And things move on… there was an interesting fellow at the ceilidh on Saturday who was apparently a famous folk recording artist; not a wisp of beard in sight mind you, and he wasn’t even wearing sandals; nope, this chap was pretty cool in more ways than one; wearing his shorts and t-shirt to have a crafty roll-up outside the hall’s entrance in bloody February; and very down-to-Earth. He also just so happens to run a property maintenance company for letting agents around the Bristol area – which means, between himself and his list of tradesmen (plumbers, general builders, electricians, gas engineers etc.) he can do everything needed in terms of managing a house to rent out, and can take care of all that needs servicing, repairing, maintaining and improving.

Handy man to know if one were to be in the position of, just perhaps, buying a house to-let, and then buggering off around the world

So that was nice to have made contact, and another thing that was nice was the beer on Saturday night (Hop-Back brewery’s finest ales: Crop Circle and GFB [Great Fuc**ng Beer, probably] which goes to show an awful lot of traditional English/Irish music’s modern character, right there ) which once again was perfectly judged to last everyone’s glasses all night, it was just the right amount, right to the end of both barrels, by the time the bar closed. Although looking back on my phone at the calls we made that night, these two events may not have been quite so coincidental as I don’t think our taxi was actually booked until 1:30am

What else I learned that night was from the pub down the road from this village hall full of crazed morris dancers and drunken, swaying hippies, and I got chatting to the barstaff and, predictably enough, there was an Aussie behind the bar. The barman everywhere is from Australia, as T. Pratchett has already noted (although it could have been B. Bryson as well, come to think of it.)

He gave me a few useful pointers about working over there, namely, work in New Zealand instead and don’t bother trying to get a good job in Aus. I guess that’s why so many barmen the world over have fled their native Antipodes and decided to take random jobs schlepping ale in foreign climes, although it could also be to do with the fact that Australia, by its own demure and unassuming nature, actively tries to kill every living thing within its borders; whether it be by hosting the ten most deadly snakes in the world (yes, all 10 in the top ten list of Most Poisonous Snakes in the World are Australian natives. Crikey!!) or by having the deadliest spider (the funnelweb) or being home to a thousand other lethally poisonous wee beasties.

And then there’s the sharks of course, what with having a dozen varieties capable of killing a grown adult mooching about the place in waters deep and shallow, and of course there is also the most venomous animal on the planet; the box jellyfish, know to Australians as a Bluebottle, or `Bluey`, or “holyfu**ingfu**there’safu**ingbluebottlerightthererunawwaaaaayyy!!!!” – or so I am guessing.

These things don’t actually scare Aussies though by all accounts because you can see them coming, but there is one creature that does worry them and that’s the saltwater Crocodile. Fair enough really, because if they don’t want you to see them then you wont as they can hide beneath water, or in long grasses, or even just somewhere dark, and unless you’re standing in the middle of an airstrip with a fully-loaded SPAS 12 and armour plating up to your ears then, basically, a Croc could potentially kill you just about anywhere in Australia.

And you most likely wouldn’t see it coming.

And then there are bush fires, that spread far enough to, for example, burn about half a million hectares of national forest like one did in 1987. They can move, eating up new vegetation in jaws of flame, at up to 50 miles an hour with the wind: there ain’t no goddamned way on Earth anyone can outrun that!!

Or the droughts and relentless solar torrent the country subjects you to if you wander into the interior – the outback – without shade, food, water, and 500 camels to eat up as you go along. No, outside of the cities Australia is a harsh and unforgiving land. I can’t wait to get out there

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Another thought that struck me on that night, as I nursed something like my 9th beer and hazily watched the stream of dancers whirling past me, was that I’m going to have one of the most elite gun collections possible when I’ve sold all mine, as I plan to be skirmishing with a Western Arms Kimber TLE II as my sidearm, and hopefully retaining the KSC HK33 as my only remaining AEG. Sure there are more expensive, desirable, some might even say practical rifles to choose but almost no-one else will actually have one, and that makes it pretty damn `elite` as far as I’m concerned

I intended to kind of not sell the Kimber originally but totally forgot to price it out of reasonability like I have the Beretta Scoremaster, which I am also reluctant to sell.

Chances are I now will, however, and I’ll be keeping the kimber, getting 2 more spare mags, and then using some sort of proper actual vest or chest rig in which to keep stuff (finally).

The HK33 though, only shoots at about 240fps although I believe my local friendly gunsmith has now installed a stronger spring: god knows how the thing will stand up to it but I guess I’ll just have to find out.

Thinking of a shotgun as my one and only other gun and intermediate backup, and, of course, the most elitistest (new word ) choice would be the full metal & wood sawn-off that I just-so-happen to have 10 shells for I’ll be needing some specialist gear for that too, namely a drop-leg or over-the-shoulder `scabbard` kind of sheath for it, just depending on whether I want the extra weight on my leg or my back – and, of course, whether I can actually draw a damn shotgun from across my shoulder in a hurry while still keeping it secure when running!!

Lots of new gear is gonna be needed to get me to where I want to be I think, or, maybe I’ll leave it all until I’ve braved the venomous and naturally aggressive lands of Down Under; I might even come back from there and decide to skirmish with a colt .25 springer and a rubber knife, see how much the country hardens me up