Naughty

I have just discovered a lovely new program called *** (it has an icon shaped like a pineapple - which appeals to the 1/18th Queenslander in me) which allows me to rip my DVD's to mp4's so i can watch movies on my Ipod.

I have just embarked on the STAR WARS double trilogy (from ep.1 of course) on the Ipod. Watching on the tube.

I see jealous people...

Things that should be forbidden, Part 2

Following my trip to Dublin, I have been able to compile this whole list from my 2.5 hours in the airport waiting for my Ryanair flight home. Read on, you will be amazed, you may laugh, you may cry...

1. His and Her matching fleecy print jersy, with letters on them like, FUBU or Armani, or Duffer. Because you look like one. FORBIDDEN!
2. Long, shoulder blade length blowdried hair, hair pulled into a top tail and fanned out around the shoulders on a redhaired MAN with MATCHING COLONEL SANDERS GOATEE. If you do need to look like Liam Neeson in Star Wars, wear a cloak and hood, not a vinyl jacket with RED BULL all over it. FORBIDDEN!
3. Fat short pushy women walking and pushing whilst they text or speak on the phone. One such actually rolled her eyes angrily at ME after bashing into me whilst she was texting. FORBIDDEN!!! (AND FUCK YOU BETCH!)
4. McDonalds - I refer to having paid 6.40 Euro for a large big mac meal, only to open my bag to find the large chip box only half full, and my large Fanta only 2/3 filled. FORBIDDEN EVER AGAIN.
5. Stag and hen nights abroad...oooohhhhhh *FORBIDDEN*
6. People who eat noisily. I don't want to hear you masticating thanks very much. VERBOTEN!!
7. Getting drunk in the airport lounge then not turning up to your plane after you have checked in, leaving everyone sitting on the tarmac whilst they unload your bags. ARSE HOLES. FORBIDDEN!
8. Not closing the door when you're in a toilet cubicle, and then not flushing the toilet when you leave. FILTHY FUCKING PIG.
9. Warm beer FORBIDDEN
10. Airport check in desks TOTALLY FORBIDDEN (get this) now RYANAIR bless, do internet check in, thereby removing the need to even approach the check in counter with the wailing children and brain dead morons who obviously havn't travelled before, and need to repack their bags at the counter because they didn't realise you couldn't take fireworks and guns and industrial poisons in your bags.

I do like to be able to travel cheaply around. But the advent of the cheap airline has obviously signaled the end to flying being a glamorous way to travel. Now, I wouldn't mind from time to time paying a little more and being able to fly from, say, Heathrow terminal 2, where good looking, well heeled Euro stars swan elegantly from Designer Boutiques to Jewellery Merchant, mildly sipping on their latte's or their flute of Crystal as they wait to board. There are no Bugger Kings, MacClown or Fried Colonel in THIS terminal. No siree. It's duty free style all year round.

But alas, sometimes one does need to muck in and lend a hand to keeping the cheap n'nasties up in the sky. Next time I'm travelling on a no reserveed seating flight, I'm going to remember to check online, go straight to the gate and get ON the plane first and off the plane first, all the while a vision of Sophia Loren or Audrey Hepburn.

Now THATS glamour.

A KGB Tragedy

Sadly, the poisoned KGB agent died the other day. He ate at a number of London restaurants, including the main restaurant of the Grosvenor Hotel in Mayfair.

Oh my god, we ate at that restaurant last week! Only a week after he did, and then goes and dies a horrible slow death from poisoned food.

Forget terrorism, I think the British food WILL kill us after all.

The HPA are calling for people who have eaten there, so we might now have to go and be tested. Despite the tragedy of it all, it's intriguing to be now such a pivotal character in one of the most scandalous post cold war atrocities. If this is the last time you ever read my post, please alert the Australian Government that I have been a victim of international espionage, and get them to send in the boys in green. Or just the boys. They can be nude if they like.

;)

Wonderful Wonderful Copenhagen - OH Christmas Beer, OH Christmas Beeeer.....

So the other weekend, Peter and I went to Copenhagen. It was supposed to be "Keslake Chronicles, chapter 3 - attack of the little mermaid", but Fiona was called off to New York suddenly and couldn't come.

But not to worry. The Christmas Beer had arrived.

The reason for our trip was to visit a friend who was spending a sebatical from his job, so had come to this wonderful southern Scandinavian city to work a little and teach at the University of Copenhagen. Generously, he accomodated us in a lovely hotel where he was staying. Despite arriving at around midnight on friday, after a hellish flight from Heathrow (yes, even Heathrow on a friday night is insane) the lure of the Christmas beer was intense, like an alcoholic pheramone wafting sinisterly accross the city. Of course when we arrived, we had no idea that the 20,000 drunken louts wandering around singing Danish Carols and muppet songs (I'm sure I heard menuma nup) had just popped the CB launch, we just thought that the Danish enjoyed their friday nights out a bit too much.


However, we did stay indoors and sleep, because we knew that the next day would be an adventure. And yes, a famous five/ Nancy Drew kind of adventure at that.

Fresh into the morning we rented bikes and headed out with Rob to tour the city. One of the good things about having a guide who is a profeessor of Architecture, is that you get to experience the gammet of the most interesting buildings and places. We did everything on the tourist tral, and even the some, spending a good half hour cycling along the wooded trails around the back of the fortress, through the squatters settlement at Christiania, and even a ferry ride to see the little Mermaid. It was a really fabulous way to see the city. RA RA RA!

This is the dummy tree, where parents bring their toddlers to wean them off their dummies. Thoughtfully, they tie them to a tree for us all to enjoy. GROSS.
A quick coffee with Pussy Galore









The evening was spent hanging around bars scoffing as much Christmas beer as we could possibly get into ourselves. The premise of the CB is simple. Every year around this time, the breweries make a special Christmas Beer; a JINGLE BEER, a brew similar to a lager, but filled with special herbs and spices, and at 1 minute to 9 on this certain friday before Christmas, bars accross Copenhagen release it to an eagerly awaiting crowd of revellers desperate for their hit of Christmas Cheer. It's a very tasty sup, I might just add, worthy of spending most of the weekend either pissed on it, or hungover from it.





Some Kimmy we met on the street on our travels. Everyone is FOUFY and glamorous and beautiful.

So the question I'm putting forward today, almost Carrie Bradshawesque, is how many pints can you have before your intentions turn from "having a drink" to "getting pissed"? I'm going to say 2 at this stage, possibly to make myself feel better about myself, but might need to amend this because the Christmas Season is really starting to kick in.

The Demise

So the diet isn't going too well. Its not like, mmm i might just sneak a few chippies with my lunch but i'll do an extra ten minutes on the tradmill to work it off, its, "oh lets get 2 no. 4 pack of Viennese chocolate mousse dessert after eating a block of pate and half a brie."

HELP!!!!!!!

OK so I spent the weekend in France. Was there ever going to be any hope in this scenario? Perhaps not. What i do know is that I am totallly uncontrollable, which anyone who has witnessed me at a country craft fare with $20 in my pocket would attest to.

So tomorrow, I am going back to the gym. My back is slowly feeling better, not 100% and in the cold cold morning, its difficult to mobilise myself. But it must be done. If not, then well, I have already hypothesised what could happen (I'm starting to lactate)...

On a lighter note, I had a lovely evening out with my cousins on Friday night. I havn't spent much time with them since I've been here, and they are so lovely, I'm hoping I get to see more of them. But sadly, I did get rather pissed at dinner, and left my lovely new umbrella on the train. Damn it. Tomorrow will be cold and wet. Been there, done that. Got the book, bought the tea towel, the pencil, the snowdome and the tacky trinket.

So where to next? DUblin on Friday.

*sigh*

xxx

Too damned RIGHT!

I'm worth it! being totally hooked into the new L'Oreal for men thing, I was watching the telle visssion the other night only to behold one of the spunkiest men on the earth, delivering the line I always wanted to hear from his glistening lips. MMMM George Eads....

Sigh. I have nothing else to say, but the video will appear here soon....

Come on, have a duvet day.

So today I went back to work, still feeling shithouse, screaming in pain with this rubbish spine o mine. Wish I could have had another duvet day, but I have a serious career, responsibilites, and people to yell at.

So I'm tired, and Im going to bed. I'm not even going to stay up for Kath and Kim, or Gray's Anatomy. Because I've been bad, and eaten too much rubbish today, and this is a really boring post anyway, so don't read it if you dont want to..

Diet day 4

OK today I was bad.

i had:
coffee
cornflakes and milk
work provided sanwiches from pret
crisps with said sandwiches
3 chocolate chip biscuits
3 triangles of toblerone
Leftover caasseerole and rice, vegetables
a peanut butter sandwich
a cherry ripe.


OOOH speaking of Cherry Ripe, if anyone in Australia is reading this and REALLY loves me, please send me cherry ripes. I just ate my last one.

WAAAAAAAAAAAA!

xx

Oh my god

Imagine if this was your dad.

Come along then old ducky

My goddamned back again. What is going on? why oh why, Delilah?

You know, apart from the crippling pain that shoots through me every time i so much as look towards an object not directly in front of me, the thing I can't bear about back pain is the frustrating inconvenience of it all. I've had to take another day off work, because of the sheer annoyance of not being able to go from a very painful sitting position, to a less than comfortable standing position. And as for my dance class? pah! Jive Bunny gave up on me years ago.

What I do need to do though is walk around. So off I went today to the supermarket to buy a few essentials (L'Oreal, Durex, Lavazza) as well as some diced beef for the heavenly CSIRO provencale cassoulet. I shopped very light, knowing that I couldnt carry much, and that I am on a diet, and NOT buying rubbish, which, you'll be pleased to know, I did not.

However, I did buy a cantaloup, which, as my bag ended up weighing a tonne anyway, was probably not the most sensible of purchases.

......................

"Are you going to that register? Excuse me are you heading to that register?" I shouted at the near dead white haired old bat as she shuffled aimlessly around the register area, looking directly at me but not registering a word. She kind of reminded me of Madonna.

The entire supermarket was full of wrinklies. The average age must have been about 65 and that's INCLUDING the troup of guides selling brownies out the front. They were all kareening around the aisles mindlessly, as if blind, or drunk, or both.

"No, Eddie," I said to myseelf, "they're just old. One day, you will be like that, so be patient and tolerant."

ONE DAY??? how the frack about today then?

..............................................

So I'm sittin' at home, talking to JANET about me VEINS....no really, I feel like Lynn Postlethwaite from D-Gen..."you KNOW how busy I am today, you KNOW I have a letter to post.."

Which is what, In fact, I did do today.

So I hobbled down to the post office and posted off my form to the Australian Electoral Commission to remove me from the roll. I know this is a minor administrative task, probably not worth even thinking about under normal circumstances, but for some reason, I was strangely moved by the gesture. You see, as I lurched around flailing for a balustrade, lightpole, zimmerframe to hold onto, my age and mortality suddenly struck me like a bullet train. Having struggled at the supermarket and the post office during the frenzied pensioner packed daytime rush, I got to thinking that really I should go and see a doctor and put my name down for an MRI to find out what is actually wrong with my back. Then, by the time my name comes up on the NHS waiting list, I'll probaably be old and infirm enough to require surgery, and get whisked right in. When Im 65.

Diet day 3

coffee coffee coffee coffee
2 pieces white toast, honey and marmalade
2 slices of bread- snacking
2 chicken drumsticks, cooked in garlic and soy...mmm
ham sandwich
pear
Beef cassoulet - low fat low gi
mashed potato - a bit naughty
sneaky glass of red wine or 6
LOTS of water
no soft drinks

The Mancunian Way

Sometimes mornings can just be so fracking cruel. I mean, what the holy ghost is 6.00am about? huh? whose bright idea was 6.00am?

This morning I peeled myself out of my cosy nest in the dark because I had an express train to Manchester. You see, I'm working on a rather exciting development up there, about which I am not at liberty to reveal to my masses of devout readers, so maybe in a few years time when my fame as a blogger spreads far and wide accross the English speaking world, I might post a little picture of it for you to go, oooooooo ....

Anyhoo, so I'm on the 8.04 train to Manchester, with my Boss. The BOSS MAN. Who is actually a lovely sweet man, funny as a circus of blind carnies, and really interesting, good looking and full of the best ideas ever to be conceived....

But really, no matter how wonderful your Boss is, they're still your Boss, and it's always a little difficult to be yourself in these situations, without them discovering that your an absolute charlatan - a fraud just waiting to be found out.

The other night at the GAYBAR we met ths most foul mouthed excuse for a pooflet, who insisted that not only did the BF's hair resemble a helmet then proceded to call him HOFF (a name only I'M allowed to call him), but actually to my face, said that I was BORING... yes, that was the word for it. BORING. I've been called many things in the past...oh don't even start on that, but never boring. At least I'm not a nasty BITCH!

You see, he spent the whole evening basically ridiculing us, firstly calling us Kiwis (shudder), then making comments about our clothes, our hairstyles, our work. And the sad thing was he actually believed he was being witty. Which he may have been if he resembled Brad Pitt or Jake, rather than Julian Clary. As soon as I retaliated with a comment about him not having much of a chin, his demeanour soured and the bitch turned like the proverbial death adder. HISSSSS. Love, if you dish it, then you take it.

So I'm on this train, with my Boss, trying to make idle chit chat about stuff'n'that and I think to myself, "am I boring?" Oh my GOD is it TRUE?

You see I think to be boring is rather like being plain. No-one likes plain people. I have often joked with friends about walking up to strange people and saying very smilingly and patronisingly: "oooh, my, aren't YOU plain...?"

Ok, so maybe I'M the BITCH.

...................................--------------------.................................

Diet Day 2:
Coffee
Coffee
Porridge
Beef Lasagne
broccoli and haricot salad
Sauted Salmon fillet and salad and coleslaw
2 glasses of a perky Australian Semillion Cardon-nay
Low fat lemon mousse dessert.

Oh lord, can I have fried chicken again now?

Pool etiquette

My life can often be compared to any of those mad trippy little Doctor Seuss books. Most of the time I'm the Grinch. Somedays, if Im feeling a little snappy, I'm a bit like 'Fox in Sox". if I've had too much to drink its "Green eggs and Ham" or if I'm feeling a little frisky, try "There's a Wocket in my Pocket!"

However, right now I can be best described as "The cat in the hat" or rather, "The fat in the Back". I recall some blogs back, that I vowed never to end up like Gil Gerard with his pendulous, hanging gardens of back fat. Well, I'm a little embarrassed to say that my desire to not end up like this is failing. Readers, I'm more than halfway down the proverbial Crispy Creme, Chicken Cottage super shute that only Kristie, Britney and Oprah have ever made it home alive from!!!!!!!!! If I continue down this super highway of gluttony, I may end up like the Mother on "What's eating Gilbert Grape" and fall through the floor from my bed onto the TV room of my neighbours in the middle of their saturday afternoon football match (at least they'd offer me a beer...)


What makes this even more tedious than explaining to children that it's dangerous to hold firecrackers whilst they go off, is the fact that my back has fracked up on me again. I swear, I shouldn't have watched the Exorcist - directors cut the other night whilst doing sit ups and really believing that the problem had gone away for ever. Smug little me, I opened up a little window in my soul and in climbed that demon. It's wreaking havok with my bed.


So today, off I go to the pewel to do a few little lappies, you know, loosen up the glutonus maxxxximus, unlock the terror that my lower lumbar has sadly begun to lay a setting at dinner for. Hard enough undressing in public when you can't take off your socks. Worse when you're in a cold miserable English Lido (public pool).

Now the Queen Mother, bless her, is the best of a bad bunch of pools around London. Most pools can be characterised by a sorry clientele of pasty, flabby, middle aged "peoples wot cant add" type. And today weren't no exception.

Growing up in Australia, where swimming pools are more common than soap stars in London Christmas panto, the good fit folk know how to swim, and especially know how to behave whilst they're doing it. This, take note dear English, is called POOL ETIQUETTE, and (stops to put a little Dolly on the gramophone) it goes a little sump'n like this:

POOL ETIQUETTE 101 FOR DUMMIES (most of the people in my pool)

1. Swim in a lane that befits your speed and stroke. The "fast and furious" lane, strangely enough, isn't for slow retarded breaststroking or kickboarding.

2. Swim in an anticlockwise, (or clockwise) direction around the lane, as illustrated on the lane board at the end of the lane when you jump in. If you are indeed of the special variety of human, or you are just a bit dim, then ask for assistance before you launch into your recreation of the sinking of the Titanic.

3. When you get to the end of a lane and there are 12 people right behind you because you're swimming like a Dugong, stop and let these people pass. A tap on the foot doesn't mean "would you like to go for a shag in the loos with no lubricant?"

More on that later.

Anyhoo, from today onwards, I'm going to declare my consumption for all to see. It's going to be the only way I know how to diet. Through shame and humiliation. Thanks for the tips, Bridgit.

Diet day one:

Coffee
Coffee
Ham and eggs Bloomer from Pret
Apple
Pasta with prawn sauce (creme based) YUM - thanks Fiona!
Low fat lemon Mousse dessert.
Lots of water
A vodka and Orangina with dinner - Classy.

America's nect top Model is on now, who will Tyra cut from the contest tonight?
xx

My new ferrari.

Look, I bought a Ferrari.

Who gives a frack that it's made of Lego. Its a real, certified Ferrari.

It rocks.

Now quick, of to Monaco with my bling and then I'm going to release a rap/R&B album.

Keslake Chronicles Chapter 2. Gay Paris and the Lebesians

Ok, so this little tale began a couple of weeks ago, when the Keslakians decided that a little autumn trip to Paris was needed to clear out the cobwebs. I'm not sure that I really approve of the hour that we needed to get up to catch the 7.00am EuroStar from Waterloo, certainly the others weren't so keen on it either. ...Mental note, next time we catch the 8.00am and spend the extra time with an ice pack on the visage.

The trip over was quite pleasant, relatively child free, and fast. Never fly when you can travel on a rapid train. It makes airport check-in seem as enjoyable as ingrown nail surgery. And there is a buffet car that sells beer at 7.00am. That's obviously the French influence. What I loved though was the perky little guy over the intercom, with his sexy little french accent. They have such a cute turn of phrase don't they when they speak English, rather like Yoda reading a safety information card after downing a bottle of Bailey's..."Ladiies and Gentleman, we now are approaching Paris Gare du Nord stass - chion. Pleease check with you personal beee-longings ..."

Paris is so beautiful, really. It's just everything cliched and marvellous. Wandering around humming Edith Piaf (or Kenny Everett as Marcel singing Edith Piaf) made the saturday sojourn that much more special (or irritating, depending which side of the croissant you like buttered).
Le Chicken Cottage, Euro Style.
A quick bite with our lovely friend, Sax, or Kimmy as he is sometimes called by us, and so it was time to hit the shopping. I don't really know why we decided to tranfer pounds to Euro's, and muddle our way through the Paris 'Soldes' amongst 10 million desperate shoppers and tourists alike. But it might have had something to do with the wonderful deco splendour of the Galleries Lafayette Tiffany glass dome. Wow. However, it didn't really inspire me to part with my hard earned Euro. There were a few things I saw that I wanted, the pashmina pillows, the new leather bag, the kicky little argyle sweater...all things available at home... and the suitcase was already bursting with the inclusion of the Prue Acton 1988 Bicentennial wool fair scarf. What's a girl to do?

I think a defining moment on any trip is when the singalong to the whole of Danii Minogue's illustrious opus begins. What better way to gird yourself to a big gay night out on the town in Paris, part time home to sister Kylie, and epicentre of all things and people shiny, glittery, sequined and feathered...(hey, or was that Sydney?). Anyhoo, I think we managed about 4 songs before we finally settled on "jump to the beat" as the fave for the evening, and then proceeded to slaughter it as we had done so mercilessly to Crystal Water's Gypsy Woman so many weeks before (that's another story).

....

Eddie: "I'm going to have the Duck"

Fiona: "Ooh that sounds good.."

Peter: " I'm going to have the duck too!"

Copy cats. Not sure if it was our tryst over Dannii or the seventh glass of Pinot that made the bonding so much nicer, but certainly as the whole restaurant lit up as our meals arrived united us in our feeeling of disgust. I mean, how can a country with the best cuisine in the world allow smoking at the dinner table in a tiny restaurant. How can you even taste the food when you have a mouth and nose full of ash? hmmph. Its not for much longer kids.

Out for drinks later, we were intrigued at the general absence of any Lebesians, dans LeMarais. Not that we were desperate for some company of them type of ladies, but it's always more friendly to be in a bar where there is a good balance of men and women, or where 'oest meets test' - boomboom. Anyway, where are the Lebesians in Paris? Can anyone tell me? Where do you go if you enjoy lady to lady conversation?

Day two, and as Fiona scurried off to the fleamarket for some bargains, the boys took a long walk around la defense. An amazing conflagration of 80's architecture on one of the most impresive urban plazas I have experienced, comparable to Beijing or Mexico city, but with good coffee. A brisk stroll back to the city along the Champs and then lunch and then home. Weekend over. Nicely. Not so hung over, no MSG poisining, and certainly no excess, which, is probably not such a good thing considering what was on offer....

The scarf...

Next chapter, Copenhagen...

Lights Camera ACTION!

Good evening shoppers!

Why don't you make your way inside my emporium this evening where I'm sure you'll find all manner of interesting items for your delight at crazy rock bottom christmas prices!...

Just look over here, a tale of little old me, lugging a 1:250 scale model from Victoria to Canary Wharf, along with a big roll tube full of drawings, in afternoon (nearly) peak traffic... Thankfully I DIDN'T do a Greg Brady and get distracted by a girl and loose the plans en route. Nor did I fall off the Millwall into the sesspool of the inner Millharbour after some rude BITCH barged past me on her phone with her umbrella swinging around like the arms of a frenzied chav mole on her way to the Chicken Cottage after a big night on the babysham. No Shoppers, I delivered my prize to the client office with a few minutes to spare before knock off so decided to amble back along the aforementioned harbour edge, with a few cautionary glances around me as the heavy beats of Nina Pretty Ballerina pounded into me via the iPod.

So here I am, walking back to Canary Wharf through the docks. It must be kind of something only mad people or old people who have nothing better to do than be mugged and killed for their packet of Murray Mints might do. No signage, no special braille paving for the "visually impared", no lighting, no brightly tinselled banners, no gloriously strobe lit glitter balls heralding my way.

My second tale, shoppers, begins in the sordid cyber trough of googlechat, where I was engaged in a sneaky mid work affair with my buddy Scotty. Sometimes Scotty and I have lunch together, seeing as we work close by and on this day I received a rather fetching invitation from the young laddy, fishing to see if I was around for an ilicit carb heavy afternoon reposte.

Eager I was, to fulfil these urges of fried noodle and steamed dumpling. But alas. I was stood up for a 'west end' saunter and sandwich to see the Christmas lights in Regent's street (I can just imagine Scott marching around Leicester Square, stuffing a kebab into his gullet)....

Anyhoo, since I was on the stroll after my near death experience in the Docks, I thought I might go and see what was goin down on the Crescent.

Well, what a surprise dear shoppers, to not only walk right into the crowd gathering below the window of ..um.. well, I'm not really sure exactly where it was, but there was Sir Ian McKellen, in all his santa haired glory, waving to the crowd, and then *poof* on came the Christmas lights and off went about £7.50 worth of fireworks ( the ash of which Im still picking off my Prue Acton 1988 Bicentennial Wool fair scarf ). But I did get my glorious glitter procession, as i ambled up Regent street with firecrackrs, Chrissy lights and throngs of gentlemen in coloured scarves eying me off in my Prue Acton 1988 Bicentennial wool fair scarf.

It was, dear shoppers, a wonderful experience. Worthy of my emporium. I still had the thrill buzzing through me as I passed by Hamley's Toys where they had a SNOWMACHINE !!! shoppers, belching snow upon the crowd. How spesh! Such a thrill, even to this Wonder of the World.

My only criticism was, as i mentioned to the lady next to me when the lights came on, was that I thought Kylie always turned on the Christmas Lights...? hey? innit?

Adam and Steve

You have GOT to see this. Seriously funny.

I'm not going to do a spoiler for you, because I'm tired and I don't want to analyse the incredible wit and comedic timing that engulfs anything that Parker Posey breathes on, so get it out or purchase the DVD. seriously, you will want to watch the gag reel.

x