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Prologue: The Challenge

This isnt really a travel book. Look, I hate to disappoint you here, but it is best that we lay our cards on the table early on. I am not Freya Stark, and if you are expecting some earnest account of my travelling up the Amazon, eating bugs and wiping my arse on bark, then then you are going to be disappointed. Thats the problem with travel writers. They insist on overcoming obstacles of a superhuman nature. They are always crossing the Serengeti by foot or traversing the Antarctic on a pogo-stick. We ordinary individuals cannot compete. Consequently, this book was written with all non-travel-literature travellers in mind. Its for those us for whose ultimate goal is not to snowboard down Kilimanjaro, but to merely arrive in one piece with our luggage. This book celebrates those minor victories, like tourist attractions without shrieking children, hotels with a decent selection of cable channels, and a flight where some inconsiderate shit doesnt put his seat back within two seconds of take-off, squashing those behind him like a sandwich under a sofa cushion. In 2000, my girlfriend Caro (from New Zealand) and I (from Yorkshire) decided to chuck it all in and go backpacking around the world. This decision was prompted by the early onset of my mid-life crisis. I was thirty-one years old, had just sold a house due to divorce and consequently was sitting on twenty-five thousand pounds worth of profit. I knew that I would never have this amount of money again in my life. I knew I should be sensible with this money. I knew I should invest it. However, I could not shake off the feeling that soon I would be forty. Only early bedtimes, an unnatural fascination with murder mystery programmes and a Best of The Eagles cd awaited me. The evil, irresponsible, inner part of myself told me that I needed to do something frivolous with this cash. I needed to buy twenty-five thousand pounds worth of chocolate and then build a wall of Cadburys around myself. It could take months to eat my way out. I was saved from this by Caro. She and I had been together for just over a year and she wanted to take me back to New Zealand and show me to her friends. This is understandable, as I am very manly and impressive, if short, tubby computer programmers is what you go for. I told her to research the flights and about a week later she made an innocent announcement. You know, she informed me, its almost the same cost for around the world ticket as it is for a flight to New Zealand at Christmastime. Look, Id had a really bad day at work. I had tried to lead a rebellion against the wearing of ties the slave-collar of the harried office-worker. My workers revolt had been brutally crushed by managerial Nazis, and I wasnt happy. Fuck it, I said swearily. Lets do it. Caro was amazed. She hadnt expected me to be such a pushover, although this is her main reason for loving me. Plans were made, flights were booked and my workplace was informed, although I was very restrained and avoided use of words like, tie, shove, this and right up your fucking arse. Our ambitious plans were greeted with by our friends with warmth and enthusiasm, demonstrated in the form of hysterical laughter. You wont make it a week! they hooted. They pointed out my delicate state and nervous disposition, and Caros inability to go without facial treatments or manicures for more than a week. Youll be carrying her around Vietnam in a litter, they taunted. This was our challenge. How would a natural coward and glamourpuss cope? How would two people unused to shared toilet facilities* and foreign customs cope with a year of travel? We girded our loins, put our best feet forward and went out on our quest. Not for the adventure, nor the glory but for the comfort. This book therefore, is my chronicle of a year in the life of two ordinary people facing a year on the road with courage, fortitude and audacity. Except without the courage, fortitude and audacity.

* Translation: Lakes of wee on the floor.

Part One: Vietnam Land of Aggravated Girlfriends


The next time I am in Ho Chi Minh City I will make sure I have more than one pair of underpants. Im sorry you were hoping for some insight into Vietnamese culture - possibly a description of the architecture or an examination on how the war affected the people? Im going to have to let you down. The fact is that my smalls were uppermost in my mind as I collapsed onto my bed at a hotel which smelt vaguely of disinfectant and wee. I wish I had another pair of underpants, I remember thinking, as I attempted to dislodge the pair I was wearing from places that underwear traditionally fears to tread. My second thought was simply, This is all Caros fault. Vietnam was Caros idea. Before we left, she and I had made up a wish-list of countries we wanted to visit. Caros included New Zealand, Australia, the USA, Mexico, Cuba, Japan and Vietnam. I laughed. You would have laughed too, if you knew Caro. She is the quintessential glamour queen. If famous, she would out-diva Miss Diana Ross. She thrives in latte-rich environments, has a make-up kit the size of a pot-bellied pig, loves to shop and wears furry purple leopardskin boots. When filling her backpack with travelling essentials she asked me if she should bring strappy sandals. I replied that she most definitely should. Strappy sandals were what the Viet Cong had worn while bringing military supplies down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. What if we have to go to a wedding, Symon? she answered, with her unerring fashion logic. It was a good point. Spontaneous weddings were a hazard I had not considered. I suppose what irritated me most about Caros laissez-faire attitude to packing was that she had given me such a hard time about it myself. Can you live out of a backpack for an entire YEAR Symon? she had demanded. Can you??? Caro, of course, had previous experience. She arrived in the UK in 1997 and lived out of backpack for months. She survived several weeks in a flat in London which housed 36 Kiwis (although technically five of them lived in a van parked outside). Inside, the conditions were so fetid and disgusting she avoided showering on the grounds that she actually felt filthier afterwards. She survived an IRA bomb threat, a fight in a curry house and a French flat mate who would shag anything. During one particularly vigourous encounter, he sprayed semen all over her sleeping bag, like a bottle of pop that had been shaken for thirty minutes. Shes had negative feelings about the French ever since. Fleeing London like an anorexic from a pie eating contest, Caro made her way up the UK, heading for Scotland. Actually, she was heading for the Shetland Islands but ran out of money in Edinburgh where I met her two years later. So it was due to her extensive travel experience that Caro elected herself in charge of practical preparations. She had gone shopping for all the essentials mosquito net, sleeping bags, sunscreen, laundry bag, travel towel. And strappy sandals. I took very little part in all this partly because I am just a huge idiot on practical issues and partly because, ever since I quit my job, I had been busying myself by wrapping ties around my head and running through the flat going, Whooooooo! with no pants on. As a result, Caros attitude to me had become somewhat patronising. She reassured me that she would be in charge for what was possibly going to be the most challenging part of our trip: Vietnam. Now whose idea was that again? Well everyone goes to Thailand now Symon, rationalised Caro. Then she explained how she had found a tour company that would take us from Ho Chi Minh City up to Hanoi via jeep. Thus my fears were allayed and Vietnam was incorporated into our itinerary. It had all gone so well to start with the flight from London was surprisingly pleasant, and Singapores Changi airport is spacious and airy with little gardens and a koi pond. We had to wait there for about 5 hours before the flight to Vietnam, and it was at this point that the tiredness started to hit me. Caro hit on the bright idea of taking showers and we allowed ourselves

to be bossed about by a little shower attendant lady, barking showering instructions at us. Then I loaded up on coffee, walked about and investigated the toilets. I should warn you at this point that toilets are very important to me. You will get a lot of front-line toilet reportage in this account of our journey. Feel free to skip the next section if you are squeamish or never shit. If you can tell the state of a country by their toilets, then Singapore comes off rather well. Here, they have 'Asian-Tiger' techno-toilets. The kind of bogs that decide EXACTLY when they feel like flushing for themselves. You'll be sitting there quite happily and suddenly WHOOSH -wet bum. Then, when you've finished, you wave your hand about in front of the motion sensor and the toilet will say, Hmmmm not yet. It is disquieting to encounter a toilet that is smarter than you. I suspect the only way to get them to flush is to bribe them with pine-scented cistern blocks. The flight to Vietnam was only 2 hours, but stress kicked in as soon as we arrived, and my backpack did not. It seems that the airline forgot to load it in London. I wandered around the piles of lonely looking baggage, hoping that my brand new backpack full of essentials (in the form of deodourant) would be there. Caro took the matter in hand and lodged a complaint. She was all too aware that losing ones temper in the Far East is not a cool thing to do. Its a cultural thing apparently. Westerners know that the only way to achieve customer satisfaction is to wag an officious finger and use phrases like, official complaint and lack of customer care or, in the case of Caro, pull your finger out of your arse, you ratshit pigfucker, but this does not wash in Vietnam. Losing your temper means that people are less likely to help you. This is, in a way, lovely. I imagine Southeast Asia is an area of chilled-out people helping each other, and smiling and being just adorable. Still, when you havent slept for 20 hours and your armpits smell like a chemical toilet after a curry festival, its hard to be philosophical. Caro managed to lodge her official inquiry about the whereabouts of my smalls, and was handed an official piece of paper. We trudged off to get a taxi. Getting taxis in developing nations is really easy! All you do is stand around looking like someone who has American dollars and hundreds of taxi drivers will come rushing up to you, desperate to whisk you and your dollars away. Caro and I were far too tired to care about being ripped off. ME: TAXI GUY: ME: TAXI GUY: CARO: Huy My Hotel? Yes. OK. Huy My - 15 dollar. Ok. 15 dollar - 15 dollar (pointing to Caro) Ok? What-fucking-ever, lets just get in the car!

I should add that the real currency of Vietnam is the American dollar. I had just traded a whole bunch of UK currency for a huge pile of Vietnamese dong only to realize that I was now stuck with the bloody stuff. The taxi ride was our first real look at the country and was completely overwhelming. Hundreds of bicycles came hurtling out of junctions, turning as one like a massive school of fish. There were traditional businesses out on the street - food vendors with whole ducks on spits and next to these were merchants whose shops were no more than garages filled with old fridges. By complete contrast, right next to these broken-down stores, were hi-tech electronic gadget shops. Overshadowing the whole lot were Westernstyle billboards advertising luxury goods. Its symbolic of something, reader. However, at this precise moment in the narrative, my face is pressed up against the window in the back seat of my taxi and I am falling asleep so youll have to work it out for yourselves. I was pleasantly surprised by the climate, which wasnt as uncomfortably hot as in Singapore, and our hotel had air conditioning. I was also delighted by a group of friendly women in the hotel lobby. Caro told me later that she suspected the hotel was a front for a brothel. She always underestimates my sexual charisma.

After unpacking my meagre possessions, I collapsed into bed at about 6pm local time Sunday night having not slept for about 30 hours. I slept right through until 11am on Monday, apart from being awake from midnight to 2am due to jet lag. During that time Caro found a cute little lizard hiding in the bathroom so it wasn't time wasted. I wasnt so impressed with the rest of the bathroom amenities. The toilets were an indication of Vietnams state as compared to Singapore. Vietnam definitely has 'developing nation' toilets. Mind you, so does Leeds. As for Caro, she was curiously quiet. I wasnt really aware of her opinion of Vietnam until I read this email that she composed at an internet caf the next day: 4/12/00: Caroline Ho Chi Minh City What can I say? Except we are here in Ho Chi Minh City. When we finally got to the Hotel, we just crashed out. Actually, a small part of me wanted to curl up in a little ball and bawl my eyes out 'cos I was so tired (having spent 31 hours travelling, waiting at airports and being awake for that whole time) and it is a complete culture shock. This time last night all I wanted to do was to go straight back to Singapore and then to Auckland on the next available flight. Symon is much cooler and calmer than myself about all this. Even though I have read loads of stuff about the place, the smells, the people, the buildings are all very new and therefore, strange. Part of the problem is that we don't understand the lingo at all. The flight from London was fabby, with our own TV screens, which had movies, a few cable TV channels and Nintendo. The food was great, although something wasn't quite right somewhere, because I have been ill already. And I have been ultra careful about water, washing, brushing teeth, ice cubes etc. But I guess it was something in the food. Singapore Airport was very cool. Loads of shops, but not cheap at all. Who said you can get electrical stuff cheap in Singapore? We went and sat outside on the Garden Terrace and encountered heat of 31 degrees (that was at 8am). I had a cigarette out there because the Smoking Room idea did not appeal. "Thank god for air conditioning" was my thought for the day. So we arrive at Ho Chi Minh City absolutely shattered, no sleep for 31 hours, only to find Symon's backpack is somewhere in South East Asia, but they're not sure where. Un-fekkin-believable. And trying to explain that to Vietnamese officials and not getting angry took me another 3 hours. My guide book specifically stated that it is very uncool to show anger, as they just go out of their way to be really unhelpful. So I had to be really nice and laugh about the whole deal. In the meantime, our free airport pick-up to the hotel had waited for 2 hours and then left. Townspeople are not allowed to wait in the airport, they all hang around outside behind these big 7 foot high fences, so he had no idea if we had arrived or not. Poor guy was at the Hotel when we arrived and we were apologising profusely. Symon got caught between 2 taxidrivers who fought over our fare. One of them just grabbed my daypack (with all our money and passports and walked off). I was shouting and following him, causing a scene in front of hundreds of people. Everyone seems to understand the word "fucking" thats for sure. So he became our taxidriver. He didn't speak to us, seemed to understand where we were going, but I was having visions of our bodies lying in a ditch somewhere and the rest of our luggage having been nicked, given that he had already grabbed my bag. Mentally, I was busy forming a plan and had opened up my Swiss Army Knife inside my bag, out of the driver's view.

But everything was cool, we got a big smile and a handshake from the bloke after he had dropped us at the hotel. Our room is clean, not exactly 4 star, but air-conditioned and we were safe minus one backpack. Luckily, I have a couple of men's t-shirts, which we are now sharing. And I spotted a lizard on the wall of the bathroom during the night (my 500th trip). It was tan coloured and raced all over the walls, forcing me to wake up Symon, who thought it was cute. I thought it was a possible bum-biting-poisonous killer. Symon laughed and went back to bed. The lizard has disappeared since I saw it, whereabouts unknown. At least it wasn't a huge bloody great spider. Today we ventured out after sleeping for hours, and found this internet cafe. We met a friendly ice-cream vendor, who chatted and gave us ice creams as a gift. But as soon as this cyclo-taxidriver (pushbike version of a rickshaw) came over and started chatting, he got all sullen and demanded money, which I gave him, protested a bit (as you do, since haggling is the done thing here) and just wanted him to feck off. But we got a rickshaw ride each to the internet cafe and we have a deal with this little fellie who will pick us again later. We haven't paid him yet, so I am assuming he will show up. As we are Westerners and white, with different coloured hair, we are constantly stared at. It takes some getting used to. There seem to be a few tourists, but not loads, so I guess we are something of a novelty and a target for taxis, street vendors etc. Who knows, maybe the Hanoi tour part will be heaps better, because it is all arranged for us and we have an English speaking guide. But at the moment, I am not that keen on the place and I cannot wait to get to New Zealand. For some strange reason, for the first time in 3 years, I'm all "I want my Mummy". What a big baby. Obviously I am not cut out to be a backpacker. So why am I doing this? It can only get better. Will try and send another email when we get to Singapore, after the tour in North Vietnam, which I think will be loads better. Bug Hugs, Caro I felt so insensitive. After I read Caros email I realised, Oh my god, she hates it here. I had noticed that she wasn't quite herself but wasnt sure of the cause. Its not that she was crabby or irritable. She wasn't sitting with a fag in her hand muttering, fucking fuck or anything. She was just... quiet. It was scary. She was sick of the tv, sick of the food and sick of the smell (she claimed that everything smelled of stale sweat - although that might have been due to me and my one pair of smalls.) Also, I didn't realise she was scared of the lizard. I thought he looked like Robin the Frog from the Muppet Show. Right after we left the Internet Cafe, the Cyclo driver Caro mentioned popped up again. He must have been waiting for us the whole time. You see, in his mind we had hired him for the DAY. He wouldn't take money from us - just made it clear he wanted to take us somewhere else. Everytime we tried to hand over some dollars he just said, Hep me, hep me - many many times! I'm not quite sure what it meant except we were stuck with him and his friend who was to ferry me about. Occasionally they spoke to each other in Vietnamese. I'm not sure what they were saying. CYCLO 1: Nee hon sao ma lay do! Da mo lay kwan? CYCLO 2: Hun ma dok din ngao me duk. Hay man kwa so lay da! BOTH: Ha ha ha ha ha. - translation -

CYCLO 1: Jesus Christ I'm knackered! Is yours as heavy as mine? CYCLO 2: Fuck knows what these Westerners eat. I think mine swallowed an elephant. BOTH: Ha ha ha ha ha.

Caro and annoying Cyclo Guy. Do not be fooled by the smile. She wants to tell him to fuck off. What we wanted to do after leaving the cafe was to load up on replacement underwear and toiletries for me at the local Poundstretcher ("Dongstretcher"?) and then go back to the hotel. But no, the Cyclo guy insisted he take us somewhere first, so we decided to go to the War Museum. There we were left in peace for 0.00005th of a second before another guy attached himself to us. He told me that I had a lovely girlfriend and that he liked David Beckham ("English football number one!!") He added that You loo li Davi Beckham when he ha hair - when he prettee!" In case you were wondering, I have dark hair and am a good foot shorter than David Beckham. Also I wear glasses. Posh Spice thought this was hilarious and gave our new Vietnamese friend one of her cigarettes. In return, he offered us his services as a guide around the museum, which seemed fair enough. Ha ha! You are probably thinking. Caro and Symon are such rubes! You are quite right. I might as well have been wearing a sign around my neck saying, Please take all my cash! For I am extremely stupid! While I am sure our guide knew a great deal more about the Vietnamese war than I did, the extent of his guidance was to show us the entrance to the room, and then the exit. Gosh, werent we fortunate to have him there! Ordinarily, going through doors gives me such trouble! I was feeling too guilty to be annoyed though. The Vietnamese war museum in Ho Chi Minh City is intense. I consider myself fairly well acquainted with modern history, but this museum was a real eyeopener. Obviously the main focus of our interest was the period when the Americans involved themselves, after the disastrous occupation of the French and before the invasion by China. I was familiar with a rough outline of what happened how the USA was slowly but inexorably committed to that costly war out of a desire to halt the spread of Communism. How first Lyndon Johnson and then Richard Nixon came to believe the only way to win the war was by escalating the bombing. How the Vietnamese, hardened by the war against the French proved completely indomitable, taking the Americans own weaponry and recycling it for use against the the US troops, and how this resulted in a war far more bloody and ferocious than anyone in Washington had ever envisaged.

Me and Caro posing with a tank at the war museum. I am clutching a bag containing new t-shirts as I have been wearing that one for 3 days. What I was unprepared for were the photographs, set out matter-of-factly, of GIs pushing Viet Cong prisoners from helicopters, and proudly displaying the heads of men they had decapitated. I mean, I had heard of the My Lai massacre, and seen the famous footage of a Viet Cong fighter being executed in the street, but had naively assumed that these were extraordinary incidents. I hadnt realised that the only extraordinary thing about them was that they were reported in the West. Having said that, Im not in a position to criticise the troops on either side of this conflict for their barbarity (there was no mention of the Vietnamese atrocities against the Americans, naturally). War brings this out in people, and thats a lesson that all politicians who talk about just wars need to learn. Theres a famous story, which may be apocryphal, about the US Research and Devlopment department (known as the RAND Corporation). Apparently in the late 1960s they fed all their information about the war into a computer. They included the number of bombs dropped, the average amount of fatalities and casualties they would be expected to cause and then factored in the psychological damage this sustained bombing would be bound to have on the population. Then they asked the computer to predict when the war would be won by the US, to which the computer answered, Two years ago. Whether it happened or not, I think that illustrates how easy it is to divorce death and suffering from reality and turn it into an algorhythm. Its nothing new. The British did it in Africa, the French did it in Algeria and right now the Americans are doing it in Iraq. These people all need to tour the Vietnamese war museum. However, it wasnt all gloomy. What I found rather uplifting about the museum was the section celebrating the work of American journalists and photographers in telling the world exactly what was going on. Then there was a large tribute to the peace protesters around the world, and a thank-you from the Vietnamese people. Maybe Im nave, but I found that rather sweet.

Oh, and here was the exit as pointed out to us by the David Beckham fan. I bought myself two t-shirts in the gift shop to replace the now rancid, festering one I'd arrived in the day before. They both had a big yellow star on them and I felt like a bit of a Comrade buying them. Then guess who popped up as soon as we left? Yes! It was Annoying Cyclo Guy! Again, he refused to take money and insisted on taking us back to our hotel even though he didn't know where it was. We cycled for miles through a darkening Ho Chi Minh City, into strange neighbourhoods and back out again while the Cyclos had the following conversation with each other: CYCLO 1: Nee hon sao ma lay do! Da mo lay kwan!! CYCLO 2: Hun ma dok!! Bloo da ba dee da ba da!! - translation CYCLO 1: Why don't we just ditch these fat bastards at the nearest junction! CYCLO 2: Shut up!! My achilles tendon just snapped!! It was becoming rather worrying. Caro had read that tourists should not enter area ten, and oh look, theres a sign for it just ahead ahahahahaha!! I wasnt really worried. This is not because I am brave. It is because I am stupid. Really. I have no imagination whatsoever, so while Caro was visualising all manner of horrid fates for us, I was just getting mildly irritated that I was being taken on a scenic tour of Ho Chi Minh City and had left my guidebook back at the hotel.

Here we are heading to impending death. I continued taking pictures. By the time we got back to the hotel, Caro was ready to kill. Of course it was Annoying Cyclo Guy she was gunning for, especially when he refused to take our dollars and simply responded with, Hep me, hep me, many many times. We were sure he was misunderstanding us on purpose, as I tried to give the cyclos twenty dollars each. I thought there was going to be bloodshed. We were rescued by the hotel concierge, who interceded on our behalf. He took our money and forced the cyclo guys to accept it. I thanked him profusely and took Caro back to our room where she curled up in the

foetal position and made it quite clear that she hated Vietnam and couldnt bear the thought of our impending journey into the north of the country. To add to her misery, the malaria tablets she was taking were having a bad effect on her. They take some people like that. I felt mildly nauseous on them, but nothing like Caro. There are only two anti-malarial treatments available in the UK doxycyclin and larium. We were on larium which can have the side-effects Ive just mentioned, but even this is preferable to doxycyclin which can mess with your head. Caros cousin Helen had only just returned from Laos after having taken doxycyclin and told us of the terrible nightmares it had prompted in her, plus she found out that if you get sunburned on doxycyclin, you turn purple. Nice. The only thing Caro could even stand the thought of eating was chocolate. Unfortunately, it was day two of our sojourn in Vietnam, and the two of us had nearly finished a little bag of fun-sized treats Id bought in Singapore. It was pathetic. I was reduced to splitting a fun-sized Snickers bar in two, which we snaffled like Victorian urchins with a bowl of gruel. I realised that, much like the French and the Americans, it was time to cut our losses in Vietnam. Look, I told Caro, if we cancel the tour and I pay for an extra flight, we can be back in Singapore tomorrow afternoon. That was the first time I had seen her smile in 48 hours. So I made the arrangements while Caro hid in the toilet. I felt bad about the tour guy, as he was awfully nice and very concerned about Caro (I told him she was sick it was sort of true). The flight was more difficult to arrange as the Vietnamese Commie-com phone didn't work very well and I had to bellow. So my conversation went something like this: ME: CHAP: ME: CHAP: ME: CHAP: ME: CHAP: ME: CHAP: HELLO! HELLO! I'D LIKE A FLIGHT TO SINGAPORE TOMORROW!! MY NAME IS OHAGAN!! Ok, yes tomorrow afternoon 4.10pm. GREAT! AND ALSO A TICKET FOR CAROLINE SHARMAN!! She have ticket? NO. I WANT TO BUY HER A TICKET. When she leave? TOMORROW ALSO. Ah. She not have ticket for tomorrow. YES I WOULD LIKE TO BUY HER A TICKET! She not have ticket.

This continued for some time, with the ticket chap and I agreeing that no, Caro did not have a ticket. Unfortunately, we seemed to be unable to move on from here, to the next step of procuring a ticket for her. Eventually light dawned and ticket chap agreed to sell Caro a ticket. What I didnt realise at the time, was that the confusion arose because a different OHagan had a ticket with Singapore Airlines going to Bombay. So in fact I didn't have a ticket going anywhere although Caroline now did. The next morning we got ourselves to the Singapore Airline offices where I finally managed to sort out the confusion and got both tickets. I was also able to rid myself of bloody Cyclo man, who had shown up again, by shoving ten dollars at him and running in the opposite direction. We had the hotel call us an actual airport taxi to the terminal. We didnt want to end up in area ten again. By this time I was worried because things were going too smoothly. I wouldn't believe we were out of this bureaucratic hellhole until we landed in Singapore. There are a LOT of hurdles to jump at the airport three security checks, airport tax, checking in, double and triple checks of our documents, jump the watertrap, swing the rope, and traverse the Bridge of Peril. I was also concerned that the Phantom OHagan might trip us up and they would insist I go to Bombay. Then there was a fuss because I didn't have a yellow form to prove I had brought luggage into the country. Yellow! said the security guy, pointing at me. Yes - he LOST his baggage, Caro said slowly, passing

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him the lost luggage slip. This was also yellow, but he wasn't happy. Yellow! he demanded. We've LOST our yellow! wailed Caro, The airport staff TOOK our yellow. I thought she was about to burst into tears and apparently so did he, because he waved us through. I assumed he didn't want a leaky Kiwi on his hands. We got to the waiting lounge where it suddenly occurred to me that I still had millions of dong left! Being a Yorkshireman and therefore somewhat careful with money I thrust handfuls of Vietnamese currency at Caro. Quick! Buy some tacky tourist shit! I insisted. I was like a man possessed. We were not about to leave Vietnam with enough dong to wallpaper the kitchen. Caro, bless her, did her best by buying her little sister Feona an extremely decorative bong (a dong-bong?) but I was disgusted to find that I was leaving Vietnam as I had entered it. A dong millionaire. On arrival in Singapore, I found the following email awaiting me from Crazy Ian Herbert: 8/12/00: Ian London Sy, Sort that woman of yours out - use lines like "get hard or go home" or "if you can't hack this, then get back in the kitchen" or "get in behind". Oh shit, thats right, its Caro, - better off saying things like "you are one gustsy sexy lady" or "I can't agree with you more". Have fun, Ian My response follows: 8/12/00: Symon Ho Chi Minh City I have just told Caro to get hard or go home. Which is a bit of shame, as I will miss my left bollock. Thanks for the advice. Symon

Part Two: Singapore Land of Moist Nads and Cool Malls


8/12/00: Caro Singapore Wa-hey Everybody! This is a much more funky and happening and happy email this time. After a disastrous 3 days in Ho Chi Minh City, we decided, "Fuck it, let's get outta here," and so we did. Wo-hoo! Oh so unfortunately, we are unable to catch an earlier flight to NZ, so we have to stay in Singapore until the 22nd December. Oh, how awful. This place is sooooo cool. I have discovered the mecca of platform shoes, gorgeous shopping malls and great little coffee places. My life here is not unlike Edinburgh. Although, there are things to remember in Singapore: No Spitting No Chewing Gum (laws here consider such stuff as Class A) No Urinating in public

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No feeding birds

It is illegal to be a homosexual and the internet is highly censored here, so citizens cannot read antigovernment literature via the net. There is little or no drug culture, as even small quantities of smuggling gets you the death penalty. Seriously. They have put 40 people to death. Oh and monster Big Fine for not flushing toilet. (And you think I'm joking about the toilet...? Nuh-uh) So, I feel extremely bad-ass as I sit in my hotel room, smoking a cigarette and then chewing gum afterwards (gum I had imported in my hand luggage no less)... The other dodgy thing about Singapore is the mass love of such musicians (can't think of anything else to call them) as MARIAH Carey, A1, Backstreet Boys, MARIAH Carey, Japanese pop music, oh and MARIAH Carey. She is everywhere; shopping malls, elevators, car stereos at traffic lights, even Muzak versions of her in Chinese Restaurants. Horrible. Symon and I have been here for 3 days now, after our flight back, which I likened to that of the pictures you see of the Americans getting the hell outta the American embassy in Saigon. And yes, I would have hung off a helicopter leg thing, possibly throwing an old lady and a child out of the way in my haste to exit. But what have we been doing? Mostly buying stuff for Symon, as some airport prat lost his luggage. Singapore Airlines told us 3 different stories about where it was. Ho Chi Minh City Airport staff were really good except the pack wasn't even there. Then Ma and Pa got a call from Air NZ saying it was going to them. So Symon's pack will be sitting in the back garden, under a sun umbrella drinking one of Dad's beers before we are. On the upside, Symon has a pair of cool khaki shorts, a couple of trendy t-shirts and a funky pair of trainers. The downside is that all the clothes here cater to an Asian market, so everything is size small or xtra small. Size M (Britain) is size XL here and very hard to find. But I dragged him through practically every shopping mall, saying repeatedly "Not another shop, Caro...?!" pleadingly. And me saying "You vill try zees sings on now Symon. Now, I say!" It is totally safe to walk around here at all times of the day and night, so no worries about being mugged. It feels safer than the likes of Edinburgh on a Friday night, around 2am, at the West End waiting for a cab. There are very cool cafes, pubs, laser light shows, fountains, highly techno buildings, extra speedy underground rail, an island called Sentosa, which is devoted to leisure and chilling out and theme parks, there's beaches, and even outside restaurants in tropical rainforest parks. Over the next couple of weeks we will be doing the whole tourist thing: Singapore Slings at Raffles Hotel Bar, Night Safari at the Zoo, Watching Rare pink dolphins, River cruises, Art Galleries, hanging out in Chinatown, Little India and Asian Road. Sinagpore also has an incredible Christmas Festival, where all the shopping malls compete for the most elaborate displays, with lights, decorations etc. Walking around at night is incredible. And still so hot, it is an average of 30-35 degrees celcius with high humidity, and because we are practically on the equator, it gets dark really early. There are torrential downpours about twice a day, like turning on a tap, and then stops very suddenly again. I have purchased a fabby umbrella, bright pink with flowers on it. Kind of looks like a silky Chinese style dress on a stick.

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Don't laugh, everyone has a brolly and it is a total fashion statement! So, having a fab time and should hopefully have a great tan before too long. Later, Caro Getting onto the Singapore Airlines plane from Ho Chi Minh City to Singapore was like slipping into a warm bath. Soothing music, hot towels and attentive stewardesses spoiling Caro who, I might add, had not stopped smiling ever since we boarded. Singapore at night just sparkles. Imagine a whole city covered in fairy-dust. Now imagine you are on drugs and can hear colours. Thats Singapore. Their Christmas celebrations take up the whole of November, December and January and the whole place is lit up, each hotel competing against each other to be more brightly lit and spectacular. But its not as tacky as I make it sound. The lights are tastefully arranged and on Christmas 2000, the whole of Orchard Road (the main shopping thoroughfare) was crisscrossed with lights in a horizontal lattice tied to the palm trees that flank the road. Some lights were dark blue with sparkling little white ones in between and it felt like we were walking under a street of twinkling stars. How to describe Singapore? Firstly, let's just say that you don't want to get naked in Singapore, sit on plastic garden furniture and then get up too quickly. You'd be looking at major skin grafts and the loss of a bollock. What I'm trying to say is that its HUMID. SULTRY. CLOSE. Like breathing through a hot wet rag while sitting in a sauna. Our hotel room was pretty reasonably priced, just off Orchard Road. I thought this would be dangerous in financial terms: Orchard Road = Shopping Caro + Shopping = Bankruptcy for Symon As it turned out, I neednt have worried. Everything in the shops was sized for the locals who are - ah 'petite'. It was actually quite disturbing. I had to buy several t-shirts and found that even the XXL sizes clung to me in a horrific fashion, emphasising my man-breasts and making me look pregnant. Whose idea was it to give middle-aged men breasts anyway? It just seems cruel, now I have ready access to actual lady-breasts whenever I feel like it. Where were they around puberty when I really needed them? Mind you, I suppose if teenage boys had their own breasts to play with then they really would never do anything else and the whole Nintendo industry would collapse. What was I talking about? Oh yes, I was buying some clothes so that I wouldnt have to wear the same festy ones day after day and fortunately, there was no shortage of shops. Orchard Road is several times the length of Princes Street in Edinburgh, and whereas I was used to streets of shops, here there were streets of shopping MALLS. The opulence of Singapore is astounding - there must be incredible wealth in that tiny place yet it's not really in your face - the people dress fashionably, but modestly. There are no vulgar displays of wealth (no huge flash cars for example) and I wondered if this was due to the quiet Singaporeans distaste for bold statement. Caro and I tried to get an earlier flight out of Singapore, but to no avail. At Christmastime every Antipodean and his dog (Bluey) wants to return home, its sort of like salmon heading back to the spawning ground, except with beer. So while Singapore was scary from a purse-strings point of view, we just had to accept that we were stuck in sticky hot shoppers paradise for three weeks. Fortunately there was no shortage of things to do and it was rather nice that we didnt have to rush. Also, I just liked Singapore. Caro and I would find ourselves both saying, Wow! That's pretty! then turning to find we were both pointing in completely different directions. There are just so many little things to make you smile around every corner in Singapore. Not least because you are in a jungle city. As you walk along you are surrounded by bamboo, banana trees and other thick vegetation that reminds you how fast this city would be reclaimed by nature if it wasn't for the little bloke with his pruning shears and all of it is lit up at night. There are little buildings they appear to have put up just for fun - a fountain here, a pagoda there, a mock-

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Grecian gazebo, a model of a bridge made out of steel and glass and these aren't even attractions - they're just... there. From my Lonely Planet guide, I discovered that Singapores recent history has been dominated by a chap called Lee Kuan Yew who was elected in 1959 and remained at the head of his country for 31 years. He governed in a 'Confucian/Socialist' style which apparently means that it's a very paternalistic with many laws restricting all sorts of behavior, from not chewing gum in public to mandatory flushing of toilets. Thank goodness there were no anti-farting laws, or I would probably have been sentenced to death. Since Lees resignation in 1990 things have been slightly more relaxed, although there is still strict censorship and control of the internet. Obviously this is contrary to my liberal sensibilities but then as I looked around at a city of people from difference religions and cultures, seemingly happy enough and getting along together well, I had to wonder if I was really in a position to criticise? The fact is, Im always suspicious of idyll, and curious of what lies behind the perfectly-maintained facade. Unfortunately, it was hard to find dissent in Stepford Singapore, or any alternative voice at all. Caro later discovered that the one colourful area, frequented by gay men had recently been destroyed and replaced with a shopping mall. It was a lovely shopping mall though. TV was dominated by American shows, and the home-grown programmes only reinforced the impression of Singapore as a far eastern paradise. Actually, I'll stay on that subject because Singaporean telly was quite amazingly, wonderfully awful. "Growing Up" was their homegrown soap, with a cast of Singaporean-Chinese mangling their lines around their accents as in: "If you wa ou' tha' door Garree, it will be the bigges' mistay of your lie." The rest of their telly consisted of "Wheel of Fortune" (which was on several times a day) and loads of cop shows. You know the sort - where it's just one lone guy against crime, oh and he's also got a rocket-cycle, or a flying car, or an intelligent crime-fighting cat or some such. We went out a lot. One place we had to visit was Singapore Zoo. It's famous because they make an effort to put the animals into realistic and humane enclosures, which also makes it better for the punter as the animals are happier and you get the (false) impression that they can roam free. Certainly I couldn't see anything to stop the lemurs swinging over and pooing on our heads, other than good manners. Caro's favourite animals were the raccoons and the otters, both of which came up to us and had a bit of a chat. We also liked the slow lorrises. These are little things about the size of capuchin monkies. They have tiny little hands and faces and climb around the trees with great deliberation, like theyre stoned or something. After pottering around for the best part of the afternoon, we waited for the night safari to open while the keepers brought out a baby elephant who seemed more interested in wreaking havoc and stealing buns from the cafe.

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The very exciting indoor-outdoor lavvies at Singapore Zoo. The night safari was an incredible experience. Caro and I sat in a trolley-car and were shuttled about between flaming torches while a guide whispered that deer were grazing on the right, now turn to our left to see the lions looking for their food. It was nice to see lions being a bit active for a change. Lions normally spend all their time lying around asking each other what's on the telly, but at night they're totally different, leaping around and having a good old roar. We also saw cute little nocturnal animals like the tarsial, which is like a mouse with a lemur's face. It came leaping out of the darkness to snaffle up a bit of fruit and was gone again. Caro liked the fishing cat and got buzzed by a fruit-bat. But even without the animals, I loved walking about in the jungle at night with all the noises and the smells. Well, I say jungle but its hardly the remote rainforest. We stopped at a bar for a drink while a lemur waved at us. This was rather active for us, so we made an effort over the next few days to do as little as possible. This was also due to the fact that we were now dangerously over-budget and might have to cut the whole holiday short (I foresaw us returning in early January.) To save a bit of cash we decided to start buying groceries and scoffing them in the hotel. This isn't as easy as it sounds as the Chinese diet seems to consist mainly of the icky, slimy and something the cat coughed up food groups, and of course all the packaging was in a language we didnt understand. I found it somewhat frightening. It could be all too easy to accidentally buy dried cuttlefish or a sea slug sandwich by mistake. I applied a general rule for grocey shopping in Singapore which was, stay away from anything that looks like foetus. This ruled out nearly everything. Thank goodness for the holy trinity of BK, KFC and McDs or Caro and I would have starved to death. Mind you, KFC varies a great deal around the world, and is rather spicy in Singapore. I only discovered this out after bringing a 3-piece meal back to the hotel room for Caro, then turning around to find her drinking the entire contents of the ice bucket. We got into the habit of starting every day going to Starbucks - pottering about, grabbing a spot of lunch, back to the hotel for a nap, reading, and going out again. We ate out for a treat every now and again. Our favourite place had palm trees and ponds. The Singaporeans are heavily into their water-features. Every mall has its own fountain and they all try to outdo each other. The biggest mall, named Suntec City has the biggest fountain in the world - it's not as impressive as it sounds actually - it's like an enormous 5-legged stool that sort of PLOPS the water down but they light it up with lasers and play music. Again, this wasnt quite as impressive as you might imagine as they were playing "Hotel California" when we were there. But they also have a koi pond where you can feed fish so big that if you slipped a leash on them they could be mistaken for terriers.

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We spent an awful lot of time in malls. Caro was on a mission to find clothes (she failed, unfortunately). Caro doesn't handle failure well. What we found instead was shops and shops and shops of CUTE STUFF. I'm not kidding. These are people who are SERIOUSLY into "Hello Kitty" and "Floppy Panda" and "Fluffy Bunny" and dolls of small children with big eyes and no noses. This is also a heavily Crappy Music intensive country everywhere we went there were songs with lyrics like: "Sha la la la la la la la la la la la" or "Na na na na na na na na na na" or "Da ba dee da ba doo da be dee da ba doo" Maybe all this means something in Mandarin. I don't know. There were also Christmas songs everywhere. Sung partly in Mandarin which was quite entertaining, as in: "Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, Comin' down Santa Claus lane, Hong mai lei Jingle Jangle Wee chai hei mo, lei wei hei noh Dung wei Rudolf cho hei wei dong cho Do lay nee wei ho" (Note: This Mandarin is about as accurate as my Vietnamese. I apologise profusely if Ive inadvertently said, Your sister is my poo stick, or some such.) You might think I was being idle all this time. Not a bit of it. I was making a concerted effort to look for amusingly named products. I mean, what's a visit to countries like Portugal or Finland without finding products like ARSE Crisps or PHLEGM Chocolate? Unfortunately, due to the British influence, there's not so much of that in Singapore. But I did find "Yuki Interior Creations" and a fabulous brand of deodourant called "Smelly-No-More".

For people who worry that they may be Smelly Forever. I was also planning our next outing. Sentosa is an island off Singapore, which you reach by cable car or ferry. Basically, it's been turned into a big theme park. You can buy tickets to various attractions inside and there are the usual rides and stuff next to the museums and beaches (sand imported from Indonesia). We went there to check out Underwater World and the Dolphin Lagoon, but also stopped in at the Singapore museum which covered the Japanese occupation during World War 2, and the surrender of British forces to the Japanese there in 1941. This was the single biggest disaster in British military history,

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and was remembered by a display of photos showing the British prisoners, mustered in their thousands. It's surprisingly even-handed considering how badly the Japanese treated the Chinese Singaporeans. Underwater World was a lot like the deep-sea places youll see all over the world, with the inevitable walk through a plastic tunnel. However, it was special for Caro because she had close encounter with Gracie the Dugong who came up to the plastic to say hi (dugongs are one of Caros favourite animals). So we took our time and by the time we got to Dolphin Lagoon via the island's monorail it had started to rain (it rained just about every day we were in Singapore) and so I tucked myself under a tent to avoid getting wet. This would turn out to be a bit pointless. The woman doing the presentation started by asking for volunteers. I was trying to push Caro forward when she picked on me, so I took off my sandals, dumped my credit cards on Caro (always a dangerous thing to do) and pottered off towards the presenter who had just plucked another volunteer from the crowd (bizarrely, she was also from Edinburgh). The presenter explained to us that, in order to demonstrate the speed of the dolphins, she was going to arrange for us to race them down the beach. Great. Im not exactly the most athletic of people at the best of times and now I was about to get my arse kicked by something that didnt even have legs. Off I set, pounding down the beach, watching the girl from Balerno disappearing in a cloud of sand and before I knew it, the race was all over and those bloody smug dolphins were just WAVING at me, and I swear, making L signs on their melons. The presenter announced that what the dolphins actually wanted was a kiss, and all my animosity faded away because theres just something about dolphins that makes you go all gooey inside. I think dolphins must just have better press officers than sharks or something. So off I waded into the water were an Aussie bloke introduced me to Han the Pink Humpbacked Dolphin. She lifted her snout and brushed my cheek, while I gave her a bit of a stroke. She was lovely and warm and soft, just like stroking human skin. Being a woman though, Han had to be bribed, so I fed her a couple of fish, after which she swam off. The presenter asked me which was better, a kiss from Caro or from the dolphin. I said the dolphin, but didn't get the chance to complain that Han had tried to slip me the tongue.

Me, snogging a dolphin. I squelched my way back up the beach while Caro snapped off pictures. I had to spend the rest of the day

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with damp undies swinging around my tackle, but I have to say it was worth it. Afterward, we went off to see the Sentosa Musical Fountain. Which is so hugely cheesy that it emerges from the other side of crass, covered in mozzarella, into being completely fabulous. Its not as big as the Suntec City fountain, but the laser show was a lot better and the water display is choreographed to music. We were treated to a Musical Tour of the World. You'd be surprised at how many countries' national sound is Muzak, but there you go, and then the whole thing is brought to a climax when the Merlion (the symbol of Singapore - a 37 metre high statue of a cross between a lion and a fish) shoots lasers out of its eyes while changing from blue to green to purple to red. All we were missing was bad dubbing and the destruction of Tokyo, and it would have made a great film. I thought this was seriously cool, but then you have to remember that I like lava lamps and disco balls too. Actually, the Singaporeans and I share similar tastes so I wandered about happy as a dork at the fairylightwonderland they had created around themselves. I mean, a few fairy lights can be pretty, a lot of fairy lights look tacky and tasteless, but millions of fairy lights just can't help but look incredible. A digression: Instead of spending millions of pounds on the Millenium Dome, wouldn't it have been a lot cooler to buy, 60 million pounds worth of fairy lights and then just stick them everywhere? London would've been the first capital able to be viewed from space by fairy light doesnt that sound great?? Mind you, it would probably cost another 60 million to get a whole busload of dads to untangle all the lights every year. Back at the musical fountain, we took loads of pictures all of which on developing turned out to be pictures of black splats smiling and pointing at other black splats. Such is the nature of memories. The Raffles Hotel is something you have to see in Singapore. It is named for Sir Stamford Raffles, dont you know. He is the chap who really established the British Empire in the area, building up a military presence in order to protect Her Majestys interests from the Dutch. It was something to do with protecting the East India Companys tea route from China. Strange how a good cuppa can actually change history. The hotel is a wonderful building, only a couple of minutes from our hotel, but several light years away in terms of expense and luxury. It's a fabulous old colonial style building with a huge courtyard containing loads of rainforesty-type plants. As tourists, we were naturally drawn to the gift-shop like Amish to a cow. There was lots of mock-Imperial type memorabilia to be had, including an "Is That a Bengal Tiger Under the Billiard Table?" whisky glass, but fortunately economics won out over my crappy taste and I resisted. Instead we went for drinks, for which we promptly received a bill for S$30!! Obviously, Caro and I had spent far too much time in Scotland previous to this trip, as we blustered "Preposterous! In the days of the Raj...Bengal tigers, dammit...!" This is equivalent to about 12, or half our daily food budget, so after that we decided to take in the ambience. (Ambience is free, so I ordered a double). Just across the road from Raffles' is a place called Chijmes which is an old converted nunnery in which you can now just hang out getting drinks and food and extremely hot. It's also a good place to get squashed flat by a truck while trying to take a decent photo of the place so I bought a postcard instead. I also got a chance to use my first hole-in-the-ground toilet! This was a very exciting event for me as I've only ever poo-ed in the sitting position before and I'm a great believer in new experiences. Its more difficult than you would think because Western thigh muscles just arent used to it. I certainly found I didn't have the whole pooing stamina to hover over the hole for very long. Or maybe that's the whole POINT. Maybe the reason for the vitality of the Far-Eastern economies is that these are not people who waste time having a good old sit, reading the paper and enjoying the whole drawn-out, almost spiritual shitting experience. Also, the matter of aim becomes vitally important. I wasn't really sure where to squat as the hole itself is quite small. Too far forward and you risk skiddies on the porcelain, too far back and you'll crap all over the floor. Sorry, is this getting too graphic? What I'm trying to say is that you're after a SPLOSH not a SPLAT. So, I backed up over the thing, having completely removed my pants (I didn't want to risk losing my balance and dropping a fresh turd in me keks). It was difficult - the only thing I can compare it to is

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Luke Skywalker trying to drop his photon torpedo into that vent in the Death Star. Up a bit... right a bit... SPLOSH The force will be with me. Always. The last few days in Singapore were spent trying to avoid spending. We bought an awful LOT of 2nd hand books and read in the hotel room. But there was a feeling like we had spent too long in one place and Caro was obviously getting a itchy to get home. Still, I couldn't help feeling a bit sad at Singapore airport, with the little jungles inside and the bird-noises.

Part 3: New Zealand Land of The Long White Cloud


The flight to NZ was uneventful apart from the documentary they showed on New Zealand sports. The Kiwis are a bizarre race who don't seem to enjoy regular sports like cycling or climbing or hurdling or running or swimming. I think they don't consider it a real sport unless you do all of the above, over the course of a week, from one end of the country to the other. "...and here comes Ken Kiwi, he's leading in the 13 kilometer pogo stick section of the race, but in the longdistance hopping section he'll find himself up against Gary Gumboot, a Dunedin lad and one of the gnarliest hoppers on the circuit. If Ken can't hold onto his lead here, it'll all be over, Rover..." It was weird landing in a country where everyone sounded like Caro. I noticed quite a large number of men with pony tails wandering about, which led me to the conclusion that I had arrived in the land of hippies. So this is where they all went!! Caro's sister Feona met us at Auckland airport and drove us to Mount Maunganui, giving us a running commentary along the way. It is a beautiful, luxuriant green country, dominated by hills and valleys with spectacular views around every bend. The other surprising thing about New Zealand is how familiar it felt. With British farming methods being imported by the colonists, the countryside is full of hedgerows just like Yorkshire, where I grew up. The journey to Mount Maunganui strongly reminded me of weekend drives from Scarborough to Bridlington in the back of my parents car, apart from the fact that Yorkshire didnt have palm trees and my evil older sister wasnt punching me the entire way. I sat with my nose pressed against the window, intent on taking in every detail. For about five minutes. Then I fell asleep, one of those really undignified, elderly relative after Christmas dinner sleeps where you wake up thirty minutes later with a trail of drool down your chin. I was worn out. Im just not a good traveller. However, it was all worth it when we arrived and I received an effusive welcome from Caros mum and dad (Janette and Ronnie). I actually thought that Ronnie was going to shake my arm clear out of its socket. This was very encouraging. I had actually met Ronnie once before and came to the conclusion that he hated me. This is because he came around to my flat, examined my cd collection and then promptly started reading the paper without speaking to me at ALL. It wasnt even a proper paper! It was the local trade rag, making me feel like I must be less interesting than a bed warehouse sale or a two-for-one offer on tuna at Somerfields. Oh thats just dads way, explained Caro. Which really didnt help at all. Caros mum, on the other hand, loves me. I knew this before I even arrived. It had all started with Ronnie again. When he had come over to Scotland he had been on strict instructions to get a picture of Caros new boyfriend and had only partially succeeded. When he had returned to New Zealand, he had forked the picture of me over to Janette who noted that the only visible part of me in the picture was my nose. However, she concluded from my conk that I looked like a fine young man. She told me this via email. She went on to say that her whole family have big noses and that therefore she considered it a noble

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feature. Caro confirmed this. Apparently when her granddad died, his nose stopped the lid going on the coffin properly. The other members of the family I was introduced to were the cats, Muff and the imaginatively named Pusscat. Muff is should add, is short for Muffin. And nothing else, in case you were wondering. With all this attention, I began to feel rather worn-out and positioned myself on Janettes Lay-Z-Boy recliner. Pusscat immediately leapt onto my lap and curled up for a sleep which I thought was absolutely adorable, but not so adorable that I could keep my eyes open. Add to that the fact that a documentary about the Depression was on, narrated by Peter Fonda, whose voice is just aural mogadon and before I knew it I was happily sleeping away, until rudely awoken by Caro laughing at my drooling insensibility. This woke me up with a start and presumably my sphincter was equally taken by surprise because I let loose a massive fart causing Pusscat to leap off my lap and run for the kitchen with his ears back and a fat tail. I was still just coming out of my deep sleep but was aware something bad had happened. All I wanted was my bed. Im just going Im have to bed, I think I said before wobbling off up the stairs. The last thing I heard was Ronnies voice. He went off in a hurry. Hes not embarrassed because he farted all over the cat is he?

That cat is about to get farted on. 21/12/00: Ian - London New hights have been reached in my quest for being the biggest bloody mongrel to come out of New Zealand. 15 days on the piss in London is doing its worst. Saturday night saw me become the biggest legend to all South African men. Honestly, I am worshipped by the hardest of them. I was in the toilet at theWalkabout in Shepherds Bush, wearing my All Blacks Jersey. Some South African bloke was pissing in a cup that was sitting in the urinal. He grinned at his mates and looked at me and then said 'beat that mate'. Knowing that Kiwis are the biggest mongrels in the world, I said, Sure mate. Then I picked up the cup full of piss and skulled half of it. Ttoday at 12.00 I had an interview with London Underground - a top notch job I really really want. I have been trying to get an interview with them for 6 months. However, I shite myself on the way to work, really shite myself. For those blokes who have done it, I let out a decent fart

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that was kinda warm. I ditched my daks and went to the interview undieless. The rest will be history until tonight. Anyway, you will all be glad to know I am being a really really good ambassador for New Zealand. Over and out, Ian 23/12/00: Janette Mount Maunganui A nice young man from UK Arrived on our doorstep one day "Hope it's not too late But your daughter's me mate The only one who's agreed to obey!" I found that an Englishmans view of New Zealand to have been somewhat coloured by down-under propaganda of permanent sunshine and women in bikinis. The weather was sunny most of the time, but could as often be overcast and windy (like a nice summer's day in Scotland). Given the low population of New Zealand, the houses tend not to have as many stories as in the UK and are more spread-out, often incorporating large gardens, decks and barbie areas, and then there are the huge garages which are typically big enough for two cars and can double as party venues for the boisterous Kiwis. I found it hard remembering that I was in a foreign country. New Zealand is cosily familiar. Its like going back to your parents house five years after leaving home away and rediscovering familiar furniture in a different spot. You can buy UK newspapers and many of the news stories on the tv are supplied by the BBC. There is the odd local item of course - for example a compelling piece on the Tomato Thieves of Auckland. While I was in New Zealand, a Vegetable Crime Ring emerged which had the local police concerned enough to launch "Operation Ketchup" in order to put a stop to it. This I was going to call it mild eccentricity but lets call a spade a spade and refer to it as completely bloody bonkers quality of the New Zealanders is enough to remind any Brit that hes no longer home. There was also the fact that I found myself celebrating Christmas day in the sun. While having a barbeque. Its difficult to grasp. Theres something unnatural about blazing sunshine when chestnuts should be roasting on an open fire and Jack Frost should be nipping at your wotsits. So I was having a hard time grasping the festive season, and found it easier to treat the whole occasion more like my birthday which is in British midsummer. In fact, it was like all my birthdays had come at once. I was given a Mount Maunganui shirt and a barbie-apron as presents and now this is a huge honour allowed to have a go on the barbie. Admittedly not for very long, but that is irrevelant. I had been accepted, and was starting to feel like a bit of Kiwi myself. On the subject of Christmas presents, the one that sticks out in my mind was Caros present to Feona. It was the dong-bong! Had you forgotten about that? Caro hadnt - it had been lovingly wrapped and presented to Fe in full view of both her parents. Thats lovely! said Janette. What is it? Its an ornament, snapped Feona, as Caro grinned happily at her. Ooh, I think you should put that on top of the telly, replied Janette. So thats where Feonas drug paraphenalia ended up, looking down at her from pride of place in the room. Ya fuckin bitch, Feona hissed at Caro, who smiled sweetly. Thats sisters for you. Caro decided to show me off, as the ultimate souvenir of time spent in the UK, and introduced me to all her friends. First there was Danelle who worked at Vodaphone and coud therefore identify anyone by their mobile phone. She had been dealing with some difficult customers in the wake of New Years, like the guy who reported his phone as stolen. She asked him how he KNEW it was stolen and he said he had seen the guy taking it from his bag, but "was too fucked to do anything about it". But Danelle takes this sort of thing in her stride. She may well be the all-out, full-on most Kiwiest Kiwi Ive ever met. The scary part

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being that we got along very well. She called me Symie, or if you translate it into a Kiwi accent, Soymay. The first time I went out with her, we ended up at a bar called "The Grumpy Mole" (motto: Aim High and Shoot Straight) aka "The Angry 'Ho" by some locals, which makes the Walkabout Bars back in the UK seem positively restrained in terms of decor. We ended up dancing the night away to Kiwi music, which is really rather good, or at least seemed so after several Kiwi beers. We also spent part of New Year's Eve with Danelle and more of Caros old friends including Natalie whose house we visited. Natalie used to work with Caro and decided she liked me because I was nice to Caro. Mind you, this was after a rocky start because I had previously told her that I thought Kiwis were eccentric', which she seemed to mishear as 'fucking weird'. I should explain that my judgement of the Kiwis is in part due to local events such as The Annual Ping Pong Drop. This takes place every New Year on the beach and consists of a plane flying around, tantalising the locals beneath. Eventually it drops lots of ping pong balls into the sand and surf, causing a tidal wave of humanity to go scrambling about like inebriated Baywatch cast members, trying desperately to find ping pong balls with numbers on them so they can claim a corresponding prize. The prizes can be cars, holidays etc, so the locals take it all very seriously. One year, Caro's little sister Feona was badly crushed by a low-flying fat man determined to snatch a ping-pong ball from a 10 year old girl. It's definitely a dangerous sport. I met Jools, who was the brother in law of one of Natalie's sisters. Like nearly all the Kiwis I had met so far, he completely surprised me by being my best friend nearly straight away. I'm not kidding. Within a minute he was telling everyone that I was his "bro'". It was like when you're 7 years old: KID 1: KID 2: KID 1: KID 2: KID 1: What's your name? Symon. I like sausages. Hey! Me too!!! You're my bestest friend ever.

It may have had something to do with the Hawaiian shirt I had decided to wear, it being a festive occasion and all that. Jools was wearing one also, and Natalie's brother Chris felt so left out that he rushed off and then came back with palm-tree and surfboard affair on. What a dapper crowd we made. Jools and I had a chat and he introduced me to Waikato beer in order that I might compare it to Lion Red (Waikato is better I feel. This is blasphemy in New Zealand). Suddenly, it was announced that we were leaving. Jools was devastated that the chicks were taking his bro' away. To tell the truth so was I. Especially as we ended up in some horrid strip club that was so tacky it had to drop the stripping in order to encourage clientele. Never mind, we were soon on our way again. Running in fact, as Danelle grabbed my hand while shouting "RUN FORREST RUN!!!!" and charging off back to the car, dragging me behind her. I'm not quite sure what the hurry was about. I think it was something to do with not having to sit in the rear of the car. I was cool with this we had sat in the back together on the way to the club and she threatened to do "fried eggs" on the back window. Then it was New Year and there were fireworks and all the ships in the harbour blew their horns. It was spectacular, or at least it would have been if I hadn't been going to the toilet at the time. So I saw in the New Year with me nob in me hand. At least I was close to someone I love. Another friend of Caros named Stacey took us both on a drive on New Years Day. We went along the beachfront with the oldies channel blaring. The main strip in Mount Maunganui consists mainly of surf shops and cafes and I found that the Kiwis, like the Americans, love their big growling engines, so it all had a decided American Graffiti atmosphere about the place. It's amazing how sleepy and low-key it all is considering that the population compares with my own home town of Scarborough, in what is somewhat jokingly referred to as the English Riviera. I can only assume that with the good weather people aren't so bothered with the English obsessions like shopping and drinking. It all seemed very laid back to me

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although Caro told me she hardly recognized the place due to recent redevelopment, including what locals referred to as the "Poo 'n' View" - a toilet with a scenic view of the beach. Caro's family pretty much adopted me during my time with them. It was so nice feeling like I had a home base again, and I got the chance to do some reading and take in the sun as the weather improved vastly in January, with New Zealands summer getting into full swing and the Aucklanders arriving for weekends at the Mount. I was desperate to rid myself of of my whiter-than-white hue which distinguished me as a blatant Pom. This also explains my Lion Red t-shirt, the surfie shorts and the shaved head. I had been threatening to shave my head for some time as I thought it more practical for a traveller but Caro didn't believe me. So one morning before Caro got up, I had Janette get out the trimmers so we could surprise her. It turned into a HUGE family occasion with Feona looking on, Ronnie taking pictures of the whole procedure (and the left-over hair) and Janette doing the honours. Caro was suitably impressed, although she did mutter something along the lines that I now look disturbingly like her dad. Janette told Caro that she would have to watch out for thigh-burns. Mothers shouldnt be allowed to say things like this.

Me, getting smartened up. Janette has a very healthy and by healthy I mean "filthy" sense of humour. Often, I found it hard to adjust. The first time this evidenced itself was when Janette and I were watching womens soccer on the tv. For some reason, flocks of seagulls were swooping and diving over the players. Janette sweetly announced that it was, probably due to the smell from their knickers. Now Im not a prude, as you may have ascertained, but this was a degree of well, lets say it, outright FILTH that knocked me clear out of my chair. Janette practically wet herself laughing at my reaction. Then there was the night that I came down from my bedroom wearing what Caro calls my combat jarmies. These are regular flannelette pyjama bottoms in a very fetching tartan pattern which for reasons I have never quite understand also have huge pockets over either knee. Janette spotted the pockets, and advanced the observation that they were probably for holding condoms and vaginal lubricant. I dont know about you, but vaginal is just one of those words that you NEVER want to hear from your girlfriends mum. But Caro had told me I should be prepared for a degree of eccentricity. This has already evidenced itself in conversations like: FEONA: Where's the message for me? JANETTE: It's on the hedgehog. FEONA: Which ONE??!!

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Or RONNIE: JANETTE: RONNIE: JANETTE: ME: Do you know what 'synergy' means? I bet you don't know the cause of baldness. Two things coming together with greater effectiveness than they would have separately. Feeling out of control. THAT'S the cause of baldness. ????!!!

Feona, Caro's younger sister, also stayed in the Mount for the first two weeks of our visit, and put herself at our disposal, ferrying us about and telling me all about the place. Or rather all about places she had gone stoned or drunk or both. It was odd seeing Caro and Feona together. I found that they shared many habits and and mannerisms. Both are neat and organised, obsessive list-makers, into mags and fashion and both are quite DRAMATIC in their gestures. However, whereas Caro is essentially a cool person, sitting and observing, Feona is equally cool but incredibly ACTIVE, and permanently on the move, dancing, singing, clapping - just MOVING. (Her nickname is "Flech" meaning "Flea" in Shetland). My enduring memory of her was a big smile and a wave disappearing out the door. Still, she made a real effort with the Pom (me) and took me out for a walk along the beach early one morning. (The beach was beautiful, huge and deserted. The water was BLUE which quite frankly I find unnatural coming from the East Coast of Yorkshire where the proper colour for water is of course slate-grey with poos in it.) The night before Feona went back to Auckland I got to play photographer and tooks lots of pictures of the family all together. It wasn't easy to organise. First Caro had to be persuaded and then SHE was ready, but Feona wasn't. Then Caro did Janette's make-up. Then everyone was ready, but Ronnie had disappeared. It was left to Feona to organise things. ("Get back out here!" "Get that hat off!") Finally Ronnie complied and posed with Janette, but not before grabbing her norks on one memorable photo. That's a keeper.

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Dads. 8/1/2001: Janette Mount Maunganui Symon's Haircut. We know this man from Scarborough Who had a lovely crop of hair. When he arrived at Concord Ave We put him in the chair. We tossed up whether to give him A number one or two, Got the clippers out and shearing While he surveyed the view. We did all this while Caroline Was sleeping upstairs in bed. When she came down later Symon was hiding his shaven head. She said, "Why have you got a cap on, It's very unusual for you?" He whipped it off with a flourish,

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Waiting for the air to turn blue. However, Caroline was entranced, Thought it was very good, Ran her fingers over his head, As Symon thought she would. She did that several times a day, Couldn't keep her hands off, Symon enjoyed the attention. He was not about to scoff! You might think that this is the end Of the story of this pair, But that's only one incident There's a lot more fun to share. 5/1/2000: Caro Mount Maunganui Hey hey, it's the further adventures of Caro and Symon, We're currently "laxing out" (as the locals say) in Mount Maunganui. Me in my flip flops, sarong and my wraparound "Attitude" sunglasses. Symon, with his newly shaved head (No. 2), khaki shorts with about 50 pockets in secret locations (ooo-err) and his new BBQ Kiwi Bloke apron. Upon first arriving, I was slightly distressed over the fact that my old haunts have vanished and have been replaced with shopping malls and million dollar apartment blocks. Not to worry, our new watering hole is "The Grumpy Mole". NZ has just acquired Bacardi Breezers and we are in full socialising mode. Actually, the night we discovered "The Mole", my pals were determined to introduce Symon to the mad Kiwi lifestyle by insisting he partake in the vertical bungee, after a few drinks. He declined, but has decided to risk death and do the vertical bungee at a later date (you get harnassed into a cage suspended by 2 ropes, which they release you from and you head straight up into the stratosphere. Check your undies upon descent). I used to explain to people in the UK, that "The Mount" was like the Aussie soap, "Home and Away", it had that sort of vibe. I was wrong. After 3.5 years, it has become "Baywatch": The lifeguard towers, the boardwalks, the transplanted palm trees, the cafes, the houses, the long blonde hair, the rollerblades, the skateboards, the big boobs, the suntans....aaaaahhh! Praise the Lord, there's no David Hasselhoff lurking in the sand dunes. At this point, I have to say, I am pleased I went to the salon in Singapore, where, Rhemy, my Chinese hairdresser, made me a blonde bombshell. Here was me thinking he'd gotten all over-excited whilst doing my hair, verbally diarising his trip to Amsterdam and his 2 weeks of sinfulness with boys and drugs, causing my hair to go bright yellow. My apologies, Rhemy, you da man, baby. My hair fits right in. Blonde Ambition. New Year was exciting as always. The teenage riots where over 400 young scamps were arrested and kept overnight in cells to dry out over the Christmas/ New Year period. It all blew up in a final rampage down the main beach as 2001 rolled in. The Coppers were in full riot gear. The police reckon it was 80% out-oftowners and mostly young lads between 15 and 25 being out of control, and no remorse was shown. Oooh naughty. We didn't see/ hear anything. Glass-fronted townhouse apartments and landscaped gardens were in grave danger of becoming a shadow of their former glory as broken bottles, cans, fences and letterboxes morphed into missiles and vomit replaced spraypaint as graffitti media of choice.

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Symon and I did a bit of a party circuit, popped into a former strip club (I knew the doorman) called Nick's Bar owned by this bloke called Nick. Apparently, just a few months before, it was named the "Nick-er-less Bar", but the locals didn't want the bad element creeping in, so it's just a regular pub now, but has great poles and a stage for dancing. Nice. I think I would prefer blokes slavering into their beers and slipping dollar coins into things which aren't slot machines, to hundreds of out-of-towner rich kids stealing daddy's alcohol and vomiting in the streets in some sort of macho display of pathetic drunkeness. All the while, little blonde bimbo girlfriends were simpering about "how cool it all was" and "am I on TV?". Anyway, Symon made a new friend during our party tour. He hooked up with this guy called, Jools. Jools loved Symon's accent, loved hearing tales of Scotland, and thought Symon "was da man". Jools, himself, was a very cool Maori guy, with mean wraparound shades, drank Waikato beer, liked the "idea of Glasgow, man, heard fuckin awesome things about that place, Bro" and wore a funky Samoan styled surfshirt. When he heard Symon was leaving to check out a few other parties, he was all: "Hey Bro, where you goin'? You goin' with the chicks, man? He's my boy, where you takin' 'im? Come on, man, stick with your brother, eh Bro? We're hangin', man. Jammin', talkin' bout Scotland, drinking beer, eh Bro! Aaw come on, Man". Jules was heartbroken over Symon's departure. Still, the New Year rolled in and we were pretty flushed with the success of the Bacardi Breezers and joined Jo and Tristan on their porch to hear the Boats in the Harbour sound off and watch a few fireworks. Ma and Pa Sharman were sitting up, pretending not to be waiting for us to come home. Symon and I got in at 3am and my sister, Feona came in around 4.30am. Peace, once again, reigned in the Sharman household. Christmas was a bit of a blur, I basically went through the motions of present giving/ receiving and ate BBQ food and slept for the rest of it. Since then , we have had loads of BBQs, Symon wears his BBQ Apron with pride, and has been given a lesson in bloke BBQ etiquette by Dad: wielding beer can in one hand and BBQ tongs in the other, whilst issuing directives about salad preparation, napkins and plastic plates....the drama, the tension. Symon cooks a mean steak. The club strains of Ibiza are very "hip" and Robbie and Macy are icons, here too. However, NZ seems to have a pretty cool homegrown music base: Zed, Shihad, Stellar...And Dave Dobbyn and the Exponents are still rockin' in pubs around NZ. I would have thought they would be collecting their pension by now. But there you go. The plan so far, is a weekend spiritual course with an American Indian called Flying Bird, which sounds very cool. It's all about spirit guides and healing. A friend's parents, have let a crowd of us, stay in their lake house for a few days, boat access only down at Lake Rotoiti. Greg says activities will include: BBQs, water-skiing, drinking and swimming. Nice. On that note: Happy New Year, Take Care and Big Hugs Later, Caro We stayed in Caro's old bedroom, which in true Younger Sister fashion, Feona had claimed when Caro went to university. Feona stuck posters everywhere leaving marks on the ceiling, which Janette cunningly covered with glow-stars, meaning that went to sleep every night looking at The Blu-Tac Galaxy. The house, like all Kiwi houses was big and airy, with windows everywhere. Music followed me from room to room as all the radios in the house were permanently tuned to the oldies station (which has fabulous adverts like the one that goes, "Don't just sit there scratching yerself! Get down to The Warehouse Where Everyone Gets A Bargain!") It was great having trips down memory lane as I listened to all my parents favourites The Beatles, The Everlys and Cliff and The Shadows (a shocking revelation about THEM to follow). Janettes eclectic tastes were reflected in every room, and her love of animals too, with hedgehogs, bears, cats and mice everywhere, and even better - lots and lots of books for me to gorge on. I

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had the best times in New Zealand, just sitting in the garden, devouring another book, with the perfume of Janettes garden all around me, and giving Muff a bit of a stroke. Muff is the cat, may I remind you.

Muff I was very excited by the thought of all the exotic New Zealand wildlife I would get a chance to see. I think maybe I was expecting actual kiwi birds at the bottom of the garden and keas on the roof, but it was not to be: ME: CARO: ME: - and ME: CARO: ME: - also ME: CARO: ME: CARO: What's that? Is it a possum??? It's a hedgehog. Not a possum then. No. What's that? What's that??!! It's a blackbird. Oh. What's that? What's that??!! It's a sparrow. Oh.

And now it's time for 'Toilets of the World'... TOILETS OF THE WORLD PART 3 - New Zealand Antipodean toilets are distinguishable for having TWO flush settings. Half-flush for wee-wees and Full Flush for jobbies. This has the advantage of being environmentally conscious in that you do not use as much water after weeing and also it gives you a full-throttle POWER flush when you need it, which means

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you can do a maxi-width giant redwood poo without having to worry about blockages or floaters. No wonder the Kiwis are a very relaxed nation. At this point I should also tell you about Caros dad Ronnie who kept me entertained with stories about HIS travelling days. The most recent of which was 1999 when he went home to the Shetlands to catch up on relatives. Unfortunately the 40+ hour flight led to him being doubled up with agony with a kidney stone by the time he got there and so he had to go to hospital where he found himself being treated by all his old girlfriends. And if that wasn't embarrassing ENOUGH, there was a school reunion going on at the same time, at which it was officially announced to all of his old school friends, that Ronnie Sharman could not be there on account of he had "something wrong with his cock." Ronnie also told me about his days working as an accountant at the BBC. He got the job by accident. He went for the interview as it meant a free trip to Aberdeen where his then girlfriend lived. He was somewhat surprised to actually land the position. I just about shat meself, he told me. When he announced he was thinking of going to London, an elderly relative accused him of only wanting to go because it was "full of naked women." This little piece of information was all he needed. He bought the train ticket the next day. While working for the BBC, he saw most of the famous bands of the time, including the Stones and revealed to me that Mick Jagger never wore undies and had his trousers specially made so one side was tighter than the other. He would shove his tackle in that side, so as to emphasise his talent. Ronnie also saw Cliff and The Shadows driving around and around a roundabout in London, "pissed as farts". This will certainly come as a shock to my mother, sure in her belief that Cliff was always a clean-living bachelor boy. So in the midst of swinging London, Ronnie and his friend Vic decided to go camping around Europe where they had a couple of encounters with ex-Nazi Germans. One of whom threw them out of her van in the middle of nowhere when she discovered that Ronnie was one of those "butchers from Schotlant". Having hiked for miles they were then approached by a man in lederhosen with a shotgun and an alsation "as big as a horse" who demanded their passports before telling them to hike back where they came from. Eventually they made it out of Germany and into Switzerland where Ronnie found he had run out of money and also lost Vic, who had run off with a Swiss girl. Completely broke, Ronnie approached the British Embassy in Zurich and asked them if they would send him home. "No," they said. "We don't do that. You got here - you can get back." When he explained he had no money at all they directed him to the bank to seek a representative of Barclay's. So he went to a very impressive building with marble columns and met with a Swiss guy. "Could you give me some money to get home?" he asked. The Swiss guy seemed taken aback, "No," he replied, "we don't do that." Ronnie explained that the British Embassy had just told him that the bank would be able to help him get some money. The man seemed to understand, "Ah, you want a transfer of funds from your account in Britain!" "No," replied Ronnie. "I have no money in Britain either. I just want some money to get home. Could I get a transfer of my overdraft?" "No," replied the man. "We don't do that." In the end, just to get rid of him, the Swiss guy gave Ronnie the 9 pounds he needed for a ticket from Zurich to Calais. Ronnie was quite happy with this, even though it was an economy ticket and he would have to sleep on the floor of the train. He woke up the next day on the train, to see bright lights outside. He realised it was night-time and he was in Paris. "Stuff Calais," he thought and went to have a look around. He made his way into a park and decided it was a good place to have a bit of a sleep, so he got out his sleeping bag and snuggled down. However, he was awoken a couple of hours later. There was shagging, oral sex you name it - all over the place." It turned out that he had fallen asleep in the Bois de Bologne park where all the gay guys went for a good time. There were "dicks everywhere." So he hightailed it out of there and got back to London, bumping into Vic on the way, who had decided that he wasn't in love with the Swiss girl, after two days of sex.

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Vic seems to have been a bit of a love-machine. He was an actor, "Which meant he never worked, just got the dole" and spent all his time shagging, from morning until night, all the while playing Dean Martin. Ronnie still associates "Everybody Loves Somebody" with rampant sex. Ronnie lived in the room next door, and while he and his mates were spending their time drinking, they could always hear Vic, "pumping away, morning to night." Vic once asked Ronnie if he would mind doing his laundry for him, to which Ronnie replied, "Get stuffed, I'm not touching YOUR sheets." Apparently, Vic now lives with his daughter and has quietened down a great deal. "It probably fell off," Ronnie observed. Ah, I loved listening to those stories. Heres one Ronnie kindly emailed to me after we left: The Drive-in Country Dance Saga - Circa 1961 and Roy Orbison was singing - 'Only the Only' Okay - time for another story from Caro's Dad. This one shouldn't be told nowadays - but it happened a long time ago in the Shetland Isles. It was at a time when it was considered 'fun' to get pissed - and drive. No cops in Shetland, just a group of 'hip' guys who thought they were invincible - and a little old black Austin 7 Car (1936 Model), not to mention beer (boxes of the fucking stuff) and a huge supply of Woodbine cigarettes and cartons of condoms from the local supplier (yeah well). Now Shetland tends to get very misty during winter - that means you can't see for more than a few metres at times - and black as! Well it was off to the 'Country Dance in Whiteness' on a Friday night. (Well we always planned to be away all weekend). Just 4 guys, 6 boxes of beer, in a car the size of a matchbox. The front of the car had no seats, so you sat on two wooden fishboxes in the front - lashed to the car floor with ropes. The fish smell was something awful - but hey that might have been from the weekend party we had in the car the week before with some of the lasses? Anyway the Country Dance progressed, the piss flowed, couple o' shags at some time during the night, the usual heavy bout of fighting, spewing, eating, fighting again, feeling-up anything that didn't have 3 legs and then it was time to set off back to Lerwick. Out of the four of us, 3 were just about dead and I was nominated by default as driver. The mist was really thick now - but a friend of mine, who seemed really sober said, Hey Ronnie, just follow my tail-lights, I know exactly how to get back home. We duly set off - at a respectful distance (like two feet apart) and things were going great. One of the guys spewed in the car, another shit himself all over the front seat (fishbox) and none of the windows worked. Suddenly, the tail-lights vanished, but being so close to him, we soon picked him up. The trouble was, we were now going down hill at a very steep angle. Shit - speak about going into a nosedive. Well it all ended suddenly in a ditch, 120 feet down from the road. Mind you, it was a gradual heather slope. The only casualty was a broken thumb, the guy who shit himself before, did it again, and the other two never knew anything about it. Ah well - it was a long stagger home to Lerwick after that, each loaded up with the remaining beer, and fags - but the condom's were thrown away. After that, I got a motor-bike. Ronnie - Caro's Dad (and now you know, why she is like she is) I found that I was still the object of much curiousity from Caros friends. I didnt mind at all, it just meant that I got invited along to lots of parties. Kiwi parties are interesting in that they tend to take place in the garage which I think is a good idea. The Kiwis stick an old couch and some garden furniture out there and you've got a party venue where you don't have to follow your guests around with coasters or freak out everytime someone pours the red wine. I still remember a party I held at the "House of Beige" and couldnt enjoy it at all as I spent the whole evening stressing about stains on the carpet when IN FACT I should have

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been worrying about stains up the wall. Long story short, someone managed to explode a can of Guiness in the kitchen, where the perfect silhouette of an innocent party bystander remains to this day. The Kiwis were fascinated by my accent, Its just like having an episode of Coronation Street right here at the party! said one woman. Corro is a phenomenon in New Zealand, and this particular lady wanted to know if people really lived in houses like that, right on the pavement. I assured her that this was not at all uncommon, which seemed to please her a lot. She then demanded to know what the hell accent Cilla Black has - I was just stunned that they actually import Cilla down here - I mean - she's one of ours - we HAVE to suffer her - these people PAY for the privilege. Anyway, it was a good party, I ended up singing "Dead Ringer for Love" with Danelle and as you may know, it's always been my secret dream to be Cher. I also met another of Caros old friends in Jenny Jordan. I'd heard a lot about "Columbian Jenny" who always got Caro into trouble (according to Caro). She's actually a strikingly pretty woman, who was only back for a brief visit to New Zealand, after having moved to Australia with her boyfriend. She told me about the problems shes had with racism over the years, being mistaken for a Maori in NZ, a black in South Africa (where she's actually ridden an ostrich) and the whole Columbian thing in America. She was quite bitter, and rightly so - and things haven't improved with her going to Australia where she gets annoyed with the constant sheep jokes. It seems that the good-natured rivalry between NZ and Oz has lost its good nature recently. The Australians are getting fed up with what they consider the "back door" to immigration that NZ provides to pacific islanders. Basically, New Zealand allows free immigration to Samoans, Tongans, Fijians and so on - and some Australians feel that after their naturalisation to NZ these groups head straight to Australia and more importantly, Australian jobs and/or benefits. Whether this is a legitimate criticism or not, I'm not in a position to say. I'm not remotely qualified to pass judgement on either country with regard to immigrants or to their treatment of their native people. All I can say is that it's a really sensitive subject down here. Im sorry if you want more from me at this point but foreigners who get all sanctimonious on subjects they know nothing about annoy me and I certainly dont intend to become one of them. I became quite annoyed by a book I read about a Canadian travelling through New Zealand called Kiwi Tracks. One section, in particular, turned into a Canuck rant on how the pakeha have ruined New Zealand and the Maori are the only people in touch with the land. There may be some truth to this but I don't believe that subjects like this are ever that cut and dried and certainly no outsider can ever hope to understand what's going on down here. ("Pakeha" by the way, are white people - one explanation for the origin of this word is that it means "fairy folk" as Maori legends portray fairies as white. I have also heard somewhat more insulting versions of what pakeha actually means see what I mean about issues being complicated?) As a foreigner I recommend steering well clear of the debate and just enjoying all Kiwis of all backgrounds as the friendly, lovable people that they are. I had another opportunity at Mount Maunganuis Blues Brews and Barbecues festival in January. This involves 10,000 people getting into a field and listening to live bands while eating and drinking. The music isn't so much blues as country (I saw a Shania impersonator) and the BBQs aren't up to Ronnie's standard. But the brews bit they got right. You wander around from tent to tent with your complimentary glass in hand, paying less than a quid a go for cider, wine, beer, schnapps, whatever takes your fancy. I was arseholed in about 2 hours. We were there with Michelle, Stacy and Caro's evil friend Danelle who took advantage of my ratarsed state to persuade me to go to a fun-park and to ride the Supa-Loop, The Gravitron and something else I forget the name of ("The Ride of Painful Death" I think it was). But I had a good time, and also was able to hold the sick in. This is my definition of a good night out. The following week Caro and I were invited to stay in a bach (pronounced batch and meaning beachhouse in Pomspeak). We were to be the guests of Lucy and Greg, friends of Lisa Brown.

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Whoa. At this point I need to introduce Lisa Brown to you. Let me see. She is totally indescribable and completely lovable. Shes a mass of dark hair and filthy humour. Shes a force of nature. Lisa Browns personality will knock small children clear over and send small dogs whimpering under the couch. Lisa Brown is also Caros Evil Twin and Partner in Crime. They had met some years earlier in Mount Maunganui when a friend of Danelle's brought her to Mount Maunganui. Their Momentous First Meeting went something like this: LISA: Jesus! I'm sorry that your hairdresser mangled your hair! What's that COLOUR??? CARO: (Hisses) It's supposed to be like this. LISA: Oops! Sorry!! (She breezes off). Despite this initial hiccup they became firm friends, travelling to UK together and have shared a mags, cosmetics and laughing-at-unfortunate-people type relationship ever since. An example of the type of friendship they have concerns the time they shared a flat in Edinburgh (with about 10 other people) and Lisa went through a jumping-out-of-the-cupboard-at-Caro phase. God knows why. Lisa gets these ideas into her head. Anyway, it didn't work out too well. Firstly, Lisa nearly made Grant the Canadian shit himself when he went into Caro's room to borrow something and then Caro got wise to the whole thing and locked Lisa in the cupboard for the afternoon ("Let me out ya fuckin' bitch!!) Lisa is also known for being as obsessively messy as Caro is tidy. When we lived in Edinburgh we were used to Lisa arriving with her bag packed up like a Lisa-Brown landmine, which would - BLAM! - explode all over the floor throwing out shrapnel in the form of shoes, magazines and hair products. You have to be very careful when negotiating Lisaspace for fear of stepping on a magazine hidden under a jumper and doing a big skid across the carpet like a one-legged water-skier. I should add that Lisa is also extremely knowledgable about music, celebrity gossip and can drink me under the table. I should add that she is an accountant, but - like a REBEL accountant. Ronnie tried several times to hook her on the subject of the UK's tax laws but she was having none of it. But look, its impossible to describe Lisa Brown. The best I can offer is an extract from a recent email, which I might add is completely unaltered, uncorrected and with no punctuation added. To be honest with you, Lisa doesnt speak with punctuation anyway, unless you count the word flange which peppers almost every sentence. Lisa Brown 2003 hi darl, very knackered today, watched a horror dvd last night and couldnt sleep, even with my bedroom door open. then got up at 6 and went to gym. sliding under the desk as i type. didnt do too much too much on the weekend. went out on fri night for two drinks with em (from wk) and neil. before i knew it we were all plastered, em ended up staying the night and we took turns at barfing in the loo. Was terrible. ate my first chicken kebab since turing non veggie, was feral and make my puke all chunky. in fact cld have been the reason i did puke. saw the kebab shop in the cold light of day on sunday and could not believe that i ate there. stu came bursting into my room for a chat, excited that there were two girls in the one bed i shld think, what must people think of my flat. could not do much on sat due to extreme headthrob, went to gym though, felt all dodgy on quite a few occasions and pondered effect of vomit on treadmill, watched the footie then went up the road for a couple with the boys, had one sip of my shandy and broke out in a sweat and had to go outside for a bit cos i felt all sick. how was your weekend? Lisa, Caro and I piled into the back of Lucy and Gregs car and headed to Lake Rotoiti. The bach belonged to Lucys dad and was a Living Museum dedicated to the 1950s. It was obviously a boys hiding place from the wife, and was terribly decorated as only men can, with cast-offs from the house, an old stereo with huge speakers, maps on the walls, fishing rods and even those pictures of dogs playing card. Im not kidding. There were also piles and piles of old Playboy magazines under the coffee table. Caro and Lisa immediately got stuck in, playing Boobs n Pubes. If you have never engaged in this game, the rules are simple you simply embarrass ALL THE MEN IN THE ROOM but going through every picture in great

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detail to determine which woman has the nicest boobs and/or pubes in the magazine. There are also special mentions for the weirdest. I went to bed, with their cries of, Hey! Those are MY boobs! and Jesus! She must have back-combed those! still ringing in my ears.

The bach of 70s porn. The rooms we were staying in consisted of two lots of bunk-beds, so I was given the top bunk naturally. It was quite nice having the ability to look down on everyone, but the three of us were worried because the room hadn't been dusted since 1967 and there were spiderwebs in there of frightening proportions. The next morning we were also informed by Greg that there was a rat living in the ceiling, at which Lisa demanded to be allowed to sleep with Lucy and Greg. Lake Rotoiti is just outside Rotorua, which due to the volcanic activity in the region, with accompanying sulphurous discharges, is also known as "Fart Town". You can tell you're approaching Rotorua because it smells like someone in the front has just opened a Tupperware container of day-old egg sandwiches. The lake itself is beautiful, and we were ferried over to the local hot pools by Lucy and Greg on their boat. This was a bit exciting as Greg likes to open the throttle and Caro and Lisa had to hold on to their boobs for fear of severe bruising. I mentioned that they should consider themselves lucky they don't have bollocks, but I got no sympathy. The baths, I might add, are extremely relaxing, and good for the skin dont you know. I came out quite wrinkled.

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Caro and Lisa spent a lot of time in the lake itself, "going bush" and washing their hair in there ("We've decided we're the Timotei girls," announced Caro). They tried to tempt me in, Lisa doing a particularly unconvincing job of it, as she waved her hands around, breathing heavily and shrieking at the cold and then turning around and telling me, "It's lovely, really." Here's another sound-bite from the two of them: LISA: CARO: LISA: CARO: The water's really clear isn't it? I can see right to the bottom. OOO!! My toe-nails STILL look gorgeous!! Mine too!!

I dont swim at all, so it was wasted on me. Still, I enjoyed the scenery, and even the smell ceases to be noticeable after a while. It was all very peaceful and tranquil and a great place to do a spot of reading. They have some really great articles in those Playboy magazines. I spent a great deal of February 2001 hanging out with hippies. This was due to the influence of Janette who wanted to go to a spiritual healing workshop held by a native American of the Blackfoot tribe called Flying Bird and Caro and I got invited along as well. Of course, Ronnie thought this was hilarious and told us that he hoped we'd have an interesting time listening to "Bald Eagle". The first day of the workshop we were picked up by the organiser, a friend of Janette's called Barbara who was terribly excited and wearing a t-shirt with an eagle on it, and buckskin-type tassels hanging down from the arms. I wondered where she might have purchased such an item. Ronnie waved us goodbye, including Caro whom he referred to as "Stands With A Fist". She responded with an obscene gesture. ("Stands With A Finger".) Barbara drove off, with Flying Bird following behind us in his jeep, ("A Cherokee?" asked Janette). Barbara's car was pretty special, with crystals all over the dashboard and a dream catcher hanging from the rearview mirror. The venue was in a town called Te Puke (pronounced to rhyme with "See Cookie") which Caro told me was based around kiwi fruit orchards, and fuck all else". On arrival I met the rest of the participants including a very friendly Maori woman called Maxie who greeted everyone with a hug. There was a very positive energy about the place, by which I mean a large number of women with long hair and wearing tie-dyed t-shirts. I was one of only four men there. Flying Bird arrived in jeans but nipped out the back to get into the traditional deerskin garb complete with buffalo bone breastpiece and a feather braided into his hair. He burnt some sage to rid the room of negative energy and then passed around the pipe which he assured us wasn't full of naughty substances. Despite the fact that his English wasn't good and he was quite softly-spoken, he was a good speaker and clearly enjoyed having an audience. It was all very conversational and most of what he said made good sense. It was basically a look after yourself, avoid chemicals, take exercise, meditate sort of message. Unfortunately, there was also a whole sales pitch going on behind it, including buying Flying Bird's herbal remedies, his healing drums and going on his 2 day sweat lodge weekend.

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Barbara and Flying Bird Also, he lost me when he started going on about how science and conventional medicine, developed by the crazy white man is basically useless and doesn't work. It seemed to me he was playing to the justifiable suspicions that most people have of both fields, but to wholesale reject them seemed to me to be out of order. Especially when he advised an asthma sufferer to use an inhaler. Wait a moment!? Surely he didnt mean those inhalers DEVELOPED BY CRAZY WHITE SCIENTISTS??? Im not a complete sceptic honestly, but I do know bull or possibly buffalo crap when I smell it. However, it was sort of interesting anyway to listen to him. He told me that my energy was all "zzzztttzzzzzttt-zzzzzztttt" due to working with computers (listen to me all you IT people) and that in order to realign this I must sit under a swinging pendulum with a quartz crystal on the end for 45 minutes every day while meditating, ("Yep, yep. Like dat. Yep.") Plus Caro, Janette and I got given our animal totems to focus on while meditating and our spiritual names. Caro is "White Dolphin", Janette is "White Whale" and I was um - well, er - "White Beaver". Yes, go on - laugh! Ronnie certainly did. (Cue "accidentally" referring to me as "Split Beaver".) There were other interesting apects too. At one point Flying Bird got us to form an "energy circle" and believe it or not, I did feel something coming from his hand to mine. (Mind you, the power of suggestion is not to be underestimated). At the end of the whole thing, Maxie and her husband Hone (pronounced "Honay" - the Maori equivalent of "Johnny") gave a traditional speech and performed a Maori song. Caro told me how extremely privileged I was to see such a thing. It helped end the workshop on a good note, even if this was subsequently soured a little bit when I saw one of my fellow workshoppers hitting on a woman who had been there with her boyfriend the day before. ("You've got a really positive energy coming off you," remember that line boys...) The day after the workshop weekend was Caro's birthday, prompting me to get out of bed early and race around to Bayfair, the local shopping mall to buy her some presents. It was all a bit pathetic, she got some flowers, two books and some "Instand Kiwi" lotto scratchcards to which she had developed an unhealthy addiction. But never mind, because Lisa Brown also arrived from Auckland for the occasion and the three of us got taken out for dinner by Ronnie and Janette at a place on the waterfront called Spinaker's. Getting Lisa and Caro together is always a dangerous thing. They get into a whole gossipy-evil-cackling spiral of naughtiness from which no mortal man can hope to escape with his ego intact.

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Lisa, Caro and myself hung out together in Mount Maunganui for a couple of days and then Lisa drove us back to Auckland to stay with her family which includes her mother Jackie, her dad Colin and two silver tabby kittens named Basil and Sage. Otherwise known as The Naughty Kittens. Yes! The Naughty Kittens! Lisa warned us that although they might look cute, they were actually PURE EVIL. However, her opinion might have been biased due to the fact that they shit in her bag upon her arrival home. ("It was a whole runny debacle too, not even solid jobbies.") The Naughty Kittens made their presence felt as soon as we arrived. They appeared as one head poking around the door, then another popping up from behind a couch and then two little bundles of fur trotting up to you with their tails in the air: "Hi! What's that? What are you doing? Is that something I can play with? What happens if I pat it? That's interesting. Can I have it? Can I eat it? You don't want it do you? I could have that and I could play with it and that could be mine and I'd like that and aren't I cute?" Caro played with Sage quite happily until Sage leapt with all four paws, claws out onto Caro's back. You probably heard the scream back in the UK.

Naughty, naughty kittens Lisa drove us up to Mount Eden, an extinct volcano, so that I could get a view of Auckland including the recently built Sky Tower (the highest point in Australasia - from which Kiwis can drop their pants and moon in the direction of Sydney) and right next to it, the Toilet Seat Building. I'm not kidding. There's this building - The Sun Alliance Building with a huge, angled oval edifice with a hole in it parked on top. It looks for all the world like a halfway down toilet seat. Caro eventually worked out that it was actually supposed to be a sundial, but it didn't help. Once you've got it in your head, it's hard to stop imagining that a giant botty is about to plonk down on the top of The Sun Alliance Building. Speaking of botties, the naughty kittens attacked mine the following morning. I was lying in bed when they appeared: "Hi! What's that? What are those strings hanging off your combat jarmies? Those are interesting. Is that something we can play with? What happens if we leap on them, and sink our claws into your arse?" Mind you, it didn't help that Lisa enjoyed playing with the kittens until they were hyperactive with mischief. Her mum Jackie complained that Lisa was, "always winding up those kittens and then buggering off." Then she added, "You do EXACTLY the same thing with your father."

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Lisa took us on what she described as "The Driving and Eating Tour of Auckland". We drove around the Bays, had lunch in the Ponsonby and Newmarket areas and I got a bit of a chance to see the sights. A lot of the sights consisted of, "Over there is where we used to get pissed... That's the rugby pitch where I broke my ankle running for a taxi, while drunk... That's an Irish pub called The Dog's Bollocks where got ratarsed that time... That's where we used to get drunk and have our weekly gossip..." and so forth. Auckland is a strange city. It feels more like a collection of villages glued together by the water that dominates the city. The bays are truly beautiful, there are stylish little cafes all over the place, and a shopping centre in the middle of the city which is refreshingly not dominated by the big chains that you'd find in every other city on the planet (although Starbucks Has Landed). It's worth mentioning the Aucklanders themselves who have a reputation in the rest of the country as poseurs and I have to say I have seen this sort of malarky first-hand. Some of the people there are almost laughable in the way they wear the right clothes, appear in the right places, drive the right cars and even strike the right poses. I am NOT kidding. The guys are the worst. I saw loads of blokes languishing around the streets with their shades on looking cool and bored like they were right off the pages of a Calvin Klein perfume ad. What I wouldn't have given for a Super-Soaker. Like a lot of the New Zealand towns I'd seen, many of the houses and shops were built in the early part of the 20th century, and have a Victorian/Edwardian feel to them. This gives "Last Picture Show" slightly run-down feel as a lot of these buildings don't look terribly well kept up. The houses are in a villa style with fiddly decorative bits in the gables and roofed decks at the front to sit on (you can almost imagine those swings they have in films about The Old South). Caro's sister Feona lives in such a house with several other people. We went to see her and got a big welcome. I was pleased to see her again and she showed us her room which was big, airy and as artistically decorated as one would expect from The Sister of Caro. Amongst her possessions was a copy of "The Joy of Sex" which Lisa and Caro pounced on as eagerly as a kitten on an Englishman's arse. LISA: CARO: LISA: CARO: LISA: Eeeewwww!! Did you see the bit about with the "toe thing"? I know!! That's just fucking FERAL. No one is going near MY bits with their big toe. Not without bloody well cutting their toenails anyway. I don't fancy all this sixty-nine malarky either. It's all too... in-your-face.

Another notable aspect of Feona's house was the toilet, which was - oh wait a minute... TOILETS OF THE WORLD PART 4 - FEONA'S TOILET IN AUCKLAND Feona's toilet was located in a cubicle in the corner of the washroom. This was slightly unpleasant because the walls of the cubicle don't quite reach the ceiling. Therefore, if whilst pooing, another member of the household should come in and attempt laundry, then things may be heard and smelt which both parties would rather avoid. This is the sort of toilet which can lock the bowels of the overly sensitive solid. Not me. I can shit anywhere. In fact, I never feel truly comfortable in a place unless I have marked my territory by having a bit of a poo. My frequent bowel movements irritate Caro, who I think views me like a cow in a field, travelling about, eating and shitting wherever I go. However, I know a great many people who refuse to crap in public conveniences or in their workplace facilities due to embarrassment about the noise and smell factor. In one particularly unfortunate case, a friend of mine who shall remain anonymous went to the toilet at work for a weewee but accidentally let go a huge fart. The said fart was such a good one and the farter was given such a surprise that she started laughing. It was only when her giggles had subsided that she realised - to her HORROR - that some workmates were in the toilet with her! She had to hide in the cubicle for 20

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minutes, trapped with her fart, before she felt secure that everyone had left the room and she could escape without her identity as The Secret Farter revealed. But I digress. The four of us left went to the Sky Tower. Now I have to admit that I'm a pretty lame-arsed tourist and was quite happy to walk by the tower, pointing and saying, "Ooh, that's quite big," but Caro and Lisa had never been up it either as it wasn't completed when they left NZ in 1997. It's pretty impressive, you go shooting up the side in a glass elevator, arriving at the observation deck where parts of the floor have been fitted with glass so you can stand right on it, look straight down at the tiny people and cars hundreds of feet below, and shit right in your pants. Actually Feona thought nothing of standing on it, but my palms were sweating. The irrational part of my brain telling me I was about to die, the logical part telling me I was perfectly secure, the irrational part of my brain suggesting that the glass might just slip out at any time, and the logical part of my brain saying good point let's fuck off to the casino sharpish.

The shadow of the Sky Tower The casino is as tacky as any casino anywhere. They put one woman in a glass box, and fired money at her while she stuffed it into her clothes. Feona meanwhile had found the Wheel of Fortune and managed to double her money while I managed to lose $10.

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A memorable Auckland eating experience was when Lisas parents, Jackie and Colin, took Lisa, Caro and I to Cafe Rikka. This was a Japanese restaurant where beef was brought to your table on a heated rock and cooked right there, and where Lisa Brown managed to snaffle someone else's salmon after the waiter brought it to our table by mistake. Mind you, first there was the whole debacle of finding the bloody place. The problem being the sign was so subtle you could only see it from one direction, and we approached it the wrong way. We called directory enquiries, we called Feona - no use. Finally I asked a waiter at another restaurant and he pointed me next door. From the outside it looked like a bookie's or a knocking shop (not that I would know) but inside it was very authentic with the whole paper wall thing going and a bustling kitchen. Unfortunately, I forgot to check out the toilets, however, I do have a report from Jackie that they were AMAZING. Apparently they have real Japanese style toilets in there, by which I mean toilets with a control panel at the side like that on Captain Kirk's chair in the USS Enterprise. Jackie and her friend Marion spent a great deal of time in the toilets, playing with these controls, some of which do exciting things like spray perfume, some of which apparently do nothing. (Or at least appear to do nothing - I wonder if the control panel was EXACTLY THE SAME as Captain Kirk's and they were inadvertently firing photon torpedoes off at the restaurant next door.) Anyway, Jackie noticed one interesting button, pressed it and stood right over the bowl to see what would happen. What happened was - WHOOOOOSH - and she was soaked through. She had found the bidet button. Lisa's mum Jackie is a hoot. A very kind woman with a dry sense of humour and as much of a capacity for naughtiness as her daughter. After we returned to her house from the Japanese restaurant, Jackie amused herself by attempting to get the kittens to attack Lisa's arse by dragging a piece of string over it while Lisa lay on the floor. "I can feel that!" muttered Lisa, while Jackie wiped the tears of laughter from her cheeks. Unfortunately, the kittens never got the chance to attack Lisa's bottom as at this point Colin did the most toxic fart in the world and drove them from the room. Apart from his wind, Colin seemed a nice enough bloke, but his work hours were so unusual I hardly saw him. In fact on my third day in Auckland I made a point of introducing myself to him, which seemed only fair since I'd been living in his house for two days. Another night in Auckland we turned up to an Aussie guy named Tom's 29th birthday party. The reason we were invited was because Lisa Mack, from Caro and Lisa Brown's hostelling days was there and the girls wanted to get together before Lisa Brown left for the UK. Feona came along too, and we sat out in this guy Glenn's back garden who owned a white cat with no ears, as they had been consumed by cancer, but the cat didn't seem to mind. Caro informed me that this is quite a common thing in NZ, where the ozone hole offers little protection from UV rays and white cats have to have their noses tattooed black to protect them from cancer. So now you know. Even the CATS in New Zealand are hard as nails. We arrived at the party at 10 at night, only to find that everyone else had been drinking since 2 in the afternoon. As you might expect, the rest of the partygoers were a little the worse for wear although I did manage to have a conversation with Lisa Mack. Tom and Scott, the two Australians were doing shooters and looking much the worse for wear. I wondered if Tom would actually make it to midnight when he would officially be 29. But Feona, Caro, Lisa Brown and myself had a pretty good time watching the general slurring and falling about that was going on. When eventually we decided to leave, Scott gave Caro a big kiss, followed by a kiss on the hand, and then he bit her on the arm. I wondered what the effect of being bitten by an Australian is? Would Caro turn into Rolf Harris at the next full moon?

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Our time at the Brown's passed too fast, and I was sorry to say goodbye, especially to Jackie who had made sure I got my banana every morning. (I'm very partial to a banana for breakfast). Also to The Naughty Kittens. One of their main benefits I had found was that Caro actually got up EARLY every morning to play with them, like a six-year-old on Christmas morning. But it was time to leave Auckland, and head on up to Keri Keri on the north tip of the north island in an area called the Bay of Islands where we would be staying with Lisa Mack. So we said goodbye to Lisa Brown and Jackie, Lisa promising to meet up with us again in Hawaii in June. So there we were. On the bus. Heading to Keri Keri. Any minute now. Leaving Auckland. Going to Keri Keri. Just waiting for the bus to start... Then I heard the bus driver on his mobile... BUS DRIVER: Shane? Yeah mate, bloody thing won't start. Yeah. Starter motor's buggered I reckon. Can you get Rob out her to take a look at her? Yeah mate, of course I checked the bloody battery mate, I'm not bloody stupid. Jesus, Shane... So we waited 45 minutes while, Shane, Rob and the bus driver got us sorted and finally we were on our way to Keri Keri. It was a 5 hour trip mostly through drizzle, but the scenery was so spectacular that it passed a lot more pleasantly than say, a 5 minute trip on a nice sunny day through Halifax. The mist hanging on the huge ferns gave New Zealand a Jurassic-Parky, Lost-Worldy type vibe. And the rolling hills, the lakes and the rocky landscape reminded me of the Lake District or the borders back in the UK. On the way to Keri Keri, Caro got talking with a German lady whose name we never found out. I shall call her "Helga". She too had taken time off work as a teacher to do a bit of travelling and was now "vuffing all over New Zealand". I had no idea what vuffing was. Probably some perverted sexual practice, knowing the Germans. Actually it turned out to stand for Willing Workers On Organic Farms. You get the WWOOF-er book and can then travel all over the world, staying on organic farms and picking fruit, or podding peas or lassoeing free range chickens or whatever. Anyway, Helga had been doing this and was now looking for places to stay. Caro mentioned Lisa Mack's parents who operated an echinacea farm. HELGA: CARO: HELGA: CARO: HELGA: CARO: HELGA: CARO: HELGA: CARO: HELGA: Eck-in-ay-shuh? Vot is zis? Ai heff neffer heard of zis? It's a herb which boosts the immune system? Ach, but ai em a herbalist alzo? I heff neffer heard of zis in Germany? Iss zis a New Zealand herb? No you get it everywhere, in drops, or tablets... Spell it, please. E-C-H-I-N... Oh, you mean echinats-ZAY-uh!! Ja, vee heff this alzo. How do you say it? Eck-in-ay-shuh. I see. "Eck-in-ay-shuh". I grow eck-in-ay-shuh. You grow eck-in-ay-shuh. I grow eck-in-ay-shuh on my eck-in-ay-shuh farm... All right, all right. The joke's over now, love. Okay, I stop saying it now.

While travelling to Keri Keri, the weather had slowly improved. Keri Keri itself was boiling hot, and the weather stayed like this for our entire stay. Lisa Mack arrived in a dusty car named Jack to pick us up along with her other house guest, Odette who had come over from Byron Bay to stay at Lisa's for 3 weeks in order hold some workshops on shamanism. Odette, Lisa and Caro all knew each other from their backpacking days in Edinburgh together. Lisa and Caro had worked together at the House of Fraser, where the wages were so pathetic they had to learn to live on tuna, margarine and bread for weeks on end. (In the end of course, Lisa moved on to a better job, while Caro moved on to my flat where she got fed rather better.)

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To briefly describe the both of them, Lisa Mack has the butter-wouldn't-melt looks and voice of a sweet and innocent little girl. But of course, she's a friend of Caro's so I knew that couldn't be that case. Sure enough, she's got that same filthy cackle that Caro, Mechelle, Lisa Brown and Janette all share. Fear these women. Odette is a tiny little person with a kind face and a hugely impressive tan. I was tentative about meeting her, since the whole Flying Bird thing had made me a bit wary of new agers, but I found I really liked Odette right from the start. First of all, I found that she was more like me than I expected, in that she's quite a sceptic herself - certainly she's had enough bad experiences in the New Age world to know that there are a lot of charlatans and messed-up people out there - where she differs from me is that she kept an open mind and sought out better experiences. Also, as I found out from reading her book, The Bridge Between Two Worlds she actually has a very pragmatic way of approaching spiritualism. I still don't really know where I stand on such things, never having had any experiences outside this dimension but when I talked to Odette, it didn't seem to matter. Her book explains mental illness in a different way from conventional medicine (which refreshingly, she doesn't rubbish although she has a healthy scepticism towards it) but I could see that her way of looking at things had a great deal of value too. In fact, Odette's way of looking at things was a lot more humane and personal than that of a shrink. So it seems to me that whether you believe in spirits and totems and such is almost irrelevant, if it helps someone work themselves out then that's the important thing, and that is what Odette seems to be trying to do. Sorry, did all that get a bit heavy? The good thing about Odette is that she herself isn't. As Caro put it, she might walk the path of the shaman but that doesn't stop her being interested in celebrity gossip. Lisa Mack lived in a very cool place outside Keri Keri, where she takes care of the property of a local tycoon. Her job is to upkeep the property and to take care of Douglas, the hairy cow. Apparently, a hairy highland cow is the latest yuppie accessory in NZ. Really.

Douglas Douglas didnt say much. Occasionally, he moo-ed at the cows in a neighbouring field in a friendly way because he was getting lonely and wanted a girlfriend. But mostly he stood around having Profound Thoughts. Lisa told me he liked fruit, so when Caro, Odette and I took a walk up to his field, I attempted to feed him an apple. I leaned forward, he leaned forward, I leaned against the fence, Odette said something

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like, "Isn't that supposed to be an electrified fence?" I said something like "Huh?" and then a bolt of lightning shot off my fingertips and zapped poor Douglas up the nose, causing him to drop the apple. Yes! I was THOR, God of Thunder! Douglas and I attempted to recover our dignity and he scoffed his apple down, but I never heard the end of it. Two days later I returned to Douglas with a banana which he eyed very suspiciously, making sure it wasn't an electric banana, before accepting it. So anyway, we had got an email from Lisa Mack inviting us up to stay at her place, now that she was enjoying "the rustic lifestyle". ("Rustic my arse," Lisa Brown had commented. "She's got heated towel rails and everything.") It really was a lovely little place she had, bright and airy with a sunny deck to sit out on. Mind you, every time I went out there I was instantly pounced upon by Lisa and Caro, making sure that I had slip, slap, slopped first. (SLIP on your sunglasses, SLOP on some sunscreen and SLAP on a cap.) Apparently the burntime down there is now between 9-11 minutes, down from about 20 when Caro left NZ - pretty scary huh? I also caught the sun at Lisa Mack's "Secret Beach". This was a very cool little cove that we reached by going down a track, climbing up past a tree over a style, then down an incline. It really was a perfect little spot, a great sun-trap with bluey-green water lapping the shell-covered beach. All it was missing was All Saints warbling "Pure Shores" and Leo cavorting in the water. Lisa, Odette and Caro had great fun swimming about, and as a non-swimmer, I had great fun plonking my arse in the sea and having a bit of a sit while the waves lapped about me. Lisa tried to encourage me by telling me that I would probably float if I gave it go. I told her that this was what they would probably say at the inquest and that pretty much put and end to that. The water was actually pretty cold most days, leading to the sight of Caro hovering about with her arms flapping and the water up to her thighs while she decided whether it was worth putting her naughty bits into the cold water. "Come on in," said Lisa Mack, "or I'll have to come up there and give you a lovely wet hug." "Stay away from me," warned Caro, "you could have someone's eye out with those nipples." There was also a little cave that you could climb into and squeeze through in order to reach yet ANOTHER secluded little beach. I had great fun going through there. Once you were on The Even More Secret Beach, you felt totally Alone (apart from the noise of Caro yeek-ing as the cold water reached her special secret parts). On the other beach, the sun beat down on the lovely gnarled old trees that overhung the sea, as the ciccadas chirped and the water lapped. I hopped over the pebbles investigating rock-pools, and coming THIS CLOSE to having a genuine Spalding Gray Perfect Moment.

Lisa Macks Secret Beach

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Actually, I was pretending to be Robinson Crusoe. Yes, I know it's childish, but I could hear the theme tune to that old French serial in my head and crunched over the sand with the sun beating down imagining that I was collecting driftwood for my Escape Raft or possibly my Signal Fire. Then I was Les Hiddens Bush Tucker Man, going over the site where previous explorers had perished, little realising that there was Food All Around Them. Shellfish, nuts, berries and native leaves that all tasted "a bit like bread". All right, I can tell I'm losing most of you here. I have a bit of an obession with Bush Tucker Man, okay? I don't know why. I was totally addicted to his programme on Channel 4 in which he would go around the Australian outback, eating things. That was basically the theme of the whole programme. "Look!" I'd say, "He's about to Eat Something!" And invariably it always tasted "a bit like bread." Now that I was on the verge of going to Australia, I was beginning to have Bush Tucker fantasies about getting a Les Hiddens hat and the Big Green Socks, and wandering about the Bush, eating things. Unfortunately, our budget never quite stretched to this, although it was probably a good thing as I would undoubtedly have got a widgety grub lodged in my throat or sat on a funnel-web spider or something. Odette, Caro, Lisa and I spent several afternoons at the Secret Beach. Truth to tell, I can't actually recall much else we did in Keri Keri. We were either on the beach, or on the deck. We did visit Keri Keri town a few times, mostly going around all the New Age shops so that Odette could post flyers for her workshops. One afternoon, Lisa took us to Waitangi which some of you may have heard of in connection with the Treaty of Waitangi. Basically this is the bit of paper telling the Maoris that if they agreed to come under British protection then they would retain their land in return for allowing the settlers to farm there. Well, that's what the Maoris thought it said anyway. It seems there was a problem in translation and the Europeans ended up grabbing all the land. Oops. Of course this lead to a great deal of controversy in the past couple of decades with the Kiwi government attempting to undo past wrongs by returning stolen land and also with a programme of positive discrimination. All this is fine in theory but it does seem to have provoked a European resentment against what are seen to be special privileges given to the Maoris. Also against the perceived greed of some Maori claims (the most famous example was when one group attempted to claim the airwaves). As before, I'm not going to touch this issue. As an outsider, I've no idea what I'm talking about. Undoubtedly there have been abuses on both sides, and it just seems a shame that this sort of thing leads to bad feeling and a whole "us and them" attitude within New Zealand. Waitangi Day is February 6th and is New Zealand's national day - but is usually marked with demonstrations. On going around the museum in Waitangi, it did look to me that the chap who set up the original treaty did it with good, if slightly patronising intentions (to save them from those frightful Frenchies, dont you know?) towards the Maori people and that they signed, not under duress but thinking that there was something in an association with Her Majesty that would benefit them. Shame it turned sour. Lisa Mack and Caro gave Odette and I a pretty good history lecture as we drove to and from Waitangi. Including the history of the original aboriginal people, the Mori Ori - who were actually driven out from NZ to the Chatham Islands by the Maori who had arrived in seven canoes from the mythical Polynesian island of Hawiki. In fact, the Maori had only been in NZ for about 200 years when the Europeans arrived. The story of the Mori Ori is quite tragic as they were lead by a chief who believed in peace and instead of fighting gave gifts of white feathers as a symbol of goodwill to the Maoris and British. The last true Mori Ori died in the 1920's While in Waitangi, I got the chance to see a war canoe, complete with an impressive prow carving of a little man with a huge nob. (I think this sort of thing would make excellent hood ornaments for cars.) Also, I got to visit a marae (Maori meeting house) which was terribly impressive with it's ornate carvings inside Caro explained that the decorative weavings depict the history of a tribe - and the beatifully decorated outside - all maraes are painted red, black and white.

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So that was Waitangi. Back to Lisa's sunny deck where we had some interesting talks. One day Odette showed me how to speak Ozzie, as opposed to Kiwi. Basically you just do the Kiwi accent, but you hold your nose. Therefore a Kiwi conversation goes like this: KIWI 1: All right mate? KIWI 2: Yeah, mate. But an Ozzie conversation goes like this: OZZIE 1: Aww igh ate? OZZIE 2: Eah ate. Simple when you know how. I also had the chance to have a bit of chat to Odette about her book. As I've previously said, I really liked her practical approach, and the fact that her book wasn't arrogantly attempting to present THE TRUTH, but just an alternative and rather more humane way of looking at schizophrenia and depression. Actually, I just really liked Odette. She's a very positive and warm person, I don't know whether this is as a result of her views or vice versa. It didn't seem to matter, but I enjoyed listening to her. If I WERE a New Agey person, I would say I was "meant" to meet her in order to balance out the whole Flying Bird thing. I also liked Lisa Mack, but then I have a thing about Evil Women as those of you who know Caro will be aware. She allowed me to help her feed her chickens, lorikeets and lovebirds one morning. The lovebirds had chicks that wriggled about all nude without feathers, in their nest box looking at me. The lorikeets have apparently learned the art of impersonating telephones and laugh when they send their owner into his house, trying to answer his phone. ("It's a really filthy laugh too," said Lisa.) Odette and Lisa were pretty funny too, waltzing around the house to Crowded House and sneaking out for naughty smokes. ("Outside wench," commanded Lisa. "Oooh you're so masterful," replied Odette, "if you only had a penis...") So I was pretty sad when our week with Lisa and Odette was up. Caro and myself had decided to fork out a little extra for a flight back to Tauranga as it would have been 10 hours on the bus. It was worth it for the view alone. The plane we caught was a 14 seater little thing, that flew low over the landscape which was pretty spectacular. On leaving, Odette and Lisa waved us off by lifting their tops and flashing us as we taxied away. That view was pretty spectacular too, although it did nearly cause the pilot to taxi right into a building. We returned back at Mount Maunganui just in time to help paint Dwaynes deck. Dwayne was an old friend of Caros whom I suspected still carried a torch for her, the way he looked at me. Maybe Im just paranoid. Maybe he was looking at me that way because I had a bogey dangling out of one nostril. Its sort of hard to say in retrospect. Stacey took us to Dwaynes with her black lab, Willow. Unfortunately, we'd missed the painting altogether and had arrived only in time for the barbecue. Damn! What a shame! Pass me a sausage! And so on. (Caro's had actually worn her non-painting-because-I'm-a-girl-and-youcan't-make-me skirt expressly for the occasion). The Kiwi blokes were fascinated with me (being a Pom) (and therefore a huge poofter) and plied me with the native brew. Firstly, so that I might sample all the different brands, but also to get me as pissed as a possum. Of course, Kiwi beer doesn't have the alcoholic content of Scottish beer, so that was unlikely, but I did my darndest for them. For anyone on the verge of going to New Zealand (Ross) here is my appraisal of the native nectar:

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Tui Tasted awfully like water to me, like someone had waved a can of beer over a bottle of Evian. Quite refreshing though. Lion Red Not bad. Lacks bite though.

Waikato I liked this one - but apparently no bugger else does. Possibly I was influenced by the fact that the only time I've tried it, I'd had a few wines beforehand. Over here, they say it tastes like Waikato riverwater that someone's pissed in. Steinlager Speight's Definitely the best of the bunch. This was pretty good too. It's the drink of the South Islander though, so be careful.

Export Kind of blah. By way of reprisal, I bought the guys a can of McEwan's each, which they were very impressed with. Mainly due to the size of the can, I think. I hope it did something to redress the balance of testosterone. Kiwi blokes think that all Poms are a bit wussy, and of course I can't do much to disabuse them of this assumption as - well - I AM a bit wussy. No, let's not fanny about the bush here. I am, I know it. And it's EMPHASISED here because every Kiwi bloke I meet seems to spend all his spare time beating his chest and doing very macho things, like windsurfing and rock climbing. KIWI BLOKE 1: Yeah mate. I bungee in me spare time. Sweet as. KIWI BLOKE 2: Choice. I'm into extreme sports too, mate. Yeah, last year I went white water rafting and kite surfing. KIWI BLOKE 3: Ahhhhh yeah? Well, I like to jump from planes. KIWI BLOKE 4: That's for poofs mate. I wrestle sharks at the weekend. KIWI BLOKE 5: Geez mate, where's the sport in that? I like to go around poking crocodiles with sticks. In the nude. KIWI BLOKE 3: Did I mention that I jump out of planes WITHOUT A PARACHUTE? KIWI BLOKE 4: Give it up mate. Nahhhh I only wrestle Great Whites though. With one hand. ME: I like Scrabble. Last week I made a eight-letter word. So the Kiwis have THAT impression of the Poms, but on the other hands, there's the counter-impression caused by football hooligans that we're actually a revolting nation of mungrel people who fight and take drugs and shag all over the place while drunk. This isn't helped by programs like "Ibiza Uncovered" which is big over here. No wonder the Kiwi kids flock to the UK. They think it's the land of sex and drugs and drinking like bastards. Come to think of it... they're not entirely wrong... Talking of drink, Caro arranged a visit to Hamilton for us, so that I could visit the scene of her university years, when she was a young and sober student of languages. Well, she was a young student of languages anyway. She and Lisa Mack had already told me the stories of the Hamilton Bike Pub Crawl when Caro managed to get her bike mangled and when Lisa Mack threw herself out of a window and had to be escorted home by two other bike riders (leaving her friend in the gutter). Hamilton, you'll gather is the home of The University of Waikato and something of a student party town. Indeed, it was the venue of the almost legendary Shit Slapping Contest. This unique Kiwi Sporting Event was invented (I believe) by members of the "Shaka Zulu" fraternity house. Caro tells me they also perfected the art of "The Helicopter Chunder" (where you swing the person

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who is about to be sick around so that you achieve a "lawn sprinkler" effect) and "The Pelican" (where you open your mouth to catch the chunder of a puking mate). However, these pale into insignificance next to The Shit Slapping Contest. Apparently, members of Shaka Zulu went around wearing white boiler suits and challenging other frat houses to competitions, but one of their favourite pastimes was to line up drinks around a table, while one of their number did a jobbie in the middle. (This, in itself is quite a feat - I mean - HOW do you do a jobbie on command while under surveillance? Or maybe he just brought it with him in a tupperware container. Anyway.) So THEN, the competitors remove their jandals (or flip-flops if you're a pom, or thongs if you're an Ozzie) and SLAP the poo with their jandal until it's completely gone. Then the competitors are examined and the one who is the LEAST covered in poo gets to drink all the drinks on the table. Just be grateful they didn't hold the Olympics in Hamilton. Caro had arranged for us to go there by train, which I was looking forward to, as I love travelling by rail. You get a proper chance to look around and they serve tea. Also, I got a chance to listen to one of my Travelling Tapes. Caro made fun of me because, before I left, I made a series of ten VERY DETAILED tapes containing all my favourite music so that I wouldn't get bored by any one collection. So there I was listening to my tapes as the train set off, but they kept getting interrupted by an in-travel commentary of Interesting Facts on New Zealand, (presumably prepared by the New Zealand board of Interesting Facts.) One of these stories concerns the creation of New Zealand, so Ill relate that here: The Story of Maui and The Fish It appears that Maui went out fishing one day, armed with the jawbone of his grandmother. He wasn't catching any fish so he broke his own nose, put his spurting blood on the jawbone and plopped it over the side. He then hooked a HUGE fish, which became the North Island. The South Island is actually Maui's canoe (waka) and Stewart's Island is Maui's anchor. But as Caro said - how did the Maoris KNOW that the North Island is the shape of a fish? And then we were in Hamilton being greeted by Jimmy the Dog and Ross the Communist Law Student. Jimmy the Dog is a Springer Spaniel and quite happy to see us. I discovered that Jimmy is a Very Waggy Dog who he likes to get in there close and have a bit of breathe on you. Ross doesn't do that, fortunately. We all piled into his car, and he took us off to meet Ella who was just leaving work. Oh, right - you'll be wanting introductions then. Ella used to go to uni with Caro and her house provided a safe haven for Caro when she got fucked off with her flatmates and flounced off for a month of eating chocolate while she found a new flat. (That was taken down verbatim from Caro speaking to me from the doorway just now by the way.) And Ross is her brother. They live in a house they bought together. Jimmy the Dog actually belongs to their parents, but was staying with them temporarily, although he has trouble with the concept of Personal Space, as Ross explained. ("Nice. He's actually breathing on my testicles"). Just after I arrived, Ross and Ella's mother called. I heard Ross telling her that I "wasn't all THAT white." I had been working hard on being less white, but having come directly from Scotland in the winer, this wasnt that hard. There are actually dead albinos less white than your average Scotsman. Ross had very kindly given up his room for us, and I was surprised to find pictures of Lenin, Che and Brecht on the walls. I honestly haven't met a Communist since 1989 - before the fall of the Berlin Wall. Then, they were all over the place but just seemed to disappear after that, so I have to say, fair play to Ross for hanging in there. It fits actually, as Ross is a lovely bloke, and most of the Communists I've met are lovely people. He explained to me that he wants to do criminal law in a defence capacity because he wants to force the police to be more accountable. I don't know what the situation is like in NZ, but given what I know about the police in the UK, with their recent fitting-up of your man over the Lockerbie bombings,

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this seems to me to be a very worthwhile thing to do, so good on yer, Ross. He also shared with me his supersecret special recipe for making A Perfect Cup of Milo, which I shall take to my grave. Ross and Ella took us on a tour of Hamilton so that Caro could revisit all her old haunts, although I'm surprised she remembers any of them given that her student years seem to have passed in a drunken haze. While on the tour, Caro surprised me by turning into a bit of a Kiwi: ROSS: CARO: ELLA: CARO: ROSS: CARO: ELLA: CARO: Over there's the languages building. Ahhhhh yeah? Yeah, mate. Choice. Sweet as. You enjoying this mate? Ahhhh yeah mate, it's all good. Wicked. Yeah, Mate.

When we got home Ella entertained us with the story of the Fuckerware party she had been to earlier in the week. Apparently it was a very full-on deal, with the party hostess flashing her boobs around in order to demonstrate the nipple rings, and attachments thereto that could be purchased. Ill spare you the detail. Whats that? You WANT detail? What a lot of filthy perverts! Okay then. There was a strap-on dildo, which attached to the man's thigh ("one of the strongest muscles in the body") so that his girlfriend could hop onto his lap, whenever she felt the need, and have a bit of a bounce. "You can do this in the home, in the cinema, anywhere." Also, all sorts of doodahs you could strap onto your "COCK ring". (Apparently the hostess was very taken with the word "COCK' and emphasised it over any other word in the sentence.) There were even little harnesses and such that you could affix to your "COCK" ring so that you could be led about like a little pony. Although, quite frankly, if you ever lead a pony around in that sort of fashion, you should be arrested. But I digress... There were also vibrators of all shapes and sizes, the most impressive being "The Big Blue" (as seen on tv's "Sex and The City") which costs $175, but apparently provides satisfaction in under 2 minutes (for the gal on the go, presumably). The Big Blue has a beaded surface which rotates in different directions at the same time, along with a little extra arm that sticks out and errr... tickles your fancy and no, I'm not going to be putting it any more graphically than that. As a guy who possesses a nob with just the one speed-setting and no swivel action, it all made me feel rather inadequate. Ella, though not a prude, didn't quite know where to put herself and focussed on the rather nice sports towel which had the brand name ("De Vice") on it. "Oh, that's not a sports towel," commented the hostess, "that's a Cum Rag." She went on to explain that it was - ah - a rag for - wiping up - you know - AFTER... "Although you could take it on the golf course with you," she added helpfully. If you ever see this woman on a golf course, over the hole shes playing, is my advice. The evening ended with fun and games, involving a strap-on dildo and harness which two teams had to attach to each other. It all sounded very educational. If Ella made us laugh, it was nothing compared to the Ella and Ross Show. They have that whole brothersister double act down to a fine art. At one point, Ella forced Ross to wear her little blue flowery sandals because they needed stretching, ("Mince for me Ross! Mince!") They also have a fine line in banter... ELLA: All right, who's going to the Bakery? ROSS: Not me. ELLA: You're just going to sit there, lounging about in your singlet?

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ROSS: Yep. ELLA: Well, you could at least put your armpits away! ROSS: Nope. ELLA: I'm really hungry. ROSS: Me too. Right I'm off to the Bakery. ELLA: NOW you've decided you're going, you Big Freak of Nature? ROSS: Who's coming with me? ELLA: Not me! You... You Big Singlet! Ross puts up with this sort of thing with excellent good-humour. He's a very nice chap who calls everyone "Champ" and is full of fun - Ella explained that in his job at the Caltex service station, he invariably says to people, "Yer a champion - what are ya??" And then refuses to let them go until they've answered: INNOCENT MEMBER OF THE PUBLIC: ROSS: I'm a champion. Yer a CHAMPION!

Caro absolutely loves Ross and his Ross-isms and wrote them down in her Travel Log: ROSS-ISMS "She's all go." "Nice. Yeah - Nice." "Easy, Tiger!" "Hook yerself up, mate." "Catch ya up." "Just kickin' it." "Yo yo!" "Howzit Fat Dog." "Nice action." "Big Ups!" "She's all good." "Cheers, Big Ears!" "Same goes, Big Nose." (Ross had to modify that last one after he accidentally said it to someone who actually HAD a big nose and no sense of humour. "So I said it to him, and he cracked me. Now I say, 'Same goes, Long Toes...'") Anyway, as Ross mentioned above, we had a trip to the bakery where I bought a pie. Pies are a big part of New Zealand culture. Especially, the Potato Topped Mince Pie so in the interests of Foreign Relations, I had to try one and I have to say yes, they do a damn good pie down here. Doesn't do my waistline any good though, dear. Caro also wanted to take me to "Big Fresh" supermarket to go shopping. This is because she had once told me, back in Edinburgh, that Big Fresh features dancing vegetables in the produce department, a mooing cow in the dairy department, free buns, a country and western band and singing clams. My response was, as you'd expect: "You're on drugs," I said. Look, she'd seen all this stuff in her university years. I just assumed that someone had slipped her something, so she was DETERMINED that I go to Big Fresh and witness it for myself. "Ah, no mate," said Ross, "they've got rid of all that now."

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"Oh yeah, right," I snorted. But they all insisted it was TRUE. Ella even sang the Singing Clam song: "We are the Happy Clams Living under the sea, Under the sea Under the seeeeeea" Quite frankly, I just thought they were having a bit of fun at Mr. Thicky Pom's expense. Also, as part of my whole Introduction to New Zealand, we decided to go out and play pool ("It'll be a bit 'Once Were Warriors' for ya'"). Ross and Ella's friends, Ian and Sarah and Ella's boyfriend Carl came along as well. She was extremely nervous about this ("Oooh, I feel sick") but he was a pretty cool guy and more to the point he could play pool very well indeed. This was fortunate because it meant that Ross and Carl actually won some games while I wobbled about, potting the white, Ella's rum having gone right to my head... I'm not sure if I made an arse of myself or not - but the company was great and the evening passed in a very pleasant blur. Caro had described Hamilton to me as, "the arsehole of New Zealand" and I have to admit that I didn't really see what she meant. It's actually one of the funkier places I've been to, with the student influence and all that. However, I got it the next day and the day after that when the rain POURED down and the fog closed in. ("Imagine WINTER in Hamilton," commented Caro.) To escape the rain, Ella, Sarah, Caro and myself went to see "Almost Famous" which was a pretty good film, before spending the rest of the night with Ella and then off to bed, with Lenin watching over us. I was sad to leave, as I liked Ella and Ross and they had made us feel part of the extended family (Whanau), along with Jimmy the Dog who shared the bed with us, during our afternoon nap. Ross, I think, was sorry to see me go too - apparently I was one of the few men he'd ever met who was more girly than he was and I made him feel like "a bloke". (He had asked me if I followed rugby and I told him that watching any sport tires me out and makes me have to go for a lie-down.) I'm not at all insulted by this comment. We English invented foppishness after all, and I see myself in the Sir Percy Blakeney mould, of a chap who APPEARS foppish, but is actually dashing and heroic. (So far, I've avoided the dash and heroism part - but I've perfected the foppery.) Back in Mount Maunganui, Caro and I resolved to watch a lot of telly. One night we watched a Kiwi comedy show on the telly, which was actually pretty cool. The Kiwis, like the Scots, have a talent for taking the piss out of themselves, and lately it's been a bad time for them, as they've been beaten at every sport going. As a guy at a party told me a few weeks back, the only thing left in the trophy case is the bit of carpet. A comedian on the telly said that things were getting pretty bad, when their most prominent sportsperson was Tiger Wood's caddy. ("Of all the nations in the world we're NUMBER ONE at carrying the bag!") The only comfort that Kiwis have had in the whole Kiwi vs. Ozzie arena recently was when the Ozzie PM, John Howard humiliated himself at a ceremonial occasion when a Maori representative went to do the hongi on him (traditional rubbing of noses and foreheads) and John Howard gave him a sloppy kiss by mistake. It was all over the NZ newspapers. Say what you like about Mrs. Thatcher, she never attempted to slip anyone the tongue. Anyway, there was also a Maori comedian who was pretty good, ("A couple of years ago there were 300,000 true Maoris in New Zealand. Of course, now that we've started claiming stuff back, there's about a million of us.") So I thought it was worth quoting a bit of his act, as it's pretty telling about the current state of affairs in NZ:

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"The brain drain is a big problem these days. Lots of people leaving their country to go to some other country where they're not wanted. They USED to call that 'colonisation'. "Mind you, colonisation is what we used to call 'a free lunch. Every time a ship arrived it would be like, 'Who's ordered take-out?'. "Sorry, I shouldn't touch on the subject of race relations, of course. Did you know that's the reason most Kiwis give for leaving? Bad race relations? Mind you, 9 out of 10 of those were actually going to AUSTRALIA - which is a bit out of the frying pan and into the fire if you know what I mean. Seems to me they're not real hot on race relations THERE either. Leaving New Zealand because of bad race relations and going to Australia is kind of like having an argument with the missis and going to live with the mother in law. "Like, did you see John Howard on telly, saying 'There is no lost generation'? That's right, there isn't because they know EXACTLY which white families got the Aborigine children. Jeez, can you imagine that in New Zealand? If they gave a Maori kid to every white family? Still, at least the graffiti would be spelled right. And if you ever lost your car keys, it would be like, 'Rangi? We've got a job for you..." In the rest of the week, various things happened. NONE OF WHICH I CAN NOW REMEMBER. Possibly I was abducted by aliens. But anyway, the FOLLOWING weekend, Caro had arranged for us to go down to Rotorua, which is the Tourist Mecca of New Zealand. Or at least it would be, if Mecca smelt like someone had farted into a bag of dry roasted peanuts. Rotorua, as I've mentioned previously, smells of the sort of flatulence that you do if you're rather unwell. In fact if youre a particularly stinky person you know the sort one of those people who can eat nothing but rose-petals and lavendar oil and have it come out smelling like a dog who died of eating too much cabbage then Rotorua is definitely the place for you. For you would be CAMOFLAGED by the background pong, if you will. No need to blame the dog! For everything smells like flatulent Fido in Farttown! Sorry, I dont mean to put you off. You get used to the smell, honestly. Occasionally I would be walking around, wondering what that SMELL was. Then I would remember; "Oh yes, it's EVERYTHING." In case you were wondering, the stench is due to the surrounding volcanic activity. New Zealand is basically a couple of islands created from igneous rock thrown up from volcanoes on the sea floor, after all. God, where did THAT come from? I thought I slept all through 3rd year Geography. So anyway, RotoVegas (as it is known) is a haven for moteliers who set up loads and loads of little establishments, plumbed in with genuine thermal springwater. We had arranged to meet Karen and Nigel there. More introductions. Karen used to work with Caro, along with Danelle and Natalie (see "New Zealand Land of Mystery and Adventure") at North Health in Auckland. Karen and Caroline soon became friends although for some bizarre reason, Karen always refers to herself as Karen Sparen and Caroline is Caroline Sparoline. It's all very odd. Karen herself looks very sweet. Indeed, she told me when she first started at North Health, everyone thought she was a Christian and kept apologising to her whenever they said "shit". However, a few minutes listening to Karen is enough to correct this assumption. Especially when she's driving. ("Bring it on bitch!" "Pull it out, ya old fart!!") Karen Sparen is married to Nigel, an adrenalin junkie Kiwi bloke who makes Ross look like a bit of a wuss, and let's not even start on me. They have a cat called Horse.

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I was surprised to find that Karen and Nigel are the first to suffer from a bizarre anxiety which I call, "emailophobia". In that they were ALL TOO aware that how they behaved would be reported in an upcoming email which would then be sent around the world. This became apparent to me, when Karen held my bag while I struggled into my horrid green anorak: KAREN: NIGEL: KAREN: NIGEL: KAREN: Did you notice that I'm holding your bag? I hope this is going in the email. "Sparen" - short for "spastic". You're asking for a good spanking. You big tease! You watch it, or I'll be getting my PVC suit out.

At this point, I mentioned that this was EXACTLY the sort of material I was looking for, and they went all quiet. You may wonder why I was struggling into my horrid green anorak. Well, all right, but I'm getting ahead of myself here. It POURED with rain the day we arrived in Rotorua. It made Hamilton look positively Meditteranean in climate. Karen Sparen and Caroline Sparoline decided to avoid the weather by going into EVERY BLOODY JADE SHOP IN ROTORUA. I mean, yes, it's beautifully carved and very pretty, but Jesus, Mary and Joseph you can't BUY it because it costs about a zillion dollars and EVERY SHOP HAS THE SAME PIECES. I know this for a fact because Caro and Karen checked EVERY SINGLE BIT. Mind you, in one of these shops, I found a very amusing and witty "Pooing Sheep" key-ring, and also a genuine New Zealand All Blacks Tea-Towel with the English translation of the Haka on it, so the time wasn't completely wasted. This is what it said, if you want to know what the Haka is in English (although it sounds much cooler in Maori). Tis death! Tis death! Tis life! Tis life! Tis death! Tis death! Tis life! Tis life! This is the man The powerful man Who caught the sun and made it shine The sun rises and sets Rises and sets The sun shines! Afterwards we went to a pub called "The Pig and Whistle" (a police memoribilia bar) where I had "Swine Lager" and dinner, and then we went back to the motel, to our respective spa pools. Spa pools are great. You can fill 'em up with water and have a good old sit in them. It's all terribly decadent. Me and Caro were just like Robbie and Kylie in the "Kids" video, only not attractive or rich. But apart from that, we were EXACTLY like them. Being in a spa bath is like being a potato on the boil. Or a sock in the rinse cycle. There were only two settings on the spa bath - "off" and "white water canyon". The jets of water were so intense that it started my whole body wobbling and flopping. Quite an alarming amount of flopping in fact. I resolved to go on a diet when we got back to the Mount. The water also slaps your willy about, bouncing it off both your thighs like the clapper in a bell (the dong?) It is quite a pleasant sensation actually, although me nads felt a bit bruised. Me and Caro sat in our spa pool all night, quite happily bubbling away (that's the other thing about spa pools in Rotorua - you can fart with complete impunity). You know what? Thats my last fart joke in this section. Honest.

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The next day, Karen and Nigel took us around the Whakarewarewa hot springs and mud pools and geysers park. Again, it was totally raining and horrid and we wore our horrid anoraks while Karen Sparen held our bags. The rain actually made the whole thing a lot more atmospheric, as steam rose from every direction, making the landscape look like an alien landscape off "Blake's Seven" and I still have Servelan fantasies so I know what I am talking about here. The drizzle was also quite cooling, which was fortunate, as the humidity was incredible: KAREN: It's too hot. Phew! Stick a fork in me, I'm done. NIGEL: You're mental. KAREN: Well at least I'm not a liar. You told me you were rich before we got married. NIGEL: I was - from all those bribes your father paid me. Apparently the local Maori tribe used to use the area to hide in as they knew the safe paths and the Poms didn't. Many was the unfortunate soldier who dashed in after a Maori only to lose his footing and end up as a Pot Roast. The Maoris still use some of the hot springs to cook in, lowering little baskets into the hot water. We dont ask what they cook. You cant be too careful if you taste good with ketchup is my motto. There was a marae at Whakarewarewa, where we were ushered into the wharenui (meeting house) for a traditional display of tourists hopping about on one leg, trying to take their shoes off before entering. Once inside, we were greeted by a Maori woman who taught us how to say "Kia Ora" which as we all know, means "Orange Cordial". Really, I don't know why we have a Kia Ora orange drink in the UK - it actually means "Be Well" and is kind of the Maori equivalent of "Ciao". So we got given a powhiri (speech and song of welcome) and some traditional dancing, during which Caro told me to pay particular attention to their eyes, but I didn't really need to be told. It is amazing how the eyes and eyebrows play a huge part in their dances. When these guys look at someone they REALLY LOOK. It was very intimidating. I'm surprised the front row didn't run away. And that was only the welcome dance. I would really hate to see the "Fuck Off" dance. Actually we were told that the whole protruding tongue/staring eyes thing is to intimidate enemies and discourage actual fighting, although if it does come to it, of course, all that stomping about is an excellent way of psyching yourself up, as anyone who has ever got down to Abba will know. There was also a bit of a display with their traditional weapon (the taiaha), which looked truly bloody scary (sort of a cross between a shovel, a quarterstaff and a stabbing spear). It WAS beautifully carved but I doubt that this was any sort of consolation to the unlucky Pom soldier whose last thoughts would have been, "Lovely bit of craftsmanship on that thingy that's scooping my brains out." To balance out all this warlike malarky they also sang a song (waiata) about a local legend. Maori singing sounds to me like gospel, lots of overlapping harmonies and such, and blokes with deep voices in the background while the women sing with a spine-tingling cry of longing and despair. (No wonder Crowded House used it on their albums.) The whole thing finished with a poi dance - pois are decorative balls on pieces of twine that the women twirl about to resemble birds in flight. It was all very impressive - I can see why the white Kiwis have embraced Maori culture as their own. Its certainly an improvement on Morris dancing. Afterwards, I was taken to the centrepiece of Rotorua's tourist extravaganza - The Agrodome. Caro had spent many hours entertaining me, and others in the pubs of Edinburgh, about The Agrodome and the wonders contained therein. To put it simply, this is a shrine to sheep. Those of us in the UK have great difficulty in understanding the popularity of a sheep-centred theme park, but let me tell you - we're missing out. The main part of the Agrodome consists of a huge barn-like building with a pyramid dais at one end, labelled with all the different breeds of sheep. The sheep themselves then make their big entrance, one at a time. Kind of like a woolly version of "This Is Your Life". The sheep mostly take their places on the stage, apart from one of two naughty sheep who figured out that if THEY stood where the Polled Dorset and the

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Marino and the Romney were supposed to stand FIRST - then they could eat all their food. A cunning thing, the sheep. Once they were all assembled, a trained sheep operative brought a woolly little thing out to be sheared. It tried to escape, but was dragged back, upside down with its little legs in the air while the shearer got to work. Two minutes later there was a poor little nude sheep, all pink at the front of the stage, looking a bit embarrassed. All this is accompanied by a very enthusiastic and surprisingly entertaining commentary on sheep related subjects. The sheep themselves have heard it all before and settle down to sleep on the stage, like little old men on a park bench - but look out!! - HERE COME THE SHEEPDOGS!! They run over the backs of the sheep, ending up standing in a pyramid fashion on the top sheep. It's very impressive. I got a picture of Caro standing between two horned rams with sheepdogs on their backs. Now there's a keeper. Caro was determined to get me involved in the show, so when the time came for volunteers, she waved her hands about until the man on the stage picked me out. I think he was just worried that if he didnt Caro would poke one of my eyes out with her frantic flapping. It turned out I had volunteered to milk a cow. Now I don't know about you, but I was quite happy not really knowing where milk came from and certainly I had no desire to get to second base with Ermintrude in order to find out. But she really was quite a pretty cow, with big brown eyes and long eyelashes. I'm sure she was wearing mascara, so she was asking for it really. So anyway, the Kiwi presenter introduced me to the crowd, showed me the basic "moves" which involve circling your finger and thumb around the top of the (gulp) "teat" and moving your hand down in a smooth movement. I had a tentative feel. It was a bit sticky. I expect the cow was a bit excited or something. "Go for the back one," the Kiwi presenter suggested, "it's chocolate." So anyway, I gave Bessie a bit of a fondle and blow me down but soon I had enough milk to make a cup of tea! It was all very thrilling, and Bessie and I are now engaged. So anyway, I now have a picture of myself, manically milking a cow, plus a "Certificate of Udderance" which proves my cow-competence should any milking emergency ever arise: MAN IN CROWD: Look out! She's gonna blow!! ME: Let me through - I'm a milker! COW: Thank god you're here! ME: Dont worry about a thing maam! And get me a bucket and a stool stat! After this exciting adventure, we looked around the gift-shop. OH GOD NOT MORE JADE PLEASE I CAN'T STAND IT. And then made our way back to our respective spa-pools. I really miss my spa-pool. I may have to go and sit in a bucket with a length of rubber pipe later. For dinner, Caro and I decided to buy some groceries and scoff them in our hotel room so off we went to the supermarket, I grabbed my basket, entered and JESUS CHRIST ALMIGHTY There, in the rafters was a giant MUSHROOM - singing to me, and swaying back and forth (he was accompanied by a sprout, a tomato and an onion who looked a bit upset - being an onion and all.) As we ventured further in, I got a free bun, saw a giant chicken on a swing, an animatronic country and western band, and a cow that sticks its head out of a hole and moos when you press a button. At the checkout, there's a monkey on a swing. YES! It was "Big Fresh" and IT'S ALL TRUE.

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I AM NOT JOKING. This supermarket is INCREDIBLE. Why the Kiwis lead the world in giant singing vegetable technology I don't know. But we should definitely get in on this! It could be a sensation! I'm sure that there will be complaints from the anti-GM crowd, but quite frankly, I don't care. Back at the motel, it was raining harder than ever, but we didn't mind because we had a lovely hot spa pool and we could just sit in it and listen to the rain pouring down and sit and drink Ross's Supersecret Milo. The next day, we were due to leave Rotorua, and so the weather turned lovely. However, we had a few hours to kill so the four of us went up to Mount Ngongataha (the proper pronunciation here is Mount Um Thingy) for a ride in the gondolas and the luge. The luge was GREAT, basically you sit in these little carts with a stick to control the speed and whizz downhill. There were two tracks; "scenic" or "advanced" so as a beginner I went on the scenic, which was great fun. Full of confidence, I then went on the advanced which was a bit more twisty and turny and then you turn a corner and your bowels turn to jelly because oh my GOD there's this sudden DIP, like the sort of dip Steve McQueen roared down in "Bullit" or maybe not because actually this isn't so much a dip as a sudden bloody Himalayan CRAVASSE that you go shooting down so fast that you're actually AIRBORNE before you come crashing back down on your arse then shooting up an almost vertical hill then round a hairpin bend then another then another... My advice: Stick with the scenic route in Rotorua, if you are attached to your tailbone. Nigel loved it. He went streaking by me like a Nigel-shaped blur as I yanked back on my stick, trying to slow the bloody thing down as I didn't want to tip over and peel my face off skidding along at a million miles an hour. (My looks are all I have.) I'm such a Pom sometimes. I also invoked my right to Pomminess when Nigel decided to go on the SupaSwing, which resembled vertical drop, followed by a swing over the side of the Mount. I had watched some other people go shooting over my head on this contraption, and they sounded like this:

ohmyjesusgo

dnoi'm

goingtobesickohplea

segodnooooooooo!!!!!!!!

I decided to offer moral support to Nigel from the ground, along with Caro and Karen (although I told Nigel that in my later account of this event, I would be right there alongside him, impressing him with my quiet courage while he whimpered like a little girl). And that was the end of our Rotorua weekend. Karen Sparen and Nigel left us and we caught the bus back to Mount Maunganui which we found to be in the midst of a bee-faeces crisis. Yes, it appears that bees have been crapping with abandon all over the place, causing a major health threat. Local officials are recommending that members of the public go about with tiny little pooper-scoopers and miniature bog rolls should they see any incontinent bees about. Well, all right, I made the last bit up - but honestly, The BeePoo Crisis really is a local headline. I miss murder and drugs. Now the perceptive amongst you will have noted that New Zealand had been somewhat damp during my time in Rotorua. I think I hinted at it back there. This lead to about 98% humidity, which sounds unbearable but isnt so bad, as long as you spend the day spreadeagled naked on your bed with a fan aimed at your body and a punnet of ice-cream on your goolies (or your special secret girls place if you are a girl). It was even hotter in the Bay of Islands and Lisa Mack called to tell us that the boobs had come out again, and back at the Mount Ronnie made a startling admission:

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RONNIE: CARO: RONNIE: JANETTE: RONNIE: CARO: RONNIE:

I'm not wearing any drawers. It's way too hot. That is SO much more information than I needed, Dad. I never wear any around the house. All right Ronnie, we don't need to hear any more. I wear them to work though. Muuuuum! Make him stop! Well, sometimes I do.

8/3/2001: Caro Mount Maunganui Hiya Darl Well, I'm still DIY-ing and loving it, although the job I set out to do has grown into an enormous project and I'm only halfway through it and we are set to leave in three weeks. I'm not quite panicking. Yet. Feona's room is finished now, thank god. It now has lilac walls, cream skirting boards and windowsills, and dark purple floors. It looks fab. I've got large flax mats to lay on the floor, so the purple doesn't look quite so frightening. Dad is looking a tad apprehensive (not surprising as he is the original brown, beige and white decorator-man) My room is going to have sky blue walls and purple floors (Mum consulted a Feng Shui lady). That should put Ronnie into orbit. Ha ha ha. Originally we were going to do it a lemon shade, but we couldn't decide on a floor colour that would look good with the curtains in the room ('cos they were fairly new and Mum didn't want to have to buy more new ones) and lemon walls. I have been quite single-minded about it, probably cos we haven't got long to go here, but I haven't phoned anyone, or visited anyone, apart from Hamilton last weekend. We've mainly just been being around home, playing with the cats and stopping them from becoming purple beasts, while they try and help me work. Bless. It's been quite therapeutic, getting all sweaty (weight loss?), aching muscles and putting big splashes of colour everywhere. I even have a horrible painting outfit -all very professional. It's OK, I know what you're thinking, I'm not nesting, I just love doing this sort of thing and Mum just isn't able to, so I'm really only following her directions. Maybe thats why Dad is freaking. LisaMac is definitely coming down on the 17th, as is Feona, so it should be a bit of a larf. It will be a good break from the stripping and painting that's been going on. That night, we have Michelle's 30th party. It's actually Feona's and Michelle's birthdays on the 22nd, and I am wracking my brains about presents. I thought about CDs, but Michelle seems to have every new CD that is released. As does Feona. Damn. Feona has ben hinting about how Symon and I can get her something amazing for her birthday, since we are in the country and we don't have to post it, incurring huge postal fees. I had to remind that I am yet to receive a birthday present from her. Sisters. And so, what did you think about the old Brazilian Wax thing? Imagine having to get a few bumhairs waxed as well, crouched on all fours on a beautician's bed, with your arse in the air and arching your back for a better perspective. Who knew G-string action could be so humiliating? Went to the pub last night with Michelle, had a few kahluas and generally had a good night, until, the bouncers outside got into a bit of a scruffle, and as Michelle's friend, Tash, who works in the pub knew the history behind the scruffle, and the police were called, we had to make a hasty exit, as Tash was our ride back to the Mount. Michelle was very pissed, Symon was a tad wobbly and I was up for getting a cab. But Tash is a bit of a scary lady. I think Tauranga is where all scary ladies go to live after they hit 30.

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Last weekend, we were at "Summer Jam" music festival. Lise, you would have been proud of me. I now know all the bands names and which songs they sing. Although, I didn't "mosh" in the "moshpit" with the other fanatic 17 year olds. That would have been a bit over the top. You should see what these kids were wearing. I felt so old. It was a paedophiles dream of heaven. Average age of the audience ranged from 1218, with a few of us oldies mixed in for a bit of maturity (or stupidity?). Anyway, it was a fab day out, got a touch of sunburn, had a couple of gallons of water (it was so hot) and avoided the portaloos. Yay! Still taking my fat pills and have not noticed huge amounts of weight dropping off, although I have tons of energy, and I'm not eating much. Maybe the body is in crisis at me starving it, that it is clutching at the fat that is still here. Not sure if I'm going to continue all this when I leave NZ, but my Doctor said he would be quite happy to keep sending it to me wherever I am. I wonder if they use sniffer dogs with international post? I'd hate to get arrested for receiving fat pills...I can see the cover of the National Enquirer now. Better go, I am rambling on and on like I have important things to tell you, and really, its all just cruising along, with no real excitement. We'll give you a call next week or something, what sort of time would be good for you? Say Wednesday night? Lisa Brown 8/3/2001 London hey matey, great to hear from you well, first thngs first. i have been sick. really sick. have been in bed for four days since sunday with some horrid flu type mutation. just seriously couldnt move out of bed, only had one shower in four days. feral i know but that should give you a good idea of how dire the situation was. i am up today and feeling a lot better. still the old snotty nose complete with crusty cornflake fixtures on the end courtesy of endless blowing and the old faithfull lurking throat. my giddy. was actually meant to be starting a new job on wed but had to ph the agency and postpone this, my first day will be tomorrow instead. ill be working at JP Morgan, another big american investment bank, hopefully with less nazi inclinations than salamons though. ill be working in management reporting, doing what im not exactly too sure but all i know is that ill never have to prepare another p&l. yee ha. went for the interview last friday, it lastest for an hour and a half, i was interviewed by three bods and was so bloody full on that i came out confused about the job itself, who i would be working for etc. however somewhere in the midst of it all i thoguht that it sounded really interesting (although im bound to be moaning my arse off about it in oh, say a month) so decided that my day had come and yes, i should start work. so there you go. am fully looking forward to being the new person and wearing a suit again NOT! have got and noted the hawai and san fran dates. will have to sit tight at work for a bit and also try and get my visa sorted but at the mo im on track for an aloha rendeavous. now that i'll be staring work ill be in need of a wee holiday on the horizon as a reason to live through the working day. also great to hear that youll be hanging in europe for a bit, presumably towards the end of this year? as this widens the opportunity even more for hol's and adventures. and no, i cant really say that ill be arrivng in hawaii sporting a brazilian number. really dont fancy flashing my flange about the place in some beauty threapists. jesus, i mean have you ever had your bkini line waxed. mother of jesus, even a moderate little number hurts like nothing youve quite experienced before. imaging if you did a fart while straddled on all fours on the table. grim. ive really been keeping things a bit low key at the mo. between suffering from colds ive just bee surfacing to go to the pub and watch the odd rugby game etc and drinking too much. tim and pip got back last week so thats been great. have been hanging out with them loads and catching up on three months worth of goss. tim is in love - again. he met this english girl jess in thailand and ita all on. unfortunately after having met her all i can say is that shes so far up her own arse it must be painfull. she just cant stop talking about herself, how great she is, how talented she is blah blah blah.... my god, what is tim up to. pip thinks exactly the same as me.

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as for all your home hadiwork, im impressed. im into thr colur schemes as well although i can picture poor ronny having a shit fit. perhaps this could be the begining of a new career? sharman interiors? of course youd be able to employ minions to actually do the hard work. and surely all this exercise, the pills, and little food is having the desired effect? personally i think that its just all part of some big plot. i have been sick more than i have been healthy in the past three weeks and ive been eating arse all but do any of my clothes feel looser. you got it, fucking no. well i reckon thats it. i think im meant to be playing badminton next wed. im goign to start playinh once a week with tracey and two of her firends. i might even try and call you mon night my time o that then i can have a good bitch about my whole two days back in office life! anyway will speak to you next week at some stage. big hugs and kisses to all the gang love lis xxxooo

Part 4: New Zealand - Land of Music and Toilet Bowls


The big news story of summer 2001 in New Zealand was a tale of a the rugby player who was well, he got ah - how do I put this? Well look, maybe you'd just better read the article for yourself...

Tigers To Appeal Hopoate's Ban


IRN The Wests Tigers rugby league club will be appealing the bans handed down by the NRL judiciary to three of their players. John Hopoate has been suspended for 12 matches after being found guilty of poking his fingers up the anusus of three North Queensland opponents. That followed the six month suspension handed down to his teammates Craig Field and Kevin McGuinness for using stimulants. Wests Tigers chairman John Chalk says the club is very disappointed with the verdict. He says they will be pursuing their legal right of appeal.

Now, I'm sure your first reaction to this article is exactly the same as mine: hysterical laughter. But there's a serious side to all this namely, what exactly IS the plural of "anus"? I don't think "anusus" sounds right. Actually, I think "Anusus" is the capital of one of the former Soviet Republics. But that's by the by. The entire issue was discussed on "Holmes". Now I should explain that Paul Holmes is basically the Kiwi version of Jeremy Paxman, although he kind of lost a great deal of his news reporter credibility when he recorded a covers album including - really - a cover of "The Real Slim Shady". ("I'm the real Holmes/Yes I'm the real Holmes/The Real Holmes/Not just imitating/So won't the real Paul Holmes please stand up, please stand up, please stand up".) Paul Holmes hosted a debate the whole John Hopoate issue with another rugby player and an official. All three of whom were trying DESPERATELY not to laugh: HOLMES: PLAYER: OFFICIAL: Do you think the suspension is enough punishment? Nah mate, I'm ashamed to wear the same colours as 'im. Get 'im out of there, I reckon. That's right. Paul, there's more to this than what is technically just a foul play. Digital

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HOLMES: PLAYER: HOLMES: PLAYER: HOLMES: OFFICIAL: HOLMES:

penetration is a form of rape - these other players could be psychologically damaged. Well, apparently Hopoate is denying that he pushed his finger into their anus. He's claiming it was just the perineum. Mate, I barely know what an anus is! Where's the perineum? (Trying to stifle giggles). Well - errrrr... if your - ah - anus was - let's say - Tasmania then - well your perineum would be Melbourne. Jesus! I wouldn't want anyone sticking their finger in me Melbourne EITHER, mate! (Is by now PINK, in an effort not to laugh). And let's not forget there's a HYGIENE issue here too, Paul. (Loses it completely and collapses in a fit of giggles).

Already, a whole series of John Hopoate jokes has started to circulate. Including "Things You Should Never Say to John Hopoate". Number one on the list: When seating John at a bar you should NEVER say, "Can I push in your stool?" What a great country New Zealand is. I could enjoy sport here. I should tell you more about Ronnie. He had spent the last 25 years surrounded by 3 women and 2 cats, none of whom paid him the slightest attention except in order to get affection or food or their credit card paid off. I think he appreciated my company, because I actually listened to his stories of Swinging London and Shetland. These stories were great! I would repeat them to Caro who acted as if she had never heard them before. Being a Dad in a houseful of women is a thankless task, I tell you. Ronnie spent one Saturday morning entertaining me with stories about his Shetland childhood. It all sounded quite Angela's Ashes, with deprivation and hard work dictating the pace of life. On the positive side, Ronnie and his gang got to run wild in the years following the war, subjecting teachers to a rather more intense version of the knocking at doors and running away game, in which bottle rockets were aimed at the door. Ronnie told me of a plague of cats and rats in Shetland, which he and the other kids took great interest in killing. The rats, in particular were pretty dangerous, and it was a 2 man job to pick them out with a torch, then take them out with a bullet tip coated in rat poison. Ronnie belonged to the local gang of course and there was a patchwork of gang territories all over the island. The rivalry between the gangs wasn't dangerous, but heated up over Guy Fawkes' Night when competition was intense to build the biggest bonfire. One year, Ronnie and his gang struck gold when a pissed fisherman told them they could have a huge pile of fish boxes. It took the whole gang several hours to get the fish boxes stacked on the patch of waste ground designated for the bonfire, but the gang finally left the site, well satisfied. Unfortunately, when they came back the next day they found it had been burnt down, presumably by a rival gang. This sort of thing happened a lot apparently. Usually a lookout was set to guard the bonfire, but even they had to abandon their post or risk a mothers slipper when it got too late. Sometimes even the guard wasn't enough another of Ronnie's bonfires burnt to cinders when a fire-arrow came whistling through the air toward it. It was a fabulous, one-in-a-million shot that scored a direct hit, and turned that bonfire into ashes in the middle of the day. Ronnie claims he knows exactly who the shooter was, although he "denies that he shot that arrow to this day." The fish-box fire caused a bit of a scandal as the local fishermen actually DID want those boxes thank you very much, and Ronnie's gang could only point to the charred remains when challenged on their whereabouts. Ronnie's childhood sounded great. He didn't even have to do that much homework, as he was often set to baiting fishing lines at night, and the teachers accepted this as a good reason why you didn't have time to do your studies. Ronnie then related the story of The First Woodbine, when the gang elected the tallest kid to buy a packet of fags for them, and they all had a go. "Every one of us puked, of course," added Ronnie. Then there was The First Condom. Condoms were very exciting things, although most of the kids didn't

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really know what they were for, "They hadn't a clue. Or a hope." They just knew that they were something to do with rude things. The local barber had condoms in his shop, and as a result the local kids all had very short hair from their educational visits there. The first kid to get a condom proudly brought it into school and promptly filled it with water. "By now it was about 5 feet long," said Ronnie. And all the lads looked at the HUGE condom, then down at themselves. Suddenly they all felt very inadequate, realising that they could never hope to fill something that swelled to that size. "It destroyed people's lives, that condom," said Ronnie. Now then. Some of you may think that Australasia's contribution to the music scene starts and ends with The Seekers. But you would be wrong. For one thing you are criminally overlooking the contribution of Mr. Rolf Harris, the man responsible for popularising the Stylophone and the inventor of the wobble-board, but believe me, there's actually a PLETHORA of musical talent down here. So when Ross and Ella invited us to stay with them for a weekend in order that we could go to Summer Jam 2001 a Kiwi music festival organised by the coolest Kiwi radio station, The Edge, we agreed. I thought it would be good to go and check out some Kiwi music, especially as a band called Zed would be playing. They were about to make it big in New Zealand. In fact the Kiwis were already complaining that if Zed were to become any bigger, Australia would start claiming them as their own. This is a major bone of contention down here as Australia has already laid claim to Crowded House and Russell Crowe (although they have offered Jason Donovan in exchange). So off we went again on the Tauranga-Hamilton Express (and once again I got the Very Interesting Narrative on Dairy Farming in the Bay of Plenty). Ross met us in at the train station and told us that we could have a cup of tea when we got home, but no sooner, "So you'll just have to fucking suffer for another five minutes, ok?" Ok. Ross and Ella were as welcoming and as fun to be with as ever. Once again, we kicked Ross out of his bed. And once again, Ross and Ella engaged in some good natured banter: ELLA: This guy on the phone told me I was bossy. ROSS: You? I can't believe it! ELLA: You be quiet now. ROSS: Jeez. ELLA: I think you need to make me a cup of tea, Ross. There was also a quite hilarious performance when Ella was attempting to read us the local film times from the paper. Halfway through, Ross decided that he would take over. ELLA: No! I'm in charge of the thing. I'M - IN - CHARGE - OF - THE - THING!!! (A scuffle ensues. Ella is left with the front and back page, Ross with the rest.) ROSS: Well well well. Looks like I'VE got most of the newspaper now. ELLA: Yes, but I'VE got the interesting bit. Hey! Here's a review of "Billy Elliot". ROSS: My goodness! A BMX tournament is being held today! Now THAT'S interesting! ELLA: Wow! "Billy Elliot" is on at 6:30! How FASCINATING! ROSS: Local charity raises $5000! Isn't that AMAZING! ELLA: Teenagers cause trouble locally! Hmmmm... VERY interesting! ROSS: Look! I've got the exact SAME picture in my bit that Ella has, only with a FASCINATING article too! ELLA: Yes, but I've got the biggest picture of ALL in MY bit.

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Unless you've ever had a sibling, you probably won't understand all that. Ross and Ella took great care of us as usual, taking us out to dinner and such. It was great fun. Especially driving with Ross who is great fun to listen to. ROSS: (Gets cut off by another driver). YEAH! You just move your fucking car BITCH! Or I'll fuck you up BAD, like I'll fuck your fucking CAR! (The offending car pulls in). ROSS: (Quietly). Hope he didn't hear me. Ross also explained Frog's Eyes to Caro. I don't know why. I just came back into the room from the toilet only to hear Ross explaining how if you lift your testicles over the top of your boxers (don't try this if you are a girl) while leaving your willy down, then you can do a reasonable impression of a frog. I have no idea why Ross's testicles came up in the conversation, but there you are. It also started a reasonable discussion about underwear in general and I found that both Ross and myself agreed that we miss Y-fronts. It's a shame they became such a maligned piece of clothing I was brought up in the era of Y-fronts and I have to say, they were VERY HANDY. So long as you wore them the right way round. I know that has nothing to do with New Zealand but if YOU have strong feelings about Y-fronts or underwear of any kind, then feel free to keep your opinions to yourself. I found out something about myself during this weekend. I went off to the toilet, and Caro announced that she could tell I was going for a crap because I "was doing the poo walk." This FASCINATED Ella. "Do it for me!" she insisted. "I want to see the Poo Walk!" Of course I denied I even HAD a poo walk, but this intrigued her even MORE. For the next two days I could feel Ella's eyes on me anytime I went anywhere NEAR the toilet. Caro has a lot to answer for. We spent a very pleasant couple of days talking such nonsense, and on the Sunday went to "Summer Jam with Ross, Ella and her friend Sarah. It was held on the cricket pitch, with fast-food places all over the place. (A brief word about Kiwi hotdogs. NEVER ask for a hotdog in New Zealand! Always ask for an "American" hotdog. The reason being that Kiwis think that hotdogs are deep-fried sausages on sticks dipped in tomato sauce. These are slightly less appetising than a post-nasal drip. ) Immediately Caro and I felt very old as we appeared to be the only people there (besides Ella, Ross and Sarah) who were over the age of 12. Really there were all these little things running about the place in midriff tops. Ross said he felt like a big perv. I refused to comment. The actual bands were pretty good they started with Garageland who were a basic pub-rock type thing, Breathe who were so memorable all I can recall about them is that they performed their hit single "Don't Stop the Revolution", Killing Heidi - an Aussie band that Caro really liked. She said they sounded like No Doubt which is unusually perceptive for someone Lisa Brown once called a "musical retard". Then there were current golden boys Zed, who were pretty cool. However, Zed went down in my estimation because they performed the non-naughty-word version of "Creep" - ("You're so VERY special"). We later found out that it was because they are a Christian Band. Fortunately they didn't do any Cliff covers. They were followed by Stellar who were even better, even if they did sound exactly like Garbage (the band). It was all very cool with the exception of the dopey dj's who introduced all the acts. There was one memorable moment when he organised an arse kissing moment on stage. ("For one hundred bucks you have to kiss my arse for twenty seconds...") Kiwis are so easily entertained. As an example, I give you the "Blokes and Their Sheds" phenomena. This is a BOOK, a CALENDAR and a VIDEO -and god help me this is true - all devoted to Blokes and Their Sheds -who they are, where they are, who inspired them to put things in their sheds and so forth. I think this is a purely Kiwi phenomenon - at least I hope so. Mind you, I can't really claim to be high-brow. I had a great evening with Ross, Caro and Ella when we all sat and watched "Soldier" with Kurt Russell while I stuffed Toffee-Pops in me gob. Ross is definitely a

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potential member of the NZ branch of the "Lad's Night In" film club. I explained the basic requirements for joining were a genuine love and appreciation of REALLY BLOODY AWFUL films and he seemed interested. He promised to rent "Congo" at the earliest opportunity. I was sorry to leave Hamilton - it was always a lot of fun visiting there. Also the only place where I saw a branch of what I assume was a savings company called "Bugger the Mortgage." On arrival back at Mount Maunganui, Caro contracted Decorating Fever. I think Caroline really would like a place of her own to splash paint all over and programs like "Changing Rooms" DON'T help. Every time Caroline sees that horrid blonde tart ruining someone's living room by turning it into something themed on a chocolate box, she positively VIBRATES with home-decorating energy, saying that she could do much better than that. So when she got the chance to freshen up two of the bedrooms in her parents house, she was off, scratching at the door like an incontinent dog with a leash in its mouth. Caro, Janette and I went to Resene, where a horrid little gnome of a man gave them lots of advice, paint and accoutrements while taking lots of money. I foresaw trouble for me in all of this, but Caroline reassured me that I need do nothing while she sealed, sanded and painted. I was mollified. Doing nothing is what I do best. However, I did have to stir myself for the Big Family Trip down to Feilding. This is not a tourist destination, although it does fashion itself as New Zealand's prettiest town. I would dispute this, it's actually nothing like as pretty as the Mount, but as a Pom, my opinion counts for nothing. Anyway, Caro's Nan lives in a rest home in Feilding very near to her Auntie Joan and Uncle Geoff. So we were all going for a visit, taking in Taupo along the way. This was a bit of flashback for Caro, travelling in the back with me while her parents drove to some tourist destination or other. Caro used to suffer from car sickness, and her dad would sympathetically put on a Beach Boys tape to cover the sounds of her moaning. No really, it was actually to take her mind off being ill. Ronnie would make the kids sing along, the result of which is that "Little Old Lady from Pasedena" reminds Caro TO THIS DAY of going up to Cook's Beach and puking in the same spot. So off we went to Taupo. We made a couple of stops along the way, one at the Waiouru military museum, which was very interesting, especially the display telling the stories of various Kiwis who have won the Victoria Cross. It was also surprising to see how much involvement the Kiwis have had in the wars of the British Empire and more recently of the ANZUS partners. Considering the size of the population, they seem to take an inordinately high responsibility for the region. Or they used to anyway. Recent defence cuts are reducing the role of the military to that of a glorified coastguard. I'm not saying this is necessarily a bad thing, it's just the way things are now. We also made a stop at Huka Falls, one of the biggest attractions in the Taupo region, due to the fact that they Very Famous cricket umpire, Peter Plumley-Walker was dumped in it with a broomstick stuck up his arse by a dominatrix prostitute, Renee Chignell and her lover. Oh, it's also spectacular and beautifully blue. But bugger THAT. He died with a broomstick up his ARSE here! I'm surprised they don't rename it, Broomstick-Up-The-Arse Falls. Another big crowd-puller in Taupo is The Geothermal Prawn Park. Honest. Yes, for all crustacean fans - The Taupo Prawn Park is a MUST. There, you can see "The Largest Prawns in Captivity" in the biggest Geothermal Prawn Farm in the World! We didn't go, I thought it might just a bit too exciting for Caroline. Then there was the "Cookie Air" aeroplane. A restaurant and good spot to have your photo taken. That was great. I want to fly Cookie Air to Australia. And lets not forget the Big Carrot.

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We also stopped off at Cherry Island, a little nature reserve where you can feed deer, sheep and chickens. Well, I say you CAN. Actually you don't have much choice. The bloody things follow you around, pecking and pulling at your trousers until you give up any food you have on your person and run away. I'm not joking. Have you ever been mugged by a duck? It's embarrassing. Eventually we made it into Taupo, where Ronnie and Janette treated us to dinner, then off back to the motel where we had another spa bath! YAY! You know how I feel about spa baths, so I spent a good deal of that evening flopping about in the tub and resisting the urge to pee in the water. The next day we went to Feilding for a bit of a visit with Caro's nan. She has a Shetland accent you could saw a log with. Most of what was said went flying over my head in a flurry of flattened vowels. Caro's Uncle Geoff sympathised with me when we met. He had been in the same situation when he first got involved with Joan, but he assured me that Shetland wasn't a completely different language even if it sounded like one. Joan and Geoff took us all back to their house where we had the Traditional Barbie and I met Magee the dog who found my groin amazingly interesting. If only women were more like Magee. We had a pleasant evening and agreed to meet up again the next day for brunch in Taihape - The Gumboot Capital of New Zealand where they hold the Gumboot and Cow Pat Throwing Contest every year. Joan and Geoff showed us the way to Taihape, by leading us on their Harley. They are heavily into their bikes and have the leathers and everything. Joan's leather pants cost so much it would be financially disastrous for her to gain or lose weight, she told Caro. After brunch we all said goodbye, Caro got a picture of Joan and Geoff in the leathers for her album and we set off again, stopping to go up the Bruce Road to Mount Ruapehu which is a big ski resort in winter, but looked like a lunar landscape in the summer. Still, the view from up there was amazing, and Lord of the Rings fans will be interested to know that Elijah Wood and Sean Astin spent a great deal of time transporting the ring of power over it. Then it was on to Rotorua where Ronnie and Janette wanted to stop in at the house of Anne and John, old neighbours of theirs. They have a little poodle called Pepe, who presented me with a tennis ball. I made the mistake of throwing it thereby nominating myself as Tennis Ball Guy for the rest of the visit. It was hard carrying on a conversation with a little dog skidding along the floor towards me, drool-ball in his mouth, but I tried. John is a Cockney-Kiwi who raised his family in NZ, but practically disowned his son Mark after he returned from a visit to the UK as a Chelsea supporter. "You send 'em off Tottenham and they BLOODY WELL come back Chelsea," he complained. "I suppose YOU'RE bloody Manchester United," he growled, indicating me. I explained that I wasn't and that I didn't really like football. "BLOODY 'ELL!" he exploded at Caro, "Where'd you find 'IM??? Bloody Yorkshireman. No wonder York was always bein' sacked." Mark, apparently used to beat Caro up when they were both little. No sign of that now of course, he's now married to Karen (another Cockney - who he met in his time in the UK). The two of them are now expecting a baby and Caro asked them if they'd considered names. "Mildred," said Karen. "Ruprecht," said Mark. "Jesus," said Karen. "John!" shouted John. Karen also explained that she had found a "Gobshite" in the phone directory. "Waddaya fink of that John?" she taunted. "If it's a boy, we could call him 'Gobshite'." But John's attention was already elsewhere. He

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and Ronnie had got to discussing one of Ronnie's girls, Cheryl - who used to work as a jockey before going to work for Ronnie. Cue lots of filthy laughter from the two of them. "A JOCKEY eh?? Eh?!!?? BWARhar-har-har-har!!!" said John, polishing his glasses. "Aren't you polishing your glasses a bit too vigorously?" asked Anne innocently, precipitating yet more filthy laughter and an admonition to me from Caro that I had better not turn into a dirty old man when I reach her dad's age. To move the subject onto something more savoury, we then talked about the places we had been, Feilding, Waiouru, Huka Falls... "You mean where that guy died with the BROOMSTICK UP HIS ARSE??" "Nahhh... he was dead already." "That's not what I heard! I heard it was the BROOMSTICK UP HIS ARSE that finished him off!!" This talk was broken up by another barbie and some delicious home-made cake that Anne had made. Then it was time to make our way back to the Mount where - A DECORATING DEADLINE WAS RAPIDLY APPROACHING Feona would be returning to the Mount for a final visit, and also to enable us to wish her "happy birthday" at the end of the week and both bedrooms would need to be finished before then. I don't need tell you who had to ride in on his White Charger to save the day. Actually, I didn't so much ride in as strip down to me boxers (steady on there, girls) and help Caroline strip wallpaper, and then paint. An interesting sideline to all this was that in stripping Caroline's bedroom of wallpaper, I came across graffiti she had written on the walls circa 1985. It turns out that the bedroom was some sort of shrine to pop bands. For example, Caro had a Eurythmics wall, where they were described as "wicked", "choice" and "excellent". But that was nothing compared to A-Ha who took up most of the space. She scored the Norwegians in terms of looks with Pal and Mags scoring respectably, while Morten Harket got a WHOPPING 10 and a half out of 10. This makes sense in terms of Caro and Me. I have often thought I look a lot like him. So anyway, by the end of the week, we had just about managed to finish just in time for Feona's arrival. It was good to see her again, as energetic and as lovely as ever. We went out shopping with her the next day and then Lisa Mack came to visit too! Hurray! Lisa Mack, you may recall is Lisa Mackinnon from Keri Keri who lives with Douglas the Hairy Coo (although not in the Biblical Sense). I think Lisa Mac is lovely. This is because she abuses me. I don't know why, but I love that. Caro gives me abuse all that time, and I openly encourage her. Lisa Brown too, now that I come to think about it. It could be due to some deepseated feeling that I deserve abuse because I'm such a dirty boy. But let's not dwell on that. The point is, that Lisa Mack turned up and we spent a lovely afternoon having a good old chat with her. She also possesses one of the most filthy laughs ever, so we had a jolly good time. Caro and Lisa shared stories from their times in Scotland. One story concerned Lisa on a tour up to Skye, where she desperately wanted to go to the Mackinnon Castle to commune with her ancestors. She and a friend walked there, over a narrow causeway, where Lisa had a few drams. What neither of them realised was that the tide had come in and covered the way they had come. (Apparently this happens to everyone; Caro told the story of another guy who had made his way back after a few drinks. He got halfway when he suddenly realised he was waist-deep in water.) So anyway, Lisa and her friend were forced to scramble back over rocks. Apparently it was pretty hairy, but as Lisa was making her way along, on all fours, clutching the rocks, she suddenly heard: "AIEEEEEEEE!" (splash).

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She ran back to find her friend, desperately trying to scramble out of the water, grabbing a rock, and plopping back into the water again. "Help me!" her friend wailed. "Okay - but hang on," said Lisa, leaving her friend floundering. "I'm just going to get my camera." An Evil, Evil Woman. See what I mean? Caro and Lisa had shared the Good/Bad Times in Edinburgh when they flatted together and had no money. Caro told the story of how they had all been out drinking on one occasion, and ran out of cash. Lisa Brown ran back to the flat and returned with a Tesco bag full of coins which they counted out. "There's enough in there for a round. I've counted it all and I'm an accountant," Lisa Brown told the waiter, dumping the bag onto his tray. The drinks were bought, but meanwhile the bar staff had been counting the change and came back with a demand for twenty pence extra, necessitating a frantic scramble through the bottom of handbags. What with all this reminiscing going on, I thought it would be a good time to get out the Home Video that Lisa Brown and Caro had made for their parents while in Edinburgh. It's possibly the funniest thing I've ever seen. Like "Wish You Were Here" but performed by two Kiwis in the rain who are trying desperately not to spend any money. CARO: This is the castle, but we're not going in, because it's five pounds fifty. And then there's Holyrood Palace... LISA: We're not going in here either, but if Caro puts the camera through the iron gates and does the zoomy thing, you can see some people who are. Then there's the commentary. A lot of which is along the lines of, "Here's a really cool building. I'm not sure what it's called - do you know Lisa?" "No, but it's REALLY cool." "Yeah." And then there's the bit where Lisa spots a squirrel, "There! Zoom in!" Unfortunately, Caro was having trouble with the viewfinder, so we get a close-up view of a bush instead. I wish I could have got a copy of it. That evening Lisa, Caro and myself had been invited over to Caro's friend Michelle's 30th birthday party. Lisa Mack and I invested in a large bottle of vodka to take with us, while Caro much more sensibly took kahlua and milk. I should emphasise, at this point, that it was a VERY LARGE bottle of vodka. Oh yes, and I should also emphasise that I seem to have turned into a huge wuss with alcohol, getting drunk ridiculously easily. Can you see where this story is going? I certainly bloody wish you'd warned me. Yes, I got incredibly arseholed. The entire evening is something of a blur to me. I blame Lisa Mack. She was there. After all. You know. Anyway, so several hours later, I was wobbling home behind them who I might add were both completely SOBER. Despite the fact that Lisa had at least as much vodka as I did. Anyway, I was very proud of the fact that I managed to make it upstairs to the toilet before puking my tiny brains out. Not so proud of the fact that I managed to barf on the little horseshoe-shaped bit of carpet that people have around their toilets. I seem to remember thinking that it would be ok, because I could take it and wash it and no-one WOULD EVER BE THE WISER and it would be THE PERFECT CRIME. Caro found it in the waste-paper-basket the next day.

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Caro was actually very good, bringing me a large bottle of water and a bright yellow bucket which was to become my closest friend. Also, Muff the Cat came and spent the night with me. Apparently she showed great concern. Muff and I have became good friend over my 3 months in New Zealand. In fact she would often interrupt my typing this chapter by insisting on banging heads with me, drooling all over my arm, and encouraging me to stick my finger in her ear. (A sweet kitty, but a bit odd.) Anyway - where was I? Oh yes, with my head wedged around the Sharman's U-bend. I took comfort from the fact that I would feel better the next morning. I never get hangovers. Well, not often. The only other hangover that was really bad was when I was out with Sarah Lynch one Saint Patrick's Day. We spent the whole night drinking together and I wasn't too bad, but then we ended up (as always) at Pizza Paradise. Then Sarah said something along the lines of why don't we have some wine with the pizza and I said something along the lines of good idea, why don't we make it a carafe and then I don't remember anything except the red wine sick in my bath the next morning. But that was two years ago. Two years ago TO THE DAY in fact. Because it was St. Patrick's Day again. Uh-oh. The St. Patrick's Day curse had struck. I have to say that the hangover I had the next day was infinitely worse than the Sarah Lynch-inspired one. I could only have felt worse if Lisa Mackinnon was fresh as a daisy. Oh she was. Shit. I spent most of the next day stone cold sober but unable to move more than 10 feet away from my bucket (who I had decided to name Daisy). Worse than this was the sheer embarrassment of the whole thing and the guilt because it meant I didn't get a chance to say a proper goodbye to Feona or Lisa Mack at the next day's brunch. Still, they came up to my Bed of Pain and gave me a hug and laughed at me but it was a sorry farewell. The bizarre thing was how bad I felt physically for days after, making me wonder if I'd given myself alcohol poisoning or somehow damaged my immune system. I'm not kidding. TWO DAYS later I found myself stuffed in Natalie and Gary's bog (old friends of Caro) with a terrible case of explosive botty syndrome. I think what I'm trying to say here is "NEVER AGAIN". And I mean it this time. Do you hear that Sarah Lynch??? It was an ignominious end to my time in New Zealand. All Caro's friends were lining up to take us out and say their goodbyes. We decided to do most of them in one night, having a leaving do at The Crown and Badger ("The Rub-a-Dub London Pub"). I kept my mind from the sadness of our impending departure by immersing myself in arranging the Australian leg of the trip, booking accomodation in Sydney and Byron Bay, and a trip to Kangeroo Island, talking to probably the MOST Australian man ever. I'm not sure he wasn't putting it on for my benefit: AUSTRALIAN MAN: ME: AUSTRALIAN MAN: ME: G'day Cobber! Uh - hi - I'd like to book a trip to Kangaroo Island for April 10th. Kewl mate! Good toime to go. Yew'll see HEAPS of animals having SEX! Oh. Uh - "kewl".

I also finally took myself out for a walk on the beach towards the Mount, because it was a glorious sunny day and I had a great time walking between the shells and driftwood, looking out to sea, standing in the

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waves and letting the cold surf suck the sand out from under my feet, much as time has sucked the days out from under me... Oh god. If I was getting poetic, it must be time to go. When I got back, Janette asked me if I had walked towards the nudey beach, and I explained that it was the only reason I had taken my camera. Much though I had tried to avoid it, I couldnt help feeling sad, knowing that I would miss Janette's naughty sense of fun, and Ronnie's teasing about my Yorkshireness, and Muff's headbanging and Pusscat's talking and Feona's happy, affectionate nature. And all the other people I met too, like Lisa Mack and Odette and Jo and Tristan and Ross and Ella and Karen Sparen and Nigel and Danelle and being woken up in the morning by the sun streaming in, and the sound of an orchestra of cicadas in the trees, all playing maracas. And kumara, and hokey-pokey ice cream, and ToffeePops and I'm always the same. The week before I'm due to go anywhere I can't WAIT to leave. I can't keep my arse still. It's like I suffer from Piles That Respond to Travel or something. But once I've left somewhere I feel desperately homesick. I knew that one week later in Australia and I would be bitterly missing The Land of the Long White Cloud. I'm perverse that way. However, one thing to lift my spirits was the fact that I finally got Caro up the Mount. No, that's not a euphemism for something filthy. What I mean was, that Mount Maunganui dominates Caro's home town and I've been wanting to climb it ever since we arrived. Of course, Caro wasn't so eager. Janette told me she used to have to be carried up when younger and intimated that maybe times haven't changed that much. Eventually I managed to bribe Caro with the promise of a Copenhagen Waffle Cone Ice-Cream. (If you're ever over there, you have to try one). Mind you, it looked like Caro wouldn't make it when, after ascending just 20 steps, she turned to me and announced that she was already bloody knackered. However, we persevered. The scenery was so fabulous, it kind of took your mind off your quivering calves and straining thighs. The path is all a bit overgrown and jungly, with beautiful great ferns and palm trees, their roots coming up to the surface of the dirt track, like veins beneath the skin. Then you come through the plant life to the bottom of a sheer cliff face with the blue sea roaring beneath you and for a while you forget that your face is as red as a baboon's arse and your left leg feels like it's ready to go TWANG. Walking up the mount is like this:

steepsteep

steepsteep

steep

But eventually we made it to the summit. There was Mount Maunganui, Caro's home town and sort of home to me for the past three months. It really is a beautiful little town. On my very last morning in New Zealand I attempted to pack my backpack, not helped by Muff, who wandered into the room, jumped into my t-shirt drawer and promptly fell asleep. I couldn't help but wonder if it was all a ruse to stop me going. Shed been hanging around me for the previous two days, like she knew I was about to leave. So my packing stalled, I wandered out into the garden and stood under Janette's favourite tree. Right there, in front of me was a Fantail, a beautiful little bird that looks a little like a blue tit. It has a yellow breast, black cap, a little bandit mask and a long-feathered tail. If you blow kisses at them, they call back. Well, this is what Caro told me anyway. She could have been making it up to see if I'd make an idiot of myself. But since she wasnt around to laugh at me, I tried it and blow me down if the little thing didn't call

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back! It swooped from branch to branch, coming nearer and nearer. At this point Janette came out to see what I was up to. Oh wow! she exclaimed. Isnt that just NEAT!? It was! Id never seen a Fantail that close. It seemed unsure at first, but then gained confidence, hopping closer and closer, nearer and nearer as I continued to call to it. Then something completely unexpected happened. The bloody thing lifted its tail and SHIT right in my ear. Janette thought this was the funniest thing she had ever seen. I went inside to boil my ear, but Janette stopped me. No, no, you have to show Caroline first! she insisted. So I went to find Caro and be mocked. Thank god I hadn't been calling to a seagull, is all I can say. I took it as a hint. "When Birdlife Turns Bad, It's Time to Leave". Thats what I say. Ronnie Sharman 27/3/01 Mount Maunganui Dear Caro & Symon, Yes - It has been really great having you stay here. What am I gonna do now - without the culinary delights? I will really miss you both - but we'll meet again sometime, somewhere. I might get the blinding urge to see you in 'Times Square' or 'Broadway'. Maybe it will be on the ramparts of 'Edinburgh Castle' or in that bloody 'Chewchter' Bar in Edinburgh, but this time - lets make it at night, and not on a Sunday afternoon. Take care on the rest of your travels. Have lots of fun - and then be left with some great memories of all the people and places. Look after each other for always. Symon - make sure she has some money for her 'Magazines' And Caro - He likes a 'Magnum' - so every now and again eh? So, until the next time, With best wishes always - and an awful lot of Love and respect, Keep in touch, as I will always be interested in your life and travels together. DAD Lisa Mackinnon 30/3/2001, Keri Keri Well ...... what can I say?? Have just read the final episode of Caro & Symon's grand NZ adventure .... saw the photos .. laughed and laughed and yep, stuff it, I'm going to admit to a wee tear or two in the eye at the end at the thought of you guys departing our fair shores for the big nasty Australia. Watch out. Be bloody careful of snakes, spiders and Australians. They ALL bite. So thanks for the memories, the laughs and Symon - well done on admitting to being out drunk by moi at the party - I'm so glad you fessed up to your state and your state the next day (and the next ... and the next) - cause otherwise I would have had to tell everyone the truth ... which you've done! So Haerae Ra - safe travels and I look forward to hearing the next episode of Oz adventures. Be sure to give Odette a big hug for me when you see her. I'm gonna miss you guys ..... thanks for the goodbye call last night Caro - all seems quite surreal that I won't be yakking to you on the phone all the time. Sniff sniff. I'm going to go now before I really do cry!! Have fun, love you guys loads - see ya when I'm looking at ya. Love always, Lisa Mack xxooo

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Part 5: Australia - Land of Loud Poms and Rolf Harris


Leaving New Zealand was difficult. Not physically. Well, actually YES physically. God, my backpack was heavy. Jesus. I would have packed a Hernia Repair Kit, but worried that the extra weight might finish me off. Anyway. Caro and myself ran about doing many ineffectual things and only getting half the things we wanted done on our last day in New Zealand, before it was time to go and Ronnie and Janette packed us into their cars and off to Tauranga Airport. We sat there for a while, feeling a bit sad. Finally it was time to board our plane, and we said our goodbyes and got on board. The plane itself was this tiny 7 seater thing (and that includes the pilot). He sort of wandered around, like any Dad trying to get his kids settled in the back of the car before going off to Blackpool. I half expected him to tune his radio away from the Air Traffic Control station onto Solid Gold FM and then turn around and tell us that if we didn't Keep It Down Back There he was just jolly well turn around and Serve Us Right. Flying in a tiny plane is an interesting experience. And by interesting I mean, "likely to make you throw up". The plane was basically the air equivalent of the Robin Reliant and wobbled its way through the turbulent crowds like Shelly Winters across the deck of The Poseidon. I tried to reassure myself that we were in no real danger as the plane bounced from one cloud to another, and that flying is essentially like sex. Getting up being the only really worrysome part. However, one look at Caroline's face made me realise I wasn't the only one with sweating palms and loosening bowels. On arrival in Auckland we were picked up by Feona's flatmate Michael - a jolly good chap who very generously used up what little spare time he had between study and work to ferry us about in search of one last batch of Toffee-Pops and other essentials. (I can't BELIEVE they don't have Toffee-Pops in Australia! And they call it a civilised country!) Feona arrived home shortly thereafter and took us out and about for one last look at Auckland. It still strikes me as a rather unimpressive city, if extremely pretty around the bay area. Then it was off to Borders, the huge bookstore where I scored a few bargains, and Caro received a goodbye phone call from Ella. Borders is also a Huge Pick-Up Joint by the way. Open all hours, it's apparently the Place To Go for the discerning literature lover to give the eye to members of the opposite sex. I suppose it's a good idea. I mean, in a night-club you really have no idea about the person you're flirting with, especially if you're arseholed (which is the only time I have the bottle to flirt anyway). However, in a bookstore, you'll immediately have some notion of the person you're interested in by the section they are browsing through. Homebodies in the cookery section, intellectuals in poetry, nerds in computing and perverted deviants poring over the Japanese comic-books. I was glad we had a good last night with Feona, although not so glad that she gave up her bed for us. You see, my side had one of Feona's more macabre nick-nacks - a skull - sitting looking at me from my bedside table, giving me all that "As I Am Now, So Shall Ye Be" vibe. Nevertheless, I slept ok through to 6am when I showered and knocked Feona awake, she growled through the wall in such a way to remind me that yes, she and Caro do Share Genes. The flight itself was very nice; especially after the Tauranga-Auckland flight. The only thing I can say against it was that they showed "The Legend of Bagger Vance" which was one of the bigger lots of shite I've seen recently. On arrival in Sydney I was treated with GREAT SUSPICION upon presenting my British passport. "When were you last in England?" the customs guy asked. "BEFORE Christmas," I emphasised in a pre-the-days-of-foot-and-mouth-honest-sort-of-way, and he immediately relaxed, but I wondered what happened to all the Poms who arrived after the outbreak? Do they get dragged round the back, stripped down and hosed off while their clothes are incinerated? Or do

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the Ozzies merely force all Poms to wade through a vat of super-strong sheep dip? Fortunately, I didn't have to find out. Outside the airport, we were very impressed by the organisation of the transport and we were at Eva's Backpackers where we'd booked ourselves. Eva herself was this grey-haired lady who gave us our room key and directed us upstairs. Never having stayed in a hostel before, I couldn't really measure the quality of this one. It seemed ok to me. Then again, at this stage anything with a bed in it seemed ok. I don't know why but I was absolutely knackered. I'd only been awake for about 10 hours. Weird. Anyway, the result was that with the time-difference I was laying flat out and snoring at about 3 in the afternoon. You'd think this would be a whole jet-lag problem wouldn't you? But not for a seasoned traveller like myself. You see, I got around that whole being awake in the middle of the night thing by sleeping solidly for about 20 hours in a row, not stirring until 7am Sunday morning. Poor Caro had to basically sit around most of Saturday, watching me drool into my pillow. The next day I was full of beans, even if slightly disgruntled by the fact that I had to share the shower-room with other men. No-one caught sight of my willy that first morning, but in the back of my mind I knew that it would just be a matter of time. This sort of thing is very disconcerting to someone with a Small One. That's all I'm going to say on the subject. Where was I? Oh yes, we took the underground train to Circular Quay. A word here on the Underground. First of all, they have fabulous roomy DOUBLE-DECKER carriages. Cool huh? Then they go and spoil it by hiding all the helpful signs. I'm not kidding. I'm sure they have a guy they pay to go around stuffing directions, station names, route maps and line diagrams round corners, in little nooks and down bogs so that the hapless traveller has about as much idea of where he is at any time as Amelia Earheart over the Pacific. The result was that me and Caro spent an inordinate amount of time running down stairs, up escalators, through passages, waving our tickets about and cursing to ourselves. Even though there are half the number of lines, I would say the London Tube is a lot easier to negotiate. However, it's kind of worth it when the train slides into Circular Quay station and you look up and - HOLY MODERN LANDMARKS - there's the Opera House and Harbour Bridge just sitting there all cool and sort of saying, "What? You were expecting the Eiffel Tower maybe?" Caro and me walked around to the bridge, towards the area referred to as "The Rocks". It's very cool and cosmopolitan feeling around there. I was surprised to hear very few Aussie accents and the feeling was more like Singapore. If it hadn't been for the cuddly koalas with cork hats that adorned every souvenir stand I could have forgotten where we were. (Also for the tourist CD's including songs such as "Waltzing Matilda", "Tie Me Kangaroo Down" and "Where The Dog Sits on the Tuckerbox"). We had an overpriced sandwich (We're TOURISTS! Rip us off!! Please!!) and then wandered over to the Opera House, which damn me - looks more like it GREW there than was built. It IS pretty amazing. Close up, you can see how the various bits and pieces fit together to create the overall effect, but that emphasises, not diminishes the wonder of the thing. However, I do think it could do with a bit of a scrub. Really. As a Wonder of the Modern World, is it a bit much to ask that they send some little man up there with a weegee and a bucket of Dot? The whole thing kind of has that yellowy tinge, reminiscent of a smelly labrador's molars. Mind you, it was COMPLETELY overshadowed by the Harbour Bridge, which is incredibly impressive, especially when you see those little figures halfway up. Yes, you can climb the Harbour Bridge yourself for just $90. It looked INCREDIBLY thrilling and exciting and strenuous to me and completely out of our budget, thank god. Feona Lindsay told us that we HAD to climb the Harbour Bridge, but I feel I should put her straight on this: People HAVE to: Brush their teeth before bedtime Buckle up on every trip Eventually die

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They do NOT have to climb the Sydney Harbour Bridge. In fact, I can think of no good reason why ANYONE should climb the Sydney Harbour Bridge. So we just took pictures of it instead. Afterwards, Caro had found for us the "Crime and Justice Museum" to go around. Not only was this pretty interesting and cheap, it also involved NOT climbing the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which is always a bonus. After this, we returned to our hostel feeling flat-out and touristy. I slept heartily. Youve turned into a slug, observed Caro. While I was in The Land of Nod, Caro had her Note Book out. This is always a scary thing. Caro getting organised is a like Napoleon preparing for war. She was essentially mapping out each of our days in Sydney with things to do. Monday was assigned to Darling Harbour. To get there, you take the underground ("Which way?" "This way I think." "No, hang on - back here...") to Town Hall then hop on the Monorail. The monorail is a purely tourist thing, of no real value to the Sydneysiders, but it is a lot of fun to ride on. And as I surveyed the modern, culturally diverse, post-Olympic Sydney of 2001, I surmised that the Australians have finally thrown off that gauche, colonial image they have had so long and replaced it with a modern, sophisticated nay, stylish new image. Then the monorail pulled out and as a familiar voice poured out over the speaker system I realised how full of shit I can often be... Watch me wallabies feed, mate, Watch me wallabies feed, They're a dangerous breed, mate So watch me wallabies feed. Yes! It was Rolf Harris and his timeless ode to animal cruelty! An American sitting opposite us wailed, "I just left the UK to get AWAY from this guy!!" At the age of 71, Rolf really should have karked it by now (according to Caro) but there he was, loud as life, doing that breathy-breathy thing he does. Caro and me are convinced that his breathy-breathy thing is due to the fact that he is wanking along to the music, lyric sheet in one hand and wee lad in the other. However, it would be dishonest to say that the sound of old Rolf didn't bring a smile, and I was half-expecting us all to join in as the song (and Rolf) reached the climax All Together Now!! Tie me kangaroo down, sport, Tie me kangaroo down, Tie me kangaroo down, sport, Tie me kangaroo down ! That wasn't the only Aussie song we were treated to by the way. There was also a very bizarre song in which Rolf was accompanied by his dog, Wag... Oh I love to have a dance with Waggy (woof) I love to have a dance with Wag (woof) We dance all over the country (woof) And he carries his bowl in a brown paper bag, We dance in the Town and County (woof) Where the music's really great (woof-woof) Oh I love to have a dance with Waggy (woof) 'Cos Waggy is me mate (bow-wow!) There was also a version of "Six Months in a Leaky Boat" which I'm sure was only there to REALLY ANNOY all Kiwis as an Aussie bloke massacred a Split Enz song (amusingly interspersed with lots of cries of "Arrrrr! Me hearties!!" and so forth). However, the musical interlude was brought to an end by our arrival at the Aquarium. Now we've both seen our fair share of this sort of thing but I have to say that Sydney Aquarium is really spectacular, with a diverse and interesting range of exhibits from the strikingly beautiful coral reef fish to the bloody ugly moray eel. "I wouldn't like to stand on that," observed Caro.

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This strikes me as a pretty useful measure for how you feel about an animal. When deciding how pleasant or unpleasant a creature is, just ask yourself: Would you like to step on it? I wouldn't want to step on a moray eel either. Neither would I care to step on a jellyfish. (Although they are beautiful, they are hideous and squishy at the same time, and look far too much like living snot for my liking.) On the other hand I wouldn't mind stepping on a penguin. Or indeed the adorable platypuss, who had his own little enclosure. The platypuss is a lovely little creature. Even if he does look totally unreal. I'm still not convinced that the platypuss isn't in fact just a hoax. I suspect the platypuss is actually just an otter having a laugh, who has crazy-glued a duckbill to his head. But as it turns out - you WOULDN'T want to step on a platypuss because the platypuss is VENOMOUS. What a dirty trick! The Rules, as far as I am aware, insist that all venomous creatures are either coloured yellow and black, or are slippery, slimy, ugly and hideous or have eight legs and as many eyes. It just isn't DONE for a little cutie like the playpuss to be poisonous! It's like finding out that your sweet little kitten is carrying a switchblade, or your puppy has learned to use a gun. Moving swiftly on, we said hi to the lazy seals who flopped about, having a bit of a scratch and opening and closing their nostrils at us by way of greeting and then moved on to the vast underground aquariums where they keep the Tiger Shark, The Reef Shark and The Big Fucking Shark. The BFS cruised over our heads, teeth bared and eyeing us with a look that said, "So near... so near..." We hurried on through the aquarium before he returned with a glass cutter. It turned out that this was a good day to do indoor things as the weather had turned to RAIN, would you believe? I mean, fair okay this was the Australian autumn, but jeez Sydney only gets 40 days of rain a year. That's less than one a week, and we'd had TWO of them already! So to avoid the rain, we dived into the local IMAX theatre where we saw some nonsense or other which was basically an excuse for lots of images of mountains, and sky-diving and of course, the mandatory rollercoaster scene. Not that I'm complaining - I love this sort of thing, and bugger ye if you're too much of an old fart not to enjoy it too. Back at Eva's, a crisis was looming; a voice on the tannoy informed us: "There is a THIEF in the hostel. I repeat, a THIEF in the hostel. Two wallets were taken from a plastic bag in the internet room. If ANYONE has any information, please come forward." (Pause) "The wallets have been returned, but the money is GONE." (Another pause. You could tell she didn't want to leave us feeling all bad about it, so back she came again.) "It's a shame when these things happen. But there you are." Indeed. My only feeling on the subject was that you'd have to have a Black Belt in Stupidity to leave your wallets in a plastic bag for everyone to see. But there you are. Adapting to hostel life wasn't too difficult. To be honest, we didn't spend much time with the other residents, firstly because the communal area had only benches to sit on, which were very hard on the arse, but also because they seemed like a miserable lot who didn't even smile or acknowledge me when I said "hello". Mind you, this may have been due to my accent. I have to say that Poms are a real pain in the arse abroad, and this fact seems to be acknowledged by everybody. They are UNDOUBTEDLY the loudest, most irritating, most arrogant people you come across. Talking very loudly so you KNOW that they've come all this way FROM ENGLAND DON'T YOU KNOW and gosh, aren't they impressive? It's embarrassing, really. Even the Germans were better-behaved than us, and the Americans were positively NICE. But the English seem way too pleased with themselves for my liking. (And if you are currently feeling smug about the fact that you are Scottish or Irish; don't. You guys like to HANG OUT WITH THE ENGLISH when you are abroad.)

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Mind you, there was one obnoxious Austrian chick who gave Caro shit one morning, we also heard her complaining about the English who "only care about cheap beer." Aside from the Pommie accents, the noisiest things around were the birds, which woke us every morning like this: "AAAAAAHHHHH!! AAAAAAHHHHH!!!! AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!" I'd have preferred "cheep cheep" but I suppose it does get you out of bed on a morning. (Usually thinking: "Oh god, who's being murdered out there???") But I now have to interrupt this pleasant travelogue for an important John Hopoate Update: If you are anything like me, you will have wondered what developed from the amazing yet true John Hopoate finger up the arse scandal which was breaking in New Zealand. It was while in Sydney that I received the news that John had become the posterboy for the New Zealand Cancer Society, pushing the message that prostate exams dont have to be painful. I am not kidding here. We now return you to Caro and Symon in Sydney. Now Ive found a good way to get the vibe of a place you are visiting is to immediately tune in to the local radio stations and I have to say that Australian radio was VERY entertaining. While in Sydney I listened to a "How Oz Are You?" competition on Sydney's new radio station "Nova 969". I thoroughly enjoyed the stories of Ozzie blokes who tied their wives' cats to treadmills because they thought they were getting too fat, or trying to "bog up" their dented cars by melting Yoplait cartons into the holes ("It's the same colour, mate.") But my favourite had to the story of the Ozzie Dad who got caught illegally parking and was charged 90 dollars ("Bloody hell, bloody parking bastards, who do they think they are??" etc etc.) Anyway, so Dad sends off his cheque to the council who promptly send it back. Dad, outraged, calls up the council, "What's the matter isn't my (very bad word) money good enough for ya???" The council reply, yes but they can't cash a cheque for "ninety BLOODY dollars" which dad had accidentally written there. I don't think you can get much more Oz than that. By our 3rd day in Sydney my budget was in tatters. Sydney is BLOODY EXPENSIVE. Mind you, Caroline's day-by-day Sydney plan was "up the shitter" too. (I believe that's how she delicately phrased it.) Still, she managed to organise a little trip for the two of us to The State Theatre on George Street. This was GREAT. The state theatre was built in 1929 due to the boom from films and the whole thing is a shrine to entertainment at it's most over-the-top. The guide tape described it as "an eclectic mix of styles ranging from classical through to baroque and roccoco." I would describe it as exactly like youve just walked into Elton Johns imagination. What this basically means was that the architects threw everything at the building, saw what stuck and then gilded it. The front has fleur-de-lys all over the place, a mosaic floor with a clock in it, a St. George and the dragon relief on the wall and arabesqe designs all over the ceiling. (RESEARCH!!!) THEN, the foyer has 2 huge marble staircases like something out of a Cecil B. De Mille picture. I expected Ginger and Fred to come floating down them there were enormous mirrors, chandeliers and statues everwhere. And the obligatory red curtains. This merely leads to the upper foyer, complete with Japanese mirrors, antique Portuguese furniture and art deco clocks. THEN you come to the art gallery which gives access to the upper balcony, balcony and mezzanine levels. Once in the theatre itself, a mass of red seats greet you facing a stage topped with a blue crown. Looking blankly on at the stage to either side of it are statues of Napoleon and other notables, and to top it all off the biggest chandelier in the southern hemisphere.

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Architectural Critics of the time criticised the theatre as being covered in "spun sugar and jam". I think this demonstates quite ably that the Architectural Critics of the time were a bunch of Old Poops with no sense of humour and less sense of style. We LOVED the State Theatre. It's exactly what a theatre should be part Versailles and part DisneyWorld. The "Pioneer Room" - a gentlemen's smoking room was straight out of "The Prisoner of Zenda" - all stone walls and oak beams. You could almost see the businessmen of the 1930's, milling around, poking their cigars at each other and swilling brandy. The women had their own room, which was pretty bizarre - the Butterfly Room is a lepidoptarist's delight with butterfly transfers everywhere and a huge butterfly mirror. Not nearly as cool as the Pioneer Room, but that's girls for ya. Afterward, to continue the mood we visited the Retro Cafe next door, which is very cool and does a very nice pitta pocket, but is awfully expensive. Pitta Pocket. That's fun to say. Pittapocketpittapocketpittapocket. Sorry. Got carried away there. "Pat a dingo" is another thing that's fun to say. I wanted to do this too, at a Koala Sanctuary - so Caro and I made our way out of Sydney to a suburb called Blacktown. I have to say that the suburbs of Sydney are a bit depressing and scummy. No more so than London, I suppose but still I was surprised I dont know why but my of Sydney were higher, somehow. Anyway, once we got to the koala enclosures, we must have angered the Tourist Gods somehow, for they visited upon us a Plague of School Groups. Yes! There were horrid little children everywhere, chasing the wallabies and shrieking at the emus. Mind you, we certainly got plenty of koala for our money. They were almost as plentiful as the schoolchildren. However, I was disturbed by the fact that they didnt seem very happy. This is difficult for koalas, as they are basically creatures cursed with little faces that look like they're smiling all the time, a bit like daytime TV presenters. Caro was a bit upset about this, as the place was termed a "sanctuary" but was in reality a zoo, and a pretty shit one at that. But we did get to feed the wallabies that were hopping about and Caro scratched a kangaroo behind his ears, whereupon you could physically see him going, "Ahhhhhhhhhh..." (That was how she originally charmed me, by the way.) We got chased about by emus looking for food, saw the back ends of wombats sleeping in logs, marvelled at the fat little kookaburras (how DO they fly??) and attracted the attention of dingos with cries of "Here comes Lindy Chamberlain!! And she's had twins!!" Sorry - no trip to Australia would be complete without a Lindy Chamberhain joke. Caro wasn't over-impressed with Sydney. She accused it of being a "try-hard" city. There's some truth to this, especially Sydney in post-Olympic mode where everything is overpriced and you get a sense of a city that has plenty of big attractions but a lack of vibe. It certainly didn't feel particularly "Australian" - more like Singapore, mind you this could be due to the number of Chinese and other far-eastern immigrants in the city. But Sydney itself seems a very confident sort of place, divorced from the typical Australian cliches. Spalding Gray once said that New York is an island off the coast of America, and Sydney is in a similar position to the rest of Oz. As visitors to Sydney, we had to obey the Law of Touristm and ascend the AMP tower which Caro is at pains to point out, is NOT NEARLY AS BIG AS THE SKY TOWER IN NEW ZEALAND HA HA BLOODY HA. Sorry - it's a Kiwi thing. You understand. Anyway. Yeah - so we went up this tower and had a good look at Sydney from aloft and it really is a spectacular city - lots of sights - lots of natural beauty - just a certain lack of soul. The other impression of Sydney From On High is how crowded together all the buildings are, all backed up tight against the waterfront. It's from this vantage point that you really get an idea of what Sydney is - a bunch of Australians clinging to the edge of a huge bloody rock. I don't mean that in a nasty sense, honest. Just stating what's obvious when you look at a map of Australia - that most of it is uninhabitable apart from the fringes and any soft Pom who has had a close encounter with a Huntsman would probably be a bit wary of the fringes too.

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Mind you, those fringes are pretty incredible, and it was with a sense of complete envy that we took a harbour cruise and just GAPED at the houses along the harbourside, especially Piper's Point. There is SOME money in Sydney - most of those multi-million dollar abodes aren't even people's proper houses, just summer abodes. Not that summer ever ends in Australia of course. (Except in Melbourne, where it apparently never STARTS - but more on that later...) Up until now, we'd pretty much done the tourist thing and not hung out. And if youd actually been paying attention so far, you would know that this is what we do best. Caro and Symon havent spent a entire day in bed for AGES now, you concerned readers will be fretting. I know, I know. It was HELL. I mean, rushing about is all very well and good if you're a Duracell Bunny sort of person, but quite frankly I don't like Me Overseas Cultural Experiences getting in the way of My Sitting On Me Arse Experiences. However, this was to change as Caro had got in touch with her friend Jenny Jordan, a Kiwi now living in Sydney. I mentioned her back in an earlier, but in case you popped out for a cigarette or were in the toilet at that part, Ill give you a quick recap. She's Caro's friend from way back, especially in her Uni days. She's a Kiwi farm girl, of Colombian parentage. She's undoubtedly "staunch". This is a word the Kiwis use a lot. It means sort of the same as "staunch" in the UK, but also kind of intimidating and strong as well. Jenny herself puts this down to her "latin temperament". She's unbelievably pretty and glamorous, in a Catherine Zeta-Jones sort of way, only without some Old Dude drooling all over her. Walking through a crowd with her is a strange experience, as you can't help but notice all the bloke's heads pop up out of the crowd like Prairie Dogs. Being in her company had a strange sort of effect, like she was throwing out all these Beauty Rays or something, and whenever I caught sight of myself next to her I felt like an ugly little troll. Sort of like when you attempt to have a shower in a horrific hotel room with harsh lighting and lots of mirrors at all angles and you catch sight of yourself squatting and AAAARGH IM BLIND!!! You know that kind of experience. Jenny and crowd of drooling men agreed to meet up with us outside Sydney's Town Hall on George Street just over the road from a statue of Queen Victoria looking really tired and shagged out. Anyway, we met up with her and went The Marble Bar under The Hilton for a couple of drinks (Jenny, not Queen Victoria). Jenny took us there, because she said we had to see it, and The Marble Bar is pretty cool. It is very grand with huge marble pillars, mirrors and dark wood everywhere. It felt a bit like drinking in an old Gothic Cathedral. Not that I've ever done this, you understand. After this we went to Newtown to one of Jenny's favourite restaurants, CirculAte. There, we were served by a very camp waiter who ignored our orders and brought us what he thought we would enjoy instead. He was right though - the food was delicious. Meanwhile, Jenny told us how she had accidentally fed detergent to her flatmates dog, Brodie, and then let slip how she had once put a cat in the drier. Never let Jenny petsit for you, is the lesson here. She also told us how she has a tendency to talk in her sleep and kept her boyfriend awake one night insisting they put the cat out. "But we don't HAVE a cat!" he explained (it probably left after the drier incident). "No, you have to put the cat out," she insisted. This went on some time until he assured her that yes, he had put the fictional cat out, at which point she drifted back off to her surreal dreamworld of cats. So now it was time to leave Sydney, and just as well for we'd just about spent our whole Australia budget and there was still Western Australia, Adelaide, Melbourne and Byron to go. I honestly cringed when Caro had to go off looking for Sebastian Product for her hair. A small bag of that stuff means we don't eat for a week. Unless I eat the Sebastian Product.

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From: Karen Brown To: Symon OHagan Subject:Re: Australia Land of Loud Poms and Rolf Harris Date: Fri, 27 Apr 2001 18:48:33 +1200 Ahhh, once again you have outdone yourself Symon-san. I am impressed by your story-telling prowess. However, I don't remember you telling anyone that I was unbelievably pretty, obviously I didn't suck up to you enough. Say hi to Caro Sparo for me, and have a nice time in Ocka-land, but watch out for the spiders, they're fricken nasteeee... spot ya karen sparen

Part 6: Australia Land of Weddings and Wallabies


After Sydney, Caro and I made a prompt side-step and took a trip to Western Australia the reason for this was a Kiwi wedding. This invitation came by virture of Caros days sharing a flat with approximately 30 other Kiwis and Australians in Edinburgh (some of whom technically lived in a van parked outside). Amongst her flatmates were Lisa Brown, Lisa Mackinnon and Odette who you have already met. Now it is time for me to introduce Ann and Mike. They were a couple who had got together during Caros time at the ANZAC flat in Edinburgh. Now they were getting married, and had extended an invitation to the two of us. Not only that, but Lisa Mackinnon and Lisa Brown would be there too, so I couldnt really refuse. For one thing I am scared of the two Lisas. Caro and I hopped on a flight from Sydney and began the long flight from one side of the continent to the other. I hate long flights I just cant sleep. Im far too excitable, like a large dog in the back of a car. Its a good thing you cant roll down the windows in an aeroplane, or I would have crossed Australia with my head sticking out of the window with my tongue out. Caro, meanwhile, strapped on her blow-up neck pillow and snoozed happily while I suffered through the terrible inflight films and the even worse inflight toddlers. Now here's a tip for anyone picking me up at the airport. Let me get my bags first. That is my time to gather my thoughts, shake the travel cobwebs from my thoughts and most importantly sniff my pits and maybe make a quick bathroom-stop to freshen up. LISA MACKINNON DID NOT ALLOW ME TO DO THIS. She pounced - POUNCED I SAY - upon Caro and I directly upon disembarkation from the plane. Not that I wasn't delighted to see her. She is, after all, my fiancee (if you had forgotten - we have an agreement that I will marry her so that she can get my passport, and I get to point her out to other men and go "Woooahh, that's MAH woman!") That aside, all I will say is that she got a hug from me before I had a chance to check myself out and if that was an unpleasant experience for Lisa, well she brought it on herself. Lisa took us to MacDonald's where Ann was waiting for us. I had met Ann only once, about 3 years previously when she had poured me a beer. I had come an awfully long way for another one. Ann was lovely to me, and gave me another big hug (maybe these women like men who smell as if they've been farted out by a moose?) I should describe Ann as she is the star of this chapter. She reminded me of Karen Allen, the spunky heroine of "Raiders of the Lost Ark" and I sort of expected her to yell "LOOK OUT INDY!" and shoot a German at any moment. Disappointingly, this did not happen. What I'm trying to say is that she's got that same sort of tomboyish charm thing happening and is training to be some sort of park ranger which shows that I was on the right track with my assessment. "Does this mean khaki shorts and a four-wheel drive?" asked Caro with a snort. I can see it.

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Ann drove us to our rented house in Rockingham and we unpacked all our crap by the prescribed method of carefully taking out all the necessaries and lining them up on the dresser if you are Caroline, or by turning your bag upside down and shaking it, if you are me. Then I got to meet Jo, TK and Sam who we were to share the house with. They were all really nice - friends of Ann's from schooldays and all Kiwis excited to be on holiday. To complete the picture, Lisa Brown showed up carrying a bag twice as big as herself and installed herself in the back bedroom. Well, she wasn't there long. What happened was this: We went around to the other house that had been rented for Ann & Mike's friends from their days in London. This too was crammed with Kiwis and I began to wonder if New Zealand had secretly annexed Western Australia without the Australians noticing. Again, these were ex-Edinburgh flat people and they greeted Caro noisily and shook my hand while making the mandatory derogatory comments about Poms. I was just getting to know everyone when Ann's Auntie Zela showed up with her husband Mike. "Ooh, I think I'm staying here!" she announced and promptly shot up the stairs. Now then. What Caro and I didnt know was that this was the first time anyone in the house had heard Zela and Mike were staying there. Moreover, Zela and Mike's room had been the "party room" and was full of empty beer bottles and a very prominent bong. Consequently, Zela decided to stay with the old folk (us) and Lisa Brown got kicked out of her bed. Fortunately, there was a spare one in our room. We didnt mind. It has now almost got to the point where Caro and I have trouble sleeping in a room that doesnt have Lisa Brown in it. "She's like a pet," explained Caro to Ann. Having Zela and Mike stay of changed the whole vibe of the place. They took over our little house within five minutes of entry and made us feel as if we had to be on our best behaviour. We were all fairly grumpy about this and then came the affair of the kimono. Mike, who had previously come across as kind of a laidback old gentleman, went for a shower and emerged 15 minutes later in full view of Caro, Lisa and the others wearing an EXTREMELY short garment. Caro noted it was decorated in good old 1970's style with swirls. I think she was just trying to avoid looking down in case she caught sight of "some wizened old cock dangling out" as Lisa Brown so delicately put it. So we took the very first opportunity that we could to escape the geriatric flashers and went to Ann and Mikes house wiich is located in the small town of Rockingham, about 30 minutes from Freemantle. There, we were to celebrate a traditional Kiwi bucks and hens night. If you have never been to such an occasion, I can reveal to you that it involves getting drunk to Crowded House, and mocking Ann & Mike. Ann was forced to wear a thong outside her jeans and Mike emerged wearing a Viking helmet for reasons I still don't fully understand and a gigantic yellow penis which he was unable to remove for the very good reason that someone had packlocked it around his waist. After a few hours of this, the boys decided to go their own way which was a bit traumatic for me as I didn't really know anyone and felt like I stuck out like a Big Pom. However, we piled in the back of someone's ute and drove off to "The George and Dragon" which was kind of like a warehouse with alcohol but without the ambience. Pitchers were ordered, including a pitcher of bacardi and coke which was duly passed around. These Kiwis, they just don't care. Then talk turned to "Zelda's" and some of the boys got very excited. Zelda's is a strip joint where you can get a "toppo" and a "strippo" said a very seedy looking little man with cross-eyes called Rigny. I'm not sure if it was all the strippo talk that was making him that way. Rigny was quite special. He had a greying mullet and a horrid little jacket that he never took off. So, ok, we were off to Zelda's. Mike went off in another car, still with padlocked willy attached while I got back into the ute with Tom and Paul who entertained me with other "back of ute" stories. I have just the one and consequently feel rather inadequate. The back of my mum's hatchback just doesn't have the same ring somehow. Now as it happens I've managed to go through my life so far without going to a strip club and was feeling pretty uncomfortable about it. The fact is, going to a strip club is just not something I do. I think there's

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basically something seedy about men all getting stiffies in unison, especially when Rignys boner is part of that throng. Consequently, I was feeling very out of my usual environment of my men friends back in Scotland who like to stand around in a bar swapping soup recipes. Taking me to a strip club is like taking a Chinese panda out HIS native environment and - well - taking him to a strip club. So I was more than a bit relieved when we arrived at Zeldas and were told by the bouncer that, some bloke in a Viking helmet" according to the bouncer had been barred for breaking glasses. As it turned out, they'd gone to "The Swinging Pig" - a bar not far away populated entirely by teenagers. Am I giving you the sense that I felt myself a bit too old for all this? I don't think it was just me, Tom also seemed pretty fed up by this stage. As for Mike - he escaped! One minute he was there, swinging his yellow willy about, and the next - he was gone! We started to think this might be a good idea too, and Tom and I shared a taxi home. I found Caro already in bed when I got back, but as it turned out, she'd had an even more exciting than me. Caro's Exciting Evening I should tell you something about Ann & Mike. God they can drink. I mean, they were usually already pissed by the time I met them, and I would think, Well they can't possibly last much longer. As it turned out I was wrong. Ann and Mike can just go ON being pissed for AGES. Ann, bless her, makes me laugh because her legs become very drunk very quickly, while the top half of her remains sober, carrying on conversations, eating and cracking jokes even while her legs go off wandering about drunkenly on their own, before depositing her in the flower bed. It's the most bizarre phenomena. Caro told me that after the boys left to go to Zeldas, the shooters came out and before long Ann was in the toilets. Caro went in to fetch her, having been sent in by someone called Cregwyn. Cregwyn was quite special. She sported a mobile phone on a chain around her neck, wore vicious make-up and had the worst teeth I've seen outside a Deep South special episode of Jerry Springer. Cregwyn informed Caro that the stripper had just arrived and therefore Ann had to be retrieved. Caro found Ann propped up against the bathroom wall with her jeans half-unbuttoned, so she sorted her out, took her back to the party and tried to sit her down in the designated lapdancing chair. By this time the stripper had put his CD on. He was wearing a shiny grey suit, with long permed hair and was gyrating to You Can Keep Your Hat On, but all this completely bypassed Ann who had noticed the music had changed from the obligatory Best of Crowded House that she insisted on playing over and over. "What the fuck is this shit?" she demanded and wobbled over to switch it off, meaning the poor stripper was in mid-gyrate when his music cut out. Fortunately Cregwyn was on hand to explain what was going on, the music went back on and the stripper continued his routine. The suit came off, the groin-thrusting became more frenzied and the whole thing took on an even cheesier air when he tried to simulate a blowjob by putting Ann's head into his groin. The effect was spoiled due to Ann being so pissed that she kept falling over. Cregwyn intervened at this point to hold her in position. Caro and Lisa could barely their laughter. The Rockingham Ladies went wild. I've just asked Caro what the strippers name was. She thinks it might have been Cody. "It could have been Fuck-Head though," she added, which illustrates her opinion of him more succinctly than I have been able to do so far. By this stage the Rockingham ladies had been worked up to a state of near-hysteria and, thus encouraged, Cody decided to work the crowd, and produced a bottle of baby-oil which he proceded to smear on his chest. The Rockingham ladies were practically ovulating with excitement, but unfortunately at this point he chose to zero in on one Lisa Brown.

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Im sure you were wondering what had happened to Lisa Brown. She's usually in the thick of it where foulness is concerned, so why has Symon left her out? You were probably thinking. Well the truth of the matter is, Lisa wanted nothing to do with the sordid business and was quite happily pouring herself another Baileys shooter when an oily inner thigh was presented to her. Lisa gingerly did as she was told and gave him a bit of a pat. "I am NOT a pet," Cody complained, affronted. Lisa just raised her eyebrown at this, complained that he was getting her pashmina oily and flounced off to get more drink. Giving up on the awkward one, Cody decided to focus his attention back on Ann who promptly tried to steal his watch. I think at this point the cd either finished or Cody had decided that enough was enough and make his exit to ecstatic roars of approval from the Rockingham women. Cregwyn ran after him with the shiny suit to make sure he got it back on okay. She was gone for about 30 minutes. I'm saying nothing. So when Tom and I got into our taxi, the driver was able to tell us the whole story. He must be the only cab-driver in Rockingham, for he'd ferried the girls home too. "The stripper was really shit," he told us and I started to feel quite good that we never made it to Zelda's. The next day, Lisa and Caroline hit the local bakery. They were obsessed. Pies! Pies! Must have genuine down-under pies! We also got to check out the Rockingham Residents who, my god, were a scary bunch. When even I can spot the fashion faux pas, you know you're in trouble. Lots of mullets on the men, and crop-tops with bellies hanging out seemed to be the main fashion statement amongst the women. It must be something in the water. Ann came over to our house in the afternoon, looking as fresh as a daisy, and announcing that Mike had already gone to the pub! I was stunned by the sheer staying power of these two. Ann also told us that she had woken up that morning to find that Mike's big yellow willy had Houdini-like become UNATTACHED to Mike. Even more bizarrely had made it's way over to HER side of the bed and was padlocked to her foot. I'm not sure how she freed herself. It was apparent that everyone was relaxing before the big event, so Lisa, Caro and I had ourselves a nice quiet day, watched a crappy film on the telly and generally tried to get ourselves set for the next day. I had a most welcome nap, and the girls gorged themselves on pies. If the Bucks and Hens night was just the preamble for what was to come, we were going to need our energy. Ann and Mikes Wedding The wedding was LOVELY. It took place on Ann and Mike's front garden and wasn't even marred by the fact that there was a garage sale going on across the road. In fact, Ann's mum took the chance to pop across the road for a last-minute wedding present. Ann looked absolutely gorgeous in her dress, which was something of a relief for Caro who had never seen tomboy Ann in a skirt before. Caro had done all the make-up that morning as Ann's official stylist had been fired for, making her look like a hooker. Lisa Mackinnon was also after the Caro Treatment, and since Caro and Lisa Brown practically have an entire cosmetics department in their combined make-up bags, Caro was in her element. Ann's two sisters were also there and got sucked into the exciting world of make overs. There was lots of "Ooh! Can I have some of that?!" and soon Caro was slapping eyeshadow all over the place. So the girls were all well-presented out on the lawn. But where were the boys? Mike, Paul, Glenn and Matt arrived at the last minute, roaring up in a lime-green Tirana and presented themselves to the unimpressed marriage celebrant. "Come on then, smarten yourselves up!" she snapped. "Get those jackets done up! Take those hands out of your pockets! And get those sunglasses off your head!"

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Actually the celebrant was very good and kept the whole thing light-hearted. Mind you, she also pulled a fast one during the course of the ceremony. She had arranged for Ann and Mike to write down the things they liked best about each other, supposedly so that she could refer to it during the ceremony. However, she passed these sheets back to the pair and Ann and Mike read them aloud to each other. Mike was HOWLING by the end of his - as was Caro (naturally). Then we piled into a bus for the reception at the rugby club. Here's where it went all horribly wrong for me because they had decided to decorate all the tables with petals which is a lovely idea unless you happen to be hugely allergic and before I knew it, I could hardly speak as my throat had seized up, my nose was exploding all over the place (all through the speeches) and I could hardly see anything because my eyes had closed. Ha ha ha!! What a great time I had! What I saw of the reception looked really good though, and Ann and Mike had a great time which is the main thing. I spent most of the evening outside, feeling guilty that Caro was having to do it without me, but honestly, I couldn't really breathe in there. So I hung around outside until it was time to go. Tom kept me company and I discovered that is a very droll man. He's a very Australian bloke who lives in Melbourne. He's also got that terribly Australian knack of freaking you out about the wildlife. "Awww yeah... don't touch those bins over there," he informed Lisa Brown, "there's redbacks in there. Redbacks'll kill ya." Lisa refused to believe him. "Go on, stick your hand in," she insisted. "Nah, you gotta watch yourself. You gotta watch where you swim too. There's blue-ringed octopus. The deadliest venom known to man. Blue-rings'll kill ya." Lisa Brown headed back into the rugby club, seeking out verification on "red-backed octopusses". Australia, it must be emphasised, IS a dangerous place. Not dangerous in the Edinburgh sense, where small Englishmen are the favourite prey of the Scots football hooligan who has been drinking too much. No, it's dangerous in the sense that it is a very venom-intensive country with spiders, snakes, jellyfish and crocodiles - all of whom are EXTREMELY DANGEROUS when they have been drinking too much. To illustrate, Tom told us a story about a mutual friend named Reg. Reg is a lovely Scottish chap and it appears that when he first arrived in Australia he was playing football in his bare feet and ran across a patch of grass before doubling up in agony. Yes, it was special evil Australian grass with extra-sharp blades that had managed to gash his foot. "Christ!" complained Reg, "in Australia even the GRASS tries to kill you!" Tom laughed a lot at that. He's a bad, bad man. All this talk made Lisa Brown paranoid on our return to the house. She was seeing spiders everywhere and shaking all her bedding in our direction so any spare Huntsmen would come flying out at US. Caro and I, with our allergies, were far more concerned about the dust. "AAARGH! AAAARGH!" we both complained, our nasal cavities swelling like feet on a long flight. I blame Tom indirectly for all this. So it was a good hour before we got to sleep at which point - BANG! BANG! BANG! went the door. It was Zela and Mike with two more crumbly relatives in tow who had decided to come back to our place for a party. Zela was terrible, clopping about in her high-heels all night and keep us awake with her shrieking laughter while we were turned into old people grumpily complaining about needing our sleep. Mind you, the next morning Caro got her revenge by being extra loud in the kitchen despite Mike's request that "Zela would like you to keep it down." Cheek. The next day was The Aftermath Party at which I had a GREAT time. I was afraid everyone would think I was a miserable bastard for having missed most of the reception with my exploding nasal passages, but all was forgiven and we got hugely drunk together. Ann really is hilarious when off her head, and managed to spill a shooter on the table. In case you don't know Kiwis, spilling a drink on the table means you must undergo the ordeal of a "table-suck" - in other words you have to lick the drink up off the table. Ann was forced to suffer the indignity of this, and fortunately Caro had a camera handy so Ann can re-live that moment as often as she pleases. Oh well, at least it wasn't a "floor-suck".

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The rest of the week was a little more sedate. We hired a car and explored Freemantle and drove up the West Coast. Caro and Lisa had pies for breakfast EVERY morning. Finally it came time for us to leave the house in Rockingham and go and stay with Garth, a friend of Ann and Mikes in Freemantle ("Free-o"). It was a lovely big place, light and airy and with the requisite All Blacks flag on the wall. Lisa was impressed. "Wow, this place is beautiful! I need to have a crap," she announced. That was were we spent our last couple of days in WA. We were frequently visited by the new bride and groom, Lisa Mack and the Kiwi girls. I should add at this point, when you get this many Kiwis together, the accents just get stronger and stronger to the point where I could no longer understand them. Especially after a few pints, the vowels just get horribly mangled, so unfortunately many of the conversations I had in Freemantle were of the smile and nod variety. Ha, you may say, uncharitably, Symon is just making a fuss over nothing. You think so? Here are some examples of Kiwi pronunciation. Guess What you cook with if you dont have electricity Peck What you do with a suitcase Dunner What you eat after lunch Frudge Where you keep your dunner Fentestock Great! Fab! Thets really fen-tes-tock! New Zellund Where Kiwis come from On the very last day of the trip though, Mike called me to a separate room so that he could tell me in private how much he'd appreciated our coming over and how much it meant to him to see Caro again. Then he gave me a big hug and there's no misunderstanding that. So it was was some sentiment that we said goodbye to Mike, Ann and all the rest and headed back east for our next stop: Adelaide. In April 2001 there was something of an airline crisis in Australia. First Ansett had their planes grounded due to safety problems, then there were headlines of bits falling off Qantas planes. It was like the British Rail network with wings. So Caro and I sensibly decided to fly Virgin Blue out of Sydney. This was due to their very high standards of professionalism and safety. Also they were very cheap. But you know, they were really GOOD too! We were dead impressed with the informal attitude of the crew and stewards who were introduced over the tannoy as follows: "This is Tony; he used to be an exotic dancer and ex-porn star before he came to work for Virgin Blue. This is Kylie, who has a serious addiction problem and will be coming around with drinks later." And on encountering turbulence: "You'll have to excuse our pilot; he hasn't passed his test yet." Flying over Australia, you can't help but notice, well - how brown it all is. How barren. But the weird thing I noticed was that how the country is still divided up into sections, like the green patchwork that is the English countryside, only all scorched and brown. It's like the fields down there are entirely grass-free and made up entirely of dirt. Now I'm no farmer but I don't see what you could possibly grow off of a brown field. Other than more dirt. But what do I know? The other thing about Australia that impresses is its size. When you fly from Perth to Adelaide you are crossing a continent. For some reason, that had never occurred to me before. I mean, its all the same country, right? This just seems odd to we Europeans, who feel that if you are going to travel for that long, then you should be encountering different languages, different cultures and several types of silly hat. Australia just isnt like that you fly and you fly and you fly, and when you land its still full of people wearing shorts, surfing and listening to AC/DC. My small-island shaped brain had difficulty coping with

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this, but eventually we touched down. ("We thank you for flying Virgin Blue and giving us this opportunity to take you for a ride".) We were picked up at the airport by a lass from Lancaster who was working at Backpack Oz in Adelaide. She loved the city and gave us a bit of a guided tour. Adelaide is a city of huge great streets, crisscrossed by a tram, with lots of very impressive colonial-era, pseudo-European churches everywhere. Everyone had told us that it was a place we ought to visit, although in fact we were there only as a jumping off point to Kangaroo Island. Backpack Oz was a really pleasant surprise after the rather miserable surroundings of Eva's Backpackers in Sydney. It was light and airy, nicely decorated, clean, but best of all, it had a friendly vibe. I believe these things cascade down from the staff, whereas they had barely grunted at us in Sydney, the staff at Backpack Oz couldn't do enough for us. Over the next couple of days we wandered around Adelaide, and discovered one or two things. 1. The streets of Adelaide are long and wide, but there's not much of interest in them. 2. It takes AGES to get from the shops to the restaurants as they're all in different areas. Mind you, at least Adelaide has a pretty good gas-powered free bus service, that was clean and easy to use. Quite frankly I think every city everywhere should have a service like this - and to pay for it we could double the price of road tax and triple the VAT on petrol - that would sort out those bloody deathmobile junkies that clog up our roads hahahahahahaaaa!!! (Sorry - lifelong pedestrian rant there.) 3. There aren't half a lot of junkies about. So we wandered around the shopping centre of Adelaide and went to see "Dude, Where's My Car?" which was so shitty that I felt embarrassed about laughing quite so hard at it. I have low standards and am easily amused by poo. You might have noticed. The shopping in Adelaide isn't terribly exciting although they did have a really cool, colonial style arcade where you could get a decent lunch and root around in the 2nd hand bookshops. We also spotted the Singing Doll Guy. Apparently he goes to Edinburgh for the festival (Caro had seen him before) but I'd never come across him and found his act BIZARRE. Basically he controls a little box full of Barbies, Cindys and Action Men all decked up in evening clothes, whose mouths open and close in time to Show Tunes. There were CROWDS of people stood around to witness the spectacle of Action Man kicking his leg in time to "Aquarius" and "What the World Needs Now Is Love". In front of the Singing Doll guy was a box full of change, together with a sign saying "Please Support Single Parent Barbie" next to a doll with a rather obvious lump. This is the sort of entertainment Australians LOVE. A bit kitsch. A bit camp. A bit crap. Caro preferred Adelaide to Sydney, which she felt was bustling and unsafe, but I felt exactly the opposite way. I feel there's SAFETY in bustle, and the huge, empty streets of Adelaide after dark felt a bit sinister to me. Mind you, by this point I had been accosted by a junkie chick who swore at me for not giving her money, so I may have been biased. The point is that after two days I was more than ready to head off to Kangaroo Island for our close encounter with nature. To get there, we had to make our way to the central bus station where we were fucked about by the bloody rude bus station staff. I was in an absolutely FOUL mood by the time we finally got on our bus. Mind you, this is only partly due to the bus people. I had been dying to go for a crap for most of the morning as well, and had found myself thwarted by closed, or out-of-order, or dodgy toilets. You know the sort of thing you can't enjoy a decent poo if you find one or more of the following in a public toilet: 1. Dodgy blokes hanging about in toilet (and there are a LOT of these in Adelaide). 2. No toilet paper in toilet. (Mind you, this isn't as bad as forgetting to check; starting your poo and THEN finding no paper. (Oh, the horror.) 3. Big floater in toilet. (I suppose there's nothing to STOP you pooing on top; but - ewwwwwwww. I

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just couldn't... knowing IT was down there... looking at me...) 4. No toilet seat. (I have done the "hover" manoeuvre in the past, but it spoils the moment, I find.) 5. Skid marks on seat. 6. Skid marks on FLOOR. (How???? No, I don't want to know.) Eventually, I found a toilet in Adelaide that didn't feature one of the above, but it did have the old "no lock on toilet door" thing going. This is unfortunate because it means you have to poo sort of crouching forward and holding the door closed with your hands, like Carl Lewis on the starting blocks, waiting for the starter pistol. Sorry about that rather disgusting interlude. Anyway, where was I? So then we had a 3 hour trip to Cape Jervis and a 45 minute ferry ride before we got to the island itself. And due to my shitty day (literally) by the time we landed I was snarling to myself and wishing I had never booked us on the Kangaroo Island tour. This was quickly reversed by the appearance of Daniel O'Donnell (I kid you not) of Daniel's Tours. "Hi! You must be Caroline and Symon!" he said. "Have a cookie!" shoving a big bag under my nose. He was a tall bloke, enveloped in a huge coat, with a mop of greying-blond hair. His obvious enthusiasm for his job quickly communicated itself to us, and I found myself quite eager to see the fluffy little penguins he was telling us about. The beaches on Kangaroo Island are all sectioned off with nature walkways, where Daniel lead us, whispering to look at the little fellers as they made their way up the beach. Daniel explained to us how easy it is to get eaten when you're a little penguin and how they basically all hang out together in a big group until one of them gets bored and tries to get back to his nest. If he gets eaten, the rest of the group decides that going home by that route isn't necessarily the best way to go. PENGUIN 1: PENGUIN 2: PENGUIN 3: PENGUIN 1: PENGUIN 3: PENGUIN 2: PENGUIN 1: PENGUIN 2: PENGUIN 1: PENGUIN 3: Well.... time to go home, I reckon. Yep. Yep. Sure is. Cor! Is that the time! We should be off. Off you go then. Ahhhhhhh... maybe I'll just stay here and have a bit of a scratch. Yeahhhh... Good idea. No rush, is there? Ha ha. Oh for fuck's sake. (He rushes up the beach). Follow him, lads! Aieeeeeee!!! Well - like you said - no hurry eh?

From the penguin beach, we hopped into Daniel's van, had more cookies and drove out to his hostel/farm on the edge of Flinder's Chase National Park. It was a long, but fairly exciting ride, encountering more and more wildlife as we approached the park. DANIEL: (Swerving wildly to avoid a wallaby.) Welcome to the West of the Island!! Hold on tight!

The group we were in consisted of 3 Japanese kids, another Japanese guy Itoshi, and an Austrian called Matisse. Daniel hooked straight onto Caro once he learned she was a Kiwi - firstly because he knew she would understand his English, and secondly because he enjoyed taking the piss. DANIEL: (Observing a squished possum in the road.) New Zealanders think that possums COME flat! I'd better not slow down or Caro might scrape him up with a spatula and stick him in a pot.

After about an hour and a half of this sort of abuse, we arrived at Daniel's pseudo-hostel, which was looked after by a couple of Dutch backpackers called Radaha and Tim, who Daniel had employed for a couple of weeks. Tim was a very quiet guy, but Radaha by contrast was quite an excitable person who decided to put us at our ease out in the wild by telling us an exciting story. RADAHA: I'm going to tell you an EXCITING STORY now? OKAY??!!!!

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Okay. RADAHA'S EXCITING STORY RADAHA: TIM: RADAHA: TIM: RADAHA: TIM: RADAHA: TIM: RADAHA: TIM: RADAHA: OKAY! TIM AND ME WERE DRIVING ALONG WHEN WE SEE THIS DEAD SNAKE OKAY?! It was in the road... all flat. IT WAS ALL FLAT AND SO WE SAY "IT MUST BE DEAD" OKAY?!! So I said, "take a picture". YEAH!!! SO HE SAYS, "TAKE A PICTURE" SO I GET MY CAMERA AND I GO RIGHT UP TO THE SNAKE... And I'm saying, "Closer, closer". YEAH!! HE KEEPS TELLING ME TO GET CLOSER, SO I GET CLOSER AND I TAKE THE PICTURE AND THEN WHEN WE'RE DRIVING AWAY, I KIND OF THROW A ROCK AT THE SNAKE, TO MAKE SURE, YOU KNOW??? So we throw a rock... SO WE THROW A ROCK AND THIS SNAKE - IT INFLATES ITSELF AND IT'S NOT DEAD!!!! AND I WAS THIS CLOSE!!!! Later on, we tell Daniel... SO WE TELL DANIEL, AND HE SAYS, "OHHHH - THAT'S A TIGER SNAKE IT'S THE NUMBER FOUR MOST POISONOUS SNAKE IN AUSTRALIA!!!!!"

Right after this story we went to bed, with Daniel promising he would wake us at 6am the next day. Like we were really going to sleep well after hearing THAT story. Daniel woke us early as promised the next morning and took us for a bit of a bushwalk to look at koalas which were still a bit active, but just about to settle down for their nap. Apparently "koala" in Aborigine means "no water" because they drink only kahlua - no, hang on - that's Caro. The reason koalas don't drink is because they get all their nutrients from eucalyptus leaves. A diet purely of eucalyptus means two things; firstly it means your farts will smell like Vick's Sinex and secondly it means that you'll spend most of your time digesting and so won't want to move around a lot (much like when you eat a deep-fried meat pie and chips). So the koalas are fairly sedentary little creatures who sleep for about 20 hours a day, and the other four hours eating. A lot like myself now that I think of it. So we walked amongst the trees, trying our best to spot the furry little bottoms in the branches, saying "Awwwwww!!!" when we saw babies clinging to their mother's backs and taking loads of pictures. Daniel pointed out that it was only one koala per tree as they are quite agressive little things. "They look mellow, but they're actually really naughty," as he put it. The koala population has gone through the roof in Kangaroo Island as their only predator is the Wedge-Tailed Eagle, as a result the conservation authorities are trying to give the koalas birth control, but it doesn't seem to be having any effect. Maybe they're all Catholic or something. We left the koalas as they settled down for a kip; but not before Daniel had informed Caro that she could take koala poo as a souvenir if she wanted, "It's all free," he added helpfully. The next stop was a field of roos and Cape Barren Geese who, like the rest of the wildlife on Kangaroo Island, were confident enough to come up and say hi to us. The rule is, they're allowed to touch you, but you can't touch them - otherwise the animals would start associating humans with food and scritchies and it's best if they continue to view people as just rather odd-looking animals that sort of wobble along on the landscape, taking pictures and eating Daniel's cookies. Daniel also took us to one of the more impressive local landmarks, The Remarkable Rocks ("And don't fall off the edge".) These are rock formations, battered by the wind which Mother Nature has sculpted into

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shapes so unusual as to say, "See?? Fucking Henry MOORE is it??? Art is it??? I dinnae fucking think so!!" Seriously, they are quite striking. And Matisse, as an Austrian, had to climb to the very top of them. "Oh you LUNATIC!!!" said Daniel, quite delighted. "Quick! Let me take some pictures for my brochure!! Sell the rock baby!!! No, don't take your glasses off!! You're beautiful!!" "He cracks me up," said Caro, "he's just this old hippy." He was too. Daniel, it turned out was an ex-stockbroker who, having made his fortune, came to watch the birds on Kangaroo Island and just never left. He was like this surfer dude hippy guy who took great interest in New Zealand's bird life. "Have you been to the South Island?" he asked Caro. When she replied in the negative, he hit her with his coat. In the words of the Rough Guide to Australia, Daniel is "voluble and enthusiastic" and full of fun, this I can confirm. As when Caro knelt down on the Remarkable Rocks next to me and he shouted across, "Look out! She's going to propose!!" He seemed quite put out that she didn't. "A Canadian guy once proposed to his girlfriend on the tour, but she turned him down. It's all very disappointing." Next we were taken to see fur seals at Admiral's Cove, an amazing rock formation they live in. It's basically a rocky cove, with a huge arch of rock over the top and stalagmites hanging down. (Is that right? I can never remember). The seals couldn't care less about us tourists cooing over them, as a pup ARF-ed loudly and a huge male threatened to squash him. Then Daniel informed us we would be going for a closer look. In order to do this we had to go down a cliff that was, "a bit steep". A bit SHEER is how I would put it, and as me and Caro slid down the scree the rather unpleasant realisation that we would have to go back UP was in the back of our minds. I just hoped there was an escalator or something. So anyway, we got to the bottom of the cliff, where Daniel informed us that the rocks were sharp, so be careful, and watch out for seals - and oh - the waves were quite rough so try not to be washed off the rocks and JEEESUS as a wave crashed over my legs and I clutched onto a rock to stop myself from slipping and sliced some skin off my hand. However, it was worth it - as just two feet away from me two fur seal pups played in the surf. It seemed incredible that they weren't bashed against the rocks, but Daniel explained how the water acted as a cushion and how - SPLOSH Another wave. Right over me. "We'd better go," said Daniel. "It looks like rain." Like that really made any difference to me in my soaking and shrinking underpants. So back we go up the sheer face of this bloody cliff like Tom Cruise in "Mission: Impossible 2". Of course, Matisse and the Japanese skipped up the rocks like fucking mountain fucking goats while I struggled behind Caro with my face as red as a baboon's arse that's just been paddled by a Swedish dominatrix and my thighs begging me to stop, to sit down and let nature take its course. I suppose the reason it was more of an effort for me is that while the others were jumping up and over rocks, I was doing the whole two-hands-two-feet-and-a-bottom-way of making SURE that I was secure before progressing. The reason for this is simple; I KNOW me. I'm a clod. If there's a stone, I'll trip on it; if there's a rope, I'll get tangled in it; and if the cat's been sick on the carpet, I'll plant my bare foot squarely in it. It's The Law of Symon and I don't mess with it. Consequently, it was a bit of a struggle to get up the cliff and would've taken longer if I'd thought to bring crampons.

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"Go on without me," I wanted to say, but Caro struggled gamely on and so must I. Eventually we made it back to the van, chests heaving and struggling for breath. This nature stuff is far better experienced via "Wildlife on One". Trust me. From there we went on to Little Sahara which is a wandering sand dune that has been making its way from the west of the island to the east at the rate of 5 inches a year, which is almost as sluggish as a group of people dancing to a Leonard Cohen record. I dragged myself to the top of the dune where the wind whipped the grains up until I felt like I was being sandblasted. Then Daniel produced his sandboard. Oh no. The Japanese were first up. Itoshi was pretty cool, but the younger ones were like puppies, excitable and bouncing about. However, none of them could really handle the board, as the principle is entirely different to snowboarding. But what Daniel REALLY wanted was for The Kiwi to have a go. Now I have to admit here that I missed her moment as I was taking off my boots as Caro dashed off with the sandboard. All I heard was the "Oooooooooooh!" as she athletically SURFED THE DUNE, MAN. Fortunately, she had done this before as a girl and was a bit of a diva. Unfortunately, her audience put her off and I turned around just in time to see Caro's arse hanging in mid-air as she did a somersault and plunged headfirst into the sand. "Whoooo!! That's the MOST SPECTACULAR spill ever!!!" cried Daniel in appreciation. I complained to Caro that she could at least have waited for me to get my camera out, but she explained that was she "in The Zone". "You were EXTREME, man," added Daniel. I too had a bit of a go, but didn't fall as spectacularly as Caro, falling sensibly onto my arse and depositing half the sand dune into my daks. By the time we got back to the van, both arsecheeks had been effectively exfoliated. But Caro had sand EVERYWHERE, up her nose, in her ears, in her hair - we were finding sand for WEEKS later. Giving her a hug was like cuddling an Emery board. After this, we needed to do something a bit more sedate and Daniel kindly took us back to his farm, to cook us up a bit of Bush Tucker. As you may recall, I have this whole Bush Tucker Man fetish, in which I stride through the outback, eating things and saying that they taste a bit like bread. Most of you don't understand my obsession. The rest of you don't care. But the point is, I was very excited as we strode through the woods next to Daniel's farm to retrieve some yabbies (freshwater crayfish) from a trap he had placed in the nearby creek. Unfortunately, he had only managed to snare a few of the little fellers, and they weren't worth eating. I had salad instead. Refreshed, Daniel took us out to see some sealions which fortunately for me were lounging about on a beach that didn't require mountaineering skills to get to. Again, they didn't fuss about our group milling amongst them, although I would SWEAR they know when you're taking a picture, as they tend to turn to you, flop over onto their sides, open those big brown eyes and flap their eyelashes. These guys were CUTE*, and they knew it. Daniel explained, in hushed David-Attenborough tones about the behaviour of the sealions, how the beach was divided up amongst the males, how they demonstrated and fought for their individual patches, and how high the rate of sealion pup mortality was. You could see it yourself actually, as previous year's pups come back to feed from their mothers (recognising them by sound and smell) if the current season's pup has died. There were an awful lot of VERY mature pups getting a free feed. "It might seem cruel," said Daniel, "but the population is stable, so we don't interfere." Matisse the Austrian said their life looked quite idyllic, lying there on the hot sand. "Well, I'm sure a sealion would say the same about Austrians," replied Daniel, "if he could see you in bed at 3am." We left the sealion beach, for a brief spot of pelican watching, then we followed a few more wallabies hopping about while the sun went down. It was all very peaceful, and I would've felt very At One With Nature if it wasn't for the fact that I had been paranoid about sitting on a spider ever since landing in Australia. On our way back to the van, we came across a mating pair of penguins, squawking away.

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"They're saying, 'Stop watching us having sex!'" explained Daniel. And that was the end of our trip to Kangaroo Island, and all we had to look forward to was a 3 hour ferry and bus ride back to Adelaide. But it was TOTALLY worth it. (Sadly, we heard two years later that Daniel had been drowned just off the Remarkable Rocks, along with another man while trying to save a German tourist who had fallen into the water. I cant claim to know Daniel well, but he struck me as a sweet-natured man who genuinely loved nature and Im very sorry that hes not with us any more.) The next day, upon waking up in Adelaide, I found my legs had completely seized up, and I had to walk stiff-legged to the showers like I had just shit in my pants. Meanwhile, Caro had hurt her neck due to her spectacular sandboarding adventure. So we spent the rest of our time in Adelaide doing very little, hanging out at the backpacker's and watching videos. This was only partially due to our injuries. It appears that Adelaide, (the "City of Churches") is quite a religious place and pretty much closed down for Easter. I had trouble even finding a sandwich shop. Don't get me wrong, the churches are pretty spectacular, but I don't like any sort of religion that gets in the way of my stomach. From: Lisa Brown To: Caro Date: Sun, 15 Apr 2001 16:32:03-0000 hey darl, antiwrinkle cream and cocoa my arse, i have entered "the responsible era" in suitably unclassy and imature fashion so no up and coming crisis on the horizon for me. had the first round of drinkies on wed night about 15 to 20 people turned up and i felt very loved. i got shockingly drunkified culminating in my having to barf out of the cab door as we drove through the burbs of london on the way home. cab driver "do you want me to pull over?". me "no thanks, ive had plenty of practice at this". much to the amusement of karen and michelle who were sharing a cab with me. thurs morning 6.15am, oh dear. i get up and to to work. things werent too flash at all and im proud to say that i did absolutely nothing all day. THEN on thurs night had to go out for round two. have to say that i really didnt want to go at all but dragged my old carcass out and ended up having a great night. went to this funky bar type thing called herbal. have you heard of groove amarda? well they were djing at this place and the music was all like the stuff from that movie jackie brown. Blaxtipolation or something like that I think. it was brilliant. i was at this place when you guys called and i tried to co ordinate myself to be answering my ph but it all went horribly wrong but thanks heaps for ringing, that was really sweet and im pissed off that I missed you! So that was that, 30 done and dusted. Have finally organised my contracts with work so should be getting paid this Friday so can then proceed to the home office next week to sort out the visa situation. Rock on Hawaii. The nz news. Andy. Well shes only just gone and bought herself a house! She saw it on a fri, got the mortgage on mon, completed on thurs. moves in in two weeks. Bloody hell. Perhaps I need a thirty crisis to shake things up. She really excited. Oh god, remember that really cool shop out at st lukes that we looked in. remember those bowl things that were made out of glass with pebble things in them. The really cool ones. Well I organised for mum to buy andy one of those for her b/day. I get this ph call from mum 12.30am on a wed my time!, shes out at st lukes going lisa I think youve lost your mind, they are hideous. The cheek. I said bloody rubbish and made her buy it anyway. It got duly delivered to andreas. Her mum now thinks that ive lost my marbles but its grown on andrea. Charming. Anyway are the travelling dynamic duo getting on? I went into the web site last w/end, bloody briliiant. I especially liked your goss and tips page. You look really good in some of those photos, no kidding. Espec the Hamilton shots. Tres photogenic darl. You can tell poss there will be SERIOUS editing of any Hawaii shots or else we will have dates in Europe later on this year for limb removal!

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Take care my darlings and lots of love to you both. Lis xxx Now then, I remember when Reg and Jacinta left Edinburgh for Australia, a group of us organized a goodbye picnic for the two of them. Caro and I wobbled up there late, picking our way across the weeds with our little bag of food (neither of us are very good with nature.) The thing that sticks in my memory is of everyone abruptly SHUTTING UP when we arrived; it appears that they'd all been having a good laugh at Caro's expense, imagining her travelling the world with her hair product and make-up being toted by her faithful bearer (me). They imagined that Caro would not take to the festy lifestyle of the traveller. Of course they were right. Caro made few, if any, style compromises. There are STANDARDS to be maintained after all. However, I must report that she carried her OWN product. But she did stand out amongst the other travel chicks, whose style is pretty much always a variation on the travel-pants-and-tightt-shirt-with-hair-tied-back theme. I was so proud of my Kiwi Fashion Goddess the day she rocked up to the Oz Experience Coach leaving Adelaide, with her blonde hair immaculately spiked, Real Groovy t-shirt on, flared jeans, purple and leopardskin boots, wraparound sunnies and ciggy prominent over one shoulder. I should add that this is at the same time as she's flinging her backpack into the back of the coach and wearing her her daypack over one shoulder. She's so cool. The Oz Experience coach was to take us to Melbourne, but would take four days to do so. It was to be a Voyage of Discovery along the Great Ocean Road and into the Grampian and Otway Nature Reserves! At least, that's what it said on the brochure. Unfortunately, we were just about last on the coach and so the only seats left for us were right over the wheel, meaning that I had practically no legroom and my kneecap was almost up my nose. It wasn't an auspicious start. Our driver introduced himself as "Rosco" and set off with an ear-splitting, tyre-squealing noise. "Don't worry about that," he said. Rosco went on to say that if anyone had any cds to put on, that was okay, "So long as it's not Coldplay." Unfortunately for us, he didn't stipulate any ban on Nirvana and we had to sit through some horrid anguished moaning for the next half hour. I was just mentally urging Kurt to pull the trigger. Don't get me wrong, I don't hate Nirvana, but it's not jolly travelling music is it? I mean, you cant sing along to In Utero on a bus. It's about as much fun as a Bob Dylan disco, or a Radiohead Karaoke Night. Kurt's anguished warblings were cut short by arrival at the Blue Lake, which it had to be said wasn't TERRIBLY blue. Rosco did his best, bless him, explaining that it was OFTEN very very blue indeed. Just not at the moment. Ahem. Rosco was cool. We had a bit of a chat in a pie shop and it turned out that he had spent time in New Zealand himself, ("Chair, eh bro?") Like Daniel, I think he was pleased to find a Kiwi on the tour. Let's face it, finding a Kiwi in Oz, means you've found an instant source of piss-take jokes. The Australian countryside is spectacular, even when its lakes aren't blue enough. It's dominated by trees and deadwood, bleached by the sun like arborial bones by the side of the road. Then there's the wildlife. I still haven't got over the thrill of seeing a flock of pink parrots taking off as the bus roared by, or seeing a kangaroo hopping off into the distance. Meantime, Nirvana had been replaced by the radio which was playing the Top 500 Songs of the 70's, 80's and 90's, praise the lord and pass the Culture Club. After a bit of a drive we came to Kingston, the Australian town that boasts The Big Lobster. I don't really know what

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to say about this. They've got this lobster and it's big. And it's there. God knows what possessed them. Mind you, New Zealand is just as bad, while there I saw The Big Carrot, The Big Kiwifruit and The Big L&P Bottle. I think they must get bored down under and their papier-mache sessions just get well out of hand. Our first night was to be spent in the town of Mount Gambier, where a rather unusual hostel awaited. It appeared that the local jail had been closed down in 1995 and some enterprising bugger had decided that the severe and limited facilities of a penal facility were perfect for backpackers. It's REALLY pretty cool. Rosco drove us up to the front gates with the barbed wire still on the walls and it was all very intimidating. Immediately, my mind teemed with thoughts of escape. Maybe I could construct a makeshift rope from bedsheets and body hair... We got signed in and found our cell, whoops I mean room. It was pretty basic all right, rather chilly with two hard single beds and - uh - a toilet. NO. NOT in a separate, nice little room. ONE toilet. RIGHT there. Now I don't know what stage you people have reached in your relationships, but it took me and Caro some considerable time before we even farted in front of each other. ( It took about 4 months, I recall. Of course, its not important to state who was first to play a happy tune on the botty kazoo, but it was definitely not me. I just recall being hugely relieved. I'd been having to do the old slow, silent release for AGES and it just wasn't as satisfying as a decent blow-off. Anyway, I'm sure Caro regretted that first one as it certainly opened the floodgates of flatulence if you know what I mean. I've always felt that farting is a major step in a relationship. That breaking wind is a symbolic step that you are moving closer together, although at the actual moment you may well prefer to be further apart. Weeing in front of each other means you are closer still. Weeing ON each other means something else altogether, and I don't really want to know about you people who do that sort of malarkey.) Anyway, as you can imagine we both handled our shared toilet situation in a very mature manner: CARO: ME: CARO: ME: CARO: ME: CARO: ME: CARO: Right. I'm going to wee now. Look, just turn away will you? All right. Promise not to look? Mmmmmmmaybe. Well, now I can't wee. You're just making me nervous. Oh, all right, I promise. (Weeing). EEEyyeeeewwww! I can SMELL it! **** off you ****ing ****!

It wasn't nearly as awkward for me. After all, as a boy I have to face the old urinal more often than I would like. If you are a girl, you will never have had to run the urinal gauntlet - unless you are REALLY talented, so you'll have to take my word for it, that ostensibly peeing against a wall with a bunch of other blokes is not a pleasant experience. Compared to that, sharing a bog with Caro was a doddle. And anyway, I peed sitting down which amazed Caro who thought men had to stand. She didn't realise it was no big feat to be ambidextrous in the old weeing department. (Urinals: An Aside. You girls just don't know how traumatic it all is. The first problem you come to with urinals is "placement". There is a whole weeing etiquette, you see. You don't stand RIGHT NEXT TO ANOTHER guy if there's only the two of you peeing. You respect the guy's "space". Also, if you get too close there's the possibility that you MAY CATCH SIGHT OF SOME OTHER GUY'S THINGY. This would never do. Firstly, because you might get some sort of whole penis-envy thing going, secondly because he might spot

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you sizing him up, and thirdly because he might be weeing out of it at the time and that would just be DISGUSTING. In fact, I once was in the unfortunate position of being joined at a urinal by someone who DID NOT KNOW THE RULES. Not only did he stand too close, he PEED with great force and I experienced the horror of splash-back. I tell you, not only did I wash my hands at the basin after, I washed right up to my elbows like a surgeon prepping for surgery. Also, this guy tried to hold a conversation and men who talk in urinals really irritate me. They stand there, lad in hand, chatting away like nothing's happening. I never know where to look, as they discuss the weather, weeing all over the place. It's just impolite. The second problem at a urinal is "stage fright". This is when the weewee that's been backed up in your bladder for 3 hours suddenly decides it's not going ANYWHERE when you actually stand at the urinal with guys peeing like racehorses on either side. It's quite embarrassing, standing there, trying desperately to think soggy thoughts. And you're always sure that the other guys have NOTICED. Like they're standing there, going "A-ha!! Someone with prostate trouble!" or worse they're imagining that you're not there to wee at ALL. Like you're there for some other nefarious, non weewee reason. For this reason, I usually dive into a cubicle if possible. But then of course you know the guys at the urinal are thinking, "Ahhh, went for the cubicle. Probably got a weird willy he's ashamed to show in public." Its such a trauma. I feel quite overcome writing about it.) After our touching toilet interlude, we went off to get ourselves some dinner and have a bit of a chat. We met a German named Monika, who was very pleasant. She was saying that we were taking a "Japanese Tour", which basically consists of hopping off a bus, taking a picture and hopping back on again. She also added that she knows of Japanese people who can't afford holidays, so send their cameras abroad with friends who will take the pictures FOR them and send them back home. At which point they presumably put together an album, going through it saying, "Ah, here's when my camera went to Paris! Here's my camera at Versailles! This one is when my camera got pissed at the Oktoberfest!" And so forth. We also got talking to a couple who had just come back from a tour of the outback. They were telling us about the various horrid experiences they had had, including a night of rain in which they slept in hammocks ("swags") with covers over their faces to keep out the wet, and possums climbing all over them. We mentioned to them how happy we were that we hadn't seen any huge spiders yet. They just laughed. "Just because you haven't seen them, doesn't mean they're not THERE," they replied ominously. The woman (I think her name was Ellen) complained about the Australian habit of downplaying the whole poisonous horrid creature thing they have going down here. "They say to you, 'Oh, that spider's harmless, don't worry about it.' What they actually MEAN is, 'Oh that spider will only put you in hospital for a couple of months.'" She wasn't very reassuring. For dinner, we were served some sort of soup that we were unsure of, and a chicken schnitzel salad. Meanwhile, Rosco had discovered Caro's purple and leopardskin boots with purple fishnet socks. He laughed so hard, I thought he was going to hurt himself. Then, after a couple of drinks it was back to the cell, and it WAS kind of an eerie feeling as that door banged shut behind me. And all I could hear in my head were these words: "Norman Stanley Fletcher, you are an habitual criminal who accepts capture as an occupational hazard and views imprisonment in the same CASUAL MANNER... (If you don't recognise this quote, then obviously you don't know your 1970's sitcoms nearly well enough.) It was DARK too, with the silhouette of the bars illuminated by the moon on one wall. As I lay there, I heard a little voice next to me:

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"I wonder if anyone's ever died in here?" Thanks Caro, thanks for that. I lay there for another hour, having a bit of a "Sixth Sense" moment before finally falling asleep to the sound of Caro peeing in the corner. The next morning we stopped off to pick up some groceries in Harrow, a small and mildly eccentric town where they put up little cardboard mock ups of things everywhere. For example they have an entire cardboard tent village. Dont ask. They also have a cardboard mock-up of the first Aborigine cricketer, frozen in action next to the stumps of the village green. Still, the locals were friendly and explained to us that Mount Gambier Prison had been built in 1865 and had held mostly paedophiles and drug dealers. It had been closed when a local bright spark had pointed out that perhaps it wasn't SUCH a good idea holding such types next to the PRIMARY SCHOOL. Our next stop was Mount Arapiles, for a spot of rock-climbing. And, no - before you people get all excited - I didn't go. We watched for a little while, eating grapes in the sun and chatting to Monika until Caro decided to go to the toilet. "Ahhhh - it's just down the road on the left there," said Rosco. So off we went. Down the road. Just a bit of a way. Then a bit further. Then round a bend. Then further. "I wonder if he meant there's a spot you can wee in the BUSHES, down there on the left?" asked Caro. I shrugged, and before I knew it, Caro was crouching down behind a bush, flashing her little white bottom to the road while I kept a look out for cars. Still, we kept on going. There was no hurry to get back, and besides, Caro said that it hadn't been that satisfying, peeing while stressed. Eventually we noticed another straggler behind us, but so far behind we couldn't tell who it was. At this point we found the toilets!! "JEEEE-sus!!" complained Caro and we both made our way over, while Caro waved in a "toilets this way" sort of manner to whomever was following us. On returning from the toilet, I heard the unnerving cry of the kookaburra, laughing in the trees above me. I wondered what was amusing him, and if he'd peeked at my willy. We made it back to the bus about a half hour later, with the other toilet-seeker about 15 minutes after that. It turned out to be an American who complained loudly to Rosco that the toilets were "at least a couple of k's away." Rosco then added insult to injury by driving everyone else to the toilet once the rock-climbers had finished, but as often happens, having something for us to bitch about brought us together. Caro and I got chatting to the American contingent on the bus, Kim and Ann from Chicago and Jenna from Boston. They gave us some useful tips on the USA, including telling Caro where to shop. Damn them. Mount Arapiles marks the start of the mountain range known as The Grampians, hard rugged rocks that surge out of the green landscape, like something that's grown there. Once again, it was fun just to look out at the landscape as it flashed past. But also, we had Australian radio going. "Okay, call in if you have an interesting story about the death of a pet," the DJ said. How I wish we had shows like this on UK radio. (The most tragic story was of the guy whose goldfish got run over.) Meanwhile, Ann and Kim were sitting next to Caro and they seemed to getting along very well. They had discovered that universal girl language of make-up, clothes and mags. Quite frankly, after about half an hour, Caro could have been talking to Mechelle and Lisa Brown. Now that we'd spent a couple of days together we'd also had time to assess the rest of the bus too. There were some English girls who were ok, but very quiet. A couple of them were very young and spent most of the trip flirting wildly with the young guys at the front of the bus, but in a kind of annoying oh-jesus-justget-it-over-with-and-shag sort of way. The guys themselves really got on our nerves, one of them - a Swiss guy was ok, but Klaus, a German and Anthony from Ulster were SERIOUSLY in love with themselves. Too cool to listen to anything but boring depressing shit, too seen-it-all to get excited by nature and too stupid to live, quite frankly. Then there were the older Germans - Monika, who we'd already found to be funny and interesting, a

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teacher from Cologne on sabbatical - and a couple named Kirsten and Thomas. They were clinical psychologists and seemed very earnest. This is probably our prejudice showing here though. I mean, let's face it, we've been trained to think that all Germans are a) humourless and b) naturists. But it's not true! Well at least the first part. I couldn't say about the second. But the more we talked to Kirsten and Thomas, the more we found that they would say something, then sort of blink at you with their earnest little expressions then you'd suddenly realise... "Hey... that was quite bitchy..." Then you'd notice them cackling away together. So there you go. Germans are bitchy and funny and nasty. And there I was thinking that Caroline had cornered the market. The next stop was a sinkhole. Rosco kept showing us these things which are caused by volcanoes, I think. I wasn't really listening as it sounded too much like 3rd year geography to me, and besides I wanted to find out how a goldfish becomes a road fatality. However, the sinkhole was cooler than you would think. It was this massive round hole in the ground, with trees and ivy growing all the way down, water dripping down one side, and beautiful lush vegetation at the bottom. It was hard not to be impressed by the majesty of it all. "It smells like the monkey house," said Jenna. Unfortunately it's true. It's a sad fact that a great number of nature-intensive sights of interest smell of week-old urine. Kind of makes me wish I had invested in a zoom lens for my camera really. Our desination on the second day was to be Hall's Gap in the heart of the Grampians where a $3 million Eco-Hostel had just been built. It had all sorts of environmentally-friendly features such as recycling the shower water to use in the toilets. "Good thing it's not the other way around," commented Caro. It was really cool - like a very plush hotel with lovely lounges and a modern kitchen and strict no-toilets-inthe-corner policy. Rosco himself made dinner for us, a fabulous pumpkin soup with garlic bread. If the driving doesn't pan out for him, I reckon he could easily get a job in catering. Once again we sat with Ann and Kim, and Rosco as well and had a bit of a laugh. Kim was telling us about how some very badlydressed guy had been stalking her in Australia, desperate for a date, but unable to ask. She didn't seem to have that much luck in this department. She told another story about jogging in the USA, when a car suddenly pulled over in her path and a guy she knew from school hopped out, and asked her for her number. "Now this guy had spent time in PRISON for inventing a date-rape drug," Kim explained. "And he's talking to me like, 'Hey, how's it going?' I mean - what am I supposed to say. 'Good - how's it going with you? Are you on day-release or did you make parole? Cool bracelet on your ankle by the way!!'" So she had cleverly thrown him off, by GIVING him her number, but transposing two numbers! Smart eh? "But the dickhead wrote it down wrong and switched 'em BACK!" she complained. I don't know if he ever called her. If he did, it might explain what she's doing on the other side of the world. Actually both Ann and Kim were in Sydney studying, and explained to us that the tour was just something to do in the Easter break. Meanwhile, it appeared that Jenna was doing a course in environment conservation or conservative environmentalism or some such, and her whole time in Oz was part of the course. She too, had spent time on Kangaroo Island, studying the wildlife. And she too had AN EXCITING TIGER SNAKE STORY... JENNA'S EXCITING TIGER SNAKE STORY So Jenna was working on Kangaroo Island, when she and the guy she was working with got a call about an injured echidna. They drove out to pick it up and came across a snake that had been run over. But REALLY run over - not just "flat" like Radaha's snake. But it was just the part near the tail that was squished and the snake was still moving about and would probably recover if it received attention. The guy grabbed the snake (number four on the Lethal Reptiles of Australia List, remember) and told Jenna that she could drive while he held it. "But this is a shift car, on the wrong side of the road," she protested. So, in the end, the guy ended up shifting the gears and moving the pedals while Jenna held the wheel and the guy dangled the snake out of the window.

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"All this on the wrong side of the road," she added. As I've said, up until now I'd felt it was a girl's group. That's ok. Quite frankly I find women more interesting to listen to anyway, but women don't know this and so clam up a bit around me. Doubtless thinking I would rather be discussing football or car transmissions or some other such boring shit. But anyway, I felt like I'd been welcomed into the group when Caro told them how proud she'd been of me the previous day when I'd made, "his first bitchy comment." It's true. It had been directed at one of the young guys at the front of the coach who went around wearing a bandana. All right, you might say, slightly posey, but so what? I'll tell you what, matey - it was ELASTICATED. Now, I'm hardly Mr. Fashion myself but I know that an elasticated bandana is NEARLY a clip-on tie, or just one geek short of total nerddom, if you will. "OH MY GOD, YES!!" the AmeriChicks agreed. They'd been sniggering about it all day too - well, let's face it - if I notice a fashion faux-pas, it must be pretty glaring. I suppose that now I've gone on about everyone at length, I should describe them a bit more. Rosco was a hugely funny Ozzie bloke who drew very good cartoons and sort of resembled a cartoon character himself. I would say that he resembled Custard the Cat with his huge mischeivous grin, or possibly one of Captain Pugwash's pirates. (Actually, he had once been a poster boy when someone took a picture of him looking like a pirate, "I had a tan, and was wearing a white shirt with lots of the buttons open, and I had an earring at that time.) In Rosco's past, he had also come second in a beauty contest while wearing a pink leotard and tutu and claimed that he would look fabulous in a thong, but that he would have to get a "back-crack and sack wax" for that. Quite frankly, I prefer not to dwell on such things. Rosco also did a mean Pepe Le Peu impression. ("I can speak a few words of French: 'Kom awah weez me to ze kaz-baaah beh-bee'.") Among other stories, he told us how he was once getting his head shaved with the clippers broke down, leaving him with two tufts of hair on either side of his head; completely delighted by this, he went off to pick up a busfull of tourists, "looking like Krusty the Clown". These are but a handful of Rosco stories; I feel I have only scratched the surface of the man. Some of you may be grateful for this. Ann and Kim were extremely sophisticated and funny Chicago gals, very stylish and with a rather cynical sense of humour. Kim was definitely The Leader, rattling off stories and fixing you with a piercing grey stare. Ann subtly interjected put-downs and sourly funny comments. Meanwhile, Jenna was seemingly very shy and sweet, but in fact turned out to be extremely naughty and very funny. The example of this is when she turned to Anthony and asked him "What that red thing was on his head." The poor guy assumed he had some left over dinner on his face and spent a minute examining himself before the howls of laughter from our group alerted him that she meant the bandana. We decided to adjourn outdoors (well, Caro did - nicotine levels running low and all that) and to Ann's great delight, she spotted a possum. He was walking along the top of a telephone wire - she rushed over to where he was and FLASH!!! The whole night sky was lit up. And the possum was completely paralysed. "Oh my god!" she asked me. "Do you think I killed him?" "Jesus!" said Rosco, roaring with laughter, "he's a nocturnal creature. His pupils must have been like dinner plates and then you let a flash off in his face?!" At that, the possum swung precariously round the bottom of the wire and fell off into a bush. Ann suffered paroxysms of guilt for the rest of the trip whenever the word "possum" was mentioned. (We all made sure to mention it quite often) As for Rosco, he went off on a "Tango and Cash" wire-sliding tangent from which it was impossible to rescue him. Meanwhile, Caro and Kim's attention was distracted by the fact that Jenna had hooked up with some guy from Melbourne. They were frustrated by the fact that they could only see what was going on, and were desperately trying to translate the body language. It was just like a reallife episode of "Big Brother".

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Then Rosco told us the DISTURBING TRUTH about Mount Gambier jail. It seems that the place is INDEED haunted. He told the story of an aboriginal guy who created a disturbance all night, crying out, "The brothers are walking! The brothers are walking!" He wouldn't shut up until he was moved to a different cell, whereupon he quickly quietened down. It seemed (and here's where I hold the literary flashlight under my chin) THAT AN ABORIGINE HAD DIED IN THAT VERY CELL WHILE IN CUSTODY (Jarring chord). Rosco also said there were several guys buried under the jail standing up and facing in so that their souls COULD NEVER LEAVE. Gulp. I'm glad he told us this after we had left. The next morning found us refreshed from the night in our luxurious room. Kim and Ann less so, having had to spend a night in the room with the young guys who all stank. First, they stank from their rockclimbing exertions, but Ann and Kim had no problem telling them this, in no uncertain terms. Obviously paranoid, they then drenched themselves in rather unsubtle cologne. Klaus, the German kid, then apparently asked Kim if she would undress him. It was probably all to the good that she didn't hear him as I'm sure he prefers to have both of his bollocks still attached. Jenna, meanwhile, had spent the night in the dorm with a snorer. The fact that it was one of the young English chicks delighted Caro, I could tell, although I'm sure we were all disappointed that nothing had happened between Jenna and Melbourne Guy. Rosco promised us an active day once we got going, and indeed it was. We started out by descending from the Grampians and driving through an extinct volcano. The INTERESTING THING about the volcano was that it had been covered in indiginous trees and shrubs but these had been cleared by the Europeans. When the volcano was declared a national park the area had to be replanted and the only way they could figure out what to plant was to look at a painting done by a very talented artist at the time. This was also the stretch where we would be going along the Great Ocean Road. So not only were there great views all the way, but several stops for us to have a bit of a look at the bizarre rock formations you get due to erosion. There (was) London Bridge - now referred to as London Arch. This is because a big bit of it fell into the water, leaving what looks like a huge table out in the middle of a bay. The local colour (provided by Rosco) was that when the collapse occurred, a couple were left stranded. A news helicopter went to pick them up, but they told it to stuff off. They waited instead for the proper rescue services, but the news helicopter hung about and filmed them anyway, at which point their need for discretion became apparent. It seemed that they were A NAUGHTY COUPLE up to illicit things behind their partner's backs. It's this sort of thing that brings history to life, I find. Rosco's commentary was definitely entertaining; and his dancing. He got down to Ann's Madonna cd while driving along and had us all grooving along with him when Ann's Frank Sinatra cd was played. "And that one goes out to all the luuuurvers..." he breathed as "Strangers In the Night" finished. (Rosco later told us that he loves doing things like that. He once spent a whole trip playing romantic music to a bus full of couples. "They was only one guy and one girl who weren't together. He was 65 and she was 19, so I didn't hold out much hope. Still, you never know.") Other stops along the way included the Bay of Islands, The Bay of Martyrs and The Twelve Apostles, which are 12 standing pillars of rock in the ocean. We stood watching the surf pound into them with Kim and Ann who suddenly asked me what ocean it was: KIM: ANN: KIM: It's the Pacific, you should know - you were swimming in it. When?! When you were drunk that time. Don't you remember?

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ANN: KIM:

I wasn't swimming. I was paddling. Your ass was WET. That constitutes swimming.

While on our way to the 12 Apostles, Caro got separated from me, and an American guy insinuated himself between us. Caro didn't notice and went HAPPILY ON talking away, as she does, but realising she wasn't getting any response turned around and found a complete stranger listening to her. CARO: MAN: ME: MAN: Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else. It's ok - just sounded like nag, nag, nag, to me anyway. Did I miss anything important? (Sourly) Not really.

Then we drove along to Loch Ard Gorge, and once again Rosco gave us the background. It seemed there was this big shipwreck there, and the only survivors were a boy called Tom and a girl called Eve. Tom was dragging himself up the beach when he heard Eve's cries for help and went back to get her, "Then he pulled her into a cave, gave her some whisky and then shagged her senseless before going to get help." (Pause) "He didn't really shag her senseless. I just made that up to make sure you were paying attention." Rosco's monologues were very entertaining. On another occasion he said, "We're now coming into the town of Peterborough. Anyone here from Peterborough in the UK?..... No-one. Great. Well I was just trying to make conversation. I'll shut up then will I?" So we pottered down to the gorge, which was bloody impressive and you could almost imagine the wreck as the waves CRASHED through this narrow inlet and went smashing up onto the beach. Mind you, it was difficult making your way along, not so much because of the waves and sand but because we got caught in the crossfire of masses of Japanese cameras. I swear, six months from now, hundreds of Japanese families will be looking at pictures of me walking along a beach and saying, "Who the hell is this handsome fellow?" It was here that Kim got shoved into the water by an old lady, which was a source of great amusement to us all. Having laughed at Kim, there was nothing left to do but go back to the coach when suddenly an American guy stopped Caro in mid-sentence. "Still nagging eh?" he said. So it was after quite a long day that we found ourselves at a hostel in Cape Otway. Rosco had described it as "basic" and he wasn't lying. Caro shot out of the bus to snaffle a double room for us, and what we actually got was a caravan with a corragated-iron shed attached to it. Jenna referred to it as "the loveshack". Caro took out her little maglite to examine the hut but I gently pointed out to her that she probably didn't want to see what was living in there. The inside of the caravan wasn't much better. I mean, I'm no snob and a caravan can be pretty luxurious, but this one was dusty and COVERED IN COBWEBS. And we all know what makes cobwebs don't we? We hadn't, so far, seen any Huge Fucking Spiders, but both of us knew it was simply a matter of time. I felt this could well be the night. So I made sure to take deep cleansing breaths and kept a spider-squisher handy whenever I moved about. Rosco was once again making dinner. This time it was pasta, ham and sauce, along with garlic bread and once again it was DELICIOUS. After the meal, the English girls and the young guys drifted off while Ann and Kim attempted to teach the Germans the intricacies of a card game called "Asshole". Caro snuck off for her usual post-dinner ciggy in the "common room" which was set aside for socialising (and by "common room" I actually mean "shed with old split couches and chairs in it and things running along the floor".) Rosco decided to come along too. I'm so glad he did. We had a great chat about the usual subjects; poo,

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weewee and vomit. It was great! Rosco told me his favourite poo story and I told him the story of Uncle Ralph. ROSCO'S FAVOURITE POO STORY This concerns a poo he had done on a boat. The constant motion had stifled his, er - motions as it were. Anyway after four days, he finally HAD to excuse himself during dinner and did the biggest crap of his life. It was so big he had to stand up to finish it, and when it was done it was, "peering over the top of the bowl at me like a python." Anyway, the damn thing wouldn't flush as you would expect, so Rosco did what anyone would have done in the situation; ran away hoping that someone else would get the blame. However, just as he was finishing his dinner, his mates came in and told him, "never to do anything like that again." They further informed him that they had had to pay a cabin boy $20 to "break it up and flush it." THE UNCLE RALPH STORY This concerns my Uncle Ralph who was a bit of a joker and who decided that it would be A GREAT JAPE to climb up the drainpipe and to surprise my grandad while on the toilet. What he didn't expect was that my grandad was actually having a poo. As he hung there off the window frame saying, "Ha-ha! I can SEEEEE you!!" my grandad (who was completely unfazed by this attention) simply finished wiping his arse and stuck the used paper to Ralph's forehead, who responded by screaming and falling off the drainpipe. So it was a pretty highbrown level of conversation then. Rosco also told us the story of the night he got a bit drunk and spent the evening having naughty fun with a lady. Having had his fun and bade her farewell, he wobbled home but stopped off at a corner to have a pee. However, he was extremely unnerved when, having loosened his bladder, NOTHING HAPPENED. It was just when he was starting to think that maybe he had some serious urinal problem that he remembered; the condom was still on. Classy. But the evening had worn on by this point, so Rosco excused himself to go to bed (but only after I had managed to get a picture of him and Caro together; I have to add that Rosco was massaging his own nipple in this picture.) We went back to catch up with Kirsten and Thomas and Kim who were still in the dining room, but had given up on the cards. Instead, Kim had turned the Germans to the Dark Side and the three of them were quite happily bitching about Anthony and Klaus ("He obviously avoided national service," said Thomas). We were all too eager to join in and spent a very pleasant hour before it was time for all of us to turn in, and time for Caro and Me to return to The Caravan of Scary Things With Too Many Legs. Actually, I slept fine. I remember I was having a great filthy dream about Barbara Windsor (1970s Barbara, not EastEnders Barbara because that would just be sick) when when Caro grabbed me whispering, "Symon, Symon, whats that????" Fortunately, I am always prepared for such an eventuality. My ready response to this is, "Nothing, go back to sleep." However, as I uttered these reassuring words I HEARD THE CARAVAN DOOR SWING OPEN. And not just a normal swing either. It was one of those Unholy Dead pushing the door to their tomb open CCCCCRRRRRRRREEEEAAAKS. Well, that woke me up. Never fear, readers - I had a backup plan. I call it the Auntie Eileen Plan. My Auntie Eileen is a large and scary woman. So large and scary that she once found two burglers stealing her telly and immediately marched up to the first one and started strangling him. The second one was so scared he jumped out of the window forgetting he was 3 floors up and broke both his legs. The point is this; whenever I want to scare intruders I emulate my Auntie Eileen, rolling up my sleeves and bellowing, "WHAT THE BLUDDY ELL IS GOIN ON ERE THEN???!!!" as she would do. Also, I was carrying my maglite like a bludgeon, although sadly it was only a mini-maglite so to be honest I think the worst it would have done to a psycho in a hockey mask is dazzle them if I put it on pencil-beam.

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So there I was, Eileening through the caravan and there it was NOTHING. To this day I have no idea what opened the caravan door. Maybe it was one of Australias smaller spiders letting itself back in. I made my way back to bed and lay there, my body tensed next to Caro when we suddenly heard an even worse noise. It was the slow laboured breathing followed by a long protracted moan. Maybe it was some sort of wild beast. Maybe it was the death-rattle of an unfortunate backpacker. Maybe it was THE VERY BREATH OF THE FLESH-EATING UNDEAD. Or possibly it was some pervert having a wank. "Oh, its a koala!" said Caro. Of COURSE it was. The little buggers are up and about that time of night. I had nearly coughed in me rompers over some cute cuddly little bugger getting it on with his missis. Anyway, so after all that I stayed awake for the rest of the night while Caro turned over and went back to sleep. I trust you too, have a good nights sleep while you leave me lying here in Cape Otway, praying for the sun to come up. Bastards. * * *

Our last day on the Oz Experience was spent tootling along the coast to Melbourne. On the way a bizarre thing happened. We were queuing in a pie shop for a sausage roll (look, it's good backpacker food; you have one of those, you don't need to eat again for 2 or 3 days) when Caroline saw Reg standing in front of us. This is the same Reg I mentioned at the very beginning of this chapter, who we were to be staying with in Melbourne! It was WEIRD. I mean, we knew that he and Jacinta were holidaying along the coast, but for us all to get an urge for a sausage roll at the same time... Some huge karmic forces were obviously at work here. Anyway, so we had a bit of a chat, and told him that we'd see him in a couple of days. We only made a couple more stops. One at the beach to watch the surfers which took Caro back to her teen years (insert stories here) ******************************** We also stopped for lunch at Torquay where we sat with Rosco and a fellow driver named "Foghorn". ("Your second name wouldnt be Leghorn by any chance?" asked Caro. "See what Ive had to put up with on this trip?" sighed Rosco.) Foghorn explained that it was just a nickname given to her by passengers that she quite liked. Then Rosco went on to tell us how to play the game of "Depthcharge" in which you shove a 20 cent piece in your bumcrack and try to drop it in a mug. Try it at home, if you like. Then we were off again! Flying along the coast road, with fantastic views and my soul tape blaring "Ain't Too Proud To Beg" over the bus speakers! "Mmmmmmm.... Nice," said Rosco. So that was the end of our Oz Experience, which was such a shame as wed met so many cool, interesting and funny people. Oh and Anthony in his red bandana. It's time to put my cards on the table; Melbourne is cooler than Sydney. There, I've said it. This is a huge thing in Australia where Sydney are Melbourne are constantly at each others throats over just who, exactly is the coolest. I hope my pronouncement has settled this matter once and for all. Because, for all it's amazing landmarks and its "Hey, we were the coolest Olympiad EVER!" claims (and they WERE, no two ways about it) Sydney is just too much of a hyped-up, look-at-me-look-at-me, coke addict fiend of a city. Melbourne, on the other hand is a more laid back, beer-drinkin' kind of town. While Sydney screams at you to pay it attention, Melbourne seduces you down back alleys with funky shops and groovy cafes.

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And I should know, we spent a great deal of time in both, seeing as how it PISSED DOWN WITH RAIN JUST ABOUT THE WHOLE TIME WE WERE THERE. Now I'm not a total idiot. Well, all right, yes I am, but there are some things I know. And one thing is that even though we are in Australia where it's supposed to be hot the whole time, even the Aussies have Autumn. And this was it. Melbourne was as cold and rainy as Edinburgh on a Sunday afternoon in October when you're trudging your way back from Safeway with four bagfuls of groceries and no hat. And the world doesn't get much wetter than that, unless you're Jacques Cousteau. I suppose I wasn't expectly COLD rain, is what I'm saying. But I'm from Yorkshire you know. We're good hardy folk. We're robust! We're staunch! We're pretty stupid! So I didn't mind too much and enjoyed what I saw of Melbourne through the drizzle. But anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself. We arrived in relatively pleasant conditions, said our goodbyes to the naughty Germans, the funky Americans and Rosco. Then we made our way to our hotel. YES!! A hotel. I had decided to allow ourselves a bit of spoiling for 2 days, so we booked ourselves into a hotel where we would revel in the en-suite facilities, the teev and those little packets of coffee with plastic milk. (Look, after a night in Cape Otway, I was happy just to be alive, okay??) However, Caro and I were delighted to find that our hotel was, in fact, fabulous. The Hotel Como must have had special rates going on, or maybe they thought were were royalty or something, because we got a lovely room at a special rate. We realised we had entered a world of luxury as soon as we entered a vast lobby, all terribly minimalist in design, dominated by grey marble with a cute little fountain and pebbles embedded in the walls. Our room was larger than my entire flat in Edinburgh and contained a living room with telly, large bedroom (also with telly) a fitted kitchen and bathroom as big as a ballroom (except with a bath in it). It was a decent tub too, not the usual sort of thing where you have to stick your feet up in the air like a pregnant lady in stirrups if you want to submerge your armpits. Im not kidding, Jacques Cousteu and the crew of the Calypso could have spent hours investigating this tub. Well, all right, maybe Im exaggerating a little. Look, Im excited about the room, okay? I havent even told you about the in-room service yet. We were delighted to find that it was possible to order a double-massage in order to "share the ultimate sensual experience". Or they can would RUN A BATH for you. It took 90 minutes to prepare but The Gentleman's Bath included patchouli, orange, sandlewood, and a hint of ylang-ylang - topped off by brandy and a cigar. I was considering taking up smoking just so I could try it. Caros favourite was the "personal jogger". This poor soul was employed by the hotel to "escort you around the many scenic jogging routes that surround the hotel." Can you imagine the poor bloke - undoubtedly called "Kevin" or "Duane" - just coming back in from a 6 mile run only to be told that Mrs. Jenkins now wanted to go out and was looking forward to a REAL work out. "Off ya go Kev! No excuses! And put that vein back in your neck!" However, I was DISTRAUGHT to find that once we were in the hotel room THERE WAS NOTHING ON THE TELLY!!! It was a televisual disaster! The only thing on was "Neighbours" - and OLD Neighbours at that. I do believe Kylie was still in it. So in these tv drought conditions Caro and I spent most of our time going around the shops looking for a pair of funky trainers. This is currently Caro's "El Dorado" if you will. The Funkiest Trainers In the World. She's been trying since Hamilton in New Zealand but still they elude her. I imagine her eventually penetrating the Hidden Mayan Funky Trainer Temple of Machu Pichu, and avoiding horrid little Nike pygmies throwing sweat socks at her. Then the drugs wear off and I wake up. Actually I didn't mind helping Caro look, because Melbourne is a hugely attractive city with lots of cool little arcades from the Victorian era which are fun just to look around at. In one, there were these huge

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statues of Gog and Magog, which is not something you would expect in a mall in the UK. I find its lots of fun just to go poking about, even if you have no intention to buy. My favourite was The Haunted Bookshop which was full of stuff about Satanism and Ghosts and such. It was one of those really cool places with huge wooden shelves that go up forever and creaky floorboards. On returning from another failed Trainer Expedition, I found there to be NOTHING on telly apart from "Bewitched". But this was ok. Even if Bewitched featured basically the same plot (if not the same Darren) week after week after week, and even if the jokes were lame it didn't matter because ELIZABETH MONTGOMERY was in it. Now I don't know about you, but I think that Elizabeth Montgomery may be the perfect woman. Every week she would be there, bopping about in groovy sixties clothes (by which I mean very short skirts) with her cute little eyes, blonde hair which she sometimes put in a ponytail and Darren would come home and she would whip him up something yummy with a wiggle of her nose. I certainly wouldn't complain if I were Darren. (I have similar Barbara Eden fantasies. I see nothing sick or deviant about this. Really. Look, just shut up about it). Mind you, Darren did nothing BUT complain. "Saaaaaaamm!!" he was always saying. I just kept hoping Endora would turn him into a frog and place him in a roomful of schoolboys armed with straws. However I must admit that this feeling was based in part on pure jealousy. What happened when Sam wiggled her nose in the BEDROOM was what I always wondered. Then the drugs wore off and I woke up. So anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that I was desperately trying to get value for my money by watching WHATEVER was on, because at least it was telly. I was halfway through the third episode of a "Rugrat-athon" when Kim called Caro and arranged for us all to meet up that night for drinks and a meal. Now THERE was a very welcome turnup for the book. Caro and I arrived at the Elephant and Warehouse (hang out of the "Neighbours" stars if you're interested; I wasn't - unless Elizabeth Montgomery had joined the cast.) Kim and Ann and Jenna were all waiting for us, and we ordered some good Authentic English Pub Food. It wasn't quite authentic this stuff was actually edible. Kim and Ann were delighted by the fact that they had ACTUAL tomato sauce there. They had been suffering the whole time they were in Australia due to chronic horrid-sweet-Ozzie-sauce syndrome. But THIS, they claimed, was the genuine article. I thought Ann was going to chug the whole bottle. Instead she decided to get a souvenir, but was undoubtedly the worst sneaky souvenir hunter I've ever met. If someone in Scotland wants a souvenir from a pub, I've known them take glasses, pictures, even light-fittings. I expected Ann to at least steal the bottle, but instead she peeled off the label and then stressed about getting caught. Kim sat on the menu for a while, hoping to get it into her bag, but then the waiter must have decided to show pity and brought her one instead. After the meal, Jenna met up with Melbourne Guy again! He turned out to be called James and took us to an Irish pub, which was pretty cool and reminded me of Edinburgh. The only bad part is that due to a lack of chairs, I was forced to sit alone on a high stool, like a little gnome and god knows I look enough like one to start with without having my own personal toadstool to sit on. The other downside was that, this being An Irish Bar, the resident band decided to sing some traditional Irish songs. Like, for example "So Young" by The Corrs. I don't hate The Corrs, I actually quite like the first album, and the second one was all right. But the third one makes me retch a bit, and I find the three of them all a bit sinister - the way they all look alike. They're a bit like The Children of the Damned or something. But however, one guy obviously didn't feel this way and started grooving along to them, in a shuffling-about-the-carpet-in-shiny-shoes sort of way. Caro bet Jenna $10 to go dance with him, but she politely declined while we all discussed vital topics such as "Temptation Island", "Big Brother" and "Survivor". I was sorry to say goodbye to Kim, Ann and Jenna. They were all really cool and funny and had made that section of our trip. Rosco had said that this was one of the best ever, and I reckon it was mainly due to those three.

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Still, on the plus side, we were now leaving the hotel and going off to stay with Reg and Jacinta in Parkdale, which is a little suburb about 50 minutes out of Melbourne. When we arrived there, Reg met us and took us back to their place, which is a flat in a complex right next to the ocean. I should probably say some words here about Reg and Jacinta. I didn't feel like I knew them particularly well, I had only met them about 3 times before and then at relatively big gatherings where you don't really get a chance to properly interrogate someone. However, having spent five days studying them, I feel I can make the following judgements: At the risk of sounding rather camp; Reg is a Total Sweetie. He's Scottish and lived in (mostly) Edinburgh working at various jobs, which by the sound of it involved mainly Bunking Off, Farting About and Having a Bit of a Laugh. He went on to start his own business ferrying bands all over the UK. During his travels, he met up with Carter USM and even played football with a post-Take-That-pre-superstardom Robbie Williams before a University Gig. "He was crap," said Reg (meaning the gig - I couldn't say about the football.) But he added he felt sorry for Robbie who was obviously so swamped by assistants and managers he hardly had any time to himself. On another occasion Reg was taking a group named Finitribe to Glastonbury to perform; it was like a dream come true for all of them - Reg even got to see Primal Scream live. However, on the day of the gig some idiot had gone into the tent where Finitribe were to perform to suck up the mud with an industrial cleaner. Unfortunately, The Portaloo Gods were against Reg that day and effluent from the chemical toilets was sprayed all over the tent when the "blow" instead of "suck" switch was thrown. "There was nothing to do except go home," said Reg, "it was heartbreaking". That's Reg's history. After he picked us up, he welcomed us to his flat, sat us down, brought us tea and chocolate and wouldn't let us do a thing. "You can go out if you want, not that I'm asking you to go out. Or you can just stay in and chill, just whatever and yeah..." When I asked him if I could do anything, he replied, "You can sit and enjoy yourself, or if you can't do that then you can fuck off." When someone tells you that forcefully to enjoy yourself you don't argue. Jacinta is a Melbourne girl with a seemingly HUGE family, all of whom love Reg with the exception of her gran who can't help but remember When Jacinta Dated An Aussie Cricketer. The two of them met in Edinburgh and they really are an extremely lovey couple. I mean; I thought me and Caro were demonstrative, but not compared to these two. But it's not in a yucky way - mainly because Jacinta is a Chick With Attitude in much the same way Caro is and so there's a lot of banter going on as in: JACINTA: REG: JACINTA: REG: JACINTA: REG: JACINTA: Where's the paper with the movies in? Here you go. (Now reading another paper). Hey! Now what? You're ALWAYS doing that! You'll ask me for something, and then it's like 'Ohhh... my nails...' (Contemptuous pause). Stop showing off.

Jacinta works with people with mental disabilities, helping them shop and such, and it's obvious she enjoys her work, which is something I can't help but envy. There's another thing to add about Jacinta which is how INCREDIBLY groovy she is. Jacinta has a wardrobe that goes beyond fashion - she even puts Caro in the shade and that's WITH the purple and leopardskin boots. She's also been just about everywhere except South America and puts our rather pathetic attempts at travelling to shame. The only downside to staying with Reg and Jacinta is that they had no TV!!! This was pretty shocking stuff. And it's on purpose. I mean, it's not like their one tv is in the shop or something and they foolishly have no emergency backup - THEY PHYSICALLY HAVE NO TV but instead spend them time doing silly things like LIVING. I mean, I'm all for living, but not during a Rockford Files marathon.

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But the two of them more than made up for their tv deficiency. The first night we went out to a veggie restaurant in a very cool section of Melbourne where Reg and Jacinta wouldn't let us pay. I had hoped to repay their generousity by taking the two of them out to see Rich Hall in concert, but sadly Jacinta had strained her neck and had to be installed on the couch with those 90-degrees corner cushions which she had given Reg shit about buying, ("That's for OLD people!!") She carried this pillow about with her for the entirity of our visit, even taking it with her to the cinema the next day. THAT was quite an adventure, driving through the lashing rain with the pillow, and Reg telling us he was taking us via, "the route of looooooove." Then he added that he hoped Jacinta had remembered to bring the condoms and was that a French tickler hidden in the cushion? "You've had sugar, haven't you?" replied Jacinta. After the film, they took us to a very cool pub where jazz music was being played. Not that I've ever really gotten into jazz in a big way, but it does seem to be the perfect accompaniment to the clink of a glass and getting just slightly squiffy. Caro and Jacinta were discussing something important like the implications of legalising prostitution I think, while me and Reg discussed the equally important subject of Children's TV Shows of the 1970's ("Do you remember that box that used to open up at the start of 'Camberwick Green'??? That was COOL!!") Brothels are completely legal over here, which I have to say is a good thing. Let's face it, the amount of money, time and effort wasted on tracking it down and driving it underground in the UK hasn't REALLY worked in stopping it. It's just made it more dangerous for everyone involved, and funnelled the money directly into the pockets of rather unsavoury people. You'll also notice that Australia hasn't collapsed into a morass of immorality and/or hedonism with their relaxation of these laws. I seriously think that UK politicians need to pull their heads out of their arses and join the real world. Speaking of politicians, Jacinta also brought up the horrid subject of the equally horrid Ms. Pauline Hansen. Jacinta was pissed off because she is the most famous politician in Australia due to her unsavoury views. The fact that she has only been, COULD only ever be voted in by some constituency in the middle of Buttfuck, Nowhere is not noted by the rest of the world (Jacinta says). And I think she's right. (Another noteworthy Pauline Hansen story is that she was recently banned from a chain of fashion stores after the store management said that they didn't want her representing their fashion range.) The rest of our time with Reg and Jacinta was pretty much rained off. We had very ambitious plans but the constant heavy rain dampened everyone's enthusiasm for doing anything other than sitting about and chatting. I thoroughly enjoyed myself as I love a bit of a blether about nothing and both Reg and Jacinta have no end of good stories. Reg was full of stories of the dodgy characters he had met while studying in Manchester (he does an excellent Shaun Ryder impression by the way) but my favourite story concerned his grandad who was a racing driver with a wicked sense of humour. One time his grandad was flying over the channel next to a guy who was rather nervous about the whole thing. Instead of giving the guy the usual it's-the-safest-form-of-travel shite, Reg's relative strapped his racing helmet on and innocently asked the guy, "Didn't they give you one when you came aboard???" We also got onto the subject of poo. Well, it was inevitable really. I don't know what it is about me really. I seem to bring the poo out in everyone. Reg told me a story I would love to recount, but won't (unless he gives me dispensation) and I told him my most embarrassing poo story ever. I don't tell just ANYONE this story (well, until now) so I felt we had truly bonded. MY MOST EMBARRASSING POO STORY EVER Ohhhh god. This story begins with a blocked toilet. It had been blocked by a guest in my flat who had then conveniently fucked off. Thanks. Anyway, I pride myself as being a toilet-handy bloke so I got out the plunger and the bucket of hot-water

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and Got Stuck In. My task wasn't made any easier by the cat who assumed I was in the toilet to clean out her litter-box. "Meow," she kept saying and I had to shoo her away, swearing the whole time because this poo was well and truly wedged around the U-bend. And now it was starting to get a bit desperate because I needed to go too. I tried squeezing the old cheeks together, but I was well aware that my poo wasn't going to stay immobile for much longer. So I took the shower head and stuck that down the bog, boiled more hot water, and put some "Daz" down hoping to hear that sound - BLORP - which means the poo has shifted and I could utilise the facilities. But no. All I got was an increasingly desperate cat. Seems SHE wanted to go bad too. "MEEEEooowrrr!!" she said. I can't remember what I replied, but it probably wasn't pretty. So the next ten minutes ticked by with me getting increasingly desperate, more buckets, more Daz, more "MEEEEe-OOOOWWLL", more "**** off cat!!" more buckets, more plunger, more "Jeeeeez!! I REALLY need to go!!" more swearing at the person who'd launched this FUCKING REDWOOD TREE OF A SHIT down MY toilet. MORE cat! More bowel cramps. And then it hit me. I would have to do the Unthinkable. Yes, I hitched up me keks and shit in the catbox. The cat was disgusted and ran off. I too, was disgusted as a wave of gas enveloped me and I realised why we normally poo into water. I REALLY had to clean the cat box now. So I got out a bin-bag and - BLOOOORRRP!! Yes, the BLOODY toilet un-blocked itself two minutes after my Moment of Shame. More sweary words were said. AND when I had finally cleaned the catbox, cleaned up the Daz, mopped up the wet floor and put away the plunger I found the cat had shit in the corner of the living room. I have carried this secret with me for many years. Thank you for allowing me to share. All too soon, our five days had passed and it was time to leave. I was very sorry to go because Jacinta and Reg had made us feel SO welcome. Still, leaving people behind is all part of travelling... This was the verse I wrote inside our thankyou card to them... "I'd like to give you both a kiss, For taking us in at a time like this, We appreciate it, you see Even though there's no tv, And now it seems it's time to go, I really wish it wasn't so, And tho' it seems a shame to spoil it, Eventually we'd just have blocked your toilet." I thought that was rather good. I wonder if Hallmark would be interested? I was starting to worry about my emails home. Firstly, because of the fact that I had a tendency to forget that they were going out to real people who I actually knew. I began to worry that upon my return I would find myself infamous as "The Cat Box Guy". It's a hell of a label to have to go through life with. Another problem was that my desicriptions of the people I had met seemed to have left some people upset. Take, for example, "Disgruntled of Kumeu" (Karen Sparen) who complained to me that I had described Jenny Jordan as "incredibly pretty" but hadn't said the same thing about HER.

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Let's just set this thing straight right now. Karen Sparen is LOVELY. Phew. On the other hand, I liked the idea that anything I write is a form of public service. For example, I can warn you right now to never use McCafferty's BLOODY bus BLOODY service to ride from Brisbane to Byron Bay. The Bus Nazis employed by this company made the trip thoroughly disagreeable, from checking in to embarking. Once ON the bus it wasn't too bad; I always enjoy looking at scenery, and Surfer's Paradise is an amazing - a very long, very thin strip of hotels, restaurants and surf shops which service the whole hanging around on a beach looking muscular and tanned industry. Caro snorted at how tacky it was. I thought it was kind of cool. But then, I'm from Scarborough where we have taken Bad Taste and placed it on a throne, which is itself covered in neon lights and furry gonks. On arrival in Byron, we were to stay at the very famous Arts Factory hostel. This is the kind of place where a person can be as alternative as is possible without actually joining another species. It was founded in the early 70's by young Americans trying to avoid Vietnam while at the same time surfing, getting in touch with nature, contemplating life's mysteries and taking an AWFUL lot of drugs. So we'd heard a lot about it, and the reputation of the place seemed to be confirmed by the appearance of the Arts Factory pickup van, driven by a young Cockney bloke with 1970's hair. He reminded me of something out of a really bad sex comedy. (These films almost always featured either Robin Asquith or Hywel Bennet and had titles like "Adventures of a Window Cleaner", "Confessions of a Taxi Driver" or the particularly memorable film "Percy" in which Hywel is the first recipient of a penis-transplant. I kid you not.) So anyhow, Robin Asquith is driving us through Byron, giving us the usual quick guide to the place, and sitting next to him is a rather hairy, frizzy French guy, who spends the entire trip shoving Wheaty-Chips in his face and occasionally interrupting. ROBIN ASQUITH: FRIZZY FROG: ROBIN ASQUITH: FRIZZY FROG: ROBIN ASQUITH: FRIZZY FROG: ROBIN ASQUITH: FRIZZY FROG: Over there is the shop - it takes about 10 minutes to get there from the hostel. ....nuh... about seven... Ok, SEVEN minutes. And on Thursday mornings you can pay ten dollars for the sunrise walk up to the lighthouse. Ten dollairs...? Yeah well, they throw in free hot chocolate and cookies. Cookies??? NORMAL cookies. (Disappointed) Euh.

The staff at the hostel were very friendly and helpful, checked us in promptly and showed us where to go. They really were lovely, in that spacey, hippy way that comes from getting in touch with nature, contemplating life's mysteries and taking an AWFUL lot of drugs. Our actual accomodation was a "cube", which was a big square tent sitting on a wooden veranda overlooking a lake. When I say "lake" I actually MEAN fetid mozzie-swamp, but you get the idea. The tent contained a light, which was difficult for us to read by at the same time, and we had to get into all sorts of bizarre positionss in order be able to share the meagre glow. (Have YOU ever tried to read with your legs in the air? Don't answer that.) There was also a locker under the bed to store all your stuff, a couple of iron chairs and toilets handily located about a mile away over a wooden bridge. Apart from that it was quite cosy - I soon fell asleep in my little bed, waking early next morning having this weird New Age type dream about Elves. I had these sort of dreams every morning, and I put this down to the fact that our tent was right next to the Didge Pit where young backpacking types could spend their mornings spitting down a long piece of wood, recreating The Dreamtime and wrecking mine at the same time. Look, I may be giving you a bad impression here. I don't mean to. There are a lot of cool things about the Arts Factory. And it was sort of fun staying in a tent. It was like being in "It Ain't Half Hot Mum" or something - the heat, the claustrophobia, the unnerving realisation that you can actually SMELL your own feet.

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CARO: ME: CARO: ME:

Ah... Symon? Yes? Do you mind if I spray your feet with my underarm deodourant? Okay.

Now I would like to emphasise that normally I smell quite pleasant. I put my Arts Factory Aroma down to the humidity and to the fact that my sandals had, by this point, seen quite a lot of the world. I had been spraying the little buggers with anti-smell stuff ever since that night when Caro Rexona'd my stinking plates of meat, but it really seemed to make no difference. Now I just smelt of foot odour AND Rexona. However, I was talking about the cool side of the Arts Factory. Well, firstly they had the Best Cinema In the World. It was called The Pighouse and showed older films, but the thing that made it the best cinema ever was the fact that it featured COUCHES and MATTRESSES. What a brilliant innovation! Caro and I took a mattress each and watched "Oh Brother Where Art Thou?" and "Hannibal" lying on our backs. (Well technically, only I watched "Hannibal" - Caro sat and listened to it with her eyes closed in case of gory bits.) The Pighouse was attached to The Piggery restaurant, which was also part of the Arts Factory. It was a very funky place too, serving "Karma-Free" vegetarian food in a big renovated barn with lots of nooks to sit in and chill by candlelight. I was also very excited at locating a GALAXIAN machine in the lounge room! I hadn't seen one of these since I was 15 years old. I eagerly put my dollar into it and found out, that yes even after all these years I was STILL crap at it. But it was nice to find out. And it was lovely every morning to wake up to the dappled sunlight bouncing through the trees and off Mozzie Creek, with lime green butterflies zooming about alongside dragonflies the size of small birds. We also had a pet lizard who swam about next to our cube. Then there was the Entertainment laid on at the hostel. The day we arrived there was a blues guitarist who I would have appreciated more if I hadn't been knackered. Later on in the week there was Aboriginal dancing which was very interesting, especially when I compared it to the Maoris I'd seen in Rotorua. Aboriginal dancing is not warlike at all. The whole point of it seems to be educational, passing on the knowledge about how to hunt animals, how to recognise signs and how track bees. I'm not kidding - they really DO this. Basically the aborigines can actually catch bees. If this werent amazing enough as it is, then they tag it (bush bees don't have stings which makes this somewhat easier) then they let him go and follow him to the hive where they raid the colony for "sugar-bag" - wild honey. You'll note I've been paying too much attention to "Bush Tucker Man" again. But the whole bush tucker thing fascinated me. My main question which I still dont understand is how did the aborigines work all this stuff out? Often when Les Hiddins was walking around the bush he would say things like, "Yew can eat this feller 'ere - but it's actually very poisonous. Yew can only eat 'im if you first boil it, mash it up, hit it with a stick, wash it in riverwater, cook it and then bury it in the ground for six months..." This seems like a hell of a thing to work out by trial and error. ABORIGINE 1: Okay - I've pulped this root, you can eat it now. ABORIGINE 2: Wait a minute - didn't grandad die in agony after eating the root when someone had just pulped it? ABORIGINE 1: No, but I washed it first. ABORIGINE 2: And did you hit it with a stick? ABORIGINE 1: Yes. ABORIGINE 2: Well... okay then. (He eats.) Aieeeeee! (He dies.) ABORIGINE 1: Okay! Still poisonous! I hope someone was taking notes there. So most of the aboriginal dances consist of guys hopping around mimicking kangaroos and so forth to describe their behaviour. We also learned that the Aboriginal name for a kangaroo is "bunda" which actually does sound a lot more like an animal that hops if you think about it. And the didgeridoo is actually

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called a "yeraki" - the name didgeridoo was given to it by Europeans who heard a tribe of Aborigines singing the phrase "didgeridoo" through it over and over. The guy who told us all this was very interesting but then spoiled it a little by going on into a "the white man ruined everything" rant. Historically, it may be true, but it still pisses me off as a racist generalisation. Mind you, the Aborigines do have a lot to complain about. I listened to a radio show about the Conniston massacre, which took place in the 1920's. Basically a white guy was killed by Aborigines, at which point the local law enforcement took it into their minds to have a bit of a hunt. In the end, at least 17 Aborigines were shot dead, although the Aborigines estimate at least double that number. Men, women and children were herded together like cattle and shot down for beng in the area at the time. This event shocked European Australians and marked a turn in public opinion, although the inquiry cleared all the police involved. What disturbed me was the main police officer's defence to why he shot to kill when hunting all these people. He answered, "Well what would I do with a wounded black feller, miles from anywhere?" I know that Australia's record on how they treat their native people is only marginally better than South Africa, but was still shocked by the fact that Aborigines were only recognised as citizens in the late 1960's. Still, I dont want to get into an anti-Australian thing here. I think Australia should be applauded for moving in the right direction. It may be shocking that the Mabo agreement, recognising land rights, only went through in 1992, but it seems to me that with the celebration of Aborigine culture that marked the Sydney Olympics, European Australians are finally realising that Aborigines enrich their country. I know they have a way to go yet, but then let's face it - so does the UK. We had a break from the Arts Factory to stay with Odette. If you don't recall her from our adventures in Keri Keri with Lisa Mackinnon, then I should remind that she's a hippy, but not one of those people who think that being close to nature is an excuse to never change your underwear. Odette writes about the shamanistic approach to mental health, and she impressed me greatly with her down-to-earth pragmatic approach to life. She's what hippies OUGHT to be, in my opinion. She's rude, frequently bitchy and nasty and very real. She's a slight little person who floats about in flared pink flowery trousers and anti-nuke tshirts and is prone to making comments like, "I hate those airy-fairy new age types." And "I'm not a teacher. I'm not a guru - I frequently fuck up like everybody does." Odette pointed out to me that most of her philosophy isn't new age at all but extremely OLD. And best of all, that philosophy doesn't get in the way of her enjoying celebrity gossip and television. So we had a great evening with her - she was housesitting at the time, and looking after a huge dog with the incongruous name of "Floopy". As usual, the conversation got quite filthy - especially when Caro brought up the subject of Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman. Poor Nicole - her ears would have burned if they had heard what Odette and Caro had to say about her. Odette has a thing for Brad Pitt too, "Put Tom and Brad in a bed together and I would die happy. Unless of course they got into each other..." After spending the night at Odette's, we wandered around Byron, which is an interesting place. It's a sunny beach place with surf shops and pavement cafes everywhere. There's a very chilled vibe and lots of eccentric shop signs like, "Clothes for People Who Like to Go Naked", "Light Fingers Make Bad Karma" and one shop sign which informed customers it was closed on Tuesday, "Gone Fishin'". However, the high tourist quotient means that prices are horrendous and the budget took a real battering every time we stepped outside. The other negative thing about Byron is the sheer number of poseur, pseudo-new-age-hippy-types there are, travelling about on daddy's gold card pretending to be AWFULLY alternative in their immaculate clothes and blonde dreads. They infected the Arts Factory, and seriously pissed Caro off with their constant, "Yeah, I'm here for a month, then I'm going to do Nepal for six weeks." Where they presumably sit at the feet of a guru while he tells them the secret of inner peace is to have your parents fund it for you. But this is due to their youth, I hear you say. You are undoubtedly correct, and this was why I have come to really hate young people. They are just SO boring. One night the Arts Factory had some techno-trance music guy come along who gave a SCINTILLATING performance (you know the sort of thing where a couple of geeky white guys in backward baseball caps hold one hand over one ear, while the other hand almost imperceptibly moves a record back and forth). The crowd went WILD. Well, that is, I'm sure they

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would have done if it weren't for the fact that they were all sat around with their chins on the back of their hands watching the one stoned chick floating about with her arms in the air. God, it was dull. So that's my stance on youth culture. It's BORING. Their conversation is boring, their clothes are boring and their bloody music is so dull that even coma victims get up and switch it off. I know, I know. I've become old. The white hairs up my nose confirm this. So in the end, it was little poseurs that drove us out of the Arts Factory. Oh, and the monsoon - did I not mention that? Well, one night we were kept up all night as one of the worst rainstorms to hit Byron that year pounded down on the roof of our cube. I was seriously worried that Mozzie Creek might invade our tent in the night and our bed would float down to Cape Byron. Then there was the state of the bathrooms, which were pretty bloody feral, I can tell you. On the morning we checked out, a guy called me over to the sink where he was brushing his teeth. GUY: ME: GUY: ME: Would you mind telling me what THAT is? (He points at the plughole.) Looks like a mangled cockroach. I don't think so... It's too big. Well, I wouldn't poke it. It may just be playing possum.

We went to another backpackers called "Aquarius" which was much strategically positioned near the shops. Aquarius promised a bathroom and kitchenette but we found that the kitchen consisted of a few cupboards, a sink and an overhead fan for a hob that wasn't actually there. Not really a kitchenette then. More of a "ki", really. Our bedroom was off an 8-bed dorm room with whom we shared our bathroom. We weren't too happy about this as we were painfully aware of the Law Of Shared Bathrooms: PARSON'S LAW OF SHARED BATHROOMS: "You will really feel the need to shit at PRECISELY THE SAME TIME everyone else decides to have showers. The girls may feel a need to shave their legs. The room also came equipped with regulation hostel-standard pillows, in that you could spit through them. (I wouldn't recommend it; you get phlegm in your hair.) As Caro put it, "My FLEECE is thicker than these bloody pillows!" But still, it was better than the Arts Factory and we slept like logs. So we were feeling refreshed and ready to take on the next challenge when we decided to take the shuttle to Nimbin. This place is LEGENDARY. During the early 70's hippies congregated here for a concert and ever since, Nimbin has become synonymous with counter-culture (by which I mean drugs) alternative living (by which I mean drugs) and colourful local characters (by which I mean drug-dealers). Nimbin itself is an Aboriginal word meaning (I think) "wise old man". The story was that two giants took a wise old man and imprisoned him, but managed to escape, turning the giants into stone. The Nimbin stones, just outside the village are VERY impressive and dominate the landscape. It is said that if you visit them without Aboriginal permission you get sick or have an accident, so it's a bit like going to the Reading Festival really. Nimbin is actually a very small place, the only tourist sites are an art gallery and the Nimbin Museum. This is more a continuous piece of art - a collage of posters, newspapers, drug artefacts, bits of bicycle and a couple of actual CARS that illustrate the changing face of the alternative culture and Aboriginal rights over the past 30 years. Then there's the Hemp Embassy, with a big sign above the door saying "Legalise It", and posters, t-shirts and other paraphenalia inside. All interesting, but I had pretty much seen the whole thing within half an hour. Then Caro visited the gift shop, at which the following interchange took place:

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CARO: SHOP GUY: CARO: SHOP GUY: CARO: SHOP GUY:

(Looking at hash tins) Maybe we should get one of these for Jim and Mechelle. Those are five dollars each. Ok. Or fifteen for a full one. Huh? I'll fill it for ten.

Now at this point I should point out that the guy was off his head and kind of muttering. The result was that Caro couldn't make out what the hell he was saying (I told her later). The result was that he seemed to perceive her a cool negotiator, whereas she couldnt actually figure out what the hell he was saying. In the end she just smiled and nodded and breezed out, but I was just waiting for him to say, "Okay! Okay! Five dollars, but that's my last offer!" That was just the beginning. We got so many offers for "smoke-o", "cookies" and everything else in Nimbin, because essentially thats why you go there. A non-smoker going to Nimbin is akin to a eunuch in a lap-dancing bar. So everytime we turned around, we were offered drugs. In shops, walking down the street, crossing the road, from hippie chicks, from guys sitting outside shops, from 10 year old kids. Now I'm not down on grass, but there was a negative vibe to the place. It wasnt at all relaxed - there was a tenseness and a desperation in the air. Odette explained that this is because heroin has taken hold in the town. "I wouldn't go there after dark," she added. So after an hour, we had seen all we wanted, and given the size of the place, were pleased we had decided to avoid the "Hempalympics" which were to be held that weekend. It would have been HEAVING although part of me would quite have liked to witness such events as "speed rolling", "artistic rolling" and "bong throwing". We reported all this to Odette the next time we saw her. She was now house-sitting for someone else and was staying in a real mansion of a place. I made dinner while Caro and Odette relaxed on the veranda, having coffees and luxuriating in the wonderful view to Cape Byron and the lighthouse there. Once again, we had a fun night of filthy conversation and watched the Australian version of "Big Brother" which had only been running about a week but already looked a LOT more fun than UK version Odette reported that they had already had a bit of sneaky hand-job action and were were on the verge of evicting Andy the Randy Brazilian Dominatrix - her husband was interviewed to confirm that, yes, he would be aroused if he saw her shagging someone. Odette also took us down to "The Alien Beach" which is a beautiful stretch of seafront and also the place where the most Alien Encounters have taken place in Byron. It was lovely, but I didn't see anything. At least, I don't REMEMBER seeing anything... Coincidence? I think not. We hadn't really connected to any of the backpackers in Byron the way we did with Kim and Ann. Again, I put this down to the fact that the traveller-age seems to have dropped to late-teens, early 20's and these people just aren't very interesting. We know this for a fact because we could hear EVERYTHING coming from the dorm next door. Although I do have to admit it did have a very high entertainment quotient. I had to bite a pillow to hold the laughter in the night I heard an extremely stoned American trying to persuade two English girls to give him a blow-job in exchange for a joint. The English girls became quite shrill with indignation and flounced out. The American I presume, passed out. Still, one night we had a good chat with a Canadian named Rosco who told us he had decided to take a year out to see the world. "'If you can't be wealthy, be worldly,' my grandad used to say - and I ain't wealthy," he explained. His main ambition was to get some drugs from Nimbin, then lie on the beach for the next ten days stoned off his head. This seemed reasonable to us. So we had a good blether about politics, music and travel and THAT'S the bit of hostel lifestyle that's good and makes the inconveniences such as noisy dorm-mates, beer bottles in the shower and having to queue for a weewee worthwhile meeting cool people and finding out what they have to say. Well, that's what I told myself that night as I lay with my head under my pillow, listening to FUCKING FRENCH arseholes yakking loudly away to each other until 4am. I guess after ten days Byron had finally pissed me off and it was time to move on again.

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(One last word about Byron backpackers. As Caro waited for the bus, a guy sat down next to her, took off his shoes and socks. Turned the socks inside out and put them back on again. Poor Caro was quite stunned by the smell.) So once again we were on the bus, but this time back to Brisbane. There we would be staying with Caro's friend Grant. They have known each other since Intermediate School at the age of 11 although they didn't become friends until much later when I believe they discovered something called "getting ratarsed". Caro (if you let her) will tell endless stories of she and Grant and Michelle (see the New Zealand emails) going to the infamous "Roadhouse" bar and getting rather messy. Probably her favourite story to tell is the Tina Turner Concert Debacle Story, which I shall now recount: THE TINA TURNER CONCERT DEBACLE STORY I should emphasise that this is the story AS TOLD BY CARO. Therefore it may be a little biased in the retelling. Grant, Michelle - if you want to correct any of the details, I'd LOVE to hear from you... Caro and Michelle went through a phase of seeing every artist to visit New Zealand (after all, it was a fairly big event). They'd seen Paul McCartney, they'd seen Jimmy Barnes (Who? you may ask - relax, it's a Kiwi thing) and so when Tina arrived they rushed off to get their combined bus and concert tickets. Grant vacillated on the subject for a week or two before eventually turning up with just a concert ticket. He explained that he had a car (but no licence) but that Michelle could drive them to Auckland and wouldn't that be a lot more fun? So that was the plan. Grant and Michelle drove from Mount Maunganui to Hamilton Uni where Caro was due to take an exam the next day. She told them that she SERIOUSLY had to study but that there was a pub around the corner where Grant and Mechelle could entertain themselves while she hit the books but oh well, maybe shed just have a drink with them first, no harm eh? Three a.m. the next morning, the three of them were still in the flat, completely pissed. Oops. Seriously hungover, Caro woke up late, but was told not to panic by Michelle - after all - they had the car and Michelle could drive her to the exam. All was going well until Michelle reversed Grant's car out of the driveway and hit a post, denting the hatchback lock. Having no time to do anything about it, Caro - now green with sickness - was driven up and down hills to the university building where she sat through her 3 hour exam with a blinding hangover. When she finally got out she found that Michelle had spent all her time looking for a repair shop in vain and there was nothing for it but to tell Grant about his car. Grant took it ok - but disaster struck again when Michelle loaded up the hatchback and slammed it shut, forgetting the keys were still inside. One locksmith and $90 later, Caro realised that she now couldn't afford to eat or drink for the rest of the weekend. But that didn't matter because they were GOING TO SEE TINA. The three of them drove to Auckland all excited, Grant especially as it was his first big concert. They parked the car and followed the huge stream of people into the venue where they got an EXCELLENT view of Tina who was "awesome". Grant clung to Caro and Michelle the whole time, as he was a bit freaked out by the huge crowd in the haze of all the dope-smokers, as Tina danced about in her stilletoes right on the edge of a huge cherry-picker that dangled her right above their heads. Grant freaked out; "It's TINA!! And we're all one!!" After the concert, and the accompanying mile long queue for a toilet, the stadium emptied and the three of them were amongst the last to leave. Their excitement increased when they were nearly run over by Tina's personal limo. Their excitement decreased when they realised they had forgotten where they parked. One hour later they finally found it. By now it was midnight. Exhausted, emotionally worn out by the experience and still semi-hungover they drove out of Auckland when Michelle dropped a bit of a bombshell.

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"Now I don't want to freak anyone out," she said calmly, "but the brakes have gone." For several panic-stricken minutes they coasted through motorway traffic, with Michelle desperately trying to control the car via the clutch. Eventually she managed to get the car into a service station and called her aunt and uncle who lived in Auckland. They told her that she and her friends could all come and stay and were totally cool about the whole thing (they were used to their own son, Ken who regularly got up to various sorts of wild malarky). So the three of them drove ACROSS Auckland, WITHOUT brakes and fortunately without incident, eventually making it to Aunt Nancy's in the early hours of the morning where they were welcomed with tea and cakes which they gratefully accepted before going to bed. The next morning, tempers still short, Ken and Grant were looking at the car but could see nothing wrong. Grant wondered aloud whether it could be anything to do with Michelle backing into that post. Michelle lost it. A major fight ensued. Michelle accused Grant of trying to get her to pay for the cost of his bloody deathtrap of a car, he accused her of wrecking his wheels before hed even learned to drive them and so it went on. However, the car was now seemingly okay - the problem just disappeared, and the 3 drove back to Hamilton to drop Caro off. By now they were barely speaking. Caro was riding in the back and getting carsick, meanwhile Grant was fiddling with the stereo and getting in Michelle's way which resulted in sullen silence from everybody. Then the car got a flat. It was the Bombay Hills, just outside Auckland and home of the Market Gardeners. Michelle pulled off near a ditch, so the car stuck awkwardly out onto the motorway. Since neither Grant nor Michelle knew how to change a tyre, it was Caro who was stuck out in the traffic, getting oil all over her new t-shirt while Michelle raged, pacing up and down, and Grant chainsmoked and waved at the passing market gardeners. Finally the car was fixed again. But the atmosphere was not. As soon as they got back into the car, Grant put on The Carpenters Greatest Hits. At full FUCKING blast." That was it - World War Three was declared. When they stopped for brekkie at MacDonald's they had to sit at separate tables. And when Caro was dropped off at her flat, her flatmate Ella managed to start the row up all over again by merely asking how it had all gone and wasnt that OIL on Caros new t-shirt? A week passed and Caro went back to Mount Maunganui as she did most weekends. When she got there she found out that Michelle and Grant had sorted things out and were now speaking again, but Grant very obviously blanked Caro at the Roadhouse when he saw her. Finally at the end of the evening, they both stormed outside to have it out and a 15 minute row ensued during which THINGS WERE SAID. End of friendship. Caro and Grant avoided each other for the next six weeks or so, which was the time at which Grant was due to leave New Zealand and go to live in Australia. Caro decided it would be peevish to avoid his leaving party and besides she wanted to hear him sing his karaoke favourite one last time ("New York, New York" in case you were wondering). She arrived at the party to find Grant already semipissed. "I'm so pleased you're here!" he told her, giving her a big hug and they both agreed that they'd been pretty silly. They were best friends again and Grant was so delighted he gave Caro "a huge tonguey kiss." "What the HELL is that about?!" said Caro. "You're not supposed to be into girls!!" "Sorry," he apologised, "I don't know why I did that." So that's the end of the story. Caro told me that TO THIS DAY she cannot stand to hear The Carpenters. "And I bet he doesn't remember that kiss, either," she added.

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That was my only knowledge of Grant really, and found when I met him that hes an absolutely lovely guy, very into fashion and "product" and his appearance is IMMACULATE. His opinion was very important to Caro so she was delighted that he liked her new look. Grant had worked as a model in the past, and trained to be an actor but he gave it up because he couldn't stand all the egomaniacs that the business attracts. That sounds about right, because Grant really is a very sweet and child-like character himself and I couldn't see him as an egomaniac. There's actually a real innocence about him, he's got a disarming smile and is almost impossible to dislike (except after a Tina Turner concert). I took to him immediately, but this could be because of his fascination with poo. As you know this is a pasttime of mine as well. He was very interested by our toilet-sharing adventures at Mount Gambier Jail and told us that he often tries to catch his partner Craig on the bog. (Although he gives his flatmate Jo her privacy - he would rather that remain a mystery.) Craig, meanwhile, is an altogether deeper kettle of fish. He's quieter, more thoughtful and more intense (although this could be due to the fact that he knew Caro was checking him out the entire time we were there in order to make sure he was good enough for her Grant.) He's as attractive and well-turned-out as Grant which made me, in my fleece, comfy-travel-pants and 5 days stubble feel very scuzzy indeed. I mean, I'm not a glamourous little man at the best of times, but things like that just tend to emphasise it. What I was surprised to discover was that Craig's serious demeanour masks a man with a SERIOUSLY NAUGHTY sense of humour. He loves tickling Jo and when we stayed at their flat, the silence was frequently broken by her shrieks for mercy. Then there was his comment was Caro had trouble with the flush on their broken toilet. "Just flick the end until it goes hard." I could tell he saved that comment up for ALL new guests. As for Jo, well she completes the family-type vibe of the household. An old friend of Craig's, she made the move with them from Sydney to Brisbane. She's a very feminine and pretty woman with a good sense of fun and stunning long dark hair. Although possibly the MOST stunning thing about her is that she is the only other person I have ever met who remembers "Dyno-Mutt and The Blue Falcon". (God knows how I get onto little-known 1970's cartoons in conversation. Other people talk about Art and Current Events. People obviously see me and say - "God what a fuckwit - what can we POSSIBLY talk about?") Jo and I discussed this amongst other things on our first night in Brisbane. She had also invited her friend Megan over, and so we sat around drinking beer, eating pizza and enjoying the view over Brisbane that their flat affords. At one point it got quite ugly with a very heated debate on Feng Shui developing. You wouldn't think that the subject of Interior Design could almost come to blows, but believe me, I nearly had to pull Jo and Megan apart. This is a warning to all of you who refuse to soften edges with pillows and include water features in your bathrooms. We also had a scary moment when Craig and Grant told us their very spooky ghost story. You want to hear it? Oh all right, youve twisted my arm: CRAIG AND GRANT'S VERY SPOOKY GHOST STORY Craig and Grant rented a flat together at the top of an old house. They were curious about the fact that it didnt look terribly lived in - it didn't even have a phone line, but neither of them really believed in ghosts or even considered them much. Consequently Grant didn't think anything of it when strange things started to happen. Like the morning they woke up to find the chain on the front door had been attached. Now this in itself wasn't THAT weird, except that they never put it on themselves. For one thing it was too short they couldn't actually GET it on. They had to call a locksmith to get it off again, and were both late for work. The other thing Grant noticed was that the ashtrays were always full of cigarette butts - no matter how often he emptied them - and they were always only half-smoked. And neither of them smoked like that. So far, no big deal. Then one day, Grant was vacuuming when the shower came on full blast, so hard there was water all over the floor.

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Still. It's not the sort of thing you'd feel creepy about is it? There COULD be an explanation for all of the above... But then... One night they were in bed, and Craig was awake having awoken from a nightmare. "We always had nightmares in that bedroom," he explained. As he lay in the dark he suddenly heard the sound of running footsteps, "And I knew it wasn't the guy across the hall because he's an old guy with a bad leg. It sounded like a child's footsteps." Then something jumped on the bed. Craig could feel it on his leg. Something jumping up and down with such force that he started screaming. Grant woke up and screamed too, he said that Craig was actually physically coming up off the bed. "Not floating - but really bouncing up high. Then Craig shot out of bed and I found him curled up in a foetal position in the living room." If you'd met Craig you'd realise this is not a man prone to hysterical attacks. Something was seriously wrong. The two of them sought advice and were told to talk to the spirit - just say hi when they came home and such. After they started doing this they, "could always FEEL something there, but it never bothered us again." Scary eh? (I shall remove the flashlight from under my chin now.) I was delighted to find out that Grant shares my obsession with Elizabeth Montgomery! I know that many of you think I'm a sad bastard. (You've told me. Some of you more than once.) But finally I met someone else who had grown up wanting to marry her. I have to admit that my love for Elizabeth was more carnal in character, Grant's was much more pure - but he has actually taken things one step further than I in actually having an ELIZABETH MONTGOMERY WALL. There are like half a dozen pictures of Elizabeth looking adorable there and Grant and I agreed we would watch his special documentary "Bewitched Exposed 2000" the next day. (This wasn't as exciting as the title might suggest. Elizabeth NEVER did any off-colour stuff in her early years and I resent you for even THINKING that she might.) We watched a lot of tv that next day. Oh I know what you're saying, "What the hell sort of travel report is this? Here he is in another new city and he can't even get off his arse to tell us what it's like," but you know - we hadn't seen much TV for WEEKS now. And I was seriously missing it. Besides, "The Nitpickers" were on. These are two very bizarre women who come on tv early in the morning to plug their range of nit prevention products including a patented nit-comb that will remove all the eggs. The most distinguishing feature of their presentation is their delivery which is delivered in a disturbing rote monotone. They sound like badly-programmed robots, or cult members. Even Stephen Hawking has more inflection in his voice. Their message to the world delivered, they then chant, "Don't lose your wits! Lose those nits!" before handing control back to the normal daytime tv. "Those women are GREAT!" enthused Craig. "GRANT! Your girls are on!!" The other great thing we saw in Brisbane was a tv show called "Beauty and The Beast" which was GREAT. There I was expecting that pooey Linda Hamilton series about the guy who looked like his mother had shagged a ginger tom, but instead we got a panel show where six women deliver their views on the world and each other while the guy hosting it abuses them mercilessly, as in, "I'm sorry love but you've got an ego as big as yer arse". It was GREAT. The show included segments where ordinary women could audition for the show by sending in tapes of themselves. The host would then choose his favourites to appear, and be given a makeover ("And that last

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woman looks like she needs one.") He added that "It doesn't matter if you don't win the competition. If you come 3rd, 4th, 5th or 6th, so long as you've got big tits and a nice arse, I'll still have you on the show." In the end he settled for a woman with a nice smile, "Yeah, she had nice big teeth. I'd give her one." Apparently, this show frequently features objects being thrown. And the best thing about it was that it was on in our "Richard And Judy" afternoon tv slot. Why don't WE have programs like this??? I'd LOVE to ship this guy over and have him abuse Judy for a half hour or so. But we didn't spend the entire time watching tv. No, we were out of the house for a couple of hours before getting back in time for "Ally McBeal". In those hours, we visited a market and went for fish and chips at a spot where we could view all of Brisbane. That is - we SHOULD have been able to view Brisbane if it hadn't been pouring down with BLOODY rain. Again. What IS it with us??? We could bring rain to The Saharan bloody Desert. Anyway, the next day we had to leave, which was a real drag, as I loved the vibe with Craig and Grant and Jo. There was a really sweet, family feel about the place and I wished we had come up from Byron sooner. Ah well - I popped out and bought flowers and big cake to show our appreciation. Hope they liked it. So we left Brisbane. We were taken to the airport by a sweet, friendly old guy who chattered pleansantly about his family and travels the whole way. As he handed Caro her bags, he told her the most viciously racist anti-Pakistani joke I've ever heard. "Australia - Land of Contrasts" they call it, and they're not fucking kidding. Back in Sydney we only had a couple of days before leaving for Fiji. Of course we couldn't leave without seeing the AmeriChicks, Ann and Kim, one last time. Caro had arranged to meet them at The Marble Bar, where Jenny Jordan (the one who is almost as incredibly beautiful as Karen Sparen) had taken us. I was surprised to see Kim and Ann looking VERY glamourous when we met. I suppose I shouldn't have been really, after all the Oz Experience Bus Trip wasn't a high-glamour, low-smell sort of thing, but they were both looking like they were on the pull and not meeting up with a Kiwi and her rather daggy-looking Pom. They were on good form, and as hilarious as ever (when we told them about the adverse affect on the weather we seeme to have Ann replied, "We just had floods here! Would you mind just LEAVING??"). Caro and I were both amazed they were only 22 - not because of the way they looked but because of their rather sophisticated manner and cynical humour. Kim caught us up on what had happened to them after Melbourne. They had continued with Oz Experience up to Sydney, experiencing horrible camping conditions in a tent with a broken flap that wouldn't zip up in a rainstorm and mouldy orange blankets, and Kim's Very Exciting Night Walk trip to look at wildlife. It turned out to be not so much of a walk, but a drive through the countryside in the back of a van with various hungover guys. It seems she didn't even see that much, the highlights being when a cow attempted to take a shit on the front of the van, and the spotting of a wombat with mange. ("Do you think we should shoot it?") Kim also seems to still be experiencing her problem of attracting guys she really isn't interested in. She explained to us that she was avoiding one pub because there was a guy in there stalking her, and meanwhile, earlier that day a thalidomide guy had tried to pick her up. As Kim was telling me these stories, she would occasionally stop and ask, "Is THAT going in the email?" Obviously she was now looking forward to playing to a wider audience. Caro had also arranged to meet her friend Michael at the bar. Michael is the boyfriend of Caro's old Edinburgh flatmate Julie. I had met him only once before, and I remember it well because I was shitting myself at the time. Caro had cruelly arranged for me to meet EVERYBODY SHE KNOWS IN THE WHOLE BLOODY WORLD all at once in the same evening. Jim, Mechelle, Julie, Joanne, Polly - they

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whole lot. So I remember meeting all Caro's friends and feeling very old and uncool while they all checked my teeth and so on. Michael had put me at my ease by having a bit of a chat and making me feel a lot better. So even though I didn't remember him awfully well, I was pleased to be given the chance to see him again and shake his hand. However, he couldn't make it until quite late, so I had to buy some potato chips for the girls to keep them going. They also included little Digimon card thingies which Ann pounced upon. Apparently she has this bizarre habit of collecting STUFF everywhere she goes which goes in her book. Kim ridicules her for this, to which Ann responds by pointing out Kim's bizarre habit of reading all the ingredients on everything she eats or drinks. "The other day I found something that contained TALLOW," Kim expanded. "That was tough. I had to look it up to find out what tallow WAS. And then I had to look up what THAT was made of." At this point, Michael arrived. Unfortunately, we couldn't really talk very well, as by this time the Marble Bar Band (lead by "Slide" McBride on the trombone) had started playing "The Girl from Ipanaema" quite loud. "God, the band are older than anyone in this room," Michael noted. "Check out those red leather pants!" said Ann, getting rather disturbingly excited. Michael wobbled in on crutches, having injured himself playing football. He explained that he hadn't broken anything, but that this hadn't stopped the hospital slapping a cast on him for fun, then telling him that he didn't really need it. Michael works for the railways down here, but previous to that had worked at the Paralympics where he had spent most of his time giving out autographs to tourists, who were delighted to be speaking to "a real Australian." So we left "Slide" MacBride and went off to find some food, Michael swinging along on his crutches behind us. "Don't leave the cripple behind," warned Ann. We eventually found some cheap pasta place where Michael told us a story about being very sick. "And tell me, whose dinner EXACTLY reminded you of that story?" asked Kim. Which made me laugh so hard she added, "Now THAT'S going in the email, right?" We then went to the pub where Kim's stalker worked and Kim made the astonishing admission that she tends to imagine everyone in the nude. I crossed my legs and tried not to look too disconcerted. "Don't you?" she asked. I repied that I did my best not to, considering the appearance of most people. But Kim seems to be unable to stop - both a gift and a curse, if you will. Meanwhile, Ann cheered me up immensely by telling me that she had always thought I was younger than Caro not that this gives me any real pleasure ha ha ha ha ha ha in your face Caro. This was the sort of boost my ego needed, as I really was feeling pretty scummy by this time. Australia had taken it's toll. We had hung around too many sordid hostels with yucky bathrooms. I was tired of my horrid little cloth towel which never REALLY dried you out but left you feeling just that little bit damp. And I was really sick of my sandals which smelled like - well - how shall I put this - like a dog had just used them for a toilet. Also, my hair, which was last shaved in New Zealand had grown back in a very eccentric manner. It was pretty much a uniform length all over my head except on the two back corners which had grown, like, DOUBLE that. The result was that I now had these two teddy bear ears stuck on the back of my head. Caro thought it was adorable, but still I didn't feel good about it. So I guess I was pleased to be on my way to a new country -and one where we were to stay in a resort, with oooh - towels and showers and no dorm mates and EVERYTHING. At the same time, I felt incredibly sad to be saying goodbye to a lot of cool people - some of whom I woudl never see again. The next morning we had to get up at 4 a.m. I survived having to wake Caro up. A good sign for our soujourn in Fiji... From: Caro

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Date:

Wed, 2nd May 2001

G'day Mate OK, I admit it, I was entering Australia thinking it wasn't gonna be any big surprise. We Kiwis are spoon-fed Aussie culture, when growing up. The endless holiday programmes (nearly every NZ household has been to The Gold Coast, Mate), loud twangy accents and hanging onto vowel sounds with a vengeance, in the 80s every child born was named "Kylie" or "Jason", leather-skinned peroxide blondes with coral lipstick featured on gameshows, sightings of Paul Hogan "with new wife, Linda" (still sporting the same hairstyle from Crocodile Dundee Part 1, by the way) and the eternal sounds of Rolf Harris breathing heavily as he 'tied his kangaroo down'. The trauma. Instead, I have discovered that Australia is really very cool. Still, when reading guidebooks and general travel paraphenalia, I discovered a few things caused me to snigger. *Sleeping with the Enemy (accommodation specialists) *Manly Naked Surfing Competition *The Pub where previous week's UK episodes of Eastenders are shown in Omnibus style and on big screen, with pub menu consisting of bangers 'n mash. We did not attend. *Govinda's movie room, run by Hare Krishnas. Lentils mainly on menu. *The Aussie Duck truck/boat thing which does a land and water tour of Sydney. Watch out for the splash. *Towns named after the local landscape, like "Mud" and "Yorkie's Knob". *A bastardized version of Rotorua's Agrodome, charging $89 for a full farm experience including a BBQ lunch. *Rolf Harris singing Split Enz's "6 months in a leaky boat" on the monorail. Hideous. But the big thing, however, is how backpacking has changed since Lisa Brown and I left NZ 4 years ago, armed with 85 litre packs and a pittance of British pounds. The new style backpackers are super young, travelling on Daddy's credit cards, wearing ultra trendy clothes (a-line skirts and pre-requisite long blonde ponytail), being preoccupied with getting a deeper tan (hello? Skin cancer?), armed with mobile phones and "Doing Oz before term starts, possibly going to do 6 weeks in Nepal, though". Gosh and accents so posh, and budgeting is not an option. Frightful. Although, it's not all that bad, 'cos we have met some awesome people and caught up with old friends. Jenny "the jinx" Jordan, Odette Nightsky, Reg and Jacinta, Grant Dalton and maybe young Mike "you're not in the Lebanon now" Saad, if we can successfully track him down... Who can forget the hilarity and debacles with the two Chicago girls, Ann "I don't appreciate your attitude" and Kim, "Sorry about the suck-ass show", and wee Jenna, who was prepared to dance with the dropkick bloke on the dancefloor for a paltry $10. You go girl! And what about Rosco? Um...what can I say? Except, the man is mad. People, if you encounter a driver called Rosco ( from Oz Experience, be very afraid, he has a whole obsession thing with his own nipples and came 2nd in a female beauty contest when he was like 13 or something). He was excellent and he and Symon had a whole "I can tell worse fart jokes and poo stories than you can" thing going on. Its frightening when guys get all competitive. So, in a nutshell, Adelaide was closed for Easter -the whole bloody place. Pot Noodles saved us from starvation. Kangaroo Island was fantastic and as a Kiwi, automatically I became a target for the funloving hippie eco-warrior, Daniel, who ran the tour. The same thing happened when we met Rosco. Still, these Aussies have no comeback when you mention "underarm bowling" -they know. Keepin' it real. Symon hit it off with an Austrian bloke called Matisse, on Kangaroo Island, who was fond of saying things

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like "You can see I am Austrian when I am always liking to climb things" and "I miss the mountains, it is just red desert here" but didn't appeciate jokes like "sing edelweiss, Matisse, oh go on" or "dance like hills are alive to the sound of music, man!" as he perched on a rock, up a tree, in a cravasse, the side of a cliff... On the old Oz Experience thing, we met up with some great bitchy Germans (Thomas and Kirstin), clinical psychologists, and dead-pan jokes all the way. Here was I thinking Germans had no sense of humour. These two were evil, and just the right addition to our posse of the Chicago Girls, wee Jenna and ourselves. There was some general hilarity about "Nena" and her 99 Luftballoons and hairy armpits. Sadly, some jokes were too intellectual for the twittery little english girls who were involved in some sick love triangle thing with Klaus, another German, but decidedly too young and too stupid to do anything but wear his hair gel. Klaus' friend, Anthony, from Northern Ireland (stands out for me as the only person I have ever encountered on this planet, who has nearly born the brunt of Symon in a rare spurt of utter rage and violence -but thats a whole other thing), seemed to think it was totally cool to wear a red gang looking handkerchief, which it was later revealed upon closer inspection to be ...no, its not, it is, its a headband, much like Bjorn Borg in the 70s. It was especially funny in that it was Symon who commented first "Jee-zus, it's elasticated, too, Caro". I nearly wept with pride at his observation. Grasshopper has learned well. No doubt some of you have heard, but we've stayed in some strange places in Oz -an old gaol cell, where we have moved up to the next plane in our relationship, because the cells were unchanged and the toilet was right there. "Look away...don't look...oh F**k off!" (Hello? Hygiene? Health & Safety? Feral). A grotty little caravan, where evil grunting koalas kept me awake for most of the night and led to me waking Symon to escort me to the bathroom block up in the bush. Mag lites required. An eco-hostel, with very plush hotel-looking surroundings. All solar-powered, water from showers flushed toilets, dim lighting, recycled garbage etc. Large chocolate brown sofas and natural timber. The Arts Factory, Byron Bay -on the site of an old piggery, hippie central, we felt a little out of it, cos we didn't have dreadlocks, hadn't climbed in Nepal, hadn't been to India, didn't like trance techno music, and I no longer had my nose piercing to match the fifty others that are seemingly required. We loved the actual place, stayed in a great tent thing by the creek, the movie theatre had faux cow fur reclining sofas, the restaurant was vegetarian and very funky, the Aboriginal dancers were amazing and the staff were great. It was the other guests who were just tryhards. There were a few who were cool, and genuine in their spiritual search and just plain friendly, but for the most part, people adopted a fashion look and talked about "Nepal" and "Karma", while toking on massive joints. Oh, and I had my silver lighter stolen. So much for "good karma". Reg & Jacinta's place was great. They are a couple of hilarious people. Truly. Reg & Symon played the same game as Rosco and Symon (I'm sensing a pattern here) about fart jokes and poo. They took us to some great little places and showed me where all the shops were. Melbourne is a fabulous place to shop. Poeple wandering down Toorak Rd and Chapel St look like they just walked out of a glossy mag, and anything goes. Seriously funky stuff. We also caught another show of Rich Hall is "Otis Lee Crenshaw". The laughter. The tears. The harassment of audence members. Oh, my sides. Oh, and the rain. The moment we arrived in Melbourne, we realised our "Gap" jackets were for light showers only. Symon said he felt like a giant condom. Which started Reg off with the whole kinky talk he is fond of. Fabulous. Previus to staying wth Reg 'n Jacinta, we were on our Oz Experience tour, along the Great Ocean Road (not in Melbourne), and we walked into a bakery and who is standing in front of me, ordering sausage rolls? A man with a tattoo of the flag of Scotland on his leg. No, it wasn't, was it? "Hey Reg, howzit goin'?" There was a little jump and it took a bit for his "just-got-out-of-bed" look to get it together, as he turned to look behind him. "Well, helloooo, there. How are you?" he said. How bizarre. I know very few people in Oz, and don't expect to see them in an obscure little bakery somewhere down the road. I love things like that. The universe is very cool.

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This weekend, we're hitting the Nimbin Mardi Grass Festival, featuring the Hemp Olympics, Seed swapping, and open forums re ending marijuana prohibition. Should be awesome. Anyway, I think thats about it, but I have a few observations about the last few weeks: * Odette still makes a mean dahl. I may propose marriage. * People still go for the deep tan, with no apparent regard for skin cancer warnings. Most of them are tourists -largely English. * Pillows here seem to be 2cm thick. Is this a governemnt regulation? * Craig David is everywhere. Help me. * Lots of toe overhang when wearing slides and sandals. It is such a fashion no-no. Some even have long toenails all painted up, theres just no need for it. But it adds weight to the surfie saying "Keep your toes on the nose". * My backpack is really small compared to most other people, and I don't have shoes, sleeping bags etc hanging off the side of it. I am very proud. * Humpback whales have been spotted at the start of their annual northerly migration. * Blonde dreadlocks are where its at, man. * The Brits are very conservatively dressed compared to the Australians. There are some amazing shops here, mostly boutique type that really stretch the imagination. If only I was super-rich, the incredible things I would buy... * Although, Oz and NZ have just embraced the whole camel boot, burberry coat, tartan trousers, thing. Sometimes, they still can be a season behind. *The Arts Factory has the best movie theatre ever. Faux cow fur reclining sofas is so the way forward. Symon's emails on the site are far more detailed with loads more jokes and odd people. "Sydney", "Adelaide" and "Oz Experience" have been posted, with Byron Bay and Melbourne being typed as we speak. In keeping with our kitsch taste in interiors, you'll be pleased to know we have purchased a $2 boomerang, and a star-shaped lampshade. Nice Action. WE ARRIVE IN FIJI NEXT THURSDAY. Wohoo! Bonzer Caro "The Chick With the Cool Purple and Leopardskin Boots"

Part 6: Fiji Land of Frogs and Fuck Nothing


Caro read my last email epic and finished it with a look of both amusement and concern on her face. "You're fucking mental," she said, but in a very sweet way. It's true. There's something about writing my experiences. I go off on a tangent. You must have noticed. My concentration doesn't stay on the subject at hand and I end up talking about poo, or Elizabeth Montgomery, or cartoons, or foot odour. But usually poo, I know. I don't know why. I do try to adopt a "stream of conciousness" approach to the writing here, but all too often it turns into a stream of something else instead. Sorry about that. Anyway, the reason I start this particular email with that preamble is that Fiji was an odd little adjunct to our adventure. We both went a bit mad in Fiji, which I think was due to the fact that for a week we were pretty much cut off from the world and forced to sit in a room and talk solely to each other. You learn things about people in these circumstances. Be warned...

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We were looking forward to Fiji, because it would force us to slow down, laze around and do nothing but read and lie in the sun. Now, those of you who have spent time with us are probably already sniggering at this point. "Jesus, if those two slowed down any more they run the risk of bed sores," you are saying. Well, I have two things to say in reply to that, the first of which is fuck right off, and the second is, look I KNOW we're quite lazy people but Australia had been pretty hectic and we were both relishing the thought of being pampered in a proper resort (Club Fiji, no less) with little men rushing down the beach to refill our alcoholic fruity drinks and so forth. THAT'S my point. As we touched down in Nadi (which for some reason is pronounced "Nandy" - I think they misplaced a consonant somewhere) we had Singapore flashback feelings. It was very hot and very damp. There was that moist earth smell in the air. The airport itself was a bit tatty and as our bags were hoisted into the Club Fiji courtesy bus Caro had a more unfortunate feeling - a 'Nam Flashback. Fiji is nowhere near as scary as Vietnam, but as we sped along dirt tracks and past the little shanty houses we had the unnerving feeling that maybe Fiji wasn't such a good idea after all. Come on, by now you know that neither of us are consumate travellers. I often wonder why we didn't just book ourselves into the Hotel St. Nicholas in Scarborough for a year and save ourselves all the hassle we've had over the past few months. I mean, we both like seeing new places and meeting people, but we both dislike hassle, and getting ripped off, and pools of weewee on the floor of communal showers - you know what I mean. But we shrugged off such misgivings and checked into our bure. This is a sort of beach-hut and ours had a huge high ceiling, complete with fans, a fridge, veranda, grass thatched roof and en-suite. Mind you, first our bell-boy had to find the damn thing. Back and forth he went, with two of our heaviest bags slung over his shoulder, muttering "Number 17... Number 17..." his back bent under the weight, like an extra from "Spartacus" or something. Then he found it, and wobbled gratefully into the hut, knocking things over because he couldn't find the lights. I felt so sorry for him, I gave him a ten Fijian dollars as a tip. (It was then I looked at the exchange slip I had got at the airport and found out the Fijian dollar was worth only a little less than the Australian dollar and I had inadvertently given him a huge tip. The Fijian $ is actually worth more than the NZ $. "We should have a bloody coup," muttered Caro in disgust.) The room was very large with a good sized bed in it. There were no windows, just screens covered by wooden slats. There was also a nice couch, comfy chair, warped cupboard and a bloody horrible painting on the wall. (There is ALWAYS a horrid picture in every hotel room everywhere. I can only assume that Hotel Decoration is the job given to Interior Designers Gone Bad.) There was also a huge spider on the wall. I went right up to it because it was so big it didn't look REAL. It sat looking at me, bouncing up and down. It looked ridiculous. Like a collection of pipe cleaners stuck into a potato. I would've given it a bit of a poke but it ran way up and sat there smiling down in a whenyou're-fast-asleep-I-think-I'll-drop-onto-your-face sort of way. I wasn't sure whether to tell Caro or not. I'd kept huge spiders to myself in the past. I saw one in Byron Bay outside our cube at the Arts Factory one night. As Caro left to go to the toilet I warned her not to go near the edge of the veranda: "Why not?" she demanded, suspiciously. "Oh - you know - there might be things..." I tried to reply in a way that implied there was nothing to be worried about don't you know ha ha ha. She didn't ask, but I think she knew. I decided to tell her about this spider and she took it quite well. The spider, deciding that she wasn't much fun at all, ran away and we never saw him again. I had a peaceful night's sleep that night, with no spider attacks and woke up the next morning bright and early and ready for my first poo of the day.

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On our first full day in Fiji I was quite depressed. It felt like we had turned some sort of corner and were finally heading home. This, in itself isn't so bad. I do get homesick sometimes, but I found that I was already homesick for all the people in New Zealand and Australia we had just left behind. Caro was also a little low. She had opened the bure slats to look out on an overcast day. "It's not even sunny on a tropical fucking island," she spat in disgust. It had rained most of the time in Australia to our surprise but we thought we would escape this sort of thing in Fiji. However, the sun remained elusive our entire time in Fiji. However, you must remember we were there at the beginning of May which is offseason. This became even more obvious when we ventured into the huge dining area (basically just a raised wooden floor with a roof and no walls and a bar attached. There was NO-ONE there. Not one person. Eventually someone rocked up to take our order, but we were apparently staying at the Marie Celeste of resorts. Caro gathered up some brochures to see what was going on locally. Not A Fucking Lot was the answer. There were some really expensive tours to other islands, but we were apparently staying on The Island of Bugger All To Do. This, as I said, was FINE. We WANTED to do Bugger All. It's what I do best! But I just thought I'd let you know that the biggest attraction near Nadi is the Raymond Burr Orchid Farm. Did you know Raymond Burr lived in Fiji? Me neither. But he did and is HUGE here. (Mind you Raymond Burr is huge everywhere. I blame bad diet and all those years in that wheelchair in "Ironsides".) Our lunch came, and like most of the meals at the resort it was covered in grease and came with a limp salad that had an orchid in it. But the service was very friendly. Most of the staff were. Every time they saw you they would cry, "Bula!" And if there were two of you, "Bula! Bula!" and so on. (I wondered what would happen if half a dozen Fijians all met each other all at once - the bula-ing could go on for DAYS. It would sound like The Goombay Dance Band had reformed or something.) Back at the bure, we decided to do our laundry. Partly because I had a stain down the leg of my favourite travelling pants that looked like I had pissed down my leg, and partly because we were seduced by the bizarre clothing list that came on the laundry slip. Items like, "t-shirts" washed for $1.90 (fair enough) and then you get to "safari suits" for $7.50 (unfortunately I had neglected to pack my safari suit). Then there were "gentlemen's stockings" for $1.40. Quite frankly I would pay a great deal more than that just to keep it quiet that I wear stockings. But anyway, we parceled up our stuff and gave it to the front desk. Big mistake. The laundry list just added to the very Graham Greene, an Englishman Abroad type of vibe, with the coconuts lying around outside our veranda, the chirping geckos at night, the continuous whirring of the ceiling fan and the tea-making facilities in the room. (Not that we used them much; the milk there was so revolting that Caro had to go without coffee for a week. I was lucky to escape with my life, and my testicles.) We had dinner at the resort again that night. It was actually very nice sitting there with torches blazing all over the place and a few other people had now materialised. Caro asked if she could smoke and the waiter asked, "smoke what???" When she explained she meant tobacco he said, "Oh SURE - you can smoke THAT." And there I was thinking we had left Nimbin far behind... Due to Caro's coffee-dependency and the lack of drinkable milk, we ventured into Nadi the following day. Immediately on leaving the bus I had that Ho Chi Minh City feeling again. Like I was basically an ATM on legs that the locals would constantly try to make withdrawals from. Caro went souvenir shopping and then we hid in a posh cafe where I ordered a latte for Caroline. It had the same revolting milk in it. She didnt see the funny side.

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Now here is where I have to get something off my chest for all those bloody self-righteous traveller types who go on at you in pubs for being tourists and wank on about "getting in touch with the local culture". Let's face it, unless you spend a great deal of time with the locals, and here I am talking about MONTHS you are NOT going to get into the local culture by floating about for a couple of weeks in some godforsaken village in the middle of nowhere, trying to talk to the locals. YOU are a Westerner. YOU have money. THEY would quite like some. And that's always going to come between you, so don't give me that crap about getting to know people. You've got a far better chance making a real connection with another tourist. I speak from bitter experience here. I got talking with this guy who bula'd me in the street. He seemed a friendly enough guy and we got chatting about the weather and all that. I thought he was about to walk off when he suddenly produced this wooden dagger and started whittling "Caroline and Symon" onto it. So we are now the proud possessors of "OHagan' Folly" a set of two horrible black wooden daggers and a Fijian scary mask with my name on it. It shall hang in the toilet for all eternity to remind me never to try and "connect with the local culture" ever again. Back at the bure, we unpacked our meagre groceries which were pretty bloody meagre I can tell you. Everything there is so expensive that we had to buy ratty old fruit and veggies. And LOTS of chocolate. After our dinner (of chocolate) we went for a bit of a moonlight walk along the beach and it was lovely. Although the beach itself wasn't of the white sand sort Caro had been hoping for, it was still very nice and peaceful and we could see the locals out night-fishing. As we walked back to our bure we saw loads and loads of tiny frogs EVERYWHERE. It was really very cool. We had a lot of time on our hands. That's ok - I had bought loads of books in Australia and was ploughing my way through a fictionalised biography of Elizabeth I. But in between reading we played cards Caroline taught me "Speed" and then proceeded to whip my arse at it. I should say at this point that Caroline is NOT a gracious winner. I mean, I'm not so good myself, but at least I don't do a Victory Dance. We also listened to Fijian radio which is pretty awful. Their adverts are great though. They are still in that innocent, "Buy This Product For It Is Really Good" age. As in this advert for fertiliser: MAN 1: MAN 2: MAN 1: MAN 2: VOICE: Boo hoo hoo. Why are you crying, my brother? Because I used the wrong fertiliser and now my crops have failed. Oh no! I used that fertiliser! Now I shall cry too! Use "Bula" Fertiliser for good crops.

The music on the radio was even worse. The Fijians have an unfortunate taste for that horrid sort of holiday music that was typified by EuroPop in the 1980's, when songs like "Save Your Love" and "Jungle Boy" occasionally invaded the British charts. Consequently, Caro and myself had to find other ways to pass the time. We talked a lot and some of our conversations to a very surreal turn. One night Caroline turned to me and asked me if she could paint my toenails. I thought about it for a bit. "Okay," I said. It passed the time for the next ten minutes. Although for the rest of the week I was disturbed by how pretty my feet looked. Another night I was lying about naked. (I do this a lot. Caroline complains about this but you know, it was HOT. Besides, I'm sure she's only complaining because she doesn't like being in a constant state of arousal, the poor girl.) Anyway, so I'm lying there reading my book when Caroline turned to me and asked me if she could draw on my nipple. I thought about it for a bit. "No," I said.

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I started to worry about Caro's cabin-fever which probably reached it's zenith when she asked me one day whether I thought I could fit a ten-cent Fijian coin inside my foreskin. (The answer is yes, if you were wondering.) The thing was, we didn't really go outside very much. On the two days of sun we laid on the beach but apart from that there wasn't much to do. There were hardly any other guests to talk to and we were coming to the conclusion that the staff weren't as friendly as we thought. We realised this after we made our first complaint. The problem was that the hot water in our bure went out. We gave it a few hours and then mentioned it at the front desk who told us someone would be along later. Of course, they never came. Then Caro was standing out on the veranda when she saw a family of Australians being moved to another bure. The Aussie bloked was going ballistic. "This is the THIRD FUCKING TIME we've been moved and we've only just arrived and THAT FUCKING BITCH at the front desk doesn't GIVE A SHIT!!" Oh great, thinks Caro, now they're going to think all Australians and New Zealanders are as rude and obnoxious as this guy. But he did have a point. Sometime the next day our hot water was restored - for a few hours - before being cut off again. We never got it back. The guy who fixed it was actually pretty good - he offered us a free pitcher of beer (although it's not so good for showering in I found) but the rest of the staff couldn't care less. The actual resort was run by this tanned-to-within-an-inch-of-her-life chick who spent the entire time floating about with next to nothing on. We saw her having a heart-to-heart with the Australian the next day. Caro with her Radar Hearing told me that he was "deeply disappointed" and was going to write "An Official Letter". So Caro and I retreated back into our little wooden world, being awoken every morning by mynah birds which are probably the noisiest creatures on the entire planet although they are quite cute and cheeky. I spent some time drawing up a list of the number of beds I have slept in since leaving our flat last December - starting with Sue's in Edinburgh and ending in Fiji. I had slept in 28 different beds, visited 37 different places and shat in god knows how many toilets since then. I also spent some time re-writing my notes on our travels. What, you thought I was just making all this stuff UP as I go??? Well, yes all right mostly I do although I need the odd note to remind me. As I went through my notes I would find the odd surreal word that reminded me of NOTHING. Looking at those notes just now I seem to have written down the word "urethra" and can't for the life of me figure out why. It's not the sort of thing you'd think I'd forget. And we rediscussed our laminated lists. I didn't have one for a start. It's just quite difficult for me to come up with one as most actresses are, admittedly very good-looking but don't have real personality. I think it's easier for women. Caro, for example, is constantly updating her Laminated List. The shock news from Fiji is that Ricky Martin has dropped off the list since, "he hasn't done much since 'She Bangs'." The new laminated list looks like this: 1. Tom Cruise 2. Sam Elliot 3. Robbie Williams Tom, apparently manages to "ooze sex into all of his roles". Quite frankly I think that sounds a bit disgusting, but you can't account for taste. Bubbling under in Caro's list are George Clooney, Harrison Ford, Cuba Gooding Jr. and a young Jack Lemmon. We also got onto the subject of Caro's Lesbian Laminated List, should she ever decide that I've ruined her for all other men:

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1. Angela Basset 2. Meg Ryan 3. Drew Barrymore And after much struggling, I came up with my list: 1. Sigourney Weaver 2. Sarah Jessica Parker 3. Elisabeth Shue I've always had a soft spot for Glenn Close too, but purely as the Marquise in "Dangerous Liaisons". I have a thing for evil women as those of you who have met Caroline will know. Bubbling under in my list are also "Destiny's Child" although I'm unsure which one. Possibly all of them. Having discussed that it was necessary to take a cold shower. Fortunately, that was no FUCKING problem. Sue, meanwhile, had been beavering about back in the UK and gave us a real surprise on the 2nd to last day in Fiji. As we sat at the resort's Internet Cafe we found out that my accountant had forgotten to tell me about the last dividend, or it had dropped down the back of the couch or something. The upshot was that the dividend from my dissolved company was about 3 times the size we expected. This had MAJOR implications for the quality of our USA trip, and would alter our approach to travel as youll see We celebrated by going to the resort cafe for lunch and then watched in bemusement as a cute, but extremely clumsy bird scittered down onto our table and fell on his arse. Then he picked himself up, walked over to our finished platter and scoffed up the tomato sauce. That was our week in Fiji. Except for our laundry - remember that? Well it turned up a day or two later with all the stains it had originally plus on or two new ones. Caro was "deeply disappointed" and threatened to write, "An Official Letter". On our last morning we awoke eagerly, awaiting our departure and took a freezing cold shower each. ("Well that brought my nipples up, although my scrotum appears to have vanished I commented bitterly.) And were then pissed off by the Courtesy Bus, and I use that term loosely. We bought tickets for it to take us to the airport, but the driver didn't feel like it on the day and flatly refused. We took a taxi instead. My advice to you is that if you're ever going to Fiji, you should stay in a little place called Hawaii instead, but oops Im getting ahead of myself. I shall leave this chapter with Caro's words to me on departing Nadi airport: "Fiji. You can shove it up yer arse." From: Caro Date: Wed, 23rd May 2001 Geez, it's all been a bit incommunicado of late, due to the horrific prices internet cafes charge and because the damn public phone was out of order in Fiji and Hawai'i really hasn't embraced the whole internet thing, which surprises me right down to my newly blonded roots. So, I guess Symon told you all about Byron and Nimbin and Brisbane and Sydney? Well, you're gonna hear it again... We arrived in Nimbin the day before the "Mardi Grass 2001" Festival began. And yes, I spelt "grass" correctly, 'cos it was a celebration of hemp, Baby. Yeah, right on. We got off the bus and in the space of 3 hours, we were approached by at least 10 people, keen to sell us some goodies. As well as having a serious message about prohibition and setting up legislations and a whole "Little Amsterdam" society, it also featured:

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*The Hemp Olympix -Joint Rolling (artistic: using as many papers as you like, in 10 minute period, must burn down completely) and (Speed roll: using 3 papers only, as fast as possible and must burn right down) -Bong Throwing (complete with stinking old bong water) -Hemp Javelin Throw (Hemp javelins supplied) -Growers Ironperson (lug a sack of fertilizer and buckets of water around the simulated planting area onstacle course with leech-infested lantana tunnel). Nice. *Seed Swap *Million Man Marijuana March of a 1000 Joints (bring own joint) *Green Revolution Ball *Pot Art Exhibition *Pot Poetry *Tree Planting And attended by tourists, wannabes, Historians, Druids, Elders, photojournalists, ecologists, Doctors, Scientists, The Faerie Queen and her Gunja Faeries...and the local movie theatre was featuring "Traffic". It was a great chance to people watch, although I was a bit disturbed by the fact that a couple of 10 year old kids tried to sell us some "good shit". We returned to Byron Bay, to have a final evening eating Indian curries, watching TV, sharing celeb gossip and walking on the "Alien Beach" with Odette Nightsky, our favourite Author, who is currently, as we speak, doing promo-work on radio talkshows and coffeehouse talks about her book entitled "A Bridge Between Two Worlds: a Shaman's View of Schizophrenia and Acute Sensitivity" (also available on her website: www.adcnetwork.net.au/shaman) We took a quick trip up to Brisbane to stay with one of my oldest buddies from home, Grant, and his partner, Craig and their flatmate, Jo (who wore a great pashmina and very cool glasses). We just didn't spend enough time with them; the laughs, the drinking on the patio, the "Beauty & the Beast" TV show, their funky little "Queenslander" house and great fish 'n chips in the rain. We had the whole "Grant" experience which involved endless cigarettes and coffees, gossip and a special Elizabeth Montgomery video... Oh my sides! Too much laughing and much to my disgust, Grant also whipped out the photo albums, featuring kodak moments of yesteryear and me with bad hairstyles (80s spiral perms) and dubious outfits (the horror). And big old black full-on Jackie O sunglasses. Look, they were damn cool, alright!? Geez, you guys are a tough crowd, tonight. Anyway, we quickly stopped in Sydney again to hook up with the ever-delightful Chicago Kim and Chicago Ann (Oz Experience). Ann nearly got the bash from an ugly bald bouncer with a "short man" complex, 'cos her feet were on a stool. Jenny the Colombian was out of town, so we missed her unfortunately. However, the elusive Micheal "You're not in the Lebanon now" Saad was up for a night "oot", even though he had a soccer incident and was on crutches. Nothing wrong with his bad jokes, though. And he kept the Chicago's on their toes, trying to keep up with his and Symon's bizarre conversations links. So, hideously, at 4am, yes, 4 as in F-O-U-R and a.m. as in aaaaghhh, its bloody early in the morning A.M. We got up to go to Fiji. I was dead excited. Sadly, Fiji was a gross disappointment. My advice to anybody going there -go there in style, do not attempt to budget, if you want paradise, you have to pay for it. We only had a week there, and the resort looked as if it would provide all our needs for the duration (requirements were: lazy quiet reading by the pool and sitting in the sun perhaps a couple of drinks and some fresh fruit and vegetables sorta thing). By the end of

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the week, it was hard to find my sense of humour, which had packed up and fucked off to Hawai'i, where it was joyously awaiting my arrival. We also discovered the Fijian dollar is worth just a little less than the Oz dollar but more than the NZ dollar. Hardly surprising really, everybodys money is worth more than the NZ dollar, we should have taken an oak chest cheap baubles and trinkets to trade with. As soon as we arrived at Nadi Airport, I thought "oh shit, its Ho Chi Minh city" (refer to 'Nam email). The Fijian people (Indian and Fijian) are rude, unhelpful, and see you as a huge bag of money. They have yet to learn the power of good customer service and the finer points of the tourist trade like; *hot water in your room for showers *not charging you F$54 to do a load of washing which returns ruined *having the public phone working *not charging 25c per minute for email -50c in midsummer! *not shouting to each other in the morning outside your door to someone else half a mile away *having fresh fruit and vegetables and send the the resort chef on a course to update his skills and creating dishes that are not deep-fried, fried, dripping with grease, perhaps featuring something other than out-ofthe-packet battered fish fillets and chicken pieces, fries and crappy coleslaw. * and the big one: remembering we are guests and that we arrived the other day. I got really tired of "Bula! You jus' arrive today?" after being asked like twice a day for a week, sometimes by the same person. Oh, and if I ever meet the resort courtesy busdriver again, I will be arrested for GBH and give him the biggest earful of his life while I explain the operative word in his job title is "Courtesy". Sorry, feel I had to purge. Gosh, mmm, that was therapeutic. I feel great now. Thanks. So, as you can imagine, by the 16th, I was like a seething heap of righteousness with a trough for a mouth. Poor Symon. Still, his way of dealing with the whole debacle was to get naked. At every opportunity. I'm starting to think that perhaps he's not of Irish blood at all, but German. I think what actually tipped me over the edge was the milk. It was that horrid UHT long lasting stuff. Makes Caro's milky coffees taste yuck. No coffee means no caffeine which means grouchy... Apart from that, and the fact that it rained solidly most days, we did spend some quality time with each other, and had a few larfs as I whipped Symon's ass playing "Speed" and "Last Card", painting his toenails and listening to the local radio station (which is hilarious in an unintentional way), reading books and planning the USA leg of the trip. It was nice to not have to go looking at the tourist sights and monuments and museums and whatever... ...or get ripped off by locals. 'cos he's such a nice guy, when this old codger rocked up to him, chatting away and whittling stuff from bits of wood and asking us questions, Symon thought "what a lovely old man". I was suspicious and not speaking. He assumed Symon was "the best person to approach", as the the lovely old man turned out to be a con. He'd asked us our names in the conversation, shaking our hands and then carved them onto a scary looking mask and two spears. Obviously no one will buy them, so we have to or he won't go away. Its a clever ploy, but he hadn't counted on the fact that we were: a) backpackers with no money. He looked alarmed when Symon said that, for the first time looking at our crappy T shirts and the lack of "extortionate handicraft" shopping bags dangling from our fingers. b) my thin temper was ready to go mano-a-mano with somebody. And so it began.

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He started haggling with Symon at $45, I laughed. $45 again. Symon explained we were backpackers. $40 then. Jee-zus christ (agitated), you're dreamin' mate 20 bucks. His time to laugh $40. Forget it $20 is it. OK $35. No. Handmade my me $35. No. (pulling out a cigarette looking disinterested). Can't do $30. $20. How much you got? $10 (slow drag) but I'll go to $20 (exhale). $20? $20 (looking down the street). OK $20 but $2 so I go buy a coke. So $22 then? (peeling off a note in my pocket so he can't see my money) Yeah, $20 and $2 for a coke. (I give him $2 for the coke). All events took place in a lane at the back of the shops. The day before we left saw us sitting on sunloungers, in the sun (which decided to reveal itself finally), reading books, soaking up the rays and me swimming in the pool. Fiji was OK, but the lesson here is: Don't stay at the "CLUB FIJI RESORT", Nadi. Go straight to the white-sanded, gorgeous Sheraton. Even if we hadn't just come from the 3rd world, I would have loved Hawai'i. Magnum PI. Hawaii Five-O. Steve McGarrett. Dobermans and Higgins. Jake and the Fatman. Starbucks caffe Latte (with real milk). Old Navy (thanks Ann & Kim, I now own a gorgeous pair of super flares and floral PJ bottoms). Room service. Our own clean bathroom. Elvis impersonator shows. The beach. The warmth and the blue sky. The friendly people. The cable TV. My free lei from "Hilo Hattie" 'cos I got on the wrong bus and ended up ass end of nowehere. My new hairdresser, Keone and the free tickets to his drag show for Saturday night. Gap. Fresh fruit and vegatables. Newspaper delivered every morning. Ala Moana Shopping Centre. Free hula shows. Funky people-watching opportunities. Starbucks Frappacinos. Our lanai (verandah). Blue Hawaii. 3000 Miles to Graceland (if you haven't seen it, it is my new favourite movie ever). Sephora Cosmetics. 95 cent Mai Tais. Large fat people with loud clothes on, and so obviously not from Hawai'i wearing sun visors and leathery tanned within an inch of their peroxided blonde hair (Oi! I'm not talking about me here!). I love it here. I am coming back as a local in my next life. OK, gotta go have more adventures, Lisa Brown arrives tomorrow for some frolicking in the sun and lycra wearing fiascos. Later Caro "The chick with great purple & leopard print boots" From: Orkney Caroline Date: 30/5/2001, 3pm Hi guys

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Caro2 here - feeling very very envious of you babes enjoying the kitsch sunshine in Hawaii, now that the Scottish summer has been and gone. Oz sounded great, Fiji sounded not-so-great. Actually I can relate to your Fijian experience as a girlie mate and I once went there many moons ago after 4 weeks in NZ. The idea was similar to yours - visions of spending a week 'laxing in the sun amid grandeur and opulence. Ha ha. We booked into a crummy backpackers (sounds a bit like yours, in fact could be the same place. The woman on reception thought we were sisters when we gave her our passports and she saw we both had the middle name 'Mary'!). Cut a long story short, after two nights we packed up, headed to the airport and waited to get onto an earlier flight to LA, to enjoy Hollywood Boulevard, that famous shopping street where Pretty Woman went, and going to the pictures every night. Far more fun! Anyway, continue to enjoy your amazing adventures and keep those e-mails coming. I'm delighted to hear there's a male out there who is more obsessed with his bowel movements than Gareth. And what exactly is that poo-walk like Caro? I expect a demonstration when you're home. (Just the walk, that is). C xxxxx

Part 7: Hawaii Land of Aloha and Elvis


Crossing the International Date Line was odd. We left Fiji (and Praise The Lord for THAT) on Thursday the 17th of May and arrived in Honolulu on Wednesday the 16th. I thought you could only travel back in time if you had a De Lorean. So I got another crack at Wednesday and Thursday, much like Bill Murray in "Groundhog Day" and I'm happy to say I managed to improve on the original. Mainly because I wasn't in Fiji. I just wished I had crossed the dateline on my birthday, because then I would have got two lots of presents. Mind you, it would also make me 33 years old and I don't think I'm ready for that yet. When we arrived in Hawaii it was raining. This was in line with the familiar pattern. We arrived somewhere and it would be experiencing the wet season come early. That, and the local currency would plummet, which actually worked out pretty well for us. On our arrival in Hawaii, the Canadian economy was undergoing some sort of crisis. They must have looked at our itinerary. Waiting in a queue at US customs, I discovered something very unnerving. Caro had been right about something. I hate that. The Hawaiians do INDEED pronounce their island as Ha-wah-EE as opposed to the mispronunciation Ha-WHY-EE. This forced me to shut my big fat trap as I had been making fun of Caro the whole way. As it happens, the Hawaiian alphabet only consists of 13 letters, including all the vowels which means that the Hawaiians are excellent Scrabble players: EUROPEAN: Damn! I drew all vowels again! HAWAIIAN: Ba ha ha ha! The advantage is mine! Still, all those vowels mean that many words require peculiar glottal stops when spoken. So if you pronounce them correctly it sounds like you've stopped talking in the middle of a word to do a bit of a burp. I could become fluent in weeks. One such glottally word was Oahu, which was the island on which we were staying. The other islands include Hawaii itself, Maui, Molokai, Elmo, Gonzo, Lino and Endor. Our taxi driver dropped us off at the Polynesian Club Hostel, took one look at the place and told us that there were LOADS of nice hotels in the area. We should have taken this as A Warning, but you know me, as sharp as a bag of wet hair. On checking in we found that - HORROR - we were once again in a room off a dorm. HELLO! Sleepless night!

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Yes, another night of lying in the dark listening to fucking arsehole English Tourists (well of COURSE they were English!) Caro and I got to hear for several FUCKING hours how stupid people flirt with each other: HOW REALLY FUCKING STUPID PEOPLE FLIRT WITH EACH OTHER GUY: Blah blah blah me, yeah, right, me, me, me, me. GIRL: Hee hee hee. Ooh that's SO funny! GUY: (Encouraged) Blah blah, ME blah blah, YEAH, fucking ME ME ME FUCK 'EM I SAID, YEAH fuck, fucking blah blah. GIRL: (Doing that horrid hysterical laughing noise that sounds like when you cover the end of a vacuum cleaner.) (They shag). CURTAIN. So we weren't too happy the next morning and immediately checked out. We wandered up to a place called The Ilima Hotel, looking tired, fed up, and totally Fiji-ed off. The guy at the desk took one look at us and laughed. Then he fixed us up with a room at the "Promo Rate". We dragged our sorry arses into the room, opened the door and nearly CRIED. It was (sniff) BEAUTIFUL. The room was nearly as big as my old flat. We had a double bed each, a REAL kitchenette with Microwave and (sob!) a TELLY. I would like to tell you right now that that very nice mans way Jay and he was lovely to us the entire time we were in Hawaii. Listen, I was so grateful I would have done ANYTHING for Jay. And you really dont want to know what I mean by anything. Caro and I spent the rest of the day lounging around in bed and watching "The Jacksons: An American Dream" which was a good choice because that film is like 5 hours long and so we didn't have to move to change the channel or anything. I think it was while I was lying there, flat on a comfortable bed with actual pillows and not pieces of felt wrapped in toilet paper that I had A Holiday Epiphany. I LOVED America. No really, I know Im not supposed to. I have undergone years of English socialist training, but despite knowledge of such American crimes as Operation Sideshow, Iran-Contra and Dawsons Creek, I find I cant help but love it. Its a land of people who in all seriousness say things like "Aw, shoot". A land where people are just friendly, for no good reason. Its also where all the telly comes from, lets not forget. I know I'm not supposed to say that. I should be wanking on at this point about American Imperialism blah blah island paradise ruined by corporate America blah blah local culture destroyed blah blah souless machinery of blah blah blah blah... I CAN'T bring myself to say that. First of all because I'd just been to an unspoilt Island Paradise with a Genuine Local Culture and it sucked. And what's WRONG with local culture being replaced by Polite Service and Convenience Food? Convenience Food is - well - fucking CONVENIENT for one thing and as someone who's been living on Pot Noodles for the past six weeks, I bloody well appreciated it. So I'm sorry, but if you're wanting the usual knee-jerk reaction to America, you'll have to read one of those irritating Lonely Planet Personal Accounts about how great it is to sit in the rain and wipe your runny bottom on tree-bark in Borneo. ( See "Wiping My Arse With Tree Bark in Borneo" published by Faber and Faber 1989.) However, the Anti-American radar was set off by some of their tv commercials. One concerned the gratitude of the Hawaiians to their "military neighbour" for protecting them all these years. I can sort of understand it, especially given Pearl Harbour and all that. Also, I'm sure that Fiji would LOVE to have its culture subverted by the dollar, but at the same time, the benefits to statehood are all around. Do they really need that sort of North Korean mind-control advertising to put the message across? It made me

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shiver just a little. Another jarring chord to life here is that I just found out the US government doesn't recognise the Hawaiians as the native people of Hawaii. This sounds to me like going up to a man with red hair and a kilt, whose name is Angus McTartan and demanding to know what he's doing in Aberdeen. I suspect the reason that the government has recognised almost 600 different Native American tribes but not Hawaiians, may be something to do with not opening the floodgates to 100's of Mabo-type land claims on Waikiki beachfront property. So there you go, thats my liberal-ness now expunged. Yay! We can get on with the sunshine and the beach and lots and lots and lots and LOTS of Japanese tourists! There were times it started to feel like we had just stepped off the bullet train in Tokyo. Many shops signs are in Japanese, there are loads of sushi and karaoke bars and everywhere you look there are tiny women hiding from the sun under huge designer floppy hats, immaculately made up and teetering along on altitude-sickness-inducing high-heels. Then there are the husbands, also dressed in the coolest designer gear, going into the Japanese electronic shops and loading up with duty-free stuff. I suppose it's a home away from home for them, like Spain used to be for the English, only without the crappy pop songs and sangria. Caro and I spent our first few days here looking around the shops, which fall into two camps. Really expensive designer shops. Cheapo shit tourist places (leis $5 each). Caro scouted out the surf shops in the first five minutes, but they had almost exactly the same stuff as in Mount Maunganui. (It occurs to me that there is this sort of "Country of Surf" that exists although it's not on any maps. Surfies everywhere wear the same clothes and talk the same language. A bit like the Israelis before World War 2. If there was a Surf Flag it would be a Mambo T-Shirt. And if there was a Surf National Anthem it would be "Blister In the Sun" by Violent Femmes.) So we shopped, bought nice groceries which we consumed in our (sigh) kitchenette, and ordered Pay-PerView movies on our tv and generally chilled out. For two reasons. First of all, because we are both very lazy, but secondly because SOMEONE was approaching... If you were paying attention way back there in New Zealand, you will remember Lisa Brown. Certainly she is hard to forget, but in case you have, she is a a tiny little person but sports a personality bigger than Don Kings hair. She has two speeds, full stop and full steam ahead. She is obsessed by gadgets while being completely unable to operate any of them. She knows everything about fashion and clothes but spends 90% of her time in a pair of penguin pyjamas. She can be unspeakably evil and still make you love her with her naughty smile and wicked eyes. She is most definitely a bad influence. She openly encouraged me to bounce on Caro's bed one morning because she was bored and Caro was still asleep, which is not something one should attempt if one wants to remain a possessor of a functioning penis. On another occasion she dared Caro to try and recruit in the US army. "Go on. I dare you. I tried to apply to the Fire Brigade once. I was only in there because I wanted to look at the pictures of the mangled people in car crashes and then this guy asked me what I wanted so I asked him for a recruitment pack. I don't think he believed me." Another of my favourite Lisa Brown stories concerns her search for a new flatmate back in London. The other flatmates, who apparently dont know Lisa AT ALL gave her the job of interviewing the potentials and she was forced to go through a procession of losers before coming up with a French guy named Sebastian. He was very good-looking, seemed normal, and most importantly could pay the rent. Lisa sent him away with the assurance that he would get the flat, but she had to complete the rest of the interviews first. However, no-one compared to Sebastian, not even another guy named Sebastian who turned up and gave a monosyllabic response to most of the questions. Lisa called French Seb up, and had a long conversation with him on the phone, telling him yes he had the flat, no it was no problem that he would have to leave after six months to do military service in France and see him soon. A few days later, she was at work when she got a panicky call from another of her flatmates. "Sebastian's outside!" he spluttered. "He said you told him he could move in today!"

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"That's fine!" said Lisa, who had by now told all her friends that a hunky French guy would be moving in. "No it ISN'T!" replied the flatmate. "It's the WRONG Sebastian! And this one has a frighteningly large collection of Babylon 5 videos!" Lisa had found the wrong piece of paper and called the wrong guy. "Why the hell didn't he say something when I was twittering on about the French Army?!" she raged. She concluded that "once again, it's apparent I've been put on this earth purely for comedy reasons." Add to this Lisas unique way of talking, and youll start to get an idea of what was on its way to us from the UK: How To Speak Lisa Brown: A Lesson Take any everyday sentence and insert a random selection of the following words: Fiasco, debacle, crisis, trauma, situation, whole, bloody, malarky, mangled, abortion and Jesus. As in "I have spilt my coffee " would become: "Jesus! I'm having a bloody coffee trauma crisis situation!" Lisa's favourite word is "flange". Flanges made their way into almost all our conversations during her stays with us, which were frequent. When we lived in Edinburgh, Lisa and Caro could achieve a level of lethargy together which most potted plants would struggle to emulate. They would lounge about, reading mags, painting each other's toenails and ridiculing Mariah Carey. But then, after coffee and chocolate there would be a sudden burst of Lisa Brown energy. I could hardly keep track of her that first night in Waikiki as she ran back and forth across the hotel room, from her bed to the balcony and back again. I hope she never takes speed, because if she did, she would just be a BLUR. Her reputation amongst our friends is legendary, as you can see from this email I received from Mechelle days before Lisas arrival: From: Mechelle, Edinburgh, 27/5/01 2:57pm Dear, Poor, Abused and oft maltreated Symon, Your holiday in the sun is now to be disrupted by them bad-ass mama's from hell, Caro AND Lisa. Hide while you can, I spoke with our little Ms. Brown and baby, she is dying for a holiday! Which means everything is about to get cranked up several notches. If rumours are true then your poor beffudled bowels will simply not be able to cope with the hectic times that lie before you. lots of love and sloppy smooches mechelle (and jim by proxy) The first we heard from Brownie was a raging call from Charles de Gaulle. Air FUCKING France what a shower of fucking cocksucking bastards, she reported. There had been delays, and instead of being over the Atlantic she was still awaiting her connection out to San Francisco. Then there was more swearing, followed by cry of, FUCK! I think theyre calling my name in their stupid fucking accent! Then she was gone again. Obviously she was having another trauma crisis fiasco situation drama. Caro and I decided that she needed a bit of pampering and so arranged to pick her up from Honolulu airport in style. This is why she was greeted by a stretch limo after having travelled for over 20 hours. Still, she bounded back awfully well and Caro and Lisa stayed up unti 2am gossiping away. I forgot to mention that we had checked out of our lovely Ilima Hotel into the Reef Towers by this time. This is because the Ilima was a spur of the moment thing, whereas the Reef Towers had been booked

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weeks in advance. However - it was SHIT. Or maybe it just felt like it because it was more money and we had just been so spoilt paying a lot less for a lot more at the Ilima. So the next morning we checked out of there and turned up looking sheepish The Ilima again, much as we had before, only with an Extra Kiwi. Jay laughed at us, and put us in a huge room with separate bedrooms. "That still doesn't mean you can shag," warned Lisa. "I'll be checking for wet spots." Caro had arranged some entertainment for Lisa's arrival. Fortunately, we all share a taste for the Incredibly Cheesy. And Hawaii is the perfect place to be for this sort of thing. Caro had delighted us all by finding a night-time revue called "Aloha Las Vegas". We were given complimentary cocktails, which of course contained half a pineapple and seated in front of a large stage which was surrounded by papier-mache volcanoes. Classy. Then a woman in a flowing evening gown with Big Hair appeared. "A-LOH-HA!!" she called. "Come back with us in time as we experience the Greatest Performers of All Time! Journey back... back to 1957 to see Mr. ELVIS PRESLEY!!" And Elvis, circa the late 50's took the stage and wiggled and jived to "Jailhouse Rock" and "Rock-A-Hula Baby" before giving way to... "Mr. NEIL DIAMOND" who performed "Coming to America", then Marilyn Monroe, then "MISS DIANA ROSS", then Carmen Miranda chiki-chiki-boo'd her way up to the stage and introduced Ricky Martin who shook his bon-bon before Shania Twain appeared on the volcano behind us. It was FABULOUS. For the grand finale, we got a pretty damn accurate Michael Jackson, and here I am talking about early and cool Michael Jackson circa 78 before he set his hair on fire and his nose fell off (not that I'm suggesting that those two incidents are related.) It was just wonderful and we walked back to our hotel on a high. Waikiki at night feels much like Waikiki during the day but - uh - dark. My word I am such a consumate travel writer, right? However, the point I am trying to make is that the shops remain open, there are just as many people around and you feel pretty safe, even if it sometimes does get annoying avoiding all the people handing out leaflets, and those bloody irritating street-statue people and the dogs wearing sunhats, shades and leis. But I just loved walking about, listening to the waves crash on the beach, along streets lined with flaming torches and cheesy Hawaiian music constantly playing in the background. We had a close encounter with Hawaiian music at a restaurant called "Duke's". Duke himself is apparently famous as The Man Who Popularised Surfing Throughout The World. (And if there was a Country of Surf, Duke would be Jesus Christ). Dukes is a pretty cool place, with surfboards and pictures and fishtanks everywhere - the three of us had a decent meal and Lisa was delighted to find that your appetiser is referred to as your pupu. It took about 30 minutes to recover. Were sophisticates all right. Caro had the calimari, which Lisa noted, Looks like foetus and tastes like plimsoles. Caro seemed to enjoy it. We were seranaded by an old chick with a ukelele and a backing band consisting of women dressed in grass skirts with fruit on their heads. They sang "On a Coconut Island (I'd Like to Be A Castaway With You)" and I tried to hold Caro's hand and to Look Meaningfully at her, but she wasn't having it. Meanwhile Lisa Brown was distracted by Old Chick's toenails which were abnormally long and sort of overlapped. "Jesus! You wouldn't want to toe-suck THOSE! That would be FERAL!" Lisa has a unique talent to bring all conversations around to the truly feral extremely quickly. Earlier hat same day Caro and Lisa had found some intriguing fingernail-covers in a gift shop. They were decorated with little Hawaiian women in real grass skirts. (Look, I said they were intriguing, I didnt say tasteful). "Imagine putting a tampon up with THOSE on," suggested Lisa. "They'd come out with the wet look."

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So you can understand my consternation at sharing dinner with this little person. Sure enough it didnt take her long to notice a woman wearing a very tight silky dress and no underwear. "Oh those things create terrible static electricity with your pubes," she announced. "She's bound to get a shock right up flange if she carries on with that sort of malarky." This prompted a discussion of the Brazilian Wax. Of course it did. The Brazilian always comes up in any conversation if you hang out with Lisa Brown long enough. For those of you who don't know, this is the wax treatment that all models must have around their - well - um - if you want to model a bikini then there's certain hair that needs to be RIPPED OUT BY THE ROOTS. I don't think that even the Spanish Inquisition employed such tactics. "You have to get on all fours," explained Caro, "so they can reach around to your arse." "God, what if you farted?" asked Lisa. Lisa's noted my reaction and observed, "And this from people who get smegma." Of course, the music at Dukes was merely a tourist version of proper Hawaiian culture, and I suppose if Caro, Lisa and I were serious tourists we would have sought out genuine Hawaiian music, food and ceremony. Instead we booked ourselves on the Sunset Buffet Dinner Cruise. This was a very pleasant way to spend an evening, and the three of us crowded onto the deck where I did my Celine Dion "My Heart Will Go On" bit before watching the sun go down. Then we re-entered the cabin just in time for dinner and to watch Jonathan Von Brana, last year's winner of the "Best Elvis in The Universe" contest in Las Vegas. It was immediately obvious why. I mean, the "Aloha Las Vegas" Elvis was good, but this guy was GREAT. He did "Vegas" era Elvis with total conviction, karate moves, silk scarves, everything but the chocolate covered hamburgers basically. It was FABULOUS. We trooped happily back to our hotel and watched "3000 Miles to Graceland" until we were all Elvis-ed out. Lisa was determined to see Hawaii from the air, so we booked ourselves on a helicopter flight. This was excellent, with Lisa in the co-pilot's seat, as the helicopter pilot did that really cool thing where they JUST take you over the top of a mountain, so low that you think you're going to pick up bits of tree. I'd never ridden in a helicopter before, and loved it. I'm sure it isn't as safe as flying in a plane, but it feels a lot safer, and the pilot gave us a good show, hovering at an angle of 45 degrees so that we could see down into these incredible deep valleys. We were told that it was where they had filmed "Jurassic Park" but quite frankly that made no difference to how bloody impressive it was. Mind you, the girls were delighted to be flown over Tom "Magnum P.I." Selleck's house and I believe that Caro would have liked to be set down so there if the pilot could have only been bribed. I was shocked to discover that Caro and Lisa have all sorts of perverted Magnum fantasies, and I had to search the TV Guide so they could watch it ("Here he comes Lisa! And he's wearing his shorts!") Its nothing like my Jennifer Hart fantasy at all, which Ill have you know is very tasteful. Lisa even admitted that she had named one her cat after Magnum. Apparently he was a particularly naughty cat who used to pull all the waste paper out of Lisa's bin one bit at a time to tell her when he wanted to go out, and also took delight in shitting in any pot plants he could reach. I'm unsure as to whether Tom Selleck indulges in this sort of behaviour or not. O'ahu looks incredible from the air, with volcanic ridges and deep blue sea broken up by gorgeous green coral reefs. It may have been these sights which encouraged Lisa to plan a snorkelling trip to Wainauma Bay. It was an ambitious plan because it involved Waking Caroline Up Early. "When should I wake you?" sniggered Lisa. "How about half past fuckin' never," suggested Caroline.

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Te two of them somehow managed to wake up at the crack at half past ten and we set out at about midday. By the time we eventually arrived the beach at Wainauma Bay was covered in tourists, but fortunately it is big enough for this not to matter too much. Lisa and Caro collected bright yellow and pink snorkel gear and snorkelled off down to the beach while I lay in the sun and bake. I expected to be there for quite some time, but before long they tramped back up to me, having been told off for "chasing a turtle". "We never even SAW a fuckin' turtle," Lisa complained. I don't think they were too upset. They had spent a lot of time swimming at Waikiki during the week. I would show you some photographic evidence, but I wasn't allowed to get any. "You take a picture of me in my swimming togs Sunshine, and I'll shove that camera up your arse," warned Lisa. Neither of them like having their picture taken, as a result I was forced to take pictures of them from behind their backs just to prove to their respective families that they have even visited Hawaii. Even then Lisa wasn't happy and called me a pervert for taking lots of "arse shots". On our Last Night of Lisa, we decided to go to a restaurant called "The Top of Waikiki" which is one of those revolving restaurants. I had never been to one before and to an inexperienced lad from Yorkshire it felt very 1930's and classy but thank god the food wasn't too pricey. Not that this would have mattered because Lisa insisted on paying as was nearly my birthday. If only she had mentioned this earlier I could have ordered two desserts. I asked Caro what she was thinking of getting me for my birthday but she wouldn't give anything away. I suggested that she could maybe give me some sort of Erotic Delight. Since we were eating at the time, I mentioned that she might like to let me use her as my plate to eat my dinner off, like Japanese Virgins do for perverted Japanese Businessmen. She didn't seem too receptive to the idea that I might slap a burger down on her in front of the telly one night though. Lisa Brown on the other hand went into paroxysms of laughter at the idea of Caro shaving her pubes and using the "re-growth" to spear little cubes of cheese and pineapple. For some reason, Caro didn't find this all that funny. Unfortunately, Lisa's week in Waikiki passed way too quickly. She left us, leaving a Lisa-Shaped-Hole in our lives. It was probably for the best. I think Caro was just about ready to beat her to death. From: Caro Date: 5th June 2001 "Thankyouthankyouverymuch-a......" (Big band musical interlude and lots of Kung Fu moves) "ELVIS has left the building", a faceless booming voice comes over the speakers. And I have nearly peed my pants. Yes, thats right, we saw ELVIS. The impersonator. He rocked. "Are ya lookin' fer trouble?" lip curl, "well, you come to right place." Oooh, you terrible man. I have to say it was a bit of a highlight, cruising around Honolulu, Waikiki and Diamond Head, as "Elvis" strutted, thrusted, Kung Fu-ed, and sweated his way around the stage and into the audience on our cruise boat, in his open-to-the-waist-back-and-gold-flares-and-very-large-belt-whole-outfit-fitted-very-tight costume. We drank Chichis (my new favourite drink; a wild concoction of Pineapple juice, Coconut milk and lashings of vodka) and watched this extremely tall man with the most twinkling blue eyes gyrate and sing like he was the King. We had to have our photo taken with the man himself. "Hey hey little darlin'" I nearly had a heart attack. Who knew I could blush? And wear a ridiculously cheesy grin? And have a hot flush all at the same time? But ELVIS was not the only star of our Hawaii Adventure; we bought tickets to a show called "Aloha Las Vegas", and watched impersonators being SHANIA (obviously late 30s and perhaps looking at getting a neck tuck?), NEIL DIAMOND (big voice and big hair), RICKY MARTIN (he had hard nipples. Lisa spotted them as well), MARILYN ("poopoopeedoo" giggle giggle), and MICHAEL JACKSON (circa Billie Jean/ Jackson 5 and pre-surgery). MJ's moves were incredible -took me back to when breakdancing was hip and

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we all wore "bop pants" at school during lunchhour and practiced our moves and doing the jerky robot and the old superwavey thing with your arms. Lisa, Symon and I drank more chichis as MJ moonwalked and managed some other outstanding moves while the little japanese tourists behind us obviously thought all the "Stars" were the originals and nearly mugged NEIL DIAMOND as he sashayed through the audience singing "Sulaimon"...what? Hey, here's 20 bucks, sing "Sweet Caroline" damn you! Sing for me Neil! Oh, and look, its ELVIS again! This time he was rockabilly Elvis, doing all that "jailhouse rock" (I can't think about it the same way ever since I saw Rich Hall as Otis Lee Crenshaw who explained the finer points of the lyrics). He was great, doing all the moves, having the sideburns, the floppy hair, the grin, those hips. Two-tone shoes. Nice. But wait. Thats not all. ELVIS appeared twice in the shopping mall. I kid you not. He was looking a little "old Elvis" and perhaps "bad hair dye job Elvis", but the King lives. In the Ala Moana Shopping Centre, Honolulu. You heard it here first. The theme for Hawaii has been all about the cheese factor. I revel in the whole tacky, colourful, easygoing, yet excellent customer service. We picked LISA BROWN up in a stretch Limousine and engulfed her in a big old fake lei. We watched hula girls shake their stuff in the shopping centres. It reminded me of the tragic yet laughable Hawaiian skirt incident in NZ, at a Christmas work function. Some guy wearing the skirt was shagging another man's wife in a toilet cubicle. The first guy's mate came in, saw the skirt peeking out from under the cubicle door and lit it for a joke, with his lighter. The pair became engulfed in flames and the guy died. The affair between the two was plastered all over the papers. The guy wholit the skirt was facing manslaughter charges. And warnings are now posted on fake Hawaiian outfits. But anyway, there were leis everywhere, people said "Aloha!" all the time and some even did the shaka at you! By the "Shaka", I mean the old hand signal where you curl the first three fingers into your palm and wave your thumb and baby finger in greeting. Rock on. I have to say, I love America. Well, what I've seen of it so far. They have fabulous ads on TV - anything from limbs being bitten off by sharks (for a beer ad) or taking pills for depression (did you know that feeling "blue" means you're very depressed and you should immediately go out and get "Prozac Weekly"?) or taking more pills to increase your breast size ("safer than surgery") and the next favourite thing American women like to do to prevent ageing is have Botox injections in their foreheads to diminish frown lines. And then there's Jerry. The Man and the Show. For those who enjoy the same sicko pervo shows we do, they even had "Jerry Live in Hedonism 2" featuring the freakiest of sex addicts and bizarre behaviour. But I digress...and Symo will probably spend a lot of time talking about this as well... So I was a little concerned about donning the lycra and hitting the famous Waikiki Beach with all the bodybeautifuls. But I managed to muster the courage and strut my stuff in a sarong, jandals (or "slippers" as they say here and "thongs" in Aussie), only to discover there are so very 'fat' people here. When I say fat, I do not mean "phat" as in cool, or "money" as in cool, I mean fat as in obese. Hooray! Positively lithe, Symon, Lisa and myself cavorted in the ocean, sunbathed and we looked "money, Baby". Also, with the trillion japanese tourists everywhere, who are devoid of breasts, hips, common sense and dress very badly (albeit expensively with shades of Prada, Gucci, Louis Vuitton evident everywhere) and luuurve anything with a cartoon on it, we still felt "phat", "cool" and "money". I even caught a beautifully made-up yet braindead japanese tourist commenting to her equally designerclothed boyfriend about the hilarious yellow rabbit on the side of the tour bus, whose logo is a yellow rabbit. She kacked herself for a long time over that. I just looked baffled. After 7 years of studying their

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language, culture, social customs and history, I still don't get them. Who the hell laughs at a yellow rabbit on the side of a bus? But I don't want to get all nasty about it, since they are suffering a little backlash from the release of the epic "Pearl Harbour" movie which premiered here last week. Yawn. Ben Affleck was in town as was Dennis Rodman. We didn't see them, although we did dine in the same restaurant a couple of nights later; "Duke's Canoe Club". And I won't dwell on it the phenomena that is the Japanese Tourist en masse getting in your way, standing about waiting for instruction, being shouted at by their tourguides, wearing ridiculously high platform shoes on the beach, wearing long sleeved gloves and a hankie over their faces so they don't get any sun on their skin (why got to Hawaii in summer then?)...for another reason... ...other tourists visiting from other States, who dress very badly. In particular The Texans who sat at Starbucks smoking cigars with Stetsons on and gawping at girls asses in a not so discreet way. Average age of these young bucks at Starbucks was like 20. I wanted to shout "I've seen bigger cigars than that, Honey" as I casually sipped my grande latte and smoked my Marlboro Light cigarette. Ugly sandals (don't even ask me about toenails, for there were some really terrible pedicures being issued from somewhere in Waikiki). Ugly hair. And the people who managed to wear more than the entire botanical gardens of the South Pacific in "Aloha Hawaiian wear" - Symon was considering purchasing a Hawaiian shirt, but since everybody over the age of 40 wore floral shorts, T shirts, shirts, dresses, skirts, hats, I won't let him. There were even matching ensemble dress and shirt numbers. Hideous. Me and Lisa and Symon; we're still "money" in our Old Navy/ Gap/ Surfwear. We were even cool enough to go on a helicopter ride over Oahu. Woo! Yeah! Just like in 'Nam! Play that "Paint it Black" my man! Actually, we had a nice Pilot called Mike, from Germany, and a funny lady in the office who brought her lizard "Jackson" to work for a bit of variety in his cold-blooded lifestyle. We even got the video to keep. Yep, it's true, I was having a monent as we hovered over Tom Selleck's house and the place where they filmed "Magnum PI". Watching that programme had me entranced with Hawaii ever since: Higgins, "the Lads" (Higgins' Dobermans), Rick, TC. And Tom. Does anybody remember "Jake and the Fatman"? William Conrad and Joe Penny? Well, that was another Hawaiian magic moment. So, we also got to fly over the valley where they filmed Jurassic Park, and we checked out the Banzai Pipeline. For all those surfers out there, the surf is shite here. 1-3 feet swell. No waves. Helluva lotta boardriders with no board control (tourists) and no waves. The big waves are in the winter, with some of the biggest pipelines and the best surfers. We visited Haleiwa town, and the Surf Museum. Lisa and I touched (caressed?) Kelly Slater's old board and checked out the internal revenue tickets for opium and marijuana brought into Hawaii some 50 odd years ago. These pieces of paper are not meant to exist, but there they were, framed and in between a 1967 longboard and a couple of black and white photos of some incredible guys riding the biggest waves ever recorded. I bought a couple of pictures of early surfing in the 1890s and 1900s, in the days when people laughed at guys riding wooden boards. There was a wee ageing surfer-dude (Lisa said he had bad hair) sitting behind a desk where we got into some surfspeak (artificial reefs, longboards, kite surfing). I was telling him that some of these photos reminded me of my Mum and her surfing days in the 60s in Mount Maunganui. We have the photographic evidence. He was very excited about this bit of antipodean surfing history (the Hawaiian, Duke Kahanamoku was the guy whobrought surfing to NZ and Australia in the 1920s), finally asking "what happened to her boards, man?" When I replied "I don't know", he became a bit distressed. I left him to wallow in his pain, to purchase a new surfshirt.

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Public announcement 1#: Lisa Brown has a tan. She's been a here a bloody week and now sports a dirty dark tan. Officially she is now known as "The Brown Lisa Brown". I am annoyed only because I have been traipsing around since December of last year, in the sun, trying to go a lightly golden colour. Although, I am looking quite tanned after all that, The Brown Lisa Brown is like 50 shades darker. Peeved. Public Announcement 2#: Symon OHagan is 32 ("thirty-poo") on the 4th June. He's getting a submarine ride around the coral reefs from me, and maybe dinner and a movie. Public Announcement 3#: Kevin Costner is back. He rocks as a bad guy. My new favourite ever movie is "3000 Miles to Graceland". Combining Elvis, stylin' lines , a few twists, and gunfights. Awesome. I rate this movie. Big Kev is also really good in "13 Days"; first time I've ever heard him have an accent for a movie. He's back on my laminated list, after a few years of exile. San Francisco next week and heading to Vegas by the end of the month. Yay! Hang Loose Caro The day after my birthday, and the departure of Lisa Brown, I visited an internet caf and found this waiting for me: Karen Sparen's Naughty Poem: An Ode To Symon Symon is a friend of mine he is turning thirty-poo I bet you always thought mate It wouldn't happen to you Thirty-poo, an appropriate age for one who is sooo fixated upon the brown stuff, as it were the opposite of constipated A lovely wee thing you have found in the one called Sparo don't worry, she is also old The age gap, I fear, is narrow Traipsing around the world you are Recapturing your youth Oh woe, oh sad aged wee man It is time you saw the truth So as you sip your fruity drink with the umbrella and crushed ice don't forget your daily prune To keep it flowing nice Thank you for that Karen. Actually, it made me laugh so hard that everyone in the Internet Cafe looked around. The fact that it was nearly birthday caused me to reflect that it was nearly 2 years since I had met Caroline, which is quite a good story

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How I Met Caro - A Tale of Evil and Deception The story starts with me going out with my friends Peter and Carol to celebrate her engagement to her (now) husband Pete. Long story short, I ended up going back to Carol and Pete's where we stayed up way too late and drank an awful LOT of wine. Flash forward to the next afternoon when I went out with Peter's girlfriend Sarah and we had a couple of beers at The Hebrides Bar. I emphasise A COUPLE because after two I realised that I obviously hadn't metabolised that wine yet and got pissed embarrassingly quickly. I wobbily made an apology and stumbled out of the bar and home. The next development is that it's Tuesday morning at work and I receive a very strange email "Thanks for the offer on Saturday, but I think I'll take a raincheck on dinner at Tenelli's. But I'd love to come to your 30th birthday party - Caroline Sharman." WHAT??? Who the HELL was Caroline Sharman and WHAT was she talking about? Tenelli's was a fabulous Italian restaurant down the road from my flat but how did SHE know that? And how did she know about my birthday???!! And who the FUCK was she? And then it dawned. I must've asked her out while drunk on Saturday afternoon. Now, of course weve all had blackouts, but usually I had an INKLING of what Id been up to. Actually, I'm a very boring drunk and when I wake up with blanks in my memory I tend to wake up with the washing up done and my laundry put away. Once I woke up to find that I had applied for several night-courses. It's a bit bizarre, but anyway - I was quite concerned about this blackout - for one thing, the only women I could remember from the Hebrides Bar were a couple of 50 year old women Sarah had introduced me to. Had I asked out AN OLD CHICK??? I emailed mystery Caroline back, apologising profusely, explaining the situation to her and asking her if she was a friend of Sarah's. I got a message back the next day saying, "Who's Sarah? Is that your girlfriend? I'm so embarrassed." Now those of you who know Caro may have already guessed the Evil Truth here. Basically she had wandered into the bar just as I was wobbling out, seen the back of my head and asked Sarah what she was doing there alone. Caro was in a all-men-are-bastards mood and Sarah suggested that if Caro was looking for a date, she could HOST me at work. Then the Wheels of Evil began to turn and she added that Caro should tell me that I had drunkenly asked HER out. The truth came out when Peter forced Sarah to 'fess up. Nevertheless, I was intrigued by the naughtiness of Caroline and was eager to meet her. However, she NEVER turned up for my birthday! She stood me up, because the person she was supposed to be going with dropped out and she was too nervous to arrive alone. My birthday party was a carefully planned affair which turned to disaster. I had loaded the party with women, none of whom it seemed fancied me at all. I was the party leper and to make matters worse, a can of Guiness exploded in the kitchen, redecorating three walls, the white lino floor and a Senior Analyst. However, I was cheered up the next day when I received a call from a Kiwi, apologising for not turning up and the two of us made a date to meet the next week. That following Saturday, a friend of mine named Barry was playing in a band at the Cafe Royale. Caro agreed to have dinner at my flat and then go and see him. When she turned up I was surprised to find I had met her before at The Hebrides when a group of us were all crowded around a table together. However, I must have been intensely involved in a conversation with Peter, because she assumed that we were a gay couple and never spoke to either of us.

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After dinner at my place we went to the Cafe Royale, and although the band was good, our mutual taste in all things cheesy led us back to the karaoke bar where we listened to people singing along to "That's Amore" by Dean Martin and "Making Your Mind Up" by Bucks Fizz. We also drank WAY too many Bacardi Breezers and before you knew if were dancing around the floor joining in with "Angels" and "Lyin' Eyes" (to which Caro knows ALL the words incidentally. And Lyin' Eyes is a LONG song with many verses. It was then I knew that Caro Was Special.) Unfortunately what I didn't know was that Barry had brought along a date for me, who was none too pleased when she saw me drunkenly snogging Caroline behind a potted plant. I was unaware of this at the time. Actually, due to the Bacardi Breezers I was unaware of most things, although I was strangely suddenly acutely aware of The Rotation of the Earth. Caro and I somehow made it back to our flat, where I would like to be able to tell you we spent a Night of Passion in each other's arms. What actually happened was that we made a fumbling attempt but were both too pissed, fell out of bed, rolled across the floor and Caro whacked her head on my exercise bike (which, like all exercise bikes everywhere was used solely as a clothes horse.) After that, we gave up and spent our first Night of Passion drunkenly snoring at each other. The next day Caro woke up feeling like A Bag of Arseholes and so I made the mistake of bringing her breakfast. My advice to you is this: NEVER feed Caro if you want her to go home. I saw her settling herself on the sofa like a cat on a warm cushion, thinking, "Hmmm... this is nice... Videos... A couch... Someone Who Brings Me Food... I might just stay here..." So she NEVER LEFT. I kept wondering when she was going to go home, but she just stayed and stayed and stayed. She arrived on a Friday night and left Sunday afternoon, and she only left THEN because her flatmates called up to make sure I wasn't some psycho who had chopped her up and put her in my freezer. So that was how we met. And I've been feeding her ever since. Well, another couple of days have passed and I and discovered that I was also divorced. Sue my (now) exwife sent me a very nice egreeting of a bride swinging through the trees that said "Swinging Single". Caro asked me if I was sad about being divorced, but I really wasnt. This is partly because I know that Sue and I will always be friends and partly because (thanks to Caro) I still get to have sex. Sue and Caro actually get on very well together. People seem to have trouble understanding this. Maybe we should go on The Jerry Springer Show to explain. We love The Jerry Springer Show and stay up late every night to watch it. Thus far we have watched shows with titles such as, "Shocking Love Secrets", "There's A Hooker In My House!" and "I'm Sleeping With My Momma". We also saw a show filmed on the island of Hedonism. And let's face it - Hedonism and Jerry Springer, why it's a glorious combination - as inspired as Fish 'n' Chips, Laurel and Hardy or Sex and Blancmange. The Hedonism episode contained the bizarre story of The Woman Who Loved Food. Really. She actually became AROUSED by the food and in the spirit of true Woodward and Bernstein investigative journalism, Jerry was willing to Put This To The Test. He plonked her in front of a large buffet and let her do her stuff which consisted of her wandering up to, say a bowl of spaghetti, rubbing it all over herself and saying, "Have sex with me, spaghetti! Oh! What do we have here! Have sex with me, Mr. Crab! Oh look! It's Mr. Chicken! Have SEX with me, Mr. Chicken!!" She then put Mr. Chicken on her head, and chased various men around screaming, "Have sex with me!" Another show featured the story of the woman who was working in a strip club and having lesbian sex behind her husband's back. (They no longer let you on the Springer show unless you have MORE than one shocking secret.) She explained the situation to her husband while the crowd chanted "HO'! HO'! HO'! HO'!" like a bunch of malevolent Santas and the husband was mad at first. Then she went on to say that

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she didn't see why she and her girlfriend couldn't be happy living alongside her husband and he cheered up immensely. Don't tell me that Jerry can't be uplifting occasionally. Jerry also utilises the "Springer-Cam" so that his stories are not entirely studio bound. Yes! His camera crew now LEAVES the studio to catch cheatin' boyfriends and cheap ho' wives IN THE ACT. It's great and NOT AT ALL STAGED so forget the fact that these clips usually contain the sort of acting you would normally witness in a really cheap porno film. (Uh - so they tell me.) The Springer-Cam covered the the story of the guy who found out that his girlfriend had been cheating on him with a guy who had no legs. And no bottom. Basically, this other guy was just a torso, but he was VERY nimble. Anyway, the woman decided she didn't want to be with Torso Guy and he became a STALKER! Which you must consider to be quite difficult when you have no legs to stalk WITH. The two boyfriends then got into a fight when Torso Guy climbed a tree and dropped on top of the other guy. At this point I found myself thinking of a certain Mechelle Martinez-Freaza and wishing I had a video recorder. But our favourite clip had to be the cheatin' ho' wife who the husband discovered was sleeping with a 74 year old guy. He came home to find this little wrinkled man sitting in the hot tub in his garden with no teeth in. "Jesus!" exploded the guy, "you don't even have TEETH!" "Yer wife likes it better with no teeth, haw haw haw," countered the old man. The Springer-Cam then followed the increasingly surreal action as the old guy jumped out of the tub and hopped onto a trampoline from which he hurled abuse at the cuckolded husband. The effect was spoiled however, when Grandad slipped and fell over and his teeth shot out again. The clip ended with the two of them in a Benny-Hill like chase, with the old guy giving the husband the slip dressed in nothing but fireengine red briefs. Caro nearly wet herself laughing. We love this country. As a birthday treat, Caro booked us on a submarine dive so we could see all the fish. It was great! We saw all sorts of fish, the unicorn fish, the spotted puffer fish, the butterfly fish and lots more fish that you have no idea what they look like so I'll shut up. But the thing about these dives is that you probably get a better idea of what the ocean is like than from nature programmes on the telly which only ever shows the interesting stuff. The actual sea is surprisingly desolate, and as Caro said it was like cruising over the surface of the moon. It's like... nothingnothingnothingfishnothingnothingLOTSOFFISHLOTSOFFISHnothingnothingnothing The 'lots of fish' phase occurs around reefs. The sub company had actually created artificial reefs by dumping planes and sinking ships in the area, which was very atmospheric and cool. Still, it surprised me how much the fish just hang out in big groups under outcrops and such, not moving or anything. It seems such a waste; a whole ocean to swim in and the little guys all hang out together like a bunch of grapes, hiding in a shadow, like they're agorophobic or something. But it was excellent when we saw a big school of silvery fish (that would be the Latin Name) all swimming together and then SWOOSH - all turning As One. I have a theory as to why they do that: ALL THE FISH: Okay lads, let's all follow Dwayne The Fish. He seems to know where he's going. DWAYNE: (fart) ALL THE FISH: (turning as one) JEE-sus Dwayne! The artificial reefs were lovely to look at - it's weird but it's like those planes and ships were dead when they were on the surface and now that they are sunken they have come back to life - prows covered in

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waving barnacles and shoals of fish - railings covered in coral now blooming like roses. It was amazing, and makes you realise how transitory technology is compared to the regenerating power of nature. Caro meanwhile was more interested in her fellow-passengers. "Look at those kids over there, they look like aliens. Big heads, no chins and little bodies." Then she added that this wouldn't surprise her as the mother looked like she'd been "abducted and interfered with." Back on dry land, and for some reason, Caro insists that I now include the story of the guy who passed me on the streets of Waikiki. He muttered something and then kept on walking. It turned out he wanted to sell me "some herb". I was thinking of informing him he would never make many sales with THAT brusque manner, but he was already gone. Caro wanted me to tell this unremarkable story because it obviously means I look like a huge stoner, which is actually good in terms of my cachet. I hardly found the story worth typing, but often I fail to understand the entertainment value of stories. Like the time I forgot to tell Caro that a guy had offered me a blowjob. "Why didn't you TELL me??!!" she demanded. "That's GREAT!!" And she has been dining out on the tale ever since. I didn't get it. I mean, what's the big deal? This sort of thing happens all the time in cities, surely. I was walking home after the Standard Life Christmas Blow Out of '99 when this guy pops out of the bushes near Calton Hill. It was about 3am and I was in that "I Love All Mankind" phase of being drunk, so when he asked me how I was doing I told him I was good and Merry Christmas to him and all that. He then made the peculiar conversational leap to, "Want a blow job?" I declined politely and remember walking off thinking how sad it was for the poor guy to have to hide in the bushes near Christmas at 3am, just on the off chance of blowing some tubby little programmer from Yorkshire off. Such are the tragedies of life. Caro thought it was the funniest thing she had ever heard. About a week later, we were in the pub together and a guy offered me five pound for a wrestle. He was most insistent and told me I "had the build for it" which perplexed ME as the only thing I have the build to wrestle is a Big Mac. Caro then started to suspect that I was putting out these homo-erotic vibes for a while. Good looks can be such a curse, you know. Hawaii had been lots of fun, mainly due to the wacky people. I mean, I love friendly people but MAD people are so much more entertaining. Such as the guy in the Ala Moana Shopping centre who was sitting making paper leis for himself at a cafe. He was sitting there with a pair of scissors and loads of magazines, covered in confetti. Then there was the guy sitting in ROUGHLY THE SAME SPOT the next day, who had a keyboard in front of him and headphones plugged into it, just sitting and playing for himself while he had his lunch. And on our way BACK from the Ala Moana centre there was the Bus Driver, who gave us the following commentary - I swear this is verbatim... DRIVER: Okay... and today we are taking the back way because - uh - the front way is no good (sings) "You're no good, you're no good, you're no good, baby, you're no good..." Okay and on our right is Planet Hollywood where the - uh - star - uh - statues are. I don't really know much about that. (Sings) "Don't know much about history, don't know much biology..." And that's pretty much it for Hawaii. On our last day a thunderstorm turned the sky black, it was most depressing. Lisa Brown called to say that she'd already had one debacle already when she forgot to adjust her watch from Hawaii time and turned up at work on Monday for 6am. Poor thing, she'd already had a bad enough time due to Air "Bloody Bastard" France screwing up all her connections again. She made me laugh and laugh and I found that I missed her shrieking, her constant mockery and her desperate need to cover the floor with 1000 magazines. Never mind. We would be seeing her again From: Caro

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Date:

11th June 2001

So, we're in San Fran and everybody has an attitude. Seriously. People dress cool, talk cool (I actually heard someone saying in conversation "You a bad-ass muthafuckah!"), walk cool and talk to you like they're too cool. My hackles are up, Baby. But thats mainly because of lack of nicotine. California is a no-smoking state. I have been told off twice. Fascists. Can't smoke in my hotel room, restaurants, bars, or any-bloody-where! People desperately drag on ciggies walking up the street, and sit outside cafes smoking. I stood outside the hotel (where they provide an ashtray) last night and got harrassed by a homeless guy, who wanted me to buy him a Cajun chicken sandwich across the road for $5.95. When I refused, I was accused of being afraid of him 'cos he was black. Thats when I got a bit shitty with him. He left shortly after. So, because I smoke, I am forced to put myself in the path of streetfreaks. Not impressed with San Fran at this point. Symon suggested giving up. I nearly decapitated him. Its about choice. I choose not to give up at this point. Basically, I am hanging out for Vegas now. Nevada and Kenny Rogers in concert and the Elvis-arama and Liberace museum, oh and SMOKING. And after Jay at the Ilima Hotel in Hawaii was soooo awesome to us, taking down our birthdays, so they could send us birthday cards and trying to sell us out hotel room TV "I give you good price, Lady" in puton Hawaiian pidgin english. We had previously told him of our addiction to Jerry Springer. He felt sorry for us, but seemed to know an awful lot about the show....hmmmm. Anyway, after taking a "Limo" to the airport (Jay called it for us - see we are special), we arrived in the "city of attitude". I just want to say, I have made a few observations about Hotel rooms: 1. Hairdryers are always in the bathroom right next to the basin (and water?!) 2. No curtains. Only blackout blinds and nets. Either wake up at 5.30am with the dawn. Or sleep until you wake up, which could be three days, if you're jetlagged, because the room is pitch black. Our room was ok, a little cramped but had a clawed-foot bath and very yummy bath products which were all earth-friendly. Why is recylced toilet paper always brown? My first night in San Fran had my body clock all out of kilter, so I read magazines until like 3.30am. Then the street cleaners started at 7:14am. I decided to invest in a sleepmask 'cos my eyes felt like big puffs of cotton wool. 7:16 am - the rubbish trucks started and some bloke was screeching in Italian at somebody. I considered screeching back, but Symon was sleeping. 7:39 am - there were delivery trucks and Chinese men shouting. I dearly wished I could leap out of bed, practice my chinese language skills and hurt somebody. [Fade in Carl Douglas, "Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting"] Symon was still sleeping. We decided to change hotels because I get a little claustrophobic and there was no air-conditioning, and I was bloody tired from all the early morning racket. And Symon wasn't too crash hot on the area we were staying in. Dodgy, he reckoned. So we moved to Union Square. Wohoo! Theatre and shopping central! So, we've been checking out things to do in San Fran and came across these little gems:

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1. Vibrator Museum 2. Rainforest Cafe (with real rainforest inside) 3. Tonga room (restaurant with real thunderstorms and people performing on a boat in the middle of the "pacific" amongst palm trees -all inside) 4. Vampire tour of San Francisco. 5. "My Grandma's a Fat Whore From Jersey" -A play. 6. Squished Eyeball Theatre - grossly entertaining, probably like The Jim Rose Circus. Unfortunately, we'll miss the Lesbian/Gay/Bisexual/Transgender Pride Celebration Parade, which is being advertised everywhere and looks pretty cool, with a massive programme (much like the Edinburgh Fringe Festival programme) being sold all over the city. But we will be here for "Travis'" free concert in the park - yay Fran! Fran! Fran! Also performing around the city are: Rod stewart, Michelle Shocked, Dido, Radiohead, Powderfinger, Stereo MC's, Dennis Quaid and the Sharks, The Mr T Experience (remember the A-team?), INXS (who's gonna sing?) and Coldplay (yawn), Mogwai, Paul Simon and Brian Wilson, Spinal Tap and Bjorn Again. Its all goin' on. It's hip. It's cool. But it ain't smokin'. Wandering around the city has been pretty cool - people dress really funky and anything goes. I have discovered my new favourite shop - "Urban Outiftters" - sort of Ikea meets Cult meets Diesel. Clothes and Interiors. Edgy. Urban. Cool. Flares and wildly coloured hair (short) and trainers of any bizarre shape and colour are everywhere. Its a great place to strut your stuff. But we all know there is a fine line between cool and "tryhard" cool. It can also be seen here. Scary Monsters. Oh oh, we even got served by a waitress who had a mole on her chinny chin chin and badly drawn eyebrows - even when I was off my head, I could still draw them on pretty evenly and matching my hair colour, whatever that was at the time. See, exhibit A: "tryhard" cool. We've seen a grizzly guy wearing only socks, fly undone, butt crack, getting chucked out of shops and looking scary monsters. The peoplewatching is incredible. Sooo funny. Symon was telling me the about the Disney employees and their dirty undies story, as we saw the headlines, at the newspaper stand, just as we strolling past about 30 panhandlers pausing to play chess games, before shaking the public down for "spare change". They looked like serious masters, as well. Strategy thinkers. Oh Yes. Kodak moment. And... I have spotted my car. Anyone who can identify the make would be my new best pal. All I know is that I have seen it in Australia, Hawaii and now San Francisco. Its called a "2001 PT Cruiser". And it looks like a 50s hotrod circa American Graffiti. Nice. Sorry this is all disjointed but had to hurriedly put down all my jumbled San Fran thoughts before we bankrupt ourselves in the internet cafe and their "tryhard cool" prices of $18 an hour. Still, I have a view of Alcatraz and the boats and the sea lions. Go figure. Going for a cigarette now, Caro

Part 8: California Land of Sealions and Streetfreaks


Ah, California. I am tempted to recall the lyrics to the song by The Red Hot Chili Peppers...

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"First born unicorn, hard-core soft porn Dream of Californication." How very true I'm sure that is. If only I could figure out what the hell it means. It's always a wrench leaving somewhere. Except Scunthorpe. So it was with a heavy heart that we bid goodbye to the nice folk at the Ilima Hotel in Waikiki. One of the people on the desk, a very nice guy named Jay who had taken a special interest in us since our arrival, took down our birthdays so they could send us cards. Awwwwww... But this is the lot of the traveller - ever onward - ever forward - ever stuck with huge fucking bags. I was perplexed as to why my own backpack was so clunky and awkward and heavy. Carrying it was like carrying giving Kirstie Alley a piggyback. But all I had in there were clothes! Surely my trousers, t-shirts and smalls couldnt weigh all that much. Yet, it seemed when I stuffed them into my pack they immediately weighed a ton. I began to suspect that the Laws of Physics didn't apply inside my bag, and that once inside, the contents start to weigh the same as they would on Jupiter or something. But despite my heavy heart and heavier bag, our flight to San Francisco managed to take off and we arrived in the early evening. It was a beautifully clear day on our flight, and circling over San Francisco, I was stunned by just how astonishingly beautiful it is from the air, surrounded by majestic hills, the bay sparkling in the sun. It was undoubtedly the nicest city I had seen from the air. Our taxi dropped us at our hotel which was in a relatively nice looking area, but I was unnerved by two things: a) There was NO-ONE on the streets and it was only about 8:30pm. b) When I say no-one, I am excluding all the freaks milling about like the "Dawn of the Dead". Now I am sure this is not a fair thing to say about The Homeless. After all, it's not their fault that they have been tossed out by an uncaring society blah blah blah - but it freaked me out a little. I mean, here I am, an obvious tourist and therefore an obvious target. Also I should reiterate, I am not a large man. Really, if a particularly burly 12 year old demanded my travellers cheques for sweet money, I would probably hand them over. So as I wandered off to buy milk from a local store, I was unnerved by the three different guys asking for change and by the huge guy who didn't smell too good who was leaning with his head against the stores window. I'm probably over-reacting. It was probably PERFECTLY safe. I mean, most of those guys probably weren't even aware of me. I doubt that they were even aware of traffic. But that's not the point. If you're sensible, careful and about the same height as a late-developing 15 year old (and I am all of these things) then you try to avoid potentially mugging situations. Consequently we decided to move hotels. Our next place was The Chancellor in Union Square which is about as central as you can get in San Francisco, and also just a block away from "Lori's Diner" a very cool authentic "Happy Days" type diner where they make an EXCELLENT meatloaf. By day, San Francisco is an extraordinarily pretty place. Dizzying hills behind you, streets that just drop away in front, buildings of character on all sides, neon signs right out of 1940's films, fire escapes, trolleys, cable cars, and of course cable care wire spiderwebbing every street. It's EXACTLY as it looks in "Bullit", "Tales of the City" and "So I Married An Axe Murderer". I should add that it's also BLOODY COLD. In JUNE. Surely this is against the Law of California, where I thought everyone went around on rollerblades wearing bikinis? Instead we had to get our fleeces and jumpers out, which hadn't seen the light of day since Melbourne. I was very disappointed, and have to stuff my rollerblades and bikini to the bottom of my backpack. So what did we do? We watched tv of course! There was the usual Jerry and Ricki to keep us happy. And the tv ads, which are always entertaining ("So I've got genital herpes!" one woman announced cheerfully.

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"I'm NOT going to let it get me down!!" Well done dear.) You may chastise us for not going out and sampling the nightlife, but - well - we tried. I scanned the local papers but there wasn't anything going on that particularly grabbed me except two local bands "Anal Cunt" and "The Bastard Sons of Johnny Cash" and I think you'll agree that I would probably have been going to see them for the wrong reasons. We also did a lot of shopping. Caro headed for The Gap, Old Navy, The Body Shop and found her New Favourite Shop, Urban Outfitters. My credit card hid, whimpering in my boxers. Incidentally, it's at this point that I would like to COMPLAIN about American Currency. It's extremely distressing to feel a whole wad of money in your pocket only to discover that it is entirely made up of one dollar bills and you actually only have about enough money to buy a pair of underpants for of your girlfriend who by now my god has an entire basket full of clothes. Thank god for credit cards. So one dollar bills are definitely evil. The Americans should definitely replace them with coins, although this would mean doing away with Abraham Lincoln. It would go down well in the South. One thing I wasn't expecting was the number of times I got checked out in San Francisco. Now I'm not blowing my own trumpet here (although I am immediately regretting the use of that phrase) but it's TRUE. Guys were always looking me over. Maybe women get checked out all the time too. My word, now that I think of it, maybe I check women out - I don't know - all I can say is that once I was on the receiving end I noticed it A LOT. Caro spotted it too. It was quite good for my ego really, although I don't know whether I was being checked out in a good way or in a someone-has-let-himself-go way. It may have been entirely due to my "I Fling Poo" t-shirt which was the object of great attention in San Francisco. Small children pointed and laughed at me in the street. More than usual. One guy yelled across the street to me, "I FLING POO! I FLING POOOOO!!!" All I could think to say was, "Uh... thank you..." The City looked great - but - and I say this with a heavy heart - San Francisco did not live up to my expectations. I think it was because I had heard a great deal about the laid-back Californian charm of America's most liberal city and it just wasn't there. The vibe of San Francisco while I was there was tense, irritable and edgy. This may have been due to the sheer number of panhandlers because they were everywhere. Ive never seen anything like it, and it is not like the UK does not have a homeless problem. But San Francisco in the summer of 2001 seemed to be hosting a homeless convention. There were about ten guys to a block, berating passers-by, waving empty cups at everyone and demanding spare change. Caro came to grief from one guy who insisted that she should go and buy a sandwich for him. When she told him where to get off, he told her she was a racist. This is not something one says to a staunch Kiwi chick raised in a Maori neighbourhood. He was Put Right, in no uncertain terms. He may have learned one or two new sweary words, and if he ever did get that sandwich he probably could have stored it in that nice new arsehole Caro tore for him. So despite our liberal credentials, and having sympathy for these guys, the out-of-control homelessness in San Francisco definitely put Caro and I on edge during our visit. I dont think we were the only ones to feel this way. My impression was of a whole city that was very ill-at-ease. In nearly every shop, we encountered "attitude", by which I mean shitty service, not being served at all or being treated like a fucking idiot for not understanding that in THIS restaurant you go to the counter to be served before sitting down or vice bloody versa. Despite the human factor it was hard to detract from the charm of the city itself. We took the trolley down to Pier 39, which according to the leaflets is, San Francisco's #1 Attraction with 110 specialty shops, 11 restaurants with Bay views, and numerous fun attractions. Located on San Francisco Bay, breathtaking views await visitors at every turn. Okay. Im not prepared to argue the point that it is the number one tourist attraction. But one thing you must bear in mind is this: Tourists Are Fucking Idiots. You really do need to replace the word specialty in the above paragraph with cheesy and crap and fun with um oh hell lets go with cheesy and crap again. Pier 39 is dominated by gift shops, t-shirt emporiums and cafes. Still, one has to wander

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around these places, it's the first thing they teach you at Tourist School. As Caro and I headed for the end of the pier to get a look at the Breathtaking Views That Awaited Us At Every Turn, we heard a very strange noise. It went something like this:

urfurfurfurfurf

urfurfurfurf

urfurfurfurfurfurf!!!

You wouldn't BELIEVE the number of sealions down there! For some reason these lads have decided to hang out on about 40 little floats that have been set up for them in the harbour. There, they squeeze noisily together, like bad-tempered pensioners on an overcrowded bus, vying for the best position and sitting on each others heads. I should emphasise its the sealions that do that. Not the pensioners. Caro and I spent a highly entertaining thirty minutes just watching them jostling each other, knocking each other into the water, arguing, URF-ing and attempting to sit on each other's heads. It was great. Other tourists gathered to watch the fun, tiring of the specialty shops. Mind you, I shouldnt mock the shops too much. Caro bought herself a poster of Elvis's comeback '69 Las Vegas gig on a gold background. Very tasteful. Pier 39 is also the place to go if you want to visit Alcatraz. Which Caro did, very very much. Caro has an inordinate amount of interest in organised crime. I sometimes think it is only a cruel trick of fate that she is not the head of The Gambino Family. My advice to anyone planning to visit the island is get those tickets early even better, get them from your hotel concierge. We were there in the early afternoon but still could only get tickets for the 7pm tour. This turned out to be a stroke of luck, because Alcatraz at night is a wonderfully eerie place and if you use your imagination, you can almost see the inmates shuffling about while trying to keep their arse-cheeks clamped together. We got a very informative guide who took us around and explained the history of the place. It turns out that Alcatraz gets its name from pelicans that the first Spanish explorer saw there. However, the first English explorer must have had his map the wrong way up or something and decided that "Pelican Island" was actually the one in the bay. Hence, Alcatraz, named for the pelicans, has no pelicans on it. Hooray for the English. How on earth did we ever get an empire? The Spanish built a fort on the pure rock of Alcatraz, and brought soil over from the mainland to improve the fortifications thus inadvertently turning it into a rockery. Subsequently, the Americans nabbed California in the War of Nabbing California from the Mexicans and turned the fort of Alcatraz into a military prison for good ol' boys who continued to support The South in the war between the states. So it continued until the 1920's when the military decided it was too costly to run and turned it over the the US government who decided it would be a good place to hide their naughtiest people such as Robert Stroud, Machine Gun Kelly and Al Capone. As it turned out, "The Rock" was never filled and the regime was so strict that it didnt have the same gang culture that other facilities suffered from. As a result, it didn't actually all sound THAT bad, Shawshank-Redemption-wise. But escape attempts were inevitable given that most of the inmates were hard men. The guards tried to dissuade them by occasionally bringing sharks caught by local fishmen up onto the docks and pointing out that anyone attempting to swim in the bay was just so much potential sushi. This was actually a fib, as most of the sharks were caught outside of the bay, but the sharks were in no position to point this out. Still, there are only 5 (unofficial) escapes from Alcatraz. We got all this from a guide who looked unnervingly like a beaver and took us around the exercise yard for a little unofficial tour. I'd given up on the official tour by now anyway, which was given on one of those headsets as you followed a Blue Line. I would have followed it because I am English and therefore enjoy following instructions, but Caro is a Tour Rebel who goes rushing off on her own agenda, and I didn't want to lose her in D block or anything. As we followed Beaver Guy around the outside of the prison, the shadows lengthened, the sun went down and I looked over at San Francisco so temptingly close.

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It was hard to shake the thought that at one time Clint Eastwood had escaped from here. (We HAD to watch "Escape from Alcatraz" after being there. In which Clint makes a small yacht out of three coats, a length of rubber tubing and some toilet rolls. Or something like that.) So Alcatraz was GREAT. Caro thoroughly enjoyed herself. There was also a little display commemorating the occupation of Alcatraz by Native Americans in 1969 (7 years after the prison closed) which focussed attention on the land rights of the local tribes. ********** Look this up on the internet & expand!! NEWS BREAK As you know, I try to bring you the latest, up-to-the minute stories in these emails, so long as they are topical, interesting and involve poo. In San Francisco, the top news story was that the unions working for the Walt Disney Corporation of America had won their court battle to wear their own underwear. I know what you're thinking. Surely wearing your own underwear is not a privilege? Surely it is the right, nay the duty of all free men to put on whatever thong, boxer or brief he or she wishes! I quite agree with you, but The Disney Reichsfabrikmachen was apparently worried about visible panty line in its cartoon character actors at the theme parks and so provided SPECIAL underwear that all potential Mickeys, Donalds and Chip 'n' Dales were commanded to wear. Now this is the interesting (and by interesting, I mean disgusting) part the Disneyslaves had to SHARE said special underwear. They were further instructed that they were expected to take the special undies home and give them a good clean now and again. UNFORTUNATELY, some of the naughtier cartoon characters didnt seem too bothered about laundry and threw their kakky smalls straight back into the clean undies hamper! With the result that various fluffy actors developed warts, herpes and other genital nasties. The San Francisco Herald ran this story front-page, under the headline, "EEEEWWWWW GROSS!!!!" This is the sort of journalism I really appreciate. You may mock, but the next time a cartoon character gives you clamydia, dont come crying to me. Onto another subject. I am a Yorkshireman. This means several things: I have the sexual equipment of a donkey. I have a love of large meals involving dead cow and mashed potato. I spend a great deal of time with a ferret in my trousers. I call a spade a spade. Aye. 'Appen. I lie about the size of my sexual equipment. It also means that I know a bargain when I see one. Its an illness with me. The number of times I have bought an excess of something because it was on offer, or three for the price of two or what have you. I mean really, I have even been tempted by a 50% extra free tampons offer in my time, thats how bad I am. So I was very keen when I heard that the popular modern pop combo Travis were to play a free miniconcert. (What IS the proper word for a mini-concert? A concertina?) They were to appear in San Francisco's Yerba Buena Park which is not only a very pretty spot, but lots of fun to say. (Try it! "Yerba Buena!" It sounds like a noise you might make after drinking a gallon of fizzy pop.) The band were there to play songs from their new CD, "The Invisible Band" and since I liked "The Man Who" and since Caro fancied Fran Healey, we decided to go along.

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Unfortunately we were a little late getting to Yerba Buena, because we had spent that day down in HaightAshbury, getting in touch with the local hippy culture by which I mean Caro going through every singe vintage clothing shop and not buying anything. Still, Haight-Ashbury is a pretty cool place, and probably closest to what I expected San Francisco to feel like, with a relaxed, friendly vibe. So when we arrived at Yerba Buena, the place was rammed with people. As a tiny little person, I managed to inveigle us a place near the front, but this was no bloody good at all because, as tiny little people, we could see nothing when everyone stood up. Still the music was good, and every now and then I caught a glimpse of Fran's baseball cap, which was very bloody exciting I don't think. Caro decided to move back to get a better look, so we wandered to the back of the crowd. Travis were great - they performed "Sing", "Side" and "Flowers in the Window" from the new album and also did "Driftwood" and of course "Why Does It Always Rain on Me?" (Fran explained to the crowd that this song was about coming from Scotland and feeling like the rain follows you wherever you go. It's nice to know we weren't the only ones to feel this way) Now if you bought "The Invisible Band" you got an armband which gave you access to meet the band and have your cd signed, but the crowd was so thick we couldn't even find the cd store. Caro was a bit disappointed that we were going to miss out, but since we were both pretty tired, we decided to go back to the hotel so Caro could work out some of that unspent desire for Fran Healey on me instead (I have no pride, in case you were wondering). Before we left, I suggested that we go up inside the nearby Metreon Building, a modern construction of glass and metal to take some arty black and white pictures. (Warning: NEVER ask to look at our photo album). Inside the building we encountered more disappointed Travis fans coming down from the top level saying that there was nothing to see there. How wrong they were. Because we had just reached the 3rd floor when Caro threw a fit, which went something like this: "OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!!IT'STHEM!!IT'STHEM!!!SYMON!!!IT'STHEM!!!" Ordinarily I throw a bucket of cold water over her when she gets this way, but as it turns out, she was quite right. It was unmistakably the band heading our way. I decided I was going to be cool. I remembered how Paul McCartney said he didn't like being bothered for autographs, but he appreciated it when fans simply called out to him, saying how much they had enjoyed his latest album. (Not that he gets a lot of THAT nowadays, I reckon.) So I was just going to call out to the band, tell them how cool the concert had been and leave it at that. But obviously Fran is a friendly bloke because he saw me smiling at him, marched right up to me and shook my hand. He was also very modest when I told him how much we had enjoyed the concert. Then he saw Caro wetting herself next to me, shook her hand and asked, "We've met before, have we not?" Now if that isn't just the most obvious pick-up bloody line I've ever heard I don't know what IS. Caro responded with, "Oh no, I'm SURE I would have remembered THAT." The little flirt. Then Fran got hustled away by the rest of the band who were obviously jealous because no-one recognises THEM. But I managed to whip out my camera and Fran very kindly did a huge cheesy grin for me before disappearing. What a gent. Caro practically FLOATED back to the hotel, having touched a Star Whom She Fancies. Thank god for me that Fran isn't on her Laminated List otherwise she would have had his knickers off in a half-second. When I mentioned that I thought he'd been flirting with her, I think she started ovulating right there and then. Caro had built a new itinerary for us, in order to allow us to see California. This involved a train trip down to the pretty little town of San Luis Obispo on the Amtrak. The passenger trains in California are huge, double-decked affairs, stainless steel, shining impressively under the California sun, but less impressively half a bloody hour late.

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The service was abysmal. Its not like trains are never late in the UK, but that's because our trains are falling apart and the tracks are the wrong size and the carriages date back to Roman Times. The Amtrak was late, and became progressively later after we got onto it, because basically and Im using technical terms here - it was so FUCKING SLOW. We trundled down Northern California, looking out the window to see old buggers passing us on lawn-mowers. Still, the scenery was absolutely beautiful, and I was touched by the sweetness of the Californians who still stop and wave at trains. I waved back every time we went through a town. ****************** What happened to the bit about the people opposite us?? San Luis Obispo is the gateway to Hearst Castle, which is Somewhere We Meant To Go But Couldn't Be Arsed. It SOUNDED great. William Randolph Hearst is famous for being a hugely rich and successful media tycoon whose main achievements can be summarised thus: He was a very very rich media mogul His newspapers perfected the art of the misleading headline He wielded huge political power behind the scenes He raised being a wanker to new heights of wankeriness

************** more info on Hearst including Citizen Kane His castle is this grandiose monument to his own ego, but with artwork shipped in from Europe, it is pretty amazing. However, we were staying at a very special hotel named The Madonna Inn, which is pretty amazing in its own right and we were loath to leave it. The Madonna Inn was built in the 1920's by a local cattle rancher, and its theme rooms attracted the likes of John Wayne. Since then, it has been expanded greatly and is sort of hard to describe. Try to imagine a Valentine's Day party as given by Liberace. Or a brothel as run by Barbara Cartland. It's a huge wedding cake, 9 year old girl fantasy of a place with fairy lights, pink settees, golden cupids, marble balustrades, and gilt-edging everywhere. The enormous fireplace looks resembles a huge cave-in in the lobby. An amazing lamp made out of plastic fruit, hangs over the bar. A band plays while old people cha-cha-cha around the ballroom. Never stay at this place while on drugs. Our room was The Margueritte decorated with blue flowery wallpaper. The bathroom boasted a pink marble sink, gold-plated light-fittings and a toilet with flowers painted all over it. If Royalty ever needed to shit, then this is the sort of toilet they would hire someone to shit in for them. It was impressive. The town of San Luis Obispo is also very pretty. The Spanish influence on California had started to kick in, and the town was full in picturesque little buildings in the hacienda style. There was also a pretty little mission house dating from the 18th century next to a stream. We stopped and had a sandwich next to it, while listening to a Joni Mitchellesque folk singer, and felt we were truly in California. We had dinner that night at the Madonna - a dining room full of pink sofas decorated with gilt cupids and topped off with a plastic tree in the middle (spray-painted gold of course) that had fairy lights all over it. A doll dressed in a bridal gown swung back and forth above our heads advertising the bridal shop, while old folks danced to "Pensylvania 6-5000" in the ballroom. It was quite wonderful, so you can imagine how heartbroken we were when we had to check out the next day. It's a shame we werent able to spend more time in smaller towns like this, where the manners are sweet and good-natured and where you actually feel like you're meeting real Americans, as opposed to either sickly-sweet representatives of the tourism industry, or irritable public servants with feelings of inadequacy about their small genetalia.

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But The Madonna was a scarily expensive place to stay, so I booked us into a cheap hotel in Hollywood and we boarded the train to LA. Los Angeles was not somewhere we particularly wanted to go but it's just sort of THERE and you can't avoid it really. So we got on the train and WHOOSH - raced through the Californian landscape at the dizzying speed of 20 miles per hour, arriving a mere 6 hours later. On the way, the scenery was stunning, with mountains on one side and the sea on the other. It made me sad that we hadn't managed to find a place to stay in Santa Barbara (it was graduation week and the place was booked out) as it looked gorgeous. Also Pismo Beach, a place I had previously only heard of from Bugs Bunny cartoons. He was always popping up in Spain or the Antarctic with a map, asking someone if this was Pismo Beach and then reckoning he should've "taken that left toin at Albuquoikee." I would love to go to Albuquoikee someday, too. On arrival in LA, our cab driver took us to our hotel, where we couldn't get in because there was no-one at the front desk. Thank god the driver waited for us, because if we had hung around, our possessions would undoubtedly have been picked clean by the various shady individuals hanging about. I'm not exaggerating, LA is a scary place. You walk one block away from your hotel - your oasis of safety - into The Badlands. Windows boarded up, weirdos demanding change, and deserted streets. Scary for a small person with loose bowels. Now look, you may be saying, this is what you get for trying to do the budget thing. You are absolutely right of course, and here as I sit typing this I could quite happily keep Econo-Me up the arse for being such a prize idiot. Nevertheless, we had only just arrived in the USA, and it seemed our holiday fund was disappearing at an alarming rate. And just think of all the money we would have saved on hotels if I should have been shot and killed at this point in our holiday! So from a financial point of view, my plan made perfect sense. Our taxi driver took us to a place called The Saharan Motel, a vaguely decripid place that looked like several trailer homes welded together. We checked in, looked around the room and decided to check out again as soon as we could. But we ordered room service (you thought we would go OUT THERE??? are you INSANE??) and hung out until the next day when we checked into a Ramada. It was okay, but the neighbourhood felt terribly unfriendly. I went to the shops a couple of times to pick up groceries and whatnot, and got ATTITUDE from everybody. It's probably the first time I've encountered reverse-racism and while to a degree, you can understand resentment of dumb white tourists, my feeling is this: an arsehole is an arsehole no matter what race they are. So LA was an almost wholly a negative experience. The only thing we could be bothered to do was The Universal Studios Tour. I'm glad we did this. We took a shuttle out to Universal City and wandered through the various areas designed to separate idiots from their cash. And yes, I include me in this. It's very impressive. You wander through the imposing Universal Studio gates, with their trademark globe circling behind you, and are instantly greeted by ROUSING MUSIC. The sort of music that Superman flies to! The sort of music that Indy kills Nazis to! The sort of music that ET um - also flies to. It's terribly exiciting. Or at least it is for the first 10 seconds and then the ROUSING MUSIC starts to sound vaguely silly as you STORM the local Burger shop and DEMAND a bottle of water before making your THRILLING escape into the checkout line. I'm making it sound like I didn't like it. This isn't true. I love such silliness and was impressed and bewildered as we passed the huge "The Mummy Returns" props that they had on display. And I'm sure you would all love it too, so long as you manage to avoid the extremely irritating street performers. God, what is it about street performers? If you are a street performer and you are reading this, let me make something perfectly clear to you. WE ALL HATE YOU. WE WANT YOU TO STOP. RIGHT THIS INSTANT. Im not even going to start in on mimes, because we all know mimes are irritating. I think they know it too, and have terrible childhoods or something that makes them want to inflict misery on the rest of us. Then there are those statue people who clog up pavements by posing on a bucket and not moving for three-

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quarters of an hour. Why people stop and watch this is beyond me. Hes NOT GOING TO MOVE and worse, YOU ARE ENCOURAGING HIM. I want all readers of this paragraph to do something for me. The next person you see posing on a bucket, push them off and steal their money. If we all do this, then hopefully they will bugger off and not move in the privacy of their own homes or some fucking thing. But the irritating street performers were not about to spoil our day. Caro and I wandered around, marvelling at the Western-style street, and stopping off to listen to a concert by some Blues Brothers impersonators. Then we went on the Studio Tour, which consists of being put into little carts and being ferried around the various sets. I always feel sorry for the people who are employed as guides. It must be exhausting to have to be enthusiastic for a living, in jobs where you only get paid if you insert several exclamation marks into every sentence. "I'm gonna take you to the HAUNTED set now - no-one DARES go in there but I think it'll be okay!!! WUH-oh!! What's that???!!! Oh no!!! This is REALLY scary, guys!!! THIS has never happened before!!!!" And so on. Really. Jesus, what a job. Exclamation mark, exclamation mark. On the tour we got to see the "Psycho" house which looked suprisingly little and homey when it's not in black and white, also "Delta House", The Munsters' homestead and various Western, European and Mexican villages. (Interesting note: Did you know that they used to build western streets while little doors for heroes to come out of so that they looked bigger and stronger than they were in real life? IN ACTUAL FACT, John Wayne was only 4 inches high.) So it was all very interesting and I had a few laughs, mostly at Caroline's expense as she was sitting by the edge of the trolley and got soaked by the parting of the Red Sea, then attacked by Jaws. After all this excitement we wandered into the CineMagic experience, where you get to find out about special effects and I was distraught to discover that De Loreans can't really fly. The presenters at this exhibit show you exactly how all the fakery is done by getting audience members to "star" in little movie segments. There was an amusing Sound Effects Guy who was saying goodbye to his previous audience as we wandered in: SOUND EFFECTS GUY: Okay! You've been great! My best audience ever! I'm being TOTALLY INSINCERE there New Audience People! It's YOU I love!!! Amusing Sound Effects Guy picked Caro out of the audience to demonstrate some stuff ("Hey where ya from?? Really?? I'm from New Zealand too!!! Nah! Just foolin'!") On stage, she was given the task of being Eddie Murphy's farts in The Nutty Professor 2. This is a job for which she was ideally qualified, and she certainly doesnt require a wind machine if you catch my drift. ************* Look up Universal studios online We spent our last day in Los Angeles much as before, just hanging at the hotel. It seems a huge waste, I know - one of the most exciting cities on earth and we barely bothered with it. But trust me - LA is not worth it. It was to us, a mere stopping off point and actually seeing it with our own eyes merely confirmed the fact that it is a soulless, miserable place. What we did instead was watch yet more TV. America is great for unbelievably crappy programmes, and I consider myself a connoisieur of crap as you know. I saw an advert for one show entitled "Moral Court Where It Pays To Be Right" advertised as having "The TENSION of the courtroom. The EMOTION of a chat show. The EXCITEMENT of a game show!!" Yes, you actually win money on this program if you convince the judge that your druggie-sister is sleeping with your husband and so forth. Then there's the adverts. Loads and loads and LOADS of lawyers ("If you've injured one of MY clients, I'm coming after

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YOU.") Also bail-bondsmen, which is a bit scary, but our favourite ad of all was Miss Cleo's Psychic Hotline in which people call a Jamaican Clairvoyant while she consults the Tarot, and amusingly becomes less and less Jamaican as the consultation wears on. A typical Miss Cleo ad goes like this: MISS CLEO: CALLER: MISS CLEO: CALLER: MISS CLEO: CALLER: MISS CLEO: CALLER: MISS CLEO: (Shuffling cards) Does ya husband have good legs? Uh... There's no need to answer that because I know that he does not. Oh. Come now, don' be lyin' to me girl. Ya know tha way Miss Cleo be doin' business. I don't know WHY ya be cahlin' me and lyin'! Now who is this man you know him about 3 months... Ohhhhh... Mmmmmm-hmmmmm??? Ha ha ha ha. Oh you be LAUGHIN' now! You can't lie to Miss Cleo! (Miss Cleo turns to the camera) I have seen tha truth of tha Tarot a TOUSAND times! CAHL ME NOW for your free readin'!!

This ad is on so often that Caro now does a reasonable Jamaican accent. As for me, I seriously considered calling Miss Cleo, but I knew I wouldnt be lying. I KNEW how she be doin' business. On tearing ourselves away from the telly, we caught a taxi down to Long Beach where The Queen Mary Hotel is anchored and also where you can catch the ferry to Catalina Island. I had heard of Catalina before, as the place where Natalie Wood tragically drowned, but had no idea what it was like and would never have considered visiting if it hadnt been for Caro. She had heard of Catalina as one of the glamourous stops made by the happy, helpful, fictional crew of The Love Boat. ******** research Catalina So, it was thanks to a crappy 1970's tv show and a damp Hollywood actress that I had one of the best times of the holiday so far. The ferry ride to Catalina was lovely, over a smooth and glassy sea, with Avalon (Catalina's only big town) appearing in the distance as a picturesque little cluster of buildings on the side of a mountainous island. On landing, Caro mentioned that the island is famous for its flying fish and we might just see... BY JOVE! There they were! Right in the crystal clear turquoise water! They weren't actually FLYING, but the sea was so clear and the day was so bright, you could see them clear as anything. I was thrilled. And actually a little relieved, because fish flying is just a bit weird. I watch a lot of monster films, and would worry that the flying fish might have developed a taste for human flesh. Im sure you understand. Smile and nod, readers. Catalina is a strikingly beautiful place, the Spanish colonial influence competing with a strong art-deco feel as Catalina had been a hot Hollywood retreat in the 1930's. It's only a tiny place, with not much going on, and you can pretty much explore it all in a day or two. But that's not the point. It's a great chill-out place. With a population of only 3000, and not THAT many day-visitors, you can wander around to your hearts' content, admiring the scenery and the buildings - most of which are decorated with pretty coloured tiles that they used to manufacture here. Also, the weather is pretty much fabulous all year round. No wonder The Love Boat stopped off here. The only downside is that there is no beach to speak of, and very little swimming, but I wasn't bothered. I was quite happy to wander about, sit at funky little cafes, admire the fountains and keep watching the skies for carnivorous fish. The outside dining looked so glorious we decided to tart ourselves up a bit and sample a local restaurant. When I say tart ourselves up you must remember I am talking about people who had been living out of a

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backpack for 7 months by this point. So I sprayed deodourant into my sandals, smoothed out the least wrinkled of my t-shirts and strapped on the underpants that I had run under the tap only the day before. Classy. Caro wore her favourite t-shirt (from "Real Groovy Records" in Auckland) and her poshest jeans and we sauntered out into the Catalina evening for dinner at "Armstrongs" which is a cool seafood place overlooking the harbour. As we watched the sun go down, we looked down from our meals into the water and said hello to all the fish checking us out, and making sure we werent eating anyone they knew. It was amazing. We also had the benefit of a comedy waiter: "Call me Richard, although my wife calls me lots of other things. I recommend the shrimp - not because it's the best thing on the menu, but because I love shrimp and I get a vicarious pleasure from watching other people eat them. If you have any questions, please feel free to ask and yes, you are Real Groovy." Catalina at night is almost as pretty as Catalina during the day and we enjoyed walking around as the lights came on and we could appreciate the vaguely tacky, but loveably dated signs for "Jed's Liquor" and such. ********** the Casino and cinema golf carts! Taffy-pulling! Isnt that something you pay prostitutes to do? We had four days on Catalina, which is just about time to get completely chilled after the nightmare that is LA. After this idyllic soujourn, Caro had booked us on a flight from the island direct to San Diego. What neither of us realised was that Catalina Air was something of a mom and pop business, and mom passed away some time ago. We got to the airport, which was something of a mission. The Catalinans, rather confusingly kept asking us WHICH airport. "You mean the airport in the sky?" they kept saying. Like it was some sort of Celestial Airport for Dead Pilots, as in: "Gad! Ginger bought it yesterday when he was shot down by the Jerries! He's gone to the airport in the sky!" Let me put you all straight. There IS only one airport on Catalina and YES, it's called the Airport in the Sky. It should really be called The Airport Up a Huge Fucking Hill, as Catalina away from the cute little town of Avalon is very rugged and hilly, pushed up from the ocean by Opposing Plates, don'tcha know. Hey when I pay to visit a museum I DAMN WELL pay attention to all the Boring Facts that my $5 bought me. At the Airport in the Sky, I made the mistake of leaving my hat on the bus. In itself, this wasn't such a big deal, except that Caro ran back to fetch it, and then was in such a hurry to catch up to me that she walked into a plane. It is quite a feat not to notice a whole fucking aeroplane one would think its not like it was a Stealth Bomber or anything, but she managed it. All I knew was that one minute she was stood right next to me and the next minute WHAM! - she was lying flat on her back on the runway, saying an extensive collection of bad words. On picking Caro up off the tarmac, we were greeted by an old man with a VERY small plane and an extremely LARGE disgusting and pussy sore on his cheek that I couldn't help but talk to the entire time we were together. "I expected you half an hour ago," he said. "Yes, the bus was late," I explained to the huge pussy sore. "Who wants to sit up from with me?" he asked. I volunteered because I thought Caroline might be scared. Not of the altitude, but that his pustule might explode all over her at any time. He was quite a bad-tempered little man who thrust a meaningless map at me while Caro settled herself into the back seat. He explained that we would be heading away from San Diego at first, as FAA rules insist that he head straight for the coast on leaving Catalina. "This is so the coast is always in gliding distance," his weeping sore added reassuringly. Then he fiddled with nobs and dials for a long time. I think he was

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just trying to impress me. He was probably just adjusting his seat and tuning his radio to the country channel. Finally, his little plane with its lawn-mower engine taxied on down the runway and took off. It was a really fun experience travelling in a light plane. The day was sunny and calm, so we weren't tossed about as I had expected. It was extremely noisy, but I have to say I enjoyed it even though I was sad to see our rocky little haven of peace shrink into the distance. The only downside was that Open Sore Guy kept talking to me and pointing things out. And since he couldn't hear me above his engine all I could do was nod inanely and make idiotic gestures to convey the message: "Really!", "How interesting!" and "Would you like a maggot for that weeping, bacteria-ridden hole in your FUCKING head?" We coasted into San Diego, where our pilot charged us an extra $30 for being late, which I hope he spent on antibiotics and then we were picked up by Max the Comedy Taxi Driver. He greeted us by hefting our backpacks into his taxi and saying, "What the hell ya got in there??? No, don't tell me I don't wanna know." This was just the start of a ten-minute routine, in which he accused Caro of having a Arkansas accent, "Little bit of Bill Clinton there, I reckon," and then launched into the subject of Somalian Taxi Drivers. "Make the most'a me - I'm 8th generation American. The rest of the taxi divers you'll get are all Somalian or Algerian. All comin' over here - no idea where they're goin' and all tellin' me how much they hate America. Now your hotel is just around here - unless they hid that son-of-a-gun..." Caroline was laughing heartily by the time we got to the Super 8 Motel - I think it was Max's views on the Welsh that did it, "You can't trust those guys". Max noted Caro's hilarity and added, "See? You're having a great time in San Diego and you're not even naked yet. Which reminds me - they got a pool in this hotel, but no nude bathing, we don't go for that kind of funny stuff over here." And with that, he dropped our bags and was gone, leaving Caro and myself still open-mouthed. We had a hard time finding a place to stay in San Diego, because the entire city had been taken over by a Biotech convention. As a result, our motel was in Little Italy, slightly outside the city centre. Still it was a nice place to stay, with loads of interesting restaurants and delis to poke about in. Our motel was only a couple of blocks from the trolley stop too, so it wasn't too hard to get into San Diego, where Caro immediately found a huge mall named Horton Plaza, and installed herself in Starbucks. We took the opportunity of the mall to get Caros sunglasses fixed she had bent them during her close encounter with the aeroplane on Catalina, so I took her into an opticians to see what they could do. Caro took them off in the shop to let the lady behind the counter inspect them, and in doing so revealed the black eye she had got when she had whacked into the plane wing. I thought nothing of it, until I saw the optician eyeing me with undisguised contempt. She got it when she ran into an aeroplane ha ha ha, I explained lamely. Caro leapt in to defend me, Yes, I dont know how it could have happened, she added. As pathetic excuses go, its up there. I fully anticipated the optician would grab Caro by the wrist and say something like, You dont have to be brave! I know of a support group! Instead she just stared at me as if to say, You beast! It was while travelling back to our hotel on the trolley that I got the chance to experience the "3 Cups and a Pea" game. You know the one, where you try to guess which cup the pea is under, it's got a proper name but I forget what it is. I was THRILLED! I had always wanted someone to try that on me, just like they do in the films. Anyway, I watched the cup-and-pea guy for a while, as he gave me the spiel, but when he told me that, "It's a bettin' game, not a guessin' game," I thought it was time to nip it in the bud. I told him that Caro and myself couldn't bet as it was against our religion. I then informed him that we were both Jehovah's Witnesses. You should have seen how fast he moved!! He SHOT out of his seat like he had sat on a weasel and went off to find someone else! Telling people you're a Jehovah's Witness is a GREAT way to get rid of them! Even better than telling them you have Genital Herpes!

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MAN: So I'm a Jehovah's Witness. I'm NOT going to let it get me down! A good thing about our motel was that they supplied us with "Pantene" sachets of shampoo. Not that I got to use any. Caro very carefully emptied them ALL into a little bottle every night, so that we would be resupplied the following day. She managed to get a WHOLE bottle of shampoo this day. It was very impressive. She was just like James Garner in The Great Escape. I had been to San Diego 3 years earlier with my ex-wife Sue (who you will meet in New York), but it was quite different this time as we spent more time in the city centre and didn't bother with their world-class zoo or wildlife park. (Caro does not approve of zoos). However, I did find San Diego just as pleasant on my return trip. Unlike LA and San Francisco, San Diego is a very relaxed and laid-back sort of place. Its like the city knows it's not even in the Most Famous City in California competition, so just gives in, doesn't bother sucking in its gut and slouches about, scratching itself. I like that. We pottered about the huge but quiet streets, watching the traffic cops who were being kept busy by the fact that most of the traffic lights were blacked out due to the power crisis of 2001. It was very placid. ********* Research on San Diego, Balboa Park & Del Coronado We made the pilgrimmage out to the Hotel Del Coronado, where "Some Like It Hot" was filmed. This is in the La Jolla area of San Diego, and again, it's very quiet, very beautiful and extremely hot. The hotel itself is great - full of 1920's charm - a bright white wooden building, its towers and turrets shining in the bright Californian sunshine. But dont let that mislead you. We had also been informed that it is HAUNTED by the spirit of Kate Morgan. She had checked in, complaining of stomach aches, but refusing to go to the doctor until her brother arrived. When days passed and he still hadn't turned up, she killed herself. Or at least, that's what they THOUGHT. The police investigation discovered that "her brother" was in fact her husband and that the two of them were grifters. He had dumped her upon getting her pregnant and detectives speculated that he had killed her. Since that day, her spirit has wandered the hotel, still waiting for justice... Spooky eh? Apparently her bed in the hotel CANNOT BE MADE. The maid was on tv, saying how every morning it looks like it's been slept in, even when there's no-one in the room. The cynical part of me says that this is very good for business. But I would not like to sleep in that bed. So we enjoyed the Hotel Del, as it is known, and spent a very pleasant afternoon looking around, wakling along the beach and having big fruity cocktails. The next day we made our way to Balboa Park, which is a beautiful area full of museums and art galleries. We took in only one exhibition of 1960's posters before I informed Caro that our budget didnt actually allow for culture, so we just enjoyed the scenery instead and the grand Spanish-colonial buildings instead, all surrounded by neatly-planted colourful gardens. If you sniff this paragraph, you can actually smell the fragrance of them. While there, possibly inspired by Miss Cleo, Caro took the opportunity to have her Tarot read by a woman sitting under an umbrella in the sun. Caro's first card was The Priestess, which impressed the lady a great deal, "HOOOO!! You GO girl!!" she enthused. This, it turns out, is the personification of Caro The Goddess. The rest of the cards I forget but it all seemed pretty positive and Caro took it to mean that our upcoming collaboration on the book of our travels would be successful. If you have bought a copy, now you know it is entirely due to Supernatural Influences. But it wasnt all fun and relaxation in San Diego. I spent a great deal of time on the phone, trying to get some customer service from the US Postal Service which is a little like trying to get satisfaction from a man with no genitals. They had lost a parcel that Janette sent to Caro from New Zealand. Meanwhile, I lost my temper listening to Caroline being reasonable on the phone while they messed her about. Consequently, I took over and Caro noted with some amusement how I become increasingly English when pissed off. Also, I have a tendency to go into my Work-Speak mode and start demanding that People

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Progress This Issue With Some Urgency Or I Shall Have To Escalate The Matter. It worked eventually, but I now start to realise why to the English, the Americans seem inordinately loud, rude and demanding. It seems to be the only way you can get any bloody thing done. I found I was becoming more American in my approach, as in the few weeks I had been in the USA, I had already had fights with the Post, The Immigration Service, two hotels and several restaurants, all of whom would have been quite happy for me to be screwed, so long as they didn't have to go to the trouble of actually ANSWERING SIMPLE QUESTIONS. In the case of Caro, the very first post office she called had actually had the parcel all the time!! How we laughed about that THREE DAYS LATER. But I don't want you to think I'm down on America or the Americans. As with any country, most of the people are cool but it's the arseholes who stand out. Like, most people would think the English are a bunch of drunken, football-obsessed idiots whereas in fact this is only true of 98% of us. The real truth is that there are arseholes everywhere. In America, New Zealand, Australia -there are people who are citizens of The Federal Republic of Wanker. The good news is that there is also a Country of The Groovy, of which the National Anthem is "Groove Is In the Heart". I would like all of you to know that you are fully-naturalised citizens. And that Caro is Your Queen. Despite the hours I spent complaining to various postal workers, San Diego was a nice lazy break in between California and the madness that was to be Las Vegas. But before we left California altogether, we had one last stop to make. Palm Springs is a handy little stopover point between San Diego and Las Vegas, which would be an 11 hour trip on the bus if you did it all in one go. As it was, it took 6 hours of cramped, unpleasant travelling through the desert aboard our Greyhound. Still, at least it was relatively cheap and we got to see the desert up close. It is pretty awesome. As Caro said, it just doesn't look real with all those extreme pinks and bright oranges - The Painted Desert is a cliche, but it's true, littered with tumbleweed and Joshua trees like some Hollywood matte background that the union chaps forgot to take away. Occasionally we'd pass a town that consisted of a row of shops on either side of the highway and a motel. It was just like "The Last Picture Show". Then wed spot an old building in that lovely hacienda style like they had on "The High Chaparal". (I still have fond memories of that fiery minx Victoria - but I digress.) Then, just when the blood supply was totally drained from my arse, and I was trying to shift position without sucking me boxers up me bum-crack, there was the surreal vision of a whole forest of electricity windmills - hundreds of 'em - wherever I looked. Some people think they're eyesores, but not me. I think they're amazing to look at, all spinning in unison like a bunch of synchronised swimmers. Except on dry land. And big. You know what I mean. (A note on bus travel: Am I the only person who feels vaguely gross when a huge fat person brushes past them with a butt cheek??? If you too feel this way then a tip for you - avoid bus travel.) There were a number of outrageously fat people on the bus. In fact, California seems to be split between the morbidly obese or the sickeningly healthy. I dont know where all the in-between people have gone. It seems to be either all toned abs and muscular thighs or flabby bellies and planet-sized arses. I have a theory: OHAGAN VERY SCIENTIFIC THEORY ON SKINNY/FATTY CALIFORNIANS I think that the reason many Californians are thin is because it is a very outdoors exercise intensive place and they are very active people what with all that waterskiing, roller-blading, bullet-dodging and so forth. However if, for some reason, a Californian should suddenly have to cease activity - say they have to spend a week with their leg up due to illness, THEN they suddenly expand - WHOOMPH - like a bag

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of Microwave Popcorn until they resemble a space-hopper with shoes named "Don" or "Arlene". Don't get me wrong. Many Americans are very attractive, cool and sophisticated people. But none of those people were on our bus. Instead we had a whole bunch of women who seemed to have purchased their make-up from the Bette Davis Cosmetics Counter and an AWFUL lot of men with Village People moustaches, out-of-control mullets and young lads with those ridiculous little tufts of hair on their chins that look like their face is being shagged by a hamster. I shut out such unpleasantness by listening to what I felt was an appropriate selection of traveling across the USA music. This included the "Oh Brother Where Art Thou?" soundtrack, Ray Charles singing "Hit the Road Jack", and "Watermelon Man" by Mongo Santamaria. Maybe that last one isn't particularly appropriate, but isn't that the best name EVER??? If ever I have a child I shall definitely be naming him "Mongo". Then there was the billboard, "Welcome to Palm Springs" on the roadside. Caro and I breathed a deep sigh of Bus-Body-Odour relief as we pulled past the extremely upmarket main street. This was once the home of Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Bob Hope and Elvis, amongst others and it is still a very wealthy-person popular spot. We didn't buy ANYTHING. I hardly dared step into the shops. The place has the exclusivity of Aspen. Only HOT. And when I say hot - well - on stepping out of the coach and onto the street, I felt like someone wrapped a hot towel around my head and shoved a chili up my arse. Fortunately, we got a taxi straight away which took us to the Palm Springs Mountain Hotel, a very nice place (even if there was a sign on the wall saying it was built in an area known to create birth defects and other Reproductive Problems). Our room gave us a nice view of the mountains and the ever-busy pool. Once inside, we both plopped onto our beds like the Human Slugs we are, and ordered a Greek delivery. To be honest, there didnt appear to be much more to Palm Springs than this. It's in a stunning location, but seems to consist mainly of gift shops and restaurants. The most striking feature of both being that they all have OUTDOOR air conditioning, which is a fine mist they spray into the air. It all seems very decadent, but what the hell, presumably this is all powered by the windmills. I wasn't looking forward to another day on a bus - this time the trip would take 5 hours - but I had to smile as we drove away and Caro and I were greeted by a farewell sign saying, "Missing You Already!!" and another which said "That's Not The Wind You Feel - Palm Springs Is Blowing You A Kiss." "I'll remember that next time I fart," countered Caro. From: Caro Date: ???? 2001 [Fade in: "...LA woman in a Hollywood bungalow..." -The Doors] So after the madness that was non-smoking San Francisco, where we met Fran and his Travis cohorts and heard dodgy stories from an enthusiastic tour guide in Alcatraz by night, who had very white teeth by torchlight, we skipped town and headed towards warmer climes. I hear what you're saying -"Warmer climes? It's California, man!" - not so, I had to divest of my superior fashion status and wear my Marks & Spencer fleece (circa winter 2000), which was buried deep in the dark depths of my backpack, at least twice. I got caught short one afternoon and even had to buy an emergency fleece in a tourist shop on the pier just as we sailed off to Alcatraz. Symon managed to peel off a few shots of me looking like a "tourist geek" as he put it.

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It was a particularly stylish number (navy blue with a big "San Fran" logo) costing $15 - a bit of a risky venture I grant you, but we didn't know anyone in San Francisco, it was blowing a gale of about 5000 knots, I was suffering a bad hair day and the other flock of tourists were either hip Mexican guys with white singlets, hairnets and baggy pants or in the 40-70 years age bracket, armed with camcorders, bad perms, sun visors and very white reebok trainers. Hardly a group to call on the fashion police. After an uneventful trip via Amtrak (never do this), and being forced to listen to 2 old biddies playing "I've got better grandchildren than you" game, where they debated their children, grandchildren, ex-husbands, insurance policies and real estate, we arrived in a pretty little town called San Luis Obispo...and stayed in the most gloriously hideous Hotel called the Madonna Inn, built as part of a massive cattle ranch. It was only fitting that I left my "ugly tourist fleece" in the room when we left. By accident, of course. (Symon still thinks its in the bottom of my backpack). We picked the hotel because we'd heard about the vulgarity of the place, having ornately decorated themed rooms: Jungle Room, Cave Room, Blue Room, Tower Room etc. We found ourselves in the "Marguerite" blue room. Who knew so many different floral patterns could be worked in the same room? The only other person I know, apart from Symon, who would have deeply appreciated the flowers on the toilet seat and the gilt-edged everything, the fantastically garish bedside lamps, and plastic flowers on chandaliers, is Lisa Brown. (Deep sigh) We would have cackled with glee over the themed rooms, the plaques dedicated to John Wayne and the sickly pink leather seating in the ballroom, where the night we went to dinner, a saxophonist got down and groovy in a beret, high-necked jumper and sunglasses. I felt like I was in acartoon. Old people were ballroom dancing. It's amazing how sometimes the poor old things become mobility-challenged and yet as soon as a Glenn Miller medley starts up, they're gliding across the dancefloor: gliding, gliding, turn, dip, glide. The tango moves unleashed that night could give a person whiplash. However, by the time saxophone guy had moved into his disco and nineties medley, they were getting stuck into the dessert trolley. We spent the next day just wandering about the town and visiting the old Spanish mission, which I thought was a very tranquil, peaceful place, with the birds and people wandering around the gardens, until my ears met with a screeching followed by some guitar string picking. Yes, not only was it a small town steeped in Spanish history, it was also a university town, featuring a revolting Joni Mitchell reincarnation in the beer garden, behind an Irish pub. This "poet" looked part of a university scene. I've encountered such types before, when I was at Waikato University and being an impressionable young lass, I thought it was all very cool and deep. So, too, did these Uni students, who were drinking and clapping. Or, perhaps it was the revelry of the beers on a sunny day. At a glance, I surmised she was going out with her bass guitar guy, who wore horrible short shorts and looked like he was suffering, (and only a man in love would suffer this much). He occasionally plucked a string for emphasis. She had long, graying hair, eighties jeans, birkenstocks, possibly majoring in Feminist Theory or American Literature, and was selling a pile of her own CDs. She told the seething crowd (or handful of people trying to eat and have a quiet beer on a Sunday) she hated to cover other people's songs and then warbled her own full-length unplugged tunes about society, broken hearts, runaway children, uncaring urbanites etc. Bloody tragic. I love hearing folky stuff, but not at the expense of a perferated eardrum. So, back to the ranch, curled up in our "blue room", air conditioning full blast and the Howard Stern Show, featuring the "Queen for a day" competition, where people had to tell their awful life stories to win $10K. Another perfect day in a series of perfect days, since we started this trip 7 months before. I really love this kind of TV viewing. Geez, it really appeals to my evil nature. Obviously, the guy in the

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wheelchair, with the speech impediment, who had been abused by his alcoholic father and was begging on the street, won. Then he got all pissy 'cos the title was "Queen" (Howard reminded him that only women are supposed to enter the competition anyway) and he managed to spew forth a few expletives and a few anti-gay remarks before hewas removed from the studio, clutching his money and last heard shrieking, "Yo' Momma!", which, I understand, is really quite insulting. Hours of enjoying Jerry Springer has taught me that. Back on the train, traveling at 0.2 miles per hour, we were able to take in the awesome scenery -mountains, desert and gorgeous beaches. California is a really beautiful part of the world. LA for us, was quite a scary place and so it mainly became a trip to Universal Studios (where I nearly peed myself when the shark from "Jaws" reared up beside me, much to the delight of Symon who had his camera ready). Three times I managed to get wet on the backlot tour: the display of fake flooding, a display of how they create rain on the set and the Jaws incident. I got off the trolley, a soggy mess, having another bad hair day and my leather jandals so soaking I squeaked when I walked. How can a goddess be so blessed? And then I got to be Eddie Murphy's "wind" in the "Nutty Professor 2" special effects show, for about 300 people and their children. And yes, I do mean that kind of wind that is accompanied by a yellow cloud. Symon took photos of that, too. We decided LA was not that cool and was actually quite a scary place, unless you live in a maximumsecurity mansion on top the hill, so we made plans to go to Santa Catalina Island. The only things I had heard about the place were: a) The Hollywood rich and famous have been partying there sincethe 1920s. b) Natalie Wood drowned somewhere in the waters around Catalina. c) It was a port of call on one of my favourite 70s shows: "The Love Boat". Isaac the Barman, Gopher the Purser, Captain Stubbing and Doc. Yay. And it was beautiful. Population 3,500 plus tourists. This is where I want to retire to - a place where cars are prohibited and golf carts are the transport of choice, a place where yachts are just one of the family, and where the sun shines everyday. Nice. We spent all our time wandering around the shops, sitting at cafes, watching the constant activity in and around the water, just drinking in our surroundings and imagining us living here, providing an exotic holiday location for all our friends. We even played mini-golf (or crazy golf to Brits), where I spectacularly whipped Symon's arse with my technique with a putter. And I hate to say it, I am a bad winner - victory dance accompanied by a victory cheer. I'm the same when it comes to cards as well. So now I was armed with bad karma, as we set off for San Diego via a tiny little plane and a grumpy-arsed pilot called Carlos. Symon discovered he had left his very funky Diesel cap on the shuttle bus and I ran back to retrieve it. As I was berating him for being forgetful, I literally banged into something. There I was, lying flat on my back, sunglasses lying in a mangled mess about 10 feet away from me, and I couldn't work out what the hell was going on. All I could see was Symon trotting off with his backpack on. It wasn't until I stood up and walked backwards that I realised I had hurtled into a plane wing. I think I dented it. Later, that night, I developed a beauty of a black eye. I looked as if I had a few too many beers at the local roadhouse. My new prescription sunglasses were so wonky I had to take them into an optometrist to straighten them out. When I told him what happened, he just looked at me. With pity. Karma. So, what did I discover in San Diego? The fashion is all camouflage themed, girls wear their hair in ponytails, with platform jandals (or "slides" as they called here), jeans lace up the side, little tank tops lace up the side, everyone has a deep allover tan, they wear huge amounts of make-up (with too dark lipliner, by the way), beige is very "now", Mariah Carey ripped off the top super low rise jeans almost to the pubic bone are all very trendy, and large tote bags accompany every outfit. And long painted toenails appear

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frequently. And toenails like that are just just fucking hideous. We wiled away many an hour, drinking Starbucks and toenail spotting in the mall. Fabulous. We also took in the psychedelic hippy art exhibition in Balboa Park's Museum of Contemporary Art. After our trip to the Haight-Ashbury area of San Francisco, wandering past the old homes of Janis Joplin and the Grateful Dead, raking through masses of vintage clothes shops and hanging out at Amoeba Music, where I purchased a CD of the "Blind Boys of Alabama" and Symon bought "Fatty Fatty" (what?! who?!) it fit in nicely. But the highlight had to be the Hotel Del Coronado. A gorgeous old Victorian hotel, complete with its own ghost and was the setting for "Some Like it Hot", starring Marilyn, Jack and Tony Baby. It even had a couple of old blokes snoring in the rattan chairs in the lobby, one had a newspaper over his face like Joe E. Brown. Fabby - atmosphere you can't buy. Rates start at something like $350 per night, so we spent a hot sunny day, sipping "cactus juice" cocktails at the garden bar, walking round the landscaped gardens, checking out the pool, and generally pretending we were staying there. The funny thing about hotels like this (and the Madonna Inn) is the awful shops they have. Not your usual newsagenty/touristy places packed with postcards and T shirts. Oh no, rather shops selling gold-edged Chanel suits, ships in bottles, war regalia, rosewater tonics, oil paintings, initialled handkerchiefs, sun umbrellas, gold sandals, floral blouses, lighthouse models, pewter napkin rings, silver hipflasks (engraved if you so desire), shelves of brooches and tie pins... All the things for the intrepid traveller in a safari suit and pith helmet, heading towards Kilimanjaro hunting damned Bengal tigers, eh what?! Strangely enough, the Hotel Del Coronado also had a Harley-Davidson shop. I have never seen a Harley rider in a floral blouse or using napkin rings on the road. But who knows - what goes on on the road, stays on the road, man. Continuing the theme of "what do rich folks get up to?", we rode off into the sunset past Death Valley and into Palm Springs -where the likes of Frank Sinatra, Bob Hope and Sonny Bono set up camp. With temperatures of 121 degrees (about 50c), with an army of those funny windmill things on the horizon, and palm trees that had brown leaves, we settled into our groundfloor poolside room. Bliss. Even Adelaide wasn't this hot. And they play golf out here. In this heat. There's like 7 international golf courses in Palm Springs and those fairways are the only green things around these here parts, Cowboy. The most fascinating thing for me, was the outside air-conditioning, at every restaurant and cafe patio. Oh, and the fact that I saw a woman dripping gold jewelry, wearing a fringed beige dress with "Hawaii" scrawled across it and a cowboy hat with strappy sandals and the sort of tan that screams "40 years of sun worship haven't heard of skin cancer". Truly a Kodak moment under the rainmist air-conditioning at Starbucks. Palm Springs was just a brief stop before we entered the mecca of gambling madness. Las Vegas, baby. Home of the Liberace Museum, Elvis-a-rama museum and incredible casinos. I nearly suffered peoplewatching burnout. Its a fantastic place and makes no bones about being over-the-top and gauche. In fact, the city revels in it. We were there for the 4th July and a funny little man at the Liberace museum assured us there would be mass fireworks at 9pm. Seemingly, he had spread this rumour to all the millions of tourists trawling the strip. Everybody was waiting expectantly. Scarily, all the American tourists were all wearing either white or grey Old Navy T shirts, with the stars 'n stripes flag. What a publicity goldmine. Promote the person who had that little brainwave. In a controversial move, we spotted a Pom emblazoned with a union jack, talking loudly so everyone around could here he was from "Norf London, mate. Alright, luv?!". Shortly after 10pm, we gave up waiting and clutching our rolls of quarters, we hit the slot machines. Two minutes later, we were back in our room watching a pay-per-view movie.

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We had a great week in Vegas, checking out all the big casinos and the amazing shows they put on. Standing outside the Bellagio, watching the fountain display, with Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli singing opera being blasted overhead, we encountered a thunderstorm, complete with forked lightning and heavy rain. It was still 110 degrees, and the rain felt wonderful. Still, once the show finished, we realised we were 2 of about 20 people left standing after the other 500 had run off for fear of getting a tad damp. And although I loved the whole scene of hugely fat people in rhinestones, ugly sandals of every colour, fake boobs, shorts, cowboy hats, red raw sunburnt legs, numerous Elvis sightings, dangerous drivers of electric wheelchairs who would soon as run you over than let you sit at that particular slot machine, flashy cars vibrating to rap music, horrid twenty-somethings wearing 'pi beta whatever' convention t shirts talking shite very loudly, the gaggle of blokes on a stag weekend, the posse of women on their hen nights, the desperate chain smoking of hard-edged gamblers sitting at the blackjack tables for hours on end, millions of uncontrolled children running about, wideboys, cocktail waitresses and every conceivable tacky souvenir in the shops, I still wanted a bit of the old Vegas. So, we took in "The Rat Pack is Back!" show. It was so cool - Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr, Joey Bishop and my hero, Dean Martin. The actors were great and they recreated the nights the originals worked Vegas for 6 weeks when they were filming "Oceans 11", back in the day. And they kept it exact with the jokes, the songs, the routines. It was awesome. Except for the jokes directed at Sammy Davis Jr, somehow they didn't come across as being quite as funny anymore. If you told those jokes today, you'd be a dead man walking. And because the songs and the moves were all so perfectly recreated, I now know where Michael Jackson got some of his dance moves - Sammy's tapdancing, man. He was a cool cat, that Mr Bo Jangles. We did the Tropicana Museum of gambling, which had all the old photos of the old casinos like The Sands, The Flamingo and the Desert Inn and all manner of memorobilia. I was salivating at the thought of getting to the gift shop and purchasing some genuine bits and pieces. However, the fates were against me, as a mere ashtray from the Sands was $175, old chips were anything from $100 to thousands of dollars. My dreams of arranging some fabulously retro ashtrays and coasters of chips and framed signed photographs of the days of old Hollywood/Vegas glamour, were shattered instantly. However, we did manage to purchase some Elvis Coasters from Elvis-a-rama and a fabulous Liberace in hotpants fridge magnet...when you visit our new place, they'll be bags checks on the way out, I can assure you. Now, you can't go to Vegas and not see a drag show. Especially when the compare is pseudo Joan Rivers, featuring Cher (in her fishnet stocking and sitting astride a cannon), Celine banging her puny chest with passion as she belts out the "Titanic" theme (actually "Celine" seemed quite enamoured with my Symon), Madonna, Judy Garland, Liza Minelli, Tina Turner, Bette Midler and Patti LaBelle. You know, all your middle of the road kinda Divas. Sadly, there was no Barbara Streisand, but no matter, it was no place for "the way we were". The show was soooo so good and those girls rocked. The likenesses were uncanny. The audience was really into it and I have to say, Cher/Celine had an amazing body and a tight little bum. And what beautiful frocks Joan was wearing. Who was the designer? And was that the same person who did Liberace's capes? It was our final night in the city of sin and what a final curtain; a bevy of beauties strutting their stuff and us, with VIP seating. Class. After the show, we took the "redeye" to Toronto, where life became alot calmer and alot cooler, even though we looked like a bag of assholes upon arrival, after the overnight flight. Later Caro

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The Chick with the super wide-legged denim and fake blue fur jeans...they rock! p.s. In case you're wondering, my main man, Tom Jones let me down by being in concert a week before our arrival and Kenny Rogers played the night we arrived. I was devastated, as well you can imagine.

Part 9: Las Vegas City of Lights and Liberace


I shall start with a joke: This guy is in serious business trouble. He owes $10,000. One night god appears to him in a dream and tells him that he should take all his money and go to Vegas. There he should go to the Saraha, straight through the lobby, and play the 3rd Blackjack table on the left. He does as his dream commanded. Takes his last five grand and hops on the bus to Vegas, where he enters the Sahara, goes on the 3rd Blackjack table on the left, puts all his money down and says, "Hit me." He gets a six. God says, "TAKE ANOTHER HIT." He takes the hit. It's an 7. He's got 13. God says, "TAKE ANOTHER HIT." He takes the hit. It's a 3. He's got 16. God says, "TAKE ANOTHER HIT." He takes the hit. It's a 2. He's got 18. God says, "TAKE ANOTHER HIT." Sweating now. The guy takes the hit. It's an ace. He's got 19. God says "TAKE ANOTHER HIT." Trembling, he does as god commands. It's ANOTHER ace. He's got 20. God says, "TAKE ANOTHER HIT." The guy's a wreck, he can barely force the words out. "Hit me," he says. It's ANOTHER ace. He's got twenty-one. "UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE!!!!" says god. All right, it's not a very funny joke. But it's the only Vegas joke I know. And we heard it in Vegas, in the Sahara, from a Joey Bishop impersonator. But I'm getting ahead of myself. When I left you last, I was on the road, man - headed for that infamous Den of Iniquity and Vice that is Las Vegas, Nevada. How exciting. It's at this point that I envy you people as you sit in your comfortable chairs, reading this. For you see, you get to imagine that it IS exciting. And not excruciatingly-fuckingly boring as we trundle along, cramped onto a sweaty bus with a lot of people who might have forgotten some vital areas when they applied their deodourant if you know what I mean. It's not like it was a short journey - America is a Big Country - much bigger that England. Americans love to rub this in. "Did you know that England could fit into Texas 350 times???" is the sort of thing they are always saying. (Source: The Guinness Book of Made-Up Facts.) Well, maybe they aren't ALWAYS saying this sort of thing, but it's always in tourist brochures. Anyway, if you are suffering from feelings of inadequacy of the size of your country, then please try to remember that much of America is made up of Dirt which they aren't doing much with. Sorry I didn't mean to rant there, but at least it helped pass the time while we're stuck on this bus together. The major thing that happened on the bus was that some horrid woman who had been drinking tequila

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collapsed as she left the bus in Baker (Baker - home of The World's Largest Thermometer - 350 feet and reading 117 degrees when we arrived). The authorities were alerted and a fire engine promptly arrived. *********check the thermometer fact A FIRE engine? I wondered if they were planning to drag her off the bus and hose her down. However, this was not the case. It's just a small town and they were first on the scene. Maybe there's this whole race between the cops, the paramedics and the fire service that we dont know about. Anyway, about 15 minutes and the woman's life story later (she knew what day of the week it was, yes she knew who the president was, yes she'd been drinking tequila all day...) they let her go and we were back on our way to Nevada! At the border, a mirage appeared. Suddenly, out of nowhere, out of red rock, and desert and tumbleweed there appeared ginormous tv screens! And billboards! And a rollercoaster!! This was the rather inappropriately-named town of Primm, and the start of Nevada. Las Vegas was only about half an hour away, but when you hit the city it feels like you've left the galaxy and are on another planet. Look, we all know what Las Vegas is like. It's on the tv, it's in films. But NO - you have NO IDEA what it's like. Whatever you EXPECT - it's MORE. It will completely confound, overwhelm and astound your imagination. It certainly puts Blackpool into perspective. Our bus coasted by the casinos, of which more later, and dumped us at the bus station which was as scummy as the bus itself, except immobile. We called a taxi and stood there in the stifling heat. Vegas in July is just bloody stupid, by the way. We definitely got this message as Americans from San Diego and Palm Springs just LOOKED at us when we explained we would be heading there. It reached 50 degrees centigrade while we were there. Taxi drivers ferried us about, their cars complaining in the heat, and the drivers themselves groaned, informing us that, "It hardly EVER gets above 110!!" (Not that this bothered us - the distinction between FUCKING HOT and REALLY FUCKING HOT being hardly noticeable to people who live in Scotland.) It was while we were waiting for our taxi to collect us, we got approached by a slight girl with a familiar accent. It turned out she was from Edinburgh!! She too, was feeling a bit intimidated by the neighbourhood and wanted to know if she could share our taxi. She explained that she approached us because we looked English. I was distraught. I'd been travelling for seven BLOODY months and STILL I looked English???!!! I'd been going for the International Man of Mystery look and NO-ONE NOTICED. Most distressing. Anyway, it was lovely to hear a Scottish accent again, and so of course we didn't mind sharing a taxi with her. We dropped her off at the Hilton and then went to the MGM Grand. This is one of the rather more subdued of the Vegas hotels in that it does actually resemble a hotel. Still, our jaws dropped as we pushed through the doors and entered a huge marble lobby, with as many check-in desks as you would get in a decent sized airport. The whole area was lit up with a myriad of lights and centred around a massive golden Leo the Lion from the MGM logo. We checked in and navigated our way to the lifts, though a bombardment of sound and light from the slot machines that surrounded us. We were on the 20th floor and emerged from the lift to a corridor that seemed to go on forever. So we were pretty much over-awed, gobsmacked and shagged out by the time we reached our hotel room. We collapsed onto our beds and resolved never to travel by bus again. And to watch as much telly as possible at the earliest eventuality. Our room continued the MGM Theme by having pictures of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman on the wall, along with Some Other Famous Bint. The room itself was big, and

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very nicely done out with a grand view over Las Vegas, the airport on one side, the Stratosphere casino on the other and the mountains in the middle. Unfortunately we couldn't laze about forever due to hunger pangs. Quite frankly, it's the only thing that keeps me mobile most days. I can't wait until I'm of an age when they hook up an IV and a colostomy bag, so that I can finally get some decent rest. Caro and I wandered down to the Food Area, which took some considerable time. The MGM, like all the casinos, is cavernous inside, and you wander from one area of unreality to another for what seems like MILES. It's like a huge film set as you check out the various fancy restaurants and shops that go on and on and on. Past indoor theatres, huge tv screens, bands performing, a lion enclosure, rows of cashiers giving change, groups of people whooping at craps tables, lights flashing, scary women squeezed into tiny costumes offering drinks, tubby tourists with squawking children, a lion enclosure, bands performing, huge tv screens, indoor theatres... A LION ENCLOSURE? Hang on - we've been down here before! Where the hell is McDonalds!? Oh - ok - right - you go PAST the lion enclosure, THROUGH the craps tables, RIGHT at the scary women and then take the left toin at Albequoikee. Half an hour, and several miles later, we found McD's. We went through this same debacle every time we ventured into the casino. I think they switch the signs around when you're not looking on purpose, so that you HAVE to go through the slots over and over again. And then there's the NOISE. Let me describe it to you. First of all, imagine the constant doo doo DOO doo doo DOO tuneless ditty that all slot machines constantly repeat. Now imagine the continual chatter of the people: "...Ellen! Come lookit this!... didn't think it would be so HOT here... is this your first time... did David go... would you like some... oh, I loved it - you HAVE to go... who would have thought... ya know what I'm SAY-in... wait a minute, this is the indoor theatre - where the hell is McDonald's???..." Now imagine the constant CONSTANT jingle of change as it drops into the slot machine hoppers, or back into the slots, or rattles around in the little plastic buckets they give you. Now imagine The Backstreet Boys or Britney singing in the background. Now imagine announcers constantly repeating on tv screens, "Paul Anka could give lessons in Showmanship... EFX starring Rick Springfield will BLOW YOU AWAY... La Femme - a French Sensation since 1951..."

Now imagine all of the above ALL AT ONCE and backed by THIS noise: DING-DING-DING-DING-DING-DING-DING-DING-DING-DING!! That's what Las Vegas sounds like. Are you insane yet? Insanity. It's the only way you can explain Las Vegas. I'm not a gambler. That's fair enough, but I can't even understand it. As we wandered about, we could see all these people feeding coin after coin after coin into the machines. I could understand it a little better if you got, a 5 minute game for this, but NO - you put in a quarter in and IT DISAPPEARS. In ONE second. End of game. I don't get it. Plus most of the machines weren't quarter machines, but demanded a dollar a go. You couldn't half shovel some change into those things if you spent an afternoon at it. This is what has created a city in the desert. A city with so many neon lights, flashing billboards, fairylights and gigantic tv screens that they are visible from SPACE. (Note: If you're epileptic, do NOT go to Las Vegas.) Not that I'm complaining. I thought it was great fun. Las Vegas is as constantly exciting as it is noisy and induces thrills that are at least twice as big as the migraine you'll undoubtedly have tomorrow. Just that

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while I can appreciate the grandeur and the excess, I can't understand the appeal of slots as I stood around watching all those losers feeding those thousands of machines. Hundreds and thousands of losers. So many losers in fact, that they are visible from SPACE. Caro and I lost about $20 dollars to the slots in the five days we were there. I don't think that paying $4 a day Pathetic Loser Tax is too much for the entertainment we derived from being in Las Vegas. I was just relieved that Caro hadn't lost our life savings at the roulette table and traded me for $1 million to Robert Redford so that he could slake his vile lust. And the entertainment is not only in the people-watching, or the shows. The simple truth is that you can just walk down the Strip and get hugely entertained for free. If we just walked down a few blocks we could see: The Excalibur: A huge fairy-tale castle casino, with white towers and blue and red turrets. Inside were medieval performers and huge dragons everywhere. Outside, an animatronic Merlin battled a fire-breathing dragon every 30 minutes. The Luxor: A gigantic black-tinted pyramind, with white lights strobing down the outside. At the very top a huge spotlight pierces the sky. Inside it's actually kind of dull. New York, New York: A casino, which resembles the New York skyline from outside, complete with Chrysler Building, Empire State, Statue of Liberty and Brooklyn Bridge. Occasionally you hear an "AIEEEEEE!!" as another group of tourists hurtles around on a gigantic rollercoaster that circles the whole thing. Caesar's Palace: My favourite. Terribly grand on the outside, complete with huge marble-type statues of Caesar, enormous Roman pillars and steps. Inside, the motif is continued to grandiose heights, with statuary, fountains and painted ceilings which are not in fact painted AT ALL but instead are huge screens onto which changing images are PROJECTED. The shopping area is a huge crossroads from which 4 Roman boulevards reach. At the end of one, is an impressive fountain, which becomes even more impressive when it transforms itself via special effects into an animatronic, film and pyrotechnic display on the Fall of Atlantis. The Bellagio: The high-class casino, as far as we could see. Very pretty in a mock-classical way, with a musical fountain display with lights and classical music every 15 minutes. The show we went to see was particularly spectacular as it was interrupted by lightning forking the sky behind the water, and thunder punctuating the opera. The Venetian: You dont have to go to Europe! Now you too can have libidinous Italian gondoliers chat up your girlfriend RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU! Plus you have to tip him! Thees song is for da beeyoodeeful lai-dee. Hmph. And I haven't even mentioned the casinos we didn't get to. The Circus Circus, with performances going on inside the whole time. The Treasure Island, with a pirate battle on full-size ships every half-hour. The Mirage where a volcano erupts every half-half after dusk. The Paris with it's model Eiffel Tower. The Mandalay Bay with its Shark Reef. The Monte Carlo, The Boardwalk, The Hilton... I regret not having seen inside some of those places. But just going through ONE casino is such an adventure, there simply wasn't time. Also, and I should stress this, after about 5 days of the above, you're stressed out and hung-over on Sights and Sounds. Unless you're 5 years old and/or strung out on cocaine, in which case you could probably stay there FOREVER. Besides, we did these things because they were there and they were free. But what Caro was really looking for in Las Vegas was Old Vegas. The Vegas of Ol' Blue Eyes and The Sands and The Flamingo and Bugsy Siegel and Momo Giancana. And so here's a bit of a history lesson for you... A BIT OF A HISTORY LESSON FOR YOU People think that Las Vegas started with Bugsy Siegel. This is a myth. Las Vegas began as a handy railway stop between the cities of the east and California. The relaxed Nevadan rules on gambling made it

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a popular stop with rail workers and, as word began to spread, the casinos became ever more lavish, especially since their elaborate neon billboards could be powered cheaply due to the Hoover Dam. The Mafia didn't move into Vegas until the war years, when Bugsy Siegel persuaded Mayer Lansky and the rest of the mob to loan him money to build a super-casino by the freeway. Bugsy was an odd character - a mixture of smooth-talking psycho and control-freak megalomaniac, but with a Sense of Vision as they say. He also had a Top Secret Plan to bump off Mussolini, although he never managed to pull it off before Il Duce took a swing on a lamp-post. Unfortunately, his rampant perfectionism resulted in The Flamingo going wildly over-budget. Worse, the casino opened before the hotel, so punters merely took their winnings at the end of the evening and went home instead of feeding it all back onto the gaming tables. Lansky reluctantly sanctioned Bugsys assassination, and the same night Siegel was gunned down, a group of Concerned Italian Businessmen arrived at The Flamingo to announce the change of management. In a couple of years the situation had turned around and The Flamingo was a major cash cow for the mob, leading to the establishment of that row of gambling temples known as The Strip. What I (as an idiot tourist) didnt know was that The Strip is not Las Vegas. To find the original Vegas you have to go Downtown , where all the original casinos were based. I considered making a trip to Downtown as My Helpful Tourist Guide magazine as provided by the hotel informed me that, "No trip to Las Vegas is complete without a visit to Downtown!!" But we decided against this. This is due to a conversation Caro and I had with a taxi driver in Palm Springs: TAXI DRIVER: CARO: TAXI DRIVER: CARO: TAXI DRIVER: ME: TAXI DRIVER: Where're ya goin' next? Las Vegas. That's a rough town. I used to live there. Really??? Don't step off The Strip. They love tourists who stray off The Strip. Heh-heh. Gulp. Cops shot a guy off my patio one time.

So we didn't step off The Strip. Call me a coward if you will, but Las Vegas is known as the murder capital of the USA, and besides havent you people seen CSI? I dont know about you, but I dont fancy the idea of William Petersen poking about at me while I lie on a shelf in a morgue thank you so very much. What we did do in our search for Old Vegas was the Casino Hall of Fame Museum, located in The Tropicana. This is a pretty cool place, full of interesting stuff like old gaming chips, memorabilia from the sadly-departed Sands where the Rat Pack used to play, pictures of every single cheesy entertainer who's ever performed there and some of the costumes as worn by the Showgirls. Good god, those costumes are elaborate. Covered in sequins and with head-dresses adorned with pink and blue feathers. They must have been incredibly strong, those women. I think my neck would have snapped like a twig. WILLIAM PETERSON: My god, this mans neck snapped like a twig! He was brutally murdered by 6 ostrich feathers and an ENTIRE BUCKET of rhinestones! The entire Tropicana is a bit of throwback to before the days of the super-casino. It was a slightly seedy feel to it, with a faded, retro air to the place. It was also the casino where Caroline got flagged down by a woman who worked for the casino: WOMAN: CARO: WOMAN: CARO: WOMAN: CARO: WOMAN: ME: Excuse me, would you like free tickets to some shows? Yeah! Okay - what state are you from? New Zealand. Oh shit. What??? Ooooops! I mean, "Shit that I can't give you tickets," because you're not American. Not, "Shit that you're a New Zealander." Don't worry about it, that was pretty much my reaction too.

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She was still attempting to rid herself of her tickets when we left The Tropicana, Caro attempted an American accent but she wasn't fooled. I told her not to expect any tickets when she visited New Zealand. Continuing on a theme, we also arranged to see, "The Rat Pack Is Back!" a tribute show at The Sahara. The good thing about such shows is that they throw in a free buffet, so Caro and I made sure we turned up early and went back for seconds and and thirds and pudding too. I would have eaten more, if only I were bulimic, dammit. The show was MC'd by a Joey Bishop impersonator, and no I didn't know there was such a thing either. He bounded onto the stage and proceeded to make fun of the married couple at the front of the stage: JOEY: MAN: JOEY: WOMAN: JOEY: Hey there! Whaddaya do for a livin' buddy? I'm a police officer. Oh shit. What about your new wife - what do you do honey? Nothing, hopefully. Oh my god, they're Jews.

Joey then informed us that the year was 1961, it was Frank's birthday and John F. Kennedy was President ("Hey that President Kennedy, he's a great guy but he has trouble keeping his schlong to himself! That's a bad influence on the kids of today. Say, some kid somewhere... oh I don't know... say in some shit-kickin' little town like Little Rock, Arkansas, takes it into his head to become President...") Then Frank himself came out onstage. Not the real Frank - that would have been a bit too Weekend At Bernies - but a Frank impersonator who looked very little like him and did a very impressive approximation of The Voice too. He belted out "Come Fly With Me", "Luck Be A Lady" and "I'm Getting Married in the Morning" (to that same couple at the front who were to be the target of abuse the whole evening.) Frank was then interrupted by a rather drunk man, wobbling toward the stage. Dean Martin! "Hey pally... I brung ya a present..." Frank replied that he was in the middle of something. "Hey, I was in the middle of someONE," riposted Dean. "Don't you see these people in the audience?" demanded Frank. "Well... Some of 'em..." slurred Dean. The Rat Pack was indeed back! It was uncanny, especially as the Dean guy looked a lot like Dino himself and had his singing voice and speech down perfectly. Dean informed Frank he had bought him some candy as a birthday present. "And here she comes now," he continued as a woman in a very revealing costume made her way to the stage, while the drummer struck up an extremely cheesy bum-bum-ba-DUM-bum-baDUM beat. So Frank left the stage, and Dino took over ("Let me sing you a medley of my hit") with "Everybody Loves Somebody", "Volare" and "That's Amore" which got the crowd going. Then Sammy turned up, and although he didn't look too much like the original it was strange how, as the evening wore on, he started to resemble Sammy more and more. He was amazing - Sammy Davis Jr. must be hard to do as he was undoubtedly the most talented of the three with his dynamic dancing, singing and impersonations. This guy had all the mannerisms down too, calling everybody "Baby", using phrases like, "ring-a-ding-DING!" and launching into "That all black magic that I love so well - thankyou - old black magic that you weave so well..." He also accepted the abuse of Frank and Dino with good grace, ("Hey Sammy, is that you dancin' or are you just stompin' cock-a-roaches?") I suppose that's where the whole thing felt a little TOO authentic. But it was all there - the sexism, the racism and the fact that Frank, try though he might, just WASN'T funny ("Hey aren't these hotels towels great? So big and fluffy. I'll tell ya I had trouble closing my suitcase this morning ha ha ha.") So Dino and Frank had a go at Sammy for being black and Jewish, ("When he moves into a neighbourhood, EVERYONE moves out") while Candy made SEVERAL reappearances (bum-bum-ba-DUM-bum-baDUM-bum-ba-DUM...)

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But let's face it - that's what we were after - The Old Vegas and it was worth seeing it, good and bad, to hear uncanny versions of "Mr. Bojangles" ("I won't record this until 1968, but you know...") "What Kind of Fool Am I" and "Hey There". It was at this point that Joey and Frank got back on stage for some banter, ("Hey Frank! Why don't Eye-talians like Jehovah's witnesses? 'Cause Eye-talians don't like ANY witnesses!!") It was at this point that Dean also appeared carrying the World's Largest Martini and the lads got together to do "The Lady Is A Tramp" and "The Birth of The Blues". ************More on the real Rat Pack Caro LOVED this show. It had the cheese-factor that she just lives for. We carried on with this motif later in the week when we visited the "Elvis-A-Rama" museum which is devoted to all things The King. There was an impressive display inside, including his many cars, all tastefully done out in Bright Metallic Purple or Gold, his boat and his many outfits including the big rhinestone one, his '68 comeback special kinky leather number and his kung-fu gear. There was also an Elvis impersonator, but he wasn't terribly good. Is it possible that we were Elvis-SPOILT during our time in Hawaii??? We also made our way to the Liberace museum, which "Lee" himself founded during the late 1970's when he became obsessed with his own death and determined to create something lasting. The result was the museum, and the Liberace Foundation, set up to encourage young musicians. His collection of cars was even more tasteful than Elvis's - I had no idea you could fit that many rhinestones on a Bentley, or indeed that a Rolls-Royce NEEDED candelabras. He also had an impressive collection of antique pianos, dating back to the 18th century, but of course the prize of the collection was the jewellry and the clothes. There was a video of him showing his rings to the fans, ("You may as well see 'em - after all you bought 'em... aheh heh heh...") which included the diamond-piano ring, a huge amethyst ring given to him by the Queen, and of course a candelabra ring. Amongst other jewellry was a gold pendant with an elephant lifting a tiny golden Liberace in its trunk at the end, golden diamond-encrusted watches, chains. It was like The Crown Jewels. If only Prince Charles could play the piano, and flounced onstage in ermine with his crown on. Hed be ever so popular with the Old Folk. As for the Liberaces outfits, we were amazed at how huge and heavy they were. Also, how the hell did he manage to play, "I'll Be Seeing You" while sitting on a mass of rhinestones? There is one glaring omission in the museum you will find no mention of his sexuality, or his eventual death. The truth is that Liberace lived for devotion, and while he was very good to his fans, never wanted to do anything that would shatter their image of him. The fact that he was quite obviously gay, and that they all must have known made no difference to him. Although he undoubtedly made it acceptable to be extremely out onstage, he never came out in life. The sad part being that he was outed in death by some horrid little penpusher at the coroner's office in Palm Springs. This horrific bodysnatcher insisted that Liberace undergo a post-mortem when his body was already on its way to cremation in Los Angeles. The body was unceremoniously dragged back to Palm Springs where the coroner got his 15 minutes of fame announcing to the world's press that Liberace had died of AIDS. It's all a bit crap, and a sad end to someone who despite being no great musician, managed to be a legendary entertainer, largely through sheer force of his own narcissism. (His mansion is covered in murals of himself, looking benevolently down from the ceiling like Zeus. He even went so far as to have his boyfriend undergo plastic surgery so that he would resemble a young Liberace.) After all this it was back to the casino, (ding-ding-ding-ding-DING!!... Paul Anka could give lessons in showmanship... let me show you THE SHAPE OF MY HEART... jingle jingle jingle... DOO-doo-dooDOO-doo-doo...) We tried to queue for the MGM's buffet, but the queue was ridiculously long and the whole experience was as frustrating as buying dinner for an anorexic, so we had room-service instead after the ordeal of pushing our way through huge crowds of unattractive gamblers. (Fashion tip for Overweigh Men: Avoid loose-fitting singlets. I almost got knocked unconcious by some guy's left tit.)

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In order to escape the crowds, we made a stop at the Hard Rock Casino the next day. This is a bit further off the beaten track. If I were going to stay in Las Vegas again, I would stay there as it's a much cooler and less intense casino than those directly on The Strip. It features a mini music museum around the casino which includes Shania's leopardskin suit (she's TINY) and a selection of Jimi Hendrix costumes (so was HE). It was a pleasing respite after the insanity that is The Strip. If I'm making Las Vegas sound like it was losing some of its appeal, well it's true. After five days, Vegas was wearing thin. Not that it isn't GREAT. Really - I recommend it as a holiday destination - it's very safe, there's lots to see and do, and there's loads of things for kids. It's just that you sometimes wish there was somewhere to go and hide from it all. ********** the blokes along the strip with their porn ********** the Tom Jones concert But it's hard to avoid, especially if you're out on the street on July 4th, waiting for the fireworks which everyone has assured you are "awesome". They weren't. Trust me. Even Carol and Pete's November 5th firework display last year at which Caro got hit in the head by a stray rocket and Pete nearly blew up his garden shed were more impressive. This is because they didn't (so far as we could see) let off a single firework. It was very disappointing, because I had assumed Las Vegas would rock on Independence Day. So we went around M&M World, a 4-storey shop devoted to all things covered in chocolate with a candy coating. We reached our last day in Las Vegas, with the fearful knowledge that we were booked on the overnight flight to Toronto and that we would be wrecked on arrival in Canada. However, determined not to let things like this subdue our antics, I got tickets for "An Evening At La Cage" which was a drag show at The Riviera. I love this sort of camp, bitchy nonsense and on hearing that it was hosted by a Joan Rivers impersonator, had called up to book two seats. It too, included a buffet. I had two dinners and three puddings. The Riviera was another slightly out-of-date and crumbling casino, and lacked the requisite Theme. Caro spent half an hour putting $5 into a slot machine then we went to be greeted by Joan. Unfortunately Frank, our Joan for the evening, had just got over a cold and spent the evening, "sounding like Barbara Carrera" instead. Never mind, the rest of the show was an impressive array of Drag Artists lip-synching to Celine Dion, Patti Labelle, Tina Turner, Judy Garland, Liza Minelli, Reba Macintyre, Bette Midler and Cher (who winked at me - I've still got It, obviously.) Caro's favourite was a hugely fat chap who did Madonna, rolling about on stage while attempting to "Vogue". He later reappeared as "Tammy Spraynette", having rather amusing problems with his escaping boobs. I thought Caro was going to have some sort of fit at this point. And with that, our time in Las Vegas ended. I don't think we ever found Old Vegas, just an echo of it here and there. The Flamingo was knocked down and rebuilt, even if it does have the old lights flashing outside. Ditto The Aladdin. The Sands was demolished long ago and The Desert Inn will soon share its fate. Meanwhile, the mob has been cleared out and besides they probably wouldn't want to hang out in this new Disneyfied version of Las Vegas anyway. Not that I mind. The character may have gone, but so has the danger. I mean, I don't MIND danger. I laugh at danger. So long as danger is far enough away from me so that it can't hear and has its back turned. My point is that Las Vegas may have been sanitised but it's still insane. And I think that makes it worth visiting. Ring-a-ding-DING!

Part 10: Canada - Land of Mooses and Narrative Exclamations


Spare a thought for The Erectile Dysfunction Guy.

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In the summer of 2001, Canada was obsessed with Erectile Dysfunction Guy. This was due to a public information advert which featured ED Guy sitting in his boxers on a doctor's examining table. The doctor comes over and tells him the results of his check-up are all good and asks him if there's anything else? Erectile Dysfunction Guy sighs and says, "No." Then he drives home, all sad and dejected. Some might say, "flaccid," even. Then the next day he finds a free pamphlet about Erectile Dysfunction on his doormat!! Excited, he goes off to get some drugs, and presumably some lubricant. The advert ends with a voiceover saying, "You Don't Have to Suffer in Silence." Anyway, the poor actor who played Erectile Dysfunction Guy said his life was RUINED by the ad. When not playing men who have trouble inflating their dinghy, he worked as a theatre actor and a waiter and claimed both jobs became a NIGHTMARE due to people in the audience laughing and customers telling him that he Doesn't Have to Suffer in Silence whenever he attempted to read them the specials. Not only that, but his girlfriend left him due to mockery from her girlfriends, and he had to give up hockey because all his team-mates kept making Viagra jokes. So there you go. No matter how bad life is, at least you're not The Erectile Dysfunction Guy. This is my new philosophy in life. Sorry about that. I was supposed to be telling you about Canada. I'll start again.

Canada - Land of Mooses and Narrative Exclamations


Canada. It has something of a reputation. It's unfortunate really. The problem is that the World view of Canada is that on the world map there is: Canada And then there is:

THE USA
The rest of the world views Canada as this sort of extension-garage to the US, which isn't entirely fair. Canada turns out to be the 3rd largest land-mass in the world after The Confederation of Russian states and Luciano Pavarottis arse. But, hectare for hectare, Canada just isn't as exciting as the US. And the name of the country sounds like some horrid fungal infection. The US has Hollywood and Geronimo and James Dean and Buddy Holly and King Kong and the Empire State Building and pink flamingos and Elvis and hotdogs and drive-by shootings and cowboys and The Mafia and JFK and MTV and NASA and The CIA and Madonna and Michael Jackson and ooooo lots of things. Canada has trees. It's true. Canada is a very beaver-intensive country. Their flag celebrates the cult of the tree. I think their cars run on maple syrup. I believe that even their national anthem is something along the lines of, "O Canada, I love your treeeeeeees..."

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But on visiting, I found that Canada's reputation as The Belgium of North America is simply unfair. Actually, it's not that boring at all. But I feel that the Canadians need to work on their reputation a little. They need to do away with the tree-flag and replace it with A Rampant Moose or something a little more kick-ass. And they need to get Bryan Adams to record a new National Anthem: "Oh baby, Feel my shaft of luuurve, In ya all night, Baby, can't you hear my pleas? O Canada I love your treeeees." Something like that. Caro and I left Las Vegas at midnight, noting that the Nevadans even have slot machines at the airport. These people are OBSESSED! Travellers, leaving Las Vegas, having to be dragged to their departure gates, screaming, "NOOOOO!!! Please!!!! I can win back the house honey, all I need is one more roll!! We arrived in Toronto, or as the locals would have it, "T'ronna" at about 7am local time. We were knackered, obviously, but thankfully were already booked into a Howard Johnson which had nice beds and telly and before long we were curled up, doing what we do best. Bugger all. That was the story for most of our time in Toronto, which was a shame. Caroline seemed to have been completely worn out by her time in Las Vegas and all she wanted was to spend her time in Toronto recovering. That was okay I had been to Toronto two years before, and while I enjoyed it, didnt feel the need to kill my girlfriend getting her out there. We did visit the Eaton Centre, which is The Biggest Mall in Canada or something. (All well and good, Caro still couldn't find anything to buy in it.) On another occasion, I took Caroline to the west of the city centre, which I recalled was pretty funky. *******Location??? But wait, I hear you say. "Canada" and "Funky" in the same chapter? Surely not! Well, look. Canadians AREN'T funky. They try really really hard, but it's true - they're not. But it isnt due to their clothes, their culture or their music. Some of you are already sniggering, but its TRUE, I swear, the Canucks have decent track records in all of the above. For example, they have an EXCELLENT film industry and directors like Norman Jewison, Arthur Hiller, Denys Arcand and Atom Egoyam are all from there. Also David Cronenberg, the man who singlehandedly inspired the whole "Mutant Cancerous Tumour With A Mind of Its Own" genre. Oh my yes. Then you've got actors like Matthew Perry, Keanu Reeves, Donald Sutherland and Michael J. Fox all coming from Canada, along with William Shatner who I just found out once made an entire film in Esperanto. How cool is THAT??? It ISN'T!! Not at all!!! So let's just gloss over William Shatner. Then, in the arena of Sports we have, Wayne Gretzky. And - um - Greg Rusedski - well all right, he's technically one of OURS now, but you know... Errrr... there's Jacques Villeneuve. And - um - Ben Johnson. Oh all right, let's gloss over sports as well. But then in comedy, the Canadians go a bit mad. They have loads of comedians - Jim Carrey, Mike Myers, Martin Short, Tom Green, Sean Cullen, Dan Ackroyd, John Candy and Rick Moranis. As far as music goes, it didn't look good either. We asked a girl at a boutique in Toronto to name a famous Canadian band. She could only come up with The Guess Who. They also have Bachman Turner

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Overdrive, who on closer inspection turn out to be The Guess Who again. Other Canuck musical contributions include Bryan Adams, Shania, Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell, Men Without Hats and Celine Dion*. Oh dear. But then again, they also have kd lang, Neil Young and The Barenaked Ladies, which is extremely cool, so it's not all bad. So why aren't Canadians cool? Well, one theory was put forward by Canadian comedian Sean Cullen who was on tv the night we arrived. He told the story of the Canadian curling team who were losing in the winter Olympics to the Scots. Apparently, they went into a team huddle to discuss it, and he said you could clearly hear the Canadian coach on his microphone saying, "Come ON guys, we're just farting about out there!" Sean Cullen said, "Yes! That's it!! As a nation we are just FARTING ABOUT OUT THERE!!" I have my own theory. It's because they seem to be so desperately trying to prove themselves that scuppers them. The main reason I have such an exhaustive list of Famous Canadians in my head is that I walked into a bookshop that featured a HUGE sign with the names of every famous Canadian EVER. Underneath that was a large banner announcing:

"The World Needs Canada!!"


Everywhere you go in Canada are flags, flags, flags. T-shirts announcing that they are NOT American, by god, but Canadian, "Not Only Am I Perfect, I'm Canadian Too!" announced one t-shirt that we saw on a horrendously fat woman. And the Molson beer advert on telly goes something like this: "I am Canadian!! I AM Ca-NAY-DEE-ANNN!!! Oh Canada I love your trees." The Canadians tell anti-American jokes and go out of their way to tell you that THEY ARE NOT AMERICAN DAMMIT THEY ARE CA-NAY-DEE-ANN. They need to get over this. It's not cool. On the plus side, it does mean that Canadians are extremely friendly. It's as if they are SOOOO pleased that you, a tourist, have decided to visit Toronto instead of New York City, they can't wait to show you around. It's really very sweet, and extremely welcome after the somewhat rude treatment we had received in California. Everywhere we went, people were friendly, helpful and polite. It's the only place I have been so far where I was stopped in the street by someone who wanted to OFFER directions. So I was impressed. Canadians! I wanted to say, Youre lovely! Stop all that flag-waving, moose-worshipping nonsense and get on with being Canadian as opposed to being Not American! But I expect I would have been pelted with beaver poop and told to stop being so patronising, and quite right too. One thing that differentiates Americans and Canadians is the accent. Americans contend that their neighbours talk funny (which they do) which is a bit bloody rich coming from the nation that gave us "Waaaaaaasup!!!". The Americans would have you believe that Canadians say, "aboot" instead of "about". This is true, although I noticed that the Torontonians say it more like "aboat". Either way, it's the obvious

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tell-tale sign you are talking to a Canadian and not an American. Well that, and the "I am NOT fucking American Goddamit!" t-shirt. I read an article in a Canadian newspaper which said that this was due to the Scottish background of the country. Apparently the Scots colonists wanted to distance themselves from the (English) Americans and emphasised that particular vowel sound. So now you know. The other thing Canadians do is say, "Eh!" a lot. Now I know we do that too - by which I mean the English, the Scots and the Kiwis. But according to the same newspaper article, we use it in a different way. Aha! You see, we use it as a question, as in "That's a huge penis you have there Symon eh?" But this language expert explained that the Canadians use, "eh" as a narrative exclamation, kind of like a full stop. As in, "I was driving down the street the other day eh." This may seem weird, but all different cultures have their own narrative exclamations. It's like, "y'know" or something. Even different regions of the UK have them. I shall illustrate through the use of the following table: REGION Scotland Wales Yorkshire Manchester Canada PHRASE I'm just going to the shops We're out of milk Mother! The whippet's in the bath! I'm just stepping out for a minute I am bloody well NOT American NARRATIVE EXCLAMATION By the way Isn't it? 'Appen Yer FOOK-in' BAS-t'ud Eh

So that's how the Canadians talk. I notice an extremely common American narrative exclamation nowadays is, "D'you know what I'm saying?" I made this observation after exhaustive research watching "The Jerry Springer Show." The thing about this narrative exclamation is that it's SO long and cumbersome. It makes, "eh" seem a pretty economical and sensible option. In fact, I note that, "D'you know what I'm saying?" is frequently shortened to, "Jah Gnome Sane?" which sounds like the name of well-balanced rasta elf. A digression: NO ONE UNDERSTANDS US. This is extremely irritating. Ever since we hit North America, people seem to have extreme trouble understanding myself OR Caroline. This is partly due to our accents and partly due to the fact that an inordinate number of people for whom English is NOT their first language seem to be employed in jobs which feature, as a LARGE PART of their job, understanding English. I'm not being mean here. I mean, after all, pidgen English is better than Fuck All French, which I personally am fluent in. But I question the wisdom of hiring an Indian to man the phones at a Pizza Hut that I called in Toronto. I mean, if you don't understand the word "pizza" in English and you work at a Pizza FUCKING Hut, you'd think it was a bit of a handicap. My conversation with the chap went like this: ME: MAN: ME: MAN: ME: MAN: ME: MAN: ME: MAN: ME: MAN: I'd like to order a supreme pizza please. What, meester? (Louder) I would like a supreme pizza. What, meester? (Shouting) I - WOULD - LIKE - A - SUPREME - PIZZA. Meester, I am having trouble listening to you. You are speaking too slowly. (Confused). I WOULD LIKE A PIZZA. Oh yes. (Encouraged). Yes! A pizza! A supreme???!! Silence. ARE YOU THERE? What topping do you want?

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ME: MAN: ME: MAN: ME: MAN: ME: MAN: ME: MAN: ME:

(By now shrieking) A SUPREME PIZZA!! I WANT A SUPREME PIZZA!! Okay. Deep pan or thin crust? Deep pan. What, meester? DEEP PAN. I cannot listen to you. D-E-E-P P-A-A-A-A-N. Okay. So two deep pan supreme pizza. What???!! NO!! ONE DEEP PAN SUPREME PIZZA!! ONE!!! What, meester? Oh never mind.

So we got two pizzas. This sort of thing happened to me all across the USA too. I was booked into a hotel in San Francisco under the name "Fyson" ("Symon - it starts with an 'S'." "An 'F'?" "No, an 'S' like in 'Sugar'?" (Pause) "An 'F'??" "Yes, yes, an 'F'...) Then there was the flight were I was booked under the name "Semen OHagan" (yes, very bloody funny I don't think). And the fact that they had our country of origin as being "The Ukraine". Maybe there are a lot of Semens in the Ukraine, I don't know. But I was talking about Toronto. I find it an extremely pleasant city, it doesn't have a lot of personality, but the streets are clean, the people are friendly, polite and helpful, and it's very easy to get around. It has a very easy to follow underground system featuring a stop called "Spadina" which I could never pass through without thinking it sounded like some sort of medical instrument. DOCTOR: Please put your feet in the stirrups while I insert the spadina. While in Toronto, Caro called home and I got to talk to Janette - who you may recall as The Rudest Woman on the Planet. She told me that she'd just come back from a meeting of her Toastmaster's Society, which she'd chaired while dressed as a clown. It's a measure of how well I've come to know Janette that this didn't surprise me at all. She also told me that she'd got back into her normal clothes before Ronnie had returned home from the office, but that due to the clown makeup, her lips were incredibly red and it looked like she had been "pashing for hours" but Ronnie hadn't noticed. Shame on you, Ronnie! I told her that we had sent her a very special picture of myself and Caro from Vegas (it was of me as Elvis and Caro as a showgirl). She wasnt as happy about this as I expected. She explained she was disappointed because when I had used the phrase "special picture" she had jumped to the conclusion that it was a picture of a man's willy. "I used to have a card with a picture of a man with a huge willy on it," she added helpfully. "I used to keep it in my bag. I had it for years." I mentioned this to Caroline who added that she had found this exact picture in the cupboard when we were there last Christmas. "It looked very well-thumbed," Caro went on. That was it for Toronto, except for the Incident in the Lift when Caro was hit on by a sleazy French couple called Louie and Lucy who fancied a bit of a threesome. The little devil!! Apparently, they asked her if she would like to join them in the pool... later... if you catch my drift. How disgusting. Why do these things only happen when I'm not there? We left Toronto and took Via Rail Canada up to Ottawa. It took about six hours but oh my goodness, it was MILES better than Amtrak in that these trains actually MOVE. Ottawa is a strange sort of place. I imagine it's a bit like Canberra in that you sort of wander around it, wondering where the city actually IS. Because there's no real reason for it to be there except politics, it feels like it's all suburbs apart from the Canadian Parliament buildings which are all very pretty. Aside from that, we were distincly unimpressed with the place. The main reason we were there was to go to the

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Jazz/Blues festival anyway, so it wasn't a big deal. And we got good weather for the festival and spent a pleasant afternoon under a tree, listening to the music, so I shant complain. Other things we did while in Ottawa. I bought the Weekly World News, because I feel it's my job to keep you informed of the Important News Stories. This particular week it happened to be: "Mom Stuck In Yoga Position for Six Hours", "Michigan Woman Has Space Alien Baby", "Caterpillars Ate Our Home" and "Jokester Chokes To Death On Goldfish". All of which I think you'll find is much more cutting-edge and important than the G8 Conference where no-one choked to death on ANYTHING. I also examined Canadian currency, on which Her Majesty looks a bit tired and shagged-out. I worry about the image the Queen projects throughout the world of currency. It's no wonder they want to be a republic in Australia where she looks a right miserable old cow on all their notes. In New Zealand, she looks like she's sat on something. And in Fiji she just looks constipated. From Ottawa, it was on to Montreal, which we were worried about because we had heard that it was full of French people. Well, Les Quebecois, to be precise, but these are people who take their French background so seriously, they are attempting to stamp out English as a language and make life increasingly difficult for the small percentage (and dropping) of English-speakers who live there. But we needn't have worried. The Quebecois were LOVELY. Like all the Canadians so far, they were extremely welcoming, and the staff at our hotel were absolutely adorable with their little French accents, sounding like that little gray mouse who's always in the Tom and Jerry cartoons. LES QUEBECOIS: En garde Moos-ure Poosycat! Our hotel was the "Hotel De L'Institut". This is a training establishment for catering students where the guests are there for them to practice on. I recommend it highly as it means that the people serving you haven't had the requisite number of years dealing with tourists to have started regarding them all as scum yet. As a result, the service was great, the staff were friendly and we got 4 star accomodation for 2 star prices. Of course, it is considered only polite to at least ATTEMPT le Francais, although in my case it is also extremely stupid. I attempted to buy dinner at a fast-food place our first night there, which you wouldn't think was that difficult, but still came away with completely the wrong thing. I wonder what I was saying in French: ME: Pardonez-moi s'il vous plat mais je voudrais deux burgers de ham et deux frittes. (Translation: I am a fuckwit. Please give me two burgers, no chips and spit in the burger-buns pronto Jean-Jacques.) But Montreal had its upside as well. It is an extremely cool city. I hate to admit it, but the French are just cooler than we are. Their influence was even evident in Ottawa, and gave the place its personality. The people are funky, the cafes are welcoming, the architecture is stunning. It's all very irritating. And then there's the women. Actually, I've never been too fond of French glamour, although I will admit they have it. Ive always thought that French women seem to prefer to go for the Extremely Glamourous Hooker Look. Undoubtedly their clothes are the latest, most expensive and most glamourous, but then they spoil the effect by dyeing their hair viciously blonde and slapping on make-up like they are burns victims or something. Maybe it's just me, but there's also that whole slightly sleazy air they have about them, like they're so glam they don't need to wash to be attractive. FRENCH WOMAN: I 'ave no need to shave mah armpeets. For I am Simone Signoret.

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Caroline and I wandered around downtown Montreal, drinking coffee and enjoying looking at all the people. We ventured into the odd shop, and it was in Montreal that I got Mechelle the present I had been looking for ever since we arrived in Hawaii. For those of you who don't know Mechelle, she and I share a taste for the extremely tacky and shit, and I KNEW that the USA would be the place to find it. How ironic then, that it should be in Canada that I finally found the perfect gift. The Jesus Action Figure with Posable Arms and Gliding Motion. Yes! You can buy Jesus Action Figures here! Imagine how a Jesus action figure would spice up games with your old Star Wars action figures, ("Your Jesus mind tricks will not work on me, boy.") So I had to buy her it and I hope Jesus brings her many hours of sacriligeous fun. It was in Montreal that I saw the most bizarrely polite graffiti in a toilet ever. On the back of the bog door in Border's bookshop in Montreal, someone had written, "Only you are accountable for your own actions. Do not blame others, for they will judge you according to who you are, not your race." Underneath, someone had added, "You are so naive." WHAT THE HELL IS THAT???!!! In the UK, it would have been something like, "SUK MY COCK I LIKE IT DIRTY." Underneath which someone would have replied, "FILTHY FUCKER." Or something like that. I think this graffiti says more about the Canadians than anything else I have written so far. Even the side of my fridge used to has "PIGFUCKER" and "RATSHIT" written on the side of it in magnetic letters. Thanks for that Caroline, by the way. Our main reason for being in Montreal was not the shopping or the people-watching but the Montreal ("Juste Pour Rire") Comedy Festival. I was surprised to find what a small-scale thing it is, I had assumed it was bigger than Edinburgh, but it wasn't even a quarter of the size. Accordingly, since there were fewer shows and venues, they had all booked out and the only thing I could get us into was the "Canadian Comedy All Stars Revue". This took place at a club called "Ernie's Comedy Nest" and we arrived early enough to get seats right at the front, which can be either a good or bad thing depending on how abusive the comedians are likely to get. Fortunately, we weren't alone - we were joined by a couple from Montreal. They were very interesting in that they were native English speakers, who were both born in Quebec and were becoming increasingly bitter about being made aliens in their own country. They told us that eventually Quebec will obtain its independence. "They keep having referendum after referendum - and they keep rephrasing the question in more and more obscure terms so you're never quite sure what you're saying yes or no to." REFERENDUM QUESTION: Do you definitely not disagree with the proposition that Quebec should not under no circumstances definitely not be seceding from Canada with the proviso that today is Opposite Day and anything you say actually means the exact reverse ha ha ha. Anyway, we were still in the middle of this discussion when the lights went down. We had no idea who was on the bill, so were delighted when Sean Cullen was announced. He is rather a tubby man, but one of those rather balletic, graceful types of fat men, like Oliver Hardy, very light on his feet as he dances around the stage singing one of his own compositions like: "When you're alone and feeling blue, Just don't know what you should do, When you're feeling all folorn, Remember - you got a friend in porn."

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The Porn Song was very funny ("I think my friend that you will find/It's the only friend you can rewind/So when you're feeling on the shelf/Just get some porn and play with yourself.") He immediately picked on poor Loretta and sang a song to her about being in love with a pair of Siamese twins, ("They got my heart even though they share a liver.") Sean also commented on something we had noticed while in America - the number of ads for medicines, all of which seem to cure very little (wind, headaches, etc) but have HUGE lists of side-effects. SEAN: I saw an ad for something called Lipitor. It sounds like something from a Japanese monster film, but it's a cure for baldness or something. The side-effects include dry-mouth, constipation, bleeding from the eyes, headaches, fever, heart palpitations, old men coming into your room at night and licking you, and Mothra levelling Tokyo. He then noticed Caroline: SEAN: Oh what a lovely accent - where are you from? CARO: New Zealand. SEAN: New Zealand and Australia. It's a bit like us and the Americans isn't it? We know we are better, cleverer and more cultured - but they have all the money. If only we had the money things would be SO much better. Everyone would be drunk. You get the feeling when you watch him that it's all new material. Like Eddie Izzard, he just seems to make it up as he goes along. For example, he sings one song called, "Tonight, You Shall Die By the Food Of Your Choice," in which he invites audience members to call out food types and he sings them back to you. AUDIENCE: SEAN: Pizza! I shall take pizza, and bake it in a 4000 degree oven Until it is rock-hard and then FLING it at your back And it will stab you and you will say, "Mmmm - pepperoni" And you will DIE BY THE FOOD OF YOUR CHOICE TONIIIIIGHT!!

Then he turned back to Caro and explained why there would never be an Australian James Bond villain. SEAN: It would just sound SILLY wouldn't it. "Okay James - here's what I'm gonna do. I've got this 'ere crocodile and I've FILLED IT WITH KNIVES!!" So that was our experience of the "Juste Pour Rire" festival. It was all good stuff and I was feeling so good about it all that I suggested we go to the restaurant in our hotel for our last night in Montreal. I had no idea what I was letting us in for. You see, this was a training restaurant, yes - but the staff were apparently all in training for a career in rather classier establishments than Caro "Burger King" Sharman and Symon "Can You Supersize Those Fries" OHagan are used to. As a result, we had to have the menu EXPLAINED to us by the maire d' and we both had to work very hard to try and remember which options sounded safe. ("I think he said that one was tuna!" "Oh my god! Which one did he say was sweetbreads!?") We were given a complimentary sliver of raw salmon on something that looked like a Pringle but undoubtedly wasn't which, I have to say was FUCKING DISGUSTING. Then dinner arrived, and the waitress did that whole thing where they SCOOP the silver lid off the plate with a cry of, "Et Voila!!" I felt like I should break into a round of applause or something. Yes, the atmosphere was a tad oppressive. It didn't help that we were two of only six people in an enormous dining room. Meanwhile, the waiters hovered about us, voicing great concern over the fact that

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Caro hadn't finished her salad. Truth to tell, she wasn't sure what it was. At one point she asked, "Symon -do you think these are potatoes - or is it ham?" But despite that, it was all good. The food was undoubtedly too upper-class for my illiterate palate, but I didn't care. The maitre d' turned out to be extremely friendly and we ended up having a good chat with him about Las Vegas, and from the window next to our table, I had a splendid view of the sun going down on Montreal. Outside, a spider was spinning her web, each strand glowing golden in the fading light. I like spiders when there is no chance of them running across my face while I'm in bed, so I came very near to having a Spalding Grey Perfect Moment. I usually have these when it's almost time to leave somewhere, and become increasingly sad which is very bloody perverse of me, because I spend most of my time in one place imagining how great the next will be. Holidays are wasted on me. The next day we packed up our shit, bid "au revoir" to the friendly staff of the institute and hailed a cab. The driver was a frail-looking old man, who was actually smaller than my backpack. We asked him to take us to the airport and WHOOOOOOOOSH!! He was off! French drivers are the same everywhere. I was pushed back into my seat by the same sort of g-force that Neil Armstrong must have endured and we raced to the airport, being tossed about like errant kittens in a washing machine. When we got there, we had a scary moment when the check-in staff couldn't find Caroline's booking. They had booked her under the name "Charmin", but it took them about 20 minutes of clickety-clicking on their side of the booth to discover this (when the first question I asked was, "Could it be a mis-spelling?") We got on our US Air flight to Boston, which was a bit shit. But that's okay because it was taking us on the next leg of our adventure. Back to America. Back to a land where I could buy fast food without fear of humiliation. Back to a land that was definitely NOT Canada. From: Caro Date: ???? 2001 Geez, so I had typed the whole Caro saga from Toronto to Chicago (4 hours paid internet time in a crappy caf), only to hit the send button whereupon it disappeared into the universe, probably returning to earth sometime in the future when an Ape gains control and every major statue looks like a monkey yes, I have seen the movieand quite frankly, it would have been far more exciting had Mark Wahlberg been wearing a loincloth. And so, it was the flight from Las Vegas to Toronto where I joined the "white middle class" having purchased an inflatable neck pillow. Tired of looking halfway between Quasimodo and Riff-Raff from Rocky Horror after falling asleep on flights and bus trips, I threw away any semblance of cool and had the most comfortable sleep ever, on the red-eye flight to Toronto. Until now, I had filed neck pillows under: a) Those who knit. b) Those who wear acrylic twin sets. c) Those who carry on those damn wheely suitcases and get in your way as soon as you enter the airport until you sit in your designated seat on the plane. d) Those who insist on rearranging their blanket, spit-through pillow, and their baggage while generally loitering in the aisles, while the rest of us are attempting to board.

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c) and d) have become the 2 things that send me into a seething frenzy within seconds. So, we arrived in Toronto, and before leaving the airport, went in search of a cash machine and Canadian dollars. This is where we automatically fall into our good cop/bad cop routine, as we discovered our credit cards were useless bits of plastic as far as Canadian ATMs go. Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh. "OK Symon, how are we going to pay for a cab to the hotel?" "How are we going to live while were here in Canada for 3 weeks?" "Did this happen when you came here last year?" "Fuck" "Do you work here?" "Whats your name?" "This place is a fucking shithole" Its usually around this time when Symon says or does something sensible and is Good Cop. As in this instance, Symons reply was, "Well just change our American dollars into Canadian, which will give us enough to get by until we get to a bank". Oh, ok. I like to have a bit of a tantrum, especially in airports, as staff seem to be po-faced and as unhelpful as possible while still seemingly gracious, and whoever is on the receiving end usually ends up being really helpful (and relieved) after speaking with Symon. But, if in the back of your mind, youre thinking that my tantrums are a waste of energy, well now. If the Good Cop goes in to sort a problem out immediately, often he gets crap service or bad advice because they think hes too nice to complain, and is forced to ask one or two other people who are equally disinterested. Its a routine that has been very successful. Toronto The fashion statement: girly/trampy vs urban funky After the madness that was Las Vegas, Toronto was a great change of pace -a place to just drink lattes and chill out. Which is what we did for much of our time there. We shopped, we saw "Cats & Dogs" (dont bother), we found an internet caf that charged $1.50 per hour (Hurrah!) Symon lost his Diesel cap that I had attacked a aeroplane for on Catalina Island, I got propositioned for a threesome by a French couple, Louis and Lucy, in the hotel lift. I declined. As usual, streetfreaks were everywhere and one woman in particular, kept me entertained for about 20 minutes as I sat on the patio in the sun at Starbucks. She was shrieking and running in and out of the traffic, hassling passers-by and motorists for money in a mean-spirited, aggressive way. Having no luck, she then proceeded to beat up 3 public telephones with such vigour and abandon, that people actually veered off the footpath to avoid her and openly stared at her wondering whether to call the police. Luckily, she didnt have a gun because I reckon shed have shot a few people that day. That was the day that Stone Temple Pilots had a free concert in a parking lot on Queen St (which is the funky part of town where all the hip, cool, gothic, pierced and bizarre hang out and the fashions and the hairstyles and the shoes and the shopfronts just beg to be viewed by people-watchers). We hit the shops and made a few purchases. Symon found this great T shirt for my sister, Feona, mainly because we spent over half and hour in the shop talking to the girl behind the counter. She was very curious about music in the UK, and could we name a Canadian "great" band (I had a brainfade at that point), she wanted to know where wed been, what did we think of Canada, and then she announced she just "luuuurved" Symons T shirt.

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Ever the polite Englishman, he said "Thanks, its Gap". She screwed her face up and said he should get a different T shirt and the T shirt he was wearing now was cool, but not if its Gap cos really Gap isnt cool and who knew Gap could have such great T shirts. Actually, Canadians spend a lot of time reminding the world that theyre cool, that they wear cool clothes, that the shops are cool, that the weather is cool, their bands are cool, they say cool things, they have a TV channel like MTV which is way cooler, Canada is a cool holiday destination, flying the maple leaf from every tall building and/or rooftops of houses, T shirt shops feature all manner of Canadian T shirts which are meant for the discerning Canadian local Im perfect and Im Canadian, and different to the Tourist T shirt shops which have cartoon mooses and logos like Canada 2001. My immediate impression: Try-hards and Patriots. Oh, you should have seen the devastation on the faces of the locals when it was announced that Beijing got the 2008 Olympics and not Toronto. Tragic. All through the week, theyd had talkback radio shows devoted to the pros and cons of holding the Olympics, cars had bumper stickers, there was chatter in cafes, there were T shirts, there were newspaper articlesit was all such a big build-up, only to be sadly, snatched away for a few mere political reasons. There was nearly weeping in the streets. Ottawa The fashion statement: locals wearing Canadian T shirts and girls wearing baggy blokes clothes Since the people in Toronto were no longer smiling quite so brightly, we took the train to Ottawa, which is a very boring and odd place. Its just a large town with nothing much more going for it than the fact that it is the capital and the parliamentary buildings are the most spectacular. They have Canadian flags on them, too. Our hotel was directly across from Celine Dions chain restaurant, Nickels, but it was in Starbucks that I was truly grossed out for the first time in ages. Oh. My. God. Sitting in a window seat, we had the Sunday paper and the starbucks was inside a massive bookshop and playing jazz quietly in the background, we watched the shoppers go about their businessit was all very atmosphericuntil, I looked at the girls sitting two tables down. Armed with Cotton Buds (Q-tips) and a hand mirror, they were picking each others pimples. Eeeeeew! I caught the eye of another guy staring at them in horror and then I nudged Symon, who was equally disgusted. I found it was like looking at a car accident, I could not look away, I felt myself being dragged into their sordid little lives and their horrid little pus-filled faces. They sat there over coffee doing this picking thing for over an hour and a half. It was quite funny watching other peoples faces as they sat down and glancing around they caught sight of a cotton bud being brandished with gusto. Even the people forming a bus queue outside were looking in the window at them. All the while, they were oblivious to the voyeurs around them. What grossed me out more, was that I was sitting in my temple of worship (Starbucks) where they serve food. It was fucking disgusting. The next part of the trip was the bit I was not keen on. Montreal. French-speaking. Naturally, when a Kiwi gets to thinking about the French, they think Greenpeace, Rainbow Warrior, Mururoa Atoll, French scuba divers, injusticeand T shirt logos stating "If its safe, test it in France and dump it in Tokyo"but I digress. Montreal

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The fashion statement: Urban chic deconstructed vs Big hair, big sunglasses, gold jewellery French Riviera style We had read guide books and Canadian newspaper articles about the French Separatists driving out the "Anglais" population, (so much so that only 7% of Quebecois were of British descent) and to expect serious attitude towards those who cannot utter a word of French. Scary Mary stuff. So, Symon and I made a deal: if we encountered too much bloodymindedness, we would just leave and go straight down to Boston earlier than originally planned. And maybe it was because my expectations were so low, I actually found myself really enjoying Montreal. The streets were pretty, the people were friendly (they thought it was cute as we attempted to speak a "leetle" French), the shops were great, the cafes were cool, the houses were architecturally beautiful stone with colourful verandahs and had outside winding staircases, the people dressed chic, the subway was easy to negotiate (much more user-friendly than London). We stayed in the Mont Royal Plateau district not far from the city centre, in a training hotel for the Quebec tourist board. Which meant 5 star accommodation for 2 star rates. Nice. All the people in the hotel were students, so they didnt have that "Oh god, another stupid tourist" air about them and they went out of their way to be especially helpful and delighted in the fact that they could practise their English skills on us. Most sentences starting with, "urm, ow you say?". We found it charming that our address was listed as "Edisburg" instead of "Edinburgh" and Scotland was a district in the "Ukraine" instead of the "UK". Perhaps if wed said "Ecosse", they would have understood "Scotland". But no matter, Symon was happy to be from Russia as long as his name wasnt "Semen", or "Mr Pfarson" or "Mr Sharman", as has been known in the past. I have spent an entire hotel reservation conversation as "Mrs Simone Parson". We were in Montreal for the Comedy Festival, which Symon had found out about, but, oddly enough, wasnt advertised anywhere in the rest of Canada, so we couldnt purchase tickets until we arrived. As a result, we could only get tickets to one show "All Superstar Canada Revue" or something; featuring all the Canadian comediennes/comedians from the festival. We scored front row seating and we were so close we were practically sitting on the stage. That was why I was harassed by nearly every comedian who came on-stage. There were the 2 Italian-Canadians (The Doo Wops) who serenaded me with the first verse of AC/DCs "You shook me all night long" pretending to be Argentinian and rubbing their microphone stands and guitar suggestively.and Sean Cullen, who announced that it was far better to be from New Zealand rather than "that shithole Australia" [quote] with small, cute, flightless birds rather than "large jumping rats"[quote]I felt it better to agree with him rather than make a stand for my Australian friends, for fear of retribution by Sean, you know, cos he was being nice to me, while harassing the rest of the audience. Then he did his piece-de-resistance by improv singing with whatever the audience suggested to real tunes and rhyming all at the same time. Very clever. The topic was trees, so people were shouting "Maple" (by a Canadian, of course), "Cedar", "Ash", "Fir", "Oak".I really wanted to shout "Pohutukawa" but felt I would be pushing my luck just a wee bit. All in all, Montreal rocked. The only French problem I encountered was when I was forced to purchase a "brassiere". Girls, what is it about washing machines and underwires in yer bras? They come out clean and yet mangled, all at the same time. I thought the easiest way to purchase would be to go to a store

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where I know the sizing and I know the styles, you know, to avoid any problems. The Gap. An obviously American, cheap, yet quality choice. No worries, mate. I walk into the store, where immediately I was greeted by a "Bon jour, Madame". Busted. I had forgotten that in every Gap store there is a meeter and a greeter at the door, armed with a Madonna-esque microphone and battery pack. "Uh, oh yeah, bon jour", I replied as I raced off to the undies and bras section. Immediately encountering another such shop assistant armed with said microphone and battery pack. Except this one was smiling and chattering away at me. "Umjust looking" was my reply as I disappeared behind a display. Shit, she was following me, smiling and chattering, smiling and chattering, and waiting for a reply expectantly. "Parlay voo unglaze?" (the Kiwi accent coming through thick and strong) "Ah, wee", continuing to smile and rifle through some undies to show me. "No, no, a bra", I said pointing to the style I wanted. Smiling and chattering, she selected an assortment of bras for me. Padded (no), lacy (no), white (no), brown and pink floral padded (no), natural coloured (no), black (wee wee). What a palava. Can they not leave you alone to look through stuff yourself? Must they be so bloody helpful?! Then we had to make each other understood with the size. I was troubled to learn they didnt have my size. But then she said something incomprehensible and shot off out the back, returning with the very bra I was looking for: size and colour exact. Ooh la la delighted. As I walked away, deeply traumatised from the whole experience, yet happy that we had reached a level of understanding, she was still smiling and chattering at me. Then at the counter as I was paying, the woman asked me, "Bon jour, deed anybodee elp yoo too-day, Madame?" I really needed a cigarette and a latte. Boston The fashion statement: Men with tattoos in tight singlets (called "wifebeaters" shirts?!) and shorts Women: long straight brown hair with blonde highlights rolled into a shark claw clip, urban funk or Sloane Ranger style As a city, Boston was very pretty and very English looking considering they did away with those "damned English" all those years ago. The Boston Tea Party is re-enacted daily and all the historical buffs go along and play a part, most of them expecting to sit about with a teapot marvelling over some English Breakfast or Earl Grey blend.

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All the beautiful old buildings are protected, so if a developer buys a site, the building is gutted from the inside while the outer brickwork and architecture remains. Beacon Street is the street address of choice if you fancy a brownstone, wrought iron, leafy trees and youre loaded. Newberry Street is very long and is shopping central. At one end was the likes of Urban Outfitters and Tower Records and the other Gucci and Prada. In between were some restaurants and cafes to alert the average shopper they were entering the rich or the student funky zone. Naturally, our backpackers hostel ($87 per night!!) was at the studenty funky zone, where we explored loads of second hand music stores. I saw Symon hovering over Johnny Cashs recording in San Quentin Jail, while I considered yet another T shirt from Urban Outfitters and wondered whether I could sneak a set of pink flamingo Christmas tree-type lights into my backpack without Symon seeing The "Big Dig" has been going on for years and will continue for a few more. They are building a massive motorway under the city with 10 lanes on either side. In the meantime, the whole city looks like a construction site featuring "detour" signs, men in reflective gear standing around smoking or operating heavy machinery. As a result, all our photos of Boston feature a landmark of some sort with either a bulldozer, piles of old concrete and rubble or some git in a hardhat getting in the way. But Boston, for me, will always be where people speak funny and home of "The Haircut from Hell". Michael of Irish Catholic descent, who told wonderful stories, was drug-free and alcohol-free, had been back to the home country numerous times ,had a seventies shag haircut and the tan from hell gave me a pudding bowl style instead of a funky bob. Plus an ash brown dye job instead of dark chocolate brown, and rather than a choppy short funky "bangs", I got straight across, very short, look like a fuckwit fringe. It was the first time Symon has ever lied to me about my hair. "Oh, yeah, it looksgood". Trauma of such magnitude, I cannot even write the words. Chicago The fashion statement: Very urban city dweller New York style, lots of strappy sandals I love Chicago. It rocks. Its been home to Al Capone, Hugh Hefner, Jerry Springer, the Blues, the rudest staff at a diner ever (Ed Debevics) and our friend, Ann, who met on Oz Experience. And home of the "Corrective Hair Job for Caro". The very first thing I did once we arrived in Chicago, was grab the yellow pages and make an appointment. I decided the only way to rectify my problem was to go to the swankiest place I could find. Charles Ifergan. As the life doors opened, I was struck with the overpowering perfumes of women swanning about in the salon. I was introduced to my colourist, Kat and my stylist, Maria and we went into great discussion about what we would do to fix my problem. Then I was directed to change. Excuse me? Change? Clothes? For a haircut? I had to go into a small room, where I was instructed to place my clothes on the hangers and don one of their ugly black smocks. I wouldnt have minded so much if hadnt been flashed by a couple of old girls and their floppy boobs. Later, I understood why you have to change. All the other clients wore Versace, Gucci, Prada, and wouldnt stand for getting anything on their clothes. Some clients swanned about with lapdogs, shovelfuls of make-up, clouds of heavy perfume, chatted on mobiles no bigger than a thumbnail and had talons that

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rivalled the largest bird of prey. They even had the counter where you pay up high, so when you slipped the tip for each stylist into an envelope, the receptionist couldnt see how much you had put in the envelope. Then you wrote the name of each girl on the envelopes and slipped them into a mailbox, inside the counter. Very discreet, darlings. It was fantastic. What an eyeful. Kat and Maria did the best job fixing my hair. I felt dead glam walking down the Magnificent Mile (where all the major shops are) to meet Symon. Naturally a person who is obsessed with gangsters, owns The Godfather trilogy, has Mario Puzo books, knows the names of the Five Families and watches all those crime documentaries, would take "The Untouchables Tour" of Chicago with her boyfriend. Our guides, "Southside" and "Al Dente" took us to all the sites of mob interest such as where Dillinger was gunned down, Al Capones headquarters, thesite of the St Valentines Day Massacre while entertaining us with stories and quips about the "old days" and prohibition. Though some may consider it inappropriate to emphasize Chicagos gangster past, Southside and Al say "Baloney!" Sadly, most of the places have been torn down and many are now parking lots and garages, but they managed to recreate shootout scenes with a bit of panache. Did you know: to this day, Al Capone still holds the world record for the highest gross income ever accumulated by a private citizen in 1 year. $105 million in 1927. Of course, he died of syphilis in 1947 mad as a hatter. Take note, Bill Gates. We tried to get tickets to the Jerry Springer Show, cos we love it, were addicted. Especially with such titles as "Tales of Forbidden Love" which had a husband and wife married for 9 years and the wife discovering the husband was not only sleeping with her mother, but also her sister, who was now pregnant and only 18. The audience went wild when the wife said "I met him when he working on a tug boat". "Tug boat loser, tug boat loser!" The excitement, the tension, the drama. Sadly, we discovered Jerry is having his summer hiatus and taping didnt start until 2 weeks after we were due to leave. Bummer. We settled for a typical touristy shot of Symon standing outside the studio and a sign for the show. Class. The hotel we stayed in was called the "Allegro" and usually costs around $300 per night, but because we booked through an internet agency, we saved over $200 per night. (We had decided to treat ourselves and Chicago and Boston are not very cheap at all when it comes to hotels). It was all very art deco, in the theatre district and had Aveda products in the bathroom, a huge TV and a stereo system. I met a fabulous Drag Queen in the elevator -she was over 68 with her platinum blonde beehive and silver strappy sandals. The blush was a bit vicious but the eye make-up was great. I wouldnt have worn the white trouser suit -especially with the diamantes all over it, but who am I to dish out fashion tips after my hair debacle? My favourite feature of our room had to be "the honour bar" (for which they charge you after youve left). In the "honour bar" were chips, chocolate, mineral water, nuts, Blues CD, harmonica and an Intimacy kit(a box of condoms wrapped up to look nothing like a box of condoms). A Harmonica! We had to have that. Next stop New York! Part 11: America - Land of The Big Dig and The Little Bean

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There is nothing quite like travel to make one want to stab one's fellow man in the eye with a fork. What is WRONG with you people!!! At airports you all turn into drooling idiots - farting about with your bloody suitcases on wheels, bumbling about, leaving your bratty children to throw tantrums and block everyone's way. You stand at the entrance to escalators and lifts to have a bit of a chat, blithely unaware of the huge queue of tourists, furiously elbowing their way past you. You're loud. You're annoying. You stink and YOU'RE IN MY ****ING WAY YOU BUNCH OF BASTARDS!!!! Sorry. I just had to get that out of my system. The flight from Montreal to Boston was particularly nightmarish, as it involved going via Philadelphia. If you look at the map you'll note that Philadelphia is JUST A TAD out of the way. But that's where we ended up, at the rather cramped airport there, fighting our way, salmon-like through the throng. When we got on the plane, it was even worse with people dicking about with their overhead lockers, screaming children (we had some little darlings behind us who kicked our seats all the way to Boston) and bloody pan pipe music as the stewardesses told us where the emergency exits were located. (As Lisa Brown once said to a fellow passenger, "Sunshine, you'll know where the exit is; it'll be that gaping hole of twisted metal in the fuselage.") So I wasn't in the best of moods on touching down at Logan Airport. However, this soon changed when we were picked up by a lovely taxi driver who seemed DELIGHTED that we had chosen to visit Boston. I have never felt so welcomed to a city, and this sort of event shapes your attitude to a place. The cab-driver spent his time proudly pointing out all the highlights of Boston and congratulated us on our location (we had chosen it because it was the cheapest - Boston is hideously expensive - but he wasn't to know that). We were in the area called Newberry which Caro had discovered contained all the funkiest shops (oh dear). It was also near the Prudential Center, a new complex of hotels, shops and restaurants which the taxi driver told us we had to visit. He then gave Caro a complimentary map and insisted that she follow the route he took, so that she could familiarise herself with the area. Then he turned his attention on me, and expressed the wish that I wouldn't hold The Revolution against Boston. I thought he was joking and said I was sure that eventually the American people would realise their mistake and come back to the Colonial Bosom of Her Majesty, but he was DEAD SERIOUS. He really emphasised that The Bostonians may have held the tea party but he hoped I would still enjoy Boston. I reassured him that I would. To be honest, I've never really understood what all that tea-tipping nonsense was about anyway. I believe the American Revolution was something to do with taxation and Mel Gibson's kid getting shot and the right to mispronounce the word "oregano" but beyond that I'm a bit clueless. Anyway, to all you Americans out there, I don't harbour any ill feeling although you will notice that I do spell "harbour" correctly for fuck's sake. As an historical aside, I didn't realise that 1776 wasn't the only time the Brits and the Americans went to war. Apparently in 1812, during Napoleon's Continental System of Alliances to isolate Britain from Europe, we responded by blocking all ships into France. This included American shipping, and so they promptly invaded Canada in the War of Confusing European Alliances. I didn't know anything about this, but the Canadians certainly haven't forgotten and had a whole tv series about it when we were up there. As it turned out, the Brits and the Canadians successfully fought the Americans to a truce, due to the help of native American tribes, who saw a chance to recover some of their land. (They didn't of course, were duped by their former allies, and the fact that they had sided with the British led to their being treated even more harshly by the Americans in their subsequent War of The Incredibly Gullible Native Americans Ha Ha Ha.) So that's history for you. Boston is covered in it. Part of this is due to the fact that local law prohibits the external alteration of any of the historic buildings. As a result, Boston looks more like a European city than any other we had so far visited. It really is extremely beautiful and sophisticated, with cute little pavement cafes, snug bookshops, tree-lined streets and impressive buildings everywhere you looked. There's a pleasant vibe to the place, and it occurred to me as we explored the area that this is what I had hoped to find

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in San Francisco, only to be disappointed. Whereas the atmosphere in San Francisco was tense and scary, the atmosphere in Boston is laid-back, friendly and slightly intellectual. Much like myself, darlings. ********* Find out what happened with The Big Dig and finish this para! The only problem with Boston in 2001 was that it was overgoing major reconstruction work (colloquially named "The Big Dig"). And I mean MAJOR. It was like the entire city had gone on the tv show Extreme Makeover. Our taxi driver explained that their transport system was being completely overhauled; the main highway through Boston to be replaced by a tunnel that traverses the city, with the old highway to be turned into parkland. It will certainly be extremely beautiful when they've finished it, but just now Boston looks like it's being strip-mined. There are huge construction sites everywhere and a horribly ugly temporary highway that's been constructed on an overpass that crosses the city. "Yep, we just put up highways, then tear 'em down again," said the taxi driver. I told him that this was just showing off. The construction work was due to end two years ago and still looks nowhere near completion. Apparently their biggest problem was the huge rat population which didn't take too kindly to being disturbed and promptly attacked all the construction workers, leading to an unplanned rat-killing operation and the workers having to operate in rat-proof suits. We heard several different estimates, 2004, 2006 and 2007 for the new enddate and I don't know which was more accurate. All I know is that if you ARE planning to visit Boston, it's probably best to wait because Boston will look stunning once The Big Dig is over. Our accomodation in Boston was a hostel, our first since we arrived in Hawaii. This was entirely due to financial constraints. As the travel guides would have it, Boston is an affluent and costly city. Translation: Its fucking expensive. Even the hostel charged $87.50 for a double room, which was just two dollars short of what we had been paying in Las Vegas, and a great deal more than what we had paid in Canada. So we were back to no tv, horrid hard beds, pillows you could spit through, and (shudder) shared bathrooms. Look, I don't mind sharing bathrooms with other people. I'm not a cleanliness freak or anything. It's just that one universal law of nature I have observed is this: You never need to go for a shit quite so desperately as when there is a queue of six girls outside the bathroom with a towel under one arm and a scarily large make-up bag under the other. Self-control is the order of the day, if you know what I mean. Either that, or you make friends with a bucket. To counter the lack of intellectual stimulation, by which I mean reality tv shows, Caro bought me a book called "Black Mass" which was the alarming true story of Boston crime figure Whitey Bulger. He was the kingpin of the Irish mob who was recruited as an informant by the FBI in order to take out the local Mafia. The scary part is that the FBI turned a blind eye to everything the man did, including extortion, murder and collection of profits from drug dealers (although he rather cynically claimed that he never sold drugs himself and was therefore something of a local hero). Even after Mafia folded in Boston, Whitey had so ingratiated himself with local FBI agents via gifts that they sabotaged DEA and Massachusetts police attempts to bring him to justice. After twenty odd years of murder and intimidation (from 1980 to 1999) one judge finally forced the FBI to acknowledge what they'd done, but the main agent in charge tipped Whitey off and he hasn't been seen since. Shocking stuff. But this has little to do with the Boston of today (they tell me). Certainly as we left our room to explore Newberry, it seemed like the most unthreatening of places. Caros Starbucks-radar was on full alert and we found one straight away. I swear she has some sort of sixth sense or something when it comes to lattes. We poked around the interesting little shops of Newberry and marvelled at the pretty little brownstone buildings and had a jolly good time. Caro also managed to book herself in for a hair appointment. Some of you may recall that she went blonde in Singapore, with the result that seven months later she was complaining of "straw-head" a condition which the rest of you bottle blondes will appreciate. So she went to have some brown put back in while I went to see "Final Fantasy: The Spirits Within". Now I have to say that this was not a particularly good film, but it was still a damn sight better than what the hairdresser had done to Caro.

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I met up with her at a coffee shop three hours later, only to be faced with the scenario that all boyfriends dread: The Horrible Hairdo. Caro asked the inevitable, "So what do you think?" to which all I could reply was, "MmmMMMMMMMMmmmmmm..." trying to drag out the mmm noise so that it sounded more favourable, and also trying to bite back the words, "What the FUCK is THAT??!!!!" It wasnt good Im not kidding. Even Donald Trump would have laughed. Anyway, I wasn't telling Caroline anything she didn't already know. For the next two days in Boston, she ranted and combed, and applied product, and blow-dried and spat and damned all hair-stylists to Hades, but it did no good, she was stuck with pudding-bowl hair, tinted mouseshit brown and had to make do with it. "As soon as we fucking well get to fucking Chicago I'm fucking well getting my hair fucking done again!" was a phrase I heard repeatedly. I swear, her language and mood were so bad, it was as if she had been possessed by The Exorcist demon or something. ("You mother sucks cocks in Hell and look what they've done to my FUCKING hair!") It is one of my regrets that we didnt allow for more time in Boston, I thought it was a great city although I would have had to sell my body to loney sailors in order to pay for a few more days in the hostel. So due to budgetary constraints we only allowed for a 4-day visit. We had hoped to meet up with Jenna from the Oz Experience while there - she had sent us an email inviting us to a Red Sox game, but by the time we arrived, Jenna had disappeared off the face of the Earth. (I do not wish to dwell on what that means she really thought of us.) Still, it meant we had more time to explore the city, which we did by the Grayline tour bus. We had hoped to take The Boston Duck, a bizarre looking fleet of vehicles that drive around the city and then into the bay, but it was booked solid (I mention this if you ever decide you want to take it yourselves). The tour bus was a lot of fun. Our guide was a very excitable little woman called "L'il Bean" - "Okay now we are going to see THEEEEEEEE CHURCH where Paul Revere began his Midnight Ride!!! WOOOOHOOOOOO!!!! But first a word from Richard Nixon..." This was the cue for the safety procedures tape, read by Tricky Dicky which went something like, "Please keep your arms inside the bus at all times, no smoking, no drinking, no taping, no break-ins and no governmental cover-ups during the tour please." So it was all good fun, we heard all about the Minutemen, the two lanterns by sea thingy, the Boston Tea Party, Bunker Hill and were encouraged the whole way by L'il Bean, woo-hooing her head off and impersonating WWF wrestlers, muppets and rock stars for all she was worth. Then we changed bus drivers and the atmosphere suddenly changed. "I'm leaving this job next week," he announced flatly before driving us on in complete silence except for the odd comment like, "We are now heading down Charles Street," as we passed a sign saying "Charles Street". Then as we passed an impressively large building with "BOSTON EYE AND EAR CLINIC" written on the side, "That is the Boston Ear and Eye Clinic - where they specialise in the treatment of the ear, and uh - also the eye, I believe." You don't say! But we also saw the Cheers Bar flash past, which was a bit of a thrill for a tv junkie such as myself. There's also a "Three Cheers" bar apparently, except the sign says, "Three Cheers" so they can cash in without getting sued. Apparently, it's the "Three Cheers" that has an interior just like bar Where Everybody Knows Your Name. Now you know, should you ever want to go and sit on Norm's barstool. ("NORM!!!") Caroline was seriously looking forward to Chicago, and getting her hair fixed was only ONE reason. The thing is, you read the guidebooks and they all say the same thing; Chicago is a VERY cool place. But not cool in a look-at-me-look-at-me way. Chicago is not LA or Las Vegas. Chicago just sits there waiting for tourists to turn up and then says, "You took your time."

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Seriously, you should go to Chicago. It's a city that should be filmed in Black and White. A City Noir if you will. You walk around the streets, amongst skyscrapers that pull your head back so you can take them all in. When you look at the city this way, without being distracted by billboards and cars and passersby, with your neck craned ALLLLL the way back, you suddenly realise you're in the 1930's again and you can imagine men with fedoras and pinstripe suits, and women in mink with cigarette holders and sophisticated couples who drink martinis and solve crimes and femme fatales coaxing men into murdering their rich husbands and tough cookie news reporters who get the latest scoop and Irish cops who sound strangely like Sean Connery and plucky young lads who hero worship James Cagney ...And then you walk headlong into a lamppost, so try not to take this idea too far. But really, Chicago is a very atmospheric place, with its dramatic history in every shadow. I should add hear that Chicago is a very shadowy city, because downtown Chicago is dominated by the elevated train that rattles and groans above your head on "The Loop". The huge structure to hold the train casts shadows down the middle of the road, while the oppressive Fritz Lang Metropolis style skyscrapers block out the sun on either side. The result is the darkest, most atmospheric city I have ever been in, even when the sun blazes down in the height of summer, it's like stepping into a rainforest, only with more fire hydrants and less monkey shit. Having said that, I got the worst sunburn of the entire trip in Chicago. This was due to my inadvertently grabbing the tube of travel clothes wash that we used for our poopy undies and applying it to my face instead of the factor 30. I only realised this after I got outside and noticed that I smelt of clean knickers. Still, you're never in the sun long in downtown Chicago, I thought. Unfortunately this would be the day that Caro decided to stop and watch some high school students doing African dances in a park. One scabby and peeling forehead later, I was feeling rather foolish. Caro and I were constantly repeating to each other, "This is just like the movies!" I should explain that this was our primary goal in visiting America in general. Perhaps this is something I haven't explained but I think all non-USA residents have a bit of a love affair with America, I know I do anyway. Not because it's the Land of Opportunity, where the Streets Are Paved With Gold or that whole liberty and freedom nonsense theyre always banging on about, it's purely because of the films. Not even the Glamourous ones, although we do love those too. We just love all of it, because we grew up watching EVERYTHING. I tried to explain this to Ann, our Chicago friend who we met in Australia. I just love the streets, and the street signs, and the billboards, and the steam rising from manhole covers, I love the fact that they have "Dunkin' Donuts" and that we actually saw a policeman in there! I tried to explain to Ann that we have had requests from people back home to eat one of those huge, heavy pizzas ooh, and Chinese food out of little boxes, because THESE are all the things we know and love about America and sod all that Poor Huddled Masses malarky. Chicago certainly fulfilled all our tv expectations. Wandering around, you fully expect to hear people saying, "Hey buddy..." or "Say!!! What's the big idea???" or "What gives?" and to find yourself surrounded by little bowery urchins in flat caps playing stick-ball. This didn't happen of course. But it was easy to imagine. Our hotel was in the Theatre District, where it is particularly easy to slip into daydreams. It was called the Hotel Allegro and Caro had somehow managed to get us a deal on the price, saving us about $200 a night. The result was that two scruffy backpackers turned up at an incredibly flash hotel, looking like two street people who have mistaken a 5-star hotel for a methadone clinic. Our ratty backpacks were swept away from us by a bellman who did that whole showing you around the room thing. Caro and I felt like incredible frauds, I mean I TIPPED TOO EARLY and everything, damn it! I gave him two measly dollars, and he had STILL TO TELL US ABOUT THE AIR CONDITIONING. But it was too late, I had already shot my wad, tip-wise. He certainly wasn't going to get another two dollars, merely for pointing out where the wardrobe was.

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The Hotel Allegro - oh my word. It was the first room we ever had with not only a tv but a stereo. A minibar, a box of treats and an enormous bed complete with long tubular cushions. Naturally, I immediately held one to my crotch and pretended to have a huge willy. Some things just have to be done. Chicago is The City of The Blues. Apparently. Look, I think New Orleans might have something to say about this, but since we haven't been there I'm not in a position to argue. Nevertheless, they do have the House of Blues club and hotel (owned by Dan Ackroyd I believe) *********check this and with the Bluesmobile parked outside. But there's music throughout the city, and murals of legends like BB King and Howlin Wolf adorn the sides of buildings. This was lost on Caro. For her it was The City of Shopping Opportunities. I knew this because Caro makes lists of all the shops she wants to visit before she arrives anywhere, then marks them all on a map; then she hits the groovy shopping areas with the precision of a really fashionable smart bomb, taking out all the Gaps, Old Navys, Filene's Basements and Urban Outfitters while successfully avoiding the pubescent girl and old lady places. However, before she could truly enjoy any Chicago shopping moments, she had to have her hair done because as we all know if you go into a boutique with a hairstyle like a mangled Davy Crockett hat, the shop staff dont take you seriously. Naturally she went to the poshest salon ever, where she got the attention of about half a dozen different hair specialists. I dont think even Dr. Christian Barnaard had such a team around him. Actually, I had a bit of a Hair Adventure in Chicago myself. This occurred in a hairdresser's run by Russians. I wandered in there asked for a head-shave at length number one. The lady holding the clippers reacted like Id asked him shaved off my penis. "NOOOOO!!!" she shrieked. "You CANNOT!! Number ONE???? NOOOOOO!!" I assured her I did indeed mean a number one. "NOOOOO!!! You are SURE???!!! Surely you mean number THREE!!!???" She responded, using an alarming number in question marks. I told her that I was a traveller and that it was far more practical to keep it short, but she wasn't having it. "Okay - I shave you ONE AND HALF - okay? One and half, then I show you." She shaved a little of my hair and then showed me. I indicated that this was fine, and she continued happily with this compromise. We were fine for about 5 minutes and then her husband showed up. "AIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!! WHAT YOU DO??? WHAT YOU DO TO THIS MAN HAIR????" "HE TELL ME!!! HE TELL ME DO THIS THING!!!" There was then a lot of anguished Slavic shouting and arm-waving. It was sort of like a Chekov play, only with less suicide and more styling mousse. I think the lady must have got her point across to her husband because he finally turned to me. "WHY???? WHY YOU DO THIS THING??? YOU GET TO MY AGE - YOU KEEP HAIR!!!" It took some time to calm the poor man down. I was thinking of offering him my hair, if it meant that much to him. Finally, the situation abated, I explained my motives and the wife continued her work. On my way out of the salon she admitted, "You know, it look pretty good on you." So if shaved heads are all the fashion in Vladivostock this year, you know who to blame. When I met up with Caro after her hair appointment she had American Hair. It was HUGE. There was so much product, styling wax and spray on it, you could crack eggs on that thing. She looked as glamourous

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as a model, only without the hatred of pies. The scary thing about her hair was that two days later it was still in exactly the same position, and I was started to wonder if it was really hair product that had been applied or model aircraft adhesive. Now if you have been paying attention so far, you may remember Ann and Kim, whom we met during the Oz Experience trip from Adelaide to Melbourne. They were a pair of American design students who quickly became Caro's posse as they bitched and cackled about the other members of the tour during our time on the road. Sadly, by the time we arrived in Chicago, Kim had completely disappeared, despite promising to keep in touch. (I do not wish to dwell on what that means she really thought of us.) Ann, bless her, did keep in touch and even sent us little updates on how they had been getting along in Australia. She returned to Chicago in early July, so it was inevitable that when we got there we would hook up. Unfortunately, she was just leaving for a family holiday in Florida when we arrived, so we only saw her for one day, but a jolly good day it was. She guided us to a diner called Ed Debevnik's for lunch, which seemed to be the retro-50's sort of place that we love. On arrival Ann asked to be seated, and they indicated a booth which we went to sit down at. "HEY!!!!" the guy yelled at Ann, "WHERE DO YA THINK YOU'RE GOIN!!?? GO TO THE END BOOTH!! THE END BOOTH!!! JEEZ, GET WITH THE PROGRAM WOULD YA????!!!" Ann explained to us that this is all part of the special treatment you get when you eat at Ed's, where the motto is "Good Food And Fresh Service" and the waitresses greet people like Ann with, "Okay Blondie, so waddaya want?" This was amply demonstated by a sign on the wall which read: ED'S RULES 1. Gimme your name and order. 2. If you're not complete you don't eat. 3. Don't abuse the staff. 4. Wait 'til you're called. 5. Don't ask, "How much longer?" 6. Eat and get out. ********find the website for this place A waitress with huge pink hair, wearing white glasses and chewing gum then arrived and announced, "Hi! I'm Frenchie and I'll be ya waitress. Yeah." She then openly giggled at my English accent and brought us drinks. Its a fabulous place. You should definitely go when in Chicago. By far my favourite part was when "Carwash" blasted out from the speakers and all the staff (including a rather overweight woman wearing a Mouseketeer hat) climbed onto the bar and did the dance in a somewhat perfunctory fashion. The food was good too, of the American comfort-food sort. I had the meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and made sure Frenchie got a good tip before we ate and got out. Ann took us to the House of Blues for drinks. I should start by saying that the drinks there are HIDEOUSLY EXPENSIVE. Then again you are mainly paying for the atmosphere which is very cool, with live blues bands and funky dcor which I can best describe as Moroccan-Bohemian-something-orother. Sadly, we were unable make full use of the free buffet since we were still full of diner-food. The other notable thing about the House of Blues was the toilet. Oho! Do you think its time for another episode? I think it is! TOILETS OF THE WORLD Part 6: The House of Blues Toilet in Chicago

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The notable thing about the House of Blues toilet is not that unusual for American toilets. However, it was the first time I encountered the horror that is the Toilet Tip Guy. You know, the bloke who does things like squirt soap onto your hand and pass you the hand-wipes. I mean, it's not as if I don't appreciate all these things, although I am capable of squirting my own soap thank you so very bloody much. It's just that I feel like The Toilet is a man's Ultimate Bastion. A Man's Toilet Is His Castle. His Fortress of Solitude, if you will. And I don't like the pressure of knowing someone is in there, watching and perhaps more pertinently LISTENING to all the comings and goings. It's enough to make it go back in, if you know what I mean. Fortunately my bowels know no shame so I squirted out a size 12 shite, but I fear for my brethren who suffer from bashful bladder syndrome. They could explode in a place like The House of Blues. Have I said enough? Okay, Im backing away from this subject now. It was cool seeing Ann again. She seemed delighted to see us, as she was suffering from a post-Australia low. "It's like therapy hearing non-American accents again," she told me. To cheer her up, we bought her "Muriel's Wedding" as a present which didnt really work at all because she rang us the next day to tell us that, "I did not find it to be a comedy. It was very depressing." I knew we should have gone for Strictly Ballroom. Left to our own devices for the next couple of days, Caro and I wandered around Chicago marvelling at the buildings, drinking coffee and looking at the art that Chicagoans carelessly seems to leave lying around all over the place. Apparently they don't believe in museums or galleries, and stick art right on the pavement where you are liable to trip over it, or step in it (Honey! I got art on my shoe!). Apparently, they did a very successful exhibition of street cows in 2000, with cows of different designs everywhere. I'm not kidding. In 2001 it was chairs, which are very funky but also functional as we realised when we looked around and spotted tourists recovering from long walks around the city by reclining on brightly painted chairs covered in sequins, chairs with mannequin heads, chairs made to look like animals. It was surreal but charming at the same time, and this is the way art should be, I think. I mean, you could go around a gallery looking at a bunch of chairs, but that's nowhere near as fun as just walking around going, "Jesus! Didja see THAT one?!" Bearing that last comment in mind, you might believe Caro and I art-morons. Actually, you are quite right, so it is surprising that we went to an art exhibition while in Chicago. OooooOOOoooo!!! Isn't THAT a bit la-di-da for a couple of Jerry Springer watching lowbrows like us!? Don't worry. It may have been at the Terra Modern Art Museum, but it was an exhibition called "New York Noir - Crime Pictures from the 20's to the 60's". I know Caro loves this sort of thing. Caro is OBSESSED with True Crime. She always has had a whole thing about gangsters and the Cosa Nostra, but while in America she discovered the A&E channel. This is a bad thing. I believe A&E is supposed to stand for Arts and Entertainment, but in actuality stands for Accident and Emergency, due to the amount of blood and gore on display. Every Tuesday night, it was "Truce Crime Night when they showed programmes like, "The New Detectives" a real-life show about forensic science in which cameras take you into the morgue while pathologists discuss fatty tissue deposits and powder burns. This goes on into the early hours of the morning, with "The Justice Files", "The FBI Files", "Arrest and Trial", "American Justice" and so forth. Many was the night I fell asleep while some narrator droned on about bodies being discovered deep in the woods, partially consumed by insects when she was found... It don't half mess with your dreams, I can tell you. So Caro thoroughly enjoyed the collection of rather gory pictures, all accompanied by text on the various unfortunate gangsters, molls, pimps, prostitutes, murderers, bankrobbers and blackmailers. The most notable picture was of a woman actually being electrocuted in the 1930's. This had been taken by an enterprising reporter who had a remote control camera strapped to his ankle. The headline on the newspaper read, "DEAD!" which certainly puts "Freddie Starr Ate My Hamster" into perspective. Of course, Caro's love of crime wasn't satiated by this alone. We were in the city of Al Capone after all. Not that you would know this from Chicago brochures and tourist information. I mean, we all know

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Chicago is the Gangster City, but NO IT BLOODY WELL ISN'T says the tourist board. It's the Second City! It's the city of The Blues!! Look, will you just SHUT UP about crime!! As if. Despite the lack of cooperation from The Chicago Tourist Board, Caro found a tour run by a company called Untouchable Tours. Heh heh. So we bought our tickets and rocked up there to be greeted by "Southside" and "Al Dente" a couple of blokes who loved their work. They wore fedoras and braces, and greeted me with, "Hey buddy, nice to meet ya? OHagan party? Hey, I was expectin' da vicar and his wife!" and Caro got a "Hey doll! Howya doin?!" Before we started, the two of them then explained that whenever you hear gunfire in Chicago - you DUCK. Ya got that? The tour started at a church where Southside told how bootlegger ex-florist Jaime Weiss was gunned down for selling his own stuff. "Oh, it was horrible," interrupted Al, "jeez, I never seen so much blood..." "Okay, thanks Al," replied Southside. "I mean, he was like a sieve by the time the ambulance came..." "Yeah, okay, we got the picture already, Al..." "I mean there was a whole in his head so big, you coulda put your hand right through it..." "Enough already Al!!" It was like that for the entire trip. Gangland Chicago is rather disappointing site-wise - most of the historic sites have been torn down (presumably by the Chicago Tourist Board) and so there is only a vacant lot where Al Capone's headquarters used to be and the location of the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre is just a parking lot. Maxwell Street, one of the oldest neighbourhoods, was in the process of being demolished as we drove through it, but it was still a great tour thanks to the sheer enthusiasm of our guides. Al got us singing "Feni-cu-li, Fe-ni-cu-la" as we entered Little Italy and passed Frank Sinatra's favourite restaurant, prancing around with a pink tambourine. "Jeez - a grown man with a Barbie tambourine. It ain't dignified." Then we entered the west side of the city. "It's pretty dangerous around here, but hopefully all the kids are in their crack houses right about now..." A volley of taped gunfire rang out and we all looked around to see what it was. "What is this, the remedial bus tour?" said Al. Oh. We ducked, dutifully. The two of them told us about the great hitmen of the 30's with colourful names like "Machine Gun" Jack McGurn and "Bloody" Angelo Genna - and how they used to dip their bullets in garlic in the belief that it induced gangrene in their victims (should they survive being shot). Then they handed out free garlic, "just in case". They listed the old crime bosses like "Bugs" Moran and Al "Scarface" Capone - "But ya never called him 'Scarface' - not if you wanted to live..." (Bizarrely, he liked to be called "Snorky"). Then they asked us, "So who do yuz think runs Chicago today? Organised crime? Nah. Mayor Daley? Nah." Then they pointed to our left and we saw "HARPO STUDIOS" drifting by. Caro and I sincerely believe that Oprah will be President Winfrey one day. We had a great time on the tour, and I made sure to tip the guys on the way out. "Hey, where ya from doll?" asked Southside. When Caro told him she was from New Zealand, he instantly brightened. "Hey! See yuz at the Agrodome!" he yelled after us as we walked away. My god, I will laugh no more. The Agrodome really IS world famous. As you may have noticed, tv plays a large part in our lives. Especially in the USA, where (in between crime programmes) we plan our lives around Jerry Springer. Jerry has become so much more than a tv talk show to us while in the USA. More than a friend, more than a guru. More like a god, if you will. This is entirely due to exchanges like this on his show:

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MAN: AUDIENCE: JERRY: MAN: AUDIENCE: MAN: JERRY: AUDIENCE: MAN:

Ah'm here today because ah want to confront mah wahf who's been cheatin' on me. Wooaaaahh. She's been cheating on you? That's raht Jerry. She ran off with a carnival worker. (Laughter). Ah dun everythin fer that woman, Jerry. Ah bought her clothes, ah gave her someplace to live, ah wuz savin' up to buy her some teeth... She has no TEETH? (More laughter). Well, true beauty's on the in-sahd, Jerry.

Then there was the time one woman explained how she was cheatin' on her husband because he don't give her foot-sex lahk her lover does. At which point a horrid little man with bad teeth and wearing a Hawaiian shirt with a medallion appeared and licked her foot while she went into paroxysms and Caro curled up into a delighted little ball, squirming and saying, "Ewww! EWWWWWW!!!" I mean, how can you NOT love a program with titles like, "Shocking Sex Secrets", "Forbidden Love Shocks", "Taboo Love Secrets" and "Shocking Taboo Forbidden Sex Love Shock Secrets". (Although in all honesty, all Jerry episodes should be entitled, "Morons Screaming At Each Other".) I don't think Ann approved of our love of Jerry. I tried to explain that, essentially the only purpose of having stupid people on the planet is to mock them for our own entertainment, but I don't think she agreed. Obviously, she hasn't been watching enough tv. Another programme which proves my point is called "Street Smarts". In this show a tv crew picks people from the street and asks them simple questions. The contestants back at the studio then have to guess whether the person got it right. This leads to exchanges like this: TV GUY: MAN: TV GUY: MAN: How many chances do you get to make a first impression? Uh - two. You sure? Absolutely. Two.

But I was talking about Jerry Springer. We made the pilgrammage to NBC in Chicago where the show is filmed, but alas - Jerry was on his summer hols, so all chances we had of being in the audience evaporated. This is a great shame because being in the Jerry Springer audience is something special. I mean, on all the other talk shows, the hosts go around the audience who supply (reasonably) sensible questions to the guests onstage. Not on Jerry. Basically, Jerry asks the audience for questions but all they supply is abuse. The nearest a Jerry Audience Member gets to a question is, "Why are you such a Nasty-Ass Ho?!!" At which, the guest onstage rolls up her sleeves and plows into the audience crying out, "You want a piece of me!?? YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME???!!!!" The audience responds with high-fives all round and a chant of, "SIT DOWN HO'! SIT DOWN HO'!" Its this sort of high-quality level of free-spirited debate that lead to the election of George W. Bush. So the audience participation section is definitely my favourite part of the show, with the most memorable audience put down probably being to the rather large hooker who said she could have any man in the audience. A guy at the back stood up and asked, "Did you say you could have any man in the audience? Or that you could EAT any man in the audience?" Sensible questions are never asked. And if some poor individual should miss the point and ask, "But what about your children?" they are inevitably shouted down by the mob yelling either, "YOU SUCK!" or "GO TO OPRAH!" We flew back to Boston (it's always cheaper to buy round-trip tickets I find) and stopped at a little place called Revere, which is about 10 minutes from Logan Airport by taxi. It was unremarkable, but sort of nice being in a small suburban place for a change, and as I looked out of the hotel window at the little wooden houses, it felt like I was in Anne Tyler country (I wasn't of course, but you know - I was on the right continent). I had a bit of an adventure trying to get food, as Americans DRIVE everywhere. The result

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was that, as a pedestrian, I had to brave freeways and climb over barriers to get to Burger King while the drivers pointed and waved at the strange sight of a man walking TWO WHOLE BLOCKS to get his own dinner. Those wacky Limeys, eh? Our taxi driver the next day was called Rocky. A bizarre little man who asked us lots of questions didnt stop to hear our answers. "So you English guys don't like the French uh? I had a French guy in the back last week and he was all like, 'We don't like the English' I don't get that at all. He aksed me what I thought of the French and I was all like, 'Hey NO-ONE likes the French, buddy!' Hey didya go on the Boston Duck? You shoulda gone on that, yeah but it's always booked up though. Wow! Lookit that construction site you know about the Big Dig? Yeah, they say it's gonna be finished in four years, hey man it's already gone like 14 billion over budget or somethin', man I hate the way they keep putting up my credit card limit, I mean, it ain't like I'm that well-paid, not that I'm complainin' hey you know a job's a job right? But I gotta problem with buyin' stuff on tv? Like I buy all those stoopid Spring Break videos with all them girls takin' their tops off? And like last night I saw this advert for like knives and swords and stuff and I was like, hey that's cool and I was about to buy them and then I thought well what they hell am I buyin' THIS stuff for right? Here we are, that'll be 20 dollars hey thanks buddy..." Rocky drove us to Boston Southside train station, where we were giving Amtrak a second chance. Actually, it was a remarkably good ride, got us there on time and gave me a view of the very pretty Connecticut countryside, with little wooden houses in the green countryside on one side, and yachts bobbing about on the other. The other interesting scenery we saw was when Caro yanked at my arm, pointed out of the window and said, "Look Symon! Girls snogging! GIRLS SNOGGING!!!" I know, I know, we're not very sophisticated. It's embarrassing really. I Want to Be A Part Of It Then the scenery changed, and became uglier and more urban and we knew we had reached The Big Apple. I had a lot of preconceptions about New York. They were born of films. I had this whole "Death Wish" paranoia thing going. I didn't want to be mugged! I didn't want to be murdered! I didn't want to be kidnapped and hooked on crack-cocaine and forced to become a ho' and have my pimp smack me around unless I gave him the green, baby. In fact, this didn't happen. Then there was the "Cagney and Lacey" fantasy. I wanted to be Christine, even if it meant I had to have a drink problem. But Caro told me she didn't want to be the one who was pregnant all the time. On arrival, it was horrid and drizzly, but people were sufficiently rude and brusque to make me feel like I had stepped right into one of my favourite tv shows. They had no cabs and we had to take a bus, but as soon as we got on the bus 10 taxis arrived and the bus guy discovered he had let us on by mistake. This was the story of New York all along. It surprised me because another fantasy I have about Americans is that they are organised, know what they are doing and demand good service. Not in New York. It had enough of the "Old World" left in it for the service to be crap and for things not really to work and it to be a bit of a shambles really but listen buddy this is New York so just quit yer whinin' ok? The bus dumped us a few blocks away from our hotel and Caro immediately wanted to get a taxi. This was to be the holiday that introduced her to the concept of walking. We checked into an hotel in Times Square called The Milford Plaza, which sounds posh but was a bit crap (what do you expect in a room costing $100 a night in Times Square?) Unfortunately it also suffered from a common American toilet complaint, Tiny Toilet Syndrome. Im not entirely sure why this is, but American toilets are distinctly lacking in the flush department. Surprising. Youd think they would have overblown Texan typhoon whirlpool action. I

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mean, this is a large, technologically advanced nation, one would imagine that NASA would have some sort of Supersized Suck developed by now. Instead, the American flush is nothing more than an apologetic little cough, meaning that floaters are a constant hazard for the careless crapper and skidmarks almost mandatory. This was bad news for Caro, who is nervous about leaving accidental presents behind at the best of times. She took one look at The Milford Plaza poochamber and her arse sealed tighter than a childproof cap. It made for a tense start to our time in New York City. I had first taken Caro to New York in the Spring of 2000 for her birthday and just she loved it. This action made me very unpopular with the boyfriends of all the women we know, who immediately wanted to know how come Symon took HIS girlfriend to New York and He Must REALLY Love Her and how come THEY weren't going to New York for HER birthday that year? I was really worried that The Boyfriend Mafia was going to take out a hit on me for that one. So Caro was thoroughly looking forward to her New York return, not only because it is a vibrant city, full of Potential Caroline Purchases, but also because it would mark the reunion of Caroline and Lisa Brown. Do I need to explain Lisa Brown to you again? I think not. Look, just turn to the Hawaii section if youve forgotten already. But if you cant be bothered, I will just say that Lisa Brown's personality comes WHOOOSHING into the room with a force that knocks small men to the ground. (And I am not a large man.) She's a woman of boundless energy, especially when it comes to shopping, drinking and laughing at thalidomides. I love Lisa Brown to bits. There, I've said it. And I was looking forward to seeing her again, but with nothing like the passion of Caro, who had already spent a couple of days going over and over her shopping schedule and marking all the Prime Spots on her New York fold-away map. She arrived at 1am, having come straight from work. Even so, she was bouncing off the walls with enthusiasm. "I can't BELIEVE we're in New York!!" she kept saying. I think I fell asleep long before she did. The thing about Lisa Brown is that, much like Caro, she is not a morning person. Many's the time I have gone to the shops back in Edinburgh and come back to my flat in Hanover Street at 3 o'clock in the afternoon to find Caro and Lisa still rolling about in their pyjamas. However, bearing in mind that they had only the weekend together in New York, they both made a concerted effort to arise and I was stunned to find them both dressed and ready to go before 11. We ended up in a Times Square deli having breakfast and feeling very New Yorker-ish with our pancakes, syrup, hash browns and eggs. Then the fold-out map was produced and a Plan of Action announced. I'm not going to bore you with details. Let me just say this: Bloomingdales, Macy's, Gap, Urban Outfitters, Manhattan Mall, other shops that I can't even remember, several miles and a couple of sore feet later and Caro had bought some Origins facial stuff. Lisa had bought some product too. But I couldn't believe that we had walked so far and accomplished so little in terms of BUYING THINGS. Caro insisted that it was merely a "Reconnaisance Mission" and that another strike would be launched before the weekend was out. That night, we took Lisa up the Empire State Building. Which is worth it, by the way. I thought I should say that up front in case you ever find yourself in the horrific queue to go to the top. Its the sort of queue where you feel yourself aging whilst enduring it, sort of like a Yes concert, or an Andy Warhol movie. The interior of the building is wonderful, but it is hard to keep that in mind when you are crowded behind a noisy school group with Caro and Lisa complaining behind you. (Im hot! Im tired! Who farted? and so on). Still, it is an incredible building with an amazing story. I had been doing some reading about it on the train to New York its a building with a fascinating history. The 102-storey building was completed on the eve of the Great Depression and was consequently empty from the 40th floor upwards. The owners had to have a man leaving lights burning in the floors above that, so that the towers wouldnt appear to be floating in mid-air. There were also ambitious plans for the tower to be used as a mooring

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post for airships. They tried it once, and after nearly losing the airship in high winds, decided once was enough. However, the most surprising thing I found out was that a plane collided with the building toward the end of World War 2. A B-52 bomber pilot, heading into LaGuardia, had become lost in heavy fog, realising too late that he was descending into Manhattan itself. Desperately banking and weaving, he managed to avoid several other skyscrapers before ploughing into the 78th floor of the building. He died instantly when his fuel tanks exploded, but the building withstood the impact and the detonation. Miraculously, there were only about 20 other injuries, including an elevator attendant who was badly burnt. She was rescued by another attendant who pulled her into another lift, but it looked like it was all over for them both when the cable on that lift snapped and it plummeted to the ground. Fortunately the safety brakes kicked in at this point and it jammed just above the basement. The pair were eventually rescued by a trainee coast guard the sight of whom caused the badly-burned attendant to mutter, My god, they called out the Navy? before passing out again. Wasnt that an exciting story? It certainly helped pass the time while I am still stuck in this queue with sore feet, feeling grumpy and irritable. However, there are some things you just have to endure if you wish to refer to yourself as a tourist with any sense of pride. So eventually we got up there, and WOW. If you don't hear "Rhapsody in Blue" in your head as you look over at the Chrysler Building all lit up at night, then there is something wrong with you. (Although "The Theme from New York, New York" is an acceptable alternative.) Once I'd got my breath back from the view, I elbowed my way through the crowds, took loads of night-time pictures, none of which will come out, and posed for a silly photograph of the three of us being menaced by King Kong. Again - a tourist thing. Another day, another plan. This time we were going to hit The Village, which Caro was sure would be full of Funky Shops. I could see real determination in the eyes of Caro and Lisa to damn well buy something. Even if they didnt want it and would never wear it. Lisa started well, buying a pair of shoes, but as the day wore on it was obvious that this was another shopping day gone bad. I think in the end they figured it out: "These FUCKING shops are all for these BLOODY stick-figure women!" they agreed. It's probably true. Anorexia does seem to be in, fashion-wise. When Caro was touring Old Navy she found a number of interesting t-shirts in small sizes, but when you look at the larger sizes they're certainly WIDER... but no LONGER. The result would be a t-shirt that lets everything flop out at the bottom which is not a good look, and believe me I know this for a fact because I've seen plenty of American women sporting it. They look like they are wearing an inner tube. I'm starting to make New York sound like a drag. It wasn't, believe me. I mean, the heat and humidity were uncomfortable, the crowds were awful (I thought the height of sticky summer in New York actually reduced tourism, silly me) but that didn't matter because New York is just a beguiling place anyway. You can just walk around and take in the atmosphere (which is approximately 84% carbon monoxide) and enjoy the personality of the place. Also the personality of Caroline and Lisa. And here's a question for them both - why does the subject of Brazilian Waxes always - and I mean ALWAYS come up when you two are together? A quote: "Jesus - can you imagine? I mean when they pull the wax strip away your lippy bits have probably been stretched out by about a metre. Oops, sorry Symon." I shan't tell you who actually said that, but you KNOW it could have been either of them... Another memorable conversation concerned breast implants and how they can lead to a better life by marrying some "crusty old bastard" and waiting for him to "cark it". Lisa warmed to her theme, "I mean, people criticise Anna Nicole Smith, but I say good on her - the old bastard probably couldn't get it up properly anyway, just give him a bit of a wank every now and again and you're in the money."

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You can probably tell by the turn of the conversation that the girls were getting fed up of shopping, which had worn them out and made them feel fat. So we decided to cut back on the shopping and concentrate on touristy things. We caught the bus down to Battery Park and caught the ferry to Liberty Island and Ellis Island. I have to admit to being very impressed with the Statue of Liberty - I thought I would be very blase about it, but it's a very vigourous sort of statue - thrusting that torch up in the air as if to say "Fuck off! I've got a HUGE fucking torch!! Go on! Just try something! BA HA HA HA HAAAA!!!" The statue has a point - it IS a big torch. Unless they build another large statue carrying an equally huge super-soaker, there's nothing much to threaten the Statue of Liberty. Or something like that. Anyway, it was a lovely warm day and I got sunburnt and loaded myself down with fabulously tacky souvenirs including a Statue of Liberty lighter. I found the girls werent so concerned with Ellis Island. I informed them that the museum is supposed to be very touching, and Lisa replied riposted that so is an Italian meatball sub sandwich when youre fucking hungry. So the girls sat outside and had lunch while schoolchildren shrieked about the place in a vain attempt to be educated, and I tried to get some tourist, Here we are in New York, pictures. Lisa and Caro werent very co-operative. Getting pictures of Caro was impossible. Every time I asked her to pose she looked grumpy. According to my photo collection I'm involved with the grumpiest woman in New Zealand. To counter this I took to being sneaky and leaping out at her with the camera when she wasnt expecting it. So my photo collection consists of pictures of Caro either looked really pissed off or like shes about to shit her pants in shock. The three of us then rushed back to the hotel and got changed for "Tony 'n' Tina's Wedding" a wonderful improvised show at which you (as the guests at a wedding) interract with the actors at a traditional Italian wedding. This sort of thing is right up Caros street and she just loved it we were sat behind Mr. Nunzio, father of the groom, who offered sarcastic comments throughout the whole proceedings, especially about the mother of the bride, but didnt spare us guests either. My favourite moment of the ceremony had to be when the audience (who were never told whether to sit or stand) were bobbing up and down, unsure of what to do. Mr. Nunzio sat down directly in front of us, but Lisa decided to stand. He turned around to look at the bride and got a facefull of Lisas bust instead. Nice to meet you too, he said, rolling his eyes at me. I was sat behind his wife, a non-too-bright exotic dancer who was thrilled we were from New Zealand (I was a temporary Kiwi it just makes things easier to explain). Oh, I just love Australia! she announced. The wedding itself was a hoot, and afterwards the audience is escorted to Vinnie Blacks Coliseum for the reception dinner (all served to the theme from The Godfather) and some Italian entertainment courtesy of Vinnie - a man in a frilled shirt and a medallion. When he dropped by to exchange pleasantries with Caro and Lisa, we noted he was dry-humping Caros arm. Lisa, meanwhile, was chatting to Marina, the overweight bridesmaid, squeezed into a tight pink dress and bemoaning the lack of Catholic men in New York. As for me, I was taken out to the back of the venue for the Nunzio family status report. Then Mr. Nunzio informed us that Mrs. Nunzio was about to do an exotic dance and that we should encourage by tipping. But no nipples and no bush, Mr. Nunzio explained. Its sort of weird exchanging conversation with actings playing parts. The best thing to do is just to go with it, and bear in mind that youre sort of playing a part yourself. Or is that too metaphysical? Maybe getting drunk is the best option. The evening ended with a big dance to The Chicken Song, and we found ourselves out in Times Square at only 9:30, with plenty of time to look at cheesy New York souvenirs and visit HersheyWorld for chocolate too. If that isnt a full evening, I dont know what is. The girls collapsed back into their beds, looking happy and full of chocolate. On our last day in New York, we wandered down to the lovely and shaded Bryant Park where we had drinks and Lisa took the photo-opportunity to get some snaps of the Chrysler Building which to my mind looks like Flash Gordon just parked it there. The story I like about the Chysler Building is the one that concerns the race to be the worlds tallest skyscraper. In 1929, this was New York Citys Woolworth Building, but a race developed between the builders of the Chrysler Building and the Bank of Manhattans

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new tower on Wall Street. Each building team kept up with each other as floor followed floor in the race to be the new focal point in the New York skyline. As the two buildings neared completion, it was evident that Bank of Manhattan was going to win just. It was a mere 2 feet taller than the Chrysler. It was at this point that the sneaky Chrysler architect had his team construct a spire within the building itself. It was 180 feet tall, and when it was carefully put into position, towered over its competitor. Of course, the Empire State Building snatched the record away from the Chrysler just over a year later, but its still a good yarn. NEWSFLASH: Caro went for a shit! As you may recall, she had been dodging the inevitable since our arrival at The Hotel of Insignificant Toilets, but theres only so long one can continue a poo embargo before nature steps in. I had no idea how shed held onto it for so long, speaking for myself I can't go a few hours without unloading a decent shit but Caro was holding onto it like it was the Elgin marbles. (I assume it was about the same weight and consistency by the time it left her system). So after making an announcement that she was going in she armed herself with a magazine and warned Lisa and I to stay well clear. The next thing we heard was "Symon! Help! Help!" Yes, she'd had a toilet incident. Whatever it was that Caro had dropped was well and truly wedged round the U-bend and I was called in to save the day. For the squeamish amongst you, I should make it clear now that there was no visible poo. Should the situation have been different, Caro would have found out exactly what the limit of my love is, as I checked myself into another room and left her with floodwater rising round her ankles. However, if there is one thing I know about, it is how to handle a blocked bog, so I filled it with hot water until we heard the Happy Sound. (GLORRRRRP) Which means our little brown friend had made his way to the Atlantic after all. And that was that. Well, sort of. Look, it gets complicated here due to a cock-up. I'll go into it in a minute but basically what it meant was we would be saying goodbye to Lisa Brown, but only for about 12 hours and goodbye to New York, but only for about a week. The reason for the confusion dates back to our time in Hawaii. It was there that Caro called United Airlines to fix our date for leaving the USA via our ticket to Frankfurt from Miami. She told them we would be leaving in mid-September. This perplexed the United guy who said, "But aren't you in the USA now?" Caro replied that we were. "Do you have a visa?" he asked. Caro replied that we didn't. "But you only have ninety days," the guy explained. Caroline replied that our travel agent had told us that since we would be leaving the US, then re-entering, we would get a SECOND lot of ninety days upon re-entry. This was why we planned on going to Canada midway through our trip. The United Guy explained that this was a huge lot of shite (I dont think he used those exact words). Panicking, I spent the next two days on the phone to The British Consulate (who didn't know), Tourist Information (who didn't know) and the Immigration and Naturalization Service (who claimed they didn't know). In fact, the INS conversation was so unspeakably unhelpful, I'll write it down: ME: INS: ME: INS: ME: INS: So, we're in the US now. We were told that once we leave and re-enter we get another 90 days on the visa waiver scheme. No mister. Okay - so we can't do that. Can we apply for a visa while we're here? No mister. Okay - so - look - we need to stay for longer than 90 days? Is there ANY WAY we can do that? No mister.

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ME: INS: ME: INS: ME: INS: ME: INS: ME: INS: ME:

(Becoming exasperated by the somewhat Jesuit replies.) Well, how about this: I go to - say - Cuba then re-enter? No mister. What if I go back to the UK - then re-enter? No mister. What? Is it a length of time thing? Do I need to be back in the UK and out of the US for, like a month? Ninety days? A year? No mister. So what you're telling me is that once I've had my ninety days in the USA, there is NOWHERE ON EARTH I CAN GO for HOWEVER LONG, I can NEVER go back to the USA. No mister. But that's ridiculous! Look mister, I don't know what you want, but I can't help you. (Sarcastically) Thanks very much. SLAM!!!

(Note: I didnt actually say, Slam!. That was me putting the phone down. Although it would have felt pretty good, Ill admit.) There's always some arsehole like that. They sent me off in completely the wrong direction, when in fact, they were the people who should have been able to sort me out. Two days later, I called again in desperation, got a different operator, who clarified the whole thing for us in about 5 minutes. Simply put, you can't be in the USA for more than 90 days without a visa and side-trips to other countries do indeed as part of those ninety days - the clock does not re-start when you re-enter. So in order to extend the 90 day period, you must return to your country of origin. Our plan was to fly to London, then head up to Edinburgh before coming back to New York to liaise with Sue, my ex-wife and my nephew Luke for a few more days of sightseeing. Back to London! I wondered how theyd been getting on without us.

Part 12: The UK - Land of Unexpected Landings


Caro and I left Lisa Brown in Newark airport, and we took separate flights into London. Caro's mood immediately darkened when we arrived. She had a point. Londoners are undoubtedly the most ignorant buggers I've ever encountered, grumpy, miserable and startlingly unhealthy, hacking and snuffling all over us. I was worried that I would inhale some horrid virus, and equally concerned that fucking miserablitis was even more infectious. So the grey sky over London matched our mood as we made our way to Lisa's flat in Wimbledon, which she had warned us would be pretty grim as she shared it with two smelly and dirty flat-mates named Ed and Sebastian. Poor Lisa spends a lot of her time spraying air-freshener around the boy's bedrooms, because - well they're SMELLY. Minging. Whiffy. On a hot day, Lisa can detect the aroma from upstairs in her bedroom. Lovely. As often happens when a girl shares a flat with boys, Lisa has become mum despite her best efforts to avoid it. This is a typical conversation between Lisa and Ed: LISA: ED: LISA: ED: LISA: ED: LISA: ED: Ed, I hear you're off for the week. I'll be compiling a list of tasks for you to complete in that time. I'm on holiday, I don't expect to be doing much. Listen sunshine, you're not sitting on your arse all day. That lawn needs mowing for a start. But it's Seb's turn! Don't start! Seb's good. Seb's mowed the lawn a couple of times now. But I did it last. Yeah right. I came home and I knew you were the one who'd done it, because you couldn't be arsed doing the edges. You'd just done a fucking cricket pitch in the middle of the lawn. Hmph.

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LISA: ED: LISA:

And there's a huge pile of washing up that you created over the weekend too. I suppose it's conceivable I could do them. I'll give you bloody conceivable.

During my time with them I began to worry that Lisa would do Ed a serious injury with said lawnmover, if only in order to get herself a nice clean prison cell. So it was with some relief that Caro left and headed back up to Edinburgh to stay with Sue. Sue is my ex-wife and one of my best friends. Weird huh? How terribly European of me, I know. The fact is that I dont discard friends, even if I do happen to have been married to them. Added to this is the fact that Sue is extremely level-headed and sensible and so the best person to have been taking care of my affairs whilst I was away. She had also become foster-mum to my cats, Dusty and Ripley. Dusty, is a little splat of fur that sits in the middle of the carpet with a permanent expression of, "Huh?" on her kitty face. She's not the brightest little animal and would often fall off the couch when she lived with me. Ripley, her brother, is a more robust animal. He's quite big and sleek, but also very noisy and huge baby. He also has a habit of announcing his entrance to the room very noisily. "MEOW! I'm home!!! MEOW!! I say!!! Is anyone there??? MEOW! I need stroking! MEOW!!!!" It was nice being at Sue's with the cats, but we decided we also had to visit Pete and Carol. Now I first met Carol on renting her flat and loved her straight away. She's a very sweet and lovely person, and also someone to whom events just seem to happen (more on this later). I rented Carols flat on the break-up of my marriage and just as she was about to leave to move in with her then-fiance Pete. Caro and I were very happy indeed for the two of them when they bought their dream-house in Roseburn, and suffered along with them when it was flooded with poo just a few weeks before they were due to move in. They knew from the start it was a fixer-upper, but they had no idea they would have to have all the floorboards lifted, industrial fans brought in to dry the house out, and the whole house de-toxed for e.coli and other nasties. This major renovation was still ongoing when we visited. Nevertheless, they always kept their humour about the place, as evidenced by this story that I must share with you: Carol and Pete's Chimney Sweeper Story After the disastrous flood, Carol and Pete worked very hard fixing their house one room at a time. They eventually managed to get their dining room dried out, re-decorated and just as they wanted it. The only thing left to do was the fireplace, which was terribly dirty. Caro called various services, and was told a man would be sent around to deal with it the next morning. They didnt specify quite how early, so Carol was disturbed to hear a banging on the door at 8am the next day. She pulled on a long t-shirt to cover her nudiness and ran to the front door. Only she couldnt see anyone. Then she looked down, to see a dwarf chimney sweep looking up. More disturbingly, looking UP her t-shirt. Blimey, she said, Id shown him the family jewels by mistake. I thought, Id better get good service. Carol let the little chimney sweep in and told him his remit was to clean up the chimney in the one room that was now presentable after many months of post-flood cleaning. All their downstairs furniture was now in that one room so they could work on the rest of the house. She also added that she KNEW the chimney was blocked with concrete, so he was just to CLEAN the chimney. Then she went off to get dressed, only to come back and find that he had LIT a fire to "check the draw". The newly-decorated room was filled with soot, the furniture stank of smoke and Carol found new uses for the word "fuckwit." Her tirade obviously scared him, because he jumped out of the window and legged it. Although she didn't scare him badly enough to stop him sending her a bill later that same week.

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We also got to catch up on other events, such as the time Carol rushed down her driveway to answer the phone, and promptly fell into a huge hole. She had a big skirt on at the time so said she had to flash the neighbourhood to get out again. When she finally got in the house, she answered the phone to find it was Pete warning her that that there was a huge hole in the driveway. She wasn't best pleased. But undoubtedly the biggest news of all was that Carol is now pregnant! However, I have always found that pregnancy merely gives women a good excuse to talk filthy. Carol admitted that she was considering the benefits of a c-section as she doesn't want "a fanny like the Dartmouth tunnel" and Caro and Carol spent an inordinate amount of time cackling over the S&M type bondage gear that they appear to have in Maternity Catalogues to hold your bump in place. Of course we got onto the subject of natural childbirth ("Not me. I want all the drugs going - legal and otherwise.") And Carol got to tell me her poo story: Carol's Poo Story Carol has a friend who is a midwife, and on one occasion she assisted at a waterbirth. The woman was instructed to push and she promptly did, but from the wrong end if you know what I mean. I imagine this is fairly common in labour, but at a waterbirth it is a slightly less than joyful experience when instead of a newborn child, a bouncing baby poo comes floating along in the water. It had to be fished out by a nurse armed with a sieve, apparently. So we had a great time in Edinburgh, but were more than looking forward to returning to New York to start our second 90-day visa waiver period. Caro and I were starting to feel like old hands at the US now and were sure that nothing could faze us. This is because we are idiots. From: Caro Date: ???? 2001 Hey hey, we're back in New York for the 2nd time in as many weeks. I am such the jetsetter, darlings! We arrived back in the Big Apple yesterday afternoon and I have to say, within minutes of checking into our hotel, we were out and about; going to my mag shop to get the latest American goss, popping into our deli to get dinner and then off to our wee Starbucks just down the road from the hotel... Well, let me tell you, darlings, I was just ordering my latte, when I had a "moment". Yes, I saw Nathan Lane in front of me ordering a cuppa and then he wandered over to the condiments and got himself a sugar and a teaspoon. Oh-my-god -another celebrity star moment. In an all-knowing kinda way, I leaned over to Symon and said "Oooh look, its Nathan Lane, he must be just off to work!" (He's starring in The Producers with Matthew Broderick, in the theatre just around the corner). We were very cool, in a New Yorky kinda way, 'cos you know, you gotta be cool, gotta have a blase attitude, know what I'm sayin'. Forgeddaboudit. For those of you unfamiliar with Nathan Baby - he was Robin Williams' histrionic life partner in "The Birdcage" - my favourite line being "Fairy dust, fairy dust, fairy dust".- He was one of the brothers in "Mousehunt" and Symon also tells me he was a "voice" of the warthog or something, in "The Lion King". I just love him, he's soooo funny. And now he's on my list of celebrity star spots along with Sean Connery (who I accidentally swore at on my way to work) Fran and the rest of Travis (where I acted like the total groupie-arsehole all aquiver), Ali G (who's bum I pinched as he ran up on stage), Tina Turner's Limousine (who nearly ran me and my two pals over after her concert) and David Soul (who sat in front of us at Mika's drag show in Edinburgh). Truly, I am meant to swan about in such elevated circles! And now Nathan Lane in Starbucks. I sooo rock. So, Symons ex-wife Sue and his nephew Luke join us tomorrow and we'll do Nuu Yoik as a family holiday (baseball game, gangster tours, Bloomingdales, Central Park, the movies and hanging around in Times

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Square, generally). Then we all head off to Washington, to take in the seat of power, find out if the secret service iron their underwear and see just how people in Washington dress for success. Is charcoal the new black? Do they still wear shoulder pads in those power suits? Sue and Luke go back to the UK on the 20th, and thats when we head to Memphis and Graceland. Symon is threatening to book us into some hotel which has a guitar-shaped swimming pool. Who knows, anything is possible - the cheesier the better, you know us. And I want to find out just how many Elvis impersonators it takes to screw in a lightbulb. And do we get to see the actual "commode" where Elvis was about to take his last poo, before he popped his clogs? OK, so if you have any special requests for American stuff, send us an email and we'll see what we can do -T shirts, CDs or whatever. Its funny how we've asked this before and absolutely nobody has a request for anything - even something lame like an "I Love New York" cup or pencil. Except for Lynsey, who requested her own personal Elvis impersonator, batteries included. Of course, having said that, I don't wanna open the floodgates, but if you're after a crap T shirt or a divine statuette of the statue of liberty or a replica of Elvis' toilet seat, email us... So, the weather, here has calmed down since we were here 2 weeks ago. It was sooo hot, like 110 degrees (Lisa and I were constantly reminding Symon about how hot we were, how sweaty we were, how makeup is a waste of time in the face of such heat - basically, making the poor guy's life a misery - hard to believe, I know). Today, it is perfect - there was a huge rainstorm last night and that has taken away all the humidity and stickiness. Yay! The blue eyeshadow can be slapped on again without fear of it doing a raccoon thing within 5 minutes of application. You may have been keeping track of our travelling, so you know we were back in the UK for a week, due to our travel agent and her useless "as a soggy piece of pasta" knowledge about American visas. We spent a couple of days in London with Lisa, recovering from jetlag and doing mundane things like laundry and harassing her flatmates. When we arrived at Gatwick, we were fighting for our luggage round the concourse with a load of "Brits Abroad" who just arrived back from Kavos - glitter and T shirts (with pictures of themselves naked emblazoned on the back) and orange tans all the way. And cheap sandals, too. While we were waiting for our backpacks, I suddenly realised I was surrounded by people coughing, spluttering, sniffing, hoicking....whingeing....oh god, we're back in the UK... Such a smack in the face. And I have decided that Londoners are the biggest arseholes in the world. Period. After being in New York where people are supposed to have serious "attitude" and Vegas where people are supposed to be flashy and quick on their feet taking you for everything you own (even your flip flops) and Montreal where French-speakers are supposed to be vile about everything, it has to be said, we haven't had any problems so far and Londoners are the bloody worst. Up their own orifices and emulating Posh and Becks fashion. However, it has to be said, there was an air of familiarity about it all as well. No big stress. We then train-ed up to Edinburgh to stay with Sue for a couple of days. As we could have predicted, it "pished" with rain, and people on the streets looked as miserable as ever. Aaaah a sense of relief and relaxation washed over me. I actually had warm fuzzies about being back. Very cool. I really want to come back to the Big E now and get a flat and go shopping and hang out with all my pals again. But I digress, whilst in the Big E, we hung out with the cats, Ripley and Dusty, who used to live with us. We did even more mundane things like going over our tax returns and sorting out our papers that Sue has been handling for us while we've been away (she's a star), do more laundry and catch up on UK tv. We purposefully didn't tell anybody we were coming up to Edinburgh, as we would then feel compelled to go see everyone and go out and spend money and race around on a tight schedule. Although we love you all dearly, there is something about arriving in the Big E that relaxes me to such a degree, I just can't be

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arsed! There I admit it, I was just being lazy! It was part of trip we hadn't planned on, so if no one knew we'd be around, then if anyone got missed out, we wouldn't feel bad. Does that make sense? We did, however, pop round to Jim and Mechelle's for a coffee and to ask if we could crash at theirs for the weekend when Lisa Brown visited. It was the best reaction to a surprise, ever! I tell you, I should have had "Candid Camera" with me -it was braw! Needless to say, of course, we could crash at their place for the weekend, and that was exactly what we did. Lisa, Mechelle and I stayed in our pyjamas, gossiped, read mags, buffed nails, tormented the cat and ate loads of food. It was just what we needed to recharge our batteries. We feel invigorated again. We also took lunch and the paper round to Carol and Pete's place, to investigate the goings-on at Roseburn Place and make sure we had a bed for our return. It was an afternoon of hilarity, stories and having a nosey round their garden. It did feel weird, though, being in Edinburgh, but having no fixed abode, the shops are all different. I noted the new big Superdrug, the new Gap store and the numerous Starbucks cafes all over the downtown area. I was very relieved by the Starbucks as I have become addicted to their lattes. Now, I hear all you "Lefties" banging on about sweatshops minimum wages monopolies ra ra ra and I know they're like corporate monsters, along with Gap, but you know, good coffee and great fitting jeans are bloody hard to find, and I reckon those comfy sofas on the corner of George/Hanover Street could be my new hangout when I return, when I'm wearing my fab low rise superflared distressed denim jeans...my "Central Perk", if you will. I was delighted to spend an afternoon restocking our supplies, wandering around Boots. Boots rocks. I spent a good couple of hours in Wimbledon's Boots and Superdrug, playing with all the little bottles of stuff, while poor Symon grew more afraid with each addition to my shopping basket, reminding me we were spending "pounds" now not "dollars". He has learnt that small bottles are far scarier than big bottles, because they inevitably cost more. Although, it has to be said, America leads the way in miniature bottles of well, everything. Its a travellers dream. It was just nice to be able to buy things that were familiar -like Charles Worthington hair stuff in those "Takeaway" sizes. Anyway, that's all the goss so far, and we have now located "Easy Everything" just round the corner on 42nd street (Times Square) with like 5,000,000 computers, and email is only a whopping $1 per hour. Hurrah! Geez, makes a change from the usual $18-20 per hour -Fascists! So, we can chat more often. Yay! Big hugs and still star spotting.. Caro.

Part 13: America - Land of Mobsters and Monuments


Sue didnt adjust at all well to New York. I asked her how she liked the atmosphere, to which she replied, "Do you mean THE SMELL?" It's true. Put a few hundred thousand people together in Times Square on a sultry summer day, and you've got a LOT of body odour, bad breath, and farts being generated there. It's like going into the bathroom after someone on a lager bender has had their first poo of the day. The stench could actually spin you around and pin you to a wall if you thought about it too much. There are other smells too, from the vendors of roasted nuts, hot-dogs and knishes that are everywhere. They're not all exactly complementary. It's like someone has stuck a fetid old bag on your head, and you're not sure what that bag once had in it, but you're sure that whatever it was, it was once ALIVE.

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Plus, I was deeply unhappy about the knishes. This was because I couldnt find one. On my return to New York City I attempted to buy one, but entirely unsuccessfully. When we were here with Lisa Brown, I was curious about them but never asked a street vendor for one because I am pretty clueless and had no idea what a knish was. I could've been presented with a squid on a stick, and been forced to eat it in front of the savvy New Yorkers who would have pointed and laughed. I mean, let's face it - the word knish sounds pretty unappealing. It sounds like you've just sneezed. "Honey, could you pass me a tissue? I have knish all over my face." So I asked Jim and Mechelle while in Edinburgh. They are Trustworthy Americans and unlikely to lie to me about these things. Mechelle informed me that it's some sort of deep-fried potato thing. Thus convinced, I felt that eating a knish was a valid New York Experience and I should try it. But that'sonly if you can find the things! I tried knish vendors all over New York who all shook their heads at me sadly and offered hotdogs instead. I began to fear some sort of plot. Or possibly you can only buy a knish if you are one of The Initiated. Perhaps you buy a knish, not by ASKING for a knish but by saying something like, "The Eagle flies at dawn. Today is a good day for Meeting Old Friends." To which the vendor would hand over a knish and reply, "I hear it is old cold in Vladivostock in April," by which he actually means, "That will be 2 dollars and do you want ketchup?" It was very traumatic, but I took comfort from the fact that Sue was having an even worse time. She has tramped up and down and around Manhattan with my nephew Luke, in search of a wooden baseball bat for under $20. This has turned into something akin to the Quest for the Holy Grail, or my fruitless attempt for a knish. Caro and I arrived in New York one day ahead of Sue, landing at Newark and taking a taxi back to the Milford Plaza, which was where we stayed with Lisa Brown. The flight itself was a nightmare, in that I found myself squeezed into a seat next to a hugely fat man who kept dropping things and asking me to pick them up. He probably fancied me. These looks of mine are such a trial. On arrival we did very little. That is entirely our ethos on this holiday. We also assumed that as soon as Sue and Luke arrived we would be doing lots of walking as those two wanted to have the New York Experience in Five Days. Caro and I had tried this one year earlier and found that it's also a good way to bring on the Fatal Heart Attack Experience, but theres no telling some people. Fortunately for us, they are early risers. If youve been paying attention you will know that, for her, early means before eleven. So Luke and Sue did lots of tourist before lunchtime while Caro enjoyed room service in bed. Caro loves room service. Every morning she would order breakfast, and every morning would be beside herself with delight because some kind person would bring her scrambled eggs, crispy bacon and fried potatoes while we watched Jerry Springer. (This morning we expose people cheating on their spouses with kitchen appliances!) It was a nice, relaxing way to start the day - except for the morning I decided I wanted blueberry pancakes with maple syrup. I let Caro order for me and I was glad I did because her phone conversation went something like this. CARO: Ah, yes, Id like to order breakfast please? Yes, thats right. Id like one All-American, with bacon and potato and coffee. Is that ok? Yes. And also one blueberry pancakes? Yes. Yes. Thats right. Blueberry. Blue-berry. Yes. Blueberry. Blueberry. The pancakes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. (Pause). Blueberry. (Pause). Blueberry. (Pause). I HAVENT FINISHED. Blueberry. Blueberry. Blueberry. Blueberry. Blueberry. Blueberry. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Blueberry. Then after she got off the phone: CARO: Stupid (very bad word) bitch.

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Despite this setback to our breakfast routine, we recovered sufficiently to join Sue and Luke on a trip to the World Trade Centre, but didn't go up it. Our thinking was, Once youve been up one tower youve been up them all. We had done towers in Auckland and Sydney and felt we had done the tower thing. Besides, we could always do it some other time, right? Thats the sound of hindsight you hear banging about in the background there. So Caro and I left Sue and Luke to explore the Twin Towers despite the fact that Sue suffers from vertigo, and so saw the marvellous view of that sprawling metropolis while clinging to the floor. If you think that's bad, bear in mind she had been up the Empire State Building the previous night, so perhaps not the best holiday idea for Sue there. OTHER BAD HOLIDAY IDEAS: 1. A week in the Amazon Basin for People Who Are Afraid of Spiders. 2. A tour through Ethiopia for Anorexics. 3. A fun-packed holiday in the casinos of Las Vegas for epileptics. 4. An adventure holiday potholing for claustrophobics. 5. An exciting week in Hedonism for Nuns. Conversely, Luke just loved it, and took photos of everything. He loved the Chrysler Building best, and it seemed to pop wherever we went - "Oops! There it is again!" The only thing that bothered me about the Chrysler Building is that the top of it always seems to be knocked off in movies. Godzilla took it out, a meteor smacked it in Armageddon, and I believe the aliens blasted it in Independence Day. I really feel the New Yorkers should give serious thought to lowering it by about 20 feet to save it this sort of abuse. Luke and I went on a helicopter ride over New York together. I suggested that perhaps Sue would like to go instead, but she merely gibbered something about never leaving the ground again and clung to the carpet, so we left her behind. New York from aloft is very impressive, and you get an idea of just how big Central Park is. It's totally HUGE - about 5 miles from one side to the other, which is a lot of trees, grass and perverted old men with their willies hanging out in anyone's language. *********a bit about central park People go on about the crime in New York. I've said it before and I'll say it again; I feel a lot safer there than I do in Edinburgh. And the reason is this - they don't really drink over here. I mean, they do, obviously - but not like the English, Irish or Scots who can consume enough lager in one night to keep a New Yorker pissed for several years. The consequence of this is that you don't get gangs of drunken lads all over the place, so I felt pretty safe wandering around Manhattan without fear of getting a kicking. Of course, if you DO run into trouble in New York, it could be a considerably more terminal experience than a kneecap to the head or a foot in the goolies. This is something you can console yourself with if you ever get shot in New York. "Gosh, my chances of getting shot like this are about the same as my winning the lottery," you can tell yourself. "I really must buy a ticket once I get out of the emergency room." After our helicopter flight, Luke and I explored the Subway, which shows just how adventurous we were getting. The Subway was horrible with no nice tiles up, just concrete and no maps so we had no idea where we were going. My philosophy in these situations is just to jump on a train and see where it goes. Luke was all for that. Consequently we ended up in Brooklyn. So we retraced our steps and managed to return to Manhattan and Little Italy. This is what I had been aiming for, and that's pretty impressive for me - hitting an actual destination in only two goes. Luke wanted to spot an actual Mafia Sit-Down with men called Vinnie and Tony and "The Tuna" but all we saw were tourists. This was okay, because Little Italy is still great, tacky fun for Yorkshire boys whose closest encounter with Italian culture is an ice-cream from Jaconellis on

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Scarborough sea-front. So we loved Little Italy, full of coffee shops and stalls where the locals sell tacky tourist crap. So of course I bought some. I bought Luke a Mafia guide-book to the local area and we selected "Cafe Roma" from it where we stopped and had a cappucino. This was apparently once a hang-out for Meyer Lansky and the like, and was very impressive inside with a beautiful tiled floor, wooden bar and brass fittings. I also got a chance to try out a Cannoli Siciliana, which made up for my lack of Knish. Eating our knishes in the sunshine, Luke and I felt like Made Men, as we sat at a table opposite Cafe Biondi, hang out of John "The Teflon Don" Gotti, and near the cafe where they filmed scenes from Donnie Brasco, so it was an excellent afternnon, in a badda-bing-badda-boom sort of way. Caro should have come with us really. Caro has read The Godfather multiple times and her favourite show is The Sopranos. In short, she scares me. So I couldnt possibly let her miss out on the Gangland Tour of New York, which I found through the Insiders Markerplace a website that organizes tours of New York, with cops, cabbies and professional shoppers. So Luke, Caro and I headed out together that evening, I suggested that Sue might like to come with us, but she gibbered something incomprehensible and clung to the carpet again, so we decided to leave her behind. Getting to the Gangland Tour was a bit traumatic because traffic decided to block solid just as we were leaving the hotel. I thought that we had plenty of time, but the minutes ticked away before we had even left Times Square. On arriving in Little Italy, our taxi driver then had trouble finding our meeting place Lansky's Lounge, which is unsurprising as it is hidden in the depths of a dark alley, down a flight of stairs into a dark and depressing courtyard, then up a fire-escape and into the lounge itself, a surprisingly jolly place where a boisterous Italian wedding reception was taking place. And no doubt some guy in a room out the back, granting favours to local residents. The reason for this inaccessibility is due to the fact that it used to be a speakeasy, Caro was beside herself with delight. We were met at the lounge by an Italian guy who Caro thought was very fanciable, despite the fact that he looked nothing like me. Hmmm. Very strange. He gave us Gangland Tour t-shirts, that were apparently designed for a regular sized American male (i.e. Luke and I could have fit onto just one of them) then escorted us to his car. The tone of this tour was very different from the Chicago one, which was light-hearted and silly. This one was intense. Our man knew his stuff... almost too well. I strongly suspect he used to work for John Gotti. This is due to comments like: "Hey I din't vote in no election last year... I mean Bush and Gore... it was like 'Dumb and Dumber' fuhgeddabahdid... Yeah, when people ask me who I wuz gonna vote for I said, 'Hey I wanted to vote for Gotti but he pulled out..." Gotti came up a lot, ("He wuz like a folk hero.") The guy doing the tour had been speaking to CNN that very day on the subject of Gotti who at the time was seriously ill. "They said they'll show the interview when he dies... it's a shame but waddaygonnadoabowdid???" Gotti, The Teflon Don was one of the last truly flamboyant family leaders. He was jailed in ???? after being ratted out by ???? one of his hit-men. This didnt go down too well with our guide. "Why would they take the word of a fockin' multiple murderer over that of John Gotti?!?? That fockin' rat, I hope he dies in jail!!" Then he went on to complain how Gotti had been targeted by the Feds and I made the mistake of asking whether it was because of his image. Whoops. Hit a chord there: "I get sick of people saying he wuz this big shot!!! He di'n't have no big house!! He wasn't no fockin' Dapper Don and all that other shit the media says!! Castellano!! That fockin' guy!! HE wuz the big shot with his big house - they even called it The White House! HE wuzn't no regular guy!! But Gotti - he was just a regular guy and he couldn't help it if the tv cameras wuz always in his face - I mean, what's the guy gonna do, lock himself away or somethin'!!???!!" That told me. I behaved myself for the rest of the tour. We stopped at Spark's Steak House where John Gotti's guys had Paul Castellano executed. "Yeah, Castellano figured he wuz the leader of this white collar company - he forgot about the Mob. And Gotti, well, he 'reminded' him. I guess you could say Castellano got fired."

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We also heard a great deal about Lucky Luciano, another hero of our guide's. He was named Lucky after he received a beating that included being stabbed with ice-picks, yet somehow surviving. This is not the sort of luck I would personally choose to have. Like all the "stand-up guys" in the mob, Luciano refused to tell the police who had done him over, and told them that he must've fallen down or something. He went on to found Murder Inc. along with Meyer Lansky, this was the crime organisation later headed by Albert Anastasia. Luckys also had Dutch Schultz murdered in order to stop him putting out a hit on the New York prosecutor Thomas E. Dewey. This was because Lucky knew better than to invite the repercussions the hit would have inevitably brought. The irony being that Dewey later put Luciano in prison, and his partner Lefty Lepke in the electric chair. But that wasn't the end of his story. While in prison, Lucky was approached by the Secret Service who asked him if he could use his dockland connections to end sabotage of vessels during World War 2. All sabotage promptly ceased and Dewey (now govenor of New York) granted Lucky a pardon on condition that he left the USA to live in Italy. Lucky always pined for America though and his remains were returned to New York when he died in the mid-60's. Luckys partner Meyer Lansky lived an amazingly successful life for a gangster, avoiding prison all his life and dying in bed in his 80's. This was in stark contrast to "Legs" Diamond who was nicknamed "The Clay Pigeon" because he got shot so often. He often boasted that there wasn't a bullet that could kill him, but unfortunately this theory didn't quite hold up when he was shot in the head. So it was a very interesting tour. The guy who drove us around told us about ??????????????, the mob boss who tried to avoid jail by acting crazy, ("When the Feds came to arrest him he jumped in the shower in his pyjamas, and put up an umbrella.") And he sadly lamented the passing of the days when, "No-one ratted you out, cops knew how to play ball and everything was beautiful." It was like the end of the film, Wiseguy. Come to think of it, our tour guide did look a little like Ray Liotta. Then he left us with his own philosophy which is that all these guys he was talking about were True Americans. Pioneers. Businessmen With Balls. "What they did was as American as apple pie. When the first Americans arrived, they took this land from the Indians... then we went around the world, killing to get our way... What was so different about what Lucky Luciano did? Now they say, 'Hey, drinking's okay so long as you do it when and where we tell you... Gambling's okay so long as you do it in Atlantic City...' What did these guys do that was so fockin' illegal? Most of the fockin' drugs that came into this country in the 80's was from the fockin' CIA, but just because the guys in Washington and the Feds and the Mob in Blue have got it their way, they say the Mafia is a bunch of fockin' criminals..." Its a good point. But I'm still not quite sure that just because Oliver North, and Bush and Reagan were a bunch of crooks, that means John Gotti's a hero. I'm not sure what Luke thought of all this. Certainly it was a tad more information rather more directly put than I would have liked for a fourteen year old. But, what the hell, the kid's gotta fockin' learn sometime. Now I want to take a moment at this point to tell you about the Union Jack, which I noted is amazingly trendy in the USA. Strange really, as we British don't think about it much, but the Americans absolutely love it. They have it on everything from t-shirts to trousers to bags to hats. They even have little union jack thongs you can wear. Really. I could get quite insulted by the fact that American women are rubbing Our National Flag against their rude parts if it wasn't the fact that it's also slightly arousing. On the subject of rude parts, as I travelled around I received several emails from friends telling me they were disturbed by the amount of of poo stories and information about toilets in my emails. While others told me that they skipped almost everything I wrote about our travels, and went directly to the poo parts. It

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was while in New York that one of them went that much further and actually emailed me a poo story of her own. It made me laugh out loud in an internet caf in Times Square, causing the other patrons to look at me. Poo! I explained, but strangely this did nothing to quell the stares. Americans are weird. Anyway, here is the poo story from my friend Caroline in Orkney: The Poo Story from Orkney Hi Symon, POO - don't ye love it?! On reading your email I realised I am the owner of a very funny poo story as well, and am quite embarassed that I've not yet passed it onto the biggest poo afficianado I know! It happened in Orkney several years ago, and if you'll allow me I'll set the scene a little. Orkney is actually made up of 70 islands, of which 20 are inhabited. The biggest one, where I'm from naturally, has the majority of the population and the others will have anything between 2 and 600 people living on them. The Poo Story from Orkney concerns Eday, a rather dismal and odd little island, pop. probably about 2-300. It is one of the islands which has become a bit of a haven for the 'white settler' ie the middle class from down south who has decided to drop out from conventional society, buy a ramshackle cottage on a Scottish island and buy some goats which they mistakenly think will provide them with an income. I digress. As you'd imagine on such islands there aren't people like joiners, plumbers, construction companies, etc. and if there are any big building jobs to be done they tend to get firms from the big island to come over and work during the week and then travel back to their homes at weekends. One such job was being done a few years ago and a small firm of masons and carpet fitters was over working on Eday for several weeks. They were being put up in local B&Bs, and as there's precious little to do of an evening, spending most of their spare time in the one and only pub! One of the guys was particularly drunk this evening and staggered back to his digs to sleep off the booze. Now Neil (that's what we'll call him, 'cos that's his name) was a bit of an animal it has to be said. A bit coarse, a bit of a lad you know the type. Anyway, during the night he decided he really needed to do a crap. As you do. For reasons unknown however, and in his inebriated state, he decided that he didn't want to leave his room and walk to the bathroom as he might waken up the rest of the houshold. How considerate really. . . So, what was he to do. There he was, desperate to offload a big log, but no toilet in his room. Aha, he thought, stumbling around his clothes he'd thrown off all around him, a sock! That'll do. I'll shit in a sock. (Apparently this is true I'm told, honest). And so Neil squatted on his bedroom floor, and managed somehow to deposit his poo in one of his socks. But it doesn't end there. Neil realised he had to get rid of the evidence. He looked to the window and thought that would be the best idea. And in order for it to get as far away as possible from the house, he'd have to fling it with quite a bit of force. Naturally. And so he raised his arm back, sock in hand, and flung it out of the window into the dark, Orkney night. Or so he thought. Yes, he awoke the next morning with a stinking hangover and the aroma of stale poo hanging in the air. Opening his bleary eyes he looked around the room in horror to notice the streaks of poo on his bedroom walls, caused by him drunkenly twirling the sock around his head before flinging it out the window!!! And all because he didn't want to wake anyone up. I don't know how he explained it to the landlady, and I'm sure the story has been somewhat embellished over the years, but it was told to me by Neil's brother, who actually lives in Edinburgh, and who I may ask to tell you himself round a fire one winter's evening. It's a special story! Back to New York and as far from the isle of Eday as you can get, Caroline and I decided to take Sue and Luke to Mars 2112. This is a science-fiction themed restaurant where you queue to "take the shuttle" to the restaurant (by which they mean a simulator ride shhh dont tell the kids). The restaurant itself is on the surface of Mars and not at all in some cheesy 1960s Star Trek type set in a Manhattan basement, honest. Luke was impressed with the decor, if not with the aliens who kept coming up behind him and Being

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Alien. I saw his point, they are only mildly less irritating than mimes, and mimes are only mildly less irritating than haemorhoids. Still, the food was okay, and it was a genuine New York experience for my nephew, which was what this whole part of the trip was about. Caro and I returned from Mars 2112, full of Marsburgers and the like, and I began cramming my clothes back into my backpack for the next days journey to Washington DC. I was busily stuffing socks around breakables when a plaintive cry arose from the bathroom "Symon! Symon! Heeeeeelp! I've done it agaaain!" Yes, Caro had braved the American flush again. This time it was a Biblical Flood of a block. The waters were rising and only Moses could hold them back - no amount of hot water would help. So I did the only thing I could think of to stop it getting worse (grab the ball by the cock, if you'll pardon the expression) while Caro faced the humiliation of finding a chambermaid armed with a plunger. What I didnt know was that she blamed the entire thing on me, although I did notice the maid shot me a dirty look as she rolled up her sleeves. I just stood there, holding onto my cock. Three good plunges later and the maid resolved the problem, earning a herself a well-deserved tip. Caro admitted to me later that this was in fact the third such incident at the Milford Plaza. Thoughtfully, she had kept one to herself. It was time to leave New York. Our plan was to take the train to Washington which I wasnt particularly looking forward to. On the plus side, it's only 3 hours from New York to Washington D.C. but on the negative side, there is no organization at Pennsylvania station whatsoever. We arrived an hour early and asked where our train would be leaving from, but no-one would tell us. That would have been no fun at all for the Sadistic Amtrak employees who prefer to tell you only five bloody minutes in advance where the train is. At which point - WHOOSH - all the travellers stampede like a herd of cattle for the escalors (and if you've ever seen a herd of cattle on an escalator you'll know what I mean) pushing Sue out of the way (we lost her completely for about 10 minutes). It was a nightmare, Caro and I couldn't even get a seat despite arriving early. We spent most of the voyage sitting in the luggage rack, with the result that my arse looked like it had been branded with a waffle iron by the time we arrived in Washington.. Incidentally, we left Pennsylvania Station via track 13b. I made sure to check this because I wanted to know where Track 29 was, so I could ask someone to give me a shine. Unfortunately, I never found it. I'm not even sure there IS a Track 29. It may just be possible, now that I think about it, that Glenn Miller was on drugs. I mean, just think about the following lyrics: "Ha ha ha Hee hee hee Little brown jug how I love thee." I mean, if that isn't a reference to the joys of bong-smoking, I don't know what is. So there you have it. Glenn Miller - a huge junkie. He was probably shooting up even as the Nazis shot him down. Sorry about that. I have no idea where I was going with those last few paragraphs. Still, it passed the time nicely on our way to Washington... And now here we are!! We pulled into Union Station, which was one of the most impressive railway stations I've even been in, resembling more of a cathedral than a place where you buy limp sandwiches and try to find a bench that doesn't have chewing gum stuck to the seat. Caro, Luke, Sue and I all emerged from the station and caught a cab to The Wyndham Center Hotel. This was one of those hotels designed especially for travelling businessmen and seemed very grand after the slightly seedy Milford Plaza. Sue and Luke immediately went out in search of food, while Caro and I ordered room service and a movie. This illustrates the difference in our holiday approaches rather succinctly.

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After several trial-and-error approaches to holidaying, Caro and I have found that the best move you can make on arrival in a new city is to take a guided tour first. This will give you a pretty good idea of where you want to be and where you want to avoid. Therefore, we bought a couple of tickets to the D.C. tour from a shop full of political memorabilia, where I resisted the temptation to buy a "Perot '92" bumper sticker. The Grayline trolley tours are informative and pretty cheap, you get a bit of background and you can take all the pictures you want, thereby convincing people back home that you've actually covered a lot of ground while on holiday while you were, in fact, sitting on your fat arse. Washington D.C. is an amazing city, though not necessarily in a good way. The streets are long and wide, and dominated on either side by huge marble buildings. I'm not talking purely about the ones you know, such as the White House, with snipers all too visible on the roof. I'm talking about Post Offices, and Agriculture Buildings. They all look look like Roman temples to the gods of bureaucracy. I dont consider myself a snob, but is it really necessary to have Palace serve for the department that deals with Chicken Production and Yearly Wheat Yield Figures? These grand boulevards, dominated at one end to the other by structures like the Washington Memorial to the Capital Building are undoubtedly awe-inspiring. I'm not even an American, and still felt those patriotic juices flowing, but they are also kind of, well... eerie. Sue said it best when she commented that it looked like a neutron bomb had gone off in Washington. Only a really weird sort of neutron bomb that leaves only buildings and tourists standing. The huge streets are empty apart from tubby teenagers in backward caps, trailing behind parents in shorts. Oh, and us. I think that Luke and Sue covered more ground than Caro and I did, but that's because they were still looking for a wooden baseball bat. My god, this quest never seemed to end. Poor Sue had been dragged the length and breadth of New York, and now it seemed she was destined to go through the same thing in D.C. Luke was determined to find a bat which had to be a) wooden and b) under $20. In order to achieve this, Sue and Luke took a cab to a neighbourhood which, suspiciously, did not appear on the tourist map. If it had appeared on the map, it probably would have been shown under writing which said, "Hyre Be Dragons" or something because the taxi driver at first refused to drive them there and then finally relented, although insisting that he would wait at the shop for them. This is the point at which someone should have told Luke, "Give it up!! Go home!!" but no, that baseball bat was out there somewhere and he was desperate to find it, even if it meant killing Auntie Sue. Anyway, they took the Taxi Drive to Hell, and the scenery eventually convinced even Luke that there are some prices just not worth paying for a wooden baseball ball under $20. The taxi drove back, and Sue lived to shop another day. Meanwhile, Caro and I were still on our trolley, having a pleasant time of it. Once you get past the monuments of Washington, you enter some extremely pretty territory. We passed the house where President Steve Cleveland used to live. Apparently he hated his silly name so much he changed it to Grover Cleveland, which I think shows a bit of a lack of judgement. I mean, I'm not fond of the name Symon, but you don't see me going around asking you to call me Scooter or Kermit. From there, we entered Embassy Row, which must have been very exhausting for the poor tour guide as he yelled out, "France! Burkino Faso! Cote D'Ivoir! Israel! Uganda! India! Iceland! Germany! Pakistan! South Africa! Great Britain! Ireland!" and so on. He should really hand out geographical bingo cards beforehand, it would be a great way to make extra cash. Then we entered Georgetowne, which is a lovely little suburb of Washington, and the oldest part of the city. It's a neighbourhood of 18th and 19th century painted wooden houses, where JFK and Henry Kissinger used to live, amongst others. Caro and I decided to spend a day out there, and it was extremely pleasant, even if it did piss down with rain most of the time. This brings me to the climate, which is muggy. Someone once told me that the reason the British decided to make Washington their prime military base in North America was not due to stategic importance or nearby resources - it being mostly swampland

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at the time. No, the reason it was chosen was because of its latitude, which happened to be a couple of degrees over the British Army's agreed line for Tropical Pay. So now you know - the American Capital is where it is so that Corporal Jones could get a few extra shillings for cigarettes and a night with a local bit of strumpet. Of course, you can't go to Washington without stopping at some of the monuments. Well, you can, but then everyone back home will accuse you of being a lazy-arsed bastard who spent all his time eating room service and watching in-room movies. Ahem. Consequently, Caro, Sue, Luke and I began our next day at the Washington Memorial. It was unfortunately closed for renovation, but even from the distance you have to say that George Washington does have a truly impressive erection. I'm sorry. But the God of Filthy Innuendoes would never forgive me for missing that one. We continued on to the Lincoln Memorial, sitting above the Reflecting Pool, which is actually more green and scummy than reflecting, and has ducks on it - but is still very pretty. As for the memorial, I suspect everyone's first impression on seeing that famous statue of Abraham Lincoln up close has to be, "Jesus, what huge feet he's got." I'm sorry. It probably shows a lack of respect on my part, but god, what a hoofer. Caro also told me that his hands are posed in sign-language for "A.L." to which Sue responded, "Oh you mean for blind people." She was suitably embarrassed when I pointed out to her that very few blind people actually know sign language. Probably spent too long in the sun chasing baseball bats if you ask me. On the walls of the monument are the words of his Gettysburg Address, a very short speech, which I suppose is bad news if you are stonemason who gets paid by the word. Still, it is an amazing bit of oratory, considering Honest Abe is supposed to have made much of it up at the last minute. From there we went to the Korean War memorial and the sombre black wall that is the memorial to the soldiers of Vietnam. Of the two, I was surprised to find that it was the Korean memorial that I found more touching. Maybe it's because the statues of the soldiers making their way through a pleasant garden in Washington, with the frightened faces and their sculpted rain-capes evoke so much more than the sombre black wall. Mind you, the wall is extremely sobering, what I had never realised was that it tapers away at each end, becoming steadily thinner - a clever trick with perspective, creating the impression that the names stretch on and on into the distance. The Vietnam memorial was crowded with families, friends and other servicemen, leaving flowers in silence while a veteran burnt some sage. The wound of that war may have healed with the passing of years, but the painful memory lives on, affecting American thinking and policy to this day. If it sounds like that day in Washington was pretty heavy, well it was. We'd also just come from the Holocaust Museum, which has to tread a very fine line between being educational, respectful and truthful while avoiding morbidity and sensationalism. It achieved all that by keeping the more shocking images to a minimum, but made an impact with the more simple displays like huge piles of shoes from the victims. I heard a few kids asking how it could ever have happened which means that the museum must be doing its job. Washington is full of museums of course. I am not really a museum person. Dont misunderstand me its not that I dont love history. Its just that when you take an artefact, take it out of context, and slap a label on it, its hard to get enthusiastic. For me, strolling around looking at all those items and labels is sort of like going around a really big supermarket, only they get a bit upset if you attempt to eat anything in a museum. However, I was painfully aware I had a Young Person with me and I should be doing a whole Robin Williams Dead Poet Society thing here. You know, opening a young mind to learning, sharing my knowledge. Inspiring the lad with my unorthodox, yet illuminating views. I had done precious little of this for Luke, and was feeling a bit guilty. In fact, I should be honest with you here - as an uncle I am a bit shit. On this holiday alone, I had already exposed my nephew to a guy I seriously suspected to be a Mafia captain. Also, while in New York City, I had managed to screw up my Responsible Adult Speech. It wasnt entirely my fault, you see I didnt know I was expected to deliver the Responsible Adult Speech, Luke just sort of sprang it on me. In case you are not a responsible adult yourself, heres a bullet-pointed idiot guide for you.

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Teenage Sex You are anti this. Alcohol One should NEVER touch drink. Drugs Dont inhale, kids!

So anyway, one night Luke and I made a run to the deli to pick up dinner, and he mentioned how he and a bunch of his friends wanted to take a trip to the hot party spot of Ibiza. The conversation went something like this: LUKE: I think it will be a good place to meet girls. ME: Oh, absolutely! (Thinks: Hmmm should drop in the message about safe sex here). You should DEFINITELY wear a condom though, right? LUKE: Oh, er, yes ME: Wait. How old are you again? LUKE: Im fourteen. ME: Oh. (Thinks: Oh shit. I thought he was older. How come hes taller than me? It just isnt fair). Well. Hmm. In that case, you shouldnt be having sex, right? Because its bad. I mean, no, it isnt. I mean, I dont want you to get a complex or anything. Sex is great. (Thinks: Oh wait a minute. Luke could be gay. Say something positive about gay sex). Gay sex is really cool. (Thinks: Oh dear lord.) But not at your age. Okay? LUKE: Okay. ME: So forget what I just said. Except about wearing the condom, you should definitely do that. But only if youre having sex. Gay or otherwise. Oh, and dont do drugs. LUKE: Have you ever done drugs? ME: (Thinks: Oh well done opening that box of worms, fat-head). Ye-e-e-s. But thats because Im an idiot. (Thinks: Well ya got that part right). So I attempted to redeem myself in Washington by taking Luke to the Air and Space Museum, where they had an actual lander from the Apollo missions, the X-1 jet, and bits of Spacelab - obviously these were just the test versions but it was still amazing to be able to walk around them. As a soul with a scientific sort of bent, my keen mind soon lent itself to the most intriguing question at hand, which is How Exactly,Do Astronauts Go To The Toilet? If you too, have pondered long and hard on such things, then this is definitely the museum for you. Although I have to say that after I had been past the exhibit which showed the - gulp - EQUIPMENT that the astronauts had to - yikes - INSERT - I started to wish that I had been left in complete ignorance. Those astronauts were brave, BRAVE men. I mean, to go out in a liquid-oxygen fireball is nothing compared to the horror of inserting a turky baster into your urethra. These men had guts. I also overheard an interesting little history discussion from one of the museum curators on Why Those Darned Soviets Beat Our Boys Into Space. "Well, you see, we had always planned on peaceful space exploration, and all our research was geared towards that. But the Russians, see, they just put that Spootnik on top of a war-rocket, and that's why they beat us." And there was me thinking all this time that it was purely because the Americans nabbed off with the Dumb German Scientists after the war, while the Russians managed to get the smart ones. No, the simple truth is that the Soviets won the early stages of the Space Race because they cheated. Now you know. One truly astonishing exhibit that is bizarrely not more widely known is The Most Boring Man on the Planet. His boriness has, in fact, been measured by a team of men on anphetamines and coffee, and exceeds even that of a Party Political Broadcast or an early Genisis album. I was exposed to this chap at the planetarium where he spoke for only 30 minutes, but in that time and I need you to know that I am not

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exaggerating he managed to send three people in my immediate vicinity off to the Land of Nod. I nearly succombed myself. So that was Washington. I don't think it would be mean of me to suggest that it is in many ways, a nonplace, much like Canberra or Ottawa. It's a town for politicians, and even if it is lovely and clean and pretty (except in area that sell baseball bats) it still lacks personality. Apparently, 600,000 people live there, but they don't seem to have made much mark on its perfect marble facades. It's a city of monuments, and it struck me as we were leaving, that the city of Washington is just one huge monument to itself. So we said our goodbyes to Sue and Luke, and left early the next day for Memphis. Yep, that's right baby The Birthplace of Rock And Roll. Memphis, Tennessee, immortalised by Chuck Berry and the Home State of Davey Crockett. From: Caro Date: ???? 2001 "Let me take you on a journey, beyond sight and sound..." ...enter the Twilight Zone... aka WASHINGTON -a scary freakin' place that was, I tell ya. Every section of grass that was visible to the human eye, was landscaped to perfection, neatly brushed and all facing the same direction. There were lots of large white monuments devoid of graffiti or dirt, including the massive obelisk standing 555.55 feet built to commemorate George Washington. There were no beggars. There were no obvious shops - they were contained in uniform circa 1970s office buildings. People were very polite; opening doors, the shop assistant service, the exceptional service in Starbucks, where I was offered an extra shot of coffee for free. The taxis do not run on meters, it is a "zone" thing. The buildings were boring, square, no personality, made of grey and glass and men in suits were everywhere. The weather was the same for the duration of our trip - warm, sunny with a little bit of cloud, nothing too showy or over the top, just the right amount of sunshine to make the big white statues glisten. Oh, and forget litter, there is no such thing in Washington. (Thank Christ we found a Starbucks, the only thing that prevented me from mind-merging with the rest of the aliens posing as Washington Locals. Those Lattes are powerful stuff. Resistance is NOT futile). The more I experienced Washington, the more convinced I was, that the Washingtonians were not really people, they were from another star system, and they are running the country, in a "Matrix" meets "V" meets "Enemy of the State" kinda way. Spooky. It also had an air of "we are middle of the road, lets not rock the boat, suck it up, smile and wave, smile and wave". Very peculiar. On the plus side, a T shirt which I bought Symon previously, was featured in an indie/punk band music video on MTV. Can't remember their name, but they had tattoos, goaties and played their own instruments. They have this whole indie/punk classification here cos bands like the one previously mentioned don't don't fit into "boring, normal, I use an entire tube of hair gel, I lip-sync my own songs cos if did those dance moves whilst talking I would probably give myself a hernia, boy band 4 part harmonies about love and life and I'm 12 years old shite". MTV calls Blink 182 indie/punk for chrissake. Hardly cutting edge. Still, I was quite delighted that my fashion sense has once again returned, after leaving me and my frumpy fleece from San Francisco, and my man is a funky dresser. So, we're in Washington and we took the tour of all the things which typify America to the rest of the world -Abraham Lincoln Memorial, Vietnam War Memorial (a couple of Hippies in denim jackets and headbands were burning sage to cleanse the area), Korean War Memorial, The Treasury Department (which houses the Secret Service), The White House (no blowjobs for this dropkick of a President), The Mall, The Reflection Pool, Watergate Apartments, the Holocaust Museum (particularly gruesome as you walk past a room full of shoes worn by those sent to the camps) and Capitol Hill. We drove down a lengthy street

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which housed practically every embassy from all the corners of the world. Except New Zealand. Britain's was the biggest and the most ostentacious - how they got city planning for that red telphone booth out front, I'll never know. I was beginning to fear for the fate of my American friends, do they know the truth? If I tell the truth, would I be the next person Tom Clancy writes a book about? And everybody being so bloody nice and polite was starting to get up my arse, quite frankly. Where's the individuality? Personality? Gorgeous houses? Rudeness to strangers? Lawd, if I didn't clap eyes on someone with a piercing soon, I would swoon. Then we discovered Georgetown. If ever Symon and I were forced to live in Washington, we would live in Georgetown. Colourful old houses, wrought iron fencing, iron lace overhangs, narrow cobbled streets pre-dating cars, trolley rail lines which go nowhere, scattered flowers and trees growing any old way they like, loud brash music pumping from fashionable cafes, people with piercings, students in Hilfiger baggy pants with their underwear hanging over the top, caps on backwards, lads on skateboards, children in pushchairs (sadly, dressed in Laura Ashley), girls with fluorescant pink hair and/or blue ponytails, and people who looked like extras from "That 70s Show". Oh, the relief was overwhelming. But, although I felt slightly better about it all, believing I was once again, back in the real world, I still observed that the trashy/trendy/funky fashions these students were wearing still bore the labels: Christian Dior, Prada, Gucci, Versace, Louis Vuitton... some of them looked damn good and of course, some of them still resembled sloane rangers with their uptight capri pants and matching twinsets, crocodile skin mules and handbags. Frightful, darlings.. .and everybody was armed with a cellphone. I believe this is how they are controlled by the aliens, here. For no other reason, except to get the hell outta there, we risked flying "AirTrans" to Memphis - the cheapest airline with oldest planes ever and pilots whose landing skills had me reaching for the bloody safety pamphlet and looking for my nearest exit. We arrived in Memphis, Tennessee, armed with a guidebook warning us to protect ourselves by any means and to have a great time on Beale Street - home of the Blues. Firstly, I was shocked at the obvious poverty still evident. Houses and buildings all looked rundown. Cars were old heaps and lots of people milling around in raggedy clothes. It all looked like those movies "The Firm", "The Client", "The Patsy Cline Story". A huge difference to the perfection of Washington. Then, from nowhere, we came across a glittering Pyramid standing 32 stories high and soon after, a massive sparkling baseball park with a huge baseball player about 50 feet tall, straddling a ticket booth and a brand spanking new shopping mall, complete with Tower Records, Gap and Starbucks and 22 movie theatres. Woohoo! Unfortunately the shopping mall, which had opened just recently, was the scene of a shooting the night we arrived (incidentally this was 2 blocks from our hotel -the very crappy never stay there Howard Johnson Memphis). The second night had us being evacuated from the hotel with a fire alarm. (Had I lit my cigarette in a non-smoking room? Did I put my cigarette out? Ohmigod, would they be able to tell it was me? Will we be fined do you think? My Washington paranoia had intensified). I was particularly disgusted to note that Memphis does not have any gorgeous firemen. They had 4 big trucks and not a hunk among them. Disappointed to say the very least. Then Symon said, "It probably was your cigarette. I heard that fireman say it started on the 9th floor." I considered shooting him. Now everybody knows that Memphis is famous for a few things: Elvis, Graceland, John Grisham, Sun Records, Beale Street, the Blues, Rock 'n Roll, Jerry Lee Lewis, BBQs, the Missippi River, the Memphis Belle Bomber plane from World War 2, the place where Dr Martin Luther King was assassinated...

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But did you also know that Memphis was named for the ancient Egyptian capital situated along another famous river, the Nile? Hence the 32 storied Pyramid that we first sighted upon arrival in the city. Classy. And, I gotta tell you this, it's also home to: Goat Day's International Family Festival (notice Memphians never harass New Zealanders with sheep jokes), a Kids-only Garage Sale, the Fat Possum CDs Blues label, the Blue Suede Brigade (a bunch of information guides filled with enthusiasm and smiling big, on the lookout for lost tourists wearing fancy Blue Suede Nikes), the May World Championship BBQ Cooking Contest, "Big Ass Truck" Blues band, Denim and Diamonds Line Dancing Club, the Jerry Lee Lewis Ranch, Bluff City Barn Dance, and "Hard Corn" (hillbilly and country and western rock on the WEVL Radio show). Man, there is tons happenin' in Memphis. Now, you can't talk about Memphis and not mention The King, Mr Presley, Elvis Baby. You know by now, we have been tracking the history of the bloke ever since we arrived in Hawaii, where we experienced the best impersonator for 2000, on a dinner cruise, complete with silk scarves for the 40+yrs women in the audience. Then we arrived in Vegas and visited "Elvis-a-rama" - the definitive Elvis Museum and all things related Vegas-wise and the place where I picked up some very special Elvis coasters. Nice. Now, in Memphis, they also feature the Elvis Presley 5K fun run, Elvis Presley's Heartbreak Hotel which plays music and movies 24 hours a day, El-Vez (a Mexican Elvis impersonator), Elvis Presley's Memphis Restaurant, International Conference of Elvis Presley (where they spend a week studying "Elvisology" touching on themes such as "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" and "Elvis and the Dysfunctional Family") and my all time favourite, "Elvis Herselvis" (a lesbian Elvis impersonator). I reckon that'd be a great show, unfortunately, she wasn't performing while we were in town. And I have to say, the real thing about Memphis is the music. It is the basis of the city's culture and society - it's on the radio, blasting from restaurants and shops, from cars, from bands playing in the park, from the buskers on the street and it's all rock 'n roll, blues and soul. We went to Sun Studios and touched the very microphone that Elvis used to record his first single, saw the guitar Johnny Cash used to record with, having inserted a dollar bill under the strings to create a "train" sound which doubled as a drum bass in the background. We heard stories from the tour guide about Sam Phillips, Jerry Lee Lewis, Bob Dylan, U2, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, Howlin Wolf, BB King and Ike Turner. The Rock N' Soul Museum housed the history of Memphis music, with fabulous displays, freaky clothes, shiny guitars (who knew sequins could be so versatile?), old wurlitzer jukeboxes, interviews with the legends, copies of CDs and tapes, 45s and 78s on display, from the beginning of the blues to the present day. BB King's guitar, "Lucille" is housed here, as is the piano from Ike Turner's "Rocket 88" song, apparently the first rock n' roll song. And I also got to see a Patsy Cline Exhibition. Yay me! I dunno what Symon thought of the cowgirl outfits or the letters and the interviews on the big screen, but I sure liked it a whole lot. But the big deal for us was Graceland. The pilgrimage to the house of The King. What a setup and who the hell was the guy's interior decorator? I'm not sure that velvet and seersucker go together. My Lawd, Missy, there was green shag pile carpet on the walls and the ceiling in the hallway up the stairs to the "Jungle Room"! Aside from the fact that Elvis had crap taste in chintz and soft furnishings, the rest of "Graceland Plaza" is something else. There are restaurants, a soda pop shop, a veritable buffet of souvenir shops, a memorobilia shop, a music shop, a movie theatre showing an Elvis doco, the car museum housing all the cars, motorcycles, snow mobiles, go karts etc, the Lisa Marie private jet and the Hound Dog 2 Lear jet. An exhibition of Elvis' personal belongings - like riding boots, guns, books, glasses outfits, things belonging to his mother, Gladys. There was also the TV he shot complete with bullet hole and an explanation about how he used household items for target practice, as if that made perfect sense (maybe it does down here in the South). They have shuttle buses which drive you across the road and up the driveway to the big house, itself (to prevent people from driving all over the estate and so it is accessible for mobility-challenged people).

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What actually surprised me was the total respect people had for being there. People were using the outside ashtrays provided, no litter was dropped, people spoke in hushed tones, and walked about with awed expressions on their faces. And I would like to say there were no squawking children, but there were a couple, belonging to the same parents, who appeared oblivious to the continuous din which competed with "Glory, glory, Hallelujah" in the racqetball court. And it wasn't only me who was tutting and giving them pissed-off looks. Lots of little old ladies whispering about "lack of respect", "no discipline these days" and "if my kids ever behaved like that..." Still, they were the only pain in the arse, otherwise the whole visit was a fabby 5 hours well spent. I also think the driving rain and thunderstorms kept a whole lot of people away, so it wasn't very crowded at all. I was having a bad hair day, but at least hardly anyone saw me... Next stop New Orleans, the big easy... Later Caro The Chick with the super wide-legged denim and fake blue fur jeans...they rock!

Part 14: Memphis Land of Elvis and Danny Thomas (Who??)


"Long distance information, give me Memphis Tennessee Help me find the party trying to get in touch with me She could not leave her number, but I know who placed the call 'Cause my uncle took the message and he wrote it on the wall" I couldn't help but hear that song in my head all the way to Memphis. I'm a victim of programming you know. Actually, I'd been hearing it ever since we said our goodbyes to Sue and Luke in Washington. They were on their way back to Edinburgh, and I didn't envy them the long flight back followed by an equally horrendous train journey. As for Caro and me, we caught a flight to Atlanta, followed by a flight on to Memphis. It wasn't a great flight. Not aided by the fact that when we had bought the tickets at a Council Travel place in Georgetown, the girl had cheerfully informed us that although it was the cheapest airline, they didn't usually sell tickets for them anymore because, "They had a couple of real bad incidents." Incidents being a travel euphemism for, Terrifying Ground Plummet Trauma Situations, no doubt. Oh well, as I said to Caro, if the plane went down in flames, at least we would be getting a bargain. The airline, Air Tran (in case you want to know who to avoid) runs a fleet of antiquated DC-9's and I'm of the generations that still sniggers when you mention DC-10's so this wasn't good news. Actually, I'm sure that Air Tran is now desperate to avoid further bad publicity and is probably more safety-concious than most, but still - those old planes make for hairy landings and our two flights didn't so much descend as SPLAT into their destinations. (If passengers could collect the contents of their overhead luggage compartments and their stomachs on the way out of the plane, it would be most appreciated. Thank you for flying Air Near Death Experience.) Our taxi ride from the airport to the Howard Johnson in Memphis was somewhat sobering. Those of you who have actually made it thus far through the narrative will recall that Caro and I are somewhat cautious, careful some might even say chicken shit - tourists. And we scare easily. The thing that freaks us out quite a lot is lack of people. Or perhaps I should be more specific here and say lack of WITNESSES. Our hotel was bang in the centre of Memphis and yet there was still a worrying lack of life outside. We holed up for the evening and ordered Chinese delivery.

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Actually, we were only four blocks away from all the action, but we didn't realise this. Beale Street could be reached on foot in about five minutes. In case you haven't read the Lonely Planet guide to Memphis then I should explain that Beale Street, is Where It All Started. It is the Centre of the Universe, musicwise. When you walk down Beale Street, you are picking the up the Funkadelic Vibe of decades of bluesmen, hillbilly rebels, rock 'n' roll pioneers and just plain freaks who have made it what it is today. A Major Tourist Haven. Oh, I'm not going to whine on about tourists everywhere, spoiling things. After all, I had spent nearly a year being a tourist by this stage, and Im annoying even when Im a local so really am in no position to complain. But what Im trying to say is that to get to The Real Beale Street you'd have to travel more than a few blocks and about fifty years into the past. All the same, it is still a very atmospheric and groovy place, and the Memphis authorities have done their best to preserve the feeling by insisting all buildings retain their original facades. (However, developers can do whatever they like with the rest of the building. This leads to the bizarre sight of an entire building having been demolished apart from the front wall which stays held up by metal braces while they reconstruct the back.) Along Beale Street you can find the Royal Cafe, winners of the Ragin' Cajun Gumbo Cookoff ("Where the gumbo's so good you'll want to slap your pappy not once, but twice.") You'll find the Blues City Cafe, the B.B. King cafe and the Rum Boogie Cafe with a neon sign permanently flashing, "EAT - DRINK BOOGIE - REPEAT". You'll also find Schwab's which is one of the oldest general stores in the US. One of our tour guides told us that you might occasionally see Old Schwab in there. "Yeah - he pretty much jest sets in theah - rockin' back and forth in his ole chair. He look pretty much dead ah reckon, but if you go up to him, hell wake hisself up and talk to yuh." (An aside: EVERYONE REALLY DOES TALK LIKE THIS. I don't know why I thought they didn't, really. I suppose I just thought it was something they just invented to make The Dukes of Hazzard more interesting. Still, it was a real thrill the first time I actually heard someone say that they had done gone got themselves something.) Our guide added that Schwab's "is full o' junk ah reckon. Yep. Pretty much everthin' a body could ever want in theah. Ole Schwab, he say if'n he don' have it then you-all prob'ly don' need it. Yessuh." Well Ole Schwab was right. I went up and around three stories of the most amazing shit you ever saw in that shop. Hideous tourist crap, but that's to be expected, recipe books from the Deep South, an old candy dispenser, some rusted farm implements, clothes, "Roadkill Sauce", wooden armadillos (you can never have enough of these) records and tapes covered in cobwebs, wind chimes, posters, pictures, books, pegs, postcards, welcome mats and lots and lots of Elvis memorabilia. We never did see Ole Schwab though. Around the corner from Beale Street is The Peabody Hotel, which is a Memphis institution. It is famous for its ducks. No, I'm not joking. **********find out how it all started I'm not quite sure how all this started, but the Peabody Hotel, which is the swankiest in Memphis has this fountain in the centre of the lobby which during the 1930's became inhabited by a family of ducks. Theyve been there ever since. Every morning at 11am they leave their luxurious Penthouse dwelling on the roof, get into the lift, go to the lobby and walk across the lobby to the fountain while Duck Parade music plays. Then they repeat the whole thing in reverse at 5pm. Caro and I craned our necks around the crowd of tourists to get a look and it really was something of a bizarre experience watching a bunch of ducks waddling along a red carpet while flashes went off everywhere like some Hollywood premiere. All the occasion was missing was Joan Rivers, bitching about their plumage. Naturally, you can also buy all sorts of duck memorabilia in this place, yet somehow I managed to restrain myself. Right next to the hotel, and newly opened was Peabody Plaza, a brand-spanking-new shopping mall where Caro found Starbuck's thank goodness or my life wouldn't have been worth living. As we sat and watched

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the comings and goings, which included various directors of festivities putting up balloons for the grand opening, I couldn't help but think of the film "Night of the Living Dead" in which a bunch of people hole up in a shopping mall in order to avoid rampaging zombies outside. I'm not being over-dramatic here - I may be paranoid occasionally, but Memphis didn't only feel tense, the guidebook we had bought was full of sentences like, "Take a taxi directly to your destination. Do not stroll about the streets," and such. So Peabody Plaza basically felt like this one bastion of safety in what an extremely tense area. I'm not overstating the case here - there's just something about Memphis that feels run-down and dangerous - where racial tension is just bubbling under the surface. **********the bit about how they treated us until they heard our accents? Still, it felt perfectly safe in the Peabody Plaza that afternoon. We pottered on back to our hotel room, only to be woken up that night by the shriek of sirens. Turns out someone got shot dead right there in Peabody Plaza. How we both laughed. Hysterically. Another attraction only a block away from our hotel was Autozone Park, the baseball park for the Memphis Redbirds ("The losingest team in the league this year," our tour guide informed us.) I'm pretty sure that they probably had batting cages, baseball bats and our course, games every night there for just a few dollars. Poor old Luke. He never did get to see a game in New York or Washington. (Still, who would've wanted to see the losingest team in the league?) But these were not the things we were interested in anyway. What Caro and I had come to do was to continue our Haj to the most revered places of the Church of Elvis Presley. Our first stop was Sun Studios where, back in 1954 Elvis had cut his very first record and actually paid the record studio $4 for the privilege. You don't have to worry about getting tired taking the tour of Sun Studios. It consists of two small rooms, a gift shop and a cafe. Some might say that for $8.50, this is a bit of a rip-off but not so. For you see, this is Hallowed Ground. Bob Dylan actually did a Pope impression when he visited Sun Studios, knelt on the ground and kissed the floor. He either did this to show his devotion, or he was off his head again - with Bob, it's hard to say. But the point is this, even if Elvis hadn't started our there, this would still be an incredibly groovy place. Some say that the first rock 'n' roll record EVER was recorded there in 1951 when a young chap named Ike Turner wrote and played piano on a song called "Rocket '88". So there you go. Ike Turner invented rock and roll. Well, maybe. Look, lots of people are always claiming to have invented rock and roll. Chuck Berry says HE invented it. Little Richard says the same. Heck, even I invented rock and roll one rainy afternoon when there was nothing on telly. Somehow it doesn't really matter, but what seems to have happened in Memphis is that all those Hillbilly types with their country/cajun/bluegrass and all those po' boy sharecroppers with their gospel/blues/jazz seem to have met up together at Sam Philip's little studio and just mixed it all up together. Elvis was actually discovered by Sam Philip's secretary after he recorded "My Happiness" (purportedly for his mother). The surprising and little-known fact being that Sam didn't like Elvis' ballad singing very much, and it took another year when Elvis was just farting about singing an Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup song called Thats All Right (Mama) that Sam realised he'd struck gold. I couldnt help but wonder what would have happened if Elvis had never sung that song. Then I couldnt help but wonder how I could get myself a nickname like, Big Boy. These are the important issues, people. I love those early Elvis recordings. Not that I'm a snob - I mean - I also love Over The Top Fat Elvis too but there's still something very appealing about "Mystery Train" and those other records he made before he became

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ELVIS!!
After those first few records, it became clear that young Elvis was a bit of a sensation and Sam sold his contract to RCA for around $30,000 - a paltry sum due to the fact that Sam was heavily in debt at the time and needed the money. Nevertheless, that was ok with Sam because that money got him out of trouble and he went on to put records out for Howlin' Wolf, Johnny Cash, Roy Orbison and Jerry Lee Lewis. Jerry Lee lives about 15 minutes out of Memphis, and still frequents Sun Studios to catch up on old times with Sam Philips. On one recent occasion, he was invited out there by the group Matchbox 20 who were at Sun Studios in an attempt to get an injection of their roots. (And god knows they need an injection of SOMETHING. Preferably something lethal.) Anyway, Jerry got their invitation and turned up, "a-whoopin' and a-hollerin' as usual," recalled our tour guide. "And he had jest got hisself outta hospital too, but he was bangin' on that ole piana with his foot jest like the ole days. I took one look at him and I said, 'Lookin' good Jerry Lee' and he turned to me and said, 'Thanks Killer'." So there you go. The Horny Old Bastard's still got it. Anyway, I was talking about Sun Studios Tour which takes about half and hour most of which consists of listening to the guide while they plays that great old music and going around looking at all the old pictures, guitars, drums and most notably the very microphone on which Elvis did his first recordings. Some people actually kiss it. We just took a picture. I'm no micropohone slut. On our way out, they played U2's "When Love Comes to Town" which was also recorded at Sun, with B.B. King - that other famous Son of Memphis. What I'm trying to get across to you here is that Memphis is all about music. And if you don't get that, you're not going to get Memphis. Just walking the streets (just be sure you take a taxi to those streets and don't deviate from the tourist routes) you get blues, gospel, rockabilly, country and jazz from all sides. We visited the Rock 'n' Soul Museum, where an attempt was made to explain why Memphis became so important musically. It appears it was to do with the fact that Memphis was essentially an AfricanAmerican city for freed slaves, which got invaded during the 20th century by the hillbilly farmers with their folk music. The two musical styles were completely segregated at first - this is the South we're talking about after all - but thanks to people like Sam Philips who had black and white performers in his studio, they eventually merged and became world famous thanks to Elvis whose biggest talent - let's face it - was being Not Black. Not that Im putting The King down here, but that was pretty much what Sam Philips said in a video at the museum. The Rock 'n' Soul Museum, incidentally, was well worth a visit and Caro had a Country Heartache Moment when she found a special Patsy Cline exhibit. Apart from the music, there's not much to say about Memphis. The only other famous Tennesseean I can think of is Davey Crockett, that famous backwoodsman, famous for inspiring a generation of teenagers in the 1950's to stick their heads up a raccoon's arse. We did make a stop at one point at the Danny Thomas Museum (it was part of a tour and I'm sure you'll all join me by asking, "Who?!?") The other thing Memphis is famous for is that this is the place where Martin Luther King Jr. was shot in 1968. The motel where it all happened has been preserved as a Civil Rights Museum, even the cars in the parking lot that day are still there. But we didn't go, as it was being picketted by a woman named Jacqueline Smith (no, not THAT Jacqueline Smith) who feels that it's wrong to commemorate Civil Rights in this way. She's probably right, so we stayed away. Most of our evenings in Memphis were spent in front of the tv in the hotel room, ordering either pizza or Chinese. After two days our choice was reduced still further after the pizza gave us both runny bottoms.

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(Was that too much detail? I never know.) The only disruption to our routine was the night we were roused out of our beds after a fire alarm went off. We had to troop outside and stand around while a mad woman raved, "WHAT DA FUCK!?? WHAT DA FUCK?!??? Oh sorry darlin'" (on seeing a five year old kid hiding behind his mother). It turned out to be a false alarm, but it didn't do my runny bottom any good. But anyway, this is hardly the point. I mean - what does one go to Memphis for? Not the ducks, trust me. No we were going because we were on our way to the Holiest Site of All. The Dome of the Rock 'n' Roll if you will... I'm going to Graceland - Graceland, Memphis Tennessee I'm going to Graceland And I have reason to believe that I will be received in Graceland. Yes! How could we possibly pass by and not give our respects to The King? We rocked up there on a horrible rainy day on the free Sun Studios shuttle bus. Due to the weather we were the only ones there apart from a Greek woman who kept waving her map about and asking where everything was in relation to Graceland. At one point she got quite excited when the bus driver mentioned that we were just 15 minutes away from Jerry Lee Lewis' house to which she replied, "JERRY LEWIS LEEVE HEEERE????!!!" "Jerry LEE Lewis," corrected the bus driver. "Jerry Lewis, that is what I said," she snapped in irritation. "Tell me, where iss Jerry Lewis house? Iss Jerry Lewis near Graceland?" "Yes'm," said the bus driver, obviously giving up. The bus pulled up to The Graceland Terminal, which is a cross between a gift shop, cinema, museum and airport for The King's Planes (The Lisa Marie and Hound Dog 2). Tourists are then handed audio-tour thingies and shuttled across the road to the mansion itself while the audio-guide informs you that the mansion was called Graceland before Elvis bought it in 1957. (See how good I am at remembering these insignificant details? They clog up my brain you know. I mean, I can't recall my credit card number but I still remember the name of Rosco's dog in The Dukes of Hazzard. (Flash). The house itself is a pleasant antebellum-style building with pillars and surrounded by trees. On entry, I found myself in the hallway, looking into the lounge which has been untouched since the 1970's. You know, I think that this is the true magic of the place. Not so much as a lasting memorial to Elvis, but as a time capsule of the Era That Taste Forgot. I mean, you hear about people getting over-emotional at Graceland, but quite frankly, tears were welling up in my eyes looking at the tat and thinking, "I remember that carpet!! My mum had curtains just like those!!! What happened to my childhood???!!" There were, as you would expect, lots of chandeliers, revolting ornaments and tons of pictures of Elvis looking moody. The style, if it could be described, would be rococo-baroque-kitsch-hideous. We proceeded from the lounge with the huge white leather sofa to the dining room which was unutterably grand, past the guest bedroom (we couldn't see the King's bedroom itself - this is still off-limits - although we did see his huge circular bed complete with fluffy white covers, mirrors and a built-in radio in the museum). Then to the kitchen this was was smaller than I expected given The Fat Elvis years, but then again, how much room does a chocolate, peanut butter and pork chop sandwich take up? From there we entered the TV room which is a monument to the colour Avocado and which features three tv's on one wall - an innovation Elvis incorporated after hearing that Lyndon B. Johnson watched all three networks at once. Which leads me to Elvis' infatuation with authority. I don't really know where it stemmed from but he certainly had a thing about the police (his huge collection of police badges was on display) and followed everything Colonel Tom told him to the letter (including Colonel Tom's suggestion after getting drunk one night that Elvis spend the 1960's making lots and lots of really bad films). He also looked up to Richard Nixon, which doesn't do much for his credibility these days, and there was a large exhibit dedicated to the meeting between the two men. I mean, RICHARD NIXON - what was Elvis THINKING???. And I have to ask the faintly blasphemous question at this point: Was Elvis Kind of A Dick? I'm sorry. I know that's probably not fair, but you should have seen the Nixon stuff. Apparently, Elvis surprised the whole White

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House staff but just showing up one day with an antique gun for Tricky Dicky and they had this impromptu meeting at which Dick posed with his arm around Elvis and delivered speeches about What A Fine Example For Young People Elvis Is. Elvis was also made a Special Agent, charged with fighting the war on drugs (excluding the ones in his own system). Apparently, The Kings campaign against drugs and communism was primarily aimed at John Lennon, whom he judged to be a junkie hippy and general bad influence. Elvis informed Dick of this who promptly put John and Yoko on the FBI's list of people to harrass. The reason Elvis felt this way about John was less to do with his peacenik beliefs and more to do with the fact that John had been rather rude to Elvis on their only meeting. One must remember at this point that John Lennon could also be Kind of A Dick. Against this, you have to recall that Elvis was also hugely generous (and had very little of his huge fortune left at the time of his death, it seems). He was well known for just giving cars away. A tour guide told us of how when Elvis went to buy a car, he would make up for the inconvenience to the other car-buyers in the showroom by buying their car for them. Our tour guide added, "Ah often hung around that there Cadillac showroom, but Elvis never did show up." The thing is, Elvis was still basically a country boy, who never got the chance to deal with his sudden fame. He was a real-life Beverly Hillbilly. Lisa-Marie, in a section of the tape-tour, explained how she could hear her father coming down the stairs before she could see him, he was that covered in jewelry. I reckon by that time, the poor man must have lost it completely, losing whatever difference there was between "Elvis Presley" and "The King" in his mind years before. This is definitely reflected in the house, which just resembles way too much money and way too little time spent with an IKEA catalogue. The Pool Room has been done out like the inside of a Morrocan tent, while The Jungle Room is a bizarre mix of Tiki, Hunting Lodge and Rainforest with animal fur chairs, big wooden furniture and a waterfall trickling down one wall. So while the house is compelling in a Mondo Bizarro sort of way, the museum is also fascinating. Exhibits there include many of Elvis' clothes and let's face it, this was a man who pushed the envelope of fashion, starting out dressing like a pimp and ending up dressing like a cross between Liberace and Bruce Lee. There was the actual tv that Elvis had shot that time (I can only assume that "Are You Being Served?" was on) and a sad little Lisa Marie display. I felt pretty sorry for her. It's unsurprising she ended up quite so screwed up, and no wonder she felt some sort of empathy with Michael Jackson. Other exhibits included Elvis' time in the army, his movies and The Hall of Gold, an incredible display of his gold and platinum discs, grammys and other awards. The whole thing culminated with a video of the climax from his "Aloha From Hawaii" concert at which he concluded with "An American Trilogy". I've always been puzzled by this - how could he segue with the anthem of the south, Dixieland into the Battle Hymn of the Republic? Was this some sort of political statement The King was making about reconciliation? Or was Elvis just kind of a dick? Maybe we'll never know. Or maybe we will. The graffiti outside Graceland proclains, "ELVIS LIVES!" and maybe he does. I saw a book in a shop that asks the question, Why is Elvis's name MIS-SPELLED on his gravestone. It's true. I've seen it. They spell "Aron" with 2 A's. Maybe he' still amongst us, still fighting the war on drugs. And calories. Caro and I pottered around the giftshops, around the car collection and both planes. It's excellent value for $25 and took us nearly all day. That done, we were done with Memphis, a place that I'm glad I went to, but wouldn't visit again. But New Orleans sounded incredible. A guy struck up a conversation with me in Memphis and was thrilled to hear I was going there next. "Yew-all will LOVE N'awlins," he said, "there's good eatin' the-ah. Yew come away from N'awlins FAT." Oh great. Like I really needed any help with THAT.

Part 15: New Orleans Land of Voodoo and Vichy Soise

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Now then, what is the FIRST thing you think of when I say "The Big Easy"? If you're a woman, the answer is probably "Dennis Quaid's buttocks" but do try to keep your mind off sex for a minute. So yes - New Orleans! The Birthplace of Jazz! The Big Easy! Dennis Quaid's Buttocks!! It was all terribly exciting. Or at least it WOULD be as soon as our 9-hour train trip was over. The train itself was the famous "City of New Orleans" that Arlo Guthrie sang about... "Good morning America, how are you? Don't you know me? I'm your native son, I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done." The City of New Orleans left Memphis on a horrid rainy day at 7am, after a particularly stressful journey to the station due to the fact that the FUCKING taxi companies are FUCKING useless in Memphis. We waited half an hour for a taxi, only to get abuse from the company when I called them up to remind them we were still FUCKING waiting. Eventually I flagged down a cab in the rain on the street, but I am still fuming about it, even as I sit here typing this today. Hang on, I need to swear one last time. FUCK! Ahhh thats better. So we made it to the train just before it left, but due to our lateness, Caro and I could not sit together. I ended up sitting next to a student called Jeremy who went to the same college as Kim and Ann from Chicago. He was on his way to New Orleans to catch up with friends, which (given that he was a student) I took to mean getting wasted and eating pizza. I speak the language of youth, oh yes. Jeremy was actually pretty cool, even if his favourite program was Battlebots. We had a pretty good chat during which I berated him and his fellow countrymen for using the phrase "one hundred twenty" (or whatever) instead of "one hundred AND twenty". He insisted that the "and" was implied, and I told him that Americans couldn't expect to be readmitted to The Empire with an attitude like that. He took this upsetting news quite bravely, bless him. But Jeremy and I weren't having nearly as good a time as a couple behind us who were making a hell of a noise, carrying on, cackling and shrieking with laughter. Yes, of course it was Caroline and HER new friend, Priscilla. Priscilla was a sweet Memphian woman in her forties, and Caro had her in stitches telling her of our travels. I'm still not entirely sure what was said, but whatever it was, I'm sure it was at my expense. Priscilla, Caro and I decided to have lunch on the train together, which is a bit of an adventure on Amtrak because Americans don't do things by halves. No sad little sandwiches and plastic cups of tea for these people when travelling. They have fully-fledged restaurants on their trains, just like in North By Northwest, so we sat with our pathetic little serviettes on our laps as waiters wobbled dangerously past laden down with bowls of soup and po-boy sandwiches. Now I didn't know what a po-boy was, but in my role as culinary adventurer who will eat anything so long as it doesn't have tentacles or eyes, I ordered one. It turned out to be a meat sandwich (Priscilla told me that the meat can be anything from shrimp to chicken) which consists of a large amount of gravy. It was po-boy-licious and I found my previous attitude toward Amtrak improving. Meanwhile, Priscilla had Dirty Rice, which is spicy rice with red beans - I had to try this too and then I remembered the words of that guy in Memphis Youll come away from NAwlins faaaaaat. Oh well. Fuck it.

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The thing about travelling about by train is that it forces you to talk to new people - certainly Caro and Priscilla didn't seem to be resisting this and we were soon joined by someone else. A woman called Jana who sat next to me at lunch and immediately covered the fact that she essentially knew none of us by launching into a discussion of Greek Art. Jana was lovely. It turned out she was 71 and had been everywhere in her life, including Edinburgh. She announced that on arrival in New Orleans she would be taking part in a Gay Pride Parade which is not the sort of thing you expect from Little Old Southern Ladies. Anyway, between Jana and Priscilla, Caroline and I were well entertained and we found the long trip just slipping away. Even after lunch the three of them carried on their conversation while I popped back to the observation car to watch the swamplands slip by and to see if I could spot any alligators (I didn't, although there were loads of herons). I also spotted a "Piggly Wiggly" which has was one of my major ambitions on entering the South. Don't ask me why. We finally got into New Orleans by 5pm, and Caro said goodbye to her new friends after giving them details on where we were staying. Then WE had to figure out how to get there which involved getting into a long discussion with a very camp man at the tourist desk, who tried to call the hotel for us to find out if they had a shuttle. But first, he had to have an argument with the man who was hogging his telephone. It all got rather shrill. Oh, that man is a MESS," our helper hissed. "I really shouldn't lend out the phone like that." He went on to tell us how much he hated his job. Dealing with irritated tourists all day? Please! he complained. Then he glared at me, "You English are the WORST," he added, meaningfully. "I tell them I hate the Queen just to upset them." Seeing I wasn't unduly upset, he warmed to his theme, "I mean, honestly, they're always telling me how New Orleans isn't NEARLY as good as England - why don't they just go back home?!" I've noticed this myself about the English tourists. We do seem to spend a lot of time whining about how things arent nearly as good as they are back home. What the Americans dont know is that when were home we spend most of our time complaining about England. Thats the thing about we English were not happy unless were truly miserable. If you see what I mean. "Mind you," he continued, "I'm originally from San Francisco myself, and I find myself saying the New Orleans isnt nearly as good as California. The irony. God is punishing me." Unfortunately he was then cut short by our taxi arriving. It took us to the Hyatt Regency which sounded awfully posh but was actually just your average hotel. Wow. Dont I sound like the huge travel snob all of a sudden? However, the reason I say the Hyatt Regency was average is that after two days (due to a screw up on our part) we had to check out of there and go to The Monteleone, which is bang in the middle of La Vieux Carre or French Quarter as we Anglais know it. While the rooms at The Monteleone are pretty much the same as hotel rooms everywhere, the setting was AMAZING. The lobby had huge chandeliers, an amazing old grandfather clock and imposing pictures of the hotel's founders peering down at us. Adjoining the lobby is the locally famous Carousel bar, which indeed slowly rotates. (Not that this is anything amazing, I've known The Hebrides bar in Edinburgh to do the same thing at the end of the evening.) Then you step outside and open mouth (wow!) close mouth The French Quarter is just amazing. I wish you could see it now. I wish I were still THERE. There's just so much - and there's all this - and - and and I can't explain. It's like stepping back 200 years, but not in some horrid trip to a crusty old stately home way. New Orleans is alive and jumping. There's stuff going on everywhere - we passed a bar and heard the blues, past a guy on the street corner playing jazz on his trumpet and in the middle of the next street were a couple of guys singing "Stand By Me", "Sea of Love" and "You Send Me". "Hey lady," one of them shouted to Caro, "it's okay to help out somebody if you want - I mean, me an' my grandad are out here singing our ass- uh butts off." So she gave them a couple of dollars despite the fact that she's just given them a dollar five minutes previously.

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There are kids grooving along to the music everywhere, and a complete lack of the racial tension we felt in Memphis (I'm not nave enough to say it isn't there - just that we never felt it). Then there's the shops, tons and tons of little interesting places, an infinite amount of stuff. I should emphasise that Im not talking about tourist tat here. Although I must admit that there is a fair amount of tourist rubbish around, in the usual form of posters, tea-towels and genuine Cajun hot sauce. Still, I enjoyed looking at all the different sauces, which all had fun names, even if they all pretty much stuck to the same basic theme. They included: Rectal Rocket Fuel Anal Agony Ass in a Bucket of Water Blazing Blow-Job Flaming Fart Holy Crap! - and my own personal favourite Hunka Hunka Burnin' Butt Tourist shopping opportunities aside, if you bypass all those you'll just find the most fascinating little places. Shops with endless nooks crammed with items that you've either never seen before or haven't seen in years. New Orleans IS history. It's like everything from the past seems to get sucked down there, to be preserved forever in the mud. Sorry. I'm getting overwrought. But New Orleand has that effect on you. It's just an endlessly fascinating place. Caro and I took all afternoon to walk just one block on our first day in the French Quarter. This is because of all the things going on, and all the stuff we wanted to look at. We spent an hour looking at all the buildings on one street, because they are like nothing you have ever seen before. Constructed in the Spanish style, they were built from bricks the slaves made from a mixture of Spanish moss, horsehair, mud and molasses. They all feature balconies which overflow with plants and flowers dangling down and iron lacework hanging underneath like fossilised spiderwebs. Flags fly, shop fronts feature those kooky old wooden signs, music blares out and there's this smell everywhere generated by food, heat, body odour, illegal substances and something vaguely musty that reminds you of your trainers after 3rd year P.E. On our first day in the French Quarter we ducked into a vintage memorabilia shop, which itself took a good hour to look around. We weren't about to buy anything. If we had done that the budget would have been blown and we would have had to return on the next flight. I was sorely tempted though this shop was like a fascinating museum standing there on the corner. Amongst the stock was a pair of Muhammed Ali's shorts valued at $1500, Bugsy Siegel's autograph on a playing card (the ace of diamonds) for $4500, dozens of dollar bills signed by everyone from Frank Sinatra to The Blues Brothers and a copy of the Royal Wedding programme signed by Charles and Di which was worth over $5000. The guy behind the counter tried to interest us in this because I am English and therefore love Her Majesty. I get this quite a lot. Americans often try to strike up a conversation by saying "Say, how about that Camilla?" like they would ask about the fortunes of a football team, or "So, how's the Queen?" as if I may reply that I bumped into her the other day at Tescos and she was looking a bit peaky. To keep the shopkeeper happy, Caro and I had oooh-ed at the wedding programme, but eventually managed to steer the conversation back to the Rat Pack and he promptly produced a Dean Martin album signed by the old sot for $375. I'm sure it was, as he said, "an investment" but we took the opportunity to scarper when some woman asked him about Jim Morrison. So many of the shops were like this. Caro found a marvellous old book shop that we rummaged around for hours, finding interesting old prints and musty books. Caro found a marvellous old anthropological study on New Zealand and The Maori full of wonderful ink drawings, and I was delighted to find that the shop had a "Criminality and Rascality" section. Fabulous. In all of these shops people behind counters were eager to show us stuff, not so much to make a sale, but as an excuse to chat, ignore the other customers, find out what we were up to and all that. We found the

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people of New Orleans to be very proud of their city and delighted that wed found our way there. It was definitely the friendliest city we'd yet visited. On more than one occasion, locals came up to us just to offer advice, directions and-

CRACK!!!

BOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!

What the HELL was THAT???!! And who turned on the BLOODY taps!!??? Yes, New Orleans is subject to frequent, violent thunderstorms that caught the two of us off-guard on a couple of occasions. Wed be walking along in bright, blazing sunshine, duck into a shop for a couple of minutes then step back out again to find Noah floating by on his ark, and thunder rocking the French Quarter like cannonfire. It seemed strange to this English boy, for whom rain is something that comes on only gradually (but then lasts for WEEKS) but it all added to the thick, muggy atmosphere of the place. Fortunately for us, Caro had bought a brolly in Memphis after she was caught in an unexpected downpour on the way to Graceland and was desperately trying to avoid a Hair Situation. So the brolly went up and down like a whore's drawers the entire time we spent in New Orleans. I didn't really mind the rain anyway - it was so hot in the city that I knew I would be dry (but very sticky) about 10 minutes after the rain stopped. It was in the middle of one of these monsoons that Caro and I decided to take a tour of the city, which was a great decision as we went with a tour company that employs local historians as guides. Our guy was called Leonard, a lecturer in local history as well as being a bus driver or "Tour Conveyance Executive" as he put it. "Y'all gotta learn The Phrase That Pays, if'n y'all wanna git on," he explained. "So ah ahm a Tour Conveyance Executive, a garbageman is a City Refuse Operative and a drug dealer is a Pharmaceutical Goods Facilitator." Then he insisted that we learn the Phrase That Pays pertaining to New Orleans: "In N'awlins Everything Is Mo' Betta". Y'all got that? Anyway. So Leonard was GREAT. He drove us out of the French Quarter while explaining how New Orleans came to be the way it is. Are you sitting comfortably? New Orleans The History According To Leonard New Orleans started out as a dumping ground for French undesirables. Kind of like Australia, only without Rolf Harris which, in itself, is something of a plus. Early French settlers had been duped into buying the land by mendacious explorers who promised vast tracts of rich, fertile land. Said French gullibles then sailed out to the Promised Land to find a swamp. "Ah non, zees cannot be ze New Orleans we were told off bah le exploreur chapeez," they said speaking English in a funny French accent for some strange reason. But, as they explored further they found there was more to New Orleans than swampland. They also found alligators. And snakes. And native American tribes, who were only slightly less antisocial than the alligators and snakes. The poor Frenchies then embarked on the only course left open to them. They died. Well, mostly they did. The rest of them decided to focus on the priorities of the French, namely shagging, and petitioned the king for suitable brides, who promptly sent them a job-lot of convicted prostitutes. New Orleans was born.

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Les Nouvelle Orleanistes discovered that the land was cultivatable, reclaimed some of the swampland and began growing sugar. In order to do this, they grabbed some slaves out of the neighbouring American tribes, who promptly embarked on the only course of action open to them - namely either legging it back home or dying. Without adequate labour, those froggy French chaps would have had it, so they replaced those unreliable Native Americans with Africans, who would have a great deal more trouble legging it back home, although they did manage to die equally easily. Actually, that's not quite true. Some slaves did attempt to escape to life in the swamps where they found aid and support amongst the Cajuns. Some people think the Cajuns were the French - mais non mes petites! Les Cajuns were in fact, French-Canadians of Viking descent who had buggered off out of Canada to escape the nasty Scots after General Wolfe had captured Quebec. On reaching French territory, the poor Cajuns without a centime to their names had been forced to settle in the swamps and exist on a diet of possum and frog, which appears to have sent them a bit mad. The Cajuns became a self-enclosed community which shunned contact with the outside world and perfected the art of really spicy food (which was probably something to do with that possum and frog diet). Leonard explained that just one of the Cajun specialities was Alligator Sausage on a Stick. "Now THAT'S some good eatin' right there," he said. He went on to say how one of his tourists had sampled one of these delights on his tour, and had been remarking how tasty it was when he told her what it was made out of. "She threw up right then and there, all over me," he concluded. The Creoles, meanwhile, were the descendants of those unfortunate Frenchies and their tarty wives. However, by now Napoleon had decided to give Louisiana to his brother, the King of Spain. Thats a heck of a present. All I ever get from my sibling is socks. So now, Louisiana was Spanish and the Creoles became a mixture of French and Spanish. Following all this? It gets worse, because after a few years, those Spaniards got sick of Napoleon, had a bit of a scrap with the Spanish as led by The Iron Duke, Arthur Wellesley and old Boney had to claim Louisiana back for the Frenchies again. However for a period, New Orleans was Spanish, which is why the buildings have that Spanish flavour. In fact, The French Quarter is a complete misnomer, because all the buildings are in the Spanish style. I do hope youre taking notes. The Creoles were a funny bunch. They had rules and regulations for everything, partly because they were Catholic, partly just because they liked rules. Creole society was very strictly broken down and everyone was labelled. Young Creole men found this sort of thing very restricting. Young ladies had to be covered from head to ankle and just seeing a woman's ankles meant you had to get married. Imagine! You catch a glimpse of some young lady's foot and it turns out she has puffy ankles or ugly feet. And it's too late! You have to marry the horny-hoofed monstrosity, because you've compromised her foot-modesty. Chiropodists must have had a heck of a time of it. Because of this, many of these old houses had two separate staircases for men and women, to avoid accident foot-spotting incidents which resulted in young Harry ending up marrying elderly aunt Eunice, but these naughty young men also had a habit of hanging around the women's staircase, waiting for the woman they wanted to hook up with and then leaping out saying "Ah-HA!! I've seen your ankles!! Now you are MINE!" They were a bit mad, those Creoles. Once they were married, the Creole ladies would put out, but unfortunately men being what they are, they often fancied a bit of the other. This being so, the Creoles invented another set of Rules and Regulations for Having A Bit of The Other. Basically, the Creole men would maintain what was called a "Shadow" family with free women of colour in a fine house on the other side of the tracks. Free men or women of colour were the illegitamate sons and daughters of slaves and their masters. Under The Black Code, they were free, although they had to carry papers proving that they were not slaves. Once again, the Creoles outdid themselves in fastidious labelling of everything, and their rules and names broke down like this: One white parent, one black - Mulatto One black parent, one mulatto - Sambo or Griff

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One white parent, one multatto - Quadroon One white parent, one quadroon - Octoroon One white parent, one octoroon - Musterfino or Mameloque These women and men could be completely black or white, but so long as they had one of these labels, they could kiss polite society goodbye. The men were allowed to pursue careers, but nothing professional (many became musicians) while the women simply attached themselves to a rich Creole gentleman and became his shadow wife (or placee, in a form of marriage referred to as placage). The Black Code placed severe restrictions on these women, forcing them to wear coloured bandanas, so they would be marked out, no matter how white they were. Placees were kept out of the best shops, prohibited from marrying a Creole, owning a horse (though they were allowed to own slaves) or just being "uppity" (which basically meant anything that upset a Creole woman). The Black Code back was used partially as a way of labelling the population, partly as a way of ensuring the rights of slaves and people of colour. Yes, slaves actually had rights under the Creoles, who worked out that with at least half a dozen slaves to every Creole, they had better be treated decently, unless they wanted to end up with pitchforks up their bottoms. As a result, slaves in Louisiana had weekends off, and could only be disciplined by the wives of the landowners, who at worst, would merely spank the slaves. (Although the wife also had the threat of "putting him in her pocket" which meant selling the slave on to the Americans and pocketing the profit). Since the slaves knew that slavery in the US was a great deal more severe than in Louisiana, this was often enough to keep them in line. The Southern Belles, it turns out, were a pretty tough bunch actually. With their husbands constantly going off drinking, gambling or shagging about, they were often left to run the plantation themselves. Often they worked in the fields alongside their slaves, as well as running a household and having enormous families. "Gone With the Wind" and Scarlett O'Hara, Leonard informed us, is all just a pretty myth. Back in Louisiana, it turns out that the slaves out often didn't want weekends off - they preferred to cut sugar to make money for themselves and use that money towards buying their own freedom although this was a practice the Creoles did not allow and again, could result in that slave being sold to the Americans. It seems the Creoles preferred their slaves to have weekends of so they could entertain their masters with gris-gris ceremonies - voodoo rituals. Voodoo had come to New Orleans via Senegal and Haiti and reached its height under a free woman of colour named Marie Laveux who worked out that adding a little Catholicism to the pot would make it still more enticing. Marie Laveux, and her daughter (also named Marie) were the ones who really popularized voodoo in Louisiana - the two women's lives were so intermingled, the myth is that she was actually just one woman who lived to be 120 years old. Sort of like Donatella Versace. In the end, Lousiana was sold by Bonaparte to the Americans, whom the Creoles considered a lower form of life than the slaves. This led to yet a split between the Orleanists who thought Bonaparte a betrayer of the French and the Bonapartists who would have nothing said against the man. Meanwhile, the uneducated Kaintucks, as they were known, were loathed as loud and vulgar Americans. Worse still they were Protestant. New Orleans is divided today into French and American quarters, with Canal Street being the dividing line. However, our tour guide, Leonard told us that one of the biggest causes for friction between the two societies was the height of the Americans. "The Creoles, they wuz jes little people - the men were 'bout four foot six, the women even smaller. And when those little Creole women laid eyes on them big ol' Americans, well they didn't behave as proper as they should if you know what I'm sayin'." So there you go. Once again small men lose out to six-footers. I should invest in some lifts. "'Course," Leonard continued, "when them little four foot Creole women gave birth to children that turned out to be six foot. Well, them four foot six Creole men, they say 'Hey those goddam Kaintucks jumped mah fence' and they took them their swords and they chased them Kaintucks back over Canal Street."

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The Americans also considered the Creoles to be huge hypocrites for sniffing at the American's habit of sleeping with their slaves, since to American eyes, all people of colour were slaves. In their eyes, the Creoles, with all their placees and fine houses and shadow families, were doing just the same as them. So there was no love lost between the two societies, with frequent duelling breaking out. People were always dropping dead in New Orleans, what with the duelling, the high crime rate and the disease. Living in a swamp is not good for the constitution, and when you add in all the diseases that arrived via the port, yellow fever and typhoid epidemics would regularly wipe out sizable portions of the population. This, together with voodoo, accounts for New Orlean's fascination with death. Well that, and the fact that due to the water table, you can't actually bury the dead. "They tried that at the beginning," explained Leonard, "but then came the first flood, and all them coffins popped up and all them folks jes' watched as their aunts and grandfathers floated on by." As a result, New Orleans has these graveyards, referred to as cities of the dead, dominated by aboveground tombs. Leonard took us to Saint Louis Cemetary Number Three. "Ah woulda taken you to number one, because it's more interestin'. Marie Laveux, she's in there, and even today people leave her offerings and be doin' ceremonies and such, but it's a dangerous place. You do NOT go there alone, and if anythin' happened to you people, I would be in trouble." So we wandered around the rather tidy number three instead. It didn't look particularly frightening or macabre, but I imagine it would be quite different at night. Leonard explained how these tombs contained about 200 people and... You WHAT??!! Two HUNDRED? Well, I mean these things are BIG, but not THAT big. How do they get 200 people inside? Do you really want to know? It turns out that in the days of the old plagues, the church and the scientists had no idea what was causing the epidemics. They tried to rid the city of typhoid, malaria and so forth by firing cannons, which is about as much use as Robert Downey Jr. after a trip to Columbia, so the church came up with this rule: Anyone who dies, gets put in the tomb for a year and a day to stop the disease spreading. This too, didn't work, but it was a rule, it was all they had and you know how those Creoles are about rules. So anyway, these poor buggers were entombed for a year and a day after their death. Medical science being what it was, sometimes they were buried alive. That's a pretty scary thing. Can you imagine waking up in a TOMB. Fortunately, those Creoles thought of everything and put little bell-towers in these tombs so if the dead should wake up, they could yank on a little chain and let everyone know that they had been misdiagnosed. And that is where the phrase "saved by the bell" comes from. Isn't that interesting?!? Isn't it??? Oh, bugger you then. After a year and a day, if the deceased had failed to ring for assistance, they were taken out, cremated and shoved into a little pit in the middle of the tomb called le caveux at which point any new family members could be inserted. If, however, the family tomb filled up (there was generally room for about 3 bodies at a time) before the year and the day expired, then the surplus body went In The Wall. The Wall is not a good place to go - it's where people who couldn't afford tombs ended up. Being put in the wall generally means some antisocial type will drag your poor old bones out of there and grind them up for use in a voodoo potion. "You might think that voodoo is just some tourist thing," said Leonard, "it's not. It's very real and very dangerous and there is still a huge trade in human bones. That's why you never go into these cemetaries without a guide." The other danger in the cemetaries is that fact that, as church land, it does not have a police prescence. As such, it has become a home to junkies and drug dealers who have taken over many of the tombs and made

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them their home. They refer to themselves as "Gutter Punks" while the New Orleanistes call them "zombies". All this death and disease is what gives New Orleans its rather hedonistic philosophy. If you had to sum up the philosophy of New Orleans it would be something along the lines of "Oh, let's shag and get pissed, tomorrow we'll be dead anyway." The locals, of course, have more poetic ways of putting it laissez le bonne temps rouler, another phrase I liked is lache pas la patate which means, "Don't let go of the potato." It probably loses something in translation. The point is, that it is a city used to death and decay in fact a it is a city that feels like it is decaying all around you - the heat and the humidity cause paint to fade and masonry to crumble almost in front of your very eyes. Add to this the constant flooding and the fact that the city is sinking into the mud and we will be lucky if New Orleans lasts another 100 years. Book your trip now. Storyville played a big part in this hedonistic atmosphere. This was an area set up by (ironically) a moral crusader named Story who wanted an area for the strumpets to be sent and in order to leave the ordinary decent folk in peace. Of course, the ordinary decent menfolk soon found themselves in Storyville and the area became a den of vice and naughtiness that made the Pigalle look like Lourdes. Storyville no longer exists, but is still famous as the birthplace of jazz - or, if not the birthplace, then the place where jazz got drunk and contracted a social disease. If I'm making New Orleans sound horrible, then I apologise. I loved the place - it had real character. The atmosphere and the history of New Orleans is so palpable you absord it with every step and every time you look around. Part of that history - actually a big part - is sort of horrible and grotesque, but very much alive - it might be alive in the same way a dead cat is alive with maggots, but it's still jumpin'. In conclusion, if New Orleans was a person, it would undoubtedly be some syphilitic old hag, hacking and wheezing on a cigarette but with great stories to tell about the women she'd met and the men she'd shagged. Her voice would crack like a marble slab being prised off and her breath would stink of whisky and tobacco. And just when you were giving her a chaste kiss goodbye, she'd slip you the tongue. THAT'S what New Orleans would be like if she was a woman. (And if she were a man, she'd be Keith Richards. Enough said.) The culmination of the hedonism of course, is the Mardi Gras, which in some ways I would have liked to have seen (we had a bit of a look at the Mardi Gras museum which was amazing) but at the same time, I hear it's a mad time of the year to be around. Leonard said that the locals only come into town in February to look at the tourists. He went on to tell the story of how one old man was riding in Leonards tour bus during Mardi Gras when an overwrought and rather well liquified gentleman dropped from a tree and rode on the top of the bus. The old tourist was horrified, stormed to the front of the bus and demanded his money back: "What sort of a tour is this, that's got young hooligans riding around the top of the bus?!" he ranted. Leonard tried to reason with him, and told him that it was just Mardi Gras, but there was no calming him down. He went back to his seat, still snarling that it JUST WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH, but then looked out of the window to see lots of young ladies lined up at the side of the street lifting their tops and flashing their boobs. "Then he come on back to the front of the bus," said Leonard, "and he apologised to me and asked if he could ride up front with me. Then he settled down and he had himself a good ol' time." Apparently, flashing your boobs is a bit of a tradition in New Orleans. The people on the floats have handfuls of beads necklaces that they throw to the women in the crowd once they have shown willing, as it were. The bizarre thing is that as you drive down Charles Street, the trees are still all bedecked with these necklaces, still dangly gaily from the trees. It's quite a spectacle. Although not as much of a spectacle as the boobs.

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My god, I've been rattling on about history for quite some time now haven't I? Sorry about that - but I was fascinated by Leonard's stories, and I haven't told you half of them. I truly envy his students. He explained that, as part of his tour, he would tell us the whole, un-politically correct truth of the matter, and sorry if was offensive, but that's how it was. I appreciated that. He also went on to tell us how he had managed to send an entire bus to sleep with his stories once, "I looked around and they was all snorin' - so I drove them 'round the projects, jest to see if they would notice." Then there was the time he had a bus full of seeing eye dogs. "You'd be surprised - I get a lot of blind tour groups. And the weird thing is, when you tell 'em to look left - they do." Leonard ended up taking us to Audobon Park, which is devoted to the wildlife you find around a swamp, where we saw alligators, raccoons, brown bears and otters. It was all very peaceful and relaxing after the bustle of New Orleans and slightly less smelly too. After this, we got dropped back in the French Quarter, but not before passing through the pretty mansion houses of the Garden District, where Leonard pointed out that all the porches have sky-blue ceilings. "This is to fool the birds and the bees. They see the sky up there and they reckon they can't build a nest there. That stops 'em shittin' all over your porch. I wish I had known that when I painted my porch ceiling green." Caro and I were just loving all this history, and Caro satiated her desire for the macabre by taking me to the Voodoo Museum and the Pharmacy Museum. Both were small establishments. The voodoo museum was more like an art exhibit really, as the various bits and pieces didn't mean much to me, some were beautiful, and some were eerily fascinating. Oddly, it was the blank-faced carvings of zombies that caught my eye, although the huge altar to the Virgin Mary also stood out. As for the pharmacy, well it was like something you'd see in Little House on the Prairie, with tons of little drawers and bottles that became even more fascinating when you looked closer and saw that the glass bottles contained lots bizarre medical treatments that looked decidedly unpleasant. One contained a jar of living leeches. In another I found cocaine, hash and opium. Caro's favourites were the Rectal Dilators, instruments which did not at all look like they would bring the promised "relief" to the patient. Although I have to admit, my rectum dilated just looking at the damn things. Toward the end of the week, we got an invitation from Jana! Remember her? I know the beginning of this chapter is an AWFUL long time ago now, but do try. She invited Caro and I over to her Shotgun House for "brunch". Jana arrived at our hotel and escorted us back on the trolley to her place, which was a wonderful old house. Leonard had already explained to us that a shotgun house was one where the front and back doors lined up perfectly - like in those cartoons where Tom tries to batter down the front door and then Jerry opens it and the back door at the same time and Tom goes on running right through the house demolishing Butch's doghouse in the back garden instead. Or as Leonard put it, "You can stand in the garden out front, get a shotgun and shoot a chicken dead in the backyard." Lunch consisted of Vichy Soise, which was so posh that I don't even know how to spell it properly. This was followed, Jana announced, by "a true Southern dish" which turned out to be chicken and dumplings. It was all delicious, and topped off with a rum pudding thing with a cherry on top. Oh, and vodka. Did I mention the vodka? If I forgot it's because I now have an aversion to the stuff thanks to Lisa Mackinnon. However, Caro had mischeivously told Jana that it was my drink of choice, and so Jana got some in for me. (Fortunately, she assumed it was Caro's as well, so she had to have it too, ha ha ha ha.) Jana was, to put it mildly, A Bit of A Character. She poured HUGE vodkas for us all (poor Caro was on neat vodka by the end of the night, while I wisely started pouring for myself) and kept us entertained with her stories. She tried to teach me to speak with an American accent. "I can't do it," I explained. "No, no," she insisted like Henry Higgins, "you mean ya CAIN'T do it!!" I repeated that, indeed, I CAIN'T do it, and she seemed happy with that and moved onto teaching us how to say, "What are ya - CRAZY?!??" like a New Yorker. She filled us on her exploits that week. As you may recall she had decided to take part in the Decadence Parade. She insisted we see her costume and scuttled off to her bedroom, returning with a tiny bright red

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chemise. "One of my insignificant bosoms fell out at one point," she admitted, "and I had to be helped back into it by a Young Man," she added proudly. Its such a shame he was gay, she sighed. At 71, you had to admire her spirit, which it seems she's had all her life, having spent 14 years with a professional gambler who "adored" her. "Although we fought - our fights were legendary!" He took her all around the world, from Edinburgh to Cannes to Puerto Rico, where she had some "amazing" fights. "I was once taken aside by the manager of our hotel in Puerto Rico about the fights. I apologised of course, but he told me it was the best floorshow they'd ever had." Her favourite thing about the hotel in Puerto Rico had been the dolphins that had lived in a lagoon outside. "It was cruel, I know, but one night I swear I went out to talk to one of them and he understood me." She had lived an amazingly glamourous life with this guy, and had met all sorts of people including Gene Kelly. "I was reading the paper and asked him if he wanted the Sports page. He turned to me and asked, 'Do you know who I am?' I just said, 'Yes' and went on reading." She was considerably less cool when she met Gregory Peck though. "I had dropped a pile of papers when he came up beside me to help me pick them up. As soon as he spoke I knew who it was. I was so excited I punched him in the stomach and winded the poor man completely." But then she walked away from it all when Frank, her professional gambler, had wanted to get married. "Never again, I told him. And I meant it. He never understood." For Jana had had a previous marriage which hadn't ended particularly well. "Oh well, never mind," she added, "I never liked him much anyway." He had taken her on a world cruise during which time she decided to spend all her time with a rather dashing German man instead. She sort of remained friends with her husband, until he remarried a rather neurotic woman who was prone to calling her up, complaining about him. "I never knew what to say. So I just used to make noises," Jana explained. "One time she calls me up, and I say "Hello?' and she just launches into this whole torrent of abuse about him, and I just said, 'Oh' and 'Really?' and 'Hmmm', the whole time." "Eventually, she asks me if I would like to meet her for lunch, and I said, 'That would be nice' - this being the first actual word I'd used since, 'Hello?' so we arranged to meet. When I got there I found my exhusband - who I never liked anyway - there telling me to leave his wife alone. And SHE called ME. I never spoke to either of them since." So after her marriage and Frank, Jana turned her back on the glamourous life, and went down to live in New Orleans which she loves. Her house was amazing, full of interesting and tasteful bric-a-brac. Of course, the dinner (and the vodka) weren't free so Caro and I did a couple of chores for her. "It's so hard to do things for myself now," she said. She was seventy-one after all - though you wouldn't have known it to look at her. "The thing is, I don't feel seventy-one," she complained. "I still get hot flushes and erotic dreams. It's quite disturbing." Caro loved Jana and all her stories. She loved how Jana had been one of the first people to protest against the fur trade and had thrown red paint at Saks Fifth Avenue. Jana had also been arrested for protesting the Vietnam war in Redskin stadium. "I've never been treated like that in my own country!" she snarled, still smarting over it, three decades later. But even if she doesn't feel seventy-one, it's catching up apparently. She told us she'd been in the hospital a couple of times already this year, but she seemed pretty philosophical about life now, "When the next hurricane hits, I'm not going anywhere - what, try to evacuate along with the other 1.2 million people who live here? What are ya? Crazy???" Caro and Jana ended the evening talking (or by this stage, slurring) about reincarnation which Jana believed in, ("Next time, I'll be taller".) But it was her Puerto Rican dolphins that she really wanted to be with again. "I've never been able to swim in this life, but I'd like that. In the next life, send me to the dolphins."

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So, after an afternoon that turned out taking up most of the evening as well, we said our goodbyes and Jana called her "personal taxi driver". She had the usual endearing little old lady habit of assuming that everyone else in the world is there for her at all times and demanded of her driver, "Okay. Where ARE ya?? I've got a couple friends here need a ride. When can ya be here??" Her personal taxi driver was also a bit of a character. He told us that his wife can't WAIT to meet Jana, and that they refer to her privately as "Miss Daisy". It was yet another warm and funny conversation in New Orleans, and we'd had more of that in that one week than pretty much the rest of our whole time in the USA. There's just something about the place that I can't put my finger on. New Orleans, with its history and character is closer to Edinburgh than to any other city I've been to. The people seem to accept you and chat like you've known each other for years. I don't know why this is. Perhaps it's something to do with holding onto potatoes. From: Caro Date: ???? 2001 So, its been a bit of a weird time being in the States over the last few weeks. After the pilgrimage to Graceland, we hopped on the "City of New Orleans" Train and rode down from Memphis to New Orleans, tired and wet. Tired because we'd been up since 5am and wet because it was suddenly monsoon season. As the taxidriver said "Yo sho are up early dis mornin'. Yo shoulda got yo'selves a boat to da station, yessur!". Actually, I think he was the best taxidriver ever, one of these philosopher types that rambles on and on, whether you're awake or not. Travel Tip: Don't bother to phone a taxi in Memphis unless you really really need one. We had a couple of Taxi crisis situations. On one occassion, the booking woman told me, after I phoned to complain about waiting for 30 minutes, the cabbie had been past our hotel 3 times and didn't see us and wouldn't be back a 4th time because we were wasting his time. My arse. Bad words were said and Kiwis are probably no longer welcome in Memphis. Still, she probably thought I was Australian anyway. Anyway, so when we board the train, we discover it has been overbooked and we have to sit next to other people (thank god, I had a stash of magazines). My experience of Amtrak trains in the States was that whoever sits next to you must launch into their life story, boring you to death with their funny little anecdotes. At this time of the morning, do I look like I give a shit? At 6.45am its all too depressing for me. Due to the overbooking, the train was still sitting in Memphis at 8.00am ("Symon, if anybody tries to tell me we can't have these seats, they'll get a friggin' earful from me. I'm not getting off this train" and on and on I went. I think Symon was quite grateful he didn't have to sit next to moaning arse all the way to The Big Easy). It's just I'm not a morning person, you know. As it turns out, I sat beside an artist named Priscilla, a Memphis local and travelling down to New Orleans to see her grandchildren and scope out galleries. A few minutes after introducing ourselves, I discovered that Priscilla was as evil as myself. Excellent. I found my new best friend: we cackled and talked evilly of others on the train (Priscilla nudged me one point to turn around and look at a hugely large woman in a fetching terry cloth outfit snoring her head off, mouth open and half hanging off the seat. Priscilla took a photo and it was then I realised me and P were going to have fun). We harassed Symon, bitched about the service, talked about Memphis and the shooting incident, had lunch (and dessert) and met another lady, Jana, who was a 71 year old Southern Belle and tough as old leather boots. We had a hilarious trip down to New Orleans and even got ourselves invited to Jana's for lunch and a few vodkas one afternoon. Nice. We arrived in New Orleans, watched a Visitor Information Guy get stuck into a Visitor, shouting and waving his arms about because he was using the telephone, and then lectured us on "being careful in this city. Its a bad place for some people". OK, so there's a shooting in Memphis and now we're in the "bad place", whose big bloody idea was this?

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As it turns out, New Orleans rocks the big Kahuna. Its is one of the best places we've stayed. We stayed at the Monteleone Hotel, in the heart of the French Quarter, having booked through our hotel reservation network that gives you impossibly cheap rates for classy establishments. Immediately upon check-in, we could feel the stares from the other guests. Did we look that bad? Did I remember deodorant this morning? Looking about, it seems I should have been wearing hideous old lady gold shoes and gold chains, holding a large tote bag, with my perm hair set (circa 1965) and blouse and slacks, linen of course. Oh, and matching suitcases, darling, on coasters. Instead, we marched in wearing the trusty jeans and T shirts with backpacks on, no tip for the bellboy, we carried our own bags, Mate. Once we were there, "N'awlins" was action all the way: Other guests having major domestics in the hallway for a couple of hours. Security were called and it was all on for another hour or so. The walls were paper thin and I'm pretty positive there were some pervy sex game things happening next door. Symon was asleep. He is never around when the interesting things start happening, like when I was propositioned in the lift in Toronto by a French couple for a threesome. I set the smoke alarms off by having a cigarette. Twice. Security was knocking on our door in seconds. Instead of de-stressing myself and relaxing having a ciggie, instead I inhaled, the alarm went off, I coughed and nearly shat myself, my blood pressure now skyrocketing out of control. "Excuse me, Sir, we have a report you're smoke alarm has been activated." "Yes, my girlfriend just lit a cigarette." "Were you standing directly underneath the alarm, Ma'am?" Totally peeved. I hate being called Ma'am. Obviously my Estee Lauder Light Source SPF 15 with retinoids and AHAs are not doing their anti-ageing job. "No" "Ma'am why are you standing in the corner? Are you scared because of the alarm?" Hello? Did you not get eyes for Christmas? You got up to our room so fucking quickly, I have not had time to put my bloody jeans on! I am standing here, with a mangled cigarette, attempting to hide my lower half behind the bed, looking like a prat, you blind bastard. "No" "We'll send Maintenance up to reset the alarm, sir. Ya'll have a good night." I spent the remainder of the week, flapping a map of New Orleans about everytime I exhaled. I only got caught once more, exhaling around the alarm. Why bother having a smoking room option if the smoke alarms are so sensitive? Hey, it was all adding to the experience, along with the Jazz playing buskers, the Blues crooning buskers, the Voodoo museum, finding our lovely little cafe where we went nearly everyday and had yummy coffees, poking about in gorgeous little shops, taking photos of the seriously old and rickety buildings with iron lacework and brightly painted colours, going on a tour of the city with a Professor from the University and getting the real story of the area and not just the usual tourist crap, drinking vodka from very large tumblers, neat, with a 71 year old woman with an amazing history, and a penchant for disliking her husbands and a bawdy lifestyle. The Pharmacy Museum was pretty amazing. It was filled with all manner of weird and wonderful things: glass eyes, leeches in jars (accompanied with gory photos of some mangled guy's leg), lashings of arsenic

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and strychnine, vicious looking dentistry instruments (pure cocaine was applied to toothache). Samples held in glass cabinets, the early asthma "inhalators" looked to me, more like bongs, complete with old water. Enormous rectal dilators were used to cure nervousness. I think just waving it about in front of someone would do the trick. There was an entire display of the uses of cannabis in its various forms and examples of medicinal usage and associated instruments. Another cabinet was dedicated to "Women's Remedies" (yes, we all what that means) which also contained medicine for nervous disability, fainting, and constipation (hmmm). In fact, there were so many drugs and poisons, its amazing the place has never been robbed. There was morphine, syringes, opium and laudanum, cannabis, cocaine... and a very disinterested woman behind the counter. Entry was a donation of $2. What else did I learn besides the many usages for a rubber hose? Never leave the hotel without an umbrella. Jerry Springer graduated from the local university. Gold or silver painted mime shows are annoying here, too. Watching someone standing still for an indefinite amount of time does not make me want to give them money -it causes me fight the urge to push them over. Levi's has released a TV ad with the "Copa Cabana" as the theme music (I always knew "Bazza" rocked). AT & T phonecards are a goddamned rip-off. $20 for 15 minutes of talking. What the hell is that? Walking around in the thunder and lightning can "cure nervousness" as well. I was a bit sad to leave N'awlins and people who ask "How's yo Momma?" meaning "How's life and everything and your family and what's the latest goss with you then?", but we were bound for Fort Lauderdale and South Beach, Miami. Nice. Fort Lauderdale was wet. Very wet. And that's where we were, holed up in our hotel room, with absolutely nothing to do or anywhere to go (it seems the entire town shuts down when it rains), waiting for a hurricane warning, when we heard about the attack on the World Trade Centre. The hotel Tiki Bar was full of guests draining their glasses and watching with horrified expressions and shouting about retribution. All those working that day, were sent home, all businesses closed. It was like an eerie ghost town. Symon, Sue, Luke and I had been there, literally 3 weeks before. And in Washington. It felt very surreal. The day we visited the WTC, we had explored the massive shopping mall underneath it. People may also not realise, there was a huge underground railway station under the shopping mall as well, so there must have been commuters in tunnels at the time of the attacks. Symon and I spent about 2 hours in Borders bookshop, buying guidebooks on Memphis and New Orleans, CDs and magazines. We sat in the hot sun in front of the huge fountain in the plaza, watching the children running in and out of the water, while we waited for Sue and Luke to come back down from the top of the building. Sue and her vertigo were not having the best time. Luke ran all over the plaza taking photos from unusual angles. I can't remember if it was Sue or Luke who told me that the guy who took the tourists to the top of the building in the elevator, was called Angel. It was kind of a funny name and it stuck in my head. The day after the news hit, we bought the paper and there were three girls talking about having been to the Michael Jackson concert a few days before, and they had been up the WTC. Angel had taken them up to the top. A quote was "Unless he managed to get out, he'll be an Angel now, for sure." So sad. However, after seeing the same scenes on 10 of the 11 channels on our TV, all day and all night, I was getting pretty fed up with the inane reporters asking stupid bloody questions of survivors, fighting for a scoop and a bit of airtime. Geez, there was such minute details being released that they even had an announcement that Burger King Headquarters are now closed. We've heard the stories about coverage in New Zealand and Scotland, and it is an awful thing to have happened. TV coverage has not ceased over here yet. Sheryl Crow pops up on your telly, "Hi I'm Sheryl Crow...." and on she goes on and on in the most boring monotone ever about donating money. I thought she was a rock singer for crissakes, where's the emotion, woman? Everyone whipped out their Old Navy T shirts with the stars and stripes logo (usually for 4th July celebrations in Vegas wear only) and wore them. Flags are

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stuck to cars. Flags hang from balconies. Shop windows are dressed in red white and blue. The music in shops is that bloody awful "Proud to be an American" song. Is there a less emotive song in the history of music? TV ads play "I am an American" showing university students of all races quoting those 4 words. Quotes are flashed at you intermittently by Abraham Lincoln and George W Bush. Magazines and local papers devote entire issues to photos of the attacks. They've had a Telethon with all the major celebrities manning phonelines. So, continuing on: Jon Bon Jovi and Rickie Sambora ask you to phone 1-800-donation. The President cuts into a programme to congratulate the Internet service providers for donating $77 million to the cause. Then there was the rock concert, with all the stars singing - Willie Nelson is still alive. Then Arnie "I'll Be Back" announces his donation of $1 million. People armed with buckets harass you at the traffic lights for donations, all the shops have donations boxes. Even scarier, we've seen T shirts with "Bin Laden: wanted Dead or Alive" being sold and posters of Bin Laden bullet-ridden and blood everywhere being sold. Then CNN, NBC, FOX and all the others started showing survivor stories and 1 channel is still running 24 hours and is now called "America on Alert". Reports of Muslim groups on the West Coast who have had to chut down their websites due to hate mail and death threats. A Sheikh was shot dead in Texas. It's out of control. But, I actually thought Mayor Guiliani was a much better spokesman, releasing information, praising the rescuers, talking to people in the street, helping with rubble and talking sensibly to the nation. He has been fabulous. It's a shame he can't have a third term. He's been really great. Anyway, sorry to bang on and on about it, you've probably heard most of this and have had equally the same amount of coverage we've had as well. So, I shall move on to life in South Beach, Miami. In a word: Fabulous. And hot. The theme of Miami is "Excess". Newspaper Ads have titles like: Very Easy 10 Hour Diet...Police Impounds Listing...Breast Implants $2950...Divorces from $95...Erase your criminal record...Penis enlargement...Actors and Actresses wanted...Jock Itch Volunteers wanted... And then there's the plastic surgery options, which crack me up! Not only do surgeons offer the usual humdrum liposuction, facelifts, nosejobs and botox injections, but also buttock implants, permanent makeup and vaginal rejuvenation. Far out, brussel sprout! Drag Queens are the entertainment of choice, with "Adora" being the most famous drag queen in Miami. Women wear $600 suede bikinis. With stilettos. And go shopping. Local bands have names like The Avenging Lawnmowers of Justice and Plastico Domingo, playing at events in clubs called "Die In Your Vomit II". And those who are tired of Ibiza, Agia Napa and other clubbing places, are now heading to South Beach, Baby. Littered amongst the Cuban and American accents, the occassional gormless bloody English accent can be heard, cutting the air like fingernails down a blackboard. Usually these accents are attached to tiny sequinned mini skirts, orange tans and vacant eyes batting fake eyelashes. Belly chains are worn to the beach. Fake breats are everywhere. Designer clothes are everywhere and guys drive convertible Mercedes or sportscars. There is a massive homeless population, who sleep either on the beach or in doorways of hotels. We have a few who live behind us and are quite funny, one of the guys has a "ghettoblaster" permanently playing Gloria Estefan's Greatest Hits. Many believe that the day Versace was murdered, was the day fashion died in Miami. I would have to agree. Alongside the perfectly groomed designer-clad "beautiful" people wandering about, there are also those who have that whole "tacky-how-the-hell-do-you-wear-that-Vegas" style. Betsey Johnson (the designer) has a store here, and in her own words: "Nobody can be badly dressed" and favourite colour to use is neon pink because "people don't see colours anymore, unless they're neon". I fear for the future of fashion. One afternoon, when we first arrived in South Beach, I was gathering tourist information, so I could make battle plans, and I accidentally picked up a Naturist Newspaper and have learnt that: 1. Fort Lauderdale prohibits alcohol from being sold where there is full nudity.

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2. Swinger culture is not part of the nudist culture and not tolerated by nudists. The behaviour of norms are in most cases, what you would expect at a Holiday Inn. (Who knew?) For those who wanna know, there are a huge amount of clubs and cafes around South Beach, including "Pearl", where the lighting is orange so everyone looks tanned and bottles of Cristal champagne sell for $750. Massimo is the dorrman of "Level" and if he doesn't think you look cool enough, you don't get in. "BED" has no chairs or tables, just lots of beds, and muslin and attendants wearing white pyjamas. "Clubspace" starts at 6.30am and runs everyday with space for 3000 people, it usually has a queue. Life is cruising along nicely, and we'll be staying here until 25th October and then we return to Edinburgh. And reality. And the cold. Later Cazza

Chapter 17: Florida Land of Diamonds and Departures


Something happened to Caro and I in Florida. Im not sure what the problem was. Maybe it was due to the fact that the end of our journey loomed. Maybe it was the heat. Whatever it was, we slowed to a crawl. In Florida, we became terribly lazy. So lazy in fact, that Three-Toed Sloths of the Amazon, and even members of the House of Lords appear terribly active by comparison. I blame TV. Caro, in particular, became obsessed with the music channels. Those VH1 Behind The Music specials were the worst and began to cost me a lot of money. The reason being that , Caro would watch one of them, and then Id get interested and before I knew it, I would develop an urge to buy the CD of the featured artist. As a result, I ended up going on a music-buying spree, picking up CDs by No Doubt (Behind The Music), Cat Stevens (Behind The Music), The Red Hot Chili Peppers (Behind The Music), The Isley Brothers (VH1s Greatest Funk and Soul Hits Weekend), Meatloaf (To Hell And Back: The Meatloaf Story movie of the week). Oh, and Neil Diamond. YES! Neil Diamond! I'm not ashamed to say it! Because, on listening to my "Neil Diamond - The Classic Collection" over and over and over again, I became convinced that Neil is nothing less than a GOD. I believe that this is the same technique that L. Ron Hubbard used on his followers. Although why L. Ron Hubbard would want to convince his followers that Neil Diamond is a god remains a mystery. I mean, this is the man responsible for such brilliant lyrics as: She got the way to move me, Cherry She got the way to move me, She got the way to move me, yeah She got the WAY to groove me, Cherry, all right - and, of course, the timeless I like big butts and I can-NOT lie! You other brothers can't de-NY!! That when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist And a round thing in your face You get SPRUNG!!

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Whoops, sorry, that last one wasn't Neil, but Sir Mix-a-lot, but it's an easy mistake to make. Sir Mix-a-lot was also frequently on VH1 explaining how "Baby Got Back" is an anthem to female liberation and not at all a song about perving about women with big bottoms, noble aspiration though that is. Anyway. My obsession with Neil Diamond worried me at first. Is this a result of being middle-aged? Is there some chemical in the brain that causes one to wake up one morning saying, "Hey, you know, I always really liked Supertramp!" Is this all part of the horrid conspiracy that has led to me not only watching, but enjoying, codger programs like "Columbo" and "Murder She Wrote"? It got worse. It was in Florida that I discovered my first ear-hair. It disturbed me because I couldnt understand what it was doing there in the first place. It's not like my ear was COLD or anything. Not only that, but my favourite nasal hair (Barry) recently turned white. It doesnt end there. My hair is now thinning to a frightening degree. It's so unfair. Why can't we be like the rest of the animal kingdom? Old male elephants are very impressive with their huge tusks. Why can't human males have something that keeps on growing throughout their life? I'm sure you know to what I am referring here. I know it wouldn't do anything to cover my thinning hair, but it would be a huge consolation. Also you could wrap it around your neck to keep warm in winter. But now I'm really getting off the subject, which was, as you'll recall: Florida. This was to be our last stop on the big world tour. Cue: OPENING CREDITS for "Caro and Symon In Florida!!". The theme music swells ("Sweet Caroline") see shots of Caroline water-skiiing, Symon riding a scooter, both of them getting down in a local club, playing volleyball on the beach, rollerblading down the street and then snorkelling in a coral bay. Then pan to a shot of Symon lying on a beach having saltwater pumped out of his lungs because he forgot he can't swim. Sorry. I've always wanted to have opening credits. Besides, this is the end of the book and I feel a need to go out in style. That was the plan for Florida. No more backpacking no more worrying about the budget. We had no more money to go anywhere. All we could do was STAY and SPEND. We planned to eat out, get fat, and drink cold drinks in the hot hot sun of Miami. It pissed down. As soon as we arrived. It never stopped. All week. The rain wasn't so much persistent, as "ubiquitous". Actually it started back in New Orleans, which I was very sorry to leave. On the plus side, we were flying Southwest Airlines which, we were informed, is very friendly. It didn't quite measure up to Virgin Blue in this respect, but I must admit that even Virgin Blue did not feature a singing air steward serenading the passengers with a slightly amended version of Neil Sedaka's "Calendar Girl". Yeah, yeah, our hearts are true, We love we love we love flying with you, Every day (every day) Every day (every day) Of the yeeeeeear (every day of the year!) He was an enthusiastic chap, by which I mean he didn't just sing the chorus. He worked his way through the whole bloody song, every single month, week and DAY of it, it felt like. People started applauding halfway through to shut him up, to which the stewardesses replied, "Please don't applaud, it only encourages him. If you want to buy the cd it's available at 'Wayne's Feed 'n' Seed'." On arrival in Fort Lauderdale, the rain was heavy, hammering down on the roof of our taxi and turning the street into a stream. We holed up in our hotel room and stayed there for our entire time in Fort Lauderdale because the rain just refused to stop. After a couple of days, the old cabin fever really started to kick in and

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I began to notice bizarre things, like how Caro sorts her M&M's by colour and shape before eating them. Caro also commented about my almost permanent nudity since we had arrived. Perhaps this is a mental picture you would rather avoid, but my basic philosophy is; if you don't have to wear clothes then it's just potential laundry you are avoiding by not wearing them. This seems to bother Caroline, or at least put her off her food, but it's not like I do this sort of thing in public or anything. There's panic enough on the streets as it is. So there we were. Trapped. With each other. Thank goodness for telly. And what telly it was! "Big Brother 2" reached its climax in Florida - unfortunately, the smelly people in the house had realised they had no chance of winning against the cool people, so had managed to vote all the nice people out by the end. This left the evicted houseguests merely a choice between Will, the narcissistic, arrogant one or Nicole then whiny, insincere one. As one of the evictees put it, "It's like choosing between an ingrown toenail or a rash." So that was a bit of a drag. But we didn't care! Because we discovered an even better reality show called "The Amazing Race" in which 12 teams had to race from one world location to another, solving clues along the way! Im a great fan of the Excitable Morons Yelling At Each Other style of tv, and found this show terribly exciting as we witnessed Americans SPEAKING VERY LOUDLY AND SLOWLY to foreigners in a vain attempt to get them to understand the simple concept of PLEASE take me to the train station. Of course, we had our favourites in the race. Such as the gay life partners Joe and Bill who named themselves "Team Guido" after their little dog and raced every week in matching outfits. Or Kevin and Drew, the bald fraternity brothers who yelled things like, "Swing ya fat bastard! Swing!" at each other in order to motivate themselves while bungee-jumping. On one memorable occasion, Kevin was very pleased with his navigating through Zambia, when Drew leaned over to look at the map, pointing out "This is a map of Namibia, ya dumb bastard." Of course, "Jerry" continued to keep us entertained, because Caro and I are great believers in the entertainment value of shows that feature DNA testing, lie detectors and glamour makeovers. One show ("Cheating Lovers Exposed!") included a love triange between two brothers in their 20's fighting over a 70 year old who met one of them when he was delivering meals-on-wheels. "I might be told old to cut the mustard, but I can still lick the jar," she commented. I'm still trying to figure out what she meant by that, but not too hard, because it sounds disgusting. So day after day went by, and every day we looked out of our windows, and every day, the rain continued to pour down. One morning, I switched on the telly to try and find "Jerry" or something to keep Caro from going completely rain-bonkers but instead there was some stupid show with some woman going on about the whereabouts of the President, and then I distinctly remember saying to Caro, "Did she just say a plane crashed into the World Trade Centre?" That was a terrible day. I'm sure you're all sick to death of hearing about it by now, so I shan't labour the point. All I remember is that eerie quiet that struck that morning. By the pool at our hotel, holidaymakers in Hawaiian shirts sat by the Tiki bar motionless, as if a party had been frozen in time. They stared at the tv, unable to believe what they saw and unable to turn away. Caro and I went for groceries, and the supermarket was the same. A small tv in the corner of the store held customers and staff transfixed. I caught snatches of whispered, worried conversations onversations all around us. People who had relatives in New York, people whod just come from there. I wasnt sure how I felt. It was a tragedy but I was outside of it. A foreigner looking in on an American tragedy a stranger at the funeral of that innocence that allowed Americans to believe they were invulnerable because they were American. I couldnt help but think of the New Yorkers, who had treated us with such warmth and friendliness. Their beloved city scarred by the fanaticism of a few hate-filled murderers. It felt like the rain would never stop.

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So our last days in Fort Lauderdale were terribly depressing. I was mildly cheered by the discovery that the grocery store next to our hotel had British items in it! You could buy Heinz Beans, Lyle's Golden Syrup, Spotted Dick, Fruity Sauce, Curly-Wurlys, Smarties, Fry's Turkish Delight and Yorkshire Tea, by gum. (They also had Milo for the Kiwis). But still, we were very happy when our last day in Fort Lauderdale arrived. We caught the Tri-Rail connection to Miami. This is a neat little network along the coast of Florida which gets you down to Miami faster than you can say "soolai-soolai-soolaimon" and while we were waiting for it we had an interesting chat with an American guy about New Zealand (he'd been there frequently) and of course, about the terrorist attack. "Those guys were right here," he told us. "They were learning to fly just a few miles away. They were seen in a club a few nights back, drinking. I guess they were celebrating before the attack." I assume since they were guaranteed a place in heaven for butchering thousands of Americans, they must have thought it was all right to sample a bit of The Great Satan's culture. What a bunch of hypocritical bastards. When we reached Miami it was still raining, so we caught a taxi to take us to the next hotel. The streets, by this time were more like raging rivers, and we swooshed through the streets while our Pakistani driver talked to me about cricket (he had played at Headingly before family committments back home had forced him to chuck it in so he could support his brothers.) Caro wondered how he would get on in the next few weeks with his "Allah is the best provider" stickers in his cab. I hope he does okay, because he seemed like a very nice chap. (To their credit, the Americans started running adverts to reinforce the message that Moslems are Americans Too.) Miami, at first sight, didn't really distinguish itself. It looked vaguely run-down, vaguely tacky. I suppose the rain didnt help candy-coloured buildings against a grey-black sky just doesnt work. I remember in Peter Ustinov's biography "Dear Me" how he told the story of his mother's first arrival in London from Germany. Apparently on her first train ride from Dover to King's Cross she was welcomed by her husband at the train station. The first thing she said to him was, "I don't understand. Why are all the towns in England called 'Bovril'?" You could make a similar point about America. Most of the cities we had visited has something distinctive about them, but on that first ride into Miami I couldnt see anything to distinguish it from any of those other Kentuckyfriedchickentowns. I was wrong, of course. More on that later. Our hotel, by contrast, was distinctly individual. It was called The Brigham Gardens Guest House and allowed pets which meant there were lots of little animals running about the place including a cute little grey kitten and a rather amusing sausage dog. There were also a couple of red parrots in a cage that enjoyed having squawky conversations with Caro every time she walked past. This being Miami, it naturally had a whole motif theme thingy going on, best described as really bad taste. We stayed in two rooms at the Brigham, the first was the "Parrot" themed room which featured lots of lovely porcelain parrots, some hanging from the ceiling on perches, some stuck to the walls as if in mid-flight. It also had some very striking lamps which were actually large pottery fish with a lamp bulb stuck on top. Add to that, the sea-coral pattern on our turquoise bed and I think you'll agree that we were staying in a veritable "octopus's garden" of taste. Our next room was naturally The Flamingo Room which, as its most striking feature, had a particularly scary picture of a Conquistador on the wall. I wasnt sure what he had to do with flamingoes. However, the most exciting thing about BOTH rooms is that they contained wooden beds which let out alarming noises whenever either of us shifted our weight. This led to a lot of conversations like this: CAROLINE: SYMON: CAROLINE: SYMON: Did you just fart then? Ooh, I never did! It was just the bed making a noise! Very bloody likely you stinky bastard. I've never BEEN so insulted!

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CAROLINE: SYMON: CAROLINE: CAROLINE: SYMON: CAROLINE:

(whoooo-oooooo-onk!) I suppose you're going to blame THAT on the bed as well! That wasn't me - it was YOU - you stinky bitch! It was NOT!! (BLAT!!!) Oh for god's sake, what's wrong with this bed??? Oh no, actually, that WAS me. Sorry. Jesus FUCKING Christ!

The other thing about The Brigham Gardens is that was very cheap, especially for the quality of the room we got. The room was actually bigger than the whole of our flat in Edinburgh and included a kitchen and a large fridge. Do you realise the implications of this? It meant I coud COOK again! Hurrah! I rushed straight out to buy loads of rice 'n' pasta and had fun playing with food in the kitchen. Caroline didn't seem to mind. Mainly because it keeps the budget down, which means she got more presents, by which I mean that she got to shop. We must have visited half a dozen different malls around Miami, reducing Caro to a level of shopping-exhaustion.. Americans malls are enormous and often require a whole day put aside to visit them. Caroline plans the whole thing like an SAS-type operation. She obtains maps of the malls well in advance does extensive internet and girl-magazine research and then circles all her primary targets often circled in order so we know the exact shopping route we will take in order to maximise shopping while minimising walking and hitting all the coffee shops along the way. Its a breathtaking exercise in shopping logistics. I came to believe that if Osama Bin Laden had decided to take refuge in a the food court of a shopping mall, Caro would take him out within fifteen minutes. One night, I even caught her reading her way through the local Yellow Pages so that she knew exactly which malls she needed to target like a smart missile. Only a smart missile with really good taste in clothes and accessories. Oh, but I should tell you about the exciting thing that happened to me while on the toilet in Aventura Mall, because it's been far too long since we had an exciting episode of: Toilets of the World Part VII: Aventura Mall, Miami Yes! I had an exciting toilet experience in Miami! Not of the "George Michael" kind, I hasten to add. I had decided to leave Caroline at Starbucks, brandishing the mall map and planning her assault on the clothes shops. This is because caffeine, even just the slightest whiff of it, generally makes my bowel go, "Whoooa! Time to jettison that excess ballast!" So there I was, having a bit of a relax in the cubicle when these two guys came in speaking Spanish, who sat themselves down in the adjoining cubicles. All very normal you might say. Well, ho ho ho - you don't know what comes next matey. I started to hear the sound of singing. This struck me as slightly bizarre. Then laughter. It was like they were having some sort of bizarre toilet-party in there. This is not normal behaviour. Quite frankly, it made my bowel movement shoot back up again like a salmon swimming upstream, which is not the most enjoyable of experiences, believe you me. So after a bit of poop-persuasion (shoving and grunting) on my part, I managed to reverse the flow. But you know, it spoilt my crapping fun I dont know about you but shoving ruins the whole pooing experience, plus it gives you piles. So I finished up, rather grumpily, and left in something in a hurry because these people (who by now were singing some Cuban mambo thing) were obviously freak and god knows what they were going to get up to next. I mean - who sings in a toilet? I dislike it when people even talk , because when people speak to you, you have to look at them to reply and might catch a glimpse of something you really would prefer you hadn't. But singing? I s this just something men of Spanish descent do? Is this how Julio Inglesias got started? I would just now like to say I think it's disgusting. I'll bet you'd never catch Neil singing in a toilet. BARBRA: NEIL: You don't bring me flowers You don't sing me love songs You (grunt) hardly talk to me anymore

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When you (oof) come through the door At the end of the (SPLASH) day Of course, Im not the only one having poo experience. Im just one of the few who sees fit to write them down and share them with the world. Thank goodness for Caroline from Orkney, my e-poo pal, who sent me another faeces-centric story, which I received in Miami. Caroline's Very Exciting Enema Poo Story Symon - thanks for reproducing my poo story - I'm sure I emailed you back to say it was fine to use it, but you obviously you didn't get it. Sorry, anyway, it's cool with me, and I feel quite privileged really! I've got another one for you actually - my friend Vanessa, who's a nurse, was in Edinburgh at the weekend and regaled a fantastic, albeit quite gross, poo story. Nurses always have the BEST poo and vomit stories! Anyway, apparently when some people are getting a certain operation they have to have this enema type thing where they are given a liquid of some kind and it basically rushes through them and cleans them out, big stylee. She works on the eye ward where they don't usually have to administer these things,but they had an old boy in who needed one. So he duly was given his bowel-cleansing stuff, which did the trick apparently. BUT, when you have one of these you're not supposed to have anything to eat for a day or so after it and some idiot ordered him a soft tea (that's what Vanessa called it) of mince and tatties. He ate it, oblivious to the fact that he shouldn't, poor old thing. Vanessa said shortly after she was checking on him and he was looking a might startled and uncomfortable and said he had to go to the toilet. She accompanied him there, saw him in and left him to it, as it were, unaware that he'd had some food. A short while later the emergency bell from the toilet went off, so she rushed round to make sure he was OK. She stepped in and said she had never seen anything like it - there was poo splashed all up the wall behind the toilet and - get this - dripping from the roof!! She's not one to exaggerate as well, so I believe her description. This poor old guy was sitting there, mightily embarassed and quite perplexed by the explosion that had come from his botty! He'd obviously not had much time to sit down and had pooed with such force that it hit the bowl and splashed right back up. Vanessa said she had to restrain herself from going "holy fuck!" and try not to make him feel any more uncomfortable than he already did. He'd vainly tried to clean it up with some toilet roll, but the walls and the roof were something else! Anyway, there's another one for your collection, and if you want any more I suggest just asking any nurse you meet to tell you their best. They've all got them! A salutary warning to us all there. Don't tell me that this book has no value. Anyway, back to the subject at hand, which was surprisingly: shopping malls. You might wonder why I was allowing Caroline to shop when I've been whining on about the budget for the last few chapters. Well, I thought I had to let her finish off the big trip with a bit of a shopping blowout even if did mean we would have to live in a cardboard box on our return. So Caroline bought many things, including a couple of very cool jackets and a new watch. She even bought me some cool new clothes, although strangely they didnt look quite so fashionable when squeezed onto my unfashionably lumpy body. Apart from shopping, Caro and I did very little in Florida. This is because we found it quite hard to get around without a car. Not that a car would have done either of us much good: The scene: SYMON and CARO sit in a car. SYMON flips on the windscreen wipers, then flips them off again. CARO: Okay, so who knows how to drive?

I'm telling you this, partly to expose my own ignorance, partly to excuse our own inactivity. Oh god, we were useless. We didnt even have the excuse of bad weather after the first week. On week two in Miami the sun came out and oh lord it was hot. The sort of hot where you could fry eggs on the bonnet of your car. In fact you could probably fry an entire chicken, but Im not sure what that would do to the paintwork.

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So we limited ourselves to strolling from one heavily shaded area to another, seeking out drinks that were more ice than liquid for fear that we might spontaneously combust. Still, it was worth braving that heat in order to appreciate the delightful art deco era hotels that decorate South Beach. They are covered in neon tubing and painted up in different pastel shades of blue, pink and yellow. During the day, it's like walking around in the Land of Giant Dolly Mixtures. The shops are pretty uninspiring, (although Caroline's SpiderSenses detected two Gaps and an Urban Outfitters) so we spent most of our time wandering aimlessly, picking up groceries or going to the pictures. Then there was the people-watching. South Beach boasts the highest number of extremely Out people I have ever seen and bear in mind that I have hung out in downtown Sydney and once went to an Indigo Girls concert. What is surprising is the number of gay guys with really hugely bad taste. Isnt that against some gay law? I thought all gay men were required to take night classes in fashion and accessories and not allowed to tell their parents until they could correctly identify a designer fragrance from 20 paces. Caro spotted one chap with an open shirt and sporting gold strappy sandals, and another walking a pink Pekinese dog. I mean really, how 1970s. Maybe they werent really gay at all, but undercover Conservative Christians or something. So the gay population obviously makes up a large subsection of the local citizenry. I have here some fictional statistics on how the Miami populace in general breaks down: Strippers: Rollerbladers: Women With Fake Breasts: Gay Men: Pink Dogs: Cuban Emigres: Cuban Emigres Who Plotted To Kill JFK: Me: Fictional Statisticians: Percentages That Dont Add Up: 22% 52% 10% 14% 5% 25% 15% 0.5% 1% Oh never mind

Thats right, a surprisingly large number of strippers. I know this because I did some extensive tv-watching research while in Miami, and there were lots of adverts for naughty adult rude sexy bits bars in our locality. I didnt go. Its just not my thing. I fail to see the appeal of watching some bored bint wave her fake boobs at me, while sleazy little men shove money into her thong. Also I worry about the hygiene aspect of the poor soul who accepts money pulled from a strippers underpants. Ew. If I were a shopkeeper, I would find out who the local strippers were and then refuse to take any currency from them unless they had had it dry-cleaned first. I nearly got knocked down by several rollerbladers while in Miami. They were all over the place and were something of a menace. Not only to my physical safety, but to my self-esteem as well. The thing about rollerbladers is this: they insist on being good-looking as they whizz past. Lots of tall, tanned, blonde men with muscles, lots of teeth and large penises (here, Im hazarding a guess). After a few hours of this I would go back to my hotel and look at myself in the mirror, to see nothing but a large nose with bad teeth. I dont know why so many good-looking people congregate on South Beach. Maybe there is a local ordinance or something: UNATTRACTIVE MEN MAY NOT OPERATE ROLLERBLADES IN THIS AREA THAT MEANS YOU UGLY. It got very stressful. I gave serious thought to wearing a paper bag on my head and considered liposuction before I came to the conclusion that I would probably clog the machine. In Miami the most exercise I got was my visits to the toilet. Caros workout consisted of her putting her pyjamas on. This seemed to happen, almost magically, as soon as she steps into The Bed Zone - quite an

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amazing phenomenon. However we didnt spend all our time sleeping, in fact we kept quite late nights, if only to listen to our exciting neighbours, Fabio and His Incredible Shrieking Girlfriend. On one occasion I came close to calling 911 as it sounded like he was killing her. However, on checking out the situation through our peephole, I could see poor Fabio simply standing there mopping sweat from his brow while his girlfriend berated him in Spanish. The pair left the hotel shortly after this, although a few days later I received a call from his probation officer asking where hed got to. If I were him I would have gone back to prison for some peace and quiet - at least large hairy bicurious prison inmates dont scream at you in the small hours. Gosh! I'm making it sound terribly "Miami Vice" aren't I?? Well actually, there really was crime all over the place. Right out of our back window we could see a bunch of homeless crackheads smoking naughty substances. The police came to clear them all out at one of there, which merely resulted in them milling about in the supermarkets hassling The Lone Miami Tourist (me) instead. They returned to their makeshift home about a week later. We didn't mind. They were a lot quieter than Fabio and his girlfriend. I was painfully aware that Caro and I were fast approaching the end of the trip, and found that I was awfully sad at the prospect of leaving America. I knew I would miss it. Of course, as a cynical Englishman I knew that I should find it crass and excessive (which it is) but there were just so many good things about the place too. Some of them most unexpected, the most pleasant surprise being the Americans themselves who proved all my preconceptions wrong generally speaking they were helpful, fun and a darn sight more polite than most of my countrymen. It made me sad to be leaving at a time when America was under attack, and all the friends we had made seemed genuinely fearful as to what was coming next. Directly following the attack on the World Trade Centre, there was an outbreak of anthrax, adding to the paranoia. No-one I spoke to seemed to know what was going on, in Afghanistan and no-one seemed to know what all these huge events meant. Although one meaning was altogether obvious. Miami was completely empty. One Floridian I spoke to told me that South Beach should have been jumping in Autumn. At the time, I hoped that things would return to normal fairly after a year or so, but events like that take somewhat longer to recover from. In the years following our trip, Caro and I have returned to the USA several times, and September 11th is still very much an open wound. It doesnt help, of course, that their politicians regularly rip it open again for their own petty ends. Still, I have never shared the feelings of a lot of my generation that America is this all-consuming imperialist state. To my mind America is kind of like a big slobbery labrador. Sometimes sort of dumb and prone to the occasional mistake like shitting on the carpet or chewing your slippers or selling drugs to finance the Contras, but mostly benign and lovable. (If there WERE a United Nations of dogs, then Britain would be some old farty thing that spends most of its time kipping on the rug, Germany would be like Lassie or some other dog that you suspected was smarter than you, France would be some horrid yappy creature, Australia would be this happy, one-eared mongrel called "Wag" and Italy would be constantly shagging your leg.) As the days slipped away and our flight home loomed, the tone of news reports gradually changed from "America Under Attack!" to "America Recovers", "America Rising" and now "America Strikes Back". The whole experience doesn't seem to have dented American patriotism, as if it could (not that I think that was the aim in the first place). All around us, Americans seemed to have entered one of those ultrapatriotic phases that is just a little scary and often in bad taste. Everywhere the tourist tat shops stocked "Proud To Be An American!" t-shirts, or shirts that depict the two towers with "Gone, But Not Forgotten" written on them. Good to know that someone made money out of the tragedy, huh? (Can you imagine, JFK "I Was At the Grassy Knoll" mugs? Or how about "Wehrmacht World Tour '44" tshirts?) Despite the shadow that was been thrown over our last month in the USA, our time in there was hugely enjoyable. Although it bothered me that there are some things about America with which I never quite got

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to grips. Like why they refer to biscuits as "cookies" and scones as "biscuits". Don't even get me started on "jelly" and "jam". Then theres their obsession with pickles, because god knows you couldn't possibly eat a meal without having a huge green vinegary gherkin to go with it. I mean, I'm not a gherkinophobe, but a WHOLE pickle? Isn't that a tad excessive? How much gherkin-fermented wind does one person NEED for god's sake? Then there are those nice things that I knew I would miss. I know it's stupid, but I just always got a thrill from getting my groceries in brown paper bags, like they do on the telly, and the general friendliness from nearly everyone, and the warmth we encountered everywhere. And the sound of crickets chirping at night, and the wildlife in general. Including lizards, although I had to keep that to myself because I didnt need a panicky Kiwi standing on the bed waving a broomstick around. It seemed like an awful long time before when Caro was VICIOUSLY ATTACKED by that tiny lizard on the wall of our hotel in Ho Chi Minh City. On my last day I did a calculation and discovered that it was: 58 different beds 45 locations 30 flights 12 trains 13 buses 2 scary encounters with spiders 329 days and god knows how many toilets ago 2001 was an amazing year. However, even I had to admit that it was about time to go home. Don't get me wrong, I loved every moment of our holiday but I was now feeling homesick on a regular basis. I missed the inside of my favourite hangout (the pub) meeting up with good friends (in the pub) and passing the time amiably (drinking). I also missed the conversations, the exciting cut-and-thrust of debate that we used to have at work. (Typically such burning issues as, Who would win in a fight between Captain Caveman and Fred Flintstone?) So Caro and I packed up a years worth of memories into our backpacks and strapped them on for one last time. We left Brigham Gardens, where our landlady congratulated us on being, "very low-maintenance guests". I think by this she meant that we actually did our own washing up and didn't leave horrid skid marks on the bedsheets. Anyway, leaving Miami was a bit traumatic for Caroline due to the terrorist attacks. We were told to arrive three hours early to make sure we had time to check through all the security. It took us about 15 minutes. So there we were in the departure lounge with 2 and three quarter hours to go with nothing for Caroline to do but look through the duty free. You might think that this would make Caroline very happy, but apparently Miami's duty free is shit, according to Caroline who spent the next two hours bitching about it while waving her sole purchase (a lip-gloss) around in a threatening manner. Worse was to come. In Frankfurt the security decided that Caroline's tweezers, nail-clippers and nail-file were offensive weapons and confiscated them. "They will be destroyed," they assured us, but a seething Caroline noted that all the German security guys seemed a bit too well-groomed for her liking. We had an extremely long and boring wait for our plane to depart from Germany, and we were both knackered. Still, at least the shops were more exciting for Caroline so she had a bit of a look around. As for me, my allergies had decided to play up that day, turning me into The Phlegm King of the North, which left me feeling very miserable and sorry for myself. I sat back at a coffee shop, and worked on a big

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crossword in the Weekly World News (Headline: "I Was Bigfoot's Sex Slave Says Lumberjack".) Needless to say, it couldnt hold my attention for long, and I looked around at the big departure sign behind me. So many destinations. Rome Bangkok Vienna Hong Kong Durban. It went on and on. It was tempting so tempting to turn my back on responsibility and blow all my remaining savings to investigate the world just that little bit more. Not that Caro and I had even scratched the surface of the places we had been. If only I could book on Hindsight Tours, and revisit New Zealand but ensure I went to the South Island this time. If only I could reassure myself that I really did have enough money to go island-hopping in Hawaii. If only Id had another week in New Orleans Thats the nature of travel. Its only when you stop moving that you get a chance to look back at all the places you loved, and see all those people you met waving back at you. Id wondered if all this travel would knock the Englishness out of me somehow, and leave me an Experienced Man of The World. It hadnt of course, that same scruffy little man who had left the UK one year earlier was the same one returning. However, he was now a scruffy little man with memories. I turned my back on the departure board, still busily clacking through destinations and headed back to the coffee shop. Caro was waiting for me there. Jesus FUCKING christ! she greeted me. Some German bastard in the duty free shop farted all over me in the queue! So much for memories. It was time to go home.

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