Somebody that I used to know – Gotye 2011

Thursday of this week, the 26^th of January, was Australia Day, a national public holiday in my native land to celebrate the arrival, 224 yrs ago, of Captain Arthur Phillip and his fleet of 12 prison ships filled with Britain’s finest bread-thieves, poorest prostitutes and canniest criminals. Unlike the Americans, who have thrust the Independence Day upon all humanity, reminding us annually of their self-designated supremacy over the known world as well as the lower echelons of their cinematic oeuvre, yes I am talking to you Will Smith, Australia Day is a relatively quiet affair.

In their homeland, Australians aren’t a particularly patriotic people. We aren’t united under God and we’ve never had to slay a Dragon to become a nation. One day, after the criminals had learned how to raise enough beef to keep Queen Victoria in filet for a lifetime, the English decided to afford us the right to govern ourselves. A century later Elizabeth let us introduce our own money and even make up our own flag. We just never really gave a s**t enough to fight. #

But, when flung to the far reaches of Europe and beyond upon the aluminium Flying Kangaroo, our native lethargy is replaced by a sanguine impulsion to remind all and sundry, even the decent man who sells me apples, of every microscopic claim to fame from that sparse red slab of dirt stuck to the earth somewhere below China. Did you know that the black box, Cate Blanchett, Animal Kingdom, Julian Assange and Gotye are Australian? If you didn’t, stand next to an Australian in a London pub and she’ll be sure to let you know. Whether you care to be told or not. 

Patriots we may not be, protective of our national treasures we are.

  Frocked up for Australia Day in London - 3 degrees

I don’t care how rude Russell Crowe was to that porter in New York, it was simply a case of the yanks not understanding how tight a window we emigrants have to call home on any given day. Julian Assange is not a rapist; he is the genius who exposed the hypocrisy of politics to the common man. I’ll allow that he desperately needs to rethink his hairdo. The Crocodile Hunter, far from being a man who preyed upon the innocent beasts of the swamps of Far North Queensland was a conservationist determined to protect the native fauna of his homeland. So concerned about their welfare, he died after giving a giant human sized stingray a cuddle.

We’ve even managed to find a little love in our hearts for the rusty headed Prime Minister, Julia Gillard, after her brush with death this week, on Australia Day! Dragged from among a crowd of protesters, Cinder-Julia-ella lost her glass slipper (a navy suede wedge pump) and was manhandled by her security guard into a waiting car. The image of the head of our government, in a headlock, wearing only one shoe, could have been mistaken for a snap of any drunken reveller being carried home after a few too many sherbets.  Instead, it was slapped across newspapers far and wide, Julia went home and had a spent the following days justifying the actions of her staff and Australians sympathised for a short time with the mumsy woman who leads the Nation.  

On Australia Day, we also announce the name of the next great Australian to be placed upon the great green and gold throne as Australian of the Year. This year, it was the rubber faced acting legend, Geoffrey Rush. He of the rather large nose piercing a sunburnt canvas of a visage, a passion for Shakespeare and most renowned as not being the guy who won an Oscar for The King’s Speech. Australian of the Year doesn’t hold the same potency as the awards the Queen gives to her own. There is no sir, no dame, and no sword tapped on the shoulder, just Julia in her best summer frock squeaking out your name.

Posh Vegemite in Selfridges. The English trying to gentrify our National Breakfast?

On the 26^th , the one thing I do miss over here in Francalia is the annual tradition of spending the day in the sunshine, listening to the Hottest 100. Triple J, the national broadcaster’s youth station has conducted an annual vote for the best song of the year since the 80’s. The 100 songs are played out over the course of the day with number one announced at around 6pm, just as everyone is packing up the BBQ to go home. On my last Australia Day in Sydney, I could hear the whole street respond as the songs were announced. Increasingly inebriated, the cries of disgust or joy at the placement of a favourite song become increasingly animated as day becomes night and one beer becomes twenty.

This year, Gotye took out the title, he of the dubiously French sounding name and Belgian heritage. The fact that he is now well respected throughout the world affords us the opportunity to induct another Australian into the hallowed halls of "Australians Who Aren’t Really Australian But We Tell Everyone They Are". Just ask Russell Crowe, Olivia Newton-John, Crowded House, Ben Folds and Sam Neill. All great Australians who simply happen to be born somewhere else.

No beer, just Tim Tams, a rather low key celebration at the office...

Listening to a bunch of songs on the radio while carbonising some beef on a barbeque and drinking your body weight in beer. Not an army parade or a frenzy of choirs singing the national anthem, but as much of a tradition as a 224-year-old nation can muster together.

Happy Australia Day.

 

 

 

#I am well aware that my simplified version of events appears to belittle the horrors inflicted upon the native people of Australia by the colonialists. My goal is to stick to what I know and have personally experienced rather than to patronise the exceptional cultural importance of the Aboriginal people.

 

 

Comments

[PG]

I loved reading this post! Just brilliant. Your word craft is a pleasure to read and the narrative is excellent. Made me feel patriotic just sitting here in Australia!!!

[MM]

Thanks so much for reading PG, I am so glad that you like my sarcastic musings...Take Care xM