And lo, my friends, the Big Day™ had finally arrived – the key fulcrum of the trip, the incontrovertible catalyst of our whole Australian voyage was upon us: The Sydney Swans were playing Essendon in the AFL playoffs!

Sadly, despite the size and heft of the mighty SCG, we were unable to source any tickets, so instead we had to make do with attending one of the great Australian weddings. Kylie and Jason? Forget it. Toadfish Rebecchi and Dee Bliss? Pales, pales I say, in comparison. No, no, dear reader – today was the day of the ‘Wedding of Pane’, and it was, all jesting aside, quite magnificent.

*

The day started for we groomsmen across the city in Glebe, by the harbour, where we wrestled ourselves and the World’s Worst Groom into wedding attire – him into a fabulous navy two-piece; ourselves into the tan suits of which we do not speak.

The four chosen horsemen of the tanocalypse were as follows: The World’s Worst Best Man, who had, true to form, shaved his head and grown out a real ‘Pablo Escobar’ of a moustache for the occasion; Big Dave, still enormous, still using Aussie slang from the very top drawer (such as, for example, ‘cackle berries’ – trans. eggs); der Kaiser, an old pal from Cambridge who had been in attendance on Captain Tom’s boat and the ‘Opera Bar’ night, but for whom I’ve only just thought of a nickname which might do some semblance of justice to his Bavarian majesty; and myself.

Together with the WWG, we feasted on bacon and ‘cackle berries’, all the while fussed over by the proud parents of the WWG and photographed extensively by a lady photographer who quickly became my bane and my nemesis. (I don’t enjoy having my picture taken, no siree, Bob.)

Garbed and washed, fed and ready, we knights in camel armour boarded a pair of London black cabs and made our way across town to the venue: the Old Darlinghurst Gaol within the National Arts School.

[A fitting place for a wedding hahaha, because…because ahaha, marriage is…is a bit like a prison ahahaha…grief, this blog has gone off the rails…]

The place looked simply fantastic, the ceremony itself taking place in a leafy, sun-dappled courtyard, just beside the Cell Block Theatre where a riotous reception was later to be held. It being more of a humanist, state ceremony kinda thing, obviously the marriage itself would be null and void in the eyes of both God and this blog, but I only saw fit to tell the WWG this truth a couple of times or so.

Guests began to roll on in around two-ish, including so many of our old friends – The Eagle, a Gay Arctic Monkey, Chatham House Rules, Sam Seaborn and Marcia Clark, the Von Trapps and one hundred and eighty others, all looking infinitely pleased to be there, and to share in the coming moments…

For then…for just then the World’s Best Bride arrived – looking, it scarcely needs to be said, every inch the movie star. The vows were both amusing and touching, the bridesmaids radiant, and the WWBM managed to convey the rings across without arsing it up – a miracle on a par with the Sydney weather, which was simply perfect. There was even a bit of politics splashed in to boot – both in the readings (albeit more from the Platonic guff about moon children than the rather sweet Dr. Seuss nonsense about the adventure of life) and also in the fact that we all blew on paper kazoos when the government-mandated ‘between a man and a woman’ nastiness was recited.

And après ça, wouldn’t yer just know it, but Paul (WWG) and Jane (WBB) became ‘Pane’. There was a kiss (tasteful, only slightly French), rapturous applause and then it was done. Drinks were served and we groomsmen went towards them like dromedaries in the desert spying an oasis. However, hauled back so we were by the accursed bridesmaids and photographers. It was time, apparently, for photos…oh so many photos…

*

Seemingly hours later, dazed and parched, we tan monstrosities were released. We hustled into the Cell Block Theatre, where food was beginning to be served and the reception was accelerating in our absence towards ‘attack speed’.

Now the following hours were as much fun as one might conceivably have without being arrested and sent down for two weeks without the option – so, accordingly, the coming account will perhaps be a little lacking in structure and exact details. That being said, there was, in no particular order and with no particular punctuation, a great deal of the following:

Wines drunk both fizzy and flat, red and white and pink and speeches long and speeches shorter with great gags and touching accounts and fine foods, Mediterranean inflected, and more wine and beers, finally beers, and the best groom’s speech yet seen and an even better bride’s speech, pre-recorded, magnificently done, and a ten out of ten band and American Pie and dancing wildly and bridal karaoke and more speeches and scatological stories of true romance and revelations detrimental to Australian national security and beauties and ogres and more wine and much more dancing and ripped trousers mourned and well-insulted suits and romances old and new and stolen bottles and inebriation triumphing over inhibition and wine flowing and shapes throwing and good friends made and old friends held and drinks and stars and fire and purloined sunglasses and entrances poorly choreographed and gossip and intrigue and police interventions and wines and dancing and so, so much fun had by all.

Eventually, finally, we were kicked out of the prison, our most enjoyable sentences now at an end, ‘Pane’ ferried off to their fancy post-nuptial hotel.

[God willing, we had by this stage poured enough wine down Paul’s throat that he was unable to perform any ‘acts’ in the marriage bed we all might later regret – post-marital sex being a leading cause of so many of the world’s ills, as we and St. Augustine know so well.]

The time had now come, of course, for an after-party. As such a significant percentage of us were at this stage several hundred sheets to the wind, we needed to go somewhere pretty darn trashy – hence us trekking over to ‘the Sheaf’, which was even more Wetherspoonsy than a Wetherspoons, save the fact that no genuine Wetherspoons would ever have the abject temerity to charge a fellow $10 for a schooner-full of lager.

After this trial, half a dozen or so of us found ourselves at an after-after-party, which left a little to be desired, so The Eagle and I made our way home, only to find Chatham House Rules and a Gay Arctic Monkey eating pork sandwiches, feeling a little aggrieved that they had, respectively, been kicked out of/never even allowed into the Sheaf.

Next-level splendid as the day had undoubtedly been, it was, we all concluded – even a GAM, so deep in his cups that only the top tress of his tousled barnet could now be seen – time to head to Bedfordshire.

*

Another hangover, another unfeasibly early checkout. Joy of joys, my brothers and sisters, joy of hell-damned joys.

Bags packed, heads clouded, we all stumbled down the road to ‘the Commons’ for yet another fine breakfast, which went a little way towards restoring our tissues. Sam Seaborn and Marcia Clark went off to ditch their suitcases – they’re off to the Great Barrier Reef and then to the Outback, lucky buggers – while we inebriates four went direct (sort of…buses are difficult beasts) to the handsome home of the World’s Best Bride’s parents.

Here there was a fond reunion indeed for many of the wedding’s (and this blog’s) major players. A lovely spread was spread out before us, stories were swapped and a thousand laughs were laughed. One by one, however, as the afternoon drew itself out, sad goodbyes had to be exchanged. Some (Sammy S and Marcia C) were off to Cairns, others to Melbourne, others to who knows where? All good and great things must end, my friends, and it did indeed seem like this sensational spell was drawing to a characteristically pleasant conclusion.

All that was left to us was an exceptionally indulgent Uber ride all the way to the far south of the city and our group’s final lodgings – in the sleepy beach suburb of Maroubra.

Our evening there was, quite understandably, a chilled one, with yet more takeout Thai food, a pattern beginning to emerge here. As for the night, it was the first for a good long while that I had had a bed to myself, free from Gay Arctic Monkeys and snoring Canadian-Iraqis. I slept long and I slept well, dreaming of weddings and of good friends and of the very best of times.

Leaving Chatham House Rules and The Eagle snoring away merrily, I pack up me troubles (and strewn possessions) in the old kit bag and catch the fast ferry back to Sydney proper. It’s another day at the coalface for ol’ Mansfield you see, imprisoned within UNSW for the heart of the Tuesday.

Chatham HR and The Eagle have a more leisurely time of it, breakfasting in Manly before taking the slow boat and bus to Darlinghurst and our vast and glorious new homestead, just off from Oxford Street. There they meet Sam Seaborn and Marcia Clark, new party members just in from NYC (via a couple of stopovers in that People’s Republic of China they’ve got now).

Once I (eventually) arrive at the house, our reunion is sweet indeed – I have not clapped eyes on my buddy Sammy S. since 2013, when we were young and foolish, back during our Varsity days. Together, we all head over to ‘Opera Bar’, right on the harbour, where we meet the World’s Worst Groom and the World’s Best Bride, along with the World’s Worst Best Man – looking surprisingly guiltless, considering the damage he had so recently wrought – and many other friends and wedding party folks.

Bubbles were bought and drunk, but the winds set in and the temperature falls – prompting a move to the oh-so-swanky ‘Hacienda’, indoors thank goodness, and then away to the basement of the Baxter Inn and its hundreds upon hundreds of fancy whiskies. Another old pal of Chatham’s, a local Aussie known only as ‘Hangry A’ rocked up, The Eagle accidentally purchased a hilariously and eye-wateringly expensive tot of scotch, and a very fine evening was had by all.

*

The next day was my last working stint in Oz, and I set at it manfully, only slightly depressed that I could neither take a boat to Taronga Zoo (with Chatham House Rules and The Eagle) or wander the Bondi trail down eastern Sydney (with Sam Seaborn and Marcia Clark). Stoically, heroically, I sat my desk, peppered periodically with phone-photos of koalas (Chatham HR’s holy, furry grail), of various sandy beaches, and of duck-billed platypuses (platypae?). The entire group, it seemed, were clearly having significantly more fun than poor old THM.

The tables turned that eve, however, as – due to my lofty status as groomsman extraordinaire – I was invited to the ‘wedding rehearsal dinner’ up on the roof terrace of the East Village Hotel.

The food was fabulous and the red wine superb. In attendance, along with the wider wedding party, was the unfortunate lady fated to be ‘my’ bridesmaid on the Big Day™ (or, to be much more accurate, I was to be ‘her’ groomsman). Known colloquially as ‘Frankie Blue Eyes’ I had, to my eternal shame, once set this lass’ hair on fire, in a drunken prank which had gone rather awry. Relations between us were, therefore, a little frosty. Fortunately the excellent red wine kept flowing, and I did my able best to avoid her icy glares.

Well in my cups by the end, I promise folks a sensationally awesome ‘after party’ back at our nearby mansion. My companions, I assumed, would be up and on it, and we could all quaff deep into the night. Yet, when I arrived with a half dozen would-be revellers, I found each and every one of my housemates sound asleep, the living room covered in takeout boxes and – after our visitors left disappointed – a Gay Arctic Monkey, freshly back from Brisbane, snoring in my bed.

Such things are sent to try us, my friends, and try us oh they do.

*

Red wine hangovers, as I’m sure you know, are cruel beasts indeed. Lamentably, given their embarrassingly early nights, my travel companions were up unconscionably early, rousing me mewling and sobbing for, quote-unquote, ‘activities’.

But what an activity is was: Captain Tom, a family friend of the World Worst Groom’s parents, had offered to take us all around the harbour and surrounding waters on his personal sailing yacht! (The life we lead, dear readers…)

The WWG, his mother and his father – who had, it seemed, survived Saturday night’s onslaught – introduced us to Captain Tom and Captain’s Tom’s Wife, and showed us around their beautiful hillside home. Two rowdy hounds barked at us from the other side of a set of glass sliding doors – more on these tempestuous canines later…

Once all were aboard, Captain Tom and the WWG’s father (the WWG himself having ‘wedding shite’ to take care of) took us out into deeper waters, and the sun came out and drinks were served. A Gay Arctic Monkey raided the galley for white wine, and promptly became a Gay, tipsy, Arctic Monkey. We all tried to persuade Chatham House Rules to take a dip in the water, and almost managed it, until someone spotted a half dozen jellyfish, just floating on by, looking for Canadian-Iraqis to sting.

Having taken in the Opera House at close quarters, sailed under the Harbour Bridge and explored the docks and coves all around the bay, we made our way back to Hunter’s Hill and the home of Captain Tom. As we reached this homestead, we noticed that the aforementioned hounds, previously gaoled, were now bounding around free.

Chatham HR, noted animal lover, leapt from the jetty and stooped down to embrace them, promptly taking the younger beast’s firm snout square between the eyes. He span away reeling, his nose a bloody, savaged mess. The guilty canine, for his part, turned tail and fled into the bushes, barking loud apologies.

“Well yer shouldn’t rile them up, should ya?” noted Captain Tom’s Wife, not overwhelmed with sympathy.

Chatham took it all with surprising grace – until, that is, The Eagle suggested that he may now be rabid, and accordingly have but hours left to live.

What better way then, to spend a man’s final, frothing moments on this earth, than to go for one last supper, on this occasion at Sydney’s premier curry spot, ‘Halabar’? Once in situ, feeling that severely spicy Indian food might ward off infection and save both himself and his freshly mauled nose at the very last, Chatham ordered from the nuclear end of the menu. This, amusingly, reduced a GAM into sweaty, tearful misery:

“This is the hottest thing I’ve ever eaten!” he wailed.

“That’s chutney, mate,” we replied.

“But it buuuuuurrrrns!” he concluded.

With Chatham permanently disfigured and probably dying of Australian rabies (the very worst kind of rabies around); with a GAM red-faced, combusting internally; and with The Eagle feeling increasingly rundown and flightless, we decided to call it a night, wandering back to our fabulous Airbnb, where Sam Seaborn and Marcia Clark, post-date night, where attempting to make head or tail of a televised AFL game.

“Aha!” we aha-ed, “fortunately for you, we’re now Aussie rules experts! Listen to us, dear friends, and you’ll get it in no time at all!”

They did not, of course, ever ‘get it’ – but you know these Americans, dear readers, so closed-minded when it comes to their sports. Not like us Brits (and rabid Canadian-Iraqis), no not like us at all…

*

Friday was officially ‘Blue Mountains Day’ for our team, and as such we started at dawn (well, dawn-ish), hustling down to Central Station where we met both Hangry A and the Von Trapps – good friends of the World’s Best Bride from Cambridge, with whom we had previously shared a lovely Lebanese meal and Captain Tom’s yacht trip.

The train up was a slow one, and seemed to stop at every conceivable opportunity en route to Katoomba, a pleasant enough mountain town, where we enjoyed a fine breakfast at a joint named ‘True for the Bean’.

Fuelled and ready, we walk down to Echo Point, where we finally realise what all this Blue Mountains hype is ‘about’. The views from up there are nothing short of majestic – endless trees and craggy prominences and the rising blue haze which gives this wonderful part of the world its name. We then wandered down to the Three Sisters, a trio of famous, jutting rock stacks, popping out of a particularly craggy escarpment to say ‘G’day’ to the valley below. From there we took the Giant Stairway – eight to nine hundred steps, cut into the rock over a century ago – all the way down to the forest floor.

A very clement hike for one, maybe two hours then led us to the embarkation point for the Katoomba ‘Scenic Railway’ – reportedly the steepest railway in the whole wide world, and certainly the only one that I’ve ever travelled by which plays the ‘Raider’s March’ by John Williams on repeat.

[N.B. $21 for a two minute, one-way trip?! I’d call that pretty bloody ‘steep’, mate! Aha ahaha ahahaha…cough.]

We then had another one-stop train trip, this one notably flatter, across to nearby Leura, where we enjoyed well-deserved beers and humungous burgers at the Alexandra Hotel. Hangry A, having talked a big ‘food consumption’ game, failed to finish hers, uttering excuses most pitiful to hear. I, for the record, finished mine in four minutes flat. The poor thing never even stood a chance, gawd bless it.

And then we faced the long return leg back to distant Darlinghurst, down from the lofty mountains tall, a slow train back to civilisation (or as close as Australians can approximate to it). Once home, I lobbied unsuccessfully for us all to go out on the town, the team preferring to stay in, order some Pad Thai and listen to records – much, in fact, in the style of Upper-Eastside hipsters in their mid-to-late forties.

Appalled and saddened by their behaviour, I wandered the streets alone, just around the corner towards Surry Hills, where I met with a few fine Aussies who would be attending the next day’s wedding festivities.

Yes indeed, my friends, the ‘Wedding of Pane’ was now upon us – but a few hours away, by my watch. All signs pointed to it being, as they say, ‘a big’un’. We therefore sunk a good few preparatory G&Ts, as it really doesn’t do to go into these things without a good and proper warm up. A fellow could pull a muscle, after all…

The day started much like any other – a sluggish enough start, a little bit of necessary admin, quite a lot of unnecessary brunch…little did we know that this day would go down amongst the darkest of our lives, let alone the trip.

Well…one says, “little did we know” – actually we had a pretty damn good idea what we might be facing that afternoon and evening – it was to be an Aussie ‘buck’s party’ after all, and one ‘organised’ by The World’s Worst Best Man at that. Deep down, I feel, we always knew what was in store. Hence, perhaps, the slow pace of proceedings that morning – as if through base procrastination we might put off the inevitable pain and suffering which was later to come.

Firstly, we had more accommodation to book. Not only had we yet to find somewhere serviceable in Hong Kong for the stopover on our return voyage, we also had the exceptionally pressing issue of avoiding (at all costs) having to ‘crash’ in the homestead of The WWBM, post-bucks. Who knows what might befall there? Would we even get out alive?

We cried out to the internet, ‘take this cup away from us!’

And lo, the internet doth reply, ‘here’s a studio room near Manly Beach for a notably affordable sum. Book away, my children, book away.’

All praise to the internet! Hail the good god of wifi!

The Manly apartment was booked post-haste and Chatham House Rules, The Eagle and I could finally relax. (A Gay Arctic Monkey and The Associated Press were to fly to Brisbane early Sunday morning, so had not suffered with us our pangs of worry.)

Futures thus secured, we went over to Crown Street, where we enjoyed reportedly ‘the best brunch in Surry Hills’ (though not, in my opinion, the best in Australia – that is still to be found in Melbourne, VIC) and an ice cream at the repeatedly recommended Gelato Messina, which very much lived up to its top-billing.

And then, for there was really nothing else for it, we took a taxi across town to meet our fates in the crucible of the bucks.

Now, the eternal rules of stag parties everywhere mean that one can only hint at that which took place. Let us just say that it started off innocently enough, with beers and sports in the sunshine, and The World’s Worst Groom dressed amusing coquettishly.

However, as the sun lowered in the sky, matters took a turn. There was, in no particular order and with no particular punctuation, a good deal of the following:

Laws broken (moral and actual) and unpleasant male and female nudity and shirtless Greco-Roman wrestling and violence and cruel laughter and a show, a bad show, and a very cold girl and victories and losses with cups and bats and balls and little food and too much of everything else and things seen by fathers and fathers-in-law-to-be as well as all and sundry which should really not have been seen but which were and were bad and horrid and there were bouncers both friendly and unfriendly and house music, such deep house music and arguments and other clubs and venues and people far too young and fevered conversations and fear and sweat and mockery and then long cold journeys home with muddied palms and souls and then the black, the silence, all else as nothing.

Quite good fun, to be honest, if you like that kind of thing.

*

We had a really rather early checkout the next morning. Of course we did.

Spirits were simultaneously low and high – low because we were plunged into cruel movement, action, and the realisation that a Gay Arctic Monkey and The Associated Press had (comfortably) missed their flight up to Queensland; high because we were still, to a man, absolutely slippered.

Gingerly, oh-so-gingerly, we packed and left the house. A GAM and The AP found a cab and rebooked their Brisbane flights; Chatham House Rules, The Eagle and I found a café and attempted to converse with a fellow human being, with limited success. Eventually, the kind and pleasant German waitress took pity on us and brought us a random selection of hot drinks and cold water, steeling us for our upcoming train/ferry trip across the bay to Manly and Manly Beach.

We did not, my friends, feel manly, or womanly, or any positive -ly word one might care to mention, yet through unexpected reserves of something or other, we made it across town, found the correct boat and then watched central Sydney slip away behind us, bridges and opera houses and strippers and all.

Once in Manly we were struck by how much ‘fuller’ and crowded it seemed than even the most popular parts of Sydney. That it was full of and crowded with the most beautiful girls imaginable did not really help matters – following ‘instances’ witnessed the previous night, all three of us were now avowed celibates, monastic in sentiment and garb.

We found our studio flat – pokey enough and quite noisy, but perfectly suited to our humble needs – and threw on some beachwear. With our final mental and bodily strength we wandered the fifty yards or so to the main beach, found a likely looking spot of sand, then collapsed senseless upon it.

We are joined there in our sandy stupor a little later by Agent Cooper, heiress to the Coopers beer fortune and old friend of Chatham HR from Cambridge. She is a lawyer by trade, not a doctor – yet she is quick in her medical diagnosis: “You lot need bloody marys,” she states, authoritatively, “and quickly.”

In her wake we wander, across to the rather swanky Papi Chulo on the wharf, where the drinks mentioned – ‘bacon tequila’-based masterpieces of quite exceptional quality – are purchased and consumed. Both Chatham and The Eagle are instantly healed, ordering many subsequent schooners of Coopers Pale Ale in celebration and attempting (unsuccessfully) not to pay, due to our Coopery company.

I, however, am too far gone down the dark and choppy River Styx, and can barely manage to nibble upon my hubristically purchased king prawns, despite both their beauty and their flavour.

The party is then extended further by the arrival of Bernstein & Woodward, along with her sister and friend. Pleasant damsels all, and ill-deserving of such wretched company as I proffered. Fortunately The Eagle and Chatham were now back to approaching mid-season form and, as we went off to the nearby Manly Wharf Hotel, where we saluted the setting sun with more beers and prawn pizza (actually quite good), this fine and scholarly pair very much took up the conversational reins.

One by one, it being a school night after all, the good ladies bid their adieus, allowing us three, once alone in our masculinity, to hotfoot it back to the flat for an impressively early night. I fall asleep around eight, then again at nine, then at one thirty, then twice more at four and six. Chatham HR, you see, has a devil of a cold, and snores like a chainsawed giraffe.

I ask myself what I might have done to deserve such torment. Then I remember the buck’s party, and all becomes clear.

*

The next morn is a kinder one and we feel almost human. Chatham House Rules and The Eagle pop out for another fine coffee; I stay in and do a wee spot of writing – there is plenty to jot down.

We then set out to tick a few things off the Manly list Bernstein & Woodward had kindly provided us. First we walked all around the brush-strewn and swamp-pocked North Head headland, enjoying some fantastic views right across the bay and exploring the abandoned military structures dotted about the place.

We stop for a fantastic lunch at the Bella Vista, well worth a visit for its ‘bella vistas’ back across to Sydney city alone. Then, replete, fine white wine, calamari and squid ink tagliatelle in our (expanding) bellies, we finish our sunny trek, finding a couple of quieter little coves and beaches, and scouting out a location for dinner [eating, as you may have gathered, has proved a pretty central part of our voyage to date.]

Strolling back into town, we indulge The Eagle’s proclivity towards souvenir t-shirts, then enjoy a couple of local beers at the Hotel Steyne (sic). Following a quick nap, shedding the last of our post-buck’s party weariness, we head to the ‘Manly 16ft Skiff Club’ – a key recommendation from B&W.

It is $10 Steak Night here and it seems like the whole town has sauntered on down, guzzling away surprisingly succulent and excellent fare, considering the price point. After a few somethings and tonics, we decide to head out and hit the town – but lamentably find no ‘town’ to hit, Monday nights being pretty darn dead here in sleepy Manly.

‘Perhaps this is for the best,’ we reflect, heading back to the flat. ‘We ain’t young men no more – a couple of nights a week off might do us the power of good.’

Hell, after Saturday’s ungodly antics, one might consider it a miracle that this inebriate trio made it to beautiful Manly at all…

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!’

One by one my fellow voyagers gave Morpheus a decent boot to the castanets and rose to join me in the land of the wakeful. I sung the praises of our quarters’ shower – a mighty contraption of consistent heat and flow. Soon they had all washed, both individually and in pairs, and off we went, cleansed and rested, ready for a newly minted Victorian day. First stop was breakfast, in a nearby Smith Street joint called Alimentari.

As regular readers will know, I am not a fella given over to too much hyperbole – ‘there goes Mansfield’, they no doubt say, ‘stating things mildly and thoughtfully again’. So when I write that this establishment served up the greatest eggs I have ever eaten, you’ll know that this is not idle exaggeration. They were, I cannot stress this enough, dang good eggs.

A Gay Arctic Monkey then led The Associated Press and Chatham House Rules across to Carlton Park for a swift constitutional, while The Eagle an I returned to the abode, eager to catch up with our old buddy Jon Snow and gaze in rapt wonder at Lena Heady’s masterfully jutting chin.

At twelve noon the others returned and we were picked up by the cousin of Chatham HR, a fine fellow with a curious Iraqi-Canadian-Australian accent who had come to ferry us out to the far-flung Melbourne suburbs for a veritable House Rules reunion. En route we stopped at the largest offie I’ve yet seen, where this good gentleman insisted on purchasing half a hundredweight in Australian beer for the team, an act which placed him firmly in the best of our books.

Once at the bungalow of Chatham’s aged aunt and uncle we were thrown into a cacophony of Assyrian, Arabic and occasional Australian, and we were ushered onto comfy chairs and endless drinks were placed into well-shook hands.

Food came and the spread was a good one, cold mezes and hummus and a spectacularly tasty cheese/spinach/bread dip concoction which we very much enjoyed.

“Thank you all so much, that was just delightful!” I proclaimed munificently, to much laughter and general hilarity.

Chatham HR’s uncle, an old fella with an apparently infinite capacity for fine Scotch whisky, began to mock me with his nephew in chuckling Assyrian (I’m not much of a linguist, but I know when I’m being mocked in any number of languages, from Afrikaans to Zande). “What’s the jest, CHR?” I enquired.

“Hahaha, habibi, he says that they haven’t even begun!”

Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw it. I saw the horror. Out from the kitchen came sailing a petrifying series of the most gargantuan dishes imaginable, each more formidable than the last. Even The Eagle, a seasoned trencherman with hollow bones and a metabolism which power a medium-to-large nuclear reactor, visibly blanched.

“My word!” exclaimed The Associated Press, “and you eat like this every day do you?”

This foolishness received an even louder laugh, and I was the centroidal clown of proceedings no longer.

And then, in earnest, the eating began. We had been told by Chatham HR that his sainted aunt would be most insulted if we did not give a good showing; but also that she would not be satisfied, no matter how much we managed to consume. So-briefed, we culinary Sisyphuses tackled the piles of spiced chicken, rice, peas, lamb (minced and chopped), stuffed peppers, stuffed vines, more rice, more lamb and so on.

The more we ate, the larger the remainder became. Fear now entered our faces, sweat beading on brows. The fare was uniformly exquisite, but the portions were terrifying – it was too much, we were being summarily and incontrovertibly defeated by our lunch!

At that moment, the cavalry, thank goodness, arrived. News of Chatham’s arrival had spread, and expatriate Iraqi second cousin after expatriate Iraqi second cousin had arrived to pay homage. While each of them helped themselves to a perfectly normal plate of food, rather than the Texas-sized portions forced upon us, little by little we began to make progress. Finally, we felt that the dents made in the godly offerings were sufficient and that we could do no more. As one we dropped forks and knives and threw in the figurative and literal (paper) towel.

Our efforts had not gone unnoticed.

“She says you’ve barely eaten anything,” noted Chatham HR.

“Ah.” I looked around. The Associated Press was comforting a sobbing, Gay Arctic Monkey and The Eagle had passed out upon his plate. “Ah.” I repeated. There was little else to say.

“Also, we’ve got five minutes at most before dessert arrives.”

“Ah…dessert. Lordy be, should we make a run for it?”

“We can’t, I have more cousins coming.”

“More?!”

“Yep.”

“But what are we to do then?”

“Eat my aunt’s baklava, I’m guessing.”

“Oooooh! I like baklava!”

I took from my waist my stretched, protesting belt and lobbed it out a nearby, open window. “Let it begin!” I cried, as syrupy damnation descended. “We go again, my friends! Again, I say!”

*

That evening we were, as you might have already guessed, quite a sleepy bunch.

However, we had but two more nights in Melbourne and we had barely painted the town a soft peach, let alone the scarlets and reds for which we usually aimed. Thus, we forced ourselves up and out of the house and popped over to neighbouring Fitzroy and a swanky bar called ‘Naked on the Roof’ or ‘Naked for Satan’ or some rot like that.

The décor was questionable, but the night-time views over all of Melbourne were really rather wondrous. Together we gazed out at the city lights, nursing schooners of fancy beer and pretending that we did not secretly long for our beds. A nice enough spot, all-told, despite its silly name and ‘ambitious’ pricing strategy.

The next morning we woke a little later before wandering into town – via, of course, yet another ten out of ten coffee shop. A Gay Arctic Monkey – one of four GAMs, by the bye, who sprung to brief prominence in the city of Cardiff, several years back, through the performing of their “homosexually-inflected indie rock” (sic) – had found us that most dreadful and questionable of things: a free walking tour. It was to this cruel fate we trudged, coffees in hand, through the chilly streets of Victoria’s premier city.

After entertaining a sizable crowd outside the State Library of Victoria with some over-sized speed-chess (I lost to a GAM, as is my custom), we bit the bullet and joined the multicultural throng following a local lass in a lurid green t-shirt throughout the centre of ‘historic’ Melbourne. Yes, of course she had a septum piercing – I mean, you scarcely had to ask…

Overall, despite my cask-strength cynicism, it was pretty good – though my worst fears did look to be realised when the guide paused her tour after three minutes to point out a white van pulling a ‘hook turn’, whereby – hold the front page – the driver turned right from a left-hand lane.

“If this is the general standard of tour content, one can readily see why it’s free!” I quipped.

“Shut up, Mansfield,” suggested a GAM, and I did as bid, albeit temporarily.

As suggested above, things did indeed improve – almost to the extent that we continued on with the second half of the tour, off towards the ‘art laneways’ outside the city centre. However, we bid our farewells halfway through, tipped our guide generously (there is no such thing as a genuinely ‘free’ tour…unless you’re verging towards the ‘tight-fisted baaaarstard’ end of the ‘good bloke spectrum’) then retraced our steps one hundred yards or so.

Here we bundled into the ‘Empress of China’ (a well-recommended Chinese restaurant, not a fancy Han lady with expensive clothes). Chatham House Rules, you see, had had dumplings on his mighty mind for a good while now, and he simply would not be denied a moment longer.

The fare was cheap and delicious, and the fine waitress ladies were even good enough to permit our cracking open of a good few offie-purchased beers to wash it all down. Thus sated, we wandered our own way through the rest of town, up to Melbourne’s rather splendid botanical gardens.

The Eagle, a famously noble bird, found a kindred spirit in a large, friendly black swan, and Chatham HR fell asleep on a park bench with a level of nobility and class few others could hope to emulate. Even when one of Australia’s curious, colourful birds favoured his shoulder with a serviceable amount of crusty guano, he kept his poise and sanguinity, simply muttering that it augured good fortune to come.

Sadly, this was not the case – for a combination of sub-par tips and questionable map-reading meant that The Associated Press took us uphill and down Chapel Street for quite some time, our eventual reward being only a bog-standard Irish pub serving bog-standard Aussie lager.

A GAM, natural centurion that he is, then took matters into his own, Welsh hands. He had heard tell of a good Fitzroy bar which served $4 pizzas, and he wished to investigate. Hailing a cab, he marched us all in, throwing our previously laid plans and schemes from the moving taxi windows.

Up and across town in ‘the Bimbo Deluxe’ (please don’t blame me, dear reader, I don’t create these ‘zany’ names), where the beer was clearly priced to subsidise the frankly absurd value of the pizza, an epic and spectacularly low-quality series of pool commenced. As a quintet, our group has many a talent: one of us holds a PhD from Cambridge; one speaks numerous, complex tongues with fluency; and one has been on television, both network and cable, on multiple occasions*. Pool, however, and bar games in general, simply ain’t amongst them.

[*Yes, yes, these are all Chatham HR – but the point still stands…]

That being said, when a couple of locals came to challenge us for control of the table, The Eagle and The Associated Press rose to the occasion manfully and veritably smashed them off the felt, missing nary a ball. When you comes at the kings, as they say, you’d best not miss.

Josh the Giant, he of the MCG and the mighty Tiges, then joined us and furnished the group with further pitchers of the good stuff. I, by this point however, was starting to feel ‘the pace’. Noticing upstairs by the bathrooms that there was a quieter little snug, replete with soft sofas, I thought it best to sit down and attempt to clear my foggy head.

My eyes snapped back open perhaps an hour later. “Damn,” I damned. “Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!”

‘The boys,’ I thought, ‘will make mock of me. They will assume I had spent the past hour on the porcelain and that my blameless digestive tract is actually that of an African bull elephant, and not a well one neither!’

However, when I returned to the now teeming downstairs area of the bar, my companions were nowhere to be seen.

‘I can’t blame them,’ I reflected. ‘Not really – the ‘no man left behind’ rule can surely be waived when a fellow has seemingly been fifty plus minutes atop the Iron Throne.’

I staggered outside and was immediately heralded by a GAM, standing outside a cocktail bar, not twenty yards from the (sigh) Bimbo Deluxe.

“There you are yer pissed idiot!” he yelled. “You got lost trying to sneak off home early didn’t you?”

“Er…yes?”

“It’s that way,” noted The Eagle, adding in a few expletives at my expense which demeaned him and his ancient house.

“I say, The Eagle old man…”

Just then The Associated Press emerged, his eyes wide in panic, his white knuckles grasping a tray of what I am reliably informed were ‘expresso martinis’.

“Wow. How much did that set you back, The AP?” asked Chatham HR.

“I… I…” he stammered, a freshly broken man.

The others, cruel and callous when knee-deep in their cups, turned their scorn upon him, and I slunk away into the night, towards Collingwood, home and bed.

In short, my friends, the scores had come in. They read, ‘Melbourne 1 – a jetlagged Mansfield 0’.

Our journey began at around a quarter past four in the afternoon, on my 29th birthday, August 25th, 2017.

Now this is not, one admits, the most arresting way to begin a tale. It lacks a real ‘hook’, it lacks controversy or chutzpah. Yet, young’un, it is the way we have chosen – And why? Because it provides a cast-iron, permanent starting place, back to which you can cast your mind once we [spoiler alert] finally make it down to Australia, on the morning of Sunday 27th August, 2017; and which you can, as I did, subtract from Sunday 27th August, 2017 to conclude, like me, that our voyage took a total of several million farkin’ years.

It is, my friends, a fair old poke down the antipodes, and I don’t mean maybe.

*

At this earliest point we were only two – The Eagle, companion of my youth and regular cast member within these narratives, and myself. We hustled together up the Northern Line to Leicester Square, where two rapidly became three, for there, upon the platform of the Piccadilly Line, was the noble figure of Chatham House Rules.

There was little time to chat and embrace however, as a packed tube arrived and we made ourselves instantly unpopular by bundling our large 3-week bags into the throng, wheels crushing feet and corners cracking shins.

Now, strange as it is to think, given that the journey, in its totality, took upwards of three million years, but this forty-five minute spell on the westbound Pic. Line to Heathrow Terminals 1,2&3 was probably the least pleasant of the whole lot. Thank goodness, then, that immediately upon our release from this dark blue hell we were rewarded with the beaming Welsh face of a Gay Arctic Monkey.

“Hello, Gay Arctic Monkey,” we hello-ed.

“Hello!” he replied warmly, much in the custom of the times.

The fifth and final member of our primary party – another Welshman by the name of The Associated Press – would simultaneously be leaving England after and arriving in Oz before us, so we strolled over to the check-in desk as a quartet and I prepared to work my magic.

“Four to Melbourne please…Charlotte,” I simpered, eyeing her name tag.

“It’s Charlene,” she snapped.

“Of course, but of course.”

“Passport.”

“Right here…now then…”

“What?”

“You will notice, I am sure, that today is in fact my birthday?”

“And?”

“And, I trust you are already, as they say, ‘upgrading’ me and me boys here to ‘birthday class’, yes?”

“…”

“Fine, fine, we are not proud, we shall accept business.”

“…”

“Premium econom-eeee?”

Her response was, one must relay, curt, cruel and brought shame upon herself and her noble profession. She then proceeded to place Chatham House Rules and myself in the very back row of the Boeing 777, and The Eagle and a Gay Arctic Monkey in another part of the vehicle altogether.

After this trial, having had my waxen wings melted by the heat of the Charlene sun, and as it was still very much my birthday, we went to grab a beer or two. Once ‘a-bar’, we were set upon by the least pleasant waiter yet manufactured, lowering our pre-flight spirits still further.

Fortunately, The Associated Press then manifested himself unexpectedly, and his kind, ebullient words brought some semblance of salve. Together we toasted the coming voyage and damned the eyes of airport staff everywhere.

Then it was time to bite the first bullet and take Plane #1 to Hong Kong: Eleven hours or, more accurately, two films, a snooze, then two more. The airline fare was not inedible, and the gods were good – rather than cursing Chatham HR and myself with a neighbour in our row of three, they gave us the bounty of a spare seat, onto which we stretched out our demesne with relish.

Hong Kong Airport is not the finest, yet it is far from the worst the world has to offer. I managed to get us wildly lost within its terminals, but eventually wiser heads (Chatham HR) found us a decent enough restaurant as well as a bar which sold eye-wateringly expensive Japanese beer. Outside there was, as they say, ‘a wee bit of weather around’, so we were a trifle delayed. Once finally aboard Plane #2 (to Melbourne) the captain casually informed us that as we were behind schedule we’d just chance it and fly over the, and I quote, “large typhoon currently hitting the Philippines.”

“Er…please don’t!” we replied, yet the pilot was not for turning, and a severely bumpy nine hours began.

The Eagle passed around some sleeping pills which proved ‘chocolate teapot’ levels of effective and I watched children’s movies in a steadily worsening mood. Chatham HR, playing electronic poker on his screen and forgetting the effectiveness of his noise-cancelling headphones, began to turn the air blue as his cards failed to please him, scandalising a group of nearby nuns and making adjacent infants cry – improving my humour no end…

*

Finally, with a bump, our wheels hit the golden soil of Australia. ‘Hala!’ as they say in the Levant. Hala, hala, hala!

There was a slight issue at the Aussie border as a passport official, being an unimaginative sort and noticing that Chatham House Rules was of Middle Eastern extraction, called him over for extra processing. Now our fine friend works, we believe, as some sort of James Bond/George Smiley kind of bod, and his papers are full of stamps from insalubrious places such as Syria, Iraq and Mordor. This could, we feared, ‘get bad’.

However, Chatham HR calmly whispered a choice something in the fellow’s ear – an ear affixed to a countenance which went instantly white. He handed back Chatham’s documents with shaking hands and a stammered, “Th…thank you, sir..” and we were on our way, off to face the much-vaunted ‘wrath’ of Australian custom controls. This would surely prove more taxing. These boys were infamous and tenacious, ferocious protectors of their nation’s fragile ecosystem.

“Nice one mate, straight through there, cobber, no worries!”

“Err…” This was not what I’d expected at all.

“No worries, lads, wander along!”

“Don’t you want to inspect our suitcases?”

“Yeah nah, mate, you’re alright.”

“How about a nice body cavity search on The Eagle here?”

“Oi!”

“Hahaha, I’d be so lucky mate! Now get on with yer!”

Standards, it seemed, had slipped.

In an airport coffee shop we found The Associated Press, looking exactly like a man who had endured his own vast and sleepless voyage, but without the company of old friends. His flight had gone via the Gulf rather than the Orient, and had not been delayed one jot.

“Greetings, The Associated Press!”

“Gree…tings…”

“Gosh, you look like arse.”

“Ha…arr…arse…yes…”

“Would you like to leave the airport?”

“Ye…yes, yes…yes please…I…I would like that quite…quite a lot…”

First things first, certain members of the group needed to replace the dangerously low levels of nicotine in their collective systems. Darts done, we were offered a mini-bus-cum-taxicab which spirited us to Collingwood, a ‘happening’ (read: hipster) part of town, renamed, famously, after the great Paul Collingwood MBE scored 206 in the second test of the 2006-7 Ashes Series.

It was still too early to access our AirBnb, so we wandered to a likely looking coffee joint called Twilight Terror or Terror Twilight or something alliterative like that. Here we met ‘Stephen’, a fabulously friendly, fabulously camp fellow covered head to toe in tattoos.

Now I am not, myself, a ‘coffee person’, but once the flat whites had appeared I could instantly tell from the faces of my companions that our new pal Stephen had provided them with the goods. We then broke a decent fast, wiped out another couple of rounds of hot drinks, then thoroughly outstayed our welcome as we waited for time to pass and accommodation to ready itself. Eventually our painted friend kicked us out with a final smile, and we went to drop off our bags and inspect at last our new abode.

A very fine place it was too, all light spaces, bright colours and big bedrooms. There was no time now to enjoy it properly, however, for the day was out there, very much awaiting us!

*

Bags thus dropped, we wandered the more fashionable streets down into town – noting, not for the first time, that Melbourne in August is undeniably ‘brass monkeys’. Chatham House Rules himself, who grew up in the rolling tundra of Toronto, noted that the temperatures on offer were markedly sub-optimal, and that he really should’ve packed a coat or three…

Being superbly massive lads, naturally we stopped off in a large, central park to look at the birds – sullen kookaburras and violent pink parakeets, mostly. Eventually we found our way to the 100,000 seater MCG, where we purchased tickets for the afternoon’s local AFL derby, Richmond Tigers (“Caarn you Tiges!”) versus the hapless St Kilda Saints.

We then rushed across to the Crafty Squire, a capacious city centre sports bar with thousands of TVs, to watch the surprisingly entertaining Mayweather/McGregor fight and drink unsurprisingly expensive, but very decent and very, very necessary beers.

The combination of a massive lack of sleep and our much-deserved pints tipped a few of our number into giggling insobriety, and after an ‘amusing’ cab ride back to the stadium we were relatively loud in our mockery of the curious game now playing out before us.

However, these ignorant critiques of ‘Aussie Rules’ (no relation to Chatham HR, of course) was forestalled by the arrival of a giant friend of The Associated Press – a vast, rangy fellow called Josh who, as chance would have it, I once played rugby with over a decade ago, and who was a devoted follower of the mighty ‘Tiges’. As he explained this significantly odd game to us we all got a mite more involved and enjoyment levels rose accordingly – levels not even abated by the watered-down and price-inflated ‘Carlton Draught’ available at Melbourne Cricket Ground.

That being said, we still ‘did one’ a little way before the end (Richmond had it well in the bag and no longer required our assistance) and, bidding a fond, final adieu to a sublime stadium, headed for a dinner at ‘Chin Chin’. Despite our brains now being so much watery mashed potato, we managed to pick out some truly fantastic Thai dishes (with some assistance from a patient and sympathetic waitress). Eyelids were now drooping severely, but the taste sensations continued apace, each and every dish superior to that which came before it.

Finally the inevitable happened and we all, to a man, crashed and crashed hard. With our last strength we found a cab and poured ourselves in. “Collingwood…” croaked The Eagle, and we were away. Once home we drew lots for bedrooms and, for once, my luck held. I was granted the bed of all beds, onto which I collapsed and was gifted eight, nine hours of the finest slumber yet conceived.

I wake early, pre-dawn. The house is dark and quiet and cool, and I creep downstairs to our spacious new lounge, carrying parchment, candles and quill. Summoning the addled memories of a very, very long day past, slowly, then a mite more fluently, I begin to write.

 

Like a murderer to the scene of the crime, or an old hound to its festering pile of doggy vomit, we have returned, inevitably, ashamedly, to France, and to the Côte d’Or.

Now I know what you are no doubt thinking, dear reader. You are no doubt thinking – ‘Oi, T.H. you swine, The People didn’t go and vote Brexit so you and your lot could bloody-well go buggerin’ orf to that Europe they’ve got down there!’

These would be a fine and fair and irrevocably British thoughts, and you would be right to have them. However, my counter-point would be the following: ‘But we have severe, severe cheese addictions.’

Still, ‘We’ve got cheese here!’ you might rage, and rightly. As the erstwhile Justice Minister and future Nobel laureate, Liz Truss, so famously lamented, “We import two-thirds of our cheese: that is a disgrace!” Hence our collective shame in returning Burgundy-way: We could have driven long and steady across land and water to Cheddar (Som.), Stilton (Cambs.) or even Wensleydale (North Yorks.). Then we might have been pure. Then we might have been patriots. But we did not. That is not our story. Those were not the paths we trod.

So, instead, we dusted off our disgracefully red passports and headed down to Dover, for the second time in less than a year. When I say ‘we’, at this point the travelling party was made up of L’Aigle, myself and Si-Moan de Beauvoir, me youngest sister (not to be confused with Moan of Arc, me middle sister, who shall enter the fray at a later date). The Old Man and Katzenjammer would be arriving on the morrow, and at its fullest our number would be six.

Yes indeed, a round half-dozen; a fifty percent increase on last year’s cohort. Sequels are traditionally bigger and baggier than their predecessors, and ours is no different. Let us hope, dear friends, that this ‘difficult second album’ of a holiday meets with positive reviews, and manages to slip on by with nary a bust-up…

*

A wise man once noted that ‘the smell of a French supermarket is quite unmistakable and not nearly as bad as you think it is’. That wise man, was, of course, me, one year ago, almost to the day. It is always good, I feel, to listen and bear witness to one’s own eloquence, to learn from it, and use it to keep oneself grounded and humble.

The drive down had been a long one. Following an unfeasibly early start we’d arrived at Dover Port at an unfathomably early hour, where L’Aigle and I leant our prodigious intellects to the key issue of, ‘How the bloody blazes are we to watch the 3rd Lions Test?!’

Luck, that sweet, chimeral princess, was, that morning, very much in our corner, holding the rag and spittoon. It only took the swiftest reccy around the ferry to find an upstanding Welshman, perhaps his late fifties or early sixties, who was in possession of a functioning tablet device, replete with signal and rugby ‘rugger’ union. This was a development most fine indeed, and L’Aigle and I promptly invited ourselves into his little party, sourced ourselves some eye-wateringly expensive teas, and sat down to watch one of the most serviceable draws rugby football has yet known. That the referee, a Frenchman, opted to ‘bottle it’ and hand this favourable result to the British & Irish boys augured well, we felt, for the remainder of our sojourn.

Sport watched, Si-Moan found and ferry docked, we proceeded to drive. Radio 4 Long-wave, carrying as it does the heavenly tones of TMS and the always indispensable Shipping Forecast, forces its way a decent distance down into central France, and, as such, our drive, whilst undeniably long, was not an unpleasant one. Eventually, deep into Burgundian territory, we left the toll roads for leafier, less grasping routes – and it was just off one of these that we found our market and began to acquire our vittles.

So, my friends, back to le supermarché français (mentioned, you remember, at the beginning of this ramble). Orangina – a prerequisite for all continental doings – was first on the list, closely followed by myriad cheeses, hard and soft.

Young Si-Moan de Beauvoir, trying as always, gawd-bless-her, to be as tiresome as is humanly possible, is currently both a vegan and on a ‘carb-free diet’. Fortunately the Carrefour we’d found included a small garden centre built-in, so we sourced a nice spot of mulch and soil for her to chew upon, along with a tasty pot of geraniums and assorted, vitamin-rich mosses. L’Aigle and I, more omnivorous, opted for steak, bread and garlic.

From marketplace to rented homestead was but a jump, skip and Gallic hop. Accordingly, we got wildly, wildly lost amongst the lovely yet interchangeable French villages which nestled themselves amongst the unending Côte d’Or vines. L’Aigle’s ‘Googlemap’ sent us to one village; my own ‘Applemap’ sent us to another. Neither, it scarcely needs to be said, were the village we required.

Eventually, upon our second visit to a tiny hamlet named Marey-Les-Fussey (named, famously, after a lass called Mary, particularly particular with the food she consumed; and not to be confused with the nearby village of Fussey, which we also visited twice during our drawn-out searchings) we spotted the recently renamed and unmapped rue we desired. And there, tucked behind some unnecessary black gates, stood the house The Old Man had rented. It looked good. It looked very, very good.

Once parked up we were immediately set upon by Marc and Sylvie, our landlords for the week. I uttered a few French pleasantries, which gave them the exceptionally false impression that I speak and understand their wonderful but unintelligible tongue. They therefore dragged me all around the property, showing off this and that, explaining that and this – all of which soared over my weary head like a babbling, Francophone goshawk (more on this fellow later).

That they were garrulous and friendly would have scarce been a problem, had I not been, at that time, utterly, utterly ravenous. I am not sure if you’ve noticed, but if one has been a decent stretch between meals – as I had that eve, vittles during our journey being insubstantial at best – one’s patience is not always at its most extensive. That Marc and Sylvie went on and on and on, unceasingly French, as I stood mere yards from the stove and our laden shopping bags…well my friends, it was truly, for old T.H. the thirteenth labour of Hercules.

Marc, a fine, true soul all things considered, perhaps mistook by suffering for thirst, for he dashed away for a moment and returned with a local bottle of red as a welcoming present. This did, in fact, brighten me no end, and I began to feel new level of bonhomie towards this talkative pair…until, that is, Sylvie took advantage of my exhausted, hunger-addled state and stung me for an additional 600€ deposit. Yes my friends, ’twas indeed le bon gendarme, mauvais gendarme trick – an oldie but a goodie. I paid the money, wept a little, then drank the wine.

L’Aigle, true Briton that he is, had sensed my struggle, and while I sorted what needed to be sorted and signed my young life away, he was busying himself in the kitchen, cooking up the finest garlic flank and mustarded potatoes the world has yet known. The landlords now finally sated and sent away, we sat out, at last, upon the terrace, feasting on the food of the gods and looking over the most wonderful vista of vineyards, trees and the Burgundian skies of late eventide. Well…two of us were feasting thus…

“How’s the moss, sweet sister?” I asked Si-Moan brightly, drinking Marc’s wine and starting to feel a wee bit more human.

“Moral,” she grunted, choking down her geraniums and glaring at the bloodied remains of my steak. “You know that that poor cow you’re eating probably never even…”

“Peace, de Beauvoir, peace, I beg! Have some potato salad…”

“I can’t! Mayonnaise has eggs in it.”

“Oh does it now?” asked L’Aigle in his carefree baritone. He was looking a little interrogatively at the darkening skies, the merest hint of a frown upon his brow.

“Er…yeah, L’Aigle! It’s like the main ingredient!”

“Well I’m sure the eggs in this mayonnaise were laid by contented, Gauloise-smoking hens!” I posited, pushing the bowl of potatoes towards Si-Moan.

“Storm’s a-brewing…” muttered L’Aigle.

“Not half! I believe young de Beauvoir here is coming in off her long run…”

“Well even if they were treated nicely, all the boy hens get killed at birth!” raged the sibling. She was, I guessed, not without a semblance of accuracy, attempting to get herself wound up into the righteous, rage-fuelled state necessary to swallow the quote-unquote ‘foodstuffs’ which sat, sadly, upon her plate. “You’re both accessories to mass-murder!” she proclaimed.

“Yep, storm’s definitely on its way…”

“Well, let’s toast to their young sacrifice then!” I cried. “To the wee, male chicks!” I raised my goblet to the angry, purple skies.

CRRRAAAASSHHH!!

“Aaaghh!”

“Bugger me sideways!”

“Told you so…”

The storm, a furious bastard of a tempest, rolled in swiftly and vociferously, rain now teeming down and lightning crashing about the place like an unruly stag-do in a low-end Wetherspoons. Accordingly, we put our debate on hold and fled into the house, where we watched the unfolding downpour for a while. Then, the day’s miles and fatigue taking their toll, we all began to wander to our rooms, keen to grab ourselves some early, if thunder-filled, nights.

*

The crew woke up at a, shall we say, leisurely hour, before sorting ourselves out and making for Dijon, where we would be meeting The Old Man and Katzenjammer, arriving on the ‘express’ from Paris. Si-Moan de Beauvoir was at the wheel, driving quite superbly slowly through the villages and vineyards, towns and fields, and then, almost imperceptibly, through the southern reaches of the city itself.

Fortunately, given the glacial pace of Si-Moan’s piloting, the Sunday train from Paris was a good hour or so late, so we arrived just in time to meet them at the platform, heave their bags into the motor, then go seek out a likely spot for a spot o’ lunch. Once in place at a serviceable establishment, we were treated to the entertaining sight of The Old Man refusing to speak anything but French to our somewhat lugubrious waiter while, simultaneously, our somewhat lugubrious w. exclusively replied in en anglais.

With both key players refusing to speak their own mother tongues, ordering took a wee bit longer than it might’ve – but once the food arrived all became instantly well. They really do know their way around the kitchen, do the Burgundians, and even Si-Moan de Beauvoir, she of the impossible culinary requirements, found herself well catered-for.

I forewent dispassionately the (very fine) wines at the restaurant, as I was fated to drive back to the house. I therefore put the hammer down, as they say, and raced back to Marey-Les-Fussey post-lunch, only losing my way once or twice before screeching to a halt in the driveway then dashing for the homestead and the grapey booze within, mine by right.

Thusly sated, I proposed a game of pétanque on the bespoke gravel boules pitch not twenty yards from the house. (Please see a previous post, Et maintenant, la fin est proche…, for additional information about this game of games). This was a jovial contest which rapidly developed into an epic, hotly contested series, one which saw alliances made and dashed, sons turn upon fathers and fathers attempt to turn upon sons, but then miss by several feet and curse loudly and bitterly.

Wandering off to lick his figurative pétanque wounds, L’Aigle found himself, serendipitously, back in the kitchen. French supermarkets, we remembered too late, close early on Sundays (if they open at all), so the cupboards were much barer than one might’ve hoped. However, L’Aigle, deep in mid-season form, was still very much able to cook the people up a tasty, if lighter meal, hitting each and every serving very much from the middle of the bat, if you will permit a fellow to mix his sporting metaphors. More wines then flowed, then hay was hit. A fine, fine day, all told.

*

The next morning The Old Man set out early to purchase some necessities and, upon his return, we enjoyed a tip-top breakfast of all sorts of quality French nonsense. The breaking of our fast was spoiled only by Si-Moan de Beauvoir objecting at length to the consumption of honey, due, one gathers, to the psychiatric bills faced by uninsured bees, following the grand theft of their sweet, sticky wealth. Her objections were, of course, dismissed out of hand – but that, it seemed, only meant they increased in volume and hyperbole.

Following this, The Old Man, poor bugger, was dragged out for a cycle ride by Katzenjammer. He seemed displeased by this turn of events, but, looking around, he saw none were much inclined to aid him in his plight, so he met his cruel fate like the stoic he is. L’Aigle and I, on the other hand, explored the village and surrounding vineyards at a much more leisurely pace. It really is a glorious part of the world, and if you get the chance to walk its paths and gulleys, you really, truly must.

All through the sojourn so far, The Old Man had spoken reverentially of the rare and misanthropic goshawk, apparently local to the area, though very, very rarely seen. He had spotted their kind in the Far East before, but never in Europe and, while he still kept a wee flame of faith burning, he concluded it highly unlikely that one would be seen on this trip.

Imagine, therefore, the astonishment of L’Aigle and myself as we, during our jaunt between the vines, spotted a large French goshawk in his mid-to late teens, perched on a post, smoking a cigarette which, it would transpire, to no-one’s great surprise, was very much of the Gauloise variety.

“Hail Goshawk, well met!” says I.

“Casse-toi,” he suggested, giving us the once over and looking rather uninspired.

“Well, that’s not particularly friendly,” noted L’Aigle.

“Et va te faire foutre aussi…”

“I say! What a mean spirited, featherly little bugger you are!” I exclaimed. I am not sure you’ve been verbally abused by a continental bird of prey before, but if you have you’ll know that it cuts one mighty deep.

The hawk rolled its mighty eyes, stubbed out the butt of his cigarette with its talons then flew away, offering nothing more to the conversation. Despite his unconscionable rudeness, on the wing he was an utterly glorious sight, his juvenile brown beginning to give way to that lighter underbelly which would mark him superior to one’s run-of-the-mill sparrow-hawks. In short, a ‘top top’ bird.

“Beautiful bastard,” I noted, watching him fly away. “Mouth like a guttersnipe, but still.”

“I’m thirsty,” noted L’Aigle.

“Aye, moi aussi, let’s go home.”

Back at the place, beers and wines and G&Ts in hand, the pétanque series recommences. I begin to edge ahead overall, though, oddly,  whenever L’Aigle and I play mano-a-mano he whoops me good and proper. Come the evening the boules are laid down and a search party is sent out for a.) meat for the BBQ, and b.) Moan of Arc – who, it transpired, at that point languished at Dijon Ville train station, having arrived that eve from Munich.

Splendidly, she is found and is brought back safely to the castle, yet the rains again descend in serious earnest, and we are obliged to cook up our own storm beneath the eaves. That night we drink anything with the misfortune to resemble wine as winds howl and rain hammers down. The half dozen is complete and we are replete, and soon it is time to retire, for all is drunk and all is well.

*

If memory serves, I was told by a wine merchant fellow last time we were around these parts that, as Burgundy wines contain no sugar, they dole out no hangovers the morning after whatsoever. And, against all the odds, this proved delightfully true the following morn.

Yet another top breakfast was munched into nothingness…and not too long after that another top lunch. The pétanque series reaches fever pitch, The Old Man coming back strong and L’Aigle beginning to show his class. Si-Moan de Beauvoir also begins to get the hang of it and, little by little, I am dragged from my pinnacle and rubbed in the boules court gravel, mewling like an infant at a poker table, twice done-over by an unkind river.

Four of us (all sans sisters Moan and Si-Moan) cycle that afternoon to a nearby village (with only half of the team getting lost en route), where we completely fail to find the restaurant we seek. Instead, that evening we strike out to the nearest town, Nuit-Saint-Georges – named, infamously, by the settlement’s lady foundress many centuries ago, in tribute to an evening of passion she spent with England’s own St. George, during his pan-European post-dragon speaking tour.

Despite it being a Tuesday, available tables at decent restaurants are limited, so we find a serviceable bar on the main square for a few drinks and send L’Aigle off to work his Saxon charms. Before too long, he has somehow secured an excellent table at a nearby eatery, where enjoy a very ‘decent’ Burgundian dinner indeed:

The first course, l’escargot, was very fine. The main course, coq au vin, was even better. Sadly all, for me, was let down by sorbet, of all things, being served at the last instead of ice cream, as promised. Our waiter, a tattooed, scarred fellow with an eye-patch and two missing fingers, did not think much of my complaints, preferring to ignore me while leaning against the wall, picking his remaining fingernails with an eight inch, serrated blade and not even having the decency to look bashful.

It takes, one reflects, all sorts to make a world. But why oh why does said world have to include bastard fruity sorbets?

*

My final day (and final breakfast) arrives – I am back off to Blighty and honest toil, a few days earlier than the rest of the crew. I slope around the place, enjoying the house a wee bit more, before packing my humble belongings in the old kit bag, feeling a little maudlin.

Leaving Si-Moan de Beauvoir to guard the fort (something she is more than happy to do, having had more than her fill of mine and The Old Man’s nonsense), we head off to Dijon once again. This time we explore the city a mite more extensively, visiting lofty churches and purchasing various high quality mustards, or, as they call them there, moutarde (which sounds rude but isn’t).

The fell time then arrives, as I had known it would but had hoped it somehow would not. I have, lamentably, to catch me a train to Paris, then to London. The melancholy of our goodbyes is lessened by my childish glee at my train having two stories – double-decker trains can warm even the saddest and weariest of English hearts, you see.

I find my seat, sit down and crack open my laptop. The ‘holiday notes’ I had composed previously throughout the break I find fatuous and unintelligible, so I delete the whole dang thing and start afresh. As le train pulls away, I conjure up memories of cheese and ferries and wines and surly goshawks. I sigh, pause, sigh again, then begin to type…

Belize (October 11th-20th)

Three flights and a stale pack of marginally salted peanuts later, The Big Man trod upon Belizean soil for the very first time. During his fourteen-hour voyage the unthinkable had happened: He had realised that The Writer had been correct all along…Escape by Rupert Holmes was “sum bullshit, yo?”

Back in April his old pal had stated, loudly and repeatedly, that the infamous ‘Piña Colada Song’ was amongst the worst ever committed to vinyl…and oh, if only The Big Man had listened. Since then he had wasted so much of his time…such a vast chunk of his life.

Thusly, his very first acts in Belize were to find a computer; to plug in his brand-name mp3 player-cum-telephonic device-medium; and, his thick tears salting the keyboard, to delete the worn-out recording of his favourite song forever. He was tired of his lady, my friends. They’d been together too long…

Emotionally wrought, he stumbled from the internet cafe and discovered, to his dismay, that nary a single ATM in the entire airport was making with the cash. Belize City Airport, God bless it, sure as heck ain’t London Stansted (considered by many ‘in the know’ to be the very finest airport in existence) and The Big Man had no desire to be stranded there. He, therefore, did what any right-thinking fellow of sound mind and decent-enough bone structure would do in such a situation – and sold his Celtic body to the highest bidder.

The highest bidder, in this particular case, was an Arizona lass by the name of Sierra. She was a volunteer aid worker of sound moral fibre…though these sound ethics proved malleable enough to make The Big Man work a great deal for his trip into the city…

*

Once safely in Belize City Port, The Big Man was set upon by two further Yankee maidens, both of whom were hitting the rums with extreme prejudice. While this pair were two-thirds of a very serviceable, premiership-standard front row, our hero was in sore need of a drink, so he accepted their kind invitation and drunk much of the afternoon away. They then tripped over towards the speedboat which would take him to Caye Caulker – the tiny island just off the Belize coast where, in theory, his hostel awaited him.

The heavens promptly opened, the rains descending like a million watery rats ‘doing one’ apace from a leaky, celestial ship. The American ‘gals’ chose to enjoy the cooling deluge, giving The Big Man the chance to nip below into the hold and demolish the remainder of their rum and beers. They found him sound-asleep, with a broad smile on his face and empty bottles strewn around him. They were unimpressed. He did not, it goes without saying, give much of a monkey’s.

Caye Caulker, one of the quintessential backpacking destinations ye find knocking around these parts, is home to a good few hostels. The dive chosen by The Big Man was, of course, the very cheapest on the entire isle. One of its many idiosyncrasies was the fact that it boasted the most cacophonous air-conditioning unit in the western hemisphere. This made conversation somewhat difficult:

“HELLO THERE!

“G’DAY!”

“I’M THE BIG MAN.”

“WHAT?”

“I SAID, I’M THE BIG MAN!”

“OH..TOO EASY, MY NAME’S SAM AND THIS IS OLIVIA.”

“G’DAY!”

“HI!”

And so on. This lovely couple from Byron Bay (for they were, necessarily, Australians) were enjoying a jaunt from Mexico to Panama, and it became clear that the three would become fine friends. They were joined by yet more Americans and they set off together in search of multitudinous beers.

Many a place was visited, including a high-class establishment by the name of ‘Dirty McNasty’s’ where the rum was potent and on the house, so long as one agreed to shoot never-ending games of pool with the owner – a fella by the name of ‘Smooth’. Cigarettes were smoked that eve, of a significantly jazzy variety…

*

The main reason The Big Man had decided to grace this particular place with his presence was the excellent diving to be enjoyed in the waters surrounding Caye Caulker. Ever since the Australians made the wise and sagacious decision to destroy their own barrier reef, Belize has boasted the largest living coral reef in the world – and he was, therefore, desperate to get beneath the surface and see what was what.

His first dives took place upon a part of the reef known as ‘Esmeralda’. Who Esmeralda was, one does not know – but she was clearly a fan of sharks. The bastards were everywhere, so they were. Mostly one saw nurse sharks, harmless enough to humans of heft and courage…but they were not alone.

The Big Man glided through the waters in a deep, lasting peace, gazing all around him at the swirling colour and boundless marine life. Two lasses were diving alongside him, Samantha and Denise from Bordeaux, France (and by ‘Bordeaux, France’, one of course means Sydney, Australia). All was perfect and fine.

Things became rapidly less ‘perfect and fine’ when a twelve-foot hammerhead swung by and bit Denise upon the flipper. This raised much wrath in The Big Man, who swam around and punched the offending shark square in the middle of its ‘hammer’.

Now, back in verdant Waterford, Ireland, The Big Man’s right hook was known far and wide. He had, it was rumoured, once knocked out two Kerry cattle who had ‘looked at him funny’. This shark had, therefore, it is safe to say, never experienced anything quite like it. It swam off at a rate of knots, followed by many a nurse shark offering to nurse its new-found concussion.

Back above the waves, the two Australian girls beset The Big Man with salty kisses and, once again, he was flavour of the month, week and year. Many a toast was raised to the shark-puncher that night upon the isle of Caye Caulker, my friends, and all were most merry.

The next morn they set off early to dive the famed ‘Great Blue Hole’: Being over 300 metres across and 100 metres deep, it is, undeniably, a great, big hole. It is also notably blue, so whoever came up with the name was really bringing the goods.

Adrenaline flooded through him as The Big Man descended into the deep. Far away to each and every side he could barely make out the far-off bedrock, but that soon was lost, away in the darkening murk. He had long-loved diving, and this had been an ambition of his for many years. He could not quite believe he was finally doing it, and his grin was so wide his facemask could hardly contain it.

On his third and final foray into the sink-hole, he saw them. The bruised and humbled hammerhead from the previous day had tracked him to the hole, slipping into the atoll and across the shallows, unnoticed by the boatmen above. It was flanked by endless Caribbean reef sharks, two, three metres in length and with murder in their eyes.

“Ah shit,” thought The Big Man, slowly unsheathing the knife lashed to his ankle and staring down his fishy foe.

“I say, old bean,” called out the hammerhead, cigarette hanging loosely from its multitudinous teeth. “You know, you really made a fellow look like a prized arse in front of those Aussie chicas yesterday!”

The Big Man shrugged, kicking unhurriedly towards the surface.

“So, you know, what with me having a bit of a reputation to uphold around these parts, I thought, you know, it might be best to get a few of the lads around and, you know, tear you to pieces.”

The Big Man said nothing, mostly because his mouth was full of scuba gear.

“So, what ho, no time like the present, what?” said the shark, suddenly accelerating towards him, its foul mouth gaping open.

At the last possible moment, The Big Man cut through his weighted belt and shot upwards. He swung his legs up above him as he rose and reached downwards with his blade, stabbing his watery assailant right at the base of its hammer.

“Aarrghh…you Irish bastard! You think oikish tricks like that will save…say, lads, fellas, what’re you doing, boys? Aaaarrrrghhh!!!”

The hammerhead’s posse of reef sharks, never enormous fans of its supercilious tone, had taken the blood gushing from its head as a formal invitation to dine. As The Big Man hastened back towards the boat, they went at their former ringleader with relish – hammerhead being, of course, the tastiest of all the sharks.

The guests and staff of the hostel were beyond keen to hear this tale told near a thousand times, once he was back ashore. Yet two marine tussles in as many days had worn The Big Man down no end, so, politely declining all offers of beers and company, he turned in for the night. The next day was, after all, a travellin’ day…

*

After Caye Caulker, came San Ignacio, a pleasing little town filled with bustling markets sitting upon the Belize-Guatemala border. He travelled now with Sam and Olivia, and, after so long living on fast-food and bar snacks, it did The Big Man much good to get involved with some healthy home-cooking at their lodgings. A nice little gathering soon followed and the local beers and herbs and foodstuffs kept them going long into another pleasant night.

The next day he went for a run about the town and stumbled upon a nearby Maya temple, around which he pottered for a while. Upon returning to the house, they all set off to the river, where canoes were hired and an impromptu expedition into the jungle was made. The rapids flowed and the monkeys chirped, and The Big Man felt that he could get used to all this tropical stuff, if only it wasn’t so damned hot. A particularly stern set of rapids then capsized him, cooling him down immediately.

After San Ignacio, would come Guatemala. This is, however, a story for another day. Let us leave our hero, therefore, on a chicken bus (not, as one might hope, a bus full of chickens – rather a refitted US school bus, the like of which fill the streets of Central America) to Flores, Guatemala.

Upon said chicken bus, he ponders his time in Belize: Aye, the diving was fabulous, though Belize City itself was not quite to his tastes – somewhat over-priced and overrated. The people, however, were mostly excellent, and he had greatly enjoyed sampling the local alcohols and learning some Belize Kriol. Overall, ‘Culdmann!’, as one might say, were one that way inclined…

 

September 26-27th

After slipping the driver a couple of cheeky ‘ten-spots’, The Big Man was permitted to dive into the luggage compartment of the surprisingly glacial ‘Bolt Bus’ and hide deep within the tumbling baggage until they reached the US border. To his astonishment, he was not the only traveller making use of the hold:

“Howzit?”

“Christ! You scared the arse off me, lad!”

“Sorry, bro.”

“You hiding from the women down here too, like?”

“Yeah nah, bro, it was just a bit chocka up there so someone had to come down here and I’m like, all good, sweet as, I’ll get in the bonnet and boot for a bit, I’m pretty buggered from the sculling either way, yeah?”

“Eh?”

It seemed that The Big Man’s luggage-based companion was a borderline-incomprehensible kiwi fellow by the name of ‘Mitch’. Once the Irish/NZ language barriers had been broken down, however, the two got on famously – and it was not too long before the slow, southerly grind of the Bolt Bus had brought them all the way to the border.

Once there, and with the hordes of irate Vancouver lady-folk safely behind them, The Big Man clambered out of the side-hatch and straight into the arms of a heavily-muscled border-guard.

“Usually, stowaways are meant to get in at this point, buddy…”

“Ah, yeah, sorry lad – had bit of trouble with the women back in Canada, like.”

“Ha, haven’t we all…you got ya papers?”

“Sure do, here…”

“Thank you, sir. And you, sir?”

“Yeah nah, bro, sweet as, but…”

It turns out that the New Zealand Government, as part of an ill-thought out attempt to raise public funds, recently sold the bulk of its citizenry’s passports to various insalubrious fellows in the Middle East. This has left fellows such as Mitch, whose wanderlust greatly exceeds his paperwork, in a slightly sticky situation.

This morning, however, the stars aligned and all aboard the Bolt Bus were eventually waved through. Had this been the soon to be walled-up Mexican border – and had Mitch been a slightly less pasty fellow – perchance things might have gone a little differently.

Yet all, this time, was well. Mitch and The Big Man headed straight to a nearby bar, where a friendly couple of Spanish extraction poured scorn upon our hero’s west coast plans and forced their own ‘wisdom’ upon him. Once well-catered with new information, he began an epic one-and-a-half day jaunt around the city of Seattle, completing a marathon or two of mileage and wearing through the old shoe leather with serious abandon.

Seattle, as a settlement, he found very much to his tastes – though, lamentably, many of the city’s residents did not seem to have dwellings of their own. Rather, they spent much of their time al fresco, as they say en español. Our American cousins seemed quite fine with this unequal situation, however, so The Big Man opted not to comment. He had not, after all, come to give yankees lessons on communism. Instead, he gave thanks for the roof he found over his head and looked forward to the morrow – for the very next day he would meet the love of his life…

 

September 28th – October 2nd

“Ah, go on, give us the Impala.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but the Impalas are all out hopping over the Highveld, ahaha.”

“Eh?”

“We’ve got none left, sir.”

“Bollocks.”

“However, this Buick Regal, sir, is quite the automobile.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah – it’ll rip that handsome face of yours right off your skull, sir.”

“Hmm…”

So often, in this life, one receives exactly what one always needed, rather than that which one might have, erroneously, wanted…if you take my meaning. That is to say, the vehicle was, to The Big Man’s delight, an absolute animal on the road. He tore across from the city to Mount St. Helens in a matter of seconds and, finally managing to tear himself away from the steering wheel, went to see about this ‘nature’ thing they have in that America.

“Walk around, you say?”

“Yeah, exactly, just a little wander, like?”

The staff at the visitor centre seemed somewhat perturbed.

“But you say you don’t have a firearm, sir?”

“Nope – why would I need one?”

“Mexicans.”

“What did you say there, lad?”

“Bears, there are lots of scary, moustachioed grizzly bears in the park, sir.”

“Ah…bollocks.”

Reflecting that bears could not really be all that bad, The Big Man set off regardless. A mile or two in, however, the silent scale of the forests and the mountains began to set him ever-so-slightly on edge: Was that a rustling in the bushes to his right? Did the faint, chill breeze spirit the scratching of large paws to his Celtic eardrums?

In order to warn off any potential, ursine threat, The Big Man began to clap his hands loudly and proceeded to sing various Irish drinking songs for the remainder of his six hour hike. Clearly no fans of ‘trad’ music, the grizzlies kept themselves to themselves and he was able to return to his beloved automobile un-mauled. The scenery had been breathtaking and, had he not been in a state of near-constant terror, he might even have enjoyed it.

*

The Big Man’s next stop was Portland – not on his original route but forced upon him by the Spanish folks he had met up in Seattle. Portland, my friends, was not to his tastes. Once one has seen one’s first reclaimed vintage yarn emporium one has truly seen them all. He therefore hit Route 101 and hit it hard, speeding around the winding, forested Cape Perpetua and through picturesque coastal town after picturesque coastal town.

One night he stopped in a town called Glenada, purely because its name appealed to him. There he drank many a pint with gentlemen who, it transpired, were very much in favour of this Donald Trump fellow one has been reading about in the broadsheets. Never a bloke to hold back his opinions, The Big Man made his bafflement regarding their political leanings quite vocal, and they all enjoyed an extended, well-reasoned debate long into the eve.

That night, loathe as he was to spend any unnecessary time away from his car, The Big Man slept within the aluminium and carbon-fibre cocoon of his Buick. He dreamt of pistons and demagogues; of angry, orange faces and long, sweeping roads.

*

Lincoln City came along next, a fine seaside town with lengthy fronts and beautiful views. While upon the promenade, The Big Man set his eyes upon a lady.

He was able to look past her age and, shall we say, ‘heft’, and saw only ‘Sharon’. Wonderful, friendly, energetic Sharon.

Sharon was her dog – a delightful canine, undeserving of such an ‘Essex’ moniker. The lady in question was somewhat put out that he only had eyes for her hound, and this chagrin was increased still further when The Big Man took Sharon out for a steak, a beer, and a tilt at the local rippers.

After a less automobile-based night’s sleep, The Big Man hastened (sadly without Sharon, who was back home by 10.30 with a bone and a pat on the head) to the great redwood forests of the pacific northwest.

Once beneath the awesome pines, he promptly got exceptionally lost and had to be saved by a national park ranger. Walking back to civilisation, said ranger regaled him with many an arboreal fact, often pertaining to the immense height (100 metres plus) and diameter (10-15 metres and upwards) of these famous, lofty shrubs. They are, my friends, big trees. There is no doubt about it…

 

October 3rd – 4th

“Are you going…to San Francisco?” sung the radio.

“Yes. Yes I am,” replied The Big Man, well on his way to the City by the Bay. Off then went the radio and on went Robert Holmes’s Escape, for perhaps the fifteen-hundred and twenty-second time of the trip.

After a long, embarrassingly scenic drive, he finally broached ‘Frisco and met his old buddy Adrian, with whom he stayed for two fabulous days…well, as fabulous as days apart from his Buick could be.

His time in San Francisco was amongst the most conventionally ‘touristy’ of the entire voyage: Gone, for now, were the eccentric acquaintances and implausible adventures; and in their place one found splendid tours led by Adrian and his lassie, visits to Alcatraz island and the Golden Gate Bridge. Good, solid, Christian sightseeing.

All told, The Big Man had a fine time in a fine city. Under different circs he might have been tempted to stay a little longer. But the open road and a girl called ‘Buick’ cried to him. He would, accordingly, be off with the coming dawn…

 

October 5th – 6th

It was a seven-hour drive from ‘San Fran’ to Yosemite. The Big Man did it in four.

Wading through a thick covering of tourists, he trekked up the glacial valley and then up still further, right to the top of the peak overlooking Yosemite Falls. These falls, however, were somewhat short in the whole ‘falling’ department, the cascade being somewhat dry during this part of the year.

“Bollocks,” opined The Big Man.

It then began to snow. His coat was way back in the Buick.

“Bollocks.”

He then remembered that he had booked no accomodation for the night and would slumber in the chilly, automotive arms of his gasoline-fuelled steed.

“Bollocks.”

‘Twas a cold wander down and a restless night which could only be described as ‘brass monkeys’. Come the flickering fingers of the morn, The Big Man was firm in the resolution that heat, and plenty of it, was required. It was four hours to Death Valley. He did it in two. Including a stop for a three-course breakfast.

Once motoring between the sand dunes, his fingers and toes began to thaw and all seemed right with the world. Just then, three fighter jets at low altitude ripped past the Buick, the resultant sonic boom rattling the fillings in his teeth. He buried his foot into the carpet but to little avail; America had won this round.

Forgetting that deserts are liable to be a wee bit nippy of an evening, The Big Man stopped that night in an ‘RV park’, sans RV. To his great annoyance, once the happy sun did one for the day and darkness descended, the frostbite returned to his extremities apace.

“B-b-bollocks…” he shiverred, wrapped in all his coats and at least seventeen pairs of underpants. “M-must g-go s-south…must g-go south…”

*

So south The Big Man went. He dropped by both the Hoover Dam, which was damn big, and the Grand Canyon, which was mighty grand. He sped along a section of Route 66 and spent the night in a town called Williams, apparently transplanted directly from the mid-twentieth century. The next day he was up with the lark to return to the Grand Canyon, in a vain attempt to beat the tourists.

When he arrived a second time, he saw them. Hundreds of them…thousands. The Chinese had returned.

“Bollocks.”

But, on this occasion, his concerns were misplaced. These lads and lasses had clearly not been filled-in about his previous conflicts with their great nation, and many were of the firm view that the one thing grander in the vicinity than the ostentatiously large gorge was The Big Man himself. Scores of them requested group photos, along with hundreds of (what I am reliably informed are known as) ‘selfies’. For one glorious day, our hero was the world’s hero.

Eventually extricating himself from his adoring public, The Big Man fell into step with a top Texan fellow by the name of Joe. He, like The Big Man, was no fan of the Donald, but was a great fan of epic, natural splendor and the pair had a fine ol’ time, walking the great canyon and luxuriating in its gorgeous ‘gorgeyness’.

The hours slipped by and on the canyon stretched. In the end, only the departing light forced them from one of the all-time hikes…

 

October 7th – October 11th

Next my friends, next came ‘Vegas’.

That which happens in this place famously stays there…but so, lamentably, did the Buick. Their farewell was long and tearful…somewhat longer and more tearful than The Big Man’s parting with His Lady, so long ago, back in the frozen north.

But all things, as they say, must pass. That is to say, The Big Man was dragged from his motor, mewling and wailing like an outsize infant, by six of Hertz Car Hire’s burliest employees.

With red eyes and a heavy heart, he checked into his hostel then hastened directly to the New York, New York Casino, where he made a swift fifty bucks. Opting to use his new-found wealth to drown his manifold sorrows, he hit the pub – only to find nine fellow Irishmen in situ, drinking the place very much dry. Irishmen were soon joined by Irishwomen – supposedly over for ‘work’ – and a fine, famous night was had by all. Soon enough, The Big Man found new loves and, piece by piece, his broken heart was mended.

Subsequent nights and days began to blur into one – a thoroughly enjoyable ‘one’, but ‘one’ nevertheless. Fremont Street was explored, revealing, chiefly, lots of naked humans and no little liquor. There he gazed upon the very largest television screen on the planet, also displaying notably more people than vestments. Rather strangely, The Big Man noticed that many men were wandering around in industrial-sized ‘nappies’, which poses questions which one veritably does not want answered.

The next casino he hit yielded up seventy dollars. The house, however, always wins, and he spent it all in the adjoining nightclub. He woke up with the business card of a local attorney – something which The Big Man filed under, ‘best not to think about’.

His hostel had a rather decent swimming pool, which he made good use of during the cruel and merciless mornings. Hostels, apparently, have swimming pools in ‘Sin City’. Further proof, my friends, that Las Vegas, NV and Blackpool, Lancs. are somewhat dissimilar.

It was by this pool that The Big Man met a lovely couple who had, as one does in Vegas, decided to have some spontaneous nuptials. Having such a splendid record at North American weddings, he was overjoyed when they asked him to perform as a witness/best man/maid of honour – but this joy was shattered when he remembered his flight down to Belize (via, of course, Miami, Florida…) was but a few hours before their ‘service’.

Rather than remain and lament this misfortune, however, he sauntered off on a wide-ranging pub crawl, mostly with Australians and South Africans. These southern hemisphere fellows did not, it transpired, ‘do things by halves’, and The Big Man stumbled back to his hostel with the sun coquettishly rising, a broken, sozzled man.

Still somewhat more than ‘half-cut’, he grabbed perhaps three hours of the dreamless then stumbled across town to a ‘pool party’, where the revelries restarted in earnest. Another group of Australians (who flock to the ‘Capital of Second Chances’ like our Islamic cousins flock to Masjid al-Haram) was acquired and a highly sociable time was had by all.

Once out of the pool and (mostly) dried, they visited what might charitably be called a ‘burlesque show’, before heading off into another endless night. The sun was well up when The Big Man returned to his (really rather unnecessary) bed.

*

There are, it turns out, no direct flights from Las Vegas to Belize. However, one does not necessarily need to take three different planes and visit the majority of the Gulf of Mexico’s airports to make the journey. Yet this is exactly what The Big Man did – for while time, as they say, is money, when one has little of the former but all the latter in the world, why not go round all the possible houses?

Let us leave him, for now, in Miami airport, attempting to piece back together his fractured, pickled brain. More adventures, one is certain, await him in Central and South America. Whether these adventures shall prove quite as sinful as those he enjoyed in the quote-unquote ‘City of Lights’, truly, my friends, remains to be seen…

 

September 16th

The Big Man squeezed himself into his economy throne and looked at the head-rest of the seat in front of him. It was notably short of TV screen. ‘Bollocks,’ quoth The Big Man.

He glanced at his neighbour, to see if they might be a source of conversation and distraction during the forthcoming eight-hour flight. Sitting next to him was a diminutive Chinese fellow, hugging a nondescript, black briefcase close to his chest.

“Hello there buddy,” said The Big Man. “My name’s The Big Man, what’s yours?”

The only response he received was a perceptible tightening of the man’s grip on the suitcase and a widening of his terrified eyes.

“What’s in that case then?” asked The Big Man, still friendly to a fault. “Didn’t fancy sticking it in the lockers then did you now?”

The fellow began to shake his head violently and hugged his briefcase ever tighter. He was undoubtedly a curious fellow, of sensationally limited craic.

‘Bollocks,’ thought The Big Man, and turned away. ‘I guess I’ve no option but to listen to Rupert Holmes’s Escape one hundred-and-six times in succession.’

So that, my friends, is exactly what he did. Eventually the Piña Colada-based wailing ushered The Big Man off into an uneasy slumber. The plane slipped sluggishly through the grey, Arctic sky and progress was made towards the Great White North.

The Chinese fellow slept not. He stared at The Big Man unceasingly, confusion and worry writ-large on his countenance. Beneath the sounds of Irish snoring and the occasional tinny echo of ‘..gettin’ caught in the rain..’, one might just about make out a soft, steady ‘ticking’ from the battered, black case.

*

Toronto’s much-lauded ‘Sky Train’ is not, as one might hope, a futuristic, hover-car-type fixture. Rather, it is a somewhat lengthy monorail-thing which ferries weary travellers from their planes to the city’s welcoming embrace. One must remember that Canada is currently struggling beneath the socialist jackboot, and it shall be some time before they develop the technology for flying automobiles, despite the mewling lies Comrade Trudeau routinely spurts out.

Waiting for The Big Man on the other end of the Sky Train was His Lady, resplendent in royal blue.

The moment she had walked into his life, he knew she spelled trouble. It had been at an international Scrabble tournament in Nashville, Tennessee, and ‘trouble’ had netted her a cheeky thirty points after she had slapped it on the triple-word-score with a wretched double on the ‘u’. But that was in the long distant past. A brief but glorious Canadian tryst spread now itself out before them, supple and yielding.

First stop on the itinerary was a ‘Caesar Drink’, which seems to be a heady combination of a basic Bloody Mary and odd Canadian soup. It was very much to The Big Man’s taste and he smashed through many a round. Thus fuelled, they hastened to the revolving restaurant atop the CN Tower.

“You know, food tastes better when you’re revolving…” Seymour Skinner, 1991.

Having done great service to a gargantuan platter of elk-based foodstuffs, the comely pair headed to a choice establishment on Church Street – one which, it transpired, catered predominantly to ladies and gentlemen who prefer ladies and gentlemen. This was all well and dandy for an open-minded fellow such as The Big Man and, soon enough, he was very much the soul and the life of the proverbial (and actual) party. A number of His Lady’s friends and acquaintances had converged to gaze upon his Munster majesty, though they were not the only denizens of the bar whose eyes had been, as they say, ‘caught’.

Suddenly, The Big Man was being dragged onto the stage by a large gentleman wearing a very fetching gown and no little make-up. Ignoring his protestations, The Big Man’s shirt quickly became ‘the people’s shirt’, and he stood, eminent upon the stage, in nowt but his pants. This proved a popular development and many wolves were whistled and cats were called.

Eventually he was released, but not before the befrocked gentlemen had taken some quite serious liberties. As The Big Man stumbled off the stage, he saw a lass wearing comfortable shoes pressing her suit upon His Lady rather strongly. Never a cove to give up his woman without a fight, he stiffened his sinews, summoned up his Celtic blood and marched back to the bar…

 

September 17th

The next morning, with The Big Man’s big mind somewhat clouded with the previous night’s liquor (but with The Big Man’s big memory well stocked with R-rated images for the Permanent TSB), our hero bundled himself over to the wedding of his old pals, Colin and Brywin.

While en route a startling thought struck him. He’d forgotten to get them a present.

Now this oversight is even more egregious in Canada than it might be back in the First World, as tradition dictates that all wedding gifts must be shot and killed within a fortnight of the ceremony. He therefore turned back to the homestead of His Lady and borrowed her gun. He then walked fifty yards north-by-northeast and shot a bull moose between the eyes.

Fortunately for the beast in question, His Lady’s gun fired .17 Remingtons, which, to a fully-grown moose, feel not dissimilar to a gentle Autumn breeze. The moose, therefore, wandered over to the nonplussed Irishman and said, “Da fuq you playin at, eh?”

“Ah, sorry lad, that’s my bad, my bad. I’ve got this wedding you see, so…”

“So ya thought you’d drag me along as a gift, eh?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Well ya could’ve just asked. I fuckin’ love weddings, eh?”

“Ah that’s class, come get in the car then, lad, I’m fooking late.”

“Skookum, baby, too easy, eh?”

So rather than ‘going stag’ to the wedding, The Big Man ‘went moose’. A live moose attending the ceremony augers quite sensationally well for any Canadian union, so once again The Big Man found himself universally adored.

Once all nuptials were formalised and all speeches were made, both The Big Man and The Big Moose proceeded to go ‘full Irish’ at the reception, seeing off ‘mickey’ after ‘mickey’ and dancing the night very much away.

Sadly for The Big Man, the bridesmaid he had been chatting to for most of the evening went off with the moose. You can’t, as they say, win them all…and he had shot the blighter earlier that day. These things tend to even themselves out, given time…

 

September 18th

A hangover can be a cruel mistress, and a double night’s worth can be triply so, if you get our meaning. However, The Big Man was now well-used to juggling double mistresses, so he screwed his courage to the sticking post, so to speak, and drove off to Niagara falls – but not before breaking his fast with the family of His Lady:

All through the breakfast, His Lady’s father looked at him with a clear paternal lust, and only broke these loving glances to gaze upon the ring finger of his daughter’s hand, to imagine a thick band of Irish gold fitting snugly around it. How could he not, dear readers? They don’t make ’em like The Big Man in Ontario and that, as they say in Canada, is a ‘science-fact’.

*

Later that same day, as the young lovers ate together at The Keg Steakhouse & Bar and watched Niagara’s crashing waters tumble over the endless falls, The Big Man felt a prickling on the back of his neck. He turned and saw three fellows from the East sitting in front of three untouched steaks. One met his eye, raised a glass of mysterious clear liquid to his lips and winked, just the once.

There was something uncanny about these Chinese gentlemen. A stillness to them, a cold, cruel presence. Now anyone who has met The Big Man or has read our accounts of his endless misadventures will know that he is no craven. A meaner son-of-a-bitch on the rugby field you shall not find outside the most Afrikaner corners of northern South Africa. However, the trio made his Irish blood run cold. It was imperative that they got out of the restaurant apace.

Accordingly, he wolfed down his steak, saluted the falls, then did one towards a nearby arcade. There The Big Man and His (highly confused) Lady hid, playing upon the occasional computerised gaming device and bowling a sub-standard session of anxious tenpins.

He slept little that night, and not just for the usual reasons…

 

September 19th

It is said, by those who know about these things, that 3000 baths-worth of water go over the Canadian side of Niagara’s famous ‘Horseshoe Falls’ every second. It’s a big waterfall, there’s no denying it.

The Big Man and His Lady hopped upon a boat and ploughed close to the cascade. He could not remember when he had previously gotten so wet – but it was well, well worth it. Standing alone at the bow, he revelled in the sheer force and majesty of the place.

Little did The Big Man know, however, that on the other side of the boat everyone else aboard had been transfixed by a second sight: Two Chinese men, immaculately dressed, had began to argue furiously, pushing and shoving at each other, stumbling into the helmsman and generally causing quite the commotion.

Behind him crept the third, curved blade in hand, the spray of the falls dripping from the shining metal. The Big Man turned just in time to dodge the first thrust, but his assailant escaped his grasp. Adder-quick he stabbed at The Big Man again, yet lost his footing as he did so, for the boat had turned against the current and was rocked by the swell. Needing no second invitation, The Big Man fetched the fellow one across the ear, heaving him into the violent waters and away.

The two remaining gangsters, their distraction now broken up, wandered separately towards the bow. To their obvious astonishment, The Big Man still leant against the rail, soaked both in spray and cold sweat. He crossed his arms and winked, just the once.

*

As soon as they reached land they ran to the car. The Big Man knew that the pair would be hot on their tail, no doubt ‘tooling up’ for the battles ahead. He and His Lady attempted to lose them in the sprawling vineyards of southernmost Canada, but only found that Canadians really should not attempt to make wine.

“But we can’t go pick up your dog, the Chinese are on me tail!” lamented The Big Man, but His Lady was not for turning. She was beginning to lose her patience with his atypical paranoia and did not want the rest of their all-to-fleeting time together to be spent racing around, escaping imagined assassins.

So the hound was fetched and off they went, to the banks of the great lake and the cabin of His Lady’s family. Terry, His Lady’s aforementioned father, had been particularly insistent that they spend some ‘quality time’ there. This seemed most strange to The Big Man, but it will certainly ring true with all fathers of single daughters to whom fickle circumstance has presented a prince of potential son-in-laws.

Upon arrival at the cabin, deep within the great and beautiful Canadian outdoors, the first thing His Lady’s hound chose to do was rip out the throats of two Eastern hit-men hiding behind a large maple tree. This surprised His Lady a great deal. The Big Man, ever-chivalrous, only said ‘I told you so’ seventeen times during their stay.

They buried the thugs’ bodies deep in the wet earth by the endless, shimmering lake. They vowed never to speak of it again and got on with their day, walking by the waters and shooting pool in the gorgeous, old cabin.

That night, he slept like a large, well-hewn log, and not just for the usual reasons…

 

September 20th

The next day was spent relaxing and reflecting on that which had come before. The Big Man stayed away from the hound as much as possible – for when rude beasts get the taste for human blood, further violence cannot be far away.

However, in this he did the dog a great disservice, for (like all members of His Lady’s family) it had fallen head-over-tail in love with our hero, and lived only to serve and protect him and sniff upon his trouser-leg.

After a lovely, lazy day, they drove back to the city, where they found that His Lady’s father had organised The Big Man a gigantic party, complete with balloons, a live band and a life-size ice sculpture of the immortal Irishman himself. The revelry continued long into the night, love was showered upon him and all, as they say, was well.

The family hound stood outside, front-paws and nose pressed firm against the steamed-up windows. A thick, juicy marrow-bone lay untouched on the ground by its side…

 

September 21st

The flight to Vancouver was at midday and, even after long and tearful farewells with His Lady, The Big Man had apportioned ample time to get there. However, a sensationally circuitous route was taken to the airport and ‘it’ was being cut, as they say, ‘mighty fine’. His Lady’s father (who had, of course, insisted on driving him) was either unaware of the directions to the place or, more likely, was harbouring fevered, Canadian dreams of missed flights and shotgun weddings.

Eventually, The Big Man was forced to take the wheel and he drove the rest of the way at some velocity. All the while, Terry hugged his shoulder, gently stroking The Big Man’s big arm and murmuring, “What a guy…what a guy…”

The flight was swift and uneventful and before he knew it The Big Man was walking tall in British Columbia – in this writer’s opinion, the finest of all the Columbias.

His first impressions of Vancouver were good to very good: Greg and Grace, his cousins, were both well; the vistas were impressive; and there was not a single nefarious Chinese fellow in sight. The twin threats of marriage and murder now behind him, The Big Man relaxed into his new west-coast life…

 

September 22nd

His Niagara experience somewhat clouded by his risky two-step with the reaper, The Big Man took up the offer of visiting the Capilano Falls National Park. Standing in the middle of its famed suspension bridge, he bathed in the natural glory of the running water and soaked in its peace, despite the thunder of the cataract.

He closed his eyes…and as he did so the tell-tale pricking returned to the back of his sturdy neck. His eyes snapped open and his head snapped to either side: To his right, a thousand Chinese tourists were walking towards him along the thin span; to his left, a thousand more, all carrying burning torches and long, pointy pitchforks.

“Feck this for a game of soldiers,” stated the Big Man, before executing a perfect double twist with pike into the raging waters and away.

“Where’d The Big Man go?” Greg asked Grace, as they squeezed past the excited tourists and made their way back to the hillside.

“No idea, maybe he went to the bike shop?”

They did indeed find him at a nearest cycle-hire establishment, sopping wet, shouting at the proprietor for the ‘fastest fecking bike you’ve got’. Eventually they calmed The Big Man’s big, disquieted soul and were able to embark on a most enjoyable ride through Stanley Park to English Bay – in this writer’s opinion, the finest of all the bays. There they were provided with an excellent view of the mighty Gateway Bridge.

They were not the only ones staring upon this famous span… As soon as he saw her lithe, Teutonic form upon the beach, The Big Man knew two things:

1.) He had to have her.

2.) Unless she got on some factor 50 she would, literally and figuratively, burst into flames.

He therefore bid a curt farewell to his cousins and went, as they say, to go see about a girl.

*

Back in Vancouver that evening, The Big Man went to see an old friend at the Tap and Barrel, found in the salubrious waterfront environs known as ‘Gastown’. As soon as he set foot in the borough, uncontrollable flatulence took hold of our hero, and Meghan, the old friend in question, wore a peg upon her nose for the duration of their catch-up.

It had been eight years since he had seen Meghan, and she hadn’t aged a day. Sadly, however, neither had her large, Canadian husband. This was all for the best, however, for the cacophony coming from his nethers forced any idea of romance from the minds of all concerned.

Unfortunately, one Tap and Barrel employee had misread the platonic and gaseous nature of their get-together and sauntered over with a candle.

“No, wait…” cried The Big Man, but it was too late. The waiter lit a match.

The resulting explosion threw The Big Man straight through the pub window and deep into the cold waters of the dock. They never found Meghan’s body, nor that of the idiot waiter. Once again, The Big Man’s flatulence had proved notably fatal…

 

September 23rd

The Big Man stumbled from the hospital in the early afternoon. Many a nurse came down to wave him goodbye, many in a slightly flushed and dishevelled state. He then convened with Ruby, an old school-friend, and together they wandered around the Old Town’s market.

[You may ask how ‘old’ any Canadian ‘town’ can be, the country famously having been invented in 1948 after President Harry S. Truman lost a bet with his chief-of-staff…and you would be right to do so.]

They then went for many a beers at a couple of local bars, including a tavern called The Old Ale Pub.

[You may ask how ‘old’ any Canadian ale house could be…and you would be right to do so, this establishment having been opened in 2011, back during Stephen Harper’s glorious reign, when Canada was golden and Canadians were free.]

Ruby’s sister Molly turned up at The Old Ale Pub, took one look at The Big Man and proceeded to disrobe there and then. Ruby was somewhat concerned by this development, but The Big Man offered words of calming explanation:

“Don’t worry, love, I just have this effect. It’s a curse, really – me old lad’s as raw as a Jap’s fish supper.”

“Er..I’m not sure you should call Japanese people ‘Japs’, The Big Man…”

“Ah, don’t you get me started on those East Asians! I’ve had it up me arse with East Asians!”

“Um..well, okay…I guess it’s not the eighties anymore…”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing..nothing…Molly put your shift back on, you’ll get us arrested!”

But the shift stayed off, the authorities were summoned, and the Mounties swept on in. Unfortunately for The Old Ale Pub’s proprietors, the Mounties in question glanced at The Big Man and then glanced, repeatedly, at the dancing, under-clothed Molly, and decided to make a night of it.

Together they drunk ‘old’ ale deep into the night and the famous horses which give these lawmen their name defecated nobly and periodically upon the tavern floor. ‘Twas, for The Big Man, yet another strange and beautiful night…

 

September 24th

And then, to Whistler Mountain, for some top quality biking with Cousin Greg. While one likes to flatter oneself that one’s accounts paint quite the detailed picture, it would be remiss here not to highlight the ‘Go-Pro’ footage shot by The Big Man himself which currently sits proud and excellent upon his ‘facebook wall‘. Do, therefore, ‘check it out’, as it is some kind of something.

While The indestructible, indomitable Big Man made it down unscathed, that cannot be said for all who braved the mountain that day – and they witnessed three significant accidents on the way down. The first they passed by in a flash, but they stopped when they spotted the second and offered what little assistance they could to the shocked and winded faller. The third crash, however, was the most serious of all:

“There’s no saving him,” The Big Man muttered, tears stinging his eyes.

“No..no I think I’m fine, I’ll just walk it off, eh?”

“Just no saving him…poor bastard.”

He went off with Greg in search for a large rock.

“Quick dash on the brains and his suffering’s over, Cousin. Ye could do no more…”

“Why, God? Why’d you only take the young and beautiful ones?”

“Er..right, I think I’m going to go now, eh? You two are getting pretty weird…”

“Ah, here’s a good one Greg…right, goodnight sweet prince…”

“I’m off.”

“…and flights of angels sing thee to thy…hey, where are you going, lad?”

Following their heroics on the mountainside, the lads thought themselves well-deserving of a ‘big one’. They therefore splashed into a hot-tub with a hundredweight of ice-cold beers, then dressed and headed off to ‘Buffalo Bill’s’ for a criminally messy night which might be summarised thusly:

As soon as The Big Man saw the [interchangeable and numerous women-folk] he knew he had to have [her/them/another beer]

This is, however, a family-friendly blog, so our hero’s myriad misdeeds will have to be left to your own feverish imaginations. One thing goes without saying, however: Much of Vancouver, to this day, is still painted various, violent shades of red…

 

September 25th

Occasionally, when one behaves quite mesmerically poorly on a night-out – and especially when the fraüleins are involved – it is best to beat a hasty retreat into the deep country, where judgement cannot find a brother, and sweet mother nature absolves one of one’s innumerable sins.

The four hours The Big Man spent cycling with Cousin Greg and his good pal, Niall, helped shift all guilt and every trace of another bestial hangover.

Once all residual liquor and debauchery had been sweated out, the trio returned to the city in disguise and lay low, for out in Vancouver’s stately streets roamed feral armies of love-crazed women. Many held aloft outsize posters bearing the unmistakable image of The Big Man’s big countenance. They had the scent of their quarry in their collective, Canadian nostrils, and would not rest until he was theirs.

‘Perhaps,’ thought The Big Man, as he hid beneath Greg’s bed and offered up prayers to any gods who might hear them, ‘it’s time to get across that there border…’