Australia Day makes me feel like an imposter.
Maybe not an imposter, but a stranger in my own patch.
It's possibly the only day of the year when I question my Aussieness. When you read my confessions here, you just might too.
I don't like going to the beach. Especially in the middle of summer. It's boiling, even under an umbrella. Everything gets sand in it, including food and drink. Nothing says beach food like hot chips sprinkled with sand and washed down with a gritty Coke.
I remember enjoying the beach when I was younger, but those memories are of exploring coastal caves and rock pools. Other than that, it's just a blurry nightmare of getting sunscreen in my eyes and being pummelled by waves.
I also remember being roasted by the cool kids when I tried to catch a wave on my 1970s KFC polystyrene board.
My KFC plank inevitably broke in half when I was dumped one too many times.
I let it float out to sea, along with my dreams of becoming the next Gidget.
The next few days were spent dealing with the pain of sunburn and a nasty rash on my stomach from the stupid Colonel Sanders board.
I also have difficult memories of trying to salvage some dignity while emerging from the surf with my swimmer bottoms filled with a couple of kilos of wet sand.
Then there's the barbecue. I love a barbie, but without the lamb goods and beer.
I don't eat lamb. I don't like beer. There, I said it.
But, before you call the Patriotic Police, I don't mind other meat products and I'll happily relieve you of your bottles of red wine and bubbly.
But, in defence of my Aussieness, I did throw a thong at some Indian minors that were taunting my dogs in the backyard on the nation's special day. I know this doesn't sound that patriotic, but I did unleash my inner Alf Stewart with an effective "Get out of it ya flamin' mongrels".
But there was one thing I did that was unequivocally dinky-di: I swore at the TV. My anger was directed at tennis great and moral commentator on same-sex marriage and other issues Margaret Court AC MBE.
Court's out of sorts. She's feeling bullied and unloved by fellow Aussies who have the gall to hurtfully taunt and question her beliefs and choice to become a sermonising Pentecostal pastor.
Channelling Alf Stewart again, I yelled at Court on the box: "Bloody hell woman! Stop using your national profile to air a personal view that is at odds with the majority of Australians. We have a flamin' postal survey to prove it. Keep it to yourself and stop carrying on like a pork chop. You sound like a flamin' galah. Keep it up and you'll be on the wrong end of my thong".
But I held fire. The double-plugger wasn't drawn.
I'll shut up now. I have a tasty mystery-meat sausage sandwich and a coldie (sparkling chardy pinot noir) waiting for me.
Stick a fork in me, I'm done for another year.
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