Oh Errol

Shameless plug time.

Possibly my favourite discovery* of the last 12 months on the interwebz has been the hilarious combination of humour and rugby league (which was previously an oxymoron save for Matt Johns or the beady eyes of his brother bundling out of the cubicles at The Church) of the girls who write for http://www.oherrol.com/ - In a creepy mod-penpal sorta way, I contacted them to tell them how great I thought they were and asked them if they'd plug the trip. This then got put to one side as they have since scored gigs at MMM, 2DAY, and Cricket Australia. However now, 2 weeks out from departure, our fair trip is hitting the Internet in a 3-way domination of print, tele, and internet in Oz.

If you haven't been on to their site, I'd highly recommend it, even... or more appropriately ESPECIALLY... if you're not a sports fan. I've always bemoaned that as a nation we take our sports just a teensy bit too seriously, and save for Roy and HG there has been a massive lack of exposure of the fun side of sport. I'm sure Glen, who recently so kindly referred to me as a blog-hog, will appreciate the constant displays from hotaussiefootyplayersshirtless.com.au - did you see what I did there? I made a gay joke. Because Guys don't normally like other guys... y'see? And what I did was.... oh forget it. I'm sure you'll all giggle on Saturday when Wes predictably says 'and here's a pink shirt for Toovey'.

I've digressed; in short, go to their site(s). All of hilarious, intelligent, and fun rolled into one, with a name that takes it's cue from the seminal Australian Crawl song of the same name... which is enough to make me dance in my pants on it's own.

*All actual credit must go to Blake Solly for finding this. But he's too busy suspending miners-sons with no teeth or reluctantly approving alleged d*******-v******-p******* Gr** f****** B**d's contract to be able to read these anymore so I probably could have gotten away with it.

A word from my Mother

I recently read the Steve Waugh autobiography and found the chapter written by his wife to be intriguing. This is what inspired me to ask my mother, whom those who have seen the news report will know has had some fairly strong opinions on the trip, to jot down her thoughts on what we are trying to achieve. Here they are:

Now that I’m a five minute Australian television celebrity I thought that I would really extend myself and add a note to Nick’s Blog. When first hearing of the Mt. Everest base camp journey I felt, as I’m sure most parents involved did, that this was an unsafe thing to do, while at the same time asking myself “why”? I now see that with the planning, training, research and organising that has been done over many months in preparation for this trek by all involved that they have given themselves every chance of achieving their goals. While each person has a personal reason for attempting this climb, I feel that the goal to raise a substantial amount of money which will be donated to the people of Nepal is by far goal number one. Will I as a parent be glad when this trek is over? Yes I will.
I would like to wish everyone involved in attempting this climb good luck and good health and a safe return to home base.
Margaret Toovey.

Cornwall

The Friday after the send-off party dawned far too early, far too bright, and far too drunk for a day at work followed by a 5 hour trip to Cornwall. In order to ease the pain, some lunchtime pints were consumed, which only served to delay me at work, henceforth delaying the car leaving, in turn making people furious at me.

Vics Nicholson had kindly organised a weekend to test out equipment, and do some heavy exercise at the Estate of her friend Claire's parents. None of this really dawned on me until I got actually got there. We were staying inside the grounds of a 10,000 acre estate in Cornwall, a place called Bocconoc House, an amazing 18th-century stately home. The fields have been the scenes of several films (including The Three Musketeers), and included a deer park, a cricket field, a huge lake, a church, a graveyard, and facilities for plenty of guests. It was once the home of William Pitt (the younger). His second stint as Prime Minister was during the Battle of Trafalgar, and can claim Pitt St in Sydney as being named after him. He bequeathed the estate to The Fortescue's , whom have kept in the family ever since.

I'm glad I didn't know any of this information prior to arriving, or else I may have made a nasty pre-judgement. And if this had of happened, anything other than 'lovely, accommodating, and down-to-earth' would've been far form the truth. The Fortescue's blew us all away with their generosity and laid-back attitude to having 12 complete strangers in their 20's stay at their estate free of charge. All weekend we were treated embarrassingly well, and you could see all of us desperately trying to repay the favour by conducting menial tasks such as washing-up or rubbish-removal.

Despite Vic's directions, we actually managed to find the house circa 1am Saturday morning. Mindful of a massive hangover and an early start for a pre-breakfast jog, I was keen to get to bed. And that's exactly what I did, 5 hours later. Swept up in the excitement of it all, we conveniently forgot our exercise commitments and committed to drinking red wine in the massive dining quarters... which was handy as it washed away the odd combination of sausage and mars bar. In my tired state, I lumped a large ladle (Alliteration!) of what appeared to be gravy over my sausage, mash, and peas. Turns out it was the chocolate sauce being prepared to go over the ice-cream dessert.

10am and I thought my luck had changed when I awoke to Vics making demands of me in my bed. Turns out the demands were actually just to get up and go for a run. Thinking everybody was in on this, I dusted myself off and gingerly emerged to the meeting point. But only 5 of us made it out of bed. 45 minutes worth of trotting later and I was virtually on the cusp of ending it all. Luckily a crockpot full of porridge and serving dish full of bacon baps eased the pain. Following this we awoke the living-dead before following Vics, in her new guise as Colleen McRae, on a fraught drive through the backlanes of Cornwall to find the beach.

The Beach. In March. In England. All the hardy soles stepped off for a swim. I followed in slowly, but after going numb from being in only knee deep in the 5 degree water, I refused to go any further. Jules then threatened to throw me in, so taking the dignified option, I jumped in, squealed like a girl, and ran back out again before my body had the time to completely shutdown in hypothermic shock. Later on in the afternoon, Vics finally dropped her pants in front of me. I must say I’ve been surprised it took this long.

After this I needed a sleep, and a good deep one at that. Thankfully, the boys put the Rugby on, and no sooner had I seen 15 grown man jumping on each other for no conceivable reason had I nodded off. Refreshed, we were all served a roast dinner that could only be described as magnificent, with Wes taking the opportunity to thank our hosts... taking the time to point out that yet again this trip is throwing up experiences I would never otherwise have had.... and Mr Fortescue was very kind in his praising of our endeavour.

Again, another relaxing night of casual boozing followed. The sight of 12, mostly privately-educated white kids, stuffed on roast pheasant. wearing tweed caps raided from Mr Fortescue's vastly impressive collection, smoking cigars and drinking Port under the watchful eye of a portrait of one of England’s most revered Prime Ministers, tunefully singing along to 'In The Ghetto', was probably the most inappropriate, yet hilarious, experiences of my life. The jaunt provided an excellent opportunity to get to know our photographer from the telegraph, Will Wintercross. Will was massively entertaining and his remorseless attempts to impress the girls on Friday night, coupled with his 'picking off the natives' comments are memories that will stick with me for a long time. Not to mention my all-round Man of the Match for the weekend, Jules Staveley. Jules, for one reason or another, has been a guy that I haven't managed to get to know too well over the course of the last 12 months, so it was great to get to know him a little better and hear some of his renowned banter and penchant for hats, dogs, and the elderly.

3 consecutive days of heavy boozing (we are just ruddy bloody lads, us lot! Always boozing. Mental!) rendered most of the planned exercise redundant, however a weekend of RnR was very much welcomed from a group of people who have collectively worked their arses off in recent months. It was great to even see Wes let his perfectly-groomed-hair down. Not all was wasted though, as Vics managed to organise some press coverage. How the team shot in front of a stately home will go down with the public whom we are asking for donations from remains to be seen. What also remains to be seen is what names get printed in the paper. Vics, in incredibly neat handwriting, handed a list with our names. This conversation followed:

Photographer: Ok I'll read them. Ben German
Vics: No, Jarman
Photographer: Oh ok, Glen Lewis
Vics: No, Lowis
Photographer: Oh ok, Nicholas Too. tooo
Vics: Toovey
Photographer: Fine. Ted Williams
Vics: No, Joe Williams
Photogrpaher: Oh I see. Very well I'll put that up on the website shortly.

As he didn't take a note of the changes, the names given too us will be massively interesting.

Sent Off

Sending Off and cricket are usually only mentioned in the same light when something ugly occurs after a wicket. Usually involving somebody in a baggy green cap. Also usually containing several references to the promiscuity of the other player’s mother. And usually involving Shane Warne.

Thursday night, however, changed all this. And whilst some may argue that there was a fair amount of ugliness towards the backend of the evening (and I'd like to take the chance to apologise to Cuzza for forcing him into doing a shot that resulted in an impressively controlled regurgitation), an otherwise impressive event was put on @ 24:London in Soho.

Whilst probably having the least representation form my friends group there (particularly grating after snaring the top spot at the Launch party), I must give credit to the performance of my mate Mick and his girlfriend, whom had only flown from Oz fairly recently, and who didn't baulk at the charge of £5 per beer. Nor did he get annoyed by the Barstaff completely misunderstanding the meaning of 'discretionary'. Pr1cks. Also putting in a fine performance for the evening was my friend Vanessa, who kept us all guessing by oscillating through 4 or 5 different moods throughout the evening. The part where she lost her handbag briefly was my definitely my favourite. Definitely no tears, nor barging through the crowd in a huff.

Helpful Hint: Don't eat dough balls smeared in garlic butter 20 minutes before going out

Prior to the night I was jumping out of my skin, and the good times didn't let me down. I would only hazard a guess in saying that Living On A Prayer, amongst many other cock-rock classics, have never been played in such a venue prior to last Thursday night. Brushing aside my fury that none of the tracks I suggested (Time to Pretend and Let Me Clear My Throat) got played, I made an executive and drink-fuelled decision that, since the soundtrack to my uni days was being belted out, I may as well dust-off the Jackabonie.

Jackabonie: (noun/adjective) An act of a forceful extension of the arm from the elbow, delivered with a weak wrist to illicit a snapping motion, performed in time with a massive drumbeat. Naturally at home during 80's rock. Always followed by collective gasps of 'oh that's awesome'

 

After wowing the crowds with several Floyd Mayweather-style combo's, I decided to let the mere mortals take the attention. Alex '£500' Rayner was particularly animated, played to the soundtrack of BJ roaring primitively at passing girls. Several incidents come to mind, including foolishly questioning the behaviour of Butler's dog to his wife Nicky, asking Van where she had left her handbag, standing next to Mike Preston, and (judging by several injuries the next morning) attempting some dance moves that may have been beyond my capabilities and/or Motor Neurone capacity.

Comedy and Comedic Dimensions

Wedged somewhere in between the cocktail party, the news report, the Dulwich Day, and some other miscellaneous training we managed to sneak in a small comedy night. So small in fact that we sold out the Comedy Club in Piccadilly, London's Premier Venue, and snared a line-up worthy entertaining the queen... or at the very least, a mid-level-ranking cousin of the Queen.

Beforehand, I had to race to the doctors for a general health check. Visiting a nurse in the UK is a frustrating experience to begin with, but when you're anxious to get back out the door in 5 minutes flat, challenges such as the passive aggressive indifference of receptionist really does manage to get on your tits. As if to rub salt into the wounds, I had my height and weight confirmed. 171.5 cms.

Me: How high is that then nurse?
Nurse: Errrr that's just over 5 foot 7.
Me: Sorry?
Nurse: 5 foot 7
Me: Are you sure? I've always said 5 foot 9

Wasting a further 5 minutes that I didn't have, we both checked the imperial measurement. The sad news is, I'm definitely 5 foot 7. That really is small. Next up was my weight. 79kg. Not bad I thought, considering I'm now in fairly decent shape. Which didn't really set me up well for the next comment 'according to the BMI, that puts you just under the Obese category' - Apparently my ideal weight is 67.5 kilo's. Who weighs this much? 12 kilo would be akin to losing a leg. Who devised the BMI? Bronte the anorexia-suffering regular on A Current Affair? Outraged, I questioned if Johnny Wilkinson, tipping the scales at approx 90kg, would be considered obese, bearing in mind his body fat totals around 6%. Apparently he would be. Ridiculous.

Now in a foul mood after being branded short and fat, and incredibly late, I needed the comedy to cheer me up. And so after checking the time at every single tube stop on the way in to town, an awesome night's entertainment unfolded. With my Jules (My Flatmate... before you ask who the female was) and I scoring awesome seats despite walking in late. Russell Howard was trying out some new, and very good, material. Jarred Christmas was as loud and foul-mouthed as ever... and had me in stitches with his microphone twirl after a bad pun. Benny Boot was awkwardly hilarious, maintaining a heroin-chic that I actually confused for him being smashed early in his set. Lloyd Langford was superb, and confirmed my theory that jokes are funnier when you tell them in a Welsh accent. Our very own Chris Martin came on to rapturous applause from his home crowd. I still managed to laugh despite having already seen the same material delivered in the same location wearing the same clothing on youtube. His mate Carl Donnelly was superb before Matt Grantham did his best Dave Hughes impression (except he was funny) before Jack Whitehall wrapped up the night that had people making comparisons to Russell Brand, the major difference being that Jack actually managed to throw in a couple of gags (several very funny ones) instead of relying on tight jeans, appearances in The Sun, and a wacky hairstyle that he dries from the back. The sooner Brand takes up smack again and overdoses the better.

I broke with a recent tradition and managed to sink some beers on a school night. 4 pints in total, with no food on board, rendered me absolutely legless by the end of the night. So drunk that I made the fatal mistake of visiting Perfect Fried Chicken @12:30am. It definitely is fried, but that's where the similarities between the food and the store-name finish. Of course, this dinner nor the late bedtime after watching an hours worth of women's cricket (enough to put any exictable male to sleep) came back to haunt me the next day on the half hour run followed by a nets session. Yet again I showed stunning form with the bat that had the locals discussing a possible contract with Surrey, such was my fierce striking of the ball.

Sacrifices

This trip has been full of sacrifices. Recently I've realised that I've been a pretty poor friend to alot of people I know for the last few months, contacting them only when I'm asking for donations, swept up in the excitement of the brilliance of the whole thing and the wonderment of meeting 50 or more excellent people. That neglect is generally easily repaired, particularly imbibed with fluent alcohol.

As this is now my 7th year of living away from home, I'm used to missing out on the occasional function, hence I'm fluent in the language of sacrifice. Birthday's swing by and Christmases come and go that, whilst not ideal, can be reasoned away with 'another one is only 12 months away'. In addition, It always seems strange to hear of stories of children in my direct family whom I've never met, along with finding it strange to know that cousins that I grew up with and regularly babysat don't recognise me anymore.

Whilst there is always time to rekindle those situations, there are events that can't be reenacted. For example, A couple of years back, one of my best mates announced a wedding a matter of minutes after I'd locked in a flight to leave the country 3 days before the said event a couple of years back, which caused alot of fraught issues and profuse, honest, yet strangely hollow apologies.

Another one of these came about last weekend, although this time it was slightly out of my control. There was finally a wedding in my family. A wedding that my brother Phil, in a state of neurosis that many of my colleagues on this trip would argue that I've also inherited, failed to tell me about in ample time. To be fair, he only had 2 weeks notice himself as he and his partner Nathan emulated their own version of Sex and The City and arranged the wedding of the century in 9 days flat... not nearly enough time for this intrepid traveller to make it New Zealand and back.

Phil and Nathan have already been a massive help to me on this trip, so having to miss their wedding has made me even more determined to make this a success. No doubt they both would have not made it this far down in the blog as it hasn't yet mentioned Kylie Minogue nor Patsy and Eddie, but Im sure they know I'm proud of them for taking the plunge and, if given more than 8 days notice in a furiously apologetic phone call 3 weeks before a massive world record attempt, I may have been able to make it.

Mum and Me on Channel 3

Throughout my formative years, one thing that will always stick with me is my Father responding to Ray Dineen, the veneerable regional newsreader, each evening with a fond farewell as he wrapped up the days headlines. 'Gooooonight Ray' came the response to Mr Dineens 'from all of us at NBN News, have a good night'. Dad's response was as predictable, and by no means less-regular, then his next request for his youngest son... a chubby smart-alec... to fetch him a post-news cup of tea... even in 40 degree weather. He is a man of habit.

Disappointingly then, the following report on his grown-up youngest son, went out on one of the few days my Father has been out of Australia in his 65 years... click HERE FOR THE REPORT

My good mate Adam has since become a reporter of note on said Regional channel, and after some logistics that General Patten would have dipped his lid too, he managed to get a report together about our fair trip, with Miles doing a commendable job interviewing myself and Kirt before Adam interviewed my mother. Mum, to her eternal credit, agreed to conduct the interview despite originally saying no and clearly bricking it beforehand, carrying out the interview with aplomb. Further to this, Adam couldn't make the actual interview, and Mum had to pretend that Dad was Adam whilst she answered questions being asked from the speaker function of a mobile phone. Dad, doing a bang-up job as a fill-in sound man for his favourite news programme, thankfully took to his stand-in roll with great maturity and never did it cross his mind to smirk, nor pull faces whilst Mum spoke.

After viewing the footage, I think you'd agree that Mum absolutely stole the show. What I would like to address is the following.... 

a) I, 100% hand on my heart, cannot hear the apparent english accent that everybody claims I have. You'll just have to trust me on that one.

b) Yes, I'm aware that my head bobbles around like a combination of Rob Sitch doing an impression of Gareth Evans, a jackinabox, and a fired up Peter Garrett when I talk.

c) talking of drastic head movement whilst speaking, my friend Suki remarked that she would have picked a better outfit if she was going to be on tele. This was sprung on me at the last minute, and it was after work. And I wear terrible clothes to work. The shirts were 2 for £30.

d) I look tired because I was tired. Simples.

This report ended up going out on all of Sky News. Mum and Dad were actually out of the country when it went to air. Mum thought this would spare her blushes... little did she know that Sky News picked up the report and played it every half hour on the following day. Something she was not expecting after getting in from New Zealand....

Cocktails and tales of a cock

I never ever thought I'd have a cocktail party thrown in my honour. Except of course, a party thrown by the family and friends of the appellant after a favourable decision ruling me not eligible for parole for a minimum of 15 years (with good behaviour).

In a display of how my involvement of this trek can make people forget how much of an annoying prick I really am, an old friend from university (whom I'd seen once in 10 years) along with her flatmates very kindly put on a cocktail party to raise funds for the trek. Blown away, I donned the 'clothes that I save for good' and headed for their abode in West London.

Awaiting me were a series of wading pools full of pre-mixed cocktails. ... dwarfing the 3 Budvar's that i'd bought along and intended on supping throughout the course of the 4 hours before my final train left... and a projector to display my hugely impressive picture display upon. Despite some feeble protestations about 'a jog and a cricket net' I had to do the next day, I was forcefed pina-colada, a champagne-type-cocktail, and some other concoction that looked a little bit liquified strawberry rollup - 2 hours later and it was suggested I take down a pint of a clear substance that they termed 'water' before giving a rundown of the pictures Id chosen to project on to the wall. Luckily enough, they were all of me, and funnily enough being obnoxiously drunk massively increases my ability to talk about myself.

After my informative lecture that involved me enthrallingly fumbling around a bit with google earth, we all sort of passed-out a bit. Luckily enough I definitely didn't wake up with a throbbing head, and definitely not still in my 'good clothes', on Cath's couch at about 6am. Thankfully, I hadn't drunk that much, and didn't desperately need a glass of water so much that I may have woken people up clattering into walls after losing my balance in a pathetic attempt to get to the kitchen sink. Because that would have just been embarrassing.

3 hours later and I was picked up in Butlers toy-car for a trip to Dulwich. My comment of 'I really don't want to do this today' was met with a typical response.... 'Don't spill that shit in my car you grubby Aussie c**t'. The Lucozade provided a warm security blanket as we weaved our way through South London.

Driving down a slope that I've only ever previously experienced on Space Mountain, we managed to arrive, stone dead last, to the modest castle that the Preston's call home. Averting from the 'jog and a net' theory that I'd thought the day would be, the day was actually setup as 'run 2 mile with rucksacks full of cricket kit to an indoor net at Dulwich college where we'll play another game of Breathless Cricket'.... Only half-joking, I asked if anybody wanted to drive the cricket kit the entire journey. A bit more seriously, I asked again as we gathered ourselves in the front room. Pretty-much not joking anymore, I suggested it wasn't too late for everybody to pull out of the 'jogging with rucksacks on' whilst we posed for a photo out the front. As we gathered on the stairs, I looked up... right up.... the hill to our right and remarked 'Mike, I hope it's left out of the front gate'. In his inimitable 'Mike possibly the nicest bloke in the world Preston' way, he replied 'ahhhh sorry Tooves, ut's right it the gate aye bro' (kiwi stereotype may be exaggerated). In a final desperate plea, I refused to carry a rucksack... in the hope that the workers united would never be defeated. Unfortunately the lads were about as loyal as that defector in Billy Elliot (ya know, that scene where they throw rocks at the bus carrying in the rebel workers). We were running. With rucksacks on. Up a hill steeper than a bill for a mobile-phone-based internet function that's been accidentally activated on an overseas trip.

After stopping only thrice to catch my breath and to prevent my calves from exploding, the run flattened out, and the fermented coconut milk topped-out at the opening of my oesophagus. Following this, I was fine all afternoon. I definitely didn't mutter repeatedly under my breath as we were subjected to 40 metre sprints after each and every delivery in the nets, and especially not in reaction to helpful comments like 'faster' and 'c'mon boys hurry it up'. Once I stopped picturing the horrifically graphic deaths of my teammates, I began to actually enjoy the session and even managed to push Blinky all the way in the sprints. Something that I've been quietly proud of. Quiet until now Blinky you one-paced draught-horse.

Thankfully my batting was somewhat superb and faultless in technique, application, and concentration, avoiding the need to completely regret not wearing a thigh-pad. Even if I did get hit in the thigh, I would have dealt with it in an adult and mature way and by no-means would I have sworn, pretended it didn't hurt, and then told Butler to take his smirking fat face out of the f*cking nets before I wrapped the bat around his f*cking head.

Bruised and sore, I took my dehydrated and cramping body on the walk back to Mike's. I needed comfort and plenty of it. Delighted to find a bathroom that was bigger than my flat, I parked myself under the sub-zero shower head and danced around like Michael Jackson on hot coals as the icicles pinged into my shoulders. The Partners-Preston made up for this by slaughtering 4 or 5 cows, pigs, a flock of Kinsey's chickens, and (somehow) 2 dodo's for the Tenzing feast and served them up for our enjoyment. Rotund and raring to go, we went about a team meeting that uncovered a fair deal of passion for the trek, the trip, and for gameday. We even managed to go further in depth about the opposition than my initial suggestion of holding up flash-cards of each of Team Hillary's faces and shouting out the word 'Homo' for each picture.

The week had begun

Following in the steps of Australia's own Sir Edmund Hillary

      

It would be fair to say my interest in mountain climbing was piqued in my formative university days. I made friends with a man who told me a tale. A tale of goals. A tale of hardship. A tale of pushing your body to the limits in adverse conditions. A tale of commitmment to a cause and seeing your ambition become a reailty. A tale of climbing. But unfortunately for our protaganist, a tale of eventual disappointment.

The story begins with our hero enjoying an evening at the onsite university public house. Casually nursing his discounted bundaberg rum with coke, he was perusing the available females with the following cirterion; a) are they attractive? and b) have I massively annoyed them on a previous outing to this club? Generally this would rule out (roughly) 90-95% of the population of the USQ club in Toowoomba. For our hero was not only the quickest draw in the west, but also even quicker about forgetting about his recent kill. Whilst many females dreamt of marriage with our lothario, he took the chance to sneak out before Tony Mackenize had the chance to beat the living sh1t out of him.

Despite the odds stacked against him, quick-draw mcgraw spotted his next target. Things went well. One thing lead. To another. It seemed the familiar story would pan out. Until the femme fatale produced a rabbit from atop her cranium-wear. 'Shall we climb a peak? It will be the most amazing of climaxes should we reach the top'

Taking this as a verbal contract, our hero agreed. And up the mountain they climbed. One by one the steps were produced. Our hero, not made out for sports, began to tire early-on. The promise of milk and honey however, was enough for our crusader to channel the spirit of Sir Ed and Tenzing Norgay on that fateful 1953 day, and carry on to the summit. Groans were heard, falls were plentiful, but the oppotunity of releasing this pent up aggression once atop carried our intrepid trekker to the top of the peak.

What followed is a travesty of human relationships. 'I hath completed your task, m'lady' came the man. 'So you have' was the softly spoken reply. ''tis time for my reward, is it not?' - 'but the reward is all around you, look at this view and the enchanting sunset.... my fair man, I have shown you the greatest beauty of all. 'No chance at all then?' came the response above the faint sounds of a zipper being redone....

And in one cruel, confidence-shattering shake of the head, our hero realised he had been, as they say, 'had'. With this, our hero let out an audible swear, before retreating to his home.

From this day, the sense of adventure has been passed on. My appetite whetted for a climb with the promise of glory at the end. Let us pray that mine ends up in better shape.