Blogguest: dahlsport

Writing this in the comfort of Meeaark's new lounge near the harbour in Balmain, with a shoddy view in the background. I've been greeted with this visual abomination every morning bathed in unsubtle orange colours and a rather ordinary pink cloudy phenomenon. At night there's quite a bit of light pollution as you can see, and a sodding moon.

So I haven't enjoyed my time here at all.

You can sum up my week here with Mark - a confused but generous host - with a single word: sport. The Australians are madforit and build quaking cathedrals in its honour - in quick succession I've been to the MCG, the Sydney Olympic Stadium, and the Leichhardt Oval. The first grand arena saw the downtrodden Melbourne Demons take on Collingwood in Aussie NoRules, while the Olympic Stadium hosted the sickly named Qantas Wallabies (aka the Australia Rugby Union side) v. England; there was only one point in these two games, the first drawn agonisingly 76-76, the second an astonishing England 21-20 win. The Leichhhart Oval saw a different class of punter, with quite a few mullets and stubbies witnessing a drearily insipid West Tigers v. Canberra Raiders Rugby League encounter. Of course Kit, Mark and I, decked out in orange and black, perching on a hill with (for the shorter among us) a less than perfect view, decided we had better things to do, and before the final whistle abandoned the match for a pretty bay walk. As we walked down to the waterfront we heard from outside the ground a series of raucous cheers greeting two home tries, two conversions, a big hit, and mayem at the final whistle. The turnaround win for our team left us much the gloomiest Tigers fans in Sydney.

If that weren't enough we spent most of the nights near a telly watching any World Cup game that would have us, monitoring the brutal State of Origin series where bouts of rugby pretty much failed to break out amidst the fighting, or lamenting the Socceroos limping progress. Mark and I spent Saturday morning at his school watching his brave U16Bs get outclassed by a rival posh school side amidst the sporting bonanza that is the school's commemoration day. The sporting religion cultivated everywhere here is intoxicating but dangerous. They go in hard these Aussies, on hard ground, and medics are posted permanently at all fixtures. Mark's colleague Dylan noted that rather as for rats, we were never more than ten metres away from a kid in crutches.

Not that sport entirely drowned out all other culture. We also (of course) tried the schooners of several pubs, which really get to your thirst, fast; an ethical talk by Peter Singer; met with the lovely Sian and the lovely Antoinette to consider old and new times; and tasted a dhal curry so dense the chef was evidently cooking with dark matter. I smelt the gum trees, and observed in the New South Wales Gallery how long it took arriving artists to rid themselves of European tree conventions and draw their branches convincingly. But nevermind this eternal pettifogging, how is Mark?, I hear you cry, our author and magus of this blog.

Well you know he's not bad. Not bad at all. Despite the odd hiccup involving the job or (inevitably) girls, I think he's doing more than pretty well. And Sydney is just ridiculous; on the shortest day of the year it remains pleasantly warm and breezy, with just a touch of coolness to the evening, and the harbour's green-blue sparkling away. Mark says that Sydney is the classic eighteen-year-old blonde, lying there effortlessly and alluringly in a swimsuit; Melbourne is an older woman, a brunette of say 35, not as immediately appealing, but wordlier, with more sophistication and culture, and, it may be, worth the effort. Well Mark and the blonde are getting it on just fine. I think they might move in together. The superficial bastard. It pains me acutely to say it, but (whisper it), yes, I'm almost jealous. Really? Ye gods. I'd advise you to come and visit but then England might start echoing with those forlorn Kaltenberg cries: 'I wanna be Mark Case'. And no one wants to hear that.

Keep the body position low, he said. Good luck with everything, I said. We embraced. We wept. We parted. I had a lot to get off my chest.