A new dawn has broken, has it not?

Oh, May 1997. I remember it as if it were yesterday. The euphoria and sense of excitement as the Tories were ousted from power in the most brutally beautiful way possible. I will never forget it.

Likewise, I don't think I'll be forgetting the anniversary in a hurry and Tony Blair finally doing what he indicated he was going to do more than two years ago and resigning. Only on this occasion I wasn't giggling in intoxicated glee - I was laid out in a dentist's chair while a mad South African stuck a pair of pliers in my gob and shrieked: "He's resigned!"

Allow me to explain. The ear infection I was diagnosed with last week had not completely cleared up, indeed I spent last night barely able to sleep because of the pain. Mindful of the fact I'm due to fly to New Zealand on Saturday, I decided to pay another visit to the doctor.

I don't know what it is about doctor's surgeries, but I always feel like I'm being summoned to see the headmaster or something. It invariably feels like it is somehow my fault that I am darkening their door. Anyway, the doctor shined his light into various parts of my body, scratched his features a bit, and then hit me with news I wasn't expecting - I didn't have an ear infection. Or at least I didn't any more.

So what was causing the pain? The answer was given to me in the surgery next door where I was sent. A dental surgery. It was there that a very eccentric, barking mad South African informed me that I had one infected wisdom tooth and a molar that was harming the nerves in my lower jaw. The wisdom tooth could come out immediately, the other would have to wait while I decided on repair or removal.

The mad Dr Van HatesBlicks, or whatever his name was, then stuck a few needles in my gums and then got out the equipment he was going to use to pull my tooth out. I didn't actually feel any fear, it was as if I had resigned myself to the next few minutes of my life being utterly horrible and therefore just accepting it.

Dr Apartheid started to loosen my tooth with what looked strangely like something from a mechanic's garage. He then obviously sensed I was feeling some discomfort. "Think of something really nice," he implored. As I started to imagine the beautiful scenery of New Zealand, he then decided unilaterally what positive thinking I needed to take my mind off him wrenching a tooth out of my head.

"Just think of Blair resigning. That's right - hold that thought- HE'S GONE! Stay strong, come on, Tony Blair has resigned, Tony Blair has resigned..."

And so it went on until the little bugger came out. I have to say the sight of this Sydney-based lunatic South African getting so animated about the resignation of the British Labour Party leader did act as an effective distraction, even if it was one of the more surreal and unnerving experiences of my life.

The whole experience set me back $250 on the credit card too. Still, if I can have a pain free week in New Zealand I won't be complaining about anything.

money, money, money?

I was awoken about an hour before my alarm was due to go off this morning by a text message. It could only be one of two things: somebody who is horny and on their way home from a late night out, or my Mother demonstrating no appreciation of the time difference between the UK and Australia.

It was my Mum who, incidentally, is fine after her operation. The surprise was in the content:

"Andrew Turner and his wife have joined the board at Norwich. They are worth 275 million. They have given a two million interest free loan so we don't need to sell anyone."

Suffice to say I couldn't get back to sleep after that. My first thought like, I suspect, a lot of other people was: Who the fuck is Andrew Turner? And then: 275 MILLION?!

I grabbed a shower with all sorts of ideas running through my head. Was this one of the infamous American businessmen who have been eyeing up medium sized English football teams with a view to getting them promoted to the Premiership and cashing in on that league's opulent wealth? Would the club I have followed for 23 years ever be the same again?

After logging on to the web, it transpired this was far from the case. Andrew Taylor is a Norwich-based businessman who owns a credit company. He's followed the club since he was a kid. My brief fears that some unscrupulous inbred Texan was about to come in and butcher my beloved club have been vanquished - our saviour is a Norwich based accountant who probably does his shopping at Waitrose in Eaton. Perfect.

Quite where he's been hiding all this time, fuck only knows, but he's kept himself very quiet. I mean, has the whole world really been that engrossed in the fact Delia Smith runs Norwich City to not notice one of the UK's richest men is a Carrow Road regular?

We shall have to wait and see how this arrangement works out, but if it transpires he can provide us with financial stability without selling out to foreign or untrustworthy investors I'll be happy. At least we're not debt sozzled Ipswich Town - shamelessly flaunting themselves around potential buyers like a cheap tart.

No, if this was Norwich out on the pull, they got chatting to someone pleasant over a glass of Hunter Valley Chardonnay and some Mediterranean olives, retired to a candle lit room for a bit of romantic intimacy, exchanged numbers, agreed to meet up again and now look forward to the future. All this while Ipswich lurk in the dark room, bent over and waiting to be fucked up the arse by anybody willing. With no lube.

Or something like that.

One for the grandchildren...

I did it. I fucking did it. A whole weekend without booze, taking my tally of days on the wagon to five.

It was relatively easy in all truthness, and my ear feels a lot better so it was definitely worth the sacrifice to let the anti-biotics do their work. Why I can't I be this sensible all the time?

As the weather was still lovely, I decided to hire a car for the weekend and explore a bit more of New South Wales. My travels mainly took me along the coast south of Sydney, and some stunningly beautiful coastline and lakes.

Accompanying me on my travels was my friend Tom. I have known Tom since my second day in Australia, when we 'met' in a nightclub. Since then we've become very close, although I should stress we are not an 'item'. I'll be very sad to say goodbye, but that was always a risk of only staying in a place for a certain period of time.

Quite how you classify my friendship with Tom, god only knows. I've been careful to stress the fact I leave Australia in July, and if I'm being brutally honest I have not wanted to restrict myself to just one person while I'm here. That's not me being promiscuous. It's real life - who goes to the other side of the world to have a short term relationship that precludes them from meeting other people only to then go home again?

For the vast majority of the time, I have genuinely enjoyed Tom's friendship and just being with him. On some occasions, however, I have felt uncomfortable. Take the rather interesting example of when he pushed someone down a flight of stairs (well, at least three or four) for trying it on with me. Nothing even happened. This was a drunken 4am in a nightclub thing, and in a strange and bizarre way I suppose I almost found it flattering at the time, but it is actually worrying.

But then on Friday I stumbled across his myspace profile. This wasn't some kind of spying, he had mentioned having a page on there, I keyed in his name and it appeared. Amongst the day to day stuff were details of a sexual encounter he had recently had with someone else. A guy called Simon. To quote in full: "Simon... even if he was a bit Twinky... was REALLY good in bed... and a really nice guy... but man was he good, :P"

Cue an 'interesting' conversation in the car on Saturday afternoon. It took me a few hours of driving to work out how to approach the subject (he already knew I had seen the web page). On the one hand I thought it best to say nothing. So he's slept with somebody else - so have I since I've been here. We're not an item, and I had been concerned that he was getting too close and over-protective.

Trouble is with that approach, it's not really me. Plus, this was a situation so weird it couldn't be left to pass without some kind of comment. One day he's virtually attacking someone who tries it on with me, the next he's shagging someone else and posting a review of it on the fucking internet! I don't know about you, but I find that a bit odd.

So, we talked, and I managed to pull off the feet of simultaneously appearing jealous that he had shagged someone else whilst complaining that he was getting too close to me. I'm glad no recording exists of what I was saying, because it probably made about as much sense as Prince Charles on Crystal Meth.

I don't know whether it was worthwhile bringing it up or not. When it looked as if he was going to start crying I thought probably not. I'm not sure we even established a different way forward or if anything has changed. But, then, does anything have to change if I'm leaving?

I suppose the main thing between now and the end of the trip is to have fun. The same must apply to the time I spend with Tom and anybody else. Perhaps I shouldn't have brought it up. But perhaps that's because there were no comments about me in bed on there!

Jesus. I wonder what will happen if he finds my blog? Will I appear a hypocrite? Mind you, I haven't pushed anybody down the stairs. Oh, I need a dr... er... dressing gown and to go to bed. Because I don't drink. At least not for a few more days.

PS: Ok, ok ok, ok. Yes, he is younger than me!