Hey everyone. This is just a little note from me to all of you, wishing you all a very Merry Christmas from the sunny side of the world!

I didn’t build this snowman, and given that it’s now summer on this side of the world, this will likely be the only snowman I’ll see on the streets this Christmas. But hey, we’ve got mince pies and a big Christmas pudding soaking in brandy too. For me Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas without them.

The problem with road-trips and good intentions is that they’re largely incompatible. I had planned to make regular posts from the road, to spend the day having adventures and the rest of the time writing about them. Maybe if I had done an extensive road-trip before, where my life had been shrunk to the size of a small Toyota van from the late 1980′s, I would have understood the limitations with that plan.

With each passing mile, or kilometre as it is here, my blog was falling farther and farther behind. Maybe if I had a big motorhome I would have been more disciplined, and updates would have come at more timely intervals inline with my actual location. Certainly it would have been nice to enjoy the luxury of such a vehicle, with a table to sit at, a small kitchen, and maybe even a shower. But my Tarago was fine, it suited my shoestring budget and my ‘rough around the edges’ approach to life on the road.

I’ve finished the trip now, but if you’ll forgive me the indulgence, I’m going to let the blog catch up with me. I’m going to allow those miles and kilometres, pictures and stories, to beat a path to the present day through the twisting wires or the world wide web. I’m going to complete the tale of this, the most ambitious road-trip of my life, before I forget.

I’d been told that Fraser Island was an essential stop on my road-trip along Queensland coast. It’s considered to be the world’s largest sand island which sounds to me like one of those claims that really doesn’t mean that much when you think about it for a moment. Nevertheless I decided to make my way there if only to have another point on the map that I could point at and say, “I’ve been there.”

Rainbow Beach was the point on the mainland where I would catch a ferry over to the Island. Tours were fully booked so I spent a couple of days at the beach before heading over to Fraser Island. I stretched out a towel, moulded a seat in the sand, then sat back to browse through magazines, bask in the sun, and snooze. I don’t really do the whole beach-bum thing, so this was a novel and really relaxing time-out for me.

That night, while I sat on the beach looking at the stars listening to some music and sipping a cup of tea I’d just brewed, a dog came out of the darkness and cautiously approached me.

I reached out my hand and did that whole doggie talk thing. You know, the usual “Hello boy. You’re a beauty aren’t you? What’s your name?” He looked at me and sniffed while I glanced around for his owner, but I couldn’t see anyone. As he came closer I stretched out my arm slowly. He sniffed at it then let me stroke him.

Pretty soon it was like he was my dog and we were just at the beach together for a little after dinner recreation. I stroked him while asking him a few more questions he had no way of understanding. He was pretty friendly, and even let me ruffle his neck and jiggle his ears. After a while I my four-legged friend decided to leave me to the stars, and he wandered off down the beach and back into the darkness.

When I picked up my 4WD drive tour over to Fraser Island I saw a poster. ‘Dingos are dangerous’ it warned. And there beneath those words was a picture of the ‘dog’ from Rainbow Beach, ‘my dog,’ my benign canine who I was now learning was a savage baby-eating beast from the wild!

Maybe Dingoes are misunderstood animals, I thought to myself. Perhaps, like Brits abroad, they’re reputation has been tarnished by a few ‘bad apples.’ That could have been the case, but this wasn’t Benidorm, and the savage Dingoes weren’t wearing baseballs caps and Burberry to identify themselves. Maybe I’m a gifted Dingo Whisperer, but it was a skill I decided not to test again for for fear of becoming Dingo dinner. From then on I decided just to avoid all dog like animals until I was clear of Fraser Island, and perhaps even Australia as a whole.

FRASER ISLAND

As we drove off the ferry from the mainland onto one of Fraser Island many long golden beaches it quickly became apparent that this was something of a wild place. My tour guide drove the Toyota Land Cruiser like it was a rodeo horse. He told me that we were weaving wildly from side to side to get better grip in the deep sand, but I got the impression this was just a trick to add a sense of danger to the experience.

When we weren’t speeding along the beach we were driving through forests thick with tropical trees that heralded the fact that I was very much now in the tropics.

Ordinarily you might expect a place like Fraser Island to have long since been invaded by developers building resorts and vast hotels to claim their share of the tourist dollars that pour into Queensland coastal regions. However, along with beaches full of wild dingoes, the waters around the island are thriving with sharks ready and willing to take a chunk out of anyone brave enough to venture into the surf.

Tourists do flock here in the droves, but Fraser Island feels like a place where nature is still very much in charge. For this reason the island is largely unspoiled, leaving you feeling like more of an explorer than a tourist.

As usual I took the opportunity to take to the air in a light aircraft that took off and landed on the beach. From the air we saw several whales with their calves swimming not far off shore, as well as the shipwreck of the SS Maheno. The once luxury passenger ship ran aground on 75 Mile Beach back in 1935. Since then the rusty ruin has become a popular landmark that is slowly sinking into the sand and eroding away.

I enjoyed Fraser Island a lot, and seriously considered spending more time there. But this was a road-trip and for three days all I had seen was sand and forest. It was time to get back to the mainland and back to the reassuring strip of black that would take me north.

Last week I went out to see a movie with a friend. It was pretty heavy going, so to lift our spirits we decided to hit some bars after the credits had rolled. A few hours later I’d long since missed the last tram home and somewhere in a haze of strange concoctions I’d had this moment of literary inspiration.

It’s a bad habit I have, sending text messages while enjoying the swirl of a moment of intoxication. To be fair, such moments are not common for me. I rarely drink to excess, and in truth I rarely drink at all. I am a cheap drunk. After three beers, four at a push, I’m ready to dance, laugh at crap jokes, and eat greasy food from establishments of questionable health standards.

But what was I trying to say in the text I sent to my friend Theresa. I do remember sending it, but like all texts I never bothered to read it back when I awoke the next morning.

So yesterday, when we met one another for lunch, she took great joy in reading it back to me in a style befitting the works of a fine English poet.

“Wetl are the drunk duckstes in the jourd ule sky.
Lol. Dity would glee
Fuck the sky for money.”

I’ve looked at my ageing phone with its number pad smoothed down like a bannister from an old staircase in a building with outrageously high ceilings. The assistance of predictive text was clearly powerless to assist me at nearly 2am while I enjoyed the intoxicating embrace of another cocktail from the Black Pearl on Brunswick Street in Fitzroy.

Wetl are the drunk duckstes in the jourd ule sky. What? The jourd ule sky?

And that last line. “Fuck the sky for money.” Did I really mean to write that, or was predictive text attempting to fathom the notions of a somewhat sozzled Englishman?

I’ve heard it said that some artists enjoy their most brilliant and creative moments in the haze of an intoxicated binge. But it seems clear to me that the same oil that loosed the genius in some has revealed that there is sadly no genius or wonder in my pixilated soul.

I’ll try to refrain from reaching for my phone the next time I’m making that transition from my second drink to drunkard. But I’m making no promises. After all, lest we forget wetl are the drunk duckstes.

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Tambourine dream
A mans guide to drunk texting
Texts from last night

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I’ve finished my road trip around Australia now, but will be retrospectively posting some pictures and funny stories from that trip. If you want to get those posts and others, delivered straight to your email with no fuss or spam, then why not subscribe for free to my blog.

Traffic is thick on the highway as I head out of Brisbane on my way to the invitingly named Sunshine Coast. I suspect the traffic is always thick on these roads that pump vehicles in and out of the city like haemoglobin into a beating heart. After spending time in the company of a new found friend it’s a little quiet being solo again. Though I’m not entirely alone, my GPS is talking to me, keeping me company for this short drive to the coast that promises me sunshine aplenty.

The road from Brisbane to the Sunshine Coast is straight forward and uneventful. Even the chattiest GPS would struggle to commentate on the journey. So as she didn’t feel overlooked, I deliberately took a few wrong turns so my GPS could interject with some timely advice.

“In 150 meters turn left, then stay in the left lane.”

My GPS is female, she talks to me with an Irish accent and never complains when I take a turn that is contrary to her directions. In calm and measured tones she speaks to me like some kind of road therapist. Occasionally, in her soft Irish brogue that shows not a hint of frustration, she asks me to make a U turn where possible. Her guidance is clear and concise and she never unravels into dramatic shrieks if I drive too close to the car in front or slightly overlook the occasional speed limit.

We’ve shared the trip with each other, and perhaps in years to come, when she’s in a bar somewhere in her mother country, she’ll recount stories from the road: the sights, the sounds, the detours and distractions. I picture her telling those tarmac tales while sipping a dram of whiskey that she drinks neat and without ice. She’s Irish after all, and I’m pretty sure my GPS girl takes her whiskey straight up.

For the first time in quite a while the roads felt somewhat familiar as I drove into the coastal town of Coolum. This wasn’t the first time I had visited the Sunshine Coast. I got a taste of the place in the summer of 2009 when I visited a friend of a friend here for a few days.

Back then I flew in from Sydney, magically transported through the clouds and thereby missing the graduated transition that you get as you travel overland from one place to another. Planes are great, but they often sterilise the journey by removing much of the travel from travelling.

After the buzz of Brisbane the Sunshine Coast is sleepy even at its most animated. Waves lap golden beaches and the sun wanders across the sky content to do little more than stretch the shadows late into the evening.

If this place were a coffee it would be a latte to Brisbane’s cappuccino. It’s enjoyable enough, but if you’re used to that familiar rush of caffeine then the Sunshine Coast might feel a little milky. However, there’s no denying the appeal of a latte while you unwind and let the hours that might have otherwise held you captive just wisp away like smoke in the breeze.

Winter in Queensland feels much like a British summer, or at least the British summers of my imagination, where the sun shines and clouds are decoration in an otherwise plain blue sky. The reality is that a Queensland winter is better than most British summers, a fact that makes me never want to return to my homeland, or at least be in no hurry to return to its shores anytime soon.

As usual I’ve paid no attention to tourist guides telling me about the places I must see. Instead I surrender myself to the randomness of discovery, allowing the Sunshine Coast to find me rather than the other way around.

I suspect I miss a few things travelling in this rather lackadaisical fashion, but I figure that the must-sees will still be here when I’m old enough to worry about my step and where the next bathroom break will be.

For now I’m content to miss a few things that I don’t happen to catch around a random corner or stumble upon while following my curiosity down some winding road. I’m not here to tick boxes, I’m fine just making my own way to wherever I end up tomorrow.

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I’m finally back in Melbourne and trying to catch up with my blog from the road. I’ve got loads of stories and great pictures that I’ll be sharing in the coming weeks. If seeing that sounds like your cup of tea, please consider subscribing or joining the 100% junk-mail free email list to have new posts sent directly to your email inbox. Click here for more details.

A few people have commented to me that I haven’t been updating my blog that much. That’s true, my update rate has been dismal, but there’s a good reason, honest there is.

When I began ‘North,’ my road trip from Melbourne up the east coast of Australia, I had every intention of blogging along the way, and posting regular updates and pictures from the road. However, it turns out that doing that was more difficult than I had anticipated.

My trusty Toyota van is great as a camper, but because it doesn’t have any kind of table inside, it turns out that it’s a disaster for writing. Everytime I sit down to do any writing after dark, I am essentially sat on my bed, and in that situation with nothing but darkness outside, my brain seems to begin shutting down for the day and I quickly give up the struggle to stay awake.

The upside is that I get up early, or at least I get up earlier than I am known for getting up. This means longer days full of fun stuff to do; stuff that I photograph and fully intend to write about. But then the night draws in and if I’m not out with people, I’m again battling to stay focused and awake.

I’m wildly behind with my road trip blog now. In fact, since the Brisbane post I’ve made it all the way up the east coast to Cape Tribulation and the Great Barrier Reef. I drove for seven days across the outback to Darwin, then visited Bali for a quick vacation before nipping over to Singapore to watch the Formula One Grand Prix.

And now, after nearly five months on the road, I am half way back to Melbourne, driving right through the middle of the country, slicing my way through the so-called ‘Red Centre.’ This massive road trip is drawing to an end.

So here’s my plan. I really want to write about my travels, not only to share with all of you, but to document the journey for myself. It takes a long time to sort through the mass of photographs I take, then prepare them for the blog, but I do want to share those pictures and the stories from my travels.

If you forgive me for my lacklustre blogging performance these last few months, I promise you that you’ll be treated to some great pictures and some pretty good road stories. Among them will be the hitch hiker who was just released from jail, or the one who told me about her brief experience as a balloon porn star (I didn’t know what that was either). I’ll tell you about crewing a racing yacht at the Whitsunday Islands Regatta, getting bitten by a spider in Queensland, and swimming with crocodiles in Darwin.

If that sounds like your cup-of-tea, then stay tuned, subscribe if you haven’t already, and I’ll share with you the highlights and pictures from my life on the road.

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Steve Jobs, the charismatic founder and CEO of Apple has died. That’s old news now though, he died on Wednesday, but I’ve been in the Australian outback and I only found out yesterday when I saw an email from a friend with the title ‘Jobsy.’ I immediately knew what the email would tell me, that Steve Jobs had succumbed to the rare form of pancreatic cancer he had been fighting.

I didn’t know Steve Jobs, or rather I didn’t know him much more than other people who use and enjoy Apple products. I’d heard stories of his tight control on product design and his outlandish behaviour in the early days of Apple.

My favorite of those stories is when, in 1983, Jobs lured the CEO of Pepsi, John Sculley, away from the soft drinks manufacturer with the question, “Do you want to sell sugar water for the rest of your life, or do you want to come with me and change the world?”

He was famous for being a fierce micro-manager, a CEO who spent a great deal of his time involved in the smallest of details that most CEOs would leave to others. I had an experience of that myself back in 2001 when Steve Jobs himself ordered that a website I was running should be closed down.

Mac Cards was essentially a Apple fan site that used pictures of Apple products in ecards that people could send to one another. The site was a quick success and became very popular in the Mac community. However, Steve Jobs sent another Apple executive a ‘Mac Card’ that read “How can anyone represent us in this way?!!” It was an ominous forewarning to the legal intervention that followed soon after.

Mac Cards was forced to close amid a storm of negative publicity. The company was widely criticised for using heavy handed tactics. Even Apple’s own co-founder Steve Wozniak publicly commented that the company had overreacted, and in an email to me Wozniak wrote, “The Apple that you love is the people that use Apple products and the community that they represent. This ‘Apple’ supports you.”

In the end Apple sought to smooth things over with myself and my friend Will (who was also named in their UK high court injunction), though I have little doubt that decision didn’t come from Mr Jobs.

It’s sad that he’s died so young. At 56 years old he was still very much ahead of the game in the technology world. His ability to drive innovation and market desire was the envy of every company in the world. And while Apple didn’t necessarily invent a raft of new technologies (as my angry friend Darryl would often point out), it put them together in a way that the world wanted to use them.

As I said, I didn’t know Steve Jobs, and already many blogs and column inches have been devoted to his passing. But in true Jobs style I’ll add just ‘one more thing‘ and leave you with the words of Jobs himself that he said to students in a commencement speech at Stanford University in 2005.

Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice.

Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don’t settle.

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The famous look of Steve Jobs
What made Steve Jobs unique
5 industries Jobs helped change forever
[Video] The Crazy Ones
[Video] One more thing