Dubai 07 - Expat sport

A few years ago I went to the annual AFL exhibition game at the Oval in London. West Coast vs Collingwood, perhaps. Frankly I don't remember and I really don't care: Australian Rules just isn't my game. Anyway, it was a beautiful sunny day and the ground was packed with Aussies munching on their ration packs from home - Twisties, Mint Slices and Tim Tams - and sucking down £6 cans of VB. My mate Jon remarked at the time that if you had 8,000 Englishmen drinking beer in the sun together, there'd be fights, no question about that. But Australians are a bit more laid back and so rather than fighting we streaked.

It started off with one galah nuding up and going for a quick sprint to the centre, before getting smacked to the ground by the cops and private security. The crowd took offence to this harsh treatement at a football friendly, and so retaliated by sending other runner onto the ground. Arrested.

The cycle was inevitable, as was the escalation. Before too long coordinated streaks occured with people running on from several directions. Eventually the police just gave up, and people would almost wander onto the field of play, (some of them clothed!) only to be smacked down by the still zealous private security personnel. All the while the PA was going on about how it was prohibited to go onto the pitch. Finally the game was abandoned once the players were outnumbered, and the PA switched to a message of please come onto the pitch, but stay off the centre square.

Naturally we ignored that message, too.

***
So last weekend was the Dubai Rugby 7s, the biggest social event on the calendar here. Everyone goes. Unless it rains. Which it did. All day.

The people who sold their Dh175 tickets to Dh1,000 in the lead up to the weekend must have been laughing as they sat at home watching the rainy event on TV. But I was there with Ben and Darren, two resilient Poms, (Christian, the Kiwi, bailed), and we got there just in time to see the Australians get caned by England in a quarter finals match. We were up in the stands (where it turned out the roof was not a roof but a loose-weave plastic sun shade), surrounded by drunken England supporters.

Now, I'm the first to admit that "aussie aussie aussie oi oi oi" isn't the most cerebral of supporting chants, and I am impressed that English crowds sing show tunes to cheer their players. But in rugby they sing a negro spiritual, Swing Low Sweet Chariot. Or more correctly, they sing the chorus. If that much. Sometimes someone will pipe up during a quiet moment with "...iot, coming for to [and now the crowd joins in with] carry me home." It's weird, and you can read more about it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swing_Low,_Sweet_Chariot.

Meanwhile, the other pitches at the Dubai Exiles ground (where I play touch rugby, coincidentally) were given over to club games, U21, and the like. Then, after the semis, there was a break on the main pitch for the internationals, and the school girls came out to play. And I have to say, there is nothing funnier than seeing school girls smack each other to the ground in a game of rugby. I hope next year they get to play the Samoans.

Anyway, it was a grand day out that reminded me what it was like to be wet and cold at the same time as well as the importance of proper footwear. Fun and learning in the one day. What more could you want?

Dubai 06 - Queues

I gather, from reading the local paper, that people here are getting a little sick of things. Of course, I'm talking about the Letters page, so it's not just people here! The latest hated topic in my neck of the woods is queue jumping, specifically the drivers who push into a line of traffic, thus holding up two lanes at once (three if you count the guy who tries to squeeze past and stuffs it up).

Now I must really be fitting in because, altough I would never push in in traffic, I did go to the airport the other day and do something similar (and seriously, Dubai Airport is up there with San Rafael when it comes to quality and good layout. Actually, San Raf is better). I wandered up to my gate and came across a queue snaking to the left. Now I figured that if the queue is so stupid as to run to the left rather than straight, the sensible thing to do would be to form a new queue and merge. Sure, it was a queue of one, but it's an airport for crying out loud and seats are assigned. And I have French ancestors.

As luck would have it, I found myself merging in front of two Australians. Talk about confused: Their Anglo-Irish heritage told them to suffer in silence for the time being and bitch about it later, but their Australian upbringing told them to stand up for themselves. The following resulted:

Tall guy to short guy (sote voce hoping I'd hear, get embarrassed and go to the back): Look at this bloke.
Short guy: Huh?
Tall guy: Jumping in like that, etc etc etc

The queue moved on a bit, I continued to politely merge and politely ignore this poorly dressed buffoon, while he tried to wheel his oversized carry-on luggage into my feet. Then it got funny:

Tall guy (slowly and as if he was feeding an actor a line): Queue. Queue. Queue.
If this bloke had any cajones, he'd tap me on the shoulder and say, excuse me mate, go to the back. And I probably would have... considered it. Or at least let him go in front. But talking to yourself saying queue queue queue is just dumb. So finally I turned around, looked him in the eye and said:

Diddums

That went down well and elicited a "you're a blood idiot" (but an idiot in front of you in the line - ha!) and more luggage into ankles. A few more pleasantries came from him and then I eyeballed him a second time and suggested he accept his fate in this life and realise there are bigger issues at stake with a gentle

Get over it, mate

No response. He knew he was beaten by my superior reasoning. I turned back around.

Short guy: oh, he's your mate now. [grunt]

And that was it. I probably really ruined those guys' days and put them in foul moods. And I'm glad, because if you're 1) wound up that tight and 2) stupid enough to join an orderly queue that goes in the wrong direction and not merge yourself with the ready explanation of "I thought it was for something else because it started 3 gates to the side", then you deserve to have a shitty day.

Now I realise some of you might think that makes me a rude, pushy, arrogate queue-jumping bastard, but tell me you've never done it yourself. And really, except in traffic where it's dangerous, I'm with the French and Chinese in their attitude to waiting. Here's another one: I went to the hospital recently for my blood test and x-ray for my residency. I walked in to the place and the first room had a queue of several hundred Indians passively standing around waiting for god knows what. My Australian friend from the airport probably would have assumed that was a queue and meekly joined it. I went past it, found someone in a uniform and asked where to go for a blood test, and was back in the car a few minutes later. And I didn't even jump any queues. The Indian blokes could have been part of a post-Modernist art exhibition, or trying out for the world stand-silently-in-a-room record. (On the other hand, Indian blokes do seem to like standing around in groups...) Life's too short to follow the crowd - make your own queue.

Dubai 05 - My place

Dubai is made up of Deira (north of the Creek, a brackish body of water that disects the city and has only three crossings), Bur Dubai and all the stuff between it and Jebel Ali. Deira is a mysterious place I never go to unless I need a blood test for immigration purposes, Bur Dubai is where I work, and Sheik Zayed Road (SZR) is the main artery beween it and all the stuff on the way to Jebel Ali, including The Springs.

Now, I'm sharing a villa with a South African bloke called Chris out in The Springs. This is a really fake little suburb about half an hour down SZR from Bur Dubai. All the houses are identical and it's a bit like being in Legoland. It's a gated suburb or compound (ie, a bloke operates a boom on the only road in or out, noting down the licence plates of all cars, including the residents, for reasons unknown. Actually, I think the guy's a trainspotter, but the total loack of railways here has reduced the poor fellow to carspotting), and actually there are 11 (?) Springs compounds ingeniously named Springs 1 through Springs 11. I'm in 2. Next to me is Meadows 6, another Legoland compound, for people with a bit more money. Out the back of M6 is Emirates Hills which faces onto a small man-made lake, and this is where the really rich live.

How do I know they're rich? By the cars of course. Parked outside the mansions are gleaming new BMW X5s, and Land Rovers, with number plates like "80". And these are parked on the street because the garage is housing the Bugatti. It's pretty flash. Out in the grotty old springs it's just SUVs with number plates like D 456245 - nothing special at all.

It's come on since the satellite took the above photos, mind you. Everything is planted and green - I'll post some more photos later - and not just sand. It's nice and quiet and relaxed out here, which beats the hell out of living in the 24h construction site that is Bur Dubai...

I really have no ending for this post. Sorry.

Dubai 04 - Copywatch

One of the great things about developing countries is the black market for counterfeit goods. The ones that you see the most are DVDs, watches and handbags.

There are various moral and legal issues associated with this, of course, but on the whole I say it’s a good thing. Take watches: no one gets hurt by this trade. The prestige watch companies have the attitude that a person who’ll buy an Omega would never buy a fake Omega, and a person who buys a fake would never buy the real thing. And it’s pretty obvious why – a real Omega costs around AU$3,000+ here, and a fake one is very obviously fake – bezels freewheel, designs are ones you’ve never seen in the catalogue, the gold doesn’t look like gold, that sort of thing.

I’d’ve thought it would be the same with handbags – what is a little padlock on a Hermes bag becomes a Chubb security lock spray painted gold on the copy – but apparently the bag companies are getting a little dark at this sincerest form of flattery.

But DVDs are what I’m in the market for. This is definitely a zero-sum game with studios losing out big time, but it serves them right for not embracing new technology and coming up with a way of distributing their product more cheaply. Meanwhile, quality films from the independent studios don’t really get a look-in, so it’s not like you’re doing a struggling artist out of his dinner. And really, if I chose to watch Snakes On A Plane, there’s no way in hell I’m going to pay even the rental price to do so. And besides, how does going to the cinema or Virgin compare to the thrill of The Deal.

It goes like this: after deciding you need to add to your video library, you head down to Karama and just wander along. Within about 10 seconds some friendly chap and fifteen or so of his mates converge on you and ask if you’d like a “copywatch” (no thanks), sunglasses (no thanks), a handbag (for the ladies – no thanks), or DVDs (yes please!)

And now the adventure begins. If you’ve said yes to the wrong guy you get taken around the corner to the spot under some stairs, stopping first at a fire hose-reel cupboard to retrieve a plastic shopping bag full of pirated movies, while your man’s mate acts as a lookout for the fuzz.

If you say yes to the right bloke, though, or to someone selling copywatches or handbags, you get led away to a shop (eg, women’s ware), which is possibly located some distance away, and/or up several flights of rickety stairs in a residential building, down the back of the shop to the secret door and up some stairs into the attic where they store their inventory of undergarments and dodgy goods. You might even meet an American getting ripped off. The first time you do this you feel a little dodgy, like you’re doing a drug deal, or something.

But then you forget all that as you peruse their wares. Typically blockbuster fare or sometimes TV series. A lot of the goods come out of Europe so the cover might by written in French or Russian, but most comes from China and the copy on the cover is alone almost worth the purchase price. Usually the précis on the back is about the film – but not always – and usually it makes sense – but not always. This is from Cinderella Man:

The big recession of American industry is period, man cloth gram of New York pull the match gram for the sake of living,For feeding the family to attend the boxing match to acquire the cash award, did not thought of to therefore become the generation boxing champion.

The quality is generally good, unless you get a 5-in-1 disc, in which case the video is rotten, or you get one that's still in the cinemas and you're more likely to get a bootleg (ie, camcorder in the cinema) rather than a pirate (ie, copied from the master). In this case, the sound will blow and probably get increasingly out of sync with the action as the film goes on. This can ruin an otherwise damned awful film like Superman or X-men III.

Probably the best thing about pirate movies, in this country at least, is the lack of bewildering censorship. I recently picked up a (legal) copy of Enter The Dragon, to expand my Bruce Lee collection, and was stunned by what was left out. For example, Lee fights O'Hara and kicks his arse. The bit where O'Hara smashes two bottles together and charges Lee is completely cut and suddenly the guy is dead on the floor. Han says he deserved it for his treachery and you're thinking "WTF?" Or Li fights Bolo and, mid-fight, Bolo's suddenly lying on ground, deader than A-line flares with pockets in the knees. Or deader than the continuity in Goldmember which was on TV the other night, minus the jokes (eg, the entire Japanese twins scene. I turned off after that.)

So it'll be back to Karama for me.

Dubai 03 - Jumeira Jane

Dubai is full of people from all over the world and so it's a great opportunity to mix with different nationalities. I have friends here from the Middle East, India, South Africa, NZ, USA, UK and Europe. Not so Jumeira Jane.

Jumeira Jane is the archetypal spoilt housewife who has suddenly found herself relatively well off. Out here with Hubby (who we can assume is on a good wicket – Jumeira is kind of like Armadale in Melbourne, Double Bay in Sydney, New Farm in Brisbane, and I can’t think of a London equivalent, but JJ and her friends are strong in number in the Springs, too), she finally has time to do all those things she’s always wanted to. Like flaunt her relative wealth in the most tactless ways possible.

For example, Jumeira Jane doesn’t do the shopping herself, that’s too far beneath her now she’s suddenly near the top of the social ladder. And obviously the maid can’t do it on her own, (she’d have to drive), so they both go to the shops, JJ points to what she wants, and the maid loads the cart. Sometimes poor Jane can’t afford a maid, so she gets one of the store clerks to help her with that big heavy trolley instead. And there’s no way she’ll load those bags into the SUV herself! Bags of shopping are like kids: JJ pays for them, but the maid looks after them.

(There’s currently a bit of a stink in the Letters to the Editor of the local rag: One JJ’s maid was refused entry to the country club and JJ had to look after her kids herself. She claimed racism as the maid was part of the family after eight years; everyone claims she ought to look after her own little terrors and no one wants the club overrun by screaming bastards while the parents are off playing golf.)

Jumeira Jane is typically British and, I think, would be right at home on Lamma Island in Hong Kong, or the Costa del Sol in Spain, hanging out with other poms and complaining about the food: “I’m not eating that foreign muck. I want fish and chips and a lager.” Don’t get me wrong, not all Brits here are like this, just like not all Americans are like the stereotypical American tourist, and not all Aussies are unsophisticated yobbos. But there are enough of them to warrant a stereotype of their own and a catchy name. And it’s not an exclusively British thing, either: but the Brits outnumber the other Western expats, and I don’t think the non-Westerns are as ostentatious about their money.

It’s a shame, really, because I think they’re missing out on a great experience by mixing with their own pretty much exclusively. It’s important to assimilate, if only to get something other than mindless rants in the Letters To The Editor pages of the local paper. (I seem to be doing a stirling job of integrating. Just last night Ben told me how well I was doing when he said: “I can’t believe you did that, you drive like a bloody Arab!”)

* * * WARNING: DESCENT INTO POLITICALLY INCORRECT RANT * * *
* * * Do not read the following if you are easily offended by other people's views * * *

And picking up on the Letters To The Ed thing: is it me, or do Muslims go on a bit too much about the things they don’t like? Like racism:

1. The paper publishes an ad for a skin whitening cream (ie, anti-spray-on-tan) and it's racist.
   
2. A British MP recommends a debate on veils and suddenly he’s a racist.
   
3. If you're a Westerner living over here you need to be respectful of local customs, but if you're a Muslim in the West, local customs (and sometimes laws) are irrelevant.
   

Or the issue of violence:

1. The Pope, in a lecture on theology, quotes some dead guy in what is essentially a footnote, and suddenly Muslims the world over demand his death and kill a nun because he dared to suggest they were violent (which he didn’t).
   
2. I write a personal opinion on a barely known blog, and I’m forced to wonder if I should.
   
3. America invades Iraq and it goes pear shaped - howls of invective from the Muslim world … protests from the West. A suicide bomber takes out a bus full of commuters – howls of invective from the West… silence (complicity?) from the Muslim world.
   

Here's my thought for the day: Is Islam a peaceful religion? If so, are Muslims peace loving? If so, why don't they write better letters to the ed? And WHY do they constantly bring EVERYTHING back to the issue of religion? Skin whitening cream is NOT a subtle attempt to overthrow Islam in the Middle East!!!

* * * END OF RANT * * *

And end of this post.

Dubai 02 - Driving

You know, I think hazard lights go by a different name here. Not sure what, exactly, but it could be any of:

• Parking lights (watch out, I’m reverse parking, this could be dangerous)
• Waiting lights (watch out, I’m double parked waiting for someone. I could do anything, this could be dangerous)
• Going slowly lights (watch out, I’m travelling at or below the speed limit, this could be dangerous)
• Going fast lights (watch out, I’m travelling above the speed limit, and you’re in the damned way, this could be dangerous)
• Indicators (watch out, I’m thinking about changing lanes or turning a corner, or maybe I’ll keep going straight, who knows? This could be dangerous)

Which segues nicely to the next observation: very few people seem to understand indicators here. Hardly anyone understands headlights (I can see where I’m going, so I don’t really need them) and, by all accounts, no one understands driving in the rain (omigod, there’s a puddle, better swerve wildly to avoid it, but I’ll still go really fast on this slicked up road that’s been accumulating oily residues for 10 months).

As for sharing the road with others, cutting in is an art form here. Let’s say you’re a car length behind a car in the slow lane and you’re closing in. Local thrill seekers will undertake you and then cut in, missing the slow car by millimetres and relying on you to ease off to avoid a major accident.

So basically, apart from the hazard lights, this is a city of Commodore drivers.

***

And speaking of cars, one of the satellite channels here is playing re-runs of Knight Rider. You know, I never realised how … un-macho that show was. And I’m not talking about David Hasselhoff – sure, we’ve all seen the photos of The Hoff in the buff cuddling puppies, The Hoff in the rain tearing off his frilly shirt, or The Hoff in a bubble bath wearing a cowboy hat – oh no, he was The Man in the show. I’m not even talking about his boss, Devon. He proved his blokey credentials despite his effeminate English accent by lovin’-from-beyond-the-grave in The Ghost and Mrs Muir.

Oh no, I mean the car itself, Kitt.

It’s a 1982 Pontiac Trans Am with a steering wheel straight out of a commercial airliner and a dashboard to match. It’s sleek and black. Everything about it looks boss. It looks like it should have a throaty roar from a V8 engine with no muffler. Instead, it whirrs. It sounds like a hover-car from Star Wars. My vacuum cleaner makes a better noise than that thing. It just screams golf cart with after-sales trans am panels.

And then it speaks. “Ooh, Michael, should we drive around and scare those nasty looking villains in their tight T-shirts, or shall we go and get a latte?” It should be more like: “YO! Get that damned perm in the car and lets RIDE, MUTHA-F*CKA! Let’s kick some A-S-S!” I reckon the producers were going for an accent that suggested refined sophistication: a fine wine and classical music sort of voice. Instead, it's shandy and Rick Astley.

Dubai 01

23/7/2006

Three months ago I didn’t expect I’d be spending the Friday afternoon before last relaxing in the pool of the Radisson SAS hotel in Muscat, Oman. Yep, to quote Ferris: Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it.

For anyone who’s missed the news, I’ve taken a job in Dubai. I was planning to stick around at my last firm, really I was, but when someone phones you up and gives you a chance to work on world class buildings in the world’s biggest boom town for several times your current salary and asks that you can help make the planet’s least sustainable city a little more so, it’s hard to say no. And so, seven weeks after my phone rang, I rocked up to work in 40°C heat and got to it. My very first project is of a scale that you wouldn’t even dream of in Australia. But it’s confidential, so I can’t tell you about it.

And six days later I was in Oman helping out on projects there, too.

Anyway, the Middle East, this part of it at least, is crazy. (Other parts are crazy, too, but in a different way.) The world’s tallest building is going up down the road. Taipei 101 (current record holder, I believe) is so big it’s increasing earthquake activity in that city. The Burj Dubai is going to be bigger. Europe has a crane shortage because of this town (the machines, not the birds. I don’t know how Europe’s avian crane population is going, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they all came here too). It’s the building concepts that make this place nuts, though. Integrated wind turbines, no straight lines, buildings so skinny you wonder how the lifts can fit in, that sort of thing. But I’ll not bore you with shop talk.

Dubai seems to have taken the bits it likes from other places all over the world and combined them into a unique experience. So, cheap labour from India and the Philippines, skilled labour from the UK, the Antipodes, and the occasional European, driving skills from the Melbourne School of Taxi Driving, cars from Japan, Germany (and even Australia), and, my favourite, electrical appliance plugs from Europe (ie, two round pins) but electrical sockets from the UK (3 square pins).

I’m staying in a (company provided) serviced apartment at the moment which reminds me a little of some places I’ve stayed in China (and Sydney’s north shore), only the guys who clean it do a much better job: the bed has good hospital corners, the extract fans are always left on to suck out the cool air, the AC is turned down to compensate, and they even turn on the vacuum cleaner when I’m there so I think they’re vacuuming. It also comes with a one-size-fits-all saucepan (12”, perfect for boiling an egg), a blunt knife (for cooking safely), a dinner set for four and two glasses (for entertaining people who aren’t very thirsty). There’s even a gym and a pool, and it’s close to work, so all up, it’ll do just fine until I find somewhere better.

Finally, I thought I’d better dispel a few myths before signing off:

• It’s not that hot. 42° today, but not very humid, so it’s probably more comfortable than Brisbane in summer. And the AC is so fierce I often need to step out just to thaw out.
• There are no anti-women rules like in Saudi (well, there might be some, but they’re obscure if there are). Women can drive, walk around unaccompanied, and they don’t need to wear veils.
• It is not illegal to drink alcohol.
• Nearly everyone speaks English (or a heavily accented dialect thereof).

Right, that’s it. Nothing really to report on the sights and sounds around town: it’s too hot to go sightseeing on weekends, and a mall is a mall is a mall (unless it has a ski slope in it, which The Mall Of The Emirates does). (Besides, this place was little more than a hamlet 30 years ago, it’s not like it has any history.)

UK 12. Nick's Food Tour of Spain

SAN SEBASTIAN. Friday 6th February

Postcards in San Sebastián showed the town covered in snow. February 6th showed the town bathed in sunshine and enjoying 24°C. Even at midnight it was still warm enough for a short sleeved shirt. Yep, the only logical explanation is that I'm a weather god.

After an hour in Spain I felt completely fluent in French. Sure, I only seem to speak that language every six years or so, but 2 days in Paris brought it all back. I know what to say in all manner of typical commercial and social situations (je voudrais...; ça fait combien?; Oh, bordelle de merde! Vous gros conasse!) but unfortunately none of this is much use in Spain.

But Day 1 passed easily. I met a Spanish speaking Aussie and his English girlfriend (fiancée? wife?) and we hung out for the day and evening and they dealt with the translating. Perfect. They also introduced me to the wonderful art of tapas hopping.

It's pretty simple, really. You start at a tapas bar, get drinks and a plate and take whatever you want from the bar to eat. Anchovy, jamon, creamed fish, artichokes... Then, and here's the good bit, you tell the barman how many pintxos you've had, pay up, go to a few doors down to the next tapas bar and repeat. The Parte Vieja (old part) of San Sebastián is loaded with such places so you can easily spend several hours working your way through a meal. My favourite was baby eel pie.

Tapas bars in other countries don't compare. There you sit down and order and a plate arrives and someone misses out on something because the number of servings never matches the number of people at your table. Here, it's all laid out on the bar, happily going off, with people happily smoking around the food and happily dropping their scraps and napkins and cigarette butts on the floor. You pick what you like the look of and it's fine. If there's something no-one likes there're not three left on the plate for you and your mates to pay for. What a great way to dine.

Apart from tapas, San Sebastián is a beautiful city with a crescent-shaped bay, beautiful beaches and two headlands overlooking the town. There's a castle (remains thereof) on one, with a not-quite-as-good-as-Rio statue of Christ making his presence felt. The views are spectacular, the walk up suitable tiring and in summer it's probably the best place in town for cool air and sea breezes.

This is one nice town. I recommend it. (Especially in unseasonably warm winters. You know, if I'm not a weather god, then this weather is probably due to global warming, something which, as an environmental designer, I'm dedicating my life to fixing up. But really, it's so damned pleasant to be enjoying the sun in February. Maybe I should get back into the oil business.)

PAMPLONA. Saturday 7th February

Seeing this country is fast becoming an exercise in culinary indulgence. I was lucky in San Sebastián to meet Michael and Rachel for tapas hopping. 2 hours for lunch and around the same for dinner. Then this morning's cold and wet weather caused me to change plans on the fly - I postponed Bilbao and headed straight to Pamplona. Just in time for lunch.

We (me and Spanish cousins) started around 3:00 with asparagus with capsicum and garlic; acorn-fed jamon (which is so far superior to "regular" ham it's as if it's from a different beast. Technically it is - it's from a black boar that only eats acorns - but even the normal jamon is far removed from the pink flabby stuff I'm used to); artichokes with clams; and marinated capsicum. This was pretty damned filling but there was still mains to come: monk fish in olive oil and garlic for Richard and me (and there's only been one better fish in my life so far - a barbecued fresh-water fish in Kuala Lumpur), steaks a foot and a half across for the girls, and a (perfectly cooked) steak as big as my head for Ana. She didn't leave any, either.

Feeling drowsy from the massive effort of digestion, we then decided to cleanse our palates with dessert. Sheep's yoghurt (basically) for me, which is another local dish; sorbet for the others.

We left around 5:00 and went home to rest up before dinner. I nibbled on some biscuits (local specialty biscuits, not Jatz crackers, or anything) for a while and about 9:30, fearing I might pass out from lack of food, Ana put some sausage and more jamon my way before a celery and walnut dinner (very small) with fruit and yoghurt for afters. Finished that around 11:00 and called it a night.

****

You know, I had been planning to write a food tour of England. (Oh, French tour: Nice duck, but the blueberry sauce was a little overpowering. Ox tongue: tender as can be, beautiful sauce, kinda weird seeing the taste buds.) But frankly, food here doesn't have what it takes. Despite the efforts of celebrity chefs like Jamie Oliver, on the evolutionary tree of cuisine, British food is situated on one of the lowest branches. On the most sickly looking twig slightly overhanging the neighbours fence line (and so asking to be pruned) is the chip buttie.

I was out cycling with some mates and we stopped at the World's Worst Pub for lunch. This place actively misled customers as to the menu, then the woman got abusive towards us when we asked where the salad was. It's always been written that way on the board, and as new customers we should have been aware that the salad is not part of the chip buttie order.

Anyway, Mike talked me into ordering this thing, saying they were really good. I received a limp hamburger bun covered in margarine with some below average chips inserted. And that was it! Apparently, at it's best, the chip buttie has better bread and nicer chips and no margarine. Wow.

Thanks, Britain, for your wonderful contribution.

UK 11. NHS

I had my first experience of the NHS, (or No Help whatSoever), recently. I went to the NHS drop-in place and asked to see someone with medical experience. They were a bit put out that I wasn't registered with any doctors ("Who is your doctor?" "I don't know." "Well, where does he work?" "Australia." Sigh, roll eyes) but I was ushered in to see someone anyway. This bloke examined my condition, concluded it was an allergic reaction, wrote the name of an anti-histamine for me and said "If it doesn't clear up in a couple of days, go and see a doctor."

Hang on! Who the hell was this? Don't tell me I'd just fallen for the old trick of taking advice from someone because he was wearing a white coat.

When I explained I didn't have a doctor of my own, this bloke very politely gave me a list of doctors in the area and said if I didn't have any luck, to come back after hours as a GP would be on duty.

Fine.

So the next day I rang some surgeries, keen to get a more considered opinion than that of my nurse. The anti-histamines made me drowsy to the point of feeling stoned all day at work and my condition was worsening. But do you think any doctors (or at least their receptionists) wanted to see me? Did they f*ck! "If you're not registered you have to come and fill out a form and then we've got 48 hours to decide if we'll see you." Bitch.

So it was back to the NHS drop-in place.

"I believe you have a doctor here tonight."
"No."
"But the nurse yesterday said there was."
"Oh, there is one on duty, but only see emergency cases. You need to ring and make an appointment."
Because I'm meant to plan to get myself into an emergency situation, I suppose.
"We'll, I don't know the number, and I'm here now. Perhaps I can make an appointment with you." I'd be speaking to you anyway, you bureaucratic cow.
"No, you have to ring." Huh? "You can see a nurse and then they'll decide if you need to see a doctor. There's a half-hour wait. Or you could go to the A&E at the hospital." Then she smiled in the way that says "Get f*cked and die." Bitch.

So the hospital it was. And what joy. Friendly staff who smiled and joked, a really cute doctor, some mean-arsed anti-histamines and a course of steroids. And free, too. (Well, with the level of tax I'm paying, I should hope so!) A week later my allergic reaction has cleared up with only minor scarring which will hopefully disappear altogether. The only downside is that I think I've developed an allergy to alcohol.

UK 10. Some shallow and offensive remarks

Paris. I'd forgotten how much I like it. Maybe it was the unseasonably warm weather, maybe it's the elegant architecture, maybe its the food.

Nah. I've been in all seasons, the architecture is all the same and so gets boring quickly and the food seems to consist of steak, steak, steak or veal. What I love about Paris is the women. They're better looking and better dressed than Spanish girls, although some Spanish women make you want to weep and give thanks to God for giving you eyes. Spanish men are probably better looking than the French, but that really doesn't say much at all. Both sexes of both countries are better looking than the English (curse my heritage). Again, that doesn't really say too much, either.

(Today, back in England, I saw what I've been joking about these past eight months: a baby with a big eye in the middle of its forehead. It hadn't fully developed but it was dead centre, was eye shaped, and stuck out about a centimetre from the forehead. No mole is ever that big, and everyday bumps don't form that shape. That kid was clearly the result of frucking.)

There are no fat chicks in Paris (or Marseilles, from memory) and no tracksuits, either. (My cousin who lives there confrims this.) But in Spain I daresay decades of chav* English tourism has left its mark in the form of sportswear, cheap gold and cheaper heaircuts. The mullet may not have been invented in Spain but it definitely has a solid foothold here. Oddly, they don't have a word for it.

What the Spanish lack in style they make up for in food. It's a mystery they'll not all bloaters. Sure I've only seen one corner of the country and didn't exactly indulge in Burgos (I went into a classy restaurant there with every indulgent intention, but couldn't find any staff. Talk about laid back). I definitely prefer it to the French, but that may just be because I only ate at Parisian boulangeries where the choice was limited.

Finally, give me French language any day over Spanish, but give me Spanish friendliness any day over French.


*A "chav", I learnt yesterday, is the sort of bloke who wears sportswear and white trainers, cheap gold, cheap aftershave and gels his fringe. The nav girl pulls her hair back and is often seen, in these parts anyway, pushing an infant approximately 12 to 15 years younger than her. Both sexes bear facial resemblances to weasels. The term "pikey" has apparently spread beyond gypsies to include people who eat discount burgers and oven cooked chips and watch TV all day. They drive cheap cars with alloy wheels. A "bogan" or "Bevan", really. This starts to cross into "Kev" territory, which is essentially the "rice boy" seen in Australia or the US: ie, kitted-up cars that are probably just heavier and slower, but sound faster and have bigger stereos.

UK 9. My weird landlord

My landlord is weird. That's all there is to it.

I called him up the other day on his mobile to see whether it was okay to pay just two weeks rent now and for the last month to be covered by the bond. That way he wouldn't have to return the bond to me (very inconvenient). Sure, he says, no problem.

Then, out of nowhere, he says: "I'm in Bermuda".
So what? "I'd better get off the phone then," I say, "this will be costing you a fortune." International roaming charges, and all that.
Him: "No not you, me. I'm in Bermuda."
Stunned silence. A bit of bewildered banter from me.
Him again: "I've just bought some jeans."
Wow! This was getting too weird for me, so I rung off.

Then, today, I got a postcard from the bloke. From Tobacco Bay.

Dear Nicholas
Like I said.
I am here.
Lovely weather
very cool.
This time of year.
Sub tropical island.
Everton

Truely bizarre.

UK 8. New Year's Eve

Okay, this is a real cack that I think you'll appreciate.

I went to Brighton for New Years and my mates Brigitte, Dan and I went to a party that Dan had somehow found out about. We rocked up around 11:00 to find a house full of women sitting around eating. No blokes, no loud music, all very polite. Naturally, we put two and two together and deduce we'd mistakenly arrived at the wrong house and had just gatecrashed a lesbian party. (Should be interesting, thought Dan and I. Bugger, thought Bridge.) Everyone was still sitting around in little groups so it didn't even have the critical mass required to mingle.

We're stoic sorts, though, and, after Bridge rifled through the mail to confirm the address, we settled down with a bottle of red to see how long we'd last until we were spotted and evicted.

But no! It was the right place and pretty soon a few dozen more people showed up, all the signs as to where you could or could not wear shoes or smoke were ignored, a DJ arrived and I made my own entertainment by telling everyone something different when they asked what I did. (I started out as a helicopter pilot and finally settled down to clearance diver with the Australian Navy, on secondment to the forces in Britain. As to why I was living in landlocked Peterborough I put down to working in a liaison role with the RAF. As you can see, like all good lies, it's really close to the truth with only a few technicalities not being entirely accurate. Still, that cover story's getting a bit old now, so it's time to think of something new for the next stranger I meet. Ideas are welcomed.)

But anyway, the funny thing about this party was the Ceremony. Just before 12:00 we were invited upstairs (a nominally shoe-free zone, with stress on nominally) for a special ceremony to see in the new year. We all sat in a circle and held hands and were asked to chant Omm three times in unison to raise the energy levels.

Now look, I don't have a problem with spirituality, qi, energy fields, religions or meditation. But sitting around with a bunch of strangers chanting is just fucking weird. Some people had a bit of a laugh at the idea and they were asked to leave by the hippie leader, I mean host of the party, so they wouldn't spoil it for the rest of us, and only people who wanted to participate should be there, unless, piped up another voice, they were already there, in which case they could stay. Quite right, says the host - all those outside the room (door was closed) who didn't want to be there should go, all those inside could stay because they were already there, presumably regardless of whether they were going to spoil it for everyone else or not. A great show of tolerance, if not clarity of mind.

Next up we had to think of something from 2003 we wanted to let go of (I think - this point wasn't communicated very well, but you get that when you have a hippie running the show), then think of something we wanted for 2004 (and I guess the earlier Omming was going to make this materialise), then someone passed me a slip of paper with a word on that was meant to be something I was to pursue in the new year. I don't actually remember what that word was, but I know it started in S and the only thing I could think of when asked later was "selfishness". This led to some an interesting discussion in which I convinced a palates instructor that selfishness is actually a good thing if looked at in the right way (thank you, Gordon Gecko).

To return to the Ceremony, no-one had bothered to set his or her watch beforehand so naturally the whole thing broke down to the hippies chanting Omm (they were working to the watch of the guy with the loudest voice, which was slow - the watch, not the voice) and the pragmatists singing Auld Langsyne (sp?) based on my watch which was fast.

The night degenerated from there and, due to the excess of smoke, I managed to lose my voice for two whole days (can someone explain why a non-smoker suffers more than a smoker?) and due to forces beyond my understanding, I managed to lose my phone as well. Anyway, I wound up watching Kiki's Delivery Service in the room that was showing animé films all night and that had the least smoke (I was really in a bad way by around 3:00). Despite the title and total lack of plot, this was not porn although it did have an unsettling number of glimpses of teenaged Kiki's underwear (that's Japanese animé for you), and no-one could sit through the whole thing.

UK 7. York. It smells of dripping

I went to York last weekend. And what a lovely city it is. Ancient, historic, small enough to negotiate on foot, and with a smell not experienced since Dave and I rode through Footsgray last summer. I don't know if it's the river, if there's a rendering plant upwind, or if the weekend before last had been the annual roast-lamb cook-off.

Anyway, it was the first place I'd done the tourist thing at for a while (hence the near total lack of news from me) and I give it the big thumbs up. Not only was it a gloriously sunny day, but the Minster has great views from the tower which is, unfortunately, caged to prevent falls, and this takes some of the fun out of it, I think. Also, it doesn't have a tour-guide like Ely cathedral, so you have to skip up the 275 uneven steps on your own. (I only counted 271, but I'm never sure whether or not to count landings.)

The Minster also has a tremendous crypt display that explains the Roman and Norman history of the place. (The Norman construction techniques I described in an earler email were about to bring the whole place down in the 1960s, and foundation work uncovered quite a bit of history.) Emperor Constantine was crowned there around 307 (?), there are Roman artifacts and little wooden models, an original wall painting and an original Roman culvert that still flows to the river. Like any body of water / hole in the ground that is part of a display, the culvert is full of tourists' coins. Step around the corner to the next vertical level of excavation and you're in the middle ages, showing foundations and an original well (no water, plenty of coins). Another corner, and there is the OLDEST stained glass window in the country: mid 12th century, great condition, lots of colours. Breath-taking.

Also breath-taking in York, but for different reasons, is the Jorvik Viking Centre. Basically, whenever anything gets built in York that needs serious foundations, Norman, Viking or Roman ruins are uncovered. In this case, they decided to earn a pound or seven point two by recreating a little Viking village with sounds, smells and, oh joy, animatronic people! And they didn't stop there. Rather than walking around the recreated streets in your own time, looking at original stuff in a suitable setting, (as you do at the exemplary York Castle Museum, a strangely captivating collection of everyday items from the past few hundred years, whose living room displays full of china figurines lead you to the inescapable conclusion that the English have no taste whatsoever), you are transported along in suspended plastic cocoons that provide audio comentary and twist at the right moment to point out what to look at. The joke's been made before, but this is truly the It's A Small (Viking) World Afterall ride.

And for that, I felt decidely ripped off. Sure, it had animatronics (unfortunately, there were no animatronic animals: the wizzing dog was quite inert), but it lacked original artifacts, dictated the time spent and had a really cheesy time machine gag at the start of it.

I bet the kids love it, though.

**

Meanwhile, this country is getting cold (morning ice) and dark (dusk a bit after 3:00) and as a result it doesn't feel at all Christmassy. Oh, and they're STILL going on about the rugby world cup. Give it a rest! Of course, they won't: they're still going on about WWII, and you know my position on that.

UK 6. A public service announcement for foreigners

There are some things the Brits (or should that be the English? I wouldn't want to offend anyone) just don't have a full working understanding of. As a public service to those of you either living here or thinking of coming here, I have provided a short list to help you understand. Don't be deceived by the length: I wrote it on a train rather than arse around at work. I don't have time for that!

1. Hot weather

It was quite warm here in August. It maxed at around 37°C one day and was in the high twenties quite often. Now, many Brits holiday in the Mediterranean and Australia and know what a hot day is. None the less, this freak occurance of pleasant weather brought the country to its knees. It was really quite funny. Train tracks buckled (I promise you this is true), delaying the already third-world public transport system; thousands of people got sickeningly sunburnt (keep your clothes ON in public! See Public Decency in a later chapter (if I write it). And use sunscreen! That burning sensation you feel - it's you BURNING!); and, perhaps most difficult of all, people had to stop complaining about the miserable weather. On the upside though, they quickly started complaining about the nice weather instead. There was a letter to the editor of The Times that I was sure, up until the last sentence, was meant to be ironic. "It's hot", the lady wrote, "the garden is wilting, the trains aren't working, I have a right to complain." And then, just when an Australian author would end with a joke, sarcasm or wit, she ends with "yours sincerely..."

There was also a half page article in the Times one day explaining why the hot weather sucked. The best reason was that studies (including one that used the LA "Rodney King" Riots as an example) showed a link between high temperatures (ie, above a scorching 26°C) and riots. Social problems in winter are manageable, the article seemed to suggest, but come a burst of sunshine and the heat drives people mad, resulting in violence and mass public unrest. As an afterthought it was conceded that just maybe the drinking of barrel-loads of lager in the hot sun might also be a contributing factor.

2. Lager

Despite the huge consumption of the stuff in this country, especially when it's time for a bit of social tension, English-brewed lager is terrible. Which is odd, considering how proud of their beer the English are. But of course, that's the warm, flat, unrefreshing stuff that doesn't taste very nice that they're proud of. And it's good to proud of something, and I'm sure it's just an aquired taste. But the lager! Even the English admit they can't do it properly. Rule of thumb: if it's from a tap, it's been locally brewed (despite names like Grolsch and Carling) and will taste like it's been in the barrel a decade or two too long. Avoid it. Stick to imported stuff. What I'd give for a Cascade right now.....

3. Washing

In Asia, Australia and America people wash in clean water. In England they wash in dirty water.

I had thought that ablution-related inadequacies stemmed from this country's developing-world water infrastructure (eg, 30% of water is lost to leaking pipes, which makes you wonder what the sewerage system is like), but closer investigation found it's an entirely optional state of affairs. Consider the following:

1. Basins have two taps
2. Showers are rare

The only logical explanation is that a constant supply of clean water is in some way considered inferior to soapy water. One theory put to me is that a bath is considered more luxurious as, no doubts, are such ostentacious displays of wealth such as separate hot water spouts. A penchant for comfort makes sense considering the other peculiarity of the English bathroom: carpet.

It seems a bathmat is too high maintenance so it's carpet by the bath, under the basin and around the toilet to catch any stray drips and give the place a homely smell. An old-persons-homely smell.

4. Fashion

If you want to go incognito in this country, especially outside London, the following fashion tips will help.

A. Football strip passes for fashion. So buy a socer team jersey and you'll pass for a Pom. You are not, of course, to wear these to play sport, only on the street. Tucked in with some nice pleated chinos and you've hit the pinnacle of high fashion!

For the ladies, you too can go for a team top, or why not try tracksuit pants with high heels?

B. If your strip is in the wash, however (look, even a washing machine has a rinse cycle! Your bath DOESN'T) don't despair. French Connection sells nearly half of all clothes in the UK, so you can still fit in with one of their T-shirts carrying an hilarious play on the abbreviation FCUK. FCUKWIT is my favourite. (For further insight into the wonders of English wit, I refer the reader to Mark Twain's essay "How To Tell A Story".)

UK 5. Notes on Peterborough

THE CITY

Peterborough is a city by virtue of its cathedral, a beautiful medieval job that used to carry the bones of Catherine the Whatever, one of Henry VIII's birds. She was exhumed and shifted to Westminster, though, so there is no longer any significance to the building other than its architecture which, although striking, is similar to all the other ancient cathedrals dotting this country.

Without the cathedral the place would of course only be a town. It has about 150,000 people (more on them later) and all the excitement of Wangaratta on 70s Disco Nite at the Albion. This makes it a peaceful place and in 5 minutes on the bike you can be in the countryside admiring the views of the flat fields of crops and the River Nene (a bit like the Yarra only less brown). Also, Peterborough is one of the major stops on the train lines so you can get places pretty quickly: London is just under an hour away and only costs £31.00 ($77.50) return off-peak. It's rather flat, though, so I'd probably choose Wangaratta over Peterborough because Wang is so much closer to the mountains. And the roads are more conducive to cycling, being wider and surfaced with tarmac that doesn't melt over 25°C.

THE FLAT

I've rented a flat. It's on the river. Well, the building's on the river, with beautiful views. I face towards the cathedral, instead, which is fine because I don't need to worry about not having an alarm clock as the delivery trucks for the Asda supermarket across the way provide that service free of charge. It's a spacious enough flat, with room enough to turn around in, but not enough to swing a cat, at least not without serious injury to the cat. I need to duck through the doors, but that's the same everywhere in this country, and the hot water service hasn't quite come to terms with what its role in the overall plan is. Naturally, the bathroom is carpeted because its a wet area and the shower was only there thanks to the previous (Australian) tenant. I had to provide my own shower curtain and rod, though. My landlord is quite mad, but a friend here says his is the same. He explains everything. In detail. It took 2 1/2 hours to show me the flat. It's a single bedroom flat. I'm not exaggerating. "Vis is da winda, an' y'see it's got vees andles wot you can turn, like vis, and push an da winda opens. And ven, watch carefly, like, if ya want jus a bit a air comin in, you can pull da winda shut again, but not all the way or you wown get any air in. Oh, an I almos forgot, vair are keys ere and you put em in this bit of da andle and turn em in da lock so you can't open it, like." And on and on and on and on and on. Again, I am not exaggerating.

So this place was furnished and the first thing I did was to buy new linen (I realy don't like my linen furry), remove the lace curtains (tasteful) and the lampshapes (ditto), and the porcelain doll on the bedside table. ("Vat's one of dem porcelain dolls wot was poplar in da Edwardian times which is when my ability to recognise taste clearly ceased to be a goin concern.") There was even an iron and a board (designed for midgets with one leg shorter than the other) and a plethora of unstable chairs. Oddly, there were no plates on the wall.

There's a also a vacuum. Fascinating! I hear you cry. But wait. This vacuum is clearly in as much confusion as the boiler about what it's meant to do, and so Emerton, my insane landlord, who's a cleaner, by the way, demonstrated how to use it. With the shortest, narrowest attachment to get the most suck, bent double, doing a room a day, or maybe just half an hour a day, so that after 5 days you can repeat the cycle, not forgetting to vacuum the bed after use because I like to go to bed filthy because no-one likes showers in this country and baths (sorry, barves) are much more popular, if less effective at making you clean.

The shower is wonderful, though. Bless the previous tenants' Australian hearts. It's a pump with a built in heating element so the boiler (tepider?) doesn't even enter into the equation. These things excite you after two weeks at Mike's place sitting in the bath with a handheld nozzle and near zero water pressure and NO SOAP. (Thank god I had my own. I know I haven't been reading the papers, so you have to tell me if a new study has shown soap to be bad for you. It's as rare as hen's teeth in this country, it really is.) Anyway, my shower has something resembling water pressure, if you kinda squint and look at it from a distance.

THE LOCAL POPULATION

I think I should perform a public service whilst I'm here and locate and destroy that centre of Peterboroughian entertainment: the Ugly Tree. It's clearly a public safety issue, judging by the number of people who have fallen out of it (nearly everyone), not to mention a public health and well-being issue, judging my how many branches they hit on the way down (nearly every one). Tattoos are hugely popular, too, as are cigarettes and being overweight. Everytime I come back from London I step off the train and a part of me gives a cry and goes into a coma. I think it's my libido.

I've got to get transferred to London.

To find out why, stay tuned. I haven't a lot to say about the place other than I blundered across a charging of the guard at Buck House and got to follow it up to St James Palace, which was cool; it's vibrant and exciting and full of life and international (really international, not international like Sydney likes to think it is); and the high foreign population raises the BQ well into the positive; and there's more work there; and stuff to do; and museums and art galleries and shopping, even. (Actually, that's it, you've heard why, now.) Which reminds me. Peterborough, according to my Lonely Planet, likes to advertise itself as the shopping capital of England. No, really! This is like saying Wangaratta likes to advertise itself as the surfing capital of Australia. I guess it's because Pboro has a bunch of chain stores like Marks and Spencer, Woolworths and the Pound Shop. Woo-hoo. And they all shut early, too.

Anyway, everyone's back in the office so I'd best sign off for now. Once more, apologies for any advertising placed on this email by my IT department. Feel free to write and remind me that there is an outside world and that maybe I'm not stuck in the godforsaken third world hell hole for ever. Geez I've got to get to London.

UK 4. Beauty Quotient

I thought you might appreciate this handy new tool I developed just this morning. We've all heard of Intelligence Quotients (IQ) and Emotional Quotients (EQ). Well, now there is the Beauty Quotient (BQ).

***

The Beauty Quotient provides a means for men, (and women with appropriate substitutions), of assessing the average beauty of a city's inhabitants, vital when trying to determine whether it's worth visiting in order to go on the pull. It is an absolute scale, allowing different cities to be compared quickly and easily.

Scoring:
This is based on the system of keeping count in Black Jack and has no sensitivity beyond the basics. Only count people of a do-able age. Score as follows:

Pretty girls +1

If you have to think about it
(or you would need 3 or 4 pints
before she were pretty) 0

Ugly girls
(or if you would need more than 4 pints) -1

Bonus Points:
As an option, use Bonus Points: +2 for someone so hot you'd do her right there, in the shopping centre, maybe in the photo booth; -2 for someone so repellant she could legally be shot for sport and the good of humanity.

Tally:
Keep a running tally of the score. If the BQ is positive, enjoy the city. If negative, leave.

***

Currently, I'm on -3 for Peterborough, but have only been at it since this morning and have spent most of the day in the office. Cambridge would be positive (probably around +3, from memory).

(Buenos Aires scores +8. No jokes. I was walking down the street there one day and there was a five storey poster of Mila Jovovich advertising makeup and I thought to myself, "she looks kind of plain." NJL 6/10/6)

UK 3. Ely. A History Lesson

Well I never thought I'd say this about a tour of a dead person's house, but Oliver Cromwell's house in Ely is great.

Not only does it have animatronics (and you know how I love those. No furry animals, though), but it has informative commentary and good displays that you can touch, smell and even try on. (There was a load of period hats and other clothes in one room.) There was even a recipe card for ye boringe olde Englishe foode so you, too, can live a malnourished life like the Lord Protector of England. (He died a natural death, but was exhumed, hanged and beheaded, just to make triply sure that he was no longer a going concern.)

The only thing I'd have liked more of was history of the Revolution and republic, not knowing much about it, but they assume visitors will already know it all. The video presentation, for example, just talked about Oli the bloke. They made this as authentic as possible, though, narrating it in the character of a servant with a fierce and incomprehensible regional accent. This really helped the viewer understand how Mr C must have felt when he asked his servant something and was none the wiser afterwards. Of course, it may be that Cromwell had a similar accent and so understood everything his servant said. It's unlikely anyone understood *him* in this case. This would mean the entire civil war thing was probably just due to a communication breakdown.

This tour was capped off by one of Ely Cathedral, a real beauty and dating to the 11th Century. Unfortunately, Henry VIII, when he wanted to "dump his slapper", as they said in those days, caused the split with the RC church. He then ordered the dissolution of the monasteries and the removal of all the colourful paints that once covered the interiors of cathedrals to be scraped off. I hadn't realised before that these places weren't just big, barren stone places, but were actually kitted out to be friendly and welcoming. Some traces of colour are still left, but after several hundred years it's a tiny bit faded.

The Victorians came through and revitalised the place some time later (it had apparently gone to the dogs) but there is a lot of original Norman left in the structure. The Normans, though, weren't the best in this department. The place has hollow walls filled with rubble, which is causing them to bulge. Also, various bits fell down several times. Mainly roof structures, but also the northwest transept in 14something. They never rebuilt this bit (current replacement cost £54m), and this is a little surprising considering the medieval love for rebuilding. Take the bridge at Avignon (Pont St Bénézet) for example:

This guy (a shepherd called Bénézet) says the Virgin Mary tells him in a vision to whack up a bridge across the river at such-and-such a spot. He does this, but it collapses. No worries, I'll bung up another and she'll be apples (he says to himself, in the idiom of the time). Not long after, that also crashes into the Rhône. (He became a saint for this. Whether it's because he had a vision or if he's the patron saint of unstable bridges, I don't know. If it's the latter, the designer of the bridge at Tacoma Narrows must be vying for his patron saint job! But if you just need to have visions, then my mate Mark in Brisbane must be the holiest guy in town.) This goes on for around 500 years until someone finally has the brainwave: Maybe this spot isn't too flash. Let's leave the half-a-bridge up and charge people a fiver to get to the middle of the river only.

Hope you enjoyed the history lesson. (A tad longer than I'd planned, but that's what happens when you procrastinate.) Let me know if you didn't and you'll never hear from me again. Ha ha!

UK 2. Peterborough and Cambridge

DATELINE: Peterborough and Cambridge 8/6/3
With a population of 65m people you'd think the English could avoid inbreeding. (I mean, the rules are fairly simple - if her parents were yours too, don't shag her.) But no. If looks are anything to go by, brotherly love, or "frucking", is alive and well in this part of England.

(Disclaimer: Not ALL of England. And I'm not saying all English people fell out of the Ugly Tree. Far from it. All my English friends are great looking people. Just that this city seems to have a few people who didn't just fall out of the aforementioned tree, but hit every branch on the way down. It's not like Marseilles where a bloke might get whiplash walking down the street. Anyway, it's a friggin joke so stop taking everything so damned seriously!)

What I've also learnt in the last few days is that Viz, like Dilbert, is a documentary. See the attached photo VIZ fat slag.jpg. Nuff said (if you've ever read Viz).

Actually, I exaggerate (No! Surely not, Nick. Next you'll be saying you use gross generalisations): England does have some very beautiful people. A lot of them are clearly of foreign extraction (eg the Indian stunner on the train) and as for the good-looking Whities, I suppose they choose to congregate where the opportunities are. Such as anywhere other than Peterborough. Cambridge for example.

Cambridge is crawling with talent, and not just the Isaac Newton kind. His statue is actually in the chapel at Trinity College, alongside Tennyson, Bacon and others. (How was that for a smooth segue?)

Naturally I did what anyone with my interest in science would do: I admired the statue of Newton, then went for lunch and a beer at the Great Eagle - Watson & Cricks' favourite pub. This was almost as great as the old Melbourne Uni routine: skip lectures and have lunch and a beer at the Prince Alfred - Dave's favourite pub.

(Of course no historical outing is complete without a loud American and the Great Eagle had one of those. What is it with them? Can they not control the volume or is it a function of their accent? Or are they somehow convinced that not only can the person they're talking to not hear them, but that someone out the back can't either?)

There was also time for a bit of a stroll along the Cam, looking at people in silly hats playing dodgem-punts while trying desperately to look relaxed and not at all scared of falling in, and past the lawns at The Backs (ie, the back of the colleges. Good name. I guess Tennyson came up with that one) where students were busy practicing their accents, ("Bee Emm Dubble You... Imm Dubble Ewe..."). The punting business must be pretty lucrative, though. You buy a punt and a pole and rent them out at £8/h and the best bit is, you don't even need to do the pushing! You get the clientele to do its own. Which often they can't, resulting in dodgem-punts and pained expressions.

Later, I went to Evensong at King's College Chapel. Crossley tipped me off about this with his DVD of the place. The organ was great and the choir sounded wonderful. The music really resonates in the chapel. Maybe they could cut down a little on the audience participation and readings, though. The spoken word does not fare as well acoustically as the music, as evidenced by the totally incomprehensible lesson, which went something along the lines of:

'...and the lord baketh huntoo sheen blatherwren dawg leeglebroth finsley common: "breaketh thee two eggs in bowlingstowmarket elmswell thurston bury st edmonds mixing until smooth warblemeister throat gobbler add raisins, hellfire & bramstroke dullingham harwich needham market into a hot oven for thirty minutes. Amen.'

In all, Cambridge is a top place. Lots of history, nice buildings. It would be a great place to go to uni. And the weather on the day was superb, which really made it. My rating: 4/5

Here's a riddle to end on. There are two 3D maps of the old part of town on the main drag so you can identify various old buildings. The names of the buildings are embossed on the side on these bronze maps, in English and Braille. I mean, what's the point? Think about it.

UK 1. Moving to the UK - the flight

DATELINE: Airport Lounge, Bangkok. 4/6/3
9 1/2 hours down and I've become familiar with films I never expected to, largely because I let them slide by at the cinema and wouldn't normally hire them on video. Those of you that saw my Matrix Reloaded review might be keen to see what kind of treatment I give to "How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days"; "The Tuxedo" and "I Spy". Well, bad luck. (Oh, alright. Briefly: HTLAGITD: light, few laughs, delivered on expectations - adequate; TT: light, few laughs, fights weren't up to Jacky Chan's normal standard; IS: Dumb, few laughs, several unexplained jumps in the plot, no wonder it bombed. Saving grace was Famke Janssen, and Phil knows why.)

Bet no-one expected anything yet. But I have another couple of hours to go and there's not a lot to do.

DATELINE: Somewhere over Euorope, 5/6/3
There's a special kind of sleep that you can only get on a plane. It's the kind when you dream that you're in traction. (or the Spanish Inquisition if you're in Economy).

So I board the leg to London & manoeuvre my way into the empty front row of the top deck. Now, these Thai planes (or this one, at least) don't have in-seat personal entertainment systems (that's bad) but the armrest b/w the seats is removable (that's good). So by around 5am Melbourne time I'm laid out like a pretzel, punching out the Zs. That's 8pm London time, so that should give me about 8hrs of kip.

Cut to 01:30 (London time) and my neck's stiff and my back's sore and if I stay awake now I'll be operating on shift worker hours & won't last the day. Back to sleep.

By 03:30 I've stopped dreaming of traction & am now dreaming of something much worse - work! (and my back feels broken. Something to do with fitting 193cm of Nick into 110cm of seat.)

At 04:30 the sun is up, I've just woken from that dream where I'm back at uni with just days to go but haven't even started on my major project, breakfast is on the way and I figure I'm now on skier's hours and can go the distance.

It's now 05:30, I'm fed and watered, have had about 8 hours sleep and have missed most of Shanghai Noon. Lamb is on the MD player & Jackie Chan & Owen Wilson are having a naked pillow fight. I need a shower and a change of clothes but am reduced to wiping my face w/ a moistened towellette. Is this what it's like to be English?

(Actually, YES! I'm staying in a place with a bath, substandard plumbing and a handheld showerhead. GAAA!)

Sing 9. The Roads, Parts 2-4

Some of you may know the story of how I lasted two whole days as a pizza delivery boy. I jacked it in because I couldn't stand trying to find places in the dark. Keep that one in the back of your mind while you read on. This is something I penned in Kota Bharu but never bothered sending until now.

The Roads, Part II

I took what I expected to be a soft option for getting around Malaysia on my week off: I hired a car. Armed with a zero-detail highway map and the city maps from the Lonely Planet, I headed for Pulau Pinang (Penang Island), straight up the motorway.

No worries, you may think: just get on the highway to Ipoh (along the way) and you're set. But no. The Malaysians like to give you a challenge. I think it all stems from their concept of service, or total and utter lack thereof. (See the book "The Malaysian Concept of Service", one of thinnest in the world, alongside "The German Book of Humour" and "British Cooking At Its Best".) Example: I missed the first turnoff because it wasn't signposted. Come to the second one at a roundabout. Big sign: Ipoh motorway, straight ahead. Now, there's a flyover running through the roundabout so you can't see until too late that straight ahead is clearly not the right way. Turns out the flyover was the motorway and I was meant to turn right.

So that's half an hour of my life gone but when I do get on the motorway I'm sure it's all okay from there. Pity it wasn't actually the motorway and I was meant to turn off soon. But being in the far right lane, and given that there wasn't any warning about the off-ramp, I missed that, too.

An hour later I'm finally on the damned thing once and for all after travelling the back roads. By nightfall I'm coming up to the island and get stuck in traffic. The plan had been to leave at 2:00, but there were check-out problems (they wanted me to pay! Can you believe it? I'd ordered room service every morning and all and they expected me to pay! What's worse is the Bank also expected me to pay, even though they had booked me in, and chosen one of the most expensive hotels in town to boot), so I didn't leave until 3:15. When I finally got to Penang, I saw the big sign for GEORGETOWN. Great, I thought, follow this and I'll be there in a jiffy. But then the Georgetown signs stopped, the road forked and by 8:00 I was cruising around a one-way streeted nightmare with an inaccurate map trying to find my hotel in a foreign city, with foreign language road signs, in the dark.

I could practically smell the pizza.

Part III: Cross Country

Driving across the peninsula is a real pain in the arse. The highlight was probably when, after a couple of wrong turns, I was happy to be on what I took to be the east-west highway. There was even a signpost for Kota Bahru (destination). Two Ks down the road the road just stopped. Yeahhhhh.

They're a lot more laid back out here, though. Sure, there are some riced-up P-platers doing 130+ and overtaking on blind corners, but on the whole everyone just cruises along. At around 50 in a 110 zone. Where overtaking is difficult. And then when you do get past you come up to a lorry or a truck doing 20kph up 10% hills. With blind corners. I don't want much. Just an overtaking lane every so often.

I was advised the 400-odd kilometre journey would take anywhere from four to six hours. One guy even said to go back to KL and get a bus. In the end it was around six and a bit. With no navigator to talk to and only my MD player to keep me company, I was pretty nutty by the end of it.

For the record the main roads were in good nick. The back streets were a little dodgy, but it's kinda cool cruising by cows, seeing elephant warning signs, and crossing jungled mountains. Unfortunately, I didn't take any photos of this stuff because I just wanted to get the hell to KB. And at the time it just didn't seem peculiar enough to stop for. Now I wish I had. Oh well.

PART IV: Merang

I was then faced with a drive back to KL in a few days time. This was too much - the long distances, the solitude, the crappy MD-car kit, the crippling driver's seat of the Proton Wira and the aspiring Alex Yoongs - so I left the car at KB airport (and, even though they have an office their, Budget fined me for changing the drop-off point) and hired a guy to drive me to Merang. This, despite a sizable cash outlay, was an excellent decision.

Merang is not exactly on the main highway and by now I'd realised that my map was as useful as a 1:100,000,000 topographical of the moon. Besides, it was cheaper than a hire car as well as more characteristic. This thing was a 1950's-vintage Mercedes with ample ventilation, original interior finishes and a partially renovated dashboard (ie, stuff was missing but hadn't been replaced). It also came with a couple of Poms in the back seat, one of whom proceeded to lecture me about motorcycles in Vietnam. She also managed to make clear, in that polite unspoken way that the English have, that I clearly didn't know anything about two-wheeled transport in KL, because she'd been to Hanoi.

No wonder the English lost their empire.