Rather than make a whole new post, I've tacked on the rest of the Queensland trip story to the previous post below. I'll endeavour to be a bit quicker with the whole transcription and photos thing after going to Sydney (to see Hawthorn again!) in September, heh.

Posted at 8:52 PM | Permalink | Comments

Written on ballpoint pen on my left hand:
RYAN IS A THEORETICAL GENIUS (REALLY!)

Written on ballpoint pen on my right hand:
DI ISN'T MY GOD (it used to say "Di is my god" but I changed it.)

I love Trivia Tuesdays.

Posted at 11:36 PM | Permalink | Comments

Right. Given that I have been asked about part two of the Queensland trip several times over the last few days, and the fact that it's now more than a month since I actually got back, I guess it's probably about time to finish off the story.

After a less than stellar sleep in which I awoke several times to hear the murmerings of deep-and- meaningfuls outside on the verandah around 5am, I managed to roll out of bed pain-free late in the morning on Saturday. Harry's parents were kind enough to enquire how I was feeling as they knew I was sick the night before - I put together the worst spiel possible about how and why I was sick, which consequently made me look like a drunkard. Phrases such as "I get like that sometimes" and "I didn't really have much to drink" may have been used, which of course just sealed the deal. So there's now at least three people in Queensland who unjustly believe I'm an alcoholic, it seems.

As I may have touched on before, put a group of eight guys together with plenty of space and beers, and you'll find it quite easy to tap into a rather fierce competitive spirit. As such we spent the majority of the afternoon getting into all manner of sports - tennis, basketball, footy, whatever took the fancy at that particular time. Harry's place is surrounded by bushland, which is the natural enemy of tennis balls and footballs; there was more than one search called off through sheer frustration. In addition to harsh scrub, there turned out to be a handful of low-lying barbed wire fences snaking through the bushes around the property. Why? I have no idea. I do, however, now have a scar across my ankle from walking into one and creating a nice little mess of flesh and blood.

The evening we'd been hanging out for for over six months took a long time to arrive, but when it did we took it on all guns blazing. The maxicab driver refused us entry while still holding our bottles of beer, which of course meant we drank them in triple-time and piled in all just a little bit tipsy. The Gabba is ideally situated in Brisbane, and in quite a similar position to the MCG there's a lot of backstreet pubs around. We met up with our additional compadres, including the infamous Donno (of New Years' Eve and jagerbomb 'Bomb Squad' fame) and after causing havoc in the pub whilst watching the Kangaroos throw away a match against Collingwood (everyone else was watching the rugby, and we were screaming about the opposite code) we wandered over to the ground decked out in the superb brown and gold colours singing the team song. Accosted by two young blokes in the popular "suit jackets with board shorts" fashion at the gate pretending to be reporters (the mic leads went nowhere, which was the dead giveaway apart from the fact they were about 14), we gave them a thorough rundown on all the reasons Brisbane shouldn't even bother turning up because the match was already won. (We may have also pointed out several of the group were real radio hosts, and award-nominated ones at that.)

Perhaps the best thing about the Gabba is that it serves full strength Bundy and coke. It's a soulless husk of a stadium not unlike Telstra Dome; purpose-built for corporate viewing rather than embracing the grassroots supporter. Upon finding our seats very close to the entire half-time selection of Auskick kids, I sought out possible standing room areas and found one some thirty metres away. The ground security were quite careful to tell me we "had to stay within the yellow lines" if we were going to stand. Can't get in the way of foot traffic, after all. But what did we care? Hawthorn was going to kick arse.



Such optimism lasted about fifteen minutes into the match. Hawthorn was utterly abysmal, which is not all that new considering they're an inexperienced team, but this was one of the worst performances I've seen them put in. With such a horrid display out on the field, the defensive options were clear: pretend it wasn't happening, or make it appear quite comical by consuming more alcohol. A couple of the crew adopted the second method quite strongly, and by quarter-time had that familiar glassy-eyed look about them (names withheld to protect the guilty, but you can all guess it wasn't me anyway.) As the classic drunken goofy grin descended so did the quality of the, ahem, banter. You see, we pride ourselves as a supporter group on being able to abuse the opposition with witty repartees and clever word-play (as evidence by my "I do not like green eggs and ham!" joke about the rhyming Essendon banner last weekend.) One, particularly, wasn't a big fan of subtly at this stage. After suggesting that we all shout "Shoot the runner, shoot shoot the runner!" (from the hit Kasabian song) at any, as he put it, "mutton dressed up as lamb" that may wander past us, he devolved into shouting it at any girl who had the misfortune of having to walk near our group. Most memorable was this exchange, to a girl standing up several rows in front:

Hey blondie! BLONDIE! You.. you can sit down (pauses) But I like your frieeeeend!

While this may seem a little heavy handed in hindsight, I can assure you dear readers that at the time it was... well, yes, heavy handed. But - also freakin' hilarious. Football with drunk guys is always an experience, at the very least. On the way out someone tried to set fire to a rubbish bin, and we all decided after that incident that football sucked, life was shit, and it was time to go home. After all, we had the V Festival to prepare for.

Harry's parents cooked us a corker of a breakfast on the Sunday morning. Hash browns, bacon and eggs, fried tomato, sausages, toast - you name it, they placed it in front of us. A train and bus trip later we were part of the heady throng queueing for access at the Gold Coast's Avica Resort, which was essentially lush fields as far as the eye could see. I wouldn't be surprised if they host festivals there in future; the actual layout is quite beneficial to music events, as there's a few hills and enclaves where stages can be put with minimal sound bleeding over to other areas of the festival. One girl in our line was carried out past us off her face, clearly having taken whatever was being stashed in her socks a little too early in the day leading to refused entry. We were having none of it. It was barely midday, and it was time to show these Queenslanders how Vics did their music fests.

Being Brisbane, however, it was tough to anticipate the weather effectively - shorts, or jeans? Will it be cold? Will I buy a tshirt? These are some of the crucial questions that music festival punters often overlook. We didn't necessarily overlook them, but we did fall foul of the temperamental conditions briefly - caught mercilessly in the rain while wandering around looking for something to entertain ourselves (the bands didn't actually start until after 3.) Of course, we were used to a light shower being from the south, so just enjoyed the refreshment.


It was actually quite amusing - 90% of the people who had spent days co-ordinating their outfits spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around in bright orange Virgin raincoats. Viva la difference! With such a large amount of time on our hands before any particular band we wanted to see, the option was clear - drink alcohol. Being very early was a godsend, as we managed to exchange our money to redeemable tokens in quick time and sample the premixed Jagerbombs (yes, poured into a paper cup - the things we do for love) while every man and his dog lined up. At one stage the line reputedly exceeded two hours. We sat in the sun and laughed heartily at the queue, the Jagermeister promo girls (who would have spent the entire day being ogled and grabbed), and the locals who were just here because they thought it was the thing to do (one girl told us she was here to "see 'The Raptures' [sic] and just do stuff.")

From our comfortable position we could hear the opening acts, and aside from checking out the merchandise and spending plenty on it (each of us bought between one and four tshirts - hey, it's the only place I've ever seen a Radiohead shirt!) didn't really move all that much until it was time for Gnarls Barkley. Ever the consummate performers, they opened with Pink Floyd's 'Another Brick in the Wall Pt 2' to go with their school-themed costumes. We just wanted to hear 'Crazy'; they played it second last (why not last is beyond me, because everyone left) and introduced it as "the song that made me rich". Hehe. We belted over to the other side of the festival grounds to catch The Rapture but with no hope of getting near the front due to the immense crowd and the fact Gnarls ran 20 minutes late. But the highlights were there; I can happily say I've now heard 'House of Jealous Lovers' live. A quick walk later and Jarvis Cocker wasn't all that spectacular, mostly because he steadfastly refused to play any Pulp songs. I don't rate that sort of attitude, so after a quick meeting near the main stage we needed to park ourselves at for the rest of the night, headed off to quickly grab some hot chips (upon realising that the only other time I'd eaten during the whole day was at Harry's for breakfast... and it was now 6pm. I told you that breakfast was good!)

So it was with great anticipation along with a fuller belly that we sat and waited for one of my favourite artists in Beck. Unfortunately. there's not really many ways to describe Beck's set other than "dismal". I talked with Brett about this the other day; it was so bad that neither of us have been able to listen to a Beck song since because it reminds us of how terrible he was. There was no energy, no spark, nothing. He had been sick, but completely looked like he didn't want to be there at all. An acoustic segue midway through the set was much appreciated (great songs like 'Lost Cause' and a cover of 'Wave of Mutilation', the Pixies classic, steadied the ship) and the stage theatrics were superb (puppets of each member that mimicked what they were doing, and a percussion break formed entirely from a dinner table set, including the table) but it wasn't enough to rescue what's probably the worst performance I've seen to date. Very disappointing indeed.

But that was but an afterthought when the Pixies took the stage. Very little decoration or fanfare, no spectacular stage lights or effects - just phenomenally good songs. They opened with a few slower numbers, but by the third song and the familiar start of 'Bone Machine' I was a maniac. It was an utterly relentless performance. No talking, no mucking around, no fussing with pedals or tuners, just hit after hit after hit. One of the best bands I've ever seen, and certainly the highlight of the whole trip.

Unlike some festivals, it was remarkably easy to find our way out and make our way home from V (not before finding a Pet Shop Boys tshirt for a birthday present, though!) Upon arriving exhausted back at Harry's house, we found a note on the table - 'dear boys, fried rice in the fridge if you're hungry'. We had a few laughs at the outrageous hospitality, and opened the fridge. There were individual portions of the rice, each in their own bowls. We had another laugh.

Fin.

Posted at 11:23 PM | Permalink | Comments

Sorry for the delays with a recap, it's been a hectic week. Also, only Alice seems to be interested, so the rest of you can get stuffed.

The plane to Maroochydore was at 9:30am on Saturday morning, but that didn't stop Brett ordering muesli and a Smirnoff vodka. I almost spat up my drink when he ordered it, and the hostess did a double take as well. The first thing you notice about north-ish Queensland is that it's bloody humid, and not sensible to wear jeans on the plane there because you get very hot very quickly.

The flat we stayed in was fantastic - third level of the Noosa Shores resort, along the hotels strip near the beach shopping road. Waterfront views? My word. The only downside was it tends to get very bright in Noosa, meaning the entire front room - with two large windows (I'll post photos when I get them) - was difficult to see in for a large part of the day. We actually wore sunglasses inside. The brightness meant it was hard to sleep past 7am or so, as well, which was a strange experience for a holiday. The Noosa part of the trip was focused mainly on doing absolutely nothing at all, which I think we achieved admirably. I read and bought several books, spent a lot of money on food (not only at the supermarket, but at an Italian restaurant we ate at on night one, where expensive wine was purchased and I daresay enjoyed), saw Hot Fuzz (awesome), hung around the pool, fell asleep on the beach and steadily improved at the PS2's Pro Evolution Soccer 6 (I used to lose 8-0 to Brett but by the end of the trip beat him on more than one occasion). We also watched a helluva lot of the Comedy Channel, and fashioned an excellent Spicks and Specks/Chaser's War On Everything drinking game that was perhaps in need of some rule revision as we were approaching drunkenness only fifteen minutes into Spicks and Specks. But the major highlight was probably driving a boat.


Despite a terribly low speed limit ("No wake? What, you mean this wake? Oh, I get it now") and the fact I had to share the wheel with Brett it was a blast. Noosa is made up entirely of water nooks and crannys so we took a bit of time to explore them. And it only cost us $50 all up! Good value. Also, as Brett pointed out, I've driven a boat before a car, which is some fun and appalling-on-my-behalf trivia. We left Noosa on Friday morning after the least impressive night out in living memory - after a good dinner of gourmet pizza and a few cocktails we headed into the main town to Irish Murphy's, which looked like the general nightspot to be at, a bit after 8pm. So ordinary was the place that we were back at the hotel and asleep by 10pm. Brett swears he walked in there and there was a bloke eyeing him disparagingly because he was wearing a good pair of jeans. We swore not to indulge faux-Irish pubs on the spot - a vow that was to be broken the following night. But more on that soon.

Part two of the trip was to take place in Brisbane and the Gold Coast. Strangely, there's no particularly good way to travel between Noosa and Brisbane - the infrastructure doesn't leave you with a lot of options. A three and a half hour bus trip later where I got in a good sleep and listened to at least eight different albums, including the Pixies best-of twice in anticipation of Sunday's V Festival, we ended up at Central Station and waiting for a train to Loganlea where our mate Harry lives. Brett temporarily derailed everything by losing his wallet on the bus, but luckily it hadn't left the depot before he noticed. A 45-minute train trip - yes, I was pretty much sick of transport by this stage - and a quick car ride, stopping only to pick up several six-packs of UDLs and we were greeted by the rest of the gang (for the benefit of those who have me on Myspace or have met them - Ben, Chris and Adam.) There was much drunken frivolity in the heat, naturally - Harry is lucky enough to have a tennis court, so we indulged in a few friendly games (one soccer game was so friendly that it lasted two hours because no one wanted to lose.) Fun fact: throwing cans of UDL in a pool provides plenty of entertainment, especially if the rule is you can't drink until you retrieve one.

The No Irish Pub clause was broken on Friday night when we turned up to place called Gilhooley's Tavern near Harry's. It was located at a shopping centre (this should be ringing alarm bells already for those who know of Knox Ozone) called the Hyperdome. The Hyper, it was pointed out, was neither particularly hyper nor a dome. Those crazy Queenslanders. By this stage I was feeling a bit ill, despite not having drunk all that much. Gilhooleys exacerbated this illness by the sheer power of how terrible it was. Think of the nightclub scenes from The Office, and you're just about there - mid-30s MC with a ponytail, cover band playing the best of the mid 90s (Third Eye Blind, anyone?), a RAFFLE, and underage girls trying to score smokes off us.

By mid-way through the night my headache had graduated to a full-blown migraine, and I'd had enough. However, no one was keen enough to leave with me, possibly not knowing how sick I actually was (pretty bad - when I get migraines, they're shockers.) So that's how I came to be in the middle of a Queensland suburb called Daisy Hill unable to form coherent thoughts or see straight because of the pain, vainly trying to get back to a place I'd only ever been to once, armed with only an address in a text message in my phone. This would have been a task in Melbourne. It was a nightmare in Queensland - though admittedly a good story in hindsight.

After hailing the fifth cab that went past - all the others ignored me, two of which because I was facing the wrong way at the wrong time when they sped past - I climbed in, flashed the phone in the cabbie's face, and took off... only to stop five metres later, so he could check the Brisways. Then he tried to talk to me, for reasons I still can't understand, about the problems with his license (YES, DRIVER'S LICENSE) and how he couldn't get accredited and various other problems. Right about this time in my migraine cycle I'm ready to be sick - I've had enough migraines to know exactly how my body deals with them, and being sick is always involved. Cab pulls over, I paint someone's nature strip with my guts, and climb back in. Cabbie is deathly silent, and I'm incredibly pissed off that I've thrown up despite not actually having a drink all night and consequently look like a drunkard to this random cabbie. We reach the street, but he can't find the estate entry part for Harry's house. I'm about to impale myself on the gearstick to stop the pain at this stage. We double back, find the place using the amazing "go by street numbers" system he's learnt, and I tumble out to find the security box to open the gate.

Did I not mention that bit?

Yes, I had to find a security box and enter a code to actually open a gate, all while pleading forgiveness from all manner of deities.

Find the box using the light with my phone, roll in Harry's back door (he's phoned ahead, bless him) and stumble over suitcases. There's a foldout bed that looks quite inviting, but someone else has already claimed it. Stiff - off go the blankets, they now have a convincing claim to the floor. I unroll my sleeping bag and collapse, completely drained to the extent where I couldn't even consider consuming some Panadol. Oh, and before I fall asleep, I throw up again. Fun times. Harry's mum enquires how I am feeling the next day, and I phrase my predicament in such a terrible manner that I'm certain she thinks I was downing shots of absinthe all night and would have been out scouring the neighbourhood for hookers if I didn't have a bit of a queasy stomach.

In the full knowledge that I can't top that tale this post, I'll leave it there - and finish the weekend in the next entry. Hawthorn! Bundy and coke! V Festival! Pixies! Be there!

Posted at 11:23 PM | Permalink | Comments

I'm back! A complete synopsis of everything to come. For the moment:

- Noosa is very pretty.
- The locals at Noosa are also generally very pretty.
- I drove a boat.
- Hawthorn makes me want to cry, then forgive them, even though I know they'll make me cry again.
- Pixies are freakin' awesome.
- I'm very much over UDLs.

Posted at 10:40 PM | Permalink | Comments

Time for me to exit, Terminator-X it. I'll be back sometime around Monday week.

In the meantime, check this out.

Posted at 8:07 PM | Permalink | Comments

This time next week I will officially be on holidays. I cannot wait.

For those I haven't spent time at length discussing my trip with, myself and Brett are heading up to Noosa for a few days from Saturday the 24th until the following Friday when we travel to Brisbane and stay at a friend's place - and that's where it gets interesting. Saturday night is round one of the 2007 AFL season and Hawthorn vs Brisbane at the Gabba, and there's at least fifteen or so of us making the trek to watch the Hawks and make general nuisances of ourselves. The following day is V Festival on the Gold Coast and seeing Pixies, Beck, Jarvis Cocker and The Rapture. Chances are it might be the best weekend in recorded history. (Chances are I might end up with cirrhosis, too.) I decided on an extra week of leave at work, as well; in addition to missing five days of work while being interstate, I decided to amend my application for time off (after actually submitting it and getting it approved by the boss, heh) and add an extra few days on the front. As of Tuesday next week I'm relatively free. Considering I haven't actually taken any time off longer than three days since the end of uni last year (early November) I think I deserve it.

In fact, this will be the first proper holiday I've had in several years, since at the very least the handful of days spent at Phillip Island over New Years' a few years back. It's the first time I'll be on a plane for about ten years. It seems I'm one of those people who just tend to stay at home rather than go on proper 'get away from it all' holidays. Rest assured, Noosa will be all about sitting on a beach doing absolutely nothing - I've got about a hundred albums that deserve a closer listen, and a hundred books that have been sitting on my shelf gathering dust (Jonestown, the Dylan Chronicles, several philosophy books, a handful of novels, and lots of magazines, mostly music related.) It will be nice to have the time at hand to just do whatever.

Also, getting home from Ding Dong Lounge and Weekender at 3am when you have work at 8am isn't that smart, because you spend the first three hours of your shift wanting to throw things at people (moreso) and copping flak from your workmates because you've caved in and thrown down a can of Red Bull in desperation. Yep.

Posted at 9:07 PM | Permalink | Comments