Peter Allen got it wrong

I'm not entirely sure I like the song "I still call Australia home".

I was thinking about this the other day actually. I mean, this song is supposed to be the epitome of musical tribute for all Australians who find themselves on the far side of the world, singing of a land they love, and one which they will eventually return to. It's all very sad, and very moving. Or is it? I mean, let's think about this for a moment. No-one is forcing the hero of our song to go swanning over to New York, or Rio, or old London Town. It's not like he's being frogmarched onto a jet at gunpoint and told not to come back until he's gained some cultural enlightenment. Far from it. I mean, the words of the song betray themselves.

"I'm always travelling, I love being free. And so I keep leaving the sun and the sea."

Sorry, love being free? Last time I checked, you can be free in Australia. Sure, we don't officially call ourselves the land of the free, but we certainly experience a great deal more personal freedoms than the country that does. And why does this person keep leaving anyway?

The answer folks, is because he actually dislikes Australia, deep down. And he's not alone. Hear me out on this.

See, the song 'I still call Australia home" is just a song. In itself, it doesn't mean squat, and didn't do anything except immortalise Peter Allen and convince a lot of people to fly QANTAS before they remembered how shithouse it actually was, and why they'd stopped flying with them originally. But, let's examine reality, and all of a sudden my argument makes a lot more sense.

Most of the people who come over here to London come here on a 2 year working holiday Visa. This entitles them to one year of full time work, and one year of holidaying. Most people wind up working more of that, but still, 2 years is the absolute max you can stay here. Unless you want to try and extend the Visa. And believe me, a lot of people try to do just that.

Why do they do this? Some people are in it because career prospects are better here. Fair enough. Others are here because they have relatives and family here. Again, fair enough. But a lot do it simply because they come to London and love it to death. Again, this would be fair enough, but there's a caveat to all this.

I have no problem with Australians who come over to London, love the idea of living here, and decide to spend more and more time here. What I cannnot stand, and absolutely despise, is these same "Aussies" calling themselves Australians till their dying day. You see them sometimes, still hauling out that dusty old cobweb-ridden jersey every time Australia plays someone over here in the Rugby or Cricket. They refer to themselves as being from Australia, despite the fact they long ago severed all ties to the sunburnt country.

The ones who travel are even worse. You know the ones. Those people who go to great lengths to emphasise their Australian-ness when they're travelling. One fuckwit I know, who shall remain anonymous, had a boxing kangaroo tattooed on his shoulder, and goes round showing it to everyone he meets. He went to France and in place of learning a word of French, decided he would just show everyone a tattoo. I mean, fuck. He's not alone. There are disgusting specimens all over Europe who take pride in travelling round with the arse out of their trousers, drinking up a storm and spreading the gospel of Australia, and all the drunken antics it entails.

Ask these people where they are from, and they will say Australia. Australian to the core. However, mention to them that you yourself have to head home because your visa has run out/you've run out of money/you're sick of Europe and you'll get looks of sorry, empathy and incredulity. Having to go home to Australia is apparently viewed as a bit of a prison sentence, and for the life of me, I couldn't understand why, until I had somewhat of an epiphany.

Back in Australia, you would find these same people - the ones who travel that is. They're the same fuckwits who collected their dole money, worked that dead end job and drove round in a shitty commodore. They're the same no hopers who pissed away their lives at the pub. They're the same hippies who never held down a decent job and spent their time surfing. Back home in Australia, they were seen as the dregs of society they so rightly are. But over here in England - why, they're exotic, exciting Aussies. They're from the far side of the world, keeping alive a grand tradition of Australians living and working in Europe. All of a sudden they aren't just John Smith, fuckwit and dole bludger - they're John Smith, traveller and backpacker to the stars.

That's why they find the idea of returning to Australia so abhorrent. Because when they get back, they go back to being plain old John Smith, and spending their lives whinging about how much better they apparently had it in England while everyone around them gradually pisses off and leaves them to it.

Me, I was never under any illusions of what I was here to do. I was here to work, save up some cash and see Europe. Then, at the end of it, I was going home. End of story. That's all she friggin' wrote. And come October, I'll have completed those goals.

I think ultimately what it comes down to, is that you need to enter into this with the right mindset. I have loads of friends back home, and I have plenty of plans and things I want to do and pursue when I get home. I've used my time away to realise what I wasn't doing at home, and what I need to do when I get back home. And what's more, I intend to follow through on that.

The people who are still taking great pains to call Australia home tend to be those people who have at nothing at home that they want to return to. I mean, look at Germaine Greer. 30 years over here in Pommyland and she still says she wants to be buried in Australia. Who says we want the miserable old dyke back anyway? We need her back as much as we need the rest of the wankers who've wasted the best part of their lives pissing around the world. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Some day we'll all be together once more, when all of the ships may come back to the shore...let's hope that "some day" isn't any day soon. All they’re going to be bringing back is people claiming to be Australians who obviously cannot stand Australia.

100th Blog Entry

I was originally going to post a round-up of the weekend, and the joys of waiting for a night bus at Trafalgar Square at 5:30am. There's something singularly depressing in standing under the uncaring granite visage of Horatio Nelson, as the victor of Trafalgar watches we mere mortals shiver in the rain, and nurse our hangovers.

However.

In the process of typing this, I noticed on blogger that this post, whatever it's content, was going to be my 100th blog. So, in the spirit of marking this momentious occasion, I decided that the experience of catching the 189 bus through Oxford Circus can wait until another time.

100 blog entries - it's been a long time coming. I had a quick look back through the entries posted thus far, and they provided me with a great reminder of the past 15 months or so. More than just the memories though, it was also interesting to see my moods and emotions coming through what I was writing. There was the initial trepidation and excitement in heading overseas. There were the massively long blog entries of that memorable Civil War excursion that the old man and I took part in, a trip that I will never, ever forget as long as I live. It was one of the best months of my life thus far, and it showed in the entries.

I think that's the best part of this blog - the fact that I can re-read it, and instantly recall a certain day, or a certain experience. When this is all over, and the trip has gone, I shall be certain to preserve this blog offline somewhere, as a permanent reminder of the good times I have had overseas. Not all times were as happy though - for the times spent in America and Italy, there was also the time spent finding work, as well as the long two months over Christmas and New Year, when our office was dreadfully understaffed, and the 4 of us in the office worked liked zombies through the long dark of winter.

It's been an experience being over here, full of ups and downs, and I think the blog reflects that - as it should, since it's nothing more than the recollections of what I've seen, what I've done and where I've been whilst I've been away.

Given that I've got a couple more months up my sleeve over here, I don't doubt there'll be more blog entries to follow this one - I do doubt that another hundred will follow, but we shall see.

Thanks to everyone back home, over here, and online who has read my blog, chatted to me on msn and put up with me calling them at home from time to time. You've helped keep me sane and cheery through this time overseas, and I am grateful.

I would also like to extend particular thanks to young Daniel Meakin, who knocked up an excellent image with which to complete this momentous, 100th blog.

Advance your token to Mayfair

Well, I suppose before I start I should apologise for such a long absence.

But I won't. Get stuffed.

I was thinking the other day actually, that when I originally started this blog, what seems an age ago back in April 2006, that at the time I didn't think I would be overseas any longer than about 8 months or so, and the plan was to return by Christmas. Then, I found myself extending my flight back home from December to April, and now I find myself back in the UK all over again. It's been a great experience to travel, and as Glen has repeatedly told me, one needs to make the most of the chance, since it won't come around again for a long time.

Making the most of it, by the by, is the whole point behind this return trip. My time already spent here was through winter - which isn't very conducive to travelling, so I worked instead. Result - I have now built up a nice little travel nest egg, and now I've got a chance to spend it. I'm aiming to finish up at work around the end of August, so while I'm still working I want to try and get away most weekends, and see the England that exists outside of London. I've got a few places in mind, so keep an eye on this blog for further travel related tales.

After I leave work, it's off to the continent. Christian is keen to head off into Eastern Europe for a couple of weeks in September before HSBC post him out to Hong Kong, so I'd definitely be up for that. Eastern Europe is one of the cheapest places in the world to go, particularly when travelling on the pound. Having someone who speaks German along will be a big bonus too.

Eventually, with any luck, I'll wing my way home after that - probably around October. I'd like to get home with enough time to spare to land a job before Christmas, if possible.

But enough of this rot - no-one cares what I'm planning in the future. I'm sure you're all wondering why on earth this blog has a monopoly themed title. The answer is simple.

The Great Monopoly Pub Crawl is an institution in London - because all of the streets and places listed on the Monopoly board are located in central London, it's relatively easy to reach all of them in a single day. That is of course, if you're not trying to drink a half pint of beer at each one - all 26 of them (22 streets and 4 railway stations). Factor that into the equation and it rapidly becomes relatively difficult. By the time one rolls up to Mayfair one is very likely to be roaring drunk, and probably won't still have $400 in his pocket to make an offer. Nonetheless, a group of about 20 of us, some from the badger, some ex-badgers and some randoms all got together at Old Kent Road at 10:30am, wearing our Badger Monopoly Pub Crawl T-shirts, and began our great beered up trek around London.

A pub crawl, while it sounds like fun, is actually pretty hard work. It starts out easy enough, but you can't afford to to linger at pubs too long, which means you need to set a decent pace with the drinking of the beer. I fell afoul of this a few times, as at some of the pubs if you were served last, the first people served would already be halfway through their drink or finishing. To make up for this I ordered a straight scotch whenever this occured so I could rapidly polish off my drink. This however, didn't do much for my sobriety levels by the end of the night.

You also need to be able to keep walking between pubs as well. Again, this is probably the hardest part of the event, especially towards the end, when you're tending to sway a bit, and wind up walking twice as far as you normally would, just from all the sideways motion.

Nonetheless, it was an absolute cracker of a day. We made it to Mayfair about 12 hours after we started, around 11pm, where I celebrated with a double Jack Daniels and then made a beeline for home before I passed out. That night, I lay in bed, feet aching from the miles and miles of pavement we trod, head spinning from the booze, and what was undoubtedly a silly, smug grin on my face.

Whoever knew Monopoly could be so much fun? My usual recollections of playing it as a kid was my sister crying foul after she landed on one of my hotels with only $2 to her name, and complaining because I wouldn't loan her money so she could pay her rent to me. (Anna's grasp of economics was never that crash hot.)

Now, for the photos.

This one was taken fairly in the piece as you can tell by the name of the road. We tried to do the pub crawl in order as much as possible, so I think by the time we got to Pentonville Road it was only our 3rd or 4th pub. Hence why everyone is still standing upright at this stage.

Here we have Pat, Dan and Dee. This was at Old Kent road if memory serves - already only one pint in and Pat's already looking trashed. I'm not sure how well he ended the night - being a South African and a Sharks fan he was pretty gutted when they went down to the Bulls in the Super 14 final which was being played on the same day, so he was hitting the drink pretty hard after that.

By this stage we were all getting fairly trashed. We did Vine street after we'd done the reds and the yellows on the boards, so we were about 3/4 of the way through at this stage. Vine Street is actually nothing more than a 20 metre dead end these days, and there certainly isn't a pub within coo-ee, so we just took the photo and moved on.

King's Cross station, obviously. We actually cheated a little bit - apart from King's Cross, the remaining stations (Liverpool St, Fenchurch St and Marylebone) are so far out of the way of the rest of the pubs that we opted not to include them. This was done to save our legs, and our livers

Yeah...by the time we were getting close to the end, some of the girls were feeling the booze. Alana here is politely asking the people in front of us to slow down a bit, and wait up.

Finally, it's not a good night out unless you've got girls groping another girl's titties.

I think that's as good a note to end on as any.