Return of the Black Blog.

Introduction Entry – 10 December 2008

“Ok, and we’re on in 3, 2, 1, over to you McG-nizzle…”

* Takes a subdued sip of tea, flicks a page of the newspaper before glancing up, noticing the camera, slightly startled*

Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there (*puts cup of tea down*). Welcome to the second “volume” of Sojourn of a Black Man. Unfortunately, I may be guilty of misleading conduct as I’ve chosen the wrong time of year to take a “black man” sojourn. It’s winter here in Europe, and it’s cold. Really cold. Almost as cold as the greeting one receives at Ivy Nightclub. But not quite as cold as the glare you receive when you label all Romanians “gypsies” at a dinner party, before the person you thought was from Rome reveals they’re actually from Romania.

So yes, my scintilla of a natural tan seems to be fading. Almost as much as Jason Donovan’s “stand-up”career.
Enough of the pop-culture references? …Nah, there’s still a few left in me, I reckon.

Comedy.

But no, I’m not quite the black man I was in volume 1 of this blog. Apologies for any inconvenience or disappointment caused. I must also apologise for keeping you on tenterhooks waiting for my electronically-delivered comical anecdotes. I have no excuse other than laziness. Well, that, and the fact that I’ve spent the majority of my trip thus far behind bars after customs and immigration at Heathrow discovered child pornography on my iPhone upon arrival. My bad.

We will commence my adventures in London on December 8th, with the first episode to take you through until Christmas. In the commentary box is Richie Benaud and alongside him, Mark Taylor and Tony Greig.

Blog up to Christmas. 26 December 2008.

Upon setting foot on British soil, I immediately asked myself, “why?”. Why had I exchanged the tantalising Australian summer, with its balmy nights, long days, cold beers and disturbingly vast quantity of popped-collars, for the London winter, with its achingly cold nights, uninspiring short days, warm lager and sexuality-questioning scarves. If you put that proposition to any sane person, the answer is more obvious than Carl Barron’s punch-lines (if you’d call them punch-lines).



But there was no point dwelling. I had to accept my destiny. I had to embrace it. So, there I was, standing at Heathrow baggage terminal, layering up in preparation for what London could throw at me. And the first thing it threw at me was Gabriella Cilmi, the 16 year-old “teenage sensation”. I had actually seen her play the previous day at Homebake in Sydney. It was rather sad actually, as she made the unfortunate error of judgement typical of new acts: she played her one and only hit single at the start of her set, after which the entire crowd ruefully retreated to the food markets. They clearly favoured Turkish Gozleme (with complimentary lemon slice, no less) over commercialised Latin-infused blues pop music.

Yes, so, there she was, checking me out at the Heathrow baggage terminal. Ms Cilmi clearly wanted me. I knew it. As I seductively tucked my hair behind my ear, she moved closer. I thought to myself, “standard - about to get chatted up by the latest teenage sensation. And this time it’s a girl. Sweet.” She opened her mouth…

“Ummm, excuse me”

“Yep”, I confidently replied, flicking my hair back and smiling with the corner of my mouth as I casually, but cockily, leant against a pole.

“I think you’ve got my bag, mate”

“Oh”, I muttered as I glanced down to have the veracity of her statement confirmed.

I still maintain that she wanted me though. She definitely planted a decoy bag, which conveniently resembled mine, on the conveyer belt in order to strike up a conversation with me. The following exchange reveals the depth of her lust for yours truly.

“Hey, well great show at Homebake yesterday”, I said, swallowing guiltily in the knowledge that I, along with 5,000 others, had abandoned her show within the first ten minutes and that she could probably identify each remaining person.

“Thanks. Did you have a good day?”

“Uh huh.”

“That’s good”

…silence…

…followed by slightly more silence and awkward toe-tapping as the conveyer belt continued to whirr past…

“I have the same keyboard as him”, I muttered, pointing to her keyboardist standing nearby.

“Really?”

“Uh huh”

“That’s cool, I guess. Ok, well I better get going then”

Yep, she wanted me. Look out in the tabloids soon for “Gabriella Cilmi: spotted with new Aussie stallion”.

When I eventually picked up my rightful bags, I made tracks for the tube station for some gap-minding and immature giggling at the word “Cockfosters”.

Now, I was fairly quick to accept the fact that I had to endure a solid European winter. But what I was not so quick to accept was the fact that I had to wear a scarf. I’m still not entirely sure why, but I developed a hatred for the scarf while in Bathurst. Me and one (quasi finger-lick) John Millward would keep a tally of who wore scarves on how many occasions. If we were caught wearing one, severe ridicule ensued. I soon realised that you simply cannot survive a London winter without a scarf. So, John, I hereby raise the white flag. Or should I say, the white scarf.

And with the white scarf raised to the top of the flagpole we end this first episode of “Sojourn of a Black man: Vol II.” We’ll be back after these messages from Binford.

“…and Cut.”

“Thank fuck that’s over”.

“Yeah, tell me about it. Our viewers buy any bullshit we feed ‘em”

“Ha. Right on. Fuckin’ morons. Now, where are those hookers I ordered?”

“The first two are up in your office now, we’re just trying to pry the fatogram away from the catering trailer.”

“Perfect. I’ll try to lure her upstairs with a string of Weisswurst”

“Oh shit… ummm McG-nizzle…we’re still rolling”

“Fuck…*stares at camera* …Ahhh, I think there’s been a rape up there” *runs off set*