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Come to Australia: "So where the bloody hell are you?" read the advertising slogans enticing you to endless sunny beaches, unforgettable sunsets... blah blah blah. So off I went, expecting all of the above and more.
There was a 30 year drought in Australia, people had been put on ultra water bans. Reseviours were running out of water, people had been refused the human right of washing ones car. I use the past tense because this was all the norm until I ARRIVED! It's ok people, not only will i bring you rain, i will bring you so much water it floods. The worst floods you've ever seen. And I will bring you wind!!! so much mother fucking wind it forms one of the biggest cyclones EVER!!!! HURRAHHH!
If I hear one more person say "worst weather in living memory" or "coldest I've felt in years" I'll throw a boomerang at them. Moral of the story, don't buy into the dream. British people will never escape the rain...
Sadly, Australians avidly believe that Vegemite is better than Marmite. They believe this with such passion and rigour that they regularly confront you with the 'vegemite vs marmite' argument. They evoke passionate and completely unrealistic views. Because, anybody with a brain and active taste buds know that Marmite is the best.
The argument that they are practically the same product (tasty, black, spreadable joy) is, without doubt, the stupidest thing anybody could ever say.
Spot the difference...
A ute and it's owner are the Australian equivalent of a rude boy and a really loud, obnoxious moped. Ute's come in an array of vibrant colours, and it seems, the more vibrant and metallic, the bigger the dick driving the vehicle. Let it be known however, that Australia's 'rude boys' are like fluffy bunnies in comparison to their English cousins. Almost like slightly annoyed gays, driving their rainbow coloured dick-mobiles. Cute.
I was stupid enough to believe people (who in hindsight were of very little respectable standing) when they said you get shitloads of money when you submit your tax return.
So off I go, spending two hours of my precious time sweating over how to fill the form out correctly, and off i go, with a hop, skip and a jump to the post box, my big gleaming smile interrupted only by whistling outbursts of Sinatra. Oh how smug was I.
Fast forward one month. Dark clouds are gathering over St Kilda, and I open my post. It turns out, I had unwittingly declared I don't pay enough tax, and subsequently hit with $650 bill. And then it started to rain.
