Some people have claimed that to be successful in Australia's cultural world you have to go overseas and return in triumph. (It doesn't matter if you were a complete failure overseas, you still return in triumph.)
Well that might have been true once. Dame Edna had to leave Moonee Ponds and go "home" to the UK, but it's just not true any more.
To participate in Australian culture you can do it right here. All you need is a Ute, a girl in a wet t-shirt and know how to burn a sausage on the barbie and you're a cultural hero and a Great Aussie Bloke.
All Australian architecture is based on the first structure ever built here, called the "dunny".
The most decorated Australian architect is Gerda Haircut. She was inspired by the pioneers' dunnies to build really big ones. Australian men, after all, spend most of their time in the dunny with "a good magazine". This in turn inspired the famous Fielman Utz to design the Sinny Oprouse. Utz was removed from the project for being too "artsy-fartsy" (and therefore probably a bit of a poof). While the building is impressive from the outside, the interior was designed by bureaucrats and as a result it has been described as looking "on the inside like a huge outback dunny". Very few accolades could be more satisfying. Strangely enough, despite this visual metaphor, there are very few actual dunnies in the building and most patrons spend the entire performance standing in queues waiting for a "seat" without a view.
The ABC is the reason that anyone with intelligence remains in the country. And this is the reason that almost every Australian politician wants to close the ABC as soon as possible.
Every real Aussie was a member of the Argonauts Club in the 1950s. They became the cultural guardians of the country for many decades. ("And we still are!": Euthydemus 34)
The Poa Tree was the birthplace of Australian verse. It was planted on Dad & Dave's selection by the pioneer, explorer and failed sheep rustler, William (Billy) Bong. Decades later A.B. (Alan Border) Paterson camped beneath its branches, as did the great fast bowler Henry Wadsworth Lawson. Both gained inspiration from the Poa Tree to write great Australian classics such as "The Imam from Snowy River" and "The Drover's White". Thus began the great nexus between sport and poetry in Australian competitive culture, or what is called "versing".
While Lawson also wrote the spectacularly unsuccessful "Song of the Republic" in 1887, it was he who most clearly enunciated the core Australian values of mateship, the billy and the waterbag.
And, lest at ease I should forget
True mateship after all,
My water-bag and billy yet
Are hanging on the wall
To become a true blue fair dinkum Aussie mate you have to be able to recite the official Australian Pome, "I, Lover ", by Dorothy R. McHeller if you want your Cetrificate:
Some burn curry.
A rag-'ead mounted rangers.
A drowsin' flood un-reins.
I, love 'er:
I, love 'er:
Ah, why, brown lamb?
Wot’s in a name?-- she sez . . . An' then she sighs,
An' clasps 'er little 'ands, an' rolls 'er eyes.
"A rose," she sez, "be any other name
Would smell the same.
Oh, w'erefore art you Romeo, young sir?
Chuck yer ole pot, an' change yer moniker!"
Doreen an' me, we bin to see a show--
The swell two-dollar touch. Bong tong, yeh know.
A chair apiece wiv velvit on the seat;
A slap-up treat.
The drarmer's writ be Shakespeare, years ago,
About a barmy goat called Romeo.
"Lady, be yonder moon I swear!" sez 'e.
An' then 'e climbs up on the balkiney;
An' there they smooge a treat, wiv pretty words
Like two love-birds.
I nudge Doreen. She whispers, "Ain't it grand!"
'Er eyes is shining an' I squeeze 'er 'and.
'Wot's in a name?" she sez. 'Struth, I dunno.
Billo is just as good as Romeo.
She may be Juli-er or Juli-et--
'E loves 'er yet.
If she's the tart 'e wants, then she's 'is queen,
Names never count . . . But ar, I like "Doreen!"
A sweeter, dearer sound I never 'eard;
Ther's music 'angs around that little word,
Doreen! . . . But wot was this I starts to say
About the play?
I'm off me beat. But when a bloke's in love
'Is thorts turns 'er way, like a 'omin' dove.
This Romeo 'e's lurkin' wiv a crew--
A dead tough crowd o' crooks--called Montague.
'Is cliner's push--wot's nicknamed Capulet--
They 'as 'em set.
Fair narks they are, jist like them back-street clicks,
Ixcep' they fights wiv skewers 'stid o' bricks.
Wot's in a name? Wot's in a string o' words?
They scraps in ole Verona wiv the'r swords,
An' never give a bloke a stray dog's chance,
An' that's Romance.
But when they deals it out wiv bricks an' boots
In Little Lon., they're low, degraded broots.
Wot's jist plain stoush wiv us, right 'ere to-day,
Is "valler" if yer fur enough away.
Some time, some writer bloke will do the trick
Wiv Ginger Mick, Of Spadger's Lane.
'E'll be a Romeo,
When 'e's bin dead five 'undred years or so.
Fair Juli-et, she gives 'er boy the tip.
Sez she: "Don't sling that crowd o' mine no lip;
An' if you run agin a Capulet,
Jist do a get."
'E swears 'e's done wiv lash; 'e'll chuck it clean.
(Same as I done when I first met Doreen.)
They smooge some more at that.
Ar, strike me blue!
It gimme Joes to sit an' watch them two! '
E'd break away an' start to say good-bye,
An' then she'd sigh
"Ow, Ro-me-o!" an' git a strangle-holt,
An' 'ang around 'im like she feared 'e'd bolt.
Nex' day 'e words a gorspil cove about
A secret weddin'; an' they plan it out.
'E spouts a piece about 'ow 'e's bewitched:
Then they git 'itched . . .
Now, 'ere's the place where I fair git the pip!
She's 'is for keeps, an' yet 'e lets 'er slip!
Ar! but 'e makes me sick! A fair gazob!
E's jist the glarsey on the soulful sob,
'E'll sigh and spruik, a’ ‘owl a love-sick vow--
(The silly cow!)
But when 'e's got 'er, spliced an' on the straight
'E crools the pitch, an' tries to kid it's Fate.
Aw! Fate me foot! Instid of slopin' soon
As 'e was wed, off on 'is 'oneymoon,
'Im an' 'is cobber, called Mick Curio,
They 'ave to go
An' mix it wiv that push o' Capulets.
They look fer trouble; an' it's wot they gets.
A tug named Tyball (cousin to the skirt)
Sprags 'em an' makes a start to sling off dirt.
Nex' minnit there's a reel ole ding-dong go—
'Arf round or so.
Mick Curio, 'e gets it in the neck,
"Ar rats!" 'e sez, an' passes in 'is check.
Quite natchril, Romeo gits wet as 'ell.
"It's me or you!" 'e 'owls, an' wiv a yell,
Plunks Tyball through the gizzard wiv 'is sword,
'Ow I ongcored! "Put in the boot!" I sez. "Put in the boot!"
"'Ush!" sez Doreen ... "Shame!" sez some silly coot.
Then Romeo, 'e dunno wot to do.
The cops gits busy, like they allwiz do,
An' nose around until 'e gits blue funk
An' does a bunk.
They wants 'is tart to wed some other guy.
"Ah, strike!" she sez. "I wish that I could die!"
Now, this 'ere gorspil bloke's a fair shrewd 'ead.
Sez 'e "I'll dope yeh, so they'll think yer dead."
(I tips 'e was a cunnin' sort, wot knoo
A thing or two.)
She takes 'is knock-out drops, up in 'er room:
They think she's snuffed, an' plant 'er in 'er tomb.
Then things gits mixed a treat an' starts to whirl.
'Ere's Romeo comes back an' finds 'is girl
Tucked in 'er little coffing, cold an' stiff,
An' in a jiff,
'E swallows Iysol, throws a fancy fit,
'Ead over turkey, an' 'is soul 'as flit.
Then Juli-et wakes up an' sees 'im there,
Tums on the water-works an' tears 'er 'air,
"Dear love," she sez, "I cannot live alone!"
An' wiv a moan, She grabs 'is pockit knife, an' ends 'er cares . . .
"Peanuts or lollies!" sez a boy upstairs.