Home to the mate and the wombat.
Where men are hairy muscular men. Who then go riding around on pink buses called Priscilla.
A land where they play more Ozzie Rules than rugby [Fck. I have to learn a whole NEW man sport!?].
Where they claim they live in a desert. And as soon as you have a visa, they tell you that the winter is one sopping wet affair.
Where the women can guzzle down more beer than a Rhodes student showing off to a Maritzburg Down Down champion. And that’s just during the lunch break.
A land where the accent requires you to dislocate your whole jaw just to pronounce its name. Austraaaaaalier. Mate.
And mate, you gatta throw in a whole group on unintelligible words to be understood. Mate.
An island of dirty secrets & dirtier exploits with sheep.
Corks for wine. And flies.
Where the Brit queen rules ok.
And the highest mountain is walkable. [Even by my feeble standards].
With marsupials. Drag Queens. Billabongs. And cockatoos.
Where the dirty convicts only drive 70 kms.
And where they’d best accept two clueless kids on a mission for adventure.