- Joined
- Apr 1, 2003
- Posts
- 14,971
- Reaction score
- 153
- Points
- 63
Your next door neighbours can be from Tunisia, Israel, Indonesia, Japan, Zimbabwe, Iraq, Brazil, Spain, Malaysia...
The Greeks and Mexicans next door ask you over to have a barbeque.
You don't actually use the words 'sheila' or 'shrimp'.
You feel obliged to spread salty black stuff that looks like congealed motor oil on bread and actually grow to like it.
You actively dislike Americans, but watch their TV, eat their food and worship their idols.
You think Tall Poppy Syndrome is a national condition.
Democracy means the freedom to draw caricatures of John Howard.
The closest you ever got to going overseas was your packet of 5 Days In Rio grundies.
A posh meal = an all-you-can-eat buffet.
The term "musical instrument" also extends to wobbly bits of ply-wood, hand saws, gum leafs and combs.
Your most offensive curse also doubles as an exclamation of awe or amazement, like, "fark orf!"
All of your internationally famous people don't live here.
You think footballers dressing up in drag on TV is funny (but your son being gay isn't).
You relish test cricket - the longest, slowest game in sport (and that's not even counting the replays). After all, what else gives you an excuse to sit on your arse for five days, watch TV and drink piss with your mates?
You don't drink Fosters, but you let the world think you do.
The only thing better than beating the Poms at ANY sport is giving them shit for it.
You love, adore and admire a particular team/sportstar/actor on a winning streak - until they lose. Then they're just crap and 'past it.'
You can compress several words into one - ie 'g'day', 'd'yareckn?' 'fuck'n'ell!' This allows for more space for profanities.
You favour either Holden or Ford - or a souped-up WRX with new kit and a bootful of subwoofer.
Driving down the main street/beach road playing bad techno is your idea of a perfect Saturday night / Sunday arvo.
You make kooky films, sometimes about wayward road trips (across the outback preferably). Quite a few are crap.
You know all the words to Khe Sahn but not the national anthem.
Your nickname ends in 'a' or 'o'.
You have a customised stubby holder.
Your soap stars become pop singers and move to the UK.
You've ever used the words - grouse, tops, ripper, choice, sick, rad, exo, ace, wicked, ballistic - to mean good. And then you place 'bloody' in front of it when you really mean it.
Your cooking apron has plastic breasts on it.
The "Aussie Aussie Aussie! Oi Oi Oi!" chant has been a religious experience in the past.
The blokes at the local gym think your weight training is an opportunity to ask you out on a date.
The big national sporting events are men-only.
Your politicians believe than sticking the prefix 'un' in front of your nationality is an effective way of making you sit down and shut up.
Our mantras are 'fair go for all', 'mateship' and 'little Aussie battler' - but we still publicly condemn those with different viewpoints to us.
The barbeque is a male-dominated arena. And the women do the salads.
'Fair go for all' excludes indigenous people.
An eight-hour trip to go camping for the weekend isn't out of the question or excessive.
You take pride in living in a tolerant multicultural society but firmly believe that all Poms and Kiwis are fair game.
You insist on asking every celebrity who steps off an aircraft what they think of Australia. If the response is not overwhelmingly positive, they should be subjected to immediate public ridicule.
The private lives of footy and cricket players become more important than local and national news stories.
Slick pick-up lines like 'Wanna root?' and 'Carn, show us yer tits' can constitute male-to-female conversation.
You say 'no worries' quite often, whether you realise it or not.
You realise you have no Bill of Rights.
The first thing guaranteed to get eaten at parties is fairy bread.
You actually get these jokes and pass them on to other friends from Australia.
The Greeks and Mexicans next door ask you over to have a barbeque.
You don't actually use the words 'sheila' or 'shrimp'.
You feel obliged to spread salty black stuff that looks like congealed motor oil on bread and actually grow to like it.
You actively dislike Americans, but watch their TV, eat their food and worship their idols.
You think Tall Poppy Syndrome is a national condition.
Democracy means the freedom to draw caricatures of John Howard.
The closest you ever got to going overseas was your packet of 5 Days In Rio grundies.
A posh meal = an all-you-can-eat buffet.
The term "musical instrument" also extends to wobbly bits of ply-wood, hand saws, gum leafs and combs.
Your most offensive curse also doubles as an exclamation of awe or amazement, like, "fark orf!"
All of your internationally famous people don't live here.
You think footballers dressing up in drag on TV is funny (but your son being gay isn't).
You relish test cricket - the longest, slowest game in sport (and that's not even counting the replays). After all, what else gives you an excuse to sit on your arse for five days, watch TV and drink piss with your mates?
You don't drink Fosters, but you let the world think you do.
The only thing better than beating the Poms at ANY sport is giving them shit for it.
You love, adore and admire a particular team/sportstar/actor on a winning streak - until they lose. Then they're just crap and 'past it.'
You can compress several words into one - ie 'g'day', 'd'yareckn?' 'fuck'n'ell!' This allows for more space for profanities.
You favour either Holden or Ford - or a souped-up WRX with new kit and a bootful of subwoofer.
Driving down the main street/beach road playing bad techno is your idea of a perfect Saturday night / Sunday arvo.
You make kooky films, sometimes about wayward road trips (across the outback preferably). Quite a few are crap.
You know all the words to Khe Sahn but not the national anthem.
Your nickname ends in 'a' or 'o'.
You have a customised stubby holder.
Your soap stars become pop singers and move to the UK.
You've ever used the words - grouse, tops, ripper, choice, sick, rad, exo, ace, wicked, ballistic - to mean good. And then you place 'bloody' in front of it when you really mean it.
Your cooking apron has plastic breasts on it.
The "Aussie Aussie Aussie! Oi Oi Oi!" chant has been a religious experience in the past.
The blokes at the local gym think your weight training is an opportunity to ask you out on a date.
The big national sporting events are men-only.
Your politicians believe than sticking the prefix 'un' in front of your nationality is an effective way of making you sit down and shut up.
Our mantras are 'fair go for all', 'mateship' and 'little Aussie battler' - but we still publicly condemn those with different viewpoints to us.
The barbeque is a male-dominated arena. And the women do the salads.
'Fair go for all' excludes indigenous people.
An eight-hour trip to go camping for the weekend isn't out of the question or excessive.
You take pride in living in a tolerant multicultural society but firmly believe that all Poms and Kiwis are fair game.
You insist on asking every celebrity who steps off an aircraft what they think of Australia. If the response is not overwhelmingly positive, they should be subjected to immediate public ridicule.
The private lives of footy and cricket players become more important than local and national news stories.
Slick pick-up lines like 'Wanna root?' and 'Carn, show us yer tits' can constitute male-to-female conversation.
You say 'no worries' quite often, whether you realise it or not.
You realise you have no Bill of Rights.
The first thing guaranteed to get eaten at parties is fairy bread.
You actually get these jokes and pass them on to other friends from Australia.
...
