Thursday, February 25, 2010

iPod Karma. maybe

I did something stupid the other day. I lost my iPod. At the gym (again) the last time I lost my iPod I was at Mosman Gym and someone stole it from right under my nose!!!!!!!!! jerks. This time I was in my changeroom at the nature safari gym and was clearly too distracted by some enormous breasts to pack my bag properly :(

I got home and did the. 'hmmm my iPod which is normally in there - is not in there freakout'. After much deliberating and checking my bag for any mystery pockets it might have fallen into, I was forced to admit that I had in fact lost it.

However, I thought i'd call my gym to check out if someone had handed it in and they had!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

yay.

I have handed iPods in at the gym when i've found them, so finally it comes back to me. Score.

I raced back to the gym with wet hair/tracksuit pants (tucked into my ugg boots) and a big fugly parka. so hot. I would have thought I was trying to steal my shit if I had seen me in the street.

So that's a big plus for London. Honest Peeps (and a naked peep at that) who found my shit and handed it back in. yay for honesty.

Then on the way back I saw some guy giving himself the bad-touch go to town in an alleyway (my shortcut alleyway), and given that I was looking so fantastic I decided to avoid getting raped and go the long way. Because what kind of Karma trip is that if you get your iPod back and then get raped on the way home??

No Kind.

Crazy Universe.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Serial Killers on the Tube

I think I have a pretty keen eye for serial killers. I read enough serial killer biogs and can't resist a good documentary about some freako who kept some girls in a cellar for 15 years. Creeps. I think this constant vigilance to the ways of the serial killer has given me some sensory preceptors that allow to me to spot one a mile away.

Take for instance the serial killer who sat next to me on the tube today.


Nothing says 'likes to wear women's skin around for fun' like a creep with bad hair, beardrash, and bad breath who breathes loudly through his mouth and smells weird, and is wearing an army windbreaker.

My biggest pet peeve is people who breathe loudly through their mouth and exhale all over you in confined spaces. You have nostrils?!? ever thought of using them??? lazy mother fuckers.

I can just imagine this windbreaker creep tying me up in his drippy grey basement completely devoid of any light or fresh air, making myself aware of his appearance by hearing his loud breathing, whilst he touches himself in the dark and wipes his jizz on the walls.. Gross.

If I was ever on a Jury for a trial involving a multiple murderer, all you'd need to do is put me in a small room with him and if I can hear him breathing loudly, its the death penalty for you.

Or maybe that guy just chose the wrong day to wear his army windbreaker on the tube and breathe his morning breath all over me.

Rank.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Where for art thou? Burrito Man

Ever since moving to Ladbroke Grove, every saturday I wake up and go in search of the Burrito Man. I live within meters of Portobello Road, and the 'famous' Portobello Road Markets - within reach of the infamous Burrito Man.

Granted, I have only seen Burrito Man once, but that was one gooood burrito. He has never been in the same spot since I saw him that one time, yet every now and then I will see someone walking around with a burrito and i'll be tempted to offer them £1 to tell me where the Burrito Man is.

I know where i'll be this weekend. Staked in the bushes trying to sniff out the scent of black beans, guacomale, and salsa.

I should be a detective.

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

Portobello Wilderness Safari

It is only since moving to London that I have realised what a cotton-wool, sheltered existence I have been living in. You've got rich living next to the poor, mansions and crack dens, limousines and pushbikes, fat and skinny, black and white, crazy and more crazy.

These days when I see some rambling psycho coming towards me in the midst of having a fight with the wind, the best defence to make sure he doesn't mistake you for some dream demon who is trying to steal his banjo, is to act more crazy than the crazy guy.

If he's talking to himself, I sing to myself.
If he's punching thin air, I start bashing myself in the lungs.
Better to beat them to the punch and scare them off with your own lunacy rather than end up in some ditch somewhere. At the very most I am alive, at the very least I would be asked to join their crazy punching the air, talking to yourself group. ( I would like to join that group)

Anyway, Mosman and Neutral Bay were never the cultural epicentre of racial variety, and the one place on earth you can learn about other human beings is in the gym change-room. Back in good old whitey mosman land, the most tit you would ever see would be side-boob, hastily covered up with a quick pull of a singlet, and never ever would you see bush, or if you did it would blur past you like a giant brown bumble bee in the peripheral..

Things are not like this in my gym. In my gym things are like this:

Except with you know.. less grass skirt, and more bending over.

There's a lot of types of naked I had never considered before leaving my sleepy bubble on the north shore, now I have seen naked burka ladies, naked black ladies, naked british ladies.. Needless to say, i'm learning a lot about women from around the world in my gym.

Naked black ladies have huuuuuge breasts. Bigger than your head. Bigger than two heads. They also like to sit down in the nude and eat an apple. Why would you eat an apple in a changeroom next to some other lady who has her big hairy minge 30 centimeters from your face?? who knows.. these are facets of human behaviour we can only hope to learn from careful and undercover observation.

There is a lot of nudity happening in this changeroom. Unnecessary Nudity.. maybe unnecessary to me and my mosman eyes, but I don't see the point in getting out of the shower and wandering around in the nude - going the toilet, using the hairdryer, sitting and rubbing moisturiser all over yourself if you have a perfectly good towel to wrap around yourself... Do you have to be nude this whole time??

Do you have to get changed right next to me, take all your clothes off get down to your undies and then remember to get something out of your bag and bend over to go through your stuff with your undies around your knees? (and your parts in my face)

It's just a magical world of bodyparts.

Maybe i'm the weirdo, with my clothes and towel. Maybe it's not London to be so covered up all the time, maybe the changeroom is a place to embrace your womanhood and sit down in the nude and eat an orange whilst pondering the facts of life.. I mean if you can't sit down in the nude and eat fruit in a naked lady changeroom then where can you do it???

This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. The Age of Aquarrrrriiiussssssssssssssss

Friday, February 05, 2010

Halitosis on Wheels

There's just something about stench. nothing makes you ponder things in such detail as Stench.

Where I work - there is a stinky cupboard, whatever genius designed the building (and back in the day it probably was genius due to the fact this is a heritage listed building - it was a Riding School) so these days we have this smelly vent, that is now housed in a cupboard - which we put all the ugly things we don't want clients and directors to see (broken PC's, bags of costumes) but this vent is just wrong.

You walk past the smelly cupboard sometimes and it smells like a horse took a shit 800 years ago. Or someone took a shit 5 seconds ago.. either or. The point is - this wrongo vent oozes stench which builds up over time and knocks you out if you go near the cupboard.

Essentially I just stay away from the the cupboard.......... however... the coat rack is right outside the cupboard, so when I got in of a morning I would hang my jacket up and forget about it till the end of the day..

When I was walking home though I started to think I had trodden in shit along the way, and no amount of examining my foot could reveal any ounce of crap... from whence was the stench coming from???

Then I realised that DUH! the smelly cupboard is permeating through my fibres and leaving it's smelly mark on me - so I moved my jacket to the other end of the room and now I smell a little less.

However when I was getting on the tube to go home of an evening I was still getting a huge waft of stench.. I've moved my jacket away from Smelly Land.. I didn't stand in any crap on the street, I haven't crapped my pants - FROM WHENCE IS THE STENCH COMING!!!!!!!!!!

That's when I realised that people on the tube stink. It is like a concentrated metal tube of Halitosis. Rather than catching the Hammersmith and City line home - they should call it the Halitosis and Crap line.

Stench! Stench Everywhere!!!!!!

I just need to invent something where I can carry around my smelly candles at all time. mmmmmmmmm. Then I will go on Dragons Den.

Stench!!!!!!!!!

Wednesday, February 03, 2010

Joy Defined..

I am so freakin happy right now: here are 10 reasons why...

ohh yeah ooh yeah. the cherry ripe queen. all hail the cherry ripe queen!

Whilst London is good for some things, it is rubbish for others. ie: no Cherry Ripes.

I also have a bone to pick with their Milo.. it's just not right, its too sugary and not substantial enough. the only thing it can be used for is salting the sidewalks, cos if you're gonna faceplant and crack your skull open you may as well be landing in a pile of chocolate dust.

It's just hard adjusting to life without your trusty token household items. For instance - my magical bathtub cleaner 'gumption' - where is this?? my bathtub looks like someone who fell over in a mountain of milo had a shower in there. Not Right.

Smelly melty candle things. You know that shop Dusk.. whilst it can be headache inducing with an overwhelming array of smells, the one thing they are good for is melts - which go in the oil burner and never dry up or spit over the place. They don't have them here either. My house smells like a sausage got into a fight with a nag champa salesman.

that was until my care packages arrived. god bless care packages. Now I can sit around in my strawberry smelling loungeroom gorging on Cherry Ripes thinking up ways to import my magical bathtub cleaner (and to an extent: Maggi French Onion Soup mix). I tell you if i could import this stuff I would set up a stall at Portobello Markets and become a millionaire. Which would be a lot easier than coming up with some insane invention and trying to get onto an episode of Dragons Den (idea 1# a large Q-Tip for scratching the inside of one's bumhole in the middle of the night - thus eliminating the need to get up and wash your finger/banishing your hand to the edge of the bed for the duration of your sleep)

CARE PACKAGE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!