Bob Log 111
Am a fan, have the CD, love it.
So when I rang “the establishment” (the Alley Cat) to find out when the show would start, and rocked up half an hour prior only to find they were sold out (with no option of pre concert ticket purchase) I was slightly peeved.
Hence my well earned whinge.
So, I am at home, listening to early Bowie.
You Rock David.
And would always have a ticket for me, I’m sure.
Oh, my valve is starting to seize.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
What Bugged Me About Metamorphosis
Here’s a treat for all you culture vultures: the Ten Days on the Island festival has put me in the mood for a theatrical whinge. Last week I went to see Metamorphosis at The Theatre Royal in Hobart. This English/Icelandic collaboration brings to the stage Franz Kafka’s surreal yet poignant story of Gregor, a hardworking young salesman who wakes up one morning to discover his body has changed into that of a monstrous bug. Unable to come to terms with this transformation, the family he once supported reacts with horror and disgust, and their superficial attempts at compassion are quickly replaced by irritation at the inconvenience his condition causes them, and neglect for his wellbeing.
I enjoyed Kafka’s original story, which is packed with symbolism and ideas as relevant today as when it was written in 1915. I even like to think that Kafka himself was having a subtle whinge about society’s selfishness and lack of compassion for those who are no longer of obvious benefit to us; hence I was looking forward to seeing this production. Most of the reviews and comments I heard, both before and after I’d seen it myself, were overwhelmingly positive. People have raved about it, with statements like “an 85 minute masterpiece”, “the sort of theatre we are glad to have seen before we die” and “it lives up to its hype” typical of the tone. This makes what I am about to say controversial, but a true whinger never shies away from controversy. Perhaps I am a philistine, but then again, perhaps I am the lone child in the crowd, pointing out to everyone else that the Emperor is, in fact, naked. Either way, I didn’t enjoy this stage adaptation of Metamorphosis all that much.
Much of the content of the novella centres around Gregor’s feelings following his transformation and his family’s subsequent reaction. There isn’t really enough action and dialogue in the story to sustain a full-length play, resulting in a contrived, drawn-out feeling to the stilted exchanges of the remaining characters. The performances of the supporting cast were average; I have frequently seen better acting in local amateur productions. In fact, the opening sequence, with the characters going about their morning routine in a musical montage, put me in mind of a high school Rock Eisteddfod. Yes, it has a soundtrack by Nick Cave and Warren Ellis, but it’s really just one song split into parts and played at intervals throughout the performance. It’s pretty mediocre by Cave and Ellis’ standards and must have taken them all of about half an hour to write.
I admit that it wasn’t all bad. The set design was so original and striking that it redeemed the play somewhat, and Gísli Örn Gardarsson’s performance as Gregor was impressively athletic. The story itself is dark, sometimes funny and ultimately moving, although the play doesn’t necessarily improve on the book in this regard. But when you get down to it, what really bothered me was this: if you had to sum it up in one line, you’d say that The Metamorphosis is a story about a man who changes into a bug. Yet, in this stage version, he doesn’t actually change into a bug! The only hints we get are the silhouette of a beetle projected onto the bedcovers just before Gregor emerges dressed in a suit and tie, and of course, his family’s reaction to him. Call me childish, but I was keen to see how they were going to depict this gigantic bug crawling around the house, and when they just didn’t, I was disappointed! I also think this would be a problem if you went to see the play without having read the original work, in that it might not be clear exactly what is going on and why his family are suddenly horrified by his appearance and unable to communicate with him.
My disappointment at the failure of this aspect of the story to translate to the stage was further highlighted by the high cost of admission. For the ticket price I probably could have bought 4 or 5 copies of the original novella! Even one copy would have lasted longer, made more sense and been more enjoyable than this ambitious but flawed stage adaptation. The main achievement of this play was the metamorphosis of my $65 into the material for a good whinge.
I enjoyed Kafka’s original story, which is packed with symbolism and ideas as relevant today as when it was written in 1915. I even like to think that Kafka himself was having a subtle whinge about society’s selfishness and lack of compassion for those who are no longer of obvious benefit to us; hence I was looking forward to seeing this production. Most of the reviews and comments I heard, both before and after I’d seen it myself, were overwhelmingly positive. People have raved about it, with statements like “an 85 minute masterpiece”, “the sort of theatre we are glad to have seen before we die” and “it lives up to its hype” typical of the tone. This makes what I am about to say controversial, but a true whinger never shies away from controversy. Perhaps I am a philistine, but then again, perhaps I am the lone child in the crowd, pointing out to everyone else that the Emperor is, in fact, naked. Either way, I didn’t enjoy this stage adaptation of Metamorphosis all that much.
Much of the content of the novella centres around Gregor’s feelings following his transformation and his family’s subsequent reaction. There isn’t really enough action and dialogue in the story to sustain a full-length play, resulting in a contrived, drawn-out feeling to the stilted exchanges of the remaining characters. The performances of the supporting cast were average; I have frequently seen better acting in local amateur productions. In fact, the opening sequence, with the characters going about their morning routine in a musical montage, put me in mind of a high school Rock Eisteddfod. Yes, it has a soundtrack by Nick Cave and Warren Ellis, but it’s really just one song split into parts and played at intervals throughout the performance. It’s pretty mediocre by Cave and Ellis’ standards and must have taken them all of about half an hour to write.
I admit that it wasn’t all bad. The set design was so original and striking that it redeemed the play somewhat, and Gísli Örn Gardarsson’s performance as Gregor was impressively athletic. The story itself is dark, sometimes funny and ultimately moving, although the play doesn’t necessarily improve on the book in this regard. But when you get down to it, what really bothered me was this: if you had to sum it up in one line, you’d say that The Metamorphosis is a story about a man who changes into a bug. Yet, in this stage version, he doesn’t actually change into a bug! The only hints we get are the silhouette of a beetle projected onto the bedcovers just before Gregor emerges dressed in a suit and tie, and of course, his family’s reaction to him. Call me childish, but I was keen to see how they were going to depict this gigantic bug crawling around the house, and when they just didn’t, I was disappointed! I also think this would be a problem if you went to see the play without having read the original work, in that it might not be clear exactly what is going on and why his family are suddenly horrified by his appearance and unable to communicate with him.
My disappointment at the failure of this aspect of the story to translate to the stage was further highlighted by the high cost of admission. For the ticket price I probably could have bought 4 or 5 copies of the original novella! Even one copy would have lasted longer, made more sense and been more enjoyable than this ambitious but flawed stage adaptation. The main achievement of this play was the metamorphosis of my $65 into the material for a good whinge.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Media Launch of The Whinger's Guide!
It was only a matter of time before our incessant whinging caught the attention of the media.
Tune in to Breakfast on 936 ABC local radio tomorrow at around 7.15am to hear me whinging live on air! I will be talking to Ryk Goddard about how The Whinger's Guide got started.
If you're not in hobart you can listen online at http://www.abc.net.au/hobart/radio/
I expect I will have to take extra precautions from now on to avoid the hounding of the paparazzi. How irritating!
Tune in to Breakfast on 936 ABC local radio tomorrow at around 7.15am to hear me whinging live on air! I will be talking to Ryk Goddard about how The Whinger's Guide got started.
If you're not in hobart you can listen online at http://www.abc.net.au/hobart/radio/
I expect I will have to take extra precautions from now on to avoid the hounding of the paparazzi. How irritating!
Friday, April 3, 2009
Coming the (Not So) Raw Prawn at Monty's on Montpelier
I recently had my first experience of Monty’s on Montpelier, courtesy of my partner, who appeared to be trying to get into my (very exclusive) good books. Being whisked off to a surprise romantic dinner at a swanky restaurant is always a pleasant (if rare) experience, but never fear, dear reader; it was tough but I still managed to find a few things to whinge about.Firstly, the service: there was too much of it. Not five minutes after one knowledgeable and competent waiter had taken our order, than a smiling and enthusiastic waitress appeared by our table, eager to do the same. When I explained that this requirement had already been fulfilled, she was overly apologetic, even blurting out that she felt like a bit of an idiot. Not to worry, for as I reassured her, it was better to have too much service than not enough.
Secondly, the food: it was so delicious I ate more of it than was strictly necessary, resulting in a slightly uncomfortable bloated feeling, and an unprecedented readout on my digital bathroom scales the next day. Admittedly, a tart filled with duck confit and pate was probably not the best choice as far as my waistline was concerned. What sort of parents give their daughter a set of scales for Christmas anyway? But I digress… My partner’s steak was one of the best he’s eaten, which is saying something, since he is quick (and usually correct) to accuse most restaurant steak of being inferior to his own. Unfortunately it was served topped with a large and obnoxious prawn, which was little more than a novelty and did nothing to enhance the dish. The chef would be well advised to ditch the crustacean garnish and let the steak stand alone, which it was perfectly capable of doing.
Finally, the management: towards the end of our evening the hostess approached our table for a little chat, acknowledging that it was our first visit to Monty’s, introducing herself and her husband the chef, enquiring about the suitability of our meal and expressing her desire that we would visit again. She was so lovely I was reluctant to mention the prawn, and in fact, felt obliged to give them a generous tip on top of the bill, which was already rather hefty after my partner had dabbled in the extensive wine list.
So, in summary, if you’re cashed-up, it’s a special occasion and you want to be scraping the bottom of the barrel for a good whinge, you could do worse than Monty’s on Montpelier.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
La Bella Sandy Bay Fail to Deliver
I have often asked myself the question – do I whinge too much?
On more than one occasion recently I have found myself at a work meeting or a dinner party pontificating on like a woman incensed about the pathetic level of service I have received at the bank, on a plane, or at the supermarket only to be met with blank, annoyed or slightly concerned looks from those around me. My audience have not only been completely unsympathetic to my plight but have appeared convinced that I am some kind of crazy, critical, nit-picking bitch. In my more reflective moments I look back on experiences such as these and become worried - am I too harsh? Am I too quick to criticise without giving people a fair go? The answer to both of these questions is a resounding ‘yes’ but, more to the point, it has also served as a reminder to me that not everyone is the same when it comes to having a good whinge.
Even the most positive individuals amongst us are capable of having a good whinge from time-to-time but it usually takes a particularly bad experience to incite a whinge from these types. ‘Occasional Whingers’ as I shall name them, will for instance, quite happily overlook a 20 minute wait for service in a restaurant or a dirty piece of cutlery on their table (they may simply exchange it for a clean item from another table when the waitress is not looking). Occasional Whingers will even make excuses for poor levels of service received like ‘the waitress is obviously just starting out.’ The fact of the matter is that it takes something pretty out of the ordinary to incite a good whinge from these types – for example the discovery of an insect in their food or the experience of being sworn at by a member of the waiting staff.
‘Everyday Whingers’ on the other hand are more practised at the fine art of the whinge. My fellow bloggers and our sympathisers find that daily life presents us with a plethora of whinge-worthy opportunities and we don’t believe in letting these opportunities pass us by (as you will discover in future posts). Unlike the Occasional Whinger the Everyday Whinger is constantly on the look out for any opportunity to have a good whinge. At restaurants, for instance, nobody and nothing is off-limits from the wait-staff to the décor to the behaviour of fellow diners. In shops you can find us analysing the demeanour of the sales-assistants, the quality and price of the products on offer and the behaviour of our fellow shoppers.
The differing approaches of the two varieties of whingers can often result in a clash of cultures. Just like my own experiences (outlined above) Everyday Whingers are often maligned by their Occasional counterparts for being far too negative while the Everyday Whingers feel that the Occasional of the species lack guts in the whinging department. However, every now and then a particularly unsavoury customer service experience occurs that incites anger in the even the mildest of whinger- a whinge that unites both the Occasional and Everyday whinger alike - such a situation was experienced by my friends and I recently at the hands of an extremely unsavoury pizza joint in Sandy Bay.
Last weekend I helped a friend and her family to move into their new home in Mt Nelson. At then end of a busy afternoon of lugging boxes (not to mention the family cat!) from Sandy Bay to Mt Nelson four very tired and hungry girls sat around on the kitchen floor having a couple of well earned glasses of wine and contemplating dinner. It was, we decided, far too much hassle to go out and the decision was made that we should order pizza. One of our group thumbed through the phone book looking up the numbers of the ‘usual suspects’ on the Hobart pizza delivery scene before settling on La Bella pizza in Sandy Bay. An order for 3 large pizzas was placed and we settled in to wait for its arrival. By this point we were all ravenously hungry and were eagerly awaiting the arrival of our hot, steaming pizza.
After 40 minutes the wine and conversation were both flowing but unfortunately there was no sign of the pizza. At this point I recounted my own experience of having pizza delivered to a former share house in Lower Sandy Bay – ‘you can never expect pizza to take anything under an hour when you live in this area’ I said, suddenly feeling the need to turn into a self-styled expert on the Hobart pizza delivery scene (in fact I hardly ever order in pizza). The rest of the group seemed to take heart in this ‘expert’ opinion and there was no further mention of the pizza for another 30 minutes or so.
After 70 minutes there was no denying that we had been waiting inordinately lengthy amount of time for the pizza. By this point we had even turned the music off so that we wouldn’t miss the knock of the delivery boy on the front door and the only sound that was filling the house was that made by four grumbling stomaches (and one grumbling Everyday Whinger – i.e. me).
A suggestion was made that we should definitely check on the progress of our pizza. After all, we reasoned, it had been over an hour. The lady of the house placed a call to La Bella. After giving our address she was very hastily assured that the pizza was ‘on it’s way.’ The call took no more than one minute and upon quizzing my friend after the call she had not even been placed on hold while the whereabouts of the pizza was ascertained. Like any Everyday Whinger worth his or her salt (or in this case anchovies) my suspicions were aroused at this point in time. How could the pizza store have possibly checked on the progress of our pizza in the short timeframe of the call?
Another 40 minutes of pizzaless agony ensued. By this time my internal Wingometer was moving from moderate to high danger. Buoyed by a sense of indignation (not to mention five glasses of wine) my friend placed yet another call to our friends at La Bella. What ensured at this point was almost beyond comprehension. After providing our address and inquiring on the progress of the pizza my friend was informed that no order had been placed for that address. When my friend advised that an order had indeed been placed about 90 minutes ago the phone was very hastily passed to the manager. The manager, who is obviously a very fastidious man, came on line to advise that he checks every order that goes out and could assure us that no order had been placed for that particular address (we were obviously liars). When asked for an explanation as to why we were told just 40 minutes earlier that the pizza was on its way he advised that he couldn’t comment on that as he was not the one who had taken the call (clearly the buck stops with him in that organisation).
My friend, well and truly losing her patience, asked for the pizza to be delivered straight away. Apparently this was impossible – it would be approximately 40 minutes. At this stage my friend totally lost her cool – commenting that this was possibly the worst customer service experience she had ever encountered. My friend was then informed by the manager (who was obviously summoning all his best client liaison and damage control skills) that if she was going to be like that then he didn’t want to deliver pizza to her anyway before promptly ‘disconnecting’ the call.
I have never enjoyed a pizza as much as the Pizza Hut BBQ Chicken that arrived on our doorstep that night a mere 30 minutes after we placed our order. Okay ‘The Slut’ (as my friends have affectionately named it) may lack the finesse of, Da Angelos but as the bbq sauce from my big, chunky slice began slowly dripping down my arm I realised that there was something very comforting about that pizza, although I do concede that this may have had more than a little to do with the fact that I was very hungry, outraged by the injustices we had experienced at the hands of La Bella and pissed.
The other day I was crossing the street when I almost ran slap bang into La Bella Pizza’s lair in The Bay. I couldn’t help but have a chuckle to myself when I read the sign in the front window – ‘WE DELIVER’ it proclaimed in flashing neon. Don’t believe them folks – La Bella don’t actually deliver pizza, in fact, the only thing they do deliver is heartache (oh and not to mention an abundance of whinge worthy material!).
On more than one occasion recently I have found myself at a work meeting or a dinner party pontificating on like a woman incensed about the pathetic level of service I have received at the bank, on a plane, or at the supermarket only to be met with blank, annoyed or slightly concerned looks from those around me. My audience have not only been completely unsympathetic to my plight but have appeared convinced that I am some kind of crazy, critical, nit-picking bitch. In my more reflective moments I look back on experiences such as these and become worried - am I too harsh? Am I too quick to criticise without giving people a fair go? The answer to both of these questions is a resounding ‘yes’ but, more to the point, it has also served as a reminder to me that not everyone is the same when it comes to having a good whinge.
Even the most positive individuals amongst us are capable of having a good whinge from time-to-time but it usually takes a particularly bad experience to incite a whinge from these types. ‘Occasional Whingers’ as I shall name them, will for instance, quite happily overlook a 20 minute wait for service in a restaurant or a dirty piece of cutlery on their table (they may simply exchange it for a clean item from another table when the waitress is not looking). Occasional Whingers will even make excuses for poor levels of service received like ‘the waitress is obviously just starting out.’ The fact of the matter is that it takes something pretty out of the ordinary to incite a good whinge from these types – for example the discovery of an insect in their food or the experience of being sworn at by a member of the waiting staff.
‘Everyday Whingers’ on the other hand are more practised at the fine art of the whinge. My fellow bloggers and our sympathisers find that daily life presents us with a plethora of whinge-worthy opportunities and we don’t believe in letting these opportunities pass us by (as you will discover in future posts). Unlike the Occasional Whinger the Everyday Whinger is constantly on the look out for any opportunity to have a good whinge. At restaurants, for instance, nobody and nothing is off-limits from the wait-staff to the décor to the behaviour of fellow diners. In shops you can find us analysing the demeanour of the sales-assistants, the quality and price of the products on offer and the behaviour of our fellow shoppers.
The differing approaches of the two varieties of whingers can often result in a clash of cultures. Just like my own experiences (outlined above) Everyday Whingers are often maligned by their Occasional counterparts for being far too negative while the Everyday Whingers feel that the Occasional of the species lack guts in the whinging department. However, every now and then a particularly unsavoury customer service experience occurs that incites anger in the even the mildest of whinger- a whinge that unites both the Occasional and Everyday whinger alike - such a situation was experienced by my friends and I recently at the hands of an extremely unsavoury pizza joint in Sandy Bay.
Last weekend I helped a friend and her family to move into their new home in Mt Nelson. At then end of a busy afternoon of lugging boxes (not to mention the family cat!) from Sandy Bay to Mt Nelson four very tired and hungry girls sat around on the kitchen floor having a couple of well earned glasses of wine and contemplating dinner. It was, we decided, far too much hassle to go out and the decision was made that we should order pizza. One of our group thumbed through the phone book looking up the numbers of the ‘usual suspects’ on the Hobart pizza delivery scene before settling on La Bella pizza in Sandy Bay. An order for 3 large pizzas was placed and we settled in to wait for its arrival. By this point we were all ravenously hungry and were eagerly awaiting the arrival of our hot, steaming pizza.
After 40 minutes the wine and conversation were both flowing but unfortunately there was no sign of the pizza. At this point I recounted my own experience of having pizza delivered to a former share house in Lower Sandy Bay – ‘you can never expect pizza to take anything under an hour when you live in this area’ I said, suddenly feeling the need to turn into a self-styled expert on the Hobart pizza delivery scene (in fact I hardly ever order in pizza). The rest of the group seemed to take heart in this ‘expert’ opinion and there was no further mention of the pizza for another 30 minutes or so.
After 70 minutes there was no denying that we had been waiting inordinately lengthy amount of time for the pizza. By this point we had even turned the music off so that we wouldn’t miss the knock of the delivery boy on the front door and the only sound that was filling the house was that made by four grumbling stomaches (and one grumbling Everyday Whinger – i.e. me).
A suggestion was made that we should definitely check on the progress of our pizza. After all, we reasoned, it had been over an hour. The lady of the house placed a call to La Bella. After giving our address she was very hastily assured that the pizza was ‘on it’s way.’ The call took no more than one minute and upon quizzing my friend after the call she had not even been placed on hold while the whereabouts of the pizza was ascertained. Like any Everyday Whinger worth his or her salt (or in this case anchovies) my suspicions were aroused at this point in time. How could the pizza store have possibly checked on the progress of our pizza in the short timeframe of the call?
Another 40 minutes of pizzaless agony ensued. By this time my internal Wingometer was moving from moderate to high danger. Buoyed by a sense of indignation (not to mention five glasses of wine) my friend placed yet another call to our friends at La Bella. What ensured at this point was almost beyond comprehension. After providing our address and inquiring on the progress of the pizza my friend was informed that no order had been placed for that address. When my friend advised that an order had indeed been placed about 90 minutes ago the phone was very hastily passed to the manager. The manager, who is obviously a very fastidious man, came on line to advise that he checks every order that goes out and could assure us that no order had been placed for that particular address (we were obviously liars). When asked for an explanation as to why we were told just 40 minutes earlier that the pizza was on its way he advised that he couldn’t comment on that as he was not the one who had taken the call (clearly the buck stops with him in that organisation).
My friend, well and truly losing her patience, asked for the pizza to be delivered straight away. Apparently this was impossible – it would be approximately 40 minutes. At this stage my friend totally lost her cool – commenting that this was possibly the worst customer service experience she had ever encountered. My friend was then informed by the manager (who was obviously summoning all his best client liaison and damage control skills) that if she was going to be like that then he didn’t want to deliver pizza to her anyway before promptly ‘disconnecting’ the call.
I have never enjoyed a pizza as much as the Pizza Hut BBQ Chicken that arrived on our doorstep that night a mere 30 minutes after we placed our order. Okay ‘The Slut’ (as my friends have affectionately named it) may lack the finesse of, Da Angelos but as the bbq sauce from my big, chunky slice began slowly dripping down my arm I realised that there was something very comforting about that pizza, although I do concede that this may have had more than a little to do with the fact that I was very hungry, outraged by the injustices we had experienced at the hands of La Bella and pissed.
The other day I was crossing the street when I almost ran slap bang into La Bella Pizza’s lair in The Bay. I couldn’t help but have a chuckle to myself when I read the sign in the front window – ‘WE DELIVER’ it proclaimed in flashing neon. Don’t believe them folks – La Bella don’t actually deliver pizza, in fact, the only thing they do deliver is heartache (oh and not to mention an abundance of whinge worthy material!).
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Back Where it All Began: The Henty Dunes
Greetings fellow whingers! I thought as my inaugural post on the Whinger’s Guide I would share with you the story of the original whinging event which sowed the seeds (of discontent) that eventually sprouted this blog.
A long, long time ago…it must have been about 2003…five of us, including three future Whinger’s Guide contributors, took a weekend trip from Hobart to the West Coast of Tasmania. While we all had a great time on this trip, there was certainly plenty to whinge about: the motel in Queenstown was ordinary, Strahan appeared overly touristy and lacking authenticity, and a 1985 Toyota Corolla simply does not seat five adults in comfort over a four-hour drive. But the place where all this crystalised into the idea for the Whinger’s Guide was The Henty Dunes.
For those that don’t know, The Henty Dunes are a massive expanse of sand behind Ocean Beach just North of Strahan. They’re reasonably spectacular and are a popular spot for walking, quad-biking, sand-boarding and other sand-related activities. We decided to walk over the dunes to the beach to fill in some time before our (already booked and paid for) jet boat ride several hours later.
We parked in the carpark and headed straight out onto the dunes, completely failing to notice the information signs, maps and walker registration book on the way. It was easy to see in which direction the beach lay, so we struck out towards it. Now, you would think it a relatively simple matter to walk over some sand dunes to the beach. We certainly thought so, but it proved not to be the case. Though we were heading in the right direction, we kept coming up against dead ends, lagoons and impenetrable walls of coastal vegetation, so that we had to retrace our steps and find an alternative route. Finally, after a desperate scramble through some thick scrub laced with spider webs, we made our way out onto the beach. This was all very nice, as far as beaches go, but he walk in had taken longer than we anticipated and we decided not to linger too long as we wanted to have time for some lunch before the jet boat trip.
Although we had been baffled by the dunes on the way in, this was nothing compared to the way out. The direction back to the carpark was less clear, the dunes all looked alike, apparent short-cuts led nowhere and each time we struggled up a sand dune expecting to see the end in sight we were disappointed. By now all our water bottles had run out, the sun was at its zenith and we were tired from hours of walking on the shifting sand. We weren’t in any real danger, as there were plenty of quad-bikers about, and one member of our party (in a precogniscient moment) had decided to stay back in the car and read a book, but this knowledge did nothing to alleviate our immediate frustration and discomfort, so we struck up with a bit of lighthearted complaining about the folly of the venture, the confounding nature of the dunes and the fact that we now looked likely to miss out on lunch, and possibly our jet boat ride as well. One of our companions (who had been unofficially leading the expedition, and maybe took the criticisms more personally than intended) tried to improve morale by remaining cheerful and casting the enterprise in the light of a great adventure, but we were having none of it. Eventually he gave up, citing us as a pack of negative whingers.
Finally we located the road, at the base of a massive dune that we had to slide down, and made our way back along to the carpark. We zoomed back to Strahan just in time to catch the jet boat, whinging about the dunes all the way to our friend who had stayed in the car, while he whinged back about how long we’d taken.
On reflecting that evening, we had to agree that yes, we were whingers, but we didn’t see that that was anything to be ashamed of. As far as we were concerned, sharing those snide comments and cuttingly witty remarks during our experience actually made it more tolerable, memorable, and even kind of fun. We’d enjoyed telling our friend about our trials afterwards; it made for a good story. We decided that whinging was really a positive exercise. We’d been consulting a popular travel guide during our trip and we decided it too could be improved if there was more whinging involved. After all, we reasoned, it’s always much more entertaining to read or hear a scathing account of something than one overflowing with praise. To be considered a proper critic, one has to criticise. As well as this, whinging can be very informative, serving not only as a warning for the things you do whinge about, but (reading between the lines) as an endorsement for the things that don’t warrant much complaint. We envisaged ourselves travelling the state, writing a sort of no-holds-barred guide that wouldn’t mince words when it came to informing the reader of our real opinions. Thus, the concept of The Whinger’s Guide to Tasmania was born.
We’ve never really had the time or motivation to write the Whinger’s Guide from scratch, but over the years we’ve had many experiences which we’ve judged at the time to be worthy of an entry, should we ever get around to doing it. We’ve also discovered other friends who share the joy of a good whinge and embrace the concept wholeheartedly. Finally, after a catalytically whinge-worthy experience in a restaurant on the weekend (to be covered in a future installment) we decided to make a start in the form of this blog. Who knows where it will go from here, but given our seemingly endless capacity for whinging, the sky’s the limit!
A long, long time ago…it must have been about 2003…five of us, including three future Whinger’s Guide contributors, took a weekend trip from Hobart to the West Coast of Tasmania. While we all had a great time on this trip, there was certainly plenty to whinge about: the motel in Queenstown was ordinary, Strahan appeared overly touristy and lacking authenticity, and a 1985 Toyota Corolla simply does not seat five adults in comfort over a four-hour drive. But the place where all this crystalised into the idea for the Whinger’s Guide was The Henty Dunes.
For those that don’t know, The Henty Dunes are a massive expanse of sand behind Ocean Beach just North of Strahan. They’re reasonably spectacular and are a popular spot for walking, quad-biking, sand-boarding and other sand-related activities. We decided to walk over the dunes to the beach to fill in some time before our (already booked and paid for) jet boat ride several hours later.
We parked in the carpark and headed straight out onto the dunes, completely failing to notice the information signs, maps and walker registration book on the way. It was easy to see in which direction the beach lay, so we struck out towards it. Now, you would think it a relatively simple matter to walk over some sand dunes to the beach. We certainly thought so, but it proved not to be the case. Though we were heading in the right direction, we kept coming up against dead ends, lagoons and impenetrable walls of coastal vegetation, so that we had to retrace our steps and find an alternative route. Finally, after a desperate scramble through some thick scrub laced with spider webs, we made our way out onto the beach. This was all very nice, as far as beaches go, but he walk in had taken longer than we anticipated and we decided not to linger too long as we wanted to have time for some lunch before the jet boat trip.
Although we had been baffled by the dunes on the way in, this was nothing compared to the way out. The direction back to the carpark was less clear, the dunes all looked alike, apparent short-cuts led nowhere and each time we struggled up a sand dune expecting to see the end in sight we were disappointed. By now all our water bottles had run out, the sun was at its zenith and we were tired from hours of walking on the shifting sand. We weren’t in any real danger, as there were plenty of quad-bikers about, and one member of our party (in a precogniscient moment) had decided to stay back in the car and read a book, but this knowledge did nothing to alleviate our immediate frustration and discomfort, so we struck up with a bit of lighthearted complaining about the folly of the venture, the confounding nature of the dunes and the fact that we now looked likely to miss out on lunch, and possibly our jet boat ride as well. One of our companions (who had been unofficially leading the expedition, and maybe took the criticisms more personally than intended) tried to improve morale by remaining cheerful and casting the enterprise in the light of a great adventure, but we were having none of it. Eventually he gave up, citing us as a pack of negative whingers.
Finally we located the road, at the base of a massive dune that we had to slide down, and made our way back along to the carpark. We zoomed back to Strahan just in time to catch the jet boat, whinging about the dunes all the way to our friend who had stayed in the car, while he whinged back about how long we’d taken.
On reflecting that evening, we had to agree that yes, we were whingers, but we didn’t see that that was anything to be ashamed of. As far as we were concerned, sharing those snide comments and cuttingly witty remarks during our experience actually made it more tolerable, memorable, and even kind of fun. We’d enjoyed telling our friend about our trials afterwards; it made for a good story. We decided that whinging was really a positive exercise. We’d been consulting a popular travel guide during our trip and we decided it too could be improved if there was more whinging involved. After all, we reasoned, it’s always much more entertaining to read or hear a scathing account of something than one overflowing with praise. To be considered a proper critic, one has to criticise. As well as this, whinging can be very informative, serving not only as a warning for the things you do whinge about, but (reading between the lines) as an endorsement for the things that don’t warrant much complaint. We envisaged ourselves travelling the state, writing a sort of no-holds-barred guide that wouldn’t mince words when it came to informing the reader of our real opinions. Thus, the concept of The Whinger’s Guide to Tasmania was born.
We’ve never really had the time or motivation to write the Whinger’s Guide from scratch, but over the years we’ve had many experiences which we’ve judged at the time to be worthy of an entry, should we ever get around to doing it. We’ve also discovered other friends who share the joy of a good whinge and embrace the concept wholeheartedly. Finally, after a catalytically whinge-worthy experience in a restaurant on the weekend (to be covered in a future installment) we decided to make a start in the form of this blog. Who knows where it will go from here, but given our seemingly endless capacity for whinging, the sky’s the limit!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Welcome to The Whinger's Guide to Tasmania!
Let's face it, we all love a good whinge. The feeling of satisfaction you get from being able to vent your spleen about the things that bug you...be they trivial annoyances or crushing social injustices. Not to mention the sense of empathy and camaraderie you get from sharing a whinge-worthy experience with your fellow human beings!
Have you ever had a perfect holiday, completely satisfactory meal in a restaurant or excellent service in a shop and felt the niggling disappointment that you had nothing to whinge about afterwards? Then this guide is for you.
Many view whinging as a negative pastime, one that draws attention away from the positive aspects of life and implies that the person doing the whinging has a generally pessimistic view of the world. We beg to differ! It is our opinion that the good things in life can only be appreciated as a counterpoint to the less than satisfactory. Thus by having a good whinge we are, in the process, also highlighting those aspects that, in fact, do not give us cause for complaint.
Our whinging also has the added social benefit of preventing others from having to endure the unnecessary torments that have plagued us at various restaurants, tourist attractions, hotels, shops and other establishments around Tasmania, as well as further afield.
Join us as we embark upon a journey of fault-finding, petty nit-picking and general dissatisfaction with all facets of modern life. As long time residents of Tasmania, this is where our majority of critical expertise lies, but rest assured, we will not hesitate to take our whinging to the international sphere should the opportunity arise!
In the coming weeks you will have the somewhat dubious pleasure of meeting our contributors as they whinge to their heart's content about anything that takes their fancy.
Whingers unite!
Have you ever had a perfect holiday, completely satisfactory meal in a restaurant or excellent service in a shop and felt the niggling disappointment that you had nothing to whinge about afterwards? Then this guide is for you.
Many view whinging as a negative pastime, one that draws attention away from the positive aspects of life and implies that the person doing the whinging has a generally pessimistic view of the world. We beg to differ! It is our opinion that the good things in life can only be appreciated as a counterpoint to the less than satisfactory. Thus by having a good whinge we are, in the process, also highlighting those aspects that, in fact, do not give us cause for complaint.
Our whinging also has the added social benefit of preventing others from having to endure the unnecessary torments that have plagued us at various restaurants, tourist attractions, hotels, shops and other establishments around Tasmania, as well as further afield.
Join us as we embark upon a journey of fault-finding, petty nit-picking and general dissatisfaction with all facets of modern life. As long time residents of Tasmania, this is where our majority of critical expertise lies, but rest assured, we will not hesitate to take our whinging to the international sphere should the opportunity arise!
In the coming weeks you will have the somewhat dubious pleasure of meeting our contributors as they whinge to their heart's content about anything that takes their fancy.
Whingers unite!
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