I’ve heard St. Kilda being described as the Blackpool of the south. This is a little unfair as the sun often shines in St. Kilda and I haven’t seen busloads of factory workers with “kiss me quick” hats. It does have a Luna Park however, a ramshackle collection of roller coasters and bumper cars rides. But that makes it feel like Coney Island just after the war. The sort of place that Tony Soprano goes to in dream sequences and Woody Allen uses to show the loss of innocence. So each time I pass it, I feel like I’m either going to be whacked or find myself felling nostalgic for a time that never once.
Besides, I’ve never actually seen anyone on the roller coaster.
The rest of St Kilda is made up of funky little restaurants that sell gluten free food and bars that are full at 11am. Because of this, St Kilda attracts more than its fair share of back-packers, winos, new age hippies and the occasional International banker like myself. You can find all these on the St Kilda tram, a fine piece of public transport that runs from the City to the beach every 10 minutes or so. I broke my Ipod last week, (sorry Andrew!) so I’ve been reduced to eavesdropping on other people’s conversations and living my life vicariously through them.
It seems that every tram has to include one example of the lesser-spotted Australian tramp. This migratory species is generally healthier than its European cousin and in the winter months at least, they display a fine plumage, usually in the form of a bushy white beard and riotous hair. For some reason, these tramps are usually sober and sit quietly without muttering arguments against the inequities of the world. However, even without the beard you can spot them easily by the four empty seats either side of them.
At weekends, the smartly dressed middle-aged tourists and scruffy back packers dominate the tram. The back packers could blend in with the hippy locals were it not for well-thumbed copies of Lonely Planet peeking inquisitively from their bags. They can often be found gabbling excitably into mobile phones in various European tongues. What they are saying is anyone’s guess, but the smile that accompanies “I met an Aussie girl last night and went back to her place”, is the same in any language.
The Irish of course can be found in any situation where the people of the world meet, be it on the new bus service from London to Sydney or the unfortunate plane crash in Phuket. I reckon that when Sherpa Tensing recounted the tale of his climb to the summit of Mount Everest, he neglected to mention that there was already two Irish guys there brewing a cuppa and complaining about how you can’t find Barry’s Tea in Nepal. So on every tram I’ve been on to date, I’ve heard Irish accents or simply spotted a big paddy head with pale as milk bottle skin and eyes that sparkle like a Caribbean lagoon. The old song about “when Irish eyes are smiling” is not wrong; you really can spot Irish people abroad by their eyes, although the St Vincent’s GAA club fleeces are normally a giveaway too. The modern Irish traveler is a confident soul, far removed from the “tip your hat” sort of the 1950’s. I sat beside a bunch of these on the tram yesterday. One of them was wearing a t-shirt that boasted “The Irish Abroad, building the rest of the World”. It was a big statement, although by the size of him, he looked strong enough to be doing it on his own.
They spoke with a kaleidoscope of accents, which suggested they were college friends who had come together for their big year out. They obviously hadn’t been here long though as their eyes lit up as we rounded the corner onto the esplanade and the sea opened up in front of us. Groups of guys display a similar dynamic. The quest to be the alpha male. In this group it was difficult to spot. You had the talker, who had an opinion everything, usually what he had just said as no-one else could get a word in. He spent most of the trip talking about some obscure video game and the best way to kill people to ensure maximum points (a knife through the rib cage from behind apparently). Not the sort of conversation you want to come in on half way through.
Then you had the tall silent guy who didn’t even smile at the talker’s occasional attempts at humour. It was hard to decide if he was cool or simply vacant. Maybe it’s the same thing. The third guy was a giggler, desperate to ingratiate himself with everyone and in the process alienating all.
It took me a while to realise it but the alpha male was clearly the fourth guy. He had smiled occasionally at the inane conversation of the talker, all the better to soften him up before he moved in for the kill. The talker was just moving into what seemed like the 3rd hour of his discussion on the unfairness of how you only got three lives in whatever blood soaked gore-fest he was recently playing.
The fourth guy interrupted with some enthusiasm to say, “yeah, wouldn’t it be better if a shot in your leg meant that you couldn’t use two fingers in your right hand, which means you only have 60% pressure on your trigger hand, so the bullets would travel 40% slower and the baddies had more chance to escape. But heh, you’d save a life”. The talker stared at him for a second before he realised he had been gazumped. The only way to deal with somebody talking complete shite is to answer it with bigger shite.
The rest of the trip was quiet. That’s what alpha males do.
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