She'll be right mate!

Those who know me (and let's face it, there are only 1.3 people who actually read my blog so we're talking about all readers here) will know that I am a scooter enthusiast.

You may remember my scooter exploits from such memorable and enthralling postings as 'my first scoot' and 'the joys of scooting'. At the moment, however, I am 'in between' scoots - not cos' of an accident (for a change) but because I am upgrading to something a leetle zippier (but only a leetle).

As a result I have returned to the joys of public transport and scabbing lifts off my partner ... in truth mostly the latter, given how innately lazy passionate about car-pooling and efficient use of resources I am.

This morning we were heading through the city and I was preparing to do my stunt dive through the traffic (necessary in order to be dropped off without getting rear ended by nasty commuters) when we were overtaken by a guy on a motorbike.

I always check out fellow bikers, I guess I'm curious to see who else is as mad as me to risk life and limb on a daily basis in the city traffic ... but this guy was in a league of his own I have to say.

Would hate to cast aspersions as to how he may have injured himself, but anyone looney brave enough to ride a motorbike while needing to bring along a crutch for the subsequent walking bit (it was strapped across the back and sticking out either side so as to conveniently swipe any pedestrian who got in his way) has balls the size of Pluto.

Helmets off to you my friend, helmets off.

Soak or stoke - your call.

Was riding up one of the main streets in the CBD yesterday and, while waiting at the lights, was a little bemused to see a microcosm of the world today played out before me.

A rubbish bin had substantial amounts of smoke billowing from its top and a young male tourist was wandering nervously around it. He peered in the top and walked off a short way to the pedestrian crossing, then came back and peered in again, looking around to see if anyone was paying attention to it (which they weren't) or sorting it out (ditto).

He then poured his bottle of water into the bin, in an attempt to put out the fire, and walked again towards the pedestrian crossing, looking back to see if it had had any effect (it hadn't). He was clearly reluctant to leave the fire unattended.

As he was doing this a woman in her power suit strode past the smouldering bin and threw in several large pieces of paper ... no doubt on her way to somewhere very busy and important.

Yay for oztraylian humour.

As a card-carrying Aussie basher (who is quite happy to live here, work here, use the health system etc etc), it is a rare occasion when I give a 'shout out' [note hip street slang usage applied only slightly incorrectly] to Australians for anything.

But credit where credit's due - for the fabulous minds that came up with the name of the latest entrant to the competitive bottled water market here. And yes, of course I fell for it and bought it just cos' of the name.

Our most popular menu item...

Hmmm, it seems that, since returning to semi-regular blogging duties, the focus has been largely on R13-rated engrish specimens. This means I am either:

1. frequenting dodgier engrish venues
2. more on the lookout for examples to blog and make fun of in a juvenile manner
   
3. carrying my camera with me more often
   
4. a smut peddler who will stoop to new lows for a cheap laugh.

What the hell, let's go with option 4, in the spirit of which, I present the last item on the drinks menu at the BYO Korean restaurant I went to on Thursday night :-)

Active intent

As most of my loyal readers will be aware, my recent blogging hiatus was due to a mad dash to finish my never-ending Masters thesis (fondly referred to as 'schmesis' or 'the bane of my life').

During this time I managed to stay more or less sane (not a bad accomplishment in the world of postgrad study I'm told), despite insane stress levels, fulltime work and an average of 4-5 hours sleep a night.

This achievement did, however, come with a pricetag; namely the consumption of more junk food than one person should consume in a lifetime, spread over a two-month period. A notable component of this consumption was sufficient quantities of icecream to make me a substantial shareholder in all Australian icecream companies.

So, the schmesis is now dead and buried (thank fuck) and the waistline redemption strategy has commenced ... sort of.

Thus far, it has consisted of one visit to the gym, where I remembered why I hate it (red face, sweat and gasping anyone?).

But needs must.

So, in honour of this momentous occasion (which is clearly the beginning of my professional sporting career), I would like to post a picture of the tag from an item of clothing I bought a while back. The logo was the only reason I bought it and I think it sums up my attitude towards exercise beautifully ... and what better brand name could you possibly come up with for a logo that shows a person sitting down?

I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack.

The thesis is dead, long live online procrastination!

[Said that Hatter, returning to the world of blogging in style by posting up the business card of the fine dining establishment where she had dinner on Saturday].

For the record, the food was great.

A little gem from the Onion.

Exhibit A: Blatant attempt to distract loyal blog readers from fact that the Hatter has been inexcusably negligent on blogging front. Normal service WILL be resumed soon - promise!

Professor Pressured To Sleep With Student For Good Course Evaluation

June 27, 2006 | Issue 42•26

FAYETTEVILLE, AR—Alan Gilchrist, an associate professor of English literature at the University of Arkansas infamous for his tough grading standards and dry lecturing style, was coerced into sleeping with an undergraduate on Monday in order to earn a good course evaluation. "My tenure's on the line here, so I allowed a student to take advantage of me," said an emotional Gilchrist of the experience, which he hopes will earn him at least six "very much enjoyed" responses on the eight-item evaluation form. "I told myself it would be just this once, and that it would be over soon, and that it wouldn't be that bad, but I was used. And I can't stop showering." Sources said that the unidentified student is one of the most popular and charismatic on campus, raising questions about possible abuse of power.

Blogging mea culpa

Forgive me mum my legions of loyal readers, for I have sinned... it has been 18 days since my last post.

It's not that I don't love you it's just...

Well, it's not you - it's me.

Normal service will be resumed as soon as I emerge from under this pile of thoroughly average essays crying out to be failed and have sarcastic comments scrawled over them.

It will also be resumed when this godawful jetlag stops torturing me and I get to sleep at something other than 4.30am. The dawn chorus can be fucking annoying when trying to get to sleep.

That is all.

I will be nicer next time.

xxxxx

The Hatter.

Working on commission for Dubai Tourism #2

Must be time for more on the joys of Dubai.

Dubai is an intensely boring intriguing city that upholds many admirable traditional values. It is also a largely dry city alcohol-wise.

Consequently, their entertainment options are ... shall we say ... also a little conservative.

I was gutted I couldn't compete in this mall-based entertainment extravaganza due to time restrictions - SO would have kicked arse if I had been able to.



For the adults, the customer service culture is also pretty fab - this fruit juice bar had all the mod-cons, including complimentary cigarette lighter.



And last, but by no means least - children's entertainment is well-covered too...in every sense of the expression...


... 'Burkha Barbie' anyone?

Working on commission for Dubai Tourism #1

Well I'm now in London doing a whanau thingy - as I am wont to do on occasion. More about the joys of London later but I thought I had better fulfil my contractual obligations to Dubai - bland stopover city to the stars.

Never thought i'd meet a city more boring than Singapore but Dubai takes the cake. It has shopping [expensive gold kitsch anyone?] going for it

....and sand

...............and more Filipino workers than locals (who don't work)

....................................and some fabulously named restaurants.

Taking higha edukation seriuslee

Although I am working hard on my 15 year plan to become a furniture restorer I have had to settle for being a university lecturer in the interim while I work my way up.

This involves subjecting myself to the scrutiny and ridicule of up to 170 pubescent students at a time on a regular basis. In one of my classes the poor sods are stuck with me for 3 hours in a row - during which time they talk amongst themselves, look bored and critically assess every aspect of me - presentation, funny accent, hairstyle etc etc.

This is not great for the ego and the pay is rather dismal ($30K paycut to make the move from being a PR gal to an academic anyone?) but there are certain perks:

• Inflicting my notoriously cheesy music tastes on them at full volume before class (the less cool the better as far as I am concerned - watching them writhe in agony is a joy)
• Torturing them with the revision lecture at the end of semester ('is she telling us what's in the test or is she just mucking with us?')
• Reading the end of semester evaluations - highlights of this semester included "the interface should be burgundy next time" [name one thing most in need of improvement] and "the madhatter is sometimes funny" [name one thing you enjoyed the most].
  
• Marking the little buggers' assignments [170x 1500 word essays + 250 exams + 20 major assignments for this semester].

Now why would the last one be a pleasure you ask? Well - it's not. Except that my 'essay marking coffee table' at home currently looks like this:

[wanders off sniggering]

I even forget my own birthday!

Tramspotting turned two yesterday - a momentous occasion in the life of any badly neglected cutting-edge blog.

Now my inability to remember birthdays, anniversaries etc is well-documented. Just ask Mouse or anyone else I have managed to offend over the years ... but forgetting my own blog's birthday - now that's a new low.

There have been several possible reasons posited for this inexcusable omission thus far, none of which could possibly include:

• The four hours sleep the night before owing to major computer crashes and lecture that had to be rewritten 3 times
• The fact that it was the last day of teaching for the semester
• The fact that Dr Steph and Dr John are in town
  
• The fact that aforementioned docs drink like fish and dragged me kicking and screaming [....honest!] to a vodka bar for the night

• The fact that the vodka bar has this on the menu:

• (which looks like this when being prepared by a waitress in what, from memory, strongly resembled a french maid's outfit):

• Or the fact that it seemed like a good 'nightcap' after a couple of vodka shots, a large vodka cocktail and some more shots (errr...and the drinks that somehow happened before heading out)
  
• Or that, after terrorising a number of innocent service workers (taxi drivers and supermarket checkout operators come to mind) some more drinks seemed like a good idea at home ... CS cowboys anyone?
  
• ... as did playing with sparklers on the deck at 1am

Given that none of the foregoing are possibilities, it seems I'm fresh out of excuses - any ideas why I might have forgotten my own blog's birthday?

One for kiwis of a certain age.

OMFG.

Best ...

... badge

............... ever.



Sincere thanks to Fishy who, in addition to posting me more beautiful bootleg DVDs than a girl can shake a bootleg stick at, found this little pearler and paid actual money for it.

Old skool all the way!

BTW - is now a good time to admit I had a poster of Rene Naufahu [aka Sam Aleni] on my wall when I was young enough to get away with it? Should I also add that it was ripped out of a copy of RTR Countdown?

No...probably best not to.

Aussies: restoring your faith in the future of mankind

Australians rock in so many ways.

This is a series of verbatim excerpts from this article in today's Age newspaper. I shit you not:

"A man has been jailed for nine years for setting fire to an associate who woke him up to sell him a stolen kitchen.

"Damian Catania, 30, was not interested in the kitchen, which was offered for $2000.

"But Justice Kevin Bell said in the Supreme Court that Catania visited would-be salesman John Ioannou an hour later, as Mr Ioannou was trying to put the kitchen back into the new house from which he had stolen it."

...

"Mr Ioannou, a carpenter, had partly disassembled a kitchen that had been installed in the new house, not far from Catania's home. Catania did not want to buy the kitchen, but agreed to pay $80 for Mr Ioannou to fix his leaking shower.

"Justice Bell said Mr Ioannou had burns to 60 per cent of his body after the fire, and was placed in an induced coma for five weeks at the Alfred Hospital."

...

"Catania told police: "I'm sorry for the person that got injured. I never meant it to go that far..."

Hmmmm....wonder if I can use that tactic (and defence) the next time a student disturbs me with a dumb assignment-related question?

Blogger's block? Post a roo!

In the absence of anything noteworthy, witty, quotable or even remotely interesting to say this week (the joys of being submerged under mountains of assignment marking), I thought i'd post up a picture of a kangaroo I took a few weeks back and see if it fooled anyone into thinking that my life is more interesting than it really is.


Did it work?

Sign language Oztraylia-style

The country in which I have resided for the last two and a half years is one of many contrasts. The city I live in is one of the coolest in the world (in my expert opinion) but the rest of the country is essentially redneck bogan-ville (bearing in mind that I am in no way prone to sweeping generalisations). Great scenery but you'd better keep your banjo close to your person if y'know what I mean.

But...

...what I will grant the Aussies is that they do a very nice line in entertaining signage.

Whether its to-the-point warnings about killer wombats (Ballarat) and cliffs (Great Ocean Road):





Inspirationally-labelled natural attractions (Tasmania):



A little 'local' humour and safety advice (Great Ocean Road):


Or just plain old-fashioned confusing and bizarrely prioritised tourist signs (Great Ocean Road):


Seeeeeeee - it's not ALL bad. Let it not be said that I don't give credit where credit's due.

Rug up for winter.

Yay for grassroots [scuse pun] HIV-prevention organising.

Rug Up for Winter

Eleme Junction

Everytime I leave somewhere people say that they will miss me and how sad they are that I am leaving. It's good for the ego. And I still email and visit with these people whenever I can - as demonstrated by this next few weeks - friends in 6 countries all across the world planning to take me out and look after me and genuinely want to spend the short time I have with them with me. That is why I am lucky. I know good people. I learn something from the good people that I meet - interesting, intelligent, experienced and inspirational people everywhere I go. People that teach me something, make me think something that influences the way I view the world. I don't know yet what the gross inequities and extremes of environment that I see teach me. So I'm open to suggestions as to what Eleme Junction teaches a person. Eleme Junction, the bane of traffic in Port Harcourt, is a microcosm of activity and life anchored firmly to a roundabout that shuffles vehicles in a disorderly fashion either up Aba Road towards the camp, down Aba Road towards the city, out towards Transamadi Flats or out towards the airport. In the centre of the roundabout is a concrete turret, crumbling stairs circling up to a viewing platform, gospel posters peeling in faded shreds from it's walls. Here gather the traffic controllers, in violently coloured blue and yellow uniforms, who alternate between animated hand gestures, halting and directing the belching eddy of traffic, or leaning disheartenedly watching the inexorable grinding and thrusting as trucks, cars, overloaded transit vans, motorbikes, wheelbarrows and street hawkers assert their self-determined right to enter the circle of chaos, causing a deadlock from which no vehicle can extricate itself. Eleme Junction plays host to a swathe of businesses - some housed in recognisable buildings, with large signposts attesting their services - "Scaffolding for hire", "Machinery and Spares", "MTN (phone company) unlock service" and some relying on the 3 metre high stack of plastic chairs or prominent display of gates, hubcaps, timber or mechanical parts to attract customers. These buildings are set far enough back from the road to allow an area of ground, pockmarked by potholes and piles of industrial, domestic or vehicular refuse, where the proprietors of the semi-permanent shacks of bowed wood, rusted iron sheets, tarpaulins, tattered umbrellas, plastic tables and stacked crates operate their business - bread, clothing and shoes, hair weave-ons and manicure, fast-food, taxation advice, kerosene and other consumables. Moving between these fragile structures are the wheelbarrows of bulbous yam and carrots, glass display cases of oversized pasties and other brown fried finger-food and vendors of hats, walking sticks, sunglasses or phone accessories. Dotted between them and extending down the side-streets squat women in vibrant national dress, laughing and smiling with each other as they oversee their pile of pyramidally stacked tomatoes, onions, dried fish, landsnails or bananas. Housewives, cooks and house-staff wend through, selecting purchases, adding them to baskets carried with a sensual ease balanced on their heads. Through this constant melee dart the street-sellers - desparate young men and women, risking life and limb to congregate at junctions, sidling alongside vehicles, extending bottles of cold drink, fried plantain, MTN recharge cards, handkerchieves, newspapers and a myriad of other items I would never consider needing while stuck in traffic. They press their bodies against the cars, pleading each sale, accepting the battered small Naira notes, sprinting alongside cars as the congestion jerks forward to collect their money or give change and then spinning in the convulsion of traffic to attempt another sale or to narrowly avoid physical injury as the vehicles plough onwards. So far I have justified the experience of patience (2 hours to go through a single roundabout), indifference (blatantly avoiding eye contact with the beggars and MTN card boys while stationery for 20 minutes), revulsion (it's just unnecessary for people to have to live in burnt out shells of cars filled with rubbish) and perverse curiosity.

The irony is killing me.

Saw this on the noticeboard at uni today - one of the better lost and found (and lost again) notices I've seen.

Noo Zild revisited

Around about every 10 months to a year or so, the need for decent cafe food, green fields, fab beaches and familiar but ever so slightly silly accents becomes too much for me and I jump on a jetplane back to Noo Zulland to check in with friends and whanau and get my kiwi fix.

So I did that last week - and it rocked as only NZ can rock.

Normally I travel somewhere then blog about it with tongue firmly in cheek - in a 'tee hee look at the natives' sort of way (who moi? condescending elitist snob? .... never!). Problem with doing that about NZ is that it's too goddamned cool and I am unashamedly one-eyed about it.

... except for the cannibalistic chickens in Raglan - they're fair game.