Although my wife is Swiss, she does have a profound sense of my Australian genetic code, and as such tends to be rather lenient on me when I am on one of my pedantic crusades. Some might call it racist, but as it is white on white, that would hardly be accurate. Others may call it prejudice, but that would only be simplifying and demeaning a deep held, spiritual belief.
And that is that in general and on the whole, when I am confronted by more than one Pom (read any English person here) in any social setting, the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention, my blood pressure rises and I wait in physical preparedness for the oncoming and inevitable first salvo. “Ahh, you’re a colonial then?”
My blood runs cold as I return the impolite salvo with, “Better than being a bloody Pom!”
To understand this fully, one needs to be aware that my predecessors were transported to Australia in the late 18th and early 19th century as punishment for crimes. Crimes such as stealing bread to feed their children as a result of the unemployment created by the Industrial Revolution. At the time, the English aristocracy had believed there was a criminal gene residing in these petty thieves. They had other excuses for the Irish, Scots and Welsh. In the end it was the same result. Transportation to the world’s most remote and harsh prison colony. Australia.
Luckily some would say, Australians have not resorted to violent protest, insurrection, civil war or terrorist attacks. When given the opportunity to become a republic, Australians for some reason stayed affixed to the monarchy. Why?
Very simple. It leaves us Australians free to take our battle to the cricket ground and rugby pitches where real wars can be fought. It also leaves us free to remain rough uncouth Australian bastards. For if we didn’t have Pom bashing as a national sport, what the hell else would we do?
At least Poms understand. No one else would.