Through previous chapters you may have gotten the feeling that I am somewhat obsessive. I don’t think I am but my registration papers for a certifiable institution say that I suffer from this harmless disease.
I can’t help it that I love music. I can’t help that the deliverers of this music bring me so much joy that I need to attend their every performance available to the public. One particular band who are from Melbourne, but shall remain nameless while the lawsuit is pending, are the backdrop for this story. They have played various venues in our fair city and I have again, through my constant attendance, paid the wages for these boys through the cold winter months. Many of the venues are normal concert type facilities, which I thoroughly enjoy. I can thereby display my enviable dance skills whilst scanning the room trying to make eye contact with the gorgeous men surrounding me. I invariably meet the eyes of a stranger and then vanish to a dark corner with him and you know the rest…..my friends get in a panic wondering if I’ve ended up dead in a dark alley somewhere. But I digress.
One of the gigs we attended was not your typical concert style venue but rather a funky jazz bar in a laneway in the city. It was meant to be an intimate evening with the boys. Intimate it was, but not with the musicians who make my heart sore. Instead I became very close, too close, with a man and his wife who sat at my table, which being the size of a coke bottle lid, made for a very intimate introduction. So in the small confines of this space I, in my usual friendly way, started chatting to the couple. Oh what a mistake that was. Oh how I regretted it as soon as the man opened his mouth. He was perhaps in his 50’s wearing a wide brimmed black hat. (I’m not sure in what era that was considered acceptable.)
I felt like I had dived head first into a compost bin which had been festering for 200 years. The smell emanating from that mans mouth was enough to power Bangladesh for 10 years. But I had no where to go, no exit strategy. I was stranded on a tiny island with my head in a sewer. I tried to engage the wife in the conversation but she seemed to be the trophy wife, the handbag he took out with him. She was to be seen and not heard. And then, when I though it can’t possibly get any worse, he became so animated in the conversation that when he enunciated his words, large globules of saliva spear headed their way onto my already tense and thoroughly clean body. I couldn’t believe that not only was my sense of smell to be bombarded with the stench of hell but also my sensitive and supple skin was to be rained upon by missiles of germs and bacteria.
How could an evening with one of the greatest bands to have come out of Melbourne be ruined by a man who would have been evicted from a tip. Why, oh why, do these things happen to me????
Saturday, November 22, 2008
“We live and learn from our mistakes” – Pat Benetar
As the title suggests, one can’t go through life without making mistakes and thankfully we learn from these blunders in life – most of the time. Well some of us do anyway. Just because I have MD in my title, doesn’t mean I am the fountain of all knowledge. Perhaps MD is short for Mad Dog or could it be Muff Daddy? No, erase that thought from your brain, where is that delete button???? That title is reserved for one man and one man only. But you already know about him, so let’s proceed to the current story.
From past chapters you have learnt that I love life, I make the most of the experiences that come my way. I don’t want any opportunity to pass me by. Why should they go past unchallenged? Life is meant to be lived!!! That’s my motto and I’m sticking to it. The world is meant to be explored, people are meant to be spoken to, challenges are meant to be overcome. This brings me to my adventure in Switzerland. What a beautiful country. Whether it’s by rail, by foot, by cable car or by raft, Switzerland can be enjoyed in more ways than one.
So when the kamikaze tour guides at the Pink Palace suggested a white water rafting trip, who was I to say no. White water rafting must be safe, it’s been done by millions before me and will continue to be enjoyed by millions after me. Why does the Kevin Bacon film come to mind? Anyway, I signed up with others who had the same lust for life and the next morning we headed out. I can’t begin to explain the excitement I was feeling. Everyone was in a bright and sunny mood – or is that just memory talking? I’m sure we would have been severely hung over. Everything served at the Pink Palace is alcoholic, a mecca for all liver doctors. (I wouldn’t want to show off with the technical term for my colleagues.)
We arrive at the edge of the river and Kamikaze Tour Guide gets out the equipment. Hmm, I saw some rubber in the shape of a wet suit. Hmm, what’s that for? The only rubber I should be seeing is surely the raft (and maybe a rubber of a different kind later on). I tentatively asked those around me what the wet suits were for. Maybe they didn’t understand me because they only seemed to stare at me. Kamikaze then started handing them out. The mortified look on my face only encouraged the psycho, he even started frothing at the mouth. I’m glad someone was enjoying themselves. Well, I sucked it in, literally, and put the material on that was never meant to be put on a human being.
I calmed myself down and waited for the instructions, which were flimsy at best. There were two basic rules, Hold on for dear life and if you fall out, swim back to the raft asap. Hmm, another word I was not familiar with. Swim. What exactly is that? No-one told me that was a pre-requisite for this adventure. Why can’t people be more specific when luring innocent bystanders into their lairs? It’s not as if it’s an obvious pre-requisite.
How was I supposed to get out of this now? Well, I didn’t really need to. Surely I wouldn’t fall out. I just needed to hang on. I’ve done that before. Aah, what was I worried about. A stroll in the park, that’s all. So we climbed in and I somehow ended up at the front to face the rapids head on. I just laughed in the face of fear. We headed out and it didn’t seem so bad. I even let go with one hand and the blood started flowing back into my fingers. I was chatting away almost tempted to ask for a glass of wine, as it was like being on a cruise, when we hit the first rapids. My other hand quickly groped for the handle and held on for dear life. Thankfully I was at the front so nobody could see my face. My bones rattled and my body jerked this way and that. I wonder if I kept that whip-lash collar. It was a struggle to hold on but I knew what the consequences would be if I let go, so I gritted my teeth and hoped for the best.
It finally calmed down again and I felt then it may be prudent to tell Kamikaze about my lack of swimming skills. Big mistake! He laughed like a man possessed and steered head on into more wild and foaming water. Then the unthinkable happened. Kamikaze turned to me and with glee on his face, pushed me into the water. It was a few seconds of being underwater before I realised exactly what situation I was in. The man was trying to kill me. This wasn’t a confidence building tactic, this was plainly and simply a murder attempt.
My life vest eventually brought me to the surface and I sucked in that beautiful cold air, as if my lungs hadn’t been filled for hours. But my relief was short lived. Another wave rolled over me and I was again plunged into the murky waters. This happened again and again until Kamikaze realised I wasn’t kidding when I said I couldn’t swim. He finally controlled his mad laughter and steered over to me extending the paddle as a means of bringing me to safety. But I wasn’t sure what was safer, being in the water with a life jacket or being in a raft with an escapee from the psych ward.
With the help of others I was finally hauled back into the raft. It wasn’t the most graceful way of boarding the raft, what with legs splayed everywhere and me flip flopping to and fro to get back in, but modesty was not my highest priority at that time. I needed to get back to the hostel and get more of the amber liquid into me. That was the only way I could get past that horrific event. Kamikaze had other ideas. He continued along the river almost landing us in France, without so much as wondering if I was conscious or able to continue on this life threatening journey. The others held on to me with their legs, just in case I didn’t have the strength to hold on myself or if Kamikaze had another mad fit.
We finally made it back to land and I knew then and there I was either going to learn to swim or I was never going to set foot in water again. But for now all I was looking forward to, was the alcoholic slumber I wanted to induce. Whether I got myself into a similar situation again or not, I will leave for another chapter. But remember folks, learn from your mistakes, don’t blunder into them again and again.
From past chapters you have learnt that I love life, I make the most of the experiences that come my way. I don’t want any opportunity to pass me by. Why should they go past unchallenged? Life is meant to be lived!!! That’s my motto and I’m sticking to it. The world is meant to be explored, people are meant to be spoken to, challenges are meant to be overcome. This brings me to my adventure in Switzerland. What a beautiful country. Whether it’s by rail, by foot, by cable car or by raft, Switzerland can be enjoyed in more ways than one.
So when the kamikaze tour guides at the Pink Palace suggested a white water rafting trip, who was I to say no. White water rafting must be safe, it’s been done by millions before me and will continue to be enjoyed by millions after me. Why does the Kevin Bacon film come to mind? Anyway, I signed up with others who had the same lust for life and the next morning we headed out. I can’t begin to explain the excitement I was feeling. Everyone was in a bright and sunny mood – or is that just memory talking? I’m sure we would have been severely hung over. Everything served at the Pink Palace is alcoholic, a mecca for all liver doctors. (I wouldn’t want to show off with the technical term for my colleagues.)
We arrive at the edge of the river and Kamikaze Tour Guide gets out the equipment. Hmm, I saw some rubber in the shape of a wet suit. Hmm, what’s that for? The only rubber I should be seeing is surely the raft (and maybe a rubber of a different kind later on). I tentatively asked those around me what the wet suits were for. Maybe they didn’t understand me because they only seemed to stare at me. Kamikaze then started handing them out. The mortified look on my face only encouraged the psycho, he even started frothing at the mouth. I’m glad someone was enjoying themselves. Well, I sucked it in, literally, and put the material on that was never meant to be put on a human being.
I calmed myself down and waited for the instructions, which were flimsy at best. There were two basic rules, Hold on for dear life and if you fall out, swim back to the raft asap. Hmm, another word I was not familiar with. Swim. What exactly is that? No-one told me that was a pre-requisite for this adventure. Why can’t people be more specific when luring innocent bystanders into their lairs? It’s not as if it’s an obvious pre-requisite.
How was I supposed to get out of this now? Well, I didn’t really need to. Surely I wouldn’t fall out. I just needed to hang on. I’ve done that before. Aah, what was I worried about. A stroll in the park, that’s all. So we climbed in and I somehow ended up at the front to face the rapids head on. I just laughed in the face of fear. We headed out and it didn’t seem so bad. I even let go with one hand and the blood started flowing back into my fingers. I was chatting away almost tempted to ask for a glass of wine, as it was like being on a cruise, when we hit the first rapids. My other hand quickly groped for the handle and held on for dear life. Thankfully I was at the front so nobody could see my face. My bones rattled and my body jerked this way and that. I wonder if I kept that whip-lash collar. It was a struggle to hold on but I knew what the consequences would be if I let go, so I gritted my teeth and hoped for the best.
It finally calmed down again and I felt then it may be prudent to tell Kamikaze about my lack of swimming skills. Big mistake! He laughed like a man possessed and steered head on into more wild and foaming water. Then the unthinkable happened. Kamikaze turned to me and with glee on his face, pushed me into the water. It was a few seconds of being underwater before I realised exactly what situation I was in. The man was trying to kill me. This wasn’t a confidence building tactic, this was plainly and simply a murder attempt.
My life vest eventually brought me to the surface and I sucked in that beautiful cold air, as if my lungs hadn’t been filled for hours. But my relief was short lived. Another wave rolled over me and I was again plunged into the murky waters. This happened again and again until Kamikaze realised I wasn’t kidding when I said I couldn’t swim. He finally controlled his mad laughter and steered over to me extending the paddle as a means of bringing me to safety. But I wasn’t sure what was safer, being in the water with a life jacket or being in a raft with an escapee from the psych ward.
With the help of others I was finally hauled back into the raft. It wasn’t the most graceful way of boarding the raft, what with legs splayed everywhere and me flip flopping to and fro to get back in, but modesty was not my highest priority at that time. I needed to get back to the hostel and get more of the amber liquid into me. That was the only way I could get past that horrific event. Kamikaze had other ideas. He continued along the river almost landing us in France, without so much as wondering if I was conscious or able to continue on this life threatening journey. The others held on to me with their legs, just in case I didn’t have the strength to hold on myself or if Kamikaze had another mad fit.
We finally made it back to land and I knew then and there I was either going to learn to swim or I was never going to set foot in water again. But for now all I was looking forward to, was the alcoholic slumber I wanted to induce. Whether I got myself into a similar situation again or not, I will leave for another chapter. But remember folks, learn from your mistakes, don’t blunder into them again and again.
Dr. Isis Shaker MD
Often people consider themselves experts in particular fields, whether it’s because they studied those subjects or due to life experience. I am of course no exception and find myself quite adept at discussing various issues in life, including those that are health related.
I often give advice to friends and anyone else interested in hearing about my expertise in this very important part of our lives. Friends now come to me seeking professional advice and of course my high standards and enviable work ethic prohibit me from refusing such an important request. I cast aside anything I may be doing at the time and politely, and seemingly interested, listen to their tales of woe.
Many ailments are due to one thing and I can usually give them a prescription, which will alleviate them of any discomfort and restore them to full health. I am a firm believer that the digestive process is an integral part of keeping our health comparable to that of an elite athlete, such as myself.
Heartburn, stomach noises, bloating are all symptoms of a greater evil. I myself have chronically suffered from bloating and can often be seen holding my stomach with a pained expression on my face. I sought to figure out how to rid the world of this debilitating disease. It took me a while to realise that a healthy diet would go a long way in curing the illness that many generations have been forced to suffer through. And I have come up with a cure that I have passed on to anyone that will listen, to anyone that looks up to my supreme intelligence and knowledge. That is my duty as a humanitarian, as an expert and as a human being. And now this book is another medium for me to pass on my good works. So stand by for something that will change your life.
It is simply that, which we in the profession call “Better out than in”. These 4 magical words have saved me and countless others in preventing the awful and often devastating symptoms of a bad diet. I have gleefully spread the word and on countless occasions given demonstrations of how flatulence can bring sheer joy to the perpetrator and those around them. The look of satisfaction and relief on those faces is thanks enough. And if you don’t believe me, here is some feedback from one of my happy customers.
“When Dr. Shaker rolled on top of me and let one rip, I can’t describe to you the immense joy and ecstasy she felt. The pure pleasure on her face was enough to dispel the cloud, which had surrounded me. I put aside the excruciating pain my nasal passage was forced to endure, just to celebrate with her, this new invigorating feeling she was experiencing. I can recommend it to anyone.” – I. Lovitt, Des Moines, USA. That says it all. So go forth and fart. It’ll do you good ;-)
I often give advice to friends and anyone else interested in hearing about my expertise in this very important part of our lives. Friends now come to me seeking professional advice and of course my high standards and enviable work ethic prohibit me from refusing such an important request. I cast aside anything I may be doing at the time and politely, and seemingly interested, listen to their tales of woe.
Many ailments are due to one thing and I can usually give them a prescription, which will alleviate them of any discomfort and restore them to full health. I am a firm believer that the digestive process is an integral part of keeping our health comparable to that of an elite athlete, such as myself.
Heartburn, stomach noises, bloating are all symptoms of a greater evil. I myself have chronically suffered from bloating and can often be seen holding my stomach with a pained expression on my face. I sought to figure out how to rid the world of this debilitating disease. It took me a while to realise that a healthy diet would go a long way in curing the illness that many generations have been forced to suffer through. And I have come up with a cure that I have passed on to anyone that will listen, to anyone that looks up to my supreme intelligence and knowledge. That is my duty as a humanitarian, as an expert and as a human being. And now this book is another medium for me to pass on my good works. So stand by for something that will change your life.
It is simply that, which we in the profession call “Better out than in”. These 4 magical words have saved me and countless others in preventing the awful and often devastating symptoms of a bad diet. I have gleefully spread the word and on countless occasions given demonstrations of how flatulence can bring sheer joy to the perpetrator and those around them. The look of satisfaction and relief on those faces is thanks enough. And if you don’t believe me, here is some feedback from one of my happy customers.
“When Dr. Shaker rolled on top of me and let one rip, I can’t describe to you the immense joy and ecstasy she felt. The pure pleasure on her face was enough to dispel the cloud, which had surrounded me. I put aside the excruciating pain my nasal passage was forced to endure, just to celebrate with her, this new invigorating feeling she was experiencing. I can recommend it to anyone.” – I. Lovitt, Des Moines, USA. That says it all. So go forth and fart. It’ll do you good ;-)
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Stealth Bomber
In case the Victorian AFL fans were wondering if the title referred to the mighty Essendon team, it doesn’t, but yes I am a huge fan of the Bombers……we will win the premiership cup again!!!!!!!! I know, I know….it’s the premiership flag, but my friend Nickers insists on massacring the theme song and substituting the word cup for flag. No, she’s not a supporter!
Now that you know that the title does not refer to the greatest AFL team there is, what does it refer to? Well, it’s not actually something that I myself, am aware of. It’s more what my friends think of me when we are out cavorting with the men of the world. We always psych ourselves up for a big night by having a few bevvies – for our overseas friends, that’s Aussie for beverages – getting our heels on, applying killer lipstick and then heading out for a night on the town. We do this no matter what city we are in, as we wouldn’t want the local men to miss out on all our talents. And this is where I must say something good about the Brits. Their men-folk are far more forthcoming when it comes to women. They are not backwards in coming forwards. They know how to walk up to a girl, make her feel hot, buy her a drink and then see where the night takes them. Australian men have a lot to learn from their ancestors.
So we are usually dancing away in some club with drinks in both hands, eyeing the talent among us and invariably my eye lands on a hot guy who I know I can get a decent pash from. It doesn’t take long for me to get what I want. So off I go and do my thing. Now here comes the part that baffles my friends. I tend to cop an earful from them at the end of the night, because from their perspective, we are all dancing away making obnoxious woohoo calls, when suddenly one of their own disappears. Now that’s normal, as someone always has to go to the toilet or go to the bar to replenish and within a few minutes is back amongst their friends doing death defying moves on the highest of heels.
It’s when it turns into half an hour or an hour that my friends start to think something is wrong. They start looking for me (unbeknownst to me of course, as I’m having way too much fun with some guy) in the toilets, at the bar and around the club. Sometimes they have luck and other times my whereabouts is a mystery. Here are some of outcomes of my disappearing acts:
One time, my friends found me downstairs in a secluded part of a pub playing tonsil hockey with some random guy. My friends are relieved, no harm done, just annoyed as they would rather have spent the previous half hour having fun with a guy rather than playing hide and seek with me.
I still can’t see what they are worried about. I know I’m safe. Surely they have telepathically picked up on my safety.
Another time, Heidi and I were in a club in Soho with Forrest doing our thing. We had by this stage, ditched the only local Londoner in our group, Clint, as he refused to enter a club in Soho, despite our assurances that there were other straight men who went out in Soho. But we couldn’t persuade him, so it was just the 3 of us. Forrest is probably no taller than a large garden gnome, so Heidi kept a close eye on her, so that she wouldn’t be trampled on by the drunk patrons. While doing so, my stealth bomber tactics took over and I disappeared into the crowd with my new mate. Torn between keeping Forrest from being caught underfoot in a stampede and finding her friend of old, Monica decided to give me a good hour, but alas I did not return. She left Forrest sitting on a stool to give the illusion that she wasn’t the shortest person in the room and headed out through the crowd looking for me.
I still laugh at her description of how she found me. Apparently from her perspective it looked like I was hunched over against the back wall of the club clutching my stomach. She rushed over thinking the worst. She grabbed me by the shoulders, turned me around and was astounded to see Sammy Davis Jnr with his arms around my knees. She looked at me, looked at him and thought her drink had been laced with some hallucinogenic.
When I first spotted this guy, I thought to myself, whoa, what a gorgeous man. I love black men and as soon as I see a black man everything else fades away. It’s like I have no control of any of my senses, I lose control and have no perspective on things. It wasn’t until Heidi was looking dumbstruck at the two of us, did I realise that this was a very short man and had a striking resemblance to Sammy Davis Jnr.
Now, I’m about 1.75m tall, so not really basketball material but to this guy I must have looked Amazonian. I didn’t think it was possible that Forrest wasn’t the shortest person in the room, but yep, here he was, clutching my knees and looking slightly annoyed that Heidi had interrupted his fantasy kiss for the night. I looked at Heidi and told her to get another drink to get over the shock, while I said goodbye to my Hollywood film star.
But my worst disappearing act, even scared me. We were out at Bad Bob’s, another club in London. Before you ask, no, it does not belong to Bob Gedolf. Clint, the local Londoner, who actually went into this club because it wasn’t in Soho, convinced me that this was Bob Gedolf’s club. I of course, told everyone I knew, only to be corrected by Clint once he’d had a good laugh at me.
Anyway, I digress. We were up for a big night with about 15 other people for Heidi’s farewell. She was leaving London as she was certain that she would contract some disease from MD’s toilet seat if she stayed any longer. As we entered the club, I did what I always did, searched the room for a tall black man (this time I was searching before my beer goggles were put on) and I found him. His name was Avalon. Oh Avalon. How I miss Avalon. Before I weaved my magic, I made sure Heidi was in good hands as she’d already had a fair bit to drink. Sure enough she was on the dance floor spraying everyone with her 2 drinks. She didn’t realise that if you jump up and down with 2 drinks in your hand, someone was bound to get wet and she’d have no alcohol left. But she was surrounded by her friends, so I felt it was the right time to get to know Avalon a bit better.
We talked and drank and he then suggested we go out the back for a smoke. At this stage, the laws hadn’t changed yet and you could smoke inside, but I soon realised it was a bit of the wacky tabacky that he intended to smoke. So we left the club, walked down a dark alley to the back of the club where we couldn’t be seen and shared a joint. I was loving every minute of it. It wasn’t until Avalon said to me, “Do you see the danger at all in walking down a dark alley at 3 in the morning with a complete stranger without having told any of your friends where you were?” It hit me like a ton of bricks. I had been completely oblivious to the lack of safety. In my head, I was happily drunk, with a gorgeous man, smoking weed and I had nothing to worry about because my friend Heidi was being looked after inside.
I looked at him and asked if I had anything to worry about, because a criminal would of course tell me the truth, but he allayed my fears and walked back into the club with me. His parting words were “next time you may not be so lucky”. Since then, I have told whoever I was with, where I was going, just in case!
My Russian friend Ioanna on the other hand, did the ultimate Houdini in Mexico. But the story of PT will be left for another time.
Now that you know that the title does not refer to the greatest AFL team there is, what does it refer to? Well, it’s not actually something that I myself, am aware of. It’s more what my friends think of me when we are out cavorting with the men of the world. We always psych ourselves up for a big night by having a few bevvies – for our overseas friends, that’s Aussie for beverages – getting our heels on, applying killer lipstick and then heading out for a night on the town. We do this no matter what city we are in, as we wouldn’t want the local men to miss out on all our talents. And this is where I must say something good about the Brits. Their men-folk are far more forthcoming when it comes to women. They are not backwards in coming forwards. They know how to walk up to a girl, make her feel hot, buy her a drink and then see where the night takes them. Australian men have a lot to learn from their ancestors.
So we are usually dancing away in some club with drinks in both hands, eyeing the talent among us and invariably my eye lands on a hot guy who I know I can get a decent pash from. It doesn’t take long for me to get what I want. So off I go and do my thing. Now here comes the part that baffles my friends. I tend to cop an earful from them at the end of the night, because from their perspective, we are all dancing away making obnoxious woohoo calls, when suddenly one of their own disappears. Now that’s normal, as someone always has to go to the toilet or go to the bar to replenish and within a few minutes is back amongst their friends doing death defying moves on the highest of heels.
It’s when it turns into half an hour or an hour that my friends start to think something is wrong. They start looking for me (unbeknownst to me of course, as I’m having way too much fun with some guy) in the toilets, at the bar and around the club. Sometimes they have luck and other times my whereabouts is a mystery. Here are some of outcomes of my disappearing acts:
One time, my friends found me downstairs in a secluded part of a pub playing tonsil hockey with some random guy. My friends are relieved, no harm done, just annoyed as they would rather have spent the previous half hour having fun with a guy rather than playing hide and seek with me.
I still can’t see what they are worried about. I know I’m safe. Surely they have telepathically picked up on my safety.
Another time, Heidi and I were in a club in Soho with Forrest doing our thing. We had by this stage, ditched the only local Londoner in our group, Clint, as he refused to enter a club in Soho, despite our assurances that there were other straight men who went out in Soho. But we couldn’t persuade him, so it was just the 3 of us. Forrest is probably no taller than a large garden gnome, so Heidi kept a close eye on her, so that she wouldn’t be trampled on by the drunk patrons. While doing so, my stealth bomber tactics took over and I disappeared into the crowd with my new mate. Torn between keeping Forrest from being caught underfoot in a stampede and finding her friend of old, Monica decided to give me a good hour, but alas I did not return. She left Forrest sitting on a stool to give the illusion that she wasn’t the shortest person in the room and headed out through the crowd looking for me.
I still laugh at her description of how she found me. Apparently from her perspective it looked like I was hunched over against the back wall of the club clutching my stomach. She rushed over thinking the worst. She grabbed me by the shoulders, turned me around and was astounded to see Sammy Davis Jnr with his arms around my knees. She looked at me, looked at him and thought her drink had been laced with some hallucinogenic.
When I first spotted this guy, I thought to myself, whoa, what a gorgeous man. I love black men and as soon as I see a black man everything else fades away. It’s like I have no control of any of my senses, I lose control and have no perspective on things. It wasn’t until Heidi was looking dumbstruck at the two of us, did I realise that this was a very short man and had a striking resemblance to Sammy Davis Jnr.
Now, I’m about 1.75m tall, so not really basketball material but to this guy I must have looked Amazonian. I didn’t think it was possible that Forrest wasn’t the shortest person in the room, but yep, here he was, clutching my knees and looking slightly annoyed that Heidi had interrupted his fantasy kiss for the night. I looked at Heidi and told her to get another drink to get over the shock, while I said goodbye to my Hollywood film star.
But my worst disappearing act, even scared me. We were out at Bad Bob’s, another club in London. Before you ask, no, it does not belong to Bob Gedolf. Clint, the local Londoner, who actually went into this club because it wasn’t in Soho, convinced me that this was Bob Gedolf’s club. I of course, told everyone I knew, only to be corrected by Clint once he’d had a good laugh at me.
Anyway, I digress. We were up for a big night with about 15 other people for Heidi’s farewell. She was leaving London as she was certain that she would contract some disease from MD’s toilet seat if she stayed any longer. As we entered the club, I did what I always did, searched the room for a tall black man (this time I was searching before my beer goggles were put on) and I found him. His name was Avalon. Oh Avalon. How I miss Avalon. Before I weaved my magic, I made sure Heidi was in good hands as she’d already had a fair bit to drink. Sure enough she was on the dance floor spraying everyone with her 2 drinks. She didn’t realise that if you jump up and down with 2 drinks in your hand, someone was bound to get wet and she’d have no alcohol left. But she was surrounded by her friends, so I felt it was the right time to get to know Avalon a bit better.
We talked and drank and he then suggested we go out the back for a smoke. At this stage, the laws hadn’t changed yet and you could smoke inside, but I soon realised it was a bit of the wacky tabacky that he intended to smoke. So we left the club, walked down a dark alley to the back of the club where we couldn’t be seen and shared a joint. I was loving every minute of it. It wasn’t until Avalon said to me, “Do you see the danger at all in walking down a dark alley at 3 in the morning with a complete stranger without having told any of your friends where you were?” It hit me like a ton of bricks. I had been completely oblivious to the lack of safety. In my head, I was happily drunk, with a gorgeous man, smoking weed and I had nothing to worry about because my friend Heidi was being looked after inside.
I looked at him and asked if I had anything to worry about, because a criminal would of course tell me the truth, but he allayed my fears and walked back into the club with me. His parting words were “next time you may not be so lucky”. Since then, I have told whoever I was with, where I was going, just in case!
My Russian friend Ioanna on the other hand, did the ultimate Houdini in Mexico. But the story of PT will be left for another time.
Friday, September 26, 2008
A healthy pastime
Being a passionate and attentive person can be an endearing quality in so far as I look out for my friends, help them in all I can and do everything in life with vigour and enthusiasm. There’s no point giving any less of yourself as life is meant to be lived to its fullest. So when I meet someone new (and meet is a term very loosely interpreted here) I like to let them know I’m around and make them feel like they have a new friend in their lives. Sharing is caring after all.
Melbourne has a lot to offer in terms of culture and lifestyle, which I like to make the most of. Theatre is alive and well in our fair city, so I started out by seeing a couple of musicals. My first was “Buddy” – the entertaining story of Buddy Holly’s life. The whole show is a feel good extravaganza, which leaves you with the desire to go out and put on your dancing shoes. It certainly helped that the lead actor was absolutely divinely gorgeous. I leave these shows on cloud nine and am momentarily saddened that it’s over. But why let that put me down when I can just go back another night and enjoy the spectacle and feel the adrenalin rush all over again? So my credit card got a good workout while the show was in town. As I said earlier the lead was a large motivation for seeing the show. So right up until closing night, I was a regular visitor at the Buddy show.
Many a time I also happened to - I don’t know how - end up in the same restaurant or bar as the lead. Heidi was also obsessed by the hunky man, so we decided to go to the bar outside the theatre entrance. It was empty as the show wasn’t beginning for another couple of hours. Who should walk into this vast empty space? The lead of course! The very man who knew our faces as we were constantly in his. Heidi’s first reaction was to dart quickly behind a pole…..which only a stick insect could have successfully hidden behind. Could it be any more embarrassing? Yes, because he didn’t even acknowledge us. We were keeping the show afloat, we were paying his wages, and we kept him in the lavish lifestyle he was accustomed to. And what do we get, nothing, nada, nix!!!!
It seems all leads, no matter where in the world, have no appreciation for their financial backers. Another example of us sharing the love happened in London with the extraordinary spectacular that was “We Will Rock You”. Unfortunately you have to register at immigration when arriving in the UK, so we had to lie low. So keeping a low profile was the key in order to execute our brilliant plan – of which we knew nothing about until we attended the Queen musical. I wasn’t even supposed to get hooked into this mess, but since Heidi was going to see it with her friend Siggi, I felt a bit left out and found out that scalpers can come in handy. In fact, so much so, that I got better seats than Heidi who had booked it months earlier. Yep, there was a wide grin on my face. This is why I have no appreciation for paying in advance….planning is so overrated. I occasionally turned around from my Row B seat to make sure they could see me from their vantage point way up the back. It didn’t matter to me that I was sitting amongst strangers; I was in Row B. I could even read the words on Tony Vincent’s tattoo, which brings us to the sole reason of our stalking. Stalking is such an ugly word, from now on we shall refer to it as “maximum appreciation”, which has no price. Heidi and I had to get part time jobs to supplement this extra-curricular activity.
To say that Tony Vincent is the most gorgeous man on the planet, is by no means an understatement. He is light years ahead of the poor excuse of an actor that “acted” (I use the term loosely) in the Australian production. I’m sure I saw a prompt cue in the audience. In fact if the Jedi masters were here, they would have seen that the force is definitely not strong in this one.
We had to ensure that Tony knew of our presence at all times, by this we mean during the show and after hours. We wanted him to appreciate us as much as we appreciated him…..and there was a lot of appreciation coming from Heidi and me. The plan began slowly with the befriending of those who had technology at their disposal, i.e. a camera, as we neglected to bring our photographic equipment. Once we found out all her vital statistics and that she was reliable enough to send us copies of the photos phase 2 was ready to be executed. Phase 2 was brilliant, we couldn’t have planned it better if we tried……namely because we didn’t actually have a Plan B really but when we met his college buddy we knew he had to be involved and thus he became our Plan B!!!! B for brilliant!!! George Costanza couldn’t have thought of a better scheme.
So Plan B was into full swing… we had infiltrated our way into his past… calculating? No….brilliant! Plan B was brilliant remember that …Plan C can be referred to as calculating….C for Calculating. Anyway we began chatting to this random stranger at the stage exit door around the back…Heidi and I immediately noticed the lack of security around the back of the theatre…. clearly they didn’t know we were in town….anyway I digress. This random stranger who shall remain nameless..(I believe I’ve reached my quota of potential lawsuits when this book eventually gets published) we will refer to him as ‘Chip’. Chip was a lovely fellow, he was a college buddy of Tony’s in Mexico, New Mexico that is. He was happy to answer all of our questions on the hunky lead.
We used all our charm to befriend him and suck out every bit of information we could. The girl with the camera also chatted to him and seemed to have the same idea as us. We weren’t too happy about someone muscling in on our great idea but we needed those photos. By the time the stars came out to head home, we looked like a cool little group waiting for our mate.
Thankfully Tony Vincent thought the same thing. He recognised Chip straight away and gave him a big hug. We stood right by Chip and Tony bought it. He thought we were all together, so their conversation included us. Heidi wasn’t quite as cool as I’d hoped, as she got a bit start struck and acted like a 5 year old seeing the Wiggles live for the first time. But I played it cool and tried to include myself in the conversation. They lost me a little when Tony actually asked if I knew Chip from College. And not being a quick thinker, as the British Tax Department can attest to, when I pretended to be Heidi (on her behest) and as soon as they asked for information other than her name, I broke down and confessed, pleading with them not to send me to jail.
So my ruse both with the Tax Department and with Tony Vincent was up. Thankfully he didn’t hold this against us and was quite happy to pose for photos with us. Little did he know how determined we were to know more about him. Once the “shoot” was over, we said our farewells and then once he’d walked a few meters we pretended to be going in the same direction. Unfortunately Tottenham Court Road was packed even this late in the evening and we lost him in the crowd waiting for the bus. I thought the Brits like to queue up for the bus. Why was this the first time they milled about in a crowd?
Thankfully we have outgrown our stalking personalities or is it more that we haven’t found someone new to follow?
Melbourne has a lot to offer in terms of culture and lifestyle, which I like to make the most of. Theatre is alive and well in our fair city, so I started out by seeing a couple of musicals. My first was “Buddy” – the entertaining story of Buddy Holly’s life. The whole show is a feel good extravaganza, which leaves you with the desire to go out and put on your dancing shoes. It certainly helped that the lead actor was absolutely divinely gorgeous. I leave these shows on cloud nine and am momentarily saddened that it’s over. But why let that put me down when I can just go back another night and enjoy the spectacle and feel the adrenalin rush all over again? So my credit card got a good workout while the show was in town. As I said earlier the lead was a large motivation for seeing the show. So right up until closing night, I was a regular visitor at the Buddy show.
Many a time I also happened to - I don’t know how - end up in the same restaurant or bar as the lead. Heidi was also obsessed by the hunky man, so we decided to go to the bar outside the theatre entrance. It was empty as the show wasn’t beginning for another couple of hours. Who should walk into this vast empty space? The lead of course! The very man who knew our faces as we were constantly in his. Heidi’s first reaction was to dart quickly behind a pole…..which only a stick insect could have successfully hidden behind. Could it be any more embarrassing? Yes, because he didn’t even acknowledge us. We were keeping the show afloat, we were paying his wages, and we kept him in the lavish lifestyle he was accustomed to. And what do we get, nothing, nada, nix!!!!
It seems all leads, no matter where in the world, have no appreciation for their financial backers. Another example of us sharing the love happened in London with the extraordinary spectacular that was “We Will Rock You”. Unfortunately you have to register at immigration when arriving in the UK, so we had to lie low. So keeping a low profile was the key in order to execute our brilliant plan – of which we knew nothing about until we attended the Queen musical. I wasn’t even supposed to get hooked into this mess, but since Heidi was going to see it with her friend Siggi, I felt a bit left out and found out that scalpers can come in handy. In fact, so much so, that I got better seats than Heidi who had booked it months earlier. Yep, there was a wide grin on my face. This is why I have no appreciation for paying in advance….planning is so overrated. I occasionally turned around from my Row B seat to make sure they could see me from their vantage point way up the back. It didn’t matter to me that I was sitting amongst strangers; I was in Row B. I could even read the words on Tony Vincent’s tattoo, which brings us to the sole reason of our stalking. Stalking is such an ugly word, from now on we shall refer to it as “maximum appreciation”, which has no price. Heidi and I had to get part time jobs to supplement this extra-curricular activity.
To say that Tony Vincent is the most gorgeous man on the planet, is by no means an understatement. He is light years ahead of the poor excuse of an actor that “acted” (I use the term loosely) in the Australian production. I’m sure I saw a prompt cue in the audience. In fact if the Jedi masters were here, they would have seen that the force is definitely not strong in this one.
We had to ensure that Tony knew of our presence at all times, by this we mean during the show and after hours. We wanted him to appreciate us as much as we appreciated him…..and there was a lot of appreciation coming from Heidi and me. The plan began slowly with the befriending of those who had technology at their disposal, i.e. a camera, as we neglected to bring our photographic equipment. Once we found out all her vital statistics and that she was reliable enough to send us copies of the photos phase 2 was ready to be executed. Phase 2 was brilliant, we couldn’t have planned it better if we tried……namely because we didn’t actually have a Plan B really but when we met his college buddy we knew he had to be involved and thus he became our Plan B!!!! B for brilliant!!! George Costanza couldn’t have thought of a better scheme.
So Plan B was into full swing… we had infiltrated our way into his past… calculating? No….brilliant! Plan B was brilliant remember that …Plan C can be referred to as calculating….C for Calculating. Anyway we began chatting to this random stranger at the stage exit door around the back…Heidi and I immediately noticed the lack of security around the back of the theatre…. clearly they didn’t know we were in town….anyway I digress. This random stranger who shall remain nameless..(I believe I’ve reached my quota of potential lawsuits when this book eventually gets published) we will refer to him as ‘Chip’. Chip was a lovely fellow, he was a college buddy of Tony’s in Mexico, New Mexico that is. He was happy to answer all of our questions on the hunky lead.
We used all our charm to befriend him and suck out every bit of information we could. The girl with the camera also chatted to him and seemed to have the same idea as us. We weren’t too happy about someone muscling in on our great idea but we needed those photos. By the time the stars came out to head home, we looked like a cool little group waiting for our mate.
Thankfully Tony Vincent thought the same thing. He recognised Chip straight away and gave him a big hug. We stood right by Chip and Tony bought it. He thought we were all together, so their conversation included us. Heidi wasn’t quite as cool as I’d hoped, as she got a bit start struck and acted like a 5 year old seeing the Wiggles live for the first time. But I played it cool and tried to include myself in the conversation. They lost me a little when Tony actually asked if I knew Chip from College. And not being a quick thinker, as the British Tax Department can attest to, when I pretended to be Heidi (on her behest) and as soon as they asked for information other than her name, I broke down and confessed, pleading with them not to send me to jail.
So my ruse both with the Tax Department and with Tony Vincent was up. Thankfully he didn’t hold this against us and was quite happy to pose for photos with us. Little did he know how determined we were to know more about him. Once the “shoot” was over, we said our farewells and then once he’d walked a few meters we pretended to be going in the same direction. Unfortunately Tottenham Court Road was packed even this late in the evening and we lost him in the crowd waiting for the bus. I thought the Brits like to queue up for the bus. Why was this the first time they milled about in a crowd?
Thankfully we have outgrown our stalking personalities or is it more that we haven’t found someone new to follow?
Friday, September 19, 2008
Living like a Londoner
First arriving in London is like meeting a new man. There is the initial excitement, the uncertainty and also a little shyness, but also the desire to get to know more. You are awestruck by the famous places, which look so familiar, thinking ‘I can’t believe I’m here’, you are humbled by the history of the place and you look in amazement at the people thinking ‘You are so lucky to live in London.’ The honeymoon period doesn’t last long though. The first horror you experience is the accommodation. Nothing can prepare you for the squalor you are forced to live in, simply because you aren’t an Al Fayed or a Windsor.
The employment agency organised a hostel for me, which looked dirty when compared to my dog, Tyson’s, kennel. However, you must remember I am still awestruck and somewhat jetlagged, so it doesn’t seem so bad. As the Gods would have it, I didn’t need to sleep there for the first few nights. My friend Heidi was already living in London and insisted I stay with her. I thought to myself, sensational; a comfortable bed and a clean bathroom. Oh, how wrong I was.
Heidi moved from her unfurnished flat due to a domineering and bitchy flatmate to a fully furnished flat owned and lived in by a work colleague. She was desperate to find somewhere to stay and knew it would only be for a few short months. And when she saw MD’s flat, she thought she had struck gold. It wasn’t until she saw the finer details, that she realised no place in England could possibly be clean by her and most other species’ standards.
MD had a shag pile carpet covering for his toilet seat, not the lid but the actual seat. Each time she went to the toilet she nearly gagged. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what life forms had set up shop in this grotty piece of filth. MD often complained about the toilet paper being used up so quickly, wondering what it was that Heidi got up to in the bathroom. She didn’t have the heart to tell him, that she layered the seat with loads of loo paper before she sat down in order to prevent any disease or species infiltrating her body.
You can imagine MD’s surprise when the loo paper virtually disappeared after I moved in as I was also forced to take protective measures. I believe this was the only toilet in London, where the seat was left up after the females of the house had used it. MD also had a habit of lying on the couch wearing nothing but his bath robe, which may seem quite ok to some but not to the female population of Sidcup.
Is there any wonder then that we nicknamed him Muff Daddy?
My level of comfort did not end there. The room Heidi had in Muff Daddy’s apartment was smaller than my broom cupboard. The door couldn’t fully open because the bed was in the way and you almost had to walk sideways to the bed. And this became the room I also had to sleep in. I couldn’t possibly imagine where but Heidi had it all sorted. Muff Daddy had a fold out mattress, which looked like 3 couch cushions sewn together. This was wedged into the narrow floor space between the bed and the wardrobe and this is where I spent 3 sleepless nights.
It wouldn’t have been that bad as once I’m asleep I don’t really move. But Heidi's doona seemed to be a King sized doona (or duvet as the Brits call it) on a single bed. So where did the excess doona hang? On my face of course. So if the claustrophobia wasn’t going to kill me, the suffocation was. Ah, my dreams of luxurious hotels whilst travelling weren’t being fulfilled.
The Brits also have various other household habits, which I, as an Australian, found to be a little strange. Washing machines are kept in the kitchen, dining tables are non-existent and they put a plastic tub in the sink to wash their dishes in. Is the stainless steel sink too clean for them that they need to use a plastic tub, which absorbs the colour of tonight’s curry? I just don’t get it! Please write to me if you have an explanation for this bizarre phenomenon.
So when I stayed with Heidi I had to contend with a semi-naked old man, an infested toilet seat and then to top it off, a cushion placed into a 4 x 5 inch space, which doubled as my bed. It wasn’t the most comfortable of stays, let me assure you.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Heidi headed off to Belgium for a stint in a brewery advertising for big boobied women. Instead of going back to the dive of a hostel I spent a few nights with a friend of Heidi’s, Jacky – soon to be dubbed Forrest (Gump).
Forrest lived with 3 men, all Brits. Men can sometimes be hard to live with due to their unclean habits, but add their British background and it’s a recipe for a pigsty. I was relegated to a sponge mattress in the lounge room, but Forrest had neglected to tell her flatmates that they had a houseguest. I was fast asleep, when suddenly I was awoken by 3 drunken men who wanted to continue their revelry in their lounge room. I could hear Forrest bolting down the stairs as fast as her little legs could take her. (She was a short little thing, prone to falling down). She loudly whispered at them to keep it down and stay out of the lounge room as she had a friend staying there. So what should happen next? The lounge room door flings open, all lights came on and 3 burly men were staring down at me, pointing and asking “who are you?” I stayed hidden under my blanket not uttering a word. As all sportsmen do, they soon lost interest and left. However, somehow when I woke up the next morning, (this was due to them coming in and turning the tv on loudly) I was covered in rugby bandages, jock straps and pizza boxes. When and how this happened, remains a mystery.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Breaking and Entering
I’d only been in possession of the keys for less than 12 hours before I made my first faux pas. My workmate John, thought in his infinite wisdom that it would be a good idea for me to look after his house while he and his family are on holiday. He was taking off on the Friday while his wife and child weren’t leaving until Sunday morning. I’m not really sure why they arranged it like that but it wasn’t exactly my business.
I met his wife on the Saturday for the first time, while she explained the ins and outs of their humble abode – and my living quarters for the next 3 weeks, even though I assured her I won’t be staying everyday. It would however be tempting to use their inner city townhouse for a base on weekends while making the most of the city bars and clubs.
Once the tour and instructions were out of the way, I wished her well and headed out to deal with my numerous tasks and appointments. Life as a 20 something young woman in her prime, included many demands, both in and out of work.
Things were going swimmingly until the next day. It all seemed like a simple plan at the time. My friend Heidi and I went to the Spanish festival on Sunday morning, thoroughly enjoying the tastes and smells of Paella and Churros. After a couple of Sangrias and chats to the thoroughly charming and gorgeous Spanish men, I remembered John’s house. I probably should make sure it hadn’t been broken into or burnt down. Since we weren’t too far away, I thought we could make the most of my new living quarters by watching some DVD’s, cooking something and enjoying a night with Ben and Jerry; otherwise referred to as a party.
So we made our merry way across town with minimum fuss, thanks to the help of Mr. Melway. I parked the car, opened the door with the confidence and flair of a new homeowner and welcome Heidi to my new place.
Heidi went in ahead of me making awestruck noises as she saw the high ceilings, ornate cornices and beautiful art work on the walls. She commented on quite a few things as I followed her down the hall. And then suddenly a woman appeared in the hallway, staring at us in confusion. Since Heidi was in front and she had never seen this woman before, they stared at each other like a deer in headlights. My jaw dropped, it was John’s wife. She stood there dumbfounded, as she had been asleep on the couch and was now suddenly staring down her hallway at a complete stranger who had been loudly commenting on the decor.
I coolly and calmly said, Hi. How are you? as I tried to push my heart back down my throat and into my chest. Heidi just stood there like a beacon with her glowing red face, hiding beneath her polar tech 3000 security blanket. Once wifey calmly explained that she wasn’t leaving until Monday morning, I embarrassingly said I didn’t know and apologised profusely.
It was one of the most awkward moments of my life. I humbly retreated, saying “take care and enjoy the rest of your nap”. I could feel the heat from Heidi's face as we made our way back out, hoping that time would go back with us. I got in the car as quickly as I could and drove off before I let out an explosive cry of embarrassment. In all my confusion I was driving down the wrong way on a one way street, but I was too distraught to care. I couldn’t get over the shock of seeing her, of having brought a complete stranger into her house, despite me having said I’d hardly be at the house. Now it would look like I was going to bring all my friends around, rifle through their things and throw wild parties. I couldn’t begin to imagine the fear and anxiety she must have felt as she was woken by the ramblings of 2 strangers who unexpectedly entered her house.
We drove to the nearest bar. I don’t remember how we got there or where it was but I just know I needed a stiff drink. I hastily ordered us 2 drinks and sat down with my head in my hands. Oh the shame. I relived it a thousand times over and no matter which way we twisted it, it was bad on all levels. We couldn’t even laugh about it. How was I to make this up to them? A question I am still trying to answer.
I met his wife on the Saturday for the first time, while she explained the ins and outs of their humble abode – and my living quarters for the next 3 weeks, even though I assured her I won’t be staying everyday. It would however be tempting to use their inner city townhouse for a base on weekends while making the most of the city bars and clubs.
Once the tour and instructions were out of the way, I wished her well and headed out to deal with my numerous tasks and appointments. Life as a 20 something young woman in her prime, included many demands, both in and out of work.
Things were going swimmingly until the next day. It all seemed like a simple plan at the time. My friend Heidi and I went to the Spanish festival on Sunday morning, thoroughly enjoying the tastes and smells of Paella and Churros. After a couple of Sangrias and chats to the thoroughly charming and gorgeous Spanish men, I remembered John’s house. I probably should make sure it hadn’t been broken into or burnt down. Since we weren’t too far away, I thought we could make the most of my new living quarters by watching some DVD’s, cooking something and enjoying a night with Ben and Jerry; otherwise referred to as a party.
So we made our merry way across town with minimum fuss, thanks to the help of Mr. Melway. I parked the car, opened the door with the confidence and flair of a new homeowner and welcome Heidi to my new place.
Heidi went in ahead of me making awestruck noises as she saw the high ceilings, ornate cornices and beautiful art work on the walls. She commented on quite a few things as I followed her down the hall. And then suddenly a woman appeared in the hallway, staring at us in confusion. Since Heidi was in front and she had never seen this woman before, they stared at each other like a deer in headlights. My jaw dropped, it was John’s wife. She stood there dumbfounded, as she had been asleep on the couch and was now suddenly staring down her hallway at a complete stranger who had been loudly commenting on the decor.
I coolly and calmly said, Hi. How are you? as I tried to push my heart back down my throat and into my chest. Heidi just stood there like a beacon with her glowing red face, hiding beneath her polar tech 3000 security blanket. Once wifey calmly explained that she wasn’t leaving until Monday morning, I embarrassingly said I didn’t know and apologised profusely.
It was one of the most awkward moments of my life. I humbly retreated, saying “take care and enjoy the rest of your nap”. I could feel the heat from Heidi's face as we made our way back out, hoping that time would go back with us. I got in the car as quickly as I could and drove off before I let out an explosive cry of embarrassment. In all my confusion I was driving down the wrong way on a one way street, but I was too distraught to care. I couldn’t get over the shock of seeing her, of having brought a complete stranger into her house, despite me having said I’d hardly be at the house. Now it would look like I was going to bring all my friends around, rifle through their things and throw wild parties. I couldn’t begin to imagine the fear and anxiety she must have felt as she was woken by the ramblings of 2 strangers who unexpectedly entered her house.
We drove to the nearest bar. I don’t remember how we got there or where it was but I just know I needed a stiff drink. I hastily ordered us 2 drinks and sat down with my head in my hands. Oh the shame. I relived it a thousand times over and no matter which way we twisted it, it was bad on all levels. We couldn’t even laugh about it. How was I to make this up to them? A question I am still trying to answer.
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