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


‘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.





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!


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 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


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.

Sad bitch.