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Most recently: Date: 18th August 2008 Time: 10:09 GMT +0 Location: Angel, London, England To mash or not to mash
Sometimes this is a matter of juggling the quantities involved, but other times it's just a matter of realising that some things, no matter how awesome they are on their own, are not going to play well together: chocolate Quik and oysters, milk and carbon dioxide, and a film museum combined with an aquarium. "What?" I hear your say. "Who on Earth would try to combine a film museum and an aquarium?" Short answer: The French. Not content with tourist bucks rolling in from the Eiffel tower or the Louvre, everyone's favourite cheese-eating surrender monkeys have recently attempted to combine the worlds of modern cinema and oceanic fauna with Cinéaqua, a mash-up that is about as welcome as chlamydia and daytime television and as successful as cold fusion. If you want cinema and fish at the same time, watch The Little Mermaid, or eat sushi at Hoyts. What ever you do, don't travel to Paris and throw 20 euros down the gullet of the French in order to stare at a half empty fish tank opposite a plastic mannequin painted to look like the Terminator. Rating: Cinéaqua scores 1 out of 5 clams painted to resemble film reels. This article orginally appeared on Rovedaily.com.au Date: 14th August 2008 Time: 13:12 GMT Location: Angel, London Hop, skip and hang on a second I think the Olympics are great for a number of reasons: they're a wonderful celebration of humanity's potential for harmony, they promote interest in physical activity to a world getting increasingly fat, and it's the only time that a hammer throw won't get you tossed out of a hardware shop. Having said that, I think there are a number of things we should consider before we spend 16 days worshiping at the altar of medal tallies and poolside domination: 1) Medal tallies Surely there are enough ways for us to quantify our superiority over other nations without a freaking medal tally. The Olympic motto is "Faster, Higher, Stronger", not "How many did you win Angola? One bronze? Hahahaha, sucks to be you!" If you're the kind of person that gets excited by the medal tally, then it's time for you to pull your fat arse away from the TV and go and contribute something to society that can be quantified by metallic colours and single-digit numbers. 3) Drugs Yes, we know that drugs make you run faster, but so do robot legs, and you may have noticed that we're not letting the 6 Million Dollar Man in the race. If you want to take drugs and run, then why don't you do it the old fashioned way with heroin and a stolen DVD player? 3) China still likes to torture people I know that this is an unpopular topic of conversation at the moment, but I think that it's a legitimate point of concern. There are a number of reasons why China is a morally questionable choice for the Olympic Games (pollution, Tibet, censorship), but surely the fact that their human rights record is worse than Lindsay Loha's driving record is a start. Giving China the Olympics while it's still engaging in morally reprehensible activities on a daily basis only legitimises their actions and makes it harder to get them to stop. Thinking that giving China the Olympics will improve their human rights recording is like trying to encourage a young boy to stop setting fire to kittens by buying him an Xbox. 4) Puns Every four years, newspaper sub-editors the world over seem to have a sixteen-day wet dream where every pun they've ever imagined gets blown all over the front page. We're all aware that Rice is both a staple of the Chinese diet and an Australian swimmer: well done. 5) Clapping the guy that comes last in the swimming I don't know how it happens, but for some reason, there is always one guy in a long distance swimming event that comes in about half an hour after everyone else. When he finally finishes the event (to a standing ovation from both the live and television audience) he reveals to the world press that a) that was first time he has ever been in a swimming pool, b) he trained for the event in a box full of sand, and c) he now risks being killed by the despotic dictator of his war-torn, sub-Saharan nation for intentionally embarrassing his country on the international stage. My only question is how did this man qualify for the event? He's now going to be murdered by his government (which probably receives some kind of US government funding) because no one at the Olympics trials had the heart to tell him that he wasn't quite fast enough. By all means, enjoy the next few weeks of Bruce McAvaney over-using the words "champion" and "hero", just remember: all things in moderation, including international sports carnivals. Date: 4th August 2008 Time: 11:22 GMT Location: Edinburgh, Scotland Impressions of Edinburgh Date: 21st July 2008 Time: 09:13 GMT +0 Location: Angel, London, England Weapons of mass deception
But it's easy to see why we engage in these deceptions: "She'll shag me if I'm tall"; "He'll shag me if I have great boobs"; "The whole world will shag us when they witness our intercontinental ballistic superiority." I mean, we've all been there. The only thing is, such deceptions are a complete waste of time because a) you're going to get caught out, and b) you don't need them anyway. Firstly, there's no way you can hide your lie forever, and when you do get caught out, it's embarrassing. Either they'll see you with your bra off, or perhaps your poor Photoshop skills will be exposed by the Western media. Both have happened to me, and neither is fun. Secondly, in a world with 6 billion people, surely the statistics tell you that we can all find someone to like us without pretending to be something we're not. Six billion is a lot of people, and I know statistics: they don't lie. After all, Dave might be short, Melanie might be a C-cup and one of Iran's short-range missiles might not have launched properly, but who cares? None of these are things to be ashamed of. Height and breast size are genetic, bigger isn't better and missile launching is... well... rocket science. Besides which, if you're trying to impress someone who's only interested in your height, tits or missile success rate, then take it from me, they're shallow and not worth impressing. We've all got things that we're not happy with, but sometimes you just have to focus on the positives. Dave is a great listener, Melanie is wicked on the cello and Iran has heaps of things going for it: gnarly snowboarding, a shit-load of oil and, according to President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, no gays. Perfect for the stoner, four-wheel-driving, homophobic crowd. This article orginally appeared on Rovedaily.com.au Date: 19th July 2008 Time: 11:54 GMT +0 Location: Bootle, Liverpool, England Regret Last night I bought a "meat" pie from a late night Chinese restaurant in Liverpool. Enough said. Date: 11th July 2008 Time: 15:43 GMT +1 Location: Rue de Bellechasse, Paris, France Bat Expectations 'The Dark Knight' comes out at the cinema this week, and I'm excited. I'm excited because I love Batman, I'm excited because I love Christopher Nolan and I'm excited because I love to get excited. That's because there's something magical about anticipation itself; about rolling the object of your desire around in your mind, looking at it from all the angles, and knowing how awesome it will be. And that anticipation can be about anything: a girl, a car, a meal, or - if you're like me - a vigilante in a rubber suit smashing the bejeezus out of a dead, gay, cowboy in clown make-up. WOW! The only problem is, I've now set the bar so high for this movie that I'm terrified it won't live up to my colossal expectations. I'm worried that if Batman doesn’t burst out of the screen and personally yank me into the Batmobile to cruise the streets of Gotham City and look for crime, that I'm going to think that it's a little bit shit. How terrible would that be?! Three years of anticipation exploded, not because the movie was bad, but because I haven't learned to reign in my ludicrous and idiotic expectations. Now you might be thinking, "Hang on Kent, there's an easy answer to your problems: just ease off on the expectations." And you know what? You'd be right. A little too familiar perhaps, since you and I don't really know each other but, right nonetheless. But don't start patting yourself on the back just yet Dr Phil, because it's not as simple as you think. I can't help it, expectations seem to build themselves in front of me like magical Lego bricks, and I'm powerless to do anything about it. I just see the potential for how radical things can be, and you know what? Radical things are exciting! For example, I've just turned thirty, and I've only just resigned myself to the fact that Obi-Wan Kenobi is never going to come to my birthday party and present me with a light saber that my father used to own. This is partially due to the fact that Obi-Wan is fictional, but mainly because my Dad is an accountant and wouldn't have anything that cool. It seems to me that this wouldn't be a problem if everything just met our expectations, if everything was so freaking awesome that it blew both you and your expectations out of the water. If every film was the bee's knees, if every bus ride made you high-five the driver and every slice of cheesecake gave you multiple orgasms. What a wonderful world that would be! Unfortunately, the world isn't like that. Films are shit, buses are depressing and cheesecake gives me hives. In light of this, the only way I can save the new Batman film is to lower my expectations of Batman so much, that even if the film is diabolical, I'll think it's ok. So If you need me for the next week and a half, I'll be locked in my lounge room watching a looped DVD of Joel Silver's 1997 'Batman and Robin' starring George Clooney, Arnie and a Batsuit with nipples. Yikes! This article orginally appeared on Rovedaily.com.au Date: 4th July 2008 Time: 09:93 GMT Location: Radlett, Hertsfordshire, England Smile for the insecurity camera You can't go anywhere now without seeing, 'This area is under camera surveillance for the comfort and safety of customers and staff'. Ok thanks, because there's nothing like the comfort of being on camera, is there? Whenever I feel a tad uncomfortable or a little unsafe, what I like to do is get my face captured on film as soon as possible. In fact, being on camera is the key to my comfort. If I'm feeling vulnerable or insecure? Roll that tape. Worried or scared? Point, click, upload. Concerned about my safety? Hook me up to some CCTV, please! Here's the thing: security cameras don't give me a sense of comfort; they give me a sense of distrust and paranoia, a sinister feeling, like we might be in a police state, or an episode of OZ. As for their claims of providing safety, you know what a CCTV camera will do if you're stabbed? Absolutely nothing. It won't stop the knife, it won't call the cops, it won't even staunch the bleeding as some fucker runs down the street with your ipod. The only thing it will do is capture some half-arsed, black and white, grainy-as-a-wheat-silo image of a tracksuit wearer aged between 16 and 45 - at two frames per second. And that's only if it's pointed in the right direction. So film us if you must, but don't treat us like idiots. Because frankly, I'd be more happy with the truth: "Look, we don't trust you not to steal our shit, so we've installed a camera so you can smile for the police. Ok?" "Look, our taxi drivers are infuriating, so we've installed a camera so that we can sue you if you get violent because of the driver's ineptitude. Ok?" "Look, there's a couple on the third floor who shag in this elevator, so we've installed a camera so we can watch. OK?!" I don't even care that there are people who want to film everything, I'm just sick of them hiding behind the 'comfort and safety' excuse. Because you know what gives us comfort? Cushions. Cushions and hot chocolate. And you know what gives us a sense of safety? Airbags and flak jackets. If the people who put security cameras everywhere really want to make us comfortable and safe, they should give us all a kevlar vest lined with goose-down, which comes with its own built-in neck pillow and a cup-holder at the front for a giant mug of cocoa. Until they do, they can all just fuck off. This article orginally appeared on Rovedaily.com.au Date: 25th June 2008 Time: 14:00 GMT +1 Location: Calahonda, Spain Passport stamps of disapproval Given our track record as a nation, it really isn't fair to complain about being a victim of racist behaviour while overseas. If the 500-metre racial slur was an Olympic event, Australia would probably win gold, silver and silver. There wouldn't be a bronze medal - the brown colour frightens us. The point is, I've been through passport-control in a bunch of airports lately and I've discovered that if there's any place in the world where a country's ingrained prejudice will rise to the surface, it's customs. Customs officers will use a combination of passport scrutiny, aggressive questioning and racist taunts to ascertain the level of threat that you pose to the sovereignty of their nation, to protect their country from murderers, professional football players and other unsavoury characters. When I left Australia, there was no passport control, just a pat on the back from a federal policeman and who urged me, "Give them hell". Now, I don't know what that means, but I have a personal rule never to question an armed man at an airport. Things were a little different when I stopped over in Singapore on the way to Europe. Two airport cops saw me taking photos of their security cameras and whisked me away to a room where an officer was very keen to examine my documentation. Apparently our criminal heritage has followed us to Singapore. The officer was convinced that me pointing my photography equipment at their photography equipment was a prelude to crime, crime he was keen on preventing. I tried to explain that I was only taking photos because their cameras look like laser canons, but apparently, "That's what everyone says". England however, was a different story yet again. In the bowels of Heathrow airport, in a sterile and grey room, sits Britain's first, last and only line of defense against antipodean interlopers: Gary. Upon entry into the UK, Aussies must fill out an entry card, the sole purpose of which is to provide Gary with ammunition for the barrage of offensive questions he's about to unleash. I'm not sure if Gary hates everyone, Australians or just me, but there was no way that he was letting me into his country without working for it. "Great, another crim returns." "What?" "I'm watching the silverware. How long are you staying?" "About 18 months." "That's 18 too many. Says here you're a comedian." "Yep." "I hate comedy." "..." "Welcome to England." After Gary, I was sure that our nation must be internationally despised and considered blackguards and rogues the world over. But I found a flicker of hope in a tiny nation at the bottom of Scandinavia and I think I know who's responsible. "Passport please... You're Australian?" "Yeps." "That's fantastiske, I love you guys. How long are you staying?" "Just five days." "That's not long enough, you must come again soon." "Thanks very much." "No problem, welcome to Denmark." Thanks, Princess Mary. This article orginally appeared on Rovedaily.com.au Date: 18th June 2008 Time: 13:23 GMT +1 Location: København, Danmark Checking out the self-serve supermarket This was written a week or so ago, but is still worth saying Woolworths haave introduced self-serve checkouts. These are filthy little tracts of land where you swipe your own items, bag your own groceries and manage your own payment, all under the watch of a teenage invigilator who swoops in without notice and publicly chastises you for 'doin' it wrong'. This has to stop. People go to supermarkets for different reasons: some go for fruit and veg, some go to get food for their rodent-sized, hand-bag dwelling, door-stop of a mutt. I go to feel superior. Sure, I usually grab some supplies while I'm there (nutmeg, Vaseline and picnic forks), but the main aim for my visit is always to bathe in the atmosphere of servitude. "Fetch me a basket!" "Give me half a chicken!" "Point me to the figs!" It's wonderful. Someone has created a domain that I can lord over like a benevolent duke, sliding into town to keep a watchful eye on his mischievous, shelf-stacking serfs. I order people around, make a mess, take what I want. On the way out, someone tallies the goods I've selected and I hand them a paltry sum of coins - in this fantasy of course the amount means nothing to me - and I know that I have single-handedly prevented them from starving in the long winter ahead. It's a glorious quarter-hour of self-delusion that hinges entirely on the checkout being manned (or rather, boy-ed) by some down-trodden whelp with a healthy dose of face-braille. It's the last point of contact with my village of servitude; my last chance to bark an order, pardon a fool or beat a peasant before the mundane reality of my life comes crashing down around me. Not only do these 'self-serve' abominations rob my experience of the key moment, but the roles are in fact reversed. Instead of being able to yell at a minion for some minor infraction of etiquette, the tables are turned and the lord becomes the lackey. This has to stop, Woolworths. Either you get rid of these topsy-turvy checkouts, or I'm taking my feelings of superiority to Coles. - Lord Valentine, Earl of Nutmeg This article orginally appeared on Rovedaily.com.au Date: 13th June 2008 Time: 06:23 GMT Location: Radlett, Hertsfordshire, England This place is like a 3d postcard It doesn't really feel like England here, just a bit of Australia where the drought has never hit and all the people are big fans of "To the Manor Born". Yesterday when I went to buy a newspaper and a toothbrush, there wasn't even anything especially english about the transaction. I don't know what I expected, but I probably would have been happy with a beefeater selling deep-fried newspapers and toothbrushes wrapped in black-pudding. But no; the supermarket was the same, the prices were the same (just with a different squiggly line in from of them), even the check-out chick had the same dull, glaze of "hurry the fuck up so that I can talk to Chrissy on register 5". Today I'm going to fly to Denmark, but I'm going to get some kind of confirmation that I'm actually in England before I leave. Maybe I can get head-butted by a hard man at customs. Date: 11th June 2008 Time: 23:17 local time Location: Changi Airport, Singapore Where are all the tiger pits? The music in Changi Airport, at least at this time of night, is so inane that the place sounds like a giant elevator. It's not unlike the mall music from "Dawn of the Dead". I wouldn't be suprised if I saw a zombie with a boarding pass and a bag of cheap perfume. He'd probably have to have his food sealed in a clear plastic bag though, since they're pretty strict on the carriage of liquid, gels and brains. We departed late out of Melbourne after one of the engines on our plane suffered a "critical failure" prior to take-off. I was suprised at how many people on the plane were whinging about how long it took to fix the engine. I'm of the opinion that it's preferable to hurtle through the air in a giant meat-tube with all engines working perfectly. As I've always said, "Better a critical failure on the ground in Melbourne than over the Timor Sea". It was never a catchy saying, but at least today it was relevant. Thanks to the delay, I won't have any time to find a Duty Free POW camp here in Changi, but I've already been chastised by the airport police for taking photos of their security cameras (they look like could fire lasers), so I guess I've not completely missed out on the "Australian Experience".   
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