Two trailer park girls go round the outside

2 weeks of non-stop partying consequently meant it was time to find work. Conventionally you hand round CV’s into every bar/cafe/kebab shop/brothel around. But k and I chose to be less conventional – finding a hand written notice saying...


“ 2 female travellers needed for work. Good pay, free accommodation” grammar and spelling just as genie as us...it was a sign from GOD. We rang up spoke to a partly unconscious deep voice, got the jobs, packed up our shit and embarked on our new adventure.

The bus pulled up at Casino, Australia’s beef capital. And we were ushered to a working class funfair with a few retired ponies and rusty rides. We darted dodge ‘what the fuck?!?’ looks to one another as we were given keys to our new home, a trailer.

Our ‘Pinkies’ show work colleges consisted of Mark, josh, Wes and Mary fuck Anne..

Mark. Type 1 error of being ginger and covered in mutated freckles was nothing short of a psychopath. Decades of severe drug and alcohol abuse, serious learning difficulties and 7 convictions ranging from drug dealing to GBH meant he was an interesting character. Conversation with Mark was limited, awkward and usually through a small window of our trailer. He’d mumble and stutter usually offering a “cone” (Aussie term for a bong) or a “KFC” thrusting his deranged face or gifts through our window.

Josh. Type 1 error for only having 3 small black teeth and a BMI of a 6 year old was considerably more compos mentis. He also had a colourful array of convictions and claimed to be an extraordinary cook. We asked for scallops he gave us potato scallops...trialling his cookery skill we soon realized he talked absolute bullshit as I think you’d all agree, a jar of tomatoe sauce n pasta is not gourmet cuisine. He had no bank account, passport, driver’s license, national security number – he thought that all being very ‘cool’.

Mary Fuck Anne. Type 1 error of being a fat, Green Day obsessed mutton dressed as lamb. Smoked like a chimney, ate like a pig and general conversation of “fuck where fuck are my fucking smokes aye fuck spewing aye fuucckk.. fucking Boys fucking stole my fucking smokes fuuuuck... fuck ... FUCK... “Having to share a trailer with her was nothing short of painful. The slut cornered us in the trailer with a raw bleeding slab of cows’ liver and asked if we thought it was ok to cook. She was number one on our shit list.

Wes. Type 2 error of marrying a female showie and breeding an inbreed pack of children. Was a racist, arrogant, illiterate plank who happened to be our boss.

Our jobs were to sell either dodgem car or bouncy castle tickets to a bunch of inbred Australians and aboriginal kids. We worked 16 hour shifts in horrendous lycra, pink shirts. Different carnies would attempt to communicate with us by shoving Dagwoods ( meat substitute and bread deep fried) dripping with ketchup into our ticket boxes. They would offer us cones (bongs) sometimes as early as 8 in the morning. We would set up and take down the rides with no training after a few too many Jim Beans.

And yes we pissed in our trailer shower because we couldn’t be arsed to walk to the toilet – don’t judge. 

Get Down

It was always going to take a lot of beating after an insane 2009 new year – ‘2manydjs’ never made it to Custard Factory but we weren’t to know thanks to being shit faced and surround by the world’s greatest company (you know who you are!) But last minute plans meant 2010 was greeted by a crazy pre-drinks in a swanky Brisbane hotel with two equally insane Ozzy girls followed by the one and only 'JACK BEATS'. JACK fuck me BEATS for only $19 (£10) because the majority of Australians wouldn’t know good music if it shat in their coffee.


We remained at the front for the entire two hour set sweating like race horses. They dropped all the massive tunes – it felt like home all over again. After a breather, pretending we had aboriginal husbands to ransoms on the smoking terrace, we came face to face with JACK FUCK ME BEATS.

4sum

 And yes, they sooooo wanted to take us back to their hotel room and who’s to know if we actually did?!?

“When in Rome”

We were salivating like Pavlov dogs with the prospect of sharing a room with 7 boys in Byron Bay but in reality it smelt of congealed spunk, BO and damp running shoes.

A dear friend of ours, Knut, introduced us to Norwegian customs ‘Snooze.’ Tobacco balls that you insert under your lip against your gum with supposed effects of making you feel dizzy... BUT in reality it only makes you look like you’re growing a turd tumour on your face.

Meanwhile Knut is staggering around in the background repeatedly saying “don’t you feel dizzy?”...

  “Eeerm no”.. .We had to sex up the experience by approaching people round the hostel telling them we were eating their shit we scooped out the toilet.

This amused us immensely and also prompted K to pick up a guitar boasting that when she played people cried from an overload of emotion. Plucking the strings, singing some out of tune bullshit whilst holding the guitar upside down meant people really were crying...

After an eventful pre-drinks, a crew of drunken Europeans left the hostel for the escapades to continue into the night. Being poor we chose to take our goon with us, fuck buying some watered down sugary overpriced bullshit drink in a bullshit club with ugly bullshit Djs . In an indiscreet fashion the goon came out to play - these are the last 2 snaps taken before a bouncer gapped K’s arm and escorted us off the premises.

Snap 1: goon on head (not obvious at all)                                     Snap 2: goon being openly consumed

Within five days we had been removed or refused entry form all drinking holes in Bryon. And yes, we pride ourselves on this!

Australia: Sydney

We rocked up partially naked expecting to be met by rays of scorching sun. Unfortunately this was not the case. It was fucking freezing, pissing it down!


What do you do in such dyer situations?

You befriend some Ozzi guys, one of whom was wearing coloured contact lenses (cringe) aka “Blue-eyed Rapist” and his friend aka “Fatty” for self explanatory reasons of being fat...
They were ugly, unintelligent and Blue-eyed rapist was partially deaf but the possibilities of free drinks meant we stayed. Due to the unexpected bad weather we dragged the pre-drinking group we had collected into the sauna. We shared a dorm with two 18 year old Brits – easily swayed thanks to them wearing retainers, being young and privately educated. After a few drinks and shouting one syllable words into Blue-eyed Rapist ears we were graced with his favourite chat up line...

“If you get raped, you jus’ gotta ge’ over it”

Silence fell – “erm excuse me?” He soon received the Annie and K treatment and proceeded to get slapped. By this point one of the 18 year olds was battered and after a few words of encouragement she too joined in.

                    One...,               Two....,               Three....

K fell for Blue-eyed Rapist’s ‘charm’ and had a cheeky snogg – Fatty made head ways for Annie but his chat just wasn’t quite cutting it. The next hour was spent trying to get the wasted 18 year old in the club and fighting with Fatty because he expected some neck action...

After empting their wallets we made a hasty escape from Fatty and Blue-eyed Rapist... During our stumble home we found ourselves demanding drugs from an illiterate obese bouncer, epic fail. We begged for friendship with a police man, he was unimpressed. We then proceeded to pretend to sell meth in our YHA hostel....oh dear. With an overall unenthusiastic reaction we went to bed.

Sydney cock? Well neither of us were willing to get raped or squashed to find out...

The Rise of the Street Cotch

THS is Street Cotch!

Hundreds of women and the occasional puff gathering on the walk ways and pavements around exchange square in Hong Kong during the weekend. They sit on or in cardboard boxes eating homemade food, passing as purified animal genitals. They bitch on the phone, nap, play cards, people watch and swear at white lesbian looking couples who won’t stop taking photos.

Think about how much money we flitter away gathering in Starbucks or bars? Their weekend costs equate to almost nothing....

We want you to bring the Street Cotch to England. Grab a cardboard box and set camp, an umbrella would be advised - we’re thinking outside Topshop on Oxford Street or for a more authentic Street Cotch experience pick a pavement in China Town. If you get arrested or mistaken as a tramp then we do apologise in advance!

Not you’re normal Sunday

It planned to be your average Sunday – a laze on a beach, maybe a few cocktails and then some beauty sleep before another loooong flight inevitably resulting in an overdose of sleeping pills and red wine.


Only plans changed once we sniffed out some potential English shlong, not that we had missed it all that much…


We got chatting to a chappie that had been living in Hong Kong for 5 years and his advice was golden. After only a few minutes he cleverly sussed out what kind of girls we were and therefore invited us to join him to a ‘velvet curtain’ (strip) club. In Hong Kong the line between a strip joint and brothel is VERY fuzzy.


We were soon persuaded by a madam to walk through her clubs curtains. The inside reminds us of Wilkinson’s during Christmas – lots of plastic green trees and tasteless red lights. Plus a few scantily dressed philipino girls drinking shots of “vodka” which we soon sussed out was water.. For a measly $115 Hong Kong dollar “”vodka”” shot (around £11) we got Pilipino chat, tits, arse and a filthy dance but when is that ever enough?

So we joined them on their poles – not so gracefully, our oversized British boobs flying around stage like bulls in a china shop (don’t worry we managed to stay dressed!)

K getting on DOWN

Physically forced some Air head Americans to buy the other girls “”vodka”” shots to get the rest of the girls up on stage and naked.


BUT as much fun as it was, Pilipino muff was NOT the reason for going to Hong Kong and we didn’t think our English chappie could handle the both of us…

Safest taxi driver in the whole of Hong Kong

The first taxi man was your average arse hole - short fused and didn't know where the fuck we wanted to go... "Its something like Lang Kfwang FOng Chwong Foo" It was followed by the usual argument - taxi man Vs genie on how much to pay, the language barrier made it all the more interesting


the locals rave on the streets outside the bars and clubs and purchase their liquor from Seven Eleven, the Hong Kong OMCO. This has an added advantage of socialising with music without added bar costs.

Some ugly Liverpudlian with an abnormally sweaty face "Can i get you a drink." Walked into Seven Eleven and bought us a few cans - skanky bellend

... After a small blast of techno we made our way back to the converted toilet with some Singapore boys ..

Hailed down a taxi...

But this Taxi man was out right, the coolest taxi man to ever grace the planet

Not like the arse holes in Selly Oak we usually short change or clip clop away without paying. He didn't smell, have a cheeky perv, get his mates to rob our house, child lock us in his car or take us the 'long way' round.

He raved - He laughed - he gave us his Mix CD and he lit up a splif ... what a ledged - The knowledge of DJ GFUNK was born.

Have a nosey http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0SjYcDA8PP0