Here's a thing - I got in the lift today, headed out for some internet-based fun, and was confronted by one of the campest little men I've ever seen. He immediately asked me if I was 'here for the parade', which I took to mean one of two things:
1) I was a gay man
2) I was a gay woman
Ruling out the latter as simply conjecture, it seemed obvious the little chap assumed I was a member of his gang. A bit perturbed at the presumption, I answered a little too quickly that, 'no, I live here', but that did little to quosh his enthused banter and once he got started about all the 'hot guys' that were about, there was literally no stopping him. After revealing that he hadn't done anything with any of them yet, but was obviously very keen to get started, he turned his attention back to me. Nodding knowingly he chanced, 'Australia?' in my direction. Bloody Australia?! I'm not sure I could sound more English, but sadly this was far from the first time this confusion had arisen. 'No', I said. 'I'm English - I live in London, but everyone always says Australia or New Zealand to me.' He asked why I thought he had reached that conclusion. 'Cos there's so many about?' I ventured. 'No', he said. 'Cos you're so rugged and butch.' I'll take a moment now so that you can take that in. Rugged AND butch. Even I laughed at that one, and I'm me. I'm the guy whose friends affectionately (at least I think it's affectionate) refer to my clenched fist as the 'paperclip'. At least it's laid my mind to rest about one thing - this guy's first impressions were way off on every count. Bollocks, if you like. I'm pretty sure he did. Anyway, that signalled the start of one ultra-gay weekend.
I suppose it was muttering expletives under my breath while scraping handfuls of glitter down the sink that I realised we were right in the middle of the much celebrated and anticipated Pride week here in Toronto. I should explain, of course, that although four of the five rooms in my dorm are filled by my Irish chums and I on a semi-permenant basis, the fifth is a double room set aside for regular hotel guests (who are doing things on a budget, I guess) and we usually have couples from all over the world swapping around after a few days stay. The latest couple are Adam and Steve (I kid you not) who have come specifically for the Pride festival and are a couple of odd shaped drag queens in their late forties.
This morning, gasping for the loo, I opened the door to see the pair of them glamming up (using both the sodding toilets) in preperation for today's parade. There was a surreal conversation which then took place - me in my pants and t-shirt, them in their hot pants, heavy make-up and not a lot else - where we discussed the need to fix one of the toilets which had 'mysteriously' broken 'overnight.' Which I took to mean, had been crammed full of make-up pads and glitter this morning and was now suffering from having its pipe overstuffed. A problem, I suspected, that was not entirely alien to Adam and Steve themselves. Sorry, I had to. So there I found myself in our one remaining good bathroom, grumbling about having to clean up after some middle-aged queens when it hit me - this is why I went away in the first place. Not to become a glitter disposal expert, but to experience something different to what I was used to - and you can trust me on this, it was certainly not the kind of thing which occurs all the time in Streatham. That's not to say the Pride festival is unique to Toronto - these go on around the world all the time - but Toronto embraces its inhabitants of all racial and sexual persuasions and that, unfortunately, is something very different to where I live in London. Is it not the purpose of travelling to see and experience the exotic, new and different? I'll help you here - it is. It might not be everyone's cup of tea - my Irish flatmates, who are also having a ball this week, tell me that the Cork version of the Pride parade is less a march and more a sprint - but I'm having a great time, as you'll be able to see from the photos I'll be putting up very soon, and as for Adam and Steve and all the people of the happy persuasion, we salute you, sir, madam, or whatever you want to be called. Happy Pride to one and all.
25 June 2007
21 June 2007
Swap Shop
In the interests of giving you all a more rounded view of what it is I'm actually doing out here I thought I should take some time to write about the people who facilitate this working holiday here in Canada. In England they're known as Bunac, but the Canadian version, while being exactly the same in all other aspects, goes by the name of Swap.
The Swap office is tucked away inside a travel agents on King St, a mere hop and skip away from the now infamous Global hostel where I spent my formative weeks here in Toronto - hopping and skipping being my preferred mode of getting about town. Hmm. When you arrive in Canada, your first port of call should be the Swap office and through their orientation program (which I think I touched upon before in an earlier post) you are gently eased into the Canadian way of life. Slumped in front of a powerpoint presentation bleary-eyed, jet-lagged and trying not to think about what time it is back in England, the 'super-nice' (possibly the gayest phrase of all time, but said without the slightest hint of irony all the time here) Swap reps guide you through the mundane necessities of SIN numbers (social insurance) bank accounts and cell (mobile) phones while reminding you that you don't get all your tax back upon the return to your native land and thanking you sincerely for contributing to their pensions. My bastard pleasure. All in all they're enormously helpful and make this transitional stage of the trip as painless as possible for all involved.
But it's not all work, work, work though - as the irritating advert used to say - and another aspect of Swap is to act as the social liason to all us newbies. To this end they have a Swap members only function during the summer every Wednesday - the abysmally named Cheeky Wednesdays.
- Hi, where are you going tonight?
- Hi, I'm going to Cheeky Wednesdays.
- Then you're a cunt.
But it's free to get in and the drinks are cheap, so you have to give it a go. Still, Cheeky Wednesdays - Jesus Christ. The place is populated by young things (notice I carefully avoided the more familiar bright young things - these individuals are far from bright) mostly lads in their late teens/early 20s, who bound around the place as if Mum and Dad have gone out for the evening and they can't believe their luck that they've been left home alone. Essentially it's one colossal hormone dominated by slavering, howling, hairy scrotums on legs who, it seems, would grind up against the kitchen sink if it was wearing a tu-tu. In reality, of course, a broken table has more chance of getting laid, but it's certainly amusing to watch. Kind of like a wildlife documentary on human beings - both horrifying and fascinating all at the same time. I can't talk, I was there last night after all - but in my defence I kept away from the walking glands, opting instead to spend my time with the super-nice reps from the Swap office. And I didn't grind either, I danced. Well. Oh yeah. Unfortunately I took too much advantage of the cheap drinks and - considering I had an agency interview this morning - got way too pissed.
At the interview I was still fairly obviously drunk and had a sort of out of body experience while I was fielding questions. In my head it was all fairground music, whoops and cheers, but I was also vaguely aware of a perculiar work-related conversation I was having with this huge Amazonian woman who I had a strange compulsion to grind up against. Fortunately I resisted that temptation and found myself getting gently shoved into the computer testing area by the puzzled-looking Amazon for some more tests on Word, Outlook (surely just opening e-mails, I thought. Nope) Excel and typing speed. As the hangover began to settle in nicely for the day like a big, hot sweaty leather apron, these were the ideal tools to introduce a thumping headache into the mix. I also chose this as the ideal moment to vent my bowels of the foul stench that had been bubbling away inside me and testing my sphincter-clenching skills to the maximum during the interview process. Needless to say, upon its release I had only moments to realise its eye-watering potency and chuckle to myself about the possible need for a priest before the Amazon appeared right next to me to check everything was OK. 'Yes, fine', I grinned sheepishly and turning a deep crimson, at which point she must have taken a direct hit as she quickly turned tail and sped away barely acknowledging my reply. So a good impression all round there, I'd say. Now I guess I just sit back and wait for the offers to come flooding in. Yep.
That'll do for now - the next installment should be even more thrilling as it's the busiest weekend in the Toronto calendar coming up in a couple of days - the Pride parade is coming to town and it's time to get fabulous! Bye now.
The Swap office is tucked away inside a travel agents on King St, a mere hop and skip away from the now infamous Global hostel where I spent my formative weeks here in Toronto - hopping and skipping being my preferred mode of getting about town. Hmm. When you arrive in Canada, your first port of call should be the Swap office and through their orientation program (which I think I touched upon before in an earlier post) you are gently eased into the Canadian way of life. Slumped in front of a powerpoint presentation bleary-eyed, jet-lagged and trying not to think about what time it is back in England, the 'super-nice' (possibly the gayest phrase of all time, but said without the slightest hint of irony all the time here) Swap reps guide you through the mundane necessities of SIN numbers (social insurance) bank accounts and cell (mobile) phones while reminding you that you don't get all your tax back upon the return to your native land and thanking you sincerely for contributing to their pensions. My bastard pleasure. All in all they're enormously helpful and make this transitional stage of the trip as painless as possible for all involved.
But it's not all work, work, work though - as the irritating advert used to say - and another aspect of Swap is to act as the social liason to all us newbies. To this end they have a Swap members only function during the summer every Wednesday - the abysmally named Cheeky Wednesdays.
- Hi, where are you going tonight?
- Hi, I'm going to Cheeky Wednesdays.
- Then you're a cunt.
But it's free to get in and the drinks are cheap, so you have to give it a go. Still, Cheeky Wednesdays - Jesus Christ. The place is populated by young things (notice I carefully avoided the more familiar bright young things - these individuals are far from bright) mostly lads in their late teens/early 20s, who bound around the place as if Mum and Dad have gone out for the evening and they can't believe their luck that they've been left home alone. Essentially it's one colossal hormone dominated by slavering, howling, hairy scrotums on legs who, it seems, would grind up against the kitchen sink if it was wearing a tu-tu. In reality, of course, a broken table has more chance of getting laid, but it's certainly amusing to watch. Kind of like a wildlife documentary on human beings - both horrifying and fascinating all at the same time. I can't talk, I was there last night after all - but in my defence I kept away from the walking glands, opting instead to spend my time with the super-nice reps from the Swap office. And I didn't grind either, I danced. Well. Oh yeah. Unfortunately I took too much advantage of the cheap drinks and - considering I had an agency interview this morning - got way too pissed.
At the interview I was still fairly obviously drunk and had a sort of out of body experience while I was fielding questions. In my head it was all fairground music, whoops and cheers, but I was also vaguely aware of a perculiar work-related conversation I was having with this huge Amazonian woman who I had a strange compulsion to grind up against. Fortunately I resisted that temptation and found myself getting gently shoved into the computer testing area by the puzzled-looking Amazon for some more tests on Word, Outlook (surely just opening e-mails, I thought. Nope) Excel and typing speed. As the hangover began to settle in nicely for the day like a big, hot sweaty leather apron, these were the ideal tools to introduce a thumping headache into the mix. I also chose this as the ideal moment to vent my bowels of the foul stench that had been bubbling away inside me and testing my sphincter-clenching skills to the maximum during the interview process. Needless to say, upon its release I had only moments to realise its eye-watering potency and chuckle to myself about the possible need for a priest before the Amazon appeared right next to me to check everything was OK. 'Yes, fine', I grinned sheepishly and turning a deep crimson, at which point she must have taken a direct hit as she quickly turned tail and sped away barely acknowledging my reply. So a good impression all round there, I'd say. Now I guess I just sit back and wait for the offers to come flooding in. Yep.
That'll do for now - the next installment should be even more thrilling as it's the busiest weekend in the Toronto calendar coming up in a couple of days - the Pride parade is coming to town and it's time to get fabulous! Bye now.
15 June 2007
Mel Gibson's a moron
I started off writing this about the tame nature of my new housemates in my new student halls resisdence, but they're so nice I won't hear a bad word said about them. Three Irish, two girls and a boy, is about all the bad-mouthing I'll allow myself. It's a shame cos I'd written some pretty scathing remarks about the pitfalls of being too nice, but I can't do it to them - they're literally too nice! Sorry all you hate fans who tune in to read my Meldew-esque rants about everyone and everything. Maybe I'm mellowing while I'm out here. Don't count on it.
So back to the halls themselves - they're pretty good actually. My room is remarkably similar to my room back in Manchester's Student Village, except all the bills are taken care of and as a plus I don't have to live with anyone from the north of England. As Pete will testify to, it's a hard slog explaining the ins and outs of basic electricity to them, but once Rob had mastered this and took his new-found knowledge home with him was immediately made the mayor of Preston. Only joking, Rob - although I expect you're not reading this anyway, you bastard. Anyway, the halls are surprisingly quiet when I want to go to sleep - unlike Manchester - but the people here, quite the opposite to the locals I've met outside these walls, are fairly surley and uninterested in your business. That's fine though, cos I hate them all and hope they die soon. I really, really do. There you go, hate fans.
So my first job placement is now finished and was, as expected, not rocket science. For the first couple of days I was packing folders. Literally packing folders with paper and magazines. Not the best fun I've ever had, but bearable and the time passed mercifully quickly. After the first couple of days packing, we took our beautiful and much coverted folders to a 'symposium' - or conference to give it its less wanky title - where I, along with my new collegue and chum, had to register in a bunch of school governors at their annual back-patting meeting. This was surprisingly good fun as I got to have some good banter with some old establishment types and, more importantly, got lots of free grub at the hotel where it was being held. Two things during this time vexed me, however. Why is it that all teachers, or even, as it turned out, people associated with teachers, have stinking breath? During the registration period where we had a whole room full of them it was as if someone had let off a dirty bomb and I found myself gulping in air from behind the table at every opportune moment. Tic tac, sir? Also, after some banter about the English, a girl I was working with brought up Braveheart, adding that she thought Mel Gibson was 'cute'. Ergh, I hate that word. When I suggested that, far from being cute, Gibson was actually - particularly based on his recent anti-semetic outbursts - a moron, she strongly disagreed stating that he simply 'had an opinion'. So did Hitler, I said. From there our friendship soured - more's the pity. It only goes to prove that I'm totally stumped when it comes to working out What Women Want. Turns out it's mindless racism. Who'd have thought?
Anyway, more of this drivel at a later date. To the both of you who are actually reading it, I salute you.
So back to the halls themselves - they're pretty good actually. My room is remarkably similar to my room back in Manchester's Student Village, except all the bills are taken care of and as a plus I don't have to live with anyone from the north of England. As Pete will testify to, it's a hard slog explaining the ins and outs of basic electricity to them, but once Rob had mastered this and took his new-found knowledge home with him was immediately made the mayor of Preston. Only joking, Rob - although I expect you're not reading this anyway, you bastard. Anyway, the halls are surprisingly quiet when I want to go to sleep - unlike Manchester - but the people here, quite the opposite to the locals I've met outside these walls, are fairly surley and uninterested in your business. That's fine though, cos I hate them all and hope they die soon. I really, really do. There you go, hate fans.
So my first job placement is now finished and was, as expected, not rocket science. For the first couple of days I was packing folders. Literally packing folders with paper and magazines. Not the best fun I've ever had, but bearable and the time passed mercifully quickly. After the first couple of days packing, we took our beautiful and much coverted folders to a 'symposium' - or conference to give it its less wanky title - where I, along with my new collegue and chum, had to register in a bunch of school governors at their annual back-patting meeting. This was surprisingly good fun as I got to have some good banter with some old establishment types and, more importantly, got lots of free grub at the hotel where it was being held. Two things during this time vexed me, however. Why is it that all teachers, or even, as it turned out, people associated with teachers, have stinking breath? During the registration period where we had a whole room full of them it was as if someone had let off a dirty bomb and I found myself gulping in air from behind the table at every opportune moment. Tic tac, sir? Also, after some banter about the English, a girl I was working with brought up Braveheart, adding that she thought Mel Gibson was 'cute'. Ergh, I hate that word. When I suggested that, far from being cute, Gibson was actually - particularly based on his recent anti-semetic outbursts - a moron, she strongly disagreed stating that he simply 'had an opinion'. So did Hitler, I said. From there our friendship soured - more's the pity. It only goes to prove that I'm totally stumped when it comes to working out What Women Want. Turns out it's mindless racism. Who'd have thought?
Anyway, more of this drivel at a later date. To the both of you who are actually reading it, I salute you.
8 June 2007
More of the same, but somehow different.
Fear not, dear reader, your intrepid traveller has finally got himself a job. It would appear that five years of further education and seven years of experience working for the BBC wasn't all for nothing after all - from Tuesday to Thursday next week I will be greeting people at a conference and showing them to their seats for $11 an hour. What can I possibly say? What can anyone say? What would you say? Never did I dream that I could reach the dizzy heights of 'bottom coordinator' at such an early stage in my Canadian career, but it turns out there is a dream, and I'm living it. Well, at least it's a start and maybe I'll meet some glorious benefactor who'll recognise my untapped potential and immediately employ me as the next 'Apprentice' for a six figure salary. Maybe. Anyway, watch this space for further job updates.
As well as obtaining gainful employment this week, I also move into a private room tomorrow - those who've been trudging through this bilge regularly will know this has been on top of my ambitions list since I got here and makes me very happy indeed. Over the past few weeks I have been searching for a room in a shared house, but have invariably come across either unsuitable places or unsuitable people to share those spaces with. Those recently rejected have included:
One eggy-smelling flea pit in whoresville.
One enormous-arsed 48-year-old and her cat, who didn't even have a bed for me.
One unfinished underground dungeon-style room with a family of simpletons. And,
One student digs with worrying amounts of Christian iconography.
Needless to say, none of these made the grade - although the enormous-arsed woman's cat was a rather friendly chap and we hit it off famously. Becoming desperate I started to consider a colossal Irish guy's offer, made to me a few weeks ago, to stay in his place for a reasonable price. He was quite an unsavoury fella though with an impenetrable accent and sadly I don't think he viewed me in the same way I did his accent. Worried for my innocence, but also for my sanity staying in the hostel world, I was just about to clench tight and accept the offer when I met a girl who worked in a student halls and was scouting around for people to live in the halls over the summer. So it's back to a halls life for me! 10 years after I left the now infamous Student Village in Lower Chatham Street (you know who you are, Village People) I'm returning to a place remarkably similar. Didn't see that one coming, that's for sure. Should certainly be interesting, anyway, and they have a roof terrace with free barbecues available - can't be bad. Can it? Once again, we'll see.
Just one comment about the locals this week - they really are sticklers for the 'wait till the green man lights up before crossing the road' culture here. I thought Germany was bad about that, but yesterday - when it was plainly obvious there was no traffic coming and the green man was merely moments from lighting up - I began crossing the road and was stared at open-mouthed by a group of locals who looked as though I'd burst in on Christmas Day and tried to tune into The Archers on Grandma's tits. I even heard an audible tut. People, I implore you further.
Feedback, people, feed back. Bye for now.
As well as obtaining gainful employment this week, I also move into a private room tomorrow - those who've been trudging through this bilge regularly will know this has been on top of my ambitions list since I got here and makes me very happy indeed. Over the past few weeks I have been searching for a room in a shared house, but have invariably come across either unsuitable places or unsuitable people to share those spaces with. Those recently rejected have included:
One eggy-smelling flea pit in whoresville.
One enormous-arsed 48-year-old and her cat, who didn't even have a bed for me.
One unfinished underground dungeon-style room with a family of simpletons. And,
One student digs with worrying amounts of Christian iconography.
Needless to say, none of these made the grade - although the enormous-arsed woman's cat was a rather friendly chap and we hit it off famously. Becoming desperate I started to consider a colossal Irish guy's offer, made to me a few weeks ago, to stay in his place for a reasonable price. He was quite an unsavoury fella though with an impenetrable accent and sadly I don't think he viewed me in the same way I did his accent. Worried for my innocence, but also for my sanity staying in the hostel world, I was just about to clench tight and accept the offer when I met a girl who worked in a student halls and was scouting around for people to live in the halls over the summer. So it's back to a halls life for me! 10 years after I left the now infamous Student Village in Lower Chatham Street (you know who you are, Village People) I'm returning to a place remarkably similar. Didn't see that one coming, that's for sure. Should certainly be interesting, anyway, and they have a roof terrace with free barbecues available - can't be bad. Can it? Once again, we'll see.
Just one comment about the locals this week - they really are sticklers for the 'wait till the green man lights up before crossing the road' culture here. I thought Germany was bad about that, but yesterday - when it was plainly obvious there was no traffic coming and the green man was merely moments from lighting up - I began crossing the road and was stared at open-mouthed by a group of locals who looked as though I'd burst in on Christmas Day and tried to tune into The Archers on Grandma's tits. I even heard an audible tut. People, I implore you further.
Feedback, people, feed back. Bye for now.
2 June 2007
Why is it doing that?
Just want to try something out. For some reason, the date at the top of the last blog post is way off. Let's see what this one says...
Moans and Bones
More? OK, as I've had next to no feedback from you bastards about the blog I thought I should carry on regardless - gives me something to do, at least. Still living in CC right now and it's not too bad. That's not to say that I'm not desperate to live in my own room soon - I've been on the bottom bunk with some Spanish guy (Carlos - predictable) for the last four days and am getting sick of his constant fidgeting above me. It's as if there's some kind of WWF tournament going on up there half the time and the mind boggles as to what actually is happening. Shudder. Plus it means that I know he's been wearing the same underwear for the whole period (as I get a face full of it as he descends from his lair) and that's just information I could have happily lived without.
Job searching highlights of the week have been my attendence of the recruitment agency interview I think we discussed in an earlier blog. This was fine (although 8:30am was a little unnecessary) but it showed me I really don't have many computer-based skills - as if I didn't know this already. I said I was perfectly well-equipped to use Word, but that I needed work on my Excel skills - turns out I was rubbish at both of them. But as mediocrity is an entrance level qualification in the world of business, this didn't really make any difference and they said I should hear from them in a few days as to my placement. I imagine them seeing Manchester Metropolitan University on my CV was enough to open plenty of doors out here anyway. We all know the kind of weight that carries.
I remembered something from last week in the Global Village, which I thought might raise a Bronx cheer with you all. In hindsight, after an extended period without it, maybe I shouldn't have taken a trip outside with a Canadian and Irish guy to sit on the roof of a garage and smoke a fatty boom-batty after several bottles of beer. It was an intense time, that's for sure. Everything came crashing down on top of me and the ease with which I used to conduct myself in front of these relative strangers began to evaporate - fast. A standout moment in this colossal freak-out was when said Canadian guy began showing off his kick boxing skills on the street - literally on the pavement next to the road. He was flying around like some kind of Tekken character and all the while verbally introducing each move completely straight-faced and with not the merest hint of irony. I would have been impressed were he not using the top of my pulsing head as the target for the martial arts demonstration. To be fair he never actually kicked me in the face, but the rushing wind from his passing feet and hands combined with my intense high was enough to make the blood quickly drain from my face and for me to become reduced to a wobbling, green mess. I made my excuses and, feeling like something out of a Hunter S Thompson novel, took my throbbing head up to the dorm where I crawled into bed shivering and listened to some comfort tunes on the iPod. Full on. After a track or two, though, I managed to talk myself down from the terrors and went back into the common room area where, it turns out, I was able to conduct myself with surprising competence. Plus, let me tell you, I have never in all my life played pool as well as I did that night. The focus was astounding and I really believed I couldn't miss a shot. Now I know what Ben Johnson must have felt like at the Olympics.
Here's something that made my eyebrows Roger Moore - maybe it'll do the same for you. Apparently, in the good old US of A, if you've been in the UK for a year or more you're not allowed to give blood. Can you believe that?! It's all cos of the BSE scare we had ages ago (although the last reported case was in 2004, according to Wikipedia - hmm) I mean, talk about not letting something go. It is the nation of fear of course, as we all know, but this is a little excessive even for them. I think it means that we should really revise our laws when people return from a stint in the most hated country in the world. The only equivalent I can come up with is that we shouldn't let people read when they came back to the UK after a year-long trip to the States cos they may have caught stupid. Plus, isn't just being an American a risk to your health these days anyway? Who'd have thought I'd care so much about blood? I don't really. Anyway, while we're on the subject of the Yanks (who, I should probably add, were all really nice to me when I was there, but they're such easy targets) I saw a guy on the bus the other day with a cap on which read 'Ground Zero 11.09.01' and carried a smoking rubble motif. Is it me, or is that in incredibly bad taste? He must have gone there afterwards and got his cap from some seller on the street next to the smoking ruins. Surely that's just sick? What's next, a t-shirt reading: 'My brother took 3 in the face at Virginia Tech and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.'? People, I implore you.
Anyways - that'll do for now. Do keep writing (or start writing) You can even leave comments on the blog, if you so desire. Until next time, my friends.
Job searching highlights of the week have been my attendence of the recruitment agency interview I think we discussed in an earlier blog. This was fine (although 8:30am was a little unnecessary) but it showed me I really don't have many computer-based skills - as if I didn't know this already. I said I was perfectly well-equipped to use Word, but that I needed work on my Excel skills - turns out I was rubbish at both of them. But as mediocrity is an entrance level qualification in the world of business, this didn't really make any difference and they said I should hear from them in a few days as to my placement. I imagine them seeing Manchester Metropolitan University on my CV was enough to open plenty of doors out here anyway. We all know the kind of weight that carries.
I remembered something from last week in the Global Village, which I thought might raise a Bronx cheer with you all. In hindsight, after an extended period without it, maybe I shouldn't have taken a trip outside with a Canadian and Irish guy to sit on the roof of a garage and smoke a fatty boom-batty after several bottles of beer. It was an intense time, that's for sure. Everything came crashing down on top of me and the ease with which I used to conduct myself in front of these relative strangers began to evaporate - fast. A standout moment in this colossal freak-out was when said Canadian guy began showing off his kick boxing skills on the street - literally on the pavement next to the road. He was flying around like some kind of Tekken character and all the while verbally introducing each move completely straight-faced and with not the merest hint of irony. I would have been impressed were he not using the top of my pulsing head as the target for the martial arts demonstration. To be fair he never actually kicked me in the face, but the rushing wind from his passing feet and hands combined with my intense high was enough to make the blood quickly drain from my face and for me to become reduced to a wobbling, green mess. I made my excuses and, feeling like something out of a Hunter S Thompson novel, took my throbbing head up to the dorm where I crawled into bed shivering and listened to some comfort tunes on the iPod. Full on. After a track or two, though, I managed to talk myself down from the terrors and went back into the common room area where, it turns out, I was able to conduct myself with surprising competence. Plus, let me tell you, I have never in all my life played pool as well as I did that night. The focus was astounding and I really believed I couldn't miss a shot. Now I know what Ben Johnson must have felt like at the Olympics.
Here's something that made my eyebrows Roger Moore - maybe it'll do the same for you. Apparently, in the good old US of A, if you've been in the UK for a year or more you're not allowed to give blood. Can you believe that?! It's all cos of the BSE scare we had ages ago (although the last reported case was in 2004, according to Wikipedia - hmm) I mean, talk about not letting something go. It is the nation of fear of course, as we all know, but this is a little excessive even for them. I think it means that we should really revise our laws when people return from a stint in the most hated country in the world. The only equivalent I can come up with is that we shouldn't let people read when they came back to the UK after a year-long trip to the States cos they may have caught stupid. Plus, isn't just being an American a risk to your health these days anyway? Who'd have thought I'd care so much about blood? I don't really. Anyway, while we're on the subject of the Yanks (who, I should probably add, were all really nice to me when I was there, but they're such easy targets) I saw a guy on the bus the other day with a cap on which read 'Ground Zero 11.09.01' and carried a smoking rubble motif. Is it me, or is that in incredibly bad taste? He must have gone there afterwards and got his cap from some seller on the street next to the smoking ruins. Surely that's just sick? What's next, a t-shirt reading: 'My brother took 3 in the face at Virginia Tech and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.'? People, I implore you.
Anyways - that'll do for now. Do keep writing (or start writing) You can even leave comments on the blog, if you so desire. Until next time, my friends.
1 June 2007
How great is this?!
Hello all,
I'm now speaking to you via a blog instead of e-mail and it's all cos of my wonderfully talented and woefully unappreciated friend Neil Dawson. Some of you may know him as Dawson, Daws or even D - but from now on we should all refer to him as the Intialiser - the man who can make things happen. Like Sam from Quantum Leap, but from Norwich rather than the expanses of time. Sir, we salute you.
Unfortunately, cos of the incompetence I've already spoken of in earlier e-mails (or simply glance down the new blog!) the chronology of these posts is not strictly correct and the first two messages appear at the top when they should be down below. But as friends I think we can let that one slide, can't we? From now on I am committed to providing a first-class blog both technically and linguistically. 'Citing, I'm sure you'll agree!
Anyway, pioneering technical achievements aside, it's time to bring you back to the world of the stranger in a strange land. Things have got decidingly different for me since I moved out of the Global Backpackers Hostel - a chaotic place filled with little gap year imps - and into the more subdued Clarence Castle. This is not to say I'm not having it 'large' with the best of them; on the contrary, tonight is karaoke night (my third since arriving in Canada - huh?!) and I plan to eat, drink and make merry melodies with said best of them. The difference with CC is that it allows me to do all this merriment on my own terms. There's a strict quiet policy after 11pm here which means that, while you can go out and party-hearty all night, coming home is exactly like that - it's coming back to a peaceful sanctuary that allows you to sleep when you want to and until you want to. All this is enforced with extreme prejudice by the proprietor, Danny. A brute of a man whose entire body throbs as you speak to him, but who insists he is a wimp. I am a wimp and let me assure you, Danny would be redirected were he to arrive at our headquarters demanding membership - albeit wimpishly. However, along with the brute I seem to be in a room populated with members of the Australian rugby team and next to their buff, tanned, some would even say flawless physiques, I think I resemble a new-born baby bird. Pink and fragile and trembling. Ah well.
Because of all the above reasons, apart from maybe the bird metaphor, I'm gonna stick around here for the next couple of weeks while I continue trying to find a job. Those keeping abreast of the story so far will have been on tenterhooks as to the outcome of the Elephant and Castle bar-tending vacancy. Disappointing news, I'm afraid. So it turns out the job which was 'definately' available, transformed to 'filled' without so much as a cursory interview for the position for poor ol' muggins Partridge here. I might be getting paranoid, but could it be possible I'm not as charming as I once thought? Write soon and tell me your thoughts on this. Make them positive though - essentially write and tell me I'm charming. Down but not out, I went immediately from the sorry bastards at E&C (they'll pay, they'll all pay) to a temping agency where I was welcomed with open arms. Hoorah! Needing a shirt and trousers I went to the appropriate outlet where I was completely railroaded and walked out with a new suit. A suit?! How the fuck did that happen?! They saw me coming, that's for sure. The guy kept telling me he 'wouldn't do this normally - but for you, sir...' What a mug I am - but it is a nice suit and - having shown it to a number of puzzled-looking strangers at the hostel - I'm assured I wasn't ripped off, at least. Gotta let this suit thing go.
Only a couple of other things I thought you might want to know. It's possible you don't, but if that's the case, why are you reading this? Anyhoo - on top of looking for gainful employment I've been making an effort to find a more permanent residence here in Toronto and as such, have been travelling an awful lot on the public transport system. There are a couple of mental hospitals around here (not sure that's how I should describe them, but that's how they were described to me - what is the correct term for them? Answers on a postcard) and one closed quite recently, allowing the former inmates free reign across the city. If you want to meet these raisin cakes all for yourself you need venture no further than your closest means of public transportation. The vast majority of the dehospitalised are what you would term 'mutterers'. Fairly self-explanatory, the mutterers spend their time talking to themselves and occasionally treating you to a brain fart all of your very own. I'm told these are all very common - something I learned quickly for myself now I've been on the system a few times - and totally harmless. I find this 'harmless' generalisation from my Bunac orientation lady a little misleading as I can't imagine she has a fully rounded psychological profile on all of these nut-nuts, but on the whole they're jolly good fun to watch and until I get presented with some homemade brown fish that's what I'll continue to do. Yesterday I was approached on the subway by a fruit loop with the longest nose hair I'd ever seen who declared that he'd built a flying saucer for a Tim Allen movie. I liked that one the best so far - but nutwatch will keep you posted for further insanities. There's also a guy called Naked Santa - with web pages dedicated to him, I'm told - who arrives at various parts in the city with his freakishly well-toned body and treats passers-by to a series of aerobic exercises, all with a nice Santa hat on. I hear this routine even continues into the viciously cold Canadian winter months, confirming his mental illness, if it really needed confirming.
Anyway, keep writing, you lovely, lovely people and let me know what you think of the new technically-advanced version of your old chum. Bye for now.
I'm now speaking to you via a blog instead of e-mail and it's all cos of my wonderfully talented and woefully unappreciated friend Neil Dawson. Some of you may know him as Dawson, Daws or even D - but from now on we should all refer to him as the Intialiser - the man who can make things happen. Like Sam from Quantum Leap, but from Norwich rather than the expanses of time. Sir, we salute you.
Unfortunately, cos of the incompetence I've already spoken of in earlier e-mails (or simply glance down the new blog!) the chronology of these posts is not strictly correct and the first two messages appear at the top when they should be down below. But as friends I think we can let that one slide, can't we? From now on I am committed to providing a first-class blog both technically and linguistically. 'Citing, I'm sure you'll agree!
Anyway, pioneering technical achievements aside, it's time to bring you back to the world of the stranger in a strange land. Things have got decidingly different for me since I moved out of the Global Backpackers Hostel - a chaotic place filled with little gap year imps - and into the more subdued Clarence Castle. This is not to say I'm not having it 'large' with the best of them; on the contrary, tonight is karaoke night (my third since arriving in Canada - huh?!) and I plan to eat, drink and make merry melodies with said best of them. The difference with CC is that it allows me to do all this merriment on my own terms. There's a strict quiet policy after 11pm here which means that, while you can go out and party-hearty all night, coming home is exactly like that - it's coming back to a peaceful sanctuary that allows you to sleep when you want to and until you want to. All this is enforced with extreme prejudice by the proprietor, Danny. A brute of a man whose entire body throbs as you speak to him, but who insists he is a wimp. I am a wimp and let me assure you, Danny would be redirected were he to arrive at our headquarters demanding membership - albeit wimpishly. However, along with the brute I seem to be in a room populated with members of the Australian rugby team and next to their buff, tanned, some would even say flawless physiques, I think I resemble a new-born baby bird. Pink and fragile and trembling. Ah well.
Because of all the above reasons, apart from maybe the bird metaphor, I'm gonna stick around here for the next couple of weeks while I continue trying to find a job. Those keeping abreast of the story so far will have been on tenterhooks as to the outcome of the Elephant and Castle bar-tending vacancy. Disappointing news, I'm afraid. So it turns out the job which was 'definately' available, transformed to 'filled' without so much as a cursory interview for the position for poor ol' muggins Partridge here. I might be getting paranoid, but could it be possible I'm not as charming as I once thought? Write soon and tell me your thoughts on this. Make them positive though - essentially write and tell me I'm charming. Down but not out, I went immediately from the sorry bastards at E&C (they'll pay, they'll all pay) to a temping agency where I was welcomed with open arms. Hoorah! Needing a shirt and trousers I went to the appropriate outlet where I was completely railroaded and walked out with a new suit. A suit?! How the fuck did that happen?! They saw me coming, that's for sure. The guy kept telling me he 'wouldn't do this normally - but for you, sir...' What a mug I am - but it is a nice suit and - having shown it to a number of puzzled-looking strangers at the hostel - I'm assured I wasn't ripped off, at least. Gotta let this suit thing go.
Only a couple of other things I thought you might want to know. It's possible you don't, but if that's the case, why are you reading this? Anyhoo - on top of looking for gainful employment I've been making an effort to find a more permanent residence here in Toronto and as such, have been travelling an awful lot on the public transport system. There are a couple of mental hospitals around here (not sure that's how I should describe them, but that's how they were described to me - what is the correct term for them? Answers on a postcard) and one closed quite recently, allowing the former inmates free reign across the city. If you want to meet these raisin cakes all for yourself you need venture no further than your closest means of public transportation. The vast majority of the dehospitalised are what you would term 'mutterers'. Fairly self-explanatory, the mutterers spend their time talking to themselves and occasionally treating you to a brain fart all of your very own. I'm told these are all very common - something I learned quickly for myself now I've been on the system a few times - and totally harmless. I find this 'harmless' generalisation from my Bunac orientation lady a little misleading as I can't imagine she has a fully rounded psychological profile on all of these nut-nuts, but on the whole they're jolly good fun to watch and until I get presented with some homemade brown fish that's what I'll continue to do. Yesterday I was approached on the subway by a fruit loop with the longest nose hair I'd ever seen who declared that he'd built a flying saucer for a Tim Allen movie. I liked that one the best so far - but nutwatch will keep you posted for further insanities. There's also a guy called Naked Santa - with web pages dedicated to him, I'm told - who arrives at various parts in the city with his freakishly well-toned body and treats passers-by to a series of aerobic exercises, all with a nice Santa hat on. I hear this routine even continues into the viciously cold Canadian winter months, confirming his mental illness, if it really needed confirming.
Anyway, keep writing, you lovely, lovely people and let me know what you think of the new technically-advanced version of your old chum. Bye for now.
The Further Adventures of A Mills
Hi all,
Thought it was maybe time to send a catch-up posting to you lovely, lovely people. I've just got back from the big tour I mentioned before and like Frosties, it was grrreat! There were city tours of Montreal, Quebec and Ottawa, as well as seeing the 'real' Canada in the middle of bleedin' nowhere. I did some white water rafting and almost made it unscathed, until I was body checked out of the raft by the tour guide, turning the River Ottawa a little more brown. The people were mostly cool - but as is the norm in North America, sometimes the enthusiasm is a little too much to bear. Us Brits really don't know what to do with ourselves in these situations. There was one guide who insisted on singing her own songs (mostly about us all being golden sunflowers) and I wasn't really sure where to look. Unfortunately I think everyone else was into it - even some clapping along occurred - so I found repeated the mantra 'there's no place like home' and cutting myself was the only way to see it through.
I've started the quest for work and a place to stay today and hopefully I'll be out of hostel life sooner rather than later. The kids are starting to do my head in now that I've been here for a couple of weeks and I think it's time to actually unpack my bag.
Anyway, best be off now. Care care of yourself, and each other,
Andrew
Thought it was maybe time to send a catch-up posting to you lovely, lovely people. I've just got back from the big tour I mentioned before and like Frosties, it was grrreat! There were city tours of Montreal, Quebec and Ottawa, as well as seeing the 'real' Canada in the middle of bleedin' nowhere. I did some white water rafting and almost made it unscathed, until I was body checked out of the raft by the tour guide, turning the River Ottawa a little more brown. The people were mostly cool - but as is the norm in North America, sometimes the enthusiasm is a little too much to bear. Us Brits really don't know what to do with ourselves in these situations. There was one guide who insisted on singing her own songs (mostly about us all being golden sunflowers) and I wasn't really sure where to look. Unfortunately I think everyone else was into it - even some clapping along occurred - so I found repeated the mantra 'there's no place like home' and cutting myself was the only way to see it through.
I've started the quest for work and a place to stay today and hopefully I'll be out of hostel life sooner rather than later. The kids are starting to do my head in now that I've been here for a couple of weeks and I think it's time to actually unpack my bag.
Anyway, best be off now. Care care of yourself, and each other,
Andrew
Canada Calling
Hi all,
As it's been a good four days now, I thought I'd get you up to speed on the goings on thousands of miles away. Let me tell you, it's not easy being a 30-year-old in a hostel populated with such young, innocent and w*nky student types. I'd forgotten how desperate the young are to prove themselves and often find myself in needless arguments about racism, war, politics and music. Not because I give that much of a s*it about what they're saying, I just can't let them think their opinions are anything other than worthless - a lot like their lives. It's like an episode of Grange Hill here and I feel like Mr f*cking Bronson. And the amount of UKers who've been here for 6 months and have now got a Canadian accent is unbelievable. Every time I hear one talk it makes my testes shrivel higher up into my chest cavity. This is the way it was for the first couple of days, and I was really starting to worry, but thankfully I've found a couple of Aussies who are good company now and understand the crisis I had previously been in. We went to Niagara Falls yesterday, which was all-at-once the most incredible, but most disappointing experience. The falls themselves were amazing, humbling, magnificent - all that b*llocks - but the town that's been built up surrounding the area is quite the most plastic place I've ever seen. Needless to say I've taken photographic proof of this horror and will show you all soon enough - just have patience.
Tomorrow I'm embarking on a 2-week tour of Canada - taking in Quebec, Montreal amongst others and will involve whale watching, white water rafting, hiking and bungee jumps, to name but a few. I thought I should really get that kind of thing out of the way sooner rather than later so that I can then concentrate on being a responsible citizen and getting a job. Something I'm not really looking forward to that much - believe it or not, not working is a blast! Not sure I'll do this in Toronto though, as so far it just all seems a bit American here and pretty expensive - relatively speaking for Canada, of course. I expected the local establishments to bow down in view of my mighty pound, but I haven't had that yet.
Hope you are all well and the counselling sessions are aiding this transitional period just after I've left. Soon I will send some pics of me which should be of some small comfort at this difficult time.
I am, and always will be, your friend,
Andrew
As it's been a good four days now, I thought I'd get you up to speed on the goings on thousands of miles away. Let me tell you, it's not easy being a 30-year-old in a hostel populated with such young, innocent and w*nky student types. I'd forgotten how desperate the young are to prove themselves and often find myself in needless arguments about racism, war, politics and music. Not because I give that much of a s*it about what they're saying, I just can't let them think their opinions are anything other than worthless - a lot like their lives. It's like an episode of Grange Hill here and I feel like Mr f*cking Bronson. And the amount of UKers who've been here for 6 months and have now got a Canadian accent is unbelievable. Every time I hear one talk it makes my testes shrivel higher up into my chest cavity. This is the way it was for the first couple of days, and I was really starting to worry, but thankfully I've found a couple of Aussies who are good company now and understand the crisis I had previously been in. We went to Niagara Falls yesterday, which was all-at-once the most incredible, but most disappointing experience. The falls themselves were amazing, humbling, magnificent - all that b*llocks - but the town that's been built up surrounding the area is quite the most plastic place I've ever seen. Needless to say I've taken photographic proof of this horror and will show you all soon enough - just have patience.
Tomorrow I'm embarking on a 2-week tour of Canada - taking in Quebec, Montreal amongst others and will involve whale watching, white water rafting, hiking and bungee jumps, to name but a few. I thought I should really get that kind of thing out of the way sooner rather than later so that I can then concentrate on being a responsible citizen and getting a job. Something I'm not really looking forward to that much - believe it or not, not working is a blast! Not sure I'll do this in Toronto though, as so far it just all seems a bit American here and pretty expensive - relatively speaking for Canada, of course. I expected the local establishments to bow down in view of my mighty pound, but I haven't had that yet.
Hope you are all well and the counselling sessions are aiding this transitional period just after I've left. Soon I will send some pics of me which should be of some small comfort at this difficult time.
I am, and always will be, your friend,
Andrew
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