Plug

Queue and A

It started like this...


And if finished up like this...


And now Q+A is gone for good.

It was fun while it lasted. Actually, it was more than fun. To say the place has been important is a bit of an understatement. I think probably 80% of the people I know in Melbourne I met there or through people I met there. I could blather on but I won't because I am hung over.

Thanks Richard, Pete and Helen. Words cunt express... The 400 strong queue at the door before opening can though.

Oh, and if anyone finds my phone (and isn't it a coincidence that I lost it on the same day that the iPhone is released.)

Midsumma Opens

Midsumma is here, though they should have changed the name this year. Not much was summery on Friday night. It was warmish but also very muggy. Not that that detracted from the night. Easily one of the most impressive openings I've been to.

Somewhere along the line they decided to jettison all of the crap acts and replace them with artistically credible performers. It was quite unsettling. There was not a rapping Bette Midler impersonator in sight. I was quite disoriented.

Not that we spent all that much time watching the acts. We were too busy watching the bottom of our plastic Becks cups.


Sam came along and she was in fine form. Somehow she managed to plant herself firmly in the centre of every one of my photos. Not that I am complaining because she is dangerously photogenic.

Before the crowds came we managed to catch the skill tester tent set up by Penny Machinations, who brought us last year's Berina of Mystery. Andrew (not that Andrew, the other Andrew) was proclaimed a level 2 psychic even though he couldn't telepathically collect the image of Margaret Pomeranz or any of the numerous penises.



By the time we were ready to move on, we were well-sauced and ready for a tram ride to the Xchange hotel, home of drag shows, go-go boys and a dancefloor of unmixed Nineties classics.

See:



It was a blast of a night and a fitting opening to what promises to be a Midsumma of fabulousness. (Did I just say that?)

Diary: Musings From the Top End

More blasts from the past. Seven years ago. We’re catching up quickly.

This entry is a little more of a review so I am sure you’ll find it rather dull. At the very least it has the story of how I managed to catch up with Byron again.

1 August 1999

True to form hey! What 5 months and I write again now. I don’t really have much to write about, well nothing recent anyway, I was just reading through the rest of the diary and thought that I really should write something before it comes to the end of the year and I am talking about leaving and all that. I am going to find it so hard to leave this place and yet so easy as well. I think the hardest thing will be the first week away because it will be the first time since university that I will have nothing to go back to after the holidays. Jigalong has always been the place I could be sure I was going back to, I could always leave the kids and my house safe in the knowledge that I would see them again and that is not going to happen this time. The thing is that if I can get over that in the first few weeks (being in the city and all that) I think that I will be able to cope... I am sure we will go into this more in the months to come.

I have neglected to rabbit on about anything that has happened in the last few months haven’t I and surprise, surprise, it revolves almost entirely around men. Well, what did you expect? No nothing serious, my sister has given me too many hang-ups for that (and I do mean to get tested soon) and I have decided that the next guy I sleep with I will know somewhat better than a quick dance in a nightclub, well I say that anyway. Well, I did get in touch with Byron, I sent a letter to the Builder’s Arms addressed to the DJ with a letter inside addressed to Byron. Anyway, it got to him and he wrote back, unfortunately the bastard is moving to Canada so I probably won’t see him next time I am in Melbourne. Still I don’t know what I am getting so upset about, I hardly know the guy, fuck it is so crazy, of course I would hate you to think that I am going barney, stalkly mind-twisty fucky in the head and thinking about him all the time or anything, but it is still crazy to want to meet him again?

On to more immediate events, we have just returned from our conference/holidays in Broome and Darwin and I have some fantastical stories from both places. Quick rundown... Marcus’s mate, pissing on a window at Buzz Café, the queen at Brave, the speed offer and the long sleeved shirt debarcle, the trip to Katherine (or the trip back), the rock art, the fireworks and Tuesdee’s discussion with Marcus (but he’s a fish man and he will just slip through your fingers), yes we had blow-up number three. Darwin was nice but a little too rednecky and it had an uneasy balance between bush and city (the worst of both worlds).

Broome on the other hand was fucking fantastically awesomely ace! Yes and BIZARRE, well more bizarre than I had expected. I suppose I shall start with a brief description of the days... dinner-movies-pub-nightclub-recuperate by the pool... and once more with feeling, yes it was fun. It has made me realise that the Kimberly will be my next posting if I come back to teaching. The Nippon, castle of bikers, surfers and hippies, was the last place I expected to pull but it was all there one Wendnesday night/Thursday morning. No sooner had I started dancing than this big fat black guy asked in a most camp way if I minded him dancing with me... and then another blackfella but a gorgeous one and one who could MOVE!!! and then two other guys... there were five of us drawing stares and comments from the crowd by the middle of the night, it was a riot.

Of course I passed up a fuck, the guy was cool but it was just a fuck (I think the come on line was “Wanna fuck?” always a classic) but I beat myself up over it for the next three days. Now of course I am totally at ease with my decision but I really could have done with the contact before coming back to Jigalong. And then there was the blackfella, the one who could dance, who fell over in the toilet! It got me to thinking, could I do it? I mean I would love to and all that but there would be so many problems dating (like I have actually dated anyone!!!) a community man. It just got me to thinking, having the offer so palpable, well the offer wasn’t really there in any real form but it could have been if you understand- and of course you do. And then I turn up the next night and the blackfella is back and we exchange a few words which could have been “Are you the guy in the black shirt from last night?” but I fear that was misheard and that it was actually “Are you a teacher from Jigalong, in the red shirt?” I answered yes in any event so I suppose both are right. The greatest irony is that I fear the guy, who was dancing up my arse the night before, is the uncle of Zyrack who I saw in Broome the day before- but then I can get very paranoid...

Previous diary entries:
I Wanna Play
Confessions of an Amateur Melodramatist
Before I Sleep a.k.a. Diary Drowsiness
Goodbye 1996!!!
Back To The Bush
How Time Flies
End Of An Era
Kissy Kissy
Diary Tonic
Diary: Losing My Religion Virginity
Diary: May Burst
Travel Fallout
Return Of The Killer Diary

The Science Of Alcohol

When the rate of alcohol consumption is greater than the rate of alcohol absorption into the bloodstream, you're on a one way trip to Drunksville. Or in my case, a two-way trip to Airport West.

Cocktails and champagne at The Long Room turned into cheap white from a tumbler at St Jerome's (with ice and dancing). Actually the dancing was good, haven't been out dancing in a while.

Flesh was bared, Steff got her pash but renegged on the dash, we chatted to some lovely guys and then it was time to head home.

It was only 11.

Perhaps it was the fact that I haven't been drinking much recently. Perhaps it is that the Veuve and the cheap white were having a class battle in my stomach. Perhaps it was the heat and the heady nightlife. But by the time I was sitting on the tram I had to close my eyes to refrain from redecorating the upholstery. It was just like high school (except that I didn't drink at all back then and Perth has no trams - unless you count the Burswood tram, which didn't exist back then).

I opened my eyes to be greeted by a kindly young man saying something about falling asleep and heading back into the city. Because I never fall asleep on trams, I politely dismissed his comments and ensured him that I knew exactly where I was. And I did... right up until the tram doors closed on the wrong side and it moved off in a completely contrary direction.

And my iPod was playing the soundtrack to Somersault - decidedly fitting but I never cued it up. Strange.

I got in the front door at 1. I had to ring Byron because I had lost my keys, which turned out to be in my pocket. I also lost my phone, which turned out to be on the lounge next to me.

Good times!

The Return of the Killer Diary!

Many things have fallen by the wayside here at NNM over the past month. The end of the year wasn’t the best of times for many reasons, which I have hinted at here, obtusely or otherwise, while 2006 was whipping its tail.

Now that 2006 is dead and buried, it is time to lace up our Speedos and dive, bollocks and all, into 2007.

First up on the repatriation line of wayward features is the dusty diary. What better way to start the new year than with the gestation of my Melbournian friendship group.

18 April 1999

Well, I am writing again on the changes in my life, and not as anticipated in the previous entry on the other teachers in Jigalong (as you can imagine that slipped from my mind or I decided to put it off for just a little while too long). And so, I will start with an excerpt from a message I wrote to Becky in Bristol...

Anyway, back to my life. I can't remember what I wrote to you about last but I think that you hadn't been able to read it anyway. So I will try to keep to the things that happened in the last few days since I left Melbourne, a sordid description of my drinking habits over the last three nights (alright it isn't sordid, or even interesting but you are going to hear it anyway). Well it all started on Thursday when we (my sister and I) went to the Cirque du Soleil for my sister's birthday. Have you heard of them before? Well basically a circus with no animals and plenty of absolutely mindblowing acts. Unfortunately the only tickets we could get were VIP tickets and to our dismay they included in the cost all the wine you could ever want so we ended up spending the hour before we got inside drinking like fish and had to keep leaving the tent to go to the toilet. Of course we left the show absolutely plied and my sister had a minor break down so after calming her down we popped into a taxi and went home.

Not content at finishing up so early I kept the taxi around and went right back into Melbourne and to go to a pub to continue my alcohol poisoning. Switching effortlessly from red wine to bourbon I sat listening to the music in this pub come dance bar. As you can imagine I was an absolute barrel of laughs after all the shit that my sister had just planted. I must have been looking like a fucking undertaker because from out of nowhere this guy buys me a beer and disappears... BEER urghhh!!! But never fear your good natured hero was so absolutely far gone that he happily downed the middy (about two thirds of a pint I think) in two gulps. Luckily then a song that I like started up (Tender by Blur) so I hit the dance floor and proceeded to treat it more like a stumble floor. Then the bastards turned the music off and the lights on because it was closing time.

... and it was only 1 a.m.

Luckily, as I stand looking lost under the fluro lights, some complete and utter stranger comes up to me and says, "Hey, my mate bought you a drink earlier... Blah blah Blah (or at least that is how I understood it) so they ended up taking me out to some other clubs where I did such excellent acts as kicking over peoples glasses and not even bothering to say sorry and singing loudly to songs I knew well but with the wrong lyrics. But the most thrilling example of my sobriety was when I tried to run up the stairs in one club and ended up tripping up and running into a gate, now I am sporting a huge gash in my shoulder (and that why did I do it feeling in my gut!) but it was all worth it, unfortunately I was too far gone to get his number before he dropped me off (the friend of the guy who bought me the beer that is), its a small world though so I may see him again (recognising him may be a problem though - I should buy some beer goggles before I go back to Melbourne).

So that was Thursday night, and I flew out of Melbourne the next day, feeling fantastic as you might imagine. But not to be deterred I rang up a good friend and we went out for dinner that night. Starting of course with the wine we polished off a bottle at the cafe and then proceeded to a bar to start on the vodka and listen to this band which was pretty cool. Taking it to the next level we stepped into a nightclub to dance our little souls away, feeling fine in a new (and fucking awsome) shirt bought just that morning in Melbourne, and feeling invincible after taking about four shots of Sambucca, we went at it for about three hours.

Well, that is a sort of half version of what happened, the version which omits all of the things I was feeling and have been feeling since. The fact is I would really like to meet up with Byron again and I don’t have any way of getting in contact with him excepting writing into one of Melbourne’s gay newspapers and hoping that one of the guys sees it and writes back (or of course hanging at the Builder’s Arms in the vain hope that I would recognise him). It is not so much that I was smashed just that I cannot remember the whole night and I have not been that wiped out on just booze before. I think that I remember all those bad things because they seem to stick in your mind more.

I don’t know why I would go to such lengths to find Byron anyway, I don’t want to sleep with him (he was gorgeous but I didn’t go out to pull that night so it didn’t enter my mind- well not that much anyway) but he was so real and down to Earth that I have not stopped thinking about him since. Perhaps it is because meeting him has let me know that there are guys out there who are not just raving queens or purely focussed on Diva songs (I know what I mean). And he loved films, foreign films, I was such an idiot not to get his address.

Stay tuned for the next gripping episode…

Previous diary entries:
I Wanna Play
Confessions of an Amateur Melodramatist
Before I Sleep a.k.a. Diary Drowsiness
Goodbye 1996!!!
Back To The Bush
How Time Flies
End Of An Era
Kissy Kissy
Diary Tonic
Diary: Losing My Religion Virginity
Diary: May Burst
Travel Fallout

FYI NYE @ WPPSC

Well, it’s done.

We’ve arrived.

And what as time it was.

I forced myself to see the New Year in with someone other than me. Most of my friends, old and new, were up in Sydney or out in the country so I ended up opting for the only sensible NYE venue in Melbourne, The Witness Protection Program Social Club at The Public Office.

I was so glad I did. And let me tell you why…

Luckily, my friends who had decided to stick around had all settled on attending. The crowd, resplendent in their white fishnets, bikini bottoms and three inch gold heels, where as friendly as they were diverse.

I bumped into a few bloggers (some recognised me, some didn’t) and some new friends, some friends of friends, whom I had never met and some cute guys

Best of all - my three coffees and one Jaegerbomb managed to place me on an even keel with all the other e-ed up punters. And I won’t get that terribly depressing come down tomorrow.

We peeked the fireworks over the rooftops and we were then regaled with some high-kicks and moons as some of the crowd were chased down from the roof.

The whole affair made a nice change from the straight, straight streets of Melbourne, with their un-ironic mullets and blonder-than-blonde whippets.

I couldn’t think of a better way to bring in the New Year.

Hope yours was as delightful!

x

(Clique Clique) Bang Bang!

Most of the weekend was spent, as per usual, hanging with Andrew.

I say hanging but it is more like drinking and recovering. Especially when his friends are involved. Jaysus, the Irish can drink.

Saturday found us at birthday do for Sue and Eimear, with cakes and all! Everything was going gangbusters until St Jerome's closed its doors. We got the hot tip of a club to go to named Clique Clique, or something along those lines. Unfortunately, after we arrived after the arduous trek through Melbourne's laneways we were greeted with a surly bouncer, the knowledge that the club was full and a suggestion to head down the road to Bang Bang.

Bang Bang indeed. There, over the power-riffs of nu-metal from indoors, staring intently at our brightly coloured clothes, the bouncer tried to warn us. "You know what kinda scene this is? It is full of 18 and 19 year olds who have only been going out for a few months..." He could see we were about to step into deep water and we hadn't come prepared with the pre-requisite flotation devices.

Yes, there was a sea of black shirts, black eyeliner and black approximations of "punk", "emo" and nu-metal. (The bouncer in the lemon-yellow Tegan and Sarah top seemed to revel in the incongruity of her apparel.)

Thankfully, vodka and Red Bull proves to be a remarkably virulent tonic.

And the night turned out swimmingly. Upstairs had some more recognisable tunes and downstairs was a dancey dance floor where The Presets got a revolution or two.

It wasn't all beer, vodka, Red Bull and skittles though. I did get clocked by some projectile from some unknown origin. I am sure someone got a laugh out of my bewildered look. By the end of the night the tiled floor, covered in alcohol, had the surface friction of an ice rink. I managed to slip over and sprain my wrist. Some lovely punter reached out his black sleeved hand to pull me up and I stumbled off in search of my dignity.

There was a photo competition going on between Andrew and Sue so everything is documented. I'm sure you'll get to see them soon.

News Flash: PIRATE DANCING COMES TO EARL'S COURT

Finally met up with my dear friend and pirate dancing partner. If you recognise him from the photo, you know how shy and bashful he is.

We mocked many of London's least fashionable homosexual establishments (The Yard, Barcode, Box) while drinking "pints" and researching for the second edition of Kate Hall's "Big Book of British Smiles".

Then we hit the true class and refinement of Earl's Court. After a short Big Buck Hunter interlude at some pub we sampled the delights of Brompton's. All for just £1. Hoorah.

Back from Homo-gay Paris!

Ahhhh, what a wonderful weekend!!!

I am now extremely tired and three stone heavier thanks to all the Nutella smeared crepes.

I won't blather on too much about it. Here are a few of my favourite bits.

This is how fast the Eurostar took us there.



I know it is not very interesting but I wanted to test out the video thing.



It was a lot colder over in France. We emerged into Paris at the Place de la Bastille where Lucy collected us. It was ace to see Lucy again. She has been studying in Paris for the past few weeks and is about to leave to go back to Oz (maybe).

We took it easy on Friday; just wandered the streets for a bit and wined on at Lucy's VERY expensive short term studio apartment on Rue de Lapp.

The next morning I took a stroll while the others slept. Paris is very peaceful in the morning.



I saw Notre Dame and the Pompidou then I wandered back, forced them out of bed and off to Sacré Coeur via Père Lachaise due to a momentary lapse in directionality. On the way we picked up some breakfasty delights and found out that a French grapefruit is called a pomplemousse. I love that word so.



We met up with Oscar but missed Jim in another bout of misdirectionality. Sacré Coeur afforded great views of the city and an appalling soundtrack thanks to a French busker butchering Oasis.



From there we wandered, wandered some more, tried to shop then went to sleep. We did our first Euro-Thai for dinner and it was actually quite nice. Different but nice.



And then we hit the town. We trawled the Marais for a decent club but they were all too small and crowded. I mean, people were dancing where they couldn't even stand up straight. We eventually headed back up to Lucy's end of town to a club called La Scene. Expensive to get in, even more expensive to drink, but it was a blast. We danced to the wee small hours and when it got too hot we disrobed, well, Lucy did anyway.



Much fun was had, much more fun than sleep. The next afternoon we woke up and headed off to see that tower everyone talks about.



Thanks to Lucy's friend Gwen we managed to queue jump and see it all in record time.



On the way back we passed by the Hôtel de Ville to see the ice skaters only to be mobbed by roller bladers on some sort of demonstration (love this photo BTW).



And that was it. Trip home and bed.

For ALL the photos you can go here.

We're All Too Beautiful For Words!!!

Caught up with ex-housemate, current ex-pat, Kate last night for her birthday. Good times were had by all over at St John's, a gastropub out Archway way way.

Kate was good enough to teach us all how we could, with just a few simple moves, improve our photogenicity (and make up words in the process). All you have to do is turn side on, twist back, arch your back, stick your jaw out and give a big toothy grin. Simple, see!



Yeah, there is only one problem; it doesn't seem to work. We found this perplexing so we kept trying, comme ça!



































The photos span afternoon drinks at St John's and a quiz night at some pub in Islington where we placed a commendable third (of 17 or so teams) despite a cutting defection by one of our party.

One of my favourite photos of the night was taken on the way home, in Angel tube station. I don't know why I like it. Maybe it is how the light catches, not usually something that my camera does particularly well.

This London, Last Night

Went out last night to meet Rog's ex-workmate come friend, the loverly Victoria.

We were supposed to meet at Victoria Station in the darkness of 5:30pm but I got there early so I decided to pop down to the palace to take a photo of the Queen's pad just to prove to you all that I am really here and not holed up in a kibutz outside Bendigo. If you look really really carefully at the upper right hand window you can't see the Queen.

We ate dinner at La Tasca, a chain of Spanish tapas bars (someone must have been thinking of me). Even though it is like the Starbucks (note the conspicuous absence of a link) the food is really quite authentic.

Now, many of you have been noting that Rog hasn't been appearing all that much on the site. Here is a short photo essay of why that has come about:


"Don't take a photo of me!"


"Did you just take a photo of me?"


"I think he just took a photo of you!"


"Did a light just fly past my head? Hello everyone, I'm Vic and I'm really nice."


"Hello, I'm here too!"

As you can see, it was a wonderful meal with lashings of red wine and a feast of inconsequential, nit-picky debate (I was in hog's heaven). And for all of the pounds that were put on many more were taken away.

From sunny Spain we ventured out into the cold and over to Zander. I am sure you all know my innate dislike of hotel bars but this one was acutally quite nice and had its own I'm-not-really-a-hotel-bar kind of atmosphere (provided you didn't happen to look in the direction of the hotel reception).

And just to prove that Rog isn't the only one who can take a bad photo:


"Are we really posing in a hotel bar?"
"Yes, but if you lean a little to your right, you will block out the view of reception with your body."
"Nah, don't worry; the camera is set to slow shutter so it will be all blurry and unrecognisable anyway."
"Hoorah!"

The highlight of the night, or at least the funniest part (excepting, of course, my lesbian at the gynecologist joke) was when Vic went up to order the second round of this fabulous beer called Bitburger (see glass) and mistakenly called it Furburger. I have absolutely no idea where on God's green Earth she came to be under the misapprehension that it was called Furburger, and I doubt I will ever know, but at least the cute barman found it amusing, almost as amusing as Vic herself did. She's a keeper!

And finally, I leave you with more proof that I am in London. Here is a pretty shot of the Green Park Underground sign (okay, yes, I could have chosen a more iconic station. Deal with it!).

Mixamitosis

Well, I had my first night in London. It was a relatively understated affair; there was hardly a drag queen in sight next to no pole-dancing, but it was still a ball.

The purpose for our little jaunt was to catch up with Rog's ex-housemate, Duncan, a lovely young chap from the land of the long white cloud. We took the "tube" into Shoreditch to the Dunksta's flat. From there we went off some underground bar just off Old Street named Smersh, which was sort of like the Russian version of Double Happiness, only less busy. It was quite sleepy that night so after a bottle of beer and some vodka we moved on to Trafik, where I drank my first pint (well, my first pint in London, this time around). Trafik was cool, if not a little non-descript. Our next stop was a cocktail bar under some restaurant. Martinis, martinis, martinis. Joy of joys!

But of course, the fun didn't stop there. For some ungodly reason we ended up travelling across town in a black cab to get to a summer beach party in Clapham, which Duncan decided to drag us to. Lovely crowd, lots of delightful chit chat, lays a plenty.

Then came the fun part... getting home, because unfortunately, London, the city that never sleeps, is also home to the London Underground, the transport system that seems to sleep with clockwork regularity. No "tube" after midnight. So in the middle of this terribly cold evening we had to negotiate the Night Bus system. Left at 3am got home at 4:30am. We are starting to put together a little portfolio of reasons to move closer to the city. This one goes straight to the top of the list.

Anyway, long story (kinda) short: Red + Vodka + Beer + Gin + White = Nasty, queezy stomach feeling = Not going open air ice skating today!