Sven's life in Oz

This weekend Gareth and Clancy have been staying with me, along with James, so I have been racing off to do touristy stuff with the much-beloved English pair; I have not had time to write new blogs and capitalise on the increased traffic from Bossy’s very welcome mention of my cushion faux pas at the cottage back in England. Such is life.

Having Gareth and Clancy here has been an utter joy and I look forward to our final few days together when they return from their fortnight driving up and down the Queensland coast in a Holden Commodore with a mattress in the back. Those crazy gays! Of course, like all Britons, they were bound to know someone else in Sydney – it is, after all, our favourite foreign city – and I was all for getting this fellow expat to join us on Friday night for drinks and dancing; it’s always nice to make a new friend.

Making new friends is hard work. The last expat I met turned out to be a dud. I thought he seemed like a nice guy while we chatting about his desperation to get a permanent visa. He was extremely jealous of my residency, and lamented that he would have to leave at the end of the year. He would do anything to stay: Australia was everything to him. After a few drinks we said goodbye and I thought he was nice enough. I was all for some social high jinks, but it was not to be. When I saw him in the street the following week there was some awkward eye contact as he approached me, and the friendly hello I launched crashed and burned on his total indifference. In short: he blanked me.

Back to the story: Clancy and I toured the bars of Sydney whilst Gareth and James watched Liza Minnelli at the Opera House. (Don’t ask.) We all met up afterwards and shared our tales before heading to a club to throw some shapes to awful pop tracks. I’m talking ABBA, Britney Spears and there may even have been some Olivia Newton-John in there, too; you get the idea. In due course, Clancy’s friend arrives and who should it be? None other than the supercilious, too-good-to-be-my-friend expat Brit from a few weeks ago. It was priceless.

“Have you two met?” asked Clancy. There are only two ways to behave in this situation: well, or badly. The opportunity was simply too delicious to pass up. “Of course we have! How are you?” An ostentatious greeting, closed body language and a wry smile. His face was a picture, like a man laughing at Fate on his way to the gallows. It turned out he was well, if somewhat uncomfortable at finding himself on the wrong side of a friend of someone he clearly fancied. Efforts at seduction were scotched when Gareth arrived on the scene and claimed Clancy as his own. The poor fellow could probably not have been more crestfallen, but even that wasn’t good enough for me. Revenge is only worth it when you can twist the knife, and one final jab was enough to satisfy my bloodlust. Confident of my right to reside in this sunbaked nation, drink in hand, and with the syrupy tone of one about to relish in your misery, I stuck in the final knife.

“So,” I drooled. “How’s your visa?”