Thursday 15th November
Up at the crack of a sparrow’s fart to visit our very first ‘seven-eleven’ convenience store. Now honestly, would it kill the Aussies to build a Waitrose? They only stocked one type of champagne and what’s so convenient about that?
However, in a promising team-effort, the three of us have cooked our first Aussie breakfast. Despite having to queue for over an hour and a half to use the kitchen, the resulting fry-up has totally put everyone else’s own-brand porridge to shame. Unfortunately, with all the benches taken, we had to sit on the bean-bags and eat it practically from the floor.
“It’s ten in the morn, daahlings,” Bev drawled in her ‘posh’ voice. “That’s champagne o’clock in my book.”
She expertly popped the cork from our newly purchased bottle of fizz and filled some plastic beakers Rachel found at the back of a cupboard.
“Shall we toast our toast?” I suggested, raising my fried bread in one hand and my drink in the other.
“To Australia!” I cheered.
“Bottoms up!” toasted Bev.
“Up ya bum, no babies!” roared Rachel.
I’ve come to realise that this backpacking malarkey is the closest thing I’ll ever get to living the student lifestyle and I am determined to make the most of it. Yes, skipping the Uni experience and going straight to work may have had some financial rewards, but I’ve always felt like I’ve missed out on a Rite Of Passage. The lack of rules and responsibilities. Pot noodles for dinner. Threesomes. This trip is my chance to sleep in, drink booze with my breakfast and generally do whatever the hell I like. Although, the closest I can see myself ever getting to a threesome is if I use both hands.
From: captainkevman@live.co.uk
To: 'My UK Contacts'
Subject: Life's A Beach!
Date: Thurs 15 Nov - 15:11
Hey Drongos! Chuck us a shrimp on the barbie, etc.
As I write, I am sitting on the golden beaches of St. Kilda, feet buried in the sand and water lapping at my toes. You’ve got to get your feet wet when you’re at the beach, don’t you, because otherwise what’s the point? But don’t be too jealous. It’s bloody freezing and we’re the only ones here. In fact, there seems to be quite a nasty storm whipping up.
The girls had insisted we spend their first day (awake) on the beach and nothing was going to stop them, certainly not a little thing like a hurricane. I’m assuming they’re enjoying themselves, but with headphones in and phones inches away from their faces it is hard to be sure. Despite the near arctic conditions, they’re both showing signs of tanning up already, which is beyond irritating. How is that even possible? I’m still so white I border on blue.
Melbourne, I’ve discovered, is well-known for these highly unpredictable weather patterns, and they’re even highlighted in one of the tourist brochures at reception; ‘Melbourne: Four Seasons In One Day.’ Unfortunately, none of us had read that or any other brochure before we arrived here. Rain, wind, lightning, sun, even occasional snow, all can feature in your average Melbourne hour. We’re having to pack sunscreen, umbrellas and snow-shoes just for a quick trip to the shops. And it’s getting a little cumbersome.
Having spent the last two mornings exploring the streets on my own, I’ve learnt that this city is a big mixing-pot full of global waifs and strays. A Dulux colour-chart of skin-tones and ethnicities. I hear that Melbourne has the largest population of Greeks outside of Greece, and it’s positively crawling with Asians. And I mean that in a positive, non-racist way. Everyone is welcome. Even a pasty Brit like me.
Oops. Gotta go. My towel is blowing away!
Love Kev x
[SENT VIA VICTORIA PUBLIC-ACCESS WIFI HOTSPOT]
6pm
The beach is only a few stops away from the hostel by train, so this afternoon we headed there despite grey and stormy skies.
“There’s only two things I don’t like about public transport,” Rachel muttered as we climbed on board and paid the equivalent of 20p. “The public, and the transport.”
After a brief stroll amongst the yachts and glamour of Port Phillip, we headed further around the coast to St Kilda, where we experienced a full-body exfoliation by sunbathing inside a passing sandstorm. Or rather ‘sunbaking’, as Bev insists on calling it as “there’s no bath involved”. Despite being incapable of tanning, I agreed to join them in an effort to build on the glimmer of self-confidence I earned yesterday from lying topless in the park. This time, of course, it meant psyching myself up and whipping my t-shirt off in front of the only two people who know me on this half of the planet. They politely said nothing as my flesh was revealed, but I’m pretty sure their eyes widened in horror. The shock at least helped Rachel dislodge a few things, as she came back from the toilets in a great mood proudly revealing she’d had her first Australian poo.
“It were like someone emptied a bag of Revels!”
The whole topless thing was more stressful today, mostly because a blast of wind forced me to chase my towel down the beach, man-tits a-bouncing. It’s made me determined to do anything I can to tone up and lose a bit of weight whilst I’m over here. Well, I say anything. If I can do it without eating healthy and working out that would be handy because that all sounds exhausting. The flesh jiggling also put me in a bit of a grump, so when Bev asked me why all the photos on her phone were looking “well dark” I didn’t give her my usual tactful response and instead opted for, “because you’re looking at them through your sunglasses, you moron!”
Bev sometimes requires a little patience and sometimes I don’t have any.
10.50pm
I take it back. Jet lag totally exists. Quickest. Pub crawl. Ever.
We’d headed into town with two fellow Friendly Backpackers that I’m calling ‘Cocaine Man’ and ‘Lesbian’. I’ve not asked their real names. Being a backpacker is kind of like being a kid again, in that you can chat to anyone about anything and things like names don’t really matter.
I’d been totally up for a night out an hour ago.
Fifty minutes ago, I was drowsy.
Forty minutes ago, I was comatose on the floor having toppled off my bar-stool.
Thirty minutes ago, I woke up, still on the floor, still connected to my chair via a string of drool, and with an empty crisp packet stuck to my cheek.
Twenty minutes ago, in some kind of semi-conscious daze, I found myself demonstrating the perfect method for pleasuring a man, using a bottle of Budweiser as a substitute penis.
Ten minutes ago I’d left the pub and I’m now back in my bed. Which means, of course, that I’m wide-awake and stone-cold sober. I’m gagging for a decent cuppa and a choccie hobnob but neither appear to exist over here. And I’m sweating like a glassblower’s arse. Is it normal for hostels to skimp on air-con? No one likes a soggy armpit stain, especially me when it’s mine, and it can be mortifying if a burly Aussie catches you squatting under a hand-dryer in the toilets with your top pulled over your head trying to dry off your patches. I’d imagine.
