It don't mean a thing...

Winton, Day 1

Planes shouldn’t fly in the morning. Moreover, planes shouldn’t fly in the morning when we don’t need to be at our destination until the next day. Welcome to regional touring. Our first flight took us from Brisbane to Townsville, and the connecting flight took us from there to our final destination.



There’s only one flight to Winton, and it leaves at 11.30am, wether you’re there or not. They might wait a little bit though, as this particular plane seats only 19, and about one bag per person. You know you’re in for trouble when the copilot starts the safety brieding, and has to pause three times to remember not only what rows the exits are in, but the names of certain parts of the plane. I bit my lip, tried to put thoughts of Buddy Holly out of my mind, and we soldiered on to Winton, via Longreach, because of certain weight restrictions at Winton.

When we arrived at the Sulphur farm (as I’m taking to calling it), we were greeted by the locals, flies that is. Also, there was a bus and ute to get our gear and deliver us to the motel. Greeting the arrival of an air conditioned room, we rested, watching the local TV station.

Of particular interest was Oprah, who must have been having a ‘shit I’m glad this didn’t happen to me’ episode. This basically involved interviewing women who’d been stabbed in the heart, and gone skydiving without a parachute…accidentally of course. One woman was literally crying on stage because she hadn’t heard the recorded 911 call of herself screaming about her stabbed heart. Great entertainment, that Oprah, although I doubt the housewives at home were impressed by the smile of the woman who went into the pavement at 50mph, sans parachute. Her toothless, bloodied face was certainly offputting.

Speaking of toothless, I love outback towns. The people are friendly, the food is great, and the beer is cold. The downsides, of course, are the stupid amount of flies, the distinct lack of internet, or in Wintons case, even mobile phone coverage, and so far this trip, the lack of any lady that is both on the better side of attractive, and that doesn’t think ‘city boys with long hair’ are better than their rugged outback cousins.

Ah well, it’s not like we’re back in Melbourne, and I’m getting lapdances from underage movie stars and her friends.

Anyway, the local pub is having a barbeque, and there’s nothing like sinking a couple of pints at an Aussie pub, seriously, to the yanks that read this, try it sometime. Not those pubs in the city, but your true outback Aussie pub, with $1 pool, and Cold Chisel on the jukebox.

Just don’t wear the band shirt of a death metal band you know…