Londoner Lost in Blue Mountains, Oz-UK Relations Take A Battering

(That's right, a series in which I blatantly cross-post my mutterings on londonist. I know no shame. )

The story about Jamie Neale is getting quite a run over here in London. Frankly, I think they've just been waiting for a feel-good story about a London teenager. The headlines might as well read "London Teen Not Dead, Not Even Stabbed." And it was all feel-good, with warm fuzzy feelings all round, until it turned out he'd signed away exclusive rights for his story for an undisclosed (read: large) sum. I must admit my reaction was less than favourable: "Why reward stupidity? He risked his own life, and the lives of the rescuers, why does he get a big pay out? Big deal, he got lost in the Blue Mountains and survived; I get drunk and lost every time I go out in East London (far more dangerous), and I survive: So where's my hundred grand?"

To be fair, he does claim he'll give the money to the rescue services and Katoomba hospital and if he does, top marks for doing the right thing. But I'll be interested to see if that eventuates, since it may just be a reaction to the allegations it was a hoax. As I mention in the post, it's all pretty standard fare for a rescue-story media circus in Oz, and no doubt there's more to come.

The thing that really struck me though, is the comment flame war going on below the Evening Standard article. It seems to start with a comment on the Australian media (I'll be first to agree that we don't produce anything at guardian or Indy level, but we at least avoid the barrel-scraping of the more popular papers over here... the Aussie press operates in a teacup, and is guilty of brewing up the occasional storm), so it's a fair comment to make, but the manner of making it leaves a little to be desired...

Typical Australian media, get the stroy wrong and accuse a decent British
lad as being as crooked as the australian's criminal forefarthers. .... The
xenephoibic australians need to get a life and stop whinging

... unless perhaps you're Pauline Hanson (all spelling has been faithfully preserved). I particularly like the touch of tarring an entire nation as xenophobic (or -phoibic) - Alanis Morissette could have written an extra verse. And it all kicks off from there... I'll leave you to read it at your leisure. It does strike me as odd that two of the most racist nations on the planet ("Bloody South-East Asians/Eastern Europeans stealing our jobs!" "Bloody Muslims/Muslims building mosques!" - delete as appropriate) seem to reserve their most blatant racism for each other, when they are in fact so similar.

The fact the Ashes is on probably doesn't help.

So dear reader, what's really happening in the Neale story? Is the hoax accusation a media beat-up, or do we really think it's a scam? And how are the racism levels back in Oz these days? Any more flag-waving riots? And why do we hate the Brits (and vice-versa) with such gusto?

Isle of Wight

I think this was the point I realised I had officially lost touch with the kids. Or the yoof. Or whatever you call the underformed human beings listening to repetitive, ear drum damaging music on tinny phone speakers. I also realised that I've grown beyond the 'totally up for it' marathon boozing that is usually associated with music festivals. I know a lot of you are now crying "soft!" I don't care, I like my music, and I like to be able to remember seeing great acts.

None of the above should be read to imply that I didn't enjoy the Isle of Wight festival. I did. Immensely. Unlike Glastonbury, at IoW the sun shone, and you're not locked in the musical concentration camp for the duration, but can escape into town or even the beach. When it came to the music, I started to feel old: while the yoof were splitting their ears listening to the Prodigy, I ducked away to watch Bananarama. And yes, after all these years, yeah baby, she's still got it. And I was extremely glad all the unwashed and uneducated kids left early on the final day because they'd never heard of the Pixies or Neil Young, leaving us old fogies to enjoy the legends in relative peace.

As for the stuff the young kids were listening to: Goldie Looking Chain are, like Ali G, a parody too far (it's all well and good getting a chuckle out of the satire of "Guns don't kill people. Rappers do" or "Your mother's got a penis," but when people are idolising and imitating your chav persona, it's time to go); while Razorlight were a pleasant surprise, suggesting I shouldn't give up on music just yet.

And on second thoughts, perhaps I shouldn't be so harsh on the tradition of festival boozing, because it left us with a choice selection of anecdotes. Once we finally found a patch of ground big enough for our tents, we were abused and assaulted by our drunken 'neighbours' (including a royal marine fresh back from Afghanistan who insisted on showing us pictures of splattered bodies he'd taken with his iphone) who were unhappy to find that their 'private lawn' had been invaded by colonials (Sorry fellas, it's a music festival, and if it doesn't have a tent on it, it's terra nullius - see how you like it, you English gits).

We seemed to be in the military field, because we had a bunch of boozing sailors on the other side of our tents who furnished us with some choice quotes overheard in the wee hours of the morning: "... so, I was coming back from the loos, and there was this guying lying face down in the mud, completely naked. I gave him a bit of a shove and asked if he was alright... he came around a bit, looked at me, reached behind him and pulled a condom out of his arse, looked back at me and said 'don't say a fucking word' and walked off..." and the overall winner for quote of the festival: "I've seen more cocks this weekend than bands."

Big thanks to Mark and Fiona for letting me tag along as their third wheel, and also to Sam, Dave and Louise for letting me hitch said third wheel to their travelling road-show and crash at Dave's dad's place for daily sobering up sessions... truly, the only civilised way to festival.