GuitarManDan

I mentioned in an earlier blog that I’d been writing amusing recounts of my evenings and trying to pass them off for gig reviews. Well, here’s one from November that I just finished (a bit of a half assed finish really, but it’s still worth reading!)May be posted on the Canberra Jazz website soon, but edited for stupidity…

Since my newly found passion for writing (see my blog), I’ve decided to finally take Eric up on his suggestion that I write some reviews for Canberra Jazz. I could then give myself the appealing title of Canberra Jazz’s Europe correspondent. Yes I live in Europe, in Geneva, a city known for its bankers, a convention, the UN and far more importantly as the home town of Gregoire Maret (If you don’t know Gregoire, you must check him out).

So I consulted the program of my local jazz club to find the right gig for my critiquing debut. I was interested by the Robert Glasper Trio, based in New York. The description on the clubs website said that Glasper was a pianist nourished on hip hop, soul and jazz which all show in his playing. It also said that I would be enveloped in the groove of a mink coat, a scarf of cashmere harmonies, and a triple wool jumper made from the funkiest sheep in Scotland. With all this fur and wool I was a bit worried about getting too hot, but decided to give it a go anyway.

After further reading up on the trio, I discovered that Glasper was not from a Scottish sheep farm as I first suspected, but from Houston where he went to high school with the other members of his trio; bassist Derrick Hodge and drummer Marc Colenburg.

So I donned my most arty intellectual type clothes, practiced my most pensive looks and crossed the road to the AMR, which is conveniently just across the road. I arrived armed with a notebook (as serious critics do) to a surprisingly full room with 15 minutes still to go before the start of the gig. It was in fact the fullest I’ve seen the AMR. Conscious of the fact that I was now the enemy (see Almost Famous), and not wanting to draw this fact to the attention of my fellow musicians in the audience, I took a seat towards the back and quietly waited for the concert to start…

Glasper began with a furious, angular solo intro in which we could hear that yes he was indeed nourished on jazz, hip hop and certainly funk. The rhythm section joined in with an ultra-tight groove, and it was evident groove and feel have never been issues for these insanely funky people. In Glasper’s playing we can hear a whole swathe of influences from Bill Evans, Oscar Petersen, and big band horn voicings, to hip hop, rock and plenty of soul and funk. There were quotes from Herbie tunes as well as Nirvana. The great thing is that he doesn’t try to sound like someone for a while and then try to sound like someone else, switching between hard bop and hip hop, but it’s all there at once. The same is evident in his compositions; soul style chord progressions, accompanied by frenetic bass lines which he doubles with his left hand. The melodies are often repetitive and riffy, and again hint at soul and hip hop.  Despite all these allusions to hip hop and funk, it still sounds like jazz and I think it might be as funky as jazz can get without having to be tragically reclassified as jazz/funk.

You could hear a similar stylistic mélange in both Derrick Hodge’s and Marc Colenburg’s playing. Hodge often comes out with the most gangsta’ of gangster groove improvised snippets of accompaniment, before moving on to something more jazzy… or sometimes equally as slang inspiring. Colenburg combined drum n bass, hip hop, funk and jazz, to create one of the most interesting drum performances I’ve heard in a long time.

The coolest thing about this band however, is that they sound like a band. They’ve been playing together for years, listening to the same stuff and you can really hear it. They don’t sound like they’re trying to do something different, it’s just what comes naturally to them.

Anyway, it’s been so long since the gig now  (and I’m so lazy) that I’m not going to bother talking about specific pieces, but check this band out!

After the gig, instead of hanging around like I usually do to fraternize with the enemies, I went straight home (with an empty notebook), got my guitar and started trying not to try to do something different.

Just found this piece of Geneva gold

http://howtomakeitingeneva.wordpress.com/

Lately when I haven’t been blogging or writing silly recountings of my evening and trying to pass them off as concert reviews (the link to one such review will soon be posted here), I’ve been swimming. I bought a monthly pass to the pool and have been trying to go every couple of days. As a proud aussie bloke brimming with masculinity, I’ve been swimming in trendy, long board shorts which resemble a couple of  bright blue checkered parachutes. As any keen free-styler knows, long baggy shorts create drag but are generally worth it because you don’t have to swim in underwear made from some sporty material. While all this swimming has not caused me to lose weight, which would be a bit worrying in my case, it has had a slimming effect and my shorts are no longer as tight around the waist as they once were. Aware of the danger of severe embarrassment  and a possible banning from the pool if I forgot what I was doing and dived or tried an overly vigorous racing turn, I decided to take action and resort to the almost as embarrassing measure of swimming in sporty underwear.

Embarrassment is not my only motivation though. As a regular at the pool I notice the other regulars who exchange the odd encouraging word and chat to each other in the showers, all dressed in the shortest and tightest pieces of material imaginable. Despite their serious look and expensive goggles, most of them really can’t swim and I find myself constantly overtaking the same people on every visit to the pool. They seem to value aquatic prowess, but not a hint of comraderie is ever directed towards me. I’ve realized that my board shorts are the problem. As long as I wear them they will not see me as a serious swimmer, but as nothing more than a pasty, scrawny kid who despite his lack of fitness can swim faster, further and for longer than all of them, while dragging a pair of blue checkered parachutes through the water behind him.

So with visions of racing turns and excited about  being part of the gang, I went off to buy some speedos. My first stop was H&M. On any given day between 80 and 100% of the clothes I’m wearing will have been purchased at H&M, so naturally I assumed that they could help me out. After unsuccessfully scouring the shop for the swim wear section, I asked a middle aged staff member who politely reminded me (without a hint of superiority) that it was now nearly winter and that I wouldn’t find any speedos anywhere. She went on to tell me that she knew this because several clients every week had been asking the same question I had, and complaining that they couldn’t find any pool attire anywhere in the city. I thanked her, politely suggested that maybe they should think about stocking some bathers, and refrained from pointing out her resemblance to one of the Swiss cows in the mountains where all that wonderful cheese is made.

The next stop on my speedo mission was Manor who did have a small selection of swim wear, and their cheapest and most microscopic pair cost 70chf . Obviously they must have been gold plated which I thought would be lovely, but might slow me down and may not be the most comfortable option. After trying several other shops and having similar results, it occurred to me that they might sell speedos at the pool.

So today at the pool I asked around and was directed to a window behind which was hidden a surprisingly large selection of sporty looking undergarments. I asked the man behind the window whether he thought that buying a size too big would help in the fight against embarrassment (the only sizes were S, M and L, pronounced in French as S, M et L), but the idea that swim wear could cause embarrassment seemed a bit alien to him. A short while later I was exiting my personal changing cabine and feeling more self conscious than I have in a long time. Not in speedos but in something like speedos but with legs… very short legs. A bit like the shorts cyclists wear, but with shorter legs. I’ll be interested to know your opinions on whether this is better or worse than wearing normal speedos.

So anyway, I headed straight for the pool, desperate for the cover of water. Being too self conscious and in too much of a hurry to stretch before I got in, I did my stretches while treading water, and holding my breath for the legs. This just helped to draw attention to myself and my new swimming costume, and was surprisingly difficult. I set off on my first lap and immediately detected a distinct lack of drag. Maybe these short shorts weren’t all that bad.

After a kilometer of marveling at my new found dynamicism and liberty, I was having a breather at the end of the pool when I sensed a gigantic presence pass through the air above me. The unidentified mass was falling towards the pool and hit the water like a jump jet with no landing gear, causing a series of veritable tsunamis. Once the surf had died down I saw a very large man attempting a doggy paddle to the other end. There was a bloke next to me also having a break who I’d seen here before. He turned to me and said “Mais putain! Lui, c’est un sal con” before setting off down the pool. He’d been complementing the other man on his dive, but more importantly he had spoken to me! The speedos were working.

After my swim I headed to the communal showers, something they can’t get enough of here in Europe. At this particular pool there are 2  hexagonal inverted steel mushrooms hanging down from the roof, each one sprouting a shower from each of it’s 6 sides. It’s quite futuristic. I was showering away with the whole room to myself, when another man entered. I recognized him as one of the gang of regulars  who’d been in my lane, and he was walking towards me. Although the room was otherwise empty he chose a shower just 2 away from mine. Not bothering to open with the usual Swiss pleasantries, he launched straight into asking me where I was from. “De l’Australie” I replied. “Aah” he said, and gave a knowing nod. “Vous nagez bien”, he was doing the unthinkable and complimenting me on my swimming! We continued to talk about our respective jobs etc.

I was starting to realize that on this side of the world, speedos are considered much cooler than board shorts. After all, they allow you to show as much skin as is possible without breaking any laws of public decency. And what’s more European than that?

To the dismay of most of the European swimmers, and the relief of most of the anglophones, nudity is not allowed in the showers. This didn’t stop my fellow swimmer from plunging a soapy hand down the front of his speedos mid conversation (this seems to happen a lot). Terrified that he’d want to shake my hand I got out of there, happy that I’d accomplished my goal but not really sure if I wanted to be part of the gang.

This morning after waking up to the usual sounds of heaven and full of an unusual sense of motivation, I stumbled down the stairs and across the road to the AMR (the fantastic jazz club mentioned in my first blog post). I stylishly maneuvered my way around the question of my current membership status (not very current), and proceeded upstairs proudly clutching the key to a practice room. I managed a good few hours of uninterrupted work, including polished versions of 2 new tunes for the upcoming album, and some work on every one’s favourite tune; Giant Steps!

My jedi like navigation through Coltrane’s harmonic minefield was soon interrupted by an acute sense of hunger. Looking at the clock, it was indeed 1pm, well past Swiss lunchtime which is not a second past midday. Looking out the window, it was indeed raining. This realization created an irrepressible urge to devour a spicy Asian soup, which was lucky because I had recently received a donation of several packets of a powdered base for pho, the coriander infused Vietnamese soup, and some rice noodles. I knew I would need some bean shoots and some coriander, so I hurried through the rain to the supermarket. After finding the above mentioned items, and standing in front of an array of hair gels trying to decide if I’m an “Out of Bed” guy or an “Indestructible: Fixation Extrême” guy, I proceeded to the checkout with the usual soundtrack of random jazz improvisation coursing through my brain… and no hair gel.

At the checkout, my musically accompanied queuing was interrupted by the sound of a girl behind me whining that it was “chiant to carry a parapluie”. Feeling the weight of the guitar on my back, I turned around and gave her a look that was supposed to say “at least you don’t have an 8kg stringed appendage strapped to your back which makes carrying an umbrella and your shopping too difficult, so you have to get yourself and aforementioned stringed appendage wet, as well as your paper bag full of shopping which will almost certainly weaken and break due to saturation as you climb your six  flights of stairs, sending bean shoots hurtling towards the prostitutes on the street below. So if I were you, I would be very happy with my nice light weight umbrella.” I think she misinterpreted the look, because in agreeance she then started whinging about the inefficiency of the rather bored looking lady on the checkout.

I went back to concentrating on the music coursing through my head, and realized that I was not hearing the standard melange of bebop lines, but was indeed hearing the standard “You’d Be So Nice To Come Home To”… in 7, with a cool ostinato bass line! (For those of you whose childhoods were not wasted on the study of time signatures, 7 just means that you can only dance to it if you’ve developed a severe limp). This gave me a rather original idea: a band that plays “You’d Be So Nice To Come Home To” in 7! The idea was soon elaborated upon to include other standards in other time signatures such as 5 and 9.

By the time I exited the supermarket (about an hour later), I had come up with a full repertoire list and knew exactly who I wanted in the rhythm section. I got my shopping up the stairs and the apartment soon started to fill with the incredible creativity inducing aroma of Vietnamese soup. During the cooking process I decided on the aims of my new project. They are to tackle that as yet unconquered (at least by me) realm of improvised music – the jazz standard, and look at them from a new light. We will employ arrangements which not only break new ground but will clearly illustrate my influences, bringing jazz into the 21st century and making playing standards cool again! We will all be heralded as the torch bearers for a new generation of historically conscious yet forward looking musicians. Pop, techno, and death metal will eventually crumble under the imposing glare of this much nobler and truer art form, and jazz will reclaim it’s rightful place as the reason for bad test results and wayward teenagers. Also it will finally bring me the things I got into music for in the first place: fame, fortune, and groupies.

So hear I am sitting in my room, covered in soup and writing this blog while taking a break from the arrangements. I’ve decided to try to get the standards group booked in for the AMR’s “Labo Musicale” which is basically a Friday night performance in their cafe area where people have a drink and may even talk. It is intended for trying out new and unpolished ideas, and playing with new people for little or no money. So from an Aussie perspective it’s a normal gig.

On top of this, I’m trying to organize funding and repertoire for the DHT album, book a Feb tour in France and Switzerland, get my band sorted and charts written for the few gigs coming up in Australia, and wondering if the Wolfpack tour planned for March is going ahead.

So I’d better get back to it.

A+, Daniel

Here’s a gastronomical episode, or at least a gastro related episode from December last year. I copied and pasted it from my facebook note, so you may have already read it. This happened when I lived in my old apartment nearly a year ago, but from what I’ve noticed nothing has changed about the store. All the same signs are still there, and they’re somehow still in business.

Today for lunch I decided to try out Sushi Boky, across the road from my apartment. The following dialogue ensued:

Girl Behind Counter: “Bonjour Monsieur
Me: “Bonjour, i would like some takeaway please.
Her: (handing me menus)”Ok, here are our lunch specials, and here’s the menu”.
Me: (looking through menu) “where’s the sushi?”
Her: “It’s Chinese now, we don’t have sushi”
Me: “But it says out the front that you have sushi”
Her: “yes, but we don’t”
Me: (pointing to the sign that says Thai meal with a free can of coke – 14.50.) “And what kind of thai dish is in the deal with the coke”
Her: “That’s a thai meal with a free can of coke”
Me “yes, but what kind of thai meal”
Her: “the coke is free”
Me: “Ok, i’ll take that please”
Her: “We don’t have that, we’re a Chinese restaurant now.”
Me: “Ok. Do you have any of these thai curries on the menu?”
Her: “No”
Me: “Ok, i’ll take lunch special B please”.
Her: “We’re out of lunch special B.”
Me: “What do you have?”
Her: “Lunch special A”.
Me: “and????”
Her: (looking through menu) “ummmmmmmmmm….”
Me “Well… it’s a difficult decision, but i think i’ll have lunch special A please.”

So the angry cook made me lunch special A, which i think was cardboard, with an MSG sauce, and that classic Chinese accompaniment: green salad.
I then went across the road to my apartment and made a sandwich.

Soooo…

I’ve decided to create a blog to share some of the adventures that I’ve had and will continue to have living in Switzerland, as well as some of the rather profound thoughts and ground breaking ideas that regularly cross my mind. I may also have a bit of a rant about the Swiss (whom I love dearly) and their collective obsessions with Reggae, Friends (the tv show), cheese, and health insurance. Also, it’s another way to put off practicing and all other forms of real work. (and yes, practice is real work!)

Most of my blogging will be coming from my room, which for those of you (all 3 of you, if i’m lucky) who don’t know, is six stories above a strip club in the middle of Geneva. I share an apartment with my best mate from Sicily, his Swiss girlfriend, and a Parisienne student.  Our neighbors include: across the hall, a French harpist who’s morning practice makes me think I’ve died in my sleep and am now waiting in a queue at the gates of heaven, and her gaggle of assorted Chilean musicians. Downstairs is an old Italian man who, during his frequent breaks for a rest in the stairway, shouts incomprehensible jokes at me in what he swears is French. The rest of the street consists of a charming community of drug dealers, prostitutes and brothels, more strip clubs, a seemingly endless array of kebab shops, and a fantastic jazz club (more about that in later blogs).

Geneva’s amazing variety of ethnicities, cultures and languages, unique for a city of it’s size, means that I always seem to be learning new stuff. That, or quietly drinking my beer while everyone else I’m with has an animated conversation in what seems to be 3 different languages at once, the subject of which I am completely oblivious to. The learning new stuff is considerably more enjoyable, but you tend to get used to politely waiting for the language to change to something you understand, and trusting that the seemingly very amusing statements your friends are making are not about you.

Anyway all this blogging is making me hungry, and I just got a phone call from an excited Dutchman who reminded me that I’ll be performing some wonderful bluesy/ swampy music to a bunch of drunken, I mean highly respectable Englishmen and women tonight. (@ Seven Arts, rue de Monthoux, 9.30ish i think.).. So I’d better get cracking!

Last year’s story about the Chinese sushi and cardboard shop is to follow, so stay tuned…

So…. Instead of making part 1 of this story even longer I’ve decided to do a seperate part 2 to make things more managable both for myself, and you my cherished readers. (All 3!) If you haven’t already done so, scroll down to read part 1 .

We left our intrepid hero at the check in desk at Zurich airport, where he was about to be arrested for tax evasion…

To my relief, the check in guy checked me in with my Australian passport and there didn’t seem to be any sign of the cops or the Swiss tax enforcement (kind of an oxymoron) authorities showing up. As I passed through security, I tried to put the sense of uneasiness which had developed to the back of my mind…

I got to immigration, which is always quick and seems pretty casual in Switzerland. I handed the immigration officer my passport, which she scanned on some kind of scanner, and I was once again greeted with a look of quiet suspicion. “There is a problem?” she said. Oh no… the check in guy let me off, but immigration won’t. They’re obviously in cahoots with the tax “authorities”. “Is there a problem?” I replied, correcting her English and thinking that at least I got one back at her before  being rumbled. She scowled “You have a permit?” . I handed her my residency permit, assuming that it must be important for the arrest procedure.

The lady spent the next minute or so examining my passport, and my permit, and my face. She adopted the puzzled demeanor that all Swiss officials seem to take on when they don’t understand something, generally because they know that understanding would mean acknowledging that someone had broken a rule, something they’re really not comfortable with.

“Is there a problem?’” I echoed, hoping that the correct grammar would sink in.

“You have Great British permit, but Australia passport. You over-stayed”, and then more accusingly, but still politely “Is a fake permit?”.

“Oh, uh… no” I stuttered, rummaging through my pockets.

With an apologetic smile I handed her my UK passport, which she greeted with a look of utter astonishment.

When she had recovered she said to me “In Europe always this one”, waving my passport like it was a red card. “But.. but… I” I decided there was no point in protesting, and that my protest would inevitably turn into an English lesson. So instead I smiled, thanked her, and got to the departure area as quickly as possible, before the tax guys could catch me. (I was getting quite paranoid about them by this stage).

One day I might finish this story…

I’m sorry it’s been a while since my last entry, but I was very busy writing charts, getting ready to leave and talking about the snow, then I was very busy being jet lagged, rehearsing, and talking about the rain… but here I am back in Canberra.

Getting here took some doing. I was booked on a flight from Geneva on Dec 2nd. On the afternoon of Nov 30 it began to snow, and it kept snowing. By the following morning central Geneva resembled an alpine ski resort and a full day of teaching turned into one hour of teaching, but with 1.5 hours travel time in each direction through near Arctic conditions. I had heard earlier in the day that the snow was expected to stop that evening and that Geneva airport would remain closed until 6.00 the following morning. The snow did stop in the late afternoon and with the happy assumption that the airport would be re-opening in the morning in time for my 7.30am flight, I smiled at the clearing sky, thankful for it’s consideration.

That evening I decided to re-check my flight details on the net. After logging on to the BA website, I was confronted with a flashing message; “Updated departure information”. Thinking that BA had been covertly observing my sleeping habits and decided that a later departure would be a little more realistic, I clicked the link.

The new departure information was that the flight was cancelled. At least my sleep pattern wouldn’t have to change. I got on the phone to BA and the lovely girl on the other end of the phone suggested that I fly from Zurich. I explained that the snow in Geneva had stopped and that the following day was forecast to be fine, so a flight from Geneva in the afternoon with a new connection to Sydney should be fine. I decided that the only major advantage of going to Zurich would be that she was there. She did sound quite lovely, but I thought that Geneva was the better option and promised to go through Zurich on my next intercontinental adventure.

The following day after a well earned sleep in, I went about preparing for my departure that afternoon. There was still a lot of snow around, but it was reflecting the brightly shining sun and the deep blue sky and I thought about driving to the mountains for a quick ski before going to the airport. While staring thoughtfully at the various articles of ski clothing in my wardrobe, contemplating the possible origins of the term gore-tex (Al from Texas perhaps?) when my phone rang.

It was my father, who along with all his other important work, had been doing the very important, fatherly job of keeping an eye on my flight status. Despite the blue skies and the re-opening of the airport, BA had decided to cancel my flight. Following my father’s fatherly advice, I got straight on the phone to BA. At least I tried to. After roughly 30 attempts, I got through and was prompted by a recorded lady to press 1 for English. I did so and spent the next half hour on hold, happy about the continual reassurance that my call was important to them.

My reassured happiness was interrupted by an actual live human voice on the other end of the phone. Hooray! The only problem was that the voice seemed to be in Swiss German. In my best German, I politely asked the voice if he spoke English or French. He very politely (I assure you) replied (I think) that if I wanted to speak English I should have pressed 1 for English.

As I’ve mentioned in previous blogs, I live with quite a multicultural bunch. With this multi culturalism comes quite a few languages. In fact the particular flat mate who happened to be home at that moment is fluent in 7, including German and Swiss German. I tried to explain this to the polite gentleman on the phone as I walked through the apartment in search of my linguistically gifted friend. However, as you may have guessed my pathetic level of German limits the eloquence with which I can explain such a concept. So when I said “Wait! I have a German friend. Ummm German Swiss, no Swiss German. Speak Swiss German woman,  je veux dire friend, I mean friend (with en on the end)….. Bratwurst!” He hung up on me.

This made me rather angry and I started throwing things. My plan was to try to get on a flight from Zurich to London that evening and still make my connection to Sydney… but I knew the flight schedule, and that everyone other stranded and angry traveler would be trying to do the same thing.

After picking up my phone and re-inserting the battery I started dialling again. 20 minutes and who knows how many engaged signals later, I was pressing 1 for English again. 30 minutes of hold later I got to speak to someone, in English!

There was one seat left on a flight from Zurich to London that day, at 4.40pm. It was now midday (my phone calls began around 10.30) and Zurich was a 3 hour train ride away. It would be difficult, check in would close at 4pm. I had my assistant, I mean flatmate, look up the train timetables. The only train that would get me to Zurich Airport in time to get the flight to London in time to get my flight to Sydney in time for rehearsal, left in 10 mins. I accepted the one seat, hung up and started running around in a frenzied attempt to finish packing. Luckily that  wonderful bunch of people who I live with are very good at remaining calm when I am not. They helped me with the packing and even made me a sandwich (you guys are awesome!).

I ran downstairs and out of the building, my suitcase acting like a snow plow behind me. Running on snow and ice is not the easiest, and when laden with suitcases and guitars it’s even more difficult. However, I was aware of the fact that Swiss trains ALWAYS run on time.

A few minutes later I was boarding the train. A glance at one of  the clocks on the platform (which are always right), told me I had only seconds to spare.  I found a seat and collapsed into it with a proud sense of achievement. I had done it. I would be flying out of Switzerland  that afternoon and making it to Canberra for rehearsal, and my radio broadcast would not suck!

25 mins later my sense of achievement had diminished somewhat. I was still on the train, still in my collapsed seated position, but the train had not yet moved. It seemed that I had chosen the only Swiss train that has ever run 25 minutes late. EVER!

The train arrived at Zurich airport with just minutes to spare, so I grabbed my bags, ran down the platform and shot up the escalator doing my best to apologise to the people I pushed out of the way.

Zurich airport is somewhat reminiscent of Harrods. Anyone who’s been to Harrods will remember chandeliers, and lots of sparkly gold colours, as well as long escalators (I admit that my memories of Harrods could be somewhat warped). Well Zurich airport is just a Harrods which happens to have an airport attached.

There was no line so I walked straight up to a check in desk. I gave the gentleman my itinerary and passport both of which he examined intently. After tapping a few keys on his gold plated computer, he continued examining my passport. It came to my attention that he had adopted a distinctly puzzled demeanor, complete with furrowed brow. I replied to his furrowed brow, with raised eyebrows and a look of impatient expectancy. He responded by narrowing his eyes in a look of quiet suspicion, picking up the phone on the right of his polished marble desk, and speaking the strange form of German that only other Zurichoises can understand.

Despite my calm yet visibly impatient demeanor, I was racking my brains as to what was going on. I went through the possibilities of why I was seemingly not going to be allowed out of Switzerland: Suspicion of espionage? no. Fraud? no. Dodgy Swiss bank accounts? …no, but… on the same track, tax evasion? Bingo! Due to lack of time, lack of organisation, lack of linguistic ability, and a plain lack of wanting to, I hadn’t yet done my 2009 tax return. As a self employed person who hadn’t paid taxes all year, this meant that I owed the Swiss government money. I’d heard about people who owed money not being allowed to leave the country and being very dramatically arrested at the airport, and was now resigned to the fact that this would be my fate too. The check in guy was obviously talking to the tax office or… the police…or both, and arranging my arrest.

So I was standing there, trying to decide whether or not to put up a fight and make a dash for freedom when the man at the desk interrupted. He was off the phone… this was it. “I see that you’re going to Australia” (stalling till the cops arrived), “but you don’t seem to have a travel permit for Australia. Have you got an Australian passport by any chance?”

To be continued….

When I find some more time and motivation, and funny things to say…