bah, humbug!

Ah Christmas time. When for once a year, it is okay to eat 500g of chocolate a day, because it’s a gift, and it would be rude not to. When Londoner’s briefly drop their cold uncaring demeanours to wrangle their faces into a unnatural smile and wish each other “Merry Christmas”. When all people, regardless of their religious beliefs (or lack thereof), gather to celebrate a child that was born amongst animals over 2000 years ago and not even on the same day.

And we only do this once a year?!?!

For the first time I was not celebrating Christmas with my family in typical Shitspatrick style: home made potato salad, backyard cricket, and gifts of unwanted stationary items. Nay, I am in the country that birthed the Christmas spirit itself. My twelve days of Christmas consisted of figs, snow, blizzards, carollers, Regent Street lights, pub crawls, chocolate, Harrod’s, Sunday roasts, and the Walkabout (not typically in the Christmas custom but nevertheless worth a mention). My Christmas day itself was the best; from the moment I awoke at 2am to skype the family to when I stomached the last morsel of food my body could take before imploding at 2am, it was indeed a merry Christmas. I and the Motley Crew of assorted ex-pats I celebrated with cooked up quite a filling (and BMI tripling) TEN COURSE MEAL. I bet you’re rolling your eyes, scoffing. “Ten courses? As if!” you scorn boorishly. Many didn’t believe it could be done, but alas, friends, countrymen, romans, look and you will find the truth:

Course One: fancy pasta of some sort and eggnog

Course Two: Soup soup that tasty soup soup

Course Three: Meat pie

Course Four: Vege pie

Course Five: Mandatory turkey and green salad

Course Six: something....

Course Seven and Eight: More birds........and tequila shots

Course Nine and Ten: Trifle and chocolate pudding

Now I’ve never tried the fabled All You Can Eat Ribs and Pizzia at the humble Royal Mail Hotel, but this is as close as I’m going to get to going through what those poor customers inflicted on themselves. Cold sweats, loss of coordination, loss of ability to speak, decline in morals, increase bowel movements, weight gain, and waking up in the middle of the night screaming “No more! No more!” are just some of the results. Luckily a few days working on the chaotic Topshop Oxford Circus boxing day sales gave me an opportunity to forget my lesser worries of a huge appetite and concentrate on bigger concerns – like if I’m going to make it out alive from the pig pen of angry female shoppers each night.

I’ve also been preparing for my looming travels. I was able to get my Diptheria, Polio, Hep A, Tetanus, and something else shot courtesy of the NHS, but have to pay a whopping 90 pounds for Yellow Fever and Meningitus. And I was pleased to discover that none of them hurt half as much as the haemoglobin needle when you’re giving blood. Now that I’m evicted I’m moving out tomorrow and won’t have a proper address – not that I receive much mail anyway, but just to let you know. OH, and the other night I was lucky enough to score free tickets to Black Country Communion and The Waifs, which was AMAZING. I loved it with every fibre of my being. BCC is a rock supergroup with Jason Bonham (John Bonham's son), Glenn Hughes (Black Sabbath/Deep Purple), Derek Sherinian (just famous because) and Joe Bonomassa (Bloodline). The median age was about 65 and greying mullets and vintage leather jackets were in abundance. But it was mighty craic aaaaaaaaand iiiiiiiiii looooovvvvvveeeeeeeed ittttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt

That's all for now. x

i bless the rains down in aaaaafrica

Now that Regent St lights are up, Harrod's has 4672893 customers/hour, and there are bon bons on every Citigroup table in the restaurant, I thought I'd get in the festive cheer and make an update.

Lately I’ve been keeping quite busy with work. This week has been rather crappy, as I have been moved upstairs to Starbucks. While I do get to enjoy skynews live all day every day (and every comprehensive update on this ‘wikileaks’ business which I don’t understand), the managers are always around so I can’t take anything and eat it whenever I want like I can at Costa- which has led me to my what I call ‘Citibelly’. The customers are also a lot ruder, and considering the level of intelligence needed to work for such a company, it seems to be impossible for them to order a coffee properly. Here is a typical sale:

Customer: “Latte”.

Kate: “Sure.”

Under breath: “Sorry, was that ‘can I please have a Latte? Twat.”

*makes latte*

Kate: “Latte?”

Customer: *waits* *points to coffee* “Is this a latte?”

Though I these twats are wearing my patience thin, I will drink my sorrows away at the Christmas party tomorrow night. With a hefty bar tab and free munchies there’s no excuse not to get in the Christmas spirit and indulge a bit.

Also being the impulsive, intrepid traveller I am, I and my partner in crime Bianca jetsetted off to Amsterdam a couple of weekends ago. By “jetsetted”, I do mean “spent 14 hours cramped in a stinking coach with a driver who had to ask for directions”. It was awesome. We spent the weekend at coffeeshops, the Sex Museum, the Vodka Museum, the Heinekin Experience, and more coffeeshops followed by kebabs and toasties when we had the munchies. I have some cool photos of all of that and the snow, but you can bang “Amsterdam” into Google images and will get the idea. It was definitely worth chucking a sickie at work for, but I won’t crap on about it.

Coming home from Amsterdam, it was an unwelcome Christmas surprise to discover that we were being evicted from our flat. Yes, my dated, mouldy, rodent-infested and almost Dickensian flat apparently needs “refurbishments” in the New Year. Can you believe it! It’s almost insulting. With three weeks until eviction date, I decided it was time to put my thinking cap on and make a plan. I briefly browsed the internet (safe) for flats or houses in the Camden/Shoreditch/hipster areas of London, but there’s not much my meagre Citi-income can manage. My next idea was to follow my strong and sudden urge to move to Dublin and work in a pub and return to my Irish roots (Aye!). However considering their recent economic collapse, I didn’t like my chances, and plus it seems a bit too cold for my low Queenslander cold tolerance.

But I’ve made a bit of a plan. Considering I’ll be young, homeless, and have a shit job in London, (not the most ideal position for someone of my age), I decided I’m going to piss the job off mid-Jan, do a bit of travelling through Europe, come home for Australia day, then spend a few weeks in Kenya volunteering at an orphanage/teaching English and doing a safari. Then I can come home and be a career bitch, or re-evaluate my prospects of success and wealth in London. Sounds like a good plan to me! I’m most excited about Kenya. I just picked up a “Beginner’s Swahili” from the library and get my vaccinations next week. I think there’s about seven of them – such fun!

Other than that, not much is happening. Though it is absolutely Anarchy in the UK – it’s snowing again, the student riots are completely out of control, tube strikes and maintenance works left right and centre, all this riff raff about some Wikileaks thing (far too complicated for my small mind to follow) and everyone went bonkers about the X Factor finale which I didn’t even follow. Don’t I look like the fool. I did receive a letter yesterday addressed to “The Queen Kate Fitzpatrick” which is a pleasant upgrade from the derisory “Baronness”. It included a letter from PM Julia Gilliard expressing her excitement for the upcoming royal wedding, as well as a couple of letters from some very creative brothers of mine who have recently graduated and are enjoying the paradise of Lennox Heads (or what remains). The most disappointing news they reported was that our neighbours of 21 years have moved. After they hit the ball over the fence. Doh! It will be a challenge to find other neighbours who are equally as tolerant to my loud late-night renditions of Khe Sahn and Ring of Fire. And I will surely miss being serenaded to sleep by scales on the French horn. Sigh.

Off to the watering hole for some drinks with Justine and Therise. And to book flights to KUNYAAAAA

I feel it is fitting to end with a quote.

Asiyefunzwa na mamaye, hufunzwa na ulimwengu

He who was not taught by his mother will be taught by the world.

ode to burma

The other day I read that a bunch newspapers in China were censored because they featured Aung San Suu Kyi (that Burmese political prisoner chick) too prominently. What bollocks! I think my blog is having the opposite problem - I'm not featuring Aung San Suu Kyi prominently enough. So here is an ode to the Kyi-unit to remedy this dire, dire problem.

Still not prominent enough...

Not yet, maybe a bit more..

Maybe that last one crossed the line..........but now I'm up to date and even with my Chinese counterparts. Y-A-Y!

Thunder, lightning, rain rain rain

First of all, this is a pretty cool invention. I hope both world poverty and the iRevolution simultaneously continue to progress in great bounds and leaps!

Yesterday I went and saw Oliver! at Drury Lane Theatre Royale. Oh my days it was such an amazing performance. Compared to the version of Oliver! I saw at the dilapidated Wynnum community hall when I was about 6, I’d say this one was pretty good. I had vivid flashbacks to year eight “consider yourself” performance number, humming the ‘Oliver’ tune while working in a European sweatshop bakery for a man named Oliver, and the time I was a homeless orphan in London and a little cockney boy took me under his wing to a grimy underground brothel and taught me how to pick pockets. Good times. Followed by sushi, cider, and Shoreditch, Saturday was surely a tip-top day.

I’ve also got a new job. I have been personally selected among thousands of applicants to work at Citigroup Canary Wharf, the world’s largest financial group. I will be working on the 36^th floor, alongside some of the richest and most powerful bankers in the world. I will be crafting them exceptional semi-skimmed lattes and slices of mouth-watering carrot cake to feed their hungry stomachs with food and minds with banter, allowing them to continue to rule the corporate world.

This now being my 47893th job in London, I believe I have experience quite a well rounded cross section of jobs that London has to offer. From a traditional English pub, to a famous punk club, to an overpriced vintage stall, to the au courant Topshop, and now banking giants Citigroup (or “Starbucks Citigroup” if you want to be completely po-co), I’ve done it all.

Employment comes as a huge relief to me. Though it means I actually have to leave my bed each day and face the chill, it also means I can stop living out of cans. After the successful opening of discount supermarket LIDL on high street – where fireworks are sold next to laundry detergent – I have been enjoying a diet consisting largely of canned soup and instant noodles. However, I did branch out one day, y’know, thought outside the box, went out of my comfort zone, tried new things…but new things can be dangerous. This time I may have gone too far.

For 19p, it was an appealing choice. Low in sugar, high in carbs, filling, the goodness of tomatoy nutrition, as well as a quintessentially English choice.

The taste, to sober taste buds, was not the worst thing ever. It was hardly a Gordan Ramsay delicacy, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see it on the menu of a more standard-deficient restaurant (not mentioning any in particular…*ROYAL MAIL HOTEL*) As you could imagine, the liquid brew slid down my throat smoothly, happily filling my stomach with the MSG-coated goodness of snags and beans. However my stomach didn’t stay happy for too long. I was soon enough doubled over and clutching my stomach in snag-induced pain. But I’ve learnt that like basic hygiene and fitness levels, comfort is something that one must forgo to survive comfortably (or near-comfortably) in London.

Other than that, I’ve just been watching too much Dexter and Hollyoaks, finishing an assignment, contemplating my long term career goals, Harry Potter world premier, went to Liverpool, saw MEN at a burlesque bar, and keeping well hydrated in the evenings. Bet you haven’t noticed that I’ve also changed my typeface. It was a branding decision.

Guy Fawkes night just down the street..

My neighbourhood is a very open-minded one.

Snape kills Dumbledore.

Pride, a wonderful emotion

I'm currently in hibernation and have nothing creative to say for myself, so I'm going to let another brilliant blog do the talking. It taught me a lot about the word "pride" and its inner meaning.


There are a few different meanings of the emotive word PRIDE. An old saying goes “Pride before the fall”. This pride infers smugness, conceit, or even arrogance and these human traits are never popular as they contain elements of egotism and ignorance. The PRIDE that we love and need occurs when we are thrilled that someone or some organisation does something special and we feel passionate about this achievement.

When “Advance Australia Fair” is played as they raise the Aussie flag at the medal ceremony, or when our mighty Maroons lift the State of Origin Trophy (again), we feel euphorically happy, and sometimes emotions will spill over and the eyes become a little watery. That PRIDE is the good PRIDE. There is no egotism here. This feeling is one of sharing and this feeling is often experienced as a group, so it’s personal but at the same time it’s an emotion that unites the group or community. We feel better because our SELF ESTEEM has increased.

I can still remember the times when my children were “on show” – either in the school play or scoring the try that won the game. As parents nothing compares to the PRIDE we feel when our children achieve their goals and I don’t mean just winning – I mean “having a go” or bringing some kudos to their group, team or school. As they say “the heart swells with PRIDE” and very often the memory of these moments last for many years, and sometimes as long as we live.
During the last NRL season I saw Jamie Simpson score a try and he immediately grabbed the front of his Rabbitohs jersey and kissed the club logo. Jamie is a former St. Brendan’s student who overcame some massive hurdles in his life and in doing so has become an inspiration to many. What Jamie has achieved is incredible but this brave and humble young man is extremely proud of his club and of the wonderful game of Rugby League so he spontaneously and unashamedly demonstrates this PRIDE for all to see.

When I witness these moments, I feel PRIDE. I am proud of my allegiance to Rugby League and I know that there are hundreds of thousands of fellow Rugby League supporters that feel the same as me.
I know that in a few years time, I will be sitting in a magnificent world class stadium in Central Queensland and our own CQ NRL team will run onto the green grass into the white light. The Central Queensland dominated crowd of 20,000 will come to their feet and cheer for their team. A team with a predominance of Central Queensland players and individually and collectively we will have that sense of happiness, relief that it is here at last. It is this PRIDE that we Central Queenslanders need to experience. The wonderful flow-on effect of this PRIDE is the massive increase in our SELF ESTEEM as a community.

a pool of liver

Been working, been drinking, went to liverpool, and now I'm cooking dinner. It's a lamb roast. From a box. It has 26% of my RDA of salt but only 19% of my overall RDA but I'm not worried.

I hope this post pleases you Mark.

london is drowning