Dave first dipped his Cumberland snag into the Australian lifestyle many years ago and hasn’t really enjoyed a day since. Of course, he didn’t enjoy life in the UK either. Just a ray of sunshine, really.
As a backpacker, his experience was a bit of a mixed bag. Half joyful galavanting, and half sleeping with a pocket knife because his Ivan Milat-esque fruit picking supervisor was half an Emu Bitter away from Wolf Creekin’ him.
10 years later, Dave had grumbled his way into adulthood, and after laying a sweet blow into the Brexit ballsack, he decided he couldn’t fuck his nation up any further. It was time to uproot and move his little Manchester United’lings to convict island.
The immigration paperwork was a hoot. Each time he was asked to declare a criminal record he would turn to anyone who would listen and go full David Brent: “didn’t know that was still a requirement!” Good one.
Well, it doesn’t take long for Dave to be wooed into the limey arms of the Butler community. A non-eclectic Lil Britain filled with Crocs & cargo sex tourist, Premier League guernseys and Ralph Lauren polos with gigantic horse logos.
Alas, tragedy strikes in his 3rd week as he manages to cop 1st-degree sunburn on a deceptively wintery day. He writhes around his couch like a livid lobster while he bemoans loudly, “Australian TV is rubbish innit, I’m off to the boozer”.
Dave sits at the bar like an ex-pat tomato in the vege-patch of whinging cuntery, “I’m not tryna be funny mate, but this country’s UV is outta control innit?” The barman nods.
“While I’m at it, this Aussie lager is atrocious”. Well, the shitness of our beer certainly doesn’t stop him sinking 8 pints and wailing Oasis songs at the top of his lungs with a slew of other pome-bags.
Mere minutes into Dave’s gravy and public transport rant, his missus bursts into the pub like a short haired bull that was denied the opportunity to knock hooves with a manager. “What’s wrong luv? Did an Australian vomit on you?”
She proceeds to tell the barflies that she was almost forced to pay full price for a salad made with Australian produce. “The cheese is just foul, I’m not paying for that am I?” Her crumpet-scoffing audience is horrified and sympathetic.
Compared to the deep fried fuckery served in England’s chippies, Aussie produce must taste filthier than a Toys r Us catalogue on Jimmy Savile’s toilet floor.
Her negativity brings the doom and gloom of UK weather, and that gets Dave’s Big Ben ding-donging to the sounds of passion. He loves it when his wife shames herself for a 20% discount.
To the rest of us, she sounds like a chavy East Ender with a high pitched whine-drone that manages only to piss off dogs and Australians.
They say, when you love something, pick more holes in it than a Birmingham bus driver’s dental records.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?