Tag Archives: snorkeling

Buster gets busted!

P1050106I was woken by an intense banging, but it wasn’t in my brain -– it mean a manta ray had been sighted off the shore and I could go swim with it! The sun was peeking through the clouds and, half drunk, I raced down to jump in a boat and see the big, dumb fish.

We went out a few hundred metres and dived into the crystal clear water, and there the big dickhead was, doing backflips underwater for some stupid reason. It was impressive, but the whole thing was representative of what I don’t like about staying in a Fijian resort -– we were herded on and off boats, and pointed in a direction to swim. For me, snorkelling is about exploring, but this was about being kicked in the head by clowns and chasing down some terrified fish.

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It’s Manta Ray Romano!

By the time we got back the sun was out in full force, so I headed down to the beach to get a few rays and have a perve. It was a good one, too, because– spunky backpackers were everywhere, bouncing around in their little bikinis. I had a great view until Buster plonked himself down next to me, with his fat gut flopping around like a jellyfish as he bashed away on his computer.

“”Hey ladies, ever had sex with a big shot Wall Street stockbroker?”” he asked, and suddenly the beach was empty except for me and him. I felt like kicking his computer into the water.

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This is how Buster sees himself… except he smokes blue vein cigars

Buster was an A-grade dick, but his line of thinking isn’t too far from that of the majority. Here we are, on a tropical island, and damn near every person just wants to talk about work. What I did, what they did, that sorta thing. I dunno, that goes against the purpose of being on holiday as far as I’m concerned.

The sun ducked back behind the clouds an hour or so later, so I spent the rest of the arvo exploring the island, walking along deserted beaches and checking out caves and forests. It’s a pretty place, but not really the tropical paradise I had envisioned. There are a few palms, but it feels a little too much like the beaches at home, and not nearly as good as Vietnam or Thailand.

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Beached as, bro

After another decent snorkel as the sun was going behind the hills, I had a few drinks and headed up to the restaurant for dinner. I got talking to a few good sorts, when who should sit down next to me? Fuckin’ Buster!

“”Trading shares and making money all day has given me quite and appetite,”” he said, before shovelling a couple of slices of pizza in his mouth. “It’s not easy maintaining a bad boy image and a seven-figure bank balance. Hey, did I mention I own a motor bike?” The girls left, and Buster went back to fucking around on his computer. The twat had to be taught a lesson.

When he got up for more food, I took the opportunity to have a bit of fun with his computer. I was just going to change his screen saver to a picture of two blokes kissing or something, but when I took a geek the screen was taken up by some sort of shares-trading program with all sorts of numbers on it. I wasted no time changing as many numbers as possible, and when an email popped up from a dude called Carl, I replied to it with, “”Go fuck yourself, Carl.””

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There’s a monkey in this photo – can you see it?

Buster sat down to eat another pile of crap food, and when he peeked at his computer his eyes almost popped out of his stupid head. ““But, but, but,”” was all he could say, then he freaked out, stood up and started spinning on the spot.

“”Who did this, who did this, who did this?”” he wept. “”Someone just cost me $100,000 and told my boss to go fuck himself!”

“”I dunno who did it,” I smirked, “but I heard a rumour that whoever did it also wanted to give you a wedgie.”” And with that, I reefed up his undies until they broke.

Buster was laughed out of the building, and I was hailed a hero because everyone else was also sick of the pompous doodle’s bullshit. With Buster gone, a good night was had by all.

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Sorry, Buster… yeah, sorry you’re a cunt!
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Why does it always rain on me? Is it because I masturbated too much when I was seventeen?

IMG_8975I was up at 6:30 and, unlike the morning after most alcohol-fused binges, I felt great. Shit, I need to skoll kava and dance with Fijiian men every night. The weather wasn’t feeling so beaut, though, and it was piddling down on the Yasawa Islands, Fij. I spent the first half of the day just bludging around like a drongo, reading and watching episodes of Californication. Fuck it, I’m on holidays, I can sit around wanking into half-eaten bags of chips if I want… uh, not that I actually did that. Promise.

At lunch, I was talking to a slightly slutty Pom chick, and impressing her with stories of spewing and stuff, when a goofy-lookin’ bloke with slicked back hair  and a button-up shirt sat down next to us and flipped open his laptop.

“”Unfortunately, the stockmarket doesn’t stop just because I’m on a tropical island,”” he gasped, then stuck out his hand. ““Hi, I’m Buster.”” Buster is a cunt.

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Buster looks a bit like this bloke… only less Asian

He wouldn’t shut up about shares and money and other crap that has no place on a beach holiday. I steered the conversation back to something vaguely interesting, but Buster kept swerving it back to the most boring shit you’ve ever heard. And he kept acting like he was my mate, making me look like the second-biggest turd in the room. The Pommy girl left in a huff, and I was stuck there with bloody Buster. After a particularly long spiel about being a maverick investor and a bit of a punk, which he proved by showing me a small tattoo of a pig on his butt cheek, I gave him the sound advice to invest in a fucking personality, and headed off for a snorkel.

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It never rains in the ocean

Despite the weather, it was nice out there. Lots of fish and some decent coral. Despite the grim skies, it was still bright and bubbly in the drink, and I couldn’t help wondering how glorious this place is when the weather’s fine. I splashed around for a good hour, then flopped back onto land to put a dent in the litre of vodka I’d smuggled from the mainland.

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Mouths open like a Kings Cross hooker

After dinner I was well sloshed, and we were all herded to the main bar for a traditional Fijian dancing demonstration. The music started, and then all the fellas we’d drunk with the night before came out dressed in grass skirts, prancing around. I don’t know how they feel about it, but I found it humiliating, and very uncomfortable to watch. It was like we were in a zoo, with these savages paraded in front of us for our amusement. Only they’re not savages, they’re normal dudes, born into unfortunate circumstance and forced to dance like monkeys for a rich white boss who was the only one making money. Yeah, I empathised with them.

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The Maccas is just out of shot

On the other hand, all the girls in the room were getting massive wide-ons, so the boys don’t have it so bad. Then Buster cornered some of the Fijiian fellas and started telling them what markets to invest in, and aggressively telling them that the only reason they had to wear grass skirts was that they’d missed the IT bubble or something.

“The stock market isn’t only for devil-may-care mavericks like myself, you know,” he espoused. “I didn’t make my first million by wiggling around in a grass skirt, nor did I make my second million by singing a strange ethnic song. It was bravery, skill and an impish grin that got me where I am today.”

I’d heard enough, so I took a half-full coconut, swaggered up to Buster and poured it down the front of his pants so it looked like he’d pissed himself.

“Did you make your third million by pissing yourself?” I asked, then gave one of the Fijians a high-five as the room erupted into laughter and Buster left in tears.

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Even when the weather’s crap, the view is great

The scene degenerated into a bunch of hippie backpackers talking about bullshit, which isn’t for me, so I retired to my balcony to listen to Billy Bob Thornton and get quietly sloshed. Jojo rocked up and we talked about the differences and similarities in our lives until he started having trouble understanding me. He said he wanted to move to Australia and play football, and I told him that one of the many women I had disappointed in the past had moved over from Fiji. I tried in vain to work out how to contact her on my phone, until I passed out.

Oh well, at least I tried.

IMG_8954I wrote this back in 2013, but don’t worry, I head out on a new adventure in just one week! I’ll be in Tasmania for a week and a half on the Bauer Media World Tour, and the place will never be the same again! Actually, it will, but that just sounds cool.

Prancing around the Perhentian Islands

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The Perhentian Islands, off the east coast of Malaysia, are glorious and unspoilt. However, it seems like I ruined the island experience for two young sausage-munching lasses.

I woke up alone, the German girls never having found their bearings and decided to join me in my hut. When I climbed out of bed and staggered out to my little veranda overlooking Petani Beach, I noticed a note pinned to my door. I grinned to myself; obviously the Berlin beauties regretted ditching me and wanted to apologise.

“You are the worst thing to happen to the German people since the Nazi Party,” it read. “You suck and we hope your penis fall off and you get cancer of anus. Fuck you.”

I dunno, must’ve been the German sense of humour, or maybe the message was lost in translation or something. I thought I was a perfect gentleman to them. I rambled back over to the cafe, where I had a breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, while the few people who wandered through pointed and whispered about me.

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Fuck me, how good is this!

After that, the day consisted of little more than snorkeling, lying on the beach reading, lying on the beach sleeping, lying on the beach writing and wandering around snapping photos of this wonderful place. The most active thing I did was take a stroll along a jungle path towards the island’s only village. This unnamed (alright, I simply can’t be bothered looking it up) place is a tiny fishing village consisting a handful of shacks scattered through the bush and, like the rest of the place it’s extremely picturesque. As I wandered around like a drongo, the locals went about their daily lives – washing clothes, eating delicious food, playing soccer on the beach and heading out on their tinnies to fish. Shit, back home we lock ourselves away in office blocks all day, and we reckon we’re a first world country? I’ll take this lifestyle any day (and the fact all the women were walking around in sarongs that barely covered their naughty bits didn’t hurt, either).

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I’d live there

The Perhentian Islands are by far the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited. I’ve been to Thailand and Vietnam and Cambodia, and have explored the best beaches in Australia, but nothing comes close. This place is remote and hard to get to, there’s not much electricity, few actual resorts, and not a lot of comforts, and I hope it can stay this way. There are no no cars, no motorbikes, and the only sounds are birds singing and waves crashing. To sum it up, I fucking love the Perhentian Islands!

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And the Perhentian Islands love me!

I gave the cafe a miss for dinner, instead choosing to make the trek back up to Long Beach to get something to eat. It was worth it. When I got there, the sun was just starting to set and there were plenty of restaurants to choose from. I picked one that had a bunch of tables and chairs on the beach and got myself a couple of beers. They put an edge on my hunger, so I splashed out and bought two meals – a green curry and some sort of squid thing – and sat there  munching away like a fat chick in a biscuit factory.

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Captain Cool goes for a stroll

Afterwards, feeling as full as a public school classroom, I waddled down the beach to see what was going on. It was much like the night before, with clumps of smelly hippies huddled together, only it was even quieter and the hippies even less inviting. I smashed a few beers, then a sexy little blonde sheila wandered over. She put the word on me – hard – and I was sure I was in. Just as I was about to ask her to walk six kilometres back to my barren hut, she started trying to sell me a bottle of some sort of filthy-looking orange spirit. I felt so used.

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Are you sick of awesome pictures of the Perhentians yet?

I thanked her for her time, then wandered straight over to the next shop and bought a bottle of the same orange shit for half the price. It was called Orangutan and, from the taste of it, it was most likely orangutan piss. It was awful, and was the first drink to actually give me a hangover WHILE I WAS DRINKING IT. A headache crept into my skull, I started sweating, the whole deal. I still finished the bottle, of course, but there was no way I was gunna finish the second bottle I bought – I gave the last couple of swigs to some sunburnt Pommy-looking bloke, who took a sip and promptly fell into a bin.

From there, things are somewhat hazy. I remember dancing around a fire, and going for a swim in the ocean with a heavily-tattooed South African girl, and singing a Michael Buble song on a karaoke machine, and getting into trouble for pissing in the corner of some sort of dance club thing. But that’s it.

I don’t have a clue how I got home, but I woke up the next day covered in scratches and bruises, without my singlet and with a video on my phone of me pashing (what I really, really hope was) some hot chick. All up, not a bad night.

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My curry was really, really hot

I wrote this back in May, 2012. In case you’re wondering why there were no updates last week, I was out working in the bush and had no interwebbing connection. Yes, working, which means I may not be jobless, I’m sure as fuck still drunk!

Show us ya snorkel!

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I woke up bright and early, had a quick breakfast of cereal and tropical fruit, then boarded a gigantic bus for a day of sun and chasing fish around in the clear blue sea. I was late, of course, but after 29 years of that, why change?

We drove over to Langkawi’s ferry terminal, boarded a boat, and I ended up sitting next to Lenny, a very fat Pom wearing a Battlestar Galactica shirt with tomato sauce stains all down the front. He was a nice bloke, but he did admit one thing –- he was here on a sex tour. He’d already been to Thailand and Cambodia, and was having sex with different prostitutes in each place. He even acted out a few of his ‘conquests’, leading me to suspect that the tomato sauce may not have been tomato sauce at all, and was actually the blood of some poor prostitute.

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If this ain’t paradise, it’s pretty damn close

The boat arrived at a gorgeous island in the middle of the ocean, and even as I walked along the boardwalk to the beach, I could see all sorts of weird aquatic creatures splashing around beneath me. Excitement turned to disappointment, however, when I saw that the tour company had set up a dinky little roped-off area for us to swim in. The island itself was adorable, but they’d set aside an area about as big as a basketball court for us to snorkel in, and it had about six fish in it.

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Rats in a very wet cage

So, just as I had at the Great Wall, I broke out of jail and went exploring on my own, and it actually turned out to be a really good adventure. The further away from the ropes I got, the more coral and fish I saw. Angel fish, clown fish, gigantic blue fish, sea cucumbers (no, I’m not talking about my penis) and all sorts of other aquatic abominations fluttered around me. I made it to the other side of the island and it was like I was the only person on the planet. At one point, thousands of tiny silver fish raced in a circle around me, and it was truly magical. I even found a secluded little beach to explore!

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Doing my best Tom Hanks impression. No, not from bloody Philadelphia, from that movie where he was stuck on the island

I barely made it back in time for lunch, then set out to go even further around the island. There were even more fish of every description, and I had a grand time hovering around and taking photos of them. It was exactly what I had come for, and yet more proof that it’s never a good idea to stick to the rules.

After chasing a bright red fish for a good 10 minutes, I checked my camera and saw that it was 2:52, and the boat was pissing off at three. And I don’t think Malaysian tour operators really give a shit whether they leave someone behind or not.

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There’s the fish, but where are the chips?

With visions of being left on the island to be eaten by savages (and not in the good way), I cranked the engines and absolutely belted it back to the beach. Seriously, the Thorpedo would’ve been proud of me. I looked up to see the last tourist climbing from the pier onto the boat, but there was still 100 or so metres between me and the shore. I put my head down and zoomed along faster than Michael Phelps on speed and hit the beach, then raced along the jetty just as the boat was pulling out. One of the guides was yelling out, ““You too late! We see you tomorrow!”” but he didn’t know that, if need be, I’m also a world-beating long jumper. I launched myself off the end of the pier, cleared about seven metres of water, and came crashing down on top of a fat bloke on the deck of the boat. I’d made it, and from the look on the fat bloke’s face, I’d made his day, too.

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Holy shit, it’s a flying shark!

On the way back I had another chat to Lenny, who asked if I was keen to “Go halvsies” with him in a hooker, and told him I’d have to give it a miss! Good bloke, that Lenny.

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At least I was able to keep this meal down

After getting dropped off, I had a short nap, snapped some photos of the sunset (and ‘accidentally’ managed to get some photos of a topless Malaysian sheila in there) and then had dinner at a beachside restaurant next to the one I’d visited the night before. You know, the one where the chef poisoned me for making a witty comment to his girlfriend, only for me to go back a few hours later and shit and spew all over their tables as revenge. As I tucked into my calamari rings and sipped on my cocktail, they stood a few metres away, shaking their fists and yelling at me in a language I couldn’t understand. I just raised my glass and blew them a loud raspberry, which made the chef take off his silly white hat, chuck it on the ground and step on it angrily.

And that was the end of my trip to Langkawi.

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Goodnight, sun!

A woman laughed at my penis (so what’s new?)

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I must’ve been a good boy, because the big fella upstairs decided to present me with bright sunshine when I woke up. After 10 days of rain and shittiness, I didn’t quite understand what I was seeing, but made the most of it by getting out there and exploring Nusa Lembongan.

I wanted to go snorkelling, but the thought of going out with a tour group full of Japs wearing floaties didn’t appeal, so I just wandered up to the north of the island, looking for somewhere to go for a dip. As I swaggered along, I saw Malcolm McDowell’s twin sitting at a table with a coffee in his hand. “It’s not too late to have an encounter with ‘The Human Vacuum Cleaner,’” he purred, then made loud sucking sounds. I hurried to my destination.

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Unlike Penida, Lembongan is largely rubbish for snorkelling, but there’s a good spot out behind the mangroves at the top of the island, and that’s where I went. I just looked for the tour boats a couple of hundred metres from the shore and splashed out there, and when I made it, I got quite a treat. Plenty of coral, buckets of fish, and a nice snork was had by all.

Being the mature, sophisticated gentleman I am, I decided to take a photo of myself underwater with my cock out. So I set the camera up in an area full of fish, swam past it and pulled out my knob just as it went off (the camera, not my knob). I thought I was pretty clever, until I resurfaced and realised that a Japanese woman was swimming about three metres away and had seen the whole thing.

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She just looked at me, smirked, and said, “In didn’t think the water was that cold,” and ducked under the waves. I think she wanted me.

As I was walking back to my hotel, an old local bloke with some sort of massive growth on his face stopped his bike next to me and said the obligatory, “You want ride?”
“I’d love a ride,” I replied. “But I don’t have any money.”
“No money, no honey,” he squeaked, then blew me a kiss.

My afternoon was somewhat less relaxing, however. I’m heading to the Gili Islands tomorrow, and getting a ticket was more hassle than it should’ve been (big fucking surprise, this Asia, where even cooking two minute noodles take six hours and involves a stop-over at some dickhead’s shop). The locals around this place swoop on you like seagulls when they want to sell you a boat trip or rent you a bike, but they’re no help whatsoever if there’s not a cent in it for them. I always hear about how helpful the people are over here but, fuck that, only when there’s money in it.

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