F*ckin yanks.

This post was from the other day. I think due to the server overload of people trying to access my blog, it wasn't posted. I'm now in Antigua and will update you with more antics shortly. I'll also get some pics up here as soon as I find a half-reliable internet source.
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I’m only one flight into this adventure and already I’ve had more problems than Channel Nine’s programming department in 2006. Still the one though. My flight from Sydney departed an hour late due to some moron attempting to board with an invalid passport. That wasn’t the ideal start. However to make matters a little more interesting, we shared the plane with around 100 US cops who were returning from the World Police Games in Adelaide (who says Adelaide doesn’t get the prestigious events?!). True to the Hollywood stereotype, 95% of them were massive and black. So naturally, I fit right in. The main issue here was that every one of them thought they were either Chris Rock or Beyonce. And that’s just the males! (insert canned laughter) While it was mildly entertaining for around the first five hours, the remaining eight weren’t so pleasant.

As a result of the aforementioned passport moron, we arrived in LA an hour late, meaning it would be a tight stretch to make my connecting flight to Miami. Can I just add here that if anyone can explain the American arrogance that always seems to accompany them when things aren’t going to plan, please reply to this post. Some poor flight attendant copped a barrage of abuse from half a dozen white mid-western yanks for the delay in disembarking the plane. They were silenced once she informed them it was due to the American Airlines’ control tower’s general incompetence.

I also found myself in a bit of a tight spot with two of these white, mid-western yanks, one of which had a moustache, at the start of the flight. I was seated in the second last row and I didn’t have an overhead compartment, so I had to use whatever I could find. I opened one across the aisle, which ‘belonged’ to these two yanks, to which they responded, “that’s ours”. I kindly replied, “I don’t have an overhead compartment, so I was told to use any other one”. Their volume raised a notch in their brutally annoying American twang, “We have breakable stuff in there. You can’t use our compartment”. So, whatever. For the time being, and while I allowed my anger to subdue, I just slid my backpack under my seat and tried to think of witty comebacks that I should have used. Anyway, about 4 hours into the flight, I noticed the two yanks were asleep. Sweet, now is my time to pounce. So, I quickly grabbed my backpack, and as quietly and as slowly as I possibly could, pulled the overhead compartment door down. Just as I lifted my bag up, almost victoriously, one of the dangling straps flicked the moustached yank in the forehead, bringing him to consciousness and exposing me. “Hey! Waddya doing?!”. I had nothing other than “Oh just… the flight attendant… I thought…”. It was rather Ricky Gervais-esque. Nevertheless, I put my bag in there. His moustache twitched three times. I hear if a moustache twitches five times, Armageddon is upon us.

Ok, so that was rather longwinded. Sorry. But returning to LA where our flight was late, there was a delay in getting off the plane, and as a result it would be a stretch to make my connecting flight to Miami. I was halfway through the customs line when I realised I’d left my passport on the plane. Well, I was hoping it was on the plane anyway. Fuck. After 20 minutes of running and sweating profusely, it was eventually located. However, I was now definitely going to miss my flight to Miami. Consequently I was put on a flight to Puerto Rico, instead, at 11.55pm that night. It was currently 9am. LA airport isn’t the most interesting of airports. Not even a couch to sit on. Anywhere. I don’t understand this. Why wouldn’t they have even a handful of couches? Are they afraid terrorists might get too comfortable while waiting to plummet to their own deaths?


While waiting around I bumped into former school mate/band mate Liam Holmes and the ever trusty Adrian from Stagedoor, on their way back to Sydney from the SXSW Conference in Texas. Very random, but good to have people to share my bitter disdain for the place I was stuck in. Once this pair had left, and after a couple more hours of observation, I made an official statement in my head that a lot of yanks have moustaches. I had also concluded that the presence of a moustache represents the presence of arrogance. However, I needed to substantiate my claims. So firstly, I counted the first 100 males (who appeared to be over 40 years old) to walk past and kept a tally of those with and without moustaches. Of the 100, 41 of them had moustaches. A 2-5 ratio. In this day and age, this is exceptionally high, and simply won’t be tolerated. I was planning on testing the arrogance theory, but I was too tired and sick to bother. So, keep posted to this blog, for I while endeavour to prove the arrogance-moustache-yank theory when I return to the states in early May.

After a couple more flights and eventually meeting up with fellow tour party members Dunny and Andy, we finally arrived at our first destination – Antigua, West Indies. Walking aross the tarmac to the terminal, we were immediately greeted by the sweet sound of steel drums and even sweeter tasting fruit platters that were on offer. We hadn’t even gone through customs yet. It’s so obvious that cricket is everything here. It literally is religion for some. Even the lady at customs, in thick West Indian accent, said to me, “You come to get some licks boy?!” (translation: you’ve come to get hammered aye?), in reference to the following day’s clash between Australia and hosts, West Indies. Given I’m as black as the night itself, I have no idea how she picked me for an Aussie, but nevertheless, we had been warned.