A Guide to Aussie Values

Hello prospective immigrant. Welcome to 'Straya, we have sun, beaches and a variety of creatures that try desperately to kill you (although we try to keep them contained to outer suburban duplexes). Here is a convenient guide to fitting in:

1. Helping thy fellow man avoid traffic infringements 

Generally, there are more cockheads on Aussie roads than around Old McDonald's chopping block. It is customary to flash your lights to warn oncoming traffic of the presence of speed cameras. Remember to politely wave when the favour is returned to you, or you may find yourself on the wrong end of a tyre iron swing.

Also post the location of booze buses online, to allow your mates to creep the back streets in peace after they assure you that they “probably wouldn’t blow over" but don't want to "take the risk".

2. Casual Racism

Aussies don’t mind a bit of casual racism. However how you deliver your ethnic slurs is important. To avoid accusations, preface any witty observation you have about someone's ethnic background by first saying “don’t mean to sound racist but…” Boom, you have now entered an all you can eat buffet of race-based assumptions.

Note, graduating from casual to full-time racism is generally frowned upon unless you have an Aussie flag as your cover photo and despite your UK heritage, consider yourself a first Australian.

3. Giving People Shit 
Ever wondered what it’s like to have the kind of mate that you want to punch in the mouth most days? Well in Australia, mateship is defined by how much shit you can give each other. It’s our way and we love it, ya dickhead.

Does it build an undercurrent of deep simmering resentment that will eventually explode after 7 pints and a dispute about whose round it is? Yeh probably, but fuck it you pot-bellied flog, get into it because if you’re not copping an absolute shellacking on the daily, it probably means no one likes you.

4. The Right to a Sausage Sizzle

The one cuisine that unites the fish finger munching mongos and unbearable foodies, is the humble sausage sizzle. White bread, a snag, onions and some sauce. Got it?

We don’t ask for much, but to have a snag waiting for us when we go to Bunnings on a weekend, endure our children’s sporting matches and of course exercise our democratic right to vote.

Oh, and don’t get too excited to pick up the tongs. Do you even know how to splash beer on the BBQ? No, then calm down, because fucking up a BBQ will get you sent back quicker than a Thai mail-order bride who brings a different kind of sausage to the table.

5. Blame it on the Booze

Australia’s favourite excuse for shithouse carry-on is that the person had a few too many. Fuck it, we love a drink and sometimes we’ll glass one another, plough into our neighbour’s fences or impregnate our mate's wife in the back seat of a dual cab Hi-Lux.

So help us paint the town spew, and remember to blame the beers for any little hiccups along the way.
Could you just be a insufferable boor? Probably, but in Australia, we leave the reflection upon our own personality flaws to the Magistrate buddy.

Tips on How to Survive Friday Lunch Drinks

For many office drones, the promise of a couple of frothies at Friday lunch is the oasis in an otherwise barren desert of mundane corporate life. Many of us yearn for an hour of freedom, but proper care should be exercised, especially in your younger years.

1. Freshen up: there is a lot to enjoy about a pub, but smelling like one isn't on that list. Make sure you are well armed with breath mints and cologne/perfume. Of course, subtlety is key, as swaggering in smelling like a Joop-soaked bum-grabber in a Subiaco nightclub is a clear sign of guilt. 

2. Resist the urge to banter: it is scientifically proven that 2 pints make you a funnier and more charismatic person (at least in your own head). However coming back from lunch and acting like you're Jerry Seinfeld is a bit of a giveaway. The peak of the buzz will last for about 20 minutes after your last pint, so it's best to weather your own chatty storm alone in your office or hide out in the toilet.

3. Look busy: always have a desk covered in shit. Documents, highlighters, post-its are all essential in pulling off the illusion you are elbow deep into some important business. Looking busy will reduce the odds you will be asked to perform a task beyond the scope of what you can really be bothered with after your lunchtime soiree.

4. Mid-Afternoon hangover: it's not a bucket next to the bed kind of hangover, more of an existential crisis of looming self-loathing and sadness that you are stuck in an office on such a beautiful day. This will probably sink in at around the 3:30/4 mark, so if you don't have any valium on hand, go for a walk and get a strong coffee to get you over the hump.

5. Eye on the prize: given your workplace will feel like a prison at the peak of your mid-arvo hangover, you must view the ever nearing after-work drinks as your release date. Within a few hours, you will be sitting around a boardroom slamming down Crown Lagers with people you don't particularly enjoy drinking with. Nevertheless, that's office life, and you signed up for it.

The Human Zoo - Mr & Ms Splendour in the Grass

Ben & Celeste claim they need your help to send them to Byron Bay to use their “influence” to make a “powerful statement about poverty”. In reality, they set up a GoFundMe so they can get as cooked as a panicked teenager’s internal organs after being protected & served by a police sniffer dog unit. 

Flights to the Gold Coast: $1600, campervan rental: $1300, Ticket to Splendour in the Grass: $784, getting other idiots to pay for your pinga pilgrimage: priceless.

Infuriatingly, the pair raised their goal and fly to the Gold Coast a few days earlier. They pose next to their “humble chariot” (the most expensive campervan available for hire) and blog about “understanding what it's like to not have a home, to be a rolling stone”. Ughhh.

They pass through a little town and Celeste jumps out and gets Ben to photograph her holding a “FREE HUGS” sign. This act of universal acceptance hits a snag when a crusty vagrant catches Celeste unaware and gives her a hobo-hug she'll never forget. Celeste flees into the van - universal love & acceptance is for attractive people for fuck's sake.

As they leave, Ben’s video camera is still rolling and captures Celeste hysterically screaming for homeless people to be culled as she rubs down her entire body in hand sanitiser, “line them up I’ll pull the first fucking trigger babes, sah gross, not cool”.

The self-professed “gypsies” arrive at Splendour in their get-ups. Celeste is dressed like Jenny from Forrest Gump if she had glittery braids and an Indian head dot. Whereas Ben simply looks like he’d surf your sister’s couch for a month and only pay her with a shit love song and a case of the incurable gonorrhoea superbug.

They upload a ton of photos of them waffling on about their “tribe” and within a couple of hours, they are in the depths of a particular smacky Ket & MD bender. They decide to test their “deep soulmate connection” with a bit of group sex.

Well, 30 minutes into the freak-fest, Ben has a few realisations. Firstly, due to the effects of his drugs he's softer than 3-ply and secondly, it’s not much fun to watch your misso get ploughed by 3 scene-kids while a hottie stares at your flaccid inadequacy with pity. The slow cooker of resentment begins simmering.

After 3 days, they are crashing faster than Elon's reputation and are decidedly less spiritual. They begin complaining about living in a van, which after the first night is stickier than a priest's robe during a Home Alone marathon. The mood is tense and Celeste drops a bombshell, “you really don’t understand my vibe babes”. Ooo, too soon.

In retaliation, Ben uploads the footage of Celeste calling for the Hobo-caust, which if we are being critical, is probably at odds with the new-age hippie, love everyone, raise awareness of the disadvantaged plate of shit she tried to feed you all before.

Art by www.facebook.com/shakey.com.au

Tips on Being a Hot, Young Professional

So, the very definition of human achievement has been redefined by you securing a $40k a year graduate position through a family friend that owed your dad a favour. Well done. It's time to walk the walk.

1. Occupation Dropping - try to imagine the horror of meeting a new person and not alerting them to the fact you are a lawyer or engineer within the first minute of dialogue. For most young professionals the thought is too much to bear. A classic move is to ask, "so what do you do?" and then, like a wanker-crocodile, wait patiently for them to return the query and subsequently be gripped in the jaws of your brilliance.

2. Talk the Talk - based on the number of times you say shit like "colleagues", "my clients" and "networking", people could be confused into thinking you are being sponsored by corporate jargon. Above all, make sure you tell people how busy you are at all times. Which is technically true, all that paperwork for "your client" ain't going to photocopy itself (don't worry you are in fact fooling everyone).

3. Engage on Social Media - if you have a job, odds are people are going to assume you go there most days. Well, the first rule of being a hot, young professional is to never assume! So "check-in" at the office and accompany it with an enthralling caption such as "my second home lol" or "back at it again, I never leave!" Let everyone know you are a corporate role model, nay, a national treasure, one so important that Nicholas Cage might try to save you.

4. Shit on Blue Collar Industries - never let the facts get in the way of your belief in the corporate sectors superiority. Sure, you don't make as much money as your sparky friend, and you don't knock off at 3 pm to enjoy a beer in the sun like your landscaper cousin, but do they have a leather document holder? Didn't think so, take that you pleb fucks. If you are an engineer, make sure you patronise the workmen who are captivated by the gospel of your knowledge that you have obtained after being on the job for a month. Preach it!

5. Live at Home - leather document holders, power-suits and the repayments on that entry level Swiss watch you bought can be burdensome, even for a Wall Street Baller like yourself. Now, sharing an address with your parents may seem unsuccessful but remember, in the scheme of things, you are a baby graduate turtle, clambering for the safety of the 3 months probation-ocean, but like so many of your colleagues you will most likely be smashed by the wave of an unfortunate drunk X-Mas Party performance or swallowed whole by the Albatross of redundancy.

The Human Zoo - Mr Dexies

Charlie doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him. It was the summer of ‘03 that he was prescribed the holiest of holy prescriptions: 100 D5’s per month, but Charlie was always prescribed 3 bottles at a time. The doctors figured it’d save him multiple trips to the practice, and it wasn’t like dexies had any recreational value right?

Fast forward a few years and Charlie has as much chill as Pilbara esky with no ice. He zooms around social occasions like a dexamphetamine’d fueled blowfly and could talk the pastry clean off a pie. Still, everyone tolerates his intensity as he has that little bottle of fuck-yeah.

On the weekend Charlie charges over to a mate's BBQ and dodges the spread like a migrant at a Vegemite party. Come to think of it, no one has ever really seen him eat, but that doesn't mean his jaw isn't moving. A mate decides to try his luck, "couldn't grab a couple of dexies could I, mate?"

Oh, shit, old speedy Smeagol's demeanour changes. Someone is after his precioussssssssss. Not wanting to depart with any, he makes an offer you want to refuse, but don't - “2 for $8 mate”. Outrageous.

Charlie knows it's pay to play, and if his mate's don't want to be as useless as Clive Waterhouse at a motivational speaking course, they'll come to his market and buy his magic beans. Having made a tidy profit he brings out a dinner plate and proceeds to go full WA and snort chalk like Mr Squiggle at Blackboard's bucks party.

Now wired, Charlie proceeds to commandeer the discussion around the glass outdoor setting and enthusiastically offers an opinion on every single topic under the sun - only ever really pausing to pound his 25th dart for the night.

How can a pack of ciggies and a carton of beer be bad for you when you are feeling this good, right? A thought that will haunt him as he runs over it again and again while battling to slay the demon of a good nights rest yet again.

The Human Zoo - The Grey Nomads

Harold’s oversized, dawdling caravan is a perfect metaphor for his need to keep society from progressing. Whether it be the road to your first investment property or the road to Broome, you better believe Harold & Maude are creating an impasse of boomtacular proportions. 

Now, just because he had 52 years of his adult life to learn how to drive considerately, doesn’t mean he will. It’s not that he can’t, it’s that he just doesn’t give a fuck because so-called “speed limits” burn fuel and if you think George Double-ya acted like a shithead to protect his oil reserves, then you haven’t seen anything yet.

When Harold & Maude aren’t causing road rage they are supporting the country’s caravan parks. Not by paying $25 a night or any of that bullshit, but by parking at a nearby beach and then making their way over to leave the communal ablutions blocks looking like a hurricane tore through a Yogo Dirt Dessert factory.

As a parting gift, Harold will use whatever means necessary to acquire any communal soap and toilet paper and then flee slowly into the day leaving behind 3 weeks worth of rubbish next to a bin for someone else to clean up. After all, everyone needs to chip in to help them live like royalty in their golden years.

Despite what many think, the glamorous life of listening to your spouse serenade the caravan toilet with the song of curried snags isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. So Harold & Maude love to stop off in country towns where they expect a red carpet greeting on a Red Dot budget.

In Harold’s mind, these towns are lucky he is choosing to blow some of his kid’s inheritances at their venues. Yep, behold the economic boost of a $7 bowl of wedges, while they sit in the air-conditioning for 8 hours and post on Grey Nomad forums about how backpackers are road-parasites with no respect. Bit rich, mate.

After habitually swiping the pub's tomato sauce bottle, Harold & Maude will descend upon the local tourism providers and demand a pensioner discount on any local tour. If the tour operator caves in, they will get to hear about how Harold hasn’t bought toilet paper in 6 months and other red-hot tips on leaching from the fat of the road.

Of course, if Harold is ever called out on his fuckery he will conveniently forget about his 3 investment properties and cry poor. Now, get the fuck out of his way, he’s spotted an all you can eat buffet that he plans to liberate 10 Tupperware containers worth of chicken wings like they were trapped in a cave.

The Human Zoo - Mr Euro Trip

Chris finally removed the travel-dummy from his mouth, put on his big boy pants and is embarking on a non-Contiki tour of Europe. He even saved up some cheddar to make sure the good times flow like a fuck-yeh-fondue.

In the lead up to the holiday, Chris has conducted a gruelling 50 day FB countdown where he repeatedly asked his mates to “get around him” and promising in “x” amount of days [insert country] will be "in him" and won't be able to "handle him".

On departure day, Chris decides to take the edge off by washing down 30mg of Valium with a bottle of wine and ends up sloppier than a reheated Whopper. His fellow passengers can't wait for his 7th attempt at an "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie" chant.

Chris’ first stop is the seemingly mandatory Aussie travel experience: Sail Croatia. On the boat, he acts like the representative Australia doesn’t want and impresses everyone with his power-yaking, the unfair prejudice attached to the word “cunt” and of course relentlessly banging on about how much he misses the fucking vegemite on toast that he has about once every couple of months.

He tells everyone back home that Sail Croatia was the “BEST WEEK” of his life with an attached photo of his new “EURO FAMILY”. In reality, most will be happy to see the back of Chris and his snoring that sounded like a throat-fucked bear.

To stave off the barbarian feelings at the gate, Chris knows he should “get a little culture into him”. He embarks on his journey to appreciate Europe’s sites one shakas selfie at a time. In total, he sees about 2 attractions and just flogs the other photos from people's Instagram accounts. Culture smarter, not harder, as they say.

With about a month to go, Chris realises his bank balance is looking as depleted as his serotonin levels after 3 days in Ibiza. He has no choice, he has to make the call of shame back home and ask his parents if he could plunge into his inheritance like a Thai cave diver.

He uses the loan to land a brutal 5 night Greek Island combo to his liver functionality and dignity. Like piss through a bed sheet, so are the days of his wanderlust. While he doesn’t remember these days, he will surely tell you they were the best of his life.

To unwind he decides to update his Facebook with a hefty photo album. He predominately chooses photos of himself with large groups of good looking girls. He basks in the “yeh, the boys” glow of his mate's questions, mainly, did you root her?

He can only respond with a winking emoji. As an inference is technically not a lie.

The Human Zoo - Ms Perth Yoga

Kristy takes 15 centuries of ancient Indian philosophy, crushes it into hashtag shaped lines and snorts it up like a Docker in a Northbridge alleyway. 

She wasn’t always the pretentious walking #inspoquote that you see today. Oh no, @yogiqueenyass started out like all addicts do, by dipping her toes in the water of wankery. 

First, it was afternoon classes and then weekend morning sessions, but the addiction didn’t land it’s deathblow until she learned that Instagram fucking loves that Yoga shit. The more she stretched the more her Instagram following grew.

Soon her phone was like Marky Mark as all she could feel were the good vibrations. Notification after notification, “yassss kween slayyyy”. I’m sure the ancient Indian Yogis were all about @’ing Lululemon in a desperate bid for an endorsement.

Over time she began to resent the yoga community and slowed brewed into a big jar of jealous cunt-bucha. It really bothered her that other white people were using the phrase "Namaste" despite not having gone on a 2 week yoga retreat in India like she had.

Her zen was thrown out of whack one day when she spotted a rival yoga queen performing a perfect scorpion on a boogie board while gently cruising a wave at City Beach. Her paddleboard salute to the sun was complete digital afterbirth compared to that.

She tries reposting a photo of her downward dogging next to an Indian lepper. Fuck, that other bitch still got more likes. She only had one choice, a hold my beer moment, well, more of a “hold my organic activated Wolfe brand kale shake-moment”.

She goes full yogtard after hearing about some Yogis offering the purest shit in town. A ghee massage, followed by horseback yoga. This shit is the Fentanyl of yoga. She needed a taste, as the lack of Instagram growth has her fiending and sniffing like Chad Fletcher in Las Vegas during a bout of hayfever.

Slippery from the Ghee, she mounts her stallion. Her cameraman snaps away as she makes easy work of an elevated pose at trot speed. The rush hits her and she takes the horse to a gallop. High off her tits on #yasss she attempts a wounded peacock.

For a split second, she held the position, before slipping and flying off like superman, and then very nearly Reeving herself on an awkward fall. Ribs bruised, makeup fucked, she limps over to her cameraman, “did you capture that?”

Yes! He fucking did. For a split second, she was supporting her weight with one hand on horseback. She considers the photo for about 10 minutes, “I think my bum looks fat in that, let's do it again babes”.
A few attempts later and a ruptured spleen she’s done it. A wounded peacock on horseback. She posts:

“Life is a journey, ride with peace, you do you girl and nobody can stop you #namaste #yoga#indianretreat #horseback #boogieboardlol#yogakween #yasss #blessed #peace #youcandoit”

Stage an intervention already.

The Human Zoo - Mr Social Smoker

Chris takes a sip of his third pint and feels the insatiable stiffy of dart-lust grow. As per usual, Chris has not armed himself with a full deck before throwing himself into the beer & banter battle. He struggles internally with his urges while his lack of willpower sends smoke signals to his half cut brain, "mate, can I pinch a dart?" So it begins.

He takes a satisfying drag of a Benson & Hedges Smooth, "I'm so lucky I'm not addicted, could never smoke a dart sober, would make me yak, ay". Ah, the desperate reasoning of the social smoker. After bombing a few dexies Chris starts raiding his mate's pack like it was Rolf Harris' laptop. 

It's a good thing he isn't addicted though or the 8 darts he smoked in 1 hour may be cause for alarm. When the deck is empty he begins to feel some guilt, "don't worry bud, I'll grab a pack in a sec". At the counter, Chris experiences the consumer-shock of a parasite that only ever leeches darts, "they cost how fucking much?" He'll be bringing up this purchase for many drinking sessions to come. 

Chris charges back into the pub and spots a group of girls he went to Uni with. Fake tanned stunners in flowing floral dresses suck down darts while Chris yammers away, "only smoke when I'm drinking really, my smoker mates are hell jealous that I can just stop when I want". Chris is so deep in denial that he is fending of Egyptian fishermen.

As the girls retreat inside partly because it's cold and partly because Chris smells like a cross between a bus driver's cardigan and Asian businessman's morning breath. Chris defiantly remains outside. "I fucking hate drinking inside, love a bit of fresh air", he announces before coughing up something Barry Hall would consider finger-lickin' good. 

After one and a half packs Chris decides to call it a night. Unwilling to fork out another first born child on darts he walks home smokeless. This is until he passes a bloke smoking at a bus stop and offers him $2 for a dart, although if he is being honest he'd probably blow the guy at this point, not that he has a problem or anything. 

The Human Zoo - Mr Yehhnahhh

It's Friday morning to Damo cracks breaky bourbons while he pontificates with his de facto, a woman that looks like the end result of Beetle Juice spraying his DNA over a lipstick-stained dart, "fucken miss free plastic bags ay, yous never know how good yous got it, till you don't got it no more, ya know?"

Damo was serving up McNuggets of profoundness and his de facto couldn't wait for another dunk in the philosophical sauce. She doesn't need to wait long as he shoves a handful of Burger Rings past the smouldering Winnie Blue, “tell ya what angel tits, Burger Rings are a fucking ripper of a chip, ay”. They are.

It's a back to back kind of dart day, so he reaches for his last, “aw Shit!”, he lights the wrong end of his dart and quickly stamps it out in an ashtray he flogged from the Swingin’ Pig in Rocko. Time for a Caltex supplt run. He slides into his oversized pluggers and hops in his VN Holden with E-Plates proudly displayed - the official car of a man who will call you a "fucking pelican" before punching on at a set of red lights.

The attendant greets his regular customer, “hello Mr Damo, day off work?” Damo looks up from the drinks fridge, “yehnahhh, chucked a sickie mate, youse outta Powerade bottles?” Mr Caltex checks the fridge, “we have Vitamen Water, boss?” Damo becomes flustered and starts rocking his head back and forth like a shard-chicken, “maaaate, weak as piss, wouldn’t be caught dead ripping a cone through that poofta bottle”. A bit rich coming from a guy who sleeps on a mattress he found on the side of the road. You know what they say, one man’s piss-stained hepatitis sponge is another man’s treasure

Damo rolls into his driveway and starts bogan-squawking from the driver's seat, “they didn’t have Powerade bottles and only had fucking pasties left, darl!” Damo begrudgingly pulls a cone through a bucket that he has permanently set up in his laundry sink, “yehhhnahhhh not going down well luv, was really holding out for a billy ay”. To ease his pain, Damo’s de facto comes out with a bowl of chips, Damo eats 4 at once before protesting “fucking Smiths Chicken? Who the fuck buys Smiths Chicken, this is bullllllllshit”.

This really hasn’t been Damo’s day. He is now as high as a jockey's voice and in an effort to cheer himself up he waks on the 1994 Grand Final and smokes inside. His de facto is desperate to win Damo’s affections back after the Smiths Chicken incident. She presents him with a plate of fish fingers swimming in tomato sauce, “phwoarrr, that's a bit of alright ay, luv”.

The pair make passionate love under the understanding that Damo will pull out. He doesn't, “yehnahh she’ll be right”.