First, if you enjoy reading, please subscribe via email ------>

Once again, I’m writing a blog, and missing topless waitresses at the pub. And I have just received a text saying “Ud love this topless barmaid, covered in tattoos.” Let’s move on.

I have started writing this blog with a degree of trepidation (that means I may be a little bit worried or nervous), as history has taught us before, that the 3^rd instalment of anything can be a bit, well rubbish. Terminator 1 was epic, never to be topped again. But Terminator 2 came along, and was just awesome. A pretty good representation of my blog thus far.  However, Terminator 3 was gash. So, at this stage I may be inclined to believe that this blog will lack the witty remarks, the in depth descriptive narratives I use, and the overall humour of the first 2. Shit! Die Hard 3 was also not very good!! Or Jurassic Park 3! Home Alone 3! Speaking of which, they are actually making a 5^th home alone movie. No joke, Google it. Talk about milking a piss poor franchise! Actually, my worries have just disappeared. Twilight Eclipse was the 3^rd instalment, and it rocked! Speaking of which there is a 15 second preview of the trailer for Breaking Dawn 2 on www.imdb.com , I suggest that all you die hard Twilight fans head on over there and watch Bella run through the woods like she is on crack.

I got asked the other day if I write a bit of the blog, and then come back to it. I don’t, I write it all in one go. I do however note down things on my iPad (iPad 2 not the first one that is massive or the third one that overheats) that I want to include. Speaking of iPad, I have an app, called Draw Something, and it is quality. Go and buy it now, 69p it cost me, and it is awesome. I have a pen for my iPad screen, so I can create some decent looking things. If you have got it, my username is zeboobel, so get adding and drawing!

So since my last entry, I have done a few interesting things. Me and some of the boys went to play football one night to get out of the apartments and too have a bit of non-sexual male bonding. We walked for what seemed to be forever to the INDOOR court, and within 2 minutes of being inside we were warm. And I mean warm. No I mean hot. Insanely hot. The night time temperature here is around the 28/29c mark. Imagine being inside a building that has no air-con, in this climate. Wearing football gear, which consisted of Nike Dri-Fit tops and shorts. You know, the clever clothing system that is designed to RETAIN heat. I don’t profess to being a weatherman, but I reckon the temperature inside was floating around the 40c mark. The humidity level is bonkers. Without sounding condescending, I will briefly explain what it is. Humidity is basically the name given for the invisible water that is in the air. The particles are that small, that you cannot see them. It is similar to fog in some ways. So, looking at the weather forecasts for London, and the previous day’s weather, the temperature the other day was 5c with a 44% humidity. So, at that temperature, the humidity will do nothing to affect you, as the invisible water vapour around you is sitting at a nice 5c, and only 44%. Are you with me so far? Good. Now, pop on a plane and go to Egypt. It is 34c outside, yet the humidity is only at 6%. This means that if you stand in the sun, you will feel hot. But, in the shade, because the humidity level is so low, there are hardly any water vapours to be warmed up, so you won’t feel the heat as much. This is why you can tell the distinct difference in temperature when you go from the sun, to the shade. Now, in Darwin, on the day we played football, indoors, with no air-con, wearing clothes that are designed to RETAIN heat, not get rid of heat, but RETAIN heat, the humidity level was a lovely 96%. So, to recap, we approximate that the indoor court, which had roughly 50 blokes in scattered around, with no air con etc, was sitting at about 40c, with a humidity level of 96%. To give you an idea, go into a greenhouse that is growing tomatoes, and just read a magazine in there for a half hour. Let me know if you get a sweat on. We played for 90minutes. It was an experience that I will never forget. Back in the UK, when the sun pops out, we all say “oooh I like it warm, but this is like ya know, a muggy heat.” Then we pull our tops away from our chest and flap it back and forward and do the thing with our mouths where we expel air and make the funny noise through our lips. You haven’t experienced anything until you have played football for 90 minutes in what was essentially a huge greenhouse with no air con. Or tomatoes. We were all drenched. I actually learnt that night that as humans, we do indeed possess sweat glands on our knee caps. I can’t remember a time that I sweated from my knee caps. Everyone was dripping, and I mean dripping. It was constantly pouring off us, and you could see in everybody’s eyes, that they could feel the heat getting to them. We did have 3 little breaks whilst playing, just to grab some fluids, and then we were back into it again. We all walked home, and some asked if we should go for a beer. We were that exhausted, hot and sweaty, that we all declined. When I got into my apartment, I took off my top, and I swear to whichever god you believe in, I actually rung my top, and sweat fell out like my top was a sponge. It is something I think I won’t experience again anywhere else. This is why when you’re walking around, even when it is overcast, you sweat. The thing is, because it happens to everybody, there is nothing to be ashamed of. We are currently on the back end of the wet season, as the dry season fully approaches, the humidity level drops, and temperature increases. So in a few months’ time, you’ll see my white ass in the shade.

I have found a flaw with Australia. It might not be Australia’s fault, so I will leave it to you guys to draw your own conclusions. Anything that requires a battery is being targeted by Australia. I charge my phone all the time. It is on charge all through the night, and within 4 hours of it coming off charge, it whinges and me and moans that it wants more electricity. My iPad (iPad2 remember), is the same. After a few hours on Draw Something, it too whinges like a little bitch and wants more electricity. My laptop, and even my BabyLiss face shaver do the same. So, I have come to the conclusion that either the Australian electricity is proper weak and needs to man up, or the heat is having a direct effect on the performance of batteries. I think it is the first one, because batteries, in theory, perform better in heat. The heat excites and energises all the little magical particles and atoms in batteries, and makes them ping around. The pinging of the magical particles contributes towards the power regeneration of the battery. Think about it, car batteries die in the winter because they have got too cold. You see car batteries with their own mini coat on to retain some heat. You never hear your mate down the pub telling you he called out the RAC because his car battery got a bit warm. So I think that the Australian Electricity isn’t as strong as ours. To be honest, it is their only flaw.

Flicking through the TV channels the other day, I noticed they had Coronation Street on is Australia. That’s it.

You will remember on my last entry that Australia have the extremely clever washing machines. Just as I thought they couldn’t possibly get any better, they pull out another surprise. Just like Terry Tibbs when he cracks out his fireworks, Australia had another corker in store for me. Back in the 80’s, ghetto blasters were the in thing. Just as Run DMC were dropping some phat (phrase used in the hood meaning good) beats, electronic manufacturers realised there was a market for oversized stereos, that people could walk around with, and rest on their shoulder, listening to their music. And making everybody else listen to it as well. They took about 340 batteries to power them, and they were heavy. And ugly, and bulky. So, it is 1988. You’re walking down the street, with your Alba ghetto blaster on, listening to a bit of Run DMC, and you see something in a shop that you want. How do you buy it? You put down the ghetto blaster, purchase your goods, and out you go, ghetto blaster back on one shoulder, holding it with your arm, and your shopping items in a bag in your spare hand. Now, some cheeky little sod sees you (no hears you) with your ghetto blaster and shopping, and they decide to tickle you. Now if you’re ticklish, this would be horrendously annoying. You need to decide, do you drop the ghetto blaster, spilling 340 batteries all over the show, or do you drop the shopping? Either way, something has got to go. Someone in Australia has obviously thought of this and they have come up with an answer. You can buy a bag here, so when you have bought a magazine and a pencil, you can put it in this bag. BUT, located within this bag, is a little device you plug your phone/mp3 player into, and the bag becomes a portable speaker system. That’s right, you have your bag, and your speaker system in one useful, yet fashionable item. And the speakers aren’t overly loud, so you won’t look like a cock walking around with your garbage music blaring out. You want proof? Look below. They even adorn the bag with the Australian flag, just so we all know who pioneered this awesome device.

Australia is all about discovery, and in a meeting prior to coming out here, I said that one thing I was looking forward too, was seeing if in anyway, I discovered anything about myself. So far I haven’t, however I have discovered something pretty sinister, and I am sure that mobile phone companies and alcoholic drinks manufacturers are in cahoots. You may think I’m crazy, but hear me out. Back in 2002, I had a crummy Nokia phone, I had just turned 18, and I had also discovered drink. I managed to keep this from my immediate family, but I drank like an absolute fish. So, I would go out and get slaughtered, and inevitably, you start texting. Because back then, there was no Twitter or Faceache or any other social networking, there was no internet on your phone unless you remortgaged your house. So texting was relatively new, and it was ace. So, I’d go out on a day that ended in ‘day’, and drink, and at the time I was seeing someone (no names being mentioned here) and the lovey dovey texts got sent. But because I was absolutely rimmed off my face on alcopops, the texts weren’t really making sense. “ I djut yhen iygen pi xx.” No predictive text and no autocorrect. So, you would compose a text, and then do the thing where you move the phone away from your face and then closer, trying to focus on what you have written. When you finally focus, you can see the text makes no sense, and so the little clever part of your cerebellum (that’s in your brain) tells you that you have had enough to drink, and with that you go home.

2012. Technology. All this technology we rely on. Two TV programmes on at once that you want to record, AND watch a 3^rd? Easy. Films on a round thing the size of a cd, rather than big chunky tapes. No problems. Phones that automatically correct your miss-spelt words. Right here with us. You’re probably wondering what the fuck I am on about. How could a piece of technology that prevents us from embarrassment possibly be a hindrance? Let’s picture another scene. Friday night, out with your mates, dropping a few cheeky gallons of booze down your neck. It’s flowing nice and easy. One after the other, down they go. You pull out your phone, and jump on Facebook. Update status. “Out with the boys, having a fantastic time. Loving life.” Post. No spelling or grammar mistakes. Sub consciously you recognise this, and because you are able to coherently put together a string of words, you think that you aren’t drunk. Sweet. Let’s get a few more down me. So, you carry on drinking excessively, all happy and merry. Cheeks have started to go red, eyes getting a tiny bit bloodshot. When you walk, you have got a bit of a sway on, but if you look like you’re going to fall, you save it at the last minute, and pull off a smooth dance move. Out comes the phone, “Dancing and owning the dance floor, like a boss!!” Again, autocorrect has protected you from a status update that would make you look like a tit. Because you can read it, you assume that you are sober. So you drink some more, and more, and more, and more. Until the stage where you can’t even get the phone out. In the morning you check your phone, and you see that the Facebook’s, and the Twitter updates, and the texts to the random girls, are all written in a way that indicates you were compus mentus. This is where phone manufacturers and brewing companies are in cahoots. They know that by installing software that can detect you’re spelling mistakes, you will assume you are never drunk, and keep on buying the drinks. I urge you all, turn of autocorrect, and turn off the t9 dictionary. That way, you will always know when you have drunk too much, and you will stop. This will save you some pennies, and more importantly, it will save your health. You can thank Australia for bringing this to my attention.

March the 17^th is known worldwide as St Patrick’s Day. It’s a day when we can celebrate green. We show grass all the love we can, and we kiss people with green eyes. It is also a day where is socially correct to accept people with pasty white complexions and ginger beards. To celebrate St Patricks day, we all went to the local horse racing course called Darwin Race course. It is where I work, in sorts. We went for the day, and to be honest, I was uber excited about it. I had never in my life before been to a horse racing meeting. I went the dogs once years ago, because I remember placing a bet for £1 on a dog, and won £12 back, which I spent on chips and beer. But I had never been to the horses. Now working for a gambling company, you may be thinking that this is pretty weird, but I don’t like horse racing, I think it is cruel. I wouldn’t like it if, say a midget hopped on my back wearing silks, and smacked me with a whip. However, I was looking forward to going as I am up for trying new things :-p.

I have seen racing on the TV, and they all dress well posh. When I came over here, the poshest thing I brought with me was some £10 chinos from Primani. So, in order to fit in, I thought I would wear these, with some black and orange adidas NEO trainers, and a grey family guy t-shirt. Who needs hats with peacocks on anyway? We walked to the race track; it is literally a 10 minute stroll away, with my posh camera stowed away safely in my camera bag. It was warm, but bearable. We gave our entrance tickets to the security, and strolled in like royalty. It was busy. Full of Irish people for some reason. We had tickets for some special terrace, and so we walked up, showed our tickets to security and were allowed onto the terrace. Within the space of 10 minutes, it went from being warm, to being really, really, really warm. Very muggy. And here is me, wearing chinos, and a grey t-shirt. Chinos. What was I thinking? When I decided to get dressed, why didn’t the intelligent part of me stop me from wearing chinos? And what in the hell possessed me to wear a grey t-shirt? I may as well have made a sign to stick on my back elevating above my head with a yellow arrow pointing down to the sweat patches. I couldn’t take many photos as when I went to the viewfinder, the sweat was getting on my posh camera. I did the shirt pully out thing and I even made the noise through my lips, but still I was hot. And sweaty. I asked a mate if I was sweaty on my back. She didn’t have to say a word. The look on her face said it all. I looked around me, and was surrounded by people wearing posh clobber, but breathable posh clobber. (You could even see some girls bra’s the clothes were that see through.) There were people there, who hadn’t even got a bead of sweat on them. Not a single drop. How is that fair. This was really uncomfortable. It was like when you have got a bad stomach, and you are holding it in, and it’s got that bad that you sweat loads. But without actually needing to drop one off.  I sat down for a bit took some pictures, and then decided to go for a walk and find some air con. When I stood up, I noticed that my dark blue £10 Primani chinos were drenched. I had been there 15 minutes. It was 1:15pm, first race off at 1:20, event on until 6pm. The rest of my Ozzy buddies were wearing shorts, and light t-shirts. There was no way I could stand this all day. I painfully watched the first race, constantly wiping sweat from out of my eyes, and then went for another walk. I bought a Strongbow cider, which lasted about 4 seconds, and went for a little stroll. It was on this stroll that I saw Ben, and noticed he had changed his footwear. I asked him and he told me you could get a pass to exit, and return. It was like he was an angel. With his blonde perfect hair, his clean shaven face, and his smile, he actually was my angel. I had thoughts straight away, go home, and get changed. Come back, be cooler, and drink. So, me and Brian from family guy, got our exit and return pass, and back to the apartment I trotted. The roads here are straight, and long, much like America. When I was walking back, it felt like I was walking through a desert. I could see the heat rising from the road, and in the distance I was absolutely sure I could see a giant chicken coming towards me. The heat must really be getting to me. It turns out, that a giant chicken was in fact coming towards me. It was a truck with a giant chicken plastic head on the top of it. When it drove past I stopped, and it was some chicken company truck. I got back to the apartment, went upstairs and walked into heaven. 18c of temperature regulated controlled conditioned heaven. I took Brian off my back, he was soaked, it was minging and he went into the laundry basket. The chinos came straight off, and again they went into the laundry. I wanted to have a little lie down so I clambered onto my bed, and finally revelled in a nice cold room.

I woke up at about 540pm. I had missed the majority of St Paddy’s day at the races, I had missed the posh clothes wearing people getting trollied. I was gutted tbh. I checked Facebook, and it was adorned with photos from the races, and I was well jealous of all the fun they had. A few moments later, Al Isherwood came home, and he came upstairs wearing a massive Guinness hat, and fell face first into my bed, and uttered 2 words. “I’m drunk.” If not for this information, I wouldn’t have known. My jealous thoughts, and my upset were soon gone though, as I knew that there was still a whole night of drinking in store for me. So, we all went out, we all got hammered, and we all went into Darwin town. And I drank like a fish. Again. It was epic. Everyone was celebrating Green day, and they were all wearing novelty clothes and oversized Guinness hats. I myself paid homage to Green day, and displayed the green part of my tattoo. When in Rome, and all that. The blackcurrant cider was going down far too well, but, because I could still text absolutely fine, I carried on drinking. I ended up wearing toothies (he is a mate) sunglasses and I was proper cool. Later on, Ray Kay, another mate, decided she wanted these, and so we (un)willingly traded a Guinness hat for the sunglasses. It wasn’t a fair trade, she wanted the sunglasses, and women get what they want. The hat was mega hot, and my head was warm. All night. The night ended up with me buying a sausage cheese and bacon pie, which turned out was actually a sausage roll with luminous pink matter inside of it. But I got a hint of bacon, so I ate it. We got a taxi back to the apartment, I asked the driver what time he started, what time he was on until, and why he hadn’t got a beaded seat cover. People in the back laughed for some reason. When I got into my room, I lay on the bed, my sister had sent me Facebook message. I decided to reply in the morning. There was a noise at the front door, and someone was trying to get in. I remembered that I had chained the door. So I got out of bed, and ran downstairs, and opened the door and let Rich in. The run back upstairs wasn’t as pleasant. My stomach felt, a bit, well, off. I went into the bathroom, and without warning I proceeded to redecorate the inside of the toilet in a pinky meaty sicky décor. It says something about that ‘pie’, when it looks better coming out of my mouth. I was drunk. I stumbled into bed after brushing my teeth, and snoozed off. I checked my phone in the morning, and noticed that I had indeed replied to my sister. This is the actual transcript of the messages.

o    Sister : Hello u ok what ya been upto .xxx

o    Me : Right now.am as skunk as a drunk so ill u Ger no sense from me!

As you can tell from the above-I beat autocorrect!!!!

To finish this instalment, I’m going to tell you about a lady that humbled me on the bus. No jokes or witty stuff, just something that really touched me. We all went to the city sometime in the week; I can’t remember which day it was as we are always using the buses. I was sitting down, and the bus was stopping for a bus stop. I was in an aisle seat, so everyone was walking past me. As the bus was approaching the stop, I knew someone was standing up behind me waiting for the bus too stop. As the bus stopped and people got off, this little old lady tapped me on the arm, she was wearing a typical old lady colour, it was like a purple, and she looked like a proper grandma. The type who makes Weetabix absolutely spot on for breakfast. She looked at me straight in the eyes, and she said “my dear, your tattoos are lovely.” In the UK, this would not have happened. Without casting stigmata’s or placing old people in any type of demographic, this would not have happened back home. I would have been labelled a thug. And this is why I love Australia.

Peace xx