Thus did Phileus Fogg and his trusty companion, Passepartout, continue on their mad dash across the Australian hinterland.  Quicker than you could say "I'm blue, Aberdeen and Dubai" they left the confines of the big city and struck out for the hills.  To the Blue Mountains to be precise.  These rocky peaks form part of the Great Dividing Range and proved an impenetrable barrier to European expansion from Sydney during the early years of white colonisation. 25 years were to pass before a successful mountain traversal was made to the western plains.  The Blue Mountains rise to over 1,100 metres in places and given their altitude, the alpine climate therein makes a pleasantly refreshing change from muggy Sydney. They get their name from the blue haze that hangs in and around their valleys and peaks.  The many eucalyptus trees in the area give off this oily azure mist.

Nowadays it takes only two hours by train to cover the 65-kilometre journey to this mountain refuge from Sydney Central.  So the clock had yet to strike noon by the time Rob and I pulled into Katoomba, tourist central of the mountains.  Katoomba has an otherworldly ambience, and is thankfully devoid of the backpacker saturation that prevails in Cairns, Airlie Beach, Hervey Bay and other East Coast towns.  If one wanted to work outside the big smoke for a while, then one could do a lot worse than stay a while this quaint locale.  As the sun was out we made straight for Echo Point, which offers spectacular views over Jameson Valley and the famous Three Sisters rock formation. Given their densely forested slopes and valleys, the Blue Mountains are uncannily similar to Endor, the fictional planet of the Ewoks in Return of the Jedi. I half expected one of the little furballs to drop down from one of the tall trees brandishing a home-made catapult.  Rob and I hiked down to Leura Falls at an unhurried pace to view the cascades there.  Content with our leisurely stroll, but running low on camera film, we headed back to town and seek out a place to stay.  We lodged at the Katoomba YHA on the corner of Lurline and Waratah Streets.  Like all YHA Hostels, the nightly price for a bed in a dorm room of AUS $24 (15 Euro) is more expensive than what other hostels will offer.  But with YHA hostels, you can rest assured that their rooms are clean and that their facilities are up to scratch.  On offer in this particular hostel were table football and pool tables and a TV room with free videos.  So we spent an easy evening watching the entertaining movie Chasing Amy, the third comedy produced by the makers of Clerks, Mall Rats and most recently Dogma.  This was Rob's first introduction to the madcap world of Jay & Silent Bob, but I think he enjoyed it.

The next day we strapped our day packs on our backs and took the short train ride to Blackheath.  We decided to walk the spectacular cliff-top track from Govett's Leap to Evan's Lookout.  A panoply of exotic birds such as the Crimson Rosella and the Gang Gang Cockatoo sang in the trees and flew overhead, while broken sunshine illuminated more breathtaking views. However, after completing roughly a third of the journey the heavens opened.  I'm not too keen on heights at the best of times, but stepping precariously over slippery rocks with plunging precipices at only an arms-length away, is not my idea of a sane thing to do.  Each year many unsuspecting tourists plummet to their death in the Blue Mountains.  Six British and Irish hikers have died there in the last fortnight alone.  Certainly a high price to pay for a panoramic photograph.  Consequently, we continued our muddy trek through the wooded hinterland trying not to look down over the edge of any of the cliffs.  Then it started to hail.  Quite heavily in fact.  Given that I had left my poncho in Sydney and had thought it prudent only to pack sunscreen, a downpour of large hailstones came as somewhat of a surprise.  By the time we made it back to the Govett's Leap tourist centre, where we had thankfully stored a change of clothes, we looked like two drowned possums.  As we boarded the evening train back to Sydney, our legs smarting and our clothes covered in a slightly soggy must, I found it difficult to imagine that in less than 18 hours we'd be sweltering in the heat of Alice Springs in Australia's Red Centre.  From Fraser to Brisbane and from Byron Bay to the Blue Mountains - it's been quite a mad dash.  At this hectic rate of knots we will no doubt soon be offered honorary Japanese citizenship.  The 19th century gentlemen of the Reform Club would have been lost for words.

Gav (7 December 2000)

Prologue

It was on December 7th that Rob and I rolled into Alice Springs.  That was exactly one month ago.  As I pen these lines, I am siting on a beach in the Bay of Islands in Northland, New Zealand.  So bear with me, as I shall be taxing my memory somewhat.  The first quirky thing that I noticed about Alice was that once we disembarked from our plane, we were led straight into the airport souvenir shop.  Encouraging unsuspecting tourists to buy didgeridoos, Drizabone cowboy hats, colourful boomerangs and cuddly kangaroos is obviously seen as a more pressing need than baggage reclaim.  The overpowering heat was thankfully dry, so in the shade it was manageable, even if one did feel like one was walking through the searing blast of a hairdryer.  We stayed at Annie's Place on 4 Traeger Avenue where a very friendly British Asian girl called Senali greeted us with open arms.  Thankfully a washing machine and a swimming pool were at hand as both my clothes and myself were in dire need of refreshing.  While Rob opted for a spot of hair grooming, I spent the afternoon wandering around the relatively quiet streets of the town.  The main thoroughfare, the pedestrianised Todd Street, was awash with souvenir shops.  Postcards from the omnipresent Peter Lik were everywhere I looked.

The fact that 22% of the Territory's population are Aboriginal - a very high percentage by Australian standards - is immediately noticeable when one flies in from Sydney, in which there are probably now more Maoris living than Aborigines.  Many of the shops are apparently Aborigine owned.  However, it seems that only white people work in them.  I'm sad to say that the only Aboriginal people I saw were several unruly groups sitting around a park in the afternoon sun drinking liquor from brown paper bags.  Not exactly the type of folk that one might want to chat to.  So far the enmity of the Aborigines and the inaccessibility of their civilisation continues to starkly differ from my friendly and uplifting cultural experiences in Africa.  I remember at the time looking forward to discovering Maori culture in New Zealand to restore my faith in inter-racial exchange of views, traditions and knowledge.  This is a great shame, as the story of Australia's native peoples needs to be told.  The British, conveniently not seeing any evidence of a system of government, commerce or land ownership, considered their new found overseas possession a terra nullius (a land belonging to nobody).  Unlike in New Zealand where the Crown was forced to make (if not always to adhere to) a peace accord with the Maori peoples (the Treay of Waitangi), the nomadic Aborigines were juxtaposed with the indigenous fauna.  They were considered a pest to be eradicated like dingoes.  Hence, those who did not succumb to exotic European diseases were driven from their traditional lands, often shot on sight, tortured or enslaved.  In the outback, whole tribes were rounded up and forced off cliffs to plummet to a cruel rocky death.  Babies were taken from their families and raised as Western children.  With the introduction of millions of feral and domestic animals from the Old World, the delicate balance between Aboriginal peoples and the land was broken.  Many species of plants and animals were forced into extinction.  The Aborigines almost went the same way.

They were a misunderstood race, considered stone age barbarians by the white invaders.  Divided by huge distances, up to 250 mutually unintelligible languages and an egalitarian political structure based on small familial groups, co-ordinated resistance to the European colonisers proved more often than not impossible or suicidal.  The white concept that a man could "own" land was completely alien to the various Aboriginal peoples, as it was to American Indians and other non-white indigenous people around the world. Only now are we as Westerners beginning to realise the wisdom in the belief that as the land will be there long after we push up dirt, "ownership" of the ground beneath our feet is a foolish if not a dangerous idea.  But other races have suffered indescribably at the opprobrious hands of the white man and fought back - Native Americans, the Inuit, black Africans, Indians, Asians, Jews - all have been enslaved, humiliated and subjected to cultural imperialism by the British, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch, Germans, Americans and other Caucasian peoples.  How much more powerful and memorable would it be if the descendants of the colonisers could learn of the sins of our forefathers from the mouths of survivors of the oppressed race. To see that despite all the hardship, the human spirit and will to survive can prevail.  It is a shame that I might leave Australia without having set eyes on actual positive Aboriginal role models other than the token representative on Australian television.  The sight of groups idly huddled around a bottle of alcohol left me with the impression that the Aborigines are a broken people, having been pushed beyond their natural limits like the bushmen of southern Africa.  Every man, every race has a breaking point.  I sincerely hope that this is not the case.

As I walked further down Todd Street I couldn't but notice a bar called Alice's Restaurant.  This reminded me of the old Arlo Guthrie song of the same title.  So I stopped in for a jar to see if I could "get anything I want".  What I did encounter was a touch of the real Aussie outback experience.  The bar was full of men, mostly old, a few of whom betrayed a penchant for long beards and leather jackets.  They were all ogling the pretty young bargirl serving behind the counter.  I felt like I had stumbled into a '80s ZZ Top video.  I got talking to the bargirl who was obviously happy to be chat to someone who couldn't actually remember the Vietnam War.  She came from Melbourne and was travelling around Oz, trying to discover her own "backyard".  After half an hour's conversation we'd already made elaborate plans to open up a club called "The Toy Factory", though we both agreed that perhaps Alice Springs was not quite ready for such a cosmopolitan addition to its nocturnal scene. Disappointed but not downbeat, I followed her detailed instructions and made for "Sean's Bar", where I sampled the local stout and talked to a few Irish ex-pats.  I abruptly cut the night short, however, and headed back to Annie's as I was due an early start the next day.  And so it duly proved.

Day 1

The next thing I remember was being woke up by Rob at the crack of dawn the following morning.  He was short of breath and was clearly very excited about something.  "Gav, get up!" he exclaimed.  "You're not going to believe this.  The reception if full of women!"  We had paid $295 for our three-day trip with Mulga's Adventures.  But when I rushed down to the reception, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I would have paid double that there and then.  We'd come a long way from our Reef Dive disaster in Airlie Beach. Annie's was chock-a-block with beautiful girls all waiting to join our trip.  Finally our ship had come in.in the desert of all places.  An ironic, but most welcome twist of fate.  I smiled surreptitiously at Rob.  We both knew that this was going to be a good trip.

Our bus was to be driven by an up front, fair dinkum, plain talking, good on ya Aussie called Carney.  At last we'd met a true outback bloke who not only spoke and cursed like Mick Dundee, but also knew loads about the outback, bush tucker and Aboriginal ways, past and present.  Furthermore, as Carney had worked in Namibia and journeyed around Africa a fair bit, I was able to swap stories and travel anecdotes with him.  He used to ply his trade at Chameleon Backpackers, the hostel of Itchy and Scratchy fame, in which we had stayed when we hit Windhoek.  Our fellow passengers were all European, bar one Japanese girl.  Apart from Rob and myself there were three French men, Bruno, Pierre and Thierry, a young Danish lad, Lasse, a Scot called Marcus and a young English guy, Ed.  Most of the girls - Rachel, George, Kay, Laura, Julie and Michelle were English, while there was another Rachel of British-Indian extraction and a Welsh lass named Sophie.  Lasse's Danish girlfriend was also along for the ride with her cute best friend Lotte.  Otherwise there were two young Dutch girls whose names now escape me.

We set off around 08h00 and due to being last on the bus, Rob and I were seated separately.  This turned out to be an auspicious occurrence as it forced us to shout at each other over the heads of everybody and thus instil a sense of boisterousness among the group.  Carney added to this by playing loud Australian music and soon it was as if we'd been travelling around together for donkey's years.  While it was still early morning we dropped by Noel Fullerton's camel farm for a brief camel ride.  Shades of the Masai village in Tanzania, though this time none of the camels chose to vomit.  Still, Rob and I had a good laugh remembering Chris' unlucky exploits.  Carney told us how well the camel has prospered in the Northern Territory.  Their numbers are in the hundreds of thousands and given the relative paucity of camels in North Africa and the Middle East and the consequent risk of inbreeding, the Arabs now import camels from Australia!  Our next major stop was at King's Canyon, around which we hiked through 100-metre-high narrow gorges festooned with lush outcrops of palm trees to a watering hole called the Garden of Eden.  The still water therein was a murky black hue that didn't entice a cooling dip despite the hot ambient temperature.

By late afternoon we were on our way again heading west to our bush camp by the Curtain Springs station at the foot of the impressive Mount Connor.  We all engaged in a spot of firewood collecting and gate opening, something that I managed to do without spilling a drop of my gin and tonic, much to the amusement of George and Laura.  Then we dined on some local food cooked by Carney (we later discovered that the beef we feasted on was in fact camel meat - no threat of BSE then) and we played a few party games in the evening, even though most people were still getting to know each other.  Rob asked Rachel, the British Asian girl, where she was from. "Sittingbourne," she replied.  "Sitting Bull!?!" he asked incredulously.  "Wrong type of Indian, Rob!" I quipped and we all had a good chuckle, even Rachel. Carney taught us some more about local Aboriginal customs.  One belief that the local tribe, the Anangu, has is that one should die where one was born. "What!?!" Rob interjected.  "Between your mother's legs?"  Yes indeed, our approach to the whole trip was not so much bordering on the flippant as riding shotgun on it.  By the time we all finally curled up in our sleeping bags around the campfire under another radiant night sky, the Welshman had managed to curl up around Julie.  Not even the great Ian Rush in his heyday managed to score this much.  But no more talk of such lustful liaisons lest he kill or blackmail me.  Suffice to say (note the subtlety, Rob) that the tables had well and truly been turned from the first night of our Whitsunday trip.

Day 2

At dawn we proceeded further west through the surprisingly verdant countryside.  I had expected a palette of rusting browns, scarlets and amber hues. Instead the recent rains had brought forth a resplendent renaissance of local vegetation.  Flowers were blooming apace and tough green grass was sprouting from beneath the sandy soil.  I must admit that for me this proved somewhat of a let down, as I had psyched myself up for the parching heat of the red centre, not for overcast skies and a temperate landscape.  However, the bush can throw up all sorts of surprises to keep the unsuspecting traveller on their toes.  So it was for us as we journeyed apace along the highway.  In the near distance we spotted a van parked just on the sandy edge of the opposite side of the road.  Its passengers were photographing something or someone.  Before Carney could even apply the brakes to reduce the 100km speed at which we were cruising, the object of the tourists' camera lenses, a 15-kilogram Kori Bustard or "bush turkey", began to flap its giant wings and fly across the highway at an agonisingly slow pace.  Too heavy to gain sufficient height, too slow to make it across the road in time, it made a sudden and lethal contact with our vehicle. Everyone jumped with a start.  I half expected us to go careering off the road as had happened last April in Mali.  But some how Carney managed to keep control of the helm, even though the protective bars on the front of the bus crumpled under the impact thus cracking his windscreen.  We ground to an abrupt halt.  Blood and feathers were splattered all over the right hand side of the vehicle.  The wing mirror was shattered.  Those who were not still in shock poured out of the bus to investigate the carnage.  I followed Carney's lead and headed back down the road to see what state the bush turkey was in.  Fortunately the giant bird was already dead and no acts of mercy killing were required on our part.  Its intestines were dangling from its torso and its total state of chassis rendered it highly unsuitable for eating as Carney had suggested.  Three times the size of a regular turkey, such a bird would see you through the whole twelve days of Christmas and well beyond into spring.  After much coaxing from Carney, I cautiously picked up the animal by its neck.  Its body was still warm and it felt as if the tendons in its neck were wriggling to break free from my grasp as if in some morbid reflex.  I swiftly returned it to its dusty grave.  No doubt and army of outback scavengers would soon miraculously appear and enjoy a rare feast.  We tried to wash away the worst of the stains from the splintered windscreen and bloody exterior and were soon on our way again.  The other group of tourists was still taking photographs as we pulled off.

With relative calm restored among the crew, we crossed the brow of another stretch of undulating road and finally caught sight of Ayers Rock, or "Uluru" as the Anangu call it.  We disembarked and walked up a red sand dune to listen to Carney speak about the heroic triumphs and spectacular failures of the early European explorers in this corner of the world.  I could only begin to imagine the sense of awe they must have felt when they first laid eyes on the rock.  To modern eyes it is a sight already made somewhat familiar through postcards, photographs and television travel shows.  However the likes of John McDouall Stuart would have had no such visual preparation.  He must have felt like Columbus landing on the shores of Santa Domingo.

Our immediate objective, however, was the Olgas - known as "Kata Tjuta" in the local Aboriginal language.  Meaning "many heads", these rounded rocks stand 30 kilometres to the west of their more illustrious neighbour.  The tallest rock, Mount Olga, reaches 546 metres (200m higher than Ayers Rock).  We walked the 7km circuit through the Valley of the Winds.  En route Carney, via an elaborate game in which he moved us around like chess pieces, explained how the Olgas and Ayers Rock were formed many moons ago.  After our trek, which did not prove as arduous as it might have done given the broken cloud cover, we made for the Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park Cultural Centre.  Though this establishment focuses on Aboriginal issues, not one Aborigine (or "Abo - rigines" as Rob called them in somewhat of a Freudian slip) was working in the centre.  As Ed and I sauntered past the various displays and exhibitions, we learned that Uluru is a sacred place, but not why. We read that we should not climb the Rock, but no native Australians were there to explain to us why we should not climb, apart from for reasons of our own personal safety.  If Ayers Rock is such an important focal point for their culture, then why are there only white people informing visitors about the area or selling Aboriginal curios?  Once again it all seemed very bizarre to me.  Most interest in our group seemed to be focussed on repeatedly pushing certain buttons in one display that would then utter the echo of a desert wind, the cry of an indigenous bird or mammal or would teach correct Aboriginal pronunciation to any willing linguists.  This led to a frenzied fit of button pressing and an aural cacophony of the local ecosystem remixed into four-four-time.  A DJ with a liking for world music would have a field day with these disparate programmed sounds.

Afterwards Carney encouraged us to walk around part of the Rock.  Unfortunately by that stage he had been playing a tape by the crude Aussie comedian cum singer Kevin "Bloody" Wilson for several hours solid.  So when I found myself at some sacred Aboriginal rock pool, it was left to Rob to point out to me that I was unconsciously singing "Mick, me Mate the Master Farter" out loud.  Hardly the most appropriate ditty to be warbling at a holy watering hole!  We then drove slightly away from the Rock with a horde of other tourists to the scenic viewing car park to look at the desert sunset and the changing of the colours of Uluru.  Marcus busied himself getting his photo taken in front of the Rock with his arms akimbo while wearing his Dundee football shirt with the name "Caniggia" emblazoned on it between his shoulder blades.  Apparently he intends to send the snap to the Dundee supporters club magazine.  Rob and I bumped into Michelle, the singing Irish girl from Fraser Island.  Small world.  Over a few drinks we reminisced about our time on the sandy island, all the time watching the setting sun toy with the colour of the giant monolith before us.  The Rock, chameleon-like, progressively changed through a panoply of ever darkening red hues until a dull grey tincture finally settled over it for the evening.  We bade farewell to Michelle and our group made for another bush camp where we chatted amiably amongst ourselves and gazed at the brilliant celestial tapestry above.  I fell asleep counting the shooting stars that littered the outback sky as clouds ominously formed on the dark horizon.

Day 3

It was still pitch dark when we crawled out of our sleeping bags.  Silently, sleepily we marched aboard the bus to be ferried back to Ayers Rock.  In order to waken the troops and instil some sense of meaning and importance to the moment, Carney played a succession of songs by Australian artists that touched on the whole land rights issue and plight of the Aborigines. Most memorable was "The Beds are burning" by Midnight Oil, which couldn't but fail to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as we approached the Rock. Unfortunately the heavy cloud cover above hindered our chances of catching Uluru awakening in the resplendent morning sunlight.  But at least the light dawn rains meant that the decision whether or not to climb up its stony back was taken out of our hands.  The climb was closed for safety reasons and that was that.  Instead we all set off, some relieved and others disappointed, on the 10km walk around the base of the vast boulder. The feet sure have got a good working over during the past few days.  Before making the long journey back to Alice Springs, we had to drop Marcus and Julie off as they were due to fly out from Ayers Rock itself.  I did my best to console poor Rob.  Along the way back to Alice we stopped off at Carney's house where we were all introduced to "Blue", one of his four pet kangaroos.  They really are remarkable creatures and look almost human as they scratch behind their ears or stand toe to toe with you.  Needless to say, more photos were reeled off with the zeal of a catwalk cameraman.  How will I ever be able to afford to develop this visual global library?

Back at Annie's Place the lads engaged in some invigorating pool Frisbee and then we freshened up for our last dinner together in the excellent little restaurant in the hostel.  Laura was feeling ill so didn't make it to the festivities, but otherwise we'd a pretty full crew, including Carney.  Little did I realise at the time that it would turn out to be the best night of my year on the road.  It started out interestingly enough as who should turn up out of the blue, but Tracey, our Canadian pal from the Whitsunday Islands.  Rob's spirits were immediately uplifted. After a few drinks, the conversation around our table was flowing like champagne.  It seemed like an opportune moment for my Dictaphone to make an overdue reappearance.  As luck would have it I ended up being seated at the head of our table, sandwiched midway between Kay, Rachel, Michelle, George, Lotte and Indian Rachel.  In other words six women.  Now this global jaunt of mine has been illuminating, educational and insightful in the extreme.  But this night was a revelation!  I made the startling and somewhat disquieting discovery that girls are not really "sugar and spice and all things nice", but depraved, mad sex fiends (i.e. much closer to men than we give them credit for).  I recall Rob taking a photo of me, with my mouth agog, surrounded by the ladies in heated debate about the possible unorthodox uses of Alka-selzer.  It took a good half-hour for the smile to leave my face.  Michelle in particular proved a dark horse, though the other mares weren't far behind.  Not that one can make much out from the Dictaphone tape, which just reveals everybody cross-talking and shouting above each other.  Unless of course they were addressing the Dictaphone directly to make a newsworthy point or pithy truism.

With my faith restored in womankind, joviality took over the proceedings and we all piled in the back of a mini-bus to the Waterhole Bar at "Malenka's" on 94 Todd Street, the famed local den of iniquity.  The place was heaving, the music was loud and I just didn't know where to turn or which of my attractive fellow travellers to dance with.  It was a pretty amazing situation to be in.  Beneath the lasers Rob and I bumped into Joe, the wide-boy East End "diamond geezer" who we'd met in Cairns at Uptop Downunder Backpackers.  He seemed as impressed as he was jealous and pleaded for (mmm, now what was the exact phrase.oh yes) "scraps from our table!"  I kept flittering about like the social butterfly I am.  After all, Jenny "Love", one of the Swedes from Fraser, did write an e-mail complementing me on my ability to "keep it up all night".  Okay she was talking about my singing and general capacity for nonsensical banter, but it's a quote I like to recall nonetheless.  As Tracey didn't come to Malenka's with us, Rob busied himself trying unsuccessfully to stop Lotte from repeatedly falling off the tables on which we were dancing.  What a charmer that boy is!  I recall Michelle, Rachel, George, Kay, Lotte, Lasse, Rob and myself dancing (aka stumbling) arm in arm in a circle along to "500 Miles" by the Proclaimers and singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" in funny voices.  All the usual disco anthems were played too.  There's a famous proverb that relates to the relative value of bushes, hands and a couple of birds therewithin.  No mention of what to do if the number is greater than two.  Would I be pushing my luck too far to make a bold move?  Well evidently not, as a choice was made and the night finished as only such a night should.  I'm not one to kiss and tell, so just suffice to say that in years to come when I'm old and grey, and hopefully happily married, I'll look back on this evening and fondly reminisce.  If life as a single man were always this good, none of us would ever dare walk down the aisle.

Epilogue

Perhaps it's true after all.  Maybe you really can get everything you want in Alice's Restaurant.

Gav (11 December 2000)

With a spring in our step Rob and I hopped aboard our southbound flight to Victoria for a few days of calm. I spent most of the transit with headphones on trying not to laugh out too loudly at Ben Elton, who was one of the entertainers recorded doing a stand up routine on the comedy channel.  His hilarious sketch about the Ministry of Crap Design is a classic and I'll never be able to look at heat conducting teapots, waterproof napkins, teacups with ridiculously small handles or tiny spring loaded containers of UHT milk in the same way again.  Once we had stopped giggling and had touched down safely, we forked out for a taxi from Melbourne Airport to the city centre.  Our driver was an Assyrian from Iraq and was a talkative fellow. After giving us a few helpful recommendations about where to go out in town, he dropped us off at Toad Hall, an expensive YHA hostel on 441 Elizabeth Street that charged us AUS $24 per night even with YHA membership cards.  With hindsight, it would have been more advisable for us not to stay in the city centre, which tends to empty after office hours.

That first afternoon, Rob and I ambled around Chinatown and the relatively small Greek precinct, though I did take note of how many of the important road signs in Melbourne are written in three languages: English, Italian and Greek.  Apparently Melbourne home to the largest number of Greeks anywhere in the world after Athens.  The city centre in fairness is very beautiful.  Old stately trams meander along wide boulevards protected on both sides by swaying tall trees.  Many streets are pedestrianised.  A café culture is much in evidence and the city has an altogether more airy feel to it than its larger sister city to the north.  However, I like my urban areas to have a gritty edge, and perhaps having spent so much time in Sydney, I'm not the best person to ask about the merits of Melbourne.  From what most travellers say, it's a great place to live in, but less interesting to visit for a short time than Sydney.  I've yet to meet anyone, local or foreign, who loves both cities equally.  It's an either or, zero sum game I'm afraid.

On our second day there we checked out Brunswick Street, one of the social hubs of the town and home to some quintessentially Australian architecture.  We then made for the excellent Melbourne Museum in the Carlton Gardens.  For AUS $4.50 (Euro 2.80) we got treated to an exposition of Victoria's geological, natural, animal and human past.  There were exhibitions on everything from Aboriginal and South Sea Islander culture, through a history of Australian Rules Football and the story of Australia's wonder horse of the 1930's, Phar Lap, to a detailed outlining of the development of the city itself.  I even got an embarrassed Rob to take my photo standing in the original "Neighbours" set of the Robinson's kitchen from Ramsay Street!  Sometimes I have no shame.

We passed a quiet evening as the next day saw another early rise.  We had planned a day trip with Otway Discovery to show us the sights along the Great Ocean Road, probably the most famous thoroughfare in the whole country.  It is certainly a route well plied by hordes of Japanese and Korean visitors.  The price at AUS$50 (Euro 32) was very agreeable.  The problem with one day tours generally, however, is that one doesn't really get to know one's fellow travellers, so it is nigh impossible to create any group dynamics. Besides, Rob and I knew this kind of trip couldn't come close to the fun we had with Mulga's Adventures, so our expectations were consequently quite low.  We nonetheless spent a very pleasant day.  Passing through Geelong and Torquay, our first decent stop was at Bells Beach, the surfers haven where they filmed the Keanu Reeves' movie "Point Break".  Then we headed to the town of Anglesea where we saw a group of kangaroos hopping around the local golf course, two of which had little joeys peeping out of their mothers' pouches.  Another incentive for a budding Tiger Woods to stick to the fairways.  A giant bouncing over-protective marsupial is hardly the type of creature you'd want to sneak up on by accident while perusing the rough for a stray ball.  We next ventured further down the coast to the Otway National Park to have a look at Australia's other national icon: the koala.  These timid creatures are quite difficult to spot, especially given the perilous destruction, both by man and Mother Nature, of their natural habitat. These cute animals spend all their time either sleeping or eating eucalyptus leaves high up in the treetops.  One major reason for their sloth is that their staple intake of eucalyptus leaves is not exactly the most nutritious of diets.  We managed to get several close up photos of a mother and her baby koala, which no doubt will sooner or later make its way onto my mantelpiece, so that visitors can pop around to visit and go "aaaaaw".  We then walked around the Melba Gulley Rainforest and marvelled at the twilight ecosystem of green ferns, vines and other ancient flora.

After lunch we returned to the coast and went to Loch Ard Gorge, scene of the shipwreck of the Loch Ard clipper.  Of the 50 crew and passengers on board who had journeyed from Britain in 1878, only two survived when the ship broke its hull on the offshore rocks. An English apprentice officer rescued a young Irish immigrant girl from the rough swell.  As both were 18 and unmarried at the time, the newspapers of the day tried in vain to inspire a romance between the couple.  Lucky for them that the paparazzi had yet to be invented.  However, the girl who had lost the other seven members of her family in the disaster, soon returned to the safer climes of Ireland.  The Loch Ard was the last vessel transporting immigrants from Europe to founder en route to Australia and the impressive gorge has ever since been called after the ill-fated ship.  We then turned back on ourselves and drove to the 12 Apostles.  These peculiar rock formations are one of Victoria's main drawing cards. Giant pillars of rock which sprout out from beneath the pounding waves and bear testament to the forces of nature and its power to erode the land.  There are in fact no longer 12 rock stacks visible from the lookouts due to the continuing actions of the relentless surf, but the name has nonetheless stuck. Besides the "Ten and a Half Apostles" just doesn't have the same ring to it.  Well sated by our visual feast of local flora, fauna and various landscapes, we called it a day around teatime, left the Great Ocean Road behind and travelled back to Melbourne via the Princes Highway.  It was dark by the time we reached the confines of the city.

Our last full day in the capital of Victoria was spent in the seaside suburb of St. Kilda.  Though the wind was raging, bright sunshine still prevailed.  Only a tram ride away from downtown Melbourne, St. Kilda has a chic atmosphere.  There are stylish bars and swish cafés aplenty, while in the evening a definite buzz can be felt around its eateries and lounges.  It is altogether a better option to reside here than in Melbourne city centre.  After a late lunch of tasty seafood, Rob and I went for a few beers in the Big Mouth Café on Acland Street.  While a lively fancy dress party continued upstairs, we relived some of our best holiday memories.  Pretending to be Gary Lineker and Alan Hansen we reviewed our summer season down under (with the ladies) as if we were on Match of the Day.  Lots of risqué footballing metaphors about "getting a result", "seasoned campaigners", "tasty strips", "excellent domestic form", "playing the long ball game", "action occurring between the two legs" and "being shut out by a tight Dutch defence", were forthcoming in mangled Scottish accents.  Come the evening back in the city, when we went out to the Retro Bar in Brunswick Street, we were still yapping on about "soggy pitches", "scoring early and often", "fair play awards", "getting one over the old enemy", "end to end action", "gaping holes at the back" and "snaking into the Danish box".  I just couldn't stop laughing for ages.  We came to the conclusion that despite one or two results that they'd sooner forget, a young Welsh team really came of age this year with some enthralling international performances.  The experienced Irish squad was unusually slow out of the blocks, but learned from the young upstarts and by season's end was back at its best, especially in certain excellent European fixtures.  All up, it all bodes well for the upcoming domestic season.  I was toying with the notion of naming a best World's XI, but the idea was ruled offside by certain interested parties (i.e. Rob).  In other words, the names have been omitted to protect the guilty.

We finished the night in the "Laundry" on Johnston Street.  It was quite a fashionable joint, full of trendy, if somewhat young people.  Students mostly I imagine.  There was a live DJ playing a very commendable selection of Acid Jazz and Lounge tunes, while between two settees, an enthusiastic girl swayed, glided and grooved to the music with the consummate skill and timing of a professional dancer. Acutely aware that our sojourn together was swiftly coming to a close, Rob and I decided to keep some of our powder dry for Sydney and left the young Victorian revellers to their own devices.  Within twelve hours we were jetting north to New South Wales for our final party together.  Melbourne was already a fading memory.

Gav (15 December 2000)

After all our wandering across the Australian continent, it was comforting to be back on familiar territory in Sydney.  Lady luck was smiling as Rob managed to fix me up with accommodation for the duration of the holidays that was not only comfortable and central, but was also free.  The flat was situated on Harris Street on the top floor of a modern complex in the quarter of Pyrmont; a mere ten minutes walk from the city centre.  It was a part of the metropolis I had yet to explore and afforded me views of the cityscape that I had never before witnessed.  Apart from a long l-shaped balcony on which countless hours could be spent languidly sunbathing in the hammock provided, the apartment block also possessed a ground floor indoor, swimming pool, gym, Jacuzzi and sauna. Once again I had landed on my feet.

A chirpy Catalan, Marta, who was also freeloading in the flat for a few days running up to Christmas, greeted Rob and me when we turned up on the doorstep early on Friday afternoon.  We quickly made ourselves at home and helped ourselves to some sangria that Marta had made.  One by one the rest of our new flatmates returned from work.  They were all Irish. First there was Aidan, who had met the Welshman while travelling around the United States several years ago.  He was busy planning his next venture to New Zealand and I, magpie-like, plundered the wealth of information he had studiously gathered about my next destination.  It was his industrious research that led me to joining up with the Flying Kiwi Wilderness Expeditions three weeks later.  Aidan, curiously for an Irishman, did not drink alcohol.  He did, however, like staying out late with the rest of us as we all gradually slid into insobriety.  Then the following day he would be able to recount foggy tales from the night before.  Episodes that would sooner have been forgotten by all the concerned protagonists.  The second person to arrive was Ronan.  Ronan, like Aidan, was an accomplished guitarist, and had even been a member of a jazzy Irish ten-piece band called Judas Diary.  The three of us would on occasion spend an evening singing Irish songs into the wee hours.  Andy was the third of the Irishmen, the eldest and the most talented when it came to barbecuing.  Then there was Niamh and Aoife; the wine drinkers from Cork.  Apart from Marta, they were the most recent arrivals in Sydney and as such they were still eager and determined to have a good time.  The following week two more Munster girls, Sinead and Liz, arrived to keep the numbers in the apartment constant after Rob and Marta's departure.  So it was into this Celtic cauldron that Rob and I gleefully threw ourselves with abandon.

Given that we had arrived at a weekend and the new week would herald Rob's leaving and my return to work, the first couple of days were pretty hectic.  Evenings started off with an obligatory visit to the bottle shop up the road and then while the rest of us took turns preparing food in the kitchen, Andy would grill stakes and chicken outside on the balcony.  That first evening Ronan led me up to the roof of the building to take in the nocturnal view.  The nighttime panorama of illuminated skyscrapers overlooking Darling Harbour was breathtaking.  This is how I imagine cities should always look.  The glittering nocturnal Sydney cityscape would give Manhattan a good run for its money.  After dinner we played party games.  One hilarious episode involved us splitting into two teams and having in turn to guess the identity of the famous person that one of us was imitating.  Given that a Spaniard and a Briton were playing, we made a rule that all the characters had to be real people and be well known outside of Ireland.  This did not stop Niamh though from delving through the RTE archives to select Bosco and Derek Davis, much to the bewilderment of Rob who had to reveal their respective identities by saying only one word.  In fairness to the man however, he succeeded, merely by uttering the phrase "obscure".  Aoife put all her energy into producing an elaborate representation of the film "Seven", which duly led us to guessing the names Brad Pitt, Morgan Freeman, Kevin Spacey and even Gwyneth Paltrow.  This strangely did not result in her ceasing her mime.  We later discovered that the mystery personality was actually Anthony Hopkins.  She had confused "Seven" with "Silence of the Lambs" and sent us on a wild goose chase in the process.  Other memorable and equally unsuccessful characterisations were acted out.  Most notable was the one for the late Princess Diana, which involved both Rob and I pretending to drive and then running Flintstone-like into the partition wall beside the kitchen and collapsing on the floor in a heap.  All to no avail.  Another evening we invented a game that required people to disguise the lyrics from a song in a funny voice or strange accent, whether French, German, Italian, Russian, Cornish, Californian or Corkonian.  Rob's rendition of Simon and Garfunkel's "Bridge Over Troubled Waters" in a thick Yorkshire drawl proved particularly tricky to pin down.  Eventually when our stock ran out, we'd eventually hit the town.  One night we'd go to the Retro Bar, another night to Scruffy's.  We even made it out one time to the Aubury on Oxford Street to catch a show.  Wherever we went however, more often than not we'd end up in the late night bar at the Pyrmont Hotel, where things would go significantly west.  That is until Aidan would refresh our memories the following morning and thus fill in the blanks.

Monday was Rob's last in Australia and even if I was sorry to see my travelling and diving buddy go, my liver and head breathed a collective sigh of relief. I saw my comic sidekick off to the Town Hall tube station and thus ended another chapter (possible title - "The Wild Years") in my travel journal.  We had been through enough adventures and scrapes together Down Under to relive for many years to come, but my immediate concern at the time was to gather as much hard cash as quickly as I could.  I had requested and been duly given 13 work shifts in the 15 days to follow, with just two days (including Christmas day) respite.  However, the thought of working through the Festive Season did not bother me in the slightest. Given the balmy temperatures in the city, my Christmas spirit fortunately lay well and truly dormant.  The best way to ensure that no pangs of Yuletide homesickness arose I surmised was to keep busy.  Thus I duly did.  Sometimes I caught the excellent little Metro Monorail to Liverpool Street.  The monorail is a great way to nip around the centre of town in an anti-clockwise loop all the way from Chinatown to Darling Harbour.  There's one every five minutes, but at AUS $3.50 it's not the cheapest mode of transport available.  So unless I was running very late I generally made the picturesque walk past the harbour, the IMAX theatre and through the park and the Spanish quarter to George Street and Scruffy Murphy's.  As I left the apartment at dusk I would pop into the newsagents next door where a mad Chinese guy called Buddy worked.  Obviously that wasn't his really name, but as he called everybody else "Buddy", it just kinda stuck.  After a few days he became very impressed in an oriental worker bee sort of way with the amount of tip coinage that I brought into his shop in order to exchange for notes.  By Christmas, once he realised the hours that I was working, he nearly adopted me. It was the two of us united against the idleness of the Western world.  He never ceased to assure me how - "You work hard, you make plenty tips buddy, you get lots of nice girls."  Mmmm.  Enhanced capitalist activity as a means to sexual fulfilment.  Marx meets Freud if you will.  Though I initially remained instinctively dubious of this new socio-economic theory, Buddy's newfound enthusiastic respect for my industrious activity gradually wore me down.  I soon found myself popping downstairs under any pretext in order that we might censure modern man and his slothful ways.  I just didn't have the heart to tell him that instead of spending most of the year being a productive fiscal member of society as he imagined, I had in fact abandoned my financial security to go backpacking for months on end.  I feared this would have disappointed him greatly.  So I maintained the charade of being a by-product of the Celtic Tiger economic regime.

But Buddy wasn't the only greengrocer to influence the way I thought about the world during my stay in Sydney over the holidays.  Every dawn as I would finish my shift at work I'd amble home via the Spanish quarter. Therein was situated a 24-hour shop owned by a Jordanian guy called Hassan.  I'd only pop in for a blue Powerade to keep my weary limbs going, but we'd eventually end up discussing religion, politics and the decreasing moral standards of - you guessed it - the West.  Impressed that I knew some broken Arabic, he taught me how to say the Islamic profession of faith: Ash'hadu an la illaha ill'allah, Ash'hadu anna Mohammed ar-rasul Allah (I testify that there is no God but God and that Mohammed is His Prophet).  I think, however, that I would make a poor Muslim.  No alcohol, no women outside of wedlock, pray five times daily.  As a young male Westerner you might as well say - no fun.  But this year has given me a lot of time to reflect.  To try to figure out what our time here on the planet is all about.  I remember thinking, as I sat exhausted in a church on Christmas morning listening to the priest give a tired and tested sermon and the congregation rattle off hymns with little or no enthusiasm, that there has to be more to faith than this.  This was a far cry from the Roman Catholic churches in Senegal and Côte d'Ivoire that I had attended, filled to the brim with fervent believers. So each morning Hassan would tell me about Mohammed and Islam and I would try to explain to him what I thought Christianity is about.  Not that many of us (myself included) adhere to all of Christ's teachings these days.  When most Christians think of Islam they think of oppressed women, Shi'ite fundamentalists, bearded Taleban extremists and African-American black supremacists.  This is a false vision.  No different than those Muslims who see the sectarian strife in Northern Ireland as a religious conflict symptomatic of the divisions of Christendom.  I know that our biased media portrayal is not a representative view of Islam, so this poses no difficulty for me.  The immovable barrier in my case is to defy the divinity of Jesus.  Was he a god?  Was he God?  Was he a mere mortal?  Someone of bastard birth to be ridiculed and rejected as a false prophet and heretic as Jews would have it.  A great man born of a Virgin and chosen by God to be revered as a great teacher and healer that paved the way for Mohammed - the Seal of the Prophets - as Muslims believe.  Or as Christians, whatever their denomination, hold, a Divine reincarnation of the monotheistic deity, the same God in which all three religions profess to believe?  Should we encourage revenge, restraint or righteous war? Strike an eye for an eye, turn the other cheek or wage jihad on infidels? I suppose the whole point is that whether one looks to Jerusalem, Rome or Mecca or indeed within oneself for inspiration, one should act prudently, justly and take responsibility for one's actions.  To try to achieve happiness and fulfilment in as selfless a manner as one can.  So I enjoyed my discussions with Hassan very much.  They provided some much needed food for thought in an otherwise hedonistic stay in Sydney.  Despite my reluctance to convert, he was pleased that as one of the "People of the Book" (the Muslim term for Jews and Christians as opposed to kafirs or unbelievers such as Hindus, Buddhists etc.), I was, as he put it, especially "close to Islam".

I suppose it was encounters with characters like Buddy and Hassan that made me begin to truly appreciate the rich tapestry of life that Sydney has to offer.  To be afforded the chance to encounter and exchange views with exotic individuals who profess and live different lifestyles to me, yet with whom I could find common ground was especially gratifying.  They certainly provided me with interesting prologues and epilogues to a diurnal existence that otherwise simply revolved around working in an Irish pub.

At first look Scruffy's hadn't changed a bit.  It was still  - for want of a more apt description - very scruffy.  Many of the management and staff had left since Halloween, but a number of the old crew (Kay, Gillian, Sharlane, Andi, Keith, Mark, Tom, "Tinker", Karl, Simon, Oliver and Sean) were still there labouring away.  To these were added the new girls and boys, Dina, Paula, James, "Nudge", Guy, Kyle, Jason, Brian and Mike (an eclectic mix of Irish, British, Canadians, Aussies and Kiwis).  Two new recruits, however, immediately caught my eye (and that of every other barman/male customer in the place).  Charlotte and Charlotte - the blonde Danish bombshells. Charlotte S. was half American (and hence referred to as Yankee Charlotte), very confident, extremely sexy and in the words of Hall and Oats, a "man-eater". Wo-oh here she comes; watch out boys she'll chew you up. Charlotte L. was more my type.  Not that I was playing Mr. Picky.  Equally beautiful, though in a more demure way, her slightly less fluent English and strong Danish accent produced in her a shy cute quality that could sink a submarine twenty leagues under the sea.  She had curves an Olympic downhill skier would cry for.  Suffice to say I was happy to be back behind the counter.

Apart from the staff changes, I noticed two major differences at Scruffy's between the new set-up and the old regime.  There was a new manager, called Tommy (aka the Fat Controller).  As he had owned his own pub before and was thus familiar with the licensing game, he had been employed to bring staff into line and to boost profits.  His decision to employ Charlotte and Charlotte was an obvious winner.  Staff your bar with stunners and the punters will come flooding in and will give the bargirls huge tips, which will in turn increase their willingness to work for you.  It's sexist - but it's good business.  Furthermore, he raised the prices of the drinks.  Given its central location and that it is not per se dependent on the fidelity of certain patrons, this was also a move with which I suspect he got away.  However, in an attempt to come across as the hard bar man ("Cocktail" meets "Dirty Harry" if you will), Tommy acted with a certain heavy handedness regarding his employees; especially I noticed when it came to male members of staff.  Not that he ever had reason to question or criticise me. I think he was slightly cowed by the fact that I had worked in the pub before he arrived.  Plus I was slightly older than most of the bar staff.  I wouldn't have given a damn in any case.  Having survived Brian O'Donnell's reign of terror for half a year in the James Joyce pub in Brussels in '94, no employer could even come close to instilling me with the slightest modicum of fear that that Donegal man had managed to do.  It was a tough job at the time, but the experience has served me well.  Besides, I was only back pulling pints in Scruffy's for a fortnight, so what did I care.  I did see Tommy lay into a couple of the younger barmen and glassies, but ironically this arcane approach was exactly what led to the second change that I noticed.  When I had worked in Scruffy Murphy's during and after the Olympics the staff didn't take the piss drinks wise.  We'd a couple of free staff drinks after our shifts and you would shout a fellow member of staff a round if they were on a night off.  That was the extent of the subterfuge and management and staff co-existed happily in this knowledge.  However, once Tommy's pedantic antics took centre stage, the free drinks started to flow, akin to some sort of counterattack manoeuvre.  Backs were being scratched as if an Itch-a-thon were taking place on the premises.  As I was more often than not working upstairs in the calmer Goose Garden, most of these shenanigans took place in my absence.  That was until Christmas Eve when I had specifically asked to be posited in the main bar where I reckoned the festivities would be at their height.  And so began the best Christmas I have yet survived.

All the staff forwent their usual black shirts to don white T-shirts emblazoned with the slogan "I survived the 12 days of Christmas at Scruffy Murphy's".  Such naïve optimism.  To this we added Santa Claus hats, fake snow and coloured wigs made from strips of tinsel.  Paula even platted my golden tinsel locks into Heidi-esque pigtails so that I could compete in the tips stakes with Charlotte and Charlotte.  They were impressively done, but looked somewhat incongruous given the white beard that I had sprayed on my chin with the fake snow.  In any case I had soon to remove the snowy beard thereafter as it was beginning to seriously sting my face.  Note for the diary - next time use shaving foam.  Everybody seemed in a mood to party - and that was only the staff. Though I only started my shift at 21h00, one hour later I was already on a half-hour break, as the bar was relatively quiet.  There was a surfeit of workers and the Kiwi bouncers looked bored.  I headed down to the basement where Tom and Karl were setting up.  Soon James joined us.  Though technically a manager, he adopted a somewhat cavalier approach to the whole evening and in a very un-Scrooge like fashion promptly ordered double vodkas and Red Bull for all of us.  In a jiffy Dina, Andi and Brian arrived on the scene to join in the carnage.  All bets were off.  I knew then and there that this would be a blinding night.  Back in the main bar I insisted that if anybody wanted service they had to help fill my tip jar (I say jar, but it was actually a pint glass).  The bar staff competed for slogans, which we scrawled on coasters in order to stir the generous spirit of giving among our patrons.  I came up with "Tipping is not a town in China", but Tinker's motto of "Please give generously - I have to pay for sex!" proved a winner.  The customers had no option but to comply with us and by night's end I had collected roughly AUS$130 (over 81 Euro).  I also bumped into a load of friends that I had made during my outback adventures who had made for the big city for the festivities - Clement and Ted whom I had met on Apollo as we sailed around the Whitsunday Islands, and Marcus and George who had gone on Mulga's tour in the Northern Territory with myself and Rob.  That was one of the great advantages of toiling in Scruffy's.  It's so popular that it's an easy meeting point.  What is more, I was getting paid to be there for my trouble.

Yankee Charlotte had been toiling away upstairs in the Goose Garden and was finally afforded a welcome respite.  I headed upstairs to cover her break.  I thought it apt to start a wee Yuletide session.  So while up there I insisted that every punter had to sing a Christmas carol if they wanted service.  I even got a German couple to join me in a rendition of "Oh Tannenbaum"!  Fortunately Ollie was around to help with the more "menial" tasks such as glass collection and washing, which in my eagerness to produce song and merriment from the assembled ensemble, I had temporarily neglected.  Charlotte's face was aghast when she retuned to the Goose Garden 30 minutes later.  The place looked like Armageddon.  But the crowd was in full voice, so I considered my work to be well done.  James and Kay had to literally drag me down the stairs lest I stay for an encore.  By now I was really having fun.  Downstairs the band was in full flow and for once was almost melodious.  The shooters were flowing.  Party time.  The main bar and the downstairs disco were heaving.  Scruffy's attracts a lot of backpackers, who obviously didn't have to rush home to trim the tree or hang stockings on the mantelpiece. Sutton Castle was never this good.  The night gradually bled into the dawn and by the time we had cleared up and taken stock, another hot day was well and truly underway.  I struggled home, not even stopping to visit Hassan.

Back in our apartment, Aidan, Andy, Niamh, Aoife, Liz and Sinead were just rising from their respective beds/couches.  Ronan had unfortunately left the day before for Perth to visit relations.  While they rubbed the sleep from their eyes I recounted my tips on the balcony.  The temperature outside was already approaching the thirties.  "It's Christmas, Jim, but not as we know it."  We had opted to do Christkindl, whereby each of us picked a name out of a hat and bought a small present for that person.  I received an excellent dark green corked hat (form Sinead if I recall correctly), the kind that one associates with the outback Aussie stereotype.  I insisted on wearing it all Christmas day, except in the church to which Andy drove us.  It's handy knowing someone with his or her own car.  On St. Stephen's day Andy was able to drop us out to South Head to watch the spectacular start of the world-famous annual Sydney to Hobart race.  The placid seas around Sydney harbour belie the dangerous waters of the Tasman Strait to which the colourful flotilla of tall ships were sailing and which within days would reduce the nautical field to a shadow of the armada that sailed out from the city. Back in the cathedral however, it was a miracle in itself how I didn't fall asleep.  There was no nativity play, which always formed the highlight of Christmas mass for me back home in Howth.  Something always used to go wrong, whether it was the choir singing spectacularly out of tune or the children forgetting their lines.  I remember one year the head of the baby Jesus detaching itself from the doll being tenderly held by the young girl playing the Virgin Mary and bouncing down the steps of the altar into the congregation.  Jesus wept.  Mary went white.  But the gathered faithful all had a good giggle.  But this service, disappointingly, was just a run of the mill, ho-hum, bog standard affair.

By the time I got back to the flat there was barely enough time to change before making the return walk to Scruffy's where I was to join the rest of the gang for a Christmas cruise around Sydney harbour.  By this time I was running on empty.  We had each paid AUS $60 (38 Euro) for the trip, which given that it included all the drinks, was cheap at the price.  I'm not sure if Buddy would have been impressed with such financial irresponsibility, but there you go.  Everyone looked shattered, but some, most noticeably Tom, Mark and Karl managed to look even more wrecked than others. Tom looked like he'd been in a scrap, and who knows maybe he was.  But he still made me laugh with his New York style "Hey tough guy" banter.  Kay, Gillian and Simon headed down into the cellar to fetch the booze and soon enough a fleet of taxis had arrived to transport us and our booty to the quay.  There, the rest of the current staff, plus some old faces like Morven and "Hairy" Dan, who was a mad and high as ever, joined us.  Dan somehow always manages to look simultaneously bedraggled and euphoric.  Ah the wonders of modern chemistry.  A new Irish girl, Denise, who would in a few days join the complement of bar staff, was also on board.  The yacht was luxurious in the extreme and as we set sail, smiles abounded. Sometimes during this year I have wished to be home. This was categorically not one of these moments.  With a plethora of beautiful women laid on the deck in their bikinis, enough drink to sink Oliver Reed on a good day, a "dacent" bunch of lads to have a laugh with, a bright clear sky and views of Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House, why in the world would I have wanted to be anywhere else.  Ho ho ho indeed!  My russet Mediterranean tan, which I had been brushing up a few days before when I went to Clovely Beach with Andi, was coming along nicely.  James cracked a joke about my less than lithe figure, asking if I would put him in touch with my personal trainer.  I can't recall my retort verbatim, but it was something along the lines that unlike him, I had been concentrating recently on exercising my brain.  He held his tongue after that.  Yes indeed, I'm not a man to be trifled with when on a G&T roll.  After cruising for an hour or two we dropped anchor.  The guys started jumping off the stern into the warm waters below.  Tinker impressed all with his diving skills, though not even his somersaulting armoury could compete with my talent for explosive belly flops.

It was about this time that the pursuit of cute Charlotte began.  Brian had been busy taking photos of her and Yankee Charlotte for quite a while on deck. Understandable really.  Most of the guys did likewise.  But nobody was under any illusions that Yankee Charlotte was the type of girl to do her own hunting, not be hunted herself.  It was obvious that Karl and myself were of like mind when it came to the charms of the more bashful of the two Danes.  Thus began a game of cat and mouse than would have had a Russian chess grandmaster perplexed.  At first, affairs didn't seem to be proceeding too auspiciously for me.  Karl had made a bold move early.  Seeing that Charlotte shoulders were suffering under the heat of the sun, he offered her his Arnott's Dublin jersey.  Never did the GAA have such a striking endorsement.  She looked amazing.  I quipped to Karl that Brian Mullins never looked that good in the Dublin kit.  "Brian Mullins just never looked good!" was his droll reply.  I'm not sure exactly how, maybe it was through my spluttering of a few garbled phrases in Danish, but as the afternoon wore on, events began to turn in my favour. Arms were draped over shoulders, hands were held, and fleeting looks of affection and kisses were swapped. Not to mention glares of envy.  I began to feel like Brian Boru.  Before I started to overheat, Karl saw fit (all in the spirit of puerile exuberance, mind) to push me overboard.  Ollie kindly rushed to my defence and promptly ejected Karl in turn.  When the two of us climbed aboard again to face the wrath of the captain who had already started his engine, we noticed Charlotte chatting to Vaughan, one of the Maori security staff.  Little did Karl and I realise at the time that another suitor was on the prowl for hidden Viking treasures.  As we returned towards dry land the party on board went into full swing.  The second or third wind had hit home and we'd forgotten that none of us had slept the night before.  In my excitement to make for Bronte Beach, our next port of call, I left behind the Malian necklace and wristlet that I had worn everyday since April.  When I discovered this the next day, I was understandably furious.  I felt like I had lost my mojo.  And given the immediate subsequent events, maybe I had.

At Bronte things had started swimmingly.  Karl had graciously stood aside and encouraged Charlotte to go swimming with me.  Even for a sober person the waves that crashed onto the strand would have been difficult to negotiate.  For Charlotte they proved extra tricky.  Yet even as she fell about the place in the salt water, her Dublin top soaked through and her swimming togs now bearing more than a passing (but nonetheless very welcome) resemblance to a g-string, she still looked every part the Bond girl.  "Up the Dubs!" some passers by yelled.  Damn right.  Double entendres were flowing like champagne.  So quite how within the space of an hour matters turned from me strolling along the sands hand in hand with my fair Nordic maiden to jealously staring at her as she got intimate with Vaughan, I'll quite never know.  Karl was equally perplexed and we found common cause in berating women, Scandinavian temptresses in particular.  That was before he returned to Denise with whom he'd been getting on famously.  To further compound my sense of injustice with the world, more new couplings were being made between other staff members on the beach. Such a plan hadn't gone so badly awry since a certain 19th century French general though it would be a prudent move to invade Russia.  Hard though I tried, I couldn't very well blame Vaughan, as I would have done the same.  Well, I actually did the same to Karl a couple of hours previously.  And I didn't want to add hypocrisy to the list of vices I was procuring.  Lust, envy, greed and sloth - I was well on the way to acquiring all seven deadly sins.  So I accepted my Waterloo with an air of resignation.  Once the late December sun had finally set, all and sundry eventually managed to squeeze onto a bus heading to Bondi, where Tinker was throwing a party.  But by now my gunpowder was well and truly spent and my old nemesis sleep was closing in on all flanks.  Not even General Red Bull could postpone the inevitable collapse of consciousness.  So I left the others to their singsongs and banter and luckily succeeded in hailing a taxi.  Before the stroke of midnight I was curled up Cinderella-like on the couch at home in a deep slumber.  It had certainly been a Christmas to remember, but at the time all I wanted to do was sleep till the spring.

Gav (27 December 2000)