Taff Down Under 20
Before I start here’s the quote of the month.
Lee Anne: "Why you looking so sad Mum?"
Mary: (sadly) "I don’t think my sister is making me a Xmas cake this year."
Lee Anne: "Why not?"
Mary: "Well I asked her not to."
Mind you Mary did win three gold medals at the "Masters Games" held here last month. Some poor old biddy wandered onto the throwing area at the games and received a hammer on her head for her troubles. Luckily Mary wasn’t the one throwing it. It may have lost her some points if it was her!
Ok, so there I was walking the dog. We have a few walks that we do on a regular basis, and this was one of them. It takes us over a hill with a good view of the city, and it’s one of our favourites. So, as you can imagine, you tend to bump into the same people when you walk a regular route, and as dog owners everywhere do, pass the time of day with a quick chat. Ok, most of the time it’s more a case of trying to stop the dogs fighting / fucking / eloping with each other, but you know what I mean.
One lady, who I’ve said "G’day" to on more than one occasion, was out with her kelpie that evening. I like her dog, it’s a bitch, and far faster on her feet than Barnum, so he tries to chase her, and she runs him ragged, thus increasing the value of his walk. We must get his knackers cut off one day soon. She also leaps over him, right over him, which leaves him looking rather perplexed. Mind you, I should say; "even more perplexed than his normal gormless look."
So anyway, this day as the dogs were running around like mad things, I stood and passed the time of day with the owner. She’s a lady of, how can I put this? She’s older than I am. I caught her accent, definitely not Ozzie; I was going to hazard a guess "Hungarian? Serbo-Croat? Turkmenistani?" definitely a strong hint of Slavic in there…. So rather than sound stupid, and yes it is a bit late in life for me to start worrying about that, I asked her. "Sorry, I know I should be able to guess, but where’s your accent from?"
"Glasgow."
Hmmmm…. Spot on as usual Thomas.
So we continued to chat, and watch the dogs go loopy. Barnum was getting totally fucked by this point; it’s hard to run with a hard on. So I asked her how long she’d been here; "Since 1959," was her reply. "Oh really," says I "that’s the year I was born." She gave me a "look", then slapped me around the shins with the aluminium walking stick she uses, "that’s no thing to say to a lady!"
Well at this point I was rolling around on the floor, tears of laughter and pain in my eyes. "I like this one!" I thought.
So, when I was able to walk again we strolled on. She asked me about how I ended up out here, and I told her the tale of our romance, and all that stuff, and she seemed genuinely impressed. We talked about this and that, her love of painting in watercolours, the war in Iraq, places we both knew in the UK, all sorts of stuff, and it was really interesting. She asked me what I did, so I told her; "Ah, another thing we have in common," she said "I’ve just got my doctorate in medical provision." Wow!
Anyway, we reached the point where our paths diverged, and she gave me her phone number saying; "you must bring your family around for tea one day." Really nice that huh? So we gave it a bit of time, and then I rang as we had a suitable weekend free with Bethy. And the number she’d given me was wrong. Bugger.
So one day, going on the rough description of where she lived, I did a bit of looking around in that area, and asked a few people if they "knew where Thelma lived?" After getting some strange looks off some folk, and very suspicious ones off others, I happened by chance on her next-door neighbour. He showed me her house, and I knocked. No one in. So I blagged a bit of paper off the neighbour, and left a note in her letter box, explaining that she’d given me a wrong number, and giving her ours. I signed it and pissed off.
The next day I got a weird call on the phone, "you left your note, but I don’t know who you are!" "And I haven’t the fucking foggiest what you are on about!" I thought, then it clicked. So after a long-winded explanation on me, the dog, and her kind offer of tea, she finally remembered me.
The next Sunday afternoon saw the three of us sat in her lounge, eating yummy biscuits, pumpernickel bread with stuff on, drinking tea, and chewing the fat about everything and nothing.
No point to this tale, except how nice it can be just to meet someone and, with a bit of decency on both sides, ending up sharing a nice time.
So now onto a less pleasant bit of mixing with people. The other night I was down at our local "Turkish Pide" house. Go and have a butcher’s at their website here;
http://www.turkishpidehouse.com.au/
Lovely little stars follow your cursor round when you click on the page. Cute J !
We were having;
Humus; Chickpeas, tahine, lemon juice and olive oil.
Beetroot dip; mixed with garlic, mint, yogurt and fresh herbs.
Kabak Mucveri; Grated zucchini, mixed with fresh herbs and deep-fried.
Peynirli pizza; Detta cheese, spinach and parsley.
Anyway, there I was at the counter, just waiting to be served and talking rugby with the guys behind the counter, when in marches a bunch of suits.
One of them, a big fat bird with a face like a slapped arse, pulls a badge out of her pocket, and shouts "Immigration! No one move or try to leave the building."
Fuck me pink, it’s the Gestapo!
Anyway, they barge into the kitchen, with scant regard for hygiene rules, and Mrs. Fat Fascist Bitch, starts shouting at the various cooks and waiters, "You! What’s your name and date of birth, where do you live, do you have a work permit?" Funnily enough they have young white lad who works behind the counter there, and they didn’t ask him a thing. The racist twats.
So I was beginning to get a bit hot under the collar as you can imagine. But as I’m up for getting my permanent residence sorted (more on this later,) I wasn’t really in a position to have a go. Anyway, I made for the door, which was being "guarded" by a short skinny girl, with a badge on her jacket pocket. "Does that badge have "Arbeit Macht Frei" as its motto? I asked nicely as she opened the door for me without asking who I was or my residence status, "No I don’t think so," she replied leaving me out with a smile.
I wonder if she was still smiling when she worked out what it meant and where it came from? J
The Rugby World Cup, what a spectacle and what a wonderful sporting event. It had everything, drama, excitement, great sportsmanship, a few punch-ups, some pathos and a lot of fun. Unfortunately it also had a little sod called Jonny Wilkinson, but enough said.
We saw all the Canberra Matches; Italy vs. Tonga, Italy vs. Canada, Wales vs. Tonga, and Wales vs. Italy. I won’t bore you with in depth descriptions of the matches, but hell did we have fun!
The routine was this.
Spend the hours before the match getting the war-paint on. We were lucky as we had loads of Welsh things to wear to those matches! Leave the house an hour and a half or more before kickoff. Go to the Turkish and get a meal to take with us. Then spend an hour trying to get a parking spot. Buy a couple of programs. Wander around for a while looking for our seats.
Find seats. Eat cold Turkish food. At this point I join the mile long queues for the beer stalls. Take beer back to seats, join mile long queues at bookies window to put money on Wales. Go back to seat. Drink all my beers. Go back into beer window queue. When there are only six people between me and the window, realise that I desperately need a piss. Buy beers cross-legged, and rush them back to the seats, rush to miles long queue for toilets. Get involved in heated debate with opposition fans, risk embarrassing myself by pissing trousers.
Finally pee. Rush back to seats.
If this is a Welsh match embarrass the hell out of everyone else by loudly singing along with Welsh National Anthem;
Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn annwyl i mi,
Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, enwogion o fri;
Ei gwrol ryfelwyr, gwladgarwyr tra mad,
Tros ryddid collasant eu gwaed.
Gwlad, gwlad, pleidiol wyf i'm gwlad,
Tra môr yn fur
I'r bur hoff bau,
O bydded i'r hen iaith barhau.
Hen Gymru fynyddig, paradwys y bardd,
Pob dyffryn, pob clogwyn, i'm golwg sydd hardd;
Trwy deimlad gwladgarol, mor swynol yw si
Ei nentydd, afonydd, i mi.
Os treisiodd y gelyn fy ngwlad dan ei droed,
Mae hen iaith y Gymry mor fyw ag erioed,
Ni luddiwyd yr awen gan erchyll law brad,
Na thelyn berseiniol fy ngwlad.
One person was heard to say; "well that puts paid to the idea that the Welsh can sing". Bastard.
Watch match, spend 80 minutes in heaven and hell simultaneously, shout abuse and encouragement in equal measure, cry with joy and anguish, curse, swear, rage, rage, against the dying of the light. Oh, and drink lots more beer.
Spend next hour after end of match elated, and looking for the car, desperate for a piss.
It was wonderful.
In one Welsh match toilet queue match I was asked by a guy in equally extravagant Welsh get up, with an equally strong accent, where I came from. Just to slightly take the piss I said; "Aranda, it’s a suburb over there." He replied; "I’m from Cook meself!"
Cook is the suburb next to ours. J
atching the subsequent games on the box lacked a lot the excitement of the live matches, but no one can argue that it wasn’t a great tournament. And yes I’ll admit it, through gritted teeth, that the Sais* deserved to win.
Cor! We’ve had some great thunderstorms of late. We’ve had more rain this so called spring than Oz has had in many years. I love thunderstorms me. The other night, just as the thunder was rolling in, we sent Bethy off to walk the dog, with a nice metal handled umbrella. She came back with two dogs. "Been here before," I thought. So we dialed the number on it’s collar, and the bird that answered said "Oh, I’ve just let him out for a wee, has he run off? I’m not feeling to great today can you bring him around?"
So we find out where she lived, just around the corner, and I take him back in the pouring rain. Not a thank you, leave alone a box of choccys this time. Next time Bethy brings him here, I’m feeding him to the cat.
Oh, Mark and Jenny Nicol have been staying with us. I won’t bother describing the long, ex-ginger, streak of piss to those of you that don’t know him, except to say that me and him have been mates for twenty odd years, some of them very odd. And if he thinks I’m going to say anything nice about him he can get fucked!
Anyway this is how it went.
The weeks before were spent cleaning the house up. I swear I’ll never invite anyone over again if Lee Anne is going to get that house-proud. We did all the normal cleaning, plus every other bloody bit and nook and corner was done. The grouting was repaired, the undersides of shelves were polished, the garden was brought back from the brink of being declared a nature reserve, and the house was moved three feet to the left.
On the Sunday Bethy and me borrowed the mother in laws car and drove up to Sydney to pick them up. They arrived not too late, and we shot off down the road back to Sydney. Nicol was saying what a good flight they’d had and how neither of them felt jet-lagged. He also said how slim I was looking, the nicest thing he’s ever said to me.
We got home and Lee Anne fed us, and we spent the evening catching up on people and things, and it was all very nice. They had, and this was very good of them, brought me a bottle of duty free Laphroaig, my favourite Scotch. Not only that but also six packets of my favourite tea "Safeways Own brand Assam" and they’d made sure it was loose leaf, not bags! (Hint, hint, Kingman!).
We believe it or not here we are three weeks later and I still have a little of each left, I’ve been rationing myself. Mind you the Laphroaig is only hanging on by the skin of its teeth.
The next day we got up, Lee Anne and me were working that day, and got ready for the off. Mark got up just before we left, looking like death warmed up, and informed us that they had spent the night halfway between sleep and wakefulness and were absolutely fuckered. Jenny had got so desperate to sleep that she even had sex with Mark. That would send most women into the land of nod.
So that day, while we're off doing our normal stuff, them two chilled out about the house. They even took the dog for a walk, nice of them. While they were out they came across lots of fields carpeted by lovely purple flowers; they even took pictures of them. Uh huh…
Paterson’s curse (Echium plantagineum) is a winter annual native to Mediterranean Europe and North Africa. In Australia it is a weed of grazed pasture where it can out compete desirable plant species. Paterson’s curse contains alkaloids and if consumed in large quantities, it reduces livestock weight and woolclip in sheep and severe cases death.
,
It was introduced into Australia in the 1800’s through deliberate introductions to botanic gardens and as contaminate of seed. The weed allegedly received its common name from the Paterson family who lived near Albury NSW, who brought the seed from Europe so they could grow it in their garden. Since the 1800’s it has spread rapidly and is the dominant pasture weed of many regions in temperate southern Australia. It is now estimated to cost Australian graziers at least $30 million per annum.
That evening I took the two of them plus Bethy out to walk the dog, and to help Jenny with her latest project, cataloguing every Roo in Oz. Well we came across a field down in Aranda bushland with a reasonable sized mob of them, and off went Jenny with her camera, with Mark running behind screaming about the cost of the film.
That night they still had the "body is fucked, but the brain is wide awake" ’s. Good! Teach them to try and be smug about jet lag.
The next day I had off, so I took them for a look around Canberra’s attractions. We did all the usual suspects, Parliament House, Old Parliament House, The National Museum, The National Gallery, "Adam and Eve" sex shop. You can read about these places here;
http://www.canberratourism.com.au/default_2.htm
Although for some strange reason "Adam and Eve’, doesn’t get a mention.
While we were down by "Adam and Eve" I pointed out a couple of the local (legal) brothels to them. I mentioned to Mark that you can get girls that "cater" to couples in them. He looked all hopeful and happy. Until Jenny hit him that is.
The next day was the worse day I’ve had in yonks.
We decided to go off into the wilds of Tidbinbilla, the national park that had been ravaged by the fires. On the way there we saw a snake in the middle of the road, so we stopped and poked it with a stick for a while, but it didn’t move. Jenny got a picture of it though. Later on we found out it was a "brown snake". Need I say anything here about the literal way of naming things Ozzies have?
The eastern brown snake is the species responsible for most deaths caused by snakebite in Australia, although, with the advent of efficient first-aid treatment and antivenom, there are now usually only one or two deaths per year. A large adult brown snake is a formidable creature. They may exceed two metres in length and, on hot days, can move at surprising speed. It has a slender body and is variable in colour ranging from uniform tan to gray or dark brown. The belly is cream, yellow or pale orange with darker orange spots. The eastern brown snake inhabits most of eastern Australia from the desert to the coast. It inhabits a wide range of habitats but is particularly prevalent in open grasslands, pastures and woodland.
Guess we got lucky there!
But that’s not the bad thing, oh no! A way down the road we noticed that the car was overheating badly. So we got out and checked the oil. And there was none. None at all. Oh bollocks, not with that piss taking bastard with me! So we chugged back into Canberra, and I got oil, and we set off again.
We got as far as the Deep Space Tracking Station, and we noticed that the car was still overheating, so we pulled in there. We had a cuppa while the car cooled down, and then checked the water. And there was none. None at all.
Oh no, the skinny twat will let me forget this!
And he didn’t. But the worse thing was the bastard was so NICE about it. Cunt.
We eventually got to the nature reserve. We had a burger that we cooked on an open Barbie, and were joined for our meal by a lovely Kookaburra.
We then did some of the limited walks that are open after the fires. I got my own back on Nicol by pointing out mobs of Roo’s to Jenny and watching her hare off after them camera in hand, with Nicol crying into his wallet behind her.
The next day Lee Anne took them off into Canberra, so that Mark could get a guided tour of every shoe shop in the city. Ha! (It wasn’t her idea. She hates shopping.)
That Friday, we shuffled Bethy off to her Dad’s, and the four of us sneaked off up to Sydney. Bethy wasn’t to know about it, as we’d promised her that she could come with us the next time we went. I felt guilty all weekend. Well some of it, for about 20 minutes at least. Or five.
That day I’d had a shitter of a day at work, with a suicidal client going missing. Then topping it up with a long drive to Sydders, and with getting hellishly lost in the city adding two hours to the journey, meant I was only fit for a pizza and a cuppa before bed time. We had planned to go out clubbing that night, but I was mortalled, and to be fair the others didn’t take the piss. Not much anyway.
The next day we went and did all those things that are a must in Sydney. Saw Circular Quay, took photos of the Opera house, took pictures of the bridge, got a ferry to the beach.
We went to Manly beach. More woManly if you ask me.
http://www.australia.travelmall.com/travelmall/attraction/Sydney%20(NSW)/Manly%20Beach
The ferry takes you round the back of the Opera house, and it’s a lovely thirty-minute trip there. The beach was beautiful, the surf was up, and beach and sidewalks were heaving with jaw dropping totty of both, and in some cases of both in one body, genders. We spent an hour or two walking about, in mine and Marks case trying not to trip over our tongues, and sunbathing, and then got a ferry back.
We went back to the hotel and changed into scruffy clothes, put some decent clothes into a rucksack, and caught a bus and train back to Circular Quay. That night Oz were playing New Zealand in the semi’s of the world cup, and Sydney was full of pissed rugby fans. Unlike in the UK, a bunch of pissed rugby fans over here are more likely to buy you a pint of beer than headbutt you in the face. Unless they’re pissed English fans that is.
We made our way to the foot of the Harbour Bridge. This was it; we were going to do the bridge climb!
We got kitted up, and signed several forms. These were the usual "get out of jail free" forms, that basically said that anything, short of the bridge collapsing on us, was all our own fault and that we’d not only not sue, but pay for the fucking thing to be repaired too. We watched a video, and had a test use of the equipment on a little mock up. Then, headlights on, we strolled to the catwalk.
It was fucking wonderful, absolutely mind blowing. Lee Anne spent the whole trip looking at the steps in front of her, and at the sky when she was on the arch. She rediscovered the joys of vertigo. Jenny had several stops to change her knickers too.
I’ll never look at that bridge in the same light again. The views were awesome. The highlight of the night was watching Oz score a try on a huge screen TV that had been set up outside the Opera House from the arch of the bridge. Ok, we were so far away that we couldn’t see who had scored it, but the roar from all over Sydney was huge, and just to be able to say we did that was worth the price of the climb twice over.
There were several photo stops, and we had to buy ours just for posterity.
In the changing area we got into our clubbing gear, which we’d brought in the rucksack, and went up to Kings Cross. This is Sydney’s Soho area, as described by me ad nauseum in past letters. It was really fun to do the bars and what have you with Mark and Jenny though, I think they had an eye opener of a time.
We ended up at a club called the Icebox. An apt name, as I’ve had freezers that were bigger.
http://www.icebox.com.au/
The music wasn’t too bad, mainly "Uplifting House" and "Trance". Mark managed to offend one local girl by asking if the dance she was doing was the famous "Sydney Shuffle" that he’d heard about. She passed me while ranting to a mate saying; "The cunt, that’s the way I always dance, why did the wanker ask me that? I think he’s on drugs!"
Subtle Mark, very subtle.
We then hit a sex shop, don’t ask, and headed back to the hotel.
The next morning we bid them adios, and headed back to Canberra, driving very slowly due to fatigue.
Last Tuesday Mark and Jen came back for a stop off on their trip between Brisbane and Melbourne, in their campervan. They made us dead jealous with their tales of visiting rainforests, swimming with sharks and cruising the highways of OZ. The tossers had already seen more of Oz than I have in 18 months of living here, and they still had 3 weeks to go! The next day they were off to climb Mount Kosiosko, Oz’s highest peak, before I have done it to. I was almost glad the forecast was for thunderstorms. J
One thing both Lee Anne and me noticed while they were with us, was how good Mark was with Bethy. He had her following him around like a lost puppy. She doted on him, hanging on his every word, and he in return was ever so understanding and obliging. Made us both think what a great dad he’d make.
If you are wondering why this bit isn’t full of images, it’s because they are all online. Go here;
http://community.webshots.com/user/stroppygob
to see them. There are some real crackers, some lovely images, and some with Mark in them.
The other day I was at one of these glorified pawnshops, called "Cash Converters" in Canberra with a client. He was buying video’s with titles like "Sex Slave Zombie Girls From Venus, IV", each to their own tastes. I noticed a pair of rollerblades; they looked to be my size, so I tried them on. They fitted like gloves. I looked at the price, $13.00, (about 5 ½ quid, or $10.00 US) and rushed to the counter to buy them before anyone noticed the mistake.
Can any of you wise and wonderful people tell me how you are supposed to stop on rollerblades? I haven’t the foggiest; mine ain’t got heel stops either. I come back from doing my "trendy step-dad" routine with Bethy, who also has a pair, covered in cuts and bruises. I have two main ways of stopping, falling over, or crashing into trees, people, cyclists, walls, the dog. The road rash I have, from sailing down the road on my knees, is developing some healthy looking scabs. Great for picking at in boring meetings.
The other day I got a letter from the Immigration people, asking me to submit stuff for my application for permanent residence. They wanted all sorts of odd stuff, including signed and certified affidavits from two people who knew us and were prepared to say that we lived "as a married couple". So we invited Neil from next door and our mate Albert round to watch us shag. Not really, but both of them agreed to sign our forms, and some lovely things they wrote on them too. Thanks to you both.
Funnily enough, they didn’t ask me to prove that I had had work, and paid my own way here. If I’d have known that I’d have stayed a kept man.
They did however ask if for photo’s and documentary evidence of our life together. So we gave them every photo we have of the three of us, not many as one of us is usually behind the camera, and guess what else?
Yup, I printed off all these letters, and gave them in with the application, hundreds of pages! We did put a warning in saying;
WARNING; The letters are rated M for mature audiences only.
They contain:
L Strong Language.
S Sexual references.
So if you find me back in the UK next month you’ll know why.
I’ve had an OT student with me, for the past seven weeks, on placement. A lovely young lass from Brisbane, called Nadine. She was ever such a good student, did all my work. Shame she’s gone, I’ll have to do some myself now. L
Oh well that’s it for me. Hope you enjoyed this, not that many of you buggers mail me back to say you do!
You wont get another of these until after Xmas, so we’ll take the opportunity to wish you a good one, and a safe and happy New year. May your new year be full of joy and happiness, and all that sort of crap.
All donations of "Safeway Own Brand Assam Loose Leaf Tea", or spare bottles of Laphroaig you have lying around, to the usual address please! It’s me birthday Jan 4th.
*Sais, the Welsh word for English, I couldn’t bring myself to finish that sentence!
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