6 Feet (Down) Under

The bigger the hat, the smaller the farm.

The shorter the nickname, the more they like you.

Whether it’s the opening of Parliament, or the launch of a new art gallery there is no Australian event that cannot be improved by a sausage sizzle.

If the guy next to you is swearing like a wharfie he’s probably a media billionaire. Or on the other hand, he may be a wharfie.

There is no food that cannot be improved by the application of tomato sauce.

On the beach, all Australians hide their keys and wallets by placing them inside their sandshoes. No thief has ever worked this out.

Industrial design knows of no article more useful than the plastic milk crate.

All our best heroes are losers. (Shane Warne might just be a case in point)

The alpha male in any group is he who takes the barbecue tongs from the hands of the host and blithely begins turning the snags.

It’s not summer until the steering wheel is too hot to hold.

A thong is not a piece of scanty swimwear, as in America, but a fine example of Australian footwear.

A group of sheilas wearing black rubber thongs may not be as exciting as you had hoped.

It is proper to refer to your best friend as “a total bastard”. By contrast, your worst enemy is “a bit of a bastard”.

Historians believe the widespread use of the word “mate” can be traced to the harsh conditions on the Australian frontier in the 1890s, and the development of a code of mutual aid, or mateship”. Alternatively, Australians may just be really hopeless with names.

The wise man chooses a partner who is attractive not only to himself, but to the mosquitoes.

If it can’t be fixed with pantyhose and fencing wire, it’s not worth fixing.

The most popular and widely praised family in any street is the one that has the swimming pool.

It’s considered better to be down on your luck than up yourself.

The phrase “we’ve got a great lifestyle” means everyone in the family drinks too much.

If invited to a party, you should take cheap red wine and then spend all night drinking the host’s beer. (Don’t worry, he’ll have catered for it).

If there’s any sort of free event or party within a hundred kilometres, you’d be a mug not to go.

The phrase “a simple picnic” is not known. You should take everything you own. If you don’t need to make three trips back to the car, you’re not trying.

Unless ethnic or a Pom, you are not permitted to sit down in your front yard, or on your front porch.
Pottering about, gardening or leaning on the fence is acceptable. Just don’t sit. That’s what back-yards are for.

The tarred road always ends just after the house of the local mayor.

On picnics, the Esky is always too small, creating a food versus grog battle that can only ever be solved by leaving the food behind.

We are the people of a free nation of blokes, sheilas and the occasional wanker. We come from many lands (although a few too many of us come from New Zealand), and although we live in the best country in the world, we reserve the right to bitch and moan about it whenever we bloody like. We are One Nation but divided into many States.

First, there’s Victoria, named after a queen who didn’t believe in lesbians. Victoria is the realm of Mossimo turtlenecks, cafe latte, grand final day, and big horse races. Its capital is Melbourne, whose chief marketing pitch is that “it’s liveable”. At least that’s what they think. The rest of us think it is too bloody cold and wet.

Next, there’s NSW, the realm of pastel shorts, macchiato with sugar, thin books read quickly and millions of dancing queens. Its capital Sydney has more queens than any other city in the world and is proud of it. Its mascots are Bondi lifesavers that pull their Speedos up their cracks to keep the left and right sides of their brains separate.

Down south we have Tasmania, a State based on the notion that the family that bonks together stays together. In Tassie, everyone gets an extra chromosome at conception. Maps of the State bring smiles to the sternest faces. It holds the world record for a single mass shooting, which the Yanks can’t seem to beat no matter how often they try.

South Australia is the province of half-decent reds, a festival of foreigners and bizarre axe murders. SA is the state of innovation. Where else can you so effectively reuse country bank vaults and barrels as in Snowtown, just out of Adelaide (also named after a queen). They had the Grand Prix, but lost it when the views of Adelaide sent the Formula One drivers to sleep at the wheel.

Western Australia is too far from anywhere to be relevant. It’s main claim to fame is that it doesn’t have daylight saving because if it did, all the men would get erections on the bus on the way to work. WA was the last state to stop importing convicts and many of them still work there in the government and business.

The Northern Territory is the red heart of our land. Outback plains, sheep stations the size of Europe, kangaroos, Jackaroos, emus, Uluru, and dusty kids with big smiles. It also has the highest beer consumption of anywhere on the planet and its creek beds have the highest aluminium content of anywhere too. Although the Territory is the centrepiece of our national culture, few of us live there and the rest prefer to flyover it on our way to Bali.

And there’s Queensland. While any mention of God seems silly in a document defining a nation of half arsed sceptics, it is worth noting that God probably made Queensland, as its beautiful one day and perfect the next. Why he filled it with dickheads remains a mystery.

Oh yes and there’s Canberra. The less said the better.

We, the citizens of Oz, are united by Highways, whose treacherous twists and turns kill more of us each year than murderers. We are united in our lust for international recognition, so desperate for praise we leap in joy when a rag tag gaggle of corrupt IOC officials tells us Sydney is better than Beijing. We are united by a democracy so flawed that a political party albeit a redneck gun toting one, can get a million votes and still not win one seat in Federal Parliament. Not that we’re whingeing, we leave that to our Pommy immigrants.

We want to make “no worries mate” our national phrase, “she’ll be right mate” our national attitude and “Waltzing Matilda” our national anthem (so what if it’s about a sheep-stealing crim who commits suicide). We love sport so much our newsreaders can read the death toll from a sailing race and still tell us who’s winning.

And we’re the best in the world at all the sports that count, like cricket, netball, rugby league and union, AFL, roo shooting, two up and horse racing. We also have the biggest rock, the tastiest pies, and the worst dressed Olympians in the known universe. Only in Australia can a pizza delivery get to your house faster than an ambulance. Only in Australia do we have bank doors wide open, no security guards, or cameras but chain the pens to the desk.

Stand proud Aussies - we shoot, we root, we vote. We are girt by sea and pissed by lunchtime. Even though we might seem a racist, closed minded, sports obsessed little people, at least we feel better for it.

I am, you are, we are Australian!

P.S We also shoot and eat the two animals that are on our National Crest!!!!……… No other country has this distinction!

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