Although Europe had been milder and dryer than we'd anticipated, the flurries of snow, and the short winter days, meant it could only be Christmas time. The markets, the Christmas windows, the temporary ice skating rinks and the myriad of decorations obviously gave the game away too.

Back in Melbourne with the sun beating down (in between a lot of rain) it didn't feel much like Christmas.

Not being much of a fan of the 'holiday season', other than the time off, this incongruous situation suits me fine.

Full marks to the locals for the likes of the Myer Christmas window but frankly the strains of 'Santa Claus is Coming to Town' just don't fit.

We spent a quiet couple of weeks in the run-up to Christmas, punctuated only by the arrival of a Dutch house guest. After meeting him in Penang, like you do, we had extended the offer of our spare room when he got to Australia.

It was great to see him. One day I got home from work to hear the words 'I've done your ironing and there's beer in the fridge', which has upped the ante for all future house guests.

He also saw the funny side of my frankly appalling Martin Jol impression and patiently coached me in an attempt to improve it. He was wasting his time but full marks for trying.

We spent Christmas with the in-Laws in Macedon who were their normal lovely selves. Back home in Melbourne, we ventured out early on New Years Eve to the recently opened Temple Brewing getting home well before midnight to avoid any hint of festivities.

After all, you can't be too careful.

Whilst the Missus has always loved Paris I have, at best, remained ambivalent.

I do my best with our Gallic chums and always use my faltering French rather than barking loudly in English.I like France and have had many a nice trip to Lille and Caen among other places.It's just me and Paris don't get on.

Things started well enough; straight off the Eurostar and off to Chez Casimir for lunch. I kicked off with an unlikely, but really tasty, salad of sardines, avocado and quinoa, before a hearty pot de feu (or beef stew to the uninitiated, which included me until the Missus translated for me).

I kicked myself for stopping there because when the Missus ordered in a cheese plate out came the biggest range of the old fromage you ever did see, accompanied by a knife and the offer to cut as much as you wanted.

So I was just beginning to warm to the city when it all started to go downhill.

We went out for an afternoon stroll, heading down from Gare Du Nord to the banks of the Seine and then back up in a big loop to grab our cases from left luggage and head off to Gare de l'Est.

Everywhere I looked there were despondant faces. The queues at the job centres, the guys with their sacktrucks waiting to cart deliveries around, hell, even the matronly prostitutes looked down-in-the-mouth.

Although it was hardly a scientific assessment, even the Missus conceded that it all looked a bit grim.

After one slight hiccup, Germany was great. I passed on a tired looking sandwich at Gare de l'Est safe in the knowledge that the Germans never ever do an overnight train without food and beer. Except of course on this particular night.

I had to break out an emergency chocolate ration to keep me going to Munich. I'd like to pretend I always travel with supplies but in fact this had been a gift from friends in Brighton.

Our Munich hotel was, ahem, very efficient, and before long our bags were stowed ahead of check in and we were out and about.

They do a good Christmas market in Bavaria. Not the shitty ersatz ones which clutter up London. These were the real deal. Beer, sausages, gluhwein and the world's supply of fancy presents.

The markets spring up on every available bit of space. There was even one between the two terminal buildings at the airport.

After the UK I was a bit beered out, but it would have been crazy not to work my way through that. Highlights were a great meal and stunning Kellerbier at the Gasthaus Georg Ludwig. Surrounded by the Missus' cousins and Aunt we had a fine old time, and they made us feel so very welcome.

The other highlight was at Andechser am Dom. Those Benedictine Monks have always brewed great beer out in the countryside. Now they've made it dead easy to track it down by adding a city centre branch.

It's almost enough to make me religious. Almost.

So after a couple of days it was back to the airport.

I'd had an amazing time, but frankly I needed to get home for a rest.

Such is his prowess as a method actor, Robert De Niro reportedly gained 60 pounds before staring as Jake LaMotta in Raging Bull.

Inspired by this, I've spent the last three weeks as something of a method eater, after laying down some fantastic early training in Scotland.

Maybe the acting part will follow in due course.

In my defence my eating and drinking has revolved around meeting up with a myriad of friends. Slipping in a nugget of rare sincerity I'd like to go on record as saying it's been fantastic catching up with everyone.

But enough of that. Let's talk more about me.

My top holiday hostelry award goes narrowly to the Southampton Arms in London NW5.  The delightfully misanthropic website belies the warm welcome in what is essentially an old school boozer.

Many pub companies spend thousands of pounds on 'olde worlde' charm, hanging up horse brasses, farming implements, fake old maps and a million other bits of old shit in an attempt to generate atmosphere.

This place just keeps it simple, stripping back to what look like largely original fittings, including a great old set of tiles behind the bar, slipping on some old lps and concentrates on its mantra of 'Ale, Cider, Meat'.

It's an all microbrewery affair, mopped up with scotch eggs, pork pies and meat sandwiches.

An absolute gem.

Scotch eggs and pork pies are also a staple at my other new favourite pub, the Craft Beer Company in Clerkenwell.

From (hazy) memory they boast 16 cask ales, 31 keg beers and a range of over 300 bottled beers. In short, they have a house brew by Mikkeller. Enough said.

Should you, like me, normally get a nosebleed if you spend too long too far north of the river more of the same is available at sister pub Cask in Pimlico. http://www.caskpubandkitchen.com/.>

My first truly English moment came when supping on a pint of Otter Ale at the Battle of Trafalgar  in Brighton ahead of watching the Seagulls play Coventry. As the malt taste swished around my mouth and was chased out by a hoppy finish I could only be in England in the middle of a pre-match pint.

In the biggest bombshell of the trip, Tayyabs has been relegated to number two in my list of favourite curry hangouts. There's a new kid in town and it's name is Needoo where, and I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't tasted it myself, the mixed grill is better than Tayyabs.

Throw in a lack of queuing, a very robust dry meat curry and a tasty supporting cast of chicken and chick pea curry and you have my official new favourite.

In the spirit of research I ate curry across the country from Brighton to Leicester. Of many I could mention my other tip is Dishoom in London's St Martin's Lane. Billed as London's first Bombay-style cafe it could be horribly cheesy.

Instead it offers up delights such as a black dhal, finished with tomato, cream and garam masala, and a great bhel puri. It's all done with a bit of panache without breaking the bank.

The Missus and I had wanted to try St John Bread and Wine when we lived in London but never got around to it, which makes us sound way busier and way more important than we actually are.

Anyway, we put things right on this trip and were left kicking ourselves for not going there when we had the chance to do so regularly.

I opted for (and if you're my doctor look away now) a rich smoked mackerel pate served with thick buttered toast and a wonderfully sweet/sour pickled red cabbage to start, followed by some unbelievably rich pork cheek balanced out with some crisp bitter chicory and mustard salad as a main.

Simply to guild the lily I grabbed an apple and Calvados trifle for dessert. This presented me with the ultra tiresome task of tunnelling in through about an inch of cream to uncover the prize of brandy-soaked sponge and chunky fruit.

Outrageously good.

Naturally Theydon's life as not been all beer and skittles, particularly given that I luxuriate in picking holes in life.

For instance I swung by the Rake on a Saturday afternoon and felt like I'd wandered on to the set of a Conservative party political broadcast. There was more braying than a donkey sanctuary and a bunch of posh men doing lame drinking games.

Perhaps I caught it at a bad moment (Bullingdon Club annual outing maybe?); perhaps it's just the moment has gone.

I was delighted to see The Harp is enjoying mammoth crowds – I suspect due to it being named CAMRA pub of the year – but sadly it was just too busy for me.

No such problems at another of my former favourite watering holes the Captain Kidd where new management bent over backwards to give shoddy service which was compounded by my discovery that Alpine Lager is no more (but rumoured to be reincarnated as a 2.8% version very soon).

As you'll doubtless be aware I'm a bit of a train fan.

Not a 'take a picture of the locomotive and write the number down' train fan. Just someone who enjoys travelling by train.

It strikes the right balance between getting you places in a decent amount of time and being slow enough to watch the world go by and examine, and generally be appalled by, the human drama which unfolds.

This meant the Missus and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to try out the overnight Caledonian Sleeper from Edinburgh to London.

I won't be doing that again.

All the big ticket items were in place – there was a train, it left and arrived on time, we got the berth we ordered – but every part of the experience was shoddy and the customer service curt at best.

Heartbreakingly it could all be so different. But it isn't.

Other than that my only other gripe was shit busking. So shit it really wasn't busking at all. It was bad enough when the stretch of the South Bank around the London Eye was cluttered with people painted silver doing their best to remain motionless for all of 30 seconds and pass themselves off as statues.

Now it appears that an 'act' can consist of squeezing into a fucking Smurf costume and holding your hand out for cash.

Anyway, my train has exited the tunnel and I'm now in France, so I'm sure there will be something else along to annoy me in a minute.

It's been great seeing my Mum. She's a little more frail than when I saw her last but I delight in the way any of her stories get sidetracked into a second and third anecdote or observation. These give our conversations the air of a Ronnie Corbett anecdote, only with a West Country accent thrown in.

Other than that, travelling to my hometown of Andover has very little to recommend it.

The town is something of a bellwether for the country as a whole - a once unassuming market town kicked around by various national and local political decisions until it resembles a battered and bruised version of it's former self.

It's demise seems to have coincided with my lifetime. I hope this is merely coincidental.

It was transformed from a sleepy market town in the Sixties when it became what is delightfully termed an overspill town.

The idea was sound. Andover had room to expand and there were plenty of people living in Greater London in terrible conditions. Building new houses and factories in Andover gave them somewhere far nicer to live, and put some much-needed economic energy into the place.

Unfortunately not only were the houses terribly built but they were positioned in huge estates which ringed the town, offered few local amenities and did not integrate, in any sense, with what had gone before.

Next up someone had the bright idea of revitalising the town centre. Cue the bulldozing of several streets in favour of large units with large rents. Somewhere along the line the majority ownership of the town centre fell into the hands of a large pension fund.

Then someone had the bright idea of embracing the out-of-town shopping centre.

The upshot? A dying town centre controlled by a company with no reason, or incentive, to look favourably upon reducing rents to revitalise it; and near gridlock on the town's ring road as people drive from various large estates to do their shopping.

Throw in successive economic downturns and you're left with an unholy mess and a town centre patronised only by the elderly and the infirm on their weekly subsidised taxi trip into town (bus services have been reduced) picking over diminishing amounts of tat.

But on the bright side, at least it's not Basingstoke. Or Rochdale.

In my previous travels via Dubai I've spent time contemplating why the Emirates flight to London is over-burdened by overweight sunburned Cockneys with a penchant for gold jewellery and XXL-sized sportswear. I never came up with an answer.

Imagine my surprise when the Dubai to Glasgow flight was over-burdened by overweight, sunburnt Scottish people with a penchant for gold jewellery, XXL-sized sportswear and a desire to drink the flight dry.

The missus is of the view that Dubai attracts 'those type of people'. Either that or there is an annual stereotype competition and I always share a flight home with the winning team.

Maybe I could have chatted to them about my recent curry and kebab fails and got myself a place on the subs bench.

So, other than watching a guy who purported to be in Her Majesty's armed forces get completely bladded and spill booze all over his new iPad and his baggy grey tracksuit the flight over was largely uneventful.

There was a delicious moment when we touched down in Glasgow and everyone did the mad scramble to get off the plane, only to discover we were disembarking from the back of the plane and walking across the tarmac.

By mid-afternoon we'd successfully navigated a bus and train to Edinburgh and were asleep in our hotel.

So why Edinburgh? Just over 10 years previously on my last visit to Scotland I was charged with the responsibility of giving away the bride at the wedding of two dear American friends. Thankfully I didn't fuck it up and was invited back to share in their tenth wedding anniversary trip. As an added bonus the bridegroom's brother, another close friend, and his new bride were on the trip too.

Obviously we did the decent thing and went to Brewdog Edinburgh and set about filling in the blanks since we'd last caught up in London two years ago.

I'm a big fan of Brewdog. Their publicity machine can stray too near to cheap and confrontational tactics sometimes but their heart is in the right place and they brew great beer.

As the Missus subsequently pointed out, the beer is served without reverence. Yes, they take it seriously, yes the staff know their stuff, but the atmosphere is relaxed and unassuming when it could so easily descend into craft beer wankerism.

I savoured the luxury of draught Punk IPA the limited edition Hops Kill Nazis and a third-pint of Tokyo while being reminded of the many times I'd been blatantly rude to my American friends, their customs and their accents. I'm not sure why they keep coming back for more, but I'm very glad they not only tolerate it but seem to find it strangely endearing.

Over the next couple of days we hit the tourist trail, checking out the Castle, Holyrood Palace and the statue of Greyfriars Bobby, but also fell in love with what is a charming, friendly city - albeit one with some entertaining rough edges.

My highlight was grabbing the bus to Leith. Our two-mile journey gave us a slice of life ranging from beautifully restored rows of what I suspect were once near-slums through to some hollow-cheeked patrons outside a pretty scary looking pub sucking the last vestige of smoke from their cigarettes. I think the area is what estate agents refer to as 'on the up'.

Attempts to jazz up the waterfront are a soulless failure, yet tucked away a short walk back towards the older part of town is The King's Wark, easily one of the finest places I've had the pleasure of eating.

The menu is unfussy and extremely reasonably priced. The menu is biased towards seafood – I had an amazing coley fillet served with chorizo mash and crayfish tails and harissa for under a tenner – but there are a smattering of good old pub favourites.

I rounded things off with a cheese board groaning under the weight of some amazing local produce and a slathering of rich quince paste.

The beer selection matched the quality of the food, with a great choice of local real ales. Acouple of pints of Harviestoun Bitter and Twisted topped things off nicely.

Speaking of beer, an honourable mention has to go to Tass in the heart of the old town. Nothing flash, just a fine example of how you can run an everyday pub with charm, great beer and a warm welcome.

Ultimately though the first leg of our trip was all about the company rather than the food or drink. Catching up with old friends after a long absence and picking up right where you left off is one of life's real pleasures.

Written down that doesn't sound humorous, but it kept me amused during a mundane trawl through various checks and cross checks.

Full marks to the immigration official for not pissing himself at the sight of my moustache, although he was sporting one himself that may, or alarmingly probably isn't, a Movember effort.

My effort is a kind of David Niven meets WW2 pilot and has lead to many shouts of 'Chocks Away!' from the Missus.

In between prepping for the holiday we've been exploring the wilds of Collingwood a little.

Full marks to Smith Street Cellars for a great range of craft beer to take away and to Josie Bones for a good selection to drink there.

We've snacked at the latter too and are building up for a full meal when we get back.

They specialise in offal and related dishes so I'll have to make sure I'm not literally confronted with a pile of bollocks.

In the more figurative sense it was bollocks all the way at the Tandoori Times one of our local Indian restaurant options.

Three dishes of nondescript sludge, and under spiced sludge at that, did not exactly say 'Welcome to the area'.

It may well be nothing more than a plot to stop me behaving like a cultural stereotype given that nearby Deccan Kebabs served me up one of the worst examples of grilled meat I've ever had the misfortune to have.

We're also enjoying the 'local colour' which consists of two groups of street drinkers - one Aboriginal and one, to coin local parlance, skip - who seem to have the spot outside our local Woolworths on some kind of rota system.

It seems to operate on a Monday/Wednesday/Friday versus Tuesday/Thursday with alternate weekends.

Both groups seem largely harmless, other than pushing themselves to a bad place on fortified wine.

All of which sounds grimmer than it is. We're settling in well enjoying our new place and looking forward to having friends round.

In the meantime we're looking forward to catching up with the Northern hemisphere.

Hopefully see you all soon.

I've decided that whilst it's enormous fun baiting protesters there's more that needs to be said.

I sat opposite an earnest young couple on the train on Friday who were talking very intently about the occupy Melbourne protests. The young man was critiquing the evils of advertising, pointing out that it was brainwashing, and that people deserved better.

I have no argument with that. I do have a problem when it comes, as it it did in this case, from a mouth just beneath a beanie emblazoned with a giant 'Quicksilver' logo.

One dickhead doesn't invalidate a whole protest movement, but I can't help but draw the conclusion that this is a movement devoid of a plan let alone a manifesto.

Across the globe ordinary people are paying the price for unfettered corporate greed. I stand with the protesters on that.

Sadly, the situation isn't new. My young friend might want to peruse No Logo, and his compadres take a whistlestop tour of the 1926 General Strike (or many other worldwide examples), The French Revolution, the Eureka Rebellion and so on.

It's high time something was done about this. Again, no argument from me there. Sadly though I'm seeing madness rather than method.

First of all, change is only going to come about with a broad groundswell of support. The tram drivers who's paths were blocked in Melbourne and the police who were asked to break up the protest and countless others are suffering from this global crisis too.

Irritating your potential supporters and giving the moral high ground to the likes of Robert Doyle isn't a smart first move.

I understand the adrenaline of protests. I narrowly avoided getting baton-charged in the London Poll Tax Riots of 1990. I've come to believe that there are smarter ways to achieve your aims. They just require a bit more work than staging a sit in.

I wonder how many of the Melbourne protesters have a bank account with one of the big four banks? If you don't like the way in which they have operated, then put your money in a community bank or credit union. There's some great stuff on co-operatives here.

How many of them shed a tear at the passing of Steve Jobs? Is rampant capatalism OK when the products are cool? It's suddenly OK to leverage child labour and cause environmental damage in China if you're making iPhones? And it's OK to throw away perfectly functional items just because there is a new model available?

Many people don't know where their next meal is coming from. Many rely on donated clothing because they can't afford to buy their own.

A fair few, including me and also including many people on the demonstation in Melbourne on Friday, are lucky enough to have choice. Choice in what to eat, what to wear, what to experience.

I'm not pretending to be perfect - I own Apple products, I fly too much for both business and pleasure to name but two foibles -  but thinking a little about those choices would be a great start.

Articulating them and spreading them beyond the narrow protest movements which have sprung up would be even better.

In a packed programme tonight I can exclusively reveal that Theydon and the Missus are in the UK from Tuesday 15 November to Monday 5 December when they grab the train to Munich for a few days of annoying people with broken German before returning to Melbourne.

Want a piece of the action? Get aboard.

Contact them via the normal channels.

In something of a recurring theme, it's been a while. I left you on a bit of a cliffhanger too didn't I?

After a few days of huffing and puffing by various banks, solicitors and other moneymaking juggernaughts we moved into the new house.

A few weeks on we're getting it something approaching ship shape.

Our furinture, particularly what now looks like the world's smallest tv, rattles around a little bit. We're going to gradually add a few bits and pieces. The in-laws have already donated some very cool stuff which is going to look great.

Work has been crazy, seemingly a default setting, but I really can't complain given it included a trip on the Ghan for me and the Missus. That's not really work, is it?

I also did a whistlestop visit to Brisbane.

Although it's been busy, I've naturally put a little of the time at my disposal towards getting aquainted with local wateringholes, particularly in the last few days when @pickenbn has been visiting.

Honourable mentions go to my new locals The Grace Darling (or 'the Starling') and The Napier. Moving slightly further afield, The Great Northern Hotel, with it's 20 taps of foaming ale and $12 parmas on Mondays, could become a cruel mistress.

After a fact-finding brewery tour at the weekend in the Mornington Peninsula revealed:

• There's fine beer, decent pizza and a warm welcome at the Mornington Peninsula Brewery,
• A sniffy attitude at Red Hill Brewery (so we didn't stay), and
• More warm welcomes, very decent beer and exceptional food (and a chef the missus took a shine to) at True South Brewery.

So there we are. No big jokes, no big rants, but it's good to be back.

You'll recall that I said we'd bought a house.

So other than some gigs and the odd cheeky beer or two the last month has been about packing (down to me) and a raft of paperwork and being nice to people (obviously best handled by the Missus).

This should have all coalesced nicely around us moving in three days ago.

Unfortunately, our bank neglected to run the right calculations, leaving our pot of borrowed money short and our settlement delayed.

The moment it became clear that it had all gone a bit pear shaped was a tense and anxious one. 

Two hours later I was at a friend's Australian citizenship ceremony, giving my first go at the Australian national anthem and fending off questions from other guests around when I'd step up and get my Aussie citizenship (which for the record I can't see happening).

The ceremony took my mind off the whole sorry affair and was just what I needed.

The numbers have now been re-run, paperwork updated and we should be good to go over the next few days.

Normal service should then be resumed.