I’ve started my new year with an exercise bang – running to work! That would be five miles thank you very much!
Super happy I did, because if I had continued catching the tubes to work, then I would have never have seen this poster ——>
on a phone box, and I would never have told Amber about it, and she wouldn’t have got us tickets for my birthday and I wouldn’t have had a knee slapping good time!
I first saw Mario back in 2006 or 2007, while on holidays with my mumsie in Freemantle, Western Australia. At the time, the Buskers Festival was on and we went down to have some lunch and got caught up in some street performers, Mario to be precise. I feel like I can’t justify or capture how simply amazing Mario is, I’m not sure how well I can describe someone who dresses like Freddie Mercury, loves Queen, juggles and unicycles. (I’m doing a pretty pants job I know.) But if you EVER get the chance to see Mario – DO IT!
La Soiree, a traveling cabaret cross circus (no animals), with a few acts from thespians who involve the audience in outrageous ways, hula hoop extraordinaire, high flying aerial artists, roller skating hero’s, someone who’s gender I’m not 100% on, and of course, Mario. He’s like some kind of amazing genius who captivates the audience with nothing but FIVE juggling balls an a world of personality.
I would also safely assume that one of the reasons that I love Mario so much, is that I met him with my mum, on our first adult holiday together. This might not seem a lot, but mum and I, who are often at different spectrum’s of personalities, technologies, and the world, where brought together in fits of laughter and immense enjoyment.
Tier One Entertainment.
In September, I returned to London from my home town of Adelaide, after a three week holiday to see M&D (that’s Mum and Doin (Doin being Dad)). This is my life, uh I mean journey.
After having my flight cancelled for 24 hours (epic disaster), I flew from Adelaide to Melbourne – Adelaide is just that little bit tiny, so not every flight out of there is an international one. Melbourne to Hong Kong wasn’t too bad, apart from the head rest of my chair breaking (epic disaster two). After that was fixed, sorry, I mean broken again, the helpful staff on board my Qantas flight, moved me to another seat, and promised a technician would have a look at it when we got to Honkers.
First time at Honkers, not too bad as far as airports go, but then I’d really prefer to get knocked out for the 30 hours. London – sleep. Wake – Adelaide. So Hong Kong to London, 14 hours on a plane! Who’s excited? ME!! Back on the plane now, and I’m in my fourth seat due to the headrest situation at 56c (yes, I fly cattle – I’m not that fussy), having a bit of a snooze, when I am so rudely awoken by the captain, who was not John Travolta FYI – maybe the situation would have been less of a situation if it were, but we’ll never know, will we.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain speaking. You may have noticed that we are flying over the Himalayas, and that they are on the wrong side of the plane. We have exhausted all resources and unfortunately, European airspace will not permit us entry as we are missing one of the entry clearance documents. Which means, unfortunately we have had to turn the plane around and are headed back to Hong Kong.’
Yup, so after flying 7 hours, doppleganger Travolta turned the plane around, and headed back to Hong Kong. To say I was well pissed off, would be an understatement. Disaster after disaster. Shortly before landing back in Hong Kong, after fourteen hours of flying, we’re told that due to the Heathrow cut off, we’ll all be spending the night in Hong Kong, and flying out the next day. So right now, I haven’t slept for more than an hour in the last day (for some reason, I am RUBBISH at sleeping on planes, I really should get some pills or something, but then, I’m afraid of missing out of meal time.) and my cool, calm, collected self is starting to dissipate.
If you haven’t guessed, this is a disaster story of epic proportions, and will not be a short post. I encourage you to make a cup of OCD tea. (Will tell you about that later.)
So I’m the first to admit, when I’m tired and hungry, I am grumpy and my string of words would be something like ‘fecking feck off. What the feck is this?’ Everyone on the plane is handed a letter explaining what was going on (essentially a ‘Sorry, we fucked up, but can’t say much more at this time. Thanks for your custom.) A night in hot Hong Kong, with my winter wardrobe – FANTASTIC! Dinner on Qantas, also FANTASTIC! And the promise of a 6am flight, more FANTASTIC!!
Rudely awoken from my sleep at 5am by the lady on the reception desk, I quickly showed, dressed, and put Lamby in my bag, and headed to the air port – I was not going to miss that plane! Another disaster, to check in the entire plane, THREE STAFF! If I were Qantas, I would have been continuously face palming myself. Eventually, through check-in, security, customs and all that other unnecessary shyte, to the gate. I’ve skipped breakfast, so as well as being pissed off, I’m hungry-grumpy.
We’re all told not to leave the gate as we’d be boarding ‘any minute now’ and after sixty of them, we finally did. Only to sit on the plane for four hours, because… Can you guess? It really is hilarious… The breaks were faulty AND there was no part in the country!! It’s oh so funny!! After being flown in from a nearby country, the part was fitted, and we could start our journey to London! I’m not sure if anyone else has been in a similar situation, but when the plane is on the ground, the engines aren’t running, which means that there is no air conditioning, and we’re in hot humid Honkers, and because we’re not air borne, there was no food served for about 6 hours. After being flown in from a nearby country, the part was fitted, and we could start our journey to London! Understatement: I was so hungry.
That is not the whole story, so do come back to read part two and accept my apologies for cutting this short, there are just too many disasters for one post – and I’ve got a hot date tonight. No really, going out to a cabaret show with a friend, which is equally, if not more exciting.
Written a while back now, sometime in September.
I’m currently visiting my delightful parents, Lisebeth and Doin, in Adelaide. If you’ve never been, it’s well worth the visit.
While the city is no London, Sydney or Melbourne, it does offer everything from coast to country all within 50km from the CBD.
My favourite thing about Adelaide, is that they State (of South Australia) was the first in the country, not settled by convicts like the rest of those Eastern State Gaol birds (YES we even use funny words here that those uneducated bread thieves wouldn’t know – it’s how we continually excel in all kinds of fields, like Science, Star Gazing and being heaps better than Victoria.) We also have some other cool stuff like The Big Rocking Horse, Wineries, Wineries, Coopers, Beerneberg, The Flinders Ranges, and summer temperatures hot enough to keep most people from visiting.
I haven’t been to Adelaide in almost 2 years, so it was quite a lovely day that I had lunch in China Town with a friend, and then walked through the city (it’s only a square mile). To my delight, I found a Steve Madden store (eeep) and visited a few stores that I would browse through on my lunch break as a Public Servant. It was to the closing end of my day that I decided to find a coffee house, and have a nice brew while I wrote out some post cards.
This very one to be precise.
Now, I’m not that much of a sweet tooth, in fact a small glass of cola renders me ill for a few hours… What was I thinking was going to happen with this sugar concoction?
I don’t think this particular cupcake contained anything but sugar, mainly because I had to STOP short of half way through because my stomach was infested with angry honey bees, at which I was clutching and calling out to my parents. All I wanted to do was vomit.
My mum, witnessing this decides that the cupcake (of doom) looks quite nice, and that to save me from my own sugar intolerance, that she would ‘help’ me by finishing the cupcake.
I used to be a Public Servant.
I allegedly had a ‘Very Important Job’, as told by my Team Leader/Supervisor/Manager. I never knew what to call him as his title changed so often. I’m confident that there was, and possibly still is a section of the Government called ‘Department of Government Name Changerers’. These workers sit around thinking about how they can change names, titles and government associated acronyms, confusing the public (and it’s own employees), thus making it impossible to contact or address anyone properly.
Anyway, in some instances, and quite often, I did work hard. Occasionally, I’d slip up and play cricket in the corridors, ride up and down in the elevator’s (yes, I learned my lesson after I got stuck in one), spend half an hour deciding which packet of crisps to get for the charity nibbles box. One Christmas eve day, it was so quiet, I played twister with the people in my section. It was interesting, and I saw a side of my manager, that I simply didn’t think existed in a person that didn’t know how to smile – what a grumpy old git.
Then one day, I created something that I am so proud of. It is just amazing. Everyone wants one. Most people need one. Some people have one. Fun to bounce. Scary to catch. An annoyance to my mum. And unbeknownst to the public.
No! Not that one! (Although, I do quite like it.)
I was thinking more something I can wear these with!
But your bus drivers need therapy. And a pocket full of coins.
I hope you have a *few* minutes – this is a rant, and, there are no pictures, sorry.
I walk, or cycle. I dislike the tube. I can’t get busses during peak hour. I get annoyed, flustered, and feel like I have been denied my basic right for personal space. (I also dislike shopping centres, but for an all together different reason.)
After having a stellar day, cycling all over central London – on a Boris Bike – picking up organic veggies, promoting the 2-Minute Rinse to strangers, getting paparazzied in Speakers Corner whilst standing on a table (look out for me in tomorrows Metro), finding Puck hidden in Hyde Park and WINNING the 2011 Soap & Glory Team Event (yes, I had a team with me). Did I say WINNING. Oh, yes I did! My team WON. (I enjoy winning, can you tell?)
So, I’m meeting a friend for dinner in Westfield (HI JOHNSON), I decide to catch the Tube (first time in a few months) from Embankment to Notting Hill and then onto Shepherds Bush Station. Well if this isn’t cause to not wear headphones, I don’t know what is! Apparently, due to ‘engineering works’ there’s no service from Kensington to Notting Hill. So I sat on the train, one stop short of where I need to change, and the train starts going back towards Embankment. I didn’t realise this and travelled a further five stops, before I came out of my music coma and took note of where I was and, that I had already been there.
So I change trains, head back to Kensington to get the bus. -£0.30 on my Oyster and £0.02 in my purse. Again in a music coma, I didn’t know this until I was on the 49 towards Shepherds Bush. I chatted to the driver, and he said I could stay on if I like, but if an inspector gets on, he would not be in my defence. Now, I like to think of myself as a law abiding citizen, so I get off the bus, find a hole in the wall, get out £10 (small enough for a bus driver to have change for) and head back to the bus stop to get the next 49. This is where it went down hill.
‘May I have a regular pass please?’ Pushing forward my note on the tray.
‘Nah man.’ Came the response
‘This is a bus, not a bank. What am I going to do with £10?’
‘I’m aware this is a bus, it’s not free, here’s the money for my fare.’
‘You’re kidding, I don’t have change for £10. Don’t you have an Oyster?’
‘Don’t you think I’d be using it if I did?’
‘Why don’t you have an Oyster?’
‘I do, it has…’
‘Why don’t you use it?’
‘Sorry, but you cut me off, I would be using my Oyster, if it had money on it, but it doesn’t, hence the cash, so can I have a ticket please?’
‘Look lady, I don’t have change, if you don’t have the fare, get off the bus.’
‘I’m sorry, I have a fare, you are refusing it.’
‘My bus, my rules.’
‘I don’t believe for one second that you own this bus.’
‘Again, no fare, get off.’
‘You can’t refuse me, I have a fare, and you just won’t take it.’
Yes, I was THAT person, holding up the bus from it’s onward journey. Thankfully, at this point, a lovely passenger came to my rescue, changing my ‘absurd’ £10 note for two even MORE absurd £5 notes.
Pushing my newly acquired green Lizzie toward the driver, I try again.
‘Can I have a pass now?’
‘Are you thick – I don’t have change. You need to get off my bus.’
‘As a bus driver, I find it slightly ridiculous that you don’t have £2.80 in change, and this is not ‘your’ bus.’
‘I don’t have change, you don’t have a fare, get off.’
‘You cannot refuse me, I have a fare. This is about as stupid as me going to a supermarket and being told that I can’t purchase an apple, because instead of having 35p, I have 50p!’
‘You know, it’s daylight outside, if it were an hour or two later, I’d just let you on.’
‘Really, that’s so kind of you, how about I wait here for you to do a lap of London, and come back with some change, so I can get on the bus.’
It’s not over yet! My heroine returns, changing one of my £5 notes for two £2 coins and a £1.
Sliding £3 (for a £2.20 fare) towards the grumpiest bus driver in London.
‘Don’t you get it. I got no change!’
‘Seriously, you drive a bus, and you don’t have 80p in change?’
‘I find that very hard to believe, and think you are being difficult, because you are on you bus driving authority.’
‘You need to get off the bus.’
‘I have a fare, and I really don’t care about the 80p, really you can keep it as a tip for being so lovely.’
‘I don’t have change, you don’t have a fare, get off.’
‘I’m not getting off, take the £3 so that everyone can get home, PLEASE!’
Again, lovely lady in the green sweater comes to my aid with a 20p coin, and tells the driver he’s an arsehole. (Love it!) I did end up getting my ticket at this point, so green sweater lady – thank you so much! To all on the 49 bus – sorry, I was THAT person in orange trousers!
Pleased as punch at aquiring a ticket and defeating the evil bus driver, I simply couldn’t help myself from saying out loud as I walked past:
Don’t you just hate it when you wake up and YOU HAVE NO ARMS?
What starts of as a nice kip out in the sun, a cheeky afternoon snooze, or coma induced by ingested substance, I find waking a paralysing and fearful activity when I think I have no arms.
It begins when I’m all comfortable, or rather finding just that right spot to take me to the land of nod, my heavy eyes close and I’m delivered to a peaceful place (unless PacMan is there). Have you ever watched someone sleep? It’s quite nice, if you’re not a stalker or murder. I’ll let you imagine me for a minute, in my jim jams (when it gets really cold, I wear my One Piece), with Lamby (my teddy bear), and in my last wriggle into that spot, I subconsciencely put my arms behind my head, and I’m there.
BUT THEN, as I’m being returned to earth via a stalk or a cloud, my dreams begin to fade and as I’m opening my weary little eyes, I reach to rub them, only I think my arms are moving, but I feel nothing. Confused, I’m forced to find out what’s going on with my arms, I open my eyes (un-rubbed) and look to where my arms SHOULD be, but THEY AREN’T THERE!!
In a few nano seconds, I realise that I’ve been abducted, and my arms have been traded on the black market for arm trading. Or I’ve been in some sort of accident, explosion, fire, SOMETHING ELSE that has removed my arms from my body. How will I manage through life? How will I do the most basic human activities like opening doors, hugging Lamby, writing, pushing my hair out of my face, paying for things at Tesco, how will singlets stay on, and literally 100 more possibilities of what has happened to my arms, and what will happen to armless me in the future.
Ever since the E coli outbreak in Europe, all I can think about is eating cucumbers!
Not really, but in lieu of the glorious sun this week, I wouldn’t mind ordering a salad, complete with cucumber!
(I don’t use ‘om nom nom’ – it reminds me of a nightmare I had as a child. There were these creatures, literally like PacMan, but different. They had giant razor sharp teeth and would chase me around my dreams, trying to eat me, turning dreams to nightmares. Oh yeah – and the evil PacMan things made a nom nom gargling noise, it may have been more of a naw naw naw noise now that I’m thinking about it. I think they my have dribbled a bit too.)
Is that some E coli on that there pickle??
Going of on a tangent, what’s with the British obsession with the cucumber sarnie? I just don’t get it. Why not put something else in there to make it a bit more tasty? Are you all daft?
In times of GCR (Global Cucumber Recession), what are you all eating? Butter sandwiches? I mean – that’s taking a step back. MOVE FORWARD BRITONS – put something else in your sandwich!
This is directed at Jules (in a sly way) – at least the GCR part. PX
I ruined my favourite trousers (BOO) and have a big puss scab hole (that’s quite picturesque) and giant purple bruise on my knee (ouchies).
I was brave though, as my carer lifted me out of my spilled ale, brushed me off, wrung me out, and plastered up my knee. THANKS AMY! What are friends for?
Derek, I know you were there at the time, but you either pushed me over and ran away to giggle, or you didn’t realise what was happening an walked off.
My last major ‘Stack Hat’ moment occurred in Easter 2009, in the Lothian Hills of Edinburgh. Please, let’s take a moment to remember I’m from Adelaide, where winter is warmer than British Summer. I had NEVER seen snow before, and I didn’t then either. But my friend thought it would be a great idea to try skiing on the artificial ski slopes. I’m not one to shy from a little adventure! Why not?
It took almost two years for me to strap on ski boots again, and with the help of the sister I never had, but now do, SABINE (she teaches skiing to 3 and 4 year olds), not only did I return bruise free, I only ate snow once.
P.S. How cool are Stack Hats?!