Happy 21st

This weeks food for thought.... the year of the 21's 

There is nothing more that I enjoy than attending a good twenty-first. Having been invited to four that all took place over the course of the weekend, I don’t know what I am going to do with myself when they’re all over. As the year rolls on, they seem to keep getting better and better. I’ve only been to one that I thought really wasn’t much to rave home about, and we didn’t stay along after a fellow party guest hurled abuse at the entourage I arrived with. That loon bag aside, there is just something unique about a twenty-first celebration. 

Unlike your 18^th where you invited as many people as you could and consumed your body weight in punch, as you hadn’t quite found an appreciation for beer nor could you stomach wine that came from a box (and probably still cant) – they posses a different atmosphere.

While these times were memorable, the 21^st seem to be more intimate, shared with closer friends.  Don’t get me wrong, alcohol still plays a large part in the festivities. I read on facebook this morning that the following was consumed at a twenty first - 180 bottles of beers, 50 bottles of wine - 60 bottles champagne, plus slushy machines with 4 litres of vodka in them, plus the old contreau /stawberry liquer/sparking wine/based punch - refilled 12 times! Then of course you could be ‘treated’ to a yard glass.

Whether it has been spent getting blotto in rotto, an afternoon fiesta up in the hills, a space themed party or soiree at a trendy bar – the 21st in my opinion symbolises the anniversary in which a person becomes an adult, plus you’re ability to drink legally any where in the world. I know that some pessimists don’t see the point in celebrating them, given that the legal drinking age is 18 in Australia, but I think its fairly safe to say that by 21 we’ve learnt a few things along the way.

But what really epitomises the celebration is the speeches. How often are you given the opportunity to hear your parents stand up in front of a crowd and admit that you have defied the odds and have become a reasonable human being and then give the floor to you’re closest mates to share some funny/embarrassing tales that may cause the older generation to cringe. It’s just a shame we don’t take more opportunities to tell our mates how much we admire their achievements and talents, but more so how much we value their friendship.

While yes I admit attending three over the weekend plagued me with zestful hang over’s that packed a punch and didn’t do much for my bank balance, I’m saddened that we don’t have many left to go. I suppose once the year is out, we’ll just have to play the waiting game for the big three zero to roll around. And after that I don’t even want to think about . . .the eulogy probably (only kidding).

Until the next ramble, bye for now

Cuttsy

"We're flocking in droves"

This week’s food for thought . . . flocking to Europe.

It seems to be an ingrained common rite of passage for the youth of Australia to flock to Europe at any given chance. I’ve just noticed recently that everyone I hold a conversation with, that comes under the youth age bracket, is gearing for an adventure half way across the world; albeit for a little as 3 weeks for some! I myself run the risk of sounding hypocritical as I too felt the sudden urgency to pack my life up into one small suitcase and swap continents for 6 months. But where did this fascination spur?

To begin with, I’d argue the media is guilty of perpetuating the idea of Europe as this sort of mythical place – ‘Euro-topia’ - an escapism that permits us to leave the woes of everyday life realities behind. This, along with being constantly bombarded with cheap airline offers that are too good to refuse. Chasing some motherly wisdom on the subject matter, I quizzed Pauls her on why her generation didn’t flock in droves. Her response was issued with a blank stare, and a response along the lines of “because we were focused on securing a job and gathering enough money for a deposit on a house.”

This idea of security seems to have been lost in translation over the years, as this doesn’t seem to be resonated in the attitudes of generation X. Instead of embarking on our chosen career path after slogging it out at uni for three years plus, we’re too busy working 3 jobs and scanning the pages of Contiki brochures and the likes and convincing ourselves it is perfectly reasonable to be earning a measly 5 pounds an hour working in an English pub; at the end of the day you’re in Europe. Students who defy the norm really have no excuse for not finding jobs as its most likely that half of their graduating class has scraped together what few dollars they have and are busy drinking sangria in Spain or destroying brain cells in Amsterdam.

But while yes it may destroy you financially, it’s hands down the best experience I’ve ever had.  So here are my tips for a European hiatus:

• ·      Get your hands on some Valium or sleeping pills, 20 hours in an aeroplane can be soul destroying –even for the seasoned traveller. I’d also suggest a neck pillow.
• ·      Get a handle on your jet lag straight away, as it can put you out of sorts for a while.
• ·      Ensure you have the correct travel insurance  - this is a must.
• ·      Splurge out and buy yourself a proper backpack. European architecture seems to have a fascination with stairs and nothing is worse than lugging a suitcase up 8 flights of stairs. Wheels don’t come in too handy.
• ·      Read hostel reviews very closely and be prepared be sharing a room with 12 other strangers.
• ·      Furthermore, be prepared to be woken up at all hours of the night as your fellow roommates stumble in (as those poor girls in Ireland learnt after I woke them up asking for a plastic bag after my mate projectile vomited on the back of a fellow patron, and all down the front of his clothes).
• ·      Pack some earplugs, as you’re most likely to come across a snorer. Thongs for the shower wouldn’t go astray either.
• ·      If you’re travelling to a country where English isn’t their first language, learn the basics. I learnt the hard way in France trying to order a bottle of water. A lot of blank looks were exchanged after I attempted to explain it to her in what started to look like a game of charades. Its ‘l'eau’ in case you’re wondering… and no I ended up with a bottle of sprite instead.
• ·      Ensure you have the correct train tickets and do not end up on a high-speed train when you haven’t paid for it. As you may run the risk of being taken to a Dutch police station.
• ·      And lastly, but most importantly, smoke and drink and much as your dwindling bank balance will allow. 

Anyway that’s my two cents worth for this week. To any of the lucky ones migrating to Perth International Airport in the coming weeks, have a smashing time and say hello to my good friend Europe for me. I look forward to hearing your stories.

Bye for now,

Cuttsy

The dog days are over

This week’s food for thought . . . the loss of a family pet

While indulging in my usual facebook binge earlier this week, I stumbled across a fellow facebooker who was grieving the loss of their dog. For many of us the thought of having to say goodbye to a beloved pet is unfathomable. Over the years I was too naive to apprehend that my slightly overweight 12-year-old Labrador - emphasis on the ‘slightly’ – would not outlive me. What we thought was going to be a bout of the old dog flu, in fact turned out be canine lymphoma. As you can imagine my obscure reality was quickly shattered.  Firstly often do you hear someone saying that their dog has a cold (NEVER) and secondly it hadn’t even occurred to me that dogs could get cancer! I give you permission to roll your eyes at my idiocy. A further blow was delt when told his life expectancy would be a maximum of 60 days! A life changing moment for our family. Now I’m sure there are some pessimists out there thinking “its only a bloody dog” but like your attitude to crocs, you have missed the mark once again.

Unfortunately poor Bailey never quite made it to those 60 days, falling just two days just short of his 13^th birthday. Like many people had told us in the days leading up to his death, he would let us know when he would be ready; strangely enough he did. On a bitter cold morning of August 19 even a plate of toast was too much of an indulgent stretch. For those who have ever owned a Labrador or encountered one, you would know they cannot simply resist the slightest speck of food. As emotions ran high, the final trip to the vet was made. This is where the reality of the situation became apparent and our tear ducts copped a battering. Slowly as the contents of that magic green needle diluted into his blood stream we watched a beloved family member drift slowly away, pain free. The same could not be said for the three of us wailing away.

So to the animal that roamed our backyard for 12 years and 363 days (with the exception of thunder and lightning), rest in piece you beautiful thing!

Bye for now,

Cuttsy

Keep Calm and Carry On

This week’s food for thought  . . . neurotic tendencies

If the tube in London taught me anything – besides not to charge at closing doors – it was to keep calm and carry on. After a somewhat turbulent week, metaphorically speaking, the chain well and truly came off the bike. I make this reference towards to my mental well-being. It is no real secret that I went through a ‘significant’ period of readjustment before resettling back in to life here in Oz, and just when I thought things were on the up, another drunken flip out. I admit,  throwing copious volumes of alcohol down my throat through the course of last Saturday evening didn’t improve the situation; in fact it just magnified it. Again I found myself on the same old tirade of anguish, unleashed on the same poor mate who’s copped it all before.

While highlighting than YES I am a complete nut case (in both his and my eyes), it really drove home just how extreme my neurotic tendency to question every situation is. Don’t ask me why I’m like it. It’s like the sweating and the bleeding nipples – the answers are unknown. What a wake up call it really was! A change has to be made, so from now on I’ve decided to adopt the wartime ideology promoted by the 1939 British Government – Keep Calm and Carry On. Hey it worked for them . . .

With my new outlook on life firmly cemented and the chain well and truly back on the bike, I’m heading east to Kalgoorlie for the weekend. Even better my good friend Bec - who I met in London, but ironically hales from Perth - will be joining me. I may have slightly exaggerated just how pleasant Kalgoorlie is, so I’m now at bay at what I’m going to show her. The Super Pit is the obvious choice, but giant holes in the ground can only fill so much time. There is offcourse the world’s tallest bin, a bestowed honour for all Kalgoorlieans. Then I suppose we could move on to a tour of the brothels and then round out the evening with a drinks and the real deal at the Gold Bar. What a weekend she’s in for, I don’t know why I’m worried!

I think we’ll leave it there for this week. If you do happen to see someone who resembles me wandering aimlessly around the front of debos, don’t be alarmed; I’m simply once again just trying to find myself. And here’s me thinking I had it in the bag. Lets try again shall we!

Keeping calm and carrying on!

Cuttsy

Rock ya croc

This weeks food for thought . . .  crocs (the super stylish kind, not the animal)

After toying with numerous ideas, this week’s blog topic delivered itself in the form of an insult – a group of mates mocking me over owning a pair of crocs. While they basked in their ‘humorous’ torment, I channelled on that one of them was trying taking an avid interest in them. Next thing its midnight and we’re gearing up for a much-needed binge feed at McDonalds and I’m pleading with him to take them off. And it is for this reason that I cannot fathom why everyone does not own a pair; they should be mandatory. If there was a natural disaster and I could only take 3 items, hands down the crocs would be up there. While I admit visually they aren’t the most appealing footwear, their versatile and how many shoes do you own can be worn as both as a sandal and slip on. I sure as hell can’t name any. For the cynics out there, I’ve devised the top ten reasons to wear crocs:

1) Really soft, super comfortable, moulds to your feet – PERSONALISATION

2) Barely there, weighing only 6 ounces - SO LIGHT . . . LIKE MAN WALKING ON THE MOON

3) Vented so air passes through, keeping feet cool – VENTILATION

4) Non-marking slip-resistant soles - DOUBLE TICK



5.) Bacteria and odour resistant - COMMON FOOT CARE



6.) ULTRA HIP ITALIAN STYLING - NEED I SAY MORE . . .



7.) Portholes allow water and sand to pass through - SUITABLE FOR ALL LANDSCAPES, ALBEIT WATER OR LAND


8.) Can be sterilised in water and bleach - NO FANCY FLASH LEATHER POLISH CLEANER NEEDED, HENCE SAVING YOU MORE MONEY. . BUT WAIT THE LIST GOES ON
. . .

9.) Easy maintenance, just wipe clean – THAT’S WHAT WE ALL NEED IN OUR BUSY LIVES 



10.) Orthotic moulded foot bed for ultimate comfort and support - ARCH CARE IS SOMETHING WE SHOULDN'T NEGLECT.

If you aren’t out buying a pair after reading this I think you really need to reassess what you want out of your life. Quite simply the above really does exemplify why crocs result in an easy and better walking experience.

Excuse me while I make a dash to the IGA, crocs firmly attached to my left and right feet. Only one decision to be made, do I rock the sandal or the slip on  . . . oh the possibilities.

Bye for now,

Jordan 'the croc loving' Cutts

Fear of Dogs

This weeks food for thought - hyperactive dogs


It recently dawned on me that I have a fear of LARGE dogs. For the record, I did say large dogs. Hypocrite may be your initial thought; as YES I used to be a dog owner, but come on we all know with your own it’s different. There is just something about dogs. Cats, fish, rabbits, guinea pigs, sea monkeys I can cope with, but with the canines I just feel this wave of uneasiness take control when they approach. Like the hang over’s (as per the previous blog) the phobia is getting worse. So much so that if a dog were to be coming toward me I would cross the road and its highly likely I would walk in the opposite direction to where I should be headed. Take for example when I go running, if I see a dog striding toward me, with or without its owner in toe, I actually start to panic and strategically try to plan out how I would react in the situation given it attack me. Without fail I’m probably sounding slightly dramatic and neurotic by this stage, but I think it’s the fear that draws the dog toward me. I’m a magnet, I attract them  . . . It is as though they have some sixth sense and just for kicks decide to bark and then navigate their nose in my crutch. You could be really lucky and even get a little dry hump before their ‘overly’ concerned’ owner comes gushing over and says “ohhh he likes you.” Ironic that if humans were to carry on with this tirade, we would probably end up on some sort of sexual assault charge. 

You might be thinking where is this dog-hating-loon going with all of this; rest assure a point will be made. Just last week I was cleaning out the favourites folder on my computer and boy and behold what should I come across, a website for taming overly excited dogs. How does one find themselves on a website dealing with such a subject matter you might be asking. The answers lies in a house that I used to house sit, and with this house came a dog. Not just any dog . . . If there were a mental asylum for dogs, it would be locked away in solitary confinement. I’ve never come across anything with so much energy in my life. It had the sixth sense and used to pace up and down the front fence until I’d get enough courage to enter the property and then it was on for young an old. The moment that latched open it when B-A-L-I-S-T-I-C!!! Everyday I would emerge defeated, covered head to toe in soil because it used to jump all over me like a mad man until I managed to throw enough biscuits in its bowl before making a mad dash out of there. Initially I figured it was just getting used to a new face and would ease off, but no it got worse. So much so that I was driven to the Internet to look for helpful hints on how to tame it. I tried everything from shaking gravel in an empty water bottle, tapping sticks, standing perfectly still in the one position for 5 minutes, chasing it with a wheelie bin that doubled as a shield, food as bribes, talking to it at the fence for ten minutes to calm it down and even succumbed to purchasing a cheap water gun. I kid you not none of the above actually worked, if anything they probably edged it on more. Probably a good thing I deleted the website.

Anyway, that’s me for today. To be fair all I’m really asking is to be left alone as I’m not interested in your saliva, your nose up my backside or your sexually motivated advances. 

Seedaylishous Hangovers

This week’s food for thought – seedaylishous hangovers

In theory – A hangover describes the sum of unpleasant physiological effects following heavy consumption of alcoholic beverages. The most commonly reported characteristics of a hangover include headache, nausea, sensitivity to light and noise, lethargy, dysphoria, diarrhea and thirst, typically after the intoxicating effect of the alcohol begins to wear off.

In reality – soul destroying…

There is nothing more I detest than a hang over and to be quite honest I’m fed up with them. Some are so gruelling they play with my mind and convince me that alcohol will never again touch my lips. But for some reason, come the weekend, or even mid week, I once again partake in this vicious cycle, awaiting the punishment that will follow in due course (its like some sort of sick fetish). To make matters worse, it seems the older I get, the worse they become. I remember vividly the days of invincible under age raging and waking up virtually hang over free. Why must all good things come to an end? The moment I turned 18 it seems this body had bigger and better things and without fail I will in some shape or form bear the brunt of my previous night antics.

I’ve taken to treating them as a game, not knowing how I’m going to wake up – sort of like a lucky dip – and have characterised them it in to three categories: the first being general overall seedyness, the second vomiting and thirdly the headache where it feels like your head will detach from your body and sky rocket in to another universe. But, depending on how hard you tried, you might even hit the ‘jackpot’ and endure all three. By far the ultimate is waking up drunk and thinking you’re fine and you have defeated it, until it sneaks up and hits you later on in the day.

You might be thinking to yourself, ‘Cutts you haven’t tried this . . .’  not to cut you off, but I’ve tried every remedy known to man to try and alleviate this problem– everything from drinking powerade before bed, skulling litres of water, swimming, green tea, orange, bacon and eggs, panadol, fast food, ‘backing the truck up’ (goes down like razer blades) berocca, a 4km run – it didn’t end well. I might make it my quest in life to find the invincible cure to this incurable taunt.  

Some of my ‘favourite hang over moments' include:

• ·      Passing out on in a kitchen I shared with 11 other people

• ·      Pulling over and spewing out of my driver door in a neighbourhood street in front of a resident watering their grass
• ·      Spewing off the back of a truck in Thailand
• ·      Spewing in the bin in my room and forgetting about it
• ·      Setting off a fire alarm and having my building evacuated after I tried to sleep in my shower (note to self shower with door open)
• ·      Passing out in a bar after 35 shots, being carried home and then not surfacing for the next 24 hours
• ·      Stopping a coach on the way to Oxford to get out and have a spew
• ·      Crying in the carpark of subway after I broke my immobiliser and couldn’t get home (nothing worse than soggy subway)
• ·      Sneaking out of a tutorial to have a spew only to be caught by my tutor (awkward)
• ·      Making some very interesting purchases at Dublin airport (including the most boring book on earth: Tony Blair’s biography) and the passing out and dribbling on myself – much to the delight of fellow passengers.
• ·      Sleeping with quokkas in a park at Rottnest.

Ahhhhhh such good times!

So to the lucky ones out there where your body is yet to provide you with a ‘useful, natural and intrinsic disincentive to excessive drinking – your time will come!

Bye for now

Cuttsy