About grimsbywoods

I love Elvis Presley

pepper jack postlude

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Romeo Dear, Oscar Bravo

I must write this, in case. In case I don’t.

I don’t think I loved you. Smoke got in my eyes. It’s a childhood thing. Not getting what I wanted and not knowing or getting to know if I ever really wanted it anyway. Because you don’t belong to me, and you won’t.

So lets clink Harry Potter goblets of Stella and kiss in a red, dusty dream. Lets fuck on a bed of Ted’s hair and Sylvia’s bones. Let’s argue about a radio station that never existed. We’ll meet in Milton’s Paradise Lost, smiling without wrinkles at a groundhog sunrise we pretended wasn’t tempting, beautiful. And we’ll love the uncertain certainty of that sore orgasm that never happened because of timing. But we knew it would, eventually.

We’ll be the great pretenders like lonely boys and I’ll buy you twenty-dollar cigarettes in a service station on a cloud. You can pay me back in monopoly money. We’ll be as selfish as we proclaimed selfishly in the transit room we crashed without a skeleton key, once upon a time in never never land.

Lets pretend we both left with a six-pack. We booked a follow-up appointment. We understood the ending from two kilometres, a beer and a fag in.

But we didn’t. I took the wrong exit on the A1 and couldn’t afford the petrol anyway.

Echo Zulu Alpha Bravo Echo Tango Indigo Lima Hotel

 

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bintang, being stranded and becoming a man, my son.

Bali

‘hello daarrlinng’ ‘oooh sexxyy’ ‘you want transpor-‘ ‘please look thank you darling’

The seductive soundtrack of Bali!

These few days have been quite magical.

I’m currently sprawled on white linen, nursing a sore head and shin splints I think, which could be a product of bopping and spinning to shitty top 40 electro/dance songs last night.

So I’m drinking expensive crap wine (must be the only downside to Bali), smoking gloriously cheap Marlboros and stuffing my face with complimentary biscotti – it can’t get much better, right?

 

 

Last night was dinner with my Mummy before she went to the airport – I treated her to a couple of days with me here in paradise and it has been wonderful. Once Mumma got over the culture shock – a much repeated phrase in the first few hours after i found her sweating at Arrivals – bless, all was magnificent.

Upon Mumma’s departure, there was a wild goose chase trying to find the restaurant an old friend from Noosa chefs in. I eventually did, after two taxis, a hundred cigarettes, 2 Mades (Balinese name), a lychee and rose petal martini at Ku De Ta with this view –

 

 

fucking heaven –

 

 

 

I finally arrived at Karma Beach in Batu Belig and met my old friend and his fabulous, fabulous Indonesian girl.

 

There was free champagne, beautiful, click-in conversations and a stunning ocean front bar; knowing my chef mate – the food will be stunning too. It’s new and not many people know about it, i.e taxi debacle but fuck it, it cost around ten dollars to get there in all and was well worth it.

 

Then there was the helmet-less Vespa ride from Karma Beach to the champagne bar. Then there was the meeting of Dr. Dublin. Then there was another helmet-less Vespa ride to ‘La Vida Loca’ (you can imagine the standard) but jesus wept,

I did not stop laughing all night, and dancing, and drinking and then it was 5:30AM and I can’t tell you if what Dr. Dublin was saying (lots of ‘jaysus mudder and meery’) was remotely funny but my cheeks hurt all the way home and I couldn’t stop smiling into the dawn.

 

 

 

Perth

I started this post on Friday night and it is now, yes, Monday afternoon. There’s my brief Bali anecdote. I wrote a lot whilst there; this proved difficult when you take into consideration the amount of Bintang or expensive bloody Two Islands shiraz I guzzled beforehand. Below is a snippet of a short story I’m working on, it’s still on slow cook:

Men wrapped in safety goggles and fly nets, bent over, baring K-Mart elastic waistbands. I can’t remember the feel of designer bras and the fresh fan of a ninety-dollar hair cut. I can’t remember skinny jeans and leather boots. I can only think in leathered skin, sweat and wrinkled, faded singlets. Dreamtime and scattered shells, where they talk. Our feet prickle over Stella bottle tops and cigarette butts; our meeting place, where we talk. 

In Bali, I was pampered, rejuvenated and well boozed; ultimately I couldn’t have faced this week if I hadn’t have visited Bintang land.

Then there was the old toothless scooter driver that asked me if I was married – ‘no’ -‘ooohhhh how much for me please (hands together, praying), you give me special priceee??’

I politely told him to get fucked, though he must’ve thought this was a term of endearment because he smiled, laughed even and offered me 100, 000 rupiah.
Which is nine bucks.

But hey, happy days.

Arrival in Perth (supposed stopover between Bali and Karratha, approx. 2 hours) to several voicemails/messages. Some heart wrenching, some lovely and welcomed, some just pure Air-Asia-Alcohol-Free-For-Four-Hours fucked. The latter would be this:

Voicemail: Yeah Hi Eizabeth, this is Aaayydrian from Qantas. Just to let you know your flight tomorrow to Karratha has been cancelled. Please call us back on a totally fucked number where you will wait on hold for several years listening to an excited woman telling you how checking in online is totally awesome and queue-free, oh and don’t forget to pre-book your meals to ensure your culinary needs are met.

Seventeen hours later:

Me: Hi, I’m just returning the call re. cancelled flight to Karratha, TODAY, at 2:40 this afternoon.

Julia Gillard: Yes, Eli-zaa-beth, your flight has been rescheduled.

No worries, couple of hours on the free cab sav and WiFi in the Qantas lounge slash peering over the top of your Macbook perving on the business dudes till the next flight out. Not a problem.

Julia Gillard: Till Monday, the 19th March at 4:40PM.

It’s Saturday.

Me: Um, I dont live in Perth, whaddya mean? I’ve just come from Bali.

Julia Gillard: Yeahhhhhh, you’ve got travel insurance?

Me: Um, no,

Julia Gillard: Yeahhhhh, ya need travel insurance.

Me: What? to travel two hours in the same state?

Julia Gillard: Yeahhhhh, ya need travel insurance.

Fuck off Julia

Me: Right, no worries – cheers for that.

Then there was the journey to suburbia where my fabulous friend put me up for two nights of Guinness (St Paddys), Peroni, BBQ’s, great chats, hilarious songs and whisky on the rocks.
Thanks darling!

Karratha

So I lost a lover somewhere along the way. A complicated lover.
Bali was my processing time and the master plan was to arrive back in K-Town, revitalised, reevaluated and remembering that I must accept things as they are.
I don’t think I’m quite there yet but what I have learnt about myself is that I have the balls to remove myself from any situation, however hard it is, if I’m not happy. And some people definitely don’t.

Because that’s really what it’s all about, right?

The money, the booze, the fags, the writing, the reading, the shagging, the eating, the studying, the working, the traveling, the leaving and the loving … everything is an endeavour for happiness, all that we do. And like my fabulous Aunt constantly reminds me; this isn’t a dress rehearsal.

So here’s to happy times, and sad, they’re both valid. Aint that right Rudyard?

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;
If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And which is more; you’ll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling

hard hats, hard goodbyes and a bali finale.

‘Oh, oh-oh … I got a love that keeps me waiting … Oh, oh-oh, I got a love that keeps me waiting, I’m a lonely boy’ –

Gosh, the episodes that are lust, work and hormones. I find myself drowsy on red and drunk on reassurance all too often;

Me: So it does get better? thought wise? … thought process wise? general fucking sensibility wise? We get better, yeah? We cope better right? We finally get it, yeah? … YEAH?

Older, wiser companion (basking in the glow of experience and my own inexperience, cracking jokes about tiny violins):
Of course! You’ll see! – you total twat.

Ha! How funny it will be when I can sit back, swirling the dregs of a decent Margaret River, with that ‘Oh to be young again,’ crinkled newspaper smile, whilst a twenty-something drama queen barely closes her motor-mouth between 700 Marlboro Reds and desperate gulps of Stella.

But the adventure is, I must say, always quite marvelous.

So. A new adventure is imminent. It’s been a while I know, but please understand alcohol monitoring, 4AM starts and a totally fucking surreal lifestyle has prohibited creativity, popular culture commentary and general life analysis quite dramatically. Especially when you are reduced to wearing this every day –

 

Yes, I look happy in the photograph but you get over it when you greet dawn with a pair of steel-capped toe boots and safety glasses on instead of a joker-esque, merlot mouth and a kebab in your handbag. Like normal people.

 

 

 

 

My life in the Pilbara has been a remarkable journey; what have I learnt?

Never, EVER complain about the heat to people that don’t actually work in an air-conditioned office.
The Scottish aren’t actually stingy (just the ones I’ve dated).
FIFO doesn’t mean Fly In Fly Out, it means Fit In or Fuck Off.
I like Germans, a lot.
Five pints of Stella is enough, whether you have to blow into a breath tester in the morning or not.
Tax is a mother fucker.
The phonetic alphabet.

Foxtrot uniform charlie kilo indigo november golf, oscar alpha tango hotel!

A few shots of MY Pilbara life:

 

Groundhog day when it comes to sunsets – in the best possible way …

 

 

 

 

Nikey, the refugee pup; lover and destroyer of Calvin Klein bras and Havianas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My day of climbing scaffolding and crawling under insulation pipes at ridiculous heights to take pictures for a brochure, aka: constant shitting of pants … but a lovely view.

 

 

 

At the local church/pub having our last supper/piss up before majority of staff left to go back to the homeland. Sad but happy times!

 

 

 

I’ve been three months with the one company on the Pluto LNG Project and it has been an experience and quite a wonderful one in many respects, if you can say that about working in construction.
I never thought I would be the fire-retardant wearing, safety glass adorning type but it is very self assuring when you can plonk yourself in a foreign situation and be more than OK with it. Yeah, I’ve learnt how to use Excel (properly) and how to write contractual letters and use boring systems and input data and blah blah but I’ve learnt, more than anything, how adaptable I can be and why challenging myself constantly is the best fucking way to go about things.

This sounds like Jerry Springer’s ‘After thought’ I know. But seriously. Cheers to the challenge!

Anyway, like I said, another one awaits! I have been offered a new job and a new, lovely, pay rise. But before that, YES –

I’m going to Bali tomorrow!

 

 

Hello old lover …

 

 

 

 

‘But I came to love you –
Any old time you keep me waiting, waiting, waiting …’

 

holy pants, fantasia and fairies.

Fuck, I love sinking back wines till 5AM on my own, smoking myself into a throaty wheeze and climbing into bed at dawn, in total love with the world. At least I must, that’s what I’ve been doing every night.
I should be starting work on Monday. Had my medical yesterday.
Drug/Alcohol test – perfect.
Lungs – perfect.
Eyesight – perfect.
Hearing – not so perfect. I was ten decibels under on one level, in my right ear, but I’ve put it down to the many gigs and festivals I’ve been to. Or the time my ex boyfriend found me asleep on the dance floor at the Rolling Rock in Noosa, with my head against the speaker.

So yes, medical was fine until Doc asked me to lie down on the bed so he could feel my spleen etc. Vile.
Doc: And I have to actually feel your stomach so I’ll just have to pull up your dress …  (goes to do so)
Me: NOO! Oh, sorry, I mean … Um, I have … um … a big HOLE in my knickers! I have holy knickers (start giggle-snorting, vainly clutching dress over groin )
Doc: (Splendid attempt at remaining professional but awkwardly laughing) Oh, ha! Sorry. Um …
Me: S’alright I’ll just pull me top down.

Jesus wept.

OK so I haven’t been my own best drinking partner every night. Every other night maybe, however Saturday was quite the adventure. Went fundraising for SAFE – Saving Animals From Euthanasia. Aunty is a dedicated volunteer and employed me as a fellow SAFE Fairy to go on a charity pub crawl around all of the three bars in Karratha selling SAFE stubbie holders and collecting gold coin donations. This is what I had to wear:

never say you don’t believe in fairies

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HOWEVER, we did make over a thousand dollars and strange new friends along the way. One young fellow named Garth thought he could pat Aunty Fairy’s head as if she were an abandoned dog from SAFE. Another friendly punter most earnestly proposed Fairy Prostitution with him as the Fairy Pimp, guaranteeing us plenty of funds for the poor little puppies and kittys and only half an hours work. Top fella.
We hitched a Fairy lift with a local journo after she asked for a photo; she assured us we will be in the Pilbara Echo this week. On the way back to the Tambray, we jumped in the back of a Commodore with some local Indigenous blokes – one of them didn’t speak at all and the other one wouldn’t stop but he had his eyes closed the entire time. Very kind of them to chauffeur anyhow.

After we had done as much fundraising as we could, we had a few bevs. Well, we had been drinking throughout but by this time we could rest our wings, have a chat, have a dance and talk to the 750 million men that were there. Then there was an after-party. Then there was the date on Sunday with the extremely tall, large Albanian I met at the after-party. Then there was a ride home on a sparkly silver scooter. Then there’s been the writing.

I’ve been writing. A lot. My new in-progress novella is titled: ‘So wise so young, they say do never live long’ (Shakespeare quote from Richard III). Here is a tiny excerpt –

My strike song? Fuck off. It isn’t just about Amos or Mina or my mother for that fact. Something has jolted, moved, tectonically shifted in the meaty plains of my skull. I’m sick of being smiles and loud laughter. I’m tired of Amos or David or Greg pumping my cunt, bellies out, shoulders back whilst I finger flick my clit trying to time my orgasm with theirs. I need a reprieve, a white flag.

 

 

I’ve finished Margaret Atwood’s The Year of the Flood. Wondrous speculative fiction. Read it and follow Margaret on Twitter – @Margaret Atwood

 

 

 

 

 

Out at 1980’s throwback pub ‘The Mermaid’ on Friday night with my new mate Hayley and her crowd. Or maybe I’ll go to Albania.
Oh and if you’ve never gotten pissed on your own and watched Fantasia, it is my utmost recommendation. You can watch it on YouTube for free!

The centaurs get me going every time. http://youtu.be/XChxLGnIwCU

Sad bitch.


rock art and rocking the canteen at primary school.

First report: I have scored myself a job on the gas plant here in the red plains of Karratha.

I had an interview on Monday and was offered the job – the interview was in the gorgeous carpark view cafe at Karratha Centro; it’s all class here.
I then celebrated until my lips were stained joker-esque red and my makeup and lampshade were still on in the morning. This is because I was offered tenfold per annum of what I have been making as a poor tuna pasta salad eating Griffith University bum.
However, paperwork and blah blah has to all happen and I have to have a medical and an induction and get a bloody license to even get on the site. Which is good. The site is enormous and ’tis great that health and safety are utmost. Disadvantage that I ponder presently whilst sucking on my marlboro: the smoking rule on site …
10-10.30am you can smoke on site. AND THAT IS IT. I really don’t want to be a bitch in my first week there so I’m considering a full nicotine-patch costume/suit under my sexy yellow and blue high-vis overalls and steel-cap toe boots. Don’t worry, I’ll provide pictures but I may be scowling in them.

So have been practising the early starts this week. My gorgeous Aunt manages the school canteen at her son’s school (my darling eleven-year old cousin) So Monday was a write-off because Sunday was a BBQ/party at the family household which my aunty arranged as a ‘Welcome to Karratha’ party for me. This meant bizarre conversations about circumcision and me drugged out of my face on codeine and sparkling wine (I had a bad back) which lead to Meatloaf ‘paradise by the dashboard lights’ being played on youtube whilst I shamelessly sang all the words in a vain air-guitar pose, which then lead to me being the last one standing and husbands returning to take their wives home (husbands disappeared quite quickly after the circumcision chat) and me singing Al Green songs to myself till the early hours.
Anyhow, Tuesday saw me up at 5AM! I know. Helped my aunty in the canteen from about 9-2PM at the primary school in Dampier. Hilarious. I was serving Slushies and making sandwiches and I could have taken every single darling home. They were all ‘yes please’ and ‘thank you.’ Jesus wept – I loved them all. You know, those cute little year ones and twos that mumble their words and have cute little voices and no knowledge of how their faces looks when they haven’t pre-ordered a Slushie and can’t have one. Oh!

OK, I don’t want kids but just maybe hundreds of nieces and nephews that I can gush over … for twenty minutes.

Saturday saw us at the school fete. My aunty had a fairy stall and was costumed appropriately! My lovely Uncle ventured that we might visit the local tavern for a beer whilst my aunty minded the stall – which we did. So we entered the early 1980’s at the ‘Mermaid’ (low ceilinged wooden shed) I soon figured out I was one of four women in the place and it was an ocean of high-vis overalls and testosterone. After a couple of Heinekens we arrived back at the stall and whilst my Fairy aunty went for a Fairy fag, I minded the stall and without much business began writing in my notebook. This is what I wrote:

Karratha School Fete –
Foam covered children
Stopmping Scottish power tripping Glenda – P&C president tigress with a purpose amidst suburbian foilage of stalls selling over priced iphone covers and hand-made jewellery from the ‘sacred earth’ that is Karratha.
Sausage sizzles and 80’s songs for the kids to bounce to –
Sweating parents and sugar-fuelled children
Target-styled mothers intent on spending their coin on useless shit, making kids smile for a day, or two hours before the sun goes down; the spectacular setting drowned out by tantrums and sleep deprived year 6’s.
Broome brewed beer and baby weight bellies. Hand made crafts and jars and cupcake holders and boxes and nylon flowers and prams and straps and fathers with new borns, clutching their existence. 

OK so far – and I’ve been here two weeks tomorrow – I miss my ever gorgeous housemates Kitty and Tony and MoMo. They’ve been sending me pictures of fucking Christmas decorations they’ve done at our house in Gold Coast and I’m sadly not a part of the festive spirit at my adopted family home, however I am here in Wup Wup for a reason, and that is dollar. Aloe Blacc is my anthem at the minute.

I also miss:
east coast beaches – my espresso machine – not having to buy two pairs of flip-flops in a week because the puppy chewed them – not having to wash my hands seventeen times because the puppy pissed on them – fast internet connection – a breeze that doesn’t feel like a hairdryer – cans of sweetcorn that aren’t ten dollars and of course my darling, sweetie sweetie, darling friends.

Anyhow, after a beautiful bayside walk this morning (I think I had five flies in each ear at one point) my aunt took me to the Burrup Peninsula. This place is a red rock haven and teeming with history, ancient history. My aunt told me as we skipped, hopped and stumbled over boulders that she had been taken there before by an environmental guy from the gas plant, well versed in Aboriginal history. Anyway. Oh my god. We walked on what used to be a river bed for about five minutes and soon we were in the middle of a tiny gorge. Apparently the environmental guy John said some of the Aboriginal petroglyphs we were looking at are 5-6000 years old.
I was all materialistically tired, low on caffeine, needed a fag etc but this put me on edge. I was in total awe.

 I couldn’t spot any of it at first but as I got used to the brickish terracotta that surrounded us I could see. (The rock with the faint white on it has an animal etching but as aunty told me, some of the animals depicted may be long extinct so we can never know what it is).
I could see the etchings of animals and plants that had been cut into the rocks and boulders so long ago it’s unfathomable. Because my aunt had been shown by this guy who had a good idea of what they meant; she showed me the etched symbols of birds, emus, kangaroos etc. We didn’t walk so far because it was getting on 10AM and the flies were stuck to our faces like we were shit but she said John had shown her a petroglyph of a man with a hat on which apparently depicted the times of the first settlers and so experts can discern the period between some parts of the rock art and others.
But of course, good old colonisation/imperialism wiped the Jaburara people out so we will never know what they all really mean. But god, it is remarkable. I found myself looking at etchings of emus and kangaroos that were drawn thousands of years ago. It makes me remember how insignificant I am, in time.

The white markings on the biggest rock in this picture are birds. Etchings of birds. In November 2007 the Aboriginal rock art of the Burrup peninsula -exactly where I was today – was listed among the ten most ‘at risk’ places in Australia.
This place is unreal. And you can just walk through it. There are no museum red ropes or preservation areas. Which in one one way is unbelievable but in another, so bizarre. Why not? If these rock arts are thousands of years old? But today, that was what made it beautiful. We were there in the persistent heat and the unbearable flies and I kept thinking they did this, they walked where I am walking, in the same heat with the flies sticking to their faces.

Walking the riverbed to the big carved out rock that signified water, we stood over the Shell Middens where they would eat and commune and camp. There are so many shells and apparently these are the shells of the limpets etc they used to eat. Incredible.

So that was my adventure today. Now my adventure is two bottles of cleanskins Shiraz and too many expensive cigarettes, so I must end my tale. But just a reminder, if you are feeling lonely, these are my new best friends, Nikey and Rubey …

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, I know. I need a shag.

Shiraz, Sunburn and Soil that is Red.

Ok, yes, I am alive. It was debatable as to whether I’d make it for a while there when I staggered off the plane at Perth Airport. Lovely Pilot told us passengers an hour before we arrived in Perth that we would be experiencing some turbulence but ‘nothing to be worried about.’ On hearing this, I not so discreetly scrambled around in my makeup bag like a junkie, for the four Temazepam my mother had kindly wrapped up in cling film and given to me hours before. Yes I hate flying. But after one of those darlings I was anyones. I waited at the baggage carousel in Perth for a good half hour for my suitcase which I vaguely knew was already on it’s way to my final destination – Karratha. I could hardly speak, let alone stand up. What a joke. Anyway, thank the lord for drugs and alcohol.

So this most welcome ‘off my head-ness’ allowed me to embark on the final leg of my journey to Karratha in a quite lovely haze of limp arms and cloudy thoughts. Before I knew it I was sat at the window seat (unheard of) munching on pastrami sandwiches and admiring the vast redness of ‘straya. I even took a photo to show everyone how ‘in the middle of butt fuck nowhere’ I was.

I have nothing really insightful to say about Karratha yet as I have spent most of my time reading, drinking and organising paperwork for this job I will hopefully be starting very soon. I did however go along with my Aunty, Uncle and cousin to a sausage sizzle on Saturday in Dampier where my gorgeous family volunteered and I spent most of my time holding down my very appropriate leopard print dress against the Western wind and sinking back vodka.

Lesson number one: Do not wear dresses in Karratha that are above the knee. The wind is a fucker.
Lesson number two: Sunbathing in Karratha for 30 minutes is equivalent to about two hours in the Gold Coast – wear sunscreen to avoid lobster head.

The 5 AM starts and hard grafting are imminent, however I’ve used these days to catch up with my gorgeous Aunt, Uncle and cousin. And also to write, read and think. A lot.

So … this is where I am. An easy 5, 486 KM drive from Gold Coast- pop over for a wine anytime!

Karratha is in the Pilbara region and Karratha in the local Aboriginal language means ‘Sacred Earth’ or ‘Gods Country.’ So not all bad news. In fact Karratha isn’t as bad as it may seem being so far away from everything. 35 degrees now, I haven’t seen a cloud in the sky since I’ve ben here, the beach isn’t too far away although I haven’t even been yet; it’s been a struggle to rise early after the gallons of wine I’ve been gulping down at night catching up with my beautiful Aunty. I’m very alike her in many ways which has meant lots of laughing and crying through the fog of expensive cigarettes and WA cleanskins Shiraz.

My paperwork is in for this job, I’m just waiting for the thumbs up; 60 hour weeks here I come. It’s quite the joke in the household at the moment as to how I will cope with these early starts. The last time I was up at 5 AM was last week because I hadn’t gone to bed.

Finished DBC Pierre’s Lights out in Wonderland – It’s some fast paced allegorical stuff. Hilarious at times: a cocaine and alcohol soused narrative reminding us of the decadent excesses of modern capitalism. The denouement? A fucked up Trimalchian banquet of unethical, illegal cuisine and general debauchery. Enjoyed it thoroughly, his writing style is enviable. And I’m not just saying that because I met him in Bali and think he has very sexy eyes. Interesting interview with him from last August with The Guardian if you click here; he talks about his other books and his mad life in general.

Finished Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day last night too. I don’t know if it was the transition from Pierre’s frantic odyssey to Ishiguro’s slow moving subtlety symbolic of main character ‘Stevens’ but it took me a while to get going with it. Ultimately it was a sad love story, employing WWI and WWII as the political framework revealing the implications of duty and loyalty and how they often become the reason we miss out on love, in hindsight. My favourite line is where he assumes we have all the time in the world to sort our shit out, but in reality we don’t. We become so blasé until it’s too late –

‘one had available a never-ending number of days, months, years in which to sort out the vagaries of one’s relationship with Miss Kenton; an infinite number of further opportunities in which to remedy the effect of this or that misunderstanding’

He then goes on to say he was too presumptuous and now everything is ‘forever irredeemable.’ He left it too late.

So go forth my friends and say or do that something you keep putting off! I’m about to do the same. My roots are fading and the hair dye awaits; it may be the difference between acquiring a rich miner husband tonight at the Tambray or not.

I think i just heard Virginia Woolf turn over in her grave.

Melbourne Cup, Dylan Thomas & Annie Hall

It’s probably not very often you see those names and event in one title but alas Melbourne Cup is here and the Gold Coast Turf Club will be awash with fake tan and fascinators! I was supposed to be amidst the fun today but one more paper for Honours will no doubt keep me chained to a high back computer chair in the computer lab at Uni all day. Brilliant. I was really hoping to be like the lady below today.

 

 

 

 

 

Marieke Hardy tweeted this article she wrote last year on Melbourne Cup and I have to say I feel a bit ashamed of going to the actual one in Melbourne a couple of years ago after reading this …
http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/40668.html

You must be thinking what has this got to do with Dylan Thomas, or Annie Hall? Well I’ve never seen Annie Hall before so watched it last night with about 3 cups of tea and 4 fucking cookies which I was totally conned into buying from Coles – anyhow, loved it. Annie Hall that is. And Woody Allen is hilarious. The whole awkward reality of love in the movie reminded me of The Way We Were, of course Woody Allen’s got ‘nowt’ on Robert Redford; he’s possibly the most beautiful man I’ve seen on screen. Apart from Elvis of course.

I know Vogue has wanked over the Annie Hall style for years but I really did fall in love with the blazer/red flower ensemble in one of the bar scenes where she sings. I can’t find a picture of it now but I will endeavour to rock that look when I’m not heading to 45 degree heat.

 

 

 

 

 

And Dylan Thomas you ask? Also watched The Edge of Love for the second time last night. You know the one, with the Kiera Knightley, Matthew Rhys and Sienna Miller love triangle. Set in London and then in Wales in WWII. Matthew Rhys plays Dylan Thomas; I think he’s brilliant. Sienna plays Thomas’s wife Caitlin Macnamara (Thomas) and Kiera plays Thomas’s childhood sweetheart. I loved it, again, but then I’m the most cynical romantic you’ll ever meet. And the styling, oh god. It makes me want to jump on the next plane home to England, whack on some wellys and a floral tea dress and run around the countryside smoking fags and reading poetry aloud on top of a windy hill.

Dylan Thomas and Caitlin Macnamara – apparently their marriage was a stormy alcohol fuelled affair and when Caitlin was called up and told Dylan was dying, she flew to America and on arrival said: ‘Is the bloody man dead yet?’ Classic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And now for the rich BBC version I can’t help but adore …

 

 

 

 

 

 

The red coat? I know.

OK I’ll finish with one of Thomas’s poems. I really love this one.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas