Sure its the simple things in life we miss the most

G’Day Ballyclare!

I trust that this week’s instalment finds you all well and good, enjoying life to the full and perhaps even luxuriating in your winnings from the recent Grand National. I trust that you are because, I most certainly am not - but more about that later.

Before I go any further, I would like to take this fortunate opportunity that I find myself in to (ab)use this wee corner of The Ballyclare Gazette and send a heartfelt congratulations to Jamesie Kirk and all associated with Ballyclare Comrades FC on their recent promotion as champions of the Irish League Second Division.

Having watched “The Dixon Aces” since the age of ten and continued to watch them home and away for pretty much the next 15 years, with the occasional cameo appearance at The End of The Field ever since, I think I’m allowed to indulge in some of the glory that Dixon Park is revelling in at the moment.

Well done guys and I look forward to “Walking down the Doagh Road to see the Dixon Aces” sometime soon!

Also, special thanks must go to the official website

www.ballyclarecomrades.co.uk for its provision of a more than able medium for me to share in the ups and downs of my beloved home town club. I look forward to following the wee reds next season as an avid reader of this excellent website.

OK – thanks for letting me get that off my chest and now on with the rest of the article…

Having just been granted an official visa to legally live, work, rest and play in Australia for up to four years, today is a quite monumental occasion for me and as a result, has provided me with my inspiration for this week’s article - along with the Grand National of course.

Ah yes – the Grand National.

Let’s get one thing straight from the start here – I am not a horse-racing expert. Yes, I take the very occasional flutter on the gee gees but to be honest, with a distinct lack of knowledge in this field, I always feel that I am just handing money across the counter to a more than willing recipient.

But what is it about the world’s greatest steeplechase that has me thinking that I’m able to fool the bookies “just this once”? A race that any person in the know will happily tell you amounts to nothing more than a lottery on four legs?

I spend hours pouring over form guides, 5-day weather forecasts and expert opinions, convincing myself that this year – this year, I’ll have it sussed. Yet every year, without fail, I end up a loser – save, of course, for the year that Red Marauder (chosen after the aforementioned Ballyclare Comrades) won. All be it in a race with only a handful of finishers.

That year was spent watching the race from my apartment in Belgium – and talking to my mum back home on the phone for its entire duration – both of us opting to watch the race at home alone rather than watch it in the hustle and bustle of a pub. Quite a surreal Grand National but an enjoyable one nonetheless and with the obvious added bonus of a Grand National Win thrown in for good measure.

Oh but it all seems so far and distant now – especially after yet another Grand National loss. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, just to further rub salt into an already open and gaping wound, my better half – enjoying her first Grand National bet EVER ‘romped’ home with an each way bet on Mckelvey.

Believe me, I’m sure I haven’t heard the last of that one…

So just how exactly does getting my Australian ‘457’ visa and losing on the Grand National have enough in common with each other to provide me with this week’s topic?

It’s quite simple really – my love of home.

I spent a lot of time and effort, I begged, I pleaded, in order to find somewhere, anywhere, that was showing the Big Race but it wasn’t to be. Not one channel Down Under showed, quite possibly THE biggest horse race of the year. And this, don’t forget, in a country where sport, pubs and gambling all go hand in hand. Many of the bars here even have their own bookies.

On Saturday night, going to an English bar up the road called the Pig ‘n’ Whistle (or the Pig and Chicken as I affectionately refer to it), I chatted with the bar staff to see if they were showing it. The staff, including a Northern Irishman, an Englishman and a Scotsman (surely there’s a joke there somewhere?), all shared in my disbelief. The remaining Aussies that made up the staff shrugged their shoulders and happily informed us that the Melbourne Cup would provide us with our fix when it comes up on the sporting calendar.

And that’s just it – yes the Aussies love their sport and with a passion that is admirable but as soon as Australia or Australians aren’t involved, they don’t want to know.

Take for example, the time I found myself in Melbourne a few weeks ago, with my time there coinciding with The World Swimming Championships being held in the same city.

Everyone knows that swimming is for the Aussies and the Yanks.

Everyone knows that, save for the occasional Duncan Goodhew, David Wilkie and a certain Irish female swimmer who is best left confined to the annals of history as the drug-taking cheat that she was, the world’s best swimmers hail from either of these two countries. There’s just not that much competition from anywhere else.

However, in spite of this procession of races, on my way to meet up with a mate in a pub at the main square in Melbourne for an after-work drink, I was amazed to see that a giant 300 square metre outdoor screen was erected so that people could watch events unfold from a stadium that was less than 10 minutes walk away.

Incidentally, the stadium was The Rod Laver Tennis Stadium – they had simply constructed an Olympic size swimming pool on the Centre Court. That’s how nuts about sport these people are.

Every single Cricket World Cup match is broadcast live in its entirety from the West Indies. These games start at midnight, local time.

So, resigned to not seeing the Grand National live at the ungodly hour of two in the morning, I planned to phone home and catch some of the action through the tried and trusted method of a Phone Call with Mother.

However, after going home to watch a DVD with Krissy, the two of us promptly fell asleep and missed everything – the end of the movie, the result of the Grand National – everything. As things turned out – with my horses not even finishing and with rumours of them being taken to the nearest glue factory at the soonest opportune moment, I missed nothing.

But that’s not the point - this year’s Grand National may as well have taken place in the outer reaches of The Milky Way, for all the coverage of it there was down here.

This brings me nicely to my next point – the granting of my Australian 457 visa, the news of which I heard from the company accountant today. Upon bestowing me with this news, he asked me about what my plans were for the future. Did I want to stay in Australia? Would I be happy with living here forever? After all, he couldn’t see himself living so far away from home.

And of course the answer to this is no.

Things are undoubtedly trickier now and I mean more than just tricky as in “both mothers reaching for the valium at the prospect of their children having fallen in love with someone from the other side of the world”

I miss my family, I miss my friends. These things go without saying but say it I shall. I MISS YOU ALL A LOT.

But it’s much more than that. It runs much deeper than that.

Of course, it is a fantastic experience for me to be living in Australia and I am in a very privileged position to be able to do so but that doesn’t mean to say that my life is any better down here and in fact, in many ways it isn’t.

So, in no particular order, these are some of the things that I have been missing since taking the plunge to move Down Under:

I miss giving my Nana a wee hug and telling her that I love her
I miss the famous “kitchen session” at my mums where the drink runs freely and the tongues run even more so
I miss standing at the bar enjoying the banter with my father, my brothers and all the other clowns (and you know who you are) that make my returns to Ballyclare so enjoyable
Speaking of which, I miss the sense of humour. The acerbic and caustic wit which at times requires Teflon-covered skin to deal with and gets me into a lot of trouble when I try to use it down here
I miss walking down Ballyclare Main Street and seeing all the familiar faces. A town where people will still look you in the eye and say a cheery hello as they pass.
I miss the scenery, the countryside, the Sixmilewater, The Antrim Coast, the Giants Causeway, Slemish, the Glens of Antrim, Tardree Forest, the Collin, the list is endless
I miss my brothers and my sisters whose company I really enjoy and treasure
I miss my nephew and being able to say that he is growing up before my very eyes
I miss Easter Monday with The Black Clan – a wonderful family institution that I hope will remain forever.
I miss Christmas and the special time that it is for the family and I
I miss being able to go to the pub to watch football at a reasonable hour and seeing the Dixon Aces getting crowned champions!

I’d better stop, before I depress myself too much but I guess what I’m trying to say is that I miss Ballyclare and all it stands for. Of course it’s my own fault that I’m down here and so far from home and I’m certainly not expecting any sympathy. I feel fortunate to have been able to travel and see a bit of the world and always with the encouragement of my family.

I just want everyone to know that the town of Ballyclare is a great wee place to be proud of. Warts and all and I CANNOT WAIT to get back there in a few short weeks time.

Take care of each other and I’ll try not to get so sentimental next week!


BTW – if any of you have any feedback or want to get in touch with a wee fella from Ballyclare who feels the occasional bout of homesickness I’d be glad to hear from you. You can email me at JonnyBlackDownUnder@Gmail.com

For more of my ramblings, you may be interested in going to my websites http://www.BelgiumIsBoring.blogspot.com and http://www.AustraliaIsOz-Some.blogspot.com (I’ll hopefully be adding more to this website once I get internet connection sorted out at home)

A spoonful of Maryborough is more than enough!

G’Day Folks!

I trust you all had a pleasant Easter break and quite possibly, just like me, are struggling to rejoin the normal day-to-day existence of work, rest and very little play.

With the obvious exception of Christmas, there is no time of year that brings it home to me just how far away from home I find myself at these important family occasions.

Admittedly, it has been a while since I last made it home for Easter, which is a shame, considering the importance of it in my father’s family’s calendar.

For a few decades now it has been the norm for the clan to take a convoy of cars to the Mountains of Mourne, where the quite spectacular surrounds of Tullamore Forest Park would play host to our family’s high-spirited but totally innocent antics. With a family picnic, forest walks, painted egg competitions, football, games of rounders and the annual favourite, throwing Uncle JB in the duck pond being the highlights.

Meeting at The Square Car Park in Ballyclare on Easter Monday morning, we would never be quite sure of just how many cars would be making the trip and over the years, numbers would swell and numbers would dwindle but the format always remained the same, with the convoy setting off at 10:00am to start our annual Easter Excursion.

Despite living in England and then Belgium, I tried my best to make it over for the festivities but unfortunately money and time constraints started to take their toll. As a result, the Easter trip home regrettably fell by the wayside in my own calendar over the last 4 years.

I can only say that I was always there in spirit, if not in mind.

This year, of course, things are a different kettle of fish altogether as I find myself on the other side of the world and what with travelling at the speed of light still only possible in mankind’s fervent imagination, not having a Scotty to “beam me up” nor my own supersonic jet at my disposal, I was resigned to an Easter far, far away from home.

So what to do?

With there being a worrying lack of Bank Holidays in the Australian calendar, coupled with the fact that Easter weekend Down Under means that both the Friday and Monday are national holidays, Krissy and I were determined that we’d try and make the most of it.

However, considering that the majority of our budget went on purchasing our tickets for our trip back up to Northern Ireland later in year, we were going to have to do things on a shoestring. Also, true to form for the pair of us, we had left things to the last minute to organise anything.

Thankfully, Krissy used her executive assistant skills (and not to mention more than a little of the company’s time) to ensure that we at least had the bare bones of a plan to follow.

We decided that we would use the opportunity to go on a road trip of approximately 600 miles to explore a tiny fraction of this huge, vast, country - heading north as far as a town with the rather strange name of 1770; getting its name from the year that Captain Cook landed there. From 1770, we would take a boat cruise to Lady Musgrave Island at the southernmost tip of the Great Barrier Reef.

Exciting stuff I’m sure you would all agree and it was with great anticipation and bags packed that we headed north on the Thursday evening after work. To break up the drive (Lord knows I’ve been doing enough of that lately with my 4-hour commute each day), we decided that the first night would be spent in a town called Maryborough, about 2 hours north of our home on the Sunshine Coast.

Admittedly, I knew nothing about Maryborough but then again, this could be said about almost all of Australia and as Krissy had never been there either it mean that we would be both be exploring unknown territory. Krissy did, however, express some reservations, saying that as a rather remote township, it might be a “bit rough”.

Having spent many a drunken night in Ballyclare, I felt more than equipped to deal with whatever Maryborough could throw at us. I certainly wasn’t expecting to be dealing with the drunken insults, surly bar staff and opportunistic taxi drivers that were to follow.

Having checked into a lovely, wee cabin in a holiday park for the princely sum of 50 AUD per night (around 20 pounds in real money) we headed to the Lamington Hotel across the street around 21:30. The term ‘hotel’ in Australia can mean a variety of things such as a hotel, a pub, a pub and a hotel or in this case, a bar populated by half a dozen drunken, rowdy, inbred half-wits.

As we crossed the street, we could already hear them shouting at each other and the two of us exchanged nervous glances. I reassured my loved one that everything would be OK and if not, sure we’d get a taxi on into town to the Post Office – which was not a post office but rather the hub of the Maryborough nightlife – or so we had been reliably informed, admittedly by people from Maryborough.

Taking a deep breath, the two of us had barely stepped across the threshold before all conversation had stopped and everyone turned to look at us. Giving a courteous nod to everyone, we approached the bar, trying our best to blend in.

“Where are you guys from?” enquired a young fellow in his twenties with blonde hair and a terrible affliction that caused him to drool and speak incoherently. Or perhaps he was just very, very drunk. I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt, I really would, but trust me – you had to be there.

“I’m from Northern Ireland,” I proudly announced.

“And what about your lovely girlfriend?”

To be fair, the exclusively-male clientele seemed to be more interested in Krissy than the altogether more windswept and interesting Northern Irishman from Ballyclare. Strange that, eh?!

Politely explaining to them, who we were, where we’d come from, and that we were in their hometown for vacation, we ordered our drinks and hoped for a little peace and quiet on the start of our Easter break but it wasn’t to be so.

Pulling his chair over, Blondie introduced himself as “Bretto” and proceeded to say how gorgeous Krissy was, ask if he could kiss her (sacrificing a kiss from me if he could), asking me what I thought of the IRA, if we thought he was gay (to which I responded with the hilarious “no, but I think your boyfriend is” which got a rather put out “I’m not his boyfriend, I’m his brother!” addition to the conversation from the even more drunk guy sitting next to him), asking his opinion on whether he should get his girlfriend (who he had met the previous night) to sign a pre-nuptial agreement because he was a home-owner and then telling us that he had once won 1000 dollars at a Prince William look-alike competition.

Honestly you just can’t make this stuff up.

I have to admit to laughing out loud at that one, with the only similarities that I could see were they are both tall with blond hair and that all their limbs are intact. Upon seeing my reaction he proceeded to plead with us to believe his story, which of course we both did, it seemed perfectly plausible that this was the sort of thing people in the area did to get their rocks off at the weekend.

And all of this repeatedly punctuated by some pretty awful swearing – and I don’t mean awful as in he wasn’t any good at it.

Proudly informing him that I was writing a weekly column for my local newspaper back home (and believe me – he is not the first person that I have shared this with) his dazed eyes and somnambular demeanour suddenly lifted, with him inviting us over to his house the next day to show us the paper cuttings to prove it.

Politely declining, and with a surprising but nonetheless extremely welcome early last orders being called, we used the opportunity to call a taxi and leave the establishment for the bright lights of the Post Office. Surely it had to be better than the Lamington.

With a huge sigh of relief, we entered our next Maryborough drinking den but the sigh quickly turned to a groan as we surveyed the scene.

Far from being the hive of activity that we had been hoping for, we were treated to a bar with about four times as many drunken eejits as the Lamington. Normally, the fact that there were a few females thrown in for good measure would be at least some cause for hope but not in this case. Once more folks, I’m asking you to trust me on this one. If ever a place could have done with a bit of soft lighting, this was it.

Unfortunately it was, quite possibly, the brightest bar I’ve ever been in and once more we were treated by many of the locals to drunken leers/stares (depending if you were Krissy or I.)

Without boring you with too many more details, the rude Maori barman and the aggressive doormen were the icing on the cake for us. It was time to cut our losses, drink up and head back for the safe haven of the cabin for some drinks and card games. We’d had enough.

Returning to our base for the evening and relieved to have gotten back in one piece and without too much hassle, we started to read up on Maryborough to see if there was anything that could save the township and hopefully provide us with something interesting to do the following day. Especially considering that it was Good Friday and that all the Japanese Torture Establishments were going to be shut…

Rather unbelievably, help was just around the corner in the quite unexpected guise of Mary Poppins, or at least, her creator, a certain P.L. Travers who was born in Maryborough in 1899. (The “Mary” coming from the Mary River that runs through the town.)

But it got even better.

It all seemed too surreal and too good to be true after our first taste of Maryborough life but according to the Maryborough Magazine, we discovered that its residents are officially the happiest in Australia, according to a leading national study by a university that found Maryborough to have the highest levels of national well-being.

With spirits suitably raised, we excitedly made our plans for the following day. Looking forward to a walk around the town, taking in such sights as the Town Hall Green, the Botanical Gardens, the bronze statue of Mary Poppins, the City Hall, the Cenotaph and Memorial Gates, the Band Rotunda and Fairy Fountain, the bollards depicting caricatures of a family of immigrants landing at the port of Maryborough in the 1860’s, the list went on.

Incredibly, thanks to this little booklet with the slogan “Maryborough – Start Here”, the town had been transformed from the nasty, booze-filled, unwelcoming red-neck town that we had just experienced, to a charming, pleasant, quaint, historic town which should be on everyone’s Must See Places on an Easter Weekend Road Trip.

And then I spied the write up on the Post Office that we had practically ran out of an hour previously:
“The ‘PO’ as it is affectionately known, stands on a prominent corner opposite the city’s Post Office.
A pub popular with all ages, it’s renowned for its great atmosphere and friendly service…the prefect spot to relax, enjoy a cold drink and watch time pass on the historic clock tower over the road”

The same clock tower that we had been watching earlier praying for the quick arrival of our taxi. It just goes to show the power of the printed word!

I am pleased to report that the following morning was spent taking a relaxing walk in the 30 degree heat around what I can quite honestly say, is a lovely town. A town that is kept in immaculate order, with everything clean, spotless and tidy. Picture-postcard perfect even, with the surrounding architecture providing wonderful examples of “Old Queenslanders” – wooden buildings raised on stilts, so as to assist with the cooling down of the contents within.

As a rather interesting twist on the standard tourist attraction, the Town Hall Green offers several etchings of characters from Mary Poppins which, by placing paper on them and rubbing with a charcoal pencil, allows children and adults alike to take home a personal treasure with them, to remember their trip to Maryborough long after they have left.

Unfortunately, with the local paper and charcoal pencil establishment being closed for the holidays, we made our way back to the car, our lasting impression of Maryborough repaired beyond belief.

Is there a moral to this story? Perhaps there is. All I know is that I have very mixed but ultimately fond memories of the town of Maryborough and my time spent there with Krissy will forever stay in the memory.

Even though boat cruises where cancelled due to weather conditions, ensuring that we didn’t make it to the Great Barrier Reef, the rest of the weekend was spent having a fantastic time exploring further, lounging at the lovely beach of Bargara, taking in the delights of Bundaberg with its famous dark rum distillery and generally exploring the unknown in this country full of unknown with the woman that I love.


Of course, it certainly wasn’t Tullamore Forest Park, with the beautiful mountains of Mourne in the background and the family getting up to their usual carry-on, but there’s always next year…

In loving memory of Uncle JB, Auntie Iris and Gran.
You’re missed more than ever.

Fair dinkum - that bloke in his thongs and budgie smugglers looks a right state!

Erm, well - I guess this guy doesn't.

Before I go on, please let it be said that I make no apoligies for trying to make this website more female friendly. Too much talk of boozing it up and football can make for a very boring read!

Anyway - on with the next installment...

After making the decision to leave Belgium for Australia and in turn move so much further away from Ballyclare, one of the comforting things that I clung to was that I would be moving to a country where English was the native language.

Now don’t get me wrong – our Flemish cousins put most of the world to shame, boasting at least three languages in their linguistic repertoire, with English and French sitting comfortably with their native Flemish, a version of Dutch. In fact, many Flemish that I know are also equally at ease chatting away in German as well as Italian or Spanish.

It truly is impressive and on many an occasion it had me wishing that I had paid more attention in “Big Jim” Wilson’s French class during my days at Ballyclare High School.

But whilst it’s all well and good being able to converse in so many languages, it can leave them a little too literal in their conversations and their way of thinking, with them sometimes missing out completely on the finer nuances of our lovely language.

Or perhaps it was just that my Ballyclare accent didn’t travel as well as I’d hoped.

However, having lived Down Under for a few months now, I can quite honestly say that the Belgians are a lot easier to understand than some of the locals around here – and that’s when the Belgians were speaking in their native Flemish…

Now of course, the language of Ballyclare and its surrounds uses a colourful turn of phrase of its own, with much use of slang and colloquialisms but some of the stuff that I’ve heard people saying down here has had me pulling my hair out.

Take, for example, a conversation that I found myself ‘participating’ in, during one of my first nights in Australia sitting in the car with my better half at a set of traffic lights.

“Before we go to the bottle-o and sevsa, we should stop off at a servo for some petty” I unbelievingly heard her say.

I glanced worriedly over at her to make sure that she hadn’t been possessed by some strange demon, was speaking in tongues or indeed had some kind of mental breakdown.

“What’s wrong?” she enquired, no doubt concerned by my look of utter bemusement.
“What did you just say?”
“Which bit?”
“Ehm, all of it - was that supposed to be English?”
“Of course it was – I said ‘Before we go to the bottle-o and sevsa, we should stop off at a servo for some petty’”
“That’s what I thought you said. So what on earth are you talking about?”

Seeing my predicament, she then proceeded to go into great detail to explain to me that what she had just said was a suggestion that before we went to the off-license (bottle-o) and 7-11 store (sevsa) that we should stop off at the service station (servo) for some petrol (petty).

Easy enough - if you understand complete gibberish, that is.

And it hasn’t stopped there.
Almost every day, I hear words, many of them ludicrous in the extreme, to describe every day things. And this is everywhere. On the television, radio, in the pub – this somewhat relaxed attitude to our great language is prevalent in all walks of Australian society and you can be forgiven for thinking that you’ve walked onto the set of Home and Away and are surrounded by clones of Alf Stewart.

I’m not sure what it is – has all the sunshine and heat started to frazzle their brains? Is there a link to a whole in the ozone layer and reduced capacity to speak properly?

It also seems that nothing is sacred in the Australian search to abbreviate perfectly good words. Take for example ‘fireys’ and ‘ambos’ for firemen and ambulance servicemen. The Salvation Army is referred to as ‘The Salvos’ and ‘rellos’ are your relatives. In fact, it seems that just about anything can be suffixed by the letter ‘o’ and be perfectly acceptable in Australian conversation. ‘Arvo’ is afternoon, ‘Avos’ are avocados, the list is endless.

It can also get quite embarrassing, if you’re not well-versed in the finer details of the Aussie dialect. ‘Thongs’ are not a collection of sexy undergarments as you might think, but rather, the sandals that we would refer to as flip-flops. And when someone refers to being the proud owner of ‘double-plugged thongs’ – well – they just mean that their thongs are less likely to suffer from a ‘blow-out’ (referring to the unfortunate incident were the thongs fall apart during use.)

You can only imagine my surprise when my loved one excitedly informed me for the first time that she would be wearing her thongs to the beach!

Moving swiftly on…

It has to be said that some of the slang that they use I do find extremely entertaining and here are a few prime examples of them that you may like to try out next time you’re stood at the back bar of the Ballyboe waxing lyrical (and you know who you are):

Aquabog: To do to number 2 whilst swimming in the sea
Banana Benders: People who hail from my adopted home of Queensland
Budgie smugglers: men's bathing costumes, Speedos
Cockroach: a person from New South Wales
As dry as a dead dingo's donger: extremely dry (I’ll let you work out ‘donger’ for yourselves)
Drink with the flies: to drink alone
Drop your mates off at the pool: Going to the toilet for number two
Dunny: outside lavatory
Esky: large insulated food/drink container for picnics, barbecues etc.
Fair dinkum: true, genuine
Flat out like a lizard drinking: flat out, busy
Grinning like a shot fox: very happy, smugly satisfied
Grundies: undies, underwear (from Reg Grundy, a television person)
Liquid laugh / Laughing at the Lawn: vomit
Ocker: an unsophisticated person
Raw prawn: someone who is generally disagreeable
Rack off: push off! get lost! get out of here! also "rack off hairy legs!"
Sanger: a sandwich
Spewin': very angry
Sunnies: sunglasses
Ute: utility vehicle, pickup truck (Australia is full of these!)
White pointers: topless (female) sunbathers
Woop Woop: invented name for any small unimportant town - "he lives in Woop Woop" (presumably with Larne in mind)

Anyway – I think you all get the idea.

But I’m happy to report that this cultural exchange of our different dialects is a two-way street with many expressions from back home now becoming part of everyday usage in our household. Expressions like “Catch yerself on”, “Auch, Wind your neck in” and “Wise up, ya eejit” are increasingly perforating our conversations at home. All be it usually with an Aussie inflection and directed at me…

I think it will be a while before I’ll be talking about “sheoughs” or telling her to “houl her whist!”

Til next time Ballyclare.

BTW – thanks for the nice feedback on the articles, especially the kind comments from my fellow columnist. It’s nice to know that I still have such a regular connection, even one as tenuous as this, to my home town that I love so much.

P.S. Nana - you’re postcard is in the post!

St. Patrick's in Brisbane

G’Day Readers!

The dust has settled on my first St. Patrick’s Day Parade and I have lived to tell the tale, so tell it I shall…

Having been brought up on our own 12th of July celebrations from an early age, with my father convincing us kids that everyone was out celebrating his birthday (which shares the same date), I was keen to see how a St. Patrick’s Day parade would fare in comparison and I have to say that all in all the craic was mighty!

Keen to make sure that we saw the parade which kicked off proceedings at the rather antisocial time of ten am on the Saturday morning, we arranged to stay at a friends place, close to Brisbane’s CBD (Central Business District) for the weekend.

The weekend’s celebrations started on the Friday evening with me showing my undoubted affections for the better half in taking her to our first shared live sporting event - watching the National Rugby League season’s opening game at the impressive Suncorp Stadium.

The match was played between last year’s champions the Brisbane Broncos and their “local” rivals, the North Queensland Cowboys, who hail from Townsville, a mere 1000 miles up the road. A trek up to Institute to watch the Comrades doesn’t seem quite so bad, does it?

Unfortunately, our Townsville neighbours didn’t read the script ensuring that ‘we’ lost the game 16-23. Not a great start to the weekend and probably explained why the 50,000 odd spectators in the stadium were pretty quiet for most of proceedings – a far cry from the noise that 14,000 Northern Ireland supporters can make on a wet and windy night at Windsor Park. (Oh - how I miss that!)

Undeterred, the two of us indulged in a few post-match drinks, but we kept things fairly quiet in the knowledge that we’d have to get up in the morning and be in fine form for the Big Day itself.

Waking up at nine, we greeted the world with a “Top of the morning to ye” and donned our green for the day and headed down to Brisbane’s Botanical gardens, the intended destination of the parade.

Having already got into festive spirit with a couple of beers along the way and a spirited conversation with our “descended from Irish” taxi driver, we were dismayed to see that there was nothing going on at the gardens. No beer tents, no music, no dancing. Not even the ubiquitous burger van that is so prevalent in The Field for our 12th of July celebrations. It was as empty as a politicians promise (I thought I’d get that one in now before devolution starts!)

However, the pedestrians that were milling about the area provided a subtle hint of what was to come. Nearly everyone we saw – man, woman and child was wearing green. Silly hats were everywhere, along with leprechaun costumes and fake ginger beards. And that was just the women.

Having myself marched for the past 15 years on the 12th July, I was looking forward to actually watching a parade but seeing as there was nothing to amuse ourselves at the gardens, we did the only other thing that sprung to mind and made a beeline for the closest Irish bar – a place called Gilhooley’s Irish Pub in the middle of the CBD.

It seemed that we weren’t the only ones that had thought to do this, with the bar packed to the rafters with real paddies, plastic paddies and tourists.

I’m still not sure what I qualified as.

Of course, not ones to miss out on a party, there were plenty of Australians enjoying the famous craic as well.

The music was pumping, the drinks were flowing, there was singing and dancing – and all this before ten on a Saturday morning.

Guinness was ordered and between the two of us, we did our best to ‘win’ a couple of Guinness T-shirts, with one given away with every 4 pints of the Black Stuff ordered.

Stood outside and with the temperature already approaching 30 degrees, we mingled with some of the revellers and it wasn’t long before we heard the wonderful sounds of a pipe band approaching.

Vying for a good vantage spot, we settled in for the parade which I’m please to report was a wonderfully eclectic affair. Along with the pipe bands, there were floats, dancers, brass bands, folk musicians, fire engines, steam tractors, big old American cars, rugby teams, basketball players and – erm – a random Aboriginal girl looking like she was having a grand time altogether.

As all the county flags were proudly carried past, I reserved my loudest cheer of the day for the Antrim one much to the amusement of my loved one and annoyance of the bloke stood to my right who got it right in his ears.

Once the hour-long parade had filed past, we joined the throngs of spectators as we followed it back out to the Botanical Gardens. With the day getting hotter, I was amused to see that all the people were huddled under trees, looking for a shady protection from the midday sun – a far cry from what happens on a sunny 12th if we’re lucky enough to get one.

Finding a shady spot under a tree ourselves, we then entertained ourselves by watching the world go by - a very green world of all shapes and sizes and all ages with everyone looking like they were having a great time.

One of the rugby teams that had been on the parade joined forces with a few of the musicians and started up a few songs and everything was going well until a few republican songs entered the performance, which I was dismayed but not at all surprised to hear. Surely everyone can enjoy themselves and celebrate their Irishness without belting out “Ooh, Ahh, Up the RA?”

A bit annoyed at this turn of events, we left the gardens and headed back up to the pub and set our efforts on winning some more paraphernalia from the bars. Even Heineken were getting in on the act by giving away “loudspeaker hats” – hats which extended into loudspeakers. Happy with our collection of a Guinness T-shirt and a Heineken loudspeaker hat, we then went on a short walk to the next port of call, a place called Irish Murphys, were the party began in earnest.

We met lots of people that day, many from Ireland although I’m sorry to say that I didn’t meet anyone with connections to Northern Ireland (or certainly no one that wanted to claim to have any).

Krissy and myself have just booked flights to return to Northern Ireland in time for the Twelfth of July – being 14,000 miles away from home is not going to put this proud Orangeman down and after her first taste of a parade, Krissy is really keen to see how we Orangemen do it.

I know I’ll be doing it with a large grin on my face for I’ll be back home, walking with and waving to friends and family celebrating my Northern Irishness. I can’t wait!

Redland Bay Twinned with Bal'easton?

How are ye Ballyclare?

This week’s (hopefully) riveting instalment comes at youse from a motel room in a wee place called Redland Bay about 40 minutes south east of Brisbane.

Redland Bay itself is around the same size as Bal’easton and to be honest, despite the several time zones and the thousands of miles that separate the two locales, the two could almost be twinned with each other, such is their similarity but more about that later…

As mentioned already, these words are brought to you from my motel room – a modest, somewhat dated yet homely environ which is admittedly not a place that everyone might find to be their preverbal cup of tea.

Yet I love it.

Yes, the room is modestly furnished, with a cream coloured carpet that has been better days, a TV with 8 channels (the four terrible free-to-air Australian channels repeated twice), a bathroom whose décor was probably incredibly funky in the early 70’s but now looks like something out of a holding cell at Guantanamo Bay, an air conditioner whose noise sounds remarkably like a Massey Ferguson tractor labouring through a ploughed field back home in the cold of winter, a wireless which is fully deserved of this old fashioned moniker and a rather uncomfortable bed which comes complete with it’s own mode of transport – a set of castor wheels which means the bed shoots off in random directions any time you so even as look at it.

But of all of this could be considered churlish considering the reasons as to why I am here.

A few weeks ago, I was nothing but your average wide-eyed tourist Down Under, roving around this wonderful great expanse of land with a child-like wonder until… well, until the money ran out basically, the wolves were at the door, last orders were called at the bar, time to call an end to the party. There was nothing else for it…

I Had To Get A Job.

Fortunately, the world is still crying out for IT-nerds and I was able to get a job working for a company based in the Central Business District (CBD) of Brisbane – kind of like the Laganside area of Belfast but without the style.

However, unfortunately for me, the project that they have put me on is with a client that are based almost as far to the south of Brisbane as I am living to the north, resulting in a commute that can be anything up to 2 hours there AND BACK.

Can you imagine?!

With 4 hours of driving each day you could get from Ballyclare to Dublin and back. I don’t think there are many that would do it though. (Answers to the editor please)

Australia is a huge place and considering they are sponsoring my visa to make everything legal for me, there is not a lot I can do with my predicament at the moment – except for breaking up my week with the occasional stop-over in places near to the chicken slaughterhouse that I currently find myself working for. I know - it all sounds terribly glamorous, doesn’t it? Don’t you wish you were over in Australia “living the dream” just like me?

*ahem*

Now, perhaps it is the after-work “schooners” of XXXX Bitter that I have consumed, or more likely the ‘nostalgic’ (rule number one of living so far away from home: never admit to feeling homesick) feelings that I get for The Motherland when I start to write these articles but Redland Bay, Queensland, Australia reminds me of Bal’easton, County Antrim, Northern Ireland.

Admittedly, Bal’easton can’t boast fantastic sea-views out into the Pacific Ocean, nor can it claim to be a muggy 28 degrees at almost nine o’clock in the evening – even if the open fire is roaring in Staffy’s pub – and the streets of Bal’easton certainly aren’t lined with palm trees swaying to the beat of the warm evening breeze but look beyond the obvious superficial differences and the similarities are there for everyone to see.

Based on my initial experiences so far this evening, the similarities with Bal’easton are these:
Redland Bay has the one pub which the locals can claim as their own. The people that frequent it seem to be of a predominantly blue collar background – farmers, tradesmen (“tradies” as they’re known here) or those clientele that can proudly lay claim to hailing from the “older generation”

The locals, as indecipherable as they can be, with their unique “adaptation” of the English language, despite their wary and gruff exterior can be absolute treasures to behold.

This evening has been spent chatting with the locals about “footie” (rugby league), “rugby” (rugby union), football (Aussie Rules), “cricket” (erm, cricket) and “soccer” (REAL FOOTBALL at last!). There was even horse-racing going on in the corner (on a television!) and they had their own bookies within the pub – a bit like the back bar of the Ballyboe when June was in her element.

It was reminiscent of chatting with the locals in Staffy’s, the back bar of the Ballyboe or at the Square Bar – without the references to rugby league, Aussie rules and “soccer” of course – but Aussie Blokes, like we Irish, love their sport with a passion that is frighteningly – and I’m sure in some cases truthfully – relationship-ending.

Thankfully, coming from a Ballyclare High “Brackets-Grammar” School Education and being a self-confessed sports fanatic, I’m able to proffer what I hope is a vaguely interesting addition to the conversations on rugby union and cricket and having lived in Wigan, I can also get by with a passing knowledge on rugby league but to be honest, I’m just glad to get in amongst these guys and take a back seat as they make fun of each other and their sporting allegiances.

Having already pinned my allegiances with the Brisbane Broncos Rugby League team by buying a ticket for their opening game tomorrow evening against their “local” rivals, the North Queensland Cowboys, I was already the brunt of some good-natured banter.

Thankfully the Irish rugby union team is doing us proud, because these ‘yokels’ reckon our cricket team doesn’t stand a chance, now that the Cricket World Cup has started this week. Who would have thought it, eh? Ireland sending a team to the cricket world cup – I wait with baited breath for our opening game against Pakistan on Paddy’s Day. Perhaps next week, I’ll be looking for somewhere else to stay.

Ah yes, which brings me on nicely to (St.) Paddy’s Day.

How uncomfortable I was as a child from a strong Protestant background to join in these celebrations, when in fact, the truth be known, we have just as much right to celebrate the man’s life as our Catholic neighbours and the people of Ballyclare even more so.

The fact that he spent his life-defining moments just a few short miles up the road from us in Ballyclare on the grassy slopes of the majestic Mount Slemish further adds to my enthusiasm for celebrating this time of year.

It’s not a political thing for me but a celebration of where I come from – Ballyclare first, Northern Ireland second, Ireland third.

Of course these days, the huge Diaspora of immigrants from Ireland, north and south around the world (an estimated 70 million people worldwide can claim Irish heritage), coupled with the advent of the ubiquitous Irish Pub, ensures that St. Patrick’s Day is celebrated in all four corners of the globe. I even read recently that the first Irish pub has opened in Afghanistan, so one can only imagine how the big day will be spent over there.

Having spent the last several St. Patrick’s Days in different countries, I now wonder what I can expect from this, my first Down Under.

Just a few short, enjoyable months into my Great Australian Adventure, the historical ties between Australia and Ireland are evident almost everywhere I go, from family names, street names to the names of businesses, so I am certain that there will be many people joining in the party with me.

The fact that it falls on a Saturday this year will certainly swell the numbers, some of whom I have no doubt will be bringing out long dead ancestry ties to the Emerald Isle as they sip teary-eyed on their pints of the Black Stuff.

I read with some interest that the Irish Premier spent a recent St. Patrick’s Day in Sydney. What a nice little jolly that must have been - leaving the Irish winter for the Australian summer to “Project, internationally, an accurate image of Ireland as a creative, professional and sophisticated country with wide appeal” - according to the manifesto of a group known as the St. Patrick’s Day Festival, which was formed in the mid 1990’s.

For my part, as an unofficial and self-appointed ambassador of Ireland and especially all things good about Northern Ireland, I have had an article published in several news papers Down Under informing our Australian cousins of Ballyclare’s proud connection to the legend of Patrick.
Just in case that’s not enough to get the message across, I shall be joining the party down in Brisbane spreading the Ballyclare Gospel, where I have been reliably informed that there will be plenty going on, including parades, horse-racing, dancing, music and of course some drinking with the party culminating in a place called Dooley’s Hotel – and I’ll be there in the middle of it proudly wearing my “Norn Iron” shirt talking to all and sundry.

Therefore, with my first St. Patrick’s Day to be spent in Australia just around the corner, I will leave you with this one, last thought.

The tiny island of Montserrat, known as "The Emerald Island of the Caribbean" due to its foundation by Irish refugees from Saint Kitts and Nevis, is the only place in the world apart from the Republic of Ireland and the Canadian province of Newfoundland and Labrador in which St Patrick's Day is a public holiday.

In Montserrat, the St. Patrick’s Day festival is a week long event, culminating in the day itself, so perhaps that is an idea for next year for us all to go and spread the Ballyclare gospel?

Sláinte!