Thank you to everyone for the texts, tweets and emails. Being a Luton Town fan, for the most part, is no fun. Then every so often, when you least expect it, something absolutely, indescribably wonderful happens.

It’s mid-morning in the hostel, residents rummage around for something approaching backpacker breakfast. The sun’s beating down outside. The fog is clearing. It clears quicker with the news.

Luton Town 1 Wolverhampton Wanderers 0

Unbelievable Jeff!

Last week I parted, reticently and rather sourly, with thirty-five Australian dollars to be led by a scruffy man in a silly hat a merry dance around the streets of Melbourne to look mainly at street art and the interior of a bank. As you’ll see from the inherent bitterness filtering all the way through that last sentence, the wound is still raw.

Yesterday went some way to repairing that damage. China’s pal Bets has a job interview for a nanny for a young couple who live between Coogee and Bondi beaches. Meeting Bets at Coogee Beach and equipping myself for the hike ahead as only the thinking man’s triathlete can, via the energising powers of a lamb & rosemary pie* washed down with a pot of Earl Grey, I’m ready for the six kilometre trek.

Bets has spent a bit of time in Sydney so acts as our tour guide and is delightful company. The walk takes us from the understated loveliness of Coogee Beach, where every square inch of sand or grass bank has been settled on slovenly by variations of slowly roasting human flesh, along an undulating coastal path to one of this country’s signature sights and a Mecca for anyone who’s ever bought a pair of Billabongs.
The blazing mid-afternoon sun means it’s as hot as Isa Guha while the route is more hilly than three people who spent the previous night in an Irish Bar would reasonably like it to be. The pathway meanders through Clovelly, Bronte and Tamarama, all teeming with locals and tourists politely jostling for surf space, while the piercing effervescent sea and its gentle breeze prove the perfect antidote to the heat.

We head for some shade while Bets speaks to her new employers. China takes a dip in the sea as bronzed, shirtless muscle bound all-Aussie kinda guy approaches me. “Aw look mate, I’m not being gay or anything but can you spray some lotion on my back?” He’s big, real big. Probably a prop forward for Cronulla Sharks. Or a lifeguard. Or a male stripper. Not being gay? You couldn’t get more gay if he’d have minced up with Kenneth Williams on his arm asking if I fancied making up a threesome for the matinee performance of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.
I’m either getting punched or, indeed, fisted if I refuse, so to China’s great amusement and badly muffled giggling, I apply, as manfully as is possible when asked to perform such a request, the aforementioned spray. I make quite a good job of it as it happens, though luckily Bets returns from her interview in the nick of time and we make a sharp exit before the budgie smugglers come out. On the final stretch we pass Waverley Cemetry, a vast expanse of head stones and tributes overlooking the Tasman Sea that marks the dead centre of our walk.

Sorry.

Reaching Bondi we look around for something to eat, but decide, due to the vastness of the crowds and menu prices to head back to town. On the bus back, I watch on hopefully as a dozen or so tanned lovelies saunter past to find seating at the back of the vehicle. The unoccupied seat next to me is eventually taken by Johnny Vegas’s Bogan brother.
More badly muffled giggling from China.

Feeling like we’ve earned it, we head to George Street for a McScruffy’s steak & chips (Hello Jim!) but our tour of Sydney enters its second leg. Bets needs her baggage transporting from her hotel to the bus stop, a further four kilometres stroll around the city. As gentlemen, it’s the least we can do as a thank you for an enjoyable day. And this time we don’t get charged thirty-five bucks for the privilege….

*Pie-Day Friday Five Word Review: Probably not worth a review.

P.S. Where’s Wally? Scan the beach scene above to find the guy doing press ups in the middle of the beach.
“1001, 1002, 1003…. Oh-h, it’s the deep burn! Oh, it’s so deep! Oh, I can barely lift my right arm ’cause I did so many. I don’t know if you heard me counting, I did over a thousand.”

Knobhead.

Look…..

This cost me $1.

You can get them for your local Sydney Seven-Eleven.

It’s good coffee. Well, I mean, it’s not great, but it knocks that rubbish they give you at Costa or Starbucks into a cocked hat.

At last. A consumer win for the away team.

Whinging Pom, me? Abso-blooming-lutely.

Eagle-eyed readers among you will note a recent post where I proclaimed to be giving up drink in January. Thanks to Dimush Karunaratne this all went horribly wrong.
Shame on me for blaming him, people who know me best will know there was absolutely no chance of me going through with that folly. I did actually do drink-free January once. I’m still apologising for it now. The boy Karunarane’s demise called time early on this year’s efforts. My 56 hour prohibition ended via mine and China’s resolution to have a drink, despite all our previous best intentions, at the fall of every wicket.

As it turned out, the first day of the Sydney Test Match was eventful. Not as much as the Melbourne one though. Aussie captain Michael Clarke’s strange decision to put the opposition in backfired as Sri Lanka lasted the whole day and were better value than the previous match ending on 294 all out. Australia look as though they are still unsure of their best pace attack with the Ashes just six months away and their plan to roll the opposition over went badly awry as Sri Lanka got stuck in.

Back to the Devil’s Brew though. Thankfully, there are better people than me on God’s earth, people with more resolve, heart, people that back their conviction and stick with it. Readers, we should celebrate these people and the good that they do. Step forward a pal of mine, Gareth. He is going the whole of January without a drink. He is going to make a difference. He is going to raise money for Cancer Research for going beer-less in January. I encourage you to donate the price of a pint to Gareth to help him in his quest. Please see the link below and get giving for this great cause.

http://www.justgiving.com/dryathlete-gareth-copley

Meanwhile, here’s a picture of me with one of of my heros.

The de la France 24/7 Boulangerie. As French as a hastily prepared ferry blockade yet staffed almost entirely by Chinese people, where George Street crosses Goulburn Street, Sydney. An unusual grip of homesickness has engulfed me, tinged with a certain sadness. One of my heroes, Sid Waddell passed away last year.

When you speak of the all time greats of sports commentary, very few could match Sid. Unparalleled for his peerless powers as a wordsmith, his unflagging passion for his pet sport and his ability to inform and entertain, the genial Geordie had it all. His passing last summer was a sad day for darts.

As I scrabble and scroll back and forth between Twitter, BBC Sport, emails, phone, books, there’s absolutely no doubt tonight’s PDC World Darts finalists are serving up an absolute treat.
Dear old Sid would’ve loved it. Michael van Gerwen, from the one of the now traditional outposts of darts, Holland has been in outstanding form throughout the competition. The future of the sport and a man for whom Sid would’ve been rolling out the well-worked one liners flies into an early lead, first two-nil then four-two. Phil Taylor, a Titan of the tungsten and the subject of some of the greatest Waddell-based commentary begins a fight back so typical of the great man.

I can’t see it nor hear it. There’s thrice as many people that will be lapping this up at Alexandra Palace that have walked past me, completely oblivious to another great day for this great sport happening on the other side of the world. Stony faced commuters at the end of their holidays, bronzed or burnt or both backpackers somewhere in between theirs. Efficient waitresses flit round with Lattes and Long Blacks. As the morning’s gone on, the swelling traffic has drowned out the Edith Piaf. Chase The Sun? Chase the bus more like.

Through my iPad I’m back home. Feet up in front of the fire, slippers on with a Glenmorangie (Hello Wiss!) in hand, looking towards the heavens as Taylor piles on the genius. Tweets and refreshed updates replace the looks of admiring disbelief from Dad and the brilliant Sky coverage from the Pally. Taylor hits back hard. From a perilous position of four-two down and the ‘darts is a young man’s game now’ platitudes doing the rounds, the grandad from Stoke on Trent, once again, prepares to amaze and inspire as only he can.
Four-two becomes four-three.
Four all. Brian Moore introduces me to a splendid new word on Twitter downplaying darts’ cynics and nay-sayers.
Four-five. We think we know what’s coming. Tweeting cricketers of all generations and abilities get behind the Stokie, the oft maligned Colin Murray is doing a great job in tandem with the live-blogger on the Beeb’s website.
Four-six. The young man, van Gerwen, judging by the commentaries, appears to be a broken man. Taylor’s experience and ability looks to have won him an unprecedented sixteenth world title.
Four-seven. Taylor’s trophy again. An outstanding achievement whatever your viewpoint on his sport. Van Gerwen’s time will come.

I well up at the mention of Sid’s name in the online post-final Taylor interview, a fellow tourist looks on quizzically. Lost in my memories and reminiscences I don’t bother to try and explain.
Sydney’s loss. Through Sidney I have gained.

Like something out of the Fosters ads, Jesse talks me through his cooking apparatus. Built by his father-in-law, the engine is an old windscreen wiper motor and powers the Heath Robinson like contraption. The chain looks as dated as the car the engine came from. The structure, a sparce, unforgiving looking device, looks like a warm up act for a Spanish Inquisition re-enactment society.

Debate ensues as to the best way of firing it up. A combination of everyone’s ideas does the job. The coals whiten invitingly. Then comes the lamb.

Jesse has been a busy boy. What looks like half of a Welshman’s conquest list appears on a giant skewer. The Caaaaald Ones come out. The route to midnight has started.
It’s just gone one.

The Caaaaald Ones continue to come out. The jokes get filthier. A huge hunk of chook appears on another skewer. The lamb looks like the greatest thing in the world, the chicken isn’t far behind.A combination of impatience and hunger kicks in and diners try to pluck opportunistically from the meat.

For the finishing touch, Symo symbolically squeezes lemons to add to the flavour. The flames lick higher.

Then the carving begins. Blokes take it in turns to act the role of their favourite man in the world come closing time. Eschewing the obvious ‘cheeelllleeee zorss’ and ‘Hello Boss’ comments in favour of warm encouragement, the lamb, five hours after the operation started is ready to eat.

My taste buds explode in orgasmic raptures. This is some New Year’s Party. This is some meat.

Thank you Symo and Carly, thank you Jesse. Happy New Year everyone.