Have yourself a very Therapy? Christmas!

Folks, I'd like to share a piece of writing that has recently been published. A few weeks ago, as a member of the Therapy? fan-club, I was approached to contribute to a book that was being put together to celebrate the band's 20th anniversary.

Only too happy to write stories (although you wouldn't think it if you were a frequent visitor to this website) and being a huge fan of the band, I sat down and attempted to write again. It felt good to be chasing the cursor across the screen once more.

So, in its entirety, please find below my contribution to the book "We're Here To The End Too", a book written by Therapy? fans and available from the following website:

http://www.blurb.com/books/1660152

I hope you enjoy my trip down memory lane, even if the photos are a little grainy....

Have yourselves a very Therapy? Christmas!

My first exposure to Therapy? was back in 1992.

I was 20 at the time and in my second year at Coleraine University. One of my class-mates, Joe, who hailed from Dublin came into class one day wearing a black T-Shirt, with the word “Therapy?” emblazoned across it with a rather strange looking grinning face below it.

I remember looking at it as he walked into class wondering what the hell it was all about. Was he making a statement? Was he asking a question? I surmised it had something to do with a band but seeing as the guy was a lot more ‘emo’ than myself, as I was someone who just liked his music loud and heavy, it was all a wee bit strange and I didn’t want to embarrass myself by showing my ignorance on the matter, so I let it slide.

Strangely enough my next experience of Therapy? came from my uncle JB just a few weeks later. My father and I went to pick him up from the airport just before Christmas of 1992 and on the drive back to our home town of Ballyclare, in county Antrim, Northern Ireland, he asked me had I heard any of the music “that the young Cairns fella from Ballyclare and his band-mates from Larne” were playing. Not for the first, nor the last time, uncle JB had displayed a far superior knowledge of the goings on in our home town than we were ever privy to – in spite of the fact that he spent the last third of his life living in London. As it turned out, uncle JB was close friends with Andy’s parents and he had found out about the band from them.

I guess Ballyclare’s that kind of town....

My interest was piqued - what with the band’s lead singer hailing from my home town making inroads into the music scene. Like most of us as kids growing up, I’d spent many a private moment singing and playing air-guitar in front of the bedroom mirror but here was someone from Ballyclare, of all places, actually living the dream. I knew who Andy Cairns was – he was only a few years older than me and Ballyclare is not that big a place. I had memories of him and his mates hanging out in the river park at the foot of the town. As we played football, they sat nearby consuming their alcohol carry-outs. It’s strange to think of now, but by the time I was old enough to indulge in that particular recreational past-time myself, Andy and the rest of the band were well on their way to becoming the Therapy? that we all know and love today.

That day, I headed down to Bert McCormick’s Record Store in Ballyclare Main Street and purchased the album “Nurse” on cassette (remember those?) and rushed home to give it a play. Not having a clue what kind of music I was letting myself in for, I was actually a little surprised to find out that it was something I really enjoyed. The noise was different to anything I had in my collection - the unique style of drumming, heavy bass, the scorching lead guitar all accompanying the dark lyrics, the album had a very industrial sound with “Teethgrinder” being a stand-out track for me. My love of all things Therapy? had been born.

A few evenings later, I ended up doing a pub quiz in the Square Bar in Ballyclare with my father and uncle JB. The other members of our team? None other than Andy Cairn’s mother and father. They told me that Andy was back in town and in the Ballyboe - another pub in our home town - if I wanted to pop in and say hello but I declined not knowing what I would have said to the guy without sounding too much of an eejit. Ballyclare’s that kind of a town as well.

Along the journey with Therapy? I am proud to say that I bought every album, a few EPs and several T-Shirts. I loved listening to their music and it was with great excitement that I greeted the release of a new Therapy? album. Some albums were of course better than others and line-ups changed, fall-outs with record labels ensued, but deep down, you knew that these guys were in it for the long-haul. I was also very proud of the fact that they were “local lads made good.” After graduating, my career and life took me away from Northern Ireland but I have always been proud to hail from our wee misunderstood corner of the world and would get great enjoyment from people back home being successful and telling anyone who cared to listen – or didn’t for that matter – about the fact that Therapy? and I were from the same neck of the woods. Even if Michael and Fyfe were “harbour rats” from up the road in Larne(!)

With Therapy?, I had a band whose music I loved and I could proudly say that they were from my home country. A country that for far too long stared into the abyss, could perhaps rise again and with the likes of Therapy? and later, Ash, we had bands that were spreading some joy from our war-torn country throughout the world. I’m not making any grand political statement here – I’m just saying as a native of Northern Ireland, it was great to have a band that played great balls to the wall music delivered with an infectious enthusiasm that has never waned - even after 20 years in the most hard-nosed of businesses.

In the early years, I saw Therapy? a couple of times in Belfast but after graduating, I ended up leaving Northern Ireland to live and work in Belgium. It wasn’t planned – it just kind of happened. I got the occasional trip home and it was during a trip from Northern Ireland back to Belgium that I bumped into Therapy? whilst waiting at the gate for a flight from Heathrow to Brussels.

Travelling with a female colleague at the time, I excitedly pointed out the band to her but she had no idea who I was talking about. I explained to her but she seemed a little non-plussed about it all. She suggested that we went over to say hello but, well, we’re not really like that back home are we? So I decided to leave it (we were after all, on the same flight – where could they go?) and if there was an opportunity to say hello to the band in the arrivals hall while we were all waiting on our luggage, then I would do so.

In Brussels Arrivals, I saw the band waiting at the luggage carousel, so I took my opportunity to say hello to the band. Somewhat surprised to hear my accent in Brussels airport, Andy asked “where the fuck is that accent from?” and when I told him I was from a certain part of Ballyclare, he replied with “Seriously?! I used to deliver newspapers round that way. So what are you doing here in Belgium?” So, we got chatting and passed a few minutes as we waited on the arrival of our luggage.

During the conversation it transpired that the band were playing in a small town about 40 minutes from where I was living and he invited us along to the gig. Andy then called the tour manager, Rog, asking that my colleague and I be put on the VIP guest list, saying that we could also meet them after the gig and have a few “Lucozades” back stage. The Lucozades turned out to be bottles of Grolsch in a tin bath full of ice. Rock and Roll decadence or what?!

I have to say we had a great time at the gig and the Belgian crowd loved Therapy? (something that I was to witness a few more times during my stay in Belgium over those years). My colleague was a convert and she had an absolute ball of a night, including her rather less than subtle attempts to woo Michael. (I hope he’s gotten over that one!) My memories of the night are a little hazy, but I do recall trying to convince Andy to invest a little bit of money into our local football team, Ballyclare Comrades, much to the derision of Michael. With him being from nearby Larne and therefore a ‘Harbour Rat’, he was more than ready to take the piss out of Andy and I for being “Sheep Shaggers”.

As the rock and roll lifestyle was coming to an end for my colleague and me, I mentioned to Andy that I was planning to take my wee brother, Darren, himself a recent addition to the Therapy? fan club to their Christmas gig at the Ulster Hall in Belfast in a few months time. Once again Andy got Rog to ensure that we would get on the VIP list and also back stage for their Christmas Party. As Rog was typing up “Jonny Black plus guest” on his laptop under Ulster Hall, Belfast, Dec 27^th Andy said goodbye to us, adding “If you enjoyed yourself tonight, Jonny, you’ll have great craic back in Belfast at Christmas time!”

I couldn’t wait.

Having told all and sundry about my exploits with the lads from Therapy?, I was finding it difficult to keep it a secret from my wee brother that he had it all to look forward to in a couple of months time. Only 14, he was finding his way in the world of music and with two older brothers, some of our musical tastes was starting to rub off on the youngest with Therapy? being one of his favourites. To say he envied the “Hanging out with Rock Stars, Therapy?” story would be understating it. Perhaps even going as far as to think his IT geek brother was a little bit cool after all...

Somehow, I managed to keep the secret until Christmas Day itself. Opening his present, which was a rather fine looking Therapy? T-Shirt I explained to him that he would need it in a couple of day’s time because he too would get to hang out back stage with Therapy? The look of unbridled joy on his face is something that I will remember forever.

Two days later and we headed off to the Ulster Hall early, with my wee brother beside himself with excitement. It was a cold, wet and windy evening and there were plenty of people already standing outside the venue huddling against the elements waiting for the doors to open.

Not such a wait for us, of course, because we were on the guest list.

So, grinning like Wayne and Garth out of Wayne’s World, we walked past the crowd to the front door of the Ulster Hall, where, when told by security to join the back of the queue, I proudly informed them that we were, in fact, down in the VIP guest list. Checking his clip board of names, we soon discovered that we weren’t, in fact, on the guest list at all.

My brother’s face crumpled in despair and anguish whilst a few at the front of the queue who had heard what had just happened, started to snigger. “Looks like you’re going to have to queue just like the rest of us” somebody wisecracked behind us.

I was dying.

“There must be some mistake – I was hanging out with the band back stage in Belgium a couple of months ago and Andy Cairns invited us to the gig tonight. I even saw their tour manager, Rog typing it into his laptop!” I pleaded with security. I knew I was name-dropping but I had to get my brother into the gig at all costs.

“Come on through to the lobby and we’ll see if we can get Rog to come out and verify this”

I’m not sure if it was festive spirit, my pleading, or my brother’s face of despair that swung it, but at least we were in out of the cold, all be it not knowing what was going to happen next.

Soon after, the rest of the punters started filing into the gig, with a few of the ones at the front taking great enjoyment in the two “VIPs” that were standing there looking like a couple of guys who have had the air deflated out of them. After what seemed like an eternity, I suddenly noticed Andy’s parents walking into the venue. Nothing ventured, nothing gained I thought, so I shamelessly approached them and explained the situation to them. Andy’s father, sympathising with our predicament, promised to go and find Rog to see if he could sort it all out for us. And off he went into the venue along with the streams of people going to the sold-out Christmas gig. With local acts Joyrider and Ash also set to play, this was going to be a big show, and after having been waiting here for over an hour, it was looking increasingly likely that the best present I had ever given my brother was being cruelly taken away from him by events out of my control.

As I was contemplating this, a rather flustered Rog came out into the lobby with Andy’s father in tow. Much to our delight, he recognised me and apologising profusely, he explained that his laptop had crashed and that he had lost a lot of information on it as a result. Of course we were allowed into the gig and of course we were welcome to party back stage with the band. The party with Therapy? was back on and I got a relieved hug from my brother.

The concert itself was a cracker. Joyrider opened the proceedings well and Ash – who were already starting to make inroads into the music world themselves – started firing up the crowd in time for the main act to take centre stage.

Obviously enjoying performing in front of their home crowd, the lads from Therapy? performed a great show that night with everyone in the audience adding to the atmosphere. There was even an impromptu performance from Skin (of Skunk Anansie fame) who appeared on stage for one song and then stage dived into the crowd afterwards.

Merry Christmas Northern Ireland!

Afterwards, we went back stage where there was a great atmosphere with all the performers mingling with friends, family and fans alike and when Andy noticed me, he was nice enough to come up to ask me how Belgium was treating me. My brother, obviously impressed with my rock ‘n’ roll circle of friends, took the opportunity to have his photo taken with Andy.

After chatting briefly with the rest of the band and enjoying a couple of complimentary cans of Harp, we left the party to continue on into the night. After all – Darren was too young to drink and I had enjoyed a late night one on one session with the band in Belgium a couple of months previously.

As we headed out into the cold, Belfast night a very excited wee brother, told me it was the best Christmas present he’d ever had. And I believed him.

Thanks Andy, Michael and Fyfe, as well as Andy’s father and Rog the tour manager for a very special Christmas party that will live long in my brother’s and my memory for the rest of our lives.

I could talk about the time I went to see you support the Rolling Stones, or even the several times I saw you at the Rock Werchter festival in Belgium (indeed at one stage only some band called REM(!) had played that festival more times than yourselves).

Or even the time that I saw you in Antwerp at the club known as Petrol, where, upon noticing my Northern Ireland flag and discovering I was the guy from Ballyclare you announced to the crowd that, in the same way some towns are twinned with others, “Ballyclare was in a suicide pact with Amsterdam”

Then there was the time that I brought my girlfriend, an Australian girl who had never heard of Therapy? to go watch you on our first date. Needless to say we are still together and I am now living in Brisbane with her. (BTW – any tours of Australia planned?!)

But they’re all stories for another time. Perhaps I’ll dust them out for the 40^th Anniversary!

Thanks Therapy? for all the good times and looking forward to many more.

For those about to Rock......We Salute You!

Well Dear Reader, once again it has been an absolute eternity since I added anything to this corner of the internet.

Call it writer's block, a hectic lifestyle, a fear of the blank screen, a lack of motivation or a complete inability to get off my fat arse and write anything of note, or anything for that matter.

To be honest it was probably due to a combination of all of the above.

Anyway, here I am and I am ready to go. It's nice to be back and I hope you enjoy reading my thoughts as much as I do spilling them out onto the internet for all sorts of weirdos to peruse at their leisure when they're finally done surfing 'special interest' sites.

So, as I sit here on the balcony of our wee apartment, flexing my fingers, cold beer by my laptop and a full pack of cigarettes just asking to be consumed and with the music playing in the background, I'm finally ready if you are?

But first a sip of beer.

And maybe I'll spark up a ciggy too.

That's better!

So what is it that has me back on the internet frantically typing at my keyboard lest I forget any of the sentences before I get them out onto the screen?

Tonight my friends, in less than 6 hours I will be privy to something very special.

Very special indeed.

Tonight, I will be witness to something that I never thought I would get a chance to enjoy in my life. Something that I thought I had passed up the perfect opportunity to indulge in, back when I was studying in Belfast, some 18 years ago.

But patience is a great virtue and fast forward 18 years (and my, how that time has flown!) on a journey that has taken me to the other side of the planet; I now have a chance to make amends on something that I have regretted for much of my adult life.

For tonight, Dear Reader, I am joining 50,000 other like-minded people to watch that greatest of rock and roll bands, AC/DC, perform at the QSAC sports stadium on the outskirts of Brisbane.

To say that I am excited would be an understatement of the highest order. Christ, I'm getting nervous just thinking about it. Yes, the 'Rock and Roll Train' that are AC/DC will be playing, tonight, in my adopted home town. Yes, it's a Thursday evening and I've got work tomorrow – but to hell with all that, for tonight I will be living and breathing all things AC/DC.

I am one of those 'about to rock' and yes boys 'you can salute me' all you like for I know I will be returning my own salute of sorts, arms raised against the balmy evening sky as I head-bang to some of the greatest guitar riffs ever dreamed of by mankind and I cannot wait for you to 'shake me all night long'.

Now I understand that some of you out there think that this kind of music is an awful assault on the eardrums but I am here to tell you that 'Rock and Roll ain't noise pollution' and I can safely say that 'There's gonna be some rocking' tonight.

But it wasn't always like this for your humble scribe.

Oh no – AC/DC and I have been on a long journey together and it's hard to believe that back when I was a not-so-troublesome teen that there was actually a stage in my life that, unbelievably, I didn't even like rock and roll.

So what was my seminal moment?

How did I change from being a spotty teenager going to my first ever concert to sing along with that Norwegian pop act, Aha, (oh the shame of it) to a spotty man in his 30's freaking out because he is finally getting to realise his dream of seeing AC/DC live?

Indulge me in a little walk down memory lane if you would please. It won't take long.

The school summer holidays in my home town of Ballyclare, Northern Ireland, were a frustrating time for a pre-pubescent boy. Yes, we had nine long, glorious weeks off from school and yes, it didn't get dark until after ten in the evening (a fact that is hard to believe, now that I am living in a country where it doesn't stay light much after seven, even at the height of summer.)

The thing was though – there wasn't much for us to do to entertain ourselves back in those days. The fancy leisure centre that now sits at the foot of the town was only a town planner's wet dream at that stage.

Although the new leisure centre must have been gratefully received by Ballyclare's previous leisure centre – the sheep tied to the lamp post at the Town Hall....

Auch – I know it's an old joke but we're indulging here!

The two tennis courts in town saw a helluva lot of action in the weeks before, during and after Wimbledon but 2 tennis courts and no booking systems meant for a frustrating day of waiting for all concerned in my hometown. For that reason alone, I can safely say that we're going to have to wait a while before a Ballyclarian graces the Centre Court.

But I digress.

The other thing that we all did as boys running about with long days to fill and way too much energy to burn was play football. And lots of it. We were always playing football. We would get up early in the morning (not surprisingly a lot earlier than if we were having to get up for school), make a picnic and then go down to the local park and kick ball.

All day long.

Every day of the week.

For hours on end we kicked a ball around, pausing only to eat our sandwiches and to lie in the grass telling silly stories, taking the mickey out of each other. They were great times indeed.

One day, however, the football picnic was rocked (quite literally) by a new addition to the experience. My best mate at the time, 'Browner,' had received a ghetto blaster for his birthday. It was a big behemoth of a beast that he would lug down to the park to play some tunes on as we played our football. No fancy IPods and docking stations back in those days.

On the first day, he brought two cassettes (Google it for those that are two young to remember) that his cousin had lent him. These were 'The Number of the Beast' by Iron Maiden and 'Back in Black' by AC/DC.

I can still remember to this day when I heard Back in Black's opening track 'Hells Bells' for the first time. The moody bell and then the haunting opening riff.....

I was hooked.

Completely.

To this day, this remains one of my favourite albums of all time. And I am not the only one who would seem to think like this. Back in Black went on to be the world's second-best selling album of all time, shipping no fewer than 45 million copies world-wide, a figure bettered only by Michael Jackson's 'Thriller.'

To say it had a profound effect on me is again an understatement that does not do justice to what happened. The rest of the summer was spent obtaining - by hook or by crook – everything that AC/DC and Iron Maiden had ever produced. Suddenly bands much heavier became 'must haves' in my small but burgeoning record collection.

Aha were confined to the annals of my own short history. So much so in fact, that the next concert I went to watch, just a few short months later were New York thrash metal band, Anthrax, at Bangor Leisure Centre. (Oh yes – la de da Bangor had a leisure centre.)

Incidentally, Saturday just passed, I got to see Anthrax again at a festival here in Brisbane. Strange how the world re-connects every now and then, isn't it?

Ever since that summer, I have been into rock and to be honest, I cannot see a time when the sight and sound of a rock band performing live on stage will not get my heart pumping and my blood racing. It is just One of Those Things.

So tonight, I am going to watch the daddy's of them all, AC/DC, playing to their 'home' crowd.

And therein lies a thing about this vast, great country that I now live in....

Australia unashamedly adopts anyone and everyone who Makes It and has anything to do with their country. What other country could seriously lay claim to a band formed by three young brothers from 12,000 miles away in Glasgow, Scotland and are now fronted by a Geordie from Gateshead in the north east of England?

Jimmy Barnes, Russel Crowe, Crowded House and don't even get me started on Northern Ireland born actor, Sam Neill.....they've all been claimed as home-grown Aussies.

In fact, the other evening, I saw a television interview with Colin Hay, the lead singer of Men at Work, (they of 'Do you come from a land Down Under' fame) and there he was 'Och Aye'ing' to his heart's content. The guy is from Kilwinning, North Ayrshire, Scotland for goodness sake!

But that's the thing about Oz. It is a complete melting pot of people from all walks of life and all nationalities all clubbing together to make this such a fantastic place to live. If only they could move it a bit close to Northern Ireland and then we'd all be a lot better off for it....

Rather fittingly, as I draw these musings to a close, 'For Those About to Rock....We Salute You,' has just come on the IPod and seeing as that's what I am about to do, I'll love you and leave you as I go to don my AC/DC 'Highway to Hell Tour' T-shirt circa 1979 and warm up my neck muscles for some serious head banging before I go to 'Beat Around the Bush' with AC/DC.

AC/DC – 'Have a Drink On Me'!!

This blog was brought to you by Pure Blonde Low Carbohydrate beer, a pack of Peter Stuyvesant Classics and of course the entire back catalogue of that finest vintage of rockers, AC/DC.

If you go down to the sewers today...

OK Folks,

Considering the fact that I find myself living in a country with so many deadly animals seemingly thirsting for my blood at every opportune moment, receiving this video in my in box is probably the last thing I need. Which is why I'm sharing it with you.

Safety in numbers and all that...

Paddy's Day - Brisbane Stylee!

Top of the morning to ye! Fiddle-de-dee potatoes! As the Aussies are very quick to say to me whenever they hear my accent for the first time, the reasons for which are still completely unknown to me...

It's been over a month now, but St. Patrick's Day has been and gone for another year. This year it fell on the Monday which must have been brilliant for the Irish pubs around the world, as they ripped the arse out of it for the whole weekend as people from all walks of life celebrated all things Irish in the time-honoured tradition of getting plastered.

I can't help but feel that as a race, we Irish should be insulted by this stereotyping of our people but sure, as long as the drinks flow freely, there's (to be) sure to be few complaints...

Brisbane actually has a St. Patrick's Day parade which I might have mentioned to you last year in this very corner of cyberspace and the city decided to hold it on the Saturday before the Big Day itself. Unfortunately, we were kind of locked in to a friends wedding that day, so I had to make do (on the Saturday at least) with a couple of hours and few (4) rushed pints of Guinness with a German, whilst Krissy was getting her hair done.

As you do.

(The drinking with the German, not Krissy getting her hair done.)

At least I drank enough Guinness to get the VERY silly hat though...

Anyway, I thought I would share an article with you that I actually got published in some of the papers Down Under. My career as a fully paid-up writer is still but a distant dream, but at least this was a step in the right direction! Sláinte!

(and yes - it is a bit of a kop-out. I'm hoping that I'll have some new material in the very near future!)

***

Top of the Morning to ye Reader!

As the dust settles on the recent Australia Day celebrations and the Big Day Out festivals draw to a close, the Irish – who themselves need no excuse to have a good party - prepare for their own Big Day Out, St. Patrick’s Day on March 17^th

Jonny Black, an Irish ex-pat, separates the facts from fiction about this great man and explains what it is like to be so far away from his homeland on this most important of occasions for the Irish.

The story of Patrick the man, is typically Irish in that it is a mixture of fact and myth, for as great storytellers, the Irish have never been ones to let the truth get in the way of a good story – and what greater story is there than that of Patrick, the Patron Saint of Ireland?

PATRICK - THE MAN

Born in 387AD, it may come as a surprise to some to discover that he was not even Irish but, in fact, depending on which account of his life story you read, England, Wales, Scotland or even France, can all lay a claim to be his birth land.

Kidnapped by pirates at the age of 16 and sold as a slave in Ireland, he worked as a shepherd tending to flocks on the exposed, rugged slopes of Mount Slemish, County Antrim, in what is now Northern Ireland.

Indeed, Mount Slemish is a mere 20-minute drive from Ballyclare where I grew up and the climbing of it was something that we often did during the summer as kids, oblivious to the historic importance of where we were treading.

The six years spent in captivity working on and around Mount Slemish, a dark and brooding place, with terrible weather the norm, seems to have had an enormous affect on the young Patrick and where, with much time on his hands to ponder life and its meaning, his thoughts turned to religion.

According to his own account, one night as he lay sleeping, he heard a voice that told him “You do well to fast: soon you will depart to your home country” and then a little later “Behold, your ship is ready.”

Having safely escaped, Patrick's experiences in Ireland made him driven by the idea of converting the Irish to Christianity and after studying religion in France, he announced that he wanted to return to Ireland as a missionary. His religious superiors, reluctant to acquiesce because of what they perceived as his inadequate education, eventually granted him permission after the first Irish missionary bishop, died in 431AD.

Because no one had ever preached Christianity there before, when St Patrick returned to Ireland in 432AD, he meant to sail up the coast to county Antrim where, for six years as a young slave, he had tended those flocks. However, strong currents forced him on shore in Strangford Lough 50 miles south of his destination.

Nothing daunted by this change of plan, Patrick set about his missionary business, starting with Dichu, the local chieftain. Dichu was quickly converted and gave him a barn (‘sabhal’ pronounced 'saul' in Gaelic) for holding services.

Over the next 30 years, he gained the trust and friendship of several tribal leaders and soon made many converts. Patrick founded more than 300 churches, mostly in the North and West of Ireland and baptized more than 120,000 people. He brought in clergymen for his new churches from England and France. Patrick preached in Ireland the rest of his life and was chiefly responsible for converting the Irish people to Christianity and became known as the Apostle to the Irish.

PATRICK - THE MYTH?

One of the best-known tales tells how he charmed the snakes of Ireland, supposedly from the top of Mount Slemish into the sea, where they subsequently drowned. As there are no snakes in Ireland today, one can only surmise that he did a pretty damn good job of it. Perhaps he could have got himself some contract work Down Under? Provided he met the necessary visa requirements, of course.

According to another legend, inspired by an abundance of them growing on the slopes of Mount Slemish, Patrick used a three-leaf shamrock to illustrate the idea of the Trinity, with each leaf representing The Father, The Son and The Holy Spirit all joined as one.

Many people believe the shamrock came to be the traditional symbol of Ireland because of this legend. Throughout the world today, the Irish and many of those who are not of Irish descent (“Plastic Paddys” as we Irish affectionately refer to them), celebrate Saint Patrick's Day on his feast day, the day that he died and was accepted into heaven, March 17, 461AD.

ST. PATRICK’S DAY

Celebrations are generally themed around all things green and Irish; both Christians and non-Christians celebrate the secular version of the holiday by wearing green (even though one little known fact is that it was once blue that was the colour of this day), eating Irish food, and attending parades and of course, the consumption of Irish drinks. Lots of Irish drinks.

In Dublin, the St. Patrick's Day parade is part of a five-day festival but rather surprisingly, it was first held in Dublin only as recently as 1996. Over 500,000 people attended the 2006 parade which is nothing compared to the St. Patrick's Day parade held in New York City where an astonishing 2 million spectators watch it.

As well as being a celebration of Irish culture, Saint Patrick's Day is a Christian festival celebrated in the Catholic Church, the Church of Ireland (among other churches in the Anglican Communion) and some other denominations. It is because of this reason that up until the 1970’s, pubs were forced to close on March 17 - itself a fine example of the paradox of the Irish.

Another irony is that the day always falls during the fasting season of Lent. Thankfully, for those subjecting themselves to this period of abstinence, tradition dictates that it is ok to break it for the duration of Saint Patrick's Day whenever it falls on a Friday.

However, in my experience, whether it falls on a Friday or not, many people conveniently let their vows of abstinence slide for the duration of St. Patrick’s Day. Probably just as well, considering that the time-honoured tradition of celebrating ones “Irishness”, seems to involve imbibing copious amounts of alcohol, a tradition that I will undoubtedly be indulging in myself, cometh the moment.

Of course these days, the huge Diaspora of Irish immigrants 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 12 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 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 on this most important of occasions, I shall be joining the party down in Brisbane, where I have been reliably informed that there will be plenty going on, with the party culminating in Dooley’s Hotel.

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 "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 weeklong event, culminating in the day itself, so perhaps that is an idea for next year. In the name of research of course.

Sláinte!

Beastie Boys - Ozzie Style!

G’Day Folks!

I hear the weather has been fantastic back up in the northern hemisphere and I’m sure you’re all looking forward to the onset of summer. Spare a thought for us poor people who find themselves on the other side of the world as we head into the winter season.

With daylight saving been and gone, the days are getting shorter meaning that darkness now arrives around five in the evening. Even in the height of summer the days are remarkably short, with daylight not lasting much past seven, which is certainly something that I wasn’t prepared for.

It seems that the prospect of long, balmy evenings round the pool, on the beach or at the barbie that I had envisioned was just that – a figment of my imagination.

This week’s instalment comes at you from an altogether different locale, having been sent to a place called Mackay, located on the coast of eastern Queensland, a thousand kilometres north of Brisbane.

You’re never sure what the glamorous world of being an IT-nerd will throw at you next and as if I hadn’t been spoiled enough by being sent on an assignment working for a chicken slaughterhouse, I now find myself working for a sugar manufacturer in the middle of nowhere for the next couple of days.

Mackay itself is a fairly large-sized town, with a population of over 80,000 people but where I am typing these words is about 20 minutes outside of the town limits in an area that Australians would refer to as “Whoop Whoop.” I really am out in the sticks.

I’m staying in a house on the grounds of the sugar mill and I don’t think I’ve ever been aware of being in such a remote place in my life. Even Buckna has more life about it.

Yes – the town of Mackay may be just up the road, but there is nothing here to keep me company other than the vast hulks of machinery silhouetted against the starlit sky and some very, very bizarre noises in the night. Oh – and a couple of fellow consultants who I am sharing this house with.

Apparently we are right beside the river. I say apparently because thanks to the darkness, it’s difficult to see.

There’s no doubt it’s certainly better than staying in a faceless hotel or motel on my own. We have our own living space, kitchen, laundry facilities, etc. but these noises have got me worried. I’ve just come in from the veranda from having a beer to chill out after my travels but rather than chilling out, I now feel the icy fingers of fear caressing my spine.

This is an alien country to me and I am reminded of that time and time again and in many different situations - the scenery, the people, the weather, the huge cars, the long, lonely drives along endless motorways, the drunken phone calls in the small hours of the morning from family members (and you know who you are) all serve as constant reminders as to just how far away I am from home.

But sitting out there, just a few minutes ago, I listened to a soundtrack of the night that is beyond comprehension for this wee fella from Ballyclare.

Some of the noises are explainable, such as the calls of nocturnal birds or the sounds of crickets playing their staccato beat into the night air, or the click-click sound of geckos (that I now recognise after having lived here for a while)

But other noises are most definitely not.

Take, for example, the rustles in the nearby bushes, rustles being made by creatures of substantial enough size to break branches and snap twigs. Or the hum and buzz of insects, their grossly over-sized shadows dancing before me as they fly close by my ear. At least one of these insects, I know for definite was a cockroach of about 2 inches in length.

Knowing this fact does not set my mind any more at ease.

So what of the other noises? The scratches, the calls, the indecipherable grunts? Let’s just ponder on that for a moment, shall we?

Well, we all know that Australia is a big place, with a wide and varied animal kingdom that is often totally unique to God’s Green Earth. The like of which are the stuff of books, television, movies and zoos, especially for a guy that hails from Ballyclare.

So what could be out there in the vast, black, empty, unforgiving and total darkness of night in Whoop Whoop, Australia?

After a bit of research, it seems that having travelled a thousand kilometres north towards north eastern Queensland has only further heightened the chances of whatever is out there as being something that I wouldn’t want to meet on a dark night, in the middle of nowhere - which of course is where I now find myself.

Perhaps here are a few contenders:

Well thanks to the fact that we are close to a river, and are also near to the north east Queensland coast, we could have a few members of the Saltwater Crocodile family, the world's largest reptile, living nearby. These creatures are found on the northern coast of Australia and inland for up to 100 kms or more. The Saltwater Crocodile has been reported to grow to lengths of 7 metres.

Moving not so swiftly on to the spiders…

The Red Back Spider is Australia's most well known deadly spider. They are found all over Australia, and are common in urban areas, which should hopefully mean that I’m ok out here but you never know; there was a spider out there earlier with a similar bulbous body to that of the Red Back. It was too dark to determine if its back was red and to be honest, I didn’t hang around.

Funnel-web spiders, one of the most notorious members of our spider fauna, are found only in eastern Australia. There are at least 40 species of these medium to large spiders, varying from 1-5 cm body length. Not all species are known to be dangerous, but several are renowned for their highly toxic and fast acting venom.

And then of course there are the snakes…

The brown snake is approximately 1.5 metres long, and is one of Australia's more deadly creatures. They have venom which can cause death to humans relatively quickly if left untreated. Brown snakes up to 2.3 metres have been recorded in Australia. They feed on small creatures, such as mice and rats, small birds, lizards or even other snakes. These snakes are found in Eastern Australia.

The common tiger snake is found in southern and eastern Australia. They are usually around a metre long, and have a striped marking (hence the name Tiger Snake). They can grow up to 1.5 metres in length. These are venomous snakes, and will attack if they are disturbed or threatened.

The paralysis tick is found in forests and bushland along the east coast of Australia. It produces a venom in its salivary glands that can cause numbness in humans around the spot where the tick has attached. The venom can be fatal to babies and small animals.

Then there is the humble cane toad. These were introduced to this region with disastrous consequences. Originally brought in to Australia to deal with the sugar cane beetle, which was destroying sugar crops, the population has risen to epidemic proportions. The situation is so bad that locals are being actively encouraged to kill them when they see them, with many people choosing running over the toads in their cars as the preferred method.

They have poison on their backs which proves fatal for animals that get in contact with it. Many a playful and intrigued pet dog has met its maker thanks to these critters, although it would have to be one dumb human to go in the same manner.

It’s just as well that I don’t have sea creatures to worry about, what with great white sharks, dogfish and the blue ring octopus that are lurking there waiting for some tasty, Northern Irish meat.
But none of these creatures, deadly as they may be, are a patch on the last two that I’m going to tell you about – and they’re both types of jellyfish, which again, I’m fairly sure I’ll not need to worry about, located where I am.

The Irukandji jellyfish inhabits Northern Australian waters and is a deadly jellyfish and is made all the more worrisome considering it is only 2.5 centimetres in diameter, making it very hard to spot in the water.

It is a species of jellyfish that has become apparent only in recent years, thanks mainly due to the unexpected deaths of swimmers.

The good news doesn’t stop there. Apparently, thanks to global warming, they’re moving southwards in this direction.

And last but not least, the Box Jellyfish (also known as a Sea Wasp) which has extreme toxins present on its tentacles, which when in contact with a human, can stop cardio-respiratory functions in as little as three minutes. This jellyfish is responsible for more deaths in Australian than Snakes, Sharks and Salt Water Crocodiles. Which I’m sure means that he gets all the bad boy groupies at the local disco.

But of course, I don’t want to be (and most definitely shouldn’t be) alarmist here. I do after all need a good night’s sleep tonight.

The noises that I hear could be something as innocent as a koala, although seeing as they sleep for 23 hours a day, it’s improbable. Or it could be a kangaroo bounding gracefully across the hinterland, although seeing as the hinterland is further inland; the kangaroo would have to be very lost. Or even a cute and cuddly possum for that matter.

But considering my girlfriend’s recent encounter with a possum I’m not sure I’d be any happier with possums in my vicinity.

And I’ll leave you with this one – although I’m pretty sure she won’t be happy I’ve shared it with you. Let’s just keep it our secret, shall we?

Sitting in the early evening with friends, enjoying an outdoor picnic by the sea, she was surprised to feel warm liquid fall on her head. Looking up, her surprise turned to abject horror as she realised that a possum was urinating on her from above.

She let out a scream (Krissy – not the possum), which in turn frightened the poor possum into expelling more liquid from his overworked bladder into her open, screaming mouth.

I can only assume her abject horror was replaced by a bout of nausea, the likes of which I don’t even want to comprehend....

And that’s it – I’m off to bed. Night night – and don’t let the bed bugs bite.

And the spiders, the snakes, and the….

A Nightmare On Fraser Island - Part 3

During the night, at God knows what time and more than a little disoriented, I was ripped from the safe haven of sleep by some weird noises that seemed to come from all around the campsite.

Originating from our left, then moving towards the rear and then on to the right, I held my breath and listened wide-eyed at the sound of branches breaking and the noise of several, muffled footfalls around us. Intermittently, a bloodthirsty howl would be released into the darkness of night.

It took a while for me to realise that I was experiencing my first up close and personal meeting with Fraser Island’s most infamous of inhabitants, the dingoes. I listened intently as they sniffed around looking for scraps but thankfully, we had been extra vigilant in locking all our supplies away from the prying, inquisitive scavengers that seemed to surround us. I hoped that there would be no baby-eating going on at our campsite that night either.

After an indeterminable time, they moved on but I have to admit, it took me quite a while to get back to sleep. As I tossed and turned, nervously listening out for more noises, I cursed myself and wondered just how the hell I was ever going to make it through the rest of the night, never mind a whole three-day excursion out in the middle of nowhere, Australian-style?

Another reason for being angry with myself was because I had watched a movie called Wolf Creek a few nights prior to the trip, which was playing havoc with my mind.

Based on the true story of English backpackers killed in the outback it was not exactly the sort of ideal viewing material in preparation for a camping trip in Australia. Before getting back to sleep, my over-enthusiastic imagination provided me with all sorts of scenarios in my head, most of which usually ended up with our long, slow tortuous death at the hands of a mad, Aussie redneck laughing manically in our ears.

Next morning, and with the tent already becoming quite the sauna, I was the first to waken up, this time to the sound of the manic laugh of a mad, Aussie, redneck.

At least that is what I thought at first until I realised it was the weird laughing call of the kookaburra bird serving as my wake up call. Thankfully, having heard it the day before, I was already familiar with the noise, and before my imagination got the better of me, I was able to nip the onset of fear because I have to say that it is an eerily similar sound to the laugh of the mad, Aussie redneck in the movie.

Looking at the time, I was dismayed to see that it was only 07:30 but at least with the advent of daylight, the fears of the previous night seemed childish and embarrassing. I told myself off for being such a big wuss and demanded of myself to catch myself on.

Over a hearty breakfast of tea and pancakes, I told my travelling companions about the dingoes, both of them saying that they had not heard them and looking at me as if I was mad. I questioned my own judgement and wondered if it was the result of my over-active imagination again. To this day, I am quite sure it was not.

We decided that we would move our campsite back down to the beach before going to explore some more of the island, including a return visit to Lake McKenzie, this time hoping to get beyond the car park. The campsite that we had stayed in was nice enough, but as I mentioned before, it was more of a family-oriented place and we were keen to meet up with the groups of backpackers who would no doubt be dotted along the beach.

According to the map that we had, there were camping facilities all along the east coast of the island just off the beach that we had travelled along the previous day and it was there that we headed off to.

Having somewhat familiarised myself to the driving requirements of the island during the more stressful moments of the previous afternoon, I am happy to report that our journey from inland to the coast was quite an uneventful one. My initial fear and nervousness having been replaced with something that could not exactly be described as enjoyment but rather more of an acceptance as to what was required and a confidence that I was able to cope with whatever the island threw at us.

This feeling of confidence was certainly exacerbated by the fact that my passengers seemed to have relaxed somewhat as well, even going so far as to compliment me on my driving; something at the time that I felt just may be a little too presumptuous.

Unfortunately, I was to be proved right.

Things went well enough as we made our way back to the small village of Eurong. I avoided the worst of the conditions with some clever driving and after about 40 minutes, we were back in Eurong where we stopped off at the overpriced general store for some more supplies. Just under 5 AUD for a tin of beans seemed too much to pay for such an item but I supposed it was a sellers’ dream having such a captive market. I wasn’t to be so understanding when I ran out of cigarettes a few days later and found out that they were charging 15 dollars a packet. But once again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

All set and ready to find our next campsite, we drove onto the beach at Eurong, once again having to negotiate the soft sand on the exit road. Steeling ourselves as we did so, I accelerated towards the beach and with no little effort, I had our car back on the hard sand of the beach and we headed north to find our campsite for the next two nights.

Having established from the girl in the shop that the campsites were located all the way along the east coast along a small road that ran parallel to the beach, we drove for a few kilometres until we came to a spot that we could call home at least for that night.

Safe in the knowledge that we had our campsite decided upon and set up, we would then go and do some exploring of the island, keen to see the many lakes, the ship-wreck of the Maheno located further up the coast and – if I’m honest – to do some more 4WD all be it, in an ALL WHEEL DRIVE vehicle.

We spied an exit road that did not look too bad in terms of the amount of soft sand about. No more than a car’s width and dissecting through the sand dunes, one of our group got out to have a look at what lay on the other side of the small hill.

On his return, he informed us that it was only a short drive through the dunes before we reached the parallel road and that in fact there were a couple of tents already pitched up in the vicinity.

If it is good enough for them, then it would certainly do for us, was the general consensus of opinion, so it was decided that we would leave the beach at this stage.

Lining up the car for a straight run-up to the exit road, I set the car in motion, bouncing through the soft sand, we headed off the beach once again.

What happened next took only a matter of a few short seconds but as I type these words now, I can remember each detail with total clarity. Driving over the summit of the exit road, I saw what my friend had meant. No more than 10 metres ahead was a T-Junction where I would have to choose either left or right. Quickly surveying the soft sand and the ruts that previous vehicles had made I opted for left, because it looked slightly easier to negotiate.

Not wanting to overshoot the exit road, which would have meant hitting the steep edge of the large dune on the other side of the junction; I eased off the accelerator, steering the car to the left as I did so.

And promptly got us stuck.

Panicking, I gunned the accelerator some more but despite the protests of the engine, we could not go any further. My passengers got out and pushing from the front, I switched the car into reverse, and with a lot of effort, and a lot of revving, the car moved back up the exit road a few metres onto some harder hand.

I could feel the beads of nervous sweat forming on my forehead and some trickling down my back as well. Through the windscreen of the car, I could see that my passengers were no more confident of the situation than I was.

A terrible burning smell had filled the car and as I reversed, I had noticed an ominous cloud of black smoke coming from the front of the car, drifting off in the sea breeze. Putting the car back into first gear, I gunned the accelerator and made a second attempt to get off the exit road, figuring that this time I would drive at whatever speed it would take to carry me through the softer parts of the sand.

And the car went nowhere.

I don’t mean “because it was stuck in the sand” type of going nowhere but rather a more worrying “because the car wouldn’t engage into gear” kind of going nowhere.

This was not good.

I put the car back into neutral and then tried again. I re-engaged the clutch, put the car into first and as I released the clutch again, I accelerated.

Still nothing.

The gear-stick went into first ok, it was just that the engine didn’t. Far from being fully au fait with the mechanics of the average battery toothbrush, never mind an ALL WHEEL DRIVE vehicle, even I surmised that we were in big trouble. And yes – I am using the royal ‘we’ here again.

My fellow travellers looked nervously on as I shook my head and got out of the car. The smell of smoke lingered heavily in the air.

“I think I’ve burnt the clutch out” I said despondently. “We’re stuck here.”

Looking at the car, I could see that it was not stuck in sand and placed where it was, it was blocking the exit road, preventing other vehicles from getting past. Although, at this point, this did not seem to be a problem, considering there was, rather worringly, no traffic in either direction as far as the eye could see.

Surveying the scene, we pondered our next move.

Not for the first time on the trip, I cursed my stupidity and wished we had not embarked on this reckless escapade. Especially not in this car – a car who’s owner was not keen at all in the first place to let us take it to Fraser Island.

Expecting a backlash from my passengers at my stupidity, I got quite the opposite. I think they realised that I was feeling terrible enough as it was for what had happened and perhaps even in some way they felt a little guilty themselves.

In the middle of nowhere, on a beach in Fraser Island and with no sign of life in the two tents nearby, we were most definitely stranded, which meant that our campsite had more or less been decided for by our circumstances rather than for its convenience.

With the scorching, midday sun beating down on us and the very, VERY irritating marsh flies biting lumps out of us, there were very little options for us, so two of us set up base camp, with the third member of this unfortunate party setting off down the beach back towards Eurong in search of help.

We tied a bright orange plastic bag to the aerial of the car so that it would be easier to spot from the beach. After a period of about an hour and a half, he returned in a jeep with a young couple from Ireland who had given him a lift back from the tourist information centre located between Eurong and us.

Thanking them for their help, we waved them goodbye and worked upon our strategy to get out of the situation. Having acquired the number of a tow truck guy on the island, it was decided that we would call him to come and see what he could do for us.

However, we had another problem.

Located where we were, none of us had a signal on our phones to make the call.

Resigned to more hitch hiking back in the direction from which he would come, our friend reluctantly volunteered to go see if he could get to a phone to make the call. We would remain at base and look out for people to help us, as well as protect all our belongings that were of course stranded along with us. Perhaps the inhabitants of the tents nearby would be able to help us once they had returned.

That afternoon was a long one for all concerned.

Sitting at our camp and with no means of communication, we sat helplessly waiting for help to arrive. Occasionally cars would pass by on the nearby beach – all of them big, strong, 4WD monsters but none of them passing along the road parallel to the beach that we had camped along.

The minutes passed slowly by, with most of the time spent swatting the bastard marsh flies that by now had become the most hated thing in my world, apart from ALL WHEEL DRIVE cars with their incessant buzzing and their sometimes quite painful bites (the flies, not ALL WHEEL DRIVES).

The marsh flies were everywhere we went. Even going over the dune and onto the beach, they still seemed to follow, all be it in pairs – as if they were doing reconnaissance missions to report to the others.

Apart from these wonderful distractions, the afternoon was intermittently livened up by me trying the car again, to see if it had miraculously repaired itself in the interim. Unsurprisingly it had not – although it did not stop me trying again every half hour or so.

After an eternity of seeking solace from the burning sun and the biting marsh flies, our friend returned in a battered 4WD vehicle along with who we hoped would be our saviours of the day – our knights in shining armour - or at the very least a couple of sensible, helpful, kind-hearted gentlemen. All be it in a battered Mitsubishi 4WD.

Any hopes that we had of a safe and fast rescue, immediately dissipated when we saw the two guys roll out of their vehicle, clutching onto their ‘stubbies’ (bottles of beer), thoughtfully placed in ‘stubby coolers’ (small polystyrene cups to keep the bottles cool).

It was obvious that both of them were utterly and completely wasted.

The driver and the least drunk of the two - but not by much, it has to be said – introduced himself as Peter. He was small, covered in grease with burn marks covering most of his upper torso. He looked like he had not eaten a solid, square meal in years. His unkempt hair hung greasy and lifeless around his face barely hiding a shifty, bloodshot gaze and a rather disconcerting smirk.

His mate was chubby, sunburnt and sported a manic, imbecilic grin and was very obviously only there for the drive and to have a gawk at the stupid, stuck tourists.

Neither of them looked like they would have been able to tie their own shoelaces, never mind help us out of our current predicament.

I exchanged nervous, worried glances with my travelling companions. My mate who had spent all afternoon trying to get to civilisation and then to try and summon some help, shrugged his shoulders as if to say “What? This was the best I could do!”

Chatting later with him, he had a point, as it transpired that he had quite the nightmare since leaving us to go get help but unaware of these facts, I have to admit to being quite unimpressed by his choice of rescue team.

“So – what the fuck has happened here then?” Peter asked, barely containing his amusement.

“I think I’ve burnt the clutch out” I sheepishly replied.

“You think you’ve burnt the clutch out? Let’s have a look” With an exaggerated sigh, he took the keys and proceeded to stagger across the sand to the car. Getting in, he repeated what I had tried only about a dozen times since our vehicle had stopped and unfortunately, once again, the car engine refused to engage into gear.

Getting out of the car, he offered his professional advice on the situation: “Yep – the fucking clutch has had it. It’s completely fucked. This car ain’t going nowhere.”

“Is there anything you can do to help us?” asked our friend, obviously worried about her father’s car and wanting to know how we could get it fixed.

“Well – there’s fuck all I can do out here. Where’s your camp?”

“Over there,” pointing to our tent hidden in the shade.

“You’ve camped here? OK then, best thing I can do is tow the car back and order the parts. It will take a while for the part to arrive and even when it does, it will take a while to fix. It’s an all day job, that.

“How much do you think it will cost?”

“Hard to say – parts are expensive, plus getting it to the island, it’s a big job.” He answered avoiding the question.

“Yeah – so how much do you think?”

“Hard to say but I reckon somewhere between six and seven hundred dollars.”

For the first time, I think we fully appreciated just how bad our situation was.

• We had borrowed and subsequently broken my friend’s father’s car
• We were kilometres away from civilisation, stranded on the world’s largest sand-based island
• We were relying on the assistance of the two most drunken people on the island, if not the planet, for assistance

To say we were dismayed would be an understatement.

Although - even though we were seriously worried and depressed at how bad things had become, little did we know just how much things would go worse….