Even cowboys watch the setting Hawaiian sun

It’s sunset on the world-famous Waikiki beach. Is it Monday, or a Thursday, I don’t know. Out on a concrete jetty, local teens are gathered in large groups down the end before individually flinging themselves off the seawall into the ocean below into a giant swell or as it breaks on the rock wall. 

Like the activities of teens anywhere in the world, the practice looks relatively unsafe. Their friends help them clamour up the wooden planks on the seawall so they can do it again.

A blue sign with white writing lists the beach rules. No boozing, no tents, no annoying tourist behaviour, that sort of thing. 

There is a preacher across the road preaching, reading from the Bible. He is being drowned out by the crashing of the surf on the shore and against the sea wall. This week is a super full moon which comes with very prominent tides and swells.

Up on the beach, a young man in mirrored sunglasses and orange swimming shorts jumps onto his tattered red hammock that is perfectly roped between two robust palm trees. Like a cowboy jumping on the back of his mount, he is ready to ride off into the sunset. He has no spurs but there is a pair of sandals neatly placed at the base of one of the trees. He kicks the ground to send the hammock into a low swing. The trade winds will keep it going. Did I mention he is wearing a black cowboy hat?

It’s windy tonight and sea breezes are already working the beach. The persuasive palm trees along this stretch of sand dutifully sway for all the hammocked cowboys and the tourists, their soulful influence mesmerising all beach comers and beachcombers. Their coconuts heavily fortified to avoid any accidents that would make a tourist’s stay in Waikiki even more unforgettable.

It may well be a controlled psychological effect, but I hear a gentle melodic ukulele everywhere I go in Waikiki, or it might be the ukulele shops I have spotted along the strip that sell the popular Hawaiian musical instrument.

On the jetty a trio of teenagers from Oahu are filming for their YouTube channel. That morning they decided to ask strangers to give them money for completing challenges as requested by the strangers for payment, so they could earn enough money for airfares to neighbouring Maui the next day. They are dripping wet, as they have each just jumped off the jetty for USD$5 each. They are USD$40 short of their target when I ask them.

There are all sorts on the beach – some wrapped up in their own romantic love story, oblivious to other tourists, some sitting alone, some with others, some chatting, some sitting together quietly. The fading blue hues change to yellows and pinks as the sun plays hide and seek behind low clouds and all heads turn its way. It’s strange when you think that all healthy eyesight advice tells you not to look at the sun and then you hit a certain time of the day where you are encouraged to look at the beautification of the sun while it disappears.

The sun is playing peek-a-boo now, challenging the photo taking capabilities of hundreds of iPhone users on the beach. There are tourists watching from their balconies right along the strip. Lots of selfies, lots of photos. 

As the sun peeps out for its final decline, many a tourist’s hands reach up to pretend to embrace or cup the sun in the palm for photos, like a giant interpretative sun dance. And then it is gone and many leave the beach for other activities, and the Maui trio walk off and head into Subway. They will all likely be back tomorrow.

Bath in Somerset - rubber duck not included

Bath, Somerset, England.
An ancient city dressed in honey-coloured Georgian elegance, steeped in Roman history, and proudly listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It’s the sort of place where the past isn’t just preserved—it’s parked on every street corner like a politely stationary time machine.

Hop-on-hop-off tourist buses weave through the city, and if you find yourself on the open-air top deck during a downpour, you’ll notice something delightfully practical: plug holes. Yes, real drains to stop rainwater from pooling like—well, like a bath.

I’m fairly certain all open-top buses have them, but the quiet delight of noticing this in a city literally named Bath felt like the sort of accidental poetry that stays with you. Sadly, no rubber duck floated by.

Before you even arrive in Bath, you must pass through Somerset, the county that surrounds it. It's comprehensively lovely—quintessentially English in the way postcards promise. 

Picture rolling green hills, a lattice of hedgerows, and vast pastures. People have been calling this area home since the Paleolithic era (think Fred Flintstone), followed by the Celts, Romans, and Anglo-Saxons—each leaving a footprint in the soil or stone.

A short hop away, Cheddar Gorge offers not just stunning scenery but serious archaeological cred. It’s home to Cheddar Man, the UK’s oldest complete human skeleton, dating back to 7,150 B.C. (No, not made of cheese, in case that crossed your mind). 

Meanwhile, Glastonbury—home to the famously muddy music festival—sits on what’s known as a "dry point," meaning it's one of the few flood-free bits of ground in the area. Irony noted.

Back in Bath, the Royal Crescent stands as one of the finest examples of Georgian architecture in the country—a graceful arc of 30 terraced houses, all uniform yet grand, and listed as Grade I, which in UK terms means: do not mess with it.

Across town, the Roman Baths offer a glimpse into ancient spa culture. In Roman times, a day wasn’t complete without a good steam, a communal soak, and perhaps a bit of philosophising about empire over hot water. It was muscle recovery meets mindfulness—a wellness trend about two millennia ahead of its time.

The city’s spa tradition hasn’t gone cold. In 2021, Bath was added to the UNESCO list of Great Spa Towns of Europe, celebrated for their natural mineral springs. One wonders about the modern infrastructure behind it all—filtration systems, maintenance budgets, the quiet toil of keeping ancient rituals hygienic.

Also worth noting: Uranus was discovered here. Yes, really. In 1781, local resident William Herschel spotted the planet from his backyard using a homemade telescope. It remains one of the more awkward astronomical announcements in history, but his Georgian house now serves as a museum, so everyone wins in the end.

Bath is a short train ride from London, but don’t make the mistake of trying to squeeze it into a day trip. There’s far too much to soak in.

 

Egypt - and the big pyramid scheme

Today in my writing challenge of places of historical significance I’m heading to Egypt – which is exciting I guess, but I’m a little confused as to why I chose it. Do they have anything old antiquey, or ancienty? I guess I can take a look to see what I can find but, the last time I checked, they just had those giant Ikea triangles scattered around Giza.

Okay let’s hit up those wonders of Ancient Egypt, the tombs built for three different pharaohs – Ronald McDonald, Hamburlar and Grimace. I present to you… McDonald’s Cairo! Just kidding. 

There is currently no evidence, in prevailing archaeological theory, that Giza’s 4,500-year-old Pyramids, sitting on the ancient necropolis, are memorial structures for the three kings. But they look remarkable, and I feel like the view is unimprovable. The Pyramids look like they would have been an almost supernatural achievement for people to build thousands of years ago, but if really could not have been that hard because there is now one at a hotel in Las Vegas. 

“Being in a pyramid is like being on the internet. It’s full of people worshiping cats, writing on walls and using odd symbols” – The Internets

In Ancient Egypt, the Leader of the Central Government was the pharoah. There were about 300 of them over Egypt’s long history. He was in charge of the yearly rise and fall of the Nile, the fertility of the soil, the keeping of peace, and the fortunes of the army, and was also high priest of all temples, commander-in-chief of the army and head of state administration.

It’s a bit like the current French Government, where Emmanual Macron is charge of national defence down to who is going to fix a Normandy village’s potholes. But the pharoah mostly had minions to do all the work for him. In carvings the pharoah is portrayed as colossal - larger than life - which is to convey a message that they were important and powerful.

We know a lot about the everyday Ancient Egyptians. They lived beside the Nile River, some were poor, some were rich. They worked as farmers, clerks, government officials, craft workers, soldiers, traders, priests. They were foodies. They played games - possibly an early Nintendo, they sang songs - potentially did some rapping, and told bad jokes. They were religious. They made gorgeous building for their gods and made the gods offerings. They believed in life after death and taxes. They travelled. They traded and went to war with other countries.

They were family folk. They loved some of their neighbours, but not all of them. They used makeup and wore different hairstyles. Some were schooled and could read and write. Some went into the family trade. Sometimes they got sick with a toothache, broken bones, malaria and called in the doctor. They rarely lived more than 40 years. They shopped, they fished and hunted. They had pet dogs and cats and gazelles.

How do we know all this? Well not too many of them had Instagram so it’s largely through hieroglyphs; their ancient written and drawn communication method that some people have learnt to read. One day, in thousands of years, someone is going to come across an old Apple iPhone with a cracked screen and think, well they should have carved their thoughts onto a real wall rather than a Facebook feed, because this thing is broken and additionally rechargers haven't existed for 1,500 years. But I digress.

The way to read hieroglyphs was actually forgotten about for 1,000 or so years before Napoleon of France invaded Egypt and the Rosetta Stone was found, which described how to reach them and hieroglyphs were discovered again.

In Ancient Egypt times, people would place everyday and objects in their tombs that would be useful in the next life. If you were poor it might be some pots, but if you were Elon Musk it would furniture, weapons, food, jewellery, a few Teslas and Twitter.

Often they were looted, but some were so well hidden they are preserved to this day – like the pharoah Tutankhamun’s. 2000 of his possessions were in there, many made in gold, including his solid gold death mask (which sounds like something from the disco era). Tutankhamun was not even an important pharoah so we can only imagine what the powerful pharaohs had in their tombs.

Athens speak louder than words

Athens is the heart of Ancient Greece civilisation, with 5^th century BC landmarks just completely littering the place, so move along, nothing to see here.

Today we are heading over to the Acropolis (High city) of Athens, a stunning citadel that sits atop of a rock in the middle of the ancient city. The Acropolis dates back to 447 BC (5^th century BC thus 2,468 years thus 128,793 weeks ago*), and its Parthenon was dedicated to the Greek goddess Athena, the goddess of wisdom and warfare (the jury is out on whether those things go together).

The Acropolis contains the ruins of ancient buildings of great historical and architecture significance, with the Parthenon famously sitting in the centre. While the white marble of the Parthenon has suffered damage over the centuries its basic structure has remained stunningly intact. The structure consists of Doric (ancient Greek style architecture) columns and extremely detailed friezes (a fancy panel of decorations on the roof, but not like bunting) and pediments.

Over its lifetime it’s been used to store munitions, converted into a church and then a mosque, an army barracks, and has widely been looted and bombed. 

The Parthenon is known as a symbol of Athens political, economic and cultural superiority and its democracy, and was built to celebrate the victory over the Persians who had been occupying Athens. It was dedicated to Athena to thank her for her moral support and cheese and olive toasties she provided during the war.

The artwork that was saved in mostly in the Acropolis Museum in Athens.  Back in the day, an interior designer/sculpture was commissioned to decorate the newly established Parthenon. His team whipped up a set of classic Greek marble sculptures – now known as the Parthenon Marbles. 

In 1812, an English aristocrat – the 7^th Earl of Elgin – removed/bought about half of the surviving marbles (other half being in the Athens museum) in a potentially shady business deal, shipped them to Britain, and sold them to the UK Government. I’m just wondering about the shipping costs that Amazon would have charged for that, and what type of ship, and how long it took, and did they get bubble-wrapped for shipping? But that’s not important right now.

Anyway, fast forward to 2022, and a squabble continues between the Greek and UK Governments over who legally owns the Parthenon marbles (colloquially known as the Elgin Marbles), with Greece saying its Acropolis "is the only place you can admire them in context”, and the UK saying it legally acquired them in accordance with laws at the time of them been moved to UK, and probs won’t be giving them back.

Alright, well let’s keep moving through the Acropolis then and try not to get involved in any more international legal disputes. Is Greece looking after its ancient artifacts? One could certainly argue that the preservation of ancient ruins are better off in the gloved hands of museum curators, wherever those museums may be, than laying around the grounds of ancient ruins in Athens.

My mum visited the Acropolis in the 2000s and told me that the columns are just laying around everywhere and she was able to sit on one. 

While the aesthetic of the Acropolis’ skyline is iconic, one could also reason more could be done to prevent erosion of marble and structural damage of temples from acid rain. What about a giant tarp over the top? I don't know, obviously, but researchers must be looking into it surely.

Other things about Athens that are nice to know: 👇

It’s the oldest European capital – 3,400 years oldest 

The Ancient Olympics were never held in Athens – wait, what 

Athens had the first ever democracy, known as demokratia 

Athens has the most theatres in the world, more than Broadway and London’s West End combined 

During construction of transport lines to support the Athens 2002 Olympic Games, one of the greatest archaeological hauls of ancient artifacts were uncovered. How very Athens.

* if this maths is wrong let the record show that I don’t know maths. 

 

Space Travel

"We're here to make space travel more accessible to all", said uber-entrepreneur, Sir Richard Branson, the linchpin and cashcow of Virgin Galactic, a fierce competitor in the new billionaires space race. With seats on board starting at USD$450,000, it might do to wait until the sales.

With Australia slamming shut its international borders for an entirely indefinite period of time in a tough stance to reduce the spread of COVID-19, it's interesting to look at other options for travel that are just as exciting as earth-bound travel, and indeed alternative ways of getting there. Outer space! 

What news from the outer space world? Well, here’s a thing. Space rockets have been hurtling from earth up into the stratosphere, one billionaire after another. Richard Branson onboard his Virgin Galactic, Elon Musk sending up his SpaceX, and that other billionaire, Amazon founder and business magnate, Jeff Bezos, on his Blue Origin journey. Pew-pew-pew-pew-pew and then fighting each other with giant laser beams - pew-pew-pew-pew-pew. Oh wait, no sorry, that’s Star Wars. I regularly get confused between Star Wars and IRL.

HAVING SAID THAT, I note that the U.S. Military have recently shot down an intercontinental ballistic missile in outer space from an aircraft carrier based off the coast of Hawaii in a testing exercise, so hi there Star Wars.

All of these recent space launches (with the exception of the extremely non-televised US military exercise) have been televised on some type of platform – TV network, YouTube, even Facebook stories. 

It’s always entertaining during space shuttle launches when the commentators discuss how long it’s going to take them to get to their destination, as if 27.5 hours was a long time, as is the case for the 4 astronauts that Elon Musk’s SpaceX recently took to the International Space Station (ISS). 

Girl, that’s a medium-haul international travel jaunt for Australians. Sydney to London is 23 hours more or less, and that’s not including airport waiting time, stopovers, lost luggage, impromptu body cavity searches, immigration control and waiting for a shuttle, which takes at least another 18 hours.

While the ISS altitude is only 408 km from earth, it takes over a day to get there, due to the spinny, spinny, upside-downy nature of our planet (that’s science-y talk – don’t feel bad if you can’t keep up with the terminology).

So what do they do on their roadtrip to above and beyond?

Well first of all, it’s not a roadtrip. It’s very serious space mission business and if you don’t know that, you can’t go. 

Second of all, there’s the snacks. When I fly international on a long haul, or drive to the shops on a relatively shorter haul, I always take snacks. What snack do the astronauts take and at what point in the first hour do they eat them all?

As you’d expect from NASA, the criteria for developing space food is: safety, stability, palatability, nutrition, resource minimisation, variety, reliability, and usability. Sure, but they probably just have M&Ms, and kill some time - and get some exercise - by chasing the little suckers around the zero-gravity cabin.

Also, are there even any Starbucks on the way if you need a caffeine pick-me-up? Who gets to drive? Can you call shotgun? Assigned seating is absolutely very serious business on a long haul. There’s certainly a slew of questions that I think we all want answered before we’ll fork out 450 grand. 

In terms of timeliness, I suppose taking a space ship to the ISS is slightly faster than taking the train, but I certainly don’t think you shave off that much time. 

One advantage of flying away from earth is you don’t have to put up with our pesky airport rules - no ticket counters, no passport control, no immigration checking to see if you’re carrying any activated vegemite and no waiting for shuttles that never come (or is that just LAX).

It certainly seems like, statistically, it’s a lot safer travelling on a space ship than a commercial earth-bound airline, specifically when it comes to take off and landing. On a space ship, you are flung into space and then flung back into the ocean. Perfectly safe. 

Boeing research shows that takeoff and landing are statistically more dangerous than any other part of a commercial earth-bound airline flight, with 49% of all fatal accidents happen during the final descent and landing phases of the average flight, while 14% of all fatal accidents happen during takeoff and initial climb. 

It's certainly often surmised by flight attendants in their pre-flight safety message that the plane will in fact crash if you don't return your tray table to the upright and locked position after your meal. Absolutely no need for food trays in space travel; your food floats. See! Space travel is the future.

So can you buy a ticket to go into space? Well, yes. I don't know about the future of international earth-bound air travel but space tourism will soon be a thing I'm sure of it, but it may be a wiser financial investment to just watch Star Wars.

Cost: $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

 

Corin Forest - Snowman's land

Give Canberra the cold shoulder one day and head to the beautiful winter wonderland, Corin Forest, just 45 minutes out of the capital. Every winter, the snow castle's gates open to the public at Corin Forest, and you get to witness amazing snowmaking in action. If you go on the right day, you'll definitely get the Banff treatment, with lightly falling snow, dreamy white snow-covered mountains and fun questions from chill-dren like "where does snow go when it melts?" It's puddles. It goes into puddles, and dies forever.

Corin Forest possesses magical superpowers that allows it to create snow, absolutely created with aesthetics in mind specifically for an afternoon's entertainment for the chill-dren. Oh sorry, no, that's the plot of Frozen the movie. But it's really a very similar narrative.

The road out there is a comprehensively and reliably lovely dose of Australiana, and also very winding, and you'll know you're getting close to your destination when you are abruptly and irrevocably plunged into snowman's land, and you start to see the omnipresent snowmen/women/people perched precariously on car bonnets and roofs that are returning to Canberra as they swing around the mountainous bends. Thank the chill-dren for that.

Rules of engagement for having an extremely acceptable snow experience:

• Make your trip spontaneous. Watch the mountains and go on the day where you can actually see snow falling, because y’all are guaranteed some falling snow. Often it can melt quite quickly, or not settle at all, and then you'll just get mud. And maybe mad. At yourself. For not taking snow business more seriously.
  

• Plan ahead if you want to do any of the planned things, like booking ahead to get onto the SNOWPLAY or SKI AND RIDE if you don't want to disappoint your chill-dren. If you don't like your chill-dren, see previous dot point.
  

• What happens in the snow stays in the snow. Leave the snow at the snow. Don't put a snowman on your bonnet for the return trip to Canberra. Don't be that person. It's not some magical character from Frozen; it's just water. Unless you have a child in your car. And then you have snow choice in the matter.

• Don’t drive like a drunken psychopath. There can be black ice. Don't be the person who skids off the edge. Your bonnet snowman will be very cranky, lose his cool and may have a meltdown. And then sue you.
  

• Dress like a smart snowperson. Warm weather proof pants, layers, a warm jacket, gloves and weather proof shoes. You'll thank me.

• Order a coffee or hot chocolate and hot chips or pizza at the cafe. 

All of this might might melt your cold, cold heart. Here's some pics.

 

TV REVIEW: I watched Midsomer Murders

I love a good old fashioned depraved murder as much as the next guy with a cold heart and a television remote. 

British old-school television show Midsomer Murders really sets the gold standard for people killing off other people in spectacularly perverse and unrealistic ways.  

And there's none of that new world Netflix business where you have to guess the plot because the TV show title is just a bit too clever. There gonna be murders in Midsomer.

There is something about a quaint little chocolate box village that has a tendency for murdering just about everybody who walks its cobblestones.

And as in all loosely based detective narratives, never in the history of the township of Midsomer has anyone ever linked any murder to the one that happened on the show just last week, or the week before that. They are all completely unrelated obviously and why would you even question that?

Here are some of my thought bubbles as dastardly events took place:

• Detective Chief Inspector (DCI) Barnaby, the superstar super-detective super detective chief inspector of the show, seems to stay cheery despite the fact his beat is full of innovative sociopaths.

• DCI Barnaby spends much of his shift being accosted by little old ladies who like to spill all the sordid, scandalous personal secrets of the villagers. Which are invariably not relevant to any case he’s working on, but are quite useful for a mental filing of every villager into some sort of alphabetical list of nutters. 

• There's that guy in a hoodie who's been watching him in every scene of this episode. This time he's hiding in the bushes. Now he's on the run. DCI decides to chase him into an abandoned, dilapidated building, still not having called for backup. I'm sure the guy’s harmless.

• It's an old boarded up house and the music is getting a bit hair-raising. DCI Barnaby goes in. Sorry, false alarm, nobody got murdered here.

• This new guy has intricately detailed appointments in his diary apart from this mysterious one that seems to coincide with the time of murder. I'm sure it was a legit appointment. DCI decides there's no need to check it out any further.

• DCI Barnaby returns to the crime scene at night by himself for no apparent reason. A man with no apparent reason to be there yells at him "what the hell are you doing here. You shouldn't have come back". DCI leaves the area. There was no reason to further question the crazy man, apparently. Pretty sure cops would find him a person of interest. What's the point of this scene? As an armchair crime-solving enthusiast, it's becoming increasingly difficult for me to weed out the killer/s from all the village nutters.

• By my count, 180 people have being murdered so far in this episode.

Midsomer Murders is based on the real-life village of Midsomer Norton, a cutesy township in Somerset, England, not far from Bath, which is so named because it was quite popular amongst the Romans as the place to conduct their annual cleansing of the body.

Land owners in Somerset should consider themselves lucky they didn’t call their bathing spots jacuzzis.

The writer of Midsomer Murders found Midsomer Norton on a map and thought it sounded quintessentially British and sufficiently murderous. Is Midsomer Norton really like its television twin? 

Well, the crime stats of the real village indicate a boringly average amount of crime occurring in the township, with anti-social behaviour the most prevalent type of criminal activity. 

I’m a little hazy on the actual definition of murder, but I imagine it is certainly a fairly anti-social thing to do, so it may be more similar than we think.

I actually visited Midsomer Norton in July 2014. We were travelling through Somerset, mainly to attend the lovely city of Bath, and our hotel was a couple of miles from Midsomer Norton.

By some extraordinary stroke of luck, we were not murdered or even attacked by anti-social behaviour while walking the mean cobblestones of the pretty high street to get to Sainsburys in Midsomer, but there’s always next episode.

DAY 24 The Writing Inquisition - Hawaii is everything.

Repost from 2011. Just in time for my 5th vacay to Hawaii. I am somewhat partial to the place.

Last year I flew to heaven, via economy class. I imagine first class to heaven is reserved for Mother Teresa types and that wonderful man who saved the lives of 12 horses in the Queensland Floods.

I had just permanently borrowed products from my Las Vegas hotel room, including pens, paper, slippers, handcream, shampoo, conditioner and other unidentified items in pretty aqua bottles, so that's probably why I got a seat in air steerage.

Heaven was just as I had imagined, but perhaps the stereotype was a little too cliched. Descending through puffy white clouds, I saw crystal clear waters, sandy white beaches and swaying palm trees. It was either going to be heaven or one of those trashy, indoor beaches they have in Japan.

I've always wanted to get off a plane and receive a colourful Hawaiian lei. My lei made of vibrant purple and blue frangipani was beautiful, but the flowers were wet and the climate was humid, so I popped it into my hotel room fridge and admired it from its new location, away from my neck.

The hotel was very decent, non extravagant and about a block from the all important Pacific Ocean. From the balcony I could see Diamond Head Mountain/Volcano, Waikiki Beach, and some of the Honolulu cityscape, where you could watch the morning and afternoon showers come through like clockwork.

Honolulu is very laid back, and the Hawaiians are extremely lovely. This is likely because they live in one of the most beautiful parts of the world.

Much of my time in Honolulu was spent getting sunburnt in the amazingly warm water of this tropical part of the Pacific. You just never want to get out, even when your suncream is due for a reapply. I swam, waded and floated in the water for hours, and leant on the ocean rock wall watching sail boats drift, and naval ships head in and out of Pearl Harbour in the distance.

The visit to Pearl Harbour was quite moving, and it's understandable that the U.S. decided to enter the war after this attack. I toured Mighty Mo - the U.S.S. Missouri - which wasn't stationed in the harbour in 1941, but is a magnificant floating museum near the naval base, just across from the warships that remain in their watery graves.

I stood on Mo's deck where the Japanese surrendered, and I saw the spot where a kamakazee pilot "dented" the starboard fenders on a suicide mission during the war.

The marines recovered the pilot's body, and the U.S. Government insisted he have an honourable and respectful funeral. He got his funeral, but legend has it they then unceremoniously dumped his body into the ocean.

We also visited Kilauea Volcanic Reserve on the Big Island, Hawaii. Our guide told us the island experiences all of the climates of the world, which may have been a sales pitch.

Although, I think we had about five types of weather that day. The rain drizzled as we walked down to and through the eerie Thurston Lava Tube (underground conduit in which lava has previously travelled), and the sun shone as we watched the cranky volcano plume smoke and ash, before the rain bucketed down again. It was like Melbourne on ice.

At nightfall, we fought with about 100 other tourists to stand on a rock not much bigger than your average sedan to get the best view of glowing red lava on its slow drip towards the Pacific. It was incredible and quite formidable watching raw, violent mother nature in the distance, and well worth the day trip.

Although, I learnt an important lesson on my U.S. vacay. I was given pre-trip advice which I failed to heed, which is that everything is better from the air. Helicopters all the way next time.

Miss you already, Hawaii - see you again soon.

Nepalese Government considers Everestland theme park

The Nepalese Government has lodged a planning application to turn the sacred site that houses Mount Everest into a massive theme park, complete with a summit roller coaster, an inflatable north face, and eventually a 5-star hotel on the Chinese side of the jumbo-sized mountain.

Mount Everest is the tallest mountain on the planet and has long been considered a symbol of adventure and exploration, so it is no surprise whatsoever to anybody that it is now being slated for conversion into a big, western, capitalist cash cow.

Everestland will operate much like the Kennedy Space Centre at Cape Canaveral in Florida, where a working space centre somehow operates in tandem with fun theme park rides and character astronauts.

Journeying to Mount Everest is a right of passage for many adults who are suffering a mid life crisis and need an existential / transcendental / embracing of their own mortality experience to make it through the rest of their lives.

A spokesman for the Nepalese Government said, "people can still come here to question whether their life has any purpose, meaning or value, but they might have to queue for a bit. Although if they come between 2 and 3pm they will be able to access a fastpass to get up to Existential Corner before the evening onslaught".  
 
The Everestland brochure recommends that anyone in this position plan their midlife crisis for the off-peak season.  Alternatively, they can purchase the Everestland Existential Crisis Package.

Prolonged isolation is a thing of the past for expert seasoned mountaineers, as they will soon undergo an excruciatingly long climb past hordes of screaming overtired sticky children, and pass through the centre of themed restaurants serving deep fried glacier sticks and frozen pizzas, on their way to the Summit Cafe at the peak.

The spokesman said, “this is part of the attraction. Diners want to see people haul themselves up dangerous slopes and across gaping crevasses when they are eating their cheeseburgers, fries and coke. This is real entertainment”.

The spokesman added, "we will be dealing with the lack of oxygen issue at a Planning Meeting next month.  We are thinking of rebranding oxygen as Everest Air or something like that and charging our guests for the right to use it, sort of like the model they use for wifi in Australia. 

Also, we don't want parents to think that their child might die at Everestland through altitude sickness. It's not really something we are worried about though. The American theme park tourist well run deep".

It is believed it will be left up to parents to decide whether they think their child will be okay walking around a mountain at the cruising altitude of a 747.  

Other planned attractions and experiences include a cliffhanger ride, wave pool, glacier challenge and the Hunt for the Yeti.  There will also be character actors dressed as Sir Edmund Hillary and sherpa Tenzing Norgay, the first climbers to reach the peak of the world's highest mountain.   

The icing on the cake, so to speak, will be the ice sculptures immortalising these two pioneers at the  highest point of Everest, sort of like twin angels wedged atop a Christmas tree.

While there are currently only two main routes to the summit, tourists will soon be able to access the peak via an endlessly long travelator. Guests will be given a sleeping bag when they embark as it will take approximately 16 hours to reach the top.

But for the clients who have paid mountaineering companies exorbitant amounts of money to get them safely to the summit, some up to USD$250,000, it's the suffering that really counts. 

The Nepalese Government spokesman has confirmed that no-one has had the balls to tell China about any of this yet.

WAGs Palace - Hampton Court

This touristy business is very exhausting. As much as I love to move about, away from the ordinary everyday, I also would love to sleep in my own bed every night. But moving around is how tourism works I'm pretty sure. But you know who else was notorious for not wanting to sleep in his own bed every night? King Henry VIII. Which, in my opinion, wasn't an accident.

Actually though, can I live here please.

I hit up his mansion yesterday -  Hampton Court Palace  - famous for being home away from his 59 other homes and his six WAGs, before he killed half of them because they refused to watch Coronation Street with him.  

The WAG Palace is located on the outskirts of London town in Richmond upon Thames, just a train hop away from central London. I stormed through the gates of the mansion uninvited, in what can only be described as in an aggressive manner, because that's how HVIII would have rolled. He wasn't the kind of man who would calmly walk through a door no matter what.

The King looked a lot like my Uncle Frank, who would not be seen dead in woolen tights, tunics, or pointy elf shoes I am fairly certain, which sounds jarringly like a detail you didn't need to know.

The type of man who won't
undo his top button 

The WAG palace is pleasant enough I suppose, in an understated, restrained Tudor type of way, although it is replete with great ornate ceilings which is most definitely a recipe for disaster. Let's just pause for the poor damn cleaner who has been dusting them every week for the last 500 years...

But not even the grand old King of England had nice loot in the 16th century; it was all muted reds and browns.  Or maybe he just preferred simplicity in his furnishings, and kept complexity for his privy relations; trying to keep the WAGs away from each other sounds much like a fulltime job.

The WAG palace certainly doesn't have the grandeur of Windsor Palace, Buckingham Palace, or Alnwick Castle (yes, the Harry Potter one), all fancy establishments I have traipsed through in recent weeks, but I can tell it has drama but also secrets.

The gardens of the WAG palace are beautiful and expansive, as you'd expect from a monarch who reigned before the global financial crisis and Instagram, when people who lived off the public purse didn't pretend to care if they looked wealthy or ostentatious.

I love England. Look at it.

Although I suppose the King looking strong and powerful could be crucial in retaining the empire. Plus, you didn't want some French upstart with a trim girth stealing your monarch moment.

King Henry of the WAGs was a cad, but probably only engaged in behaviour that was expected of him throughout that whole unpleasant era.  His whole palace reminds me a bit of Kayne West, which is a regretability.

He went through multiple WAGs in his quest to produce a male heir and had a few of his exes beheaded - more angrily than was necessary - in his special beheading room, which he later turned into a trophy room with a pool table.  I imagine each of them almost immediately regretted their nuptials.

Two of his conquests, Anne Boleyn and Kathryn Howard, were in fact murdered in the Tower of London, which is another delightful yet disturbing place to visit full of death and torture but also secrets.

I love England, but the more time I spend here the more I am thankful that I was born in the 20th century.

Make Like Christopher Robin

About a year ago I subscribed to Discover Britain, a highly addictive heritage magazine that is best administered in minisculian doses or it will force one to pop over to the other side of The Planet Earth far more times in one year than one can possibly afford, unless you work for the Australian cricket team as Michael Clarke.

I've always had a predisposition to hit up the Mother Country.  I wasn't born there, I don't have one of their fancy schmancy passports bearing the crown jewels on the cover, and any ancestral connection that I have dates back to a bloody long time ago, ol' chap, but I lived there about 15 years ago, and that was enough to win one over.

I'm potentially going to Britain next year for my first time in many years.  I LOVE ENGLAND LOTS.  Can't explain it.  There are only about 22,000 things I want to do over there, so that's good.  You don't want to cram too much in.

Ireland is gonna make an appearance on the itinerary, which will be my first visit, as will lots of old castles, walls and rocks throughout the vacay.  It will be great craic.  Hmm, I suspect the Irish don't use that term at all.

I can't really be bothered writing any more, so I've thoughtfully compiled a list of very serious facts about the Old Blighty.  Some of these facts may not be altogether true and may merely be a product of my imagination.  That's the inherent fun/risk of my blog. 

This:

1. Elizabeth I was the first British monarch to have a fully-fitted flushing toilet.  Anyone with the number 1 after their name likes to be first at everything. So she was presumably the first person to do a number two.  Eww and eww.
2. Next year is Shakespeare's 450th birthday, so if he is still alive, Elvis style, the lucky duck will get four and a half telegrams from the Queen.  
3. Another William, the Conqueror, ordered his peasants to go to bed at eight o'clock every night.  Oh no he didn't!  Oh yes he did.  Presumably that was the time of the evening Eastenders finished in ye old Middle Ages, or whenever it was he ruled the roost.  And this is also presumably why he is often quoted to this day in newspapers like The Guardian as William the Bastard.
4. Another William, Prince William, is currently a little bit pregnant.  It's lucky then that pregnant people in Britain are allowed to relieve themselves anywhere, anytime.
5. Speaking of which, Winston Churchill was born in the ladies toilet during a dance.  Wait a minute... this sounds made-up...

The Chaosity of Jaipur

With Canberra undergoing a spell of cataclysmically gloomy weather – it was overcast ALL DAY - I decided it was best to go the cinema in an attempt to avoid the ensuing melancholic mood and to try and forget that such bollocks weather has the audacity to exist. So I took my mum to see The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.

The exemplary cast includes Professor McGonagall (aka Maggie Smith), M (aka Judi Dench) and other fine British actors, so I wasn't worried - like I often am - that I will be subjected to a movie that I know I hate within minutes of its onset but have to endure for another two hours.

The flick is set in Jaipur, India and is about a group of retirees who, for numerous reasons, retire to the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, which they believe to be a newly restored hotel. However, the establishment has in fact been rather significantly airbrushed in its promotional material by its entrepreneurial manager in an attempt to 'outsource old age', in the same fashion as companies outsource phone calls to exotic call centres and I often outsource cooking to a local Pizza Hut. They should have just checked TripAdvisor.com, but anyway.

I lived with my family in India for a few years as a youthling, so mum and I sniggered throughout the ‘quintessential India' scenes that are included for comic relief, but actually provide an honest summation of the idiosyncratic chaosity that is India.

When people tell me they are travelling to India, by choice, I do try my best to hide my utter disgust, but I silently sneer at their ignorance of the poverty and smell and disease and suffering and the general pandemonium they will encounter on their journey. I am also confused by the popular movement these days that has convinced some people that India and such places are great to find oneself. India is not a place to go to find oneself. Do the people in this picture look to you like they are finding themselves?

As much as I mock the country, most of my favourite childhood memories were formed in and around New Delhi. I’m thankful that I was a child growing up before helicopter parents started ruining their kid’s childhood, so my parents didn’t overprotect us, but just let us be kids.

Touching things you shouldn’t touch and eating things you definitely shouldn’t eat are a rite of passage for a kid growing up; it’s all just a part of the process of building resistance to all types of bugs and disease.

Sure, there was the time I was bitten by a rabid dog, and the time I grew hundreds of warts on my hand overnight from doing something that I probably shouldn’t have been doing, and the time I grew a tapeworm in my stomach, and I endured every type of Asian stomach bug about five times, but these afflictions are the reason why I’ve never had an upset stomach, food poisoning or gastro since. Lifetime immunity idol. *knocks on wood*

I am Carny Folk

I'm sitting outside on a very handsome summer's day in Canberra, except it's not actually summer at all; it seems Canberra has no clue how to operate it's climate machine anymore. It rains all summer, it's summery all autumn, we haven’t had a hurricane since 2010; seriously Canberra, sort yourself out. But who cares - the sun's a'shining in the skies and I'm making the most of this slice of weather perfection*.

Winter in Canberra can be a right nightmare for people who are scared of the dark season. It doesn't get as ghastly here as it gets in those weird parts of the world where your overcoat must be made of reindeer fur or you will perish, but who the hell wants to live in a place where you have to fancy dress like Prancer just to collect your mail? Not me, my friend.

I get all crankypants when I have to shovel a quarter of a millimetre of a cold ice-like substance off my car windscreen in July, so I don't think I'd cope through a winter in Moscow. Plus, while they profess to be all capitalist and normal now, it's still really a communist state, so I'd be freezing my arse off and I'd be poor, with no electricity, or Gloria Jeans. Sorry, I really know how to kill a mood, don't I.

Moving right along.  My total disgust towards the season of winter is why - this year – I’m fleeing to sun-drenched, tourist-invested, alligator-obsessed Florida for a month, where they don't do winter. Or communism for that matter.  Most Floridians have never even heard of winter.

Actually, Florida really doesn't do anything other than stinking, horrible humidity, but their dubious climate sure beats icicles hanging off your carburetor. I don't actually know what a carburetor is, but it sounds like something that would stop working if it was clogged with frozen water.

I am travelling with someone who refuses to have her name placed in any manner of social media in fear of someone breaking into her home while she's on holiday and overwatering her plants or incorrectly dusting her shelves or something. Or maybe she is concerned about being vandalised or burglarised by rogue youths; I can't remember.  It's a perfectly rational mindset, I suppose.

Given that I find it quite difficult to do pretty much anything without writing about it, and given that it's highly likely that I will blog a little while Disneying, I am trying to think up a slightly humiliating pen name for any references to her. It totally sucks being my travel buddy. 

I legally borrowed this from someone's
else's website, so Disney can sue them,
 and not me.



Orlando in Florida is the holy mothership of theme parks. Oh my god, you don't even know. Although if you are a theme park junkie, you probably do know, and you'd be getting all excited about it too. While on the east coast, we will also be spending a day at the Kennedy Space Centre, so I can fully utilise that aerodynamics elective I did at uni. They've being trying to recruit me for years.

Alas, Obama killed off the U.S. space program last year - so it's just a museum now, without cool rocket launches - which is just another reason for me to dislike his daft U.S. Democratic party. I would hate to be the one dusting all the nooks and crannies of those space shuttles on display.

We will also hit the mean streets of New York for a couple of days to get involved in a few gangland drive-by shootings (my travel buddy doesn't know - it's a surprise) and then we'll be hitting the mean shores of Waikiki on the way home.  I hate wishing away the days, and I never usually say this, but hurry the fuck up winter!



* The sun's a'shining in the skies and I'm making the most of this slice of weather perfection? I’m sorry you had to read that. Seriously, I should review this shit before I publish. Such a wanker sometimes.

How to build a Leprachaun Trap

Don't be silly, I have no friggin' idea how to build a leprachaun trap, nor any idea whether they exist or not.  If you really care to build one, then go and consult The Google, the youth of today's alternative to a real education.

We didn't have Google back in my day, we just had to read about intelligent things via a hard copy encyclopedia; things like the second law of thermodynamics and the reason socialism is such a retarded idea. Just look at those Swedes for evidence. 

Circling back to topic...

All nation states have to be known for something.  It's the rules.  Take Australia for example.  Our country is known for housing kanagroos in our collective rumpus rooms, padlocking our thongs to a fence when we go into a fancy restaurant like McDonald's so no-one nicks 'em, providing cradle-to-grave welfare for people who are sick of dying all the time in their stupid middle eastern homelands, and for a bridge that looks like a steel coat hanger that is nestled near a pointy white house on a pretty little harbour.  Not too bad a list if you ask me.

Any cookie-cutter country in the Middle East, on the other hand, is known for its teatowel hat industry, barbaric dictators, and general allround suicidal nutjobs.  Ireland, however, has quite an unfair reputation as a nation of leprachauns who are generally six guinness' short of a sixpack of guinness. 

It really is anyone's guess how the numerous Irish paramilitary groups over many years have managed to roust together to mastermind and kill civilians in coordinated attacks.  Obviously the key word causing great confusion being mastermind.

And, of course, the Irish are also known for giving the world St Patrick, the Lady Gaga of all Saints, who is greatly celebrated because he brought Christianity to Ireland and because he was born this way, baby.  The Irish generally celebrate the day by getting hopelessly drunk on green beer, and the rest of the world seem to think this is a great excuse to get pissed as well.

Ned Kelly's Chai Latte

I'm not very big on road trips.  Ever since I can remember, I have been a lean, green queasy machine when it comes to travelling shotgun or as a backseat driver in roadgoing vehicles over long distances.  I'm a little better than I used to be, but I still prefer to be hurtled through the air via one of Qantas' metal tubes than drive to far flung destinations.

Having said that, I have just travelled in a car from Canberra to Melbourne and back again, which amounted to about 14 hours of mild nausea.  The reason for this insanity was because I was visiting people in country Victoria with some family members.  When I say country Victoria, I mean the outer suburbs of Melbourne.  

The trip from Canberra to Melbourne is horrendously boring, as it is throughout much of regional Australia.  In addition to my boredom and queasiness, this journey was made worse by my inability to sit still for more than five minutes. 

It has been years and years since I drove through Ned Kelly country in Glenrowan in Victoria.  There is a sign that advises unsuspecting tourists that Australia's favourite serial cop killer was born in the area and that there is a shrine in the place of his Last Stand, where he gave the police some lip and refused to get into the back of a paddywagon while yelling 'don't you know who I am?!'  Unfortunately for Ned, the sign shows a man flingin' his pistols like he was the missing Wiggle in the silver skivvy.

I bet it wouldn't have been his Last Stand if he had been in possession of a Navman or a Navsheila.  "You. Are. Entering. A. Trap!  Turn. Right. Now! Turn. Right. Now!" 

The Navman we were using was so old that it possibly could have been from Kelly's era.  If you don't update the maps, your SatNav is just a clueless, annoying British woman.  I wonder how Big Ned navigated his way around the place anyway?  Did the Kelly Gang have walkie talkies? Did he do what tourists do when their Navmans aren't working and just follow the big M's?  Why doesn't Wikipedia give me the answers I really want?

McDonald's should do a McNavman, given that Australians just travel from Macca's to Macca's anyway when they travel distances.  I wonder what type of coffee Ned would have fancied from McCafe?  Perhaps a skinny, half-strength chai latte.  Or maybe he would have chosen something slightly more bushrangery.  I can certainly imagine him popping in for a McHappy meal during a hard day of gruelling bushranging activities.

At least a road trip through country Victoria would have been vaguely interesting in 1870, with a high possibility of being mugged by a horse-bound criminal with a tin bucket on his head.  Rather than contradictory nanny state signs screaming at me to "Rest NOW!" and "Micronaps KILL!" on the same stretch of road, country folk back in the day probably would have had "Watch out for bushrangers for the next 20 kilometres" or some such.

Kelly has been glorified in the media over the years as a bit of a rockstar, but, in reality, he is one of those blokes who robbed a 7-Eleven, shot the sheriff and ended up on Crime Stoppers.   I'm guessing he wasn't that bright, given that he wore a tin can on his head.

I didn't go to Kelly's last shootout lookout, because I figured it had been turned into a tourist trap courtesy of a McDonald's sponsorship or a contract with the Wiggles.  Maybe I'll check it out with my supersonic binoculars the next time I'm soaring over country Victoria on a jet plane.

My mum tells me that she and her friends used to ride their bikes up these mountain ranges back in the day for something to do and they would steal oranges when they got to the top for something else to do. This is how you solve the so-called obesity epidemic.  Build more bikes and plant more mountain ranges and orange trees. Alternatively, monitor what your kids eat and kick them outside to the backyard occasionally.