Australia, Freedom and Arseholes

From around age 13 I decided that I wanted to be a journalist. I’ll admit the career choice was ever so slightly influenced by Carrie from Sex and the City and her effortlessly glamorous life. Although a great believer of doing what makes you happy, I later decided that in reality, a journalist’s payslip wouldn’t quite cover the costs of the boho-chic lifestyle I had envisioned for myself. As a teenager, I decided (a tad melodramatically), that I had already experienced a life of poverty. Despite fond memories of my childhood, I faced winters with no central heating, endless cans of soup for dinner and £5 school shoes and quite frankly- I’d had enough.

I therefore gave up on my dream of becoming a journalist- a decision reinforced by family friends who explained that “print publication is a lost cause”. Sadly, I chose to follow this somewhat defeatist advice and stopped writing completely. After some consideration on my “gap yah” I’ve realised that I have a natural desire to write. Throughout my degree I imagined sitting on a beach, working in a bar and leading a life of surfing and yoga. Unfortunately, I was just about able to stand on a surfboard for all of 5 seconds and I can barely touch my toes. Three weeks into my trip to Bali I realised that the beach life did not choose me, at least not for longer than a few hours.

Like many, my life plan went only as far as university, I had completely ignored the fact that one day I’d be joining the “real” world. University for me was basically a life test- Can you attend lectures while dealing with the effects of last nights’ jaeger bombs? Can you find an internship that will also pay for you to live in London? Managing all of this at eighteen is tough and when all that’s over you are suddenly expected to become a fully-fledged adult, a world where it’s not so acceptable to survive on super noodles (who knew?). All in all, leaving university can be a shock and led to my (perhaps reckless one way flight to Australia).

It all began on a typically dreary English afternoon, when my best friend and I were sat, hungover in the pavilion café in Victoria Park. We began contemplating life after uni and the depressing reality of unemployment in post-Brexit England. Exhausted by the pressure, we agreed to take a trip to Thailand for a month. Except, within the very next sentence we found ourselves booking a one way flight to Australia, obviously.

We celebrated our upcoming adventure at none other than Ministry of Sound (also the night we were spat on by a crazy man at a bus stop, but nonetheless an exciting night). Jager bombs in hand we toasted to ‘Australia, freedom and Arseholes’. At this time, I had a dissertation face rash, a general feeling of imprisonment in my room (not helped by actual bars on my window), and many tragic situations with boys, one of which included chewing gum in an armpit (Luckily not my own). All in all, we felt we needed to escape from the cold weather, adult life and break-up’s, thus Australia, freedom and arseholes.

I’ve now been away for eight months and sadly I managed to keep a journal for all of two weeks. So, I’ll only able to relay some key moments from our trip but I think they will provide you with some laughter at our tragically fabulous experiences.