As I write this Morgan is, deservedly, shuddering in his bed nursing quite the hangover. We went on on of those organised bar crawl things last night, and had quite an entertaining evening. We also met possibly the most excellently named man ever, a massive 6'6 American firefighter called Vance. Vance! I mean if I was being pulled from a burning building, I'd be happy to let a guy calld Vance sling me over his shoulder and carry me away. But that's for another time. Anyway, the best part of the night was when Vomiting Beauty upstairs decided to take it upon himself to pull pne of the reps who was with us. A lovely lass, with a beer belly that would put gazza to shame. Good on you, Andy! I spent most of the night talking about football with a very jetlagged guy called Fred, which is of course exactly why I payed $40 to go on a bar crawl.

Right, well, Sydney. It's alright so far. Like any other big city, I suppose. Except for one thing, the ladies. They're everywhere! At least 50% of the poulation, if not more! And presumably there was a law passed at some point in the last few years banning ugly ladies from the streets of Sydney. It's a little disconcerting at first, when every other person looks like they should be modelling for vogue or something (Zoo, at least), but it's more pleasant that a stroll through the centre of Newcastle so what the hell.

The rest of today promises to be terribly exciting, as I'm filing for a tax number and getting my visa stamped! What a life, eh? I'm now off to go and make loud noises and eat extremely smelly food near Andrew.

Good Day!