There’s a problem for tourists exploring Sydney: its star attractions are so extraordinary, so remarkable, other attractions live in their…
‘Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Now exhale. You are sitting on a mountaintop. Relaxed. Surrounded by valleys, forests, rivers and snow covered peaks.
Once again, for a fleeting moment, Hull received global attention. An artwork featuring a boy brandishing a wooden sword with a pencil attached to the end appeared on an unused, permanently raised bridge.
Hull UK City of Culture received extensive press coverage in the UK. What about other parts of the world? Australia for example?
Looking for unusual things to do in Canada? Visiting Ottawa? You should try incarcerating yourself in a real prison. I did.
Aged 22 I travelled around the world. A 4 week bus trip across Canada was the final leg. Here I was to experience my biggest travel disappointment.
Visiting Sydney? When you’re done with the harbour, beaches and Opera House, drag your tired, tourist ass over to Newtown to see the murals.
2017 didn’t go your way? Lady Luck pissed on your chips? If the answer is yes, you’re probably desperate enough to try some superstitious claptrap. You’re in the right place.
Christmas in Australia is shit. Perfect, cloudless blue sky, stunning beaches and relaxed bonhomie. It’s intolerable.
South King Street, previously the rough end of Newtown, has taken the well-trodden path to gentrification. But isn’t playing by the usual rules.
In 2015 Prime Minister Tony Abbott was under sustained pressure to legalise same-sex-marriage in Australia. He had no intention of allowing that to happen.
In Varanasi, among the 2000 or so temples, is a charity-run hostel called ‘Salvation House’. The guests come to here die.
In India the perilous roads, the ever-present risk of shitting oneself were both expected. We quickly learned that there are unexpected dangers too.
Budget travel brings an unavoidable level of intimacy. Oversharing in extremis. De-briefings requested and given after each visit to the toilet.
We were carried by a motorcade of tuk-tuks through the dark, dusty streets of nighttime Delhi on a frightening, fruitless search for a hotel room.
Age 22, I wrote a letter to my future self. In a moment of transcendent clarity, I committed my thoughts to paper so I could look back and remember that feeling.
I’m naked. Well, almost. I’m wearing only a fig leaf. That’s how it feels sometimes, writing this blog. Looking at my comfort zone through the rear view mirror…
Standing outside the train station on London Road, I looked across at the skyline of Leicester. ‘Whatever happens, I’m not coming to this shit-hole’, I thought.
In a world of divisive politics, orange presidents and Brex-shit, we can at least agree on one thing. Garden gnomes are tacky.
I turned the corner to come nose-to-nose with a decapitated camel, hanging grimly outside a butcher’s shop. A hook through the underside of its jaw.