Living Down Under

Easter and the religious hijacking of Northern Ireland councils

Easter has never really been a religious thing for me. It seems an odd thought, but Easter to me meant school holidays and a long car journey to see family and play with my cousins in the woods that surrounded my great uncles country house, then it meant days off work and early morning flights to Amsterdam , Dublin or Barcelona for field hockey festivals. Now it means days by the beach and lazy afternoon barbeques. Australia has a much more relaxed lifestyle than Ireland , North and South, especially when it comes to religion. Ireland uses religion as an excuse for everything. It doesn’t do to break with tradition, be it Sunday trading, or marching down a road on the 12^th of July dressed in black bowler hats and orange sashes to celebrate a war between an English king and a Dutch Prince in a foreign country. The majority of local councils were dominated by religious traditionalists who made sure council facilities were closed on the Sabbath, meaning Muslims were unable to go for a swim or use a library on a Sunday, when it wasn’t their holy day. They took it to court, but tradition won that day. It almost won again when religious nuts barricaded shops who tried to open on a Sunday. My parent’s local supermarket opens 24 hours a day, apart from Sunday when it is open (grudgingly) from 1 – 6pm. The high court cleared nationwide supermarkets and large retails to open on a Sunday, causing a meltdown with local talk radio stations. Northern Ireland is a country stuck in the past. From my point of view it is in great danger of becoming irrelevant and falling behind its European neighbours in tourism and general standard of living. I recently read that my hometown Belfast is one of the hottest venues in Europe for a weekend break. I can’t imagine why.

Hillsborough remembered twenty years on

I remember where I was quite clearly at 3:06 pm on Saturday 15 April 1989. I was in the small market town of Newtownards, about 15 minutes east of Belfast, sitting in the back of my parents car on a busy shopping street listening to the radio. I had been taken shopping by my folks and was eager to get home and play with my mates. I think we were listening to the local commercial station. There are many of these cheesy no-nonsense stations where content and music are mere filler between advertisements for local shops. At six minutes after 3 there was a newsflash and the afternoon DJ cut to go live to Hillsborough football ground where the FA Cup semi-final had just kicked off. I can clearly remember many different football matches, my first match (Manchester United 1- Everton 0 after extra time in the 1985 FA Cup Final. Norman Whiteside curled the winning goal past Neville Southall. Norman instantly became my hero, being from my hometown. I met him a couple of years ago and got my photo taken. I was genuinely thrilled), every World Cup Final since 1986 (Maradona’s Argentina in my parent’s front room), 1990 (Germany bored their way to a 1-nil win over Argentina in an Isle of Man hotel room) 1994 (Brazil beat Italy on penalties as I gored my way through a Toblerone I had bought in Geneva airport. I then vomited hot chocolate all over my mum’s favourite rug) 1998 (France surprisingly beat Brazil 3-nil as I drank Guinness in Major Tom’s in Dublin, 2002 (Brazil’s Ronaldo scored twice against an under-performing Germany early on a Sunday morning with my yoga loving ex-girlfriend) 2006 (Italy beat France on the 12th July as the 11th night bonfires smouldered at a mate’s house and our hangovers throbbed). I could tell you where I watched every FA Cup final and most of Northern Ireland ’s home matches since the early 1990s. There is a thrill in a sport caster cutting to another stadium as you think there must have been a goal, a sending off or another major incident. It was immediately obvious that something else had happened. The reporter was describing how Liverpool fans were being crushed and the pitch was now being flooded with fans. The game had been called off and rumours began to filter through that fans were losing their lives. It’s hard to describe the feeling you get when something utterly incredibly bad happens. It’s link a tingling in your scalp and a rush of noise in your ears. I could tell from the reporters tone that this was very serious indeed. We listened to the reports in silence the whole way home. As we turned into the driveway, I couldn’t get out of the car and inside to watch the footage on television quick enough. I watched for what must have been hours, listening to horrific eyewitness accounts, watching still photographs of distraught Liverpool fans watching friends and relatives being carried limp from the crowd. Maps of the stadium were flashed up on screen and low-tech diagrams showed the flow of the crowd. The head of the Sheffield Police was interviewed and tried to explain how his men had made a grave error opening the Leppings Lane gate, prompting a huge wave of fans to rush onto the terracing, crushing those who had got there early against the steel fencing penning them in. Fans spoke of the crush lifting them off their feet, completely immobilising them, pinning their arms by their sides as those beside them turned blue. 96 football fans lost their lives and the entire United Kingdom went into days of mourning. Sport has not been the same since. The government’s Taylor report changed how we watch sport, bringing in stricter policing, crowd control guidelines and all-seater stadia. The all-conquering Liverpool side broke up and the club fell into decline which it has only recently started to get out of. They will never dominate the way they did in the 80s. Their fans had been in trouble the same decade, rioting against Juventus in the European Cup final, prompting a wall to collapse killing dozens of Italian fans in what became known as the Hyssel Disaster in Belgium . The Sun, Britain’s biggest tabloid newspaper blamed the fans, causing a massive boycott of the paper in the Merseyside area. Today is the 20th anniversary of Hillsborough. It has re-opened old wounds and the old memories have come flashing back. Football hasn’t been the same since. Sure it’s safer, but it has also been taken away from the common man. It’s a game for prawn sandwich eaters and big business where TV contracts and exchange rates determine which teams perform best on and off the pitch and which go out of business. I doubt anyone from Belfast will ever score the winning goal in an FA Cup Final ever again. Top English sides are crammed full of Italians, Portuguese and Brazilians. There’s no room for Irishmen or Scotsmen, unless they are truly exceptional. There’s barely room for Englishmen.

Easter break with the Australian Retired Servicemen's League

Easter came at the perfect time for me. I was exhausted and needed a break from the 9-5. I say 9-5, I don’t think anyone in the 21^stcentury works a 9-5 day. My day starts at 6am with a quick shower and breakfast, if I’m lucky I spend 10 minutes with my daughter before dashing out for the bus. I have a change to an express and then an hour or so into the city. I am at my desk for around 8 a.m. then work through until after half five. I then have another hour and a quarter commute home which gets me in the door for 7pm. I am straight upstairs to bath my daughter, give her a bottle, get her ready for bed and read her a story. I get my dinner at 8 then by the time I’ve logged on to check my emails and catch up on some work, it’s 9:30 and I’m struggling to keep my eyes open.

The weekends bring no respite as my daughter rarely sleeps past 6am. I use the weekends to catch up with washing and ironing, other household chores, some work on my fledgling home business in baby wear and some mystery shopping to help with the bills. I may even get an hour with my girlfriend.

This Easter long weekend was a welcome respite, at least from the travelling. I left work a little early on Maundy Thursday as I believe it is called. My colleagues were on at me to come for a drink with them, but I get little enough time with my family, so I jumped on the first express bus I could find going to the Northern Beaches. Unfortunately it took me nowhere near where I needed to get to and I ended up circling the headland of Elanora Heights . I eventually got to Pittwater Road and got a connection up to Mona Vale, a bustling suburb with Waratah Street (named after the New South Wales state flower, not a possum-like animal as I had thought!) is packed with busy cafes, bakeries and pizza joints. It is ten minutes walk up a steep hill to Mona Vale RSL. I don’t know anything outside Australia to compare RSLs to. RSL stands for Retired Servicemen’s League. They are a network of ex-Army, Navy and Air force clubs set up as community centres which have bars, restaurants, crèches and sports clubs. Many have sporting teams affiliated to them and are hubs of the local community, offering subsidised food and drink. Mona Vale’s is modern, clean and has terrific facilities. My girlfriend’s mothers group met there, old age pensioners meet there for coffee and social interaction daily, friends of all ages use it as a local venue and it is self-regulating; I have never heard of any trouble at our RSL. Membership is very cheap and the staff are remarkably friendly and accommodating. I even got a phone call wishing me a happy birthday and a letter later that week offering me free ice cream, a free drink and entry into the monthly birthday draw where I could win $5,000. There is a real community atmosphere and I try and get there after work on a Friday to meet the neighbours, have a beer and win a truly Australian raffle – the meat tray. These have to be seen to be believed. It costs $5 to enter and you are presented with a large plastic coloured card with twenty numbers. A lottery selects the winning numbers and the winner has to race to the tables where they select slabs of meat, sides of beef, half a chicken, platters of sausages or bowls of mince. BBQ heaven and vegetarians nightmare. Although as the recent TV ad campaign said, not eating meat is un-Australian!

I arrived at the RSL on Thursday just in time for the kids’ Easter disco with a six-foot Easter bunny leading the dancing. My 11 month old daughter was terrified, but we managed to calm her down and within minutes she was happily playing with her toys. We bought out our entry cards to the Easter draw and won an Easter egg with the first number……and the third number, and the eighth. I came home with six Easter eggs, an invite to a barbeque and the neighbourhood Easter egg hunt on Easter Sunday morning.

Cuzzi di Olimpiadi!

I am reading a book by an English journalist, who like me had had enough of the weather, bad service and general dowdiness of British life that he upped sticks and moved. His name is Tim Parks and he is a well read authority on a number of subjects, educated at Cambridge and Harvard. He has written eleven novels and three non-fiction accounts of life in northern Italy , a collection of 'narrative' essays, Adultery and Other Diversions, and a history of the Medici bank in 15th century Florence, Medici Money. Tim has also translated numerous Italian titles into English and written thesis on translation styles. In this book ‘A Season with Verona’ where he follows Hellas Verona through their league campaign there is a very descriptive piece about Verona fans annoyance at the season started late to accommodate that summer’s Olympic Games. Screaming 'Cuzzi di Olimpiadi' which I can't translate in case there are any children reading. Tim Parks comments that the Olympics have lost their original ideals. Although the adage of citius, altius, fortius, a Latin expression meaning "Faster, Higher, Stronger" still looms large, it appears that money has taken over with athletes resorting to the aforementioned human growth hormones, anabolic steroids and the like. I can clearly remember Ben Johnson’s incredible 100 metres win in 1988 and, at the age of 11, I also the live TV announcement of his subsequent failed drugs test. The most important thing about the original Olympiads was not to win, but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph, but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well. de Coubertin’s ideal is noble, but in modern society it seems quaint and old fashioned. Everything about modern life is built around success, just turn on MTV. Big cars, gold chains, money.

I realise that there is still a place for the Olympics, but only where the sport has the Olympics as the highest level of the sport. Track and field athletics for instance, has the Olympics as the greatest event in the sport. However, soccer has the World Cup as its pinnacle. Field hockey has a World Cup and a Champions Trophy, but the main event in the international calendar is the Olympics. The IOC need a cull of sports and get rid of novelty exhibition sports like beach volleyball and throw out applications from chess and bridge, which are pastimes, not sports. The Olympic torch relay was a farce this year with all the Tibetan protestors. Whether or not awarding the games to Beijing was morally correct (it wasn’t in my view, but the IOC adjudicators have been bribed and caught out in the past) the games should not be hijacked for political means be it Palestinians, pro-Tibet protestors, Soviets or Black Panthers. It should be sport for competition sake and it should be about winning. Running faster. Jumping higher. Being stronger than your opponent. Usan Bolt’s world record is one of the most memorable sporting events I have witnessed. I still wonder how fast he could run if he had not celebrated as he crossed the line. Australia ’s Steve Booker, recognisable for his ginger mop and green and gold headband broke the world pole vault record and became a national sporting icon. This is what the Olympics should be about, not African swimmers who struggle to complete the distance or British ski jumpers who can barely stand up. How is humankind going to aspire to some idiot who is getting promotion because he is the funniest looking? I don’t want to see children killing each other and cheating their way through sport to progress, but I don’t want them not trying, because they think it’s enough to take part. Survival of the fittest.

Rotten Apple

Travelling in to Sydney for work every day is a 90 minute commute either way for me. This journey would be intolerable were it not for one gadget – the iPod. Until this morning I was a massive advocate of all things Apple. Last week my 30GB video iPod started playing up with sound only coming from one earphone. I went in to the Apple Store on George Street . It is, in my mind one of the most impressive sights in the city. It is a huge three story glass fronted building, a real feat of engineering. I explained my query and they booked me in for an appointment with one of their “Geniuses”. I was most impressed and received an email confirmation of my appointment. I was extremely excited when I went for my diagnosis at lunchtime. I arrived ten minutes early and was introduced to my Genius, Bobby, a young guy with a stubbly beard. All of the Geniuses wore blue t-shirts proclaiming their outstanding ability with the slogan “Not all superheroes wear a cape”. All very clever marketing, but was Bobby expert enough to back up the hype?He took my iPod from me and typed the serial number into his Mac Book. He was able to tell me my iPod was out of its warranty period. Well done, but I could have told him if he had asked me. He then took out an impressive chrome and black instrument, the same as the paediatrician used when examining my daughter’s ear when she picked up an infection. He asked if the sound came out of the offending earpiece if I wiggled the earphone connector around. He then explained that Apple did not repair iPods, but would replace it with the same model. Result, I thought. Then I was told I would have to pay $180 for the privilege, or buy a brand new iPod with a 10% discount. This would be approximately $349, give or take the magical 10%. My head was instantly filled with conspiracy theories of inbuilt programmes for faults to appear just after the warranty period expires. I went on line to check if I could get it repaired by a third party. I was warned this invalidate my warranty. Surely, if it was under warranty, I would have been given a replacement free of charge? I googled iPod repair and entered my issue in the search field. I was astonished to find many others had had the same shoddy treatment for something that can be repaired relatively cheaply. I was able to download instructions with step by step photographs and even a YouTube instructional video. Essentially Apple are forcing disenchanted customers into the hands of backstreet repair companies. This seems crazy marketing strategy and appalling customer service. Not what I expected of such a modern icon.

Great Britain?

I read the introduction to a book written by an Englishman this week. He said that Australia may as well be a fictional place, as it is so far away he will never go. He doesn’t like long place journeys, so he will never make the effort. What a shame. More fool him. Most of the book was about how terrible life is in the UK with ASBOs (Anti-Social Behaviour Orders – a British government initiative to crack down on inner city violence, vandalism, theft, underage drinking, drug use and the various other weekend habits of the disenfranchised youth of “Great” Britain) now seen as a badge of honour for the tracksuited young people.

If you think about it, Britain used to be the centre of the world. Then the empire crumbled with the American civil war, Indian resistance, and independence across formerly British outposts in Africa . All of these places are now more exciting places to live. With the exception of Africa’s third world and the poorer parts of the sub-continent, their industry and infrastructure are superior to the United Kingdom . Britain seems to rely on imported goods, particularly food, electrical goods and clothing. I don’t have their current trade figures, but their reliance on China and America as providers of the majority of consumer goods and America for the majority of its culture. American TV dominates British TV schedules. Hip hop, rap and American rock dominates the charts and iPod downloads.

Britain taught the world how to play sport at the end of the 19^th century. Now the world beats them at everything. The English cricket team were annihilated in the recent West Indies tour. The rugby teams now play second fiddle to the southern hemisphere superpowers of South Africa , Australia and New Zealand . There hasn’t been a British grand slam tennis winner since the 1970s and I can’t name any British boxing world champions apart since Ricky Hatton lost to Floyd Mayweather. Grand prix racing seems to be one of the few sports to have a British champion, although Lewis Hamilton lives in Switzerland for tax reasons. The last bastion of Britishness, football, has been sold off to the highest bidder – the Premier League rights to the Australian, Rupert Murdoch’s Sky/Fox media group and its top clubs to Americans (Manchester United – Glazer family, Liverpool – Tom Gilette, Tom Hicks, Arsenal – Stan Kroenke and Aston Villa – Randy Learner).

Politically, Britain has long been seen, definitely internally, nut now on a world stage as America ’s lap dog with Tony Blair’s cosy relationship with George W Bush a national disgrace. Prime Minister Gordon Brown claimed the special relationship was over and then continued to pander to Presidents Bush and Obama. England is a nation in disarray. It’s economy has collapsed under the strain of the sub-prime lending and short selling which followed. Scotland ’s parliament building at Hollyrood came in over 1000% over budget and is a source of infighting and bickering which would only rival Northern Ireland , if its parliament wasn’t such an embarrassment. Recently the Democratic Unionist Party’s Iris Robinson claimed that homosexuals are possessed by demons and psychiatric counselling would stop them engaging in the ungodly activity. The same party’s Sammy Wilson, Minister for the Environment, said that Global Warming is nonsense – there are no power plants on Mars was his reasoning even saying "Reasoned debate must replace the scaremongering of the green climate alarmists." He stated that "Resources should be used to adapt to the consequences of climate change, rather than King Canute-style vainly trying to stop it." The principality of Wales has in ruin since heavy industry was all but closed down in the 60s and 70s. All the mines have now closed and unemployment is higher than the UK average. Immigration has spiraled out of control with eastern Europeans and west Africans flocked to the UK for free medical care and benefits.The UK is not a nice place to live. The weather is atrocious and the food is unhealthy. The average person is obese and on the verge of diabetes. The national diet contributes to the highest rate of heart disease in the world, particularly in Scotland where everything is deep fried, including Mars Bars and it has taken campaigns by the latest reality TV spawn – celebrity chefs, to improve children’s school dinners.

It is time Britain realised it is no longer great.

Australia's sporting role models

Hardly a day passes here in Oz when professional athletes’ social lives are not called into question. Australia ’s main sport, it may surprise you, is rugby league. It has a passionate following, only matched by its Victorian ratings rival, Australian Rules football. Rugby league for the uninitiated is similar to gridiron - each team has six attempts to run the ball forward until they are tackled or score a try, awarding them with four points. They then get to kick at goal, a huge capital H, for two extra points. It is an impressive game to watch for the sheer size of the players. No protective armour is worn, although helmets have started appearing in recent years. It is an extremely aggressive game, but also very skillful with speed, technique, tactical kicking, footwork and power all key attributes of successful teams. It is also a hugely parochial game, where sides represent their communities. It hasn’t lost its appeal to the man in the street, as football (soccer) has recently with ridiculous wages and players swanning around with stupid haircuts, driving Ferraris and Lamborghinis.

Aussie Rules is an ancient game, more akin to Gaelic Football. It was brought her in the early 19^th century by Irish immigrants wanting to play football under GAA rules. They didn’t have any land, so played on cricket pitches in the cricket off-season; hence the huge oval pitches which remain today. Six points are scored for a kick between tall uprights and three points for a kick between the main and outside posts. Aussie Rules is a extremely physical game. Players are tremendously aggressive and seem to use any means to catch the ball, to call a mark and get a free kick. Otherwise it’s just a free for all. One thing that sets Aussie Rules aside from other sports is the playing uniform. All teams play in tight fitting short shorts and skin tight vests. Traditionally, the players had long mullets, now they have the uniform skin head. It is a terrifying sport to watch and is famous for not having a red card rule for sending over aggressive players from the field of play. Indeed, Monday morning sports bulletins often lead with news of players being ‘sighted’ and banned after the match for blatant punches, kicks, gouging and common assaults on opponents. The Sydney Swans star player Barry Hall, a part time boxer, laid one of his opponents out cold with a single blow last season, in front of TV cameras.

As I have covered in an earlier blog, last season’s Premiers and reigning world champions, the Manly Sea Eagles, my local team, had two players make the front pages after their season launch with the sponsors. Both were alcohol related. Anthony Watmough had an altercation with a sponsor and ended up punching him in the face and star player Brett Stewart was refused service at the Manly Hotel for being too drunk and was arrested later the same night and charged with $sexual assault of a 17 year old neighbour. Since then half a dozen league players have been banned by their clubs for breaking curfews, violating alcohol bans and in Brett Stephenson’s case, being so drunk, he was unable to stand, but was caught on a fan’s camera phone staggering up a street with a girl, bouncing off shop windows before collapsing in the gutter. This year’s rookie to watch Jamal Idris of the Western Bulldogs enjoyed a terrific first three games, scoring several tries, before being involved in a public punch up with team mate Ban Barba. Sydney Roosters stars Nate Myles and Willie Mason violated a club alcohol ban and were dropped for this week’s round of fixtures. The list goes on and on and on. Public appeals from broadcasters and celebrity fans have gone unheeded. Aussie Rules (AFL) stars have been videoed jumping on cars and urinating in public. Ben Cousins, the most famous player was banned from the sport last year after going on alcohol and cocaine binges. He was arrested and has since been given a reprieve and returned to play for Richmond Tigers, on a strict drug testing regime. The photograph of his arrest became an iconic image. He is being led away from his car by a policeman, shirtless, muscles bulging with the famous Ned Kelly quote “Such is Life” tattooed across his stomach. You wonder if he really cares or sees arrest as an occupational hazard.

Both Aussie Rules and rugby league are insular sports with news only really interesting Australians and their kiwi cousins across the ditch in New Zealand . I was made aware of a similar campaign to use sports stars as role models last week; this time in Scotland . If you don’t know, Scotland is undergoing severe challenges in its inner city with heroin and alcohol abuse reaching record levels. Underage alcohol diseases, including cirrhosis of the liver becoming a serious issue for under-18s. A nationwide binge drinking campaign was launched in the Scottish press. Then last week, two of Scotland ’s biggest football stars Barry Ferguson and Alan McGregor dropped the biggest clanger imaginable. Both are infamous for clashing with authority and again fell out with national team coach George Burley. They were told they would be dropped for the match with Finland last Wednesday and following the flight in from Amsterdam following a 3-nil defeat to the Netherlands , travelled with the rest of the squad to the team training base at a hotel in Loch Lomond. The team management allowed the team to have a few drinks before going to bed. Ferguson, the team captain and McGregor his club mate at Glasgow Rangers stayed up all night drinking and were found the next day by guests arriving for lunch….still drinking! They travelled to the match with the rest of the team, but were excluded from the playing squad, sitting in team tracksuits, behind the substitutes. Then, as the cameras arrived they slid the fingers up the side of their faces, giving the V sign to the viewing public. To say this was seen as immature would be the understatement of the century! Both players were banned from representing their country again and fined two weeks’ wages by Rangers. Can athletes be seen as role models? Not on this evidence.

Thai whisky, underground Viet Cong tunnels and the biggest adventure of my life

If you followed my travels in an earlier posting I made about my Australian genesis, incorporating my travels from London, through the Thai jungle near the Myanmar border where I lived with native Karen tribes in their village, on to Cambodia where I marvelled at the ancient temples of Angkor Wat, through Vietnam where I visited Agent Orange victims in their workshops and squeezed through the underground tunnels used by the Viet Cong in Cu Chi. I dived with turtles of the coast of Ao Nang and snorkelled with angel fish shoals. I got sea sick on a clapped out speed boat miles off the coast of James Bond island, swung from ropes tied on to rickety bamboo platforms 20 metres above the raging Mekong river in Laos and most importantly scored four goals for the rest of the world team against the Pakse village side in a 9-6 barefoot soccer match on a dirt pitch which had an open sewer meandering across the halfway line. I ate octopus, frog, deep fried crickets, snake and ‘mystery meat on a skewer’. I trekked through jungles and bathed under waterfalls. Drank sang-sum buckets (an extremely potent cocktail which mixes Thai extra strength Red Bull syrup with coca-cola and Thai whisky served in a child’s sand bucket and drunk through a straw) with British, French and German backpackers in a Rasta bar, only drawing the line to new experience when the Thai guides started offering pure opium round the group! All this intense exotica pales into significance with what happened on arrival in Balmain, an inner west suburb of Sydney .

 

My girlfriend and I had travelled down the east coast of Australia visiting obscure towns on the way, and living out of a camper van for a month. This really is the promised land! The beaches are incredible with clean sands and warm oceans. The strength of the waves crashing onto the shore and scale of the sea makes you realise how insignificant you are in comparison to what else it out there. We were that far removed from city life at this point that the stars are as bright as spot lights, winking from the heavens. There is no light pollution or smog up in Queensland . We traced the coastline, roving through banana and pineapple plantations. As we neared Sydney and civilisation, my anticipation grew of what would meet me. I can clearly remember trundling down the Pittwater Road from the northern beaches where we now live and coming round the corner from Neutral Bay to lay eyes on Sydney Harbour Bridge for the first time. It was like driving onto a film set: the bridge arcing into the vast cityscape with the Opera House crouched down to the left framing the skyscrapers in between with ferries delivering commuters like bees buzzing between full blooms.

 

We crossed the Anzac Bridge and drove into the hiving suburb of Balmain, parking up on the harbour side, fizzing with excitement. We had completed our journey which started at the end of June, almost three months and eight countries ago.

 

I couldn’t wait to explore the city and was eager to wet my dry throat and the many bars which beckoned me in with the promise of ice cold XXXX, Pure Blonde, Carlton Draught and Tooheys. I had a whole new drinks menu to sample. We got a bite to eat and picked up the essentials. I had always gone by the old adage that the best way to get to know a new place is to get a drink, buy the local newspaper and see what is going on below the headlines. I pinned a couple of longnecks and leafed through the Sydney Morning Herald and turned to ask my girlfriend what a Bogan was only to find her slumped in a coma like stupor. I shook her awake and she cast her eye around the room. Only minutes had passed and she felt like she had been in the deepest of sleeps. We wrote it off to the huge amount of driving we had taken and went to bed.

 

The next night the same thing happened, during the 7 o’clock evening news and the night after that. We were apartment hunting and had another hectic day running round looking for business suits, recruitment agents and ferry timetables. I was now recovered from the travels and had my business head back on, eager to find gainful employment and through myself into the Sydney life. My girlfriend was still conking out early evening, leaving me to watch TV shows about celebrities I didn’t know and news reports places I hadn’t heard of. We finally decided that she should visit a doctor to see what was wrong. We had secured an apartment or unit as they are called here in a modern building with a swimming pool, gym and sauna. I was living the dream. I had heard back from several companies who were eager to meet me regarding job offers. I had even arranged to meet someone from Northern Ireland who had offered to show me round and who shared my passion for football. My girlfriend’s phone rang. It was a Friday afternoon. The voice on the other end introduced herself as the doctor’s receptionist. The doctor had finished early for the weekend, but he had left a message to say, Yes you are pregnant. That was the first day of the biggest adventure of our lives.

Tsunami Part 2 - New York at risk of mega tsunami

When I was asked where I wanted to live, if money and visas were no object, I had two places in mind, Sydney or New York. I have been to New York three times. Once in my late teens when I stayed on Times Square in a wonderful hotel with my best mate from school. We staggered around Manhattan, our jaws scraping the sidewalk in awe of the incredible people, buildings, cultural references and settings straight out of our television. I was amazed by the scale, the sights, the smell and the deafening 24 hour noise - sirens, horns, shouting in various tongues and rattling air conditioning units. I loved every minute of it. It was like living in a Scorcese movie. I kept expecting de Niro to walk round the corner.

I went back when my dad retired and took the whole family. I loved it again and saw lots of new sights. I returned for a third time in 2004 to coach field hockey for a few weeks at a high school and play a few friendlies with the Rye Club up in the Bronx. I spent some time in Jersey City and a couple of weeks sight seeing in Manhattan. I love the city, but I don't know how anyone holds down a job. There is so much going on, work would get in the way. It's so vibrant and so full of life. My third visit was difficult as it was the only one I had made since 9/11.

One night after a narrow victory over Greenwich Field Hockey we went out to a Hungarian bar in the Bronx, on to club in Chelsea, on to a late night jazz club in the Village, where we managed to see a string of stars who had high tailed it from an awards ceremony in Queens. The crowd went wild, but none of us knew who anyone was! One of the ladies liked my accent and bought my drinks and danced with me for a while. I have absolutely no idea who she was. She thought I was a European ice hockey star, so I didn't want to disappoint her. Drink and tiredness got the better of me and before I could say goodbye I was whisked down a steep flight of stairs by  my team mates and into the fresh air. We purloined one of the stretch limos that had just dropped more stars off. The driver said he had finished his shift, but seeing as he was Irish (he looked more Nigerian!) he would drive us back to Jersey and stop off to get more drinks for us at a Korean drugstore, if we didn't mind the untidyness in the limo. The entire team piled into the back and out of the sunroof. It was now going on for 4 in the morning, but we soon livened up when the champagne came out. Our new driver friend took us up 5th Avenue, showed us the Empire State Building, Wall Street, Mayor Gulliani's offices and then pulled up at a large fence with a bull statue and informed us that this was Ground Zero. There were large arch lights and flowers and pictures of lost loved ones pinned to the fence. I sobered up immediately. Some of the guys wanted their photo taken on top of the bull. I felt very uncomfortable and wanted to leave immediately. I don't know why I had developed such a bond with the city.

Several months later, I was at home in Belfast and was flicking through the channels when a documentary came on about volcanoes and Gran Canaria came up. I had just come back from Gran Canraia on holiday with a group of friends and had climbed Cumbre Vieja and was astounded at its scale. What came next in the documentary sent a chill up my spine. I was aware that Cumbre Vieja was dormant, but not extinct..... It appears that the Canary Islands, off the north west coast of Africa were formed after siesmic shifts and volcanic eruptions created the islands. A scientist was talking about stratovolcanoes and the prediction of mega tsunami. The scientist had lots of letters after his name as well as being a Professor of something I couldn't understand. He was explaining his model following the generation of mega tsunami from massive flank collapses of the Cumbre Vieja volcano on the island of La Palma and of the volcano of Kilauea, on the island of Hawaii. The Professor speculated as to whether the volcanoes at La Palma and Kilauea would erupt, destroying the islands, causing the entire landmass to fall into the ocean, if this were to occur in the near future and whether they could generate mega tsunamis. They would and the enormous tidal waves created would travel across the Atlantic at tremendous speed and slam into the Carribean and up to 20 kilometres inland on the East Coast if America. AND THERE'S NOTHING ANYONE CAN DO ABOUT IT.

Tsunami: Part 1 - Tongan subterranean earthquake and the ghost tsunami

California is long overdue "the big one". The predicted super-earthquake which may break the record for most catastrophic earthquake, currently held by Valdivia, Chile in 1960 which peaked at 9.5. Going back to Boxing Day 2004, the Sumatran subterraean earthquake measured 9.3 on the richter scale and caused massive devestation. Just yesterday, a major 7.9-magnitude earthquake shook the South Pacific nation of Tonga, prompting a tsunami warning but causing no major damage. The quake, which hit at 7.17am local time, was centred 210km south-southeast of the Tongan capital Nuku'alofa. An undersea volcano is erupting near Tonga, shooting smoke and ash hundreds of metres into the sky above the south Pacific Ocean. Check out the photos online. It is incredible. The US Pacific Tsunami Warning Centre issued a tsunami warning for Tonga, Niue, the Kermadec Islands, American Samoa and Fiji, but lifted it nearly two hours after the quake struck. In Fiji , the authorities warned people in coastal areas to move to higher ground and schools along the coast were closed. Many businesses and government offices stayed closed until after the warning was lifted. In New Zealand , the Ministry of Civil Defence also issued a tsunami advisory for all coastal regions soon after the earthquake. But the tsunami warning was lifted after there were no reports of any significant rise in sea levels. The warning centre said after cancelling the tsunami alert that only a minor rise in sea level of around four centimetres was recorded by sea level gauges in the South Pacific nation of Niue .

I won't even being to try and explain why there wasn't widespread devestation from this quake, but what I do know is that....we could be next. Sydney WILL be hit by a massive tsunami. It's just a case of when. I work on the 32nd floor of Chifley Tower, but the Harbour Bridge, the transport infrastructures and most businesses would be wiped out. Obviously, being a harbour city, the most beautiful I have seen, is at sea level. One major quake, and this is very possible as tectonic plates rub just off the north east coast of New Zealand's north island and a huge tsunami would wipe out most of the Eastern seaboard. Thankfully I don't live right on the beach, but up a bit of a hill about five minutes walk inland. I could have a nice seaside view if things were to go badly wrong.