Why are so many hipster baristas determined to make you feel unwelcome in their cafes? I noticed it in Oz, and sure as hell notice it with Australian baristas in the UK. Yeah, your coffee standard is great, and your beard looks cool, but there’s no need for the pretension. You’re steaming milk, not curing AIDS, chief.
I care more about the pursuit of removing hairs from my toilet bowl than I do about cricket, and wish people would stop asking me what I think of the ashes just because I’m Australian. The only thing I know about cricket is that Shane Warne was punching well above his weight when he was shagging Liz Hurley, and that some dude drank 52 beers on a flight from Australia to London in the 80s and that’s fucking cool.
Having a boyfriend or girlfriend is not an accomplishment.
– Go to warm places
– Party with other drunk, travelling westerners
– Put photos on instagram with shit-eating caption
– Refresh to check ‘likes’ till phone battery dies
Why do people take iPads or phones into the bathroom to play music while they shower? It causes them to take much longer than necessary, as they aren’t focusing on getting clean and getting out. You might wonder why this annoys me. Well, I don’t take much pleasure in waiting longer than needed to use the bathroom, or evenly splitting an electric heating bill with someone who spends far longer in the shower than I. My brother and sister used to do it at home. My roommate does it. It’s a sign of a pathetic attention span and it needs to be shamed.
Can you not repeatedly cough on the bus in close proximity to me, please?
Can you not speak to yourself in half-English with a Scottish accent, half-weird language and then turn and speak to me in the same vernacular, please?
Can you not come to the bar with four mates, visibly bedazzled by indecision, and proceed to order each of them a drink one by one as they are made, please?
Can you not ask for an orange-based, non-alcoholic cocktail to be made up to accommodate your detox, and then order a beer straight after, please?
Can you not pull out one of your pubic hairs and place it on the bar top that I will have to wipe down later, please?
Can you not ‘forget’ to top up the electricity before you go away for a week despite it being your turn, and despite me asking you twice, please?
Can you not grunt vigorously as you squat a relatively low amount of weight with poor form, please?
Can you not loudly and smugly offer fellow gym-goers fitness tips despite being fat, please?
Can you just, not. Please?
“What the hell are you doing in the UK?”
“Why would you leave Australia for this?”
Because, when you wake up in your own sweat for nearly 25 years, have been sunburned more times than laid, and a couple English blokes you met last year told you that girls in the UK love Australian accents, you feel like trying it out. Plus I was no longer interested in pathetically attempting to claw my way into the closed-group Australian music industry, or working soul-crushing office ‘career’ jobs sat next to fat, miserable people.
I had no clue what was out here for me, but I think I’m slowly finding it. Or at least, finding the beginning of the path to follow. Despite being in a job I never expected to somewhat enjoy (but do), which pays less than half of my previous jobs back home, I am legitimately happier week to week. I’ve been casually dating a nice girl from Manchester or Chesterfield or somewhere. I am barely ever anxious anymore. Except about weird pains around my right kidney. But they’re mere passing thoughts in comparison to the anxious hell I drifted in and out of for the last three or four years back home. I have no explanation as to why.
I’m determined to keep my Australian accent. Except I’ve been here six weeks and have already started saying “hiya, y’allright?” upon every greeting.
I miss the beach and the dog, but not much else at this point.