28 April 2008

The night we met, there was magic abroad in the air...There were angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square...

T'was a typically balanced weekend weather-wise: Saturday was absolutely gorgeous - 30 degrees, cool breeze, itchy knees, what are these! Sunday was overcast and grey and drizzly. Always one extreme to the other in this town...it's the meterological equivalent of a William Blake poem. Saturday was all like:

I love to rise in a summer morn
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylark sings with me.
Oh, what sweet company!

And Sunday was all like:

But to go to school in a summer morn,
Oh! it drives all joy away;
Under a cruel eye outworn
The little ones spend the day
In sighing and dismay.

I made a deal with the Australian embassy and in lieu of my passport renewal fee, they said I could just do something really Aussie instead. I'm forbidden by law to do the Dance of the Flaming Arseholes and was in too good a mood to racially villify minorities so instead I made some ANZAC biscuits on Saturday arvo. I placed them on a plate surrounding some Turkish Delight bars and made little Aussie and Turkish flags as a tribute to our fallen bretheren from both sides of the ideological divide. I had to spend some time explaining ANZAC day and the ANZAC legacy to my English workmates but by the end of it I made sure they felt really ignorant and guilt ridden. Which, perversely enough, I think they actually enjoy...

My new Ikea wardrobe arrived (late!) on Saturday arvo so I spent the afternoon putting it together which made me feel like a man...in between all the baking, of course. But now I feel like I'm living in a cupboard as there's barely any space left to move around. I'm thinking of attaching heaps of those plastic handhold thingies from the climbing centre and turning the place into a climbing wall. Won't the landlords be pleased!

Staci's place is turning out to be a Mecca for celebrity sightings. We were heading out for dinner on Friday night when BOOM! there's Hugo Weaving walking along with his family and a big old 18th century moustache with connecty sideburns all over his face. He's in town filming the remake of The Wolf Man, and I was all like, "Hey, Hugo! Hue-Go, girlfriend!" And he was all like, "Ruddslide!" Then we went to high five but we totally missed because his bodyguard tased me, bro. As they walked off I thought I heard him ask his son, "Is that the guy who's been hanging around outside your school?" but I'm sure I misheard. How awesome would it be to have Hugo as a dad? Agent Smith, V, Megatron...they more than make up for all that Priscilla fruitiness.

Staci's off in Boston this week, which is a bit weird. Because of our work hours it's hard to see each other during the week so it's not like I'll get to see her any less than I normally would, but her being out of the country makes it somehow different. I miss her, which is a strange feeling after all this time, but it's nice all the same, particularly as there's the ever-building anticipation of her return.

This weekend is a long weekend (Bank Holiday) and there's all sorts of fun activites planned. Staci is taking me to see her beloved Fulham football club play a match at their home stadium on Saturday, which should be a lot of fun. She's quite passionate about it so I'm anticipating being caught up in a wild post-match brawl and relying solely on her ninja skillz to get me through unscathed. Then we're off to Greenwich on Sunday to check out the markets and the Observatory again (she's Timetia, the time virgin, and I, Chronos, am going to deflower her in a timely fashion). It better be a nice day, London...I'm just saying. Then on Monday we're checking out some famous cemetaries to see what famous dead doodz are buried there. Highgate is suposed to be THE place to go but I feel it's a party cemetary. For me the money cemetary is Bunhill Fields where my main man William Blake is buried. Once I see that I can head over to Islington to see Joseph Grimaldi's grave, then all I have to do is go to Ketchum Idaho for Ernest Hemingway, Newark New Jersey for Alan Ginsberg, Rancho Paols Verdes in California for Charles Bukowski, and Leakesville Mississippi for Bill Hicks and I'll have visited the graves of all my heroes. Hey kids, collect the whole set!

Often as I wander the streets of London I'm often confronted by the scruffy but proud Big Issue doodz with their poor hygiene and wacky homeless guy ways who insist on shoving their wares in my face (ooh err!). So I'm all like, "Hey! My friend F'Yona INVENTED the Big Issue, ok? So she's, like, the boss of you, or whatever, and if I ask her to she'd have you sacked. That's right: suh-ah-kuh-eh-duh, sacked!" Then I cock punch them and run away.

So I hear the new Canberra prison (or is it a correction centre, Mr Grady? It is indeed, Mr Torrance) is coming along in leaps and bounds. Fuckin' prison, man...THAT'S what Canberra needs to improve it's image as an authoriarian apathetic suckhole. That'll have the tourists just flocking in: "Honey? The comedy festival in Melbourne or the prison in Canberra? You choose!" "Oh, the prison! We can pick up some legal scat porn while we're there. When's Floriade on?"

Rockband gets released on the XBox 360 next month and I'm SO excited. All those years of pent up rockin' are about to explode all over someone's loungeroom in a bukkake-esque frenzy of musical spooge. It comes with a guitar controller, a mic and a drum kit but, unlike wussy Guitar Hero where you don't need to be able to play the guitar to play the game, the drum kit is an actual drum kit (albeit small and beige and made of plastic) so you know who's going to be on the top of the list for every Rockstar party from here to Rocksville? THIS guy! I might even start auditioning dudes who want me to play in their bands and make all sorts of outrageous demands in my rider...just like the old days. But predictably, I won't get any of the stuff I ask for and I won't get invited to any parties...just like the old days.

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