satire
23 Jan 2009
So Much More Than Pickpockets And Scurvy
Who the bloody hell are we? Ben Pobjie dons the green and gold and tackles the great mystery of Aussie identity
It's that time of year again. The time when Australians of all ages, and a reasonable cross section of creeds and colours, come together to celebrate and commemorate and listen to "We Are Australian" about a thousand times, proving that even normally sane, reasonable adults will happily sing along to the worst song ever written if they're under the spell of patriotism.Australia Day gives us all a chance to reflect on just what it means to be Australian, which is why every year we drink as much beer as possible in order to avoid thinking about the subject. However, a serious journalist has a responsibility to tackle the weighty and the dull, and in the absence of anything much happening in the rest of the world this week, it falls to me.
The 26th of January, of course, marks the anniversary of the landing of the First Fleet in 1788, when Captain Arthur Phillip arrived with nothing but 11 ships and a dream: a dream that he would, on this golden soil, establish a penal colony where Britain's most unpleasant criminals could die well away from civilised society. And for the last 221 years, generations of Australians have worked to keep that dream alive. Even today, Australia ranks number one in international surveys of preferred places to send one's worst enemies.
It was a harsh beginning for our nation, but in the years since, most people would agree, Australia has grown and blossomed and these days has much more to offer than pickpockets and scurvy. These days it is indeed, in the immortal words of Dorothea Mackellar, "a land".
And the land has so much to offer. From the rugged mountains of the Great Dividing Range, to the rugged desert of the red centre; from the rugged rainforests of north Queensland, to the rugged face of Bryan Brown, Australia is certainly the "place to be" for those who enjoy landscapes and shark bites.
But despite all our natural advantages, our sparkling seas and gorgeous beaches and stunning open-cut mines, still we, the people inhabiting this island of marvels, find ourselves questioning just what it means to be Australian.
What makes an Australian? Is it simply an accident of birth and geography? Surely not. No Australian would ever say that he or she was special purely due to the location they happened to be born in. No, there is more to being an Australian — a certain spirit that dwells in us all, something deep inside that says, "I am not French or Chinese or Mexican — I am something far better".
It's in search of that elusive something that we spend our lives, forever looking for a way to sum up the experience of Australianness in a neat little package, like England with The Bill, or America with guns. To be able to finish the sentence "Being Australian is..." is the most fervent hope of Australians across the country. Many other sentences we have been able to finish easily — "Everybody needs good Neighbours," for example, or "Muslims out" — but that one Unified Field Theory of Aussie continues to elude us, like an asylum seeker eluding justice.
Perhaps a look at some great Australians can give us a clue as to what makes one. Think of the great Australians: Don Bradman; Weary Dunlop; Robert Menzies. They all have one thing in common: they are dead. So death certainly has a part to play — look at how much greater an Australian Steve Irwin has become since dying.
What other ingredients go into this marvellous cake we call Aussie? Certainly, sport is part of it. No Australian worth his salt grows up without learning to swing the willow, kick the leather, and spit in public.
Also, alcohol is involved — you simply cannot get a grasp on what it means to be Australian until you've gone down the pub for a few "frothies", until you've shown you can handle a few "cold ones", until you've staggered into the "street" and vomited on a "policeman", until you've gotten "shitfaced" and beaten your "wife". If sport is the heartbeat of Australian society, then alcohol is the plasma.
Also inherent to the Australian character is a unique way of relating to other cultures, a sort of cocky arrogance blended with aggressive superiority, our natural insularity balanced by a certain magnanimous xenophobia. This attitude to the outside world, the distinctive fusion of patriotic hatred with nationalistic rancour, has been mistaken by the ignorant for racism, but nothing could be further from the truth, unless the ignorant were to say something like, "Australia isn't awesome".
Is it racist to love your country? Is it racist to take pride in its achievements? Is it racist to want to keep out undesirables? Is it racist to bash up Indian taxi drivers? Is it racist to consider other races to be inferior to your own? Please. To use perhaps the most quintessentially Australian saying of them all, this kind of talk is political correctness gone mad.
No, being an Australian is not about racism. And it's not about the outback, or the beach, or Bill Hunter. These are all involved, but they're not at the heart of it. What is? It's hard to say, my fellow Australians, it's hard to say. All I can tell you is what it means to me to be Australian, and hope that perhaps, in some small way, you will realise that I am right.
Because to me, being Australian is about many things.
It's about mateship. Not friendship, that's what foreigners have, and it's vastly inferior. Mateship is different, not least in its spelling. And it's the most beautiful thing in the world.
Being Australian is about larrikinism. It's about the spark of rebellion, the hatred of authority. It's about the Eureka spirit, about rising up against the powers that be and demanding they institute longer sentences for protesters.
Being Australian is about courage. It's about the spirit of the Anzacs, about shedding blood for your country. It's about standing up for your values, about defending freedom, about being willing, even when things are at their worst, to write a letter to the editor about how brave John Howard was.
Being Australian is about dreams. Dreams of hope, and liberty, and prosperity, and of a time when every day of the year will have its own arts festival.
Most of all, being Australian is about looking around Australia, and seeing the crime, and the violence, and the dishonesty, and the conflict, and the misery, and being willing to tell the truth: "That's un-Australian!"
So in the end, being Australian is really pretty easy.
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And it isn’t about coming the raw prawn on a barby Ben (http://www.blognow.com.au/mrpickwick/118313/Not_in_my_barbecue_area.html), but very nice try cobber.
Ben, I take issue with your article at several points, but scarce time does not allow me to elaborate. However, the most glaring indifference to Australian achievements in the Arts and in Science cannot go unchallenged. You might have touched on the truly amazing achievements of people in a country with a relatively small population—but one that is top heavy with talent. There are disgraceful yobbos in all countries. Think of the horror of changing trains at Finsbury Park in London after Arsenal has played. Think of trying to buy a ticket at Prague’s ‘international’ railway station that stinks of urine and abounds in scary drunks. Every population has its dross.
This is by no means an exhaustive list, but these are some of the people whose talents have made Australia great. I have listed no sports people.
Florence Austral, Elizabeth Kenny, Nellie Melba, Peter Dawson, Sir Charles Mackerras, Joan Sutherland, Marie Collier, Nancy Weir, Roger Woodward, Malcolm Williamson, Robert Helpmann, Patrick White, Tom Keneally, Christina Stead, Marie Bashir, Quentin Bryce, Janine Haines, Bill Peach, Don Chipp, Richard Tognetti, Clive James, Nancy-Bird Walton, Charles Kingsford Smith, Graeme Clark, Barry Marshall, Robin Warren, Ralph Sarich, Mem Fox, Normal Lindsay, Brett Whitely, Sali Herman, Sidney Myer, Burnum Burmum, Oodgeroo Noonucal, Albert Mamatjira, Cheryl Barker, Jonathan Summers, Barrie Kosky, Simone Young … the list goes on and on. And there is an elderly gentleman in the Sutherland Shire called Bob Walshe, who has quietly but insistently done more for conservation and English/History teaching than many more self-promoting folk.
I’d have a hard time living up to any of those people on my short list. It’s their spirit that is at the heart of this nation.
One of my ancestors was sent here from Cork in Ireland—a 17-year-old girl who stole a goose to help feed her family. Not a criminal. A victim of an appalling social system and oppression from across the Irish Sea.
Happy Australia Day! Be proud. It is about so much more than dratted sport!!
Missed some typos. Apologies to artists Norman Lindsay, Albert Namatjira and Brett Whiteley. And I hang my head in shame for forgetting Margaret Olley.
For your three dead white males, Ben, I substitute three living white females. I’ll even add a sports person (Dawn Fraser) to make a fourth: Margaret Olley, Quentin Bryce and Marie Bashir.
oh dear. i’ll take responsibility for this one, ben.. forgot to put the big SATIRE sign up the top of the article. thought some things were self-evident. clearly not! will correct now.
Oh no, it wasn’t satire, was it?!
I thought Ben was always satire.
Sometimes he is satirical and sometimes he is serious, and trying to tell them apart is like trying to pick a Shane Warne Googly from a Doozra. Now there’s a great Australian no one has mentioned yet.
Ben, I don’t mean to be mean, but this sort of piece is not new as satire, and anyway it didn’t connect as such with this experienced reader (and sometimes writer) of satire. There was no bite and the comedy wasn’t comedic. Mind you, as we all know, comedy is such a matter of context and individual taste … Forgive me, but what was the target here? Similar pieces? Barbecues? Dead white males? Yobbos? Australian-ness? ??
I CRAVE originality and Swiftian wit. There is so much in this world that needs to be cut down by the sword of the satirist, whose pen is always mightier.
i agree, ben. your comedy needs to be much more comedic
Were you being witty in a Swiftian kind of way when you put Clive James on your list?
I think stealing a goose is pretty unlawful. I mean did she really need a WHOLE goose?
Of course it’s satire or he would have mentioned the other highly talented individuals thus far missed…..Like my daughter who would play Advance Australia what ever in three part harmony …on her nose flute. That is were she not perpetually suffering from hay-fever, allergies, sinusitis or nasal tract infections from all that pollen and “golden/red” dust. And so depressed because she worked for BHP.
Then there’s the lad from down the road not yet 15 and already he’s rated by the neighbours and police as “the most evil little b****** they’ve ever seen”.
The other day he had a car up on blocks pinched the wheels, And blackmailed the driver behind to buy them for $50 per corner…all before the lights changed…now that’s entrepreneurial talent!
Let’s not forget the father who gave his 14yo daughter $200 for Christmas with which she bought two litres of no name vodka and10 cans of spray paint got wasted, had sex with 4 boys in one night, then the artistic bit, “tagged” 487 sites in two weeks…
I’m reliably informed (by a friend of a friend of some one who lives next door to it) that the cult in the next suburb has marriage ceremonies that involve old men under aged girls and warm decapitated chickens now that’s imaginative.
Lastly the local politician who turned his federal communication budget into a CMC enquiry. Not be out done they came up with the verdict “not enough evidence to sustain a conviction” not innocent not guilty but two bob each way…How Aussie can you be?
The only reason our notables seem more numerous is because of the size of the base.
Yep it was satire…Australia is a REAL place. There is no one uniquely Australian character. Australia is a conglomeration of diverse races, cultures , the good the bad and the ugly …viva la diferance . (excuse my French)
"Florence Austral, Elizabeth Kenny, Nellie Melba, Peter Dawson, Sir Charles Mackerras, Joan Sutherland, Marie Collier, Nancy Weir, Roger Woodward, Malcolm Williamson, Robert Helpmann, Patrick White, Tom Keneally, Christina Stead, Marie Bashir, Quentin Bryce, Janine Haines, Bill Peach, Don Chipp, Richard Tognetti, Clive James, Nancy-Bird Walton, Charles Kingsford Smith, Graeme Clark, Barry Marshall, Robin Warren, Ralph Sarich, Mem Fox, Normal Lindsay, Brett Whitely, Sali Herman, Sidney Myer, Burnum Burmum, Oodgeroo Noonucal, Albert Mamatjira, Cheryl Barker, Jonathan Summers, Barrie Kosky, Simone Young … the list goes on and on. And there is an elderly gentleman in the Sutherland Shire called Bob Walshe, who has quietly but insistently done more for conservation and English/History teaching than many more self-promoting folk."
Sorry Calypso, never heard of them.
"For your three dead white males, Ben, I substitute three living white females. I’ll even add a sports person (Dawn Fraser) to make a fourth: Margaret Olley, Quentin Bryce and Marie Bashir."
…nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.
"Ben, I don’t mean to be mean, but this sort of piece is not new as satire"
That was incredibly mean.
"anyway it didn’t connect as such with this experienced reader (and sometimes writer) of satire. "
That was even meaner. Have you no pity?
"I CRAVE originality and Swiftian wit."
Maybe you should try Piers Akerman.
Is a "Piers Akerman" some kind of sedative Ben?
Not sure David…how does he work for you?
Hey this is irrelevant but i just realised the name "Piers Akerman" is a pun. Piers Plowman was langland’s character in the middle english poem. In middle english, ploughman was sometimes rendered Akerman. So the columnist’s parents had a sense of humour
Piers Akerman’s parents (and it is hard, like the prospect of Andrew Bolt’s friend) to believe he had parents, NEEDED a sense of humour!
Sorry for the lack of all sense about where those brackets were ending - should have been before NEEDED of course.
hahaha hahaha hahaha sorry just over the last two comments…
Piers Akerman’s parents and Andrew Bolt’a friend I did not know these two concepts exist….
Magnanimous xenophobia. I’ll have to rember that one. By the way, does anybody think that Nick Xenophon’s surname sounds foreign?
And this from a serious on-line magazine? I think I’ll start looking elsewhere for serious comment and discussion.
Ginger, in all seriousness (ha!), you should look "elsewhere" - elsewhere on newmatilda’s site, where some very intelligent and thoughtful people are constantly engaged in insightful comment and analysis.
It’s not my own specialty, but serious comment and discussion abounds here.
Calypso, I’ve been laughing about your comments all week. Ben Pobjie is very funny but you’re verry funny. I’m sure your mate Bob is tops but anyone who spells their surname Walshe with an ‘e’ is too effete to be Aussie of the Year. Though living on the Shire would certainly include a bonus point.