It was refreshing to be on a new continent: North America had been getting me down. Also their alcohol measurements were very stingy, whereas here in Australia I had discovered something called a Schooner, which made a tolerable gin measurement.

My good mood was also buoyed somewhat by having made good time, and whilst I was not back on schedule I had finally completed half of the world. I was a touch disappointed not to get the chance to go Crowded House hunting in New Zealand. Nevertheless Australia was a comfortable place, and one which had a rather good record of doing its own biggest selling artists in. Not only did Michael Hutchence put us out of his misery, but even Midnight Oil had suggested how to get rid of them (and I was looking forward to setting fire to some beds).

I guess my good mood was also helped by Crispian being on the other side of the ocean. Whilst I was a touch worried that yet again he would be spending all my money, it was nice to get him out of my hair. The downside to this seemed clear about eight hours later, after several schooners of gin and tonic. Lots of people had been taking the piss out of my received pronunciation, and I pointed out to them that I was just following a fine tradition of English women in Australia. Most notably Jenny Agutter in Walkabout. At which point I illustrated this by heading out into the desert. Or as they call it in Australia, The Bush.

THE BUSH (Kate that is)

The definite article is appropriate; the amount of coverage the return of Kate Bush is getting in the Sunday Supplements. Clearly certain editors had certain crushes when they were kids and these somewhat unfortunate chickens are coming back to roost. Yes, there was something unpleasantly perky about that poster of her Live In Hammersmith video, but come on, the woman is mad as cheese. Mad as American Processed Cheese Squares.

Consider her career. Born. Her parents name her Bush because of her hair. Aged fourteen: reads Wuthering Heights. Does not understand it. Writes a song about it. Dave Gilmour happens to hear it, lets her record it. It is a hit, as the great British public love an underdog eccentric. Especially ones that look like black poodles and sing songs about O Level set texts. Entire nation of sixteen year old kids fail their O Levels as they take Kate?s song to be a set of York Notes on Wuthering Heights. When asked the question: ?What are the main reasons for Heathcliff?s return to Cathy?? all the schoolkids answered ?Its so co-o-o-old.? Clearly this lack of a qualified intake with English O-Level directly led to the skills crisis and unemployment in the mid eighties.

Undaunted Bush built herself a studio, and locked herself in it: one assumed it also had state of the art security to stop the army breaking down the door and putting us out of our misery (Army Dreaming must be about this). Barely lucid songs about a woman being her husbands mistress, a man who uses his eyes as a nursery and a whole album where she sings with a rubbish Australian accent followed. A nation of wanking boys lapped them up. The record industry loved her too, as they never knew what to do with the “Best Female Artist” catalogue in the Brits.

And then nothing. I rejoiced. It is almost as if the Rubberband in the Rubberband Girl had happily snapped (Rubbish and should be Banned more like). But after most pop stars would have thrown in the towel because they finally realised they were rubbish, Bush is back to take on the Sugababes. (There are three of them, I don?t fancy her chances). And what has she been writing for the last thirteen years? Well, a song about Elvis.

Hello? He died twenty eight years ago. You had your chance. Not only that but her four year old son has drawn the single cover. One only hopes he has played all the instruments too on the album. Here?s to another thirteen years of silence, and there being no surprises in the best Female Artist category in the Brits for the next three years.