Whilst recently getting my daily intravenous shot of UK news, I was slightly perplexed to notice that the government will shortly be repealing the 24-hour licensing laws and stopping pubs from serving alcohol round the clock. Perplexed because I never came across a single pub that was open 24 hours. Not one. Not only did I never stumble across (or indeed out of) one but I don’t know of anyone else who found one of these, presumably, mythical establishments. Was the whole thing an elaborate practical joke by New Labour or, more likely, a tool to divert our attention away from the latest catastrophic military intervention that we were embarking on? I think we should be told.
Things are very different in Sydney, however – 24-hour drinking is very much a part of the social scene here. There are some variations from council to council but I can guarantee that, if you are anywhere in central Sydney at any time of the day, you are never more than fifteen minutes away from a cold one. How good is that? Very is the answer you’re looking for. It has to be pointed out that this liberal attitude (a surprisingly rare thing in Australia) to licensing does come at a cost namely zealotry from bouncers on an unprecedented scale. In no particular order, these are some of my favourite denials from bouncers in Sydney:
“Not tonight boys, you look like you’ve had a few too manyâ€. This was said at 8PM on a Saturday evening when the people on the receiving end of the denial had had literally nothing to drink.
“Only three of you can come inâ€. This was aimed at a group of four but, bizarrely, the bouncer refused to identify which one of us was persona non grata. Admittedly this was at 2AM on a Tuesday so probably for the best that we were refused.
“Had a drink have we boys?â€Â This was stated at 1AM on a Friday night to which the appropriate answer would be “No you fucking knucklehead, I’ve obviously been sitting at home sipping apple juice all evening before lowering ourselves to visit your dingy little cess pitâ€. Clearly the recipient of that denial didn’t take the opportunity to deliver that line though or I doubt he would have lived to tell me the tale.
To be fair though, unless you happen to encounter a particularly idiotic bouncer (which, lets face it, are a global phenomenon) and you always carry your ID (even I, in the autumn years of my youth, have been ID’d on a number of occasions here), you are sure to be able to get a drink somewhere at 5AM on a Wednesday which can only be a good thing.
Attractive, leafy suburban roads lead down to the centre piece i.e. the beach which is every bit as astounding in real life as you would imagine; a kilometre of golden sand looking out on the Tasman Sea with spectacular (and spectacularly expensive) apartments gazing down on it at either end. As you would imagine there is a huge surf culture here and the wet-suit clad lunatics can be seen at all times and in all conditions doing battle with some ferocious looking waves. I have to confess that I haven’t exposed my near-translucent skin to either the surf or the beach as yet but will have to endure the laughter of the locals at some point I suppose.
It’s been a while since I updated you on my Antipodean activities and, knowing how you all worry, I thought it only right to fill you in on the latest on my life down under. At the end of my last report I was happily working for a web hosting company, the weather was absolutely appalling and Fabio Capello was a coaching genius about to make our team of underachieving multi-millionaires finally deliver at a major tournament. How quickly things can change.
Where to start? Being English I suppose the natural choice is the weather and firstly I have to apologise for and, embarrassingly, withdraw my previous statement that the ‘Australian winter is not much better than ours’. By way of mitigation that comment was written in the midst of Sydney’s wettest May for seven years (I was delighted that I was able to witness that particular record being set) but things have greatly improved since then. It’s still very much the middle of winter here and you often see the Australians heading to work wrapped up in gloves, hats and scarves but I would class it as being the equivalent of a decent British spring – by no means scorching but some very pleasant days with temperatures around the twenties.  Sydney reputedly has 315 days of sunshine per year – just as well seeing as their city literally grinds to a halt at the first sight of rain – and I can well believe that having experienced the ‘depths’ of their winter.
Amusingly Waverley Council (which covers the Bondi area) has tried to capture some of the seasonal spirit with a special winter festival on Bondi Beach – lucky attendees can (for
Ice skating on Bondi Beach
a, naturally, exorbitant price) drink mulled wine, eat Sauerkraut and even ice skate surrounded by a traditional Alpine-style snow scene complete with log cabin. There’s only one minor problem with this otherwise impressive display – it’s not bloody cold! It’s not even close to being cold! I have to admit that skating on an ice rink that overlooks a beach bathed in beautiful sunshine and an ocean reflecting a glorious blue sky does have an enjoyably surreal feel though.
Other than my heroic, Christopher Dean-like efforts around the Bondi ice skating rink the big sporting talking point of the summer (or winter) has obviously been the World Cup. I was slightly concerned, prior to my arrival, that the coverage here would be extremely limited (if non-existent) but I need not have worried – SBS provided pretty much continuously rolling coverage for the duration of the tournament although the standard of commentary and punditry was not the most inspiring; their chief commentator made Clive Tydlesley sound like Kenneth Wolstenhome.
As for the natives, the Australians surprised me with their level of interest and passion for the game which continued even after their national team, the Socceroos, were despatched in the group stages. As a side note – is there a worse nickname in world sport (let alone football) than the Socceroos?   I can’t decide if it makes them sound more like an under-ten tiddly-wink team or a gaggle (if that’s the right plural) of cheerleaders. Nonetheless the majority of the Aussies seem genuinely interested in the football although I can’t imagine that it will ever overtake rugby, cricket and AFL (in the more southern states) in terms of popularity any time soon..
Unfortunately the fact that Sydney is eight hours in front of South Africa did somewhat cloud my enjoyment of the World Cup; it was something of a novelty at the beginning of the tournament to get up at or, more likely, stay up until 4.30AM to catch a game but that initial excitement soon wore off, especially considering the horror show that England were producing and I was almost relieved when the tournament ended and I was able to resume something of a normal sleep pattern.
As a footnote to the World Cup, I must give props to our landlord who went well beyond the call of duty when summoned to our flat at 5.30AM to remedy a power cut that occurred during half time of the England-USA game. In hindsight the decision to run three heaters, the TV, the stereo, and every conceivable light simultaneously was perhaps not a wise one in our prehistoric flat and the fateful decision to attempt a half time cup of tea and slice of toast proved too much for our antiquated wiring, plunging the entire flat into darkness. Luckily our Landlord is also a football fan and took our pleas to come round and fiddle with our switchboard to restore the electricity in good grace.
He was less sympathetic, however, when I made exactly the same mistake during the Germany-Argentina quarter final and pretended not to hear his phone on that occasion. Understandable really I suppose.
Aside from the footballing festivities I have managed to undertake a few trips in the New South Wales area and plan a whole lot more – some local, some further afield.
First up was a three hour train trip north to Newcastle accompanied by Cameron. I won’t waste too much of your time on this particular excursion, needless to say if Australia ever get round to producing a version of the UK’s ‘Crap Towns’ book, Newcastle will be a worthy entry. The main reason for the journey was to check out the local beach so, naturally, it pissed down the day we went there. Newcastle, like Sydney in truth, is very much a summer town: When the rain starts to fall there isn’t a huge amount to do and we were forced to retreat to a wildlife park which at least afforded me the chance to take a few obligatory Koala pictures before heading home.
More successful was our road trip up to Hunter Valley - a huge wine region about a two hour drive north of Sydney and a five hour drunken drive back (that’s a joke by the way Mum). Carly and I were fortunate enough to be chauffeured around for the day by my housemate Greig who was generous (and foolish) enough to agree to ferry two inebriated idiots around. I did agree to drive up there, a decision that I was beginning to regret when the engine of our hire car started making some alarming noises on the motorway after about an hour of driving. Carly then helpfully pointed out that I had in fact driven the first hundred kilometres stuck in third gear (it was an automatic if that is any sort of defence).
Damaged transmission aside, we reached Hunter Valley in one piece and it was a worthwhile journey. The scenery is absolutely astounding – valleys covered with
Carly and Greig on their way to taking to taking the piss in another winery
vineyards as far as you can see enclosed by a stunning mountain range. There are literally hundreds of wineries to choose from all of which are happy to provide free samples to prospective buyers so we spent the day travelling from vineyard to vineyard pretending to be interested in buying their wares before inevitably disappointing the winemaker and leaving with nothing more than a slightly rosier complexion.
In fairness there were some excellent wines on offer and the winemakers were generally friendly although my observation that one particular Cabernet Sauvignon tasted like “burnt hair†was not altogether warmly received – it was met with the first (and surprisingly last) “get out†of the day.
It was a hugely enjoyable day out though and the alcohol, doubtless combined with some lingering sense of guilt at taking so many free samples led me to buy some cheese which I
Giving the $22 cheese the respect it deserves
convinced myself was the finest I had ever tasted. The fact that it tastes slightly average on reflection combined with the fact is cost $22 suggests that I didn’t make the decision with an entirely clear head but at least I had some sort of souvenir of the trip, other than a pounding headache the next day.
The next weekend Carly, Greig, Pete and I travelled north again – three hours up to Port Stephens. Port Stephens is basically a seaside resort but is surrounded by some spectacular sand dunes which are the largest of their type in the southern hemisphere, fact fans, and are in constant motion, moving inwards at a rate of about ten metres per year.
There are a number of activities that you can indulge on the dunes and first up we had a go at sandboarding which basically involves hurtling down the dunes on a glorified tin tray. We were driven to the top of a large dune in a four wheel drive vehicle where we were met by Brad from Neighbours who would be supervising our efforts that day. Obviously it wasn’t the Brad from Neighbours but if you imagine the stereotypical bleach blonde, outdoors-type Aussie bloke and you are just about there. Standing at the top of the dune with some trepidation I asked Brad if there were ever any broken arms or legs suffered on this particular run. “No†he replied, comfortingly. “A few collar bones thoughâ€.
With Brad’s reassuring words ringing in my ears I began the first of many ill-fated attempts to actually stay on the board until the bottom of the dune. I’ll save you the humiliating details but I can safely add sandboarding on to the list of outdoor activities that I am no good at. All good fun though but with the inevitable consequence that I ended up literally covered in sand and I was still finding sand in places where I didn’t even know I had places for days afterwards.
As it is currently off-season we were able to afford to stay in a pretty luxurious resort which came complete with gym, steam room, a huge swimming pool that circled the entire
Living the High Life in Port Stephens
resort and hot tub. We headed to the hot tub on our return to the hotel and I would like to tell you that we sat in the hot tub all evening drinking lager and recounting the day’s excitement. In reality we sat in the hot tub for five minutes before a security guard kicked us out but at least the thought was there.
The hotel room also featured excellent cooking facilities which was a major result as the standard of cuisine in Port Stephens is not the highest; again I will save you the details but serving up Smash instead of mashed potato and tomato puree instead of a salsa is surely a firing-squad offence for any chef? Luckily Carly cooked us a fine roast dinner – my first in three months and something that the English will always do better than the Australians I think. After a few dozen beers we retired to bed, still slightly aching but content with the day’s activities.
The next day’s sand-based activity was quad biking across the dunes, something I have not tried before but will certainly be doing again. It’s certainly not cheap – $90 for an hour – but worth every cent in my opinion. It takes a little while to get your confidence up but once you get the hang of the bike it’s enormous fun and you soon find yourself hacking along the dunes at 70KM/H with ease. The landscape is extremely surreal; we would negotiate up a 100ft sand dune and, when reaching the top, find ourselves looking across an alien landscape with nothing but sand and blue sky as far as you could see. It was amazing to think that you were literally a few kilometres from a reasonable sized town when, to all intents and purposes, you could have been in the middle of the Sahara.
The hour flew by and we were soon heading back to the town for a final culinary atrocity before returning to Sydney. This time not only was the food crap, the waiter surly and the bill extortionate but the for some reason the restaurant was playing ‘Stand By Me’ by Ben E. King on a seemingly endless loop – we heard it at least five times whilst sitting there. A recipe for insanity if ever there was one. Self-catering is definitely the way forward in Port Stephens.
That’s pretty much it for this instalment but just to tie up a couple of loose ends: I am working again after quitting the first horrific telesales job that I rashly took as soon as I got here. I’m now doing Sales Co-Ordination for a ATM company called First Data, a pretty easy job and the company is excellent – I’ve been there a month and have been out on three (all expense paid) drinks already. I’m only contracted until the start of September but I’m desperately hoping that they extend my stay there for a couple of extra months – and not just for the free alcohol.
The past month has also seen a blitz of trip-booking:  I have weekends away in Melbourne and Brisbane planned in September and October to see friends and from November onwards, the fun really begins. First up I have three nights in Los Angeles with Carly before driving to Las Vegas for my cousin Simon’s wedding. We stay there for five days before returning to Sydney for a couple of days and then I am off to New Zealand for a month with my other cousin Paul and his girlfriend, Lou.  We then return to Sydney and hire a camper van to drive up the east coast to Brisbane over nine days and spend Christmas with friends before flying to Thailand on Boxing Day to catch up with some mates for three weeks of debauchery. From Thailand I’m then off to China to stay with another friend who lives in Shanghai before retuning to Sydney around the end of January. Jealous?
After an action-packed, all-too-short stay in Hong Kong, I found myself boarding a Qantas flight bound for Sydney. Once again the flight was remarkably smooth although the greeting at Sydney airport was slightly less hospitable than I would have liked: – I had to endure no less than four separate inquisitions by various customs and immigration officials, part of which involved the ignominy of emptying out my entire suitcase although I did have a chuckle to myself at the customs officer who spent a few minutes rummaging through my dirty laundry bag.
After managing to convince my interrogators that I was not involved in international drug smuggling, nor was I intending to introduce some new, potentially toxic species of flora or fauna to the Australian environment I jumped into a taxi and headed for my hostel.
My accommodation was located in a peaceful and attractive suburb of Sydney called Glebe. Think of a quieter version of Fulham or Putney and you are just about there. I ended up sharing a dormitory with an American and a Frenchman (I know what you’re thinking but they were actually alright). Rather childishly, I was amused to find out that the American guy was called Cameron Camp the Fourth. Little things please little minds and all that. Through Cameron I also met a Belgian and a Scot (I know what you’re thinking but ditto) and we all ended up exploring the city together.
Sydney has much to offer the visitor – the stunning architecture of the Harbour Bridge, the iconic Opera House, the majestic Blue Mountains but obviously we ignored all that in favour of spending the next couple of weeks staggering from one pub to the next with the odd trip to the beach for recuperation. Good times though and I’ve become quite an authority on the various lagers available in Sydney.
Peter, Greig and Cameron Camp IV - another wholesome night out.
As much fun as it was, it soon became apparent that spending every night in the pub was unsustainable both financially and physically. My intention was always to start work in Australia as soon as possible and after hearing mixed reports about the strength of the employment market here I decided to start applying for jobs straight away.  I figured that it would take a while to find something suitable thus giving me a bit more time for relaxation and exploration of Sydney. As fate would have it I ended up getting the first job that I applied for – a sales job for a web design company.
It was clear from my interview that I had wasted valuable space in my suitcase by including a suit and five shirts – I turned up at their office wearing my freshly dry-cleaned outfit only to be greeted by the sales director who was wearing shorts and flip-flops. Nobody does casual like the Australians.
The following week I escaped from the hostel by moving into a flat with the Belgian (Pete) and the Scot (Greig). Our flat is nice and modern or certainly was in 1971 when it appears that it was last decorated but is literally five minutes walk from Bondi Beach which makes up for a great deal. Location, location, location indeed.
I’ve pretty much settled into a normal work/life balance now which, whilst good for my sense of routine, would make pretty tedious copy so I thought I would try and bulk out the rest of this despatch with a few random observations I have made during my short time in Australia:
The Aussies absolutely love a gamble. New South Wales has ten per cent of the world’s poker machines (‘pokies’ as the natives call them) and they are completely ubiquitous in all the pubs. I even noticed that one bar’s smoking area featured an outdoor pokie area, just so you can keep feeding the ridiculous machines whilst lighting up. If they aren’t playing the pokies, they find something else to gamble on – most of the pubs have a built in TAB (bookmakers). Betting whilst drunk – what could possibly go wrong?
They shorten every possible word i.e. Pokie (as above), Bikie (for biker), Garbo (for garbage man) and Pommy Twat (for Richard – not much of a shortening but it still seems popular here). Their use of language is also extremely slangy and their journalistic standards sometimes leave something to be desired – one paper I saw described an Australian footballer’s disbelief of the extent of Michael Ballack’s injury with the headline ‘Ballack’s Talking Bollocks’. I kid you not.
The standard of television is disgraceful and as we have yet to have the internet connected at our flat, I’ve had to endure quite a lot of it. This may not sound particularly surprising for a country whose major contribution to the genre is Neighbours but you really need to experience how epically awful it is to believe it. Literally every show is imported from the UK or the US and they don’t even import the good stuff – The Bill anyone? Didn’t think so.
They are massively into their sport; unfortunately their sport is also bloody awful. Actually that is a bit unfair as I have got into the AFL (Australian Rules Football) a bit since I’ve been here but it’s difficult to take a game seriously where a final score can be 155 – 83.  The World Cup has been getting a lot of coverage though but it will be interesting to see how long that interest lasts when they get knocked out in the group stage (or, better still, by England in the second round) especially as most of the games will be kicking off at around 5AM Sydney time.
They lack creativity when thinking up place names here – Oxford Street, Hyde Park, Kings Cross, Guildford, Brighton, Ramsgate, Greenwich and Woolwich are all featured in Sydney. That said, when left to their own devices the Australians have managed to conjour up atrocities such as Wollongong and Wolloomooloo which sound more like nefarious creatures from a Roald Dahl novel e.g.
Charlie: “Why did you have to rescue the Oompa Loompas Mister Wonka?â€
Wonka: “Because their homeland is a dangerous place full of deadly beasts – Oompa Loompas are no match for the fearsome Wollongong and the terryifying Woolloomoolooâ€.
Anyway, I digress.
Their winter isn’t much better than ours. Somewhat stupidly I announced on the Facebook invitation for my leaving drink that I would be leaving England ‘and it’s never-ending winter behind for sunnier climes’. Typically, after a couple of weeks of glorious sunshine when I first got here, the weather has been relentlessly terrible. Not as cold as an English winter but certainly as wet, there have even been some flash floods in Sydney since I’ve been here. Naturally I have been blamed by every Aussie I have spoken to for bringing the British weather with me.
It may sound like there are a few complaints in the above comments but would you expect anything less from a whinging pom? Seriously though, Sydney is a great city. It’s enormously picturesque in places, the people are much friendlier than Londoners (not difficult, admittedly) and I love the fact that I look out on Bondi Beach and the Pacific Ocean when I wait for the bus to work.
I’ve no idea how long I will stay but I’m fairly settled at the moment and it certainly wouldn’t be right to leave without experiencing a few months of the Australian summer.  The job will be providing some much needed income (as well as keeping me out of the pub) but I can’t imagine it being a long-term proposition. We shall see how it pans out – after all I had no idea a few months ago that I would be sitting in a flat straight from the George and Mildred set on the other side of the world writing this – but there is certainly a lot more to see and do before I even consider the return flight.
