I got up at 5am on Wednesday, packed my stuff, checked out of the hotel and caught a cab to JFK Airport. This was it. I was going home.

New York was battered by an electrical storm on this morning, which meant my BA flight back to London took off two hours late. We were on the runway for those two hours too. Just think of it - strapped in with no access to any electrical equipment and no trolley service. I was fucking glad when we took off and I was served a G&T, I can tell you.

The rest of the journey was good. I had four seats to myself, which is always heavenly on a long haul flight, and so I spent the remainder of the journey laid out, drinking more free gin and watching episodes of Peep Show on my laptop. I've managed to convert Aussies, Americans and Kiwis to this show while I've been away. If you haven't watched it, watch it.

When we landed at Heathrow, I didn't really feel anything at all. I wasn't sad, particularly happy or anything else. I was more pre-occupied with the reality of not having anywhere to live. As I made my way across London to the home of my former flat mates - where I was to te-mporarily crash while flat hunting - it occurred to me that of all the places I had been to on this trip, nowhere had the journey been so stressful and expensive as here. Welcome home, Matt.

It has been an eventful, interesting and certainly unforgettable six months. I would be hard pushed to name a favourite destination. So I will put it into categories:

Best scenery: South Island, New Zealand Best sight: Uluru (Ayers Rock) Best food: Melbourne Best hotel: MGM Grand, Las Vegas Best city: New York Best nightlife: Sydney Best beach: Byron Bay (New South Wales) Best shops: New York Best museum: Melbourne Museum

For the worst of the above, just insert Alice Springs or Cairns.

Anyway, this is the last post. Thanks for viewing my jumped up, opinionated rants for the last six months.

Now fuck off.

I went out again on Monday night. Well, visiting nightclubs is a form of sight seeing. I think.

When I returned to the hotel at whatever time it was, I needed a fag. Stop sniggering. So, I attempted to open my room window in order to light up. As I was doing so, the entire window frame and glass came off in my hands, forcing me back on to the bed. Apart from a couple of scratches, I was ok, but it was slightly bewildering to find myself laid out underneath a window frame on my bed in the middle of the night. Still, at least I could smoke now. After a few moments' thought, I considered it best to inform reception immediately. A man duly came up to the room and said I would be transferred to another, but that was before I was grilled about how the frame had come off, which struck me as utterly bizarre. Why on earth would I do this on purpose? For a souvenir to take home? Anyway, the new room I was moved to turned out to be a lot better than the now windowless one. So now you know what to do if you want an upgrade in a hotel.

I got up late again, found a nice little Italian restaurant for lunch, and then caught the subway south towards where the ferries depart from. I went to Liberty Island, where there is of course the Statue of Liberty. I don't know why, but it didn't seem as impressive in person. I've seen worse things, however. The view of Manhattan is spectacular from there, although it was absolutely obvious that all everyone was transfixed by was working out where the Twin Towers had been. Me included. Until a replacement is built, that will be what every tourist does, which is a shame in so many respects.

The ferry then took me to Ellis Island, which includes a very good and interesting museum about immigration to the US. On this occasion, I was more than happy to 'tip' and made a donation to the place's upkeep.

I decided to spend the last night of my trip with a visit to the Empire State Building. The view of New York from the 86th floor was amazing, although the whole experience was soured by the absurd time it takes to get up and down the building. It starts off with an escalator, then a walk through security, then a walk to where you pay, then a walk to a lift, then some stairs, then a walk to where they take a cheesy photograph whether you like it or not, then another lift, then some queueing, before you finally get to the observation level. Then when you've squeezed your way round, repeat the above. Still, it was a bloody good view.

I want to be a part of it .... New York, New York...

I arrived in the Big Apple at around 9pm on Saturday after a five hour flight from San Francisco. After surveying the subway map, I decided I couldn't make head nor fucking tail of it and thus decided to get a cab from JFK Airport to my hotel in Manhattan. The journey turned out to be one of the most frightening experiences of my entire life - the driver was an utter lunatic who paid scant regard for any law or safe practise. We were very nearly killed in one remarkable escape on a freeway, which to me confirmed this was a reckless driver rather than someone who knew what they were doing. So when we got to my hotel, I thought there was no way on sodding earth that I was going to give this man a generous tip - as is custom here - so I gave him a couple of dollars on top of the actual fare. He grabbed it off me without saying a word. What is it with this fucking country? You nearly get killed, and still you are expected to tip a handsome amount.

I have never been a big fan of tipping, partly because I'd admittedly rather spend the money on myself, but also because generous tipping unquestionably gives employers an excuse to keep wages low. The tip, in effect, is a payment to the boss - not the worker. But, when in Rome etc, I have been tipping over here in the States. I just resent how it's expected for the most innocuous tasks - like doing your fucking job! Perhaps I've got the wrong attitude. When I get back to work next week, I might start insisting on a tip every time I'm asked to write a press release.

Anyway, on Saturday night I ventured out to a club called 'Splash' in NYC's Chelsea area. It was, by some considerable distance, the best club I have visited during my six months away. It was modern, relaxed and the music was amazing. Unfortunately it was a bit too good, and I didn't leave the place until after 5am, which rendered me completely and utterly useless for the whole of Sunday. I just about managed a walk up to Central Park, where I stayed for all of 20 minutes before spending the evening in my hotel room.

Fortunately, today (Monday) I had a bit more spunk about me. Or something like that. I got up at a reasonable time, and walked from my hotel in Times Square to the United Nations. I was quite excited in a strange kind of way to see the headquarters of one of the 20th century's most important institutions.

In truth, the UN tour was a let-down. The tour guide said very little of any interest, and the place itself reminded me of various local authority buildings I have visited across England. You would not have thought you were visiting Norfolk County Council rather than the United Nations. The guide summed things up when she said a refurbishment of the building was planned because it leaked water onto delegates whenever it happened to rain in New York...

From the UN, I deliberately took a long walk through Manhattan to my next destination - Ground Zero. As I made the long journey, I was struck by how vibrant the city was. I had always expected New York to be just a series of long, straight streets with faceless skyscrapers on the side. In fact, it reminded me more of London than any other place in the world I have ever been to. Restaurants, cafes, bars and shops thrived wherever you looked.

When I finally made it to Ground Zero, there were only a handful of tourists milling around. Everyone else was making their way home from the various places in the financial district. There is no real memorial here yet - just a few signs indicating that the new 'Freedom Tower' will actually include one. I was surprised to see the place still appeared to be a building site and that remnants of the Twin Towers were still visible. What has been going on here for the last six years? It looked no different from the pictures I first saw of Ground Zero a long time ago. Even so, I didn't feel comfortable photographing such a place. I stayed only a few moments before heading back to the hotel.

I flew back to San Francisco on Friday, where I would be departing from the following day for New York.

San Fran on a Friday night, New York the night after. A pretty rock n roll lifestyle, only without the drugs, much cash or physical energy after weeks of incessant travelling.

On Friday afternoon I went to see Alcatraz. And by that I don't mean the pop band Alcatraz, who had a hit in 2002 with the G-A-Y floor-filler 'Crying at the Discotheque'. Oh no. I was going to the famous former high security prison on Alcatraz Island, which is in the middle of San Fran's bay.

It was a very surreal place. I couldn't quite work out why, given that the prison shut in 1963, the whole place stunk so much of piss, but it was a thoroughly interesting afternoon. I've not been inside a prison before, unless you count the faux paus in Ipswich in 1998 that led to me sharing a police cell with a window cleaner. It was, erm, like a prison. I couldn't understand why the tour guides were trying to make out how horrible it was here, with things like cells and solitary confinement, as if none of this has ever existed in other prisons.

In reality, what makes Alcatraz such a chilling place is its location. San Francisco Bay is cold, windy and foggy on a July summer day. Fuck only knows what it's like being stuck on an prison island in the middle of it during winter. Only the most serious offenders ever found out - Alcatraz was where they sent people who were basically deemed beyond rehabilitation. Freezing half to death every day in a piss smelling cell, I think capital punishment would have been an act of mercy.

While we are on the subject of crime, I returned to the same hotel on Friday night that I had stayed in on my first trip to San Francisco a week ago. You may recall from an earlier post that it is very nice and centrally located. It is, however, also next to one of the dodgiest areas I have ever been to. On Friday afternoon on my way back to the hotel, a drunken and drugged looking homeless woman was kind enough to show me that she was carrying a kitchen knife in her coat pocket. I didn't think this was the sort of thing I should just ignore, and so I went to find some coppers I had seen patrolling a nearby street. While I walked to find them, I was verbally abused by probably about 15 people. Eventually I found an officer, and as I was informing him there was a deranged looking bird wandering around with a knife, a baseball bat cluttered against the back of my neck. Somebody had actually thrown it from the window of a nearby flat. Fortunately, it didn't hurt. I then went back to my hotel and vowed not to venture back to that area again. All of the above happened in the space of five minutes.

Later on in the evening I ventured out to a club night called 'Fag Fridays', which probably gives a hint to its orientation. During the course of the evening I had a bit of a snog with someone, and when we got to the normal 'what's your name and where are you from?' stuff, it transpired he was half English and would be visiting the country soon to see his mother's family. In Ipswich. For crying out loud, I was in a club in California and I had come across someone from Ips***. Fortunately, he wasn't into football!

I returned to my hotel at 4.30am, set my alarm and realised I would get four hours' sleep before heading to the airport. Fuck.

The temperature soared above 40 degrees on Thursday, and at some points I felt like I was being fried alive. Still, it was an opportunity to top up the tan. Or rather get one at all.

I had finished reading my latest book, and so I went into Vegas in search of a shop to buy another. It wasn't until I had been walking for over an hour and had visited three shopping malls that I found somewhere which actually sold bloody books. Given that this all took place in probably the hottest temperatures I had ever experienced, I wasn't best pleased. I must have passed hundreds and hundreds of shops, but there were no book stores. If I wanted a handbag or a new pair of shoes, I would have been laughing. At one point I thought I was going to pass out from heat stroke, and so I went into a hotel to ask someone where the nearest book shop was. By the look on the face of the woman I spoke to you would have thought I'd asked if I could have a feel of her tits. Evidently the visitors to Las Vegas are too busy gratifying every possible desire to do something conventional like read. Eventually I found a small shop, bought one of Al Gore's books and returned to the pool side of my hotel.

It was ironic that, while I was here, the British government announced it was going to review plans to create Vegas style 'super casinos' back home. The principal argument in favour of these venues has been that hell holes deemed beyond redemption would be regenerated so long as enough slot machines were installed. If you look at Vegas, it is undeniably a city booming at an incredible rate. More super resorts are springing up, more and more visitors keep coming and its population has doubled every decade since the 1940s. To attribute all of that to casinos, and to think this could somehow be replicated in places like Margate, misses the point entirely. Gambling is what started the Vegas phenomenon when it was little more than a tiny town in the middle of the Nevada desert. It remains what it is infamous for, but it is not what makes it so popular. Couples don't come here on honeymoon to spend all day playing poker. People flock to this place because it has thousands of decent bars and restaurants, you can shop in endless malls and pick up designer gear for a fraction of the price elsewhere and if that all gets a bit tiring you can relax in perfect sunshine by the pool. You wouldn't be able to do any of that in fucking Blackpool or wherever else after you've finished playing the pokie machines, so enough of all this bollocks about casinos regenerating dumps. All a casino in these places would do is provide a few more jobs paying the minimum wage, suck a whole section of the local population into gambling and attract endless amounts of wankers on stag weekends.

On Wednesday I checked out of my hotel in San Francisco with a monumental hangover, and took a cab to the airport. I was going to fly to a place I had never wanted to visit before.

It took half an hour of queuing to check in my baggage, and when I finally did get to the counter I was told I had exceeded the weight allowance and would have to either remove some items or pay an extra $50. Wishing to avoid the spectacle of disposing of my personal belongings in the middle of the airport terminal, I offered to pay the money - and then was told I had to join a separate queue to do this. After another half an hour, I reached the second counter, where they weighed my bag and simply checked it in without saying anything. Bizarre.

After an hour of various ticket and security checks, I finally made it to the departures lounge. To be fair, the delay was largely a result of the sheer number of people at the airport. There had been a big baseball game in town the night before, apparently.

I'll say one thing for Americans - they know how to serve up good hangover food. Before boarding the flight - which was delayed by nearly an hour - I ordered a hot ham and cheese sandwich. I thought that meant toasted, but no. They fried the sandwich, added a portion of chips for good measure and then chucked a load of salt and seasoning over it all. Normally I would have been taken aback. On this occasion, I couldn't have been more grateful.

Anyway, the reason I was at the airport was to fly to a city I had hitherto had no interest in ever seeing whatsoever. I was off to the ultimate sin city - viva Las Vegas. Ever since I was a kid, I have loathed tacky resorts. Equally, I'm not much of a gambler - the odd day at at the races is about as much as I do. I also have serious concerns about the social implications of gambling. I saw in Australia - home to more slot machines than any other country in the world, believe it or not - countless examples of people destroying their lives through gambling.

So, why was I off to Vegas? Partly because so many people whose opinion I normally trust had urged me to go while I was in the area. Partly because I was intrigued just to see it. And partly because the cost of hotels on weekdays is ludicrously, absurdly cheap. You can literally live the life of luxury on a budget in Vegas if you go on the right days. I also felt two days would be sufficient to 'do' the city, while the same time in a place like Los Angeles would probably not do it justice.

When I arrived at my hotel, my jaw physically dropped. Then again, given that it is biggest in the world, I suppose that is not particularly surprising. I was staying that the MGM Grand, which has more than 5,000 rooms. The reception area was about the size of an average airport terminal. When I went to check in, I was asked if I wanted to upgrade to a suite for an extra $25 a night. The naughty voice in my head said 'go on, you might as well do this properly' and so I duly upgraded. I was still only paying the equivalent of 55 pounds a night to stay here.

As I walked into my suite, I couldn't help but laugh out loud. It was the size of most flats I've lived in, with a king sized bed, a jacuzzi bath, sofas, wide screen tv and bar. And I repeat - I was getting all of this for what you would expect to pay for a room in a travelodge off the A12 back home. Incredible.

The hotel itself was no less amazing. Its sheer size was what took me aback - on top of the ubiquitous slot machines, there were something like a dozen bars, christ knows how many restaurants, a shopping mall and six swimming pools. After a spot of sun bathing by the pool, I retired to my room and the naughty voice again told me 'go on, you might as well do this properly', and so I ordered a bottle of champagne on room service and relaxed in the jacuzzi. I felt like such a tosser. It was great.

In the evening I explored Las Vegas' famous Strip. It was clear that my hotel was just one of scores of other complexes of unfathomable size. I had never seen anything like it before in my life. Each hotel was quite literally almost a separate town in its own right - some had hundreds of shops, bars and restaurants.

What became obvious to me while I was walking around this bizarre and incredible place, was that gambling is just one of the activities that goes on here. It is the activity which launched Vegas, but it is no longer a prerequisite for coming to the city.

Much of Vegas is cheesy and tacky - the imitation Eiffel Tower, Statue of Liberty and so on. The orgy of commercialism over culture that typifies the place is also unappealing in many respects, but to complain about it would miss the point. This is a city that does not pretend to be anything other than what it is. This is an oasis of indulgence, a place where opulence is affordable and the poor can quite literally live like the rich. For its sheer difference to anywhere else I have ever visited, I liked it immensely.

This might sound strange, but you don't have to like Las Vegas to enjoy visiting it. The place is a complete freak show, but one that nonetheless completely captivates you from the moment you arrive.

As I stood in a left wing bookshop, the faint smell of cannabis could be detected from a passing couple of hippies. It was hard to believe I was in George W Bush's America.

In reality, I was not. The United States is a country of opposite extremes. Life in cities like San Francisco is liberal, laid back, forward thinking and confident. Most people vote Democrat. I don't need to describe what life is probably like in Crawford, Texas.

The bookshop was in the Haight area of San Fran, which is one of the most iconic symbols of the 1960s. It was here, in 1967, that the infamous 'summer of love' took place. The Haight's reputation for drug fuelled, psychedelic lifestyles attracted thousands of young Americans from the more conservative parts of the country. It still does today, to an extent. I was quite shocked my the sheer number of young white kids, who looked liked they'd been travelling for days rather than substance abusers, that stopped me in the street and asked for money. They had obviously just left home, either in search of some kind of mythical new life or to escape their current existence. The area felt more like it was living of its past rather than offering some exciting alternative present, I have to say.

From the Haight I wondered the short distance down to the Castro, which is the city's principal gay district. This is an extremely pleasant, well-kept district with a multitude of bars, cafes, restaurants and cute little shops. The rainbow flag was resplendent everywhere. Virtually everything about the place is gay - the residents and businesses. This is what marks the area out in comparison to other gay parts of cities I have seen across the world - it is a genuine community. In England we have areas where there are a few bars, maybe the odd business like a sex shop, but that is pretty much the extent of it (apart from some bits of Brighton). In the Castro they have gay bakers and the local cinema only shows gay films. I'm not necessarily saying I want to live somewhere like this, but it is unquestionably different. There is no such thing as a gay community in London, as such. There are bars in Soho, a couple in Clapham, tons of clubs in Vauxhall and a few pubs in Earls Court, but there isn't a part of the city that has the pink magnet underneath it. We have areas where there are bars, we do not have communities.

One of the things I love about San Francisco is its size - it's very small by American city standards. This means it is virtually all navigable by foot. I have greatly enjoyed just strolling around its streets and just simply being there. It is a testament to a place that you can see the best of it by doing nothing out of the ordinary. You don't need to build a big gallery or start bungee jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge to love San Francisco. Talking of the famous bridge, I took a harbour cruise out to the bridge on Tuesday afternoon. It is beautiful, but I don't think any bridge or any harbour compares to what there is in Sydney. Once you've experienced that on a perfect summer day, there really is nothing to better it. Still, SF looked lovely from the water. Its skyline is remarkably un-intruded - there are no ugly tall buildings, quite the opposite in fact. The white houses give the place a continental flavour that clearly owes much to California's Spanish heritage.

The boat was overwhelmingly filled with Indian tourists. Virtually every single one of them boarded the vessel clutching a McDonalds takeaway, which momentarily depressed me intensely. I could not understand why the people of a country that produces some of the finest food in the world would want to eat that crap, but then I reminded myself we were, after all, in America. Visiting a country and eating its cuisine is not actually that odd.

There has always been something that has troubled me about Americans.

And, no, I'm not talking about their fondness for invading countries for private profit, or for inflicting Starbucks on the rest of the world. I want to know why they insist on calling the toilet a 'rest room'. Can anybody possibly provide me with a logical explanation for this? When was the last time you heard somebody say they were going to get 40 winks and have a lie down in the urinal? There are many things a toilet area can be used for, but I would like to say categorically that 'resting' is not one of them. I would therefore respectfully ask the Americans to stop abusing the English language and refer to the place they go to shit, piss, take drugs, have sex or whatever in a way that accurately describes its function. Thanks.

Sunday was an improvement on Saturday - I actually made it out of bed by 3pm. I ventured up to the North Beach area of the city, which has a fantastic Italian quarter. After a lovely meal of pasta, olives, bread and Merlot, I headed back to the hotel determined to get an early night and resist the temptation of another visit to this city's numerous attractions. A few hours later I was in a club.

Bugger.

Note to self - if you have spent a week travelling across Australia with several early morning starts, then to America on a 13 hour flight with a 16 hour time difference, it is probably not a good idea to spend the first night in your destination on the lash.

If only I had realised this before I did it. It wasn't until 4pm on Saturday that I made it out of the hotel - and even at that ludicrous time of day I still felt like I'd been beaten up and force fed a kilogram of ketamime. I've had jet lag before, but nothing like this. It was horrible. My plans of a relaxing day strolling around San Francisco were shot to buggery.

I managed to visit a few shops before the need for sustenance became overbearing. As it was chilly and I couldn't be arsed to walk around forever, I settled on a Thai establishment close to my hotel. It was one of those places that was a cross between a pub and a restaurant, and it was unclear whether you had to order at the bar or be seated. So I approached a member of staff and asked for a menu. By the look on her face after I made this simple request, you would have thought I'd asked to see a collection of luminous pink dinosaurs. She clearly didn't understand me, so I repeated words I thought would be understandable to any employee in a restaurant - such as 'food'. It was all to no avail. All I wanted was to be seated and for her to take my order (why the fuck else would I have walked through the door?) but all she could do was muster was a startled look and apologise for 'not being American'. I think she was East European. Eventually she understood what I meant after I picked up a menu and started poking it with my finger. By this time other patrons of the restaurant were looking up and glaring at me as if I was a crazed lunatic. Still, the food was very good when it finally arrived.

I have heard viscous rumours that San Francisco may boast the odd homosexual establishment or 500, so I ventured out in the evening to explore. The pubs/bars were lively and generally very friendly. On more than one occasion I was asked by a barman to repeat my order so they could listen again to my accent, which I found slightly bizarre but also quite endearing. Later on in the evening, my nationality again became an issue when I was asked for ID prior to entering a club (it happens all the time here). I presented my passport to the bouncer, and as I was doing so an Irish guy behind me in the queue recognised it was the same colour as his and excitedly asked if I was Irish too (given that all citizens of the EU have the same coloured passport, this was an ambitious expectation). I replied that I was British, which not only induced a scowl on his face but also a series of silly jibes that were obviously designed to play up to his friends. His comments were not even remotely funny. It was playground stuff along the lines of 'oh my god what did you do in a previous life to deserve being British'. I fixed him a glare and went inside. After ordering a drink, the aforementioned Irishman approached me again, pinched my arse and tried to kiss me. He said he wouldn't hold it against me that I was British. Now I'm not normally the sort of person to get wound up by comments about where I was born, but this guy really was really getting on my nerves. I told him to fuck off, which, to be fair, he promptly did.

The 13-hour Qantas flight from Sydney to San Francisco was easily the longest uninterrupted one I had ever experienced.

I don't know if it's because I'm now used to travelling or not, but the time passed away quite comfortably. At the end of the day, if you take away the fact you can't move very much, the time on long distance flights invariably involves the consumption of free food and alcohol, reading books/magazines and watching films. There are worse ways to spend a day.

It was during the flight that I had to fill in a form which waives my need for a visa (something us Brits may no longer enjoy soon because of fears extreme Islamists within the Pakistani community could use it to gain entry to the US). The form had the usual stupid questions you get on any boarding card, such as enquiries about whether or not I was a terrorist who molests children. One particular question stood out on this form, however, and actually made me laugh out loud. I had to cross a box next to 'yes' or 'no' in response to being asked if I was a Nazi war criminal. For crying out loud, I know this is a technical procedure but I still found it absurd to be asked whether or not I had committed atrocities during a war that finished 32 years before I was even born. I briefly considered putting a cross in the 'yes' box before realising that the Americans are not big on irony, and that they would probably see it as an admission of guilt and lock me up in Guantanamo Bay.

America's reputation for over zealous security made me a bit hesitant when we finally landed in San Francisco. It was the first time I had ever been to the US, but instead of excitement I felt a sense of trepidation upon arrival. If they feel the need to ask if I'm a Nazi war criminal, what else were they going to do? Interrogate me about where I was the day Pearl Harbour was attacked?

Fortunately my entrance into the 'land of the free' was relatively straightforward, although they did take my fingerprints and photograph me at the Immigration desk (along with everyone else, I should add). It didn't come as much of a surprise. This is the nation of pre-emptive action, of course.

San Francisco is an incredible 16 hours behind Sydney, which meant I bizarrely arrived at 10.30am on Friday 6 July having departed three hours later at 13.55 on the same day.

I did promise myself upon arrival in San Francisco to banish some of my anti-American instincts that have developed in recent years. This was my first trip to the country, and I should judge it on my own experiences and not my perceptions of George W Bush and his supporters. It is a terrible shame how Bush's policies have turned so many people against America. I remember as a kid being spellbound by anything to do with the US and dreaming of one day visiting the country. And yet here I was, having to have a quiet word with myself not to think everyone here was a right-wing bible bashing lunatic.

A shuttle bus took me to my hotel in central San Fran. After a week during which I had slept on a plane, a train, in the desert, on a sofa and in a budget motel, there was no fucking way I was checking into some low rent shit hole for my first weekend in this city - particularly after a long-haul flight. The credit card would have to take a hit. Fortunately, you get a lot more for your money in Californian hotels. I was, frankly, amazed by the deal I got. For $90 a night (£45), I had a room with a queen sized bed, wide screen plazma screen tv, free wireless internet and all the usual trimmings. The hotel itself could not have been in a more central location and had a boutique feel to it. They even provided free wine between 4pm and 6pm on Fridays and Saturdays in the lounge. Back of the net.

After a three-hour doze and a shower, I had a stroll round the centre of the city. It had a very European feel to it and I enjoyed just walking aimlessly and getting a feel for my surroundings. After a couple of hours I decided to have a beer, and so parked myself at a busy bar just off Union Square. I was pleased to discover that the drink is cheap here too - $4 for a pint. An incredible amount of baseball games were being shown on tv screens behind the bar, all of which confused me a bit because I know very little about the sport other than that you are supposed to hit the ball and run as fast as you can. A guy sat next to me made a few observations about one of the teams, which I just smiled and nodded to in the hope I wouldn't be drawn any deeper into conversation.

I headed out to a club later in the evening, but didn't last very long. The sheer amount of travelling I had done of late was creeping up on me.

I flew back to Sydney on Thursday for the last time. My flight to San Francisco was the following day, and I had to collect the remainder of my belongings.

Right from the very moment I booked this entire adventure, I had Thursday 5 July down as one of the most difficult days - my last full one in Australia. It had hovered on the horizon for months. I thought it would be a near tearful conclusion.

To be honest, it actually passed like any other day. I decided against nostalgic visits to favourite parts of the city, or indeed one last big party in my bars of choice.

I did allow myself one last trip down to the park at the bottom of my street to take in the glorious view of the city and its harbour. As I was doing so, a little old lady tugged me on the shoulder. It was chilly by Aussie standards - about 15 degrees - and I was only wearing a thin jumper. She was concerned that I would be cold. 'It's ok,' I said. 'I'm English'. She nodded, smiled and walked off with her dog.

After getting together the remainder of my belongings, I made a final trip to the fantastic local Thai takeaway and the not to fantastic cos the staff are are aresholes bottle shop. Then I packed up my stuff and drank wine with my former flat mate. And that was that.

I will not know how I will truly feel about leaving Sydney for some time. All I know is that as I left, I felt very lucky to have lived in a part of the city that was bustling with things to do, forward thinking and tolerant. I have come to discover that this small part of Sydney is completely unlike the vast majority of Australia - which frankly is the complete opposite.

Like I said, in a few months I may feel totally different upon longer reflection. But on my last day, I questioned whether I would be happy to live permanently in a country with such backward social attitudes, culture, media and politics.

It would probably have all appeared different in 30 degree heat.

Uluru

We were awoken at 5.30am on Wednesday morning to go and see the sun rise over Urulu. It was freezing.

Before I go any further, I would just like to say that I will now only refer to this famous phenomenon as Uluru, and not Ayers Rock. Uluru is the name it was given thousands of years ago by indigenous local tribes. Ayers Rock is the name it was given by the first European to see it in the 19th Century - named after the then governor of South Australia. I'm sorry, but I think Uluru is rather more appropriate than the name of some non-descript politician nobody would otherwise have ever heard of. So there you have it. Uluru it is.

Our camp was around 10km from Uluru, so our guides drove us to the base of the rock. As we approached it, a thick mist surrounded the lower half. It looked magical. We then commenced the 9km walk around the rock - without our tour guides, who simply said they would wait for us at the bus. Frankly, this came as something of a relief. It was far too early in the morning to take in anything other than the surroundings and, to be honest, they were both a pair of twats. I have met many, many marvellous people in this country. But you cannot escape the fact there are a significant number of Australians who are brash, arrogant, loud and bigoted. The sort of people you see puking up outside a Walkabout in London. These guys were those guys. With dollops on.

As the sun rose and the sky grew brighter, you could see the colours of the rock change. It was spellbinding. My words cannot do justice to the experience - the cool air, the colours, the sheer size of the god damn thing. It was simply incredible.

Opinion is divided about how far Uluru goes into the ground, but it could be as much as 9km. What we do know is that it is millions of years old and was formed as a result of underground rock pressing against itself and rising upwards over an inconceivably long period of time. That's about as scientific as I can be, I'm afraid.

I was accompanied for the majority of the three-hour walk around the rock's base by the Finnish student in our group, a very friendly guy called Jera. He never stopped talking, which occasionally became annoying, but generally he was lively and interesting company. At some points he would randomly start whistling or singing Abba songs (you had to be there). I had already suspected he might be a friend of dorothy, and this was providing further evidence. So I skirted around that issue by asking why, as a Finn, he liked a Swedish band when there was a lot of rivalry between the two countries. He replied that he didn't mind their nationality, and stressed he liked nothing more before a night out than having 'the girls' round for a good Abba singalong and some wine.

I don't think I have ever heard a statement from somebody that so categorically confirmed their sexuality. It started to make sense now why he kept letting his leg rest on mine during the bus journey. The naughty side of me then started to consider what to do next. Let's face it - a blow job by the side of Uluru would make a story I could tell down the boozer for decades. Then I realised I wasn't that sexually attracted to him and how deeply embarrassing it would be to get caught. It would also be rather disrespectful to the indigenous people.

Talking of this land's ancient inhabitants, we encountered several examples of Aboriginal art on the rock. An explanation of the art's meaning was also provided, during which I was startled to discover that the local Aboriginal translation of the colour yellow is 'wanka wanka'. I will never be able to sing 'Come on you yellows' at a Norwich City match with a straight face ever again.

We completed the walk close to where streams of tourists seek to climb the rock. Why people, of all ages, do this is completely beyond me. It isn't illegal, but it is advised against - and with good reason. In the last 50 years, 38 people have died climbing Uluru. Countless more have been seriously injured. To put that statistic in perspective, Australia's famously deadly spiders have not killed anybody for more than 25 years. For all the talk of this country's snakes, sharks, crocodiles, jellyfish and so on, the fact remains that climbing Uluru is the biggest threat to tourists. None of these people would swim in a croc infested river, or put their hand in a nest full of red back spiders, so why the fuck do they climb this rock?

I can only assume it is done for that story down the boozer effect, to say you've actually managed to do it. It's an ordinary man's 'I've climbed Mount Everest'.

If people want to put their safety at risk to climb to the summit of a rock where the only thing they will be able to see is miles of desolate wasteland, fine. There is, however, another reason why I certainly would never scale Uluru.

This rock is in Aboriginal land and is one of their most sacred symbols. It is without fear of exaggeration the spiritual equivalent of what the Vatican is to Roman Catholics. As such, the Aboriginal people ask that nobody climbs all over it. They can't stop anyone from doing it because the Australian Government protects the 'right' of people to climb it. So all Aboriginals can do is respectfully ask that you don't.

I personally think that one of the most basic, fundamental rules anybody should follow when visiting somewhere is to pay due respect to local values and custom. Nobody could possibly climb Uluru without realising how offensive is to Aborigines - there are signs pointing it out right at the bottom of the climb - and yet thousands still do it.

Why does this happen? I can only assume it is because those who climb think the reasons for Aboriginal objection to be a bit daft. It is a rather eccentric sounding, but equally true, fact that the local Aboriginal people get genuinely upset if anybody is hurt while climbing Uluru. Members of the community go into mourning. I'm honestly not making any of this up. I don't know about you, but I consider this reason enough not to climb. Ok, by our values it sounds daft, but that misses the point. It's about respect. I wonder what the British tourists ignoring all of this would think if Aborigines started coming over to London and climbing up the altar of St Paul's Cathedral. And then photographed each other at the top before taking a piss ahead of the long descent down. I rest my case.

The tour bus took everyone else back to Alice Springs, but thankfully I was spared a return there. I had booked myself into the local 'resort' for the night as my flight back to Sydney in the morning was from the nearby airport.

After an afternoon sauntering around the resort's absurdly expensive facilities, I went back to Uluru on a separate tour to see the sunset. We were given free champagne and it was all rather splendid. I then adjourned to my hotel bar, where I spent the evening losing at pool to a posh student and arguing with a Dutch guy who didn't smoke dope, whom I branded a disgrace to his nation's heritage.

It had been a fantastic, albeit long, day.

Kings Canyon

Although it is winter down under, central Australia still gets very warm during the day. The nights are a different story, when the temperature drops so low that this area goes from being the hottest place in the country to the coldest in just a few hours.

I think you can imagine what it was like waiting around at 5.15am in Alice Springs for my tour bus on Tuesday morning. And how thoroughly pissed off I was when it arrived 45 minutes late.

It was such a pleasure to leave Alice Springs, however, that any anger I felt soon subsided when the bus warmed up a bit. I did wonder to myself what the early explorers who risked their lives to navigate the centre of this country would think if they knew that today the most appealing attribute of the area's principal town was a Blockbuster video store. I don't know about you, but I'd wonder whether it had been worth all the bother.

Anyway, I was all aboard this bus for a two-day tour taking in the Red Centre of Australia, which would include a trip to the King's Canyon before ending up at Uluru.

The drive to Kings Canyon took four long hours, during which I felt so tired my eyes were almost weeping. It was, however, worth every single minute of it.

Kings Canyon was without doubt one of the most stunning 'things' I have ever come across in my life. Although I nearly suffered a heart attack climbing the side of it (note to self - rejoin gym when back in London), the three hour walk around it in glorious sunshine was a fantastically relaxing way to spend the afternoon. It isn't somewhere that is particularly rich in historical detail, but in a way that came as something of a relief. Stopping every two minutes on a tour for a lecture on what happened here according to myth 45 trillion years ago can, after a while, become a bit tiring. This walk was nice for how uninterrupted it was. I did discover, however, that two of the most festive symbols - holly and mistletoe - are actually thriving in the central Australian desert. Did you know that? Well, you do now.

After the walk we began another long drive to our camp at Uluru. By the time we arrived at around 8pm, we had covered some 800km over the course of the day. To put that in context, it was the equivalent of driving from London to Madrid.

I guess I should explain who I mean by 'we'. There were around 25 people on this trip, none of whom I knew prior to boarding the bus. I am always a bit wary of booking more than a two day tour through fear of finding myself in the company of unspeakable shits and having no means of escape. The need for everyone to get along was illustrated when we got to our camp site. We were all given tasks associated with getting the camp ready and preparing dinner, which we would then all eat together around a fire.

Bad blood would definitely spoil this kind of situation. Fortunately, there wasn't any at our camp - but it was certainly not an ideal group of people. There were a few couples who made absolutely no effort whatsoever to be even vaguely sociable with anyone else, which on communal tours like this really makes we wonder why they fucking bothered coming at all. Then there was a very odd family of two parents and three teenage kids - aged probably 15-18 - who didn't even speak to each other, let alone anyone else.

Fortunately there was a fantastically friendly family who were Indian, grew up in Leicester and had now emigrated to Australia. Not only did their life stories make such interesting conversation, but they never tired of asking other people about their experiences and generally being nice. Then there were the solo travellers who didn't have a partner to be anti-social with - myself, a Finnish student, a Korean artist, a German student and an American lobbyist. I generally got on really well with all the above, apart from a few interesting encounters with the German girl.

My 'task' at the camp site was to assist one of the guides who was cooking the barbecue. What this actually entailed was just chatting to him and drinking copious amounts of beer while he did all the work. As far as jobs go, it's fair to say I've had worse.

At one point the guide had to go and run an errand, leaving the culinary genius that is my good self in charge of the food. All sorts of things ran through my head. Would I end up burning everything or food poisoning the family that didn't speak? While I was throwing various things on the barbecue hoping that I knew what I was doing, the German girl came over. She then started to behave in a particularly German way, questioning everything I did with a series of stern enquiries. 'Should you be cooking the spring rolls already'? 'Have you wiped the oil you used for cooking the sausages away from the vegetarian food'? 'What is that you are sprinkling on the potatoes'? And so it went on. I answered all of her questions with one word and concentrated on the food, which I hoped she would correctly interpret as an invitation to fuck off. Eventually the guide returned and I was relieved of my cooking responsibilities.

I chatted away with my fellow travellers, exchanging tales and enjoying the absolutely incredible surroundings - the red sands of the central Australian desert under the glorious moonlit sky where you could see millions of stars. I felt unbelievably happy and lucky to be where I was.

At around midnight and with the temperature plummeting, I went to sleep in a swag. This is an Aussie outback invention and is basically a body bag with a mattress in that you climb inside with a sleeping bag. It was surprisingly comfortable and warm. After a long day, I fell asleep easily.

Who the fuck is Alice?

For some reason I had always pictured Alice Springs to be Australia's answer to Dubai.

I had in my mind an image of luxury hotels and sun blessed resorts serving the thousands of tourists who come here principally to travel south to Uluru (Ayers Rock).

In reality, Alice Springs is absolutely nothing like that. Nor, in all seriousness, is there any prospect of it being like that. Alice is one of the most isolated places in Australia - thousands of miles away from the nearest sizeable town. Consequently, it does not have any real industry other than tourism, and its complete isolation means it is not without social problems. The first thing which greeted me as I walked from the station to the town centre was a group of drunken Aboriginal men shouting undecipherable abuse whilst I walked along the pavement. It was 11am on a Sunday.

Tired from my overnight train journey, I checked into my very basic hotel and then went for a walk. It was obvious Alice Springs was not a place with much to offer. I thanked the Lord I was only booked to stay here for two nights.

Believe it or not, one of the first things I did upon arrival in Alice was to join the local Blockbuster. Allow me to explain. My room had a DVD player - an unexpected but welcome surprise - and given that Alice only has four pubs, three of which are pretty awful, I figured some form of alternative entertainment would be required.

On Sunday night, I walked around town and was nearly run over twice by boy racers. This was more akin to Dartford than Dubai. After a couple of pints in an English theme pub, which didn't seem at all English to me, I hired a couple of films and headed back to the hotel with a nice bottle of wine. Tucked up in bed, I then had a lovely relaxing evening that was infinitely superior to anything on offer outside.

When I awoke on Monday, I must admit I was tempted to spend the whole day in bed watching films. Fortunately, I didn't and instead hiked a couple of miles out of town to the Alice Springs Telegraph Station - the reason this place exists at all.

In the 19th century, the British were finding it increasingly difficult to govern their Australian colonies because it took at least two months to get a telegram to the country. It wasn't exactly helping Australia's development either. As a result, a remarkable telegraph line was laid between Britain and Australia - part beneath sea level, the rest constructed across Europe, Africa, Asia and then across Australia. Opened in 1872, the line allowed messages to be exchanged in hours rather than months.

Given its location slap bang in the middle of Australia, the telegraph station at Alice Springs became very important. Before its construction there was nothing here other than Aboriginal settlements - it was the first building in central Australia. Over time a town developed in the surrounding area.

The telegraph station is today extremely well maintained and a very informative source of information. Its remote location also made for some great photographs (see above).

Talking of remoteness and photography, tomorrow (Tuesday) I head for Ayers Rock. Only slight problem is that the tour bus picks me up at 5.15am. Gulp.

Ghan

I left Darwin for Alice Springs on Saturday slightly earlier than I would have hoped for one reason - I wanted to travel on the Ghan.

The Ghan is one of the longest train journeys in the world. Starting in Darwin, it makes its way through thousands of miles of the Australian outback, down to Alice Springs in the red centre of the country, before finally arriving in Adelaide some two days after it set off.

It struck me as an infinitely more interesting way of seeing Australia than a flight - even though the journey was 26 hours to Alice Springs. The cost was also relatively cheap. My ticket was $214, which is roughly 85 quid. For that I got a seat with loads of leg room, access to a lounge area and dining car. In short, a lot more than on the average journey back home.

The Ghan is a massive train, but only one carriage was set aside for budget conscious filth like me. For $700 you could have your own bed for the night, which in normal circumstances would be very nice, but not when it's $500 cheaper to make do without. Then for more than $1,000 you could purchase a 'Gold Kangaroo' ticket, which I'm assuming means you get all your food and booze thrown in on top of what everyone else gets. And possibly a complimentary hand job.

I did get given a free copy of Northern Territory News. Given that the territory has a population of just 200,000 spread over an area larger than any European country, it won't surprise you to discover there wasn't really a lot going on. All the 'news' seemed to be about people who had left the area and were now doing rather well for themselves elsewhere. The front page splash was about someone from Darwin who was now playing basketball in America. Occasionally, I'm sure, there is the odd horrific crime to liven things up a bit.

The long, long journey southwards has only been possible since 2004 - despite the idea of a line first being mooted in the 1850s and work commencing in 1877. The reason for this unseemly delay? Rail track in the far north - a part of Australia which goes through a wet season that sometimes sees a metre of rain falling in one day - was originally laid on a flood plain. So it all had to be done again.

First stop on the journey was Katherine, which is the largest town between Darwin and Alice Springs - population 10,000. It is described as the 'jewel of the territory' and has some stunning natural surroundings. We arrived at around 1pm on Saturday and were allowed four hours to explore the area, which struck me as a novel idea. I wonder if they will ever think of doing that in England. Just think - the next time you go to Edinburgh you could have the option of spending four hours in Doncaster.

As we arrived in Katherine around lunch time, I decided not go go on any of the tours available. The town sounded nice from its descriptions, so I had in mind a nice meal, a few drinks in the sun and just a general meander about.

I wasn't expecting Katherine to be a mini Melbourne in the outback. That said, I wasn't expecting it to be the unspeakable hell hole that it unquestionably is either. The main street was one long, wide depressing line-up of shops that appeared to be shut down or closed. A public address system played annoying country and western music for some inexplicable reason - giving a bizarre accompaniment to the despondent atmosphere.

The town's two pubs were without a single shadow of doubt the worst I have ever visited in my entire life. And I've been to a few. Both establishments were stinking, run-down shit holes. But that wasn't what made them so grim - it was the state of the clientele. I have never come across a more desperate group of people anywhere in the western world. It had barely passed 1pm and yet everyone was completely off their faces - young, old, black or white. And I don't mean off your face in a happy down the boozer on a Saturday way - I mean off your face in a incapable of holding a coherent conversation or stand up straight way. Those that weren't slumped up against the bar were gambling what little money they had on slot machines. Every single person looked as if they were suffering from the affects of addiction to alcohol or gambling - or both - or appeared to be mentally ill. I stayed for one drink.

As it was a nice day, I just sat in a park for the remainder of the afternoon. I did go to a bottle shop to get some secret supplies for the evening train journey, however. Outside were a group of Aboriginal children, who pleaded with me to buy them alcohol. I declined.

In a strange way I am grateful to the town of Katherine for providing me with stories to tell people for the rest of my life. On the other hand it was an experience that only my taxi journey through a slum in Mumbai last year could rival when it comes to shocking deprivation. Perhaps I should, after all, have booked myself on a tour that afternoon.

It goes without saying I was pleased when the train departed Katherine. I had a reasonable meal in the dining car, before retiring to the lounge to read books and drink Victoria Bitter. It was a pleasant enough night - about as good as a Saturday evening on a train could possibly be. By midnight I was tired and a bit tipsy, so I retired to my seat and surprised myself by falling asleep with ease.

Dawn in the middle of the outback is a spectacular sight. It also provided a welcome variance to the view outside, which had been virtually the same for all of the journey. Occasionally I saw a wallaby skipping through the bush, or indeed a bushfire, but otherwise it was as desolate as you would expect.

After a decent breakfast, the train pulled into Alice Springs at 11am. It had been a relaxing trip, but I was pleased not to be spending another day on it going to Adelaide.

Kakadu

No trip to the top end of Australia would be complete without visiting the Aboriginal lands of Kakadu National Park.

Located 250km to the east of Darwin, Kakadu was where the very first Aboriginal people settled - tens of thousands of years ago. It is therefore home to some of the oldest culture, art, traditions, plants and animals on the entire planet. It is a World Heritage Area bigger than Wales, boasting stunning scenery and a fascinating history.

I decided to book myself on a 'grown up' tour for this experience. I wanted to go on a trip that would do justice to the place I was visiting, not a budget backpacker tour where the guide is more interested in asking how pissed everybody got the night before.

It took us a good few hours to get into the park after a 6.30am departure from Darwin. Our first port of call was Ubirr, where there is amazing Aboriginal art work dating back God only knows how long.

I can't really summarise in a post an accurate synopsis of Aboriginal culture. But what I did get a great sense for on this trip was the amazing attachment they have traditionally had to the land they live in, and all the nature and wildlife of that area. For example, an ancient Aboriginal would not necessarily see any difference between his neighbour and, say, a Kangaroo. His best friend might be a tree. He would have regarded everything to have been alive, and as such would feel the same towards it all.

Aborigines were perhaps the first human race to have a system of law and order. However, nothing was ever written down. Rules and traditions were passed on through art work or stories told to children. Respect for the law was regarded as absolutely essential - even if you did not know the rules existed.

We were told the tale of a young woman from a neighbouring tribe who started living in the mainly male settlement of Ubirr thousands of years ago. One day the men all went out hunting and, keen to impress, the girl decided to cook them up some food for when they returned. She went down to the river, caught a couple of Barramundi, and then dutifully cooked them up. It is not clear whether she cracked open a bottle of Blue Nun and put on a Phil Collins CD.

While cooking the Barramundi, the girl got a bit peckish and ate some of the fish herself. When the men returned and saw all of this, they were incandescent with rage. Why? Aborigines have traditionally been given totems at birth to confirm their connection to the land they live in. In other words, their parents nominate an animal to which they are spirtually attached. In Ubirr just before this girl arrived, a very popular and admired old man died and his totem was the Barramundi. As a result, the local tribe introduced a law that nobody could eat Barramundi for generations.

When all of this was pointed out to the girl, she understandably protested her ignorance of the rule. This was no defence under Aboriginal law. If you break a rule, you have to face the consequences. So the men beat the living shit out of her. For several days. Eventually the dispute resulted in battles between other tribes and several deaths. The moral of the story? Always make sure you understand and respect the laws governing somebody else's land. It became a story told through generations for thousands of years - illustrated by art work at Ubirr.

See, you learn something new every day! I am not aware of any modern day Aborigines beating up birds for doing the dinner. It is funny - actually, let me rephrase that - it is ironic that Aussie tour guides can describe with such warmth the tales of their country's indigenous past, but yet their fellow countrymen and women seem so incapable of living beside Aboriginal people today. You may have heard that the Australian Prime Minister has recently banned alcohol in Aboriginal settlements in a so-called crackdown on child sex abuse. I will return to this subject later in the week when I visit some of the communities that the army and police have been sent into.

Anyway, anyway. Enough politics for now. After lunch we went on a boat trip, which took in some beautiful natural habitat. There were lots of crocodiles (obviously) and also a considerable amount of rare bird life. Interesting as it is to see the crocs, when a tour guide rides a boat to within inches of one that is four metres long, you don't have to be an expert on these creatures to realise that he wouldn't be doing this if it was going to attack anyone. I wouldn't recommend swimming next to the buggers though.

On the long drive back to Darwin we stopped off at a pub. It was one of those infamous ramshackle outback bars that prided itself on being the only place you could get a beer for about 200km. Around the bar was an equally stereotypical huddle of Aussie 'blokes', all drinking heavily and putting the world to rights. They completely ignored all the tourists - not that I felt like having a conversation with them. I couldn't work out if the rest of the pub was deliberately shit for effect or just genuinely run down. The pool table was falling over and the juke box was out of order. You could still flick through the Cd's - the most recent one that would have been available for play was the Smash Hits Best of Compilation 1991. I'm not joking.

I would have liked a second day in Kakadu, but I had a lot of things to arrange for the remainder of my trip before I leave for Alice Springs on Saturday. I'll be sad to leave Darwin too. It has been hot every day and I've enjoyed myself - despite all the entertainment being centred around a couple of streets at the far end of one of the most desolate countries on earth.

shatpackers

It's not very often that when I ask for something, and somebody refuses my request, that I feel a sense of relief and happiness.

But that is precisely how I felt when I asked to extend my stay at Chilli's Backpackers in Darwin. My room had a bed in it and nothing else but a sink - which was handy, admittedly, for having a piss in the middle of the night. It was probably the most soulless place I have ever slept in my entire life, but it was very cheap. You can't argue with the equivalent of 20 quid a night for your own room, I told myself - hence my request to stay.

This is peak season in Darwin, though, and the budget accommodation is in high demand. All that I could be offered was a bunk bed in an 18-bed dorm, which frankly was a prospect I found about as appealing as buggering a crocodile. I don't mind sharing with friends, nor do I mind that much sharing four bed dorms. But I draw the line at sleeping with 18 backpackers, snoring and farting their way through the night.

The lack of any private hostel rooms available in Darwin 'forced' me one more rung up the ladder and into a budget hotel. When I checked into my room, at a rough cost of 45 pounds a night, I was confronted with facilities that were probably a tier below what you would expect to find in an average Travelodge. I felt like I'd walked into the imperial suite of the Ritz.

Backpacker facilities are a bit like being back at university. On the one hand, everything is cheap - particularly the beer - most people are friendly and there is a genuinely happy atmosphere. On the other hand, they are noisy, a lot of people are twats and there is always the fear when using the shower in the morning that somebody has puked up in it the night before.

In other words, it is nice to be staying in a hotel rather than a hostel for a few days.

Darwin was lovely and hot again today. The above picture is of the harbour, where you will notice there is practically no human activity at all. This is because of box jellyfish - even though it is technically 'off season' for their presence in Darwin's waters, still nobody takes the chance and swims. Can't say I blame them in all honesty.

Darwinism

It was a gruelling trek between Cairns and Darwin on Monday.

I checked out of my hostel at 10am, but had to wait around Cairns - yes, it rained - until 4.30pm for my flight down to Brisbane. The direct flights to Darwin were out of my price range, so I had to go thousands of miles south to then fly north again. It was the equivalent of flying to Russia via North Africa.

The journey to Brisbane was made more pleasurable by the Virgin Blue in-flight entertainment. They provided access to 30 satellite tv channels, so I could flick between live sports, the news or whatever else took my fancy from the air. A far better entertainment system than a load of average movies.

I had to hang around Brisbane Airport for three hours before my connecting flight, which wasn't one of life's more pleasurable experiences. The journey time to Darwin is four hours, so I was hoping and expecting Virgin Blue would provide the same in-flight entertainment I had enjoyed on the two hour flight down from Cairns. Wrong. There was nothing. I was also sat on a row with a mother and screaming baby, and a drunken Canadian who was threatened with arrest in mid air for his rowdy behaviour.

I finally arrived at my hostel in Darwin at around 2am, which quite frankly makes the average prison look like a Holiday Inn. For some reason the time zone here is half an hour behind most of Australia. Why 30 minutes? I don't get it.

Anyway, Darwin. It's named after Charles. This place is unlike most others in Australia in that it has been built and re-built three times already. The Japanese bombed the living shit out of the place in World War II when it was a strategic port for the Allies to launch attacks into Asia. More than 240 people died in just one attack. If there ever had been an invasion of Australia, it would have been through Darwin. The people of this city can take comfort from the knowledge that should this ever have happened, the Australian Government had a contingency plan in place. This was to bugger off back to the south east of the country and protect cities like Sydney and Melbourne.

Believe it or not, the fear of Asian troops landing in Darwin is still one that persists today. Indonesia is but a small boat ride away - and possesses one of the largest armies in the world. The fear of attack has characterised the Australian way of thinking since the 18th century. It explains this country's staunch loyalty to Britain in two world wars, and subsequently its slavish following of America into both Vietnam and Iraq. At least we only went into one! Actually, to be fair to the Aussies, if playing a bit part role in Iraq is the price they have to pay for protection, it's not a bad deal. I mean, what exactly is the extent of their involvement in the war? A few bush rangers and a couple of kangaroos by the looks of it.

Anyway, if hundreds of devastating bombing raids during the war wasn't punishment enough for Darwin, it then suffered enormous destruction during a cyclone on Christmas Eve in 1974. This wiped out the vast majority of buildings in the city, including the former town hall pictured at the top of this post.

The Darwin of today is therefore relatively modern. I have heard some Aussies dub it a shit hole. I actually quite like it. Darwin is clean, friendly, unassuming and growing. It is, in many respects, a paradox - the capital of a territory about the size of France, and yet with a population of just 70,000. Today the temperature soared past 30 degrees and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. That's enough to endear it to me.

Snork the Reef(er)

On Saturday morning it finally happened. Nobody had predicted it, the pessimist in all of us had resigned ourselves to perpetual disappointment. It was like Norwich City winning promotion again. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you guessed it - the sun was shining.

The weather forecast had predicted rain for today, so to see almost clear blue skies and the temperature pushing 30 degrees was, well frankly, why I came here in the first bloody place.

Before venturing out to enjoy the weather, I went online to find myself a room for my arrival in Darwin on Sunday night. A quick perusal of various web sites very quickly indicated a slight problem with this - i.e. there were not any rooms available in Darwin on Sunday night, unless I felt like staying in a dorm at a crack den. A quick ring around of affordable places confirmed this.

Now normally I would have been kicking the nearest small animal and reaching for the bottle when confronted with such news, but on this occasion I was not. Fortunately my flight with Virgin Blue was fully flexible - I simply went online and switched it to Monday, and then booked a room. God bless Richard Branson.

I spent the rest of Saturday afternoon enjoying the glorious weather. Cairns was like a different place - kids splashed around in the water, adults drank copious amounts of cold beer - and I did both.

Today (Sunday) I took advantage of my extra day here to do something the weather had hitherto prevented me from - a trip to the Great Barrier Reef. I caught the 1pm ferry to Green Island (just off Cairns) where I had the opportunity to either go snorkeling or see the Reef from a glass bottom boat. I had promised friends and family that I would overcome my fear of sealife and not pass up the opportunity to swim in one of the most beautiful parts of the world. Trouble is, actions always speak louder than words. Tony Blair said he wouldn't go into Iraq without a UN mandate, and look what happened there. I opted for the glass bottom boat.

The sun had retreated and it was now very windy and choppy on the sea, which nearly caused me to puke all over a Japanese tourist on the boat. Aside from that, it was great looking at the Reef from the comfort of the boat - and I got to take pictures and see bigger fish than I would have done through snorkeling. So, there you have it. I'm a sensible pragmatist, and not a coward. Oh no.