Maybe I am not so miserable after all.

Since my last update I have been nothing but a social butterfly. That's despite Lysey's claims that the reason I did not attend her work's Christmas party was because 'I was afraid I wouldn't make friends'. She has single-handedly managed to make me sound like a real sad sack, and as a consequence I can never see any of her work mates again. She only has herself to blame; she should have told them the truth that I don't actually like Christmas parties, especially those where bringing a partner is obligatory.

Out of three or four social shindigs since my last update, the highlight was Christmas Day. As Lysey has not seen her parents for the past two years come the festive season, not attending this year was highly unadvisable. Therefore, we, plus 16 others' who were either friends or family of the Fowlers, turned up at the in-laws place in Goulburn - some two hours inland from Sydney.

I should explain that the week previous (20/12) both Lysey and Carla organised a Christmas house party where they invited friends from their college days over for a slap-up meal. I know these people rather well, having spent time with them during my stay in Australia, but that very Saturday I was so intoxicated that I became an obnoxious twat towards all of them. My behaviour was appalling and I cannot sugarcoat it; I think I managed to upset everyone, including my girlfriend. The next day I paid for it however, not by copping an earful from all of those in attendance, but by riding the porcelain bus all day. I was a little bit drunk!

Therefore, with my actions from the previous Saturday still circling around my brain, I was determined to pace myself come the 25th and not risk any idiotic behaviour, especially as I was meeting some 12 new people (of course, I have subtracted Lysey's immediate family from the 18 who attended). Imagine my delight then when I was presented with a cider at 10.30am. I feared the worse at that very moment, and scenarios such as vomiting over grandma or knocking over the wine whilst sat at the table were polluting my mind. Alas, however, I managed to hold it together, and I was delighted. Indeed, when I spoke to my mother some days after the 25th I informed her that I represented the family with dignity, especially when comparing my actions to the previous week. (Mother was aware of these as I made my obligatory phone call home when intoxicated. I really should stop doing that as I remember nothing and the following day I realise that all my phone credit for the month is standing at something like $12.34)

Nonetheless, the day was fantastic, and a special shout out should go to the hosts, who were simply brilliant. To cook for 18 people would stress most people I know, but the whole day went like clock work. Lysey's father is like a machine; I have never met a male equivalent that is as domesticated as he is. People talk about 'the new man', and if anyone would like to see a domesticated 'new man' look no further than her father. It's the second time I have been to their place and every time in the morning he is first with food and drink. Moreover, on Christmas Day I indulged in a Fowler Christmas tradition of having ham and chutney on toast, and upon hearing my comparison of chutney to pickle he wanted to go and buy me some. Because of the timing he didn't, but I reckon if it was any other month he would have. I know of no other male who comes close to rivaling him in the hospitality stakes. Furthermore, Lysey's mother was just as awesome on the day. Again, nothing was too much trouble and if anyone wanted for anything they would provide.

To sing their praises further, they both bought me a few presents, notably the Adam Gilchrist autobiography that I had had my eye on prior to our departure to Fiji. (However, if you recall, time was in short supply in Sydney airport because of all our running around. We were lucky to make the flight so going book shopping wasn't allowed.) Furthermore, they bought me a computer mouse for my Mac, but this is the best bit which I think sums her parents up: they bought two mice, one cordless and the other one in the traditional sense because they didn't know which one I would prefer. They gave me the option and they said they were going to return the other one now I have chosen the mouse with the tail. Who goes to that much effort? Eleven out of ten to the both them.

On the subject of presents, Lysey bought be an iPod Nano, and I was delighted with it. Initially, I was the second person I know who owned an iPod, and sadly time had caught up with my aged duke box so as of this year I have been using Lysey's old iPod Shuffle. As good as it was it could only hold a few songs so I had to personally update it every couple of days. On more than one occasion I'd forget to do this so I would often find myself listening to the same song over and over again on my way to and fro work. Anyway, my new 8gb is superb, as I no longer need to do that. Also, unlike my old iPod, this is much better for dance compilations; on my previous one each track was separated my an annoying one second gap so it sort of killed any mix one would be listening to. However, my new version no longer does that so I'm in love.

I also received a gold chain from my parents. I am more than happy about that as my previous one snapped whilst snorkeling in Thailand, but I managed, somehow, to save the inscribed St Christopher - so thanks mum and dad. Lysey and my parents also exchanged presents, which I think pleasantly shocked them both that each other had thought of buying for the other one. Lysey bagged a Mamma Mia DVD, which was better than I thought, although it wasn't intended for me. I know that Lysey enjoyed it, and somehow she tolerated Pierce Brosnon's signing. Don't sing, Pierce, it sounds bad is what I was saying during the film.

We actually arrived into Goulburn on Christmas Eve as Lysey had intentions to meet up with some old school friends. We duly made haste to the local, a RSL type watering hole (a RSL is a club akin to the British Legion Club, and it stands for: The Returned and Services League of Australia) and to my humour all of her friends that she introduced me to said that they had already met me. How or where I reportedly met all these folks I do not know, but I was grateful.

The subject on the lips of everyone inside the pub (that must have been 200+) was the pending arrival of Goulburn's most famous resident - Rhiana who appeared in the last series of Big Brother. Upon entering the house she announced to the nation that 'I got knocked up at my school formal'. It's all true and I feel it gives an insight into the type of person we're talking about. After leaving the House I believe she appeared in Zoo Magazine, so again she does herself no favours. Moreover, inside the House she hooked up with a fellow contestant by the name of Rory who is a white, dreadlocked bricky from Brisbane. Again, I feel the keywords of 'white' and 'dreadlocks' tells us something about this particular individual (such as he's a bit of a gimp). Anyway, apparently they have both settled in Brisbane, but for Noel they were due in Goulburn and everyone was awaiting their arrival. Sadly, especially to my disappointment, they didn't show up.

However, the failure of two z-list celebrities not to turn up didn't hinder the night for too long as another z-list celebrity from Goulburn arrived shortly after. Yes, of course, I am talking about 'farmer Michael' who appeared in the last series of that timeless classic programme 'A Farmer Wants A Wife'. Amusingly, he left the series half way through shooting as he couldn't dedicate anymore time looking for love as he had sheep to shear. However, Channel 9 managed to find a happy medium and he made a shock return. The shock, however, wasn't felt by any of the women as he went home empty handed. To my knowledge he's still shearing the sheep, and he's still not getting any.

How amazing is that, though? In a town of 20,000 they've got three z-list celebrities. I explained to Lysey and her mates that if these people were British they'd have the paparazzi of the Daily Star or the News of the World following their every movement. However, in Australia there isn't the sleaze obsession as there is back in the motherland; oh it's fantastic to not live in a world where there is no Sun or any Beano-equivalent rag to infiltrate the masses.

One of Goulburn's most famous residents however, does strike a cord with me, simply because after watching a programme about him I was feeling a little short of sleep. Ivan Milat is the name, and if you haven't heard of him I suggest typing his name into any search engine. Dubbed the backpacker murderer, Milat brutally killed seven people (that's all they know of although authorities suspect he was responsible for more) and he is now housed in Goulburn's high security prison. I don't want to divulge much information simply because I suggest you read for yourself what he was found guilty for. All I will add is that the murders occurred along a stretch of road that Lysey and I pass en route to her parents, and he is now housed within the same town.

Back home in Sydney, sadly Lysey doesn't have Fox (Sky) and she doesn't seem keen on getting it, either. For Christmas I bought her loads of stuff, but I overlooked the idea of getting her Fox. A schoolboy error I willingly admit, as I would have benefited from getting it installed just as much as her, if not maybe a little more than her. I say this because for the past few Tottenham games I have been trekking into town at midnight to watch my team. Both the Fulham and Man Utd games ended goalless - does it get anymore depressing? Moreover, I have since discovered an internet site where I can watch the games for free, and last night I was up until 3am (28/12) watching us lose against West Brom. Again, can it get anymore depressing? Bearing in mind I had to wake at 5.30am for work, this answer is a resounding 'no'.

To quell my depression, however, I have plenty to look forward to in early 2009. The first weekend I, plus a group of five of us, are going to the third test match between Australia and South Africa. A couple of Saffas are amongst the number so I am happily joining them in their support on the day. As I tell all Australians, I will support Oz in any sport bar cricket, simply because their arrogance is off putting. I am reveling in the fact that their crown is slipping from them, and who better to rub that in than a gloating Pommy. Upon informing all Aussies of my allegiances for their sporting teams, they always ask 'do you support us in football?', to which I reply 'yes'. I praise their attitude towards to beautiful game; it's their fourth national sport yet they pump millions into it, and they are also bidding to host the 2018 World Cup. Personally, I think they're dreaming, but it indicates how seriously they take it. I also get asked if I support Australia in the rugby, to which I reply 'you're no threat. We always beat you when it matters (the past three world cups we have knocked them out).' The conversation usually dries up after they've heard my opinions.

Something else to get excited about is New Years Eve. At the moment I, along with Lysey, am toying with the idea of either going to Bondi Beach for the Shore Thing Festival or attending a house party in Cranmore, which overlooks the Harbour Bridge. I would like to do something big as I realise this could be my last new years eve celebration in Australia for a while.

On the subject of new year, it's almost that time of the year where I make false promises to myself only to find them broken two weeks later. My resolutions for '09 are as follows: I want to learn how to cook properly. I have always pulled my weight wherever I have been in the world, but I have never had to cook for myself (apart from at uni, but I want to move on from pasty and beans). Now that I am living with Lysey and Carla, I simply get embarrassed cooking tin front of the latter as she is literally a master-chef in the making. She talks constantly about spices, herbs and sauces all whilst I am cracking open a tin of baked beans. She is always willing to answer my questions, but I want to take it upon myself to learn how to cook some food with substance. I have started in earnest, I should say. Last night I cooked Lysey and myself beef rissoles with salad and jacket potato. Without wanting to sound boastful, it was the best meal I've had in a while.

My next resolution is of a personal nature. I promise to turn the volume down on my iPod (so it was a good job I got an iPod for Christmas then) as I swear I am going deaf. During my winery days I was working with an Irish lass who lost 30% of her hearing from the machinery, and every time I'd work with her I would watch her flinch in pain every time something clattered against the floor, such as a spanner. I now suffer similar symptoms as I flinch in pain every time I hear a sharp noise; my most recent encounter was when I put the glass bottles in the recycling bin and they collided against each other. That's not normal I reckon, and instead of going to the doctors, I have self-diagnosed myself, and I vow to keep the volume to a minimum. Once again, I have started this one in earnest, too.

Finally, I want to get good at something in 2009. That's a little vague I know as I am good at many rudimentary things such as making my lunch, walking to work (I'm not good at making it on time, however. I am always five minutes late but as I am the first to start at 630am I am accountable only to myself) or Championship Manager. However, I want to develop a skill away from my everyday life, so I have been thinking about getting a DJ package for my Mac. It'll only be a hobby, but it's something I want to take up.

And finally, as promised the last time I updated (sorry about the lack of correspondence from yours truly. I can off no excuses as there are none, but what with feeling either hungover or from just indulging in my time off from work - four days from Christmas Day onwards - I decided to write a little later than normal. Either way, let's not get bogged down in semantics...) I have a tale to tell about an encounter I had with some Jehovah Witnesses' during my university days. It was a Sunday afternoon (when else would it be?) when I had a knock at the door from a group of four people, three men and one woman. Inconveniently, the knock at the door interrupted my viewing of the Liverpool vs. Yeovil game in the FA Cup 3rd round. (For anyone who doesn't remember, it was a great game and I think it ended 2-1 to Liverpool. I say 'think' because I was at the door for most of the game speaking to four intruders!)

Not wanting to be a rude boy, I didn't have the nerve to tell them to do one, but instead I listened to their spiel. It was so boring, and I kept telling porkies to prevent them asking further questions. After about thirty minutes I informed them that in fact I didn't actually live in the house and that they should come back when the actual owner returns, which would be next week. (I had enough by this time. Even though I was only 'working' about 12 hours a week at university, I was probably tired. Besides, tired or not tired, the football was going on without me.) They informed me that they wanted to speak to me further because of my views so they wanted to know my address. Being placed on the spot I said something like '10 King Rd' and they bought it. Result, which ironically is all I saw of the football as by the time they had finished the game had ended.

I am not a homophobe. However, whenever I hear the term ‘partner’ as in the sentence… ‘this is an invite to you and your partner’, I always associate the word ‘partner’ to mean that as the same sex as the recipient. The point of my irreverent bleating is that I recently received a Christmas card from my nan saying ‘Happy Christmas to a grandson and partner’. Now, my nan has met Lysey, and she has also known me throughout my existence, so she knows whom I bat for, but to me that particular card greeting sounds a little bit gay. Nevertheless, we were both really chuffed with the card, and I have personally thanked my nan for the thought. Clinton Cards really does accommodate for every type of scenario.

On the issue of Christmas, it’s only nine days away, but it still doesn’t feel festive at all over here. We put our tree up this week – in the heat of the summer (it was 34 degrees here on Saturday – 12/12 – how unfestive is that?) – and to me it doesn’t feel right. Moreover, here in Australia we are not saturated with television adverts showing the latest must-have toys, or the tannoys in any of the department stores do not pollute the airwaves with intolerable Christmas carols.

All the natives will have it that Noel should be celebrated in the summer, but as I point out to them, Father Christmas and his reindeers set off from Lapland (not that dodgy ‘theme park’ in Hampshire where bouncers and elf’s were getting beaten up, but the place in the North Pole), where it is regularly cold, and not a place where it is regularly hot, such as Kenya. Therefore, I know I am justified in saying that Christmas is best served cold.

Upon mentioning the fact that Saint Nick is not based in Kenya, it got me playing the race card. Why is it that you never see a black Father Christmas? Indeed, I have made my own attempts to highlight the plight of coloured Saint Nick’s, but I am still yet to see one for real. My dad is a butcher by trade, and during my college days, mother bought the family a computer so I could type up all my assignments. (Stick with this – it’s good). Well, Microsoft Word has an amazing program called ‘Word Art’, and my dad, acting in his Alan Sugar demeanor, wanted me to print out some festive pictures so he could put them in his shop window. Amusingly, I decided to print out pictures of black Santa’s rather than your traditional white one (that sounds so racist), and because he is not that computer savvy I knew he wouldn’t be able to change it. The village of Stogursey, it has to be said, is not the most open minded of places judging by their reaction; I gather they were a little taken aback by the black Santa’s that appeared in the butcher window that year.

Continuing with a Christmas theme, many moons ago, during my days of dating Laura, she invited me to her works Christmas party, to which I agreed attend. Twenty minutes into that very party I vowed never to attend another work Christmas party where my partner has invited me. Lysey, to her knowledge, wasn't aware of my stance, but I feel vilified in my decision.

During that night in Exeter, perhaps five years ago, Barclays Bank, her employer, put on a meal for all members' of staff plus their other halves. Moreover, they also had a DJ (I use the term 'DJ' in the loosest possible term. If you count an individual dropping hits from 'Now 59' and 'The best Christmas songs....ever!' as DJing then you and I have a difference of opinion), and there was also a fully stocked bar. Naturally, all the workers talked shop leaving us, that's the 'other halves', to congregate around the bar and make idle small talk. A typical conversation that night would have gone as follows:

Me: You all right mate?

Him/her/it: Yeah, thanks. (Note the lack of tag questioning on their behalf. Why do people never enquire about the other person's welfare?)

A long pause would usually follow such an opening, followed by some irreverent chit chat about how bad the DJ was and how nice the food was. (By the way, I had to pay for the meal despite us being in the pre-global recession days).

Me: What do you do for a living? (Not really caring, I'd merely ask to keep the conversation going and to drown out the noise of DJ Otzi's 'Hey Baby' polluting the background)

Him/her/it: I work in accountancy.... (there's a sure way to keep a conversation going!)

An even longer pause would follow. How do you respond to that sort of an answer?

Me: Have a good night, mate. I'll see you later on.

Multiply that riveting extract by roughly 30 (the amount of other halves) and you can see why I vowed never to attend another such party. The bank workers, at this time, were mainly drunk and dancing the night away. In short, they were having a good time, whereas I got the impression all of us left at the bar were getting the sort of enjoyment akin to pulling teeth. It wasn't the workers fault, they earnt their right to let their hair down, but they should only invite people who are affiliated to the company.

For Lysey's Christmas party they came up with a theme, so everyone had to dress up. The theme was 'a night at the Oscars', so people could either go as a movie character or in tux. Lysey, to her credit, was on meeting/greeting duty, plus she had to help out with the organisation on the night, so, as she put it to me: "I am not babysitting you all night". This, it must be said, made my decision ten times easier; not only would I be dressed up like a twat, but also I'd literally know no one in attendance. Despite the lure of free alcohol and food, the idea of me being dressed up as Jim Carey's character in The Mask and having to entertain myself didn’t appeal. I admit that I am perhaps the most boring person around, but I will honestly live with that.

All this negativity surrounding the 25th of December makes me sound like a Jehovah Witness, but I am anything but. Indeed, I have my own story of an encounter I had with a Jehovah Witness during my university days in Southampton, but as I do not like attending Christmas parties – including my own – I shall save it for next week. After all, I have to find something to write about.

It’s not all ba’ humbug for me, however. Last Tuesday (9/12) I was again knocking on a pub door at the ungodly hour of 7am to watch the Tottenham West Ham game. Back home I was never a fan of the Monday night kick-offs, simply because it meant having to wait an entire weekend to see my team in action, and also Match of the Day was never as appealing. However, over here I look forward to them as I can see my team before work, and this time I was joined by a dozen like minded folk (which was about 11 more than my last visit when I watched the Watford match).

Do you want a laugh? NSW Premier Nathan Rees has introduced a list of guidelines regarding the issue of binge drinking that takes place within the state that will make your sides split!

As of Tuesday (2/12) 48 pubs across NSW, with the majority being based in Sydney, must comply with the new restrictions that include lockouts between 2am and 5am. That doesn't sound so draconian, but others include: after midnight drinks cannot be served in glass or plastic containers, meaning they'd presumably be served in paper cups. Hilariously, after 12pm each pub has to introduce 'ten minute time-outs' where no alcohol is allowed to be served for the aforementioned duration for every hour they remain open.

Can you imagine punters' responses? Not only are our civil liberties being quashed (if you pop out for a fag after 2am you're not allowed back in. That doesn't affect me, but still...), but we are being treated like children in the process. I will inform you if Rees sees fit to introduce a game of pass the parcel or perhaps musical chairs to appease the punters during the 'ten minute time-out'.

In all seriousness, what does he hope to achieve with these rules? Others include the banning of shots after midnight (perhaps a good think seeing as glass is banned. What would they serve them in, eggcups?), a limit of four drinks per person, and no alcohol is allowed to be served 30 minutes before closing. Yeah, Mr Rees, people aren't going to binge drink prior to midnight to make up for your ridiculous rules, are they? Moreover, now that the problem pubs lockout from 2am - 5am every pissed punter will descend onto the streets. Call me cynical, but that's a recipe for disaster; Rees and his Labor party are on the way out of NSW, but he seems hell bent on taking Sydney with him.

Politics aside, I have moved in with Lysey this week. Living with a lass is a new one on me, but I think we'll both be ok. Lysey also shares with a housemate, and because it's not 'our space' I was initially concerned about being myself, but I have since chilled out and things seem to be going great. I help out around the house, too; because it's a rented place I cannot perform 'macho chores' such as painting, wallpapering or fence erecting, but I am a dab hand at taking the rubbish out and washing up.

We haven't put a time frame on my stay, which is ideal as all the hostels are now selling out for the festive period. Also, because of my money situation, I cannot afford to go solo once more, but once I am back on my feet we'll assess the situation. As it currently stands, though, things are great and I am liking my new digs.
Unlike a few of previous homes (and I include the hostel) Lysey's place does not have Fox, meaning I have to wake even earlier than normal for the football. Luckily, there is a 24-hour bar in the middle of Sydney (not one on Ree's hit list) that shows virtually every game, and I have made it my adopted home for all forthcoming football fixtures, including Tottenham's midweek game against Watford. Seriously, I looked a bit of a deadbeat knocking on a pub door at 6.40am to get access. Indeed, one of the cleaners wasn't going to let me in as he thought the pub was due to open at 9am. Usually placid in my mannerisms, his attitude and answers enraged me somewhat, so by this time I was looking even more of a deadbeat to every passing waif and stray.

After the cleaner answered I wedged my foot in the door so he couldn't shut it. All I wanted was to sit and watch the football, which they were advertising. He soon backed down and seeked the manager who agreed to let me in. After a coke or two, plus a good result, I soon settled down and no one heard a peep from me for the duration of the game. The main reason why no one heard a sound from me was because I was the only person watching the game. Still, I will be back tomorrow for the West Ham match (9/12).

Aside from taking pleasure of being the only person in a pub, I went to Global Gathering (30/11) where I was joined by some 9,999 other people. Paying homage to a dance festival has been long over due (my last such trip was back in England, but I have been to many a freebie here in Australia) and I managed to make the most of it; the sun was beating down on all of us in attendance and I managed to get panda eyes from not removing my glasses whilst taking in Sasha, Kraftwerk and Fischerspooner.

Kraftwerk provided a lights and lazer show that would have been fitting in a contemporary art gallery. I was surprised at how many people were clued up on the German foursome, and they themselves were worthy of the admission fee of $125. The major criticism, however, was the decision to host the event on a Sunday. I have never known an event of this magnitude to be held on a school night, and as a consequence it seemed that the crowd were a little reserved. Moreover, with only 10,000 people in attendance, it also suggests that some were put off altogether. Nevertheless, I had a great time, and it would be no exaggeration when I tell you that I was a mess the following day at school.

Because of our pending trip to New Zealand in early 2009 (it could be a little later than previously thought due to the credit crisis. We're now looking at March as we're awaiting openings for Lysey) I have to seek a work visa, much like I did when I was back home for my trip to Australia. Unlike England, however, I failed in my attempts in getting some third party to do all the leg work for me. Back home I went to the STA Travel Company and they arranged everything for me, but because Kiwi's and Aussies live in such proximity neither natives from the respective countries require work visas, so therefore places such as STA do not offer the service.

Therefore, I had to pay a visit to the New Zealand High Consulate, located in the middle of Sydney's CBD. Like all immigration centers I have encountered throughout the world (all of these mainly being at international airports) the place was under staffed, and of the five or so people serving, nobody liked to smile. Still, I waited patiently for my turn, all whilst some lass directly opposite me popped her right tit out to begin breast-feeding her kid. Seriously, they build rooms for almost everything now (praying room, parent room, smoking rooms and I've even spotted a father and child's room) so surely they need to build something for breast feeders.

Anyway, after waiting something like 45 minutes to seek advice about price, availability, processing times and working rights, I was shrugged off inside 30 seconds of speaking to someone. The lady behind the counter, surprise surprise not of the smiling variety, told me of the New Zealand website where would-be working holiday makers lodged their application. I should explain that I myself looked online, but I only managed to find the New Zealand High Consulate where it's email domain ended in bigpond.com, and not that of anything officially authenticated such as nz.com or .com.nz. Why would I post all my personal information onto a cowboy website ending in bigpond.com? Nevertheless, I now know what to do, but because of Lysey’s delay there is no rush to get the ball rolling.

That very night (5/12) both Lysey and I went to see the new James Bond film. I think we're one of the last remaining people to see it, so my review is probably pointless. I will no doubt be preaching about similar flaws, such as the poor cinematography and maybe the lack of gadgets. Nonetheless, it wasn't the worst Bond I have even seen (stand up Timothy Dalton or George Lazenby), and it was a good way to spend the Friday.

Finally, to celebrate the start of summer, I partook in the Australian pastime of a few tinnies and a bar-b-q on Maroubra's Beach this weekend (6/12). Kieran, a friend from my ill-fated bank days, and his missus put on a spread fit for a king, and I duly made the most of their excellent hospitality. The subject of the aforementioned bank's decision to cut over 60 jobs came up, and although I never wish ill fortune on anyone, we both wondered, rather smugly it should be said, if any of our previous 'colleagues' were amongst the cull.