“Hey you wanna see my party trick boys?”
“Mate, no, I’ve seen your party trick a hundred times-”
“Noooo wait, this is different, watch.”
“… Please take those off your head and get down from there.”
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On Tour with AK: Part 6
“GOOD MORNING BRISTOOOOOL!”
“Whoa whoa whoa. Less of that.”
“What? This city loves me.”
“This is England! You can’t do that here. There are rules, you Yankee Doodle dickhead.”
“Did you… did you just call me a Yankee Doodle dickhead?”
“…yes.”
“Oh my god dude, I love that.”
Continue readingOn Tour with AK: Part 5
“How much longer?”
“Not much further now. Hang in there.”
“Mate, I don’t think I can.”
“Come on boys, it’s just up ahead.”
“But we’re not getting any closer. We’ve been walking for hours and it’s not getting any nearer. I can’t help but wonder: could we have died? Maybe on the train yesterday? What if it crashed, and this is purgatory – just us here, with Budgens on the horizon, forever and ever and ever.”
“No dingus, we haven’t died.”
“But it’s getting further away with each step we take. I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out.”
“Look, it’s fine, we’ll be there in about ten sec-”
“HHHHAAAAAAUUUUUAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHH!”
Continue readingOn Tour with AK: Part 3
“There was this story I used to like when I was a kid in Cali. There’s a boy, and his best friend is a tree.”
“Weird.”
“Shut up. And every time the boy needs something, the tree gives him it. Like when the boy needs to eat, the tree gives him fruit. Then when he needs to build a house, the tree gives him branches for wood.”
“Charitable tree.”
“And then by the of the book, the boy is an old man, and the tree has been all used up by the boy, so all that’s left is a stump. And the boy asks the tree for somewhere to sit, and the tree says ‘you can sit on me’. And he does.”
“Huh. Unsure how I feel about that one.”
“Right? When I was a kid I loved that story. I thought ‘aw, what a beautiful kind tree’. I thought the story was all about giving everything you can to help others. Then I got older and I realised the kid’s an asshole.”
“I don’t really understand what the story is meant to represent. Like maybe the tree is a parent and the kid is their child. Or maybe the tree is a good friend and the kid is a bad friend. Or maybe they’re both bad friends, in their own way.”
“I think the core of it is that real friends should help each other grow.”
“Yeah. I think you’ve got it.”
Continue readingLondon | Circuits
London, I’m learning, isn’t any one thing. Other cities I’ve lived in have been mostly one thing. Berlin: dark artsy Neverland. Sheffield: grungy student paradise. Melbourne: affluent hipster metropolis.
Continue readingAvignon | Encore
The train from Marseille to Avignon was a pleasant 90 minutes. The south of France looks like Spain, and reminds me of family holidays when I was a kid – walking along in flip flops and baggy shirts down to the beachfront restaurants for an evening meal, the night air warm, crickets chirping in the bushes.
I met Seth at the station. I’d been running late, and when I found him outside he was leaning on a railing, shaven-headed, grinning at me through a pair of dark sunglasses.
“Hello mate,” he said, when I came in for a hug.
It’s always nice to be back.
Continue readingMarseille | A Reunion
I’m on a train rocketing across the south of France, and from the window I can see the ocean and hills and a rusty abandoned car with lime green paint. Daniel Bedingfield has come on shuffle somehow, and it’s making me feel like a wide-eyed young girl on a 1990’s road trip.
Continue readingLondon | St. Reatham
I’m growing fond of Streatham Hill. It’s a buzzword for ‘shit’ around much of London, which I quite like. I ask somebody at a party where they live and they say ‘Pimlico’ or ‘Balham’ or whatever, and I say ‘nice’, and then they ask me where I live and I say Streatham and they say ‘oo’—the same sort of ‘oo’ noise people make when a footballer on the telly trips up and his shin bones burst through his calves.
Continue readingStrasbourg | Wisdom
I’m bald, I’m bruised and I’m swollen; I look like a kiwi left behind in a lunchbox in the ruins of Chernobyl.
Continue readingStrasbourg | Moron
I look like a toad. I look like a sack of flour that’s been hung from a butcher’s hook and thumped until it burst. I look like an unkempt ballbag, recoiling in the sunlight for the first time after a long winter bundled up inside a pair of long johns.
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