Pay Little Pay Twice

On Thursday we successfully moved into the new house and officially became residents of Wodonga, Victoria.

We've settled in quite nicely despite being short of many items which we would normally regard as necessities.

The girls are sleeping in the double bed we've purchased for the spare bedroom, but the wife and I are sleeping on the two sofas we bought.

We've also bought a fridge. Despite the wife's advice I got it from a couple of lads who advertise in the local paper. They basically buy busted fridges and washing machines and repair them to sell on. I gave them a ring and arranged to go around and look at their wares. They were friendly sorts and I spent a bit of time chatting about fridges and life in general, as you do.

Mark and Craig were their names and Mark, who has spent time in the UK, became the first person over here to pick me as a Welshman. In doing so proving himself to have a very keen ear and an extensive knowledge of the extremely varied subject of British accents and dialects. Craig seemed mildly pleased when I told him his name translates to 'rock' in Welsh.

Anyhow, having taken a liking to the lads I decided to ignore the wife's advice and have one of their fridges. Not only were they decent lads, but the fridge, at $350, was $200 cheaper than its nearest rival. It also fitted perfectly into the back of our car, once all the seats were down, thus saving us a delivery fee.

That's where the good news ends however. Although we'd checked it over in Craig's garage, when we got it home and plugged it in, it made a right old racket. I've heard quieter fire alarms.

I tried all the usual, universal remedies – 're-booted' it, kicked it, opened and closed the doors, played about with the thermostat, all to no avail. In our big empty house with it's opera-house style acoustics, it sounded like a jet engine.

The next day, after a noisy, sleepless night, I gave the boys a ring and Mark came around that afternoon. We got chatting again and it turns out that Mark is only a refrigeration engineer, or 'fridgey', by day and, at nights and weekends, is a stand-up comedian. How often does that happen to you?!

He told me all about his career to date. How, at the age of 34 and against the wishes of his wife at the time, he entered a talent contest in Melbourne. He'd been a 'fridgey' for all of his working life, but he'd wanted to do stand-up for his entire life. He won the contest but ended up losing his wife. She decided she didn't want to be married to a comic.

That was eight years ago and since that night in Melbourne, he's performed all over Australia in some of the country's most prestigious venues. In October he's attempting to get into the Guinness Book of Records by performing a world-record, thirty, half-hour shows in seven days. If you look closely at the photograph at the top of this entry you can see the poster advertising his act.

As well as being a funny bloke, Mark also managed to quieten the fridge down, although he is returning this week to replace the compressor. You can't say fairer than that.

The Fridge Man is a cool bloke.

Who knows, we may even become friends.

Down Mexico Way

We didn't do an awful lot this weekend.

We spent most of it buying some essentials to enable us to move into our new home, pictured left. I say ours, but it's rented.

The ship carrying our container, with almost all our worldly goods in, docked in Melbourne on Friday just gone.

Unfortunately for us it will take approximately seven to ten working days to clear customs and is unlikely to be delivered to us before the 19th September.

That's a shame, as we're moving house this Thursday, 6th September.

So, for around a fortnight, we'll be 'roughing' it without all our stuff from home. We've bought a double bed for the girls to sleep on, two sofas, which will double up as beds for the wife and I, a telly, fridge, kettle and some kitchen utensils. Just enough to keep us going until the cavalry arrives. Our friends Dave and Kaz live just down the road and have offered us use of their laundry services and anything else we may be short of.

The house itself is a big, spacious four-bedder with plenty of room for guests. So, if any of the good folk from home want to visit, we've got ample space.

It's in Wodonga, which is across the Murray River from Albury. It is also in another state, as the border between New South Wales and Victoria also separates the twin cities.

In days of yorn the border between the states was much more obtrusive. Different size railway gauges prevented the same train travelling between the two states - passengers travelling from Melbourne to Sydney used to have to disembark at Wodonga and get on a different train to continue their journey. That's not all. Apparently, and remarkably, the two places, at certain times of the year, were in different time-zones!

It is still forbidden to carry fruit across the border because of fruit-fly. Again, apparently, the searching of vehicles was commonplace in a bid to stop 'fruit-runners'.

Now though, the two cities have became a single entity in many ways. In name, the term Albury-Wodonga is used an awful lot now and much has been done to eliminate the 'red-tape' differences that had previously hampered commerce and general life between the two settlements.

There are some annoying regulations still in place though. Notably the fact that the wife and I will have to re-apply, at our own cost, for Victorian driving licences, having already forked out for NSW ones. Also, again at our expense, we will have to register the car in Victoria and change it's number plates having registered it only three weeks ago in NSW.

There also remains a certain amount of elitism on the side of NSW. Although mostly in banter, they feel Albury has the edge in many ways over it's smaller Victorian twin.

I'm fairly sure that it's not only a geographical reference when the NSW locals call Victoria, Mexico, and it's residents, Mexicans.

Which, rather neatly, brings me on to my favourite Mexican gag.

Why did the Mexican push his wife off the cliff?

TEQUILA, of course!

Stood Where Ned Stood

On Saturday we set about exploring.

We had planned to visit Australia's capital city, Canberra, but I overslept and, as it's a three hour drive away, we opted to stay closer to home.

So, instead, we visited the towns of Beechworth and Wangaratta, an area of north-eastern Victoria known as Kelly Country.

Beechworth is described as a living museum and it's not hard to see why. The town retains much of it's original lay-out and buildings. And, in doing so, it holds a unique and memorable charm.

There are no 'pokies' in Beechworth. A 'poky' being a gambling machine - what people back home would call a 'bandit'. This may seem unremarkable, but, believe me, in Australia 'pokies' are in abundance in every pub, tavern and club. I personally think there are more 'pokies' than people in Australia.

Not in Beechworth though. So remarkable is this, that the town declare the fact, albeit discreetly, on many signs up and down the place. And rightly so, if you can't uphold and enjoy Victorian values in Victoria, then where can you?

The majority of our time here was spent in the telegraph station and in the towns courthouse.

The telegraph station was built in 1858 as a relay point between Melbourne and Albury. You can still send a telegram to anywhere in the world from the station and we sent a couple home. Here, we also had a very interesting lesson in Morse Code from the old chap who 'manned' the station.

The courthouse, I'm sure, is Beechworth's major attraction. For it was here, at the back-end of the 19th century, that several members of the Kelly family, including Edward 'Ned' Kelly himself, were tried for their crimes.

Early on in his criminal career Ned was sentenced to three years imprisonment here for 'receiving a horse'. Sounds painful doesn't it?

In 1880, after two years on the run, Ned was captured at Glenrowan and was brought here, to Beechworth's Courthouse, where he was committed to stand trial in Melbourne and subsequently hanged.

We spent an enjoyable four hours here. Like I said it's a charming place and I was captivated by it's well kept, historical past.

Although lacking Beechworth's old-world charm, Wangaratta is a nice enough place too. Ned's brother James is buried there somewhere.

My favourite things about Wangaratta are the names the locals use for the town.

Some simply and affectionately call it 'Wang' while others, less simply and less affectionately call it 'W#nk and Splatter'.

I say, how un-Victorian.

That's Our Girl!

We continue to settle, slowly but surely, into our new surroundings.

As we'd hoped and, to a degree, expected, the girls seem to be settling much more quickly.

They love their new school, have made new friends and, in Lowri's case, found true love.

Yes, Lowri informed us on Friday that she is in love with Dray. I think that's how you spell it, although it could be Dre, like the famous medical practitioner come rap star.

So, young Jacob, back home in Wales, appears to be officially dumped. However, as a six year old enjoying his summer holidays, I doubt whether this will affect his mood in the slightest.

Whilst Lowri has been busying herself with the fellas, our eldest daughter Robyn, has been wowing them on the athletics track.

With complete disregard for the recent sporting tradition that Aussies win everything and us Brits finish as plucky losers, the Robsta went out and won three foot races on her sports day.

She won the hurdles, the one hundred and two hundred metre events for ten year olds.

We were as proud as punch. Go Robyn!

If It's Not One Thing, It's Your Mother

The kids love their new school and the wife likes her new job. I'm quite enjoying my temporary role as well.

I've done the school run, dropped the wife off at work, done a bit of housework, watched some daytime telly (Oz Aerobics) and now I'm in Albury's wonderful, new library.

Such is my daily routine as Mr. Mum.

I had my first mild bout of homesickness this weekend. It was very mild and only lasted an hour or two. It was brought on by a couple of happenings from home - the Esplanade Club's annual outing to Bangor-on-Dee races and the boys from the Swan phoning me up in the middle of their Sunday session.

It was the middle of the night here and I was fast asleep when my mobile went off. I looked at the caller ID on my phone - Pepsi Max.

Now, everyone at home reading this blog knows Pepsi to be the ultimate pest and nuisance calls are a big part of his very limited repertoire, so I rejected the call. I sat up in bed, put my phone on silent, 'puffed up' my pillow and lay back down, hoping to resume my 'sandwich' dream from last week.

A sleepless minute passed before my phone started vibrating. Although my phone was in silent mode, in the dead of night the noise from the vibration is quite audible. I looked at the screen, it read 'Private Number'.

This is the caller ID you get from an unrecognised number from the U.K. I immediately associated the call with Pepsi the Pest and let it ring. It rang for an absolute age before ceasing. 'Very persistent,' I thought.

A couple of minutes later it rang again with the same ID. Again, it rang for ages. By now I was awake, thinking something dreadful had happened back home and someone was desperate to get hold of us.

The next time it rang I picked up straight away, only to be greeted by some clown asking for a kebab. The next thing I heard was raucous laughter - the type of laughter you get when the people doing the laughing have consumed an afternoon's worth of ale.

And that's exactly what it was, the lads down at The Swan enjoying their Sunday afternoon drink and, more so, enjoying interrupting my much required beauty sleep. It must have been on speaker-phone because I could hear all of the idiots

I spoke to a couple of them, which was nice, but it was the background noise of a busy British pub that made me want to be there.

As for the Esplanade trip to the races, this was the first one I've missed for years. It's a great day out, definitely one of the highlights on our social calender. The memories we've got from this event down the years still tickle me - I can still see Bob Bishop hurtling down the centre aisle of the coach last year, microphone in hand, crashing into the windscreen.

How we all laughed as he was carried out of the Esp on a spinal board.

I'm crying laughing just writing about it. To those who don't know, I'm pleased to say that Bob made a full recovery and was present on the trip this year. Tina had to book a different coach firm though, I believe.

My mum and dad are regulars on the trip these days and I had a few text messages from them and from friends letting me know how the day was going. Once again Mum managed to uphold the proud family tradition by getting well and truly trashed.

The last two text messages I got were from Matty.

The first one said -'Your mum is sh#tfaced'

'Oh no, not again,' I said to the wife.

The second one, an hour later, informed me that she'd been sick on Tina, the landlady.

Ma, what are you like?

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

Here are the girls looking very proud of their selves in the uniform of their new school, Wodonga Primary.

If you click on the snap to enlarge it, you may be able to make out the Welsh and Australian flag pin-badges on their hats. These were given to them as leaving gifts.

They were up like larks this morning, super-excited about their first day.

On the way to school I asked Robyn,

'On a scale of one to ten, how excited are you?'

'Nine and a half' she said, ' and half nervous' she added.

Mrs. Martin, the Principal, was waiting for them in reception and she took us to their respective classrooms. I was touched by Robyn's new teacher - she told the girls she knew exactly how they felt as she had moved to Australia from Scotland aged six. She'd also been in our old neck of the woods quite recently as she visited Llangollen last December.

Anyway, the good news is me and the wife have got the day to ourselves for the first time in ages. We've already been out for breakfast and we plan to spend some quality time together house-hunting.

In other news it's been raining here overnight and was still spitting this morning. Unlike home, people here are glad to see the rain as the country is locked in it's worst drought in living memory.

The wife and I were awoken from our slumber last night by the loudest thunder I have ever heard. It sounded as though it was right above us. It was a different noise than that of thunder back home, it wasn't a sharp, crackling sound, more a dull, deeper and immensely louder din.

Talking of slumber, I've been having some quite vivid dreams over the last couple of nights. Nothing exciting I'm afraid, but the dream experts out there may be able to see some sort of meaning.

The night before last I dreamt that I was enjoying a snooze on some sort of temporary bed above a pub back home in Rhyl - not my local pub, but the George Hotel, where I worked many, many moons ago. I was awakened by the not unpleasant sight of Kirsty, the girl that runs my old local, delivering a masterpiece of a sandwich for my apres-nap consumption. It was the size of a bin lid and had salad garnish surrounding it on all sides. I continued to doze but, from time to time, stirred to stare at the sandwich which lay on a plate rested on my chest. I awoke several times, each time thinking, something along the lines of, 'Oooohhh, I'm looking forward to eating that sandwich'

However, when I'd finally finished my nap, I looked at the plate on my chest and it was empty, apart from a few tell-tale crumbs.

Kirsty appeared.

'What happened to my sandwich?' I asked despondently.

'Oh that,' she said, 'I sold it.'

I was gutted, so gutted that I woke up for real. I was starving too, so I dived straight into the fridge.

So, dream-readers, what do you make of that?

Turning Japanese

It's a big day for the girls tomorrow - they're going to their new school, Wodonga Primary.

We looked at lots of schools in the area, both north and south of the border, and they all seemed good. What made us plump for Wodonga was their Principal (Headmistress in old money). Her enthusiasm and friendliness was a joy to behold. And, most importantly, the girls liked this school best. They'll be learning Japanese!

We got all their new clobber yesterday. I can honestly say I've never known them so excited - I think they're plumb fed up of hanging around with me and their mum.

Punk'd!

Well, we've been here five days now and I'm starting to feel a tad at home.

I must admit to having felt a little deflated for the first couple of days. We were so excited about finally getting here but, after visiting the Gold Coast and Sydney, the place looked small and a bit behind the times.

Albury initially reminded me of Marty McFly's hometown in Back To The Future - when the Doc and him go back in time. That's not being insulting to the place, it's just like nowhere I've ever visited before and the only physical similarity I can see is to old-time American towns from the movies.

So, as you may be able to imagine, it was a bit of a culture shock to say the least. Five days in though, we're warming to the place.

We've joined a couple of social clubs in town and have made our first friends, Dave and Karen. Dave is ex-REME, same as me, and has transferred to the Aussie army. We'd been in contact by email via the British Expats website before we left the U.K., but on Sunday we met up with them at the Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen's Club in Albury. As I expected of an ex- British squaddie and his wife, they're earthy, funny and excellent company. Dave knows quite a few lads that I served with and it was great to hear how they've progressed in life. We enjoyed our day with them very much.

The wife had her second interview with the city council yesterday. It must have gone well because they asked her to go for a functionality test that afternoon.

She went along and was thoroughly checked over by a physio. Following that they had her moving chairs around, doing some shoulder press reps with a PC monitor and then, and this is the funny bit, crawling under desks! Ten times they made her crawl under this desk, stand up at the other end, get back down and crawl back to the other side! I personally think she's been secretly filmed and will be appearing on Australia's Funniest Home Videos in the next series.

She's never been much of a crawler, but they liked what they saw because she's been offered the job.

Brunstrom's Brother

After an epic journey we have finally arrived in our adopted hometown of Albury, New South Wales.

To actually be here, after casing the joint out on the internet for over a year, was amongst the most surreal experiences I have ever had.

We drove down Dean Street, Albury's main drag, past all the shops, pubs, clubs and food outlets that I'd been reading about in the Border Mail online. Past Sweethearts Pizza, scene of many a newsworthy, late-night scuffle.

It was turning dusk when we arrived, but first impressions are quite positive. Unbelievably one of the first sights we saw on our arrival was a road-wide banner advertising the Albury Wodonga Eisteddfod! The exclamation mark at the end of that sentence may seem misplaced to any of my readers outside of Wales, but, to folks back home, they'll know exactly where I'm coming from.

We've rented ourselves a two-bedroomed unit, care of the Albury Motor Village in nearby Lavington. It's only for a fortnight provisionally until we find somewhere suitable for long term residence.

The trip from Sydney took six hours and wasn't a chore at all. We were excited about finally heading to Albury and the road was uncluttered and open.

So open in fact that, in my eagerness to get here, I got pinged for speeding. They're quite strict on it here in New South Wales much like they are in Old North Wales. Perhaps the notorious Chief Constable from home has got family here.

However, in true Aussie fashion, the experience wasn't an unpleasant one in the slightest. No 'cloak and dagger' sneaky photos here. The 'busy' in question was sitting in his car on the grassy central reservation when I sped past at 136kmh causing his car to shake and, no doubt, him to spill his brew. He pulled out of his 'hide', whacked the red and blue lights on and began his pursuit, Roscoe P. Coltrane style.

I was briefly tempted to do what Bo and Luke Duke would have done in my position, but decided it against it - our car is alright, but it's no General Lee.

Anyhow I pulled over after what I thought was a respectable length of pursuit and faced Roscoe.

He was a decent chap. He introduced himself as a constable of the Yass Police. He informed me of the Aussie speed limits (110kmh), told me what speed I was doing, asked all about our travels and called me 'mate', which I thought was nice. Then he issued me, ever so politely, with a $238 fine.

Cheers mate.

Extra Time

We're having an extra day in Sydney.

The wife's got a job interview here for a position she applied for prior to us leaving the U.K. It's over the bridge in North Sydney and we've been over on the bus for a reccie today.

While she's getting grilled me and the kids are heading to Luna Park for some fairground fun, Coney Island style.

Sydney Sober

Sydney is a great place to hang out.

I came here with Deaf Dave eleven years ago but, pretty much, all we did was tank it up from the moment we arrived until we flew home.

This time around things are much different. The kids are here for one. Rather poignantly I was here in Sydney when the wife broke the news to me that she was expecting Robyn. I was half-cut in Manly to be exact, on a pay-phone. And on Sunday that's where we headed - Manly Beach to show the Robsta where her old man heard the news of her impending arrival.

Yesterday we went to Bondi Beach in the morning, The Rocks in the afternoon and Darling Harbour in the evening.

Dave and I set out to Bondi but stopped off at the pub on the way to the beach and it was dark by the time we reached the ocean. Yesterday we arrived early on another beautiful Sydney winters morning. The beach was well populated with surfers and bathers and their playground was like a scene from a picture postcard - bluey-green sea with white-capped waves lapping the shore.

In The Rocks - where the First Fleet initially made camp in 1788, making it Sydney's oldest 'neighbourhood' - you get a real feel for the history of the place. Again, although we visited this area, this was something that passed me and Dave by.

Too little blood in our alcohol stream, no doubt.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

G'day peeps.

Just a quickie as we're in an internet cafe in Sydney paying through the bugle for this.

Had a very interesting trip down to Sydney stopping off in Byron Bay, Coffs Harbour, Port Macquarie, Nelson Bay and Newcastle-Not-Upon-Tyne.

Whilst we were staying with Aussie Paul and Tracey in Newcastle we bought a car - a Ford Fairmont estate. It's a bit of a shed but it was only $2,500(about 1200 in proper money). It's a beast though, a 4 litre, straight six. The last time I drove a vehicle with a petrol engine this big, said vehicle was armour-plated, had tracks instead of wheels and was painted green.

We're lodging in the cheapskate-renowned Formula One in Kings Cross.

We're exploring Sydney until Wednesday and then heading off to Albury.

If the tank makes it, of course.

Due South

In a few hours we leave The Sunshine State and head south to Sydney.

We pick up our hire car, a 4 litre Ford Falcon (or similar), at two o'clock this afternoon.

The plan is to reach Coffs Harbour tonight, spend tomorrow looking around it with Sean and his family and then continue on down the M1 to Newcastle to visit Paul and Tracey before arriving in Sydney for the weekend.

I may be unable to blog while we're travelling, I don't know. But, rest assured, I'll resume as soon as is possible.

I'll miss Hed and Annabel, they've been great. They're off to New Zealand this evening for a well-deserved holiday.

They've housed us, fed us and given us invaluable advice on all things Australian. They've ferried us around and been at our beck and call since we arrived and we'll forever be in their debt. Without them being at this end to meet us, things would have been so much harder and they've given us a fantastic introduction to the Aussie lifestyle.

It's going to be tough not having them around after today. I'm going to feel like a kid who's had the stabilisers taken off his bike.

I'll miss Queensland too. They've made us very welcome and, above all, they really appreciate the finer things in life - beer, pies and rugby league.

They've got a saying up here that describes the place pretty well;
'Queensland - beautiful one day, perfect the next'.

It's a Small World After All...

Today we re-visited Seaworld to enable the girls to have their frolic with the dolphins that they missed out on Friday, thanks largely to my inability to read instructions properly.

I'm glad we did. Not just because because the girls loved it, but, because while we were there, we miraculously bumped into fellow Rhylbillies, the Hassett family.

Sean Snr. and I have played rugby together in the past and it was amazing to meet and chat to them. They moved out here, to Coffs Harbour, Northern NSW, in May this year and were on a day trip to Seaworld today, when our paths crossed.

It was Robyn and Sean's daughter who recognised each other and they came over to chat. I was mooching around a nearby food outlet at this stage and as I returned to join the family I spotted Sean.

Anyway, we had a good old chin-wag and exchanged phone numbers. We're passing through Coffs on our journey south so we're going to stop off and visit them.

It's a big old haystack, Australia, and meeting someone you know so far away from home is almost beyond belief.

Life Begins At Forty

We all enjoyed Seaworld on Friday. I didn't think it would be my bag but I had a thoroughly good time.

It's owned and run by the same mob that have the one in Orlando, Florida. But, whereas the Orlando theme parks are all hustle and bustle, full to the brim, pay-through-the-nose affairs, the Aussie equivalent is typical of the country - big, spacious, laid back and relaxed.

We're going back on Monday as I misread the instructions for the girls' swimming with dolphins experience and we turned up late. The girls were well miffed and I was mad with myself for fluffing it up, but the lovely people at Seaworld have arranged for us to return to the park tomorrow, free of charge, so the girls can have their swim after all.

In fact, the Australian people have been great with us so far, with only a couple of exceptions - most notably, the rather rude chap who hammered on the toilet door and shouted "HURRY UP!' whilst I was enjoying a download in Surfers Paradise. Cheeky monkey.

Yesterday was Hed's 40th birthday and we had a busy day celebrating. It started with go-karting at 7.30am and then we had an all-day barbie down at the communal barbie-pit down by the lake in Pacific Pines.

This was my first chance to see the Aussie at play and I was eager to learn as much as I could. They were a pretty tame bunch compared to what I'm used to, with only one casualty - a skinny, young bird that got stretchered off at tea-time. Not surprising really, she had consumed more than her own body weight in wine.

The emphasis is definitely on the kids here, with all-day boozing just a sideline as oppose to being the main event, like back home.

Ah well, you can't have everything.

In The Deep Mid-Winter

Today we're going to Seaworld.

The girls are mucho excited as they'll be swimming with dolphins.

Yesterday, while Hed and I went golfing, Annabel took wifey and the girls to see some kangaroos. They saw loads including some 'joeys' and they loved it.

The weather here is beautiful, even though it's the height of winter. It's been in the twenties every day since we arrived, without so much as a drop of rain. Which, having left the wettest place on earth, makes a welcome change. Hed took the cover off the swimming pool yesterday and we had a dip, but it was freezing so we ended up pool-side on the sun loungers.

I still haven't shaken off the jet-lag, although this morning I had a 'lie-in' until five a.m. It also seems to be affecting the girls - they can't keep their eyes open at tea-time but are awake dead early. They keep me company, at least.

In other news, our long-lost shoe bag finally arrived - it had been left behind in Manchester.

We have our shoes back, we are complete.

Shoeless in Surfers

We arrived in Brisbane at eight o'clock local time. Hed and Annabel were at the gate to meet us with little pressies for the kids. Which was nice.

It was great to see them and they both look tanned and well.

They live about an hour from the airport in a place called Pacific Pines, near Surfers Paradise. Their house is immense, a massive four-bedder with a pool. Its the type of house that dreams are made of.

We've had a couple of mishaps already - I managed to leave my mobile phone in the bog on the plane from Singapore to Brisbane and someone had it away. And Singapore Airlines have mis-laid one of our bags. The big black one with everyone's shoes in it.

It's half four in the morning here now and everyone apart from me is fast asleep. I woke up half an hour ago with jet-lag and I'm wide awake. I think I'll take a look at whats on offer in Hed's fridge.

Tomorrow, after sorting out banking, tax and medicare, we're heading down to Surfers to check out the beach. It's mid-winter here so I don't know what it'll be like. It was warm enough to sit out til half ten last night and have a few beers though, but I don't know what's forecast today.

Some fun, I hope.

Crying Eyes

We're at Changi Airport, Singapore. Making the most of the excellent facilities including free internet access.

Its six a.m. local time and eleven at night in the good old U.K. We've got three hours here before our connecting flight to Brisbane.

So far so good. Singapore Airlines are very good. The entertainment system in the headrest in front has eighty movies, hundreds of quality telly programs, more cd's than you can shake a stick at and hundreds of arcade games to play. I've never known twelve waking hours pass so quickly.

Our leaving do was a good night. Loads of people turned up and we got a stack of cards, pressies, dosh and, most importantly, free booze. It got a bit emotional at the end but that was nothing compared to saying goodbye to everyone in the cold light of the following day.

I've been very naive, thinking I would breeze through these farewells with a smile on my face. I'd read and heard of other peoples experiences but completely underestimated the strength of feeling I felt on Sunday.

I woke up feeling sick, not with nausea but with dread. I simply didn't want to leave. It's as if it wasn't real before, but now, all of a sudden, it was very real - we were leaving our hometown, family and life-long friends behind for who knows how long.

Saying goodbye to our parents was bad enough but the mass farewell we had outside our local, the Esplanade Club, was very heavy.

I bawled like a girl half-way to Manchester Airport.

Work Hard, Party Harder!

Two hours before our leaving do.

It's been an absolutely manic week and we've worked our socks off.

It's all done now, the house is an empty shell. The lads from John Mason International, our movers, were absolutely brilliant. I don't know what kind of dough they're on but they earn every penny.

All we've got to do now is go out and get well and truly spannered. Now that we can do. With bells on.

The kids have got their party clothes on, the wife has loaded up with fake tan and I've treated myself to a shower. We're ready.

Tonight, we're having it large.

Week of Weeks

The worst appears to be over. Physically speaking that is.

The movers arrived this morning and, after a quick brew, got stuck straight into it. It's three o'clock now and they reckon they'll work until seven this evening and come back and load the container at nine tomorrow morning. We should be done by lunch-time.

It's been a roller coaster of a week for me personally speaking. The wife has been her usual rock-solid, unflappable, industrious self and the kids are getting more excited by the day - but me, my mood has been changing like the weather and, as any resident of this island would surely concur, the weather has been unbelievable in its variety of late.

However, as the end of this week nears and, finally, there appears to be a light at the end of the tunnel, I'm beginning to feel more like I would have expected to feel.

The car has been sold today and there's a chap called Steve winging his way north from Plymouth as I type to collect it. Good timing, we leave on Sunday.

So, tomorrow lunch-time, the house should be empty, the movers should be gone, as should the car and we should be considerably richer than we are today. Lovely jubbly.

All that remains then are a few points of admin, some last-minute cleaning/painting and, to round the week off, our leaving bash on Saturday night.

Should be a good night. Some of our oldest friends are coming from various parts of the UK and, of course, all the local friends and family. I'm looking forward to it, but in a strange way.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

Thatcher's Millions

Finished work on Friday. So did the wife. Both went on our respective leaving do's.

Wifey went on the beer around Liverpool with her crew while I had a box-standard night out in Sunny Rhyl.

We both had a good time.

We also did really well on the leaving present front amassing some $550 of the Aussie variety. I was also given a boomerang which I managed to lose after an experimental 'throw' down Rhyl High Street. I think it's on the roof of 'Listers' but I can't be sure. It just seemed to vanish mid-flight.

So now, for the first time in our lives, we're both unemployed. Unfortunately though, we can't afford to do any lazing around as we've got an absolute sh1t-load of 'stuff' to do before we jet-off next week. The excitement of going has been well and truly neutralized by the sheer work-load in front of us, coupled with the sadness of saying goodbye to so many people.

It's a weird sensation this 'leaving' business. One that I'd struggle to explain. It's akin to attending your own wake, all these people saying nice things about you, the realisation that you're going to be missed. Quite often in the least expected quarters.

Ah well, life goes on.

Smell Ya Later!

T minus 17 days. And counting...

Today I said my first goodbyes. Not your normal 'see you later/tomorrow' goodbyes, but the abnormal 'have a nice life/nice knowing you' goodbyes.

A couple of people at work are leaving for annual holidays and won't return until we've set off for Australia, so today was, very likely, the last time I'll ever see these people again.

Just another surreal experience to go with all the others I'm having lately.

Cruel Summer

Today was our youngest daughter, Lowri's, sports day.

It should have been yesterday, but, typically, it was postponed because of the rain.

And although the rain held off, the weather was absolute pony. I turned up in short sleeve order and after five minutes of dithering and watching Lowri, also in short sleeves, dither - I decided to nip home and get our cold weather kit. In my absence of fifteen minutes or so, I missed her first two races. She proudly showed me her two 'silver' medals for her second-place finishes as I gave her coat. She was shivering and grateful that I'd skipped across the track with it.

As the afternoon wore on more and more parents, realising their kids were in danger of going down with hypothermia, did the same thing.

As us parents and grandparents sat there freezing our collective knackers and knockers off, the kids performed admirably and Lowri won two 'golds' in the relay. Go Lowsta!!

Back to the weather. If ever I felt vindicated in making our decision to move to Australia then this afternoon was that moment. Earlier this year, as the meteorological experts predicated a baking hot summer, I predicated a summer of self-doubt, soul-searching and personal anguish over our decision to emigrate.

As it happens, things haven't turned out like that; we had a decent start to the summer with some hot days and balmy nights but for the last three weeks it's been dreadful. Rain has lashed this island in monsoon-like volume, causing flooding and misery to many. But for me, whilst I feel for the victims, the weather has helped me, easing the anguish of taking the kids away from their family and friends, justifying our hair-brained notion to move to the other side of the globe.

I'd estimate that the Australian climate compared to Britain's and the lifestyle that climate encourages is the biggest single factor by a long way in us making this move.

Today the weather sucked. Today was a good day.

For Queen and Country

Saturday was one of the proudest days of my life.

We went to London to watch our son take part in the Trooping of the Colour, the Queens Official birthday parade.

He's a member of 3 Company, 1st Battalion Welsh Guards, currently based in London.

It was the Colour of the Coldstream Guards that was being 'trooped' but the majority of the soldiers, NCO's and officers on parade were from the Welsh Guards, with the battalion providing almost four hundred men.

I've watched the event since my youth in the seventies, but to actually be there and with Cory taking part, was a truly unforgettable experience.

He's only eighteen, our boy. Yet, already, he's been in the regular army for almost two and a half years, he's been on an operational tour to Bosnia, has done umpteen Royal guards at Windsor and in London, he's passed his driving test, boxed, skied and has made his mum and dad very proud.

We had great seats for the parade, the weather held(just!) and, whilst Cory's little sisters have become a tad blase about seeing him in his tunic and bearskin in the presence of Her Majesty, we thoroughly enjoyed the event.

He's a modest young chap too - while his mates hung around in their uniforms and medals to pose for photos, Cory was out of his as soon as he could, preferring to get into his comfy civvies and have a pint rather than be the centre of attention.

And what does a young guardsman do of an evening after his first 'Troop'?

Our boy took his little sisters to the pictures.

Wet Wet Wet

Despite the weather my golfing renaissance continued this week.

I've been playing the game sporadically, without success, for the best part of twenty years.

However, a couple of years back, following my rugby retirement, I decided it was time I made a concerted effort to become a competent player. I didn't want to join the PGA Tour or anything serious like that, I just wanted to be able to smack one off the first tee without being embarrassed because the divot went further than the ball.

I recall being on holiday with the family in Florida - we rented a villa on this lush golf complex just outside of Orlando. I watched the golfers going round every day, chatting, joking and playing. I thought 'I fancy some of this'. The course was a beaut, just like something off the telly. Immaculately presented and painstakingly-well maintained with the greenest grass, the whitest of sand with shimmering water features (I was later to learn these are actually called 'hazards'.)

A couple of days into the holiday I timidly approached the resplendent clubhouse, just to have a mooch round to see what I could learn about this game and its culture. To a working-class lad like me, the game, its players and their facilities, were held in Freemason-like esteem. I'm not sure esteem is the right word actually, nor Freemason for that matter, but it certainly had a foreboding effect on me and those like me. Like we were on the outside and they were on the in. Hence my trepidation as I walked through the doors and exited the brilliant Florida sunshine. To my surprise nobody pounced on me questioning the legitimacy of my presence or, in fact, raised so much as an eyebrow as I approached the bar. On the contrary, I was made to feel most welcome. Perhaps I look like a golfer, I thought to myself. Anyway golfer or not, I spent the best part of an enjoyable afternoon there, just watching the comings and goings, ear-wigging and drinking. I returned the next day with my Dad, I felt quite the local as a few of the people I was spying on the day before extended rather pleasing 'nods' in my direction. Theme parks beckoned though and I was forced to miss the next couple of afternoons.

Whilst the wife,kids and my mum, understandably, revelled in the 'magic' of Disney, to me and, to some extent, my dad, the golf clubhouse had become the focal point of our holiday. We returned as often as possible for our afternoon bevvy and towards the end of our fortnight I had plucked up the courage to have a go on the driving range. A day later, the posh old Scouser in the villa next door beckoned me over to his poolside from ours.

'Saw you and your dad coming out of the golf club yesterday. I'm dying for a game, do you play?' he asked.

'Er, yes' I spluttered out, a lie fuelled by the King of Beers. Even I knew that playing once or twice a summer on pitch and putt did not make me a 'player'.

'Oh great' said Posh Scouse, 'we'll have a round tomorrow then.'

For a moment I thought about accepting, then I had a vision of me spinning around and landing on my arse on the first tee in front of all my new golf friends looking on from the clubhouse. Like the good book says, 'better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt'.

'I can't, er, I think we're off to the Florida Mall, shopping.'

'What about the day after?' Scouse persisted.

'We're doing Epcot' I fired back. The King of Beers was now assisting me to get out of the tangle that it had assisted me to get into in the first place.

'Never mind then,' he said, his disappointment clear. 'We're going home after that.'

'Yeah, I would've loved to have played on a course like this.' I said glancing over my shoulder at the fairway behind me. This time I wasn't lying.

Later that day I decided that on our return home I would fill my sporting void by joining Rhyl Golf Club and perhaps, one day, return to this course and, not only look the part but play the part too.

That was two years ago. I did join Rhyl Golf Club when we got home and I played all summer long. It was hard at first and it didn't get any easier. I already had some friends that were members and I made a few new ones along the way, all of them offering advice, tips and guidance. But, whilst gratefully received, it was to no avail - I was actually getting worse. Not just making little or no progress but actually going backwards. I damaged two passing cars on two separate occasions with slices that defied the laws of physics. I toughed out the year of membership and when it lapsed I didn't renew. Using the 'we're waiting for our visa, it could come at anytime' line when asked by my long-suffering golf buddies why I hadn't re-joined. I think some of them were quite relieved. Local motorists certainly were.

So, that was that. Golf wasn't for me. I wasn't too upset , after all it wasn't like I hadn't tried. The clubs were banished to the shed, fortunately I hadn't invested too heavily on equipment - I got the lot for £60 second-hand, and I thought I might dust the old rugby boots off again. And that's what I did, played another season for the seconds and felt like I'd been involved in an RTA all week following a game.

And that was that until a month ago when I was invited for a game. At the time I was feeling particularly stressed about our upcoming move and felt that it might take my mind off things by playing. And play I did, relatively speaking anyway. Only played the best round of my life! Thinking it was a fluke I returned a week later. Same again, played really well by my standards, albeit low standards.

I played again last night and although I didn't play as well as the previous two rounds, I still enjoyed it and played some good shots, especially off the tee. The weather was absolute pony. It waited until we got as far away from the clubhouse as possible then lashed it down big-time. We played out the nine as it was on the way back but survival became more important than good golf as the monsoon raged. The four of us were like drowned rats on our return. I didn't get that wet the last time I went swimming.

Its going to rain all week they reckon, so the golf will have to wait. I'm eager to see if my form continues or whether I've lost my golf mojo once again. The weather sucks but my golf doesn't, for a change. Funny old game innit?

The Longest Day

Seven weeks to go.

Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary. Nine years ago on June 6th we got hitched. Despite the weather (it lashed down all day), we had a ball.

As any military historian will tell you we share our anniversary with that of Operation Overlord.

Our celebrations this year will take the form of a visit to the wife's favourite eatery, Subway, for a tasty sandwich, followed by a trip to my favourite drinkery, The Swan, for a refreshing beverage or two. We may even take in the England/Estonia game while we're at it.

Sounds idyllic doesn't it?

Fortune Favours the Brave

The countdown continues - exactly nine weeks today we land in Australia. Scary eh? I wouldn't go as far as to say I was bricking it but I'm certainly feeling more uneasy as the big day approaches.

I was on the phone to my mate Tim in New Zealand at the weekend. Although he's enjoying life over there, he kept re-ititerating how it hasn't been easy and he still misses home. Hed and Annabel have said the same thing, they live on the Gold Coast. Ste and Jen, our other friends, have just been the ultimate source of positivity about the whole thing, saying it's the best thing they have done. They've settled in Adelaide and are loving it.

I think we've been guilty of thinking that we were moving to some kind of Utopia and our lives would be perfect. But as the days before our departure get fewer I've started thinking how unnatural it is to up-sticks and move to the other side of the planet, to a region you've never even visited before. I mean, it's not like we're living in the Third World or under an oppressive dictatorial regime. Weather aside, life's sweet here. I was always a fan of the saying 'if it ain't broke, don't try and fix it' - then again, 'fortune favours the brave' is another of my favourites.

Anyhoo, we're shipping out and that's the end of it.

We've sorted out our movers, we're going with John Mason. They were the cheapest and also seemed the most professional.

And it looks like we'll be keeping the house over here and renting it out. We've got a letting agent coming to see us on Friday.

Struggling to find a karoake host/DJ for our leaving do, I'll have to widen the search methinks.

We've got a stack of stuff to do and that gets me down. So tomorrow, by way of pick-me-up, I'm leaving work at midday and going golfing with my good pals Clifford and Hank. Following that I'm going to The Jolly Sailor in Prestatyn with Deaf Dave and Comedy Dave to watch the European Cup Final and have a few scoops. I do hope AC Milan win, can't be doing with the Red Sh*te spawning it again. At least I'll be free from all that in Oz.

The Summer Seemed to Last Forever...

100 days until we leave for Australia.

On occasion I feel trepidation, more so as the big day approaches. More often though I feel excitement and happiness inside. However, this internal happiness is bordering on smugness, an attitude which I loathe in others, so I'm constantly trying to suppress it.

The weather is improving in the UK by the day and, by all accounts, we're in for a scorcher this summer. I was feeling particularly smug the other day when I was thinking about the year ahead. With any luck by the time we leave, on 23rd July, we'll have enjoyed a nice summer here and with only a month or so to 'tough out' before the Aussie summer begins, we face almost a complete year in the full glare of the sun.

A year of summer! That'll do me nicely.

In other news we've had two sets of 'movers' round. Brittania Cestrian came first and have quoted us £3850 (approx. A$9625) for a twenty foot container from Rhyl to Albury. We were very impressed with their representative but think the price is a bit steep.

Godiva Enterprises came next but seem a lot less professional and organised but are a grand cheaper.

You get what you pay for I suppose, so it could be a case of seeing what we can afford. We'll get a couple more quotes and take it from there. If any of you out there in Blogland have got any advice or recommendations on movers then I'd appreciate any feedback.

Three Out of Three Ain't Bad!

Souths won again! Go those Bunnies!

Money for Nothing...

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...

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.

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.

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?

The Empire Strikes Back

Not so long ago in a land far, far away...

The England cricket team finally gave their fans something to cheer about. They've had the worst possible summer down under so I'm glad they came away with the money in the one day tournament. Good fer them!

Despite not being English I still cheer them on whenever they play anyone else apart from Wales. Whether my priorities will shift when we're in Australia who knows? Depends how we're accepted I suppose. Supporting Australian teams would break the habit of a lifetime. However, when in Rome...

Someone came to look at the house tonight. A lady from the neighbouring town of Prestatyn. She didn't stay long and I don't think we'll hear from her again. She made all the right noises but, then again, no-one's going to come into your home and start slagging it off are they? I'm leaning towards renting at the moment. That way if Australia doesn't work out how we hope, we can always ship back and have somewhere half decent to live in. We'll see.

In other news Britain was hit by snow last week. We didn't get affected too 'badly' I'm afraid. It would have been nice to have a good dusting but didn't get much and what we did get didn't last. It was effing freezing though and I was forced to dust off my 'North Face' coat to combat the Arctic conditions. It's massive. I brought it in New York, a year ago this week funnily enough. It was freezing there too. The lads in work take the p*ss when I wear it. They compare me to Hagrid from the Harry Potter films. It does the trick though, its warm as toast, so what if I have to turn sideways to get through door frames

A Cold Day in July

This house selling lark is boring us rigid. We've been on the market for over a week now and we haven't had so much as a sniff. So, in an effort to generate some excitement into our lives, the wife and I set a date to leave for Australia - July 23rd 2007.

Whether the house has sold or not, we're leaving. If the house sells sooner than that, well, we'll cross that bridge if, and when, we come to it.

We decided on Thursday night. Cory told us last week that he is 'doing the Troop' this June. To the uninitiated this means that he, as part of the 1st Battalion The Welsh Guards, will be 'Trooping the Colour' in London, and we wouldn't miss that for the world. As we're staying for that, we may as well let the girls finish their school year. They 'break-up' on the 20th July. So the plan is - have our leaving do on the 21st, sober up on the 22nd and get the flock out of here on the 23rd!

We're booking the flights today. Manchester to Brisbane, four people (two big, two small) one-way with Singapore Airlines - £2,086. We'll spend some time with our good friends Hed and Annabel in Brissy, which ties in nicely with Heds 40th birthday celebrations. Hed's also going to assist us with various aspects of administration, medicare, buying some wheels, etc.

From there we'll head to Sydney and do the touristy thaang for a few days. I'll sneak off on my lonesome at some stage, probably a Friday arvo, and head off on my pilgrimage to the GarryOwen in Balmain.

Then onwards to the City of Albury, unless there are any other points of interest on the way that my reader/s (Jen!) think may be worthy of a toilet break.

We should arrive there sometime around the 7th or 8th of August but we're flexible on those dates at the moment.

We're leaving Britain at the height of its summertime for Australia in mid-winter, so at least we won't have to worry about a change in climate.

Objects in the Rear View Mirror...

Today I went to the dentist. I lost my denture in a drunken stupor following one of the many Xmas drinking binges I went on. I imagine it's now residing in someones rose bush between where I got dropped off and home. So it's going to cost me £158 to replace. What a waste!

Anyway, my trip to and from the dentist takes me through some of North East Wales' nicer scenary and villages. Whilst travelling through Halkyn you get a great view of the surrounding area, the estuary and across to Merseyside. You really get the feeling of height above sea level when you can actually see the sea.

As usual I had to stop for Halkyn's most common species of resident, the sheep. They care little for the laws of the highway and even less for the green-cross code. Whilst waiting patiently for them to amble across the road, it dawned on me that there is no difference in the English language between the singular form of this creature and the plural. In Welsh we have dafad for the singular and defaid for the plural. Why it has taken me this long to realise this who knows?

Eventually I journeyed on and pretty soon I was grateful for the delay. For in my rear view mirror I spotted a piece of my past. An old friend.

I had to look twice but there was no mistaking the unique shape of a Landrover One Tonne. This one still bearing its military colours - army green with random black 'blobbage'. During my service days these were the most fun vehicles to drive. A massive V8 engine gave them heaps of power and a mean sound. The drivers position, being slightly ahead of the front wheels, gave a very different, entertaining perspective to a journey.

Used mainly by the Artillery, our paths crossed all too seldomly, but I took every opportunity that came my way to take one for a spin. As the engine was housed between the drivers' and passenger seat, repairs were always conducted under cover, out of the rain and cold. This fact also endeared them to me. The One Tonne remains my favourite wheeled vehicle of all-time.

I was tempted to race ahead in my car, pull over, jump out and try to flag the driver down. I know that the type of people who seek out, purchase and, more often than not, renovate military vehicles like this are, invariably, very willing to discuss their prized possession. Self-preservation stopped me taking this course of action though as I thought that the driver may decide to mow me down, thinking I was some sort of deranged, toothless lunatic attempting a car-jacking.

So I let him go. I return to the dentist for my denture dress rehearsal on Tuesday, so I'll keep my eyes peeled for him. Who knows I may even get to take it for a spin...

Gotta Get to Rehab...

Things are getting out of hand on the belly front. The Christmas festivities have taken a heavy toll on my waistline. Haven't set foot in the gym since November... and it shows.

I'm weighing in at 16st 4llbs. I was 14st 7llbs in the summer when we did the Three Peaks. My proposed fitness campaign was due to commence on January 2nd but thus far hasn't even looked like getting underway. Definately tomorrow.

Bar GarryOwen

The estate agent put the 'For Sale' board up outside the house today. This will be the first time I've lived in a house that is on the market. We've chosen Peter Large after taking advice. I met him a couple of years ago when he valued our old house. Nice bloke, named after the size of his wallet apparently.

We briefly considered attempting to flog it ourselves to avoid paying the middle man. People do it these days, using the internet. We'll give Peter and his team a month or so and review the situation then.

I've been doing some serious surfing over the weekend, checking out a prospective local in Albury. The pubs look pretty good, much better than I expected based on my memories of Sydneys pubs from my visit in '96. The pubs were like slums but the punters within these slums were top notch.

Our local was the GarryOwen Hotel in Balmain. What a gaff! It reminded me of drinking establishments I'd visited in the Third World, a giant ashtray surrounding the bar with a lone armchair complete with upholstery spring poking through it's seat, positioned far too close to the cracked, worn-out dartboard. We called in one Friday afternoon for a swift one and ended up leaving on Sunday night decked out in the rugby league shirts of our choice, given to us by the lads we had met during the session. I've still got mine. South Sydney, the pride of the league, with the number one on the back. Given to me by Yummy, who, despite his handicap, ran all the way home and back in the rain to present it to me.

I plan to return to the GarryOwen when we move to Oz. It's had a right touch-up since that weekend in November ten years ago. It looks like a gay bar now, with shiny metallic furniture that looks less inviting than the broken chair from '96. It bears more resemblance to an Ikea showroom than a boozer. It's even got its own website.

I'd love to catch up with the gang that kept us royally entertained and made us feel so at home when we were twelve thousand miles away from home. They even managed to squeeze a 'punch-up' in for us, which despite the obvious violent overtones, still managed to be a comical and ultimately friendly segment of the evening.

I doubt whether the GarryOwen of today would permit that sort of behaviour, let alone encourage it as was the case back then. Couldn't see the dartboard on the website photographs either. Nor any of the faces I would recognise anywhere. No Yummy. I imagine they've moved on, unhappy with their local being turned into Bar GarryOwen, selling latte and mochachocachino. On to somewhere where they can watch the dogs, spit, curse, have a punt and thump each other.

I hope they took the dartboard with them...

Hell Hath No Fury...

Spoiler ahead -

Tracey Barlow's just biffed old Stubbsy round the cranium with a statue. Go Girl!!

Can you get 'The Street' in Australia?

Windy City

Forget Chicago and Wellington, if there was a windier place than Rhyl this morning then you don't want to be going there. As I looked out of my bedroom window a scene of carnage greeted me. Wheelie bins, litter and fence panels were among the bigger pieces of debris strewn across the green. Poor old Tim from across the way spent all weekend fixing his fence up only to see it destroyed by gale force winds during the wee small hours. That's his weekend sorted out. I should give him a lift actually, he helped me repair our garage door.

6-3 TO THE ARSE-EN-AL!!

Need I say more?

Dude Looks Like a Lady

NYE was a good night out. A good old-fashioned knees-up in several of the towns pubs, all of which hold special memories for me and the wife, collected down the years. A fitting end to our involvement in Rhyls New Years celebrations, as residents at least.

Fancy dress was, once again, on the slide although there was still plenty around. Possibly in the region of twenty per cent of revellers had donned costume for the big night. There were some good ones too - the most outstanding being the young lad in the Esp, who looked resplendent in his blazer, tie and slacks, only to turn around to reveal the back cut out of his rig showing his mums shocking pink bra and knickers.

This time next year, if everything goes to plan, we'll be seeing out the old and welcoming in the new in sunnier climes - Albury, NSW to be exact. The house gets measured by the estate agents this week then it's up for grabs. When it's gone so are we...

The Boys in the Royal Blue Jerseys

Would you adam and steve it? My birthday wish came true! Everton walloped Newcastle 3-0! Three goals scored by the home side at Goodison Park is very much a rarity these days so for it to occur on my birthday was a nice touch. The only downside of the event was the fact that we didn't get to see the game. We traipsed around Rhyls sodden streets in a vain attempt to find somewhere showing it. As it turned out no one was showing it because, for once, Evertons game was the only one not featuring on anyones satellite feed.

Never mind, I had an enjoyable birthday, drinking with my oldest friend Weeble. We called into our old haunt 'The Barrell', formerly the town centres premium watering hole. It's had a re-fit in an attempt to restore it to its former glories, returning to it's old name and layout after a couple of name changes and attempts to turn it into a nightclub. It was quite fitting that we dropped by yesterday on my last birthday in town. We had spent a good portion of our misspent youth in this place and we reminisced as we sat there. Two other members of the 'old guard' came in whilst we were there and , although we never knew them that well, we gave them the nod and said 'hello' just like in the good old days when I had a fringe.

Tonight is New Years Eve of course and for the first time in nineteen years I won't be going out in fancy dress. Rhyl has traditionally been Party Centraal on NYE with virtually the entire town donning costume for the night. It was almost compulsory in days of yorn but over the years the tradition has sadly been on the wane. Even I shan't be bothering tonight as I've been void of any idea what to dress up as really. I can't keep putting one of the wifes dresses on - people will suspect. I was going to do Borat in his Kazakh speedos but decided it would be too cold and a bit on the obscene side as well.

So tonight we're going as ourselves as, I'd imagine, many other people will. I hope the tradition continues and becomes what it was once again, for it was a truly memorable period in the history of Rhyls nightlife.

On that note, wherever you are and whatever you do tonight have a good one. Blwyddyn Newydd Da i chi gyd! Happy New Year to you all!

Penblwydd Hapus i Fi!

Or Happy Birthday to Me! As they say in English. I am 39 today. Not a particularly special birthday numerically speaking but a poignant one for me nevertheless, as it's very likely to be the last one I spend in the bosom of family and life-long friends.

And what do I have planned for this momentous occasion you ask? Nothing special really. I've got an electrical repair to carry out at my brothers place which I may or may not do. To knock the skin off a few at the driving range is the next goal followed by a visit to my folks seeing as we go back such a long way and , who knows, there may even be a birthday gift there to mark the occasion. My plan then follows a rather predictable pattern. I intend to rock up to the Esp (my local), find myself a pew, probably the one by the fruit machine and get cooked, nice and slowly, the way it's meant to be done.

At some stage I'll be watching my beloved Everton take on Newcastle on the foreign satellite broadcasts widely available in pubs and clubs in Rhyl these days. It'd be a nice birthday treat for me if the Blues bucked their recent trend of being the least entertaining team in world football and produced a display that warranted my thirty five years of unquestioned loyalty to them.

For it was on this very day in 1971, my fourth birthday, that my Dad gave me the wonderful gift of a blue shirt with a white trim, white shorts and stockings. Why Dad picked this kit is a mystery that I've never ventured to solve. Most parents, especially amongst my peers, virtually force their offspring to support the same team as they do. Employing such despicable tactics as dressing their infants up in miniature replica kits then photographing this heinous crime in order to brandish this photographic evidence at any stage during their childs life when they show the merest hint of showing favour to another team.

This is important stuff too. Very important stuff. For the ardent fan, which is almost everybody in the U.K., you are forever linked to your teams fortune. They suffer, you suffer ten-fold. Likewise with all the other emotions involved. Success for the vast majority, especially Evertonians like me, is an all too infrequent and fleeting visitor. Probably unbeknown to him at the back-end of 1971 my Dad made a decision that has had a massive impact on my life. A massive impact.

Dad's a Liverpool fan from Billy Liddells days, Evertons deadliest and only real rivals. I hate them, which makes his decision all the more difficult to fathom. We lived in Hampshire at the time and I was an easily pleased kid, he could easily have palmed me off with a more local team, Southampton perhaps or one of the London giants like Arsenal maybe. Imagine my delight in this day and age if he'd have picked blue shorts to go with that blue jersey - Chelsea would have been my team. Urrrgh! Even contemplating supporting someone else sends a shiver down my spine.

Like I said I've never questioned Dads motives, I've just been grateful, very grateful. But for what? For the vast majority of my life Everton have been an average to poor side rarely providing value for money for the paying fan. We've had our moments of course, the mid-eighties was terrific but failed to materialise into a dynasty the like of which seems to occur these days following a period of great success which 1984-87 truly was for Everton. The remainder of the time has found me at the mercy of mocking work-mates and friends who, fortunately, have grown bored of such easy prey and turned elsewhere to get their kicks.

Having said all that, me following Everton right or wrong, great or grim has helped to make me what I am. A character who appreciates the good times and has learned to roll with the bad. With sharpened wit due to having been forced to seek verbal repertoire elsewhere than the football based responses spat out by supporters of 'corporation' teams. It has bonded me with like-minded individuals the world over whose company I have revelled in and will continue to do so.

In song the great Johnny Cash named his boy Sue to prepare him for anything the world could throw at him, my old man made me an Evertonian. Being an Evertonian hasn't made me what I am, my Dad has.

So Dad, for this and so much more I thank you. If you present me with a gift today that provides me with a nano-fraction of the stimulation and entertainment that the one you gave me thirty five years ago has done then you would have achieved something impossible. A win for the Blues would be nice!!!!!


P.S. My mum's not a bad old stick either!

Where Streams of Whiskey Are Flowin'...`

Our visa has arrived. We now have the right to live and work in Australia for the next three years. Great eh? We think so.

It's been a long road of application process and at times it's been a right royal pain in the arse. Fortunately for me the burden of paperwork and hoop-jumping has largely been taken care of by the wife, who's given it everything and some more to ensure our success in achieving our goal.

All we have to do now is sell the house. If you're interested it's going on the market for around £175,000.

Christmas Do's......and dont's.

Monday today. Not any old Monday but the Monday following the works Christmas do. A nerve-wracking and cringeworthy day for many as their Saturday night exploits are re-lived in the cold light of day. This year wasn't too bad for me in comparison to previous years embarrassment. I can't deny I was well and truly spannered and was guilty of a bit of profiterole-throwing and a couple of episodes of dirty dancing but that's about the long and short of it. Just to confirm my behaviour wasn't too offensive I made a furtive Sunday afternoon phone call to a more sober colleague who agreed that I hadn't upset anyone too badly on the night as far as he was aware.

Whilst this was of some relief to me I still wasn't feeling totally confident this morning. Given that, on the equivalent Monday in 2003 following my most notorious Christmas do experience, I had been completely oblivious to the storm that awaited me on my arrival at work, it was with no little trepidation that I entered the office today.

Everyone was quite quiet for the first half hour- so far so good thought I. In time little tit-bits of Saturdays activities were discussed confirming a couple of my misdemeanors but thankfully no skeletons were emerging . As the day wore on I was becoming more confident that I had come through this festively decorated minefield pretty much unscathed.

I was pleased. After all, this had been my 'comeback' do following my year-long suspension from works functions following the 2003 Xmas bash when I committed a catalogue of faux-pas and my own, self imposed two year sabbatical in protest at the afore mentioned suspension. I wouldn't have gone this year, to be honest, were it not for the fact that it was possibly my last Xmas do seeing as we will hopefully be living in Australia this time next year. But went I did and determined to have a blast, I succeeded.

They're an odd concept works do's. Drinking with people you don't really count as friends, people you wouldn't normally socialize with. People you don't know that much about really, even though you spend the vast majority of your waking life with them. So they can be quite awkward events to say the least, the very least. I think my little break from such gatherings helped, plus the fact that I'd spent a good portion of the afternoon in various Chester pubs by way of 'warm-up'. All in all it was a blinding night and more importantly I didn't make too much of an arse of myself for once. Which is nice.