Category: Waynes World (Page 2 of 2)

Just a few more months of work before I clock off for the last time at Christmas and join the ranks of the retired. Debbie is already ahead of me — she resigned from her parish back in June and is currently enjoying the benefits of long service leave while I’m still chained to the desk. (Not that I’m counting the days or anything…)

So what’s next? Well, I’m not quite ready to take up competitive lawn mowing or spend my golden years pottering in the garden. That can wait until I’m actually “old.” Until then, Debbie and I have big plans — very big plans.

In January 2026, we’ll officially become card-carrying members of that great Aussie phenomenon known as the Grey Nomads. Australia is massive — we’ve done a fair bit of travel over the years, but truthfully, we’ve barely scratched the surface. So we’ve decided to give it a proper crack: at least two years on the road, doing the classic “big lap” around this incredible country.

The plan? Well… to not really have a plan. Other than getting the house sorted before we leave, our only itinerary is to follow the weather, chase the best campsites, and spend as much time off-grid as possible. If it’s hot, we’ll head south. If it’s cold, we’ll chase the sun. Basically, we’ll wander where the mood takes us.

I’ll be keeping this blog updated along the way and sharing videos on YouTube — so if you’re ever curious about where we’ve parked up, you’ll be able to track us through our website. Don’t expect glossy, big-budget productions though. There are plenty of Aussie travel vloggers out there who seem to have bottomless wallets; we’ll be showing what it’s like to do it on a budget. (Think less champagne and caviar, more instant coffee and sausages on the campfire.)

Of course, the toys are coming too. Metal detectors? Packed. Fishing rods? Absolutely. I’m even planning to master the art of damper, and if that goes well, maybe move on to more ambitious camp cooking. (Although Debbie has already suggested we keep the fire extinguisher handy.)

So buckle up, follow along, and watch this space. The big lap awaits.

It was lovingly washed and polished more times than my first car ever was, but all that effort was instantly undone the moment it met the red outback dust. That stuff is like glitter’s evil twin—gets everywhere, never leaves, and I’ll be rinsing it out of every nook, cranny, and air vent for ever.

And to think I once worried the kids and their dirty cement bucket might ruin the paint job. Ha! That was child’s play compared to the trail of tree branches and bushes we casually flattened.

This wasn’t the toughest test, but the truck passed with flying colours—and a few scratches. After towing the caravan 800 km like a champ, she was finally unhitched and let off the leash. And let me tell you: she flew like a bird… a big, noisy bird with torque.

Finally, after almost a year of chauffeuring groceries and grandkids around—racking up a mere 6,000 km of inner-city glory—our pristine, showroom-fresh truck has been liberated. It’s no longer just a glittering suburban chariot. It’s now a proud, dust-coated warrior of the wild.

Of course, the onboard computer lost its digital mind every time we got cozy with a bush. Beeps, flashes, and alerts like we were trying to land a space shuttle instead of just doing some enthusiastic off-roading. I’m going to need a crash course (figuratively, I hope) on turning off all the “helpful” technology.

The Patrol? That beast wouldn’t notice if you drove it through a forest fire. The D-Max? A bit more refined, a bit more concerned for its paint, but still more than capable of getting wild when it needs to. Just with a few more complaints along the way.

Not my words, but I couldn’t agree more.

Someone asked “Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?” Nate White, an articulate and witty writer from England wrote the following response:

A few things spring to mind. Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem. For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace – all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr. Obama was generously blessed.

So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump’s limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief.

Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing – not once, ever.

I don’t say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility – for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman.

But with Trump, it’s a fact. He doesn’t even seem to understand what a joke is – his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty. Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers.

And scarily, he doesn’t just talk in crude, witless insults – he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness. There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It’s all surface.

Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront. Well, we don’t. We see it as having no inner world, no soul. And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist. Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that. He’s not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat. He’s more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege.

And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully. That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a snivelling sidekick instead.

There are unspoken rules to this stuff – the Queensberry rules of basic decency – and he breaks them all. He punches downwards – which a gentleman should, would, could never do – and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless or female – and he kicks them when they are down. So the fact that a significant minority – perhaps a third – of Americans look at what he does, listen to what he says, and then think ‘Yeah, he seems like my kind of guy’ is a matter of some confusion and no little distress to British people, given that:

• Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and most are.
• You don’t need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.

This last point is what especially confuses and dismays British people, and many other people too; his faults seem pretty bloody hard to miss.

After all, it’s impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form; he is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit. His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum. God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid. He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart. In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws – he would make a Trump.

I think that sums a few things up. And this is the type of person who holds power over us, sanctioned by big government, large corporations, the military / drug industrial complex and organized religion.

~ Stolen from David! Thank you, David!

For as long as I can remember, staying informed about the world has been essential to me. To be whole, I believed you had to understand what was happening beyond your own doorstep. Keeping up with the news seemed like a way to be aware, engaged, and part of something larger. But recent events—especially in the United States—have shaken that perspective to the core. It’s hard to keep watching when it feels like a place that once represented democracy is walking away from it.

This past week, I reached a point where I decided I had to disconnect. I stopped watching, listening to, or reading the news altogether. The constant flow of unsettling headlines has moved past enlightening and informative; now, it just feels disheartening. We already knew things were unsteady, but this week felt like watching the world completely lose its way. There comes a point when the endless cycle of negativity, sensationalism, and chaos no longer serves any good purpose, and for me, that point has arrived.

Instead of feeling bound to newsfeeds and broadcasts, I find myself longing for a different rhythm. I’ve always been drawn to the open landscapes of the outback, where time slows down, and life isn’t defined by the next big headline. And now, the pull to escape this whirlwind and immerse myself in travels through the rugged beauty of the outback is stronger than ever. There’s something profoundly liberating about trading the noise for the quiet hum of nature, where moments are measured by the rising and setting sun, not by breaking news alerts.

Disconnecting from the news, I hope to reconnect with something deeper and more enduring: the simple, grounding reality of the natural world. Out there, beyond the reach of chaos, I believe there’s peace to be found. So, for now, I’ll turn my attention to planning these travels, setting up my gear, and finding refuge in the outback—a place far removed from the frenzy, where the world feels a little less crazy and a lot more like home.

In the heart of the Southern Hemisphere, where summer sunshine is abundant, the idea of a Christmas trip to London might sound unconventional. However, for Debbie and I, the allure of spending the festive season with family, near the historic city of London was too irresistible to pass up. This once-in-a-lifetime adventure was about reuniting with loved ones, but also about immersing ourselves in the rich tapestry of Christmas traditions that London is renowned for. From exploring the iconic Christmas markets to attending a concert by The Sweet and experiencing the thrill of watching the mighty Spurs at the new Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, our journey promised to be filled with unforgettable moments.

Touching down at Heathrow Airport, we were greeted with a crisp winter breeze and the scent of holiday cheer in the air. The anticipation of a London Christmas was palpable as we made our way to our way “home”. The warmth of family hugs made the jet lag disappear in an instant.

Our first stop on the festive agenda was the renowned Christmas markets scattered across the city. Camden Lock, Covent Garden, Leicester Square, and Trafalgar Square were transformed into winter wonderlands, each offering a unique blend of traditional charm and contemporary flair. Strolling through the stalls adorned with twinkling lights, we indulged in seasonal treats, handcrafted gifts, and the infectious spirit of the holiday season.

For music enthusiasts, a Christmas trip to London wouldn’t be complete without experiencing the vibrant live music scene. We were fortunate to catch a concert by the legendary rock band, The Sweet. Their timeless hits reverberated through the venue, and the crowd, a mix of generations, sang along in unison. The energy and nostalgia of the performance added an extra layer of magic to our festive adventure. Almost certainly, the last chance we will get to see them live.

As an avid Spurs fan, attending a match was a non-negotiable part of our itinerary. The newly minted Tottenham Hotspur Stadium provided the perfect backdrop for a thrilling game. The cheers, chants, and the electric atmosphere of the stadium created a sense of camaraderie that transcended borders. Watching the match live was an exhilarating experience, making our Christmas in London truly unforgettable, the Spurs even managed a win.

As we bid farewell, our hearts were filled with gratitude for the warmth of family, the festive spirit, and the unique blend of traditions that made our Christmas adventure truly exceptional.