CLANCY OVERELL | Editor | CONTACT
A local Brit that isn’t from London, Scotland or any of those cities with the soccer teams, is offended that you’ve never heard about the shithole he calls home.
The 31-year-old middle-management white collar migrant who lives in Betoota’s boring outer-inner-city apartment precinct has met yet another Australian who doesn’t know where his hometown is on a map.
Hugh’s town, which is one of those shitty ones you occasionally see in movies about coal mining in the 1980s or VICE documentaries about the rise of heroin in rural England, surprisingly isn’t that commonly brought up around Australian kitchen tables.
And this surprises him for some reason.
Hugh is honestly convinced the uncultured everyday Australians that he has decided to live alongside, aren’t familiar with his birthplace, or the three mid-tier footballers that are also from there.
What makes things even more confusing is that this polite recruit officer can’t seem to even give a vague geographical location when asked to explain where it is.
“Is it near where Billy Elliott? Or is it near where The Office?” asks one colleague, who just assumed England was one giant city with a heap of different accents.
“Nowits kinda like near Yewshouldknowshire” says a distressed Hugh.
“You know, where they filmed those telly shows about the murder mysteries”
“Oh never mind” he mutters, with a stroppy little pommy tantrum.
“Australians are so stuck in their own world”
