Jungle Fever

What most people know about the koala is that it’s not a bear but a marsupial, like a possum or a kangaroo, characterised by its pouch for housing their joeys. It was the colonialists who spotted a similarity to bears, which surely begs the question as to whether they had ever seen a bear close up or just far, far away. Because koala’s are small, tree dwelling fur-balls who, rather boringly, sleep for up to 18 hours a day. Then they invariably eat eucalyptus leaves for their remaining five to six hours of the day, before falling asleep again. These guys turn sloth into an art form.

You can hold a koala at the Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary, on the border of Queensland and New South Wales, near the beaches on the Gold Coast. The place is a bit like Jurassic Park, shepherding tourists on a miniature train through giant birdcages, animal themed adventure parks and seats fashion from giant plastic crocodiles. Audio guides blurt out information from speakers hidden amongst the bushes. I’m not completely sold on the idea, especially considering the number of, say, lorikeets and parrots you can see just walking down the streets. In fact, head up to North Queensland and you can see most of these animals, albeit outside of their cages and not quite in such a family friendly environment: crocodiles aren’t penned in to makeshift fences but free to devour lagoon-dwelling tourists; tall red kangaroos leap into passing vehicles; a small wallaby, grazing in the bush, might suddenly find itself grappled into the talons of a passing eagle. Yes, Queensland is a wild place. This glorified zoo sanitises danger, like a visitors room at a high security prison, only with better coffee.

Having said that, the Australians are fierce on conservationism, and the sanctuary are currently raising money for their wildlife hospital appeal. It costs $600,000 a year to run the hospital, treating up to 30 animals a day, and they’re planning to build a new one to meet up with the increasing demand of troubled wildlife. The effects of their work can be seen across the park, like their wedge-tailed eagles, who can no longer fly after being rescued from a roadside accident. They’re one of the largest birds of prey in the world with a wingspan of over 7ft, but they would have otherwise been discarded due to their injuries. The sanctuary also provide homes for a number of endangered species which, tragically, will undoubtedly die out during our lifetime. A disheartening thought, especially considering the tree-kangaroo, which is a small, auburn coloured creature with an elongated tail and an astoundingly blasé approach to heights. They can survive a fall of around 60ft, which is quite baffling, but they can’t quite counter the growing effects of habitat loss from deforestation.

They have Tasmanian devils there, too, although being expert scavengers, they’re quite hard to spot. These dog-like, meat-eating animals were considered a pest and hunted into the 1940s, but now face an even larger threat to their existence: the devil facial tumour disease, a form of cancer which only effect these little creatures and, as yet, has no known cure. But the sanctuary are working on this, which is just as well: the disease has allegedly caused a 50% decline in numbers and, since 2009, the Tasmanian devil has been placed on the world’s most endangered species list, something which increases every single day.

From July 2008, it became compulsory for those migrants under the age of 30 who were wishing to extend their work visas to Australia to undergo three months (88 days) of specified regional employment. The initiative, in theory, helps local businesses with an affordable and constant stream of labour to help meet the high demands of peak seasons, especially on farms where, in northern Queensland, everything from cherry tomatoes to figs, grapes, peppers, bananas, macadamia nuts and sugar cane all thrive in lush, abundant fields. Crops are harvested in huge numbers, or intensively farmed inside greenhouses promising fresh produce all year round, and once picked they are then packed and shipped to outlets across the continent. Here, in Bundaberg, the city relies on the land for the majority of its employment: from the many local farms which surround the region and the coastline, to the huge sugar plantations which help to produce the region’s best known export, rum.

But not everyone is in agreement that the new visa scheme works, particularly the backpackers themselves, who often feel exploited and forced to work in somewhat undesirable conditions. I’ve heard stories of terrible living quarters, where suffering employees are too scared to complain unless they lose their minimum wage, to anecdotal evidence of workers dying of dehydration in sheds where, during the sizzling summer months, temperatures can reach over 50 degrees. But the farmers aren’t happy, either, and who can blame them: those under 30 and looking for a second year in Australia are usually university educated or gap year students whose history of manual labour was when they once worked part time on the cash desk at Dixons. They don’t want to be there, which only acts to frustrate the land owners even more. I’ve spent this week working intermittently on the Marcon family plantation, where capsicums and courgettes are picked, priced and packaged for shipment to locations like Sydney and Melbourne, and the motto here seems to be, “however fast you think you’re working, work faster.”

It’s repetitive, draining at times, but the husband and wife who run the farm are adamant that they will not be employing backpackers. The workforce is predominantly made up of locals from the Bundaberg area, both male and female, young and old, creating a communal atmosphere and hard work ethic that I’m sure is lacking on the other farms. Alan, 17, works here full time, along with many of his co-workers, and when he’s not lifting crates of green peppers he’s surfing or riding his BMX. He is following in a family tradition which has forever been a staple of the lives of the people in northern Queensland, steeped in a respect for the land and the fortunes that it brings. So it’s small wonder that when I tell Alan that I’m from England, he replies, “English, eh? Well, we don’t get many backpackers here.” The Marcons have set a precedent in which I’m sure many other local farmers will follow if migration into the country continues to increase.

For further evidence of Australian’s stern conservationism, just look at Prime Minister Kevin Rudd’s decision to take Japan to the International Court of Justice for their continued whaling in the Antarctic, whose seas have long since been declared as a whale sanctuary. In their defence, the Japanese are allegedly hunting for ‘scientific’ purposes, rather than commercial. Quite what ‘scientific’ reasons these are will be made clear when the countries meet in The Hague, although justifying the deaths of over 2,000 whales a year won’t be easy: unless these scientific reasons extend to building a giant Frankenstein’s sea monster for some kind of covert military operation, reanimated with the head of a dolphin, the tail of a thousand tuna fish and all fashioned out of condemned orca bits.

That’s a disturbing image, but Japan are keen to defend the barbaric practice on traditional hunting lines, while ordinary Australians think that the mammals should just be given a break. The fact that the decision was one of Rudd’s 2007 campaign promises has met with some derision from the local press, who see its fulfilment as a piece of savvy politicising considering that Rudd will be fighting for re-election later in the year. And what if Australia lose the battle in court? It’s unlikely, but embarrassing nonetheless.


AU Tube: Understanding Australian TV
‘State of Origin: New South Wales v. Queensland’ (Win TV)

Wednesday saw the first of three big ‘football’ (read: rugby) matches between these two giant states of Rugby League, which is disproportionately popular here on the east coast, to the extent where normally placid and well-meaning Australians lose their minds for 80 minutes, screaming at the television and shouting obscenities. I know this to be true after watching the game in a house in Queensland, where every crunching tackle and physical exertion is met with a loud and patriotic yelp. The State of Origin games are a big deal, where every year rugby players forgo their club colours in favour of the state from which they were born, thus creating an almost tribal encounter which seems to garner more national pride (and division in equal measure) than when they play for the national team. So you would think that they could come up with more flattering names for the sides: NSW are the Cockroaches, QLD are called the Cane Toads.

But Queensland are clearly the better team, which helps, winning albeit not particularly comfortably, just like they have done for the previous four years. It was a great game, and I don’t even particularly follow rugby, but it is a shame that commercial station Win TV (or Channel 9) seem so eager to promote Ford’s half year sale that they even show their adverts during the game. Granted, this only happens when play stops after a try, but such trigger happy commercialism reminds me of watching TV in America, which is perhaps the closest equivalent to looking after a hyperactive child.

G’day Tripper

Paying $46 for a latte and a bottle of water at Hong Kong airport seems steep to me. They’re also selling croissants for HK$60. For that much, it had better have some chocolate in it. It seems bizarre to pay these vast numbers for such a necessary item as breakfast. Not that plane food hasn’t improved. Cathay Pacific are the region’s native airline, complete with a soothing panpipe soundtrack and smiling air hostesses with chopsticks in their hair (I may have imagined this. I am very tired). But check this for a menu: orecchiette pasta and hot smoked salmon, pork provencale, sautéed beef. Sounds like a meal fit for the French, and we all know how fussy they can be. Of course, when it arrives, it’s difficult to tell the various components apart, as the beef seems to share the same consistency as the rice, and a yellowish vegetable which (I can only imagine) started life as a swede, but lost its sense of purpose long ago.

Edible, though, which is all you can ask for during such an excruciating long haul flight, although even the fixed pleasantries of the amiable cabin crew did start to fray at one point. Come breakfast time (a formality when you’re tripping through time zones), one young lady explains the menu to me over the buzz of a jet engine which has already been airborne for about nine hours. When I ask her to clarify, her response is prompt: “Look, do you want Chinese or western food?” The façade had crumbled slightly, and I can’t say I blame her.

Before I move on, a word regarding Hong Kong, of which I appear to have gleamed all of my knowledge from watching Jackie Chan films. Upon landing, you observe dozens of junks and ferries traversing through the South China Sea on their way to the various mountainous islands which look spectacular amongst the deep blue of the ocean - this tiny, bustling metropolis seems to be so overcome with activity that the airport (many will tell you) appears to be planted so close to the sea that there is a brief moment of panic as the plane descends and threatens to take the head off one of the boat’s captains, or at least blow their hat off. The terminal is vast even compared to most shopping malls, as the Chinese queue for bowls of congee and fried rice (you probably need to re-mortgage the house to cover that lot). I’ve just spotted the actor Andy Lau on the cover of this month’s Hong Kong Esquire, and I also recognise actresses like Karen Mok and Gigi Leung advertising various brands and charities (Donnie Yen is the current face of Head & Shoulders), which makes me feel a little bit closer to a culture which has long since fascinated me. Spotting the skyscrapers from the Starbucks in the departure lounge, I know that I will need to come back here, and maybe even leave the airport.

And so on to Brisbane, the expansive capital of the so-called Sunshine State of Queensland. Contrary to this, it rains when I arrive; that's the thanks I get for putting up with a flight which by any one’s standards is an extravagant price to pay for torture. The jetlag plays havoc with both sleeping and eating patterns, and because of the time distance, practically half a day vanishes as you cross the breadth of eastern Europe, China, the Philippines and arrive on the other side of the Pacific. Just think what you could do whith that missing half day. You could watch 12 episodes of ‘The Sopranos’ in that time. Just think about that for a moment. Yes, Australia is very, very far away.

In contrast, the chummy immigration staff make it suspiciously pleasant on arrival, and seem more paranoid about a fellow passenger’s packet of Chewits than anything else that may pass as particularly suspicious - in fact, you could probably try your luck with a giant shisha pipe and a travel chemistry set complete with miniature collection of toxic liquids and test tubes only to be refused entry when a member of the border police spot the contents of your back pocket: “wait a minute, mate, is that an apple you got there?”

It may be too early to clock anything other than subtle differences between the two cultures but, at a glance, it seems that everything, from the music to the way people drive to the fashions and tastes in takeaway food are all quintessentially the same. The main task for any Brit staying for a long time here is to find a way to settle in with the locals, which I’m guessing happens more in gradients rather than as at an exponential rate: I’ve clocked the boys in basic three quarter lengths, flip-flops (or ‘thongs’ to the Australians, although some of the more confident boys seem to have abandoned footwear altogether), Ts and sunglasses, just like the English in Ibiza. Shorts have never been a staple of my wardrobe, but we all have to make sacrifices. Plus it was 21 degrees yesterday, and it’s nearly winter over here for Christ’s sake.

A quick word about the wildlife. Australians seem to have developed a particularly cavalier attitude, I believe, as a direct result of the waiting numbers of deadly creatures which seem to sit, quite literally, on their doorstep. Like the tree spider, which cuts a scary image to anyone who has only ever seen something similar in glass boxes. I can see three of their intimidating webs from where I’m typing this, as they loiter ominously between the trees and telegraph polls. I’m told they’ll “give you a nasty nip”, but if you sit and think about these things then you would never leave the house. So the prime learning curve at this juncture is one of resilience.

I loved the sight of the Rainbow Lorikeet (pictured), who cause quite a stir amongst the fruit trees with their rather distinctive chirp. They’re strikingly beautiful parrot-like birds who feed on the honeysuckle and (allegedly) become so intoxicated by the nectar that they lose their flight perception and have been known to collide into the passing traffic. The galah is similar, of the cockatoo family, and just as clueless (hence the phrase "flaming galah" to describe someone of a slightly idiotic persuasion). I’ve not seen this myself, although I like the thought of them as being a slightly rebellious scourge on society, particularly against the Noisy Miner, of which there are many, and not half as exciting.


AU Tube: Understanding Australian TV
‘Spicks and Specks’ (ABC1)

A music quiz panel show with surprisingly straight questions which delivers a light premise of wholesome banter, the like of which you would find on ‘A Question of Sport’. Hosted by comedian Adam Hills, rounds range from quick fire pop knowledge to a singing game where contestants have to guess popular melodies in which the lyrics have been replaced with selected readings from hilariously unrelated literature. I remember seeing a show similar to this in the early 90s, presented by Radio 1’s Mike Smith and called ‘That’s Showbusiness’, until ‘Never Mind the Buzzcocks’ arrived and both saved and ruined the TV music quiz. The panel seem to know their music more than their jokes, although I’m told that one of the team captains, Myf Warhurst, is one of the country’s premier figures in the music press, akin to someone like Jo Whiley, who has done sterling work on the government-funded Triple J alternative music station (which thankfully has no adverts). I’ve listened to it and it’s really quite good, playing Fucked Up, Mos Def and Sarah Blasko all in quick succession, which is anything if not diverse.

Just the Two of Us

It’s been strange living in a Labour stronghold like Leeds since the confirmation of the new order, mainly because you can’t imagine what life must be like outside of your own bubble to realise where the hell all those Tory votes came from, and how we ended up with a PR man running the country. Sorry, make that two PR men.

A week is a long time in politics, and for proof of this, simply look at last week’s blog, when Labour where still (technically) running the country. Now look at them all: you might even clock Gordon Brown in a pub somewhere and think, “don’t I know you from somewhere?” Buy him a drink if you do. He looks like he needs one. But wasn’t his quick resignation speech lovely? His sense of relief was palpable, as if he just couldn’t wait to grab the kids and chart a flight to the furthest beach on the planet.

Despite my bias on this, I think the media have been a bit glib during such a monumental shift in our British political system. It could have been much worse, people: a centre right coalition will wean out the more extreme policies on either side, and although the Lib Dems may have sacrificed a lot in the process, they are still instrumental in putting their key manifesto pledges into action and will finally have a voice on the national stage. The media offence was initially caused by the pally nature of David Cameron and Nick Clegg's first press conference together, in which most left wing newspapers commented on the scene's homoerotic overtones, which was just borderline offensive: would the same have been said if it was Clegg and Brown instead? Yes, their camaraderie was precisely staged and the two seem to already be morphing into the same person, but those on the left shouldn't be too glib: no one who saw those scenes couldn’t have been reminded of the burgeoning years of New Labour with its rolled up sleeves, hearty handshakes and smiles for the cameras. Only now, instead of one Tony Blair, we seem to have two.

Anyway, with the press already stoking the fire of division within the new system (Conrats? Liberatives? Condems? Let's work on a name for next time), I think we should give this whole thing a chance, because given the budget deficit, rising sea levels, mass unemployment, a huge national distrust of politicians following a succession of scandals, division in the eurozone, mammoth environmental catastrophes and a volcano spewing a debilitating ash cloud into our jet engines, they will need all the help they can get, especially while Labour are deciding which half of Jedward to support in order to secure another term in office.

This is my last full week in England, as the next blog will be written from Australia, but that may depend on whether planes are being allowed to leave the ground by then. (Forgive my ignorance here on the intricacies of aviation, but can’t they just fly a little bit below the ash cloud?) This gives me the chance to talk about Swindon again, which is where I’ve just come back from. Obviously putting nostalgia aside, the old streets are just the same as I remember, but there appear to be new toy towns springing up everywhere. The old site of Princess Margaret Hospital (where many of my friends were born) is now a boxy, beige bricked commune called Royal Mead (something we locals like to describe as ‘flats for twats’, which Swindon seems to be full of. Flats, I mean).

Why, when given the opportunity to turn a blank canvas of derelict land into something iconic or even inspiring, do we choose to build these identikit, flat-packed, Ikea saturated, soulless estates with their measured rosebushes and driveways? You think that we would have learnt from our exploits in Milton Keynes, but obviously not. And then these suburban holes have the gall to be provisionally planned on green belt areas, thus encroaching on the surrounding splendour of the landscape. I know people need a place for their Audis and flat screen televisions, but it just doesn’t seem right to me.

Before I move on from this, need I remind you that it’s a big game for Swindon Town tomorrow: a second leg play off encounter with Charlton Athletic, who we beat on Friday thus furthering our chances of promotion into the Championship. I actually prefer to observe the team from a distance now for fear of suffering any inevitable bout of depression following any high profile defeat, a feeling of which is akin to the death of a much loved pet. Detachment like this isn’t desirable, but it can certainly help to reduce the stress levels.

Russell Crowe walked out of an interview with Mark Lawson this week when the prominent critic said he thought the actor’s interpretation of Robin Hood sounded a bit Irish in Ridley Scott’s new, big budget version. The disgruntled Aussie spent a long time trying to get his tongue around a northern accent, apparently, and from the clips I’ve heard, his voice seems quite indistinguishable from any other Russell Crowe voice.

This got me thinking about the worst accents in movies, which is a fun thing to do, if you have a few minutes to spare. Leonardo diCaprio struggled with Irish in Gangs of New York, including his co-star Cameron Diaz, who seemed to give up trying altogether about halfway through the movies. Dick Van Dyke’s ‘mockney’ chimney sweep in Mary Poppins obviously takes some beating, but little is mentioned here about Kevin Costner’s interpretation of a British accent in his attempt at Robin Hood in the early 90s, which seemed to stump the actor so much that he didn’t even bother. It was Nottingham by way of Los Angeles. At least Crowe deserves some credit for even giving it a stab in the first place.


And to add a more personal element to this, I would like to say a hearty thank you to everyone who paid a visit to the last live Wintermute show on Wednesday night. An emotional event, undoubtedly, and not just for us in the band, but there is some solace that can be taken from the knowledge that the people you meet in life, through whatever circumstance or instance, can ultimately and intrinsically become some of your closest and treasured friends, and that bonds like this are truly unbreakable. The music may be over, but I very much look forward to seeing everyone again - the people whose love and support have been a constant throughout my time here in England - and that they will forever remain in my thoughts.

Swing When You’re Winning

Well, for a while there it looked like we might have a result which would contradict the exit poll, but as Friday morning went on (in direct correlation to us running out of beer), things went as predicted. Which has pissed off just about everyone: Tories, for a lack of an overall majority; Labour, for losing such a chasm of seats; and the Lib Dems, whose waning Cleggmania boost over the past few weeks had started to resemble a former ‘X Factor’ winner trying to get a Christmas number one - they had spectacularly failed to capitalise on their initial popularity.

Not even the voters were pleased, particularly those who didn‘t have enough time to vote. There were bizarre scenes in Sheffield where irate voters complained when the doors closed on them at 10pm, which is what they’re legally supposed to do, considering they had been open since 7am that morning. There was confusion with a lack of ballot papers when teams of students turned up without their polling cards. They had probably left them in the union bar to use as coasters.

And then some familiar faces were ousted, like Jacqui Smith, whose expenses claims could rival Greece’s budget deficit, and Lembit Opik, who had been rather wisely sidelined during the campaign, which was probably something to do with his insistence on putting taxpayers money into researching meteorites. Both lost to Conservatives, who took significant gains everywhere, including my home town of Swindon, with both North and South constituencies formerly being Labour strongholds.

I stuck with the BBC coverage throughout, which was mostly first class, particularly the visual effects department who had been working overtime to plonk Jeremy Vine in some form of virtual reality hanger like the holodeck on the Enterprise, walking on the computerised pavement outside Number 10 with constituency names underfoot, and in a particularly stunning if peripheral act of CGI grandiose, he physically appears to topple scandalous expense-claiming MPs with their images fixed to a falling stack of dominoes. Almost as brilliant was the enthusiasm of Emily Maitlis and her giant iPad which, when it worked, seemed the best way to successfully dumb down each passing result into pretty, logical, pictorial sense for dribbling drunken idiots, which is important when you’re doing live television at 3am. She was still pressing buttons the next morning with endearing affection, like someone showing off a new car.

But, god, Andrew Neil was annoying. I was watching the coverage with my Dad who just couldn’t take Neil’s constant harassing any longer (particularly when you’re moored on a boat talking to such political minds as Joan Collins), at one point shouting, “just save Maureen Lipman and sink the bloody thing!” The coarse double act of Dimbelby and Paxo was cynically spot on, and you can’t help but watch and admire how they can continue to discuss detailed constitutional reform after such a long time without sleep. If that was me, I would just end up mumbling into a sock.

And then there was an awful sense of hurry up and wait, which is a common trend on any rolling news broadcast. Token talking heads from Paddy Ashdown, George Osbourne and even some important people were unceremoniously cut to focus on live broadcasts of one of the Big Three doing something, anything, from shaking hands or driving somewhere. These were the worst cut-to’s, as a helicopter tracks the roof of a car across London with commentators not completely sure where they were or, indeed, what car they were supposed to be looking at. Looking down on the scene resembled some form of CCTV tracking system, as if we were checking that the cars didn’t run any red lights or drive in the bus lane.

Following it on Twitter was fun, too, especially getting tweets from people like Armando Iannucci, who complained that the live TV feed wasn’t working on their boat and were therefore probably the only people in the whole country who didn’t know what the hell was going on. That’s the sort of insight that you just wouldn’t have got before, even at the last election. Whether this is a good thing, of course, is debatable. As an aside, why not follow me at @iknowbenjohnson, if you choose to do that sort of thing.

And then came the result, which despite its unprecedented nature, still managed to get quite boring quite quickly. We still don’t technically have a government at the time of writing, until Clegg decides which of his former bullies he wants to bunk up with and therefore alienate just about everybody else. But after the Big Three had spoken on Friday, journalists have just been left to report on a whole lot of hypothetical and speculative nothingness, repeatedly, and usually using the same talking heads that had been on the television for the past 24 hours. After the mammoth live broadcast, the BBC cut rather reluctantly to an episode of ‘Flog It!’ as some form of twisted clemency, before unloading even more speculative nothingness into our ear holes, the like of which is still going on as I type.

Now, perhaps this is just to do with the fact that reality TV is no longer a strand of television but actually television itself, but the whole thing did have an air of ‘The X Factor’ about it; after deliberating for hours and then throwing open to the public vote, we still had to wait until the end of the weekend to get any form of a result. And, just like on ‘The X Factor’, someone else should have won.

Spain for Pleasure

Corvera is a sleepy (and I use this term with complete accuracy) byway in the dusty south eastern tip of Spain which appears to have been largely ignored by just about everybody. There are cars parked on the streets but seemingly no people to drive them, but if they choose to, at least Corvera has a petrol station and a road which will lead them to the bustling university city of Murcia, which is about 10 miles north. Corvera’s only cab driver, Juan, has one arm (I suppose you could call him a ‘Juan-armed-driver’). Demand for his services are slight (probably wise), and we’re told Juan only recently entered the taxi trade to supplement his haulage business, which perhaps prove Spain’s slightly cavalier approach to road safety.

We’re here during the May bank holiday for Mercia’s SOS 4.8 festival, a non-stop two day event which set us back the measly price of €35. A relatively young cultural event combining visual and performance art with live music, SOS 4.8 mixes an odd collection of British artists (Hot Chip, Mystery Jets, Madness) with the sort of Spanish pop which wouldn’t look out of place on ‘The Fast Show’. Listening to this stuff makes you realise just how important the UK music industry really is, and there is great pride to be had in watching a 30,000 strong crowd of Spanish locals singing along, in interpretive English, to the songs of Franz Ferdinand. As a tourist, and as one of the very few English at the festival, one can take solace in the fact that drunk teenagers are pretty much the same all over the continent, no matter what language barrier, with fashions and behaviours reminiscent of just about any other UK festival that I have had the mortally hung over pleasure to have endured.

The festival’s main beer sponsor, Estrella Levante, aren’t particularly prolific outside of Spanish speaking regions, and can’t therefore afford the global marketing costs of something like Heineken’s Benicàssim festival, which attracts British drugheads in their droves. Mind you, SOS 4.8 isn’t by a beach (although it is located on a car park, like the festival in Benicàssim) and can’t quite boast the same expanse of artists, but it does share that unique Spanish sensibility of forcing its visitors to dance until they’re unconscious, or at least until they can’t quite take anymore. Last night, for instance, Fatboy Slim took to the stage at 4.30am. Let me repeat that. 4.30am. This fact alone puts your average English festival to an embarrassing shame.

Given the educated nature of the predominantly student crowd, a basic grasp of English is clearly a prerequisite, and I wish I could say that this is reciprocated. My limited grasp of Spanish mostly includes repeatedly denouncing myself as ‘Anglaise’ and being able to ask for coffee with milk. Yet the attitude towards the English appears to be quite envious. ‘Anglaise?’ a barmen exclaims, ‘Ci, muy buena!’ My politeness extends to the local townsfolk, one of which clocks me near a petrol station and asks me something I don’t understand. When I point out that I’m English, she asks again. “Blow job?” she says. And being as awkwardly English as you could possibly imagine (particularly when being confronted by a prostitute), I thank her for the offer but politely decline.

Back in Covera, we’re told that the region will soon have sufficient financial support from the PGA who plan to build a top international golf course in the region, something which entrepreneurial ex-pats have taken to heart by quickly assembling a new apartment complex, which is where we are having the pleasure of staying. It has been built like a mass-security compound in a deserted, sandy outback and is therefore, I can only imagine, not dissimilar to Guantanamo Bay, only with better parking. This was built back when moving to Spain for most Brits was almost part of your retirement package, the results of which have seen versions of Little Britain dotted up and down the south coast, where Guinness is served on tap and bars have songs like ‘Sweet Caroline’ on their karaoke roster. But since recession-hit Brits have stopped buying up land for their bespoke villas and swimming pools, unemployment has rocketed here. During our stay at the resort, we only see approximately ten other human beings, including staff.

It's bloody luxury, though, although clearly not quite to the high standards of my mother. “Where’s the bidet?” she asks in all sincerity. Sometimes you don’t realise just how horribly middle class you are.

Gordon Brown’s ‘bigotgate’ gaffe reminded me of that scene in The Naked Gun, which in itself is a joke that is almost as old as the hills. At a press conference featuring top international delegates, lieutenant Frank Drebin takes a prolonged moment of anguished relief in the gents toilets only to discover upon his return that all of his extended lavatory behaviour has been beamed out live across a stunned conference thanks to his tie mic. Surely Brown’s mishap displays the sheer amount of exhaustive cross-country badgering that all party leaders are currently going through: after all, I certainly know that if I were in the same position, I wouldn’t just accidentally forget that I was wired up to a Sky News microphone and that every word that I was saying was being recorded by journalists who have been spending every waking hour trying to screw me. So, really, he should have known better.

Still, a priceless moment nonetheless, and one that further confounds those bullying allegation that many found so unpalatable. He looked so infuriated with himself when he was exposed on the Jeremy Vine show (pictured above) that you wondered whether he might just completely flip out, rip off his shirt and start tearing up the studio. But calling the incident a game changer is short sighted: let’s recall Neil Kinnock’s arse-over-tit routine on Brighton beach during the 1992 Labour campaign, which didn’t singularly lose him the election, but did contribute to a mounting catalogue of errors, which made him look more like a clown at a kid’s birthday party than a viable PM contender. Brown committed the ministerial equivalent of sending a text message to the person that you were meant to be discussing with somebody else. It’s not an excuse, of course, but we’ve all done it.


I failed my driving test on Wednesday. No great shame in that, but it would help if driving instructors told you just when the testing officially starts and ends. As a preamble, I merely happened to comment how hot it was inside the car, to which the official questioned how to turn on the air conditioning. Not knowing the answer to this, or whether we were still engaged in some form of gibbering nervous small talk, I continued to drive and completely avoided answering his question. I had been advised that conversing during the test can help with cooling any built up anxiety, but in hindsight, it’s probably best to just shut up and drive.