Do we really need to export our drinking habits?

A few years ago walking through the streets of San Sebastian, Spain, I stopped at a poster advertising Aussie pub crawls through the old quarter. The ancient, meandering neighbourhood of San Sebastian, the home of some of Spain's best cuisine, is a labyrinth of small bars which lay out their counters in the late afternoon with an array of tapas ranging from the delicious to the extraordinary. The poster advertised the pub crawl with a drawing of the famous statue of Saint Sebastian, the patron saint, holding a tinnie in each hand. At once, I felt embarrassed as a Spaniard and as an Aussie. In South European countries where drinking alcohol is encouraged but being drunk is frown upon companies offering Aussie styles pub crawls have proliferated in the last ten years.

That's not to say Spain hasn't got its own style of pub crawl, it's called "Tapeo" and it denotes going out to eat tapas while drinking. The main difference being that the culture of drinking in some European countries involves eating and a lot of conversation, consequently these countries do not have the need for alcohol sales restrictions that we have here. Beer is sold in most European MacDonalds. An Australian friend was amazed on a recent trip to Italy when she saw 99% proof alcohol for sale in supermarkets. She asked her Italian companion how this was so. “Because we’re adults,” he replied.

The sad story of a young men found dead in Rome this week during a pub crawl in a group of up to eighty people should make us ponder the image we are exporting of this wonderful but complicated and, at times, self destructive country when tourism agencies are desperate to lure more tourists here. Large groups of Aussies through some of the most beautiful streets in Europe with little aim apart from getting as blotto as quickly as possible. Photos of your trip are supposed to be keepsakes of yesteryear. Not a way to find out what you did last night.

Last year I took my two sons, seventeen and fifteen, to Madrid and they remarked often while there on the amount of people drinking at sidewalk cafes at two or three in the morning, drinking out of glass as an indication of the relaxed atmosphere. Accustomed already to sneaking s couple of alcopops to friends parties they were pleasantly surprised to find that at sixteen they could sit and have a drink in a bar with their father with no intention of abusing the adult privilege.

While we search for answers for our local alcohol induced violence problems a look at our drinking history is order. Australians from day one have learned to drink quickly before the alcohol ran out. In colonial times, the supply ships would bring rum from afar every six months and the colony would more or less stop to nurse the hangover and that was it for a drink for another six months. On to the six-o'clock swill, incomprehensible to younger people today, where pubs closed at six so for one hour after work it was drink as much as one could put away. Add to this our larrikin culture, disrespect for authority, up yours mentality, anti wowserism and we remove ourselves even further from dignified consumption.

The concept of a leisurely (civilized) bottle of wine over a long lunch has only been a recent acquisition here. It is worth observing that our idea of how much fun we have is measured by how little we can remember and is at odds with that of some European countries that once drunk you have stopped enjoying yourself.

Pub crawl companies have found a market in applying drinking habits here to an availability of alcohol that was developed in countries with more relaxed attitudes to drinking. That’s not to say that Europe hasn’t got it’s share of alcohol related problems but the custom of groups of eighty and up to one hundred and twenty backpackers walking through medieval streets with the sole aim of imbibing as much as possible is not a local one.

At a time when we are trying to find solutions to alcohol infused violence in our streets it is worth pondering whether we would be better off importing other cultures drinking habits than exporting our own. It seems a shame to spend all that money traveling abroad or coming to our sunny shores only to find that you blanked out half of the trip. If our drinking culture refuses to grow up I suggest the new tourism slogan should be “Australia. Get That Into Ya.”.

Pasta and Pasodoble is changing the look of Australian television. It is the reality and talent shows that are introducing a multicultural look to our screens. As over three and a half million viewers sat down to watch the final of Masterchef between Adelaide artist Poh Ling Yeow and mum Julie Goodwin we were presented with a picture of an Asian family on screen more elaborate than most Australian dramas have been able to produce in years, and a mother so devoted to her family that cooking for other people was inconceivable.

As even Matt Preston was quoted as saying “It is much easier to connect with people that think like you, cook like you, then people who come from a strange TV universe where everyone looks like Chesty Bond or Pamela Anderson”. He is also quoted as saying that the casting agent for the program had told the judges that she had never cast three uglier people for a TV show. Considering the ratings juggernaut that the show has proven to be it seems a triumph of character over looks. If Preston, Mehigan and Colombaris can be described as “ugly” one shudders at the criteria for the average casting session in this country.

Here is where producers need to sit up and take note, at a time when the television industry is under siege from new technologies, the public identifies with people that behave and look like them. Is it any wonder that a whole generation of teenagers prefer to watch themselves on Youtube than what the commercial networks are offering?

After twenty-five years in acting I’ve come to the conclusion that when it comes to casting the majority of the Australian film and television industry can’t tell the difference between a Greek and an Italian. Our soap operas are often used as an example of our Anglo and homogenised film and television industry, the sad truth is that shows such as Neighbours and Home and Away are, more often than not, the scape goat for what is an endemic issue in our viewing culture, that fact that our television content falls short of representing the diversity of our population.

This makes it harder for a country still trying to define its national identity.
We are all encouraged to be “Australian” but the portrayal of our nation doesn’t reflect us all. An issue not purely confined to race but also gender, age, and sexual orientation. Like parents who tell their children that they are all loved equally yet the family album is full of photos of the first born. Adding to this politicians' use of the phrase “unaustralian” to describe anybody in disagreement with them and you have an even murkier picture of who we are. It still baffles me that few of the faces hosting travel shows look like they can speak another language yet we send them all over the globe.

We might think that turning our shows into a bag of liquorice all sorts of nationalities might be going too far and the idea would bring screams of “The politically correct have gone crazy!” but when we look at shows cast purely on talent, ability and charisma such as Idol, Masterchef and So You Think You Can Dance a full fan of backgrounds appears on our screens without too much fuss.

Casting decisions in Australia drama remain corporate choices, instead of artistic, and corporate decisions are, by their very nature, safe. It is when the net has to be cast wider to non-professional performers/contestants that real diversity occurs, not from a talent pool narrowed down by rejection of the odd, the ugly and the ethnic.
Reality television, albeit unwittingly, is placing diversity on centre stage and we, as the audience, are lapping it up without realising, the days of sidelining ethnic characters to peripheral, supporting roles are over.
Masterchef served up very little beefcake, instead we will remember characters like Poh, Geni, Tom, Andre and Colombaris not so much for their ethnic backgrounds but for their personalities, passions, struggles, tears, journeys and courage.
If anything Masterchef has proven that Australia would rather watch a rice and seafood paella than a table full of party pies. Executive producers start cooking your time starts now.

Wogspeak

Wogspeak

One rainy day in 1972 a bus pulled up outside the Enterprise Hostel and we were here. I was ten years old. The Palomareses moved here en masse, four brothers and their families and until the age of ten I lived in a completely Spanish world, even Nat King Cole sang in Spanish.

On arriving here we lived at a hostel in Melbourne's outer suburbs, and we went to the local school which was still struggling with the influx of new migrants. A group of four Spanish boys sitting at the back of the class, and twice a week, we would go to one hour of special English. The rest of the week we would spend talking to each other at the back of the class in a language vacuum, getting told off by the teacher at regular intervals. The fact was, that there was nothing else to do, because nothing made sense.

We moved to Carlton in inner Melbourne, and it was like a migrant paradise. In Carlton in the '70s we weren't even ethnic, we were the dominant culture, everybody was from somewhere else, or if they weren't they didn't speak louder and slower to be understood.

I think I spent about two hours in a regular class in Lee Street Primary School before being put in a permanent special English class. Miss Cianci was gorgeous and one of us. That is, she understood personally English as a second language. A Turkish boy, Abraham, sticks in my mind; he was ten, short cropped hair, and wore a suit. I clearly remember teaching him to count to 20 and three swear words I already knew. It was here that the accent would have developed in an environment where we learned English from other migrants.

If I was to put a time line on this I'd say that it took the best part of two years to finally think in English. I had learned my times table in Spanish and I was in my late 20s, and still doing multiplication in Spanish. Some things are learned in one language, and never shift. Here is one to test the bilinguals listening: at the count of three, recite your mobile number in your original language. Ready? One, two, three. Hard, isn't it?

Now these days as I talk to my cousins, and believe me there are enough for a substantial study, I notice a variety of accents that range from a broad Aussie accent to thick ethnic accents, depending on the age at arrival, and various experiences. But no-one in my family has the classic Spanish accent of, say, Antonio Banderas, or Julio Iglesias or heaven forbid, Manuel, from Fawlty Towers. The cousins that arrived here young, say before the age of two, tend to obviously have the broadest Aussie accent. The ones with the thickest accents tend to be the ones who arrived at an older age, say 14 and up, and have Spanish or Italian partners. A couple who have married Aussie blokes and moved further up north have lost their accents altogether.

By and large, what we have is a Melbourne migrant accent that in some studies has already been branded as Wogspeak. Growing up in the inner city in Melbourne, our neighbours consisted mainly of Greeks, Italians, some Turks and later, Lebanese. And rather than each having their own accent, it was an accent that blended all into one new Australian accent.

It is an accent developed by kids whose English is not corrected at home, simply because English is not spoken at home, so a new set of organic rules have developed in the structure of speech.

The 'er' sound at the end of words became an open 'ah' sound, and the upward end inflection became the way to end all sentences. As in whateva!

The 't' sounds, softened to a 'd', you say 'tomato', I say 'damadas'!

Sometimes it leads to the creation of new words like 'la marketta' for 'market' or 'il moppo' for the mop. These words become such common usage here that we assume they were part of our original language all along, and when used back in Spain or Italy or Greece, relatives would look at you not like if you are from another country, but another planet.

Learners of a second language begin by perceiving the sounds of the second language according to the sounds of their native language. Most second-generation migrants in Australia would have been surrounded by their parents' language until, say, creche. And these sounds are beginning to set around puberty, and make them almost impossible for an adult to lose the original accent when learning another language. That is, it's not what you pronounce when you learn a new language, but the sounds one is able to differentiate. I still find it hard to see the difference between 's' and 'z'. I had to break down the word sound by sound, before being able to pronounce 'sausages'.

What's your accent, and who were your friends during your adolescent years? What we have in ethnic Australians, then, is an accent set by learning two languages at the same time and an almost random choice of what sounds we keep and which ones we do without.

If I'm catching up with Greek friends, it's not long before we fall into a vocal shorthand, or nowadays, a vocal sms, of phrases, gestures and arm gesticulations. I remember at high school, Harry Sharples was so animated we would hold down his arms as a joke until he would scream, 'Let go mate, I can't talk like this'. Every now and then I still go to Lygon Street to catch up with a schoolfriend of mine, and after a couple of minutes we always fall back into wogspeak, a collection of 'you knows', 'dis and dats', where elaborate words fall away to a subliminal understanding of our own language. The strange thing is that this particular friend of mine, Brett, is not from a European background but has grown up with the accent and falls naturally into it. It wasn't until I went to university and found myself in the minority that I found the way that I spoke was different.

And it's not just an ethnic accent but also a class accent where us second generation migrants regardless of education and success, tend to stay close to their original neighbourhoods. The closeness of these groups goes a long way to solidifying wogspeak as an established accent.

It is also an accent that has mellowed the Aussie accent. If a film about diggers was being cast today it would be hard to find young Aussie men with that accent of 60 years ago. In Melbourne it would seem that the mix has had more of an effect than in Sydney, where groups tend to stay closer to their neighbourhoods, characterised by the great divide of Sydney Harbour. Comedian Vince Sorrenti once said that growing up in Punchbowl he didn't see the Harbour Bridge until he was 18. Melburnians, though we still have pockets of one predominant nationality, tend to move around their city from one to the other with a lot more ease. Consequently I still hear the more Aussie twang in Sydney than I do in Melbourne. Sydney also has developed a wogspeak through its large Lebanese community, as shown in the TV show, Fat Pizza. Melbourne's wogspeak has been largely by the Greeks and Italians.

Also the Aussie accent has been toned down by mixed marriages. Where there is an ethnic accent and an Aussie accent in a household, the final voice would be a softening of the two.

I'm always surprised meeting second generation Spaniards, as usually it is not revealed until later in conversation, unlike meeting young Greeks, Italians or Lebanese. Spaniards tend to form smaller communities, which intermingle and marry into the main culture so that by the second generation they tend to be quite assimilated. Children's TV host, Monica Trapaga and her brother Ignatius Jones to 'out' just two.

Nowadays, though, I've kept my Spanish enough to work overseas. I always find it curious who reverts to their original language and who doesn't. My sister and I spent the first part of our lives completely in Spanish yet now, rarely if ever—actually we never speak in Spanish. Even when talking to my parents, we fall into that pattern that always looks so weird in films, of carrying a conversation in two different languages, my parents speaking in Spanish and we, my sister and I, answering back in English. With my own kids I truly find it hard to speak to them in Spanish at all, to the constant reminder from relatives that the kids should be learning Spanish. The only time that it comes out naturally is when I'm trampling around a messy house swearing, something which is now getting a bit embarrassing as they are at that stage of looking up the swearwords in the dictionary.

The truth of the matter is that when you are the only one in your house that speaks another language, you simply feel like you are talking to yourself, especially if you are comfortable enough in the new language.

Studies on wogspeak—yes it's been studied, dissected and classified—have found that instances tend to be more pronounced in second-generation Greek, Italian and Lebanese women, suggesting that culturally, these tend to be the groups that are restricted from mixing in groups other than their own. This was made popular by Acropolis Now and in particular, Effie, which in a way was the ethnic equivalent of Kath and Kim today, where the mainstream can relate to a sub-culture while standing apart from it. We all know that there is a bit of Kath and Kim in all of us, and sometimes we are just one g-string showing away from being them, just like ethnic audiences would admit to knowing someone like Effie. Yet most of were only a Kaluah and milk, and a slip of the hairspray-can away from being 'A rool embarrassments'.

Which brings me to the final example of wogspeak: the multiplying plurals. Comedian Gabriel Rossi talks about how he thought the shopping centres and clubs were naturally given plural names. 'Hey, are youse goings to Northlands, or Chadstones or Westfields; let's got for coffees and then go to the discos and then tomorrow we are going to the footies to see Collingwoods, and if it rains we can go to the movie'.

A few years ago I answered a phone call at a telethon. It was a very well-spoken chap who was wondering if I remembered him. His name was Abraham. Yes, the young Turkish boy who was a manager for a large whitegoods company. And he said, 'You taught me to count to 20, you bastard'. That was one of the swearwords I taught him. You know, he remembered the other two as well.

The ghosts of childhood past
First Person SINGULAR

Simon Palomares
THE last time I travelled through Springvale it wasn't as Asian as this. It was more ... Australian. Actually it was downright British. My memory turns the steering wheel and the car finds its way to the Enterprise Hostel. The car winds its way through a forest of new trees. I'm alone in the car but there is a little boy giving me directions. I'll never forget how to get there.

Gliding up to the driveway, the buildings jump out of my subconscious and place themselves one by one in front of me. Not a plate of glass is left intact and the sun glistens on the shards. Weeds pry the tiles apart and the old recreation hall, where Arturo, the boy from Puerto Rico, taught me to draw ships, has been burned out. The reception area is reminiscent of a Middle Eastern airport after a bomb blast.

One foot steps out of the car, the door stays open and the engine is running as my eyes drag me out. The perspective of the buildings is wrong, everything is too low. I crouch down to the height I was that day and the rush of memories knocks me to the ground.

The airbrakes squeal, the bus comes to a halt. We step down on to the wide reception area, out of the rain. My sister and I, new gabardines, holding hands. My mother and father are standing nearby, unable to take in all the new sights fast enough. It is 24 May 1972. In two days I'll be 10 years old and this is Australia. The four of us, two suitcases and a trunk, our whole world. Our whole world.

My sister's eyes look out from under her hood, the resemblance to my five-year-old son who is now the same age as she was then, is astounding. My father is the same age I am now. My mother looks around, "What next?" A cleaning lady walks past, looks at my sister and says "Hola! Hablas espanol?" My parents' faces light up and for a brief moment the fear - yes fear, that's what it was - leaves them.

The doors are locked, and through the broken glass and the weeds and the tall grass lies the basketball court and the walkway that leads to our room, Red B 13.

The cafeteria is a cavern of lino and debris. The smells of newly discovered dishes are gone but I'm still there holding up my tray, mutely pointing at different meals, signing to the lady behind the counter. Tea and water, as much as you could drink. I know Corn Flakes are poured in a bowl with milk because on the plane the air hostess showed me how to eat them when she saw me taking them out of the little box like potato chips.

At the far end of the hall the word "wogs" has been graffitied on the wall, and I smile at the irony of the word in my own life. I imagine the young kid spraying it on the bricks, and the faces of ghosts looking up from their trays watching the word form. W. Perplexity. O. Spoons float in mid air. G. Heads tilt. S. I think: "We left a long time ago; found lives, destinies. You, young man, are still here." The hiss of the spray can stops and the young man stands to admire his masterpiece, but the ghosts have gone back to their meals.

The word "cheese" is laying on the floor in the foyer. Cheese was number two and it used to sit up on the board under ham, number one; curried egg was number five. We used to line up here before school to pick up our school lunches. The system was simple in English. Five brown paper bags with two columns printed on them. One column for the number of sandwiches, one column for the corresponding number of the 10 choices of filling on the board.

The system was never translated and, more often than not, we collected empty lunch bags which the lunch lady quickly filled with spare sandwiches while she explained the system once again in English.

The word cheese is on the floor, written in stick-on letters on a perspex strip, but that's not the board I remember. On the wall now is a face sheet of card with the ten fillings written in Texta. It seems they had to replace it a few times.

The covered walkways lead to the different wings. Green, Red and Yellow. The colors have changed but the little boy is already halfway down what used to be the red block, and I arrive at the bottom of the stairs, down the second floor corridor to the room. Red B 13. Regardless of the new number on the door, it's this room, no question about it. One small bedroom to the left, one to the right, a toilet, a hand-basin.

The cupboards and the desk were fitted to the wall in the small living room and were made to last; they're still here but it was a bigger living room, I'm sure it was. The desk where my father put his typewriter, our first purchase in the new country. A typewriter?

The mattresses, one in the small bedroom, are not supporting each other against the wall in the living room. My mother and sister fell asleep on one of them that first afternoon while I went exploring and my father went searching. They awoke the next morning. How many people had spent their first night on those mattresses? How many had laid awake that first night wondering what they had done, what now? Staring up at a blank ceiling.

The view from the window remains the same, if a little tattered: gravelled driveways that haven't felt the weight of cars for some time and have gone flabby. The trees block the view now as they did then, offering little information about what lies beyond them. The hostel is empty, physically and spiritually. It was holding back for a pause in life. Existence had just ended or was about to begin. It supplied food, shelter and human contact filtered by a foreign language.

I'm back in the car, in the driveway where the bus pulled up that day. I don't know why the hostel has been left to ruin or if there are plans for its future. As the car pulls out to the West Road I thank it; I know I'll never see it again. The little boy is gone, no longer in the seat next to me, in his place is a perspex strip with the word "cheese" on it.

On Performing Comedy

Hi Thrill-seekers
A few weeks back I hosted a comedy talent night in Sydney and got me thinking about some of the mistakes people make when starting stand up. Some of the contestants were brilliant and charming, some were just awful.
I've done comedy workshops in the past and though some people might say you can't teach humour you can certainly teach the craft of comedy which like any art form has it's rules and standards.
Here are some of the mistakes I saw and thought I'd pass them on to you.

1. Notes in hand.
If you can't do a five minute routine without notes pack up and go home now. The average Comedy Festival show is fifty minutes, that's a collection of ten five minute routines without improvising or playing off the audience.

2. Keep reworking your material,
yes I know I have gags old enough to vote at the next election but they are like my babies and never fail, they are the ones that are hard to let go. The hardest routine to write is your second one because you carry the first like a security blanket that you know is always there.
Some comedians are obsessed with not doing material more then a few times in their city but remember that your material, like a musicians songs, can be played all over the world either live or recorded. Put your material to sleep on CD or DVD.

3. One of the comics on the night had had "a few drinks' before going on stage and, unnecessarily told the audience. Being under the influence of drugs or alcohol is illegal in most jobs, make it in this job too.
Now, you might then reel off names like Lenny Bruce, John Belushi (read Wired) Bill Hicks and other geniuses of comedy. I didn't reel off some of the ones I know personally who I consider geniuses and have seen on occasion stumble on to the stage to protect the guilty.
Bottom line is I prefer my geniuses alive and consistent. The audience pays to see you being brilliant not foggy.

4. Know your subject, specially when talking about news and nationalities.

5. Look out for this line "I love women, don't get me wrong.... but you chics!" Then go on to do derogatory jokes about women. Or "I'm not racist, I love you Muslims but..." and so on.

Lastly when new comics ask me about performing I usually tell them to look up public speaking websites as this is essentially what we do, storytellers with punchlines, though some of the greatest comics don't have punchlines and are simply great storytellers.

If you see yourself as a storyteller you will be closer to seeing your material as a gift to be shared with the audience rather than a collection of punchlines that need reassuring laughter at every pause.

6.
Develop you own style
Some of the people I've seen lately that could read the phone book and still keep me entertained are people like Tom Gleeson, Kal Wilson and Colin Cameron, maybe I'm not into rock and roll comedy but they are great storytellers and can charm the pants off any audience.
I also want to mention Tim Minchin and Eddie Perfect because a lot of new comics narrow themselves into straight stand-up with out exploring other forms such as music, character or physical comedy. And remember that if you develop a show that trancends language you can work anywhere.... anywhere.


I found the following tips at Toastmasters.com and can all be applied to a comedy set.

Cheers people, love to hear your feedback




10 Tips For Successful Public Speaking

Feeling some nervousness before giving a speech is natural and healthy. It shows you care about doing well. But, too much nervousness can be detrimental. Here's how you can control your nervousness and make effective, memorable presentations:

1. Know the room. Be familiar with the place in which you will speak. Arrive early, walk around the speaking area and practice using the microphone and any visual aids.

2. Know the audience. Greet some of the audience as they arrive. It's easier to speak to a group of friends than to a group of strangers.

3. Know your material. If you're not familiar with your material or are uncomfortable with it, your nervousness will increase. Practice your speech and revise it if necessary.

4. Relax. Ease tension by doing exercises.

5. Visualize yourself giving your speech. Imagine yourself speaking, your voice loud, clear, and assured. When you visualize yourself as successful, you will be successful.

6. Realize that people want you to succeed. Audiences want you to be interesting, stimulating, informative, and entertaining. They don't want you to fail.

7. Don't apologize. If you mention your nervousness or apologize for any problems you think you have with your speech, you may be calling the audience's attention to something they hadn't noticed. Keep silent.

8. Concentrate on the message -- not the medium. Focus your attention away from your own anxieties, and outwardly toward your message and your audience. Your nervousness will dissipate.

9. Turn nervousness into positive energy. Harness your nervous energy and transform it into vitality and enthusiasm.

10. Gain experience. Experience builds confidence, which is the key to effective speaking.

Ten Laughter Discharge Levels

Number 1: guffaw - unh-hunh-hunh
Number 2: titter - heh-heh-heh (a). snicker (b). snigger
Number 3: giggle - hee-hee-hee, ghee-ghee-ghee
Number 4: chuckle - hunh-hunh-hunh(1) cackle - yak-yak-yak
Number 5: laugh - (1) hah-hah-hah(2) yuck - yuk-yuk-yuk(3) crow - haw-haw-haw
Number 6: belly laugh - ho-ho-ho(1) with snort - on inhale
Number 7: bray - haw-haw-haw
Number 8: bellow - hoo-hoo-hoo
Number 9: scream - Eeeeeeeee!(loss of urethral sphincter control)
Number 10 shriek - Aiiiiiiiii!(loss of anal sphincter control)
Number 11: die laughing

Bali Bombing

In July I went to Bali with my thirteen-year-old son, we had the most wonderful time and it's a trip that we are both going to remember forever.

What has stayed with me is the beauty of the Balinese people we met. Today I keep thinking about a young girl selling tour packages at the entrance to the Matahari shopping centre in Kuta.

Her pleasant eagerness to sell us a tour. We ended up going with someone else we had already booked but now I wished we had gone with her offer. The bombs that went off in Bali yesterday exploded just meters from her stand, I hope she is all right. My son and I walked past the Raja restaurant countless of times while we were in Bali, we seemed to gravitate to the Matahari shops or walking to the KFC that my son would take me to once too often.



The other bomb went off in Jambaran, for those of you who have never been there, and I hope you go soon, Jambaran beach is lined with some fifty restaurants, it's multicoloured tables facing the glorious sunset. We rode pushbikes there from Kuta; I now find out is nearly thirty kilometres away, no wonder we were tired. My son took a bad wave that dumped him in the sand and scratched his back, after the glorious dinner of fish, prawns and squid we decided to get a ride back to town from the effervescent young waiter, first he found someone with a car too small to fit our bikes than he found us a convertible jeep and we zoomed back to Kuta with the young waiter accompanying us, that's him waving in the photo of the orange jeep.



The second bomb last night exploded in one of those restaurants, I couldn't think of a more idyllic setting for something so disgraceful to happen. To think that someone would place a bomb packed with shrapnel, nails and ball bearings while people are enjoying an evening like that. What saddens me the most is the people of Bali who depend so much on our money, our measly ten dollars which is what a seafood meal would cost on Jambaran beach. John Howard warned Australians not to travel to Bali, I hate that man. The fear that he instils in Australia is exactly what these heartless terrorists want us to feel. Australians will find another cheap holiday destination and the Balinese... well the Balinese will sink even further into their poverty. Candidasa, a dreamy resort town on the east coast of Bali, was a veritable ghost town when we were there, it's street of restaurants empty still recovering from the 2002 bombing.


I've lived in Madrid while the ETA terrorist group was active setting off bombs around us, sometimes blocks away from our apartment, but one thing the Spanish do is they never let the terror get to them. Life continues, if the bomb didn't get you life goes on, don't let them interrupt your life.
My heart goes out to the people who died but also to the people of Bali for it is them who in the end will continue in their life of poverty.

One Angry Spaniard

Have been off the blog for a couple of days and just as well.
The weekend brought two miserable gigs, the kind that make you feel like you are taking three steps back. The show and the audience were great. A nice, easy time was had by all. but it was the details of the venue that make me feel like I'm working in a place where the standards aren't really are priority as long the drinks are selling at the bar.
Here is a good tip for comedians everywhere, if the waiters or waitresses feel they can talk at the top of their voices during the show you can safely bet that the venue is not particularly concerned with quality control on stage.
Dave Letterman once said to Jay Leno about comedy venue owners, "These are the guys that used run the trampolines at the Mall". And he was right sometimes you do gigs, specially at pubs where tonight is stand-up comedy tomorrow is dwarf throwing and the next day mud wrestling and neither the crowd or the staging is going to change.
I play a CD during my act and I don't know how manytime you get to gig and the manager will look at you asking "Oh, so you actually need someone there turning on the CD during your act?" Yes, because the Cash Converters microphone and the two patio lights you have supplied are going to add such production values I thought I might Finish with highlights from Miss Saigon complete with helicopter.
In a foul mood lately, everybody is really annoying me, one of those periods when nothing is comming up to scratch. Not work, not the kids, not the girlfriend. Every time I hit one of these periods I look around and start blaming everything and everybody around me. If the kids were behaving better, if I was doing another job, if I was working with other people. Of course when it comes down it is me that I'm not happy with. I'm making good money at the moment, not great money but a nice living but falling into the conundrum of the safe job as opposed to trying out new ideas, new projects. Realizing that I'm still not particularly good at enthusing people to work on projects or maybe I just simply don't do enough and work hard enough. Maybe once you have fallen into a groove, as safe groove the comfort is too cosy to leave and start taking chances again. I'm reading Mark Burnett's book Jump In. He created the show Survivor after fighting in the Falklands war as a Red Beret, and I wonder how many motivational books you have to read before something rubs off. Before all those mantras that we have heard hundreds of times finally start taking effect and you move forward. I'm sure I'm not the only motivational literature junkie, every bookshop has a huge section of these books that promise everything from riches to infuence, charisma to karma. But it seems to me that little touch of osmosis where the idea becomes action, that is the spark that I can't seem to find on the bookshelves.
More of this tomorrow.