thermo frolics

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

money, money, money?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or something like that.

One for the grandchildren...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sunshine and sickness

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

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

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'

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.