We have been in Australia for some time now so we are well placed to make a few observations about the culture of this great country. Indeed, we have taken this part of our reportage so seriously we engaged in extensive pre-travel research at Tesco’s South Queensferry Australian wine shelf.
There is a popular misconception that Australians wander around singing operatic arias all day. This stems from the iconic status of Sydney’s truly beautiful Opera House. Believe me, most Aussies can’t sing for toffee – particularly the man in the room next door.
One of the great Australian pastimes is having a ‘barbie’. You can find these structures all over the land and they are free to use (just turn on the electric or gas and away you go). Here you see a fair sized Golden Snapper (stuffed with coriander & parsley) gently baking to go with tatties and a nice green salad on the side. Apologies for the fuzzy image – Sian was experimenting with taking pictures whilst holding a glass of chilled chardonnay and the camera in the same hand.
You may find it interesting to compare how this is done in Scotland. For a start it’s not 32C and it’s not tropical sunshine - no - it’s bloody raining again. That’s what led me to invent the Brady Barbrella (patent pending).
Australian men are sports daft. However, they can become a little confused. They all hate the Poms (fair enough), but - then - every Sunday afternoon they pretend they are English. All togged out in white (as if they are medical orderlies) they set about playing the cricket. As if that wasn’t shameful enough they also play at the rugga.
This behaviour is all the more mysterious as they have a perfectly good sport of their own. And it better suits the Aussie character. It’s called AFL or Australian football. The aim of the game is unclear. With about 28 players a side charging about, they have no boundaries, the playing zone is as much grass as the stadium has and they get to thump, kick and throw the ball in any direction (disputes are settled by a punch in the face). But they enjoy it like hell (so do the Sheilas on account of the scanty tight fitting strip).
I met the Hawthorn Hawks top kicker and their coach at a recent sporting event. They gave me a signed stubbie holder (more Aussie culture). I’m a Hawks fan for life – maybe the only one in Scotland.
Finally, the Australian sense of humour. The sign below is a warning about jelly fish that kill you – no ifs or buts – get stung and you are dead. Notwithstanding, this dire warning, they assume you will ignore it and when you dash out of the sea in agony they suggest you cover yourself in the vinegar provided before you lie down and die smelling like a fish supper.
Hello Tom and Sian,
Interested in your comments about sport. I once was quite briefly in Australia. I did see some Aboriginees. I didn't get to speak to them, but they seemed quite likeable. Apart from them I thought the inhabitants fairly indistinguishable from the Estuary English - the same whiney accent and an inexplicable ability to be hearty about cricket, the merest mention of which in my case induces acute narcolepsy.
Still, I was hardly in Australia long enough to get beyond the stereotype, and I do know an Australian in Edinburgh - a lecturer in maths - who seems to have fled the place of his birth, among other reasons, to escape the cricket.
But they do have a pretty smart Opera House, that I grant you. It seems an odd sort of observation, but there was something about Sydney that put me in mind of Glasgow. Not the weather, obviously - something to do with the slightly gallus brashness of the place perhaps, a lot of culture too, and the grid pattern of city centre streets.
Beaches are a sort of nightmare to me. I learned to fear them as a small boy when I was taken as a wartime "treat" to Carnoustie, prodded forward into the sea wearing an already damp and hardly figure hugging woollen bathing costume in a brown and yellow wasp striped pattern (not at all the sort of garment you'd see these days at Bondi), only to be slightly stung by a feeble and very probably frightened Scottish North Sea jellyfish. So why anyone would go within a mile of any ocean when contact with the water is likely to result in instant death from creatures who spend their days patrolling the waters looking for people to kill, is a mystery to me.
So I feel nothing but awe for the mettle, the daring, the sheer boldness of Danger Woman, and Tom's sheer indefatigability in keeping up with her. Her exploits continue hugely to entertain, and to shame me for my timidity.
Keep writing,
Scott