Foreigner in London column: Un Australia Day

I couldn’t enjoy a beer to welcome in Australia Day this year as the staff at A&E didn’t have a bottle opener.

I was with a friend who had taken ill, and whilst I did have a couple of bottles of beer in my handbag I had no way of opening them. (Please note I did make several attempts to take off the cap with the aid of an oxygen bottle.) To avoid being conscious on my country’s national day I did ask one of the nurses for morphine, but was told that there was none to spare…even though I flashed my private health insurance card at them.

Embarrassingly several days earlier I had had to Google ‘what date is Australia day?’ to remind myself when I should adorn myself in green and gold. It is easier to remember the date if you are living in Australia, as they quite rightly celebrate with a day off. A ‘day off’ being a euphemism for the largest piss up an island has seen…until the next year.

When I first moved to London, I did try to explain to my office that I needed to be able to celebrate Australia Day (ideally with a day off) or at the least with some decorations on my desk that may or may not include a blow up marsupial. Sadly this outburst of national pride is something that the locals don’t really understand, and not just because it was my national day I wanted to celebrate and not theirs. Unless national celebrations are in some way linked to their beloved football team, the locals in London don’t seem to get that worked up about very much at all. This is made all the more worse by the fact that their team is pretty dismal. This is not based on opinion just observation that there has been over 40 years between trophies. Even my school hockey team boasts a better track record.

So I didn’t drink beer, I couldn’t remember what date I was supposed to be drinking beer on and after 8 hours in A&E I couldn’t even face the thought of having to find where I last left my alarmingly gaudy rugby jersey to wear to the office.

I could only describe myself as Un-Australian. This is perhaps the greatest insult that you can pay to an Australian. You either stand for all that is Australian or you don’t… we are pretty black and white about things. Being Australian means celebrating Australia Day unashamedly, not understanding why Marmite has the edge of Vegemite, self combusting if you don’t get on a plane at least once every two weeks and making everything you say sound as though it is a question.

Was I starting to lose my Australianess? Had four years in London finally robbed me of most of my savings as well as my identity? Just as I start to panic I glance at my mantle piece, which shows off flowers that I borrowed from the garden next door. Now if ignoring a fence or too isn’t Australian I don’t know what is.