As I sifted through the binnables I noticed one blue logo that didn’t sit right. It was from ANZ, with whom I have no accounts. “Why do they have my address?” I thought. “Must be some sort of national marketing database I ticked onto by accident somewhere.”

However, upon opening the envelope, I noticed it had numbers. More specifically, account numbers. and a BSB … I called the hilarious ironically-named ‘Helpline’ to get some answers…

I was greeted by the usual robotic female voice who talks how noone talks, ever. She gave me a range of options that didn’t even remotely fit what I was after. (To be fair, I’d be surprised if they had an option for “If we opened an account for you without you asking, press 5″.)

I was transferred  through to one of the departments and got a mortgage drone. I explained briefly why I was calling. Mortgage drone told me I had the wrong department, and transferred me to customer service.

I was transferred. Customer service drone sounded remarkably like Mortgage drone. Maybe they were sisters. I hadn’t the time to ask.

I explained briefly, and in a slightly higher volume, why I was calling. Customer service drone told me I was in the wrong department, and I’d need to go to ‘Accounts.’

I was transferred. Accounts drone sounded remarkably like Mortgage drone and Customer Service drone had a triplet. I began highly suspecting ANZ was just one woman in an empty room with a phone and an acting degree from TAFE.

I explained briefly, and in a slightly higher volume again, why I was calling. Accounts drone told me that she’d need the account number. I duely read the numbers on the statement, followed by a stoney silence at the other end.

“Hello?” I said. “I’m just looking it up now.” “Oh. Thanks. Sorry, you just went really quiet there for a long time.” “Yes. I’m on the computer.” she said. “Good.” I said. Great story.

“You don’t seem to have an account with us. That number isn’t coming up on our system? Was it.. 259-” I stopped her. “No.” I said. “Those aren’t the numbers I gave you.” “Oh.” Accounts drone said. “What were they again?”

After two more attempts, she finally managed to find this phantom account that had been opened in my name, and posted to my address. The bill showed two $2.00 “Account Servicing Fees” and some “Debit Interest charges.” Pretty impressive spending for a phantom.

I told her I had never opened an account with ANZ, I’d never tried to, and never would. I then told her to close the account, and take me off any mailing lists they may have had.

Accounts drone then asked me for my security code.

“My what?” I asked politely. “Your security code. You would have set it up when you opened the account.”

I paused. Blinked.

“Sorry, who am I speaking with? Is this a new department? Or did you not hear a word I’ve said?”
“It’ll be a combination of letters and numbers if that helps?”
“At this stage, I’m not sure Valium would help. Do you know why I’m calling, Accounts drone?”

Silence.

I thought I might start again. Just for fun.
“I’d like to close this account you opened for me, please.”

“I’ll need your security code, sir.” She droned. “Yes, I understand you’d need a security code to close a bank account, but I don’t know what it might be, since I didn’t open the account. I can make one up now, but I’m going to predict it won’t get me anywhere.”

Silence.

“It will be a combination of letters and numbers” the Falcon said again.

Silence.
Babies learn entire phrases faster than this.

“Sorry, do you have a manager I can talk to? A parrot, perhaps? A sand monitor? Something?”
“Sir I’ve just seen here the only way you can close this account is in person at a branch.”

“Right. Explain to me why I should take the time to go to a branch to close an account you opened for me without asking?”

“That’s the only way to close the account.”

“No. That won’t be happening. Is there any other way to close the account at all?” I said. “No.” She bluntly replied.

I saw the servicing fees. “Will these servicing fees keep piling up if the account stays open?” I asked.
“No, the account will just close itself it there’s no activity on the account.”
Silence.

“Right.  So you know how I said a few seconds ago “Is there any other way to close the account at all?”…”
“Yes sir?”
“Would that be one of the answers that might apply?”
Silence.

“If I do absolutely nothing, this account will close?”
“Yes.”

Click.

Late one night after a gig in Perth, my best friend Benjamin and I were enjoying some over-priced treats at Perth’s only late night haunt; The Moon Café.

It hit 3:30am before we decided to hit the road. I took a quick trip to the gents and noticed a scrawling on the wall in front of me that read: “If you like chuby chub-chub, call this number…”

The number had been rubbed off for one reason or another, but I recognised the type of marker that had been used. I happened to have one of those markers in my pocket- and Ben’s mobile number is just one of those that are easy to remember.

I quickly scrawled his number where the old one had been rubbed out, zipped up, and left the gents, not thinking twice about the whole thing…

A couple of weeks later, late at night I received a call from young baffled Benjamin:

B: “Did you write my name on a toilet wall by any chance?”

I giggled. I suspect this gave me away.

B: “I’ve been receiving calls from the strangest people telling me they love something called Chubby Chub-Chub.. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you, Jason?”

I burst. He hung up.

The only problem is, those of you who have had the dubious pleasure of meeting Benjamin, would know he cannot be beaten at his own game. He is, indeed, the world’s best prank caller. So the callers that were pranking him were pranked right back, and met with a reply in a creepy sub-Asian accent

“Uaahh Hallaooww… You like chubbeh Chub Chub?.. Aah like chubbeh chub chub.. ahah …hah…  aaaah.”

The bar was set. I was told bad things would happen to me, but I’m friends with Benjamin so I consider that punishment enough.

Six months later I was inking a Ginger Meggs Sunday strip when it occurred that I needed to put in a phone number for the sake of the gag. I could well have used one of the fake ‘movie numbers’ starting with 555, but what’s the fun in that? Especially when you’ve got the perfectly valid phone number of a friend who beats the crap out of you at XBox without fail every time you play.

I once again took my marker and scrawled his number on the cartoon, knowing full well it’d be published in 34 countries in 6 weeks time (and in Perth in only three weeks’ time.) Ah hell, let’s give it one more run here on the blog for good measure – here’s the toon:

Three weeks passed, and sure enough, my readers didn’t let me down. Late one night I once more received a call from Mr. Benjamin:

B: “You %@#*!  Did you publish my number in Ginger Meggs?!

J: “Hello Ben. No. (snigger) Why do you ask?”

B: “I’ve just had a bunch of calls from people asking me if I know where Hooper is…”

J: “Oh? That’s interesting.”

B: “I will end you.”

J: “Well it could be worse. They could be asking you for Chubby chub-chub.”

(click.)

Three weeks later when it went to press internationally, Benjamin started receiving overseas phonecalls and messages.

This time, however, he decided to give all the callers and messagers my number, saying “No – you’ve got the wrong number. Ginger Meggs’ number is….”

Thusly, I received these messages.

The first reason I held out was I didn’t want to review something based on seeing a non-press preview show.

The second reason was out of pure exasperation. No amount of words can describe how mind-numbingly stupid the entire concept of a musical based on the comic book called “Spider-man” is… But I’ll give it a try.

Read that sentence again. Yes. It’s exactly as bad as it sounds.
I should preface everything you’re about to read with something of a declaration of interest.

You see, as a kid, I was a fat little nerd who liked to read comics. Not just any comics – Spider-man comics. I learned to draw superheroes by copying Bendis and a similar ilk of comic artists.

It’s safe to say, I’m a die-hard Spider-man fan. I once asked a lady to sew me a Spider-man costume. The number plates on my car say “Spidey.” in Red.

You get the picture. I need help.

Now, with that in mind, you can imagine my reaction when walking down the street in New York in 2009, I stumbled across a poster of the up-coming Spider-man Musical!

WHAT?

With music by Bono!

THE?

and The Edge!

FUCK?!

The very concept stank so badly I had to leave Manhattan, but the excited curiosity of how bad it could be had me anxiously following its progress for the ensuing years.

Fast forward two years. It’s 2011. I’m walking down the street in New York. A billboard for “Spider-Man: Turn off the Dark” smacks my eyes like I’ve stepped on a rake.

I get into a cab. The TVs on the back of the seats are screaming at me with the announcement that this week, Broadway is ‘expecting the man-birth of the most expensive musical in the history of musicals, since humans have been making musicals. Ever!’

After a three week hiatus where the director, Julie Taymore, was fired and the script was re-written and  the show re-rehearsed – we now have the longest ever preview period for a show in the history of musicals since humans made musicals. A prolonged labour, if you will, before this behemoth baby was to be pushed forth into the world.

It should also be known that this labour period also led to more humans being almost killed while rehearsing or performing in a musical. Ever. So already: Winning.

That understood, I figured it was safe to say if I saw the preview, it wasn’t going to be all that different to the opening product. Especially since it opened in three days.

With the show at a cost of $77 million dollars by the time I sat down in my seat on June 11th, I wasn’t surprised that I had to pay my daily NY spending allowance on my single preview ticket. The Australian dollar was strong this week, so I wasn’t too perturbed.

I went along to the Foxwoods Theatre, at 213 W.42nd street and handed over my ticket. I took my seat next to a fat, balding man in his mid-forties holding a Playbill and a big packet of M&M’s. It was going to be that kind of show.

I was front and centre of the aptly named “Flying Circle” on level one. I noticed a platform in front of me. My imagination started clanking away. Maybe it was for Spider-man to come and swing on to. Maybe it was to catch any falling bits of  lighting rig. Maybe it was just a big ugly plank of wood in my way of the show.

All will be revealed!

LIGHTS DOWN! …And so it begins.

The title “Turn off the Dark” was how I felt within approximately 90 seconds of viewing this disasterpiece. I wanted them to put the lights back on so I could crawl over the man next to me and power walk out of the theatre for fear of choking on my own head. For that is what viewing the opening number induced.

Like something out of a tired old stage show in Las Vegas, an inexplicably new character called Arachné, based on an old Greco-Roman myth, was wailing incoherently whilst hanging from two bedsheets tied to the roof. That was right before six mechanical spider-legs sprang from behind her. I decided to ignore the common knowledge that spiders have eight legs and try to enjoy the show, sans arachnid pedantry.

As the spectacle continued, we were introduced to our hero; Peter Parker. A young nerd in a classroom, learning about science- and putting his hand up to answer every question in s..   song?

The opening number for Parker is not only completely tacky, but sounds like it was written by a 15 year old drama student on dexamphetamine.

The show descended from there.

Somewhere between the inflatable balloon that was meant to represent Bonesaw McGraw (RIP Randy Savage) and the inexplicable new Sinister Six villains they’d decided to invent- including a man made entirely out of bees- I lost my fucking mind.

The story made no sense, it ignored the very heart of the story of a boy growing up, finding out who he is and learning a lesson about responsibility. There was no journey- and not once was Uncle Ben involved anywhere saying “With great power, comes great responsibility.” One might argue, a keystone to the entire Spider-man story. No? Okay.

They had no Harry Osborne, and for some reason Norman Osborne (jarringly played quite well by Pat Page) now has a wife, Emily, who dies. So there you go.

The songs drag on in a monotonous drone, interspersed with ACTUAL U2 SONGS as some kind of hilarious in-joke devoid of actual humour or nuance- more just blatant lazy injection of existing U2 songs where original ones they were paid to write should have been.

It’s as if the writers took a cursary squint at the Wikipedia entry for Spider-Man whilst on an opium bender and proceeded to write the show in crayon.

Never have I seen such a musical abortion as this on a stage. I predict I never will. Even if they make a “Blossom Meets Sabrina The Teenage Witch” musical.

The show appears to have been written for males, from age 8 to 24, who like noises and lights and don’t altogether care if they make any coherent sense.

I’m not sure that’s your typical broadway audience.

That kind of sucks, when you’re tasked with selling out the show every single night for five years straight just to break even.

YES. Spider-man does swing around the theatre on cables, ropes and pulleys, landing on that ugly wooden plank in front of me. YES there is a spectacular Cirque du Soleil-style battle that goes for 41 seconds at the end of the show, and YES, there is an upside-down kiss (during the curtain call) for the four girls in the audience.

Those things are worth clapping your hands for. But when the school holidays finish, and the curious car-crash viewers of the show have all seen the anti-circus of a show (featuring 8 different actors playing Spider-man, plus Peter Parker) there won’t be much need for this turkey to stick around.

The show finished. They turned off the dark and opened the doors. I looked across at the fat, balding, single man sitting next to me, covered in M&Ms (I like to call him “Future Jason.”) and shook my head.

‘That was an experience’ he said.

‘No’ I said. ‘That..   was an ordeal.’

1.) You’ll be able to board the plane and ride it to your destination.

2.) You’ll be able to do that at time you specified, when you paid for your ticket.

3.) You’ll actually be treated like a human.

It seems over the last 10 years, air travel has devolved from something special and exciting- a privilege even, to something that causes more stress and angst than driving a semi-trailer through a peak hour traffic jam.

I was due to fly to New York today.
Today – not tomorrow, not next week – today.

I saved up. I paid for my ticket. I even got to the airport early in case there were any problems or delays at the check-in queue/security.

On arriving at O’Hare airport, I was met with what could only be described as a chaotic scrambled herd of human cows each darting their eyes around to figure out what the fuck they were meant to do.

The “streamlining” of domestic air travel has led to more stupidity than ingenuity. One has to now be able to check themselves in, check their own baggage, and ensure everything is tagged and checked correctly.

Qantas have been trailing this in airports in Australia, and it’s a fucking disaster.

Trusting everyday people to do the things that require specialist employees, and expecting that they won’t turn into angry, babbling idiots in the process is the biggest mistake in retail history.

The new Self-check out supermarkets are full of these same people. It’s not helpful, it’s not time-saving, it’s frustrating, and it’s blatantly obvious that you’re cutting corners to save money at the expense of your customers’ time.

The same applies to airlines.

But back to today.

I arrived early, lined up in the steaming cattle queue to check in. Various United attendants were busy yelling different, baffling instructions at the queue simultaneously, ensuring maximum confusion.

What they were trying to do was tell people how to check themselves in. There were dozens of these attendants.

I’m not a retail genius, nor a customer service expert, but I’m pretty sure if you put those very attendants at the check-in counter to do the job they’re making the customers do, the lines at every airport in the country would be cut in half.

After waiting 50 minutes in the queue, I was directed by another attendant to check in my bags at the self-check-in counter.

Upon entering my details, the computer came up with an unknown error. “See attendant”. It said.

The irony nearly killed me.

I approached an attendant who was busy yelling gibberish at the frightened queue.

I told her what the nice computer told me to do and she said I needed to talk to another attendant. (Of course I did.)

I found another attendant and asked her what I was meant to do. She quickly looked at the machine and told me it was a computer error and I’d have to re-book.

“Re-book?” I asked.

“Yeah – go see someone at that desk over there. See that line?” She blared.

“You mean the one that’s about a kilometre long?”

“Yeah – go see them and they’ll re-book you.”

“So wait, because your computer isn’t working, I not only have to forfeit my flight that I paid money for, but I have to book another one.”

“Yes sir.”

“Do I have to pay for it? Or does the credit roll over from the flight I’ve already paid for?”

“Yes sir – it will cost you around $75.”

“Excellent.”

After another 40 minute wait, I’m then told that I’m on a waiting list about 100 people long for the next dozen or so flights to New York.

I would have to spend the next however many hours walking from gate to gate with 100 other people waiting to see if anyone didn’t show up for their flight. If any seats become available then I can get to New York. This costs $75.

They call out your name if you win this lottery. They call it out at the gate at the last minute, just before the plane takes off, so you’ve got to be standing by, ready to jump on the plane.

I didn’t make it on to the 4:00pm at the other concourse, So I walked to the gate of the next flight with a similarly unamused group of potential lottery-winners.

The next gate was in the original concourse, B, where we all waited around anxiously wondering if this flight would be ours. Gate B12 was shoulder-to-shoulder with these people.

One woman raced to the gate and banged on the glass of the boarding gate window screaming “Please!!” in desperation. The rest looked on listlessly, looking at the screen for where the next flight to New York would be taking off from.

B12 closed, so we all shuffled on to B8 for the 6:00pm flight, waiting for the next hour to see if our names were the lucky ones.

And so, I wait here in O’Hare airport, wondering if I’ll ever leave Illinois.

I need your help- I need you to pass this on to anyone you can who might have been in Melbourne last night around 3:22am- if you know someone who went out, if you know someone who lives in the area, if you bought a dodgy burger from Lord of the Fries and wandered anywhere around the corner of COLLINS STREET and ELIZABETH STREET, 3:22am please call Constable Robinson, Melbourne Police: 1800 333 000

If you’re the cabbie, and somehow this message has got to you by whatever means, please turn yourself in. The longer this goes on, the worse it will be for you. I assure you, it’s hurting me more than it’ll hurt you.

Let me back up.

Last night I went out with my girlfriend to see one of my oldest and closest friends in a preview for his show, Rock of Ages at the Comedy Theatre in Exhibition street. It was a fantastic show and to keep the fun night going- he, along with my and his girlfriend celebrated with a beer in the lobby, then walked to Locanda at the base of the Rydges.

I had three scotch and dry’s over 3 hours, and ordered a pizza to share to line our stomachs. At about 1:45am My girlfriend and I peeled off from the group and went to China Bar on Russell street to fill up on some grub.

We left China Bar at 2:50am and considering we couldn’t get a tram we’d flag a cab.

The city was crawling with people, as it does at 3 in the morning on a Sunday. Everyone stumbling around with a belly full of booze with that sense of immortality that wears off when they wake up upside down on someone’s couch with someone’s dog lying on them.

We tried unsuccessfully to flag a number of cabs so wandered down Bourke street and continued in the vain hope that we’d win the vacant taxi lottery.

We had no luck by the time we hit Elizabeth street, so we continued down towards Flinders, passing little Bourke and a continuing flood of booze-soaked boofheads.

As the cabs were all zipping past, one after the other occupied with their lights off, I thought it might be worth a try calling Silver Top Taxis on 138 294. The first call was made at exactly 3:00am.

Once we hit Collins street, we crossed over to the other side of the road and waited on the corner next to the tram stop- outside the Bendigo Bank. (b)(Directly opposite the ANZ bank (a).

After 9 minutes, I realised I’d given them the wrong corner, and called back to tell them it was the corner of Elizabeth and Collins. The operator said the driver had gone to the other corner and nobody was there. I told him exactly where we were and he said he’d send the next available. It was 3:09am

At 3:20am, a taxi with its light was slowly driving South-East down Collins street. The taxi stopped at the lights outside the ANZ bank, on the opposite corner.

Two young guys, early-to-mid twenties, one of them quite tall, ran across the road from the yellow Optus shop and stopped in the middle of the road, yelling at the can to stop. The cab stopped, and one of the young men ran around to the passenger side window of the cab. Whether the cabbie asked him if he was “Chatfield” or “Where are you going?” is still a mystery, but either way the cabbie abruptly pulled away and drove across the intersection towards me.

I put my hand out to flag him down. I was standing under the lamp-post on the corner (b) and he pulled up a few metres away (c).

I leaned in the window and asked the driver “Chatfield? Are you looking for Chatfield?” He had a dark complexion, with a small goatie beard- his eyes really pierced the dark of the cabin of the cab. He nodded, and said “Where are you going?” I said “huh?” -He repeated, agitated, “Where you go?”

I gestured towards my girlfriend, who was standing on the corner still, about three or four metres away. I said “We’re going to East Melbourne”.

He rolled his eyes, lifted his left hand from the steering wheel in frustration then slammed it back down. It was then that he uttered in a few broken, monosyllablic grunts “NO- Too close.”

Right then, at 3:21am with my arm and hand still on the window, he hit the accelerator. All I could think was- “What the hell? Did he just hit the accelerator?- What did he just say?”

He started to speed up, as I ran to keep up with the cab- my hand stuck in the window- My girlfriend, Sophie, seems to think it was my watch band that got caught. He slammed his foot on the accelerator, pulling away much faster than I could keep up running, so I was dragged along, before slamming head-first into the road (d) on my right side. My head and shoulder took the brunt, as the rest of the right side of my body dragged along the bitumen, damaging my drawing arm and scraping off the skin at the shoulder, elbow and wrist.

Sophie, having witnessed the whole thing ran to me, lying on the road, and pulled me back on to the sidewalk. All I can remember is my whole body in excruciating pain, and not being able to feel my legs. I yelled in pain and blacked out.

(Landed on the righthand back side of my head.)

Everything above after “NO, Too close” has been peiced together from witnesses and Sophie- as everything from there became a bit of a blur, having happened so quickly before I smashed my head on the road.

Two men ran to help, then the police arrived very quickly. Cars had banked up behind the scene on Collins street next to the tram stop, but nobody could follow the cab as I had fallen on the road. I’m lucky Sophie pulled me to safety before the next car drove across the intersection.

The ambulance officers arrived and were concerned about my head, neck and back. I’m told all I kept saying was “find the cabbie. Find the cab.” as I driftd in and out of consciousness. I do remember not being able to feel or move my legs, and a sharp pain shooting through my hips.

Apparently I went into a seizure on the sidewalk before passing out again. The Ambo’s asked me a series of questions- I’m told I didn’t know what my name was, what year it was, where I had been, what had happened- all blank. They gave me that green whistle that sends you off to the land of no pain and I blacked out.

I was taken to Emergency at the Alfred wherupon I was rushed to have Neurological scans. Sophie was taken away to be interviewed by the Police and I had a series of urgent MRI/CAT scans and 45 minute series of X-Rays.

I didn’t sleep- I was out of it though, so everything was very fuzzy, and my body had reacted to the trauma, shooting pain up my back from my hips as I lay on my back.

At one stage I remember thinking how cool it would be to draw cartoon murals on the ceilings of hospital departments, as 100% of the patients get to see the blank, fluorescent-lit ceilings as they lie on their back, being rushed from department to department. My head was throbbing- and my ear was now bleeding.

I stayed awake for 24 hours, and when a critical car accident case came through the door, the entire team had to re-focus their efforts on them.

I couldn’t move my left leg, but my right leg would move with pain. When they let Sophie back in she said the police still hadn’t found the cabbie- and no one at the scene had got the number plate, or cab number. The CCTV footage they managed to get didn’t show a licence plate number.

I’m home now. I can’t have a shower as they’ve told me the resulting rush of blood would cause me to pass out. Wonderful.

The reason I write all this up is a combination of peicing the night back together from other peoples’ reports, as my head took a pretty hefty blow, and to put the call out to anyone- particularly the guys who flagged down the cab outside the ANZ building, to see if they saw anything, if they caught the cab number, saw the cabbie- anything.

I’m told the longer we wait, the less likely it is we’ll find the guy, so the sooner you can pass any of this info around to your friends in Melbourne the better. The tweeps have been fantastic – passing on my request to the point of it trending- you’re all excellent, thank you so much for passing it on.

Believe me, if I could remember the guy’s face clearly enough I’d do aWEG and draw a caricature of him!

If you have anything at all that you think might help, please call Crimestoppers on 1800 333 000

FOOTNOTE:
Cabbies are generally great people- there’s always a minority of meat-heads who spoil the reputation for the rest. Please don’t use this incident to fuel any racist or anti-taxi driver campaigns that might be lurking around. Yes, they don’t know where they’re going in Melbourne, and the cabs often smell godawful, but the majority of Melbourne cabbies do their job with no complaints, they’re not bad people.
However, the culture of ‘picking and choosing fares’ goes square against the very purpose of taxis, and should be met with severe zero-tolerance by the cab companies.

This morning the cab company said that another cabbie had picked up the job, and this guy wasn’t him. He just wanted to scoop in and get the fare.

This is an excerpt from a post by Alecia Gregory, who has written about life after deleting Twitter from her iPhone. Read the full article here.)

She’s right.
So, in a move that’s one-part solidarity, most parts absolute necessity, I, too, am deleting Twitter from my iPhone. And Foursquare. And Facebook. And all the other tosh that clutterfucks my iPhone with easy avenues for useless and banal thoughts that I should, in all honesty, keep to myself.

In front of the Firing Squad:

I’ll keep tumblr, more for my own diarising than anything, but I think my information diet needs as much of an overhaul as my actual diet.

I realised today that I can tweet, blog, mind-vomit through my laptop, my phone AND now a big shiny iPad. It’s a temptation too conducive to unproductive days.

Any re-tweeting, linking, blogging etc, I’ll do on the iPad and keep it to that. If I limit the avenues by relegating the task to one device I think it’ll keep me from wasting so much time. It really is addictive, as Alecia writes:

“It was all just starting to feel too much like an eating disorder or like academic mania.

I did it for the sake of my own brain and for the sake of the people I pit against the internet every single time I check my phone while in their company.”

She’s still right.

Sitting at a table where everyone has their iPhone out, tweeting about who they’re with, what they’re doing, and checking in to FourSquare with their eyes glued to a dull glow of a 2.5 x 4.5 inch screen seems a little too much akin to the humans in “Wall-E” than I’d like to experience any more.

Being mindful of the people in whose presence you should be appreciating is a common courtesy, not some kind of privilege that should be bestowed upon them over your tweeps.

Social networking has numbed my ‘actual’ real-world social networking, and I see it every time I go out with my fellow twenty-somethings. I hate the thought of us all being forty and only seeing each other through the eyes of a twitter feed from our couches than going down to the pub for a real drink.

Talking my girlfriend last night she told me this great story about how a girl fainted in the middle of her show at Edinburgh, and then went on to tell me more…
before I finished the story for her, as I’d already heard it through another cast member on twitter.

That’s disgraceful.
It’s not how people are meant to communicate. I’ll gladly take ignorance or being “under-informed” on absolutely every topic than being an insufferable know-it-all.
Going out with your girlfriend and not being present is just the same as not showing up at all.

My girlfriend is a much wiser soul than I- she doesn’t tweet, rarely checks Facebook and prefers the novel device of ‘speaking’ to people with ‘words’ in ‘sentences’ that last longer than 140 characters.

So, if I’m watching something like Q&A, or something gets posted to Twitter to plug a show I’m doing, or a show I’ve seen, or my cartoons – maybe a great link on something I’m interested in, it’ll be through the iPad- and it’ll be at very clearly specific intervals. I feel like I’m weening myself off something as commonplace for me as coffee.

And yes- before you point out the bleeding obvious, I realise the gut-twisting irony of posting this very decision on a blog, which will be tweeted, and relayed on Facebook- but it serves a better purpose than a video of a cat jumping out of a cardboard box in slow motion. From four angles.

So here goes nothing…

I’ll leave you with a video of one of my heroes, Louis CK on Twitter.

The entire time I’ve been in Paris, I’ve walked everywhere. I haven’t caught the Metro since the airport, haven’t taken a bus, hired a bike, taken a taxi- just shanks’ pony. My feet hate me, but it means I get to see everything in between origin and destination. And why not? I’m on holiday. I’m in no rush. It also gives me a thorough sense of where I am. By day 3 I knew how to get practically anywhere. Seems like really basic and obvious logic, but I’ve always taken public transport when I’ve travelled previously. What a tourist.

I marched up the streets towards Montmarte, getting higher and higher as my knees ground further and further into ‘why am I tired at 11:00am?’ territory.

After hundreds of steps, I finally made it to the top of Sacre Coeur to find breakdancing soccer-tricksters entertaining crowds of on-lookers perched, exhausted on the steps of the cathedral. Just like Jesus would have wanted.

The view from the top is really one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen. It’s said that on a clear day you can see all of Paris from theses steps – and it’s not far off.  The only place you’ll get a higher vantage point is the top of the Eiffel Tower.

It was a clear Sunday and the whole area was packed. It only registered after I wandered out of the cathedral how cold it was. Despite the bright sunny skies, the air had a deep chill to it. I couldn’t feel my face. -and I mean ‘literally feel my face with my hands.’ Because both my hands and my face were frozen stiff. I was lucky to still be able to operate my camera.

I walked all around the cobbled streets, jaw agape at the amazing neighbourhood of the great artists and writers who once all thrived here when rents were cheap. The Moulin Rouge, the little restaurants and cafés nearby tiny cottages on winding roads. These are the streets Van Gogh, Matisse, Renoir, Degas, Toulouse-Lautrec and Picasso called home. Everything your eyes are seeing has to be checked in the part of your brain that asks “wait – am I awake?”

I eventually made my way to the place I’d been really hanging out to see since I arrived in Paris – Place du Tertre. I remember reading about Tom and Anna Richmond’s account of their experience there, and it helped me know what to expect when I arrived. I rounded the corner to find a scene even more awesome than I’d imagined.

Dozens of artists, caricaturists, portrait painters, landscape painters all with their easels propped next to one another – samples of their work (and in some cases – OTHER peoples’ work) presented proudly at their stand, enticing passing tourists to trade a hefty wad of Euros for a one-off piece of art.

The main interest I had were the caricaturists. These guys do exactly what I do for a job, (minus the tacky tourist part) and some of them are truly amazing. Others… eeehh notsomuch.

According to Tom’s friend Rick Tulka, this seemingly loose collection of artists is actually a very tightly controlled union ruled with an iron fist. Trying to just show up and start drawing is a good way to get your fingers broken. Doubtless, to have a spot in the Place de Tertre itself you pay a lot of euros in rent and have to have seniority. Maybe you have to be approved by a street artist panel of judges or something. Perhaps you need a thumbs up from Simon Cowell. Who knows.

In any case, there were other artists wafting around the streets of Montmarte trying to get a look-in to be considered for the ‘all-prestigious’ Place du Tertre.

I wandered slowly through the streets, stopping to look at each artists’ work, interested to see what samples they had displayed.

The guy who’d been displaying Tom Richmond’s caricatures of Busta Rhymes, Marilyn Monroe, Julia Roberts and Joe Bluhm’s caricature of a co-worker were still up there. Without someone telling him to take them down I suspect they’d stay up there as long as the Mona Lisa will stay up in the Louvré.

I’ve always found it bizarre that the dodgy caricaturists will put up samples of OTHER peoples’ work. Surely when the person has theirs drawn and finds it’s not of the same standard, they’ve been had. (and have no real obligation to pay, since the ballsiest of false advertising was the reason they sat down in the first place.)

As I continued wandering through, I came to a bustling corner where four caricaturists of varying ages had their work set up.

It was like a heirarchy – with the old, bearded Gandalf-like caricaturist sitting, smoking an endless chain of cigarellos and watching over the younger caricaturists around him.
He was watching on in approval as the other guy next to him, who looked like he’d be working for centuries too, (I call him Skeletor) was finishing off a portrait of a young girl in charcoal.

I moved in to take a picture of him working, when ‘Gandalf’ moved in and started speaking some beard-muffled French in a raised tone about not taking photos.

He pointed at the girl’s father who was standing behind me with a disapproving look – like I was trying to take photos of his daughter like a dodgy pedophile.

That’s what they call me. Dodgy pedophile scribbles Chatfield.

I apologised  to the dad and explained I was just taking a photo of the portrait as the guy was working on it. The dad was American, so understood me just fine – and said “No, that’s fine. I was just under the impression these guys didn’t want you taking photos.”

I looked around at the other caricaturists, all of whom now weren’t working, and were squinting at me, curiously.
Gandalf slowly sat back down and lit up another cigarello, laughing to himself as he took the first puff.
I felt kind of guilty about the whole photo debacle, so wanted to make amends. I walked over and said “How about you draw me?”

He raised an eyebrow at me, as if I’d asked something silly of him- almost as if I’d asked Mozart to just ‘play me a tune.’
He said something in French as he pointed to the caricaturist off to his right who quickly picked up his drawing board and charcoals and nodded at me.

As he gestured for me to sit down he said “He doesn’t speak English -I speak a little.”

This guy was friendly, very polite, and could clearly draw.
I later found out he’d studied as an arts student and was drawing caricatures because they paid well. He was passionate about the craft though, and considered it an unrespected artform.

I made a very conscious decision before I’d sat down, not to mention that I’m a cartoonist if I get my caricature drawn.

Not only am I way below par to these guys, but it felt presumptuous to just stroll into these guys’ territory and say that I do what they do.  These guys have been doing it way longer, and its pointless to bring it up anyway. What are they going to do – give me a job? Get me to fill in on their break?

Above all else, I didn’t want to sit for a caricature and tell the other caricaturist “Okay – I do this for a living. You’d better be good… Go!!”

The moment I sat down I realised it was the first time I’d sat for a solo caricature.
I mean other caricaturists have drawn me at gigs,

and Tom Richmond used my dorky face as the example for hiscaricaturing workshop at the Stanleys Conference last year

- but I’ve not sat for a solo caricature as a punter, one-on-one with a caricaturist I’ve not met.

The funny thing about caricaturing someone live, is that people tend to ask you the same old questions while they’re sitting there; no matter where in the world they’re from, no matter what age – it’s always the same:

“So how long have you been doing this?”

“What’s your REAL job?”

“So what are you like an arts student or something?”

“What do you look for when you draw someone?”

This seems to ease the subject’s nerves to try and distract them from the fact that you’re staring at all of their features – and it is unnerving when someone starts looking at every inch of your face before grinning, or squinting as they look back down at the page and scribble away.

So you always have the stock, standard answers to these questions ready to go so you can keep drawing while you talk – and put them at ease. You don’t want to have a whole bunch of caricatures of people looking uncomfortable.

Then of course you have ‘the heckler.’

The heckler is the person (usually a guy) who walks behind the artist, looks at the drawing and then at you, then back at the drawing and say something like “His ears aren’t THAT big!” or “Her eyes aren’t THAT far apart!” -and then laughing hysterically – quickly undoing all the work the caricaturist has done putting the subject at ease.

These are the people who would never in a million years sit for a caricature themselves, but are more than happy to sit back and make fun of the artist and the person being drawn. (Threatening to draw them next is a pretty effective method of dispersing said douchebag.)

That all said – we had all the regular players this day.

Three or for different American tourists came up and did the ‘look at caricature – look at me – look at caricature – “Oh, his nose isn’t THAT big!” followed by an incessant cackle or the like.

One more passed – same thing, laughed and moved on.
The third heckler walked past, did the ‘look’ then said “God – he’s really missed the look there. He’s way off – looks nothing like you.”

Now, when someone says that, there’s two things you can do as the caricaturist: You can pretend you didn’t hear it, ignore it, and keep on working.

Or, you can say something.

Now – the caricaturist drawing me decided to take option 1, but I could see in his face when he looked up from then on, he was worried and it had clearly effected him.
He gave an awkward and uncomfortable semi-laugh and drew a little bit slower – pulling the page back to look at it more carefully.

The heckler gave one more “Nope. That’s not him at all.”

I then decided to take option 2.

“Sorry chief – I didn’t hear him ask you what you thought. And I certainly didn’t.”

His devious grin promptly disappeared.
In my book, his final jab entitled me to a free “Respond to the douchebag” token.

“Well it doesn’t look like you.”

“Oh, Right. But you could do a better job, yeah?”

“Well no, I..    But I’m not an Cari.. caricaca… carickick..”

“Caricaturist.  Exactly.  Shut the fuck up.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but instead just grumpily moved on, and the guy drawing me had to stop from laughter.

I looked over at Gandalf and the century-old portraitist who were also having a good chuckle. Gandalf pointed back at the caricaturist drawing me, so I turned and he was ready to go -this time with a smile.

It was at this point that I noticed he hadn’t smiled til now, and in doing so, he revealed two, big, widely spaced front teeth.

My hand twitched.

As his face stretched out from the smile, it revealed a whole new dimension to his previously stoney face.
Cheek wrinkles started to present themselves, crows feet, his chin shape changed, his eyebrows went from straight across, to a new sort of perfectly flowing, almost aesthetically pleasing shape across his brow.

I gritted my teeth.

This guy was a caricature and I hadn’t even realised it. He would make a fantastic subject, (and I’m sure he was aware of it too.)

I found myself studying his face for more detail, for proportions, for relationships between the features (til now I’d consciously switched off the part of my brain that does this with people. It can get distracting,)

I tried to distract myself by talking to him. I told him I realised caricature isn’t meant to be kind, it’s meant to exaggerate and distort, and parody the person being drawn – not airbrush out features they’re uncomfortable with.

But saying this was only making me focus more on how I’d draw this guy.

My brain started sketching the shape of his face exaggerating his jaw-line, his teeth, his bulbous nose, and those freaking eyebrows (At that moment, I’m sure he was thinking the same thing.)

Aa good 25 minutes had gone by as he started drawing in the obligatory Eiffel Tower in the background, as he said “Where are you from? You English?”

“Non, je suis australien” (I winced, as I worried he’d put something like a shrimp, or a kangaroo in the background.)

“Aah Australien! You are on holiday oui? What do you do in Ozzie?”

I bit my lip. Smiled. Thought of anything else – “Taxidermist” “Hit man” “Door bitch”…

“Uh. I’m ….I uh.”

Ah fuck it.

“I’m a cartoonist”

I think his eyebrows shot up through the brim of his hat as his toothy smile made an encore.

“Vous plaisantez! Vous êtes caricaturiste! “

I wasn’t entirely sure what he said, but I repeated..

“uh Oui, uh. vooz ez caricatureeeste.”

He hadn’t signed the caricature yet, so he still wasn’t finished. This meant I couldn’t get up and pay him to make a swift escape. I signaled to the guy selling tubes while my caricaturist began happily gesturing to Gandalf and the crew as he exclaimed, laughing “Vous ne croiriez pas ! Cet homme est caricaturiste!!”

They all spun their heads around to look at me like someone had infiltrated their base and had been unmasked.

A tense moment. Then..

“Ahahaha!!!” They all belly laughed excitedly. Gandalf clapped.

“Whew!” That could have gone either way.

They started asking me questions in French, and I could only just make out what they were saying.

My guy finished off the caricature of me, then showed it to me.

I laughed – probably a little too loudly, and through dorky snorts issued a “Merci beaucoup!” It looked a little too much like Michael Bublé after a stroke, but it was better than what I could do.

He took a photo of me with the caricature on my camera, and I got up, he unclipped the page from his drawing pad, rolled it up and put it in the tube I’d just bought for way too much money. I call it ‘extortion tube’.

It was as I stood up and stretched out in the freezing cold that he’d noticed the five pens hanging out of my pocket. (A double-tipped Tombow N15, a Pigma, an Artline 210, a Pilot Fineliner and a new double-tipped Japanese pen I’d bought a day earlier.) I pushed them back into my pocket as Gandalf’s friend said “Haha – you take your studio with you yes?”

“Ha! Everywhere!” I said uncomfortably.

I asked the guy how much did he want for the caricature, (I knew it was 30Euro but I thought I’d ask to be sure.)
He said – “Usually is 30, but for you I give for 20, oui?”

“That’s very generous, merci boucoup!”

Just as I pulled out the twenty, he looked over at Gandalf. Gandalf had planted another cigarello into his beard and was mid-way through lighting it when he pointed at my guy, smiled and said..

“Draw him.”

My face filled with heat while the rest of my body was frozen solid. I probably looked like a radish wearing a scarf.

I laughed nervously, and considered for a moment the mental study I’d just made of this guy’s face. “No, no – that’s..”

Gandalf’s friend, Skeletor, gestured towards my guy’s chair “Yes! Do it!”

My guy handed me his drawing board with 5 or 6 pages left clipped on to it, and offered me his charcoals.
I said “No – that’s okay” and pulled out my Tombow.

The Tombow marker is the one I use when I do live caricaturing gigs. It’s double-tipped, with one side as a brush tip, and the other side as a finer felt-tip for hatching. They run out quickly, they smudge, and they’re expensive, but they’re my weapon of choice. Everybody’s got something different.

We switched chairs, and I propped the board on my knee, and propped my right foot on top of my sideways left foot to get some height.

My hands were freezing.

Not just the kind of cold where you can rub them and they start to warm up again, but I’m talking numb, stiff, frozen fingers sticking out of an ice-plate of a palm.

I started rubbing my hands together in vain trying to warm them up, but to no avail. I shook them out, huffed into them, nothing. I should have worn gloves.

Just then, Gandalf opened up a little case, pulled out a Cohiba cigarello and handed it to me.

The offering quelled my nerves, which up til now had welled up at feeling uncomfortable, like some presumptuous little upstart kid, coming in and showing off.

I grabbed it, nodded a silent thanks and pulled out a box of matches I’d taken from a café the night before.
As I lit the stick and took a couple of puffs, a curious crowd who had seen the exchange of caricaturists switching seats started to form behind me.

The 30-something caricaturist to my left said “Okay – well I draw you while you draw him”

Oh God. This is getting ridiculous.

A clump of people clapped and laughed at hearing this, so I chomped down on the cigar and took another few puffs as I took the lids off the double edged Tombow.

Gandalf and Skeletor were impressed with the pen -I’d be surprised if they hadn’t seen it as they’ve been around for a while. Then again these guys use charcoals, chalks and paints so maybe they hadn’t tried using them. All the same, their eyes got a bit wider as they looked on, sceptically.

I looked up the hunter now hunted caricaturist who had a worried look on his face. I’m sure he’d seen the crowd behind me and saw potential dollar signs in his eyes. For this reason I decided to be doubly-quick so he could get on with earning his money.

I started with his eyes, following the line of his heavy brow, moving as quickly as I could with my solid nubs of ice. As I moved on to each feature- right eye, left eye, bulbous nose, the caricaturist next to me said “What – no guides?”
I think he was asking why I was just drawing it straight on to the page without doing any fine outlines or a guide shape of the face to follow as some caricaturists find helps.

I didn’t have time, and I wasn’t about to make this some great piece of art for all to revere – I was just going to politely knock up a quick scribble and be on my way. I was already way out of my depth.

My hands were only marginally less frozen than before, but I still didn’t have anywhere near the range of movement I usually have in my fingers ( so it was all coming from elbow town!)

The crowd grew and watched on, laughing and talking about the drawing as I hit the 2 minute mark. I hadn’t realised, but this whole time in a desperate effort to get warm, I’d been puffing madly on this cigar while I was furiously scribbling away -getting quicker as I went – so it had burned down to half-way.

The caricaturist to my left who was drawing me was still roughing in his outline as I looked over and continued hatching with my right hand. He said “You slow down or I won’t be able to draw you while you’re here!”

I looked back at my guy and asked him to smile – it didn’t take much. He’d already relaxed into it and was pleased there were so many people around his stand – pointing at his work and the other caricaturists (who now all had subjects to draw, plucked from the crowd.)

As he smiled, I drew in those two big gaping front teeth, and hatched in the waved eyebrows I’d been marveling at earlier.

I hit the three minute mark and got down to the body.
I started to draw the body and he said “Body already! Small body?” “Oui” I said – “Small body” as the cigar wound down to 2cm.

I blacked in the shoes and pants, and quickly drew in an Eiffel Tower, as Gandalf said something in French off to my right and laughed. His old friend Skeletor translated “He said draw the Sacre Couer Basillica!”

The crowd laughed, then I started drawing Sacre Coeur, and the caricaturists lost their shit. I knew he was kidding, so I drew it to take the piss. They liked that.

Minute four, and I doused the cigar on the cobbled street below me, put the pen in my mouth and held the caricature back to have a look from arms’ length and get one last look . I wasn’t happy with it, but I guess I never am.

The crowd clapped, so I guess it was done.

I signed it, spun it around for the caricaturist to see, and got a warm handshake from him with a “Thank you – very very much. ” He translated from Gandalf “You got him!”

I handed him back his board and turned to the crowd to gesture ‘Quick! Now you get one done!’ – He was very happy at the gesture.

He said he was impressed with my sense of line, and shape, and had a good eye.
Frankly, the caricature was sloppy, and the likeness was barely there. I wasn’t happy with it but I wasn’t going to complain. I took the compliment and thanked him for letting me draw him.

I put my pen away, shook my guys hand, and waved goodbye to the others. The guy drawing me had abandoned the sketch at nose stage as I’d already finished and stood up by then.

Just as I was leaving, Gandalf gestured for me to come over to where he was sitting. I shook his hand and thanked him for the cigarello.
He kept shaking my hand, smiling and chuckled and asked “Australie eh?….” I nodded. Then he slowly croaked  “Good.”

I wandered off into a little café called (Le Consulat) to get a coffee and thaw out. I sketched Gandalf and laughed at his old friendly, monosyllabic approval. “Good.”

(Click the image at the top of the page to view photo slideshow.)

“Okay okay I know you’ve probably had a million messages telling you what to see in Paris, but you can’t leave without seeing Rodin’s gardens. Have a good trip. PS. Rodin’s. Gardens. Seriously.”

Needless to say, I seriously needed to see Rodin’s gardens.

I’ve been a keen admirer of Rodin’s work since the traveling exhibition made its way to the WA Art Gallery in early 2002. I remember spending an entire day marveling at how this guy could nail hands in sculpted form so perfectly (kind of how I felt when I first saw Mort Drucker’s work.)

I wandered on in to the museum, which was packed for the first part of the day for some reason, but petered out to a small selection of meandering retirees after an hour or so.

Of course the first thing I had to see was Rodin’s most famous and iconic work, “Le Pensevr” (‘The Thinker’.)

It was great to get to walk around the entire sculpture in 360 degrees, and focus in on the various joints and muscles, and how they form in this pose. It’s the kind of thing you really only get to do up close with the actual sculpture itself.

I found an angle I liked and sat on a bench and started sketching him.

It really is a masterpiece, and a tribute to Rodin’s incredible ability to capture the subtlest of details in the human form. This pose is no mean feat either.

The first sketch I did was shit. 

I started again – this time making it looser, placing limbs in space before getting too bogged down in the light and dark of it. The real challenge was to stop staring at it and just put my head down and draw it.

A girl came and sat down next to me after taking a photo of the statue. She asked if she could see the sketch (which was still shit the second time around.)
“Wow! I wish I could do that.” she said “You don’t need a camera – you’ve got your pen.”

Aside from the fact that it’s completely untrue, and the sketch turned out bollocks, if I didn’t have a camera and I only had a pen, I’d be way better at drawing by now.

Think about before cameras; all these guys had was paintbrushes and charcoal. Of course they’re some of the greatest artists of all time – that’s all they did! They didn’t have a choice between their Canon point-and-shoot or their brush. They just had brush!

I walked around the rest of the museum in awe once again of the hands – the hands, people -the hands. My freaking god this guy knew hands.

The Gates of Hell in all its forms and details is just amazing. To see it in its true scale and stand in front of it to study it with your own eyes is a real privilege.

I walked out of the museum and had a wander down through St Germain and had a drink at the Café des Officiers. I drew a few of the other punters, then one of the waiters and scored a free gin.

I like Paris.

On the way home I stopped on the Seine and did a quick sketch of one of the bridges just as the Eiffel Tower lit up.
Drawing turned out crap, but the view was amazing.

It think the most impressive thing about the museum is its scale, and ease of navigation. If you have a good look around outside before you go in, it’s easy to figure out where you are in the scheme of the epic structure.

I’ll be brief, as this place is almost a mandatory stop for anyone visiting Paris- so most of the detail would be known from you either a.) visiting the place yourself, b.) reading about it or seeing pictures/movies/documentaries about it, or c.) all of the above.

I walked through the amazing courtyard and on into the museum just after it opened, and made my way straight to the French, Greek and Italian sculptors.

Something I find immensely fascinating about ancient sculpture is the fact that the facial expressions are mostly the same with women, and always very similar with men. I’m always curious about someone’s personality, but the classically sculpted faces don’t seem to give much away. Not ‘til Daumier did the real personalities (flattering or not) vividly come through in sculpture, and in caricature. (Everyone has their opinion; that’s mine.)

The hours flew by like minutes, and after looking at hundreds of the most amazing paitings before I knew it I’d arrived at the most notorious of all – the Mona Lisa.

There’s something very disappointing about the way this is set up, and truth be told it really soured the experience for me.

You walk into a large room, filled with some of the most incredible paintings on the grandest of scale, then in the back third of the room is a wooden semi-circular barrier, surrounding the massive slab of wall housing the glass-encased painting. There are some bollards, with a fabric border similar to that of airport queues creating a semi-circular ‘standing zone’.

Whether the painting behind the glass is indeed the real Da Vinci original is a thought that popped into my head almost immediately. They most likely have the real one in a metre-thick vault underground and nobody would know. After all – it’s encased in glass on a big plaster slab.. it must be real.

But that aside, the painting, as is now fairly well-known, is quite small compared to what is usually expected from seeing the painting ad nauseum on promotional enlargements/prints etc.  In fact it makes the big slab look kind of silly really, but the grandiose presentation is a result of it’s fame, not its size.

The disappointing part of the set up is that there’s no real order to how you can view the peice.

If indeed you’d like to stand, gaze, marvel and wonder at arguably the most talked-about painting of the last century, you can’t.

Well, you can, but you’d better be wearing padding.

There was an endless throng of teenagers, various loud, rude, tactless tourists elbowing their way through the crowd like they were at a rock concert, only to take what can only be plainly be described as “a photo of a fucking painting” which bluntly destroys the mystique, and any pleasure you thought you’d have by finally seeing the Mona Lisa with your own eyes.

After patiently wading through the sea of people for a good 5 minutes, I would have stood there for less than 10 seconds before being shoved out of the way by two adults, pushing their way through to show their 3 and 5 year olds.

I’m sure they’ll remember seeing it. Well done.

The father took out his digital camera and clumsily fumbled around with the buttons trying to turn it on, then zoomed in, squinted at the screen, zoomed in more, was shaking from all of the people knocking past him, then just as he took a photo (with flash), he was pushed out the way by an African American girl with a mobile phone, loudly proclaiming as she took a photo with said phone “Hey checkiddout ohmah god! It’s the LisaLisa!”

The man looked at his wife, who was trying to keep the two children from running under the barrier, then rolled his eyes and started again.
He bent forward to take the photo, zooming in and out to get the right whatever, and then took another photo (with red-eye reducing flash this time. bless.) and then looked at his wife again, and said “Got it.”

Got it?
Got what? You know you can download that picture from the internet if you really want it, or perhaps buy one of the 52 variations in the gift store out the front. And it’s likely going to be better quality than the shaky photo you just took – which in all likelihood turned out as a white flash reflecting off the glass casing.

No sooner did they elbow their way back around to the side exit, (not even taking a moment to actually stand and look at the painting itself) than I was pushed up against the fabric barrier, toppling the bollards over by a throng of Japanese tourists, all of whom wanted to take the identical photograph of the painting. Then another pimply teenager with a mobile phone camera, then another. (To his credit, one of the Japanese tourists actually wanted his photo in front of the painting. One.)

I can understand people wanting to have their photo taken in front of it. Yes – to prove you were actually there omfg wow get out of town you’re famous.
But these unrelenting waves of mindless tourist zombies turn what is meant to be a leisurely, relaxing and god-forbid, enjoyable day of taking in some of the world’s finest art, into an ordeal.

I went back three times to try and just get a look at the painting, maybe stand for 30 seconds – possibly a full minute without being shoved out of the way. Fail.

I gave up.

Fuck it, I’ll rent the DVD.

I finished the day wandering through to find my favourites – a lot of Ingres, Delacroix, Gericault and the like. I remember writing essays on these pieces when I was 17 – focusing so much on all of the esoterics and technical qualities that I never really just stood and looked at them, waiting to see how they affected me.

The greatest thing I love about art is the way it affects each person differently. There’s no right or wrong way to view art – it’s like wine;you know what you like.

I really enjoyed most of the time at the Louvre, but something needs to be done about that Mona Lisa exhibit. Seriously.

Yes, it’s their biggest draw-card, and it pulls in millions of people from around the world, but surely an orderly queue wouldn’t be too much to expect of an art gallery? It’s France – the queues move quickly. Surely it’s not too much of an imposition on the people who want to see the painting.

I finished off the day trying to order duck at a French restaurant. I think in fact I ordered the QE2, by confusing “canard” with “Cunard.”

Meh. C’est la vie.

Touted as the rude, obnoxious frog-eating, wine quaffing snail-cookers who won’t speak English out of principal, and won’t even look at you if you don’t uphold their proud customs.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Yes, they like to whinge, (much like the English) but they’re not hostile, and they’re certainly not as rude as they’re made out to be. Kind of how Australians aren’t really as dim-witted as we’re made out to be by the English and Americans.

{This is a long read. Get a coffee.}

As soon as I stepped off the plane, I just followed the groggy jumble of passengers to the customs gate. (The jumble included the Indian guy who fainted and landed with a dull thud in the middle of the aisle at 5am waking everybody, so he was getting sufficient evils. One guy said “Hey, is that the fainter?)

The queue at the small customs gate was very quickly reduced, and on my arrival at the customs booth, I was greeted with a friendly “Bonjour Monsieur” – I automatically shot back a bizarre jumble of  “G’da-uh. huuyyBonjour!”

It took literally 20 seconds for the attendant to look at the passport, stamp it, and say “Merci” before I was on the other side and all clear to enter France.

No customs forms, no immigration information, no “Why are you coming here?” No “How long are you staying?” No fingerprinting, No Retinal scans, No X-Ray screening or random explosives tests, just “Merci.”
(I am of course, comparing to my last two trips to the US, which seemed more like Christopher Lambert’s ordeal in ‘Fortress’ than a polite welcome to our country (no reflection on the people though – just the stringent border security policy.)

I arrived at the baggage carousel the moment my bag came out (the curse is lifted?) so I swiftly ducked in and grabbed it before the huge crowd closed in on the baggage train.

-One thing that’s always irked me, no matter where I fly is that when people are waiting for their bags at the carousel, they seem to think there’s nothing wrong with just standing right in front of the carousel. This means that the people behind A.) Can’t see their bags come out, and B.) Can’t get in to pull them out when/if they do pass by. Is it not common sense to just stand say, a metre or two back from the carousel, and step forward to grab your bag when it slides past?

But I digress.

I had originally planned to just jump into a cab, forefeighting a day’s worth of spending money on the one fare. I’d anticipated I’d be too jet lagged to navigate the alien Metro, but I was feeling surprisingly alert (dosed up to the eyeballs on adrenaline) and was up for a challenge.

I wheeled my baggage around the impressive cog-like layout of De Gaulle until I found the entrance to the Metro. Why every city doesn’t have a train station from the airport I’ll never know. Sydney is the only Australian city I know of who does (I might be wrong, Brisbane?)

I approached the ticket booth with hesitation, knowing full well my French was pretty shabby, and not up to par to fluently ask for a one-way ticket to the city. The woman saw my bags, and probably the gormless look on my face, and just said in English “Do you want to go to the city?”

Who needs French?

I jumped on the train at sunrise, and shot into the city as the light started to hit the countryside and eventually the more built up industrial areas. I decided I’d jump off at Gare du Nord and navigate my way from there.

By now the train was packed with morning commuters, so I squeezed my way through the frenetic bustling Parisian workers up through the winding tunnels and arcades.
I finally came to the escalator up to fresh air and stood still as the light started to filter in through the exit.

In one of those memorable moments you couldn’t even orchestrate if you tried, My iPhone shuffled to a great Bill Evans and Jim Hall track (With Philly Joe Jones, Ron Carter and Zoot Sims) called “My Bells” just as I was presented with this view:

The whole scene blew my mind. Even in New York I hadn’t had such an overwhelming flood of light and sound jolt my senses to the point of saturation. I was awestruck.

You see photos and movies of Paris – My idea of what to expect was formed by films like Amelie and Before Sunset, and sadly, the clunky Da Vinci Code film.

Despite any exposure to any number of photos, tv-shows, films, and friends insisting you must go here and you must do this, the feeling of standing in a street in Paris is literally indescribable. I struggled with words in my head to try and articulate to myself what I was seeing. Nothing – just “Bluh.”

I picked my jaw up off the pavement and checked to see if someone had nabbed my wallet while I was catatonic, then headed across the road to a café to try my hand at ordering some food. I was famished – the only food I’d had were hard boiled eggs benedict on the plane. I’m sure they’ll be sitting in my stomach this time next week.

I took a seat and pulled out my Lonely Planet city guide to Paris. Before I could open to the ‘phrases’ page, I looked up to find a walking stereotype greeting me and asking what I’d like.

It was like something out of the movies – this guy was the classic French waiter I always draw when I think ‘waiter’.

He was stout, had dark, slicked back hair, a moustache, checkered pants, an apron and black vest over a white long-sleeved shirt. He held a silver tray and had a white tea-towel draped over his left forearm.

The whole ‘snooty French waiter’ idea went right out the window when I said “Eerrr… Croissant et Café sis vous plais?”

His face turned to one  big smile as he said “Oui monsier! Right away,” (The English part was my clue that my French is so bad, he just assumed I was English/American/Australian but he appreciated the effort.)

I took my time and let the whole scene sink in, trying for once not to worry about how much work I could be getting done, and just attempting to be mindful. Then I took my first sip of a Parisian coffee.

Holy shit. Amazing. I’m going to be awake for six days.

It would appear that if you just stroll up to the French and insist that they should just known how to speak English, then of course they get pissed off at you. That’s like a Malaysian walking up to an Australian and being miffed they can’t be understood just because you’re neighbours.
If you at least make an effort, and eventually hit the eject button of “Parle vous Anglais?” they’re friendly, helpful and polite. At least you’ve made the effort.
(Or at least that’s how it would seem after a few days observation.)

I walked from Gare du Nord down the long, historic streets of the city, all the way down to the Louvré and Les Halles district, using my Lonely Planet map to get an idea of where the hell I was.

I arrived in the street my hotel was in, and couldn’t believe how close it was to the Louvré; A quick walk South a couple of blocks!

I checked in (in English) and made my way up to my tiny room on the second floor, collapsed on the bed, and the room spun. I have no idea how long I’d been awake, but it wasn’t healthy (even by my standards.)

I got back up, squeezed into the bathroom and brushed my teeth to wake me up, and hit the streets again (sans baggage) for a bit of reconnaissance. (I just used ‘sans’ and ‘reconnaissance’ in a sentence. I’m way French.)

It’s hard not to notice the fact that every corner houses either a café, a wine bar or a restaurant (or all three in one). I walked around my block to find there was a dozen restaurants, bars, cafés, a fresh fruit and veg shop, a bakery, a newsagent, oh, and a little bank..

I grabbed some water and supplies and headed back to the room to stock up and have a nap. I figured I’d power nap then head out for dinner.

I hit the pillow at 4:00pm…   I woke up at 8:00am the next day.

{ To be continued… }

[ FULL ALBUM OF PHOTOS OF DAY 1:]

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=212751&id=708786202&l=7e7c8a639c

DAY 2.

There’s something completely dream-like about this city.

Beyond the romantic setting, the historic pride, the galleries, the museums, the epic architecture, the amazing wine, the top notch coffee, the culture, the language – there’s an indefinable energy about Paris that completely wraps itself around you and saturates your soul.

As wanky and verbose as that idea is, Paris just isn’t sinking in. Three days in the city and there’s absolutely no semblance of “Okay, so I get it. Now, let’s do some things.” that you get when you travel to, say New York, or Bali.

There’s always that point when you’ve landed in a foreign country and spent a short time acclimatising to your new surroundings where you have a level of comfort and certainty about the place that becomes the foundation for the rest of your experiences.

Paris just isn’t like that.
Every bit of light that lands on a building acts differently than anywhere else. You walk around a corner to a scene that quite literally stops your heart from the epic unfathomable scale or beauty of what you’re seeing.

I’ve been wearing my glasses around to take in every ounce of detail that I can, but I’ve found there’s just so much detail I’m becoming genuinely overwhelmed by everything.

Let me take a step back.

I woke up the day after arriving feeling disoriented. I’d been sleeping for 16 hours, and I wasn’t sure for the first few minutes where exactly I was, and if what I’d seen late yesterday was being remembered from a dream or if it was actually what I’d seen.

I can see why people come here with their lovers or friends with them to Paris. It’s like you need other person with you to confirm with each other exactly what you’re seeing, just to check you’re not out of your mind.

I opened up the window to an overcast, drizzling sky poking in through the line of buildings. It isn’t really any colder than Melbourne right now, so the plan of buying a crazy big coat to avoid hypothermia went out the window, which stayed open while I took a tiny tiny shower.

I got this week’s stories through from the editor back in Perth, so rearranged some of the furniture in the room to make a tiny work station, then sent off my editorial cartoon with 10 minutes to deadline.

Housekeeping were knocking insistantly on the door, so I figured that was my cue to get out (and I wasn’t about to argue with her. She looked like a muscular, squat, bear-wrangler. Who spoke French.)

I realised somewhere between getting off the train and falling into a coma I’d lost my Lonely Planet city guide to Paris. I still had the map in my pocket, but the book was nowhere to be seen.

So my first mission was to get another one, then sit and have some breakfast and have a read, and go over my plan of attack for the city.

The French don’t really think much of breakfast as a meal. For petit déjeuner they’ll usually just grab a coffee with a lot of hot milk and a croissant, or sweet roll. It’s more lunch and dinner that are the focal points the day gravitates around.
I’ve had to change my habit of a big breakfast and no lunch for almost the opposite.

I walked around about 7 or 8 blocks in the city, just wandering with the general aim of finding a bookshop. I ended up wandering in and out of lane ways, main avenues, smaller streets and discovering districts I hadn’t planned on visiting.

I ended up back near the hotel after about 4 hours, and asked a local in the travel agency if he knew where I’d be able to find a bookstore.

He pointed to ‘that building across the road.. see it?’

“Uh, yes… you mean the uh. The Louvré?”

“Oui. Le Musée de Louvré”

I laughed that he referred to it as “that building across the road” and took his advice of checking the Louvré store to see if they had any guide books.

I hadn’t intended to see the Louvré today, but I thought ‘why the hell not – just go have a quick look’.

Wow.

I know it’s one of those things that everyone comes to see when they come to Paris, and it gained considerable renewed notoriety after Dan Brown’s mind-numbing tomes, but it really is one of the most amazing wonders you’ll ever see.

I wandered in through the back way, through the courtyard and in past the fountains. The sheer scale of the place was staggering- and the detail on the carvings, mind-bending.

I walked on through to the famous glass pyramid to a massive slew of international visitors taking ‘hilarious’ photos on the plinths out the front. The queue, though moving quickly, seemed a bit huge for a browse through a bookstore, and I hadn’t intended to see inside today (I’m setting aside an entire day to see as much of it as possible.)

I moved on and wandered through the markets, cafés and various alleys lined with specialty shops, marvelling at the fact that to the people who live here, this is ‘normal.’

It’s when you see things like the Louvré or wander along the Seine that you realise how young Australian really is. It’s something I quite like about Australia, but it brings back into context where we stand in the scheme of human history, and culture.

If there’s one thing you can say of France, and the French, it’s that there culture is incredible well-defined, and palpable. Everything about this country is solidified by a proud history, tradition and independent language, founded on hundreds of years of development.

But I digress. Again.

Once I tracked down a bookstore and picked up another copy of the Lonely Planet guide, I sat down for some food.
In planning out my coming week, I realised there is just literally too much to see, and even though I’ve got 5 or 6 more days to see it, I just need one day without a plan.

I was already well and truly into the day, and had a good 6 more hours of sunlight, so I made a decision to not have a plan for the day.

I made a concerted effort to do just one thing: get myself completely lost, and then find my way home again.

I wandered further and further around, weaving through markets and streets, more shops, more cultural hubs, past artists studios, cinemas, theatres, hundreds of restaurants, bars.

The people really are charming, funny and friendly. The idea of them being snobby is no doubt perpetuated by the dreaded ‘ugly American tourist.’ (I should note that I saw a lot of American tourists who were polite, tried to speak French and were generally having a great time – I suspect it’s just the loud, rude ones that make the most memorable impression, and bring the worst out of the locals.)

Yes, the French all still smoke, and they all seem to own a dog. These stereotypes are very much grounded in truth, along with their propensity to drink like fish. All of theses things are just fine with me – I love drinking, I’m used to smoke, and I like dogs. Viva la Paris.

It also occured to me that everyone has their own idea of Paris, and will all have their own experience coming away from the city.
It’s entirely dependent on who you’re with, what time of year you’re there, where you’re staying, how old you are when you visit and what you’re there for.

A lot of my friends came here when they were 17/18 on Contiki tours and the like. It would have been great fun, but a completely different experience to coming alone when you’re 25. After reading and studying art history, gradually learning to paint and having 8 years of experience working as an artist now, I’m glad I hadn’t come when I was younger. I get the feeling I’d have appreciated it less. (I did regret not coming here straight after school at the time, but couldn’t afford it.)

I’m looking forward to bringing wooml* here, and I miss her like crazy, but it’s fun getting lost and accidentally discovering things with no set itinerary. The last time she was here she was only a kid, and no doubt her next visit will be completely different from her last.

*way out of my league

I stopped into the Jetlag bar for a Heineken and frites to give my feet a break.
Even though I was wearing sneakers, the cobbled and paved streets really took a toll on my flat feet.

Every corner presented a new option of exciting and bold places to go, bright patches of sun poked through the cloud on fruit stands, cheese shops and boucheries, where they sold everything from the pig’s snout to the curly tail.

I laughed at one point as I looked around and didn’t have a single clue where I might be- so I pulled out the map and began to get my bearings. (By now I’d memorised a heap of streets and knew roughly where I was.)

I wandered right up as far as Mont Marte but decided to head back towards the Seine and leave that part of town for another day. On the way back to the hotel (a 2 hour walk) I stopped in to a bakery to buy a fresh baguette, then to the butcher for some ham (no snout) and  some water, juice etc.

It’s quite a lot cheaper to just buy supplies and prepare food before you leave than to eat out at every meal. My daily allowance hasn’t been hit once, much less exceeded. I’m glad about that.. everything else is quite expensive.

After I wound my way back to the hotel room and unpacked, I decided to head out to dinner, considering I was coming in so far under budget, and after all – when in Paris, you have to at least have dinner at a French restaurant. Nothing too fancy – but nice.

I headed down the road to a restaurant I’d passed earlier that afternoon and took a seat in the corner. Turns out the people next to me were from Queensland. No bandanas – good sign.
I ordered a nice big sirloin (14 Euro) and a Cab Sav, but almost made the critical mistake of ordering the steak ‘well done’.

I know the French don’t like to leave meat on the grill for very long, much less actually cook it to what Australian standards of ‘medium rare’ are, so I overcompensated and asked for it as close to well-done as possible.

It came back breathing.
So red in fact that it was still a little cold inside. I didn’t want to kick up a fuss, so I gave it a go, but really couldn’t stomach the whole thing. Picture the scene in Mr. Bean where he orders the Steak Tartare because he doesn’t know what Tartare means.

Hilarity ensued.

After the waitress ignored me for the rest of the evening, I managed to write a few postcards and plot out the landmarks I was planning to visit in the coming days.

They didn’t like that much.

I was given the bill and made my way back to the hotel.
I sat on the bed with my laptop for nearly 2 minutes before drifting off and waking at 5:00am.

Who knows, on top of everything, Paris may well clear my epic sleep debt.

{ To be continued… }

Full Album of Day 2:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=212752&id=708786202&l=5bed4625d3

Something that now shits me about the interne tis the concept that you can seemingly no longer discover something and surprise your friends with it, as the likelihood was they’ve “already seen it.” The very concept of the Internet, the idea that all information is as readily available to everyone equally (except say, China) means the only unique thing a person can grab onto is if they “saw it first.”

This notion of ‘first’ is what seems to keep people addicted to RSS feeds and Twitter- and trawling through their Facebook feed to see what comments or links their friends have posted in an effort to be ‘first.’

Instead of just waiting until they have a reasonable amount of time at the end of the day to sit quietly and read their news, they’re constantly walking around, smartphone clenched in infoholic hand, addicted to checking their email, twitter, facebook and all the other services you usually find quoted in the New York Times as ‘social networking.’

In fact, if you take a look at any hyper-popular site where comments are enabled, you will quite literally find people posting the word “first.”

This is so that they can feel the grand exultation of the royal high honour of being up so late at night that they were the first to see that specific peice of information.
What privileges come with this high honour, First? What do these supreme beings of informational eminence -sharper than a journo scooping a coup- earn as a reward for their unmatched awesomeness for being first on the scene?

The answer, of course, is sweet fuck all.*

I’ve never seen an interview that starts with “We’re here with JeremyWookie69, who was first to comment on the YouTube clip of the event- JeremyWookie69, what do you make of this marvellous slice of crap?”

(Julie Bishop bites her lip in anticipation of being first to comment on the “Shit Happens” video on Yahoo7.)

*As with all rules, there are the exceptions. The bloggers and writers who seem to be first ahead of the curve on a specific topic so often that people rely on them for information rather than running the race to be first… first. The Tina Roth Eisenbergs, Merlin Mann’s and Seth Godins of the world are not who I’m talking about (and they’re mostly self-generated content producers anyway.)

No, the people I’m referring to are the 13-29 year olds who sit at their computer and insist that they deserve some kind of praise for sending their friend Charlie the Unicorn “Before it was cool.”

This same insistence of telling people that “I listened to Eskimo Joe on Triple J Unearthed before everyone else heard them.” is what seems to define some people- and it becomes interminable.

I know, because I am was that guy.

I used to have a group of three close friends with whom I’d communicate a lot in person, and online. This was early internet days for everybody my age, but it still felt everybody else was a step ahead.

You see, I was on a drip-fed dial-up modem while my friends had been blessed with the torrential broadband speeds that glued them to their seats for days on end.

I would send these three friends funny emails, jokes, youtube clips, animations, websites- but every time I sent something, I would inevitably get the “yep – saw this months ago.” email.

It was annoying, and frankly pointless. It was the equivalent of getting a monosyllabic reply with the word “First.”

What annoyed me wasn’t so much that they’d seen it, but they took the time to write an email telling me they’d seen it. First.

It would have taken more character to a.) not reply, or b.) to simply say, “That’s awesome.” But no. Just, “Seen it.” -as if ‘seeing it’ takes away every bit of awesome enjoyment from what you’ve sent.

Boy, I seem angry about this don’t I?
Well, here’s why:

After an entirely pointless clump of years that followed, chasing the glorious title of He who is first with all that is mindlessly entertaining,I came to the dreadful realisation that I’d become that guy.

I was the guy who nobody emailed fun stuff too because “Oh he’s probably already seen it.” I was the guy who when standing around having a drink, someone would ask if I’d seen that hilarious bit of comedy on YouTube- and I would immediately nod and say ‘yep, seen it.’ -The worst part was when I myself would bring something up, and say “have you seen..” and on receipt of the reply “The what?” I’d be so aghast and amazed- how could they possibly not have seen this amazing thing? My god! Everybody’s seen this! Where have you been?

Well, needless to say, that interminable dickhead has had his run. I realise that the ‘first’ mantle can sit happily on a plinth at the fabled finish-line of that endless marathon that is ‘first.’

I’ll leave you with a clip from Portlandia that had me doubling over, both in shame and relief that I’d moved past First-ville.

Enjoy.

First thing in the morning I got up early to go to the rheumatologist. I was going to fly to Sydney in a few hours, so I stuffed my laptop into my bag and jumped in a tram towards Fitzroy. I didn’t bring my power cable as it would only take up room I didn’t have in my bag, and I’d be back in Melbourne tonight anyway. The battery on the MacBook is 5 – 8 hours anyway, so no biggie.

I’d been waiting four months for this appointment and had been hanging out for some good news on something that had been gnawing away at my brain since before Christmas.

{This is the mother of all bad airline stories.}

What eventually took place, was the doc charged me over $250 for a fifteen minute consult and ultimately told me 10 things I already knew when I was nineteen.
She didn’t prescribe me anything, book me in anywhere, recommend anything – just said I should probably go get some routine blood tests and pay her some money.

I went down to level 1 and had a small woman who had the attitude of a Burmese P.O.W. jab a massive needle in my arm. Twice. (The first time she missed the vein.) When I tried to laugh it off, she sneered as if I was making fun of her.

If I was, I would have said the Burmese thing.

Bruised and frustrated, but unspoiled thus far, I wandered out into the street to the nearest tram stop. Some light rain started to fall, so I moved under the tram shelter.
Four seconds later, like someone dumping a bucket from the stratosphere, a massive downpour unleashed hell on the streets. The backsplash from the pavement saturated my jeans (which I’d shortly be flying in) and just when I thought I was safely back against the shelter, the wind kicked in for some horizontal saturation. I ran across the road through the torrent and found some shelter in a hospital cafeteria.

I was dripping from head to toe, and my laptop bag was drenched. I opened it up to check if any water had seeped in, and it was minimal. I dodged an iBullet®.

I hailed a cab and told him to head to Southern Cross Station where I could jump on the Skybus to the airport. ($16  and in 20 minutes I’m there – no problem.)

I arrive at the Skybus dock to be told they wouldn’t be running one for the next two hours due to ‘maintenance’. They have a fleet of buses, and for some reason they were due for maintenance on a Friday morning.

Okay then.

So I jumped into another cab, Tullamarine-bound. I checked my plane tickets to confirm the times were right, and everything was in order. Uncharacteristically for me, it was.

I had to fly to Sydney for a meeting, because, as Wyatt would say, “Hi My Name’s Jason, Business Business my life is a Business.” (He evenwrote a song.)

It’s helpful that airlines like Qantas have their “Red-E” deals and Tiger are, well just really cheap all the time. I get email updates with their specials all the time, but they are of course littered with asterisks.

I boarded on time, and with no baggage I walked straight on and sat down. Someone else had sat in the seat I’d chosen, but it’s a one-hour flight and I wasn’t about to complain. I just took a spare seat and started to geek out, burying my nose in this week’s New Scientist.

After about 45 minutes, the plane still hadn’t moved, and with no mention of anything from the Captain or Second Officer, there was some considerable head-swiveling going on in the seats around me.

The sky outside looked pretty grim, but I’m sure that if we weren’t going to be able to fly, they wouldn’t have let us board. I just shrugged, and kept reading. After the 55 minute mark I was irked, but not enough to let it ruin the rest of my day.

In situations like this, I always like to remember Louis CK’s “Everything’s Amazing and Nobody’s Happy” and promptly tell myself to shut the fuck up and enjoy the fact that a.) I can afford to sit in a chair in the sky and b.) Get from Melbourne to Sydney in an hour.

I arrived in Sydney, took a cab to the meeting, finished the meeting in an hour, and spent the rest of the time til my 10:00pm flight working on my laptop in a pub, and in the departure lounge. Finally – things are going smoothly. This is good.

After a couple of hours, and a transition from coffee to alcohol, fellow scribbler Steve Panozzo appeared like a genie from my beer bottle and shared a few more drinks with me. It was still a couple of hours to my flight, but I’d checked in, paid extra to choose my seat (1C – Close to the front so I can exit quickly on arrival in Melbourne.) and I wasn’t having to check in any baggage, so I was fine.

It got to about an hour to board and I made my way over to the terminal. I bid Steve adieu, and headed through security to make my way to the gate.

I noticed there weren’t many people around. I was having a bit of a ‘28 Days Later’ experience as I walked through the eerily silent airport.

As it turned out, my flight was the last out of Sydney for the evening.

I finally arrived at the Tiger gate to find a large group of people ready to board. The flight was delayed, but the concept has become such a regular part of flying for me, it was water off a duck’s back – I’d just flick open the laptop and churn through some emails.

Eventually, the gate opened and the guests were called to board the plane. It was late, and people were already tired and wanted to get home. I was one of them – I was buggered and just wanted to flop into bed. I’d only slept 4 hours the night before as I worked late to account for my losing a day to flying to Sydney.

It came my turn to have my ticket scanned when a noise came out of the machine that I hadn’t heard before.

The woman scanned it through again, looked at me with a considerable amount of concern, and told me to step aside to let the other guests board. As the last guest boarded, the attendant called her colleague over and asked if she could “Sort out this gentleman?”

[What happened next has made me even more dumbfounded about the state of air travel in Australia.]

“What seems to be the problem?” I said.

“There appears to be a problem with your ticket, sir.”

“Oh yes, and what’s that?”

“We’ve already sold that seat – and the person has boarded.”

I laughed. At that stage I don’t know whether it was out of incredulity or I genuinely thought they were having a joke, but when her ghost-white face didn’t flinch, my laughter stopped rather promptly.

“What’s that?”

“We’ve sold that ticket already -“

“You’ve?”

“Sold it. That seat.”

“So …  hang on, Why did you do that?”

“It looks like it’s a problem with our system – it’s processed the same seat twice, so your ticket isn’t valid.”

“But I’ve paid for it – I paid $140 for this ticket, plus $30 to choose my own set – see? 1C.” I pointed at the ticket.

“Yes, I can see that – but the system has processed the same seat twice, and now that person is on board.”

“Okay – so… what happens now?”

“Well, we can put you on our next flight out-“

“When’s that?”

“It’s at 9:40am tomorrow morning…”

I looked at her. Just checking one last time that she was serious. This seemed so utterly farcical that it couldn’t possibly be for real.

“It’ll cost you $74 to transfer the ticket over that flight – would you like to do that now?”

“Uh… no, I’d like to get on the plane and go home now.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, sir, we can’t let you do that.” she said, robotically.

“But I’ve paid for my ticket, you guys have screwed up, so I need to get on the plane. I need to get home. I don’t live in Sydney – I live in Melbourne.”

“Yes, I understand that sir, but it’s too late – the captain has the manifest, and the people at the front left 30 minutes ago.”

“So let me get this straight…

..I gave you $170 of my money for you to take me on your aeroplane back to my home in Melbourne. You sold the same ticket twice, and you’re telling me that not only can I not get on the plane, but I’m going to have to pay you MORE OF MY MONEY for you to change my ticket to the next flight, which is TOMORROW. – and we’re now the only ones left in the airport apart from security. That right?”

“Yes, but we have to board the plane to Melbourne.”

“Well so do I, but it looks like you guys screwed up. So what are you going to do for me?”

“I’m sorry sir, but we can’t do anything.”

“So I’ll just sleep here then, and wait for you guys to come back in the morning? Yeah?”

“I’m sorry sir, you can’t do that, you’ll have to stay somewhere else.”

“A hotel. I’m going to have to go and book into a hotel?”

“Yes sir, there are a number of hotels in Sydney you can stay in-

“Are there? In this little tiny country town? Well fuck me dead, who knew!”

“I’m sorry sir, we can’t-

“Wait, so I’m going to go and check into a hotel, pay for a new flight, and get home tomorrow. Will you guys pay for the hotel for me?”

“I’m sorry sir, we don’t do that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing is that? Service? Assistance? Compensation?”

“If you like you can ring our customer service line.”

“Oh good, so they’ll send a plane over to pick me up? Cool.”

“They’re open at 9am tomorrow-“

“Right. So I’ll call them while I’m boarding your first flight, shall I?”

“I’m sorry sir but we have to leave-

“Are there any other seats on the plane?” Surely, I thought, theremust be one.

“Let me check…” She quickly tapped into the computer to check, a few seconds later she spoke, still looking at the screen “There are a few, but we can’t let you on. It’s too late – the captain has the manifest.”

“Listen, I don’t have any baggage to check, I have nothing but me, and this laptop bag and all I need is a seat to get on the plane. Can’t you just call the captain, or tap him on the shoulder and say “oops! We fucked up – Johnny SweatPants will also be flying back to Melbourne with us – he’s in 1B,” and we can just leave?”

“I’m sorry sir,” she repeated, robotically, “We can’t let you on the plane.”

I stood back, aghast. I looked at them, then at the empty departures screen behind them, then back at them. My eyes were wide, I was white with inconsolable fury. There was nothing fair about this at all.

I calmly walked away, silent. The hostess spoke up as I turned “Would you like me to book that flight sir?”

I turned back, looked at her for a few seconds, and let out a slow and livid “Fuck… Off.”

I slowly walked through the empty airport alone, wondering what the fuck just happened.

I’d done everything right. I’d booked my flight a week earlier. I paid. I checked in. I paid extra for a specific seat. I arrived at the gate early. They opened the gate. They shut the door and told me I couldn’t go home. To stay in Sydney.

I waited in line for a taxi for an hour with about 90 businessmen who just got off the last flight into Sydney. It was muggy, I was tired, my jeans were still damp from the freak rainstorm this morning. I just wanted this day to end.

I told the taxi driver to take me to the nearest hotel, motel, shed, bit of corugated cardboard, whatever. Closer the better. And they’d better have alcohol.

He dropped me off at the Novotel, Brighton. Which I’m sure wasn’t the closest, but he wanted to get his fare’s worth after waiting for hours in a queue at the airport. I wasn’t in the mood to have a debate about it. It was $30, I just wanted to sleep.

I arrived at the check-in counter to find a large American family trying to check in, but having an argument with the receptionist about what time check out was. It would appear they wanted a late check out, but found that ‘yelling a time at the receptionist’ was as good as just ‘asking, and paying for, a late check out.’

Once our friends had checked in, I fronted the counter and asked for their cheapest room – whatever it is. Just your most basic room. Broom closet with a pillow’s fine. A couch in the casino – whatever.

She told me the cheapest room they had was $234 and was a standard room.

“Wow. $234. That’s about one and a half flights home. You sure that’s the cheapest one you’ve got?”

“Yes sir – at 11:50pm at night, that’s all that’s left.”

“I understand it’s late, but is there any other room – anything?”

“That’s the standard room – it’s $234.”

“I’m an Accor Advantages Plus/A-Club member – does that help?”

“Do you have the card with you?”

“Actually not this time – I hadn’t planned on staying in a hotel.”

“Then I can’t give you the rates.”

“Oh, good. No, I’m glad I’ve paid the membership fees since 2002, that’s paid for itself. Brilliant.”

“Would you like me to book you in to the room? I’ll need to take your credit card and two forms of ID.”

I handed her my credit card.

“I only have one form of ID – my license. Will that do?”

“Well I do need two – “

“Why do you need two? I’ve never ever had to give anyone but DFAT more than one form of ID. What do you need?”

“A credit card?”

“You mean like the one I just gave you?”

“Yes, that’ll be fine.”

“Oh, good.”

(Very, very long silence.)

I took the key and got in the elevator. I had no idea how I got from ‘useless expensive rheumatologist’ to ‘dank expensive hotel room’, but some days life’s just like that.

The room smelt like feet, and was nowhere near what one would expect to get for $234 Australian. Still – I just got into bed and opened the laptop to book the next flight to Melbourne.

I opened my laptop, which flashed at me “You are now running on reserve power – you have 3 minutes of battery life left.”

If you’ve ever wondered if you can log on to the internet, find a flight, book it and pay for it, all in under 3 minutes…
It’s possible.         A bit.

The computer died just as my groaning (and now considerably lighter) credit card processed the payment.

I switched on my iPhone to see if I could check my email and see if the confirmation email had gone through.

Perfect.

I called reception to ask if they had the internet in the rooms. (I chuckled, considering a vivid image of a series of tubes around the hotel room.)

“We have a business center..     ?”

“Well that.. okay… does it have internet?”

“I think it might. I’m not sure.”

“Would I be able to check my email on it?”

“It’s on level 2.”

“Uh.. okay good, does it have the-“

“There’s a printer there.”

“Ok. Good. Thanks. That clears my very clear question right up.
Ever consider working for Tiger?”

“Who?-  *click.*

I went down to the business center on level 2. It had a printer and everything. Oh you should have seen it.

I attempted to log on, but the keyboard was covered in beer.

Shifting to the next computer across, I managed to log on. It cost me $6 for 20 minutes.

Wow. With rates like those, who needs a hotel chain?

Apart from being peeved that my $234 didn’t cover $6 worth of ‘the interwebs’ I found that I wasn’t able to print anything. I’d checked in online, saved the PDF, but I couldn’t print.

Oh, you have to pay for printing you silly bum!

Silly me – I should have known. It costs an extra $2 per page to print out a piece of paper in black & white with your boarding pass for a $165 Virgin Blue flight on it.

I walked back to the room, boarding pass in hand, ready to crash, wondering whether the adrenaline and burning hot liquid rage rushing through my veins would completely defeat my efforts of getting any sleep.

I was parched, but the bar was closed and there were no vending machines. I opened the bar fridge to find a bottle of water. $8.00 for 600ml.

I went to bed.

After 4 hours sleep, I got up, left the hotel after leaving my key on the unattended desk, got in the taxi to the airport (another $30), and boarded the plane.

On arriving home, I resolved to have a shower, have a nap and let yesterday just wash away.

Instead, I was awoken after 15 minutes by rain. Then hail. Lots of hail.

If you ever needed to wash away a Friday named FAIL, this would have to be the most violently effective way to do it.

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -

FOOTNOTE:

Yes, I called Tiger customer service.
They told me to lodge a form.

Yes, My life is one big episode of ‘Airport’.

Yes, that’s the risk you take when you buy cheap flights. But it doesn’t make being stranded in Sydney and paying for shit you can’t afford any less shit.

No, I’m not passive aggressive. Ben Russell is passive aggressive.

The short answer is: I do.
The slightly longer answer is, producing a daily comic strip is (by my observation), separated into three parts:

60% is writing
20% is drawing (the fun bit)
20% is business and syndication

The writing is the most time-consuming and difficult part of it. That’s not to say that getting syndicated isn’t difficult (heck, it’s near impossible these days!) but as far as time goes, you spend more time and mental energy coming up with new material day after day than anything else.

It’s like a stand-up comedian not being able to get up on stage and do the same routine as he did yesterday. Every day.

It used to irk me that people would assume I just “drew” Ginger Meggs, but then I realised it was because often a comic strip cartoonist is referred to as “the artist for…” which of course would lead one to assume you just draw the strip, and someone else writes it. That setup is not uncommon (ie. Zits, Baby Blues, Wizard of Id) but it’s not how the majority of comic strip cartoonists do it.

I like the challenge, and I take a lot of inspiration from guys like Gary Clark, Jerry Scott, Paul Gilligan, Sean Leahy and Tony Lopes. These people just know how to write consistently good material, and they work hard at it.

I suppose it’s like anything- the more you do it, the better you get.
I’m still a novice, but my background in writing editorial cartoons and stand-up comedy gave me a good grounding for writing a daily strip. It’s been a very steep learning curve, and I’m enjoying the experience very much. I hope to be doing it for a long time to come!

Ginger Meggs is syndicated internationally by Universal Uclick. You can read the strip every day at GoComics: http://www.gocomics.com/gingermeggs