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You don’t know how hard it is to be Australian. The drovers, the pioneer spirit. We’ve read Henry Lawnman and Bindi Joe Paterson. Our forefathers had to ride down sheer cliffs on penny-farthings to catch the barber who was worth a thousand pounds so he could stop a dog exploding, then it turns out Ned Kelly was actually an ill-tempered pudding all along.
Let me tell you a few things about hardship. As little as six generations ago, those forefathers grew this country out of nothing but dust and hope and massive, massive deposits of gold. The memory of that toil lies heavy in our limbs, and every time I crack a cold beer at the end of a long hard day’s remembering, I drink for them.
