It's not really a basement, there's no bodies.

It's Monday afternoon, and I am out the back at work having a sly cigarette, when my phone rings with a number I don't recognise.

"Hello"? I answer inquisitively, hence the question mark.

"Yeah, hi.  I'm phoning about the basement you have to rent".

I have no idea what basement this is.  I certainly don't have a basement to rent, I am sure I would remember if I did.  So I obviously reply:

"Sorry dude, I think you have the wrong number".

End of conversation.

But then my mind starts working a bit.  It's Monday afternoon.  This is when the local free ads paper is available online.  Has he read an ad and dialed the wrong number?  Is there a similar number to mine attached to an ad in the paper?  I should probably check this out.  So I log in, and search for my phone number, and find the following advert:

Excuse the poor quality, and the lack of phone number,  but there it is, with my phone number attached to it.  And it is immediately obvious that this is not a mistake.  This is someone that knows I live on the ground floor when the rest of the house is upstairs.  Someone that knows I have my own private access if required through the garage door, which is next door to my bedroom.  Someone that has intimate knowledge of the fact that I use that private entrance as a toilet when I am too drunk to go upstairs.  Someone that knows that I once rigged up a complicated deodorant can/lighter device to toast a mouse in my room (in flames - not with a wine glass).  Someone that went to the effort of shortening certain words so they could still add an 's' to the word 'private'.  And with 'alt payment methods considered'?

There were calls.  I ignored them, they're not quite as fun.  There were texts.  I replied to them, because they were fun.  And they all follow.  I am still no closer to finding out who it was, and if no one puts a hand up to it soon, I will be indiscriminately advertising every single number in my phone book.

The first, Liz.  Just a bit of a warm up:

The second, the only slightly saucy one:

The third, with slightly racist overtones:

The fourth, I still hate vegetarians:

The fifth, Dan, it was late and I couldn't be bothered:

The sixth, a wife as well, for the same bargain price.  Piss taker.

The seventh, a few home truths about 'The Basement':

The eight, and my favourite purely because after the first reply he didn't come back with 'What the fuck? Do you have a basement to rent or not'?

The ninth, my second favourite.  The first tip was meant to say 'nits' but went through as 'nuts'.  I think it still works. I stopped when I felt they may have contacted the authorities:

The tenth, where I lost interest and gave up a bit.  No more since however:

Edit: The eleventh, a bit late for this shit:

I want to go sightseeing.

Congratulations.  Upon uttering those words, you have just become my most hated person of the last five minutes.  Don't worry, my fickle nature coupled with my mediocre attention span mean that at some point in the next five minutes I will move onto someone else.  Or maybe just revert back to someone on my regular hate list, but until that point:  Well done you.

Am I being a bit harsh with this?  I've been back and forth.  Sure, we all like a bit of sightseeing.  There is nothing like being a tourist in say, London.  Have a walk around the Tower of London, it was built by Jesus probably.  That's over 2 thousand years ago!  And they chopped off peoples heads and put them on spikes or something.  And it has the Crown Jewels, and ravens, and Beefeaters and stuff.  Wow.  And look, there's Buckingham Palace, it's a billion years old and is where the Queen does her poo's.  And Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral, Tower Bridge, and look at all these buildings!  They were all here since the dawn of time, and survived wars, and the Great Fire of London and stuff, and they were lived in by important people with numbers after their name!  Stare at them all, agog, with your mouths open and dribble your intelligence all down the front of your shirt!  Fascinating stuff.  And it was, despite my general tone of sarcasm, awesome when seeing these structures steeped in centuries of history for the first time.

But here's the newsflash.  You are in New Zealand.  A country that was only invented a few hundred years ago.  And furthermore, you are in Queenstown, New Zealand.  A town established a mere 150 years ago.  If you can find a structure more than 3 minutes old here, I would like you to show it to me.  And in return, I will direct you to the only sightseeing bus in town.  It runs a 3 hour tour, one hour of which is you walking around Arrowtown which granted, is quite quaint - it looks a little like a town from the Wild West - but still no more than 150 years old.  The rest is a visit to the bridge A.J. Hackett first leapt off, a winery visit, another bridge, and a lake.  It's a different lake to the one you sleep next to in Queenstown, I'll grant you that.  But it is still a massive expanse of water, and these lake things really don't tend to differ much.  You know what though?  They do it on a genuine red double decker bus from London, which may just be the oldest thing for miles.

So yes, technically speaking there are sights, but I can't help feeling most people who tell me this want sights like you get in big cities, like the sights I (historically accurately) described in my second paragraph.  And can't help but wonder if maybe they get a little disappointed with the lack of them, and it leaves me thinking that if they wanted to go sightseeing instead of throw themselves off or out of something, that they may be vacationing in the wrong town.

It's not technically sightseeing, but you could go on a Lord of the Rings tour, that horse that still has plenty of flogging potential over here, especially with The Hobbit being announced, but you may have the same problem I have with that one.  Want to know what that is?  I thought so, settle in and I will tell you.

I was never a fan of the books, I never read the books.  For some reason growing up they didn't really appeal to me.  But then in my later youth once I discovered I could get into bars, reading went out the window.  And there is something about having 'Lord' in the title which implies some sort of camp escapade.  The Lord of the Flies (a book I did read once) is pretty brutal, fair enough.  But Lord of the Dance?  Camper than Christmas.  Lord Lucan's claim to fame (besides the speculation of his death/disappearance) must be that he is the only man in the history of Homo Sapiens (snigger) that would ensure Freddie Mercury came second in a Freddie Mercury look-a-like competition.  Even in the 12 days of Christmas the Lords are a-leaping.  You could be as hard as nails but as soon as you call yourself a Lord you may as well skip around all day telling everyone how fabulous you are.  The prime example being Chris Eubank, the self-proclaimed Lord Mayor of Brighton.  Sure, he was a boxer and could probably floor me with a flick of his little finger, but come on.  The guy wears jodhpurs and talks with a lisp.

The films however were obviously a big event, so I watched them.  All three films, which I believe to have taken around 23 decades to watch.  So as a result I have just seen them once.  And this means that every time someone points out a piece of land and says "Do you remember the battle of Scaramanga when that guy with the hairy feet and pointy ears threw that spear at that horse with the cardboard horns?", I have to look inquisitively at them, say that I do remember, and then feign a look of dawning realisation when they tell me it was filmed there.  For about 2 seconds.  Within an eon of footage.  They may as well just ask me if I remember that time I scratched my arse when I was 7.  Without a photographic memory on my side I would have to take a physical photograph of the site, go home, print it and rent the Lord of the Rings (all three, because they never tell me which one it's from), grab a haemorrhoid pillow and sit through every minute of them once again whilst holding the picture up next to the T.V. until that particular scene comes on the screen, pause it, make a note of which film it is and at what time the scene crops up on the DVD, and then commit this to memory so that next time I am round a friends house and we decide to have a Lord of the Rings marathon I can jump in at just the right time and excitedly shout "I've been there"!

That's not to belittle the amazing scenery round here, it is overwhelmingly astounding as I have said before.  It's just that it's not really a town built for sightseeing in the immediate locality.  It's more a town of locally putting yourself within inches of the jaws of death, and on a larger scale a vast expanse of beauty and serenity.  Like Milford Sound, somewhere I visited again recently but this time staying overnight.  I saw it as an opportunity to spend a little bit of time out of the bustle of Queenstown.  A time to be with myself, though not in that way (okay, maybe once in that way before I went to sleep).  A time to relax and contemplate.  And in that state of loneliness I discovered that I may be a bit of a paradox.  A lot of the time I don't like people, but conversely when alone, I really manage to piss myself off.

While I was there this time round, I took the opportunity to go kayaking.  The weather wasn't perfect, it was raining and there were high winds which meant we couldn't start kayaking in from the point we originally intended to, but when we eventually set off it was great to see the area from a different point of view.  We could get closer to the nature, watch seals frolicking in the shallow waters, paddle next to swimming penguins, and even touch one as the guide dragged a near decapitated one onto his kayak not incorrectly pointing out that "It's not the most ideal way to see them up close".  Being sea kayaks (which are operated by two people), mine - as happened before in my Festive Bitching post almost a year ago - came with an idiot in the back to steer us in the wrong direction and generally almost capsize us while dicking about trying to get the perfect camera shot, an experience I am becoming more and more familiar with, which only makes me wonder if it is actually me that's the idiot.  So with Milford Sound slowly inching it's way nearer the jetboat list of things I am arrogant enough to bore of (along with helicopter rides - I caught one back from Milford - honestly, if I have to go on another sodding helicopter.....) I decided it was time to try out another of the sounds, this time Doubtful Sound, on an overnight cruise.

Doubtful Sound is more remote than Milford.  It's accessible only by boat across Lake Manapouri, then bus over Wilmott Pass (named after 80's 'comedian' Gary Wilmott, as the historians are pretty sure they heard someone laugh at one of his jokes there), before you get to the Sound itself where you embark on the overnight cruise.  It was built in 1879 by brothers Eric and Percy Carruthers, who painstakingly carved it from the rock over a period of 34 years, losing a total of thirteen fingers between them.  Or it was carved by glaciers over thousands of years, one or the other, can't remember which one.  But if it's the latter, it would once again make it a Fiord rather than a Sound.  But this was realised way too late, and they already had Sound printed on the brochures or something, so they stuck with that.  Y'know what?  This isn't a history lesson, Wiki it.  It's an amazing place though, so peaceful, serene, full of wildlife once again.  Seal colonies, live penguins, dolphins, and sandflies.  Those bastard sandflies.  If Celine Dion and Bono ever had a bastard love child, to be honest it would probably be Jamie Oliver.  But if he then pro-created with Mariah Carey (who herself would be the bastard offspring of Chris Martin off of Coldplay and a traffic warden), the result would no doubt be those little bloodsucking harbingers of pestilence.  They have never bothered me in the past, they still don't too much.  The after effects are largely itching a lot.  And I love a good scratch, just ask my bollocks.  But being caught in an eternal cloud of them while kayaking (on my own this time - result) is the most irritating thing on the planet.  As is having them feast off my legs while eating dinner (which incidentally was amazing, they cooked my favourite food on the cruise - a buffet).  Honestly, I have never been involved in mass genocide, but I would imagine they would be marginally worse.

We were taken through to one of the arms of the Sound the following day on the way back inland.  As we approached, the water was like glass, reflecting the imposing beauty of the surrounding mountains.  And as we slowed we were told to take all the pictures we needed to now, as they were going to power down the vessel and ask for complete silence and no movement on the steel decks for five minutes to take in the immense remoteness and the sound of nature as if we were the only ones there.  It was incredible.  An experience marred largely by the fucking Germans sneaking around the deck still taking pictures.  One can only assume that upon arriving home and showing people these pictures they pulled out the first one and said 'This is us approaching the arm before we stopped', and then a second taken not five minutes later saying 'And this is exactly the same shot, but in complete silence.  Oooooh, spooky'.  Despite the fucking Germans (maybe the only thing in the world worse than sandflies), it was still a place I am very keen to re-visit.  Until such time as I get arrogantly bored of it.

Since then I have also been out canyoning.  You may remember I had an interview for them last year.  I can safely say that despite it being great fun, as I spent most of the time trying my hardest not to shit myself I am probably glad I didn't get the job.  It's essentially travelling through a canyon using various means: scrambling, abseiling, ziplines, jumping off rocks (into shallow water in a certain place to avoid other rocks nearby), slipping off rocks (not a valid way of doing it, but one that I discovered to be perfectly safe after doing it and surviving), stepping off rocks (as if you jump you will land too far away, onto more rocks), I had a great time doing it but was honestly petrified for the most part as I am still largely uncomfortable with water.  I did win a t-shirt at the end of the day.  It was a prize given to me for being petrified of the first jump - around 6 metres high into shallow water, into which you have to land with your legs raised probably to stop you breaking them.  Essentially I won a t-shirt for being the biggest pussy, which I think is the first and only time that has ever paid off.

Even though I had an awesome time out in the canyon - the day was great, the people were great, the fact I didn't cry like a little girl was great - I am still not convinced that sports involving water are the way to go for me.  I am still determined to find something to do all summer but it may be on land.  If I don't find something to do while waiting for winter it's going to be a very boring few months.  And there will be another winter, as I have just had my visa renewed until November next year.

England's loss is New Zealand's gain!  There's that arrogance once more.

This will no doubt be the last post of 2010, so I would like to take this opportunity to wish anyone still here after the RSI inducing length of garbage up there a perfectly adequate Christmas, and a fair-to-middling New Year.  It's done smaller because I am not 100% sure who reads this, and there may be some people who do read this that I would wish a really shit Christmas and a bile-infested New Year to.  But try and have fun anyway.

Be prepared.

Way back in December 2003, myself and three friends went for a weekend in Amsterdam. I am sure it is a lovely place, however we were staying in the middle of the red light district, so my views of the city were tainted by, to be frank, drug dealers and whores. Not my cup of tea to be honest, those drug dealers. And the closest we got to any kind of sex show was in Hooters, which was just ropey girls with huge knockers, covered by t-shirts. Nothing against that, they're not pieces of meat after all. But if I'm paying exorbitant prices for tepid lager, I would like a side order of at least a bit of nipple please. Especially when that glass of lager is only half full due to the other half being taken up by head (too obvious). Their refusal to top up our lager only led us to spend a lot of time in the hotel bar.

It was during one of these afternoons that I was casually gazing out of the window, across the canal. On the other side of the road, there was a bum. A tramp, not an anus. He was ambling along the sidewalk, staggering a little, clearly worse for wear. After stumbling for a few minutes, nature called and he slowly worked his way towards a covered doorway. I assumed he was just going for onesies, but he slowly pulled down his pants and squatted, and did his dirty business right there on the street. Impressed?? Of course not. Neither was I at the time. In fact up until this point I was positively disgusted. But then as he stood he slowly reached into his jacket and pulled out a full roll of toilet paper, ripped off a couple of sheets, wiped, discarded, pants up, staggered on. And as disgusting as the initial act of defecation was, I can't help but feel he redeemed himself somewhat by actually carrying a roll of paper around with him for such emergencies. I was pretty awestruck if I'm honest, it takes a special person to be that prepared.

Preparation has never been one of my strong points, which is how I found myself at Heathrow airport after travelling for around 40 hours, maybe a bit more, with a mouth that felt like I had spent the entire journey licking Amsterdam Bums bum. Once again I had loaded my bag with entertainment - laptop, more books than I could read in 3 lifetimes, magazines, iPod, camera, a huge bag of gummi bears thanks to the wonderful girlfriend, but no toothpaste, or toothbrush, or anything that would make sitting next to me on a nigh on 30 hour flight a pleasant experience.

The first 9 hours of travel was by coach, essentially the same journey I made from Christchurch to Queenstown almost a year ago but in reverse. From Queenstown to Lake Tekapo the driver was a chap I worked with during the winter, so the journey was filled with chat. Being an occasional miserable bastard, I would have been quite happy with the iPod in, but decided to be amiable for a while, however when New Driver took over at Tekapo he began by asking me a few questions about how I knew Previous Driver which I cleverly parried with one word answers, before settling in to listen to inane chatter on the iPod. And becoming silently enraged by a husband asking his wife rather loudly as they boarded the coach where the best place to sit for her travel sickness would be. Please. That loudly? Mentioning travel sickness? Sorry, would you like me to give up my seat at the front of the coach so you don't get all queasy? Or wait, is it because you want to sit at the front of the coach to get better views? I'm not moving, so I would suggest you just man the fuck up and deal with it. We are human beings, we were designed to move. Get over it.

As we entered Christchurch in the early evening, we became embroiled in the first traffic I have seen for a while. Given my ultimate destination - the United Kingdom - this just brought back memories of being stuck in four lanes of stop/start traffic, moving an average of 3 inches per millennia. This was no M25, this was New Zealand traffic, which essentially consists of more than 5 cars but less than 20, so we moved on pretty quick. My eyes lit up as we passed Warehouse Extra, then my heart sank as I remembered it's as disappointing as gearing up for a huge poo only for it to drop out in pellet form. My heart sank even further as suppressed memories of Masturbating Israeli reared their ugly heads again.

I arrived at Christchurch airport with approximately a third of the gummi bears left, and began the epic flight back to England. I am completely torn as far as flying goes. It's clearly a necessary evil, and I would rather do the entire New Zealand to England in one trip without breaking it up, but it's a lot of time to sit in one place a zillion miles in the sky. Sure, they try and make it as comfortable as possible by supplying you with a fibre-glass blanket and a pillow made up of 4 sheets of A4 paper folded in half, pritt-sticked together and stuffed with shredded paper, but there is no getting around the fact that the person in front of you will always recline their seat as fast and as hard as possible at the exact moment you are taking a sip of molten coffee. I'm not worried about Deep Veined Thrombosis, which is another thing that just requires people to stop wearing stupid socks and running on the spot for 10 minutes out of every 15, and just manning up a smidgen. I'm not too worried about major incidents either, after all whatever is going to happen, is going to happen. What does concern me is who I will end up sitting next to. Will they smell? Will they be fat? I paid for this seat, I don't want half of someone else spilling over into it. Snorer? Frenchman? The horrific possibilities are endless. The last thing I want is what happened on the way to Canada a few years back. A French-Canadian woman who insisted on talking to me instead of her husband, but only when I was eating. Asking me questions as my fork was nearing my mouth. Irritating to the nth degree. And French-Canadians are the worst kind of person. These guys are Canadian, but they actually want to be French. Imagine that.

But on the plus side, and this is what I really look forward to about flying, I have pretty much an entire day where I don't have to worry about food. The only critical decision I have to make is do I want chicken or beef. Or lamb or chicken. Or chicken or fish (chicken; as a seafood-phobe the thought of sitting in an aircraft cabin filled with the aroma of fish disgusts me almost as much as sitting next to a French-Canadian). I don't have to stand in the supermarket going back and forth over what I want for dinner, what I already have to make the dish, what I need, oh no. For a day I am told when to eat, pretty much what to eat, and that to me is utter bliss.

Another plus side? Oh yes, I am completely on a roll here with the positivity, I was flying back via Hong Kong. Hong Kong airport is great. L.A. is terrible. At L.A. when you alight the plane they usher you into a room for a few hours where you have to sit and wait for refuelling, with no opportunity to do anything else but sit there and concentrate on not looking like you are about to do something bad for fear of getting shot by an over-zealous gun-toting cowboy who clocked you as a potential fundamentalist just because you have a little bit of a beard. In Hong Kong they let you back into the departure area. You can walk around, check the Internet, have a Starbucks, and more importantly have a smoke. There are still smoking rooms in Hong Kong airport which is phenomenal in my opinion. Sure, they have glass fronts which I assume is so that you can sit in there and watch the world go by still feeling like a part of it, when in fact it actually makes you feel like a monkey in a cage, a relic of days gone by, a window for children to point at and ask their parents what those creatures are doing? For the parents to reply that they are smoking, and that it used to be a really cool thing to do in the old days and that it used to be good for you until science got in the way. But still, breaking up the journey with a smoke? Awesome. Yes please.

When I got back to Heathrow with rotten-arse-mouth, I was collected by my Father and taken home where I have now been for a little over a week. And it has been a manic week of catching up with people. My time is limited, and I have spent a lot of it writing this fetid nonsense, but I am catching up with who I can, when I can. It is difficult to get everyone in as for some reason people have jobs which means their days are filled with essential activities, but I have been doing what I can. And there is a lot to catch up on and a lot of things I have done that I didn't realised I missed so much until now.

That list includes, but is not limited to family, friends and everything that has happened in all of their lives while I have been away, good curry, McDonalds breakfasts, breakfast in greasy spoon cafes filled with gypsies, proper pubs, black pudding, Wensleydale with cranberries, pickled onion Monster Munch, Space Raiders, Pork Scratchings, Chocolate Caramel Digestives. So apart from the people I love, I have mainly missed food. It seems there isn't much about the U.K. itself I have missed. I haven't travelled too much on the motorways so the traffic I touched on earlier hasn't been much of an issue. I have used the Underground a few times which is always a great experience if you like every inch of your personal space occupied by the founding members of the London Halitosis Society. And I have also tried the train too, and enjoyed one half of a chavvy conversation from a lardy chick whose clothes were way too tight, which went along the lines of "Nahhh, but oi'm ahhnly entoitled to a two bedroom haaarrsse innnooiii".

So despite the general public getting on my tits a bit, which was nailed on to be honest, it's been a great trip back so far. It's been great to catch up with those I have managed to see so far, and I hope to squeeze in as many as possible, but please accept my apologies if I don't get to see you as my time and funds here are limited, it doesn't necessarily mean I don't like you.

And you'll be glad to know the very first thing I did when I got back was stock up on tiny soaps, toothpastes and deodorants in preparation for the journey back to NZ. As it transpires I can be prepared if I really put my mind to it.

Get 'em while they're 'ot, they're lovely.

The Lakes Weekly Bulletin is your bog standard local free ads paper. As long as you are privately selling, or just want to send a coded message to someone to let them know they can go ahead with the hit on your philandering spouse, and have a less than basic grasp of the concept of literacy, you can advertise anything for nothing.

I recently found myself with an excess of passport photos. Smith City knackered up the ones I asked them to do for the princely sum of $10, and the pro camera shop I went to charged me $25 for 8. Who in Gods name needs 8 passport photos at any one time? I have just renewed my passport, which meant I needed 2 passport photos for the first time in ten years. I will not need 2 more until I have to renew it once again in another ten years. By this rate I won't need to purchase any more until 2050, by which time I will either look nothing like the photos, or just be dead.

Anyhow, I decided to try and get rid of them. This is the ad, and some of the responses i got from it. Some raised a chuckle, some I replied to, some quite frankly scared me. My replies in red. And thanks to Joe Pasquale for the gag I shamelessly ripped off him.

+64xxxxxx594

19-01-2010 14:07

How are you looking for them photos

+64xxxxxx922

19-01-2010 14:22

Plenty left. They were proving quite popular so I had some more taken. 2 dollars each.

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+64xxxxxx798

19-01-2010 15:35

Hi. How much for the passport photos and what colour hair have you got - need to know if u look like me.

+64xxxxxx922

19-01-2010 15:44

Hi. 2 dollars each. I have brown hair, but I also have a variety of different coloured crayons if the hair colour doesn't match yours.

+64xxxxxx798

19-01-2010 15:50

Sounds great but sadly don't reckon yellow over brown will make blonde. Best of luck though, i have a few mates with brown hair so i'll ask around for you :)

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+64xxxxxx627

19-01-2010 16:27

Hello, i ve lost my passport and need a new one! I would like to use your fotos! How much is one foto? Cheers judith

+64xxxxxx922

19-01-2010 16:44

One would be 2 dollars, but you would need two for a passport. I would also suggest you cut your hair short and grow a beard.

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+64xxxxxx738

19-01-2010 17:40

Hello, my name is Phil, I work full time in Queenstown. I do need passport photos and was wondering if we could schedule a time to meet about it.

+64xxxxxx922

19-01-2010 18:10

Hi Phil. They are 2 dollars each. If you let me know where you work I can just drop them in to you? They are already cut down to passport size.

+64xxxxxx738

19-01-2010 18:11

I'd like to see them first if that's okay

+64xxxxxx922

19-01-2010 18:25

Of course. I have some of me with a light blue background, and some of me with a white background. Which would you rather buy?

+64xxxxxx738

19-01-2010 18:26

I don't know, which colour accentuates your eyes better?

+64xxxxxx922

19-01-2010 18:31

The white background brings out the jaundiced yellowness and the bloodshot veins.

+64xxxxxx738

19-01-2010 18:33

I'm afraid that the blue might be a bit too fancy for me though. Maybe you can scan them both and send the samples to my email account?

+64xxxxxx738

19-01-2010 18:35

Nevermind, I'll just buy one of each.

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+64xxxxxx975

19-01-2010 20:40

I'd love one of your passport pics for my own purposes. are you hot and male of english mother tongue?

+64xxxxxx922

19-01-2010 21:58

My tongue is English. My nose however is Iranian, my ears are Russian and I have German hair. Please, leave my mother out of this.

+64xxxxxx975

19-01-2010 22:11

What a mongrel! your mum must have got about a bit to have produced such a mixture.

+64xxxxxx922

20-01-2010 11:00

Coming from the girl desperate enough to trawl through a local rag looking for photos of guys for sexual gratification?

+64xxxxxx975

20-01-2010 12:23

I know. it's a tough life being a creepy wierdo looking for people to stalk. but what's a girl to do?

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+64xxxxxx676

19-01-2010 21:15

Hi. I was wondering how much u would sell 1 of your photos for.

+64xxxxxx922

19-01-2010 21:53

I am willing to swap for an ironing board.

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+64xxxxxx088

20-01-2010 00:09

I'm very interested in those passport photos..how much are we looking at? I only need 2also if that would work for you?

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+64xxxxxx193

20-01-2010 11:41

Need to discuss these passport photos . Drinking tonight?

+64xxxxxx922

20-01-2010 11:54

Absolutely drinking tonight. But who the hell are you?

+64xxxxxx193

20-01-2010 12:07

Haha just saw your add. Is it black and white or colour photo.

+64xxxxxx922

20-01-2010 12:13

It's in colour with a choice of either a blue or white background. Demand has been high. Get them while they're hot.

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+64xxxxxx595

20-01-2010 17:15

I need some photos.. Depends if ya good looking or ugly though. Don't want ten years of ugly...lol

+64xxxxxx922

20-01-2010 17:21

It's a passport photo. Generally if you look like the photo in your passport, you are way too ill to travel anyway.

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+64xxxxxx251

20-01-2010 17:55

Hey mate, u hav jus saved me $20. Im In need of passport photos. R they free?

+64xxxxxx922

20-01-2010 18:03

2 dollars each. Or 3 for 10 dollars.

+64xxxxxx251

20-01-2010 19:53

Cool. R u on crack? Unless ur my twin mate,I hate 2 say ur stuck w/those other 6 photos. Cheers!

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+64xxxxxx183

20-01-2010 19:57

Really need some passport photos, will u take 100bucks?

+64xxxxxx922

20-01-2010 20:15

95 and you have a deal.

+64xxxxxx183

20-01-2010 20:16

120, and wil u throw in some jandals?

+64xxxxxx922

20-01-2010 20:17

53 without jandals. They're for girls.

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+64xxxxxx061

21-01-2010 14:28

I don't get it... Who would want photos of you for their passport?

+64xxxxxx922

21-01-2010 14:49

I don't get it...why would you waste time and text credit to ask that question to someone you don't know?

+64xxxxxx061

21-01-2010 14:51

Free credit, curiosity :)

+64xxxxxx922

21-01-2010 14:56

Boredom at work. Stupid ad entries. Stupid replies from Queenstowners.

+64xxxxxx061

21-01-2010 14:58

At least your creativity isn't going to waste. Work in an office i assume?

+64xxxxxx922

21-01-2010 15:00

No. And I have my moments.

Festive bitching, other cultures, free shit and disableds.

New Years Eve, 2009, and I am standing in a taxi queue just after midnight. A few of us had walked down to the lake front to watch the fireworks after being at a house party for a bit. Although I wasn't too fussed about the fireworks, I have voiced my opinion on them previously, the atmosphere itself was buzzing. The front was full of revellers having a good time, we all wished each other a happy new year at midnight, however my lady wasn't feeling too good so being ever the gentleman I took her home.

The taxi queue was long, about 45 minutes long, but you know what? I'm British. Therefore I am genetically predisposed to love queuing so I was completely in my element. I had had a good night, I was on my way home, and I was already in my first queue of 2010. What more could a Brit want out of life?

Then my moment was spoilt. Someone tried to edge into the queue in front of me with utmost stealth. Two people in fact. To the untrained eye maybe it wasn't even noticeable, but God-damn it, I know how to queue, they weren't getting ahead of me in a million years, so they squeezed in behind us jumping approximately half the queue in the process. Nothing was said by anyone. Presumably because one of them was in a wheelchair.

I like to think I am very tolerant of others. I will not judge you based on the way you look, your gender, the way you dress, the colour of your skin, your sexual preference, your disability, we are still all human after all. But is it wrong of me to get angry at a disabled for trying to jump the queue presumably just because she is disabled? I don't think so. If anything I think people should have been able to jump in front of her, I mean after all we are all having to stand and wait while she has a nice comfy seat.

So 2010 is here already, and I have been gainfully employed now for just over two months, and it is largely going great. I say largely, obviously taking advantage of the free stuff I get thrown at me helps immensely. Since my last entry I have been busy reaping the rewards of a job that allows you free stuff.

I spent one morning kayaking across Lake Wakatipu to Pigeon Island in a sea kayak, a two person kayak with a rudder at the back operated by the person sitting in the rear seat. It's a company run by a pleasant dread locked hippy, and includes a guided tour and commentary around Pigeon Island, situated funnily enough in the middle of the lake. As you would expect, the island is a large land mass with trees, bushes, birds and insects, surrounded by water. But it's a nice serene setting, with a hut which is free to stay in as long as you can get over there, and is very reminiscent of the Evil Dead. Once you have toured around the Island, you paddle around the side of it before heading back to main land. The morning was marred only by the sour faced Scandinavian "girl" steering the kayak I was in. On the way back she pointed out that it wouldn't matter how hard I paddled to try and make us change direction, the way we were going was completely controlled by her. "So how about you steer us in the same direction as the rest of the fucking group then you dumb bitch", I imagined myself saying before imagining my paddle accidentally scalping her.

I have done my first bungy jump, the Nevis. A cabin suspended by cables 134m in the air which you obviously jump off attached to a long piece of elastic made of multiple strands of that white round elastic you used to get in those black plimsolls you wore at school. There's something they don't advertise. Plummeting towards the ground for 8ish seconds was a bizarre feeling. People have previously said that the scariest part is jumping off. That's crap, absolute crap. Jumping is easy. I jump down the last 3 stairs at home all the time. Toddlers can jump, animals can jump, disableds can jump (granted, just queues but it's still jumping). No, the scariest part is the few seconds after you have jumped, when all you can do is question whether jumping was a sensible thing to do.

On the same day I did the Nevis Arc, the worlds highest swing, in tandem with one of the girls I work with. You are loaded into the swing and dropped, free fall for a while and then get kicked into a swing across towards the canyon wall at around 150kph. In all honesty I found this scarier than the bungy, purely because the control is passed onto someone else so even though I knew the fall was coming, I still screamed a VERY masculine scream (the girly ones belonged to my tandem partner) when we were released.

The Canyon Swing is a similar experience, the main differences being that when you drop you can go a variety of different ways, you drop down the side of a rocky canyon wall, and the crew mess with your head in a big way. Generally asking if you are ready to die, that kind of humorous thing. Questions such as "How many times have you done this?" are met with a response like "This?? Never, it's way too dangerous. I know when the ropes were last changed". I went off on the chair, you are strapped into a plastic chair and told to rock back onto the rear two legs. As you dangle precariously over the edge, the crew mess even further by slowly releasing you only to pull you back up at the last minute a number of times. Eventually, exasperated, you cry "For Christ's sake, will you just get on wissssshhhhhhhhiiiiiiiitttttt".

Finally, I eventually got on a sky dive. 15,000ft, 60 seconds of free fall, a very concerned look on my face as they strap me to a chick about half my size. No offence, she was awesome. Knew what she was doing, had thousands of jumps under her belt, I appreciate her keeping me alive. But it could very well have been a different story if it was her week. While everyone else on the DVD looked like they were having a great time, I was masking my joy with the face of a man unable to work out how to get air into my lungs. Make no mistake, I loved it, and would do it again at the drop of a hat. I just look like I am concentrating really hard on something, and I am going to assume it was either the amazing views of the Remarkables, or just keeping my mouth from making some "jokey" sexist remark that would get me all kinds of dropped out of the sky without a parachute.

I can't say it's all been fun and laughter though. My job involves dealing with people. And people are generally idiots. Sure, there are some great people you meet, and it's kind of heartwarming when someone stops by to say thanks. I've done nothing but facilitate their trip/experience by taking money off them and reserving them a place, the experience or trip is made by the operators, the crew that take them out there, the experience itself, so they have no need to come and thank me, but some do. And it's nice. But the idiots far outweigh the genuinely nice people.

I've had a couple moaning a little that their trip to Milford Sound was boring. "Boring?" I asked. It's some of the most spectacular, testicle numbing scenery you will see, how was it boring?

"It was 5 hours on a coach". I would have liked to have pointed out to her that the boredom was most likely instigated and perpetuated by her travelling companion, who looked like he could turn the most orgasmic experience into a dull, trudging funeral march.

And other cultures who are used to bartering. Obviously being from the U.K. we aren't so into haggling when we make a purchase, but I believe that to get a discount on something you are buying, you at least need to offer something in exchange. Maybe that you are working for a similar company and can promote whatever it is you are buying, or at the least produce some kind of coupon. Every day I wake up wishing I was in the position to offer discounts if people dance for me. Not just a little jig, a proper dance for two straight hours. And they also have to provide me with sharp objects to throw at them, and snacks too, I'll need snacks to keep my throwing arm nice and strong. No sir, you can't get a group discount for booking two people instead of one. A second person barely counts as having company for the day, it certainly will not get you a group discount.

Finally, before I put this entry out of its misery, Christmas came and went. My Christmas was great, thanks for asking. There was a house party at my house, at which I sank about half a litre of Jim Beam in a relatively short period, and another house party later in the evening which I don't remember much of due to the Jim Beam from the first party.

It didn't feel like Christmas largely due to the weather, and it being light late. I associate Christmas with cold, crisp winter evenings, darkness, and the bustle of people late night shopping in towns adorned with festive decorations. Queenstown was bare. The only festiveness available was at Starbucks, where they were using cups with a Christmas design, and playing Christmas music halfway through November. I know I should avoid Starbucks, the amount of coffee I drink on a daily basis can't be good for my guts anyway, but coffee and festive happiness at least half a month before December I can't deal with in any kind of sane manner.

We had festive adverts though. Almost 2010, and the must-haves for this Christmas in New Zealand were Enya's Greatest Hits (honestly - I didn't realise she had more than one song), and Soda Stream. Honest to God. Well into the 21st century, and it seems New Zealand is only just getting busy with the fizzy.

Wow. Awkward.

I despise awkward situations. You know those times where you say or do something you know you shouldn't say or do, to the wrong person, or even to the right person who takes it the wrong way, and end up looking down at your shoes, raising your eyebrows slightly, whistling to fill the uncomfortable silence before bidding a stuttering farewell knowing full well that when that person says, "See you later", you know they have no intention of doing so and are in fact thinking, "What a prick".

Despite my hatred of these situations, I quite often find myself in them. Don't get me wrong, I am no Prince Phillip. I don't stumble around all day working my way into Larry David-esque situations of awkwardness. But my socially-acceptable-and-appropriate scale often differs to that of other people.

In recent years I have found myself being incredibly rude about the Scottish and how they would deep fry their shoes if shoes were edible. Generally accepted as fact by most people, but not the girl I was talking to at the time who turned out to be Scottish. I guess I should have paid attention to the accent.

Cutting out a square of masking tape at work, colouring it in black and sticking it to the top lip in a hilarious homage to Adolf Hitler can be awkward when you turn around and come nose to nose with a customer you didn't realise was there.

Babies and pregnancy can be a massive minefield for us guys. Especially when you are talking to a friend of a friend about their impending delivery when they have in fact already delivered said baby months previously. I guess the clue should have been the fact that she didn't look pregnant in any way at all, and was in a pub drinking alcohol.

Waking up next to a one-night relationship only for her to turn and face you, then leap out of bed screaming "Oh my God, you're not my boyfriend". Where do you go from there?

None of the above however, comes even close to the end of ski season party I recently attended. If you have read previous posts, you will know that I was highly likely to go as something offensive or disgusting. And I don't like to think I disappointed. But as much as I expected something like this to happen, nothing could prepare me for the moment that the wife of the director of the company who kindly employed me during the winter, and who I hoped to work for during the summer approached me and asked what I had come as. My eyes dropped to the floor to look at my shoes. My eyebrows raised slightly and as I got ready to fill the uncomfortable silence with whistling before walking off, I murmured "A scrotum".



In my defense, I had heard people tell me they were going as a sperm, sanitary towels, and other equally disgusting items. No-one followed through on that, leaving me with the dubious honour of wearing the only oversized genital-related costume in the room.

To be fair, I spent a lot of time over the previous days working on my scrotum. I would sit alone, in my room, whiling away the hours, just peacefully working on my scrotum. And a work of art it was, aside from the fact that being made from chicken wire fencing with no protection on the inside, I was essentially wearing an outfit made from barbed wire, which my arms did not thank me for the next day. And this also led to more awkwardness when I spoke to my mother who said, and I quote, "I saw the photos of your scrotum on Facebook". A sentence I NEVER want to hear from my mothers' mouth again.

And so after a month of unemployment, I now have a job once again. I attended a few interviews, none of which led to any hilariously uncomfortable situations, and in the end was hired once more by the company I worked for during the winter. This time in a front line sales role, meaning I get to talk to people, and sell them all the activities Queenstown has to offer. But more importantly, I get to do all the activities for nowt. Zilch. Nada. Gratis. Frickin free innit. And the activities we sell that the company actually own, I get paid to do.

So I went to Milford Sound, which is a sound rather than a fjord, which is a body of water and not a car. That's all I learnt from the trip, but I did take lots of photos in an effort to try and be a tourist again. I was surprisingly impressed with some of the scenery on the way. I arrogantly say that because working seasonal jobs means that frequently you wake up with a mountain in your back garden, so some of it is very, well, pah. However a lot of the Lord of the Rings locations are on the way, and it is obvious why they were filmed there as a lot of the journey is breath-taking.

I have also been River Surfing, which involves a body board, a wet suit, a river, some rapids and a lot of struggling to stay alive. And this time I DID freak out when my face got wet, purely due to the amount of water I inhaled, and a feeling of impending doom as I slapped the surface of the water like a tantrum throwing 7 year old with mental health issues. The jury is still out on how much I enjoyed this, having (as I previously mentioned) not been involved in any kind of water activity for many years. It also led to another awkward moment on the bus, involving the question "So who was it that pissed in the wetsuit"? and a finger pointed squarely at my head. It wasn't due to fear, purely that I couldn't hold it any longer. For Christ's sake, my bladder was full because I had drunk half the river on the way down it!

I have also fulfilled a childhood ambition, and been Hang Gliding. I recall wanting to do it when I was a tiny person, and looked into doing for charity. There was a fee of £275 to do it, unless you raise £3,500 for whichever charity it was at which point it was free, both scenarios slightly out of a ten year olds grasp. Also, my mum wouldn't let me. But now I am older! And I can do it free! And my mum is on the other side of the world! So that's one childhood ambition realised, now if I can just get close enough to Winona Ryders drink, I may fulfil the other.

I have a few other things planned which will be in the coming weeks hopefully. The Nevis arc and bungy (highest bungy in the world I believe), skydiving (fingers crossed), canyoning (despite them not hiring me), it's an endless extreme playground right now, and I don't have to pay for any of it!

So there you have it kids, until next time if I can leave you with one tiny snippet of fucked up wisdom, it would be that nothing says "employ me" like talking to your bosses as a giant ball sac.

I don't do mass hysteria.

Each year around this time, Queenstown heralds the arrival of winter with what they call "Winterfest". Which is an amalgamation of the words "Winter", and "Festival", for those of you conceived after twelve Bacardi Breezers in an alleyway just outside Romford. Or for those of you that use the same word for Christmas while tiptoeing around people who aren't offended at all by the word, and probably more offended that you have taken offence at Christmas on their behalf.
Quite why they need this festival to mark the arrival of winter is beyond me. I know it's winter, everyone does, it's Baltic outside. It's Baltic inside for Christs sake. The fact that I have to spend a good ten minutes coaxing my inverted penis out of the warmth of its inner sanctum before I pee is a clear indication that it's brass monkeys outside. Any kind of camp parade through the streets only serves as a twisted reminder that I currently have a mangina. But then this is probably the primary reason as to why I will never be on the town planning committee.
Running for 10 days, the festival kicked off with a firework display which I was able to watch from the comfort of a van while I was working. I ooh'ed and aah'ed as I tried to avoid the idiots standing in the road of all places watching the display, and then cursed as it seemed wherever I tried to make a delivery no-one was available to receive as they are all watching the display that lasted all of a minute and a half. Personally, I wasn't impressed. I never am. Mainly because I am not 7 any more, and haven't been for a few years now. Other things were going on, but I have paid little attention to any of it, and successfully avoided any kind of social interaction during this period.

Due to the festival, and school holidays this week, work has been manic. For the first time in many years, I am actually having to work to earn money. I hope to have normal service restored soon. However it has meant a lot of driving and delivering which has led me to discover that no-one out here knows how a roundabout works. For me, this is a good thing as I can just fly straight on without worrying about the idiots all sitting around at each entrance waiting for someone else to go. There have, as yet, been no accidents. But being a delivery driver has most certainly given me an over-inflated sense of self-importance and a complete disregard for laws. No seat belt?? Check. Breaking speed limits?? I have deliveries to make for Christ's sake. No parking?? I LIVE for no parking signs, parking in front of them fills me with childish glee. I have deliveries, did you not hear that the first time?? The van is now filled with empty cookie wrappers and coffee mugs, the only thing yet to do is import a yellowed copy of the Daily Sport and leave it on the dashboard.

As in all ski towns across the globe, hitching is a big thing here. In a strange twist of fate, the only times I have been offered a lift have been when I haven't been hitching, and was quite happy to walk. One of those times was from a gay fella that kept banging on about the Mardi Gras the night before. Don't get me wrong - no rant coming. If you are picking me up and saving me from walking I wouldn't care if you had sex with microwaved melons. I just thought I may be more likely to be picked up by him if I had a digit in the air. As soon as I make an effort to get a lift I am largely ignored, which I don't mind too much, because I never pick up hitchers myself. I have deliveries to make for Christs sake.

During the festival, my cousin from Auckland came down to stay for a few days, which was really nice. Growing up we never really spent much time together as she has a brother my age, and she was my sisters age, so we have probably spent more time hanging out together on the other side of the world than we ever did in the UK. And it was awesome. We went out skiing a few times, a tiny bit of touring, and some drinking (as there is literally nothing else to do in Queenstown), caught up, and exchanged family stories of which some were invariably similar albeit happening a few years apart.

It was while she was here that I read the news that has shocked the world, and please accept my apologies for taking a slightly morose turn.

I am very used to famous people, idols, and cultural icons passing away while I am out of the country. It seems to happen every time to all the people I love that have played a major part in my life as a child, and sometimes as an adult. Tony Hart, Mike Reid, Wendy Richards, Jeremy Beadle, Richard Whitely, all have died whilst I am abroad leaving me in a bewildered state of mourning, and leaving everyone else wondering why I am in that state. Every time I leave the country I am petrified of who will be next on the list. I have my fingers crossed for Dion, but it seems the people I despise are immortal.
This time round, it started with David Carradine. I can't say I knew much about him, but as a bit of a martial arts fan, I was starting to get a bit worried. My concerns were furthered by the death of Shih Kien. At 96, I guess he had a good innings, and I knew very little about him too aside from his star turn in the legendary Enter the Dragon as Han. I hoped and prayed every night, as it was following a bit of a martial arts trend. How would I cope if - God forbid - next on the list was Jackie Chan?? Or Van-Damme?? Or even Seagal??

And then the worst happened. Someone huge, someone who I remembered fondly from my childhood, someone I would watch on the television wide-eyed and with utmost admiration. I am talking of course of Farrah Fawcett. Most will remember her from her role in Charlies Angels, but for me her seminal work was the classic The Cannonball Run. It had the elements EVERY great should have. Cars racing across America, Burt Reynolds 'tache, a rubbish super hero, Roger Moore parodying Bond - even more so than he did in his way too long stint AS Bond, a pair of drink driving priests (which is always hilarious), a motorcycle stuck in a permanent wheelie due to a morbidly obese guy on the back (again, always hilarious), Jackie Chan, a cross-eyed doctor with a drink problem and borderline mental health issues, 2 pendulous chicks in a Ferrari, and Farrah Fawcett.
One could draw parallels between the tragic passing of Fawcett and Mother Teresa. And here is a full list of two very tenuous reasons why. They both provided enlightenment in their own way - Teresa more sensual, Fawcett slightly more sexual in my case. And both tragedies were eclipsed by someone slightly more famous, who had a history of touching children. So as expected, out of the woodwork come the thousands of fans shedding tears for someone they felt they knew but had no idea about whatsoever. It sickens me to see so many people in mourning, and getting caught up in the drama of someone who they loved but never met passing away, when half of them would barely shed a tear for a close relative.

Fortunately, aside from a few hits being played in bars and shops out here, it seems to have passed by without incident. There have been no vigils, no collective crying sessions in the streets, in fact the most I have seen is a sign on a whiteboard by a chairlift which are usually reserved for telling skiers they have left their lights on, saying "RIP King of pop. Black Subaru Legacy, your lights are on". A fitting tribute I feel.

So it is with a sense of sadness that I say, Rest In Peace Farrah Fawcett. You were MY Mother Teresa.

My bathroom has 3 doors

Honestly, it has. A door to the bathroom, a door to the toilet, and a cunning sliding door affair to shut off the toilet from the bathroom in case someone needs to micturate or defecate when someone else is showering. When I was younger, more foolish and a little more naive, all I wanted in life was one of those huge fridge-freezer combos with an ice dispenser on the outside of the front door. And someone similar to Jenna Jameson in looks, moral fibre and loose virtue to dispense the ice into my Jack and Diet. Naked. (Incidentally, for those unfamiliar with Jenna Jameson's body of work, please do not google her. Especially not at work). But now, I have a bathroom with 3 doors, leading to endless door/room combinations to experiment with. Which cunningly leads me onto explaining a bit about where I am living, in what will probably be a journey into bone-crushing, eye-watering, shit-a-kidney tedium.

I have been here almost a week now, in a scenic little area just outside Queenstown centre, called Sunshine Bay. Which kind of makes me feel like I live in an Australian soap opera, albeit with less hot jail bait Aussie chicks. The house I am living in is set on three floors, with a lounge and kitchen at the top, two bedrooms and a bathroom on the middle floor (with 3 doors!), and a bedroom, bathroom and garage at the bottom. I still can't get used to saying that I am going down to bed though. The view from the lounge balcony is the photo above, which is also the view from both the windows in my bedroom. The windows that dribble cold air over my head when I am trying to sleep. I took a bus ride to Frankton the other day to pick up a heater, but to be honest it is quite small, and offers about as much heat as a tea light unless you sit directly on it, but then that just fills the bedroom with the smell of singed hair and burnt scrotum.
I've ridden the public transport out here a few times now, at first with trepidation, but in comparison to the bus in England it is, as most things out here are, a pleasant experience. A fact no doubt attributed to the lack of council estates, poor people and limited availability of Stella Artois in cans.
From Sunshine Bay, it is about a 25 minute walk into Queenstown (uphill), and then a 25 minute walk back (uphill). Despite this, it is a very scenic walk - a woodland track that runs by the side of the lake - so I am more than happy to walk it. When I first walked it, nightfall was coming fast, and as it got darker and darker I started to worry a little. Firstly, because walking some woodland routes like this in Canada you have to worry about bears. No problem down here, no dangerous wildlife. Secondly, because walking some routes like this in England you have to worry about sexual predators. No problem there either, as the main protagonist is walking a woodland path in Queenstown. And as night falls, it becomes harder to walk as my eyes are constantly drawn to the sky, where there are more stars than I have ever seen in my life. No picture I could take could possibly do the night sky any justice. So close your eyes, and press the heels of your palms against your eyelids as hard as you can until you see spots. It's like that but better. You can stop doing it now, I can't be held responsible for anyone reading this ending up spending the rest of their lives walking into furniture.

So back once again to the house. It is still the two of us here, myself and another English guy who holds the lease. The third bedroom is currently being advertised and viewed. In the interests of redressing the imbalance created by having two guys living here, the advert has been asking for a female. There have been a few come to view it so far. The only one who was genuinely interested however was ruled out for various valid, and not shallow at all reasons. Being fat and ugly had no influence on the decision. The majority of interest has been from South American girls, who have strangely expressed a huge interest, then changed their minds but brought round different male friends on the basis that it would be perfect for them. Each time they return, they come with more friends who they think it would be more suitable for. I am starting to think they just like hanging out here. We disagree about the suitability of their friends on the basis that the ones they bring round have too much penis and not enough vagina.

Moving on further, I think I have finally found a job. I went for training the other day, and have 3 shifts this week starting on Wednesday. It is working in a rental shop in Queenstown, delivering equipment to hotels in the area and helping out wherever else I am needed. I say I think as I have still not signed any contract, or got any of the finer details sorted out, but I am pretty sure it's nailed on. The benefits as far as season passes/rides to the mountains are great, and it is going to be good to finally have something to do other than walk uphill into Queenstown whoring my C.V. to all and sundry and waiting for the inevitable unsuccessful e-mails/phone calls. I am also attending the casual instructor try-outs for Coronet Peak and the Remarkables on Thursday which I am hoping I won't balls-up as spectacularly as I did with Quiksilver.

And finally, yesterday was opening day for Coronet Peak, so I headed up there with a few people for a day skiing once again. To be honest it was a bit of a damp squib. In fact returning to the lavatorial theme I opened with, it was much like waking up on a Sunday after a night out followed by a kebab or curry, making a coffee and grabbing the Sunday paper WITH the supplements and heading upstairs in the knowledge that it will be a long, arduous but immensely satisfying experience, only for it come out in a series of little tiny rabbit pellets leaving you deflated, crestfallen, and most importantly still hungover.
Not that it wasn't a good day overall, essentially the important thing was that I was skiing and on snow again, which is always amazing. And after having work done on my boots they don't hurt as much as they did last season. I was just expecting a bit more of a fanfare being the opening day, when all I could really see happening was a one-man band outside the restaurant - essentially just a busker with more speakers. It could have been improved by replacing him with the legendary recorder-playing busker from Christchurch. And the weather wasn't great, a little low on visibility. But the snow was good, and like I said, I was skiing once again, which made me happier than a dog with two dicks.

And in a final final completely unrelated note, in fact more related to the hilarious "Beaver Liquor" than anything else, during my C.V. whoring I popped into a job agency where the helpful lady informed me to come back next week as she was in the process of sorting through the piles she already had to find out who was still available. My eyes were drawn to a C.V. on her desk. In the name of Ming Poon.
Where is a middle initial "e" when you really need it?

Queenstown and finding a place to reside

I arrived in Queenstown early evening, having only a vague idea where the hostel was. The coach journey, which to be honest I was dreading, turned out to be more than bearable in the end.
During the ride down, we stopped off for a lunch and toilet break at a lake called Tekapo. It's not quite pronounced "Take-a-poo", but given the nature of the stop I duly christened it so. Photos can be found here.
Once here, I dragged my sorry ass and 4 huge bags down the road to the hostel, checked in, and then went out for dinner with a few friends from Canada, one of whom is staying in Queenstown for the season and has offered me a room for a while.

I had visited Queenstown during the winter of 2007 when I was based in Wanaka. Having been in Wanaka (population: 4) for most of the season, I found Queenstown to be quite a large intimidating place. Having now been here a few days, it is smaller than I remember, but largely uphill.
Situated by Lake Wakatipu, it is a town that feels like it was designed by M. C. Escher, as it tends to defy all gravitational and logical laws that would suggest that you would walk an equal distance downhill as you would up. I seem to have just walked up. I feel like I should be at the top of Everest by now. If it weren't for the fact that I am some thousands of miles away from it.
Since being here I have joined the plethora of individuals running around town, handing my C.V. into various establishments in the hope of finding work. And somewhere to live.

As far as finding somewhere to live goes, after viewing many nice places, many not so nice places, I narrowed my choice down to 3. Out went the spacious room at the top of a hill occupied by a Japanese guy called Yoshi (honestly! The whole time I was talking to him he slowly morphed into a little green dinosaur), who had what seemed to me to be an unhealthy obsession with ensuring all plates are rinsed after washing up. Something he told me that people from the U.K. and New Zealand don't do which is the oddest racial stereotype I can ever recall having fallen into. Out also went the Japanese girl who opened the door with a cigarette in her hand who seemed totally non-plussed that her pit-bull terrier was fiercely determined to chew off my genitals during the tour of bedrooms to rent with mattresses on what used to be the floor, but actually resembled a landfill site.
The 3 I had to choose between were:

• 3 rooms, 2 bathrooms, 1 current occupant - English fella, 1 occupant yet to come
• 3 rooms, 1 bathroom (that I saw), Kiwi couple owning, potentially renting other room to another couple
• 2 rooms, 2 bathrooms, 1 current occupant - English girl - whose bedroom was mezzanine and opened up into the lounge/kitchen meaning living in my room while she was asleep/in bed.

After consulting friends for advice, I was told to avoid living with couples, or someone I might shag. So the first one it was. I move in on Monday.

Now finding work has been slightly harder. The ski season really kicks off later in June, and the Queenstown population is expected to expand in the next few weeks, so most places won't be hiring for a week or so yet. I have had limited success; in following up a few leads my 2 seasons at Olympic Park in Calgary as a ski instructor have helped me get a foot in the door with people familiar to the park, but as expected everywhere seems to have a stack of about 20 million CV's to trawl through. Ideally, as with most people here, I am looking for something that is not Monday to Friday 9-5, as I am here to ski and ride. So working at a bar would be ideal for morning riding and evening working. And as you should all know, I have a LOT of bar experience, albeit the wrong side in this situation. But I am at that age where I know that in this town right now there is a ton of more suitable people for the job, who are younger, have blond hair, big blue eyes, and massive tits.

Which leaves me with fewer options. Ski rental shops would also be ideal, as the hours can be irregular and it is in the industry in which I have experience, but they are few and far between.
So essentially I have applied for anything and everything. My diligence has got me an interview on Tuesday - kind of. Quiksilver are opening a branch in Queenstown soon and I have scored a group interview (as they have had a ton of applicants, they are interviewing all in group sessions), which includes "Meet & Greet, Q & A, Group Games". This instantly strikes fear into my heart, as it screams "role playing" at 16 million decibels through a megaphone the size of the Hubble space telescope at me. And I hate role playing almost as much as I hate that smug-twat-with-a-major-God-complex Bono. It is an informal interview, so we are meant to go along in clothes that we would wear should we get the job. I have t-shirts with me depicting the brand of many Quiksilver rivals, but none of Quiksilver. So I may have to go topless. Here's hoping my massive tits get me a job there.
Wish me luck.

Auckland - Christchurch - Queenstown

Without going into any boring details, the flight to Christchurch was painless. In fact unbelievably so. After travelling through UK and US airports, where even being 1kg over the weight limit generally adds a billion pounds to your airfare and a thorough fingering up the jacksy, it is a positive relief to fly internally in NZ where it seems the only thing you need to do to identify yourself is look in a mirror and say "Yup, that's me". I think I went through more rigorous identification checks going into bars in Auckland.
I checked into the hostel at Christchurch, which is just opposite the Cathedral. I took no photos, but it is quite an impressive building. In fact, to avoid any disappointment in some, and to evoke elation in others, I took no pictures whatsoever in Christchurch. Although to an extent, I wish I had a picture of the beggar outside the Cathedral, as he played tunes on the recorder. Which I thought no-one played after the age of 7.
Having heard about the penthouse in the hostel I was staying, I decided to fork out the extra buck per night and stay there. 3 rooms, with a total of maybe 20 beds spread between, but with the bonus of a kitchen, bathroom, sky t.v. and Playstation 2. There were 3 Israeli guys already in there, one of whom had hair like Sideshow Bob. And two big fat black eyes from a fight in Australia.
The room wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It was just under the roof, which I can only assume was made of balsa wood, and had a corrugated plastic skylight. Given that I arrived in the midst of what seemed to be a 3 day hail storm, sleeping would have been easier if I was buried up to the neck and consistently stoned for 72 hours.
I moved out after three days, into a 4 bed dorm room which had one current occupant. Another Israeli guy, this one called Serge. A memorable character, he sounded a little bit like Borat. The room itself was a mess. Cigarette butts on the carpet, rubbish strewn all over the place, and an odd smell. Serge offered me "chocolate sandwich". I politely declined, in case that was a jew-phamism for something undesirable. It wasn't, it was actually a nutella sandwich. As he was making the sandwich, he started singing.
Now, for those of you that don't know, I have a recurring fantasy about Celine Dion and Alanis Morisette duetting while lying naked, face upwards on a bed of molten cheese while I am repeatedly stabbing them in the abdomen with a pitchfork. This "singing" of Serge's was not unlike how I would imagine that duet would sound. The only other times I have heard this is when it is on the news, sung by guys waving AK-47's in the air. I promptly made my excuses and left.
Most of my time in Christchurch was spent hanging around the hostel watching season 6 of The Shield on my laptop, or hanging out with a friend from Canada who lives there. Or trying to subtly cough very loudly and for a very long time while watching season 6 of The Shield on the top bunk while Serge begins making the bottom bunk rock oblivious to the fact that I am up there.
There really seemed to be very little else to do there. On the way back from a bar one afternoon we drove the mountain route, which took us around the top of the Gondola. The views from up there were amazing, I never thought Christchurch could offer such views. But that was it.
So on Sunday 24th I packed my bags, walked to the bus stop and embarked on the 8 hour coach ride down to Queenstown.