An extract from the New Zealand leg of Aidan's world tour:

"The boat trip included a traditional Maori welcome, consisting of the presentation of a symbolic twig, a welcome to the craft, after a challenge made using a length of pole carved as a spear. A week later we heard a story of a similar ceremony before the trip where a nominated tourist was hit in the face with the spear during the challenge, resulting in the loss of all his teeth."

The dental accident does not remotely surprise BB, given the total lack of concern that Kiwis show for Health & Safety practices. Doubtless they slapped him on the back to help him spit out the last few fragments of molar and said, "Are y'alright? Good fer you!"

Coming from a country that is swathed in a cats cradle of H&S legislation and increasingly litigating to close the remaining holes, this care-free attitude can be refreshing. BB wasn't sufficiently refreshed to cast off our worries and join the Great White Shark Dive in Christchurch ("No diving experience required!"), but we were frequently exhilarated by taking a campervan around narrow hairpin bends with a sheer drop, no crash barrier and an unknown potential for oncoming traffic. ("Of course there's no barrier! Don't drive off the road, ya dummy!") Or shared road/rail single track bridges whose ends are obscured by a curve in the track. The Kiwis do not worry about this, even though the road sides are often fenced by a multitude of little white commemorative crosses. Presumably they figure that, since these crosses also appear alongside straight sections of road, you're as likely to die under a logging lorry on an open stretch as the side of a mountain. But then, they probably also drive with their eyes closed and one leg resting on the dash.

Such an attitude is completely antithetical to the English, whose existence is governed by the overwhelming need for a constant source of Worry. Firstly, worrying about where the toilets are. Then worrying about punctuality, about the weather (another source of high level stress in planning a NZ itinery), about what to do during the shark dive/parachute jump/spear-waving ceremony (obviously smiling is unadvised for that last one), about dying and especially, about everyone laughing at you while it happens. This makes NZ a highly stressful country for an Englishman, a state that is not helped by the permanent lack of concern evidenced by the natives and their slightly patronising smugness when you challenge them on it with questions like "Are you sure this rope is strong enough?" You can try any one of a number of extreme and dangerous activities in NZ, and they will cheerfully strap you into the appropriate gear, give you a quick word of advice ("Don't pull this, ok?"), clap you on the back and push you out of a boat or plane or off a high bridge with the words, "Good fer you!" These activities are generally very cheap. So is life out there.

At one point in our holiday, a hotelier regaled us with a story about a friend of his brother who offered flights in a microlight airplane and was not averse to frightening passengers with a few stunt tricks. We nodded and smiled, imagining some highly amusing incident involving airborne diarrhoea at the conclusion (which would be a fairly typical example of Kiwi humour). "But on the third flight, he stalled in the loop and crashed and they were all killed," he finished casually. Oh. Ah. Not that kind of story then. Ha. It's only a matter of time before the entire country is bankrupted in a massive manslaughter suit brought by the relatives of a deceased German tour party.

BB steers well clear of all that stupidity, yet even we managed to fall off a horse while there. The fact that we were a rank amateur rider was considered no barrier to mounting us on the friskiest and most strong-willed animal in the paddock.

Another refreshing visit to Aber over, during which BB even saw Aber's first and already notorious sex 'n' drugs shop, Little Amsterdam (on Pier Street should you require any lime green PVC fetish wear, as prominently displayed in the window). It's open today at 10:30. Local church leaders have already called for it to be closed down because "young people are vulnerable!" (whereas older people are obviously gullible). Yes, they may be susceptible to hoots of derision when they see the aforementioned window display which, other than the lingerie, could only offer a couple of plastic bongs (that looked like vacuum enlargement devices) and a really daring "Cannabis" calendar arranged in front of some cheap gift wrap.

Further up the road, another shopfront advertised "Rachel's Organic Juices". Now that really did sound filthy (and far more representative of Aber's pulse). But it's good to know that Rachel eats healthily and offers healthy eating herself.

The ironies pile up: Little Amsterdam is leasing space from ... Manders Toy Shop. (Aside: Manders used to sell plastic squeaky sharks that you could probably use to recreate the famous Led Zeppelin groupie/snapper fish incident.) And the owner can avoid the need for a licence if "a certain percentage of goods for sale have nothing to do with the sex industry" - hence, presumably, all the drugs paraphernalia too.

Remember that the BBC's Big Read web site is open to allow you to vote for your favourite book out of the "top 21". Remember too that you can vote multiple times (for random choices?), preferably using different PCs, and that you can completely falsify all the demographic information, thus making (more of) a mockery of the entire ridiculous poll. Use your vote unwisely.

Shots from Scotland and Northumbria.

There used to be a saying that in certain working class constituencies in Britain, one could pin a Labour rosette to a donkey and people would vote for it. The voters in California have reversed this aphorism by showing (arguably for the second time) that they will always vote for an ass whatever his political affiliation. Especially if the ass is a celebrity.