Cheeky little chap isn’t he?

This is Buddy, he’s a cross between a Poodle and a Schnauzer and he belongs to China’s housemate, the lovely Mel.

Relentless.

Take your pick from a sniping scrum half, a Mumbai traffic jam and all those PPI calls. Or choose all three.

Buddy’s a real character and has been on the go pretty much the whole time I’ve been in Perth. The late Barbara Woodhouse would have her work cut out with this one.
Buddy’s really annoying trait is that despite him getting on your nerves really quickly you can’t help but warm to him.
Whether faultlessly sitting on the third command every time, struggling to understand a Michael Clarke-esque shout of ‘Wait On’ when poised at the crossroads (though, to be fair, not many dogs would get the reference there), biting my toes, shoving his head in my lap (Why can’t I meet women like that?), effortlessly placing wet paws on clean shorts or eating my handkerchief having Houdini-like whipped it from the depths of my pocket beforehand, Buddy boy has been a real handful.

Bless him.

Perth has been a blast. I am hugely obliged to the lovely Mel for her hospitality and for putting up with me and to China for being complicit in all of the silly shenanigans of the last week. His quote earlier, a bleary utterance as the haze settles on a crazy weekend, is possibly one of the lines of the whole tour.

“This week I am going to live like a Prisoner Of War…”

Good ol’ boy. See you back in Blighty for the inaugural Bedford-Salisbury Exchange Programme and the first known game of ‘Wineyhands’ ever to be played on British soil.

Unlike the triumphant Blur song, in Western Australia Bank Holiday comes ten times a year. Which means ten times a year they get to do what I’m doing today.

Put politely, not a lot.

Dad’s Army is on in a minute (Hello Pops!). You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to it.

Do you think I could be excused?

A day that begins with “Did I fall asleep on the toilet last night?” probably won’t end well. Burns Night? Crash & Burns Night more like.

So, Australia Day. And more of the same.

Why, oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why can’t we have something like this in England?

Why?

I’m off to the races, then a BBQ, then the pub then on to the fireworks. Brilliant.

Again, why can’t we do something like this in Blighty?

Pictured above, James Squire and Roger Sale shortly before the pubs opened.

Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some would eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be thankit.

The Selkirk Grace; Robert Burns

What’s the world coming to when you can’t find haggis in Perth on Burns Night?

It being that time of the week, it seemed only fair to substitute haggis for pie. And Chunky Angus Steak at that. No neeps either, although I did find some tatties.

You’ll by now not be surprised to hear that there was no clootie dumpling either. However, I did manage to find some chocolate biscuits instead.

Err, Tim-Tam O’Shanters. Does that count?

And the wee dram? Tonight’s visit to the Lucky Shag on Perth’s waterfront should see to that….

A very Happy Burns Night to all of DWC’s Scottish readers. Your very good health.

They couldn’t do this in Manchester. Crowds, about two to three hundred Western Australians, swell the vast lawns of the man-made clearing under the watch of the gasping, sun-sapped trees. We’re in Synergy Parkland, part of Kings Park, south west of central Perth on a typically warm summer evening for a typically Aussie treat. Welcome to Pictures in the Park.

The Moonlight Cinema experience. The lucky (organised) few have got there early and bagged the sofa seats and loungers. Others have brought deck chairs. And their ever present Eskies, without which modern Aussie life wouldn’t function properly. Cicadas and clacking kookaburras compete for sound space with the popping of Pringles, rustling of Tim Tams and the phutting and fizzing of bottles. The warm dew and the cool breeze and hushed anticipation provide the ambience for the amphitheatre.
The spiel on the website advises “advance previews, contemporary, cult and classic movies.” To add to the drama, China hasn’t bothered letting me in on the big feature so I’ve spent the last day guessing. There’s some good ‘uns, well the trailers look decent, out soon and now.

Hitchcock, Django Unchained, Flight?

Oh, bloody hell. Not Gangster Squad again?

My sense of humour’s pretty warped but going through that absolute shower of steaming horse poo would stretch the limits of the absurd. Even if it is in a lovely setting….

A quick check of the ticket. Goodness me.

Top Gun.

I did not see that coming.

This may surprise you but, I haven’t seen Top Gun. Not properly.

Well once, about half way through, twenty years ago (Hello Luke!). But then it stopped raining so we went back outside to play footy.
So although, through complicity I’ve nodded my head at the half baked references, half heartedly mouthed the quotes, whole heartedly led the singing, completely obliviously now it seems, to You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’ on various modes of public transport all over Great Britain.

Clearly everyone else here has. A quick study of my fellow audience reveals a cheery snapshot of today’s Perth. Different ages, ethnicities, assumed social standings. They’ve all probably seen it at least once. Thirty three probably isn’t the age to be watching this in full for the first time.

The F14 Tomcats do their thing. People mockingly laugh at the haircuts, the ‘taches, the cliches, the cheesy stuff, the creepy tongueing scene. They join in with the songs, the jokes, the Maverick as Fonz bits. The score segues unashamedly through the entire range of mid-eighties mood instrumentals. The homo-eroticism scale never dips below half. Goose is cooked. Meg Ryan’s hot too. The Migs make a re-entry because everything else has been done. The Tomcats do their thing again.
Maverick wins! Tom Cruise wins! America wins! Wow!

Twenty seven years ago, this would have been the coolest thing in the world. Twenty years ago, with most of the stuff going over my head, I would have absolutely lapped it up. Now though, I’m just pleased that, after all this time, I know what the fuss is all about.

Footnote:
Prior to the start of the film, I was talking to a lass while I was sprawled, uninvited, across her picnic rug proffering Doritos in the few promising moments before her fella returned with the Magnums. My laconic opening went something like;

When people talk of the golden age of cinema, people evoke Fellini, Lean, Bogarde etc. I disagree. For me it’s the 80s.

While I’m in the confessional, I also haven’t watched The Goonies, ET or all of the Rockys. And the Karate Kids. Yes, I know, I know.
I also don’t rate Ferris Bueller’s Day Off despite being shouted down every time I voice this dissenting opinion.

I’ll be honest. I don’t think there’s any point seeing any of the above now. The only reason to watch them today would be for the glow of nostalgia associated with the time I should have seen them first time round as a teenager.

So while I’ve missed out on these iconic pictures, and part of my argument, you could say, falls flat on its face as a result, I believe I’ve seen enough of the Gr-eighties flicks to back up my thoroughly tongue in cheek (If you are reading Dr Kermode…. Oh, you’re not? No, no, I understand.) half statement/ half chat up line.

I can, however, bask in the glow of nostalgia, and lets face it the timeless genius of the Indiana Jones Trilogy, the Crocodile Dundees, the Back To The Future series, the first Naked Gun, Airplane, Big, The Blues Brothers, Die Hard, Coming To America, A Fish Called Wanda and the film the aforementioned stinker Gangster Squad so desperately yearned to be, The Untouchables. It was also the beginning of the end of the Bond movies (Octopussy notwithstanding?) before their recent re-birth. And, of course, 1981 also saw the greatest film ever made:

Escape To Victory

Decades from now, I’d love my nephew’s generation to be lounging, wide-eyed and spellbound on a balmy evening in a park somewhere, watching on as an embattled Sir Michael Caine, bloodied, unbowed and hopeful asks;

“You really think we can win this?”

Lets face it, if the freaky weather keeps up, this may even be in Manchester.

The Doctor is there to welcome us. The resuscitating sea breeze from the Indian Ocean that breathes life back into the sun battered residents of Greater Perth. ‘When in Rome’ is the theme behind our excursion to The Little Creatures Brewery, home to Western Australia’s, nay, all of Australia’s greatest beer.
I hadn’t expected to be so easily smitten. In playing the part of an unofficial ambassador for the great English pint and copping all the obligatory abuse from Caaaaald One swigging non-believers that, in these parts rightly goes with the territory, I expected to beat them.

Not join them.

But in Little Creatures Pale Ale, Australia has a genuinely good beer. A beer I’d be happy to go home and admit defeat over.

Our trip to Freo, home of the aforementioned Fremantle Doctor, meant a look in at the brewery. Not the tour, couldn’t possibly afford that in saving for the forthcoming weekend spectacular, but a quick lunch time sup overlooking the harbour.

It’s a fair bet there aren’t many more pleasant settings in which to enjoy a freshly brewed beer than in the backyard of the Fremantle brewery. Brand spanking new yachts and speed boats bump up and down on the waves like would-be glamour models straining brazenly for attention while an ancient vessel, an old Dutch girl of four hundred odd years old, blocks the views of the more functional harbour industries. Waiting staff flit in and out of the packed al fresco dining area while, against the fierce midday sun,The Doctor continues doing the rounds. The signature Little Creatures cherubs adorn wall space and half barrels featuring their image hang in the air like Mick Harford.

Borrowing from the US rather than the UK take on a pale ale style, the citrus flavours shoot up through the taste buds before being placated by the malty after taste that lingers as long as the Fred Wesley trumpet solo in the background. The chilled temperature helps rather than hinders the flavour.

It could be that it’s been that long since I’ve had a really good pint, or as I suspect, Little Creatures Pale Ale deserves to be in that category.

Now then. Anyone know if Cranfield Budgens stocks it?

By popular request….

Off to Fremantle, or Fre-o as it’s popularly known, to the Salvo Stores and The Australia Day Charity Shop Challenge. I’m buying for China, he’s buying for me. China’s demure flat mates politely declined taking part in such silly Saxon antics.

Budget is $25. Theme is Famous Australians.

I’m hoping for R. Benaud. Or Mick Dundee.

I’ll probably get Kylie.

“Forgive and forget Major” (Hello Paul!). With such sangfroid disdain reminiscent of IVA Richards in his pomp, Fawlty sends the grudge-heavy Major Gowen back towards the bunker within his scotch on the rocks and Times crosswords to a world of gloomy recollection and unsettled scores.
I empathise with the dear old Major here. I too can never move on -have seldom moved on- from an unresolved disgruntlement.

Yes, it’s only thirty five dollars. Yes, it was nearly a month ago. How many more Caaaaald ones would that have got? How many SevenEleven Coffees? Thirty five actually.
But that’s not the point.
The point is, even in the great depths of consumer hell and abyss of the value for money crypt that is Australia, thirty five dollars for four hours of looking at Melbourne graffiti is stupefyingly horrendous. Every dollar counts in the world of the Backpacker, especially the alcohol dependent ones.

So imagine my relief earlier, when I signed up for China Tours and the complete and unadulterated Perth walking tour (sun cream not provided) all refreshingly gratis, save for a couple of Caaaaald Ones at appropriate intervals.
First in store is a mooch around the city centre taking in the underwhelming malls and slightly better cafes and bars, three Flight Centres, four Subways, no SevenElevens and a Ye Olde Englishe Market which isn’t so much mock Tudor as taking a wazz on the very legacy of Henry VIII and all of his wives. The tour meanders on along the wooden decking pathway behind the WACA alongside the Swan River. Kayakers, bored shitless and melting in the midday sun float inconsequentially past, hopeless fishermen stand perspiring on the rocks.

Then the crowning glory of the tour. Dolphins. Twenty metres from our shaded resting place on the shore. For ten minutes these graceful creatures amuse themselves and us by slipping gracefully in and out of the serene view across the river.

Lunch is a couple of bespoke Caaaaald Ones in the nouveau riche area of Victoria Gardens. More walking and more sights they don’t tell you about in Lonely Planet; like the fascinating award winning multi-storey bridge and the most violent water fountain in the Southern Hemisphere.

All this for free. There’s a gap in the market here, surely? What China could do is package this all up for gullible tourists and charge them extortionate amounts for doing so.

Now there’s a thought….

So a heartfelt thank you and warm wishes to family Leddy in Brisbane. Their priceless hospitality over the last few days has been extremely well received.
Thank you for the insight into local cricket. They’re a good bunch of lads at Sandgate & Redcliffe District C.C. Thanks for the resulting post-match trip to the Geebung-Zillmere RSL, or The Razzle as it is affectionately known. The Phoenix Club in everything but name. All Brisbane life is there, including the scariest karaoke rendition of Dire Straits’ Romeo & Juliet I’ve ever seen. And heard.
Thank you for the use of the ferry card. The City Cat is most practical and most scenic way to see the River City as it winds its way around the busy Queensland capital. Thank you for taking me to Moooooloooooloooooloooooaba or whatever it’s called, a place away from glare of the guide books. The golden sands without The Gold Coast crowds.
Thank you for not taking me to Aussie World.
Thank you for reintroducing me to vegetables, salads and proper dinners. I can now look my nutritionist (Hello Sian!) in the eye again, albeit rather sheepishly. Thank you for my first ‘Chicken Parmy”.
Thank you for the trip to the Gabba, I know you didn’t organise the result, but it was the icing on the cake of a great day. Thanks too for the pre-match steins in the German Club over the road, unquestionably, the best Caaaaald Ones I’ve had since I got here.

And thank you, sincerely, for this….

I really am lost for words.

Do you expect me to wear it?

Oh, you do.

Good Lord.

Action from yesterday’s Sandgate & Redcliffe District CC vs Western Suburbs District CC, Grade 1 cricket in Queensland. The home team, seen batting here, went on to win by five wickets.

The park was named after a Queensland cricketer who, having represented the club with distinction, went on to play seven Tests for Australia at the end of the eighties. His name is Trevor Hohns. The park is called The Trevor Hohns Field.

So this, presumably, is where he honed….