Galway Sunset

Originally uploaded by bursaar2

It’s not often on a press trip that the older ones - and I sincerely mean oldER and NOT old - are the ones that play up the most.

But during my three-day work trip to Grand Galway, the oldER members of our travelling party really put the young ones like myself to shame.

I knew as soon as I met Capetonian V at Luton airport though that she was no shrinking violet.

We had a five minute conversation. It consisted of approximately four minutes of laughing at stupid things and one minute of discussing how much we loved Cape Town.

Our three-day trip was to enjoy the annual Galway Arts Festival, now arguably Ireland’s leading arts festival.

And while there would be plenty of Guinness, Irishman and craic - often a dangerous combination - sadly it wasn’t myself that got up to the most mischief but the South African.

It all started when we went to the Galway Rowing Club on the first night after going to see a great performance by Tania Perez Salas.

The Galway Rowing Club, which was the official Festival Club, had a bit of a bingo game cum school disco feel about it, not just because of the setting but also because of the revellers.

When we first walked in everyone was sitting around the hall at different tables, as if they were gearing up for a game of keno.

There was one boy - perhaps he’d been in the performance - strutting some very John Travolta Saturday Night Fever moves.

“He’s got some fancy shapes,” V said.

It made me laugh. I’d never heard anyone speak of “dance shapes” before and I was sure it wasn’t a South African thing.

From then on everytime she spoke about someone “throwing some good shapes” for some reason I thought of those famous Australian biscuits, Barbeque Shapes.

He wasn’t the only one who had some hot “shapes”, however.

Across the dancefloor there was a girl who looked like she was about to break into the chicken dance.

There was also a DJ who couldn’t name a song after 1981.

“I wouldn’t hold your breath for The Killers or Arctic Monkeys,” I told Dana, another member of our party.

Yes the whole thing felt like a school disco. Or even worse: a blue light disco.

In fact if there wasn’t an Irish lilt ringing constantly in my ears from the other drinkers, and my man (I mean the barman) wasn’t pulling Guinness from the taps, you might have thought it was just an Irish-themed pub in another country and not the real thing.

But it was the real thing.

In fact it was, to quote a famous Irishman, ‘even better than the real thing’.

And I’ll tell you why.

Because the next day after Dana, myself and the rest of our party had had close to seven hours sleep, in came V, who’d only had two.

Her and Alex, who’d stayed at the Rowing Club even though they were oldER than us, had experienced the most amazing night of their life.

Okay, maybe not the most amazing night of their life, but certainly the most amazing night of their life in Galway.

This is how the events unfolded. They relayed it to us in a very quick, Melbourne-Cup commentary style, the rest of us looking at them with not just amazement but complete jealousy and also a small amount of disbelief.

After the rest of us, including the PR woman, had gotten into cabs yawning like grandmas, V walked out of the Rowing Club and up to some random Irish strangers.

“Help us!” she cried.

“We’ve got no money and we don’t know what to do! We’re in trouble!”

She had been instructed by Alex to do this “since she was the girl” (what sexism) and having come from South Africa where one can really be in trouble on a daily basis, she put on a most polished performance.

The pair of them had thought their little plan would all come to nothing.

But Galway is known for being quite unpredictable and the Galwegians are known for being very hospitable.

So here what’s happened next.

V and Alex, the only male member of the group, were taken in a taxi by their lovely hosts, quicker than Michael Flatley could do the Riverdance, to a private residence for a party. Their hosts paid the entire cab fare.

While on their way they were told by their new friends “Don’t worry, we won’t kill you”.

This couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Rather than being Ivan Milat and his second cousins, their new friends were great hosts who spoilt them with unlimited alcohol. V had a few G& Ts. There was also Guinness flowing.

Plus there was great music - plenty of Where The Streets Have No Name and With Or Without You.

They had such a good night and guess what: at the end of it their hosts, who still hadn’t killed them, paid for them to come back to our hotel, which wasn’t exactly in town, in a taxi.

Talk about the luck of the Irish. Or maybe I mean the South African and the Englishman.

“Were they from some sort of rental Irish entertainment service?” I enquired over brekkie after they’d told us.

“No,” V insisted.

“Just random strangers and very nice people.”

All of this leaves me wondering: what the hell is even the point of a press trip? Why not just go to different countries, hit up random people and then have a free night out on them, then write about that?

Unless of course they are making the whole thing up, which they could be as there wasn’t a lot of details about where these people lived, who they were, what they were called or what they looked like.

Except for one person: Tinker.

Okay, his real name is Irish and it’s pronounced something like Oshin, but over the course of the weekend he became known and will now forever be known amongst the group as Tinker.

He’s even in V’s phone as Irish Tinker.

We first learnt about Tinker when V volunteered - believe me you never have to drag information out of her - that she’d met a nice Irishman.

“Oooh, and I met one little Irish Tinker,” she cooed.

From that moment on we were all fascinated with Tinker.

During the course of the weekend we learnt very few facts about him.

He was about 25.

He was a marine engineer who was volunteering at the festival.

He lived by himself.

He was relatively good looking.

Everytime we started a conversation it led to Tinker.

And everytime V’s phone rang we would jump up and down excitedly and ask “Is it Tinker?”

But the highlight of our weekend came the next day when all five of us, including the PR, got to meet Tinker at one of the performances.

And I’m very happy to say that rather than stand around like a gaggle of giggling school girls we were very well behaved and did not embarrass her, but very politely and responsibly talked amongst ourselves.

There were a few winks as if to say ‘I approve’ between all of us and V, and poor Tinker looked mortified.

It would be an understatement to say that for the remaining day-and-a-half Tinker became our lives and we wondered and wondered about him.

Would any of us, even Alex, ever see him or hear from him again?

Would we find him on Facebook, even though we didn’t know his real name?

If we found him on Facebook would he accept our friendship?

Would V have to come back to Galway and find him or could she get one of her friends who is known for stalking men in a blue panel van (hardly inconspicuous) in CT to come over and do it?

And lastly, would V marry Tinker? After all, she had purchased a Claddagh ring, so she was prepared.

I even found myself saying saying “Gosh, it’s going to be boring without Tinker”.

Okay, I’ll admit that by the end of it and until we got on the plane, it had gotten out of control.

For the past 12 hours, until I sat down to write this and then checked my emails and had one from V saying “Miss me little Tinkertastic”, I had not thought about Tinker. Not even once.

But for 36 hours we tinkered with Tinker until we were all tinkered out - and it made us laugh. Too much.

Cork Festival, anyone?

Sex Shop in Amsterdam

Originally uploaded by Peter Daniel Olsen

The young Canadian girl volunteering at Amsterdam’s Christian Shelter hostel wanted to know why she’d been “so joyful” at exactly three o’clock the day before.

“Were you praying for me then?” she asked the American boy behind the desk.

“No,” he said in a very matter of factly voice.

I put my head down and tried not to laugh.

I wanted to ask her if it had been the weed, but didn’t have the guts.

Besides, I knew the answer.

At The Shelter - which is definitely up there with The Chelsea Hostel and Cusco’s Loki in terms of funny places I’ve stayed at - any form of smoking was banned.

So was drinking.

So was sex, as outlined in the rules.

In fact it seemed anything, perhaps even breathing, was prohibited.

Anything apart from praising the Lord, which was the main aim of The Shelter.

When Samara told me she was staying at The Shelter, I had four words for her: “I’m getting a hotel”.

After all, Christianity didn’t seem to have a place in Amsterdam.

But she promised me Alanna had stayed there and it “wasn’t churchy”.

“Besides, it’s one of the only hostels in the city that won’t be too druggy,” she added.

But when I first walked into The Shelter after taking two hours to find it, my first thought was ‘yeah not churchy my big foot’.

I was greeted by a huge sign that said Jesus Loves Me.

It has taken me ages to find The Shelter.

You’d think that after Jennifer and I got lost in Paris and took nearly two hours to find our hostel that I would have learnt to always write down not just the name of the hotel but address. (We also somehow left without paying the hotel the next day. I think something got lost in the translation, but that’s another story).

But since I’d had my big night out at the She Bu Walkie on the Sat, followed by a shift at The World’s Greatest, I hadn’t had a lot of time.

Besides, I figured I’d just ring Sam, who had flown in the day before from Spain, when I got there.

Of course though when I arrived at Amsterdam airport Sam’s phone wasn’t working and nobody knew of The Shelter.

So what began a very long process: go to internet cafe, look up The Shelter, get directions to Shelter or cab and eventually find the girls.

Guess what happened once I’d gotten the address for The Shelter, had been given directions and was on my way?

The paper blew away.

By then, about and hour and a half later, I was so tired and so impatient for The Shelter I just wanted to cry.

Miraculously - maybe it was divine intervention - my phone then rang with Samara giving me the directions.

“Wait til you see it,” she said.

For her and her sister Michelle, both Melbournians who were travelling together and had just been in Pamplona for the Running of The Bulls, The Shelter was a backpacking experience at the opposite end of the spectrum.

They had just spent three days on a bull tour with a tour group called Party Professionals and they relayed to me every cringe-worthy detail over breakfast.

As they told me about the 40-something tour guide who had brushed passed Michelle at breakfast on the first day and yelled out in front of everyone “Show me your tits” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

It was another one of those moments abroad when I instantly wanted to renounce my Australian citizenship.

But there was plenty more.

Party Professionals - I’d never heard of them - seemed to put Contikki to shame. And the tour guide appeared to put Rob ‘Happy Birthday Jesus, we’re getting a stripper’ from Morocco to shame.

There were countless tales of disgusting things the PP guide had told his clients.

“Put your gloves on and do some cleaning up.

“And don’t get them mixed up with the condoms you used last night,” was just one of them.

There were also stories of Australian girls - “absolutely feral” as Michelle described - performing lewd acts on buses.

I found it hard to finish breakfast.

“Who was the tour guide?” I enquired to Michelle.

“I don’t know, but he looked like Chopper,” she replied.

What a thought – Chopper doing Running of the Bulls tours. Wouldn’t put it past him.

“Who were these people on the tour?” I continued.

“People who wouldn’t last at The Shelter,” Sam said this time and we all laughed our heads off.

I understood now why The Shelter was such a different, crazy experience for them.

To be fair though, The Shelter wasn’t a bad place to stay in Amsterdam, just interesting.

They didn’t ram bible verses down your throat Jehovah Witness style, although they had a habit of asking, “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

You didn’t have to lock anything up or sleep with your passport on your bed – because one of the Ten Commandments states ‘thou shall not steal’.

It didn’t smell of dope. But there was a funny smell which we think might have been Holy Water.

Most of the guests, despite being a bit too wholesome, appeared to have all brain cells intact.

I only realized how important this was when another friend relayed her Amsterdam adventures to me.

She had stayed in a hostel and when the fire alarm went off and all the guests had to vacate the premises immediately, most of them were too stoned to get out, leaving them to nearly perish.

Perhaps it was good to be sheltered after all.

They weren’t entirely strict at The Shelter, either. One girl was in fact seen, shock horror, flirting with a boy on a bunk bed.

But then it wasn’t as if us Australian lasses were big-time rebels ourselves.

Okay, so we snuck two bottles of rose and some crackers and cheese onboard the canal cruise when you weren’t allowed to bring food on.

Oh, and we also brought some ’special chocolate’ from a corner shop.

“You won’t believe what it will do to you,” the seller promised us.

“Ooooh, the psychedelic powers of the chocolate,” Michelle joked after we’d had a few pieces and were on the way back to The Shelter that night to be damned to hell by God.

“Let’s have a race to see who can get to The New Testament first!”

I have to admit that I did go to sleep quite quickly that night - but only from the wine and my leftover tiredness from the She Bu Walkie and working double shifts the few days before.

The next day, on our daylong bike ride into the Dutch countryside we gave it another go.

We’d decided to go on the bike ride not only to get out of the city but because, as Samara pointed out after we’d all nearly been knocked over by cyclists “you’re probably safer”.

As I’d nearly been killed by not just cyclists but also by a tram and a car I couldn’t agree more.

But half a chocolate bar later - and after cycling our way off the map, resulting in a very sore bum - I amazingly hadn’t even fallen off my bike. (Although I should embarrassingly point out that I had broken the kickstand before I’d even gotten it out of the rental place).

“This is bullshit!” I cried, throwing the special chocolate into the bushes.

Ditto for the lollipops we’d bought.

“What did you think it would taste like, a Chupa Chup?” Sam laughed as it sailed past a very large, pretty windmill and into a field.

That afternoon when we took the bikes back we ran into another girl from Melbourne.

She had heard of The Shelter.

“What’s it like?” she asked curiously.

“Yeah, not as bad as it sounds,” Michelle said.

“But there’s no drinking.”

“Seems strange that you can’t have the cup of Jesus in the house of Jesus,” the girl pointed out and we laughed.

When we eventually returned to The Shelter I was sure we were goners.

After all, we’d spent an entire day being self-indulgent, cycling around the Dutch countryside having fun.

And we’d been greedy, selfish and wasteful - we’d eaten a bar of Special Chocolate and taken the Lord’s name in vain when it had proved to be non-effective.

And we’d thrown away foul tasting lollipops when there were people starving in Sudan.

Surely we were headed straight for hell. At the very least reconciliation.

But the volunteers at The Shelter were the same ever smiling, forgiving selves.

“We hope you had a good stay,” the girl told me as I checked out.

“Come again.

“And here’s a booklet on God.”

  

There’s a butterfly on my back!

It must be said, that for all the money spent, all the hoopla media coverage and all the uproar from butterfly protests worldwide (ummn, not), not one photo has emerged of the rare Two-Tailed Pasha at the McLoughlin/Rooney nuptials.

Presumably, and predictably, it was just too hard a challenge for the snappers.

As The Observer commented, “despite all the stage management, spare a thought for the wedding photographer charged with capturing Coleen’s butterflies being liberated from their boxes”.

That’s why Dixie, Jane and myself thought a trip to the Amazing Butterfly exhibition at The Natural History Museum on our day off was necessary - to show them how it’s done.

Besides this brilliant little shot of yours truly sporting a spotty top with a butterfly on her back - I don’t think it’s the Two-Tailed Pasha sadly - there’s also a very sexy shot of Dixie with a butterfly on her arm.

(See www.flickr.com/ozziebackpacker).

She’s now calling this her ‘get a husband’ shot and funny enough there’s already been one random comment on it!

At just a fiver, the Amazing Butterflies exhibition at The Natural History Museum is well worth a visit. (Nat also went on a day that it was raining and she only had to pay £3 - bargain).

See http://www.nhm.ac.uk

It’s location in South Kensington, close to Boujis nightclub, also makes it ideal for those who aren’t just content with seeing live insects but also like to prey upon Kate, William, Harry and co.

Sadly, Jane had to shoot off to The World’s Greatest so couldn’t take us to Boujis.

However she has promised to take us to Faces nightclub at Essex (see http://www.facesnightclub.co.uk/) - a breeding ground for all upcoming WAGS.

We are holding her to this, as soon as we all find suitable dishcloths to wear.

Oh, and I am slowly updating my other blog www.everycoughandspit.wordpress.com

(Look under It was their one last effort to have me killed on the job.)

There will hopefully be loads more entertaining stories on their soon.

Me, The Man Who Set His Head On Fire and a Mullet

There are not many people in this world who manage to set their head on fire.

There are not many people who manage to do it in bed.

And there are certainly not many people who do it and live to tell the tale.

But one man, pictured in the middle of this photo, has managed to do all of this.

Don’t ask us how - we’re still trying to extract all the details out of him.

It all started when Dixie ran into this seasoned hack one night of the pub while on her break from the World’s Greatest.

After a few too many ales, one can only presume, he muttered the words “setting head on fire”.

She was shocked, but it was only sometime later, another Friday night, that she revealed the truth.

It all began when my phone rang.

It was the man in question, just letting me know that he was at the pub with one Kiwi hack and maybe another, if we were around for a beverage on our break.

After passing the message on, Dixie finally blurted out those eight little words.

“He set his head on fire, you know.”

There were gasps and laughs from all around.

We were all shocked, particularly moi, as I had bumped into the man several times before, including at another friend’s birthday drinks where he was nearly knocked out by this mullet in the process of getting this photo, and had never heard anything about this.

Moreover, I’d never heard anything about anyone the world over setting their head on fire.

Of course Dixie Chic’s revelation was followed by a million questions from us curious hacks, the most obvious one being: how did the fire start?

“I don’t know,” she informed us.

“All I know is that he said he’d set his head on fire.”

“Bizarre,” one of the news editors said, shaking his head.

From that moment on, this man has been known as The Man Who Set His Head on Fire, and just how he set his head on fire has been a water cooler moment.

“Who’s down at the pub?” I said to Jane one other Friday night, many months later.

“The chum who set his head on fire,” she replied.

While he does admit to actually setting his head on fire with a mixture of pride and embarrassment, The Man Who Set His Head On Fire is keeping mum on other details.

But it no longer matters how the blaze started.

The fact is: he did it.

In the process of our research several other suspicious tales have emerged.

According to one source, The Man Who Set His Head On Fire - perhaps that’s why he’s now bald? - was once allegedly seen waking up in a bin.

Another story had him with egg all over his tie.

So what did this sharp journalist, who has worked for several tabloids and covered major stories abroad, do?

He reportedly turned it over to the other side - and then went straight to work.

Oh, the fascinating psychology and logic behind The Man Who Set His Head on Fire.

Last Friday night, while we were on the way to The Jazz Bar at Dalston, we saw yet another example of this.

Five of us, including Dixie, had just piled into what one can only presume was an illegal mini cab - you’ll see why I say this in a minute - when we were told by the driver: “I can’t take all of you”.

(I should point out here that The Jazz Bar was only our second choice for a venue. Dixie had earlier taken us to “a good illegal drinking den I know in the east end”, but it had been shut).

The most obvious thing would have been for us to split into two groups.

But no, The Man Who Set His Head On Fire had a better idea.

“I’ll get in the boot,” he said excitedly.

And he did just that, to all of our amazement.

For the entire ten minute journey we could hear his head banging around.

After five minutes passed without hearing a peep from him, I began to worry that he might have have spontaneously humanly combusted.

But we soon pulled up to The Jazz Bar and after we had all piled out of the car the driver opened the boot and out jumped The Man Who Set His Head On Fire, in perfect form.

We were all absolutely astounded, and still are to this day.

In fact we are all so in awe of his ability to constantly exceed himself that the whole setting of head on fire seems to be all but forgotten.

Although I cannot help of smiling now whenever I hear these words from Oasis:

So I start a revolution from my bed
Cos you said the brains I had went to my head

Of course only now I wonder if they should be changed???

 

I loved reading What Kate Does, a day-in-the-life of Kate Middleton in The London Paper last week - even if it was 500 words too long. Let’s face it, you could sum that topic up with one word.

But this timely little gem of journalism did provide some great insight into the day-to-day life of England’s future queen. (Unfortunately I can’t find the link to it anywhere).

Who ever knew that Kate pays just £28 for a blowdry by Richard Ward on the Duke of York Square? Bargain!

(If you’re interested, see http://www.richardward.co.uk).

But the conclusion was by far the best.

To quote from reporter Julia Buckley: “So what was it all like? I spent more money in a weekday than I would on a weekend out.

“And, as nice as it was being pampered, I was hounded by the urge to do something productive. I’ve never been so happy to hit a rush-hour Tube to the office the next day?”

Blimey, who would have ever thought???

  

This brightly coloured beautiful European butterfly species is, reportedly, rare.

In fact so scarce it is that it gets only one line on Wikipedia. (And in an age where sadly a Wikipedia mention can be equated with fame, that’s extremely rare).

According to the Wikipedia Gazette, the Two-tailed Pasha, also known as the Charaxes Jasius, can only be seen in the Mediterranean regions in August and September.

Another website, designed by a butterfly photographer, stated that this species could also be found in North Africa’s Middle Atlas mountains “but only in single specimens”.

It concluded “I’ve no idea where their colonies could be!”

So one could say that the Two-tailed Pasha enjoys a blissful – albeit small – existence, feeding off the trees in these stunning settings.

But this weekend, unbeknown to this poor creature, its perfect life will end abruptly.

Enter Coleen McLoughlin who, despite concerns from conservationists all over Europe (ummn, apparently not), has been allowed to put her immaculately groomed acrylic WAG fingernails all over this rare butterfly species.

If media reports are accurate, the 64 guests at Coleen McLoughlin and Wayne Rooney’s £5 million nuptials in Portofino, Italy, will each receive a handmade box containing a live Charaxes Jasiu.

If they survive suffocation or don’t suicide – and let’s face it when you’re surrounded by so many chavs, so much fake tan and Wayne Rooney who wouldn’t entertain the thought – guests will then release them simultaneously.

Hopefully they’ll then fly off to greener pastures. (My advice would be Australia).

There is, of course, some poignant symbolism behind this gesture, which the bride has thought up.

Releasing the butterflies supposedly represent the couple’s “freedom to be their own people within marriage”.

Yeah, whatever. You need a rare butterfly species to do this?

The point is this is a woman who’s already had two overseas hens nights and multiple New York jaunts for dress fittings.

If anything, Coleen should be giving each guest a tree and a shovel, so they can help offset some of her carbon emissions.

There’s also the other big question one has to ask: if Roo and Coleen love each so much the way they claim to in the press, why do they need the Two-tailed Pasha or any of this?

Wouldn’t a more low-key wedding be suffice?

For instance a barbie in the backyard with the ants?

For more coverage on the WAG nuptials of the decade see:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1025879/Burton–Taylor-aint–expense-spared-run-Coleen-McLoughlin-Wayne-Rooneys-wedding.html

http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/showbiz/bizarre/article1280798.ece

http://lifeandhealth.guardian.co.uk/celebrity/story/0,,2284509,00.html

   

But last week Italian label Salvatore Ferragamo received some unwanted advertising when this woman pictured opposite strolled into its central Rome store.

To the unsuspecting staff, she could have been any ordinary woman looking for a pair of designer Ferragamo heels, which cost hundreds of pounds and in London are sold in the brand’s Bond and Sloane Street stores. (In fact I passed its Sloane Street shop just this weekend when I went to Harvey Nicols).

But that she is not.

This woman - called ‘The First Shopper’ and dubbed Africa’s answer to Imelda Marcos - is Grace Mugabe, wife of Zimbabwean dictator Robert Mugabe.

I have been interested in events in Zimbabwe since visiting my South African family who are farmers in February 2000. They had previously had a farm in Bulawayo but had been kicked off it.

In February 2000 Mugabe attempted to pass a referendum allowing white-owned farms to be seized by blacks without compensation.

This failed and a number of white farmers were then murdered. The violence also trickled down to South Africa, particularly to Kwazulu Natal, where I was staying.

I’m now reading a very good book on Robert Mugabe titled Mugabe - Power, Plunder, and the Struggle for Zimbabwe by Martin Meredith.

It also contains some detail about his wife.

Since she married her husband, Mrs Mugabe has earned a reputation for being a big spender.

In fact during one afternoon of shopping, ‘Gucci Grace’, as she’s also known, spent £40,000.

Of course having one’s husband’s Playboy Bunny jet at one’s disposal makes it very easy to pop over to the Blighty from Harare.

Last week she was still doing what she does best, while millions of Africans were starving, and despite an EU travel ban in place.

Meanwhile her husband, who has destroyed what was once the bread basket of Africa, was busy performing his usual loony rant about Britain and the Commonwealth at a UN food summit.

This is more than ‘obscene’, which is how Australia described it.

It is sickening.

But it is also very surreal that the president of a country where inflation is now so bad (up around 1000 per cent and growing) that they’ve just had to roll out a new $250,000 million bank note, can attend a UN event. (Thank God nobody shook his hand this time - Charlie wasn’t there).

It makes a mockery of the UN and the EU.

Contrast the treatment of Mugabe by the west with other dictators around the globe.

Saddam Hussein, also responsible for the deaths of millions, is just one example.

Hunted down until he was eventually captured in December 2003, he was convicted in November 2006 and just over a month later was executed.

Funny how for some dictators justice is so selective and swift, but for others it’s not the case.

Mugabe - who also reportedly owns a Scottish castle - is responsible for the murders of millions of his people.

Yet we see him on the TV at a UN conference giving a press conference.

Here in Britain, which played a part in Mugabe coming to rule Zimbabwe, there is of course more media coverage on the issue than in Australia.

It has become a massive issue, one, unfortunately, which we’re tired of seeing splashed across a newspaper.

But still people over here are genuinely concerned about what is happening in Zimbabwe.

“What a joke. That is ridiculous,” one of my work colleagues commented when this story appeared on the BBC again last week.

But it’s not just Britain.

Others all across the world are outraged at the human rights abuses taking place in Zimbabwe.

“What a disgrace that all our countries sit aside while he runs amok,” an American friend said in an email only yesterday.

“I can’t believe my country has spent enough $ to give everyone in the world clean water on the Iraq war, but can’t muster the pittance of force, money and decency to kick Mugabe out…..”

Of course, at the end of the day it may be that the only country who can actually have any real positive sway on what happens in Zimbabwe, the one who pays its bills, is also the one who won’t do anything: South Africa.

Until then, the rest of us, particularly Britain and Europe, should be asking how we can stop these criminals travelling and spending their grubby cash here.

At the very least, and at the risk of this being a knee-jerk reaction, we could start by boycotting designers such as Ferragamo who are so keen to accept their dirty blood money.

NB: I will be doing more research on this in the coming weeks, and compiling a list of brands that have profiteered from the Mugabes.

The Daily Mail published this good story last week: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1024100/As-Mugabe-offends-world-UN-food-summit-wife-shops-Ferragamo-shoes-Romes-luxury-boutiques.html

Other good coverage of the Zimbabwe crisis includes:

http://news.scotsman.com/zimbabwe/Brussels-new-sanctions-ban-Mrs.2345742.jp

http://www.news.com.au/business/story/0,23636,23653007-31037,00.html

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/7434434.stm

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1024100/As-Mugabe-offends-world-UN-food-summit-wife-shops-Ferragamo-shoes-Romes-luxury-boutiques.html

** On a lighter note, coming soon: Saving the rare Two-Tailed Pasha Butterfly from the WAG nuptials of the decade.

Oh yes, and how I got back on Facebook.

No, I haven’t deactivated Facebook (again).

No, I’m not snobbing you.

Rather, I have been DISABLED.

I have no idea what I have done, but it appears it could involve a celebrity story I was working on (which involved sending numerous messages to people).

It is probably actually a blessing in disguise, as I was spending way too much time on it again anyway.

But anyway, if for some reason I am unable to became un-disabled, I’m not starting it all over again from scratch.

I could think of nothing more time wasting than sitting at a computer, adding all those friends again.

(Although I won’t be able to read any emails for the next 24 hours as it appears my hotmail account isn’t working. This makes it really hard to email the Disabled department at Facebook and tell them to un-disable me. Forget all modern communication post industrial revolution. Let’s just go back to stringing cans together).

You’ve really got to wonder how dangerous Facebook really is.

For instance, now that I’m in Facebook limbo - I’ve been told that I’m disabled but the verdict’s still out on whether it’s permanent - what happens to all my details on the website?

Since there’s no phone numbers for the Facebook team, but just different email addresses, will I ever get a response?

And if it was my “virtual doorstepping” that got me into trouble in the first place, what is the future of Facebook for journalists?

How can “virtual doorstepping” be policed?

In an attempt to answer this question, I did some research (ie Googling). It appears that this is a loose  but tricky area.

(See http://www.infopackets.com/channels/en/windows/gazette/2008/20080305_facebook_not_a_source_say_newspaper_regulators.htm) 

Speaking of doorstepping - the non-virtual kind - I did my first one in six months today.

Of course it was in a pair of heels. Why is that always the way? (More to come on this soon).

And on another related topic, I also learnt today that my tenancy application was in jeopardy because I am working “freelance” (which to all the real estate idiots working in la la real estate land equates to “won’t be able to pay her rent”. Even though I’m working the equivalent of eight days this week, three 17 hour days, or the equivalent of 22 shifts in just 21 days. But oh yes, I’m still “freelance”).

Yes, it seems that in the worlds of Facebook and real estate, if you’re Australian and a journalist you are really just one thing: a convict.

Hoo roo.

Last night at work Jane, Nat and myself became embroiled in a deep conversation about Kate.

That’s Middleton - not Moss, Winslet, Beckinsale or Bosworth. (Yes, it seems she has reached such celebrity cult status, at least in the Ol’Dart, that she is now known by only a single name).

Of course this conversation stemmed from another conversation - the royal wedding today of the Queen’s grandson and Canadian Autumn Kelly. (A Canadian called Autumn? Hello??)

Anyway, our trio came to this quick conclusion.

If you’re reading this standing up, sit down. This might come as a shock: we are sick of Kate.

We have all but turned against her.

And it’s all for this simple reason - her whole attitude is now one of Smug-Princess-In-Waiting.

Gone is the awkward, quirky girl who used to shop at Top Shop and did rowing with her other girlfriends and had a life.

Instead she has been replaced by a woman who now reportedly spends her days strutting up and down the King’s Road, biding her time while William gets his act together and pops the question.

Reportedly, Miss Middleton has now quit her job as a buyer at Jigsaw and is looking at becoming a photographer.

This was, allegedly, after she complained her three-day-a-week job wasn’t challenging enough.

Well Kate, here’s a tip for you: maybe if you work five days a week (or even six or seven) like some of us, things might become a bit more stimulating.

She now, apparently, has her sights set on a career in photography.

I’m sure Mummy and Daddy can secure a position for her.

(See http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/showbiz/showbiznews.html?in_article_id=479299&in_page_id=1773)

Her whole look now screams “i’ve done it! I’ve snagged the future King of England! All Mum’s hard work has really paid off! Tell Woolworths not to cancel the plates! I’ll be set for life!”

It’s any wonder Clarence House is reportedly pissed off with her.

It’s not only embarrassing for William, who’s busy flying helicopters all over the show. And of course it puts more pressure on him to get down on bended knee.

But it’s also downright embarrassing for the monarchy.

After all, it’s still basking in the glory of it’s brilliant PR coup - Prince Harry serving in Afghanistan and doing something “normal”. (Meanwhile his other half, Zimbabwean Chelsy, is busy studying, going out and getting her hands dirty in the Okavango Delta. We salute you).

And last but not least, it’s a bit of a slap in the face for us girls who hoped that Wills might marry someone who yes, liked nothing more than hitting the Harvey Nichols handbag department, but also had a bit of ambition other than having her face featured on cups and saucers as Princess William. (Because if she marries Wills, that’s what she will be known as - at least until the Queen carks it and Charles succeeds her. Chelsy will also be known as Princess Harry. Ha ha h! See http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/showbiz/showbiznews.html?in_article_id=479299&in_page_id=1773).

Kate, you have a long way to go to fill the shoes of Princess Di - who visited land mine victims in Angola and was the first royal to hold the hand of an AIDS sufferer.

Kate, there is no doubt about it. You look fantastic.

There are a few items in your wardrobe I’d kill for - including this white jacket you’re wearing.

And I admit it - I bought a black trilby after I saw you wearing it at with a navy trenchcoat at Cheltenham. (See http://www.britishroyalwedding.com/2008/03/14/kate-middleton-flies-solo-at-cheltenham-festival/).

Plus we’re all extremely jealous of your always shining, long hair.

“It’s in such good condition,” Nat commented.

“She must have it professionally blow dried every day before leaving Chelsea.”

Yes, your mother might be a bit of a problem. (In fact one tabloid has described the whole Middleton clan as “social climbers of Himalayan proportions”. But to those who claim that Kate is an opportunist, just take a look at the other “sizzler sister”, Pippa. She looks like she’d be a proper nightmare. See http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/femail/article.html?in_article_id=460865&in_page_id=1879).

But you need to do a bit more than just retail therapy at Sloane Square followed by cocktails at Boujis.

Maybe some day shifts, maybe some night shifts, maybe some day and night shifts, maybe some volunteer work, maybe temping, maybe even stacking the shelves at Tesco.

But something, anything, to restore not only your own reputation but Wills’ and the monarchy’s.

Otherwise, you risking becoming JAS (Just Another Sloaney).

Quick sticks, Kate.

Oh, and another thing…

In a way, one must love Cherie Blair.

The ultimate in freeloading first ladies, when she was offered a few free items at a Melbourne shopping centre in 2003 she reportedly took more than that. Allegedly, she took 68 all up.

Some of her memoirs, which have been unleashed upon us this week, are a real crack-up. Particularly the line that her stylist Carole Caplin - who of course we all know went off with our own very dodgy Peter Foster - “kept me thin”.

But there’s only one thing worse than reading a Daily Mail splash on abortion - reading a Daily Mail feature on whether Cherie and Tony should have slept together on the first date after things got a bit heated on a double-decker bus. (See http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/femail/article.html?in_article_id=566713&in_page_id=1879).

I think we all agree, TMI.

 

 

he Daily Mail’s Richard Littlejohn has written a very funny piece in his column this week about the strippers.

If I recall correctly, it wasn’t just moiye, but two of my colleagues, born and bred in the Old Dart, who chuckled at this. (NB: whilst one of my colleagues - male - is all for covering up in the sun, he doesn’t advocate British men decorating their toenails a la Beckham. “That is the end of the empire,” he declared in another conversation).

Go to http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/columnists/columnists.html?in_article_id=566039&in_page_id=1772&in_author_id=322

and scroll down.

Something else I read yesterday that I really liked was the Sex and The City review by Will Pavia of The Times - particularly the second line relating to the credit crunch.

See http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/film/article3919749.ece

On a completely different note, thought I might just brag that tomorrow I am being taken out to lunch by the lovely Jane, the greatest foodie around - and Backpacker of the Week contender.

I’m going OVERGROUND (yes you read that right) to Wanstead, which is not far from the lovely Snaresbrook Crown Court, of which I have the fondest memories, but which I’m still told is “posher than WAG”.

See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wanstead

This is where we are going to - http://www.timeout.com/london/restaurants/reviews/9485.html