A weekly ode to the joys of moaning about your holiday.
A month ago I was camping in the deepest depths of the Aussie Outback on the edge of Queensland's Simpson Desert. Roughly 1500km from Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne, this really was the middle of nowhere. Nowhere, yes, climatically brutal, yes, but still with not inconsiderable charm. Some of it — the wind patterns in the dunes, the starkness of the limited plant life — was actually extremely pretty and as such, a grand setting for the world's most remote music festival, the Big Red Bash.
John Farnham was this year's headline act, and I accepted an invitation to cover the event. With 9000 others, I made my way through the Outback to the temporary town of Bashville, where sand-dunes as tall as 40m provided the perfect backdrop for The Voice.
But though 69-year-old Farnham may have hit all the high notes in the Aussie desert, my phone did not: each morning, I awoke with the battery completely flat.
Aided (for the first time in years) by a good old-fashioned non-phone torch, I stumbled into the media tent in my thermals, track-pants, beanie, gloves and three jackets to recharge my phone. It was 5am and my Aussie mate in New Zealand hadn't been lying when he'd warned me of surprisingly icy desert nights. Too cold to return to my tent, I huddled next to a fire with a portly security guard named Neil. Like a lot of the characters I met in the Outback, Neil seemed to begin conversations as if he was already midway through a story.
"Do you mind if I join you by the fire?" I asked.