Bless

You see, as we Skyped home at Christmas to our families telling them how excited we were about starting our new (imaginary) jobs in Australia in the early New Year and seeing them all again in the summer, we had already started the ball rolling on organising our surprise return at the end of January via a final soiree in Singapore with Doc, our brother from another mother.

Our last couple of weeks with Les were spent with the mixed emotions of foreboding at having to say goodbye and leave him behind and excitement at continuing our journey and, ultimately, returning to the Motherland. In the fortnight remaining, however, we managed to cram a fair bit in. I became the undisputed Australian Wii Fit Ski Jump champion; I sold my surfboard to an Aussie twat who persisted in calling me Ray for the duration of the transaction; Les learned how to swim and cook (not at the same time); we found him two new flatmates in Laura and Ian, our Irish stalkers from Fiji and New Zealand and Floss and I went for a run in 40+ degree heat, a session which ended with her sporting Tina Turner’s haircut and sobbing like Cheryl Cole after a game of Truth or Dare with Ashley.

It was soon time to bid Les a tearful farewell at Perth Airport and get back in the sky for a five-hour flight to Singapore in which I set about consuming copious volumes of free beer, just because I could, and Floss tried to shatter the world record for number of T.V. programmes watched on a five-hour flight. On arrival we appeared to have travelled to another world completely as we entered the most unairport-like airport I have ever seen. Gone were the MacKenzie-clad bampots that stalk the terminals of Glasgow, the permanently hostile immigration officials of America who make you feel as welcome as Joseph Fritzel at a family party and the stray dogs who threaten to welcome your arrival to Nadi airport with a dose of rabies. Singapore has chosen to bypass these colourful additional airport features, you see, and opted instead to welcome travellers with ambient music, floors you could eat your dinner off and the most pleasant staff of anywhere we’ve been. Had there been 72 virgins in the corner (another thing you will never find in Glasgow) and Julio Iglesias crooning away at the piano bar, I might actually have thought I’d entered the terminal to the afterlife.     

With instructions in hand, we set about taking the MRT, Singapore’s rail network, in the direction of Doc and Katie’s apartment. No sooner had we started looking around for some kind of ticketing machine or booth when a friendly local went out her way to help us purchase our tickets and make sure we got on the right train. I really was beginning to believe that Singapore was some kind of urban utopia…until we got on the train. Granted, it was peak time with people travelling home from work, but we ended up hemmed in to the tiniest corner of a carriage and surrounded with throngs of commuters armed with iPhones, specs, rancid B.O. and a blatant disregard for personal space. Even now, I remain concerned that I got someone pregnant by accident. Eventually, we arrived at our hosts’ beautiful apartment, set amongst a sprawl of private tennis courts, a gymnasium and a swimming pool which could comfortably accommodate Vanessa Feltz, Kerry Katona, Michelle McManus and Darren at the same time. Unfortunately, our hosts were unable to join us as Katie was back in Scotland with baby Evie and Doc was a day behind us on his way from Atlanta in the U.S. of A.

Without Doc, and without a fucking clue, we ventured out into the sticky heat in search of dinner and were pleased to find a string of vibrant restaurants, packed with locals, before dehydration claimed me as its bitch. On the downside, we managed to pick out the one place where none of the staff spoke a lick of English and we knew we were in trouble when we started by ordering two glasses of water, which arrived piping bloody hot. I had no option but to apologise to my arse for the diarrhoea which would surely come its way and to plough on with ordering by dint of pointing at pictures that didn’t look like Felix or Fido. In the end, we managed to polish off a couple of dishes of something which was either chicken, beef, pork or prawn along with some noodles, and narrowly avoided losing an eye to Flossie’s flailing chopsticks before returning home for an early night in preparation for Doc’s arrival in the morning.

Finding it difficult to sleep in the stifling humidity of Singapore, we rose early the next morning and I decided to go to the kitchen for a glass of water, only to be halted in my tracks by the beautiful sight of Doc, laptop on the knee, chilling out on his couch and sookin’ the face off a can of beer at 7:30am. In an incident which perfectly encapsulates the spirit of our entire journey, what started out as an innocent foray to the fridge for a glass of water ended with me joining Doc for a breakfast beer and justifying it by arguing that it was evening somewhere in the world. Fortunately for Floss, she was still in bed and missed Doc and I enjoying a mildly homo-erotic early-morning cuddle session.

With only four days together in the ‘Pore due to Doc flying home a day earlier than us, he played the Host with the Most for the next few days, showing us round the sights of his adopted homeland and taking us to amazing little ‘hawkers’ foodcourts ‘where you can enjoy a ridiculously good feed and a beer for around £2. He also helped me do even more damage to my liver by forcing me to help him race through the bottle of tequila he acquired from duty free and imploring me to drink with, and between, every meal. This over-indulgence had us both feeling a bit sluggish by the fourth day and we decided to try and atone by playing a friendly, yet competitive game of tennis in the fading light and oppressive heat of Doc’s final evening. When I say friendly, I obviously mean that Doc was friendly and I was competitive as I handed him the kind of humping normally reserved for Wayne Bridge’s missus on a Chelsea team night out. Incase you are curious, or just for posterity, the score was 6-0 6-1. Yes, I am fucking serious Mr McEnroe, roon ye.

Doc left us later that evening and it left us just one sleep away from our own return to Scotland, with only Mick in the know as he was picking us up at Edinburgh airport. Floss and I were all over the place, and neither of us slept a wink the night before our 17-hour flight home, the first leg of which was some 14 hours from Singapore to London. The flight dragged in and it didn’t help that we had both watched almost every available movie on previous flights so there was little to do but drink wine and make 84 unsuccessful attempts to sleep for more than eight minutes at a time. When our arse hit the tarmac in London, we were both running on fumes (maybe alcoholic) and adrenaline in the knowledge that it was almost all over and we would soon be home. Fast forward a couple of hours and we were shivering in the biting cold of Edinburgh airport with eyes like dugs’ baws and not a single jacket between us.  We were soon cheered by the sight of our welcoming party of one, a giddier-than-usual Mick, and the cuddlefest began. Mick thought we were delighted and emotional at seeing him but, to be honest, we were both just desperate for some body heat. From here, the Shock and Awe return plan unfolded something like this:

9am:  My Dad – Shug was first on the hitlist and, in an inconspicuous start to Shock and Awe, I shat it to just turn up and hit the buzzer, plumping instead for phoning ahead in a bid to reduce the chance of him suffering a heart attack. This turned out to be an unintentional masterstroke as the bold Rubber Lug, after we got the tears and snotters out the road, produced two rolls on square sausage and a bottle of Corona as a welcome home gift. It may only have been seven months away on foreign soil, but I set about the roll like a tramp with a hot pie, sitting back afterwards to savour the artery blocking grease re-introducing itself to my body.

9:40am: Eddie Logan – We made an impromptu stop to surprise Eddie during his postman duty, and he didn’t disappoint. No sooner had we opened the car doors and jumped out than Eddie dropped his mailbag and took a runner at us shouting “what’s happening?” at the top of his voice. Her Majesty might not be overly impressed with the behaviour of one of her footsoldiers, but my dad just about pished his drawers as the neighbours started appearing at their windows to find out what was going on with their postman.

9:45am: John Rambo’s (my mum’s) – Floss, Mick and I were all very unsure of how my mum would react as we drove to her house. Mick feared physical violence, while Nic and I were agreed that, no matter what she did, it would involve the words “oh fuck” and “baaaastarrrrds” on several occasions. What none of us expected was to walk in to the living room, have my mum stare at us for around three or four minutes while swaying around looking for something to grab on to for support like Ray Charles. To make matters worse, the tears started tripping her as she struggled to get to grips with the fact that we were standing in front of her and, in the most ridiculous case of stating the obvious since Louis Spence admitted he loves the boaby, she declared “I don’t know what’s happening”. It took almost half an hour, 20 Berkley Kingsize and three cups of tea to get anything coherent from Aggie’s mouth and it was only then the barrage of sweary words we had been expecting began to surface. Ten minutes after that, she was over it, had our backpacks turned upside down to get a washing on and started planning the best way to give Darren the fright of his life.

10:45am: Nic’s mum and dad – We made the journey round the corner to Nic’s mum and dad in Mick’s car to avoid being spotted by anyone we knew (a wise move given that, had we been spotted, everyone at Market Place and Tunnock’s would have known within 15.43 seconds through the Viewpark jungle drums). Floss chapped the door…and waited…and chapped the door again…and waited again before Liza eventually answered. Like my mum, she stood rooted to the spot in stunned silence, making no attempt to let us in the house for a good 45 seconds or while she asked Nicola if “this is real” or if “[she] was dreaming”. Sensing a commotion, Billy came downstairs to find out what was going on and, thankfully, thought it best to invite us in! He was also staggered by the fact that his wee lassie was on the doorstep and, when the phone rang, he got a bit excited and told the person on the other end that his daughter had just turned up on the doorstep…before finding out who was on the phone. Now, these fuckers at the call centres in India might be able to tell you how the weather is outside your house, but they clearly have heehaw in their script to account for the way Billy answered the phone, and the call was abruptly ended. All that was left to do in the next hour was assure Liza that we were fine, Les was fine and, yes, we had been fed. Now repeat these same questions and answers some 30-40 times and you get the drift that she was a wee bit excited. Unfortunately, the fun was ended when she has to go to work…the jelly tots don’t put themselves on the empire biscuits in Tunnock’s you know!

3:30pm: Wee Mo – Having learned that Darren was at a meeting in Edinburgh and not due home until later in the evening, we were left kicking our heels and unable to venture out for most of the day at the risk of someone ruining the surprise. However, we had sworn Eddie to secrecy earlier in the day and roped him in to making sure Wee Mo headed straight home from work, where she would find us chilling on the couch with a cup of tea. Her reaction was not what we expected. Seeing Mick as she walked in, she said hi to him and to Eddie, and flicked a glance in our direction along with a casual hi. What came next was the kind of double-take that can cause whiplash as the expected barrage of “oh my Gods” and “what are you doing heres” started to flow.

5:30pm: Darren and Claire – This is the one we had being waiting for more than most after finding out in Australia that they are expecting their first baby in the summer. We sent my dad in ahead with the well-travelled lasagne, and he did his job by getting Daz into the kitchen. We were also lucky that when he heard the door open, he just thought it was Claire coming home from work, and so Floss and I managed to get within about three feet of him before he even turned round. I had wondered 1000 times what his reaction would be when he saw us, but never once did I think it would be telling us to “fuck off” before stoating his Tupperware lunch dish off the kitchen wall. No hugs, no tears, no words…he just stood there staring and telling us to “fuck off” for a good five minutes. Fortunately, the tears that didn’t come from Darren arrived when Claire got back from work. We all sat in the kitchen and she barely got her foot over the door before she started wailing like a banshee and backing off into the living room, claiming that “she needed a minute”. In fact, it took about six minutes for her to get her act together and giving us a row for frightening a pregnant woman! The fun didn’t end there though as, with the entire family present in Darren’s living room, we skyped my sister, Donna, in Newbury and kept up the facade of being in Australia for a good few minutes before panning the camera around to reveal that we were sitting on the same couch as Darren and Claire. I could see the cogs working as Donna tried in vain to grasp what the hell was going on, and the echo was deafening as the penny eventually dropped and she lost the plot, roarin and greetin’ and producing more snotters than a primary 1 school class. This lasted at least 15 minutes and, by the 16th minute, she had booked flights to come up the road the following weekend. Stick that in yer pipe and smoke it Richard Branson…boom!

Later that evening…Not content at almost frightening the shite out our family, we managed to sneak in two more doorstep raids on Stewart and Philippa (ruining what appeared to be a romantic meal for two and opening the tear floodgates again as Pip and Floss played a big game of “No, I missed you more…”) and Martin and Vicki (who almost didn’t answer the door as Floss and I walked down their path with the hoods of our jumpers up).

So…that was it: Seven months gone; seven countries visited; 500+ beers sunk; a clutch of new friends made; 20 blogs written and read over 3000 times; two trouser sizes added and more bunk-beds than an Indian orphanage slept in.  It’s been the adventure of a lifetime, made all the sweeter by knowing that you are coming home to the best friends and family in the world.

Thanks to all the people who opened their homes to us along the way and to all you guys at home that read and commented on our blogs over the months. It kept our spirits up when we felt a wee bit homesick and encouraged us to keep a written record that we can hold on to and look back years from now.          

Over and out

Ryan and Floss

Now, because I am in the future (or Australia as some people call it), and Memoirs of a Wee Boy From Viewpark is on its Christmas holidays, I am delighted to be able to put you out your misery and share with you the biggest stories of the January transfer window. I’m in the future folks, and here’s how it happened:

January 1: Managers across the UK go cap-in-hand to their respective chairman and boards to ask for money to strengthen the squad in January. This doesn’t apply at Ibrox, where they have taken to turning the lights out, pulling the curtains shut and hiding behind the couch anytime the door is chapped in case it is the Provident man or anyone from the bank. Following his five goals against Dundee United, Walter Smith claims Kris Boyd is better than Henrik Larsson, Chuck Norris and Pele combined and insists he is not for sale. Oddly, Boyd is immediately given a new squad number for his next match: 

January 2: Hamilton Accies, in their desperate attempt to meet the wage demands of on-loan-World-Class-Striking-Sensation Mikael Antoine-Curier, launch a ‘Bottle Drive’, where fans are encouraged to bring all their empty ginger bottles to the stadium. The response is stunning, particularly from Burnbank where the daily intake of Irn Bru per person, per day is a staggering 16 bottles, and after a quick trip to the Barr’s factory to cash them in, manager Billy Reid returns triumphant with £78.16, enough to pay Curier’s wages and the squad’s win bonuses for the rest of the season.  

January 4: Following his heroics in the Old Firm, Allan McGregor is immediately linked with a move to Harry Redknapp’s Tottenham. Danielle Lloyd goes straight to The Sun newspaper and tells them she can’t wait to hump the life out McGregor and get engaged to another Spurs player. Across the city, with the Celtic fans questioning their team’s ability to defend and to kill teams off in attack, Peter Lawell makes his annual defence of the manager and confirms that Celtic will be breaking the bank in the January transfer window to strengthen their title hopes. He then shocks the world media by going over the head of manager Tony Mowbray and offering Barcelona a straight swap – Gary Caldwell for Lionel Messi. Surprisingly, Barcelona reject the offer, to which Lawell replies “oh well, we tried.”

January 6: Sky Sports News and BBC Sport confirm rumours that Real Madrid are planning an audacious £40m swoop for Manchester United’s Wayne Rooney. Sir Alex Ferguson, already in a rager after Leeds papped them oot on their erse in the FA Cup, responds by reading out the following statement at a live press conference:

“A just cannae bewieve it. First, they start their p*sh wae Cwistiano Wonaldo, and noo we’re gettin’ the same wubbish wae Wayne Wooney. A’ll tell ye this, Wooney widnae weave Manchester United; why would he want to go to a pwace where aw the pwayers huv long hair and good wooking wives? He’d be out of pwace. Anyway, £40m…ur they havin’ a waugh? Wooney’s bwoody pwiceless. In fact, am no even going to talk aboot this anymore ‘cause that’s exactly what they pwicks want.”

January 7: Gordon Strachan gives Celtic fans a belated Christmas present by making an official bid for Gary Caldwell. Both sides are reluctant to disclose the fee involved, but a Celtic source (Stephen McManus) leaks to the press that ‘Boro offered four doublers and a badge to make sure the transfer went through quickly. Celtic fans line up outside the stadium on hearing the news to make sure Caldwell actually leaves.

January 10: Hearts manager Csaba Laszlo takes his January shopping list to owner Vladimir ‘Adolf’ Romanov. Amongst the names on the list are Izale McLeod and former Rangers striker Steven MacLean. Romanov publically and privately assures Laszlo that he will do everything in his power to fulfil his wishes and strengthen the squad. Meanwhile, Harry Redknapp makes his interest in Allan McGregor official by tabling a £6m bid for them. Rangers respond by asking if they will also take Kirk Broadfoot as part of the deal but, having been stung in the Alan Hutton deal, Spurs refuse. Because they are skint, Rangers have no choice but to let McGregor discuss personal terms with the London club.   

January 10(pm): A tense night of negotiations ends with McGregor signing a four-year deal with Tottenham. The deal was held up by the club’s refusal to include a year’s membership at Stringfellows as part of the deal, but McGregor’s agent holds strong and to ensure his player gets everything he wants and deserves as Spurs’ new third-choice ‘keeper. Elsewhere, Carlo Ancelloti proves you can never trust an Italian by offering Valencia a staggering £40m for David Villa. When pressed by the media about his earlier claims that he would run round Stamford Bridge naked in the snow if he signed anyone, he commented, “Ho il pene di un grande cavallo. Sono molto felice di mostrarla esso.”

January 12: Hibs manager John ‘Yogi’ Hughes calls a surprise press conference to announce that he has signed two players from Livingston Boys Club U13’s. He confirms that they will be going straight into the squad, quoting Michael Jackson’s famous line: “if they are good enough, they are old enough”.

January 13: Craig Brown, the new Motherwell caretaker manager, interrupts his afternoon nap to tempt Gary McAllister, Colin Hendry and Richard Gough to the club. The fans are delighted that Brown has been able to attract such a high calibre of backroom staff. Elsewhere, Sam Allardyce continues with his tried and trusted transfer policy by signing Johan Cruyff on a one-year deal to replace Sunderland-bound Morten Gamst Pedersen, who almost signed for Celtic until he realised he could make more money pulling double shifts at McDonalds.

January 14: Hearts owner Vladimir Romanov calls a press conference for 10am. Csaba Laszlo is baffled by the announcement as he has not been informed of any coming or goings in the transfer window, and is shocked when Romanov announces that Sasha Son, Lithuania’s Eurovision entry for 2009, has joined on a 6-month loan in a bid to ease their problems in front of goal.

January 16: Motherwell fans are shocked when Craig Brown plays Richard Gough, Gary McAllister and Colin Hendry in the starting XI against Kilmarnock. Motherwell lose the league match 8-1, but Brown defends his selection after the match, pointing out that “we had more corners than them”. In other matches, Kris Boyd scores 16 goals in the 16-0 defeat of Hamilton Accies, leading to manager Walter Smith labelling him “better than the father, the son and the holy spirit” and claiming that “you just can’t put a price on a player like Kris Boyd.

January 17: Rangers sell Kris Boyd to Birmingham for £1.5m

January 18: Following a dismal debut for Middlesbrough in which he scored two own-goals, conceded a penalty and was sent off, Gary Caldwell demands a new contract, arguing that his status as a ‘Galactico’ should make him the club’s top earner of all time…ever.

January 21: Martin O’Neill, who recently reiterated his fear that he doesn’t have enough physical presence in the side, signs Shaquille O’Neill to partner John Carew and Emile Heskey up front. Despite the controversy surrounding the signing, O’Neill insists Villa are not a long ball team.

January 22: In a close-doors friendly,Hearts signing Sasha Son hits a hat-trick in her first match, taking her tally for the season beyond Christian Nade’s.

January 23: Peter Lawell hits back at the club’s critics by signing all four members of Japanese boyband Lead. He insists it is purely a football decision, adding that increased shirt sales in the Land of the Rising sun is merely a bonus. Lawell also announces a Japanese tour at the end of the season and the opening of a new noodle bar outside the training ground.

January 24: Rafael Benitez, who is facing calls for his removal by the fans, signs Heather Mills in a deal rumoured to be worth £16 to partner Fernando Torres. Benitez defends his new signing, claiming he is not worried previous injuries sustained by the player.

January 25: Motherwell terminate the contract of Richard Gough with immediate effect. The club remain tight-lipped on the reasons for Gough’s dismissal, although murmurings around the club suggest it may be something to do with an incident involving the team bath and the youth team.

January 26: Manchester City manager Roberto Mancini, who has been surprisingly quiet in the transfer window, signs the entire Barcelona squad for a fee in the region of a gazillion pounds, but insists he will not use the wealth of the Saudi Arabian owners to simply buy success. Roman Abramovich responds by buying a yacht.

January 29: Motherwell manager Craig Brown pulls off a master stroke by bringing Michael Owen in on loan from Manchester United for the rest of the season. Relations quickly deteriorate between the pair, however, when Brown continues to leave Owen on the bench in favour of his other recent acquisition, Kevin Gallacher.

January 30: With time running out, clubs across the UK make last-ditch attempts to strengthen before the window slams shut. Alex Ferguson stuns the football world by signing Harvey Price, son of former Old Trafford striker Dwight York and full time hooooor Katie Price. Ferguson backs his new signing to be a success, saying he has an eye for goal, even if the other one is pointing the other way. He also goes on to reason that, with Yorke for a father and Price for a mother, Harvey has scoring in his DNA. We managed to get the exclusive snap below of Harvey leaving Old Trafford after signing talks.

January 31: Allan McGregor’s miserable start at Spurs continues. Having yet to play a single game, he has been outed by the News of the World for cheating on his girlfriend with Peggy Mitchell from East Enders. When ‘old droopy face’ Redknapp finds out, he flips his t*ts and fines the ‘keeper two-weeks wages, keeping a week’s worth for himself without telling the taxman.

February 1: Celtic sell Scott McDonald and Barry Robson to Wee Gordon Strachan at Middlesbrough. Peter Lawell publically laments the fact that the deal went through so late and didn’t allow them enough time to find replacements. He urges Celtic fans not to worry, as Messiah McCourt and Christopher Killen are nearing a return to fitness and should provide more than adequate cover.

Well there you have it folks. You heard it here first. Enjoy the rest of the season.

This is Ryan Miller, reporting from right underneath the air con unit in Perth, Australia.

BEERS

With Les finished work for a fortnight, we set off on a six-hour drive to Albany, in the southwest of Western Australia, for the start of our three-day, two-town road trip. Les had warned us prior to our departure that the drive south would be less than scenic, and he wasn’t wrong. Upon exiting Perth, we endured an endless procession of one-track roads and various shades of brown fields and trees. To say that the highlight of the drive was stopping at a petrol station to purchase a packet of cheesy puffs tells you all you need to know about the view outside the car window. At one point, I was almost hankering for New Zealand, until I remembered it is cold, rainy, utterly pish and the notion passed.

We finally arrived in Albany, famed for being the first settlement in Western Australia and the last operational whaling station Down Under, in the late afternoon and set about finding our accommodation. Floss and I, being seasoned travellers and absolutely skint, told Les to look for hostels in the area to keep the cost down, but he shot us the kind of look you would expect from your granny if you farted in chapel. Instead, we reached a compromise by booking into some hotel with ‘Inn’ at the end of its name and had very little trouble locating it on the only main road in Albany. We were all pretty tired after the drive and hoped to check in quickly, grab a shower and head out for a bite to eat. What we didn’t bank on was Isa from Still Game checking us in at the hotel. She looked like a cross between Grotbags and a stroke victim, and was at great pains to tell us that the hotel bar/dining area (pretty much a glorified school dinner hall) would be closed early due to the hotel staff throwing all kinds of shapes (can’t remember if that was her exact words) at their Christmas party that evening.

We hadn’t planned on eating there anyway, so this posed no problem to us, until Les innocently asked her to recommend a good restaurant in the area. Not content to rhyme a couple of places off the top of her napper, Grotbags proceeded to whip out a map of Albany and a highlighter. She then went to work like Neil Buchanan on eccies, drawing lines here there and everywhere and going into painstaking detail about every aspect of Albany and its glorious past. Les played a blinder pretending to listen to the crazy rambling bastard while I hid the salt in case she decided to crack out a scale map of the town in the car park. About an hour and a half into her ranting, she took a big deep breath in (her first of the conversation) and we took that as our cue to run like fuck to our rooms. A quick shower and a satisfactory meal later and we turned in for an early night, although not before sneaking a wee peek at the staff party, which looked more like a festive gathering of the afflicted. I thought all the staff were absolutely hammered, until I realised that they were actually on the way in to the party and were walking oddly due to none of them possessing two legs the same size.

As mentioned previously, Albany is best known for being the last operational whaling station in Australia. Right up to 1973, whales were caught and processed at the plant before people wearing hemp trousers and synthetic duffle coats went ape shit and demanded the abolition of whaling. Rather than close the site completely, the locals turned it into ‘Whale World’, an interactive museum dedicated to all things whale. It is good to see that all the exhibits are still in full working order, meaning that, should Michelle McManus or Vanessa Feltz ever be sentenced to the death penalty, there is still the machinery in place to carry out the task.

With Les as our tour guide, we enjoyed a good couple of hours wandering around the various exhibits, which included ridiculously huge whale skeletons, a range of harpoons and crossbows and one of the colossal whaling boats. As interesting as these things were, however, they all came a distant second to the glass cabinet which contained a 100% genuine whale’s boaby. Now most of us might know the odd lucky bastard or two who can touch the bottom of a pint tumbler with their own lightsaber, but this schlong was more like a battering ram than a tallywhacker! Words fail me in my bid to describe the weapon of mass destruction, but at least I now know why they called them sperm whales. I have included a picture for your viewing pleasure and bravely crouched next to the exhibit to give you an idea of scale. Feast your eyes on this bad boy.

 To be quite honest, almost anything we did after the museum was going to pale in comparison in my eyes, so Les decided to take us on a scenic tour of Albany, stopping off at various viewing points for photographs and insect bites. We finished off with a drive to the Anzac monument at the top of Mt. Clarence, which proffers a panoramic view of Albany and a handy bronzed guide of what you are looking at. On it, arrows point in the direction of the various islands and landmarks you can see in the distance. Floss, in her first slip up for ages, triumphantly announced that the island we could see on the horizon was 14.5 metres away. Les just about pished his drawers before taking pity on his little sister and explaining that it was more likely miles that metres. He was obviously still feeling the effects of all this laughing when he sneaked up and grabbed the back of my ankle while I was taking a close-up picture of a big lizard on one of the rocks near us. Needless to say, I found this less amusing than him and Floss…it is hard to see the funny side of life with diarrhoea streaming down the inside of your leg, after all.

This proved our last meaningful act in the sleepy town of Albany and, after another meal and kip, we were on the road again for a three-hour drive west to Margaret River, Western Australia’s premier wine region. We booked into our hotel again in the late afternoon and I immediately challenged Floss to a game of tennis at the hotel’s half-size court. After 20 minutes of Floss swinging and missing the ball, the heat got the better of us and she declared the match a draw in favour of heading to the pub. Despite being in wine country, Les and I showed our sophistication by getting well-oiled on an assortment of imported beers while Nicola battled valiantly with the kind of curry soup which can blow serious holes in your arse. In hindsight, we would have liked to have reversed the trip, spending one night in Albany with Grotbags and two nights in Margaret River as it seemed like quite a charming little town but, with Santa approaching, we were not going to lose any sleep over it. Instead, we rose early and made the long journey home, a journey made longer still by Floss having to stop at every petrol station for a Tom Kite, the inevitable consequence of her earlier battle with the curry soup.

Because of our road trip, we had to make a Christmas Eve dash to the supermarket to stock up on ingredients for a traditional turkey roast with all the trimmings for six on the big day. Nicola was cutting about the supermarket like Dale Winton, hurtling objects into the trolley with gay abandon and ticking them off the list with a smug look on her coupon. Les and I trailed in her wake, begging for a shot of pushing the trolley and trying to sneak things in that were not on the list. It was no use, however, as the trolley Nazi had everything accounted for and was ‘taking none of our shite’. Funnily enough, she allowed Les to get involved when it came to the checkout and, in what I can only assume was an act of rebellion against his sister, he went off his nut in the British sweetie shop, spending the annual budget of a small African country on pickled onion Monster Munch.

The rest of Christmas Eve was spent chopping and prepping the dinner for the next day and trying desperately to get Nicola’s mum on the phone as what I knew about cooking a turkey could be written on the back of a stamp. By the next morning, we had still not managed to get Liza on the phone and so I decided to throw caution to the wind and go freestyle on the turkey’s ass…literally. I jammed just about one of everything up the turkey’s jacksie, stuffed its neck and resisted the temptation to do an “American Pie” before covering it with bacon and foil and putting it in the oven on Christmas morning. Meanwhile, Floss and Les were busy tearing into the presents which UK Santa sent by mail earlier in the week. Everything was accounted for, including socks, jocks, chocolate and obligatory comedy DVDs. Before we knew it, afternoon was upon us and our Irish guests, Laura and Ian, arrived bearing the gift of a homemade trifle for desert and a box of Corona beers. Perhaps it was a sign of times to come, but by the time dinner was on the plate, we were all full of festive cheer and beer and ready to eat a farmer’s arse through a hedge.

I can admit to being quietly satisfied with how dinner turned out and the empty plates were all the prompting I needed to celebrate by getting absolutely smashed. The beer started flowing again and Laura the foul-mouthed Leprechaun came to the party. She was effing and jeffing all over the place while the rest of us set about finishing over 80 bottles of beer and earning Les an Aussie ASBO. The night rolled into the morning and the singing got louder and louder until Nicola cracked under the pressure and hit the hay around 4.30am. I was just getting started at this point, going outside to speak to my family and almost taking a header into the pool as I staggered around like the Hoff with a cheeseburger. By seven in the morning, we all decided enough was enough and retired, beaten, to bed. Impressively, or due to the fact that I was still rat-arsed, I managed to make it back out bed by 11.30am to make a team breakfast before surgically attaching myself to the couch and remote control for the rest of the day. It was a very surreal Christmas with the blazing heat outside and our family and friends at the other side of the world, but we still managed to have a fantastic day with fantastic people and loved spending it with Les. It was also the first time Floss and I have had a Christmas dinner together so that was a novel experience!

We spent yesterday getting wrinkly in the pool as the heat both indoor and outside was unbearable. It turns out my pale complexion and ‘strawberry blonde’ hair is not built for 40-degree heat. Who would have thought? No amount of sunscreen in the world was going to stop me looking like a Belisha beacon today and I have no decided that a burka – ala Iraqi women – is the only way forward for me.

We are now turning our energies towards planning for New Year and trying to figure out how to get an overflowing wheelie bin of empty bottles dumped without anyone noticing. Hope you all had a fantastic Christmas wherever you were and do me proud by getting Steamboats Willie at New Year.

Looking forward to seeing you all in 2010…when it stops being chilly baltic.

Over and Out!

THE MORE

That’s right folks, in the land of micro thongs and forty degree heat, I managed to contract a rather nasty fever which prompted the following symptoms: shitting through the eye of a needle every 3-5 minutes, projectile vomiting within seconds of eating anything Nicola prepared for me (nothing new there to be honest), suffering broken sleep and hallucinogenic nightmares and, last but not least, shortness of breath when exerting myself beyond reaching for the television remote. On the plus side, Gillian McKeith would be proud of me – if I am what I eat then, last week, I was fuckin’ fresh air. If I would have known at the start of my fitness drive that all the sweating and exercising was unnecessary to lose weight, I would have sacked it and stood next to anyone who looked like they were coming down with a fever. In the words of Peter Kay…”Stone in a day”!

Before contracting the worst man flu ever, we spent a week pretty much doing hee haw and lazing around the beach. The reason behind this was not a sudden change in skin tone on my part, but rather my desperation to christen my new surf board. Yes, you heard me right, despite our abject poverty and me having the balance of a landmine victim, I invested in the brightest red surf board money can buy and subsequently spent a week mastering the art of standing up and spectacularly falling off the bastard. I’d imagine that, to onlookers, my sunburn and the dazzling red of the board created the effect of a wetsuit surfing on its own. Still, when I’m walking up the road with the board under my arm, I really look the part, and that’s all that matters.

Thanks to Florence “Flossie” Nightingale’s inexhaustible patience and ninja nursing skills, I managed to get back on my feet, or more accurately off my fat arse, to enjoy the last couple of days in Sydney before heading to Perth. We spent some more time with Laura and Natalie, the two girls we met in Fiji and New Zealand, going on a little outing to the pictures to see ‘The Invention of Bullshit’ starring Ricky Gervais. For those of you have yet to see it…don’t. This kept up our recent roll at the cinema on the back of our earlier jaunt with Laura and Ian to see ‘2012’. There is a movie that is so bad, I grew to loathe my eyes for watching it. When you take away the special effects, you are essentially left with a performance befitting Motherwell College Drama Club.

Before we left Sydney to visit Les, Darren and Claire decided to make sure that we will always remember our time in Bondi. During one of our chats on Skype, the two of them were sitting on the couch grinning like Cheshire cats and not bickering or fighting. Floss and I both thought this was a bit out of the ordinary for the chuckle brothers, and we soon found out the reason why! Darren, who had been up to that point unnaturally quiet, blurted out that me and wee Floss are gonna be an aunty and an uncle. WOHOOOO. Unbelievably, Darren’s wee willy winky works and the Hills must not have been on MTV one night, resulting in a wee mini Miller on the way. The early money is on the baby having ginger hair and a tan, although half of Viewpark have been attending daily masses to pray that he or she looks like Claire and nothing at all like Darren. The news that Darren is being allowed to bring a child into the world has not quite hit home for me yet. Claire, I am not worried about in the slightest, she will be great. Letting the Dazzler reproduce, however, is causing me a bit of mental anguish. Lest we forget, this is the same twat that blew himself up at a bonfire, pissed himself on his own stag wearing a monkey thong, crashed a minibus before he had a driving license, managed to get arrested during lunchtime at school for setting off fireworks and, last but not least, was robbed during Halloween ‘trick or treating’ – dressed as a bloody policeman. Still, he has the mind and the boaby of a small child so at least he will be on the same level as his child!

This fantastic news sent us to Perth on a real high and we had an unusually peaceful five-hour flight across Oz. I knew we had arrived in Western Australia the minute Floss abandoned me and took a runner at Les in the airport. It was the kind of moment that brings a tear to the eye of anyone that indulges in a bit of Trisha or Jeremy Kyle with their morning coffee. Two backpacks and a surfboard tied to the roofrack later and we were on our way to Les’ house, our home for the foreseeable future. After spending the last six months in hostels, we were ill prepared for Les’s abode. With Sky T.V., Setanta, a swimming pool, our own room, air conditioning and a fully-functioning iron and ironing board, it was like checking into the Hilton after spending half a year sleeping under the bridge on Argyll Street. It took me two days to stop hiding the cutlery between uses and sleeping with one eye open to guard against randy South American backpackers looking for a cuddle during the night.

With Les having to work for one more week before finishing up for Christmas, Floss and I revelled in being in a real house and turned our attention to job hunting. Shockingly, my applications to be a pole dancer and a male model were immediately rejected, leaving me licking my wounds and turning my attentions towards teaching and journalism jobs…boring. Nicola was faring little better, with news that, should she want to register as a nurse, she would have to fork out over $300 for a spoken English test. Now, I know she is from the scheme, and therefore speaks a dialect understood by only a handful of Viewpark’s finest hunter-gatherers, but the fact an English speaker has to spend so much to prove they speak the language says a lot about the way Australia works. If you want to work in a bar, you must pay for a personal license to sell liquor, if you want to be a teacher you must fill in a zillion-page form and pay a fortune and if you want to be a labourer, you must pay for several health and safety cards. It has got to the point where I am scared to go for a jobbie for fear that I don’t have the necessary government clearance.

Although Les has been working like Apu from the Simpsons, we did manage to squeeze in a visit to the beach (where Les tried and failed to pretend to read a book while watching women playing beach volleyball), a trip to the charming Hilary’s Boat Harbour (mostly so Nicola could get ice cream) and a wee day out to the Western Australia Cricket Association to watch the Aussies spank the West Indies. Now, cricket may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but any sport where you can drink beer for the entire day as a spectator is fine by me. Alas, my plan for an all-day session was thwarted by the unbearable Perth heat. I battled in vain against the intense sunshine, wearing three coats of total sunblock, hiding under a hat and covering my legs with a towel, but it was no use. After a few hours, I became frustrated by the sweat and suncream teaming up to run into my eyes and cause me maximum discomfort and we sacked it. As I write this blog, I have been home around two hours and already my skin is starting to crisp up and feel like Liz Taylor’s face. I can’t bloody smile without worrying that my face is going to split open like a character on the 80s sci-fi show ‘V’. Oddly enough, the West Indies players didn’t seem to be affected quite as badly…funny that, eh?

The only other news I have to share with you is that we went on a family excursion to the supermarket to buy the stuff for Christmas dinner! We now have a turkey in the freezer that could feed Uganda and the necessary ingredients to make sure everyone eats a prawn cocktail starter…there will be no options on this menu! I am going to be in charge of cooking the feast for five or six and would advise you to get your money on me having a major heart attack before 12pm on Christmas day. To borrow a line from the great Frankie Boyle, there is also a vegetarian option…you can fuck off!

Before that, we have a road trip planned from Sunday to Wednesday to visit Albany, which is a few hours south of Perth. I don’t have a clue what Albany has to offer, but Les told me there is a whale museum with a gigantic pickled whale’s cock, so that sealed it for me. Look out for those pictures to feature prominently in my next blog.

P.S. I know I am always annoying you about clicking this link and that, but I have started writing for an online magazine called Suite101 and, since you read this, you may as well read my stuff there too! It is mostly sport I am going to be writing about, and my 2010 World Cup preview is underway. Every time people read my pages and click the Google Ads around the story, I get paid, so it is your duty to lift me from the poverty I am currently suffering. The link is below…and thank you!

http://www.suite101.com/profile.cfm/ryanmiller

Did

I left you last time in the midst of a fitness kick and in the aftermath of a sensational 5-a-side victory (did I tell you about my stunning goals already…oh, I did. Damn it). The following morning, I almost had to be winched out the bed after more or less every morsel of my body seized up through the night, leaving me walking like the tin man and unable to scratch anything below my arse for the rest of the day. Obviously, God must have been watching me struggle and, being a model of good Christian living, decided to proffer redemption in the form of Joe’s new spa arriving early that afternoon. I am willing to admit my initial disappointment when I learned that the spa would not be filled with vodka, Joe instead opting for the more standard water and chemical combination, but I was more than salved by the prospect of easing the pain in my aching limbs. By the time he finished filling the pool with water and white powder it looked like Kerry Katona’s bath. The directions on the back of the bottle implored spa owners to wait at least four hours before entering the water after use, leaving Joe stomping his feet and tripping on his snotters like a wean that has just been told he can’t go out on his new bike on Christmas Day. Being Scottish and sharing the same patience gene as Hitler, he waited two hours before hopping in, risking any number of unpleasant skin reactions and ending up with a face like Pete Burns at the tickly bit.

Because I am more mature than Joe, not to mention funny, handsome and charming, I decided to wait the recommended four hours and passed the time by having a shot on the Wii Fit. I really wish I hadn’t bothered. I can now empathise with the humiliation felt by the wee fat speccy guy who was last picked for P.E. every week. For those that don’t know how it works, here is the script.

Step 1: Wii Fit demands you stand on the step thingy while it ‘calculates your statistics’. Two minutes later, you are informed that you are a fat bastard, moderately obese and a definite salad dodger.

Step2: The next thing your friendly Wii Fit instructor will measure is your posture. This time, it will only take 30 seconds to conclude that you have the posture of a Silverback Ape and a gimpish limp on one side when you walk.

Step3: Finally, as if your ego is not fragile enough as it is, Wii Fit will then calculate your ‘Wii Fit age’ before smugly declaring that you are merely a handful of years shy of claiming your free bus pass, drawing your pension and pishin’ your pants on a regular basis.

By this time, I had started to wish that I had risked my skin falling off in the spa instead, but decided that I may as well have a go at some of the exercises the game had to offer since I had already been outed as a compulsive-eating-exercise-dodging-vegetable-hating-lard-ass. However, before I even had the chance to shed a single bead of sweat, Floss decided that she wanted to go through the ordeal of having the Wii Fit measure her stats first. ‘Good’, I thought silently.’ She has done nothing but complain for the last four months about her lack of exercise and about all the weight she has put on. Now I might get the chance to jibe her for joining me in Fatty Land’. And Floss was right, her four months of excessive portions and beer-swilling antics had led to a MASSIVE weight gain of TWO BLOODY FUCKING KILOS. That’s right folks, I have been gaining weight at around two kilos per day while Floss has managed two in four months. There really is something wrong with the way the world works.

It is hard to describe the deflation I felt knowing that Nicola had managed to match my over indulgence in America, Mexico, Fiji, New Zealand and Australia without suffering any of the consequences visited on me. I was so distressed, in fact, that I almost put down my Caramel Wafer and bottle of Irn Bru (albeit I didn’t. No need to take my huff out on a perfectly good biscuit). I was soon shaken from my sombreness, however, as I watched her have a go at the hula hoop game on the Wii. I don’t know what kind of hula-hooping experience Floss had in her younger days, but as she gyrated her hips in every shape except a circle and threw her arms around like Wee Harvey at Big Pat’s Disco, I thought about chucking her in the spa with a load of washing! It really was a sight to behold. She then had a bash at the yoga exercises and succeeded only in doing a marvellous impression of Aretha Franklin trying to touch her toes. I followed her on the hula hoop game and, while I may not have matched her score, at least I managed to keep my dignity and avoid looking like I was in the midst of an epileptic seizure.

With Joanne back from work and Joe’s skin still intact, we all made a beeline for the spa, Floss and I armed with two bottles of wine and a few beers, a sure-fire recipe for disaster. In predictably swift time, the wine disappeared (perhaps evaporation was to blame) and we set about assaulting the beers. As a consequence, the spa became like central station with everyone coming and going every few minutes to empty their swelling bladders. Speaking of bladdered (see what I did there?), Floss almost drowned herself after one of her ‘comfort breaks’. As she stepped back into the spa with full wine glass in hand, I jokingly told her that one of her boobs had fell out her bikini. In my head, she would check, chuckle and tell me to shut up. In reality, she made a desperate scramble to replace the offending boob back in her bikini, prompting her to slip, skite on her arse and half drown herself in chemical-laden spa water. Astonishingly, she managed to perform this acrobatic feat without spilling a single drop of her wine. That’s my girl! To add to her misery, in the subsequent days she also developed a nasty case of prickly heat following a run in the sunshine and was stung by something which was either a wasp, or a pigeon wearing a wasp’s pyjamas. Thank Christ she didn’t stand on a shite while we were out running – no doubt there would have been a six-inch nail in it.

The morning after the night before saw us head for Agnes Waters, a stunning beach town around an hour and a half north of Gladstone, for a spot or surfing, barbequing and beer consumption. On the journey, I had the distinct feeling that Michael Flatley was doing the Riverdance on my head thanks to the wine from the night before and it all got a bit too much for the wifey, who tapped out and delighted everyone else by agreeing to drive us home, freeing up Joe and Joanne for a Sunday session. Joe and I took full advantage of the opportunity, necking a few beers before donning our spandex tops and ambling down to the beach looking like Shamu and Free Willy. The alcohol had a very curious effect on the surfing. For Joe, it led to the board shaking like Mohammed Ali every time he tried to get on it – until the third attempt when an audible “aw fuck it” signalled the end of surfing and the resumption of boozing. I, on the other hand, found that the alcohol inspired a marked improvement in my capabilities, allowing me to get to my feet a few times and moving me one step closer to my ultimate goal of becoming Brad from Neighbours – if only this hair would play the bloody game!

Our final full day with the Smiths was spent at a petting zoo near Rockhampton, home of supposedly docile Koalas, Kangaroos, Crocodiles and other things with big teeth and claws. The journey itself was remarkably unremarkable until we stopped at the roadside to find a one-legged war veteran selling fruit at the side of the road. Being wheelchair bound, it would seem the locals have been less than reverential towards this particular war hero, as betrayed by the sign next to the stall which read:

“Friends of mine died in the war and people like me lost limbs so that thieving little bastards like you could be born. To those who stole the fruit last week, you are a bunch of mongrels and I have your car registration number.”

Now I know the act of thieving from war veterans, or indeed from any man with one leg, is neither big nor clever, but when you have been driving through the kind of barren landscape normally associated with Lesmahagow for an hour and a half, it is a welcome distraction. To anyone tutting at the moment or shaking their head in distaste, I did go some way to restoring the balance by giving him back the extra dollar he gave me in change. I think my order must have came to sixteen dollars something, which left him shit out of luck when it came to counting with his fingers and toes.

Incidentally, the petting zoo was magnificent. Not only did it stop Floss whining about going to the zoo for a few days, it also gave us the chance to go all Steve Irwin and have our photographs taken with a wee cuddly koala which smelled like a down and out’s Y-fronts and to feed little kangaroos. Unfortunately, this quintessential Aussie experience was marred by a psychotic duck which stalked us around the park, making savage lunges at the food pellets in our hands. Joanne had a close encounter with the wee bastard before it actually managed to draw blood in a sneak attack while I was feeding the ‘roos. I spent the rest of the day refusing to go near any of the animals and surreptitiously plotting the demise of Daffy. All I needed was two minutes without anyone watching and I was up for chucking it into the crocodile enclosure to see if the wee fucker found that so funny but, alas, the chance never arose. On the plus side, I did get the opportunity to have my picture taken with a snake wrapped around my neck, something I have not experienced since I fell asleep at Wardy’s house a couple of years ago.

We had a great time in Gladstone thanks to the hospitality and humour of Joe, Joanne and their squad of friends (it did also help that they provided us with a beautiful house, Sky T.V., a spa, a car to drive, Irn Bru and, of course, Caramel Wafers.) Before we left, I decided that I should brave the scales once again to gauge the effects of my new fitness regime. Two weeks in, and with more commitment shown than usual, I was expecting results. ONE BASTARDING KILO. Two weeks of profuse sweating, forcing myself to run instead of eat and looking like a massive condom in my wetsuit everyday and all I lost was one kilo. Let’s put that into perspective, I could have nipped in for a quick jobbie before I stepped on the scales and had the same result. Beleaguered, dejected and choking for a roll on square sausage, I left Jo and Joe’s house for the final time.

An uneventful flight home returned us to Sydney but the bus back from the airport provided us with one of the most appalling sights of the trip so far. I have learned on our travels that using the bus brings with it the inherent danger of being sat next to all manner of weird and wonderful people. That said, I wasn’t quite ready for the morbidly obese juggernaut sitting across from us. He was absolutely reeking, kept staring menacingly at me and sported the most vile pair of legs I have ever ever ever had the displeasure of seeing. If you don’t believe me, take a look at the covert pic I managed to snap below.

Anyhoo, we managed to get back to Bondi Beach without him eating us to spend a final week with Chris and Edit before they head to New Zealand on holiday and we run amok in their apartment. It is from here that you will receive the next blog before we head to Perth to see Les, Nicola’s brother. This should be a Jeremy Kyle-style moment as we reunite the siblings after two years apart and find out who their real father is (Only kidding Billy…they both share your devilish good looks and silver hair).

Streuth ya flamin’ galah! We’ve only bloody gone and landed in Australia. Chuck another shrimp on the barby, lock up the Shelias, catch me a ripper of a croc and everything will be sweet as bro. Now that I have exhausted my admittedly limited list of Australian stereotypes, sit back, stick on that tape of the ocean or dolphins and allow me to regale you with the story of our great escape from New Zealand.

When I left you last we had just arrived in the pishin’ rain of Lake Tekapo and had only four more days to survive in Gutaunamo Bay…sorry, New Zealand. In keeping with the rest of our time in the land of Gandalf, we endured a stinker of a night, quite literally, in a dorm room of four. Sharing with us was one Italian guy who steadfastly refutes advances in modern hygiene, such as soap and water, and an English fella who was so boring that I started to loathe my ears for listening to him. The bastard was so boring, in fact, that he was responsible for my burning a finger while preparing our culinary feast that evening (an a-la-carte offering of toast and spaghetti from a can, adorned with a sprinkling of plastic-style-cheese). Granted, this is not the most challenging of meals to prepare, but I was so distracted by Mr Interesting’s tirade against modern day man’s callous destruction of the environment that I just about nodded off and touched the roastin’ metal part of the toaster. Knowing fully that my mother and father, Nicola’s parents and many other people I am scared of read this is not going to stop me sharing with you what this guy is. He is a word that starts with a C and ends in UNT! There…I said it, and yes, it feels bloody magnificent.

O.K., I’m calm, I’m calm. So, back to the escape. We made our last trip on the magic bus from Tekapo to Christchurch via an abundance of photo opportunities which I ignored in favour of pulling the curtain shut to catch up on some much-needed sleep. In Christchurch, the weather took a slight change for the better and we were able to shed at least four layers of clothing, leaving us with just two Arctic layers apiece. Buoyed by our first glimpse of sunshine, we giddily set off to explore what Christchurch has to offer. Seven minutes later, we were back at the hostel bored out our tits and firing up Ticketmaster to see if anything good might come of our last days in captivity. Having ruled out a school production of Mama Mia, Ticketmaster returned exactly zero results, confirming my suspicions that no one gives a shit about New Zealand. See, I’m not the only one!  In any case, this left us to twiddle our thumbs and draw tally marks on the wall each day as our time in the country dragged painstakingly to an end. Finally, after three days of cursing under my breath and annoying the life out of poor Floss, salvation arrived in the shape of an airport shuttle bus.

I knew for a fact that New Zealand would find a way of giving us one final metaphorical boot in the balls before we left and I wasn’t to be disappointed. We checked in for the flight with an unusual spring in our step, looking forward to touching down in Oz and putting the last few weeks firmly behind us. That spring was soon removed, however, when we were informed that we would have to traipse across the airport to pay a departure tax. That’s right folks…not only is the country absolute ‘dug baws’, you actually have to PAY for the privilege of leaving the fuckin’ place. It cost us $50 for this pleasure, which was actually a bargain as I would have happily emptied my wallet and sold a fuckin’ kidney if I thought it might help me get out quicker. When the boarding gate finally opened, I just about tipped an old dear out her wheelchair and stood on a toddler in my haste to get on to the plane…a fitting way to end a trying few weeks.

Like a budgie, Floss immediately banished all memories of New Zealand the minute we exited Sydney airport to 34-degree heat. The same smile has not yet budged from her coupon since we arrived actually, which has me worried that she might have had a stroke on the plane without me noticing. From the airport, an hour on the bus found us at our first destination in Australia, Bondi Beach. This little gem of an area has a very similar vibe to the beach towns of Southern California, with everyone very chilled out and seemingly more intent on lying on the beach than working. We were greeted at the beach by Edit, who, along with her boyfriend Chris, went way beyond the call of duty by inviting us to stay with them for the duration of our time in Sydney. This offer is all the more remarkable given that we only met them in Fiji for a week, but my vodka-sculling prowess obviously impressed them suitably…result. Edit cooked us a lovely meal to welcome us before our hosts took us on a trip back into town to share a few glasses of wine by the Sydney Opera House and Circular Quay, a really vibrant and charming area in the evening and a perfect way to introduce us to beautiful Sydney.

The next morning, with the shame of having myself weighed in public before the bungee still gnawing away in my sizeable gut, I decided enough was enough. It was time to start working off four months of excess and next to no exercise. Bondi Beach and the nice weather seemed like the perfect place for such a resolution…until I started. Every single one of the multitude of people running and exercising looked like they had been freshly carved from stone. They were haring along like Usain Bolt, talking serenely to each other and refusing to break sweat. I, on the other hand, was blinded with sweat and wheezing like I’d just found Cheryl Cole lying naked in my bath necking a large glass of Rohypnol. It is ridiculous that so many good-looking people have converged on one place, kind of like the antithesis of Hamilton Palace, where everyone has a face for stamping Halloween cakes at Tunnock’s. I put my self-consciousness to one side and decided to persevere with the run in the hope that I will no longer look like a capital D from side on by the time I leave Australia, and staggered my way through seven kilometres of pain. This same determination was needed in spades the next day as I took to the beach again for a bash at surfing.

Being from Scotland, you would be right to assume that my surfing experience hitherto has been limited to eBay and Google (that’s about as much of my browsing history as I am comfortable sharing). Still, I have a bit of snowboarding experience behind me, and was quietly confident that this would stand me in good stead – and so it did. On my very first attempt, I managed to pop up straight on to my feet and maintain perfect balance for a good ten seconds or so. Edit, my surfing teacher for the day, didn’t seem impressed by my smug satisfaction, and suggested that we should probably stop practising on the sand and move into the water…bloody killjoy! My chariot for the day was ‘Ben’, Edit’s 9-foot soft board. For those not down with the surfing kids, a nine-foot board is the equivalent of having stabilisers on your bike, a crash helmet with your name sewn on the inside by your mum and a high-visibility vest with the warning “Beware – retard at work” on the back. Still, like most of the afflicted, I was happy! In the water, I did not fare so well. An hour of frantic paddling and doomed attempts at standing up resulted in my aching like an old man and the ingestion of a good three litres of Pacific Ocean water. Undeterred, I have since returned to take on Mother Nature every day and have got to the point where I can shock myself and everyone watching by occasionally getting on my feet, albeit briefly. If nothing else, it is good exercise and I recently purchased a new wetsuit so that, even when I am shit, I still look the part in the photographs!

Our first week at Bondi Beach with Chris and Edit passed so quickly and, by the time we headed back to the airport to catch a flight north to Rockhampton to see Joe and Joanne Smith, it felt like we had only been there a couple of nights. Still, we will be returning to Bondi next week, and look forward to spending more time with the crazy Eastern Europeans and honing our beach bodies (mine should be ready for the 2012 Special Olympics). Back at the airport, we checked in for our flight with Virgin Blue, which is like Ryanair, but not shit. We even had a brand new shiny plane to ride on, which would have been very pleasant had the little boy in the seat in front of me not had tourettes and the baby behind me hadn’t insisted on wailing like a banshee for the duration of the flight. You might think I make this shit up, but I kid you not, between the wee boy in front effing and jeffing every three seconds, the baby bawling her eyes out behind us and me rocking gently with my iPod on full volume, we must have looked like one of Wee Harvey’s school trips. Mercifully, it was a short flight, and we arrived in Rockhampton to be greeted by the dulcet Scottish tones of Joe, who managed to sneak up and say “you look like a couple of Scottish fannies” before we could even see him.

Thankfully, Joanne was a bit more welcoming than that, and had a full roast dinner prepared for our arrival and a bottle of Irn Bru chilling on the bed in the spare room for us. You really can’t beat a welcome like that, or so I thought until she went to the fridge and produced a packet of Caramel Wafers. I was more excited than a dog with two dicks and immediately set about the roast like a tramp with a hot pie. Only then did Joe see fit to inform me that we were playing football in an indoor-league match less than an hour and a half later, meaning a stitch and possible collapsed lung were most definitely in the post. We rounded off a very pleasant first evening in Gladstone with our Scottish hosts by notching up a resounding 10-5 victory against some Aussie mob that must have got lost on the way to cricket practice. Despite not having kicked a ball for four months and being a fat bar steward, I even managed to notch a couple of goals, which, by the time I get home, will have turned into a pair of 40-yard overhead kicks.

Ahead lies a few days of trying to keep the fitness kick going and then spoiling it by drinking like Charles Kennedy at a free bar. We are staying with Joe and Jo until Tuesday, before heading back to Bondi and continuing my transformation into Brad from Neighbours. Next time you see me, I might have long hair, a tan and a six-pack…but most probably I will be baldy, peely-wally and have a six pack (under my arm as opposed to on my stomach).

Until then…you will just have to wait and see!

But hang on, let’s rewind to where I left you last…

Floss had vowed to undertake a sky dive from 13,000 terrifying feet, a decision which sent shockwaves all the way back to sunny Lanarkshire. I believe my dad’s words were something like: “Fuck’s sake hen! Are ye sure? You’re scared tae go intae the lobby withoot the light oan”. Not to be outdone, I also put my dignity on the line in a fit of impetuous bravado by declaring that I too would risk life and limb by chucking myself off a bridge with an elastic band tied to my ankles. This led to my mother informing me through the medium of Bebo that I am immediately grounded upon my return to the Motherland. I might have felt more threatened by this had I not been so perturbed by her continual references to the bungee jump as a B.J. It’s never a nice thing to hear your mother tell you that she is worried about your upcoming B.J., or worse still, to make sure you enjoy your B.J.

We had a couple of days to kill before the full extent of our stupidity would be realised, and started by jumping once again on to the Magic Bus for the trip from Nelson to Greymouth. This has been our first experience of travelling on an organised bus tour and, for the uninitiated amongst you, allow me to paint a rough picture of how it works.

Stupid o’clock: A too-cheery bus driver will pick you up from your hostel after a smidgen of sleep and ask you to make rational decisions about the rest of your day, including activities you might wish to engage in and your preference of hostels for the next night(s). As he does this, you are generally still trying to clean up the pool of saliva which laid claim to your face during the night and check body parts to ensure that everything made it home in one piece after another night of alcohol-induced stupidity.

10 minutes past stupid o’clock: Your driver, who has not shut-the-fuck-up in the previous 9 minutes and 59 seconds, stops spouting manure just long enough to abandon the bus in the middle of the road and instruct everyone to get out for the first of the day’s 324 “amazing photo opportunities”. These invariably constitute a mountain, a lake, trees, rocks, cars screaming past at a thousand miles per hour, pishing rain or a combination of the aforementioned. (Note to the bus driver: I’m not Bill Fuckin’ Oddie and I don’t bloody care! It’s a mountain; we have them in Scotland, now get your fat arse back in the cabin and drive, preferably in silence! Phewwwwwwwww…that’s better.)

Sometime before 12pm: You will be awoken from a slumber by the grinding halt of the bus once again. Realising that the ninja saliva has again won the battle with the left side of your face, you will give up, use your sleeve to wipe it off and look out the window to find that you have arrived in Banjoville or Shagyersistershire and therefore must visit the one café on offer and pay them an exorbitant sum of money for the privilege of drinking the tepid cat piss they pass off as tea or coffee.   

Between 12pm-3pm: You will repeat the process of stopping, eating crap food in crap towns and taking photographs of big green things every fifteen minutes or every time you just manage to fall asleep, whichever comes first. At these stops, you will also battle with an army of Japanese tourists wielding cameras and pointy elbows as they hop from spot to spot to get the perfect angle on a big fuckin’ hill that hasn’t moved in 14 million years. On a particularly busy day, you could be forgiven for battering the wee twats ala Uma Thurman in Kill Bill.

Sometime before its dark: You will arrive at your final destination in the rain and haul your bag and your carcass up a big hill to a hostel which looked like the Hilton in the guide book but has miraculously transformed into Auschwitz overnight. By this point, you will be devoid of enthusiasm, will to live and the desire to clean the rest of the saliva off your face. Drinking heavily is advisable.

Erm, I don’t know what prompted that little outburst…let’s get back on track, shall we?

By the time we arrived in Greymouth, I could have ate a scabby-heided wean through a hedge and was in need of alcohol…any alcohol. Imagine how my spirits soared then when the driver gave us the first piece of useful information in eight hours – that there was a brewery tour, with sampling session and meal included, available for a mere £12.50. Frankly, by this stage I would have taken a tour at the Tennent’s factory and a meal at Capos so it was never in doubt that my darlin’ wife and I would be partaking in this activity. We were joined on this expedition by Laura and Nathalie, our travelling buddies over the last week, London Tom and his resplendent Russell Brand-esque hair, Ian and Laura, a very amusing Irish couple who hired a car and decided to follow the magic bus all the way round and Chris and Emma, the best-dressed and most annoyingly-handsome travellers I have ever clapped eyes on. Together, we whizzed our way round the Monteith’s facility in double-quick time, allowing us to set about the tasting session like dogs with distemper.  The guy running the tour made the schoolboy error of getting sidetracked in conversation with another of the tourists, allowing us to declare Marshall Law on the beer taps for a good hour or so. By the time we arrived at the pub for our free meal, a fantastic array of BBQ offerings, we were all a bit worse for wear and managed to coerce the pub owner into putting SingStar on the big screen. Within minutes, I inevitably found myself swinging the mic between my legs, forcing people to join in with the sway and dedicating power ballads to “the much-loved Stephen Gately”. It was tear-wrenching stuff…for anyone who had to listen.

Despite the sore heads the next morning, we were satisfied that we had made our mark on Greymouth and moved on in the morning to lay claim to Franz Josef, the scene of Flossie’s sky dive. Franz Josef is most famous for the Fox Glacier, a behemoth of a thing which inspires people to go all Sly Stallone and hike on it and scale its razor-sharp faces. At 5pm that evening, Floss was booked to strap herself to a man she had never met, throw herself out a plane at 13,000 feet and hope that the guy remembered to pull the cord before they hit the glacier. When she hadn’t returned to the hostel by 8pm I was in two minds whether to phone her mum and dad or go on Google to find out how soon you can claim a life-insurance policy. I needn’t have worried…just after eight, Floss, Laura and Nathalie returned, grinning like they had just spent an hour with the Italian football squad in the team bath. I have rarely seen her so animated as she recounted the experience step-by-step, from the overpowering rush of air during the freefall to the beautiful tranquillity after the ‘chute was deployed. Like Alex Ferguson, I was vewy, vewy pwoud of my pwayer. We celebrated the girls’ daring that evening with a few beverages along with the rest of our little travelling posse and I was given a surprise gift by Ian and Laura, a video of Rangers’ greatest victories. Look out for pictures of that burning in future blogs…bastards!

Once again, the rain wiped out the possibility of taking full advantage of the activities on offer in Franz Josef. In fact, by the time we left for Queenstown, we had spent almost two days solid in our little Butlins-style chalet with the heater on watching videos. Yes, bloody videos. Anchorman is just not as funny when you have to get up every four minutes to adjust the tracking. Most people were happy to board the bus for Queenstown when the time came. I say most people, as my arse was busy making chocolate buttons in the knowledge that B.J. Day had arrived. Suddenly, I started enjoying every stop for a photo opportunity and couldn’t drag myself away from the Shagyersistershire Cafe…anything to avoid arriving in Queenstown. To make matters worse, I was the only person on the bus who signed up to jump that day, a fact the driver seemed to take inordinate pleasure in announcing every few minutes. And then it happened. We pulled into the car park and every single bampot on the bus decided they were getting out to watch my performance.

I could barely bring myself to sign my name on the disclaimer form which stipulated that, should I die, it was completely my own fault that they couldn’t tie the thing properly. Even worse, they then weighed me and wrote the figure on my hand in big red numbers. It would appear someone attached Wee Harvey on to my back the second I stood on the scales as the pen just about ran out of ink (on the positive side, I am now eligible to fight Butterbean). I then had to get changed into shorts and t-shirt (and plastic pants) before making the lonely walk along the bridge to the jumping platform. As if I wasn’t nervous enough, the girl jumping before me made a complete arse of it, stepping off the platform rather than diving, with the end result that she swung violently around at the bottom and almost certainly treated herself to a healthy dose of whiplash. I had no time to dwell however, as I was summoned to the platform to have my cord attached to the ankle harness. I shuffled my toes towards the edge and gripped the handle for all I was worth. The girl preparing me was talking, but I wasn’t taking in a single thing she said until she pried my hands loose. On the count of 5, 4,3,2,1…bungee, I was overcome by the fear of looking like a pussy, prompting me to throw myself from the platform with more gusto than I ever intended. This was the most surreal and intense feeling I have ever experienced, and one which I will happily go on record as saying that I will never ever do again unless Megan Fox is lying at the bottom wearing hee-haw but a smile and whistling You’ll Never Walk Alone.   

 In the evening, all the lovely people we have met on our way around New Zealand came out to celebrate the fact that I was still alive. We started with a drinking game which I blatantly did not understand, thus ending with me having to drink everyone’s drinks one after the other. These included white wine, rosé wine, sparkling wine, whisky, seven different kinds of beer, vodka and apple juice and something which tasted like petrol. Needless to say, I was sparkled by the time we got out to the pub, drank three carbombs and proceeded to forget everything else that happened that night except the fright Laura, Ian, Emma and Chris gave me by hiding in a hatch near my room and jumping out screaming like bloody maniacs at 2.30am. Despite my heart rate hitting the roof, I was impressed by their effort, although nobody else in the hostel seemed to appreciate the racket quite so much.

Yesterday, we said a sad goodbye to all those lovely folks and made our way to Dunedin for a tour round the Cadbury’s factory. Floss was happier than George Michael in a public toilet as we were treated to umpteen free bars of chocolate and shown around the factory by a wee fat woman who clearly takes the job seriously! Every step she took made her breathe that bit harder to the point where she sounded like Dirty Den at a webcam. In the evening, we went to watch the Michael Jackson movie This is It and it may surprise you to hear that I have no crude jokes about this experience. In fact, I would go so far as to say that you should go and see it in the cinema if you get the chance. Paedophilia and thinking he is Peter Pan aside, the man was ridiculously talented!

We are now in Lake Tekapo, which has mountains, a lake, trees, rocks, cars screaming past at a thousand miles per hour and pishing rain. It’s such a novel experience. Tomorrow we will be awakened at stupid o’clock and…Ach, never mind!

Off to Australia on Tuesday (thank Henrik!) to visit Chris and Edit, the couple we met in Fiji, for a week at Bondi Beach. Due to this, I fully expect that by the time you hear from me next, I will have changed my name to Brad, learned how to surf, grown long hair and tried to sneck Joe Mangel. Yasssssssssssssssss!

Until then…ta ta for now!

P.S. Here is a link to the bungee video should anyone care to revel in my pain http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UkDlAzQFZQE

Our penultimate day granted us a bit of respite from the rain, allowing Andi and I the opportunity to play a round of golf at the home course of Vijay Singh. Now, to an Austrian, golf is about as familiar as a balanced diet is to a Scot, so, on the first tee, I decided to do the honourable thing and go first, allowing Andi to observe and learn. I had the added pressure of two locals stopping to gawk at me from only four feet away while I played, meaning I had to keep an eye on my wallet as well as my ball. The golfing gods must have been smiling down on me as I creamed a three-iron straight down the middle and strolled nonchalantly to my bag before tossing my club back in and embarking on a little Jane Fonda-style flexing for the crowd. I think I might have heard one of the locals ask his friend if I might be John Daly, but I chose to ignore the cheeky bastard and help Andi line up his first ever golf shot. Three epic swings later resulted in him almost giving me the cold and the ball remaining stubbornly on the tee. To his credit, he toiled on and made some noticeable improvements as the day progressed, even managing to smack one shot a good 150(ish) yards. Unfortunately, it was 150 yards in the wrong direction and straight towards where I was standing. The ball missed me by a baw-hair, striking the tree behind me and forcing out an involuntary fart…a potentially disastrous act when you are suffering with the pan fritters!  

With the golf and Fiji behind us, we made the 4-hour jaunt to Auckland, New Zealand to begin the third leg of our trip. Expectations were very high after gushing reports from Bairdy and Colm on the back of their own trip a couple of years previous, making the disappointment all the more crushing as we stepped out of the airport into the freezing cold and pishing rain, a recurring feature which would blight our time on the North Island. Having intentionally booked our trip to follow the sunshine, you can imagine that our wardrobes are ill-equipped for a South Pole expedition. It quickly became apparent that flip flops and my man-kini were just not going to cut it, forcing an emergency shopping trip to arm ourselves with a hoodie apiece in the hope of staving off hypothermia. The hostel staff tried to reassure us that the day we arrived had been unseasonably cold, and that things would soon brighten up. Ha-fucking-ha I thought as I opened the blinds the next morning to the sight of snow falling. This prompted a joint-response of ‘fuck this for a game of soldiers’ and Floss and I immediately decided to make like a shepherd and get the flock out of there, booking a place on a hop-on hop-off bus tour out of Auckland and around the rest of the country.

On the morning we left Auckland we were picked up by the ‘Magic Bus’ and introduced to a motley crew of passengers and Lisa, our driver for the day and a complete twat of a woman who might well have been nipping out for bread and milk in the morning and accidentally ended up with 30 people on her bus. She didn’t appear to have a bloody clue what was happening at any point of the journey, refusing to provide the bog-standard scenic commentary in favour of repeating the phrase “sweet as a chicken” every 30 seconds or so. By the time we reached our destination she had even managed to earn herself a speeding ticket and narrowly avoided me choking her to death with her microphone cord. Our first stop was Rotorua. A town famed for its geothermal activity, geysers and mud pools. What the guide books fail to tell you, however, is that the place smells like a thalidomide’s arse crack. The smell of rotten eggs caused by the geothermal activity is overwhelming, particularly near the lake and any drains on the road or pavement. On the positive side, the rain stopped while we were in Shitsville and allowed us the opportunity to have a shot on ‘the luge’ a purpose-built course which has been dug out on one of the many mountains. The luge itself is made up of a tea tray with handle bars and three wheels which appear to have been bolted on as an after-thought. Depending on your bravery, foolishness, level of inebriation and willingness to die, these little things can hurtle down the mountain at ridiculous speeds and I was determined to win every race against Floss…I needn’t have worried. While I was threatening to over-enthusiastically crash into every available barrier, Safety Sam (Nic) was crawling down the hill like Miss Daisy. I was travelling at speed, but I’m sure I saw her attempt a mirror, signal, manoeuvre at one point. The upshot is that I was able to get down in time to get out my own luge and take the following photo of her, replete with special bus crash helmet, as she ended her run.    

 Unfortunately, the rain returned to cut short our luge fun and the next day saw us depart the shitey streets of Rotorua to make our way for an overnight stop in the sleepy village of Taupo. We stopped on the way for a tour of the Waitomo caves, formed by the erosion of the limestone rocks over millions of years and lit inside by the thousands of glow worms that line its ceilings. It is a fascinating sight to see these little creatures in the pitch darkness and the tour itself was quite interesting and informative. In fact, we learned that, despite being in the caves for almost nine months in the larvae stage, the adult glow worm only survives for four days as a consequence of being born without a mouth. With any justice, God will do us all a favour and re-incarnate Jade Goody as one of these bad boys! It may be the case that Kerry Katona is already a slightly more evolved descendant of the glow worms as it is estimated that they spawn 150 children in their lifetime. She must be well on her way to that figure by now!

An uneventful night passed in Taupo, although we did manage to source a can of Irn Bru at our hostel and keep alive Jible’s challenge of finding our ‘other national drink’ in every country. That set us up for the bus journey the next day to our final port of call on the North Island, the city of Wellington. The journey proved more eventful than Wellington itself, with our new maniac of a bus driver, a man who goes by the name of Young Joe Young, providing plenty of entertainment on the way. Allied to a very sharp sense of humour that bordered on racism, sexism and all the other isms, he also set up various ‘battle of the countries’ challenges including bus bowling and wellington boot throwing competitions. Team Scotland, made up of only me and wee Floss, placed a respectable second in the Welly Boot Chuck (won by an inbred sheep-shagging hulk of a Canadian) and fourth in the Bus Bowling (won by a Mexican girl with a Burt Reynolds moustache). I demanded that Young Joe Young carry out a hormone test to establish whether or not Nacho Libre was indeed sporting gonads, but my appeal was thrown out and we were denied the bronze medal we so richly deserved.

Not much happened in Wellington itself, although we did have a highly enjoyable night out with Laura and Nathalie (the two English girls we have been travelling with for the last week) and Ian and Laura, an Irish couple we met in Fiji who have clearly been stalking us around the world ever since. The night in question was a quiz night, with Floss and I teaming up with the Irish, although more attention was paid to drinking than answering questions, resulting in a disappointing fourth-last-place finish and a stinking hangover the next day. Despite feeling terrible, we had to make the three-hour ferry crossing to the South Island and to Nelson, our current location. We were treated to a wine-tasting session on our way to Nelson by an English woman who was extolling the virtues of refining your palate and teaching us how to ‘taste win properly’. To be honest, she would have been as well trying to teach wee fat Harvey to ballet dance for all the attention I paid, knocking back samples in ‘a wanner’ and belching like Johnny Vegas down the local.

For any movie geeks, that is Mount Doom from Lord of the Rings pictured above.

Nothing else funny has happened in Nelson, except hearing about Rangers taking a pumping off the Boys Brigade XI or whoever it was, although we have put some planning in place which should make for an interesting next blog. I say this because little old me, who is not very good with heights, will be taking on the biggest bungee jump in New Zealand next week in Queenstown. Before that, however, Floss, who is scared of everything, will be chucking herself out of an aeroplane at 12,000 feet strapped to a bloke she doesn’t know and landing on a glacier in Franz Josef. Personally, I would rather let Gary Glitter watch the weans than join her on that one.

As it happened, they would have been as well sticking David Blunkett at the customs gate for all the attention they paid to our documents. This was a bonus, leaving only the baggage carousel and a wait in line to have our bags x-rayed between us and some much-needed sleep. Like all good plans, this one went to shit as our bags took an eternity to appear. When they did eventually show up, we inevitably found ourselves stuck behind a family of 374 Sri Lankans. Every time I turned round another 10 seemed to appear with three bags on their shoulders and two weans hanging on to each leg. If the bastards spent less time getting their wives up the duff and more time playing cricket, maybe they could do us all a favour and beat England every now and again!

Having booked for three nights in the hostel on Nadi Beach, we spent most of our time utilising the hammocks and poolside bar before arranging to go on an island-hopping tour of the Yasawa Island group. We also met a lovely Austrian couple, Andi and Nikki, and arranged to do the week’s tour with them, mostly due to the fact that they seemed to enjoy getting drunk. Also, considering the fact they come from a country which counts Josef Fritzel and Adolf Hitler amongst its alumni, they actually had a very good sense of humour. Before we could leave the main island though, we were introduced to Kava, a drink consumed by the basin-load by the locals. It is made from the root of the Kava plant and, despite containing no alcohol, leaves you with a numb tongue and the co-ordination of wee fat Harvey at a roller disco. This would not be my only Kava experience…

The day before our departure, Floss and I dipped our toe into the shark-infested Fijian water for a spot of kayaking. This proved to be a good workout for me as I traversed across the ocean shore and a dizzying experience for Floss as she went round and round on the spot in circles three feet from the shore for 15 minutes before packing it in. To be fair, I had previous experience to fall back on after a canoeing course at Strathcylde Park in my school days. The only differences between that and Fiji are:

1. You don’t have to spend your time dodging malevolent shopping trolleys in the water
2. You don’t have to pish in your wetsuit for a heat
3. You are unlikely to die as a result of choking on a jobbie the minute you capsize

The next day saw us leave the main island to head north to Tavewa in the Yasawas. En-route, we passed a succession of tiny islands, each more idyllic than the next and many of which we would visit over the course of the next week on our journey back towards the main island.

Arriving at our first stop, Coral View Resort, we were greeted by a song from all the staff on the beach as we arrived on a boat which looked like it had been built by the Motherwell College joinery students. We quickly got ourselves settled and went for our first taste of snorkelling, or rather I went for my first taste of snorkelling while Floss again stood three feet from the shore wearing her flippers and snorkel like Scuba Steve but steadfastly refusing to put her head in the water. This same problem threatened to rear its head again the next day when we signed up for a cave diving trip. We left early in the morning on the same shambles of a boat and, after half an hour on choppy water, I was left with the kind of sore arse that Graham Norton would pay good money for. At the caves, the fun really started…

We had to lower ourselves down into the freezing cold water of the first cave with only minimal light afforded from a gap in the roof (a gap which we were later informed locals spit through for luck…clatty bastards!) We were in a group of eight and everyone was feeling a touch apprehensive, none more so than my darling wife who looked like she would rather be taking swimming lessons from Michael Barrymore. With everyone safely in the water we made a short swim to the opening of cave number two. The problem with cave number two, though, is that you must swim underwater through a tiny gap in the wall to get to the other side. Having negotiated this perilous obstacle, you then find yourself in the kind of complete darkness where you can’t even see your hand in front of your face. I could see that Floss was having none of this, but managed somehow to cajole her into giving it a bash by promising that I would stay directly behind her. By the time I got through to the other side, I could hear nothing but Flossie breathing like Tommy Sheridan at Legs ‘n’ Co as she scrambled for something to cling on to. Only later did we find out that she almost drowned the guide by throwing herself at him the minute she got her head above the surface! We were only just about regaining our composure when the same guide thought it would be funny to shout “Bula” at the top of his lungs, sending his voice reverberating around the cave walls and making me just about shite in my shorts!

We had enough excitement to last a lifetime the day before, so decided that we should have a more relaxed day on the Sunday by visiting the local village and church service. Little did we know that the church service would contain a set of decks, a priest who looked like he was auditioning for a Run DMC tribute act and a handful of women dancing around like Bez from the Happy Mondays. Midway through the service, all the children present were rounded up by a village elder and led off to a small hut…it’s nice to see that all religions share common practice.

Our second island, Naviti, proved rather uneventful in comparison and luckily we only had one night there before moving on to Wayalailai, which is a small island with an epic rocky backdrop. On this island, we were greeted at the shoreline by a singing albino Fijian. He looked like bits of him could fall off at any moment (more Luke Scratchwalker than Skywalker) and sang in a monotone drawl which sounded like Stephen Hawking running low on batteries. At the first night’s dinner, we also met Edit and Christian from Hungary and Germany respectively and proceeded to get absolutely hammered with them and Andi and Nikki on a concoction of beer and straight vodka. Too many vodoos later, most people headed for bed, which is just as well as all the electricity is turned off at midnight, but Andi and I foolishly stayed up with the locals drinking Kava and getting even more wrecked. By the morning, we were both like burst couches and missed breakfast – not the ideal way to prepare for a swim to the neighbouring island and a summit walk of the island later in the evening.

After barely surviving the swim and receiving lacerations on the toes from the razor-sharp coral, we were led by our guide for the summit walk in order to catch the sunset. Our guide was a 65-year-old man called Nepote and this stunning creature, who may or may not be from Larkhall, boasted hands like shovels and six toes on each foot – none of which pointed in the same direction. Not only that, the crazy bastard managed the climb in fuckin’ flip flops, no doubt utilising his extra toes for grip. I managed to sneak in one blood-curdling snap of his foot for your viewing pleasure. Ask yourself…toe-job for a million quid?

That evening, we were coerced by one of the staff to join in with some Butlins-esque dancing and joviality. The result of this and my Travolta-like movement on the dancefloor is that I was voted Bula King of Wayalailai and treated to a prize of free alcohol! Many of the other travellers were congratulating me on this achievement and on my rhythmic hips (rumour has it you can get pregnant just watching them) without knowing that the only reason I was selected was because I stayed up the night before getting hammered with the guy who was judging the competition. I knew all my drinking would pay off eventually! When I return to Fiji, and back to Wayalailai in particular, I fully expect to see a statue erected of myself and have my face on their money!

Beyond Wayalailai, we had one more night left of our tour and decided to spend it with the other two couples at Beachcomber, a resort which heralds itself as “Fiji’s Ibiza”. In hindsight, this claim makes about as much sense as voting Kerry Katona “mother of the year”. Nonetheless, we made the best of our night on the island, sharing a few beverages and planning to do a couple of activities the next day before heading back to the main island. One of these activities was mini golf and, after collecting our vintage 1943 putters, we headed off for the first hole. No sooner had I completed my Jane Fonda stretching and lined up my first putt when we were asked by a local to head back to the bar area. Indignant, Floss asked why, only to be immediately shut up by the revelation that there had been a Tsunami warning and we were to go for a briefing. Ridiculously, we were sent to the highest point of the island…the top floor of the bar. Here, we were informed that the Tsunami was expected to hit in 37 minutes, but assured that we should not worry as they were going to give us a two-hour happy hour at the bar! This typical Fijian response did little to allay the fears of many of the guests and it was only an hour later that we breathed a little easier as the warning was cancelled! Below is a picture of how we managed to keep our composure with death looming.

Unsurprisingly, many people were very keen to get off the tiny little islands and get back to the mainland and, luckily, we had our place booked and headed back to the mainland for a meal with Edit and Chris before they left in the morning. Our week travelling the Yasawa Islands has been the most memorable of the trip so far and we are now faced with a couple of days planning before saying adios to Fiji and heading to New Zealand.

The next update will come from the land of the Kiwi, where Floss and I are going to try our best not to get eaten by anything poisonous. Speak to you soon…

Byeeeeeeeeeee

P.S. Congrats to Bill McGill and Jeannie on your engagement…we are delighted for you and demand you have a separate party for us when we return home!

Over a week of home comforts at Ryan and Kaitlyn’s had provided us with ample opportunity to pore over potential accommodation in the Windy City and we decided to ignore the more popular Hosteling International (due entirely to the fact that they impose a strict alcohol ban) in favour of a chic-looking establishment in Greektown, less than two miles from downtown Chicago. The blurb and the photographs online promised a host of luxuries in our ‘home from home’ including free continental breakfast, air conditioning, a room of four with top-notch security and state-of the art kitchen facilities. Throw in the very reasonable cost and it looked like we had hit the jackpot.

Needless to say, this all proved to be a load of pish. After two flights and a jaunt on the Chicago rail system we arrived at our final destination to a greeting of a guy tiling the lobby area, displaying considerably more arse-crack than endeavour. After manoeuvring our way past him (trying to avoid grazing against his skiddy Y-fronts) we were then faced by some sort of Greek anti-godess at the reception. Her hairstyle was modelled on Diana Ross in the 80s and she had a ‘tache which looked like her eyebrows had come down for a drink. Add to this eyes which were playing blackjack (one twisting, one sticking) and underarms which suggested she had Don King in a headlock, and we quickly realised that we may be in for eight days to remember. Too tired to complain, we then found out there was a ‘no alcohol policy’ in place and had a quick check to see if Jeremy Beadle might be about to jump out to tell us we had been stitched up before taking our key from Sloth from the Goonies and proceeding to our room. Predictably, we opened our room door (without a lock) and saw before us a room with eight beds rather than four and blankets on the bed which could give Desperate Dan a clean shave. Had I not already let Sloth swipe my credit card, I might have swivelled on my heels to seek new accommodation but, knowing we had been shafted, we resolved to make the best of a bad situation and enjoy our last week in America regardless.

This resolve seemed to be tested on a daily basis thanks to the roommates they kept sending up to us. Our first night was nice, just Floss and I, a lovely English couple and a nice woman from Brazil. The next day, however, we returned from a cracking day spent at the epically beautiful  Millennium Park to find that the Brazilian woman had been replaced by a couple from Holland who smelt like Harold Shipman’s surgery and the two spare beds filled by two Spanish guys who appeared to harbour a phobia of silence. Every night José and Hose B would sit on their beds talking pish like Fran and Anna, mostly ignoring the glaring hatred coming from every other bed in the dorm. On the rare occasions they did sense people getting raging, they would resort to whispering louder than they were speaking originally until, on the third night, I lost the plot and told them to “wrap their pish and shut up”. Much to my astonishment, their English must have been better than I thought as they could barely be heard breathing for the rest of the night, which is just as well as I was rapidly approaching the end of my tether and a certain Chewing the Fat moment where I started throwing furniture and people about the room in an uncontrollable rage. You may be wondering how Floss was managing to stay calm amidst my fury but that’s simple, she was sparkled on the top bunk with earplugs in and an eye mask on…wee jobbie.

By the time our fourth day rolled around, the two smelly Dutch bastards had yet to brave the shower room, despite the free towels and shower gel, creating a pungent scent of stale cheese wherever they went. I briefly thought about smothering the bastard while he was sleeping (he wouldn’t have smelled any worse dead) or at least carrying out a bit of ninja-lynx-spraying in his direction, but Floss wouldn’t let me. Instead, I was forced to inhale his stench in silence until mercy came in the form of them moving on (presumably to Govan). The plus side of the room smelling so bad is that we were so desperate to escape it that we even went for a run early in the morning thinking this would provide our nostrils with a bit of respite. It also gave us the chance to catch the much-lauded ‘continental breakfast’. Now, it might just be me, but I have never been to any continent where 100 boiled eggs in a big dish could constitute a ‘continental breakfast’ – no wonder the rooms were howlin’. By this point I had realised that I was definitely not gonna beat them, so I decided to join them by eating as many boiled eggs as I could and going into our room to try and fart out the tune of ‘Flower of Scotland’, bringing new meaning to the Windy City.

The City of Chicago itself is a beautiful place, littered with dazzling architecture, unbelievable public parks and beautiful food at every turn. The pace of life is also as mellow as we have come across in any of the big U.S. cities, with the place all the better for it. We spent a lot of time in the Downtown area, doing a little bit of shopping and picking up some little keepsakes for the family. Consequently, we accrued a collection of loose change that had my pocket sagging like Kerry Katona’s left tit and decided over a coffee that we would count it before getting rid of it via one of the many homeless people on the streets of Chicago. A quick count revealed over two dollars in mostly pennies and so we set out on our mission. It was kind of like the Secret Millionaire, except we had £1.60 and, instead of looking for someone deserving, we were simply seeking someone who hadn’t ‘shot up’ in the last ten minutes. In the end we gave it to a guy with a dog, Bon Jovi’s hair and no teeth. I can’t wait to go back in 6 months and see what he did with it!

We made the best of our lot in Chicago in the remaining couple of days, despite the hostel owner’s attempt to put one of every nationality in our room. Honestly, our room was like a fucking advert for United Colours of Benetton! The city itself was a wonderful place to round off an amazing first leg of the tour, and we were quite satisfied with ourselves as we headed to the airport to return to California for a couple of days before heading to Fiji. This should have proved an uneventful journey, but Floss had other ideas…

On our arrival at the airport, we were asked to use the self-service check-in machines and obligingly took our place at one of the many kiosks. After keying in details and faffing around with passports, we then had to pay the baggage check-in charge. As I went in to my wallet for my debit card, another of my bank cards fell on to the floor at my feet. I decided that I would finish what I was doing at the machine before I picked it up, so you can imagine my surprise when I caught Flossie out the corner of my eye providing me with the highlight of the trip so far. Trying to do me a good turn and help out, Wee Floss had attempted to crouch down and pick the card up. Unfortunately, she tried to do this with her backpack still on her shoulders, the weight of which causing her to collapse on to the floor like a deck chair. It seemed to happen in slow motion, the fearful expression on her face, the high-pitched shriek and the eventual impact on the unforgiving floor. The woman at the booth next to us looked at her with a mixture of wonderment and horror, trying desperately to hold her laugh in. All Floss could offer this bystander was the blatantly unnecessary “I fell”…no shit Sherlock. I suppose I could have helped lessen her shame and hide the rush of red which had rose from her toes to her hair by the time her arse skelped the deck, but I actually finished the payment process with the tears streaming down my face before helping her up. I then lessened my chances even more of her ever helping me again by laughing uncontrollably for the next 15 minutes and continuing to giggle well beyond the four-hour flight. To her credit, she also managed to see the funny side, although she still said “please don’t put this in the blog baby”. Luckily for her, I wouldn’t do that to her…aye right!

With that amusing episode I will sign off from the U.S. of A and thank all of you that have been reading these. I’ve had a right good laugh writing them if nothing else! Next one will probably be a couple of weeks from now after Fiji (not sure if they have electricity, never mind wifi)!

Adios Amigos