Pilerats' Guide To Not Sucking This Aussie Day

Pilerats' Guide To Not Sucking This Aussie Day

Who not to be this Sunday the 26th of January.

Australia Day aka 'Straya Day aka National Fuckwit Day. January 26th marks the day, in 1788, when the English Captain Phillip landed on Australian shores, thew up a Union Jack flag and called dibs on this continent for Mother England. I'm going to generalise here and hazard a guess that 99% of dinky-di, 'true blue', wife beater wearing, grog drinking Aussie couldn't less of a fuck about ol' Captain Phillip and the atrocities that followed, but for them,  Aussie Day means a day off work and day of sinking tins with the nearest and dearest while they whinge that Macklemore won the Hottest 100.

Whatever Aussie Day means to you we thought we'd give you a Pilerats Guide on who not to be this Aussie Day:



You know the one. This frugal pest of a person can always be spotted entering your party/BBQ with a six pack of a common beer/alcohol and has a sixth sense of choosing the biggest, most alochol-laden esky to insert his/her lone six beers or four pack of cruisers. After their own drinks have been consumed they will apply squatter's law and claim any beverage that isn't tied down as their own. If questioned why they brough so few drinks they will have an "Aw, keepin' a lid on it today mate" reply or something similar ready to roll. They will also be the last person at the table passing out or pissing on themselves due to excessive alcohol consumption. Don't be this douchebag, stock up on Saturday and share the love.



There's nothing more Austrayan than a good old fashioned game of backyard cricket. Chuck on some zinc, the baggy green and grab the kanga cricket set before reliving the glory days of Gilchrist, Warney and the Waugh brothers. "How could someone ruin such a pure and graceful institution?" the overcapacity MCG crowd yells. The Ashes Hero that's who. There he'll be, that one guy who plays defensively and doesn't walk when collective "HOWZAT" is yelled by the field to the imaginary umpire. This person will also be the one that bowls full pace down the 20-foot strip of dead lawn and hammers a cover drive into next week, losing the ball and ruining the game. The rules are: One hand one bounce, over the fence is 6 and out, no pace, tip'n'run, auto wickie and don't be The Backyard Ashes Hero.



Yes there is a tradition called "The Hottest 100" run by our friends over at Triple J. Yes it's great to speculate and listen to the best 100 songs voted by the people on everyone's favourite holiday. No you don't have to be the "Hottest 100 Expert" and berate anyone that comes within tongue lashing reach why Lorde is going to win this year over Daft Punk because you read the 'warmest 100', and unless you've made in onto Nova you ain't going to win. Instead have a few deliscious tinnies, listen to the great music and enjoy a sausage or two. Who really gives a fuck who wins and the list will probably get leaked the day before ruining the surprise for everyone anyway.



Everyone knows one. The self-righteous fair-weather activist that has stumbled across a singular blog post or 'informative', 'unbiased' Today Tonight segment and is now the most informed authority on the planet on the topic of Australia Day and all of its inherent evils. This will be the person that went to one protest once (for whichever political was trending that month), took loads of photos for their profile pic and rode into the sunset on their majestic horse of nobility. This person can normally be found near the hommus and will be the conversational black hole that you read about once in a Stephin Hawking's book. By the fiftieth time you've heard "awareness" you'll know you've reached the event horizon and it's time to play dead to escape. A few moments of CPR from Darryl, the Backyard Ashes Hero, is worth the reprieve.



They've rocked up early. They have their 'Kiss The Chef' apron firmly tied. They have that manaical Gordon Ramsey look in their eye. The leader of the four-burner reich has arrived in all their fire-breathing tyranny. Watch as the sweat beads off their forehead in angry torrents (onto your next snag) and their demeanor become more and more aggitated as the necessity to urinate comes in waves but this Australia Day douchebag is holdfast in their resolve. Bursting bladder or no bursting bladder they will be strong and assure no one takes their position as the alpha, the omega and all things that are charcoaled. You must be gracious to this type of douchebag, more than all others, because as Fight Club taught us - don't fuck with the people that serve your food. A heavy serve of compliments of the chef irregardless of the quality of food or No Steak For You!



We've all seen fireworks a thousand times. They're always the fucking same. Don't blabber on to some unwitting reveller about 'the awe inspiring majesty' of the burning bits of metal while you slick your arm conveniently around your prey's waist. Creep. Plus where did you even get those things from? And no I won't stick one in my butt and see where it takes me.



The cheap hooker of the Aussie Day world. The social butterfly with too many flowers to pollinate to stay in one locale. This person will have their small talk downpat and conversation points refined to a fine art. They will enter your party very noticably, work the room like a high class escort, drink all beer and food offered, kiss the person you've been eyeing off since number 97 on the Hottest 100 and then vanish in a cloud of cheap perfume/cologne. Always wear protection.

Which leads us to last, but definitely not least...



Not only a male species, the characteristics of this fuckwit can be seen in either gender. He'll be the guy that rocks up with a funnel and a block of the cheapest alcohol possible to 'get the party started'. She'll be the girl with a goon bag or 'voon bag' (those premixed vodka bags) if they're feeling classy, proudly stating that they'll "Drink any cunt under the table". If both these fuckwits cross paths you have the perfect storm on your hands. Both will be ratshit before the sun has hit it's highest point, slur words, smash glasses and sing all the words wrong to every song intermittantly between loudly roaring "Turn this hipster shit off and put on Barnsey!". Give these forces of nature a wide birth unless you want to get pulled down the slippery slope with them.

Alternatively, if you can't beat them, join them because fuckin' Straya mate.

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