So many people. I’m out of breath watching them, it’s no wonder, for the most part, they look so joylessly, soul-sappingly knackered. Have I unwittingly walked onto the route of the Sydney Marathon?
Heading down from Bennelong Point and the iconic Sydney Opera House through the Royal Botanical Gardens that acts as a graceful viewpoint across Port Jackson to Mrs MacQuarie’s Point, I could be forgiven for thinking so. A notice at the entrance to the Gardens invites patrons to walk on the grass. I can see why now.
Tens, scores, hundreds of them, moving at varying speeds and directions, taking no prisoners, bullying and bouncing their way mercilessly across the Tarmac as innocent families, pensioners and dallying passers by all dive for cover. I look around for reassurance and conspicuous by their collective absence are the commentary by David Coleman and ‘Big’ Bren Foster, the bloke in the diving bell, the man in the rhino suit, Hazel Irvine’s gasping, rasping trackside interviews and Sir Jimm…
Err, well you get the idea with that one.

What I’d assumed to be a slight refuge from the congested hordes of sightseers on Circular Quay, seems to be an ill thought plan as these clueless boardwalk cloggers in turn are replaced by equal numbers of athletes, wannabee athletes and ne’erwillbe athletes (while not forgetting the most mercurial of all the fitness fanatics, the power walker). I have walked Central Park in New York, Hyde Park in London, The Warren, Elstow; all are known for their elegant, flora framed vistas and as hubs of amateur athleticism, but I have never felt as uncomfortably vanquished in my quest for a bit of ponderous peace as in Sydney.
The sweaty, self-important pavement plodders continue to swarm obnoxiously around and about. “Uuurghhanxmaate”, drawls one weighty, slightly tanned, grey vested individual. “No problem”, I pipe back with seething Fawlty acidity as, like Jonathon Trott letting one go harmlessly past the off-stump, I obligingly get him out of a messy three way pile up; “Enjoy!”

And that’s it.
For the most part, people don’t seem to be enjoying it at all. Yet still they keep coming.

For the men, there’s the pounders and the mincers. The tryers and the verge-of-cryers. The morons in the Man U shirts, the singlets, the headbands, the AFL boys, the white collar chaps in company sponsored running vests. The long, the short, the tall. The young and the old enough to know better.

While for the ladies, all manner of Lycra based stuff seems to dominate the scene usually accompanied by pumping, vulgar dance music on the iPods. There is, however, one delightful lass among the many would-be models who raises a smile, dashing past with the legend ‘Love Bare’ emblazoned across her running top.
Madam, if only you’d the time….

Now look, I’m not one for knocking people who take their fitness and exercise seriously. Clearly with my beer belly, wimpish demeanour and inability to throw a cricket ball properly, I could learn and a lot and gain a lot from such fiercely driven competitors.
And one day soon, I will. Promise. But there’s a time and a place, surely?
Sydney harbour in all its all encompassing finery, like a hoppy, foaming characterful pint of English ale is something to be savoured, not bolted. All I’d set out to do was have a dawdle among one of the most picturesque parts of this magnificent city. To take in its superlative sights, its quietly spoken history and its many walks of wildlife, while the harbour, the scene stealer in all this, brims with its usual buoyant busyness.

It’s not about all you joggers who go round and round and round….

We reflective dawdlers have a place here too you know.

The Bradman Oval, Bowral, NSW. Wednesday, early afternoon.
The view from Cow Corner.

Not sure how many of Sir Donald Bradman’s runs he made as a fledgling cricketer were scored in this particular area of the ground.

(Hello Lewy!)

Maybe it was the Vietnamese food from last night, but caught short in Kirribilli, I make my way sharpish to the nearest toilet, a seven foot tall, unprepossessing looking, shiny steel box on the bay underneath the north side of the bridge.
A metallic, American voice bids me welcome. It could be William Shatner, or maybe and more pertinently here, his Shooting Stars;True or False pseudonym, but suddenly everything’s gone a bit Star Trek. Red light indicates doors are secure. Maybe too secure. Will I get out of here alive?

“Thank you for choosing ExeLoo, you have ten minutes to use these facilities.”
From Star Trek to James Bond. What would Roger Moore do? Where would Timothy Dalton sit? I don’t have time to think of a George Lazenby based scenario before a piano solo of Burt Bacharach’s “What The World Needs Now Is Love” is piped through the speakers. Presumably the gas is next? If this is going to be the last song I ever hear, it’s not a bad one. Although, if you’re going to snuff it on the khazi, surely something by Elvis is much more apt?

Considering my next movement maybe my last, so to speak, I make a break for the hand washing device. What happens next is akin to that bit in Naked Gun when Drebin is searching the villain’s high rise apartment.
The toilet goes up like a geyser, soap shoots out diagonally in rapid, globular propulsions of pink, water cascades violently down the walls and hot air wafts un-remorselessly into my face like a harsh Saharan wind. Dazed momentarily, I stand by to do battle with the Kling Ons, or SCEPTRE, or the ghost of Hal David. The doors open robotically.

That voice again. “Thank you for flying with ExeLoo, we looking forward to seeing you soon.”
All shook up, I take a moment to compose myself, Roger Moore like. There’s no tie to straighten, so I do a double eyebrow work out instead.
It’s a stifling 43 degrees today, the long but rewarding walk back to the hostel across Sydney Harbour Bridge beckons. Maybe I’ll stick to pasta and sauce tonight.

“Done.” The deal’s been sealed and, courtesy once again of a world renowned travel publication, our wallets are disproportionately lighter. We have been. We should’ve seen it coming, there’s only so much trust you can put in people before they keep letting you down (Hello parents! Hello ex-girlfriends! Err, hello one or two others!). The Bogan bus driver taking our twenty-five dollars sits low slung in his chair, be-hatted and bearded like the rifle toting, Bourbon slinging veteran of Spaghetti Westerns. The sunglasses and shifty disposition frame his guilt.
He cannot believe his luck, two Poms looking for a day’s walking in the Blue Mountains, two hours by train west of Sydney. He could, he could, he really could talk us out of it and say something like,”‘aw look mate, once you’ve seen one set of ranges, you’ve seen ’em all, tell ya what, for three bucks I’ll drop you down the road, you can take it from there.”

He doesn’t. Groping at China’s fifty note like a Cistercian monk granted a day’s leave in a strip club, he lodges the money in a different place to the rest of his cash and makes a play of giving us a leaflet and croaks some strangulated words of consolation along the lines of you can use these tickets on any route around the town. Which, after you’ve parted with your cash, is as empathetic as saying you can enter your hobby horse in The Gold Cup.

I know where that note has gone, mate, and I hope it finished last and is on the way to the glue factory.

So, we’ve been done on the pricing, how else can every traveller’s indispensable guide to the universe help? Take coats or jumpers as it’s likely to get cold.
As I’m traversing steep forestry with my waterproofs and fleeces stowed resolutely in my oversized, over-full backpack in temperatures hot enough to smelt your own currency, I’m less than grateful for this advice. In fact, I curse myself for not taking the task seriously enough. I have not used those walking shoes that I enthusiastically packed in urgent expectation. How silly would that be to take them all around the world and not use them? As silly as over-paying for a Hop On-Hop Off tour of the Blue Mountains, clearly.

To be fair, the train from Sydney, in comparison with a lot of what this amazing country has to offer tourists, is good value and the views from Echo Falls are rather wonderful. The Prince Henry Cliff Walk gives you your fix of cliff faces, fauna and waterfalls. The Three Sisters, while not as impressive as The Corrs, are pretty good too.

For me though, the afternoon is summed up by an encounter with another amateur trekker, China gauges her opinion on the route ahead as we’re halfway down up and she’s halfway up. Is it worth the trip down? A resounding ‘no’ before I’ve had chance to commit to paper a semi-pejorative, pre-fixed and by now rather obvious “aw, look mate” sentence opener.

It’s been a hell of a lot more enjoyable than the first Monday after the New Year usually is, but being stung for the bus fare first up has soured the Blue Mountain experience a little. Deciding, the second-most place of refuge for the scoundrel is in a Caaaaald One, we walk back to Katoomba, the nearest town.
More big hills, this time round the suburban type so nowhere near as scenic. We stumble past a bloke performing tree surgery who looks like he could be Paul Hogan had he not made it big.

Ironically, oh how ironically, there are no buses to be found anywhere. Probably lunch hour. Or their drivers have gone down the TAB.

The Old City Bank Bar and its chirpy, cheeky barmaid is a good choice. Having glugged the first draft beer, Chancer by James Squire (and not, as you may think 90’s TV drama fans, Clive Owen) and thoroughly enjoyed it, a cursory glance at the timetable means there’s perhaps time for another.
Champagne Supernova steps slowly and regally on to the pub jukebox.
There’s time for another.

Talk turns to how this mountain range got its name. I venture it’s probably down to the forthright language used by hacked off tourists after they’ve been done like a kipper by the local bus companies….

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.