"Ooooh, look out, you Folk 'n' Rollers...!"

By jove, he's done it. The very lovely Mr Ward has finally put the finishing touches to the oh-so-brand-new-and-brilliant, all-singing, all-dancing (OK, it doesn't actually sing or dance itself, but the fab things in there will probably make you want to sing and dance around quite a bit) online MP3 store, Sideways Through Sound.

Wardy's alter ego DJ self Thee Sonic Assassin (Sideways Through Sound? Thee Sonic Assassin? Am sensing a Hawkwind connection here...) hatched the idea some time ago. He decided he'd love to share all the wonderful folksy/drone/psych/shoegaze sounds that he already champions on his radio show on Sydney's 2SER station. And so, in a bid to make all the people out there tuning in from round the globe in RadioLand happy, he answered their prayers. This independent labor of love is THE place to find all the superb artists featured each week on the show, and gives you a chance to buy some of the finest nu-folking music around.

So if you have a spare few bob for investing in your personal aural pleasure, go to:

http://www.sidewaysthroughsound.com.au/

And if you'd like to listen to the folksy/drone/psych/shoegaze World's answer to John Peel doing it live and dangerous, then tune in each week in the UK, Wednesdays at 10am (what more lovely way could there be to wake yourself up on a Wednesday morning?) by going to the 2SER website and streaming the show through your PC or Mac or iTunes (oooh, such choices):

http://www.2ser.com/stream

Happy browsing, you groovy Folkers x

Winter, Spring, Summer Or Fall...

A lot can happen in a year. Generally, you do a bit of work, go down the pub, watch some bands play, hang out with your mates, add in a Christmas/birthday/summer holiday.

In the last 12 months (from tomorrow, the 11th of February), a very dear friend died (RIP dear Tabby - sorely missed), another old friend died of breast cancer at the age of 41, I fell in love, crossed the Atlantic, crossed the Pacific, watched a family member pass tragically away, watched my dear brother go through hell, packed up my home and life into boxes, crossed the globe again and fell even more in love, saw Christmas and New Year in the baking sun among wonderful people, suffered a personal tragedy and a lot of heartbreak...yup, a lot can happen in a year.

If I've learned one valuable lesson this year, it's that you really are fucked without your mates. They're there through thick, thin and a million other soppy clichés besides. And when that shit really does smack into that fan at great speed and you need a bit of moral support...taking to the airport...picking up at ungodly hours...tears and mascara wiped away...a bed to crash in...a meal to warm you...a sick joke to cheer you...a hug (physical or one of those imagined ones created for times apart)...a scarf to keep you warm when you don't have the faintest clue where you stored the Winter clothes...a mammoth bar of Cadburys...reminding you that you'll be OK, you always make it through...or just to be there with a cuppa or an ear to bend on the other end of a phone...y'know - the usual friend shit.

Obviously, despite this sad-mad-topsy-turvy-stuff year, I count myself very, very, lucky indeed. Because as the clever Miss Carole King noted, all I gotta do is call and you'll be there. So thank you - you know who you are x

Goin' Wild In The Country (EOTR 2009)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of no fortune whatsoever must be in want of a bloody good time with her mates (nod to Ms Austen). Preferably including music and the finest wines known to humanity (nod to Withnail). And utilising England's green and pleasant land as a setting (nod to William Blake - jesus, if I do much more nodding, me head might fall off).

And so, it's that time of year again, when me and the Usual Suspects set off for Dorset and End Of The Road festival (there are newcomers and fall-by-the-waysiders...we lose Smiff and Marc to a wedding in Berlin, but gain Nads, and Andy and Lou over from NYC). I drive down with Nads, in poor Betty Ford Fiesta, who is creaking under the weight of the amount of crap we've managed to squeeze in (I blame the gazebo, but more of that later). Journey is lovely and uneventful - gorgeous Autumn day, sunny, clear, crisp...we pass Stonehenge on the way, and I nearly crash trying to steer and take a picture on my iPhone. Not big or clever...I don't mean Stonehenge, although I always think it's smaller than you imagine. Definitely in this pic:

18" high (nod to Tap)

We got to the site easily - good navigation, Nads - and caught up with the Brummie, Screwy, Bernie and Kieran. Lugging all the gear up the hill after wristbands are collected is no fun, but once we've got it all there, tents are up in no time. There is the small matter of the gazebo...Brummie insisted I should bring it. It had been living in the back of my car for 6 months or more, a freebie gift from a photoshoot, and now finally getting its debut. A real team effort was needed - it's enormous:

Daisies optional

Time for some music, methinks. First up for most of us - The Ginger Angel himself, David Thomas Broughton. I make no secret of the fact that he's one of my favourite live performers, and he doesn't disappoint. With Johnny Greenwood on double bass, and the newly supermodel-thin Howard Monk on drums, this is a must-not-miss. Superb as ever, highlights have to be when he shouts "SHUT UP!" at the small children he has drumming with Howard at the front of the stage, closely followed by a comedy collapse, and running off stage sticking twos up at the audience. He is King. It's a really beautiful evening, and bodes well for sunshine the next day:

I hung about for Shearwater (good), then a bit of aimless wandering with Nads and some gorgeous Goan fish curry...closely followed by the gorgeous Vetiver for dessert...and then a call from Brummie enticed us to the Tea Bus. This was really sweet. An old Routemaster, downstairs the serving part, upstairs for drinking. And a Dansette, complete with a great selection of vinyl. We were treated to Billie Holliday whilst we sipped tea and ate buns:

Last act of the day, we watched Beth Jeans Houghton. I use the term 'watched' loosely, cos it was packed in The Local tent, and all I know is she had a feathery head thing on...time for bed, said Zebedee...

I was right about that weather...we all wake to a glorious day, started off with a massive fry-up. Wise move, this. Some of us feel a bit shabbier than others...but this doesn't stop the Tesco run for more booze. Steph and Bernie set off, and there's some lolling about before we head off for the Garden Stage...and it's packed already. Like a military operation, we have to stalk potential movement to try and bag a space big enough for the entire gang (Lou and Andy arrived late the night before, and are now joining the proceedings). We're soon sorted:

Once ensconced, we settle down to watch The Low Anthem, who are pretty good. Sun is beating down and things are looking good. And then the Broken Family Band take the stage. I love these boys. Steven Adams is a clever songwriter, but I'm pretty dismayed to hear that they're breaking up! WHY? They do a top set, finishing with "Leaps" and I know this is the last time I'll see them, because their very last gig will be when I'm out of the country. Sad. Next up, The Acorn (good). And then we need to leg it, as J. Tillman is about to start in the Tipi tent. And here's the first bit of bad timing of the day. Although Mr Tillman decides he's going on much later than scheduled (he is part of a superstar set-up now, after all - gosh, they'll be throwing their transistor radios out of their Travelodge window next), it's already packed, and we find a space at the back sitting next to a bunch of middle-aged blokes with loud voices who just want to talk...loudly. When Fox Tillman finally gets up, he is so quiet, all I can hear is Matey behind sounding like Clarkson on Top Gear. Fucker. So we go out and sit in the last of the evening sun until Blitzen Trapper come on. 

I read a review in The Guardian a while back about Blitzen Trapper. Newly signed to Sub Pop, they came to the UK to play. Sadly, their London gig clashed with another gig for me, so I didn't go. And it was a rave review. Apparently, they played to about 60 people as if they were playing to a stadium. I love this sort of enthusiasm. Now, I couldn't see a bloody thing (I listened to them for 45 minutes, but I still wouldn't know them if they sat on my face), but what I heard was superb. So good, in fact, that I went straight to the Rough Trade tent and bought an album, Furr. We got chatting to a French girl with a spreadsheet of the EOTR acts. This puts Kieran's effort to shame this year - his EOTR report will read "must try harder":

What time are The Wurzels on?

Okkervil River up next, and I've waited a while to see them. Bernie and Kieran got me into them, and they were worth the wait. Bernie tells me Will Sheff is blind as a bat, but so vain that he takes his glasses off to go on stage, squints for the entire gig, then stumbles off to put his glasses straight back on. Now, call me a misery guts (I have quite a sunny disposition, but a healthy sprinkling of cynicism and Yorkshire grumpyness surfaces sometimes), but I can't be arsed with the crowd clapping along to songs. It does my head in. And American bands are very keen on getting their crowd all clappy-happy (there'll be more of this cynicism en masse later in this blog). At this point, hunger strikes, so me and Nads go in search of...Goan fish curry. Yes, yes, I know it seems unadventurous, but it was so delicious...

And this is where the cock-up of the weekend happened. For once, my impeccable timing was way off. Somehow, in a disastrous piece of misplanning, we couldn't get in to see the Fleet Foxes. Bollocks. The curry was preceded by wandering in the fairy grotto woods (unfeasibly cute romantic tree cavern adorned with twinkly lights), so we'd got it all wrong. Still, as Nads said "that curry was bloody good, though". So we needed to find an alternative...

We headed for The Local tent. Howard and Lucy Local do their thing at End Of The Road, showing a truly diverse choice of acts, and for the most part, they're a stellar collection. We happen upon a band called The Heavy, and they're just what we need to cheer us up after the Fleet Foxes fiasco. They are a sort-of hip-hop indie rock band (!), but it works. The singer is a black dude, a real snappy dresser, who moves around the entire stage, whipping the audience into a frenzy. They were a real find and we have a ball (apart from some character I name Raggety, who insists on trying to Dirty-Dance with Nads - I feel like I'm besmirching poor Patrick Swayze, God rest his soul, even mentioning this tosser with reference to Pat's finest footwork). The crowd is hot and sweaty by the time they go off stage, and I bump into Howard for a chat. He is keen to point out that he hasn't spared any expense on his marquee decoration (one strand of seaside lightbulbs). This is in reference to last year's criticism from me, which nearly got me roped into making him thousands of yards of bunting.

And so, the final act of the night in The Local - The Travelling Band. Perfect festival band, they are a joy from start to finish, playing lovely tunes with superb vocal harmonies. And the bass player is dressed as a scarecrow. We're all right up front like überfans, and Brummie is by this point rather pissed and sitting on the stage. Once they're over, me, Nads Lou and Andy head to the Tea Bus for a cuppa. Much different vibe tonight...Saturday is Abba night on the tea bus, and the civilised proceedings of the evening before have given way to rowdy bedlam. Funny, though...finally, we have a wander into the Big Top, where Sheffield's finest, Messrs Cocker and Hawley are doing a DJ set. As we enter, the Stooges reckon they wanna be my dog, and it's all looking good. But suddenly, it all seems a bit daft to be bopping about in a tent with thousands of people (I never truly embraced rave culture, I'm a dodgy ex-Goth after all), so me and Nads head back to the tent, and the heaven that is a 15 tog feather duvet and an airbed...

Sunday dawned - weather still good - hoorah! Mud looking unlikely this year...how lucky are we? A much slower start today - a few hurty heads and furry mouths. By this point, it has been agreed that:

• children and prams are a real hindrance to festival fun. 
• bongos get on everyones tits
• glowsticks are for young people, not middle-aged idiots

Some suggestions are made regarding the dealing with of such nuisances, but by far the best and probably most effective is Kieran taking a flamethrower to the lot of 'em. This is overheard by some ladies in a nearby tent who look a little shocked. Kieran saying "bring me the fresh blood of babies NOW" makes for even more concern from our neighbours...

The musical day starts in the Garden Stage - it's a beautful day:

and once we're set up, Nads and I wander off to see T-Model Ford. What a total dude. I've seen him before at Spitz Festival Of Blues a few years ago, and he's still going strong, despite being 89 years young. After about 5 songs, I get a bit of a beer-sweat on and have to go outside for fresh air. I head back to slump in my chair, and tell Steph she should go see T-Model doing his thing. When she comes back, she's a bit moist-eyed, as she says he was brilliant and it made her emotional when his drummer had to help him off stage. She's a great big softy:

Cute

I go to see The Tallest Man On Earth, who's a great finger-picker, but I suddenly realise that any act is going to really have to fly my kite to get the big thumbs up today. I'm just on the loo when I get a call from Brummie telling me Jarvis and Hawley are on stage with Bob Lind. I had no idea who Bob Lind was. According to the gang, he's a miserable old fucker, who talks too much inbetween songs, and his only saving grace is that he's managed to get two Northern Gods to share his stage. While he was playing, Brummie says she thought about slitting her wrists, and Nads was busy filing her nails. This isn't good.

All this misery is soon swept away, as the crowd prepares itself for a Bob Log III onslaught. When he takes the stage, he's in some really dull, dark boilersuit, with his trademark shiny helmet. Not his usual Vegas look...suddenly, with a quick unzipping, he reveals a skintight golden Bacofoil jumpsuit:

Goldenballs

Me and the Brummie go up front. BLIII was a big discovery for us last year. Just what this place needs to shake some folkies up. There's a shitload of swearing from him (can't beat a quality pottymouth) and he is hilariously funny. Has the crowd in the palm of his hand, and if we could, Brummie and I would let him bounce us on his knee (but maybe not do the boob scotch...):

Bob Lovers

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot someone making their way along the gap in front of the stage...and I can't believe it, it's T-Model Ford! And we're right there, as he's shaking hands along the front row of the crowd. I nudge Brummie, who gets really excited and emotional. As he gets to us, she goes to shake his hand then gives him a kiss on the cheek. he looks so pleased, and then I shake his hand and take a quick snap:

Blues Legend & Ladies Man

He waves at us as he walks away and we blow him kisses - what a sweetheart. Although, if his Wikipedia is to be believed, he wasn't always the gentle old chap he seems: 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T-Model_Ford

Nads and I have a wander over to the Big Top to see William Elliot Whitmore. Now if I have a type, this is it. The only thing he's missing out on is that he's not from the North of England. He's a short-haired brunette with lovely inky arms (sounds like I'm describing Wardy, who actually ticks every box). And he plays and sings beautifully. Very enjoyable half hour.

At this point, there's a bit of a lull in the proceedings. We're all flagging a bit...I leave Nads having a fag on some cow-print bean bag, and have a wander over to see Dan Michaelson & The Coastguards. Dan has an incredibly deep voice, and is also the lead singer with Absentee. One song in, and I get ambushed by Howard asking how my festival is going. I have to remind him that talking when the acts are on is very rude (his rule, not mine), so we retire outside to discuss how best to kill people who annoy us. Although he likes Kieran's flamethrower idea, he has already been witness to the carnage a machete can cause, and proceeds to tell me about being the main witness at an Old Bailey trial of some nutter who attacked some dude in the street up in Tottenham. As soon as he mentioned an ear getting cut off, I started to get queasy. Maybe this stuff shouldn't be joked about after all...

After all that blood lust, I go to see Tiny Vipers. Wardy is a big fan, so I check her out. She has a lovely voice and is very sweet in a dishevelled kinda way. Then I notice she's wearing $400 jeans, and my mind wanders, pondering why people go out of their way to give the appearance of being scruffy, but at such a price. I'm such an old cynic and I've spent too much of my life in charity shops...

Starts to get a bit nippy at this point. Back to the tent, layers on, flapjack consumed for energy. And I'm bursting for a pee. Now, the red wine has kicked in a bit, so as Nads goes into the cabin next to me, I rush into mine and get my undies down sharpish...only to have the door yanked open by some fella also clearly in need of urinal relief. Very, very embarrassing. He quickly shut the door, very apologetic. When I emerged, he was still outside, and Lord only knows why, I said I should have a picture of him, so I'd know all the men who'd ever seen my "lady garden" (yes, I called it this):

One of the privileged few

By this point, I think some of us had stopped caring about the music. Honestly. Booze just seemed to offer up more fun options, so we got into that instead. I vaguely remember watching some Kraut-psych-jazz madness by a band called Quack Quack - mental. Then Archie Bronson Outfit, who are bloody loud, hard and brilliant, and have a drummer (I may have mentioned before) who pulls the best pained faces I've seen on a drummer. Great...

And so, to the last act of the festival, and we're all agreed that we should go together. When The Local put out a CD last year, the first track and a total standout for us all was "Wear Red" by She Keeps Bees. We get right up front for this, and what a good move this is. Jessica Larrabee is superb, belting out songs in a strong, bluesy voice, and actually wielding her axe with a confidence you don't see from many women. I love this. And for once, although I know her husband (?) is on drums, I'm completely spellbound by her performance. When they finish, the place erupts. And in an unprecedented move, Howard lets them play another track (although why they were only on for half an hour beats me...). He comes over to ask my opinion and I tell him I think they're amazing. Definitely one of my highlights of the weekend...

At this point, you'd think we'd head off to bed...but oh no, there's music coming from the Tipi and the opportunity to create havoc and hangovers of titanic proportions. So, like moths to a rock 'n' roll flame, we went off to get our wings burned...not sure how, but the borrowing competition began. The rules: borrow headgear off a passing stranger and keep it on your head for as long as possible. The contestants:

Rock 'n' Roll Wigger

Givin' Good Head

But the winner, by a long chalk, had to be:

McNazi

Then, there was a load of pissing about on concrete mushroom sculptures:

Porcini poser

Funghi Pretty

Once you've started thinking climbing on mushroom sculptures at 2am is a good idea, it really has gotta be time for bed. We were all shitfaced. The night finished with a tent shadow competition, instigated by the Brummie and Screw, and easily won by Brummie and her enormous shadow breasts (making Tura Satana look like she's sporting a couple of fried eggs).

There has to be a downside to all this fun. It came in the form of a seriously bad, here-for-three-days hangover. I have all on getting my head off the pillow, but once I gather a head of steam, I get packed up sharpish, knowing I'm about to crash at any point. Nice strong coffees later, and a couple of trips to the car, and it's hugs all round, as Bernie and Kieran head off to France, and the rest of us go back to the Smoke. Another year over at the best little festival on the planet.

Saving my soul, Lanegan style

I'm a lucky, lucky girl. As the old adage goes, it's definitely not what I know, it's who I know. I regularly get to see lots of amazing music for free. It's always a privilege, and I certainly never take it for granted.

So when Mr C said he had a place for me to go see Soulsavers with my darling Mr Lanegan on vocals, I was over that proverbial moon. The gig was taking place at Highbury Garage, now known as the Relentless Garage. What? Relentless? Why?

Going to gigs on my own has never really bothered me - aah, the life of the single girl...obviously, I'd rather have Mr Ward in tow nowadays, but there's the small matter of several seas and oceans between us. So, I found myself standing alone watching Tenebrous Liar, the support act. Main singer/guitarist is Steve Gullick, who is also an amazing rock photographer. I've seen his work exhibited at Rough Trade East and in many mags over the years. Much as I admire anyone who stands up in front of a load of folk and gives it their all, and I'm not normally one to ever suggest that someone shouldn't give up their day job, but...well, he is an amazing photographer.

I bump into a couple of folk I know - funnily enough, one is a photographer I happen to be working with at the moment. He and his truly stunning girlfriend are there purely to see Mr L. We'd already discovered our mutual admiration of him during a chat about music in the recent past. I promise the Stunner my after-show party wristband at the end of the gig and she is thrilled. 

The lights dim and the intro to 'Paper Money' begins...I've already wondered how they'll manage a few of these tunes without their gospel singers (Mr C had already told me there'd be no backing singers) but they seem to fill in with a wall of guitars which works pretty well. Mark Lanegan is a powerhouse. His voice never disappoints, and his presence on stage holds the attention of the entire audience, despite doing absolutely nothing but singing into his mic and not moving an inch. Towards the end, he leaves the stage for one song, and although it's well received, when he returns to the stage, it's all too clear that the crowd is here for him. Soulsavers have written some great material, but I reckon it's his delivery that makes it into something musically moving and spiritual.

My sweet Lord...I bloody love him.

Worshipping Bill

It seems only right that I got to worship one of my Gods last week, and in a lovely church too. I've been a bit busy, so this is the first chance I've had to write about it (well, actually, if I hadn't finished writing OzBlog about my love adventures first, I reckon Wardy would have taken the hump and I'd be straight back to being Valerie Singleton). 

Got to the Union Chapel very early (bit keen aren't you?), so I could get a good seat. The Brummie and Screwy were out for a bit of dinner beforehand, so I had to save a couple of spaces on the pew...very tricky avoiding the glances of earnest young folks who reckon it's first come, first served. Frankly, my dears - I don't give a damn. The show is a sell-out, they've already had to put on a second night, so I'm sitting tight.

Support act is a girl called Sophia. She's OK, but I've seen so many acts like this (girl with guitar and quite a nice voice) that they really have to be very good to make me sit up and take notice. And she did a couple of things I liked, but nothing that'd make me go out of my way to see her again. I remember thinking she had a nice dress on, and that can't be a good sign...

Some huge man came and sat in the pew right in front of me. Bloody tall people. Bane of my life (where gigs are concerned). No escape, even in the Lord's House. And then his girlfriend appeared (also too tall), who seemed to be orchestrating the seating plan for her entire group of friends by standing and waggling her hands and pointing out where she could see spare seats on pews 10 rows away. Fucking annoying. At this point, I was secretly thrilled to see that her boyfriend was also annoyed with her for doing this and drawing too much attention to him. Then he wouldn't speak to her (schadenfreude - a concept I love - clever Germans). Sadly, they made up later, and managed to drape themselves around each others necks while Bill was on, making themselves about 7 feet wide and too tall with it. Fuckers. Can't help but think The Lord was getting back at me for my evil thoughts...

Enough of all that rubbish - let's get to Bill. He came on and the place went mad (well, as mad as nice, indie-loving middle-class people can). And it was just lovely. He looks like he really enjoys himself, laughing, pulling moves, so charismatic. Couldn't take my eyes off him. He plays Diamond Dancer, which thrills Brummie, it's a real favourite of hers. And as he has strings (violin, cello), he can play Eid Ma Clack Shaw and really do it justice. When he finished, he got some of the loudest cheers I've ever heard at The Union Chapel. And so we get Cold Blooded Old Times as an encore (I was hoping for The Well, but hey,maybe a girl shouldn't always get everything she wants, and just getting to watch him was kinda enough). 

OzBlog

Ok, so here I go. It seems insane to have not blogged about the last few months. I've been round to the other side of the world on a romantic adventure, which has pretty much turned my world upside down (no Oz pun, really it isn't). I've had good reason not to write, but it's a bit too soon to go into all that here. So let's get back to the Land Down Under (where, allegedly, the beer does flow and men chunder...lovely).

Flying is OK with me. I'm not scared of being thousands of feet in the air, sitting in a hunk of metal...so the thought of 24 hours flying didn't faze me at all...much. I got a lift to Heathrow from The Gay Boyfriend, which was very sweet of him, and a good start. Check-in - straightforward. Had coffee, then went to my departure gate - coming face-to-face with an awful lot of people in face masks (should that be face-to-mask?). My stopover was in Hong Kong - Chinese people are taking the threat of swine flu VERY seriously.

First flight - fine. Ate beige food, watched films, ate more beige food. Landed in HK, and clever me, I'd booked into a lounge for showers, snacks, internet, comfy chairs. 7 hours goes quickly. Next flight - also OK. Bit of kip, more varieties of beige. And then...Sydney Kingsford Smith Airport is below. And I start to get a bit nervous. Am about to be met by a man I've known for over 20 years, but we're heading into unchartered territory... And I get my bag, and walk through customs and out into the arrivals lounge. And he's nowhere to be seen. I wander aimlessly, then I spot him and he hasn't seen me. And he's right by me, when I say "hello - looking for someone?" and it's so lovely. Sigh.

Out in the car park, we get to the Jag (not his - borrowed off dear Rosemary) so I get to travel in style. Wardy says he wants to take me somewhere first, so we stop for coffee, then drive on to somewhere off the main road and into a wooded area. We walk down a little path and it opens out to the water's edge and reveals the most lovely view of Sydney, which just takes my breath away. As we sit and look at the view (and it's pretty nippy), we have a bit of a cuddle. Well, it is Winter, after all...then back to Manchester Mansions, to be met with pink Veuve fizz, strawberries, croissants...and some of the finest hospitality I've been offered for quite some time...hours passed...and it's a lovely day out there, so we go to Balmoral beach, Wardy's favourite place: 

And it really is gorgeous, the sky is an amazing colour, the sea is soooo blue, and it's very pretty. When the sun starts to go down, the temperature drops, so we drive back and batten down the hatches for a truly lovely evening.

A lot happens over the month I'm in Oz. I could probably go on and on...and on...but maybe the best thing is to mention all my favourite bits:

• walking over Harbour Bridge on a really sunny day, arm-in-arm with Wardy, followed by sitting in front of the Opera House and just looking at the sea and watching the world go by
  
  
• Meeting the folks - it involved 7 bottles of wine, some good champagne and a lot of laughs
• Heading over the harbour from Manly on the ferry into Sydney at dusk - the city lighting up, getting more twinkly and pretty by the minute
• Going to see The Laurels (young psych shoegazers - good) in Kings Cross (hangin' with the young folks - funny)
• The Chinese gardens at Darling Harbour - a peaceful oasis of calm in the midst of a bustling tourist area

• Ladysmith Black Mambazo at The State Theatre - stunning Art Deco building, great show (but we did leave at half-time to go home and get curled up with spectacular pizza from Livios - Wardy can be forgiven for this, as he'd toured with Ladysmith 10 years before and great though they are, he really had heard it all before...a LOT of times...)
• Road trip up to Coffs Harbour- driving together for hours on end, playing superb music
• Govindas - ok, so it's a restaurant serving the most delicious vegetarian Indian food. You stuff your face at this lovely buffet, and then (and oh, how I love this), you go up a flight of stairs, enter a large sloping room which has rows of floor cushions and a cinema screen. Yup, you get to laze your greedy, curry-filled gut on a big cushion, ligged out while you watch a film. Brilliant. (We watched Milk - reckon Sean Penn did deserve that Oscar after all).
• The Blue Mountains trip - drove to the place which has some of the loveliest views in Australia...in thick, freezing fog. It could've looked like Grimsby for all I know. It all felt a bit Withnail at this point... "we've come on holiday by mistake"...as we arrived at our B&B, run by a brace of Uncle Montys. Our room was very sweet, graced by a bloody massive teddy bear on the bed. Big Bastard Bear became a feature of our stay, looking particularly fetching in Wardy's shirt and trousers (yes, a stuffed bear THAT big). But he never featured in any of our fruitiness - that'd just be too sick. We drank fizz and ate cream teas at the Carrington in front of a log fire:

(That Brit backpacker was lost in the Blue Mountains whilst we were staying there. And I'm telling you this - if that kid really was stuck out in the wild, during those conditions - well, how the fuck he didn't have hypothermia beats me...). We had a pretty magical time there - feel sure to return when I can actually see past the foglights of the car in front...

And so, my powers of description and holiday snapshots can't possibly paint the picture of how wonderful a month I had. And despite all those amazing highlights, my favourite things were hanging out together, lazing around together, cooking good food together, listening to great music together, curling up watching films together. No holiday snapshot required to paint a picture of any of that...

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...