Sven's life in Oz

I’m cheating on you with New York, but you’re still beautiful.

In exactly two weeks I will be checking in at the airport for my flight to New York and a fabulous eleven days of American summeriness which should help (a) beat the winter blues and (b) top up the tan. Time seems to be flying and I haven’t even thought about packing yet, which is quite out of character for me. Perhaps I am becoming a well-adjusted individual after all this time. One swallow does not a summer make, so let’s reserve judgment on that for now.

This will be my first time flying over the Pacific and, as a Brit, it feels like I’m about to go the wrong way around the world. Living in England, you get used to thinking that London is the centre of the world (it is zero longitude, after all) and everywhere rotates around the flight paths out of Heathrow. Despite living in Australia now I still think of it as a country on the very edge of the world, as though we are clinging onto the map and just beyond the shores there be monsters. New Zealand is literally dangling over the abyss. I’m a secret flat-earther and I never even knew it.

Three things excite me about my upcoming flight. First, I will cross the international date line. I’m going to try and stay awake as we go over it: I know it will pass completely without event it will still be a little thrill for me. The second thing is linked to the first, in that I will get to see the same sunrise twice. I leave Sydney at 10am, so I will see the sun come up as I head to the airport to check in. As the sun travels through the sky in one direction, my flight will go the other way around the planet and catch up with the same day as we approach LA. I know that it’s just a flight and it happens every day, but it still blows my mind to think of it like that. Living in the twenty-first century is just great. Finally, and perhaps most stupidly, my return to New York means that I will have gone completely around the world once. I left New York after my last holiday there in 2004, and although it has taken me six years with lots of stops, side-trips and doubling back, it marks the end of one complete circuit. I don’t care what you say: I think it’s pretty awesome.

Of course, all of of this is merely the beginning: I haven’t even started on the holiday itself! Not only am I hoping to meet the fabulous New Yorkers from my circle of bloggery, but Emma Blonde – beloved friend and university housemate extraordinare – will be in town; New York Gay Pride kicks off on the second weekend; and the rugby team will all be flying in after their Bingham Cup tour concludes. It’s just too exciting, so to ease myself into the fun we’re having an afternoon in the Sheep’s Meadow in Central Park on 19 June. If you’re in the city, come join me – I’ll be the one drinking champagne and exuding fabulousness.

See you there!

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.

Australia is an arid, parched land most of the year. Not that we city-dwellers would know it: I turn on the tap and water comes out, so I don’t ask any questions. I seldom think that only a few hours drive away there’s a giant desert the size of Europe where every drop of water is trapped and reused three times before it eventually evaporates away. But the idea that we live in a paradise of perpetual summer is not entirely accurate. It may not ever freeze in the Red Centre, but Sydney gets cold in a hurry when winter arrives and I am never prepared for it.

Before I continue I should  define the term ‘cold’. I am not talking northern hemisphere cold. If it ever snows in Sydney I’ll eat my bobble hat. I don’t think I’ve even seen a frost in the city, although last year the temperature did drop to -1C overnight. The days usually peak at around 12/13C in the coldest period, which may not seem all that frigid to you, but when it’s 30C on an average day a 20-degree drop feels pretty baltic to me.

As usual I caught the first cold of the season, spread it around the office and got it back again with interest. I was feeling smug to have shifted it in two days, little suspecting my colleagues were just looking after it for me. I’m beginning to think I’m some kind of influenza incubator; a common-cold Typhoid Mary just waiting for the next wintry snap to spread my infection like a seasonal plague.

Last week I packed up the fans and rolled out the heaters as my aluminium-framed windows aren’t exactly built for the colder seasons and, this being Sydney, central heating is unheard of. I admitted defeat and accepted the summer was over when I dragged my duvet out of the cupboard and installed it on the bed. I dug my slippers out from the back of the drawer and wrapped myself in a blanket while I watched tv. I am a beaten man.

Winter in Sydney is horrible for two reasons. Firstly, it’s not Christmas. In the UK winter means the end of the year, a winding down from the summer and a ramping up of the party season as we race towards December. Here there’s nothing to look forward to but the return of summer. There’s no Christmas, no New Year and no party season. It’s just an inconvenient three-month interregnum between barbecues and pool parties. And secondly, nothing happens. Everyone rugs up, stays in and waits for the sun to come back. When you live in an outdoors-y nation like this one, you forget how to entertain yourself at home. By September everyone has gone stir-crazy and deathly pale.

At least this year I have three things to look forward to: my holiday in NYC, my birthday and my sister’s wedding. I’m sure that will keep the blues at bay. Now, where did I put that Scrabble?

I was sitting at home in my pyjamas the other night, minding my own business and planning an early night with a couple of episodes of Glee, when I got an international SOS from Clancy. A friend of his was in town and alone in a bar by the Opera House. Well, being the amiable, friendly chap that I jumped into action to assist. I changed out of my pyjamas as fast as I could manage and ran out to help her. Never miss an opportunity for schoolnight drinking Never leave a friend in need in a foreign city.

I have met Pond before, though on both occasions we were thoroughly drunk. What a delight to discover that we both got on like a house on fire sober! She told me all about her travels and how, since she had been in Sydney she hadn’t really seen much of the nightlife. I was horrified, not least because she was leaving in two days and I only had one night to correct the error.

“I’m not really sure what I can do, Pond. Tuesday nights are pretty quiet…”. She understood; it wasn’t the best timing. “Although, there is this drag queen competition tomorrow. It’s the final. My friend’s in it. I wasn’t going to go but it might be fun?”

She almost exploded. Turns out she’d never seen a drag show before, so that chance to see six of them duke it out for the title of ‘So You Think You Can Drag Champion 2010‘ was too good to be true. I wasn’t expecting the quality to be too high – it was an amateur competition, after all – but there was no managing her expectations. Turns out I needn’t have worried: it was totally amazing. I was blown away. Pond was transfixed.

The show opened with the mandatory group number, after which the queens performed their own skits, assisted by as many dancers as they could muster. They made their own costumes and those of their dancers; they chose their own music and mixed themselves; they created their own routines and they wrote their own gags. In short, if they couldn’t make it or find someone who could, they couldn’t have it. And yet the quality was astounding. Pond and I decided we are going to make our own costumes in future, even if the only place we wear them is the supermarket. If you see a couple strolling down the aisle in a giant pink shoulder-ruff and high-waisted sailor pants, say hello. We’re awfully nice.

The shows ran on and we judged them amongst ourselves after each performance. We’re harsh markers, but fair, and the judges seemed to agree with us. Naturally, the one we had come to see was up last, and it was plain to see why. Knowing Koko D’Vyne as plain old Ralph, I was more than a little intrigued to see what he would come up with. That said, he is a born showman. He and his six (SIX!) backing dancers – recruited largely from the rugby team – treated us to some Samoan tribal dancing, a comedy warning about the perils of living in Australia, a live performance of “Young Hearts Run Free” (no lip-syncing from my girl!) and more costume changes than you could shake a stick at. I kid you not, it brought the house down. The place erupted. Pond and I were speechless. It was IMMENSE. Naturally, any doubt about the winner was blown away and although they gave the paid gig to Conchita Grande (a fabulous performer and easily the most professional), Koko romped home with the title and $5,500-worth of prizes. And then she did her number again and we all went wild.

In the post-show euphoria, Pond and I raced around trying to get as many photos as we could for her to take home. This might be the only drag competition she ever attends – it was too good an opportunity to miss. As we rolled out of the bar at 1:30am, trading jokes with Tora Hymen, Pond vowed to return to Australia to live. Then she poured herself into a cab and raced back to the hostel to pack and head out for her 6am flight to Dubai. She didn’t even go to sleep.

Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is a good night out.