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.