So the siblings and I all boarded flights from Vancouver to Brisbane, via LA. Me in 1a. The others in, well, I honestly can’t say. But I do know I entered every time zone well ahead of them.

In total, we checked 15 bags between us.

Of course, when we arrive in Brisbane, Karma sneaks up and gives me a nipple cripple. My four bags, and only my four bags (including my golf clubs), are the only ones missing.

So I’ve gone from sub-zero temps, to the tropics, and I have nothing to wear (the mankini was in bag 2). Must remember to keep this in my carry-on in future, if only to make customs inspections that much more entertaining.

Anyway it is at this time, that my brother and his partner inform me that for Christmas they bought me these nifty devices that attach to your luggage, which you can then track on your iPhone.

Fuck you, irony! *shakes fist*

So it’s only the first day, and I have massive tilt already. This trip is not boding well, I can feel it in me waters.

Add to that, I had to be in Melbourne two days after I arrive, with golf on the menu, amongst other things.

But fortunately, the gods shone, with all of my baggage turning up the next day. No excuse was given, aside from a conveyor belt breaking down in Vancouver. How it was only my four bags, out of the fifteen we checked simultaneously that were caught up in the great Vancouver conveyor meltdown is a question for the annals. I’m too over it to come up with a good conspiracy theory. Maybe my bags tested positive for Smurfiness, I don’t know. Throw your thoughts in the comments section if you have a juicy idea.

So with all of my luggage safely returned, along with my golf clubs, when I did head down to Melbourne, I couldn’t use the “hire club” excuse when I got my delectable ass handed to me on a platter. I couldn’t hit a fairway. I couldn’t buy a putt. I couldn’t sneak an unseen foot wedge out of the rough on the 14th. I think I even scrambled the GPS in my golf cart, the amount of territory I covered. So all I can say is, fuck you golf, you fucking fuck.

Dodgy golf aside, I had the chance to meet up with a few friends while in Melbourne, held a few business meetings, and caught up with Shane Warne who was in town for the Boxing Day Test and the launch of the Big Bash Twenty20 cricket.

It was a great couple of days to help unwind before jetting back to the Gold Coast to start the Christmas Countdown, and to respectfully celebrate Festivus. I’ll be airing my grievances in a later post, else this becomes War and Peace, but suffice to say, I inevitably caught the flu.

Flu shmoo, I hear you say? Mock me not! This was full-on man flu, which had me out of action for four days, including Christmas. There’s nothing better than having a raging fever, in sub-tropical heat. I must have sweated out some fierce demons, let me tell you. No-one wanted to visit me in my room for more than it takes to say “hope you’re feeling better, champ” and then step outside to play pool pony polo and sip mojitos.

Merry Karmaristmas, Gaz.

So my long awaited family get together more or less passed me by, but I was able enjoy some time with family, had the chance to binge watch a few long-awaited TV series, and received heaps of Smurf presents so it wasn’t a total wash.

I’m now back in Melbourne for some personal business, and New Year’s shenanigans.

I will need to rely on several of you to fill in the obligatory blanks over the next few days (and likely pony up some bail money). Will keep the rest of you posted, good people.

Til then, have a Smurfy end to Twenty Thirteen. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Seriously, don’t. That’s some sick shit. You should be ashamed of yourself.