Australian Baristas

Why are so many hipster baristas determined to make you feel unwelcome in their cafes? I noticed it in Oz, and sure as hell notice it with Australian baristas in the UK. Yeah, your coffee standard is great, and your beard looks cool, but there’s no need for the pretension. You’re steaming milk, not curing AIDS, chief.

The Ashes

I care more about the pursuit of removing hairs from my toilet bowl than I do about cricket, and wish people would stop asking me what I think of the ashes just because I’m Australian. The only thing I know about cricket is that Shane Warne was punching well above his weight when he was shagging Liz Hurley, and that some dude drank 52 beers on a flight from Australia to London in the 80s and that’s fucking cool.

Showers are for showering.

Why do people take iPads or phones into the bathroom to play music while they shower? It causes them to take much longer than necessary, as they aren’t focusing on getting clean and getting out. You might wonder why this annoys me. Well, I don’t take much pleasure in waiting longer than needed to use the bathroom, or evenly splitting an electric heating bill with someone who spends far longer in the shower than I. My brother and sister used to do it at home. My roommate does it. It’s a sign of a pathetic attention span and it needs to be shamed.

I expect you to be normal although I am weird

Can you not repeatedly cough on the bus in close proximity to me, please?
Can you not speak to yourself in half-English with a Scottish accent, half-weird language and then turn and speak to me in the same vernacular, please?
Can you not come to the bar with four mates, visibly bedazzled by indecision, and proceed to order each of them a drink one by one as they are made, please?
Can you not ask for an orange-based, non-alcoholic cocktail to be made up to accommodate your detox, and then order a beer straight after, please?
Can you not pull out one of your pubic hairs and place it on the bar top that I will have to wipe down later, please?
Can you not ‘forget’ to top up the electricity before you go away for a week despite it being your turn, and despite me asking you twice, please?
Can you not grunt vigorously as you squat a relatively low amount of weight with poor form, please?
Can you not loudly and smugly offer fellow gym-goers fitness tips despite being fat, please?
Can you just, not. Please?

United Kingdom

“What the hell are you doing in the UK?”

“Why would you leave Australia for this?”

Because, when you wake up in your own sweat for nearly 25 years, have been sunburned more times than laid, and a couple English blokes you met last year told you that girls in the UK love Australian accents, you feel like trying it out. Plus I was no longer interested in pathetically attempting to claw my way into the closed-group Australian music industry, or working soul-crushing office ‘career’ jobs sat next to fat, miserable people.

I had no clue what was out here for me, but I think I’m slowly finding it. Or at least, finding the beginning of the path to follow. Despite being in a job I never expected to somewhat enjoy (but do), which pays less than half of my previous jobs back home, I am legitimately happier week to week. I’ve been casually dating a nice girl from Manchester or Chesterfield or somewhere. I am barely ever anxious anymore. Except about weird pains around my right kidney. But they’re mere passing thoughts in comparison to the anxious hell I drifted in and out of for the last three or four years back home. I have no explanation as to why.

I’m determined to keep my Australian accent. Except I’ve been here six weeks and have already started saying “hiya, y’allright?” upon every greeting.

I miss the beach and the dog, but not much else at this point.

Mindfulness feat. wine and scotch.

Mindfulness. It’s a word that privileged white women probably drop in your Facebook feed. I have been reading books about Buddhism and mindfulness, and one of my all time favourite bloggers/podcasters Mike Cernovich has touched on mindfulness a fair bit. I am aware that mindfulness, in the context of wholly being in the present moment and not worrying about shit, would be the answer to my prayers. It would stomp out my human anxieties and low consciousness concerns. But I have been too lazy to be mindful. Too lazy to do nothing, basically. But now I’m drunk, and it’s kind of working. I am just chilling out on the deck at my parents’ place, watching some David Attenborough documentary after 3 glasses of fine, Australian shiraz and a Johnny red. I am able to actively switch off the part of my brain that idealises things, and just be. It turns out alcohol consumption is directly proportionate to mindfulness. Directly proportionate to one’s ability to exist in the present moment. Feel their ass on the cushion. Their feet on the ground. Their back against whatever the fuck their back is up against. “The breath is our anchor in the present” is what some guy said. Who? Lodro Rinzler. Maybe. I’ve read a lot of weird books.

I am not Skrillex

I bought a MacBook Pro and started learning electronic music production around August last year. I’ve been in rock bands for years, but always wanted to go solo because I’m a prick who was always arguing with bandmates. Electronic music sounds cool, seemed easier to make than playing guitar in a studio, and was something I could do on my own. Except there’s still a learning curve. And of course, I sucked initially. I still suck. All I could think about was the fact that there were a lot of other producers out there (younger than me) who could make sicker beats than me, right now. And I held that mentality for what’s nearly been 10 months (too lazy to count). It delayed my progress and scared me out of trying to get better. Because all I could think was “man I suck, this is going to take forever to learn”. Except the other day when I was out driving somewhere, I thought “If I’d kept a consistent practice and learning schedule each day, I’d probably be starting to get somewhere with electronic production now”. So now I feel like shit for wasting all those months. Now I feel like shit for sitting around watching Sex & the City these past three or four weeks. I’ve had all the free time in the world, and all I’ve done is watch re-runs, gain weight and occasionally update this shit blog. Fear of failure can actually paralyse productivity. That’s not just some bullshit cheesy line. Stop reading this shit blog post, and go spend an hour doing something you know you should be doing but are putting off on account of a fear of not getting anywhere.