Movin', just keep movin'...

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...?

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...

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.