Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas everyone. Christmas is all over here, but a lot of my blogging friends in the Northern Hemisphere are probably still celebrating, and I hope you are all having a wonderful time.


I just wanted to share this photo of my Mum and Dad and a family friend. Every Christmas morning Dad dresses as Santa and they all drive around town ringing a bell and giving lolly bags to the kids.

We had a great day yesterday. We spent the morning at the beach, then a storm hit so the afternoon was spent at home, eating and drinking and playing board games.


I love Christmas Day.

Only a few days left of 2014. I hope 2015 is a happy and healthy year for everyone and I look forward to following your ups and downs, and all your adventures in the new year. I love being part of blog-land!

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Fighting Crime in my Spare Time.

I’m home. After three months living in a hot, dusty Outback town, I am home just in time for Christmas. And there is nothing like a bit of early morning drama to kick-off the festive season.

I was staying at my brother’s place the other night, in the front room facing the road. I have trouble sleeping and I was laying in bed in the very early morning staring out  the window.  I noticed a small light just outside, it took me a second, then I realised what it was.

Bloody hell, it’s robbers!

They looked the part too, with their dark clothes and back-packs and beanies on their head in the summer time. The light I saw was the torch they were holding, using it to snoop through the back of my brother’s work truck.

Bastards! I went to the window and banged on it a bunch of times the loud noise piecing the early morning silence.

Mother-fuckers nearly jumped out of their skins. Bahahahaha

The shock and excitement had given me a shot of adrenaline and adrenaline tends to give me a brief surge of foolish confidence.

“They are not getting away with this” I thought, and I lept out of bed.I ran out on the street in just my bra and knickers screeching,

“I’m calling the police, thieves! I’m calling the police!”

The robbers were long gone though.

Which is probably for the best. It is perhaps not the wisest approach to try and chase down two male criminals when you are a girl on your own, wearing nothing but a bra and undies. I went inside and woke my brother  and his girlfriend who is also my friend, to tell them what had just happened.

I think they were just trawling the street for what-ever they could get their hands on. Wankers, and right before Christmas too.

It’s Christmas Eve. I hope where ever you are and whatever you are doing you have a wonderful and happy Christmas. I love this time of year.

I’d like to share with you my new favourite Christmas song. This one I can relate to far more than anything about religion or snow. The only white I dream of at this time of year is the sand under my feet.

Merry Christmas everyone.

I still think he might be the guy I am going to marry.

I still think he is the guy I am going to marry. If you read my blog last week you’ll know that I have recently met a really lovely man. After years of singledom and bad dating choices, suddenly, here he is.

Late Friday night, after a seven hour drive, I finally arrived at his place. Butterflies were in my stomach as I turned onto his rather steep drive-way. I don’t claim to be a good driver and as I tried to drive up I didn’t pick the right gear and my car stalled. I started again, and thinking it was going to take a lot of power to get my little car up a big drive way, I slammed my foot on the accelerator. My tyres screeched and the smell of burnt rubber filled the air.

“Oh god” I thought. “I just did a burnout on his driveway.”

How embarrassing. I prayed to any god that would listen that there wouldn’t be a huge black mark left there.

I went inside and he threw his arms around me and kissed me and much to my relief didn’t say,

“Evie, did you just do a burnout on my drive-way?”

We had the most just lovely, wonderful time. We made pizza and got a bit drunk and watched a few movies and had a lot of sex. On Sunday afternoon we drove down to the Gold Coast and had a picnic on a hill over-looking the beach and drank beers and watched the people surfing.

He is just so delicious and sweet. He tells me I am beautiful even though I’m not and we make each other laugh. He is lots of fun and even if we weren’t attracted to each other at all, he is the kind of person I’d want to be mates with.

The magic started to fade on Sunday night as reality set in. Monday morning was even worse. We just laid in bed cuddling and feeling sad, knowing our beautiful time was coming to an end with no idea when we were going to see each other again.

This distance thing is a mother-fucker.

He lives in Brisbane and I don’t even know where I live. I have spent the last few months working in Outback Queensland, all my mail goes to Mum and Dad’s on the New South Wales South Coast, I consider Newcastle home and in February I am going over to South America and I am not quite sure when I am coming back.

He is probably going to come and stay with me at Mum and Dad’s place after Christmas for a little bit, then I guess I’ll fly up and see him again in January some time, then that’ll be it.

I would never, ever even consider asking him to wait around for me while I go find myself in South America and what-not, but if he is still single when I get back, I think a move up to Brisbane might be on the cards.

And by the way, on Saturday morning I noticed  that there was a big, black tyre mark on the drive-way. I just like to think it was already there.

I might have met the man I am going to marry.

I think I might have met the guy I am going to marry. After years of rejection and a long line of unsuitable and often slightly bizzare dates and lovers, including one man I later ran into  while I was working on a psych ward, I have met someone really, really cool. And he seems to think I am really cool too.

He is a friend of a friend and I met him recently at a wedding. We shared a drunken dance floor pash at the wedding and the next evening we hung out and talked and he asked for my number. I put a hold on anything further happening that night by drinking so much that I wandered off and passed-out in a garden.  I don’t remember any of this but according to my friend, a stranger found me, scooped me up, carried me over to where they were all sitting outside and said,

“Hi, does this girl belong to anyone over here?”

They claimed me and one of my friend’s husbands kindly carried me upstairs to my hotel room where I promptly threw up into a decorative bowl.


He lives in Brisbane, a good 600km away from where I live in the middle of Woop Woop, Outback Queensland. On my way home from the wedding, I stopped in Brisbane a few days. I wasn’t stalking him I swear, my sister lives there and I had already planned on visiting her. Seeing as though I was in town anyway though, I asked him if he wanted to meet up for dinner, and he said yes he did.

Driving out to meet him that night, it dawned on me that I hadn’t done much to tame the woolly, wild world that is my vagina. Unless I know I am going to have sex, I just let it grow. Not so long ago, this wouldn’t have even been an issue, but we now live in a Post-Brazillian Era (PBE) and vaginas are supposed to be as hair-free as Bruce Willis’ head or at least very neatly trimmed, groomed and styled. If I know I am getting laid, I do some tidying, but otherwise, I just leave it be. I am the kind of person that doesn’t even wear shoes to the supermarket, so keeping my lady-garden manicured at all times is well outside my job description.

“Doesn’t matter.” I thought to myself, “It’s just dinner.  We aren’t going to sleep together.”

A few hours later we ended up back at his place. Things were getting hot and heavy on the couch and it was becoming clear that we were going to sleep together.

“Should I say something?” I wondered. “In the PBE we live in, how much pube is too much?”

I felt like I should warn him, but I wasn’t sure how. When is the right time to say,

“Wait, I need to tell you something,”

“What is it?”

“I have a hairy fagina”

I never could find the right moment. Things moved from the couch to the bedroom and it was in there that I saw the hottest thing next to his bed.

A book.

On the bedside table.

He reads.

He is a reader.

I don’t think I can get serious with someone that doesn’t like to read books. They take issue when you go away with them for the weekend and you spend vast amounts of time completely ignoring them because you’re idea of a good time is sitting alone, reading.

Readers understand when you have to finish the chapter before you can have sex because it is up to a really, really good bit, in a way non-readers never will. They also don’t mind when you dive right back into your book immediately post-sex because they will probably be doing the same.

No books were read on this night though. We had sex in his bed, then in the shower, then again back in his bed. As it turned out, he didn’t seem to have any issue with my minge looking as though it had just waltzed off the set of a 70s porn flick or if he did, he hid it well.

I don’t know what is going to happen with me and him. I think he is wonderful and we have been talking every day (well, texting). I am road-tripping it out to Brisbane this weekend to see him and I can’t bloody wait but I am not sure how this distance thing is going to work. These things have a way of working themselves out though, right?

And P.S. I just want to add, he is did offer to drive out to see me so I wouldn’t have to do the long drive, but as there is not a whole lot to do out here, I told him I’d go to Brisbane. He is very sweet.


That Time I Lost My Virginity.

At first glance, the story of losing my virginity sounds like it was ripped from the pages a romance novel. He Italian and very handsome and barely spoke a word of English. It happened on a balcony of a high-rise building over-looking the city of Sydney at night.

Be still my beating heart.

Like most things in life though, look a little closer and you can see the sheen wearing off and tiny cracks starting to show.

My friends and I were all 17 and feeling very grown up, drinking with older guys we’d met recently in an inner-city flat on a week night. I had come the teenage rebellion party pretty late in the game so I was feeling rather bad-assed.

Nicoli was gorgeous. He looked a little bit like a prettier version of Russell Crowe. He said he was 24, and I believed him. When you are a teenager, anyone over 21 is just vaguely an adult, but looking back at the old photo I have of him, I’d put his age at the time to closer to 30.

The music was up, the lights were down and the somewhat sleazy flirting had commenced. I walked out onto the balcony and was drinking my cheap wine, looking at the expansive view of the city. Nicoli came out to join me. Our lack of a common language meant we didn’t have much to say to each other, so kissing became the easiest option.

I was the girl at school that even the dorkier guys picked on and my experience with men up to this point was limited to a few spotty teenage boys. Suddenly, there I was in the arms of a good-looking older man and I kissed him with a naïve passion.

He pulled away, looked in my eyes and said,

“Sex Evie? Sex?” Nicoli’s limited English wasn’t about to stop him getting laid.

“Ummmm ok” I said.

I slipped my knickers down and sort of wrapped my legs around him. He popped his willy out of his pants and stuck it in, and just like that, unceremoniously, my virginity was gone.

What is virginity anyway? Tampons and fingers – my own and other peoples, had been going up there for a while now. So how did a penis magically transform me from ‘virgin’ to ‘non-virgin’? A few months before I had had what I’d describe as my first sexual experience. I did ‘everything but’ with a boy I’d just met, hidden away in the sand dunes at the beach. He was very sweet and nearly as inexperienced as me. In many ways, that night was a lot more intimate than the night I ‘lost my virginity’ but as society tells me, it’s not until a penis has gone all up and in there that it is officially gone.

His thrusting didn’t feel particularly good, but it didn’t feel bad either. I almost couldn’t believe it was happening. I kept thinking “Sex! I am actually having sex!”

Seeing as there was no privacy and people were wanting to come out onto the balcony for cigarettes, we decided to move our tryst into the bathroom. A lack of knowledge on my part of what I liked combined with a lack of finesse on his part, meant the sex was the type where a penis is just thrust mechanically, in and out. It wasn’t long before my vagina dried up like a desert and it started to hurt. Trying to find a comfortable position with the options being the sink, the cold tiled floor or the toilet didn’t help the situation either.

He kept saying a bunch of stuff to me in Italian, which might have been quite sexy if only by this point I wasn’t bored and in a little bit of pain. We humped around a bit more before finally, with a “Si, si, siiiiiiii” he pulled out and I felt his cum run down my thigh, and it was over.

I wiped my leg, found my skirt and undies and walked out of the bathroom.

“So”, I thought “That’s what sex is like.”

I was immediately dragged out into the corridor by my friends, wanting to know details and how I felt about the whole thing.

“Ohmygod you are not are virgin any more Evie!” said one of my friends. They both knew all about sex because they had lost their virginities a good six months or so before I did.

“You guys were in there for ages!” said one girlfriend.

“Yeah, it did seem to take a long time”

“Was it good?” one of my friends asked.

“No” I told them “it really hurt and I got a bit bored.”

I felt a bit proud of myself though. I felt like maybe I wasn’t so awful if such an attractive older man wanted me. Now I realise that it wasn’t me he wanted, but sex, and I was the one saying yes.

We went back inside and I felt nervous. I had no idea about post-sex-with-a-stranger etiquette so feeling shy all of a sudden, I avoided eye contact with Nicoli and walked out onto the balcony to have a cigarette.

He joined me outside and handed me a glass of wine.

“Sydney, bella.” he said, looking out at the view, “You. Bella.” he said touching my hair.

Puberty had hit me pretty hard. With my skinny body with mozzie bites for boobs, frizzy hair, bad skin and crooked teeth I was no, ‘bella’ but it was sweet of him to pretend I was.

He put his arms around me and I decided I liked the after sex stuff much more than the sex itself. I think I was looking for affection and someone to just like me a lot more than I was looking for sex. I think I still am.

Nicoli took my number, but he never called and I didn’t see him again after that night. One of my friends continued to see Jonas, one of the other guys there that night. My friend had told Jonas I was a virgin. He must have told Nicoli who told him I couldn’t have been because, I “didn’t have the right stuff”. This was relayed back to my friend who told me. Presumably by “the right stuff” Nicoli was referring to my hymen, which had long since been decimated by tampons and masturbation.

Hymen or no it was Nicoli’s penis that was the first penis inside of me. That makes him the taker of my socially-constructed virginity, and as such he will forever hold a place in my own personal folklore.

This post has been entered as part of a writing competetion ran by Charlie over at A Sex Blog of Sorts. If you like your blogs raw, honest and a little bit saucy I suggest you head on over there and check out her blog.

My Outback Life.

I’m really not as ‘Sex and the City’ as I thought I’d be by age 32. Right now, I’m more ‘Sex and The Small Regional Town.’ Without the sex part.

If you follow this blog you’ll might know I have recently moved to a small town in Outback Queensland. It’s hot as all shit, there isn’t a whole lot to do and all I keep hearing is how many snakes there are around.

A snake killed one of my colleague’s dogs recently and her neighbor cut off it’s head with a shovel. The guy in the room next to mine saw a 5ft brown snake in the bushes just outside where we all live. I’m not sure how far up the ‘shit-that will-fuck-you-up’ scale brown snakes are, but they are definitely in the Top 10 somewhere.

There are also ads on television about how to avoid being eaten by a crocodile.

Can I go back to the city now?

Walking into the local pub,  the male to female ratio is about 3:1. Not that those odds have been much help to me so far. I’m not expecting to meet the love of my life here, but a fling would be fun.  I joined Tinder for about 5 minutes. There were seven guys on it and my housemate knew five of them. I had a look on OKCupid and there wasn’t a single person within a 250km radius.

I’m starting to think by the time I get laid again I will have forgotten who puts what where.

Sometimes I lay awake at night worrying about the fact my early 30s sexual peak is going to pass me by and all I’ll have to show for it is a drunk shag at my friend’s wedding last June. I watched something on TV the other night about the health benfits of sex and wanted to throw something at the TV.

Maybe it is a good thing I haven’t hooked up with anyone here because there is no getting away with anything. I got so  horribly drunk on Friday night that my housemate had to let me in because I forgot how doors work. The next day I ran into my boss in the street and she asked me how I was feeling.

“How are you Evie?”, she asked with concern, “I tried calling your house this morning after hearing you were a bit worse for wear last night.”

I don’t know how she knew, but how mortifying.  I can only hope that she didn’t hear about the part where I thought I could dance and one of my work friends was like, “errr Evie, everyone just saw your undies.”

My cup of face-palm runeth over.

I am making it all sound much worse than it is. I actually really am having a good time out here. I love my job and I have met some really good people. My contract is up in December though, and I think three months will have been enough. It will be good to get home to friends and family and a place where there are more than 7 men in my Tinder radius.


How to squeeze gf boobs supposed traveling in taxi at night.

Nothing makes me whisper”What in the actual fuck?” quietly to myself , like looking at my search engine terms.

Not only did that thought come into your head, but you saw fit to type it into Google.

Not only did that thought come into your head, but you saw fit to type it into Google.

The things people search for on the internets that then lead to my blog  are bizzare and often down right disturbing. Who are you, person that was looking for diary photo breast and tits and why are you lurking around my blog?

By far and away the search engine term that brings the boys to my yard more than any other is a variation of:

threesome stories, 

hot threesome stories,

my first threesome stories

Peeps love to read about threesomes it seems. For some folk though, a regular threeseome just isn’t going to cut it, so they look for:

 similar stories to man stabs man in 3sums,

old couple’s first attempt at threesome,

I had a threesome with an old man

When I wrote this post about my lame attempt at the threesome, I also wrote another story about taking my parents dog on a date. Mentioning ‘threesome’ and ‘dog’ in the same post means I get loads of  people searching for things like this stumbling on my blog:

storiese sex stories including dog

i had a threesome with a dog and a old lady (I don’t think anyone, including Google, needs to know that.)

threesome with dog, threesome

three some with dog in bed

how to have a threesome with a dog

The ‘threesome with a dog’ theme is horribly popular as it is massively fucked up and leads people to blog several times a week without fail.

Having a threesome, it seems, can raise some deep questions about life such as,

is it possible for a guy to date you after a threesome? 

Speaking of deep life questions, one person searched for an answer to a question I am sure we have all asked ourselves at one time or another,

is doggy style in the kitchen plausible? 

Moving along, I can sympathise with this lady,

bed bug bites on my vagina (and you can read about that here)

I’m a little bit offended that these search engine terms led right to my blog. What are you trying to say, Google?

 dirty talking australian sluts

fuck me harder your slut im whore pussy aah oh yeah blog

fuck me im a.filthy slut.cum ohhhh

i’m at newcastle station and looking for sex (I’m not sure sitting on the platform typing that into your iPhone is going to help you get laid.)

Then there is just the mixed bag of random that makes me question humanity

boob touch in crowd pic

sex fail girl shitting (how and why did looking for someone taking a shit during sex lead to my blog?)

boobies in the crowd

dry hump ur leg 

inappropriate places to vomit (Let me help you out with that one, that’d be almost everywhere other than a toilet bowl.)

dirty hard dick words

fuck girlfriend knickers

dry hump my sleeping wife

images vagina epic fail (how does a vagina fail epically anyway?)

 i saw a mans penis flopping in his trousers  (bahahahahaha, I don’t know why you Googled that, but I am so glad you did.)

random tits in a crowd pics

And finally, my own personal favourite:

 unknown men pressing lonly womens huge boobs picture

I bet you didn’t even know that was a thing, did you.


In other news, I have moved again, this time to a small town in the Queensland Outback.

Heading to my new home.

Heading to my new home.

There are only a couple of thousand people within a 20,000 square kilometre radius out here so not sure how my love (sex) life is going to go. There are more men than women though, so at least the odds are in my favour. Maybe I’ll meet a nice cowboy and get married and move to a farm.

What randomness has led people to your blog? I’d love to hear it.




Bali. Heart trouble in paradise.

I’m home, back on Australian soil after a few months of backpacking through Europe, Bangladesh, Malaysia and Bali. Just 48 hours ago I was trying to surf in Kuta, now I am at my parent’s house. I still have Balinese sea salt in my hair.

Bali wasn’t initially part of the plan, but I followed my heart, or at least my vagina, to see a man I had a holiday fling with four years ago. I met him in Guatemala and followers of this blog might remember when I wrote about getting drunk and demanding Owen “spank me OH GOD spank me” while we were getting naked in the dorm at a backpacker hostel.

Yes, I am one classy broad.

Meeting up with Owen in Bali turned out to be another exercise in rejection for me. Foolishly thinking we’d re-kindle our Guatemalan romance, I threw myself at him as soon as I saw him.  We did have sex a few times, but I wonder now if it was more out of politeness or pity on his part than any kind of attraction. The only time he ever touched me was if we were having sex, and he didn’t particularly seem that into that.  I soon completely and totally backed off, and without even talking about it, we spent the last few days hanging out as friends. Which is fine, ’cause he is a good friend to have.

Owen isn’t the only man I have lost my heart a little bit to in Bali. Nearly 10 years ago now, on my very first trip over there, I met and fell madly infatuated with a man named Wayan.

Fresh out of uni, some girlfriends and I headed to Kuta, Bali, for a week-long holiday of sun, surf and cheap booze. We’d all just graduated from our BA Nursing and had a few weeks before real life kicked off. I was 22 years old.

I met Wayan on the dance floor of Paddy’s nightclub. He came up and started to dance with me. I thought he was gorgeous. We had our tongues down each other’s throats before we’d even exchanged names.

“I’m going home? You coming?” he asked me over the music.

I followed him out of Paddys and jumped on the back of his bike and we headed to his room off Poppies II. We didn’t have sex that night, just sat up outside  talking and smoking Marlborough Lights. He helld my hand in his.

He really was beautiful. 24 years old with long hair that went down to his waist, gorgeous brown eyes and a huge smile. The next morning I threw all my stuff into my bag, left the hotel, and went to stay with him.

It was a stupidly, gloriously, intoxicating wonderful few days. If he wasn’t at work, we were together. He took me on his bike to remote beaches, we ate at restaurants that tourists never go to and got drunk together. We spent a lot of time fucking on the mattress on the floor in his room, both of us dripping with sweat in the tropical heat. When we took magic mushrooms together one night  he took care of me while I spent most of the time with my head in the toilet bowl, dry retching as a psychedelic wolf stared back at me.

I absolutely adored him.

He did have a funny way with compliments though….

“You know who you look like, Evie?”




I can kind of see the resemblance.

I can kind of see the resemblance.




I didn’t want to leave and I very almost stayed. I was however, about to start my first proper job as a new grad registered nurse and wasn’t quite ready to throw everything away to stay in Indonesia until my money ran out.

We promised to stay in touch, and for a while we did. I printed out the emails he sent me and still have them tucked away in a box somewhere. Eventually though, our lives went on and our emails slowed to a trickle, then stopped.

Several years later, when I was about 25 I headed back to Bali for a holiday with a girlfriend named Mel. It crossed my mind to contact Wayan but it had been a long time, so I decided to best just to leave things as a happy memory.

Mel and I were on Kuta beach, drinking beer in the late afternoon sun, when suddenly I heard someone say,


I looked up and my heart nearly stopped. “Wayan!” We both stared at each other in disbelief. His long hair had all been cut off but I thought he was just as beautiful as I remembered.

“Mel”, I spluttered, still not believing it, “this is Wayan”. Wayan, who I’d gone on and on and on about a few years before. She knew exactly who he was.

It had to be fate. At any given time there are thousands of people on Kuta Beach. Wayan did not even live in Kuta anymore at that time and had decided, on a whim to head out there for the afternoon. On that long stretch of crowded sand he’d strolled right on next to me.


If life was a fairy-tale it would have been the beginning of a love story. We’d be married by now with a couple of babies and divide our time between Australia and Bali.

Life isn’t a fair-tale though, or at least, mine isn’t.

We hung out for the next few days, but whatever magic we’d had in 2004 had gone and he seemed more interested in Mel than in me. I’m no stranger to dudes preferring my mates over me, but this time it had a particular sting to it. It was awkward and weird and our final good-bye was a half-hearted hug.

I don’t miss him, but sometimes I miss those days when we first met. I don’t know if I’m ever again going to quite experience that feeling of freedom and exhilaration I felt on the back of his motorbike, stupidly wearing just a bikini and a sarong, my body pressed against his as we rode out to Dreamland Beach.

I don’t miss Wayan, but I do miss those few days.








How Not To End A First Date.

The end of a first date is where things can start to get really, really awkward. Do you hug? Shake hands?  A kiss on the cheek? Or do you just go for it and have a tonguey right there out the front of the restaurant?

This isn’t a rhetorical question.

If you have read this blog before you’d know when it comes to dudes and dating I could use all the help I can get.

I remember once dropping a guy home to the sound of a Kanye West CD playing in my car. We chatted briefly out the front of his house and then, right in the middle of “Hell of a Life”, the conversation hit a wall. We sat silently while the words, “Fuck with the lights on, fuck with the lights, fuck with the lights on”, reverberated around my car over and over again. Then seemed to just keep going.

I remember him glancing at the CD player, then glancing over at me, clearing his throat and saying, “well, thanks for that” before quickly scooting out of my car and into the night.

Simon was another guy I drove home after a not entirely unpleasant but forgettable dinner.

“Well”, I said as I pulled up outside his house, “thanks for a good night”.

“Yeah” he said, “yeah it was a good night.”

He made no attempt to exit my car.

“Ok then” I said, “goodnight”

“Yeah, yeah” he said, “good night.”

He continued to sit in my car.

I continued to sit in my car.

I made a kind of “mm hmmm” noise.

“Yeah” he said.

Then he leaned on in.

“Oh dear god no!” I thought as I turned my head in an attempt to kiss his cheek. I didn’t quite get the angles right and managed to instead give him a big kiss right on the ear.

“Oh god I’m sorry, I just kissed your ear.” I blurted out. We both realised I had kissed him on the ear, I probably didn’t need to emphasise the fact.

“That’s ok,” he said, “well, goodnight.” Then he finally, finally, climbed out of my car.

The story with Simon doesn’t end there, but I reckon that is for another post.

If you have been following this blog you might know I have been escaping winter by backpacking around Europe for the last few months. Unsurprisingly I am as about as un-popular with dudes in the Northern Hemisphere as I am back home. I was hoping to update my blog with some zany holiday romance tales, but that turned out to be nothing more than some wishful thinking. My trip is nearly over now, I land at Sydney Airport in about 10 days.

If I don’t pull soon all be all out of blog material. I feel like I am already scraping the barrel.

Conspiracy Theory and Travel on the Cheap.


I have just spent the last week and a half living with some hard-core conspiracy theorists. Lovely, lovely people, but I think they left their critical thinking skills somewhere back in the mid-2000s.

Question everything… unless it’s written by some random dude and posted on the internet, then it must be true.


I’m travelling Europe on the cheap, couch-surfing, hitch-hiking and working small on farms in France, Spain and Portugal.  I found Karen and Greg, Mr and Mrs Conspiracy, through a work exchange website. Work exchange is truly a wonderful way to travel, offering people the chance for free food and accommodation in exchange for a few hours’ work per day. Being that I am a bit of a tight-arse, being able to experience life in another country virtually for free is a bit of a dream come true.

Karen and Greg are a British couple with a small plot of land in Spain, working towards getting off the grid as much as possible and becoming more self-sufficient, both ideas that I am quite interested in. I had no idea though that not long into my stay, my brain would start to implode from a lack of rationale thoughts surrounding me.

 Did you know for example?

Michelle Obama is a man (Never mind that there are multiple photos of her as a young girl and young woman)

The moon landing never happened, (so the hundreds if not thousands of people involved, from the astronauts to the people in the control room to the blokes at the Parkes Radio Telescope in country NSW have kept this a secret since the 60’s?)

Modern music video clips are styled to look like the 80s to sub-consciously make us think of the Cold War (not quite sure why we are being brain-washed to think about the Cold War. And can I point out that most people watching MTV music videos don’t even remember the 80s and I’m guessing half of them don’t even know there was a cold war.)

And don’t even get me started on the ‘Chem-trails’

We were in the car, when Greg glanced at the sky,

“They’re chem-trailing again” he said.

“They” being the shadowy elite banker freemason illuminati, or something like that.

Chem-trails, are how the elite are poisoning us with nano aluminium. Of course, once you release something into the atmosphere it is out of your control and at the mercy of wind currents, presumably at risk of drifting to where ever it is the ‘elite’ like to hang out. When I pointed this out to Karen, she replied,

“Yes, well they are insane aren’t they?” Hmmmmmm


‘Chem-trails’ tend to come from commercial airliners so I guess hundreds and hundreds of pilots and aircraft mechanics are complicit in poisoning the masses, and presumably their own family and friends.

Don’t get me wrong, I am sure there is some dodgy shit in this world, governments and big business don’t exactly always tell the truth and act in our best interest, but to suggest there is a shadowy group faking moon landings, poisoning every one and brain-washing us with 80s style video clips is a bit of s stretch, especially when you consider to make it work, tens of thousands of people would have to be in on it.

In a world that couldn’t even keep Bill Clinton getting a blow-job secret, I have to say, I’m sceptical.

Meeting people with different views is what it’ all about though hey, and for all their interesting beliefs, they were good people and treated me with kindness.

What’s that I hear you say?

“Evie, I don’t come and read this blog to hear about your opinions on conspiracy theory and small-scale agriculture in rural Spain! Where is the drinking and disgraceful behaviour and your pathetic attempts to find a boyfriend?”

Right. Well. Since arriving in Europe things have been romance-free for me. My box of condoms remains sadly, unopened.


I purchased these with such high hopes!

I purchased these with such high hopes!

There was this one guy, in Paris….

As I was walking through the streets of Montmartre, a French man started talking to me. He seemed nice enough and I thought it might be fun to chat with a local so I agreed to have a wine with him. We ended up getting a bottle and drinking it in the park.

Unfortunately, this is not the beginning of a Paris love story.

We sat and talked and within about 20 minutes he decided I was “beautiful, wonderful Oh Mon Cherie!”

He grabbed my hand in his.

“Oh my bizarre hair girl.”

I sort of smiled awkwardly and gently pulled my hand away. He was a nice enough bloke, but I had no interest in being his ‘bizarre hair girl.” I drank some more wine and shoved some cheese in my mouth so he wouldn’t think of kissing me. I tried to think of a polite excuse to leave.

“Oh I want to know you,”

Which I am pretty sure meant he wanted to know me in the biblical sense.

“I want to know you, tonight!”

H grabbed my arm and kissed it like Gomez Adams would Morticia. I pulled my arm back gave an awkward smile and told him that actually, it really was time for me to be getting back to me hotel.

Other than that, I was hit on by 96 year old Senor Carlos, the other day. He is a neighbour of the people I was staying with, and by all reports, fancies himself a bit of a ladies man, though sleaze might be a better description.

One of the girls who had been there a lot longer than me said that he followed her into the shed once where she was stacking fire-wood and reached over and squeezed her boob!

“I bet he’s always been like that with women” she said, and she is probably right. I’m guessing you don’t go through life having a healthy respect for other people’s boundaries then turn 94 and think, “Screw it, I’m gonna start groping titties”

Anyway I have moved on to Portugal and am in the city of Porto for just one night tonight. I am going to help on another farm tomorrow so I’m going to make the most of being in the big smoke before I start living in a tent again.

Despite my mocking, I’ve always had a bit of an interest in conspiracy theory. Are there any theories that you have heard that you think might be right, or at least have a grain of truth to them?