Happy new year BLOGGERZ!!!

Wow!

I've been so preoccupied with Facebook that my relationship with this lovely pussy page has soooo been neglected.

Well, one of my many new year's resolutions (of which there are many, all about me) is to ensure that I blog more often. Because, it's probably the most selfless thing in my life that I do.

HA!

So getting in last night from a FOUL 30 plus hour long haul flight from Melbourne, Aust-twaiw-ia, I find myself awake at 3.00am pondering life's little mysteries, like, how those little plastic collar stiffeners ALWAYS manage to clog up the lint filter in the washer, facebooking like crazy and downloading my favourite episodes of Jamie Summers on utorrent.

Waiting for the offie downstairs to open so i can get some bread for some toast. Either that or its leftover biriani.

Mrs Pussy has had her own adventure whilst we've been gone, but I will let her tell you all about it herself. Needless to say, she looks red carpet, Oscar gown ready!

GO MRS PTC!

ciao for now.

AAAAANNNND it's back to me..

So I have been off to the USA for a week. Did you miss me? I Just got back yesterday and I seem to have a rather full notebook of "observations".

Funnily enough, most revolve around food.

But none that I put on about 5 pounds.


But I did have a good time. I got to the Grand Canyon, a party at the Bellagio in Vegas, and best of all, 6 flags amusement park in LA where Marie, my oldest and dearest friend in the world ever and I rode around on the roller coasters for a day. Because the park was pretty empty, we got to sit at the front most of the time. It was awesome. A particularly funny evening entailed going to a club full of Filippinos and afterwards walking along Hollywood boulevard, a little drunk on saturday night, asking people on the street if they knew who the names on the stars were. Well, I thought it funny. No one else really got the joke.

ho hum...

Human Gristle. Barcelona part 2

What could be more soul wrenching and pitiful than my substandard Emirates business class lounge in Manila?

Well, many things, I'm very certain, but on this dreary rainy Barcelona day, dear reader, I found myself in a 100+ queue at the Barcelona Sants railway station attempting to purchase a long distance ticket to travel on a day other than this day, to get me to Nimes, France, and then ultimately onwards to Arles for the easter break.

I recall many years ago, as teenagers, we watched a rather kicky little film, full of charming post war themes suitable for children and the mentally ill. This movie, titled Christiane F, is a delightful little tale about a 16 year old German girl who is lured into a life of herion and prostitution through the despiration of acknowledging her bleak, opportunity deficient future.

Apart from being harrowingly confronting and graphic, even then, the film was actually brilliant, from memory, even if it was completely unpalatable. It was an interesting look at post war Germany and her people.

The reason I'm delving into this mucky swamp, is that this gristly operetta was set what is arguably one of the in bleakest backdrops of modern life, that of the European train station. I think, other than Greyhound bus stations in the USA, you may never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. (10 points if you can pick the movie that delivers that line....) ...

So I'm ticket 493 in the line. Around me waiting to be called to the window are American teenage girls on their Eurail summer break (possibly waiting for the last bus somewhere), a midget woman with a burkha and an obviously long travelled African family, who's legitimate method of communication is to hock spit at each other. nice.

Window is calling ticket 445....

When I picked up the queue number almost an hour ago, I recognised that half a day of my holiday would be spent in some parallel universe where Christiane F would circle around me waiting to eat me whole. So I decided to have a beer; so what that its only 10.30am.

So now it's 3 beers later, and i'm till sitting here, writing in my hello kitty notepad, chair dancing to the Freemasons (still) about to dive into HELLO magazine where Jordon tells Kerry that they can be friends again, even though Kerry still hates her husband.

Calling ticket 457.


Shit, I'm way too old for this, Next time I'm going to pay the £400 and fly.

I'm BACK from BEARcelona.

OK, so I had quite a good time away, many funny anecdotes to tell.

Firstly, I had 4 days in Barcelona, where, I was dimayed, and slightly titlated to discover, like a naughty child who had just learned that sticking chewing gum on the sofa would, like, TOTALLY enrage mother, that the annual BEARcelona festival was on.

Well, I'm just SO glad I had spent every morning for the past month jogging at 6.00am to get rid of my goose fat laden Christmas dinner that was hanging around my middle like Lindsay Lohan at the back door of the late bar...

Anyway, in summary, it rained solid for 3 days and I was pretty miserable. One of the more perky days involved a little "race around the world" type task where I did have to wait an exhausting amount of time hanging around the railway station, waiting to buy a ticket to France, like some American teenage Eurail cheerleader in the 80's. *shudder* God I hate mass transit.

The episode that amused me the most in this saga was appraching the SNCF (or spanish equivalent) desk, prior to joining the queue, just to ask if this was, in fact, the correct queue to join to purchase a rail ticket to France.

Me: "Ola, Habla inglese por favor?"

Woman at desk: Stunned silence (as if I had just asked "hfasdfhn akjdhfalk hfkhuuhhjh muuuunie muuuuu"

Me: "sorry, do you speak english please?"

Woman at desk: "Oh no, not here. you'll have to join that queue and they'll speak english there."

I then, nearly wetting myself with laughter and slightly hysterical, damp and hungry, proceeded to take a ticket for the queue (100 places long) then make my way to the bar, and get drunk.

And it was only 10.30am. Luckily for me, I wrote a lovely tale of my observations, which I will follow in the next post for your reading pleasure (or pain, if you're on my side).

Manana.
x

Barcelona bound

I know I have been a little light on with the blogging of late, but its because I'm absolutely knackered, and now I'm taking a much earned little easter holiday.

I am just about to head off to Barcelona for a week of Kultcha. I will see you all when I return.
Happy easter everyone.

Remember, Jesus died for YOUR sins.

Mrs Pussy.

Hit the road, Jack

I'm a busy bastard. Just three weeks into the new year, and I don't know what to do with myself...da nah na na naaaahhhh

I just dont know what to DOOO with myseeelfff da na na na naaaahhhh!!!!

Just reeling from the revelation that I'm going to be sent off to Singapore for a design workshop on Feb 10th for this wonderful project that I'm working on. So I'm also tieing into this trek around to the other side of the planet, a site visit to Manila, in the Philippines to inspect groundworks on a project I'm doing there, and to buy some trees. God I love my job.

THEN I have also decided that on this mega trip to the far east, that I might as well go back via Dubai and Bahrain and check out a project I'm working on THERE. All up, I'll be away for a week and a half, and will probably have crammed in about a month's worth of work.

Then today, I found out that next week I have to go to Cyprus as WELL! MAN. And I'm off to Paris this weekend.

So who's feeling sorry for me?

Merry Christmas

So the most exciting thing about Christmas this year, dear readers, is that I have finally succumbed to the lure of the Australian shop in Covent Garden, and thankfully, the santa stocking will be filled with this.

A TINKIN' MOIN PART 1

I don't understand a word in Irish. I'm not talking about the Gaillic language, I'm actually talking about my inability to understand what is being said to me in this accent, oh to be sure to be sure.

I have just spent 24 hours in the capital, Dublin, which, for all intent and purposes was a very pleasant experience, despite missing my flight, getting on a wrong bus in the rain that didn't let me off where I wanted to, and being 3 hours late for my meeting. It would have totally wrong of me to have gotten into a pickle at these small hiccups, no, I was in another country and on my own, and with so much mischief to get up to, I felt I had to embrace my inner leprechaun, fill my pockets from my pot o gold, and riverdance my way out for a night on the town.

After getting myself into a nice little guesthouse run by a middle aged, greying Thai fella naturally called Frankie, I decided that at half past four, and after my exhausting half hour meeting, it was time to head out to one of the 567 pubs that lined Wexford street between my hotel and the city (a 5 minute walk). Along the way, I couldn't help but notice that every shopfront that wasn't a bar, was a barber; the street lit up like Regent street at Christmas but with twirling barbers poles.

So I tought to meselff, I tought "Eddie boy, maybe a haircut might be the way to kill a few minutes before your dinner.." and after losing 13 Euro for 5 minutes in the chair which didn't even involve the use of the razor, I felt suitably groomed, a little ripped off, but nonetheless, I felt like I had participated in what was obviously a cultural panacea that suitably deserved at least a beverage or 6.

So with my fresh stubble glistening in the frosty moonlight, I headed into a brightly lit corner bar, promising Guiness by the bucket load, and an interior fresher than inside a Scandinavian Norsca bottle hanging in a Scandinavian bathroom in Scandinavia.

Such is the curse of the smoking ban. You see, they banned smoking in all work places in Ireland about 2 years ago, and whilst I agree in principle with this move, it does kind of take the enjoyment out of the whole experience of going down to the pub.

So now, instead of sitting in a death pall whilst you have your guinness, your fluffy duck, or even your slow screw against the wall, you get 50 people hanging around the door, madly chuffing away, scaring off patrons who have to walk through a pall of death to get to their guinness et al, after stepping through a mountian of butts littering the street.

Nice one. At least SOMEONE is thinking about the children!

To be sure, to be sure........

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.

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.

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...

Made In Brazil

Everyone loves Brazil. COME ON! have you been there? its FABULOUS.

This is a picture from our hotel window on our first night we were there for the second time. It was fabulous. we got into SO MUCH TROUBLE ended up in a favela after dark, went to every club and ate Bob's hamburgers as the sun came up talking shit. Getting mugged, eating so much sizzling beef and chicory root.. hot men, really hot men, and really really really really hot men. Capiche?

Ahh Miss Lisa, if you're reading this, it was such fun and I will never forget having such a fun adventure with you.

SO in the spirit of "just throw a stick on the beach and any guy it lands on I will have sex with", check out the Brazillian men at the Made in Brazil blog on the side tab. Hubba fucking hubba.

http://madeinbrazil.typepad.com/

Pleasant..dreams.

x

The blue lagoon.

On Thursday I'm going to Iceland. No, I'm not talking about the supermarket where everything is sold out of giant freezers. I'm talking about the real home of Bjork, land of eternal day nee night country of Auroras and a volcanic wonderland that apparently looks like the moon.

In honour of my voyage to this great Scandinavian frontier, I thought I would just regale you with a few little known facts about Icelanders.

Iceland is home and country of Origin of Bjork. Bjork had a very successful singing career with hits such as Big time Sensuality and Venus as a boy. She also went to the oscars dressed like a giant swan and laid an egg on the red carpet. Cool.


There is a place in Iceland called The Blue Lagoon, where one may bath in hot thermal water that is fluorescent blue against a rugged lunar landscape. It is Iceland's top tourist destination, yet it's actually not made from hot geyser water that flows naturally from its volcanic springs. In fact the water comes from the hydro thermal power plants nearby. Its safe to swim in though. I'm hoping. Glad I ate that extra burger last week and now cant fit into my bathers. Yes, Im still not availing myself to the salad, and a life as Buck it will be.

Icelanders are big drinkers. Help.

They drive monster trucks, and especially enjoy racing car driving around the barren landscape of the country side, often after drinking lots. Maybe not quite so cool.

I'ts really really cold in the winter, and apparently, the depression that usually sets in to communities starved of sunlight and daylight for months at a time, actually hits in the summer time when most of them work 20 hour days and don't sleep because its light all the time. Every year there is at around this time, a 'festival of lights' where this marks the moment when the sun starts to set, they turn the street lights on, and they can all go to bed.

Which is in fact, where I'm off to right now.

Good night my lovelies.

xx

Travel Diary Montreal - Chapter 3. Glamourheads WIN the outsplash!!!

Glamourhead Sharks OutSplash winning entry

Glamourheads GOING OFF!
Thanks to Ryan for putting this onto youtube. see if you can spot me somewhere on the diving board. And who gave me a microphone. Jesus Christ, that was stupid.
(isn't it amazing what you can do with a lilo?)


Victory! we won! where's that gold medal then?

Travel Diary Montreal - Chapter 2. Esther Williams - eat yo heart out darl!

I recall sitting in my living room at the merry old age of 19 watching Hayley Lewis win gold in Auckland at the 1990 Commonwealth games. I thought to myself, one day I'm going to meet her and tell her what an inspiration she is, as i got off the couch, put my cigarette out, put my beer down and went and had a nap. It was a few years later, whilst doing laps, that I remembered what an inspiration she actually was to me.



This is me getting ready for my 200m Individual Medley for which I got DQ'd (and thats not a reference to Dairy Queen).

OK so I never got to meet Hayley, but I did get to spend a few nice hours with Nicole Livingstone at a dinner, and meet Shane Gould at a party once, and heck I've now swum in 2 gay games (well one gay games and one outgames). All of these things have been awesome. And the cherry on top of all of this was getting to spend a week with my Glamourhead Sharks friends at the outgames in Montreal. So many of them were inspirational, especially in the outsplash, but mostly by their spectacular performances in the pool.



This is me and Deb, gold gold gold. What a little gold digger she turned out to be...

Anyway, I did manage to do 3 PB's at the games. I did a 27.88 for the 50 free, a PB in the 50 back, after 10 minutes sleep from the night before and a PB in the 200 free in a relay in 2.25.something. So Im pretty chuffed, and now have 4 bronze medals hanging in my kitchen.



I also made some really nice friends poolside, a cute guy from Manchester, and a sweet man from Montreal. Its a week at the pool I wont forget in a hurry.



Then came the OUTSPLASH! competition. This was undoubtably the highlight of the swim meet (well there was one other thing that I think I enjoyed more, but me mum might be reading this). Guess what my role was


check out

http://results.montreal2006.org/resultats_en.aspx?lang=_en

And you thought 1000 gays and lesbians in a pool was enough. Darl, its never enough.

mrs pussy
xx

Travel Diary Montreal - Chapter 1. Let the games commence!

Righto, hi everyone, Sorry about Mrs Pussy, she does go on. She's become rather hyperactive since we changed her food, the curtins are also hanging rather splendidly, so she's about to go on a big diet.

We had the most fantastic time in Canada. Apart from the incredible friendliness of the local boys ..ahem.... the city had really put on the most amazing show for the some 12000 visitors attending both the games and the human rights conference. On top of that, there was also the "DiversCite" festival and gay pride. It was just mental. For a full photographic essay on the week, visit

www.dropshots.com/mrjardine

and all our holiday pics are there (well, the clean ones anyway!)



The opening ceremony was amazing. We all marshalled outside the olympic stadium in the rain, with thousands of spunky Dutch, English and Montreal athletes, drinking beer and comparing uniforms. Everyone loved our outfits, and I thought I wore the shortest shorts in the whole parade until I met this guy....




WHAT a hottie. He was in the swimming competition, but was not the nicest boy poolside by a long shot. Anyone who saw the goings on beside the Glamourheads stand would understand what im talking about. Anyhoo, as soon as we posed for this shot, it was like a papparazzi frenzy. We were both nearly torn apart by the crowds. Though I think they would have been tearing me apart to get to him...

We finally entered the stadium to thunderous applause, it was truly amazing, we danced around like idiots for a while and were treated to an amazing show of Cirque du Soleil and KD Lang, who, in her TRACKSUIT looked like she had just eaten half of Cirque du soleil. Honestly love, one too many trips to the buffet I think.






We managed to squirm our way all over the floor, just as if we were in a dance party. The array of people all rejoicing to be there was staggering, and it was really cruisy. I think my favourite boys were the Calgary Cowboys with their big Brokeback Mountain hats.

After the ceremony we headed home to get some sleep before the first day of competition. Most of the others went out partying, so wish we had done that, the skybar was really fun, however, I think we spent more than enough time there over the week. And really the saturday night was probably to most sleep I got all week.....





There are many more stories to tell and I will try to get them all on here over the coming days...

Ciao for now,

Eddy