Day 9... Maybe: any resemblance to anyone's pants, living or dead is purely coincidental,'also their bottom size.

I have just woken from a dream in which I had some sort of super power. As I was dispatching by my wicked enemies. I recall thinking that it would make an excellent story, and, in the way of dreams, it slipped away from me. It is very likely that it wouldn't have made sense in the real world, though, the more optimistic part of me things that it could have been a best seller.

But writing is not all I hack away at, I also make noises with my voice and a guitar. So, when presented with the chance to play to an adoring Australian public, I leapt at the chance.

Discounting the bar man, my friend who got me the gig, and a small and rather rowdy dog, there was but one person... There may have been a lizard, though it didn't make itself known. I assume that my other potential audience were off poking crocodiles in the eye, playing the wobble board and other such things that tv has depicted Australian's doing.

I am sitting outside on the bogan as the son winks at me from behind suggestive clouds. We are planning a day on the beach, a big sandy thing like a field, but dead and populated by life guards, yoga practitioners... So picture bossy farmers and flexible cows, and I think you'll get the picture.

The other, most gripping alternative, is to do some washing. Eye the air is so humid that a bedraggled pair of pants can hang from the washing line for days on end; soggy, and a thing of great curiosity for little lizards.... Unless the pants in question happen to be from someone with a large bottom, in which case the size of the lizard can be proportionally bigger. And there I go again, turning to mention of pants...

Day... Sod it, lost track... A wet day anyway

Well, that thirty five seconds of sun was worth the journey... I am no longer paper white, rather I have the tone of a ghost that's been on a son bed. I am a veritable vitamin d machine.

I am sorry to be so typically British, this blog reads like a weather report of the biblical flooding of the world. We do love to talk about the weather.

I ventured out last night to utterly miss some jazz and talk about the rain. Luckily my bank card didn't seem to be working so my partner in crime had to buy all my drinks. I always take the brighter view when faced with such issues.

Sarah and bridge have just left for work, it would appear that my annoyance at the weather doesn't make for an attractive quality in a house mate... They were running as they left, leaving a slight stench in their wake. Bridge, ever careful with money, has refused to buy a new pair of jeans, even though the pair that he currently wears and persistently forgets to wash, has developed more culture in its creases and folds than the country in which both jeans and owner reside.

I have been preparing for a gig, trying to remember songs and attempting to clean some clothes. The air is so damp that days pass and by shorts, shirts and pants still drip as if shedding lavender scented fears over the high albedo of their owner and sometimes inhabitant. My clothes and I are on the same page.

Day 6? The sun licks me, the ocean licks the land

I sit on the beach and listen to the waves consume the land... Dramatic hey?

The son has finally come out and myself, Emily and Sarah are sitting on the beach and listening to Sarah's portable speakers announcing that they are going to die. The air is humid with an on shore breeze. That was a bit like a diet surf report just there, though surfing is really not that great... I've just lost half by readership... I hope that the other one remains.

Obviously I haven't written for a couple of days, I was trying to avoid my insane rambling and actually have something of consequence to write down....

Yesterday evening we four went out for dinner at a place called the salt rock where the food was delicious and expensive. We then went to the cinema where the tickets were expensive and delicious.

I have ventured out a little more over the last couple of days, having recovered from the journey. People seem to want me to have a good one, I am unsure what they are referring to. Usually if it is good I like to have several of them.

In a pub called the broad beach tavern, a chap bought bridge and I a drink... Each! I think he was a little lonely. So as we are kind people, we instantly ignored him until he went away whilst drinking the beer that he had purchased for us... Both of them...

What I have learned over the last couple of days:

Don't keep eggs in the fridge: I actually consider myself a good cook however the ability to cook a simple boiled egg still spliced alluded me. I blame cold yokes...

Don't do yoga in public: after all the pains I took to hide my practice of the floppy sport from my house mates, I was dismayed to year that the cutter people out here love to do it in public, on the beach, at work, in the shops... Mental! Maybe this is one of those cultral differences, for are we not, as the British, veritable day boats of modesty? Actually, if you look at any of our papers or magazines you would probably find evidence to the contrary.

Day 4: the rain of king Kennett.

Rain... How I've missed you. For anyone in England, rain his this wet stuff that falls from the sky, filling everyone with joy and wonder. The things you see when one is travelling.

I am watching the Australian news, it is sort of like the British news with Australian accents and different place names. I really don't think that it is going to catch on,

I am a little confused as to what entry this should be.. I think that this is my fourth day in Australia As yet, I have not been bitten on the bottom whilst on the toilet... What a terrible way to go.. Here lies ollie Kennett. Heart breaker, glass smasher, cracking shoes, death by bottom bite on the throne... It puts me in mind of the woman from the mumma's and the pappa's, who died whilst gobbling a ham sandwich. Hardly the heroic demise that any rock star would wish for... Anyway, this is becoming morb

Things that I have learned:

Steak is cheap: I am usually suspicious of cheap neat, though it would appear that beef is generally cheap here, could be horse I guess.. Too soon, was too soon wasn't it. Shouldn't joke about such things. It would be like joking about other really important issues, like starvation, corruption, murder...b Ib can be insensitive sometimes...

Pubs shut early on Sunday: bridge and I decided to brave that rain stuff, and head out for a beer last night. Whether they saw us coming, I don't know, but they must have rushed to get the brooms out and to stack the chairs... We ended up in bridges work place, he must have been delighted.

I should be meeting up with another friend tonight, this one is a real Australian, yes. I know that hangingaround with the locals could be dangerous, bloody Darwin did it... Or something, look at him now...Didn't he die from a bite on the bottom? Though, if I recall correctly, it was from a rabid hooker...

Day 3: Flies in my eyes

The flies flit about my face as I try to sleep with cries of:

"Gday mate"

"Ya POM"

"Stick another shrimp on the barby"

... though all in Fly, so I'm just assuming the translations. TO say that they are tenacious would be an understatement. They wake up at the crack of dawn to do a good spot of bothering before they've even had a spot of breako or even a comically sized beer. Today, so god help me, I'm going to war with the little buggers...

Again, the sun is shining, what's that saying about the rightious and the sun? Not that I'm suggesting that any of you are anything but righteous, it is just that I am more so than you. This halo can be bloody heavy at times.

In Australia they don't serve booze in the supermarket, instead they have shops of bottles which they, imaginatively, call 'bottle shops'. As you may have surmised, I visited one of these dens of devilry yesterday, buying for a friend of course... Only 3 years old, you know how it is...

A storm came in last night, rained as if god was tipping out his paddling pool, thunder like god had eaten beans. This morning it is clear and a lot fresher, the humidity had been rising a lot, at midnight it was 26 degrees and 90% humidity. I sat listening to the frogs bellowing their nocturnal mating call and it very much reminded me of a sweaty club in Leicester.

A few doors down from us there lives a man who does horrible things to a guitar for hours on end. If you know me, you will know that I am a guitar lover, and give generously to 'guide guitars for the blind'. I've considered being a buitarette walker but I don't think it would be fair on either of us, I just don't have the time. Anyway, 'guitar hero' as we have dubbed him, or I have dubbed him and am waiting for the others to take up the clever nickname, plays for about five hours non stop, loud and painful. Is this what my own neighbors have to put up with back home? With this in mind I attempt to be rather generous with my view of his skills, saying things like:

"We all have to start somewhere"

And:

"Bless him".

However, I do find myself questioning my rather positive belief that anyone can learn how to play the guitar. Sadly, in this case, I think I'll have to report him to guitar cruelty. Maybe the instrument in question can be rehoused, who knows, it's all very sad.

Watched a rather overly dramatic version of animal hospital called 'Bondi", forgive the poor spelling. I, believing in the balance of things, thought there would be an english version of Rolf Harris presenting it, maybe Tony Heart? But no. They found a funnel web in someones house. Needless to say I used almost half a bottle of bug spray on myself and my bed last night, almost repelling myself in the process.

The sun has gone in. I'm going to find coffee, though the stuff that Bridge found lurking at the back of a cupboard tastes more like Bisto, which makes sense, it was bought by a friend who was previously visiting, we know him simply as 'Northern'. I think his real name is Per-tuna McWobbleElbow, but I may be wrong, it has happened before.

Day 2: I think...

A small, wild child runs past me screaming in a language I cannot comprehend... Yes, I am in Australia and waiting for my final connecting flight to meet my friends on the Gold Coast... The flight has been delayed, woe is me, lucky for you I can update the blog...

Sometime yesterday, my yesterday, which is actually in the future, or something like that, I landed in Dubai and was met by a morose airport attendant who explained that everything was everywhere, most philosophical. I have probably drunk about twenty three pints of coffee and had about the same number of minutes sleep so please forgive the fragmented nature of, oh, I broke my seat... No one noticed. What, where am I?

A rather excitable woman met me in Sidney domestic flights, talked at me a lot and then left, obviously she had no sense of smell and could not appreciate my rather giant footish oder, despite getting changed in the on board toilets and listening to someone do a massive poo in the cubical next to me.

What I have earned today:

A day is flexible: I have no idea what is going on anymore, I'm tired wired and probably fired.

After a persistent delay in my flight from Sydney to Coolangatta, two hours in total, and then to be sat beside an older woman that kept shouting:

"What's that noise... IT shouldn't be making that noise." referring to the whine of the engine, I was very glad when Sarah came bounding through the airport, threw me into a ute and we burbled off into the quickly ageing day.

Skelly, (AKA Sarah) and, Bridge (AKA massive alien head or Dave), live in an avenue past which rushes cars that boom, "Bogans", I'll explain the term in a moment, who scream and whoop. Emily, the other female presence in this household, informed me that there is a large lizard that likes to sun itself in the fork between the shade of two trees. When Emily approaches, the lizard scarpers in terror, Emily is oddly offended by this.

It is morning again, I guess my third, therefore the title. When in transit, I get utterly confused as to the day or even my location, as my previous ramblings may suggest.

When I arrived, it was raining, I now sit outside on the 'Bogan sofa' in the glorious sun... Yes mum, I'm wearing sun cream... No, I've not brushed my teeth yet.

From what I can understand, a 'Bogan' is a cross between a chav, trailer trash and a hick. They seem happy with their 'utes' and 45 kids, so good for them.

Prices here are high. An example, using the universal comparison of a pint is impossible as they don't drink pints here, instead they drink stunted, comically sized bottle of beers which make the holder akin to a giant. One of these, in a bar, can set you back about 8 ozzy dollars, about a fiver in the UK. Yes, I am worried.... But, at least the sun is shining.

Emily and I went out for dinner last night. Being the callus individuals that we are, we went to the Italian restaurant at which Bridge and Skells work so we might laugh at them, klick our fingers and then ignore them when they tried to take our order. I had a dead chicken, Emily had a lovely night.

Upon leaving the restaurant, the four of us decided to get a drink at a bar. The bouncer asked if I might have some photo ID, I didn't. Bridge turned to me and, with utter sincerity said:

"Don't you have your drivers licence?"

It would appear that in our seven year friendship, Bridger has failed to notice that I am blind. It seems terribly creul to point out his lack of observational skills. Okay, okay, I promise, I'll tell him tomorrow... Maybe the next day....

Day 1: "Would he like a wheelchair"

How to start? A lot of people that read this blog will already know me. They will know who I am, where I come from and, hopefully, have some insight into my odd little mind. If you do know me, skip the next couple of paragraphs, meet me at the passage which reads:

"I am dead..."

For those of you who don't know my Name is Ollie, rather obvious from the title of the blog, I am 31, I am a writer, of sorts, a musician, of a kind, and completely and utterly blind. This is where I start yawning because it is terribly dull. I can't see, big whoop, so what? In my experience the "abnormal", for want of a better word, have no greater desire than to be considered "normal", whilst the "normal" folk, for want of a thasorous... thersorous... thirsurous... and a dictionary it would seem, want nothing more than to be considered "special". How many people do you know that proclaim themselves to be 'crazy', only to prove themselves utterly devoid of any entertaining mental affliction? A lot, I would guess. It's the ones who tell you that they are normal, who then scurry off to chew on a kneecap that they found lurking under their pillow, that you should look out for. My point is... Hang on, what's my point... Yes, the state of being 'normal' is so subjective that it is pointless me trying to say that I am so, you make up your own mind, I sure can't do it for you, you kneecap chewing nutter....

This isn't a blog about me being blind, or even the human condition, well, not in a direct way. It is, as you may, as well as my name, have deduced from the title. It is about a journey to the other side of the world, to the great contenant of Australasia.

I AM DEAD..ly serious... That was cheap know, and I smoothy retrieve my faithful readers, namely my mum and dad... Budge up, everyone know one another now... Mum, Dad, new reader... New reader... Mum and Dad.

I am currently eating nuts and drinking a gin and tonic, yes, I am pretty much like a nut munching Bond villain. I am at 37,000 feet, there are people eating noisily all about me whilst I attempt to look classy and dangerous... My keyboard is broken and I'm having to hammer the L key which may make me seem a little less refined though, in my humble view, a little vessuvian in my way.

And to the title of this rant. Every time I go to the airport some led paint licking idiot asks if I require a wheel chair, as I stand before them. To make this a little more insulting, they don't ask me, they ask who ever is with me, my Mum and Dad in this case. I didn't realise that, when asking for special assistance, I wrote down:

"I am blind, have a tendency to pretend that I can walk and am also utterly terrified of direct conversation due to a mental illness that makes me believe that, one day, I will encounter an x siren who has fallen on bad times and become a patronising airport worker."

Anyway, people are idiots, myself included a lot of the time.

I have been flying for about two hours, and already I'm utterly confused as to the time, where I am, who I am and which hostess I like most... If, for any reason any of the air hostesses on this flight ever read this blog, I love you all equally, don't squabble.

Today's lessons have been:

Bring a hanky... Got a tomato all over my face, up my nose, it was terrible...

People are idiots: That's more of a daily observation.

The airbus holds 500 idiots: This is a process of elimination.

The airbus holds 499 idiots: I counted myself by mistake.

My friends rule: GOt a lot of well wishing messages for the journey, I probably don't deserve them, but, then again, none of us do.

I am the one and only: No body I'd rather be.

Thanks for reading. Subscribe below, it will get more interesting, I pinky promise.