Telemarketers...be a dear and tell them where to go...

At some point your phone will ring, and a complete stranger will ask you for money. Perhaps it will be for starving children in Sri Lanka, or a new phone plan from Teleripoff, or life insurance. At this point you can either tell him yes, no, or f*** off. If you say yes, you will make him happy. If you say no, you will make him sad. But oddly enough, if you tell him to f*** off, you will also make him happy. The reason is simple: you will save his time.

You see, telemarketing is a job so awful we don't even force murderers to do it. It has the highest employee turnover of any job in the world, bar none. Deep sea fishermen on the North Sea, getting their arms torn off, or being torn limb from limb by giant squid? Ice road truckers, falling into gorges and landing uncomfortably at the bottom, with a severe headache from the ninety five tons of road train that fell on their cranium? Frontline soldiers in the middle east? None of this compares to the horror of being a telemarketer. You have more chance of making it through the SAS training course than succeeding as a telemarketer. And that's not an exaggeration.

There are several reasons for this. Every telemarketer this side of the planet Neptune must fight to keep their job- every single day- by achieving a thing called a KPI, a Key Performance Indicator. This is a fantasy figure dreamed up by Senior Management, which represents the highest number of sales ever achieved, multiplied by a thousand.

Soldiers have a drill sergeant. Telemarketers have Hitler, Goebbels and Irwin Rommel stomping about he room, in gumboots and greatcoats, bayoneting staff at random. Telemarketers must crawl about the floor of the phone room to get to their seats, as the carpet is too slick with blood and intestines to walk upright. But this is fine, since the people who run telemarketing companies have not yet reached the stage of evolution where they can walk upright either.

As if the bayoneting and daily dismemberment is not enough, staff are verbally fed nonsense all day long. This is called, “Positive Thinking,” and it claims that you can achieve anything, even fly, change your own gender or even change species, if you just try hard enough. So all telemarketers are told, on a daily basis, that they must sell a trillion units each today, or else lose their jobs. The fact that the average staff member has only sold one unit a day since the company began fifteen years ago is meaningless. If you can't do it, you're not trying hard enough. The denial of reality is staggering.

In order to achieve any sales at all, a telemarketer has to call as many people as possible. But this is tough, because not enough people are humane enough to tell him to fuck off. They're too cruel to put him out of his misery quickly, opting to say “no,” instead, and then proceed to torture him for ten minutes.

You see, he may inadvertently telephone Beryl from Lake Macquarie, who knows in the first instant that she cannot afford to sponsor Samerawit Tesfaye of Ethiopia, who is so impoverished he has had to eat his own feet, as well as twenty-five feet of barbed wire. But she's not about to let on to Brian in the call centre, because the last time she had someone to talk to, Winston Churchill was inspiring the world with speeches. She's determined to keep him on the phone until the universe ceases expanding, and collapses completely back into what some scientists call The Big Crunch, which they claim is the end of everything, in fifty trillion years time. But it won't be the end of everything, because afterwards there will still be Beryl's voice, telling Brian's decaying corpse about the relief her new haemorrhoids cream affords her, her hopes that her son Cyril will find a nice girl and settle down instead of flouncing around with those boys from the theatre, and the miraculous new flea shampoo she has been using on Fifi…

But there is worse to come for Brian the Telemarketer, for no sooner has he convinced Beryl that her chicken coop is on fire and she must put the phone down and investigate immediately, than he'll get Mervyn from Edgecliffe. Mervyn's a middle manager at XYZ Telco, with permed hair, teeth brighter than a supernova, and more narcissism than Kyle Sandilands, and he knows that everyone who has ever lived except himself is an idiot and a fool, and he's going to tell Brian not only all the ways he's doing his job wrong, but everything the government, business, the police, and God are doing wrong, and how to fix it. But he won't stop there, because even though he's never been on an oil rig or never launched a satellite, that's not going to prevent him from dispensing his advice on how oil rigs should be run and how the satellite system could be improved. But this is only in the second hour, because in the first hour he'll grill Brian relentlessly on his full name, DOB, sexual orientation, religious beliefs, and what type of fossiliferous shale his first home was built upon. He will ridicule all of these, and explain to Brian what sort of geological formation he should have been born upon, and how it is Brian's fault exclusively that he wasn't. Brian's ears will have evolved sufficiently to detach themselves from his skull and run away at least as far as Malta by then, but Brian's poor old skeleton and liver and oesophagus will still be caught in the tides of shoulds and ought-to-bes flowing out of Merv's mouth like acid.

But don't think that's all, because that's just the first two calls, and Brian has to make another 348 today, and do the same again tomorrow.

So if you do receive a call from the hapless Brian, you could give him the shock of his life by saying yes. But since you're unlikely to do this, it's best to make him happy by telling him to fuck off.

Nelson Bay...Almost as safe as a trip to Somalia...

Port Stephens, Australia...beneath the bullet casings lies a delightful little paradise...

Nelson Bay is a little harbourside town, surrounded by several other small harbourside towns, on the retirement belt that is the mid NSW coast, two hours from Sydney. It's pleasant and isolated, with a lovely harbour that's too shallow for any vessel larger than a duck. Therefore, it is almost completely natural. This might lead you to think it's unspoilt. But put away your illusions, because you're in for a wild ride.

The first thing that will happen, on arrival, is that a gang of four year olds, with neck tattoos, will steal your stereo before your car has even come to a stop. And don't think you'll escape this experience by cleverly being called Graham, having a comb-over and driving a Peugeot 404 with only a cassette player, because cassette tape technology is about to arrive here this year, if the new council drive to replace the gramophone is successful.

Don't get the idea that the council is stuck in the 1800s, however. Oh no. They've moved forwards to the mid twentieth century, or more specifically, Germany in the early 1940s.

If you decide to live here (for God's sake don't) you may wish, like 99 % of residents, to buy yourself a speedboat on a trailer. With the gorgeous and shallow harbour, it's the best place in the world to own one. Sadly, there's nowhere to store it.

On your own property? No, the council has banned it. In your own driveway? Banned. In the water? Banned. And if you flout this ban, you'll be shot by council rangers dressed as Gestapo.

But back to the matter of your stereo, your car that is now sitting up on bricks, minus its wheels, and is now engulfed in flames, all of which which has occurred before you've even had time to unbuckle your seatbelt.

The Bay Rats, as this group of preschoolers is called, will run down the road to sell your stereo at the local preschool, so they can buy drugs from grandmother at the nursing home. Don't chase them, because if you do, you'll start to hallucinate that there's a steam locomotive charging towards you from the innards of the dole office. In fact it's the children's mothers, whose names are Sharon, Sherree and Shazza, charging out in a cloud of bong smoke, as the syringes hanging out of their arms tinkle and clatter together like the bell atop a locomotive.

But it's not all shambling drug-crazed zombies and devil children robbing you. In fact, the place itself is quite pleasant. People in the street will smile and say hello, and most shopkeepers will greet you by name, except at Coles, which has the largest range of expired yoghurts this side of parliament house. This is because everyone who works there is called Sue, has a face like a cow's intestines, is 45 years old, weighs more than a tractor, has thighs like a mammoth, a moustache like a walrus, and the personality of Pol Pot.

There are more friendly locals awaiting you at the harbour. Dolphins frolic in the waters of the Port Stephens, which are so blue and clear, it's as if the sky has melted and slid to earth. If you don't see any within a few minutes, you'll definitely see them on their evening visit to the rock-wall enclosed mini-harbour where rich people's boats sleep, and there's pelicans standing shoulder to shoulder with the many fisherman, waiting patiently for their meal of fish guts. If these don't ring your bell, it's a five minute walk to fly point, where there's glorious shallow-water diving, and the occasional pacific turtle to be seen.

Port Stephens itself is a large, shallow harbour guarded at the sea entrance by a pair of mountains, and outside of these, whales can be seen most months of the year, travelling between Antarctica and the equator. Which is about as far as you'll need to travel to visit the “shopping centre” of Salamander Bay. Which is not a bay, but a desolate stretch of wasteland. But you'll travel there anyway, because your children will have been so frightened by the herd of Gorgon Sues at Coles, that they'll threaten to pull their own heads off and impale themselves if you ever suggest shopping there again.

So you'll trek out to “Sally Centre,” even though it's further away than the Voyager 2 probe, which left the solar system last year. But don't feel convulsed with excitement, because this “shopping centre” has only one level, is the size of a single car garage, except for the other half of it, which is as far away as the moon, for no apparent reason. And both halves of it, ie all six shops, are about as inviting as a Welsh Coal mine after a collapse, or perhaps the lower cirlces of Hell in Dante's Inferno.

These things aside, Nelson Bay is lovely to visit- if you have your own transport. Just don't bring it with you, because it will be firebombed immediately, and you'll have to use the local bus service. Which last ran before the time of the Pharaohs. So you'll wait at the bus stop until your body mummifies, and is found by aliens, or a future civilisation of humans, sometime after the sun turns nova. And that's not for another five billion years.

Hell on Earth...NAIA, Manila...

Abandon hope, all ye who enter...

The world's biggest brothel is called Ninoy Acquino International Airport, in Manila. While most pilots assigned to land at this monument to stupidity wisely commit suicide by impaling themselves on their own control columns, cabin crew have no option but to leap into the plane's engines. This is a great relief to the plane's passengers, who generally cheer and whoop with delight and joy at being spared a landing here. As their plane nosedives towards the ground at 1000 kph, the singing from the plane's cabin can be heard as far south as Scott's base in the Antarctic, and has on more than one occasion been known to deafen the entire population of Cavite.

But let's suppose for an instant that you are an Atheist, and do not believe in Hell, but would like to find out what Hell is like. You would in this instance go to NAIA. Here is a little of what you might experience there. Be aware that nothing you read here can possibly be as bad as the real thing, so in order to make your experience reading this blog closer to reality, I will ask you to leave your computer for a moment, procure yourself a pair of chopsticks, sharpen the tips, and ram them into your eyeballs. Push them all the way through your amygdala, through your corpus callosum, until the sharpened tips strike the rear of your skull in the vicinity of your pons. Then read on.

You will approach NAIA via taxi from Manila. Naturally the driver will tell you the meter will not work, and the price is three hundred pesos, even though you can see for yourself the display tells you that the price is currently seventy pesos. However, this is only after you have fought World War Three with him.

When you first enter his taxi, he will repeatedly attempt to “get you a girl.” He will tell you the price is only 8000 pesos. For this price you could almost buy yourself a cruise ship. He will ignore everything you say, and repeatedly attempt to take you to “a nice girl, very young.”

You must fight world war three with him, without making him upset, as Filipinos are the most volatile people on earth if they feel offended, and will kill anyone who offends them. The Philippines has had more journalists murdered in the last five years than Iraq. This is completely true.

At the entrance to the airport you will reach something called a, “Security Checkpoint.” This is a collection of poles holding up a strip of corrugated iron roof. It has four lanes, with four security guards holding torches. If you are a terrorist, just drive straight through without stopping, and nothing will happen to you, as the “security guards” cannot run as fast as your taxi, and by the time they have drawn their guns and accidentally shot one of their number, you will be safely out of range, and at the airport entrance fifty yards away. There you may safely blend into the crowd of thousands who have been waiting to enter the front doors since the time of the T-rex.

If you are not a terrorist you may pause if you wish, though there is no barrier or gate of any kind. A security guard will motion the driver to open the boot. He will not bother looking inside the boot, as he is only checking to see if the car's boot-release catch works. He will then wave you on to the airport.

Arriving at the entrance, you will be extremely popular if you bring five loaves and two fish. Failing this, you risk being torn apart and eaten.

It is possible that a pair of security guards may stroll past, with a pair of mismatched dogs on the ends of ragged pieces of rope that have broken several times, and have been repaired with knots at intervals of a foot. These are the airport's sniffer dogs.

When you enter the Pit of Despair, you will have to go through an x-ray machine. There's three of these in total (One at the entrance, one at immigration, and one at the final departure lounge.)

You may require a visit to the bathroom, called a C.R.- comfort room. Toilet seats haven't yet made their way to the Philippines- toilets themselves only arrived in 2009. There's no bog roll either- just sprayer hoses to clean your blurter and your octopus.

Exiting the cubicle, you'll immediately draw the washroom attendant- every bathroom in Manila (both of them) has an attendant, whose name and photograph is on the wall. He'll race over to turn on the tap for you, in case you've forgotten the basic operation theory of the common washroom tap. He'll then proceed to wipe the sink beside you for as long as you take- make it an hour or so, just to see him polish all the way through the countertop. The moment you turn, he'll race to hand you paper towel, conveniently saving your fingers the three inch trip to the dispenser. When you drop your towel in the bin, he'll immediately lift the bin an inch off the floor. This reduces the final velocity (v2 in physics. Remember final velocity squared equals initial velocity squared plus twice the acceleration multiplied by the distance- v2=u2+2aS.) of the paper towel, ensuring it does not crash through the bottom of the bin and deep into the earth's crust, always a sensible precaution in this earthquake-prone region. Let's not forget the Japanese Tsunami- started by an earthquake. Such things are so frequently the result of careless paper towel disposal.

All of this effort produces a peculiar physical sensation in the attendant's body, causing his right hand to shoot out, palm upwards. Shake his hand warmly and say, “Guddaymate'ow'sithanging?”

Then leave him feeling delighted to have met you.

You will go to the Philtrust Bank Money Change Kiosk, who will inform you that they are unable to change your money as they have no Australian dollars. So you go to their opposition next door- who only have $20 Australian. At 11am. How will they deal with the other 200+ Australians today?

Of course, it will take you a long time to arrive at this information, since you will stand in line- behind the single person being served- while SEVEN (!) people bustle about behind the counter. What are they doing? Not serving anyone. Moving from place to place, picking up pieces of paper, and looking at the computer screens. It takes fifteen minutes for the single lady in front of you to be served. Why? She is simply changing 5000 pesos into $250 US. Why does this take so long? What are the other seven people doing? Why can't they serve?

And why do three Filipinos push in front of you the moment the lady before you leaves? Do they imagine you are a pillar, supporting the roof? An escaped terracotta warrior? Filipinos don't understand the notion of queuing- as you'll see repeatedly at every single desk and official- all five thousand of them-that you must pass through before entering the final lounge. Why must there be so many desks? Why can't the person who takes your 550p “Airport Users' Charge” also stamp your passport? Why is there another desk to do that? Why is there a separate person to receive your ticket for your Airport Users Charge? And someone else to take the big section of your boarding pass? Why more officials than Mainland China and Soviet Russia together?

You may not be thinking this at all, as you may have perished long ago, waiting for the check in counter. I- and several hundred other people- once sat on the floor for three hours waiting to check in. In Manila heat. Obviously there's no air-conditioner. Consider it a luxury that there's even a floor. Since mid 2011 Philippine Airlines has stopped herding passengers onto the backs of carabao and requesting they flap chicken feathers, and this fills Filipinos with immense pride.

However, let's not get ahead of ourselves, because at the check in desk, you will have an experience that will live with you until the end of your days.

As you approach the desk to check in, a security guard will approach you. You will be three metres from the check in desk at this time. He will say to you, “I'll show you where to check in.”

You will think, how strange. Perhaps this is not the check in desk after all. However, he will lead you three metres to the check in desk, then hold his hand out. You will reach into your pocket for a 100peso note, but accidentally pull out 1000. He will say, “No, two thousand!” Immediately another guard will appear beside him. “Two thousand for me too sir!”

I wish to pause at this moment, to reflect on the enormity of what has just occurred.

One guard has just demanded 2000pesos- $50 Australian- to show you three metres to a desk you were about to approach anyway.

Another guard has immediately demanded 2000pesos- $50 Australian- for doing absolutely nothing.

This is how Filipinos view foreigners. They know that the favourite pastime of Westerners is to throw hundred-dollar notes into the air. Foreigners at NAIA have been known to get so angry at this treatment that they achieve spontaneously combustion. Should this happen nearby, you must immediately smother the flames with Filipinos. They are easily located. Just reach into your pocket. There you will find a hundred hands. These are attached to one hundred arms, which are attached to fifty Filipinos.

At the airport's final lounge- many of which do not have a C.R., only a long line to the last x-ray machine, you will see several shops. On the extreme left-or north end- is a shop that sells tobacco and alcohol. If you decide to purchase either of these, note that there is only one possible place you can take them:onto the plane. There's only one exit from this lounge, and it leads onto the plane. But if you buy any alcohol from this shop, you are not allowed to take it on the plane with you. In case you are thinking of smuggling it on, you-and your carry-on-luggage (your checked baggage is already on the plane. Or has been sold on ebay.) must go through the last x-ray machine. Where the attendant will tell you that you are not allowed to take the alcohol onto the plane. So there is a shop here- but anything you buy from it must go into the garbage bin, according to Philippine law. Put simply, every customer who has ever bought anything from this shop has had to put it into the garbage bin.

This shop represents the Philippines, what it stands for, and how it does business.

This shop, like the taxi driver, and the airport guards, represent NAIA.

When you board your plane- which, if it has two wings- will NOT be a Philippine Airlines jet-(glory be!) two hundred people will attempt to use the Aeroplane toilets at once. Even the steward on the plane- normally a model of calm- will give his opinion of NAIA airport. It will be the same as yours. It will be the same as every passenger's opinion of NAIA. It will be the correct opinion of NAIA.

And at this moment you will realise the solution to nuclear disarmament, and the world's land mines. They must be dug up and scattered randomly throughout the airport guards' houses.

The world's nuclear arsenal must be safely disposed of. By dropping the lot on NAIA. Immediately.