theawkwardlean:

Western suburbia

On Australia day, I was in Italy. A cool bar embarassed itself by hanging Australian flags everywhere, only serving Fosters and playing an awkward jumble of Kylie Minogue and ACDC. Unable to stand the chaos any longer, I popped next door to a nice pizza restaurant and was dismayed when I was escorted to a table (for one) next to a table (for 10) full of 18 year old bogans gearing up for the Aussie Pub Crawl. 

I recognised the Aussie twang immediately. One (dressed in trackies, white converses and a Year 10 jersey from God knows where - everyone knows the bogan beautification process begins when you´re ten drinks down) was telling the classic Australian story aimed to humiliate and also win a strange kind of bogan respect for her bff. 

“…This was the night after the pub crawl though an´we´d been down to Surfers during the day then we didn´t fucken eat dinner - aw like we mighta had Maccas or something - and had like, about, maybe four longnecks and then she jus´starts fucken chuggin´the vodka and we´re all like “aw fuck she´s gettin´on it ay” an´then she´s on Skype to Matt an´he´s like ” oi are you orright babe” and she´s like “yeah” then I heard this SMAACK and I was like “aww fuck”-“

“Excuse me madam would your table like to begin with bread?”

“Um, only if its free.”

“The bread costs 2 euro-“

“Nah, we´ll be right thanks. Fuck, charge you for fucken everything here ay. Anyway she´s chucked her guts up all over this heaps nice dress she got from Ice…”

The process continued for quite some time. They thought nothing of screeching loudly over the quiet music in the full restaurant and did not seem in the slightest ashamed at knocking their plates off the table as they staggered back to the hostel to get ready to hit the town. When the waiters kept their 50c change as they tend to do here, the Head Bogan demanded it be returned. 

I am not sorry to admit that I adopted a British accent for the duration of the evening so as not to be associated with the crowd.

When I returned to the hostel a little later, there was a puddle of vomit outside the front door and a boy of about 18 standing just outside wearing only a pair of Australian flag boxers, despite the fact that it had been snowing earlier and the air was still icy. 

I asked him what he was doing, and before he could open his mouth to explain a triumphant cheer floated down from above. Bogans hung out the windows in their hoodies and screeched “Don´t distract him, he´s still got 7 minutes to go! Maybe next time he´ll finish “Round the World” without chucking!”

(Side note: Round the World was a game the hostel offered in which you drank 15 beers from 15 different countries. Yes, I finished. Thankyou, thankyou.)

I said nothing in reply to the rowdy bogans and scuttled inside to where the Europeans were huddled in the bar quietly, looking intimidated. They mistook me for one of their own. 

“It´s only for one night a year, eh? These fucking crazy Australians. So stupid,” said a British guy. 

“Yes,” I muttered, not game to test my British accent on him.

The whole thing made me a little terrified of my own nation, not to mention humiliated and puzzled as to how we breed these people. Then again, when the bad-mouthing of Australia continued, I became mildly defensive, which can only mean one thing:

OZ PRIDE.