I'm Off To See The Wizard...

I'm hardly an intrepid explorer when it comes to travel. As a kid, the most glamourous place I stayed was a B&B in Blackpool (bit like Vegas, but with a lot less lightbulbs...and no sun...and trams instead of cadillacs...). The B&B had beds that folded down out of the wall. On a previous visit before I was born, my brother Joe (known for talking in his sleep and vivid dreams) had been sent to bed after the Saturday western. My sister Liz in the next room remembered hearing his shouts of "get them injuns" and lots of commotion during this particularly wild west dream. A dream so wild, that as he reared and bucked like a bronco, she heard a sudden loud bang and then the muffled sound of distress. She ran into his room to find his flailing had unhooked the bed from its anchor on the floor and flung it back up into its resting place in the wall, complete with its wee Buffalo Bill cargo. Quality.

Since then, I've managed quite a bit of gadding about, but nothing too exotic. There was the trip to Morocco with Blondie and the gang of the time - Five Go Mad In Tangier - a great holiday, best remembered for the time we walked for an hour and a half to find a secluded beach so we could strip off in peace, only to have been followed by some local who insisted on lying down RIGHT next to us, with a very obvious boner in his Speedos. 

I've had a few jaunts with Blondie - Ibiza out of season, riding around on kid's pushbikes, great fun. Tenerife with Blondie and Red - vaguely remember the worst hangover and sunburn of my life, ripping my favourite velvet flares, and getting caught relieving myself on the beach by some German at 4am. Portugal with the parents after they retired - lovely place. Turkey with The Ex a few times - good times. Lots of city breaks - usually involving booze and blisters. A lot of time in New York - am up to about 6 weeks of my life there now and I always love it.

One place that's never really been on the list of topspots is Australia. Lovely though it looks and I've heard such rave reviews, I never felt the urge to make a 24 hour flight to be called a whingeing Pom...suddenly that's all changed and I have a reason to go. A very good reason. When you get an invitation to have a lovely, long extended holiday in Sydney from one of the dearest men you know, you don't think twice, cos it's alright as Bob D might say (OK, maybe I had a little think twice...or thrice...). So...on June 11, I'll be packing my little bag, and heading off for my adventure in the Land of Oz. And I'll be travelling by Mr Branson's finest, not my ruby slippers...

Hitched In Highgate

One morning on my recent trip to NY, at about 5am, my phone started ringing. No chance, I thought. I'd already had my credit card company calling me at 6am a few days before to tell me that someone in the Phillipines had cloned my card and made a fraudulent purchase (probably for a stack of Viagra or some Rub-It-Big cream). So I let it ring and went back to sleep.

The call was an invite to a wedding. Chris and Catherine met over phone calls during one of Chris's cases (he lawyer, she insurance). He liked her voice. He invited her out. They met for drinks. They fell in love.

The big day was at Lauderdale House, a lovely house in Waterlow Park, on the edge of Highgate cemetery (I walk through this park on my way to visit the stiffs, or when I go to the Heath). Many of the usual suspects gathered for a quick drink in the pub, then cabs to the house. What a sweet venue. And when the moment came, Catherine came in and she really was absolutely glowing. I've never seen her look quite so lovely. Aaaah, the power of love...

Anyway, once all the "I do" stuff was out of the way, it turned into a completely stunning day. Top crowd, great food, excellent speeches (Tim B had picture props for the best man's speech, much was made of the gay bar stag night...), FREE bar (hoorah), top tunes (some interesting moves towards the end of the evening), and a really good laugh. Happening of the day had to be the bouquet throwing. Right at the end of the night, all the single ladies were asked onto the dancefloor. I tried to skulk away, but was pushed on by various well-meaning friends (bollocks). So I stood right at the back of the clamouring female crowd...in front of me was Washy, 6 foot tall male, to my side was Mr Randall. The bride pitched the floral prize...and it sailed straight over Washy's head and fell at my feet. I was sorta bending over to pick it up to give to Mr Randall, so he could give it to the lovely Silke (they'll be next, I reckon), when the most hilarious 70s slapstick moment occurred. Mr Randall clearly thought he could win this fair and square if he managed to fall on top of me after some rugby-hand-off style move and make a grab for the posy. I hope no-one saw my knickers in the mayhem, as I have a feeling it wasn't the most graceful landing...

Before

Randall trying to make it up to me