Someone probably needs to punch me – form an orderly queue now please – but I’m actually feeling a bit nostalgic for all the snowdrifts, icy roads and winter chaos Scotland is currently experiencing.

What’s more, I’m not alone.  Recent statistics have revealed that a staggering 60% of British emigrants to Oz return to the old country within 5 years. 

The reasons for the change in mind?  Well naturally they’re many and varied but a major justification is – and frankly this is hard for me to fathom – rubbish Australian television.

I don’t find it hard to swallow because TV over here is good – it isn’t, it’s crap, beaten only on terms of poor quality, duff acting and low production standards by New Zealand telly, which, take it from me, sucks like a sherbet fountain.

A typical Saturday nights entertainment on Kiwi TV?  The Antiques Roadshow, followed by Mr and Mrs topped off with a ten year old episode of Last of the Summer Wine.  Is it any wonder they say ‘stuff this’ and go outside to molest sheep?

Not that macho Aussies would do such a thing – oh no. 

No, for a couple of reasons actually – I live here and some of them read this blog, but there is nevertheless firm evidence that like the returning Poms, even true blue Australians don’t unequivocally consider this to be the land of milk and honey.

The Prime Minister, Julia Gillard, has just beaten off the 4th challenge to her leadership in less than 3 years – and that from within her own ruling Labour Party.  And despite extremely high levels of employment, a rudely healthy economy – no financial recession here – poor old Julia’s public approval rating is at such rock bottom levels that she’s currently giving us a picture-perfect impression of a lame duck ahead of this year’s impending general election.

Some commentators have assigned this unpopularity to rampant sexism within the Australian psyche, a notion which I wouldn’t entirely discount since I’ve personally heard people say they don’t like her because ‘she has a horrible voice’ and even more risibly because ‘she has a big a**e’.

It’s hard to believe that male politicians would be written off in such a blatantly prejudicial manner.  I mean, it’s like David Cameron being ridiculed because he’s a toffee nosed twerp with stupid floppy hair or people saying Gordon Brown is a one eyed Scottish idiot.

Personally I prefer to believe that Julia Gillard – and her party are generally on the nose – as they say here – simply on the basis of political whim – otherwise known as the grass is greener syndrome. 

Let’s give the other lot a chance, people say, they can’t be any worse. 

However, if Julia does lose the election, such a notion will be well and truly tested as the new Prime Minister will be one Tony Abbott who, since we’re being personally insulting to politicians, can best be described as an a**e faced little weasel.  Apart, that is, from the times when he’s being called a weasel faced little a**e.

A horrible little man who I’m reliably informed was known as ‘Butterbeans’ at school – as in – ‘nobody likes Butterbeans’, Tony is basing his campaign on those old favourite issues of the politically unenlightened: illegal immigrants, asylum seekers and refugees.

One thing about Australia that has always amazed me is its inherent fear of migrants, given that not much more than 200 years ago, this was a country which was essentially stolen from its original inhabitants.  

Given this historical reality, you’d think folk would be a tad embarrassed to be so quick to repel boarders, but no, even indigenous Aussies of my acquaintance have been quick to join the reduce the immigration bandwagon, on the basis of well, they’re not like us, mate, there’s too many of them and, we don’t have the room.

The population of Australia is 20 million, roughly the same as Romania on a land mass similar in size to the USA and we don’t have the room? 

No sorry Tony Abbott, but you couldn’t possibly win that argument. 

Only he has.  He is.

What it boils down to, of course, is a wayward idea – and almost every country on the world buys into it – that politicians, legislation and parliamentary regulation will offer you inner happiness.

It doesn’t.  Just like the Poms who schlepp back to dear old Blighty because they didn’t rate Aussie TV, personal contentment and fulfilment comes from within, as a result of your personal life, your own aspirations and dreams, not what an MP, programme planner, adman or newspaper editor tells you it should be.

In this, I’m guided by one of my favourite Australian sages and philosophical thinkers, Kevin ‘Bloody’ Wilson, originator of such learned refrains as ‘Santa Claus You **** Where’s Me ****** bike?’, ‘Do Ya R**t on First Dates’ and ‘Mick the Master Farter’.

‘Political Correctness’, said Kevin, in the middle of a concert which was so universally offensive, even an amoeba would be have felt personally slighted – ‘If it’s political, how the **** can it be correct?’

Fair dinkum mate.  

Oh, I wish it would snow.