Sven's life in Oz

In my never-ending quest for random crazy shit to fill my time before I die, I have accrued a highly skilled team of like-minded weirdos who are always up for the same kind of antics as me. (By ‘random crazy shit’, I mean legal random crazy shit, of course: the kind where people say “how did you find out about that?” with mouths agog, as opposed to “what the fuck where you thinking?” with eyes rolling.) One of these side-kicks of fun is my good friend and colleague, Sarah, who seems eerily on my level when it comes to almost anything, including my theories on humans as giant walking tubes, cheap gin, and why lesbians hate everyone. Picture my face when she strolled into my office and told me that she had bumped into two guys who had convinced her that roller derby was the greatest show on Earth and she should book tickets now or just kill herself.

I have known that roller derby is the hottest shit around since I saw Whip It one Saturday night when I was sofa-bound with a hangover. I immediately googled my local roller derby league and liked them on Facebook, followed them on Twitter and subscribed to their RSS feed. I was actively searching for people who would come with me to the first interstate roller derby showdown right here in Sydney not two weeks later. You’re excited now and you’re just reading it: imagine how I felt! We were agreed: it was on.

Enter the third member of the cast of madness: my partner in dog bites and pyjama-clad dining, Nicholas. Back from Atlanta for a limited time only, he was excited long-distance at the prospect of watching teams of butch women race around a track in roller skates and try to beat each other up. Who wouldn’t be? Sarah roped in a couple of her friends, Adrian and Ivana, and the five of us rocked up last Saturday to watch Brisbane eat Sydney’s wheels.

The derby was like an awesome instruction manual in what-the-fuck: no one under 18 could sit trackside in case a skater broke loose and charged into the crowd, I read the programme and the rules were still a complete mystery, and the fans came from every walk and stage of life imaginable. To my left a bunch of skinny emo girls sat patiently watching the action; to my right a group of middle-aged housewife-types were out of their seats and screaming like banshees. There was a Mexican band playing on stage. The half-time entertainment was a pole-dancer. Adrian had been drinking since lunch, Ivana and Nick were conversing in Serbian (what are the chances?) and Sarah and I were getting slowly addled on Bundaberg rum-and-coke out of a can. It was trippy.

After the match (Sydney 106: Brisbane 86. Sucks to be you, Queensland!) we all bundled into cabs and made for the nearest (only?) Baltic restaurant in town. Nick and Ivana could barely contain themselves as they explained to us just how much meat we would be eating. They failed to fully explain the amount of onion that we would be eating with the meat: enough to give you breath that could give a man a stroke from twenty paces. Nonetheless, the prospect of working our way through the equivalent of an abattoir’s daily output was too good to refuse; and, I might add, utterly delicious.

As we sped our way towards our impending meat feast, Sarah suggested that we do something completely out of character every month. I’m buggered if I can think what could possibly beat this, but if I find out, I’ll let you know.

A short review of the Eliasson exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Sydney.

A meandering report on Al Green and others at Sydney Festival First Night (9 January 2010).

Link: Avatar = Pocahontas in space?

I hate writing reviews. I read a load and  I seem to be slowly catching up with the rest of society when it comes to cinema and tv shows, but afterward I loathe sitting down and writing out what I thought about it. I know I should make notes or some such thing – especially being a writer and all – but I just hate doing it. I feel my review needs to be either as good as the book/film/series under review or, in the case of something truly ghastly, better, in which case the pressure it truly on to be scathing, erudite and entertaining all at the same time. It’s too much, I tell you.

Enter the podcast; that little thing I set up to try and keep you all up to date with my life in Australia and then promptly forgot to do anything with. Rather than try to summarise my thoughts in 500 words or less, I thought I might use it to ramble on for five minutes or less about whatever I have just read, seen or otherwise experienced. Since it will be aimless ramble, who cares if it isn’t spelled properly or delivered in complete sentences. Not I, nor you, I believe. And I can even record it on the walk back from the cinema when I am wandering the streets waiting to get robbed trying to find the quickest yet most brightly lit route home.

So here for your listening pleasure are my very quick thoughts on 2012. Yes, I know it’s been out for eons. I didn’t promise this would be a timely thing. And of course, there may be spoilers in here too.

Plain crazy? Ho ho ho, no pun intended.