World Cup Sweepstake 2010: Two to go...

So Folks,

We now know who will contest the final of the FIFA Budweiser-McDonalds-Sony-Samsung-Hyundai-we-all-knew-that-Spain-Would-Get-to-the-final World Cup and what do you know? After a journey that started 2 years ago with 204 hopeful qualifying nations, which was then whittled to 32 nations carrying the hopes and dreams of their respective countries into the Finals, we now are left with just the two contenders.

In the Red-with-snazzy-blue-shorts-and-a-little-bit-of-gold-trim corner we have the Spanish, whilst in the retina-scarring fluoro orange corner we have the Dutch, which to be fair, were two of the countries that many had been tipping before the tournament began to leave South Africa with the 14-inch gold trophy greedily held to their collective bosom.

Of the two, the Netherlands are regarded as the outsider but at the end of the day it’s only 11 v 11 and there is only so much hypnotic death-by-a-thousand-cuts style of tip-tap-tip-tap passing tiki-strangulation that the Dutch will endure before comedy villain Mark van Bommel will crack, come steaming in on some poor unsuspecting Spanish midfielder, sending him crashing into the advertising hoardings by way of a solid boot in the ar5e with a size 12 clog.

Either way, we are going to have a new World Cup winner with neither country having managed to reach the pinnacle of World Football before. And that has surely got to be good for the game.

But let’s spare a moment for the losers of the semis. Probably the worst game in any tournament to lose, the Germans and the Uruguayans have been sent home at the penultimate hurdle left to rue what might have been. There’s no doubt that the good people of Montevideo will rightfully welcome their team back to a heroes return with dancing on the streets, copious dancing and singing with Grappamiel flowing faster than a Jubulani ball into row Z.

The Germans, however, are a more pragmatic bunch and after having been played off the park by the relentless sideway passing of the Spanish it transpired that Paul “the oracle” Octopus had predicted the result, leading to mass outcry and a move for the octopus to be turned into calamari; although considering that it was the Spanish who sent the Germans home, surely paella would be a better option?

But then here’s the thing:

In some cruel form of FIFA-inspired torture neither of these scenarios have transpired yet because we still have the 3^rd and 4^th place play-off to consider. A game that is generating little interest, save for the fact that it provides a convenient way for us to determine who receives the 30 dollars from the sweep for 4^th place and who gets the 50 dollars for 3^rd.

So as a reminder – here are the contestants who’s sweepstake destiny will be decided in the wee hours of Sunday morning.

In the shiny light blue corner sporting a dodgy hair-style and humming the epic and never-ending national anthem Himno Nacional Uruguayo we have Uruguay’s Antonio Michelatti

Whilst in the simple yet stunning black and white leiderhosen combo, standing sipping the super-strength lager from his moustache, we have YopMeister

Let the battle commence.

World Cup 2010 Sweepstake - Four-Play

Well Folks,

We’re getting to the pointy end of the jamboree that is the FIFA Budweiser-McDonalds-Sony-Samsung-Hyundai-Let’s-all-laugh-at-England World Cup and we now know the 4 teams that are going to compete for the semis. And of course the four lucky (by association) people from the 32 hope-filled participants of our Sweepstake that set off on this journey all those (what seems like) months ago.

As a reminder, here are the people still left in the sweep:

Natalie (Spain)

Ross (Holland)

“Yoppy” (Germany)

Andrew (Uruguay)

And prizes for 1^st, 2^nd, 3^rd and 4^th to be distributed as follows:

1^st 150.00
2^nd 90.00
3^rd 50.00
4^th 30.00

Working the night shift as I am this evening and with less than two hours until kick-off, I’ve taken the opportunity to take a break from chasing, plucking and counting chickens whilst breathing in the discharge of the “rendering process” (whatever that may be) to have a look at what we have learned since the last update and to preview the upcoming semi-finals.

Hardly seems worth the while considering you’ll all know by the time you read these words who has already won the first semi but seeing as most of you have paid into the Sweepstake (Sidey – looking at you mate!), I figured what the hell, I might as well try and give you some value for money, right?

Well – for a start, all those people that have been saying “It’s a South American Cup” (believe me – there have been some) are now probably scurrying under a rock, burying themselves with great gusto into Wimbledon (but hasn’t that finished already?) or for a brave (but deluded) last few pledging they're allegiance firmly on the Last Great South American Latin Hope that is....erm....Uruguay.

Bye-bye Brazil – seems you weren’t that good after all. Maradona – the South American version of a leprechaun on smack - managed to give “Ze Germans” a massively ill-conceived motivator in the pre-match press conference. Well Diego, as you go home to a rapturous welcome from a surprisingly easy to please Buenos Aires population, you can comfort yourself with the realisation that perhaps “Ze Germans” weren’t that “nervousssh” after all. Indeed, like the cars that hail from the Fatherland, the German football team continues to run like the well-oiled machine they generally are at these tournaments. And oh how that annoys the English.

Yes, the match-up with Spain in the second semi-final looks like it is going to be a cracker. Especially considering the Spanish coach del Bosque, goalkeeper Pepe Reina, golden boot shoe-in David Villa, and (probably) Manuel from Fawlty Towers have all been saying (again) that Torres will unleash his hitherto undiscovered skills at finding the back of the old onion bag in Spain’s upcoming match.

I can hardly wait.

But hey – perhaps an awful World Cup will keep the vultures from taking Liverpool’s prized asset away from us....even if it means my extremely misguided 5 dollar bet on him to win the Golden Boot has proven to be an over-enthusiastic heart over-ruling a more than willing brain.

But back to tonight’s semi final. And here’s where the World Cup gets really exciting for Yours Truly and (at least four of) our sweepstake participants.

Now, I’m not (much of) a betting man but there’s something about the World Cup that brings out the “I can beat the Bookie” mentality in me. But, true to form, things have not been going.....er, well - to form.

So far, my friends at Centrebet.com have welcomed into their corporate, sweaty, slightly damp-smelling overcoat’s heaving pockets :

1. The aforementioned 5 dollar bet on Torres to be the leading scorer of the tournament. A player who is now, quite frankly, looking like a man that would struggle to score his ar5e on a barbed-wire fence
2. A 20 dollar bet on a draw between Germany and the Socceroos. How they must have p!ssed themselves at that one – great way to start ‘sticking it to the bookie’ that one
3. And then of course there was the cheeky 5 dollar bet on England to win......THE TOURNAMENT....... Well, I figured on the off chance that if they were going to do it and I had to listen to it for the next 50 years then I may as well gain financially from it

But then here comes the good news, for you see, not all my money (at least not yet) has gone Centrebet’s way and I’m sure their struggling to catch some zzzzzzz’s these days when they must realise that I still have a little bit of money out on a long lend in their bank account:

First, there’s the not so silly looking 20 dollar bet on Spain at 7-1 to win the tournament. Oh yes – that would cover my bets (and sweepstakes) that would. And still leave me with enough money to treat myself to a bottle of cheap sangria at the nearest Tapas bar.

However, as my dark horse punt, I placed a 5 dollar bet on Uruguay to win the tournament at ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY FIVE TO ONE!

Now wouldn’t that make the whole experience worthwhile?!

To the people that would say “ah but how can you cheer on a team that cheated to win the tournament?” I could give them 625 answers but for now, I’ll give them just the one....

“Está justo celoso. ¡Venga en Uruguay - permítanos golpe el Atasca-Llevando holandés!”

Of course, by now you’re all p!ssing yourselves because you already know that Uruguay, the nasty cheating team that they are, have been kicked out of the World Cup....

By a team full of players wearing fluoro and clogs.

And where else could that happen but at this great jamboree that we call the FIFA Budweiser-McDonalds-Sony-Samsung-Hyundai-Let’s-all-laugh-at-England World Cup?

World Cup 2010 Sweepstake - and then there were 8...

Well Folks,

The dust has settled on the group stage as well as the round of 16, leaving 8 brave teams (and of course, by association 8 of us) to fight it out for World Cup glory.

So what have we learnt so far in the 18 days of football, endless nights on the couch and the futile attempts to function in work the next day after depriving oneself of decent sleep for 3 weeks?

The nasal whine of Aussies the world over progressively increased in both pitch and length during their ultimately futile group stage efforts. As atrocity (the Germans opening a can of whoop ass on the poor Socceroos), followed atrocity (brave Aussie born-to-a-Samoan-mother-and-a-British-father-of-Irish-descent battler Timmy Cahill sees red as he is inexplicably sent off for a potential leg-breaker of a tackle), followed atrocity (Harry “sick note” Kewell rises from his death bed just long enough to make an impact on the World Cup.)

Although I’m sure the impact that everyone was hoping for wasn’t the red card that was given for the impact of his arm on the ball that prevented a certain goal as he made a more than decent impression of a goalkeeper. Which is quite ironic, considering he hasn’t impressed as a footballer since he left Leeds for Liverpool all those years ago)

But not content with these injustices, atrocity followed atrocity. Those pesky soon-to-be quarter-finalists, Ghana, failed to read the script and had the audacity to equalise against the brave 10 men of the Socceroos and despite the Socceroos actually playing some of their best football once their backs were to the wall as they faced World Cup elimination, Serbia scored and Germany couldn’t, undoing all the good work of the 2-0 lead that the brave Aussie lads had notched up previously.

World Cup hopes in the bin. Thanks for the memories, now rack off Pim!

Following their struggles against poor form, inept tactics, rash tackles, illegal goal-line clearances, and an undoubted vendetta from referees, FIFA and the world in general, there was only one thing left for the Aussies to do to cope with the injustice of what had happened.

Yes, shamelessly adopting the New Zealand team like they hailed from a hitherto unmentioned Australian state or territory and claiming them as their own (something they’ve been doing for years as Phar Lap, Split Enz, Russell Crowe and the poor pavlova would be only too willing to testify), as the All Whites defied their pre-tournament odds of 2500 to 1 and stuck it to Slovakia, Paraguay and reigning World Champions Italy no less.

Yes, the All Whites can hold their collective head high, as they return from a World Cup finals to their home land in the ar$e-end of the world undefeated.

Something their counterparts in the oval-shaped game have not been able to do since.....erm......

In every World Cup there are teams that surprisingly flounder and then there are others who – well – surprise. For every North Korean team that resolutely stifled a less than samba-ing Brazil there was a North Korean team getting flogged 7-0 by the Portuguese, a drubbing that I’m sure had their King of Political Spin, the dictator Kim Jong-Il rueing for quite some time. After the initially optimistic performance against Brazil he saw an opportunity to please the masses and decided to show – for the first time ever – a live football match on the one and only state-run propaganda television channel.

Lord knows what the masses thought as they watched their country getting thrashed on the world stage by a bunch of men with half the world’s supply of Bryclreem stuck to their heads.

For every Frenchman shrugging his shoulders, swearing, shouting at his manager and getting packed off home in disgrace, there were many more who did their talking on the pitch – by striking off the training pitch – and by the looks of their performances – on the football pitch as well, ensuring that they didn’t get too comfortable in their South African surrounds and were soon sent home (in economy class) to face the wrath of the French public – and its government.

Ably prompted by the White Caps, cheating, diving, boo-hiss and - let’s face it – reigning world champions Italy fared no better and were sent home, I’m sure, to face recriminations at Rome airport from many men dressed in Kappa tracksuits or designer suits and shades somehow managing to simultaneously hurl abuse with both hands, whilst shouting at the top of their lungs, gesticulating wildy, smoking on cigarettes and ordering a double-expresso delivery on their mobile phone whilst checking out the air hostesses.

Speaking of hostesses, the hosts, South Africa, diappointed but not as bad as was expected and at least they gave us the lasting memory of the vuvuzela. The less said about that the better.

Refereeing decisions were inconsistent and seemed to favour the big teams. Yet again. Conspiracy theories abound as USA! USA! USA! have two perfectly good goals disallowed, Argentina get away with an offside goal in the Round of 16 and Brazil at times look like they’re playing basketball rather than soccer. And then of course there is the Frank-Lampard-goal-that-never-was-in-a-sweet-revenge-for-1966-kind-of-way in England’s brave but futile attempt to beat Germany by allowing the Germans to run rings around them for two-thirds of the match in the hope that they would eventually tire out. Unfortunately, the only tired and burnt out image on show at the end of the game – apart from Capello’s withered features – was the England team itself as they trudged off the pitch.

Shakespeare himself would have struggled to write a better tragic comedy than the Ing-er-land football team’s performances at major finals for the past 44 years but surely had he dreamt up such a farce, even he couldn’t have come up with such a sad, insipid, anti-climax of an ending. The Golden Generation (as they like to be referred to) will now disappear into the sunset leaving the hopes of millions crushed at what might have been. No doubt the players shall try and console themselves during their retirement as they count their endless millions, peruse their air-shelters full of chavtastic bling-covered cars and search for sympahty in the form of the nearest airhead WAG-wannabe.

It’s all so unfair, isn’t it?!

And with that rather convoluted and contrived segue.....

Speaking of unfair – I have attached the updated spreadsheet containing the current standings that leaves 8 of you in the running for the big money.

Except - and here is where the “unfair” part comes in - there won’t be the “big money prizes” promised at the start of the competition because a few of you have still to pay their entrance fee of 10 dollars. So basically, this is the “name and shame in front of your peers campaign” - if you see your name with a red mark against it, then can you please respond by transferring the money into my account, or email me (not the whole group – we don’t want to pi55 off Lisa!) with other arrangements.

Thanks – and for those of you still in the game - why oh why couldn’t one of you have picked Greece instead of me?!

Arcanada......ARMSTRONG!!

Well Folks,

We're just a few short days until the Festival of the Beautiful Game, also known as the World Cup, begins. As we all know, Northern Ireland, my wee team has not qualified and like me will be watching the proceedings on the TV.

Indeed, it is at times like these that I wish I hailed from a nation that did qualify for World Cup Finals, that was capable of getting to the quarter finals, a team that, in spite of its supposed “minnow” status could become the smallest country to ever have qualified for the World Cup finals and indeed, the smallest country to ever have qualified for more than one World Cup finals or hell, even the smallest country to have reached the World Cup quarter finals.

A team that could fly in the face of perceived underdog status defeating host nations one-nil (in spite of some shocking refereeing decisions, and having a man inexplicably sent off).

Erm – hang on a moment – I do come from a country that can boast all of this. And much more besides...

WORLD RECORD 1

At Spain 1982, in Norman Whiteside, we had a player that beat a long standing record by none other than Pele himself by becoming the youngest player ever to play at the World Cup finals, a record that still stands. And while I’m talking about Pele, Northern Ireland managed all these feats listed above without playing someone who Pele himself once described as the “Greatest Player that ever lived”, George Best, who at the height of his prowess was playing for a Northern Ireland team that was, let’s face it, just a wee bit rubbish.

Yes OK, the team have yet to participate in their first European Championship finals, but this was in spite of the fact that Northern Ireland beat the former West Germany 1-0 home and away in qualifiers for Euro 84. More recently, “David ‘The Stars in the bright sky looked down where’ Healy” broke the record for goals scored in one Euro campaign, previously held by Davor Suker of Croatia, by scoring 13 times in Northern Ireland's brave, but ultimately doomed, attempt to qualify for Euro 2008. Healy scored thrice in yet another defeat of Spain (who would go on to win the tournament in spite of this defeat at the hands of their old enemy), the match ending 3-2 after Spain having twice taken the lead. He also scored twice against Sweden, 5 times against Liechtenstein, once against Denmark, once against Latvia, and also scored against Iceland. He also became the first player ever to score 2 hat tricks for Northern Ireland.

But it hasn’t always been plain sailing supporting the Green and White Army....

WORLD RECORD 2

*AHEM*

In January 2004, Lawrie Sanchez - he of the famous goal for Wimbledon against Liverpool in the FA Cup final – (something that the aforementioned Norman Whiteside managed against Everton in another FA Cup final) was appointed manager after a run of ten games without a goal under the previous manager Sammy Mcilroy, which was a world record for any international team. The run of sixteen games without a win ended after his second game, a 1–0 victory in a friendly over Estonia, with a largely experimental side, in March 2004.

Chasing the money offered to him by Fulham, Sanchez abandoned us midway through the qualifications for World Cup 2010 and unfortunately things haven’t quite worked out for the Boys in Green for this year’s extravaganza in South Africa but having got all that off my chest, I’m now fully behind the Socceroos.

Although I do have to express my disappointment at the distinct lack of World Cup ‘Anthems’ coming from this part of the world. I mean, after all, who could forget the Northern Ireland anthem “Yer Man,” sung with great gusto and verve by team-members and previous Eurovision Song Contest winner, Dana.

Surely lyrics like “When yer man gets the ball, Northern Ireland scores a goal” has got to be the inspiration behind my wee country’s greatest ever moment in World Cup history on that balmy night in Valencia, 1982.

See for yourself:

Including the famous commentary from the BBC’s John Motson.

“Gerry Amstrong....
what a worker he is....
striding away with Hamilton to his right...
Norman Whiteside up on the far side of the area....
.......
Still Billy Hamilton.....he’s gone past Tendillio!
...
And
.....
Arcanada....it....ooooOOOOHHHhhhARMSTRONG!!!!!

NORTHERN IRELAND HAVE SCORED THROUGH GERRY AMSTRONG!!!

A mistake by the goal keeper and it’s the 100^th goal of this World Cup Tournament!!!

I still remember John. I still remember.

MEGA RED WAR DAY!!

Hot on the heels of my AC/DC experience, I'm keen to add some more thoughts and experiences to this wee corner of cyberspace. The beast within has been re-awoken, as it were.

And with the Big Game coming up at the weekend join me, if you will, on a business trip that I had a few months ago as I recount for you "Mega Red War Day"

Working as a prostitute who can type – sorry an IT consultant – you just never know what may be round the corner waiting for you under the guise of gainful employment.

In this career of mine I've experienced things such as a 36-hour shift in a freezing cold warehouse near Eurodisney, four months of night shift in a warehouse on the outskirts of Antwerp, a never-ending project at a chicken processing plant in the middle of the Australian hinterland, a nine-month stint in remote Central Queensland, a peanut processing plant in even more remote North Carolina and a project during the winter months in the Middle of Nowhere, Sweden.

Oh yes – it's a glamorous lifestyle.

But then occasionally some things happen which come as a total, pleasant, surprise and you end up packing up the suitcase and the laptop for a little bit of international travel that actually gets the juices flowing.

So it was, with great excitement, that I accepted an assignment which meant that I would be spending a week sampling the delights of "Krung Thep Mahanakhon Amon Rattanakosin Mahinthara Yuthaya Mahadilok Phop Noppharat Ratchathani Burirom Udomratchaniwet Mahasathan Amon Phiman Awatan Sathit Sakkathattiya Witsanukam Prasit", Thailand.

Or Bangkok, as we now (thankfully) know it.

Incidentally, the ceremonial name of Bangkok is officially recognised in the (pint of) Guinness Book of Records as the world's longest place name and translates to "The city of angels, the great city, the eternal jewel city, the impregnable city of God Indra, the grand capital of the world endowed with nine precious gems, the happy city, abounding in an enormous Royal Palace that resembles the heavenly abode where reigns the reincarnated god, a city given by Indra and built by Vishnukarm"

So there you go. Thank God (or Indra) for Wikipedia.

My flight was due to leave at midnight on the Saturday evening which kind of encroached on my hectic social life a little, which was a shame seeing as there was a street festival on in my neighbourhood that very day but I'm nothing if not adaptable and after having spent a few hours on the Saturday partying at the Valley Fiesta (http://www.valleyfiesta.com), I bid the party farewell and headed off to the airport around 21:00, a full 3 hours before the flight. There's nothing like the excitement of travelling business class on a long haul flight for the first time (apart from one lucky, unexpected upgrade on a flight back from Hong Kong), so I was determined to enjoy all the trappings that came with it, which basically meant free food and booze in the business class lounge. Lah de Dah!

Having been to very few parts of Asia and only ever seen the inside of Bangkok's airport, I was looking forward to this experience. Yes, I was there to work but scheduled to arrive on the Sunday at six in the morning as I was, I was hoping to at least have that day (and surely some evenings during the week) to see around me and to experience some of what Bangkok had to offer.

And of course - to find somewhere to watch my beloved Liverpool take on our most hated of rivals, Manchester United that evening.

Ah yes, here I was on my way to visit a world-renowned city and global tourist destination for the first time and yet here I also was, more concerned about making sure that I had a means of watching Liverpool v Manchester United that evening.

Some things never change – and not for the first time in my life have I questioned my passion/curse (delete where appropriate) for supporting Liverpool and the amount of my life I devote to all things Liverpool. I am reminded of a time when I went to spend the weekend in Paris with friends and instead of going to Le Louvre with everyone else, I found a British Pub nearby and settled down to watch Liverpool play Leeds. For the record, we won 2-0 and the queues to see the Mona Lisa were mind-numbingly long. (A bit like these blog entries!)

But, not for the first time, I digress.

Scheduled for a 9pm kick off (Bangkok time – not UK time – there's no way they could trust both sets of supporters to drink all day in the build up to a game between these two most bitter of rivals), I had plenty of time to find somewhere to watch the game. I also had a plan 'B' – an Irish bar 2 km from the hotel, if nothing else turned up.

Having slept like a little baby in the extremely comfortable environ of Royal Thai business class, I was then met and taken to the gorgeous hotel by a chauffeur-driven limo and checked in where I promptly took the opportunity to enjoy a little bit of 'me time', spoiling myself in the sumptuous bath and – bedecked in hotel dressing gown – fell asleep for a couple of hours whilst reading my book on the luxurious bed.

Oh yes – it can be a glamorous lifestyle.

Wakening up around midday, I was all raring to go and checked my Lonely Planet guidebook to see where I should go to experience some of the Bangkok sights.

Incidentally – like a lot of people I know – travelling without a Lonely Planet book is regarded as nothing short of criminally insane and so it is that at this stage I'd like to tip my hat in the direction of Maureen Wheeler, the co-founder of Lonely Planet. A fellow Belfast-born person who now calls Australia her 'home' and judging by the crowds that were out on Saturday past for the St. Patrick's Day parade here in Brisbane, there are quite a few of us round these parts. But that's another story entirely.

As it turned out, there was a train station stop 100m away from the hotel, so I decided to take the train towards one of the main business shopping districts in Bangkok, called Silom, which according to the map was only one stop away. Hardly the stuff of intrepid explorers, I know, but it was enough to get me into the swing of things. (The golf-buggy taxi taking me the 100 m from the hotel to the train stop that reception insisted on organising for me was, quite frankly, embarrassing.)

Having negotiated a train ticket – a feat that I privately congratulated myself on – I waited in the very clean and quiet train station for my first experience of public transport in Bangkok. Promptly, a brand, spanking new train pulled up at the station and I got in. The train was busy but nothing compared to previous experiences in Hong Kong and Taipei. However what this train did have in common with my previous experiences in Asia was that it was another train in immaculate condition. Something of a surprise for somebody who used to travel by train from Antrim to Coleraine University back in the mid-90's, courtesy of Northern Ireland Railways.

Getting off at Silom stop, I walked out of the train station into what can only be described as a shopaholic's paradise. Designer retail store after designer retail store grappled for space with street markets and street vendors selling wares such as food (some of which looked very dubious indeed), trinkets (or 'pruck' as we would say back home), drinks and pirate DVDs. In fact, every street corner at the intersection I found myself at had stalls selling pirate DVDs.

Getting my bearings, I was not surprised to notice an "O'Reilly's Irish Pub" across the street. That would be handy for the evening's match, I thought to myself. No chance of me getting too lost if I was to choose that as my venue for the evening's festivities/hostilities.

Resisting temptation to see what the Guinness was like in Thailand (purely in the name of research, you understand), I went into one of the many shopping centres in search of some food that I could at least recognise and was of course greeted by McDonalds, Starbucks, Burger King and many other fast food joints. But I'm not that much of a heathen, so I settled for a pretty authentic looking restaurant and took my place at a table, trying to look like I did this sort of thing all the time.

After a while, when the waitress looked like she could be bothered serving me, she brought down a menu that was completely in Thai. Strange that, considering I was in Thailand. Thankfully there were some pictures and I ordered what looked like a Thai green beef curry and a glass of Singha beer to wash it down. Little did I know at the time that I should have asked for a gallon of water as well. Boy, was that stuff hot!

Having manfully finished my lunch, I set about trying to replace the skin on the roof of my mouth as I left the shopping centre and headed back out into the hustle and bustle of Sunday shopping in Bangkok. Hassled by street vendors at every step, I ducked into a sports shop to see if I could purchase a (yet another) Liverpool shirt. Somewhat disappointed by the ones on display, as well as the fact that they weren't considerably cheaper than back home, I decided to go with what I had brought with me – a blue polo shirt purchased at Anfield on a visit there many moons ago. Why blue you ask? Well – before I left for Thailand, Krissy, my well-travelled other half, had informed me that it was not wise to wear the colour red in public in Thailand. Or yellow for that matter – for fear that people would think that I was making a political statement - yellow for the royalists, red for the opposition.

Who would have thought it? Certainly not I! So, not wanting to make any sort of statement other than my allegiance to Liverpool, I was happy to go with the 'old faithful' for the evening and continued my walk around the shopping district.

Getting harassed for the umpteenth time to buy some pirate DVDs, I realised that I had walked round the block and had returned back to the same intersection. Spying the O'Reilly's pub across the street, and to be honest a little bit frazzled from the travelling, the extra hot curry and the volumes of people milling around, I figured I would go there on a reconnaissance mission to see what it offered in the way of being a base for the big match.

There was just one problem though - getting across the street.

A four lane carriageway presented quite an obstacle between me and my pint of Guinness, what with traffic flying in all directions and not a pedestrian crossing in sight and it took quite a leap of faith and no little courage to try and get to the other side. Cars, trucks, taxis and the ubiquitous tuk-tuks flew past at breakneck speeds driving as if they were trying to avoid the end of the world.

Standing there, I could sympathise with Frogger.

Standing for over five minutes, I watched how other locals managed it, which as far as I could determine, was throwing the head down and just simply going for it - at least until the central reservation, before doing it all over again to get across the other side of the road.

Steeling myself – for I am nothing if not determined when it comes to my football and beer – I saw a slight gap in the traffic, took a deep breath and ran like a loon over two lanes and jumped onto the central reservation against a back drop of beeping horns, not all of which could be for me. I heaved a huge sigh of relief, as well as a lot of sweat – a combination of the humidity and nerves – trickled down my back. Another death-defying charge across two more lanes of traffic and I found myself at the entrance to O'Reilly's.

As déjà-vu engulfed me, I braced myself for yet another Irish pub in yet another foreign country. Another 'home from home' that I was about to embrace. Stepping into the dim interior, inside was a fairly peaceful, air-conditioned, sanctuary from the mayhem of outside and I proceeded to the bar to order a pint of The Black Stuff.

The Guinness, I can report, was not great and the atmosphere was deadly quiet. It did, however, have a big screen for sport which according to the sign "showed all major live sporting events." Indeed, that Sunday lunchtime, it was showing a round of the World Superbike Championships which about four people in the pub were watching intently.

And then there was me - The Only Other Punter in the Pub.

I supped quietly on my pint and flicked through my Lonely Planet guide as I did so. There were lots of things to do in Bangkok. Many sights and sounds (some of them of the ping pong variety) but as I sat there, a little bit hung-over from the festival, a little bit weary from the travel and a little bit on my own in a city of over six million, I decided to return to the hotel and enjoy some more of the facilities. Whilst there, I would also work out somewhere else to watch the football, for although I was sure that I wasn't seeing the bar in its best light, I was certainly hoping for something a little bit more of in terms of atmosphere compared with what it looked like they could offer for the big game.

Back on the train and back in the hotel, I approached reception to ask them how I could get to the Irish Bar that I had Googled earlier. At least I would have plan 'B' cemented in place. The girl behind reception – 'Daisy' according to her name-badge tried her best to understand my Irish accent as I asked her for help and I tried my best to understand her explanation delivered in very broken English but accompanied with a heart-warming smile. To say we were struggling to make ourselves understood would be absolutely bang on the money.

I tried a different tact.

"Football? Tonight Liverpool (my team – BEST TEAM) plays Manchester United (the enemy – BAD TEAM)"

"Ah the FOOTBALL! Tonight!"

I'd obviously struck a chord here. Buoyed by this, I proceeded to explain that I was thinking of going to that Irish pub to watch the football that evening.

"You want to go to pub to watch football? Please wait, I call my friend – he works in restaurant - and will get him to talk to you. I think he goes watch football"

And that's what she did. She phoned the restaurant and a young waiter, 'Life' according to his name badge (pronounced Leef-ah as I later found out), promptly appeared, accompanied by one of the concierges who had been listening intently to my conversation with Daisy.

"You go to watch football this evening?" he asked smiling broadly as we shook hands.

"Yes I am – I support LIVERPOOL" I proudly announced.

His response to this proudly delivered announcement wasn't quite what I hoped as he brushed aside my announcement of devotion to all things Liverpool and responded with "Me. Manchester United."

Seeing my obvious distress at this, the concierge joined in with a sympathetic back slap for me and a "Me. Liverpool. YOU'LL NEVER WALK ALONE", arms aloft with another of those award-winning smiles that I was beginning to fall in love with.

"Are you going to watch the match tonight in the pub?" I continued.

"Er, Pub?"

"Yes – bar, cafe, pub – you know, beer?" I accompanied this last sentence with the world wide sign for beer, raising my right hand to my mouth in a drinking gesture.

"Are you Irish?" Life, rather unnervingly, asked next.

Is our reputation as pissheads something that defines us all over the world? Still – I suppose I wasn't helping my fellow countrymen in that regard. Perhaps it was because I wanted to go to an Irish Pub.

"Yes – I am"

"OK – we will meet here at 7pm and we will take you to watch Manchester win!"

Enjoying the banter and camaraderie that football supporters the world over share in – for it truly is THE WORLD GAME – I felt a lot better about my prospects for this evening.

"That would be brilliant – although when Liverpool win, I hope you will not be crying!" I replied and we bid our goodbyes and I retired looking forward to watching the game with a couple of locals – all be it one of them a supporter from the 'Dark Side'. I looked at my watch – just 3 short hours until the evening's entertainment was going to begin - plenty of time to enjoy the pool and get some sun.

And that's what I did – at least until the afternoon torrential downpour that apparently is the norm round those parts fell.

At 7pm sharp – I went down to the hotel lobby and sat waiting for my hosts for the evening to arrive. Shortly afterwards Life came over to me, smiling from ear to ear and looking very proud of himself as he sported a very RED Manchester United shirt. I wasn't sure if now was the time to ask him if he was an anti-Royalist, so I let it slide, cursing the fact that I hadn't packed my own BETTER RED Liverpool shirt.

We went to his car as he explained to me that we had to wait on his friend before we could depart. Getting into his car – a rather pimped up Mazda 323 – I got into the back seat and he proceeded to switch on a car stereo, the likes of which I had never seen before. Honest to God, this thing took up half his dashboard, had whistles, bells, graphics, light show – the whole kit and caboodle. I was half expecting a glitter ball to descend from the ceiling when he switched the monster on.

He inserted a CD, pressed a few buttons and before long the whole car, the underground car park and a few of my teeth were rattling to the wonderful bass tones of "Aqua – Come on Barbie Lets Go Party."

I kid you not.

It's not his fault I reminded myself – after all, he can't help it if he's a ManYoo supporter....

A few minutes later his friend arrived. None other than Daisy, the receptionist, greeted us both with a lovely smile and Life with a lovely, big kiss.

Oh Dear.

Perhaps this wasn't the night that I was expecting after all. Here I was, thinking I was going to watch the football with 'The Lads' but instead was going to be the third wheel on a night out with these nice, but very much coupled-up, people.

At least Life had turned the music down a little.

However, we didn't set off and the two chatted animatedly in the front seats as I sat in the back wondering what I'd let myself into.

After a couple of minutes, Daisy turned round and asked if I was looking forward to the game. In our broken English the conversation continued and it transpired that this was Daisy's first game of football, ever, and that she supported Manchester United because Life did.

Oh Dear.

"Why are we waiting here?" I asked, not too rudely I hoped, but keen to find out what the hell was happening with my evening.

"We're waiting on some more friends who are also going to watch the match"

"Ah, OK!" I replied, feeling a little bit better about things.

At least I wasn't going to be the third wheel for the evening - there was a crew of us going – and anyway, once we got to the Irish pub there'd be plenty of ex-pats to experience the match with if things got too difficult, I guiltily thought to myself.

Before too long, another car arrived, the inhabitants of which – 3 male and 2 female, looked almost as surprised to see me in the back seat as I was surprised to be meeting them. And so, with just under two hours to kick off, we set off into the Bangkok traffic to watch the game.

Apart from my limo ride in the quiet hours of that Sunday morning, this was my first experience of actually being in Bangkok traffic and it was quite the experience with Life changing traffic lanes, like he was changing ManYoo shirts and driving with the reckless abandon of a supporter who thinks every frigging trophy on the planet is their God-given right.

I was nervous but I didn't want to seem too ungrateful, so I kept quiet in the back seat as Euro pop 'classic' after another polluted my ears. This was a journey that I wasn't going to forget.

And so we travelled, through congested street after another for over twenty minutes before I started to wonder just where in the hell we were going. My life was in Life's hands I ironically thought to myself and it was around this stage in my Bangkok Magical Mystery Tour that I asked my hosts for the evening where we were going, knowing that the Irish pub was a lot closer to the hotel than we had travelled thus far.

Daisy, who spoke slightly better English than Life, proceeded to explain that we were going to a disused amusement park.

WHAT THE F**K??!

I thought to myself.

"Erm – we are going to watch the match aren't we?"

"Yes, yes of course" came the response.

"Is there going to be beer?" rather disturbingly, was my next question to which I was greeted with good-natured laughs and a placating "of course there will be"

It was only then that I realised the stupidity of my actions. Here I was in Bangkok for Chrissake riding in the back of a stranger's car
going to a disused amusement park to 'watch the game.' I always thought that Liverpool would be the death of me – but funnily enough, this wasn't how I envisaged it.

We drove on for another ten minutes, Daisy and Life chatting amicably and me in the back seat trying to fire off text messages to Krissy on case she never saw me again, with a phone that I new had no reception in Thailand.

And then the traffic ground to a halt. Literally. The traffic – heavy as it had been – became even more intense and we just simply stopped.

"Perhaps they're all going to the match" I sarcastically offered to the front seat.

"Yes" agreed Life.

"What?! How many people are going to go to this game?"

At this point Daisy had to translate, a combination of my Irish accent and the high-pitched squeal of a nervous foreigner making my question too difficult for Life to understand.

After a brief conversation, Daisy happily informed that there would be about Seven Thousand going to the game.

WHAT THE F**K??!

I once again thought to myself.

And just at that point Life pointed up ahead to the right in the distance where I saw three massive screens showing Liverpool and Manchester United highlights. I then noticed the people walking along the footpaths as well. All decked out in the VERY RED colours of Liverpool and Manchester United. I even noticed two guys in Arsenal shirts, which were, of course, in RED as well.

Just what in the hell was all this?! - some kind of football-themed, Royalist convention?

After crawling along for a while longer and as we got closer to the venue, I spied a massive banner proclaiming it was "MEGA RED WAR DAY" (see above for picture), with larger than life photos of Steve Gerrard and Wayne Rooney, the two most famous Liverpool-born players that play for the teams. (Ironically – in the one-eyed world of the Man United football supporter, Wayne Rooney, does not qualify as a "Scouse Bast*rd")

Absolutely gob-smacked at what I was witnessing, I couldn't wait to get inside to see this first-hand.

This was going to be one hell of an experience.

After what seemed an age trying to find a spot to park in and with Daisy using her undoubted charms with a car-park attendant, we parked, blocking around one hundred cars and four hundred scooters in the process and walked out into the middle of 'Mega Red War Day.'

Literally thousands of people were trudging through the dark and puddles towards the three massive Jumbotrons that were broadcasting pictures of previous clashes between these two Titans of the English Premier League. As we made our way through the hordes trying to find the rest of the gang who we had lost whilst trying to find a parking space, I surveyed the scene around me.

Temporary stands had been erected to house the fanatical supporters but by the time we had arrived, they were packed to an almost fear-inducing capacity with the rest of us trying to find a spot on the wet, muddy grass from which to watch the show unfold.

Life tried to make contact by mobile phone, endeavouring to be heard over the almost maniacal commentary from a guy in a white suit and shades on stage who was competing with the equally maniacal screams of the thousands that were surrounding us.

This was intense.

Eventually, contact was made, and we forced our way through the throng towards the three screens and stage at the front of the venue. It looked like we had ring-side seats for this one. Having found our friends and Life explained just who in the hell I was, we all made seats on bits of plastic that randomly happened to be available. As my friends made their spots and offered me some plastic to sit on, I looked around me and took in all that I could.

It was mental.

Breath takingly so.

We always hear about the popularity of our football and our teams within Asia but I really did not expect anything like this. All around me, men, women and children were bedecked in their red and I am not too pleased to report that the (slight) majority of them were wearing the red of Manchester as opposed to that much finer red of Liverpool. But everyone was there and everyone was in great spirits. Even the damp conditions underfoot did not curb the enthusiasm of the masses as they tried to find a spot with the game fast approaching.

"This is amazing!" I announced to nobody in particular as I stood there applauding anyone that took an interest in me which, as it happened, were many. My applause was reciprocated with many cheers and smiles. It was no great surprise either.

As far as I could see, I was the only westerner in the crowd; and being head and shoulders above most of my Asian cousins, I can safely say that if there were any other westerners there that evening, then they must have been members of the Liverpool Leprechauns Supporters Club, for I saw no other person looking anywhere near as out of place, nor bewildered, as I undoubtedly looked that evening.

Having regained my speech and train of thought, I asked my hosts for the evening where I could go and get everyone a beer or two in preparation for the game, as well as to thank them for their hospitality.

My hosts looked horrified at my suggestion and I wondered if I had said something offensive. Looking back, I suppose in a way, I had – because the Thai people are famous the world over for their hospitality and they as my hosts for the evening would not consider for one second that I could even consider suggesting going to get them drinks.

"Sit, sit!" instructed Life and after a bit of polite disagreement and being slightly outnumbered, I took my place as off he set with one of his mates for beer, allowing me to sit down facing the screens and stage and immerse myself in the entertainment.

Ah yes, the entertainment.

I looked at my watch – 45 minutes to kick off. I looked at the stage where old mate in his white suit and shades was still whipping up the crowd into a frenzy but who, by this stage in proceedings, had been joined by a sexy female co-host wearing a very skimpy outfit.

I watched some banter between the two hosts, totally non-plussed by what was going on when - all of a sudden - a bunch of guys – obviously Bangkok's answer to Boyzone hit the stage to some pyrotechnics accompanied with much bass-thumping Euro pop (Asian Style) music. They proceeded to do their thing on stage – the same as any other boy band the world over, as far as I could make out – for three (I think it was three) songs and left the stage to tremendous applause. These guys were definitely well liked round these parts.

Rather worryingly, and with less than half an hour to kick off, there was still no sign of Life and his mate. I voiced my concerns to Daisy but she just smiled, saying it was ok and I went back to watching the stage, having no clue what to expect next.

Ah. That would be the Beauty Pageant, of course.

Yep – about 20 scantily clad girls in swimsuits and high heels came on stage one by one, strutted their stuff and then said something into the microphone which, on occasion, was greeted by cheers, but for the most was subjected to jeers, cries of derision and boos.

Tough crowd.

Eventually, through some sort of voting process that I was not privy to, a winner was declared. After they contestants strutted off stage, old mate came back on stage sporting a ManYoo shirt whilst his co-host wore a Liverpool shirt and nothing else, as far as I could make out.

Never have I seen a Liverpool shirt worn so well.

Right on cue, with less than five minutes to go until kick-off, Life and his mate arrived with a couple of carrier bags full of beer for the gang and with huge grins – which by now I was thinking was some sort of plastic surgery that all of the Thai people are subjected to at an early age - on their faces.

Just how far did they have to go to get these beers, I thought to myself but didn't have time to dwell on this thought for long as we all said our cheers, our "LIVERPOOLS" and our "UNITEDS" (ably assisted by many from the crowd in our nearby vicinity) and settled down to The Main Event.

I had long resigned myself to watching the game with Thai commentary, but as the big screen switched to Anfield and the crowd settled into an obedient hush, I heard the dulcet tones of Sky's Andy Gray and Martin Tyler talking about the team selections for the match. Never have I been so glad to hear those two voices and it's not often I would say that about Andy Gray.

My joy was short-lived however, as a spotlight appeared on the stage, illuminating two hitherto previously un-noticed (at least by me) middle-aged men sitting at a table watching the same pictures as we were on a small monitor. Immediately the crowd went ballistic and the two of them started to commentate their own version of proceedings as the game unfolded. Judging by some of the responses in the audience, their approach to the game was – at best – irreverent.

And so the game unfolded before my very eyes – me straining to hear Andy and Martin's insightful comments whilst being deluged by comments from these two clowns on stage whilst thousands of Thais screamed, hollered, booed, applauded and laughed their way through the game. It was infectious. Everyone was having an absolute ball of a time whilst I, your intrepid explorer, kicked and headed every ball and coloured the air blue with a few insightful comments of my own in my own wee bubble.

Leading up to this game and after 4 straight defeats, Liverpool were on their worst run of results since 1987 and although we had dominated the early exchanges, we were still searching for the opening goal and with Manchester United so lethal on the counter attack, there was no way anything could be taken for granted.

0-0 at half time and I took the opportunity to stand up and take a breather, as well as to ease my aching back, having sat staring up at these screens fraught with tension as I watched the game unfold. More entertainment came on stage to more ear-splitting applause, this time courtesy of Bangkok's answer to Girls Aloud. A few of the locals came up to pose for photographs with the "Weird Westerner" who had been howling at the moon for the first half but I didn't care - there was a game on. Un-noticed by me (for I had been sat in front of my hosts) Life and his mate had gone for – and subsequently returned - with more beers. I have no idea how much of the match they had missed to manage that but I was eternally grateful – my throat was dry from nerves and my voice hoarse with my shouts of 'constructive criticism.' Then, all too soon but not soon enough, it was time to settle in for the second half.

Ah yes – the second half.

Cometh the man, cometh the hour and up stepped Fernando Torres as he demonstrated his world class with a 65th-minute opener, comfortably shrugging off the attentions of Rio Ferdinand before powering an unstoppable finish high past United keeper Edwin van der Sar at The Kop end.

I went nuts.

Jumping up from my spot in the mud to start dancing and screaming like the lunatic that supporting Liverpool seems to turn me into, I was suddenly surrounded my loads of other happy Liverpool supporters all dancing to our own Liverpool-inspired beat.

Even the ManYoo supporters in our vicinity seemed to enjoy our happiness - it was that kind of occasion.

But there was still a game on - plenty of time for ManYoo to get back into the match. Unless of course Vidic was to do his usual party trick and get sent off against us? Surely a third game in a row would be too much to hope for? Not a bit of it. Cometh the hour and cometh the lumbering eejit in ManYoo's defence and sure enough – cometh off he went.

Things were tense but in truth (trying to be unbiased here), Liverpool seemed in control. At least until our own eejit – Mascherano got red-carded as well to set up a thunderous finale to the game.

But, as the clock wound down, substitute David Ngog raced on to Lucas's pass to wrap up a fully-merited victory with what was practically the last kick of the match. We didn't even wait to see the rest of the game. Everyone knew it was over.

And so it came to pass, that the thousands of us in that muddy field on the outskirts of Bangkok made our way home (or to their hotel) into the balmy evening night. The slight majority disappointed with the result, the rest of us elated but everyone that I saw on that way home sported that famous Thai smile; even those owners of the 500 vehicles that we were blocking their way out of the ground.

Why couldn't watching football always be like this?

Good luck Liverpool this Sunday – and to Life and Daisy and the rest of those people that made my first ever night in Bangkok so memorable, a very big thank-you. I hope you enjoy (but not too much) the game on Sunday and no doubt what will be another 'Mega Red War Day.'

Me? I'll just have to make do with watching it in the wee hours from my couch wearing my colours and howling at the Southern Hemisphere moon.

YNWA

This blog was brought to you on my St. Paddy's Day afternoon off, drinking a few bottles of XXXX bitter whilst listening to a St. Paddy's playlist. Now I'm off to join the throngs in Brisbane city. Perhaps I'll see you there?

That’s the Way I Wanna Rock and Roll!

It's the morning after the night before and as the dust settles on what was a fantastic night of Rock and Roll, I am left to ponder what I witnessed and to try and put the whole experience into a few, shamefully inappropriate words.

But sure, what the hell, I'll give it a go anyway....

First up – the complaints.

No 'Problem Child' and no 'It's a Long Way to the Top (If you wanna Rock & Roll)'. Seriously guys? I was convinced that at least the latter would make an appearance during the encore but it was not to be. Still, I tried to get a few people singing it on the way to our buses back to Brisbane, so that would have to make do.

OK, that's quite enough of all that whingeing, whining and complaining. Let's get onto the rest of the night!

The venue itself, QSAC, is worth mentioning. The acronym stands for Queensland Sports and Athletics Centre and was used for the 1982 Commonwealth Games. The original roofed stadium was intended to be the only permanent seating facility. The remainder of the stadium seating was built as "temporary" seating and was intended to be removed after the Commonwealth Games had finished but public opinion persuaded them to keep the stands.

As we made our way into the stadium through these massive temporary stands the sight that greeted us was incredible, with it looking like every other person had purchased Angus Young flashing devil's horns and were proudly wearing them everywhere we looked. The sea of flashing red horns was a beautiful thing to behold.

Having been to the same venue a while back to watch Ben Harper and Pearl Jam, it was with a little trepidation that we returned, having been none to impressed by the sound quality, the queues for the toilets and the extremely long queues for alcohol (mid-strength as always at concerts Down Under) but I am pleased to report that they had managed to get their act together this time around and everything was very accessible, even though there was probably an extra 15,000 at last night's gig.

Wolfmother were a very good support act and it was a shame that they only played for 45 minutes if only to marvel at the Sideshow Bob lookalike, Chris Ross, do his thing on keyboards. I'm not sure if he was playing it or dry humping it. Very entertaining.

Now Wolfmother are a big enough and well established band, especially here in Australia, so playing to such a big crowd on such a large stage probably was something that they were more than prepared for, so I think it is only fair at this point that I tip my hat in the direction of a young band of fellow Northern Irish men called The Answer who warmed up for AC/DC in 100+ stadium shows across the whole of North America – and this on the strength of their debut album. Fair play to youse lads and all the best of luck for the future!

Once Wolfmother departed, you could sense the anticipation levels rising, the air thick with excitement as the crowd got ready for the Main Event. Incidentally, I have never seen so many roadies descend upon a stage in preparation for a band coming on to perform.

This was going to be BIG.

I had deliberately stayed away from any reports of the show because I wanted everything to unfold before my very eyes, to drink in every last drop of it. We also had pretty good position standing about 20 metres back from the stage and to the right.

As Krissy and I stood there drinking our mid-strength rum and coke, I spied a long walkway stretching out from the middle of the stage to about 70 metres into the crowd. At the end, there seemed to be a small stage with lights and some equipment and we made the decision to get as close to that as we could.

Having been to watch the Foo Fighters last year and disappointed that we were unable to get tickets for the front section; we were thoroughly overjoyed when, during the show, a small stage came down from the ceiling close to where we were standing and the band played a 25 minute acoustic set from there, right on front of us.

Standing next to this and facing the main stage from a more central viewpoint, we were able to see the massive stage in all its glory, complete with two huge pairs of inflatable Angus horns sitting proudly on top of monumentally large walls of speakers at each side of the stage.

The stage was set, as it were.

Not long after that, the lights dimmed, the crowd went wild and AC/DC came on to explosions and fireworks as they burst into the song Runaway Train, taken from their recent album Black Ice. And blow me down with a feather, if the background of the stage didn't open up and a life size steam locomotive replica came bursting through as the band got ripped into their first song of the night.

All around us people – a lot of whom were really old enough to know better – started going ballistic, punching the air and jumping up and down like complete and utter loons. Needless to say, Krissy and I fitted in quite well.

This wasn't going to be big. This was going to be MASSIVE.

Rocking song after rocking song was belted out by the band with classics such as Back in Black, Hells Bells, Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap, Shook me All Night Long all raining down on our more than willing ears as we, the audience, lapped it up.

Ah yes – the rain.

With the Brisbane sky overcast for much of the day (it does happen sometimes) in the lead up to the event and the promise of a shower or two in the evening, we were wondering if the rain would make an appearance. And when it finally rains in Brisbane, it really rains.

However, the skies opened up halfway through the show for one song and for one song only and served as a great way for the sweaty masses to cool down a little from their exertions. And then as soon as it had come, it left us alone again for the rest of the evening.

The song?

None other than Thunderstruck.

It was almost as if it was planned by the band - or perhaps a darker force was at play here?

Angus Young and Brian Johnson, aged 54 and 62 respectively were having a great time up on stage, running all over the place like men more than half their junior, playing to the crowd who were enjoying every minute of it. The energy being given off by the band was being fed back to them and multiplied by then some. It was a symbiotic relationship and one that gave us all what we needed to survive the two hours of mayhem.

When the band played A whole lotta Rosie, a massive inflatable Rosie appeared riding on top of the aforementioned locomotive. You certainly could say she had it all.

During the band's rendition of The Jack, Angus Young
turned his attention to performing an awkward and comical striptease that ended with him stripping down to an AC/DC-branded pair of boxer shorts. Where do I get my hands on those bad boys, I wondered? Actually merchandise stalls were everywhere and had I been so inclined, I'm sure I could have found a pair. There was AC/DC everything for sale.

He spent the rest of the gig with no shirt on - which was just as well considering how much sweat he was producing during his high-intensity performance. The sweat was lashing off him at a rate that had you thinking the aul' fella's heart would surely give in at any moment.

He later transformed the stage into the scene of a one-man jam session, when he spent a good ten minutes roaming around the performance space, runway and elevated platforms while kicking out a series of seriously impressive guitar solos to the audience's delight. Especially us, stood less than 10 metres from him at the end of the runway. So close were we that this photo was taken on my phone:

The crowd also got a taste of Black Ice, War Machine, High Voltage, and TNT during the dynamite gig.

When the band returned for an encore performance, the two large devil horn structures perched high above the stage became highly relevant as the musicians launched into one of their best and most familiar tracks: Highway to Hell.

The show ended with a bang. Well, several bangs actually. As AC/DC played For Those About To Rock (We Salute You), several cannons were pointed and "fired" towards the audience before a mini-fireworks display rounded out two hours of pure rock splendour.

Leading up to the event, I was a little concerned that I was getting way to excited about the prospect of watching these legends in the flesh. Surely when you build something up in your head as much as I had, I was setting myself up for disappointment and regret?

However, I am happy to report that this was – without doubt – the greatest concert that I have ever had the fortune to experience. A few years back I was lucky enough to see The Pogues perform a Christmas gig at the Brixton Academy in London and ever since, it has always been the benchmark for me and my concert experiences.

Sorry Shane, but Angus, Brian and the boys have knocked you off your perch and for this AC/DC, I salute you!

This blog was brought to you from my verandah with a few Peter Stuyvesants, a couple of glasses of ice-cooled water in the beautiful Brisbane sunshine and with the warm afterglow of a man who has realised a 25-year dream.

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.