Byron Bay

The other negative thing about Byron is the sheer number of poseur, pseudo-new-age-hippy-types there are, travelling about on daddy's gold card pretending to be AWFULLY alternative in their immaculate clothes and blonde dreads.  

They infected the Arts Factory, and seriously p*ssed Caro off with their constant, "Yeah, I'm here for a month, then I'm going to do Nepal for six weeks."  Where they presumably sit at the feet of a guru while he tells them the secret of inner peace is to have your parents fund it for you.
 
But this is due to their youth, I hear you say.  You are undoubtedly correct, and this was why I have come to really hate young people.  They are just SO boring.  One night the Arts Factory had some techno-trance music guy come along who gave a SCINTILLATING performance (you know the sort of thing where a couple of geeky white guys in backward baseball caps hold one hand over one ear, while the other hand almost imperceptibly moves a record back and forth).  The crowd went WILD.  Well, that is, I'm sure they would have done if it weren't for the fact that they were all sat around with their chins on the back of their hands watching the one stoned chick floating about with her arms in the air.  God, it was dull.  
 
So that's my stance on youth culture.  It's BORING.  Their conversation is boring, their clothes are boring and their bloody music is so dull that even coma victims get up and switch it off.
 
I know, I know.  I've become old.  The white hairs up my nose confirm this.
 
So in the end, it was little poseurs that drove us out of the Arts Factory.  Oh, and the monsoon - did I not mention that?  Well, one night we were kept up all night as one of the worst rainstorms to hit Byron that year pounded down on the roof of our cube.  I was seriously worried that Mozzie Creek might invade our tent in the night and our bed would float down to Cape Byron.  

Then there was the state of the bathrooms, which were pretty bloody feral, I can tell you.  On the morning we checked out, a guy called me over to the sink where he was brushing his teeth.
 
GUY: Would you mind telling me what THAT is?  (He points at the plughole.)
ME:      Looks like a mangled cockroach.
GUY:    I don't think so...  It's too big.
ME:      Well, I wouldn't poke it.  It may just be playing possum.