I left Dublin making my way through airport security, with my belt and clutching my pants with both hands, shuffling through and then attempting to collect my belongings whilst simultaneously avoiding mooning the entire airport. Tricky.

So back to England, and I headed to Edi and Elviras, more expat Australians lulled by the London life. Its fireworks night. Fireworks night is a celebration of Guy Fawkes who in 1605 attempted to blow up the British Houses of parliament and knock off King James I in the process. He was caught, foiling the plan, tortured, and sent off to Guantanamo bay as with all good insurgents.

He was finally executed for treason in a most pleasant manner, hung until he was half dead (by no means an accuarate science) then his genitals were cut off and burned in front of him. Whilst still breathing his bowels and heart were removed before his decapitation and feeding of his remaining body bits to the birds.

I love the fact that this is celebrated. I love the fact that in England you can go down to the local grocery store, buy a six pack of Guiness, packet of cigarettes and an armful of weapons grade munitions.

It seems all of London enjoys its own private fireworks party. From dusk til the wee hours there are non stop fireworks coming from backyards all over London. Not the pissy little fireworks we are used to in Australia, but big fuck off rockets, explosions, the full personal pyro party. The streets are filled with the smoke from them, a thick, chemical and burnt cardboard haze. Its very very cool. I do wonder about the pilots landing at Heathrow as they fly over... shit I hope that's not a stinger missile...

There do seem to be more sirens screaming around then usual, which always has me expecting "The Bill" soundtrack to suddenly start afterwards...dada dada duuuugh ....

I celebrated Edi's birthday party, which surprisingly involved a lot of pints. I am not sure what it is about drinking that bypasses the brains calorific requirements indicator, as I am damned sure that I didn't require the energy from a 3am in the morning plate of pork sausages and chicken wings. It did seem like the perfect option at the time.

The next day hurt, and was spent prone, standard couch position, and watching lawn bowls. I love watching lawn bowls, and Edi soon fell victim to its charms, putting it rather well... "I love the anxious curiosity of it". Tis very soothing.

I leave London, a viscious cold having attacked me whilst my immune system was triaged into dramatic work on my liver and head to Brighton, a seaside town on the south coast catching up with a good mate James.

Aside from its tacky pier and its assortment of amusement rides, Brighton has a great vibe. It has a real fitness culture, joggers, cyclists, gyms that is a refreshing change from the pint culture so prominent elsewhere. It even has surfers, who whack on 2 thermal rashsuits, a 5mm wetty, a hood gloves and booties to surf the cold grey messy breaks. That's dedication.

Its cool. My highlight here though is the west pier at sunset. The west pier was bombed in the second world war, then before it had a chance to be rebuilt it got burned down. Now it is a messy (and on first glances very ugly) steel structure that is tumbling into the water. At sunset though, something quite extraordinary takes place. The sun creeps behind the steel structure, filling the sky with orange hues, and then the starlings come out to play. It seems every starling in England comes to Brighton at sunset, the sky teems with thousands of them. They flock, seething and moving in an incredible display of collision avoidance and beauty. Patterns ebb and flow, and the whole sky dances. It really is incredible, one of the best things that I have watched.

I head to Nepal tomorrow, so bid farewell to Brighton in true English fashion, a curry and a beer. I am thinking a tear me a new arsehole vindaloo accompanied with a few "fuck its hot, fuck its hot" quenching pints. Civilised.