I'm not too sure about vegetarians. They may be stupid.

With their stupid dreadlocks, and stupid sandals, and stupid attitude about not eating one of the most delicious foods ever.  I arrogantly refuse to quantify that further.  But even more stupid, and we all know them and all hate them, are those that are 'vegetarian' but just eat chicken.  Well done you.  Now the cows are happy, and the lambs can frolic, and the pigs can roll around in shit to their hearts content.  All because you aren't eating them.  And all the while you are looking down on me from your pedestal of a toilet, with your healthy bowel movements, you know what I'm doing?  Eating your share of animal. Naked.

But what I don't understand is why, out of all the meats in the world, they choose to eat one of the blandest, most boring ones?  What's wrong with having a bit of blood to dip your chips into?  No one can resist the smell of bacon.  So instead of having bacon flavoured rashers of tofu, or whatever rubber concoction you eat instead, just have bacon.  You're only going to comment on how good it smells when I cook it, so goddamn well eat it.  If I were to ever be a proper grown-up (unlikely), and hold a sophisticated dinner party, the only dietary requirements I would take into account would be 'I'm afraid I only eat raw beef', or 'Sorry, I'm vegetarian - however I will eat monkey'.

Being a carnivore is no easy ride though.  There are so many delicious, cute, fluffy little animals out there just waiting to be chewed up, swallowed, digested and flushed that I am always faced with the dilemma; lamb or beef?  Pork or chicken?  Venison or sloth?  Well now there is no need to have to make these critical culinary decisions for I have created the perfect solution.

You're welcome.

Step 1:  Buy meat.  Lots and lots of lovely, delicious, once cute but now butchered beyond recognition, colon clogging meat.  Here we have lamb mince, bargain bacon (a few rashers required), a pork butterfly steak (I didn't know until now that a butterfly is made from pork, but now I do I will eat more), some chicken schnitzel, and some beef schnitzel.

Step 2: Get some garlic (2 cloves), and some rosemary, which is like, herby shit.

Step 3: Mash up the garlic and herby shit with some olive oil in a pestle and mortar, until it's like a bit of a paste.  Not too stodgy, not too runny.  That's right, I own a pestle and mortar.  And I even know what to use it for.  I just swan around the gaff these days thinking I'm Gordon fucking Ramsay.

Step 4: Mix the rosemary and garlic paste in with the lamb mince, add some salt and pepper, and knead that shit until it's well mixed in.  Place in a ziplok bag (which may or may not have been originally used for the purchase of a criminally large amount of Gummi Bears), and throw it in the fridge.

Step 5:  Place the pork steak in between two sheets of cling film and batter the shit out of that bitch until it's flat.
Top Tip:  Pretending it's Celine Dion makes it a whole lot more satisfying.

Step 6:  Once it's flatter than Julia Stiles' face, find some old white wine in the fridge, fold the pork up into another ziplok bag, pour in what's left of the wine, seal and place in the fridge next to the lamb.  Leave the lamb and pork to marinate overnight, and have wet dreams about how good this shit is gonna taste.

Step 7:  Pre-heat oven to 180 degrees.  I think that's the C, not the F.

Step 8:  Get your pork and lamb out.  Roll the lamb into a sausage shape, until it looks like a giant, ill turd.  Unfold the pork too.  Ignore hole.  This may be getting a bit too sexy.  Roll the pork around the giant cock-shaped lamb sausage, which I may one day try to use in polite conversation as a euphemism for sex.  I forgot to take a picture of this stage, but you should be able to cope.

Step 9:  Once the lamb is rolled in the pork, roll the whole thing in some bacon.   I've chosen to use 2 bits, but they are quite thick.  You can use more if you like.  Go on, you know you want to.

Step 10:  Once the pork is wrapped around the lamb, and the bacon is wrapped around the pork, wrap the chicken schnitzel around the outside.

Step 11:  Once the pork is wrapped around the lamb, and the bacon is wrapped around the pork, and the chicken is wrapped around the bacon, wrap some beef around the entire bitch.

Step 12:  Coat in some mixed herbs, to try and dull the impending smell of post-death bowel voiding.

Step 13:  Get some foil, and wrap that bitch up tight.  I mean tight.  In a few layers.  Like the BEST pass the parcel EVER.

Step 14:  Throw that bitch in the middle of the oven, and leave for around 3 hours, because e-coli is seriously NOT fun.  Once your 3 hours is up, remove from oven, and let it rest for 20 minutes.  I've got no idea why, but all the professionals do it on T.V. so it must do something, right?

Step 15:  Unwrap carefully.  Don't get too excited and rush in with fat little fingers keen for the meat prize inside.  Remember - the lack of steam is not due to a lack of heat, it's due to you wrapping that bitch up tight.  Then step back and marvel at the giant poo you appear to have created.

Step 16:  Marvel at it from a different angle, and wonder to yourself if it will actually look any different when it comes out of the other end.

Step 17:  Slice.  Inhale.  Lick.  Taste.  Be proud that you have just made the worlds best and longest scotch egg.

Step 18:  Serve on a bed of pasta, with a large helping of something that may do you some good.  I got carrot.  It helps you pee in the dark.

Of course, I have been up to much more over the past few months that I haven't updated you with, but I really can't be bothered just yet.  Look, up there ^, I have lots of faeces shaped meat to eat, so I will do it soon, I promise.

In the meantime, I can only see two possible outcomes.  Either my guts are going to be fully backed up for the next month, or I am going to spend a full week squirting dirty water out of my bum-piece.

I'll let you know.

I don't do mass hysteria.

Each year around this time, Queenstown heralds the arrival of winter with what they call "Winterfest". Which is an amalgamation of the words "Winter", and "Festival", for those of you conceived after twelve Bacardi Breezers in an alleyway just outside Romford. Or for those of you that use the same word for Christmas while tiptoeing around people who aren't offended at all by the word, and probably more offended that you have taken offence at Christmas on their behalf.
Quite why they need this festival to mark the arrival of winter is beyond me. I know it's winter, everyone does, it's Baltic outside. It's Baltic inside for Christs sake. The fact that I have to spend a good ten minutes coaxing my inverted penis out of the warmth of its inner sanctum before I pee is a clear indication that it's brass monkeys outside. Any kind of camp parade through the streets only serves as a twisted reminder that I currently have a mangina. But then this is probably the primary reason as to why I will never be on the town planning committee.
Running for 10 days, the festival kicked off with a firework display which I was able to watch from the comfort of a van while I was working. I ooh'ed and aah'ed as I tried to avoid the idiots standing in the road of all places watching the display, and then cursed as it seemed wherever I tried to make a delivery no-one was available to receive as they are all watching the display that lasted all of a minute and a half. Personally, I wasn't impressed. I never am. Mainly because I am not 7 any more, and haven't been for a few years now. Other things were going on, but I have paid little attention to any of it, and successfully avoided any kind of social interaction during this period.

Due to the festival, and school holidays this week, work has been manic. For the first time in many years, I am actually having to work to earn money. I hope to have normal service restored soon. However it has meant a lot of driving and delivering which has led me to discover that no-one out here knows how a roundabout works. For me, this is a good thing as I can just fly straight on without worrying about the idiots all sitting around at each entrance waiting for someone else to go. There have, as yet, been no accidents. But being a delivery driver has most certainly given me an over-inflated sense of self-importance and a complete disregard for laws. No seat belt?? Check. Breaking speed limits?? I have deliveries to make for Christ's sake. No parking?? I LIVE for no parking signs, parking in front of them fills me with childish glee. I have deliveries, did you not hear that the first time?? The van is now filled with empty cookie wrappers and coffee mugs, the only thing yet to do is import a yellowed copy of the Daily Sport and leave it on the dashboard.

As in all ski towns across the globe, hitching is a big thing here. In a strange twist of fate, the only times I have been offered a lift have been when I haven't been hitching, and was quite happy to walk. One of those times was from a gay fella that kept banging on about the Mardi Gras the night before. Don't get me wrong - no rant coming. If you are picking me up and saving me from walking I wouldn't care if you had sex with microwaved melons. I just thought I may be more likely to be picked up by him if I had a digit in the air. As soon as I make an effort to get a lift I am largely ignored, which I don't mind too much, because I never pick up hitchers myself. I have deliveries to make for Christs sake.

During the festival, my cousin from Auckland came down to stay for a few days, which was really nice. Growing up we never really spent much time together as she has a brother my age, and she was my sisters age, so we have probably spent more time hanging out together on the other side of the world than we ever did in the UK. And it was awesome. We went out skiing a few times, a tiny bit of touring, and some drinking (as there is literally nothing else to do in Queenstown), caught up, and exchanged family stories of which some were invariably similar albeit happening a few years apart.

It was while she was here that I read the news that has shocked the world, and please accept my apologies for taking a slightly morose turn.

I am very used to famous people, idols, and cultural icons passing away while I am out of the country. It seems to happen every time to all the people I love that have played a major part in my life as a child, and sometimes as an adult. Tony Hart, Mike Reid, Wendy Richards, Jeremy Beadle, Richard Whitely, all have died whilst I am abroad leaving me in a bewildered state of mourning, and leaving everyone else wondering why I am in that state. Every time I leave the country I am petrified of who will be next on the list. I have my fingers crossed for Dion, but it seems the people I despise are immortal.
This time round, it started with David Carradine. I can't say I knew much about him, but as a bit of a martial arts fan, I was starting to get a bit worried. My concerns were furthered by the death of Shih Kien. At 96, I guess he had a good innings, and I knew very little about him too aside from his star turn in the legendary Enter the Dragon as Han. I hoped and prayed every night, as it was following a bit of a martial arts trend. How would I cope if - God forbid - next on the list was Jackie Chan?? Or Van-Damme?? Or even Seagal??

And then the worst happened. Someone huge, someone who I remembered fondly from my childhood, someone I would watch on the television wide-eyed and with utmost admiration. I am talking of course of Farrah Fawcett. Most will remember her from her role in Charlies Angels, but for me her seminal work was the classic The Cannonball Run. It had the elements EVERY great should have. Cars racing across America, Burt Reynolds 'tache, a rubbish super hero, Roger Moore parodying Bond - even more so than he did in his way too long stint AS Bond, a pair of drink driving priests (which is always hilarious), a motorcycle stuck in a permanent wheelie due to a morbidly obese guy on the back (again, always hilarious), Jackie Chan, a cross-eyed doctor with a drink problem and borderline mental health issues, 2 pendulous chicks in a Ferrari, and Farrah Fawcett.
One could draw parallels between the tragic passing of Fawcett and Mother Teresa. And here is a full list of two very tenuous reasons why. They both provided enlightenment in their own way - Teresa more sensual, Fawcett slightly more sexual in my case. And both tragedies were eclipsed by someone slightly more famous, who had a history of touching children. So as expected, out of the woodwork come the thousands of fans shedding tears for someone they felt they knew but had no idea about whatsoever. It sickens me to see so many people in mourning, and getting caught up in the drama of someone who they loved but never met passing away, when half of them would barely shed a tear for a close relative.

Fortunately, aside from a few hits being played in bars and shops out here, it seems to have passed by without incident. There have been no vigils, no collective crying sessions in the streets, in fact the most I have seen is a sign on a whiteboard by a chairlift which are usually reserved for telling skiers they have left their lights on, saying "RIP King of pop. Black Subaru Legacy, your lights are on". A fitting tribute I feel.

So it is with a sense of sadness that I say, Rest In Peace Farrah Fawcett. You were MY Mother Teresa.

Auckland - Christchurch - Queenstown

Without going into any boring details, the flight to Christchurch was painless. In fact unbelievably so. After travelling through UK and US airports, where even being 1kg over the weight limit generally adds a billion pounds to your airfare and a thorough fingering up the jacksy, it is a positive relief to fly internally in NZ where it seems the only thing you need to do to identify yourself is look in a mirror and say "Yup, that's me". I think I went through more rigorous identification checks going into bars in Auckland.
I checked into the hostel at Christchurch, which is just opposite the Cathedral. I took no photos, but it is quite an impressive building. In fact, to avoid any disappointment in some, and to evoke elation in others, I took no pictures whatsoever in Christchurch. Although to an extent, I wish I had a picture of the beggar outside the Cathedral, as he played tunes on the recorder. Which I thought no-one played after the age of 7.
Having heard about the penthouse in the hostel I was staying, I decided to fork out the extra buck per night and stay there. 3 rooms, with a total of maybe 20 beds spread between, but with the bonus of a kitchen, bathroom, sky t.v. and Playstation 2. There were 3 Israeli guys already in there, one of whom had hair like Sideshow Bob. And two big fat black eyes from a fight in Australia.
The room wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It was just under the roof, which I can only assume was made of balsa wood, and had a corrugated plastic skylight. Given that I arrived in the midst of what seemed to be a 3 day hail storm, sleeping would have been easier if I was buried up to the neck and consistently stoned for 72 hours.
I moved out after three days, into a 4 bed dorm room which had one current occupant. Another Israeli guy, this one called Serge. A memorable character, he sounded a little bit like Borat. The room itself was a mess. Cigarette butts on the carpet, rubbish strewn all over the place, and an odd smell. Serge offered me "chocolate sandwich". I politely declined, in case that was a jew-phamism for something undesirable. It wasn't, it was actually a nutella sandwich. As he was making the sandwich, he started singing.
Now, for those of you that don't know, I have a recurring fantasy about Celine Dion and Alanis Morisette duetting while lying naked, face upwards on a bed of molten cheese while I am repeatedly stabbing them in the abdomen with a pitchfork. This "singing" of Serge's was not unlike how I would imagine that duet would sound. The only other times I have heard this is when it is on the news, sung by guys waving AK-47's in the air. I promptly made my excuses and left.
Most of my time in Christchurch was spent hanging around the hostel watching season 6 of The Shield on my laptop, or hanging out with a friend from Canada who lives there. Or trying to subtly cough very loudly and for a very long time while watching season 6 of The Shield on the top bunk while Serge begins making the bottom bunk rock oblivious to the fact that I am up there.
There really seemed to be very little else to do there. On the way back from a bar one afternoon we drove the mountain route, which took us around the top of the Gondola. The views from up there were amazing, I never thought Christchurch could offer such views. But that was it.
So on Sunday 24th I packed my bags, walked to the bus stop and embarked on the 8 hour coach ride down to Queenstown.