Brisbane

1 = Australians I've met called Shane

1 = times I've seen Westlife perform

16 = hours until The Ashes start

1 = number of Southerners I've met since Sunday

6 = number of people from Hull that I've been hanging around with

So it comes to this.  After all the expense, drunkenness, plush pads, broken ribs and flying into ceiling fans the day is almost upon me.  The reason I am here, let's not forget, is to watch England's attempt to retain The Ashes.  In less than 16 hours I'll be sitting in a packed Gabba, in Brisbane, alongside 40,000 spectators.  It's so close.

It's a bit like when you were a kid on Christmas Eve when all you wanted was to get to sleep so that you can wake up on Xmas Day.  Except for one thing.  The stuffing on Christmas is usually reserved for the turkey.  And that's the risk I've taken shelling out a million, billion pounds and traveling 12,000 miles to watch this.  Although England won last year, the task facing them over the next six weeks is a monumental one.

Australians, as we know, are pretty damn good at sport.  They don't lose very often.  And when they do, they make damn sure it doesn't happen again.  They haven't lost at home since 1992 and we haven't beaten them here since 1987.  Last years Ashes win was the first for nearly 20 years.  Plus we're missing some key players.  The odds on us keeping hold of the urn aren't good.
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But the optimist in me knows that all of this will make winning that much sweeter.  I have had so many e-mails from mates back home (most of them at talkSPORT) who are sick with envy that I'm out here.  And that's what I'll be reminding myself as I make the 30 minute walk to the ground tomorrow.

Okay non-cricket fans.  Are you still with me?  I'll bring you up to date with what's been going on since I left Surfers and got to Brisbane.  We arrived at around midday after a convoluted journey that took a lot longer and more modes of transport than it should have done.  After yet another big night on the town the previous night I was determined to get to at least 8pm without starting on the booze again.  Unfortunately, Tom and our host for the evening had other plans.

We were staying at Tom's mates house for the evening.  Tim and Alex are ex-pats and had recently upped sticks and moved to Brisbane after spending the previous four years in Sydney.  I can't think why.



The house they were living in wouldn't buy you a garage in Brixton.  I know this for a fact.  About a year ago Gabe and I got excited when we found a property we thought we could afford.  We didn't realize it housed cars rather than humans.  The place that Tim and Alex were staying would set you back about a hundred grand.  Nice.  Think about that the next time you're being offered a 2-bed terraced in Colliers Wood.

We awoke the next morning following another night on the sauce, coupled with BBQ and an 8-hour poker session.  It was the last day of Tom's holiday and I felt pretty damn sad when the cab came to pick him up for the airport.  But not as sad as Tom.  For he had work the next day to fly back to.  We'd had a fantastic couple of weeks and I wasn't sure what I was going to do without my travel partner.

I was staying in a hostel in town and I got dropped off there in the early hours of the afternoon.  Apart from a couple of nights in Boston with Dave, I haven't really done the hostel thing.  And my fears weren't allayed by the conversation I listened into whilst waiting to book in.

Disgruntled backpacker: my bed is infested with some form of creature.  I've got bites all over me and I can see them crawling around my sheets.

Stereotypical 45-year old stoner who runs the place: See if you can change beds.

Disgruntled backpacker:  My rooms full

Stereotypical 45-year old stoner who runs the place:  Look I can't do anything about it today.  Try another room and we'll fumigate it tomorrow

Disgruntled backpacker:  Okay

Stereotypical 45-year old stoner who runs the place: Oh and one other thing.

Disgruntled backpacker: Yep?

Stereotypical 45-year old stoner who runs the place: Try and get a top bunk.  The bastards find it more difficult to get up there.

I'm pretty damn sure that if I went and found the aforementioned bed it would still be infested.  Yuk.

Somehow I resisted the urge to turn round and walk away from the place.  I was being paid to be inside the Barmy Army camp and it wouldn't sound good if I'd rung Tim and asked if I could crash at his place for the week.  So I've been there all week and I'm pleased to say am yet to find the missing link between my bedsheets.

Since then I've spent a few days chilling out, checking out the town and meeting up with fellow cricket fans.  It's been fantastic.  I feel really relaxed.  The city of Brisbane is very modern and with the constant 30 degree heat nobody seems in much of a rush.  I went on a river cruise and took about 100 photos which I intended to put up on this site.  But somehow I managed to delete them all.  So this blog entry may be a little sparse on the photo front.

With 10,000 English expected to be in town for the first Test it's been pretty difficult to meet anyone without a recognizable accent.  But I did spent part of Sunday night, or rather Monday morning, attempting to explain the intricacies of the googly and reverse swing to a couple of frencies..  But I don't think I had much joy.

I also met up with the two Hull lads that I'd spent some time with in Surfers.  They were with another big group of Hull boys.  Thank god I went to University there or I wouldn't have had anything to say to them.  In fact I probably wouldn't understand what they were going on about anyway.

Last night I took them to a televised event on Brisbane's South Bank.  It was a 2-hour Ashes spectacular.  It included appearances from some of the cricket greats like Ian Botham, Geoffrey Boycott, Ricky Ponting, Michael Vaughan and Richie Benaud.  It was great fun.  I've never been in the audience for a live TV show like this before.  And because we were part of the Barmy army they put us in the second row.  I must have been on TV every time they came back from a break.

About an hour in they went to a music act.  And in trouped four sheepish looking Irish guys.  I'm not sure who was more unimpressed.  The 200 pasty faced Englishmen staring up at the stage from the first row or Westlife.  They got through their song in double quick time, accepted the half-hearted applause with disdain before they buggered off.  It was all pretty surreal.

Okay.  That's it for now.  The next time I write I'll have a pretty good idea how this tour is going to pan out.  Fingers crossed.

Byron Bay to Surfers Paradise

"The thing is, if we came here ten years ago.  We'd still have been too old" Tom Rees, 5.10pm, Wednesday evening

Several times this holiday I've become uncomfortably aware of my advancing years.  'Not before long', I can hear some of you saying.  On the last night of our surf tour we were driving back to camp and we were being encouraged to take turns on the beer bong by an 18 year old surfer whose vocabulary consisted of little more than using the word 'sick' a lot whilst grabbing his johnson.

As entertaining as it was to watch our driver straining his neck round to see the action (while paying little heed to the oncoming traffic), I did wonder to myself whether it was time to put the drinking game days behind me and start acting responsibly.  As the driver starting bellowing into the microphone that it was time to play coach surfing I was counting the number of EU directives it would probably contravene back home.  I'm getting old.

Three days into my stay at Surfers Paradise I was once again forced to confront the fact that I'm not as young as I usually behave.  Tom and I were walking through town on the Wednesday when we were jumped upon by a very persuasive salesman outside the Hard Rock Café.  For reasons I still cannot fathom he persuaded us to part with $55 each on the promise of a wet and wild evening in town.

We arrived back at the pub for the start of the drinking tour at 5pm.  And our initial fears were quickly realized when we walked into a bar full of teenaged drinkers.  Some of them were still wearing braces!  This might be a turn on for some but certainly isn't what I look for in a lady.

We probably would have bolted there and then if not for the fact we had some free drinks to get through.  And as we sat and surveyed the scene Tom came out with the quote at the top of this page.

Anyone who has been on a 18-30 package tour will know the types of drinking games that went on throughout the night.  We didn't get involved in any of those but had a good laugh at the ones that did.  Instead we bumped into a couple of lads from Hull (where both Tom and I went to Uni) who were more our age group and we settled into a night of pool and booze.

It ended up being a funny old evening with plenty of drunken youngsters going crazy around us.  It also featured a 45 year old bald bloke who was the ringmaster.  He carried with him a large megaphone which he kept screaming 'CAN I GET A HELL YEAH!'  I somehow resisted the urge to throw a pool cue at him.

Surfers Paradise was quite a wake up call after our 4 days in Byron Bay.  I can't speak highly enough of Byron and I'm heading back there tomorrow for a day trip.  It has the obligatory beautiful beach, some great pubs and clubs (with the exception of Cheeky Monkeys) and is a really relaxed place to stay.

As I write I'm still nursing various bruises, scabs and cuts from the surfing trip.  So to end up there for a long weekend break was exactly what we required.  We did very little apart from relax by the pool, eat loads, drink in Paul Hogans pub (we managed not to get kicked out again) and meet up with the friends we'd made that week.

We also bumped into a guy from the camp who managed to come third in my injuries list.  He had a deep cut above his right eye.  We thought he might have come a cropper at Cheeky Monkeys.  But what he'd managed to do was jump from his top bunk at his hostel and go head first into the ceiling fan.  Ha ha ha!!!!!!!

By the time Monday came around we were really gutted to be leaving.  Not only were we leaving a part of Australia we'd come to love, we were parting company with Rand, Gigi, Joyce, Eva and Dustin.  We'd got to know these guys pretty well and it seemed strange that we were all heading off to different parts of the world.  None more so than Rand who was heading back to Afghanistan to continue fighting a war.

The journey to Surfers Paradise only takes an hour from Byron but the difference between the two places couldn't be more obvious.  Where Byron was a homely, traditional back to your roots kinda place, Surfers reminded me of Vegas.  Huge skyscrapers dominate the skyline and from our position on the beach a couple of kilometers away almost look like they built up from the sea.

In our entire time at Surfers we met about two people who actually live there.  There is no industry there and the only business comes from the tourist trade.  It's full of cheap motels, backpackers and hotels.  It's also a neon city with very little culture, class or personality.  In short it's a party town.  And that's exactly what we did there.  It was great.

On the last day there we went along to SeaWorld.  Again, I've never been to one of these places before.  But we were keen to go snorkeling.  Tom goes all the time in Manly and he wanted me to experience it.  It was fantastic.  We were snorkeling with sharks, manta rays, Hammerheads, all manner of weird and wonderful fish.  I'm definitely doing it again.

The best thing was that the large pool you could snorkel in was next to an even bigger pool with huge man-eating sharks swimming in.  It was separated by a pane of glass which you could swim up to and peer through.  It was quite an experience.  It was also the perfect way to end our last full day in Surfers.  As the next day we were heading up the coast to Brisbane.   

The 4-day surfers (part two)

Top three injuries

1 – Tom breaking his rib

2 – Rand's bald bonce beach bounce

3 – The flying bat

(Honourable mention to Gigi's knees which became a more and more painful sight every day)

Thursday

Without doubt the toughest day of the trip.  For despite having a solid 7 hours sleep most of us awoke aching, tired and in the mood for anything but an all day surf session.  Especially as it was once again pissing it down.

We were supposedly staying in tents on the Thursday night but as the weather turned out so bad the idea got shelved.  It was just a shame that the organisers hadn't bothered to put in place a back up plan.

We got to our destination and were all pretty horrified to see the conditions that we were expected to surf in. 



Huge waves crashed onto the shore and the panoply of skull crushing rocks on display did nothing to dispel our fears. 



Thankfully, Dylan (our surf instructor) agreed and we moved beach.  But as the wind lashed in, the rain soaked us and we stood in under some inadequate shelter I couldn't help but be reminded of my Glastonbury washout the previous year.



Bizarrely, there was no mention of the shark when we finally made it into the water.  Tom was expecting people to refuse to surf considering how close we'd been to fish food the day before.  And despite numbers of people bailing out due to injury and sickness most of us made a good go of it on the Thursday.

For me it was the best days surfing of the trip.  I was making some real headway and managing to surf into shore about 40% of the time.  At the same time those people who'd picked it up quickly were starting to get frustrated with their progress.  But the standout person from our 4-day group was still Leesa, the Finnish girl.

While we were surfing away a couple of the instructors were desperately trying to find us accommodation for the night.  The fact that they hadn't even considered the fact that we might not be able to camp was pretty astounding.  In the end it worked out okay as they booked us into this brilliant pub for the night.  But this wasn't before some of us started to take matters into our own hands to try and secure a place to stay.

I'll not bore you with the details of what turned out to be yet another huge piss up.  But there was no mistaking the city types as I took over the pool table and Tom won $100 on the slot machines.  Then, after kicking out time, we all went back upstairs for more alcohol, drunken high jinks, while those inclined took advantage of the locked showers.

Friday

Friday was the final day of the tour and took us up the coast to Byron Bay.  It was also 'competition day' when everyone got to show exactly what had been learnt that week.  More importantly the sun finally came out.  After two days of doom and gloom everything suddenly took on a brighter outlook.

Needless to say I won't be returning to England in a blaze of glory, dripping with gold medals, fully expecting a ticket tape welcome.  But I did okay.  The eventual winner of the entire tournament was Leesa, from our 4-day tour.  And considering the group we'd joined on the first night were on a 5-day surfing she'd done exceptionally well.



Friday also contained one of the funniest sporting injuries of the week when Rand managed to cut his head and scalp himself at the same time.  'I've never bounced on my head like that before' was how he described it afterwards. 

An experienced surfer Rand had spent much of the time surfing the deep waves while we messed about in the white water.  We'd seen him wipe out a couple of times in impressively painful looking fashion.  But with this injury he'd managed it in about a foot of water.  He'd run in to the surf at top speed, attempted to jump on his board but it got stuck in the sand, so he'd gone head first into the ground. 

As he made his way back to the side I checked his head and saw that he was bleeding.  It was nothing more than a graze and he thought he'd got away with it until Tom noticed that he'd also managed to shave a section of his head.  It was about the size of a 50p piece.  Ha ha!!!  He spent the rest of his holiday trying to comb over it.

Friday night in Byron Bay

That evening we went out in Byron Bay for the first time.  I'll describe Byron Bay another day, but as I write in an internet café in Surfers Paradise I almost feel homesick for the place.  I'd recommend anyone to stop by for a couple of days.  And that's despite our initial impression.

We rolled into town on the Friday evening and while everyone else on the tour had booked into a hostel this was where Tom and I planned to luxuriate.  We'd booked a plush apartment two minutes from the centre of town. 



So while our fellow surfers were dealing with soggy clothing, cramped conditions, dangerously low ceiling fans and weirdo backpackers, Tom and I were trying to work out how to use our 42-inch plasma screen.

This place had it all.  Swimming pool, hot tub, 2 showers, living room, balcony, washing machine, it even had a dishwasher.  It was so nice.  I wish I was still there now.  It also had enough room for four people to stay in so we invited Rand to come and stay with us for a couple of nights.

Rand is definitely a guy that some of you London lot will meet one day.  When I first met him, standing outside the coach stop for the surf tour, I thought he might just be a stereotypical US soldier.  How wrong could I be?  He is funny as fuck, political and great company.  He also loves old zombie movies which is good as Tom is exactly the same.  He's due to come to London in March so you'll get to find out for yourself then.

Anyway, we got into Byron at about 5pm and went to our apartment to get ready.  We met up with the tour group at 7.30pm at Paul Hogan's pub.  Then went and had some great Mexican food.  The night was going well until we were ushered into an establishment called 'Cheeky Monkeys'.  The surf instructors must have been on the take to bring us here.  It was as rough as old boot.  It made Caesers nightclub look like a Members Only club.

We stood there for about the time it takes to drink half a pint and left.  The place was awful.  It wasn't intimidating just crap.  Groups of fat men roamed around,  'orrible local girls tried there best to make themselves look as unappealing as possible and in the middle of it all a heavily pregnant woman danced on the table.  Nice.

We decided to head back to Paul Hogan's pub and were immediately pleased with our decision.  Spacious with a great atmosphere and a live band that were actually pretty good we'd struck it lucky.  It was just a shame that we got kicked out within 30 minutes of getting there.

Some of the girls had followed us and as they got to the door at 12.05 weren't allowed in.  So we helped them jump the fence.  Which wasn't the best of ideas as we were immediately seen by the security and booted out.  Great.

So we tried a last roll of the dice and went in a club that our tour bus driver had described as 'a piece of shit' as he drove us through town.

After spending four days in isolation on beaches up and down the coast we shouldn't have been surprised to find the place quite so overwhelming.  A death-metal band finished up as we entered.  And the place looked ready to kick off at any point.  We'd probably have been able to deal with it better if we hadn't run into two of the town's many Friday night freaks.

As soon as Rand walked into this place this girl of about 22 started running round him.  She wouldn't stop.  She just kept running round him whilst asking him weird questions like 'do you live in Hollywood city?' and 'are you going to shoot me?'

Because the music was so loud we couldn't make out what she was saying.  But just by watching the look on Rand's face we knew he was getting freaked out.  He looked like he was seeing the horrors of war.  And considering he has actually seen the horrors of war that's saying something. 

Rand made his excuses and left but not before getting started on by another dude.  The anti-American feeling here is very obvious.  I also had a weird run in with a 50 year old woman who started off by telling me I reminded her of her nephew 'please don't be a come on, please don't be a come on' and ended up by accusing me of wanting to spit on her cigarette.  It was a disappointing and freakish end to the week. 

*****A list of all the injuries picked up on our surfing tour would go something like this broken rib, cut feet, sliced finger webbing, bald bonce, scarred knees, bruised ribs, grazed everything, bad back*****