Baby It's Wet Outside: THE THOROUGHLY MODERN COLIN XMAS MESSAGE

Greetings from Queensland which has recently been renamed Wetland as the monsoons breaking the 100 year drought continue to pour down. I’m sitting here in my clogs sipping on mum’s special punch contemplating the year that was and wondering where I put those plans for an ark. Upstairs I can hear my mother reading Xmas cards to my father and brother from people they haven’t seen since the fall of the Berlin Wall whilst supervising my father and his apparent inability to make ham sandwiches. Soon we will be putting on our raincoats and jumping on boats to go to my cousins’ place in Caboolture for Xmas lunch. A Very Caboolture Xmas.....ah the serenity.

So here we are

Yet again.

Another Year.


Even Mike Leigh (of Secrets and Lies and Happy Go Lucky fame) has made a film about this process aptly titled Another Year, the title itself evoking a resignation of a slow plummet to the end, rather than a celebration.

Twenty Ten officially marked my move into the 'do you remember when?' phaze of life which from what I've observed of my parents and their parents before them, will last until I actually can't remember anything at all. The process involves continual exchanges with people you haven't seen since the advent of social networking reminiscing about a particular event, fashion item, band, movie or song. Did I really wear that? Who sang that? Remember that club? Remember that weekend? Who are you? I now find myself continually claiming to be around the first time for just about the first version of anything. As a kid it infuriated me that every song I adored my mother would say, " I remember when that first came out. ' 'That's an old song.' 'Everything old is new again.' 'Oh Little Eva's version was much better.' I was miffed for weeks when I realised that Little Eva did the Locomotion before La Minogue. Now I find myself doing the same thing.At Splendour in the Grass (festival) in July I corrected a girl for saying that the band Passion Pitt had written the song, Dreams, which they had just performed on the main stage. Myself and the flock of Triple J fearing lesbians I was attending the festival with, launched on said Gen Y girl in a governess style fashion and attempted to put her right .

We failed.

Me: "Passion Pitt did not write that song'
Y: 'Who did?'
Me: 'The Cranberries.'
Y : 'Who are they?'
Lesbians gasped
Me: 'Dolores O'Riordan'
Y: 'Never heard of her.'
Lesbians attempted lynch.
Me:'Oh my god she was huge.'

I found myself gesticulating as if on fire in attempt to indicate the 'hugeness' of Dolores and her Cranberries while the girl looked at me as if I belonged in one of Bert Newton's 20 to 1 specials. I then knew how my mother felt when I asked if Petula Clarke was a brand of jam.

In February, I returned to Brisbane after being away 9 years. 8 1/2 of those years in Sydney and roughly the remaining half in London. After not being able to find work in London, I decided to spend money like I had tonnes of it and travel through Europe and the States and come home broke to my parents. Which is exactly where one expects to be at the age of 35.

I actually quite like it. Living at home is like living in a serviced apartment. Mum and Dad do everything for me. My laundry, my cooking, my cleaning ....my bills. They drive me to work. They drive me to parties. They pick me up from parties. They pick me up from work. They even let me ignore them. I listen to my ipod. I surf the net. I watch DVDs. I’ve almost completed reading the entire Twilight series and by the end of next week I fully expect to be a 14 year old girl.

Mum and Dad live in the suburb of Kenmore where I am the only resident who cannot access his superannuation. They live in a run down Spanish Hacienda House which apparently was built by Miss Australia 1971....although not literally I believe. Am told she had some help. We found her sash near the hot water system when Mum and Dad first moved in 12 years ago along with a box of old pennys; perhaps she was trying to create a time capsule. Anyway as you walk through the Spanish Revival (what does that mean?) front door of Mum and Dad's, you are confronted by a six foot portrait of Jesus Christ. So think Majorca on the outside, Bethlehem on the inside. My mother has so many religious ornaments in the house that I am constantly in fear of being nailed to something. Everywhere I look there is a painting of Jesus looking sad. Why didn't that guy ever smile?

Mum and Dad don’t like renovations. The kitchen is one of those asbestos installed kitchens which can only be removed by astronauts. The pool is the same. It's one of those fibreglass pools from the 80s which look like they were installed by Barbie. Except ours now looks like it was installed by Baghdad Barbie. Mum and Dad don't understand mood lighting. There are fluorescent lights everywhere in the house. A lamp to them is the beta video of lighting.Why have warm subtle lighting when you can light your house like a solarium? I have received so much fluorescent light since I moved back that I am about to change race. Dad keeps my brother’s broken down corolla in the front yard to keep away burglars. It also keeps away capital gains. Mum and Dad are excited though. We have new neighbours. They're young, have two kids, two dogs and an international porn distribution business. I found this out when I questioned ’Ron’ as to why there were 400 dildos in his front yard. Dad thought they were garden gnomes. Mum is still upset that they didn't come to xmas drinks.

I started back at work in my old job but in my work’s Brisbane office. They are a great team but drink a little and generally are loud all the time forcing me not to work at all. I spend most of my lunch hours being confronted by declarations of ‘Oh my god it’s John Cahill’, ‘John Cahill it’s been a long time.’, ‘John Cahill you haven’t changed at all.’ from people I’ve never seen before in my life but claim to have gone to school and/or university or a darkened alley with me. It appears that everyone has come back to Brisbane to have babies
or a good lie down and generally both. I love Brisbane. I’ve missed its storms, its smiles and its inability to merge. Brisbane drivers are still not familiar with the concept. And catching a cab on a Saturday night is still like waiting for Whitney Houston to arrive. To think that the last time I lived in Brisbane, I wanted to rule the world, now I just want a cab.

This year I also commenced my Masters of Creative Writing at Queensland University of Technology which has been great. I've been surrounded by people who were born after the release date of Pretty Woman in 1990; Post Pretty Womans I like to call them or PPWs. PPWs are actually quite fun and once you get them away from their iphones and angst, they actually talk. I've made some great friends although sometimes I fear I maybe turning into that annoying mature age student I remember from my uni days who had a sweating problem and still smoked ....and lived with his mother. All this aside, I’ve been having a great time doing the course with a chapter of my book being selected by the Brisbane Writers’ Festival for a meeting with publishers from the UK. They had lovely scones.

I’ve also started doing stand up comedy. Yes.....I’m having a mid-life crisis, come sit next to me. I started in October making my debut at the Paddo Tavern Sit Down Comedy Club in Brisbane after completing a six week course. It’s more terrifying than a Whitney Houston concert and you often find yourself performing to about as many people who are left remaining at the end of a Whitney Houston concert. But it’s tonnes fun and I’m enjoying it immensely. Most of the time, I’m the only guy on stage who doesn’t refer to masturbation and/or sex with his pets whilst smoking his bong. I like to think I am refreshing.

I now have to sign off as my mother is screaming at my father for more ham sandwiches and at me to get ready for the journey to Caboolture (where Keith Urban is from...am wondering if I will bump into Nicole at the pokies). To think this time last year I was snowed in at a cute village in Frenchiland with my Mrs Van Trap drinking mulled vodka. Still....it’s nice to be home. Merry Exmus and the best of New Year’s to all.


Mwa

Cx