The shame

Up early last Sunday, I saw a large rowdy bunch drinking outside a club on the High Street, many of whom wore yellow tights and wigs and such. It’s still not safe I thought, the Clapham Neanderthals from a Saturday night are still out, better cross the street. There was too much traffic to cross, so I just pushed forward. As I moved closer alarm bells started ringing. I began to see not just yellow tights, but green tights as well. I noticed they were not just speaking when they spoke, but yelling. I noticed that everyone who looked at them as they walked past, did so in disgust, embarrassment and pity. I began to notice small tattoos plastered all over their faces and bodies. Then I noticed a peculiar amount of skin being shown for such a chilly morning, the jacket of choice being a large blue cape. Oh no I thought, they might be… please don’t let them be… I think they are… AUSTRALIAN. FUCK! Why do we have to be such wankers? Why can’t we just be normal when celebrating our national day. Why do we have to start drinking at 8am, queuing outside Infernos, and wearing fuckwit clothes?

Americans cop their flak, but they would never celebrate 4th of July like this. The English get flak too, but even they would be above this (well, maybe). Australians leaving home should be forced to sign a pact that promises to never celebrate anything by getting pissed on the street at 8am while wearing a dangling cork hat in yellow and green tights yelling show us your tits slut. If they break the pact when abroad, the local police (or anyone) should have authority to hose them down with a very powerful fire-hose, muzzle them, tie them up and lock them in solitary confinement until they learn that no-one else thinks this is cool, funny, endearing etc. They just think, so they really are a bunch of inbred convicts.

Posted in Observations Post Comment


One thing I don’t understand, never have and probably never will, is smoking. The concept of blowing shit in someone else’s face, and not really caring? As I see it, smokers are no different to a person who has an illness where they need to break wind every 15 minutes, producing devastating results. Their illness is curable (and smelly, and unhealthy) but they choose to just live with it anyway. You’re sitting outside in a nice beer garden, and then Miguel decides he needs to let one go… for 5 minutes. The non wind-breakers squirm and try to politely face the other way in manner that Miguel doesn’t feel self conscious about his illness. Finally it stops, everyone breathes again, then 10 minutes later he let’s another go. You ask why the fuck he doesn’t just get the illness treated, as there is treatment out there. ‘It’s too hard’ he says, ‘and breaking wind makes me feel good, and I actually don’t mind the smell!’. Alright, as long as you’re happy Miguel. I also like it when you find a nice spot in the park to eat your lunch, and some arsehole sits right next to you and sparks up and starts coughing his intestines up. Thanks for that. I could go on, but I’ll cap it there.

This is probably part of a deeper issue for me. As a child my Dad would always spark up around me.. in the car, in the living room, even though he knew I hated it and had asthma. Bastard. So I thought it only fair that his cigarettes constantly go missing, somehow get wet, or have the tobacco replaced with something that wasn’t tobacco. It really pissed him off and probably sheds some light on why he battles stress beyond the levels of a healthy man.

Posted in Observations Post Comment