AUSSIFIED: PART ONE

I was back crime-fighting with Crapman this weekend, if by crimefighting you mean drinking and watching episodes of "Porridge". Crapman Jr. (the little bro) will be heading off to Australia soon so we had a sesh in Zanzibar to send him on his merry way. Crapman sent me a text saying: "Hey mate. We're upstairs in that pub whose name isn't in predictive text so I'm not going to bother." Why he bothered with his lengthy explanation of why he wasn't going to bother is a mystery. Actually, thinking about it, I strangely understand. I'm convinced that all people who don't use predictive text all go to Wagamammas for dinner as it's the most non-predictive friendly venue in the whole of Christendom and beyond. In fact, I went there the folowing night with Sarah to alleviate my predictive stress.
Anyway, back to that predictive unfriendly place. We met a guy there - Leo - that we went to Playschool with, and we reminisced...
"I remember our Playschool teacher," said Leo
"I remember I called her 'Mum'" said Crapman.
"I remember being given a three-piece jigsaw and having trouble with it, " said I.
(pause)
"Yeah I remember you being about that thick" said Crapman.

That wasn't the only person I was reminiscing with... In Zanzibar I met Zeno, a lovely wee Spaniard that's good mates with Johnny Ramos (A Spot of Weeding, Nov 2004). Zeno is about as Spanish as they come, but her perrenial trips to Wexford has graced her with spice of South-East Irish drawl. So just when you do the typical English-speaker thing of carefully pronouncing all your phrasing to avoid interpretive confusion, she'll put your in your place be calling you, " Ye smelly tinker ye!" We hardly recognised each other - since our last encounter, she had ameliorated her ravishing glow, and I've probably deteriorated like a wet tissue that only have ragged slivers of snot holding it togther.

In "O Canada" (about two Flogs ago) I wrote about how Canadian culture seemed to be seeping into my life. While that's still going on (I'm supposed to be meeting three Canadian girls on Thursday night - giggedy giggedy!) but I find myself simulaneously "Aussified", being surrounded by Australians. A curiously apt term, as I tend to spend most of my time with them just as that: Ossified. And f**k can they swear! When I came back to the Big Schmoke, Crapman - hardly a prude by any standards - commented on the frequency of my colourful adjectives, and blamed it on a roughshod munster lifestyle. It was outside the Bank of Ireland by Trinity, waiting to cross in the pissing rain, some bastard in a Beemer displacing a large puddle all over yours truly, that the truth behind my linguistic colour was revealed.
For it was then that the Australian in me came out. My first reaction was to cry out "F*CKIN' C*NTS!" and I found I did it with a broad Aussie accent. I can point the finger of blame firmly at Kez (look at PICTURES opposite, first from the right) as the aforemantioned exclaimation is her personal mantra. Honestly, never trust a woman who's phone says "f*ckers" for some reason everytime she turns it on.
Aussie's are great though, especially when they are waitresses - as Kez and Jacqui are. I love the way when they say "Do you want a water with that?" It sounds exactly like a fart in the bath.

Tomorrow is Australia day. Close your ears kiddies.