I'm back again to fill you in on a few more moans and groans before we can move onto more positive things.

Now, traveling is certainly not an unpopular activity amongst the pre and post university youth of today. In fact, I would like to assume that a large percentage of 'kids' leave the British shores for great lengths of time, partake in a number of 'unique' activities and return as shore footed young adults. In order to seem edgy and interesting, many of these people stress that they are bound by nothing and float around the world wherever the wind may take them. This annoys me. Unless I am alone in the following points, can someone please explain why, in an effort to become unique and independent, everyone acts like social lemmings in everything they do. Everybody seems to do a bungy jump in New Zealand. I have never had a great desire to jump off of anything with rubber attached to me and would not have thought my stay here was any less fulfilling if no bungy companies existed. The next one that gets me is tattoo's. If people are so against the mainstream, why do they all flock to the tattoo parlors to have as near as makes no difference, the same tribal symbol stabbed into their lower (girls) / upper (guys) back? Apparently this is to remind them of them of their travels, in my opinion this is the same way a grotesque scar reminds you of a nasty accident. Can you read Thai? Or Maori? Or Japanese? No you can't. So, if I had my way, everyone who wishes to have one of these symbols ingrained in their skin would be marked with the word 'conformist' in one of the aforementioned languages, hopefully this would teach people to be a bit more sensible.

As I mentioned previously, this traveling malarkey is so popular with us Brits that we are all over the idea like a fat child to a Mars Bar. However, this brings with it a problem which is perfectly demonstrated by two delightful young ladies I met: Sarah and Nicky (I have to be nice, they might read this). Having dealt with the first round of the cliche traveller questions (those of you that don't know; How long are you here? Where else have you been? Where else are you going?), we moved onto the second stage (Where are you from and what do you do?). These questions become so rehearsed that only the addition of Cilla Black would assist in the staged atmosphere, so much so that I often find myself lying (no Lindsay, I didn't really spend a week in Alaska followed by a week in the Sahara just to see the difference). Anyway, it turns out that both these girls hail from the disappointingly close town of Hitchen. As if this wasn't bad enough, it later transpired that Nicky used to work with my (half) Cousin Justin in the swimming pool. And this is the problem. As lovely as it is to meet people that you can continue to see when you return home, I was hoping to make some friends slightly further afield than Hitchen (hello Sarah and Nicky), Milton Keynes (hello Laura), Manchester (hello Greg), Central London (hello Kate) and Sowf Lundun (awwrite Lee). Why can't I meet some vollyball players from Australia? Hello Jenna, Lee and Josie. Or a NFL Quarterback from California? S'up Carson. Ok, in these cases I have, but it's rare.

Anyway, back to Sarah and Nicky. As well as with a great deal of jealousy, I interested to learn that Nicky's profession is motor racing. She's a racing driver. Not fair I thought, but nevertheless it gave me an idea. Having completed my Shotover Canyon Swing (you can all amuse yourselves with my complete inability to compose myself as soon as I upload it), I decided to attempt to drive myself from Queenstown to Christchurch in a time quicker than that set by Nicky of 4 hours (it should take 6 apparently).

Well, I was hoping that I would be able to satisfy my typical male ego and tell you that I thrashed her time into oblivion. Sadly, despite my best efforts, the engineering masterpiece that was carefully selected for me by our 'friends' at the car hire centre just didn't have what it takes.

Preceding any upload of photo's of our road trip, I would like to just reconfirm that I am not gay. This may come to a shock to many New Zealander's who were slightly bemused to have been overtaken by a bright pink Toyota Yaris. Yep, thats correct, someone in the hire car center was obviously feeling very jovial when they allocated me what has now been named 'The Lilac Love Wagon'. In an attempt to avoid being seen, I managed to trundle along at quite a pace despite it appearing to have no engine at all, instead being powered only by gravity. And with its super smooth automatic gearbox, each gear change is like being punched in the back of the head.

The friends that decided to also take up the challenge were only slightly more fortunate to have been blessed with a disabled persons mobility vehicle (incidentally, they are not disabled). We opened the bonnet to find that someone had actually stolen the engine and replaced it with a hairdryer. The official name of this beast? A Toyota FunStuff (I'm not joking).

So, having failed our original challenge, we have headed North and now rest in a sleepy town called Kiakora. The original plan was to camp out in the cars, but after spending two nights in the back of the torture chamber that is the Yaris, I am now crippled with the sort of back pain reserved only for car crash victims and You've Been Framed Gymnasts. Tomorrow we will disembark the island in a new form of transport, a fishing boat. Having located a suitable vessel (there are 5 of us, the boat will comfortably sleep 10) we are hoping that our 5 hours of nautical experience will suffice. However, with 4 of these hours logged in a swan shaped pedalo, I don't hold out much hope.

So, at this point I will cast off, and report back when I have land ahoy (I could see this becoming tedious).