Port Douglas

17Jan10

We flew out of Brisbane on Sunday morning and landed in the tropical paradise of Port Douglas two hours later. Like any good Gadabout, the first thing I did after checking in to our accommodation (The Port O’Call Lodge – clean, big beds, air con, swimming pool and bar – recommended), was to read the Welcome Pack in our room. I was drawn to one particular paragraph which contained sage advice on the use of fans. I have instructed my people to transcribe it in full for you below:-

“There is no point leaving a fan running when you are not in a room. In fact, the motor in the fan will generate a little waste heat, and could make the room slightly warmer. And if you have a pet that does not perspire (such as a ferret), there’s no point in using a fan to cool it down.”

Also applies to stoats and badgers. But not otters. Never otters.

 

Ironically, this was the first time on our trip that we had brought our ferret (Amanda) with us. We left Amanda stretched out by the pool on a sun lounger, being lasciviously eyed up by a Yorkshireman and headed into town.

A happy, holiday atmos reigned over the picturesque little streets of Port Douglas. We discovered a New Age market by the sea and wandered around the brightly coloured stalls, desperately fighting the temptation to spend several hundred dollars on crystals. The weather was rather changeable with bursts of hot, hot sunshine followed by a sudden shower, punctuated with gusts of wind which gave way to overcast skies that were burned up by the blazing return of the sun only to be obscured by a torrential downpour which eventually… well you get the idea with that.

As the clouds dispersed once more, we decided to make the most of the opportunity and scampered along to the Four Mile beach. We were met with a golden arc of sand and crashing waves (this wasn’t hugely unexpected as it is after all a beach). Plunging straight into the sea, we bitched up some gnarly air as we leapt on, over and through the powerful surf, whooping and guffawing like a couple of lifers on day release from the big house.

Having thoroughly exhausted ourselves, we tumbled back onto the sand for a bit of a read. I wanted to finish the Welcome Pack from our room as I’d already started the section on ‘Communal Kitchen & Dining Area’ and was desperate to know how it ended. I won’t spoil it for you but there is a twist.

After a while, black thunderclouds rolled overhead, signaling that it was time to return to our lodgings. We strolled back along the shore, looking along the palm trees for the path we had taken on our route down. You will be concerned to hear, my exquisitely dressed reader, that we couldn’t find the blasted thing. Having walked for about five miles which on a four mile beach is almost unprecedented, we were about to give up and accept that this was our life now. With an abundance of coconuts for sustenance and all the sea water we could drink, I felt sure that our new feral existence would be a success.

So Susie brought some sort of weapon with her to the beach. Big whoop. That isn't a problem for me. It really isn't. Doesn't keep me awake at nights wondering about it that's for sure.

I was just beginning to mentally write the screenplay for the inevitable film that would recount our life-changing ordeal (‘Sand Prison’ starring Academy Award Nominee Angelina Jolie and Li’l Louis Theroux) when we spied an opening up ahead. It wasn’t the way we had come but we grasped this potential lifeline and plunged on.

As we emerged warily at the end of a short, palm tree flanked path, the sun broke through with a sizzling vengeance, illuminating an incredible and totally unexpected sight. It seemed that we had stumbled into the grounds of a hotel. Not just any hotel though, this was a luxurious, pampertastic, opulerific, glam-palace of a hotel. The gleaming, white walls of this forbidden fiefdom were completely surrounded by a swimming pool. To simply call it a swimming pool though would be an enormous injustice – a bit like calling the O2 Arena a decent sized lock-up garage. It was the size of heaven with water so purely crystalline that dipping a toe would almost certainly produce the sound of a sweet, prolonged chime. Water lapped invitingly at the softly undulating circumference with the practiced seduction of a geisha. Not a single soul was around.

I drew my gaze away from the pool (please see above for wordy description) and glanced up to see if Susie was thinking what I was thinking. Dare we dip? Fortunately, we decided the answer was yes or this anecdote would come crashing to a judderingly unsatisfactory halt. My limbs breathed a silent thank you as I eased in to the mirrored sky and discovered salt water that was the temperature of a healthy child’s forehead.

I held this handstand for almost three minutes while Susie yelled encouragement.

We glided, floated and did a nice swim n’ that while trying to give the impression that we were very much used to this kind of thing and slightly bored by the whole experience so as not to draw attention to our commoner status. I was reminded of every post-apocalyptic zombie movie I had ever seen where the few lone survivors frolic in abandoned palatial homes before the whole rabid, walking corpse unpleasantness begins.

We decided not to push our luck and having struck what may prove to be the decisive blow against privileged overlords in the name of Revolution, Comrade Susie and I reluctantly got out of the pool and headed back the way we came.

We were only ten metres shy of the pathway when our hearts leapt to our mouths and tried to scramble past our molars in a cowardly escape. A fully uniformed security guard was striding directly towards us. Admittedly, on the surface she wasn’t the scariest security guard in the world. She was about 5ft, a little bit on the portly side and I think she was smiling. However, I couldn’t have been more alarmed if one of the sun loungers had suddenly transformed into a ‘Killatron 5000′ and attempted to destroy us with laser darts (ok, that would have been more alarming).

The guard was slightly closer to the exit than us and it looked as if there would be an intruder intercept situation before we reached freedom. Under her breath, Susie whispered that perhaps we should just carry on walking past the guard and into the hotel so as to look like guests. I was unable to form much of a coherent reply as by this time I had broken into a nonchalant half-sprint.

It may have been my imagination, but I could have sworn that our nemesis began to pick up speed too. I couldn’t tell for sure as I was staring with some fascination at my Usain Bolt style blurring feet. In that moment, I resolved that if we were cornered and confronted I would face the consequences head-on, take my medicine like a man and confess that it had all been Susie’s idea and she’d made me do it.

As we drew parallel with the path, we veered sharply and began our final escape surge. The sun was behind and I watched our lengthening shadows in front, waiting in trepidation for a third, slightly rounded shadow to appear. It didn’t.

We felt a giddy euphoria as feet met sand and we were safely back amongst the shuffling, ashen faced proletariat. At this point it did occur that security guard Glenda, as she might be known to intimate acquaintances, may simply have been doing her rounds with no idea that our dip was anything other than legitimate. Either way, this illicit, unexpected, swim against the machine (stop me if you feel I’m going overboard) was an absolute highlight of our gadding about so far.


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Insane in the Brisbane

06Jan10

Ask any ‘Scenery in the Vicinity of Airports’ expert and they’ll tell you that Aerodrome surrounds are never spectacular. However, as the taxi whisked us away from Brisbane Air Gate 6 and took us towards our new pad, I was worried that concrete highways and office blocks were flying by rather than shimmering trees and quirky, independent book shops.

This gave me a rather (unfairly) negative first impression of Brizzle which was compounded when we started to wander around on foot. It is a city built for cars unlike Melbourne which seems specifically designed for leg nomads.

So is Brisbane rubbish then? I’ll try not be offended by that aggressive line of questioning and simply say that no, it’s not rubbish. It’s actually rather special but you do need to root around a little to find the glittering hoopla nuggets.

Through Gumtree, we had arranged to rent a room in a student house, sharing with three girls. We hadn’t seen any photos of the place in advance so felt some minor trepidation. As it turned out, there was no need for worry as the pad was pretty much ideal. We hadn’t seen any photos of the students in advance either as strangers often get a bit funny when you request close up photos of their faces. Get OVER yourselves people! It’s 2010 yeah?

I was conscious that our new youthful housepals may view me as a ‘wrinkly old grumpbag’ determined to spoil their student fun. In an effort to prove my young person credentials I took to calling everyone dudette and wearing my trousers just below my knees. We have since had a house meeting and I have promised to stop doing both of these things for the remainder of our stay.

A few nights after moving in, I wandered into the kitchen to get myself a Lemon Cream Powershake Sundae as a snack and aid to lower body bulk. As I glugged my tipple and flexed my glistening quadrupeds, I suddenly felt as though I was being watched. My eyes swept across the room, then back again, then back again, then back.. (I did it six times) before freezing, locked eyeball to eyeball with an intruder. A massive possum was sitting in the kitchen sink. I say massive but it was probably only average sized for a possum. However, in my limited experience any mammal that you unexpectedly find sitting in your sink in the middle of the night automatically qualifies as massive. I let out a high-pitched yelp as a signal to the female housemates that everything was under control and I was there to protect them. 

Hellooooo possum! Admittedly I didn't spend a great deal of time on this caption

 

The furry gate-grasher kept his eyes pinned to my fizog as he crept slowly back towards the open window and the magical animal kingdom beyond. A wave of mutual understanding passed between us like an invisible hug. Suffice to say I killed and ate him which is what he would have wanted.

Having spent some time getting to know the Brisbane megalopolis, my favourite area has to be the South Bank. The Brisbane South Bank is actually very similar to the London South Bank. If you have never been to the London South Bank, it’s rather reminiscent of the South Bank in Brisbane.

Both have giant Ferris Wheels, neither of which particularly appeal to this blogging Gadabout. I went for a spin on the London Eye a few years ago and was distinctly underwhelmed. It was a bit like looking out of the window of a really tall building.

Each have excellent art galleries. The Queensland Art Gallery just edges it for me in the pointless comparison competition I seem to have started. This is chiefly because they are currently showing a free season of first-class world cinema on big screens. Joyous.

Their main area of differentialisimity is that Brisbane South Bank has a man-made beach. This may sound like it has the potential to be slightly tacky but it does work wonderfully well. 

Life in the city is a beach! Copyright Brisbane Tourist Board

 

Although it’s an ideal spot to cool off and make erotic sand shapes in the daytime – it really comes alive at night. With the glowing cityscape in the background and the bogus beach lit up like an infant child’s face on Christmas morning, this attraction alone makes Brisbane worth a visit.


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Road Trip – Part 3

27Dec09

Take the phone off the hook, light some candles and slip into something silky as we embark on the final, magical chapter of – ‘Road Trip – Highway to Hotpants’. Please remember to extinguish all candles after reading as they can be a fire hazard.

We roared into Phillip Island in the early evening, looking for stunning vistas and blue, blue seas. That wasn’t our immediate experience unfortunately. A stroll along the main strip revealed drunken teenagers (one of them unconscious and being loaded into an ambulance), concrete-block-based architecture and souped-up cars driven by Bogans (Chavs), tyre squealing up and down their tarmac playground. Several took time out from crushing beer cans on their foreheads to loudly grunt in our direction. This is an actual quote “Ooiiiiiiiii wantttttnii? Wot you ffuuuuuuucccliookkkkkuuuuuuuu!! Ayy HA HA HA HA” I am quietly confident that our dignified silence left them feeling thoroughly ashamed.

The most picturesque photo I could find of the centre of Phillip Island. The line of Bogans, mooning at the camera have been airbrushed out for the sake of decency.

 

Our Phillip Island experience was all uphill from there as the next morning we visited the Koala Conservation Centre. These are the top Koala facts wot I learned:-

1. Koalas are addicted to hit TV show Gossip Girl and will happily watch an entire box set if not physically restrained.

2. They make excellent administrative staff

3. There is NO conclusive evidence that Koalas wear toupees

4. The Aboriginal word for Koala is Dharuk Gula which literally translates as ‘Price Reduced Slipper’

Seth Rogan was forced to stick the top of his head out of this box for up to eight hours a day as punishment for 'Zac and Miri Make a Porno'

 

Next, we sauntered breezily along to Churchill Island Heritage Farm, doing our bit to help strengthen the bond between human and animal. Hey, can’t we all just get along?

Mr Widdlebum looks rather melancholy. So does the rabbit.

 

Determined to beat our own personal record of adorable animal viewing sessions in a 12 hour period (set in 2002 and involving a chinchilla), we set off for the Penguin Parade. Every evening at dusk, the officially named Little Penguins (a guide helpfully explained that the name derives from their diminutive stature) waddle out of the sea in groups and head up the beach to their homes in the sand dunes. There was something otherworldly and peaceful about sitting at the ocean edge, waiting for the stars of the show to arrive as the sun dipped. Suddenly, a seal broke the surface and began looping dives in what many in the crowd interpreted as a hunt for the Little Penguins. Were we about to witness a fight for survival?

No.

A tannoy announcement informed us that the whiskery sea-hound posed no threat. Took a bit of the drama out of it for me to be honest.

As darkness fell, tiny dots began appearing in the black ocean, gradually moving towards the shore. Eventually, the first battalion bravely emerged, desperately scrambling against the tide as they fought their way along the wet sand. The leader at the head of the group made a heroic dash forward as the others hung back. This created a gap between the safety of the cluster and Rambo the Penguin. Undaunted, his flippers spun furiously, propelling him towards home and the promise of a fish supper. His blistering momentum was checked abruptly as he found himself beak to beak with a seagull. Rambo did a double-take of comedic perfection as he looked behind at his cowering comrades and back at this unexpected adversary. The renegade penguin raised himself to his full height of 16 inches, puffed out his chest and eyeballed the interloper before whipping around and legging it back to his mates. The others didn’t waste any time and were back in the water quicker that you could say “oooooh ain’t seagulls dead scary though?”

Jonathan he's back again with that bloody camera. If you were any kind of penguin you'd go out there and thump him. Mother was right - agreeing to marry you was the biggest mistake of my life and... and... this isn't easy for me Jonathan but Tobias isn't even yours. I've been having an affair."

 

I looked along the beach at the hordes of seagulls and felt we were in for a long night. So it proved as wave after wave of black and white squadrons teeter-tottered their way back and forth between sand and surf. It was genuinely fascinating, funny and rather moving (God, I’m wonderfully sensitive) to see them overcome their trepidation and finally make the valiant dash to safety. 

The next morning we gave Phillip Island an inappropriately sensual farewell kiss on the lips as we hightailed it back to Melbourne. Once back in the city, we torched the motor and abandoned the smoking husk in a disused railway siding (dropped it back at Hertz). 

For our final night in the city I have come to call ‘Melbourne’, we stayed in the Youth Hostel that was our temporary home when we first arrived. The circle of life my friends, the circle of life.

At the Godforsaken hour of 4am we hopped in a cab and sped to the airport for the next leg of our ‘working from anywhere on the planet’ adventure. Our destination? Brisbane. Our plan of action? Devilment and mayhem followed by a lovely snooze…


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Road Trip – Part 2

21Dec09

Welcome back to part two of what the internet community is already calling ‘another blog about a road trip’. But enough about me, babes. Sooooo spill, what’s the latest goss with you?

Fair enough, I’ll crack on then.

We rolled into The Dandenongs (a range of low mountains and sweeping hills named after a largely forgotten indie band from Sheffield) at about 3pm in the midst of an epic downpour. Our outdoor-based plans were rather scuppered by the apocalyptic weather but we were quite happy to stay in once we discovered our cosy accommodation. After our recent heavy schedule of drinking wine and lolling about in pools we deserved a treat so kicked back with a pizza and a DVD. We chose to watch ‘Slumdog Milliner’ – the heartwarming tale of a boy from Mumbai who makes fabulous hats.

At 5am the next morning, a bright new dawn blazed across an infinite sky quite probably although we were asleep at the time. Five short hours later though, we headed to the nearby William Ricketts Sanctuary. The sanctuary is a ferny glade that for many years was home to the eponymous artist who furnished his woodland crib with numerous sculptures of sinewy, entwined, muscular male torsos. Now don’t get me wrong, I likes me homoerotic imagery as much as the next bloke but there was something about the way many of these pieces portrayed him as a christ-like saviour to the Aboriginals that left me feeling a little queasy.

Dude, have you been working out? Seriously man, you're looking ripped.

 

Our next stop was a cafe with a dedicated bird feeding area. This sounds pleasantly sedate and conjures up images of gaily coloured feather puffballs, flitting hither and thither, landing gently on the tip of upturned noses as they delicately remove seed, balanced lightly between lips in an interspecies food-kiss.

This however, was very much not the case. It was a talon filled, beak gouging battlefield of winged hatred. The moment anyone so much as rustled a packet of bird nosh they were assaulted by a gang of foot high cockatoos intent on bloodshed. As these fowl assassins lunged at faces and slashed at wrists, I was expecting anarchy to break out and braced myself for screams and panicked tears.

Not so, I saw faces illuminated with delight, children gurgling with happiness and the elderly excitedly comparing bloodstained trousers. I was totally baffled but managed to curb my natural instinct to phone the police for assistance. Instead I plastered on a smile as I flailed my arms around in as calm and dignified manner as possible.

It was almost a relief when a bird landed on Susie and she reacted by squealing and running around in giddy circles. 

As Susie was visciously attacked, Steve was almost paralysed with brotherly concern.

 

Pretty Vacant ------------------------------------------ Pretty Polly

 

I urge you to return for the third and please God, final part of our adventurous tale. For those of you that have written in, the full length – ‘Road Trip – Beyond the Precipice of Damnation’ audio cassette (narrated by Al Gore in a high-pitched giggle) will be released in time for Christmas 2014.


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Road Trip – Part 1

18Dec09

Before leaving Melbourne for good, we decided to take a road trip to the more rural outskirts as a final huzzah. We hotwired a motor (sort of) and headed for destination number one – Healesville, famous for its Wineries and sense of whimsy.

Having arrived at our first Vineyard of the day, we took a ‘How We Make Wine’ guided tour (it’s complicated but involves grapes and a can-do attitude) before hitting the tasting bar while feigning interest in Cheese Knives. I sampled quite a few glasses in an effort to maintain my meticulously high journalistic standards. I can confirm that wine is nice and makes my tummy feel all warm.

Fruity, full-bodied, delicious and sensual. The wine's not bad either. Thank you and goodnight.

Our third Winery ‘tasting’ sesh was run by a Hungarian chap who I immediately decided was my absolutely best mate, no, no, sheriously, he’s my best mate. He joined us in knocking back a few impudently flirtatious Merlots and we formed a magical bond that can only exist between drunken strangers. The hardcore geniality took a bit of a hit when mine host slurred that he wouldn’t let us leave if we didn’t buy something and would lock the doors…

…awkward pause…

…ha ha ha… ha?

…cough…

We joined in rather half-heartedly with his laughter before buying a massively overpriced bottle of red and scarpering. 

The next morning Steve and I made use of the hotel pool with an astonishing grace and youthful athleticism that surprised even ourselves.

Give me an 'L'...

We spent the afternoon visiting an art gallery in stunningly beautiful surrounds. The art took second place for Susie and Steve who insisted on mucking about on the hill outside. Philistines. 

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We were up at the crack of 11.17am the next day and hit the road (I am speaking metaphorically). Our plan was to take a trip down Memory Lane with a short comfort break at Reminiscences Service Station on our way to Noble Park – Susie’s childhood home from the ages of eight to ten. We paid homage at her old school, family home and local shopping mall.

Coca-Cola take a decidedly low-key approach in latest poster campaign

Please visit again soon for ‘Road Trip Part 2 – Gross Out Director’s Cut’.


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“Melbourne Zoo Worth a Visit” Claims Gadabout

06Dec09

Melbourne Zoo is worth a visit.

You can read an even more comprehensive guide here.

This is a video of me performing what could almost be described as a magic trick in an effort to impress the penguins. To enhance the illusion I would suggest blinking repeatedly throughout.


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Melbourne Victory vs Gold Coast

03Dec09

Steve, James, Eddie and myself arranged to watch a football match between Melbourne Victory and Gold Coast. It was a rather tense affair with nobody quite knowing which way things would go but eventually I decided to wear my lightly striped jumper with navy slacks and we set off.

The game was played in the inspirationally named Ethiad Stadium on the South Bank. It was my first visit to the area and I was reminded of how odd it is that every city is split so neatly into tribes. My definitively accepted view of South Bank is that it’s a ‘no trainers in a nightclub’ kind of place.

We had a couple of minutes to kill before the game so went to a nearby pub. As there was no time for pints, I ordered a couple of pots of beer. Pots is the Melbournian name given to half-pints – a peculiarity which seems designed to cause anarchy and confusion in a noisy pub. My worst fears (apart from global destruction and human hair biscuits) were realised when the barman returned with foaming pints. I helpfully explained that I had asked for pots. He took time out from his busy day to glower at me with venomous disgust before stropping off and sulkily pouring the controversially measured liquid into smaller glasses. He harumphed his way back and silently snatched my cash. I did briefly consider explaining that ‘pots’ does sound very much like ‘pints’ and is the equivalent of calling half a gallon a gallurn but instead I opted for whispering “oooooooohhhhh get her” under my breath.

As we queued for tickets, the skies opened and we were hit with a torrential downpour. I appeared to be one of the very few people that had brought an umbrella yet I could sense the drenched masses were happy for me and applauded my forward thinking. In return I made absolutely sure that I in no way looked annoyingly pleased with myself.

Making sure I in no way look annoyingly pleased with myself

 

Unexpectedly, a tiny little Scotsman hypnotised Steve into thinking he was on the side of the M4 and needed a lift home...

 

...Five minutes later and Steve's attempt at hitchhiking ends in humiliating failure

 

The match was played at a thrilling tempo with a ferocity of commitment and emphasis on lightning skills for the first 20 seconds before settling down to a fairly pedestrian, long-ball tussle.

If you don’t want to know the final score, please ignore the massive graphic directly below this sentence:-

 

It wasn't the fastest game in the world. This is live TV coverage of the second half.


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Rap Battle at First Floor

01Dec09

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment 
You want it, you better never let it go 
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow 
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo 

Not my words readers. The words of notorious dungaree wearer – Eminem. His international movie smash – ‘8 Mile’ – sees him play B-Rabbit, a wannabe rapper from the wrong side of the tracks. Trapped with an alcoholic mother (played by Patricia Routledge) a pregnant girlfriend (Keifer Sutherland) and no way to make any greenhoney-pips (money), his life appears to be careering towards a dead end.

That all changes when he meets Daisy, (Sandra Bullock and Meg Ryan) a kooky environmentalist who puts love first. When her nine year old son Jonah (a hologram of Michael Jackson) twists his brain right up in a snooker accident, she can’t afford to pay for the operation that may just save his life.

If you had once chance, or one opportunity - would you risk it all for love? Contains scenes of a violently sexual nature throughout

In one desperate final gamble, B-Rabbit enters a head-to-head rap contest aiming to win the prize money, save Jonah and finally capture the heart of the only woman he has ever truly loved apart from like this girl he snogged off when he was like ten so it doesn’t even count or whatever.

Inspired by this urban fairy tale, I headed to First Floor on Brunswick Street with my ‘2 live posse be-atch crew’ (Suzanne and Stephen) to watch an MC battle. Each Monday, the resident pro-spittin’ chappy takes on all-comers in a name calling hip hop swaggerfest. I had planned to participate but was worried that I may get dissed as a four-eyes so declined.

Double bass player wonders what to have for dinner

The bar was low-lit, the MC was charismatic, the beer was cheap, the cockroaches were enormous (seriously, I thought it was an ashtray) and the combatants were surprisingly good. I say surprisingly as judging by the ‘waiting to go on stage’ dancing from many of the street gladiators I was anticipating a bit of a car crash. One guy in particular was throwing shapes like a cardigan in a tumble dryer. However, when he hit the stage, his lyrical bullets would have put Richard Blackwood to shame.

With free entry every Monday, a friendly atmos apart from the continual on-stage trading of insults (“I’m a bad ass felon. You look like a melon”), rap battle at First Floor allows you to get ghetto without any silly drive-by killing unpleasantness which just spoils it for the rest of us.


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Gottle of @!*#$! Geer

29Nov09

We’ve only got about a week left in our Fitzroy pad before we have to hit the bricks (leave). I’ll probably say goodbye to Melbourne with a firm yet brisk handshake in an effort to hide my true emotions. Inevitably though our gaze will hold for a split second longer than it should, shallow breath will quicken as we plunge into a desperate embrace – recklessly sweeping a marble kitchen work surface clear of utensils before rolling around entwined on an emotional and physical plane in an unspeakable act of dark farewell. 

Melbourne is nice!!! :-)

Before that sad and erotically charged day arrives, I thought it would be instructive to compile a roundup of events and activities that heretofore I have been unable to cover due to legal and moral constraints:-

Monday Night Magic at Dantes (Last Monday of every month – $10)

“I love magic. I hate magic.”
David (Dave) Nolan – November 2009

Ever since I was a male-child I have enjoyed watching and performing magic. I devour (not literally) books on its history, theory and practice. This equals love.

Unfortunately, many magicians make me feel queasy as some seem to believe that balloon animals, sponge rabbits and weak puns are acceptable. This leaves me at home to Mr Hatred.

I was rather excited then to discover www.mymagic.com.au, a collective of cool magicians (sure, it can happen?) who regularly perform around Melbourne. 

Susie and I caught a show one Monday evening at Dantes on Gertrude Street. The first act was a chap by the name of Kamal. He had the look of a young Errol Flynn and the demeanor of a slightly older Errol Flynn. His performance was professional, polished and a credit to close up. Well done Kamal.

We reconvened after the interval for the second magician of the evening. The bouncing, bubbly, perma-smiley fellow that skipped on stage had his arm up a comedy dog. It took me 0.26 seconds to work out that this in fact made him a cocking ventriloquist. It took me another 0.03 seconds to calculate the coordinates of the nearest exit. The only thing that kept me in my seat was my generous nature and the fear that I may be spotted and pulled on stage to have a conversation with his right hand.

It may sound as if I am being disparaging towards ventriloquists but that is because I loathe them. At one point he asked a volunteer to move so he would be “standing over the trapdoor.” This was met with a gale of riotous laughter from the crowd and the beginnings of a stomach ulcer from your narrator.

Magician arrested for inciting hate crimes against ventriloquists

More recently we saw another show from the same magic collective at Dirty Secrets on Smith Street. This performance was all magic (twelve acts performing five minutes each) and was thoroughly entertaining. They have an end of year spectacular coming up at the Atheneum Theatre in December which I would highly recommend if you’re in the area.


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Bloggin’ About me Noggin’

22Nov09

One evening last week, I went to the fridge to get myself a lovely bit of naughty Lindt chocolate beer. I crouched down on my haunches, found the deliciously indulgent chunks of caramel heaven beer and stood up sharply. I didn’t get very far with this audacious standing up plan as my skull immediately cracked against the underside of a thick, heavy windowsill edge. I fell back on the floor, bravely managing to hold onto my danger of repeating the same joke too often beer.

I was left absolutely frozen, completely stunned and unable to move. I hadn’t felt this way since Leo Sayer unexpectedly stormed out of the Celebrity Big Brother House (please see 2007 for all pop culture references). I eventually managed to stand on rather wobbly legs and made my way to a handily situated chair. I gingerly touched the top of me bonce and discovered the kind of bump more usually found on Wile E. Coyote. To help convey the kind of agony pudding I had foolishly ordered from the pain menu I have created a medically verified* bar chart.**

• This bar chart has not been medically verified. •• This is a bar chart

Fortunately Susie and Steve were nearby so I could share my concern and distress with them. They responded by placing various frozen packs of vegetables on my head, wrapping the whole caboodle with toilet paper and taking photos while pointing and giggling.

If you have an ounce of humanity you'll alert the Social Services on my behalf.

I decided to consult the internet to find out if my symptoms (muddled thoughts, dizziness, rock-hard pecs) could be the result of concussion. I soon stumbled across a site which had a forum on this very topic. After scrolling through a few of the comments my worries about possible concussion were replaced by concern for the future of our planet. I have pasted a few of my favourite pearls below. I would love to claim that I have written these myself in a delicious parody but unfortunately they are all 100% genuine:-

• I would be really bad if someone had so many concussions that they would die or some thing. I would never want that to happen.

• well after hearing about it’s kind of scary.. Because I hit my head whenever i’m stressed!!

• i think they should make special helmets so like you cant get a concussion

• What’s the big fuss? a minor stress in the head doesn’t mean you are doomed.so if i do have these concussions I’ll go straight to the fields.(and if i has these brain whatever it’s good enought for me ’cause i won’t have to study again.)

• I don`t do anything that I can get a concussion from, like riding a bike, or going outside. All I do is sleep, and go to school.

• I’m more of a girly girl anyway so I never had a concusion from sports. Now that I think about it, I’ve never had a concusion period.

• We think its weird that the scientists asked athletes to donate there brains!!!! EWWWWWW

• I think I would still go out and do the sports I really like I think I would just try to enjoy playing and not hit my head as much, if possible.

• I don’t think that they’re that big of a deal but its still cool to be able to say that I’ve had eight concussions

• I got a video game it is madden 06 and when i play a game they barly get a player a concusion.

• Just looking at the differnce between an athletes brain and a healthy brain makes me wanna puke.

• I don’t really care about the concussions because like I am going to go in the NFL and I am going to probably get concussions but that doesn’t do anything to me except make me stupid

• How do you have your brain taken out and have it be experimented on? do they give you a extra brain while you let them do that or do you die?

• um i dont need to were a helmet i am the best in the world aand i think u still need training wheels ahaha but good job!!

• Really, I think I won’t even have a chance of concussion. In where I’m living people even don’t know what touchdown is. And my bike was stolen years ago so I can’t drive bikes

• One time when i was a kid i went down a hill on the road fell off and did a faceplant, i did not wear a helmet and i still don’t

• not being a football player, you still could have a concussion, so if you get concussions alot, I would be concerned about concussions.

• well, after hearing about it, it’s kinda scary. A little brain damage could turn into bad thing… I should stop hitting my head.

• I have never had a concussion. plus i dont want. one

• I’m not concerned about concussions and that has got to hurt because once you get a concussion you’ll get headaches you also get enraged and then you will be okay but your brain will be damaged.

• I think concussons are bad and they need to be better NOW!!! I would also like to say hi to Gregy… Hi

• I don’t do that much dangerous stuff. I guess if you fell out of bed in your sleep you could get one. Or you get hit in the head really hard with an egg or something at lunch.Or you get slammed with a locker. But those are very unlikely. So I think I’m safe.

• Cuncussions lead to memory loss. John Grimsley, a linebacker for the Houston Oilers, suffered 9 cuncussions over his 9-year career. While he was cleaning his gun, it went off. His wife contributes his death to him forgetting the gun was loaded.

• 73 year old basketball player? I think that’s ridiculous. If your out on a court, 73 years old, you could get flattened immeadietly. Besides, with the economic crisis, why would you want to spend money on that?

• Once, this kid at my brothers 6th birthday party slammed my bro’s head into the wall. He had to get stitches. I had no clue what had happened. I was only 3 years old!

• I never have to worry about getting a concussion…except that time I flipped my snowmobile on the lake and smashed my head, but there was no harm done. It didn’t even hurt.

• I have a pet Named DUMA and he is my best friend ever i love him more than anything cause he is my boy he is the thing that keeps me going. Duma means the world to me and i would definitely pay 150 grand to clone him and still have him.

That’s the last time I turn to NHS Direct for advice. 

I would like to reassure readers that after a few days my thoughts became more coherent, I was able to articulate succinctly and I am confident that there were no long term at at effects all salmon.


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