New Articles
Republican Articles
VRS 2000
Queer Fish

Click here to join Kirsty's Mailing List
Buy Kirsty's Books



Published The Republican

Travel nowadays is rather a mystifying feat. No longer the dizzying discovery of destinations, the sense of confirming your already often vast knowledge of a place is more the go. Information is everywhere, the constant influx of images make even the unknown seductively familiar. Having worked for three days without leaving the house, I gleefully tottered off to discover the world via the Internet cafe. Even this limited variety of activity was met with relief from my claustrophobic senses which appeared to have been lulled into a dramatic state of cabin fever. My computer was also suffering signs of Alzheimer's and efforts to extract a large piece of unknown vegetable from between the G and B keys had proved fruitless, so I had an excuse to indulge in the dazzling feat of swapping keyboards. My life is indeed a melodramatic vortex of discovery. Breezily acknowledging my suddenly apparent lack of fashion know-how, (clearly windswept and interesting hair was out) I stumbled into Adelaide's Mecca, and the Ngapartji centre, where sidewalk computers are free for half an hour. Glancing around the Ralph Lauren clad crowd I decided to travel as far away as quickly as possible. Using the spunky Yahoo search engine, I sashayed the world with my little collection of what I imagined to be bewitching destinations. I popped between Prague, Manchester, Alberquerque and Las Vegas within my allotted time, checking out the local hotspots, drinking pits and historic landmarks before wandering inside for a much needed coffee before hitting Sweden hoping for a bit of racy action. I suddenly felt rather exhausted, as though my backpack carried my swag and ten pairs of twice worn undies rather than my collection of essential city junkie crap. I felt strangely familiar with Prague's Opernplatz, where the Nazi's held their first book burning, had decided to stay at the Sahara (from $48 a room) rather than the more fancy Caesars Palace (from $130) when I next hit Vegas, and discovered that Manchester has a ominous history of Vampires. I was a very slack traveller, but this concept is thoroughly entrenched in the policies of most travel agents. Many tours resemble school camps, piled out, filed through, packed in again. Travelling on the World Wide Web also enables you to experience this rare bus tour thrill without the threat of hearing 'Hotel California' for the fourth time'. You can still wear your most lurid trackie-daks, take snaps from the screen of your favourite spots, chat to other weary wanderers (check out the relevant bulletin boards) and not have to face the inevitable peril of saying "I need a toilet" in Portuguese. I became the vibrator visitor. Having lazily pleasured myself on an Almost As Good As The Real Thing holiday I felt blissfully satisfied. After this orgy of discovery, having seen all the good stuff, discovered what the best beer is, where to find the most delicious and cheap curry, and how to say Kiss my arse in Swedish ("Kyas mig i arslet"), I was rather dulled by the adventure overload. Satiated by the masturbatory aspects of getting all the good stuff and not having to exert myself any more than deciding where to go next, I'd had the big O (Outing) and felt pleasantly drowsy. I rolled over, had a cigarette and fell asleep, but was soon moved on by the kind staff who seemed to whisper, "Was it good for you?" but more likely asked me to brush my hair before darkening their door again.


Archives | Return to top