What goes up...?

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...