All You Need to Know to be Australian

Australia stub

Australia stub (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

On picnics, the Esky is always too small, creating a food versus grog battle that
can only ever be resolved by leaving the salad at home.

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 backyards are for.

When on a country holiday, the neon sign advertising the Motel’s pool will
always be slightly larger than the pool itself.

There comes a time in every Australian’s life when he/she realises that the
Aerogard is worse than the mozzies.

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 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 sink 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’reckn?’

You favour either Holden or Ford – or a souped-up WRX with new kit and a bootful of subwoofer.

You make kooky films, sometimes about wayward road trips (across the outback preferably). Quite a few are crap.

You know all the words to Waltzing Matilda but not the national anthem.

Your nickname ends in ‘a’ or ‘o’.

You have a customised stubby holder.

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.

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 of 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.

You say ‘no worries’ quite often, whether you realise it or not.

The first thing guaranteed to get eaten at parties is fairy bread.

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