Panic on the streets of London

Down under, a British person is usually described in one of several ways; either a whiner, a fancy-boy, gay, old-fashioned, pompous or up-themselves. They speak in posh, over-the-top fancy accents, they never bathe and only eat black pudding and other meals made from awful body parts of dead animals. They think we’re all colonial yobbs who only drive utes, cook on BBQ’s and address everyone as ‘mate.’ 


We think that they’re living in the dark ages and that they must constantly be damp from all that constant rain. Their cars are called ‘Aston Martin’, their towns are named ‘Stratford-upon-Avon’ and they say ‘blimey’ or ‘bother’ when things get tough. Back here, our towns are called ‘Wagga-Wagga’, our cars are either Holden or Ford, and it’s either ‘bugger’ or ‘bloody’ whenever your mother’s around.

To give them credit where it’s due, the Brit’s have done quite a lot for both Australia and the rest of the world. Their nation’s history is littered with great literary figures. During the 1960’s they were on the cutting edge of fashion, for example Twiggy, and musicians; the likes of The Rolling Stones, and The Beetles. And they do produce some nice food on occasion. Two people whom I went to school with are currently both over in Pommyland spending a year off from university. 

Apparently England is one of the most popular nations in the world for Australian tourists. So there must be a reason. I mean, we all wouldn’t head on over there if we truly hated them that much.

Personally, I cannot wait to travel to England. I’m planning to complete my second year of university over in the mother land, and am filling in the time until then with books, magazines, television programs, films and music made by or created in England. There is this inexplainable, primordial lust that burns right down inside me which I simply cannot shake. I can’t explain in it in words why I want to go to England. All I know is that I need to get there. I need to be there. I’ll come home, eventually, but for now there is some deep seeded primitive need within me that is pulling me back to the land of my forefathers like a moth to a flame.

Considering that it is not just me who feels this need to travel to England for whatever reason, it is surprising considering both countries attitudes towards each other. I’ve been filling in a lot of my time of late reading a fair bit of British journalism online. And surprisingly, considering that we are on the opposite side of the planet, Australia gets a mention quite frequently, though it seems only ever in jest. And I directly quote: “I'm just not Australian. I don't really understand enthusiasm for the barbecue either, because the locals really do regard it as the route to culinary nirvana. Where I come from, cooking outside over a bonfire is something you do if you're homeless.” By James May Published 24 Feb 2010

Look here England, just because you created us does not mean that you own us. Don’t you point the finger at us and laugh at our colonial ways. Don’t accuse us of being primitive. Because let me remind you of something. Don’t you forget, that the only reason that we are here is because you sent us all here in cramped,rat-infested,leaking ships. You sent us to the opposite side of the world, to a foreign unknown land with all sorts of weird animals.  All of your your thieves and murderers, if they weren’t hung drawn and quartered, were sent down here. Australia took all the stabbists and heratics from England, toughened them up, stopped the whinging and created a civilised, revolutionary society which functions in a perfectly normal and sensible manner. 




They say that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger; rise up from the ashes to seize the day. And so on. Australia is the nation that rose from the ashes of England’s failing society. Australia is simply the people that England wished it was. So please refrain from pointing and laughing. Don’t complain about our culinary skills and stick to your tea and biscuits. And stay the bloody hell away from us. Thanks awfully old chap.

brown paper packages tied up with string

I woke up in a rather motivated mood and decided, among other thing like cleaning my room and sorting through my tax paperwork, to write a more simplistic piece just for your reading pleasure. Oh, and more pictures today, because I’m rather tired and not so much up for writing...so these are a few of my favourite things.

Scrub-a-dub-dub.

Incidentally, I don’t watch the television show ‘Scrubs’, nor do I really like it. I think it’s a bit silly and immature. And further more, this picture I did not actually find myself. I ‘borrowed’ it from someone else’s blog, (cheers to www.velveteenhappiness.blogspot.com) but I quite like it. I like the message in the image. 

“Who the hell cares what anybody thinks? Just look into your heart and do whatever the hell makes you happy.”

This is a neat little phrase. I like to think that I live by this mantra, but sadly I do realise that there are plenty people out there who do need this constant sort of reassurance and encouragement in their lives. 

Can I just make it absolutely clear now that I’m not getting on my high horse here and pronouncing to the entire world how I’m perfect and totally at one with myself, because that would just be boring, plus I don’t have a horse. I’ve simply wasted too much of my time in the past trying to get my side fringe to look just like the girls off the television, and spent way too many days at the shopping centre trying to find Converse sneakers and skinny jeans which fit and those bracelets which look like tattoos that were so cool in Grade Five. All of that just wasn’t me. I looked a ridiculous fool.  It was just so much easier, less expensive and less complicated to just be me. And to the rest of you silly blonde girls at high-school who thought that I was odd, guess what? I was happy all along and you were not. Hey, if it ultimately means that we are all going to be comfortable with ourselves, then I’m all for motivational images. Even if they are a bit cliched and metaphors get tortured a bit. 

She lives on Love Street...

If I could possibly live in any era of time, it would be the 1960’s. No shadow of a doubt. Almost every element of my current life is influence by this era in time. 

My dress sense: from the mod shift dresses to pea-coats and A-line skirts, every single item in my wardrobe I have purchased with this period of time in mind. The swinging 60’s were all about rebellion, about showing the world who you were and the young staking their claim in modern civilization.  It was all about taking the hem lines high and raising eyebrows higher. And that stick-it-to-the-man attitude is lacking in our current fashions here in 2010.

Music: Please do not borrow my iPod unless you are prepared to be bitterly disappointed. I  thought Kanye West was a Swedish skier and Usher someone who worked at the theatre. If I check my “Top 25 most played” playlist it reads: Simon and Garfunkel ‘Slip Sliding Away’, Rolling Stones ‘Gimme Shelter’, David Bowie ‘Secret life of Arabia’ and The Doors ‘Love her Madly’. This pleases me. This may not please you so much next time we jump in my car and my iPod is on shuffle. But I will not apologise. Much like the fashion’s of the time, music in the 1960’s was all about young people getting their message out there, and the message was ‘screw you Mum and Dad; I’m doing it my way.’ And I like that. Sorry Mum.

For Veronica...

I’ll just make a few things clear right now. Firstly, for those who don’t know, this is James May; British television presenter of shows such as ‘Top Gear’, ‘James May’s Big Ideas’ and ‘Toy Stories’, as pictured. Secondly, I do not, have not and never will have a ‘thing’ for older men. I once made the mistake of telling my friend Veronica that I wanted a boyfriend like James May; intelligent, witty, and a bit old fashioned with longish hair. Only I wanted someone young, because May’s a wee bit old. And British. Veronica then proceeded to announce all over the internet that I had an attraction to older men. Whilst this was all in jest, I think, I still was embarrassed that people might think I like old men. Because I don’t. I don’t. Ah, Facebook and her follies is a cruel mistress.

So now we’ve established those facts, we can now proceed to bask in the glory that is Mr May. One of the reasons I’ve decided to study journalism one day is because I want his job  so badly. All he does all day is laugh and muck around with his mates and gets paid for it. Sounds like a dream. I want to do that for a living. Plus he’s rather witty and he reminds me of this really nice old gentleman who comes into my work on a Wednesday. It makes me happy to sit down and flick on SBS to watch a bit of James May talking about the war, or whatever it is he talks about. His presenting style is so laid-back and factual that he has become like an old friend who stops by my living room on a Thursday evening. It would be rather neat to meet him one day.

What the hell is a jigawatt?

In 1985, the world just became that much more awesome. I won’t deny it; I am obsessed with the Back to the Future trilogy. I can quote nearly the whole film. I know who wrote, directed it and produced it. I’ve watched all the special features on my 4-disk-dvd box set. It is, in street talk, simply the shiz. Don’t ever try to deny that, because we will just get into an argument, and you will lose. If you have not lived yet and sadly have missed out on the privilege of seeing these films, it simply tells the tale of Marty McFly and Doc Brown, who traverse across time in a customized time machine built into a DeLorian.(That’s a type of car for the ignorant.) Then what happens is....oh sod it, I’m not going to bother with explaining it to you. If you haven’t seen it then you don’t deserve to know. 

I don’t know what it is that makes me so passionate about these films. I cannot put my finger on what it is that drives my enthusiasm for this piece of cinematography. I just love it so. And Michael J Fox is oh so adorable in this flick. Check out that life savers jacket...

Aha!

If you don’t know of the greatness that is Alan Partridge, then you have truly missed out in life. 

Again, another British figure has made an appearance in today’s piece. To put it simply, Alan Partridge is a simple British man trying to make it as an accomplished television and radio personality. He is simply a legend.

When describing a hot apple pie: ‘It’s hotter than the sun!’

On how hard work has been: "I've been working like a Japanese prisoner of war. But a happy one."

‘AHA!’.

Please youtube him. You won’t be sorry.

These are a few of my favourite things. For now...

it's hip to be square

Did you know that David Bowie’s real name is David Jones, and that the Model T Ford was the first Automobile to be mass produced? No, I bet you didn’t. And I cannot tell you how I stumbled upon this knowledge. I just know it. But don’t you dare share these new facts with anyone else. They’ll just think that you’re being a clever little arse and throw whiteboard markers at your forehead. Or at least that’s what my boss did to me today after I told him these trivial facts. He then proceeded to call me a fool.

I’m straying from my main point before I’ve even made it. I shall explain. 

You see, I have always been a bit of a storyteller; a joker. All of my co-workers thought I was really self-effacing and shy when I began six months ago until Everett’s 30th birthday party when I entertained them all with my anecdotes of my simply getting dressed and ready to get to the party in question; which involved my mother calling my dress sense ‘lesbonic’  and then me nearly running over a wombat on the back roads of Phillip Island. They all found it amusing. Now I am called upon to recall tales of mischief and misconduct whenever we all get together for a drink whereupon I hold court at the table and entertain young and old with my words.

I possess a great mass of interesting and yet useless facts and figures. For example, Alfred Hitchcock always made an appearance in each and everyone one of his films, even if it only was for a few seconds on screen, and did you know that on an average day a cow produces around 40 litres of milk? No, I didn’t think you would. But please do not even begin to think that I am attempting to lord it over you with my ‘impressive knowledge’. Oh no, because you see, I am an ‘autodidact’. (You see, I even know a word that you may have never heard of.) An ‘autodidact’ is ‘a person of self-taught knowledge.’ Which quite neatly summarises my life and brain power.

Upon first meeting me, one would presume that I am quite intelligent. All the signs are there. I wear glasses sometimes. I did well on my VCE exams. I am planning to go to university. 

Then ask me to perform any simple Math’s task, and watch me explode and burn up upon re-entry. All systems down I’m afraid. No hope of getting a speck of intelligence out of me then. Which I find rather embarrassing, as I get complimented on my lovely speaking voice and how I am a confident public speaker and my vast vocabulary, but ask me to times 8x3 and I fall to pieces. I just can’t fathom numbers, it’s beyond my comprehension. 

So what do we deem as intelligent? What equals to an education? 

I am a firm believer in that everyone is intelligent, yet we all show it in different ways.

Take my own relative. My uncle, who dropped out of the local high-school in year 9, and who by today’s standards should now be living as a tramp somewhere on a park bench, has gone on to own his own transport buisiness and can add up square metric tonnes of super-phosphate in his head within milliseconds whilst I am still busy pulling out my little calculator. A lady whom I work with jetted off to Europe as soon as she turned 18; no university or TAFE education, yet she is a jedi with such wisdom and knowledge of life that I have nothing but the upmost respect for her.

On the other hand; having intelligence down on paper in the form of a degree does not always make you King of the World either. A man I know has been to five different universities, and thus has around 7 or so degrees. And he works as a milker on his parents dairy farm. Why bother with all the university then? “I just like learning” he replies.

Just because I can’t perform any mathematical task of any kind does not make me stupid or unintelligent. Just because I know what ‘regicide’ means does not mean that I am a clever little sod. There are so many different books, sciences, sports, arts, different types of music, different types of mathematics and so much of the English language to learn that it is impossible to be master of it all. Which is good I feel. Because what a boring world it would be if we all knew what the square root of 45 was and if we all knew how to speak Spanish. How would we ever learn? What would we ever talk about? Everyone is intelligent in their own individual way. Except for people from America...because we all know what they’re like...