Gal I work with is talking to group of customers. They feel uncomfortable about having to give a card over to start a tab, so she gives them the benefit of the doubt.

Gal says "Don't worry - I know you're not gonna run away".

One of said customers is in a wheelchair.

There is a pause.

Rather unsurprisingly, the following day was one of my most hungover in the South Island. I'd arranged to go on a wildlife tour along the Otago Peninsula; but even such a 'gentle' activity seemed like an acute ballache. The situation was aided little upon my learning that the group that had taken this tour the previous day had been circled and attacked by the sealions. Sealions aren't small. Nor are they afraid of humans. At all. We were told that - due to the lack of females - large male sealions take on younger 'boyfriends', and jealousy issues lead to rather fierce fights. These green-eyed sealoons even suspect that passing humans are trying to lure their 'boyfriends' away for some kind of unnatural tryst. So - in short - they're pretty volatile. When you're hungover, you want nothing more challenging that maybe having to pat a friendly seal. A ruck with a bunch of these massive grumpy twats is pretty far off the agenda. Here's a photo of a couple, complete with inset dismembered seal's head to show that the fuckers mean business :

We didn't get surrounded, or attacked. We did get barked at rather angrily, which was hairy enough. Considering how fragile I was feeling, the seals and penguins were a more than welcome alternative. We didn't see any albatrosses (albatri ?) though. It wasn't windy enough, apparently. This was a particular shame, as I was looking forward to calling this entry "Of course you don't get fucking wafers with it, you cunt. It's a fucking albatross". And now I don't get to. Boo. Anyway, here are some penguins :

The following morning, I went back to the Arc Café for breakfast, and to say my goodbyes. One of the ladies there fashioned me a sign to use in order to get to Queenstown. She used pink and purple pastels, "so that [I wouldn't] look hard". It would have been completely illegible to motorists, however; so I used a marker pen to give it some depth. And a kiss. So I wouldn't look 'hard'. My first lift was an 87-year-old cockney - Ken - who'd been on one of the boats landing at Dunkirk in the Second World War. He told me how the poor sods that they were rescuing were all covered in and coughing up crude oil. When I said "That must have been pretty scary, eh ?" ('eh' is a Kiwi-ism that I have regrettably picked up), he replied "Fear didn't really come into it. It's not like you had the choice - you just had to do it. It was kill or be killed." This is quite an alien concept, and one that I'm glad I've never had to get my head around. At this point I twigged that he was the second ride that had - in all likelihood - killed another human being (the first being Shalom). How bizarre.

TBC...

I spent that evening in a fellow called Larry's house in Timaru. I'd been given a bunch names and numbers of folk to visit in the South Island by Woody (for those who haven't been paying attention, this is the fellow that painted my old house), and I'm not averse to gratis accommodation. Our Larry was an oddity, mind. He was a sturdy middle-aged journalist, and was seemingly one step away from a nervous breakdown. Every third word he said was "fuck" or "fucking". It's not like I don't have a gob like a fucking sewer; but even I can tell when the line into 'unnecessary' is crossed. Larry could no longer see the line with a telescope. And how often do forty-year-olds offer you a cone as soon as meet you ? I began to regret telling him about the 'Heli-Whores' (see entry below - this had made my evening, and I felt the need to share) when it occurred to me that nothing newsworthy ever really happened in Timaru, and I didn't want to betray Karen and Neville by handing a juicy tabloidy scoop to a local hack.

But he was decent enough to put me up for the night, so I watched 'Kill Bill vol. 1' and crashed. He dropped me off at the edge of town, and I walked up the hill with my thumb out. Since we'd arrived in Christchurch the weather had been gorgeous, so this was hardly a hardship. A fellow called Anthony - student and thoroughly good chap - picked me up and dropped me in Oamaru. I must show you a picture of his head :

It took two more lifts to get to Palmerston, where I took a wee break (in the Scottish sense) and popped into a junk shop called 'Trash Converters'. I got awful excited about the tat therein, but the need to travel light precluded me from buying an 80s-style 'Classic' Soda-Stream, like wot my grandparents used to have. I then got back to the road, where I'd hiked a reasonable distance out of town before being picked up by Thomas, whose 4x4 contained a very distinctive herbal aroma. He wouldn't be the last lift to offer me a bifter either; but being a good little citizen, I politely declined. I did accept his offer of choosing the soundtrack to his journey however, and Tom Waits was certainly a welcome change from the dire chart-pop that Astrid had been subjecting me to (no offence, hun). On the way into Dunedin we called at a hippy commune to rendezvous with Jeff, a dreadlocked fellow with a rainbow painted on the side of his old camper van. I also briefly met a chap in a top hat called Hank Mayhem, who owned a dog named Jesus who'd recently recovered from having been run over by a car. True but strange. He recommended a band to go and see in the Arc Café that evening, so I mandated to do so.

Dunedin (Celtic for 'Edinburgh') is pretty far from being a terrible place. The Scottish influence is fairly apparent - there's even a castle, which is certainly unique for a country with such a short history. There are plenty of students and hippies here, which gives the place a nice alternative atmosphere. And it's cheap. Oh yes. After a few ales and a great feed at the wonderful Inch Bar, the owner (Letch - another friend of Woody's) and his lady Sam dropped me off in town in a lovely old 1970s Merc, and I stumbled into the Arc Café. This was another fab place: free internet, one dollar pool, three dollar beer, brill vegetarian menu, and a music venue to boot. The band - Mëstar - were the best NZ band I've seen so far. Like a slightly more grungey You Am I. I was compelled to buy one of their 8" records, despite the rather obvious travelling impracticality (someone told me that if your vinyl gets bent, you can straighten it by putting it in the oven between two pieces of glass - apparently).

The rest of the evening was pretty odd. Bumped into Hank Mayhem again, whose top hat I had to try on this time (and it did look pretty damn fine on, if I do say so myself). Collared some random gal - Emma, a chef at the Arc - to be my pool partner, in order to do battle with Hank and his colleague. Emma then took me off to a rough-and-ready rock bar called The Crown, followed by a party in some art-student warehouse-cum-flophouse where the majority of revellers were mashed-up on mushrooms, and most of the furniture had stakes driven through it. Myself and one of said art students found ourselves falling into a bar at half-three with the intention of playing pool, but he abandoned me to my fate (presumably freaked-out by the bright lights and abundance of 'local' types). So I took on a couple of locals, and had a heated discourse about the merits (propounded by them) and demerits (propounded by me) of New Zealand pool rules. Whilst kicking their asses. Very satisfying indeed. There then followed a rather tired and drunken walk up a rather steep hill, towards a particularly welcoming bed.

Lake Tekapo :

Mount Rolleston (Arthur's Pass) :

Lake Matheson :

Sunrise over Hokitika :

Somewhere on the west coast, near Punakaiki :

That's all for now x

An email from Biff :

Owe you filthy goon

I tried to look up your web blog and the web marshal thing said (below). I’ll check it tonight instead!

Text download (TEXT, 69398 bytes) was restricted by the text censor rule 'Scan and block pornographic content'.

TextCensor Script 'Pornography' triggered with total weighting of 10:
Expression 'clitoris' triggered 1 times, weighting 1
Expression 'fuck' triggered 1 times, weighting 2
Expression 'fucker*' triggered 1 times, weighting 2
Expression 'fucking' triggered 1 times, weighting 2
Expression 'nipples' triggered 1 times, weighting 1
Expression 'penis' triggered 1 times, weighting 1
Expression 'sex OR sexy' triggered 1 times, weighting 1

Contact your WebMarshal administrator if you need access to this site for business purposes.

After the return of my food and sweet sweet HP Sauce, I would like to apologise for the sentiments expressed towards whoever 'borrowed' it in the first place. By "gored to shit" I of course meant 'massaged and stroked', and by "bulls" I of course meant 'angels'.

I would like to apologise to Menace Pennis also. By "wannabe flappy-headed moose-fucker" I of course meant 'honourary flappy-headed moose-fucker'.

Some fucking cock has stolen my bag of food from the hostel fridge. It had a full bottle of HP Sauce in it. A *full one*. And some beer. And two bananas (this will surely distress Jawj at least).

I'm all for the punishment fitting the crime. That's why I want them to be gored to shit by fifty bulls.

Not a great deal of note happened over the next few days. Astrid and I were stuck in Christchurch for longer than expected, as I had web-work to get done, and her car broke down. Hanging with JT and Mikie was great (cheers guys), but after five nights we were itching to get back on the road. We scooted off towards the end of my second week away, and Astrid and I parted in a tiny back-of-beyond town called Rangitata. When she dropped me off, there was only about ten minutes of daylight remaining, so getting picked up might prove to be a trial. And did anyone stop ? Did they fuck. This presented a concern, as there were only two buildings in Rangitata - neither of which provided accommodation. But at least one was an alery. So I phoned up to find out about passing buses, and headed to the Outside Inn for a few jars.

The place was managed by Karen and Neville. Karen instantly endeared herself to me by announcing in the first five minutes that "my daughter got me my belly-button pierced for Mother's Day. It's really sore - much more than I expected. It's really putting me off getting my clitoris done." It's amazing how unexpected filth from the mouth of a stranger can make you feel at home.

We nattered away for a bit before I was told about the impending visit from the 'Heli-Whores'. Now, as an annual knees-up, the staff from a nearby "strip-joint stroke knocking-shop" fly to the Outside Inn by helicopter, and there's a big private lock-in. Which involves professionals getting drunk, rowdy, and shaking their asses on the tables. I was told that the lid of the washing machine was still buckled from one of said staff bumping on top of it the year before. Karen noted that the girl in question had donned a chef's uniform to perform the deed. When the chef made a startled noise at this point, she was assured "don't worry hun - she was only wearing the top half". I was then cordially invited to attend the event, scheduled for the following Saturday. Now - this was an offer that would be difficult to refuse. It would throw me way off-route considering where I had envisioned myself being a week later. But there is something very compelling about the notion of being at a 'Heli-Whore' party. Not so much that I am a sleazy fellow... Don't get me wrong: I like naked tits as much as the next man - they certainly have their place (on ladies' chests, primarily). But it was just *so* conceptually amusing and intriguing, I found myself mandating to change my plans in order to show up. I mean - fuck - when am I ever gonna get invited to a 'Heli-Whores' party again ?

I left Rangitata a couple of hours later, and was sorry to be doing so. I couldn't believe that such an arse-end-of-nowhere nothing-town could yield such riches. So I swore to return, even though it would knock my intended journey out of kilter. But hey - my plan was to have no plan, so I guess I should remain fluid.

After about 20 minutes walk, a young lady I recognised from the hostel the evening before pulled over. A good-looking, well-built Danish lady, no less. I thought that dumb luck like this was confined to American road movies, but evidently not. Astrid (for it was she) and I jabbered non-stop all the way to Christchurch; and by the time we were approaching the city limits, I was starting to become disappointed that the 2-and-a-half hour journey had gone so fast. I'd arranged to stay with JT, an Oirish friend of Watson's, who I'd met for a couple of days over Christmas in New Plymouth. When I realised that Astrid was at a bit of a loose end, I invited her to come and stay too. Which she was more than happy to do. Yay; and - indeed - woo.

We picked up some 'Starburst Babies' as a present for JT, met up, and yer man whisked us off over a hill and into Lyttelton - where we called for a few ales at the Wunderbar. It was a great little place which combined the kitsch with the creepy; the bathrooms were wallpapered with 'incorrect' ads from the 50s, and there was a lampshade made of dismembered dolls' heads - amongst other things - to feast over. After knocking up a curry for our hosts, JT and his flatmate (the permasmiling Mikey Nooney) took us out for a night in Christchurch.
The lowlights : the first fight I've seen in New Zealand; and being scuppered by bullshit NZ pool rules (only one shot after a foul - what the fuck's that all about ?).
The highlights : much everything else... Particularly a semi-acoustic three-piece in an Oirish pub playing a 15 minute folky medley which included snippets from 'Livin' On A Prayer', 'Sweet Child O' Mine', and 'I Believe In A Thing Called Love'; all sandwiched between two slices of '500 Miles' by The Proclaimers, which worked up into a furious jig at the end. Sweet.

We were staying in Sumner - a pleasant out-of-town area right on the beach. Seeing waves from the window first thing on a hungover Sunday left me with no choice. I hired a mini-mal and a suit from the local surf shop and headed for the crescents. Despite the fact that it was a glorious warm sunny day, the moment my toes touched the water, everything shrivelled. My hangover and my manhood disappeared into a gasp of misty breath. Today was the first day I felt the real benefit of 'warming' my wetsuit. Although I did feel a little bad about handing it back to the lovely young lady in the surf shop having done so. But I sincerely doubt that I was the first; nor will I be the last...

So I had to say goodbye to the Finnish lovely, as she was heading up to Wellington; whereas Amelie, Sandy and I were heading west. As we parted, I told her that she was wonderful in Finnish (a surprisingly useful trick). And meant it. *Sigh*. Anyway, after a very twisty and palm-sweat-inducing ride in Amelie's camper over the mountains, I was dropped off in Nelson and then there was one.

Nelson was a bit of a waste of time, quite frankly. The outer regions weren't really worth visiting on account of the weather; and the town centre was filled with either faux-Oirish bars or sports/casino bars. The backpackers I stayed in the first night (Central Backpackers) was a big ole sack of ming; it was grubby and unfriendly (unless you count the thirty-odd mosquitos in the bathroom, who were a little too friendly for my liking). A character with whom I was sharing my dorm - Dennis - was so creepy that even looking at him made my ring clench. Not the best day I've had since I've been here; I ducked into a cinema and away from people.

Things picked up when I moved to a different hostel the next day. There I bumped into Amelie and Sandy again (it's a small island), and we got drunk, made merry, and offended the shit out of some South African bloke. Oops. The following day, Amelie went west, and Sandy and I hitched down to Kaikoura together. Our journey was broken into 4 rides (all guys, which I'm guessing Sandy was responsible for); one Englishman who came over for a holiday in the late 80s and never went back; a kayak instructor whose oar Sandy would have gladly grappled with; a kiwi chap who was a fountain of local knowledge (he even told us where we could buy some disused Harrier Jump-Jets); and an Israeli fellow called Shalom (great name). This fellow was kinda quiet but very direct and intense. All the Israeli blokes I've met seem to be like this - I guess the army'll do that to ya. He even had his old military goggles hanging from the rearview mirror. Nice touch.

Kaikoura is known for being quite a dramatic little place, with snow-capped mountains descending into the ocean; andf also for its marine life - you can go whale watching, or swim with dolphins or seals. All of this was lost on Sandy and I however, as we arrived after dark, and the following day was foggy and freezing. As such, the swims were cancelled, and the visibility was favourable for seeing a thick veil of dense wet cack, but whales and mountains were a lost cause. Boo. So we parted slightly disappointed. It was only as I was skipping town that a break appeared in the mist to reveal the peak of a massive snow-topped mountain looming over the town, and I got some vague idea of what the place was really all about. I mandated to return for another try before I left the South Island, and stuck out my thumb.

The question is - should I stop travelling and set up shop here ?

...drops into the waters around Christchurch, and all is well.