RAW Sampler

Here's a RAW video sample of the music documentary stuff I do.



It contains the Fiery Furnaces, the Hard Ons , Buck 65, Rogers Sisters and loads of others

Down and Out in Berlin

Berlin ist sehr kuhl -

As you can see I've been learning deutsch. It's going well, but sometimes it feels like I'm forcing my mouth into weird shapes, like I'm making it do yoga moves without stretching. Can you say, 'The Lotus Position?' Oh God, I think I pulled my tongue.

Berlin's cool, we're renting a nice furnished apartment and I'm searching like mad for a job. The city seems to be built on unemployment. There's no money here. You particularly notice it when going for job interviews. It's like you're the only one in the whole city dressed in a suit. You feel like an alien from Mars.

People on the train point their fingers, while saying, "Hey! Look at the freak, everyone!"
All the heads turn. I'm thinking, 'Keep your head down they're not staring at you.' Everybody is staring. It's a national pastime.

I might as well have dressed in my birthday suit. Nobody wears a suit. Nobody has a job.

An interview I had last week I wore the 'said clothing' and the job was an editing position at a tourism mag. I pressed the bell at the entrance. Dark clouds loomed over this massive warehouse. It was like something out of Scooby Doo. A punk kid with a hundred piercings opened the door a crack. He was gawking at me like I looked freaky.

"Um..." I coughed to break our silence. 'I'm here to see Chris.'

'Cool.' He let me in.

Moments later, I was in a small office with Chris. He's one of the those young dynamic Americans who talk in catch phrases, went to some ivy league breeding house, and his major goal in life is to be listed in Forbes before he's 30. He seems like the only dude making money in this city and he's making a tonne of it from tourism. We talked for an hour. One of the kids had called me to come in, but he didn't have any editing jobs. Hell, he didn't even know why I was there.

I was all dressed up with no where to work.

His magazine is a free rag for tourists which has the same content reprinted in it each month with loads of advertising. The punk kids hand it out for him. Sure, there's more to it, but it's long and boring.

He did offer me a job though. It'll be writing for an upcoming guidebook in the future. That's not really helpful for now though, is it? So dressed like the New York banker, I said my good byes to him and his punks kids and went out into the wilderness of Berlin.

So tourism is rampant in Berlin. The art scene is amazing. Loads of artists seem to have flocked here. No, I'm not about to sign up as another arty types who sells his wares along the Spree every weekend. What would i sell? The pic above? It's hardly great. Or perhaps another visual interpretation on poverty and hunger. No i reckon those guys might have that covered.

So I'm trying to get some other writing work sorted out in London and other places where i can telecommute and I've got a few other things in the pipes, but things have certainly slowed down. I might admit defeat soon and take up some teaching work.

John Howard - Election Sedition Spoof

Click To Play

Buddies overseas part.1

Click To Play

Buddies overseas part.2

So Roadtripping has been great.

I can’t tell you how many times Sandy and I have gone somewhere, places we’ve planned to visit and had to save a bundle to get there then when we’ve arrive, said, “Wow! This place is cool, but wouldn’t it be rad to come here with your mates?’

Now we have. We’ve been road-tripping through Spain with our buddies, and there’s nothing better than hooking up with your buddies overseas.

On our first night in Valencia we wandered dark streets, dodging crowds and ducking up alleys with graffiti over walls where we found a bar which had traditional music flooding from it. We sat on the street, bought a round of drinks and talked through the hours, telling stories and catching up.

I got curious about the music coming from the upstairs though, so naturally I checked it out. I’d like to point out old wooden stairs aren’t ideal for creeping up to take subtle peeks. So when I poked my head up, a room full of about thirty old blokes were staring at me. Cigars were hanging out their mouths and they were sitting around a massive table like it was a boardroom meeting, except they all were holding guitars, some big, some little, and some mandolins. I had stumbled up at the end of one of their songs.

‘Bravo,’ I said, clapped, and felt lame, but said it again.

The nearest bloke smiled. The others looked at each other, shrugged and began talking about which song they’d like to play next. So I asked the guy if he’d mind if I invited my amigos up. He shrugged. Good enough.

We spent the next hour watching in awe. At one point I got jealous because Mook, Arnie and Erin got to sing with them and I didn’t, but then I got the opportunity to use the clapping sticks, which is not quite the same because you might say being given clapping sticks is a bit like the musical equivalent of being put in remedial class, but then when I was twelve I was given the prestigious job of playing the triangle at the Sydney Opera House for my school so I was happily at home..

The old bloke who’d lent me his sticks told me, “We play together since university. Every week on Wednesday.” I looked at him. He was old, but some of his buddies looked like they could’ve retired twice. These guys had been playing together longer than the Stones.

The first time I got an inkling of how good travelling overseas with friends could be was when Sandy and I hooked up with my friend Gus in India. He was arriving after us and I’d told him that at Mumbai airport a bloke with a limo would be meeting him. I know a limo sounds a little far fetched, but at the time when I told him, I honestly had every intention of doing it. Really. It would’ve happened too, had we not used up our free Marriot hotel points at the bar.

He arrived at the airport expecting to see a well dressed Indian gentleman holding a cardboard sign with his name on it. Instead, he got a zillion screaming Indians. Hands outstretched as they tried to grab his clothing. He stood safely behind the last barrier of airport arrivals gob-smacked. His eyes searching the crowd for his name. Every one of them wanted his money and his bags in their taxi.

Sandy and I were sitting on top of an old wall behind this, in the car park, watching, and giggling as he walked up and down the line of screamers searching franticly.

When he finally found us, he wanted to kill us. Then hug us. Then kill us. It set the tone for a great holiday. We were a force to be reckoned with, no Indian tout felt capable of ripping us off, because together we would argue, scream, dance, and occasionally sing to get a fair price on things.

Seeing Europe with your buddies is just as good. It’s perfect because it’s the road trip which I love, and it’s also completely foreign, sometimes it seems so far removed from what I know it feels like another planet, just like outback Australia.

Think rural highway restaurants, an experience everywhere and in Spain don’t expect those folk to speak a word of English, like you can imagine it isn’t at the forefront of people’s minds out the back of Wagga Wagga, Australia. Fair enough too. So we try our little phrases, like, ‘Aola. Como estas?’ This often goes completely spastic on me though, because I did Spanish lessons but never really practised, so I guess I’m a little falsely confident. I once asked if I could have the three waitresses instead of three beers. Sandy’s Spanish is tops and often saves me.

It doesn’t always work out her way though. In Tuscany, Italy, Sandy and I hooked up with my parents. This was very special. They were renting an apartment in the countryside where we stayed on their couch for a few days. This was during my birthday so Dad treated us to some lovely provincial Italian food in the local town where Sandy impressed my parents by chatting to the waitress in Spanish, apparently Italian is similar. Personally, I think the waitress looked a little confused.

My Mum and Dad were impressed though and Dad took it upon himself to educate us about Italy. He drove us to Florence to see the Uffizi Gallery.

Let me just say, my old man he loves technology. He loves the new gadgets, computers, video cameras, etc. So of course when he and Mum were renting their car, you can imagine his delight when the girl behind the counter offered them a GPS mapping system.

Sandy and I were a little blown away it. We’ve travelled all of Europe with this tatty map book that has several pages stuck together with sticky tape. Its great and we love it, but not many libraries or bookstores would stock it because A-, it’s out of date and B-, it’s in German.

Dad’s GPS had a cutesy American girl’s voice which told him when to turn, a TV screen showed a map which moved with the car. But then Sandy and I get by with our book because surprisingly enough Europeans have road signs.

So getting to Florence seemed a little more difficult than necessary. We drove around a park six times because of Miss Cutesy’s directions. Dad’s neck went red. Admittedly I didn’t help the old man’s frustration by making smart arse comments from the backseat. When he did finally park the car he frog marched Mum, Sandy and me through the streets of Florence to the Gallery.

To his credit though, if he hadn’t hurried us we would’ve missed our booking because the gallery lets people in at allotted times and we would’ve missed the whole thing. It was well worth it - think Da Vinci’s, Michelangelo’s, Caravaggio’s and Botticelli’s (he did The Birth of Venus, it’s of that naked lady who’s standing in a clam with her hands covering her naughty bits).

Europe’s got loads of amazing art and architecture. It’s easy to understand why it’s on most people’s “to do list”. We’ve been road tripping for only a few months and we have seen loads, but I think its losing its edge for me. Can it be that an old building is starting to look like just another old building?

I wanna feel awed again. It’s only been a few months and I don’t wanna be de-sensitised. Not yet.

We’ve just got to Berlin. “Wow, look at that!”

So many People!

In Australia it’s easy to get away from people. If you want a quiet beach all you gotta do is drive up or down the coast a little and suddenly you’re there. Admittedly, during summer city beaches are packed, but if you go outside those zones it’ll be quiet. Sure, on those beaches there will be people, but they’ll be scattered. Everyone seems to respect each other’s need for space and keeps their distance.

August in southern Europe is mental. Everyone has gone on holidays here. The beaches are packed. This is not an exaggeration either.

When we were travelling through France from north to south, four out five shops would be closed for the entire month of August with a French note to say gone swimming back next month. Trying to organise bands to film at gigs has also been a bit of a pain. I’ve received dozens of emails from really blunt people in bands saying, ‘Why are you coming to Zagreb, Rome, Ljubljana> in August. Nothing is happening!”

As if this hadn’t already become painfully obvious to me, I reply with, ‘Thanks for the tip, buddy. Anyone else you can recommend?’

Everyone is on holidays. And the bands that aren’t, they’re doing the big festival circuits.

So what can you do? You do as they do. When in Rome, you go to the beach.

We have and it’s beautiful.

In Croatia the water is ultra clear and it has that tropical turquoise colour you always see in postcards. The bottom is totally visible too with little fish swimming about. Apparently because there hasn’t been much heavy industry in this country the coastline has remained pristine. That’s if you don’t count war or ethnic cleansing as heavy industry.

And there’s no sand either, the mountains go right into the seas creating these rocky beaches and cliffs, so there’s not that old problem of getting sand in your underpants. Personally, I reckon that’s a good thing. And by having big rock faces to jump from into the sea it increases your chances of looking really good in front of your girl.

At the beaches though I can’t help wondering if I’m looking at any war criminals? How can you recognise one? Do they wear their hats differently? Do their boobs wobble strangely? It seems the EU is on the look out for them too. With Croatia’s EU membership coming up, it’s not likely they’ll get complete acceptance until they pick up their toys and hand over their war criminals to The Hague.

So we’re at the beach and we have our Aussie need for space. Admittedly, there are a millions of women lying around topless, but strangely enough you learn to turn a blind eye to them. It’s not because I’ve become desensitised to boobies, I don’t think that’s possible, but most of the girls who seem to get them out and jiggle them free are a few of generations older than me.

But then we did stumble onto a nudist beach. Well we stumbled upon the gate, that is, where a man told us, ‘Hold on there. This is a nudist beach.’

‘So can we go down there?’ I was keen. Sandy open to the idea. But the bloke standing there wanted to charge us to go onto the beach.

‘10 Euro to get your bits out?’ I repeated his price.

He nodded.

‘That’s outrageous!’

No way. We’re on a budget.

So we’ve been beach hopping for about week, cruising down the coastal roads and stopping to swim whenever we want. A couple of days ago we stopped at this old ruined barracks that was right on the beach, it looked about 300 years old.

Of course there were people everywhere, except on this one spot. It was on top of this little building that jutted out of the old fort into the water. It only had one girl on top of it.

I said to Sandy, ‘If we go up there we’ll probably scare her away and have the whole space to ourselves.’

I could tell she didn’t like my tactics, but said, ‘Cool, whatever. I just wanna swim.’

We picked our way over the rocks, mumbling ‘excuse mes’ and ‘pardons’ till we reached the building.

It’s only one story high, jutting out into the sea with big rocks surrounding it. Getting on the top is easy because where there had once been an empty doorway big rocks had been piled up into it which left only a small hole in the top of the doorway. It was almost a perfect way to climb up.

Next to the building is a family staring at us.

I looked on top. The girl sitting up there was glaring back at me. She looked mean.

‘You go first,’ I said to Sandy.

‘Why me?’

‘Because it’ll be easier for you if I give you a boost.’

She agrees and scrambled on top with no problem. Set down her towel on one corner and began to bake. I climbed after her.

On top the view is great. The other girl has turned around and you can see everyone swimming on the beach in both directions. I knew this would be a good idea. I go to set my towel down in the middle of the roof.

It’s then I hear a creaking noise. It starts soft and gets louder.

Cracks started to form around where I was standing, a crumbling square in the middle around me. Luckily for Sandy and the girl, they’re both on the sides in safety. Big slabs of rock are shifting under me. Time felt like it was slowing and speeding within the same second. You might say my brain had flipped a gear because as I watched the effect of my weight stretch across the roof in sharp jagged splinters, it felt like the moment that had stretched across a thousand years inside a second. I won’t say my life flashed before me because it didn’t, but the smell of dust and sea spice were acute. The sounds of people talking and laughing in Croatian in the background were clear while the sound of the cracking roof was roaring in my ears. I can still picture the dust puffing out of the cracks as they formed around me. Sandy’s look of surprise turn to shock. Her fear to horror. But while this slow motion effect occurred my body felt like it’d been emersed in honey as I watched, moving sluggish the earthquake happened beneath my feet. I wanted to jump, but where? If I leapt to the edge where Sandy was sitting I would most likely go over and into the rocks of the sea below. In Hollywood the protagonist would always make that leap to safety.

Sadly, I can’t afford a stunt double.

So like a ship’s captain I went down. I fell. Rocks tumbled. I got rumbled. I don’t what went after that, maybe instinct took over maybe luck. I’d like to think that my inner ninja took over and helped me land safely because the next thing I remember is Sandy’s face looking down at me, through the swirling clouds of dust. She was saying, ‘Oh my God! Is anything broken? No, don’t move! Can you move?’

I checked.

All was good. A few cuts and scrapes. One seriously sore foot and a sore hand, but nothing broken.

I whispered to my inner ninja. ‘Way to go, buddy.’

So as I’m crawling out of the hole where the rocks had been piled up into the doorway, this fat topless mamma, who I assume is the mother of the girl who was on top, starts blabbering at me in Croatian.

‘No Croatian.’ I mumble while I’m on my hands and knees covered in dust and blood.

She doesn’t care. She’s on a roll. Her boobs are wobbling and her mouth is moving, but that’s not flying with me because my inner medic has taken over. I’m stumbling away into the sea to wash my cuts.

Believe me, it hasn’t gone unnoticed that this is the second roof that has fallen on me since I got to Europe. The first fell on top of me at Reg’s when his kitchen ceiling fell on my head, while we were playing Yahtzee and now I fall through one. I’m trying not to think in terms of omens, warnings or curses.

But if there is something out in that mystic never never place who wants to say something to me, send me a God damn note!

So other than a few rumble tumbles things are good. Not good, awesome.

We’ve been to Milan, where we hooked up with some anti-fashion punksters. A couple of bands called Morkobot and Ufomamut (translating to UFO Mammoth), plus this psychedelic poster designing outfit called Malleus, who have made posters for the likes of Iggy Pop, Sonic Youth, Dresden Dolls, and loads of others.

We’ve seen Venice.

Tonight we’re in Zadar, Croatia, to hook up with a US band called Kulture Shock, they hail from the US but most of the band members are immigrants there, some them are originally from this way (Bosnia) and their sound is gypsy punk with a political edge.

!!! Bastards !!!

So we’ve had some serious problems.

We were in Amsterdam filming our last interview with a coffee shop owner. Everything was going great. Our chubby British proprietor, with his glassy red eyes, was opening up, getting all meaningful by looking directly into the camera and telling us how he had to flee Birmingham so he could get stoned perpetually. It was a heart moving story. Really.

For us, this interview was a fact hunt, we’d already found out what the Dutch thought about smoking pot (most of them don’t), about how much you should pay for a joint (3-4 euro), and all the other silly questions you can think of like, ‘Can you die from it?’ (Um….no) and ‘Which nationality do you see vomiting the most?’ (English and Italians are on par)

For this interview we just needed a little more info about the ‘grey import market,’ as opposed to the black market, for importing marijuana from Nepal, Morocco and Afghanistan. Personally, after discovering (to my horror) that none of the pot-farmers were receiving a decent cut from these sales, i.e. it wasn’t fair-trade, I thought they were all a little dodgy. We also wanted some more info on how much a ‘hooch shop’ can legally hold on its premises. (It’s no more than half a kilo, if you’re interested, otherwise when the cops come in, which they do, they can take it if the shops over the limit).

You might say, everything was going too perfect. This guy was giving us everything we needed. And with emotion too.

When two young lads walked into the shop and pretended to be interested in the interview, I paid them no mind. Sandy was too busy filming to notice. Soon the lads left. So did one of our bags!

It had our passports in it.

Oh god, the Anguish. We screamed. At each other. At the Brit. At God.

On the street, millions of tourists were wandering.

The little bastards were nowhere in sight.

So I bolted around the alleys glaring down every little fucker that might or might not have looked like them. Everyone looks guilty when you’re bloods pumping faster than a race car in the formula one. I guess I might have appeared pretty messed up because most people avoided me, I would’ve too if I saw someone like me coming. You might say this method of sleuth investigation wasn’t the best, but what can you do in a situation like this? And if did I find them, what then? I haven’t been in a fight since my early years of high school so I’d be hard pressed using my powers of persuasion to ask for it back.

But I tell you, it was horrible. If someone had given me the choice between having our passports stolen or having my balls shaved with big rusty knife, I would’ve taken the later.

You can imagine us at the police station saying, ‘Our bag has been stolen!’

‘Where were you?’ The cop asked, grabbing a pen.

‘At a coffee shop.’

The police officer’s eyes look at the ceiling, you can tell he’s thinking we’re another pair of silly stoners. He probably has to deal with hundreds of intoxicated backpackers everyday.

‘We were filming an interview,’ Sandy says before going onto explain the legitimate nature of what we were doing.

The cop opened up after that, telling us how bag snatching is major problem in Amsterdam and a major racket is working the area. While we were making our statement, another woman came in to report her bag stolen. A pair of young lads (possibly the same ones!) had stopped her to ask directions and when she had turned around – that special magic happened again – her bag had vanished.

Anyway long story short is that we high-tailed it to the Australian Embassy in The Hague, where we got emergency passports issued. Apparently if you lose two passports within five years the replacement price goes up - so keep them safe kids.

We’re in Lyon, France, now, taking it easy in the sunshine. I can’t speak French so I’m talking to the locals in English with a French accent. I think they really appreciate it.

Things are getting better and better.

Street art from the road (1)

Belgium

Amsterdam

Luxembourg

Dirty Dutch!

So we're in Amsterdam at the moment. You could do worse than trying to think of this city as the mega mall version of Kings X - with all your sex shopping needs. It kicks it on Kings X for the wildest and dirtiest of parties, but it's a fluffy city. By that i mean it doesn't have any real industry. Well none that easily comes to the surface out of the seedy canals that surround both the city and its reputation. I like my cities to have stressed out civil servants, tired business people commuting, and all those other people that come with major cities. The population of Amsterdam is about one and half million, but there seems to be zillions lonely accountants on weekend breaks, lads on stag parties, and IT boys who´ve come to gawk at the real thing. The place is packed with foreigners. Where are the Dutch?

So as Sandy and I are attempting to go a little further into understanding the culture here and hopefully get a few stories out of it, if not beers. We've decided to focus on the things that are the hardest to access - prostitution, marijuana cafes, and punk rock music.

But we wanna hear it from the Dutch. We decided to kill a bunch of birds with the single bullet, so to speak, to try to get an inroad into the culture. We've taken up the crazy road of Couch Surfing Dot Com. It's a global service for people, like us, who want to stay somewhere for free and possibly return the favour in the future, that is have someone else crash on your couch in your home. There's a whole bunch of websites similar to it, globalfreeloader.com, hospitalityclub...

The friend who put us onto it, Owen, went through the whole of Europe without paying for accommodation.

At first the idea grinded against my conceptions of how you should travel. I couldn't really put my finger on why, except that maybe it was because we'd be hanging out in a complete stranger´s house which all those Hollywood horror movies tell you not to do. I told my brain to stop being a sissy and quit screaming, "But they might be psychos!" The up-side of the service, and why we chose to ignore our fears, is that it'll provide us with quick inroads into communities which might've taken us much longer to access. Things like music scenes, off-beat travel ideas and the general culture of the city we'll be all much closer at hand because we'll be meeting the locals.

That's the theory.

Sandy organised our first place to stay. It was with an old Jewish dude called Sallo who lives in the south of Amsterdam. He didn't have enough room for two, so because we had a van he said we should stay in that and feel free to use his amenities, like to wash our clothes and other boring stuff like that.


Sallo lives in a square apartment block with all the flats facing each other and some basic shops underneath. If you can imagine that the Italian forum in Leichhart was by built by socialists, being functional, no frills, a little bleak, but too not bad either then you might have picture.

I have to admit that as we were walking up the four flights of stairs to his apartment for the first time, images of Clockwork Orange flashed through my mind. I was happy I was Alex in this fantasy, not the victim. But this helped me understand the risk Sallo was taking by letting complete strangers into his home. We might be psychos!

We met him at the door, shook hands and sat on his couch. For a while we all sat looking at each other. None of us were really sure of what to do next. It was Sallo's first time too.

He finally broke the silence and asked, 'What is it you want from me?'

I'd heard the Dutch had a directness, but this was my first encounter with it. 'Ummm...' I mumbled.

Sandy jumped in, being the diplomatic one, she explained everything we were doing in Amsterdam, in our life, and in his house.

'Okay,' He stood up. 'To practical things. I will show you how the shower works.'

We followed him into the bathroom. He turned a couple a taps. Sandy and I smiled politely, wondering what to say. It was a shower. I wanted ask if he knew Australia had showers too, but it was too early in our relationship.

He was nice enough, if a little odd, and we felt safe. Even if his ideas and our ideas clashed on several things though. First, we thought we´d be sleeping in our van out the front of his flat, but he'd already made up his mind on this. ´I will show you your place to sleep.´

Outside, he jumped in his car, us in ours, and after passing a series of turns and round-abouts, an authentic Dutch windmill and though some paddocks, we were well and truly out of town. He pulled up next to us. ´You will stay here tonight.´

We looked at the cows. Birds were chirping. A gentle breeze blew the grass and trees. it was extremely picturesque, but not exactly what i had in mind - this is Amsterdam! On the plus though, it was extremely quiet. The night before we'd camped north of the city - near a free pedestrian ferry crossing into the centre of town and we'd woken to morning peak hour. Think Circular Quay with cyclists.

The paddock was a winner.

I don't think Sallo liked us much in the end though, we'd only visited him a few more times before it came to its natural end. You see, Sandy and I suffer from a little problem of being late. We never do it on purpose, it just happens. The Dutch however have an impeccable talent and reputation for being on time. It´s almost perverse.

On Sunday we were at a punk rock gig and a Dutch bloke we'd been chatting with said, 'Oh my god! The band is five minutes late. That is so rock n roll.' According to the Lonely Planet 15 minutes is the maximum allowed for lateness. I'd just read this before we'd arrive late at Sallo´s. We just over half an hour last and it would be our last time.


´I see you don´t have a watch.´ Sallo standing in the door.
´No, I´ve got a phone.´ I smiled, hoping it would wash over.

He proceeded to lecture us, and almost quoted the Lonely Planet verbatim by saying only up-to 15 minutes lateness is acceptable! I wondered if those authors had been caught too.

Sallo wasn´t a bad guy though and we´re now open to the whole idea of couch surfing. We were the bad ones, but he has since written back to us and everything is alright. I'll happily do it again.

So apart from bumming it, we've been doing some filming too. On Sunday we interviewed a punk band called the Stilettos. Tomorrow we're interviewing some pot cafe owners about their business with questions like, 'Has anyone ever died in your cafe?' and 'Is this fair-trade hooch?' We'll also be talking to the sex workers union with questions like, 'Is there an award wage?' and 'Do you offer a career guidance program for girls in Dutch high-schools?'

On a side note, if you're travelling to Amsterdam looking for some indie rock, there's not a massive live scene here, but some venues worth checking out are:

The Paradiso (major internationals),
Melweg (major + local),
Patronaat (major + local),
Heineken Music Hall (major internationls),

Click here for a full listing...



P.S - we've been cruising on the wrong side of the road for at least a week and its been fine. Only three times have we nearly collided with trucks. I was driving, Sandy screamed.

Smokers and Scammers

Buying a van in London – Part 2

London’s gone non-smoking crazy! Apparently you’re not allowed to smoke in your van. Not that I do, but how do they enforce that? It states this on the DVLA website (think motor registry) because we’ve trying to register our new van. But Australia will soon go non-smoking as well, won’t it? Or has that change already come into effect?

Anyway the night the smoking laws happened, about two weeks ago, millions of smoking parties were happening all around the city, in pubs, clubs, everywhere. London might have to buy a few Kyoto carbon points to make up for that night because everyone was chugging them down like it was their last time. It’s mental how many people smoke over here.

But it’s hard to know whether it will have any long term effects like making people give up though. My mate Chris says it has only stopped him going to the pub, but I reckon that’s open for debate because he told me in the pub. Others say pubs will lose their culture because you need a smoky environment to create an atmosphere, or you can’t drink without smoking, or it’s a general sign of the decline of our society, the usual arguments. The fact is though, (and I will say I’m biased being a non-smoker.) it used to be you’d have to wait until your fork was under nose before you could smell the food through the haze. Now you can smell your friend’s fart from under the table. Yes, there are some good things and bad things.

Anyway, the good news is we’ve got a van! And it’s one sexy mother of an asset too. In fact, it’s our first asset Sandy and I have bought together. I wanna name it Gerald.

We did take the easy option of RHD, even though very soon, it’ll feel like we’re driving on the wrong side of the road. Oh well, it’s always nice to trade in your old problems for a whole new set, isn’t it?

Buying it though was an eye opener into London society. Sandy found an ad for an ex-postal van, they sort of look like the old Bedfords, think the A-Team. The best thing though, it has all our requirements and is well under our budget.

Quick!! Call ‘em up,’ Sandy said.

A very proper dude with very proper queen’s English accent answer the phone.

‘Yes Hello,’ he said and told me that the first person who sees it will buy it. ‘You have to understand,’ he said, ‘I just must have it gone by the end of the day.’

It sounded like a massive inconvenience for him, for us it was perfect. We arranged to meet at Kew Gardens station. We hadn’t been to the gardens before, so it was a good plan B if things didn’t work out because we’ve heard they’re meant to be impressive. On a side note, the Kew Gardens area is a ‘proper posh’ neighbourhood.

Now I wouldn’t consider myself a snob, but at the station I was expecting someone who would be a little more dressed up. And I guess I like my people who are snobs to look and dress like they’re cashed up, you know, like they’re posh. This guy had a shaggy unshaven beard and wearing tracksuit pants.

'Hi.’ I shook his hand.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘My chauffeur was too drunk to drive.’

Sandy and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. ‘Was he joking?’

‘Did he say he was drunk?’

As were walking to the car, he stopped to talk to a few people we passed on the street. ‘Hello, how are you doing today?’ or ‘Shall I’ll catch back here in a few minutes?’ Or to guy standing in front of a café smoking, ‘Oh, its terrible, isn’t it? How we’re being pushed outside.’

The guy at the café laughed and puffed. I started to think perhaps I was being too judgemental. Maybe the clothes don’t make the man. Loads of London’s rich and famous probably get around in tracky-daks. It was easy to imagine old dancing Madonna popping down to the off-license in them. Keith Richards probably can’t function in anything else after all his big nights out on the town. I admit I might have been too quick to pigeon hole him.

Besides, in the ad for the van it said a video production company was selling it. This was also one of the reasons why we were so keen to come. So I quickly accepted he was odd and started to pick his brains on his business to see if we could learn something. How long have you been doing it? What gigs have you done in the past? Where and when did you start?

‘What’s with all the questions?’ he snapped.

We’re starting a video production company too.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘This van was initially bought for a music video. See, we don’t need it anymore. It’s too small in the shot.’

‘What band?’

‘Oh God, I can’t remember. Maybe Kylie Minogue.’

At this stage we were looking over the van. It appeared to be okay, well it had a little rust but as far as that meant anything to us, it looked like a van. Neither of us are very mechanical minded, nor have we ever owned a car, so we knew we’d be a little out of our depth so we’d been madly researching and devised a check list of things to look out for.

‘Can we take it for a drive?’ I asked

‘Sure, hope in.’ He jumped in the driver’s seat and I’m thinking, ‘shouldn’t I be driving?’ It was all happening so quick. But we all jumped in, with him driving. Then he starts telling us how Australia’s immigration policy is excellent and the English should adopt the same methodology.

‘Show me your papers?’ I said.

‘Oh God! They’re down there somewhere.’ He pointed at a pile of crumpled papers. ‘I do hope nobody see me driving this van. I usually drive a Rolls, you know?’

Mate, I’m thinking, I’d be more worried about someone seeing me in those pants.

‘Did you know this mirror’s broken?’ Sandy pointed at the passenger side.

‘Oh, that’s nothing, just six pounds at Halfords to replace.’

At this point, as Sandy looked across to check the other mirror a truck zoomed close. A clash of steal and glass sounded as the two vehicles connected. The driver’s mirror vanished.

‘As I said.’ Our seller kept driving. ‘Six pounds at Halfords.’

‘Um….” I looked at him in disbelief. ‘Is that standard practice? If your mirror gets wiped out, you don’t stop! You just keep going?’

He sighs, shaking his head like I’m a very difficult child, one with slow problems. ‘Well you tell me, whose fault is it?’

I looked at the mirror and back at the paperwork. ‘Who’s Dr Gavins?’ I asked

‘He’s the guy who owned it before us?’

‘Where’s the name of your company?’

‘Give it here.’ He snatches the papers from me. ‘It’s written on here.’

‘Can we stop to have another look at the van?’ Sandy asked.

‘You’ve had a look.’

‘What?’ Sandy looks at me. ‘He can’t be serious.’

I take the papers back of him, saying, ‘We’d like to have another look. Pull over.’

‘I don’t have much time.’

‘We do.’

He sighs, huffs, and pulls over. We jump out. At this stage I hate this guy. I know some people just aren’t meant to get along. And perhaps I am a tracksuit pants bigot, but the car is cheap.

‘So what’s the name of your company?’ Sandy asks.

He mumbled something.

‘Sorry?’

He mumbled it again.

‘Um…. What did you say?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! It’s written on the papers. You can read, can’t you?’’

‘No, it’s not.’ I said. ‘It’s not written anywhere.’

He snatches the paper work again, re-reading. ‘You don’t need to have your name on the paperwork. Barry buys lots of cars all the time. If he didn’t fill it out that was up to him. Call the motor registry.’ He pointed to a number on the papers. ‘They will tell you.’

So we went back to the café where we started and I called them.

‘I don’t understand. What is the matter with you people? This is only a thousand pounds. I get the feeling you don’t trust me.’

I was getting that feeling too. We didn’t even know his name. But the people at the motor registry said he was right, he didn’t have his name on the papers to sell the car.

‘Okay’ I said, ‘We’ll buy it.’

He smiled.

‘But I wanna copy down your ID.

‘No, that’s it. I’m offended. I’m not showing you my I.D. its personal to me. I used to sign autographs you know.

‘Okay. Let’s go,’ Sandy said. ‘This guy sucks.’

We didn’t see the gardens either that day. Later we worked out it had all the markings of a good grift or con. It was the bargain that’s just too good to be true, it was in a pleasant area where you wouldn’t expect to be conned and he ‘supposedly’ knew lots of people, plus there was no fixed address because he was selling it off the street, and we had no way of later identifying him. We supposed if we bought it he’d walk away with our money and when we went back to the van it’d be gone and so would he.

But what we did like was his type of van. So we checked out a bunch of others and finally settled on one which was the same make, an ex-royal post van and it did cost us a little more than the dodgy guy’s but it is a newer model and in much very better condition and has very low mileage. Plus it’s bright red!

So we leave the UK tomorrow. First stop IKEA at Antwerpen, Belgium. We gotta buy a bed for the van and they’re way cheaper there than in the UK. Weird, but true.

Write again soon.

Tom

Car Bombs And Car Buying –

Buying a Van in london - Part 1

So we're in sunny London again and as you know there's some serious bomb threats. I'm sure we're all feeling a massive sense of deja vu. People here are glaring at each other on the tube again. Everyone is suspicious, but still it's London and the people are also relaxed. You got have a good time here. After all it's London, innut?

Last time we were here it was around 7/7 two years ago, then we were in Delhi for their bombings and now were back here t rekindling those thoughts we used to have on the train.... 'is this the moment? What about that guy? I mean can you spot someone who's homicidal/suicidal? And what if they do look a little dodgy? Would you say something like - 'um excuse me. You look a little bit suss, mate. Are you thinking about, you know, doing us all in? - or do you just watch and wait for your moment to prove to yourself that you too can be just like Bruce Willis and save the day. I think of myself as more of a Dustin Hoffman reluctant hero type.

So yeah, the failed car bombs are all over the newspapers, TV, everywhere. And you can't help thinking of that failed suicide guy at Glasgow who tipped petrol all over himself and received 90% burns. Silly bastard. He's not dead, but in a highly guarded hospital with none of those virgins he was promised he'd receive in heaven for his service. I bet he's feeling ugly.

And I'm guessing it won't look too good on his CV either, failed suicide bomber. You can imagine the interviewer asking, 'So tell about how you left your last job? Why did you leave?' or if he manages to get to another party and there's the usual small talk, like some girl asking him, 'So tell men, what do you do?'

Anyway enough of that. We're about to start our euro road road trip while we make a bunch of documentaries. And the question on our lips isn't whether or not that failed suicide dude will make it to our next party, but s whether we buy a left hand or right hand drive van?

Buying a van in another country is mental. The rules are different, the locals use funny lingo, the words you'd expect to be used aren’t. For example in Australia you pay for your registration (a.k.a. your ‘Rego’) and get your rego sticker, so naturally what I asked when I called up about a van was, ‘Has it got registration?’

‘Course it has,’ came the reply, ‘Registered with DVLA ten years ago, in it?’

‘So it’s okay to drive then?

‘No, can’t you read the ad? It got no tax.’

I hang up feeling like I’m wearing a glowing neon beacon that says 'I’m foreign, I don't understand, so slap me or scam me.'

It reminds me of the first time we were here. The English say flip-flops instead of thongs, because over here a thong is a g-string. I guess a g-string over here is just something you use on a guitar. Anyway, one day we were sitting around the table with a bunch of English lads drinking and Sandy said, ‘Gee, these thongs my mum gave me are giving me some blisters.’

So we've been hunting for 2 weeks and my knowledge is growing. Tax is equivalent to our Rego sticker. Our plan has been to buy a left hand drive (LHD) vehicle because our goal is road tripping through Europe. LHD is ideal because you don't stick out. So we scoured the net, newspapers, trader mags for cheap vehicles, and you’d think with the UK being right next the Euro continent there’d be loads of LHDs for sale. Not the case. Of course if you got the cash you can buy anything. We don’t, we’re lucky enough to have a budget.

Enter plan B, we’ll just skip across the English Channel, buy something cheap and appropriate, and be on our way. This idea sounds easy but the reality of it is murky. How do you register it? What French address are we going to put on the forms? What forms do you need to fill in to transfer it into your name? What else do you need to buy a car in France?

‘Ummm… Pardon? Parlez-vous l'anglais ?

We’ve got a mate who lives in France. When she moved there she had a hell of a time trying to buy a car and she’s half French. She had to carry all her proof of identity around with her for months proving who she was for everything she needed to do. Things like buy a car, rent a house, open a bank account, change her underwear, you get the idea, until she got some official French looking papers. But she did say we were welcome to say we lived at her address even though she didn’t think we had the slightest chance of succeeding.

It was becoming painfully obvious to us too. Not having extreme proof of a French fixed address seemed to be a major obstacle, which is similar to the UK but we had an ace. We already have a UK address.

Plan C, we import a van from France back to the UK. Register it there before travelling back on the ferry to Europe.

‘Ummm....’ Sandy looked at me. ‘I don’t think so.

Plan D, we buy a van in England. Right hand drive – We deal with it!

Part 2 coming soon.

London, The Sky Is Falling!

It's funny, you can go through Cambodia where there are loads of unexploded mines, diseases and other untold dangers and be perfectly safe, but having a night in.... that's dangerous!

We've been staying with a mate, Reg for the last few days. Well his roof fell in two nights ago. His ceiling in the kitchen. Part of it landed on my head! Everyone thought it was hilarious, 'cept me.

Well no, at the time everyone was a little shaken up.

See Reg and Andy live in a flat and their neighbour who lives above them (who some might suggest has a few problems ) had a leaky boiler, that's her water heater not her brain. Reg's ceiling started leaky the day we arrived. Andy told her. Reg told her. She did nothing about it for a couple of days, in fact she said there was no flat underneath hers just an empty space all the way to the ground. Andy convinced her to come downstairs and see the leak. One of her friends said they'd fix it.

Two days later the roof fell in.

I say it fell on my head, but only partially. We had some old mates over who live in the area and we were playing Yahtzee, its like a dice version of poker.

Roof roared like an earthquake. I was sitting right under it. i looked up. Everything stopped. because after that i don't remember what happened just what the others tell me. Apparently i made a flying leap as a piece hit me. I like the image of me being like an action hero, but the next thing i knew i was climbing out of the recycling bin. not so glamorous.

Reg went straight upstairs to get that crazy lady. He knew she'd have to see it, because last time it was a pain to get her to do anything. and well she's going to be the one who has to pay for it, or her insurance company is anyway.

She came down with her friend.

'This can't be from a couple of days of leaking water,' she said.
'ummm.....' Reg said, 'I think you'll find it is.'
She gave him a look that said she'd like rip his eyes out.
Her friend turned to her. 'You got to get a grip,'

The two of them talked for a bit, or bickered. We watched. They left with the girl saying that it wasn't her fault.

So the real estate is now involved. Insurance is involved. The kitchen is a mess.

Reg is going on holidays at the end of the week and leaving us his flat. Great! free rent, right?

Anyway, I'd thought i was fine. Just a bump on the head with a bit of a headache. Yesterday, the headache was still there all day and in the afternoon i started to feel sick. So after deliberating about it for hours, saying i didn't need to go, it's just a headache, i went to the hospital to get checked out. The doctor said I've got post traumatic concussion syndrome. Sounds fancy, but basically it means I've got a sore head, feel irritable, tired and have bunch of other symptoms, but i will live. Its only meant to last up to 2 weeks at a max. I'm hoping 2 days.

So we're all alive. And things are fantastic!

Bangkok Madness!

Hey so it's our last day in Bangkok today. Sad but true.

For the last couple of days I've been trying to get some tailor made pants and shirts made and its been hell. These guys have been making me a pair of tents, then say, 'oh sir. those pants look great.'

C'mon, have you got disability? There's a time and a place for tents and its not on pinstripe pants.

So after arguing for two days, while dragging Sandy and Mook anlong for support i manage to purchase two slimmed down tents and one nice shirt. One shirt didn't make it, its was tragedy. the opposite of a tent - the chest hugger.

'Oh, but sir, it makes you look very big. You have good mucles, yes?'
'er...."
"The ladies like the snug fit.'
'I don't think so.'
Sir! why you always complaining?
'....!!!!!'

Tomorrow London! Whoo hoo!

The Kombi Cocktail Van

Koah San Rd, Bangkok, Thailand.

Click To Play

I would've use YouTube but its banned in Thailand because someone offended the king, i reckon he might be a little bit too sensitive.