Here in Australia, it's the election that's hotting up, but the issue of climate change has been kicked into the long grass. Liberal Opposition leader Tony Abbott famously described anthropogenic climate change as 'crap', but confronted with public concern has managed to scrape together a climate policy which he clearly doesn't believe in. New PM Julia Gillard has proposed some kind of cop-out 'citizens' assembly' to come up with ideas following the shelving of former PM Rudd's scheme for trading carbon credits in the face of parliament earlier this year.

As with many issues in this election campaign, there is little vision or leadership offered by either party on any but the most parochial of issues. Consequently voters are turning to the Green Party which may double its vote this year and hold the balance of power in the Senate.

Another cause that the Greens support is same-sex marriage; and while Labor and the Coalition have avoided the issue where possible, voters have questioned Gillard and Abbott directly on the issue.

No-one would expect a conservative party to champion social equality, and former priest-in-training Abbott isn't one to challenge stereotypes. But many expected more from Julia Gillard; she is an out of the closet atheist (gasp), childless (gasp), and has an unmarried (gasp) de-facto spouse. She is clearly not a traditionalist, but it's clear that she has no intention of letting same-sex marriage become a potential vote-losing point of difference between Labor and the Coalition - even though polls suggest 60% of Australians are totally down with the gays getting hitched.

Instead, Gillard and Abbott are falling over themselves to pander to John Howard-inspired ignorant marginal voters who believe Australia is under siege from asylum-seeking boat people.

It's polling day today, and I can already see facebook updates from all my friends who've been queuing in the cool sunshine to vote, or who are wading through the 80-odd parties for the Senate. By this time tomorrow, the election will be in the bag.

Election summary from the Guardian: Australian election is a farce with much at stake

We flew Virgin America overnight from SF and were feeling pretty grim by the time we rocked up at Hell's Kitchen and dragged our enormous cases up several flights of stairs to Shane's lofty pad. But fatigue couldn't keep us relentless tourists from the concrete paradise of NYC - after a brief naplet, John and I scaled the famous Rockefeller Building for some bird's eye views before enjoying some Kodak moments at Grand Central Station. By that point, my poor feet had given up, so I let John continue his urban peregrinations while Shane and I enjoyed some pre-dinner drinks.

Dinner was at Becco, just downstairs from Shane's place, and he knows the staff well - so we had top service as well as a great meal. Shane conveniently lives a couple of doors down from a gay bar too, so we sampled that and nearby Barrage before bed.

Friday was hot. Stinking hot. A great day to take refuge in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but not such a great day to walk there. While John strode bravely there, I scuttled like a beetle from shadow to shadow despite a good long spray of SPF50. We slurped up several thousand years of cultcha in a short time, from the amazing Temple of Dendur, uprooted from the Nile, to Greek and Roman busts, the stained glass and gilded relics of mediaeval Christendom. And then we had ice-cream in Central Park.

Our retail expedition to Soho was less successful, although I did bag myself a "fancy jersey" from H&M which I've already seen someone else wearing.

The evening's entertainments were a different story. Beers at Gym Bar, yummy Mexican nosh at nearby Rocking Horse, a short foray to Rockit @ Amalia which spurred us on to bigger and better things at the enduring Splash Bar, where we met up with Dan (also holidaying from Sydney), Eduardo (who I met on my first trip to NY), Eduardo's fiancé, Brian, and a trio of Mediterranean-looking gogo boys. Ok, we didn't meet them, but one of them kept bashing his bum against John's head, so I call that intimacy.

After such a monumental Saturday (which featured acapella performances from Brian at an impromptu after-party), Shane and I ditched our Sunday Fire Island plans. In the afternoon, John and I strolled down to enjoy the views from Battery Park before some final food and drinks with Shane next to the lightship Frying Pan at Pier 66, moored on the west side overlooking the Hudson, and there we watched the sun set on our last evening in Manhattan (sniff sniff).

With only a short half day left, we spent our bit of Sunday in Greenwich Village, wandering mainly, and only stopping briefly to admire the Lonely Planet-touted Ricky's Pharmacy, which sells suction cup footholds and grips for shower sex, among the usual selection of toiletries and various pharmaceutical items.

And that was it. New York fabulously over. We sweated our way over to JFK, endured the rigmarole of airport faff for the SIXTH time, before boarding our Finnair flight, staffed by hatchet-faced blonde automatons. It could have been worse. At least I had New Moon to while the hours away; it was mainly pecs, wolves, and adolescent drivel, but it somehow passed the time to Helsinki...

Photos on Facebook

After our bender in the Castro, we had a late start and went pretty much straight to nearby Dolores Park, where the grassy sward was overrun with gays and their picnic blankets, and there we sat, sipping Pimm's and enjoying the view of the city in the bright sunshine. But determined to do at least some sightseeing, John and I left Keau & Gavin and headed downtown for dinner - burgers overlooking Union Square followed by cocktails from the famous hundred martini menu at the Top of the Mark on Nob Hill.

Keau's fifty cent tour of San Francisco started earlyish - as soon as I could rouse John from his melatonin-induced stupor. Our first stop was CostCo - a wholesaler supermarket (?) where John and I were gobsmacked by the cheapness! We left with a lifetime supply of ibuprofen, razors, and some bargain protein powder before Keau's tour took us to enjoy the sights of the Embarcadero, the Ferry Building, Telegraph Hill and Coit Tower. If you're a Tales fan like me, you would have been enchanted by the Filbert Steps - an entire street of steep wooden stairs complete with tree-darkened, flower-starred gardens and cutesy wooden homes.

The last part of the tour took us over to Fisherman's Wharf and the herd of sunbathing sealions, ending with a zip down the famously crooked Lombard Street. Obviously, having travelled all the way to the northern hemisphere, you may find it amusing that we then went shopping in a Westfield mall and had late lunch in the foodhall there, where the server mocked my charming accent before handing me a salad that could have fed a small family.

No visit to California would be complete without some yummy Mexican food washed down with margaritas that could launch rockets. No surprises that dinner snowballed into a pub crawl with $3 Smirnoff Ices and a hangover in the morning.

After an obligatory Kodak moment at the Golden Gate Bridge, bright brick red against cloudless blue skies, we stopped for a typically gargantuan American breakfast at a Mel's diner before we began our road trip to Yosemite.

After a long and soporific drive (for us, not poor Keau in the driver's seat), we entered the park and soon came upon a crowd of visitors snapping a brown bear shambling lazily through the trees (scarily close by). That was pretty much our last glimpse of anything bigger than a chipmunk or squirrel (unless you count the roadkill skunk).

We spent the next twenty-four hours driving around the park, amazed by the beautiful, dramatic scenery. The main valley of Yosemite runs between two enormous cliff faces that rise up sharply from the forested floor, veiled in places by several fast-flowing waterfalls that gush heavily into the valley beneath, throwing out great clouds of spray. It was just such a cloud of spray that put our camera into a coma and John into a glum mood. Hot dogs were consumed, gift shops thoroughly browsed (thimble for Mum), and finally we dashed around the giant sequoia grove before racing back to San Francisco and the airport. We just about had time to catch our breath, freshen up, and pack our bags before Keau and Gavin dropped us back at the airport after four fabulous days. Thanks, guys!

Next stop, New York City.

Photos on Facebook

And here I am starting again at the end instead of the beginning...

Qantas teased us. Our check-in madam cheerily told us our plane had been changed and our flight delayed due to a mechanical issue, and in a second my A380 dream was dashed - only to be given new and exciting life once more at the departure gate with no explanation. I settled down with Valentine's Day and my doxylamine for a romcom plus snooze.

John's new Qantas Club membership got us some luxury lounging at LAX while we waited for our dowdy American Airlines connection to San Francisco, where Keau & Gavin were waiting to whisk us off to their gorgeous home a stone's throw from the Castro, Frisco's gayville.

Already refreshed by the showers at LAX, we were ready to drop our bags and head out to enjoy Saturday in the city. Keau had booked tickets for us to see a stage performance of two Golden Girls episodes - performed by drag queens (of course). Pretty funny, and all the more poignant given the recent demise of Blanche (although Rose appears to be all over tv still, twenty (?) years on!).

Disappointed by the lack of alcohol in the theatre, we descended on the Castro's strip to sample Harvey Milk's old stomping ground, and we hadn't gone far before we were confronted by a couple of proud old men strolling the streets. Proud and naked! Like a true provincial, I couldn't help but stare a little.

Beginning with QBar, 440 (formerly Daddy's), and Moby Dick, we finished our Saturday with a visit to a San Francisco icon. Anyone who's read Armistead Maupin's "Tales of the City" will remember The End Up, where Michael Tolliver won the jockey shorts contest. Imagine our horror surprise when we arrived to find a straight reggae night winding down! I'm quite sure we stayed longer than Michael would have.

Did you watch it? As usual, it's an unbelievable bright and gaudy festival. So many countries put forward their finest stars to Eurovision and they pull out all the stops. Quite the difference from the pathetic efforts we routinely offer. Let me begin my highlights with the UK's contemptible entry.

Josh Dubovie sang one of the most insipid pieces of crap I've ever heard, and I'm sure Pete Waterman must have had his tongue firmly in cheek when he named it, "That sounds good to me". I didn't have the pleasure (?) of watching the selection process, but surely this must have been the best of a truly dismal bunch, but even Madonna would have struggled to polish this turd of a song.

At one point it seemed that even our lyrical faeces would beat Ireland's returning heroine, Niamh Kavanagh, who won it for them in 1993. Niamh was robbed. She belted out a typical Eurovision power ballad and got very little in return. Swathed from neck to toe in purple, she was like twice her former self squeezed into a plum sleeping bag, packed so tightly I don't believe she could actually move. I suspect she was wheeled on and off by some Norwegian mechanical gadgetry.

Greece's lead singer, Georgios Alkaios (let's just call him Botoxhead from now on) is "32.... apparently" according to our SBS commentator. He has a smooth head that Elizabeth Taylor would kill for, and was leaping around in white with Hellenic boyband extras half his (real) age, yelling, "Opa!" over a stereotypically Grecian tune. Nevertheless, he came 11th and the UK was one of four countries who gave them douze points.

Serbia's singer had an interesting golden fringe down to his eyebrows and looked curiously androgynous. He bravely sang his pop ode in his mother tongue, presumably because if we'd known he was singing, "Belgrade, Belgrade, I'm so naughty...", it would have been impossible to take him seriously at all (and yet he beat us).

Belarus surprised us with a Bucks Fizz-style reveal at 2m20s through their rendition, as the three girls in the group (already showcasing what miracles you can achieve with a GHD and ten cans of hairspray) sprouted glittery butterfly wings. But not even this could prevent the song being the dullest in the final (but they still beat us).

Spain's entry was rudely interrupted by a stagecrasher, which livened up a very dull song no end. The cheeky invader was later arrested but the true punishment was inflicted upon the audience, which was forced to watch this latter day Leo Sayer and his band of sinister clowns perform the song again at the end. You guessed it - they beat us too.

One of my favourites to win was the Icelandic song, "Je ne sais quoi". Not only was it a pop/dance triumph (IMHO) that set my toes a-tapping, it was a win for larger ladies everywhere. Hera Bjork and her troupe of big girls proved you don't have to be a dark-eyed sylph in a size zero dress to be a pop starlet.

Probably my favourite to win was Romania, which surprisingly did quite well, considering my favour appears to be the kiss of death for Eurovision entries. Paul Seling & Ovi, a gorgeous eastern dark-eyed sylph (oh well) and her less stunning co-singer gave us a pumped-up duet on a double-ended perspex piano - it was eurofabulous! Douze fromage points alone for rhyming "fire" with "desire" and "taking us higher". Did I mention that the piano keys lit up red!? Eurovision GOLD!

So if you didn't already know (or care), Germany's Lena stole the show, 76 points in front of Turkey in second place. She eschewed her full allotment of crazy/distracting backing artists, appearing by herself in a simple dress, singing by herself a great song in her weirdly accented English. I didn't think it was an amazing song, but over the last few years some real tripe has come first, so this was a refreshing change.

Arguably the best bit of the whole show wasn't any of the contest entrants but the exceptionally imaginative interval act. Definitely booting Riverdance aside with a Michael Flatley-style kick, Norwegian rappers Madcon performed 'Glow' in the arena, and lo! Parts of the audience broke into dance, flashmob-stylee. From there, the cameras whisked us from place to place where flashmobbers were doing the identical dance in ten cities all over Europe, from Ljubljana to London, and then straight into people's Eurovision parties at home. You often get the feeling that Eurovision tries so hard to be impressive and succeeds in being quite lame, but this transcontinental flashmob was so NOW and strangely heartwarming that we judged it a terrific success. If you haven't seen it yet, do it now.

It took me a while to settle in at Amnesia, but I'm happy and comfortable now and this office has been the birthplace of some of my best (and best-looking) work, which I am deservedly proud of. Our premises scream 'creative', which also means they are grungy - and unfortunately there are cockroaches in the kitchen (because some of my colleagues are domestically inhibited) - but all that is about to change. We are moving! From Darlinghurst gayville, we are moving to Walsh Bay, into a heritage listed building under the Bridge. Everyone who has seen our new offices (which belong to our new parent company, Publicis Groupe) has gushed about how schmick they are. This is wonderful news to outweigh the ending of my Australian dream: that I can stroll to work every morning in the sunshine.

I am now confronted by the ogre that is Sydney's dismal public transport system. There are (inevitably unreliable) buses that will get me close-ish to the office, but this will add commuting and waiting time to my day and upset my absurdly important gym routine. The only credible alternative is to take to the streets like some student (gasp) or inveterate greeny on a bicycle.

Before you all hammer me in Facebook comments, I don't really look down my nose at cyclists... But cycling in Sydney is a different beast to pedalling in Britain. Australia is a new country with spacious cities, and is in some ways a land of the motor car. If you live outside the centre, you need one. Unfortunately, it seems motorists here hate cyclists - and cyclists hate them back, turning every morning commute into another battle in a long-running guerilla war. Motorists cut up cyclists and give them no space, cyclists flout road rules, run lights, and take up rush hour lanes cycling in pairs. It makes London's streets seem positively civilised. Which makes me a tad reluctant to dip my foot in...

Thankfully, Clover Moore, our controversial city mayor, has begun heartlessly ripping out parking spaces willy nilly to provide a new cycle network from the suburbs to the city centre. Joy of joys, I shall be able to peacefully pedal most of the way to the new office while my motorist neighbours gnash their teeth trying to park outside their own homes.

How on earth could this happen? Why on earth aren't Labour and the Lib Dems forming my dreamteam progressive coalition? If you believe the Lib Dems, it's because Labour wasn't seriously interested in a coalition whose majority would rest on a knife-edge; they didn't put forward decent compromises; they were happier to sit back and let the Libs and Tories form a government forced to make unpopular decisions, and sail back into government in the next election, creaming off the leftier Lib Dem voters into the bargain. If you believe Labour, it's the Lib Dems who weren't being serious - they were always keener on the Tory offer and demanded impossible, uncosted spending; they preferred a coalition with a healthy majority.

I don't really know which side to believe, although I'm sure there's truth to each side. We did see some prominent Labour MPs lining up to criticise a coalition, but Gordon Brown's resignation as PM as a sweetener seems to have been made in good faith...

But is a coalition with the Tories better than leaving them to try to wing it by themselves? On the one hand, coalition allows the Lib Dems to actually achieve some of their manifesto promises, gain government experience, and restrain some of the more ludicrous Tory policies. As far as electoral reform goes, fixed term parliaments are in, a referendum on AV will go ahead, and the Lords will become elected by PR. AV is a bit of a wooden spoon for the Lib Dems, but it would have given them an extra ten seats this time around.

On the other hand, Clegg's party is damaged by association with the Tories in the eyes of many of its supporters and activists, and will be damaged by being party to savage £6bn spending cuts this year. Their outlook for the next election is grim.

Cameron gets to keep his inheritance tax rebate for the rich (the Libs get to abstain), there's a review of Trident, the non-EU immigration cap is in, and nuclear power stations get the go-ahead, which I do actually agree with.

However, I have no doubt that the lowest income voters are the biggest losers of May 2010, whatever Cameron and Clegg tell us, especially with George Osborne in the Treasury. It will be a great shame if it turns out that Labour scuppered the progressive coalition - if the poor get smashed under this government, it won't hurt Labour MPs' wallets but it will be a huge advantage to them in the next election campaign.

Either way, it's an interesting time in British politics, and I'll be watching closely before deciding if the Lib Dems have made a huge mistake.

Until this game-changer, everyone assumed that the pendulum would swing back from red to blue as it has done for the last sixty years. As is often the case, the Opposition hasn't won support so much as the Government has lost it, and David Cameron and co. are wearing smug expressions of entitlement; as the only alternative on offer they feel it's their turn next... until Cleggmania.

The Liberal Democrats' entry into the game as real contenders, potentially leapfrogging Labour to second place in the share of the vote, has resulted in two things. First, the possibility that neither Brown nor Cameron will be able to form a majority government, forcing one of them to battle on as leader of a minority government, or to enter a coalition with Clegg. As kingmakers, the Lib Dems would inevitably demand their long-held goal of proportional representation (PR) as the price of their cooperation. Which brings me neatly to my second point, that the electoral system we currently use (first-past-the-post or FPTP), has been exposed as grossly unfair. It always has been unfair, but it's now finally front page news because Labour could win more MPs than any other party while still coming last in the actual number of votes. Such a result would quite rightly provoke outrage.

The Liberals/Lib Dems have been banging on about this for decades, probably because they've been on the short end of FPTP since 1915; as far back as 1917 PR missed its chance by just 7 votes in the Commons, and the Tory Lords scuppered it in 1931. In 1983, just 2% behind Labour in votes, the SDP/Alliance had 183 seats fewer. Our system is unrepresentative! Surely we should be governed by the party most of us wanted? But no government has had 50% of our votes since 1950, and so we are perpetually governed by a party that most of us voted against.

In fact, if you live in a pretty safe seat, as most people do, you'll be forgiven for thinking your vote is a wasted one. The election is fought and won in marginals. The electorate know this - turnout declines in safe seats. Even in marginals you might be forced to vote not for the party you really want, but against the party you really don't want - tactical voting. Your real preference doesn't count.

Proponents of FPTP argue that the system gives the most popular party a workable majority to form a strong government, but this is patently not always the case because we are looking at the possibility of a hung parliament now, and we've had them in the past. Britain is the only country in Europe to use this system, and even in the UK we only use it for Westminster - not for English regions, for Scotland or Wales, for European elections, for London... not even the political parties themselves in their own elections!

FPTP-lovers tell us that PR leads to coalition governments which are unstable (such as in Italy or France), but this is really a reflection on the system used. Germany, arguably Europe's most prosperous nation, has been ruled by coalitions almost continuously since the war. Another argument is that coalitions lead to manifesto promises being bargained away and broken; but in 2005, 65% of voters rejected Labour's agenda, but they still got it - that seems less fair to me.

A coalition of parties does force 'horse-trading' of policies, but it forces parties to negotiate and work together to form legislation, which is a bit more dignified than the Punch & Judy partisan style of politics we're used to in the Commons.

The Conservatives don't adore FPTP so much in this election since it threatens to leave them with too few seats to form a majority government, but generally they are huge fans. Why is that? Because they know that the majority of Brits vote for progressive parties like Labour, the Lib Dems, or the nationalists, and this for me is the clincher: the threat of PR for them is the very real possibility of never forming a government again. Ever.

The Lib Dems are currently the only party that wholeheartedly endorses PR; Gordon Brown's deathbed conversion to a watered-down version of PR is a last ditch attempt to woo Lib Dem voters to Labour and prevent a Tory government. But - in the event of a hung parliament and Labour (albeit undeservedly) winning enough seats to form a majority coalition with Clegg & co, there will be a once in a lifetime opportunity to deliver us fair representation in parliament.

Unfortunately, the only poll that counts is the one that happens tomorrow, and Cleggmania may turn out to be nothing more than newspaper column inches, with undecided voters turning from Labour to the Tories instead of the Lib Dems. I just read how proud David Cameron is of what the Conservatives have 'achieved' in Hammersmith & Fulham and it made me simultaneously sick to the stomach and furious. The thought of this selfish style of government being rolled out across the UK is frankly terrifying, so I hope you will use your vote, if you have one, by voting tactically one last time in the hope that everyone's vote will count in the future.

In the run-up to this election, not one, not two, not even three, but FOUR Conservatives have been in the news for their unashamed homophobia. The most recent to hit the press founded churches to cure misguided gay sinners through prayer, and is now running for MP in Sutton & Cheam. Only one (who stands no chance of winning his seat) has been sacked! But that's alright, Cameron has sent a token gay MP to participate in a Polish pride march. All is forgiven.

In fairness, homophobes are everywhere, but it's no surprise that more of them appear to be Tories than members of the other leading parties, and vote according to 'conscience'. Cameron's worked hard to change his party's image, but is it just a pinkwash? If his colleagues hadn't already embarrassed him enough, there was that disastrous Gay Times interview in which he couldn't quite explain satisfactorily why his MEPs hadn't voted to condemn homophobic legislation in Lithuania. Perhaps equal rights are only important to Dave when they translate into votes for his party?

Has Dave really tried to teach his old dog new tricks? Other than the swanky new green logo, what's new about the Conservatives?

Not their 1950s family values! The offensive suggestion of rewarding married couples with a tax break of THREE whole pounds a week is straight from the book of former Tory leader Iain Duncan Smith. What kind of a crap carrot is that to incentivise marriage? It's a pathetic gesture and it's a slap in the face to single-parent families. Clearly wicked single mothers are a symptom of Cameron's 'broken Britain', but in reality this insulting tax break overlooks anyone whose spouse has beaten them, left them, or even died!. Some of these issues are highlighted in this opinion piece by single mum, J K Rowling (if the Harry Potter books are this well written, then maybe I have missed out). But Cameron admires Iain Duncan Smith's views so much that he's offered him a cabinet job with responsibility for social justice [shudder].

Former Tory leader Michael 'Something of the night' Howard is no doubt delighted that his old policy of immigration caps has been dusted off for reuse five years later - even though it doesn't cover immigrants from the EU, who are the ones who are apparently "flocking" to Britain. Has Cameron forgotten that Howards's stance on immigration helped reinforce the Tories' 'nasty party' image in 2005?

Former Tory leader (and current shadow foreign secretary) William Hague's rabid Euroscepticism has been lapped up by Cameron, who's removed his MEPs from the European Parliament's influential conservative grouping to sit with the so-called 'lunatic fringe' of Europe, a move that's left him out in the cold with his natural conservative allies, and is no doubt a frantic grab for UKIP votes.

If Margaret Thatcher (Queen of Darkness 1975-90) wasn't so deservedly dotty, she'd be delighted by this talk of David Cameron's 'Big Society'. Unfortunately this centrepiece of the party's manifesto has fallen flat on its face. Conservative doorknockers can't sell it because nobody seems to know what it means in practicality, which is why it has been quietly dumped. What it boils down to is that Cameron wants to cut spending on public services and encourage unpaid amateurs in the community to interfere in the running of police services and schools. Inevitably the only people who aren't too busy with jobs and families to take part in this social experiment are exactly the sort of nimbies and busybodies no right thinking person would want to give responsibility to in the first place.

It's not a real Conservative manifesto without tax cuts for the rich! On the face of it, a cut in inheritance tax sounds good, but only affects the wealthiest 6% of estates - the main beneficiaries will be the residents of Kensington and Chelsea. Why on Earth these people need a tax break when everyone else is scrounging for jobs is quite beyond me. But I'm sure it makes perfect sense to the shadow cabinet, since 19 of the 29 are millionaires.

So much for the party of change then. Despite the mantra of modernisation, Cameron's Conservatives haven't pulled off the believable transformation that handed Labour the victory in 1997. Despite reasonable showings in all three leaders' debates and a 'win' in the third, Cameron's party is no better in the polls now than it was before the campaign started (they're actually down 2%). When you consider that the Tories can tell us it's time for change after 13 years, that the government and PM are deeply unpopular, that Britain is in the grip of an historic recession, this lack of wow in the polls is actually a dismal failure to capitalise on a parade of Labour misfortunes.

Even Gillian Duffy, personally insulted by the Prime Minister, would rather vote for no-one at all than David Cameron's 'new' Conservatives.

Spoof Conservative posters to delight and amuse.

On walkabout throughout the campaign, he has failed to engage with the plebs. As one Labour official said, "It's like when you go to see a house and you don't like the decor... You've got to see beyond that." Unfortunately for Gordon, and as Sarah Beenie has told us time and again, you've got to have nice (or at least neutral) decor if you want to sell your house.

Are the personalities of the leaders really that important? Unfortunately, the increasing role of tv has put them under the microscope for us to judge like X Factor contestants at the expense of actually finding out what's going on in their policies.

Gillian Duffy's lamentable rise to fame is a perfect example of how it never rains but it pours. For me, what it really reveals is the pathetic hypocrisy of the people commenting on the topic. Nobody ever has a good word to say about good-for-nothing politicians, and yet there's this incredible moral outrage over something as pedestrian and commonplace as a man making polite conversation with a perfect stranger and then privately saying what he really thinks behind her back. As if this doesn't happen every single day! The only hypocrites in this situation are the ones beating Gordon over the head with it. Even Mrs Duffy isn't upset that he called her 'bigoted', she just objected to being called 'that woman'. Which is refreshingly honest since she appears to be not only bigoted, but stupid: "all these Eastern Europeans, where they are flocking in from?" Is this a trick question?

Brown quite rightly pointed out that although there are a million Europeans living in Britain, there are a hordes of Britons living in Europe. If Gillian Duffy thinks Rochdale has it bad, she should imagine a tidal wave of dirty foreigners coming in who can't even speak the language, demanding bilingual schools, starting their own political parties and taking seats in local elections! Fancy! And that's just what the Brits are up to in Spain.

Anyway. Back to Gordon. I personally think he's made an enormous contribution; I don't agree with everything he's done, but I believe he's a conviction politician who doesn't just say anything to get elected. But it's not enough for the fickle 'great' British public. My forecast is that he's doomed, and we'll have someone else leading the Labour party inside a month. Maybe Ed Miliband… he's kind of dishy.

Initially diagnosed as insect bites, probably bedbugs (thanks a lot, doctor), these mildly itchy red dots blossomed into ugly blisters over the next twenty-four hours. Instant quarantine no work for at least a week!

In fairness it's been fine. Other than the indignity of looking like a sufferer of some mediaeval plague, I've felt perfectly normal. It's not often you get a week off sick and are healthy enough to enjoy yourself. I've been watching lots of tv, playing Rise of Nations with Chris and Luke, and I've sat through the entire set of extended editions of The Lord of the Rings (including cast commentary). I've thoroughly enjoyed it and only left the apartment to see the doctor three times in ten days.

Incidentally, if you were wondering, chickenpox has nothing to do with chickens. The name derives either from the rash looking like chickpeas (or chickpea seeds) or is a corruption of Old English 'giccin', which means itching. Although mosquito bites are definitely itchier.

But the holiday's over. The scabs are dropping off. Hopefully I'll escape without being horribly disfigured by scars. Please send me your flawless skin vibes just in case!

National Australia Bank has removed the sparkly rainbow swags from its window, the disco balls have been retired for another year, the flags have been boxed until next February, and the tourists have all gone home. Oxford Street is once more just the province of the regular Sydneysiders and the occasional abusive drunk. Mardi Gras has well and truly finished (having said that, Fitness First still seems too full).

So in case you haven't participated in the post-mortem of the big weekend, I'll fill you in. I missed the Mardi Gras party last year on principle - the principle that although I always have fun, I spend half the night trying to describe where I am (in an enormous gyrating mass of partygoers) to various friends by SMS or answering their texts, and inevitably moving from venue to venue in search of other people/different music/variation/space/fresh air. But then everyone told me I missed a great party last year so I relented and we got tickets for this year. Needless to say, all of the above occurred just as it always does, although with the added bonuses of shows by George Michael (briefly) and Kelly Rowland. George (we're on first name terms since our duet the other week) only popped up halfway through 'Outside', but the crowd went wild! By the time Ms Rowland (we haven't been introduced) came on, I was much closer to the stage and sweating so profusely I could barely watch her perform her tired and overplayed top tune, 'When Love Takes Over'. Once she'd danced offstage, famous French dj, David Guetta, began his car alarm set that cleared the room. And that was pretty much it, although we stayed for another three hours, waiting for things to improve. Luckily, after hours of rest at home in bed, I had eight whole AMAZEBALLS hours of fun at Toybox, which I fail to adequately describe to you year after year, so I'll just say I had more clubbing fun in those eight hours than I did in the previous eleven months put together. And free soft-serve ice-cream should be a prerequisite at all dance parties.

Last weekend, by contrast, was much more laid back and relaxed. It began with a four-hour tussle with public transport to the Blue Mountains, a catalogue of errors with a cast of wrong trains, wrong lines, emergency use of google maps and a taxi, and train-replacement buses. By the time Bryan, John, and I arrived at Brian & Darren's Katoomba retreat, we were well in need of a hard drink. And if the weekend before was all about dancing until the calories were leaping out of my pores, this weekend was about replacing every single one with wine, cheese, wine, puff pastry and swiss sausage, wine, ice cream and chocolate sauce. And more wine.

Have you ever been to a Tupperware party? Did you even believe such epitomes of the 80s still existed? Halfway (?) between Katoomba and Sydney, we stopped to visit James & Marty, whose afternoon bbq metamorphosed into a veritable exposition of the glories of plastic kitchen items. Our facilitator solemnly informed us that some vegetables are light-breathers, others heavy-breathers, and require special fridge boxes to keep them from going floppy. She had us playing games as she showcased a parade of lilacly gorgeous tubs while simultaneously trying to buy our Tupper-praise with the lure of freebies. I must admit, I would have been tempted by the sheer brightly coloured ORDERLINESS of it all. But while there's an endless free supply of plastic tubs from the Italian downstairs, forking out $50 for a few boxes seems a little frivolous. We left amused, but empty-handed.

Hm. Whitney, George, mincing down Oxford St in teeny shorts, Mardi Gras parties, and now Tupperware. 2010 is getting off to quite a gay start. Lady Gaga coming next, to round off my trifecta of pop concerts...

Videos from the George and Kelly shows at the MG party taken with our trusty ixus