Hanoi - like its traffic: going in the wrong direction.

Full disclosure: I have made ten visits to Hanoi since 2017, not one of which has been for pleasure. Frankly, I'm not even sure, had I ever set out to visit for pleasure, that I would have found it - certainly not the appropriate kind. You see, if Hanoi in 2017 was congested, polluted and tired, fast forward to post-pandemic, resurgent Vietnam in 2023 and you will find its capital morbidly obese with rampant middle-class growth, loafing unhealthily, slob-like, in a quagmire of traffic, filth, litter and disorganisation. This is a city with a proud people, a remarkable history, and an incredible story to tell, rapidly losing itself in a tragedy of its own making. In that sense, it is a leader in illustrating a major, global problem: urban decay in emerging economies.

There are few great walking cities: New York; London; Paris; Vienna; Singapore. Debatable, no doubt. What constitutes a great walking city? Is it as simple as being able to stroll, unimpeded, between its main attractions, enabling the discovery along the way of little pockets of intrigue and mystery? Is it the effort put in to signage, exploratory prompts, storyboards, parks, and accessibility (think about bikes or wheelchairs, for those unable to walk)? Is it about the presentation and protection of key locales, such as churches, temples, mosques and museums, and bolstering these with the frills of bars, cafes, shops and restaurants? It is all of these things, and more. As major Southeast Asian cities go, Hanoi should, by all accounts, be a beacon of emerging-economy success and a mecca for tourists. It should be a regional leader in how to reinvent a tiring, ageing city. Yet it appears intent on foregoing meaningful and sustainable development and expansion in favour of individualised wealth and self gain. It's not dissimilar to Phnom Penh, in many ways. That's a story for another day, suffice it to say the sight of many a street-side beggar with an empty bowl poking out opportunistically between the bumpers of Bentleys and Range Rovers parked on the streets of Cambodia's capital is one of startling contradiction.

Back to Hanoi, and let's start with the obvious. The scooters. Or as the locals like to say, motorbikes. Thank God, at least, that's not what they actually are, for the scooters themselves take up the vast majority of space on the roads, as well as the sidewalks. There are an estimated 6.5 million scooters in Hanoi, whilst its population is estimated to be around 5.2 million. I don't know the exact details, but I am guessing that translates to one for every person living in Hanoi, plus one for the other 1.3 million who likely commute into and out of the city daily or weekly for work. And yes, I said sidewalks, which are used with gay abandon for scooter parking, as well as for shortcuts around traffic lights and for frantic forays off busy arterial roads onto well-worn back streets and into alleyways to get hastily from A to B. The unsuspecting pedestrian is expected to get out of the way, without exception. I have frequently caused much consternation by not budging at the sound of a toot behind me when walking down the middle of a sidewalk. The sheer arrogance and expectation that one on foot should yield to a scooter on a sidewalk is mind-boggling. What side of the road do they drive on in Hanoi, I hear you ask? Both sides. Officially the right, but if and when you feel brave enough to step out to cross a road, the simple rule of thumb is to look in every direction, including down, as you will likely step into some sort of filth.

The filth. Hanoi is the capital city of a major Southeast Asian country and an extremely important global economic and political hub. Yet I have seen liberal defecation, urination, spitting, changing (and discarding) of nappies, meat butchery, fish filleting, feather plucking, fruit and vegetable chopping, welding, spray painting, incineration and rubbish dumping, all being carried out streetside (wherever there is space between the scooters), much of which is then hosed away from the shop- or house-front from which it originated, so that it simply becomes someone else's problem, or gathers in piles, which are half-heartedly cleared away by unenthused council workers. At first glance, the manic combination of industry, retail and cuisine can seem like charming, organised chaos, leading to many a tourist exclaiming enthusiastically, "Wow, isn't Hanoi crazy?" Yes, it is. Is that a good thing? The roads and traffic are, at times, unnavigable and intolerable. So you choose to walk, but it's not the walk in the park it should be ... and the parks ... they are few and far between, yet Hanoi is supposedly famous for them. Forget trying to spot a wild bird or breathe in some fresh air. On my last visit, in October this year, I ambitiously went for a jog around hồ Bảy Mẫu (Bảy Mẫu Lake). Rotting fish, discarded at the water's edge by local fishermen, and the ubiquitous Eurasian Tree Sparrow was as close as Hanoi allowed me to get to nature. Although I almost got a little closer when, on an intriguingly empty and spacious stretch of path, I was overtaken by a younger, fitter jogger, who politely gave me a friendly shoulder nudge as he passed, as if to say, "Hello there, visitor. Welcome. Now $%#@ off."

I'm trying to believe that somewhere, behind the curtain of crazy, under the visage of vulgarity, beneath the ponging piles of putrid plastic, there is a new, progressive, quaint, charming Hanoi, just itching to burst out, open its arms, and say, "Hello world, I'm ready for you, are you ready for me?" But, you see, aside from my very pessimistic view of its future, based solely on the state of its present, there is a final, more troubling, tragic and personal issue I have with Vietnam, ergo with its capital, and it comes down to the simple fact that I am from Zimbabwe. Behind China, between 2015 and 2021, Vietnam was the world's second largest importer of pangolin scales by volume, a ranking only measurable by what is found and seized. Over this period, 70,300kg of pangolin scales were seized in Vietnam. Over 50% were from Africa. A pangolin weighs, on average, around three kilograms. Their scales make up 20% of their body weight, or about 600 grams. That means roughly 117,000 pangolins visited Hanoi unwillingly over this period, and it's safe to say they enjoyed it less than I did. Never mind the estimates of what isn't found and seized, thought to be amounting to more than one million individual pangolins to China and Vietnam over the last decade. Don't even get me started on ivory.

Hanoi - and broadly speaking Vietnam in general - has, in my view, the same problems the rest of the world has: over consumption; wanton waste; unfettered population growth; increased disposable income; and an acute case of me-mentality. The trouble in Hanoi is that these problems are on steroids. And as a major global city, it's sadly not alone. You want to address the world's real problems when it comes to climate and environment, cost of living, political turmoil and regional stability? Forget think-tanks and global summits, the solutions start with the individual. The one who rides 500m on a scooter every day, or drives the same distance in a car, to buy some take-away food, half of which will be callously thrown away (possibly to the verge). The one who changes their third child's nappy on the sidewalk and leaves it there. The one who ate pangolin scale soup yesterday, simply because they can.

Perspective, Please - my letter to The West Australian

Dear Sir,

The demise of Andrew Chan and Myuran Sukumaran is no doubt tragic. Tragic in the sense that young men have lost their lives in entirely unavoidable circumstances. Unavoidable in the sense that not only did they know the potential consequences of their original actions and chose to proceed, but that an emerging economy and society like Indonesia should be examining alternative means of punishment for such crimes. What is also a tragedy is the impact the drug trade has on societies, both in Australia and Indonesia, and the fact that discourse on this front has taken a back seat to the emotionally charged, ratings-fuelled media circus surrounding these executions.

Indonesia’s action has been labelled ‘cold-blooded murder’ (Carmel Guppy, Girawheen) and ‘state-sanctioned murder’ (Tasmanian Greens Leader, Kim Booth). It is neither. It is a sovereign nation carrying out its judicial process, as it has a right to do. We need to remember that and not get lost in the emotion. A better example of cold-blooded, state-sanctioned murder is the loss of 27 Australians – innocent, mind you – blown out of the sky last year over Ukraine as they flew home from holidays and business trips. Was the Australian Ambassador to Russia recalled? It might be hard, but let’s try some perspective.

Lessons from Zimbabwe

“Good morning Mr Austin and your visitors!” The class of young, tiny, impeccably dressed Zimbabwean school children slowly and proudly shouts out the rehearsed greeting as we walk into its quaint classroom. This is Heritage School in Harare. Neither the oldest nor the most renowned of Zimbabwe’s schools, it is one of hundreds spread across a country which, despite ongoing social, economic and political pressures, continues to offer students from a variety of backgrounds a consistently high standard of education. With most schools in Zimbabwe offering a British Cambridge-based curriculum, it is perhaps no surprise that the curator of Heritage, Tom Austin, speaks in glowing terms with a relaxed English accent and infectious Zimbabwean cadence. He describes the work he has put in to establish one of Zimbabwe’s premium schools, and as we stroll around the immaculate property, Austin proudly showing it off, I note to myself that whilst financial investment varies across this Southern African country’s schools, their ability to deliver quality schooling rarely does. In fact, it can almost be argued that the less fortunate schools often produce the best performing students. And they’re not ashamed to admit it.

 

As part of a small delegation of Australian university representatives, I am in Zimbabwe promoting Australia as a potential destination for tertiary studies. How does Zimbabwe, with all its woes, continue to provide such a robust grounding for its children, which not only includes lofty academic heights but also resoundingly successful sporting and cultural programs? How important to its future, whatever course it may take, will young Zimbabweans of tomorrow be? A product of a Zimbabwean schooling myself, I have always been an advocate for the high standards I was fortunate enough to experience, but that was nigh on 20 years ago; returning now knowing the trajectory Zimbabwe has taken over the last two decades, nothing prepares me for what we discover as we journey from Bulawayo, through Gweru, to the capital, Harare.

Bulawayo’s brand new airport sparkles in the bright, hazy winter sun. It’s my first time in the nation’s second largest city since the mid-90s, and after a lengthy flight from Western Australia I am pleasantly surprised to see the new building and perhaps the hope it brings of a slow shift in the direction of modernity and efficiency, things Zimbabwe has been grappling with for the best part of 20 years. We enter the immigration hall and are immediately confronted by the dichotomy Zimbabweans face on a daily basis. There are three desks equipped with passport scanners, computers and various other high tech frills. One desk is labelled ‘visa payments’. I join its queue and note a piece of paper sticky taped to an adjacent office window offering an email address to contact if one has any complaints about the way things are being run. I almost immediately regret not taking the address down – as I approach the desk it becomes obvious that the technology is just for show. The attendant has a large invoice book in front of him with pieces of blue carbon paper emerging from its edges, like lettuce in a bureaucratic burger. He is not only hand-writing receipts but is directing travellers to the queue at the neighbouring desk. His job is the payment of the visa, his colleague is the one tasked with the complex process of actually sticking it into the passport. She also has access to a fully computerised system and mercifully, unlike the last time I arrived in Zimbabwe through Harare’s airport, it does not have a paused game of Solitaire on its screen. She does, however, take her time to press repeat on her smartphone’s music player, returning it to the beginning of an Oliver Mtukudzi number, which twangs out through the tinny speaker. Welcome to Zimbabwe, in many ways a parallel universe – old-world processes and 21^st century innovation are uneasy bedfellows here. Mtukudzi’s rough, melancholic voice complements perfectly his fluid, rhythmic melody. The country he so often laments in his lyrics sadly does not often strike has harmonious a key as his music.

We drive through Bulawayo’s sandy streets, shaking through bone-jarring potholes. The air is parched, dusty and smoky – mid-winter in this part of the world is a bleak time. We rumble towards out guest lodge as our host tells us the country is on its knees, but as we stagger out of the car onto the lodge’s green lawns we are briefed about such things as WiFi in the well-appointed chalets, how to find BBC on the TV, which button to press on our personal remote controls to open the front gate should we wish to venture out, and how to access the tennis court or the nine-hole golf course. The contrasts are coming thick and fast now. That evening, over an indulgent glass of South African red wine, we receive our schedule for the days ahead. We are due to visit a series of schools, as well as hold a public expo in another hotel. The lingering frustrations from the airport and the sense of sadness at the visual state of this once great city and country are replaced by the sensation that, in true Zimbabwean fashion, it is business as usual. There is no country better at keeping calm and carrying on.

The following day, our first visit is to Petra High School. We settle into our chairs at the front of the well-ventilated school hall, which accentuates a cloudy, chilly day – it is designed to cope with the searing summer heat. Petra does not meet the eye well. It is run down in parts; red brickwork is smothered in the ubiquitous reddish dust, and at first glance the school appears poor and deprived, struggling to direct its moderate student body through their O and A levels. Don’t be fooled. It is the dry season, not an aesthetically pleasing time of the year, and being mid-year exam time there is a buzz amongst the students now quietly filing in. The focus at Petra, as with many other schools, is academic output. We talk to the students, they listen attentively. A glance around the room takes in young boys and girls, black and white, with keen eyes and ready smiles. They all have phones and teenage attitudes, but not one is texting or giggling at some juvenile joke. Not all are blessed with wealth, but most are blessed with ambition and brains. Insightful questions flow, and at the end a trend is set for the rest of our trip as a lean, athletic senior student stands, gently signals with authority to his peers to hush, and thanks us eloquently for coming to see them. The extraordinary levels of discipline, maturity and manners have never left the Zimbabwean curriculum. And nor should they.

We move onto one of Zimbabwe’s most famous of Christian schools, Christian Brothers College. CBC turns 60 this year and that sort of longevity brings reputation, tradition and class. On the wall of one of its corridors sits a framed newspaper article from 2009. The cut-out shows the image of two sheepishly smiling students and the news that they ranked 1^st and 2^nd in the world in their Cambridge IGCSE Computer Studies and Design and Technology subjects. As Moira Davies, the school’s career counsellor sits us down for a pot of Tanganda tea and Lobels biscuits in the resplendent catering hall overlooking the sport fields, the answer to one of my questions begins to dawn on me. The retention of the well-established Cambridge system at the time of independence in 1980, coupled with what were particularly forward-thinking education policies from Mugabe’s incoming government, resulted for many years in some astonishing statistics. According to the African Economist, in 2013 Zimbabwe lead Africa in adult literacy at 90%. In the mid-90s, TIME magazine reported that the country boasted a 72% pass rate at O Level. Even now, 34 years on from independence, despite the incredible challenges schools face and the degradation of formerly sound education policies, UNICEF indicates the country had an 88% primary school attendance rate from 2008 to 2012. The horizon, however, is not without its clouds – for the same period, secondary schooling attendance was at 48%. The question is not how Zimbabwe manages to provide such a robust system of education, it is how long can it continue to. The foundations of the system are so solid and reinforced so strongly by the resolve of the students, parents and teachers, that shaking them will take an utterly catastrophic breakdown in the almost sacred perception Zimbabwe has of education. The foundations are being well and truly tested now, but with such innovations as CBC’s night school for underprivileged students, there continues to be hope. The University of Zimbabwe is still, despite calendar disruptions, State-sanctioned meddling, funding challenges and student riots, regarded very highly overseas in such areas as medicine and veterinary.

Our road trip continues, taking in Falcon College, one of many rural boarding schools that formerly catered for the burgeoning farming population. It now ekes out a living serving dwindling agricultural families and boarders from the cities pursuing the perceived qualities that day-schooling cannot provide. The road is almost unnavigable in parts and a sobering sight greets us as we pass a police station, where a line of steel coffins is propped up outside its entrance, apparently airing in the sun. Falcon College is a vast property, oozing confidence and reputation. There are university campuses that would easily fit within its boundaries. The drive to Falcon is nothing compared to the drive to Gweru. If education has, so far, largely resisted the state of affairs in Zimbabwe, the transport infrastructure has not. Progress is slow, the road surface brutal; entering this one-time industrial hub brings us to a grinding halt – there are missing patches of road so large that one has to take a moment to plot the best route through. Signs of improvement are not far off – huge road projects are underway here, resulting in long waits and plenty of time to reflect.

We visit the energetic Midlands Christian College (MCC) and the conservative, quietly confident Regina Mundi High School. Church backing is not far from the agenda in Zimbabwe, and many schools have impressive chapels at their heart. I meet a young student who gleefully tells me her sister is currently studying in Australia, which is not the first time this has happened, and I meet a charismatic young teacher giving back to MCC what he got out of it as a child: passion. He tells me he has aspirations to be an actor, and I wholeheartedly believe he will succeed. Zimbabweans often reach global fame, most notably in the sporting arena. MCC’s junior school was once attended by David Pocock, an excellent flanker for the Australian national rugby team who often returns to Gweru for philanthropic duties. Gary Ballance, a test cricketer for England is the product of another great boarding school, Peterhouse. South Africa’s rugby side has two Zimbabweans playing in it; eventually you have to ask the question, where are all the academic success stories? They are there aplenty, they just aren’t as obvious. Zimbabwean doctors, veterinary surgeons, engineers and lawyers are sprinkled around the world. They go largely unnoticed by dissolving into communities in which they settle as part of that dreaded but increasingly important sector of Zimbabwe’s population: the diaspora. Zimbabwe has a chronic brain drain. It is a torrent of skill loss that has the odd salmon of hope leaping against it. You get the sensation that any time now, especially with a change of regime, of investment and foreign policies, the spawning of a new era might just begin.

In the capital, Harare, we arrive at Chisipite Senior School, which, quite simply, is one of the best schools you are ever likely to encounter. It is an all-girls school celebrating its 60^th anniversary this year, just like CBC in Bulawayo. Its Deputy Headmistress, Lorraine Hill, ushers us towards a small lecture theatre. We pass classrooms where students are diligently sewing, cooking, playing piano, singing and fiddling with Bunsen burners. The classes appear unsupervised, and it is only upon closer inspection that I realise the teachers are indeed present. It’s just that they aren’t quite teachers here, they’re peers. This is a school that is doing things differently; it is innovating, and imparting a sense of maturity, independence and critical thinking on its students, the likes of which you would only expect to find beyond secondary school. It’s not my first visit to Chisipite but it is quickly turning into my most memorable. As the young ladies file politely into the theatre, we are presented with a thick book showcasing their six decades of achievement and a CD of musical pieces, recorded recently in the nearby chapel. Over dinner, Hill describes to me how one of her students is in the midst of writing an essay on what the benefits are of smacking children versus the psychological effects – is there a pay-off either way resulting in a loss-gain scenario? Impressive, and an indication of just what sort of student is coming out of Zimbabwe. The schools soldier on, doing what they do best, and what they have done so well for so long. Whether the students they produce and inevitably lose to the lure of further education and opportunity abroad ever start to return in substantial numbers largely depends, like many things in Zimbabwe, on the political developments and the impact they will have on foreign investment. Innovation, unsurprisingly, is increasingly a part of many African economies. It is often born out of necessity due to the absence of a more typical product or solution. Take M-Pesa in Kenya. With its roots in Mozambique, where those who struggled with cash flow took to swapping mobile phone credit as a means of payment and trade, M-Pesa is now used everywhere in Kenya, especially those places where cash machines or banks are scarce. It is a simple, effective innovation, guises of which have only recently popped up in developed nations, and it is a mark of just how resourceful Africa can be.

We descend upon our final school in Zimbabwe, St. John’s College, where as we arrive a rugby match is underway. Their opponents are St. George’s College. This is a derby; closing my eyes, I could imagine being at a college football match in the USA. The atmosphere is crackling with tension and anticipation. As we watch the sun set and the match unfold – and it’s a fabulous game – I am reminded of the commitment in Zimbabwe to a well-rounded education. Only days prior I was admiring the brilliance of the record-setting students from CBC; I was strolling the lawns of Heritage School listening to Tom Austin describe how it was designed with a gradual uphill rise from the gardens of the kindergarten, through the classes of the junior school, up to the senior school to give students a sense of moving up in the world; I was reading the cover of a CD of classical music recorded by students at Chisipite. Now I am watching a rugby match that is close to professional in standard. It is this commitment that one can only hope secures this great nation’s future. It seems to me that Zimbabwe closely resembles its most famous of trees, the baobab. Known as the tree of life, it can shelter, clothe, feed, and provide water. With fire-resistant bark, it can produce innovative solutions in the worlds of fabric and twine, and with edible fruit loaded with vitamin C, and leaves that contain medicinal properties its annual international market potential is estimated to be billions of dollars a year. If only it were cultivated. It can last for thousands of years and, at sunset, which is now peering through a dusty cloud billowing up from a scrum in this pulsating rugby match, the baobab can be breathtaking. Above ground, the baobab can endure extreme hardship because below ground it possesses a unique, extraordinary root system. When this system falters, something incredible will surely die.

New but Ashamed Australian - my letter to Premier Colin Barnett

Honourable Colin Barnett MEc MLA

Premier; Minister for State Development; Science

1 Parliament Place, WEST PERTH WA 6005

wa-government@dpc.wa.gov.au

Dear Premier,

I am sure you have received numerous letters and emails over recent months relating to a range of issues. We as the general public of Western Australia appreciate that at present you have great State responsibilities to manage, coupled with a frantic schedule to fulfil. I expect you probably don’t personally read all the letters you receive, but I truly hope this one reaches your desk, your eyes, your mind and, most importantly, your heart.

I can imagine that in light of the State’s recent introduction of a shark cull you have been on the receiving end of much written and verbal attention from environmentalists, ocean lovers, youth groups, scientific research bodies, nature lovers, wildlife protection societies and so on. I presume there are also those who have expressed their support for the cull. I want to point out at this juncture that I represent none of the above. I mentioned earlier the general public of Western Australia. I suspect that when it comes to this cull you have had to engage extensively with opposite ends of the support spectrum, being the vocal and noble minority who have gone out of their way to vociferously voice their objection to this heinous endeavour, and the possibly naïve and ill-informed minority who have backed you all the way. I am a member of the aforementioned general public and it strikes me as most curious that we, this majority group in the middle of this spectrum, have never really been asked what we think. And I’ll bet my bottom dollar that if we were asked we would lean heavily towards leaving the sharks to do as they are born to do: swim freely in their territory as part of nature’s infinitely old ecological system.

I am from Zimbabwe originally. It is a landlocked country but I was lucky enough to embark on numerous family holidays to the beautiful coast of South Africa where I first encountered the Indian Ocean. It was love at first sight but like most people I never really thought of admirably devoting my entire life to understanding and protecting it. This role seems to be left to the brave few of Sea Shepherd or Greenpeace ilk who take it upon themselves to stand up for those creatures within the world’s oceans who literally themselves cannot. I know you recently visited South Africa where you came upon some of these hardy individuals protesting against the actions of your Administration – I bet that was unexpected. I fell in love a second time when, as a 19-year-old international student, I came to Perth and discovered what Australia really and truly boils down to: a fair go for everyone. Yes, the beaches and forests are stunning, the economy is sound, the lifestyle is as close to perfect as one can come, but it is this enduring idea of everyone having a fair go that is quite simply, secretly and beautifully Australia’s trump card. This attitude is what really opened up my heart. In short, Australia had me at “g’day”.

Fast forward 18 years and not only am I now a resident of Perth, but I am a proud citizen of this great nation as of January 26^th, 2014. My interesting job involves promotion of a Western Australian education to an overseas audience and I do it with immense pride. But for the first time since arriving on these shores I am ashamed. I’ve been Australian for barely three months, and I am ashamed. I am neither an environmentalist nor a scientist, but I am ashamed. I love City Beach and frequent it often, yet I am ashamed when I step foot on it. What we – and I say ‘we’ because we’re sadly in this together now thanks to your Administration – are doing to the sharks of the great oceans that surround us is nothing short of criminal, murderous, ignorant and bloody primitive. It is a witch-hunt, the likes of which would not be out of place in the dark ages. Where is our compassion? Where is our humanity? Where, more than anything, is the opportunity for US to decide what to do with OUR oceans? The sharks and we both deserve a fair go at deciding their fate. Frankly, we don’t really even have the right to decide their fate, but seeing as they aren’t about to breach our shores and conduct media interviews, it falls in the lap of the very few who take the time to speak out to do just that – speak out. The State has in the past spent a fortune on asking us whether we wish to push the clocks back in winter and yet cannot be bothered to even launch a free online survey to see what we think. Go ahead and ignore us if you like, but at least ask us. You owe it to us.

Premier, it is a well-known fact that the creature responsible for most animal-inflicted injuries and deaths in Australia is of the equine variety. Where is the cull of horses? Would it help if they had large, sharp and replaceable teeth that came about through plain old evolution? Would it help if Hollywood persistently cast them as villains? Would it help if we couldn’t see them underneath us? Where are the drum lines in paddocks? Why do we have these ridiculous double standards? The hippopotamus and the buffalo are near the top of the list of most dangerous animals in Africa. Where are the snares and the trucks carrying around people whose job it is to shoot the ensnared? The great white shark was declared vulnerable by the Australian Government in 1999 and its numbers are yet to recover. However, your Administration has declared it fair game. Is it a surprise to you to learn that the ocean is their domain? Once we step foot in it we literally step out of continental Australia and into the wild ocean. Where is the cull of jellyfish or of stingrays? In fact, if ocean-dwelling creatures could walk and talk do you think there’d be something equivalent to drum lines on the beach to stop us going in?

Forgive my emotion. I want to close by mentioning another great injustice. The grey nurse shark became critically endangered in Australia in the 1970s as a result of increased hunting. It is now 2014 and, despite your Administration spending millions of our dollars on exterminating sharks as if they were rats, ignoring the wishes of the majority, scientists in Australia are still, decades later, working on miniscule budgets to regrow the numbers of this amazing species of shark. How is that even remotely fair? Premier, on average over the last fifty years there has been a single death each year in Australia from a shark attack (source: the Australian Shark Attack File). Statistically, a person has more chance of dying from a vending machine accident. I’ll wager that the vast majority of shark attack victims understand the risk and wholeheartedly disagree with your Administration's knee-jerk reaction.

I am now eligible to vote but sharks are not. Politics shouldn’t even be a part of this, yet I have had to resort to writing to the Premier of my State about something that should never have been their responsibility in the first place. I hope you have taken the time to digest my comments. I have shared them with as many friends as I can communicate with around the world, as well as the West Australian and Sunday Times. You needn’t reply to me. What you need to do is reply to everyone and, most importantly, reply to the sharks. Tell them why. Tell us why. Ask them and us for permission. Or better still, stop and ask all of us for forgiveness.

Yours sincerely,

Michael Ingram

'til Beth do us Part

I remember the first time we met – I was a young, naïve student in Australia. We met at a friend’s house and I was totally blown away by you. I think there may have been a rugby match on, or something we had all come to watch. I was dazzled by you – couldn’t take my eyes off you. You were a Fox. You were so different from anything I had experienced growing up in Zimbabwe. I saw you several times over the four years I spent here as a student but never thought I would ever have you. I wanted you badly. You were beyond me. I couldn’t even pluck up the courage to talk to you, or email you, instead resorting to gawking at you across the room whenever we crossed paths.

I moved to London in 2001 and wondered if I would ever have the pleasure of seeing you again. Amazingly, I met your sister Sky. I shouldn’t have been surprised, she was so popular, and everyone knew her. Everyone loved her. And she loved everyone. She wasn’t like you, but she did look a lot like you. She was more arrogant, more aloof, further out of reach. Just like you she loved her sport and movies, but from what I heard she liked money the most. I must have seen her in almost every pub I ever visited. Slag.

When I moved back to Australia for good eight years later you were still on my mind. I wondered what you would be like if we ever bumped into each other again. It wasn’t long before I found out – I saw you in a shopping mall. You hadn’t changed much; you were more breathtaking than you had ever been – like you were in HD, or something. You were promoting an end-of-financial-year sale. I couldn’t resist, I simply had to talk to you. There was no point asking if you remembered me, I knew you wouldn’t, but I told you I remembered you very well and had thought about you all those years in London. You were flattered but didn’t have time for small talk, so I cut to the chase and asked if you wanted to get together. You said yes! I was so, so happy.

The first six months together were bliss. The early months were in winter 2009 and we spent as much time as we could indoors at my flat, remember? Those were the days. You were happy to let me watch whatever I wanted and we had those infinite comfortable silences. Watching sport with you was amazing. Sometimes we would have to record it if there were other things to do, if you know what I mean. Of course you know what I mean, you always did have a great IQ. Coming home from work was the best – you knew when I didn’t want to talk and just left me to control the remote undisturbed. Sometimes we would go for months with hardly any conversation. I know I shouted at you once in a while, and to your credit you never once talked back. And at least I can say that it didn’t take me long to work out how to press your buttons. People say your kind is complicated, but you really aren’t. You don’t want or need much, just to be turned on once in a while, right? A little … electricity every now and then? A little spark? I thought that was enough. Sadly, I was wrong.

I don’t know what happened to us after the first six months. We hit a rocky patch. I wish it was as simple as the batteries just running flat, but it wasn’t. I started to ask if I really needed you in my life. I know you didn’t need me, I could tell. We were beginning to turn each other off. Your movie selections left a lot to be desired. I took to reading, jogging, golfing, watching DVDs and going to the cinema. You just sat there. Square. Boring. So we decided to take a break from each other.

Well, life just wasn’t the same. I kept seeing you out and about and people kept asking about us. We must have been apart for a year or so. I eventually broke – I couldn’t take it anymore. I called you and begged you to reconsider, but I didn’t have to beg, did I? You wanted the same thing! I was over the moon when we got back together! It was a crazy time … I wanted to have you in every room! We were insatiable together, like something off Animal Planet! I promised to spend more time focussing on Lifestyle and less time on ESPN, you promised not to demand so much financially. I promised to pay more attention to TLC, you promised not to cut me off all the time. We had a good run. We had a lot of laughs. We spent a lifetime watching Seinfeld re-runs, but the question always lingered, didn’t it? Was this right? Was this meant to be? Was this love? No. Emphatically, no.

I know the precise moment I realised things weren’t going to work out between us. I was supposed to be cleaning one morning. I couldn’t motivate myself. I was doing some half-hearted dusting in the bedroom. I thought I would go and put the kettle on, but what the hell did I stumble across? I’ll tell you what … your Discovery Turbo Max +2. What the hell was this? I was speechless. Livid. I’d never felt so betrayed. Just when I was trying to figure out how to talk to you about it, you got your friend Bethany to call me at work. That was a low blow. I was so taken aback that I didn’t know what to say to her. When she told me this relationship was unsustainable in its current form, I was devastated. Who is she to tell me? Bethany explained that you were leaving on July 8th, and that nothing I could say would change your mind. I was helpless. My paltry offer of $57 a month to get you to stay in all your glory just wasn’t enough. It was like I was on the verge of losing a part of me. I went home and slumped into my recliner, and stared at the wall. And you know what? I got out of that recliner and made a Thai red curry. I turned on the radio and listened to the BBC World Service – they had a report on about how a German pianist was redoing AC/DC’s entire collection as classical concertos. I put some pictures up on the wall. I set up internet. I went for a walk. Washed the car. Phoned my family. Rode my bike. Booked a holiday. And you know what I realised? That there is a whole world out there without you! I HATE you Foxtel! I never want to see you again, ever! I HAVE the entire Seinfeld collection on DVD, for God’s sake. Why the hell would I watch it with you? I’m free! Free [view] at last!

Ahem … does anybody know what the score is in The Open Championship?

Hey Adam, can we have our football back?

Rarely is my patience for idiocy stretched to the point where I feel I must dust off the keyboard and clear my virtual throat for a rant. And seldom do I express a loathing for anything relating to sport, notwithstanding my previous berating of Elderick Tont Woods – and yes, that is his name; a name that befits an ageing has-been. Sadly, however, idiocy and sport too often meet. They have, once again, eloped into a sordid sunset for a brief and catastrophic romance, which, on this occasion, has resulted in the national icon, Eddie McGuire.

Before I continue, allow me to douse the flames of abuse already crackling in the mouths of Eddie-lovers out there. I have nothing against the man. I have always admired his autocue and earpiece skills used with aplomb to give the impression of being intellectually gifted on Millionaire Hot Seat. I have watched in awe at the restrained, eloquent advice he often metes out to umpires when proudly wearing a Collingwood tie. It is along this AFL vein, however, that I take umbrage. The season is finally upon us and this year we have been subjected to countless instalments of Eddie’s supposedly rousing AFL promotional message.

In this glossy marketing video, we are treated to a string of astonishing marks that defy gravity, a montage of emotional moments from the 2011 season and a series of references to pride, strength, grit and determination that appear to make up the modern-day player. However, the last line out of Eddie’s multi-chinned mouth suggests that the things we love about football today – the drama, the excitement, the skill, the sublime, the unfolding seasonal stories of success and failure – have absolutely nothing to do with the game’s natural, historical evolution. Apparently, according to Eddie, old Tom Willis was not one of the founding fathers of this great game back in 1858. Apparently, according to Eddie, the origins cannot be traced back to rugby or the even older “foot balle” played in Ireland in 1527. According to Eddie, this game’s origins go much farther back, to the dawn of time, in fact. According to Eddie – wait for it – footie is “the greatest thing God ever invented.”

Yes people, footie is not just the greatest sport God invented, but the greatest thing He invented. Never mind the apparent genius behind the construction of a woodpecker’s tongue. Never mind the deft touch it must have taken to knock together the Great Barrier Reef. Evidently, as God was engineering an entire planet – in the dark, as Ricky Gervais so brilliantly points out – He amazingly had time to suggest a quick backyard Garden of Eden kick-about for Adam and Eve. Of course! It wasn’t an apple, it was a shiny new Sherrin!

What an absurd, ill-advised and ignorant thing to say about a sport. I say ill-advised because I can only assume, somewhat in Eddie’s defence, that some ad agency flunkie with a scraggly beard, a John Deere cap and Onitsuka Tiger trainers, who is convinced he sits somewhere near the Stephen Colbert end of the wit scale, has stuffed these pearls of wisdom into Eddie’s mouth. But more fool Mr. McGuire for uttering the words without protest! Isn’t it bad enough we invented the idea of a God, let alone the notion he returned the favour with an oval-shaped leather ball? Are we delusional? Why can we not just give ourselves a pat on the back and say, “footie is the greatest thing we’ve ever invented”? OK, it’s not, but you get my point.

At the end of the day, I must confess it is neither the fault of Edward McGuire, nor of the Zach Galafianakis-wannabe ad agency flunkie. It is the fault of the AFL’s governing body who commissioned this drivel. The magic of sport, in all its disciplines, is that it is supposed to circumvent all things relating to politics and religion, ensuring it is played in its purest of forms and most natural of manners: competitively; respectfully; enjoyably. If the AFL is aiming to embrace a multitude of cultures and communities in this country, then why is footie not the greatest thing Allah ever invented, or Ishvara, or Yahweh? Well, I’ll tell you why: for the simple reason that we humans, through a period of amazing evolution, invented footie ourselves. As we did the wheel, the second wheel, tiddlywinks, cheese rolling and the ahh-bra.

Tiger? It's Eldrick, actually.

Tiger back on the winner’s podium? Pah!

His own tournament, unsanctioned by any of the tours, against a selection of journeymen pros, some of whom at their best can just compete on the world stage. He’s hacking away trying to get past Zach Johnson down the stretch, on a course he has played a thousand times, whilst the genuine quality players (Kaymer, Donald, McIlroy (won in Hong Kong this weekend), Westwood (won in South Africa this weekend), Day, Scott, et al) were all noticeable by their absence. Tiger is a hack. His record on day one of the President’s Cup a few weeks ago shows us exactly where he is.

He’s had the cushiest of years, having barely played, where everyone else (the field in this tournament included) have slaved away from one side of the world to the other. He was fit and fresh this weekend, at a time where the rest of the world are about to have their well-earned end-of-season break.

Having said that, it should be noted that Tiger likes to win. And a win is a win. I don’t think … actually firmly do not believe … that he will win another major. The majors are won by class players who seduce the game of golf over four consecutive rounds. The only seduction he has ever been capable of is of trailer-park trash who were looking for a kick. I have never warmed to the man. He took the sport of golf to another level, I will concede, but he did nothing for the game of golf. He ruined it … not just by his off-course antics, but by this arrogance and belief, whether intentional or not, that he was the game. He wasn’t. He isn’t. He will never be. And yes, the sport and the game are different. It could be argued he has turned it into a sport, some say for the better, but I don’t think so. Sadly, money talks, and he brought shed-loads of it into the game, opening it up for a plethora of average Joes who now thought this was the coolest thing in the world. The greatest relief for me is that no sooner had he met his demise, than his impact on the game paid dividends in the introduction of several young stars, many of whom would have watched him as nippers (Fowler, Ishikawa, McIlroy). Fortunately, where he may have inspired these people into the game, the only way to really make it these days is through the structured, morally solid, measured world of College golf in the USA, which as far as I can tell is run by true aficionados of the game. Couple this with the overall authority being the Royal and Ancient, and golf lives on … long after Tiger has become caged and toothless.

Of course, I claimed back in 2001 he would struggle to win more majors. I also have the yips, and my short came achieves less these days than a dung beetle rolling a ball of poo, so who am I to talk?

Even Fawlty Would be Jealous

It is probably important for me to establish one simple fact from the off: the InterContinental Hotel in Lusaka is unquestionably, stunningly, terrible. As I sift through the hastily-retreating memories of my three long nights in Zambia’s “preferred destination for businesspeople” I am finding it hard to recall anything remotely positive about the experience, aside from leaving – alive, at that. I will, however, make one glowing remark: this overpriced, oddly-staffed, brothel-cum-diplomatic meeting point excels at consistency. In fact, across all services offered by this “leisurely escape”, I can confidently say that the InterCon may be the most consistent hotel I have ever visited.

To start with, I know revolving restaurants that rotate faster than the InterCon’s swivelling front door, and from the very moment I shuffled through it with two unfortunate colleagues who had pleaded with me to consider staying elsewhere, I knew we were in for an interesting time. Our bags, naturally, were snatched from our grasp as we emerged from the taxi by an unsmiling doorman who gave nothing more than the obvious impression that this was his role and that, if he had to, he would beat a tip out of us once his duties were fulfilled.

We bundled into the hotel reception at 10pm each longing for three things: a cold beer, followed by two even colder ones. What we got instead was a display of such splendour and brilliance that, halfway through, I was tempted to spoon my eyes out with my corporate credit card and pour the stub-filled sand from the nearby cigarette ashtray-pillars into the sockets, just so I no longer had to witness it. Including floor staff, door staff and receptionists there must have been five or six hotel representatives present at the time we checked in. Between them, they managed to drag out our check-in to almost an hour. We endured this process without so much as an apology, a smile, a drink, a chair, or even complimentary access to one of the numerous bar-dwelling hookers. Not only had the reservation team failed to record our agreed rate in their system – we later discovered that the lady I agreed this rate with while booking over email was destined for big trouble for even suggesting that this five-star shebeen would discount its rates to USD185 – but they also had failed to take note of two key words in the reservation paperwork, copies of which I was brandishing like my own personal constitution: DOUBLE and DELUXE. Indeed, double turned out to actually mean single, in the military camp bed sense. “Double” also failed to be clearly understood in the bar later that night, but that is altogether another equally distressing issue. “Deluxe” usually means a normal room in Africa but, at least for two of us, translated into smoke-filled dungeons with tornados for toilets and built-in audio links to all adjacent plumbing. The third of our party was upgraded to a room on The Club Floor, also known simply as floor number seven, for it was nothing more than a replica of the lower floors with the words Club Floor stencilled on the wall facing the rickety lift.

We asked for the manager several times during check-in, and we may just as well have been asking for the Pope to present himself to us donning budgie-smugglers, whilst grasping a tall and frosty Singapore Sling in one hand and Isabella Rossellini in the other. “The Manager” is not a term that the reception staff at Lusaka’s InterCon are entirely familiar with, and this begs the question: are they managed at all? As a result of their zombie-like display of total ignorance and unconcern, one can only assume that The Protea and Taj Pamodzi Hotels (Lusaka’s other, vastly superior business hotels) have jointly embarked on the world’s greatest guerrilla marketing initiative, whereby they have paid imbeciles to apply for jobs at the InterCon in the knowledge that said imbeciles would drive travellers and businesspeople to insanity, leaving them no option other than to desert a household brand in favour of hotels less known. Genius!

Speaking of genius, whose idea was it to publish an extensive and exotic dinner menu for the InterCon’s restaurant, only to remove 99 percent of the items listed citing exhaustion of supplies? It would be like McDonald’s presenting a chicken jalfrezi option with garlic naan and side order of aloo gobi, but going on to inform the customer twenty minutes after ordering that the cook isn’t entirely sure what a chicken jalfrezi is and that, if he did know, there wouldn’t be any available anyway. We ordered two “succulent” lamb kebabs and, if memory serves me correctly, an Italian dish of the pizza variety. The waiter scuttled off with enthusiasm. We sat. We drank. We were visited a lifetime later by the same waiter who informed us that the lamb was out of stock, but that he would unquestionably recommend the amazing burgers. At this juncture, the three of us had precisely the same thought; we slugged down the rest of our lukewarm Mosis and marched off, amid mutters and grumbles of offensive complaint directed at anyone listening, towards the house bar. I can tell you that over three nights at this hell-away-from-home we did not eat a single thing produced by the InterCon kitchen. Actually, I lie. I did rise every morning to indulge, along with the sparrows and various other local birdlife, in the reasonably adequate breakfast buffet. Were it not for the teapots that had a habit of dispersing tea liberally across the stain-dappled tablecloths like a garden sprinkler, I would list the breakfast buffet as a very lonely plus point for the InterCon.

I could go on, but am exhausted. Simply recalling the memories of my three nights in this despicable establishment saps the very life from my bones. For the record, the Mosis (Mosi being the local brew) were the wrong temperature, expensive, and stale. In other words, they were perfectly matched to the nearby prostitutes like bad cheese to cheap wine. Strangely, both the Mosis and ladies were very much favoured by an eternally drunk and vocal Australian we bumped into in the bar, who latched onto us the moment he saw our branded shirts. Shaking him was as enduring a process as staying three nights at Lusaka’s InterContinental Hotel. There are no highlights of these three nights. There is no happy ending. Our respective bills could very well have been lobbed at us like rolled up newspapers from the back of a passing bicycle. In fact, if he had an iota of nouse, the doorman could very well have taken these rolled up bills and bashed us senseless in search of a tip, as we ran the gauntlet from reception to awaiting, and hugely welcome airport taxi.

Putting The 'On' in London

As I met a distant relative today, whom I have not seen for 20 years, I was reminded of two things: how old I am, and how great it is to be able to refer to London as home. Unlike my age, which I never really enjoy referring to in any context unless I am conversing with people over the age of 40, the ability to refer to London as home is one that always evokes a certain feeling of pride. Yes, I left London over a year ago for sunnier climes, but I still remember that feeling you get when someone asks you where you live. Most cities or towns would be mumbled quietly in response, perhaps as you thrust your hands defensively into your pockets and look down at the ground; “Um, Oswaldtwhistle, you know, just outside Blackburn … up north?” You might even throw in a general geographic reference to minimise the damage. But when you reside in one of the world’s truly great cities the response is completely different. You still might put your hands in your pockets but this time with your head held high, and perhaps with an accompanying pivot on the toes and gentle pelvic thrust, depending on the company: “LONDON.” You spit it out at the interrogator like you’ve just slapped down an unbeatable hand in poker. You challenge them to better it. Few can, except perhaps Parisians and New Yorkers. But it is days like today when London gives you a glimpse into the heart of what truly makes it great. Forget the multicultural faces of Oxford Street, or Somers Town alleys full of pubs and chippies. Forget the black cabs and red buses. Today, tonight, it is all about White Hart Lane.

With the English Premier League season drawing to a breathless close all eyes are focussed on Manchester United and Chelsea. United are doing their best to hold on to their chances like a slippery bar of Cussons Imperial Leather; Chelsea are positioning themselves perfectly to take advantage when the soap is dropped. But there is another entity lurking in this misty, steamy shower scene, dagger in hand, waiting for that Hitchcock moment to yank back the shower curtain: Arsenal. Do not be fooled by the studious Wenger and his perceived lack of killer instinct. Arsenal have not been in this position for almost ten years and believe you me, they are not about to waste it. The French have a habit of conjuring up some real magic when it matters most – please resist the urge at this point to think of that famous volleyball player Thierry Henry, or that martial arts expert Eric Cantona – and I suspect the “prestige”, as magicians say when referring to their big finale, is very close to being revealed by Wenger and his charges. With respect to some amazing clashes at both ends of the table this season, tonight may very well be an all-time classic. Arsenal are up against their greatest rivals Tottenham Hotspur, and it’s this sort of clash that brings life to the streets of North London. Occasionally a bit of death too. Spurs are smarting from their recent FA Cup exit. Arsenal are potentially timing their run for the league title to perfection. The resulting clash could prove astonishing.

The distant relative I was speaking to earlier told me she now lives in Hackney, and it immediately brought back those fond memories of just what life in London meant to me: kebabs, ale (not usually in that order), shops, good food, great music, movies, shows, traffic, tube delays, rain, crime, Gordon Brown. I think I just remembered why I left. I digress … I only ever watched two Premier League games in my eight years in the capital of England – neither of them London derbies – and few sporting occasions, barring perhaps Wimbledon, the FA Cup and the Olympics, can bring such a buzz and vibrant atmosphere to the city. Tonight will be a massive show, but such is the sheer size of London it will probably go largely unnoticed by the majority of Londoners. And that’s part of the brilliance of the place. There is always something going on that satisfies every interest. So as I sit here on the other side of the world preparing myself for yet another early morning in order to watch a recording of the match, I cannot help but feel a pang of jealousy. An old colleague who sat across from me in London is equipped with as much wit in his sense of humour as he is with passion for his beloved Arsenal. He attends every game, which I guess makes him very witty. He is one of those lucky few who, tonight, are part of something special; part of the great beating heart of London. It reminds me of the day when managed to catch the opening stage of the Tour de France shooting by outside Buckingham Palace, followed by a quick beer in a Kensington pub, and the final few sets of the mixed doubles semi-finals at Wimbledon on my way home. Those were the days. I guess I will have to settle for the Red Bull Air Race this weekend in Perth. For the record Arsenal will win 2-1. They will also go on and win the title. I hope the pigs that fly don’t hit any planes at the Air Race.

Masters of their Domain

Will he or won’t he? Everyone wants to know, but not everyone is asking the same question. Will he win? Will he make the cut? Will he be the golfer he once was? Will he be as dominant? Will he return to his old ways? Will he overhaul Nicklaus’s 18 major titles? Every person walking the emerald fairways this week at Augusta National has one such question on their lips, perhaps even Tiger Woods himself, but frustratingly few people are even bothering to consider the most important question of all – who will win this year’s green jacket. It seems like a banal, facile question to ask, but here’s why it isn’t:

Such is the impact Tiger Woods has had on the game that sadly only one thing is more noticeable than his presence on the course, and that is his absence. When a player’s absence in any sport detracts from the actual playing of that sport, questions have to be asked; even more so when that player’s return to the sport overshadows the grand event in which they are due to make their return. No golfer is bigger than the game itself. But Tiger Woods, in his admission that he felt “entitled” to the various indiscretions in which he became involved, has all but admitted he felt above the very spirit and tradition the game is supposed to instil in its fans and players. The spirit and tradition of golf arguably both apply as much on the course as off it, and Tiger has as much impressed as failed to in both departments.

There is no debating what Tiger Woods has done for the game through ratings, charities, raising of the bar, and challenging history, but surely it would ultimately come down in the end to how a player has conducted themselves as a competitor, a role model, a winner, and as a loser? Tiger can take golf to as many grassroots as he likes, but if the children at those levels are aspiring to be him, then we should feel very sorry for them. His recent activities off the course are abominable enough, but what is almost worse is the willingness of the fans and the media in the last few weeks to simply roll over and take him back. Elin Woods is not the only one who has been lied to and left broken-hearted – so has everyone who loves golf. Why do we so easily forget Tiger’s antipathy towards Ryder Cup golf, perhaps the greatest event in the game? Why has nothing more been made of the driver he released in anger in Melbourne in 2009, which bounced about four rows back into a tightly-packed crowd and cracked someone on the head? Why do we look the other way when he swears, spits, and roars in frustration on every other hole? When he slings a club at his bag in disgust? Why do we shrug and simply nod our heads at him when he arrogantly stares down a crowd of journalists at a press conference and answers questions in the most aloof fashion imaginable? Are we that much in awe of the man? He is not the man we once thought he was. Shouldn’t we now start treating him as a golfer, not a god?

Tiger, in his new efforts to be “less hot” on the course, has admitted that his negative and positive outbursts will be kept in check. He has admitted that he has done a lot of soul searching and inward analysis, and that he didn’t like what he saw. But what he was before, which was evidently an arrogant, detached, self-important, over confident and at times obnoxious brat, is precisely what made him into the barely beatable mega-golfer he was. Put yourself in his shoes; if you had found a lethal recipe that enabled you to concoct the most audacious performances on and off the course, would you really, truly, try to throw all that away just because you got caught out? I’d bet my dust-covered golf clubs that you wouldn’t. What you would do, and what I will go out on a limb and suggest Tiger is about to conjure up, is figure out a different way to apply that recipe and return to those heady days you remember so well. How else does he intend to return to the top of the game, and arguably be the best sportsman, let alone golfer, in the world? If he genuinely is changing his ways and is approaching life as a different person, then I am afraid he is saying goodbye to the killer instinct. Nice guys finish last, after all.

So, I’ll ask again; who will win this year’s green jacket? Simple. The person, come Sunday afternoon, who deserves to. And it ain’t Tiger Woods. He knows it, we know it. There are many stories out there this weekend in Georgia; Steve Stricker, the comeback kid. Ernie Els, the resurgent Big Easy. Phil Mickelson, the humble, talented southpaw. Padraig Harrington, the hard working Irishman with the voice of a jockey. What about the Molinari brothers? Kenny Perry? Camilo Villegas? The 16-year-old Matteo Manassero? McIlroy, Poulter, Ishikawa? We need to move on from Tiger. I suspect he has some wins left in him, but his day has come and gone. We are entering the very early stages of the post-Tiger era. However, he has proved me wrong time and time again, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he does again. After all, Jack Nicklaus donned his last green jacket at the ripe old age of 46 in the mid-eighties. He was then, and still is, happily married.

Go West.

For a long time now I have been convinced that I would one day retire in the South of France. Since stepping off a flight at Aéroport Nice in 2003 on the first of six annual pilgrimages, a love and appreciation for everything about the region has grown unhindered in my heart. In the Côte d’Azur grace meets kitsch, beauty meets brutality, history meets modernity, the Mediterranean meets the Alps, and your wallet meets its hasty death. You don’t really care about the latter, for the heady scents of a French summer, the golden tans of the wine-swilling locals, and the taste of celebrity in the air are all you need to induce a coma of blissful ignorance. Having said all that, the six collective months I have spent in Cannes have been largely under the expense of an employer. From what I hear, living there under your own steam is not all about filet de boeuf overlooking Boulevard de la Croisette. Life there does not revolve around mirror-ceilinged bedrooms and weather-beaten French windows. The days are not endlessly sunny and hot, and the traffic can be excruciating. Particularly if you venture over a pedestrian crossing on foot and forget to give way to speeding Clios and Piaggios.

Cannes’ famous Palais des Festivals et des Congrès, home of the Festival de Cannes, is a glorious display of retro patchwork architecture that draws in hordes of tourists for clichéd red carpet photographs. Ironically, however, the Palais’ basement areas (rarely seen by the general public, but in which numerous events are held) appear tired and in desperate need of repair. In times of high rain and heat it is not uncommon for cascades of leaking water to fall from any given ceiling, and only an unlucky few can claim to have smelled the blocked drains down on Level 01. It could be said that the Palais is a true reflection of the region in which it sits; outwardly impressive, famous, photogenic, and lavish, but inwardly old, exhausted, and verging on spent. As far as my retirement plans go, it is therefore just as well that I recently discovered Denmark.

I’m not talking about the Scandinavian land of butter and bacon – although I can’t deny that does sound like my own personal nirvana – I am talking about Denmark, Western Australia. If you’ve never heard of Denmark before you will hear about it soon. The Lonely Planet, a bible in the eyes of most of the world’s intrepid travellers, is listing the South West of Australia (in the heart of which Denmark sits) as one of the world’s top ten destinations for 2010. Like a lot of small towns in the South West, you stumble into the very centre of Denmark town before you notice where you are. The beautiful winding road that leads into the town takes you on a rollercoaster tour of some amazing coastal regions. Mandalay Beach can’t claim to belong to Denmark, as it’s probably more the property of Walpole, but if you are coming in from the west you will have a chance to stop here. It’s easily overlooked, but is worth a visit. I was lucky enough to be exploring the area in early December before local school holidays, and when I tell you I had a two-kilometre stretch of white sand and blue sea all to myself, I am not kidding. I even managed a brief stint of nude sunbathing, which didn’t help to scare off the formidable flies. Be prepared to put up with them, they are incessant. Some even bite. And they like tender spots.

Pushing on towards Denmark you will come across another extraordinary beach known as Greens Pool. I have been lucky enough to see Mauritius’ world-famous Ile aux Cerfs, apparently one of the greatest beaches in the world. It lacks the subtlety, class, and quietness of Greens Pool. Be sure to take a walk to the left over the big granite outcrop. Follow the sign for Elephant Rocks and you will stumble upon a lagoon surrounded by boulders the size and shape of woolly mammoths. It’s quite breathtaking and virtually impossible to describe in writing. The stone is a bright reddish orange in the right light, and the gentle lapping sea is turquoise. The sand? What else, but the colour of crème brûlée?

Eventually you will come to the sleepy hollow of Denmark itself. My first drive into town came to an abrupt halt when I encountered a road block manned by a smiling orange-vested gentleman. My initial frustration at not being allowed into the town centre abated rapidly at the realisation that the main streets had been cordoned off for the annual Denmark Christmas pageant. What a delightful mix of the bizarre, the old and the young. Each street corner had a peculiar musical performance in full swing. There was a cover band made up entirely of female pensioners who sounded as if they had just taken up rock ‘n’ roll as part of their very own bucket list. There is no stranger site than an elderly lady brandishing drumsticks as if they were knitting needles. Moving on down past the public library and award-wining pie shop (regretfully unaffected by a visit from my stomach) I came to the main junction, on the edge of which was a group of youngsters bashing away at recycled drums, cans, tins, and bottles. Their offering of rap-rock was surprisingly rhythmic and catchy, inducing some very peculiar jigs from several male onlookers who clearly were more used to wielding axes and herding sheep.

I looked around me at the selection of residents (are they Danish or Denmarkers?) and realised this was a land for hippies. Everything was organic and handmade. There were barefooted ladies with strings of flowers in their hair, and hessian sacks for skirts. There were men willingly wearing man bags and puffy shirts. I felt as if I had stumbled into another dimension, where the character of Camden, the coast of KwaZulu-Natal, and the hills of Nyanga had collided to create a microcosmic world of peculiarity that resembled a scene from Philip Pulman’s His Dark Materials trilogy.

I shouldn’t get carried away with Denmark, because it would be a crime to forget about the simply stunning Pemberton, the historical Albany, the ghostly and downright Australian Gnowangerup, and the delectable Margaret River. The latter is made for surfers and wine lovers. The two might strike you as being at completely different ends of the cultural spectrum, but you’d be surprised just how serious both camps are about their hobbies, and just how often they cross over. For a look at a classic and charming surfing town right off the pages of a Tim Winton book, pop into Gracetown. In Pemberton you will see some of the truly great forest areas of the world. Karri trees stretching as high as the eye can see seem to be taking over the road in some parts. Years ago, before helicopters and satellites, karris were used as fire lookouts. You can still climb some today. I have jumped four times into the gorge below Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, and once out of a plane in Pinjarra, but the most sweat I have ever had on my palms was at 70 metres above the ground at the top of the Bicentennial Tree. The platform you reach at the top is surrounded by a wire cage and has solid wooden planks on which you can stroll around and take in the panoramic view, but it’s the climb up there that gets the breath shortening. It’s a testament to the nature of the South West that all they have in the way of safety is a simple sign at the bottom warning you of the dangers of climbing. There is no supervision, there is no safety cable, there is no emergency phone, or catching net. There is just a spiral of sturdy pegs from the ground up, with flimsy wire mesh around the outside. It’s great! And particularly fun when you are 40 metres up and there is a group of excitable, shrieking girls making their way down. I gave way to the descending party by standing on the outer edge of a peg resting against the mesh. This is what activities are like before tourist numbers increase and the predictable safety measures fall into place. The South West is, as yet, virtually untouched by commercialism. There are no massive hotel chains and resorts. There are no theme parks, no major airports. There’s barely even a phone signal.

Pause for a moment here and consider the size of Australia. Many people around the world can only dream of visiting. Most of those who manage to venture ‘down under’ invariably end up going east, resulting in holiday photo albums of opera houses, trams, surfing lessons, and cuddly koalas. It’s not that visitors don’t want to go west; it’s just that nobody wants to miss the east. And when you consider Western Australia is five times the size of Texas, not to mention a four or five hour flight from the east coast, you realise that most travellers end up having to make a choice: Sydney, or Yallingup? I’m not suggesting Western Australia is undiscovered, but I am suggesting it is unfamiliar, and bloody enormous. This translates to it being largely uncrowded and unspoiled by crowds of camera-happy tourists.

Bunbury, Western Australia’s second city after Perth, was listed in 2007 as the country’s fastest growing town. With a new and pristine freeway leading directly to it from Perth (meaning you can skirt round the surprisingly overrated Mandurah), it is easily accessible. Two hours in a car and you are suddenly trundling down Ocean Drive overlooking Back Beach, the home of the Bunbury Surf Lifesaving Club. Don’t let their name or presence scare you, for much of the time during summer the sea is inviting, calm, and free of the throng of tourists that blight Perth’s Scarborough and Cottesloe beaches. If you have worked up an appetite, why not resolve the crisis by tucking into a big breakfast at Café 140 at the Southern end of the charming and dainty Victoria Street. If you’re in the area during the winter months, do not pass go without indulging in the seafood chowder at Nicola’s, a friendly Italian restaurant using the best of local produce. Wild dolphins (not on the menu) visit Bunbury daily at the Koombana Bay Dolphin Discovery Centre, where you can wade in up to your knees to greet them. Bunbury is a great way to start a journey to the South West, and despite being close to Perth the slightly lower average temperature is often welcome during summer.

Head on down the coast towards Busselton, where you can walk along the longest wooden jetty in the southern hemisphere. At 143 years old be careful where you step! Be sure to push on down to Bunker Bay and Cape Naturaliste, for a quite exquisite display of limestone cliffs, crystal-clear rock pools, and vivid blue seas. Venture further southeast and you will come across Ngilgi Cave, one of many such remarkable features in the region. Choirs have recorded songs in its depths. On a more serious note, the cave is an integral and interesting part of local Aboriginal culture and history. The quaint surfing town of Yallingup is not far from the cave and means ‘place of love’ in the local Aboriginal dialect.

The South West of Australia is just that; a place of love, and a place to love. It might not be for everyone, but give it a chance and it won’t take long for its subtle, unassuming lines and curves, its mild caressing breeze, its sultry ocean movements, and its pure beaches to sweep you off your feet and have you coming back for more. If I am honest, and I had to choose between a Western Australian beachside picnic of seafood and wine, or lunch at Saint Paul de Vence’s La Colombe d’Or, I know which I’d prefer to be doing every weekend, and which I could only afford to do once a year. I guess that's why I live here now. Western Australia’s South West region is a very well kept secret. Please don’t spread the word.

Relative Envy

There’s an old saying, and I can’t for the life of me remember exactly how it goes, but it’s something along the lines of envy being bad for you. Is it one of the Ten Commandments, or is that my imagination? They were definitely the product of someone’s imagination, grossly outdated as they are. Anyway, this envy concept feels like it might have been drilled into me by a red-faced schoolmaster when I was young and impressionable, along with the idea that I should ‘dream big dreams’. I lapped all that stuff up back then, but cynicism is taking a firm hold as the years go by.

I find myself feeling envious every other day, and on the days I’m not I’m truly thankful for the life I lead. It’s a strange predicament in which to find myself. I wake up one morning brimful of confidence, rearing to go. I charge out the door and take on the day with not a care in the world. Then there are the days when I get out the wrong side of bed. I’ve considered sliding it up against the window so that I can only exit in one direction, and given there has been an abundance of space in my bed for the last few years, I’m unlikely to annoy anyone with such a furniture shuffle, but it leaves me with just a fifty percent chance of blocking off the correct side.

My envy is generally aimed at one target: coolness. Neurotic and overly analytical as I am, I often find myself at once dazzled and nauseated by coolness. I find it impressive and loathsome. I catch myself admiring someone, wanting to be ‘that cool’ but I always end up reassuring myself that it’s just as appealing being ‘different’. I have been described as ‘different’ many times. The fact that it’s usually in the same sentence as ‘strange’ and ‘curious’ is beside the point. I will cling onto anything that sets me apart from the masses.

It seems only yesterday I was a moody teenager, slouched in a musty old cinema seat at the famous 7 Arts in Harare, watching Four Weddings and a Funeral with a date whose name and face escape me, but who became the first person to ever utter the words that haunt me to this day; “You know who you remind me of? Hugh Grant!” I swear to you I have heard variations of this comparison four or five times a year, every year, to the present day. In fact only a few days ago, as I described a personal anecdote, did a colleague dub the story a ‘classic Hugh Grant moment’. I want to relate the tale to you, as it demonstrates just how capable I am of being stunningly uncool. You’d think I would be grateful to have celebrity comparisons drawn against me, but I have no desire to be caught re-enacting the famous Titanic scene in the back of an old white hatchback with a mystery hooker, Divine or not.

The story goes like this: I had popped out to buy some lunch and upon my return the heavens opened and an almighty deluge descended from the skies. As I made my way to the office I noticed a young lady scrambling for cover. She held a soaked notebook aloft above her head in a feeble attempt to protect her blonde hair. I marched over and asked if she’d like to share my expansive golf umbrella (identifying it as such was probably the first step in the direction of uncool). She gratefully accepted, at which point the umbrella caught a gust of wind and inverted. I have had this umbrella for nearly ten years and never once has it behaved in such a manner. I apologised profusely as now not only was she once again exposed to the elements, but the umbrella was flailing about wildly in the wind bashing her on the head and depositing sheets of its collected rainwater all over her back and bag. I eventually managed to rectify the situation, and we trudged on towards a path of flattened woodchips that was a shortcut through a flowerbed to the nearest shelter. I told her how sorry I was and how hard it was to be ‘chivalrous in cyclonic conditions’. This brought a brief flash of a smile to her mascara-smudged face. I felt I had gained some ground lost in the umbrella debacle.

Halfway down the narrow path we came across an ocean of a puddle. No, I didn’t throw down my jacket. Worse. We assumed single file, me brandishing the umbrella ahead like a burning torch, she nearly breaking into a sprint to get to dry land. As I rushed to keep up my oversized boot caught the back of her left foot. Why was she foolishly wearing sandals in this Godforsaken weather? After the toe of my boot had raked the back of her Achilles tendon, it made its way down to the now exposed heel of the sandal, for she was midstride and her foot was at that precise moment where it had left the ground to push off but the sluggish sandal had yet to follow suit and snap dutifully up to her heel. Her foot left the sodden ground. The sandal did not. Instead my shoe pinned it to the dirt and slipped halfway into its straps. I proceeded to scoop it up as I took my next step, and the momentum of my leg caused it to fling with force and accuracy directly towards the deepest section of the gargantuan puddle. At this exact moment her now barren foot, positioned at one end of her imbalanced body, came crashing down into the murky, cold puddle. A splash of water erupted up her trouser leg, taking with it a large serving of mud, twigs and leaves. The foliage clung to her, the water streamed down to her dripping foot. I scurried after the sandal as it floated gleefully away down the length of the puddle. I eventually retrieved it and, after shaking off what water I could, replaced it on the naked foot. I was down practically on one soaked knee. I realised at that precise moment that I was in a scene exactly opposite to Cinderella and her famous slipper.

It has taken me a few days to recover from this traumatic experience. I sit now in an airport on my way to Mauritius, which is where I go to bury my face in the sand and hide away from the shame of such experiences. Just kidding - it's a work trip. The point of this tale is that if, single as I am, I am to be ‘on the market’ and available, do I have to decide whether it’s best to be cool or best to be different? Is it possible to be both? Is it best to just be yourself, regardless of which way that ends up making you seem? Surely coolness is determined by popularity, i.e. conformity to that which is popular? To be truly different in this increasingly demanding singles market, you have to stand out in all ways. And if you can do that, you are surely the essence of cool. Further, the only way possible to stand out is to just be yourself. Being yourself and believing in yourself is the first and only step to being cool and different, because we are all individuals. And once you accept the individual you are, you forget all the individuals you’re trying to be. What a load of old Grade 1 crapola.

My father’s cousin is a pilot. I’m not talking a weekend Cessna driver, I’m talking Virgin Atlantic’s top pilot; a man who recently flew a Boeing 747 in formation with the famous Red Arrows aerobatic team at The Biggin Hill Airshow, and shortly after landing, made his way to a Bruce Springsteen concert in Hyde Park. It was his 60th birthday after all. My own cousin lives in New York and has just had his first book published. He is already a highly regarded travel writer who told me once (although it was the millennium New Year and I may have imagined it in my drunken haze) that he once went out with Fidel Castro’s daughter. My sister has put on hold a wonderful career in British television to have my gorgeous nephew, but still finds time to do the odd bit of freelance for the likes of Rowan Atkinson. I have to ask; is envy relative, or relatives? You can choose your friends, etc?

Whatever the case may be, I am learning very quickly to just be me. If that means I have to be strange and curious at the same time as being different, then I am sure there is someone out there willing to accept that for what it is. This post was meant to be a little more humorous than it has turned out to be; sorry for that. I better dash as my plane is now boarding. A pilot has just walked past with a moustache. Now there’s a thought … and how about a mullet too?

Michael Who?

I recently had dinner with my 68-year-old uncle. It was a vision into the future. A future not far off for me I hope. A future where, finally, my current resistance to popular culture will pay dividends in the shape of blissful ignorance to all that is going on around me; on TV, radio, internet, and mobile (or whatever forms they will have taken by the time I'm 68). I am already at a point in my life where I make a conscious effort to blot out the gossip, the charts, the reviews, and the trends.

I was laughed at recently when I asked who on Earth Rihanna was, and what this chap Chris Brown, her husband, had ever done. Annoyingly their story had sneaked into my regular main news bulletin on a TV channel more accustomed to reporting the state of sheep farming and fishing quotas. These things interest me. The state of the world interests me. Iran interests me. I am not interested, nor will I ever be, in what is under Rihanna’s umbrella, unless it is the latest copy of Newsweek magazine, or a summary of the latest algae levels in The Swan River, which are dangerously high for those of you who are interested.

The amazement of those around me when I asked about Mr and Mrs Brown’s story is nothing compared to the utter shock and stunned silence that followed my uncle’s response to my comment about the recent death of a global pop icon. He spoke two words that defied logic and elevated my uncle to hero status, in my eyes anyway. He confirmed his place amongst the elite group to which I aspire to belong. That group of people who use a computer only to email passages of news to relatives abroad without paragraphs, commas, or even spaces, and almost entirely in cAPS LOcK. That group of people who have a mobile phone for emergencies only. Who listen to classical music. On the wireless. Who add up their groceries as they peruse the aisles, who still post the odd letter, who enjoy the sight of a pelican sifting in the shallows of a lagoon, but not the sight of the pelican being disturbed by a passing jet ski. I am talking about the elderly. Or as I prefer to call them, the wise. What groundbreaking words did my uncle proffer when I mentioned the sad death of said pop icon? What inspiring point of view did he expose that made me want to, unlike most people, speed up the ageing process so that I could finally fulfil my destiny of being an old timer? Without flinching or slowing the movement of his beer glass to his lips, he quite simply said, “Michael who?”

Ironically, when we discussed the matter further and I mentioned that Michael Who had been discovered by Diana Ross, he erupted with, “Diana Ross! Now she was a great singer, whatever happened to her?” It made me realise that when I am 68 I will be engaging with my nephew attempting to enlighten him on the impact Michael Who had on the world of entertainment. In turn my nephew will be aware of Michael Who as I am aware of Bob Dylan, but will find himself in a transition phase, preoccupied by the constant nagging of his daughter begging him to buy her the new Billy-Joe-Mylie-Ray Cyrus Junior album, whilst he tries to find the following day’s UV index on his watch-mobile. Watchile? Mobatch? Who knows what it will be called. One thing is for sure, my nephew will be taught how to use it by his daughter whilst he looks upon me enviously as I pay for the bill with antique cash.

Poor Michael Who. Despite all his best efforts to make the world hate him, or not recognise him, whichever came first, he has died a hero for the simple genius he delivered in his music and dance. Many say things started to go pear-shaped when he burst into flames on a Pepsi commercial shoot. I’m not sure. I’ve burst into flames twice in my life and I am still normal. Just. Once when I was trying to impress fellow diners at the age of about 8 by running my finger slowly back and forth across a candle flame, “It doesn’t hurt, see? It doesn’t hurt.” My finger emerged after the fourth pass with a neat little flame coming off the end of it like a cigarette lighter. I stared in bewilderment before plunging it into a nearby glass of South African plonk. The second time was when I swore never to buy nylon or polyester again. I leant over a gas stove to shift a pot and needless to say got a little hot under the collar.

Fire is not to be played with. I am sure Michael Who didn’t mean to ignite his hair extensions. Despite the dangers of fire and fireworks I have noticed an increase in the number and quality of effigies being burned around the world at the moment. Australia’s Prime Minister Kevin Rudd was reduced to cinders in India recently. I am sure I caught a glimpse of Mahmoud Ahmedinejad going up in smoke too last week (although that might actually happen). Who is supplying all these effigies? Is it the Guy Fawkes industry being pushed by the economic climate to find an alternative income for the rest of the year? It’s high time effigy burning stepped out of the news and became mainstream TV. Think of the great entertainment, let alone the marketing opportunities:

Madoff. He Madoff with your money. Now he’s Madoff firelighters. Burn baby burn. The Madoff Effigy Burn, live from Wall Street, Tuesday, 7pm. Brought to you by Zippo Lighters.

Welcome back to Old Trafford, it’s halftime and Liverpool lead three goals to nil. Let’s go pitch side for the halftime entertainment sponsored by British Gas. One lucky United fan has been chosen to ignite the coals sitting underneath a giant Ronaldo figurine.

Good evening, the headlines tonight: non-smokers across the world have made a final stand against smokers by burning giant effigies of cowboys and camels in cities around the globe. Smokers groups have complained about the smoke. The irony.

Speaking of great entertainment. Still at dinner with my uncle, we were in a Thai restaurant; “I’ll have the number 69 please,” he bellowed to the shy waitress. Turning to me he whispered, “Do you know what 69 is?” I replied in the negative, a little too innocently. “It’s soixante-neuf in French.” Amused, I asked, “What do you know about soixante-neuf?” With a smirk he replied, “All I know is that it’s the sixty-ninth position the French use and I’m still working on the third!”

Ah, the old, the wise, and the burned. I can’t wait.

Perthect, But Not London

As time ticks by in Perth I find myself increasingly reflective of my eight years in London. I no longer miss it the way I did when I was jobless upon arrival in Australia, but it is starting to occur to me just how important a period of my life it was. To have spent nearly a decade in arguably the world’s greatest city is to have exposed yourself to a smorgasbord of humanity, cultural diversity and history. If London is quite simply an exotic buffet of life, with titbits from all corners of the globe served splendidly on a platter of ancient history, tradition and modernity, then Perth, I am sorry to say, is more like a paltry selection of salads and sauces you might find in a Subway.

This is, I’ll admit, a harsh way to surmise my new and delightful home, but it is less through Perth’s failings, which are limited to be fair, and more through London’s infinite successes that I feel compelled to draw such a conclusion. In short, nothing compares to London, and nothing should try and compare to London. Perth has its place in this world. It is a demonstration of logical town planning, harmonious living, and an appreciation for the outdoors. It doesn’t pretend to be one of the world’s greatest cities, but it may lay claim to host the world’s greatest lifestyle. London is the complete opposite. In exchange for life immersed in such social splendour, you sacrifice the simple things; a tan, a trim waistline, and an unblocked nose, to name a few. The more I think about London the more I realise it is a city of complete contrasts. Perth is full of benign functionality and happy, smiley people, proud of their ability to do what they want with their days while the city exists in predictable fashion behind them. London, however, is bittersweet in every way; full of contrasts and quirks.

I think one of the greatest pleasures in Britain’s capital – and many may disagree – is the seemingly unwavering availability of black cabs wherever you go. It can be pouring with rain and you can be fiddling clumsily with one of those hopelessly inadequate collapsible umbrellas, designed to fit perfectly in a bag or briefcase but to collapse in a crumpled heap at the slightest sign of precipitation, and lo and behold out of the gloom comes that heart-warming sound of the diesel engine, the hiss of tyres spraying through the puddles, the welcoming orange glow of the vacant light atop the roof – you’re saved. You clamber in, soaked, and desperately gasp your destination to the driver. Off he chugs as you snuggle back into the warm, oddly-scented upholstery. But not long after you pull away from the pavement you grind to a shuddering halt in what appears, through the rain-splattered window, to be a jumbled and blinding mass of traffic lights, indicators, pedestrians, glowing shopfronts, huge red Les Misérables-clad buses, and camera flashes. Is it Piccadilly Circus? Leicester Square? No, Knightsbridge? It could be anywhere. The meter ticks over, and over ... in Pounds Sterling ... and you resign yourself to the fact that you’re dry, albeit stationary. What is the alternative? Get wet and mobile? At least you have a genuine Londoner to keep you company. The driver looks up into the mirror, complete with a miniature Chelsea FC football shirt hanging from it, and starts up a conversation. It doesn’t take you long to realise that the driver is full of a wealth of London knowledge. It’s almost worth getting in a cab in London just for the insight. Unlike many other major cities in the world London’s cab drivers are almost all Londoners; locals with an infinite awareness of the city pulsing around them. You may not be going anywhere but at least you feel like the meter rolling over mercilessly is a fee in some way for the brilliant tour guide.

The sweet and sour side of London doesn’t end there. Not to go on about the transport on offer, but let me reveal to you one of the greatest ways to get around: your feet. It took me almost my entire time in London to realise I could save a fortune, get a little fitter, and see much more of the city if I just used my head – and used my feet. For a long time I commuted between Wimbledon (Zone 3) and Central London (Zone 1). A Travelcard to cover all these zones, enabling you to use all forms of transport within the zone boundaries, used to set me back £110 per month. I would leave my house at 7.00, and arrive at my desk at 8.05 – on a good day, mind you. Quite often the Tube would be delayed, or would stop short of its destination, or worse would be one of those nasty “terminating at Kennington” hell rides. The latter would mean having to squeeze onto the next one, along with the rest of South London’s population. Crammed tubes are all too familiar in London, and nobody seems to care. For over £100 pounds a month I was immersing myself into this murky, dusty, crowded and hot underworld just to get from A to B. What a rip-off! For £80 a month I could catch the train from Wimbledon to Waterloo and walk the rest of the way to Mornington Crescent. Yes, it took a little longer and I got a little wetter, but what a view across the river! And that money saved helped see me through the months of joblessness here in Perth. London’s Tube is, after all is said and done, a great and relatively efficient service ferrying millions back and forth through a network of complex underground tunnels. So, in true London fashion, you have two options. You can pay to sit back, breathing in the human filth around you, while reading Harry Potter (with the book sleeve removed) waiting for the Tube to deliver you unscathed, and usually in a timely manner, to your destination. Alternatively, you can brave the fluctuations in weather and do what Londoners of old would have had to do: walk. Trust me, it’s the best way to see the city, and you save a buck.

Sights and sounds on the Northern Line between South Wimbledon and Mornington Crescent:
- The greasy patch on the window, where filthy-haired commuters have dozed off
- An influx of high-heeled, Blackberry-wielding blondes at any of the Clapham stops (there’s no signal down here, dahlings)
- The vocal platform supervisor at Stockwell and her curious ability to shepherd the throng of miserable Londoners from the Northern Line to the Victoria Line
- The wily mice at Mornington Crescent, if the platform is quiet enough, flitting from track to platform in search of crumbs (or possibly the way out?)

Sights and sounds on the route from South Wimbledon to Mornington Crescent by train and foot:
- The Old Wimbledon Theatre
- Clapham Junction, Britain’s busiest railway station
- The famous Waterloo Station
- The London Eye
- Big Ben
- Trafalgar Square
- Neal’s Yard
- The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts
- Gordon’s Wine Bar

Walking London reveals its true nature. You can turn down one street, resplendent with bright white Victorian mansions facing an intricate, ornamental, private central garden, walk a few hundred yards and emerge onto a council estate. Don’t get me wrong, council estates have their place in London’s architectural heritage, I’m merely highlighting the contrasts that make London what it is. You can walk a few hundred metres from the tourist hub of Piccadilly Circus, duck into a side alley near Mayfair and Park Lane, and find a truly local and high-quality pub. Then again you can do that in almost any part of London.

It is truly a city for all people. You can spend a week learning what it is to be a Londoner, with no concept at the end of your stay of what it is to be English. Yet if you hopped on a train at Victoria and journeyed south for an hour, you’d be immersed in the quintessentially English countryside of Kent, or Sussex. You can pay £10 for a cocktail, while watching Cuba’s latest musical import, or you can walk a few extra yards for a two quid pint, and a glimpse of a three-piece grunge band from Bristol. You can fight your way down Oxford Street in an attempt to get from one end to the other, or you can take a parallel route behind the shopfronts on an almost deserted street – just don’t be surprised to find the back of a Tesco for once.

I’ve lost my way with this blog. That’s the Londoner in me. I started out trying to get to a point and drifted off along an unpredictable route. Forgive me. Perhaps in five years time, when Perth has bronzed me but dulled my senses, I’ll manage to write a simple, succinct piece about how the sun always shines here and how the pak choy comes nicely packaged in threes with a rubber band around the stems. I never saw pak choy at Borough Market, but I did once see the Lord Mayor of London, in all his bib and tucker, viewing the rows and rows of winners from England’s recent apple growing championships. It was a splendid sight. I’m off for a run down the beachfront, I’m getting depressed.