The Home Stretch...

Okay, so I lied about being completely done with Australia. I was thinking like those personal trainers who enthusiastically squeal: "two more to go! … two… one… okay two more now… two… one… last two!" because if they actually admitted that you had to do six more sit ups you'd punch their lights out and go for a little nap.

When we last left me, I was scuttling out of the posh hotel near the Opera House in Sydney pretending not to be an obsessed stalker-fan but instead an invisible statue - to the odd look of the friendly receptionist blokey. Crap - obviously not all that invisible, then.

There are good sides and bad sides to meeting people via the internet. In common with the way I generally arrive at work and for most social events (unless there is food involved) I was fairly late to this whole online sociability; until about a year ago I used the internet for research and for keeping in touch with people I have actually met. Last summer though, having sworn absolutely not to watch, I was gutted every time I missed Rockstar:INXS. It became something of a spectator sport for people to find me, generally in a bar on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays (bear in mind I was in Canada at the time, no idea when it was shown in other countries), suddenly glance at my watch at approximately 10pm, slap my hand on my forehead and shout "bugger!" But, I managed to keep up to date with what was going on once I stumbled across the fan message boards. Between the brilliant Spoiler Crew who attended tapings and faithfully wrote up all that happened and the fans who discussed every broadcast moment in great detail, I was probably more comprehensively informed than most viewers. I couldn't have picked JD out of a line up, but I knew that he was the man for the job - evil Mark Burnett editing be damned. Over time, I found myself logging on, not just to find out what had happened on the latest episode I missed, but also to see what Junkyard Messiah or LAX Guy or Kylie thought of it, and thusly I was sucked into the weird and wonderful world of the internet.

As I say, there are good sides and bad sides; and I was lucky to experience the good side on my last day in Oz (actually throughout the trip, but I am telling the story of my last day in Oz right now.) One of my favourite things about travelling alone is meeting and spending time with people who, through geography, age, lifestyle and a million other factors, I would likely never otherwise stumble across. And that is just how I spent that last day: with a group of people from all over the place, all of whom I liked very much and none of whom I would have been particularly likely to meet in any other circumstances. We all 'knew' one another from the very message board on which the brilliant Spoiler Crew posted their Spoilers, which has since evolved into something of an INXS fan board. So a Brit, an Australian, a Canadian and an American all walked into a bar… no, it just sounds like a joke, we in fact walked from Bondi Beach to Bronte in the pouring rain and gale-force winds, blethering away like old friends, and watched some dolphins fishing. The one local amongst us then suggested an appropriately named bar - the Dolphin - to thaw out and tame our wind strewn afros, so we duly retired to the upstairs lounge huddled around a welcome fire where I sampled my first… second, third and fourth… Victoria Bitter. It was a very pleasant afternoon.

Earlier that morning, I'd received a text from a bloke I slightly knew from Vancouver who was working at the time in Sydney and who I'd planned to meet for a drink that evening. He had to cancel due to work, so rather than spend my last night Down Under aimlessly wandering the rain-soaked streets of Sydney, I decided to accompany the Canadian and the American (the Australian had other plans) to Luna Park on the off chance that there might be one ticket for that evening's sold out concert for scrounging…

Hey Good Lookin'

Have you ever had a brief musical obsession that you wouldn't admit to anyone? I do occasionally - I get a particular song or artist, not my usual taste, normally charty pop (Uncle Kracker was one, and Angel by Shaggy another) constantly in my head and I don't always manage to stop myself before squealing 'my soo-oongg!!' and pogo-ing up and down a bit when it comes on the radio. I have that at the moment with Sandi Thom - not the Punk Rocker one, although I admit that I did bop along to it on the radio from time to time, but her new one - the one about the bloke making all the promises to be a perfect bloke and she doesn't quite believe him? I am sorry but I just love it. Specifically, I have one line from it incessantly in my head "you'll be my supersonic lover and you won't steal the covers" - but hold on a second… supersonic? Faster than the speed of sound? Is that a good thing? Sounds a bit, umm… rattling to me. Or would it be too quick to even notice? I don't know if I fancy that. Unless, as I am wont to do, I have misheard the lyric a bit. I do that all the time. I used to cheerfully sing along to the old Take That song "wash your back, wash your back, wash your back for gooood" and Macy Gray "I wear goggles when you're not there" (which, for Macy Gray might not be all that beyond the realms of possibility.) When I was in sixth form, the sixth formers used to take it in turns to pick the tape - yes tape - to play on the bus on the way home from school. When it was my turn, I - hold on to your hats, this might shock you - would pick Elegantly Wasted. Until one day, a stroppy little runt of a first year objected. The bus fell silent. I stared down at her in the manner of the blokey handing out gruel when Oliver Twist asked for some more and tightly requested more information to support her rejection.
"It's got rude words in in" she squeaked. "I don't want to hear them."
"What rude words?" I demanded, to the sound of the bus holding its breath in terror.
"I don't want to say" bravely she replied, although I was satisfied to note a tremor of fear in her voice, and she was speaking from under a seat at this point.
Eventually, I beat, err, got it out of her, that the song she objected to was I'm Just a Man. She thought that the line was "my willy's strong."

Anyway, this is just random musings and absolutely nothing to do with what I want to say today.

It was fairly late at night, after another feast had been consumed, all thirty of us sitting by the light of candles jammed into just-finished wine bottles in the gardens of our castle in Tuscany, that the talk turned to storytelling. I don't know whether it is evidence of ancient Celtic heritage, or simply the result of old friends consuming vast quantities of alcohol, but story telling is a hallmark of any event with the Glasgow crowd, and the Tuscany holiday was no exception. We heard about the time Uncle J (names censored to protect the innocent) was convinced that he could sleep standing up, like a horse, if only he was well supported enough. D duly stuffed him into a wardrobe packed in snugly with blankets and pillows, and he lasted around 10 minutes before begging to be let out. Then another 10 minutes while D stood outside the wardrobe killing himself laughing. We heard about the time they went camping in the pouring rain - the kind of rain that appears as though someone has just tipped a bucket over the world and soaks you right through to your bones. This being the days long before anyone thought of attaching tents to the ground sheets, when they pitched their tent (admittedly in the dark) it was on such bumpy ground that the ground sheet dipped in the middle causing a torrent of muddy slush to shoot through the centre of the tent. They had to stick their sleeping bags on either bank of their self made river and wave forlornly at one another. So cold were they that one of them (neither would admit to it) came up with the idea of heating their cans of beer on the gas stove - just to have some warmth. The stove promptly ran out of gas before they could heat their baked beans - so they ate cold beans and drank warm beer. While sitting on the sopping banks of their self made river.

However. None of the stories caused quite so much hilarity as the one about the time when Uncle J was fired for not being attired in a fit state for the Glasgow public to be faced with. He wore a tie decorated with parachutes. He wore dark blue velvet trousers, so flared as to appear as though he wore two small skirts around his knees. A purple shirt - edged with cream, and a beige cord jacket. And naturally, this was topped off with a pale Scottish person's attempt at an afro (I actually have one of those every morning before wrangling my locks with copious amounts of smoothing serum.) The job was to involve turning up at people's doorsteps to read their gas meters, and Uncle J's boss thought that he would frighten the housewives of Glasgow so he was sent home. Over 30 years later, he is still indignant.
"See, the thing about the seventies" he explained to us rapt history students. "Is that it wasn't about whether you were good looking or not, or skinny or not, it was whether or not you had the gear."

Interesting thought. On one hand, it is probably a good thing that these days it is rare to think that wearing a tie dotted with parachutes is a good idea, but on the other, it seems as though the 'look' of the naughties is less about your gear - with there being so many varied looks out there to chose from - but about your looks. The worrying amounts of people - men and women - undertaking plastic surgery or drastic diets to conform to the 'look' of the naughties might not find it so easy to fall about laughing over their physical fashion faux pas in 30 years. Decades of Botox might well mean that they might be laughing, but no one would know; and decades of near anorexia will likely mean that they won't be here in 30 years to laugh at anything. Suddenly wearing a parachute tie doesn't seem so bad.

Mateless in London

This morning something startling happened. I was, as usual, squished into the sardine tin cesspool of doom sometimes referred to as the Circle Line, engrossed in my Ipod and pretending I was somewhere - anywhere - else, when I suddenly noticed a bloke had caught my eye and smiled at me. Not in a flirtatious kind of way - he was a good bit older than me - just in a friendly kind of way. A silent "hi". I was astounded. By lifting my head from where it was moulded, altogether too intimately, in a stranger's armpit, I glanced around to see if there was someone familiar to the Friendly Bloke smiling back at him. Nope. I mentally checked whether I was, once again, absent mindedly dancing to my Ipod (which does often motivate strangers to smile at me, in a somewhat pitying and slightly frightened kind of way). Nope. I looked back at the Friendly Bloke, but, having utterly befuddled me, he had gone back to his paper.

I was befuddled partially because that is my natural state at 8.39am, but also because that never, but never, happens on the London Underground. Or even in London, overground. Occasionally, when the tube, yet again, stops for no particular reason in a tunnel, people will catch each other's eyes in a common-irritation-eye-rolling-'typical' sort of way that Londoners do so well, but a random smile of friendliness? Never. I think that I am especially aware of just how isolated and - on the surface at least - glum Londoners appear, because I have just returned from Australia, where people grin away at each other all day. In all fairness, they do so in the sunshine and the knowledge that they could pop to the ocean for a quick swim or surf after work, which would make anyone smile; but, sardine tin tubes, crappy weather and distinct lack of ocean aside, London isn't all that bad - surely it deserves a smile or two?

It isn't just isolation from random strangers that London lacks - it is, in my experience at least, a lot more difficult to be social, full stop. Possibly because many commutes are so marathon-like, working hours so long, there is so much choice available, somehow keeping in touch with people - not to mention meeting anyone new - is a full time job. When I am in Vancouver, I hardly ever think conciously of having a social life - it just happens. Everyone somehow finds each other after work or at the weekend and we figure out something to do; but here, just arranging for a couple of us to get together for a drink involves dragging out diaries, negotiating over locations, and eventually settling on something early in 2007. There is definitely a bit of "I'm busier than you" one upmanship to contend with, which doesn't help, that Canadians just don't bother with. The first time I had a party in Vancouver, I was shocked when everyone I phoned to invite said either "sound's great, I'll be there" or "sorry, I can't make it". Yes or no, completely clear. No "well I'll have to see what I am up to…" or "I'll let you know closer to the time…" or "who else is going to be there?" Then, when everyone who said they would actually showed up at the exact time I invited them for you could have knocked me over with a feather. And not just because I had generously sampled a few pints of the punch I made in case I'd accidentally poisoned it.

I don't really know what my point is here, except to throw myself on the ground and wail like a two year old "I want to go back to Vancouver!!!" I think I am suffering from the post travelling blues a bit this week (they always hit just as the jet lag abates) so am down on London and up on… every where else really.

As a random mention - because no one would recognize that this was my blog otherwise - mention of the band that my grandma calls "inks", I am gutted about the Europe cancellation! It is so unlike them - I cannot think of another gig that INXS have cancelled, never mind three weeks of them - poor Tim must be in a bad way. I did notice him wincing a bit in Sydney, and a couple of friends who were at the Hobart and Melbourne concerts this weekend said that it was almost uncomfortable to watch him so clearly in pain. They did say that the concerts were phenomenal otherwise, so roll on Shepherds Bush!

From Sydney to London (almost)

And so to Sydney and my final destination on my Australia trip. It was with heavy heart that I parked for the last time outside my hotel - I'd decided to throw the boat out with the nice Holiday Inn in Old Sydney - and dragged the luggage containing the filthy rags that remained of my clothing upstairs to my room.

There is something incredibly exhilarating about driving into a strange city of the stature of Sydney with absolutely no idea of where I am going. Knowing that at any moment I might stumble across something that I would recognise, somehow unfeasibly, from images from the other side of the world, is exciting; and sure enough I shortly spied some signs for the Harbour Bridge. Figuring that as I'd heard of it, it was a good place to head as any, I duly followed the signs and was disconcerted to find them, a short while later, evaporated. What I realized - I might as well admit that it was much, much later - was that, in looking for the Harbour Bridge, I'd driven over it without seeing it. I was now on a road for Manly and, as I'd heard of it I figured that it was a good place to head as any. However moments later, those signs too disappeared and I found myself on a highway, heading out of the city with alarming swiftness, in the direction of Newcastle. Newcastle! I've already been there! In panic, I turned the car resolutely around and steeled myself for another run at Sydney.


After only three more trips back and forth across the Harbour Bridge (each time paying the toll), I finally noticed it and managed to get myself orientated, found the hotel and passed the rest of the afternoon at the Maritime Museum then wandering about Darling Harbour. The Maritime Museum I liked a lot, although I didn't find it quite as clearly set out as I might have hoped. Had I not been reading some history of Australia at the time, I don't know that I would have been able to make the connections from one display to the next. I actually found the more recent history the most arresting: I'd heard of course of the £5 and £10 fares offered to Brits in the 1960s in order to fill up the Commonwealth a bit. In fact, my mum's family had been due to be such "ten pound Poms" in 1968, until my Grandpa took TB and the trip had to be cancelled. Strange thought: had they gone I would be - well I wouldn't be me as it's likely that with my mum in Melbourne and my dad in Kirkintilloch, that they'd never have met. However I hadn't realized just how many of those sent out were children. Some teenagers who asked to be sponsored under Big Brother schemes in order to achieve a life that they knew they never would in the UK; but some were orphans, sent out on a four week voyage by sea from (mostly) London's orphanages with no idea of where they were going - and no idea that they wouldn't be back. There is an entire generation of Australians who haven't seen England since childhood but perhaps understandably still consider it home.


That evening I met up with one of a new generation of Brits populating Down Under: those who head out for the obligatory gap year back packing stint and never get around to leaving. I do believe actually, that they are unknowingly part of a great swopping scheme: that for every person I went to school with who's never made it back, there is another Aussie sharing a two bedroom flat with twelve other Aussies in Earls Court (I have never understood exactly why they squish themselves in en masse like that: are they afraid of us?) After a nice visit with the friend of my sister's (and the 12 other Brits he shelters with) I wandered down to the Quay to have a look at the Opera House and Harbour Bridge (which is rather more recognisable by night, and by foot). On my way back, Sydney's streets, for the third time that day, all jumped up and moved around, so, for the third time that day, I lost my bearings. Luckily I spied a hotel nearby and dashed in to ask at the reception for directions. I hadn't even looked at the name of the hotel (it had started to rain again - that weekend, Sydney endured more rain than it has seen in 120 years) but as I waited at reception for the friendly bloke to unfold a map, I noticed on some hotel stationary that it was the very hotel at which - as plenty of Superfans had confidently asserted - INXS habitually stay at while in Sydney. Immediately paranoidly convinced that Tony would put me on his infamous - if alleged - list of let's say over-enthusiastic fans, I darted furtively around looking for all the world more like a stalker than two minutes previously when I'd been perfectly legitimately asking for directions. Luckily there was no sign of any rockstars or their suspicious security, and the friendly bloke eventually found me hiding behind a pillar and gave me the map on which he had helpfully highlighted the route back to my own hotel.

Driving Up a Mountain

And so my - at the time - last Oz INXS concert rolled on. For the first time, I was not in the sweaty mass at the front vying desperately for a brief eye-fuck from JD. Which, by the way, I never get. He smiles, flirts and acknowledges plenty of people, but I - possibly through virtue of being brunette - appear to be invisible to the lanky legged one. Maybe because I call him the lanky legged one. Or, possibly because he can sense that, despite living in Vancouver for two years, I think Kraft Dinner foul and the only time I tried to play hockey I nearly brained myself with my own stick. Indeed, despite my standard chat up technique to the boys of Canuckshire being to ask them, with wide eyed innocence, just who exactly Wayne Gretzky is, I usually snoozed off before they were quite finished explaining so still don't fully know. Just on the off chance he ever stumbles across this blog, may I just say JD, may I just state for the record, that I love Keiths? In fact, I spent the best part of the 2001-2002 school year happily ensconced in the Cambie pub forming such a close and intimate relationship with Mr Keith that I now call him Al? Just keep that in mind for Shepherds Bush, please. Eh.


Just for a change, I digress. Being out of said sweaty mass, I had the interesting opportunity of observing the concert experience rather than being in the thick of it. That's not to say that you can't be in the thick of the experience from far away from the stage - I have plenty of back of Wembley and Earls Court experiences to attest to that - but that, as I'd seen the show so many times by this point, I could chose to notice things that I might not have otherwise. For example, instead of just staring dreamily into Jon's baby blues, I could appreciate what a clockwork rhythm unto itself is the relationship between him and his fantastic drum tech. Normally during a show Tod is so unobtrusive that that it is as rare to notice him as to catch a glimpse of a near extinct creature, like a platypus. Not that I would compare Tod to a platypus in any other way. At Newcastle, I had the perspective to watch as he crouched in readiness, handing things to Jon, moving his microphone back and forth and I am sure doing a multitude of other things I am too ignorant to see, but that keeps the driving beat that is the foundation of an INXS show moving smoothly. Equally I could see Lindsay, with the focus of a sniper on a starter block, poised holding either a guitar or saxophone ready to hand it to Kirk at the precise correct moment. I thought I saw him playing the guitar at one point, but he later explained that he'd been tuning it - the concentration required to do that during a show is mind boggling. There was a slight sound distortion at one point, when the bass seemed to be turned up, but 13 and a couple of other blokes I didn't recognize darted about for a couple of seconds and then I no longer thought that Garry was going to blow my face off. In my crew love fest, I even managed momentarily not to hate Jen, the woman whose job it is to help undress JD. Although he evidently takes responsibility for his footwear himself as he decided, inexplicably, to change his shoes halfway through the show. It took him about three songs to do so; with an almost feminine multi-tasking ability, he somehow managed not to miss a note or a beat of performance as he laced up a new pair of boots. Footwear issues aside, there was again that edgy vibe to the performance that was in evidence in Brisbane. One of the things I have always loved about INXS is that, despite their great success, they've never been one of those slick, mass-zeitgeist grabbing, can-do-no-wrong relatively bland (in my opinion) superbands like U2 or Coldplay. You almost feel as though they might spectacularly fall on their faces at any moment, and even though they never do, it's one of the things that make their live shows so exciting. I actually thought that this might literally happen in Newcastle, as JD (in the second pair of shoes) jumped up on a speaker and just for a second wobbled alarmingly backwards. My heat leapt into my mouth and I found myself, quite involuntarily, poised like a starting runner with my arms held out. Because, whenever 6"2 of Canadian lands on me from a great height, I am more than capable of catching them, twirling them merrily above my head and launching them back from whence they came with a cheery wave. Luckily, in the interests of me not being squished like a fly, JD regained his balance and disaster was averted.


The following day, my destination was the Blue Mountains and Katoomba. The western view from Katoomba particularly interested me, as for a good 25 years after the first penal colony was established on what is now Sydney, no one saw it. For an entire generation, as far as they were concerned, the country ended to the west with the mountain range. They had just about built the Harbour Bridge and started shooting Home and Away before a particularly determined group of explorers - Gregory Blaxland, William Charles Wentworth and William Lawson (thanks again to Bill Bryson - in fact, just assume that everything I know, about everything, I learned from him) - finally managed to scale the dense foliage and presumably uttered something along the lines of "well bugger me", when they caught sight of a bloody great huge country lying before them. Sadly however, I was denied the opportunity to recreate that moment after sitting in traffic for three hours to reach Katoomba, because the rain was so thick that I couldn't see a bloody thing.


So much of what I experienced in Australia was the exact opposite of what I expected - although I suppose that its very up-side-down-ness was to be expected. I had expected to shoot, in a mere few hours, from Cairns to Brisbane on a major motorway peppered consistently with motels and beach resorts, and I imagined Katoomba as a sleepy little mountain town. In fact, it has strip malls and is reached, at speed (traffic permitting) by a three lane highway. Despite this, it appear that there is little in the way of indoor activities on offer in Katoomba - grumpily staring out at the battering rain, I admitted the reality that I'd spent hours climbing a mountain in order to watch Neighbours in a motel room.


You know the way that siblings can infuriate you in a way that no one else ever quite achieves? That is precisely my experience with the Three Sisters, the famous rock formation that theoretically one can see from near Katoomba. In the morning, further grumpy from a shower with a large spider, just as I had travelled far enough back down in the direction of Sydney to not feasibly be able to turn back, the rain suddenly stopped and the sun broke through the clouds. Somewhere, on the wind, I could swear that I faintly heard "nyah, nyah, you caa-aan't see us!"

Aye, Aye, Pet

The Newcastle concert, I'd had no intention of going to. I will fully admit that it had vaguely crossed my mind that I just might find myself scrounging a ticket to one of the sold out shows while I was in Sydney, but I hadn't even heard of Newcastle, New South Wales until I was cheerfully heading down the winding highway heading for Sydney when I heard a local radio announcer announce excitedly that INXS would be playing there that night. At that moment, in need of fuel for both the car and myself, I spied a sign for Newcastle and figured I might as well turn off in search of petrol and tea. The main road leading into the city promptly evaporated and I wound, for over an hour, through sleepy residential streets, mindlessly turning every once in a while and idly wondering how much of the population of Newcastle was formed by tourists like myself who had turned off the highway and never found their way out again. Despite the many inarguably wonderful things about the Land Down Under, clearly labelling streets and intersections is sadly not one of them.

All of this is a pathetic attempt to excuse myself for being drawn, inexorably, towards the Newcastle Entertainment Centre and the INXS concert. Deep, deep down, I think I know that had I really wanted to get out of Newcastle that day, I could have managed it.


I began to regret my impromptu decision when, moments after purchasing my ticket, I ran into the dreaded Superfan Number 1. Superfan Number 1 is a startlingly tall, chain smoking American, in her mid 50s. A formidable female who sounds like Mariella Frostrup doing Scarlett O'Hara, she is retired and evidently well heeled enough to have travelled to 18 INXS concerts on the North American leg, 11 on this Australian leg and plans to hit Europe next month. Which on one hand I think is brilliant: if you have the time and money and little makes you happier than watching INXS in concert, then why not? - but unfortunately Superfan No 1 is one of those strange fans that indulge in a weird competitiveness and determination to have some kind of acknowledgement from the band and other fans that they are the biggest and bestest fan that there is. She claims a number of inside connections (which may well be real for all I know), just happens to manage to stay in the same hotel as the band wherever she is, and has an infamous and enduring obsession with J.D.'s feet. Meeting her for the first time back in Cairns, and knowing nothing of her reputation, I had agreed to give her a lift up to Kuranda as we had room in our car for one more and she was otherwise stuck. I liked her well enough that night, she seemed like a good laugh, but I came to regret my good Samaritan offer the following night on the way to Townsville when she picked a mystifying (no pun intended) fight with one of my travelling companions and - clearly forgetting that she had no way of getting to the venue without us - accused us of hanging around with her to use her for her contacts and 'access' to the band.


So I wasn't thrilled to see her. The feeling appeared to be mutual, as she looked me up and down slowly and growled that she didn't think I was coming to this show. Suddenly feeling inexplicably guilty, I muttered that it was a last minute decision, and Superfan proceeded to regale me with tales of the fun she had been having hanging out with the band at every concert since she'd seen me last. Gritting my teeth to avoid rising to the bait, I commented that I was glad her long trip (from the East Coast of the U.S.) had been worth it and futilely tried to compete with stories of kayaking with dolphins, snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef and spending time with old friends in Brisbane that I'd busied myself with… but she was off again.

"Yeah, I guess because I travelled the farthest it was kind of like I deserved partying with them." She grinned evilly.

"Umm…" I began - damnit, I'd risen - "I think that the U.K. is farther, actually." In all fairness, what the precise mileage is I have no idea, but having grown up with the notion that Australia is 'the other side of the world' I felt fairly confident in my assertion.

"Yeah, I don't think so." With a flick of ash she dismissed me, leaving me standing in the lobby slowly digesting the fact that I was on the opposite side of the world (or thereabouts) in a town I'd had no intention of visiting, arguing the circumference of the globe with a woman who has publicly announced her intention to steal the shoes of a Canadian man over 20 years her junior.


My night got worse when I realized that the entire venue was seated - which meant I would have to actually watch the whole thing on my own. I'd been planning on meeting up with Mini Superfan, a very sweet and very young girl (I don't mean to suggest that she's 6 or anything - probably early twenties) who'd never been out of her home state before embarking on this trip to catch every Oz date on the tour. She'd been part of our crew in Townsville and Brisbane, is pleasingly slightly bonkers, and I liked her very much. She and Superfan Number 1 had fallen out in Cairns over some confusion over travel arrangements, so it was with some dismay that I noted they had evidently made up since Brisbane, and were joined into one Superfan monster - which meant I wouldn't have a buddy that evening after all. So I took my seat in a side row of four - stuck in the corner next to three people who were clearly together and clearly not interested in making a friend. After sitting quietly and glumly for a few minutes, I spied Tony - he of the drumstick-ESP fame - in the wings and called over to him. I wanted to thank him for looking after my cell phone for a few days the previous week (long story - don't ask) and we chatted briefly. When I returned to my seat, the woman sitting next to me turned to me and abruptly announced that she knew Tony too.

"Oh?" I replied, glad that someone was taking pity on Norma No-Mates me and talking to me. "How so?"

"He used to do my security." Huh. Given that Tony is the go-to man for A list security in Australia, I took a second look at her, but still didn't recognize her. I tried another tack.

"Is this your first INXS concert?" She and her friend exchanged a look, and replied, in a voice heavy with inexplicable meaning, that no, this was not her first INXS concert. Nothing about her demeanour invited further conversation, so I returned to sitting quietly and glumly waiting for the show to start.


With equal abruptness, she suddenly spoke again.

"I suppose you just follow the band all the time?" She demanded.

"Err, no, not exact --" I began, but shooting me a look I can only imagine faced the first flappers to daringly show their ankles and very clearly said something to the effect of "you're no better than you ought to be", she very firmly turned her back on me.


Huh. Suddenly realizing the somewhat astounding conclusion she'd jumped to based on the (admittedly, now I think about it, damning) evidence of my being alone, talking to Tony and wearing a somewhat low cut top (every other one was dirty, honest!) - I was torn. In the same way that you are furious when a builder wolf whistles you and gutted if he doesn't, I was simultaneously insulted that she thought I had so little respect for myself that I would tour the world as the sex-toy of a rockstar 82% likely to be married or as good as, and 18% likely to wear dodgy Canadian-man jeans, and utterly thrilled that she seemed to think I could.

Namesakes and Drop-bears

It has always astounded me to consider the mind-boggling creativity, imagination and foresight that prompted the first explorers of the New World to say "hmmm, wonder what's at the other end of that Atlantic ocean. Think I'll just go and find out." Or those who - admittedly, not always by choice - went from the gentle, hospitable climate and wildlife that would hardly ever kill or maim you on purpose of Great Britain, and settled in the unwelcoming, barely fertile and almost incredibly dangerous territory of Australia - and yet, when they got there, could not think up a new name for the place. I always picture the Scots who staggered to shore after weeks of battling the raging, towering waves and furious winds of the Atlantic saying "does this not look just like where we came from? We didn't turn around by accident did we? No? Well we'll just call it Scotland then. New Scotland - no, tell you what, we'll make it sound a wee bit posher: Nova Scotia." At least that makes some sense - the lush fertile farmlands and craggy hills and coastline of Nova Scotia (especially around the staggeringly original New Glasgow - which is actually prettier than old Glasgow, even if the nightlife doesn't quite live up) are, aesthetically at least, not unlike Scotland. But who on earth rocked up in the world's largest and most spectacular natural harbour, caught sight of scorched scrublands, golden sands, palm trees, hazy blue mountains and the odd kangaroo and went "does this remind anyone else of South Wales?" Well I know who - it was one of the greatest explorers of all time and popularly although not entirely accurately decorated discover of Australia, Captain Cook - I just can't fathom why.


When it wasn't "New Wherever-they'd-just-left", the pioneers of the Commonwealth were very keen on naming things after themselves: thus I pulled up and rested my head for the night in Port Macquarie. Lochlan Macquarie was governor of Sydney (the third if memory of my visit to the Sydney museum serves) in the mid 19th century, and could be credited for turning the fortunes of the ailing and remote outpost of the British Empire into the flourishing, affluent country we wish it was still a case of nicking a couple of cucumber plants or a book on Tobago (actual crimes of two of the prisoners on the First Fleet, according to Bill Bryson's Down Under) to get to move to today. Macquarie's big accomplishment, in addition to popularising the name "Australia" for the new colony (thanks again, Bill B) was his fair and long sighted treatment of convicts: as soon as their sentences were up, he allowed them land to farm and the right to trade; thus creating productive citizens out of sullen and, I wouldn't imagine, particularly helpful prisoners. Sadly however, Macquarie's generosity did not extend to those Australians who had inhabited the country for the staggering amount of time of approximately 60,000 years. And that is just the length of time we can be relatively sure of: there is no guarantee that it isn't longer - either way, the Australian Aborigine people are by far the oldest continuing human culture. While the Romans, the Greeks, the Celts, the Turks all civilised and ruled the known world, then one by one were defeated and died out, the Aborigines quietly and continuously inhabited their remote and famously inhospitable outpost of the globe. So remote in fact, that for a time in Europe, it was considered mythical, and stories abounded of a wild and fantastical land - Terra Australis Incognita - populated with almost unimaginable creatures of dragon-like ferocity and bizarre means of moving… a bit like, you know, crocodiles and kangaroos. This is, however, no thanks to Lochlan Macquarie (amongst, to be fair, many others - I just noticed him as I was staying in his Port). He bestowed upon his men the right to shoot any group of Aborigines greater than six: no matter that there might just be seven of them hanging about together, going for a walk maybe - greater than six and British soldiers could legitimately and lawfully murder them. It is one of the starkest examples of the treatment of native peoples by the cuckoo-like Europeans who showed up in the land they had inhabited for - in this case - tens of thousands of years and told them to bugger off.


I have so much more to say about Aborigines - from their almost inhuman feat of showing up in Australia in the first place (the continent has been an island during the entire duration of human existence) to the horrors of the Lost Generation which continued, incredibly, into the 1970s - but all of that deserves an entry to itself.


It was fairly late in the evening when I arrived at Port Macquarie. I couldn't see much of it due to the darkness at that hour, which is probably fine as it isn't meant to be especially picturesque. Indeed, it was founded, very deliberately, to be harsh - Governor Macquarie set it up as a penal settlement to house those convicts who he didn't feel deserve the rehabilitation he offered to some, and those he deemed to find Sydney life too easy. And indeed, the locals I encountered in the local pub I ventured to for dinner certainly seemed of a fairly tough sort. I got chatting to the bloke behind the bar - a slightly nervous slip of a kid from Surrey, and in due course, a crowd of guys sitting up at the bar took pleasure in indulging in that great Australian pastime: frightening the Pommie tourists. I was too quick for them though, I already knew all about drop-bears, thank you very much… but when they casually stated that I'd been lucky to avoid the famously hungry crocs at one of the places I mentioned I'd gone for a walk on my own, I hesitated before laughing nervously. Then I realized that we were talking about a city centre park - the Botanical Gardens in Brisbane, to be exact, where a few nights previously, the INXS concert had been held. "And in other news, 10,000 INXS fans were devoured whole by the crocodiles who inhabit the Riverstage park. Members of the band attempted to placate them with the remains of a chocolate cake bearing the imprint of a Canadian arse, and Kirk Pengilly, 48, of New South Wales, heroically bopped a few on the head with an empty champagne bottle…" I rolled my eyes and informed them that not all Poms were that gullible, then walked back to the motel stamping hard all they way to keep away the blood thirsty land-turtles that the area is famous for.

Tall Poppies and Choppy Waves

You don't know what you've got 'till it's gone. With tragic irony, that evening Anna, Jack and I went out to dinner, and as I told them about my trip to Australia Zoo, we ended up discussing what a shame it was that, despite his great popularity abroad, Australians themselves did not seem to be big fans of Steve Irwin. We wondered if, with his mullet and his 'crikey's he was such an unabashed stereotype that they were a bit embarrassed that he was their unofficial ambassador in the US, or, if it was simply a case of that syndrome that certainly exists in other cultures but seems to be particularly prevalent in Australia, of bashing those who've made good. For whatever reason, we had all found that mentioning Steve Irwin to people generally prompted an eye rolling and an 'oh him - we're not all like that, you know.'


The following morning, just as I crossed the border into New South Wales, I was scanning through radio stations when I heard a newsreader somberly announce that a wildlife expert and conservationalist had been killed. The name was not yet going to be released, as close family had not been informed. Vaguely assuming it was likely to be someone I'd never heard of, I reached out to flick the dial in search of some music, and my hand literally froze when the reader specified that the tragedy had happened off the coast of Port Douglas. I knew exactly who had been filming off the coast of Port Douglas that day, as his colleague had told me as I stroked the back of a 10 day old alligator. I actually heard myself sigh "no!" out loud, and had to pull off at the next layby as a rush of tears momentarily blurred my vision. It is curious, that genuine sorrow that it is possible to feel for someone who had absolutely no idea that they touched your life. You feel as though you have no right to grieve - your feelings are of course nothing compared to those of their family and friends - and indeed I impatiently brushed away the tears and laughed at myself for being such an idiot.


The only other time I have actually cried at the passing of someone I had never met, was for another great Australian, one also sadly under-esteemed by his countrymen during his lifetime. It was 1997. I had finished my A levels the previous summer, and was working as a junior PR assistant in a very trendy PR firm in Soho. By the time I arrived at work, the salacious rumours and jokes about auto-erotic asphyxiation were already circulating - not having read a newspaper that morning, I had no idea who they were talking about, and don't know how to explain the momentary crippling stunnedness I felt when someone finally mentioned his name. Now, at 27, I would like to think that I would put a stop to the conversation, that I would humble everyone by reminding them that a father, brother, friend had been lost; but as a relatively shy 19 year old, I nodded and laughed hollowly along with everyone then refused to explain why, ten minutes later, I was sitting at my desk wracked with heaving sobs.


They say never to speak ill of the dead, and I suppose it is not unnatural to fully learn to appreciate someone once they are gone; but as I listened to the outpourings of tributes and grief for the remainder of my time in Australia, I couldn't help but think it sad that Steve, like Michael, was not around to witness the impact that they had clearly made on their own country. Impact that, for one reason or another, was rarely expressed during their lifetimes.


Back in the Melbourne Girls' hotel in Brisbane, in the wee hours of Saturday morning, someone had invited a few blokes who were hanging out on a nearby balcony to visit us. I don't think that any of us fancied them, it was just entertaining to see if they would actually leave their comfortable balcony and traipse around hotel corridors at four o'clock in the morning looking for us. Duly, they found us. However, when they asked what we'd been up to that evening and we told them we'd been at an INXS concert, one of them grimaced and muttered something to the effect of them being nothing without Michael. And you know what? That is an opinion I certainly don't agree with, but I do believe that people are entitled to it. I don't think that they can call themselves INXS fans - rather, they're Michael Hutchence fans, which is perfectly valid, and it is just a shame for them that they are missing out now. But when one of the Melbourne Girls challenged him: so, how many concerts did you see with Michael? How many albums do you have? You had tickets for that last tour, right? His response was 'uuuhhhh…' So he wasn't a Michael Hutchence fan at all, just some idiot who thought it cool to cannonize someone after his passing, when he had never supported him during his lifetime. How sad and horribly pointless. We chucked them out and left them to traipse hotel corridors at ten past four in the morning looking for their own room.


One last vent, then I am done with bashing Tall Poppy Syndrome and its hypocritical posthumous retraction (well come on, I had to find something I didn't like about Australia): a couple of days later, a Sydney newspaper snidely referred to the "INXS tribute show" happening that evening at Luna Park - so, presumably, AC/DC have been a tribute show for the past 30 odd years? Is every band with a line up that varies from the original - therefore just about every band that there is, the Stones, the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, to name a couple - a tribute act, or only those with a replaced lead singer? Do tell, Sydney Morning Herald.


Right, I am done and off to Byron Bay for my disastrous surfing lesson. Let's just say that despite our common affection for saxophone players who wear funky shoes, Layne Beachley I am not. I will say, that when the surfboard is safe and still on the sand, I am brilliant. I can shoot from lying on my front to crouching to standing in a smooth and fetching manner, then balance almost lazily, wind in my hair and often mentally outrunning a Great White or two. I might, in fact, be the only surfer for whom waves actually ruin the experience. To be fair to myself, which I always like to be, my instructor did say that, due to an impending storm, the sea was particularly choppy and not surfer friendly, which is what I am going to blame for the fact that in two hours, I stood up for a grand total of about 7 seconds, and more than once managed to bash myself on the nose with the board. I was eminently happy when the lesson was cut short by an hour (and my nose was eminently grateful to be spared further punishment) when the heavens opened.


My only regret was that I didn't manage to spend as much time as I'd planned moseying about the shops at Byron, due to the unappetising reality of dashing from one to the other under lashings of rain. Instead I went back to the car, pointed it yet again south, with the intention of hitting Port Macquarie by nightfall.

Creatures in Captivity

The following morning I struggled awake resisting the urge to screech to the heavens "put me out of my misery! Take me now!" (all that shouting would have hurt my poor head), struggled into some clothes and very large, very dark sunglasses, and headed off to meet the Melbourne girls for breakfast. They had just a couple of hours before they were due to return, appropriately enough given their moniker, to Melbourne.


The previous morning, before I'd met everyone at the Botanical Gardens, I'd had a bit of a wander around Anna's neighbourhood, so I thought I had my bearings and could easily enough walk to the hotel (we'd finished the previous night at their hotel with a bottle of vodka - 'nuff said). Anna lives on the north side of the river that snakes up through Brisbane, turns a U bend under the famous Storey Bridge and then heads back out towards the sea. The hotel, I was fairly sure, was just on the south side of the U bend, right next to the bridge, so - I carefully deduced - I could walk along the sea walk (a floating pathway that rather thrillingly bobs up and down when boats pass) and under the bridge and hey presto I'd be there. Panicked by texts that said "we're hungry" and "our plane takes off in two hours!", when I got to the other side of the bridge and saw no sign of the hotel, I jumped into a taxi and asked him to take me to the hotel.

"But --" he began.

But I insisted and he shrugged. He drove up the road, maybe 10 or 15 metres to a spot where he could pull a U turn, and, as we drove back down, on the exact same spot from which I had just stepped into the taxi, stood the Melbourne girls waiting for me. I know my hangover was bad, but I really hope I hadn't been standing right next to them when I hailed the taxi. Which charged me $5, by the way.


And so to breakfast, where we went over the previous night in detail, confirmed that yes indeed, Jon is a bit lovely; and I believe that I might have promised - bollocks to returning to London - that I would come to the Melbourne concerts. They are happening tonight, as I write, from London. Sigh. The girls very kindly gave me a Tim pic meaning that I now only have to wrestle Garry to the ground and empty his pockets before I have a full set (catching pics during a show is not going to happen for me - as I've said before I couldn't catch a guitar if it was thrown at me.) Then the Melbourne girls were off, and I was left to my own devices in Brisbane. It is odd the things that occur to you to do, alone and hungover in a strange city. Anna and Jack, I should point out, weren't just randomly ignoring me - they were on a walk to commemorate a local aboriginal man (which I will write more about when I have finished the trip itself it's a fascinating story) - they'd invited me to join them on the 30k walk and I had politely and vehemently declined. I wandered into the casino, out of random curiosity, and was startled to find it buzzing at 12pm on a Saturday; indeed it seemed more like 12am on a Saturday. With the complete lack of natural light it might well have been pitch dark outside and the people hunched, captivated, over pokies (which just sounds a bit rude if you ask me, but then I am not Australian) and around card tables had a night time air to them. The only other time in my life I have been in a casino (it's just not something that interests me at all) was the Mandalay Bay Casino in Vegas - for an INXS concert. If I develop a gambling problem one day, I will know who to blame. It is ironic actually, that INXS keep leading me towards ringing, flashing slot machines, because establishments such as the very one I was in, are popularly blamed for killing off the "pub rock" scene of the seventies and early eighties which was their original stomping ground. It's said that pub rock is slowly returning in Australia - and, when I was in Sydney, I did walk down a street in which all three pubs had bands playing (they were covers bands and mostly a bit crap, but I suppose they have to start somewhere) - and I do hope so. There is a creepy soullessness, not to mention an isolation - a slot machine is hardly a group effort, after all - to these places, that strikes me as curiously un-Australian.


I hadn't played any of the machines in Vegas, I kept meaning to as I dashed past as it felt like I should, being in Vegas and all, but had never gotten around to it, so I decided to rectify that now. I chucked in a dollar, pulled the lever and waited, wondering what was going to happen. Pictures flashed up and rattling sound announced the arrival of ten dollar coins. Rather pleased with this gambling lark, I wandered back out into the sunshine and bought a smoothie and a Brisbane fridge magnet with my winnings. The rest of the day brought a lovely wander around the shopping area (surprisingly posh shops - I hadn't expected to be able to shop for Ralph Lauren in Brisbane, but had my bank balance been amenable, I would have!) and a return the Botanical Gardens to see them in daylight, and sunshine. Lovely.


The following day, after watching the Brisbane River of Fire (a spectacular fireworks display) from Anna and Jack's balcony, and a gorgeous dinner (cooked very impressively by the lovely Jack), I set off to visit Australia Zoo. Ever since I spent a summer marooned in Massachusetts after being deported from Canada (the first time) and happily whiled away the evenings watching Crocodile Hunter with my then 11 year old cousin, I have been a huge Steve Irwin fan and have wanted to visit his zoo. I think that reptiles, in particular crocodiles, are brilliant: they are just so mysterious, and ancient and weird and… and… cool. Don't get me wrong, if an iguana was to walk into this room right now I would scream and run away (and also wonder where it had come from) but, from a distance, I like them very much. Steve Irwin, I also like very much: anyone with that evident passion, drive and utterly uncool enthusiastic zest for life is okay in my book. So, great guy, great creatures outweighed the slightly soul destroying realization that, having come this far, I had to drive north back up the Bruce Highway - from where I'd just come. I dealt with it, and duly arrived at Australia Zoo a couple of hours later.


I absolutely loved it. Some people had warned me that it was a bit over commercial and crass, but, while there certainly were plenty of pictures of the man himself and 'crikey' logos around, I didn't find that it bothered me at all. I loved that it had a sense of an animal sanctuary rather than a zoo - the enclosures were well camouflaged and very often the keepers were right in them, caring for and interacting with the creatures, thus avoiding that isolated captivity that is so uncomfortable to witness in other zoos. From my admittedly entirely ignorant observation, the animals seemed to have plenty of room - in stark contrast to that horrible tiger cage barely bigger than the room from which I type that makes me feel ill at London Zoo. I loved as well the continuous drumming of education - every where you turned, there were workshops and talks with little kids clustered around, goggle eyed, as a staff member lectured, explained and demonstrated. You literally could not possibly walk away without learning something: did you know, as a random example, that the only pure bred dingos left exist only in captivity? I headed for the exit, and on the way I passed a staff member holding a baby alligator along his forearm. It was, he informed me, 10 days old. Both his mum and dad were together at Australia Zoo, and this little chap would grow to around 12 or 14 feet long. As I stroked his back (the alligator, not the staff member) a couple of other visitors approached and asked where Steve was. The reply was that he was up at Port Douglas doing some filming. Apparently he's only at Australia Zoo doing the crocodile show on public holidays. Driving away a few moments later, I made a mental note that if I could possibly schedule my next Brisbane trip over a public holiday, I would do so in order to catch the man in action.

He Lived Fast, Died Young and Touched Many

It is with deep regret that I must interrupt this telling of my Australia tale in order to announce the passing of one Sandford Duffy, esq., 2004-2006. Sandy had a brief, but glorious life: he was forcibly retired from an illustrious racing career at the University of Exeter, Devon and lived out his middle years battling an identity crisis while living in a bird cage in East Horsley, Surrey. In his latter years, Sandford went up in the world in a brand new hamster cage appropriate to his new address of London, W8. Sandford was an explorer: indeed, it may well be the epic journey on the Piccadilly line out to claim Joe's flat in the name of the Duffys (while his guardians were off on holiday) that finished him off. That, or the pressure he felt at the prospect of eating the bag of hamster food the size of a bag of horse feed that was accidentally purchased off the internet. As his erstwhile father and racing trainer wrote on the condolence card he sent from Geneva to Sandy's guardians in London, at least Sandy died doing what he loved. Sitting in a plastic tube.


Anyone with a hamster with an eating problem who would like to take on the Everest of hamster food, please contact claire@claireduffy.co.uk. Donations to the Retired Racing Hamsters benevolent fund in the name of Sandford may be paypal-ed to the same address ;)

Boy On Fire

The Brisbane concert was in fact the only one that I'd had any intention of going to. A friend of mine from Vancouver (well, she's Welsh, but I know her from Vancouver) was living in Brisbane at the time I originally planned the trip. By the time I booked and paid for the trip she was living in Perth and by the time I actually got to Australia she was back in Canada which made visiting her in Australia a bit challenging, but the important thing was I had a ticket for the INXS concert in Brisbane. And, happily, the entire Cairns-Townsville crowd were going to be there, all very happy and excited to be celebrating the birthday of a man we've never met nor are particularly likely to. And we'd be celebrating this bum-in-cake anniversary at an out door concert in the Botanical Gardens. In the pissing down rain.

It is curiously prophetic that I noted only a few days previously in this very blog that I had risked "life or at least sandals" to make it to the front of the barrier for the Kuranda concert - or maybe I am just tragically aware of my own clutziness - because those very sandals were sadly sacrificed at the mud-bath that was Glaston-bane. Not to make it to the front, but to return to our crew - near enough to the front - with alcoholic sustenance. Had I known that Kirk was going to be pouring out champagne for the crowd a short while later, I might not have bothered and would still be in possession of my funky Sienna Miller-like shoes. In all fairness, I can't blame Kirk entirely (or to be really fair, at all) because it was no one's fault but my own that I chose to run from the bar kiosk at the top of the grassy steepness back down to the stage area where us die-hards had jealously guarded our spots for the previous four hours. I didn't do too badly - I managed to get a good three quarters of the way down, dashing gaily, before I tripped and skidded - mud-skied, really - for around four or five feet… sadly not bringing my sandals along for the trip. They were thong-like, with an ankle strap, and somehow as I skied through the mud, both of the bits that attach the strap to the base of the shoe (through my toes) snapped at the same time so that I shot forward with what was left of my shoes trailing pathetically behind. I didn't, incidentally, spill a drop of the drinks, but I had no time to pat myself on the back (and I most certainly would have spilled the drinks if I had) because I had to figure out how I was going to walk the rest of the way with my entirely useless shoes. The answer, I discovered with entertaining trial and error, was to step by flinging each leg forward with such force that the soles of the shoes swung up to meet the soles of my feet and then stamping down quickly before they swang back again. The effect - if you will forgive my momentary political incorrectness - was of a drunken, enthusiastic Gestapo. I managed to lop-sidedly goose-step, thinking to myself how intimidatingly cool I was and if only JD could see me now he'd probably faint with lust, back to our crew where the girls cheerfully accepted their drinks and erected a feet-fort of bags to create a safe space for me to remain barefoot without risking sacrificing my toes to an enthusiastic mosher.

The show itself, predictably enough, was great; it had an edgier vibe than the slick, tight, on-fire-ness of Kuranda and Townsville - more of a sense of abandon, as if at any moment they might go "fuck it, let's play some Chumbawumba" or set their hair on fire or something. That's an appropriate thought, as it happens. At the beginning of the encore, they very sweetly brought out a birthday cake for JD, and we all sang Happy Birthday. It was actually the third time we'd sang it, but the during the first two he'd had his ear piece thingy in so I don't think he heard. He looked genuinely touched, almost overwhelmed - there is an interesting dichotomy about JD, incidentally: he morphs from sex god into little boy lost - and, thankfully, back again - in seconds, and as he looked lost for words and hugged all of the guys, we turned to one another with "aww, bless him" looks. But I digress - seconds later JD, with clearly more important things on his mind than remembering to blow out candles before sticking his arse on them, jumped on the cake. Luckily, Andrew had a water bottle handy (song writing genius, the only human who can make the harmonica sexy and fire warden!) and, well, I've always said that JD has a smoking arse…

Bless him.

The wild, party atmosphere was most certainly felt in the crowd too - rather than a load of strangers who happened to buy tickets for the same show, it really felt like a garden party of almost 10,000 where drinks were passed around and our mates played some tunes. It was one of those gigs, where, as the crowd streams out afterwards, you randomly turn to the people you are stumbling next too, start chatting about what you thought of it or the last time you saw the band, and end up drinking 'till dawn. Actually, most INXS gigs are like that - whatever else you can say about us X heads (it is difficult to make clear in text, but I say that ironically - honest!) we are certainly sociable - and Brisbane was no exception. After a brief trip to a late night Target to procure some $5 shoes, the Cairns-Townsville crew, plus a multitude of stragglers (basically anyone we gathered from the crowd or passed on the pavement wearing an INXS t shirt) convened in a bar where we bullied the DJ into playing all INXS - and when he finally rebelled and played some other, random, pointless music, gathered in a corner and proceeded to warble a medley covering the entire 30 year back catalogue. It is possibly somewhat astounding that out of the entire crowd, not one of us could hold a tune. It was, most certainly "not roit", but it was fun. I believe that we toasted the birthday boy. I know that we toasted Tim's pornstache and Kirk's taste in shoes - although I don't know why - and I know that as the lights went on and the bouncers tried to persuade us to go home I was sitting on the floor with the other Jonette (the one who'd been given the other drum stick by Tony back in Townsville) deeply discussing the wonderous, splendorous, gorgeousness that is Jon Farriss.

Into Every Friendship a Little Rain Must Fall

As I sat on the terrace reading, occasionally idly contemplating the stars and listening to some spectacularly named - Lochlan, Tallullah and Ruby - local children play as their parents ate at the table next to me, I turned the page of my book, took a sip of my red wine and, with gruesome predictability, tipped the remains of the wine down my front. This isn't the first time this has happened: when I say I have a drinking problem, it has nothing to do with any issues with alcohol, simply that very often, getting the contents of the cup or glass down my throat with no detours is an insurmountable challenge. Just moments before typing this, I cheerfully knocked a glass of cranberry juice (with a loaf of bread) all down my pyjamas and over most of my kitchen. I don't even bother to swear when I do it any more, just sigh and reach for the nearest dishcloth.

In this instance, I sighed and headed up to my room to change. I was wearing a white sleeveless top (like a wife beater for girls) which I had just changed in to before going down to eat. I have two identical such tops, and briefly considered changing into the other in the hope that no one would notice, but in the end couldn't find it so chucked on another T shirt, went downstairs and ordered another glass of wine. The following morning, at a disgustingly still-dark hour, I rose and sleepily wriggled into my bikini and a pair of shorts. I was headed for the beach and an early kayak tour of the cove. Rummaging around for a t shirt, I came across a white sleeveless one, and chucked it on. It probably won't shock anyone to learn that when I arrived at the beach just as the sun was coming up, I glanced down to see - that yes, I was indeed wearing the red wine stained one.

However, even the pitying looks of my fellow kayakers could not detract from the experience. The first time I ever kayaked, I doubted that anything could top the experience - it was on Lake Tahoe, also early morning, when my then boyfriend and I had almost the entire lake and surrounding snow capped mountains to ourselves. I have kayaked plenty since in English Bay, Deep Cove and Lions Bay in BC; but this -- this was incredible. Surprisingly for the amount of traffic that the Reef and nearby coastline must surely endure, the water is startlingly clear - I could see the sandy sea bed the majority of the time. The highlight however, was the dolphins. A group of them - five, six, maybe - frolicked around us, so close that I almost felt I could reach out and touch them. In the same way that I would describe the kangaroos I saw as giant squirrels, dolphins close up struck me like fish shaped dogs. Their curiosity, the manner of their play, their apparent intelligence and they way they seemed to communicate and check each other out - just dogs that can swim without looking like idiots.

The tour only lasted a couple of hours, so by late morning I was parked on the beach with a book where I remained, turning myself occasionally to ensure even tan and avoid bedsores, until it was too dark to read. I do believe, that had I not woken the following morning to pouring rain and gale force winds, I would never have managed to wrench myself away from the paradise that is 1770. Instead, I pushed on towards Brisbane and swiftly discovered that Queenslanders drive in the rain the way that British Colombians drive in the snow: by pretending that it isn't happening and being surprised and a little confused when their car ends up in a ditch. Despite the driving rain bouncing off the tarmac and reducing visibility to the car in front (the traffic coming into Brisbane was fairly heavy), everyone - including trucks, in fact, especially trucks - happily shot along at around 110k plus. It reminded me of crossing the road in Vancouver: I was genuinely afraid for my life. I pulled off the highway and sat forlornly at an outdoor kiosk under a tarpaulin listening to the battering rain, occasionally getting splashed, as I moped over a cup of tea and read a bit, attempting to give the impression that I always sat out in the pouring rain for a bit of a read.

It shouldn't be surprising then, that I was very happy to reach Brisbane and - after a slightly hair raising diversion in which I utterly lost my bearings and fancied that I began to see signs for Perth - my friend Anna's flat. They say that blood is thicker than water, and I don't doubt that it is; but this summer I am truly learning that whatever substance exists between friends (Cosmopolitans mostly, in my case... yes I am stuck in the 90s, sue me) is thick enough to be pretty indestructible too. Due in part to my travelling so much, I am lucky enough to have a wide and varied circle of friends dotted around the globe. Currently, my best friends live in Vancouver, Perth (Australia, not Scotland!), Los Angeles, Chicago, Glasgow - and Brisbane. Of course there are down sides: it's all very handy when I need somewhere cheap (read: free) to stay in far flung places, but not much use when I am looking for someone to nip down the pub with in London. In addition to getting to stay in and watch a lot of Big Brother when I am in London, there is also the worry of keeping these oh-so-exoticly-residing friends. How easy is it to sustain a friendship without that day-to-day random phone calls, nipping to the pub, blethering over a cup of tea at the kitchen table aspect? The answer, as I discovered that evening in Brisbane, is: when the friend is true, very. Anna, her boyfriend Jack, and I went out to dinner, and poor Jack could only look on bemusedly as Anna blethered away as though we'd only just paused for breath the last time we saw each other - over three years ago. With military efficiency, we swiftly gossiped about everyone we knew, up dated each other on everything that that happened since 2003 and pronounced the chef edible.

And so to bed in Anna's spare room, ready to be bright eyed and bushy tailed for the following day… and the birthday concert.

Rocky Road

One advantage to hitting the road again at 6.30am the following morning was that I reached my destination for the day - the beach at 1770 - much earlier than anticipated. This was even despite a brief detour along a scenic tourist drive that took me through a little town (you may be sensing a pattern here - they are all little towns) called Yeppon. I liked the sound of the place, it seemed as though it might be fairly lively - and maybe it is after 8am, I wouldn't know. The quietness did mean that I had the parking area by the beach (to call it a 'car park' would imbue it with too much grandeur) to myself, so I was able to wriggle into my bikini while retaining the vast majority of my dignity and head out for my morning shower - in the southern Coral Sea. A couple of early morning joggers and dog walkers passed me as I waded into the lukewarm waves - which was reassuring, as, after the night I'd just had, I had began to wonder whether I was the only person left on earth.

I adore the ocean, always have. I love the vastness, the permanence of it, the way that it makes me feel calm and insignificant at the same time. I love thinking about the fact that the body of water in which I was now lazily bobbing is - technically - the very same in which I had paddled with my three year old cousin, thousands of miles away, in White Rock, British Columbia on Canada Day. I am fascinated with that sense of the globe - that idea of travelling around all that there is. When I left Vancouver for the first time, just over four years ago, to road trip with my then boyfriend across the North American continent, I took a pebble from the beach at English Bay and, nearly three months later, I chucked it in the water from Boston Pier. I then grabbed a shell from a beach in Northern Massachusetts and, months later, threw it in the Thames. It was as these thoughts occurred to me that I realized I am altogether too weird, and that I was spending too much time alone. Without further ado, I dried off and headed for Rockhampton, the Meat Capital of Australia, for an appropriately cholesterol laden breakfast.

Rockhampton, I don't have masses to say about. I could tell you that it is the Capital of the Capricorn Region or that it sits on the Fitzroy river, but the truth would be that I just looked that up from here in London as I stared at my notes and tried in vain to form a clear impression of it. I know I had a nice breakfast - I am usually not a big cooked breakfast fan, I don't eat a lot of red meat at all in general, but the Australians do bacon and scrambled eggs commendably well, and the little coffee shop in Rockhampton where I ate was no exception. I believe that I cashed a few more traveller's cheques and that the bank was perfectly pleasant. Ooh - there was one highlight: I did see a poster advertising the INXS tour, which was due to hit Rockhampton a night or two later. I'd overtaken them back in McKay, so now, technically, INXS was following me.

As I mentioned before, the scenery surrounding the Bruce Highway is eminently pleasant. However, once you have happily passed trees and rolling hills and occasional distant kangaroos for coming up on 1000 kilometres, it begins to get just a tiny bit predictable. So when I passed a sign for a historical village I was excited, possibly disproportionately so. I was - in fact still am - reading a book on the history of Australia, as when I arrived I was shocked to consider how little I really knew about the place. I knew that the English sent out a load of convicts, and I knew that the Farriss brothers and their mates started a band, and presumed that some stuff must have happened in between but I was pretty much clueless as to what. So I was quite pleased by the idea that I might get to put some visual aids to the story I was reading, and happily turned off the highway. Well it was crap. Gloriously, spectacularly, highly entertainingly atrocious. I was thrilled. The village consisted of a gathering of buildings - those wooden, cottage-y kind that you sometimes disconcertingly see sitting on trucks in America - which appeared to have been plonked every which way in a field. I paid my two dollars and peeked into the first porch ringed house. It was full of fridges. Yes, you read right - a great big pile of - admittedly old and no doubt a bit whiffy inside - refrigerators. There was no label or explanation as to what they were doing there or where they had come from - although, in all fairness, how much could you say about a load of fridges? - they just sat there. In the semi darkness, being old. In the next building, it was radios. Big old radios, the wooden kind with lots of knobs and dials - kind of interesting to look at… well, interesting to look at one, but there was about thirty, each much the same, apparently from around the same time period. Just sitting there, gathering dust. Smothering a giggle, I skipped on to the next, wondering if I might find a collection of bicycles or remote controls; but this one, I was startled to note as I approached… had a plaque! The plaque at the front door proudly announced it as a former schoolhouse. Wonderful, I thought, and read on. It was a schoolhouse, in use, up until… 1974. 1974! What on earth is historical about that? Surely history can't be a period in which I have dated people who were alive then! Apparently, in a country as new as Australia, it is. Admittedly, as if memory of Story to Story serves, I believe that the Farriss Brothers were playing by then, so this was my studied period of Australian history. However, the wonders of what schoolchildren got up to in Queensland in the early seventies remain a mystery to me as the proudly labelled school house was empty save for a few scurrying insects and a lot of dust. I do not think that I have spent a more entertaining time at a museum; I certainly have not spent a better two Australian dollars.

And so on to 1770. Surprisingly few people I mentioned this destination to (both before and after I visited) - even locals - had heard of it. In all fairness, I've only heard of it because my sister's boyfriend, a keen surfer, lived there for a few months during his travels in Australia. According to him, it's the in place for surfers in the know to hang out, since Byron became too expensive and touristy. I like the idea of surfers - although if I am honest, I like the idea of them whether they are in the know or not - so 1770 it was. Despite the distinct lack of surfers… or even people (honestly, if I ever read that the population of Queensland - including backpackers - is approximately 63, I will not be the least bit surprised) 1770 was (forgive me for sounding like an Enid Blyton character for a moment) absolutely glorious. If a beach more perfect than this exists on earth then… well, then… I'd… like to see it. Untouched, soft, sunshine coloured sand scattered artistically with cream and pale pink shells stretches as far as they eye can see, bordered by wild foliage on one side and crashing, aqua and almost royal blue waves tinged with pure white froth on the other. The skyline to the east, where the deep, almost navy, blue of the ocean meets the bright sky blue of the, err, sky, is dotted with distant reef islands. And, just as Andy promised, there is very little else there. A tiny town - village, really - consisting of one solitary surf shop, a petrol station and a couple of local shops and eateries, two motels and a backpacker's hostel… if there is any more than that, I didn't find it. Deciding that after my night on the backseat of a Toyota Corolla I deserved some modest luxury, I plumped for the posher of the two motels, thoroughly enjoyed my first proper shower since Townsville, and settled on the terrace with a pizza and a glass of wine. Idly staring into the inky blackness of a Queensland early evening, I was 100% content.

Hundreds of Kilometres of Bugger All

Pardon my French, but I am not exactly sure how else to describe the stretch of Queensland after Townsville, almost until Brisbane. Pleasant bugger all, it has to be said, the trees are a little greener - although some still carry scorched scars from bush fires gone by - and the rolling hills in the distance, the sense of the sea in the air (the Bruce Highway runs a few kilometres inland, too far to see ocean but close enough to know its there) the occasional glimpse of a kangaroo, I really can't complain about any of it. I have read much of Australia described (by Bill Bryson in Down Under) as an ideal small town America that hasn't existed since the 1950s, and that is definitely evident in the small towns of Central Queensland. There is an innocence, an open friendly simplicity to life that is rarely found elsewhere. The old men passing the time of day by the roadside, who, when I pulled over to ask for directions back to the highway (despite the many inarguably wonderful things about the Land Down Under, clearly labelling streets and intersections 'aint one of them) thought carefully, discussed it amongst themselves for a few minutes then gave me a choice of no less than three options, depending on how quickly I wanted to reach the road and whether I wanted to see some pretty sights along the way; the young kids playing unsupervised in a field; the thoughtful and friendly conversations I overheard when I stopped for a cup of tea in a small coffee shop. Tea - that's another thing. In common with Canada, there are facets to Australian life far more British than Britain ever bothers to be these days: almost every cup of tea I was served came in a small teapot, a delicate china cup and sugar bowl and usually made with real tea leaves, as opposed to the tea bag dunked in a mug I would expect in London.

However, I am making it sound as though the road is highly populated, with charming company all along the way. Those three instances of human contact I just mentioned were the only signs of life I encountered for sometimes hours at a time. To be fair, though, from Townsville as far as another small town by the name of McKay (pronounced by the locals in the correct, Scottish way of McKai) it was rare to go more than maybe 40 minutes or an hour without at least a petrol station or fruit and vegetable stall. So when I pulled into McKay just as the sun was going down (due to its proximity to the equator, it is usual to be pitch dark in Queensland by not long after 6pm), had a pleasant dinner, a brief walk around the downtown area, and decided that there was nothing much to entice me to stay the night, I had little reason not to plan on pushing on for another couple of hours then finding a nice little motel in which to rest my weary head for the night. Equally it didn't - and I fully admit that this was short sighted of me - occur to me that with over half a tank of petrol it might have been prudent to fill up before pushing on. It is probably somewhat predictable then, that three hours later - three hours in which the solitary break in pitch darkness around me was my own headlights - the car was spluttering on the dredges of petrol fumes and a light that read "you've got to be kidding, I am dying here" had lit up on the dash board. And I hadn't passed one sign for petrol in hours - never mind the welcoming motel with fluffy pillows and hearty breakfast of my fantasy. It was me, and hundreds of kilometres of bugger all. Afraid that the engine would cut out altogether, I pulled off the highway and thankfully stumbled across a campsite. Despite it only being around 9pm, the campsite was clearly closed for business - the office was locked, and the many caravans and tents scattered around were dark. I even fancied, as I sat alone in my desperate car, that I could hear families snoring softly, cosy in their sleeping bags. There was nothing else for it: there was no way I would find a petrol station - never mind an open one - at this time, so I clambered over to the backseat, liberally sprinkled the contents of my suitcase over myself and snuggled down to snooze fitfully, dreaming of outback murderers, hungry crocodiles and snakes that can open locked car doors.

A few hours later, I woke, gritty eyed and sore, to be greeted with a hazy, magical dawn. The blindingly pure sun was just peeking over the horizon and shining through the trees; shining so startlingly brightly as it scorched off the morning mist and glinted on the dew that the countryside was draped in a reflective, ethereal quality. Almost as though nature was making up for my crappy night, when I glanced out of the rear view window, I was treated, in a natural spotlight, to the sight of two wild kangaroos, maybe two feet from the boot, nibbling on grass. Okay Australia, you're forgiven.

The Ville Called Town

The morning after the Townsville concert, I woke up - okay that isn't strictly true, I didn't go to bed, so I should say when the sun rose after the Townsville concert - I realized that this was it, I was on my own. I had spent the first couple of days in Cairns alone, but as I'd been staying in a hostel, in one place, it wasn't quite the solitude as I was facing now. I was just about to point my car in the direction of 'south' with no real idea of what I might find until nearly 1500 kilometres later in Brisbane.

I am getting a bit ahead of myself here: let's rewind briefly to the previous morning. Just as we were about to leave the hotel in Cairns, I noticed a local paper in the lobby, so picked it up to have a scan through for a review of the previous night. There was one, glowing just as it should have been… however I couldn't help but notice that the headline read "First Show Takes Fans to the Limit." Chuckling indulgently to myself, I wondered what on earth those crazy INXS fans were up to now and read on… they'd flown in from London to Kuranda for the gig, it seemed. How craz -- hold on a moment, something about that sounded just a touch familiar. (May I point out at this juncture that, unlike in North America, Australian newspapers don't feel the need to specify that London is in England, as opposed to, say, Kazakhstan.) Reassuring myself that I hadn't flown from London specifically to Kuranda, therefore it was entirely different and not at all bonkers, we set off for Townsville (see? I flew in to go to Townsville too… )

I had high hopes for Townsville, for two reasons (well, two reasons plus INXS were going to be there.) One, I love the name. During my snorkelling trip on the Barrier Reef, the guide (a Brit) had pointed out that if a creature or plant looks like something, you'll generally find that that is its name - the Box Jellyfish or the Stone Fish, for example. Nowhere is this gloriously Australian literalness more evident than in "Townsville" - do they have, I wondered, "Road Street" or "Trees Forest"? The second reason I was keen on Townsville came about on a train from Euston to Milton Keynes a few months ago. Please don't ask me what I was doing on a train from Euston to Milton Keynes, because then I will have to admit that I was on my way to a Take That concert (which was entirely brilliant, by the way.) My sister, her friend, and I were discussing my impending Australia trip, rather loudly it seemed, because all of a sudden a girl popped her head over our row of seats and asked which one of us was going to Australia. Slightly apprehensively, I raised my hand which probably wasn't necessary. Immediately, she grinned and handed me a piece of paper with her email address on it - she came from Townsville, it transpired, and if I had any questions or needed help while I was in the area, I was to email her. So you can understand why I was keen to see a place that raised such a ridiculously, randomly nice person. And had a slightly ridiculous name.

The drive there threw up another surprise about Australia. I had imagined this road trip to be not unlike a North American road trip, in that I would spend most of my time on the vast highways that streak across the country at speed. The kind of highways that are so much an entity unto themselves that you observe the landscape and communities that you pass from a distance - almost as though there is an invisible protective tube around the road, outside of which Technicolor two dimensional images play just for the distraction of the driver. In order to actually experience the area through which you are passing, you have to exit the highway and enter the scenery - a bit like in Mary Poppins when they jump into Bert's drawings. In Australia however, you are right in and amongst the supercalafragilisticness of all the surroundings have to offer the entire time. The Bruce Highway in Northern Queensland isn't what I'd term a highway at all, but a road - two lanes, often bumpy and potholed, riddled with roundabouts and little towns; often you get stuck behind a tractor without a straight enough stretch to overtake for tens of kilometres - and this is the main, indeed the only, road going south through the State. The tropical, rainforest feeling of Cairns melts away pretty quickly and the vegetation around the road is the sort of desperate, only-just green that suggests it is nothing more than a brief drought away from drying up entirely. My Australian friend pointed out to us the scorched remains of banana plantations following a bush fire last summer, and, as we passed through the little town of Ingram, tarpaulins where roofs should be were testament to a recent, devastating, cyclone. Tough place.

The Townsville concert, as I have already said, was incredible. Years as an INXS fan: 23. Flight to Australia: 10600 miles and much, much money. Reading about myself in a Cairns newspaper: slightly mortifying. Finally catching my first drumstick: priceless. Actually, that's a lie - I didn't catch it at all. I probably couldn't catch a drum kit if it was thrown at me, so the stick was given to me by the brilliant Tony, the bloke in charge of protecting INXS from, err, people like me. Oddly enough, he also - equally deliberately - gave a drum stick to one of the Melbourne Girls - probably the only Jon fan in that crowd to rival me. When she and I realized this, hours and many vodkas later that night, we became a little frightened. How exactly, does Tony look out over a sea of 5000 faces and know exactly who to specifically hand the drum sticks to? We think he's magic.

I might have danced around with my drum stick for the rest of the night. I may have used it like a magic wand to futilely command slightly disconcerted people in the casino to dance. It is possible that I threatened the girl who tried to wrench it off me that I'd brain her with it if she didn't let go ("… and in other news this evening, the police have revealed that the murder weapon was inscribed with the name J Farriss…") It is not beyond the realms of possibility that at 8am the following morning, when my friend and I emerged from the lifts in the hotel - admittedly looking somewhat the worse for wear following an ill advised ice fight in the wee hours - I was still clutching my drum stick leading the receptionist to stare with a look that was definitely primarily disapproving, but unquestionably tinged with curiosity.

So, armed with a stonking hangover and a drum stick, I headed south.

The Best Live Band in the World. Ever. Fact.

The Kuranda Ampitheatre is almost ridiculously stunning; in two words: tropical paradise. The steep winding road that leads to it through lush, exotic rainforest could be described, if I were to be utterly cheesy, which I will be for the minute - as a climb to heaven. Up and up and up until finally you reach the tiny town of Kuranda. Just slightly out of town again, the ampitheatre, nestled amongst palm trees and under an almost fantastical starry sky. The last word in 5 star sophistication it 'aint - I learned much, much later that evening that there was a snake in one of the loos and had I known that at the time it might have been 'bollocks to INXS I am off' but as I was blissfully unaware I remain enamoured of the ruggedness of the venue. We had planned to arrive early and spend a little time exploring Kuranda, but thanks to the surprisingly wind-y drive and complicated parking situation, we arrived at the venue just a few minutes before the doors opened so figured we might as well wait. From where we stood, bouncing excitedly like two year olds (okay, that was mostly me) we could hear the tail end of the sound check - Perfect Strangers if we are going to be detail oriented about it. I won't deny that PS isn't my favourite song on Switch, but, as always with this band, you have to hear it live before you judge and even the snatches that floated out to us bouncing under the palm trees by the gate sounded great. Moments later the gate was opened and we shot with such abandon in the direction of the stage that I tripped and skidded on the grassy steepness and got my feet splattered in mud - honestly, my sophistication at times intimidates even me. However, risking life or at least sandals was worth it, as we made it without further drama to the very front of the barriers, directly in front of Kirk - which, as any experienced INXS concert goer will tell you, is the best place to me. You have a perfect view of Kirk, Andrew and Jon from there, and the other three move around enough that you can see them too. The warm up act, a local band called the Killer Beez, were absolutely fantastic - lively, funky sound, kind of a fusion of acoustic and electric with a driving beat, and a lovely drummer. What can I say, I am a sucker for a band with an edible drummer, and as they didn't appear to be selling any CDs at the concert, will be hunting online as soon as I have left the country with the crazily expensive internet cafes.

I have never managed to get over that Christmas morning, heart thumping, first date, light headed feel at the thought that INXS will momentarily be playing music right in front of me. I've often thought that the powers that be could test cars or houses for ability to withstand hurricanes (or cyclones down here) by putting them in front of INXS playing live. Whether it is from the back of Wembley Arena or the front row of the Kuranda Ampitheatre, the sheer blast of energy that blares from the stage is... well I wouldn't dream of condoning or suggesting experience with any illicit substance, but let's say that at $72AUS it is the best value high I can think of. There was no countdown due to there being no curtain, so the first inkling I had of the show's imminent start was the sight of Jon Farriss - in a sparkly shirt- wandering on stage in the direction of the drumkit. I clutched my friend's arm and squealed like a punctured helium balloon "itsjonitsjonitsjon", she confirmed that yes it was indeed Jon, and suddenly they were all there: Kirk just feet in front of me in embroidered shirt and characteristically funky shoes; Andrew in surprisingly un-startlingly white trainers, the unobtrusive genius lost in the music at the back; Tim sadly still sporting the pornstache and a fitted white shirt, flirting his face off; Garry in the pleasantly fitted although unfortunately coloured brown trousers, and who could forget the young'un. All in black with a pink tie, J.D. shot on stage like a lanky-long-legged cannon ball as the lights exploded and Suicide Blonde threatened to blow the tops off the palm trees. The crowd roared and we were off. JD seemed to be having some trouble with his earpiece, and even had to dash off to the side of the stage (without missing a note) to have someone help him re-attach it - when he danced back on, Garry chuckled and rolled his eyes. Speaking of JD's dancing, holy fuck can that boy move. Every limb, almost every muscle appeared to have a life of its own and those shimmying hips can make a girl come over all unnecessary ;) His voice is out this world - I hadn't fully appreciated just how ill he was in Vegas until I heard him at full blast on Friday, the power and note perfection, creativity and sheer sex puts him unquestionably in the league of some of the greatest rock voices of all time. And the band? The band were on fire. I don't think that anything has taken a beating like those drums since the last time Scotland played an international football match, the funky blast of the saxophone had me weak at the knees and nearly shot half way to Fiji at the same time, the fucking riffs just about started an earthquake and I felt the driving rhythm of the bass and maracas in places I don't care to mention since my parents might read this.

I have speculated before why on earth it should be that these blokes invoke such an emotional attachment, and I have yet to come up with an answer. I knew that JD was the man for the job, ironically enough, when I caught the tail end of We are the Champions. If one of the others had turned in a rubbish performance, I might have thought "that's a shame for them, oh well" but JD? I was gutted for him. Absolutely gutted - I had to switch off the tv and hide behind the sofa. In contrast, the utter joy that the band clearly felt on Friday, not to mention the evident affection between them was heart exploding and most certainly infectious. As usual, the individual songs blurred into a kaleidoscope of INXSyness, but I do - just about - remember that Mystify was especially brilliant, the crowd sang along to every word; Afterglow was stunningly powerful; I once described Hungry as being structured like a female orgasm and let's just say it didn't disappoint; Never Let You Go is absolutely hypnotic... Need You Tonight was phenomenal, actually being able to watch the famous 'dun dun dun...' bit being played just feet from my face, I don't think I took my eyes off Kirk's fingers the entire song - except to briefly watch Tim and JD doing their daft 'slide over here' dance; By My Side just heart wrenching; if I mention Taste It I will have to go and have a little lie down at the sheer thought of it; and the entire encore was like the finale of a fireworks display - an absolute array of brilliant hit after brilliant hit. Never Tear Us Apart... I honestly have no words. The power and emotion of that song, especially in the context of their having been torn apart and now re-complete, plus the sheer fact that it is such a Hutch anthem... I have most certainly over used the word 'stunning' here, but that is the only one that fits. Garry came over to our side at the beginning of the song, and stood mouthing the words to the crowd. He touched his heart, blew us a kiss; it was such a treat to see such a genuine and heartfelt moment close up.

The one thought my scrambled and spent brain could manage as we wound our way back down the mountain was that there was no way that Townsville could compete. That was it; that was the INXS performance and I while I was thrilled at the thought of getting to do it all over again the following night, I wondered if it might take fractionally away from the ultimate-ness of Kuranda to see a second show which just couldn't possibly be on the same level. INXS, I owe you an apology for that fleeting thought - Townsville was all of the above, and more. In a more normal, small arena setting, I realized that a part of the energy of the night before must have actually escaped above to the stars, but in Townsville, it hit the ceiling, bounced back down and exploded in the crowd. I can't honestly remember when I was last in the midst of such a rabid, sweaty, captivated crowd; being bashed about from all directions almost like being battered around by the sea after wiping out following a tragic attempt at surfing; threatening to drown the band out with our roars - not that they weren't up to the challenge of competing with us; and again all being 100% in the palm of one very capable Canadian hand. Had JD chosen to mildly suggest we all stand on our heads and do an upside down frog dance wearing only one shoe, the stampede that would have ensued would have threatened to bring the Townsville Entertainment Centre to a pathetic pile of rubble. Despite partaking in a beverage or two at the casino across the road before the show, we still managed to make it back in time to hit the barrier - so poor Kirk had to put up with my goofy grin right in front of him for a second night running.

Well, that is my vain attempt at describing what cannot be captured in mere words. It was phenomenal; pure and simple. The only worry is, that if they continue like this, by Brisbane - not to mention London in just a few weeks - they will just walk on stage, the crowd will immediately combust, and that will be it.

Down Under the Sea

Down Under the Sea
One of the - many, sorry mum I am falling in love! - things I am loving about Australia is how so much is exactly how I had imagined it. The immense blue sky, swaying palm trees, low pastel coloured buildings and plethora of disorientated backpackers on every corner is so exactly the Cairns of my mind's eye that it is almost startling to be here, amongst it. I almost want to reach out and touch it to make sure that it is real, but one disgruntled backpacker soon cured me of that particular urge ;)
I love that, unlike us Scots who have never, in my experience, uttered an "och aye the noo" unless taking the piss, people here genuinely employ "g'day" and "no worries" in every day conversation. I have even been called "doll" on a couple of occasions (still no "flaming gallah" sadly.) This afternoon, as I lay in indulgent bliss by the lagoon reading my book, I even got to listen to an old man playing a didgeridoo. And yes, of course he may well have been cynically pandering to the gathered tourists, but the effect was the same for me. What can I say, I am easily pleased.
No mind's eye or immagination, however, could fully have prepared me for the Great Barrier Reef. Because it is exactly as it appears in books and magazines and nature programs - but so much more so it literally is astonishing. Yesterday at the soul-destroying hour of 6.30am I rose and crept out of the hostel dormitory, congratulating myself for maturely resisting temptation to wreak revenge on my very entertaining but bloody noisy roommates, and headed down to the quay. Once on the smallish boat - there were about 20 of us - with the sun just finishing its ascent into the almost gleaming blue sky, and the sea breeze providing pleasant respite to North Queensland's current winter heatwave, I nursed a welcome cup of tea and thought to myself that life doesn't get much better than this.
A thought I had to take back when, an hour or so later, we pulled up at our first destination: a tiny island some 20 miles off the coast which serves as a bird sanctuary for over 20,000 birds - they swarm almost disconcertingly insect-like above the beach - and the site of my first snorkelling experience. The guide chucked some food in the water in order to show for us some of the fish that we were likely to encounter once we joined them in the water. I won't deny that I was slightly apprehensive at the sheer size of them - at least a couple could have swallowed my arm whole, had they chosen to. From above the water they looked pretty, colourful, interesting, and the coral shapes murkily outlined below certainly intriguing. However, the view from above the water did not begin to hint at the other world that awaited us once we jumped off the boat. The sight that greeted us - coral in sandy peach, fiery orange, deep purple, and electric blue, silver, black and yellow striped fish in all shapes and sizes; some darting around, some leisurely picking at the coral, some moseying through the water as if on a Sunday walk, a brave few investigating the silly looking people who were gawking at them - was nothing short of breathtaking. There is something peculiarly isolating about snorkelling - while I could almost always see a swimmer from my group bobbing around as I was, the silence below the surface - save for my own Darth Vader-like breathing - gives the impression of being totally alone, and also not entirely present. Maybe it's the sheer weirdness of the sight, so far removed from the more solid world we're used to on land, that gives the experience a surreal, hypnotically trippy, feel.
After an hour and a half, it was back to the boat for some lunch as we headed out to our second location - the outer reef, 40 miles from the shore. While I'd been entirely comfortable in the water during the first dive, I have to admit to being somewhat... disconcerted to jump into the sea when there was no visible land. And once I was in, to look down and realize that I couldn't see the bottom. This time, the inexperienced snorkellers were led by the guide. She stopped to point out giant clams - ginormous shell like creatures with a deep purple, velvety inside - and invite us to dive down and stick our hands in it to make it defensively close. Which didn't sound like the cleverest idea to me - fond as I am of possessing all ten digits - but I am a sucker for suggestion and am glad to report that even closed, a giant clam boasts plenty of room for a human hand to be withdrawn. We also met slimy sea cucumbers and a giant fish who goes by the name of Wally. Bizarrely enough, I returned from the trip to see an email from my sister, who dived at the Barrier Reef a few years ago, telling me to look out for Wally. Nice to know that he's getting to know the whole family.
We swam past the area which we'd been told was the best place to see reef sharks, and I still couldn't tell you whether I am truly relieved or disappointed that there were none! Our guide did point out the very edge of the reef, around 100 metres away, where the sea bed fell off with cliff-like sharpness into ocean proper, and mentioned that that was where the "big boys hung out." A few minutes later when I cut my leg on some coral, I did pause to wonder just how quickly those "big boys" might traverse the 100 metres if they got a sniff of blood. It seems that they weren't peckish for Scot so I made it back to the boat. It was at that point, as we headed back for the distant shore, again enjoying the breeze and the sun, my mind reeling from all I'd seen - and yes, I was nursing another cup of tea - that I thought to myself that life doesn't get much better than this.
Which I had to take back a few minutes later, when someone at the front of the boat called everyone's attention to a black dot on the horizon. Within moments we'd all clambered out on to the outside of the railings at the front of the boat to watch as three Humpback Whales approached us. Suddenly it was party time off the coast of Cairns, as a handful of Minke Whales and numerous dolphins appeared and the surface of the sea was awash with black dots, some close enough to make out the shape of the mammal, others only discernable by the wooshing spray of water above them. We all watched in silence and - for my part, at least - something approaching awe at these awesome - in the original sense - creatures in their natural habitat. Somehow, because we weren't on an official 'whale watch' it was even more of a treat to happen upon them.