Lego: The Building Blocks of Life (And Puns!)

When I was a kid, Lego was without a doubt, and in the most technical of terms, the shit. Any pieces haphazardly put together, thrown in a box and labled some kind of spacecraft I simply had to have, otherwise my childhood would be nothing but a wastleland littered with broken dreams. My lego box was a poorly constructed chipboard mostrosity, which contained coloured blocks and threats of splinters or stab wounds from rusty nails in equal parts, yet this did not once prevent me thrusting my hands into it with reckless abandon. I wanted (and still do) to live in a house made of Lego.

Welcome to my humble home. Please excuse my blatant disregard of physics.

Not surprising then that when it came to my mid-20s, I decided to apply the Theory of Legotivity to my own life.

See, every Lego set had its main model, the one with instructions to build, then on the back of the box there was a series of other pictures of things you could theoretically make with the same pieces. All you had to do was be willing to pull apart what you'd already put together and attempt to build something new based on nothing but a photograph. So that's what my move to England was - my picture on the back of the box.

I had the picture in my head of what sort of life could be made in England, a picture that mostly consisted of me, in front of Big Ben, wearing one of those hats that Beefeaters wear, dining on tea and biscuits and sitting atop a throne made from pound notes. So I systematically began to pull apart the life I'd built, the one with instructions, with people to help when I wasn't sure what went where, in preparation for amatuer life architect hour.

Can't be that hard to put together, right?

Thing is, no how good your efforts were, you were never going to to replicate that picture on the back of the box exactly, for the simple reason that there was 50% of the damn thing they you couldn't see, no matter what kind of angles you looked at that box from in your ridiculous attempt to bend the rules of photography with a determined gaze. At best you came out of the endeavour with a structure vaguely reminiscent of what you were aiming for, held together by spare parts and voodoo, and at worst, well, something worse than that.

OH FUCK! This is not at all what I was aiming for!

So, from a pessimistic standpoint, I was doomed from the beginning. If I was being slightly more positive, then it was somewhere closer to the middle that I was doomed from. But, ignorant to this fact, I ambled around London, looking for the pieces I needed that I could have sworn I had just seen moments earlier, swearing at the parts that painfully lodged themselves in my feet, and becoming more and more discouraged as what I was I was building looked absolutely nothing like my picture. In fact, all I'd managed to assemble was a pile of demolished rubble. That was on fire.

Then came that moment that is always inevitable - when you realise that the reason that model is on the front of the box is because it's way fucking better than any other options. I wanted to rebuild that.

Don't bother turning it over. This is way fucking better.

So since I got back, that's what I've been doing; trying to piece back together what I had built before. As always seems to be the way, I managed to lose a couple of pieces during the whole experiment, but I'm working on getting them back. And when I do, I'm going to build something fucking awesome.

At least this fucking awesome.

There's No Business Like Snow Business

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Well, if you insist.

And London did, because a large urban metropolis is hardly capable of objecting to weather patterns. Each street was a giant asphalt tongue trying to catch as many snowflakes as possible. Cars were concealing themselves under piles of white powder, hoping that someone would be foolish – or drunk – enough to mistake them for a small, frosty mountain and dive head-first into a trip to the emergency room.

Somehow the snowfall had managed to occur with me remaining completely oblivious to it. As I’ve been living a life of seclusion that would make an elderly Howard Hughes look like a social butterfly of late, the outside world is moving ever closer to becoming nothing more than a myth to me. As such, I spend a lot of time hidden behind curtains, occasionally peeking out in the hope that I will witness the kind of vaguely criminal behaviour that will see me stumble my way into a Hitchcock film.

I’d taking one glance out of the window that afternoon, enough to assure me the street had yet to be sucked into a gaping abyss, and had once again retired to the couch to clutch my head and make an assortment of monosyllabic grunts that were intended to convey self pity. I was hung-over. At that point in time, the streets were clear, the sky was cloudy and it looked exactly like the same diorama I see any other day.

Hours later and Laureen returns from being elsewhere that isn’t home. I’ve heard such places exist.

‘It’s snowing quite heavily out there.’ Immediately I thought she was talking in code about a large quantity of cocaine trafficking happening on our street, because I prefer to jump to the most illogical conclusions first and work my way backwards. After ruling out any possibility that she was referring to dandruff or coconut-covered desserts in any way, I decided to look out the window again and check for myself. And, wowsers in my trousers, in a few short hours the world had gotten a lot whiter.

It wasn’t a light cover either; the streets had been blanketed with snow. And, following that, someone had decided a snow doona had also been required. I quickly realised it would be unsafe for me to live someone that receives frequent, heavy snowfall, as I would easily be able to be snowed in without realising, trapping me inside and forcing me to eat my own half-frozen limbs for sustenance. And with my limbs, that’s only about a day’s worth of food. On second thought, my freaky leg muscle would probably stretch it to two.

This wasn’t the first time I’d experienced snow; I’ve been to the snowfields before. This was an entirely different experience though. When you go to the snowfields, you’re going there with the distinct expectation of seeing snow-covered mountains; in fact, you’re usually paying a lot of money for the privilege. In the heart of urban sprawl though, it’s something else. It doesn’t belong – at least when you come from Queensland it doesn’t and I wasn’t quite sure how to react. It’s kind of like clowns: If you go to a circus you’re expecting to see them, whereas if you come across one on the side of the street you want to run it down in your car. In hindsight, not the best analogy, but still a stern warning to any clowns I see wandering the streets.

My hangover now replaced with a sense of giddy glee at the strange new scene out my window, there was now only one thing for me to do: Frolic.

The snow is at its best when it has just fallen, yet to be crushed under the feet and wheels that the next day will bring. My street looked completely different. The snow served us an airbrushing for the world, covering up all the blemishes – dirty roads, cracked sidewalks, and, in the centre of London, probably some homeless people – and lending an air of magic to proceedings. All we had to sacrifice was a little traction. And if you ask me, anything that increases the chance of fat kids hilariously falling over is fine with me.

Clearing my schedule for the next day – a task that I was able to do so quickly that I think I may have gone back in time slightly – I formulated a plan to spend the next day wandering, enjoy the chance to experience life inside a snow globe while I had it. And if by chance I came across one of falling fatties, then I would make sure my finger was adequately stretched for the pointing and the laughing.

Fast-forward to the next morning, and the first thing I think when I wake: ‘Dammit, it’s stopped snowing. Just my luck.’ Opening the curtains I realised that not only was I wrong, but Psychic Weatherman had just been taken off the table as a possible career option. For anyone interested, it’s now been filed away in my ‘Future Television Pitches Doomed to Failure’ folder instead.

After a lengthy period umming and ah-ing over whether wearing my entire wardrobe to stave off the cold would be considered excessive, I eventually decided against it. Not least of all because large pieces of wooden furniture do nothing for my figure. Settling on layers of clothing thick enough to keep me warm and cushion me during any falls, I put on my only pair of shoes that featured something close to traction and set off out the door.

The snow crunched under my feet, sometimes more than I was expecting; my foot submerged in an icy cavern as I discovered patches of snow were much deeper than they initially seemed. I fortunately discovered at this point that my shoes were indeed entirely waterproof; a fact I had yet to be entirely sure of. So far in the battle between me and frostbite, I was winning. It was an unfamiliar sensation.

Snowball wars were breaking out on the streets. I weaved in and out of some, while getting caught in another as a young girl started tossing them at me from behind a car. I surprised her and myself by catching the things whole and launching them back. At the same time I displayed excellent restraint by not tackling her to the ground and shoving her head into the snow for being enough of a smartass to throw them at me in the first place. Her parents standing next to her and not being positive that she wouldn’t be able to overpower me may have also been deciding factors.

When I reached the park that I had only been wandering a scant two days earlier, before the sky started suffering severe dandruff, it was not the same place. It had been replaced by its doppelganger that looked like – save for the few dots of colour springing from people’s jackets – it hard been torn straight out of a black and white movie. Any moment now I was going to come across Charlie Chaplin soundlessly performing slapstick physical comedy. Then freak out and attack the undead silent film star with a fence paling. I don’t care if he’s a screen legend, I still don’t want him cracking open my skull and feasting on its creamy centre.

An army of snowmen had sprung up overnight, each one of them plotting the demise of the human race, spurred on by their bitter resentment of our ability to withstand mild to warm temperatures and eat soup. I wondered if the many large snowballs littered around the park were once the lower torsos of other snowmen and how, if they were, it was doing nothing to dispel their vendetta against us. You could see it in their – oh yes, I’m about to go there – icy stares. Oh no I didn’t.

The snowmen were not the only jealous ones, as many people in the park who weren’t me were enjoying themselves on sled. I searched around for anything I could use as a makeshift toboggan, or any isolated children I could steal from, with no success. And prior experience has taught me that sliding down on your stomach only ends with the front of your pants full of snow and the sensation that your testicles may have been jammed in the door of a freezer.

So I made do with what I could do. I made a snow angel for the first time. I attempted, and failed, to catch a snowflake on my tongue, unsure if that spoke to the difficulty of the task or my own lack of coordination. I undid all my previous good work with snowballs by showing adeptness for inaccuracy. I even stumbled across a snow couch, which, when someone mistook me for its creator, I foolishly forgot to lie and take credit for. There was even a snow TV in front of it. Lousy reception though.

After several hours walking in a winter wonderland, I headed home with one more item on my checklist left to complete: Build my own snowman. His home would be the walk up to our front door. So I built him, only small, as I didn’t want to be intimidated and, seeing as my gloves weren’t waterproof, there was only so much building I was willing to do before the lack of sensation in my hands became a concern. I named him Godfrey, and made sure he knew that I created him, therefore I could destroy him. Mother Nature ended up taking care of that though. Over the next couple of days Godfrey went from being severely malnourished to severely non-existent. He will be missed.

And so will the snow. And you know what? I didn’t see one fat kid fall over. Talk about disappointing.

X-mas Marks the Spot

T'was the morning of Christmas, and all through the flat
One of two was stirring, in pyjamas he sat
Disheveled and sleepy on his cushioned throne
Setting the scene for his first Christmas from home

This festive season was winter, the hemispheres having changed
And the purely decorative fireplace was absent of flame
The windows were frosted, or so he supposed
It was a bit hard to tell with the curtains being closed

The halls were not decked, his toes were not mistled
The floor was not covered in a fine layer of bristles
For the house was absent of gifts, decorations or tree
As these are all things which do not come for free

He had decided – and his bank account agreed –
That this year no presents were to be bought, thus received
The only gift was time, available to spend
Which he did, on the phone to family and friends

But they were all ten hours ahead, their days closing fast
Leaving our young squire as the ghost of their Christmas past
As they spoke to this specter about how their festivities had been
He told what was on the horizon as his yuletide came in

It was a somewhat brief outlook, concise and succinct
Even more uneventful that one could be lead to think
When detailing the plans for his day, as such
They could be covered quite nicely with two words – 'Not much'

Not entirely true, the afternoon held some maybes
The vague promise of roast meat, vegetables and gravy
There was a lunch, which we had been invited to share
With the only curiousity being how exactly we were to get there

The second member of this 'We' was yet to be seen
A mysterious figure by the name of Laureen
With the o'clock rounding two, she had not emerged from bed
Leaving, to be toyed with, the possibility she was dead

Had there been a late-night intruder, not fat, red and jolly
But vengeful, angry and bitter, with murder his folly?
An unpleasant thought, not to be cheered or clapped
But the body bag would mean at least one thing would be wrapped

As he wondered how long to wait before crashing through the door
There came the faint sound of footsteps on the floor
She was arising, or could there be a festive thief?
With no presents to steal, the visit would at least be brief

But open swung a door and Laureen stumbled out
He wished 'Merry Christmas' not in a whisper, nor shout
With greetings and well wishings done, no more to exchange
They returned to the living room fireplace, with its imaginary flames

With lunchtime slowly passing, they had places to be
But there was beginning to be a glaring flaw they could see
A distance needed covering, with no public transport
It seems this plan could have used a little forethought

They sat and the pondered, wondered and mulled
As did the wine as their options were culled
Ideas were scratched, genitals too
And a conclusion was reached – they were screwed

Without car, bus or sleigh, what once was a hunch
Turned into the unfortunate fact that they couldn't make lunch
What to do? Where to go? The plot had started to thicken
Thank God the refrigerator housed an emergency chicken

Christmas plans had changed, been slightly amended
And they'd re-evaluated exactly how they would spend it
It was a retreat to tradition, one that could not lose
With the winning combination of food and booze

So the Christmas was there, now time for the Merry
And what better way to find it than with a bottle of sherry?
The chicken was buttered, both arousing and healthy
And the seasoning of choice for those who aren't wealthy

Laureen did the cooking while he took the drinking
He offered his help but this wasn't sound thinking
For his culinary skills had been rendered quite stale
And they were doomed to starvation if one was to fail

Potatoes were crispy, the mulled wine was heated
It all smelt delicious and it was time to be seated
And to add some civility to this festive fable
They did the unheard of and sat at the table

Clinking their glasses and stuffing their faces
Taking time to forget to say their good graces
Their stomachs now full, but heads getting light
Time now to return to the lounge for the night

Now nicely toasted before the TV set
Watching a series of programs they would quickly forget
They waved to the neighbours living across the road
Who quickly thereafter had their curtains closed

They could have only been jealous from seeing such fun
Such entertaining times in the company of one
Is it so much better surrounded by those that you love?
Well, yes it is, when push comes to shove

But sometimes you make do with all that you've got
If just drink, food and TV, which isn't a lot
Still, it's enough, and no need for hindsight
It was to all a Merry Christmas, and to them a good night

Sacre Bleu! The Tour - Ain't Nothin' Like a Dame

Whether it was the fact that the hunchbacks we were beginning to develop from hauling our packs around left us with a certain affinity with the building, or because it was the only other place we were sure would be open, Notre Dame Cathedral became our next destination of choice.
For those who don't know already, I'll go ahead and spoil the surprise right off the bat – there was no Hunchback. Ever. I'm not suggesting people didn't suffer from spinal malformations or ugliness in French history, there just wasn't a particular case localised within the Notre Dame bell tower. He was nothing more than an author's work of fiction. No singing gargoyles either. Damn you, Disney.

Making our way into the courtyard, once again we found ourselves swimming in a sea of tourists, some of them looking like they were doing their best to convince me that maybe the Hunchback did exist, he just spent his wandering around the front of the cathedral staring vacantly at a map. I was starting to sense that these tourists were becoming a theme, and that Paris wasn't the secluded corner of the world that a lifetime of wishful thinking and travelling ignorance had led me to believe.

If the cathedral itself had set out to impress me – which I like to think it had – it was doing its job rather well. Being that it was a house of God, it would appear that God likes to live extravagantly. It was a stone bohemoth, accessorising itself with a number of statues and intricate carvings. The two towers rose up, ears listening to the sounds of the city, hearing nothing but the irritating twang of foreigners and the seductive arrogance of locals. Ah, Paris. Nestled in between the towers was a large, ornate glass window; a cyclopic eye staring out across the city, locked in a perpetual staring contest with the Eiffel Tower for monument superiority. I'm not sure who was winning, nor did I have the stature to risk getting involved.

Being that I was a gothic cathedral virgin, I was altogether impressed with the sheer stature of the building, considering most of the churches I'd seen back home bore a striking resemblance toa high school assembly hall. Having two and a half months of European travel on me, Brendan and Rob were a little less impressed, having traversed a continent where gothic cathedrals plagued the countryside like a far more visually appealing smallpox, but they still oohed, aahed and gained erections at the appropriate moments.

Entering the monument, and thereby breaking myself in – please be gentle, Notre Dame – I craned my neck to take in the expanse of space that God required to kick back and relax. It was quite the pad – a giant organ for music, enough seating to satisfy any religious or social engagement and spacious enough that sound would carry so you could have a conversation with someone on the other side of the building without having to move. Around the walls there was a series a glass windows more stained than the bedsheets at a bordello; cross-sections of a kaleidoscope that someone had decided to insert into the architecture.

I wandered the pews, stared up at the ceiling that was so far above me that I could only assume it existed and – ever the peer pressure victim – eventually joined everyone else in flagrantly disregarding the no photography signs. I feel a bonded with several hundred strangers in our act of rebellion.

Without Jesus and his Apostles performing some kind of cabaret musical up front – Hunchback on percussion, a chorus line of nuns providing entertainment during the intermission – there was only so much of the inside of the cathedral that you could see before you got the idea and began to wish some of the sculptures were little more crude. It was time to head outside, to the top of the towers. Maybe that's where all the dirty carvings would be, where they couldn't corrupt young choir boys and girls. After all, that was a job for members of the clergy.
Just as I'm sure history had intended, access to the top of the Notre Damn towers was overseen by the time-honoured traditions of lines and admission fees. So we took up our rightful place in the queue, making sure we took the time every five minutes to shuffle forward a few feet. With a line hardly being the best vantage point for sightseeing, I could instead spend my time being slightly unnerved by the the 10-year-old kids next to me who appeared to be toying with a flick knife. Turns out it was a flick comb. Seems you can't walk down the street at night in Paris without fear of having your hair styled by a gang of wayward youths. Sure, they may leave you with all your money, but say goodbye to all of your toiletries.

After managing to get away with paying student entry prices by using the cunning ruse of saying, 'Yes, I am a student,' while providing absolutely no evidence, we made our way up the the spiral staircase. Undeniable proof that tourism is not a pastime intended for the obese, the staircase was determined to never end and narrow enough to create quite the human landslide if the person at the front decided that keeping there balance was a thing of the past. If I had been the person at the front, with a crowd of people behind me who would love nothing more than to cushion my fall, I wouldn't have been so concerned about this. Unfortunately I was much closer to the back, and I didn't want the last thing I saw before I died to be Rob's ass hurtling towards my face.

Just in time for my legs not to give out on me, we found ourselves ourselves at the top. This discovery was hardly a revelation, considering it's where we were heading the entire time. Despite my relative unfamiliarity with 17th Century architecture, I was fairly certain that the criss-crossing metal wires that barricaded the tower railings were not part of the original design. Exactly how many instances of people falling off had there been before they decided that a shield to prevent human stupidity was required? There was no tally etched into the stone walls, I checked.

The view itself was rather spectacular. The stone gargoyles-that-technically-weren't-gargoyles may have been sick of staring out at it over several hundred years – honestly they weren't that forthcoming with their opinions – but considering I was new to all of this, I believe I was filled with the appropriate sense of wonder. The Eiffel Tower was pointing up at the sun, which in turn was shining back down to reflect off the solid gold roof of Napoleon's tomb – I really wish I could overcompensate for lack of height in the same extravagant manner he enjoyed. Somehow, over the years, some modern buildings had managed to insert themselves into the scenery, grouping together to form there own clique. But as hard as they might have tried, they still couldn't tarnish the sight of this cultural metropolis sprawled out before me; an expanse of buildings that I already knew my legs would never find to time to carry me entirely through. The time I had was simply too little, as was the length of my steps. Curse these tiny, inefficient limbs.

My eyes were trying to make up for where my legs would inevitably let me down, traversing as much of the landscape as possible in the time that the tower guides seemed unwilling to be generous with. At the same time, staring out into the distance, no matter what that distance may contain. is a form of entertainment with something of a limited lifespan, so I had soon finished my grand production of Oohs and Ahs – soon to be a broadway musical – and impressing people with all of the buildings I couldn't name. It seems that 'Geoffry' doesn't count.

Making the way back down the stairs in the opposite tower I wondered if the guides would implement my suggestion of providing people with a toboggan to make the journey a whole lot more exhilarating. It was hard to tell which side of deranged genius they thought I was leaning more towards. They did appear to be backing away slowly though. In awe, I think it's safe to assume. Instead, I had to begrudgingly settle for the old-fashion way, one foot in front of the other and not remotely using gravity to its fullest advantage. Issac Newton would be spinning in his grave, albeit at the same speed and following the exact same path that the Earth seemed to be.

Hitting the bottom step, everyone in the group could all breathe a sigh of relief and let our minds wander from the incredible mental and physical strain of a vertical climb. After all, those stairs can be tough to navigate – up, down, the options are endless. There was now nothing left for me to do but start to ponder if there was anyone gullible enough to be coaxed into giving me a foot massage. Outside of my travelling companions that is. Brendan's hands didn't seem soft enough and I suspected Rob would enjoy it a little too much.

Though there was one final thing that intrigued me as I passed through a small cemetery to exit the grounds. Did these graves belong to significant figures in the cathedral's history, or tourists who had come to grief on the staircase I had just braved? Did my survival make me some kind of hero?

Yes, I believe it did.

A Religious Experience, Part Two

With the crowd that populated the room as it darkened, it would have been easy to think someone had just urinated on a fuse box. This theory was quickly dashed when they immediately went silent, as if in some kind of Pavlov Dog response cultivated by weeks of attendance, and it was obvious something was about to happen. That something was a regular-sized man tearing out onto the stage on a Scott-sized motorcycle.

'Hellllooooooo, Church!' The greeting bounced around the room, a voice that sounded as though it was struggling its way out of a maze of senility and alcoholism. I don't know who this man was supposed to be, nor am I sure if anyone else did, but the fact that he was on stage and wielding a microphone seemed enough for them.

For the next fifteen minutes, the crowd was entertained by the mystery man yelling “Do we have any (insert nationality) here!?!' followed by the collective delayed cheering of a bunch of drunks realising that, holy crap, they were that nationality, and this man was acknowledging it. How awesome!

Not content with that, and obviously having been storing them up since his own family stopped inviting him to Christmas dinner after causing one too many scenes, Mystery Stage Man launched into a series of shop-worn jokes that have been kicking around since 1974. There was the typical 'New Zealanders have sex with sheep' variety, and really, the rest mostly consisted of him referring to a country, then going 'What a bunch of fuuuckwits!', leaving the crowd endlessly amused – not exactly a difficult task – and me entertaining the thought of sticking my head into the plastic bag that was currently occupied by cans of drink.

After finishing his...well, let's be generous and call it a performance, with some sort of repetitive drinking song that would take up residence in my head for several days to follow, one could only begin to wonder what sort of act could follow. Thankfully the wondering was short lived, because the baited breath I was waiting with couldn't hold out for long. Mystery Stage Man decided it was time he introduced, and thus confirmed, the one part of the Church myth that I was sceptical about. The one thing that completed its descent into outright seediness.

Oh yes, it was time for the stripper. And I warn anyone with a fragile constitution to turn away now and save yourself, because from here on in things get a little unsavoury.

The first thing you noticed when she – and I'm going to dub her Brandy, as I can't remember her name – made her way onstage was her age, which ranged from being anywhere between 40 and a member of the undead. With a face and boobs that spent their time comparing which had underwent more cosmetic surgery and skin that shared an uncanny similarity to leather, there was the faintest evidence showing that this woman may have actually been attractive once upon a time. It was just a shame that time was before calendars existed.

Inviting a man who appeared to be a more flamboyant member of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band on stage, she began her performance, dancing and bending in a fashion that made her skin crease like a Mad Magazine fold-in. After taking his glasses, putting them down the front of her g-string and generally doing things with them I'm sure his optometrist hadn't intended, she sat the man down, where he – I'm sure living out a lifelong dream – got to serve as her human pommel horse. As she writhed and flipped over him, legs wrapped around his face and head resting on his crotch, I was very thankful for standing as far away from the stage as I was, yet still wishing I'd had more to drink. I exchanged glances with Brendan and Laureen to confirm that this was actually happening. Their eyes were begging the exact same questions I was.

With the stage strip spectacular ending in what I call Car Crash Nudity, in that I didn't want to look yet couldn't turn away, I turned to my only option to shake what I had just witnessed. It was time to funk.

Yet The Church was not going to be so generous to me just yet, with the Mystery Stage Man – having managed to not yet succumbed to the heart attack he looked constantly on the verge of having – returning to host a drinking competition, a group of New Zealander guys dressed as fairies emerging victorious.

Then it was revealed that Mystery Stage Man had a 'special guest' who just wanted to say a few words. It turned out he was referring to the guy standing to his left, drunk and dressed as a Dalmatian. I guessed he appeared special in a particular sense of the word.

The Drunk Dalmatian wasted no time, immediately addressing his girlfriend, 'I just wanted to say that I love you and–'

I took a drink. I blinked. I blinked again. Suddenly I realised what was about to happen.

No way. No. Fucking. Way. He was going to propose.

I turned to Laureen and shared my realisation. She stared at me, her eyes opening wide in a futile attempt to capture all the madness that was about to unfold.

'No! No, he wouldn't!' Considering he was on stage, drunk and dressed as a dog, I felt Laureen was being far too generous with her disbelief.

He called her on stage, he got down on one wobbly knee and with complete disregard for the story they may one day tell their grandchildren, he asked her to marry him.



She cried, the crowd cheered, Mystery Stage Man rambled something incomprehensible into the microphone and I tried to wrap my head around what I had just witnessed. My head didn't have that much give. Preceded by the stripper equivalent of one of the Golden Girls and moderated by a prime case for an intervention, there was no possible way this proposal could have been more ridiculous.

Turns out I was wrong.

After spending an extended period of time trying to devour each other's faces at the side of the stage while several drunken people fell over on stage attempting to step over a stick – part of a competition – they happy couple made their way into the crowd. Pats on the back and enthusiastic hugs from strangers overcome by the emotion, not to mention a bathtub's worth of beer, ensued. I congratulated them as they passed, having now had enough to drink to make my faux politeness seem almost sincere. Laureen took up the typical female line of questioning and asked the blushing bride-to-be to show off her ring.

'Oh, I don't have one yet.' She showed the ring finger, adorned with nothing but spilt alcohol.

Holy shit. This was almost too good to be true. He had not planned this whatsoever. He had put more thought into hiring his Dalmatian costume than he had his proposal. It was a decision fuelled by drunken logic and several plastic bags’ worth of canned beer.

At this point, with a mouthful of drink, it took every ounce of self control I had to not do a spit take. I turned away and prayed they moved along quickly, because I was waging a losing battle with my desperate need to burst out laughing. Then, as if to punctuate the romance of the moment, Brandy, the stripper made of cow hide, returned to the stage.

This was unexpected and unplanned for. While I'd had more to drink by this point, I'd also moved much closer to the stage. Such proximity did my eyesight no favours, with the leather of her skin looking like it had been left out in the rain too long and the creases in it slowly eroding into crevices.

Proving that she was an equal opportunist, this time Brandy dragged herself up a female from the crowd, sat her down and began to divide her time between dancing around the girl and fondling her in a way that in any other situation would have ended in a lengthy prison sentence. In the back of my mind I began planning what I'd wear to court if I was later called as a witness.

After leading the girl off stage, having left her with a series of mental scars and a delightful story to tell her parents as they shipped her off the therapy, Brandy invited another male on stage. It was soon to become glaringly apparent that she must have specified that his dignity wasn't welcome.

I was now growing increasingly suspicious that this stripper possessed some sort of mind control powers, because within minutes she had this guy lying on his back on stage, handcuffed, stripped to his underwear and wearing a gimp mask. She sat on his face; I became very grateful for not having eaten much that day.

But this was just the beginning of the systematic breaking down of any self respect this man may have claimed to once have, the existence of which having already been called into doubt as serious as the case of STDs he was soon sure to contract. Now having tired of using his face as a cushion, Brandy brought him to his feet, shuffled him – his pants were around his ankles – over to the chair that I was beginning to feel very sorry for and bent him over it. Lighting up a cigarette, she took a few drags before pulling down the man's underpants, gifting the crowd with a faceful of hairy ass, and placed the cigarette between his cheeks. A perfect anti-smoking campaign if ever I'd seen one. Then – because why stop there? - she proceeded to pull his underpants back up and let a hole be burnt through the back of them. Poor underpants, they never signed up for any of this.

Because it was readily apparent that everyone was now ready for dessert, Brandy produced a can of whipped cream. I was not sure exactly where she pulled it from and was doing my best not to dwell on the puzzle, fearing any solution I may come to. Stretching open the back of the man's underpants – as if they hadn't suffered enough – she began spraying whipped cream into them, proving she had a limited future in the catering business. Then, as the grand finale of one man's shame, she pressed on his ass and we all watched as the cream began to snake its way out of the hole left by the cigarette; a tiny, creamy worm making its break for freedom. Meanwhile, I was rapidly feeling the onset of lactose intolerance.

Done with the man and leaving him shamble his way off stage, as I hoped that he had a girlfriend he had to go home and explain an ass full of whipped cream to, it was time for Brandy to finish off her own performance. Tearing off what little clothing she was left wearing – literally tearing, it looked uncomfortable – she took a handful of whipped cream and slapped it between her legs with such force that you would be able to subsequently churn butter in her uterus. And with a bow and what I'm sure was the beginnings of some kind of infection, she was gone.

Looking around at Laureen, Brendan and Rob – he'd appeared at some stage – it was clear that none of us could quite comprehend everything we'd just witnessed. My thoughts were coming out as nothing more than babbled syllables and my mind was taking a time out due to an overload of madness. Sensing it was time to step in, my body took charge, leading me into and episode of funk now that the normal music had resumed.

I let my legs take the funky lead until the music stopped, informing us it was time to go. We hung back, waiting for the more intoxicated patrons to shuffle out, amused by the number that fell over attempting to navigate the obstacle course of empty cans and bottles that littered the floor.

That had been The Church. I couldn't figure out if my expectations had been met, or beaten into submission with a plastic bag full of Fosters cans. Nor could I be sure if I had just enjoyed myself or not. All I could safely say was that I had been entertained, and, as I said, it was an experience. If somewhat of a harrowing one.

Something told me I'd be back one day.

A Religious Experience, Part One

We interrupt this coverage of France to chronicle an event which simply won't allow me to type any further without detailing. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to my experience at The Church.

And “experience” is certainly the only proper way for me to categorise it. Not traumatic, not necessarily enjoyable and absolutely mind boggling, The Church is a beast unto itself, a product seemingly born out of the collective drunken mind power of the race of backpackers that Flood the London streets.

We'd heard rumours of not so much a bar, but a weekly event. Nothing but a figment during the week, something spoken of as if the hazy recollection people have of it was only a hallucination, The Church only shows itself in reality for four hours on a Sunday afternoon. From midday to 4:00pm, the story was that the inside of a former church – in what may well have been an attempt to see what happened when you combined blasphemy with sacrilege – was turned into a hovel of drunkenness, debauchery and dereliction. Where drinks had to be purchased in numbers of three - bartenders generous enough to provide patrons with -plastic bags to carry them in – people dressed in costume for no good reason and the floor was covered in hay.

In other words, it was something we had to witness for ourselves.

Dragging myself out of bed far too early Sunday morning for a man who had only befriended his mattress at 4:00am that same morning, my mind and body questioned what they had to make me hate them so much. In the hallway, Laureen and Brendan shambled past me in the manner of people defeated by their own morbid curiosity. All we could do was dedicate ourselves to the self-deception that we were doing this as some kind of social experiment.

Sitting on the Tube as it rocked me back and forth to ensure I didn't forget that I was hungover, I stared at the coffee in my hand, wishing it was at least ten times stronger and possibly made from Speed. My mind was spinning with ideas of what exactly I was to expect from this place. Though, admittedly, that may not have been the only reason for the spinning.

At any other time, disembarking a train to be greeted by the sight of a number of loud, obnoxious, costumed and drunken – impressively so, considering it was only 11:30 in the morning – would be cause to retreat back onto the train and ride it straight back into the world of self respect. Fortunately, this morning, like most others, I hadn't been burdened with such minor things as dignity, so all it meant was that we were heading in the right direction. And considering we'd arrived sporting a healthy lack of ideas in regard to where we were supposed to go, having people to follow came as somewhat of a relief, assuming they didn't decide to pass out in traffic on the way.

As we saw the line snaking around the building, it became hard to deny – not to mention far too late – that this was our destination, despite the depressing things it suggested about humanity. Scanning my eyes across its foundations, the building seemed to be doing its best to deny any knowledge that it was once a church, trying to avoid the shame that I had no sense of whatsoever. Nowadays it was disguising itself as a theatre, a venue for concerts and other stage shows during the week.

Finding ourselves at the back of a line that was longer than it had any right to rationally be, working itself around several corners and decorated with empty beer cans and morons, I engaged in the fool's errand of convincing myself I was much better than these people, despite the fact that I was following them into this black hole of a building. The results I achieved were less than spectacular.

Finally, a deep breath and in we went, my mind accompanied by the last fleeting thought that maybe I should have had all my shots before leaving Australia.

Would you look at that, I'd walked into the Twisted Arm megastore. I'd walked into a sea of multinational boganism, although from what I could gather it was primarily dominated by Australians. It was disturbingly familiar. But the Kiwis, South Africans and the vastly outnumbered nations of the UK were all making a show, drinking until they were all speaking one universal language – the intoxicated slur. And the rumoured plastic bags were making no attempt to conceal themselves, dangling from the wrists and belts of every other person, a small family of cider or beer cans contained within.

Disappointingly, one of the first things I had noticed – and I'd consulted the soles of my shoes to ensure I wasn't mistaken – was that the floor was completely devoid of hay. I ventured a guess that it was to avoid having the place likened to somewhat of a retard farm. I still made the comparison.

In the centre of the room, on the large expanse of floor that found its home in front of the stage, there was a sea of bodies. Some were dancing, some were swaying unsteadily and trying to pass it off as a dance, and some had abandoned the concept of rhythm altogether, instead choosing to jump up and down and yell at the ceiling. All manner of costumes peppered this sweaty, possibly syphilitic ocean – pirates, nurses, Indians, police, Ghostbusters, Jokers, gladiators – with a large number of them able to be prefaced with the adjectives 'douchebag' or 'slutty'. A video camera swept across the crowd, the images captured projected onto large monitors on the wall and proving that the one way to turn an idiot into an even bigger idiot is to put them on a screen. The camera also spent a lot of its leisure time zooming in on girls' boobs, as they turned away under the unconvincing guise of coy embarrassment, which, when taking into account they were armed with enough cleavage to demand your attention under threat of suffocation, seemed a little contradictory. As did the fact that the body behind the camera also belonged to a female.

Now sporting our own bag of canned booze – after all, if we were doing The Church, we were doing it right, regardless of the opinions of our stomachs, heads and livers – we stood and spectated the crowd. And for a good while, apart from it seeming like the womb from which every dodgy bogan pub I had been to was spawned, there seemed nothing special to the place. All these expectations of horrified awe had gone unfounded.

But then, with the dimming of lights and the revving of a small motorcycle engine, everything began to change.

To be continued...

Sacre Bleu! The Tour - Artistic Differences

If there is one thing I learnt from the Louvre, one tiny mental souveneir with which I emerged from its artistically endowed halls, it's that historical artists loved them their Jesus.

Narrowly beating out his fiercest competitors – naked people and a series of terrifying cherubs – in the popularity stakes, Mr Christ (as he is known in more casual circles) adorns the walls in such numbers that one could be forgiven for thinking that there had been a glaring area in the recounting of the story, and he had actually been crucified several hundred times.

Scan your eyes across the many, many walls of this artistic epicentre and they tell you in manner that would render denial a rather embarrassing act of stupidity that art, and the continued existence of it, owes an insurmountable debt to the religious world. Undoubtedly this is a fact long clear to the incalculable number of people with more knowledge on the topic than me – hardly a difficult task – but still, such a concentrated dose of evidence would leave even the most glaring personification of the modern artist stereotype, as they pleasured themself over the ideas of their own self importance and asthetic atheism, no choice but to begrudgingly agree.

It was day two in Paris, and having bribed our bodies back into compliance with a solid night's rest we had returned to the streets to gift passers-by with our mixed looks of awe and directionlessness that can only be properly assembled by the features of a tourist.

As it turns out, Monday is a day that has no affection for tourists in Paris, with the Musee D'orsay continuing its campaign against me by being closed, also recruiting the Catacombs into the cause in an attempt to wear down my enthusiasm. But with a stubbornness that often flirts with the appearance of stupidity, I was hardly one to be dissuaded by a city conspiring against me, so, dressed up in our finest looks of faux-intellectualism, we set off for the Louvre, careful not to let it know it wasn't our first choice as to spare its feelings.

We arrived early in order to make the best effort of avoiding the plague known as tourist groups – a group which, yes, we may have technically belonged to, but I was determined to feel unjustifiably superior to. Making our way through the glass pyramid and descending into the tomb of art that lay below, the windows of the surrounding building eyed us suspiciously as we went, curious to see the newest batch of voyeurs wanting to cast their eyes over what was contained within its walls. It seemed a little judgemental for something that's willing to let anyone enter it for just 9 Euros.

The building itself is a vast, four-storey labyrinth of rooms, some spacious and making no attempt to downplay their sense of significance, some barely noticeable, seemingly birthing themselves out of spaces in walls where no room has a right to exist, all of them filled with paintings, sculptures and historical artifacts fighting for their piece of personal space. The sheer overwhelming size of the place demands more time from people than some would be willing to give.

Noblemen, women and a large number of people comfortable with nudity watched us from within their intricately detailed frames as our feet led us from room to room. Meanwhile, Jesus was too distracted by the alarming number of times he was being crucified in this building to make eye contact. The cherubs may have also been watching us, but I was doing my best not to dwell on this idea for too long as I still wanted to be able to sleep soundly at night. I will say this though, some of the cherubs I did notice – between closing my eyes and denying their existence – had appearances that hinted at mental disability, so I have to give credit to the Cherubian empire for their equal-opportunity employment.

With the museum rapidly devouring the hours we spent roaming its halls, and having spent enough time admiring the works of more obscure artists to assist with that speriority I was aiming for, it was time to walk in the footsteps of many art groupies before us and check out the big names. And I find it very amusing that in a museum where you can get close enough to lick – if you were in the mood to get arrested – many pieces of art that would feature a conga line of zeros trailing at the end of their value, there was a grand total of only two objects that held the esteem that warranted any sort of restrictions in proximity.

Ms Lisa and Ms de Milo, queens of the Louvre and two women I wouldn't throw our of bed. I mean, come on, think of the bragging rights. Or course there would then be the series of intrusive questions as to how you managed to get two priceless artifacts into your bed in the first place.

For something the size of a smallish window, the crowd of spectators for the Mona Lisa could quite comfortably be referred to as ridiculous. People pressed shoulder to shoulder, trying to edge themselves just that little bit closer to the area that was roped off so that they could say they got to stand only a scant five metres away from the 2-inch thick glass that encased the Mona Lisa. I won't deny the fact the I was interested in seeing it and I'm glad I did - for a painting so renowned, who wouldn't be? But such a spectacle for something that is still, at the end of the day, a painting of a woman, is something my brain simply does not possess the ability to understand. Evidence in itself that I will never be a connesuir of the art world.

Also not doing my standing in the art world any favours is that fact that, after four hours, museum fatigue was setting in. The sense repetition in the works had begun to dawn on me and, although my brain was struggling to come to terms with the idea, it seemed I was beginning to tire of looking at pictures that prominently featured naked women. Fearing irrepearable damage, the wisest course of action was clearly to bring an end to the day's romance with art.

Don't worry, we promised that we'd remain friends.