Friday, May 30, 2008

analyse this

so, the google analytics thing, it's pretty interesting.

some facts.
  • in the 20 days since signing up for GA, camelshoes has had 215 visits and 418 page views
  • visitors spend an average of 4mins and 25 secs on the site at one time
  • all visitors are from oz
  • 70 per cent of visitors were referred
  • of these, 80 per cent were sucked in by the link on sitdownforthis, 15 per cent followed my link on facebook and 8 per cent were led down the garden path by google

that's where it gets interesting. 8 per cent equates to 18 visits. three were me. i was testing google to see if it would find me. it did.

one was some poor sap searching for hvar, croatia. odd that he came to me though because when i searched for the same thing (excited because he was the first person to be referred to me), this blog was about four pages in. desperate for info i suppose.

so, that leaves 14. 14 people who all searched for the same thing. or, more likely, one person who searched for the same thing 14 times. and what, pray tell, was that search?

you guessed it. jelly, wagga, dugong.


oh well, you gotta give the fans what they want.

i draw good

Thursday, May 29, 2008

would you like fries with that separation agreement?

i received an A4 envelope in the mail about a week ago. A4 envelopes are NEVER good. best case scenario, NRMA Open Road Magazine, straight in the bin, no stress. this was not the latest edition. this was from my lawyer. it was my first A4 correspondence from them, my second in total, and it scared me.

turns out, scared was a good emotion to assume. inside was a fat document outlining fees and charges. turns out the $215-an-hour quoted when i made my initial call was a one-off. a new-client special if you will.

there were many, many scary words and statements in this document but there were three particular areas which made me vomit a little in my mouth.

one, for the service of agreeing to represent me, Crane, Poole and Schmidt (i wish) charge $2000. they call it a retainer. i call it bullshit.

two, Crane, Poole and Schmidt estimated the cost of drawing up my separation agreement at between $2500 and $3300 - plus GST. Vom.

three, my lawyer, god bless him, happens to be a partner and therefore charges the friendly hourly rate of $380 - not $215 as first quoted. Vom some more.

unfortunately i opened this delightful letter at night and was therefore forced to sweat over it for the next 12 hours. my dreams that night included an orangutan weeing on my lawyer's desk and then throwing poo in his face. i mean, obviously that's not true, but it would have been cool. orangutans are very funny. look...

poo-slinging, just $250 an hour. bargain

moving on. first thing in the morning i rang said lawyer. i told him in no uncertain terms this could not happen. i told him his secretary had said nothing of such costs when I asked her to outline probable charges. he said i was putting him between a rock and a hard place. ha. let's compare rocks and hard places. You. between a diamond ring and a marble kitchen. Me. between rocking myself to sleep at night (geddit, rock?) and living with my mum after recent break-up. i win.

"I'm not giving you an ultimatum," i replied, "I'm just telling you, I can't afford it. I will pay you for your time to date but that's it."

He offered me a deal. He would charge me only for his time and he would charge at the original rate quoted. Generous.
I just got a bill. That five-minute phone call cost me $40.

Dear lawyers of the world,
This is why we hate you.
the human race.

big mother

i am going to do something really brave here. i am going to admit i have been watching big brother. not religiously. but i do catch it every now and then mostly because it's the perfect compliment to a blog i read daily which goes to town on the nutters locked up in the Gold Coast compound.

i could go on all day about the shit that annoys me about the fame-hungry nuff nuffs on this show but i don't have the energy.

anyway, the show has prompted me to have a little rant about something else which has always bugged me. three intruders are going in on Sunday. i know, who cares, but is a 25-year-old single mum. her daughter is seven. "I got knocked up at my school formal," she says. She's not from Wagga. Shock.

anyway, she also says her daughter is her "bestest friend in the whole wide world, like, totally", (may not be verbatim).

Two things.

One: what 25-year-old is best friends with a seven-year-old? the mother-daughter relationship is irrelevant. it's not normal but it does say a lot about mumma's mentality. the only thing i would have in common with a kid 18 years my junior is a passion for ice cream. mmm, ice cream...

Two: regardless of age, I cringe when I hear this. it's a crock of shit. i'm convinced people say it because they think it's enviable. it's not. it's creepy and i think you're weird.

First a cuddle, then matching boob jobs. Awesome.

this is not the first time bb viewers have been privy to such crap. very early on Dixie (a social worker in desperate need of some social work, if you ask me, but you didn't, and i told you anyway, moving on) was constantly teary and went on about how she wanted to go home because she missed her mum.

i'm talking day one or two here. suck it up, for god's sake.
anyway, she was going on and on about how she was so, like, totally close to her mum and they were, like best friends and told each other everything. ugh.
don't get me wrong, i love my mum and all that jazz but she does not get best friend privileges. not even close. and if she was inclined to offer me best friend privileges i would run away, eyes closed, ears blocked, singing "la la la la" until she was out of sight.
and, in conclusion, mum-and-daughter besties creep me the eff out.
thanks for listening, or reading, or skimming...whatever

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

cops and robbers

you can stop looking now. Patti Newton’s handbag has been found.

i’ve got to tell you, it’s such a relief. never mind cyclone-ravaged Burma, forget the Sichuan earthquake, c-grade celebrity Patti Newton’s snatched handbag has been keeping me awake at night.

you know, unlike most people (i have taken the liberty of assuming on this, it's a talent of mine), i am not annoyed by the fact Patti's plight made national headlines. i work in the media. i spend hours defending my profession against people who don't understand that what's deemed newsworthy is an indication of society, not the industry.

but i am reminded of a time when i was robbed. two times in fact. and how useless the police were in response. that annoys me.

scenario one. i am woken up at about 3 o'clock one morning because some guy, about 25 years old, is on my bed. he didn't touch me and, as far as i'm concerned had no intention to. he was simply going for my mobile which i sleep next to. it's my alarm clock. this, however, is hindsight. at the time i was more frightened than i've ever been. with my heart in my throat i leapt out of bed and chased him out of the house. not sure what i thought i was going to do had he not run away. luckily, i never had to find out. turns out he had scaled over the balcony (three storeys up). he only ended up with my phone and handbag, no biggie, but the fright lingered.

the police were nice, but useless. while they did nothing my boyfriend decided to ring my phone. the tool answered.

"Hello," said toolhead.
"Ahh g'day mate, this is Geoff from the Townsville Bulletin. Is Sara there?"
"Ahhh, na, she's not 'ere."
"Oh right. Do you know when she'll be available? She's won box seats to the Cowboys game this weekend but I need to know where to send them"

hook. line. sinker. toolhead gives his address. North Queenslanders will do just about anything for the Cows. anyway, Geoff, who's name is absolutely not Geoff, rings the cops and relays the story. they do nothing. NOTHING. hate.

scenario two. not as dramatic. i arrive in Sydney for a holiday with mates. first stop, pub. while i'm enjoying a few bevs, some knob jockey breaks into my mate's car a steals my suitcase. my favourite everything, gone. cops, useless.

but hang on, hang on. i am a reasonable person. intolerant, sure, but fair. as annoying as the cops perceived inaction was at the time I was truly furious at the little fuckers* who invaded my home, my friend's car and, in turn, my life.

these little shits (i call them little because at the very least they would possess little minds, little potential and, yes, i'm going to go there, little penises) have no idea how hard i work to own what i do. what right do they have to simply take it? even worse, what right do they have to, for the sake of a mobile phone and a handbag they dumped in a bush down the road, scare me to the point of losing sleep? i'll say it again. fuckers*.

i think that's all i have to say about that.

*i swear too much. i don't really want to swear in this blog because one, i'm trying to cut back and two, anyone can read camelshoes and there are some people who i am trying to impress. not you. or you. yes, you. anyway. trying to cut back, yarda yarda. in saying this, i will never eliminate the work fuck from my vocabulary. it is too expressive, too wonderfully perfect in certain situations. this blog entry is one such situation.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

he said he was on the edge

A donkey is doing time in jail for assault and battery after it bit and kicked two men in Mexico.
I know this is true because I read it on the website of a News Limited publication.
If you still don't believe me, see for yourself.
Just another celebrity mugshot to add to the pile. Tsk, tsk.

Monday, May 19, 2008

what a wonderful world

we can all put our clasped hands on top of the overhead projector and make a penis, but can you do this?

Saturday, May 17, 2008

naked midget riding dugong in pool of jelly

i've signed up for this program called google analytics. i am still getting used to all the features but it basically tells me how many people are visiting my blog, how long they are staying and how they got here.

to date, 71 per cent of visitors have come from referring sites. the most popular of those being my facebook page and my mate's blog, which is a cack and can be found here.

anyway, at this stage just one poor sap has been directed to camelshoes by google. he slash she was searching hvar, croatia and found me.

so, i was thinking maybe i could throw up some random words and topics in this entry and see if i can't encourage some strangers to pop in and have a read.

here goes nothing:
  • pornography
  • cheap flights
  • world's fattest man
  • brittany spears
  • minge
  • wikipedia
  • how to air pop popcorn
  • barack obama
  • penis
  • clag glue
  • chicken twisties
  • i used to eat bath crystals (true)
  • wagga wagga rocks my world
  • boobs

and on that note, fade out

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

i have a lawyer, and i'm not afraid to use him

see that heading up there. lie. total lie. no, hang on, that's a lie. the heading is a semi-true. i do, in fact, have a lawyer but i am utterly afraid to use him.

i am currently getting a divorce. probably the most frustrating thing about that is i have never been married. huh? okay, so not actually getting a divorce, but may as well be.

six months ago, i had a boyfriend. we had been together six years. SIX. that's a lot for me. he was beautiful. i loved him. i still do. he is the perfect catch. good looking, successful and one of the most genuine people you'll meet (and now single - call 555 I AM A DICK and I'll set the two of you up). anyway, for reasons i cannot explain (and others i can but won't just now), we came to a point where we decided we were not MEANT to be. our relationship had run it's course.

blah, blah, blah...i have a lawyer. mr X and i owned property. moguls, for shizzle. so we have to have a separation agreement. even though we are amicable, and smart, and can sit down over a coffee or three and split possessions in a fair and rational manner, the world says "nope, sorry, you have a pay a lawyer an outlandish sum of money so they can turn your completely logical ideas and conclusions into jargon that resembles wingdings more so than English. because you don't understand what they are saying, or what you're reading, you'll succumb to their jaw-dropping fees just to get the hell out of their office and finally farewell the situation you're in".

may not be actual lawyer

this is my life at the moment. X's lawyer writes document. posts it to me (even though X could have just given it to me when we caught up for coffee two days earlier) with 800 canary-yellow stickers which say SIGN HERE, SIGN HERE, SIGN HERE, SIGN get the point.

i choose not to even look at it. en route to MY lawyer, for no apparent reason other than a build up of "this fucking sucks", I start to cry. idiot. i find a park, compose myself and walk towards MY lawyer's office. i walk in.

"Hi, I have a 12 o'clock with *i can feel that, piss off throat lump, not in front of the receptionist* David Johnson," phew, survival.
"No worries, take a seat."

there's no New Idea from September, 1997 to help me take my mind of things. this is particularly unfortunate because i was really hoping for an update on Princess Di. did you know she died? seriously.

"hi Kate, how are you? my name's Alice, come on through"

first thought; you're delightful. second; you're not David. David is on his way back from Brisbane apparently. Alice will start of our consultation by getting the background.

"Let's start at the start," says Alice. good plan. my response, tears. she is empathetic, and searches for tissues. i am mortified. if you don't know me, i usually play the hardarse card. want vulnerability? you will NOT find it here. but then i figure, she doesn't know this, or me...more tears.

"i'm sorry, i'm sorry...i'm fine." obviously. we proceed. life story is told, peppered with teary episodes. David arrives. goddamit, it's so much easier to cry in front of women. i know they're both thinking i have been left at the altar or experienced some equally horrific, one-sided breakup but, no, just having an emo day.

anyway, i think one of the things that really scares me is i've come to a point of requiring a lawyer. that i actually need a third party to give me professional advice, assistance and a whopping bill. i don't even have an accountant. i don't even have a doctor. i *sob* don't *sob* even *sob* have *sob* a *sob* booooooyfriiiend *waaaaaaaaaaa*

over it though. really.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

um mahhhhhh

i have a fantastic long-term memory. it's shite with the short-term but ask me what happened in my life between 1986 and 2002 and i've got you covered. don't know why you'd care but still, covered.

i retold this story just yesterday. vivid, vivid memory. funny to me. worth keeping. and I figure, if nothing else, this blog will be good to burrow through when I am 94 and riddled with Alzheimer's - someone will just need to remind me i kept a blog.

so, i am in kindergarten, sitting at my desk, holding a pair of scissors. presumably the class is playing some kind of cut and paste game, before the popularity of ctlr x, ctrl v. i, however, am cutting strips in my school dress. from the hem, about three cm upwards. not sure why. just am. about six strips in i wonder what exactly i am doing and start pondering how i am going to explain myself.

"Johnny Simpson* crawled under the desk and cut all the girls dresses, mum. he did," turned out to be the best i could come up with. seemed to work though.

anyway, it got me off the hook. Johnny went on to become the guy at school who always had never-ending funds to spend on toffee apples at the canteen. he was also the hardest person to "scab" money off, and i wanted a redskin damn it. he also once held a party when his parents were away, but got so drunk when his cricket game was washed out in the afternoon, he passed out before it started. he woke up to a graffitied kitchen and family bicycles at the bottom of the pool et al. it wasn't me.

*I've changed Michael's name for his protection. Oops.

world's best mumma

overheard in the car park of a local shopping centre:

"i'm going to ring your neck you fucken' shit"- Mother of the Year (one can only presume) to son of about five years old.

apologies for swearing, but, you know, verbatim and all that.

my jaw-dropped but i said nothing. i mean, it's not my place, but it took significant restraint.

some people should truly be sterilised.

Monday, May 12, 2008

for schnitzel my pretzel

i laughed at this video for two days before i saw it, such are the narrating talents of my mate Fiona. i thought the build up may cause the video to flop once i finally got my hands on it at work. Not so, you fat molls.

Saturday, May 10, 2008


I think this is the last of the myspace transfers, which means I can finally delete my myspace page. Of course, I will be sadly leaving behind all my friends who are sticking staunchly by Tom and the myspace crew - which seems to be anyone under 2o, and my little sisters. Me, I have developed a strong bond with facebook, and have no desire to update more than one social networking site. Plus, ever since I found out the Peter Russell-Clarke who befriended me on myspace was a FAKE, I haven't been the same.

Dear fellow airline passengers,

Why are you all such tools?

Far be it from me to tell you how to go about your business but, next time you're waiting at the baggage carousel, could you do me a minor favour and MOVE AWAY FROM THE DAMN THING!!

You do realise standing toe-to-carousel will not help your bags come out before anyone else's, don't you?

And you do understand that by standing toe-to-carousel, you and your fellow tools are blocking the view for those few sensible travellers who have taken a few considerate steps back, right?

Moreover, you must see that by standing toe-to-carousel, you are also blocking the pick-up path, making me, and surely others, want to whack you in the dumb face with the hard end of my suitcase even more.

You know, if everyone brought it back about two, maybe three, metres, we would all be in the front row. Now, I know I am not smarter than everyone else, so why haven't you all thought of this yourselves.

C'mon, help me out. I'm tired and I want to go home.

Friday, May 9, 2008

hate to say I told you so

That is all.

Well, it was all, on November 14, 2007 when I originally blogged this much-loved topic. Now it's part of the great blogging transfer of 2008. Myspace to camelshoes, the changing of the guard.

kate jakka is pregnant

Another transition from myspace to camelshoes. I'm almost done. This one's timely, at least on the Gold Coast, where I currently reside. This local kid with Asperger's syndrome wrote a letter to school bullies, pleading for empathy, which was printed in the Gold Coast Bulletin. It's been heavily followed up and a lot of people have a lot to say. I have infinite views on bullying. In a nutshell, it is one of, if not THE most cowardly act.

Anyway, here's a little something I prepared earlier. April 23, 2006 to be precise.

Stuck in peak hour this morning, listening to Nova 106.9 (plug), I was, I don't know, moved is probably the right word, by something Meshel Laurie said.

It's a bit serious, but I wanted to share it.

The breakfast team, who are actually a funny bunch of people when it's appropriate, were talking about the suicide of those teenagers in Melbourne. If you're not familiar with the story, two 16-year-old girls, reported to be part of the "emo" culture, although this is being debated, hanged themselves in a suicide pact.

(Myspace has actually been brought up in a lot of stories because they both had a page, or maybe they had one together, and there were some telling messages prior to their disappearance – apparently, but anyway, that's irrelevant to Meshel's point).

Meshel was very passionate about what had been lost. Two lives which will never have the chance to blossom. Yeh, I know, wanky word, but the point is: here are two girls who will never graduate, get a job, move out of home, live in a share house, get a promotion, have a serious boyfriend, have a mandatory crap boyfriend, get married, have kids. They will never discover who they really are and create a unique and precious life for themselves.

She went on to point out that people are always telling teenagers: "these are the best years of your life". This is when I really started listening.

For so many teenagers, those years ARE NOT the best of their life, as Meshel said. They are actually really shithouse. While hormones are going crazy, so many teens have to deal with insecurities, broken families, bullying, peer pressure, all that shit stuff.

Again, to paraphrase Meshel, when some kids are being told "these are the best years of your life", they must be thinking, "well, if it's only downhill from here, I don't want to be around for it".

I harbour some of the most amazing memories from high school and some of my closest, most wonderful friends were made at KHS. But I also couldn't wait to get out of the place which fed so many of my insecurities. My God, I spent a good year of high school feeling sick every day because maybe this would be the day those girls who threatened to "bash me up" every lunch time would come through on their word.

Kids can be so cruel and I don't for a second think I didn't play a part in making it tough for someone else. Bullying is a food-chain of sorts.

I remember when I first moved onto campus at Uni. I met one of the senior residents who would be "looking after us". She looked kind of like a geek and, I am embarrassed to say, I was disappointed at the prospect of meeting less-than-cool people through her. Oh my God, that is so fucked up. Apologies for ever thinking that way. Anyway, by the end of the day I had met a million people from every walk of life and everyone treated each other with respect, as they should.

Of course, there are always going to be tools, even now as an adult (yeh, I said it, adult) there are plenty of idiots around. But the kind of people who made you feel you had to impress them at high school became the kind of people who no one would bother with at Uni.

I knew then Uni was going to be soooo different and they were easily some of the best days of my life. Hopefully we all have plenty more ahead of us.

PS: I'm not, NOT, pregnant. And that's not how you spell my name. It was, however, one of the delightful remarks which adorned the Year 8 toilets walls at my high school. I was a 13-year-old virgin but, you know, what does that matter? Bullies are smart.

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

it's that time of year again

In exactly two weeks time, I'll be in extreme agony. Why? It'll be about halftime during Origin I and I am a passionate NSW fan. Following the Blues is tough. If they're the red-hot favourites, they'll lose or die trying, and if they're the underdogs, they'll run away from the Maroons before falling in a heap. Exhibit A, Game I, 2007. Remember this?


Anyway, I'm over it. Seriously. But, at the time, I was livid. And I told you so, in the form of myspace. So, I introduce to you, "that-blog-I-wrote-back-then-and-am-now-transferring-to-my-new-super-freak-blogspot"....

Origin I and why I'm Blue

There are so many more people to blame for New South Wales' utterly disappointing loss than Jarryd Hayne. So, so many. The poor kid 'did a Justin Hodges' last night, throwing a wayward pass to gift Queensland a try in the 61st minute. It was the brain explosion which put the Maroons in front. But I forgive him. He's 19 and on Origin debut for starters and he was also responsible for a Billy Slater-esque try seconds before halftime so, points wise, he broke even (conversion aside).

I'd prefer to blame Matt King: stick to your wing, for God sake. Or Braith Anasta: how many times do you have to be told? Kick away from the opposition, AWAY. Can you believe Johnathan Thurston used to play second-fiddle to this nuff nuff? Debutant Jarrod Mullen was also guilty of a poor kicking game but again, I'm a fair enough person to give new blood a bit of a chance. For the record, Anthony Minichiello was absolutely superb.

But mostly, I blame the Queenslanders. People said the Maroons couldn't win without the underdog tag and the cheeky little buggers proved those people right.

Queensland entered the clash $1.80 favourites and they couldn't handle the pressure. They stuffed up numerous first half chances to trail at the break and, all of a sudden, look who's an outside chance of taking Origin I – Queensland. Enter the characteristic fighting spirit which Queenslanders love most about their team and the hosts score 19 (nine-fucking-teen) unanswered points to blow the Blues away.

Deja vu anyone? Queensland has come from behind at halftime on 10 previous occasions. As a Blues supporter I can tell you there is absolutely no comfort to be taken from sitting on the right side of the halftime buffer when it comes to Origin.

Watching Origin has become an occasion better "enjoyed" alone in recent years because of the frustration involved in supporting a team which insists on giving up game-winning leads. Or should that just be giving up? Oh, and the fact that I want to punch all Queenslanders who think gloating is funny. It's not funny, and I will punch you!

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

passion pop all round, i did it

three blogs in a day, get out.

well, not really, two I stole from my myspace, as you've been informed, but this one - this one's just a quickie to express my delight that I finally figured out my layout.

a few tweaks here and there are in the pipeline but, ultimately, I'm good to go.

btw, see that silhouette up scale, yep, I work out (and throw up after each meal, all the myspacers are doing it)

ding dong

It's Sunday. It's not really, it's Tuesday. I've cut and pasted this from my soon-to-be deceased myspace page. How are my tenses? PS: Italics represent the NOW.

John Smith's* manager, also known as his mum, is being a cow and won't give me his number and Brad Jones* has yet to call me back so, clearly, I cannot make any progress on my working day.

So, I'm going to have a crack at blogging (please note: Microsoft word does not recognise the word blogging and suggests a better option may be "bogging", ha. Whether you are thinking poo or body in the bog, courtesy of Ms Stroud, it's funny. In other news, another option was flogging – don't get me started).

I have accepted the challenge thrown down by good friend, crazy girl and sexy bi-atch Lovell on July 28 - yeh, it's been a long time coming.

"The challenge," Lovell wrote to her KHS gal pals "…is out for you to do something equally as hi-larious (as 2002 NYE) for the Croatia breakdown."

Sure, the challenge was aimed at Shez banger, but looks like she's running scared so, here I go….

CROATIA – a report by Jacka

The roll call
Waa Waa
Shell (the artist formerly known as Chell)
Di Thomasville
Shez banger (aka El Divo)

From varying corners of Europe, eight high school buddies (below, der, chillin' in the city of walls) reunited in Split, Croatia, in readiness for a seven day sailing tour to Mlijet, Dubrovnik, Trstenik, Korcula, Hvar and back again.

Check in was a breeze and the knowledge we would be aboard the "Madona" was music to our ears. Like a Virgin, Material Girl and Vogue to be precise.

As quickly as we boarded, we seemed to be disembarking _ the KHS chicks happy to put their hands up for some white water rafting.

Given we are a bunch of coordinated and, in most cases, sporty girls, it was a surprise to discover that, as a team, we generally sucked. But with hot instructor Ivan there, no one really gave a shit.

It was not until we saw the photographic proof that we realised Shez Banger had been fearing for her life the whole time. Sorry, divo.

Back on the boat where an unhealthy fetish for 14-year-old deckhand Dewy (no, I have no idea how to spell it, but to paint an accurate picture, the cutie quickly became Deeeww-ee-yeah, expressed in the most inappropriate and exaggerated of voices) developed early.

He will be remembered by his shirt, bow-tie and board short combo, a serious obsession with the song Gasolina (played ad nauseum throughout the week) and a commendable attempt to pass himself off as an 18-year-old on a boat chock-a-block full of 20-something females. Ding dong.

First stop…I forget, but apparently there's not much to do there so Madona threw us a party. All-you-can-drink ensured the Madona became the place to be but those who attempted to join the fun were being turned away at the door. Apparently too many people on one boat might make it sink.

A 10pm lockout saw everyone head to shore where Divo became the first to score despite her best efforts to avoid the situation. Ding doooong!

Dubrovnik tossed up some of the trip's most memorable moments, Di's thong heroics made sure of that.

After a fabulous night, which started with dinner and fireworks in the old city centre and ended with too many gigantor cock-tails at the disco club, Di, Shovell, Shell and myself retired to the deck for a debrief. Shelly, not foreseeing the imminent danger, rested her weary legs on Madona's railing.

The thong debacle (captured on my camera...badly, very badly, below) played out as follows:

"Oh no, my thong, I lost my thong," Shell cried as her one of her Haviana rip-offs, purchased at Target for $4, tumbled into the Adriatic. The four of us jumped up and peered into the greasy water, laughing as the plugger slowly floated away. But hang on, where'd Di go?

Full of rum, the recently married Waggarian was hot on the tail of Shell's shoe.

"If you want me to go after it, I need to hear about it," she cried.
"Di, Di, Di, Di," came the chorus and the former B&S-loving chick was in, splashing, spluttering and, most importantly, saving that precious damn thong.

With the quasi-Havi now safely on deck, Di made her way back to the boat but, without the ladder to assist her, getting back on board proved a challenge too great for the four of us.

Woken by our hysterical laughter-turned nervous concern, O Capitane bolted from his room (with giant posters of naked ladies adorning his walls) in only his jockey Y-fronts (sorry, no pic) to save the day.

Relaying the story to a Kiwi who couldn't comprehend how Shell could lose her g-string overboard (silly shee-lovers call thongs jandals) was almost as funny as the real thing.

In the meantime, Dart was picking up a Croatian or two. Ding dong, ding dong.

No one saw the next morning but the stash of Barpys (a delicious nutella like substance served up in travel-sized, easy to pinch packets) stashed away my our room ensured we would never go hungry. Mmm, Barpys.

A quite night was on the cards in the less eventful but still beautiful Trsenik (is that right, did we go here? I really should have paid more attention). The Madona enjoyed lamb on a spit before the Wagga clan headed out for coffee and cake.

Later that evening, on the vessel next door, a couple of fun-loving kids found something better to do, shagging long and hard in position after position while Sarz and Shell blocked their ears and assumed the foetal position (okay, they actually snuck a peek or two and giggled uncontrollably). Big dong..I mean, ding dong.

What came next?? It was so long ago. Let's go with Korcula, the only place I ever have (and ever will, I'm sure) eat pizza, drink cocktails and enjoy the company of some of the world's best chicks (ohh, you guys) atop a bloody castle.

Then it was off to some nightclub where the KHS girls were introduced to the boys of Cambridge, Oxford, Harvard??? One of those. The relationship continued in Hvar the following evening, probably because the boys weren't short of a quid (or Kuna as it were) and the drinks flowed freely.

A few of the Wagga crew, namely the ones not trying to pick up, spent plenty of time pissing themselves at Hugo, the camp marketing guru with a wicked sense of humour, who actually turned out to be Bob, the heterosexual marketing guru boasting an alter ego or two (his alter ego wasn't Hugo and his real name wasn't Bob but my memory isn't serving me well, bottom line, he was a cack).

Divo picked up again (we'll have to start calling her dong), and then got angry at the guy she picked up for being annoying. She's a heart-breaker our Shezzy.

The first sign of choppy water was on the last day and it didn't fair well with the Wagga contingent. The group disembarked quicker than you can say ding dong and Darty, Shez and I raced to McDonalds where the former had a much-needed spew. No, a real spew, not a McCroat burger.

To aid her recovery and even the ledger with Divo, Darty went for one final ding dong…but I'm sure Shez has leapt ahead since then!!

In conclusion, that was a farken long debrief and I'm sure I've left a million things out. A shout out to all our Madona friends (what a bloody ripper of a cast we had!!) as well as Ed, Trissy and Matt, who made the journey all the more memorable.

Back at the Bulletin, Brad still hasn't called back and Mrs Smith is still a cow.

Peace out.

* Names have been changed to protect my career

london sux

Prologue: I wrote this ages ago. It's from my myspace page. I'm in the process of transferring my myspace blogs to camelshoes so I can finally delete my myspace page from the world of cyber. I'm a facebooker. 4eva, or until something better comes along.

Let me set the scene.

MC Hammer, jelly shoes, Family Ties, candy necklaces, slap bands, hyper colour t-shirts....
Now, in the same vein, I introduce to you...

... the London 2012 logo.

I am serious but I don't blame you for thinking I'm joking. This really is the design Olympic organisers have chosen to represent the 1988, sorry, I mean 2012 Olympic Games.
And guess what, it cost almost one million Aussie dollars.

Well, if you're reading this Olympics chief Sebastian Coe, and I know you are, here's a little something I designed myself. It took 10 minutes, adopts the same 80s concept as the aforementioned disaster (I even used paint, how 80s is that??), and I only charge half a mill. Bargain.

In related news, the 2012 ad campaign has been pulled from the tele because it was causing epileptic viewers to have seizures. Again, not joking.

Monday, May 5, 2008

The Blog of a Young Girl

okay, still not happy with this layout. i've been geeking up, reading help centre info about frickin htmls, dongles, wiggets, peripheral ports (still all out of whack) and i am none the wiser.

While I try to fix this problemo (Spanish, I'm catching on) I have resorted to my myspace background, because I am still pretty fond of it. I know, i know, it's a bitch to read, but, even though I am freaking out about not being able to download the exact template I want, I don't care about the whole reading thing. See, walking contradication.

Weirdness. After finally getting this blog up and running, and coming up with the sub head "opinions and musings blah blah" I read a chapter of The Diary of a Young Girl (Anne Frank) and she called herself a "bundle of contradictions", or something similar. Ha, we're so alike...except I've never had to go into hiding for fear of persecution, or been starved to death at a concentration camp..but, you know, apart from that...

Saturday, May 3, 2008

obsessive compulsive much?

Frick, finally, I have a blog. It's only been about six months in the making. Well, three minutes in the making; five months, 29 days, 23 hours and 57 minutes in the thinking.

First, I needed a blog name. I came up with, and quickly dismissed, a plethora of ideas. Then some workable thoughts started to arise...

Does this opinion make my blog look big? Taken.
Who let the blogs out? Taken.
So you think you can blog. Taken.

Grrr...oh, hang on, light bulb...

I think, therefore I blog....the suspense...suspense....taken.

Motivation was waning, especially because I had taken quite a liking to the latter. Now, the thing is, you can actually have whatever blog name you like, even if it is taken, you just can't have the same web address as somebody else, obviously.

But I don't want a different address, and I'm a brat, so the idea of a blog (which came about because I want to cancel my myspace page but don't want to lose my blogs) was benched.

Goddamit, create a blog already. Who gives a shit about the name. Well, I do, still...but, moving on, camelshoes it is.

This is funny to me. To you, it's the name of my blog.

Yay, something else to keep me from doing what I should be.

PS: my frickin template, which I am very in love with, is not uploading. dear computer God, please fix this problem, I do not want anyone to see my blog while it's got this boring arse background. Bleh.
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