Wednesday 14th November
7am - Australian time
Things are back on track.
With my connecting flight ready for departure, Wang and his superiors eventually came to the conclusion that I couldn’t possibly be a threat to national security if I wasn’t in the country. Plus, I was a ‘religious figure’ (I didn’t argue but my name had clearly confused them). He had returned my phone before frog-marching me from my confinement all the way up to the plane, down the aisle and into my seat. I was more than a little put out to find the girls buckled up, ready to leave without me.
“What the hell happened to you then?” Rachel asked, curious as Wang shoved my hand-luggage above my head.
“Did you not see the three armed policemen marching me off for questioning?” I’d snapped.
Bev almost dropped her mobile. “Woah! The police here have three arms?”
Rachel tells me I smell of fear and incarceration. Meanwhile, Bev wondered out loud if I should be paying extra for the baggage under my eyes. The two of them look rested and relaxed which is more than can be said for me. Or the other passengers onboard, come to think of it, all of whom have been watching me with concern ever since I was bundled onto the plane by the police. They must think I’m some kind of big bent terrorist. Can you imagine!
“EVERYONE, GET YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR NOW… so I can slip onto them a pair of these gorgeous cashmere-lined leather gloves I found at Duty Free. Aren’t they just FABULOUS?”
From: captainkevman@live.co.uk
To: 'My UK Contacts'
Subject: The Eagle has landed!
Date: Weds 14 Nov - 07:50
G’day cobblers! (Or whatever it is they say here)
It is a bright Wednesday morning in Australia, which I guess means from your perspective that I’m writing to you from the future. Melbourne is 11 hours ahead of the UK, so whilst I’m about to raid an airport vending machine for breakfast, you’ve probably just finished yesterday’s dinner. This makes my brain hurt. I knew to expect the time difference but the reality of it is something else entirely. Nothing can prepare you for being woken up at 1am by bright blazing midday sun, which is what happened to me earlier this morning when some muppet opened one of the shutters on the plane.
The second part of our flight took a further nine hours, this time taking us from the top to the bottom of the planet, rather than from left to right. I had to explain to a freaked-out Bev that travelling south didn’t mean we were descending. She thought we were plummeting towards earth! Bless her, she does get confused. Earlier in the flight I’d had to explain to her how to eat a pistachio nut.
We’re now lost within the bustling bowels of Melbourne’s International Airport and I’m struggling to contain my excitement. EVERYONE HERE HAS AN ACCENT! The welcome was a little less rapturous than I’d hoped, as there were no topless hunks handing out complimentary cans of Fosters. Instead, Customs Officials held laser-guns to our foreheads in a high-speed effort to check temperatures and ensure we weren’t bringing nasty diseases into the country. Presumably, if you were unlucky enough to be suffering from a sniffle they’d bundle you on a plane and send you back to where you came from. Then we were frisked for fruit and wood (insert your own joke here) because it’s illegal to bring either into the country. It would seem that, despite their easy-going reputation, Australians are stricter than they’d have us believe.
We’re currently waiting for our luggage and seeing as collectively it takes up more space than an average council house it shouldn’t be too hard to spot. Rachel’s backpack is taller than she is. She and Bev have just popped to the Ladies (the ‘Sheilas’?) to freshen up after the flight. Or, as they delicately put it, to “take a swift wet-wipe to the giblets”.
And on that note, enjoy your dinner!
Love Kev x
[SENT VIA MELBOURNE INTERNATIONAL WIFI HOTSPOT – JUST $10 PER MINUTE!]
8.30am – Taxi rank, Melbourne airport
Phew, what a scorcher! Which is a weird thing to say when it was the middle of the night an hour ago and yesterday lunchtime a few hours before that. Time zones are weird and we’ve crossed all of them.
Bev and Rachel are loving the sun already, having changed into skimpy weather-appropriate outfits. I didn’t get the memo and am still in my England clothes which are starting to get a bit ripe. They’re busy on their new mobiles, texting and updating whatever social website it is currently in fashion. What’s wrong with MySpace, that’s what I want to know.
“According to my new weather forecasting app,” Bev said, squinting at her tiny screen, “Melbourne is meant to be really sunny until about 10pm today, and then it’s going to get really moony.”
I don’t think either have looked up to appreciate the fact that WE’RE ACTUALLY HERE.
“Oi! Ladies!”
They looked at me blankly.
“We’re IN AUSTRALIA!”
They broke into wide smiles. Bev tried to pull us together for a group hug but our backpacks collided over our heads and bounced us off into different directions.
“So, what’s the plan then?” I asked.
They looked at each other, then looked back at me. And they shrugged.
10.30am – ‘The Friendly Backpacker’ Hostel
Following a ride in one of those bright yellow taxis you see people leave Ramsey Street in, we’ve checked in at ‘The Friendly Backpacker’, a hostel I’d chosen at random in the hopes that it will live up to its name. We’re all a little anxious about meeting new people. Actually, scratch that. I’m a little anxious. Neither of the girls could give two shits.
As hostels go, it seems perfectly acceptable, but having never stayed in one in my life I really have no idea. It certainly ain’t a Hilton. We’ve a set of bunk beds each (one bed for us, one for our bags) and a room to ourselves, but I suspect this isn’t normal and probably won’t last. Bev and Rachel, fragile young things that they are, have retired straight to their bunks fully-clothed, blaming jet-lag. I’m wide awake, so am taking a moment in the ‘communal area’ before heading out to explore. To be honest, I’m actually quite glad to have some time alone. The pair made my flight here from Hong Kong un-fucking-bearable and had zero interest in my jail-time, but were positively busting to tell me about their trip to Hong Kong Disneyland, which is what they did whilst I was banged up! Finally realising I wasn’t in the mood for their gushing, they decided to ‘cheer me the fuck up’ by getting me to practise some chat-up lines. They think I should have a Disney Prince of my own and honestly I’m not averse to the idea.
“Once upon a time,” Bev giggled, doing her best to include both me and Rachel in the same conversation, “some bloke came up to me in a club and said, ‘Nice legs. What time do they open?’ Two drinks later, his Mickey was in my Minnie and the clock hadn’t even struck twelve.”
I enjoyed the chat, briefly, because I do actually need some help if I’m going to find myself an Aussie beefcake, but when they called over one of the flight attendants it stopped being funny.
“Hiya luv!” Rachel gushed to a swishy little twink of a steward called James. “This is Kev, and he has something he’d like to say to you.”
My heart sank as three pairs of eyes looked at me expectantly. Four if you count the lady across the way who was pretending not to listen.
It’s been so long since I even made eye contact with a man I didn’t know, and I opened and closed my mouth for a bit, searching desperately for something to say, but I couldn’t find any words. Out of shear panic I blurted out, “Did you know, happiness has the word penis in it?” which at the time I thought was both word-smart and cheeky. Cringe.
There was silence. I gulped nervously as the gentleman stared at me with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Ha! Penis!” I clarified as I sunk into my chair. “Ha. Penis,” I whispered.
“Omigod, that was totally HILARE!” Rachel laughed after he’d left, giving me a parting look that made me want the ground to swallow me up rather than him. Finding my humiliation thoroughly entertaining, they tried something else when the other male steward came by with the drinks trolly. Rachel ripped my copy of ‘Gay Times’ from my hand-luggage and flung it at his feet. I was mortified! Presumably the idea was that he’d pick it up, see the glossy topless man on the cover, our eyes would meet and he’d become so spontaneously horny that he’d forget all his training and pull me straight into the toilets for a bit of a mile-high seeing to. Because, as far as the Straights are concerned, all Gays have no standards and are permanently horny. However, incredibly, this one winked at me as he handed the magazine back and slipped me two free vodkas for good measure! Rachel was so put out she didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the flight, so it was a win-win. This steward was a butch, hairy guy with a Russian accent and his name badge said ‘Yogi’. He was a bear in every sense of the word and if we had done anything kinky it would’ve resulted in me coughing up hair balls.
2.45pm – Melbourne Park
I’ve escaped on my own and am exploring! I can’t get over how almost the same everything seems… It’s like a mirror-universe England. I can see ever-so-slightly-different animals climbing the branches of some ever-so-slightly-different trees, and there are flocks of brightly coloured birds nearby that clearly belong in a zoo. Yet, whilst the world around me feels unexpectedly familiar, I feel completely different. I left England feeling lost and rejected and have arrived here feeling hopeful and relaxed. I think I have found the light at the end of the tunnel, and that light is Australia.
With the girls still sleeping, I have been investigating Melbourne solo and I immediately realised something unexpected. It has been years since I’ve had to make any decisions for myself.
Where shall I go?
What should I have for lunch?
Does this top look good on me?
Should I chat to that cute shop assistant?
Choice followed choice. Option followed option, and it was bewildering at first because for so long someone else has made my decisions for me and I hadn’t even realised.
We’re going here.
Eating that will make you fatter.
That’s not flattering on you at all.
Were you trying to flirt with that guy?
I let Phil call the shots for so long, firstly to be nice, then out of habit, and then finally out of some kind of subservience. Over here I have no choice but to think for myself and it was scary at first, then kind of exhilarating. As I walked the streets, staring up open-mouthed at the soaring glass-buildings gleaming in the sun, and apologising to all the pedestrians who swerved to avoid colliding with me, I realised something else too. Something really obvious that I hadn’t fully appreciated. No one knows me. No one.
Other than Bev and Rachel, of course, everyone in this country, this continent, hell even this hemisphere, is a total stranger. Not even a friend of a friend. Not even someone I used to know as a kid. Let’s review the full impact of that, shall we? There is no chance of seeing anyone from my hetero days whispering behind my back because they’d heard rumours. No chance of getting stink-eye from one of mum’s friends because I’m out with a man. No chance of bumping into someone I knew from school and being asked the three questions I dread the most: “So, girlfriend? Married? Kids?” No family to embarrass. No mother to fret over me. No reputation to consider. No expectations to meet. I can be me without worrying about the consequences and the sense of freedom that washed over me was so strong it made the hair stand up on my arms and my balls squirm. Here I am inconsequential, insignificant and irrelevant to everyone I see. And its bloody amazing!
It is ridiculously hot and, realising my clothes were sticking to my back, I took my jumper off. I didn’t give it a second thought in Australia, but back home I would worry that it would risk ridicule. Without a second layer what would disguise my fat rolls? My bingo wings? My sweat patches? People would see me and judge. Over here though, I walked into the park, air shimmering in the heat, sat on the grass and did something so completely out of character, so entirely unexpected, that I didn’t even realise I was doing it. I took my t-shirt off too.
No one would ever understand how massive a deal this is for me, how huge a personal milestone, but the fact is I would never even dream of being topless anywhere public at home. I’ve never done it. I barely do it in my own bedroom. The thought of someone I know catching sight of my white hulking mass and hairy moobs is too much to bear. Back in England, the only sun-bathing I’ve ever done is the reluctant, fully clothed, sweating-in-a-jumper-and-jeans kind that happens when you’re forced into it unexpectedly. But here, because of the anonymity, my wobbly man-tits are live and unleashed upon an unsuspecting nation. Despite being in the vicinity of athletic men (with smaller waists than me) and sporty women (with smaller boobs than me), I feel almost at ease. In fact the only person staring is me.
Up until now, I’ve been checking out what guys are wearing as I need fashion guidance and fast. If this is the kind of heat I can expect I’m going to have to drastically rethink my wardrobe. Buy myself some shorts that are actually short and don’t end just above my ankles. But now, as I stretch out on the grass, a breeze around my pits and grass tickling my nipples, I can’t help but pay closer attention to what the guys aren’t wearing. The warmth of the sun on my naked back is such an alien sensation that it’s making me feel… a little naughty. To my right, fit lads are kicking a football about and they’re all thighs and nip slips. To my left, joggers in loose-fitting short-shorts are flopping right past my face, beads of sweat glistening on their bronzed necks. And ahead of me a team of rowers are doing warm-ups by the river. Star Jumps in the afternoon sun, toned arms glistening, rivulets of water trailing down sculpted bodies … speedos stretched above tight buns … clinging… bulging… There’s not a coxless pair amongst them, that’s for damn sure.
From: Captainkevman@live.co.uk
To: 'My UK Contacts'
Subject: What a ride!
Date: Weds 14 Nov - 22:22
Alright ya dingbats! (That’s an Aussie phrase, apparently.)
Evening has fallen on my first day in Melbourne, and I have to say I love the place already. It’s a bit like a cleaner London, but if someone turned up the brightness and stretched it all out. Roads are wider. There are bigger gaps between things, and objects that should be red (buses, phone-boxes, ready-salted crisp packets) are yellow over here. But that’s about as weird as it gets. The biggest difference between Aus and the UK that I’ve come across so far is that the pedestrian crossings click instead of beep, which is hardly earth-shattering. What has thrown me most of all is that they play all the same music that we do at home. You’d think travelling this far you could escape Justin Bieber, but no.
Despite there being more lanes of traffic than I’m used to, with trams chattering up and down between them, the city seems to work at a far more relaxed pace than any I’ve been to in the UK. Maybe that’s to be expected from a country which makes its banknotes waterproof in case someone wants to stop off anywhere for a spontaneous dip. Above my head, the skyline is full of towering structures in a mish-mash of styles, and poking proudly above all of them is the Eureka Tower. I headed there first to get my bearings.
A high-speed lift shot up sixty storeys in seconds, depositing me (ears popping) in the Melbourne Observation Deck, with a 360 degree glass-panelled view of the city. Stretching out below was just a small portion of Victoria, a state tiny by Aussie standards as it is only the size of the entire United Kingdom. I knew the city of Melbourne had been named after a British Prime Minister, but I didn’t know that it was almost called ‘Batmania’ to honour an early Tasmanian settler. Can you imagine? Every resident here was this close to being a Batman! Big displays talked about the history of the city and I read that it had sprung up in the late 1800s after gold was discovered in the nearby Yarra River, so I made my way towards it next in the hopes there’d still be some left. I’m not sure it counts but I found plenty of golden people. A pale Australian, it would appear, is rarer than rocking-horse poo.
The girls slept right through the day, so I guess the rumours are true and they really are good in bed. I finally managed to rouse them at 8pm, just in time for our first night out on the town, and it became apparent quite quickly that Bev and Rachel were not going to be your stereotypical back-packers. Their top three complaints so far are:
- The weird plug sockets don’t fit their straighteners.
- They can’t apply their lipstick without a full-length mirror.
- Where the hell is room service.
Be that as it may, we headed out to do Essex proud and it wasn’t long before we were introduced to the delights of ‘middies’, ‘stubbies’, ‘schooners’ and ‘jugs’, Aussie booze-lingo, and we kept drinking until we had all the terms memorised. Before too long, sheer exhaustion forced the girls back to their beds and I hope they enjoyed both hours of their first day here.
I’ve since bitten the bullet and have now started chatting to some of my fellow hostel residents. I learnt early on that eavesdropping is essential before initiating any form of conversation. People have come here from all over the world and, whilst it is horrendous enough introducing yourself to a random stranger, it is nothing compared to the bum-clenching embarrassment you experience when you get a blank face and a confused “que?” in response.
Anyways, people to meet. Laters.
Love Kev xx
Individual Messages:
Right, now let’s finally answer some of your emails. Please excuse the group message format.
Mum – I’m sorry you sobbed so hard when I left that you lost your contact lens behind your eye.
Michael – Where were you?
Jemma – Oh, was it from you? Thanks, I guess?! Yes, I’m using it a lot, actually.
Alex – No, I don’t hate him, but if he was on fire and I had water I’d drink it.
Gavin – Yes, there are plenty of other fish in the sea, but there’s also sharks, toxic waste and a whole lot of shit too. So I’m not looking to fish anytime soon.
[SENT VIA THE FRIENDLY BACKPACKER PUBLIC NETWORK]
1am
God, is it still today? It’s been a long one. Bev and Rachel have done nothing but sleep all day and I’m still wide awake. Does jet lag even exist? Maybe it’s all in the mind and it’s not affecting me because I have one.
To avoid lurking in dark corners like some kind of weirdo, I’ve faced my fears and started conversations with total strangers, not something I thought I’d have to do on my first day. I’ve met a white Rastafarian from High Wycombe who wore a poncho and tried to sell me pills. No idea what kind of pills, but I managed to run and hide when he got distracted by a twisted dreadlock. As I took cover in the fire-escape, I ended up blagging a cigarette from an Irish girl called Karen. Not because Australia has suddenly turned me into a smoker, but because there was no one to tell me I couldn’t smoke! It’s been a while. It was menthol anyway so it doesn’t count.
Karen, who somehow refrained from laughing at my pathetic attempts to inhale, introduced me to her friend, a timid ginger called Hamish. Hamish has a strong Scottish accent, a stammer, and is setting off my Gaydar big time.
And there was me thinking it didn’t work anymore.
