Thursday 31/05/07 - Glasgow

First impressions of Glasgow.

The brogue is thick!

Reminds me of a cross between St George’s Terrace (Perth city) and Melbourne (inner) city.

Why have check out at 11am when the check in is 3pm? Sammy’s got 5 hours to blow. It’s movie time!

But first I have to track across town to find a place to sleep for tomorrow. Looks like I might be in trouble. I’ll just go up market if need be. Who needs money?

Eclectic mix of architecture, just like Melbourne. Old and modern together.

A couple of bits of ice in the bottom of chocolate drink does not a milkshake make.

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I totally thought it was Friday! And now I’m writing as if I’m txt’ing Shannyn.

Glasgow is also a city built on a hill – just like Melbourne!

I’m waiting around for an hour, to see if I can get a bed in a three-room dorm. It’s the Blue Sky hostel; which the “Lonely Planet: Scotland Attack!” calls “very grungy.”

Brainwave, I’ll wander over to the Glasgow Youth Hostel and see if they’ve got any single rooms. I’d rather pay a little extra than have to, you know, stare at a guy’s bare arse.

Now that’s time management! I got a cheaper room – and a single to boot.

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“This lift must not be used BY RESIDENTS under any circumstance Strictly for use by RESIDENCE & MAINTENANCE STAFF ONLY” So what’s the first thing I do after checking in? Purely accidental, of course.

Next I partake in the shower – it was lovely; pure bliss. Large showerhead, high pressure stream, cascading over my body, blasting every conceivable pore dirt-less. Then I turn the knob the wrong way when shutting it off. 0.7 seconds of agony. Half my body is now red. That was a big mistake, purely accidental too, but for real this time (because sometimes people burn themselves in the shower deliberately).

The “grungy bar” – once again the Lonely Plan’s words – at the Euro Hostel is called “Osmosis". Bad Name.

Glasgow traffic intersections, in particular the pedestrian crossing lights, are Scottish. They don’t beep when swapping over from Red to Green. They don’t flash to warn that the colour is swapping back. Often, the lights change when one is halfway ‘cross the road, forcing one to shout “ughh!” and run in front of oncoming traffic.

(This is Scottish crossing because it reflects their stern pragmatism as a race/culture.)

The brogue is so thick that – that if you walk past old ladies in the street and overhear them talking; they’ll sound more like pirates than women.

S went to the movies: just like he warned. Saw “Zodiac” – more to come on what I think about that. The cinema was that big it was – a seven-story skyscraper. Not making this up. There was a small army of staff working there, about 3 to 4 people per floor, at 2 in the afternoon. Every floor had a candy bar (that you had to walk through to enter the cinemas, smart idea) and the 1st floor even had a real bar. I’m going to take pictures of this, for the people who are interested. (Unless I don’t.)

Finally, met a Glasgow local. (“Character”, my friend Tessa might say, unless I’m putting words in her mouth.) I was squatted down on the island of a traffic intersection, consulting the LP map, frantically trying to find the directions to the ODEON. “What’re tryin’ to find?” Someone shouted over my shoulder, in thick Glasgowegian. I turn around.

My god, it’s a dick party in the bar at this moment in time.

Is that John Butler on the TV? It’s a guy with dreadlocks and an acoustic guitar. ‘He’s a sell-out” as my hippy friend Courtney from the pool hall would say. What his principles were to being with; is a hazy question.

It’s a guy who could be best described as looking like a street bum. He was anything but though. “Steph” his name was. His right hand was red and swollen (like my penis is after the shower incident). He had a divining rod/stick, and a folded up newspaper under his arm. All the blood vessels on his nose, and most on his cheeks, were bust and broken.

Fuck me, it’s the Scottish ****** ****** on the pool table. (I say that because he has the same fatness and horrible personality as ******. I gotta play this guy.)

He was rolling a joint and wanted to see my map. “Uh oh” the inner alarm started to chime. But then Steph started talking and I started laughing. He said fuck the ODEON on the quay; there were only malls and young mothers with prams. He gave me the directions to the Cineworld instead (didn’t tell me the street names, I have the feeling he didn’t know. “What day is it?” In his defense, I didn’t know either until midday). “There’s a street which is all blocked up and there’s people walking on it.” (A mall.) Next he started talking about Scotland. I just had to take the train up the West Coast – it turned into a real steam train half way up! And I had to go to … Mairdloc (??). It is so quiet and serene; you just hear the sound of the wind and nothing else. Completely different to city living, even the people are different. They don’t just rush and think about their job, they’ve got time for you. On the train up there’s carriages with four seats across, two rows. One time when Steph and his girlfriend trained, they shut the blinds, stretched out on the chairs and (beat) “made lurrve.” That’s how few people are going up! There’s eight pound (maybe nine) B&B’s. The pubs are open 24 hours. I mean, they do shut at 9, but you get to stay and the bar tender will start serving free whisky, and it’ll all go on until about 5 in the morning. Steph and his girl used to train up with two bottles of tequila and an ounce of hash, stay for the weekend.

Ok, I’m sure he was exaggerating a little (“do you think S?”) but it was nice to talk to someone all the same. There was always a smile on his face when he said this. And then he was off on his way. Like he was never there. I watched him as he wandered over the bridge (to the… Thyme river???). There were two girls looking at the view. He turned his head in the direction they were observing and leant up against the rail next to them. Another new friend(s) for another five minutes. What a way to live.

Wow, did I mention how fucking busy Glasgow becomes in the day? It was dead quiet when I arrived at 9 and hadn’t picked up by ten/eleven. But then a cloud burst and the mall was absolutely packed with shoppers, buskers, pledgers etc. Haven’t seen anything like that. OK I have (I’ve just been to London, remember?), but completely different vibe. They’ve all got these funny accents to begin with. And it’s a lot more white. That’s Scotland.

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Shitload of Redheads in Glasgow, Scotland in general too.

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Gonna pour beer down that skinny girl’s pants. She’ll love it.

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Obvious










As waiting and writing the world waltzes by










Perspective 1










Perspective 2










Are you Sick? (Larger Image Size)

Wednesday 30/05/07 - Bristol

A question posed to Dot, by my Mother, about Hazel’s partner.

“Does Keith drink?”

“Oh, he drinks like a fish. He has a brandy in his coffee in the morning. But he doesn’t drink at work, or, hmm, when he’s driving.”

Wonder if he takes a pull when the car is stopped at a traffic light?

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Another thing M thinks: Hazel and Keith go to Turkey every year (this is correct) so as to buy marijuana. Because England has been completely drug free since – uh – um – a while.

Received an email from K, telling me she didn’t ring back ‘cuz she was drunk. 5 hours before she sent a reply to another email of mine, telling me she couldn’t understand what I wrote – was I drunk?? Pot and the Kettle. I wish she could be more tactful sometimes.

I am going to call Shan tomorrow, when I arrive in Glasgow. I have decided. I think I need to hear her voice. Remind her S is out there still. I love K, but I can’t live in the past forever.

Tonight, I’m leaving my packing until the very last moment. I hate packing. Plane for Glasgow leaves at 7am, check-in at 6.25am at the latest. Gotta` wake up at 4.45am. Yay!

This pen is bleeding all over the page.

Ken was railing against Ecstasy pills today. I felt like telling him that I’ve taken pills and had a great time on them, and I’m not messed up! But I had to fall down the stairs, dead drunk, so I didn’t.

Just found out that the best way to get Internet in the UK is from public libraries. This I did not know. The net cafes are quite expensive over here. Went to one in Bristol. The only café in a city of 750,000 people! It was actually a computer store with a local network upstairs. 2 pounds an hour. Kids playing networked games. Looked newly renovated. Unfortunately it smelt like somebody had broken wind. A large expansion of wind. How I managed to stay for forty minutes – oh yeah, I was focused on contacting friends with email and all that.

There’s not much to say about Bristol. None of the record shops have got the provisions to allow the customer to “try before you buy” – so I couldn’t listen to the new Cephalic Carnage. Only a pound for a cup of tea, but the cafes just lump in a tea bag and splash scolding hot water over it – not really that cosmopolitan. And this is from a ‘coffee house’!

Keep repeating that mantra, buddy.

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Went for my post dinner constitutional – a gang of youths came speeding down the Coronation Street Hill in a hatchback, sucking on fast food shakes, “I wanna be your girlfriend” blaring on their radio. They slow down at a couple of 14 year old girls, shout out at them, then speed up. As they blow past me, one of the kids throws a condiment cup out the window, it hits my shoe, covering it in yellow jelly.

Dot is great; she can remember everything she’s got in her fridge. Tonight I wanted ice. She didn’t have any, but instead she had a brainwave and rooted through the shelves, finding a couple of hollow, plastic balls.

One fills these balls with water and then freezes them in the fridge. As a result: Immortal ice! Invincible ice! Regenerative ice! The balls come from France. Europe is a land of miracles.

Keeps raining and stopping, clearing, then more clouds blow over and it starts raining again. Repeat for all of today. This means I don’t know whether to pack the rain jacket or the blazer. I will never refer to my packing again, as long as I write this journal. This is my promise to you.

This is the last night I’m spending with Dot and Ken for the immediate future. I’ll be a little sad to go, they’ve been such gracious hosts during my stay. Next time it won’t be another eight years before I see them again.

The British Soap Awards 2007. Who will win? Who will lose? Who gives a rats?

Every 20 minutes, all day long, the Double Decker rumbles along Cock Road; the people on the top deck look through the front window at the lounge room. At 7pm the bus route ends. We shut the blinds around nine, safe from prying eyes.

Tuesday 29/5/07 - Bristol

I realised, yesterday on a walk down Cock Road (yup, I went down on a Cock Road), that I didn’t get the address right on Shan’s post card. I forgot the detail of the State field. Hopefully it gets through OK. Australian addresses are too complex. In fact, all world addresses are too much trouble for one to try to remember. I see a solution: everyone on the planet is given a number. Then, when sending a postcard, you just write the number and… this postal problem is harder to fix than I thought.

Today’s episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond” is about Ray going to church. What the fuck is this shit? Aww, now he’s going to church every Sunday. Yay! Eighteen glistening, iridescent red and purple cocks attack Raymond’s six, sacred orifices. The priest looks down from the altar and moans in pleasure.

I’m watching ‘Everybody Loves Raymond”: what the fuck is this shit? Actually, I’m waiting for Ken to drive me to the train station. He’s dragging his feet – always does.

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“FUCK OFF Pearl! You’re getting on fucking tits. Stop pulling back on my fucking shirt!” – Pearl is seven years old, that’s her Dad. The family German Shepard does a shit on the nature strip as they walk along the street.

Might seem strange that I start the very first entry by saying I love the English – only to contradict myself two weeks later as I reveal my hatred of them. I think I had such an immediate affinity with the Scots that it exposed a few – less than envious personality traits of the Brits. Traits that I can’t say I much care for.

Planning on training up to Glasgow tomorrow and staying in a youth hostel for a few days. Hopefully I’m not boarding with too many Aussies. That’s the last thing I want.

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Brit Rail wanted £100 for the privilege of using their fine service. I said “No thanks!” to that.

Went on a day trip to the Bristol Harbour with Ken and J.W. took a bunch of pictures. Bristol is a port, don’t you know?

When we were at the Harbour, a group of kids rode up on bicycles. Trick bikes, it turned out, as they started climbing over the stationary train carriages and jumping over the tracks, landing on one wheel. There’s pics of that too – bad pictures. But it looked like they were having much fun.

Fighting off bad throat, take one, beginning --- now!!

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No luck calling K. Rang three times, every time reaching voicemail. Oh well S, shrug your shoulders and GET ORN WITH IT.

Had a walk around Kingswood, saw a shop: Men’s Barbershop/Women’s Saloon. I’m starting to think that these places just cut hair, and the names are a matter of marketing. What a terribly sexist thing to say.

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Kingswood, overlooking the valley. (Larger image size)










At the end of Cock Road (teeter)











A park in Kingswood











Bristol Harbour










Bristol Harbour - the cafe view











Xtreme biking










Xtreme biking 2 (Larger image size)











Crane via low angle











Crane perspective











Dead Fish










Xtreme biking 3










No Mind









It overlooks the harbour

Monday 28/5/07 - Bristol

My watch and I have come to an agreement: it changes to the correct date, on the dot, at midday, and not a minute sooner.

“Borat” mania has hit Britain. Last night on the tube I couldn’t count how many times I heard the Kazakhstan “Niiice.” Shut up dicks, you’re ruining the movie for us hipsters! Ah, damn it.

Mother left for Australia today. Thought I’d feel sad to see her leave at the Gatwick departure gate, but it’s the opposite, I am actually quite relieved. It feels like I’ve got a quarter of the luggage to carry now.

You’ve got your perfect white smile – I’ve got my sickly yellow fangs. Which will the women choose? Only time will tell.

Ho ho! I was so entrenched in writing I nearly missed my bus to Victoria Station – such is my commitment to you.

I didn’t take many pictures of London (none really). Wasn’t in the mood for it. It rained the whole time, anyway. Took a picture of M on the Gatwick express before she left. M told me to take some pictures of the K girl. Odd thing for her to say.

I wasn’t thinking (like usual). Instead of taking a connecting coach to Victoria Station, I could have used my return express ticket to go back, saving some money in the process. Oh well, that’s me.

The noggin isn’t as sore today – like you care.

Dreamt last night about K. We met somewhere in the world. She told me she could only stay the weekend. I said that was OK “I leave on Monday anyway.” Then she pulled me into her arms and we kissed, long and slow, I could taste her soft lips. She’s still a good kisser. (Might give her an unexpected bell tonight.)

I can’t understand how John Merryman is pudgy with those unbelievably amazing drum chops he’s got.

Meant to wear a seatbelt on the coach whilst seated. I’m not. “Hell raiser!”

Tessa sent me a story she’d fired off for a uni assessment. She is a great writer. I’m going to stop being lazy and start writing again. Also have to revise “Cold Winter Day” (working title). But that comes second to inspiration.

Rain, rain, go away. I’ve heard more foreign words than English ones; in the time I’ve been here in London.

Aww, “God only knows” is on the coach radio. I love the part when the snare drums first hit at the start.

Actually, Shan likes my stupid, painful fangs. There’s something in that.

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My feet ARE SORE. Yesterday we walked from Praed St in Paddington, down Edgeware Road, along Oxford St, onto Soho, and then back. All by our footsies. We left at 10.30am, and arrived back by 5.30pm. Do the math. (But there were some breaks in the journey for shopping and drinks and food.) Sure was a great experience, however.

Bought “Perfume” for some light coach reading. I’m glad Shannyn kept pestering me to watch the film when Paradiso cinema was showing it; it was one of the better flicks to come out last year – I think it’ll turn into a cult classic – (or was it this year?), along with “Children of Men”. Love how the text mimics baroque style. And! Amazing, the original was written in German. What a spot on translation. Really impressed. I wonder if the author did his own conversion to English. That’s something to check when I wander back downstairs, basement bound, for more Nurofen T. My feet are sore, remember? (I’m also a drug addicted slacker too.)

I don’t like the coarse Bristol accent, but have I already mentioned this? Feels like it.

Every business is looking for workers. Well, besides from the places that pay a decent wage.

This personal mantra lark is working out for me so far. I didn’t let all the cute, young university couples on the bus get me down.

Different coloured front doors in unique wood finishes all open on houses with the exact same floor plans, fixtures and furniture – all to show off your brilliant personality.

You can tell it’s been a travel day because I ain’t got as much to say.

I can’t get over the Sun setting so late. It’s 8.35 and still bright as a lobster. Those are the shining sea critters, right?

Brits seem to show a preference for white underpants. That’s gross.

And I’m positive my cousin (second cousin?) is smoking grass in her room. I know that smell.

Sunday 27/5/07 - London

In the big city you cannot stop moving, otherwise you’re dead.

Rained all day. Fucked up my hipster shoes great. (Did a real number on the hipster shoes.)

OK, you got me – I love London.

The one thing I find loathsome about pornography (besides from shit, bestiality, and whale chicks) is when the guy is hosing down the girl at the end (or girls) and you see him spraying come over his wedding ring. He’s gotta’ wear that thing for the rest of the day. Later that afternoon the porn star goes home to the wife.

Porn Wife: Hey baby.
PornS: Hi hon.
(They smooch.)
Wife: What’s on your ring?
Star: Huh? I don’t see nothing. There’s nothing there.
Wife: Yes there is, it looks like – oh god, don’t tell me you’re porning again!

And so-on.

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A sign outside a shop, completely covered in Arabic font. A sticker (stuck to it) reads; “Bye, Bye, Dubai.”

“Severe delays caused by earlier person under train.” That’s strange, two hours before now, I was thinking about doing the very same thing, and on the same train line too.

“I have news to amuse.” Cries a Big Issue salesman. “Puzzles to perplex. Don’t walk by, give it a try.”

Watched Cephalic Carnage after all. Bought the T-shirt. They played three new songs (“Touched by an Angel” = too cool), a bunch of “Anomalies” tracks, and two from “Exploiting Dysfunction.” (But only the titular song off “Lucid Interval”? Oh well, they nailed it anyway.) Great gig.

But didn’t stay for Akercocke. A panic attack washed over me and was threatening to break. Had to run back to the hotel if I was going to have any chance of fighting it. Anywhere I go, anywhere I be, I feel this. Can’t be the location anymore, S.

Dot’s daughter is an alcoholic. Major alcoholic. I must not allow myself to ever become like that. I must stop drinking everyday. I MUST STOP DRINKING EVERYDAY! (Seeing her too drunk to talk, and comprehend what was happening around her, didn’t make me stop, just made me drink too. ‘Cuz I was nervous, didn’t know how to react, maybe didn’t want to. Felt bad that I couldn’t look away from the train wreck in front of me.)

I must stop thinking I will never have a girlfriend. I will be more self-confident. I will stop feeling lonely.

Gross, the drill bit dropped into the shark’s mouth and ground the animal to pieces. Great, bloody chunks floating to the Ocean floor. Out protagonists kiss, the denouement complete. I will stop feeling lonely.

Oxford Street is crazy and modern. You think other cities have caught up and then when you go back – you see how wrong your assumption is.

William S Burroughs’ hats are currently in vogue. In three months time they go straight into the bin.

A man on the train was coked to the gills. Singing along to his Ipod. Frowning and smirking, stomping around the carriage, staring down fellow commuters (those who were awake). Found himself a discarded newspaper, rolled it up and kept whacking himself on the leg, like a jockey with a whip. As I exited the train, he stood at the entryway, the doors shutting and him looking confused, following me with his gaze. Last time we’ll ever see each other. Ain’t in P-town no more.

It’s nine pounds for a movie ticket. Fuck off! (The cinema was nearly completely sold out, mind) – I be the minority.

Massive lump on the top of my head. Leapt down the stairs to Dot’s basement with gay abandon, smashed my pod on an exposed ceiling beam. Felt OK yesterday – even was alright the night it happened – but my does the brain throb currently. Only one thing to do, and that’s grind teeth.

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The best view in town.

Saturday 26/5/07 - London

In London for the next few days. Staying in Paddington. Got the feeling it could also be called Little Lebanon. Most of the stores feature signs in both English and Arabic, majority of people speak a foreign language, the side affects of the Blair government UK immigration policy is in full swing. Huge difference to when I was here 8 years ago. Is that a good or bad thing? I dunno.

English girl fashion: clothes that show off their tummies, just a flash of the stomach, and the more adventurous reveal their legs.

High cost of living in London.

Watched Pirates 3. Basically a visual spectacular like the other two. No story. Or plot either. Got some real empathy from the characters; liked the way the idea of goodies and baddies was blurred with lots of double-crossing going on. But I’d be battling to tell you what went on in the film, if you were to ask me as I left the cinema during the playback of the end credits.

Loved the train ride from Bristol to London. I wish I hadn’t of been so hung over during it.

Missed Shan tonight in a big way. Would love to see her. But I need this time away; I was getting crazy for a while. Wonder if I’ll write that ugly letter to her. Maybe I’ll just ring instead. It’s been two weeks on holiday now. The first call is going to be the best one. I’m not sure whether to hold off or go with my heart. Part of me isn’t sure that it’d mean much to her if I opened up the heart.

Who directed “Training Day”? It’s not that bad. Guess I’ll discover the fact soon as the credits roll.

Rained in the afternoon. There’s a hole in my shoe. My sock got wet.

Antoine Fuqua?? Never heard of him before.

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Feature of a London Cafe - to the left: a descent to hell to achieve the toilet. The right: a ten foot narrow service and dining area, and the exit.



The street outside the cafe, the white building on the left is a collection of tiny hotels, we were staying in one of those.



We won't wove whisky - oh no.

I say:

I make the rules, I can beak `em.

Something different.

Let me break from 'routine' for a moment to share this picture. I was walking around Fremantle (as is sometimes my wont), taking pictures (ditto), and stopped to snap the Wesley Church in the ciy centre. Later that day, back at home, as I reviewed the shots I had kept for the day, I noticed something in this picture that I'd missed first time round. Check it out, it's in the bottom right hand corner.

Friday 25/5/07 - Bristol

Service off air.

J.W. bought himself a newspaper at the York Station change over. By mistake (or was it?) he reached for the Sun. That’s the paper with the page 3 girl. On the train he first read the sports, on the back page, for a while. Then, he flipped over the dirty rag and spied the front cover (usually the front cover has an inset picture of the girl with top on, but it appeared as though today the girl featured a see through g-string that was ‘sliding’ off her bottom (Hi, my name is S, I’m a pervert)). He frowned at this picture, perhaps thoughtfully, took in the details, and then flicked to page 3. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. He quickly and carefully rolled up the newspaper, and then the Sun disappeared behind a dark tweed cloud. I tried to find the paper last night, but to no avail: the canny fox had hidden it too well. Or thrown it out. My tiny, moralistic side hopes for the latter.

The train trip was hell, now I’m back in Bristol. But! I discovered good news. Akercocke and Cephalic Carnage, two of my big favourite bands, are sharing a double bill in London on one of the nights that I’m in town. Unfortunately, it’s the last night my mother is in England, and at a venue I’ve never been – but maybe I can figure it out. Fingers crossed. I’d love to see Cephalic Carnage live. Might even buy the new CD, so that I can, you know, leave it in my backpack for two months and not even listen to it once.

Mum never told Dad that we were going to hire a car – so she broke the ice today over the phone. Thankfully he wasn’t shocked to discover that I was the driver, just shocked at how sneaky we were. Driving was good fun, made me feel more independent than I have been over the last few weeks. (Even if there was some backseat driving going on – I swear – J.W. for the life of him doesn’t remember the layout of Inverness as how it used to be, half a century ago, and M can’t read a map.) But then it was back to hauling EVERYONE’S luggage on and off the train. And this time – because we were tired after the trip – I had to help M lug her bag into the taxi as well. Slept like the dead, I did.

Second test today. However, do you think Ken receives the cricket coverage on his TV service? Now M is dragging me somewhere. Not absolutely sure where or for what reason, but I gots to go.

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OK, we went to the shopping centre in Kingswood. Figured out the details of J.W.’s odyssey to Malta (his going by hisself!), bought post stuff from the post shop, a couple of presents, shaving essentials for Beardo, and figured out some B & B’s to call for when we’re in London tomorrow. Why am I labouring over specifics such as these? Can’t say I want to complain about Kingswood and its Kings, Drongoville and the drongos, Bumfuck Idaho and – you get the idea. It’s a rough area around here; tired builders draped in stained rags, tattooed mothers pushing prams, skinheads with bad teeth in two dollar shirts, the occasional war veteran, kids and kids sporting boob tubes and ra-ra skirts, severed pig’s heads hang skewered on sticks at each traffic intersection. A cold wind continually blows. We found respite at the local: Soapy Joe’s. Ordered lunch; curry chicken for S, chilli con carne for M. The side dish of pita bread was dry but it made a change; it wasn’t bacon, sausage, egg, or a combination of the three. Played a couple of games on the coin operated pool table. Old guy stepped through the door: thick glasses, long hair and a beard, muttering to himself. Looked like a Womble. He watched me pot a rack. “Wow! That took you just four minutes. I was timing. Want a game?” He puts a coin in the table, I rack up the balls. “The cue isn’t very good.” I tell him. “I haven’t played in a while.” is his reply. My mum giggles in the corner, “He’ll probably beat you.” I shush her. Womble breaks, two balls roll out of the triangle, hit the cushion. “Paul Newman”, she whispers. I shush her again, pot a couple, and then zap the white into the pack, which causes his yellow to drop. “Two shots mate.” (“Here it comes.” – “Shush!”) Womble makes a couple of pots – “He’s actually not that bad, he’ll probably beat you.” – and then misses. A couple of more visits, a few weak snookers, and I’ve won the game by three balls. “Do you play Snooker?” “Nah”, I mug, “I’m not very good at it.” We play again. He loses by five balls this time; I finish with a bank shot into the centre pocket. “Cheers mate.” “Did you say you play Snooker?” “Nope.” “Ah, now that’s a good game, much harder than this.” Felt like inquiring “How’s it harder?” but didn’t rise to the occasion. Just before we leave he asks my Mum, “Have you seen The Hustler, with Paul Newman?” What are the odds? That’ll be me in sixty years time, unable to hit the ball straight, challenging everyone to a game, talking about famous players twenty years dead and forgotten. I’ll exit the pool hall/pub and the kids will wonder “What’s the deal with that old cunt?”

Saw the Kingswood pool club from the bus window as it was pulling away from the curb. I was planning on going back later, but I have now been informed by Dot that the buses stop running by six. I am a prisoner for the night. Might just walk down there instead.

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I’m glad I came back to England; the experience has given me a lot of perspective. Don’t think I really want to come back. Scotland – sure. But England… I can’t explain it, gonna compute about the trip some more.

“Red hot wives?” Only the UK.

Popped into a news agency/corner store whilst walking (didn’t get lost!) home to Dot’s. This exchange ensued:

Customer: Ok, bye!
Storekeeper: See you.
C (suddenly remembering question): Hey! What’s with that girl who was here yesterday?
S: Oh –
C: Does she come in every day?
S: Yeah, she does.
C: My God. She was beautiful!
S: Oh yeah.
(A woman walks in; the customer doesn’t notice her now standing behind him.)
C: I tell you what; you could have a girlfriend like that and not want to FUCK HER, being with her would be enough.
(Customer turns around and looks at the woman.)
(beat)
C (to woman): I must sincerely apologise.
(beat)
C: OK, see you later!
S: Bye.

So I went to the pool hall. That’s all I have to say about that.

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BBC 24hr news has a news multi-screen option for: Headlines, News 24, Sport, Weather, Entertainment and - Madeline! The girl who was kidnapped in Portugal. Guh.

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“Toshiba is a top brand. Look, you’re not going to be embarrassed to get this out at the coffee shop, or at work.” Because you’re worth it, and not shallow and pretentious.
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Bristol Pool Hall - where's waldo?



Ken and M.



Dot, M. and Hazel (Dot's Daughter).

Thursday 24/5/07 - more commute

Har har! “Would you like spring or sparkling?” Don’t get the sparkling on the train – it gets all shook up and ends up frizzing over your pants. I speak from experience. Yes, the water is Elvis.

Spent another night in Inverness, the trip to Buckie took longer than expected. Alas; we didn’t get to see much of the town, just like last time, but managed to be there when the shops were open. Changed my perspective of the city that I was holding from the first impression – they don’t always count, those first impressions. Immutable laws can sometimes make mistakes too. That’s how folk tales are created, when the natural laws of things change and shift.

The white clouds slowly drop over the peaks and turn the horizon into fog and mist, conjure it invisible.

The Scottish are so nice! Not a bad word to say about them (besides from that time I called them insular, white bread, racists.) Had a bet on the Champion’s League Final. I’m now ten pounds lighter off. Hope I’m not regretting that in six weeks time, when I’m in a Viennese gutter, needle hanging out of vein, looking for my next fix. Gus Chambers from Rupture, I salute!

And now I’m on the train again, headed back down to Bristol. How long does it take, from Inverness? That’s be ten hours. It’s a little harder to bear when your grandfather stretches out his legs and sticks his new, hard, shoes into your soft, supple, shins.

I want to call Shan, or write her a letter about the last few weeks before I left, about how I feel towards her. But I did only send her a postcard a couple of days ago – that was a light and fluffy one – so I might hold off before I do something stupid. The time away has been good for my piece of mind. I really don’t want her to move to Melbourne. I have to stop worrying about that.

Flyin’ fidgety frog, there’s nine hours left to this trip!!

I miss driving the car already. ‘Twas a good steed, a fine ride, and an excellent servant.

There seems to be an over reliance on calculators by the service industry over here. I mean, sure, that makes sense for England. But Scotland too?! Sorry; a bad, prejudice jibe there.

The more you listen, the more to be learnt?

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I keep remembering this image and then forget to write it down. The location and date: last week, Thursday 17th, in Bristol. The scene: at a Pub, The Artichoke, ordering drinks at the bar. In the corner there’s a woman, a big woman, kissing a man in the late thirties, he has a shaved head. It looked like he was trying to suck out her tongue, or maybe even lower jaw. The man pushes the woman against the wall, grinding his mouth into her face, trying to slide his hands underneath her tight, stretched shirt in an attempt to rub her back. It wasn’t romantic, or passionate; it was pornographic. They finally stop, there is a God, and her cheeks are flushed red. I exit for the beer garden, horrified. End scene.

Granddad told me about the chickens that were kept at the Ferry house back when he was a child. “There were hundreds of them.” A set of train tracks runs by the house, and every time a carriage passed during the day there were feathers everywhere. The train travels too fast for you to be able to see the wheels – it appears as though the vehicle is hovering a couple of feet above the ground. The chickens usually tried to run underneath.

Trying to re-read Naked Lunch. I think the secret is not to attempt too many pages in one sitting. Still uncertain as to whether to assign the social context of the 50’s to the stories and characters. I also found a section at the back of the book I hadn’t seen before! Containing biographies, social and critical context, and more. I love it when I read a book, but miss out on pages from the first time round. It’s like reading a new book.

Travelling long distances really is no fun.

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J.W. contemplative



Highlands 1



Highlands 2



Naughty notebook



Highlands 3



Obvious

Wednesday 23/5/07 - Inverness

“Clever cunt that Steve Gerrad – too clever.” – Boozehound at the Thistle on Celt Street, Inverness.

Read up on the history of the Allan Campbell family – they who owned the farm before the Ritches – before bed last night. The primary focus was the deaths of the family members “… died of cerebral haemorrhage…” “… slipped down slope, broke leg…” … “died of injuries from shotgun blast…” Not what I wanted to consider just before sleeping in the spot where it all took place. The last words? “A far as I know both parents are dead.”

Drove from Beauly to Buckie today. Visited my grand father’s cousin Valerie (my second cousin.) She’s 76 years old. There’s not much to say that my photos can’t already tell. But before you get ‘em, something funny Valerie said. She’s only recently had a serious operation on her face. As soon as she could walk, after two days in intensive care, she woke at 9 in the morning and asked for the directions to the closest pub. Before she stepped out the door, her last words were “You can pick me up at closing time!”


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Buckie.



J.W.



J.W. and Valerie



Grolsch!



Valerie



The backstreets of Inverness



Pub Plant Rock

Tuesday 22/5/07 - Beauly

“The heart of Europe is a little off center.” – K girl.

Long tiring day. But after a hot bath, with a glass of wine, and then something else – it’s all peachy.

Bought a digital camera, so they’ll start to be some pictures to go with my ramblings. Probably unrelated to what I write – especially when travelling with others – but that’s how I think. What on earth am I talking about? You’ll just end up with pictures of my penis. Great.

It’s been … over 24 hours since I last wrote; so let me fill you in with what’s happened in that time period. Exited to the train at Inverness (had to, it was the last stop) and took a taxi to the B&B. Bit of an unusual experience. The B&B operated on a curfew of 11 o’clock and didn’t want to budge on that time if we were going to be late! Fair enough, we weren’t going to be that delayed. Anyway we arrived, and were ushered in. The house was nice enough, small but homey, and covered in notes everywhere. Notes on how to open the window, notes on not to sit on the new quilt, notes informing that we weren’t allowed to have a shower after breakfast, notes on menus, business cards, maps (all “do not remove”). On leaving wet clothes on the radiator (“Don’t” … “they never dry!”), how to use the shower, where to bin used napkins and condoms (doesn’t everyone know it’s up the bum?), a list of times on when to shower, washing clothes in the basin, how hot the water is, what time breakfast is served, reminders on handing back the key, that you don’t dare leave clothes on the sheets during breakfast (because that’s when the sheets are removed to be cleaned), and finally, a note explaining that the other notes are not meant to be offensive, so don’t be offended, thank you. Suffice to say, we didn’t sleep at all last night. (Especially M, she dreamt that my dad – her husband – came to visit and had pierced his ear with her jewellery.)

Last night, out on the town (Inverness), wasn’t great either: everything was shut. And the city is kind of grotty and windy and stuffy and, well, I’ll be honest, boring as bat shit. Enough of that, let’s talk about today.

My Grandfather is reading a book of sheet music, flipping through every page and occasionally poring over the odd few bars. I don’t know where to begin; I shan’t.

- Oh wait, I ran K! After a few glasses at an “Authentic” Italian pizza joint. Dutch courage. We spoke for so long I ran out of phone credit (the note writing geriatric was eavesdropping the whole time.) She sounded tired a little, cold in her voice maybe?, to begin with. I was nervous, regardless of the booze. But we soon warmed to each other’s company and had one of those spiralling, random conversations were you talk about everything with the other person and yet don’t finish any of the points raised. We had a laugh, talked about the trip, and tried to get around to discussing us meeting up but then the phone credit cut out. But a couple of emails today and I think we’re getting closer to that goal (she wants me to come along to the Pink concert on July the 6th; sounds fun). I dig that funny Austrian girl, talking to her stirs up so much emotion and memories inside me. Ah shit –

Today was the best day of the trip. We hired a car and drove to Beauly, my Grandfather’s birth town, a place he hasn’t been to in the last fifty-five years.

– My legs, shins, and arms, fore arms, are amazingly sore right now. –

Found the Glen Ord distillery – this is what I imagine my Grandfather’s idea of Disneyland would entail. The air outside smells like whisky; I’m not making that up. The way Jock talks about the distillery process, he makes the brewers out to be some sort of scientists: whisky scientists.

The way we lie here, side by side, our bodies touching, your fingers inside me, I want you inside me.

I’m tired, but here are some of things that stand out in my mind. Visiting the Campbell tartan store, where Jock’s father worked as a tailor, and two of the old girls (sales assistants) knew of his Dad! Beaufort gardens – where the family lived for a time – and the new owner, a belligerent (the only grump in Beauly) fat man, who told us Charlie Whitelaw was “the last character to have lived in Beauly.” I think we had interrupted his lunch. We floated down Ferry Road, saw the field J.W. played Shinty with his brother and sister. Then saw the section of river where the ferry crossed, and the Great Grandfather’s house across the water. J.W. spent the day telling everyone he saw in the town his life story and explaining what he was doing in town (a travel down memory lane). Then he’d quiz the person on the whereabouts of people he knew (from when he was a kid, seventy years ago.) Some could help him out, the younger under sixty crowd didn’t fare so well.

We’re spending the night at Rheindown Farm. The owners of this place were amazed to meet Jock. They talked about the town, people they knew. The Ritches couldn’t believe my Grandfather’s memory of details and events. It was hard to get them to shut up so we could leave and tour the surrounds. Then when we arrived back at the farm after the day on the road, straight away Mr Ritche popped his head out of one of the doors “Are you back then?” (M found that comment hilarious.) and “Do you know Allan Campbell?” Oh dear, even an exasperated J.W. mentioned “I think I’ve opened a car of worms there!”

I find it strange how Oldies are obsessed about the subject of death. Especially the way it pops up in the middle of conversation. “That horse died outside the shop, right?” – “My hushand – he been dead five years now – used to know…” and so on.

Alright, bed time my lover.

“Uh huh, Uh huh.” “Oh ho, oh ho.”

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The house at Rheindown has a rickety staircase of doom. Reminds me of the steps in “The Exorcist.” I’ve got pictures! The Scots in this town are just like the cast of characters in “The Vicar of Dibley”. Dinkum!!

And the English ads are fucking bullshit. They try to come across as genuine, and sincere, but just seem the opposite. I like how Aussie ads accept that they’re trying to convince you to buy a product, and revel in that by trying to sell all the bang you get for your buck. Sure it’s blatantly commercial, but I prefer that honesty to the touchy, feely, “justify your beautiful, snowflake individualism with our product” propaganda of the Brit ‘vertis’.

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(From top to bottom)
The view from one of the rooms at Rheindown Farm.



Outside Campbell's - as J.W. enters the store.



J.W.'s birthplace, possibly some renovation has occurred since he lived there.



Tracking down Ferry Road, J.W. in foreground, M in background.



The first page of the guestbook at Rheindown, note the dates.



An alternative view from the same room, same time of day - that stretch of water is the North Sea.

A note.

Here begins the photographic section of this blog. Diary and photos written 'back then' - comments on the photos I'm writing as I upload. No idea how much space blogger supplies, so for most photos I'll post them at a size around 40-50k. If they're special, I'll make the size a better quality.

Monday 21/5/07 - Kirriemuir/Inverness

I hope you’re getting something out of my innocuous, mild, travel diary. It might not be very exciting prose, but hopefully the events make up for the literary dullness. Cooped up in the suburb of … ha! Margo and Ronnie (the brother) are at work, so I’m here with J.W., no idea where I’m located. Faced with either the prospect of writing, reading, or watching TeeVee. Tried the cricket for a little while (Bangladesh versus India – snore), then in desperation surfed for something decent. Found: Nigel Kennedy playing “Bruch’s No. 1 Violin Concerto from the Romantic Repertoires, accompanied by the City of London Sinfonia”! I’m quoting from the televtext, if one (that’s you) was wondering. That’s something different, NK is something different. He’s playing a kind of – folk duet with a guitarist. Think I prefer that to the Sinfonia accompaniment. Not really a fan of the sound mix however, it is all NK (funny that.) But that might be a side affect of the televised performance. NK plays Bruch by rote, doesn’t react to the Sinfonia group or even acknowledge them at the end. When playing with the guitarist he sight reads over the guy’s shoulder, looking completely engrossed. When they’re finished NK motions to shake the man’s hand, well more like gangster rap it, and gets him to stand up and bow. Funny! When it’s all over he rips out some discordant notes from the ‘lin; the audience is nonplussed, all the momentum from the performance dissipates. Great work. “Brilliant” Margo would say. That’s from another TV show, I guess, don’t ask me which. (Actually I’m pretty sure it’s the “Fast Show.”) Good God, now the “Actor’s Studio” is on, please no. I swear too much. For someone who doesn’t bother with TV, I know too much about the shows. That’s because all you idiots ever do is talk to me about it! My obstinate attention to irrelevant detail never fails.

I’m not feeling this entry today. I think it’s time to try the K girl again. I wonder if I’ll ever get it together to have a normal relationship. Doubt it. Travel memoirs and ANGST. Shut up S.

Oh, all the pubs are owned by the breweries in town (or Dundee maybe?) Don’t know if that’s a good thing. Maybe I should have inquired further when informed about that fact, instead of sitting here now, by myself (what has J.W. been doing in the bathroom all this time?) pondering my navel.

English houses are poorly built. Sorry, it’s true. The floors creak, doors stick. Every house has its different quirk. Not sure why this is, but they seem to have a piecemeal approach to updating, renovating and adding extensions. There’s a lot of DIY going on too. See, this is an interesting detail. Isn’t it?

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Wow, I got really lost just then, walking to the shops and back. As charming as it is, that all the houses have a colour scheme of grey and red (in homage to the Kirrie old town), it’s bloody impossible to find a landmark. How someone got so lost on a five minute walk, I’ll never know.

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In Scotland, there will be a different accent/“brogue” in every town. Even in places two miles apart, there will feature a complete accent shift. Extraordinarily, everyone seems to understand each other perfectly well. Yet, watch Scots listen to a West Indian speaking on the TV – they have no idea what’s being said! I must say, unfortunately, that the Scots up here in the North are incredibly racist. They believe Islam (or “Muslim”, as they call it) wants to take over the globe and create a new world order (!).

I’m starting to think that when I type up this diary and “blog” it, I’m going to have different levels of censorship for whoever logs on. Otherwise some readers, close friends and family, will be in for a shock.

Two bone china breasts with pink bullet nipples stretch across the landscape and reach out and bore holes into the stratosphere.

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And! The author of the Peter Pan stories – uh, what’s their name – was also born in Kirriemuir! Alright, I’m not so excited about that.

Also rang K earlier, and actually spoke to her on the phone. The first time in… 18 months. Too, too long. I’d nearly forgotten what her accent sounded like. The last few times I rang, every time an Austrian answered, I immediately assumed it was her.
But part of my brain knew it wasn’t. [His nostrils are caked in ice and coke. Nobody tells him, they stare and stare instead.] She has such a great sense of humour. I was telling her the flight plan of our trip, and being busy in the office as I was speaking, she went “uh-huh” because she was half focused on other things. I said to her sarcastically: “I hope you’re paying attention; this is very important information.” She replied instantly with “Yes, I am taking detailed notes.” I think we’ve only ever had one bad conversation over the phone. Sterling repartee, that is.

Helen drove us from Kirriemuir to Perth (“Short trip” K said, “you flew from Perth to Perth”). Half an hour in the city – shit, we nearly boarded the Edinburgh train because M and J.W. were rushing, as headless chooks would do, like usual – and now we are all commuting to Inverness. If you don’t know your geography, that’s going from the foot of the highlands, right into their very heart. (“Our mountains here [in Kirrie] are baby hills compared to up North” said Margo.) But then again, I don’t know my geography, so that could very well be wrong.

Starting to enjoy the trip, I think. Going out with David yesterday, and having some time away from the rest of the travelling ‘fam’, was what I needed. My Grandfather’s accent is reverting back to type; stronger with each day we stay here.

I keep catching myself about to write in Scottish-English grammar: It’s infectious! I wish I had a highlander accent. Maybe I’ll cultivate one. Wow, the train is heading through a valley right now, it is beautiful beyond words.

My nephew Liam went to the hospital with a migraine. Turns out he had a piece of cardboard stuck deep in his ear. What the hell?

Sunday 20/5/07 - Kirriemuir

My pen ran out of ink! Borrowed another pen; that ran out too. And my watch isn’t on the right date – seems to be continually a day behind. I have to help it out, so to speak. Arrived yesterday in Dundee at about 5pm. Met up with my Second Aunt Helen, and she drove us over to Kirriemuir, the town where she lives. Kind of funny arrangement, Helen and her sisters (Margo, Morag) live close to each other in the suburb adjoining the town. Granddad and I are staying at Margo’s place (sharing a double bed, Mum at Helen’s house). Kirriemuir is a great little town, everything is made out of red sandstone; there’s even red cobblestone streets. ‘Cuz of the red motif, all the surrounding houses usually have some red colour built into them as well. It’s different, to say the least, but great at the same time due to the uniqueness.

Situated near by is the Glamis castle (pronounced Glams); which has an association with the Shakespearean play, MacBeth! That’s one of my favourite stories, so it was interesting to hear this completely random fact. Doubt if we’ll get the time to see the estate, as tomorrow the intrepid travellers head to Perth. The grounds are huge, a stone wall surrounds the estate, separating it from the road. To get an idea of the size, you can’t see anything of the Castle as you drive past, around the outskirts. Helen informs us that the Glamis family are big money, they own a big slice of the area – along with the castle, obviously – including the town of Glamis. Scottish people are lovely, that’s about all I can say about them at the moment. You get a much different vibe from them in comparison to the English. ‘Cuz I’m such an adroit observer of human behaviour (yep, a right anthropologist) I can’t say much more else for the time being.

The Scottish scenery is absolutely amazing and awe-inspiring: a real country of extremes. Fields of long grass shimmer from the wind. The churning North Sea sits on one side, highlands touching low white clouds reside on the other, in the middle towers and cities hang over the water. Two minute showers blow over and then it’s blue skies once again. Groups of hares sit up on their haunches and watch the high-speed train shoot by. The colour of the plant life is a green I never knew existed. “It’s like it’s painted on” says Helen, and she’s right.

Met too many relatives last night, I can’t even begin to explain their relation to me. Not having much trouble with the accent, however. I love the sound of it. Huge difference in accents throughout the UK – but you already knew that – even with something as simple as the ‘a’ sound. For the south it is a long sound, the north it’s short. Dot once hopped on a bus and asked for a ticket to “Beth.” The driver said “No, no. It’s Baaath.” Dot replied “Yes, I know that. I want a ticket to Beth.” Wonder if she threw a glass of wine at the driver, like she threatened Ken with a couple of nights ago.

The Scottish accent might be “easy” on my ear, but the spelling of the town names is something else – it just doesn’t add up. The word I believe is phonetics, or rather, the names are not phonetically compliant. Hmm, “fonetics.” I need to find an example.

On the train trip I was writing up a storm – you know this, you’re reading it – and last night Mum revealed that the woman sitting next to me was craning her neck to read my diary. “Sam’s writing is so bad it must have been like trying to translate Egyptian!” So take that, you nosey bitch.

I think we’re hiring a car in Perth, so that will mean that in the next few days we’ll have some more independence on the trip. The plan is to go to my Grandfather’s birthplace – the town of Beauly, located close to Inverness in the highlands.

And finally, tonight I believe the 19 year old second cousin Daniel (David? God, I’m terrible) is taking me out to do “young people things.” I am going to get him in so much trouble. The last of the hell raisers has arrived in Dundee.

What the hell am I talking about? It’s still only – what, it’s 11am already!?! I gotta go out and do something. But the fourth day of the test match at Lord’s beckons.

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It was David, I’m still terrible. Had a great time out with him, he’s a real gent. A day on the piss is a day out, not much to say boot it. Had a good talk, and some games of pool. Got to talk about Kirriemuir, and see the rustic pubs. Pretty different to our pubs back home – smaller, tucked away inside buildings, and more dingy, but I don’t mean that in a bad sense. Completely glad that smoking in pubs is banned. All of them seem to feature plasma screens playing sports and fussball matches, just like home.

Bon Scott was born in this town! Could have knocked me over with a feather when I heard that.

Unfortunately, I can’t remember any of the pub names. But I’m not that drunk, pretty straight actually. In one of the locals I managed to tip over a pint after only a couple of sips. The lager splashed everywhere! It was like a big puddle in the middle of the floor. Even managed to impress/shock the barmaid. But we do it big out in OZ. Not South Africa – like a patron seemed to think I was from. Hmm, David and I both had a lot of whisky, come to think of it. We get a lot of ‘pure’ Scot culture in Australia, maybe not the cuisine, but certainly the alcohol. Tell an Aussie they like Fosters, they’ll hit you. But all the Scottish drinks we get they have over here, so go figure. Scots food is all about meats and potato, cooked vegetables. Hearty meals too; I feel really bloated after the last few days’ indulgence. Must do something about that.

There was a brief hailstorm this afternoon; the stones were big baby! Like pebbles of ice falling from the sky.

Saturday 19/5/07 - in commute

Wow, I was feeling angry when I wrote that last entry. I was also more than a little drunk – again. So I thought I’d stop and continue tomorrow – that’s today, right now – otherwise I was doing neither of us any favours. The cause of the anger: IPOD troubles (or if we go by the name it pops up with whenever I plug it into the computer: SPOD). But that’s boring, so forget that. Also tried to ring the K girl, kept getting her voicemail. Felt like calling Shannyn too, but it would have been 4am in Perth. Frustrating day/evening all round. Still feeling mad and bad and frustrated. I really can’t do anything by myself so far on this trip; keep having to travel about in convoy. Mum seems to think I’m OK standing around with Granddad and waiting whilst she wanders in Bristol and becomes lost. We’re in a foreign country, for God’s sake! Logic has no meaning to her. But instead of writing one long complaint, I’ll continue yesterday’s story.

An aside; I just discovered my brand stinking new watch has a light. It’s very exciting. Right now we’re on the train to Edinburgh, at 5 minutes to 9 in the morning. Maybe I should look outside at the country shooting past, instead of sticking my head in this notepad. I always remember an entry I once read on livejournal (of all the literary giants to be found!) by some chap who had travelled extensively for a year. Not a badly written journal, some seemed to love him for one reason or another (Internet popularity contest), if a little egotistic (like I can talk with the web presence I used to emit.) Anyway, this entry complained about how he used to watch passengers with head in books, or listening to music, or even sleeping (!), as beautiful scenery flashed by their window, with them oblivious. I think he took as much umbrage at them finding their own reality, instead of dealing with the ‘reality’ right in front of them. Of course don’t ask what he was missing as he observed the others instead of outside. (K once told me “It’s all about the people.” I can see a picture of a mountain in a book.) However, I felt like writing, need to sate this desire (muse maybe? Never really had one, so I can’t say that), and one is travelling through South East England: some of the most beautiful – ah, forget it.

Met my junkie mate outside the train station again (saw him yesterday too in the town); he’d developed a limp.

Ha! A fellow passenger is reading “Yr very first Foucault” (Ok, it’s a Foucault reader, I’m being a dick). Talk about constructing reality… and there’s Michael Caine, thick cockney accent and all that, my lover.

So, back to the “booze and pool.” I decided to finally ditch the folks on the bus trip back to Dot and Ken’s, and try track down one of the Snooker clubs I saw the day before when also bussing back. Didn’t have much luck first try, both the clubs were locked up, but it took me a while to figure this out (“Open 24 Hours!” – ???), I had to ask the man working at “LA Gym” next door (“Alright.” No question mark) what the deal was. Back on the next bus, bus driver was a prick, didn’t want to give me change for a twenty pound note. Went a couple of stops, and a very “Bristol looking” (maybe I should say English looking – bad teeth, cacked on eyeliner to hide age, hard lines, she’d lived) woman hopped on the bus and sat opposite me. The bus driver opened his safety screen and pushed the secret “close” button above the bus doors. As he stepped out and just as the doors were about to shut, a woman, not the Bristol woman, spontaneously decided to rush out. She was nearly crushed. I say nearly, because at the very last moment the bus driver held back the doors. “Careless!” he said. To which the lady retorted, rapid fire quick, “Yes, you were careless.” Take that prick!

Anyway; the doors were shut again, leaving the bus, now driverless, waiting by the side of the road, full of passengers, in anticipation of the changeover. (Sure was nice of him to explain what was happening.) At this stage I’m starting to notice a peculiar, ammonia-like smell emanating from under my seat, and was getting the distinct impression that the odour was hiding another, rather ‘pisslike’ smell. The lady opposite lets out a harpy cackle – reminded me of a “Carry On” film actually – and began chatting away. To no-one. For the rest of the trip. Thankfully I didn’t speak back to her to begin with - my inner “crazy” alarm is a finely tuned device - but I was seriously considering reacting to her when she laughed, as I thought it was to do with the bus’ predicament. Turns out she was a broken record, looking to make eye contact with anyone, kept repeating a monologue about “he was Irish, but spoke with a Bristol accent” and was continually cackling that “Carry On” laugh. Her accent was Bristol thick, I could barely understand it, but then again, maybe it wasn’t meant to be. After five minutes of that, I abandoned all plans of finding the other pool hall and leapt out at the next stop in an attempt to escape the babble.

I was in luck, however, as this stop was close to a couple of the Bristol pubs that had pool tables (/table.) By this stage I didn’t really care where it was: pool is pool. I enter “The Fire Engine.”

The top point of the fence is a bifurcated prong 5 mls wide and razor sharp, even if it does look rusty. A trespasser swings his leg over and the point sinks deep into the thigh, the weight of his body leaves him hanging there, like a mock scarecrow, for 2 or 3 days, at least, before he’s found. Most of the blood has drained away.

So, after a long pint of Grolsch, and 4 or 5 balls potted, a couple of plasterers wander over to the table. Success! A game is going on. We had a couple of racks, started chatting. Floyd and Troy, both brothers, both Bristol, but not too thick (accent wise.) I tell ‘em where I’m from. They seemed a little dubious: “You’re not really tanned?” “Do you surf?” Story of my life. But I didn’t get too many stupid questions about OZ, besides from maybe “Everyone drinks outside, right?” Yes, the pubs have beer gardens. But we do sometimes drink inside. “Oh, I guess when it’s hot outside, like?” Two pints to the good, it was time for me to go – I would have just stayed and drank too much, the brothers didn’t want to play anymore – and wandered outside to catch the bus. It was running twenty minutes late, then rerouted, so I had to wait for the next ‘41’, it arrived three minutes later. The driver didn’t understand my accent! Tru Blue! He was a “Caribbean”, as Ken would say, (I must find the proper term) and I had to tell him four times “1 to Cock Road”, each time emphasising the “Cock” different. I think he finally gave me a ticket more out of sympathy than of understanding. We were driving down the street the entire time this exchange took place.

A skinny, lightweight, Indian man, about early twenties, neat moustache, glasses, sits across from me, won’t stop looking at me. I think I’m going to have sex with him in the train toilet.

Couple of quick notes to finish off with: My Mother tells me that she’s elderly because she’s 60. That’s crazy. I think of elderly people as pensioners, centurions. Not someone who still keeps a full time job and hasn’t lost any of her facilities. Well, OK, still has a fulltime job. And Kingswood has the worst library in the world. If the place in question stocks Stephen King and biographies, and not one Graham Greene novel, then, I’m sorry, you’re not in a library, you’re in a centre for illiterates. That’s it for today!

No, I lied. The Fire Engine reminded me of the Hyde Park Hotel in North Perth. Same kind of décor inside, and same festive feel. Much older, built around 17 hundreds but similar anyway. That’s it.

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I’m going to be honest; I’m not really enjoying this holiday so far. I need space! Looking forward to when M and J.W. part company with yours. Desperate to do my own thing, without needing to supply an explanation. Don’t want to decide anything, organise myself, or think. Really wish I could get the Ipod a working, so I can tune out completely, pardon the pun. I’ve noticed a couple of girls looking me RIGHT IN THE FACE so far on the trip. Australian girls might be wild, but they’re not very forward.

Friday 18/5/07 - Bristol

“I had a nosebleed last night. Luckily, I caught it before it did any damage.” – J.W.

My God, I have a bad hangover. Or maybe my hangover isn’t great enough. No idea what the last entry was about. Weather watch: it’s a funny one. The first few days it was windy and rainy – no surprises there. Today I woke up and the clouds were a swarming. Showers came down and then it switched to hot sun! (The Beeb weather presenter would label this day “Australian summer”. Don’t think so buddy, pal, darling dear.) But not hot enough to lose the rain jacket. Then the wind kicked up and up goes the zip. The sun is bright, though, but not particularly biting, however. I like the rain, so I’ve got no complaints. Can’t say I really think about the weather, unless it’s stinking hot. And it ain’t, so S hasn’t been thinking much about it.

“If we don’t have it in stock we can usually get it in by the next day.”

“I’ve been to Australia, it’s nice!” – I know street salesman, I live there.

Unlike say, the time I’ve spent in Bristol city. The Bristolians are a much different bunch to what I’m used to. They don’t say hello, they greet you with an “Alright.” No question mark. Don’t expect the sales staff to wait behind the counter; more so hide in the store’s backroom. If you seem confused about the unusual predicament, well, then they won’t help you out with clarification. That’s an obtuse statement, so consider this example, the store “Argos.” This is different fare to the usual set-up. There’s a couple of products in the store, mostly electronic, watches as well, but the majority of the products are in the backroom. That is because the store has its own catalogue, placed all over the shop. One finds the product in the catalogue, fills out a form for the requisite product, then takes the form to the counter, pays for the product, then takes the form to another counter and waits for the girl to produce the product. Well, this works all fine and dandy, unless you’re from another country, with no idea about this store, and four drinks to the good. In that case, you wonder why there’s no-one behind the counter (the product production counter), even though you’ve been waiting for service for over five minutes. When a member of staff finally appears, and asks for the product number you want, well, don’t expect them to explain patiently how the ordering system works. Just watch them bang the counter in frustration, as you call them a bitch in your own special boozy way and then insult their customer service technique. But! We still managed to buy a watch, regardless, so the point of the story is – not sure really, drunk Australians can do anything?

I was feeling grumpy and cooped up today, so I needed a couple of hours alone time. For me that manifests in booze and pool. I go to the Bristol “Fire Engine” Pub....

Thursday 17/5/07 - Bristol

Saw a slug. My brain isn’t what it used to be, I walk past places I’ve been before and realise I got the details wrong the first time I was there.

Doesn’t seem like anyone else wants to go into the city with me, but I’ll get my way – even if I must catch the bus.

I can’t believe how much rubbish there is in the borough/suburb of Kingswood – bottles and chocolate wrappers everywhere. Most of it strewn on the walkways; some of it right next to bins. It makes me feel sick at how lazy some people can be. And it’s not like we’re in the city either!! Aargh.

Just said “Good morning, Dot.” Dot informs me she feels like a zombie today. My eighty odd Great Aunt went to bed at “twenty to three” last night. Strong constitutions, those Scottish folk. Think some alcohol may have been involved. Dot is a real character – my Grandfather is too, but that’s another story – I wouldn’t say she was vitriolic, maybe more cantankerous? She certainly doesn’t take anybodies shit, “I call a spade, a spade” she would say. And she has a very, very dry wit – extremely funny, but you’ll never see her laugh. Tells intricate, accurate stories from years ago, decades even, and you feel like that it’s mostly true. And she’ll stop herself to remember a detail, just to make sure she doesn’t forget it (“the gas man was over – why was he here? – oh – that’s it, to check to meter – So the gas man was round and I told him I was having trouble turning on the oven…”) Great cook too, all the recipes in her head. I’m probably not doing her any justice with this description, but you get the idea.

I’m sleeping in the ‘basement’ of the house. But, nevertheless, it’s nice enough. There’s two large bookshelves filled with texts on military history (could do without them), a stereo, and a TV linked to the digital/fiberoptic black box upstairs. More importantly, there’s a makeshift bedside table, where I can leave my manly accoutrements – wallet, sunglasses, ears, I’d leave my keys there too if I brought any. The only downside is that Ken is on his smoking kick again, with Turkish tobacco, no less. He smokes outside in the garden, but I don’t think the sliding door can be all that ‘watertight’ (‘smoketight’) as the smell pervades the basement. It’s not as bad as it sounds, I’m just sensitive to the smell, coming from my increasingly cigarette free country. I’ll get used to it soon enough I’m sure, and by the time I arrive back in Perth I’ll have a three-pack-a-day habit, and new complaints about the anti-smoking regulation of Australia.

I can earn thirty thousand dollars a year as a driving instructor, the television informs me. Right. Interspersed by pornographic advertisements for women’s beauty products.

Been wondering whether to say if this house is Ken’s or Dot’s, or “Ken and Dot’s” house. But it nicely sums up Dot’s personality to say that the house is hers, regardless of the fact that they’ve been a married couple for a long-time and owned many houses over the years.

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One million Englishmen sigh out a sensual, ingenuous “Sorry.”

A skinny blonde thing flits from one bus seat to the next, asks fresh faced, dead eyed no dick patrons the cost of burning a hole in her palate.

The shopkeeper holds her nose up to the clock face. “Which one?” “The One in front of your fucking face!”

A couple of blonde kids, at every counter and scene, give us bad instructions, tell us to follow the “straight” streets in the winding, mini-metro shit hell.

“Where is the luggage section?” The information girl replies: “I don’t know.” Hard RnB cracks skulls in the background. “Don’t give me none of that black face powder.”

We’re so very drunk, the day is only starting to heat up and burn down into us.

“Do you want a bag or something to wrap around the handle?” – “Just cut off the fucking tags!”

I’ve lived in this town for 25 years but I don’t know where anything is. My new watch is cheap, but it still cost over sixty dollars.

“English girls are shy, and pale. Australian women are all beautiful.”

My grandmother was from Folkstone, but spoke with a cockney accent the entire time she lived in OZ.

When I was 3 I did speech therapy for six months – first time I ever heard about that. My parents remember my older brother’s first words, but not mine. My father was blind drunk with vomitus when I was born. I have been birthed into unremarkability.

Never answer the phone, don’t enjoy open spaces, cities, large gatherings of people, social interactions, the letter open process, never answer the phone.

Wednesday 16/5/07 - Bristol

Wow, I hate television. I’m seeing a growing trend in advertisement regarding global warming. Just then – a washing liquid commercial, “turn to 30”, a happy polar bear looking at the melting ice caps no longer melting as fast. And I remember in the Dubai terminal: oil companies, energy companies, informing us loyal customers from the billboards that they’re concerned about the environment and doing that and this to address the problem (“our concern”). So an environmental issue is transformed into another insidious form of corporate branding – we can buy their products again because they aren’t contributing to climate change! If I purchase what they sell it means I care about climate change! Well bullshit to that with a capital ‘B’.

In my Great Aunt’s suburb of Kingswood, all the houses have brown tiles on the roofs. Brown tiles and nothing else. “Grey” England indeed. My Grandfather pointed it out to me, as we made tea in the kitchen, looking out the window from the top of the hill. Then he began lamenting about the sewerage problems (his forever obsession of the last few years) there has to be in this place, ‘cause he was told by the town planner in Albany (a town south of Perth, reachable in five hours by car) – when he was considering, vaguely, of selling his property – that his 4 acre block couldn’t be developed because he was on a septic pump, and the resulting sewerage replacement would be too expensive since it would have to cross over the “main road” (overstatement when talking about Albany); and if that was the case, then imagine what the tiny valley here, with houses running up the hill and roads criss-crossing a plenty, would have to go through. Southern area of England and all that urban sprawl deal.

Yesterday, when waiting at the bus station for Ken to pick us weary travellers up, a man interrupted a conversation my Grandfather and I were having. He wanted any spare change we had. “Nah, sorry.” Off he skipped. Then; all three of us were outside the station, in preparedness for the immediate arrival, and this man, all in black, dressed quite neat, walked up again, said the same thing as before - “I’m sorry to interrupt folks” – and didn’t even recognise he had already asked us minutes before. It makes no difference. The spiel we get - money for a hostel tonight, I’m short of change. We didn’t have any. “Maybe you have some notes?” he has a fistful in his hand that he could exchange for a bigger one. It’s all the same, he sees a woman, the suitcases, plays on a tourist’s alien-to-the-area sympathy, disposable income, all that.

When I was living in Melbourne’s inner city I started to know the pan handlers by sight, every day they’d use the same story, give the same blank look, with no recognition, it didn’t matter how much you gave them yesterday, if you gave anything, they’ll ask again and again. One man even had an alcoholic’s confession: “I’m going to buy some cheap nasty booze!” and would expect 4 or 5 bucks! But the way he sounded so proud of his ‘addiction’ – whatever it was – and waited for the money expectantly, I don’t know how he made any money. I bumped into that man a couple of times, and once we had a shouting match in the street when I refused to give anything. “I have no change” – I really didn’t – but that’s Melbourne for you, you start to get into the hip, surly vibe of the locals after a while. If you’re not careful, you end up in a band, and pretty soon you’re asking people on the street for money to cover your recording costs. Don’t get me wrong, I’m aware that there are bona fide homeless people out there, people who are in desperate need of help, but there are better mediums to get money out to them besides from giving out cash to random druggies in the street. Truly desperate people tend to not loiter outside shops, or bus stations, all afternoon. And that’s my thoughts – rants? for this Wednesday morning.

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I just walked up to the local shops, Tescoes, saw the local pub, “The Old Plough”, and then a house with red window sills (and a brown tile roof, of course.) The plaque outside read “Appletree Cottage.”

Ken is focussed on the growing multiculturalism of the United Kingdom. He seems to think it’s a good thing, and that the integration has shown him that most people are the same. “We get hurt, we cry. We find something funny, we laugh.”

Granddad is shocked by the number of Audis, BMWs and Mercedes he has seen in the streets – “Can’t they buy English cars?” Mini-Morris’ and Aston Martins, I suppose. The name’s Whitelaw, Jock Whitelaw. If I found it hard to spend time with Australian TV, it’s going to be impossible with the UK Beeb (even with the digital/fiberoptic black box). Why I even care, I cannot say.

Ken has an eggcup holder with a reindeer motif. My Mother’s: china teddy bear mouldings hang from the holder.

Energy drink in a 500ml can. Gentlemen, we are entering the city limits of Heart Palpitation.

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Went for an after-dinner, evening constitutional. Dot and Ken’s house on Cock road is right next to the “open space” named, imaginatively enough, the “Cock Road Ridge.” So I decided to walk over and check it out. Ended up ambling for an hour. It was amazing; basically a cross between a huge field and a forested area, wedged between Kingswood and a main highway. Very fertile and lush, teeming with life, (I saw a hare and numerous pigeons, couples and families walking their dogs, I heard an owl and other unidentified creatures in the undergrowth), various paths leading through the trees, so very clean and devoid of garbage and dog shit (sort of), with another great view over one of Bristol’s many hamlets. Beautiful. I’m loving this Northern light, I shall return to Perth a piece of translucent ectoplasm.

Paradise lost (a film, not the band): “Genuinely terrifying” – in preference to that fabricated terror. You know, it’s one of those real fiction films. Yuk yuk.