The greatest aussie invention ever

Sorry we've been a bit lax about updating this but to be honest we've both been too busy in our serperate adventures. Sam set on a quest to become the new "Crawf" by lifting heavy furniture forever and I buggered off to a different country to try and catch a kiwi or two.
We both failed in those endeavours and now I'm back in Australia and I feel I have to comment on a social situation out here.

Everywhere you go, sportsgrounds, bars, shops, the government has seen fit to plaster all over everything the current drink driving campaign that is being used at the moment. I say current drink driving because I'm not sure if its anti or not.
The adverts are all well and good and highlight the endless problems that you can get into by having a swift bevvie or two and then choosing to get behind the wheel of your car and to be honest they're pretty powerful adverts. But if the government really want this message to get across then they really need to do something about a danger hidden deep beneath the surface.
The Liqour stores themselves.

Now as most of you know I like a drink or two and I'm on first name terms with most of the bar maids in my town so I apologise if this doesn't sound like me. But honestly the majority of the off licenses out here are drive throughs.
Yes, you did read that correctly. You can quite conveniently drive down to the liqour store and get tanked without ever leaving your car.
Australians frequently go on about how they are the best in the world at everything and I'll admit after nigh on 6 months it has got a bit tiresome. So from now on I think I'll just agree and then point out that only a bunch of convicts could think of something as stupid as a drive through for alcohol. Well, them or Sam.

It's just like being at home...

Well, as Sam previously mentioned I got very bored of the crackheads in St Kilda and decided to bugger off for a month or so to New Zealand.
Australia has been good to me, the sunshine, great times and great sights had left me in great spirits but something was missing. Something was stirring deep within my soul.
I wanted the weather to be miserable. Being away for quite a length of time had left me bored of the gorgeous weather and heat and wanting something like home.
Thus after a few discussions with various people I came to a stunning revelation.
New Zealand is like Wales!!!! It rains a lot, their are sheep everywhere and all the people are vastly superior to everyone else. Plus they like Rugby a lot.

It is gorgeous here though, being back out in the great outdoors is awesome. Have spent a few days in Christchurch, which reminded me a lot of Oxford or Cambridge or a vastly inferior Swansea. It was nice to be somewhere small after spending so long in Melbourne and really enjoyed it.
Since then I've moved up the coast to a place called Kaikoura where there is precisely nothing to do. The only attraction is some whales which camp out about 10 miles from the coast. So hence predictably the weather turns crap as soon as I get here and all the boats are cancelled. Crap weather, nothing to do and still lots of sheep.
I really could be in Wales.

Sleepless in St Kilda

I've got it in for a lot of people (3) at the moment, who have randomly woken me up at different times in the dead of night. The problem is I don't know who any of them are. I know that two of them, at least, are local crackheads, at least. On two seperate nights over the last week I've been woken at roughly 3am by local hobos, clearly off their head on 'ice' or 'speedballs' or whatever the hell it is the kids are doing these days. The first time was some gentleman of the road generally roaring his lungs out that he was going to murder someone, smashing bottles and generally utilising his extensive swear vocabulary. The second time was actually quite amusing, in a kind of Eastenders style. To begin with, it all sounded the same as the time before, 'cept this crackhead was a lady. However, in the midst of all the profanity and general racket were some quite amusing phrases like "She's 37 years younger than you", "You peadophile bastard" and (my favourite) "She's my fucking daughter!". Whoever that man is, I salute him. He definitely made the correct choice. These incidents excepted, the hobos around the St Kilda area, and they are legion, are generally quite nice. They'll occasionally seranade you with a poorly performed african drum solo, plink out a song on a badly tuned guitar or drop some juggling balls in your general direction, then they'll ask for some money and we'll all laugh at the irony that I am actually in much more debt than they are and therefore they should give me some money. Another time, I was walking to meet my boss for work, and I passed by an old homeless guy, sporting the usual drunken abusive father christmas style (inc massive beard). This guy was, rather proudly, stood in the middle of the pavement having a wee. He caught my eye as I walked past, and held it. Which was a slightly surreal situation. I was also accosted for change the other day buy a guy who was so stoned off his face that he couldn't actually speak, I very nearly relented and gave him a few bucks for all the effort he'd clearly put in.

Getting back to my lack of sleep, the third arouser is an altogether different kind of evil. A few nights ago, I was woken at 3am by some git (from England) who had decided to phone me and withhold caller I.D. When I answered to phone to tell them where to shove it, I was treated to the dulcet tones of what I think was Trevelyan College fire alarm. This wouldn't have been so bad, but I had to be up for work at 5.45am the next day. Whoever you are, rest assured, I will hunt you down with all the energy and tenacity in my body.


In case anyone is wondering where Morgan is, he's gone hobbit spotting in New Zealand. With any luck, now that he's on his own, he'll actually have to make some descisions by himself.

Sam

I hate you so much.

Morgan's brilliant idea

The other night, Peter, Andrew and myself were walking home, and trying to decide what delicacies we could cook with the limited supplies in our house. All sorts of wild and wacky suggestions were discussed including such culinary abortions as 'pasta and sauce' or 'something with the last of the tuna in it'. However, fate was smiling upon us this day, for this was the day that a bolt of inspirational lightening would strike right in the centre of Morgan's cerebral cortex. He would utter words that would change the culinary face of the planet for years, nay decades, to come. The exchange that follows is beautiful in it's simplicity.

"How about" the great man intoned "we have burger sandwiches for tea?".

OF COURSE!!!! How could we have missed it? How could we have been so blind. Simply cook a standard beef burger patty, and then place it in between two slices of bread! How could we have overlooked this simple, yet brilliant, combination for so long. Burger Sandwiches, we immediately realised, were far too good to pass up. The inspiration was running strong amongst the group that night, and one brilliant idea followed another. I suggested that ketchup might compliment a burger sandwich most succinctly, and Pete, sweet Pete!, came up with the coup de gras, adding a slice or two of simple cheddar cheese! How delectable! Of course, some ideas were not met with universal approval. My notion of adding a gherkin to the mix was met with a hearty rebuke, and mayonnaise also received a lukewarm response.

Now the more difficult task of finding a food to compliment the burger sandwich (oh, what a seminal creation!) was undertaken. We quickly realised that the humble potato would no doubt be able to provide us with a suitable delicacy. But to mash, roast, chip or boil? The argument was tumultuous, and all sides received a fair hearing. Eventually we realised that the chip, that humble English staple, would fit perfectly with the ideals represented by the burger sandwich. Hearty, delicious and healthsome, yet at the same time simple enough that the most redundant of cooks could conjure one from the sparsest cupboards in no time.

It was crunch time. What manner of beverage could possibly hope to be served with our meal? A cheeky white, perhaps? Or maybe a more full bodied red, to bring out the flavour of the red meat of the burger? Quickly we realised that no wine could possibly hope to match the mastery of Morgan's creation, and beers were quickly rejected on the grounds that they would wash out the palette and make one feel bloated, detracting from the experience. But wait! Lightening had struck twice! "My friends!" Morgan cried "the answer is sitting in front of our noses! What of Coca Cola!?". Of course! How could we not see it? The symmetry was perfect, the three vertices's of our meal triangle had been completed with an elegance that Pythagoras himself would have envied! We hastened home in order to prepare the feast. It was all that we had expected and more.

So, dear readers, prepare yourself! The brainchild of that wily sage Morgan, his baby, the Burger Sandwich, will no doubt be finding it's way to a restaurant near you any day now. But if you're impatient, why not cook one yourself?

The Burger Sandwich. You know it makes sense.

Top 5 Questions I was asking myself this morning

5. What is that horrible black mess on my trousers and how did it get there and will it wash out and is it poo oh God I hope it's not poo?

4. How many vodkas?

3. Why do only men ever try to chat me up?

2. Isn't it brilliant that, no matter how much I drink, Morgan always drinks more; no matter how much I spend, he always spends more and no mater how hungover I am, he always looks and feels at least 10 times worse than me?

1. WHY DID I EAT A TIN OF CAT FOOD?

Anything can happen in formula 1, and it usually does

Gosh, it's been a while since I 'updated' this, eh what? I've been rather busy the last few weeks generally galavanting about all over the country, and having a much better time than you. But it's all over now, and I'm back working in Melbourne. EXCITING, HUH? The only thing of note that's happeneing in the next few weeks, bar Morgan's foot getting amputated (we hope), is the F1 coming to town. Specifically, the F1 is coming about 500 meters away from where I'm staying. Which, brilliantly, means that for about a week the nearby public transport will no doubt be congested with important people in suits who don't really like cars but have got the best seats anyway, women who are more plastic than flesh and idiots in Ferrari caps who've paid a couple of hundred dollars in order to stare at some distant tarmac for a few hours as some cars whiz in and out of their view in roughly half a second. These people will talk to each other loudly and at length about things like 'down force' and 'gear ratios'. I once visited the F1 in England, and my overriding memories consist of spending a few hours parking several miles away from the track, taking out a small mortgage to buy a burger and some rather sad looking fairground rides staffed by the usual surly carnies and charging prices that were slightly more ridiculous than your standard funfair (10 quid for the big wheel, instead of 5). I'm sure I also remember hearing the drone of Engines quite a lot, and I might even have seen a few cars, though I'm not sure. After the experience, father decided that paying a large entry fee in order to buy slightly more expensive soft drinks than usual was a mugs game, and we never went again. Since we're so near to the epicentre, some friends and I are considering buying a load of coke from a nearby wholesaler, and selling it for slightly less extortionate prices than the nearby retailers.

Other than lifting furniture over the next few weeks, I'm going to be training Morgan and Pete (who we're living with(not in that sense(well, not me(probably morgan though)))) in the ancient art of Texas Hold 'Em Poker. My hope is, that with two degree level mathematicians and a physicist, we ought to be able to form quite a formidable team, develop a strategy, and hit the punters at the local casino for all they're worth. To further this aim, I'm going to buy a book titled something like 'Poker for Dummies'.

I was also priviliged enough to watch an AFL game the other night, and a very exciting game it was. From what I could tell, the game seems to centre around a large number of men in very small shorts spending most of their time pulling up their socks, occasionally catching a ball, then taking a very long run up in orger to kick the ball in between two posts. This action usually resulted in the team scoring a single point, which is almost worthless. Occasionally six points are scored by being slightly more accurate with the kicks, and getting the ball through the middle posts. The crowd wildly cheer each catch, and fequently and loudly urger players on their team to 'kick the ball'. Given the nature of the game, this is akin to loudly exhorting a marathon runner to 'take another stride'. I have no doubt that Australians do this.

Well it finally happened.....

As most of you know, I've been doing exceptionally well in getting this far without getting injured in some shape or form. However all good things must come to an end and this was in a very bizarre and interesting way to get injured, but it still hurts like you won't believe.
Having Roz here meant that we all got into gear a bit and started seeing the sights, so we spent three days out on the Great Barrier Reef, diving, snorkelling, singing sea shanties and drinking rum in true pirate fashion. However the "well" equipped instructors didn't have a pair of flippers in my size! It was still awesome but still, I have average sized feet! They aren't like Sam who is the elephant man. They are just normal uncomplicated feet. Now however they are not soo uncomplicated as the blisters I got from the flippers have all become infected and hurt more than Rob's singing voice in your ears (only joking Rob!).

So I had to break my good record and go and see a doctor last night. He was a nice chap until he pulled a needle the size of my arm (scrawny though it is) and proceeded to stab it into the wounds in my foot. Arse
I'm not ashamed to admit that the shout that I made when that thing went into my foot wasn't pleasant and I made a couple of the nurses blush with my language but I think it was allowed.

So apart from that Cairns has been really cool, spent some days diving which was amazing and then went up to the rainforest to do some adventure trekking, mountain biking and canoeing (which me and sam managed to capsize in a lake).

All is really cool though and we're flying back down to Melbourne today to get more money and allow my foot to heal properly with the help of antibiotics (which means no alcohol for two weeks).

Bugger