blame it on the bellboy

The first week of work was tough; I had to learn the secret of politely asking guests if they would like
their luggage to be taken to their room, finding my way around a 503 room, 25 floor hotel, learning the names of all the other staff at the bell desk, knowing the procedure for taking cars to the car park, how to tag bags,
group labelling, recognising a good tip potential and a empty walletted guest, and how to deal with getting up at 530am for work.

By the second week I was bored. The only redeeming feature of the job is the interesting people who work in the hotel. For instance, one of my compadres was a trapeez artist who is looking to settle down, another is a surfer from Byron Bay, there is a web designer who works at the hotel for the extra money, then there are the boys from the hotel school. Some are in it for the love of the job, while I expect many to make a career change at some point. There is also a big gay community within the hotel, whose numbers include a retired prominent Sydney drag queen, a hispanic out and out gaylord, and various others, which all adds to create an atmosphere that is much more exciting and interesting behind the reception desk than in front of it.

While it is a pleasant and luxurious hotel in the guest area, the service area is chaotic and messy. Lifts and vestibules smell of old food, past room service deliveries lie discarded on the floor, along with 3 day old newspapers, rotten fruit, coathangers, broken a-frame signs, dustbins and housekeeping trollies. Compared to the organised and disciplined practises withing the IT industry, the hotel industry is a debacle. Inefficient, bad working practises, gratuitous wastes of manpower and resources, petty bureaucracy, overly complex hierachy with small minded and megalomaniac idiots put in a position of management without any management training. Departmental animosity is so severe that cooperation only occurs on a rare and individual basis. I have the handicap that I want to fix all these easily remedied faults within the system, but it
would be a pointless exercise and of course Im in no position to do so.

Life otherwise is generally similar to treading water. Im waiting for Cathy to arrive and we are looking to run off and leave town when she gets here. The job is good as at least I am not spending more than I possess, and the tips top it off nicely. It took longer than I thought to get paid, but again thats down to the disorganised payroll office, who is run by a hermit, on certain days of the week, and who locks the door and answers to no-one.

If I finish work at 1500 then I can be in the water at 1600, while if I start work at 1400 then I am in the water by 0930 for a good couple of hours. The surfing is good and I seem to have some ok days and some great days. It all depends on the measured amount of seawater I consume while out on/under the waves.

The tediousness of the work was relieved for a couple of days when Ged and Norm popped in from Singapore. I joined them, along with Blake and Lisa, for a raucous night on Oxford Street. I was refused entry to the Q Bar as the badly dressed girl didnt agree with my dress sense, meaning the others left an already quiet bar to join me at a loud busy sweaty bar a few doors down. It was meant to be a quiet night, which meant Blake and Lisa left around midnight and I walked back with Ged and Norm at about 3am. Tequila shots, Jack and coke and beers does give you that 'quiet night' feeling. After staring at the topless girl who had run past us in the street, I felt inspired and left Ged and Norm at their hotel while I sniffed out a strip club. Im not sure what the point was, as I had difficulty seeing, but it seemed the right thing to do. I can only assume I had a thoroughly
entertaining evening as the strength of the hangover would indicate I had spent some fair amount of time in the sordid playhouse.

Another more gently evening was had when we went to Phillip's Foote, a bar and barbeque restaurant situated in The Rocks. You purchase the meat you want to cook and incinerate it to your specification in the provided grilled crematoriums around the place. My steak was so well done that I had turned it from meat back via vegetable through to pure carbon compounds. It tasted delicious, especially with the range of fresh bread and salads that helped removed the charcoal filter taste from my steak biscuit.

After being reminded by Ged of the lifestyle that is possible from an IT career, I returned with new found vigour in my hatred for my job, when I had to get up at 0530 from my bed to make the ferry in the morning. Never mind, I might win the lotto or Cathy might find a job which can allow me to fully dedicate my time to wave-ology.

living in the city

What have we here, a city with a population as large as New Zealand, a harbour that is the site of a beautiful bridge and an unusual arts centre with a design based on a palm leaf. I live in Manly. In Manly I have bumped into Paul Tribe (Tribey), a guy I know from Leeds OTC, and Bob Comport, who I know from school and 6th form. I have spent much of my time learning how to surf, and had almost given up alcohol and caffeine.

That was until the boys from London arrived, and my body was subjected to a good and proper poisoning.
It was worth it too. They were all staying in the Beach Road Hotel in Bondi, and much hilarity was had over the course of about 4 days while they were here. I also got a small taste of the rum that Rob had bought for me until its contents were emptied onto the floor of the hotel room, by a clumsy clown.

Parts I can remember are a number of bars throughout Bondi, a big night out in Coogee, involving wrestling,
massages, champagne, sweaty sweaty clappy clappy, random taxi journeys, loosing people, sleeping on a broken sofa bed, Ols snoring, the digital camera kids, a college disco somewhere in The Rocks, loosing my chain from Brazil, having the first hangover in weeks, and sitting in the special children bus. I can understand why Blake and Lisa have decided to escape and stay out here.

Even while my body was repairing itself from the damage inflicted on it, I went to an interview at the
Intercontinental hotel. The initial position I had applied for was Telecommunications Officer. To me, this sounds like a substantial and rewarding position and I was fairly eager. When the details of the position came through, I was less enamoured, as the job title should be changed to 'telephonist'. While Im not belittling it and I still went for the interview, it really hasnt got the same career prospects.

After being interviewed by a nice English lady in HR, I get to meet the front office staff. They decide I might be better suited to bellboy. This is another change from what I expected but I thought it worthwhile at least.

I could tell they liked me and I got the job. Bellboy though. Did I come all the way around the world to be a
bell boy?

To cope with this dilemma, I felt a breath of fresh air was needed and I escape for a few days up to Byron Bay.
Becky lives up there, and I wasnt sure when I would next get the chance to see her, so I thought it a good chance to get out of town and see a bit of the country. The first thing I recommend for coach journies in Australia, is make sure you take a large quantity of valium before you set off. The journey one way was 12 hours, and the seats are not that comfortable, and certainly difficult to sleep in without distorting your neck. The second thing I suggest is scrap the coach and fly; its easier, quicker and less painful, and there is not too great a difference in cost.

It was lovely to see Becky, but she did have to work for a couple of days when I was up there. That was fine, as she also lent me the van, so I explored around the beach to the lighthouse, had a few hours surfing here and there, sunbathed and generally enjoyed the town. She took me to an open air church on the saturday, with logs for pews, set on the top of a hill, overlooking a very welsh looking valley, followed by an old hippy commune in Nimbin, with every citizen trying to sell me their herbal products if you know what I mean, from cookies to bags of rastafarian tobacco. The museum there is worth the journey alone. To complete the show of diversity of Australian culture, we went to a Rodeo in Bangalow. There we saw 6 children in the 5 to 8 year old category, damage parts of the body that should be given a chance to grow, at least until they father children. I looked very out of place, and it was good being the only tourist. The uniform of Drizabone oilskin coat and cowboy hat was everywhere. VB beer was in everyones hand, and the air was thick with farm talk, town gossip, and animal waste products. I returned sometime Sunday bemused at what goes on in the country.

My first paid days work was on Monday and fortunately it was purely orientation. I got to meet the General Manager, find out about the history of the hotel and watch a marketing video explaining how wonderful the hotel and the brand is. Funnily enough, 6 continents Hotels, of which Intercontinental, Crown Plaza and Holiday Inn are part of, is actually owned by Bass Breweries. Im working for a British company!

Anyway, its dull; I dont give two hoots for the hotel and certainly cant see a 4 year stint as bell boy possible,
unlike some of the blokes who have been working there from 2 to 10 years.

Being a 5 star hotel, there are a lot of wealthy guests and V.R.P. very rich people. None of these people bother
with tips and so its left to the ordinary folk who are treating themselves a bit, to give the tips to the staff. I'm sure that if Karma had something to do with it then I would be getting bigger tips. I consider that I have always
tipped well, yet Im not getting much in return. Saying that, the Australians arent big on tipping anyway.

The worst part is the starting times. I think I need to be jet-lagged to cope, as my start time is usually 7am.
I cant understand it! 7am is an inhuman time to work at. Its money though, so I might as well make the most of it.

In the mean time, I am getting to meet the woman who runs the hostel where I stay, with the idea of running it.
The pay isnt great, even compared to bell boy, but I would get accomodation and I need to find something before Cathy gets here. The job is fairly cruisy and the place is only 100m from the beach.

So apart from hearing how my old company is to become a victim of the state of the global economy, and finding out how little IT work there is in Sydney especially before xmas, Im just enjoying the sunshine, and watching myself as I descend from lucid educated IT professional to obsequious sycophantic retard in a badly fitting unform.

g'day! fancy a banana smoothie?

Sydney differs from Auckland and New Zealand in so many ways, notably regarding the number of people. I think Sydney has around 3 million people, which covers the whole population of New Zealand. Its big, sprawling, urban, hot, brash, and not without a hint of americana.

I think I have spent about a week here, and Im only now starting to get used to it. Becky up in Byron (another concept album name) said that Manly is the best and most civilised part of Sydney. While I think she is right, it wasnt what I was expecting, but Im thankful that I didnt end up in the den of iniquity that is Kings Cross. As in the area of the same name in London, the main
users of the streets are those with unfeasibly short skirts, large beards, or possess a permanent fixture of some alcoholic beverage in their street-filthy hands. Its great. Strip clubs are oiled and squeezed between backpacker hostels, tourist shops, fast food outlets selling huge varieties of partially cooked meat, and internet cafes. The latter is the safest place to observe the goings on in the world outside, as obviously I dont have the desire or money to visit the strip clubs. Honestly.

There is a cinema that I stumbled across in the Kings X area, and I had heard about it from others who had visited Sydney years ago. I Went to buy a Warriors T-shirt and found an NRL shop, above which, the shop-keeper explained, was a vegetarian curry house, and above that was a cinema furnished with cushions and beanbags. I havent been to watch anything yet, but it sounds good.

Im still deliberating on how to get to India for Daryls wedding. It sounds wonderful, but Im starting to think about the pennies, and that really wouldnt help. It would be a shame to miss, but if I havent got the money, then I havent got the money. Additionally Cathy, whos foolishness knows no bounds, has decided that nearly a month in New Zealand wasnt enough for her, so she is coming to Australia. This is a good thing as she has been trained well in tea making and sunbathing, therefore making an excellent travelling companion, and the sunbathing making good use of the time while I am drowning in the sea learning to surf.

The idea of learning to surf was based on having thousands of bronzed men carrying fibreglass under their arms, and not wanting to feel left out, I went and bought one myself. I didn't want a Mini-Mal when the world and their son were buying one, so I bought a second-hand 6'6 Ron Wood shaped board. I got a 3mm wetsuit for 30GBP and got a leggy, wax, comb thrown in. The guy who sold me the board also sold me his old decrepid board bag, which makes me look a little authentic, as it has seen far more wave action than me.

Faint heart never did something naughty, apparently so it goes in the Navy, so I got in the water and had a go. After two days, I have strained my shoulder, swallowed more sea water than a fish, and never saw one wave; not from above the water anyway. I cant even sit on the board for longer than a minute, but at least I have managed the knack of crawling back on my board and vomiting discretely. Im sure I'll pick it up. Soon. I hope. Else I think I might be finding a new way to pass the time when I should be out jobhunting. At least it beats jobhunting in the UK, where that would be spent out of the rain, staring at newspapers and thinking about whether to put another jumper on. Im perfectly happy to lie on my board, thinking about jobs, in glorious sunshine, spewing elegantly out of my smug mouth, and thinking about which cafe to sit at while I dry off.

Ive got the Aussie bank account, and Im sorting out my Tax File number this week, while also moving out of Manly Beach Hut, which is a perfectly good, clean hostel, is haunted with the atmosphere of a University first year halls of residence. There are about 4 plates in the upstairs kitchen, 2 tea spoons, a cheese grater and kettle that go on long vacations, tea towels
that were possibly used to dry cats in Egyptian times and all this for the hygienic allergic inhabitants who number in excess of 30.

Ive found a decrepit and charming hostel down the road, which has a much more laid back atmosphere, with less drinking and intersex sport, and has a yoga and meditation centre next door. While its far from ideal, its better than being woken at 6am as people come back from clubs, just as I wake them at 7am to go out for more drowning practice on my new board.

Nature report: No sharks seen yet, some snorkelling possible around Shelly Beach, bats with a wingspan greater than a metre live in a tree near the wharf, cock-a-roaches hang out in gangs on street corners and I found a cat nearby that is bigger than most dogs. At least two or three times the size of most cats, it carries off small children. Maybe I exaggerate about the children; they weren't that small.