My ANZAC Spirit

I am a crap Australian - I have never been to the dawn service on ANZAC Day. I haven't seen anyone march, except for the highlights on the evening news. I have barely spoken to anyone who served about what they did during wartime. I am one of those shit blokes who uses ANZAC Day for another piss-up and a day off from work. It's another excuse to drink too much, bet too much and wake up late on Saturday a little bit dusty with a pocket full of coins, a stolen schooner glass and a sign-in slip from the Belconnen Labour Club.

I missed another dawn service due to watching the stupid IPL cricket on Thursday night - I just wanted to see Warney bowl again, even if it was just in a shit game of Twenty20. That's how good a bloke I am. I fell asleep on the couch after his first couple of balls (he did get a wicket though) and woke up during the infomercials. I once again resisted the urge to buy an eliptical exercise machine. I just don't see how it's better than everything else on the market, despite their graphics of glowing muscle groups and before-and-after photos of Captain Flabby morphing into Emperor Ripped Pecs. Maybe it's the disclaimer of "Results not typical".

I had been a good little Aussie and bought a pin from the old ducks at Woden that afternoon. At 4am that day, I realised that it was now stabbing me in the chest, and I was in unbearable pain. Now I know how those diggers felt as they were being shot. Yep, I actually likened a bullet to lying on a small badge. I angrily took it off (which took a lot longer than it should have, but I had fallen asleep on my arm and couldn't move my hands quite as freely as I would have liked) and put it on the seat next to me. I think it fell down behind the cushion, no doubt I'll stab myself with it soon and be angry all over again.

Upon waking, I did my part to be as top an Aussie as I could be and ate some Vegemite toast to give me fuel for "going over the top", which was actually just me going to the pub with my mates. We must have walked about a kilometre, and complained the whole way. It was unseasonably warm, after all. Those diggers had it easy. At one stage I had to take my jumper off. War is hell? Pfft. Try walking with a jumper tied around your waist.

Arriving at the pub, I decided I'd been a battler long enough, and I deserved a few drinks. My seat at our table meant that I was facing the AFL game. I hate AFL. It was like watching your best mate getting gunned down next to you. Now I knew how the diggers felt.

"Deserving a few drinks" pretty much sums up the rest of my day, although at one stage I begrudgingly handed over a few lobsters ($20 notes) to a guy in a pink shirt after the old adage "tails never fails" let me down. Actually, it was more than one stage, as that old adage definitely did NOT prove to be very true at all. A pink-shirted, hair waxed (from the back) metro bloke with a studded belt took my cash. I felt like I'd been put in the front line for the next assault into No Man's Land.

I also stole a McDonalds cheeseburger from my mate after he had passed out ("Shoes are off! I was asleep!") on his couch. It was like taking the ration pack of a fallen soldier as he lay on the battle ground with a gunshot wound to his stomach.

Worst bloke ever.

Lest we forget.