As expected, the unpredictable volte face
4th August, 2004
Someone, somewhere, is having a laugh.
It's no surprise to me. Those who believe God made man is his own image, must also accept that God must have
a mad sense of humour. And an irrational liking for kebabs at odd hours of the morning.
So, I quit my job in the UK for an un-put-downable opportunity in Australia that evaporated like the faggotty excuse for
a breeze that blows over Sydney harbour. I came to Australia anyway, out of badness, to create my own job. And what happens?
I'm offered an un-put-downable opportunity, back in Europe. So backtrack it is, once again.
What will happen back in Europe? If that job turns out to be running a soup kitchen in Croatia, if I'm kidnapped by pygmy
slave traders, who fail to get my starting price and trade me in for half a packet of Cheerios and a picture of Lady Di,
should I even bother to complain? No. More of the usual.
One day, a few years ago, I was working as a barrister in the Law Library (that is to say, I was idling around, shooting the breeze).
On a whim, I popped out for a coffee, and never went back. People said that was a bit mad, at the time. Now what happens?
The Irish government, at a stroke, has annihilated the entire insurance litigation business. So if I'd stayed in the Library
I'd be up shit creek with half the lawyers in Ireland.
And not as I am now, wandering witless, halfway round the world from a job surrounded by pygmies and empty bags of Cheerios.
Pour it On
Australia. I'm not sure now how much will miss Australia. Here are some good things:
wide blue skies, no rain
the warm sea
the ocean surf, the surfing
the fresh air that blows in your face as the ferries rush your though the majestic harbour
And now some things I miss from Europe:
the dark, blue-grey skies, rain.
wind you can grit your teeth into
some decent clouds, with a bit of spunk, a bit of character
Bizarre isn't it? I'm pining for rainclouds and cold air. After three months of winter sunshine, I am sick of this
eternal poofy bloody summer. Just give me a change! Some contrast, some depth to the sky! And when it does rain it's just
a dribble, like an old man after three pints of Coopers Red. Bring on the flood!
Sick Car, Mate
Australia. Seeing as I'm leaving, I can have a go. Here are some things I will not miss from Australia:
(a) Ozzies wrapped up like garden gnomes, shivering, flapping their arms around them, and complaining at the top of their keen, nasal voices
about the cold in July when it's what? 15 degrees in the shade? What a bunch of saps.
(b) The real Sydney accent. Turns out that the annoying, screeching noise we in Europe consider to be the Australian accent is a refined,
upper class version. There's another dialect, much worse, that abides in the western suburbs. It sounds like the speaker has
shoved a goose down his throat, just as she was about to lay an egg. Sticking a biro down your own ear-hole is the preferred
option when confronted with this noise. Sticking a finger down your won throat while trying to speak is the only way to reproduce it.
(c) The Sydney pub. It's got to be big. It's got to be square. Every single pub in Sydney must be modelled on bingo hall in Leitrm circa
1952. Or maybe they want a space that can be converted to a chicken factory at short notice. You don't go out for a drink
in Australia. You are processed past the bar, onto the carpet, and back out to the street. Which is the best place to leave the
thin Australian beer in any event.
(d)The beer. See above.
I shall miss the surf. A school of dolphins came out for my last day. We all sat
on our boards and waved as they slid by. Goodbye, goodbye.
Simple things sound posh in German, don't you find? Having invented a word to cover the inane dandering around that I've done for the last
year, all in order to end up precisely where I started, I can relax and feel all philosophical about it all. I not only learned to surf, but I relieved
my Spannungsboden. So it's been pure profit.
I have to return to the UK via Auckland and LA, but in two weeks I'll be back,
ready for the salt mines or the African mercenary war or the racing across the tundra ort whatever turns out to be next.