Blighty Ho

// Filed under: Life on Sunday June 18th 2006, 8:45 pm

Tomorrow night, at 10.10 pm, Simon and I will be on a flight to the land of the forefathers, the land of the fried mars bar, the chav, the chavette and the red buses - the United Kingdom.

I’ve got nothing coherent to say. Seriously. I’m very excited. Everything’s all organised. Everything’s pretty much packed. It’s just waiting.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

British pound notes are weird. They’re taller than proper Australian notes, and they don’t quite fit in my wallet. And they’re made of paper as well. Paper. I can tear them. With my hands. I feel uneasy about this. And frankly, I judge the entire British nation on it. That’s right, you’re all weak. And oddly-sized. You heard me.

Also, your exchange rate makes me cringe. Cringe. It’s a good thing I don’t spend a lot of money here because goddamn, I’m certain I will be over there. Ouch, I says. Still, tax return comes in soon. That should be delicious, in as much as a lump sum of money can be said to have a taste.

I saw the weirdest thing yesterday. Walking through the city with friends, one of whom was wearing a Collingwood scarf. As we passed a group of goths, they erupted into raucous laughter and derisive anti-Collingwood jeers.

Goths. Laughing at someone else’s football alleigances. Goths. Don’t they know their kind gets regularly beaten up by football players? I wasn’t sure whether to laugh long and hard (which I did anyway) or to congratulate them on their diehard Australian sport-lust. Which is apparently strong enough to survive repeated punching by football players.

I should have asked them to explain this enigma. Assuming I could have got past the girl dressed in a home-made, tattered nurses uniform with streaked mascara and with piercings around her eyes in places I didn’t even know you could pierce.

And oh man. Borders have opened a store in Perth. With a coffee shop in it. I disapprove of it in principle, as I do of all multinational chains sinking a tentacle-claw into my delightful local market. But man. That place is pretty. Very, very pretty.

So there we go. Only 23 hours left in this wide brown land. Two weeks from hence, I return, to rapturous cheers and applause. And to the imminent arrival of my very favourite lady from Sydney, whom, it should be noted, deserves a thorough spanking.

Peace out, folks. See you in the motherland.

// 7 Comments

7 Comments »

1. Doomy says:

   June 18, 2006 at 9:47 pm

   Fun fun. Watch your purse. Er… back pockets.

   I can’t speak for weird Australian goth people, but over here, you generally laugh at people proclaiming to be sports fans because you assume they are jocks and, therefore, stupid. Luckily I am long past my stereotyping days (except about frat boys, sorority girls, other pierced people, people with shiny cars, people with tiny little dogs in their purses, people with accents, and everyone else), but if I weren’t, I could probably tell you a bit more.

   I think they are counting on people fearing to attack them, because… piercings can be wielded in battle and posses magical powers.

2. Doomy says:

   June 19, 2006 at 11:17 am

   I just found out that somewhere in England, they do this thing called um… well, I don’t remember what it’s called, but it involves throwing a big wheel of cheese down a hill that is so steep it is classified as a cliff, which also happens to be pockmarked with holes and rocks, and having all the people who wish to participate run after it, tripping and rolling over each other. The cheese gets up to 70 mph, which I believe is around 120 kph or so.

   The winner gets the cheese wheel.

   It is glorious.

3. popogeejo says:

   June 19, 2006 at 11:18 am

   Ah sweet Britania. The worst they have there is drive by arguments…
   Have a nice trip young Tim and Simon.

4. popogeejo says:

   June 19, 2006 at 8:11 pm

   And for mr. Doomy. It’s a small town in the north of England that does the Cheese rolling IIRC. Wales has a naff yearly talent show and all we do is lament the loss of the colonies while sipping tea and raising Football hooligans.

   We are the fattest, most drug popping country in Europe. We have the most asthmatics and teenage parents in Europe aswell. We rule.

5. Doomy says:

   June 19, 2006 at 9:40 pm

   Sounds like the public high school here.

   Thanks for the info, and um… it’s “miss”.

6. Richard Colwill says:

   July 4, 2006 at 9:35 pm

   Tim As discussed
   >>Land of the fried Mars bar- this is Scotland or Northern Ireland- Not your father’s fatherland of England- in fact our Great Grandfather arrived from the furthest pint from there of Cornwall- fish maybe- no mars bars
   >> I’ve nothing coherant to say- mmm wouldn’t disagree mostly LOL
   >>You’re all weak. And oddly sized.
   Well, my twin nemesis- if you were as disturbed as I was about the similarities then you’ll retract- otherwise in the absence of me being in Oz for a while please feel free to beat yourself up- you know it’s coming from someone of the right size and strength- LOL
   Mr. Doomy ought to watch out calling you a wierd Australian Goth boy as that means there are now two of us on his case! And popogeejo didn’t quite have it right- the village for chasing Cheese down a cliff face is in Gloucestershire- but these things happen ;-)we wouldn’t be the mad british eccentrics you can all laugh at otherwise
   Lovely to meet the adult you- hope you arrive home alright and the knee isn’t too painful- Hope to catch you online soon
   Cousin Rich (elder of the twin Nemeses)

7. Mark says:

   August 6, 2006 at 9:57 pm

   Land of the battered Mars bar is Scotland

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