Mr Australia Day

Being an Aussie means something different to everyone. However, we are all united by an unfaltering resolve to face the global challenge with a handshake and an ice cold pint of staunch optimism. We are not an ungrateful lot, we know damn well that we can wake up on either side of our nation’s bed and have the sun gently dry up the tears of yesterdays woes. Australia Day stands proud as the eye of the storm, even amongst the brewing tsunami of life’s pressures, we unite as a nation and embrace the truest Australian tradition: mateship.

Barry wakes up early on Australia Day in a slight haze from last night’s frolics. Today is not a day to surrender to his two-day collective hangover. Even the warm Aussie breeze seems to be whistling the same tune, “suck it up Barry, you weak prick”. Barry is never one to ignore the gentle rustling of a violent breeze, so he springs up and gets to the task of peeling his cooked mates off his couches, “bacons & eggs, let’s go”.

After a feed of slightly burnt bacon and cold toast, Barry slips into his Aussie Day-best, a pair of Billabong boardies, some Havaianas and sombrero that he picked up a few years ago when he bought a carton of Sol. He won’t be drinking any poor-mans Corona today though, he heads off to Mane Liquor in his flogged out Ute that proudly has the two mini Aussie flags flapping, and talks turkey with the lads before inevitably deciding on a block of VB. The Mane Lads might want Barry to branch out and develop his beer palate but accept his true blue dedication to one of Australia’s finest lagers.

Barry hosts an Aussie Day party every year given his proximity to the South Perth Foreshore. The tradition started before the Foreshore became a turbulent river of arrests, move-on notices and confiscated brewskies. A state of affairs that we could accept if the decision by the police to break the damn walls of drinking-freedom resulted in the flag-waving boofheads being washed into a riverbank of acceptable social standards. Alas, as all prohibition invariably does, the men in Australian flag capes and stubby holder bracelets just moved onto a different grassed area to conduct themselves in a style that is barely befitting of a UFC cage.

A few of Barry’s mates are still kinda fried from Andy C and have decided to start up a game of Centurion, while others are getting well involved in the Triple J Hottest 100 while sipping ice cold bevvies straight from the abundant eskies at the party. Darts are blazing, beers are foaming, and there is undeniable pleasantness that warms everyone. The day is pure magic, and it manages to hocus-poke a frivolity into even the most serious of lads. Barry pisses himself laughing as he sees his “oh-so-mature” accountant mate push a girl into the pool and then proceed to vomit a little on himself. Fuck it, it’s a country of piss-heads, get used to it.

Eventually, the sun begins to set on the day’s shenanigans, and there is only one way to welcome Australia Day night: a few pingers while you canoodle with anyone that’s keen and watch the mediocre sky show. Barry gets lucky and hooks up with a friend of a friend: awww yeh, pingers and fingers while the sky is lit up like a Mandurah light bulb.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?