You call this a national holiday? Recently, we considered changing the date to May 8. Frankly, if we’re not going to take it seriously, we can do better. Vote now!
Once again, it is time to awkwardly celebrate life in the country we all love. This year, the conversation has circled around what day would be proper to have it. Despite all the rhetoric, it seems the date shall remain, with the closest thing to a uniform decision being the stifled awkward laughter moving it to May 8.
If we’re not going to take it seriously, and instead choose to ring the bell of lols, we could probably try a bit harder. So consider the list below not a referendum, a plebiscite, or a binding vote in any way, just a suggestion of what would date the populace of this fantastic, complex land would prefer.
Why? Australia loves a rebel. That and his unique anti-establishment vibe also grants us an opportunity to hold a unique anti-establishment public holiday. In the spirit of Ned, we won’t let the government tell us when it is. So, yes, while no-one will know exactly, perhaps each citizen should be granted a freebie, a day in which they choose to rebel against the country they love.
As long as it doesn’t end up with too many shots at the bar.
Why? Because we’re flocking geese. The above date represents the day that Tom Angrove patented the goon box, which became both internationally known, and the armour worn in the drunken battles of art degrees across the nation. It also reveals an awkward truth. We tend to remember the wrong inventions. Everyone knows we invented the Hills Hoist and the Victa lawnmower, but for whatever reason, we ignore the objects that have changed the course of history.
So, perhaps this day can be spent remembering the important ones. The cochlear implant, the anti-flu medication, the cervical cancer vaccine, the refrigerator, Wi-Fi, the pacemaker, spray on skin and the multifocal contact lens are were all formed by the hands of those who don’t have to work today.
Why? Well, in the land of putdowns, this surely hit the lowest of down-under parts. Honouring a tragically drowned PM with a body of water to remember him by. Superb. Plus, and let’s be honest with ourselves here, we’re not that good with comedy. I mean, yes, we’ve stripped the worst words in the English language of their meaning and turned the negative into the positive, which is important, but we’re not world leaders in clever comedy. We’re more of a subversion of people’s features kind of comedy. Red, Tiny, Racial epithets, etc. But the world doesn’t need to know that.
Why? Do you call that a knife? Ha. Prior to 1986, the great tradition of purchasing a large blade as a substitute for your manhood was kept in the unknown streets (or carparks) of suburban Australia. After 1986, Mick Dundee brought this great Australian kink to the world, simultaneously putting forward a version of us that we liked the look of: fearless, jovial, wearing the skin of an apex predator, hanging out with a partner well out of our league, all while exhuding an air of calm generousity. Yes, those shrimp on the barbecue are yours.
You call that a national identity?
Why? To show we’re adults. A sad fact of life is that nothing lasts forever. We all change, and with it, the meaningful becomes the passe. Back in 2007, we were asked a national question, but unlike Dundee/Hogan’s, we really didn’t care for the answer. Lara Bingle became our national antagonist, as her asking where the bloody hell where we put us in an awkward spot.
Is this who we still were? Are we still wearing those crocodile skin pants?
A particular line in the sand has existed since then, and Australians remain a mass, split in twain. One camp proud of our mid-eighties ocker heritage, and the other roundly rejecting it, taking a longer look at our ourselves in the national mirror.
So, who the bloody hell are we?