A Circle Becomes A Square

Once again I found myself clearing my desk, my useless notes discarded into the waste paper bin and my dog eared photograph of my long dead pet goldfish Tweedy packed away in my rucksack. Perhaps a less emotional farewell then when I left my last job in Covent Garden, but the surge of euphoria this time was nonetheless unparalleled. My Line Manager was despondent at the hurried announcement on a damp Saturday afternoon, his expression hid a mixture of fury and dejection that I had been anticipating. Only a day before, he had charged me with training up a new joiner, allowing her access to listen in on my torrid sales speech on the landline so that she could gain an understanding on how to become the cardboard cut out atrocity that I had morphed into in past weeks. It was of no surprise that after an hour of patient monitoring of my calls, the new girl abandoned her swivel chair and promptly left the office, never to return again through the menacing doors. I could only applaud her bravery.

Dan throws a frisbee with the grace of a ballerina


Team Frisbee Golf: (l-r) Me (obviously), Dan, Luke, Archbutt, Ian, Ben (with broken frisbee - he has rage issues) and Benni

Now to a final weekend in Queenstown, and to salute my departure from the sham of my voiceless vocation (as well as Jimmy Jolion Archbutt who also handed in his notice and the coinciding birthday celebrations of Nottinghamshire Nichola), a handful of us rushed next door to the Ministry of Sport bar. In the confines of the upstairs room we sat and sank a well earned 'Man Handle' stein of Speight's Mac's Gold, earning a bicep workout with the strain of holding up the two litre glass. Nichola had the stunning idea for us all to wear 'amusing sunglasses' in honour of her prestigious day, which we all agreed upon, with mixed results.


Sunglasses birthday party. Pose was cool at the time

It was yet another bank holiday weekend, in honour of the ANZAC alliance in Gallipoli during The Great War, which meant that although the community could respectfully remember their harrowing plight and the collective loss of innocence buried unforgiven beneath the trenches, frustratingly the bars were all closed at midnight. Aware of the distant bass thud of a hidden gathering, we stumbled upon a house party within the labyrinth of side streets high up on Hay Street and set up shelter under a large oak tree in their overgrown garden, our hands cupping a breakfast bowl of rum and Coke Zero, as the rain descended. Like Andy DeFrain after escaping his torment behind a risque poster of Rita Haywarth in The Shawshank Redemption, I also found solace in the warm deluge, finally evading the shackles of the headset.

My final day in Queenstown was beset once again by ill tempered weather. Rene, Cork Dan and I consumed a delightful Thai Green Curry at the aptly titled 'My Thai' restaurant by the Wharf. The staff of which oddly decided to hang a thin violet silk veil by our table so as to provide a silhouetted partition between the affluent diners and ourselves. After the Bangkok shadow puppet lunch, we made our way back up towards the luge tracks to play one last game of Crazy Golf, along with Jimmy Jolion Archbutt, fresh from a job interview and dressed smartly in his crispest Ben Sherman shirt, and his live wire girlfriend Bethan from Devon. The circuit this time was insane, encouraging rampant drives through loose rope nooses within towering castles as well as putting down a steep volcano and steering the golf ball up a miniature Queenstown gondola. We were all rewarded with our zealous skills with a fluorescent Chuppa Chup lolly pop on the final hole. It made everything worthwhile.


The Circle of Trust: (l-r) Laura, Archbutt, Ben, Me, Dan, Bethan and Loren

A few final farewells, firstly to the unsung heroes of New Zealand, the chefs and waitresses at Fergburger whom I'd gotten to know so well during this past month. Also to the Telesales 'Circle of Trust' - the fellow POW's whom I shared many satisfactory hours discussing at which precise point that the candle of our careers had faded out in a sombre flicker.


Craziest Golf I've ever played

Back on the much travelled road with an early start the following morning, standing in the downpour with Rene outside a closed KFC as we awaited our Stray bus to take us onwards up to Christchurch. We spent much of the nine hour journey in silence, faces haggard and dubious from such a rude disposal of the comforts of our duvets. I was looking forward though to our scenic ride, past Mount Cook / Aoraki - the highest mountain in New Zealand - and over the Lindis Pass towards Lake Pukaki. However, my self belief in retracing the steps of Sir Edmund Hillary was lost in vain as Mount Cook, like a dithering Old Dame, whose lustre was lost many moons before, forgetting her cue to go onstage for her glorious finale, surrendered under the heavy burden of the passing raincloud. I would be left with no picture memory of the famous snow capped mountain due to the inert mist, passing like a phantom plagued with insomnia.

Still, we all managed to see the clear sapphire blue grandeur of Lake Tekapo. The still waters had an incandescent tint due to it being an incarnation of a glacier, and we were fortunate to make the most of it as the sun shimmered generously for a few minutes as we spun past.


Lake Takepo and the behemothic Mount Cook in the backgr....oh wait, the rainclouds have ruined it

Finally, arrival at Christchurch on a dry afternoon. Rene and I were immediately startled at the exaggerated modernity of the High Street, the roar of the vehicles on busy lanes compared to the calm of Queenstown. Our new accommodation, the renovated hotel stylings of The Coachman, hid a treasure than I was not prepared for. On walking down the empty corridors towards the laundry room, the high ceilings pressing down on me like a weight on Atlas (or more likely from the heap of luminous boxers in my arms), I walked past the open door of Room 24. Within that room were the mischievous New Yorkers - Caroline and Kate whom I met in Franz Josef, and dancing alone to a Chris Brown song blaring out a white laptop beside them was none other than Anthony.

Queenstown Song of the Day: Goldfrapp - Rocket
I know, incredible, I've listened to some new music. This is a real 80's inspired pop gem from Alison Goldfrapp. The video, of which I witnessed on the bearable Select TV show, is also sunken with a rosemary tint attached to the era belonging to Ralph Macchio, Corey Haim and Gizmo.

True fact: Alison Goldfrapp's songwriting is characterized by its use of animals to describe human emotions and status.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fjcTUmipxZY&feature=related


www.goldfrapp.com

Another Seismic Tremor

For a change of scenery, I moved back to Nomads for a few days and into one of their 'King's Suites' on the third floor, with no exchange for cash at all. This strange piece of fortune arose when briskly walking down the nocturnal Shotover Street and colliding into a figure whom I had met on the Stray bus a few weeks previous. Rene, the half French half German youngster, complete with 'Sweet As' black cap, fixed firmly backwards on his rich canopy of hair, greeted me with a generous portion of amicability considering that we had barely reached past the moderate greetings of acquaintances from on the bus journey from Picton down to Franz Josef. After agreeing to go for a brief drink in The Buffalo Club (2-4-1 draughts, thanks to the dorm key from Deco's) and a few measly shaped spring rolls, with a subtle flavour of wallpaper, Rene explained to me of his predicament at Nomads Hostel, where his 10 bed dorm room had been upgraded to a two bed en-suite room due to an overbooking from the hospitable reception staff. His new room was now equipped with a fridge, tall timber wardrobe, towels, flat screen television, coffee and tea, soap and shampoo. All relative glittering luxuries for a mule like backpacker such as myself, used to sharing bathrooms with the nefarious footprints of vile students.

Rene (every time I say his name, it unfortunately comes out all 'Allo 'Allo) asked me to take advantage of his spare bed for no charge at all, simply to share his wealth in the palatial chamber with its spectrum of Sky Channels emitting daily doses of Family Guy and feature films, hooked up from the Cinema Room downstairs where all the pleborian children remained sat cooped up aloft impotent red bean bags. I, naturally, took this offer with both greedy hands. The selling point being that the en-suite was equipped with an abundance of soap, much needed after my last slither of a bar had disappeared down the wiry hair plagued plug hole in my last hostel, and the odorous signs were beginning to reveal.


It's not all glamour as a high flyer in telesales you know

As expected, within 48 hours of my stay, the room had begun to morph into a tarnished catastrophe, an earthquake in the calm. The beige carpet now hidden under tattered cardboard pizza boxes, tortilla chip packets, fudge centred tim tams discarded half eaten and bottles of Speight's Ale with the residue of warm liquid still circling the bottom of the translucent glass. The less we speak about the state of the bathroom the better. Rene and I were not impressed by housekeeping's lethargy at attempting to redeem the lustre of the opulent room and we swiftly complained, maintaining the loose candied crown of the plastic Princes that we had become.

The eruption. Regret would follow.

I had heard passing rumours of the chaos that had plagued European aerospace in recent days due to the eruption beneath the Ejafalafel....Ezjoecoleskull.....er....Eyjafjallajoekull glacier in south-western Iceland. In retaliation for my stranded Mother and Father, stuck in the desert heat of Egypt awaiting their return flight back to Heathrow, I toasted their extended holiday with a volcanic concoction of my own, provided by the faltering Hispanic staff of the underground Debajo's cocktail bar in exchange for this week's $40 drinks bonus from work. The infamous 'Volcano' bowl, the content of which I'm not sure of but did seem to have four types of rum in it, was a sure fire lava hit for myself and my long suffering work colleagues to ensure that the week's proposals were not all made in vain. The bowls were advised to be shared between 2-5 people. However, having traded our souls to Lucifer in order for the sweating palms to grasp some Kiwi Dollars, we agreed to hoard a Volcano each so as to numb the rhythmic taunting of the conscience with the magma crimson palliative.

I'm hoping the gypsy and the good doctor are faring somewhat better looking out towards the ash debris beyond the Red Sea by the Pharos of Alexandria.

(l-r) Rene, Daniel Panesar, Ben, Kurt Cobain and Jimmy Jolion Archbutt (real name) enjoy the lava before missing scenes kicked in

Now on my final week in the job, a home straight that feels like a marathon (though I think Pheidippides, the Athenian herald, encountered an easier passage on requesting help with the oncoming Persian War). The last week was not as operose as the induction, my ears weren't even open to any profanity for the duration as I had adeptly mastered hanging up the phone before the ire of the recipient was demonstrated. I seem to spend a large proportion of the time lost in a Reggie Perrin styled daydream to counter the monotony of the blank walls. Like Leonard Rossiter's hapless character, I also lack the conviction to throw myself into the depths of a raging sea to cleanse me of my employment sins.

Reggie tastes ice-cream in the classic 70's BBC comedy:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aBYLNHiIJMc&feature=channel

Some beneficiaries of my dulcet tones were as unusual as ever. A sprightly lady passed me on the ingredients for her signature golden syrup dumplings and cream that she insisted I tried out at the hostel later that evening (it actually sounded delicious, but I didn't have the patience to try it out). Another time a 40-something quickly discarded my patter and swiftly became besotted with my accent and asked me, seductively and desperately, to come over to her apartment after I finished work to share the spoils of her remaining dignity. I've never been so pleased to be based in New Zealand and not Brisbane.

However, some calls were harder to make than others. Especially the timid lady who spoke meekly to me that her husband had passed away the morning before and that she wasn't quite ready to talk about her equity. Also there was another young woman who asked me to return the call at another time as she was rather tired from her afternoon's chemotherapy appointment.

Not to worry, I've logged a call back for both parties later this week as I believe that in their orbit of weakness I could just about rope them into a consultation with our financial consultant and thus gaining me a sale. I concede, I have become a monster and my trend of increasing successes has led me to become my boss's new pet, for him to groom into something even more grotesque.

Ben demonstrates his early Tiger form with his pink golf ball

Finally, in an energetic week, I organised a Mini Golf day out for some of my telephonically wounded work mates as a team building exercise and also to abandon the rustles of restlessness within the camp. The golf course was aptly located by the eerie shadows of the local cemetery and on a gloriously cloudless day we putted like novices through tricky greens and obstacles made up of mounds, toadstools, bunny rabbits and a nearby goldfish pond, laced with algae. I finished in a respectable fourth place (out of five), and I blame my erratic club and the regular hawking of an elderly couple from Lancashire for my early loss in form.

All very Super Mario Brothers at this point

Archbutt chips into the frog spawn

Queenstown Song of The Day - Led Zeppelin - Whole Lotta Love
Out of the jukebox in the Buffalo Club (whilst trying to displace the taste of the awful spring rolls) released the iconic colossal drumming of John Bonham followed by the Viking hollers of Robert Plant and the prodigious loose blues riff by Jimmy Page. Oh, and John Paul Jones was there too on bass, people always forget about that poor man.

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x14vuq_led-zeppelin-whole-lotta-love_music

Close second this week was when sat at the communal dining area at Deco backpackers two American guys sang along boisterously and without care to Taylor Swift's instant classic, You Belong To Me, which was stuttering out the kitchen radio. At the conclusion I gave them a knowing nod, the unspoken bond between all Taylor Swift fans.

With Each Call My Soul Decays And Listlessly Ebbs Away

OK, so let's get this straight. After four months of traversing the skies with little more ambition than to touch the soil of new exotic lands, in time participating in adventure and high spirits, I found my bank account had become nothing more than a depleted reservoir. My aspirations for a sunshine embalmed sojourn to Latin America set adrift towards the sediment of the sea bed. My penchant for throwing copper pennies towards expensive burgers and at the Cyber Cafe where I seem to have spent so much of my time alongside nature's cruelest joke - the geeks playing Halo and Half Life on their PCs - had hit me hard with a skimming blow to the wallet. I needed money, and rather copious amounts in order to lengthen the stint of the South Island, and in particular to ensure I could sit and watch the leaves warm in colour with the gradual tint of age as fall time arrives, complete with its supine lament. A change in season that I am very fond of.

I took a look in a Job Centre on Shotover Street, a warehouse relic with one meagre plastic chair, sat on which was a fairly old lady, with rustic musk and dishevelled appearance, who welcomed me in with a peculiar menace. She had an expression of a pessimistic koala, wrinkled and tight with yellow brown teeth. When she grimaced a smile, her mouth formed like a paper cut wound, as if playing the part of the tyrant Jafar in Disney's technicolor marvel: Aladdin. The only job going (apparently Communications or Public Relations opportunities are not in abundance here in Otago) was for telesales. As I mentioned before, I really need the funds, and so with a shrug I accepted. It concerned me that my new employees did not even require to view my CV / résumé.
Some people may suggest that to go back to working in a call centre (Winter 2003 in South Yorkshire was indeed a savage time to be alive) is a backward step for my career. Those people would be absolutely correct.

Queenstown Gardens

Jafar, when completing the relevant forms, asked me what my name was, and as I said my full name to her she immediately stated:
"Well, let's call you Chris. Say it's Chris and it'll sound English on the phone".
Brilliant.
Her cunning manner, reminded me of Bebe Glazer, Frasier Crane's devil incarnate amoral agent.

I made my way to the new office complex by the rugby field later that day and as I walked into my new cellar of cables and wiry chains made up of telephone chords, I was greeted by the doe eyed faces of fellow backpackers, also in the same predicament that I had found myself. Blaring out of the stereo was relative dance tosh, giving the place a vibrancy of a student hideout, sans the proud portrait of the Marxist revolutionary, Ernesto Guevara scattered on the walls. So far, so Hollyoaks. I walked in with seven other new joiners, and as I traced the dubious faces of the incumbents, I swear I could see them mouthing words of foreboding, whispers for us to turn around and run before it was too late.
It was, of course, too late. We had a brief half an hour induction, which incorporated reading a document on equity and superannuation out loud in front of the fellow newbies, as if in fifth form in school, reading passages from the New Testament in Religious Education class to the commanding Mr Kenyon. We were then escorted, rather shabbily to our monitors and hooked up to the dialer's.

A charming message on my monitor on my first day depicting my unruly tardiness

What happened in the next six and a half hours, I do not fully wish to explain. It is not something a man should be asked to relive and if he does he is in danger of imploding. I've given myself a total of sixteen days to get through this ordeal.
Myself and a young man from Cork, whose craggy beard and lantern red bandanna makes him look remarkably like a Caucasian Monty Panesar (the English spin bowler for those of you not inclined to cork and willow based activities), amused ourselves in the first day with mixed stories of the conversations that we had with our clients. Aside from the obvious irksome recipients of our mass calls, swearing and demanding us to 'get a proper job', the pensioners have provided the most entertainment. A little old lady from Townsville in Australia invited me for a game of bowls and a swig of her 'grog' (I assume that's an alcoholic beverage and not something....abhorrent).

An oddity of a man from Brisbane responded to me, after my initial telesales introductory salutations, simply by meowing as if a cat. This went on for some time before I tired of speaking to a person with a feline affinity and eventually had to hang up. Best still was a colleague who sat by me, a Welshman called Gareth, whose angular profile hid a soothing voice, who had to call a gentleman named Clint Eastwood. His sales call didn't make his day as poor Gareth was unable to remove the motions of his unprecedented convulsions of laughter.

Deco Backpackers dorm room

It's not all as bleak as this (though really it is rather heartbreaking), there must be positives in everything so long as you are patient enough to tear them out with your incisors, as one perk we do get are daily bonuses consisting of backpacker gold - drinks vouchers at a rather plush cocktail bar, Debajo. I managed to rack up $65 worth on my first week which I exchanged in a moderate elation for numerous effervescent Moscow Mules. Not quite enough though to forget about the script of sales spiel that continues to rerun in my head well after working hours, like a smoke alarm on a loop that I can't seem to destroy.

Still, only twelve more days of this before I can continue back on my trail of care free exploits across the Pacific. Back now to the relative home comforts of my new long stay hostel, Deco, sat aloft the top of rather monumental hill (great for the calves but less so for the onset of perspiration). It has a wonderful garden around the back, wooden deck chairs and curious sparrows laden with a view over the Lake and the town below. It's certainly nice enough to stay for a little while.

Views from Deco Backpackers' communal garden

6 Things That I Have Learnt This Week:

1. Toasted Muesli might just be better than my usual breakfast combo of a banana and apple
2. My roll on deodorant has indeed run out. I now know who to blame for that lingering scent that follows me around town
3. Showering without soap does not constitute a shower
4. Flip Flops and shorts are optimistic attire for Autumn in the South Island
5. A heady diet of Pâté and Houmous is not appreciated by my dorm mates
6. If I was on the receiving end of one of my telesales calls, I'd offer to buy me a car so that I could drive off the nearest bridge into the river so that it would empty me

i-Pod Song of the Day: Midlake - Head Home
A generous slice of Americana here from the folk rock assertions of the Texan five-piece's excellent, mournful album, Trials of Van Occupanther. It is ideal for a ride down the winding Pacific drive of Highway Number One. There are shades of Fleetwood Mac and classic folk rock in this yearning lilt. Thanks to my old boss in Manhattan for introducing me to these vagabonds.

Bring me a day full of honest work / and a roof that never leaks /I'll be satisfied

Bring me the news all about the town / How it struggles to help all the farmers out /During harvest time

But there's someone I'd like to see / She never mentions a word to me /She reads Leviathan


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Un_55LrZnCo


http://midlake.net/

Lugerville. Population: Me

On returning back to our Alpine resort of Queenstown, James and I decided to embark on another activity that would adhere to the hook of epinephrine and adrenaline that had taken firm hold of the inky blue veins beneath the skin. We recalled the recommendation of Kitty Kat, our glacier hike guide in Franz Josef, who urged us to ride the luge tracks, as the advanced track was deemed to be 'crazy' and administered no 'health and safety at all'. As has been accustomed, Anthony, dropped out of our Days of Thunder inspired pursuits and instead recoiled to the dank womb of the Cyber Gate internet cafe to search for jobs, specifically as a radio sports reporter for the Pacific region.

The Skyline Gondola ride up to the summit of Bob's Peak (and rated as the steepest lift in the Southern Hemisphere) moved in a steady ambiance past the The Ledge Bungee and three swooping para gliders tracing the air with their brightly coloured wings on their way down towards the wharf. We passed numerous clattering turnstiles and sighed at the requirement to wear an awkward safety helmet; a shining plastic beacon of idiocy aloft the surface of the cranium. After a brief stretching of the legs on the final chairlift towards the start of the track, we earnestly inspected our cumbersome black carts, complete with confusing controls: Pull the bicycle-styled steering lever back in order to brake and push forward in order to add momentum. That was all the information that was passed on to us from the bored looking officials as we pummelled with reckless abandon down 800 metres of track through views of the town with its calm blue pool of water, and on to the photo finish beside the main complex.


Jeff Brazier...I mean JC, preps another lap of injustice

After an initial warm up lap on the scenic route (read boring geriatric route) we clasped the straps to our helmets tightly, checked our brakes and began a one on one race to the death. James took an impressive 2-1 lead after the first three races, happily flipping me the birdie as I tolled in close pursuit behind his bumper as he passed the finish line with consummate skill. The carts, deceptively childlike in the simplicity of their mechanism, disclosed a fervor for collecting startling pace when tearing round the tight and angular bends and through brief tunnels, leading us to drive on many twists solely on the dependency of the imbalance of two wheels. The fourth race was the creation of my sudden misery, my faulty cart with its penchant for an unexpected lack of interest in celerity handed the title to our blond locked Midlands jester and doppelganger of Jade Goodie's ex partner. I had firm reason to believe that he had tampered with my vehicle when my back was turned, but no video evidence was on hand to extinguish or inflame my concerns. I mustered a consolation victory in the fifth and final race to make it 3-2 but this did not prevent James from whooping wildly like a spoilt child in an ugly, tarnished cowboy outfit as he then climbed on to a wooden bench, arms aloft and teeth prominent, to bask in his worthless victory as if on a podium. This was a sad day for the sporting world, but more battles would be undertaken in the next few days to remove this onslaught of desolation.

On the Saturday, during a quiet Easter weekend, we decided to push for one final adventure prior to James leaving to head back up to Auckland and on to the islands of Fiji. We opted for a scenic helicopter ride over the mountain range in the Otago region known as The Remarkables (named as such because they are one of only two mountain ranges in the world which run directly north to south). Anthony, of course, shirked at the challenge and gingerly steered his sorry torso back to Wanaka, to stay with his Auntie and surrender in the lukewarm safety of a Mr. Matey whirlpool of a bubble bath.



We got introduced to our pilot within minutes of registering our details (including weight to ensure an even distribution whilst mid-air). Amusingly for me, he shared his name with Carl Weathers' CIA affiliated character in Predator, and so I had complete faith in Dillon and his agile abilities on controls. The effortless glide and guile of the helicopter was astonishing, drifting through the air so as not to disturb it, the military headphones adorned by the crew was a misrepresentation of the grace of the vehicle. We landed briefly, for a panoramic view on the summit of an elevated mountain, looking down upon Lake Wakatipu and the procession of matchbox lodges beneath us.



Dillon decided to add a measure of excitement to the flight by descending at an urgent speed down the contours of a mountain, then swerving terrifically so as to disorientate his passengers and to encourage a heady rattle of the ribcage, awakening the butterflies in cocoons, sleeping in bliss within the stomach. I at this point was sat at the front of the devise, (so you could call me the co-pilot, in fact, I insist you call me the co-pilot) next to a harshly chapped and weathered faced man from New South Wales, who, I was alarmed to discover, had placed his arm around me in a protective shield to ease his concerns on the trajectory of our flight. I did not like this. Nor did I appreciate mischievous James, sat upright and content on the back seat, taking photographs of my poor imprisonment.



Easter weekend, with many establishments closed for the holiday, we opted to play a few rounds of Frisbee Golf within the tree lined confines of Queenstown Gardens under the brisk autumnal breeze on a pale morning. The 18 hole session, whereby our red and violet discs were spun wildly in a direction close to forward and mostly canyoning off aged bark and planted beneath blankets of peat, concluded with a victorious James, once again reveling in his closely won triumph (he lost only one round, throwing Frisbees is not a talent I wish to pursue) and relaying onto every parent and child enjoying their picnics in the park exaggerated tales of his endeavor.


JC flings his red Frisbee into the wilderness. And wins.

Not to be outdone with his sporting achievements to date, I armed my way back to the echelons of prowess via a successful penalty shoot out competition played in the confines of our dormitory room to alleviate the onset of afternoon boredom, as well as a 2-1 victory in book tennis, played over a net made up of our flimsy and worn flip flops; our hard court being the upper corridor of Nomads Hostel.

The final send off though was to be at Fergburger, where James took it upon himself to gorge upon the infamous Big Al - constituting 1/2 lb of beef, two fried eggs, lashings of streaky bacon, beetroot, four slices of swiss cheese, aioli dressing, salad, and the clinical guarantee of obesity. On finishing this formidable ensemble, he was still, remarkably, hungry.

My rankings of the burgers I have consumed thus far are as follows:

Little Lamby - Yes, I may have cried a little when I sunk my teeth into the tender lamb and mint jelly festival
Sweet Bambi - It was a little deer, but it was worth the price
The Codfather - Battered Blue Cod in a bun? Yes please
Sweet Julie - Seared chicken with sweet chili and aioli. Brilliant
Bombay Chicken - Bit of a light sandwich with the lemon yoghurt dressing and grilled chicken
Cock Cajun - Nice hit of spices on this
Cockadoodle Oink - An obvious choice, butterfly cut fried chicken with streaky bacon, too much of a hammer blow though

Open 21 hours a day, seven days a week. Ferg does indeed love me.

http://www.fergburger.com/fullscreen.html


Queenstown Song of the Day: Audioslave - Like A Stone
At the Wharf Pub we watched a local band, whose name I forget, absolutely butcher the melody from the Supergroup made up of Soundgarden and Rage Against The Machine personnel. It was painful to see the limited singer shout out the chorus and the drummer's metallic abrasions on his skins deteriorate the raw qualities from Chris Cornell's evocative gravelly voice and Tom Morello's signature wiry guitar solo.

On a cobweb afternoon / in a room full of emptiness / by a freeway I confess / I was lost in the pages of a book full of death / reading how we'll die alone

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x1dq78_audioslave-like-a-stone_music

When The Abyss Is Not Bliss

Our bus made an encouraging stop at Mrs Jones' Fruit and Ice-cream store, on the outskirts of Queenstown, where a mixed berry hokey pokey wafer cone was licked and held with relish within sweating palms. So as not to diminish the flecks of colour received by the palette, the first establishment that James and I escaped to on landing in the ski town by the lake was the much praised Fergburger. I recall being in a cabin on the northern tip of Vietnam, whereupon J-Dizzle and Amanda, our friends from the golden state of California, disclosed fervidly upon the meaty treasures of the fast food restaurant. If an American salivates from the memory of a burger that they had consumed in New Zealand, then it would be foolish, and downright disrespectful, not to retrace their steps and dine upon the feast. On being handed my 'Little Lambi' burger by a sympathetic till girl, we skipped back to Nomads hostel recklessly and after our first hurried bite, were in raptures on finally stumbling on what seemed to be the chosen manna, descended from the arcadia and hidden within the confines of a brown paper bag; a jewel box for a pearl.

James and I had befriended two girls with a tempest manner from England on route to the AJ Hackett Kawarau Bridge Bungy. James adopted the vital role of photographer for the girls as they embarked on their downfall towards the river. Prior to getting strapped on to their umbilical chord of rope, the wavy haired member of the duo, covered in the tarnished compulsion of nervous energy, asked James if if would be weird if he gave her a supportive hug before her swansong. He cordially agreed but remained in hysterics after cementing such kinship within half an hour of their initial introduction. By way of thanks, they invited us to join them on a Kiwi Bar Crawl. As both James and I refused to pay the admission fee, in light of our miserly contortions, it was down to the bungy team to supply us with the free pizza slices and heavily fruity shots that accompanied the lacklustre hop through driving rain and up the stairs of attic like bars with minimal character.



To ensure that we would not spiral, yet again, in the dank mist of a suppressing hangover, James, Anthony and I decided to steal a rather flat football from behind reception and took her out towards Warren Park, just by the gondolas at the far edge of town, in order to add vigour to the lungs. Our enjoyable game of headers and volleys was made all the more memorable due to the grandiose setting beyond us; cold and steely snow capped mountains with plastic toy soldier standing pine trees caressing the sides, outlining our overhead kicks and dives towards the dry grass beyond the goalposts.


Milford Sound Cruise

We had delayed our trip farther south towards Milford Sound, as adverse conditions resulted in supplanted trees and fallen asperous rocks disturbing the peace and blocking the road towards the fjord that Rudyard Kipling stated was the eighth wonder of the natural world. Thankfully the authorities and their diggers worked rigorously and cleared the blockade, as if sweeping down a red carpet for the most illustrious of travellers. Having had the pleasure of cruising Halong Bay in South East Asia, it was another spectacle to find myself back on a boat, weaving carefully through the fjords, much like the poster for 'The Fellowship of the Ring'. Our bus driver, a bearded scamp, by the name of Mambo (or Manboobs as we fondly called him, on account of the generous pastures submerged within his pectoral region) ached upon a steady downpour of rain, to bring out the ethereal majesty of the glacier carved mountains. I for one was rather thankful for the cloudless horizon and took it upon my self to care more for the rushing zephyrs and the playful spray from Stirling Falls, surging down the side of sheer mountain surface.

Our night stopover was at Gunn's Camp, a mere ten minutes away from Fiordland National Park, which at first we toasted to the close proximity but later, on opening the doors to our dusty cabins, despaired at the sand fly ridden rooms and creaky bunk beds. The hovels were lost deep outside the trampled path of favoured necessities such as hot water and cooking utensils. To add to our marooned state of abandonment, we were advised by our sullen faced proprietors that we had only until ten thirty at night before they administered a 'lights out' policy in all rooms. We were seemingly a fragment away from receiving the cane or facing the wall for any indiscipline and lack of interest in reading from the tattered passages from our Gideon's Bible left lopsided on the cobalt blue shelf.


Gunn's Camp: A feeling rather than a photograph


We awoke before dawn, at 5am, with the slow and mournful constellations still breathing heavily in the late night sky, as we swatted violently at the tormenting sand flies on our way to the bus so that we could drop off a number of passengers to Stewart Island. The rest of us rode in relative silence, eyes heavy, on towards Invercargill, a nothing town in the Southern tip of the South Island, with the stern sheen of heavy industry tarnishing the clean air; grey ring roads and boy racers in box cars replacing the vibrant Cezanne backdrop of the ride down that we had been accustomed to. In order to pummel our boredom, Anthony and I took a stroll to the nearby supermarket where our silver feathered Mancunian friend dipped once again into his faithful femininity and purchased chocolate strawberries, costing an astonishing $8.50 for a measly handful - his budget for the day blown at a canter.


Baldwin Street in Dunedin, the world's steepest street

Our final stay on our South Island trip was to be at the student city of Dunedin. After another fine drive past idle cattle and flame tapered Cypress-like swaying branches, we yielded in the fifth largest city in New Zealand, not before a few detours to view, with strained irises, the world's rarest penguin - the yellow-eyed penguin - as well as walking nonchalantly by a few rotund silver seals in the picturesque Catlans. A group of twenty decided upon making the most of our time in Dunedin by absorbing the history of manufacturing yeast and hops into man's refreshing Achilles heel at the Speight's brewery. We had heard animated stories of hours spent under the free sampling taps at the conclusion of the tour and were immediately disappointed on finding that our session was cut short to fifteen minutes with only a small sample glass to sup the flowing and frothing ale. Not to be too disheartened we at least felt nourished in our understanding of the ancient art of brewery from the straits of the Nile to the lap of James Speight in the Pacific. A heady discovery to remedy the parched papier mache relic of our arduous journey.


Seal, sans Heidi Klum

Dunedin Song of the Day: Smashing Pumpkins - 1979
I almost howled with a blind joy, as if seeing an old forgotten acquaintance, when this steered its way out of a retro 90's CD player at our hostel in Dunedin. This song leans heavily towards the influence of New Order and the theme is all resolution and careless abandon as Billy Corgan's usual sneer is replaced with a more soothing tone.