I approach this blank sheet with trepidation, because it has been my enemy for the past month. I cannot write. I do not know why, but I cannot write. Continue reading
Travel
Melbourne:*Shrugging Man Emoji*
Hello you.
Things are going pretty well in Melbourne. It is sunny most of the time and I have my lovely circle of friends and we hang out several nights a week, and Jeanne arrived on Saturday from a two week stint touring the east coast with her friends. I have money for rent and food and booze and I even bought myself a second-hand games console last week with my first proper freelance paycheck – the first purchase I’ve made in around two years that wasn’t food or a flight. I’ve only been in this city for around six weeks, and everything is set up nicely. Continue reading
Melbourne: The Secret Wardrobe Piss
Good DAY to you sir,
I say, it is quite the downpour outside. It is positively tropical, and it is certainly very noisy as I sit here alone a-typing in northern Melbourneo, because I live in a converted warehouse, and the roof is made of tin or some other noisy metal; may the lord protect us if it hails. My bedroom is steadily flooding from some unseen leak as I type this and I do not know what to do so I have evacuated to the kitchen table, which has a marvellous view of the Queen Victoria Market and the skyscrapers of the Central Business District. I ate a bacon, egg and sausage sandwich for breakfast. I have not been drunk or had a cigarette in two days. I am doing tremendously, old chap. Continue reading
Melbourne: Just… Just Going Absolutely Mental, Really
Right I’ve had me morning coffee and I intended to start writing this immediately after – because when I’m all mad post-caffeine tends to be when I write the best – but I got distracted going through old photos for about an hour and the rush is wearing off, so you will have to forgive me if every single word henceforth is fucking crap. Continue reading
Australia: Pig in the City (that’s a Babe 2 reference by the way, I’m not dubbing myself a pig, shhhh)
Hello you sparkly bastard,
I’m afraid today’s must be a short entry only, for I am quite preoccupied with this hectic business of carving a life out of the sandstone that is Melbourne; I say sandstone over any other rock because, like sandstone, it’s seems the case that the moment you get it hewn into a satisfactory shape, it falls apart. But let’s start at… oh, I don’t know, the beginning, shall we? We can adhere to convention just this once; it’ll be our little secret. Continue reading
Australia: South of Eden
What? What? Don’t look at me like that, you. I know I haven’t been writing much recently, and I’m sorry, alright? I am sorry. I’ve been dreadfully busy fluctuating between absolutely smashing life and being absolutely smashed by life. I am in Melbourne now, apparently. Not sure when that happened, but there you go. Continue reading
Australia: Mount Warning
I’m leaving the farm! I’m leaving the farm! Calloo, callay, I’m leaving the farm! Continue reading
Australia: Rebellion
Right I’ve just had a big big coffee and I’m feeling a little zapped and I have spent the last fifteen seconds trying to think of a good introduction for this article (diary entry? Oh how I loathe the term ‘post’) but I couldn’t think of anything witty enough; I considered starting out with a humorous gothic horror parody where I envision you sitting in a darkened country mansion with me approaching the door draped in a sodden overcoat and drooping hat and declaring I had a dark tale to tell – I thought it seemed quite clever – but I’ve started entries in a similar manner before and it isn’t original enough for my mood, and so rather than begin this entry in such a style, I have instead opted to do this – that is, to waffle on without achieving anything at all for, oh, about one hundred and fifty words. Continue reading
Bangkok: Nude and Spread Eagled
Alright, I’m back in Australia now, but I suppose for coherency’s sake I should give a brief summary of Bangkok. Continue reading
Bangkok: FFS
I have left Australia for Thailand for what I’m sure will be one week of exploring, misadventure and general debauchery.
Due to an error in my working visa application – the Australian government informed me over the phone that I could enter the country on a tourist visa while my working visa was still pending, then two weeks later informed me this wasn’t the case and I would have to leave – I have fled to Thailand. The trip has cost me a solid half of my remaining savings, and means I will be returning to my idyllic outback farm with around £250 to my name. This is not ideal, and I am rather incensed at having been misinformed and forced to spend all my savings and vacate the country. But nobody ever got a puddle of milk back into the bottle by weeping over it. And so I am in Thailand, whether I like it or not, and I am going to make the most of this most irritating of detours.
I probably sound quite privileged and selfish, don’t I, moaning about having to travel to a pretty country with a throbbing backpacker scene. The reason is, I was growing very fond of my little farm and the friendships that were blossoming there. I was enjoying my slow transformation from a weary old seen-it-all city bastard into a healthy and cheerful farmer. Bangkok feels like a large step backwards. But again, I’m here now, and there’s nothing else for it.
My first impressions of the city could be summarised best by a long, slow emptying of the lungs. I never wanted to visit Thailand, for the simple reason that everyone does. I had a stereotype in my head of what it would be like here, and lo, upon arriving at my hostel at 2am after a delightful 20 hours of transit, the first conversation I overheard was two American frat bros talking about how they got into a knife fight outside a brothel and how they hate anti-gun liberals and how badly they both want to get laid. Sigh. Abandon all culture, all ye who enter here.
I’m staying at a self-proclaimed party hostel, due to its being the cheapest one I could find. I feel old. I’m not sure when that happened, exactly, but at my ripe old age of 25 the idea of fifteen sunburned men in neon vests screaming at red beer pong cups, whirlpooling around one or two English girls clad in arse-cheek pinching shorts seems rather bland. Give me a gloomy bar and a weird old man to chat to any day.
I just really dislike the idea that people travel halfway around the world to a country with a fascinating new culture, and all they want to do is shag about and get pissed. It’s not my idea of fun and never has been. I’m partial to a beer, if you’ve read literally anything I’ve ever written you’ll have picked that up, but I prefer alcohol as an accessory to silly adventures and a lowerer of inhibitions that enables people to reveal their true selves without weeks of getting-to-know-you chatter. I loathe the muscle bound, tribal tattooed masses with their chest beating and arse-grabbing.
But maybe I’m being too harsh. I’ve barely been here one day. I’m going to try and make the most of it. I’m heading out now to wander the streets all on me bill, and perhaps I’ll find something to love about this place. Or perhaps I’ll just sink a couple of those buckets you hear about and stop being such a moany pretentious wanker and end up dancing with my top off in some ping pong show ladyboy frat bro fuckhead dancefloor.
Truly, it could go either way.