As heard on my way to the Gin Palace from the mouth of an unattractive, short and ponytailed man on Little Collins Street:

And that’s why I get all my suits imported from Italy…

Someone somewhere once said that patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel, and what is becoming increasingly apparent in the Australia of today is that the flag is the preferred apparel of drunken louts on this the 26th day of January.

Thankfully, the Union Jack and the Southern Cross on the background of blue clearly mark out the fools in any crowd, and one knows immediately where and whom to avoid. Unfortunately, I was already on the 96 tram to St. Kilda when a rowdy bunch of flag-happy fuckers jumped aboard, so avoiding them was not an option and their inimitable brand of raucous charm and wit had to be endured all the way home.

Happy Australia Day indeed.

The questions that were asked of a waitress just so that four boys originally from the same outer suburb of Melbourne could continue hearing the sweetness of her French accent:

• would a wine list in a restaurant of the same standard in France look much the same as what’s on offer here?
• how would you rate the best of the Australian wines against the best of the French?
• from what region of France are you?
• the food was excellent — did you cook it?
• have you personally selected what’s on the cheese platter?
• could you convince Paul here why he really should be trying some of this cheese?