I've been busy...

It’s recently been brought to my attention that I haven’t written anything on this blog in over 5 months, and this is shocking. There’s good reason though; I’ve been having way too much of a good time. Blogging in Canada was easy when it was cold and I was poor, but in Sydney there are things to do every single night of the week, even when poor, which is stunting both my productivity and my sleep pattern.


A quick update is due I guess. After 6 weeks of searching Lou and I finally found the perfect house in Newtown, the coolest part of Sydney (no bias there at all) and the lesbian capital of the inhabited world, apparently. There are enough girls who like girls in this suburb to keep KD Lang and Tegan and Sara in tight pants and plaid shirts for the rest of their lives. We filled it with colourful shit, as is our want, and had a housewarming party; the theme was cult movies and Totoro, Ponyo, Ash from Evil Dead, King Arthur, Baby from Dirty Dancing, Thelma, Bonnie (of Clyde fame) and many more made their awesome appearances. Kudos kids!

I spent Christmas at the International House of Pancakes (which may or may not be less a chain of creperies but a house containing friends of UK, US, Spanish and French descent) drinking for 3 days straight, making everyone listen to Fairytale of New York on repeat and eating some unbelievable food cooked by our chef buddy Chris. We didn't sit down to eat til 10pm because we'd been so lashed, and also because despite the shitty weather we had insisted on going surfing at Manly. Who DOESN'T go surfing on xmas day in Sydney? Everyone, that's who. Anyway, I couldn't have had a better festive period and loved spending it with some new and some old friends.

NYE was slightly wierder, with a mad day at our place and a rushed, impeded scurry across the city at 10.30pm when I realised that the original plan (to climb an abandoned building in our hood and watch the fireworks from the roof) wasn't going to happen and that I was going to miss possibly my only Sydney new year's ever. We made it to Observatory Hill in an hour, despite the state of us and the million and a half other people trying to get there, and I almost cried watching the fireworks from a hill right next to the Harbour Bridge. It's as good as they say it is.


What else have I done....I went to see the Dalai Lama speak, went on a rave around Sydney Harbour on the most beautiful day of the year that ended in a bus load of us singing to Love Shack on the way to the afterparty at 5pm on a Saturday, much to the bemusement of the rest of the city, I went to Homebake (good), Field Day (meh), Soundwave (great) and the Playground Weekender (friggin fantastic), as well as to see Chase & Status, and the godfather of dnb Mr Andy C (who Lou and I ended up meeting and hugging and dancing with us - best thing to ever happen ever, FACT) on his first Australian boat party, I've learned to surf (shakily) and bought a board, I've got a microdermal in my chest, witnessed a suspension, started growing herbs in the back yard, been to the brilliant Govinda's (where you lie down to watch movies), started going to naked life drawing at a really nice hotel (we're not naked, they are), discovered a great vegan community space, met a whole bunch of great people and picked up yoga again!


Oh, and there was a random street dancing episode to a busking band in January. It was unfathomably awesome.

My awesome nephew Batman Symbol was also one last week, and I am pleased to say he's sporting a nice surf bum / indie kid haircut and stabbing drum sticks through skins already. I like to think my influence is felt.


I'm working as a booking agent / PA (HA!) / promotor / the chick who plays with the dog for an awesome little company, meaning I work with bands all the time and arrange nights and band competitions and stuff. Somehow I managed to find another job where I don't start til ten, everyone gets on and rocking into work horrendously hungover is all but encouraged. They even give me free festival tickets and passes to weird events. Obviously I enjoy it.


Wow, that's almost 4 months of Australia right there. I'm a third of my way through. Strange.

Beware! Australia

It’s horrendously clichéd to talk about how dangerous Australia is, but it bloody well is when you think about it comparatively.

What wildlife in the UK can or ever does really harm you? A badger can give you a nasty nip, a swan may or may not break your arm and I’ve been chased by a slightly miffed cow before, but apart from that the most dangerous things seem to be alcohol and rottweilers owned by chavs.

In Australia, on the other hand, there are friggin trees that can actively harm you. Trees! Not to mention box jellyfish, saltwater crocodiles, those crazy spiders that can kill you just by looking in your general direction and heat in the outback that can bake you from the inside.

Just think about that. Makes a bee sting look like plucking a nose hair.

All up in the air

I love flying. It’s a good job as well, seeing as I’ve racked up 28 hrs in the air and traveled 14,103 miles in the last month.

I especially love flying at night. It’s a bit like going to bed but better. Sure, you’re in a virtual coffin of discomfort that only tilts back half an inch, but its socially acceptable to drink (for free!) in your little pod and by the time you’ve read a few pages, drawn that woman sat in the next aisle and grabbed a few hours sleep you wake up on the other side of the world.

I took off this time from Heathrow Terminal 5, which despite all its opening troubles is fantastic. It was only 8.30 but pitch black as I boarded the plane. I hadn’t felt any nervousness or excitement like normal (a fact that can probably be attributed to having barely had time to breathe in 3 weeks) but as we bumped along the runway and lifted off the ground I felt a wave of mild and transient euphoria pass through me on its way to the excitable little kid to my left.

England looks beautiful from above at night, especially when you fly east over London and see the sprawling urban hub alive with a million slowly diminishing lights. The higher we climbed, the hazier the city became, until the vague mist of illumination gave way to total darkness.

That’s the only problem with living on an island; ten minutes of glorious inland views and then you’re over the blank vastness of the sea, an hankering for a gratis mini JD bottle.

It’s no wonder we drink so much on planes.

Getting ready to say goodbye

It's finally come around; my time in Canada is almost at an end. I fly out the day after tomorrow, and it is starting to feel WEIRD.

Last Wednesday my awesome now-ex flatmate Tom departed the country, and we moved out of our Space, aka Little Britain. Though it wasn't too bad saying bye to Tom, as I know I'll be clubbing in London with him in about a week, it was pretty sad to say goodbye to the flat that's housed so many good times over the course of the last year. Everyone who came round said the flat was really welcoming and chilled, and I felt so at home there. I'd go on with more effusive thanks to Tom and Lou but they might never read this so there may be no point! Needless to say, they were top flatmates and I shall miss living with Tom greatly - Louise, get your party pants on, I'm there in a month!

We finished our time at 73 Northcote in style; another party in the rain. I swear it's only rained 4 times in a year in Canada, every time we have a friggin party. Anyway, it was brilliant and so good to see all our friends one last time. There may well have been a projectile vomiting incident that soured the evening, but waking up with the couch on the roof more than made up for it. I'm not looking forward to seeing those photos though...

The morning after we went for breakfast (bad idea) downtown, and as Tom and I were trying to make it back for a yard sale to flog all our stuff, we got caught in a seemingly pointless and endless Chinese parade. I've never seen less happy people in all my life, and we couldn't work out what the hell was going on. It went on so long that the streetcar driver started singing over the PA and we had to entertain our possibly-still-drunken selves by hanging our heads out the window and freaking out motorists. The yard sale didn't go too well even when we got there, probably due to me delegating the task of fly posting to someone who really shouldn't be trusted with tasks. We made about 20 bucks and I gave some CDs away; we ended up on the couch on the roof with Tom's parents manning the fort. They made more money than us.

Yard sale fail.

Anyway, the Littlest Hobo is back on the prowl; I'm currently staying out in Scarborough (not the UK one) with V-dog's parents. As they're Ukrainian, and most Ukrainian meals consist entirely of meat, I'm causing a bit of a fuss with the whole vegetarianism thing but I'm being kept up to my nose in vodka, tea, cheese perogies and Russian chocolate. I could happily eat myself to death in this house, and if I was staying any longer than a week it would probably happen!

This past weekend was Nuit Blanche, the dusk-til-dawn city-wide art fest that I raved so much about last year. The bits that I saw this year were just as good, but we choose a dubstep night over the art for most of the evening. The night before we saw one of the Pendulum guys do a DJ set at Circa. He was a bit chunky, which surprised me - I realised I've never seen a podgy DJ before, apart from Chris Moyles who is, of course, not a DJ but a twat.

Anyway the spinning wasn't all that good but the tunes were - Pendulum remix of Voodoo People into Shut Me Up by MSI? Yes thank you!

I'm in the middle of unpacking and repacking, which seems to get harder every time I do it. I'm not looking forward to dealing with my snowboard. It's so heavy and cumbersome that there must be some problem with it. I am, however, determined to get bumped up to First, something that Tom achieved last week by owning a Macbook and having big legs. V-dog has big legs and I have a Macbook, and I am so not above pretending to be newly-engaged if that helps. I want that leg room!!

I'm not sure anyone reads this, but if you do and you're in England...THREE DAYS!

I'm in a 'New York State' state of mind

Buffalo is a strange old place. It may well be in the state of New York, but its nothing like the Big Apple. As soon as I got there I recognized the grey dreariness of the buildings and tendency to walk with your face pointed firmly at the floor from my 21 years in England, and the Buffalo streetcar looks eerily similar to the Manchester Metro.

However, the fact that there didn’t seem to be an eatery or drinkery for miles didn’t sit well with me. That’s a lie; there was a Timmie’s!

I finally found a little café and sat pondering the fact that I was in the US of States over a caramel latte and a grilled veggie sandwich. Across from me was a lady on the phone, having a blazing row (about how he’d betrayed her trust but she had no where else to go) with someone I thought was her boyfriend, but turned out to be her “realtor”. That’s American for estate agent. She seemed horrendously stressed out and kept referring to her problems and how she was working through “the lowest point of [her] life. It was fairly tragic, especially the amount of gratitude she described when the person on end of the phone was nice to her despite not working in a “touchy-feely” profession.

Within this conversation lies everything that bewilders me about America. There are such things as “touchy-feely” professions; it’s fine to have a forthright argument with your estate agent over the phone then make up like lovers ten minutes later; sitting crying in a coffee shop and describing your depression to some sort of service provider is an everyday occurrence. In England you’d simply write a strongly worded letter and complain about the whole situation for weeks to mere acquaintances, or if it really had to be sorted out on the phone, that phone call would be made in your house.

Filled up to the brim with emotional turmoil and cream, I wandered around 'downtown' Buffalo, being careful not to get lost as we all know I have the sense of direction of a blind hedgehog in a bag. The only nice buildings in Buffalo seem to be banks, the offices of insurance companies or churches. Now, I'm not one to make sweeping statements (ahem) but if I was, I'd say that this is very telling of the country as a whole.



I was, however, impressed by a sign that said "CAUTION! Snow-melting tubes buried in sidewalk!" Why would you have to be cautious about this? Presumably they're not trying to escape. Anyway, I really enjoy the idea that you could sit for a few hours in winter and watch the invisible warmth beneath the streets melt away patches of ice...and to be fair, I bet that's all there is to do in Buffalo in February.

You might have guessed by this point that I did actually make it over the US border. I sit writing this in Little Britain (Jam-rod's genius nickname for our flat), which should tell you that I even made it back into Canada. Truth be told, it was a doddle, especially dealing with the Canadians, who, true to form, were delightfully helpful to me and abusive to the Americans: "Yeah, they're a bit humourless...and anal. Oops, did I say that?"

Honestly, though, it seems to me that American border guards, and immigration, and police for that matter, are essentially good people, twisted and trained to be intimidating and sometimes pretty racist. The cynic within me can't ignore the fact that, as the only white chick on a bus full of other ethnicities, I was the only person to whom the US border guards melted a little, joking around with me and not even asking to look in my bag. An Indian woman in front of me with scars on her face was told she would have all her luggage searched, and mocked as she went to retrieve it from the bus.

Yet in Buffalo bus station, a potentially nasty situation really surprised me. A black American woman and her three kids had (somehow) managed to travel into Canada without passports, and were now trying to re-enter the States. The police had to deal with the family, but the tense confrontation between her and an armed cop quickly turned into a good-humoured and honestly caring conversation, with this big flak-vested guy laughing with her kids and eventually finding her a hotel room for the night.

This, if anything, is further proof that its not actually Americans that are a pain in the arse (as we believe in Europe) - it's America as a system that sucks.

America: World Police

As I write this I’m sat on a Greyhound bus just making its way along Front Street, beginning a trip I don’t really want to take. I don’t shun travel often, but this journey could end fairly disastrously, and all signs so far show that it will.

So I came to Canada almost a year ago exactly. My year-long working holiday visa expires tomorrow, on the 16th. Throughout the year and the application process for coming over here, we were told that it would be easy to extend your stay for traveling; you just go down to the border, cross into the US, come back, and hey presto! Canadian tourist visa.

I know what you’re thinking; since when do British people need a visa to visit Canada? Don’t we still own them?

Apparently we can no longer just swan around the planet doing what we like. Jesus, what do we pay the Queen for? Shouldn’t she be sorting out shit like this?

So anyway, time comes around, and it starts not to look quite so peachy. Both the US and Canadian visa / immigration websites suck ass. If I was a refugee, I’d know exactly what to do, but they are seemingly against giving information to someone who’s here legally about how to stay here longer, legally.

SWAP are no good either; the girl I emailed gave me totally conflicting evidence to everything else I’ve ever heard, then admitted she didn’t really know and suggested I see a $200-an-hour-lawyer. Tom has already seen a lawyer, who put the fear of God into us both by saying it was very unlikely that we’d be let back in, which in itself was contrary to what the ex-SWAP friend of ours and everyone else who’s ever actually crossed the border has told us. We didn’t even know whether it was better to go on the day our visas run out or a few days before. Hell, we don’t really know who we’re meant to speak to; “go to the border”? The border’s huge!

Needless to say, I was a bit apprehensive, bringing my laptop and some essentials along and discussing with V-dog what he had to do with all my shit if I was sent home or worse, stuck in America. This exchange with the driver as I was showing my passport to get on the bus didn’t help:

“You need a 994.” (an American accent, not a good sign)
“What?”
“You need a 994, and 6 US dollars. You got 6 US dollars?”
“No, I have Canadian. Is that a form?”
“You need a 994 and 6 US dollars. You can’t get in.”
“I thought the only thing I needed was a Visa Waiver form. I did that.”
“You have it?”
“No, you do it online.”
“…….”
“On the computer.”
“You have it?”
“No, it said I only need my reference number. I have that.”
“Well I dunno, but if they won’t let you in we’re not paying for a cab back. If they won’t let you in you’re paying for your own cab back.”
“………OK (whatthefuck!)”

So here I am, pooping my pants a little bit despite all my logic saying that it’s more than likely I’ll be on this same bus coming home later tonight. I mean, I don’t even want to go into the US! They’re making me!

All I want is to live in Canada hassle-free, leave when I like and then come back freely; is that so much to ask?!

P.S. I’m so addicted to my new Macbook that I’m not even appreciating the beautiful views on the drive. I’d say FML, but fuck that, I have a Macbook.

P.P.S. I've not heard anyone say anything good about Weezer's latest album. Am I the only person that likes it? It's rad - kudos to you Rivers, you mental man.

The reason I love Toronto

Last night V-dog and myself decided we fancied some light night cake action, so took a walk in the dark to one of my favourite nocturnal haunts. On the way we passed Trinity Bellwoods park and could just make out the rhythmic pounding of the drum circle which moved to the beautiful outdoor location as soon as the weather permitted. As we moved past the park, and the beat started to fade, I realised that something like that would never happen in a big city back home.

Java House never disappoints, and between frothy sips of my glorious White Chocolate (a blend of vodka, Kahlua and milk; basically an alcoholic, caffeine-free latte) I managed to snag a sample or two of the impossibly moist chocolate cake that I'd been hoping he would order.

Walking back, snuggled into my new hoodie that I've already developed an unnecessarily strong emotional attachment to, we ran into Jamrod and chilled at the new 24 food place on Queen. Decked out like a Miami grill, but one that's unfinished and is ostensibly a front for a human trafficking business, this place is pretty mental.

We headed home along the street that I spent so much of my first 6 months on but have neglected since then, taking in the perfect weather and the sights and sounds of Queen West. Then we heard a shrieking behind us; the shriek of a woman being jumped from behind: oh no! We'll be pulled from that comforting apathy that everyone resides in, we'll have to do something! The screams were getting closer, and more intense. We turned around...to find a pretty gorgeous woman in her twenties riding a road bike towards us, without a mugger or potential rapist in sight. She was just shrieking.

She saw us looking concerned; "Just screaming with joy! I'm really happy. WOO HOO!"

And off she cycled, yelling and hollering as she went.

Canadians reckon that Toronto is the least friendly place in Canada, and that everyone within it is cold and miserable. They don't know what they've got.

Strange Things Canadians Like #2

#2: Karaoke



Even though I've often tried to learn (for 'often' read 'sporadically'), I don't speak much Japanese. Itadakimas, oishii, Totoro...it's neither here nor there. Yet I do know one thing: karaoke is Japanese for "humilation".

In the UK there are 2 types of karaoke-partaker. The first kind are those rare and unusual people who actively seek out karaoke venues. They get dressed in their most X Factor outfits, get a group (usually girls) together and go for A Karaoke Night 'daarn taarn'. They all think they can sing like Whitney Houston but sound more like Orville at the end of his career, smoking twenty a day and with a whiskey IV. And they always sing absolute shite like Angels by Robbie Williams.

The second type are even worse; they go to their local, get totally tanked and then realise karaoke is on in the corner. After heckling everyone else and bitching out the clothing and weight of the other singers, they get up and not so much sing as shout down the mic, mostly unable to follow the lyrics to Chumbawamba's 'Tubthumping' that are scrolling on the screen in front of their glazed eyes. This type mostly consists of guys, and they often take the stage in packs, arms round each other but DEFINITELY not gay (sure). And everyone involved regrets it in the morning.

It's friggin awful either way, and certainly something to be avoided. There was one memorable evening in El Grovel at uni, when over a pint of cider and black I lost a bet from which my punishment was to get up and sing. Before my turn came around I feigned a toilet visit, walked straight past the ladies, legged it out the door and up to my room and hid in the wardrobe until danger had passed.

In Canada though, or at least TO, they bloody love it. I know a guy who goes around the city presenting karaoke nights, and its a viable career. They have karaoke EVERYWHERE, and I've been invited along to way too many singing events to count.

The thing is, most of them can sing. At my first KN (karaoke night) at the Fox and Firkin I had some definite chagrin seeing the first person get up, which was quickly replaced by shock at hearing them hit real notes and know the words.

I think it's a different mentality. It's completely fine here to say you're a singer; in fact most actors, singers, dancers and wannabe TV hosts will tell you what they do with muchos confidence, and act / sing / dance / present on the spot if you ask them to. They take their choice of career seriously, and are all confident in their abilities. It's strange to the eyes and ears of a person from a country where self-deprecation and modesty are national pastimes.

It's not that drinking isn't involved either, but Canadians have different drinking habits to Brits or Australians - the goal isn't to vomit and get arrested. They will happily just have one or two bottles (never pints) and sing their hearts out.

Are they just happier souls, content to croon along to their favourite Celine Dion songs in full view of everyone? I think so!

Strange.

August?!

It's the end of August! Almost September! When the hell did that happen?!

Time really irks me. When something shit is going down it drags like a gammy leg; when you're having fun it disappears for a while, advances several months then creeps up on you like an evil child scaring its Grandma. Is that entirely necessary?

More shocking is not just the date, but its implications; I've now been in Toronto almost 11 and a half months. My GCSE maths tells me that's nearly 12 - a full year. It's nearly time to go.

Well, not quite. Though my visa runs out on Sep 16th, I'm staying until October 8th, on which date I'll fly back into good ol' Blighty through that Boulevard of Broken Dreams (c Tom's mate) London, where I'm sure I'll either be mugged or not appreciated.

I'm all over the place about going home: proper excited to see all my glorious mates and a certain little baby that I've got total dressing-up rights on, but extremely gutted to be leaving TO and the fabulous people it contains. Three weeks at home keeps swinging between way too much and not enough.

Enough it will have to be, though; on Oct 28th I fly out to Hong Kong, for four days in the East with Tom's brother Chris! I have recently seen some bizarre photos of a restaurant that serves food in toilets. Needless to say my interest has definitely been piqued...

Anywho, on Nov 2nd I'll fly with positive aplomb into Sydney, to set up The Space mark 2 with the wonderful Louise, who I unfortunately had to pack onto a plane back to Aus not that long ago. It majorly sucked to see her go, but I'm all about living with her in her home city! Claire and Craig should also be there, as should Manc Louise, with all of us ready to set up a veritable assault on the Australian non-capital. I've already been booked into a day festival and a rave on a boat, and I'm itching to hit the surf without the need for a gross wetsuit - can't wait!

So much has happened since I last blogged...Louise went home, as did my Scottish friend Eni, I started stretching my ears (which are stinky but otherwise pretty good), Tom and I showed ourselves up as true Brits by insisting on sitting in a tepid hot tub on a roof at a party despite not knowing how to turn it on, and myself, Tom and Vadym attended the Worst Festival in the World (CEMF, held in a Butlins-esque holiday park) which was saved only by indulging way too much and the presence of that deity of drum and bass, Andy C. We also met some great people, including Dave, the wisest 18-year-old in the known universe, and the lovely Leelee and Chad, who not only took flattering sepia photos of us but also piled us into their car with all our gear and drove us home, via Timmies, to save us from what certainly would have been the gnarliest ride in a school bus ever. Oh, and there was the nurse / ice cream man who I convinced to move to Australia, and Alex the lemonade girl who gave us untold amounts of free drinks even though it could have sabotaged her relationship - her boyfriend's mum ran the lemonade stall. Oops.

I also went to see Underworld, famous for that bangin' tune from Trainspotting, who were shockingly and phenomenally excellent in all regards. I've always looked at early-90s rave dancing with a raised eyebrow, but now I totally understand.

I've made acquaintances with yet more Swindonites in the form of Tom's bezzies Andy and Binny, who despite being southern are both Top Lads. I very much enjoyed their company and was sad to see them go.

I'm still at my editing job, and am cultivating quite the tan (as well as substantial sweat marks on all my clothes) from cycling to work in the baking heat every day. I say every day; I mean all the days that its not raining or windy, and only when I don't have a hangover. So some days.

Oh, and I've figured out that these things are wicked:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sztUuNNBxbc
You barely even have to move and they get uberspeedy, then you rock your heels slightly backwards and skid to a halt. Who needs exercise when you can have a Segway to get around on? eBikes are similar - electric assisted bikes, no pedaling necessary unless the charge runs out and there's no power-point around! I'll never snigger at people on mopeds again, they're mega cool.

In the midst of all of this palaver, I find myself with itchy feet and a vague wish for new adventures, albeit ones to experience with the people I have around me. I guess that'll come around all too soon!

P.S. Canadian words I find myself saying; gnarly, super-, awesome and eggs benedict.

Hev on Wheels

So I bought this bike, right, off a geezer on Bathurst a few weeks back. Get me to work and back, thought I.

Now I'm in love with it.

Actually, I'm not in love with it itself. We get on alright and that, but it is fundamentally A Shit Bike. I bought it for $25, spray painted it, gave up on trying to sand off the rust, figured out after weeks of being too scared to try the shaky gears that if I did change up or down then the chain would come off, lock up my back wheel and throw me into the road, handed it over to Mr Cycle-mad who fixed it, and then learned to accept it for who it was.

However that doesn't really seem to matter any more, as it gives me unadulterated joy in 3 different ways:

a) It lets me eat more food, and as we all know from the days of Porky Parry, there's nothing I like more than to eat food.
2) It lets me go down hills fast
3) It facilitates my love affair with Toronto.

Since I've started my brilliant new job up on the Danforth (Greektown) my journey to work has finally transplanted itself from Queen Street up onto Bloor, and through parts of the city I'd barely explored before. I can take a slightly different route every day and discover something new and cool every time. It wakes me up, gives me more time to listen to music and has made my thighs more substantial than I ever thought possible in a good way.

Bikey also clears my head, especially on my secret little night cycles around T dot. Whether I'm basking in the evening warmth or feeling singular drops of cool rain on my forehead, I feel proper alive and genuinely contented.

It gets me to wherever I'm going quicker than walking and cheaper than the TTC, giving me more time to spend all that money I'm saving. It even lets me add to my list of potentially dangerous pastimes, as I don't have a helmet and I drive like a tit.

You know what? I am in love with it, like Debbie McGee is in love with Paul Daniels: despite all reasoning.

It may be decrepid and close to its demise, but it's got a feisty spirit and a lovable character; and for those reasons, I name bikey Edith.

Long live Edith.