Farewell Down Under

One particular highlight for Jane and I was an outdoor concert at the futuristic Perth Optus Arena, successor to the WACA, West Australian Cricket Association headquarters.

We haven’t had too much experience of concerts under the stars at home, but those we have attended have always found us battling the cold, even in the middle of summer.

I know the dancers among you would say that I should get up and move my hips and feet. Well, that ain’t gonna happen. I realise you will point out that a blind man, Chris McCausland won Strictly last year. My simple response is, “Bully for him!” I have never danced nor have I ever been interested in dancing.

I know there are many of the visually impaired community who do and can. Just don’t assume that if we are blind we can strut our stuff. I am sorry to report that McCausland, single-handedly, has set the cause of us beer hugging wallflowers back by centuries!

On the other hand, I do wish I could, but, alas, I think I am too self-conscious! It was a beautiful balmy evening, under the rooves of the amazing stadium, more akin to a starship than a sports complex, light years away from the old WACA which, to be honest, I loved, I have seen some of the world’s greats ply their trade there.

We took our seats, up in the Gods, not that it made any difference to me, I could have bought in the front row, and still wouldn’t have been able to see the legends about to take their place. As darkness fell, the event’s lights strobed and the music grew to a crescendo, the anticipation built.

The band were ready to take their place on the stage, it was like waiting for the gladiators to enter the arena, it was an amphitheatre full of stamping feet, the place shook, and the fans, more like disciples, were held in awe at the expectation of this legendary rock band bounding onto the stage. Umm, perhaps not bounding, but not yet pushing their zimmerframes.

Small samples of the group’s greatest hits reverberated off the acoustically designed surfaces which made our adrenal glands start to work overtime. Not sure I have enjoyed so much excitement in a sports stadium since Ipswich won the UEFA Cup in 1981. Yeah, it’s been a long time.

Then with a thunder crash of sound, a blinding flash of light, even to me, and the leaping artists were ready to rock. The lineup might not have Freddie Mercury or John Deacon any longer, but the hairs on the back of my neck still stood to attention. On the stage in front of us was, none other than, QUEEN.

Yes, Adam Lambert might not be Freddie, but we didn’t care, it rolled back the years to the seventies and eighties, reliving our youth and wishing it would never end.

What a night! The hits kept on coming: “We Will Rock You,” “We are the Champions,” “Crazy Little Thing Called Love,” and many more. Don’t worry, for those of you who think I have missed it, “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Mingled in were an Elvis hit and other recognisable tunes. They even did a rock version of an old Seekers favourite.

They, as usual, finished the night with their own inimitable version of “God Save the Queen.” We still had one back then, even the Duke was still with us. I wonder how they end their performances nowadays? “God Save the King” doesn’t really cut it now! Us poms stood up to belt out the national anthem along with our heroes.

The organisation was second to none. The good burgers of Perth, in their combined municipal wisdom, have made it mandatory that all large events within the city and its immediate surrounds must include public transport costs within their tickets. It worked brilliantly. We exited the stadium, strolled along to the purpose built train station, I know, just remember they are colonials and don’t use the correct terminology, railway station, where the stewards espied my white cane and ushered us to the front of the line for immediate boarding.

Some of those queuing looked askance as our little party made its way to the front, and into preferential seats on the waiting train. Within no more than thirty minutes we were getting off at our own stop a little way down the tracks. I was listening in to a couple of women behind, either my ears hadn’t been so badly affected or they were talking extra loud because theirs had.

Now, as a slightly challenged man in the way of useful follicles I listened in with incredulity. They were discussing Brian May’s tremendous tresses, do you reckon they’re real or not? He’s older than me, I thought, and felt offended that he might have hair like that. I turned around, mustered all my nerve and said, “Of course he doesn’t.”

My wife joined in, it didn’t become her, and removed my baseball hat, revealing my own head of hair, more skin these days than hair, and said to Brian’s, obviously besotted, fans, “Look! It is only jealousy.”

Wow? If you can’t rely on your own wife for support, who can you rely on?

One event I look forward to every year in our home village is the seafood festival that is held in the local pub.

One evening when in Perth we all descended on a small restaurant in Cottesloe, right on the coast, for a fun-packed oyster night. My brother and his entire family joined us, the evening was hosted by my niece’s friend’s husband, a renowned local shucker. He popped along with a few bags of oysters and attended on the tables, opening the oysters, in person, for us to sample.

I know many are wary of consuming this once common foodstuff, as was I up until fairly recently, but I love them now. It always helps when there are some amazing sauces available to assist the tasting. It was a fine evening, well attended and the oysters on offer were top notch.

It is incredible how such a poor person’s food has become such an expensive delicacy, but that is the truth of it. Over harvesting has made them rarer than hens’ teeth in some parts so, to get a bucket load, one would need to take out a mortgage. What a shame, I have grown to like them.

A pretty sad post script to this is that on our return to the UK I came across a news article that reported on some local teenage thugs rampaging through the picturesque seaside suburb, vandalising just about every business front along the strip.

Their motive, by all accounts, was some sort of anti-capitalism vendetta, based on fake news that visitors were turning the area into no-go areas for locals, pricing the hostelries out of the working man’s reach. I think jealousy is a more accurate description. If any campaign is more ill thought out I am yet to find it, encouraging visitors to stay away by your moronic behaviour should do the trick if nothing else succeeds, just terrorise them into not coming.

Now our final excursion whilst in Perth was to the fabulous King’s Park, a rather splendid urban oasis set high up on the bank of the Swan River, affording the visitor some of the most breathtaking views of Western Australia’s capital.

If you are ever lucky enough to find yourself here it must be right at the top of your list. I have now been there on many occasions and am convinced I find something new within its boundaries every time I visit. This time the first attraction was a short botanic history of the place during its early years.

I am sorry to report that Australia attracted some absolute clowns to its shores. We have already covered the introduction of rabbits and foxes from the home country in a bid to recreate bloodsports from rural England, but that is nothing compared to the brainless idiot who thought it was a good idea to copy an English country estate in the rugged terrain of Western Australia.

Now just bear in mind that Perth has a pretty similar average rainfall to East Anglia, about 790mm per year, it is even less now, meteorological records show us that it has dropped off by about 70mm in recent times, but it never could be considered wet. When you add into the mix that the area is much hotter than Norfolk and Suffolk you can start to see the challenges that should have been predicted by these plant pioneers: evaporation.

Even some of the brightest around at the time, which doesn’t seem to have said much, did not think of the E word, it probably runs at about a billion times more than it does in the driest region of the UK! A good old English oak needs roughly 90,000 litres of water every year to prosper. So, if your average rainfall is 790mm, you need to use the water from an equivalent area of 114m2, and that is without losing any to that pesky E word.

Mind you, it makes me think that a good way to reduce our water shortage is to cut down every oak tree! At least that would let the water companies off the hook from repairing leaks and, I think, might help to maintain the executives’ well deserved bonuses. I hate to think about them going short! I think that is why avenues of oaks might have failed in the pretty barren landscape that is Western Australia.

One highlight of the park is the amazing treetop walk, although it is slightly worrying that when you are strolling along at, say, thirty metres up you note that some of the boltholes don’t actually have bolts and nuts fixing the two steel plates together. I am sure there is a good reason, but I’m struggling to think of it. Whatever I think, though, it is still there.

It really is a stupendous inner city park, running to 400 hectares, 60 more than Central Park in New York. It is easy to imagine you are miles from anywhere as you make your way through natural bush one minute, whilst the next, you are right in the middle of an incredible cityscape with views over the river and across to the CBD. The Western Australian Botanic Garden is situated within the park and plays host to over 3,000 native species of flora.

Now, if I want to shed a tear or two I need go no further than a war memorial and, as with many major parks around the world, King’s Park is home to the WA State Memorial. Just looking at the names and their ages only serves to remind us of the futility of war.

Technically, some of the ages noted against those who paid the ultimate sacrifice in various theatres around the world are young enough to be my grandchildren. When I have fully developed my time machine I will go back and ensure tyrants such as Bonaparte, Hitler, and others don’t even make it to maturity,

Of course, there will be others in their places but, the old time machine will be kept fully fuelled in the garage waiting for the next mission. Imagine a history without war, it would also mean that there would be no war memorials, and I would be able to walk around these areas without tear stained cheeks. If only! I am afraid, Robert, get real.

The park is important to both the indigenous and European populations, and the cultural centre of the Whadjak Noongar people.

I wish to put on my pernickety hat here. King’s Park was named in honour of the accession to the throne in 1901 of King Edward VII and whilst I accept that this can be a tad contentious in modern day Australia will you stop messing around with the apostrophe. Yes, you might have dropped it from the title officially, I for one, am going to carry on sticking it between the g and the s. I couldn’t give a monkey’s what anyone else thinks.

I remember a campaign by Royal Mail to drop apostrophes from official addresses in the UK. I feel that would be a step too far just because some postmen find it confusing. Send them back to school if they don’t get it. Three cheers for the apostrophe. I have no idea where we are with this crazy idea, but as dumbing down seems to be the order of modern life I daresay it is still on an agenda somewhere.

Right then, we are off to the River Rhine next time. I think we will have seven or eight episodes messing around on the river. Then we will spend a little time in Cornwall. See you there.