Our latest Ex-Prime Minister

So how will history remember Kevin Rudd?

Let's start out by stating that things weren't nearly as bad for Rudd in the electorate as the mainstream media made it seem. This week's Newspoll, Morgan and Essential Research surveys all had the ALP with a small two-party-preferred lead. The man on the other side of the house, Tony Abbott, while differentiating himself emphatically as the anti-Rudd, is prone to bouts of public utterances that can bring more harm than good. There was a good chance he may say something refreshingly honest but possibly offensive between now and polling day.

However, the media had the die cast. Once the polls started diving after Rudd's backdown over the Carbon Pollution Reduction Scheme, he was unsalvageable as far as they were concerned. Bored by the new found stability in Opposition ranks, they played up a contest on the government benches.

After all this, still nothing would have happened today if Rudd didn't get suspicious and send one of his staffers, instead of himself, to count the numbers. It was around this time that Julia finally decided enough was enough, and relented to the pressure being brought on her by factional heavyweights inside the Parliamentary ALP. Rudd blinked and called for a spill he eventually didn't even contest.

Rudd now, despite his somewhat ridiculous choice to stay in Parliament past this upcoming election, will be consigned to the annals of history.

Rudd's greatest achievement was the avoidance of a recession that enveloped the rest of the developed world. While the more begrudging of us may try to take this away from Rudd by claiming that China's demand for our natural resources mean Rudd's measures were only slightly contributory to the economy's resilience, the stimulus did get a massive amount of money into the market, which powered demand and kept the economy growing.

Rudd's real problem with his stimulus legacy is not just the rows of unneeded, unused solar hot water heaters littering the outside of sporting pavilions around the country, or the volume of school halls built over the last few years, but the incompetent handling of the insulation scheme.

In short, flooding an unregulated trade with tons of cash is asking for trouble, without serious regulation and bureaucracy in place before hand. The scheme was simply asking to not only be exploited by fly-by-nighters looking to make a quick buck at the expense of John and Jenny Q Taxpayer, but was also making the always possible safety problems that are associated with working in the roof space of residential homes more likely. In short, more tradespeople, not necessarily trained and certainly not regulated, in the roofs of homes all over the country, working in cramped spaces in close proximity to electrical wiring.

But, by admission, the Rudd Government didn't have "time to cross the 'i's and dot the 't's." It would have been better for everyone if they had made the time.

These were the most grandiose of Rudd's great schemes. He apologised to both the Stolen and Forgotten Generations, and signed the Kyoto Protocols, but these were all symbolic measures.

Rudd won't be remembered as well or as fondly as Gough Whitlam, who became a Labor hero by failing grandly and losing power incredibly. Some of Whitlam's measures still endure today, which is unlikely to be said of Rudd's.

Unfortunately for Rudd, the post-war Prime Minister he will most likely be coupled with will be William McMahon, in that, for many, the Rudd years will be completely forgettable. He will never be judged to be the equal of the man he defeated in 2007, or the great reformers Hawke and Keating. He will never be remembered as having the infamy of a Malcolm Fraser, the incredible circumstances of the Gorton premiership, the electoral success and demise of Harold Holt, the endurance of Menzies, the gumption of Chifley or the toughness of Curtin.

Rudd's greatest punishment may be, for someone whom it has been suggested longed for a legacy and a place in the collective memory of the nation, that he, and his time as Prime Minister, may be largely forgotten. For that, he can blame the media. He can blame the ALP factional heavyweights. He can blame the polls. But he should also keep a little bit of the blame for himself.

The last week - Ireland

Land of my ancestors. We finished our trip in Ireland.

First up was a dinner with my cousin Antoinette and her family. Her son, Bobby, can only be described as a card. Very energetic, very enthusiastic, emphatically male and 22 years old. Amy, his older sister, is acerbic, but she remembers fondly me teaching her how to slide down the bannister when I visited in 1991. Sophie, the youngest, wasn't around then, and she's still going through high school, which in Ireland has an incomprehensible structure for those from Australia.

I finally had my first proper Irish Guinness, and it was worth the wait. I would return to this elixir when we got back to Dublin.

After leaving Dun Laoghaire on Saturday morning, we drove through Kilkenny on our way to Rossdale in County Wexford. This time we were driving a Mazda, on the correct side of the road.

Kilkenny is officially a city, but it really is a nice, medium sized, town. As we got closer to the coast and the south, the weather got windier and colder. Once we checked into our B&B, we found out very quickly there isn't much to do in Rossdale if you don't play golf. So we played golf.

We actually went to the driving range, where Rose didn't do too well and I got my usual welts on my hands from the grips on the clubs. My slice reared its ugly head on a regular basis. The evening was spent much better, when after dinner, we discovered that the video collection in the sitting room had Aussie favourite Strictly Ballroom, which, for some inexplicable reason, Rose hadn't seen. I saw it in the cinema and loved it, but Rose thought it was silly, despite one of the best chill scenes ever.

The Sunday was spent driving past Cork (which we were warned to stay away from due to crapness) on our way to Killarney in County Kerry. Before embarking on this trip, we sampled every Irish person's favourite Sunday morning excursion: going to mass celebrated in a modern church by an odd looking man with classic Irish hair. His sermon on circumcision was a comedic highlight of the trip.

Killarney has a beautiful national park right next to the city centre, which stretches on to the nearby mountains. After a short wander through this wonderful park, we went and got some dinner. Two plates of magnificent Irish Stew went down a treat.

Then I decided to purchase Rose a tin whistle, which is something I regretted for the rest of our tour around country Ireland. Whenever the radio decided it was too far away from anywhere to get a signal, Rose would decide to attempt to play the whistle, and the resulting noise pollution was almost unbearable. Serves me right for buying it for her.

The next day, between trying to stick gauze in my ears, we drove up to Galway. We stopped in the town for one main purpose - to buy some soda bread and some Kerrygold butter. The best bread and butter combination in the world. I will not argue about this.

Then we drove off to the Connemara mountains, which are some of the most rugged, inhospitable yet incredibly breathtaking mountains anyone could ever see. Mountain sheep wandered on the side of the road looking for feed, and we pulled over to eat our simple yet delicious improvised picnic of bread and butter. While it was difficult to stand up outside of the car, we enjoyed the rest, and Rose enjoyed her home made lemonade.

On the way back we stopped in a local craft shop and purchased a pretty photo of a sheep and a rainbow. The shopkeeper assured us the local sheep were worth three Australian sheep. A monument outside the shop memorialised a place where "nothing happened".

In short, it was lovely to see some of rural and regional Ireland that I didn't get the opportunity to do when I was in Ireland last.

Driving into Dublin I struck some luck, when after driving down the River Liffey for a period, I decided to turn over to the other side of the road, only to find I was turning into the street our hotel was in. After dropping Rose and the bags off at the hotel, I went off to drop the rental car back at the depot.

Driving out there, along the same route I caught the bus to where we stayed in 1991 brought back memories of being with my grandmother all those years ago. The city felt smaller, but still effectively the same.

After sorting out our room (we had been given a smoker's room, and it gave Rose a headache), we started to venture into Dublin. The city has no skyscrapers (tallest building is 16 storeys), but a large spike coming out of the middle of the main street, O'Connell St.

I took Rose to the Pro-Cathedral, where all the memories came back strong and I lost it a little bit. It's a small little place where the cities many Catholics can come to worship, as all the other large Cathedrals in Dublin were, and remain, Protestant places of worship.

Our last Wednesday of our trip was spent with the relos, as we got the Magical History Tour of my family. We were shown where all my Great Grandparents are buried (as well as some other ancestors), drove past Bono's house, the house where my Grandfather was born, baptised and went to school, as well as the Monks family home (my Grandfather's mother's family). We stopped off for lunch, and I had some more scones (I love scones), and did some window shopping.

We also visited the youngest of my Lewis generation, who is only a couple of months old. We had some dinner, then went off with the younger relatives into town, where Bobby took us to a rather comical "college night" where the uniform of short dresses, long straight hair and unbelievable tans had Rose, Amy, Amy's partner and myself all highly amused.

We paid for it the next morning, as we started slowly due to the after effects of a late night. When we did go out we eventually got to the Guinness Storehouse, where Guinness is made. An incredible exhibition of exactly how the lovely drop is made awaits, as well as related Guinness paraphernalia such as advertising and packaging. Near the top of the exhibition, which is shaped like a seven storey tall Guinness glass, you can pour your own pint, which I did with glee, before receiving my diploma and finishing my drink. We also visited a bookshop where Rose bought an Irish cookbook, and I tried not to buy about 50 books on Irish history.

The last day included a trip to Trinity College and the Book of Kells. Since being here last, they've really improved the whole set up as to the Book of Kells' display, and it was a nice way to finish.

I know I've taken my time to write these travel notes, but writing on my blog while away was a solitary activity that didn't involve Rose. Some people have enjoyed reading them, some have seemed to pledge never to speak to me again. Anyway, my thoughts and experiences have been exactly that: my thoughts and my experiences.

I would be lying if I said I didn't wish we were still travelling the world. The first few days in Istanbul seem like decades ago now.

Our favourite place was France, and particularly Paris. I know I'll be getting back to Gallipoli, the UK and Ireland, and Rome one day. I've already pledged any future trip to Poland will include everything but Auschwitz. There's a little town in France we desperately want to go back to.

Anyway, that's it. Photos will be up on Facebook soon - I was waiting to finish these. And this blog will go back to what it was before: me pontificating about stuff I think I know stuff about. Thanks for reading.

Day 48-52 - Scotland

Our bus trip into Edinburgh took us through Lockerbie, where there was still light in the sky at 10:30pm, and the temperature in the surrounding countryside was nearly zero. We arrrived in our hotel not long before midnight.

The next morning did not greet me well, but I managed to rouse myself for a full Scottish Breakfast. In this respect, the Scots are the anti-Italians: black pudding, tattie scones, sausage, bacon, eggs and many other culinary delights. This is the sort of breakfast that makes your heart soar, then go into arrest.

We had one day in Edinburgh, which is probably the most unique place we went other than Venice. The old part of the town, which houses Edinburgh Castle, is on a massive hill. The newer part (only 300 years old!) is on the lower valley in front of the hill, and the main street and shops reside here.

After a walk down that main street, we went back to board the bus to do the bus tour of Edinburgh. The ticket seller engaged us in some small talk, like where we were from and such. Then, with only the slightest hint of cheekiness on his face, he asked me if I wanted to buy bus tickets for myself and my daughter. Smart @rse.


The bus ride around Edinburgh is great, because of it's uniqueness. From the painted on windows to the private park (?), we enjoyed the ride until we went up to the Castle.

Now, Edinburgh was the first place I had been on our little trip which I had previously visited. As a nearly-eleven-year-old, my grandmother and I walked up to the Castle, but I remember being disappointed that most of the Castle was not accessible to visitors.


This time was different, and explored nearly every area of the Castle, which looms large over the skyline of the surrounding area, impenetrable and inaccessible to marauding raiders and armies from the south.

We had some lovely scones, jam and cream in the cafe right at the top of the Castle, and the views all around are some of the prettiest you'll ever see.

Unfortunately, dinner wasn't nearly as good as the mid-afternoon repast. Rose felt like a roast, and we could only find it in one of the pubs near where they used to execute people. I think one of the victims ended up on Rose's plate.

The next day we were off to Glasgow, a short train ride from Edinburgh. After all our travels, this was our last train ride, and therefore the last time we'd have to carry those bags into a train station, onto a train, and then find somewhere to put them. Recommendation - anything more than one large suitcase is too much for train travel.

If Glasgow is more touristy than Liverpool, then it isn't by much. Bigger, with a classy shopping strip, the CBD sort of sprawls to much bigger than Melbourne's, but then the suburbs do not spread for much further than that.

Our visit to Glasgow coincided with a bout of slight illness for Rose, and we spent at least a couple of afternoons resting. But we did manage some high tea at McKenzie's Tea Shoppe, which was more food than two people should eat in one sitting, some more shopping for Sylvanians, and a special visit.

Glasgow is the city in which my mother grew up, and rekindling memories of my own visit there with my grandmother, we went up to Maryhill to see where my family lived before coming to Australia.

There has been some scrubbing-up of Maryhill, but it remains essentially working-class, with the old tenement buildings mostly replaced with orange brick apartment blocks. The shopping strip remains, but the church has lost its primary school. The church was closed when we went past, but a incomprehensible groundskeeper, who may or may not have been named "Wullie", assured us it would be open the next day.

We then walked through Maryhill, along a small creek, to Kelvin Grove Park. It's a lovely place I hadn't been to before, and we walked around and fed some squirrels something they probably shouldn't be eating.

The other side of the park couldn't be more different to Maryhill, as it houses the university and several lovely terrace houses, very much like the ones seen in East Melbourne. Rose wondered aloud why the Lewis family chose the wrong side of the park.

There was plenty of football going on while we were in Glasgow, including an Old Firm match between Celtic and Rangers. The combination of the mutual hatred of these two clubs, along with the fact that Rangers had already secured the League title, made the match an entertaining fusion of attacking the goals and attacking each other. The next day Tottenham beat Man City to claim the final Champions League spot.

The next morning we were rudely awoken by a rather loud fire alarm in our otherwise fine hotel. We had to evacuate, with yours truly donning a towel around the waist, and eventually an anti-hypothermia blanket around my shoulders. This is in case any Scottish bloke tells you a story about the time they saw Ricky Ponting standing outside a hotel in Glasgow at 7:20am wearing a towel and tinfoil.

There's not an awful lot to do in Glasgow, but it did give us a chance to hit the gym for the only fitness work of the trip, and also recharge the batteries before a busy last week in Ireland.

Day 47-49 - Liverpool

Liverpool is not touristy. It’s grey, urban, lived-in and teeming with people. To put it another way, it’s brilliant.

Our hotel was down on the docks, where quite a lot of reconstruction and redevelopment has occurred, giving it a similar feel to the Docklands area in Melbourne. Unfortunately, a large Ferris wheel was right outside our hotel window, and Rose doesn’t need much to prevent her from sleeping.

It was also almost the first time on the trip we’d endured any sort of inclement weather. It tended to rain in secret in London (at least twice when we had popped back to the hotel to grab something), but we got caught in it a little in Liverpool.

We’d walked into the centre of town and then through Mathew St, where the Cavern was (and is again), and where statues of John and Paul sit on the balconies of the surrounding buildings. Other than that, there are the new buildings, and the older ones. The famed Lewis’s Department Store was closing down, so we went in to see if they were clearing any Sylvanians, but the clearing had already taken place. The advertising posters were there, but the Sylvanians were not.

For our first dinner in Liverpool we ventured inland, past the centre of town and the train station, to partake in some genuine fish & chip shop food.

The British “Chip Shop” offers a vast array of take-away food items, from Chinese to Pizza to Kebabs to the old fashioned Pie or Fish supper. The Potato Cakes, called scallops, are massive and spurt oil when pierced, like a striking a deposit of clear vegetable oil. The chips are thick and fattening. It was a great meal, although we felt it for the next few hours as our bodies worked hard to digest perhaps the most fattening meal of our lives.

Between extended bouts of watching an Aussie march to a World Snooker Title, we filled our short time in Liverpool going to the Beatles’ Story, which was entertaining but didn’t tell me much I didn’t already know. The highlight for me was in the post-Beatles exhibition, when in the area dedicated to George, they played a clip from a mid-1970s broadcast of Rutland Weekend Television. George Harrison is introduced by Eric Idle, and starts to play the memorable opening chords from “My Sweet Lord”, before breaking into a pirate song, much to Idle’s fake protestations. Oh, how we miss having a living Beatle not take himself too seriously.

Attached to the Beatles Story is a “3D Experience”, which really is just an excuse to get people wet. But I was more convinced about 3D television after this experience than I was before it.

We had to wash clothes in Liverpool, in your typical suburban laundromat. After walking past 50 men, aged between 16 and 35, riding down a hill on BMX bikes, we washed our clothes, and got called “pet” and “love” by the woman who operated the coin laundry. Rose found it off-putting; I found it endearing. It was also an excuse to have some more English crisps, which are cooked longer and taste smokier, and therefore better, than they do in Australia.

Dinner on Saturday was a little bit more of a struggle, as we couldn’t find anywhere that was satisfactory and didn’t have a minimum 30 minute wait. We finally settled on the restaurant inside our hotel, where I had a curry and lost my black Raider cap.

Our time in Liverpool had been extended by the fact that the match we had planned to attend had been moved from Saturday to Sunday. We carefully planned our Sunday to ensure a quick and speedy getaway from Liverpool to Edinburgh.

We caught the bus out to Anfield on Sunday, to experience one of the great sights and sounds in all of sports. Anfield inside is small, with no particularly poor seats. The only thing particularly poor on this day was Liverpool’s play.

Just before the game, the crowd broke into song, and the two of us, Liverpool fans from half way across the world, joined in with all our might, with our brand new scarves above our heads, adorned with perhaps the greatest motto for any sporting club in the world: YOU’LL NEVER WALK ALONE. It really is the one area that soccer has it over our indigenous Australian game.

After looking frisky for about 20 minutes, Gerrard tried a pass back to the keeper which was intercepted by Didier Drogba, and it was 1-0 Chelsea. The tiny enclave, draped in royal blue and surrounded by what seemed like 5,000 police officers and security guards, went into an absolute frenzy. They did the same when Frank Lampard doubled the lead.

Only when the Chelsea crowd started pointing to the Liverpool supporters, chanting “You are Ancient History”, did the crowd start to get restless, and this elicited a loud response from the home faithful. Overall the Reds looked listless, tired from a physically and emotionally draining loss only three days previous in the semi final of the Europa League.

Apparently the players come out and greet the fans after the last home game of the season, but we couldn’t hang around. Somewhere between here and the train I left behind the match program and book of posters intended for Rose’s younger brother, Deaglan.

When we got to the train station, which was not easy as Anfield is deep in suburban Liverpool and the buses weren’t getting through, we were greeted by some delicious Cornish Pasties (apparently the best Rose has ever eaten), and the news that our long train trip to Edinburgh had just become a longer train and bus trip, thanks to maintenance works on the tracks being done over the Bank Holiday long weekend. After changing at Preston (as planned), Oxenhome & Carlisle, we finally got into Edinburgh at 11:30 pm, exhausted and relieved.

On reflection, after spending time in Liverpool you will know two things: the Beatles come from here, and so does the Liverpool Football Club. Nothing else really matters. I wish the Reds had won, but just being there was great. Actually, being in the city of the Reds, John, Paul, George, Ringo, and Dave Lister, was a blast.

Day 43-46 - London

Anything after Paris and France was going to be a bit of a let down. Unfortunately somewhere had to follow it, and this was London. We arrived on a Monday, spending the working week in what is perhaps the most important city in the world.

Our hotel was near Hyde Park, so after dropping off our bags we went for a wander through. While parks can be few and far between in London, when they do occur they are large, full of wildlife, and closely resemble urban countryside.

We next saw the Wellington Memorial, which contains the London War Memorials of Australia and New Zealand. Both are recent, and reflect this in their design, so one has to know beforehand they are war memorials, or get close enough to see for oneself.

From there we walked past Buckingham Palace, which isn’t really that big from the front and the changing of the guard was inconveniently timed. We didn’t manage to see the guard being changed at Buckingham Palace over the next few days.

What we did see was the Guard Marching Band practising in the open, but with their backs to the street, facing their barracks. Rose was very interested in hearing these guys, while I was more perturbed with the fact they weren’t facing the large crowd.

St James’ Park separates the Palace from the Prime Minister and Westminster, and contains perhaps the first squirrels I had ever seen in the flesh. Rose took great delight in taking many photos of the squirrels in different parks in different places.

The guard was changing at Westminster – the mounted guards. The crowd of normally-sized people prevented Rose from seeing much of the inspection of uniforms and such, but I managed to get the camera above the crowd for some more pictures.

Big Ben didn’t exactly loom over us from that vantage point, primarily because it isn’t that tall. After the Eiffel Tower it seems like you’d struggle to reach terminal velocity if you leapt from the minute hand.

The West End is packed with theatres hosting musicals, which pretty much prevented us from going to one, as Rose has no love for musical theatre. There are also many, many shops on Regent and Oxford Streets, and we walked these many times over the next few days as they led from the centre of London to our hotel back near Paddington.

I had waited until London to have some Indian food, and I wasn’t disappointed, although apparently Bangladeshi-town is the place to go for the best Indian food. We were happy with our choice, and the waiter was more than happy to ensure Rose’s dishes were not too hot.

After weeks of Italian and French breakfasts, I was pleased to see a cooked breakfast and Weetabix. Cumberland sausages are particularly nice, along with eggs, bacon, baked beans and mushrooms. Rose ate my tomato.

The breakfast got us ready for St John’s Wood, site of two of the most significant places in London for me: Abbey Rd Studios and Lord’s. They are about ten minutes walk away from each other, and Rose dutifully stood on a roundabout to take a picture of me walking across the famous zebra crossing.

Our tour at Lord’s was led by a Yorkshireman. If you go to Lord’s, insist on a tour guide from Yorkshire – they were put on Earth to talk about cricket. He showed us Real Tennis, which may be the most ridiculous sport still played on the planet today, and as compensation for not being to enter the Long Room, as it was a match day, we were taken onto the ground surface during the lunch break. No truth to the rumour I was asked for my autograph.

I could have stayed all day, listening to our guide talk about all the greats to have played at Lord’s, but this was a honeymoon and not a bachelor trip. We resumed our search for a pair of shoes for Rose, which eventually ended the next day when we finally found a cheapish place that had shoes small enough to fit her.

St Paul’s is a wonderful cathedral, spacious and grand. Westminster Abbey, on the other hand, is a cluttered mess, trying to fit in everyone important who wants to be buried there. There is a touch of class at the Abbey, with the audio guide being Jeremy Irons, although this means you walk through one of the most famous churches in the world quoting lines from Die Hard 3.

We did the Tower Bridge, and its incredible moving drawbridge, and the Tower of London. We didn’t really leave enough time to properly enjoy the Tower of London, but our “beefeater” guide was humorous and the Crown Jewels incredible in their size and beauty. It was here at the Tower where one feels the history of London, and the English Royal Family, more than anywhere else in London.

The highlight of our time in London was catching up with three people I went to high school with. Julie I had not seen since I was 15, Brad was a good mate of mine and one of most genuine people anyone would ever want to meet, and Tom is a great bloke to have a drink or fifteen with, as I did at my informal 10 year high school reunion in 2007 at the Espy.

It was also one of the few places in London that served a Parma, and considering I medically needed one, this was very good news. Plenty of beer was drunk, but I made sure my original plan to wait until I was Ireland to drink a Guinness was preserved, albeit under some pressure.

Thursday morning, after shaking off some sore heads, we headed down to Madame Toussaud’s, where, much to my disappointment, there was no Ricky Ponting wax dummy. I really wanted to have a photo taken of me with myself.

It’s good fun, however, and the dummies are quite hardy and in some cases, eerily lifelike. After a while, if one of the patrons stands still for a little too long, you’ll start to confuse the dummies with the living people. A hideously out of place fright experience comes after the dummies, and then a cab ride through the history of London.

If nothing else, London is very commercial. You go there to consume. Our last real outing of the time we spent in London was to Harrod’s, so Rose could buy some tea, which she is drinking back here in Melbourne, and some Sylvanian Families figurines, which she has an unhealthy obsession with.

The food in London was mostly pub food, with a great devotion to the hamburger and the hot chip. Aussies should not be afraid to drink Fosters in England – I’m positive it is Crown Lager, and tastes much better than that rubbish in the blue cans we get sold back in Oz. An attempt at high tea at the Ritz was kyboshed by the lack of pounds in my pocket (caused by a money transfer snafu), and by my casual attire. I quickly vowed to be appropriately dressed and cashed-up the next time we were in London.

Our final act in London was to watch Liverpool get knocked out of the Europa League by Athletico Madrid, who had an extra 30 minutes to score the away goal that put them into the final. After this I completely cracked the shits at game of soccer. As usual, I didn’t stay mad for long.

If Paris is beautiful, and it is, beyond description, then London is functional. Apart from the Tower of London, the history of the place is beneath the surface, or contained in gaudy shows like the ones at Madame Toussaud’s, or near the Tower Bridge. Paris seems comfortable that the history and beauty almost need no promotion (when have you ever seen a tourist ad for France?), but London seems to need to promote it in the tackiest was possible (except for the Tower).

It is also described, by one of its inhabitants, as the least English place in England. If so, we were about to see the real England, at the end of a train ride from Euston Station, arriving at Lime St in the early afternoon.