End of ''In The RAW'' and sick!

So Merry Xmas and hope you've had sorted new years too. So the jolly season over here is time to be out in the sun, on the beach soaking it up, swimming, and generally running amok. But the weather is crap at the moment, it's averaging at around 23 degrees. We're almost having a European white xmas. And to top it off, the weather's caused Sandy and I to be as sick as dogs on a diet of snot, flem, and mucus these last couple of days. You know, how you feel when you swallow too much snot when you're sick and it all sits in your stomach waiting to come out the other end?

So me and Sandy have been lying next each other in bed, with snot filled faces that feel like they are going to slide right off with the next blow, saying to each other, 'Zerry Zismas, zaby. Pass me another tissue?'

Apart from being sick though, things are pretty cool. The show we're making is coming to a close after our 2nd season and we're proud of the effort we've put in. We're even getting fan mail, I may have told you about that, but the thing is with fan mail is that it's a fifty-fifty thing, because you also get hate-mail. It's some weird ratio that comes down from the cosmos and it says for every bit of praise you receive, you must also get a slap.

Kiss, slap, kiss, slap.

But the slaps are the stuff that really get me going, because, I don't know, maybe I'm a sadist, but I find it amazing that people feel so affected by something we made that they feel the need to let us know about it. I'm completely stoked 'cos I don't reckon I've ever felt that way about anything I seen, read, or even heard. Don't get me wrong though, there has been loads of shit that I have thought was just that, shit, and still do (and then I probably do think 'that's total crap' all too frequently about new things I am exposed to) but I'd only give my mates a blast about it over a beer or something. To be motivated enough to write to the makers of it would take some serious change to my spiritual self, because I reckon I (and most of the folks I know) clearly fall into the category of, 'Could not be fucked!'

Fan mail is the same, yet another breed altogether.

So as you can see, I am fascinated by these people, but it's also making me completely narcissistic. My ego is going on rampages renovating my mind with arrogance. It's insane. I have this addiction to checking our website stats every morning. It gives you a breakdown of each day, (with bar graphs!) and then level of detail goes more indepth with an hour by hour breakdown. I love it! You can tell if more people checked out the site after the show has run on TV pr not. Sandy sees me doing this, rolls her eyes and hands me a coffee, and says, 'You're a loser.'

So I guess she has kept me partially in touch with reality.

But thank Christ the ride is nearing an end, because the amount of work and effort that is required by me and Sandy to put into it is insane. We have to schedule the interviews, set up the set, film, direct, do lights, sound and edit and deliver the show to the station and then put it all up on the Net. It's bloody exhausting, because then we have to go to work our day jobs as well because there's no financial return on it.

It does crazy things to your head as well, like you know how when one of your mates has a baby, and every conversation you have with them becomes a discussion about the baby, because its understandably the biggest it's the biggest thing going on in their world and they say things to you like, 'He's doing solid poos now.'

How can you react? 'Umm....Yeah nice, me too.'

Well its just like that because its all me and Sandy talk about. Not that our baby is doing solid number twos, not yet, but it's doing better than crawling.

And in a way, there's going to be a lot sadness and grief when we have to put our baby in the coffin and bury it, because we have really built it up, but in the same way I'm going to be glad to rid of the little attention absorbing bastard. I want my life back! I wanna get back into other stuff, like writing.
So merry Christmas, happy new year and all the bessings and trimmings that go with the jolly season. I hope Santa's been good to you this year and I know i have been pretty crap on the email and the contact last year, but i'm hoping that is all going to change soon. The only project i have for myself next year is Spanish lessons for when we head back to Europe mid-year. That is, after a big stop over in Cambodia to sit on the beach for a few weeks on the way.

Was God a suicide bomber?

I was thinking about the way of the world, you know, the usual questions of why we are here? How did it all begin? etc...

Well, you have too, everybody does sometimes.

But let me try to explain my thoughts. In the beginning the creator did some creating. Well, there's many theories on what happened after this, both in science and religion, but there's basically two on how it all came about. You know, the big bang and the creationist theory that it took the big guy a couple of days.

What is the difference really between a big bang and an Old Bearded One clicking his fingers?

Bang!
Click!

You see that. They're pretty similar.

Bang!
Click!

Is everybody missing something? Does it matter if it's bang or click. For Christ's sake, they're the same.

And old Nietzsche, the philosopher with his idea that God is dead. The guy that the band Nine Inch Nails ripped off. Well, he was right too. Everybody's right.

Here's my reason.

One day in the nothingness before space existed, God decided he's had enough of this nothingness shit and thinks he's gonna do himself a favour and end it all. For fuck sake, who's can he talk to about his problems, his loneliness. He'd be going mental in the silence. He can't very well call life line. And can you imagine if he did.

[GOD'S DESPERATE VOICE]
'Hi, my name's God and I'm having thoughts of harming myself. Things are just getting too big for me, I can't take it anymore.'

The guy, on the other end of the phone, scratches his head and refers to his notes. 'Yeah man, I've been there. But I can tell you, I know what you're going through. You're thinking, no one knows what it's like to be God. But friend, I do. You can talk to me, we're brothers.'

'Horse shit!' God slams down the phone and goes back to his brooding, because ultimately he's omniscient and knows that bloke's feeding him a load of crap before he's even said it.

So in the emptiness of nothing He decides to do himself in and straps a bunch of explosives to his chest and pushes the detonator.

God was a suicide bomber. Bing Bang! Nietzsche was right, God is dead, and he went with a one hell of big bang.

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.