Matt's travels and tribulations

2007-07-20T06:38:00.000+10:00

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.

2007-07-18T09:32:00.000+10:00

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.

2007-07-17T10:19:00.000+10:00

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.

2007-07-16T10:54:00.000+10:00

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.

2007-07-16T10:44:00.000+10:00

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.

2007-07-13T11:22:00.000+10:00

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.

2007-07-12T11:56:00.000+10:00

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.

2007-07-10T14:08:00.000+10:00

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.

2007-07-10T12:59:00.000+10:00

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.

2007-07-08T12:58:00.000+10:00

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.

2007-07-07T13:45:00.000+10:00

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

2007-07-06T09:46:00.000+10:00

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

2007-07-04T16:45:00.000+10:00

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?

2007-07-02T20:18:00.000+10:00

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

2007-07-02T12:40:00.000+10:00

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

2007-06-29T14:55:00.001+10:00

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

2007-06-27T19:34:00.000+10:00

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

2007-06-26T14:29:00.000+10:00

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)

2007-06-24T17:40:00.000+10:00

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.

constant raining

2007-06-23T17:34:00.000+10:00

On Friday morning I walked to the Cape Tribulation lookout, which is one of the most famous and glorious views on offer in Australia. You will have seen it in countless brochures and TV ads - perfect light blue sea and white sandy beaches. Paradise picture postcard stuff.

When I got there it was pissing down with rain, the sea looked like the English Channel off Portsmouth and a middle aged Brummie couple were having a furious row about who's fault it was they had left the waterproofs in the hotel.

The sense of disappointment on the faces of all tourists there was palpable. After all, this wasn't a Sunday afternoon drive along the Norfolk coast spoilt by a spot of drizzle. This was one of the most remote locations in the world, and who only knows if I will ever get the chance to see it again in its splendour.

Generally speaking, however, I really enjoyed my time in the Daintree rainforest. It is a relatively new tourist attraction given that it was largely inaccessible until the Queensland government built a road through it in 1982. Until then it was home to indigenous tribes and dope smoking hippies. The latter group were forcibly evicted by the authorities after the road was completed, which I personally think was a shame. Goa and other parts of Asia are perfect examples of how alternative cultures enrich the enjoyment of visiting remote communities. Quite frankly, Cape Tribulation could do with a few less motels and a bit more marijuana.

The lovely 'Little Brett' picked us up at 1.30pm to take us back to Cairns. Our trip back included seeing the bit of the ocean where Steve Irwin was killed by a stingray, which struck me as a slightly bizarre part of a tourist tour, and a swim in the Mossman Gorge - a fresh water river and waterfall. We also stopped off in the rather exclusive resort of Port Douglas, which can claim Bill Clinton as a regular guest. I wonder what Bill would have made of what I saw in my brief time there, which included a mother and daughter drinking alcopops in the street and spitting at passing strangers. He'd probably have fucked them.

I got back to Cairns at around 6pm. It had been a good trip and a vast improvement on my first few miserable days here. I checked into a new hostel - this one much cleaner and with vastly superior facilities, although much louder.

My next destination is Darwin - Australia's most northern city and capital of the Northern Territory. With the weather not looking like it was going to change in Cairns very soon, I booked myself a flight bound for Darwin on Sunday.

In the evening I was bereft of things to do, so I decided to re-visit Nu Trix - the club I containing four people that I was unceremoniously chucked out of last weekend for being "all over the place". I figured - correctly - that they would either not remember me or would be so desperate for custom I would get in anyway. By the time I left the club at 2.30am, I counted 24 paying customers inside. I make that an increase of 83 per cent on my last visit. The management must be delighted...

Elton John is a homosexual

2007-06-22T18:39:00.000+10:00

On Thursday morning I was picked up at the awful time of 7am to commence my expedition into the deepest parts of the Daintree Rain Forest.

In my haste to get everything into my backpack, I managed to snap off one of the straps. Nice one. I finally stumbled out of the hostel and into my transport with various bits of clothing hanging round my body and resembling a bag lady.

Ah yes, 'my transport'. In the brochure from which I booked this trip, I was led to believe an air conditioned 4x4 would be my carriage for the next two days. What I actually got was something more similar to the kind of van you normally see transporting football supporters up the M6.

Still, the van had an address system that allowed our guide to point out places of interest along the way. My particular favourite was when we passed a gay resort, resplendent with the obligatory rainbow flags, on the coast just north of Cairns...

"If you look to your right, folks, you will notice the flags outside that hotel. This is to indicate it is a gay resort. Believe it or not 'they' have their own nudist beach there. Relax, we won't be stopping there! There is actually a gay club in Cairns, called Nu Trix. One night when I was new to the city I heard music coming from it. I was about to go in when I saw two guys getting it on at the entrance. I never thought I'd be relieved to see such a thing, but at least it meant I was saved from going in!"

The tour guide's name was 'Little Brett'. I am not going to make any suggestions as to why he is called 'little'. What I can say without fear of being corrected by anybody, is that Brett is a rather unattractive and tubby man who is unlikely to be of interest to the average human being - whatever their sexual orientation. Why do so many straight people think they are somehow irresistible to gay men? It's as if they think the famous scenes from Police Academy when Captain Harris walks into the Blue Oyster Bar are an accurate reflection of how they are likely to be treated...

I wondered how 'Little Brett' was going to follow up his little insight into gay tourist attractions. Perhaps by inviting everyone else to join in with a rousing rendition of 'Elton John is a homosexual!' or 'Le Saux, takes it up the arse!'.

The answer came when we arrived at the Daintree River for our crocodile cruise. As everyone boarded the boat with their complimentary early morning tea and biscuits, the Aussie crew unsurprisingly tried to crack a series of rather predictable jokes about how we were all going to be ravaged by blood thirsty crocodiles during the trip. It's an unusual thing to say to your paying customers, but this is Australia. Anyway, then up pops our mate Brett. "I'm not sure those biscuits we've given you will satisfy the hunger of a croc," he offered by way of expert analysis. "Have we got any Germans on board? Good! If all else fails we'll push you guys over instead!"

To be fair, the day got a lot better from there. After spotting some crocs (hopefully you can make it out from the picture) we went on a generally informative jungle boardwalk before arriving at our destination for the evening - Cape Tribulation.

Cape Trib, as it is known, is one of the most remote parts of the rainforest. It was given its name by Captain James Cook, who's ship was damaged by the coral reef nearby in the late 18th century. He called it this because his experience trying to get the ship repaired in the area wasn't a pleasant one. He also named a mountain Mt Sorrow to reflect his mood. I can only assume the local Homebase was closed for the weekend.

I spent a pleasant evening in the settlement's small number of bars and restaurants. It was a highly relaxing to spend a night eating nice food, getting pissed and in good company - I met a couple of Sydney girls at the hotel who were highly entertaining. And there really is nothing quite like the feeling of knowing you are hundreds of kilometres away from anything else. Until you're ravaged by a Croc, I suppose...

Still raining...

2007-06-20T17:29:00.000+10:00

I've perked up a bit after my little tantrum yesterday - not least because I spent the day out of Cairns.

It's still rained, but I enjoyed getting out and about and into the rainforest. I caught the gondola - or 'Skytrain' - away from Cairns and to Kuranda, which is a remote settlement and one of the area's main tourist attractions. It is basically no more than a glorified theme park, but it still maintains an alternative vibe in keeping with its indigenous routes that allows you to ignore all the American and Japanese camera clutching tourists.

There are numerous Aboriginal shops selling everything from fine arts to didgeridoos, and a range of markets specialising in traditional culture. But as I walked around this village, the only Aboriginals I could see were hanging around the streets - generally smoking and eyeing people up with suspicion. I made a point of visiting every single outlet in this village that sold some kind of indigenous product. In just one did I see anybody of Aboriginal descent working. All the shops were run by white Australians. The Aborigines were all just hanging around, not looking particularly unhappy, but totally detached from a 'community' that was trading off their heritage. It was bizarre. The nearest I saw of any kind of integration between the two cultures was an Aboriginal wearing a Chelsea shirt. And that was hardly encouraging...

The journey back to Cairns was via a 19th century railway line, which was originally constructed to ensure remote communities did not starve during the wet season. Today it just ferries tourists back to their hotels.

It was an extremely picturesque day. I suppose I should point out that this part of Australian rainforest is overwhelmingly wet forest land - it is not like the jungle you see in 'I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here'. There are no killer snakes, Ant and Dec or Christine Hamilton in this part of the world. Which is just as well.

Tomorrow I head off with a tour group in a 4x4 further into the rainforest, where I am likely to be acquainted a bit more with Australia's famous inhabitants...

National Lampoon's Cairns Vacation

2007-06-19T14:48:00.000+10:00

This is fast turning into the worst part of the trip so far.

On Monday it continued to chuck it down with rain. Today, Tuesday, was an improvement - but it is still mainly overcast and depressing.

As I said in a previous post, Cairns just isn't a place you want to be when the weather is bad. This is a relatively small place from which people arrange to do stuff from. It has virtually nothing to offer itself should the heavens open. Actually, let me re-phrase that - there is nothing. You are quite literally left with a choice of staying in your room, trying to get a computer in a backpacker-rammed internet cafe, or getting pissed.

Now, I grant you, if you've just got back from a hard day at work, you may be wondering what the problem is. But when you're on holiday and have come to a place that markets itself on being hot all year round, it really isn't much fun. In fact, when you're on your own, it's totally depressing.

Guess what the five-day forecast predicts here? Yup, you guessed it. Rain, rain, rain, rain and more rain. And this is the dry season. It is almost unheard of for this to be happening at this time of year.

So, let's get this right. I left Sydney, which had just seen its worst weather for 30 years, to travel to a part of the world where it is summer all year round. And it's raining every day, with absolutely no prospect of letting up.

Should I be eaten by a crocodile during the remainder of my time in Australia, at least it won't come as much of a surprise given the way my luck has been going of late.

I couldn't stomach another day in this town doing nothing but wander around it's extremely average selection of bars, shops and restaurants. So I took myself into a booking agent and asked what could be realistically done in this weather without it being a waste of time.

Tomorrow I'm taking a gondola and train journey into the rainforest. Then I'm going to head further north into the unknown, where I will probably be washed away into a lagoon and raped by an indigenous tribe. At least it will be more interesting than Cairns. Chipping Sodbury is more interesting than Cairns. I asked the booking agent what else could be done during my time here. She replied that as it was forecast to rain for the rest of the week, in the circumstances, I should look to get out after I'd finished my trip into the rainforest. Marvellous. Even the agents who are probably on commission to sell activities advise fucking off...

Am I being over the top? Maybe. It just has been one of those times when if it can go wrong, it has - and then got worse. The picture at the top of this post hopefully gives some kind of indication of what Cairns looks like when the sun forces its way through the clouds. Unfortunately, this has hardly ever happened and you would have no idea from walking around that you were at the foot of an ancient world heritage protected rainforest. It really is a miserable, miserable experience.

Where next? Well, I have absolutely no intention of swapping one rain swept resort for another. If the weather forecast hasn't improved somewhere in this country by the time I'm back from the rainforest, yours truly will be planning an unscheduled trip into south east Asia...

why does it always rain on me?

2007-06-18T15:55:00.000+10:00

Cairns, in case you didn't know, is the main gateway to the tropical north. It is where tourists can book their day trips to the rainforest, arrange to go snorkeling or hire 4x4s. As a result, it is teeming with visitors - most British or Irish - all year round.

On Saturday night I explored the city's much vaunted pubs and bars, before heading off to Cairns' one and only venue for those who like to bowl from the Pavilion End. I was fairly optimistic about this place - despite it being called 'Nu Trix' - and was hoping for a good night. After all, this is a city with a permanent population of around 100,000, there are thousands more young tourists in town and you'd have to go a bloody long way to find another gay venue - roughly 1,500 kilometres south to Brisbane or 2,000 west to Darwin, to be precise.

When I got into the place at around midnight, it therefore came as something of a surprise to find just four paying customers there and me. The bar staff and bouncers outnumbered the punters. So, I bought myself a drink and sat reading one of the free newspapers available. It's not much fun going to any club on your own, but needs must when you are travelling by yourself. It's quite another thing when the club is next to empty. Sat by myself, I must have looked like some kind of closeted, friendless married man, who was escaping his real life for the evening in order to seek random sexual gratification. Or something like that.

After about 20 minutes during which not one single extra person entered the club, I went to the toilet. When I came out, there was a bouncer waiting for me. "We've been watching you," he said. "You're all over the place. Time to go." And so I was marched to the door and the number of paying customers inside the club instantly dropped by 25 per cent.

I was initially incredulous about this - not least because I was nowhere near as pissed as this prick seemed to think - but I wasn't going to kick up a fuss about being told to leave a place that practically had nobody in it.

Another reason I took my exclusion on the chin was because it didn't come as a surprise. Bouncers in the UK may be scum, and do not tend to operate in a fair or rational way. But generally, on the whole, you do need to have done something wrong in order to be punished. In Australia, they adopt a pre-emptive approach to potential disorder. Bouncers closely monitor people inside clubs, and if it looks even vaguely like you might be getting a bit tipsy, they often throw you out. Even if you've done absolutely nothing wrong or said a word to a soul. I've known people to be plucked from dance floors and removed. My crime was to be "all over the place", which I suppose was accurate in the sense that it took me a little while to locate the Gents in an establishment I had never frequented before.

I wish I'd asked the bouncer what he thought I was going to do. Start a fight with the four other people in the club? Fall onto an empty dance floor? Perhaps bouncers assume an intoxicated person is going to become violent because that's what they do when they've had a drink. Ask yourself this. When is the last time you heard of a fight in a gay bar? Either bouncers don't understand a brawl is not very high up a gay man's agenda on a night out, or they just enjoy persecuting them out of prejudice. I suspect it is both.

Anyway, that was Saturday. Since then I've not been able to do very much because the weather has been, to put it bluntly, shite. It has consistently pissed it down. I said in my last post that this does not matter when the temperature is 30 degrees, and this is true. The problem is it's hovering around 22 here. It's not unpleasant, but it kinda limits what you can do given that all the attractions and activities in this part of the world are actually of the outdoor variety.

Cairns does not have a beach as such, and the sea off the coast is not advisable to swim in because it is home to the lethal box jellyfish. The authorities have made up for this by creating a giant swimming pool by the sea, which is completely free and just blends into a park as if it were a pond. It is very well maintained as well. Impressed as I am, I don't think this is a concept I would like to export. Can you see this working in, say, Southend or Margate?

I'm not due back in Sydney until July 5, so there is plenty of time for the sun to get its hat on. It just bloody well better had.

'Canz'

2007-06-17T15:16:00.000+10:00

Wind, rain and gales battered Sydney again this weekend - so it's just as well I left on Saturday and missed the worst of it.

Friday was my last day with the New South Wales Fire Brigades. I really can't be bothered at the moment to discuss in any great detail what it was like working there. Maybe some other time. Or, then again, maybe not. It was a useful experience. I was also reasonably well paid and the job was mine for as long as I needed it. Can't ask for much more, in all honesty.

I was taken out to a Chinese restaurant for my leaving 'do'. The food was awful, but I didn't have to pay, so I wasn't complaining. At the lunch, I was presented with my leaving card and presents. These were a Victoria Bitter stubby holder, a fly swat, a pair of flip flops with the Australian flag on and - last but not least - a pictorial book entitled 'Australia's most deadly and dangerous creatures'. Winding up poms about the threat from this country's more threatening inhabitants is something of a national sport here. It would be more funny if it wasn't for the fact a lot of people living in Sydney have probably seen more of England than they have of Australia. The idea they are all some kind of glorified version of Crocodile Dundee is complete bollocks.

On Saturday I flew to Cairns - or 'Canz', as it is pronounced - in north Queensland. I have to go back to Sydney for my flight out of Australia, so it wasn't quite farewell to the old girl yet. It was, however, a bit emotional to pack all my stuff away in the flat and effectively end the life I have had in the city.

Leaving most of my things with my flatmate, I put on my backpack and headed for the airport. My flight up to Cairns was with Jetstar - Australia's answer to easyjet. Flying with budget airlines is all very well, but when the journey time is over three hours it really does start to become a bit much. This particular flight was full of screaming kids. Why do people take babies on holiday? They won't remember it in later life, so there is absolutely no benefit to the child whatsoever, and the parents get no break from the considerable time they have to devote being being a mum or dad.

Anyway, anyway. Enough of my miserable whingeing. I arrived in Cairns early evening, and although it is also raining here, that really is not a problem. They do not have typical seasons here - it is hot all year round, you just get some parts of the year wetter than others. In other words, it doesn't really matter if it chucks it down and it's 30 degrees...

"Are you still here?"

2007-06-13T21:25:00.000+10:00

I was staring at a map of the Sydney Rail Network today - as you do.

When I first arrived in this city, most of which was totally unknown to me, what struck me was the vast amount of 'British' stations on the map. There is a Kings Cross, Sydenham, Chatswood, Epping, Chetenham, Penrith, Guildford, Lewisham, Dulwich, Liverpool - even a fucking Croydon.

Today when I looked at the map, it scared me how familiar all the places now are - and I don't mean because of their Anglo names. Because of my job - I have had media responsibility for every fire station in the metropolitan Sydney area - I really feel as if I 'know' this city.

None of the above means I'm not looking forward to moving on to warmer places at the weekend. The trip, as it were, is moving on to its next stage at exactly the right time as far as I'm concerned.

It is tempting when you come from London to compare the cities like for like, but that is actually pointless. Sydney itself is actually a relatively small place - no bigger than say Leeds. But because of the size of Australia, Sydney is classified as being more than its technical boundaries. It actually comprises an area hundreds of kilometres in height and breadth, with a population of 4.5 million encompassing many other towns - most of which are utter shit holes. It's a good job the tourists don't venture too far away from the city and the beaches here, otherwise they'd be in for a culture shock.

I will reflect more on my stay in this city in later posts. In the meantime, I am busy finishing up at work and packing my bags...

disaster zone

2007-06-10T18:52:00.000+10:00

The death toll from the storms in New South Wales has now reached eight. Around 150,000 homes are without electricity, a state of emergency has been called and the weather has been described as the worst this part of Australia has seen for 30 years.

Shit the bed. Not quite what I was expecting to come across during a trip to this country. Killer spiders and sharks maybe, but not this.

The weather was so bad on Saturday that going out was almost impossible. It was hard enough trying to stop our kitchen door windows being blown through without even contemplating going anywhere.

I probably wouldn't have gone out anyway. On Friday night I got out of bed to have a piss, slipped and banged my head on the wall and very nearly impaled myself on a wine glass. That I didn't was because I managed to steady myself on the side of my bed with my right arm. In doing so, I basically forced the pressure of my body weight onto one arm and pulled muscles/ligaments in the process.

The upshot of this was a trip to the chemist yesterday for bandage strapping and anti-inflammatory pills. For fuck's sake. As if an ear infection, a tooth removed (all in the last month) and this fucking storm wasn't enough. I had to laugh, however, when I asked the old geezer in the chemist if I could drink alcohol on the anti-inflammatory drugs. It took him a few moments to even look at me. When he did, you would have thought from the look on his face I'd just asked permission to take a shit in the corner of his shop. "In moderation only, young man," he said softly but sternly.

Always take the weather with you...

2007-06-08T19:07:00.000+10:00

Ok, I admit it. Last weekend's warm temperatures led me to wrongly imply that Australia does not go through what you or I would normally classify as winter.

The last couple of days have been horrific here. Wind and rain is battering New South Wales - on a scale I have only witnessed perhaps on a handful of occasions. Five people have been killed in one day, the emergency services are stretched to the limit and it would take a fool to leave their home tonight (just as well I've got fuck all to do, really).

What has been particularly annoying today has been the constant remarks from Australians at work about how I "must be used to this" and how I've "brought the weather" with me. Yes, because every day back home is just one constant battle against gale force winds and torrential rain, with the occasional relief of a nice cup of tea and a rendition of God Save the Queen. Muppets.

Talking of Elizabeth II, it's her birthday this weekend. The only reason I know that is because here in Australia we get Monday off for it. I wouldn't want you to think the weekend turns into some colonial establishment nonsense - it really is just a Bank Holiday with a different name.

This is my last full weekend in Sydney. I would normally like to mark any occasion with a party, but as it's forecast to rain heavily all weekend I may just savour the memories of this city and re-invest the little money I have in new experiences elsewhere on this trip.

Make sure you're connected...

2007-06-06T20:25:00.000+10:00

Ten days and counting now until this rather bizarre situation of working and hanging around people I will never come across again in my entire life comes to an end.

It has crossed my mind to leave Sydney in a blaze of 'glory'. Perhaps I should crap on my manager's desk, raise the Union Jack over the Opera House and deck some of the posh looking poofs who live near me and walk their stupidly small fucking dogs in such a way that always seems to annoy me.

Got to stay calm, Matt. Don't blame the dogs.

In a rather strange attempt to stay interested at work, our web editor and myself took a colleague's possessions last week and moulded them in jelly (see above). And the strange thing is we don't really know why. Boredom can do funny things to you.

Although I want out of Sydney now, one feeling I have never felt during this trip is homesickness. That, I am sure, is largely attributable to the internet. I can type bollocks on here, e-mail a bit more, read all the web pages from home and pretty much watch any tv programme I want through the truly remarkable phenomenon that is youtube. I can have all the trimmings of life in the UK in my Sydney bedroom.

There are some drawbacks - such as decent newspapers. The Australian media is appallingly dreadful - you struggle to finish a drink in the time it takes to read every article in a newspaper you are actually interested in.

Three British newspapers produce weekly editions here, charging around $5 for the privilege. There is the Express, which is so lamentable I wouldn't wipe my arse on it and has the dubious honour of exporting good old fashioned British bigotry to all the news stands in Sydney. Then there is the Guardian, my favourite paper back home. Trouble with its international edition is that it is just that - a small paper full of world news. I don't understand the point in it. Why would anyone pay five times as much for a weekly round up of international news they can read in the world sections of any other paper every day? I'm sure the Czech government's policies on climate change are very laudable, but I'm not really that interested.

That only leaves the Telegraph, which despite its objectionable political views does provide what you want - a weekly round up of the best news, sport and comment from home. It's actually even quite funny to read the bile that is spewed forth from its pages. I had almost forgotten how bitter, hate fuelled and prejudiced the Right was. Well, almost. I look at the subjects these people rant on about with utter disbelief. It's as if they occupy a different planet. Mind you, I am a metropolitan left wing homosexual. I'd be slightly concerned if my friends started becoming concerned about fox hunting, the monarchy, the erosion of 'country life', British pensioners in Zimbabwe Nursing Homes (I'm not joking - this is a regular topic on the letters page), the future of grammar schools, whether the Rev Ian Paisley is a sell-out and David Cameron is a dangerous lefty.

Christ I'm bored. Roll on Saturday 16 June and my flight to Cairns.

Winter?

2007-06-03T19:07:00.000+10:00

On Friday (June 1), Australia officially moved into winter.

I had to help organise a press conference related to this, in which ministers from the NSW Government would warn of the dangers of house fires during the colder months. You would have thought bushfires were the biggest threat to life and property down under, but that's not actually the case. Basically, because most homes here are not fitted with standard central heating systems that you or I would have at home, Aussies are reliant on crappy little portable heaters to keep them warm for the brief periods of the year when it gets chilly. And these are invariably a bit of a fire hazard. Particularly when you dry clothes on them, which seems to be a rather unadvisable habit out here.

So, the press conference was held and two ministers help up dodgy looking heaters and electric blankets. "It's freezing outside," proclaimed one of them. "Stay safe this winter!" A noble message, but it was 19 degrees outside. Watching Aussies behave in conditions that are perfectly normal to the rest of the world is highly amusing. The British in them comes out, they all complain about how cold it is and start wearing absurdly over the top clothing. But it is only marginally colder here than it is in the UK at the start of summer...

On Saturday I took a boat trip to Watsons Bay, a very wealthy retreat where the houses are jaw droppingly amazing. It was a gorgeous day, without a cloud in the sky and the temperature around 20 degrees. Families sun bathed on the beach and swam in the sea. And this is supposed to be 'winter'!

I will, however, be glad to leave Sydney in two weeks time and move north to hotter temperatures for a while. I'll also be glad to leave generally. I feel as if I have reached the end of my stay in the city and that I am hanging around somewhat. It is a fantastic, amazing place that I will never forget, but I feel as if I need to get on with the 'holiday' side of this trip now.

Part of this feeling has been caused by a particularly unpleasant break down in relations between me and Tom, who I had been seeing out here. I will not go into details. Suffice to say we had what might be diplomatically described as a difference of opinion over certain issues, and I decided that we shouldn't see each other any more. He will not be accompanying me to Cairns when I fly there in two weeks.

This has principally been my decision, and largely stems from the fact I do not want to carry on having a fictitious 'relationship' with someone I am likely to never see again as of a few weeks' time. It is rather more complicated than that and not my fault, but there you go.

Anyway, one of the consequences of this has been I am now persona non grata amongst his friends. Not quite how I envisaged leaving Sydney, but such is life.

Went on a tour of the Opera House on Sunday. It is a curious place in many respects. It looks best when set against the backdrop of the Harbour Bridge and the sparkling water, but inside it is slightly reminiscent of a 1970s car park. Its design is truly unique and iconic - it is actually two buildings, a stone exterior with wooden theatres inside. But there really is little you can say that is positive about its interior, other than the view ain't half bad across the harbour.

The Opera House was such a complicated design to build it actually took 14 years to complete - at a cost of more than $100 million. That's not an insignificant amount for a project commissioned in 1955. Puts Wembley into perspective, eh?

Eora

2007-05-26T19:47:00.000+10:00

Recognise this? Thought so. It's Australia, land of the good life - where the people are cheery, the beer is cold, the sun always shines and there is always a barbecue on the go.

Recognise the colours on the map? Thought not. I didn't either until very recently. This is a map of Aboriginal Australia, detailing where the indigenous peoples of this country have lived for thousands of years.

Like me, you will probably be aware that there has traditionally been a degree of tension between the European settlers of the last two centuries and this country's ancient inhabitants. What you may not have known - like me until very recently - is that this is more than just a case of white settlers riding into town and there being a bit of 'bovva'. Over the last 219 years, this country has seen some of the most outrageous racial brutality I have ever heard of in a so called 'modern' state. So bad, in fact, that the thing that shocks you the most is that you had not heard about it before.

I had been meaning to write a post about the treatment of Aborigines for a while. After my trip to the Australian Museum in Sydney today, where there is an excellent display of both Aboriginal culture and the shocking treatment these people have been subjected to, it now feels appropriate to tell you about it.

Let's start from the beginning. The Aborigines have occupied land in Australia for at least 65,000 years - some recent archaeological discoveries suggest it may be more than 100,000. There is every reason to suggest they are the oldest human race on the planet - and not an unremarkable one at that. If you take the time to examine Aboriginal culture, art and spirituality over these many years, you cannot help but be impressed. They have also managed to survive and prosper in the most punishing country on earth. Even today, Australia remains overwhelmingly uninhabited, the vast majority of its citizens crowded along cities along the south east coast where the climate is at its most tepid. Aborigines have learnt to survive and adapt in all parts of this vast land - defying mother nature at its harshest and most extreme.

Everything changed in January 1788, when Captain Cook and his band of British sailors rocked on in. Nothing the severity of Australia's punishing climate threw at them for centuries could prepare these people for the perverted barbarity they would be made to suffer.

The first shameful act was the declaration of terra nullius by the British - meaning the land they found was not occupied by anybody. To be fair, the good captain and his crew would not have been aware of just how long Aboriginals had been in Australia. But they were very much aware of these people's presence - they just chose to ignore it. Because Aborigines did not display the same social and administrative practices you would find in Britain, it was deemed they had no right to the land they were occupying. In other words, because there wasn't a parish council, a church, a cricket pitch, a post office or Mrs Miggins serving afternoon tea, these black savages had no rights to their home. Captain Cook duly claimed the land for the British Empire.

Having stolen their country in effect, the British then set about killing them. If it wasn't direct murder, it was indirectly through the arrival of European diseases like Smallpox, against which the Aborigines had no defence. It is estimated that there were almost a million Aborigines in Australia in the late 1700's - a century later that was down to 50,000.

If you think that's just an accidental medical consequence, on the whole you'd be correct, but most historians agree that around 20,000 were killed in battle by whites during the first century of British occupation. Now some of this may be have been in legitimate self-defence, but there are countless examples of genocide on a sickening scale. Allow me to just pick one, this from Myall Creek in 1838. I shall now ask a historian to enter the room and tell the story.

"A party of twelve men, consisting of eleven convict settlers and one free man, John Fleming, arrived at a hut on Myall Creek station on 10 June. They told the station hand there, George Anderson, that they intended to round up any Aboriginal people they could find. They claimed to be acting in retaliation for the theft of cattle, although they did not attempt to identify any individuals who were responsible for the theft. The men gathered up twenty-eight people, mostly women and children, out of a group of forty or fifty Aboriginal people who were camping in the area. They were taken behind a hill, away from the hut. The shepherd later heard shots. The twenty-eight had all been killed, and some of the young women had been raped."

There is only one thing remarkable about this incident - the people responsible were actually brought to justice. The first criminal charges after 50 years of British rule for the killing of Aborigines. I could have picked as an example the massacre of 200 at Waterloo Creek three months before, where the perpetrators were even regarded as heroes, but there's only so much I can type into a post without getting Repetitive Strain Injury.

In fairness, this did all happen a long time ago. So let's have some more recent examples. Let's talk about the Lost Generations instead. From 1915 right up until 1969, the Australian authorities forcibly removed Aboriginal children from their parents - particularly those of mixed race background - and took them to either white foster parents or internment camps. Up to 100,000 children were taken from their parents, in what was basically an attempt to kill off the Aborigines culturally and physically. The kids were brought up as if they were white, even though they were not. Some would have their mouths scrubbed with soap if they communicated in any language other than English.

I will probably never be a parent, but you don't have to be one to know there can be nothing more terrible or heartbreaking than to have your children taken from you. And, as I said, this was still going on until 1969. Most families did not start to be re-united until the 1980s.

If a government is prepared to indulge in such outrageous racial social engineering, it probably shouldn't come as much of a surprise that Aborigines didn't get the vote until the late 1960s either. They weren't even included in the official population figures - in other words, they were not even considered to be human beings. This only changed after a referendum in 1969. That's right - a referendum on whether people who had been living in a country for thousands of years should be granted such basic freedoms.

In fairness to most Australians, a lot of good work has been done since then to heal these wounds. Talk to most people (at least in Sydney) and they feel a very deep sense of shame about how the Aborigines were treated. The trouble is, although they don't go round stealing their babies any more, life for an indigenous Australian is still incredibly harsh. The average life expectancy for an Aboriginal person is 20 years - twenty years - lower than that of a European Australian. Any attempts at 're-conciliation' are surely exposed as very shallow when statistics like that - from today - exist.

It is the continued injustices that Aborigines face that is particularly galling. The life expectancy issue is a serious, but admittedly complex social issue. Some things are more simple. Like saying sorry. This country's odious prime minister, John Howard, refuses to. He says he will not wear 'the black armband of history'. This is a man who sees the world in a very narrow and conservative way. In other words, because he wasn't a member of Cook's crew in 1788, or holding the gun Myall Creek, or stealing babies, he has nothing to apologise for. In 1998 a National Sorry Day was instituted, to give people the chance to apologise for the past and heal wounds. John Howard boycotted every event associated with it.

As I said earlier, one of the most surprising facts about the history of Aborigines in Australia over the last 200 years is how little the wider world knows about it. We all know loads about Mandela, apartheid and the civil rights movement in America. Ask yourself the last time you read anything about the plight of Aborigines. And, finally, consider this. All of the murders, rapes, repression, the abduction of children - all of it - took place in a country with a British head of state. And we started it. Perhaps we're a bit too close to teach children about it in our schools, eh?

Reflections on New Zealand

2007-05-22T18:28:00.000+10:00

On Saturday I headed roughly three hours west across NZ to Mt Cook - the tallest mountain in the southern hemisphere - before going up to Christchurch the following day to return 'home' to Sydney.

Once again each journey was totally different - the trip to Mt Cook across barren yet beautiful hills, and then through the greenest countryside imaginable to Christchurch.

My night at the foot of Mt Cook and by Lake Pukaki was special. Normally if I say that about a Saturday it will have involved a win for Norwich, shit loads of alcohol, a nightclub and then a random shag. On this occasion it merely involved the clearest night sky I have ever seen in my life (ok, that is officially the last of the 'I have ever seen' remarks from NZ), nice wine and keeping warm inside the van while watching DVDs.

On Sunday I awoke to find the sky dominated by the rainbow you can hopefully see in the photo at the top of this post. To say I was mildly disappointed to be leaving NZ after just eight days would be a bit like saying Guantanamo Bay isn't exactly a five star hotel. I can see why people spend months exploring these islands, doing little else but taking in the surroundings.

When I got to Christchurch - by far and away the most 'English' city I have come across during my trip - I had clocked up more than 2,600km. I felt tired, but apart from nearly running out of petrol on one occasion, it had been a remarkably stress-free experience.

My taxi journey to Christchurch Airport after dropping off the van epitomised the warmth New Zealanders extended to tourists - in my experience, anyway. The driver enthusiastically quizzed me about where I had been, what I thought about the country, if I would come back and so on. Then when we got to the airport, I realised I was roughly $3 short of my fare. There were ATMs at the airport, but the driver told me not worry. "Enjoy your flight. I'm glad you had a good time here," she said.

The flight back to Sydney was also great. It was an Emirates service bound for Dubai, so I was treated to all the trappings of a long haul flight but for a comfortable three hours.

A perfect end to a great week. Then it was back to work the next day...

glacier gurning

2007-05-18T17:51:00.001+10:00

Sometimes on your travels you come across a place that you instantly feel comfortable in and at one with.

Franz Josef really did tick all the boxes. The township was small, yet well equipped for the hordes of travellers visiting the area. I spent much of my night keeping warm by a roaring fire in a great pub, while other patrons tucked into wintery meals like hot pots and roast dinners - all washed down with pints of local ale. It was great, and I only wish time permitted me the luxury of staying longer.

Today (Friday) I went to see the area's glaciers. It was the first time in my life that I had ever been near anything like it. Access to the glacier at Franz Josef was quite restricted - almost ludicrously so. A rope sealed off the pathway a stupid distance away from it, with a sign saying visitors 'should not' progress any further because of 'possible' dangers. What sort of a fucking warning is that? If you want to keep people out of somewhere, don't beat about the bush with the sort of language somebody uses down the pub when they are debating whether to have one last drink - 'well I really shouldn't have another beer, but as you're buying'. Anyway, you only live once, and so I ignored this weedy warning and climbed over the rope for a closer look at the glacier (when you get right up close there are more severe warning signs). When I made it back unharmed, a group of other tourists stared at me as I came back to the unprohibited side of the pathway. I was half expecting them to have a go at me, but as it transpired one said 'fuck it', climbed over the rope himself and then the others then followed. I like to encourage irresponsible behaviour on mountains.

It goes without saying the glacier was stunning, and I felt slightly cheated as I went back to the van that I couldn't see any more. I cast envious eyes up at the helicopters flying people to the top for a snow landing, although it was $300 a pop to go on one. I just felt like I wanted to see more. It was a bit like pulling someone, getting to the fondling stage, feeling a glorious sense of anticipation, before being told to fuck off home.

Anyway, although I didn't see as much of the glaciers as I would have liked, my drive down to Queenstown in the afternoon was easily the most stunning of the trip so far. I had to stop at least ten times to take photographs of the scenery, such was its breathtaking quality. The highlight was driving around Lake Wanaka (spelling correct), where at times I physically laughed out loud at the ludicrously fantastic views. This truly is the most attractive country I have ever visited.

I arrived in Queenstown at around 6pm, which was a bit later than planned. This is the main tourist town on the South Island, and is famous for extreme pursuits such as bungee jumping. Indeed, this is where the first 'bungee' took place. I have not come here to partake in that. It's never been something I've been interested in doing, and I don't really 'get' why people do it either. A bit like voting Lib Dem.

There was another 'first' for me today, when I sent my meal in a Thai restaurant in Queenstown back to the kitchen for being utterly shite. If I order Chili Chicken, I expect the main component of the dish to be chicken, strangely enough. I do not expect a couple of small slices of poultry to be accompanied by about 456 bits of cauliflower. For the record, I hate fucking cauliflower. When the dish came back from the kitchen, about one malteser sized piece of chicken had been added to the dish. It was a clear 'fuck you' from the chef. I left the restaurant in a foul mood hoping the place burns down sometime soon.

Anyway, Queenstown is teeming with visitors and Friday night revellers. I now intend to get shit faced, explore the area a bit more in the morning and then head to my final destination before flying back to Oz on Sunday - Mt Cook.

God bless Murchison

2007-05-17T16:35:00.000+10:00

I set off from Motueka at 10am today, bound for the glaciers on the west of the island.

It was another ambitious attempt for one day - estimated journey time seven hours - but driving in this country is an enjoyable, stress-free experience. It's also the best way of seeing it.

As I headed south, I noticed I had just over a quarter tank of petrol left, but thought little of it as I was bound to come across a petrol station sooner or later. I stopped off for tea and a toastie in a little town just south of Motueka, and read a NZ newspaper to get a feel for the news. There wasn't much of any interest. Like in Oz, news of the Royal Family always makes the papers here. A big story in today's editions was that apparently Prince William has got himself a myspace style web site where he can chat to friends by personal invite only. Well fuck me sideways. Young man uses Internet shocker. Still, he is destined to be NZ's next head of state I suppose...

When I hit the road again, it dawned on me I still hadn't discovered a petrol station and that the gauge was hovering disconcertingly above the empty mark. Time continued to pass and the closest thing to civilisation I could see was a man herding sheep. It was time to panic.

With the nearest town some 40km away - where, in all likelihood, the next petrol station would be - there was every chance I wouldn't make it. Particularly as the terrain was so severe and the roads literally went up and down the side of mountains.

There truly is nothing like an incident like this to shake you out of the 'tourist drives along past picture postcard scenery listening to music' syndrome into full-on, I'm fucked and in the middle of nowhere with only a few sheep for company reality. Add into the mix that my phone doesn't work here, and you truly have a recipe for being in the brown stuff. At best if I was to break down, I would be delayed getting to my destination and may have to re-think the rest of the trip's schedule. At worst, I could be stranded at the top of a mountain with nowhere to leave the car while I went for help. It did strike me, however, that if I managed to break down at a picnic site I was in the best possible form of transport to wait for help. I could lay down in bed, have some lunch, watch a favourite DVD and maybe even have a glass of Chardonnay...

The time it took to get to the next town - Murchison - seemed like an eternity. My mood wasn't helped by the fact I spent a considerable part of the journey trailing a BP petrol van, which probably had enough petrol on board to supply a small army's armour of tanks. It was as if somebody was taking the piss.

Finally, I just made it to Murchison. Never before in my life have I punched the air in delight at seeing a Mobil garage, but today I did. Murchison was one of those typical isolated, desolate towns that just had the one of everything - pub, shop, hotel, petrol garage. I was so happy it had the latter I thought it was a lovely place. When I told the garage attendant I had come close to not making it here, she told me it was just as well I had. There wasn't another station for 100km...

I continued my journey in high spirits. In a perverse way the experience had made me realise where I was, on the other side of the world, surrounded by nothing but beautiful landscape. The rest of the journey was very pleasant, and I finally got to my destination - Franz Josef - at 5pm.

Within a few minutes, I had come to the conclusion Franz Josef was the best place I had visited during my trip. Set at the foot of snow tipped mountains, it is a very small place yet resplendent with great bars and restaurants. My parking spot for the night was in a log cabin park, where the air is filled with the smell of wood fires keeping people warm. It was worth the seven hour drive.

South Island

2007-05-16T18:08:00.000+10:00

The best thing about your accommodation also being your transport is that when you have to be on the move at some ungodly hour like 6.45am, you can literally just slip from the bed into the driving seat, stick a few mints in your mouth, drink some water and clear off without all the normal getting ready charade of a normal existence. Perfect.

As I arrived at the port and wind battered the Spaceship, I thanked God I had actually driven all the way to Wellington the night before. God only knows what time I would have been on the road at otherwise.

When I got on board the boat, I was intrigued to see that ferries in New Zealand have all the classic hallmarks of those back home - i.e. being glorified floating tacky seaside resorts, resplendent with amusement arcades, god awful restaurants, a horrible bar and a faint smell of puke. Is it really too much to ask for these vessels to offer edible food? In the 21st Century is the best we can be offered by means of entertainment really a few fucking fruit machines? It was like a Little Chef and a Great Yarmouth pub rolled into one - only this experience cost me $180.

The big, big difference though is that Wellington certainly ain't your average British port. Managing to tear myself away from the temptation of eating in the restaurant, I looked out at the captivating sight that is NZ's capital city from sea. It really does look impressive, nestled at the foot of steep and rolling hills. Arriving in the South Island is no less enjoyable. You can easily run out of superlatives to describe the natural beauty of this place - I think I already have.

After arriving at Picton on the South Island, I headed west to the Abel Tasman National Park. This only took a couple of hours, which was a welcome relief after yesterday. Again the drive took me through some of the most stunning scenery I have ever come across. When I got to Abel Tasman, it was with a tinge of regret that I saw you can do three to five day walks through this coastal park, stopping in campsites or huts en route. I would love to do that, but such is my limited time in NZ I was restricted to an afternoon's walking and a couple of Steinlagers on the beach. This was still fantastic.

I found a lovely campsite in nearby Motueka, which also has plenty of bars and facilities for winding down. An early night was now necessary.

thermo frolics

2007-05-16T17:55:00.000+10:00

On Tuesday morning I had more sulphuric fun and games in Rotorua, sampling the geysers, mud baths, eruptions and other strange looking stuff.

It goes without saying I have never seen anything like this anywhere before, and apart from the rotten egg smell, it is fascinating to walk round what looks like one great big science experiment taking place in some of the most stunning scenery you could hope to come across.

I would only make one criticism. That being I don't understand why the Kiwis charge so much to look at this stuff - $25 to each village/park/reserve. Granted, it's actually worth every cent, and I understand the need to maintain these places and stop the lowlifes from drinking Meths in the mud baths, but these are natural attractions. They don't belong to anybody. At the very least I did hope for some kind of explanation from one of these places as to why, exactly, this stuff is here at all. I can see there's boiling mud being spat into the air, but why is this happening in Rotorua and not in Romford? Some kind of basic scientific explanation - a few sentences would have sufficed - was surely required. Or maybe I should have paid more attention during GCSE Science classes.

Anyway, it was very nice. At around 1pm, I set off on the long drive drown to New Zealand's capital - Wellington - where ferries to the South Island leave from. My guide book put the estimated travelling time at six hours, but I assumed this was based on the journey time of a go slow couple in a huge campervan who stop every half hour to look at gift shops. I fully expected that my dusk at 5.30pm I would be there or thereabouts.

As night fell, I was a full 180km from fucking Wellington and feeling like a bit of a twat. Still, the afternoon's driving had been a pleasure. The scenery in NZ is every bit as breathtaking as you would expect, to the extent that I would openly say out loud how beautiful a view was, even though I was on my own. Or perhaps that's just me.

Driving through this country at night is an altogether different experience. Whilst during the day you can see the full splendour of NZ's terrain, at night you really do get a feel for its isolation. Driving through souless town after town, it reminded me of journeys through Lincolnshire on the A17 coming back from Norwich away games. I considered stopping in one of these places for the night and continuing the journey to Wellington in the morning, but such was their eerie desolation I couldn't bring myself to.

At just after 7pm, I made it to Wellington. It then took me a full hour to find my intended destination, which was a campsite in the middle of the city. The only campsite in the city. After a lot of swearing and several near accidents, I found the place. Only problem was it was a campsite for tents only - there was no space for my van and so I would have to look elsewhere, after all that hassle.

I consulted Lonely Planet and decided to head for the nearest possible site I could stay for the night. Techinally I could park anywhere, but slap bang in the middle of a capital city was not ideal.

Eventually I found a place 13km outside of Wellington. It would do for somewhere to sleep, but there were no shops or anything near by and I was hungry. After another drive, I found a Chinese takeaway and then headed back to the site.

After handing over my $15 for the night, I asked the receptionist to book me a ticket for the 11.45 sailing to Picton in the morning. There was a slight problem with this request. That being there was no such sailing in the morning, only the 8.25am journey. Ouch. Which required my arrival at 7.25am. Ouch. Which meant leaving the campsite at 6.45am. Ouch. Which meant waking up at...etc etc

I retired to the Spaceship for a few medicinal glasses of wine and to watch a DVD. Tomorrow was going to be another long day.

sulphur and spaceships

2007-05-14T18:08:00.000+10:00

After a hearty breakfast by the harbour, I go to collect my transport for the remainder of my stay in New Zealand.

I'm hiring a 'Spaceship', which is a cross between a car and a campervan. It includes a double bed, cooker, fridge, DVD, CD and MP3 player. The price is also very reasonable, and I am excited by the prospect of six days on the open road with it. When I arrive to collect the vehicle, it is clear the company that lets them out is staffed by wasters. The girl who took my payment and showed me around could barely string a sentence together, such was the obvious affect of whatever she had been doing the night before. Anyway, after a few formalities I was on my way.

I can't say I would have wanted to spend any more time in Auckland. It is a perfectly nice, pleasant and affordable place. I challenge any visitor to dislike it. However, it is hardly the kind of place you yearn to return to. It reminded me bit of the multitude of river/water side developments that have sprung up in the UK over the last 10-15 years. Lots of apartments, office blocks and bars all offering nice views ... but little character. On Sunday when I was with the Kiwi Who's Name I Have Forgotten, I remarked that much of central Auckland looked like it had been built in the last few years. "That's because it has," came the reply.

After an extremely embarrassing incident when I attempted a u-turn on a one way street by mistake, I was heading south. The only thing north of Auckland is the attractive sounding Bay of Islands, but having taken travel advice from my good friend Lady Corlett of the Refuse Collectors and her sister (who used to live in NZ), I decided to drive to Rotorua, which is in the middle of the North Island.

After a good three hour drive, I arrived and headed to a supermarket to stock up on food and drink. I then drove around trying to find somewhere suitable to park the car for the evening, before deciding that a campsite would be the safer and more practical option than the side of a random road.

Although my Spaceship does have numerous entertainment facilities onboard, I didn't fancy sitting inside it all evening and so instead ventured into Rotorua. The place was deserted. I appreciate it was a Monday night, but I don't think I've ever been to a city (population not an insignificant 76,000) so devoid of human activity.

Eventually I stumbled across a bar that was open and began reading up about the local area. Rotorua is nicknamed the 'Sulphur City' because of the odour of the place - it is a thermal area with active geysers, hot springs and exploding mud pools. As there didn't appear to be much going on by way of nightlife, I headed to the Polynesian Spa to sample my first ever dip in a natural pool. Apart from the stench of sulphur, which can get a bit much after a while, it was a great experience. There certainly can't be more relaxing activities than to lie in lovely warm water by the side of a lake on a cool, crisp evening.

It goes without saying this establishment had a more respectable aura than some of the bathouses I've visited - particularly those of the male only variety. It was something of a relief not to see some old geezer wanking himself off in the baths whilst sniffing poppers. Then, my illusion was shattered. A young straight couple were getting 'intimate' in one of the pools, and although it was dark, the motion by which the girl's arm was moving could mean only one thing - she was tugging him off. It wasn't even subtle. Not wanting to watch straight sex in an egg smelling bath, I got changed and headed back into town. Whatever happened to good old fashioned morality?

I grabbed another beer on the way back to the Spaceship, where I spent the rest of the night eating crisps and watching porn.

Lurpack

2007-05-13T15:46:00.000+10:00

I have to admit that until I decided recently to visit the country, I knew very little about New Zealand.

Lord of the Rings was filmed there, they make great butter, it's meant to be amazingly beautiful, but it's a bit like going back 25 years in time. And that's what Australians say about the place, so actually you better make that about 40 years.

It would have been at best regrettable, and at worst downright fucking wrong, to have come all this way and not seen NZ. So I've taken a week away from being bored senseless at work to drive round what is widely regarded to be the most naturally attractive country on the planet. I am indeed a man of sacrifice.

My first night was in Auckland. I arrived there completely pissed having got to Sydney Airport ludicrously early and ignored my dentist's advice not to drink whilst on anti-biotics. Well, I had gone practically two weeks without a drink...

Auckland is a pleasant but slightly strange place. It is the biggest city in the country, but it's about as busy as a market town. It is eerily quiet. Upon arrival I started to understand why people say New Zealand is in something of a time warp.

The people here are, however, unquestionably very friendly. I ventured out to an Auckland gay bar last night, where I 'met' someone who was very 'friendly'. Double entendres aside, today he took me on a long walk around the city, pointed out places of historical interest (there weren't that many) and then took me up the Auckland Sky Tower - where the picture at the top of this post was taken. I'm sorry, but I doubt very much if this person (name forgotten) ever went to London that anybody there would go to such lengths to make him feel welcome in their country. I know I wouldn't. Apparently, and I make this comment based on heresy, it is typical of New Zealanders to want to show off their country to visitors to find out what they think of it. I am told they know their country is beautiful, but because so many people leave it to live in the UK or Australia, they feel a sense of insecurity. I guess it's a bit like knowing you're good looking but never getting a shag. Or something like that.

Anyway, I have seen enough during my first 24 hours in this country to know I'm going to really enjoy it. Tomorrow I pick up my transport for the week, which with it's bed in the back doubles up as my home, and then I'm off to explore...

A new dawn has broken, has it not?

2007-05-11T19:00:00.000+10:00

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?

2007-05-09T19:37:00.000+10:00

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...

2007-05-06T20:06:00.000+10:00

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!

sunshine and sickness

2007-05-04T18:28:00.000+10:00

Well, this week came to a bit of an unexpected conclusion - Sydney had its hottest May weather for 15 years and I ended up in a medical centre.

The two are un-related. For a while I had been suffering from intermittent headaches, drowsiness and ear ache. Being the sensible 21st century man that I am, my response was to ignore it and hope it went away. Generally it did. But last week I noticed that I was feeling excessively tired and drowsy, and yet I only went out once. It did start to occur to me that, on this occasion, it wasn't self inflicted.

Anyway, on Thursday temperatures soared to 27 - very warm considering winter is only a few weeks away. I made my way to work thinking I could spend lunch in the botanical gardens overlooking the harbour.

Unfortunately I spent lunch time with a doctor, after the pains returned mid morning, I started feeling dizzy and nearly fell over. After a quick once over, I was diagnosed with an ear infection and sent on my way home with prescriptions for pain killers and anti-biotics.

In a way it came as something of a bizarre relief. There was literally less than an hour between me feeling fine in the office to me going home in a taxi and having seen a doctor and a chemist. I felt like shit, but at least I knew what had been making me feel ill and I could now get better.

My experience of the Australian health system was very brief, so I'm not really in a position to make an objective statement about it. All I will say is that I walked into a modern, clean and friendly medical centre that had no screaming kids bashing around those fucking annoying toys you find in British GP surgeries, there were no two year old copies of Good Housekeeping magazine covered in snot laying around, I didn't have to fill any forms in and a doctor saw me immediately.

Like I said, I'm not in a position to form a balanced opinion or compare it to home. So I won't.

Being ill has deprived me of the chance to enjoy Sydney in this weather, which is a shame. I may never see another really warm day in this city again. Oh and because I'm poorly and on prescription drugs, I've imposed a strict No Alcohol policy. So far, it's going well. Watch this space....

wallowing in my own filth

2007-05-02T19:45:00.000+10:00

I have often posted on here how similar life in Sydney is to back home, but I got the most startling demonstration of this at the weekend - but it had nothing to do with the place and everything to do with me.

On Friday nights it is quite typical for me to wander down to the Opera House Bar for a drink after work. Whether the sun is shining across the clear blue water, or the magnificent Harbour Bridge is lit up, there can scarcely be a more spectacular set of surroundings to enjoy a cold beer after a day in the office. On this particular evening after a very difficult day at work, not even the magnificent view could relax me. I drank my drink quickly, felt pissed off with the events of the day and marched off home where I wasn't in the mood to do very much at all.

Now, it's not unusual for me to row with people at work, be unable to forget about it in the evening, drink too much and feel unmotivated to do anything constructive with my spare time. And therein lies the point. Last weekend I had slipped back into the frame of mind and behaviours of back home - the sort of mindset that made me come away in the first place.

I consequently spent my entire Saturday just walking around Sydney thinking about this. What the fuck was the point in this trip if I was just going to replicate the day to day mundaness that made me come to the other side of the world? Surely I should get the fuck out of here and to the north of Oz - where it never gets cold - as soon as possible.

A very big contributor to this way of thinking was my home life. I live in a very nice flat with a friendly flatmate. We get on fine. But here comes the 'but' bit. Matt is a part-time student - one day a week at best - who otherwise spends all of his time in the flat, on his computer, either trying to resolve his visa situation (he's American) or on MSN talking to 'friends'. He hardly ever goes out. His computer is also the only one connected to the internet (through ADSL and not wireless) meaning I hardly ever get to go online when I'm at home. This sounds trivial, but there are are so many things to do online now that we take for granted.

It had reached the stage where I dreaded coming home, which after a day spent in the office - or indeed any office - is hardly ideal. You just cannot relate to somebody whose entire mood when you walk through the door is dictated by whether or not he's close to picking somebody up through the internet. You cannot sympathise with somebody who says they've had a crap day when they got out of bed several hours later than you to then do nothing, even if they do feel genuinely down.

In the end though, I decided that a premature departure from Sydney was not a great idea. For a start, I need the $1,000 deposit on the flat which would be jeopardised by a hasty retreat. For seconds, I need the money from my job and - most importantly - a reference from my employer. If I ever want to come back to Australia, experience of having worked here and a referee to vouch for it are as important as a visa. Furthermore, even if I do stick it out here for as long as planned, I am still scheduled to spend between now and mid July a total of one week in New Zealand, two to three weeks exploring the north of Australia, followed by two weeks in San Francisco and New York. By anybody's reckoning there isn't that much hard yakka to be done in the short to medium future.

In making the decision to stay in Sydney - a city, I should stress, that I still totally love, even if it is getting a bit chilly - I decided to make my home life a bit better. So I went into an electrical shop, and said the equivalent of 'Hi. My name's Matt and I know fuck all about computers. My flat mate has an ADSL connection to his, but he's always on it looking for casual sex. I've got a laptop with a wireless card, is there some gadget I can buy so we can both be online?'

$109 on the credit card later, I had a shiny router thingy that I was assured would give me what I wanted. I got home, enlisted the help of my flatmate, and after a lot of swearing at instruction manuals and a white wine fuelled outburst from me about how people working in IT deliberately make these things complicated to protect their own jobs and hide their innate stupidity, we got it working. I am posting this from my own room on my own laptop!

I cannot describe how much a personal internet connection matters - particularly if you are on the other side of the world. I can merrily view Norwich City goals, music on youtube, porn, Prime Minister's Questions, the fourth series of Peep Show, more porn and much more.

In many respects, my recent despondency was inevitable. I'm doing a temporary job in a temporary home (sleeping on a fucking sofa bed) but, after more than three months here, living a permanent lifestyle. In short I'm having the downsides of travelling without the upsides.

Oh, and my Mother has been in hospital this week for an operation in Norwich. It was routine and long planned, but things like that don't feel 'routine' when you're as far away as I currently am.

Oh well. All is ok now.

Anzac Day

2007-04-28T16:41:00.000+10:00

Wednesday 25 April was Anzac Day, which is the equivalent here of our Remembrance Sunday.

The big difference in Australia is that you get an extra day off work for it. This is the country with the most public holidays in the world, after all.

It was really weird having a day off in the middle of the week, and not actually as enjoyable as it sounds. My body starts from a point of disrepair at the beginning of the week, before gradually improving after 'normal' nights of non drinking and good nights' sleep. Sticking the equivalent of a Saturday night on a Tuesday interferes with this process somewhat, and also turns Thursday into a Monday. Or something like that.

Anzac Day has all the pomp and pomposity that you would expect from a day about wars. The big difference here is that everyone goes to the pub all day and plays 'two up', which is basically playing 'heads or tails' with somebody for money and was apparently popular with Aussie and Kiwi troops during the First World War. To be fair, I don't suppose there was much else to do...

Anyway, you have to give credit where it's due. Whether you agree with these kinds of events or not, at least the Australians do it properly and make a day of it. Consider the annual charade that is Remembrance Sunday. The overwhelming majority of people who do wear a poppy think they are making some fantastic patriotic statement of gratitude to the war dead, when in fact all they have actually done is put 5p in a collector's tin outside WhSmith and attached a small piece of red and green paper to their coat. Next time this silly season comes around remember to have a look out for people who wear their poppies earlier than most others - they are invariably the most objectionable people you know/work with.

'work choices'

2007-04-24T19:33:00.000+10:00

On Sunday I went with friends to a 'Rockin' for Rights' concert at the Sydney Cricket Ground, which was organised by trade unions in protest at the federal government's industrial relations laws.

'Work choices', as the laws are known, are marketed as if they were some kind of consumerist luxury item. The Government claims they are 'simpler', 'fairer' and – in common with the introduction of any new piece of reactionary legislation – 'modern'.

In reality, what they do is significantly weaken the power of trade unions and make it a lot easier for employers to sack people and pay them less. I may not be a resident of Australia, but I'm always up for a good demo – particularly if I can do a spot of drinking during it as well.

More seriously, it should be remembered that political parties of all persuasions swap ideas with their ideological equivalents in other countries. It is therefore entirely conceivable that a version of what a conservative federal government is doing here could be replicated by the Tories should they get back into power at home.

Under work choices, protection from unfair dismissal was removed overnight for people employed by a business that has fewer than 100 staff. This led to the perfectly legal scenario of thousands of workers being 'sacked', only to be re-employed in the same job but with their salary substantially reduced. Work choices also effectively spells the beginning of the end for collective bargaining as it gives employers the right to refuse new staff the same terms and conditions as other workers doing the same job, and to offer individual contracts instead. You can also be legally barred from promotion if you refuse to move onto an individual contract – which you negotiate yourself, not through a trade union.

These are just the worst bits of these laws. Even the United Nations has criticised them, but it goes without saying the business community thinks they are the best thing since sliced bread and has predictably warned of the so called disastrous consequences for the Australian economy if they were to be repealed.

If you look at all the progressive workplace laws that have ever been introduced – going right back to the abolition of slavery – you will always find the same arguments against them trotted out by business and their political friends on the Right. It never ceases to amaze me that employers can behave in the most outrageous way towards people, but somehow this is acceptable and all in the name of some greater economic good.

Any law, rule or basically anything that moves to protect people's basic human rights is somehow a terrible 'burden'. Fuck off! Anyway, I had a laugh at the concert – even though most of the bands were dire. The Government dismissed the event as a stunt, and claimed the fact the unions had to stage a concert proved nobody agreed with them because they wouldn't have protested if there wasn't any music to listen to, which has to go down as one of the most ridiculous statements I have ever heard in my entire life.

Anglo/Aussie relations

2007-04-20T20:28:00.000+10:00

On balance, I have been made to feel very welcome since I've been in Australia.

The cultural similarities between 'home' and places like Sydney and Melbourne still never cease to amaze me. At times, you have to pinch yourself and look at a map of the world to remember where you actually are - particularly now the weather is turning distinctly 'British' here.

Consider this. You can travel less than 30 miles from England to France and be in a totally alien country with a different language - and an utterly alien culture and set of values. Or you can travel 11,000 miles to the other side of the World and find people scaringly similar with the same language, identical mannerisms and outlook on life.

Last weekend I had five Aussie friends round to my flat. No, it wasn't for sex - it was so they could devour my collection of British comedy DVDs. Their suggestion, not mine, I should point out. Little Britain is huge over here - and now they're latching on to Catherine Tait, Peep Show and other such stuff. They absolutely love it and - this is the important point - they get it.

Alongside all the warmness, however, I have still been 'subjected' to the usual piss taking. I ordered beans on toast in a cafe the other day and was asked by a friend if I was homesick. When I told people from work I had been on the Neighbours tour in Melbourne, one described me as a "filthy, dirty Pommie bastard".

Australia is a fantastic country, but it is still completely without its own sense of identity. It may like to wind up 'poms', but that is largely sport related. They love to take the piss, but take a look at their flag. Ours still flutters in the top left hand corner, and - for all the bluster - they actually quite like that.

Just don't ask them to admit it.

half way house

2007-04-17T17:10:00.000+10:00

Well it's nearly three months since I left blighty to help civilise the convicts - and that means I'm half way through my trip.

It feels like I've been away for much, much longer. I suppose that is to be expected. It has been without doubt the most eventful time of my entire life, given that I have settled in a different country, found work, lived in two homes and developed a new set of friends.

At times it has been daunting, perhaps even difficult, but overall it has been an adventure that I know I will never forget.

I have been giving a lot of thought to the possibility of coming back here later in the year after I return to London in July. Not going back home at all is impractical for boring reasons (work related) and because I have scheduled stop overs in San Francisco and New York. There is no way I'm missing out on those trips.

Any decision about whether or not I end up coming back to Australia I'm putting on hold for now. I'm frequently asked about my intentions, particularly by a lesbian friend of mine – who wants us to get married. Not only does it give me permanent residency rights, we also get tax breaks and she gets unlimited studying rights in the UK. It seems a bit odd to me that one of the consequences of getting married is the right to live on the other side of the world to your partner, but this is a country where some people eat tortoises (no, I'm not joking) and so I suppose nothing should really come as much of a surprise.

Anyway, all of this is off my radar for now. Reaching the half way point of my trip has really brought home to me how much has happened so quickly, and therefore how much more there is to experience. My attitude could have changed completely to everything in a few months.

I can't see me ever disliking life out here, though. The Aussies just have such a relaxed attitude towards everything. Back home, we have an image of them being loud, abrasive and occasionally obnoxious. The sight of so many of them puking and bawling their way through West London seems to confirm this.

I think this must be behaviour typical of young travellers, because it is not my experience of Australians. Everyone always asks how you are on the phone, nobody wants any 'dramas' and all the staff in bars, restaurants and shops always seem to have a smile on their face.

An experience I had at work today summed this up very nicely. I needed to get somebody from a rural part of New South Wales to clear a press release I had written, so I rang his home and asked to speak to him.

"Sorry mate, he's gone fishing," came the reply.

"Oh, right. Any idea when he'll be back? I've got a press release I need to him to clear," I said.

"You'll be lucky, mate. He's taken off for about three days with a load of beer, and he's switched his phone off. And you know what? I say good on him!"

I mumbled something, put the phone down, thought about it all for a while and then came to the same conclusion. Good on him.

same same

2007-04-16T18:43:00.000+10:00

After I got back to Sydney from Melbourne last week, it was with a bit of a proverbial bump.

The weekend had been extremely expensive, for which I take full responsibility. I would like to blame the Tories or George Bush, but even I can't really pin this one on them - and so for the remainder of the week it was a case of going to work and staying in during the evening. It goes without saying this is not the kind of activity that lends itself to blog writing - I don't want to write about it every day, and I'm quite sure you don't want to read it.

I fell into that soul destroying trap last week of being bored at work because there wasn't much to do, whilst simultaneously trying to avoid doing very much. Clock watching kicks in. I actually wouldn't mind being challenged in my work, but that doesn't look like it's going to happen. Every day I am served up a diet of very basic tasks to complete, and I am starting to wonder if I can stick this for the remainder of my time in Sydney, although quite what else I'm going to do is a moot point.

Anyway, enough of this talk. One thing I am determined to do when I get back to the UK is approach being there in the same way I have being in Australia. By that I mean making the effort to explore more of the country and find out more about its history. Whilst in a book shop the other day, I glanced through the Lonely Planet guide to England. Within a few minutes I discovered that there used to be a bridge connecting the Isle of Wight to the mainland, and that people from Norfolk are described as "having one foot in the water and one on the land". That's two things that I was either blissfully unaware of - or are actually complete and utter bollocks. Either way, my point is I'm sure there is more to discover at home than I have previously.

The sheer vastness of Australia also opens your eyes to how there is so much to discover in Europe so easily. I've been to a lot of places in Europe, but it has been a bit embarrassing to find Aussies who saw more during a travelling break than I have in 29 years of my life. They rightly point out how easy it is with budget airlines offering such absurdly low prices. It's weird, I didn't think twice about going to Melbourne on my own last weekend, but it has never occurred to me that there is nothing to stop me doing precisely the same in Europe if I wanted to.

Back home Norwich mathematically avoided relegation at the weekend with a 2-1 win at Leicester, now managed by our ex-boss Nigel Worthington. It is really weird getting these results in the middle of the night, and I suspect even weirder for Australians in nightclubs listening to me drunkenly talk about it and how much I hope we beat the Scum next weekend...

just not cricket

2007-04-08T20:38:00.000+10:00

Could I possibly start this post by offering a small and simple piece of advice? If you are checking out of a hotel at 10am, and then have significant plans for the afternoon, it is not a very sensible idea to stay in a nightclub until 7.30am the same day.

Ok, now you know not to do that. On Sunday I headed off to visit another iconic Australian attraction, another image of this country that I have known since I was a nipper - the Melbourne Cricket Ground.

The MCG has a capacity of 101,000 and, perhaps not surprisingly, is the largest cricket ground in the world. For years I have seen it on tele and gasped at its sheer size, hoping one day to explore it. If I wasn't so hungover/still pissed from the previous evening's festivities, I reckon I might have even been excited as I approached one of the biggest sporting venues known to mankind...

I should point out the MCG is more than just a cricket ground. In actual fact, cricket isn't even the principal sport that is played here. Australia play their obligatory amount of test and one day international cricket, and Victoria compete against other states. But there are four Aussie Rules Melbourne teams that also call this home - and often there are two games played in the same day at this place. It doesn't end there. Other Melbourne Aussie rules teams not based here sometimes have their fixtures switched to the MCG depending on how big the game is. There are forthcoming rugby and real football games coming up at this stadium too. It was also the principal venue for the 2006 Commonwealth Games, the 1956 Olympics and large music tours. It has staged political rallies, religious festivals and Rolling Stones concerts. There probably isn't a sport or event that hasn't been staged here. During World War II - and this is honestly true - this stadium was even used as a giant army camp site. It has now got to the point where I struggle to think of anything that can possibly take place anywhere else in Australia. If someone told me the annual Kangaroo bumming competition was taking place in Brisbane and not at the MCG, I would laugh in their face...

For one parargraph, I would like to transport you back to the UK. Consider for a moment what I have just described. One stadium in one city catering for a multitude of sports, teams and traditions. Now contrast it with London. We have, finally, taken delivery of the new 90,000 seater Wembley stadium for football. We have a similar sized stadium for rugby union in Twickenham. We are about to build a 90,000 seat stadium for the 2012 Olympics. Arsenal have just moved into their new 60,000 stadium. Tottenham, Chelsea and West Ham are all contemplating new stadia or massive re-development. The Oval Cricket Ground is about to undergo another refurbishment and extension. Then there is, of course, Lords and - this is a back of a fag packet guess -another seven or eight football grounds. Oh and then there's the Crystal Palace athletics stadium.

Welcome back to Australia and the MCG. I will leave it entirely up to you what you make of the comparison between London and Melbourne I have just made. What the MCG does prove, however, is that it is possible for people to feel a sense of attachment to the stadium even if it is shared with other teams and sports. The MCG is understandably something that people are very proud of, and it makes you wonder why it is that we seem so attached to the need for every sports team to have its own ground.

When I get to the MCG I am informed there is a half hour wait for the next tour to start. With a lack of anything better to do, I decide to visit the toilet so I can list this famous venue on my 'interesting places where I've had a dump' list. The most incredible thing about the bogs at the MCG is how impeccably clean they are - you wouldn't have thought anybody had ever used them before. It was like using the bathroom at a luxury hotel. Unbelievable. I am quite sure this is an experience I will look back on ironically the next time I'm in the away fans section of Selhurst Park...

Our guide on the tour is an elderly chap who prides himself on knowing every possible fact and figure about the ground. There were, surprisingly, a group of young Germans looking round the stadium, which came as something of a surprise given that I'm not sure cricket and Aussie Rules football have caught on in Dresden. The old chap seemed to take some kind of perverse pleasure from making absolutely sure we were told everything there is to need to know about the memorial to Australians killed in the Second World War...

All in all the stadium is breathtakingly spectacular. It is popular and used regularly. In the UK we will soon start to construct our new Olympic Stadium, which will probably be mostly demolished and reduced to a 30,000 ground once the javelin throwing is over - and all because nobody can agree on what its principal use should be post-2012. Shocking.

Everybody needs good...

2007-04-07T14:08:00.000+10:00

Today it is time for the most culturally enriching and symbolic event of my travels. It is a pilgrimage of epic proportions that no self respecting visitor to Australia could possibly miss out on. That's right - I'm going on the official Neighbours tour.

I couldn't possibly come all this way and not see the settings of a soap that I watched religiously every day for many years (until I started working and realised that it was, on balance, shit). This programme took up more of my time in front of the tele during my youth than probably any other. On some days - before, of course, the internet - I would be so bored I would even watch both showings of it. This is all pretty sad, I know. But I'm looking forward to a nostalgic trip down memory lane.

The official tour bus picks me up from near my hotel in St Kilda at the ungodly hour of 8.30am. It is packed full of Brits. No self respecting Aussie watches Neighbours, let alone goes on the tour. On board the organisers get us in the mood by playing popular hits from former Neighbours stars. As the sounds of 'Locomotion' by Kylie reverberate around the bus, for most people it's probably nostalgic. For me, it just feels like I'm back in a bloody gay bar...

The Neighbours set is a good half an hour out of town, so we are shown a classic episode to entertain us - that of Daphne's death. As it plays and we travel down the pristinely clean and vastly wide streets of Melbourne, it dawns on me that this episode is nearly 20 years old. It was shown so long ago, but yet not only can I remember it, I can remember where I saw it (The tv room in the Norfolk County Council sports and social club, to be precise, whilst Mum had a drink with friends after work).

Erinsborough, the suburb where it is set, doesn't actually exist. It's an anagram of Neighbours. It's name is actually Blackburn, but I think we can forgive the programme makers for choosing not to set the soap in a place that shares its name with a grubby, depressing, boring northern shithole.

The bus takes us to Erinsborough High School, which is a real school, but is actually the Blackburn English Language School. This is a school for immigrant children to learn English at. It must be rather baffling for them to arrive in a foreign country, be sent to school to learn a language that originated on the other side of the world and then find hordes of people from that country gawping through the gates taking photos of an imaginary school from a tv programme they've proabably never seen or heard of. I don't know about you, but I would find that strange.

Eventually we arrive in Ramsay Street, which is a real street, but is actually called Pin Oak Court. Famously, the houses are homes to ordinary people and no filming is done inside. The street is closed off two days a week for filming and the owners are financially recompensed for the hassle of living in a tourist destination. It would be too expensive for Channel 10 to buy up the properties.

The first thing that strikes you about 'Ramsay Street' is now small it is. The second is how incredibly familiar it seems. I recognise all the houses immediately and can instantly remember who lived in them when I was watching the show. It really is quite strange to be in a street I feel I know so well, and yet it is on the other side of the world and I'd never been there before.

Other people on the tour, some of whom rather worryingly still watch the show, go on about how they feel so sorry for the people that live in the street, how awful it must be to have your privacy invaded - whilst simultaneously ogling their homes and taking endless photographs of them. I'm sorry, but I don't actually feel any sympathy for the owners of these homes. They are paid money to have their homes used as scenery and are invariably at work when this is done. It's not as if they have to actually hand control of their bathroom to Harold Bishop twice a week. I wouldn't mind being paid to have someone film in the street outside my home. It's money for doing precisely, erm, nothing. Most people probably wouldn't want tourists standing outside their home all day and every day, I grant you. But if you don't like it, sell up. And just think how much you would get for selling your house on Ramsay Street, a property recognisable to people across the world. I asked our tour guide how much you could expect to fetch. The answer? At least a million dollars. So, no, I don't feel sorry for these people!

After a thoroughly enjoyable morning of nostalgia, we are dropped back in St Kilda, where there is the opportunity to meet one of the current stars of Neighbours. As I haven't seen an episode in about six or seven years, I don't bother with this and instead head to one of the area's many fantastic eateries for brunch.

If it wasn't physically impossible and financially irresponsible, I think I could spend all day and every day in Melbourne just eating. The food is just absolutely divine.

Melbourne

2007-04-06T17:14:00.000+10:00

I awake in my hotel in the St Kilda area of Melbourne with an almighty hangover.

My logic for getting trolleyed last night was that today is Good Friday, tourist 'stuff' would be closed, and so it was therefore the most appropriate opportunity to get off my face in Melbourne's gay bars.

Not only do I wake up with a hungover, I also wake up next to someone else. Quite how he got there I have no idea. However, I am quite sure that, along with all other such incidents during my time here, the presence of a young Australian male in my bed was due to my desire to discuss matters of cultural interest with somebody from another country, and absolutely nothing to do with any desire for sexual gratification. I would just like to make that clear.

Anyway, I'm in Melbourne - Australia's second city. And, boy, do people from Sydney like to point that little fact out. The rivalry between the two places is practically as old as the nation itself. Melbourne used to be Australia's principal city, but over the last few decades Sydney has surpassed it in population and status.

The two places are very, very different (which is something of a relief because otherwise it would have been rather pointless coming here). Sydney is often described as a brash, full-on Northern American style City - Melbourne more European, relaxed and cultured. Put another way, in Sydney you spend your day marvelling at extravagant sights and enjoying the sea and surf, before an evening of hedonism in the numerous bars and clubs. In Melbourne you enjoy fine food, great coffee, read books and meet interesting people.

Quite frankly, all of the above is fine with me. I chose to live in Sydney primarily because that is where it is easier to find decent work. It's also warmer than Melbourne and has a bigger gay scene. None of this means I can't enjoy Melbourne, and I certainly do...

I have brunch and coffee near where I'm staying before heading down to St Kilda beach. It is immediately evident how different this place is to Sydney. There is no surf or lovely long golden sand - this is more Bognor than Bondi. There is, however, a lovely pier that affords a great view of the city.

St Kilda is one of the main backpacking destinations, but because we are now well into Spring and Melbourne is one of the coldest parts of Australia, drunken young Brits are refreshingly absent from the area. The place does indeed have a European vibe, with the smell of different restaurants dominating your senses walking along the street.

It is quite liberating knowing that because it's Good Friday and everything is shut, I can wander around aimlessly and do whatever I want without feeling guilty. It's a perrenial trait of mine - arrive in a new place with lots to see, sleep in late and do little, then curse myself.

Walking around Melbourne is a real treat. And because I'm not bound my an inteniary dictated by a guide book, I literally don't know what's round the corner. I stroll into the city - well, hike would be more accurate given how long it took - and then stumble across all sorts of places, including the state government buildings, the botanical gardens, China Town and so on.

It is without doubt a very 'British' city, but unquestionably with its own distinct identity. I absolutely love the place. Don't worry Sydney, you're still my number one, but everyone needs their bit on the side...

terminally trashed

2007-04-05T17:53:00.000+10:00

I would honestly put drinking in airport terminals among my favourite things to do.

It is an immensely gratifying experience to sit down before a flight and get nicely lubricated. Part of it is obviously the excitement of going wherever I am going. Another aspect is that all the planning, preparation and days of waiting are now over - all that stands between me and that plane is as many drinks as I can possibly consume before they close the gate.

There is also something exhilarating about the atmosphere in an airport bar. Not because the bars themselves are ever anything to write home about, but because you will struggle to find a similar environment in any other aspect of life where so many people are so happy. Some will be heading off for the trip of a life time, others a weekend away, and so on. All united in the desire to have a few liveners before taking off. Some airports even have bars next to the departure gate, which affords the opportunity to do some last ditch drinking before the tedium of getting on board, finding out you're estimated take off time is 45 minutes later than anticipated and having to sit through a safety demonstration that is utterly pointless.

I once arrived at Gatwick Airport a good three hours before a flight to Berlin and nearly missed it because I was so engrossed in departure lounge boozing (It was the start of a day of disasters. When we actually got to Berlin we boarded the wrong train and nearly ended up in Poland instead of the city centre. A grand total of ten hours passed between getting to Gatwick and arriving at our hostel, which we didn't stay at because it transpired we had to share a room with an extremely rude and unpleasant local who was also a raving homosexual).

Anyway, back to Australia. I've arrived here at the domestic airport a sociable two hours before take off to Melbourne (this PC is in a bar, I hasten to add). It is very busy, but mind you it's 5.30pm on the Thursday before Easter. As I look around this bar, I can see plenty of people getting a quick one in and having a joke with friends. They will all be heading to different parts of this vast country to enjoy the long weekend. Like I said, I just find this atmosphere pleasant. I have no desire to hang out in airports. It's a nice feeling, that's all.

convert me

2007-04-04T20:36:00.000+10:00

Ask anybody who has lived in a different country for a considerable period of time and the issue of when you stop converting the cost of everything into your own currency will be familiar.

It's something that takes a while. When you initially arrive somewhere foreign, your natural self defence mechanism kicks in and whatever it is you buy - be it food, drink or a cab ride - you always convert the price back into pounds to reassure yourself daylight robbery isn't taking place.

I've adjusted to Australian currency now (2.4 dollars to the pound) and hardly ever need to use the pre-programmed converter I've got on my phone. Yes, I know, 2.4 to 1 is not exactly rocket science, but try doing it with a large bar round in your first week when you're shit faced, ok?!

It says a lot about my generally irresponsible attitude to money as to what I choose to convert in my mind now. If I clear $1,000 a week in wages, this doesn't get converted into pounds. Maybe it's the words 'thousand' and 'week' in the same sentence, actually of course it is, that subconsciously stops that from happening. At the other end of the scale if I'm in a Bottle Shop (Aussie for Offie) and see a nice looking White going for $15, that gets converted. Only 6 pounds! Bargain! Might as well get a couple of them!

I adopt a similar attitude towards eating here. Sydney is awash with fantastic South East Asian food outlets - obviously a direct consequence of huge amounts of recent immigration - and this type of grub has developed into my favourite. Why bother cooking or taking sandwiches to work when you can get a freshly cooked, terrific meal for $6 (less than 2.50)?

Why bother cooking, either, when the kitchen ends up like it does in the photo above after you and your flat mate bother to do so for the first time in ages? And we have a dishwasher...

I have generally managed to stay within budget since I started work in Sydney. I am finding it difficult to save though, which would be useful so I can travel for longer towards the end of my trip. Little things like tomorrow's expedition don't help the finances either - I'm off to Melbourne for Easter.

Can't wait.

true blue

2007-04-01T21:09:00.000+10:00

It is gone 3am on Sunday morning and I am awoken by the sound of receiving a text message. It's from my Mum. It is news of unspeakable horror. It contains the following, harrowing content: Colchester 3-0 Norwich.

To say this plumps new depths is something of an understatement. It is as low as can be possibly imagined. Only a few years ago, Colchester were playing non league football while we were mixing it with the very best.

I found it very, very difficult to get back to sleep after hearing about this depravity. Such was my state of mind, I even texted my mother back to say I would never come back to England after this result, which probably unsettled the poor old girl.

Anyway, on Sunday (I always find it confusing to know what tense to write this thing in, but never mind) I headed off to the Blue Mountains, which are to the west of Sydney. The mountains are one of the biggest tourist attractions in the area, and derive their 'blueness' from sunlight refracting through the eucalyptus oil that evaporates from gum trees - whatever that means.

It's a two hour journey from Central Station in Sydney. Central is the only major station in the city and, given that it was built under British rule in the 19th century, looks very similar to big stations at home. It reminds me very much of Hull Station, although I am pleased to say that is where comparisons between Sydney and that hell hole start and finish.

During the journey to Katoomba - the main station close to the mountains - I scroll through my guidebooks and recollect tails from locals about what I am going to discover. This is a part of Australia famous for its Devonshire teas, for being one of the few habitable places in Australia that regularly sees snow in Winter, that has famously traditional Christmas celebrations. I was expecting a remote and small version of Bath or Edinburgh.

Upon arrival in Katoomba, it is clear I have got East Grinstead down under instead. The place appears to be, on first impressions, a very average small town with no redeeming features at all.

After coffee and lunch, I purchase an all day travel pass that will take me by bus to all the main sights in the mountains. The itinerary states there is the opportunity for bush walks, but stresses the need to take ample supplies of food and water in case you get lost. There have been cases of people going missing during these treks, and so I sensibly heed this advice and pack as much beer as I possibly can into my bag before setting off. Well, come on, if you're going to end up stranded on the side of a mountain it is sensible to have as much booze as possible.

The bus journey takes us past lots of places offering Devonshire tea, a few nursing homes and the odd golf course. Feeling distinctly unimpressed with the area, we are dropped off at one of the scenic spots. As I walk down the side of the mountain to the viewing point, my mood changes in an instant. Nothing can possibly prepare you for what I saw. No anecdote, picture or indeed anything. The view is utterly outstanding, like nothing I have ever come across in my entire life before.

My whole afternoon is then spent bush walking, photographing and supping the odd beer here and there. I have never, ever seen such beauty. As I stroll around, I eventually stumble across a waterfall. It then strikes me that this is genuinely the first time in my entire life that I have seen a waterfall in person - seriously - and I can do little more than just sit and watch in amazement.

To cap off the day, I travel on the 'Skywalk' which is, apparently, the only mountain train ride in the World with a glass floor, allowing you to stand over the terrifying drop below. It is an incredible experience.

The journey back to Sydney is a pain in the arse, although - not for the first time during my stay - I make it more pleasurable by ignoring the ban on drinking alcohol on trains here.

This really is a fantastic country. I don't want to leave it.

Sweet 21

2007-03-26T20:34:00.000+10:00

The view as you come out of my front door

Well, the shittest election in the history of democracy is over and - as predicted - Labor comfortably wins a fourth term in office in New South Wales.

The election actually turns out to be even more boring than I had anticipated. The Liberals fail to win a single seat off Labor - not even one! - and so the 2007 result ends up being virtually identical to the one in 2003. I'm not complaining about the result, it would just have been nice to have a bit more entertainment...

On Sunday I went to a birthday party in Marrickville, a suburb in Sydney's inner west - the most alternative, laid back and almost Camden-esque part of the city. Everyone there is either gay, a trade unionist or Labor Party activist (most are all three) and so the election is discussed at some length. The overall feeling is one of relief that the "Liberal scum" have not got in. Not that they ever do. This was the 21st consecutive victory in just under ten years that the Australian Labor Party has enjoyed over the right wing Liberal Party in state elections across the country. The twenty first on the trot.

That, almost incredibly, is not nearly enough to satisfy Labor supporters. It is the Federal Government they crave - and elections to it are expected within six months. Victory in that would give Labor control of every tier of government in Australia for the first time in the country's history.

As the beer flows at the party and politics continues to be the main topic of conversation, not for the first time during my stay in Australia I find myself asked about Anthony Charles Lynton Blair. The fucker does seem to be genuinely liked here! Or, at least, revered.

"I know if I was British and a Labour supporter I'd be pissed off about Iraq, but you can't argue with what he's done since in office," is the general gist.

You could debate forever any long-serving PM's record in office, so I opt to summarise (not least cos I had been drinking heavily)...

"Well, in lots of respects Blair has been a disappointment. But one thing I will always be grateful for is the 1997 election."

Before I can go on to explain that this was the historic occasion when Labour ended 18 years of Tory rule and how pissed I got to celebrate it, I am interrupted by a flurry of Australian recollections from that night...

"Oh, that election was fucking fantastic! I've downloaded Portillo losing off youtube!"

"The most gratifying election there has ever been"

"Simply the best. The only party that will better it will be after Thatcher's death"

All of the above are genuine comments from Australians. I don't know about you, but I don't recall celebrating many of their election results!

Most of the political chat takes place during cigarette breaks whilst in the party itself episodes of Little Britain, the Catherine Tait show and other Brit comedies are played. I find it strange, although also comfortable, to be on the other side of the world and yet in such culturally similar surroundings. How could any British person get homesick at this kind of party?!!

sea, surf, shit scared

2007-03-26T19:44:00.000+10:00

The weather has started to become more unpredictable of late, which is hardly surprising given that summer officially ended a month ago.

Saturday was, however, a beautifully warm day. One of the unquestionable advantages Sydney has is its coastal location - there is no requirement to suffer an unreliable train journey to get to a decent beach.

Bondi Beach is just two stops on the Cityrail and a walk from where I live. Given how hot it was on Saturday, I feared the place would be rammed, but it was nowhere near as bad as I expected.

As I wandered along the beach past the hundreds of people sun bathing, swimming, surfing, paddling, relaxing and playing sports, I couldn't help but think how lucky Aussies are. The vast majority of Australia's 21 million people live on the coast, meaning this kind of lifestyle is perfectly normal for a weekend. London is technically a coastal city, but a stroll along the Thames Estuary has never relaxed me in the same way as Bondi for some reason.

The clear blue sea and the famous surf looked particularly appealing on this day. I had yet to enter the sea since being in Australia, which to any sane individual might seem a trifle odd, but I have had a phobia of the sea and - more to the point - sea life for as long as I can remember. Most people dream of doing things like snorkeling at the Great Barrier Reef. I would rather be given a sulphuric acid enema.

There are some very legitimate reasons for being scared of swimming in the sea here. Allow me to give you a little taster.

If you are lucky enough not to be attacked by a shark - this has happened to several surfers since I have been in Australia - there is always the box jellyfish, blue ringed octopus or stonefish on hand to finish you off - all of which are the most deadliest of their kind in the entire world.

Of course, you are unlikely to bump into any of these creatures off the coast of Sydney (although sharks are not far away and there are other unwelcome inhabitants such as the bluebottle, a jellyfish that can give very painful stings).

It just seems such a shame to miss out on the surf and all the fun people are obviously having in the sea. As I walk along the beach, I only see people - of all ages - laughing and enjoying themselves. There is nobody running out of the water screaming because their balls have been stung by a luminous jellyfish.

Fuck it. I'm going in.

So convinced was I that I wouldn't end up in the sea, I didn't bother bringing a towel with me to the beach. I therefore have to shell out $20 (around eight quid) on a new one. Feeling a bit parched, I also decide to have a glass of wine before heading into the water.

I'm just about to finish my drink when the sun disappears behind a menacing black cloud virtually immediately. In the distance I can see rain over the ocean. For fuck's sake. I've just spent $20 on a towel so I can go swimming!

There is no way I'm chickening out now. Not after shelling out 20 bucks! So, despite having gone nowhere near the sea in two entire months out here, despite days spent on glorious beaches in glorious sunshine, it is on an eventually overcast spring day that I end up ripping my t-shirt off and launching myself into the see in true Hasselhof style. And you know what? It's great! The sea is warm - there is clearly very, very little chance of anything causing you harm here in shallow water - and there is something incredibly exhilarating about being thrown all over the place by a gigantic wave.

I find swimming in the sea a bit like shagging girls. Beforehand I have absolutely no desire to do it, if it does eventually happen it's totally unexpected, then I realise it's quite good fun, before very quickly realising I'm bored and leaving earlier than most people would.

Oh and I didn't take any pictures whilst I was at the beach - hence why I've posted one of the main street from the city to my suburb, for no apparent reason.

home or holiday?

2007-03-23T19:30:00.000+10:00

I've been in Sydney for two months now.

It's fair to say the original 'wow' feeling has long since gone. But, hey, that's to be expected. I arrived on a gloriously hot day and was effectively on holiday.

I'm now in 'I live here' mode. I complain about the buses, whinge about the weather and get annoyed about trivial stuff. This isn't a statement of unhappiness, it's merely an appreciation that I am now more 'resident' than I am 'tourist'.

Everything is starting to feel more real. I guess I feel at home and quite settled. If I'm being completely honest, I am now starting to consider whether or not I want to stay beyond July. I guess it's an inevitable consequence for anyone when you start living and working in a place and actually like it.

Backpacking, traveling or whatever you want to call it is very different. Sure, you can love a place while you're exploring it and not want to leave. But you're on holiday. It's how you feel on a Monday when you've got to get up to go to work, when you're having a difficult time and under pressure in the office, when the weather starts getting rubbish that really determines how you feel.

I personally have a much better standard of living and overall feeling of happiness. Perhaps I am still in the honeymoon period. But, then again, I can't help but compare little things here with their equivalents in the UK. Little things like my harbour side stroll to work every day, that begins with a walk past beautiful water, then continues through acres of the enchanting Royal Botanical Gardens, and then ends with, erm, well ends with me sat at a fucking desk in a fucking office, but you get my point.

I never cease to be amazed by the plenitude of fantastic restaurants, cafes and bars that are on my doorstep. Brunch here on a Saturday morning is compulsory in my eyes. Gone are the days of rolling out of bed half pissed and into my front room where, surrounded by the debris from the previous night's festivities, I would heat up a tin of beans or a pot noodle.

Now I roll out of bed half pissed still, but at least it's to an alfresco cafe for some of the finest coffee in the world and food to die for. Today I had poached egg, rocket, sun dried tomatoes, bacon and asparagus on turkish toast, drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Top noshing.

This afternoon I will take advantage of the clear blue sky to go to Bondi Beach and this evening I will meander around the bars of Sydney's gay scene, which I can walk home from in around 15 minutes.

I'm not trying to portray this as some kind of holiday lifestyle, because it isn't. I've just done a 45 hour working week, some of which was indescribably boring and last night I had a shit night that ended with me having an argument with a friend.

My point is, I'm living a normal lifestyle here. It just has the advantage of being better overall than my one in London. As I said, time will tell. Maybe location was my biggest problem back home. After all, the fact I used to heat up beans on a Saturday morning in an unclean flat says more about the way I was conducting my life and where I was living than it does about the availability of decent places to have a meal in London...

Time will tell

vote for me!

2007-03-21T20:53:00.000+10:00

On Saturday (March 24) voters go to the polls in the New South Wales State election - if they haven't died of boredom before then.

The Australian Labor Party (ALP) is expected to be re-elected comfortably for a fourth term of office, despite being regarded by most people - including their own supporters - to have a miserable track record.

Aussie politics is a curious set of affairs. Here there is a Federal Government, based in Canberra, which does Australia-wide stuff like decide to join in the fun and games in Iraq. It is run by the Liberal Party, which has the unusual distinction of not really being 'liberal' at all. They are the Tories of Australian politics.

Then there are state governments, which run day-to-day services like education, health and transport. These are all - every single one of them - run by Labor.

You may be wondering why it is that Australians from the outback to the centre of the cities consistently elect left leaning state governments, and yet have returned the 68-year-old deeply Conservative John Howard as Prime Minister in the last four federal elections. It is a question Australians themselves have difficulty answering.

Anyway, Labor are set to maintain their dominance in New South Wales in this week's elections. This is despite many people thinking they haven't really done very much other than preside over a crumbling transport system and an economy lagging behind other states.

Unfortunately for the Liberals, nobody really believes they can do any better. Parties of the Right will always have difficulty convincing people concerned about the standard of public services that they can run them better. Likewise the Liberal's plans for generating more economic growth in NSW seem to centre around sacking lots of state workers and scrapping certain employment rights. Who's gonna vote for that? Haven't they realised you are supposed to keep quiet about things like that until you get into power?

The Liberal leader, a guy called Peter Debnam, doesn't exactly inspire people either. In fact, he is exceptionally dull. The only thing he does that seems to get people talking is his topless daily run along Bondi Beach, which is a pretty unedifying sight. Think Frank Spencer trying to be David Hasselhof, and you're getting there.

Elections normally fascinate me, but I've given up reading about this one. The whole fucking state is having one big massive whinge - one newspaper today claimed Sydney has the worst public transport system in the world, which has to be one of the biggest porkies ever said outside of Nazi Germany or North Korea. And yet despite all this, it is predicted the party running the state for the last 12 years will get in by a landslide! Bodes well for Labour in the UK...

There is no chance of a low turnout here, either. No prospect of Labor supporters staying at home and the result being distorted - voting is compulsory.

If I could vote in this election, I'd want to give my support to somebody in tune with my values and beliefs. So obviously that would mean re-electing the charming Fred Nile, who is campaigning on an anti-gay ticket. His biggest concern appears to be that children are being 'taught' homosexuality in schools (ring any bells?!) and instead favours the teaching of 'Aussie values', whatever they are.

Note my use of the word 're-elect'. Sydney's reputation for liberal tolerance doesn't extend to all parts of this State...

something for the weekend

2007-03-20T19:31:00.000+10:00

Was over my illness by the weekend and had recovered sufficiently to probably risk doing similar damage to my body yet again.

On Saturday I went to the Future Music Festival at the Randwick Race Course, and on Sunday popped along to the celebrations for the 75th anniversary of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

I only got hold of a ticket for Future Music - a typical all-day dance tent mash up thingy - at 10.30am on the Saturday, just a couple of hours before it started. After appropriate preparation in several drinking establishments, I finally got my arse over to the venue only to be greeted by an almighty storm. By the time I enter the festival, I look like a drowned rat from a tsunami.

The event itself is alright. A bright sunny day certainly helps at things like this, and so therefore a rancid dark and horrible one does pretty much the opposite. I try and convince myself that the more Smirnoff Ice I drink, the more fun it will be.

Ok, let's be fair here. It is a fun day. I'm not at work, so that's a bonus. But, I dunno, there's something missing here from the equivalent events I attend in the UK. It begins with E, that's right it's, erm, Eucalyptus Oil. Yes. That's the one.

One of the things that really fucking annoys me about festivals is twats stood next to you at the bar boasting about how wrecked they are. I get myself into some pretty interesting states at these events, but I never - and I really do mean never - feel the urge to turn round to somebody and make some kind of announcement about it.

"Mate, are you as fucked as me? I'm fucking wasted. Tell you what, I'd fuck that barmaid."

Next day I attend the anniversary of the Harbour Bridge. It would have been a great occasion, but again the weather is lousy. Plus, there's only so much looking at a bridge you can do...

Miserable cunt, aren't I?!

God Save the Queen

2007-03-13T13:04:00.000+10:00

I don't sleep well overnight and thus decide to call in sick for another day. It did cross my mind to go in for the afternoon, but arriving at that time of day for work does appear rather dubious.

So, that's two days' pay I've now missed out on. I wouldn't mind if it was for some big weekend away that demanded proper recovery time, but for a bit of a cold/tiredness it all seems a bit of a waste. Especially sat inside the flat while it rains outside.

Aware that Easter is fast approaching, I scan my Lonely Planet guide for what other public holidays are looming and when I won't get paid. Australia Day has been and gone, then we've got ANZAC day at the end of April, then in June it's a day off for the Queen's Birthday. I do a double take. What? There is a day off here for the Queen's Birthday?! Is that bitch going to deprive me of a day's wages even though I'm on the other side of the world?!

Perhaps now, particularly as I've nothing better to do, is the right time to explore something that has fascinated me, well, intrigued me perhaps, before and during my time in Australia. Namely, the continued presence of Elizabeth II as this country's head of state.

It is a rather strange set of affairs. Before I go any further, it is worth pointing out that the old bird is not still in place here because 2007 Australia has some kind of deep seated loyalty to the Royal Family. This is not Ulster with sunshine and surf. Opinion polls over the last ten years or more have consistently shown a clear majority in favour of some kind of Australian republic.

Sure, many older Australians do have a traditional affection towards the Mother Country - and I am not trying to suggest for one moment that loyalty to the Crown has not been a significant part of Australian politics and society over the last 200 years. It has been huge. Interest in the Royals also remains high. I'm quite sure that if the real Her Maj was to grace the country she is head of state of with one of her once in a blue moon visits tomorrow, there would be no shortage of people willing to watch and wave the Union Jack.

The fact remains that is you ask Australians what they want, more want shot of her than want to keep her.

The case is a compelling one. Australia no longer needs Britain for defence purposes and hasn't done for many years - America is her most important ally in that regard. Britain's entry into the European Union long put an end to the preferential treatment given to Australian produce, and successive Australian governments have looked to the Asian and Pacific markets for where to make their dollar. It is, also, increasingly where modern Australia sees itself as a nation - particularly after widespread Asian immigration over the last 25 years.

You could pretty much leave aside the arguments British republicans make against the principle of monarchy and simply say it is common sense for a fully fledged, modern and economically successful nation state like Australia to be entirely self-governing.

There has, however, been a notable incident in Australian politics regarding the monarchy that is worth mentioning, which also rather nicely destroys the notion Monarchists have in Britain about the institution being somehow above politics.

In the early 1970s, The Labor Party ended 23 years of Liberal conservative rule in Australia. Under the leadership of Gough Whitlam, the new government set about implementing an impressively radical set of policies - rights for Aborigines, withdrawal from the Vietnam War, free university education, major health care reforms, huge increases in public expenditure and an end to Australia's overtly racist immigration policies.

I think it's fair to say your average far-right red neck wouldn't be too keen on this sort of stuff. In fact, it scared the shit out of a lot of conservatives across the world. All of these reforms came at the same time as the global economic slump, which left Australia, like Britain, going cap in hand to all sorts of embarrassing places for a bit of pocket money to get them by.

When it came to the passing of the 1975 budget, Liberals in the Senate defied parliamentary convention, which was to in effect rubber stamp the will of the House of Representatives, and rejected it. Their aim was to force this 'Communist' government to the polls.

In times of such constitutional crisis, it is the responsibility of the Governor of Australia -appointed by the British Monarch and filly invested with her constitutional powers - to try and resolve the situation. So, what did Governor General John Kerr, appointed by the British Royal Family, do when a right-wing party defied constitutional convention to try and force the democratically elected government from office?

That's right, folks! He sacked the Labor government!

Now, consider the anger this unquestionably caused. And consider once again the undeniable argument for modern Australia to be free of her imperial relics. It's a no brainer - and yet Australia does not look like becoming a republic in the immediate future.

One of the main reasons for this is also the achilles heal of the British republican movement - the supposed failure to come up with anything better as an alternative. Opponents of direct election have said we'd end up replacing the Queen with a President Kinnock or Jane Goody in the UK. In Australia monarchists have spoken aghast of the prospect of a President Dame Edna Everidge or other such ludicrous examples.

When Australians voted in a referendum in 1999 on whether to replace the monarchy, on offer as an alternative was basically a head of state chosen by parliament. Of course the monarchists swiftly changed their arguments from saying a drag queen would end up running the country to 'just another politician'. Many Australians, despite wanting rid of the monarchy, rejected this alternative. By 55 to 45 per cent, they voted to keep the monarchy.

The issue has died down a bit sense then. Since I've been here, many Aussies I have met have not been shy to talk about politics, whether it's Iraq, George Bush, the federal election, gay rights, the New South Wales state election, transport, water shortages, employment rights and so on. I'm yet to hear anybody voluntarily talk about a republic. For the left, that is largely because they are pre-occupied with defeating the Liberal government in this year's federal elections. You get the feeling the issue will return at some point.

I have asked Aussies why it is they persist with our monarch as their head of state. One of the replies I got was pretty typical...

"Well, a lot of people are concerned about what it would cost. We'd have to change our flag, the name of our armed forces, our constitution and lots more. A lot of people don't think it's worth the drama."

As with so many things, Aussies will always try and avoid 'a drama' or any 'worries'. Which is why, probably more than anything else, the union jack still appears on their flag and the Queen rules over them.

The arena of the unwell

2007-03-12T13:03:00.000+10:00

Typical. Just as I think I'm managing my finances responsibly for the first time in years, I lose a day's wages by having to call in sick with caner's flu.

This is an affliction caused by the unintended lowering of the body's self-defence mechanism by the excessive intake of alcohol on a Saturday night. It is not a hangover, as such - more the body's way of saying that it could have fought off bugs and viruses or whatever if only it wasn't having to combat a full scale invasion from Colonel Smirnoff. As this is an unitended consequence of binge drinking, and there is no way of determining whether I would have fallen ill had I not been on the lash until 7am on Sunday, the victim is spared some of the self loathing that inevitably comes from having to ring in sick because you haven't managed to grow up yet.

I wouldn't normally care about being ill, but I'm paid by the hour and so this is a dent in the wallet. I'll just have to make a few of the hours in the remaining four days.

Methinks this is a 24/48 hour thang which is just the body's way of saying it needs a bit of rest and recuperation. I remember feeling tired on Saturday night and the sensible voice in my head telling me to get some sleep rather than go out. In my head this person has a very serious, critical almost condescending voice.

"There isn't some kind of rule, Matt, that says you have to go out every Saturday night. It is ok to be normal and get some sleep. You'll feel great on Monday for the rest."

No sooner has Mr Sensible said his bit, than into the room walks my psychological equivalent of Bez...

"You can't stop in on a Saturday just because it might make the team fucking meeting on Monday a bit more tolerable."

Then in my head I can hear the music at the club, see the talent on the dancefloor, and before you know it I'm getting ready to go out. The fact I can walk to all the decent clubs hardly acts as much of a disincentive either.

And now I'm spending my Monday afternoon drinking soup and watching DVDs.

I predict a riot

2007-03-10T10:07:00.000+10:00

Today I'm off to Cronulla - a place Sydneysiders like to talk of fondly, where the beaches are said to be lovely and the restaurants very good.

The one negative most people mention is that it's a bit far out - around an hour by train from the city. A smaller number of people you ask about Cronulla will also mention it's more unpalatable reputation as the centre of Sydney's famous race riots in 2005.

I'm therefore interested to see this place for all of the above reasons. Not that I'm expecting to find a museum dedicated to the riots or do I intend to stop people in the street and talk about it, you understand...

"Excuse me, mate. I was wondering if you could direct me to where you boys duffed up all those darkies a few years ago. Are there any blood stained Australian flags still hoisted up I could take a photo of?"

The fact a race riot occurred between western white males who had been drinking and Lebanese muslims is not that much of a surprise. What seemed to captivate the world's media back in 2005 was where it happened - i.e. the beach.

People have such a stereotypical, and mostly accurate, image of Aussie beach life - surf, 'put another shrimp on the barby mate', cool beer and not a care in the world. The violent scenes of 2005 destroyed this Home and Away esque perception.

I was a bit shocked too at the time. You tend to think of an Aussie beach as somewhere you might be lucky to spend an alternative Christmas one day. In short, you think of it as a happy place.

So, what was Cronulla going to be like? Surely for a full-on race riot it had to be some kind of cross between Brixton and Blackpool, you would have thought.

As I come out of the train station following a very pleasant journey through the Sydney suburbs and nearby countryside, I feel I must have fallen asleep and somehow ended up in Christchurch. An elderly lady sells fruit from a small shop, there are some market traders selling books and young families heading off to the beach. For a laugh, I play 'I Predict a Riot' by the Kaiser Chiefs on my ipod and wander through the streets of this quiet, yet very beautiful, place and chuckle to myself that this was the scene of an internationally renowned racial disturbance little more than a year ago.

When I get down to the beach, it is dominated by happy surfers, a fair few pensioners and kids playing in the rock pools. I take a moment out from my political analysis of the place to relax and soak up the sun and glorious view.

So, how did this idyllic place become submerged in violence? How did this find itself bracketed with the Bronx?

It's actually an easier question to answer than you might think. There are some telling signs as I explore Cronulla, for although it has the appearance of a charming seaside resort, alongside all of this is a very obvious young, male Aussie presence that is far more full-on than the more relaxed beaches in Sydney I have been to.

I strike riot evidence gold when I come across a group of young lads wearing a pretty infamous t-shirt out here. It has the Australian flag resplendent across their chests, and beneath it the message 'If you don't love it, leave it'. This is targeted at Lebanese muslims, many of whom have attacked Australian society in much the same way people of the same faith have in other western countries. Cronulla's surrounding areas has a very large Lebanese population.

In some respects I could sympathise with the message on the t-shirt if it wasn't meant in such a racist way. By that I mean if you are so unhappy living somewhere, so disgusted by the lack of standards in society that you lock your children in the house at night and ban them from having Australian friends - as many muslim parents do - is it not better to be living somewhere a bit more in tune with your perspective on life? It can't be much fun hating your surroundings so much you lock yourself away from them in horror.

But, even if this might be the case, you get the feeling it isn't the real message the people wearing these t-shirts want to send out. Love it, loathe it, whatever - these guys would probably still rather you left it.

Call me old fashioned, but there is also something a little bit unsettling about people walking around in racist t-shirts suggesting the re-patriation of immigrants from the country. Perhaps if I don't like it I should leave it!

This whole t-shirt thing brings me on to my main point - the riots here were caused by a culture clash. The reason why this beach side resort erupted in violence had little to do with the 'they're stealing our jobs' mentality. It wasn't something that had poverty at its core. Aussies do not like anything or anyone that threatens their way of life and saw/see the 'Lebs' as just that. More than 200 people killed in the first Bali bomb in 2002 - 88 of them Australian - didn't help matters. Nor did reports of planned attacks in Sydney and Melbourne by extremists.

For their part, the local muslim population wasn't thrilled by Australia's 'shoulder to shoulder' stance with the UK and US over Afghanistan and Iraq...

The trigger for the riots was, apparently, unconfirmed reports of attacks on lifeguards by people of Middle Eastern origin (this isn't quite the moral equivalent of kiddie fiddling in Australia, but it's not that far off). Thousands then began to make their way to Cronulla to have a go at the 'Lebs'.

All of this should be taken in context - 31 per cent of people living and working in Sydney were not born in Australia, and on an overwhelming basis everyone gets on fine. There is, however, an undeniable sense of fear amongst the white 'Anglo' population of outsiders. This has been the case since the first settlers arrived here. It explains why the early Australian governments clung to the 'mother country' Britain like a child holding onto its parent in a unfamiliar environment, and why the current regime so values its relationship with America. The Aussies have from day one felt very threatened by anything that might jeopardise their way of life here.

That fear is one of the main reasons why the right-wing 'Liberal' party is successively returned to office in Federal Government elections, despite the Labor Party controlling every single State in the country. Anyway, I will discuss the strange world of Aussie politics in later posts - not least because there is an election here in New South Wales in two weeks.

Oh, it's Saturday night. Best head out and see what the evening throws at me in the bars and clubs of Sydney...

Clock watching

2007-03-09T20:22:00.000+10:00

(The view of central Sydney from the bottom of my road)

Never mind blogs, youtube, myspace and all the other wonders of the World Wide Web - the greatest gift of the internet is its ability to break up the boredom of a day in the office through e-mailing friends and reading various sites.

It is a way we have grown accustomed to keeping sane and, in my view, productive as well. A short five minutes out from the daily grind to chat to a friend, read about your team's latest transfer target, or check out when a band you like is next playing locally locally, helps no end. It stops you from constantly looking at the clock and willing it to reach 5pm. It stops you spending so much time reading the paper on the bog your colleagues say they were worried where you'd got to when you finally return to your desk.

I do have the internet at work, obviously, but I can't really sit there updating this thing. And, most importantly of all, for the vast majority of my time at work, the vast majority of people in the UK are asleep. This means that all the sites I normally visit during the day at home for a break from the tedium are not updated at all during my time at work in Australia.

I start the day with the latest news from home and how many injuries Norwich City have got going into the next fixture, and I end the day with pretty much the same. There is nobody to talk nonsense to on e-mail either.

This afternoon (Friday) was when I missed it most. I had done everything that had to be done at work for the week, and consigned the non essential stuff to the mental 'it can wait until Monday' tray. Now was the time when I wanted to be hearing about people's plans for the weekend and exchanging electronic banter with friends who are united in the sense of special happiness that comes with it being the end of the week. Instead I was reduced to reading up on what had happened in Eastenders while I've been away...

Does this perhaps indicate some kind of homesickness? I don't think it does because I don't feel the slightest bit of unhappiness being here, I have no desire to be back in the UK at the moment and all is good. It's probably more a case of me not having fully developed a lifestyle to replace my 'real' one back home yet and a desire to fill in the gaps with what is familiar.

And of course an inability to maintain concentration during a day in the office - any office anywhere.

work/life balance

2007-03-08T19:51:00.000+10:00

I've posted enough nice pictures of Sydney, so here's one of the floor in a bar during Mardi Gras.

Anyway, anyway, I am nearly two weeks into my 'normal' life of working here. It is all going pretty well I guess. The job pays enough for me to pay the bills and enjoy myself, and it is not particularly difficult or stressful. I did start to yearn in my first few days for the challenge I get from working in the UK, but that soon faded away.

Why have any hassle? I turn up at 9. I dress smartly. I do my work. I leave at 5. I forget about it and enjoy life. Easy.

It's strange, but I've spent so many years frowning at people who have jobs like this. I'm used to leading my worklife in a very similar way to the way I lead my social life - unpredictably, challenging convention, having great days and awful days, being consumed by the intensity of it all. Giving everything one day, feeling drained the next. Impressing one day, disappointing the next.

Time will tell which I prefer, but I suppose I should explain why I've traditionally been down on people who run out the door at 4.59 and 59 seconds. It's because I've been lucky enough to either work in jobs which I find interesting, or work for organisations where I consider there to be some actual worthwhile meaning attached to me being in the office. I gave a lot of my life, energy and emotion during my three years at the Communication Workers Union because I was always acutely aware that what I did ultimately - even in the tiniest way - could actually help improve the lives of other people.

Of course, I am rather over-playing things. The people who ran out the door at 5 probably weren't as hungover as me in the morning, and quite possibly just managed to do their bit for the class struggle in their contracted hours...

What I am trying to say in my usual long winded way is that although I don't have the same passion in this job, I do have a life. I can do stuff I enjoy instead of heading to the boozer to wash the stress away. Tonight I've read a lot, typed this, had some food and I feel good. Normally I would be leaving work late, eating crap, and feeling tired.

I'm looking forward to the next few months working here. Not so much for what I'll be doing, but for the perspective it will give me when I return...

Mardi Gras

2007-03-06T19:22:00.000+10:00

It's been a while since I last updated this thing. This is because in the last week I have started my new job, moved home again and been off my tits over the weekend at Mardi Gras.

I'll talk about work when I can summon the enthusiasm to spend my spare time writing about it. As for the new home, well let's just say my original decision to move to the suburban hell that is Chatswood was a moment of madness. My Clapham Common of this trip.

If ever I got a reminder of why living slap bang thank you mam in the middle of Sydney was a far better option, it was this weekend. Before I go into more depth about mardi gras, I will briefly summarise my movements...

Got up Saturday morning. Blisteringly hot. Walked into the city. Did some shopping. Walked to the harbour. Drank outside the Opera House. Walked through the Botanical Gardens and home. Sunbathed with a bottle of wine in the park over-looking the harbour just outside my flat. Had a doze. Walked to the Mardi Gras parade. Walked to the after party. Walked home from it. Slept. Walked to the pub. Walked home. Slept. Walked to work.

I'm not walking everywhere because I've discovered a new hobby. Just about everything I need, want and do is just a stroll away. After so long suffering London public transport, this is a godsend to my overall quality of life.

Anyway, back to mardi gras. As I have posted on here before the Sydney event takes on far greater significance than it does in London. Here people travel from across the world and Australia to be part of it. Here it is the highlight of the year for gay people - something they talk about for ages and reminisce about for longer.

In London it has become something of a let down. The parade starts too early in the day, nobody goes apart from a few Peter Tatchell-esque militants and lots of Japanese tourists look on in bemusement. This is then followed by an over-priced party, normally in Finsbury Park, which is basically just a day out for people in the provinces. London-based gay people increasingly shun it, complain about it and resent how clubs use it to ramp up prices in the evening. To my mind it has ceased to be an event that has any meaning to gay people living in London.

Whilst that sounds like I'm being down on it and bigging up the Aussie equivalent, it is in a perverse way almost a positive thing that it has got to this. I won't pretend for one moment that Britain is some kind of liberal haven that events like mardi gras don't matter any more. What cannot be denied, however, is that things are a hell of a lot better than they are in Australia.

The Aussies have a pretty poor record on gay rights compared to comparable nations. There is more to fight for here. A lot more. And I don't just mean legally - Sydney is the only city with a large gay scene in Australia, and yet it is far, far smaller than even Manchester - let alone London. Picture being gay in a city like Brisbane, the third largest in the country and with a population of more than 1.5 million - bigger than anthing outside London in the UK - and yet with a scene that actually has less going on than is the case in Norwich. And picture being in a country so fucking huge that to even get to the nearest vibrant scene you have to board a plane for several hours.

Everyone will have their own opinions, but to my mind it is this sort of environment that gives the Sydney Mardi Gras its special place in the calendar and that increased sense of importance to people.

I have a good time, although the after party is a pretty atmosphere less affair at the Murdoch owned Fox Studios next to the Sydney Cricket Ground. And it's $130 a ticket - roughly 50 quid.

This party also gives a very obvious indication of how drug fuelled the scene is in Sydney. And by that I don't mean people having a few pills here and there. The drugs of choice here are Crystal Meth and GHB. I'm not saying these aren't big on the London scene, because they are, but I have never seen so many people carted off in ambulances as I do at this party.

Later I am told the OD rate had been tame by comparison to previous years...

Every loser wins

2007-02-27T17:53:00.000+10:00

Well, that has to be perhaps one of the shortest stays in a new home on record. After plumping for a house with a nice garden and pretending that I would somehow we satisfied with a surburban lifestyle, I have realised this is utter bollocks and will be moving into a flat in the city - just over a week after moving in (and for most of that I wasn't even there).

I guess I was mindful of what annoyed me so much in London - the full-on, work/party lifestyle that I could never get out of. Obviously I felt a nice house still accessible to the city was the best option. Truth be told, it isn't that accessible really. Front door to work/bar is 45-50 minutes...

Anyway, here's how I broke it to my house mates (for all of a week). They were, thankfully, fine about it all. Maybe they'd had enough of me already too...!

---------- Forwarded message ----------From: Matt Nicholls Date: 26-Feb-2007 16:52Subject: confession timeTo: Joshua Booyens Hiya Josh

Hope your Monday back at work was ok - it was my first day working for five weeks, so imagine how I felt!

Anyway, I hope you get this e-mail before you leave for the day as I wanted to explain something in depth before having to face you guys and explain it. I'm very, very sorry about this, but I am going to move out of the house before the end of the week. I honestly didn't expect things to work out like this. In order to explain why this has happened, I need to put the decision in context...

Two weekends ago I promised myself I would make a decision on which house share to go for based on the six places I had viewed. I was anxious to move out of hotels and get the matter sorted out - not least because at this stage I didn't have a job and wanted some kind of security.

My first choice was an apartment in Potts Point. It was my first choice because not only was it a great home, it was ten minutes from the city, Oxford Street and everything else. I could walk to wherever I wanted to be, more or less. In my mind it was my first choice when I came to meet you and Joel that Saturday in Newtown, but I still wanted to meet you guys before deciding finally.

I'm not just saying this, but you guys were by far and away the soundest people I had met to share with. The house also sounded great (it is!) and so I was genuinely very interested.

The next day I still had not heard back from the guy in Potts Point as he was still showing it to other people. It was also the day before my job interview, and I guess I was a bit on edge. I craved the stability that would come from a home and a job so I could relax and enjoy life living in Sydney. So, in the evening I rang you and accepted the room.

The next day after my interview, I had a message from the guy in Potts Point - the room in his apartment was mine if I wanted it. For the rest of the day I went round and round in my head about what to do. The place in Potts Point was my first choice, but I had accepted the room in Chatswood and I didn't want to go back on my word. This sounds silly now, but I really didn't want to let you guys down after saying yes. I was also convincing myself that Chatswood was the best option, that it would give me the space and environment to chill out away from city life that I so craved in London.

When I moved into the house, my emotions were mixed. The place is absolutely amazing, but I just didn't feel comfortable in Chatswood itself. It just isn't 'me'.

I should stress that there is no problem whatsoever with you, Joel and Margo. None at all. I do feel, however, that a more 'settled' person would be better for you to live with. I don't know how long I'm going to be in Australia - I certainly can't afford to start buying lots of furniture that I would ahve to leave behind when I do eventually go. This may sound convenient, but i just feel it would be better for you guys to have somebody there who could make a better contribution towards making it a home.

The time I spent in Byron gave me the opportunity to make the decision. By co-incidence, I received a text message from the guy in Potts Point on Friday asking how I was getting on. I mentioned that I felt Chatswood was not for me and that I had made a mistake. He replied that the room at his place was still available. We met for a drink yesterday, talked about it, and I agreed to move in.

I am so very, very sorry to have mucked you around like this. It goes without saying that I should have accepted the Potts Point apartment before moving my stuff into your place. I hope you appreciate that one of the reasons I didn't was because I was reluctant to let you guys down - even though I have now ended up doing precisely that.

I can't afford to spend the reminder of my time in Sydney regretting things - which is what I would have done every day I walked up the hill to Chatswood station and stood on a crammed train into the city, or every time I had to get a cab home from a night out. All the time I would have remembered that I could have been living within walking distance of everything had I not made the decision to live in Chatswood.

Anyway, I will doubtless discuss all of this further when I get home later. It goes without saying i will do anyhing I can to help you find a replacement.

Matt

Time to pack my things up again...

Back to life, back to reality...

2007-02-25T17:26:00.000+10:00

Pictures like the one above are now officially a thing of the past. For at least the next few months. Bugger.

Yes, after five whole weeks - five glorious weeks - of not working, and not really doing anything of any note, it has to end. Tomorrow (Monday) I start work with the NSW Fire Brigade press office. I have my own tax code, employee number and all the other mundane crap associated with having to work. The holiday is over. I am no longer a tourist in Sydney. I have a home here, a job, a bank account etc etc etc...

It would be out of character for me to not whinge about having to work. Truth be told, I made the decision to make this trip more of a living abroad - as opposed to travelling abroad - experience. I am intrigued about what will confront me when I start work here tomorrow, how I will feel on a day to day basis - how that will compare to back home, how it will compare to when I first got to Australia a month ago...

Right. Tonight I will be sensible and prepare myself for tomorrow. Who knows what will happen if this job goes well? Time to iron the shirt and trousers (hopefully within a few weeks I can dispense with these) and remind myself not to burp in the office or use four letter swear words.

Oh, and best not to think too much about the fact you're about to move out of the house you've just moved into, and how this may upset the people you're living with. Let's leave that until tomorrow...

vgbvjkbgvu

2007-02-23T21:06:00.000+10:00

My stay in Byron Bay is a very pleasant experience. I am awoken every morning by my neighbours on the lake island - sometimes that's birds singing, on other occasions it's a chav bellowing some kind of bollocks like 'Come on Steve, let's get by that fucking pool!'

I do little of any great note while I'm here other than enjoy the surroundings, eat lots of nice food and read books. Oh I may have had the odd cheeky beer or two as well.

Byron is near the border with Queensland and roughly 750km north of Sydney. It's still in New South Wales, but this is a very different part of Australia to the sprawling suburbs of the state capital.

On Thursday I hired a car and drove up the coast a bit further. Some of the beaches are jaw droppingly gorgeous. It's funny in a way, I was sightly worried the sight of another stunning stretch of golden sand might start to wear off after a bit. It is true that these sights do mean more when you're on a two week holiday, when you can sense how the moment is only temporary and how good it feels to contrast it with the banality of home. But I'm still loving it...

I also drive up to Brisbane, Australia's third largest city with a population of 1.5 million. I don't know if it was the fact this place has a suburb called Ipswich that put me off, or just that cities are cities at the end of the day, but I effectively get there and then go again. I'm sure it has a lot to offer, a lot to see and all the rest of it, but to me it just seems like a scaled down version of Sydney as a drive through. Sydneysiders are also very down on Brisbane as a place, although mind you they are down on every other major Australian city in comparison to their own.

Part of the reason for my attitude is that I don't have much time to spare there, another is that I arrive in a bit of a funny mood. I didn't really meet anybody in Byron to have a drink with etc, and a few days of not having conversations with anybody other than to buy stuff can send you a bit loopy.

Although Byron is very much an archetypal traveller town, there is a different atmosphere here to what I have experienced in similar places in Asia. For example, when I was in Goa last year it was almost a physical impossibility to go out and not have someone strike up a conversation and invite you to join them for a drink. There does not appear to be much of that in Byron. Just lots of locals and my fellow countrymen getting very drunk, and saying over and over again how very drunk they are. And how very drunk they were last night.

There is still an extremely relaxed and friendly vibe oozing through the place, however, and I can see myself coming back here again.

Bernard or Byron?

2007-02-20T13:26:00.000+10:00

It's the final week of freedom (for a while) before I start work, so I'm away from Syders and up to the East Coast at the beautiful resort of Byron Bay.

It's something of a relief to escape the city for a while, to be frank. Byron is a renowned idyllic retreat, popular with backpackers, older holidaymakers and locals. The beach is stunning and there are plenty of shops, restaurants and bars to entertain without it ever giving the feel of being busy.

I am staying at the Arts Factory Lodge - http://www.artsfactory.com.au/ - which I guess you could describe as typically untypical. Facilities include a buddha garden, recording studios, hot tubs, spas and a cinema. Accommodation includes anything from dorms to tepees, indeed I am staying in a tent on an island in the middle of a lake. Although this sounds primitive and, er, it is I suppose, I still have my own double bed and basic enough facilities to make this very comfortable. The perfect chill out retreat.

Most of the crowd staying here are young British travellers. You just can't escape them! Well, you can, but they just seem to have this habit of visiting the best places to go...

The sight of so many early 20s backpackers, many of whom on a gap year after finishing uni, makes me think back to when I had the opportunity to do the same thing, but ended up working opposite a turkey slaughter house. You did just read that correctly.

Wind back to the summer of 1999, and when I graduated with a 2:1 in History and Politics from the University of London. I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do next. None whatsoever. I had applied for a graduate management position with a Felixstowe haulage company, but only because it involved periods of living in Holland and Italy.

The desire to spend time abroad was with me back then. It would have been the perfect excuse to use some savings I had (gained through inheritance payments) to see the world. Unfortunately I wasn't that well travelled, I certainly hadn't been abroad alone, and I was just too daunted . Nobody I knew was heading off backpacking - well, at least nobody I wanted to travel with anyway. I just didn't have the resolve to do it. Plus, what if the mighty City won promotion to the Premier League and I missed it? (That was a serious consideration. No joke)

I was also hacked off with being skint. By the end of my final year, I had to borrow money so I could put petrol in my car and drive my stuff back up home. All my friends who had jobs wore better clothes - I hadn't bought a new shirt for months and looked like a skank. They would snap up the latest albums released, whilst I had to make do with the same CDs I'd been listening to for years.

All I wanted was enough money for a night out. I just couldn't handle scrounging off family and friends for a minute longer. The first thing I did therefore was to switch this scrounging to the state, and sign on. My parents were distinctly unimpressed with me during this period. Part of it was down to the fact I didn't want to be back living with them - they used to shout about the way I stacked the fucking dishwasher - but part of it was down to the fact I wasn't really doing anything. Things reached a particularly low point when I spent an entire week's dole money in one afternoon on the piss in Norwich. It didn't help that when I turned up at Mum's work to get a lift home, I was passed out on the floor next to her car.

The problem was not that I was naturally a benefit scrounging alcoholic, it was that I did not know what I wanted to do career wise. I put off making the decision whilst at uni, consoling myself that I'd work it out at some point, by which time I'd have a degree and everything would be fine.

I quickly discovered that an arts degree on its own is practically worthless. It has to be backed up with some kind of experience in the field you are looking to enter, whether that be additional qualifications, unpaid work experience and so on. I had spent my summers between uni terms mainly working for my Dad, who would pay me a fiver an hour to strip old fire extinguishers of stickers and sand them down. It was a piss easy job - and life. He was never in the workshop. I would get up at 9.30 every day, drive to North Walsham, do about three hours' work (claiming for five), listen to Radio One and eat sandwiches whilst 'working', and then drive home again. By the end of the week I had more than enough money, but ultimately nothing that would benefit me in the long-term.

My first job after uni was temping for Norfolk County Council. It was dull, but I was taking home roughly 200 quid a week and not paying any rent, so I was better off than I had ever been. Having cash to go out, eat in restaurants (something I only ever did previously on special occasions), buy clothes and watch lots of Norwich games seemed to vindicate my feeling at the time that all I needed was a fairly well paid job, and everything else would follow from that.

For some reason, I certainly can't remember why, I decided originally on Marketing as my chosen career path. I don't think I even really understood what it entailed. That might go some way to explaining why, when I wrote off to every marketing company in Norfolk asking for at the very least some work experience, nobody offered me anything. Helps if you can market yourself if you want to get into marketing.

Meanwhile, I was busy applying for any other job that would pay me in the region of 20K a year. I thank God none of these 'opportunities' ever came to fruition and I cringe about what could have been. Jobs I was interviewed for included a recruitment consultant position based in Slough, and a place on a car rental firm's graduate management scheme. In Newmarket.

However the piece de resistance of crap jobs and narrow misses has to be my experience working for the king of the turkey farms - Bernard Matthews. I enquired - and this is fucking difficult to type, trust me - about the possibility of a position within the company's Marketing department. Yes. I asked if I could help spread the word of the turkey twizzler worldwide. Unfortunately (!), there were no jobs available, and instead I was offered a temporary job working in their purchasing department.

The job basically involved buying equipment from suppliers needed to maintain all the turkey farms Bernie owned, supposedly at the best price. I wasn't very good at it. I don't know if it was my lack of motivation, or the fact I regularly used to go out clubbing in the evenings and crawl in after about three hours' sleep, but I never took to this role. One of the farms I bought equipment for was Holton, where there was an outbreak of bird flu a few weeks ago. It would be somewhat ironic if the virus spread because of dodgy insulation caused by me buying the wrong equipment eight years ago...

Eventually I decided on journalism as my career path. I had been put off the idea because of the low wages new entrants 'enjoy' in this profession, and because I would have to return to college for around six months to gain a specialist qualification. All of this was preferable to life with fat Bernie the turkey man.

Eventually I resigned from BM, even though I didn't have another job to go to. It was when I pulled people in clubs and had to answer the 'where do you work?' question that I had to jack this little number in. People would actually laugh.

By September 2000 and the time of my departure to Sheffield to undertake a journalism course, I was desperate to get away. It had been an awful year work wise, a combination of data input for the council and looking out the window at the sight of a turkey getting its throat slit. I also performed the whole 'coming out' gig during this time to friends and family, so it had not been without its emotional difficulties either.

If you are still reading this, you may be wondering why I've just taken this trip down memory lane. The reason is that I am debating with myself whether I would have sorted out my career direction and personal life had I spent the year travelling. I know from my time in Australia that it is very easy to dodge the difficult stuff when you are in this kind of environment. Why torture yourself with boring stuff when there's beer to drink, a sea to swim in and a good book to read?

As I have said, sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better. Who knows? Maybe Bernard was better for me all those years ago than Byron Bay would have been...

I've just realised what I said. You are a twat, Matt...

Oh, such a cute little doggie...

2007-02-20T12:58:00.000+10:00

Am awoken in the middle of the night by a text from Mum - Norwich lost 4-0 at Chelsea, despite having played quite well. Not really anything in that message to get excited about one way or the other really, and I fall back asleep.

Today (Sunday) is 'Fair Day', another part of the Sydney Mardi Gras celebrations. It is nothing more than a few stands, food outlets, couple of beer tents and a main stage offering pretty uninspiring entertainment. Still, it's a sunny day in the park and so well worth popping along to. I am struck by the amount of locals who are obsessed with keeping themselves in the shade, desperately trying to avoid the sun. Struck because it isn't even that hot - 26 degrees max. Maybe they're taking heed from the official Mardi Gras web site, which advises sensible exposure to the sun and warns against attendees ending up "looking like a Christmas Pommie on Bondi Beach". It's always refreshing to see the organisers of a festival with equality supposedly at its core resort to racial bigotry :)

A big feature of 'Fair Day' are the various dog competitions, not to mention the desperate attempts of various animal charities like 'rescueapuppy.com' to get gullible gay couples to leave the event with a new addition to the home. Owning small dogs is another aspect of gay life I don't seem to be able to get. I mean, call me old fashioned, but whatever happened to just fancying members of the same sex and leaving at that?!

Movin', just keep movin'...

2007-02-17T15:49:00.000+10:00

Today I finally move out of the whore ridden Kings Cross area and move my stuff up to the new abode in Chatswood.

I also take advantage of next week being my last of freedom for a while and book a flight up the east coast to Byron Bay, where I will stay for five days. This is renowned for being one of the main sun/fun seeking traveller destinations, and has won rave reviews. In other words it will be full of 21-year-old beered up British boys, along with boring couples 'doing the whole travel thing' before they get married and generally being annoying. Without wanting to launch into another tirade, I have to say I find it easier to get on with the locals than my compatriots. I recall not long after I arrived a conversation I had in a bar with a 19-year-old lad from Northampton (no I was not and no I did not, by the way). I asked him his thoughts on Australia...

"Yeah, the weather's wicked mate. Bit hot though. There is one area where the Aussies really fall down though."

"Where's that?"

"Well, there ain't that many McDonalds out here, are there?"

"Well, they have got them and other places like them," I retort in a slightly disconcerted voice.

"I know, but I don't like having to walk so far when I've got me Big Mac fix, man."

For the record, young Glenn is a trainee chef back in England.

Anyway, I'm afraid to say that those who were hoping I would face financial flagellation after the incident with the car yesterday (where I nearly sent the fucker tumbling down a valley) will be disappointed. The young Italian guy from Budget who inspected the car didn't see the scratches and so I got away with it. Hehehe. Perhaps he fancied me and just ignored them in a desperate bid to win my heart...

Or perhaps not.

My beloved Norwich City are in action today against Ch***ea in the FA Cup. As I type this it is 5pm here, but it will only be 6am at home. We're taking 6,000 fans down, including a fair smattering of my family and friends. It does feel slightly odd not to be part of the pre-match build/piss up as normal and the general banter (notice I talk of the socialising element of it all and not about watching the game).

Anyway, I'll get Mum to text me the score. Who knows? At 4am here I could hear of a famous upset and run naked through the Bush singing On the Ball City...

What goes up...?

2007-02-16T20:19:00.000+10:00

There are a lot of people who subscribe to the school of thought that things have got to get a lot worse before they can get a lot better.

I am one of them. This time last year I was deeply unhappy, a relatively new job was not going very well at all. I wanted out. I told everyone that - even my boss. I wanted a new direction, but didn't know where to turn. I was fed up with London, wanted to go somewhere else but didn't know where to fling to.

In the end, I stuck with it, not least because I knew that for every bad hand that is dealt, a better one more often than not soon follows.

And so it transpired. The sunshine of Australia, a new job, a new home, new friends, new opportunities - even a renaissance from the bloody cricket team. I suppose things had to turn back to the worse at some point...

Ok. Maybe I've built this up so you're expecting disaster stories now. That isn't the case. Ish. But, erm, things have been a bit difficult for the last few days.

My camera, bought a few weeks ago in Tokyo, is now officially buggered. I have no idea why. There is a picture at the top of this post, but it was taken two weeks ago. Bugger. Pictures do make a holiday, career break and even nowadays a blog. So this is a bugger. Bugger.

I was due to be paid again this week by the LGA for outstanding work/holiday. I was. Only it was a thousand quid less than I budgeted for. Buggery. Without lube.

Given that I start gainful employment from Feb 26, I have decided to use my spare time between now and then to do some interesting stuff outside of Sydney. So I'm booked to fly up to Byron Bay near Queensland on Monday for five days, where it is very sunny and the nightlife is described as amazing. Nice buggery. Maybe with some poppers.

I decided in the meantime to hire a car for three days and explore the area around Sydney, and also to help with my move into the new house on Saturday. On Thursday I drove up to Sydney's northern beaches, including Palm Beach - where they film Home and Away. I was always a Neighbours fan aged 11-14, so it didn't bring back much childhood resonance. And the camera was buggered so I couldn't take any buggering pictures. Of anything.

On my way back I stopped off at the new home to meet with my new house mates, pay deposits and general dreary nonsense. The house is truly amazing - we have rooms that we have no use for. Hell, we even have a wine cellar!

We also have spiders. Big fucking spiders. And I don't mean the kind that you used to see crawl unexpectedly out of the video recorder when you were eight tears old. I'm talking large, strange looking fuckers that make an Englishman very scared indeed.

It's ok. The one's in the house are harmless. They're big, but they couldn't harm a butterfly. No, it's the ones that live in our garden that are my personal cause for alarm...

Have you ever heard of the Funnel Web spider? For those of you who have not, here's what the Time Out guide to Sydney has to say: "It is a nasty, aggressive creature native to the Sydney bush. Reddish-brown and hairy, it lives in holes in the ground. If bitten, apply pressure and immobilise the wounded area, using a splint if possible, and get to hospital immediately."

I spend the entire night having nightmares. There are killers in my garden. Fuck me, I might as well have bunked up in a house share with Ian Huntley and that bloke who strangled the hookers in Ips***...

In the morning I compose myself. All this worrying is silly. Everything is fine. There are no spiders here. I decide to deal with this moment in true 21st Century British fashion - by going to IKEA to buy some furniture.

I need a bed. One I can snuggle up in and er er GET RAVAGED TO DEATH IN BY A SPIDER ... FUCKING STOP IT MATT!

It's pointless buying a proper bed as I'm only here until July, so I buy a cheap sofa bed that I can also fit in the car. As it takes up a lot of room in the car, I decide to drop it off at the house today (Friday) before we all move in properly tomorrow (Saturday).

The road leading to our house is as steep as anything I have ever seen in my entire life. You practically need fucking ski's to get down it. It is a struggle walking, let alone driving.

No worries. All I need to do is keep the wheel straight, go down gently and then unload the stuff at the bottom. What could be simpler?

Within two minutes, the back end of the car is lodged half way inside a forest and half on the drive, I'm sweating like a paedophile in a nursery - desperately applying the handbrake to prevent it tumbling into a valley and eliminating several breeds of species (fuck, could have done for the spiders...)

I steady the car. Ok, let's get the heavy bed out of the car and remove some weight. It can be pushed down the slope in its box, of course!

All the contents of the car is removed, locked in the house and ok. I then go back up to the car. It is perched on the slop like a piece of ice about to fall off a mountain (or something like that) and I'm shitting myself. Oh, it's also 32 degrees, humid and my paranoia about spiders is coming back.

Only one thing for it - get in the car, perform a perfect set off with loads of revs and perfect handbrake control. You'll be up that slop in no time.

Within 30 seconds the area was resembling a scene from the Dukes of Hazard, with smoke booming from all parts of the car and it going, erm, precisely nowhere. Fearful of some unfamiliar smells and smoke, I retreat to the house. Let it cool down and try again in a few minutes.

After a while, I go back up to the car. Should I try again? Or should I call for help? Will I - most importantly - have to pay the $2,750 excess with the hire company if I fuck it up?

True to form, I bottle it and ask one of my new neighbours to help me. They've got steep drives too and must be used to this...

"You want me to drive it? Well, I could, but it's your car and i don't want to be held responsible," says the old looking guy from next door.

"You'll do a better job than I've been doing," I meekly retort.

"Ok..."

Within two seconds he crashes into the barrier with an almighty thud, smoke bellows all over the place, before he eventually pulls the bugger to blighty. I survey the damage - he's left two small scratches, but most of it is mud.

"I've scratched your car, but it was your bloody fault. You shouldn't have got so close to the barrier!"

Thanks. For that. Cunt.

Let's find out tomorrow what those lovely people at Budget Car Rental - and if you're reading this guys, I really do love you - think of all this...

And the winner is...

2007-02-14T14:34:00.000+10:00

A decision has been made. I am moving to Chatswood in the north of Sydney with my new house mates Josh, Joel and Margo.

This rather remote location was an outside bet at the start of the search. In footballing terms it was Reading - not fancied to begin with, but able to win you over with impressive quality . I plumped for this home because it is very, very nice and the people I will be living with are extremely friendly. The one thing that was deterring me was the location - 15 minute train journey to the city - when other places were within walking distance of the jobs, shops and bars. Still, you don't get many inner city homes backing onto a protected nature reserve like this one does...

I was also won over to Chatswood by an old argument I have used for years in debates with people about which is the superior place to live in East Anglia. Proponents of Ipswich or Cambridge over Norwich always point to superior transport links and closer proximity to London, which has always struck me as being a rather perverse argument to make. How can the ease with which you can leave a place - to go somewhere else completely different - be viewed as one of its attributes? If it's so fucking good, why leave?

Anyway, in the house hunting stakes in Sydney world what I am basically saying is that I decided a home had to be more than what it was close to. A decent home with decent people are ultimately what matters more than being able to stagger back home from a low rent night out with a low rent one night stand.

God. I am almost starting to sound vaguely mature. Oh, on the subject of which, I got the job! I start with the NSW Fire Brigade on Feb 26, which allows a bit more time for generally being rather immature before the serious stuff starts.

It was a big relief to get the job - and something of a surprise to beat off competition from six Aussies for it. Whilst I was waiting to hear if I had got it on Monday and Tuesday (which co-incided with the first spell of indifferent weather there has been here since I arrived) I did start to worry a bit. What if my experience gained in the UK was always going to be outweighed by local knowledge and contacts? Would I have to spend every bloody day in internet cafes or employment agencies looking for work?

There were other short term consequences. If I didn't get it, the search would have to be stepped up for work. If I did get it, not only would the security be there, but it would also leave nearly two weeks to travel around and see more of the country. Mountain drives or boat trips to desert islands, anyone?

Fortunately I can now plan these very trips until the shirt and tie has to come out again. Oh, and before I forget, England defied the odds to win the one day series against Australia. Watching and reading the astonished Aussie pundits give credit to the 'resurgent poms' has been very edifying indeed.

"Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a serious lack of imagination" - Oscar Wilde

2007-02-10T17:58:00.000+10:00

Developments are afoot in Matty boy's search for gainful employment and (oh why) a place to stay (make my day).

I have an interview on Monday to be a Public Information Officer (that's a press officer to you and me) for the New South Wales Fire Brigade in Central Sydney. This came a bit out of the blue, I was putting the job hunting on hold until the house hunting was over, but one e-mail to a specialist communications agency resulted in an instant phone call inviting me to meet them the next day. After a ten minute interview they lined me up with this interview. Sweet Jesus, if I do get this job it will have involved the minimum of effort. Looking at the job spec, I'm qualified for it, so there is every reason to be confident. It sounds interesting - particularly the crisis media management in the event of major disasters like bush fires - and I decide to dedicate my entire Sunday to swotting up on the interview. This does mean non attendance at the Sydney Cricket Ground as a resurgent England look to clinch the one-day series against the Aussies, but the only tickets left are expensive and it is forecast to rain. An entire day drinking before an interview is probably not that good an idea either.

The house hunting has now become decision time making. I've seen five places, all in different places with different kinds of people from different age groups. And I can't decide. Fucking typical. The places are either with the right people in the wrong place, vice versa and so on. So, in an attempt to help me decide as much as anything else, herewith are my options:

Potential flat mate: Tony, 39, actor and waiter Location: 11th floor apartment, Double Bay (Eastern Suburbs) Plus points: Very nice flat, only place with a bed I've seen, great views of the harbour, decent location Down sides: Potential flat mate sees rent boys, is ten years older and will probably try to bum me. Apartment block is mainly frequented by retired people, as is the area itself. I'm also not allowed to bring one night stands back to the apartment Gut feeling? Not for me

Potential flat mate: Matt, 23, not really sure what he does Location: Potts Point (walking distance from the city and gay scene) Plus points: Location, location, location. Very nice flat Down sides: No bed

Gut feeling? Gorgeous flat within touching distance of everything, but will it work out?

Potential flat mate: Gavin, 36, works in film production Location: Coogee Beach Plus points: Nice flat, two minutes' walk to beach, very sound potential flat mate. Reasonable rent. Down sides: It was pissing it down with rain when I saw this place, so I didn't really get to see the benefits of beach side living. It took me ages to get there and back on the bus. No bed. Gut feeling? I fucking hate buses

Potential flat mates: Mark, 31, and Graham, 26. Both work in IT and are a couple Location: Woollstonecraft (North Sydney) Plus points: Decent sized room with en suite, cheap rent, only 10-15 minutes train ride to the city Down sides: Potential flat mates never go out and seem quite boring. They have a dog. The home is next to a train track. No bed Gut feeling? Can't see this one working, but there is nothing that 'wrong' with the place. Am I being too fussy?

Potential flat mates: Josh, 26, and Joel, 24. A couple. Both told me what they do but I've forgotten Location: Chatswood, deepest North Sydney Plus points: Very nice house, backs onto a nature reserve. Large room, wireless internet. Potential flat mates are by far the easiest to get on with that I have seen. Both like a drink Down sides: Whilst getting into the City would take less than 30 minutes (including ten minute walk to station), this is a very isolated place. I'm practically in the countryside Gut feeling? The best option in terms of people, but do I want to live this far away from the centre?

There's only one way to get that moment of clarity I need on this Saturday night - on the lash. It certainly won't happen in front of the tele here. My God, the standard of the media here in Australia is APPALLING. I have been very willing to give the Aussies credit for everything that is great about living here, but the state of the newspapers and tv stations is about as impressive as a runny dog turd. Hacks can't write for toffee and repeats of Some Mothers Do Have 'Em on Saturday night tele? Strewth...