The 2007 NRL season is underway.
As a rugby league fan I've always kept my eye on results down under, but this year, as we'll be there for the seasons climax, I'm following the action very closely.
My team, the South Sydney Rabbitohs, have made a good start with solid wins over arch-rivals the Roosters and Parramatta Eels. Russell Crowe and his mate with the gay name have really turned things around down at Redfern. Wooden spooners since their return to the big league, this year promises much more.
Rusty's got them new players, a new coach, new backroom staff and, more importantly, Armani suits. They may not be the best team in the NRL just yet, but they're the best dressed.
And, who knows, come our arrival in August, Souths could be right up there vying for a spot in the play-offs.
In other news, we're selling everything that isn't nailed-down, on e-bay. It's great, we've pocketed a couple of hundred quid already, on gear that we would have normally given to the dog shop. Old toys that the kids have grown out of, old clothes that I have grown out of, the wife's old hair accessories, even old footy boots. People will buy almost anything.
If you list it, they will come...
Friday, March 30, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Bella Braga - Obrigato!
As far as jolly boys outings go our trip to Portugal was right up there with the best of them.
It didn't get off to the best start though, with us being behind schedule from the word go. We arrived at the check-in desk right on the bell with 45 minutes remaining before we were due to fly. The three orange-faced scouse girls manning the desk looked at us with disdain and continued talking amongst themselves. After a couple of minutes one of them turned to us and said,
"You do realise check-in closed two minutes ago."
We'd been standing there for almost five waiting for them to finish gassing about whatever orange-faced scousers gas about. Fake tan, no doubt.
"Yeah, sorry love" said Cliff, our team leader, showing uncharacteristic restraint.
"You should have left earlier" whined a different orange face, pre-empting a possible traffic defence.
"Er, yeah sorry love," repeated Clifford, "we had to go back for my mobile phone see." Clearly hoping to strike a chord with these phone-dependant oikes.
"Hmmm, you'll have to take your bags to 'Oversize Luggage' to get them on the plane but we can't be certain they'll be put on the flight. It's your own faults." said orange face number three unsympathetically.
And so we were allowed to check in, safe in the knowledge that we may be wearing the same trolleys for the next three days. Lovely.
Things continued in the same vane at security where I had my swiss card confiscated, although I was allowed to post it back to my home address.
The lads jogged ahead while I filled in the necessary paperwork. This further delay prompted the airport tannoy to request my presence at the gate immediately. I was forced to break into a run, not exactly my idea of having a good time.
We all caught the flight and so did our luggage, which was nice. We picked up the hire car with minimum fuss and hit the road.
It took a little while for the lads to relax, as I drove around the first roundabout we encountered, the wrong way. No harm done though as the roads of northern Spain carry much less traffic than the U.K.
The rest of the journey was unremarkable, the boys played golf in the back on their mobiles while the team leader got some much needed beauty sleep in the front.
We crossed the border into Portugal and the already excellent highways improved further and the already quiet roads virtually became our own. I was able to pick my 'racing line' as we roared along. Bliss.
Our first objective on our arrival in Braga was to book ourselves into some digs before we could begin our pre-match preparations in earnest. We asked a lovely policewoman for directions to the Ibis Hotel, which we had previously seen signs for. Her helpful and concise directions led us in completely the wrong direction and we ended up at the Hotel Estacao in the city's north. It was cheap at fifty euros per twin room and it was fine. Right up our street to be exact.
Upon unpacking our gear we discovered that we'd forgotten to bring any charcoal or crayons for our planned day of brass-rubbing in Braga's many cathedrals. Undeterred we hit the streets in search of an art suppliers outlet.
We thought we'd call into the nearest bar for some directions as the local police had proven to be enthusiastic but inept guides.
Unable to speak Portuguese we used the international sign for brass-rubbing and shouted "CHAR-COAL" really slowly at people in the bar. Unfortunately they could not help us in our quest for supplies but we ended up having a good old drink with them anyway.
It soon became apparent that the Portuguese are excellent and most welcoming hosts, not to mention master bakers. It also became apparent that we wouldn't be getting much brass-rubbing done today as the beer and boiled eggs began to flow.
We soon found ourselves in the town square with lots of other Spurs fans enjoying the rare opportunity to soak up a bit of March sunshine. Braga is a beautiful place, their beer is cheap and it's people are short on height but big on friendliness.
We spent the entire day in and around the square, eating, drinking and being merry.
After an hours worth of power-napping back at the hotel, we went to the game. The ground was twenty-odd minutes walk away but we caught a cab anyway.
The stadium is a very impressive place, built into a sheer-face rocky hillside, it must have been a hell of a construction job getting this bad boy built.
As for the game, I left at half-time as I was starting to feel the effects of alcohol withdrawal and was in serious danger of sobering up, so I headed for the nearest beer and boiled egg dispensary. I found one in no time and watched the second half in there along with a load of tight-fisted Braga fans.
I continued happily on my solo bar-crawl until the lads and I were reunited in the bar nearest to our hotel. They'd enjoyed a much livelier second half seeing Spurs win 3-2 after being held goalless in the first half. The only downside to their evening was being subjected, along with many other Spurs fans, to a little bit of riot police brutality at the end of the game. It was nothing too serious though and the three of them managed to evade the liberally swinging batons of the Portuguese equivalent of SA Stormtroopers, the notorious GNR.
We wiled away the rest of the evening eating boiled eggs, drinking beer and talking bollocks. Which was, pretty much, what we'd been doing all day anyway.
Day Two saw us all remarkably bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the breakfast table plotting our route north. We opted for the more scenic road running parallel to the motorway , or autovia, through lots of little towns and villages. When I say we, I actually mean Cliff, our illustrious leader.
After an hour of travelling we'd covered only about twenty kms and, by now, we had all seen enough Portuguese villages for a while, so we decided to try and rejoin the autovia. With ex-RAF bumboy Cliff on navigational duties, this turned out to have near disastrous consequences.
I will summarise, for the sake of my readers, what turned out to be a five hour journey into the Portuguese wilderness. A good deal of it off-road. And, believe me, off-road in a Seat Ibiza is neither fun nor a good idea. How we made it is beyond me. We crossed a complete National Park. A mountainside National Park. In a Seat Ibiza. A Seat Ibiza that I was responsible for.
To cut a long and uneventful story short we ended up in the sleepy northern Spanish town of Villagarcia de Arousa, about 70 miles from Braga. It took us the best part of six hours to get there.
To relieve the stress of the day we decided to partake of a beverage or six and we set about the task with a zest unrivalled by anything else I have ever witnessed. In the last twenty four hours anyway.
Villagarcia is a nice place and we had a good night there. One day I would like to return and have a proper look at it.
Next day we got up late, missed breakfast and raced to the airport. We arrived at check-in right on the bell.
This time the orange faces weren't as orange and were much nicer to us, even allowing us to check-in our bags without giving us any shit for turning up late and looking like we'd spent the last three days wearing the same trolleys.
How nice, I like it here.
It didn't get off to the best start though, with us being behind schedule from the word go. We arrived at the check-in desk right on the bell with 45 minutes remaining before we were due to fly. The three orange-faced scouse girls manning the desk looked at us with disdain and continued talking amongst themselves. After a couple of minutes one of them turned to us and said,
"You do realise check-in closed two minutes ago."
We'd been standing there for almost five waiting for them to finish gassing about whatever orange-faced scousers gas about. Fake tan, no doubt.
"Yeah, sorry love" said Cliff, our team leader, showing uncharacteristic restraint.
"You should have left earlier" whined a different orange face, pre-empting a possible traffic defence.
"Er, yeah sorry love," repeated Clifford, "we had to go back for my mobile phone see." Clearly hoping to strike a chord with these phone-dependant oikes.
"Hmmm, you'll have to take your bags to 'Oversize Luggage' to get them on the plane but we can't be certain they'll be put on the flight. It's your own faults." said orange face number three unsympathetically.
And so we were allowed to check in, safe in the knowledge that we may be wearing the same trolleys for the next three days. Lovely.
Things continued in the same vane at security where I had my swiss card confiscated, although I was allowed to post it back to my home address.
The lads jogged ahead while I filled in the necessary paperwork. This further delay prompted the airport tannoy to request my presence at the gate immediately. I was forced to break into a run, not exactly my idea of having a good time.
We all caught the flight and so did our luggage, which was nice. We picked up the hire car with minimum fuss and hit the road.
It took a little while for the lads to relax, as I drove around the first roundabout we encountered, the wrong way. No harm done though as the roads of northern Spain carry much less traffic than the U.K.
The rest of the journey was unremarkable, the boys played golf in the back on their mobiles while the team leader got some much needed beauty sleep in the front.
We crossed the border into Portugal and the already excellent highways improved further and the already quiet roads virtually became our own. I was able to pick my 'racing line' as we roared along. Bliss.
Our first objective on our arrival in Braga was to book ourselves into some digs before we could begin our pre-match preparations in earnest. We asked a lovely policewoman for directions to the Ibis Hotel, which we had previously seen signs for. Her helpful and concise directions led us in completely the wrong direction and we ended up at the Hotel Estacao in the city's north. It was cheap at fifty euros per twin room and it was fine. Right up our street to be exact.
Upon unpacking our gear we discovered that we'd forgotten to bring any charcoal or crayons for our planned day of brass-rubbing in Braga's many cathedrals. Undeterred we hit the streets in search of an art suppliers outlet.
We thought we'd call into the nearest bar for some directions as the local police had proven to be enthusiastic but inept guides.
Unable to speak Portuguese we used the international sign for brass-rubbing and shouted "CHAR-COAL" really slowly at people in the bar. Unfortunately they could not help us in our quest for supplies but we ended up having a good old drink with them anyway.
It soon became apparent that the Portuguese are excellent and most welcoming hosts, not to mention master bakers. It also became apparent that we wouldn't be getting much brass-rubbing done today as the beer and boiled eggs began to flow.
We soon found ourselves in the town square with lots of other Spurs fans enjoying the rare opportunity to soak up a bit of March sunshine. Braga is a beautiful place, their beer is cheap and it's people are short on height but big on friendliness.
We spent the entire day in and around the square, eating, drinking and being merry.
After an hours worth of power-napping back at the hotel, we went to the game. The ground was twenty-odd minutes walk away but we caught a cab anyway.
The stadium is a very impressive place, built into a sheer-face rocky hillside, it must have been a hell of a construction job getting this bad boy built.
As for the game, I left at half-time as I was starting to feel the effects of alcohol withdrawal and was in serious danger of sobering up, so I headed for the nearest beer and boiled egg dispensary. I found one in no time and watched the second half in there along with a load of tight-fisted Braga fans.
I continued happily on my solo bar-crawl until the lads and I were reunited in the bar nearest to our hotel. They'd enjoyed a much livelier second half seeing Spurs win 3-2 after being held goalless in the first half. The only downside to their evening was being subjected, along with many other Spurs fans, to a little bit of riot police brutality at the end of the game. It was nothing too serious though and the three of them managed to evade the liberally swinging batons of the Portuguese equivalent of SA Stormtroopers, the notorious GNR.
We wiled away the rest of the evening eating boiled eggs, drinking beer and talking bollocks. Which was, pretty much, what we'd been doing all day anyway.
Day Two saw us all remarkably bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the breakfast table plotting our route north. We opted for the more scenic road running parallel to the motorway , or autovia, through lots of little towns and villages. When I say we, I actually mean Cliff, our illustrious leader.
After an hour of travelling we'd covered only about twenty kms and, by now, we had all seen enough Portuguese villages for a while, so we decided to try and rejoin the autovia. With ex-RAF bumboy Cliff on navigational duties, this turned out to have near disastrous consequences.
I will summarise, for the sake of my readers, what turned out to be a five hour journey into the Portuguese wilderness. A good deal of it off-road. And, believe me, off-road in a Seat Ibiza is neither fun nor a good idea. How we made it is beyond me. We crossed a complete National Park. A mountainside National Park. In a Seat Ibiza. A Seat Ibiza that I was responsible for.
To cut a long and uneventful story short we ended up in the sleepy northern Spanish town of Villagarcia de Arousa, about 70 miles from Braga. It took us the best part of six hours to get there.
To relieve the stress of the day we decided to partake of a beverage or six and we set about the task with a zest unrivalled by anything else I have ever witnessed. In the last twenty four hours anyway.
Villagarcia is a nice place and we had a good night there. One day I would like to return and have a proper look at it.
Next day we got up late, missed breakfast and raced to the airport. We arrived at check-in right on the bell.
This time the orange faces weren't as orange and were much nicer to us, even allowing us to check-in our bags without giving us any shit for turning up late and looking like we'd spent the last three days wearing the same trolleys.
How nice, I like it here.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
When in Rome...
In seven hours, at 0400hrs GMT, I leave home on my last jolly boys outing.
Portugal is our destination. The city of Braga to be exact. We're going to watch Spurs play the away leg of their UEFA Cup tie against FC Braga.
I'm not really bothered about the footy, I'm not a Spurs fan. I'm only in it for the cultural experience of a trip to the continent with the boys.
And, as Braga is known as the Rome of Portugal, I'm sure they'll be plenty to keep a culture vulture like me occupied.
The stadium itself is a sight to behold by all accounts. Built, seemingly, into a small valley with a steep rock face behind each goal, spectators only occupy two sides of the ground. A surreal viewing experience awaits us, I suspect.
Then again the surreal can become the norm on these trips, generally as a result of the strict alcohol consumption rules in place.
This is another 'last' for me. My life, at the moment, is full of these milestones. 'Last this, last that', 'this will be the last time I/we do this before we leave for Oz' and so on. Seems to happen almost daily.
Barring deportation, detention or death we return on Saturday morning. Whilst our outings usually last only two or three days they always manage to contain a whole heap of laughs, memories and never-to-be forgotten experiences. I hope and expect this one, as it will be my last, will be no different.
I'll let you know.
Portugal is our destination. The city of Braga to be exact. We're going to watch Spurs play the away leg of their UEFA Cup tie against FC Braga.
I'm not really bothered about the footy, I'm not a Spurs fan. I'm only in it for the cultural experience of a trip to the continent with the boys.
And, as Braga is known as the Rome of Portugal, I'm sure they'll be plenty to keep a culture vulture like me occupied.
The stadium itself is a sight to behold by all accounts. Built, seemingly, into a small valley with a steep rock face behind each goal, spectators only occupy two sides of the ground. A surreal viewing experience awaits us, I suspect.
Then again the surreal can become the norm on these trips, generally as a result of the strict alcohol consumption rules in place.
This is another 'last' for me. My life, at the moment, is full of these milestones. 'Last this, last that', 'this will be the last time I/we do this before we leave for Oz' and so on. Seems to happen almost daily.
Barring deportation, detention or death we return on Saturday morning. Whilst our outings usually last only two or three days they always manage to contain a whole heap of laughs, memories and never-to-be forgotten experiences. I hope and expect this one, as it will be my last, will be no different.
I'll let you know.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Friends Reunited
I haven't posted for a while. I could say things have been manic with our impending move to Australia but they haven't really. I mean, we been busy sorting 'stuff' out - ebaying and decorating mostly as well as 'researching' our move on the web, but everything is moving at a nice relaxed pace and seems to be falling into place nicely. Perhaps it's just that, with age, we've become better organisers and have increased tolerance to things that may have caused us to get stressed in the past. Perhaps we're too relaxed and should be doing more before it's too late, who knows?
In the last fortnight we've had numerous e-mails from our most helpful Settlement Officer in Albury, Johanna, regarding schooling for the kids, employment for us both and temporary accommodation. It looks like we're going to be staying in the Albury Motor Village. They've got a website, I'd put a link in if I had the technical know-how but I haven't. It looks nice enough, chalet/cabin style digs. I was a bit surprised at the price - $400 a week. I expected less to be honest but it still seems like the cheapest option for a short term stay.
This last fortnight has also seen me in contact with some 'old' friends. I say friends, one friend really, the other is my old platoon Sergeant from the depot.
He was a really good bloke and I remember him fondly. Old soldiers say that you never forget your platoon Sgt from basic training but most are remembered for being overtly sadistic and egotistical. Not Sgt. J. Lemmon. An absolute top bloke and soldier. Don't get me wrong he was no pushover, he could be as mean as the next man and was as hard as nails, but he had a fatherly, humorous way about him that endeared him to all us recruits.
I was pleased to read that things have gone well for him after leaving the army. It must be tough after twenty-two years as an infantry soldier and drill instructor to suddenly find yourself amongst the rank and file of Civvy Street with no recognised qualifications of any real worth. After a tough start he got himself into the health and safety racket and has never looked back, working all over the globe. He's retiring at 55, in a couple of years. Good on ya John, you got what you deserved.
I also contacted Jon Downie, one of my oldest and best chums. We went to school together, joined the army at the same time, albeit in different regiments, and have been friends forever. We always kept in touch with each other and teamed up whenever we could, which was tricky whilst being based in different garrisons/countries.
Jon left the mob after me and settled in Yorkshire. I visited him a few times there and he came 'home' to Rhyl regularly. On one of his trips home, about five years ago I reckon, we had a drunken fall-out. And, basically, that was it - we stopped contacting each other. Stopped being friends in essence.
I thought about him often but always put off getting in touch. Our row was relatively trivial in the grand scheme of things but still kept us apart. But, with us leaving for Oz in July, I thought I'd try a tentative text message to the mobile number I had for him. I say tentative not because I was nervous about getting in contact with him, on the contrary, I got myself quite excited about it, but because the phone number was from five or more years back. I haven't changed my number since then but almost everyone else has.
I sent the text. Within a minute my phone was ringing - it was JD. We chatted for fifteen or so minutes which is a long time for blokes. We both laughed about our hazy recollections of our drunken dispute.
It was as if we'd never lost touch. I guess that's the result of us having been such good mates. He's coming to Rhyl in a couple of weeks and we'll get together. It'll be just like the old days. He's coming to our leaving do as well.
I knew I could have called Jon at anytime if I needed his help, advice or whatever and vice-versa. It just took something like emigrating for one of us to make the first move. Blokes are stupid sometimes aren't they?
In the last fortnight we've had numerous e-mails from our most helpful Settlement Officer in Albury, Johanna, regarding schooling for the kids, employment for us both and temporary accommodation. It looks like we're going to be staying in the Albury Motor Village. They've got a website, I'd put a link in if I had the technical know-how but I haven't. It looks nice enough, chalet/cabin style digs. I was a bit surprised at the price - $400 a week. I expected less to be honest but it still seems like the cheapest option for a short term stay.
This last fortnight has also seen me in contact with some 'old' friends. I say friends, one friend really, the other is my old platoon Sergeant from the depot.
He was a really good bloke and I remember him fondly. Old soldiers say that you never forget your platoon Sgt from basic training but most are remembered for being overtly sadistic and egotistical. Not Sgt. J. Lemmon. An absolute top bloke and soldier. Don't get me wrong he was no pushover, he could be as mean as the next man and was as hard as nails, but he had a fatherly, humorous way about him that endeared him to all us recruits.
I was pleased to read that things have gone well for him after leaving the army. It must be tough after twenty-two years as an infantry soldier and drill instructor to suddenly find yourself amongst the rank and file of Civvy Street with no recognised qualifications of any real worth. After a tough start he got himself into the health and safety racket and has never looked back, working all over the globe. He's retiring at 55, in a couple of years. Good on ya John, you got what you deserved.
I also contacted Jon Downie, one of my oldest and best chums. We went to school together, joined the army at the same time, albeit in different regiments, and have been friends forever. We always kept in touch with each other and teamed up whenever we could, which was tricky whilst being based in different garrisons/countries.
Jon left the mob after me and settled in Yorkshire. I visited him a few times there and he came 'home' to Rhyl regularly. On one of his trips home, about five years ago I reckon, we had a drunken fall-out. And, basically, that was it - we stopped contacting each other. Stopped being friends in essence.
I thought about him often but always put off getting in touch. Our row was relatively trivial in the grand scheme of things but still kept us apart. But, with us leaving for Oz in July, I thought I'd try a tentative text message to the mobile number I had for him. I say tentative not because I was nervous about getting in contact with him, on the contrary, I got myself quite excited about it, but because the phone number was from five or more years back. I haven't changed my number since then but almost everyone else has.
I sent the text. Within a minute my phone was ringing - it was JD. We chatted for fifteen or so minutes which is a long time for blokes. We both laughed about our hazy recollections of our drunken dispute.
It was as if we'd never lost touch. I guess that's the result of us having been such good mates. He's coming to Rhyl in a couple of weeks and we'll get together. It'll be just like the old days. He's coming to our leaving do as well.
I knew I could have called Jon at anytime if I needed his help, advice or whatever and vice-versa. It just took something like emigrating for one of us to make the first move. Blokes are stupid sometimes aren't they?
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