James Deuce
9th October 2005, 19:54
I had a workmate in the UK called Alex Wylie. I used to call him "Griz" but then you were probably expecting that. He was a very big Rugby fan and no mean player himself. However he suffered from a couple of things that I saw as personality defects, but then he reckoned I had more so I should shut up. He was pretty big, but nonetheless I still gave him a bit of stick, just to get an idea of his world view.
Being a Rugby Union worshiper, a pilgrimage to NZ and Australia was an obvious choice for Griz for his first OE. Griz was profoundly disappointed with both countries, because apart from their obvious worship of oval ball sports, the actual people at home in their actual country, little resembled the standard Shepherd's Bush dwelling, ANZAC pub vomit decorating rootin', tootin', sex machine that inhabited the the country of his birth, albeit in a largely temporary capacity. No, your average Kiwi and Aussie was comparatively quietly content in his/her home environment.
They also had a startling prediliction for revelling in the starkly contrasted landscape and scenery of both countries, and, what's more, actually interacting with an environment lacking dance clubs, vast shopping estates, ancient architecture, and nearby and recently aggressive neighbouring states. Kiwis and Aussies do stuff like swimming at the beach, having family BBQs, and actually having dinner parties and get togethers IN OTHER PEOPLE'S HOUSES. Which aren't tower block apartments, terraced houses, or even semi-detached houses. No, they live in bungalows and villas for the most part.
You see, Griz's world view could be summed up by the statement he used to justify his villification of these two isolated and sparsely populated countries: "You can only take so much fucking scenery." His idea of the perfect time involved tarts, recreational drugs of the snorted, inhaled, imbibed, and swallowed variety, then rinse and repeat. Sexual politics far outweighed quality of life (however you define it) in importance.
Well, Bollocks to that.
Being the lucky, lucky, lucky bastard that I am I went for ride to a family function today. Then I rode back. Unlike all of the rides I've been on this year I was flying solo, and the scope for doing your own thing, stopping where you like and generally not bothering to worry about anything other than riding and looking out for Enid and Alfred out on their Sunday jaunt, is immense.
The weather was fascinating. It looked like a brilliant warm Spring day, but had all the sting of a mid-winter chill, thanks to a recent snowfall on the Tararuas. Which is really the point. In the space of 2 hours you can go from flat plains, through gently rolling lush farmland, and over vertiginous hill roads that sing a siren's song of cornering delight, tempered only by a niggling, vegetarian, abstinence endorsing, Anglican Vicar called Self-Preservation. But sometimes you round a corner, drift to a stop and there, apparently right in front of you, is a Mountain range shrouded in cloud and snow.
I live here, and still don't get enough of it. Griz, you pommy git, you can keep your simple slappers, interested only in a shag, a pint, and a life time of DPB, your drearily repetitive Dance parties in Ibiza, and your cheap package tours to the Aegean Islands, in search of hairy Greek slappers and cheap Ouzo. I get poetry every day.
Nyah.
Being a Rugby Union worshiper, a pilgrimage to NZ and Australia was an obvious choice for Griz for his first OE. Griz was profoundly disappointed with both countries, because apart from their obvious worship of oval ball sports, the actual people at home in their actual country, little resembled the standard Shepherd's Bush dwelling, ANZAC pub vomit decorating rootin', tootin', sex machine that inhabited the the country of his birth, albeit in a largely temporary capacity. No, your average Kiwi and Aussie was comparatively quietly content in his/her home environment.
They also had a startling prediliction for revelling in the starkly contrasted landscape and scenery of both countries, and, what's more, actually interacting with an environment lacking dance clubs, vast shopping estates, ancient architecture, and nearby and recently aggressive neighbouring states. Kiwis and Aussies do stuff like swimming at the beach, having family BBQs, and actually having dinner parties and get togethers IN OTHER PEOPLE'S HOUSES. Which aren't tower block apartments, terraced houses, or even semi-detached houses. No, they live in bungalows and villas for the most part.
You see, Griz's world view could be summed up by the statement he used to justify his villification of these two isolated and sparsely populated countries: "You can only take so much fucking scenery." His idea of the perfect time involved tarts, recreational drugs of the snorted, inhaled, imbibed, and swallowed variety, then rinse and repeat. Sexual politics far outweighed quality of life (however you define it) in importance.
Well, Bollocks to that.
Being the lucky, lucky, lucky bastard that I am I went for ride to a family function today. Then I rode back. Unlike all of the rides I've been on this year I was flying solo, and the scope for doing your own thing, stopping where you like and generally not bothering to worry about anything other than riding and looking out for Enid and Alfred out on their Sunday jaunt, is immense.
The weather was fascinating. It looked like a brilliant warm Spring day, but had all the sting of a mid-winter chill, thanks to a recent snowfall on the Tararuas. Which is really the point. In the space of 2 hours you can go from flat plains, through gently rolling lush farmland, and over vertiginous hill roads that sing a siren's song of cornering delight, tempered only by a niggling, vegetarian, abstinence endorsing, Anglican Vicar called Self-Preservation. But sometimes you round a corner, drift to a stop and there, apparently right in front of you, is a Mountain range shrouded in cloud and snow.
I live here, and still don't get enough of it. Griz, you pommy git, you can keep your simple slappers, interested only in a shag, a pint, and a life time of DPB, your drearily repetitive Dance parties in Ibiza, and your cheap package tours to the Aegean Islands, in search of hairy Greek slappers and cheap Ouzo. I get poetry every day.
Nyah.