Return of the King

As many of you are well aware, I have been taking experimental medication for the last three months to control my anger issues. The experiment has been a failure on many counts, with several people hospitalised and many lives ruined. The real tragedy though has been the destruction of my blogitival motivation, resulting in this being my first contact with you all in so long that if I was in a vegetative state my feeding tube would have been removed. 

But unlike Terri Schiavo, I've come back from the brink of death. And starting now, I'm promising to update much more often. 

To keep you interested, here's a sneak peak of some upcoming posts: 

• Tit shots in Underbelly 2; just right or far too infrequent?
  
• Princess Die, a pun retrospective 
• Utilising your Stimulus Package - Tips for getting laid in a financial crisis
• Twitter your way to rock hard abs

So stay tuned. 

Sport, the final frontier

I have a dirty secret. I've tried to hide it from my friends and family for years, but living the lie has taken its toll on my soul. I have to confess.... I hate sport. Don't like it, not interested in it, would not affect my life if all forms of organised sporting competition were stopped tomorrow.

Oh the shame I've felt when the topic arrises in the company of men. Christmas day, the males of my extended family are standing around a BBQ, beers in hand, when one of my Uncles will drop a "Kerno wasn't half bad at Subie last Sat was he?" What is he talking about? Football obviosuly, but what team? Subie? Subiaco? That's in Perth right? He's from South Australia so he wounldn't go for a Perth team, so it must be... Ah fuck it. "Yeah, wasn't he?" I mutter before downing the remainded of my beer so I have an excuse to leave. 

I know what will happen if I stay. The inevitiable question. Who's your team? It was somewhat manageable when South Australia had only one team in the national competition. I obviosuly went for the Crows. No problems. Then another SA team joined up and my usual answer wasn't good enough. Now I was either a Crow's man or a Port Man, and whichever one I picked would be taken as an open invitation to a debate about the intelligence, masculinity and penis size of supporters of one team versus the other. Who cares? I think they are equally stupid, or equally awesome if you want to be positive, but I honestly have much more interest in the protocols used in creating the team's respective websites than I will ever have in the game itself. 

Having my condition (I will not cheapen this post by using the suffix 'itis') can be quite debilitating sometimes. Depending on the company, I'm basically excluded from 25-75% of all male conversation. Well, not entirely excluded. I can stand there of course, and that works suprisingly well because along with actual recounting of sporting matches comes a wealth of statistics that would put the ABS to shame. This means conversations about sport can be participated in by dropping small and uncommital questions like "Is that a record for away-games?" or "who had that title before him?" which will start hours of idiot savant like recounting of sporting records while leaving everyone under the impression that I was a participant.  

But this must end. I'm an expat in Dubai now and need to make expat friends. Sport is a natural medium for strangers to converse. In between shelling each other I bet even Hamas and Israel have a quick chat about Man U. So I'm going to get into sport. Rugby sport to be precise. Expats here all seem to be into football (soccer) and Rugby. Soccer seemed a little too much to bite off as a first effort so I've gone with Rugby, more specifically Rugby Sevens, which is some offshoot sect of Oxthodox Rugby. 

Coming up in March in Dubai is some sort of Rugby competition and I have secured tickets. My goal between now and then is to swot up on the game to the point that I can converse sufficiently well with other spectators. Who knows, I might actually get into it. Stranger things have happened. 

Play ball!

The Ambassador

I've got nothing topical to write about this week so I thought I'd just write a story about life here as an expat in the UAE. 

When I came here I had a few concerns about how much my liberal Aussie lifestyle would have to be modified for my new life in the Islamic Sheikdom of the UAE. I did as much research as I could about the laws and the customs and basically what would get me in trouble. Most of my research was the result of Googling "Arrested UAE OR Dubai OR Abu Dhabi" and seeing what people had been nicked for. 

It was usually drink driving (jail then deportation), bouncing a cheque (jail then deportation) or drug importation (four years jail then deportation). So I thought I was pretty safe if I didn't do those things, but still I tried to be careful. After all, it is technically illegal to drink alcohol without a license, or share an apartment with a women who is not your wife or have bum sex (I have only broken one of those laws so far). 

After living here for a while though I've learnt that a lot of these rules are just there to appease the Muslim neighbours and give the cops something to make sure they get you with should you do anything serious or stupid enough to get attention. For example, everyone has been talking about that British couple that got arrested for having sex on a beach in Dubai. Absolutely stupid obviously, but if you look at it closely they actually got away with murder. 

Firstly they were caught by a policeman having sex (or close to it) on a public beach in broad daylight in an Islamic country... and he gave them a warning. They then got back on it because they were fucking idiots and were then confronted again, got in an altication with the cop, who most likely just wanted them to fuck off back to a hotel room and not cause him any trouble, and they were arrested. 

Now they were up on the radar. They got charged with public indecency, sex outside of marriage, consuming alcohol and probably a few others. In the end though, after being out on bail for a few months, they got 3 months jail, they then appealed that (by this time the sole charge was consuming alcohol) and got off with a 1000 Dirham fine ($400 Aussie) and deportation. What's a trip back to the UK from Dubai worth nowadays? Hell of a lot more than $400 Aussie dollar. So basically they got off, for being caught shitfaced drunk having sex on a beach in the daytime in Islamic Dubai. I started to think that things here were not as strict as the government websites had led me to believe. 

I've got to say though that the reason these people got off was because they are Western expats. If they had been Indian they would have gotten four years each and scimitar up the arse. The western (and by definition rich) expat gets afforded privileges that I have found extend further than priority check-in at the airport. I've previously mentioned the hierarchy that exists here, but the get-almost-out-of-jail-free status definitely ends with the Western expat. Everyone else is prison fodder. 

Which leads me to my personal story. The other night an Aussie mate and I were out at one of the seedier Dubai nightspots enjoying a surprisingly good cover band and some predictably shite beer. We noticed a very drunken yank staggering around the pub seemingly trying to knock into everyone he could. In Oz he would have been out on his arse by this point but the bouncers were staying in their respective corners and not making a move on him. This tweaked my interest, specifically how much it would take to get this guy thrown out of the place. My Aussie mate, who I shall call Peter, was also interested and we started watching the bloke. 

He next moved onto the dancefloor and started swaying and jumping around like a fuckwit. Still no move from the boys in black. He then moved up towards the band and started yelling alternating compliments and insults at them from a distance of a few feet. Still nothing. He seemed to get bored of the band and decided to do handstands on the dance floor, trying to bend his skyward feet over his head and rest them on the handrail. To his credit, the man must have been a gymnast because to he pulled the maneuver off while clearly being drunker than an Irishman on Christmas morning. Finally the bouncer moved in. Surely this man is about to be turfed we thought. 

But no, the bouncer came over and politely asked him to restrict his dancing to non-inverted poses and was on his way, although I did notice he didn't stray too far. Drunkard seemed to appreciate the bouncers leniency and ran up to him, arms astreched, giving him a huge bear hug and trying to lift him off the ground. Surely we though, this is it, this guy is out. But no, the bouncer seemed to thank him for the gesture and stood back. Clearly this man was as interested in pushing the boundaries as we were in watching him do it because the next move he made was to grab the bouncer by the head with both hands and plant a huge kiss on his lips. This would get you easily hospitalized at most Aussie nightspots but again the bouncer did nothing but smile and leave the man to dance. 

We both realised that it would probably take stabbing a barmaid to get these bouncers to take any sort of action so we turned our attention to the man of the hour. I had previously labeled him as a yank due to his dress. Sandals, shorts, muscle top and backwards baseball cap, but Peter suggested that he might not be a yank, in fact he might be an Aussie. A 100 Dirham bet was struck as only bar sessions can produce and then Peter was off to make the identification. 

Catching the drunkard mid stagger he placed an arm around him to steady his gait and said "How's it going?", to which the 'yank' replied "G'day mate". He was a bogan from the Goldie. 

I still call Australia home. 

Requiem for a Pizza

The thing about drinking a lot is it gives you lots of stories. Sure, it also gives you cancer of the bowel, liver damage and bankruptcy but as you lie dying in your public hospital room you will surely have a lot of stories to tell. Here is one of mine that I was reminded of today.


The happened a few years ago when I was living in a little cottage house in Adelaide with my good mate Cam.

The house was in the south-west corner of the Adelaide city square. There were about a dozen pubs within walking distance and a bottle shop at the end of the alley out the back gate so we were in prime drinking territory. As you can image, we did not squander our fortune and were known to wet our whistles more than most.

The following took place somewhere between 1am and 4am on what was probably a Saturday night. We had been sinking piss for hours at one of the local public houses, as was the tradition of the time, and had either run out of money or hit the wall and decided to head home. On the walk back to the shack the topic of delicious pizza came up. Specifically how we should definitely order some as soon as we opened the door.

The problems with ordering pizza at 1am are twofold; there are only a few places that will deliver it, and it takes about an hour to arrive. There are two basic instincts that drive a drunken man’s brain at 1am, the first is food, and the second is sleep. Well, actually there are three but since the two of us were alone the third was obviously not an option. So basically it works like this, if the inebriated man does not find delicious pizza has materialised in front of him quickly, he will fall asleep. This had proven quite a problem for the Cam-Sam household.

My housemate had developed the habit of calling for pizza in the early hours of the morning then succumbing to his tiredness and falling asleep. This had the pleasant consequence of saving him $30 in the morning, but the unpleasant consequence of leaving the delivery guy banging in futility on the door at two in the morning and subsequently getting the household banned from the pizza house. This had happen on a few occasions recently and the thought of a complete ban from all establishments pizza must have shocked me enough that I vowed that it would not happen this night.

In the end, Cam ordered the pizza and fell asleep. This left me holding the bag, or at least the $30 in fives and coin. What to do? I was so tired but the thought of being blacklisted by our beloved San Giorgio’s was too much for me to go to bed. No, I must stay up for one hour. So I devised a plan.

As with many plans made at 1am on a gut full of Cooper’s Pale Ale this was a poor one. My plan was to sit by the door so that when the pizza guy arrived, if I had somehow fallen asleep then his knocking on the door would wake me. As I grabbed a pillow to soften the tiled floor and propped myself up besides the door I thought I had it all worked out. Wait an hour, pay pizza man, eat pizza, sleep. Simple.

...

I was woken some time later by an ambulance officer grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me. As I open my bleary eyes I saw that behind him was another ambo and a policeman. A quick look around my surroundings confirmed that I was still in the hallway where I sat down, but it seemed that an Emergency Services squad had decided to conduct their yearly exercises there as well.

Behind the cop stood an equally bleary eyed Cam, freshly emerged from his nearby bedroom and wondering, quite understandably, what the fuck was going on. The ambo who didn’t have hold of me was looking urgently at Cam and shouting the phrase “What has he had?” over and over. I’ve woken up in some strange predicaments over the years but this was by far the strangest.

It seems my efforts to stay awake had not lasted as long as I had guessed and it looks like I had fallen asleep immediately. To get more comfortable I must have laid down a bit. This would have all been nobody’s business but that particular house had a frosted glass door at the front. To this day I blame that fucking door.

The sequence went like this; Pizza man comes to the door, sees me lying in a strange position in the hallway and not responding to his knocks and yells. Pizza man calls the cops. Cop shows up and sees an obvious drug overdose and call an ambulance. Ambos come while the cop jumps the back fence to get into the house. Ambo shakes me awake while the other one interrogates Cam about how much smack I’ve had.

In the end the situation worked out ok. The pizza man was still there after they woke me up so after I had explained everything to the cops and medicos I asked him how much the pizza was, paid for it and offered everyone a slice. There were no takers but no one was too angry. The pizza man was relieved I was ok and we thanked him for doing the right thing in trying to save someone’s life, the ambos were just glad they didn’t have to deal with another messy overdose and I think the cop just thought it was funny.

I woke up the next morning thinking I had had the strangest dream, but the empty pizza box never lies.

A Letter to Australia, re: Valentines Day

Dear Australia,

This is just a routine letter to inform you of a slight change to the calendar year, nothing to worry about, just a small alteration to improve the happiness of you, our citizens. From here on in, February 14th will no longer be referred to as St Valentines day, but rather as St Breakups day.

The day will still be associated with gifts and cards, except they will be sent by single people to their coupled friends, with the intention of breaking up said couples and destroying the happiness they use daily to stab at our uncoupled hearts.

As per the former day, the exchange of cards can be as simple or as creative as you like. From a standard “Hey Davo, your chicks a slut man, I heard half of Brisbane has done her” to elaborate but entirely fictional stories complete with photoshopped images and youtube links.

So as not to upset the Florists Union, flowers will still play a prominent role in the day, except they will be sent by friends under the guise of imaginary lovers. Once again creativity is the key. Some suggestions are to include on the accompanying card a brief description of the last act of lovemaking, or an ultrasound photo of the bastard result of that lovemaking.

The reason for this change is that it has become clear that the coupled/non-coupled ration has remained stable for quite a number of years now, meaning that the chances of us singles hooking up while existing couples are still together is quite slim. The yearly relationship cull will serve the dual purpose of freeing up more single people for the existing lonely hearts, while also reducing the instances of SCS or Smug Couple Syndrome seen most prevalently around café’s and river walks.

I’m sure you will all agree that this change is long overdue and is made in the interest of all Australians. If you have any questions about the change or wish to exchange tips on particularly successful approaches to breaking up your friends please refer to our website,
www.GetYourFuckingHappinesOutOfMyFace.com.au.

Thank you.

Australia the Great!

I’ve so far managed to keep this blog mainly about our perfect little country called Australia and it’s crazy politicians. I’m still up for plugging ‘straya, but my politics theme may just have run its course. So I’m trying a different angle today… Australia the Great!

I heard the other day that Australia is the world leader in greenhouse gas emissions. That’s right, we bag the yanks for their 9 litre hummers and 13 bedroom, perpetually lit homes but, per capital, we actually kick their arse in destroying the planet.

So I got thinking, what else are we tops at? Google was my friend.

Well, sticking with the global destruction theme, Australia manages to be both the driest continent on earth, as well as the heaviest user of water per capita. I’m all for cutting back where we can, but I still believe every Australian is entitled to their own quarter acre of flooded rice paddy.

It is a bit depressing though, so how about something more uplifting? How about this, we are the highest users of ecstasy per capita in the world. Admittedly that was back in 2005, but from the euphoric, bordering on comatose looks on the younger punter’s faces the last time I hit the dodgier nightclubs of Brisbane’s Fortitude Valley I’m pretty sure we will hold this one for at least as long as our 18 year ashes run.

We also have the highest rates of skin cancer in the world. No surprises there I suppose, we’re a nation of pinkies living in a land of eternal sunshine. Though according to latest research we should evolve a protective darker skin in five to ten thousand years.

According to the Durex Global Sex Survey 2005, Australians have the highest rates of having sex in a park. Not bad, but probably not a statistic we want printed on a commemorative dollar coin. We came second in the world for the highest average number of sexual partners. One shag each behind Turkey if you can believe it, randy bastards. I reckon this is an easy one we can knock off, what with all our ecstasy use and all.

We also work the most number of hours per week of any country in the world, beating even Japan. It all starts to make sense now. We work like dogs to pay for our massive cars and houses, take ecstasy to dull the pain of our workaholic lifestyles then shag in the park, under the sprinklers to cool our growing skin cancers.

It’s not a bad list, but, like the ‘most sexual partners’ stat, we’re just a few spots away from the gold in quite a few lucrative polls. Here is some homework people. We are:

Second in the developed world for unemployed single parents.
Second in the developed world for violent crime.
Third in the world for teenage abortion.
Third in the world for petrol use.
Fifth in the world for obesity.

If we all pitch in and focus on the titles we’re close to claiming, I think we can cement our place as a nation of greats.