheltered front of a library. On the railing there was this bum smoking a cigarette, looking sullen and terminally hungered. I sat away from him and decided to have a cigarette myself. I had a pouch because I knew that the girl i was seeing that night smoked from memory and at risk of looking like square I got one too. Should of grabbed a few scores aswell in hindsight, would have been a real hit. It came in handy as I sat there rolling in the dark with a wet old face and a blank old stare. I enjoyed the concentration of rolling rather than the smoking to be honest. My mind was on the job and empty with the steps of bending the paper just so as to catch the filter and trap the tobacco, tunneling it just loose enough to burn. I smoked it and seeing that bum getting up, I decided to rocket off before I had to hand him half my tabbachi supplies. I stopped at a pub less than a stones throw away called O'neills and I naturally ordered a Guinness. I sat there on my own in a packed pub and I just looked out the dripping window and sort of fiddled with a coaster and sipped my pint, and rolled cigarettes. It made me feel better. I ordered another and I enjoyed just sitting there by myself. A packed pub on your own is lonelier than an empty one because you can see all the other people in their groups drinking wine and whisky and other luxury end-of-the-working-week drinks as they laugh and hoot and spit. I liked it though, I regathered some composure in there. I left in decent spirits. I made it to my pub, because sometimes you have to go where everybody knows your name and I drank and laughed with ray and steve and Danny my housemate knocked off and we had a few and all was redeemed and I never remember just once how shit I was feeling an hour prior. I felt good and tried it on with a bird who laughed at my drunkness I guess and my over blown rant at how much I loathed fabric, and how easy it is to fall down the stairs there. Put some goddam rails up I ordered. She was from liverpool or manchester and I asked her about 5 times how long she was staying and she explained every time that she worked here and was living in London, and then we'd chat for a bit and I would forget and ask again haha. I sure was smashed. She left me with a kiss on the cheek. haha she was like 30 but she was nice and looked way younger. I talked about a zombie book with ray. I'm now reading it like and it's alright I guess. I had to because ray was so damn excited about this book and how the trailer for the box office movie in production starring brad pitt looked amazing and he asked who I would rather date out of brad pitt and david beckham and I said Johnny Depp and we were off laughing and of course drinking. haha I had such an odd night with such a friendly and fantastic finish. I can see what kept Norm and cliffy coming back to the bar everynight for some pints, some pointless conversation and the ensuring laughs that follow.

A Starbucks scene and my brain.

haha man, I'm at starbucks right and I was free shaking a few teaspoons worth of sugar granules into my cap right, when I'm bumped from behind by a lady so large I could make an infinite amount of jokes about as I'm at the starbucks on cowcross street (guessing she was meeting some friends, maybe a few hundred head of them) sending the entire sugar shaker into my coffee. I panicked, envisioned by flashes of humiliation and redness so I put my hand in the scolding hot beverage and pulled the ship wrecked sugar vessel out of it's brewed sea of beans and milk. As soon as i had it in my hand I panicked even further, more reaction then decision, like I was holding a fucking live snake or something threw it straight in the bin. I stared down at it for a millisecond and wiped the froth on my hand on my pants and headed for the exit, except I didn't have a takeaway cup and the risk of being chased down the street for the mug I veered down to the additional seating area. Holy fuck in the space of 5 seconds it happened. And when I saw my coffee down stairs, about half of it's original quantity, I burst out laughing. I then thought fuck I'm by myself so I grabbed my phone (Yes I have one now) and pretended to be laughing at a gag on the line. woah, was I red. I completely avoided detection for it and it didn't taste too bad, I mean it was a little sweet, but it could have been a lot worse considering it housed the whole sugar servings of starbucks at one point in it's life. I'm pretty indifferent about the whole situation as it happened in snap, but you need to take everything that makes you laugh and smile so I was glad that pillow women gave me that shove. Something I wasn't indifferent about was losing to Danny last night in Fifa. He was as baked a batch of betty crockers and shaking a bottle of glennfidich 'saying not bad barney' (Wednesday night standard) and still managed to beat me. I couldn't sleep, I think my sleep patterns were being tangled by terror encoded potentials of Gervinho slotting dribblers at the 90th. I haven't really spoken too much about my housemates. Danny has become one of my best mates and Emma (who we call mum) is the greatest. I can't explain things like this too well. Like how much I appreciate others. All I can say is I love them both and I know I will be at one of the saddest times I've had saying goodbye to them. Mum (Em) cooked us a mean roast on sunday night to conclude lads day, (beer and football) which was great. Was a pretty strong bird. She really cooks a homely meal that girl, and she is the reason solely why I haven't yet gotten scurvy over here. I really appreciate it when Em cooks me a meal. yep we love ol' Em too bits. On another note I'm meeting up for a drink tomorrow with a girl, which I'm looking forward to. She seemed really nice when I met her and I hope I don't drop any shakers in my drink haha. Anyway I have to do my old sign off which is I have to go to work and all. I'm not too worried about it to be honest. Lukas is in today, and Lukas is the dude, and it's his shout tonight so I will have a couple and it will be all gravy as Patty Nix would say. ahh I shouldn't say that, now I'm going to be missing Patty Nix all night. Alright see ya, over and out.

As I cannot afford to get my films developed right now. I made a film look pic. Not the same. But cool I think. But not the same. 

One of my favourites (w/ f 1.8 50mm )

Edinburgh. 

Sneaky rainbow. 

Edinburgh.

Just shit from my brain.

I just finished ‘catcher in the rye and I think it is hands down the best book I have ever read. As soon as I put the book down I began making plans to make a log cabin in the woods and fill stupid cars up with stupid oil and gas to pay for it. I would obviously be contacted only through pen and paper, as I would to be a deaf mute and all. It’s a great read and I can see it being one that sits on my shelf for the rest of my life, and I will let my son read it when he turned 16, and then I will tell the story of how I bought it when I was in London one day after getting a hair cut and searching for something to read over a coffee. I will say how I only ever read the book in a coffee shop and always with a coffee, and that I was stuck on page 208 for a week because I couldn’t get in the right mood to finish it. There were too many people talking, or I was too tired, or I felt like writing myself, or I couldn’t get the caffeine dosage right to take in every last bit of Holden’s incredibly thought narration. I have a hunting hat as well, which I bought two weeks prior to purchasing the book and every time I even look at it now I think of “turning the peak around to the back, just the way I like it”. I do wear it like that and I had been two weeks prior as well. I was wearing it in Edinburgh when I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and I said to Mitch “Fuck I look stupid in this thing” and he said, “I could have told you that 2 weeks ago” and I laughed and wore it for the rest of the day. I probably wouldn’t have if I weren’t feeling a bit like Holden. I think Holden and the way he wears it is a sign of his distancing ideals towards people, because he is beginning to lose faith in society the further he mulls it over in his mind. I just wear it and I don’t want to think too much about it other than I just like it. I think it’s a book that everyone should read. I might build a book shelf when I get back to put in on, I’ll have some time and I think I need something to rest my books on, so I don’t lose them. I have already lost quite a few this trip. I have upped my reading to maybe 2 hours a day, which is quite absurd to think that considering a year ago I wouldn’t of even thought of 10 minutes a week if it weren't in a Text book entitled "Understanding Health". The last thing I read that really did it for me (other then Catcher in the Rye of course) was a short story by Kurt Vonnegut called the “euphio question” which is really good and I suggest that you read it because you would enjoy it. Probably. (I sound like Holden Caulfield there). I have mentioned how I usually read in coffee shops. Coffee shops are a great love of mine. I find some harmony in them that I don’t get at home, because home is too goddam distracting. I probably spend an hour or two in one per day these days. I think about my old mans view on coffee and how it doesn’t extend too much further than beneath the lid of a Nescafe gold tin and drank over his school reports, but I see it as so much more. He sees it as a right waste of money to have a real espresso made coffee at $4.50 a pop, but I will buy him one from have ya bean, and we’ll sit down and talk about a book or something. I like having a chat at a coffee shop, probably more so than having a chat over a beer I reckon. That’s why I do not get too annoyed when people are having a concentration interrupting discussion when I’m trying to read or something. I see them as place were my usually unproductive day turns to something more worthwhile. I will do more uni work in coffee shops I reckon. They’ll make something of me yet. I got to go to work once again. I don’t really mind though because I’m feeling pretty good. I didn’t last shift and other than shooting some shit, with the old guys at the pub I felt quite miserable. I was made more miserable when the girl at work asked if I was ‘alright’. Mitch knows well enough to know I’m fine and was having a down day, maybe unconsciously missing home and worrying about my friends. But it annoyed me. I don’t know. Haha. Anyway read Catcher in the Rye and add me on skype because I really would love to chat. Tom.barnard92 (do it, it’s pretty regularly on). 

Edinburgh.

Edinburgh.

(Remember you don’t have to read this shit. Just look at the photos!!)

I couldn’t believe the beauty of the Scotland landscape as we drove the timeless countryside. It depressed me a little that I was heading back to London as we winded along the edge of lush green cliffs, accommodating the blessed white dots grazing and dozily overlooking a blue blanket ocean that makes the sky look a little too red and a little too beautiful for someone to bare, who knows they will back, broke in the big London bustle. I wanted the bus to drop me off a couple of times, on the high vantages with sitting rocks where I would lay and drink beer and soak in the cold rays of light by myself or with anyone else who deemed it as necessary as me. It is something else out there. It made me feel lousy to be leaving it. I have never been so aware of the earths domed shape until being on this plain road splitting the paddocks with equally distant clear land and grass to my left and right and maybe a hay shed or a small beaten silo probably holding not much more than some rain water and a story. The clouds were perfectly enclosing us in this domed earth, where the red seemed to dance as much on the rain made lakes as between the dark grey clouds. I felt like the windows were ever so slightly tinted yellow, creating this sepia tone that accentuated the hills and the sky and the red tinges of cloud. It didn’t look like it could snow and if I didn’t know any better I would have said it looked warm outside. I like the cold weather I think. I was born in summer on the 7^th of February, which according to untried pseudo theories passed on by stupid mothers to stupid children in the playground I should like the heat. I like the heat but I think I like it most when it’s cold and there’s a fire and I get that sudden ripple of relief. Maybe that is just my recent feeling formed from being here. I found this quaint little traditional Scottish pub called the ‘Jolly Judge’, which I really liked for the reason I just stated. It could be raining buckets outside and as soon as you duck your head through the low-trussed doorway you get the greatest feeling of heat and atmosphere you would ever find. The beer is tasty and the conversations are interesting. There is no music in there, no Nicky Minaj or some other piece of processed cheese coming through the speakers and when I looked to the old boys in the corner wearing bland old button farm shirts, packing wood-grain pipes of tobacco and drinking neat scotch you can easily forget that it’s the 21^st century. I liked that place a lot. I liked the Beer McEwen 80. A hearty strong Scottish brew that Mitch and I may have over did. I headed to Edinburgh castle by myself the next day. I like doing those sorts of things by myself. I like being able to go at my own pace and read an info panel or not, or take 200 photos of something or not or listen to the audiotape with my headphones or not. I took my camera out with Georgie and Jess the other day and kept getting left behind, I like to stop and take a photo if I see something unfolding or some angle of interest. I think I always look for those angles or lines of perspective now, regardless of whether I have my camera or not. A place I was glad to of left my camera at home was the Hogmany street party. That thing was crazy. It was an amazing, great, crazy day in fact. I kicked it off by purchasing a double pint of cider for mitch and I at a pub called ‘The Three Sisters’ on cowgate street under King George the IV, where they were reigning the Australian new years’ in. I didn’t care too much about the count downs I was more interested in having some good conversations and drinking a gut full with some of the people from the hostel. There were these two odd dudes, one who studied particle physics and another one that had a degree in animal gentics. They were smart, but socially a little inept in my honesty. They were nice enough though, but I was rather enjoying the banter with Lily and Joe from the room. Mitch and I were riffing off our unique style of wit and they were just as up to it as we were. We joked everything from the bonehead Australians wearing donning flag capes and thongs to the controversy in the world darts championship with the much televised push from the Phil ‘The Power Taylor’ Taylor on his defeated opponent. I never thought I would ever have interesting conversations about darts (or even watch it for that matter), but we were having one and they agreed to come watch the finals the next day. The double pints were getting to get a little low, so I sent Mitch to get another couple while I chatted with Joe for a while. Joe is the kind of girl I would loved to of gotten to know better, she interesting, a little shy, likes photography, has an amazing smile and above all she is incredibly intelligent. She really did it for me. Too bad I left her and Lily hanging on new years night because I was vodka drunk in some uni apartment on the other side of Edinburgh. I felt awful and came up with a scheme to say I was passed out and that’s why I missed the pick up, but I didn’t feel at all like lying to them. Plus I didn’t really feel I could because they were so goddam smart. I was really getting drunk on the otherside of town with some crazy American girls that our crazy New Zealand girls knew. I got really drunk and was having the best conversations with them. I think I can be kind of funny when I get into a half pissed state. I told them the story of how I had kissed a girl once when I was younger and passed out in a bush at a party and then the next time I heard her name mentioned she was a full blown lesbian. They loved it, while I took a few large swigs of my apple and vodka mix. I topped my mix up and took it to the party. Fast forwarding abit I got talking with this girl in the line to take a piss. I can’t remember how we got talking but she was really beautiful and what not and she seemed to kind of be interested in me. I some how got talking music and she said one of her favourite band was Bon Iver, which interested me no end. There is nothing I like more than the high tones of Justin Vernon and his solemn acoustic (for emma, forever ago album) on the tube. I got her number and we danced a little and held hands for a while. I gave her a little new years smooch, and the had to leave her. I’m half tempted to give her a call and what not as she lives in Camden and I live kind of near Camden and she is beautiful and I really want to go on a date for some reason. Probably because I have never really been on a proper one. I’m broke, so maybe I won’t. I would rather go on one with Joe, because she seemed like the kind of girl that would understand my destitution, not that she’s poor or anything, but because she so nice. I also don’t own a phone. Anyway I got really wasted that night. I kissed or was kissed by Georgie on the new years countdown. Haha we had a great laugh about it in the morning, it felt really weird actually. I hate cutting things short but I have to go to work, for my meager pay, which I won’t get in time to do anything worth while, like buy a phone and call the girl or call Joe. She lives in Nottingham though and I think that she sees me as a bit of a fool. It’s hard to convince people sometimes that I’m actually not stupid. Well I don’t think I am, but the continual  act of having to prove that I’m not probably is evidence enough that I am. Catch you next time boys and girls for my next installment. I’d love to thank Georgie and Jess for the amazing New Years. My best ever and I thanks those two buddy ol’ pals for it. They are the greatest.  

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.