Hi all

Okey dokey. Now this postcard is going to cover a week or so, so I apologise in advance for the length of it.

Let's start at the beginning then. We spent the next couple of days watching England get walloped and drinking as much booze as we could possibly handle. For some reason, somewhere along the way I became over obsessed with dogging. As in the dodgy practice of watching other people have sex in outdoor places. I don't know how this got started (although just for the record I'm blaming Scotty), but it became a favourite topic of conversation. On one of the nights we ended up sat outside the camp kitchen with a middle aged Swiss couple, their nanny and her boyfriend. With me speaking German (I am truly amazed at my ability to converse almost fluently in German when I'm drunk yet completely unable to remember anything other than 'Wie komme ich am besten zum Bahnhof bitte' when I'm straight. That means 'Can you tell me the way to the town hall please' in case you're wondering. It's a phenomenon not unique to me as it happens. If you spend a lot of time with non-native English speakers, you'll notice how their English dramatically improves after a few beers. Maybe it's an inhibition thing, I'm not sure). Anyway, back to the dogging. So to speak. For some reason, I found myself explaining (mostly in German, although with a bit of sign language thrown in where appropriate) just what dogging is, and that I myself was an avid exponent of it among many other dubious sexual activities, some of which I think I'd actually just invented. To their credit, the couple took it as it was meant, joining in and we were all having a pretty good crack. Except for the nanny and her boyfriend who just kept staring at me like I was some sort of vermin even when I asked them if they were into all that stuff and inviting them to share with the group. Eventually, they got up and left, pausing only to throw one the most soul searing burn in hell glances I've ever seen in my direction. At this point the Swiss couple dissolved into even more uproarious laughter and through their tears explained that the nanny was only fifteen and her and her boyfriend were saving themselves for marriage. Who would've thought it eh? In this day and age? Even through the serious alcohol haze I felt ashamed of myself. And still do a little bit. Does this mean I'm finally growing up? Hope not. Anyway, the whole group of them did their best to studiously avoid us for the rest of their stay.

There was another guy who flitted in and out of the drunkenness. He was South African so needless to say was a bit lacking in the humour department. The fact that I was calling him Craig for the best part of a week when his name was actually Greg probably didn't help. He had an English girlfriend who was just as miserable and boring as him, so the less said about them the better. The only others we really had any contact with were a single mother and her two young daughters of maybe ten and twelve. They came into the tv room one night when we were truly into one, in order to watch the season finale of Neighbours. Needless to say we totally ruined it for them by asking what was going on the whole time and talking loudly through the entire show. The mother it seemed was glad for the 'adult' company and we actually chatted with her a fair bit. Until me and Matt decided to tell her how to bring up her kids and that she should make them watch seriously violent movies in order to prepare them for adult life and that she was doing them a disservice by not letting them watch them. At one point I think the phrase 'terrible mother' came from either myself or Matt. Add in a few remarks from Scotty about Australians and their way of life in general and she rightly decided to try and spend less time in our company. Fair one.

In between all the drunkenness we did actually find time to try and sort our lives out. On the Sunday, in a vain attempt to re-assert our Englishness (this is the same Test as when that evil gnome Gilchrist nearly broke the record for fastest Test century against some of the most woeful bowling I've ever seen), we cooked a mighty roast dinner with a huge cream cake for afters. This in 40 degree heat mind. Meanwhile, me and Mand were off looking for places to rent and Scotty was trying unsuccessfully to get his car in a roadworthy condition. It turns out the car was so far beyond help that it was effectively a write off. So he was now seriously stranded and the lovely people at the campsite told him in no uncertain terms that it was not their problem, that all the sites and cabins were booked up for Christmas and that he'd have to be out by the 22nd regardless of whether or not he had somewhere else to go. It was at this point that we started calling him 'Lucky'.

For our part, me and Mand were having just about as much luck finding somewhere to live. On our first morning we looked at a flat that was everything we wanted. A beautiful view over Albert Park from the balcony which we were informed we could watch the Grand Prix from, furnished with everything we needed, and a gym and pool which we could use any time. We told the woman we had another couple to see and that we'd let her know in a couple of days. After some seriously fruitless searching we phoned her only to find out that it was already gone. s***e. The problem we had was this. As neither of us were working and I didn't have a work visa anyway, people were understandably reluctant to rent to us. Those that did wanted a full six months rent up front, as well as the month's rent that acts as a bond. Even when we agreed to this we were summarily rejected at every turn. Grrrr. So, by 18th December, with only three days to go before getting kicked off the campsite, we were starting to get a little bit worried.

Now this is going to sound a bit harsh but here it is. Despite the fact that Scotty didn't have anywhere to stay and was most likely going to find himself on the streets for Christmas, me and Mand just couldn't bring ourselves to invite him to stay with us. This was going to be our first Christmas on our own together and we really didn't want anyone else around. There was still a remote chance that Kimbers and Andy (remember them?) were going to show up as it was and we just weren't really feeling it. So, in short, we deliberately turned the conversation away whenever it was going in the direction of his moving in with us. Eventually I had to say that I was sorry but we just didn't want him there over Christmas. Harsh as I said, but there you go. But then, Scotty, Matt and Leah came up with a plan. At least Leah did.

They were going back to Perth for Christmas before flying home. Why didn't Scotty jump in with them and they'd drop him off back in Margaret River where he could get settled and when he was well enough, get back to work. Now this meant them taking a serious detour of maybe two or three hundred miles, and it has to be said that Matt was not entirely wedded to the idea. But Leah insisted and before Matt knew it, it was all organised. Much to Scotty's relief. So on the 18th we decided to have one last big night out in town and then they'd leave on 19th. Sweet.

So me and Mand headed off to look at yet more apartments (with no joy) and the other three headed into St Kilda to sight see and have a few beers. About three o'clock we rendezvoused at a pub opposite Flinders Street Station and Federation Square. It's called the Prince Regent or something, but everyone knows it as the Young and Jackson. And a fantastic pub it is. After a few beers we were all feeling pretty good, and asked a random bird at the bar to take a photo of us. She took this as all the invitation she needed and promptly sat herself down with us. She was mad as a fish. Truly off her head. She spoke and laughed and had all the mannerisms of Nadia the Man off Big Brother and was able to talk at about nine hundred words a minute, punctuated with huge belly laughs and physical slaps to whoever happened to be near her. Obviously I tried, unsuccessfully, to set her up with Scotty. After a few more beers though, the bouncer came over and asked us if she was bothering us. After some deliberation we decided that she wasn't, not really and he reluctantly backed off. Now by this point, we'd all realised that she wasn't altogether there. The general consensus was that she was probably a crack w**** out to rob us. A fair conclusion, but the wrong one as it turned out. Wrong because she suddenly started trying to buy us all beers. We finally got the low down off the barman. She's actually in there all the time, gets pissed and then spends all her money on buying everyone drinks before going home broke. A screw loose is probably the nicest way of putting it. After a bit she delivered a particularly hard slap to Scotty's ribs which left him doubled over in pain for about ten minutes, and the bar man decided enough was enough and refused to serve her. Safe to say we weren't particularly upset when she decided she was going to have to move on.

But that did leave us with a slight problem. Here we are trashed with no visible means of entertainment. But salvation appeared in the form of a poster advertising a stand up comedy night in this very pub. Beautiful. A few more beers and it was time for the first act. Now I'm a pretty big fan of stand up, well good stand up anyway, and I waited expectantly for the belly laughs to begin. And five minutes into the act I was still waiting. Let the heckling commence. Now I consider myself a pretty funny bloke (ok usually I'm drunk) and for once there were a few people there who agreed with me. In all honesty I was actually getting more laughs than the comic. Except for one table sat in front of us who kept on throwing me seriously dirty looks. This upped the ante and before long the five of us were trying to outdo each other in the heckling department. We were having an absolute whale of a time. After about the third act we realised that the table throwing us the dirty looks was actually the rest of the acts waiting to go on. Oops. Ah well, maybe they'd get the message and try and be a bit funnier. At the halfway break, we decided it was time to start getting the shooters in and by the time the acts started coming on again we'd effectively lost interest. Except for Mand. For some reason she decided it was time to really up the stakes.

She got up and wobbled down to within touching distance of the stage and took up residence leaning on a pillar for support. And began some of the best heckling I've ever heard. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't particularly funny in the traditional sense, more in the kind of outright abusive sense. Shouting things like 'That's not very funny now is it?' 'Rubbish' 'So Australians really don't have a sense of humour then' and 'Have you ever done stand up before?' Beautiful. The bouncers approached on several occasions but were unable to do much about the grinning, angel-faced charmer that Mand transformed herself into every time they did. In the end, they were actually laughing along with her and offering her their phone numbers.

While all this was going on, a pretty girl who I vaguely recognised through my beer goggles arrived with a bunch of friends and promptly gave me a big kiss and a hug, and began chatting away enthusiastically, much to the envious glances of Matt and Scotty. After a few minutes she asked me where Mand was and I directed her to the stage. Off she went where I watched as her and Mand repeated the whole scene. Being a bit drunk and full of my own self importance, I obviously started shouting that I had absolutely no f***ing idea who she was, and that it pissed me off when people I'd probably once said hi to in a pub come up and start acting like they're your best friends, and that they really should just leave it at that. When Mand came back for another round I loudly and angrily asked who the f*** that was and cast a glance at the girl and her friends who'd sat themselves about three feet away from us. It turned out it was Julia, the German girl we'd driven round Kalgoorlie the month before. Minus the guy who it turned out wasn't her boyfriend but just a friend who she now didn't get on with and who'd flown home a few weeks before. Drunk as I was I hadn't even picked up on an accent, and drunk as she was her English was just about perfect. Told you this effect isn't unique to me. Anyway, after my drunken outburst she avoided so much as looking at me for the next twenty minutes and when they all left, didn't so much as look at me. How to win friends and influence people eh?

Anyway, with the comedy eventually over we decided to head back to camp, sink any available alcohol and retire to bed. The other three were off back across the country the following day and me and Mand still had yet to find suitable accommodation and were beginning to have visions of spending our first Christmas alone in a twenty bed dorm in a s***ty hostel, surrounded by blokes cutting their toenails and girls with dreadlocks. We got outside turned around and found Mand had once again done a vanishing act David Copperfield would be proud of. A brief search of the pub and the surrounding areas yielded nothing. After ten minutes frantic searching she magically reappeared chatting to one of the bouncers outside. At least this time I actually found her. We got to the tram stop, looked round and once again Mand was no longer with us. Another quick search and I found her just as she was getting on a random tram that could've been headed anywhere. 'Where are you going?' I asked a little impatiently as the others all stared at her in exasperation. 'I wanna get on this tram' 'Why? Do you know where its going?' 'No, but it looks nice'. I turn around and give the others a long-suffering look and when I turn back, she's back on the tram. Sometimes regression is not a good thing. Next time you hear Mand complaining that every time we get drunk I leave her, please bear all this in mind. The only difference between this and normally is that this time I have independent witnesses. Taking her by the hand and refusing to let go even for the slightest of moments (despite the childish tugs and the wails) we walked off to the right tram stop, boarded and half an hour later were back at the campsite. The remaining booze was seen off in a companionable silence and we all headed off to bed.

Next morning and after our by now traditional hangover cure (diving headlong into the pool, which at about eight in the morning is probably about the same number of degrees) and showering, we headed down to say au revoir to Matt and Leah and see you soon to Scotty who had promised he'd be back for the Grand Prix. Slightly sorry to be breaking up our happy little band, but I'm sure I felt my kidneys let out a sigh of relief.

And so it was with some serious determination and clear heads that me and Mand set about our last chance of finding somewhere to live. We had two to look at, the first of which was a s*** hole. The second was in South Melbourne and was a lovely little one bed flat (although the bedroom was huge), walk in wardrobe, kitchen and living room separated by a breakfast bar and a balcony with a view of the Central Business District (CBD). Ten minutes to both St Kilda and the CBD, tram stop right outside, and a major tram interchange a three minute walk away. We looked and before any of the others could speak told the estate agent we'd take it. Today. She said come back tomorrow. We said we're living in a tent and we have to be out tomorrow. She said come in first thing tomorrow and I'll give you the keys in exchange for six months rent up front and the bond. We said see you there. Beautiful.

After the quickest pack up in history, the following morning we arrived at the estate agents did the deal, got directions to Ikea and Radio Rentals and by four o'clock that night were ensconced in our new love nest, sitting on a sofa eating pizza and feeling all chuffed with ourselves. Ahhh, luxury sometimes comes in the simplest of forms.

Laters all

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