Inflatable Rampage

Istanbul: Cherry Exposé

2007-08-28T11:55:00Z

It was hot. We were jaded in our dorm room. We had been eating cherries like we had urgent bowel jams, and neither of us had so much as smelt a naked man for about three weeks. A delicious recipe for shit art? Don your aprons ladies!

Found In Translation: the Chinese Whispers of menus

2007-08-01T06:46:01Z

One of the joys of being a hard-line Anglophone traveller is poncing out to dinner sans-phrasebook & being handed an endearingly-translated rendition of tonight's offerings from the bain-marie. We suspect there may be some non-specific-European guy meandering across the continent with a sandwich board advertising this service, along with an endorsement from the Welsh penpal he's written to biannually since 1963. The following are a few extracts snapped thus far from his broad body of work, along with our "Universal Language" take on what we assume, based on the abstractions provided, would have come to the table had we dared to expend our cake money on any of them. Good appetite!

Florence: I'm not ugly, I'm just drawn that way.

2007-07-30T08:52:17Z

In Florence our speed-sampling of the cafe culture shot us to a level of consciousness from which Nescafe and weakened import beans had thus far sheltered us. Even this miniature albino demigod seemed like a feasible tourist guide. And he might as well have been; lining up for cultural baptism outside the Uffizi Gallery, it occurred to us that a much more interactive and rampagey way to immerse ourselves in Italian art would be to have one of these moes render us more grotesque than thought possible, even by those with the misfortune of having ever awoken next to us. So here's our moe of choice. A charming man: an Italian in every sense of the word, whatever that means, and judging by his impressive visual client list, he is able to draw. He is also willing to exaggerate others' unfortunate facial blips while wearing a coiff like this. Conclusion: moe is still running off the confidence of having caricatured all 6 members of the All-Star Celebrity Tour to Florence in 1986. After some batting of eyelashes and signing over of souls, we have ourselves a deal of moderate bargainness. Our sketchy friend seems disturbingly mirthful at losing a few pennies, and his apparently immobile sidekick has remained immobile. This bodes oddly, but we press on, crazed. We attempt to retain an air of cool beyond our reach even in normal circumstances, our maniacal smiles growing parallel to our unease. Unbeknownst to us but knownst to the crowd of Americans drawn to the scene like iron filings to a magnet, our faces have begun to take their really, really munted shapes. Growing more Skeksie-like with each stroke of the charcoal, our mulleted portraitist takes a moment to incite the assembled into a facial evaluation of the work so far. Judging by these mugs it's fairly safe to assume this was the point at which he endowed us with chestal accessories worthy of an ancient fertility goddess. And Lo, here is the result of 25 euros and social flagellation. Get it? Get it? We're AUSTRALIAN, and we're at the beach! Inspired! At first...few..... glances, we thought that Nat just had a disproportionately full lower lip. On closer inspection, it would seem that's her teeth. On the other hand, Liz's piercing has become a gaping hole, and she is the love object of a shark with lockjaw. We decide to hide out in the ruins of an old concrete wall for a closer look. Moments later the moe himself actually caught us using our full combined weight to stamp his masterwork into the cobbles. He just took another puff and strode on by..... In other news, we were no less disturbed on sight of this weirdass pharaoh-mermaid, whose principal move consisted of leaning forward creepily at whoever was misguided enough to drop five cents into his receptacle. You know street art's lost its mystique when after a long day of leaning, the "artiste" slings a black gym bag over one shoulder and slopes off in a gold full-body condom.

Cinque Terre: Taste the Real

2007-07-13T03:40:12Z

Liz reenacts Nat's theory of what Nonna is doing out back to give the watermelon gelato that authentic fruit feel.

Cinque Terre: Consumption Gumption

2007-07-11T07:47:53Z

Next on the 100% linen tour of the Mediterranean came Cinque Terre, a series of quaint fishing villages strung out along the Ligurian coast like beached seaweed. All we had to do was penetrate Spumante Magnum, gateway to The Five Lands, as they are known in ancient touristic scriptures, and it would be nary a hop, skip and commando roll to Parmigiano Grosso, the pungent and crumbling finish to a complex palate of sightseeing. Nat was as prepared as a heavily developed yet developmentally-challenged girl scout in a blinding pair of trotters procured from the locker room of a nearby bleach factory. Impending starvation rendering her stomach dashingly concave, Liz finds herself nonetheless in sartorial purgatory after happening upon this couture candy store, only to find her Northern European dimensions unforgiving in the silken face of Italian rompwear. We are forced into a mission of drastically unhip proportions... Finally mounting the lip of the Magnum, we are faced with local reinforcements of an enthusiasm we had not anticipated. Clearly they possessed something worth protecting, and we doubted it was either small or inedible. Our stomachs leisurely eating themselves, we push on towards the epicureal satisfaction hiding playfully beyond the next outcrop. Our hunger eclipsing our humanity, the dregs of our energy reserve are just sufficient to studiously ignore these stranded Scots on the rocks. Reaching a trident in the road, we are in several minds as to the reliability of these clearly vintage directions. Anyone with vertical penmanship this artless can't have J-Ho on their side*. Our escalating gastric reflux urges us to choose the "Spiaggia" prong in the fervent hope that it is some kind of giant communal pasta dish. If only we had read the surtitle.... For it is in fact the beach! And all we find to appease the toil & trouble brewing deep within are these edible swimsuits in eight great Ligurian flavours. Highlights included Quince, Melon and Just Like Mamma Makes It, with the lowlight being Algae (fourth from left). Eight kilometres along the next inside leg between villages, Liz loses both confidence in the likelihood of ever ingesting nutrients, as well as an ability to express this verbally to Nat, and instead contorts her features into this expressive and fugly mask. Nat is about to throw up at her feet when she spies Liz's rocky doppelganger in an adjacent cliff face. It is not until we are airlifted to the nearest greasy spoon that a misshapen waitress explains to us the cautionary purpose of this ancient crag of doom: never allow one's tastebuds to become tour guide of the Five Lands, lest they lead you on a merry dance of malnutrition. *poor script formation = insufficient fraternisation with Godman/J-Hovah = a desire to reroute tourists to your underground lair. Was it really so cryptic?

Blowing in from the west: a hurricane of chintz

2007-07-05T20:15:27Z

It's hard enough to know what to give to those you love, let alone those you hate. The Inflatable Rampage Gift Boutique lets your contorted facial reactions do the purchasing as you peruse this unfortunately not-actually-out-of-this-world selection of items glimpsed around, but for some reason not in, the Mediterranean. Physical manifestations of poor taste? We'll take five! We tried to ride this runty chrome leopard all the way back to the 70s but we only reached early 1985 before it got a lumbar cramp and is now frozen in this position forever. We get that it's a wheel of mini cacti; exactly which foodstuff's preparation time will be cut in half thanks to the stroke suffered by this creative genius? If the glorious rulers of feudal Japan weren't up for claiming this Moorish transvestite bridal samurai lampstand as a by-product of their regime, it just goes to show that any empire not down with social potpourri is doomed. For the woman who has everything..... All ladies should carry mace. Especially in this deceptively innocent form of Choc-Top - check those crushed nuts! Fucking..... wrong. The first artist to paint Dorian Gray eventually found employment picking the nits off second-hand bonnets before succumbing to full-body conjunctivitis. This is what a society producing an excess of plastic and LEDs has to offer your mother-in-law next time you travel abroad. Who said the road to capitalism is straight and narrow? Awoken from their gestational slumber, these 2 € shop takes on Alien did actually eject from their gullets successively smaller and slimier versions of their pigtailed noggins, complete with latex fangs and synthetic halitosis. The guy was a bit pissed when we politely declined, although we did buy several of his Silence of the Lambs Birthday Suits, only partly out of guilt.

Suspended Inflation

2007-07-02T16:35:55Z

Why walk when you can projectile?

Nice: A stroll with breakfast

2007-07-01T05:13:23Z

We've been attempting to blend but they keep staring at us.

Nice: Pebble Gropers

2007-06-27T15:33:36Z

No, this is not a ribbon of cumulo-nimbus blooming out from behind the ridges of a tundra, but it is the pebbly pebbly shores of Nice..... Despite the blinding allure of hyper-bronzed grandmas/leathergoods & the clouded azure waters, there was no getting around the fact that sunbathing in Nice would at some to all points involve receiving decidedly untherapeutic full-body massage from what was, so Nat explained, "immature sand" The locals seemed none too perturbed, especially the young, malleable ones, who even appropriated other bathers to come and sit on them in demonstration of the effectiveness of regional evolution. Throwing caution to the windsurfers, these cocky out-of-towners were understandably bemused to find themselves compelled beyond their will to perform the ceremonial "pummeling of the arches" pas de deux. Of course, the gravest and consequently least widely discussed glitch of bathing pebble-side is an extreme and largely (LARGELY) unattractive version of the ol' sand-in-the-togs. Mother nature, you kidder! However, a growing number of the growing number of enterprising locals are choosing to use this impairment to their advantage by foregoing technology altogether & permanent-marking their way into the small business hall of fame (still under construction).

Aix-en-Provence: Delayed Gratification is Overrated

2007-06-25T22:48:06Z

The South of France: We love the smell of dog turd in the morning, and the crotte minefield that is this picturesque southeastern town was selfless in its offerings as we skipped over the cobbles to our first petit cafe of the day. This here is gateau country, and no amount of effluent is going to stop us from trudging it over the gleaming tiles of Aix's patisseries and into pastry Nirvana.... First stop is Paul who, while forced to wheel himself 'tween oven and counter on a trolley after a croissant blowout left him with nought but shoulders up, surely makes the best Kouglofs this side of the shop threshold. Our ascent continues to biscuit Babylon, where the helpful minions have illustrated the concept of "stacking on" in no uncertain terms. Nat resigns herself to this lardy fact, kindly checking with her arse for which treat it would prefer to live with for the rest of her lifetime. It settles with caramel nougat... It is not until several legs into our confiserie crawl that Nat realises that, due to an increasingly maw-like hole in her Orange Sack of Instant Gratificaton, she has been scattering coinage behind her like some cashed-up Hansel-Gretel hybrid. Not only will other bands of gluttons now be able to dodge poo with nary a glance at their feet, but Nat is now fiscally reliant on Liz to maintain her escalating sugar high. The batter thickens.... ....as do our waists. Unfortunately the same cannot be said for the enamel on Liz's teeth, which, it would seem, have already blackened and succumbed to oral leprosy. A near-rabid Liz is herded into a local facility accustomed to pastry-induced trauma, and after receiving counselling and some sort of topical version of Primal Therapy, she forlornly resigns herself to a life of chugging baby food and watching Nat eat caramels. And croissants. I need some milk and a blender.

Aix-en-Provence: Blowing Kisses

2007-06-22T19:51:43Z

WANTED ENTHUSIASTIC PRACTITIONERS OF AUTHENTIC FRENCH STYLE. FACE-LICKERS, TONGUE-BITERS AND NOSE-EATERS NEED NOT APPLY. PLEASE LIMBER UP AND ENQUIRE WITHIN.

Comments are go!

2007-06-20T14:18:08Z

After much deliberation we have caved in and decided to err on the side of free speech after all by fixing the comment function. So, a eurocent for your thoughts? Just as well; Liz had never realised just how much her face needs her lips.

Sete - Revenge of the Grey Nomads

2007-06-19T00:25:19Z

In search of the ultimate night out in what is essentially a very pretty fishing village barred to the world of the under-55s, Liz & Nat stride into party mode with some festive beverages whose principal ingredients may or may not have included tea and grey water collected each day from the trawlers. Not even a coquettish sipping technique would save us from this one; this bar was called "The Dream", and apparently we were living it. Treading well into REM territory, Liz decides to consult this t-shirt clad oracle behind the bar, who sheds his ethereal light on the apparent discotheque dearth. Notice his protective demeanour toward this perspex-encased decorative bottle of beer; forget becoming intoxicated by the mere smell of alcohol, Sete's residents have only to be reminded of its existence & a glimpse or two of flesh-coloured stocking is in the bag. Exiting The Dream and entering instead into a terminal state of Hallucination, we are transported via this flying formica tabletop into a hellish grotto masquerading as a jazz bar. As the only occupants of said grotto, we are free to do as we please... "As we please" apparently translates for Nat into something approximating "Let's upend our skinny drinks over one another in an attempt to wake from this neon stupor". Observing that gin alone has not done the trick, Nat spices the mix with some of her still-grey-water-tainted saliva. Alas, not even this local staple proves to be the antidote... Finally feeling the rumblings of wakefulness, Liz dashes to this Kubrick-inspired mirage toilet in order to banish "The Dream" Cocktail of Impaired Sanity and so the reverie itself. No amount of panel-beating will return our faces from this state until well into the next day... Among the many things learnt throughout the evening, it has at least become clear to us why the pre-past-life French seem rooted to an invisible light rail track on the footpath; they are just trying to stay the fuck on cloud nine.

Paris - First Impressions Last

2007-06-11T22:33:40Z

After having been arrested at customs for trying to smuggle in a minimal command of the French language, Nat is at least gratified to discover that the French preoccupation with aesthetics reaches as far as their alarmingly low-security jail cells. Following her release, Nat notices many more former detainees roaming the rues. Defamed and impoverished, this man and his interspecies conjoined twins are forced to queue for bread for hours at a time... Odd that Nat should have been incarcerated for an apparently minor offense, whilst this man feels confident wheeling his victims about town in a small skip. Curiouser and curiouser... But then French men are renowned for throwing their meat around. Nat, now bespeckled with bruises of a size suspiciously matching that of the average Frenchman's elbow, is beginning to become familiar with Parisian custom & wonders whether it wasn't her blithe antipodean enthusiasm which caused this to-do in the first place... After all, keen to reinforce their unwillingness to bend over backwards for anyone, many Parisians seem to be chronically and emphatically stooped. Or, Nat happened to catch Paris in the lead up to the Hunchback of Notre Dame 2007 elections. Or was it Presidential? We may never know... Feeling that his compatriot is not sufficiently upholding the Parisian spirit, this bourgeois vigilante is bound by duty to help him along by giving tactile directions for looking down one's nose. Pupil captured assuming Gallic version of 'Grasshopper' stance. Downcast by tensions in the Paris-Nat relationship, the latter feels struck by the apt form of this particular souvenir.

Preparing for world adventure

2007-05-19T03:33:17Z

Nat and Liz have been in extreme preparation for their world adventure so that they may bring you the best in travel entertainment. First stop, France. Yours in flation, Nat and Liz.