The World According to Spaz The ramblings of a man from a place going to another place completely different to the first place.

Hi there. Welcome to the "blog". It's a very strange thing to write, some might say an even stranger thing to read. I write this accounting for the fact that hundreds of people may chance upon it and actually read it, yet prepare myself for the response of a ghost town after 11 o'clock closing. So if you are one of those weirdos who habitually read travel blogs and are considering coming back to these here parts, I thought I should furnish you with a little bit of exposistion before the expedition. How good was that little bit of flair eh? A bit of effortlessly dazzling wordplay? Jeez I'm giving this shit out for nothing here! Unbelievable. Oh by the way I reckon there could be a few nuggets of swearing as the days clock over, so if you're the type of wowser who blushes at the sight of a baby's bottom I suggest you piss off now before I start saying words like scrote, bumhole, and trouser bandit. For the last 29 years I've been holed up in a town at the bottom part of this big rock scientists call "The Earth". It's been a good innings in ye olde Sydney town, you'll get no complaints from me fair lassie of the Australian east coast. As is customary when you're a white middle class so and so, just ticking over from your teens to your twenties, like the uncontrollable urges of puberty, at some stage you will for some unexplicable reason have an overwhelming desire to go and live in the United Kingdom. However, the take no prisoners rebel who I delude myself to think I am, has never had such desires. Though I have pashed loads of chicks and I reckon about 80% will regard me as an excellent kisser so don't believe what you hear. All througout my torturous twenties, I have never once had the travel bug. Never once dreamed of distant shores. Never read a Bill Bryson book. Never thought it would be a good idea to pack up my whole life into a suitcase and trudge off to a place that so far only exists to my mind in myth, second hand news, and repeats of East Enders. In short, I have never REALLY wanted to partake in the UK right of passage pilgramige, and though tomorrow I take the first step along that well tread path, I still with complete honesty, can say to you that I still don't feel any excitement in the slightest. In fact, I feel quite ill. So far I have quit my job, sold my car, and disposed of all my bulky worldly possesions either to friends, family, charity, or the bin. Everything I own weighs about 30kg, and is currently residing in two bags that I hope will not get lost from Sydney, to Seoul, then to London. Two bags. My life is in two bags. What the fuck is so exciting about that??? I don't see what you people get out of this caper, but damn it I'm determined to find out. My theory is that it's all hype, that no one has ever had a fantastic time overseas, and that they all come home and tell people how good it was in Venice or Stockholm or Barcelona or wherever they went to just so that they didn't feel ripped off and their mates wouldn't rip the piss out of them. And believe me, if I get a whifter that it's all a con, THE MAGIC DIES TODAY. I will find the wires. I will clear the smoke and smash the mirrors. I will expose this Da Vinci Code for what it is, and it will never be Christmas for travel heads again. So this is my mission, dear readers. Fly to London. See how long I can live at my mates house before he starts demanding rent. Soak up the culture. Become what I believe I could never be, and write about it once a week so I can keep my travel insurance ticking over. Day one, and dusted. Gary Spaz