It’s Christmas. In case you haven’t noticed this already. And I’ll do the customary thing and be all corny and naff. I love the word naff.

I hope you guys and gals, and everyone who reads these words has a great and wonderful Christmas, bearing in mind the Christmas spirit, sharing, brother/sisterhood and indulges in mind numbing consumerism of the kitsch variety. But in all seriousness and minus the cynicism my lovely people, have a great day, show kindness to your fellow man and have a bucketload of fun. It’s a great philosophy to live life by in my most humble opinion.

Now I’m going to go before I get too bloody sentimental. I’ve got a Clash CD to listen to and   a bowl of prawns to eat. Merry Christmas!

Sydney: Part Two

Sydney Part Two:

Since Part One’s unmitigated succes, I’ve decided to continue most logically with a second part, entitled Part Two. In this detailed and well crafted essay, I’ll show you the Nightlife, Public Transport and Cemetries of Sydney, and convince you, in thirty seconds or less, to conduct a religious pilgrimage to Iran and convert to the ancient and most venerable faith of Zoroastrianism.


Sydney’s nightlife is famous for it’s exuberance, tenacity and excessive use of Rufalin. Much like Finland in the 1940 Winter War. Apart from Kangaroo mating and Ivan Milat, the first thing that the average person will think about when the term “Sydney nightlife” is mentioned is King’s Cross.

King’s Cross, also known as the Golden Mile, is a section of pubs, clubs and petting zoos, mostly running along Oxford Street in Sydney’s CBD. King’s Cross is famous for it’s drugs, prostitution, and bouncers recruited from various ethnic origins. A series chronicling King’s Cross in the ninties was produced that contained all three of these features in great abundance. I would say that the show contains more nudity than you can shake a stick it, but then again, I’m very good at shaking sticks.

Harry Potter's Infamous Station

In Australia's King's Cross, Platform Nine And Three Quarters Is Actually A "Massage Parlour"

I only passed briefly through King’s Cross, on a public bus, packed with half asleep, wide eyed bush kids from my Modern History class. A couple of locals gave me disdainful looks when I stood up and shouted “Hey, there’s my old house!”. My class mates either ignored me, acknowleged my statement politely, or commented on how “povo” my house looked. As a young impoverished socialist, I pointed out, I had no option but to live my life in the slums inhabited by my ancestors. But every had stopped listening by that point, so I just started playing with my phone.

Public Transport

Public transport in Sydney is slow, muggy, stinking of stale piss, cigarettes, and filled with foreigners. Also on the ferry you can get wet. The pampered decadent bourgeois of Western society might criticise these unique values and “digusting” but so is commercial radio. And starvation.

I for one like public transport in Sydney. The slowness means you have more than enough time to gawk at your fellow travellers, perhaps identifying potential serial killers, or chatting up people of indiscriminate gender (see King’s Cross). The mugginess allows a traveller to descend into a strange state of trance, where the aformentioned odors of piss and vomit enter one’s nostrils like prahna energy, changing brain wave patterns and opening previously unlocked corners of one’s mind. Several lucky folks have actually achieved Nirvana on inner city buses. The fact that they were mugged soon after did however somewhat mar the holy event. Nevermind.

Here's A Ferry

Spot The Error!

But I hyperbolise! Public transport in Sydney is actually quite nice. You get to talk to and familiarise yourself with a variety of people you might not meet in ordinary life. A lot of good stories also come from public transport. Like how Darren from PR slipped over in a pool of Ouzo flavoured vomit last year and had to get stitches. Unfortunately the wound became gangrenous. Good times.


The perfect segue between these paragraphs would involve me saying that Darren died and had to go to a cemetery. I am however above these things. The next part of my post will concern cemeteries. Those cute little showgrounds of death and melancholia. There are lots of cemeteries in Sydney, and space is limited due to the city’s large population. People are practically dying to get in…

The biggest cemetery in Sydney is Rookwood. The Rookwood necropolis is home to one million people, most of whom are dead. Rookwood has it’s own postcard, and places cost so much, that only the most elite corpses can gain entry into its hallowed dirt. This lethal combination of features that means in the event of a zombie apocalypse would be one of the worst places to be in the Southern hemispheres. That of course depends if you’re dealing with a situation in which dead bodies come to life, or one where the living are infected. If the latter is true the worst place would probably be King’s Cross, where biting people and running around groaning are so common, that depending on the time of day, the outbreak probably wouldn’t be noticed.

Overgrown Graves Shudder...

The Tranquil Start of a Zombie Movie. (All Royalties To Wikipedia)

In conclusion. Nightlife, Public Transport and Cemeteries form an exceedingly vital part of the belonging felt by Sydneysiders to the urban environment and aides the capitalist system to exploit the individual. Nightlife provides a healthy distraction from the specialisation of labour symptomatic to capitalism as we know, while Cemeteries, now similar to an industry, provide a place to store the remains of the system’s discarded tool and facilitate in the decisively bourgeois and subversive “grieving process”. Public transport forms the last link in this unholy trinity, providing the means to ferry the lifeless worker to both Nightlife and his meaningless occupation, and then finally to his place of eternal rest. The cemetery. Truly the only way to end this endless cycle of oppression and listless destruction is a Zombie Apocalypse, in which the undead arise to create a classless, stateless and decidely equal society. The Decaying Worker’s State.


To Whom It May Concern

As of approximately midday Australian Eastern Daylight Savings Time I, Commandate ‘Oi’ Alvarez will be taken off passive duties and deployed to the dense jungles of Bungwahl for reconnaissance, training and other classified purposes.

Nothing fills my nascent revolutionary heart more than being at one with the wilderness and fighting alongside my eleven toed revolutionary comrades in the pursuit of peace, equality and procrastination. However these activities also mean that I may not be able to respond to communiques sent to me for an indefinite period, most likely the next few days.

The illegal occupation and repression of Bungwahl that communications are limited, and even then, are hardly secure. But do not despair, oh loyal comrades! My return will bring with it a detailed report concerning soft power projection and local foliage density that will no doubt have all of you in a state of utter rapture. But until that moment, rest assured in the knowledge that Whoopi Goldberg farted on live TV, and that the Kardashians have adopted a homeless man that has few if any teeth, and now keep him as a pet.


The word characters can relate to one of two things. Probably more than two actually. One are the individual letters and alpha-numeric values that you are reading on screen. A typical story of mine can contain tens of thousands of characters, including wonderful little bundles of joy like full stops, commas, colons and brackets, and squiggly little letters which we’ve unashamedly nicked from ancient civilisations, like morally bankrupt, ethnically diverse looters from an apocalypse stricken electronics store.

World Nations That Use Glorious Alphabet

The Phonecians Used A Variation On These Letters Before It Was Cool

Upon further reading of the initial article I discovered you friendly old kooks were assigning an entirely different meaning to that most ambiguous of words. I laughed for hours, spittle gushing out of my mouth, knocking my skull against several pieces of furniture, waking a family of Ukrainian immigrants next door, and violating several articles of the UN Declaration of Human Rights before coming to my senses and writing a sensible literary article.

Beautiful City of Kharkov

The Tarkovs Came From Here. Obligatory Chernobyl Reference

I relate to and develop my characters like a simile meaninglessly extends a rather drab statement. That is to say without much thought, and with a level of intuitiveness that strange bald children in Manga cartoons seem to possess. And while the Jackson 5 sing and dance in the background, on this lonely and decidely dark Sunday morning, I will attempt to relate to you how I relate to my characters.

Being an experienced actor, who dropped out of HSC drama with mediocre results I can state that I create and inhabit my characters in a manner similar to the techniques demonstrated by Konstanin Stanislavsky. I wrote quite a good essay about that crazy Russian, and it brang my end of year mark up to a respectable score. That was after a wooden performance of mine in a cliché ridden play revolving around an Eastern European coffin salesman. That was not a pun. I was just very unconvincing.

So anyway, like Stanislavsky, I tend to place myself within the skin of the character, adopting their thought patterns, and seeing the entire world through their own very own prescription glasses. I hardly think this is very helpful. I suspect most of you fellas do exactly the same. The only other part that might be a little out of the ordinary is the fact that I construct fantasies concerning them throughout my everyday life. While I’m cutting cheese, listening to my teachers talk, or scrubbing my under arm hair in the shower, I’m wondering about how Josiah Kraft will escape the road blockade in the besieged city of Stalkov, or picturing Judy Xiang strutting in slow motion down a white corridor, shooting mutant vampires from the hip with her R-75 Phaser Rifle. This is also fairly normal too I guess. Except for the whole shower bit. Which is kind of weird.

Buxom Space Wench Is Saved By Space Marine!

I Believe The Expression Is "GRAARL!"

Another thing I found out is that every character I write about is the same. Mainly morally sound, mixed race, introverted poor males in their late teens. Which pretty much describes me except for the intoverted part. And the moral part. And the poor part depending on how you’re measuring income. To go against this I’ve attempted to write from different perspectives. After briefly flirting with the idea of writing about a young Palestinian girl, or militantly Atheist Congolese hermaphrodite. I finally settled on writing a dark tale about an upper class English borderline psychopath who has found himself a job as a high ranking intelligence officer in a science fiction dystopia. The scene where he rips out the fingernails of a captured terrorist seemed to unsettle a few of the girls in my English class. But I’ll be sure to keep you posted.

Kiss kiss.

That Guy You Know.

Participating Parties In Order

Want to follow our blog tour? Here are the participating parties, day by day

December 6– — Tay’s Tape

December 7– — This Page Intentionally Left Blank

December 8– — Embracing Insanity

December 9– — Novel Journeys

December 10– — Crazy Socks and Ninja Bunnies

December 11– — Kirsten Writes!

December 12– — The Land of Man-Eating Pixies

December 13– — A Farewell to Sanity

December 14– — Esther Victoria1996

December 15– — The Word Asylum

December 16– — Teenage Reader

December 17– — Missy Biozarre, Young Adult Author

December 18– — Red Herring Online

December 19–– The Incessant Droning of a Bored Writer

December 20– — Here’s To Us

December 21– –Teens Can Write Too! (We will be announcing the topic for next month’s chain)

Sydney: Part One

Sydney? Me and you need to have a talk.

That’s sounds really stupid and passe and whatnot, but it is fundamentally true. I went down to Sydney last week, (as you may have noticed from one of my previous posts, if you pay any sort of attention) and it’s left me all contemplative and melancholy. Like my first, last and probably only failed relationship, I’m filled with things I feel I need to say, questions I need to ask, and I… can’t stop thinking about you. Sydney, I may have anthropomorphised your sprawling brick and glass, dirty, urban acres into an ex-girlfriend, but please don’t be offended. My intention was not to diminsh. Besides, me and my ex get on great.

Let me just set the scene. I am, at heart, a country lad. I’ve been living in this charming parochial backwater for five years now, and while I did spend some time in the ‘big smoke’ when I was a wee lad, I was born in said parochial backwater too. My English teacher would probably ask me to relate this back to the concept of Belonging but I’ve got better things to do. Like procrastinate with both hands.

So my return to the gleaming heart of capitalism which is Sydney’s CBD was like a sort of anonymous prodigal son/messiah figure returning to his place of ascenscion. The fact that I was with two hundred of “me mates” did however dampen the sombre mood. I will go through a number of topics which hit as I traversed through the urban landscape.

George Street

I Posed One Legged On Those Stairs There


That was the first thing I thought of. Apart from sex. There’s so many of them. A lot of them are really tall and made of glass, and some of them are odd shapes (I’m looking at you Opera House). The ramifications of these simple facts are wide ranging. When I walk through the ancient streets of old Sydney Town, down George Street where my forefather’s got pissed and traded the stockmarket in an ever repeating cycle, down Pitt Street where my relatives still toil, I am affected with a certain feeling. That folks is apathy. The whole scene is so… big that my mind just goes ‘kewl buildings’ and blocks most things out. I walk zombie like through the place, guiding my compatriots to places I hardly knew existed, while a strange undercurrent runs through the back of my head, like a leaking septic line saying “Shit..”


Sydney people are weird. There’s two things you need to learn about Sydney people. There’s a whole lot of them, over four million, and lots of them are foreigners of the mustachioed and non-mustachioed type.

They also can be quite rude. One thing Sydney people could learn to do is be polite. Up hear in the sparkling Great Lakes, when one person sees another on the street the common thing to say is something along the lines of the cliched, yet still extensively used ‘G’day’, or at least a curt nod. When purchasing things in the local trans-national super conglomerate of your choice country folk use manners, and sometimes even attempt to formulate highly mundane conversation. Sydney folk don’t. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that curtly nodding at everyone you meet in the street on a trip from Martin Place to Darling Harbour would probably severly damage your spinal cord. Perhaps its the fact that everyone’s suffering from the building affect.

Ethnic Map of Sydney

Admire the Wit and Artistic Skill of this Map's Maker

People (Part Two) Race

It certainly isn’t foreigners, no matter what Pauline Hanson tries to ‘exploin’ to you. Once my mum almost hit a Subcontinental woman over the head with an umbrella. The woman was neurotically cheerful about the whole situation, insisting that the whole affair was nothing, and that Jihad was totally unneccessary, banishing all of my stereotypes to the darkness of the Netherlands. Admittedly the whole Jihad question was a little stupid on my behalf, but I was younger then.

I don’t fawn over Multiculturalism like all those other neoliberal bleeding heart hipsters, mostly because I try to be an internationalist when I can, and am probably a closet Fascist, but I do value it immensely. It’s one thing I love about Sydney. An aspect of multi culturalism I don’t like is the phenonemon of ethnic ghettoes. An entire suburb overwhelmingly dominated by Lebanese, bordering one dominated by Vietnamese and then one dominated by Anglos reminds me more of Northern Ireland than a classless, raceless utopia.

But birds of a feather flock together, and although people aren’t birds, neither are ducks. I’m talking about the whole webbed feet business. Mercifully the CBD, as the hub of the entire city is actually an example of the ‘melting pot’ multiculturalism’s all about. Or is that assimilation? That’s bad. Refer to the Borg.

Here Endeth Part One…