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.
Call me cynical, but I suspect they asked me because every other bloke they approached suddenly became unavailable, in the anticipation of being personally held accountable for every nefarious act perpetrated by men stretching way back to the mists of time.
Maybe even as far back as when it was considered acceptable to bash the missus over the head with a blunt instrument prior to dragging her into your cave and forcing her to rustle up a some dinosaur casserole.
Aye, it’s being so cheerful ….
The calendar doesn’t tell the full story however. To fully appreciate the passage and for that matter ravages of time, nothing quite beats the moment when you inadvertently catch a glimpse of your reflection in a shop window.
‘Blimey, who’s that miserable looking old git?’, you instinctively ponder before harsh reality kicks in and you realise that the vaguely familiar aged misery-guts in question is, in fact, you.
Reading this on a typically grim Scottish February day you might feel in desperate need of some dazzling down-under therapeutic summer warmth, but before you think about selling the family car, boarding out the kids, (or vice versa), and signing the emigration papers, you should consider some of the less alluring elements of life in the Land of Oz.
Fair enough, it wasn’t an open invitation to do as you pleased; innkeepers and publicans in exotic locales didn’t actually invite you to marry their daughters and covet their oxen, but we were certainly better regarded than some other nationalities I could mention.
Like, for instance, off the top of my head, the English, who, in my experience at any rate, were often regarded as haughty, pompous and self-regarding.