The dentist dreams tonight...

Last night I had a dream where my teeth were falling out. I walked around a room with a mouth full of loose teeth and then waltzed over to a bookshelf and picked up an dream dictionary, hoping I could interpret my dream within my dream. (Self-referential postmodern dream behaviour, maybe?) Under the chapter entitled “Teeth Falling Out” it said something about one’s sub-consiocus becoming semi-obsessional about men who wear corduroy pants, who also like to grow copious amounts of organic vegetables.

This could have something to do with me watching Peter Cundall’s very last episode of Gardening Australia on the ABC a few hours prior to that dream.

Don't get me wrong, I like Peter "that's your bloomin' lot" Cundall, especially his steadfast Manchester accent. But I really really hope my sub-conscious has better taste in men than Mr Cundall. And if, by some chance, I ever get to meet the man in person I really hope that my teeth won't spontaneously fall out.

Falling in love with Adelaide, all over again.

It is unanimous. I'm pathetically sentimental. I nearly cried such beautiful tears when I saw the new British India restaurant on Morphett Street tonight. Never in my wildest dreams could I even begin to think that I could fall in love so much with the interior design on an eatery in Adelaide. I thought I had to travel to New York or Berlin if I wanted to be besotted in such a way.

From its stunning red drapes to the deer heads mounted on its opulent wallpaper, the dark textures of British India’s interior may have stolen my heart. In fact, I feel a slight tingling feeling in my nose and a welling of tears in my eyes just thinking about it.

You’re probably thinking that I’m more shallow than a kiddies’ wading pool. And you would be correct! I haven’t even eaten there yet! But I’m so very pathetic when it comes to all things interior design (i.e. I can’t help but gush over interior design blogs like http://www.apartmenttherapy.com).

As I stood there gawking at the new Morphett Street venue, trying to hold back my tears of ecstasy for about 15 minutes, my good friend lamented about the fact that they had torn down the balcony above the restaurant itself - her beloved balcony from her old beloved apartment. Despite what my friend thinks, I hope British India extends upstairs to her old apartment; it was the very venue for many a vegetarian dish, copious amounts of red wine and many drunken debaucheries that I would come to enjoy when my vego friend lived there not so long ago.

Mmm! I can’t wait to wrap myself up in British India’s interior and taste its culinary delights. It’s the icing on the gourmet cake that is the fabulous Morphett/Gouger Street corner of Adelaide.

Here are five reasons to fall in love with Adelaide again:

1. Concubine (Gouger Street)
2. Mesa Sangria (Gouger Street)
3. Mesa Lunga (Cnr Gouger and Morphett Streets)
4. British India (Morphett Street)
5. The Thali Room (Morphett Street)

I would like to shake the hand(s) of the owner of these five gorgeous food and drink joints and thank him/her for their Morphett/Gouger Street efforts. I would sincerely encourage them to take over the city streets of Adelaide, one street corner at a time.

Sorry, this photo doesn't do it justice...
Photo source: http://www.sensational-adelaide.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=7&t=739&start=225&st=0&sk=t&sd=a#p41697

PS So there’s no confusion, to compare British India with a venue like the Bombay Bicycle Club would be sacrilege of the highest form. Likewise, British India: The Restaurant should not be breathed in the same sentence as British India: The Band*, except in this instance, warning people against doing so. Gosh, I'm such a snob and proud of it.

*Music of the boring, unoriginal kind.

Saturday night sulk

For the last month my Saturday night line-up is starting to become increasingly repetitive and scary for a 23-year-old woman. It includes myself, a bottle of red wine, a couch, a doona, taped episodes of Top Gear (I'm increasingly falling in love with James May), a Graham Greene novel and a bed which I generally pass out in. If I was watching TV, I’d be lucky to even make it to Rage. This is undeniably nerdy and pathetic. In fact I can actually hear the sirens of the Nerd & Pathetic Police as they tear down my street to arrest me. While this is happening I imagine a hoard of screaming 20-somethings yelling outside my window - “get thee to a nunnery! You are a fucking disgrace to our generation.”

Depressing violin music ensues.

But ultimately I really couldn’t give a shit at the moment. Adelaide is too cold to venture out into its boring pathetic excuse for a night life. I have no man by my side for the first time in years. And, if I was really being honest with myself, I just could not be arsed and I’ve also just bought myself some giant fuck-off red wine glasses to fill my red wine with. Best purchase in a long time.

And besides, who needs real company when you have this:

The excellent Mr Greene

and this...

The only men on TV at the moment who can pull off wearing double denim outfits and frumpy skivvys, yet still be so awesomely cool.

Corey is the future!

Between Turnball's gaffs and Brendon "single digit" Nelson's incompetency, there's nothing so satisfying than watching a political party cave in on itself. I think the Liberal's need to start appealing to a new demographic... idiot 17-year-old male dickheads - they are they future after all!

Hugh Atkin (a 23 year old law student from Sydney) obviously got that memo.

For Love of Ikea or Storage.

If I was to look up “Virgo Woman” in a 2008 edition of Linda Goodman’s Sun Signs here is what I think Ms Goodman would have to say on the subject:


Beware of the Virgo woman. She is a unique specimen of female who is obsessed with storage space. As a consequence she is obsessed with her Ikea catalogue.

As soon as the latest Ikea catalogue arrives in her letterbox, she’ll swiftly get out her pink highlighter and she will circle all that is new and good in the world of storage. She’ll get out a colourful range of sticky notes and bookmark all the relevant pages for easy access should she feel the need to quickly consult her storage bible.

Her catalogue will sit on her immaculate bedside table, next to a cup of water and the latest Graham Greene or Carson McCullers novel that she is reading.

She will never go to Ikea on a whim. At least a week beforehand she will carefully mark the day in her diary that she will be embarking on her Ikea mission. No matter how urgent her storage crisis might be.

After a good deal of procrastination (and trust me, a Virgo wrote the ultimate handbook on how to procrastinate), she'll eventually embark on her planned Ikea daytrip. She'll enter Ikea through the big fish-bowl revolving doors and up the escalator, into a world of pseudo bedrooms, lounge rooms, and all things good and storage-like.

But what’s this? Her mind will suddenly go flaccid. She will have an existential crisis. Only two weeks ago she saw Fight Club for the upteenth time, and every time she sees it she vows not to be consumer-catalogue obsessed ala "Jack"/Edward Norton’s character. How could she overlook this! (You see, she yearns to be like Tyler Durden instead, but never quite gets there.)

Disillusioned, she will turn around and quietly leave, homeward bound with her Ikea catalogue under her arm.

A Virgo woman will never throw her Ikea catalogue in the garbage. She will place her catalogue on a pile of used newspapers from the previous week. She will take out some string and carefully tie the papers together, ready for tomorrow's recycling collection.

She will go to bed that night safe in the knowledge that her catalogue will be recycled. She hopes that will be made into some of the green recycled toilet paper, like that stuff she buys at the organic corner store down the road. The thought of someone's arse wiping her Ikea catalogue gives her an enormous sense of wellbeing. Under her breath she'll whisper "... all things go full circle..." and she'll close her eyes.

The Virgo woman will go to sleep, probably to dream about storage space again.

And she will not think about Ikea anymore...



... that is until the next Ikea catalogue arrives in her letterbox.

The Einstein Factor’s contestant of the week.

I can be a geek at the best of times. Although ashamedly I like to point and laugh at those geekier than myself. Call it insecurity if you will. These geeks are often very smart, albeit socially retarded.

I like nothing more than to revel in my inner-geekiness (or point and laugh at geeks) and indulge in a good ABC quiz show. There was a time where I would stay up well past midnight to listen to the [cult-ish] radio quiz The Challenge on Tony Delroy’s Nightlife on ABC Radio. I think it was the geek-factor which kept me listening each night with anticipation. Listening to The Challenge was comforting, because it was then that I realised that I’m a far cry from geek-dom within the Australian psyche.

Another ABC quiz show which celebrates the geek-factor of the Australian population is The Einstein Factor. The geek-dom of the contestants is admirable.
But the guy on tonight's Einstein Factor takes the cake.

Meet Eric.
Specialty: Batman Comics

"Eric is a Public Servant with the Bureau of Statistics who collects fancy waistcoats and the novels of H. Rider Haggard."

Someone, get me this guy's phone number. I think I'm in love.



Genius or pompous twat?

Boris Johnson.
A sentence unto himself.
A man who exudes Britishness in the great tradition of the floppy-haired-fumbling-bumbling-Hugh-Grants of this world.
A darling of the new-wave uber-trendy hip-happening Torys - a brand new spanking party who are pandering to Britain’s majority population of the New Rich and New Rich wannabes.
Gordon Brown? Gordon Who? Pffft! So passe. Move over already!

"Does my head look big in this Andy Warhol wig?"

In a country where the left has been left for dead, London has warmly welcomed it's new mayor, squire Boris Johnson! He may be a chip off the old block, but I think that burning question is being felt in everyone's throat; is this Tory a genius or a pompous twat? Coincidence or not, as I pondered this question myself, I was unfortunate to suffer a severe case of heart burn. *Cough*

I just can't decide. A work colleague has declared he is a genius on the basis that he looks like Tim Brooke Taylor from The Goodies, who also appears to be wearing Andy Warhol's discarded wig. I think my colleague has a point.

"Land of Hope & Glory...."

As I mused over the question I amused myself with little pearls of wisdom from Boris:

Boris on being PM: "My chances of being PM are about as good as the chances of finding Elvis on Mars, or my being reincarnated as an olive."
Boris on voting Tory: "Voting Tory will cause your wife to have bigger breasts and increase your chances of owning a BMW M3."
Boris on Tony Blair: "It is just flipping unbelievable. He is a mixture of Harry Houdini and a greased piglet. He is barely human in his elusiveness. Nailing Blair is like trying to pin jelly to a wall."
Boris on obesity: "There is absolutely no one, apart from yourself, who can prevent you, in the middle of the night, from sneaking down to tidy up the edges of that hunk of cheese at the back of the fridge."
Boris on drugs: "I can't remember what my line on drugs is. What's my line on drugs?"
Boris on drugs: "I think I was once given cocaine but I sneezed so it didn't go up my nose. In fact, it may have been icing sugar."
Boris on drugs: "Yes, cannabis is dangerous, but no more than other perfectly legal drugs. It's time for a rethink, and the Tory party - the funkiest, most jiving party on Earth - is where it's happening."
Arnold Schwarzenegger on Boris: "This guy is just fumbling all over the place."

I may be Australian, and a pro-republican at that, but where do I sign up to Vote 1 Torys? I want to vote for "the funkiest, most jiving party on earth" which...
(a) gives wives bigger breasts;
(b) increases my chances of owning a BMW M3;
(c) legalises cannabis.

Genius or pompous twat? I don't honestly care. And I'm sure my heart burn will pass. But here is a man who will be the London Mayor in the lead-up to the 2012 Olympics. I think we're in for an amusing four years in the City of London. And I'll be laughing on the other side of the world.