Tag Archives: India

More of the world’s worst advice

Bro, what’s cracking? I’m going well, thanks for asking. You write about all these cool places you’re always visiting, and most of them sound fucking fantastic. I’m unemployed and have a severe drug addiction, so I won’t be travelling anywhere for a while (I’m also out on parole, so the cunts at the cop shop don’t want me to), so reading about your adventures is about as close as I’m gunna get to going on a holiday. Anyway, I’d like to know, what’s the shittiest place you’ve ever been to? Thanks, and keep up the good work.
G’day Tinks, it’s great to hear from you. Too bad about the financial situation, but I’m sure you could knock off a servo or a primary school tuck shop if you want to head off on the trip of a lifetime.
As for your question, until recently I would’ve said Huddersfield, UK. It’s a cold, wet, grim shithole in the north of England, where dreams don’t die because they never exist in the first place. The footy team’s shit (sorry, Eorl Crabtree), the shops are run by surly Poles, and gangs of unpleasant youths roam the streets. Also, everyone’s ugly and look like they’ve just come from fucking their sister.
But that all changed when I went to Jaipur, India. What can I say about this nightmare of a city? It’s overrun with criminals (how I wasn’t robbed, I don’t know), the air is so polluted that just breathing is akin to smoking three packs of cigarettes, and the city’s historical sites have been left to rot. Animals shit in the streets, the drivers are fucking idiots, it’s noisy and smelly, and the locals (I only saw men, so maybe they’ve found a way to reproduce through frantic bum sex) look like they’ve had their faces set on fire with a blowtorch and trampled out by a Clydesdale. To make it worse, cunts who were eating pigeons tried to stab me. It’s impossible to feel safe there, and that shithole promises an awful travelling experience.
So, yeah, stay the fuck away from Jaipur. And Tinkerbell, feel free to steel a new TV for me.

Hey mate, it’s me Cameron Rodrigo. You don’t know me, but I’m a fun-loving 20-year-old with a few tattoos. Everyone loves them, and they go with my quirky, upbeat personality. Unfortunately, I was a bit high on red cordial and Snickers bars on the weekend, and I got a smiley face inked on my knob. Right there on the end, so when I take off my pants it looks like the bloody Bookworm has come out to play. When the sugar worse off and I settled down, I realised I’d made a mistake because 1) it looks really stupid and 2) my girlfriend will probably never come near me again. I’ve tried rubbing it off but, while it was a lot of fun, it didn’t work. What can I do?
RODRIGO (NOT CAMERON), NORAVILLE, NSW. WAIT, ACTUALLY, CAN YOU SAY I COME FROM SOMEWHERE ELSE?ROW-ROW: Hi Cam! Uh, I mean, Rodrigo. Is that a Brazilian name? You’ve really only got two options. You can cut the silly thing off; just grab a pair of scissors and go to town, then kick it into the sea and forget all about it. Your missus might wonder where your cock went, but you can simply tell her that you’ve been getting in touch with your feminine side, and have decided to become a woman. She’ll respect your courage and, if anything, it will strengthen your relationship. She’ll dump you, of course, and you’ll have a hell of a time getting another girlfriend without a willy, but it’s worth a shot.
The other is to convince her that your penis has become sentient, developed a face and is now capable of initiating meaningful conversations. This will involve learning ventriloquism, and developing a caring, sensitive personality for your little friend. Of course, this plan runs the risk of your girlfriend falling in love with your talking doodle, chating on you with it, and eventually running away with him. So you’ll be left broken-hearted, while your knob swans around on a tropical cruise with the love of your life. Again, being penis-less will leave you deeply depressed and unable to attract other women, probably leading to a life of heavy drug abuse and prostitution.
So, up to you. We’ll talk about it at work tomorrow never talk about it in person because I don’t know you.

What’s up, dude? I’ve been smashing this good sort for a while, and I’ve decided to take her on holidays for a week. After reading your blog (on the toilet, usually) I’ve decided to whisk her away to Samoa. Now, I’m planning to spend most of the time pounding her senseless, but I guess we’ll have to get out and see a few things, so can your list your three top recommendations for this place. That’s if the little lady can even walk after what I’ll do to her!
ROW-ROW: First up, you might want to have a look at the way you talk, because I can’t be 100 per cent sure whether you are having regular sex with this young lady, or enjoy beating the shit out of her. Use a more sensual phrase for sex like ‘driving the beef bus into tuna town.’ Right, on to your question, homie.
I can highly recommend the To Sua Ocean Trench, simply because you’ll never see anything else like it. You’ll descend beneath the earth into a tropical paradise, where you can chase fish in crystal clear water. It’s incredible.
You’ve gotta dive off Safotu, with Dive Savai’i. I’ve dived and snorkelled all over the world, and this place is better than anywhere else. There are so many fish and other forms of ocean life, and awe-inspiring wrecks to paddle around.
I’d also suggest spending a couple of nights at Lalomanu Beach, sleeping in a rustic fale on the sand. It’s a peaceful, perfect spot, with not much to do but relax and swim and fuck your missus. Be quiet when you do it, though, because those fales don’t have walls.
Most importantly, make sure you send me some nude photos of your lady, because she sounds like she’s a real goer.

Hey, babby, it Rara. You still want make fuck? You still want big tit ladyboy? I suck you dick like vacuum cleaner. Look like real woman, big tit, long hair.
ROW-ROW: Fuck yes. But if you get a boner, I’m gunna flick your cock with a rubber band.

My one year and one week anniversary of being drunk and jobless

Exactly one year and one week ago, I received the greatest gift a man could ever hope for. No, not a blowjob off all four remaining members of One Direction some hot chick with big tits, I’m talking about my redundancy from the evil empire of Bauer Media. It was a pay-off that not only meant I no longer had to spend my days locked away in an office, sitting in a chair that was as comfortable as Clementine Ford at a Weight Watchers meeting, but that I would basically be paid to spend the next year fucking around and doing whatever the hell I wanted.

So how has that year gone?

Well, it’s been a big one. Shortly into my retirement I took a course in paragliding, and it turned out to be one of the best things I’ve ever done in my life (along with that sheila from Home & Away – hi, Colleen!). The feeling of freedom is like nothing else I’ve ever experienced, and the sense of accomplishment I received from being able to learn this wonderful new skill really set me up for a productive year.


I also crashed my paraglider, a terrifying experience that took me closer to death than I’ve ever been before. But I came out of it without any major injuries, which I’m thankful for every day. There are risks when you fly but, as far as I’m concerned, there’s less chance of dying than there is driving along in a car or walking across the road, so I’ll keep doing it.

I spent the early part of the year travelling through Indonesia (great), Myanmar (brilliant) and India (fucking shithouse), on what became the toughest trip I’ve ever been on. The things I saw and the people I met (and the near death experiences) will stay with me for the rest of my life.


And when I came home, with no job to go to and adventure in my heart, I went exploring. There’s so much of my own country that I’m yet to see, so I just got out there and checked shit out.

I’ve been on treks through the Aussie wilderness that have pushed me, both mentally and physically. With my tent and sleeping bag and delicious nachos strapped to my back, I scrambled up cliffs and crossed remote rivers all across Sydney and the Central Coast, spending days at a time without seeing other people.


My desire to see more of Australia took me to Tasmania, where I got stuck in a blizzard, climbed a mountain while drunk, visited an art gallery full of pictures of penises, and drank my bodyweight in cider. It’s an astonishing island that is well worth exploring, and I’ll be back there to see more of it before long.


I’ve learned how to rock climb and abseil, and how to teach others to do both, and in the process show patience that I don’t think anybody thought I had.

I’ve met people through paragliding, travelling and working, as well as in parks and under bridges while on the drink, and every one of them has changed my life and will remain important to me. Well except for fucking Stavros – he can go sit on an ant hill as far as I’m concerned.

And hell, I even managed to get that Deputy Editor position that was only available to friends of the boss while at Bauer.

It’s been a good year, the best in a long time, and one that’s seen changes that were sorely needed. My last few months in Sydney were dark times, where my sense of self worth was stomped into the gutter and my confidence wrecked, as I wallowed in a negative working environment, writing for a magazine that was heading straight for the bin.

My favourite song by the band The Real McKenzies is called I Do What I Want, and features the lines, “Cold water is all around, is this what it feels like to drown? Ain’t nobody to pull me out, I feel like I’m going down”, and that completely sums up how I felt back in those bad times. The same song also has a chorus that adequately reflects how I feel now.

I do what I want
Whenever I like
Because it’s my right
I don’t ever want to do what I told
‘Cos I’m getting old
And this is how my life’s been turning out

I was horribly lost for a while there and, while I’m still a long way from being found, I’m on the right path for the first time in a long time.

Now that’s out of the way, it’s time to get fucking drunk on a Monday night… oh, that’s right, I already am!

Happy birthday from Air India. Here, have a three hour delay (the lost blog entry)

Back when I was in India, I wrote a blog entry on my birthday that never quite made it onto the interwebs, due to a power surge killing my computer quicker than a fat girl kills her boyfriend while trying the cowboy position. Anyway, I found it on my computer amongst the porn and the photos of Gary Coleman, and here it is. So hold on tight as we travel back to India with me, we’re in for a bumpy ride.

———————————— ———— — ——————————— – ——————— – – — – ——

It’s my birthday today, and here’s what I’ve received so far; a hangover after spending the night drinking Kingfisher at a crappy bar on the roof of a dilapidated building while watching cows wander the streets of Delhi; the opportunity to wipe my arse with my hand because they don’t have toilet paper here, an act made even more fun by the fact my guts are garbage at the moment; and my flight to Jaipur delayed by three hours, meaning I’ve now been delayed a total of six hours in two flights with the idiots at Air India.

Crappy birthday to me

I was planning to from Delhi to Jaipur by train, but as is usually the case in India, even buying a ticket for that was an arduous adventure fraught with danger, so I ended up going for the big bird in the sky and save myself the hassle. But hey, this is the Democratic Republic of India, so they’ll find a way to mess you around anyway!

The best thing about today was my driver to the airport, who sang the whole way. He had a terrible voice and I was wishing he’d spend more time looking at the road and less with his eyes closed, his hands in the air and his head wobbling around like it was on a spring, but it amused me anyway. When he asked for a tip at the end, I told him to sign up for India’s Got Talent. If I gave him money, he’d only waste it on curry anyway.

That’s the thing about Indian fellas, they’re simple blokes who only need a few things in their life, and they’re as happy as a pigs in shit. Give them cricket, curry, nice long-sleaved shirts, wacky music to dance to and the ability to waggle their heads from side to side and they’re good to go. Maybe throw in a few Westerners for them to rob, too.

“Hey, I can see my house from here! Oh wait, that’s a toilet.”

I wish I was home for my birthday today. I’ve been away for it before, but never in a place as dreary as this, or after having spent a day as rubbish as the one I’ve had. It doesn’t feel like I’ve had a birthday at all, to be honest, although I suppose turning 32 isn’t an especially big occasion. Still, would a few strippers and a birthday cake made out of meat pies be too much for the Indians to organise? I got to talk to my Mum for about 20 seconds before the internet went out, and also to my nephew, who claims he’ll soon be competing in his school’s cross toilet race, which apparently involves urinating in every toilet the quickest. They didn’t have that when I went there, we just had Percy Playford, everyone’s favourite sex predator.

It looks good from the outside, like an Easter egg with a turd inside it

I’m spending the night in a ridgy-didge authentic palace here in Jaipur, which makes me feel like a real life princess. You know, like Diana before she got killed, or Fergie before she got fat and red-headed. Well, I’d feel like more of a princess if the joint wasn’t run down, and if there weren’t Indian men urinating outside my window. And if there weren’t power surges and blackouts, and the sink wasn’t dripping constantly, and… Alright, so I’m in a bit of a shithole. I think I’m the only person staying in this 200 room hotel, and it doesn’t look like anyone else has been here for a while. I just went to the front desk to see if anyone could tell me what’s going on with the blackouts, and there was no-one there except for the retarded guy who works here and was sleeping on the floor like a dog.

Still, I’ve had worse birthdays. When i was 19 I went to Club Troppo with a girl for my birthday, and she had this gay friend with her. He might’ve been a midget, too, or at least really small. He kept on cracking onto me all night, asking if I went to the gym, offering me drinks, obviously trying to turn me into one of the gays. Anyway, I went off to chat with some of my friends, and when I came back the gay midget was fingering the girl I was seeing! I didn’t know whether to be more offended that she cheated on me, or that, or that my little gay mate found me so easy to replace.

Computer’s about to die and I don’t know when I’ll get power to it again. Bye bye!

Going, Goa, Gone

I’m sitting here on the sand, watching the waves roll in under the moonlight, sipping on my last beer before heading back to Australia tomorrow morning. I’ve spent six weeks in Indonesia, Myanmar and India, six weeks that have felt like a lifetime and as if they would never end, but which are now just hours from burning out.

I’ve become a fixture here at Patnam. There’s an icy cold longie of Kingfisher ready for me when I get to the Om Shanti bar at five, they bring me my menu on my third beer, and they get the prawns and cheese naan ready ready. It’s such a relaxing place, and I will miss it. In a couple of weeks the monsoons will start tearing in and this whole area will be deserted, so it’s probably time I get out of here, though.

I've been to shittier places... like Huddersfield
I’ve been to shittier places… like Huddersfield

I spent my last full night in India at what is quite possibly the world’s worst nightclub, which was an interesting experience. For starters, there were only two girls there and 50 or 60 horny, salivating Indians gyrating around them. When Indian fellas dance in clubs, they don’t just shuffle around like Aussie dudes do, they go full-on Bollywood, miming to the songs, waving their arms around and shaking their arses.

There was a fat man with his top off, and homeless who was mine-sweeping beers when he wasn’t breaking hearts on the floor. He looked like he’d just fallen out of the wrong end of a dog and smelled even worse. I called him Nigel, for reasons any Kevin Bloody Wilson fan will understand.

Nigeeeeeeeeeeel…. fuckin’ legend!

A fight broke out between two drunk dudes who both wanted to dance with a girl who obviously didn’t want to dance with either of them, and there was a white chick who was getting onto as many Indian perverts as she could, and then took three of them back to her room. Bloody hell, and I complain that my arsehole is burning after having Indian…

Fat Dude shakes his bootie next to the slut and one of her many Hindu hunks
Fat Dude shakes his bootie next to the slut and one of her many Hindu hunks

I’ve seen the beauty of Bali, the frightening ruggedness of Lombok, and the banality of Jakarta. I’ve been surprised by Yangon and amazed by the temples of Bagan. In India I’ve been overcome by the intensity of Delhi, disgusted by the soul-crushing horribleness of Jaipur, and rejuvinated by the calm beaches of Goa. But it’s time to go home, and you know what? That’s fine.

In the past, my trips overseas have been an escape from normal life, and returning from holidays sucked because I didn’t feel there was much to go back to. But not this time, because now the adventure continues at home. I’m going back because I want to, not because I have to. I have a fucking paraglider waiting for me in my bedroom back home, come on!

To travel is to give a part of yourself to the country you are visiting, and to take a part of it with you, and that’s why it changes us. Most of what I gave India was made in regular deposits into the toilet, but the point stands. This journey and the struggles have changed me in ways I don’t yet understand, but I look forward to using the wisdom I have gained by getting through this as I stumble drunkenly through life.

It’s been a tough trip in some ways. Not just because of the frustration of organising anything in Asia, but because of the lack of opportunities I’ve had to meet people over the last few weeks. There were very few tourists in India, probably because of how dangerous it is becoming to travel there, and Goa was nearly empty because it was the end of the season. It’s tough being alone and cut off, but I’ve still met lots of interesting characters and more than a few decorative women, so the good outweighs the bad. It was definitely better than the time I got my cock caught in a mouse trap.

You can't go wrong with Kingies on the beach
You can’t go wrong with Kingies on the beach

I truly thank everyone who has followed my adventures through Asia, and hope you will join me for more drunken, unemployed adventures through Australia, and wherever the fuck I go next. Maybe this blog will turn into photos of me eating meat pies in my undies and watching back-to-back episodes of Bob’s Burgers, but I guess there’s a market for that, too.

A special thanks also has to go to my thongs, which have carried me through hundreds of kilometres of cow shit and other crap. I had an expensive pair of Denali sandals that packed it in after a week or so, and my $5 Coles thongs picked up the slack. They’ve been with me for longer than most girlfriends.

Shit, an attractive blonde just sat down at the next table. Oh well, I guess I’ve got time for one more beer…

See ya in Australia, fuckers
See ya in Australia, fuckers

Note: This article was published two days after being written, due to technical difficulties, aka both my phone and my computer totally shat themselves. Right now I’m actually at home, drinking wine and wondering when someone’s gunna bring me a seafood curry.

His hand was bitten off by a pig!

And my life of bludging on the beaches of Goa goes on. And on. And on, like a train that’s really long. And sandy. Fucking hell, I’ve had too much sun. Or maybe it’s the five Kingies I’ve downed this arvo. Hanging out on Patnem can mess with a bloke’s brain.

Today I went along to the nearby village of Chaudi to get some money and see what it was like. Unfortunately, it was like India. It’s only a small place with a few people, but it was still chaotic and noisy. Idiots were yelling at me, cows were getting hit by cars, and I just wanted out of there before someone tried to rob me or rape me.

Paris. New York. London. Chaudi

I’ve obviously seen only a small portion of India but, from what I’ve experienced most of it is a bit shit. It gets all these wraps for being some spiritual haven, but I’ve seen more spirits in an empty bottle of Bacardi. It’s worth coming here just to see how bizarre the whole place is, but outside of areas like Goa, which are basically tourist resorts, it’s just dirty and noisy, with largely unfriendly people seeking to seperate tourists from their wallets… or their kidneys.

Torture for littering? Sounds fsir

While I was in Chaudi, I encountered a gentleman who was in possession of just the one hand. My first instinct was to console the fella on not being able to experience one of life’s great pleasures, that being able to drink a beer and masturbate at the same time. I thought that might be a bit crass, though, so I instead asked him how he lost his spanner. Apparently, it was bitten off by a pig.


I thought I must’ve heard him wrong, but he started making pig noises and pushed his nose up so he looked like one, and then gnawed at his stump. I asked him what happened to the pig, and he told me his family ate it and that it was delicious. Fair enough, I suppose.

The prime suspect

I later saw Stumpy amusing some children by putting his nub in his mouth, as if he was sucking it off, and they loved it. Lucky bastard’s probably pulled a million chicks with that move.

Patnem Beach, like a lot of places I go to, is full of couples. There’s even a couple of fat Russian gaybos in dick slickers sitting next to me. Igor and Ivan, great blokes. I’m sure the more built-up beaches have more singles, but I don’t want to be surrounded by buildings and hawkers, so once again I’m sort of out of place. Hopefully the next time I come somewhere like this, I’ll have a beautiful woman with me, but that would require me to stop fucking up all the time, so the chances are slim.

Speaking of which, I got locked in my toilet this arvo. I was in something of a rush to enter, as is usually the way in India, and somehow the door became wedged shut behind me. I was in there in the nuddy, so didn’t want to yell for the owner (who was outside dancing to ‘Don’t believe me? Just watch!’) so I spent half an hour in there, working out what to do.

In the end I just kicked the door down like a bad arse. A naked bad arse with an upset stomach, but still a bad arse. It was a bad situation, but still, it’s not exactly getting your hand bitten off by a fucking pig…

A sucker for a vodka

While in Goa I’ve been doing two-fifths of three-eighths of fuck all, and I like it that way. Wake up, go for a swim, have a big breakfast, hang out on the beach and perve on chicks, have a nap, hit the cans. Patnem Beach is a great place to bludge it up.


Last night i rolled over to Palolem Beach to see what was cracking. The trip there was easy enough – a couple of clicks along decent roadd – but I wasn’t too impressed by the beach itself. It would’ve been beautiful once, with golden sand and heaps of palm trees, but there’s too much development there now. As well as the waterfront being overrun by endless restaurants, pubs and motels, most of which don’t have the rustic charm of the ones at Patnem, there are hundreds of souvenir shops. It’s not a relaxing place, and I wasn’t even able to find anywhere decent to drink because the visitors were so spread out amongst the many venues.


I guess Patnem will be like that in a few years. A short time ago there was nothing here, now it’s pretty built up. All the nice places will go away eventually,  especially in Asian countries where they don’t give two shits about conservation, so we just have to enjoy them while we can.

I did have an interesting encounter, though. A rather sturdy Pommy sheila (less pleasant people might describe her as ‘fat as fuck’ plonked herself next to me and offered me a ‘sucker’ if I bought her a vodka. Now, I’m not completely up to date with English slang, but I’m pretty sure she was offering to put my pee-pee in her mouth. I’ll leave it up to you to determine whether I bought her the drink or not.

Alright, I did.


The place I’m staying at, the Palm Trees Lodge, is pleasant but the owners constantly play some knob song that keeps saying , “Dont believe me? Just watch!” (Don’t believe I’ll kick your teeth down your throat? Just watch!), which shits me to tears. So I’ve been spending a lot of my time down at the Om Shanti bar, where I can get cold beer and fucking awesome food. It’s worth checking out… provided it hasn’t been turned into a McDonald’s by the time you get here.

Actually, looking at some of the people around me, I don’t think they’d be too upset about that.

He ate all the vindaloo

Row Row at Go Goa

From Hell to Heaven in nine hours. Not since God found out Mother Theresa appeared in Anal Gangbang Sluts 7 to pay her way through uni has a journey between the two been made so quickly.

I left the shit stain that is Jaipur and flew south to the tiny beach state of Goa. I’d heard mixed stories about this joint; some people reckon it’s lovely, others say it’s overdeveloped, ugly and crawling with drug-fucked idiots. All I can say is that, from where I’m sitting, it’s really quite lovely.

See, India's not all shit

I’m staying at Patnam Beach, in the far south of Goa. It’s away from the main tourist spots and is nice and quiet, but has enough restaurants on the sand, and beach shacks to sleep in. It feels a lot like the less developed beaches of Thailand, with palms lining the sand. I haven’t seen any ladyboys, though.

All the ladies lining up to sex me are just out of shot

There are also heaps of hot chicks here. Most of them seem to be filthy Poms, but at this point I’m just happy if the people around me aren’t eating fucking pigeons and trying to stab me.

The nightlife was a little on the quiet side (even my elephant impression didn’t spark it up), but I’m only five minutes walk from Palolem Beach, where I’ll hopefully be able to get my groove on and pass out in a palm tree.

Kingfisher - the king of beers

Goa is goa-ing (haha, how funny am I!) to be the final stop on this leg of the Bauer Media World Tour, and I’ll be heading back to Australia next week for some much-needed rest in a bed that doesn’t smell like piss.

I also want to go paragliding and take a trip up the coast exploring some out-of-the-way camping spots (well, out-of-the-way camping spots that can be reached by my two-door sports car). Unemployed dudes need to have fun sometimes, y’know.

But don’t worry, there’s still five days of action before I head back. The beer is cheap and the women don’t appreciate my sense of humour at all, so shit is guaranteed to go wrong in the drunkest and best way possible.

I'm more beer than man at this point

The Worst Exotic Marigold Hotel

A while ago I watched a film called The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, about a bunch of coffin dodgers who travelled from England to Jaipur, only to discover that the delightful hotel they thought they had booked was horribly run down and everything was crap. Some of the fogies fucked each other and one of them turned out to be off with the queers, but that’s not important.

It’s one stiff breeze from falling over

I’m staying in a former palace, that obviously hasn’t been maintained for half a century. There are 200 rooms, but I’m the only person here, half the building is crumbling apart and nothing works. Last night the light in my room exploded, the tap started squirting water everywhere, and drunken Indian men were pissing outside my window. When I went to reception to see what could be done, I was greeted by the retarded dude who works here, sleeping on the ground like a damn dog. Today, when they came to fix the light, it took four of them half an hour to work out they didn’t have the right globe, at which point they gave me a bedside lamp instead. It’s a crap place to stay, but if I’d known how close I’d go to being killed today, I never would have left.

The film showed Jaipur in a favourable way, as an exciting and exotic land. I’ve found it to be dirty and ugly, and inhabited by the absolute scum of the earth, who ensure that this city is not one that anyone should go out of their way to visit.

It’s hard to walk five metres without some fuckwit yelling out, “Hello sir, where you going?”, or having a street kid try to rob you, or some knob in a stupid shirt start yelling and trying to start a fight for no reason. Every single person was watching my every move with dead eyes, and it all felt even crueller than Delhi, which is saying something. The people here are rotten, rude pieces of shit, and the few monuments there are to see are made nearly inaccessible by these cretins.

Poverty is everywhere, and there’s a constant tide of beggars to get through. There’s also a frightening number of deformed people around, making a walk through Jaipur feel like a real-life zombie film.


The scariest part of the day came after climbing up a mountain to check out Nahargarh Fort. It’s a lovely old building tjat offers stunning views over Jaipur, but it’s also sadly rundown, covered in graffiti, and drowning in broken glass and rubbish. Anyway, I was checking it out when I came across a bunch of peasants who were catching pigeons and eating them. It was fucking horrible, and when I went to leave, the peasants started following me.

I’m a big, tough dude, so I took the only option available – I ran away like a little girl. They chased me, bit their diet of city chicken let them down and I got away, fleeing down the mountain and into the streets. It was terrifying, and who knows what would have happened if they’d caught me? One of me is worth a few hundred pigeons, so they would’ve been eating well for months.


Jaipur also has cows, pigs and camels roaming the streets, which led to the funniest part of the day – getting attacked by a goat. It was funny because I caught it on camera. One second I was dancing with the four-legged fuckers, then one turned and tried to bite me and I screamed like a child.

I’m off to Goa tomorrow. India, this is your last chance, don’t fuck it up.

WHERE THE FUCK WAS YESTERDAY’S ENTRY? I had a post almost ready to go yesterday, but a power surge destroyed my Macbook’s power cable, and my battery ran out before I could post it. Shame, ‘cos it was awesome. I’ll post it once I get my computer up and running. This is also the reason why I don’t have many of my own photos in this entry.

Fuck the Taj Mahal, I’m gunna sit in my undies and watch cricket

When in Delhi, do as the Daleks do. And the blokes around here like cricket more than Indians likes curry (wait…), so I thought the day would be best spent watching Australia play in the final of the Cricket World Cup.

I had thought of taking a day trip over to Agra to see the Taj Mahal, but the city is meant to be a cesspit full of thieves and the building itself isn’t really that fancy (everything I read about it praises its symmetry. My car is symmetrical and so is my television, and my bed, and my fucking toaster, and people don’t come from around the world to see them) so I decided against it. To be honest, I’m hungover from my experiences yesterday. No, I didn’t manage to locate some booze, but the sensory overload has left me feeling really knocked around, and a day out of the noise and smog was exactly what I needed.

But if you really, really want to see a photo of the Taj, here’s some people I don’t know in front of it. Wow, that symmetry is so amazing!

This is Dunston. After 38 years of steadfast virginity, he travelled to India to find either a wife or a cheap prostitute. He attracts pickpockets like flowers attract bees, but so far all they’ve gotten from him are empty chocolate bar wrappers.
This is Dunston. After 38 years of steadfast virginity, he travelled to India to find either a wife or a cheap prostitute. He attracts pickpockets like flowers attract bees, but so far all they’ve gotten from him are empty chocolate bar wrappers.
Greg has a sefie stick, a GoPro and a moustache. He also has fingers that don't smell like vagina
Greg has a sefie stick, a GoPro and a moustache. He also has fingers that don’t smell like vagina

I just don’t really need to see some stupid building, just because it’s famous. At this point, I’d rather have my photo taken out the front of the Settlers, beer in hand. Oh, and being within close proximity of a toilet at all times has been a good idea, too. I’m surprised the can in my room hasn’t handed in its resignation letter.

It’s my birthday tomorrow, and I’ll be spending it catching some shit plane to Jaipur. I saw Jaipur in some movie, but I don’t really care about going there, so I will have my birthday by the beach in Goa a few days, preferably with some European woman entertaining my penis. This is the first time I’ve ever been overseas for my birthday. I’m sad about being away from my family and friends, but it could be worse – last year I worked for The Picture and got kept back late by some clown who was pushing his bum chums out to the pub at the same time. Missed the football game I was meant to go with my mates, just so I could write some sexist shit that not even a toad would find funny.

It sucks to know that I spent that long writing for shit that never mattered, for a company that supports Nazis, for a boss who physically threatened me because he knew his desk and his position protected him. A man who has had his magazine cut time and time again while still hiring his friends for jobs they aren’t qualified for. I have hated myself every second of every day since I backed down from that prick.

Self indulgent? Totally. But it’s publishing, idiots will be self indulgent till they die. But, fuck it, they’re paying for every beer I buy, so fuck ’em.

Into the mouth of madness

A holiday in Delhi is about as relaxing as a picnic with Ivan Milat – with only slightly less chance of ending up dead. This place truly is a roundhouse kick to the senses; it’s frighteningly loud, blindingly bright, and somewhere that should be experienced for the shock factor alone.

A quiet side street in Delhi
A quiet side street in Delhi

When I stepped out of my hotel this morning, groggy and half asleep from my epic 30-hour journey from Bagan, I didn’t know what I was in for. The crush of people started as soon as I stepped out the front door, and didn’t let up as I wandered blindly through the streets. Horns blared constantly, drums thumped, people yelled. The smell of curry hung over the streets like a thick fog, and the blazing sun beat down on me. It’s everything I’ve been told it is, but nothing could prepare me for actually experiencing it.

So that's what Sachin Tendulkar has been up to since he retired
So that’s what Sachin Tendulkar has been up to since he retired

Yep, this place is busier than Candy Falzon’s ring piece at an end-of-season piss up. Beijing, Hong Kong and the other mega cities I’ve been to did nothing to prepare me for the overpowering tide of people here. Just walking around is the best form of sightseeing, but I did still go to the Lahore Gate (I’ve seen plenty of Lahore’s gates in the past, but this was the biggest. Alright, second biggest – the one on that chick from Canberra was so big I needed to lay a trail of bread crumbs just to find my way back out). Along with the Red Fort, it was nothing amazing, but a nice chance to (somewhat) escape the hordes and check out some old buildings.

Me with all my mates
Me with all my mates

As I was walking back, I got caught up in a street parade. I don’t know if today is a special day, or this sorta shit just happens all the time (they’re an excitable bunch, the Indians. They probably set off fireworks and dance down the street every time they crack a boner). They bloody loved me, though, and happy little chaps dressed in orange kept racing over to wiggle their arses for me.

Imagine how happy he’d bee if India had actually won the cricket

The parade was big and loud enough to put the Gay Mardi Gras to shame, and there were very few blokes kissing each other, which is another tick. There were heaps of trannies on floats, though, so maybe it was just their version of the same thing. The trannies weren’t a patch on Rara and the Bali blokes-with-boobs, either – they were mainly fat blokes with too much makeup on.

Oh sweet Jesus, she has a penis!

Everywhere I went, tuk-tuks were almost running into me, or people were bumping into me, or yelling at me, or trying to rob me. That’s a big problem here and something potential visitors need to be aware of – if you’re out and about, people will be watching you and working out how to nick your stuff. I constantly had seedy pieces of shit eyeing me off, and if I’d let my guard down for a moment, I would’ve found myself in trouble. It can be a dangerous city, but keep your wits about you and you’ll be fine.

There are horse-cow things here, too. Horse-fuckin'-cows!
There are horse-cow things here, too. Horse-fuckin’-cows!

After seven or so hours of walking through the insanity that is Delhi, it all become too much and I scurried back to my hotel room. It’s important to have a nice, quiet, clean place to stay in this city. The streets are such an epic mindfuck, on a level most people have never experienced before, that you need somewhere to hide away and relax. I truly can’t believe that people live this way, it’s just mental.

I'm so getting my sputum examined tomorrow. Hopefully by a spunky sheila!
I’m so getting my sputum examined tomorrow. Hopefully by a spunky sheila!

Tragically, it’s almost impossible to find beer in Delhi, which is probably for the best because dealing with this city after 10 cans would probably make a fella’s eyeballs explode. Oh well, I’ll see if I can find a curry hot enough to make my vision blur and allow me to convince myself that I’m better looking than I really am.

Someone get me a bloody beer!
Someone get me a bloody beer!