The shame

Up early last Sunday, I saw a large rowdy bunch drinking outside a club on the High Street, many of whom wore yellow tights and wigs and such. It’s still not safe I thought, the Clapham Neanderthals from a Saturday night are still out, better cross the street. There was too much traffic to cross, so I just pushed forward. As I moved closer alarm bells started ringing. I began to see not just yellow tights, but green tights as well. I noticed they were not just speaking when they spoke, but yelling. I noticed that everyone who looked at them as they walked past, did so in disgust, embarrassment and pity. I began to notice small tattoos plastered all over their faces and bodies. Then I noticed a peculiar amount of skin being shown for such a chilly morning, the jacket of choice being a large blue cape. Oh no I thought, they might be… please don’t let them be… I think they are… AUSTRALIAN. FUCK! Why do we have to be such wankers? Why can’t we just be normal when celebrating our national day. Why do we have to start drinking at 8am, queuing outside Infernos, and wearing fuckwit clothes?

Americans cop their flak, but they would never celebrate 4th of July like this. The English get flak too, but even they would be above this (well, maybe). Australians leaving home should be forced to sign a pact that promises to never celebrate anything by getting pissed on the street at 8am while wearing a dangling cork hat in yellow and green tights yelling show us your tits slut. If they break the pact when abroad, the local police (or anyone) should have authority to hose them down with a very powerful fire-hose, muzzle them, tie them up and lock them in solitary confinement until they learn that no-one else thinks this is cool, funny, endearing etc. They just think, so they really are a bunch of inbred convicts.

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