See Phil Down Under

2010-03-03T05:20:00.000+09:00

2009-08-23T19:00:00.001+09:00

The End?

2009-07-26T07:00:00.000+09:00

Return to Japan

2009-04-29T22:55:00.001+09:00

Itinerant. Inoperative. Idle.

Why has it taken me so long to write this, possibly one of the last blog entries?

Well, three reasons. First, a relocation to Lincolnshire where broadband is still considered a form of magic and is likely to get you a seat on the dunking stool. Second, my brand new Hewlett Packard PC has had the bluescreen of death, the grey screen of death and the black screen of death (red screen next, I think). Finally, idleness. I’m surprised I could even be bothered to finish this final sente…..

My adventure came to an end in Japan……..

Tokyo

Within an hour of arriving in Japan we were lost. Khaosan Hostel, Asakusa was proving elusive, and it was only when we were politely offered assistance by a friendly stranger with a pushbike, who led us right to the door of the hostel, we could begin to unwind.

Already I was being impressed by Japan all over again. When I lived here 3 years ago, I always maintained that this was an amazing country. Only Shane blighted my experience. And once again, and so soon, I was re-acquainting myself with Japanese hospitality and their apparent lack of cynicism.

The room in the hostel was not so much tiny, as scaled down, like someone had selected “View at 75%” from a drop down menu. The doors were out of Alice In Wonderland. The beds from baby bear in Goldilocks.

Similarly, the shared toilet was so cramped the doors had to be opened in a specific order, like a Rubik’s Magic, lest you trap yourself in the room, or completely take out someone innocently shuffling down the corridor.

The toilet itself was ultra hi-tech. I discovered exactly how hi-tech when I accidentally set off the automatic bidet. Whilst my eyes opened in surprise, something else closed quite rapidly

After drying myself down, we were out for something to eat. This really brought it all back to me: gaudy neon captions, mental bikers, the greeting choruses of “irasshimase”, and this time, due to a drop in temperature, facemasks.

As I ate my katsu curry among salarymen and old bearded karate masters slurping noodles, I realised I really was happy to be back.

The first few days in Tokyo passed with relative ease. Highlights included a trip to an Okonomiyaki restaurant, where Japanese pancakes are cooked on a hot plate inches in front you (a really good reason to not put your elbows on the table), and a troll round Akihabara – like Dixons, except the size of a town. Had a blast of nostalgia whilst ogling over Street Fighter 4 which is now nearly photo realistic and fully 3D. The 12 yr old me would have actually cried. Or done a wee. Or both.

Kyoto

We left Tokyo and took the Shinkansen to Kyoto. The Shinkansen is Concorde on rails. It arrives to the millisecond, and pulls up to its marker merely a few thousandths of an inch out, avoiding that typically British mass dash for the misaligned door as it zooms past.

Such is the punctuality ingrained in Japanese society, the train dawdles but for 1 or 2 minutes. Barely have you had chance to take your seat or chuck your coat on the top shelf before it pulls away. There are no flustered late arrivals – young mothers budging their way down the aisles with pushchairs and holdalls, or students with their massive rucksacks.

If Tokyo was neon and speed and technology, Kyoto was temples, geisha, sliding screen doors and ninjas. Maybe not ninjas, then. Our suitably feudal accommodation, Gojo Guesthouse, was sparsely furnished with a small, low table, paper lantern and a futon folded neatly in the corner.

A late night walk in the rain revealed Poncho-dori, an alley so narrow you could touch either side by spreading your arms akimbo. The street was lined with immaculate restaurants restored in pine and festooned with billowing white sheeting emblazoned with Japanese symbols slashed in black ink. If Poncho-dori was the river, the tiny alleys firing off at right angles were the tributaries, even narrower than the main street, and again sometimes lit by red lanterns, sometimes by the blurred colours of a chattering bar and sometimes just melting indistinctly into the dark.

The next day few days were spent touring round the triangular temples, pagodas, bonsai gardens of Nijo-jo, Ryoan-ji, Kinkak-ju and other sure fire Scrabble winners (neatly ignoring the fact that Japanese proper nouns are generally disallowed). These effectively conjured up the myths and legends of samurai, geisha, dishonoured families and waves of arrows raining down on ninjas.

However, there’s nothing more likely to bring you out of reverie than scaffolding, safety cordons and orange cones. Clearly, winter was the only time when these relics could be restored, and so the carpenters had crawled out of the woodwork to fix up feudal balustrades and even up dynastic patios. Somewhat of a blow to the temples, actually.

Hiroshima – Osaka – Koya-san

Like a giant stalking thing, the scaffolding followed us 250 miles across the country to Hiroshima. The A-Bomb Dome, the most famous building to survive the blast of the atomic bomb, is a potent symbol of both the power of the nuclear age and the resilience both of the populace and their architecture. It stood the test of time for 60 years, but on the day we went was in danger of falling down. Typical. The result was a dome festooned with the best part of 50 tonnes of metal hammered into the brickwork. Thanks for that.

The day was lightened up, however, by old man waving at us before falling off his bike. We didn’t know him.

From there we doubled back to Osaka. Grim, grey and industrial, it struck me as a faded Tokyo, but I liked it. The highlight was the Umeda Building, a futuristic Arc de Triomphe. Lift up the “left leg” to ascend, take the diagonal escalator across to the topmost crossbeam then another lift to the very top. Incidentally this is all fully rendered in Google Earth complete with those escalators and lifts.

Eager to get out of the cities, the next day we made for the countryside. The destination was Koya-san, a village located atop a misty mountain. Our commuter train left Osaka and rattled out into the countryside through increasingly rural villages, padi rice fields, tumbledown shacks, and run-down temples. Japan’s megacities may be well kempt and regulated, but the gaps in between them - the fields, the sheds, the communities - are very ramshackle.

We decamped at an anonymous Japanese town to begin the climb up the mountain. Here we boarded the funicular - a cross between a cable car and tube train. It was only when we stood staring up at an impossibly steep alpine gradient, and at the “rails” disappearing vertically into a thick pea-soup mist, we realised how remote Koya-san was. I immediately started to get edgy, feeling outside my comfort zone; there was unlikely to be a Mister Donut at the top of here.

After a gravity-defying trundle into the freezing mountain fog, we were ushered into a bus and driven round a series of hairy snaking mist-shrouded bends. I would say the drop either side was huge, but I couldn’t see anything but fog. And I didn’t look too hard anyway.

The town itself was more developed than I expected and whilst it didn’t have a Mister Donut, it did have a decent little cornershop. The hostel, whilst basic, was both immaculate and authentic, complete with batty jamjar-bespectacled husband and wife owners.

From there it was out to Oku-no-in shrine. A mind-bogglingly-large collection of Japanese graves. And the Japanese really go to town on their gravestones. Oh yes. Not content with a slab of masonry, the Japanese are more comfortable with towers of precariously-balanced rock, monolithic totems of age-old granite shaped like this #, and most ostentatious of all, and presumably for the rich families, small moss-covered pyramidal tombs, complete with picket fence and mini-garden. If the creators of The Mummy franchise fancy flogging their already-dead horse some more, this would make a great filming location.

Return To Tokyo

We left the next day for a full days travel back to Tokyo, a long drawn out schlep punctuated only by the magnificence of Mount Fuji - now most definitely on the “to do next time” list.

That night we stayed in a capsule hotel. At the time this was considered to be a “good idea”. However, after 6 hours of (admittedly good quality) train travel it was rapidly beginning to look like a “bad idea”. Really, it was a colossal faff involving chaining up of luggage, the wearing of compulsory robe and slippers and scrabbling around in a baking hot plastic rectangle. Ideal if you’re a businessman who has missed his train. Not good if you’re a tourist with 43 rucksacks. And I had to shower in front of a load of blokes. Louise got her own cubicle. Typical.

We relocated to a posh hotel for our final few days in Tokyo and decided to take a day excursion to Yokohama. Yokohama didn’t make a good first impression. Like an emptier Singapore, cereal-box architecture and sparse city planning rendered the city rather cold. Even the giant ferris wheel couldn’t enliven the view. But that all changed once we had ascended the Landmark Tower to the observation deck. The tallest tower in all of Japan commanded fantastic views over all of Yokohama, taking in Fuji and, on the horizon, Tokyo itself.

As the sun set over the Eastern seaboard, I said goodbye to the finest country on Planet Earth.

North Island Photos

2009-02-04T12:12:00.003+09:00

Mt Taranaki

Mt Ruapehu

Waimangu Volcanic Valley

Top of Mt Maunganui

North Island: The Short Version

2009-02-04T11:53:00.004+09:00

I could really go into detail here. I mean I really could.

I could tell you what colour shirt the man who served me the Raspberry and White Chocolate ice cream at the Bee Farm was wearing. Or how in Pakiri we took a wrong turn right but later found out that the right turn was wrong and the only turn left (left) was right. Or how we got Mangawhai (a village) mixed up with Waimangu (a volcanic park) which we confused with Wanganui (a town) because it sounded like Maunganui (a mountain).

But that would take ages. So I’m attempting to condense the whole of the North Island into tasty, bite-sized nuggets. Like the ones at MacDonald’s. Only these won’t give you the shits.

Barbecue sauce, please.

Palmerstone North – like Stafford but hotter. Visited biggest windfarm in Southern Hemisphere. Very striking visually but pity you need about 7,000 of them to replace one coal–fired powerstation. Biggest windmill went like this “vummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm”.

Hawera – accommodation in remote farmhouse. Took wrong turning at the entrance and ended up the middle of a field, banging my exhaust all the way down the gravel track. Owner made me do the “vummmmmmmmmmmm” noise, and then laughed at me for actually agreeing to do it. Great views of Taranaki. Nutcase pensioner in the next hut accused me of stealing jobs off Kiwis, and made a point of the fact he would only travel by horse, adding vociferously: “I’ve got more rights than someone in a car. If you run into me, you better have a lot of money!”. Codgerama!

New Plymouth – skirted right round the circular edge of Egmont National Park. Taranaki in view all along the coast. Looks like Mt Fuji, hence why it acts as its stunt double in Hollywood films such as Last Samurai. Resplendent and snow-capped. Arrived at Seaspray House in New Plymouth. Accommodation was proof that there is a fine line between “retro” and “dated”. Room big enough to house a new CERN reactor, but bed not big enough to sleep Kenny Baker. New Plymouth like Plymouth. But new. And nicer.

National Park – Travelled along the Forgotten Highway. Realised after 6 hours of winding road, some of it gravel, exactly why people would like to forget it. Called in at Republic of Whangamomona, a self-declared republic in the heart of NZ due to a loophole in a boundary dispute. Offered to stamp our passport. I refused, as really wouldn’t want to have to explain that one to Homeland Security if I ever visit the States again (they might think that Whangamomona was a rogue Islamic State)

Arrived at National Park. Declined to do Tongariro Crossing on account of soaring temperatures, a ban on jeans, and it being an 8-hour hike. Went up Ruapehu instead. Great views. Boiling at the bottom, but still snow at the top.

Taupo – visited Craters of the Moon, eggy volcanic holes in the floor. Didn’t really see much of the lake. Not sure how we managed that. Got kept awake by the hostel managers in next room. Had to tell them to keep it down.

Rotorua – posh B&B courtesy of my M&D. Proper bedspread and towels and everything. Was embarrassed to put my rucksack down. Cookies and lemonade on arrival. They don’t do that at hostels. Great hosts. Out to Rotorua gondola. Had a go on wooden luge. Lou miffed that I came over all competitive and kept trying to overtake her, so got wise and wouldn’t let me pass. Into town to Fat Dog, café with the biggest portions ever. Bloke on next table ordered ribs, couldn’t actually see him after his food arrived. It was like meat-based “Jenga”. Met up with Ivan from Drum. Had a chat. Felt the urge to get back to work.

Went to Waimangu Volcanic Park. Just like Jurassic Park. Best thing I did on the North Island. Steaming craters, ancient flora and fauna, bubbling swamps. Didn’t see Fred Flintstone. He was probably at the quarry. Got bit by something big with jaws and legs and wings. Right on my eyebrow. Was afraid a T-Rex might hatch out of my eye in the morning.

Maori cultural performance next day at Te Puia. Fully immersive Maori experience featuring song, costume and weaponry. Pretty good, but illusion shattered by burly security guard collecting tickets, dressed like he’d just come off the night shift at Blockbuster Video, and one of the grass-skirted women on-stage having a chat in English with someone just off-stage whilst the rest of the performers stomped their way through the Haka. Tsk!

Maunganui/Tauranga – went to beach, went up mountain. Had ice cream. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Tairua – woman who ran hostel never heard of me. Didn’t surprise me as she was rude and uncooperative on the phone when I booked it, way back in Wellington. Ended up in much better hostel anyway. Lovely town, deserted and idyllic. Great views from Mt Paku, a mini-Sugar Loaf Mountain.

Coromandel Town – Dug a trench in Hot Water Beach and sat in the hot water for a bit. Called at Cathedral Cove and travelled across to Coromandel Town. Knew woman in hostel was from Mansfield when she said: “I’ll show you yer room, duck”

Went on little train ride up a mountain next day. Great view from Eyeful Tower at the top.

Thames – Just a stop off. Nowt happened here.

Auckland – Flying visit. Caught up with Claire from Pink House

Mangawhai – Traffic Jam all the way up. New toll road opened that day, but was free first weekend so was swamped with traffic. Took 1½ hours to do about 15km. Went horseriding in Pakiri. Poor instruction and lax trainers. Didn’t feel in control of horse for the entire hour. Don’t think horse liked me either. Horses got spooked in the last 50 yards, scattered and bolted. I nearly went into a tree. Lou got thrown into a bush. Purple ribs next day. Not good.

Paihia – Excellent visit to Waitangi Treaty ground. Enjoyed it more than Maori cultural evening. Much more informative. Next day booked boat trip. Cloudy, and boat replaced at the last minute. Disappointing.

Kaihu – Visit the mighty Kaori forest. Biiig trees. Would make a hell of a lot matchsticks. Farmstay owner looked like a washed-up Santa and was surly and off his trolley. Thought we were trying to steal his beer, when really we were only looking for another fridge, as the one in the kitchen had mould in it. Went on a night-time excursion hunting for glow-worms. Eerie.

Auckland – all done

Not many more entries to go I fear, but hopefully two weeks in Japan, where it all started, will give me plenty to write about.

Sayounara

Phil-san

Wellington. And on. And on.

2009-01-05T08:55:00.008+09:00

Derek Smith had non-specific urethritis.

When he passed water, it was like a wasp up the pipe. A course of fluxocillin would be the best option, I concluded.

Hang on. How did I know this? And what was I doing wandering through labyrinthine shelving , stacked to toppling point with fusty, dusty manilla folders, holding the results of Derek's urine sample with one hand and looking for his medical notes with the other eye.

Hmmm.....I should start at the beginning, really, shouldn't I?

(Rentaghost-style wobbly flashback sequence)

1.Windy Wellington - Living There Not A Breeze

Wellington is a great city: vibrant, arty and modern, with a sunny, airy disposition and well-designed waterfront. By rights, it should have been a breeze living here. But for a number of reasons, Wellington has been a struggle from day one.

First, there was the apalling hostels: Worldwide with its compulsory noise policy. Then Rowena's with its compulsory nutcase policy. Then there was the difficulty in securing employment: blank-eyed, I-Bought-My-Suit-At-River-Island, twentysomething recruitment consultants who would gladly parry you into a job cleaning baboons' arses at the zoo if it meant getting you off their back. And, of course, collecting their 10%.

After 6 weeks, we finally thought we were making headway: we'd managed to secure a flat above a corner shop in the centre of town; we'd established a circle of friends whom we saw regularly for the pub quiz; I'd finally got a job in Wellington Hospital's Medical Records Department, marrying up Derek Smith's urine test with his medical records.

Hey, it was all I could get - the recession was biting and cash-strapped ad agencies in Wellington are only ever about 12 people strong (as opposed to PHD which has close to 250) and thus had little room for some chancer from the Midlands turning up on spec. Nevertheless it was a job.

2.Trouble and Strife

But there were more problems ahead. The day I was offered the job at the hospital, I was also offered a job at Borders, that fine purveyor of over-priced books and CDs. I opted for the hospital job as it paid better, but on starting the following Monday, was told the job was actually only 3 weeks long. As the beardy immortal Knight at the end of Indiana Jones & The Last Crusade says: "You have chosen.......poorly"

So, I'd ended up a mind-numbing job and, overall, less money to show for it. My equally un-chuffed partner in crime was Kevin, who had just finished his Masters In Clinical Microbiology at Nottingham University. And so day after day, two post-graduates sat sifting through records detailing ulcerated colons, drunken domestic punch-ups, MRSA and endoscopies, and moving them from one place to another. Both our MAs being put to good use there, then.

As if that wasn't enough, it was around this time too, Louise and I became potentially homeless. We'd taken the room above the shop on the basis that a gap a between one absent flatmate returning, and one currently present now leaving, was such that a simple room swap would allow us to continue living there. So when that gap altered in such a way that there was more people than rooms, we started feverishly casting about looking for new accommodation.

And so whilst I shoved a piece of paper detailing Mrs Williams's rectal anomaly into a space on the Meccano shelving unit, and balanced on a rickety kickstool, I contemplated what it would be like to have a place to live, and I also what it would have been like to work at Borders.

Yes, a book shop would have been nice: an intellectual environment, surrounded by people drinking coffee, exchanging ideas. Just like Paris in the 1930s.

Actually, I was find out how far from the reality this idle notion was.

3.Borders

I recontacted Borders the day I found out about my curtailed contract at the hospital. Thankfully, I was welcomed back like the Prodigal Son, and I agreed to start a few days after I'd finished in Medical Records.

Borders was not the crucible of creativity and education I was hoping for, however. In fact, the most important thing I learned was that customers are arseholes. Oh sure, 90% of them are polite and cheery enough. Unfortunately, it's the other 10% who leave a lasting impression - forever seared into your consciousness, like the blast of a flashbulb on your retina.

Bad Borders customers can be broadly categorised three ways. These three categories overlap like a Venn Diagram, meaning if you're really unlucky you'll meet someone who can occupy all three categories:

i) the rude bastard

Someone once said "rudeness is the weak man's strength". Yes, indeed, there are some customers who feel they have inaliable right to be rude by sheer dint of the fact they are the "customer" and you are the "employee". Predominantly, these people lack social skill and have to fall back on what they see as their natural superiority to get them through the encounter.

One customer slapped his purchase down on the counter, snarling at nothing in particular and when I asked him if he required a bag, just continued to sneer and growl disdainfully, as if he was terribly affronted that I had the audacity address him directly. It was left to his wife, who peered out from behind his globulous torso, to decline the offer on his behalf, her tone carrying a subtle hint of apology.

I got off light. That same day, Todd the manager, upon enquiring whether a customer required a bag was told to "get fucked". Charming.

ii) the Hard-Done-To customer

Some assume Borders is nothing more than an unfeeling high street multinational, whose sole purpose is fleece the little man via lowdown trickery and skulduggery. Well, that may be true some of the time. But, believe it or not, it is possible for a company such as Borders to have customers' best interest at heart.

Borders charges 10c for plastic bags. I'm sorry they just do. They are so environmentally unfriendly that chain stores the world over are adopting a similar policy. Moreover, to prevent accusations of profiteering, the 10c goes to charity. But that doesn't appease some people. Oh no.
Me: Would you like a bag for 10c?

Customer: You're charging me for my bag, are you? You're selling me a bag. Is that what you're doing? What bullshit.

Me: Well, we want people to discourage people from taking a bag if it's it's not necessary.

Customer: Bullshit. You're just trying to make money out of me

Me: No, the 10c goes to charity

Customer: Yeah? Bullshit!

Me: It does.

Customer: Bullshit. That's just bullshit.

Me: Well....

Customer: Bullshit!

I can only assume that this guy lived on a farm.....

Similarly, customers are also frequently disgusted at what they see as your inflexibility. For example, our $10-off vouchers were designed to stimulate trade during the post-Xmas slump in January. Thus, stated very clearly across the top of the voucher, was: "Offer valid 1st to 31st January".

But that wasn't going to stop some haughty battle-axe from trying it on, explaining: " ... I came in your store last week and picked up one of your $10-off vouchers, but I've booked a holiday for January now, so I'd like to come in and spend it over Christmas......"

When I told her this was not possible, she exclaimed "That's not what I call customer service".
Oh, piss off, you ratbag.

Finally, I had one woman who claimed she was absolutely "horrified" that we didn't stock a particular Bernard Cornwell novel. "Horrified". Some people are horrified by the genocides in Rwanda, some by Israel's encroachment into the Gaza Strip. Not her. She was "horrified", because we didn't have a copy of Sharpe's Revenge.

iii) The Very Specific/Very Vague Customer

Some customers are completely clueless and assume you have the power of all literature at your very hands.

The Very Specific customer thinks that if they can even conceive of a book, then that very thought is enough to bring that very book into existence. And I'm the poor sod who is expected to know where to find it, regardless of whether or not it actually exists.

One customer said: "I'd like a book about China. I want it to have photos. I want it to have some writing about this particular subject. I don't want it be a travel book. I want it to be this big and cost this much"

Me: Sorry - does this book exist?

Customer: Don't know.

Another customer asked "Have you got any books on volcanoes for children?". When I searched the computer I discovered that, not only was there a book explaining how volcanoes worked, but that she actually had the copy in her hand.

"Ah yes" she responded "...but this is for 10-12 years old. I wondered if you had one ages 7-9"

I also had a woman ask for a book on "how to draw cats". Pure Little Britain. Margaret?!

Then, sadly, there's the Very Vague Customer. This is genuine:

Customer: "I've seen a book in the paper. I don't know the title or the author."

Me: Well, we have 200,000 books here. Without the title or the author, we don't really have anything to go on.....

Customer: But it's in the paper........

Amazing - if they've seen the book in the paper, why the hell didn't they take note of the author and the title. What did she think was going to happen? "I've seen a book in the paper. I don't know the title or the author." Me (grabbing the first book to hand): Is it this one? Yes that's it! Well done.

I must point out that the vast majority of customers are sound. Polite, courteous, friendly and patient. But what frustrates me is the perceived relationship between the customer and the retailer. Frankly, the customer is not "always right". In fact, not only is the customer often bang wrong , but also deserving of a slap. This of course is generally considered to be not conducive to trade, however.

Next time you're in a shop, remember to be reasonable and polite to the staff. It could be someone just like me.

Unless, of course, they've really, really ballsed up. Then let 'em have it.

The Dom Post

2008-11-11T08:28:00.002+09:00

The Wellington Dominion Post is asking for well-written travel articles, so I wrote this. No idea whether they will print it - it's difficult to know what they are looking for.

We had a quick skim through their travel section for the past two months, just to make sure we didn't duplicate, and much had already been covered: Queenstown, Nelson, Chch, Dunedin.

So I chose to write about Haast because I think it's not an obvious destination, and because I think I'd found an interesting angle. Anyway, here it is:

Haast : Magnificent Desolation

Remoteness, isolation, desolation – three things you’re unlikely to demand from a holiday, I’m guessing.

Yet for some desolation can be inspiring and romantic. And so, yes, whilst New Zealand offers its fair share of extreme sports and snow-capped vistas, it also possesses something oft overlooked: nothing. Glorious, beautiful nothing.

If you’re someone who finds the idea of being miles from anywhere appealing, of being free from tinnitus-inducing ringtones and irate motorists, of finding space, then Haast, on the West Coast, maybe for you.

Myself and my girlfriend, travellers from the UK and Ireland respectively, never intended Haast to be more than an overnight stop en-route between Wanaka and Fox, but were soon won over by its rustic charm and magnificent desolation.

Nestling unassumingly on the West Coast, Haast consists of three main hubs: Haast Township, Haast Junction, Haast Beach. With a population of 297, the majority of “Haastafarians” live in the Township, a small pocket of civilisation, where you’ll find accommodation for most budgets, restaurant bar, mini-supermarket and, just up the road, the Visitors’ Centre.

But it’s not about Haast itself – it’s about its position within that beautiful nothingness. It was only when my girlfriend and I ventured out we really began to get a sense of the surrounding environs; the emptiness, the light, the space.

Heading South, we drove along a straight road that disappearing into the vanishing point, the ocean crashing on our left, clouds of wind-swept heather to our right.
Vast banks of wetlands soon scrolled into view, no doubt hiding a multitude of species. From bird life to seal and penguin colonies, nature is everywhere in the Haast region, as evidenced by the many organised river safaris running in the area.

Within a few minutes we had arrived at Okuru Beach, a deserted fishing hamlet, and took a walk along its craggy beach, the tide not so much coming in as seeping in from obtuse angles, sweeping into strange puddles, melting and eddying around jagged ancient the rock formations. We were the only people on the beach until a local resident joined us, a bright-eyed Labrador who insisted we play fetch with him. Soon he was gone, and we were alone once again.

From there it was on to Jackson Bay, about 45 minutes from Haast, and the southern-most point on the West Coast where the road just literally, well, ceases. Passing relatively few cars on the journey, we entered the village itself with a feeling that this really was New Zealand’s ultimate cul-de-sac. Not in a bad way, though; from Farewell Spit on New Zealand’s South Island to Land’s End back in the UK, there’s something inherently appealing about going as far as you can, venturing to the very edge, and this really was a frontier of sorts.

As if to echo my sentiments, hanging from shack, a splintered wooden sign, hand-painted in greasy green paint stated, “The End Of The Road ?”. I was intrigued by the question mark as, for me, there was no doubt – we really could go no further. Actually, it felt more like the end of the world.

Jackson Bay is another fishing village of some historical significance. Originally settled in 1875, immigrants hoping to start a new life found their hopes drowned as relentless downpours destroyed their farms. Pleas to the government for assistance in building a wharf were ignored, meaning the town was soon isolated and in need of vital supplies. Today, it is a privilege to actually enjoy that sense of isolation, for it was exactly that remoteness, that desolation that was be the downfall for those early settlers. Incidentally, a road to the village was not built until the 1960s and by then, the farming communities were long gone.

The modern day Jackson Bay has fishing very much at its heart. Rusted, salt-encrusted metal contraptions sit alongside all manner of hulking, spike-adorned paraphernalia. Meanwhile, below the wooden jetty, and amongst the frolicking seals, fishing boats bob on the grey water, their pilots clad in grimy waders and gum boots , their weather-beaten faces telling more than a thousand shanties ever could.

The Cray Pot provides the centrepiece to the village: a café in a portacabin serving fish and chips, whitebait and other locally-caught seafood. Totally authentic, it’s the perfect place to sit and tell tall tales of giant squids and mermaid sightings, and its reputation is such that blackboards advertising its wares can be found along the main road nearly all the way back to Haast.

After a day of big skies, near-silence and solitude we made our way back to Haast, calling in at Haast Beach on our return. A huge swathe of shale along the line of the coast, Haast Beach was, as expected, deserted, and strewn with oceanic bric-a-brac, the only sound the blustering wind and the crashing waves.

As the Sun cast long shadows in the golden twilight, and myself and my girlfriend meandered aimlessly along, I realised that Haast provided the perfect antidote to our previous two locations, Queenstown and Wanaka. Haast was quiet time. Haast was thinking time. Haast was alone time. Haast was great.

2008-11-07T12:23:00.003+09:00

When IQ Stands For “Idiotic Questions”

For as along as I can remember I’ve been a know-it-all. I’ve always liked knowing things. Facts, figures, nuggets of information - there always seemed to be something comforting about certainty, about the reliability and solidity of the truth.

I am aware that upon hearing talk of “truth” and “facts” the undergraduate-90s-me would immediately baulk, and claim ultimately a “fact” is something someone has subjectively deemed factual, and that in reality, truth is fluid and borne out of individual perspective.

Oh shut up. Bollocks to undegraduate-90s-me, frankly. Get back to your terraced house with the hilariously ironic posters and play Resident Evil instead of writing your essay.

I think it’s important to distinguish between contentious facts which would benefit from being challenged (eg The Vietnam War was a draw), and information which it benefits no one to over-analyse:

For instance, the following are definitely true:

* The UN replaced the League of Nations
* Czechoslovakia was split in two by The Velvet Revolution
* Spongebob Squarepants lives in Bikini Bottom

….and if any doubt remains, I looked them up on Wikipedia. And that really IS the truth.

But although my ability to retain facts, on occasions, impresses people, there’s always a few who apportion less value. In addition to dubbing me Rain Man and asking “how many matches?” at inopportune moments, Eavesie would also rib me by claiming I didn’t appreciate the difference between knowledge and, well, simply knowing things. I was good at trivia, he would declare, whereas he was knowledgeable. Knowledge was useful. Trivia was not. Ironically, I refused to accept that as fact.

But whereas Mark would claim there is only use for knowledge and not for trivia, I would draw his attention to that very British of institutions: The Pub Quiz.

Where else could fellow Smart Alecs demonstrate their skill? The sportsman has his field, the motoring enthusiast has his track, the artist her gallery. The pub quiz, then, is the domain of the Smart Arse.

We Don't Need No Education! Wait, Yes We Do

Now, I’ve been in a few pub quizzes in my time, and I’ve won a few too. But I don’t think I’ve been to any quite so poorly run as The Establishment on Courtenay Place.
Seeing as we’ve set up shop in Wellington for a while, we thought it would be good to have a regular social outing, and so Louise and I set out to find a pub quiz.
A regular team soon came into being, comprising myself, Louise, Katie and Tom (both who we met at Rowena’s) and we settled on The Establishment.

However, it soon came apparent, I think, within the first 8 minutes that, given the two “quizmasters” were seemingly about 12 years old, they should have probably concentrated on mastering reading, before they considered mastering quizzing.

Not only that, but despite my thoughts on the efficacy of the “fact”, I’m sure the undergraduate-90s-me would have been able to use their quiz as Exhibit A in demonstrating his case, for it’s been a while since I’ve seen facts being used in such a cavalier fashion.

We’ve attended a few times for the unintentional entertainment value and, over the weeks, the catalogue of errors has continued to build.

Crimes include, in no particular order:

* Reading out answers to questions not even asked, eliciting a unison chorus of “ Whoa! Eh?”

* Repeating the question, only to change the question second time round. “What’s the largest stone sculpture in the world?” was changed to “What’s the largest stone structure in the world?”.

* Playing music videos on the video wall for the “Name The Song” round, only for the captioned title to appear moments later, causing the gathered throng to throw up their arms in despair.

* Secretly dropping hints to teams at their table and then having to dash back to that table to exclaimed they’ve just realised they hinted at the wrong answer

* A reading age of around 7. “Answer to number 10……the capital of North Carolina is…..er…..oh….erm…… what’s that say?…..‘Relay?’”

* And then this beauty from earlier this week. One of them reads out: “The next round is the Linked Letter round. The first letter of each answer goes to making up a name. I’ll leave it up to you whether to tell the teams that the name is a recently deceased soul star turned actor….ah ….um……don’t think I should have read that last bit out”

….and of course we worked out quite quickly that the star was Isaac Hayes, meaning we now had the first letter to every answer. Nice going boys.

I think the problem is clearly that they are considerably less smart than the teams. Not that Stephen Hawking regularly attends or anything ( I imagine he could cheat by accessing Google from his chair ,anyway), but when you’ve got a room full of people who pride themselves on knowing things, on having the facts at their disposal, I suppose you need to be on your game, These two jokers are just completely out of their depth.

And now word reaches us that, down the road, the Cambridge’s Pub Quiz has a $200 first prize. So maybe we’ll give that a go. Who knows, maybe “trivia” will prove to be useful after all.

2008-11-04T10:03:00.001+09:00

Faulty Towers

So we needed somewhere to live.

When we set off the next day in search of a new hostel, armed only with a mapful of scribbles, there was something gnawing insistently at the back of my bonce; a half-remembered thought or an idea trying to burrow to the surface. A bit like when you think: Did I leave the gas on? Or did I remember to Sky Plus Top Gear?

Speaking of burrowing, Louise had woken to find herself bitten by bedbugs in the night; a fitting send-off, I think. Double Vs flicked up to Worldwide Backpackers then. And a raspberry. I don’t know how you type a raspberry. Probably: “plbbbbbbblpblbplbpbb”

First contender for our new home: Lodge In The City - a dusty, balsawood museum of boredom with rooms straight out of a 70’s porno - 1870s that is (“Good morning Ma’am, I have come to fix your traction engine”).

Next were YHA and Wellywood, neither of whom would allow a longer term stay, and so finally, on the basis that initial examination deemed it “adequate”, we settled on Rowena’s.

Rowena’s

Over the course of the coming week, however, it became apparent that Rowena’s, too, was a nuthouse: There were huge bowls of fuzz hidden at the back of the fridge. There were ants in the kitchen. The TV room closed at 10.30 because a week previously a disagreement over the TV channel had resulted in someone being lamped.

The clientele were “unique” too, the most notable of which was “Star” the Samoan, who every night would sit at the piano (where did that come from?), turn on the radio, and start hammering enthusiastically away at random keys, as if playing along to the song.

It was clear, however, that Star had had little musical training and probably thought A Minor was someone who worked down a pit, B Major was the one in charge of the Bee Army and A Flat was what his Mum lived in

The result from the man who didn’t know one end of the piano from the other (and I suspect the difference between left and right), was a cacophonous jumble of mad, stomping, out –of-tune piano and the New Zealand Top 40. It was funny for the first 10 minutes. Then it wasn’t funny.

And then there’s Murray, the manager. Murray is a puckering sphincter of a man. A 65-year-old elephantine, hatchet-faced shitbag. A man so miserable and unhelpful he makes American Customs Officials look like The Red Cross. A man who views his guests like a boil on his cock. A man who reminds people their rent is due by accosting them with “You owe me money!”. A man who keeps the Sky remote behind reception and responds to guests requests to change the channel with “I’ve got better things to do than change the fucking channel”.

And the thing that had been knocking on the door of my brain, finally crawled in through the back window. I remembered, weeks ago and 500 miles away in the relative comfort of the Brown Kiwi, Bev had warned me that there were no decent hostels in Wellington. None.

And now I could see what she meant.

2008-11-04T07:09:00.005+09:00

Give It Some Welly

So, sadly, our South Island adventure was over. The plan was to make like Jonathan Ross and lay low for a bit.

Wellington beckoned, where we would set-up shop, restock the coffers and rest-up after a tough month of tourism. I say “tough” when, really, I suppose I mean “nice”.

Where There’s A Welly There’s A Way

Things didn’t go according to plan right from the off. We had decided to go all Phileas Fogg and use a combination of train and boat. Sadly, hot air balloon and camel were vetoed at the last minute.

We said goodbye to Louise’s friends and perfect hosts, Jye and Angie, at 6.30am, boarded the train at 7am, and by 9am we were already late. The only saving grace was that apparently the boat was late too. I bet Michael Palin didn’t have to put up with this.

After an uneventful boat journey where I was charged so much for a papercup full of chicken nuggets, I considered writing to Gordon Brown for a bailout, we drifted cheerfully into Wellington harbour.

Within an hour, we had already found our hostel, and already been disappointed. Steve, the bloke behind reception looked like he had been awake after a night at the Monster Truck Race, with his baseball cap and Castrol-stained lumberjack shirt. He charged us for our bedding, looked confused, confided in us that he “ran a Mickey Mouse operation”, and went back to looking confused again. This was the highest rating hostel in Wellington, by the way.

And he’d put us in Room 1. Room 1 is never a good room. Room 27 is a good room. Room 43 is a good room. It’s usually far away from other rooms, on a higher floor, or perhaps out back where it’s quiet. Room 1, however, is always next to something, like the reception, the kitchen or the TV room. In this case, we were slap bang in the middle of all three. And it was a Saturday night. And the rugby final was on. Not good if you’ve got up at 5am. Shit.

Put The (Wellington) Boot In

I think Steve knew I wasn’t happy. Maybe he was a people person, maybe he had a highly-attuned sense of empathy and was eternally hypersensitive to customer satisfaction. Or maybe he saw me continually re-shutting the kitchen door every 5 minutes to block out the noise and slowly twigged.

He found me in the TV room, and played it all matey. “Is it too loud?” he asked. “To be honest – yes” I said, being honest. “Oh I’m sorry” he started but then, just when I thought I had him onside, he changed tone “only I didn’t think with being in New Zealand’s most social city on the night of the rugby final, anyone would want to go to bed at 9.30”
“It’s a democracy” he added with a hurt expression “And I have to go with the majority, Phil” He added my name on the end in a passive-aggressive attempt to portray himself as the “reasonable one” – as if to say “I’m doing my best here – you’re the one who’s making hysterical demands” role.

But this wasn’t a democracy. It was more like tyranny of the majority. And we all know what majorities do. They do things like vote in George Bush. Twice. Imagine if Steve ran a pub: “Can I have a white wine please?”, “No sorry. Everyone’s getting hammered on tequila shots. I’ve got to go with the majority, Phil”

The best hostels are run so residents are free to fill their time how they wish without imposing upon each other. Steve should have been able to say: Want to spend the evening speed-reading Harry Potter? Be my guests. Want to get drunk with those other guests? Knock yourself out. Want to knock yourself out? My pleasure. Want some of my pleasure? Well I draw the line somewhere.

Democracy is also about choice. And I choose not to get hammered and watch the rugby, so can I go to bed please?

And I did get to bed eventually after a room swap and an elaborate system of sound dampening involving both my earplugs and my iPod. There wasn’t a lot of room in there when I’d done.

It was clear we had to find alternative accommodation. And so that would be our task for the next day.

Here's the Beast

2008-10-30T09:23:00.000+09:00

Life In The Freezer

2008-10-30T08:02:00.002+09:00

Stoned

Back to Christchurch, then.

We dropped the car back at the airport, surreptitiously standing right in front of the newly-formed dent in the back of the bumper where Louise had reversed the car into a wall the night before.

Standing in front of the golf ball-sized stone-chip in the windscreen, however, wasn't an option, as this would have meant splaying myself across the front of the car like a starfish. And that kind of thing just attracts attention.

Fortunately, the Antarctic Centre was only stones-throw away from the drop-off point, although by that point if anyone had have mentioned the words "throw" and "stone" to me, I wouldn't have been best pleased as the broken windscreen ended up costing me $350.

So, The Antarctic Centre then. Now I've visited a lot of museums over the years, so wandering round I felt an overwhelming sense of "same old-same old" wash over me. You see the centre succumbed to a few of the banal museum-cliches. So, cue the Fluff Freeman music pop-pickers, for here's what Museums do wrong.

What Museums Do Wrong........

10. In at 10, the misapprehension that putting things behind glass automatically makes them more interesting. To make them even more fascinating, why not shroud them in darkness, and have visitors press a chunky button to illuminate the exhibit?

"Ooh I wonder what it is" (presses button) "Oh, a sepia photo of a quarry. Wow, didn't see that coming!"

9. New entry at 9 - shonky Marks and Sparks mannequins half-heartedly dressed in appropriate/period attire like some pikey Madame Tussauds, whilst an out of work "ac-taw" hams it up via concealed speaker, opining on the subject of wiping Edward II's arse or something, with a BBC special effects LP clattering in the background like it was recorded in an airing cupboard. Grrr.

8. In at 8, walls and walls and walls of writing. No one has the time or inclination to read what amounts to a chapter of history book. If they did they'd go around nailing Simon Schama books to the wall.

7. Down from 9, it's out of date technology. Flashing LED lights, green screened monitors, chunky Acorn Electron-style keyboards all seek to reinforce the fustiness and anachronistic nature of the exhibits. Anything that looks like the set of Blake's 7 is not good.

6. In at 6, barely-audible looped VHSs, burning themselves out on a 1980s TV in a deserted corner of the museum. People always miss the start, and are not exactly compelled by the bloke with big sideboards and leather elbow patches wandering through marshland pointing, whilst Dr Who-esque primitive synthesiser music buzzes in the background.

5....er....I've run out, but you get the general idea.

The Solution

We live in the information age. The internet can provide in-depth video, audio and text for anyone interested in any subject. So the museum must provide more: They must provide true interactivity and real experience. They must provide sensation and immersion.

I'm not singling out the Antarctic Centre in particular as, in fairness, it did go someway to addressing these issues:

First the Storm Chamber. Clad in an oversized Arctic jacket, we were ushered into a freezing frieze festooned with fake snow, where the temperature was slowly lowered to -8c, before the mighty fans started up, lowering it further, through windchill, to -18c. I felt like a freezepop, but it was an experience you would have been hard pushed to recreate in a library or sat in front of your PC.

Second, the Hagglund - a Swedish-designed, double-trailered, tank-tracked exploration vehicle. The Hagglung was advertised as providing an authentic Arctic experience on specially prepared hostile terrain adjacent to the musuem.

Better Than A Volvo

Louise sat this one out, so myself and Claire (an Auckland friend who had recently relocated to Chch) clambered in. It was only after we'd bought our tickets that we saw the warning sign saying "you must be fit enough to brace for impact".

By the time I was being rammed and slammed against the pointy metal interior and by the time the vehicle was powering down pyramidial mounds of earth at breakneck speeds, creating that stomach-churning drop felt during aeroplane turbulence, and by the time I remembered I didn't like rollercoasters, or anything like a rollercoasters, and despite the Geordie drivers alarmingly calm commentary about how explorers spent 5 hours straight in this thing spanning crevasses and tipping right over on their side, and by the time we submerged door-high in ditchwater, it was too late.

I was hoping Claire's rictus grin was also one of mild panic, echoing my own "why did I think this was a good idea?" sentiment.

But despite the fact I'd just spent the last 12 minutes violently lolling my head from side to side like Stevie Wonder in a Sherman Tank, it was an experience that could not be created elsewhere. And above all it was authentic - a window in to a different world. Literally virtual reality.

And that's what I want from a museum.

Akaroaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

2008-10-07T09:27:00.003+09:00

One night in The Jailhouse and then we were off to Akaroa, a beautiful headland off the South East of Christchurch.

We checked into the deserted but homely hostel, snuck out for fish and chips, ice-cream and post-cards, and then readied ourself for the penguin safari.

Christ, that was hairy. Talk about expectation versus reality. I thought we'd just be driven to a beach, pointed at some waddling throng, and that'd be it.

This is actually what happened. A 60-year old woman turned up in a van, and then preceded to drive us up gradients so steep that only 4x4 were permitted along the path. If I'd let go of my camera it would have hit the back windscreen.

As time went by the path got narrower, the floor fell even further away, the engine note changed from a low D to a high C sharp as it struggled against the gradient, the concrete turned to chippings and everyone started to look a little bit uncomfortable and tighten their seatbelt. As if that would make a difference.

"Don't worry," said the ageing driver through her mounted mic "I've been driving along this road 30 years and I've never had an accident". Yes, I thought, but you weren't 65 for most of those 30 years.

After a 45 minutes of 45 degree ascent and then 45 degree descent along a track barely wide enough for a car, we arrived at her homestead - a remote shack in the wilderness - whereupon she ushered us out along a darkening cliff path to glimpse blue, yellow eye and white flipper penguins through binoculars. Hmmm... not exactly Attenborough. Don't think I'll ever become a twitcher.

After 30 minutes of squinting and pointing, it was back into the van for a less fraught return as, in the pitch black, I couldn't see the 200ft drops either side of the track. As Akaroa came back into sight, it was like coming to land at an airport -the Christmas lights of the town sprawling out in front of us.

Go To Jail

2008-10-07T09:00:00.003+09:00

It seemed fitting that upon arrival in Christchurch, we were met with a torrential downpour. Four weeks ago, in this very city, and fresh off the plane we had been pelted by the elements.

We made straight for our hostel, The Jailhouse, through road-spray and the smudge of brake lights. The Jailhouse, as the name suggests, is a converted jail; the structure minimally altered, the rooms preserved, the modern concessions (internet/DVD lounge) hidden away.

Naturally, the rooms are former cells: whitewashed with a high-arched ceilings and a huge cast iron door which close with a jarring clunkthunk. Look down from the gantry and you'll see a long row of of dining tables deep in the bowels of the building. "Norman Stanley Fletcher...You are an habitual criminal, who accepts arrest as an occupational hazard, and presumably accepts imprisonment in the same casual manner"

Actually, though the Jailhouse was immaculate, well-maintained and, indeed, a novelty, it was a bit depressing: Cold and functional. It was an involving experience, but ultimately I wouldn't have fancied spending too much time there.

Later as I was packing the car to leave, an Maori bloke cutting the grass wandered over. "Is it still a prison" he asked "Er...no" I replied. "Oh" he continued "Only I used to live in that house there" he said pointing to a nearby estate ".... and prisoners who had escaped used to jump into my back garden".

I recounted this story to the guy on reception as I was checking out "Oh that's nothing" he added "We sometimes get former inmates back here, asking if they can have a reminisce. They wander round going 'Aaah, I was beaten senseless by a guard just where you're standing.....them were the days'"

North Of South

2008-10-06T11:31:00.004+09:00

The next week saw us skittering across the North coast of the South Island, bouncing between towns, rarely staying anywhere for more than a night.

The Mad Mile

Motueka was first, a night's stop and up to Marahau to catch the water taxi, a deceptively fast boat which scythed through the waves and bombed and slammed along the surface of the water.
"Right,", said the driver after 15 minutes of spine-jarring, stomach-churning, slam-bangs into the water, "this stretch of water coming up is called The Mad Mile. It gets a bit choppy now". Great.

After being dumped as close as possible to the beach, and having leapt from the stern on to the sand (one woman, about to embark on a 6 hour walk, mistimed her jump and landed knee deep in the sea), we followed the Abel Tasman track for two hours from beach to beach, before having to reverse the process and, this time, wade out to the boat, floating nearby and trying desperatelty not to get stuck on the sand.

Climb Every Mountain

After another session in the water taxi, divebombing into the sea from what seemed an ever-increasing height, we were dragged to the shore by a 1920's tractor, and piled into the car ready for Takaka.

I had already mentally prepared for journey, as when I'd booked the hostel a few days previously the (Scottish) hostel manager had warned "Go steady on that hill, won't you?".

And, yes, Takaka Hill was steep. It's at times like this you wonder whether Chris Bonnington lives local and runs a taxi firm. Wishful thinking, maybe.

Tight turn after tight turn and identical hairpin after identical hairpin, I had an overwhelming sense of climbing higher and higher towards something significant. I wouldn't have been entirely surprised if the International Space Station had drifted past.

Now, as I reached the peak, the clouds were in, and soon I wasn't so much under the weather, as in it, and then above it. Solitary outhouses loomed out the mist, and road snaked away into wispy nothing.

1st gear, 2nd gear, 1st gear, 2nd gear, by now my arms and legs were getting tired: Accelerate and change up along the straight; brake and change down at the 15kph corner; full lock then accelerate away. Repeat the cycle every 30 seconds.

Suddenly the front of the car was pointing downwards; this was the descent. After another 5 minutes of vertiginous, downwards spiralling, I had reached the "other side". After the dingy ascent through crescent after crescent of hazy mist and grey drizzle, I had broken through, and there in front of me lay the greenest valley, speared by lattices of sunlight.

Spurred on by the sight, I continued to steer the car round the bends, diagonal double-back after diagonal double-back, filled an overwhelming sense of "coming into land", as I spied the main road through the base of the valley.

An amazing sight, but behind me the steady procession of drivers locked in concentration, prevented me from stopping to take a photo. And Louise was fast asleep through of this.

Takaka

After a 3 week run of great hostels, right from homeliest of homestays in Te Anau to the semi -hotel in Nelson, we were beginning to think that maybe the South Island knew nothing of the cramped room, the dodgy bed linen, the all-night raver, the apathetic hostel manager.

Ha. That changed when we arrived in Takaka. I found the hostel owner at the back, splayed out on a plastic chair, wearing a battered straw hat and smoking a fag and looking for all the world like she was on a sun-lounger in Benidorm.

She ushered me to the double room, and the moment the door swung open, I was just filled with a deflating sense of disappointment. The "room" was essentially a conservatory nailed on the front of the house, comprising 90% window (even goldfish have more privacy) and double bed wedged so tightly between the walls that to climb into bed you had to stand at the foot and scabbled on to it.

I can imagine the conversation that spawned that room: "I reckon I can get a double bed in there" says the first "You're joking. It's a conservatory, we're supposed to put whicker chairs and fit it out with Kerry Burgundy Tiles" says the second "Nope, I reckon I can do it...watch this" says the second, and then spends the afternoon taking all the paint off the room trying to shoehorn the bed in.

An early night wasn't the answer either: the staff decided to have a rave up with some French people until 3 in the morning. Brilliant.

Nelson -Blenheim -Kaikoura - Hanmer

We bolted from Takaka the next day, back over the mountain and back to Accents where we were guaranteed of a decent room. We picked up Louise's fixed lens from Peter and went out to celebrate our 1 year anniversary at a fish restaurant, The Boat Shed Cafe, located on its very own pier.

The next few days were all too brief. First, a short hop to Blenheim, permanently stuck in 1981 with its Tamworth-esque town planning, where I acted as taxi driver, ferrying Louise from tasting to tasting, before heading off to Kaikoura for the night.

Kaikoura was stunning. It's certainly the only place where I've ever seen snow-capped mountains fall into the sea. But, yet again, considering our previous whale watching trip in Sydney and with time running out on the hirecar, Christchurch was calling.

Another stop at Hanmer Springs for a full body massage (no happy finish, thank god), and we were heading back to where it all started at Christchurch.
Soon our South Island adventure would be over. We needed a plan

Kaikoura Beach

Coast To Coast

2008-10-03T07:45:00.007+09:00

"Greyhole"

The plan was to carry on up the coast to Greymouth for an overnight stop, before we had to peel away from the shoreline and head towards Nelson.

Greymouth was indeed preceded by its reputation. Louise's friends Jye and Angie had recently moved away from the town, and had given it the moniker "Greyhole", and then used it so frequently that a third friend, not a Kiwi, walked into a travel agent and asked how to get to "Greyhole" , and was met with a blank stare.

And, as if to confirm Greymouth's status as an undesirable location, upon entry we were met by a huge hoarding stating "Kids who are into sport, stay out of court". But if this was indeed a hole, we saw little evidence: it wasn't particularly dirty, or down at heel. It was just, well, a town. Like Leek in Staffordshire, except with a few more Maoris.

Admittedly, the hostel, Noah's Ark seemed misplaced. A huge wooden manor house with mid-air verandas on every side, massive and deserted. Each of its rooms featured an animal theme (ours was festooned with zebra stripes), and entertainment was provided in the shape of an old piano, log fire, the biggest TV I've ever seen in hostel and finally, Bez the four month old labrador, who came with an accompanying health warning magnetted to the fridge: "please do not give Bez milk - it gives him the shits".

Lord! Nelson

We left early next morning, after having another quick squint round the town and headed for Nelson.

Nelson's had a reputation too as, nestled in the North of the South Island, it had been dubbed "the most liveable city" in New Zealand. We arrived after 4 hour drive through the rain, saw little of the town and made straight for the hostel, Accents On The Park.

Accents On The Park. Best Hostel Ever. Fact.

Imagine your typical backpackers: run down building, former nunnery/Victorian manor house/borstal, crammed full with cheap bunk beds and even cheaper bed linen, kitchen consisting of a few electric rings and a microwave from 1983, and one dedicated "entertainment" room with a old TV overbalanced on a bracket high on the wall.

Not Accents On The Park. This was to be an exercise in what a backpackers COULD be if hostel staff weren't too drunk/idle/absent to do anything about it.

We entered onto a thick shagpile carpet, and approached the huge gold trimmed mahogany desk, certain we had accidentally stepped into The Ramada Nelson. Our double room was down the corridor past the thick armchairs in the lobby. Lobby. In a backpackers. The bedroom had bathtowels neatly folded on top of the snazzy, new bedlinen. There was a sink, his and hers bedside lamps, a wardrobe, a parking space and, the best bit, a double-sided Do Not Disturb/Make Up My Room sign to hang on the door. All this for $33 each. That's 12 quid a night.

Nelson didn't disappoint either. The next day the Sun was out, revealing a compact but pleasant town with some great cafes, and a beach 15 minutes from town. Indeed, it was a very liveable town. Big enough to attract a host of supermarkets and shops, but small enough to retain a sense of community and small town buzz.

Mr Fixit

A trip round Nelson's camera shops had proved disappointing: Louise's broken lens was eliciting a fair amount of gurning and whistling from the experts: "Hmmm.....I think that's going to have to go back to Auckland. Might be cheaper to buy a new one" some of them said before gesturing to the new lenses tucked inside glass cases in their window displays.

That was not an option and Louise maintained that we needed "a little man", meaning a boffin, an expert, an enthusiast, and not some Kodak-sponsored camera shop who had no real on-site expertise.

Luckily one shop knew "a little man", and scribbled a name and a phone number on a piece of paper, adding "Go and see Peter". After a phone call we were off round some more first gear corners, zig-zagging up a steep incline to the summit of a hill, possibly an old volcano, only a few minutes from town.

I pulled up on the 45 degree driveway and wrenched the handbrake up firmly. If the car rolled away here it wouldn't stop until it was back in Queenstown. I also stuck it in gear for good measure.

The house was dug into the side of the hill, and was simple and residential. It was opened by a man, in his mid 60s, with greying hair. He was wearing glasses with a tiny binoculars attached. We presumed he was Peter. He ushered us into a tiny room, which was dominated by a desk with a white handkerchief spread across it. Minuscule cogs and machine parts were painstakingly laid out on the handkerchief in excrutiatingly neat fashion. There was a pile of lenses stacked at the side, and disguarded camera backs lay in one corner. Yes, this was definitely Peter. This was the boffin, the expert, the enthusiast that Louise wanted.

He chatted easily for a few minutes and examined the lens with his keen eye. "I think I can fix it, but I need to have a proper look" he said, in a clean, almost English accent, and we agreed if it was to be more than $100 he would call us before he started the work.

There was something reassuring about a man who does what he does for the love of it, and not for profit. And we agreed to call him upon our return from the Abel Tasman coast.

We left Nelson the next day, and due to return a few days later. And of course, we had already booked ahead for Accents On The Park......

The room at Accents. Jacuzzi not in shot....

Punakaiki

2008-10-02T07:18:00.007+09:00

From Fox it was along to Punakaiki, home of the Pancake Rocks, a renowned rock formation on the West Coast, notable for two two reasons:

First, its appearance: like a million rock-grey beer mats stacked randomly and precariously in an elongated strata-esque formation . Second, it's name : that it's called Pancake Rocks, when in reality, the only time Pancakes ever looked this was when Fred Flinstone had that job at the diner.

The only way I can describe it is bloody weird, but interesting. Like jam on mashed potato. Or Bjork.

Later we visited a beach lagoon a few minutes down the road. I honestly can't remember what it was called. Something like Lake Poghognusnakakakakaiekaiakeiskapaokapolepaos. Maybe it has an extra "s" on the end.

Again, weird and interesting were the only and inadequate adjectives I could conjure. It was a beach where the tide had no so much come in, but trickled up, in , around, down and through, seeping in at angles and melting into vast, strange patterns and eddys around sand banks and rocks.

The upshot of which meant far away on the horizon, beneath the hue of the setting sun, we could see people seemingly walking on water, but actually jogging or taking their dogs for a stroll. Like Haast Beach this was another magic moment. Annoying, then, that upon opening her camera bag, Louise found her favourite wide-angle lens in pieces in the bottom. It would have to be fixed. That much was clear. As to how and when, that was more difficult. Amazingly, there are no Nikkon specialists in Punakaiki. Or the South Island. Hmmm......

And so to bed. We were staying in nearby Te Nikau Lodge, a collection of corrugated huts scattered throughout the cover of an adjacent rainforest. Clean, cosy, authentic but caused problems if you needed a wee in the night. I took a torch and pittled in a bush. I think Louise just held it and went back to sleep.

Fox Glacier: DOs and DON'Ts

2008-09-23T12:37:00.004+09:00

Here is a brief and handy tourist safety guide to Fox Glacier:

DON'T assume that after spending the best part of a week driving round corners that require full steering lock, left, then right, then left, then right, you deserve a break. The road to Fox contains around 389,792,483 more 1st gear corners, some of them so sharp you could shave with them.

DO make sure you wear the correct footware for the terminal walk. If your girlfriend accidentally goes ankle-deep into a glacial stream whilst traversing some particularly unstable stepping stones, make every effort not to laugh.

If, upon arriving at your hostel, you find that a Cessna, mistaking Fox airfield for Franz Josef, has crashed into a pylon, and taken out the power for the whole town, DO stockpile duvets and blankets from unused beds and DO use gas rings to heat saucepans of water for hot water bottles. You may also like to have a conversation with fellow backpackers in absolute darkness or, for the more enterprising, by the light of a laptop or mobile phone.

The next day, once power is restored, if you are going on a heli-hike, DON'T be alarmed if the pilot appears to be about 14 (youngsters catch on very quick). Also DON'T ask the pilot if you can have a go at flying it because you once saw an episode of Airwolf and wondered how hard it could be. Or, once you reach the glacier, DON'T ask if you can lower yourself off the skis and drop the last 10m, because you also saw an episode of the A-Team and wondered how dangerous it could be.

DO put your crampons on the right way. DON'T make reference to the fact they resembles a cross between a muzzle and an implement of sexual torture. DON'T refer to them as tampons. Even though this is funny.

DO find out where everyone in your group is from. DO express surprise when you meet a couple on honeymoon from Coalville (yes! honest!). And then DO express surprise when another woman overhearing that conversation says she has a penfriend in Hugglescoat (yes! I couldn't believe it either!)

DO be prepared to be adventurous. If the guide takes you down into an ice ravine by a rope/ice-pins she's just hammered in, take the opportunity to follow her. If, once at the bottom, and in an ice cave the size of a large built-in wardrobe, she advises to lie on your back and slide through an impossiby tight aperture, DO follow her, because you don't want to get left behind.

After 2 and half hours on the ice, when you get back home to DO have some Supernoodles and an afternoon nap, because you will be knackered

DO post your photos on your blog:

Haast

2008-09-23T09:03:00.008+09:00

Like Twizel, Haast was always meant to be just a stopover. And, like Twizel, upon arrival we realised spending anything more than one day here would be difficult.

When I say there was nothing wrong with Haast, this was primarily because there's not enough for there to be anything wrong with. And, similarly, when I say it was nothing to write home about this, in turn, is because I doubt the post van/mail coach comes through here with any alarming regularity, so it would be ultimately fruitless.

With a population fewer than the dwindling bars on my mobile signal, Haast's self-proclaimed "township" status belies its size, significance and remoteness. It seemed only fitting, therefore, that for the second time in my life I found myself in accommodation eerily redolent of The Overlook Hotel from The Shining, with its 1970's faux-alpine furnishings and long beige and paisely corridors. There was even a child's plastic pushbike in the hall.

The kitchen was equally hilarious and looked like a set from an episode of Tomorrow's World from 40 years ago: "Welcome to the Kitchen Of The Future. By the year 1978 every home will have one of these - the Microwave Oven. It's a compact 14 square feet and can cook anything from a Sunday dinner, to a 14-course banquet"

But despite Haast Lodge's timewarp qualities, it was that sense of isolation and wilderness that became its appeal. A trip to nearby Jackson Bay revealed the tiniest fishing village at the most Southerly point on the West Coast's main arterial route - literally the road just petered out into nothing. It consisted of a few shacks, a wooden pier with accompanying seal, and a portacabin fish restaurant called The Cray Pot, advertised infrequently on roadside blackboards all along the 50km road in. A road which was effectively a huge geographical cul-de-sac.

Later, a stop at Haast Beach during the twilight hour, revealed a desolate shale beach littered with all kinds of oceanic bric-a-brac. The sun set. The waves crashed. The wind blustered. Magic.

Haast Beach Photos.........

Te Anau

2008-09-14T11:58:00.002+09:00

From Queestown it was a 2 hour drive to Te Anau, base for our trip to Milford.

Initially, I was concerned about our accommodation as we had opted for a "homestay", kind of like a cross between a hostel and a foster home. A "Fostel", maybe?

I had visions of sitting with a family in their own front room, having to watch the NZ equivalent of Gardener's Question time, listening to the clock tick, and coughing every time you wanted to fart.

On arrival the Christian fridge magnets did nothing to dispel that notion, but it soon transpired that hostess, Rosie, was the most hospitable and easy-going of people, her home welcoming, her room cosy and her cake-baking first-class.

Alarmingly, as I was playing Nothing Else Matters by Metallica on the guitar, I heard her singing along from the kitchen. That must be one progressive church she attends. I restrained from pushing her into joining in on any Rage Against The Machine.

An early start the next morning meant we were on the road by 6.30. After a winding two hour track through snow-capped mountains and tunnels (in reality a cave with a hole at both ends), the visitors centre loomed out of the mist.

We boarded a boat with only around 8 other people, and drifted off through the haze, past giant rocky outcrops and tree-laden crags.

Grand, towering yet serene, Milford is undoubtedly impressive. Yet Lou summed it up accurately by dubbing it the Ayres Rock of New Zealand. And that much is true: the lengthy drive to counter its remoteness requires committment, and the terrain along the way is so magnificent, that by the time you reach the Sound, it's simply the best example of what you've seen on your way in, rather than the like nothing you've ever seen before.

Still, I wasn't going to come all this way and not see it. And see it I did. And I'm glad I did.

Queenstown

2008-09-14T11:18:00.004+09:00

First thing next morning, a quick trip to Mt Cook village to NOT see Mt Cook due to cloud, and then on to Queenstown to meet up with Pink Houser Chris.

We met at the world famous Fergburger, a quality burger establishment with a reputation stretching as far as the UK, and home to such classics as the Cockadoodle Oink, the chicken and bacon burger.

I was instantly taken by Queenstown. With ski-boots full of character, it's compact, clean and friendly and commands stunning views of The Remarkables and Coronet Peak. And whilst it's usually populated by people wearing idiotic ski hats and using phrases like "great powder today" and "have you seen my new gold-plated snowboard bindings", it still doesn't feel exclusive or pretentious.

The next day Lou and I were off up the hairiest of winding mountain tracks in a 4x4 bus to the summit of The Remarkables for a beginners ski-lesson. Unfortunately, however, although we did have a great day, it was no thanks to Diana, the worst ski-ing instructor in the world.

The only lesson we learned that day was never trust a Spaniard on skis.

Her crimes included:

* Waffling on in a thick Fast-Show-Channel-9 style eth-eth-eth accent. Slightly racist perhaps, but when you consider her sole task is to COMMUNICATE with people and CONVEY information, the fact that she couldn't pronounce the word "lean", or "wedge" or even "skis", was a serious problem. No one says Spaniards shouldn't ski. But a Spaniard who can't speak English teaching ski-ing ...that's different.

That was the least of it, however.....

* Texting some bloke she'd met the night before. Often whilst in the middle of a sentence: "OK, so eeeef you turn berry berry hard....(beep beep)....one moment................(giggle) (giggle)........"
At one point I'd fallen across the Travellator-type thing, returning skiers to the stop of the slope, and she didn't even notice because she was arsing about with her phone.

* Beginning the next wave of instruction for the few people who had made it back up to the top of the slope whilst half the group was still floundering on their backs like upturned ladybirds at the bottom.

* Forgetting who was in her group. She hardly spoke to Louise for the entire 3 hours.

* Issuing esoteric, non-sensical instructions. When I asked her what was wrong with my "snow-plough" manoeuvre, she responded "Tonight, take your girlfriend out in the moonlight and dance"

What does that even mean?

Aaaaaanyway, the next day we decided to abandon instruction and headed over to Coronet Peak for some self-tuition. And thank god we did. We learned more the second day without instruction than we did the previous day with instruction.

Purely by trial and error and practice, by the end of the day we had mastered left and right turns and even moved up to the next slope.

Still not a patch on Chris, however, who zipped in and out and round us on his super-duper new snowboard.

Queenstown. I love you.

Twizel

2008-09-14T11:16:00.001+09:00

And so to Christchurch to pick up our hirecar. With 1.3 litres of pure power, representing the pinnacle of Japanese engineering, ladies and gentlemen I give to you the Diahatsu Sirion.

I was labouring under the misapprehension it was pronounced the Sir Iron, which sounded like a steel-clad Arthurian nobleman, proud and robust. In fact it's pronounced Syrian, a race of people next on George Bush's hitlist. Never mind.

Not the first vehicular-related mistake we made that day. The second, arguably more significant, was not taking the extra $17 a day insurance to cover tyre bursts and windscreen chips, as within 20 minutes of leaving Christchurch a passing lorry opposite hoofed a rock into the windscreen, leaving a sink-plug sized welt in the windscreen. So that's $350 up my shirt to start with.

But 3 hours and 250km later we realised why we were here, as the first snow-capped mountains were revealed, followed by Lake Pukaki, with its water so clear, and reflection so perfect, that if you stood on your head only the loose change falling up your nose would give away which way was up. Our first taste of proper New Zealand. And it tasted good.

By 7 o clock we had reached our destination. Eerily quiet, poorly lit and seemingly made entirely out of timber, Twizel itself was one of those towns where, if aliens landed, you probably wouldn't find out about it for about 6 weeks.

It was only ever intended as a pit-stop and not a bad place, but the sound of duelling banjos was ever-present in our ears.

The Long Awaited Update...

2008-09-14T10:59:00.002+09:00

What with internet cafes in New Zealand being more expensive, per minute, than the Iraq War, updates have been few and far between. What follows then is not so much an update, but more part one of a datadump, after saving up for a few weeks and selling one of my kidneys to pay time on a PC.

It begins in, appropriately, at the beginning.........

Some Photos....Report Later (click to enlarge)

2008-09-01T11:32:00.002+09:00

Old Zealand

2008-08-14T13:15:00.004+09:00

Regular readers of this blog (to be honest, I don't know if they still exist) will know that, occasionally, I like to have a bit of a moan.

And though the following entry may well look like a moan, it's not. And while it may document and detail annoyances, niggles and beefs, it is most definitely not a moan.

Nope. Not a moan. It's just not serious enough. But here goes:

I am beginning to think of New Zealand not so much as a 3rd World Country, or even a 2nd World Country, but more as a 1.5 World Country.

It's a country where everything is around 34% less efficient, less effective, less functional. I hesitate to use the word backward because, well, it's offensive. But perhaps lagging would be more appropriate (or maybe even lacking).

Here's just a few examples:

* Supermarkets are apalling. Drab, cramped and staffed by indifferent zombies. Last week Louise asked an employee where the tacos were. He shrugged and said "I dunno".

* Communications: misconnected calls, inoperative and inaudible phones, hilariously expensive mobiles, and 256k Broadband. Truly a modern oxymoron. 256k. Broadband.

* Journalism: incorrect captions, punctuation errors, photos printed upside down and, in some cases barely-literate articles. " I liked The Dark Knight. It was really good!!!!! I liked the bit where the man dressed as the bat punched the other man and the other man went aaaargh!!!!"

* TV: the two new formats unveiled whilst I was here were...wait for it.....Stars in Their Eyes and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. First shown in the UK in 1989 and 1999 respectively. Presumably, Blankety Blank and Take Your Pick will be next year.

I hasten to add this is not in anyway a comment on the people. In fact part of the the problem is that with 4 million people in the whole country (that's a 1/3rd of London), statistically their top 10%, their high-flyers are simply less in number.

And alongside human rights violations and American foreign policy, it seems churlish to moan about such triviality, but its just a simple observation that alongside the relative functionality of say London, Tokyo and even Sydney, NZ...well...specifically Auckland seems a bit lax.

Can't wait for the mountains, the snow and to meet more of the people. I think that's where NZ's strengths lie.

Whether or Not...

2008-08-14T12:42:00.004+09:00

Weathermen in Auckland have it easy.

Alongside guitarist in Wham, and singer in Milli Vanilli it must be one of the easiest jobs in the world, simply because with the same certainty that the Sun will rise, and the Earth will turn, it WILL rain.

I've never lived in a city so perpetually sodden, so cruelly hammered by the elements. Yet, conversely and seemingly at odds with this statement, the weather is still unpredictable because, though you know it will stair rod down, you never know exactly when.

Anyone who's popped their head out of the window, and seeing the sunshine, then thinks they can make the 100 yard mad dash to the petrol station for spaghetti hoops without a coat, will usually be hosed down within 40 seconds of leaving their front door.

Similarly, anyone strapping themselves up in Gortex and bubblewrap to defend themselves from a meteorological onslaught is bound to find the daily downpour a few hours late, and thus is likely boil to death in the afternoon sun.

Due South

2008-07-18T12:00:00.000+09:00

This is the plan. It's already changed 9,237 times. It will probably change again.

Fly to Christchurch, pick up car, then on to

Twizel
Mt Cook
Queenstown
Te Anau
Milford
Wanaka
Fox
Nelson
Blenheim
Kaikoura
Christchurch

And that's just South Island. We're looking at returning to the North Island proper when the weather starts improving as there's no use sitting on a beach in mucky weather trying to convince yourself it's actually warm enough to sunbathe like people do in Morecambe.

Our hire care represents the very pinnacle of automative engineering - A 2005 Diahatsu Sirion which I am renaming The Die Hard Sirloin - and activities planned along the way include snowboarding, writing my name in the snow, having an argument about one another's map reading skills, shivering a bit, meeting up with me old mate Chris, cruising around Milford (not, I am told, the home of MILFs), climbing the Fox Glacier (which will be mint) and the Franz Ferdinand Glacier.... and probably a lot of driving.

37 days encounting......

Surfer's Paradise

2008-07-18T11:57:00.001+09:00

So, I am leaving Auckland. The flights, the hire car and the accommodation are booked. The date is set. All I have to do is now is sit through another 2 weeks of, well, nothing. And that's harder than you think......

I joined this company during a staff shortage. And because there was work to be done, accordingly, I did it. But since that day way back in April, the company has hired no less than 6 new people, meaning that for the last 4 weeks I've been content to dawdle, dally and lozzock about on the internet, whilst work is actually taken off me by eager new beavers (probably an unfortunate choice of words given I'm still the only man here).

The problem with this is twofold. First, if it weren't for George providing me with a few choice websites, I would have bludgeoned myself into oblivion with a hole-punch by now through sheer boredeom. In your own home, doing nothing makes you the king of your castle - revelling in your inactivity and celebrating the stationary with no expectations and therefore no reproachement or guilt.

But to do nothing when you reckon you probably should be doing something. That's different. It's disquieting and makes for an uneasy day. Which leads to my second point.

I can't prove it, and it may well be a kind of mild paranoia, but I think the fact that my days are emptier than John Leslie's Diary is breeding a kind of polite but palpable sense of resentment among people who actually have work to do.

I have indeed telegraphed my availability on a number of occasions, responding to the Kiwi's wanky buzzphrase "Phil, do you have capacity?" with the reply "Yes, I'm not busy right now", although I would have liked to reply "Yes, I am indeed capacious right now", yet work has not been forthcoming. In my defence, all I can say is: it's not my fault I'm not busy.

Anyway, I have two weeks of surfing youtube and Facebook left, and then will have to find 3 weeks of temp work before I leave Auckland on the 25th August. If anyone fancies sending me some interesting links to browse whilst I glance over my shoulder to see who can see my screen, before flicking back to an empty Excel spreadsheet and punching a few random buttons on the calculator to make it look like I'm working, please feel free.

Flat Out

2008-07-07T12:45:00.001+09:00

Lou and I finally have a flat.

I'm sad to leave The Brown Kiwi: the cameraderie was endearing, the host hilarious, the experience memorable. But this trip is all about what happens after Auckland, and for that we need money. So with the Brown Kiwi's double room costing us the equivalent of a return ticket to Western Samoa evey week, despite Nils gracious discount, we decided to move out into cheaper digs.

Conversely, and fortunately, over here cheap accommodation does not mean having to live underneath a railway arch with an itenirant jazz musician called Keith. Rather, rental prices are around 40% cheaper than hostels, and $200 a week has secured us a room in an apartment 15 minutes from town with bed, dishwasher and TV. Three of my key requirements.

Admittedly, it wasn't the first place we looked at. A trawl through some accommodation websites revealed that we weren't in the most favourable of positions - a non-smoking couple requiring a flat for only 8 weeks - especially considering the online adverts were very specific about the type of housemate required, some stating: must be smoker, must like cats and, my favourite, must be quiet.

Our first viewing was a place just off Ponsonby road which could only be described as a cross between Northampton Polytechnic student accommodation and an inner-city "housing project" for single mothers with learning difficulties. There's something very disturbing about a "TV room" consisting of four walls of powdery, unpainted breezeblock, together with 3 plastic school chairs pointed at a flickering screen.

Our second viewing was of house in Grey Lynn, and whilst the accommodation was fine, Lou and I both agreed the woman who already lived there, Camilla Ribena-Faqhuar-Camembert-Bibblington-Breadbin, was annoyingly wiffy-waffy and would have probably required throttling at some point.

And so finally to our current location just off the Great North Road. Initially, the signs weren't good: bottom of a hill, bright tangerine-coloured building, above a garage. But upon opening the door we were pleasantly surprised: spacious, clean and apparently new. The couple who already live there seem fine, and as a result of pushing two single beds together, we now have a "double" bed the size of a tennis court.

I am avoiding the obvious joke about "Love All"

Or "New Balls Please"

Rolling In The Aisles

2008-06-24T13:27:00.000+09:00

Brave New World

New World on College Hill is not only the second most expensive supermarket in all of New Zealand, but it’s also one of the worst ones I’ve ever wheeled a trolley around. No New World Sympathy from me.

With all the glamour of Kwik Save, but with the price of Waitrose, the narrow aisles are blocked by undead members of staff unloading their Toyota Yaris-sized cages of Campbell’s Soup, whilst the meat fridges look like an explosion in an abattoir. Portions of meat come in two sizes: breezeblock or the entire cow, whilst the bagpackers clearly have no grasp of physics or the inelastic properties of polythene, loading up your carrier as if they’re trying to break some world record. Or at least the eggs they’ve put at the bottom the fucking bag.

All this means, then, that for a 30-something male who steadfastly rejects the Jamie Oliver-isation of his dinnertime (spinach and radiccio torte with warm parmesan squash, anyone?), for me trips to the supermarket are a perfunctory affair. A blank-eyed wander round the aisles, automatically and nonchalantly selecting items from the pre-prepared list in my head, never altering it from week to week.

Yesterday’s shopping trip, however, proved to be a little different in that three slightly off-kilter things happened within the space of about 12 minutes; nearly enough to wake me from my shopping somnolence.

Dwarves, Duncan and Drink

First, I saw a colleague from work. Not ordinarily confusing, if it weren’t for the fact that she was 6 inches shorter than the day previously. I immediately wondered if she had perhaps fallen down a pothole or had her legs severed, but since there are few potholes in supermarkets these days, and she was definitely still wearing shoes, I discounted this possibility.

No, the reason, I later concluded, was that most of the women in my office wear very, very high heels, possibly because in the world of PR, they equate height with stature. And it was heartening to see that although, at work, stood next to me she seemed a giant among men, in reality she was just a dwarf on stilts. One day, I may consider going to work wearing Elton-John-Pinball-Wizard boots to prove the point.

Three minutes later, a second thing happened. I realised, as I waiting for Louise to finish choosing an onion or something, that I was staring at someone I hadn’t seen in 10 years – Duncan. er….thingamajig….er…. Duncan....er….whassname.

Duncan, myself and a whole host of other people from various Manchester Universities helped set up Storm Fm, a student radio station in 1997. And as I looked at him packing away his shopping, I immediately realised who it was. He momentarily glanced up and looked down again. Then realizing, too, he’d seen someone he recognized, looked up and down again as if trying to place me, before pointing and saying “Phil!”.

I responded by pointing and going “Duncan!”. We had a brief chat, exchanged numbers and generally, mutually puffed out our cheeks and shook our heads about what a huge co-incidence it was.

Last, 5 minutes later and still trying to get my head around the fact that I’d bumped into Duncan, Louise and I had almost finished packing our stuff at the till, when the cashier refused Lou some cider because she looked underage.

Being nearly 32, this was obviously a shock to Louise and she immediately produced her driving licence. Yet, for the cashier, this was still unacceptable – “NZ Driving Licence or Passport only, please”. Now, I’ve never been refused alcohol in New Zealand, which meant that despite the fact that I am younger than my girlfriend, I am able to buy beer and she’s not. And the fact that despite the number of Europeans here, European Driving Licences are not valid ID seems to be ridiculous.

The upside to this, however, is that I am going out with a girl who looks young enough to be refused alcohol. And that can only be a good thing.

Some Birthday Photos

2008-06-20T07:19:00.002+09:00

Loulou checks the menu

Blurred photo from the window. That's the camera doing that - I'm not pissed

Always room for desert

My birthday cake(s)

My Birthday

2008-06-19T13:45:00.002+09:00

If 21 is key of the door, then I don’t know what 31 is. The key to the Volvo perhaps. Or maybe the key on the Dulux Colour Swatch - if you’re currently deciding whether to paint the nursery with Cinnamon Sunrise or Domestic Violets.

So anyway, 31…….

Lou arrived last Friday which of course is fantastic for so many reasons, not least because I get to move into my own double room free from people snoring and farting. Actually, come to think of it, that was me. Anyway, last night Lou wanted to surprise me with a birthday dinner, but ashamedly I relentlessly badgered her until she let slip the location: the revolving restaurant at the top of the Sky Tower.

As I’ve stated in this blog before I’ll go up anything high. If it’s got an observation deck, then in my eyes, it’s a winner. Thinking about it now, I’ve been up the Tokyo TV Tower, the Fuji Observation Deck, The Tokyo Government Towers, AMP Tower in Sydney, Eureka Building in Melbourne, the Sentosa Tower and then the Swissotel in Singapore, The World Trade Centre, The Empire State Building and even the Space Needle in Seattle. If I ever visit Dubai any time soon, then let me tell you……

I’m sure a philosophy student from Liverpool John Moore’s might say that, as a shortarse, it’s indicative of some subconscious desire to lord it over other people. He might call it something like “Ivory Tower Syndrome”. But he’d be talking nonsense. So I’d probably knock his beret off for that comment.

I met Louise on Queens St and we wandered round to the Tower to collect our reserved tickets. Once in the lift, however, as I was staring down through the glass floor, it was obvious that Louise was not comfortable with the ground falling away beneath her and was now peeking through splayed fingers. The actual observation deck was pleasant if unspectacular, and whilst Louise gingerly remained at a safe distance from a glass floor revealing a 328 metre drop, I failed miserably to take any decent night shots, each successive image resembling more and more the daubings of a child let loose on black sugar paper with an army of crayons.

To the restaurant, then. And whereas Lou had been a bit fazed by the height issue, after sitting down at our table, I realised my middle-ear had a movement issue. After a few moments, I felt a little queasy and as I looked across the table at Lou, I could sense I was moving I just couldn’t tell how, or where I was moving to. Similarly, one thing they never tell you about a revolving restaurant that when you go the toilet, you come out 3 minutes and 18.4 degrees later only to think your girlfriend has buggered off, when in fact she hasn’t left her seat.

Soon, however, the feeling had passed. Enough for me to order beef filler with kumara mash (NZ Sweet Potato) and a triple chocolate icecream.

Last year I was on Bondi Beach for my birthday. This year I was up the Auckland Sky Tower. I’ve set the bar high for my 30s. I only hope I can keep this up.

Photos to follow............

The Breakfast Club

2008-06-19T13:38:00.003+09:00

A while ago now, Pink House crew members Chris and Simon launched Lunch Club.

Whilst the moniker they bestowed upon it best conjures up images of captains of industry meeting at an Edwardian high-rise in Mayfair to discuss the Gold Standard and have a spot of tiffin, it was in fact an excuse to spend the hour between 1pm and 2pm stuffing their faces with home-made burritos. And most of the time, Chris and Simon were the only two members.

One year on and here in NZ I find myself one of the inaugural members of what I am calling Breakfast Club. Not a reference to the daft-haircut-sporting, none-more-80s film of the same name, but rather a meeting of like-minded people whose only thing in common is that they have to get up bloody early for work.

Initially Breakfast Club was just Bev and I, but its ranks are slowly swelling with new bleary-eyed additions of Nick from Seattle and Benjamin from France. There are also honorary mentions for Jens who, being German, is up and gone long before the rest of us, and Manu who, despite being German, stumbles into the kitchen at 7.55am looking like he’s been woken by binmen emptying the skip he lives in.

Breakfast Club has a fairly loose agenda. If you feel like joining, here are some of the regular activities:

* Wearily watching the kettle boil as you ask your fellow member if they heard some twat in the top bunk snoring last night

* Groggily reading instructions from a Weetabix Box (“Oh look I’m getting twice my RDA of nyacine”) and missing the bowl with your milk

* Staring blankly at the newspaper. Deliberately ignoring stories about Obama vs the Superdelegates because it’s too early, and instead settling on an article about a man who crossed the Attacama on a spacehopper

* Yawning while you hack your toast to splinters with the rock-hard butter you forgot to take out of the fridge last night

I suspect, however, that Breakfast Club is not exclusive to The Brown Kiwi

Ou-es Tu?

2008-06-04T13:13:00.000+09:00

Of late, readers of this blog, of which I sincerely hope there are some, may have noted a recent drop off in the frequency of posting.

It pains me to report, then, that nothing really has happened. I am currently locked in a cycle of alarm clock, breakfast, front door, work, lunch, work, front door, TV, curry/spag bol/supernoodles, more TV and then bed as I wait for the cash to roll in and for lovely Louise to arrive.

Not that there’s anything wrong with a routine, but I am closer than I have been in two years to recreating my past life in London. This is both a blessing and a curse: although this rediscovered “routine” rewards me financially and also career-wise, I can’t help hearing the echoes of people who have returned permanently to Blighty, their travelling and perhaps their youth firmly behind them, moaning about how they’ve found “settling down” inherently depressing.

Still, regrettably, I can’t travel forever - I am not “The Littlest Hobo” – and so at some stage a return to orthodoxy and normalcy is as expected as it is inevitable.

I can’t complain at the moment, the hostel is as empty as my work email inbox, and my bank account is filling up faster than my internet browser’s history bar. Work alternates between a mad flurry of presentation writing and frantic bash-typing of emails, contrasted with extended lunch breaks, lengthy pisses and Youtube afternoons. Feast and famine. Bella Emberg and Kate Moss.

It’s not long now though, I think, until I’ll have something blogworthy. So hang on in there…..

Brown Love

2008-05-09T13:25:00.000+09:00

The Brown Kiwi is smashing. I liked it as soon as I arrived, and it still continues to please.

The secret to its success lies in its positioning. It’s not a hostel where you’ll find football-shirted twunts called Darren from Leicester, with over-gelled hair and meaningless yin-yang tattoo, guzzling boxed wine and bellowing across the street at some slapper with a watchstrap for a skirt.

And it’s not a hostel where some blank-eyed receptionist, themselves a backpacker working to pay off rent, hands you a threadbare set of sheets and casually motions towards your room next to the bog.

In fact, it’s more like a shared house. But with lots of people. We already have our in-jokes. Our characters. Our catchphrases. Our nods and winks that indicate so much.

We’ve already started having our little adventures too. Last Wednesday was Mini-road trip day. Stefan from Heidelberg had just recently purchased a camper van to tour NZ , but it had already developed a rather ominous rattle. Frustratingly, it was a rattle which disappeared completely whenever he was in 10 metres range of anyone with any mechanical knowledge. Our trip, then, was designed to make the rattle come back so, should we actually be in earshot of anyone who knew anything about engineering, we could get an opinion.

So Stefan, Jens (also from Germany) and I set off with no particular destination in mind and made our way North. After about an hour we decided we really should be going “somewhere” and so, as I had the map, I selected what looked like the nearest geographical feature of interest: a 4 mile long peninsula stretching out Westward from Auckland.

Once at the tip, we disembarked into the Shakespear National Park encompassing a beach, a lookout point and a hill full of sheep. After a brisk 2 hour walk we returned to find there was indeed a problem with Stefan’s van. Not a rattle, but rather that he had left the lights on and flattened the battery. So much for German efficiency.

Luckily, this is the 21st Century and whilst Stefan didn’t have any jump leads, he did have a solar powered recharger. And so after a failed bump start, we duly wired up the recharger and played Ludo in the back of the van until we thought we could risk turning the key.

As the engine coughed into life, we all breathed a sigh of relief: I don’t think I could have handled another round of Ludo.

PR Does PR

2008-05-09T13:23:00.000+09:00

Well, as some of you may have gathered, I am now gainfully employed. A random email to an old contact yielded a temporary two month position at PHD here in Auckland. Luckier than examining a four leaf clover and finding it contained a horseshoe attached to a rabbit’s foot.

The interview wasn’t so much an interview as “what’s your name?” and “when can you start?”, to which my response was obviously “how much” and “give it to me”.

On the face of it, the position seemed pretty similar to what I’d been doing in the UK, but a few days in and the gap between my expectations and the reality appears to be widening. This is definitely a more PR-based role. “Can’t stop, I’m off to take the editor of Cosmo to a macro-biotic spa and women’s retreat”. That kind of thing.

Not only does this make me the least experienced in the office by far, but also the least attractive on account of all 16 other (female) employees here looking like they’ve just stepped out of a Max Factor advert. I can only imagine how my UK high street attire is going down here: “This season, Phil is wearing a 100% Polyester T-Shirt from Matalan, featuring some logo or other. He is also wearing a pair of blue stone-washed jeans from Primark. In his spare time, Phil likes taking afternoon naps and eating Batchelor’s Supernoodles“

There is the possibility, however, that I may actually learn something new here. Maybe PR will be my true calling. Maybe I’ll take to it like a duck to Evian. Maybe I’ll be air-kissing Nigella Lawson in no time. Maybe.

Why Are We Waiting.....?

2008-04-17T09:03:00.003+09:00

Meanwhile, in Auckland, things have stalled somewhat.

The last week has been spent in industrious pursuit of employment, with my days consumed by a mix of glacial bureaucracy, futile filling-out of forms, elusive recruitment consultants (and their feeble, feeble excuses), queuing, more queuing and boo-hooing.

Yes, the job hunt has started alongside a wade through the mire of household chores that inevitably accompanies a move to a new country, including a chat with an Indian call centre, a suburban bus trip to a place with a name right out of a Carry On film and several pointless interviews where several pointless recruitment consultants asked questions straight out of "Interviewing For Dummies" eg "Now, what would you say your strengths and weaknesses are?"

A right grilling, I can tell you.

Had one interview so far with the Radio Bureau where, curiously, the woman knew nothing about me, or what I was looking for, despite having the email I sent her printed out in front of her throughout the meeting. Thanks for that, duck. I could have spent that time being fobbed off by Madison Recruitment. For instance:"Yes, she's just picked up the phone"; "Yes, she's just stepped out" ; "Yes, she's just accidentally been taken hostage by rogue Shia cleric, Muqtada al Sadr. Can she give you a call back tomorrow?"

Anyway, I've about done all I can do now. I just have to wait for the offers to come rolling in.

From OZ to NZ

2008-04-07T10:18:00.002+09:00

Sorry have been quiet for a bit. I've been swapping countries. I'm now in a place where "Bread Pat" is the actor out of Seven and "Jungle Bills" is a Christmas carol.

Yes, I am now in New Zealand. Home of the Maoris, Crowded House and Russell Crowe. The first English speaking country to see the new day, the first country to give women the vote and last country I'll probably visit on my worldwide jaunt.

I arrived in Auckland a week ago, but lets rewind to the last few days in Oz.

G'bye Mate

After 1770 I arrived in Brisbane with the express intention of visiting Moreton Island after Lou's recommendation. Clearly my intentions were not sufficiently express as I'd left it too late to phone and the tours were all full. My fault, but a lack of signal in 1770 and a lack of accommodation in Brisbane meant my attention was elsewhere for a few days.

Speaking of accommodation, Cloud 9 in Brisbane, where I ended up staying, was a last minute choice, and I certainly paid the price for it when, really, I would have preferred them to pay me to stay there. Grubby, sweaty pits for rooms, toilets in darkness and a "DVD lounge" comprising a chair with no back and a sofa with clouds of yellow stuffing billowing from holes in the PVC. Both chairs were pointed at the TV in a rather perfuctory effort. The room looked like it had previously been used as an arena for fighting pitbulls.

Brisbane itself was like Leicester. Generic, unimpressive and utterly acceptable: one main high street with regulation McD's, HMV and Dick Smiths (Oz equiv of Dixons). So no Moreton Island trip meant no point in hanging around a town whose chief accolade was that it wasn't particularly awful.

Actually, since you ask, though not mentioned on this blog, I did visit Canberra before Christmas and although it attracts much criticism for being "dead" and "boring" and "dead boring", let me tell you, it was far more interesting than Adelaide and Brisbane put together.

I returned to Sydney two and bit days early and stayed in Claire's flat which, after the hoo-hah of wondering whether you would be sharing your room with a bunch of hard-drinking Geordies or drink-hardened Glaswegians, came as a relief.

When I put things down, they stayed put down. No one woke me up unzipping their rucksack into its 49,3287 constituent parts, and no one came into the room at 4am, turned on the light, and treated everyone to a lesson in how to take your jeans off whilst drunk.

Then it was back to the Pink House for a few days to be reunited with the my giant red suitcase, and triple the amount of pants and socks at my disposal.

On the Monday I was off. Goodbye Australia. Hello New Zealand.

Wizard of NZ

I arrived in Auckland about 6pm and grabbed the shuttle bus which dropped me at the door of the Browm Kiwi, my hostel, all being well, for the next couple of months.

Initially I was apprehensive as choosing somewhere to be your home for 10 weeks without actually seeing it is a risk. But luckily Chris's recommendation was spot on; the Brown Kiwi is clean, quaint, quiet and well-resourced and most of all friendly. It's almost a cross between a backpackers and a B&B, with it's huge kitchen table around which the "family" gather.

Its receptionist, despite talking of his "ex-wife", is clearly no stranger to the music of George Michael, and has a keen wit. He's like a cross between John Inman and Pete Waterman, and fires off one-liners for his own edification. When I commented the NZ money contains the Queens face, he replied with lightning speed "Oh, we all love a Queen in Auckland, darling".

Despite people's warning of the soullessnees and dinge of Auckland, I've warmed to it quite quickly. Not the best place for a tourist destination, but it seems fine for a base for a couple of months.

And so all that remains is for me to go through the ritual rigmarole of getting a job. The emails have been sent, the phone calls made, the agencies contacted. All I have to do now is wait. And if it's anything like Sydney, I should have a job by this time 2012......

Vicious Cycle ....Or Who Am I Eddie Kidding?

2008-04-03T12:36:00.005+09:00

From Airlie Beach it was another 11 hour bus journey to the town of 1770, allegedly the only town in the world with numbers for a name.

It's typical of Aussies to spend little effort in naming anything when they could be barbecueing a possum or something . Hence The Snowy Mountains, The Great Sandy Desert and inevitably 1770.

"What shall we call this place? Well, what year is it? 1770? Right that'll do.....Right, now to pick up some supplies from Fly-Infested Shithole"

In fairness 1770 is so called as it was the original landing point of Captain James Cook, expert cartographer and "discoverer" of Australia who, in 1770, set in place a chain of events culminating in the creation of Home and Away and Rolf Harris. Thanks for that, Jim. Thanks.

Chris recommended 1770 as a kind of antidote to Airlie. It's a quiet town with a strong sense of community and no mobile phone signal, and with only 120 beds in the whole town, booking ahead is essential. I was already in at Cool Banana. A great hostel, brightly decorated and clean, it showed the Pink House in a new light. Or rather a new dinge. They get extra marks for hammocks. Hammocks rock. Literally. Obviously.

A free morning tour revealed an idyllic town with no drugs, no crime and no McDonalds. Land here goes for millions of dollars, yet prospective residents are still only allowed to build Deliverance-esque shacks. It's commonplace to see stainless steel Porsches next to wooden porches.

Our tour guide for this activity was a man whose name I didn't catch, but who had clearly wandered off in a purple haze during a Grateful Dead gig in 1970 and woke up in 1770. Like, wow, man. He resembled a cross between Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider and a Mexican bandit, and spoke with a thick South Afreeeekaan accent.

The real reason I was here was for Scooteroo: a kind of cross between a daytrip, theme park ride and a quick burn with the Queensland chapter of The Hell's Angels. Once again hosted by Johannesburg's answer to Carlos Santana, Scooteroo gives backpackers the opportunity to get out on the open road, riding in a convoy of 100cc scooters, all of which look as if they have been decorated by the band Iron Maiden on a particularly interminable Sunday.

Alarmingly, it all seemed rather too relaxed with the thick gutteral Afrikaans tones of "Bob Harley" reassuring us "eef you kann rade a pushbake, you kann rade a scootah". We gathered in a huge parking lot and selected our bikes from a neat square of rowed up machine, each of them tipped slightly on to their kickstand. And, after the briefest of demonstration, "this is the throttle. This is the brake. Any questions?", we set off on an experimental and wobbly lap of the carpark.

At first I was veering wildly from side to side, every attempt to correct and adjust sending me careering. "Oh no" I thought "Supposing it turns out I'm shit at it". Potentially embarrassing. By the time I had reached the drive way I was met by the Durban Warrior's Oriental wife.

"Everyfink OK?" she said
"I think there's something wrong with the bike. It keeps veering left and right" I replied
"Oh that normal . Bye" she said and ushered me on to the main road

Great. Soon, though, I had the hang of it and was razzing round the narrow roads of 1770 with 30 other backpackers on what looked and sounded like Devil's Hairdriers. It was a 60km round trip finishing at a beach to take in the Sunset.

After I took stock of my trip:

* Flies in the face - 24

* Times I hit 80km an hour - 1

* Unscratchable itches inside helmet - 34

* Re-overtaking people who had overtaken you 30 seconds previously - 9

* Kangaroos seen - 11

* Kangaroos hit - 0

* Times I pretended I was Street Hawk - 1

The bikes rowed up during a break.

Me with the town's local bike........

Like, wow, man.......

Some More Whitsundays Photos

2008-03-25T14:53:00.006+09:00

Whitehaven Beach

Sexy, svelte and sore......

The cabin was beneath the sea level. It may not look it, but those ladders were vertical.

Sail Of The Century

2008-03-21T15:28:00.004+09:00

Arrival in Airlie

I arrived in Airlie Beach about 8pm after a rather taxing 11 hour bus journey. I don't know of you've ever had to take a tinkle on a moving bus, but I would liken it to trying to a water a plant nailed to a Catherine Wheel.

Occasionally your stream and the bowl coincide in space and time like some rare planetary alignment, but more often than not your left reeling and clanging off the cubicle walls as the bus accelerates round a bend or stops suddenly at traffic lights.

Rest-stops are a a godsend on such journeys, where beefy housewives dressed in chequered tabards serve up pasties and pastries from a heat-lamped cabinet. Not classy, but most welcome.

Airlie itself is simply a street comprising marinas, travel agents selling scuba, skydiving and sailing courses, mingled with hostels pumping beats on to the streets. The real attraction here is The Whitsundays, a semi-tropical arc of islands scattered off the East Coast of Queensland and alongside the Great Barrier Reef. Really, people come here to leave; visits are relatively fleeting as most backpackers kick their heels waiting for the day their boat sets sail.

Sailing The Seven Seas

My boat trip was 2 days and 2 nights aboard the Atlantic Clipper (a 34 metre sailing ship) for a cruise around the sandy crescents and inlets of the Whitsundays. I set sail on the Tuesday and initially wondered whether I had done the right thing: the weather had been terrible, like Cairns, and the introductory welcome from the ship's crew, as we tootled out of Airlie Marina, was a bit Club 18-30 for my liking with its emphasis on whooping and cheering and, then, when the Captain claiming "I can't hear you" whooping and cheering a little bit louder.

However, it turned out it was fairly laissez-faire affair, and so spent my time talking to other passengers. I did actually get quite lucky with my shipmates this time. Whereas my Coober Pedy trip had been somewhat blighted a gaggle of insular German teenagers and my Red Centre tour rendered awkward by a group whose first language was not English, the boat had just the right mix of people.

Aside, that is, from a group of dour "it girls" from Chelsea or somewhere, who were so posh their lips didn't meet when they spoke (thus the word "really" was pronounced as "reewry" and "lovely" as "wuvreh") and who spent the trip pouting, appropriately, like fishes, speaking to no one and applying suncream to their chubby little thighs. Should have tipped them in.

The Little Mermaid

By the second day we were in Whitehaven Beach, widely considered one of the best beaches in Australia due to its white, sugar-like silicate sand.

After wrestling with a wetsuit for the best part of 10 minutes where , much to everyone's hilarity, I tried to put my leg in the arm, the arm in the leg and, once I had that sorted out, realised it was back-to-front, I waded out into the ocean.

The water was a kind of milky-pearl blue. And very shallow; we wandered out a good hundred metres yet the water was only at waist height. There, we had piggy back fights, tried to form human pyramids and legged each other over. Jolly good fun.

After lunch we were dinghied out to another inlet for snorkelling. I had never tried snorkelling before and had never been a particularly good swimmer, my last aquatic achievement being my Green badge for 25m in 1986. But I ignored my common sense and elected to believe it would be "an easy thing to do".

I was almost right. I waded out past the incredibly sharp stones with my wetsuit, goggles, snorkel and float and within moments was on the set of Finding Nemo, with electric blue fishes darting in and out of my field of vision, and big brain-shaped coral formations lying beneath me.

I also came across what can only be described as a violently purple lady's part which opened like a flower as I neared it. Later, I found out it was a clam.

For the duration of my subnmarine adventure, my only accompaniment was the sound of my own breath and the sploosh of my kicking legs. Fantastic.

Jaws

Back at the boat in the evening we were treated to a display by a visiting dolphin, who later came to be bothered by two reef sharks, Jaws's much smaller cousins. The dolphin didn't seem too concerned by the maritime equivalent of group of chavs hanging around under a streetlight, and continued about its business of chasing fish. Still, a great sight.

The next morning the sea had begun broiling and the trip turned into a huge who-can-keep-their-breakfast-down competition. Most people had come up on to the top deck in order to get a fix on the horizon and the ships bow was now pitching wildly into the air before plunging into the waves. I didn't feel too bad. The same couldn't be said of one Irish girl who was the first to openly spew into the bin.

Back on the mainland we all said our goodbyes. Later that night in bed I could still feel myself swaying as if trying to gain my balance on the boat, a sensation still with me the next day.

I will always be a land-lubber I fear, but the trip was ace.

Cairns

2008-03-21T15:08:00.002+09:00

When I stepped off the plane in Cairns, I was taken aback by the sweaty, fetid fug of humidity. Clearly, if Alice was desert heat, Cairns was to be jungle heat.

It wasn't until the next day when the sun was up, I realised Cairns is nestled in between a series of towering rainforest-covered slopes. But then again, it is in the Tropics. Like Lilt, it really is Totally Tropical.

And to prove it was raining. Oh boy, was it raining. Rain that would make your head bleed. Rain that would make Noah go "...oh no, not again" before nipping down Focus Do-It-All for some supplies.

Cloud here isn't so much low as at street level, and because Cairns is a doing place rather than a seeing place, travel agents peer out from amongst gaudy posters for diving courses, wondering when the torrential downpour will end.

And amongst the deluge, my camera decided to give up the ghost, so I spent the afternoon rushing round Cairns trying to find the one Sony accredited dealer on the edge of town. One discounted $30 fixing fee later, and back at the hostel I found that though it worked in the shop, the camera was broken again, my day had been wasted and it was too late to book any activity for the following day. Not that it would have been particularly pleasant in this end of the world weather.

A balls-up frankly. But never mind. Greyhound bus to Airlie tomorrow where I am hoping the weather will stay fine.

Rock On!

2008-03-15T13:30:00.000+09:00

A 4.20am start for my Ayres Rock tour meant early to bed. But if you're not tired at 9 o' clock, you're not tired.

Again I spent the first few hours of the journey asleep and when I woke we were still 4 hours from our destination. The temperature was already up in the high 30s and was threatening to prevent us from doing any walking. Unfortunately it didn't prevent tour guide Tom from playing the atrocious Australian equivalent of Chas 'N Dave and insisting everyone do the actions under threat of being dumped in the outback.

Lyrics thus:

"Give me a home among the gum trees,
with lots of plum trees,
a sheep or two, a ka-kangaroo.
A clothes line out the back, verandah out the front,
and an old rocking chaaaaair....... "

Each animal had an appropriate hand action. I certainly knew which hand action was most appropriate. I sat with my arms resolutely folded like a child who had not won the Knight Rider keyring during pass the parcel.

The Red Centre, as it's known, comprises three natural features: Uluru (Ayres Rock), Kata Tjuta and King's Canyon, which many professed to be their favourite, although for me was the least impressive on account of our truncated tour and resemblance to the Peak District if it was painted pillar box red.

Another hellishly long drive and were approaching Uluru. And it is at its most impressive on approach; appearing seemingly from nowhere, ominously dominating the skyline, eerie and foreboding, and standing out in sharp relief against the flatness of the surrounding land.

Over to the observation area to watch the setting sun cast its purple hues against the rock, and then back to camp for kangaroo steak.

That night I camped out under the stars. Using a swag (a cross between a sleeping bag and a huge bulletproof vest) and my rucksack as a pillow, I gazed up at a trillion pin points of light showering down. I listened to some suitably epic Sigur Ros track and lay counting shooting stars. I counted 7 before I fell asleep. A real moment.

I was up at 4.30 am next morning to catch the Uluru sunset. We made our way round the base of the rock as the sun turned it to glowing ochre. I really hadnt appreciate how rough and craggy it was. I assumed it was smooth and rounded but it is riddled with holes punched messily into the side and shattered scree litters the floor.

Final visit of the day was the most impressive. Kata Tjuta looks like a boxing glove slices up by a pizza cutter. Or an alien city fashioned from bright red Playdoh. A walk between the giant rock bollocks revealed a truly otherworldy landscape of blood red sand and giant magenta meatballs.

And amongst it a sight only myself and Riccardo (from Milan) saw. A lone kangaroo stood stock still staring us down. I spotted it first and nudged the blabbering Riccardo into silence, but upon aiming our cameras it bolted across our path and headed off down the escarpment.

From there a wearisome 5 hour journey back to Alice. A total of 1300km which added to the 1600km from Coober Pedy made nearly 3000km in 4 days. And I haven't even started on my Greyhound bus ticket yet.

Just didgeridon't....

Kata Tjuta....

Look closely, you can see Skippy....

A Town Called Alice

2008-03-15T11:53:00.002+09:00

We arrived in Alice about 6pm. The hostel, Annie's Place, sister to the one I dumped in Adelaide, is the best I've stayed at so far. En suite, swimming pool, restaurant with $5 meals and only $19 a night.

The next day I had a wander into Alice itself. There's not much there and it's very redolent of a mid-West US town with its low rise shopping arcade, small mall and Pizza Hut.

But the Aborigines are ever present in Alice; the majority, and the dominant presence on the streets. What I find interesting, all race cliches aside, is that they really don't appeared to have changed in 40,000 years. Today we have anti-lock brakes, blue tooth headsets and Youtube videos of people falling off skateboards. Yet wander into Alice and you'll see seven Aborigines sat in a semicircle under the shade of a tree, gazing at the sky and casually wafting the flies away.

I can't work out whether they steadfastly refuse to participate in the 21st Century as a protest to their horrendous treatment at the hand of the invading white man, or that they are simply forever out of step with modern living. Or both. Or neither.

One thing is for certain. They ooze history. You can see it in their gait and the shape of their skulls. They are living history. Perhaps I shouldn't be viewing them as curios or exhibits; thye are after all people. But they are a fascinating people, and it seems such a shame that when you look into their eyes all you see is defeat.

Going Underground?

2008-03-15T10:09:00.005+09:00

Frankly, I was ready to see the back of Adelaide. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but when in years to come I deign to recall those few days, I will forever have the mental picture of me trapped in a kind of human rotisserie, turning slowly over the flame until I emitted a pleasant sizzling sound.

A 5.30 am start, then, for my journey to Coober Pedy, remote underground mining town and location for such sci-fi classics as Mad Max and, more recently, Pitch Black starring human lintel, Vin Diesel (despite this it is actually a great film).

Our ultimate destination was Alice Springs over 1000 miles away, and so the journey was to be split up into two days of bum-numbing cross-continental driving.

We were picked up in a minibus at 6.00am by the relentlessly cheery Steve, whose perma-tan was matched only by his perma-grin, like he’d a had a huge lungful of nitrous oxide before he’d set off.

The first few hours were spent asleep while Steve gunned the Groovy Grape tour bus out of Adelaide and into the desert. Yes, that’s right, Groovy Grape. Jesus – it sounds like some programme some Christian youth workers have put together to keep the chavs off the street and the alcopops on a Friday night: “Hey kids, come down to the Groovy Grape on Friday night. There’ll be shandy, Twister and someone has brought in a copy of Goonies on VHS”

When we’d all woken up the landscape had started to change; the vegetation was sparser, the trees shorter, the sand….well….sandier. Soon we were passing giant salt flats previously inland seas before Australia broke away from Asia and became warmer. And when we called in at a petrol station the thermometer read 43c in the shade. The bloke at the counter reckoned it was 48c in the centre of the car park. His wife disagreed, she guessed at 52c. I settled for an average at 50c.

We arrived at Coober Pedy at around 7.00 and immediately set up camp in a hollowed out cave rammed with metal bunk beds, before heading out on to the mounds of pink earth which dominated the town skyline.

Coober Pedy is home to 80% of the world’s opal production and so the town resembles a cross between a Martian building site and a Wild West watering hole. Rusting cranes sit atop salmon coloured dunes, homes are carved into the cliffs (Coober Pedy is Aboriginal for White Man’s Burrow), whilst huge sun-weathered men in fluorescent tabards brush dust from themselves in the glow of the setting sun.

Coober Pedy was great. Its remoteness, harsh environment and unearthly atmosphere created a real alien feel. But I must take issue with the literature billing it as “underground”. “Come and visit the underground pub” says the bumph. However, piling earth on top of something at ground level does not constitute “underground” in my book. As one member of our group pointed out “that means the ground floor of my house is underground as it’s buried beneath my first floor”

The temp reads 43c in the shade

England 4, Germaine 2

2008-03-06T17:26:00.002+09:00

Just wandering around the Adelaide Women's Literary Festival (hey, there's not a lot to do around here), and just bumped into Germaine Greer, author of the The Female Eunuch.

She didn't say anything vaguely feminist and did appear to be wearing a bra. Disappointing.

You Are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine....

2008-03-06T16:56:00.005+09:00

I'm in Adelaide now. It's a bit like Nottingham if it was located on the surface of Mercury.

Yesterday it was 36c and today it's 37. By the weekend it will be in the 40s. Swap for centigrade for $ and that's the amount I'm spending on water to stop myself shrivelling like a sultana.

Adelaide is pleasant enough but isn't really a tourist city compared to, say, Sydney or Melbourne or Canberra for that matter. It's a grid of churches and shopping arcades dropped in the desert and tarted up with trams and trees. There's also a nice Henley-on-Thames-type river thing going on the Northern edge.

There's nothing wrong with it and it must be jolly nice to live here, but with three days to kill (unless the sun kills me first), I can't help feeling two would have been plenty.

And did I mention it's hot? Oh lordy, lordy. I've found myself dodging left and right into patches of shade cast by lampposts, traffic lights and sparrows. The sun is beating down so hard is knocking people off their bikes and punching holes in parasols.

On top of this, my first hostel had no aircon. After wandering around all day in what felt like a giant 850 Watt microwave on "high", I was about to go "ding". Thus when I got back to my room expecting the cool, meatlocker freeziness of the aircon, I found my room to be exactly the same temperature as outside.

Now when it comes to the cold, I'm well hard. I could stand in the freezer section of Somerfield in just my Optimus Prime boxers and feel nothing. But heat I'm not so good at. So after a good 30 minutes of sweating into my duvet set, I set out in search of alternative accommodation.

Not a good idea at 9.30 at night. Especially when the city was fully booked for the Adelaide literary festival, but I had to try. First I tried the Medina but they were full and sent me to the Rendezvous. All they had left was the Penthouse Suite at $750. I was sorely tempted but I am not Simon Cowell.

Finally I found a motel which looked like the kind of place a human resources manager takes his secretary for an hour at lunchtime, but nevertheless it satisfied my criteria in that the receptionist assured me the room did not feel like an iron foundry and did have aircon.

I trudged back to my old hostel picked up all my bags and trudged back to the motel. By the time I arrived for the second time I was hallucinating arctic tundra, igloos and the planet Pluto, but whilst my room did have aircon, it was only in its mini-hallway and not in the bedroom which meant I spent my evening in a chair in the hallway drying off and craning to see the TV.

This morning I switched again to the YHA Hostel which seems fine. I even received one night's rebate from my first hostel. I was straight up with them and explained the problem and they were understanding. "Where are you off to next?" asked the receptionist as I was leaving.

"Coober Pedy - the Outback mining town" I replied.

"Oh" he said "It was 46C there yesterday"

Shit.

The sun beats down in Adelaide. Your Cornetto doesn't last long in this weather.

Bridge over the River Torrens

Farewell Melbourne

2008-03-06T16:44:00.002+09:00

So what a great little city Melbourne is. And what a pity I have to move on.

Sunny of disposition, simply laid out, easy on the eye and easy on the wallet; the longer I stayed, the more I wanted to stay.

On the great Melbourne vs Sydney debate, I nail my colours to Melbourne's mast. Admittedly, though Melbourne lacks Sydney's multitude of beaches (Melbourne's only beach is a thin and gritty affair), and similarly any world-beating landmarks like the Opera House or Bridge, its agreeability, brightness and lightness beats the uptight arrogance of Sydney anyday.

The Great Ocean: Rode

2008-03-01T13:24:00.007+09:00

Friday was the day of my Great Ocean Road trip, and given I was due for a 6am start I decided to go to bed nice and early.

An empty gesture, it turned out, as I was woken up at 1.30 am by two exceedingly late (or early?) check-ins, who preceded to turn on the light and spend the next ten minutes ensuring their duvet covers were at right angles to the pillow and the pillow cases tessellated.

I was woken again at 4am by the Frenchman singing in his sleep. He’s no better when he’s unconscious. And then again at 5.30 by a tram, sounding like a Sherman tank charging through a junk yard. In a thunderstorm.

So bleary-eyed I was picked up 6.55 by the tour bus and met Trevor – driver and guide for the day. Trevor was about 53, very tall, very thin with a pocked-mark face and a world-weariness about him. “Long day ahead” he said puffing out his cheeks and furrowing his brow. He wasn’t wrong.

After an hour of picking people up, some sat nonchalantly eating their breakfast when they should have been at the pick-up point, we set off towards the Great Ocean Road, a 120km southern coastal road, constructed by soldiers returning from WWI.

Throughout the trip Trevor, all microphoned up, delivered an informative yet strangely morbid commentary:

“See this? There were terrible bushfires here a few years ago. One family tried to take refuge in their water tank….Boiled. To. Death”

“See this ridge? This is named after a woman who drove her car off this ravine. Poor bitch”

“A couple of years ago a man in that house went mad and killed his entire family. Stupid bugger”

…but Trevor was good value and didn’t suffer fools gladly, shushing an annoying group of giggling Swedish schoolgirls talking all over his commentary.

The tour wend its way along The Great Ocean Road, round numerous inlets, beaches and outcrops, but our ultimate destination was The 12 Apostles - a series of million-year-old giant rock totems hammered into the coastline in parallel, like huge igneous fenceposts.

We arrived there after an 8 hour drive and made straight for the helicopter ride as for an extra $60 we could see the Apostles from the air. 10 minutes later I was being weighed for the trip.

My tummy did a little fart of fear when I saw one chopper launch off at an impossibly-stupid angle before erratically veering left and right like it was trying to evade an Afghan stinger missile. I was reassured, however, when one of the ground crew pointed out “Don’t worry. There are no passengers that. The boss is bored and has taken a chopper out for a spin” . 5 minutes after that I was strapped in the front seat next to the driver. “The stick and the rudder are live” he said “Don’t touch them, otherwise we will crash. And that WILL hurt”.

The trip was perfect, however. Great steep turns allowed us to swoop down on the rocks. The skies were deep blue clear. It was like being suspended in a little bubble of happiness. But, alas, after 12 minutes we returned to Earth.

And then began the long journey home. A good day, but a very long day – nearly 11 hours in the car. Trevor himself admitted he didn’t agree with the route and would have preferred to belt down the motorway for 2 hours to the 12 Apostles and then spend more time there, rather than the windy, carsick inducing Ocean Road.

But a good start to my grand Australian tour.

The chopper: An EC-300. Or something.

12 Apostles from the air.

...and then from the viewing platform

Melbourne

2008-03-01T12:30:00.009+09:00

I'm in Melbourne now. And I like it

Understated, quaint and.....well....just more pleasant. Where Sydney is a bustling metropolis, Melbourne feels more provincial, more steeped in cafe culture, more friendly.

And it's cheap. Much cheaper, in fact, than it's New South Wales rival. Here the same money buys me a good Geoff Capes-sized portion of pasta as opposed to the petri-dish of microwaved slop found on The Cross

I am staying in a hostel called The Nunnery, formerly a convent, now a home to backpacker-based vice and inequity. The staff appears jolly pleased with the number of puns they've managed to wring out of this: the chief receptionist is called Mother Superior, the hostel's cat is called Brother Francis and backpackers must abide by the 10 Commandments, including "cleanliness is next to Godliness". Judging by the state of some rooms, then, we are lucky that Satan himself hasn't tried to book a room for the night

The first person I bumped into was bear-like Quebecois and my former Pink House bunkbed buddy, Etienne, who I last saw in my room at 4.30 that morning. "What the fuck are you doing here?" I asked slack-jawed. "No. What the fuck are YOU doing here?" he asked with equal incredulity. I can't believe we shared a room for the best part of 6 months (and a bed - not like that, though) and didn't even discuss our respective future travel plans

My room is home to two Aussies and a French bloke called Quentin, who upon finding I could play guitar, and convinced of his own singing ability, made me thrash out Coldplay songs whilst he crooned at excessive volume

At times his voice did a carry a Chris Martin-esque oaky tone, but more frequently sounded like Arthur "Good Moaning" Bostrom from 'Allo 'Allo

After extricating myself from the Gallic jamming session, I made my way over the Eureka Skytower, because I am a sucker for observation decks. Easily one of the best towers I’ve visited, the windows were floor to ceiling and tinted to give a clear view of the city and small, cushioned footstools were liberally scattered around allowing visitors to take in the panoramic view.

For an extra $12, tourists could ride The Edge. Not, as some might hope, the opportunity to saddle up U2’s guitarist and ride him into the sunset, but rather frosted-glass box-like contraption which steadily extends out from the skyscraper, until suspended 287 feet over the ground, at which point the frosted glass instantly clears, leaving you to peer down through the glass floor at the ground. It makes you feel a bit funny in your willy. Not in a rude way. In a “where’s the handrail?” way.

The older trams are like the troop transport from Empire Strikes Back. They are very, very noisy and look likely to fall apart at any point.

View from the Eureka Tower....

"The Edge" from the side. It's a 287 feet drop straight down. Unfortunately, you're not allowed to take photographs whilst in it. Tight bastards

Feel The Burn

2008-02-21T15:14:00.004+09:00

Around this time last year I seem to remember writing a blog entry about how, after a typically British approach to sunbathing, I'd turned a particularly agonising and bloody shade of magenta.

And, if your recall, I had simultaneously been bombarded by a squadron of mosquitoes, who had treated the crack of my arse like an X-Wing fighter treated the trench on the Death Star. And we all know what happened there.

Fast-forward one year and a few days into my stay, once again, I've already frazzled my shoulder and forehead into streaky bacon and, similarly, and true to form, the mozzies have turned my legs into crimson bubble wrap. Needless to say, word of the day is "ouch".

The place is still quiet. Highlights so far include last night's worst-ever pub quiz performance, enlivened only by a moment where, when teams were invited to tell a joke, Chris took to the mic to tell one of the single most inappropriate jokes I think I've ever heard, eliciting a stunned silence from the assembled throng. Brave man.

Then it was back to the Pink House with our tail between our legs for beers in the back courtyard, just time to hear Richie theorise that Raj's penis must look like "a Twix".

It is time to move on I think. I will remember the Pink House fondly, but onwards and upwards. Or given that it's Melbourne next, onwards and downwards.

Return To Oz

2008-02-21T14:37:00.003+09:00

The World's Favourite Scareline

Sorry for the radio silence this soon into the adventure. Truth be told: right now it's quiet. I'd describe myself as dormant and frequently horizontal. I'm just taking it easy. I'm a Cadbury's Caramel.

I am now back in Australia. And for a while I wondered whether I would make it. Chiefly due to my flight over here which was the worst in living memory. For the first four hours I was shunted, buffeted, dropped and rammed from every angle. No, not an impromptu liaison with Scott, the festive Qantas air steward, but rather due to cutting the corner of Tropical Cyclone Nicholas.

I was on the pot when it really kicked in. I had been holding it in for about 20 minutes as the continuous seatbelt sign had been confining people to their seat. And when, in a brief respite, the light had gone off I had bolted for the toilet door, and then bolted the toilet door. However, halfway through seeing that man about that dog, it kicked in.

I thought sitting down might solve the problem, but when 2 minutes later I had been dislodged from the pot and was scrabbling around on the floor, trying to cast a flailing arm into the sink for leverage, I knew we were in for some rough stuff.

But, as weather systems such as this take their energy from the sea, once over land it went from carrier bag in a wind tunnel to ski-ing down silk. We even flew straight over Ayres Rock. Got a great view but, alas, not a great photo.

Pink House Revisited

Arrived back the Pink House at about 9.00 and knocked on the window as I didn't know the security code. First thing I saw was dear Richie, whose "O"-shaped expression of surprise looked like a slightly baffled chimp thinking about a new kind of question mark. Clearly, he forgot I was coming.

Anyway, within a second the door had opened and there was a queue of hugs. First from Richie, then from Etienne and Brian, and I found Chris and Miranda in the back courtyard.

It's like I've never been away, but the atmos is different - a post-Xmas lull. Nearly everyone has got jobs in an attempt to counter their festive spend, meaning people are in bed by 11.30. And new draconian rules on noise enforced by a new and regular council visits mean the Pink House is...well....a bit quiet at the moment.

Nevertheless, good to be back.

Gung Hay Fat Choi

2008-02-10T22:36:00.000+09:00

After wandering round Little India, and with it being Chinese New Year, I thought I'd head down to Singapore's Chinatown to see what the crack was.

I'd missed the celebrations by a few days but there was still a buzz about the place. Teams of brightly dressed Chinamen in full dragon get-up were tootling around in flatbed trucks as if they were ready to be deployed at a moment's notice, like crack commandos.

Throughout the day they would appear from nowhere and do a merry dance in front of the many restaurants to bring them luck throughout the year. Not so lucky for some people sat out front trying to eat their won-tons in peace. Bloody hell those drums are loud.

Speaking of restaurants, I thought whilst I was there I should probably sample some local cuisine. In my head, I was thinking beef in black bean or maybe some chow mein. Closer inspection of the menus revealed I was wide of the mark. It's interesting to note differing Eastern and Western notions of what is considered appetising.

Thus scanning the many restaurants' offerings, I had a choice of dishes like pig's intestines with cucumber, cow's spleen and fishhead curry and my favourite, sweet and sour frog. I am not joking.

Don't think the Capital Chinese Restaurant in Uttoxeter has this on the menu.

Time Waits For No Man. Unless You Live In Singapore

2008-02-10T22:17:00.001+09:00

My God the people here are fearsome dawdlers. I thought the industrious Oriental work ethic may have imbued them with a sense of urgency, but more likely the Indian trait of lazing about in the sun has surged to the fore.

They teeter and meander along pavements, gawp slack-jawed and generally list left and right until they perfectly block my path. Similarly, though the shop service here is efficient, so many times now I have found myself stuck behind some family at the counter all studying the backlit menu with squinting incomprehension as if it's been written in binary translated into Welsh, before then changing and rechanging their minds about what they want.

Oh for Christ's sake it's KFC. Just choose a family bucket and have done with it. I wasn't in KFC, by the way. Ahem.

As an aside they have an interesting way of cleaning the toilets here. Each cubicle contains a small drain in the floor, and instead of scrubbing away with the Cillit Bang, they boot open the door and scattergun the entire cubicle with a jetwash, like some crazed SWAT team operative. First time I used the cubicle straight afterwards and saw the walls and seat dripping, I assumed someone had been really desperate and not quite made it.

Finally, this is a typical sight in Singapore, Oriental script sitting alongside Hindi.

The Climbdown - Sorry Singapore

2008-02-10T21:33:00.000+09:00

Well, as I suspected my erstwhile rant concerning the rather ersatz and empty nature of Singapore has proved to be a little harsh.

Essentially, I am a collosal wimp: deny me a night's sleep and waft me with heat straight from Satan's bumhole and I would easily win The Eurovision Grump Contest.

Anyway, it turns out Singapore is fine. Not somewhere where you'd spend a lengthy stay, but it does have it's charm.

Went for a walk around the surrounding area and discovered the skyline: ubiquitous harbour front skyscrapers - looked great at night.

I also found the Raffles Hotel, which is like something straight out of Passage To India, with its off-white verandas and immaculately presented Sikhs waiting to open the doors on the sedans of dignatories (if you look really closely you can see him)

Also went to Orchard Road, the main shopping district, but it could have been absolutely anywhere - malls jammed with Nike, Armani and Panasonic. Wandered round Borders and immediately thought "Why have I done this? Totally pointless". Orchard Road's principal distinction, then, it is that is the most indistinctive place in the world. A bit like a few other places.

Next day was better. Went over to Sentosa Island via futuristic monorail. Sentosa Island is an outcrop of rock and sand now redeveloped with purpose-built beaches and sail-shaped hotels. I'd gone over for the Carlsberg Sky Tower, an observation deck operating on a rather phallic giant-doughnut-gliding-up-and-down-a-pole system. Once the doughnut is at the top of the pole it....ahem....gently twists round to give you a better view whilst everyone gasps with excitement.

Ithankyou

Singa Poor Show

2008-02-10T21:11:00.000+09:00

First of all it's worth pointing out that I'm a right grumpy bastard the first few days of travelling. And this sojourn is no exception. Harumph and indeed harumph. Are there two Rs in harrumph?

It may be that the mild rant you are about to read is tempered by jetlag and heat, but even from an objective standpoint, Singapore has yet to really impress. Sorry.

How to describe it. Well imagine this. Go on, imagine it:

Take a Chinatown, any from your average British city and plop it next to any Little India say Brick Lane or Rusholm, ensuring there is a degree of overlap and that, for example, some places sell chicken biryani AND sweet and sour pork.

Now have some Chinese blokes on rickety cycles weave in and out of some Indian blokes sat on the street with one leg tucked under them. Now flank this with some Japanese-style neon highrises and liberally scatter Western iconography (pictures of Beckham and Nokia Mobiles) across the architectural bric-a-brac.

That's Singapore. Sounds interesting admittedly, but it all feels begged, borrowed or stolen. I suspect you can find better examples of everything on show here in it's original indigenous location.

I just thought it would have more of a sense of itself. Never mind.

My judgement is clouded however. My coma-inducing jetlag has pinned me to my bed, and the greenhouse humidity is fostering a walking-through-warm-treacle malaise. This after coming from a Midlands Winter where, the weather girl warned if it got much worse robins would actually freeze to the branch and polar bears would be seen on the streets of Walsall.

Things will get better I hope. Otherwise Singapore can consider itself slinged. No, slung.

Oh forget it.

Here We Go Again.......

2008-02-06T15:07:00.000+09:00

Hello. Welcome back. It's been a while .

Maybe I haven't been in contact as much I should. And that's my fault - I'm sorry. But I reckon you might forgive me, so I'll carry on bashing away regardless. At the keyboard I mean; I have a girlfriend now, you know.

A lot had happened since my last entry. I've been on a 30,000 mile circuit of earth, had a more cheese-on-toast than I care to mention, and indulged in countless afternoon naps. Under a clean duvet. And in silence.

Now I'm going to try to do it all again. What a berk. This time it's New Zealand, via Australia.

I am out of blogging practice so you'll have to excuse me if my usual devastating eloquence and wordsmithery have temporarily deserted me. I am sure that after a box of goon and an apalling night's sleep, constantly awoken by slamming doors and shagging, no doubt my powers will return.

So here we go again.....

Go East

2007-11-09T21:59:00.000+09:00

Hurrah. Chris is back from his trek across the Outback. He really is a good old boy, already regaling me with tales of not showering for 9 days, accidentally mistaking a drug den for his hostel and meeting a 23 year-old tour guide who knew absolutely nothing about the actual tour.

His photos are amazing - sunsets on beaches, impossibly-long desert highways disappearing into the vanishing point and giant, craggy blood-red rock formations - and it's really brought home to me how little I have seen since I arrived, and how keen I am to get going.

I have come to realise over the last 3 weeks that I have fallen into an old pattern. Get up, eat some Weetabix, go to work, come home, eat some Findus Crispy Pancakes, go to bed. In effect, I have accurately re-created my life in London, except on far less money and also whilst living in a room with 8 other people. So, as an experience, currently I am actually registering a net loss.

Admittedly, work is a means to an end, to fund my further travels, and it's a good job it is, because if this was my actual life (15k a year to spend 8 hours a day photocopying in silence), I would have already used my hole-puncher to bludgeon myself into unconciousness. Having said that, I do take back some of things I've said about the people here. There are a few rather witty people, but I think they are simply not given a chance to shine as they're too busy worrying about their Departmental Systems Architecture or their Info Turret Investigation Phase Matrix to engage any form of witty repartee. Shame, because a couple of them are quite sharp. I guess I just miss the bear-pit of the Drum office.

Over the next 6 weeks, then, I just to have to knuckle down, ignore any opportunities to blow the money I've saved, and store up for a January departure date. At the moment the plan is, well, vague, but I'm thinking about getting on a bus and heading up the East Coast, calling in at various towns along the way. Potential stop-overs include: Fraser Island, Townsville, Coffs Harbour, 1770 (yes, that IS a town), Bundaberg, Yepoon, Magnetic Island, Moreton Island, Surfer's Paradise, the Whitsundays, and a few more besides.....

Trouble is with backpacking is everyone you meet recommends somewhere different, and some even go so far as to claim certain towns or beaches are the best places in the known galaxy, investing their description with the kind of wide-eyed zeal you'd expect from a religious preacher addressing a congregation on the subject of the next life.
And, to confund matters, for everyone person you find who will bang on about how "fucking amazing", say, Cairns is, you'll find someone who'll declare they'd rather spend the weekend in Huddersfield than go there again. My fear, after wandering up and down Kings Cross and peering into the multitude of backpacker-specialist travel agents, is that I'll end up stuck on some pseudo - Club 18-30 trip next to a 22 year-old Ben Sherman-shirted twat called Darren (from Bolton), and a hippie, tie-dye t-shirt wearing white/middle class rasta called Camilla (from Windsor). And that is not me.

Fortunately, there are alternatives. So, I need to talk to people who are clued up, who know what I like and what I don't like, and seek out the best places, lest I end up between Darren and Camilla attempting to quaff a yard of ale through my nose.

Brain Of Britain

2007-11-09T21:56:00.000+09:00

We were having a discussion the other day whether it's OK to laugh at thick people.

Obviously, as our society becomes more tolerant we see a greater understanding between different cultures, beliefs and lifestyles. But it's interesting to note that Martin Luther King's I Have A Dream Speech didn't include the line "....we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing......oh and don't forget the thick people".

Ashamedly, in these enlightened times it is sometimes difficult not to cringe yourself to death when you hear people come out with increasingly daft statements. And we hear quite a few in the hostel. We have two people staying with us at the moment from the North of England. They were chatting to Franc, who reported back to tell us that when questioned which country Jews came from, answered..."Er...dunno.....Jew-rusalem?".

Other fauxs-pa made include (on quiz night). Name a country in South America named after an Italian City. Answer: Nepal. Also how many countries border does Taiwan? Answer: 4

I know not everyone can be a trivia master, but there's certain things people should probably know. Is this snobbish or unfair? I don't know. I suppose I should really try to be more tolerant.

If like me, however, you feel like saying "bugger it all to hell, lets laugh at the idiots", this site contains the stupidest answers ever given on British Quiz Shows....and it's hilarious (Dad, you will love this).

Here's a taster:

From GWR FM, Bristol
Presenter: What happened in Dallas on November 22, 1963?
Contestant: I don't know, I wasn't watching it then.

Click here for the rest........

http://message.snopes.com/showthread.php?t=16225

Boo! It's The Pink House Halloween Party

2007-11-04T12:29:00.000+09:00

Harry Potter And The Bunk Bed of Destiny.... in which Harry, upon leaving Hogwarts, finds himself in a rather pedestrian office job with some cadavers, overseeing some magic trains.

Brian and Etienne: Strictly not Hallowe'en costumes, but disturbing nonetheless

Cue The William Tell Overture. Best costume of the night, but lost on most......

Alex was a brilliant, foul-mouthed Cocker-nee Nan......"Faaaaahk Off, Sunshine"

Miranda really should put some Savlon on that

Group photo by the fountain..... I know this photo is very small but if you look really closely at Jenny (front in short white dress), she appears to have fireballs coming out her eyes. Well, it is Hallowe'en after all.

Holy Ship!

2007-10-28T12:59:00.000+09:00

Yesterday decided to go down to Circular Quay and the Bridge to retake the photos I lost when my USB drive went walkabouts.

Completely forgot about the "Rhapsody Of The Seas". Don't know if you saw this is in the news, but it's the biggest ship ever to grace Sydney Harbour and only cleared the Harbour Bridge by 2 metres when it arrived a few days back.

So as well as grabbing some good images of the bridge, I also snapped off a couple of the ship. And, yes, it's big. Very big.

And embarrassingly, even though they were moored in Circular Quay, the still decided to hold an evacuation drill. This meant those on the quayside could watch and snicker while various blue-rinsed septugenarians in luminous orange lifejackets trundled out to line up along the side of the ship like the world's longest police identity parade.

Look at these photos. I am the new Patrick Lichfield.

Blame Canada

2007-10-23T12:01:00.001+09:00

One upshot of living in a hostel, or indeed travelling, is that your preconceptions tend to be challenged. That's quite a heady statement to kick-off with, but it's true. I am a big believer in speaking as you find. But also it's important to find out as much as you can before you speak about it.

The case in point: The perception is that Canada is a sensible country; less coarse than the States and devoid of their neighbour's hopelessly overly-schmaltzy, highly-commercial Coca Cola culture.

But, so far, and against type, the cleverest man I have met was American. And the biggest idiot, a Canadian. The American was a 25-year old Cornell University graduate who resembled a cross between an Arabian Vizier and Ming The Mericiless, was gay, and was engaged to Paddy Ashdown's son. I am not joking about the last part - intriguingly, he knew that Ashdown was some kind of English politician, but didn't quite appreciate how prominent he was.

Conversely, however, we are currently in the midst of an invasion by Canadian Idiots. Or as they now known around the hostel, Can-idiots. These are the kind of bellowing, baseball-capped doofuses parodied and loathed the world over, although more readily associated with USA. When they are not wearing said baseball caps at a jaunty "rap" angle, or punching the air and going "Wooh, Yeah!", they are busy displaying a startling lack of geographical knowledge, saying things like "Ryan, you are, like, so awesome, dude" or drinking heavily until one of them "barfs". It's like watching some cheap, straight-to-DVD knock-off of American Pie, or some other risible "frat-com".

Furthermore, the pre-existing Canadian contingent have now become mortally embarrassed about the presence of these new, loping jackasses. Yesterday, my friend from Montreal, Etienne, was giving me a Canadian geography lesson and, amongst other things, describing the differences between Provinces (eg Saskatchewan, Manitoba etc) and Territories (eg Yukon) before going on to discuss that the joke amongst Canadians, from British Columbia to Quebec, is that people from Toronto are idiots. And where are this new lot from, I asked? Yep. Toronto. Thus confirming all of Etienne's suspicions.

They had everyone's backs up on the first night when, after neighbours had complained about noise coming from the hostel courtyard, Miranda's continual bout of late night shushing seemed pass through one Can-idiot ear and out the other. "Seriously. Shut up!" said Miranda "We could get fined $600 because of the noise". "Well why don't we all chip in, and then we can make as much noise as we like" bellowed the drunken Canadian. "Shhhhhh!", shushed Miranda before adding "Doesn't really work like that, Ryan", knowing the council can close down hostels with just the stroke of a pen.

Meanwhile, I was on the sidelines tutting disapprovingly and wondering which unlucky person had to share a room with them that night. Turns out it was me. And is their behaviour in the bedroom any different? Well, if I told you they came in at 2am, turned the big light on, whooped and brayed at full volume, snored and then in the morning woke everyone with their alarm at 7am, even though they didn't hear it and didn't need to get up, I think you'll understand why I hope a mysterious and agonising plague is released upon Toronto.

--------------------------
Since I wrote the above, there has been another development. I wearily plodded home yesterday evening after two night's continually interrupted sleep, and not looking forward to that night either, only to be met at the front gate by the Can-idiots, fully backpacked up and steaming out towards the airport shuttle pick-up point. "Are you leaving?" I said, barely disguising the optimism in my voice. "Yeah" whooped one, before adding that uniquely North American goodbye, "Peace!". Well, actually, for me, peace and quiet.

I instantly hugged Miranda and Etienne and Dan before Miranda told me that even if they hadn't left, she wouldn't have extended their rent past Wednesday anyway. As a result Etienne, Matin and I celebrated by going to bed at 10 o' clock for a good night's sleep. Not all in the same bed, obviously.

No Light At The End Of The Tunnel

2007-10-22T09:14:00.000+09:00

Last year I wrote a blog entry about the piss-poor performers in Akabane town square and, actually, seeing as Lou is over there at the moment, I've half-a-mind to ask her to just swing by to see if that "modern dance" prat is still there, whirling his arms around like a windmill on crack.

Anyway in the meantime, in lieu of the demented Japanese street "performer", I have the ones in Sydney to keep me entertained. Unintentionally entertained, obviously. Every day I take the pedestrian tunnel leading under Central Station to my office, and every day down that tunnel I run the gauntlet, darting between slow-moving pedestrians and busted-up buskers.

Most are bog-standard. Two or three are good. Two or three are so bad, they're good. So then, the ones who immediately spring to mind:

1. The Fortune Teller:

Ageing, bearded, floral-skirted Orc, clearly pushing triple figures. She sits on a small foldaway seat at the side of a dinky table scattered with all kinds of dog-eared paraphernalia. I have only ever seen her have one customer: a large Afro-Caribbean woman in an equally bright frock who, in fairness, looked as batty as she did. Perhaps they were friends. "Alright, Glenys...can you tell me my fortune?", "Course, Rita, but I doubt it will have changed since I saw you this morning...."

Most of the time she sits perched on her little seat reading at the newspaper, gurning elastically at passers by like something out of Bo' Selecta. If she really could see the future, she should perhaps find out what days she's likely to receive any customers and then only turn up on those days. See? She's not thinking ahead.

2. The Chinese Puppeteer

Ageing, Oriental prune with a permanent rictus grin, clearly pushing triple figures. The actual puppet itself is a rather splendid Oriental doll complete with embroidered Kimono-esque dressing gown, porcelain face and also is meant to be playing some kind of flute-like instrument. Similarly, attached are multiple strings from every conceivable body part, tied up to two crucifixes above the puppet's "stage". In theory then, you have so much control over it, you could make it alternate between the Moonwalk and the Macerena, in between getting it to pick out the raisins from a bag of Revells.

Why then does the old gimmer only make it turn left and then turn right in time with the music, which incidentally is some generic Chinese pan-pipe music crackling through a ghetto blaster at the side. Christ, you could make that thing do anything: solve a Su-do-ku, rewire a plug, write a letter to the Radio Times. But no, just left and right for me. And all the while, the man as this permanent look of amazement, as if to say "Look! He's dancing in time to the music. Watch this.... Left!.... Amazing. Now watch this..... Right!...... Can you believe it?"

It's still better than Thunderbirds though.

3: The Fake Rolf Harris

Ageing, Aussie one-man band, clearly pushing quadruple figures. The best one of the lot can be found right up the top end of the tunnel - yet for him, alas, I don't think there's any light at the end of it. He's a grizzled Aussie Cowboy-type figure armed with a guitar and a didgeridoo which he attempts to play simultaneously and fails. Usually (and I will have to get a bit technical here) he tunes his guitar to an "open chord" position which means he doesn't have to use his left hand to fret any notes, rather he can just strum/flail away and get one decent chord from the guitar.

His other hand which under normal circumstances would be on the fretboard is used for holding some Aboriginal woodblocks. Then on top of that he has a didgeridoo resting on his chin but, as his other two hands are busy, he faces the wall of the tunnel (with his back to the audience) to props up one end of the didgeridoo against the tiles.

Trying to describe the combined effect is quite difficult, but if you imagine a man dressed like he fell into the props cupboard on the set of Blazing Saddles, facing a wall with his back to you, farting through a didgeridoo, thwacking out one single monotonous chord and rapping some woodblocks on the tiles, and hopefully you'll come to the conclusion that, really, you should carry on walking.

"I", Said The Fly

2007-10-13T13:36:00.001+09:00

The mosquitos are back. And so are the flies. And the flies here are arseholes.

Here they bathe in the light of an Insect-o-Cutor when they fancy topping up their tan. Here, when they smash into the window for the third time, the window usually breaks. Here the flies don't say "bzzzzzz", they say "what are you looking at?". Here when you swat them with a newspaper, they grab the newspaper, tear it into a fetching paperchain and hand it back to you, together with a precis of the main stories.

A few of us had decided to go to the Fountain Cafe for breakfast - so called because it's a cafe and it's by a fountain (presumably, the same theory was employed when they named the Snowy Mountains). Within moments we were being divebombed and aerially bombarded by what seemed to be a whole swarm of flies, but in reality turned out to be about 3.

The persistence and aggression of these little buggers is impressive and as we peppered our conversation with the frequent "bugger offffffs" and "piss offfffs", angular elbow movements and absent-minded swatting of brows, I realised the development of the traditional Aussie corked hat must have been a boon for the early settlers. It certainly wasn't a fashion statement, anyway.

Running On Empty

2007-10-13T13:34:00.000+09:00

Is this the most boring email ever to grace an inbox?

---------
Paul,

In a situation where:

* we have been to the RailCorp panels of professional services providers (P07001 - P07005) to secure a Type 1 professional services resource but have been unsuccessful, and

* we now propose to go to the State Procurement 881 panel,

do we need to prepare a separate submission for approval to invite a tender from the 881 panel or will it be sufficient to go straight to the 881 panel explain and explain this in the submission for approval to award the contract?

Peter
-----------

I don't know who Peter is, but he sounds like a lot of fun. Yes, never a dull moment with the P-Meister. He is Krazy. Yes, Krazy with a "K".

Every now and again, despite his wife's advice, he wears his navy tie, not with his navy suit, but with his cornflower blue suit. What a rebel. And sometimes on his way to work, he plays his INXS CD out of sequence - just to mix it up. Man, someone stop that guy - he's out of control.

This place continues to amuse me. The last thing I want to do is come across as snide or unjustifiably vindictive, but I there's something amiss here. I could be afflicted by a terrible naivety, but I just don't know if what these people do has any point to it. Well, it has a point in that it buys them a cornflower blue suit, and pays the Foxtel bill, but I mean what does it actually do?

Most of these people are contractors, hired management consultants who sit in silence, all day, updating documents, chuntering in a subdued yet overly-businesslike fashion down mobile phones which, incidentally, double as PCs, cameras and TV remote controls.

Listening in on their conversations and talking to them about their tasks, it almost seems as if they are trying to build some kind of castle from thin air, vaguely waving their arms about as they direct where the invisible bricks should go. And to the casual observer, the result is a still an empty plot of land. I'm reminded of a famous Goon Show sketch where, whilst in the desert, Eccles, Neddy and Bloodnok encounter a house which they find to be mirage, only to see Eccles fall out of the sky, remarking "I went upstairs".

Was that a useful analogy? Probably not. But, in short then, I am saying that any minute now I expect people to start falling from the sky, realising their job doesn't consist of anything tangible; nothing they can hold, see or touch. Today's charts relay and condense the results of the last set of charts, which were in fact a forecast of what was to be in today's charts, anyway. This spreadsheet is a spreadsheet about other spreadsheets, all of which referenced this spreadsheet. "Maybe we should touch base and have a discussion about what needs to be discussed next time we discuss how previous discussions have gone"; "We're currently undertaking a Stage 2 feasibility study to discover whether the Project Management Team can effectively forecast for Contingency Budgeting, so we can go straight ahead with implementing a Solutions Matrix to address the issues raised in the Test Summary Report. I think you'll agree, that's pretty exciting. Also my wife's left me and I feel so alone....".

The whole thing is so circuitous, so self-referencing, so tautological that you wonder if any work has any influence on anything in the real world. Like a self-contained, Mobius-strip-shaped little universe or a snake eating its own tail, until it feeds itself into nothing.

Yes, I worked in the advertising industry, which is not exactly the most laudable of professions, but the end result was for all to witness; on TV, on the radio, in a magazine, on the internet. And I'm not knocking them . They have kids to feed and Audi's to fuel, but I remain fascinated by the fact that what they do is so artificial, so invisible, so ethereal that no one has ever noticed their output doesn't actually consist of anything.

No "Non-PC" PCs

2007-10-13T13:29:00.000+09:00

Received this email today:

HOW CAN I AVOID BREACHING RAILCORP’S ICT POLICY?

The ICT policy prohibits you using the RailCorp email system to send sexually explicit or otherwise inappropriate material.

In considering whether material is inappropriate, you can ask yourself:

“If I printed out that picture, would it be acceptable to pin it on the wall in front of all my fellow staff, my managers, and in public view as representing the image RailCorp wants to present to the NSW community?”

Examples (not an exhaustive list) of inappropriate items are:

· Nudity, both male and female
· Swimsuit, lingerie and underwear pictures
· Images/text/videos/jokes/cartoons which may offend on racial/ethnic grounds or on religious grounds

. Pictures/cartoons:

o which show or concentrate on human genitals/sexual anatomy
o of animals apparently engaged in sexual acts
o involving bodily functions (eg: vomiting, urinating, defecating)
o of medical/surgical procedures or of wounds/injuries

All of these items may cause offence and/or discomfort for someone in our workplace, and therefore they are not appropriate.

You should have no expectation of privacy in relation to your use of email in the workplace.

Bloody spoil sports...........

This Sporting Life

2007-10-13T13:26:00.001+09:00

Now I'm not a fan of sport as you know.

In fact, I'd rather spend my Sunday watching the Antiques Roadshow and then Last Of the Summer Wine because, even if Henry Sandon had undervalued a particularly nice teapot, and even if Cleggy failed to launch a rocket made from a bathtub, the combined duration would still be shorter than a football match.
But this last two weekends have been big dates in the Australian sporting calendar and I thought it only fair I celebrate this with my post-colonial cousins.

AFL

First up, the Aussie Rules (or AFL.) Grand Final which myself, Lou, her Melbourne friend Jude, Brian, Franc, Claire, Etienne and Martin all headed down to a bar in Darling Harbour to watch. Obviously, I knew next to nothing about the sport and even with an Aussie, Jude, attempting to explain the rules I was none the wiser.

So how was the game? Well, allow me a digression. Imagine this: when it used to rain at school, we would be confined to the classroom for a "wet-break" where dinner ladies would wheel out reams of blank paper and big stubby Crayola crayons in an attempt to keep us amused for an hour.

If the rain let up, the kids would be let back into the playground and the joy upon being free from the inside of the classroom would result in every child hyperactively zooming around in an impossibly tight turning circle as if just having received an intravenous injection of Kia Ora. From the air it no doubt looked like the physical representation of 2 dozen catherine wheels, spinning wildly and chaotically.

Now, if you'd chucked a ball in while you were at it, you'd have yourself an AFL game.

It's unfathomable: some people are running this way; some people are running that way; there's someone running diagonally for a bit, then back this way. Players dart over there for a while then come cow-tailing it back, then they get tackled and hare it back round and head off in other direction. What's going on?
The whole thing looks like a 22 sprint races being run simultaneously, one for each player, and each with their own unique criss-crossing start and finish point.

And this goes on for ever. 4 quarters of 30 minutes each with a 10 minute break in between means the entire game is pushing 2 and half hours. And that's a long time to be racing around like you've taken an entire packet of Pro-Plus washed down with Red Bull.

I tell you what though. I'll readily admit that even though the game appears an indecipherable hyper-steroidal free-for-all, those players are very, very physically fit. They have to be, being forced to spend two hours of legging it about like they're on fire. They run more than footballers do, and for longer. And, even though tackles are far less brutal than rugby, they run more than rugby players too.

At the end Geelong (near Melbourne) had beaten Port Adelaide by 119 points clear, the biggest ever margin in a Grand Final. Back at the hostel Alex (or Mr Tumnus) was sulking. He's as Australian as drinking Castelmaine XXXX from a billabong, and is a die-hard Port Adelaide fan and little did we know at the time, he was to be disgruntled yet further by an even bigger sporting humiliation........

Rugby

The following weekend was England vs Australia and, despite everyone expecting a thrashing, we headed down to Darling Harbour again to watch the match. This time, however, the bar we had visited the previous week had turned into a meat market complete with gyrating slappers with belts for skirts. Clearly not showing the rugby then.

So we ended up in an old man's pub round the corner, together with a healthy gathering of Aussies and Poms alike. To be fair the Aussies were very gracious singing God Save The Queen as well as their own national anthem, and banter between opposing supporters was light-hearted. The only dissenting voice came from a 70-year old git who looked like he'd been kicked awake in a shop doorway, who routinely barracked the screen with chants of "Break their hands, boys" and was so obnoxious that the other Aussies in the room told him to shut up.

He later fell into conversation with two of our party, Chris (now fully recovered from the train vomitting incident) and Claire. He told them both he had a phD in Econometrics despite looking like a pin up for The Real Ale Drinkers Calendar circa 1974 with his chunky lambchop sideboards and pot belly. Clearly a bit mental.
In fact, after speaking to him for 4 minutes Claire had started surreptitiously kicking me as if to say "rescue me". Martin (from Koblenz) and I wondered how best to do this. "Perhaps I should just go over there and kiss her" he suggested. "Don't think Claire would like that" I responded "Perhaps you should go over there and kiss him".

The game was very exciting, as you no doubt know. So much so that the two German girls, Alischa and Julia, who had never seen a rugby match before, were instantly hooked. The tension built towards the end and the final victory sent the English contingent diving for their mobile phones to send text messages to friends and enemies across the world. The Aussies didn't make a fuss and slunk away quietly, until only the English were left.

I arrived back at the hostel to see Alex (Mr Tumnus), freshly-miserable from Port Adelaide's defeat the week before, being harrangued by three drunk Englishman. "Your team lost at Aussie Rules, and now your rugby team lost as well....dear oh dear oh dear" barracked Noel from Nantwich. "You didn't even score a try" countered Alex, barely containing his rage. "Doesn't matter" said Noel "You still lost". "Yeah, well stop going on about it" retorted Alex "If the Aussies won, I wouldn't have been taking the piss. At least we're modest in victory". "What?!" said everyone in unison "Are you joking? You'd have been banging on for weeks".

And, for someone who doesn't like sport, it was all rather entertaining.

Helter Swelter

2007-10-06T12:34:00.000+09:00

It's October. And today it is 36 degrees. I'll write that again - this time in words for the deaf aids - Thirty-Six Degrees.

It's like being in a wind tunnel with a blast furnace. If I was on a beach I think I'd be mopping at my brow with me hanky like some Midlands Pavarotti.

I'm so hot I'd wrestle naked with Eskimo in a freezer full of icepops.

No duvet for me tonight, then.

All's Well That Ends Whale

2007-10-06T11:22:00.000+09:00

With only a few days to go until she returns home, Lou, my lovely missus, decided to arrange a mystery trip for us.

Despite my constant questioning she refused to give me any clues as to where we were going, and it was only when she hinted "You need a jumper and a camera" that I guessed correctly; it was pushing a sweltering 27 degrees and in this weather only the sea could be that cold. Turns out, we were going whale watching. Good stuff.

I immediately began brushing up on my Moby Dick quotes - "To the last, I will grapple with thee" and "From hell's heart, I stab at thee" - ready to deploy them in case I became accidentally entangled with the harpoon and found myself trussed to the side of the beast. Obviously, that wasn't likely to happen, but I just wanted to show Lou how cultured I was.

So after I'd been put right on the differences between whale watching and ....well, whaling .....we set off. At Darling Harbour we loaded up onto a double decker boat about the size of a small corner shop, and buzzed-off Eastwards out to sea, passing under and past the ubiqitous opera house and bridge. About 1 hour 30 minutes later, Sydney's skyline was pencil-feint in the heathaze, and with the boat pitching and buckling in the Pacific, I began to feel rather queasy. Lou had taken her travel sickness tablets and so was zonked out on the back seat, but other people were surreptitiously making use of the windsock-style honk-bags distributed at departure.

Just when the sweat was beginning to pool in the small of my back and my mouth had gone dry, the driver - who was an Englishman and a Christopher Ecclestone lookalike - spotted two blowhole sprays and made off for a spot about 200m away. Predictably, there was a mad dash for the top deck where several people were already poised with their digicameras, together with one big black American guy and his missus, who had some kind of proper super-duper, hi-tech, ground glass, long-lensed Olympus effort.

With the engine off and drifting aimlessly, the whales began breeching closer. Now we could see them arcing and curling through the waves, the instantly recognisable Y-shaped tail signalling their departure from the surface. At was at this point, however, people who were attempting to take photos were beginning to discover all they had was a series of snaps featuring just the ocean; it was impossible to know where they would surface next, and when they did breech, in the time it takes to fire off a shot, they'd surged off in another direction. Usually down.

Nevertheless we did have one very close encounter. About 20 minutes in one whale pierced the surface metres from the boat, eliciting a chorus of oooohs and aaaahs from the throng. I scrabbled for my camera but completely bungled it - first by turning it off and, then, after I'd turned it back on, by accidentally selecting the wrong mode. Bugger. To my right I heard the big American with the expensive camera chuntering as well ; he'd obviously missed the moment too. Luckily, Lou got off a few shots from a crouching position with her old-style Nikkon, but as she's a photographer and uses good old-fashioned film, I don't know yet whether the encounter exists on record.

Then it was over. We'd had our allotted time and so turned tail and made for Sydney, now obscured by a brilliant blast of late-afternoon sunshine. Actually, it wasn't over. About 40 minutes out of Sydney, a fellow passenger descended the stairs to announce: "look....dolphins" and again there was a mad scramble to the top deck, and to the front of the boat. We peered over the edge to see a dolphin just feet in front of the bow, scything through the foam at incredible speed. To the casual observer it could have looked like we were chasing it down, but we most definitely weren't. No, the dolphin was playing. Apparenty, they often join the returning boats, racing along with them across the ocean. And, sure enough, after a few moments they had peeled away and disappeared.

Another great trip, then. But next time I'll need to be quicker with the camera.

One Day My Prints Will Come

2007-10-06T10:58:00.001+09:00

Last week I was charged with printing out 720 CountryLink training manuals (CountryLink being the OZ equivalent of, say, Intercity). Truly, a job worthy of my talents. Each print run had 84 pages, so that was 60480 pages. It was 122,398 seconds of my life I wasn't going to get back.

So I invented a new game to entertain myself.

If it was a Japanese gameshow it would be called (adopts shouty/grunty Oriental voice): "Super-Printout-Treasure-Hunt-Charrenge!!!!!!!!!!!", accompanied by epilepsy-inducing flashing limegreen captions.

The game is thus: because it's too much for one printer to handle, and because people waiting for one piddly printout are held up by what appears to be an entire tree's worth of paper, I have to stagger the workload.

This means finding other random printers in random parts of the building, installing them on your PC and then sending your Bible Of Dross to print out possibly across the other side of the building. Of course it's not always obvious where these printers are. And so when your print is complete you can go on a little treasure hunt around the labyrinthine corridors looking for any printers with a two ton wodge of paper sat in its out tray.

Strictly speaking you shouldn't do this. Each department has been assigned a printer and has a discreet budget for paper and toner etc. and so today I got rumbled:

"Hi Philip

It appears that what you have been printing has turned up at our printer – level 4 south side facing the tracks.

As this is a large document can you please pick it up instead of reprinting the document.

In future please try to double side print large documents

Regards,
Ellena"

Note how the email is poilte, yet subtle in its recriminations.

"CountryLink"? More like "Cunt Really, Inc."

Vomit Comet

2007-09-24T17:28:00.001+09:00

Interesting night last Saturday.

I was invited to a barbecue over at my old mate Rob Beard's house. Hadn't seen Rob in a while and used to spend time with him in his Brighton flat in '98 and '99, so a mini-reunion was in order. He had now taken up permanent residency in the leafy suburb of Turramurra with his (expectant) wife and so together myself and Chris, Rob's old Brighton mate, made out way out of the city centre, across the harbour bridge and into the wooded avenues of the North Shores.

It wasn't long before Rob was demonstrating his new-found barbecuing prowess, including his piece-de-resistance - sticking a beer can up a chicken's arse to prop it up, and then, whilst rearing and rampant, closing the barbecue lid for a good 45-minute sizzle. The food was fantastic and a few drinks later we decided to go on a late-night bush walk involving beer, a big torch, bats, a chorus of croaking frogs and lots of tripping over tree-roots.

However, it was when I came to leave Turrmurra for Sydney Central that I realised that Chris, who also lived in the city centre, was extremely drunk. Half way through the return train journey he stopped talking, turned green, dropped his head between his knees and started to gurn his way through a series of barely-suppressed gags ; the unmistakeable signs of someome trying very hard not to be sick.

Meanwhile, I was so desperate for a piss I thought my bladder might burst and the ensuing tsunami may take out half the carriage. I looked up from concentrating on not exploding to see Chris had spewed lightly on the floor. Luckily we were approaching Wynyard, his stop, and we alighted there only to witness him hurl violently on to the platform. At this point I couldn't walk and waddled off like a crab to find a toilet and had the longest and best tinkle of my entire life. When I returned about 8 minutes later he'd gone, but he lived only a minute from the station and so I figured he was probably home by now.

"Phew" I thought "Glad that's over". But the worst was yet to come. When I arrived back at the Pink House, I found the hostel in chaos. Marco, a previously unassuming Beckham-alike from Milan, had spray-vomited our room from the convenient vantage point of the top bunk. I couldn't believe it. I was like some Chunder Magnet. As Bruce Willis said upon encountering terrorists for a second time in Die Hard 2: "How can the same shit happen to the same guy twice?". Indeed, Mr Willis, indeed.

Miranda and Fran had borne the brunt and, marigolding up, broke out the industrial-strength Domestos and proceeded to scrub harder than anyone had ever scrubbed. But the stench remained. So, with room 1 out of action, some room juggling was the order of the day. Or night, as by this point it was 12.15. And so people were shifted and shunted, bumped up and pushed across, swipped and swapped and some people even offered to bunk-up with their recent "acquisitions" in order to free up extra beds.

My sleeping companion was away for the week, or else I would have offered to do the same, and so I was to have Raj's bed. Not, I hasten to add, whilst Raj was in it. No, he came back at 2.30 a bit worse-for-wear and came steaming into his/my room only to wrench back the curtain to find me in his bed. "What. The. Fu[k. Are you doing in my bed?" he demanded wild-eyed. "Shhhhhhhh" I responded. "What do you mean shush. This is MY bed" he retorted before adding, with glee, "Bodyslam!" and with a fully-extended, "der-der-der-derrrrrrr!" Superman-style airdive, threw himself on to me. Luckily, I sausage-rolled to the side before we grappled with each other's wrists trying to get the other into an armlock.

A quiet night then. And all problems caused by the demon drink.

Je Ne Regrette Rien

2007-09-24T17:27:00.000+09:00

This job is feast and famine. One minute it's update a spreadsheet this and cone-bind a document that. And then the next minute, there's nothing. A glorious, incalcuable black hole of absolute nothing. More often than not I'm given less work than an Iraqi Santa but it pains me to admit - because I know your incredulous reaction - that doing nothing can actually be rather difficult.

Seriously, it's harder than you think. Here are my constraints: Internet quota of 30 minutes per day (except selected sites such as bbc.co.uk and wikipedia). No reading of magazines. No wandering off for a walk. No talking to the person next to you (because they are over 3 yards away). Your task, should you choose not to accept it, is to find the most productive way to do sweet FA.

If no one gives you any work to do, here are some of the things you might like to try:

* Puff out your cheeks and make a noise like this "Pwwwwwfffffffffffffffffffff" whilst placing your hands behind your head in a rather nonchalant manner. This can be repeated up to 10 times a day, but they must be spaced out lest anyone thinks you are having an asthma attack.

* Spin round in your chair. Maybe anti-clockwise first, then clockwise after. If you're a real mentalist you could try clockwise first, but that way madness lies.

* Go to the toilet. Let's face it a pee takes, what, 2 minutes? A poo could take, I don't know, potentially 10 minutes. Always go for the poo. I have sat on the toilet a couple of times, lid down, trousers up, sending abusive/amorous/random texts. No one knows you're not opening your bomb bay doors. Relax and enjoy your toilet-based hiatus.

* Go for a walk. Except don't look like you're going for a walk. George Costanza from Seinfeld has a golden rule when at work: never walk down a corridor without a folder in your hand. Then, even if you're going nowhere, it looks like you're going somewhere

* Peruse the internet sites that are not blocked. eg Wikipedia. Their "random article" function is useful. So far I have managed to read up on the Suez Crisis, Benigno Aquino's assassination, The Counter Reformation (featuring the Jesuits and The Index Of Prohibited Books), Mebeverine (an antispasmodic hydrochroride-based pharmaceutical), an earth leakage circuit breaker, Romanian despot Nikolai Caucescu, Neasden Town Hall and "Gong Farmers" (Medieval Toilet Attendants who mucked out latrines and privies during the Plague)

I am fountain of knowledge. Well not so much a fountain as a squirt under pressure (a fitting description for me, I think).

Even with these five potential escape routes, inactivity can be draining. The point is you're always a little bit on edge in case someone actually does give you something to do. It's difficult to reconcile, as whilst doing nothing and getting paid for it is ultimately everyone's ideal job, you still find yourself secretly wishing you'd been charged with some menial task.

Yet, conversely, when the boss man starts approaching, you do feel like "oh, he's going to ask me to do something....Damn....and I'd just started a daydream about me playing an epic guitar solo onstage at the New Wembley Stadium...bummer"

Nevertheless, though it's like sitting in a doctor's waiting room for EIGHT FRICKING HOURS, I can think of worse ways to earn my money. Being a Gong Farmer for one.

Gabby Bogan

2007-09-18T20:21:00.001+09:00

Bogan is the term Australians give their less fortunate, lumberjack-shirted, soap-dodging, educationally sub-normal, mullet-sporting, Jerry Springer-watching, dentally challenged trailer trash. They can usually be found polishing a rifle on a porch whilst drinking tins of beer and then, after, shooting at the tins of beer with the polished rifle. And today I met one called Carl.

I was tasked with taking an EFTPOS machine, which is a hi-tech cash register with a touchscreen and a barcode scanner, to a rail depot in the middle of nowhere. The machine weighed an absolute ton and after two of us had manhandled it into the back of a taxi, I set off for middle-of-nowhere suburb Sydenham, so close to Sydney Airport's Final Approach that if you flipped a coin too high it would probably ricochet off a QANTAS jumbo.

When I arrived I was greeted by two "security guards" one of whom was sat lolling on the gate. I explained who I was and what I had to deliver waving my Railcorp pass about like it could earn me a free lunch or something. "Carl?" called the guard over the walkie-talkie "There's a guy here called Phil who has an EFTPOS machine for you"

"What?!" came the strong Aussie accent through the handset "I don't bladdy know anything about it".
"OK" said the guard "Well, can you come round?"
"What?!" came the answer again, and then "..... but I don't bladdy know anything about it".
"But can you just come round?" repeated the guard
"But I don't bladdy know anything about it!" said Carl again.

This was going to be hard work. The taxi meter was still running at this point, luckily on expenses and I waited for what seemed about 10 minutes when all of a sudden a figure appeared about 30 feet and away, and like Omar Sharif appearing out the desert in Laurence of Arabia, loped towards me. Carl was in his mid 50s with a baseball cap, luminous safety tabard and straggly grey hair flowing out behind him like some pissed wizard. He greeted me with a "What?!", which was a good start, before I attempted to explain to him I had been asked to deliver the ETPOS machine so it could be installed into the buffet car ready for tomorrow's journey.

"What?!" he said again, and then "But I don't bladdy know anything about it!" "I work in the stores. I'm Carl".
"Yes I know" I said "and I was given your name, and told to ask for you".
"I work in the stores. I'm Carl. I don't bladdy know anything about it".

Oh Christ! At this point with a waiting taxi, a mad-eyed Bogan and a impossibly-hefty, $6000 computer I began weighing up my options. At that point Carl announced "I'm going to speak to my supervisor. I'm Carl. I work in the stores" and stomped off in a huff. Luckily I had a phone number, and so rang it. I explained the situation to the chief electrician who chuckled to himself as if he was expecting it, and phoned another person whilst I was on the line to tell him Carl was "not having any of it". Again, his tone suggested this wasn't the first time Carl had got a bit riled.

Carl returned a few minutes later with another bloke who was clearly more switched on. He took a look at ETFPOS machine and said "It's like a till Carl. It's so passengers can buy their food". His tone was as if he was speaking to a child. Carl looked at the machine as if he was looking at an annotated diagram showing how black holes are formed, before saying "I don't bladdy know anything about it". He grabbed a trolley, loaded it up and trundled away, chuntering to himself.

I think I can guess what he was saying.

There Were Two In The Bed and The Little One Said

2007-09-18T20:20:00.000+09:00

I am reluctant to go into detail here, but I am currently re-acquainting myself with difficulties of fitting two people into a single bed.

Single beds are made for one person - that's why they are called single beds. Spooning is all very well, but I've never found it a particularly useful analogy considering spoons have no arms or legs, and if they did they certainly wouldn't find them such an obstacle to a decent's night sleep.

For example, what are you meant to do with the arm crushed underneath you nearest the mattress? If you place it under your partner you're asking for a serious, industrial-sized case of pins and needles, and if you trail it behind you, you feel like you're in some kind of wrestling hold. Similarly utching up the bed is problematical if you're perilously close to the edge and she's fast asleep. And what about bed sheets? I don't want the duvet up to my chin, I want it up to my armpit. God I'm hot. God, I'm cold now. And then there's the snoring. I mean right in your ear:
"Snnnnnkkkkkkkkhkhkhkhkkhk......breath........... Snnnnnkkkkkkkkhkhkhkhkkhk........breath"

But what am I complaining for? All these things pale into insignificance when you wake up to find the sun streaming through your window and a person fast asleep at your side, their arm slung across you and their warmth beside you. How glorious.

Christ, that's all a bit girly isn't it? I should probably start talking about cars and guns and fighting to balance it up or something.

Robbery, Assault and Battery. And Memory Card and Camera

2007-09-18T20:18:00.000+09:00

So my camera has been stolen. Annoying for two reasons. 1. the expense, especially on a restricted budget 2. there were still photos/films in it which I hadn't had chance to download. And if I'm honest, I think I'm more pissed about reason 2 than reason 1.

I can't do without a camera. It provides me with an opportunity to record "the event" and document my own personal history. Though they can never take away your memories, and though photographs don't record the smell, and the feel, and the mood of a place, they do act as a trigger and can capture the little details: your hire car's registration plate, those outrageous shorts you were wearing, the pattern on that bar's carpet. So I bought another, and my parents graciously agreed to help me out. Luckily, I got a great deal and my new camera is under lock and key.

The trip to the police station, however, was as futile as I'd anticipated. The officer behind the counter was clearly about 14 and also the most dim-witted policeman I'd ever spoken to (not that I've spoken to many, admittedly). He appeared to be on Work Experience or something, asked me the same questions repeatedly, and gave a slightly confunded "oh yeah" when I told him he'd already written that bit down.

Towards the end of his snail-paced transcribing of the events (which was punctuated by him furrowing his brow and chewing his pencil as if faced with a complicated P11 Tax Form) I looked down and noticed he had a handgun holstered at his side. Good lord. Could I really trust this man to make the right decision as to whether to draw his firearm when I can't trust him to record my details correctly?

Direct Line weren't much help either. I looked into the policy small print and found that it might as well have said "This policy does not cover you for anything that might happen that we might have to pay out for".

Luckily, with regard to my photos from the road trip the previous weekend, Louise had taken some belters which I grabbed copies of. Here are a few examples.

The Grown-Up Road Trip

2007-09-10T20:28:00.001+09:00

The Great Escape

My new frugal and pie-less lifestyle seems to be working out - tentatively at least . Last Thursday some mug deposited $636 in my account (I think it was RailCorp), thus giving me my first paypacket since November 2006. And seeing as I had already enough food for the week stashed under my bed - mainly consisting of instant noodles and tinned Korma - I was happy in the knowledge that financial consolidation was only a few more rotations of a microwave turntable away.

However, this weekend was APEC. And if, at any stage, Sydneysiders forgot this, they were reminded by the 30ft high wall and the tsunami of police inundating every public nook and cranny (incidentally, police here really don't look like police. They wear blue boiler suits, baseball caps and what looks like Batman's utility belt. It looked like they were there to install a Sky dish. Or else marshall a paintballing weekend).

APEC meant that, first, lots of shops and roads were very, very closed indeed. And second, that if you went within 1 mile of the city centre you were likely to be obliterated by an orbiting laser, or something. Kindly, to compensate New South Wales for the upheaval, the Australian government decided to give everyone Friday off. Long weekend! Super.

Time to leave the city, I think. So with $636 to my name, I began umming and aaahing as to whether to join Louise and Lisa on their "grown-up road trip" up North. After costing it out, I decided that $125 or 50 quid for a weekend int bad, especially considering that included petrol and accommodation. So I said yes.

Thelma and Louise

Louise and Lisa agreed to share the driving between them, and planned out the route accordingly. My contribution was to take up position in the backseat, eat from a jumbo bag of crisps and say "are we there yet?" a lot. If Thelma and Louise, instead of driving off that cliff, had picked up Terry Christian and taken him on a road trip, this would have been the result. And the fact that Louise's name sounds a bit like......er....Louise, only sought to reinforce the analogy. I was hoping we weren't going to bump into that Bradley Pitt.

We blasted up the motorway for a good four hours, and by the time the torrential rain started, we still had a bit to go. The distances involved here are difficult to get to grips with. Case in point: scale on maps. Our map had the same amount of pages as your average AA Road Atlas, but because England is so much smaller, the distance between two points on the page is also smaller. On an Australian map, however, a couple of inches on a page could mean miles and miles and miles. If the Australian map was the same scale as the British map, the atlas would have to be the size of The Daily Telegraph and as thick as the Encyclopaedia Britannica. All this just meant that I started asking "are we there yet?" and "how many more corners?" with greater frequency.

We called in at Bathurst, and pushed on to Cowra, the location of a famous Japanese POW breakout in the war. 400kms or so outside of Sydney now, we were really beginning to get a taste of small town Australia. And in many ways it's similar to smalltown America: wide, gridded streets; diners; low rise shopping arcades; run down bars - and the space between those towns full of creakily-turning metal windmills, railway crossings and wooden-porched houses with trucks rusting in the garden.

Yee-ha indeed.

Star Wars

Our plan was to move on to the Observatory at Cowra - apparently the darkest place in Australia and therefore the best location for viewing the stars. But the clouds had socked in and a phone call to the man at the observatory revealed they weren't going to even bother opening it up that night. A change of plan later and we were heading for Forbes and to our digs for the night.

About half an hour out, however, we realised that the clouds had rolled back and the some stars were out. Then we realised that, actually, ALL the stars were out. We pulled the car into a laybay and turned the engine off. It was black. Pitch black. And steadily, we ventured out into the layby and turned our heads skyward.

You have never seen stars until you see them in Australia. The sky was awash with a billion pinpoints of light - cascading and falling, pooling and swirling, convening into patterns that I'd never seen before. It was like someone had emptied a bag of sugar on to a black bedsheet. The Milky Way was clearly visible too. I don't ever recall seeing it before, but here it was: a billowing, yet feint blue cloud arcing icily over the sky.

After we had stood staring for a while, making appropriate noises of "awe", Louise suggested lying on the bonnet of the car, Wayne's World Style. It was a sturdy motor and she's only a dot, so we clambered up.

"Do you reckon you could get a photo of this?" I asked, knowing Louise is a photographer by trade. Stupid question, clearly. "Sure..." she said, and then added good naturedly, "...I just need to go and fetch my tripod out the boot in the pitch black, and then leave the shutter open for about 40 minutes on maximum exposure while we freeze to death....."

So no photo of the sky then, but thanks to Wikipedia, this is what it looked like.......

The Shining

We got to our lodgings about 10pm. The Albion Hotel in Forbes is a pub, hotel and underground museum. The building has a real history, former home to the disreputable bandit and robber Ben Hall, a kind of cross between Butch Cassidy and Ned Kelly. The catacombs, where he and his gang masterminded raids on gold prospectors, has now been turned into a museum complete with yellowed newpapers and muskets behind glass cases, whilst the vast upper floors contained the accommodation.

This place was spooky. The moment we arrived on the top floor we were greeted with an impossibly long corridor that disappeared off into a dimly lit vanishing point, and a thin strip of paisley carpet which lay along the floor and, also, disappeared into the middle distance. This was The Shining. This was the Overlook Hotel. "Heeeeeeere's Johnny!" and all that jazz.

My room was no less unnerving. A sparse russet coloured room with a single 1970s bed, a single 1970s wardrobe and a sink with a rusted brown stain underneath where the cold tap had been dripping. In true The Shining style it appeared as if my doorframe had received a bit of a pounding at some stage and the eerie silence helped to heighten the "axe-murderer" atmosphere.

I thought this photo summed it up, really. That's my arm of course. But wait.... this photo was taken in 1922 .....so it couldn't have been my arm.......aaaaaaarghhh!

The Dish

The next day we were over to The Parkes Radio Telescope, instrumental in the Moon landings and also the location for the film The Dish, starring Sam Neill, a light-hearted comedy based on those events in 1969.

The stargazing the night before only sought to make this a more involving visit and halfway through the afternoon, after staring at the dish for a while (it is good to stare at), we were all treated to a clanking and rumbling as it moved a few degrees to the left, presumably to have a gander at Betelgeuse, or something. I was tempted to buy up all the rocket-shaped pencil sharpeners and meteor-shaped erasers in the giftshop, but I'm an adult and don't do that sort of thing now.

Close Encounters

From Parkes we were on to Mount Canobolas, just outside Orange. It's an ex-volcano with a peak that commands stunning views of NSW. When we arrived the sun was beginning to set and we were soon joined by some very nosy kangaroos. They're wild up here, but let us get quite close nonetheless. The sun and the wildlife provided us with some great photo opportunities. Pity, then, that by point my memory card was full and my battery was flat. So as the lithium died I went snap-happy trying to capture the moment while I still could.

The Fat Controller

2007-09-07T17:54:00.000+09:00

So it turns out that it int that bad here after all. Yep, it isn't exactly an episode of TISWAS in here, but there's a kind of stately predictability to the proceedings which mean that, whilst it's unexciting, it is, at least, consistently unexciting.

So far the work has been fairly straightforward: cone binding 40 documents, taking minutes from meetings populated exclusively by men with mortgages and moustaches, and arranging travel for people testing trains in hick towns 5 hours out of Sydney.

The environment is still unswervingly corporate, however. We work in veal fattening pens, latticed across the open-plan floor like some ultra-tedious Su-Do-Ku. The white plastered walls are adorned with A4 printouts of dislocated managementspeak. Isolated paper islands, attached to nothing, a propos of nothing, with stark phrases blasted across the front in Times New Roman, font size 45. "Feasibility" says one. "High Complexity" says another. "Eh?" says me.

And there are layers and layers of management here and I don't really know what any of them do. All appear to be indistiguishable and interchangeable; there's a manager and a general manager and a group general manager. There's an executive officer, a project officer and an enhancement officer. There's a business intelligence specialist, a solutions architect and portfolio analyst. Readily, I'll admit I've never worked in an environment so corporate, but I can't help feeling that this company is like some kind of administrative souffle; pop it and it'll sag; let the air out and watch it deflate. It doesn't really consist of anything.

Everything is incredibly process driven, too. Last week I was tasked with creating A5 booklets that had to be stapled in the middle. The problem was, however, there was no stapler in the entire football-pitched sized office long enough to reach half-way across to the centre of the page.

"Shall I just go out and buy a longer one and put it on expenses?" I asked. That's what I would have done at Drum. Eavesie once sent me out to Hamleys on Regent St to buy a giant Scalectrix for a prize on the Guardian Sports Show without so much as a whiff of a purchase order or prior approval form. But my request to simply purchase one was met with a reaction of disbelief. I might as well have asked if I could borrow the company card to go on a bender involving limo hire, 8 Magnums of Dom Perignon and a high-class hooker.

No, instead, I spent my afternoon scouring the 56456 acre office floor looking for a long stapler. And when I finally found one its owner said, pointedly "Make sure you bring it back".

But, you know what, it's not all that bad. I've got an awful lot of time on my hands, hence my prolific blog authorship of late. And, hey, you keep reading it, then I'll keep writing it.

We'll Meet Again

2007-09-07T17:39:00.000+09:00

It's been a week of goodbyes at The Pink House. A handful of long termers have done the off and headed their separate ways. During the day, Aidan and Hannah made their way to the airport, and by the time I arrived in the evening Richie and Dave were all packed up ready for the 12 hour Greyhound bus journey to Byron Bay.

Richie and Dave, two thirds of Team Rave, had been with us for 4 weeks and so were part of the family (God knows what that makes me at 5 months). One immediate upshot was that because of Raj's decision not to go on the road with the other two members, the "Raj-less" Dave and Rich had to be be renamed Team Ditch - something which the new duo accepted immediately.

As we all gathered to give manly pats on the back to men overloaded with backpacks the size of Hotpoint Dishwashers, leaning foward to stop themselves falling backward, we realised how much camaraderie there is in The Pink House, as the air was filled with the usual exchanges: "...cool, take care, yeah?"; "keep in touch, you've got my email, right?", and Franc's typically ascerbic, but not serious "....I never liked you, anyway...".

Usually goodbyes don't really have an immediate effect if the person leaving is still stood in front of you. It's only later you feel it - when the courtyard is one voice missing, or the conversation is one joke short. The silence that falls is not an absence of noise, but an absence of atmosphere, and of feel. The Pink House is essentially an empty recepticle coloured by the characters who grace its creaking bunk beds, and now we are five of our most vivid people down, there's no telling what hue The Pink House will adopt. It probably won't be Pink.

A La Recherche Des Lunettes Perdu

2007-09-07T17:35:00.000+09:00

God, I'm a clever bastard, aren't I? Starting off with a reference to Proust. In French. I should be on QI or something.

For those of you who don't speak French, this means Searching For Lost Sunglasses - which is what I seem to spend most of my time doing these days. I am now convinced The Pink House is riddled with pan-dimensional anti-matter holes through which any object smaller than, say, a packet of Findus Crispy Pancakes, will always fall.

Where does this stuff go? I mean really - where could it possibly be? I'd like to think there's a TARDIS-like room somewhere containing everything ever lost - like Shergar, my Lando Calrissian figure or Chris Langham's external hard-drive.

The problem, you see, is not theft. It's because due to the sheer volume of objects in the room of a backpacker.......rucksacks, guidebooks, towels, iPod chargers, pants, shorts, trainers, cutlery, deoderant, instant noodles, international adapters...... the chances of you losing one of these objects in the melee of bric-brac increases exponentially. Socks go missing most often. Followed by phone chargers. Then toothbrushes. Then sunglasses. Occasionally stuff turns up, looking like it's a had a hell of a week jammed down the side of the bed, or stuffed down the arm of the wrong coat, but more often than not, you're left scratching your head.

I haven't done too bad so far. Whilst other people have lost passports and wallets and phones among the debris, the most precious thing I have misplaced is my sexy Samsung USB Drive containing around 200 photos. Luckily, some sets had already been burned to CD, some were still on Chris's computer, and the world beating, David Bailey-baiting photos of the SH Bridge I took can always be taken again.

Let's hope I don't lose my dignity. Actually, it's probably too late.

Rough and Tumble

2007-09-02T15:00:00.000+09:00

When people get to know each other well generally they begin to open up, perhaps become more animated, broach subjects previously off limits, share more personal details.

When people get to know each other really well they start arm wrestling, play naughty Twister, have piggback races and bodyslam one another.

The Pink House currently home to a number of long-term residents who have known each other long enough to allow indulgence in the odd intimate caper. Thus, last night was Body Twister night where coloured blobs on the floor were replaced with body parts. Each contestant, then, labels up parts of their body with sticky numbers and hopes to be touched, or not to be touched there.

Some were braver than others, and whilst I stuck my number 1 to my belt buckle, Richie went the whole way and stuck it on his crotch. Meanwhile Goonie had stuck a number 5 on her tit, and so it wasn't long before I had someone's hand on my arse and my hand on someone's tit.

The evening ended with a piggy back race round the Potts Point fountain in full view of the Police Station.

There's also a rise in bodyslamming and pile-ons over the past few weeks. This usually involves waiting until someone is asleep before doing a Shirley Crabtree and belly flopping on their sleeping form. If you've organised it properly, there should be a queue of people behind you waiting to pile on and, as person after person dives on the next, the effect is a kind of human lasagne.

Occasionally it can go wrong. Last week, a decision to bodyslam Raj whilst he was asleep in the TV room resulted in Aidan taking a blow to the cheekbone. After scrambling out from amongst the pancaked, collapsed scrum, we saw his eye was cut - very much like a boxer. Within minutes a frozen bag of peas was strapped to his face to get the swelling down.

Throughout this an ageing Belgian couple had looked on aghast at such childish behaviour. But then again, they live in Belgium - I don't think they have much exposure to excitement.

Ava Nice Day

2007-09-02T14:53:00.000+09:00

So as predicted our Lord and Saviour, Ava, has been booted out. Actually, not booted out, more gently shooed away like some seagull encroaching on your cod and chips.

Apparently, he went quietly but not before being central to another couple of leftfield incidents. Last week he decided to accompany Matin from Iran shopping. When they got to Woolworths Matin was already getting a bit fed up with him, not really being religious himself. But it all came to a head in the pasta aisle when Ava suggested Matin's indecision over whether to buy penne or rigatoni could be solved by asking God. He closed his eyes for a few moments, and then, as if receiving a flash of divine inspiration, said "God wants you to choose this one". "As I expected...." said Matin, whose improvements in English have revealed a dry sense of humour, "....it was the cheapest".

Then Franc, who has long been fascinated with The Man In White, but observed him from afar (as you would nuclear testing), became involved in a particularly telling incident. By all accounts, Franc had tried to engage him in conversation, but Ava had become increasingly erratic in his responses until the point where he accused Franc of having a hidden earpiece through which he was receiving his "dialogue". He went on to claim that the instructions were coming from Foxtel (Oz equivalent of Sky TV), and continually motioned towards the windows in a nearby towerblock overlooking the courtyard, saying "Well done, the script is working", presumably at some unseen director.

At this point Franc realised that, joking aside, and in all seriousness, this man might actually be mentally ill and so altered his line of question accordingly. The Man In White clearly needed the men in white coats.

We rapidly came to the conclusion that actually this man's religion is not the reason for his unsettling behaviour. In fact, he probably is ill in some way, and does have social problems, and has turned to religion as a way of masking, justifying and curing his self.

Cruel as it may sound, we were just beginning to feel relief at his leaving, when on Sunday (of all days) we received a "sign". In 50ft high letters in the sky was written "Jesus = Hope".

Joking, we immediately suspected Ava. God, some people will go a long way to prove a point.

Quizteam Aguilera

2007-09-02T14:41:00.000+09:00

Sunday was Challenge Night at The Pink House. It's like a cross between Fifteen to One and It's A Knockout...so maybe Knock One Out if you will. Or The Krapton Factor, perhaps.

Rounds 1 and 2 were general knowledge followed by name the country, flag and currency respectively. Round 3 was burst your opponents balloon. Round 4 was a MENSA test featuring question like "If the man in white is left of the man in blue who did your Auntie Mary marry at her second cousin's wedding?". Round 5, though billed as a "physical challenge", was essentially "who can do the longest handstand against a wall?". Richard, on our side, was doing very well until he was distracted by his money dropping out his jeans and falling up his nose.

Our team, Challenge Rajika (Raj's bastardisation of 90s teatime show Challenge Anneka) was, of course, victorious. Our prize was a duffed up 1980s Kenwood Coffee maker that looked suspiciously like the one in the kitchen not two minutes previously, which Raj duly held up and kissed as if it was the Jules Rimet Cup itself

Our team are victorious.....

Ava Almighty prays for a handstand to end all handstands..........

Flight Of Fancy

2007-09-02T14:39:00.000+09:00

So here's something you don't hear every day: "Miranda.... erm....someone has just fallen out of an upstairs window and is lying on the floor outside".

This was announced to the throng in the courtyard which, up until that point, had been engrossed in a game of poker. There was a silence for a second whilst everybody looked at each other in slight disbelief before, like true rubberneckers, mobilising en masse. When I arrived at the scene, a man was smashed on to the floor in the mangled shape of a Swastika, breathing, his eyes open but utterly immobilised. Alan, from Aberdeen, was stood at the side of him holding a laptop bag: "Trying to steal my laptop eh? I hope you die" he said. Ouch.

As it transpired, a local junkie had somehow gained access to the hostel, managed to make a grab for a laptop and in the ensuing panic fell out of the window 15ft on to the floor. The situation rapidly developed into a kangaroo court, however, with those people who had had stuff snatched circling agitatedly, wanting to lay the boot in, whilst religious freak Ava lay at the side of him, prayed with him and continually assured him that God loved him.

An ambulance was called immediately and, with a police station only 20 feet away, it wasn't long before they were on the scene. The police recognised him straight away. They started calling his name even before they had got close to him, and spoke to him like he was a drinking buddy. "Don't move" they said " the ambulance is on its way". 20 minutes later he was being carted away on a stretcher complete with surgical strapping and collar - it was like some scene out of Holby City.

The debate continued after the sirens had faded. Some were harsh and hoped he had done himself a proper mischief. Others were more liberal, attributing his behaviour to the drugs. Me - I think he was punished accordingly. When a man steals a laptop, but then moments later falls through a window, bounces off a hefty metal fuse box on the way down and lands mangled on a brick floor, I think, in this case, we should probably leave it at that.

Hard Corps

2007-09-02T14:30:00.000+09:00

When Joni Mitchell said "you don't know what you've got till it's gone", she was spot on. But then again she also said "They paved paradise and put up a parking lot" . And as Partridge put it: "that's a measure that would have alleviated congestion on the outskirts of paradise - something which Joni singularly fails to point out".

It's a year since I've graced an office and I was actually quite looking forward to returning to the environment . Banter and witty repartee, maybe, challenges and solutions, a chance to test myself. But actually I have found myself in a corporate environment so antiseptic, so dead, so numbing that it makes me realise how vibrant the Drum office was.

At Drum, the decibles never dropped. Whether it was our attacks on Dave's fuchsia jumper or jeering at my love of Subway sandwiches, verbal sparring matches between myself and Ivan on the subject of The Libertines vs Muse, or attempts to establish whether SJ was posh enough to be in line to the throne, the office was always buzzing with activity; rapid fire phone calls, agitated photocopying and blustery meetings - all against the against a backdrop of a chattering digital radio.

Here is different. The office is not only big enough to swing a cat in, but also big enough to swing a barge round in. This means everyone is sat about 10 feet apart and silence reigns supreme. The funereal hush is punctuated only by the barely audible, ever-present hum of the aircon and odd clatter of the odd keyboard.

It's easy to cross-reference it against pop-culture fallout. It's Gervais's The Office. It's Orwell's 1984. It's Gilliam's Brazil. It's hell with neon lighting.

The office seems populated mostly by middle aged men between the ages of 35-55. 2/3rds of whom have spiffing moustaches and salt & pepper hair. They sit hunched over keyboards, staring intently at the screen, not looking left or right, not speaking to anyone. Occasionally, one breaks protocol and ventures into somebody else's booth to mumble something like: "Have you got the status report for the EKR project?" or "Bob says he needs it to fill in the Progress Matrix spreadsheet, and I shan't be here Tuesday morning because I'm going to the chiropodist" and then, realising he could have sent that on email, mumbles something else and saunters away.

So far I have spent my time here in a state of confusion. Though everyone has been perfectly pleasant and amenable, they speak only in acronyms and abbreviations and seem to keep forgetting that I don't know what a DCMS Recombination Datagasm is, nor an Integrated Berk Spanner Network either.

And do you know what? As I've said before the maths are not stacking up. Roughly, as a general rule you should budget about 1000 pounds a month for travelling. And because I am not an idiot with the booze (as most travellers are) I am coming in at just under that, at around 850-900 pounds.

This job pays $20 an hour which at 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, 4 weeks a month MINUS TAX means I will be earning around $2400 or 960 pounds. In other words for a month's work will have made 60 quid profit. Thus in order to neutralise, lets say 2000 pounds of debt, I would have to work for about 30 months. That's nearly 3 years.

In short this job only allows me to subsist, but not to save.

However my new frugal lifestyle has begun. And if I make more of a significant saving than I anticipated, I will continue to temp until I have enough money to move on. If however, by the end of the month I have gained nothing, I am going to damn it all to hell and just bugger off and do the rest of the country and maybe a few others. I hear Singapore is very good at this time of year.

Bloody hell, I love this travelling lark. I've been to a gig in the Opera House, across the Harbour Bridge, met some people who I would dearly love to stay in touch with (except Mr Tumnus, Ava Almighty and Granny Poop), earned the nickname The Oracle, got caught on the hostel's CCTV being mucky with a girl, got drunk in The Hunter Valley whilst sampling peppermint fudge, climbed up through the Blue Mountains at dusk and generally had a blast.

I wish I could do it forever but, alas, it costs something called "money" and you can't earn any "money" updating a Product Interface Fudge Toboggan Development Protocol Spreadsheet.

Donations are welcome.

The Rail Thing

2007-08-25T15:22:00.000+09:00

I have a job.

I know. I can hardly believe it myself. It's only for one month but has the potential to be for longer depending on workload and performance.

I will be working at Rail Corps, the Oz equivalent of Rail Track and will be in the HR department doing the odd Word document and Excel spreadsheet. Unfortunately at $20 an hour the maths isn't exactly stacking up. I still need to make savings on a daily basis in order that this money can be used to build a warchest for further travel, rather than simply allowing me to subsist.

So it's bargains at the supermarket, making use of the Pink House laundry rather than the laundrette, and swapping bacon sandwiches for The Pink House free breakfast which, previously, I've never been up early enough to catch.

I started as I meant to go on and yesterday bought some "value" chocolate biscuits. They were shit. So shit, in fact, that out of sympathy Chris immediately nipped out and bought two packets of Tim Tams. Tim Tams are the Daddy of Biscuits in Oz. They kick a Penguins ass.

So, I don't know how this job will pan out, or indeed if there will be any work for me when I've finished, but it's a start if nothing else.

The Tooth Of The Matter

2007-08-25T15:11:00.000+09:00

Had a dental related accident yesterday. We were playing coin football, a game I remember playing when I was in the Scouts years ago.

Explained briefly it consists of shoving a coin to the edge of the table, flipping it up, catching it and after spring loading your thumbs catapulting the coin through a goal framed by your opponents hands.

This was all going swimmingly until Richie, with whom I was playing, fired a coin a little high of the crossbar and, at great speed, ricocheted a 20c piece (about the size of a UK 50p) off my right canine.

Instinctively, we both clapped our hands over our mouths. Me because it hurt. Him because he thought he'd knocked my teeth out.

"Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Sorry! Sorry!Sorry!Sorry!Sorry!Sorry!" babbled Richie as I ran to the toilet and to a mirror to check out the damage.

Sure enough a bit was missing from my tooth. Only the smallest, smallest amount and only enough for me to notice, but where the tip was once sharp it was now ever-so-slightly blunted.

Certainly not enough to warrant a pay out from the tooth fairy. Although I have been spending a bit of money recently so maybe we should play it with ballbearings from now on.

Things People Are Least Likely To Say

2007-08-25T15:05:00.000+09:00

Last week we made a list of the things that certain people are least likely to say.

This really is a great way to find out about people. So here, in no particular order, here they are.

Things People Are Least Likely To Say

Dan - Sorry, love you're just not my type

Franc - You're right. I concede the point

Richie - I don't think I'll say that. In fact, I'll just keep it to myself.

Raj - I think I'll go to work today

Brian - Look at the tits on that

Me - I don't know

Dave - I won't wear that. I'll get laughed at

Aidan - Led Zeppelin? Never heard of 'em!

Emma - Can't we just cuddle instead?

Russ Abbott's Mad House

2007-08-25T14:30:00.001+09:00

It's been quite a week at The Pink House. We've not had one or two, but three guests who have tested the patience of the staff and residents alike.

Mr Tumnus

They arrived in order proportional to the havoc they were to create. First up an Australian who we started referring to as Mr Tumnus an account of his resemblance to the half-man-half-fawn creature in CS Lewis's The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. His slightly " just popped in from the magical forest" look, with his curly hair, doe-eyes and fluffy goatee beard belied a brutish, drunken lout and a man who instigated himself into conversation by bellowing loudly about his achievements, and punctuating his proclamations with lager-fuelled belches.

It wasn't long before he'd upset Martin from Germany and incurred the wrath of Emma too, by constantly referring to her as "sweetie" and "chick" and other patronising nicknames. Emma, despite firing back a string of well-proportioned invective, only succeeded in eliciting the response "You Pommies need to learn how to take a joke....Jeez"

Actually, his problem was that he was just drunk. And over the next few days he altered his behaviour accordingly.

Mrs Brown

This couldn't be said of the next two guests. Bizarrely, an 81 year old woman bowled up to the house armed with nothing much other than a tartan shopping trolley and a rain hat. When Manager Miranda told us of this, naturally we assumed that, even at 81, this woman must be reasonably independent, perhaps in good nick for her age. Maybe a golden oldie, or a silver surfer.

But no. We were shocked. Mrs Brown was 81, but looked 801. A cross between Yoda and Gollum it beggered belief how she had got here. Rapidly Miranda realised that something was fishy, and aside from the contents of her handbag.

The next morning the old lady was to leave, in order to free it up for two other people who had booked it (both a respectable 20 something). But that's when the problems started. First it was clear she was having problems actually getting out of the bed and second when she had vacated the room the staff discovered that whilst she had been to the toilet in the night, she hadn't bothered to get out of bed to do so.

A fuller picture was beginning to emerge and Miranda decided to call the Social Services. The old woman was long gone after calling a taxi - but how did she afford it? And where did she go? We immediately began postulating what could have happened. Had she escaped from an old folks home? Had wandered out of a hospital?

The task of cleaning the room still remained. Step in Franc who had already snapped on thick crimson Marigolds earning him comparisons to Frank N Furter from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. He binned all the sheets and set up a open gas hob to burn off the smell.

Long after she had left the mystery of the old woman remained in the air. And so did the smell.

God Almighty

Then, the most challenging guest of all wandered in. Oh yes, this man was to test the patience of all. I first found out about him thus:

Miranda: He's back
Me: Who
Miranda: "He" is. "Him".

Her vague pronouns confused me. How bad is it when someone is referred to, simply as, "him".
No one knows his real name or where he comes from because he changes it on a daily basis, but the man who calls himself Ava is banned from every hostel in King's Cross on account of him being a nutter.

The only reason he is at the Pink House is that Aidan was on reception the day he checked in and, unfortunately, knew nothing about him. Short of having a wanted poster saying "Warning - Do Not Give This Man A Room", there's not much we can do.

Dressed in all white and with a mobile handsfree kit permanently jammed in his ear, he is a violent Christian Fundamentalist with the emphasis on the mentalist. He makes loud proclamations, even when on his own, can clear a courtyard in 5 minutes and when told to shut up, claims that he's busy talking to God and that you are forgiven. He lies about his name, his nationality and generally confunds people with his off-kilter statements and increasingly madcap utterances.

Yet, until he actually does anything wrong it's difficult to evict him. However, it didn't take long last time he was here, so here's hoping.

I suggested getting on the hostel tannoy and announcing "Oooooh.... Ava....this is God speaking.....please leave The Pink House......thanks bye......"

Pie Eyed

2007-08-25T14:11:00.001+09:00

Was killing time yesterday between interviews and decided to treat myself to a pie and chips from the shopping mall food court underneath Pitt St.

There wasn't much space, so I plonked myself down one of the few remaining tables, but was joined within minutes by a grey haired bloke about 64-65 in a knitted pullover (presumably a Christmas present).

Straight away, I just had a feeling that he might be a nutter. Well as it turned out, maniacal enthusiast is closer to the mark. When he learned I was from England he launched into a treatise about how Shakespeare was the greatest ever playwright, and how he liked British actors, particularly Albert Finney.

I was beginning to warm to him with his flyaway hair and his chunky fireside sweater when he dropped a bomb. "My favourite actor...." he proclaimed "...is John Nettles". Er...OK.

He went on, "I love Midsomer Murders. We get that over here." and then proceeded to delve into John Nettles's personal history "...did you know his mother was admitted to a psychiatric ward at 28 leaving him to fend for himself". I thought, " No.....but I know someone else who should probably be admitted".

Anyway, it turned out he was harmless and it's not every day you have a conversation about Bergerac whilst 10,000 miles away from Jersey. Nice old bloke. The kind of person who you might find in Midsomer come to think of it.

He should move there. At least if he got bumped off, he could rest in the knowledge his favourite detective was on the case.

Gizza Job

2007-08-25T13:41:00.000+09:00

I really didn't anticipate it being this difficult to find a job. Initially I was pursuing leads in media. And, initially, signs were good: skill shortage + need for recruits= job. Or so I thought.
Because soon it became apparent that I am too "siloed", as the Australians say - meaning I am too specialised.

You see the Oz media industry is still stuck in the 1990s. Step into any office and they're drinking Tab Clear and talking about how it's great that the Berlin wall came down, isn't it fantastic that Strictly Ballroom won all those Oscars, and how it's fabulous we have still icons to look up to like The Pope, Princess Diana and Michael Hutchence.

My role doesn't exist in Australia. It's collapsed into a broader role for which I have no experience on account of me being too specialist. Thus finding a job is like finding Pete Doherty's needle in a haystack.

"That's OK" I thought "I'll get some generic office work", but that hasn't been easy either. I am so pissed off. I can't work out what I am doing wrong. Am I under-qualified? Am I over-qualified?

One thing, like Ko-Ko out of the Mikado, I am adding Recruitment Consultants to my "little list", alongside double-glazing salesman, telemarketers and car salesmen. "Just looking through your CV now. Degree qualified. Good. 6 years office experience. Good. Yes, we have hundreds of jobs for you. I'll call you tomorrow".

Then.....silence. When you chase them its "Erm...what was your name? Oh, don't really have anything at the moment". Twats.

I have done Word tests. I have done Excel tests. I have done Powerpoint tests. All of which I passed with flying colours. I even did a customer service test for which I received 89%.

Questions included:

If a customer is angry, do you:

a) Keep a level voice, and attempt to explain what you are doing to rectify the situation, by way of apology.

b) Shout "la, la, la, la - not listening, you fucking old trout" down the phone before stuffing the receiver down your Calvin Klein's and doing a trump into the mouthpiece.

c) Say "You think you've got problems. Yesterday, my wife found me in bed with the cast of Grange Hill"

d) None of the above.

They are that easy. Obviously the answer is b), by the way.

I have signed up to 12 agencies in total. They have found me nowt. What am I doing wrong? Maybe I should stop waving my nob about in interviews. It must be distracting, I admit.

Pub Quiz Champignons

2007-08-25T13:33:00.000+09:00

After two second places resulting in a free jug of beer and tickets to some shonky experimental theatre, it was high time we claimed a pub quiz crown.

Off to the Bourbon, then, on King's Cross for was pupported to be a quiz with a $2000 prize. Luckily it was by far the easiest one we've done so far and at the end round one we were already home free.

But, by the end of the quiz despite thrashing the opposition into submission and knocking the nearest team into 2nd place by 10 points, the prize was decided by calling up a team member to the front to scratch some circles off a poxy scratchcard. Obviously, we didn't win.

Disappointing, as despite demonstrating our triv prowess, it would have been easier to nip next door to the newsagent and buy a Scratch-To-Win-Lucky-Dip instead.

Return To The Zoo

2007-08-25T13:20:00.000+09:00

Went back to the zoo. This time with a bigger crowd. It really is very good.

A couple of animals were more active this time, although the Tasmanian Devil was as elusive as ever, preferring to skitter in and out of bushes as if on a hike, desperately looking for somewhere to do a wee, but finding walkers around every corner.

Other highlights included a chimp pissing on another chimp's head, Raj claiming a wombat looked like across between a pig and a cat (hence him naming it PigCat) and Richie, on the bus home, despite being 31 and unshaven, bounding up to the driver and saying in the most juvenile tone he could muster "One child's ticket, please".....and getting away with it.

And then Aidan, also 31, also unshaven, and greying slightly saying "Same again, please"....and getting away with it too.

Unlucky Dip

2007-08-15T10:21:00.000+09:00

As assortment of non-sequiturs and meandering monologues, loosely drawn together under one tenuous banner. More random than picking a dice out of a lucky dip in a roulette wheel and then throwing it at a one-armed bandit.

1. Cluedo has landed in The Pink House and nobody appears to be very good at it. Yesterday nobody won. As in no one guessed the correct combination of weapon, location and murderer. That's really bad.

This is because no one ever really concentrates in the Pink House. They're distracted by the TV, or an iPod, or most often another conversation. Raj is particularly guilty of this. When pressed for a Cluedo "accusation" the other day he said, in a Cockney accent:

"Yeah, I fink it was Mr Custard in the thing wiv the thing"

2. Franc is a master of the barbed put-down. When I informed him of my plan to woo a fellow hostel inmate by talking her for a scenic walk, he said: "Who the fuck are you, Jane Austen?"

3. Nicknames are commonplace in the Pink House. In fact, it's like Grange Hill in here at the moment. I keep expecting a sausage on a fork to hove into shot accompanied by the "wan-it-wow-wow" sound effect. So, in no particular order, here are some monikers and an attempt to explain their origins:

Goonie Pig is so called because she drinks of a lot of goon. So much so that it's almost an experiment to see what happens to someone who drinks so much. Like a Guinea Pig. Except with goon. Hence Goonie Pig.

Raj: Remember the two trendy Indian kids in Goodness Gracious Me played by Sanjeev Bhaskar and Kulvinder Ghir ("kiss my chuddies"). That's Raj. He is so trendy that it's only fair we give him the most normal, pedestrian, mundane nickname. Thus Raj Anandanesan becomes Reg Anderson. He hates it. That's why we use it.

Brian and Franc: In the same way as Brad and Angelina became known as Brangelina, and Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner became known as Bennifer, Brian and Franc are known as Branc. As in "what does Branc think?"

Assorted Nicknames:

Other nicknames include Uncle Slam, some bloody American who wouldn't stop slamming the pissing door. Niels from Germany was known as Herr Flick, as he really did look like the Gestapo officer from 'Allo 'Allo and Simon was known as Whinge Commander Hawkes on account of his tendency to moan about everything.

Also, any collection of people with a common characteristic are known as Team...... so for example Team Canada, Team Austria, Team Germany. Andy and Jamie were known as Team Smith an account of them both having the same surname. When Richie, Raj and Dave knock about together they are known as Team Rave (it's an amalgam of all of their names). Occasional fourth member Chris sometimes makes it Team Crave. And when, due to unforseen circumstances, Raj and Richie pull out to replaced by Miranda, this makes it Team Mavis

Yours Truly

Embarrassed to admit it, but my nickname is actually very positive. I am called The Oracle. This is because early on I managed to establish myself as the house smart arse/know-it-all. People often use me as a repository for useless information, and when playing Trivial Pursuit they steer well clear. Could be worse I suppose.

The thing is these nicknames are used freely. A typical tannoy announcement may sound thus:

"The following peope owe rent: Branc, Room 5. Goonie, Room 1. Reg Anderson, Room 9. The Oracle, Room 1. Team Canada, Room 7"

4. I've had my head shaved again. Franc has been doing a sterling job with the clippers. Had a shock yesterday though. Whilst shaving my head he announced jokingly, "Don't look at my crotch. I haven't got any underwear on and these shorts are a bit baggy".

But as he was concentrating on ironing out what he called my "Friar's Fringe", Dave from Donegal had sneaked up behind him and whipped down his shorts. And, no, he wasn't wearing any pants.

I know this because I was about 8 inches away. It will haunt me forever.

Hunter Valley: A Day In Quotes

2007-08-14T15:07:00.000+09:00

In The Beginning

Chris: What are you doing Sunday?

Phil: Nothing. Why?

Chris:Thought about going to the Hunter Valley wine tasting. They have all these vineyards and you razz about between them sampling all their free wine and getting pissed.

Phil: Brilliant. How do we get there?

Chris: Hire a car. I don't mind being designated driver because these places do cheese and chutney and chocolate as well. Whilst I do that, you get the Chardonnay down you.

Phil: Deal

Recruitment

Phil: So how many are coming now?

Chris: We've filled three cars. Me, You, Franc, Etienne and Claire in one. Miranda, Martin, Dave and Lindsay in another. And now Richie reckons he can fill a third with Fanta, Raj, Goonie and Carolyn. Come with me to Avis tomorrow and help navigate back to the Pink House - they've closed off William St because of the Fun Run, so we'll need to find a way back.

Phil: OK. No problem (in my head thinking - "Shit, I'm not very good at navigating")

In Miranda's Car, Circumnavigating William St

Miranda: Shit. This doesn't look right. I think we're on the toll road heading out of the city. Can I U-turn?

Phil: Wait. What's this sign say?.....Woolloomooloo straight ahead. Yes! We've come the right way.

Miranda: Thank God for that. I'm just going to zigzag my way back from here. Are they still behind us?

Leaving Sydney

Sat Nav: At. The Next Exit. Turn. Right.

Chris: What? Bollocks to that. I'm going straight on.

Claire: I think the car behind is waving at us.

In Warawee

Franc: Where are we?

Phil: Warawee

Franc: Yes. Where are we?

Phil: Warawee

Franc: That's what I said.

Phil: Yes I know. Warawee

Franc: Oh forget it

At The First Vineyard

Somelier: Can I interest you in a Shiraz?

Phil: Yes, please.

Somelier: 2003 or 2005?

Phil: Erm.........

Franc (prompting) I think the 2003 is less aggressive

Me: ....er.....yes.....I agree......less aggressive...actually, I think I'm pissed already.

In The Fudge Shop

Me: Can I try some vanilla, please?

Me: Can I try some caramel, please?

Me: Can I try some chocolate, please?

Me: Can I try some jaffa, please?

Me: Can I try some peppermint, please?

Me: Thanks. Bye

In The Chilli Chutney Shop

Chris: Try this chilli paste

Phil: That's nice.....I like that....oh....hang on.......aaargh......shit......hot......tastes like burning........phwwwwwwwwwwwwwooooooooograhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Chris: That was 8 out of 10 on the heat scale. Try this. It's a 10.

Me: No way. I'm still ablaze.

Franc: I'll have a go. Oh that's good.......ouch.....sweet baby Jesus and the orphans........argh......Holy Mary Mother of God......give me your Coke....quick!.....glug glug glug glug glug glug glug glug........

Chris: My teeth hurt......quick....drink....glug glug glug glug glug glug glug glug

In The Car On The Way Home

Chris: It's the police doing breath tests. Turn that music down.

Phil: Chris, you haven't been drinking. They're not going to arrest us for listening to

A-ha........actually, they might. Let's turn it down.

Some purchases...

Spaced Out

2007-08-08T12:44:00.001+09:00

I've been in Sydney for so long now that I think I've nearly wrung every last drip out of the tourist sponge. A couple of things remain though and yesterday I ticked off another: Sydney Observatory.

With a clear night sky and 6 interested people, we made our way over to the Observatory perched high above the city in an area called The Rocks. Hosting the evening was Xin, a twentysomething stunner of Chinese descent with a postgrad in astronomy. I nearly proposed on the spot.

After being ushered into a 3D theatre for a rather amateurish film complete with Bontempi Organ demo music, the evening really took off. We made our way on to the lawn where Xin had a kick-ass laser pointer which she fired miles into the sky, ringing constellations and dotting planets. I want one. You could have probably blinded an astronaut on the International Space Station with it.

After craning our necks to see constellations unique to the Southern Hemisphere (Southern Cross and The Teapot) we made our way into the Dome and to the actual telescope. It was about the size of two dustbins and aligned with a letterbox slit pointed out into the night sky. Xin invited the crowd to begin queueing to peer down the eyepiece at Jupiter.

At this point it dawned on me that I was actually going to see Jupiter. Not a photograph. Not a computer generated image. Not an artist's impression. Ashamedly, I started elbowing little kids out of the way to get a glimpse - well they were bigger than me anyway.

And then there it was : Jupiter - a sandy disk about as big as a 10p coin streaked with what looked like strawberry jam. It managed to be awe-inspiring and slightly underwhelming at the same time. Awe-inspiring in that I was looking at a planet billions of miles away. Underwhelming in that it looked a bit like someone had stuck a small sticker on the end of the lens.

Course, you can't take people anywhere, and it wasn't long before Chris had suggested we ask her to point the telescope at Vulcan. Or the Death Star. This was followed by Franc whispering in my ear "Say to her: can I see Uranus, please?".

Return To Katoomba

2007-08-08T10:59:00.000+09:00

Organisational Behaviour

I've been a little hostel-bound of late. So when Claire suggested a trip to The Blue Mountains I thought "why not....?". What with Claire having a proper job and everything, it was left up to me to organise it.

So, here's a life lesson: Never try to organise anything for backpackers. Their motto appears to be: why make a decision now when you can wait until tomorrow when it's too late.

I didn't do it out of the goodness of my heart, I did it because if I hadn't, it wouldn't have got off the ground, but when a third person says "I don't know whether I'm coming Friday or Saturday. Or at all", it's tempting to say, Partridge-style "Oh forget it. You people!"

Nevertheless, I perservered. By Friday morning I had booked a space for 9 people - 7 in a dorm and 2 in a tent in the back garden. By Friday evening we were on a 1970s train rattling idly through the night. By Friday night we were stood, icy-breathed, on Katoomba station. God, it was cold. Agonisingly cold. Chest-constrictingly cold.

Thanks to Chris's TomTom we found our way to the hostel quick enough. I had been warned by the owner when I had booked it over the phone that he didn't want a large rowdy crowd. I assured him that we were coming to the mountains to escape rowdy crowds.

However, nothing prepared me for quite how funereal this place was. Upon entering the common room we were greeted by a librarial hush punctuated only by the occasional turning of paperbacked pages. I know he said this place was quiet, but I think I'd find more excitement in the queue at The Antiques Roadshow. Naturally, our over-excited babbling had soon filled the air and the gathered throng were soon staring at us reproachfully over the tops of their copies of Harry Potter 7.

Despite the air of reverence, the hostel was great: small, cosy, warm, quiet, very quiet with a few plush sofas, an open fire and soft Latino jazz wafting through the air. We hit the Thai restaurant and hit the sack.

One Small Step For A Small Man

Brian, Claire, Chris and I had arrived on the Friday and by Saturday Emma, Jamie and Andy had arrived too, minus two people who had dropped out. One of whom claimed he was on a promise, although we later found out she'd promised him nothing.

We wasted no time and set out for the main observation deck overlooking the Blue Mountains and Three Sisters. After a day down amongst the canopy, we finally reached the Giant Steps. 956 metal stairs awaited us set into the rock at a formidable angle. The top wasn't going to get any closer so, inevitably, with our heads down we began the upwards tramp.

Actually, I was expecting it to be far worse. Within a few moments the smokers had fallen to the back, wheezing like punctured accordions, whereas I had powered on ahead, my Peak District altitude training kicking in. The climb took 35 minutes and with legs burning I reached the top of the Three Sisters breathless but satisfied.

The next day we rose early and made our way over to Wentworth Falls. We were picked up by possibly the most inept bus driver, who appeared to have little or no mathematical ability when working out change (even when he was given exact money) and, alarmingly, spent the entire journey driving with his head spun round 180 degrees like an owl, chatting to Brian who had foolishly sat at the front.

We watched him through splayed fingers hoping his occasional glances at the road would be long enough to spot various obstacles - mini roundabouts, trees, traffic lights, cyclists and corners.
Brian later confessed to not understanding a word he'd said.

The Wentworth Falls walk was harder. The path took us down the side of the waterfall, weaving left and right, down through, and up and over the canopy.

The drops were enormous, the inclines were steep, the legs were burning, but the photographic evidence below says more than I ever could.

See the rest at:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=42574&l=9cbf1&id=828255013

Chris checks the map....unfortunately he's pointing to Africa. This photo was taken in 1932

Jamie refuses to help to erect the tent.......

At the bottom of the Giant Steps.....

At the top of the giant steps.......

At the top of Wentworth Falls.......

....and round the side......that's a very, very, very big drop

......at the bottom of the falls

Question Time

2007-07-31T13:55:00.000+09:00

Apologies but this entry will contain a lot of swearing. You'll see why in a minute.

Franc and I are quite similar and as a result have an amiable yet rather adversarial friendship. He's a very clever man with endless stores of trivia, an acid tongue, a keen intellect and a working knowledge of history that makes Simon Schama look like Simon Le Bon. He has also been on 15-to-1. And he did better than me. Bastard.

We are constantly challenging each other or pedantically highlighting the other's mistakes. We were made to be in a quiz team together.

So on Thursday, myself, Franc, Brian, Chris and Dave made our way down to Scruffy Murphy's on George St for the pub quiz. The advert boasted a prize of A$100 and a possible star prize of A$1400. Note "possible".

Clearly, we didn't know what we'd let ourselves in for, however, as the host, one Pommy Andy, was the most dim-witted, vulgar, boorish and egotistical car-crash of a human being I've seen in a long while.

Self-styled "Cockney comedian" Andy looked like a cross between Timmy Mallet, Des Kay from the Fast Show (Wicky-Woo Des Kay!) and one, if not both, of 80s Disco twats Black Lace. And one of them is dead.

Also, he sounded like Mike Reid (dead) and had repertoire of jokes he'd thiefed of Bernard Manning (also dead). Not so much end of the pier, then, as end of the road. Maybe even the end of civilisation as we know it. As my mate Chris says "He could get a job as a hyena silencer".

He introduced himself thus: "Right, listen up you fackin' cahnts...." and then proceeded to
pepper his quiz questions with jibes against the audience, where he ran the whole gamut of insults.

To a woman in the audience he said "If you didn't want me to stare at your tits, sweetheart, you shouldn't have worn that top. Stupid cow"

To two twentysomething Germans he said "Facking hell, it's the Nazis".

To the Americans "Fack you, you facking cahnts!"

And three totally unassuming suited guys who had clearly nipped in for a pint after work he said "Where you've been? Up Kings Cross taking it up the arse?"

Didn't see what happened next, but Pommy Andy had called over to hulking Maori bouncers to sort out one of the suits, claiming he'd had a pop at him. Ironic then that he had to call on the help of two members of an ethnic minority - the very people he had just ridiculed in a previous question. Clearly, someone should lay the twat out.

We considered leaving, but thought it more fun to take his money off him. We came second by one point and won a free jug of beer which we drank quickly. We left never to return.

There were two laughter tracks in there that night. One borne out of the amazement at what a fuckwit this guy was and another, predominantly the older generation, who took the jokes at face value.

Pub Landlord Al Murray is an ironic joke. When Ricky Gervais calls Third World Sweatshop Workers "Lazy" it's a persona. When Warren Mitchell first played Alf Garnett, it was a character.

I think Pommy Andy's idea of irony, to paraphrase Baldrick, is that it's a bit like goldy, silvery and bronzey.

This is his site. Techy people please find someway of defacing it.

http://www.pommyandy.com/

Rugger? Bugger!

2007-07-31T13:27:00.000+09:00

I've not been particularly active of late. I've not been particularly active since 1995, if the truth be told.

The last serious exercise I did was during the first week of University when Sam and I joined Ninjitsu class, only to find that it hurt and it clashed with our tea, so we never went again.

Last Thursday was the first sunny day we'd had in ages, and not wanting to miss the rays we made our way down to Rushcutters Bay, a mini-marina/harbour at the back of The Pink House, equipped with benches, a coffee shop and big grass thing.

Those present: Dave, Chris, Dan, Sean and then Jamie and Andy who were particularly pleased at finding a big rugby "H" as they were both Rugger Buggers. So whilst they spent the afternoon pretending to be Johnny Wilkinson and booting the ball left and right of the posts, the rest of us hung about and read, chatted and drunk Ribena.

I had a brief moment of physical exertion when I ran to fetch a wayward ball and hoof it back across the field, but thats as far as it went. Possibly the fastest I've moved since 1995. If it's another 12 years before I exercise again, I'll be 42.

The afternoon took a nosedive, however, when the ball went over Andy's head and into the water. Everyone gathered to look at the leather oval slowly floating away from the harbour wall towards a short-masted boat, bobbing gently in the breeze. Andy, the least clothed of all of us, took a look around. Clearly no one was keen to dive in, so he began stripping off.

Within a few moments he was in, had swam across and punted it back out on to the grass. But as the big lads hauled him out, he realised he was covered in blood. Andy had a deep cut in his foot and blood was pouring out like someone had punctured a milk carton.

In typical rugby lad style he was unfazed: "Strange" he said "Didn't feel that happen".

"That's going to need a stitch" said Jamie, who looks like a cross between Martin Clunes and Rhino from Gladiators

"Naah" said Andy using his white t-shirt to bandage up his foot, and limped back to the hostel.

The next day I was stiff from my bout of impromptu exercise. I think the application for the Sydney Marathon will have to wait.

I'm Ready For My Close Up

2007-07-18T16:40:00.000+09:00

Beth is on make-up duty.....

My God, I'm gorgeous

The next cover of Vanity Fair

Brian from Dublin has a good grope....

Dan and Raj......

Marcos from Chile gets a bit carried away.......

Me and Raj.....

Me and Sean......the Two Fat Ladies make a welcome return to TV