Posts tagged ‘beer’

Australian Tourism – Tits, Beer and Sport

I’m doing some work at the moment for a large tourism body – the organisation that brought you the ‘Where The Bloody Hell Are You’ campaigns that were banned in the UK.

I still can’t figure out exactly what element of that campaign the Brits found so offensive. Were the Brits just sick of all the drunk Aussies stumbling around Shepherds Bush at 3am on a Saturday morning in search of the mystic beer-scooter to take them home? Or perhaps they were simply just envious that you can afford to buy a beer at any pub in Australia without the need to remortgage your house.

Or perhaps the Brits were just plain ticked-off that Australia could produce such a hottie as Lara Bingle. When wondering around London, haven’t you noticed that almost every pretty girl is speaking a foreign language? When God was handing out country qualities, did he say: “right…England….you can specialise in ugly women and substandard reality television”.

Venture out of the capital and it’s even worse. Be prepared to reach for either the whisky bottle or the Vaseline-coated glasses.

7pm on a Saturday evening, I’m catching a train into central Cardiff from the suburbs. Surrounding me are 2 parties of intoxicated, overweight 20-something year old women, all clothed in a particular theme. The group on my right are dressed as tubby school teachers. Imagine that on Wendy’s text message to her lasses earlier that evening: “let’s all dress up as fat, minging teachers, that’ll get the lads blood pumping!”.

The group in front of me, with their bare breasts pressed up against the train windows, are dressed as playboy bunnies complete with size 18 mini-skirts. They are yelling something at each other in a strange guttural language that sounds vaguely like English. In fact, I think it is English….a dialect that was spoken in 1950’s suburban Brisbane.

The two groups are going down on their cans of luke-warm Stella faster than a ten pound hooker.

The Brits just love their beer don’t they, probably even more so than Aussies. Britain is the only place I know where you can buy a can of beer at every newsagent, petrol station, fish and chips store or Sunday School. I even bought a beer at the KFC at Tower Hill.

But I guess like Aussies, Brits love a beer simply to lighten up and relax whilst watching the football, hoping to high heaven that with a few more lagers the overweight group of Welsh birds dressed as Playboy bunnies will somehow appear more attractive.

The current campaign for this particular tourism body feature rather sophisticated and romantic messaging. Emotional themes hint that Australia will be a place to enlighten yourself, remove the angst and pressures of your normal life.

In order to better target the British public, I think the core campaign message could have been simplified to: “Come to Australia. We have Tits, Beer and Sport.”

beerwench

Australian holiday tip: avoid drinking in the sun without a hat

May 19, 2009 at 9:21 pm 2 comments

A Typical Gig in Sydney – Three Wise Monkeys Bar

We recently played a gig at Three Wise Monkeys Bar in central Sydney. For those that don’t know, 3 Wise Monkeys is a questionable bar. Why? The patrons (mostly young European backpackers) have questionable hygiene and questionable substances in their blood, there are questionable stains on the toilet walls, questionable odours permeating the corners and questionable amounts of change are handed back after each round of drinks bought.

Several highlights of the night:

  • A fat British man in a suit had consumed a questionable pill and entertained the crowd near the stage with his dancing stylings. This consisted of  running stationary on the spot with a big grin on his sweaty, shiny face. In fact I have a sneaking suspicion it was Peter Kay. The funny thing was that even between songs he continued running stationary on the spot with no music to back him up.
  • Free beer for the band. That’s always a highlight for me. Would be slightly better however if we didn’t have to redeem them with rather large, tacky pink paper vouchers that we hand over to the bar. Hardly a cool look.
  • A wannabe hip hop dancer (see the 6 types of drunk dancer) who had recently used up her 20 hour gift-voucher at the solarium last week. Well, that’s my only explanation….or she might have decided that painting every inch of her skin with orange crayon would have the same effect. Anyway, she had her hands in the air for every song, akin to a born-again christian raising her arms to God in a church service. Unlike a church service however, she had a see-through white top on purchased from the toddler section at K-Mart, and 2 inches of muffin-top oozing down all sides of her jeans. She looked like an Oompa Loompa auditioning for a Christian Hip Hop music video.
  • The DJ. I’ve always been amused by the type of people large establishments employ. Their bouncers are always power-hungry meat-heads who failed the police-recruits drug test. They decided that bouncing (is that what you call the profession?) would be a similar legitimate way to spend time punching unfortunate souls in the head. Their DJ’s are unintelligent wannabe musicians who don’t understand a thing about music and think semi-quavers are the side effects of a bad coke session, syncopation is the Italian word for the job that you go to during the day, and Beethoven is a sub-breed of St Bernard dog. On this particular night, the DJ insisted on screaming out “G’DAY SYDNEY HOW YA’S GOING!! FUCKING WHOA!!!” at the start of every song. I think this particular DJ learnt English from the Russian botox-blonde Eurovision presenter.
I'm a DJ. I get all the girls

I'm a DJ. I get all the girls

Now for the sad part of the night. After the gig, my band members and I were standing outside a nearby kebab store, and witnessed two Asian males in a heated argument. One had a rather large head, one had glasses. To my horror, Glasses punched BigHead rather hard in the mouth with a left jab. As BigHead was stumbling backward, Glasses executed a perfectly formed right roundhouse kick to the head that would have made Mr Miyagi proud. BigHead was out cold before he even reached the ground, a victim of a drunken violent ‘friend’. Robbo and I grabbed Glasses and shoved him backward as he prepared to finish the job with a soccer-ball kick to the head.

The police arrived very soon after and threw Glasses on the ground, arrested him and took him away. We all made individual statements to the police following the incident.

In an effort to give Glasses a taste of being physically assaulted and violated, I added in my statement “I heard what they were arguing about. Glasses was trying to convince BigHead to insert a condom laden with cocaine deep inside his anus. Glasses had previously done this an hour before and it wasn’t noticeable at all unless you shove a finger deep inside there.”

I hope he suffers.

May 16, 2009 at 12:45 pm 5 comments

Hangovers in London and insane Fleet Street cabbies

So I’ve been back in Australia for the past 5 months now. During this time, I’m now leaner, healthier, fitter, and can run from Bondi Beach to Tamarama Beach along the clifftops and back without the need for pre-warming up my personal pocket defibrillator.

Living in Australia does that too you though doesn’t it? It brings out the fitness freak in anyone.

My 3.5 years in London were pretty much spent traveling in a sweaty crowded tube to the pub, drinking at the pub, walking home from the pub or spending my waking hours at the office looking forward to the above 3 activities after work.

The problem is, the Brits just love a drink don’t they?

Give a Brit the option of going to his 5 year old daughter’s birthday party, or hanging out at the pub with James and Charles (notice that every male Brit is called James or Charles?), and you’d have a friend with one very disappointed daughter.

If I ever suggested to my Brit friends that perhaps we should slow down with our drinking and not drink on Monday’s anymore, they’d assume I’d had either one too many beers or had found Jesus.

But the problem is, they don’t see it as a problem….their bodies are just accustomed to it.  I once went on a Monday night bender with a good mate of mine Ranga.

The events of the night in bullet points essentially went as follows:

  • “See yas later” to everyone in the office
  • A nice quiet pint at the Crown
  • A nice lovely pub dinner at the Crown
  • 3 ‘after dinner’ drinks at The People’s Republic
  • 2 slow-burning ‘after dinner drinks’ beers at the Frog
  • 2 stubbies of VB at Temple Walkie (yes you can actually get it there)
  • 1 very “fuck this is burning my throat coz I just spewed and swallowed it” pint of snakie
  • A line of white naughty stuff in the dunnies
  • Topped off by 3 more beers to wash everything down

We’d then proceed to make our way home by flagging a cab and heading back to Clapham.

Are taxi drivers the smartest creatures in the world? Imagine – you’re driving Mertie (your beloved black cab of 3 years) along Fleet Street at 2 am on  Tuesday morning looking for another fare.

Oh great, here’s two potential fares. Oh dear, one of them seems to have had a whoopsy on his polo shirt. Oh and the other one seems to be supporting himself with all 4 limbs. But bless the first one, he seems to be helping his friend up….nice Christian kindness. I better get these two home to their mum’s before they catch a cold.

If I were a cabbie and I saw Ranga and I that night, I’d have been out of Fleet Street faster than a pre-credit crunch investment banker with hindsight could remove his shares before the turmoil.

My point of this whole story is, that the next day, I woke up feeling like Paris Hilton’s gay pink poodle had the runs in my mouth (a typical Tuesday morning). I indifferently placed my puffed up cheeks next to the glass windows in the insanely over-crowded tube station at Clapham (more on London’s Tube over-crowding in future posts).

Do not take the London tube if you are hungover

Do not take the London tube if you are hungover

I staggered through the door in the office to find Ranga already there, tea-cup in hand, on the phone to a client discussing the latest monthly figures. No blood shot eyes, no accidents in the shower, no breath resembling the dark murky water that accumulates at the bottom of the crisper drawer in the fridge.

“O’ight Jeffro?”

He even had perfect hair.

March 20, 2009 at 3:51 pm Leave a comment