Photo credit (Australia): www.istockphoto.com
There was a moment last week when I conceded to myself that I had been “aussified”.
It’s a similar experience to being ossified – afterwards, I felt I had turned to bone.
After almost 30 years of living in Australia, but still carrying a UK passport, supporting Arsenal and favouring UK brands, Bird’s custard, Oxo and Branston pickle, words tumbled out of my mouth that I thought I would never utter.
For someone who still supports the Poms when “we” play cricket or rugby against Australia, and represents “England” against the Greeks, the Dutch, the Irish and the Australians in our annual game of boules in the park, I thought I was immune from truly embracing the Aussie culture.
After all, you wouldn’t catch me dead wearing a sleeveless vest from Bali advertising Bintang beer, nor Hard Yakka shorts, nor a pair of plastic thongs (just to clarify, I’m referring to the skimpy sandal-like footwear favoured by Aussie men, not the skimpy piece of underwear favoured by Aussie women),
And I would rather die of thirst than drink Fosters or XXXX when I could get Brit ale, either Old Speckled Hen or Theakston’s Old Peculier on tap.
True, I have made some concessions. The red wine from Margaret River is not a bad drop, my local beach is a darned sight better than the pebbles at Brighton, and the fish and chips here are worth waiting for because they’re freshly cooked and crisp, and haven’t been getting soggy in the oven warmer while waiting for a customer.
Despite all this I have always stuck stoically to a hearty, very stiff-upper-lip “Good Morning” when I pass others on walks with our dog.
Invariably, “G’day, mate” would be the response.
Last week the guy who passed me on my walk got his greeting in first.
“G’day, mate” he said,
It was early and followed a big night out, but I had no excuses.
“G’day, mate” I blurted out.
There, without thinking, I had uttered words that had been foreign to me all of my life in Oz.
G’day, mate.
Now I’m told it’s too late for counseling.
I’ll be off to Bali to bargain for my Bintang tank top, and asking for a “midi” of Victorian Bitter at my local pub.
Next, I’ll be cheering on the Aussies in the Ashes cricket Tests against England this summer.
And I’ll be hollering for the Wallabies to win the Rugby World Cup in New Zealand next year.
Although I’ll draw the line at Leyton Hewitt winning Wimbledon.
That’s the truth. Rigdy-didge
Featured image credit (kangaroo): Ockra/iStock
