Category Archives: beer

The Hamster Rides Again

After a few weeks spent tearing up the skies above Nusa Dua and keeping the fine folks who brew Bintang in business, Alan and I packed up our gliders and headed to the gorgeous Balinese village of Candidasa to continue our adventure. Within minutes of hitting town we were up on the hill, launching out over the sparkling ocean. Alright, I went into a tree first, but after a while I managed a half-decent launch and climbed into the sky. As a flying site, Candi is one of the best of the planet. With a 400m cliff jutting out of the water, it’s easy to rise to 700 or 800 metres, which offers not only a top view but the option to practice all sorts of fun stuff like wingovers and spirals without worrying about splatting into the ground. It’s an awesome spot, and I was stoked to be able to test my new-found skills and experience at a place where, just one year ago, I was terrified to fly. Al and I landed after a few hours and raced back to our luxurious hotel, the Puri Oka, to have sex with each other meet up with the notorious Richard ‘The Hamster’ Ham, who blazed a path of destruction through Candidasa last year. A big fan of a good knee-up and known to get legless at any opportunity, I couldn’t wait to smash a bucket bucketload of Bintangs with him. Hamster’s the sort of bloke you’d expect to find swigging metho-and-Fanta cocktails and shitting in his neighbour’s letterbox, so I was surprised when he sashayed into the Puri Oka wearing clown pants and carrying a yoga mat under one heavily-tattooed arm. “Point me towards the nearest gluten-free lentil burger, and then I’m going to re-align my chakra in the spirt dojo upstairs,” he lisped, while Al and I exchanged astonished glances. “Oh, and from now on you can call me Ocean. The power of my positivity ebbs and flows across the planet.” I thought he was taking the piss, but Hamster did indeed order a bland, salad-stuffed meal, while lambasting Al and I for tucking into chips and schnitzels. As he continued to dribble on about healthy diets and the power of positivity, I couldn’t help feeling like I’d lost a mate and gained a hippy imbecile. When he started praising the Black Lives Matter movement and passionately talking about the importance of gay marriage, I realised I had to put my foot down. I ordered three large Bintangs, hoping Hamster would have one and return to form, but I was left heartbroken.

“I’ll have a glass of tap water, served at room temperture, but only if it’s been sourced ecologically,” he minced, before looking up an astology app on his phone. Al and I decided we’d seen enough, and took matters into our own hands. Al, a former professional wrestler (under the name Balls Sackington), took Hamster down and prised his mouth open. “I abhor violence!” Hamster tried to splutter, but I stepped over him and poured a full bottle of Bintang into his mouth. From the way he shook and struggled, you’d think I’d poured acid down his throat. The effect, however, was just what I’d hoped for. As soon as he calmed down, Hamster reached into his pants, scratched his balls, perved at a hot chick walking by in a bikini, and told me to get him another fuckin’ beer or he’d smash me. He had a couple of icy cold Bintangs in his hands within seconds, and was soon on his way to oblivion. The Hamster was back and better than ever! He started cracking jokes and snapping the bras on any girl who made the mistake of walking past him. We ended up in town at a disco, with Hamster gyrating in an incredibly sensual manner, and he soon worked up such a sweat that he needed to remove his clothes or risk a nasty case of spontaneous human combustion. His disrobing caused girls to rush the dancefloor, and in their lustful rage they managed to tear all of my clothes off, too. They left my undies on for reasons I can’t quite explain, so try to overlook that obvious loophole in my story. I swear this is true, though. Anyway, long story short, after I boned half a dozen babes and Hamster resisted because he’s gay a happily married man, we needed to rehydrate, so we swaggered over to the nearest Alfamart for a drink. “Oh no, not you fuckwits again,” said the little bloke behind the counter, recalling a similar incident 12 months earlier that almost got us kicked out of Indonesia. “But what happen to the one of you? Weren’t you a fat cunt last time? But this other man with the tattoo, he is still sexy. I dream of him every night.” We managed to get the shop assistant to stop wanking for long enough to take our photo, then raced out of there before we could be arrested. As we hurtled down the street, we saw Al arm-wrestling a lesbian and dragged him home with us, leaving the locals of Candidasa wondering which Hindu god they’d pissed off enough to deserve another visit from the Flying Hamster.

Flic en Flac (yes, that’s the actual name of an actual place)

I’ve been to some oddly-named beaches over the years – Tasmania’s Eggs and Bacon Bay stands out – and I think I’ve found the weirdest of all time. It’s called Flick en Flack, it’s on the west coast of Mauritius, and it’s a pretty groovy place to hang out and smash a few beers. Just look at these photos, it’s awesome. Mainly, though, it’s fun to just say the name over and over again.

There’s one long beach that stretches for kilometres, plenty of palm trees, clear water, and golden sand that is mostly free of rubbish and dead birds. There are a few resorts along the water, which means there’s no shortage of plump Russians slowly turning crimson in the tropical sun. I can’t afford to stay in any of the resorts, so I’m looked down upon by the rich Europeans sipping their expensive cocktails, but I figure I won’t be the one having a heart attack in the next two months, so I win.

Yep, Flic en Flac is a top little town, and I reckon it’s a lot nicer than Grand Baie because the beach is better and it’s a bit quieter. I also prefer it because I saw three sets of boobies today. Mauritius is definitely a place where couples come to kiss each other, so a handsome single man like myself has to take what he can get. And what I’m getting right now is pissed on cheap cans of Phoenix while watching the sunset, so enjoy these photos… or just feel jealous of me. How’s the weather where you are at the moment?

Sunsets in Bali-dise

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I love a good sunset. They’re pretty, they don’t take much effort to enjoy, and they perfectly compliment an icy cold beer. If I found a woman with all those qualities, I’d be sorted for a long and happy life.

Bali is a great place to watch the sun sink below the horizon while sinking a Bintang, so that’s how I’ve spent a lot of my time. Here’s a bunch of photos (and a really awesome video that should win an award) so that you don’t feel like you’re missing out. Aren’t I a nice guy? Set me up with your hot sister, won’t ya?

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Lion Strong beer is truly awful

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Beer isn’t easy to come across in Sri Lanka,so when I found a restaurant near my hotel that sells cans of God’s Golden Nectar (alright, the little fellas run down the street and buy it from some bloke and then race back with it, but it’s the same thing), I thought I was in heaven. To make things better, the beer in question, Lion Strong has an alcohol percentage of 8.8 – enough to kill a full-grown elephant.

I ordered five cans and carried them back to my room as carefully as if I were carrying the holy grail. I chucked some music on, took a seat on the balcony overlooking the ocean, and took a big swig of beer… Or, at least, I was expecting it to be beer, because what filled my mouth tasted like a mixture of unleaded petrol and runny dog shit.

Lion Strong can barely be called a beer. It tastes more like cheap, canned bourbon and coke due to the high alcohol content, and has a horrible, syrupy texture. It’s absolutely putrid. I was gagging like a midget in a blowbang as I tried to force the dirty water down my throat, and the locals probably thought I was dying, and planning to chuck me in that night’s curry.

While it’s a truly revolting drink, Lion Strong packs a massive punch, and after five cans I was fucking smashed and passed out under a palm tree, only to wake up with an old Sri Lankan woman stroking my hair and calling me a pretty baby. I think I’ll stay away from the Lion Strongs from now on.

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Getting a Lapad Dance

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I’ve been a busy boy over the last few weeks, exploring every nook and granny (hi, Beulah!) of a dozen European countries. So today I thought I’d have any easy one (thanks again, Beulah!) and spend the day lying around on a beautiful beach. Seeing as this is Europe and they wouldn’t know a proper beach if it smacked them in the face, I settled for Dubrovnik’s Lapad Beach, which can only really be called a beach by virtue of being near the water.

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Where I’m from, beaches have sand and waves. Lapad has stones, concrete, and poles sticking out of the ground. Apart from that, it’s quite picturesque, with a view out over some small islands. Things got a lot better looking when I de-pantsed and started splashing about in my undies, which stayed on this time, much to the dismay of the fat Pommy women sitting near me.

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The area around Lapad is home to some of the most exclusive resorts in Croatia, and so is no place for a scallywag like me. It’s a nice place to go for a walk, though, with a trail that chases the headland, showing off the natural beauty of this place. There are all sorts of restaurants with expensive meals, and bars with expensive drinks, and women with expensive tastes, and I didn’t get to sample any of them because I’m just a poor Australian.

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I did see someone having a wee, though. Don’t know who the fuck it was. Seemed like a good bloke, though, and I can recommend that women have sex with him if given the opportunity.

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And that was pretty much the day, with the afternoon and evening spent getting drunk. Probably even head out later, see what sorta nightlife Dubrovnik boasts. Just don’t tell Beulah – she might have a walking frame, a wooden hip, and go to bed at 7pm, but she’s very bloody possessive and has a strong slap on her for someone with osteoporosis.

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Latvia is an unusual place with unusual people

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After spending almost a week in Latvia, I think I’m in a position to say that this place is a bit weird. Wait, scratch that, it’s a bat-shit insane country that is incredible to experience for that very reason.

The locals are serious to a fault, which takes a bit of getting used to as an Australian. I’m used to saying G’day to strangers, maybe giving them a bit of a wave. In Latvia, the response to that is to look at me as if I’m either a sex fiend, or a retard – or a mixture of both. Even at shops, I haven’t received a single smile since I got here. And I usually get heaps of smiles, because I’m lovely.

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Gimme head, baby

The supermarkets here are fucking bonkers. I headed into a place called Rimi, which is a gigantic warehouse where all the actual food and groceries are hidden behind rows and rows of toys, camping equipment, makeup and other crazy stuff. I guess it makes sense – I’ve often wandered into a shop to buy a six-pack of pies and a box of condoms and thought, “I wish I could also update my wardrobe and purchase a new basketball hoop while I’m here.”

The supermarket also had a massive fish tank right next to the milk – in what bizarre world does that make sense. “Oh, I’ll just check out this massive fuck-off fish before I grab a couple of litres of goat milk and a six-pack of frozen dog paws.”

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This makes as much sense as Scott Ludlam’s political career

There’s a definite upside to Latvian supermarkets, though, because their alcohol selection is out of this world. It seems like a quarter of the joint was dedicated to booze, with rows and rows of cheap beer, cheap spirits, and reasonably cheap Aussie wine just waiting to be guzzled. They also sell beer in two-litre plastic bottles –  bet the Latvian lovelies would be impressed by that when a fella drags one of those out during a romantic meal!

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Chicks dig the bad boy look

I spent this arvo exploring a forest on the outskirts of Riga with a lady friend of mine and her dog. The forests here are weirdly quiet and full of people aimlessly wandering around in long coats, looking as if they’d rather be anywhere else in the world. The forests have an eerie, lonely quality to them, even when located in or around populated areas. Abandoned houses stand rotting among the ghost-like trees, and empty beer cans lie everywhere.

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Fun fact: I vomited on a from last time I was in Cambodia

We ended up at a small lake that was ringed by tall pine trees and a couple of menacing Soviet-era housing blocks that served as a reminder of Latvia’s troubled past. While Riga is cold and the terrain harsh, the locals don’t spend their Saturdays too diffrerently from Australians. A few beers over a BBQ with mates, or taking the kids to the park to let them have a run around. Maybe drink a litre or two of black balsam, head home to bash the missus, that sorta thing.

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Or maybe they’ll just do some tai chi

Oh well, that’s it for Riga (well, for now, at least) and it’s time to hop on a luxury bus to Tallinn, the mystical capital of Estonia, one country to the north of Latvia. If it’s even half as barmy as Latvia, I’ll have plenty of stories to share. Hell, even if it’s not wacky, I’ll just drink until something funny happens…

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Beer of the day:
The cheapest beer in Latvia is some swill called Walter. Going by the taste, I’m assuming there’s some falt bloke called Walter who simply pisses in the cans before they get shipped off to the supermarket, but I’m giving it my beer of the day anyway. Just brush your teeth after downing one, or people will think you’ve been playing drinking games with Todd Carney.

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Kebab of the day:
While my lady friend put the kybosh on my plans to have a kebab today, I decided to fight for my right to party have something resembling a kebab by making fajitas for dinner. They were delicious and if you reckon they don’t count as kebabs then you can go fuck yourself.

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It all started with a Dagwood Dog…

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After another wild night on the booze, I woke up feeling rubbish and confused, with people rushing around me carrying boxes of cider. There was a big microbrewery festival in Hobart, my uncle and auntie were showing off their cider, and I was invited!

Or, at least, they didn’t tell me I couldn’t come.

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The markets are busier than Candy Falzon’s vagina

Before heading off to the piss-up, me and my brother headed along to the Salamanca Markets. Ben wanted only two things; a Dagwood Dog, and some quince paste. By the end of the day, he would have both, as well as some new friends I’m sure he will keep for the rest of his days. I had a dagwood, too, and it made me feel like vomiting into a bin.

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Alright, that’s a little bit gay

The markets are fantastic, frantic, crowded, touristic and a must-see for any visitors to Hobart. They’re a bit wanky, with heaps of stalls selling mango fudge and tomato chutney, but there are enough interesting stalls and attractive women to make it worth a visit.

When we were done there, we moved on to the beer festival, and it was great! The weather was brilliant, the beer was cold, and we managed to wrangle a few free glasses of delicious Pagan Cider. It’s a wonderful drop that I am in no way promoting because I’m related to the people who make it… But, seriously, it is a great drink, so give it a crack if you get the chance. Better yet, buy one for me. I’m a good bloke and I’ll pay you back, swear it.

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Another three and you’ll start lookin’ good

Not surprisingly, I got drunk as shit at the beer festival, and so did my brother. The sun was shining and the music was good and the beer was delicious, and it was just a wonderful day. I fell into a bin, knocked over a child, mistook a gentleman for Alf Stewart from Home & Away, and danced to a cover of Eiffel 65’s seminal hit, Blue.

I also saw Stavros, the idiot I helped to climb Mount Wellington, dancing to a reggae rendition of Shania Twain’s Man! I Feel Like A Woman, but when he noticed me he strutted out of there, with no sign of his damaged ankle. Happily, a seagul shat on is stupid head as he walked out of there, and the last time I saw him, he was crying on a bench and asking anyone who came near if they could buy him a pot of tumeric-infused mustard.

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“This one’s called Bitchez Don’t Know Shit ‘Bout Bein’ A Mo’fucka and it goes something like this…”

Me and Ben headed out to explore Hobart’s wonderful drinking district, and stopped off at a place called Jack Green’s for a refreshing ale. The drinks were expensive and the place was packed, but it had a great atmosphere. Hobart is a truly wonderful place to explore, be it the bars, the wilderness, or the women. I ended up picking up a girl, but 15 minutes after rolling back to her house, I was on my way home. I might not be on the mainland, but some things never change.

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