Sydders

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. We are just about to touch down in Sydney. It’s a gorgeous seventeen degrees outside, and we’re expecting a flawless twenty-two today on the harbour. The conditions are ideal for yachting while listening to Phil Collins, sipping on wine spritzers in immaculate white slacks or staging the best Olympics ever.

Would you please return your collars to the upright position. Welcome to Sydney.”

I was there this weekend for a wedding – the sun was gleaming off the water, lovely fluffy cumulous clouds amassed in a perfect ‘V’ on the horizon, a light breeze riffled the Coogee pines and tow-headed children played in the shallows as though preparing for a photo shoot for Target.

I had a wonderful time. But the place just cracks me the hell up.

What is notable about Sydney these days is not the white sails of the Opera House, nor the Deco fabulousness of the Harbour Bridge, nor the meandering hills, valleys and wee historic walkways everywhere, nor the lush national parks right in the centre of town, but how UNBELIEVABLY PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE everyone is about Melbourne.

It hits me around the face like a big, smug harbour view every time I arrive. It’s as though the more gratuitously Sydney is praised, it has to be in inverse proportion to totally slagging off the city of my birth and place of residence. The phenomenon is not actually receding any more, it’s getting funnier and funnier.

I’ve had the following identical conversation the past three times I’ve been there:

Sydney local (apropos of nothing): You’re looking very Melbourne today! So Melbourne!!
Me: Why thank you! And might I say you’re looking very cream/peach/aqua! Your teeth devastate me.
Sydney local: I love Melbourne. LOVE LOVE LOVE IT. I go there all the time!
Me (thinking why don’t you live there then): Really? Where did you go last time you were in town?
Sydney local: Ooooh, everywhere. We went to this great restaurant in St Kilda. Then we bought fantastic fresh produce at the Victoria Market (starting to read from a booklet called ‘Things to do in Melbourne’ by John So). And the little laneways! You just turn a corner and why, there’s another little bar! Or some public art!
Me: It’s true, we rock. Have you ever been to Brunswick?
Sydney local: Where Brunswick Street is? Oh yes, marvellous. Just like Sydders in parts.
Me: No no Brunswick the suburb. Where, er, Sydney Road is.
Sydney local (laughing in a superior fashion): Indeed, no! I must say though, next time we go, we’ll be bringing our entire wardrobe. SHIT weather there. ABOMINABLE. In the morning the sun was out! Then it rained – then hailed. Then there was a hurricane.
Me: I suppose white does go see-through in the rain. It’s a bitch to keep clean.
Sydney local: PS your beaches suck.

Did you see what happened there? A backhanded compliment, lobbed high into the air then driven home right at the end.

Perhaps I should attempt an explanation for the non-Aussie readers. Here’s a potted history off the top of me head:

Sydney has long enjoyed a reputation as Australia’s premier city. For yonks it’s been the place you send your foreign guests for an inexhaustible supply of views, ‘activities’ and men like Bill Granger, pictured. And for yonks, Melbourne has long enjoyed a reputation as Australia’s crappest city. Due in no small part to the fact that the media has traditionally taken delight in taking the piss out of our little grey southern home (a place a whole 800 km south of Sydders, hence the fact that the weather’s a little different).

I can assure you that as a teenager there was nothing to do. We used to go into the empty city on the weekends and roam around like wild dogs. There was something like one pub, which would close at midnight. People still reminisced about the 1956 Olympics. Or the Gold Rush. Everyone was embarrassed to say they were from Melbourne.

Then Jeff Kennett happened. Schools and hospitals were closed down, public transport was privatised and a casino and a Grand Prix opened up. Victoria went from being $9 billion in debt to somethingorother in the black in the twinkling of an eye. Some thoughtful cove changed the licensing laws, so that any fool with $300 in his jeans pocket could open up a bar the size of a cat carrier. Not only that, but you could stay out well past 3am. All the interesting, kooky properties in the city that had stood empty for so many years were rented out to people with a degree in stencil art who could make the sort of cocktail you invent at 5am when all the best booze has been drunk already.

All of a sudden everyone wanted to live in Melbourne. There’s quite an amusing article here, which I found after Googling ‘Sydney wankers’.

Meanwhile back in Sydders, the pokies – those destroyers of culture, atmosphere and soul – became a feature of nearly every pub (in Melbourne, the pokies stayed largely at the casino, or Tabaret venues you’d never want to go to in the first place). There’s more to it than that, but from someone who enjoys a drink, a swear, and a wardrobe full of warm black clothes, that is the god-honest truth.

Despite this recent history, Sydney locals still display this kind of bizarre hysteria when talking about their home. I was once there for New Year’s Eve, standing atop a building in expectation of the famous ‘Sydney fireworks’ (they let off fireworks up there as often as you and I let off gas). And one woman was beside herself with excitement. She howled and screamed, and threw her arms towards the conflagration. She drummed her little stilettos on the ground, she ran in circles and capered about. Much nonsense was spouted:

“OMG………..so exciting!!..........beautiful………..no-one does it like we do……..…this is the best fireworks of the BEST CITY IN THE WHOLE WORLD!!”

A Spanish friend and I looked at each other silently, our glance saying everything. We stood on hand ready to call the ambulance, but she pulled through. But I think the last comment highlights what I’m trying to figure out here.

It’s not enough for the Sydneyites to rejoice in their admittedly stunning city. Oh no – not only is Sydney gorgeous, but it’s pronounced to be bigger, brighter, more radiant and easier on the eye than anywhere else in the world. But they do not stop even there – a comparison must be drawn – in contrast everything else must look just a little bit shit.

What is with that?

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. We are just about to touch down in Melbourne, where the local temperature is…….wait for it……..are you ready….eight degrees (groans and murmurs of passengers). We hope you enjoyed your time in Sydney, where eye contact only happens via reflective surfaces in bars, people like Bill Granger and Baz Lurhmann are heterosexual and it never rains. Stay warm.”

End of an era

I’m a bit bummed actually. I ventured outside last night to pluck some stockings off the line, and what do you suppose I found – the neighbours have cut down their giant fig tree!

When I say ‘their fig tree’, I actually mean ‘my fig tree’. The only difference being the broken-down fence separating the tree from my fond embrace, but you say ‘fig’, and I say ‘FIGG’.

What sort of person would cut down a flourishing fig tree? A tree that does nothing but offer a juicy harvest and plentiful shade? A tree that gives not only to its owners, but to its neighbours and the people passing by in the back lane? A tree that provides a home and a dining table to leather-skinned bats and rainbow lorikeets?

I don’t mean to overstate things, but it’s the sort of person who has no soul. It’s like cutting down a bodhi tree, a baobab or one of those trees they obsess over in Thailand and tie bits of coloured string to.

The fig tree is, or was, a major feature of my house, you know. Who cares about a north-facing whatsit or a plum-coloured feature wall with turquoise accents? The fig tree brought its own beauty to my rather run-down yet filled with character house.

What about Figgtacular? I had only been talking about it for about two years before I actually had one. Does this mean the end of Figgtacular 09? I had already written the lyrics for the invite! Costumes! Special effects! Music selected! I WAS GOING TO MAKE MY ENTRANCE ON A DONKEY.

My dreams are all shattered – and the backyard is bare.

In other news, I had the most fabulous dream about Andre Rieu last night. He was about 6ft 8, and took me for a dazzling waltz across a garden; we pirouetted, we leapt like fauns, we grand jêté-ed, we pranced. It was brilliant.

Five weird and random things you never knew about me meme

I was tagged by both Mai and La Blonde Canadienne for this a while back, BECAUSE THERE AREN'T ENOUGH RANDOM AND EMBARRASSING THINGS ON THIS BLOGGE ALREADY. Here ‘tis.

1. Yoghurt makes my cheeks sweat
It’s true – this came up the other night after dinner, and I was considerably taken aback to hear that not everyone suffers from this affliction. Although I often boast about being able to eat ‘nearly anything’, I have a number of food-related neuroses:

-I am violently opposed to celery. It brings on the sort of fear you get when a very long hair goes down your throat and you think you’re going to choke.
-If the colour grey had a flavour, it would be Brussels sprouts
-I once made some Borscht so strong and sickly that not only did I throw it away in my kitchen bin, but double wrapped it and put it outside in the bigger bins. Even thinking about it now makes me slightly sick.
-I am fond of offal: liver, kidneys, sweetmeats, you name it
-I eat two eggs nearly every day
-I love airline food – it’s the little compartments
-Sometimes I’ll go through a phase of eating food of only one colour: a week of pumpkin soup, carrot salad, oranges, Twisties, sometimes a week of zucchini bake, broccoli, spinach, salad with dark leaves, green cordial and asparagus, or cauliflower and potato curry, glasses of milk, rice, milkos. I’m not being clever, it’s what I feel like at the time, and I’m a big fan of going with what your body tells you.
-I love looking at really old photos of food in ancient cookbooks, preferably black and white. It gives me a creepy feeling to think that not only was it devoured, or congealed decades ago, but that all the people who ate it might be dead.

2. I can be prey to some strange passions and/or obsessions
Don't worry, I'm not going to divulge anything seedy. But through my life I've gone through wee phases where I've become completely swept away by a thought, a movement, a historical period or even a way of speaking.

When I was younger, this took the usual childhood path of Margot Fonteyn and ballet, any film with Michael Douglas in it or drawing up elaborate plans for underground secret societies. The ushe. As I got older, this mutated into far odder preoccupations, not your normal teenage sighing over The Smiths, New Kids on the Block, The Cure and other likely suspects for people my age.

I was once in love with Yahoo Serious. For anyone who doesn’t know who he is, he’s…not cool. I covered an entire wall in my bedroom with cuttings and articles I collected, saw Young Einstein four times at Chaddy, and pondered what Lulu Pinkus had that I didn't have. Not only that, but my love craved a more disturbing, physical expression. I demanded my mother alter some black shorts for me, so I could wear them with suspenders, boots and a white shirt, just like my hero. Mad. (check out that pic…as dorky as he was, you’ve got to admit he’s a bit of a dish)

Some other queer obsessions included:
The scouting movement, in particular the life achievements of Lord Baden-Powell
Freemasons
The colour green
Ghosts and the paranormal

As you know, I’m currently likely to roar things like ‘toodle-pip’ and ‘gadzooks’ and decorate my office in a faux-1800s style, but I think I manage to keep most eccentricities these days to a minimum.

3. I once picked up a sailor called James Dean
Oh yeah, you read it. Happened in Singapore, obviously. Home of all dodgy expat shenanigans.

Every now and again the city would be blissfully flooded with sailors on shore leave – we're talking crew cuts, tight white outfits with navy trim, and boys who haven't seen the inside of a bar, or a woman who's not spreadeagled in the centrefold of a magazine, for six months or more.

While sitting in the back of a club, I verified his claim to fame (sterling pickup line, non?) by checking his ID card. I ascertained that yes, not only was his name James Dean, but that he was VERY YOUNG.

We arranged to meet up later that week at Newton Circus, an expensive hawker centre you take people who are in town for a short period of time who are not yet conditioned to regular hawker centres. When I arrived, to my horror I realised that we were CHAPERONED.

Oh, yes. I was on a double date with a very young sailor man, the ship's chef and his wisecracking Hispanic girlfriend. Apparently that is how the US navy conducts their 'onshore affairs' for safety reasons. Because desperate Aussie women with a love of old movies are ravening sickos, obvs. This was not what Anchors Aweigh had led me to believe.

As we ate our overpriced and underspiced tucker under the sweltering lights, I yakked on about my life in Singapore, keeping them entertained with my anecdotes, because I am nothing if not a gracious hostess and a good sport. While I rattled away, I noticed they were all staring at me keenly. Damn I'm funny, I thought. I was wiping away the ever-familiar sweat moustache as I spoke, and even whipped out one of those tiny packs of tissues they love in Asia, to wipe my face.

Yak, yak, yak.

Finally, the wisecracking Hispanic girlfriend could contain herself no longer.

"Um...you've just wiped little bits of Kleenex all over your face."
My yakking ceased as they all continued to stare at me avidly.
"Where?"
"Er...there. And there. And up there. It's come off, all over you!"
"Um. Is that better?"
"No there's more. Over there as well."
They manfully held in their giggles. Blasted cheap tissues I bought from that old guy at Raffles Place Station! Blustering away, I eventually wiped my face with my t-shirt and kept munching on merrily.

Sex did not ensue. But blogging material did.

4. I discriminate against people on the basis of their appearance
Oh, I'm not talking about skin colour or race. As previously discussed, these differences from my own are always a bonus. But I have a long list of certain physical characteristics that give me the heebie-jeebies. I blame my upbringing – some prejudices get passed down, like skin tags and chicken legs.

So here’s a list, with a celebrity example to illustrate my intolerance. Prepare to be offended...NOW:

People with earlobes that just disappear into the side of their head like molten plastic (see Paltrow, Gwyneth)
People with no gap between the top of their eyeball and their eyebrow (see Gellar, Sarah Michelle)
People with short, stubby fingers (hate to say it – see Reeves, Keanu)
People with noses where you can see up each nostril (you see them all over the place in American soap operas)
People with eyebrows that come down towards each eye in a permanent scowl (see Kidman, Nicole)
People with perfect, straight teeth (anyone on those makeover shows who goes in with wonky, interesting teeth and comes out with 6km of dazzling white choppers that impede speech)
People with eyes on either side of their head like a flounder (see Spears, Britney)
People with the cold, flat eyes of a shark (see McPherson, Elle and George Clooney's new girlfriend)
People who pluck their shit out of their eyebrows with no finesse (see Aguilera, Christina and Carey, Mariah)
People who have the sort of prissy, smug face you'd like to slap (see Affleck, Ben)

Of course reading this you might presume that I’m smashing-looking with a personality to suit, but that is not the case either. I’m just saying: I. DON’T. LIIKE. IT.

5. I celebrated the turn of the millenium in Timbuktu
As we all know, New Year's Eve exists only to make everyone feel crap about themselves. Single people feel shite about having no-one to pash when the clock turns to 12. Parents of young children decline a second shandy, secretly wanting to tie one on again with their single mates but knowing they'll be tucked up in bed by 11. Teenagers wish they could be just a bit older, older people wish they were younger. And the elderly flick between channels 7, 9 and 10, snorting at Daryl Somers' lame schtick, Rhonda Burchmore's wobbly high kicks and Catriona Rowntree's extremely long bosoms, but wish they had something to dress up for again, just like V-day. It's always a massive letdown.

This is probably the one NYE I've had that lived up to expectations.

I was hanging out with assorted odd bods from the Peace Corps, and we decided that as every man and his rabid dog was headed to Timbuktu for NYE, we would too. After three days' hard travel on an overcrowded pinasse, we spread out over town, which was heaps more interesting and less touristy then everyone had imagined. The sandy streets were filled with all sorts of random Malian tribes, in particular the gorgeous Tuareg tribesmen fluttering about on motorbikes and camels. I also saw a man with no jawbone.

We watched the last sunset of 1999 from the flat roof of a mud brick house overlooking the sand dunes. Then found ourselves at this completely insane party at one of the bars.

I was pursued by no less than four blokes, who literally chased me all over the bar. They got shirty too, and started shoving each other. I recall shouting at the top of my lungs in a mixture of Franglais, Arabic and Bambara, and them yelling back. It was nearly pitch black in the desert, punctuated only by candlelight and the occasional oil lamp.

It got fantastically out of control, and the dear Quan, the world's most peaceful man, got into violent fisticuffs with someone and had to be dragged away, screaming in all of his four languages.

I finally whittled the four blokes down to two – and I remember trying to hang a wee in the dark (Malian loos are just three mudbrick walls and no door), with two of the guys jostling at the doorway. I think I screamed in frustration. We were all drinking Black Horse gin and tonic and Castel beer, obviously a recipe for unbridled chaos and madness. In the distance we could hear gunfire, and the sounds of the 400 French people who had flown direct from Paris for a private party at one of the hotels.

I staggered up the narrow stairs to the roof, where I'd kept all my stuff. I passed out on my sleeping bag, and came to at 12:15, covered in mosquitoes, having missed the turn of the century. I wandered downstairs again and continued carousing, minus poor Quan, plus some drunk gendarmes. Everyone seemed to flee into the night at this stage, and er, I can't remember the rest.

The next day I woke up on the roof with all my bedding wound around me like seaweed, top and tailed next to a blond, bespectacled Midwestern man who spoke in a monotone. Not what you think – he was as exciting as Quan is violent.

When we finally left town, all 80 of us on top of our luggage piled in the back of a giant camion, every kid in Timbuktu raced out of their house howling for all they were worth, throwing sand and sticks. Their exasperated parents also rose up as one and chased them down, spanking bottoms, stamping feet and bellowing with annoyance. We cheered at the sight, and left in a plume of sand and dust.

It was quite the evening.

Parents for sale, cheap

Travel on public transport has been a bit wearing of late. It’s not as though I have a choice in the matter, but not to exaggerate the issue, every time I get on a tram or a train something utterly rancid and foul happens. And it’s getting worse.

If it’s not bogan chicks blowing smoke on their gremlin offspring it’s the sparsely-clad, screeching Gen Y’s toting Bacardi Breezers in their implausible handbags, oceans of discarded fast food wrappers, wild-eyed chromers up the back, drunks having a leak between the carriages or the increasing number of violent arrests of surly Oliver Reedish gents by Connex ‘officers’ with a degree in non-verbal conflict resolution.

One of these arrests occurred across my lap, but that’s a story for a different post.

So it gladdens my heart to know that occasionally, some things happen on trains that aren’t totally feral. On the weekend I was involved in the following exchange at Flinders St with a chap in a Crows guernsey and two long-suffering parents in tow:

Chap: Parents for sale! Parents for sale! Going cheap! Offer ends soon!!

Bystanders: …..

Chap: Will anyone buy these parents? Going cheap!

Me: How cheap?

Chap: How much have you got?

Me: I’ll give you five bucks the pair

Long-suffering Dad (eager to join in the japery): What about twenty-five bucks? I have it here!

And then we all cacked ourselves, thinking us mighty witty.

A moment in time

The other week at Savers I found a curious object, nestled amongst the old man’s reading glasses, Pierrot windchimes and broken barbeque tongs. It was long and silver, rounded at one end and looked like a very thin, groovy sort of Esky. I unscrewed one end and discovered it was a time capsule. Well, it said on the side: Time Capsule.

Ten bucks! Mint condition! Bargain!

I realised only at that moment a time capsule was exactly what I needed, so tucked it under one arm and bustled off to join my friends at The Retreat. On the way to the beer garden I was assailed by various wags who seized it, placed it in front of their groins and made thrusting gestures at their delighted friends. Merriment ensued. Melbourne men know their way to a woman’s heart, do they not?

Now I’ve got this sparkling new time capsule ready to fill, and haven’t an earthly idea what to put in it. What of mine could represent moi in Melbourne in 2008? What’s going to last that long? And where should I put it? Newspaper clippings will degrade, CD players and computers will become outdated and photos will stick together. And if I bury it in my backyard, some insufferable couple years from now will dig it up, replace it with a trompe l’oeil of a Tuscan vineyard and use the capsule as a toybox for their repulsive child.

Racked by this beastly vision, I turned to the Internet:

-Andy Warhol used to keep all his old crud in a series of cardboard boxes, which viewed as an exhibition only 20 years later is really interesting.
-The Crypt of Civilization is designed to be opened in the year 8113, according to 1930s boffins, the ‘midpoint of recorded history’.
-There’s a proposed time capsule in space, the KEO. As it’s designed by an artist with things in it like ‘a diamond with a single drop of blood inside’ and will ‘sprout an artful pair of wings’, I’m sensing the launch date may be a while away.
-And a totally daggy-sounding Yahoo time capsule.

The consensus is that most time capsules don’t provide much historical information of value. If it’s to be any good to people in the future, you’ve got to fill it with insightful bits and pieces of daily life such as personal documents and images, rather than prime ministerial speeches, baby’s bootees and your footy tips.

Another problem is that if a capsule is sealed for a certain amount of years, then the intervening generations will have no access to what’s inside them. There could be something totally random inside that makes no sense to people hundreds of years on. “What’s this,” they’ll screech, their feelers waving excitedly, sniffing your hot water bottle then stuffing it down their pants. But we make do.

In terms of the ‘daily life’ proviso, my problem is that I don’t really feel of my time.

I don’t own an iPod or a digital set-top box – whatever that is. I don’t really do gigs or outdoor festivals or even movies any more. I don’t own a house, a dog or a car (I’d rather be tearing around town in bloomers on a penny-farthing. Or on a horse and trap. Or in a litter, borne by six husky gents in their prime). And then I’ve never done (many) drugs, or shagged my way around Europe or had an ill-advised live-in relationship with a musician or a comedian. I feel that modern architecture, modern art and computer games are all a total waste of time. I just don’t get it. Most days I feel completely in the wrong place and time.

Neither do I feel particularly of my gender.

I can't afford 'retail therapy’, and don't own a hair-straightener. I don’t think life owes me a Big Day and a pouffy dress. I don’t insist in martyred tones the need for 'me time'. ‘All the bloody time' is 'me time.’

It seems a bit fash for modern ladies to take great pride in the fact they cannot cook. “Nope! Couldn't boil an egg!!” they say delightedly, as if we should all fall on their necks and congratulate them. Who should cook for them, one wonders? Somebody else, one presumes.

Men of course have gone the other way. They fret over buffalo mozzarella and verjuice and Jamie Oliveresque shit like we should all congratulate them, then throw ourselves naked on the ground to await ravishment. Pah! I have no time for that posturing either. Cooking is a fundamental requirement for human survival. If you can’t, or won’t do it, then you should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself. If you can do it, then fix me something nice and I’ll pour the wine.

And then there’s the ‘tude. I just don’t get what makes most people tick any more.

I think I’ve well and truly covered the excess consumption thing on this blog. It also seems quite trendy these days to parade a litany of minor ailments and injuries. Just check out the number of nasal sprays and cold & flu tablets at the chemist that cure nothing. TV shows. Articles on good health. A multi-squillion dollar industry. Don’t get it. If it’s not the sinuses it’s the sore back or cricked neck or general ‘stress-related ailment’ that seems to afflict so many. Myself, I take great pride in the fact that I'm in continual rude good health. Unless you’ve got a genuine illness or injury – what have you got to complain about?

And what’s with the busyness all the time? You ask how someone is these days, and the answer is always the same: “So so busy! So much on,” they say, as if they’re even a bit too busy to have this conversation. We are all busy. Get the fuck over it.

Where was I? Time capsules, yes.

The International Society of Time Capsules at Oglethorpe University in the States has the following tips on making a good one (my thoughts in italics):

Select a retrieval date. A 50-year or less time capsule may be witnessed by your own generation. The longer the duration, the more difficult the task. Centennial (100-year) time capsules are popular.

Choose an ‘archivist’ or director. Committees are good to share the work load, but a single person needs to direct the project.

OK the committee is you guys. Comments below.

Find a secure indoor location. It is not recommended that time capsules be buried – thousands have been lost in this way. It is important that the location be marked with a plaque describing the ‘mission’ of the time capsule.
Tee hee. My mission is to waste time and amuse myself. To become immortal? To waste 10 bucks I could have spent on beer? To waffle on about me me me??

Secure items for time storage. Many things your committee selects will have meaning into the future. Try to have a mix of items from the sublime to the trivial. Items are usually donated. The archivist should keep an inventory of all items sealed in the time capsule.
I think it will be fun to explain the significance of the Figgtacular to persons of the future.

Have a solemn "sealing ceremony" where you formally christen the time capsule with a name. Invite the media and keep a good photographic record of your efforts, including the inside of your completed project.
I name you Siegfried.

Don't forget your time capsule! You would be surprised how often this happens, usually within a short time. Try to "renew" the tradition of memory with anniversaries and reunions. You might also send out invitations to the projected opening. Use your creativity at all times.
I like this last line. Perhaps some sort of interpretive dance is in order?

Thus far my list looks like:

How to document blog in capsule?
Edinburgh Gardens – buy spade
Shopping list
Seal the lid with wax?
Theme.

There is however a time limit to the ‘sealing ceremony’. I’ve got to get this sucker filled and buried soon, because if I see another man pretend it’s his cock I’m going to have to brain him with it. My housemate’s done it several times and the image is burned unpleasantly on my memory.

Och, I’ve opened a can of worms with this one. Maybe I should just bury that.