Pushkar Bastards!

Pushkar is beautiful, as you can see, but mental. The Dewali festival is on at the moment and everybody is going crazy with fireworks, but don't think 'Oh wouldn't that be pretty, night time, with all those lights over the lake.' Yeah right, Indian fireworks are crap and loud.

Little kids (who are all little bastards i might say) have got these massive bungers that'd get you arrested in Australia for having and thrown in gaol for six months, that or, they'd claim you were a terrorist because they're big and dodgy, the cheaper ones are homemade. Tourists that buy them give a rupee to some kid to light it, so they (the tourist) can go home with ten fingers. Not that i'd know about that. Some accidents just won't happen.

But the kids have come up with this great new game called, 'Scare the Shit Out of Tourists.'

Picture this, It's late night, the narrow alley back to your guesthouse is pitch black and you're playing your usual game of dodge the cow patties in the dark. The cows are asleep in their pile of rubbish and rotting food. But that's all okay because you've just come out of a not so secret bar where they serve apple juice that costs a fortune, but tastes more like wheat and hops than apples, so you're feeling easy. Good. You've had a great night with other tourists even if you have broken a few religious laws. Life's great! You've got your girl on your arm and you're strutting home like a king.

That's when you hear the sniggers. A soft hiss. And the mother of all explosions lights up the alley, right next to your Converse All Stars.

The festival of Dewali is going off with a bang.

That happened a few night ago, now, the festival has well and truly kicked off the place sounds like Beirut, night and day, though some people have spent a little more on their fireworks, don't buy home made ones, and send them into the sky to make a bit of a show. So it's nice.

And I've got my defenses, ear plugs. A good sleep and a peace of mind. It also works against stalking wallahs.

Nepal, paranoid? or is it just the guns?

Well, we're still in Kathmandu, we're heading to Delhi tomorrow. Don't
you think Kathmandu has the coolest name of all time? Well, it's a
close second to Bangkok for obvious reasons.

Do you remember that movie, Gremlins? Where in the beginning the Dad
goes into this Asian junk shop that's spilling to the brim with stuff
that looks really cool, and he buys the cutest little Steven Spielberg
creature you've ever seen called a Mogwai? Well, there's a million
stores like that here.

How that guy ever got that creature through customs is a miracle. Can
you imagine, you're at Kingsford Smith airport in Sydney.

'You got anything to declare, mate?'
'Um, yes. Just a little Mogwai that multiplies when it touches water.'
'Well, it ain't my list, mate, so i guess it should be fine. Go ahead.'

But I'm getting off the topic, that shop, where you bought that
Mogwai, is the exact replica of what almost every store in Kathmandu
looks like. Imagine that one, next to another, next to another,
multiplied by a million, all stacked on top of each other like some
Lego experiment and then surround the sculpture by mountains and
you've got a postcard picture of Kathmandu.

But its very relaxed compared to the freaky Indian cities, like
Varanasi, where everyone seems to have lost their senses. There,
beggars touch you with scabby fingers, filthy bastards drink the poo
stained waters of the Ganges, and let's not to forget the one freaky
silk wallah that stalks you everyday, like he's been designated by the
government to follow you, so he can leap out from dark corners, make
you jump and hit your head on low hanging buildings, and say, 'Now you
will come to my brother's store!'

No, Kathmandu is much more chilled, there's still the same guys doing
the same stuff, low ceilings, beggars, dirty buggers, and crazy
wallahs, all playing the same roles in the a similar way, but they've
got a more relaxed approach. They no longer stalk you, instead,
they're little Tibetan ladies now, that smile their three teeth, and
say, 'You promised me you would buy from me, tomorrow.'

But its easy to get away from them because the biggest insult you can
give a Nep (short for Nepalese and i love that name because it sounds
almost racist) is to say, 'What are ya, a dirty Indian or something?'

'Oh no, sir, i am definitely not Indian.'
'Well, You haggle like one.'

Gets them every time. The price drops. No one wants to be Indian.

But in Kathmandu there's a definite underlying tension behind all the
relaxed front. In fact all over Nepal it seems like there's a two
faced mask to hide the huge paranoid political ball of fear.

'The King! The King!' they say, 'Long live the King!'
Yeah right. They hate his guts.

There's a large military presence with machine gun totting blokes
dressed in blue camo-uniforms on every street corner. I don't know why
they choose to wear blue, maybe they think they'll blend in with the
sky. But it's bit like, 'Oh gee, fellas, I didn't see you hiding
beside that red temple. I almost mistook you for a cloud floating
past.'

At first, their presence is confronting, because they'd often stop
your bus and check everybody in it.

"Do you have a
Maoist hiding under your seat?"
'No, but i understand your mistake. I have had some trouble with my bowels.'

- sometimes they even go so far as make you sign a little book, but
now, after a while, they seem more of a nuisance.

In Kathmandu, there's a huge population of homeless children. Kids
that would otherwise be living in homes in the countryside that have
come here to wander the streets. The conflict between Maoists has
forced them into the cities to make a living as rag collectors because
Maoists have claimed their parents' land for their cause.

The Neps I've talked to, guesthouse owners, restaurant owners, etc,
are cautious about what they say, like they've sewn their lips on
their opinions about the King and the Maoists because they might be
seen as offending either side that might end up in power.

Nepal's divided with 60% of the countryside being occupied territory
of the Maoists while the cities and towns are occupied by royalist
troops. Nobody will say anything but it hangs in the air.

At the pub, talking with other travellers, there's a feeling that
hangs in a bad smell, everyone knows the balance of power is in flux.
If the Maoists did decide to attack, the country could go into civil
war. This seems to be the opinion of most travellers and a couple NGO
workers I've talked with, but then, the papers from India seem to
indicate that India isn't happy with the King, but will be ready to
stop a revolution it happens on its doorstep, that is, if it comes to
that.

Nobody likes the king but the people don't want to become a communist
country. How could they when they're so rich in religion? And the
Maoists, though they call themselves Marxist revolutionaries, they
don't have strong ties to being anti-religious or anti-capitalist
-they just wanna get rid of the king.

An NGO worker i was talking with said,' China doesn't want a Marxist
revolution its doorstep either, because it might make its own peasants
thinking about their revolution that has never quite finished. And
they're more capitalist than the western capitalists.

It's a messed up situation and yeah, Kathmandu a great city, but it's
like a time bomb waiting to go off. So yeah, we're leaving tomorrow,
back to the unfathomable hectic-ness of India, but at least it's seems
all above board there. I'll get my stalker i assigned to me entry.

But tonight, I'll probably just drink a beer, stare at those mountains
and enjoy not exactly knowing what the political situation is and
hopefully stop on the way back our guesthouse to buy a Mogwai .

Nepal, I nearly died!!!!!

I nearly died because I caught Sandy's sickness. I had my money riding
on it being different and being the dreaded chicken flu only because i
think it sounds funny, but I'm such a wimp when it comes to being
sick. I turn into the biggest souk and previously I'd been telling her
to stop being such a baby about it and get over it - she'd only had to
go to hospital once!.

'I'm sure the rooms are much cleaner inside.' I kept telling as we walked
into the hospital. 'They have to be educated about these things. Much cleaner
inside.'

We got shoved in a waiting room full of about a hundred curious yet
pale faces all staring at us while we all waited to be next to see the
only doctor available. Anyway Sandy was fine, he just gave her some
antibiotics and gave me some very serious conversation while he
managed to ignore the existence of his patient, Sandy, all together.

'The reason there is so much corruption in Nepal is because the
politicians want to drive cars like mine. I have a BMW. They're
trying to keep up with me.'

'uh huh'

'How could they possibly afford a house like mine without their bribes.'

'Thanks, mate. You've been truly fascinating.'

The pills he gave her seemed to work. I stole them off her when i got it.

Imagine your face heavy and feeling like it's sliding off - a cough so
deep it touches hell and makes you talk like the devil and a fever to
match the inferno of hell where you feel like you're heading.

Yeah, cool i think I'm up for walking, i said, 'I'm a bloke.'

A day latter I'm vomiting on the beautiful scenery of the Himalayas.
This is where i feel like I'm going to die.

'Just a bit further,' Sandy says, 'We've only got to another 10kms to go.'

The mountains are vertigo above and below me. Clouds are in the
valleys and blues skys above. Another puke shoots from my guts. The
yaks are bleating and conversation is starting to make sense.

I've got a list of places I've puked on now, my first and personal
favourite is Ullaru -Ayers Rock - when i climbed it stoned, in the
middle of the day, and bare footed - a good way to get heat stroke and
blow chunks on the sacred site.

So if i get a few more natural wonders under my belt (or is that out
from under my belt?) i might be setting some kind of new record.

It was then I did decided to steal Sandy's pills.

You can hire Sherpas up there to carry your stuff, and of course I
considered this but there's a whole bunch of philosophies that go with
this

- I'm giving someone a job/I'm encouraging slavery -
- it's giving them something to do/I'm a lazy bastard -

On the whole though the reason i didn't go with the Sherpa (because i
am a lazy bastard) is that the Euros I'd seen marching down the hill
holding their professional walking sticks (pointy ones), dressed in
their skintight Lycra shorts with their ball sack bouncing (or a nice
firm camel's foot bulging for the ladies) while a tiny man stumbling
behind them carrying their lorry load of packs. He'd be all bundled
together with ropes and bags and have then all strapped to his
forehead. The package would be bigger than him and he'd look like an
ant carrying a boulder on its head from a distance with two glamour
queens marching in front of him discussing the latest prices of fake
Gucci handbags.

I guess, somehow, I'd feel like a little uncomfortable letting a
little man carry my load, I'm too proud, but looking back i should
have. I might not have puked on the mountain and had some pair of
glamorous Euros turn their noses up at me as I was doubled over
emptying my guts into the most scenic place on the earth. The Sherpa
said, hello.

So i got better, i even gave up smoking, it's been a whole week
without a ciggie, and we had a lovely walk down the hill. Very nice
views.

Anyway, just though i'd add the little bit about how i nearly died!!!!!

Hey from India [again!]

We've been in India a week - the first night at the Marriott was lush.
God, i got good girl! The place was a God send at 11pm and free too
... thought that said, we couldn't wait to get out because we felt
like freaky impostors, with thoughts like, 'I'm not dressed right. My
backpacker chic just doesn't fit in with this Marriott look.' So we
bailed out from there ASAP and headed south for the infamous Goa.

We jumped on an overnight train south to the beaches. That is, after
we did all the checks on weather websites and crossed referenced them
with other sites. Just to be sure. (Sandy's obsessed with weather at
the moment, it's her new weird hobby) and we decided it was a safe bet
and the monsoon was not gonna be a problem.

At the train station we were meant to get off the rain bucketed down in
sheets, you know like when you're hosing the garden at home and you've
got it on the open nozzle setting with in a thick stream coming out,
well it was raining like
that from the sky with a zillion thick streams pouring from the
clouds. I'll never trust a weather website again (and the BBC!) We
jumped onto the platform with our back packs strapped like
scuba-divers ready for the deep sea and bolted for a taxi.

The beach, if wanted to look at it, was like staring at an un-tuned
channel on the TV with pure static and white horizontal lines coming
down towards the shore. Don't get me wrong I'm all for a beach holiday
and I did have a mad time, it was just a comedy of errors. After
walking down river of mud, what would of been a dirt track, to find a
guesthouse we went straight back out in search of parties.

We found other travellers in the same situation, that was cool because
the ones we found had discovered the perfect remedy, it's called
'fenny,' an Indian rum that comes in two flavours, coconut and cashew.
The guys we hooked up with are from the north of England so with thier
accent, 'Fenny' produced loads of jokes.

Three days later, with a massive hand over like you would have when
you've been sleeping and drinking in the mud, the sun came out.
Beautiful waves rolled in, it was a tropical paradise with palm trees
hut and everything, a true postcard setting. But Sandy had a cold and
we had to go back to Mumbai to meet Gus.

So the next time some stoned monkey starts telling me about his Goa
experience, I'll put him straight and say, 'it must've been the
fenny, mate, cos i had wicked time there but i wasn't that wasted.'

We're in the middle of India somewhere at the moment- a town called
Bhopal(spelling?) on the way to Varanasi. Travelling with Gus rocks.
There's something about hooking up with old mates overseas that really
makes a wicked adventure. We should in Nepal next week or so to do a
three week walk through the Himalayas. That, i'm looking forward too,
because there's no amount of hype that can't be true about how
beautiful those hills are.

Damn Infidel Terrorists!

I love lamingtons!!!!!!

Oh, to have a nice chocolate covered sponge to rub a tub tub with, and
get chocolate and coconut all over my clothes. It's the little things
i miss from Australia. Lamingtons, snap 'n' squeeze sauce packs you
get with a sausage roll and you get no mess on your shoes.

Did I mention Sydney's got no fucking bombs!!!!

It's been a hectic week here, suspicious packages and bomb squads
taping off tube stations for hours while a courageous, yet hesitant,
copper tip-toes up to the rucksack and peaks inside at some kids
stinky sports clothes he left behind absent-mindedly.

I guess you don't get that much on Kings St, but i know there's a lot
spunky design students walking around, not bad if you want a perve.
Particularly when they're wearing see-through tops with their boobies
poking out, but i forgot, it's winter!!!!!! Shit, that's gotta suck!
Rock on summer, i say. Not that i would actually perve at ladies or
anything, Denise, because you know I'm a nice guy and I'm getting
married.

how's the exhibition going? Good - suspect with your dedication. i
hear you met up with my Mum. She didn't mention Jesus too many times
in front of you, did she? I gave her a little of using the name six
times. After all, you're Nicky six.

How's things going with SB, is it still on? Last i heard, you were
thinking about running away with that bozo, Tommy Lee and making
pornos on his boat.

Back to London. Yeah, its been a week of people glaring at anyone
carrying a sports bag. It can be on trains, buses, even walking. If
you see someone with a bag, you glare. Soon it will be un-PC to call
someone a bag-carrier, it'll be the new racism. I was sitting on the
train with a black guy across from me, dressed in an Adidas tracksuit,
looking like a tough homeboy, and carrying a big black bag. He's
glaring back at me, and I'm thinking he could be Muslim. he's got a
beard. His angry eyes stare into my soul, as he asks, 'What is in your
bag, mate?

He's bloody asking me! My backpack couldn't hold a bomb!

'Just my lunch.' i say, 'What about yours?'

He looks like I've slapped his face as he unzips it to reveal
cricket gear. Bag bigotry is indiscriminate, we're all victims. i
gotta trim my beard.

Then again, on Thursday it was supposedly going to kick off for real,
but no was hurt and everyone had to walk home again. These terrorists
are making many disgruntled commuters, but that's not such a bad thing
Britain's papers were just recently complaining about how the majority
of their population needed to be more exercise, the lazy bastards.

Me, I got a bike and i whizz past them every time there's a shutdown,
but I feel their envious eyes wanting to mug me for it, not that
anyone envied me when i rode past their buses in the snow. Look who's
laughing now suckers!

But then on Friday, there was that guy that got his head blown off on
the train, just for looking suss. It's come out that he had nothing to
do with terrorism. Don't know why he was running, probably had a stash
of hash or some shit on him. now, it feels like it's going to kick off
with the tension between Muslims and coppers.

Even at the sight seeing tourists are victims. Have you ever noticed
how similar the words 'Tourist,' and 'Terrorist' are? Try saying them
both with a thick Japanese accent.

'Hi! Yes, me tourer-ist!!!'

Bang! five lead ones to the head.

But, everyone knows who's responsible for the bombs. It's those
fanatics, the God-less French. they're jealous they missed out on the
Olympics.

Yeah, i got another job teaching, but this one is over in Barking, in
Essex. It takes me just over half an hour to get work, with my bike
and the tube, not that i mind because it's probably better not to be
working in London at the moment.

THOSE THAT STAYED BEHIND

Anglo-Indians, a confusing identity
By Tom Norton.

In Mumbai the monsoon has been promising to arrive for the last two
weeks and cool everything down, but it still hasn't. The air is hot,
dry and thirty seven degrees, and it makes every piece of clothing wet
where it touches skin.

'Would you like me to wear a shirt?' Father Lane-Smith asks. 'I hope
this doesn't offend you?' He's sitting in a cane chair in the kitchen
of his apartment, out the window is a view of the Taj Mahal Hotel. A
fan spins lazily over his head and his chest is pale, sweaty and
covered in grey hair.

His mother was of mixed race and his father British. 'My mother,
Grandmother and everyone on that side of the family were dark, they
spoke the native language. I only learned this later because they
never spoke it in my presence. Maybe that was because they were
ashamed of their dark blood. I'm not, I'm a mixture of ten races, and
that's fine, that's what I am.'

The Father is a solid man with a white beard that could quite easily
make you mistake him for Santa Clause on vacation.

'The British Raj,' he says, 'Did us a great disservice by reserving
jobs for whites (before India's independence). We had no need for
education. Friends of mine left school and stepped into high ranking
positions in the government, in the police, postal service and others.
So while Indians were getting educated we were getting dumber. I was
lucky, my mother a school teacher. My father was British so he had no
need for education. I received all my schooling from my mother.'

The term Anglo-Indian (AI) comes from the 17th and 18th Century when
English settlers would take Indian wives, but it was the Portuguese
who first came to India and started blending the races in as early as
the 15th Century, Danish, French and British were to follow,
consequently many Indians are of a mixed heritage. If the children of
Europeans were white in appearance they were pushed into the upper
echelons of power, they were the Anglo-Indians at the top of caste
system. The term Anglo-Indian now refers to minority that stayed
behind.

'Though I consider myself a native of India, I still get mistaken for
a foreigner. Walking home I am stopped on street by people trying to
invite me to all the places that a tourist would go.' He laughs to
himself. 'They soon realise they've got the wrong guy when I answer in
Hindi.'

In 1947 he was undertaking his priesthood training in Delhi when India
gained its independence. 'It was strange to have the rules suddenly
changed on you, before being a white meant that no one would do harm
to you. It was a terrible fear factor beaten into people by the police
who were run by whites.'

India's independence naturally created a massive paradigm shift and
many AIs feel insecure in their situation which caused a mass exodus.
Not all of them that stayed agree that the job situation has improved,
administrative the defence services still hold a majority of
Anglo-Indians in high positions. A similar comparison can be seen with
people leaving South Africa before the end of the apatite.

'It's a very frustrating identity for people like me. I know a case of
two brothers, who had the same parents and live on the same street,
but one calls himself a Madrasi and other says he's a Britishier. It's
a confusing to be part of a culture that has moved on.'

Multiculturalism is a term used in the west to describe the benefits
of immigration, many post AIs are now living in America, Australia,
Canada, New Zealand, and the UK, consider themselves
Indian-Australians, Indian-Canadians, etc, but multiculturalism has
been occurring in India since the before the days of the British Raj.
Father Lane-Smith's brothers and sisters left during independence
because they didn't feel safe. 'It was a natural fear. Things were
changing under their feet. But Gandhi did things that needed to occur.
India is a much better place now.'

In contrast, youth ideology in Mumbai can be seen to consider Gandhi's
ideals as outdated and a little backward, though they still hold
strong regard for his views on non-violence. With the boom of IT and
call-centre industries, they have created a new generation of young up
coming Indians (Mumbai-ites) who are being offered an opportunity for
wealth. The west offers them a means to climb up that old social
hierarchy which still exists despite Gandhi's best efforts and
consequently he can be seen as quite anti-industry because of the
foreign businesses, that might considered to be taking advantage of
India's cheap labour force, but offer the youth opportunities for
success. To them, the west is seductive, attractive and inspirational.

'Some people are partially Indian and love to be Indian, but others
who are very Indian, in blood, disclaim it entirely and would rather
not be Indian. I prefer to call myself Indian, but if you put me
against the ropes I would have to admit I am Anglo-Indian.'

As well as being a Jesuit priest, Father Lane-Smith is a professor of
Mass Com for film and Television, he studied in Canada and suggested,
'They too should give their country back to the Indians.' So being a
western appearing man who speaks Hindi he is often being used by
directors in Bollywood films. His last role was in a film titled
'Black,' where he played an English priest. When asked if he felt
typecast, he laughed and answered, 'Aren't we all by our appearance?'

Hey From Bombay

Bombay or Mumbai is weird city, the name you use depends on which side
of the religious fence you sit on. I like calling Bombai or Mumbay.

It's weird living here though, not like my previous travels through
Asia because i never spent this amount of time in the one spot. But
let me tell you about the culture shock? The one that everyone whose
been to India tries to prepare you for? With the suffering, the people
dying on the street in piles of boney bodies, the lepers, the beggars,
the etc, the etc... you know the one what people say, when you go
there you'll have a spiritual experience from seeing masses of people
suffering for no other reason than being poor and you'll be
spiritual-ised because there's no way you can help them, there's just
too many of the buggers you just have to learn to deal with
it.

I don't think so! I've suffered more! Well, maybe not, but don't get
me wrong some of best freinds are people.

But the culture shock I'm experiencing is from being an Aussie. People
are constantly talking to me about the cricket! I've had to start
reading one article a fortnight about the sport so i can contribute to
their bloody conversations, but i can't bring myself to read or learn
anymore than necessary.

But that's not it. The culture shock is this...

Being an Aussie i naturally reject authority, it may be from the
flow-over of the convict era with our generations of rejecting our
colonial oppressors, or you could call it our socially inbuilt
tall-poppy syndrome, whatever, i don't care, i know i don't like
authority and there's thousands of others like me back home that feel
the same way.

So staying in the Marriott, I constantly have these little men coming
up to me
they grin up at me, asking, 'How can I be helping your service, sir?'

'What?'

'Is there anything you will be needing? Another gin and tonic, perhaps sir?

Naturally I've grown accustom to the free drinks. Admittedly, that's
pretty lush. But i feel weird telling the guys, who are actually
begging for it, what to do.

Sandy goes to work at 9am and doesn't get back til 7 at night and
because i was sick when i first got here I spent my first week in bed,
food poisoned by my servants i might add, i didn't get out much in
that first week or two. I even had a doctor visit me in my room.

It was about 1am in the morning, outside out hotel room it was 33
degrees and my body was freezing. I'd put all my clothes on and still
couldn't get warm. Sandy was giving me weird looks, she decided to
make the call even though i was doing my best to persuade her that i
would get over it.

We'd been waiting for about two hours for the doc to show up, i
decided to complain to the hotel by calling the front desk and deal
with it in the morning. but no sooner i had i hung up the phone was
our door bell ringing.

'You called for a doctor?' she asked.

I'm already feeling guilty about complaining before she begans to tell
me why she's late. Another guest had to rushed to hospital.
'You have food poisoning,' she says, checking me out. 'Your tempreture
is high, but there is no reason to worry.'
Then she gets a call from the front desk.
Sorry about that.' i say trying to look innocent and sweaty.
'No problem.' She says. 'I'm going to have to give you an injection
to take away your fevour.'
I roll up my sleave.
'No, sir. This one has to go into your behind.'
The needles like a sword and I know she's grinning like a demon as she
penetrates my arse.

Now though, I've been out heaps and working on that documentary idea,
i might have told you about it, not the Mockumentary, this ones a
travel one with sort of short off the beaten track stories. I've been
working on a 'How to be a Bollywood Extra' story.

I've been interviewing all kinds of different people who are involved
in the recruitment of western tourists/backpackers.

Yesterday, i went to chat with this old Jesuit priest, he's about 70+
and been doing mission work here all his life. He's constantly being
used as an extra in movies and he knows a lot of the horror stories
about people (westerners) being exploited. That and he breeds snakes.

So i got off the topic with him a fair bit and he told me what he
thought and knew about the British rule. 'I'm one of the few who
stayed behind,' he said.

He was even here when Ghandi was shot in Delhi, 1948. So as I said,
he's an old guy and we got off the topic, but very likable and he gave
some great ideas, say if i ever manage to get some funding from an
Aus. Arts Council grant, I'd like to make that doco, 'The ones that
stayed behind', a series on different messed up countries (mostly
under British rule - That's your fault Steve!) where the whiteys have
fled except for a few.

I invited him out for a beer, but he doesn't drink and his diet, 'cos
he's old, is mostly mashed up stuff. 'That's gotta suck,' I told him.
'Yes,' He agreed, 'But i'm going to live to 105.'
I'm going back to chat with him next week.

Anyway, the other doco is going good, i'm going to be following around
a recruiter next week as they scout for westerners. Hopefully i can
get some before/after interviews with them.

Anyway I'll leave it there .

Fat Bomb!

We just got back from a mad festival – ATP (All tomorrows Parties) on
the coast in East Sussex. Each year they're curated by a different
artist/performer, a few years ago it was done by Sonic Youth. This
year was by Vincent Gallo, the director of Buffalo 66, so it was
pretty eclectic with people like Lydia Lunch, Jon Spencer's Blues
Explosion, Money Mark, PJ Harvey, John Frusciante (from the Chillie
Peppers), some freaky Japanese birds called Afrirampo and bunch of
others including Yoko Ono and Son, Sean Lennon.

I mentioned the last two because I've got a bit of a tale about ole Sean.

So we got there, Me, Reg, and Sandy, and checked in to get the key to
our room. Yeah, that's right, a ROOM! Everyone gets a little motel
room with a kitchen, bathroom, fridge and TV (which was constantly
showing Gallo's favourite flicks), enough room for four. No more muddy
tents, no more being covered crap for days and dying to get home into
that shower to scrape your cake. This is the festival of style.

We dumped our bag, cracked open the bottles, and checked the line up.
First up were the freaky Japanese birds that have a sound like the
Ramones with kitsch edge.

'Let's take some Mushies,' Sandy said.

We did.

So the Japs were pumping, we were buzzing, and I spot none other than
Vinny Gallo sitting in front of the stage in the VIP section.

I gotta congratulate him, I think. I push my way to the front and lean
over the barrier placing both hands on his shoulders with my arse in
the air to the crowd. 'Vincent,' I say.

He looks up at me, smiles, and pats my hand.

'Do you like the girls?' I point to the stage.

'Yes, they're a pair of my favourite artists.'

'Well done, mate. I love your work. Can I buy you a drink?'

Then Sean Lennon leans across me and whispers something to Vinny.
Sean's eyes glaring at me. That might be Sean, and I might be
tripping, but the guy just acted like a rude prick. Me and Vinny were
talking.

I see Yoko sitting next to him.

'Sean,' I say, 'How are you?'

'Good, thank you.' He looks back at the band. I tap him on the
shoulder, 'That's awfully nice of you to bring your ole mum along.'

He glances at Yoko, back at me and smiles.

'So Sean' I lean in close. 'How do you feel about living in the shadow
of your father?'

He doesn't look back, but I can see the pink rising under chin where
his beard gets thin. The guy even looks like he's impersonating his
father. I let the crowd swallow me back up and it's not until after
that I thought of the killer touch, by saying, 'and your mother.'

I know. He's human like the rest of us and he's got feelings. I've
been through my next morning shame, feeling bad with my serious
hangover, but it's not like I ruined his life. He's probably alre4ady
been through years of therapy and just didn't know how to respond in a
single sentence to my question. And he played really crap the next day
so I feel totally justified.

On other news, Anzac day was here today and I made my students have a
moment of silence, not that I bothered to explain it to them in too
much detail; I've got a couple of Turks in class. The little murdering
bastards. Just joking. I know it was the English.

So I'm counting down the days left at work, only eleven to go (that's
working days). And I had the conversation with my boss, Darren, today
about taking three weeks unpaid leave after I've had my fill with paid
leave. He hasn't said 'no' yet.

He crossed his legs and recrossed them three times, before he said,
'Well Tom, I don't know about this.' (Think fat camp man with short
arms and big hands, waving them about) He exudes a tight smarmy smile.
'How do we know this isn't going to happen again?'

'Huh?' I say, but I'm thinking 'I fucking wish, mate. Five star
accommodation for free, if it happens again I won't be asking.

'I mean what if you're girlfriend has to...'

'My fiancé,' I corrected.

'Yes, if she has to go off to India again in six months. We can't be
creating a situation. We have to hire someone to cover your teaching,
you know?'

Yeah right, I'm thinking, we've been short staffed of tutors for six
months with everyone covering two classes when the teachers are sick.
These people are tight. But I know it all comes down to money, and I
play my winning loyalty card,

'Look, I understand if you can't wait that long. I'll just apply for
my job when I get back.'

It'll be months before they get their act together.

'I can't tell you now.' He's waving his hands about. 'But I'll give
you answer at the end of the week.

'That's fine.' After all, I'm thinking it mustn't be his decision.
He's got to speak to his boss. But either way, it's good to be in a
position where you don't really care. You always feel like you're
winning.

Notes on Squating

As a recent resident in London I’m often confronted with the cost of living here, and if you have any aspirations of being an artist and renting a studio you’d better have a grant or a massive bank account because the rent for a studio space can range from £75-200+/week, and usually that’s for a desk space, but there are ways around it.

At a pub in Brixton, The Prince Albert, I met a guy called Andy, he’s been a squatter all his life. His earliest memory is of living in a Brixton squat with his mother twenty five years ago, she was pregnant and going into labour, her contractions were kicking in and she ordered him to run to the phone box to call the ambulance.

“Help,” he cried into the phone, “I need an ambulance.

“Where to, son?”

“Brixton.”

Click, the phone hung up.

He dialed again. “Help. I need an ambulance to Brixton.”

Click.

He could hear his mother’s cries from outside on the street. He tried again. “My mother’s going into labour,” he cried, “She’s having a baby.”

“Woe. Slow down, son. Where is she?”

After he explained, the switchboard sent all three that he’d called for, but it was too late. His baby brother had been born in a squat.

Andy no longer lives in a squat but uses one for a studio. He paints urban landscapes of Brixton life, i.e. Drug dealers wandering through the marketplace with the crazy evangelists preaching on the street.

He hooked me up with my own studio in a squat, the old Clapham Junction theatre, but the whole place needed power. I knew that electrical engineering course I did would come in handy. But people talk, and soon I got a call from a girl called Erin asking if I could come over and help her out too. It was in a place that had only been recently claimed, a week ago.

The rules, I’m told, are if you can enter a building through an open door or window and it’s totally unoccupied, squatters have got the right to claim it, but that said, to lay claim to a space there must be at least one squatter present on the property at all times.

I went to this place and met Erin and her friends, they were cool guys. I was just getting down to the business of sorting out the electrics when there was a bashing on the door. “Who the f*** is in there?”

“Oh shit,” said Erin, standing next to me, holding my screwdriver. Her boyfriend, Scott, runs to the door to look through the peephole. “It’s a bloody big guy,” he says to us.

“Get the f*** out!” the big bloke starts kicking the door. The whole house is rattling.

“We’re squatting.” Scott yelled back, “We’ve got a right to be here.”

“Like f***.” He kicked the door again, and said something to his mates, soon someone’s kicking at the back door. “If you don’t want a bashing, you better come out now.”

I’m packing up my tools, thinking, there’s no way he’s going to keep that promise. Erin’s screaming out the key hole, “I’m calling the cops!” and she does. It was then, when she was on the phone to the cops, I discovered she was an epileptic. Her hands are shaking and she thrust the phone into my hand, “You gotta talk to them, I got to take my medication.”

“What?”

“Talk to them!”

I’m looking at the mobile in my hand, thinking, this isn’t my drama. I only came here to do you a favour. I don’t even know you people. “Hello?”

“What’s going on?” the copper asks.

I tell them four guys are trying to break into our house. There were only three but they were big. I didn’t mention our squatting situation. “Back off!” screams Erin, taking back her phone, she’s like a fired up banshee now after her medication. “The cops are on the way! You break in here, they’ll arrest you! Six months in gaol.”

They did back off too, it was like the eye inside the storm. Three big guys stood outside the door waiting for the cops, laughing. “When they come,” they said, “You’re f***ed.”

I smiled at my new friends inside, “Well, it sure has been nice to meet you.”

Erin and Scott ran upstairs to pack their bags. Minutes later, the cops arrived.

“What are they doing?” Scott yelled.

“Talking to the guys outside.” Then the cops left

“What?”

“They’re gone!” I yelled.

The big guy knocked on the door. “They’re getting a meat wagon to collect you.”

I’m thinking, how do I land myself into these situations? The other guys are running around, madly trying collecting their things. About three minutes later I looked out the window again, “Hey, I think they’re gone.”

Hesitantly, I opened the door. Two houses down, an old Jamaican man was fixing his car. “It’s okay,” he said, “They gone.”

“Where?” I asked, “To get their mates?”

“No. The coppers, they said they had to get a courts eviction.”

We met another guy who had been watching. “What are you kids doing?” he asked, “I was meant to auction that house today.”

He was the auctioneer and it was due to start at six thirty that evening.

As I said, they’d only recently got into that house, about a week ago, but you really wouldn’t have known it was for sale with the pigeons living in the roof and the stairs missing their banister, plus there were no ‘for sale’ signs out the front. The big guys were security guards who were meant to have been giving the place twenty-four-hour surveillance, but like the house they had been neglecting their duties, nicking down to the pub and getting paid for it, easy work for the last two months.

“They’re going to be unemployed soon,” said the auctioneer.

No wonder they were so pissed off.

The auctioneer was very nice, he even offered to show us some houses where we wouldn’t be discovered for months and to buy us all dinner. It was too weird so we declined. But one of the potential buyers did turn up, an orthodox Jew, with the beard, hat, and everything. Of course we let him in to inspect the house. The guys squatting decided to leave because it was a major inconvenience for everybody, and it’d only be a month before the courts evicted them.

I haven’t moved into a squat yet, not to live, but it’s still a cheap option for a studio. In some ways I feel like a tourist staring into the rabbit hole, one foot in the door and one out, but it sure is good being warm in winter.