I was enjoying a quiet time in the corner of a café when the irritating rasp of an Aussie accent rose above the murmur of conversation.
‘Stone the crows where can a bloke get some beer?’ Twanged the discordant voice.
‘Damn, a Bogan on holidays,’ I thought. Still one must look after my tribe and distance myself from nonsense. So I reluctantly rose and made my way closer.
'Perhaps I can help?’ I asked, ‘I am afraid that this is the wrong country for that to happen.’
‘Eh? Since when should I take notice of a Pommy Bastard,’ He answered belligerently.
‘Since I am not one, I regret to inform you that this is a dry country. The only way for you to find alcohol is to get an Alcoholic’s permit from the Embassy,’ I suggested, “If you continue bellowing it will only attract the wrong attention if they realise what you want.’