#and i have this sort of bile fascination where you clearly had efforts put in there in the making and yet everybody is absolutely hating it

[adarkrainbow]

I have been sharing things about French fairytale movies. We have been talking about Cinderella. As such I want to speak about a movie I actually can't really speak about because I have not seen it... But I need to just talk about it because... Well, you'll get it. It is the 2017's Les Nouvelles Aventures de Cendrillon (The New Adventures of Cinderella).

Now to understand WHERE this movie comes from, we need to return to 2015 and the release of another movie "The New Adventures of Aladin".

This movie is a comedy, an humoristic retelling/parody of the Aladin tale - France has quite a history of One Thousand and One Nights-cinema, and already humoristic takes on similar stories had been done (Gérard Jugnot had notably played in an humoristic Ali Baba movie I saw when I was young, for example). Here the main star and the actor playing Aladin is Kev Addams, which was then a young humorist that had been on the rise for quite a few years and was an "idol of the youngs", so to speak. The gist of the movie is: two thieves are disguising themselves as Santa Clauses in modern-day Paris to steal at the Galeries Lafayette. But they are stuck with a group of children who asks them for a story - and so to get rid of them, they decide to tell them an improvised version of the story of Aladdin, which in turn parallels the real-life events surrounding the thieves.

[Note the writing of "Aladin" with one "d", to carefully avoid any Disney lawsuit.]

This movie was very, very popular in theaters. It was popular enough to actually get a sequel called "Alad'2" (a pun on how "in" sounds like "un", "one"), which also was one of the leads of the box-office in France, and brought in another French humorist, this time of the "previous generation" before Adams - Jamel Debbouze:

But there was one problem... Both movies were absolutely torn to shreds by the critics. In newspapers, on websites, everybody agreed that these movies were actually bad, and not at all good movies nor great comedies. In fact, the reviews of the movies and the sales corresponding to it clashed so much it caused an online scandal when it came to the website AlloCiné (one of the French websites of reference when it comes to cinema), who was openly accused of faking reviews and inventing profiles to boost this movie's note - because it seemed impossible, with all the negative critics and the backlash, that the movie could obtain a mid-rating (3/5).

All of that to say, these movies were very polarizing - seen as embodying the typical bad comedies and a certain "downfall" of French cinema everybody has been talking about in the 2010s, and yet being massively mediatized and very popular among young audiences especially, and bringing in a lot of cash...

Now we reach our movie. Welcome "The New Adventures of Cinderella"! Which technically seems like a spin-off of the Aladin movies, and yet by its chronological placement seems to be a sequel "by the principle", not directly following it while still reusing its principle and referencing the previous movie (this movie was released BEFORE Alad'2)

This movie basically does what "Les Nouvelles Aventures d'Aladin" did - it is an humoristic retelling/open parody of Cinderella, framed as an adult being forced to tell a story to children. In this case it is Julie, a young girl who finds herself alone on the day of her birthday, without anybody remembering it... Until Marco, the man she secretely loves (and the son of her boss) calls to tell her he is coming over. Filled with hope she awaits... only to discover Marco brings her his son because he needed a last-minute babysitter. Stuck with this particularly bratty child, Julie is forced to tell him a story, and fed up with everybody treating her like a servant, she decides to tell a version of Cinderella where she plays the main role - and Marco is the prince she tries to win. Other characters from her life are recast: her boss is the king, her bitchy colleagues are the wicked stepsisters, her annoying neighbor if the evil stepmother... And Snow-White with her seven dwarves pop up at some point - because just like with the "Aladin", Disney references are quite present...

The main actress (Cinderella/Julie) s Marilou Berry, who truly was noticed and became quite famous thanks to playing in "Vilaine", and after passing by a series of movies (including "Les reines du ring"), she had another focus thanks to the success of the "Joséphine" movie. The cast also gathers other actors quite used to the world of comedy, ranging from older generations of the "classics" (Josiane Balasko as the wicked stepmother, Didier Bourdon as the king) to more recent ones (Arnaud Ducret as the prince Marco, Vincent Desagnat as the prince's older brother).

Now, I have not seen the movie, so I can't confirm or infirm this... But when it was released, this piece got bashed. Really, really hard. Harder than the Aladin movie, from people simply calling it "unfunny" and "cringe" to other actively pointing it out as being offensive and sexist, if not misogynistic. Aladin's note online roughly went around a 3/5. This one hesitated between 2/5 and 1,5/5. Now, again, I can't say I agree or disagree with these reviews because I have not seen the movie - and we all know a mass-opinion can be wrong. It seems more recently kinder reviews have been opping around the Internet - pointing out that all the backlash ths movie received was exaggerated and the piece was better than what everybody descibed.

Now, if you want my two pences of thought, I do believe that maybe this has to do with the audience that went to see these movies. As I said, Kev Adams was quite the "idol of the youth" when he did the Aladin movie (I don't know if he still is), but he had a BIG fanbase among teenage girls for example, as well as a certain scope to a young audience. And precisely who kept talking about these Aladin movies and who was more interested in those Aladin movies? Children. Meanwhile this Cinderella movie lacks any star or face that a young audience could recognize - no real Kev Adams. Yes, Marilou Berry is here, but her audience is not known to be young children - and as such, I do believe that the Aladin movies were favored by having a natural "fanbase" and already formed young audience ready to dig in. Meanwhile here two of the prominent stars are actors who symbolize the humor of the 20th century and are now quite aged - Balasko and Bourdon - who will speak to adults, but probably not to children... Anyway I am really speaking out of anything here, especially since I haven't seen the movie, but I do believe that this played a part in how this movie was received in a lesser way than the Aladin ones. (Plus the Aladin movies were clearly aimed at a male audience, which coupled with Kev Adams' natural teenage girl fanbase and the big success of Disney's Aladdin among girls, made sure both genders could go see it without shame - meanwhile this movie is clearly a "girl movie" meaning the audience is already restricted a bit more... And as such much more offended - as I said the movie was accused of being a piece of misogynistic jokes (doesn't help that there are only men who wrote and directed this movie).

But again, it might also have to do with the movie just being bad, you know. After all the man behind this movie (Lionel Steketee) is not the one that made the first Aladin movie (Arthur Benzaquen) but rather the one that did its lesser-appreciated sequel... Though the same script-writer was used for both (Daive Cohen).

Now, my only question, from what I have seen (extracts and trailers and previews) is actually... What is the target audience? Maybe it will clear up when I get to see the movie but this is all framed and sold as a kid-friendly entertainment, it even being an "all-public" movie to which families are supposed to be able to bring their kids but... a lot of the jokes I have seen are typical of adult things. I mean there's a lot of sex jokes for example, which made me think originally this was an adult movie, but then it also kind of is framed and written as a kid-level comedy and... Yeah this leaves me a bit confused. Just take the movie's poster, at the top of the post... You can't tell me there isn't a big sexual innuendo in the way the prince "rides" Cinderella! And yet it is sold as a movie kids can go watch and that isn't for a more mature audience? Anyway, I do not have a lot to say, since I haven't seen the movie, but I wanted to make a "preparation" post for when I will get to see it.

(I will just add that while some of the jokes I have seen do seem really bad - like a certain joke about a character's throat which was used already in Les Visiteurs 3 and seems really out of place in a kid movie, clearly taken from the Men in Black - some actually made me laugh. Most notably there is a great slapstick moment you can glimpse in the trailer where the Lady Tremaine-like stepmother just... headbutts Cinderella for speaking to her. I did quite like this joke as it subverts the pose and subtle threat of the Disney-wickedstepmother, while also clearly dedramatizing the violence into a goofy, cartoonish way. But that's just me.)

[egodari]

hhhhh I posted the second chapter of my take on the dimension hoppers au on Ao3 a while back but didn’t get to post it here until now so here you go

Word Count: 3048

Fandom: Gravity Falls

Characters: Fiddleford McGucket, Stanford Pines

[first/previous] [Next] [Ao3]

Violet dyed bark of tall and thin trees, with ropes of ice-blue leaves that hang from its branches, planted sparsely in the soil of the planet. A planet so far from its sun, that water stays frozen in time. A thick blanket of indigo tinted snow covers the shivering soil. The peaceful and quiet sounds of native animals grazing and chirping completes the serene scene. The atmosphere smells clean, fresh of the oxygen that allows many species to live. Suddenly, a wormhole opens up in the sky, expelling two humans from it before disappearing. “Eugh,” Fiddleford groans, lifting his head up from the snow, “That’s… disorientating.” He quickly recaps himself on the events of the last… however long it’s been.

Stanford!

He pushes himself to stand up, and quickly finds Stanford, lying face down in the snow. “C-come on, Ford, get up,” Fiddleford frets as he pulls his friend up. Stanford puts in no effort to stand, more focused on trying to keep the rising bile in his throat from reaching his mouth. He quickly darts to the nearest bush when he feels that he can’t keep the sickening mix of stomach acids and digested food down in his stomach, Fiddleford closely trailing behind him. “Stanford, are you okay?” He doesn’t reply, fearing the high probability of throwing up sick on his friend. “T-talk to me!” Fiddleford begs him. Stanford shakes his head as a response. Finally, his nausea gets the better of him, and he vomits a little, majority of whatever he had for dinner regurgitated and mixed with bile landing on Fiddleford’s pant leg. “I-I s-s-orry,” Stanford’s feeble and off-coloured apology to his friend was all he could muster before quickly turning away to remove the rest of the contents in his stomach, which could potentially add up to not just breakfast, lunch and the whatever remained of dinner, but yesterday’s breakfast, lunch and dinner as well. Fiddleford’s face falls flat in 0.2 seconds, unimpressed. He, despite the frustration of having his friend’s sick on his leg, attempts to soothe him the best he could, but failing to keep his salt from leaving his mouth, “That’s it, let it all out. God, yer lucky I care about ya, ‘cause I’m feelin’ pretty fuckin’ nauseous myself.” That was a bit rude. “I’m sorry. That was mean.” Fiddleford is lucky himself that Stanford point of focus was more on expelling the contents of his stomach than his insensitive comment. “Okay… I-I’m done,” Stanford breathlessly murmurs, leaning back into Fiddleford’s lap, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Fiddleford assures him. Stanford makes himself stand again, and takes the chance to survey the environment. Fiddleford follows his lead and starts to explore the clearing they landed in. He comes across a decayed skeleton that strongly resembles that of a human. However, it is the shiny axe that lies with the corpse that captures Fiddleford’s interest. He picks it up and swings it against a tree, wedging the tool deep into the wood. Despite the axe’s stubbornness, Fiddleford succeeds in pulling the axe out of the tree. “Stanford!” he cajoles, lifting the axe up into the air, “I found an axe!” Stanford’s reply has even more joy to it, when he proclaims that he’d found shelter. Without a second thought, Fiddleford runs to where Stanford had called from, to find a cave entrance leading into a shabby, makeshift shelter. An empty and doused campfire sits in the centre of the small cave, in front of a slab of smooth rock with a couple of expedient pillows made out of an alien fern, which the pair assume is a bed. Refined planks of wood sit in the right corner. A couple of chests sit against the left of the cave, which Fiddleford makes a beeline for. He rummages through the chests and finds items that will surely improve their chances of survival. “Some type of raw meat, some sort of large fruit or berry…” Fiddleford lists as he removes the contents from one chest, “Ooh! A gun.” Stanford’s face contorts to express concern, “Why are you so excited about that?” Fiddleford shrugs in response, before firing the gun into the ground to test it. Its red-hot laser bullet leaves a decent mark in the stone ground. Stanford shrugs it off, sorting through the second chest. He finds a lighter, a metal dagger, a large stick, and a small, golden clock. The clock is what eludes the pair. Instead of the twelve digits around the edge like the clocks they’re used to, there is sixteen. Half the background of the clock is painted with a cream colour, the other half in a deep blue. The clock’s hands tick at the same speed as Earth clocks; sixty seconds for a minute, sixty minutes for an hour. The clock currently reads 5:27. “So, this planet has a sixteen-hour cycle, and sundown, I assume, is six o’clock,” Stanford deduces, brushing his thumb over the glass. He looks outside, noticing the daylight being a lot bluer and darker than before. “I’m gonna go out, try and find some more wood for a fire,” Fiddleford surmises. He grasps the axe, “I’ll be back before sundown. I promise.” Stanford, despite everything his mind blares at him, he doesn’t protest. He only retires to the bed near the back and watches as Fiddleford leaves, taking out the scarf Fiddleford had gifted him back in college, except, it’s grown to more of a blanket than a scarf. And he waits. He waits, lying down on his side, wrapped in his blanket-scarf.

6:13. Fiddleford has not returned, and with thirteen minutes (and counting) since sundown, Stanford starts to fret. He tries to calm down, telling himself that Fiddleford will indeed return soon. However, the planet’s night has other plans. Unintelligent groans resonate from outside, slightly disturbing the scientist. More disturbing, is that the source of the groans starts to pile inside. The decayed and rotting carcasses of miscellaneous species could not be more alive at night, and they could not be more unsettling for Stanford as they slowly crawl their way to him. He scrambles for the gun on the ground beside the bed, haphazardly shooting down the small hoard of the undead. But, they do not fall, still continuing to trudge closer and closer to him. If he weren’t injured, cold, hungry or sleep deprived, he would be able to think more clearly about his situation, but the odds aren’t in Stanford’s favour at the moment.

And it is time to change those odds.

Stanford slaps himself in the face, really hard, to try and make himself think clearer (he had read somewhere that a good slap to the face can alleviate the effects of hysteria, being cold, tired and hungry is like hysteria, right?). He sorts through the little inventory he has, with only three other items in his possession. A clock, a lighter and a stick. Great, he thinks to himself. Stanford decides to bet his chances of survival on fire, lighting the tip of the stick aflame, a small, sea-blue flame flickering away. The undead carcasses don’t react in any way, only continuing their short journey to maul the living into shreds, which in this case, is poor, poor, Stanford Pines. The scientist sets the closest decaying organic matter alight, and the undead creature burns in the most spectacular way. The fire, now burning at a hotter, sky-blue, spreads at an insane rate, completely covering the first (it’s safe to say) zombie in flames. Its appendages flail around, setting its nearby compatriots on fire, and they burn to their (second) death. Stanford’s whole face brightens at this revelation, realising that he has a way out of his tricky situation. However, Stanford’s joy is short lived, when some of the monsters remain alive. He quickly gets to work in setting them all on fire, and soon, the cave is littered with ashes of the withered. Noticing the wooden planks in the corner, Stanford barricades the entrance with them. He lays back down on the stone slab for a bed, but he has no intention of sleeping. Any chance of falling asleep he had before had been obliterated.

7:54. Pounding. Pounding on the wooden barricade Stanford had pitiably strung together. He wraps himself in his blanket-scarf, turning away from the cave opening. Finally, after a loud crash, the barricade had come down. Fiddleford ecstatically started to blabber as he dumped his treasures onto the ground. He sets the campfire ablaze, a shimmering icy blue fire dancing as the centrepiece of the cave. “Stanford! I found a load of cool loot from this clearing about thirty feet west! It had all of these… hey, are ya okay?” Fiddleford stands nervously a couple of metres from the bed, shuffling his feet. Stanford, still wrapped in his blanket-scarf, only mutters, “You said you’d be back before sundown.” Fiddleford scratched the back of his head, chuckling awkwardly. “Gee, I-I’m sorry about that, I just got a little held up,” he replies, not fully grasping the weight of how serious his friend is being. “I thought you were lost or hurt‼ Or worse‼” Stanford cries, unbounding himself from his blanket-scarf. “I was only a little late.” “You were gone for two hours! I had to fight a hoard of zombies an hour ago!” he’s now on the brink of tears. Fiddleford doesn’t answer, all the words he knows disappearing at the most inconvenient moment. Stanford quickly jumps forward and hugs Fiddleford tightly, not wanting to let him go. Fiddleford begins to notice his friend’s increasingly jumpy and emotional state. He is fascinated by this other side of the Stanford coin. The toll of being cast away into the interdimensional sea has been much worse for him than it has for Fiddleford, and he finally starts to notice this. He looks for something to take his friend’s mind off the stress. “Maybe ya should lie down, I’ll re-barricade the entrance.” Stanford nods, and lies back down on the slab of rock, covering himself in the blanket-scarf. After making quick work of the barricade, Fiddleford sits down next to Stanford, brushing a hand through his hair. “Hey, isn’t that the scarf that I gave ya for yer birthday back in college?” Fiddleford beams, noticing the blanket-scarf for the first time, “Although, I thought it was more of a scarf than a blanket.” Stanford’s face flushes into a colour that is more pink than peach. He smiles fondly at his blanket-scarf, tugging on it gently, “Y-yeah, I—uh—I knit and sew extra fabric onto it when I’m stressed.” Fiddleford gingerly inspects Stanford’s handiwork. He runs his fingers over the seams where extra fabric had been added. The seams are barely visible, making the blanket-scarf seem almost seamless. He notices how the fabrics blend together, how they fit next to each other like perfect pieces in a puzzle. The start of the fabric, a hand-knitted fiery-red scarf, had gradually turned into a blanket that phased through every conceivable colour of the light spectrum, ending with a soft violet. Patterns printed in shades, from black all the way to white, and every possible grey in between, decorate patches of the blanket. The blanket fades between gradient colour and patterns of shapes with more sides and curves than the simple rectangle. The elegance of how everything on the blanket fits seamlessly took Fiddleford’s breath away. “It-it looks… I don’t have the words for it,” Fiddleford exclaims, his breath taken away by Stanford’s craftsmanship. “You-you’re just saying that,” Stanford argues, although weakly. He bows his head, keeping his eyes off everything but the fingers on his fidgeting hands. Fiddleford guffaws, waving off Stanford’s comment, “I’m serious! It’s… subjectively the best thing you’ve ever made.”

Stanford looks down the icy blue fire that burns before them, sighing quietly. The colours that flicker before his eyes reminds him of what he thought was going to be his magnum opus. The fire that engulfed his hand might not have burned when he shook it, but Stanford’s definitely feeling the fire now. “The portal was supposed to be the best thing I’d ever made,” Stanford blurts, surprising himself with how loud that came out. He starts to sob again, but attempts to keep it quiet, not wanting to be a burden. His shoulders slump forward, curling on himself as if his spine has buckled against the metaphorical weight on his shoulders, “L-look where that got us.” He sees a maroon drop of fluid fall from where he approximates his right eye to be and splatter onto the bluish-grey stone, the stone soaking up the thick fluid like a sponge. “Oh no, your eye’s bleeding again!” Fiddleford squeaks, gently lifting Stanford’s head to face up towards him. He remembers the canteens filled with spring water he had gathered, “I’ve got something to clean yer eye up.” Taking care to not hurt Stanford, Fiddleford eases himself from the bed and grabs one of the canteens. He sheds his lab coat and rips a huge chunk from it, wetting part of the fabric with the spring water, rushing himself and spilling some water over himself. He sits back down, beside Stanford, gently covering his eye with the damp, cold cloth. “I’ll get ya some food,” he affirms, careful to not let his voice crack under the insane pressure they’re under at the moment, “Hold this against yer eye.” Stanford sighs quietly, holding the cloth up to his eye washes a light bout of nostalgia over him. Countless memories of holding an ice pack or a bag of frozen peas against his face as a child after being mercilessly beat up by the school bullies. The only bullies that are mercilessly beating Stanford up now are his follies and an almighty triangular demon. “I found some sort of deep-blue squid meat, all cut up an’ everythin’, sealed in a plastic baggie along with a small box of assorted food items. Should last us a couple of Earth months if we ration,” Fiddleford blabbers as he boils the squid meat in a pot above the fire, taking caution as to not burn himself. He talks for as long as he’s got something to say, doing his absolute best to keep Stanford’s mind off the stress. He promises himself that he won’t crack, he won’t break down. Not yet, anyway.

The open flame burns hotter than a regular campfire, heating the squid soup quicker than Fiddleford had anticipated. He uses the soup ladle that came with the pot and spoons some of the soup into a bowl, not overfilling it so he doesn’t risk spilling the boiling liquid over himself. Fiddleford rests the bowl next to Stanford, who shakes his head to refuse, “You eat it. Don’t…” “Don’t be stubborn, Ford,” Fiddleford sternly retorts, forcing Stanford to sit up and consume his meal. Defeated, Stanford elegantly lifts the bowl and sips the soup from it. He shoves the squid into his mouth whole and chews. He didn’t realise how hungry he is until now. As soon as he swallows, he can feel a sudden jab at his stomach. A loud, blood-curling scream that sounds all too well like his own echoes from inside his head. Does the ground always move? He tries to move, but it’s as if his muscles had gone stiff, unmovable. Triangles, of yellow and red, flash before his eyes, and they dance around him, but they dance only around the edges of his vision. The ground below his feet spins like a carnival ride gone wrong. The intense feeling that Stanford is being watched hits him like a tidal wave. Glowing, yellow eyes with ghastly cat-like pupils flicker in and out of visibility against the blue-tinted stone walls. He knows he’s been sitting, but his sense of touch keeps telling him that he’s sinking into the stone, or that he’s floating above it. Hell if his nerve receptors know what it’s talking about.

“Stanford!” Fiddleford cries, pulling Stanford from wherever the hell he was to reality. He’s gripping Stanford’s shoulders, a panicked expression etched ever so clearly on his face. Stanford holds his head, soundlessly groaning. He notices the bowl on the ground, the watery liquid spilt all over the stone. “I-I-I’m sorry,” Fiddleford babbles, finally starting to give way and crack under pressure, “I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry, I…” Stanford shakes his head, “I’m fine.” His words are quiet and stone-cold, but soft, silencing the babbling engineer. He leans forward and gently wraps himself around Fiddleford in a hug. “I was wondering when you were gonna crack,” he whispers, resting his head on Fiddleford’s shoulder. “How did you manage to keep it together for all this time,” Stanford mumbles, abolishing whatever dignity he had left that let him stand proud. There was nothing to stand and fight for anymore, except their own lives (or whatever would be left of their lives to salvage when—no—if they ever get home). Two young men stuck dimensions away from their homeworld, what a way to go out, Stanford muses. He clears his throat, “I lost it the minute we got stuck.” Fiddleford returns Stanford’s gesture, resting his arms atop his shoulders. “That’s exactly why I didn’t go bat-shit crazy when we flew through that machine,” Fiddleford mutters. He smiles when he hears a suppressed laugh from his friend. “I was trying to keep it together f-for you. We’d be a moot point if we’re both crazy.”

I love you, too, nearly escapes Stanford’s lips. Maybe he is indeed crazy for almost uttering the sentence. If he is crazy, there’d be nothing to lose. He can’t bring himself to say it, not yet, anyway. “I’m sorry for being such a nuisance,” Stanford laments. He chuckles dryly at how useless he’s been. “I’m a thirty-year-old man, and I’ve been sobbing incoherently like a fourteen-year-old girl. There’s definitely something wrong with me,” he laughs, but there’s nothing funny about it. “There’s definitely something wrong with both of us,” Fiddleford hushes, brushing his hand through his friend’s fluffy hair (that’s so unbelievably fluffy). “And there’s nothing wrong with that, right?” Stanford breaks away from their (surprisingly long) embrace. He smiles fondly like the village idiot, letting a single-syllable, heartfelt laugh out, “No, there’s not.”

[roodiaries]

Early 2017: Sydney Lights, Hints of the Pacific & Bum-Biting Goannas

The blog is back in AUSTRALIA (as per the theme and name, after the last entry's Asian deviation!) And it's more light-hearted and less moany than before I think :)

New Year in Sydney was an enticing prospect as popular opinion considers it to be one of the best places to celebrate. Clearly how good of a New Year you have depends totally on who you're with, what you do and what mood you're in, with the setting as simply something of a backdrop. That said, seeing in 2017 overlooking Sydney Harbour was one of the best new years I've experienced. The most overhyped night of the year lived up to its billing, one of the few times in my life it's done so (though the last four – in Edinburgh, Montanita, Birmingham & London respectively – have all been good ones).

The return from my December Asia trip was marked by a nasty bout of 7/11-sandwich food poisoning which saw me spew my guts and bile out in a hostel bathroom and cling to the toilet bowl for dear life. I was later told off for coughing too much in bed by a scary middle-aged African lady (from Sierra Leone), forcing me to put my pillow at the other end of the mattress. “Just go to sleep!”, I angrily retorted. She kept making comments aloud to herself in this dorm full of relaxed European male backpackers: “there's too much coughing in this room!...what time is it?...why does everybody hang their washing in here?” It's funny now, but at the time was very jarring. I spoke to her more the next day and she actually seemed quite nice: she just definitely shouldn't have been staying in a dorm room.

New Year came around and a big group of us headed down to village-like Balmain in the midsummer heat, weaving through the rampant picnicking masses ready to eat up the picturesque firework display, many/most with illicit alcoholic beverages tucked away to avoid clashes with the patrolling police. In my opinion, Australia is the most strict country I have ever been to in terms of rules and actual dishing out of fines for minor public disturbances (Singapore included): jay-walking in the city centre can get you a $70 on-the-spot fine; putting your feet on the seat on the train in Melbourne is $233 ($78 for children); not filling out the Census is $180 per day until you do. And alcohol is very carefully controlled: one wild backpacker party on Coogee Beach over Christmas led to the total alcohol ban in the area, which will probably be permanent now. Getting your hands on a beer at a festival or public event can be tricky too, and there were lots of signs up warning against it for New Year. Of course people still drank, but greater efforts were made not to get too rowdy and attract attention (efforts which failed increasingly as the day wore on), so that the family-friendly atmosphere could be maintained. I agree that a family-friendly atmosphere should be preserved for the public good, but the vast majority of people can and do drink responsibly so just leave us alone and let us booze at big events!

We were perched on the grass in a park on the south side of Sydney's twisty harbour (seriously, look at a map: I've never seen a port/harbour with so many coves, bays, inlets, promontories, peninsulas and creeks – it's mesmerising). I brought my friends from the farm days in Renmark to meet my uni chum Mark and his friends, and even bumped into my old colleague Sebastian from when we door-knocked together in Melbourne 9 months previously. It was a good group and a great firework display, with excellent views of the bridge, but a long arduous walk/bus journey home through the packed city.

On New Year's Day, I returned to stay with Adele and her family, also with Sara and her family, for a very homely get-together in Jervis Bay, involving feasts, soft beds, crab-infested mangrove walks and cute boat trips up creeks and bays. I then flew to Brisbane for another little getaway, deciding I had spent about $1000 less than I had anticipated in India & Nepal and so could afford more travelling before the dread-inducing job hunt began again. My long and short-term future seemed very uncertain at this point (long-term future still hasn't been sorted out, and probably never will). I was able to relax nonetheless, and immediately warmed to Queensland's capital and largest city. It seemed more spacious with wider streets and lower-rise buildings, like Adelaide but with greater charm, while also being friendlier and slower-paced than Sydney. It certainly felt like the Sunshine State on first impressions. Adele and I walked the Brisbane River with its summery Southbank swimming pools providing family fun and adding to the holiday atmosphere. The GOMA (Gallery of Modern Art) had some pretty cutting-edge exhibits, like a 22m-long Tongan mat, a scarily realistic large pensive woman in bed and a giant arch of cardboard boxes one inside the other getting progressively smaller, while West End was a cool neighbourhood with a more international and backpacker vibe (I spent a couple of nights here later). Mount Coot-tha provided a panoramic view of the city from the west; there were also some nice walking tracks and Turrbal aboriginal art designs in the surrounding forests.

Aboriginal Australia, away from well-worn narratives of horrors at the hands of European settlers in the past 230 years, is a mysterious, diverse and fascinating culture to explore. Or more correctly, cultures, since there were more distinct Aboriginal 'nations', speaking over 300 languages, on the continent when the First Fleet arrived in 1788 than there are countries in the world today. Only around 3% of the population of modern-day Australia is considered indigenous (Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders), and there are only token remnants of Aboriginal culture in the main cities: an occasional sign-post, some hiking tracks, information boards. Here are some of the oldest continuous human cultures in the world, believed to be at least 60,000 years old, and discovering more about them is definitely a high priority during my time here.

Talking of culture, we paid a visit to the Castlemaine-Perkins (XXXX) Brewery, my third brewery tour in Australia! XXXX isn't my favourite of the extensive Aussie beer selection but a classic one nonetheless and well advertised (“well you wouldn't want a warm beer!”) Just on the beer note, Australia does have a surprisingly good and extensive collection of beers, especially pale ales. My favourites are Little Creatures, James Squire 50 Lashes, Kosciuszko and Lazy Yak. Try them some time (they have some in bars in the UK too, e.g. Sheffield Tap).

In the following days, I had the chance to catch up with a few friends from my previous travels, such as Hanna, who I worked with as strawberry-pickers in the Huon Valley; and Gaby from the Loja period; as well as Alex Dodd, also from Loja days: we had a barbecue in his apartment and travelled with a few others down to Burleigh Heads on the Gold Coast. Though not able to match their high level of several-dozen kick-ups in casual beach footie, it was an amazing spot to jump in the waves and watch the professional surfing.

By the time I was leaving Brisbane, I'd decided to make my way back to Sydney by land for a sort-of-roadtrip before completing my plan of finding a job in Sydney and saving up. I hitched a ride down from Brissie to Byron Bay with a cool Kiwi surfer called Bertus I'd found on one of the Facebook backpacker groups. I actually had nowhere booked for Byron, and began to stress about it as we drew nearer and I saw how packed it was. 'I'll just sleep on the beach', I'd told myself before... But the reality of that is harder and more unpredictable than it seems, unless you're a more confident, battle-hardened outdoorsy adventurer than I currently am. I was warned of druggies, drunk backpackers, cold, animals and police, and suddenly became really desperate for a hostel bed. I traipsed from one to another, even trying the most garish and unashamedly wacky & backpackery of backpacker hostels, but there was no room at the inn. Finally I did discover one very new whitewashed and spacious refuge called Byron Bay Beach Hostel, where the manager even gave me a random discount (still $45, the most I've paid for a hostel in Oz). In spite of my immense relief, the extremely hot/badly ventilated rooms and the incredible rudeness of a giant group of French-speakers in not making any effort to speak to me when I joined them outside, marred the evening considerably. To those who haven't travelled in Australia or seen The Inbetweeners 2, Byron Bay is the most popular and bigged-up traveller resort in the whole country: famed for its chilled-out hippie vibes, artisan soul, party culture and great beaches, it's a must-see for anyone travelling the east coast. Unfortunately, I simply wasn't in the mood. However, the coastal hike up to the lighthouse (via Cape Byron, the most easterly point in mainland Australia) was excellent. The guided tour of the lighthouse itself was bizarrely run by a group of charming Americans in their 60s/70s!

I'd felt the need for a dose of a quieter life as a tonic to hectic east coast life, so I spent one week at a homestay found on the HelpX website. It was in a lush green corner of north-eastern New South Wales, near the town of Casino, at the farmstead of a couple called Sue & Keith. I met another English guy there named Cameron (from Swindon), who was studying in Melbourne, and enjoyed having a companion to share the adventures here with. Most activities were dictated by the incredible heat at the time, reaching 40 degrees but with suffocatingly high humidity levels. The shed-building work usually lasted only 45 minutes before we were all simply too hot to continue, and I can honestly not remember any time where I was sweating more than for this week, especially at dinner time when we'd just returned from a trip up to the 'internet cafe' hill (the only place nearby with phone signal) and sat down over hot food, delicious as it always was. Perspiration dripped from shirtless chests like rain during a monsoon, and I required multiples showers and 20-minute sessions sitting directly in front of the fan to remain un-cooked. Dinner time was also when normally-quiet Keith would unleash his strong views on many topics, from travelling to the state of the local government: he had particularly strong political views of a surprisingly bitter and right-leaning perspective for a man who had travelled so extensively, seeing Trump as the man to lead the free world and holding contempt for Obama, describing Zimbabwean dictator Robert Mugabe as a “mild version of Obama.” Fox News was seldom not on in the background with Bill O'Reilly and his “no-spin zone” an evening routine, more amusing than offensive for Cam and me.

We helped feed the myriad chickens, hens, ducks, geese, rabbits and guinea-pigs scattered in the junk-maze front yard. The amount of random stuff/junk surrounding the house was incredible. One day we were called upon to kill a sharp-clawed goanna (Aussie monitor lizard) that was caught biting the bum of a duck. That was a pain in the arse for everyone involved. It hid up a tree and refused to come down to face us. One day involved a funny 6hr roundtrip to the Gold Coast to pick up a spa and a water tank, which we were very worried about flying off, and spent a long time securing them on the back of the ute with ropes. We also had the opportunity to meet some of the long-term lodgers at the farm, some of whom were on drugs rehab and benefits. It was a good place to come to get away from it all (for them and me), and a different perspective on Australia to what I've normally been exposed to, meeting people at a different end of the spectrum to the city kids, high-flyers and international traveller circles.

Cam and I left the farm and headed down to Coffs Harbour on the train. Coffs has the unique privilege of being located at the point where the Great Dividing Range (Australia's only real mountain range) meets the Pacific Ocean to form a beautiful backdrop, topped off with a literally huge banana, a jumpable pier and picturesque harbour. We met a German guy called Jonas and two English girls (Becky and Helen) at the YHA, and together cycled around the surprisingly large coastal town, enduring some intimidating hills and a roaring motorway, but stopping for a dip to get hammered by the powerful waves, and then drinking goon (crap, boxed wine) at the hostel over cards.

The last stop on the Unexpected East Coast Adventure was the inland small-city of Tamworth, known throughout Australia as the nation's capital of all things country music and equestrian: “an antipodean Nashville,” as the guidebook described it. It was the busiest period of the year, as the annual Country Music Festival was beginning the day we arrived, and the streets were alive with the sound of (country) music: a few genuine cowboy and hillbilly types among the masses of pretend ones, dominated by middle-aged holidaymakers and committed locals letting loose with their families. We barbecued in the nature reserve beneath a baking hot sun with my friend Rose from other Aussie adventures, and went to see some lively performances (especially one band called Lonesome Train, led by an electric and skinny ladies'-man singer who seemed 20 years younger than he actually was). The festival was a lot of fun, and we met a few interesting characters. One was one of the aforementioned middle-aged Aussie let-loosers, whose kid stole my stool when I went to the bar; half-an-hour after what I thought had been a light-hearted altercation, (while he'd been sitting next to me the whole time watching the singers on stage) he casually said: “sorry about that before... but if it was 20 years ago, I would have smacked you in the mouth.” He then proceeded to drunkenly chat semi-aggressively, telling me anecdotes about a barman from Essex: “black as the ace of spades he was. Absolute tosser...” Something told me this guy was the real tosser! Another memorable night was when Cam and I got roped into a night-out with a bunch of 19 year-old locals shouting at the back of the bus (the kind of people you dread talking to you) and had to toss our bags into a bush on the way while holding the bus because otherwise we'd have to wait half an hour. It turned out to be a fun night out in this sparky little city.

I was worried but motivated upon my return to Sydney to stop spending and start saving. Putting a cashed-up bogan to shame, I'd spent a lot and was now in the hibernation, total-survival mentality where I write down exactly what I spend – including money given to homeless people – and rule my finances with an iron fist. It had been worth it, however, for this opportunity to finally explore some of the places most-discussed in backpacker circles and experience part of the Aussie east coast. Though a fun adventure, I didn't feel the east coast lived up to the hype, lacking a certain cutting edge or unpredictability. The best thing about it is the sheer ocean-beach-coastline scenery, which was boundless and inspiring, as well as the people I'd met (sorry for the cliché). I met some shit ones, too, though ;)

Back to the future: I found a job and I will talk about a more settled life in Sydney in the next blog entry, and perhaps more about Australia as a country, too.

Thanks a lot for reading! Scroll down for photos and the previous four articles.

Oliver