A Time for Reflection...

G’Day Folks!

I’m pleased to report that this week’s instalment comes to you with the rain hammering off the thin windows of my room at the Redland Bay Motel. Another exciting development over the past few days is that I’ve managed to acquire a rather alarming, but no less spectacular, chesty cough.

I even had to wear a cardigan to the pub this evening, where I spent the time over my two schooners of Castlemaine XXXX Bitter watching the rain bounce of the sun scorched beer-garden like bullets off a super-hero.

Yes folks, the weather has taken a turn for the worse Down Under and more rain is predicted over the coming days. The wettest June on record has even been spoken about, albeit in hopeful whispers and it has to be said that the locals are quite made up about it.

Crikey, but things aren’t half different this side of the planet.

Unfortunately, I can’t share in the collective enthusiasm of those around me as they celebrate the upcoming downpours, for you see, I’ve got a bigger fish to fry.

And that fish comes in the form of my much anticipated trip back home. Exactly one month from now, all being well, I will be landing at Aldegrove Airport and quite frankly, I’m just a little concerned.

I have just spent the early part of this evening sitting outside in temperatures of 18 degrees wearing a cardigan – the one and only item of clothing that I jokingly brought with me as a concession to when things might get “just a wee bit chilly” – and I was never so thankful for having an extra layer of clothing since moving down here.

So what has become of me? Have the ambient temperatures of Australia turned me into a big girl’s blouse? 18 degrees in an early Ballyclare evening would be considered quite balmy – even with the rain - and yet here I am zipping up my cardie to protect myself against the ‘elements’. Thank God I’m returning to the warm bosom of my friends and family is all I can say.

I’m reminded of a guy that I used to play football with during my time in Belgium; 6’4” and full of muscles (unlike the guy in the song from Brussels he is from Essex.) After spending 8 months in the Caribbean on a lucrative contract, he returned to Belgium complaining of the cold, even going so far as to wear a fleece top whilst playing football. Indoor Football.

Could it really be that I’ve wimped out as much as this? Only time will tell and that time is very almost upon me. How exciting is that? OK – perhaps not for most of you reading these words but for me – I’m PUMPED (to use the local vernacular) to be heading back home, if only for a few days.

Not only is today a landmark in that it sees me 4 short weeks from home but it is also exactly 7 months since I arrived in Australia. 7 months, since I left the safety blanket of a world that I was familiar with - a world where, even if working and living outside of Northern Ireland – I was never more than a short hop by plane from home.

So what of the last 7 months? What has the Australian experience been like so far for me? I hope you’ll forgive me the wee indulgence of some time (and Ballyclare Gazette space) for some contemplation…

During my time here, I’ve experienced many things - some of them good, some of them bad.

I’ve moved in with Krissy, the love of my life – a girl that I barely knew before moving here it has to be said - but someone with whom I feel complete (as cliché and corny as that sounds). I’ve been adopted by her family and friends and in spite of all the problems that that might have caused for all concerned, we’re all still on speaking terms, which is an achievement in itself.

I’ve stroked koalas and watched kangaroos in their natural habitat, I’ve been woken by dingoes during the night whilst camped in the middle of a rainforest and then been woken by the crazy laugh of the kookaburra, before promptly driving my potential father-in-law’s car into the middle of a sand dune and burnt its clutch, leaving us stranded for days.

I’ve experienced the delights of The Gold Coast, Brisbane, The Sunshine Coast and its surrounds and stood completely in awe as I surveyed that most iconic of landscapes, Sydney Harbour. Sydney also provided me with the opportunity to spend time with my lovely cousin Janette and her fantastic family as I was treated to some fine Northern Irish hospitality (is there any finer?), that had me hankering – not for the last time - for the shores of home.

I’ve struggled with living on a budget and without a job, without a right to even get a job, and watched as my girlfriend went back to gainful employment, as I trawled the internet looking for a position with a company who was prepared to deal with the extra baggage of sorting me out with a visa.

Thankfully, this period did not last too long and my new career has had me experiencing the delights of sugar factories in the middle of “whoop whoop” and chicken slaughterhouses at the end of a 2 hour commute. A job that I am enjoying as difficult as it can be at times and let’s not forget - a job that has provided me with the cash to make it back home in time enough for the family to still recognise me and to join in the Twelfth of July celebrations.

The job also provided me with an opportunity to develop my knowledge in my chosen field of expertise with all the challenges it throws at me and it has taken me to Melbourne to increase my knowledge further by way of some specialised training.

My time in Melbourne was worthy of an article in its own, because apart from the training course, it also provided ‘killer’ paintball, a bachelors barbeque, uninvited appearances at birthday parties and ten-pin bowling with a guy called Healy who would have had the GAWA almost as excited as our very own Healy gets us. Not to mention the introduction to a local cuisine called Chicken Parma. Believe me – it has to be tasted to be appreciated.

All this was by way of a friendship with a friend of Krissy - a lovely guy from Middlesbrough named Phil. A guy who along with his girlfriend Helen, spent the last few fun-filled days with us here in the Sunshine Coast and a guy who I wish lived a lot closer.

For you see, it’s been somewhat difficult to make friends of my own down here and that, it has to be said has been a bit of a surprise for me. Having lived away from home since the age of 19, it’s been a given that I would have to fend for myself and with that territory also comes the fact that I’m going to have to get out there and meet people.

The people back home in Ballyclare - and Northern Ireland as a whole - are a friendly lot and to be honest, you’re a hard act to follow.

Don’t get me wrong, Australians are great fun-loving people and I’m enjoying the experience of being in amongst them but – of course there was a but - it’s not home, it’s not family, it’s not friends from back home and I’m really, really looking forward to being back in amongst the people that I love most on God’s, green earth.

The Old Trafford Bar in Antwerp, with all its delusional ManYoo supporting clientele, the Rock Festival at Werchter with my closest friends in Belgium, the delights of Amsterdam and Taipei and beyond are all coming up on this trip and as much as I’m looking forward to all of these (and believe me I am) the days to be spent in Ballyclare are easily the highlight of the trip.

The kitchen session at mother’s, the Back Bar Session at the Ballyboe with my father and brothers and all the usual suspects, the Twelfth of July and seeing all the people that I love on the parade, both walking and watching are all the things that keep me awake at night with excitement.

Which I can tell you, is a helluva lot better than being kept asleep by the thoughts of cockroaches sharing my motel bed,.

Good night and God Bless. I’ll see you all soon!

(Feel free to get in touch – you can email me at JonnyBlackDownUnder@gmail.com)

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….

Doing the Rain Dance Down Under

G’Day Folks!

I trust you’re all in fine fettle back up there in the northern hemisphere?

I’m back at the keyboard after a week’s absence. Over the past few days, the workload has increased considerably and to be honest, coupled with the hours spent in the car on the commute, the last thing I have felt like doing is spending more time staring at the screen, hoping for the creative juices to flow.

But I’m back now and I’m raring to go. So, as they say, on with the show!

I never thought I’d hear myself saying the words “I wish it would rain” but sure enough, I find myself increasingly engaged in these conversations with some of the locals down here.

Now don’t get me wrong – it’s not because I’ve had enough of, or don’t like the glorious sunshine that this part of the world basks in because in fact, I enjoy it immensely. I thrive in the good weather and the bronzed Adonis that I’m sure lurks within this Joe Average from Norn Iron is surely to make his grand appearance anytime soon.

Nor is it because the locals also suffer from that wonderfully British habit of discussing the weather at every opportune moment.

Even now – as Australia heads into its winter months, South Queensland is enjoying clear blue skies with temperatures regularly reaching the mid to high twenties.

But you see folks, that’s just it - too much of a good thing can be a bad thing and the current climate is a fine example of just that.

Right here in Queensland, amongst other parts of this vast continent, we are in the throes of a severe drought that is threatening to become something of an emergency situation without rain – and plenty of it - some time soon.

Yep, things are getting rather serious around these parts.

In December of 2005, Brisbane water storage levels sat at a measly 35 percent – now they sit at less than 20.

Just a couple of weeks ago, South East Queensland, including the state capital city of Brisbane was put onto Level 5 water restrictions. To put this into perspective the scale only goes as far as Level 8.

Level 5 means that – amongst other things – there are restrictions on using sprinkler systems, washing vehicles, hosing in paved areas, refilling swimming pools and watering lawns (with locals only allowed to bucket 3 afternoons a week.)

The government has set a target of 140 litres personal water use per person per day. Before Level 5, average consumption stood at 198 litres. Now we are down to 160 litres, which is still not good enough.

Any household caught using more than 800 litres a day will have to explain their water use or face a hefty fine.
This is the highest level of water restrictions that Australia – a country that is used to very hot weather - has ever reached with Level 5 last being reached in Melbourne in 1983.
Now obviously this isn’t the sort of problem that we’d experience back home – although I do seem to recall the occasional hosepipe ban after a few hot days, which beggars belief considering the amount of rainfall we get in The Emerald Isle.
Hoping for heavy rainfalls in April, so as to avoid the introduction of level 5 restrictions, Brisbane city had just 3ml of rainfall the whole month, compared with a yearly average of 53 ml. Things are not looking good.
But it doesn’t stop there.
As you can imagine, this has become a huge political issue in the region and the impression that I get is that for the most part, the Australian public is adhering to the government’s “Let’s watch every drop” campaign.
But there’s only so much the public can take.
A public that has been consistently and repeatedly urged by its government to save water at every opportune moment; using such techniques as cutting down shower use by 2 minutes each time, turning off the tap while brushing teeth or reducing the number of clothes washes per week by one.
Recently it transpired that a Brisbane outdoor public swimming pool was losing thousands of litres every day and that the state government building’s air-conditioning was cranked to a chilly 18 degrees, a totally unnecessary waste of water.
Needless to say, people want answers as to why these government failings can happen, especially considering the lengths some people are going to to reduce their personal water usage. For instance, I heard a female caller on the radio the other morning proudly announce to the listening public that her and her husband showered together and then bathed their two young children in the very same shower water.
Now I realise that this sort of behaviour would have been the norm back home a few decades ago. But that was a question of economics - I thought we’d left those times behind us.
Even though the government has seen this coming for almost 20 years, what with the number of people moving to the area increasing coupled with the rainfalls decreasing, they’ve just sat on the problem, secretly praying for rain to arrive.
In a rather surreal twist, one of the reasons that has been bandied about by the government is that it hasn’t been raining in the right places. Can you imagine that? If we used that excuse back home we’d be able to poke more fun at Larne’s expense – except in that case it most definitely does rain in the right place.
An obvious solution is to install household water tanks to catch whatever rainfall that does come but with installations running into anything from two to five thousand dollars – even with the assistance of government grants - it’s a huge expense for a lot of households and even then, the waiting list for these tanks is running into months.
In Brisbane there are controversial plans to introduce the use of recycled water, a prospect that has a lot of people feeling more than a little uncomfortable. In fact it has already been rejected by the people of Toowoomba, an hour south west of Brisbane. Sydney on the other hand, intends to build a desalination plant to convert seawater at the frightening cost of $1.3 billion.
Ironically enough considering its name, The Sunshine Coast where I live and just an hour’s drive north of Brisbane is ok. Apparently our rain falls in the right places.
So surely then, a solution would be to pipe some of the water down from this region to Brisbane. Give our neighbours a helping hand, as it were, to help them through this crisis?
Apparently not.
Driving north along the sunshine coast, to the region which has been earmarked for the building of a dam to help the situation, drivers are constantly shown examples of Love thy Neighbour, Australian style.
“SAY NO TO THE DAM!!” a huge sign screams out at you.
“ECOLOGICALLY and ECONOMICALLY UNVIABLE!!” yells another.
“IT’S OUR WATER!!” is the somewhat petulant message displayed on yet another one.
Of course, even if the locals reneged and stopped to help their mates in strife, building a dam will provide no immediate solution to the crisis. It will be a costly and time-consuming enterprise, the benefits of which will be unable to be enjoyed for 3 to 5 years from now.

So you see folks – living Down Under in the land of perpetual sunshine-filled days isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

Next time you look out of your window as the grey skies empty their contents in all the right places (especially Larne) and you pray for the rain, rain to go to Spain – pray a little bit harder and see if you can send it down this way.

In the meantime, I’m off down to the beach for a bit of a rain dance.

Pass me the sunscreen.

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!