I’m back. It’s been a while. Too long in fact, so I’m back. Last time I wrote I was describing the wonders of Bondi Beach and was in awe of Auckland, now I’m back talking about the mundane trivialities of day-to-day life in Sunbury-On-Thames. It is 9 months since I got back from New Zealand, but I still talk about it like it was yesterday and stil convince myself that I have only been back a short while and thus there is no rush to get myself a job, move out and enter the real world. The reality is I am still living at home, and although I am happy doing so, I ‘m in no real position to be thinking about moving out. By way of contrast many of my friends, from University, school and the cricket club are thriving in their jobs-even in this state of economic crisis- and our looking to make their first small steps onto the property ladder. But it’s not all doom and gloom, even though I haven’t got my own place, a girlfriend, a permanent job, or anything to look forward to….I’ve started this blog again, and so, things are on the move.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Bondi
A place like no other that I’ve visited, although that’s not saying a whole lot, Bondi Beach is something of a phenomenon in the UK- billed as one of the world’s premiere beach’s. It was weird then to spend nearly a month living in Bondi, ‘hitting’ the beach most days and enjoying the buzz and the atmosphere that is impossible to ignore in the town itself. Without doubt this is the most beautiful place that I have ever been. I don’t use the word beautiful to describe the scenery, the setting or the sights, rather the people who inhabit the town and grace the beach with their presence. Everyone in this place is tanned, toned and pre-requisitely good looking. There is something about the women that makes you want to stop and stare, not least because they are in bikinis, although Jonny and myself have resigned to a muffled cry of ‘cuuu-weeeee’ as wondrous blondes and stunning brunettes flash past us. You may be surprised to know that this particular pick up technique has not been 100% successful, but I will keep you updated. The place is so image conscious that you yourself become image-conscious. I am not in the shape of my life and every day on the beach is a constant reminder of that as aspiring lifeguards, surfers and bodybuilders walk, run and strut their way along the sand. There is even a small ‘muscle-beach’ gym at the North end, in an attempt to recreate the infamous Muscle Beach in Miami, I haven’t yet pumped any iron down their, but it’s a matter of days before I do. I hope that I am not painting a terrible picture of the place; moreover a place such as Bondi has its ups and its downs, highlights and lowlights. Many of the locals prefer quieter beaches, where you are less likely to have you’re time in the sun marred by UK tourists kicking a football (and mountains of sand) towards your towel, or be badgered for photos by the evergreen Japanese visitors. Surfers are quick to point out that the ‘surf’ isn’t even that great at Bondi. But as I have mentioned it does have a lot going for it, and just yesterday Jonny and I were swarmed upon by a bevy of blonde beauties as we launched into a game of Frisbee on the waterfront. I use the term ‘swarmed upon’ loosely. In reality they were a good thirty meters up the beach, but I sure they were watching and to shy to come over and tell us what good Frisbee throwers we were, something like that anyway.
There is one character that I have seen everyday at the beach without fail. Jonny and I know him only as ‘bat and ball man’. He is possibly European, but very well tanned (and toned obviously) and without fail he is always at the beach playing the famous beach game of bat and ball. He will play with anyone he can find; male, female, young, old, it does not matter to him, he just wants to find a worthy adversary. I don’t think he’ll find one, probably because he’s absolutely amazing at the game. Lets be honest it is not a game which many people a.)Practice and b.) Play solidly for, lets say, 20 years (he’s quite old), thus, this would suggest he is possibly one of the best bat and ball players in the world, possibly the best ever, he’s a 'hall of famer'! Still he is there every day, bat in hand, elbow support firmly strapped on and a bandana protecting his eyes from his long hair. Neither Jonny nor I have challenged him to a game yet; it would be nice to take on the best in the world though.
There is one character that I have seen everyday at the beach without fail. Jonny and I know him only as ‘bat and ball man’. He is possibly European, but very well tanned (and toned obviously) and without fail he is always at the beach playing the famous beach game of bat and ball. He will play with anyone he can find; male, female, young, old, it does not matter to him, he just wants to find a worthy adversary. I don’t think he’ll find one, probably because he’s absolutely amazing at the game. Lets be honest it is not a game which many people a.)Practice and b.) Play solidly for, lets say, 20 years (he’s quite old), thus, this would suggest he is possibly one of the best bat and ball players in the world, possibly the best ever, he’s a 'hall of famer'! Still he is there every day, bat in hand, elbow support firmly strapped on and a bandana protecting his eyes from his long hair. Neither Jonny nor I have challenged him to a game yet; it would be nice to take on the best in the world though.
LA Airport
After eleven relatively peaceful and stress-free hours on Quantas flight F25, I am in LA, America. The flight was made all the easier by the three pocket sized bottles of red wine I consumed before, during and after my meal of braised beef, slightly soggy potatoes and assorted vegetables. Despite checking in over three hours before boarding, I was in neither an aisle nor a window seat. Instead I was sandwiched between a mild mannered American and a brash, complaining, unrelenting Aussie who moaned about the woman behind him, grumbled about the man in front of him, before letting me know in no uncertain terms that he was not happy with the presence of my elbow ‘anywhere near his ribs’. Amused by his seeming inability to master the in-flight entertainment controls- he twice mistakenly exited a film half-way through much to his displeasure; what is more I take great pride in considering myself a bit of an expert with such technology-I watched him dominate bottle after bottle of the ‘Shaaardonnaaaay’ until thankfully the drink took him to a much needed sleep.
LA Airport has been exactly what I expected it to be. Big, busy and bustling, it has a real America feel to it; a feel that is hard to describe, but one that I am fully aware of. Everything is bigger, super-sized if you will, nothing is done by halves here; it is like Heathrow on speed. The security guards are tougher, the air hostess’s prettier, Fast Food more prominent and the people full of self assurance. Perhaps it’s the huge American flag that dangles freely from the high ceiling or the extensive upstairs food-court, I can’t quite put my finger on it, but the place is evidently American. The place is full of uniforms, ID badges, name tags; officials everywhere. Police swarm the airport; patrolling check-in desks, restaurants and magazine kiosks. At the far end of the terminal, three burly security guards impose themselves on the public, armed with very large and very visible machine guns; they can’t help but be imposing. John Rambo would be proud of the huge weapons they carry and although they look a little plastic and dare I say it, a little fake, I am more than a little scared as I stroll nervously to the ‘restrooms’.
Although I have kept my eyes peeled, I have yet to see David Beckham or bump into Lauren Conrad from the MTV show The Hills. Surely a celebrity encounter is not too much to ask for during a six hour wait in transit, I board in a few hours, time is running out. On a serious note, LA is a town populated by celebrities and it is a shame that my stay confines me to the Departures lounge of Tom Bradley (not Tom Brady the New England Patriots quarterback, as I mistakenly said to an angry baggage attendant) International Airport.
Just to be a cliché I have decided to dine out on a proper American meal, a McDonalds. I had to do it; I’ve always wanted a proper, big, American McDonalds. I know. Big dreams!
So, off to Gate 105, via a brief encounter with Beckham I’d imagine. The next time I put pen to paper I will hopefully be back in England. I am massively hoping my Mum and Dad are waiting for me at the airport, I have missed them, I love them, and I can’t wait to give them a hug.
LA Airport has been exactly what I expected it to be. Big, busy and bustling, it has a real America feel to it; a feel that is hard to describe, but one that I am fully aware of. Everything is bigger, super-sized if you will, nothing is done by halves here; it is like Heathrow on speed. The security guards are tougher, the air hostess’s prettier, Fast Food more prominent and the people full of self assurance. Perhaps it’s the huge American flag that dangles freely from the high ceiling or the extensive upstairs food-court, I can’t quite put my finger on it, but the place is evidently American. The place is full of uniforms, ID badges, name tags; officials everywhere. Police swarm the airport; patrolling check-in desks, restaurants and magazine kiosks. At the far end of the terminal, three burly security guards impose themselves on the public, armed with very large and very visible machine guns; they can’t help but be imposing. John Rambo would be proud of the huge weapons they carry and although they look a little plastic and dare I say it, a little fake, I am more than a little scared as I stroll nervously to the ‘restrooms’.
Although I have kept my eyes peeled, I have yet to see David Beckham or bump into Lauren Conrad from the MTV show The Hills. Surely a celebrity encounter is not too much to ask for during a six hour wait in transit, I board in a few hours, time is running out. On a serious note, LA is a town populated by celebrities and it is a shame that my stay confines me to the Departures lounge of Tom Bradley (not Tom Brady the New England Patriots quarterback, as I mistakenly said to an angry baggage attendant) International Airport.
Just to be a cliché I have decided to dine out on a proper American meal, a McDonalds. I had to do it; I’ve always wanted a proper, big, American McDonalds. I know. Big dreams!
So, off to Gate 105, via a brief encounter with Beckham I’d imagine. The next time I put pen to paper I will hopefully be back in England. I am massively hoping my Mum and Dad are waiting for me at the airport, I have missed them, I love them, and I can’t wait to give them a hug.
Auckland
So, my last day away, the final hours of my trip. Once again I’m sat in Starbucks-still in Auckland but a different Starbucks- watching the world go by. This is actually quite easy to do in Auckland as everything and everyone, including the girl making my Tall Hot Chocolate, moves at snails pace. There is no hustle and very little bustle; the traffic flows calmly and without significant delay, the people walk without the purpose of a Londoner or the swagger of a Sydney-sider and what is more, nobody is dressed for ‘work’. There is a distinct lack of young professionals usually synonymous with major cities; instead the streets are populated by weary travellers (weary from negotiating the country’s steep gradients), a large oriental population and a worryingly significant number of ‘dodgy types’. Too be less vague, by this I mean the homeless, the drunks, vagabonds and general troublemakers. Of course I shouldn’t be passing judgement on the homeless and their plight but you can’t help but notice the slightly dingy and down-trodden atmosphere.
This being said, in many respects Auckland is a developed, metropolitan and thriving business district with a high and in places impressive skyline. The view of the city one gets when 142m up the Sky City tower is fantastic and although the city is not particularly big it is certainly impressive on the eye. Likewise the Waterfront is a beautiful and seemingly classy area, filled with sea-front seafood restaurants and trendy bars overflowing with contented Kiwis. It is a shame then, that with such beautiful surrounding suburbs as the volcanic Island of Devonport, that Auckland itself is not as habitable. Just the other night I was witness to what appeared to be ‘gang-based violence’, from my observations gang culture is very much in existence in New Zealand, while several taxi drivers have warned me of the dangers of walking the streets surrounding my hostel after dark. As I glance outside, I notice it has started to rain; the end of summer over here in the southern hemisphere, the start of summer back in England, so, back home to more rain
This being said, in many respects Auckland is a developed, metropolitan and thriving business district with a high and in places impressive skyline. The view of the city one gets when 142m up the Sky City tower is fantastic and although the city is not particularly big it is certainly impressive on the eye. Likewise the Waterfront is a beautiful and seemingly classy area, filled with sea-front seafood restaurants and trendy bars overflowing with contented Kiwis. It is a shame then, that with such beautiful surrounding suburbs as the volcanic Island of Devonport, that Auckland itself is not as habitable. Just the other night I was witness to what appeared to be ‘gang-based violence’, from my observations gang culture is very much in existence in New Zealand, while several taxi drivers have warned me of the dangers of walking the streets surrounding my hostel after dark. As I glance outside, I notice it has started to rain; the end of summer over here in the southern hemisphere, the start of summer back in England, so, back home to more rain
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Sydney Synopsis
Sydney:
With Sydney behind me, it is time to try and sum up my feelings, memories and experiences of the place that I called home for the past four months or so. My prevailing memories are good ones indeed; I had a fantastic time, a brilliant and totally worthwhile experience, something that I am truly glad that I did.
The people were great, in particular the lads that put me up for the majority of my time in Australia and were good friends to me throughout, but also Kaye and Alex, Jonny while he was there, ever single person who I met from Easts, Dan Bell, Michael Stevens, Craig and towards the end of the trip, Ashley. The place itself, wonderfully diverse; in many ways not overly dissimilar to London or other major world cities, although the proximity of Bondi Beach not to mention the number of delightful coves and bays that surround the city, set Sydney apart.
The cricket was also good; enjoyable, worthwhile and at times challenging. On the one hand I had hoped to play a slightly higher standard, to be truly challenged by and exposed to hard hitting, quick bowling, tough Australian cricketers – a stereoptype that truly truly exists from my observations of First Grade cricket; on the other hand I can be proud of myself for seeking out a good ‘grade’ club with a good reputation and terrific facilities, impressing at training and being immediately selected for Saturday cricket and rising rapidly through the grades, culminating in a century n my penultimate game for the club – something to remember me by.
Good piss in Sydney? I hear you ask. I had some big, some bad and some memorable nights out in Sydney. The concept of the schooner is one I failed to fully understand, but one I fully embraced, while it seems that Sambucca is a language spoken all over the world. The Fun Boat trip on Christmas Eve, Scu Bar nearly every Monday and a few good Saturday nights in the Argyle are particularly memorable, as is the rather disconcerting Sydney Mardi Gras parade and the night out that followed.
Any good sorts in Sydney? The answer would be yes. At Bondi the standard of girls was fantastic, full of beautiful, friendly, tanned, toned girls, more often than not the girls were so good looking it was intimidating, although that did not stop Jonny’s regular shouts of “cooo-weeee” at passing girls. Of the girls that I got to know a little better , few stick out in the memory. The American girl Kelly who introduced me as ‘Larry’ to all of her friends amused me, as did ‘Leatherhands’- so named because of her heavily tanned skin and her deceptive handshake which convinced Rupert that she had just handed him a briefcase. The ‘Swede’, Theresa was a constant thron in our side, appearing wherever we went, lingering awkwardly on the outskirts of our group, by the end of the trip she became less of an annoyance and more of a source of amusement; after Mark, the object of her affections, started seeing Michelle, Theresa would introduce a new man to us each time she saw us with the familiar line ‘this is my guy’.
Towards the end of my time away Mark met Michelle- quite possibly his ‘soul mate’, Tom met a slightly plump, slightly obsessive Canadian traveller named Ryla and I met Ashley. I don’t know whether to look on my time with Ashley as a missed opportunity, bad timing if you will, or that it was a nice ‘holiday romance’, fun while it lasted and all that. Nonetheless she was a great girl who genuinely made me laugh and I will keep in touch and am sad to leave her behind.
And so to New Zealand, when they finally allowed me to fly that is. A great country, it seems to be a blend of England and North America. Green and with a distinctly English climate it is sparse, remote and its cities few and far between. I am glad that I extended my trip via New Zealand, it would have been silly not to see this place, it is truly beautiful, even from the wrong side of an Intercity Coach window. As I write I’m sat in a Starbucks in Auckland, sipping a hot chocolate. These companies truly are multi-national; you can’t travel two miles without seeing a McDonalds or a Sunbway, even Woolworths are everywhere. In a strange way though, it is comforting, it reminds me of home a little. Home, I will be there soon. But not yet.
With Sydney behind me, it is time to try and sum up my feelings, memories and experiences of the place that I called home for the past four months or so. My prevailing memories are good ones indeed; I had a fantastic time, a brilliant and totally worthwhile experience, something that I am truly glad that I did.
The people were great, in particular the lads that put me up for the majority of my time in Australia and were good friends to me throughout, but also Kaye and Alex, Jonny while he was there, ever single person who I met from Easts, Dan Bell, Michael Stevens, Craig and towards the end of the trip, Ashley. The place itself, wonderfully diverse; in many ways not overly dissimilar to London or other major world cities, although the proximity of Bondi Beach not to mention the number of delightful coves and bays that surround the city, set Sydney apart.
The cricket was also good; enjoyable, worthwhile and at times challenging. On the one hand I had hoped to play a slightly higher standard, to be truly challenged by and exposed to hard hitting, quick bowling, tough Australian cricketers – a stereoptype that truly truly exists from my observations of First Grade cricket; on the other hand I can be proud of myself for seeking out a good ‘grade’ club with a good reputation and terrific facilities, impressing at training and being immediately selected for Saturday cricket and rising rapidly through the grades, culminating in a century n my penultimate game for the club – something to remember me by.
Good piss in Sydney? I hear you ask. I had some big, some bad and some memorable nights out in Sydney. The concept of the schooner is one I failed to fully understand, but one I fully embraced, while it seems that Sambucca is a language spoken all over the world. The Fun Boat trip on Christmas Eve, Scu Bar nearly every Monday and a few good Saturday nights in the Argyle are particularly memorable, as is the rather disconcerting Sydney Mardi Gras parade and the night out that followed.
Any good sorts in Sydney? The answer would be yes. At Bondi the standard of girls was fantastic, full of beautiful, friendly, tanned, toned girls, more often than not the girls were so good looking it was intimidating, although that did not stop Jonny’s regular shouts of “cooo-weeee” at passing girls. Of the girls that I got to know a little better , few stick out in the memory. The American girl Kelly who introduced me as ‘Larry’ to all of her friends amused me, as did ‘Leatherhands’- so named because of her heavily tanned skin and her deceptive handshake which convinced Rupert that she had just handed him a briefcase. The ‘Swede’, Theresa was a constant thron in our side, appearing wherever we went, lingering awkwardly on the outskirts of our group, by the end of the trip she became less of an annoyance and more of a source of amusement; after Mark, the object of her affections, started seeing Michelle, Theresa would introduce a new man to us each time she saw us with the familiar line ‘this is my guy’.
Towards the end of my time away Mark met Michelle- quite possibly his ‘soul mate’, Tom met a slightly plump, slightly obsessive Canadian traveller named Ryla and I met Ashley. I don’t know whether to look on my time with Ashley as a missed opportunity, bad timing if you will, or that it was a nice ‘holiday romance’, fun while it lasted and all that. Nonetheless she was a great girl who genuinely made me laugh and I will keep in touch and am sad to leave her behind.
And so to New Zealand, when they finally allowed me to fly that is. A great country, it seems to be a blend of England and North America. Green and with a distinctly English climate it is sparse, remote and its cities few and far between. I am glad that I extended my trip via New Zealand, it would have been silly not to see this place, it is truly beautiful, even from the wrong side of an Intercity Coach window. As I write I’m sat in a Starbucks in Auckland, sipping a hot chocolate. These companies truly are multi-national; you can’t travel two miles without seeing a McDonalds or a Sunbway, even Woolworths are everywhere. In a strange way though, it is comforting, it reminds me of home a little. Home, I will be there soon. But not yet.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Its really hard to sum up how I m feeling right now. I find myself in a downstairs dungeon of an Internet cafe in Auckland. Yes, that's right, Auckland, New Zealand. It is months since I have written this blog, but that does not mean that I haven't had things to write about, because I have. So, I am in Auckland , alone, but not lonely. Well, maybe a little, I do miss home and in four days I am returning home after five months away in the southern hemisphere.
In an attempt to get away from my lazy and monotonous job-hunt that had plagued me through September and October, I upped and left; packing my bags and booking a flight to Sydney, Australia on the 19th November. Sydney was full of adventures and fun-times, a memorable and worthwhile trip of nearly 5 months before returning home via ten days in New Zealand.
I kept a diary rather than an online blog during my time away and in the posts that follow this I will document that life and times of an Englishman in Sydney!
In an attempt to get away from my lazy and monotonous job-hunt that had plagued me through September and October, I upped and left; packing my bags and booking a flight to Sydney, Australia on the 19th November. Sydney was full of adventures and fun-times, a memorable and worthwhile trip of nearly 5 months before returning home via ten days in New Zealand.
I kept a diary rather than an online blog during my time away and in the posts that follow this I will document that life and times of an Englishman in Sydney!
Thursday, October 18, 2007
A job offer of sorts...
A job offer of sorts
I was speaking to Dan online, when my phone rang. Since I finished at Uni, my phone has been largely unloved, so when it was a bit of a surprise to me when it rung. It was Richard Horner, my cricket coach from Leeds. Rich is a good coach and a brilliant man; selfless, generous and kind-hearted. The only problem being that he is getting old, perhaps too old to be a serious coach anymore. He hasn’t totally lost his marbles or anything, but he doesn’t talk as much sense as he used to. He told me how he’d been injured through the back end of the season, after a young bowler, ironically someone who he had been coaching, bowled a ball that hit him straight in the chest, causing him to suffer two broken ribs. Of course he had already told me this story twice already during the summer, but I let that pass, and tried not to laugh as he recounted the anecdote.
He was ringing to tell me about a job advert which he had been sent, which he thought I might be interested in, I told you he was kind-hearted. He has been sent a letter from a cricket club near me, asking if he knew of any young cricketer who would be interested in becoming the ‘club professional’. This role would include playing, coaching and overseeing much of the junior cricket played at the club. The letter was probably about 500 words long, and I listened patiently (for about ten minutes!) as he proceeded to read the whole thing across the phone to me. Nonetheless, this sounded like a good opportunity, and one that I would be well paid for, especially as the post included the chance to teach at various local schools. This being said, I have always had a strong allegiance to Sunbury, my home club, and I would be reluctant to leave. Rich suggested that he would reply to them via e-mail to encourage them to get in contact with me, then at least I could chat things over with them.
Moreover I could possibly use this ‘offer’ as a bargaining tool to earn some money playing for Sunbury, but I’m probably getting carried away, lets be honest the Eve Surrey Championship is hardly the Premiership, we still have female umpires for crying out loud. I know, that was a cheap shot, sorry ladies. If nothing else, this offer confirmed my assertion that I could get a job just by playing on my Xbox and waiting for my phone to ring.
My thus far ill-fated search for a job has led me to become increasingly obsessed with checking my e-mails. I don’t even know what I’m expecting, maybe to receive an e mail saying
“We’ve seen your CV, it looks brilliant, we really want to hire someone with not much experience in industry but who describes themselves as a ‘computer games expert’. We don’t even need to phone or interview you, see you on Monday”.
I know you may think that scenario unlikely, but I am still holding out hope. More likely I might receive an email from the ‘University of Phoenix’ or ‘This is Money’. However many times you delete these kinds of junk mails, they always keep coming back; like a terrible boy band they just will not go away, coming back again and again even though each time there material gets worse. Although on the plus side, I rarely receive penis enlargement e-mails, probably because I’ve got a massive wang. So I find myself checking my emails at least six or seven times a day. Rarely do I receive anything of any use or any value. Facebook now use email to notify you of any wall posts you might have received, or any groups that you have been invited to. This makes my email checking habit all the more frustrating. I will almost celebrate on the spot when I see that I have two new mails, only to be disappointed that I have been invited to the group ‘John’s lost his phone…again, he needs your numbers’, twice. I am embarrassed to say that I am, although increasingly less so, slightly addicted to Facebook. Perhaps it is the harmless yet provocative ‘poking’ application, or maybe it is the opportunity to waste a significant amount of time, but I find myself logging in far too often. Listen to myself; I really need to get a job. I’m sure nobody else is as excited by emails and Facebook as I am. The phrase ‘get a life’ has never been more appropriate. So on that note, I’m off to play golf. Right after I’ve checked my emails.
I was speaking to Dan online, when my phone rang. Since I finished at Uni, my phone has been largely unloved, so when it was a bit of a surprise to me when it rung. It was Richard Horner, my cricket coach from Leeds. Rich is a good coach and a brilliant man; selfless, generous and kind-hearted. The only problem being that he is getting old, perhaps too old to be a serious coach anymore. He hasn’t totally lost his marbles or anything, but he doesn’t talk as much sense as he used to. He told me how he’d been injured through the back end of the season, after a young bowler, ironically someone who he had been coaching, bowled a ball that hit him straight in the chest, causing him to suffer two broken ribs. Of course he had already told me this story twice already during the summer, but I let that pass, and tried not to laugh as he recounted the anecdote.
He was ringing to tell me about a job advert which he had been sent, which he thought I might be interested in, I told you he was kind-hearted. He has been sent a letter from a cricket club near me, asking if he knew of any young cricketer who would be interested in becoming the ‘club professional’. This role would include playing, coaching and overseeing much of the junior cricket played at the club. The letter was probably about 500 words long, and I listened patiently (for about ten minutes!) as he proceeded to read the whole thing across the phone to me. Nonetheless, this sounded like a good opportunity, and one that I would be well paid for, especially as the post included the chance to teach at various local schools. This being said, I have always had a strong allegiance to Sunbury, my home club, and I would be reluctant to leave. Rich suggested that he would reply to them via e-mail to encourage them to get in contact with me, then at least I could chat things over with them.
Moreover I could possibly use this ‘offer’ as a bargaining tool to earn some money playing for Sunbury, but I’m probably getting carried away, lets be honest the Eve Surrey Championship is hardly the Premiership, we still have female umpires for crying out loud. I know, that was a cheap shot, sorry ladies. If nothing else, this offer confirmed my assertion that I could get a job just by playing on my Xbox and waiting for my phone to ring.
My thus far ill-fated search for a job has led me to become increasingly obsessed with checking my e-mails. I don’t even know what I’m expecting, maybe to receive an e mail saying
“We’ve seen your CV, it looks brilliant, we really want to hire someone with not much experience in industry but who describes themselves as a ‘computer games expert’. We don’t even need to phone or interview you, see you on Monday”.
I know you may think that scenario unlikely, but I am still holding out hope. More likely I might receive an email from the ‘University of Phoenix’ or ‘This is Money’. However many times you delete these kinds of junk mails, they always keep coming back; like a terrible boy band they just will not go away, coming back again and again even though each time there material gets worse. Although on the plus side, I rarely receive penis enlargement e-mails, probably because I’ve got a massive wang. So I find myself checking my emails at least six or seven times a day. Rarely do I receive anything of any use or any value. Facebook now use email to notify you of any wall posts you might have received, or any groups that you have been invited to. This makes my email checking habit all the more frustrating. I will almost celebrate on the spot when I see that I have two new mails, only to be disappointed that I have been invited to the group ‘John’s lost his phone…again, he needs your numbers’, twice. I am embarrassed to say that I am, although increasingly less so, slightly addicted to Facebook. Perhaps it is the harmless yet provocative ‘poking’ application, or maybe it is the opportunity to waste a significant amount of time, but I find myself logging in far too often. Listen to myself; I really need to get a job. I’m sure nobody else is as excited by emails and Facebook as I am. The phrase ‘get a life’ has never been more appropriate. So on that note, I’m off to play golf. Right after I’ve checked my emails.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
All sorts to look forward to..
Golf Day
I have mixed emotions about the upcoming weekend. Friday is the Sunbury Cricket Club Golf Day, followed by the Player’s Supper in the evening. This is always a great day, the golf is played in good spirits, unless of course you are paired with Mickey ‘O, a crazy, big moustached, very grumpy 3rd XI player. The Player’s Supper is usually drunken, indeed I can remember getting drunk for the first time there as a fourteen year old, before being sick all over Adam’s lounge carpet. Looking back, that wasn’t my finest hour. So of course I’m looking forward to Friday, a chance to show my putting skills in the day, before smartening demonstrating that I can now hold my bacardi breezers.
It seems that while I do very little in the week, my weekends are always busy, maybe that’s because everyone else works in the week. In fact, that is definitely why. As usual, I have football in the afternoon, although this week I fear we will be away from home. Then, to the big event. 8pm. Rugby World Cup Final. England vs South Africa. I cannot wait. The William Web Ellis trophy at stake. I have always liked that name, it is a good name for a cup, it sounds very important, so much so that I m going to find out who William Web Ellis was. Ah, he is credited as the inventor of Rugby, thanks very much Wikipedia, I should have known he wasn’t a great Nordic ice-skating champion. Whether England win or lose, Maz is having a party in the evening, he is turning 24. To me that sounds old and I will certainly let him know that. So, as I mentioned, it is a busy weekend. But back to those mixed emotions, this weekend marks a year since I broke up with Holly. No I am not a sad-case who counts the weeks; I just remember that we broke up the same weekend as the Player’s Supper, this time last year. To be honest I still look back on this with some regret, but at the moment, I m not quite ready to talk to you about it. Maybe a few more glasses of Red wine and I’ll open up. Anyway, it seems that that ship has well and truly sailed, and as such I need to stop mentioning it. Even so, I know that I’ll be thinking about it this weekend. OK, I know, I won’t mention it again. Nevertheless I am looking forward to the weekend. Tomorrow I think I might pay a cheeky visit to the driving range, just to brush up on my approach play! More likely I need to hit a few balls, in order to avoid scuffing my first Tee shot either into the trees, the river, or missing it altogether. Anyway, I’ll let you know how it goes, I’ m sure you literally cannot wait.
I have mixed emotions about the upcoming weekend. Friday is the Sunbury Cricket Club Golf Day, followed by the Player’s Supper in the evening. This is always a great day, the golf is played in good spirits, unless of course you are paired with Mickey ‘O, a crazy, big moustached, very grumpy 3rd XI player. The Player’s Supper is usually drunken, indeed I can remember getting drunk for the first time there as a fourteen year old, before being sick all over Adam’s lounge carpet. Looking back, that wasn’t my finest hour. So of course I’m looking forward to Friday, a chance to show my putting skills in the day, before smartening demonstrating that I can now hold my bacardi breezers.
It seems that while I do very little in the week, my weekends are always busy, maybe that’s because everyone else works in the week. In fact, that is definitely why. As usual, I have football in the afternoon, although this week I fear we will be away from home. Then, to the big event. 8pm. Rugby World Cup Final. England vs South Africa. I cannot wait. The William Web Ellis trophy at stake. I have always liked that name, it is a good name for a cup, it sounds very important, so much so that I m going to find out who William Web Ellis was. Ah, he is credited as the inventor of Rugby, thanks very much Wikipedia, I should have known he wasn’t a great Nordic ice-skating champion. Whether England win or lose, Maz is having a party in the evening, he is turning 24. To me that sounds old and I will certainly let him know that. So, as I mentioned, it is a busy weekend. But back to those mixed emotions, this weekend marks a year since I broke up with Holly. No I am not a sad-case who counts the weeks; I just remember that we broke up the same weekend as the Player’s Supper, this time last year. To be honest I still look back on this with some regret, but at the moment, I m not quite ready to talk to you about it. Maybe a few more glasses of Red wine and I’ll open up. Anyway, it seems that that ship has well and truly sailed, and as such I need to stop mentioning it. Even so, I know that I’ll be thinking about it this weekend. OK, I know, I won’t mention it again. Nevertheless I am looking forward to the weekend. Tomorrow I think I might pay a cheeky visit to the driving range, just to brush up on my approach play! More likely I need to hit a few balls, in order to avoid scuffing my first Tee shot either into the trees, the river, or missing it altogether. Anyway, I’ll let you know how it goes, I’ m sure you literally cannot wait.
Rave it up!
And so after the excitement of the rugby we headed off to the sports rave. Now, as I have previously mentioned, I don’t know much about raves, but I know enough to realise that 10.30pm is too early to get to a rave. Not that I was interested in being fashionably late, but I did not want to be one of the only bloody people in the place. Of course on our arrival we were laughed away by the bouncers, although maybe they were mocking our pathetic outfits. To paint a picture; I was dressed in knee length surfer-style Billabong shorts, a bright yellow T-shirt with a red vest over the top and various sweat bands. To add to this jumbled ensemble I styled my hair with some fluorescent yellow UV gel. Ridiculous. This being said, Pete was sporting a very tight ladies T-shirt which carried the logo ‘love life’, while Liam looked like he was auditioning for a part in an American teen college basketball player, albeit a ‘baller’ in sunglasses. Frankly the less said about Rob’s red hot pants the better, suffice to say they left little to the imagination. Guiche’s outfit was non too dissimilar to my own and as such it was equally pitiful. We looked nothing like ravers and not at all like sportsmen. But there is something about dressing up that puts you in a mood to have fun. And we did have fun. Guiche couldn’t believe his luck as within five minutes he was being chatted up by the barmaid. No really, he was. She actually seemed quite interested in him, even coming over to ‘clear glasses’ right by where we were stood. Yeh, she wanted him. But all this natural chemistry was undone by one rather unnatural incident. One lad, who himself was in fancy dress and is at Law College with Pete and his housemates, had obviously had one shandy too many. Nonetheless that does not excuse the fact that he threw a pint glass, yes, a fucking pint glass, at Guiche and his new romantic interest. Bare in mind this was totally unprovoked; we had not even met the guy, let alone done anything to antagonise him. I cannot understand why people do these kind of things. It is bizarre to even think that someone might just throw a glass at someone, its not big and its nothing like clever. Anyway, we were sports ravers and we would take on whatever was thrown at us, literally, and after a few cheeky Sambuca’s we made our way into the melting pot.
It was dark and gloomy inside, also noticeable was how empty it felt. It wasn’t packed by any stretch of the imagination but there were plenty of people around. There was such a distant feeling in the air that seemed to separate people from each other lost in their own little worlds. The ‘sports’ was represented by a series of rather pathetic sports accessories strewn about the place. Shuttlecocks and badminton rackets were thrown across the floor, while a large volleyball net swept across the main room, serving absolutely no purpose. The small trampoline situated by the bar was more fit for friendly 11 year olds than hardcore ravers, and it was no surprise when it broke after one particularly large lad bounced once too often, and no, it wasn’t me. All-in-all the rave was a disappointment. It was not the kind of hardcore, pill-popping, glow-stick-waving, sweat-fest that I feared it had be, it was a very average club night, in a run down venue. This did not stop Guiche from getting lost in one of the rooms downstairs for 20 minutes, or Pete being sick at the side of the bar, choking on his own medicine after buying everyone a round of vile shots. The highlight of the night, you may not be surprised to hear, was a well deserved kebab; good meat, good chips, nice amount of lettuce and mayonnaise to finish, culinary perfection I’m sure Gordon Ramsay would agree. Even on Monday morning I was still trying to rid the last streaks of UV paint from my hair, although, thankfully, I carry no lasting scars from my raving experience.
It was dark and gloomy inside, also noticeable was how empty it felt. It wasn’t packed by any stretch of the imagination but there were plenty of people around. There was such a distant feeling in the air that seemed to separate people from each other lost in their own little worlds. The ‘sports’ was represented by a series of rather pathetic sports accessories strewn about the place. Shuttlecocks and badminton rackets were thrown across the floor, while a large volleyball net swept across the main room, serving absolutely no purpose. The small trampoline situated by the bar was more fit for friendly 11 year olds than hardcore ravers, and it was no surprise when it broke after one particularly large lad bounced once too often, and no, it wasn’t me. All-in-all the rave was a disappointment. It was not the kind of hardcore, pill-popping, glow-stick-waving, sweat-fest that I feared it had be, it was a very average club night, in a run down venue. This did not stop Guiche from getting lost in one of the rooms downstairs for 20 minutes, or Pete being sick at the side of the bar, choking on his own medicine after buying everyone a round of vile shots. The highlight of the night, you may not be surprised to hear, was a well deserved kebab; good meat, good chips, nice amount of lettuce and mayonnaise to finish, culinary perfection I’m sure Gordon Ramsay would agree. Even on Monday morning I was still trying to rid the last streaks of UV paint from my hair, although, thankfully, I carry no lasting scars from my raving experience.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Live for the weekend.
Live for the Weekend.
Friday night was a strange one. It was Junior’s birthday, and, in celebration of him getting a year older, we were due to meet in the pub for about 8, with plans to move on into town. Rather bizarrely, Adam did not turn up for his own party. Typical Junior, too big-time for his own party, although he did send a text to let us know that he was being very ill, at both ends, lovely. Nonetheless AP, Titch Gav and myself did the honourable thing, and went to Oceana. The theatre of dreams was less busy than usual, but as usual there is still a tale to tell. This was the night when a normal lad, saved a life. I say this. What really happened; a girl was being sick and I held her head up so she was not sick in her mouth. Yes, Oceana is a glamorous place, with a classy clientele. Disappointingly, this act of great bravery and compassion did not impress the surrounding females; it clearly wasn’t worth the effort. My memory of the night is hazy, particularly concerning the end of the night. But I do distinctly remember being woken by Gav’s Dad at around 10am the next morning. Embarrassingly I was curled up on their sofa, still in my glad rags from the night before. More embarrassing still I had fallen asleep with the television on, although thankfully the adult previews had stopped and now the screen was filled with suggestive adverts about what some young lady was going to do with a banana. I took the opportunity to charge upstairs, away from Gav’s Dad and away from the TV.
When we got back to Sunbury a few hours later I only had time to grab my football kit, and shove my rave gear (remember the Sports Rave) into a bag, before jumping in the car and heading to the ground. A midfield berth awaited me. This was good because it was my favoured position. This was bad because it meant I had to do a lot of running and I don’t like running, especially not after a night out on the town. Nevertheless I managed to survive the 90 minutes, and survive is the right word considering the nature of the opposition. ‘Crunch him’, ‘break him in half’ and ‘oh fuck off ref’, were some of the more printable comments that I remember. You know you are in for a long afternoon when one of your opponents commits a foul, and rather than apologise chooses to engage in a big hi-five with one of his team mates.
So, Guiche and I retreated back to his house, watched the football, before heading off into London in preparation for the Sports Rave, although in truth I was far more excited about England’s imposing semi-final clash with France.
Don’t ask me why, but I ended up watching the game in my cricket whites. I might do the same in the final because we only went and bloody won! Amazing. Suffice to say my voice was a little hoarse by the final whistle, urging on the heroic warriors in white. Ironically, considering the state of my vocal chords, there was little to shout about during the game until the final ten minutes. That man Jonny Wilkinson demonstrating that perhaps there is some truth in the rumour that his ancestors can be traced back to the Greek Gods. A living legend, I am proud to say that I love him. We explode into life as he lands a drop goal with only four minutes to go, before celebrating the final whistle with real passion. Nothing says we’ve done it like a 22 year old man swigging from a can of Fosters in his cricket whites while sat on a bean bag.
Friday night was a strange one. It was Junior’s birthday, and, in celebration of him getting a year older, we were due to meet in the pub for about 8, with plans to move on into town. Rather bizarrely, Adam did not turn up for his own party. Typical Junior, too big-time for his own party, although he did send a text to let us know that he was being very ill, at both ends, lovely. Nonetheless AP, Titch Gav and myself did the honourable thing, and went to Oceana. The theatre of dreams was less busy than usual, but as usual there is still a tale to tell. This was the night when a normal lad, saved a life. I say this. What really happened; a girl was being sick and I held her head up so she was not sick in her mouth. Yes, Oceana is a glamorous place, with a classy clientele. Disappointingly, this act of great bravery and compassion did not impress the surrounding females; it clearly wasn’t worth the effort. My memory of the night is hazy, particularly concerning the end of the night. But I do distinctly remember being woken by Gav’s Dad at around 10am the next morning. Embarrassingly I was curled up on their sofa, still in my glad rags from the night before. More embarrassing still I had fallen asleep with the television on, although thankfully the adult previews had stopped and now the screen was filled with suggestive adverts about what some young lady was going to do with a banana. I took the opportunity to charge upstairs, away from Gav’s Dad and away from the TV.
When we got back to Sunbury a few hours later I only had time to grab my football kit, and shove my rave gear (remember the Sports Rave) into a bag, before jumping in the car and heading to the ground. A midfield berth awaited me. This was good because it was my favoured position. This was bad because it meant I had to do a lot of running and I don’t like running, especially not after a night out on the town. Nevertheless I managed to survive the 90 minutes, and survive is the right word considering the nature of the opposition. ‘Crunch him’, ‘break him in half’ and ‘oh fuck off ref’, were some of the more printable comments that I remember. You know you are in for a long afternoon when one of your opponents commits a foul, and rather than apologise chooses to engage in a big hi-five with one of his team mates.
So, Guiche and I retreated back to his house, watched the football, before heading off into London in preparation for the Sports Rave, although in truth I was far more excited about England’s imposing semi-final clash with France.
Don’t ask me why, but I ended up watching the game in my cricket whites. I might do the same in the final because we only went and bloody won! Amazing. Suffice to say my voice was a little hoarse by the final whistle, urging on the heroic warriors in white. Ironically, considering the state of my vocal chords, there was little to shout about during the game until the final ten minutes. That man Jonny Wilkinson demonstrating that perhaps there is some truth in the rumour that his ancestors can be traced back to the Greek Gods. A living legend, I am proud to say that I love him. We explode into life as he lands a drop goal with only four minutes to go, before celebrating the final whistle with real passion. Nothing says we’ve done it like a 22 year old man swigging from a can of Fosters in his cricket whites while sat on a bean bag.
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