Am I still Australian? People say my accent has gone funny. Foreigners tell me they normally can’t understand Australians but they can understand me. Perhaps living abroad for so long has planed off the rough edges of my speech, slowed it down, standardized it. I worry it has done the same to my mind.
This is my dozenth year spent overseas. Australia to me now is mostly a childhood memory. My adulthood has been misspent in odd places around Asia and now, for some reason I can no longer clearly recall, Africa.
When I return I see my homeland through the slanty eyes of a foreigner. The broad streets, the baking summers and miserable winters, the wide open spaces. The people who are friendly in that casual, lazy way we have. They have.
And being a bloke, I check out the exotic local ladies. And this is what I see.
In a café, a nearby office are having their meeting on a reserved table. Or is it someone’s birthday? Who cares. It’s a not for profit so everyone except the campy boss is a sheila. I check out the girls and . . . eww. EVERY SINGLE ONE of them, aged about 28-50, has some sort of ugly piercing somewhere other than her ears. Because there’s nothing like a nose ring for you and all your friends to show off how original and individual you are. And the unnaturally coloured hair, the flab, the shabby, equally individual dress, the pallid skin, vegan hair and bitchy expressions . . . I pity you poor bastards still back there.
As we got further into conventional lunchtime the place filled up and, waiting for my receipt, I scanned the room in scientific pursuit of attractive females. I spotted two. I suspect one of my readers in particular will scoff but this is how it is: one was black and one was Asian. And even the Asian one had a tattoo and that SJW-educated expression, so ubiquitous now in urban whites, that spells trouble.
On we go to a suburban shopping centre haunted by my teenage ghost, the cinemas still operating but my old workplace mercifully defunct and replaced with a Rivers. Now this mall is populated almost entirely by elderly white people, with a 20% scattering of younger Indians and Asians who fail to fully correct the demographic age imbalance because they, too, grow old, even though they come from Shangri-la. No South Sudanese in this neighbourhood yet despite the locals screaming out in passionate desire for them, but otherwise, this is Australia shrunk to a village.
And then I see her: an Attractive Young White Woman. Finally! Striding along, talking into her phone. She has my full attention as we pass and this is what I hear: “. . . and so I say ‘fuck her, if she’s gunna be a cunt, fuck her off and let her score her own fuckin’ gear’ . . .” and then she’s gone. In that grating, female Australian accent that I never noticed is like a parrot’s squawk until I left.
Whenever in a new city I like to fire up the old Tinder and see the market writ large. In North Asia I do okay, in Europe it was quiet, in Dubai I got bites but I could not arrange a safe rendezvous, in the Philippines I am king (but they are all pros and trannies, mostly the latter. Other sites are more fruitful). In Australia: crickets. I wonder why this is. I guess there are two reasons: first, I swipe ‘no’ a hell of a lot more there than anywhere else. I can’t stand the look of white girls once they get within five years of my age, and I suppose the younger ones and attractive Asians enjoy intensely high demand. Second, maybe the blokes on offer are better than me, too. Aussie fellahs tend to be taller, buffer, richer and more extroverted than me.
I got a single match with a lady a couple of years older than me, and looked it. I didn’t send a message.
It is strange to me that I could be so attractive in one location and be a lump of raw liver in another. Of course it will make a bit of a difference, but so much? Boggles!
And yet . . . a million years ago I somehow had a very attractive girlfriend in Australia. That was back in my baizuo days before lifting, game and becoming the well-traveled and suave host you’ve come to know and adore.
And sometimes in Australia a random girl will absolutely throw herself on me, out of the blue. It happened once at a language exchange when an Aussie girl was impressed to throbbing dampness at my Japanese skills. Another time was at a wedding when an old female friend caught a gust of icy spinsterhood blowing her way.
Oh, Australia. You can’t make me not like you. Even your capricious fat harridans are my capricious fat harridans. But I won’t live there again except as required for family reasons, and even in that case, just for as long as required.