Our last morning in Melbourne is a lazy one – chiefly checking out of the accomo. and organising ourselves a taxi. A Gay Arctic Monkey, being one of those commonplace fellows who feel the need to arrive at airports etc. umpteen hours early, went and booked us a ride amusingly prematurely, ‘just to be sure’.

This decision was to be proved wildly overcautious, given the teeny-tiny dimensions and utterly deserted nature of Melbourne Avalon airport – yet it was very nearly proven sagacious, due to the actions of perhaps the single most directionless taxi driver in all of Christendom:

This lady, one must say, was as friendly as could be – and disarmingly apologetic each and every time she a.) went in entirely the wrong direction, b.) almost got us killed/maimed, or c.) both. Eventually, a Gay Arctic Monkey had to take navigation into his own hands, politely bellowing at her to “change lanes!”, to “take the right, the RIGHT!” and “Christ, look the f**k out!”

Eventually, by the grace of God alone, we made it to our Avalon, where, after cursing our driver’s name and damning her eyes sufficiently, we found – rather than a bustling, sprawling Camelot which might take hours to navigate – a small shed next to a short runway. Check-in and security took a matter of seconds, giving us ample time to sit and wait (and wait and wait) for our Sydney-bound plane, reflecting all the while on the phenomenal breakfasts which we might be guzzling, back in glorious Collingwood. We all looked daggers, knives and broadswords at a GAM. A GAM, for his part, pretended not to notice.

*

The flight to Sydney, NSW, was short and sweet, even passing over the harbour and favouring a fellow with top-drawer views over that rather fancy bridge/opera house combo they’ve got here. Once grounded, we were immediately kidnapped by a Russian with a minivan and an ‘old school’ taste in western popular music. Not taking, ‘Actually I think we’ll just take the train, mate’ for an answer, he raced us across to our new home, over in fashionable Surry (sic.) Hills.

The second Airbnb of the trip was fine and dandy, though not quite as palatial as our Melbourne abode. However, it quickly became clear that, in nearly every other respect, Sydney has the easy beating of Victoria’s own state capital. The sun was warmer, the scale a wee bit grander and the people more pleasing on the eye. Chatham House Rules, as is his wont, demanded we stop in Chinatown for another dumpling luncheon, and even the fare from our randomly-chosen Chinese eatery was superior to that from the much recommended ‘Empress of China’ back in Melbs.

Post-lunch we wandered around the harbour, drinking in the sights. The opera house is, credit to them, quite impressive, and the harbour bridge, over which we wandered to the northern part of the city, is not insubstantial. Once this span was defeated, along with the hundreds of stairs up to it and down from it, we felt we were very much deserving of beer. Fortunately enough, we had agreed to meet up with The World’s Worst Groom and The World’s Best Bride in the nearby Killibilli Hotel.

[They call their pubs ‘hotels’ here, for some reason, which hardly lends credence to the classic publican’s maxim: ‘We don’t care where you go, but ya can’t stay here!’]

The WWG and The WBB – or, to be most exact, The WWG-to-be and the WBB-to-be, as they had yet to wed – were the key catalysts for the entire Australia trip. Their upcoming Sydney nuptials had obliged us to board a succession of flights, three million years in duration, so they were understandably delighted to see us, and us them.

Our party was joined by many of their long-time Sydney cohort, including The World’s Worst Best Man, who had booked us all onto the venue’s weekly quiz – a quiz which we inevitably won, the opposition, of course, being Australian. We had drunk a great deal of beer and, as luck would have it, the first prize was a great deal more beer, so a good, albeit still slightly sleepy, time was had by all and sundry.

*

The next day I, veritably dripping with Protestant work ethic as I am, walked across to the University of New South Wales to put in a day’s-worth of honest toil. To get there I wandered through Moore and Centennial Parks, which were large and lovely and well catered for in terms of warming morning sunlight. In my absence, the group, under the tyrannical rule of a Gay Arctic Monkey, went on Sydney’s own ‘free walking tour’ – which, in all fairness, sounded like rather a good’un, a number of the tour-guide’s suggestions fated to spice up the next couple of Sydney days quite nicely.

Once released from work I braved the buses of Sydney and just about made it to the tailors in time for a suit-fitting with The World’s Worst Groom, having gotten lost only three occasions and having had to run up five steep flights of stairs. Lamentably, due to recent ‘high living’, my wedding suit needed to be taken out a fair whack, much to the amusement of The WWG.

Before we continue on, a word on the suit in question. Now it is said that sometimes a bride, feeling somewhat perturbed that she will be outshone on her Big Day by the beauty of her bridesmaids, will pick out the least flattering and most obscenely coloured dresses for her unfortunate ‘besties’, ensuring that she and only she might shine the brightest. The WWG, I believe, has clearly aped this underhanded custom, for I can think of no other reason that he would place his faithful, blameless groomsmen into tan suits.

Tan.

Tan, my friends. I looked, truly, like a slightly out-of-shape Bond villain, awaiting my violent death midway through Act Two.

Anyhow, as the suit was irrevocably tan in nature, shiny new brown shoes had to be purchased – and they were…eventually, not without a great deal of effort and very much despite the best attempts of various Sydney shoe salesmen, who did their utmost to stop me completing my quest.

Thus waylaid, we had to hasten apace across town to re-join the boys – and had time only to skull an ice-cold schooner in the Shakespeare Hotel before meeting The WWG’s long-suffering parents, The WBB and her old friend Woodward & Bernstein at the fantastic ‘Porteno’ restaurant. Had you asked me on Sunday 27th, post-dinner, if Melbourne’s Chin Chin could be beaten I’d have labelled it highly unlikely, but Porteno’s next-level tapas-style offerings were absolutely stunning. The wine and conversation were also of the highest quality and by the time did fly.

Next stop, sadly sans both the parentals and the ladies, was a tequila bar called Tio’s, which was very good indeed, then a dive called the Strawberry Hills Hotel, which was not. However, at this latter spot, despite our mounting insobriety we reigned supreme once again on the pool table, The Eagle in particular imperious in his play. Heavy-set locals would rise up against him, but would be swiftly and perfunctorily put away. Truly in this, as in all things, we British (and Canadian-Iraqis) are as gods.

*

A momentous morning – I effect to ‘lie in’, my first of the holiday, rising post-ten like a champion sleeper. Leaving The Eagle in his nest (he suffers from hangovers that could slay a Kodiak bear), we went for a coffee and a ‘breakfast wrap’ – both served by the friendliest chap one might ever hope to meet; so friendly, in fact, that it made The Associated Press and Chatham House Rules a little nervous. They have clearly been in London too long – I feel that continued exposure to Australians will do them the power of good.

Next was some art: firstly the Brett Whitely Studios – markedly impressive; and then White Rabbit – a quite superb collection of contemporary Chinese art which is really worth a visit, should you find yourself in the Chippendale/Surry Hills area.

Following this we meet up with The World’s Worst Groom (and, eventually, The Eagle) at the Courthouse Hotel for multiple beers and vast amounts of unhealthy food in the sunshine. Alongside The WWG was a fine fellow called Dave, my fellow groomsman elect.

Now, you will remember back in Melbourne that I described The AP’s pal Josh as ‘a giant’. Here I fell into the classic journalistic error of using up my superlatives early doors, leaving me with precious few places to go, should matters escalate further. Dave, you see, is bigger than Josh. He is, in fact, bigger than perhaps everyone I’ve met in my life. Andthesea? Smaller, slighter. The Big Man himself? Still falling short.

Big Dave and I discussed the aforementioned ‘tan suit issue’ and found common-ground regarding our sentiments thereof – common-ground which was immediately pillaged and salted by a furious argument about the hierarchy of potato dishes. Eventually, only after a fair number of gallons of beer had been consumed, we all went our separate ways in peace.

A much needed nap-cum-food coma was taken back at the house, before yet more food – this time with The World’s Best Bride (& The WWG) and a couple of fellow Europe-to-Oz voyagers – at Emad’s, a Lebanese restaurant in Surry Hills. There was an eerie similarity between the spread offered within Emad’s carpeted walls and the vast meal at Chatham HR’s relations’ place, and we all suffered a certain level of PTSD. We shook it off, however, for it was the first Friday night of the trip, and now was the time for a BNO.

The first stop was Shady Pines, a top quality American-style saloon bar with great music and tasty drinks. The second was ‘Ching-a-lings’, also a great deal of fun. The WWG – not ‘out out’ that evening due to his ‘buck’s do’ being scheduled for the following day (and the resultant necessity of preparatory meditation, sleep and prayer) – had suggested both places and was very much batting two from two.

His third and final suggestion was the Oxford Art Factory – yet at this point we were persuaded off his well-chosen path by some fellow revellers who assured us that ‘Palm’ was where we needed to be. They were, sadly, quite wrong. The area around Oxford Street is, it turns out, quite a centre for our homosexual brothers and sisters, and we had hoped that his Palm place might be one of those splendidly swanky gay clubs with fabulous drinks and ‘top tunes’. What it is, in actuality, is akin to a mid-80’s Wetherspoon’s packed to the rafters with shirtless lads. Not quite our scene, we beat a hasty retreat after just a round or two.

Those sons of extra-marital union they call bouncers at the Oxford Art Factory then refused to unbar the doors to us, having applied Sydney’s draconian ‘1.30 lockout rule’ some 15/20 minutes early, curse them. We therefore took a punt in the dark and bundled into a nearby club called ‘The Cliff Dive’ shortly before the government-mandated ‘fun window’ slammed shut. As it happened, there was a lesbian grime night on, which was an experience – though I find that after you’ve heard one ‘grime’ track you’ve a good idea what’s coming in the next one.

We wander home victorious at 2.30am, our jetlag defeated, our body clocks now ‘full antipodean’, and a fun-filled Friday night successfully negotiated. As our good friend Chatham would say, ‘Halla!’