run alongside me while Ifuriously
pedalled my bike. He’d run as fast
as his legs could take him while
I glided gleefully along on my
six-speed cruiser. Occasionally,
I would yell things out that I
very much doubt boxing trainers
would actually yell, like, “Come
on, keep up! Do you want to be a
boxer or just another has-been?”
Why he never questioned when
we were going to do any actual
boxing, I’ll never know.
I told this story to my girlfriend,
thinking she’d be horrifiedatmy
blatantfriend-based exploitation.
Instead, she shared her own tale
ofthe time she convinced her good
friend – who cannot be named –
to be inan amateur recreation of
the video clip for Aqua’s number-
one hit, “Barbie Girl”. If you’re
unfamiliar with the clip, it starts
with a woman, Barbie, standing
outsideadisturbingly pink
house, wateringwhatlookstobe
plastic plants. Then, an equally
disturbing pink convertible
pulls up with a bald bloke, Ken,
wearingabright blue tuxedo.
Now, my girlfriend is a stickler
for detail, and though she and her
friend were both young schoolgirls,
someone had to play Ken. She
convinced her pal to doitby
telling her that everyone would
see her as the more accomplished
actor, because she had the more
challenging role. The best part of
this sneaky little shenanigan was
that my girlfriend made her long-
haired comrade wear a (too tight)
shower cap covered in foundation to
replicate Ken’s bald head. AND THE
OSCAR GOES TO?!drum roll please
So, there you go. Friendship
is great. It’s vital and it’s
almost always rewarding. But
sometimes... not equally.
At the time of writing this,
I actually tried looking Matthew
up online, to see if he and I could
reconnect. Why, you ask? Because
Ihaveanewbikenow, and we
never did complete his training
to becomea world-class boxer.
By
Sam
Prendergast
Six months ago I moved to the other
side of the world, away from the
city of good coffee and sarcasm and
towards the land of low wages and
celebrity presidents. I was entirely
ready to embrace the US, but three
weeks in, I was sniffing the air for
hints of Australiaand New Zealand.
WhenIheardsomeone use theword
“Maccas” on a train,Isatnext
tothemfor no good reason, then
repressed the urge to yell“g’day!”
and talkabout the cricket. I’mnot
evena real Australian. I don’t like
cricket; I’ve never said ‘g’day’;and,
like half of Australia’s parliament,
I’m actually from New Zealand.I don’tknowwhatit is about moving
overseas, but for the first time in
my life I experienced a strong desire
to run into otherAustraliansand
talkabout Nicole Kidman’scareer.
Is RussellCrowea Kiwi?I’ ve never
cared before, but if you want to eat
avocado toast and drink a long black,
I’m happy to meet and discuss. At
‘grad school’ – an infantilising term
foruniversity–Imadefriends
with nice Americans who imagined
Melbourne as a small country town.
We hadearnest conversations
about our workand drank sensible
numbers of slightly flat beers. All
sarcasm was met with puzzled
frowns and questions like, “Oh...
are you, um, joking?” It was highly
un-Australian. When I raninto
someone from homeat a café with
actual espresso, we exchanged notes
and came to the same conclusion:
we both desperately needed to go
to a pub, get a bit drunk, and rant
sarcastically for four to six hours.The desperation to find my people
and hear them whinge about America
led me down some strange paths.
In actual Australia –theonewith
beaches, kangaroos, and the world’s
shittiest refugee policy – it’s
common practice to be picky about
friends. I’m not exactly screeningfriendship candidates, but, like
most 20-somethings who spend
half their income on rentand baked
eggs, I tend to stay away from
anyone who thinks climate change
isa “scam” or that Gina Rinehart
“really deserves her wealth”. Two
months out of the country and any
Australian will do. No common
interests? Don’t really care. You
hate booksand love investments
(whatever that means)? I can live
with that. On the recommendations
of well-meaning people back home,
my partner and I met endless
Australian friends-of-friends for
coffees and beers. There was always
alottodiscuss: why do people think
we’refrom Britain? When did we
last eat Vegemite? Who designed
these toilets, the seats are so low!
Then the conversation would start
to move in unforeseen directions.
On one strange occasion, we found
ourselves sitting awkwardly
as we listened to a monologue
about the difficulty of finding a
good nanny – one who wouldn’t
complain if our new Australian
‘friend’ wanted them to do some
ironing. We’dhit new peaksin
unrelatable content. Some fellow
expats are very bad substitutes
for your normal friends.Thereare some fundamental
problems with trying to befriend
people on the sole basis that they
share your nasal twang. It’s kind
of like making up for a lack of
sun by sitting under a lamp, or
giving up vegetables to live on
vitamin tablets. Beyond a shared
interest in locating Barbecue
Shapes and MILO (I’ll never again
take them for granted), we rarely
have anything in common. Even
so, I basically pee my pants with
excitement whenever I heartwo
Australians navigating the train.
And because America is getting
to me, I’ve interrupted multiple
conversations to offer themadvice.
The trick is to leave it there.There’s something nice about hearing
familiar accents and meeting
people who know that Australia
is a modern nation and not a giant
wildlife park. But as it turns out, we
don’t always need to be friends.writers’ piece