At some point in the late 1980’s, that sharp featured, handsome songsmith Gordon Sumner, (AKA Sting), had one of his many flurries of inspiration and decided to write the classic ditty ‘Englishman in New York’. An ode to being yourself no matter where you are or the company you are in. I am listening to it as I write, and find it more relatable now than at any point in it’s thirty odd years of existence.
You see, I am an actual legal alien. At this point the similarities deviate, as I’m not an Englishman in New York. I’m an Englishman in Sydney, Australia. But I AM a LEGAL alien. I can prove it. I have a lovely spouse visa, all official and pretty. If we happen to cross paths, I’ll show it to you. As far as pieces of paper that I have proudly obtained through personal achievement, it’s right up there with my 200-meter swimming certificate. When you are presented with the clerical and financial requirements that an Australian immigration application demands, it seems as practically unattainable as a portly ten-year-old splashing his way up and down the length of an Olympic sized swimming pool without drowning.
Both of those pieces of paper were obtained eventually. The Visa was acquired some 9 months after application. I’m not sure how long the swimming took, but I do know the rest of the class were showered, dried, dressed and picking snacks out of the leisure center vending machine by the time I was being fished out of the pool, all red eyed and nose clogged with snot.
The motivation to move to Australia was not original, but legitimate.
Love.
“We were working so hard to get here, that I neglected to really think about where I was going!”
My Australian wife and I had got married in London and decided to live there to begin with as we were set up with jobs and had a nice flat to call our own. That said, it was agreed from the onset that we would move to Australia long term due to two overriding factors.
- She missed her beloved family.
- The British winters caused her feet to cramp up, all be it indirectly.(Her insistence on wearing three layers of woolen socks was the actual culprit.)
So now, I am indeed an Englishman in Sydney. (Sing that bit if you like, there’s enough syllables to make it work… I checked!)
That short sentence has multiple significance. Sure, it’s a declaration of achievement. It’s also a fact of circumstance. Circumstance that presented personal challenges that I did not foresee. We were working so hard to get here, that I neglected to really think about where I was going!
I mean, how different can Australia be? Part of The Commonwealth, English speaking, British ancestry. They even drive on the left! It’s just a Factor 50, mosquito spray slathered version of home.
Well, In short, hugely different.
You see, I am a dyed in the wool Londoner.
Actually, allow me to modify that statement.
I am a dyed in the wool South Londoner.
Anybody that classifies London as an individual embodiment has never lived there and is a nincompoop.
Sorry, that is a bit strong. No offence intended. If you have never lived in London, how could you possibly know?
It’s just that the contrasts of society and culture that are experienced from the different parameters of the English Capital are incredibly varied. Moreover, the sense of community belonging to each of the four quarters is so strong, that it verges on the tribal. Not to say that any particular point of the compass is better than the other, or that there are grumblings of civil unrest between the likes of say Kings Cross or New Cross, bickering over whose ‘Cross’ is best. It’s just that, be it North, South, East or West, it is our part of London, and we are proud of it.
I was born in South London and never had any aspirations to live anywhere else. Before moving to Australia, we lived in an area called South Norwood. On the face of it, there is not much to say about the place. Its hub, a long, meandering street called Portland Road, takes a curvilineal route to the gentrified north like a dry, grey worm making its final desperate attempt to find a life preserving patch of wet mud.
What does Portland Road have to offer the weary, and likely lost, visitor?
There are limited options lining this broken paved, poorly lit urban strip. Mostly chicken and wig shops. These are two separate forms of business you understand. Shops that sell fried or grilled chicken and separate shops that sell wigs.
There are not shops that sell chicken and wigs.
Or wigs for chickens.
Or chickens as wigs.
Though, maybe there is a gap in the market. Any entrepreneurs out there that want to give any of these innovations a try, please feel free. Let me know how you get on. Particularly the ‘wigs for chickens’ idea… I think that has legs!
In addition to the sparse retail options, the area carries the ignominy of being a bit ‘crime-y’. Opportunities to relieve an individual of their possessions would be regularly taken advantage of.
An innocent cyclist would return to where he chained his bicycle to a lamppost, only to find both wheels, frame, security chain and lamppost gone.
It has been suggested that education of the youth in the community would assist in solving the problem. I suspect it wouldn’t make much difference. A well-read local lad seeing a handbag on a car seat would likely still break the window and snatch it. The only contrast would be him possibly shouting “Carpe Diem, init!!” as he sprinted off into the night.
Anyway, enough of this negativity. Undeniably rough as it is, South Norwood boasts what all working-class areas around the globe share – a community united in its struggles and making the most of what they’ve got! Throw in the cultural mix of inhabitants that make up the post-code of SE25, including Caribbean, African, Indian and Chinese, you then have a friendly, colourful, fun place to live.
When the sun is out, Portland Road can come alive! Barber shop owners positioning music speakers the size of telephone boxes on the pavement outside, pumping out reggae music for their waiting patrons. These super-chilled customers bring along their own chairs, untroubled by the fact that due to the intricate skill of afro barbering, you need to commit a full day for the task of getting a fresh trim. They sit back with the warm rays on their faces and inconceivably chat with each other over the top of a bassline that could rattle the fillings out of your teeth.
These sounds would be complimented by the aroma of ‘Jerk Drum’ barbeques that have also been dragged outside of restaurant shopfronts. This way the chef can enjoy the summer vibes, whilst luring customers in with that irresistible spicy scented smoke.
Essentially, you could be popping out for milk and end up gatecrashing a street party that it appears you were invited to all along!
All in all, this small, relatively unknown pocket of South London is a place of contrast. A benevolent, multi-cultured urban village that’s a bit rough round the edges. It’s mix of grit and easy-going friendliness contributed into making me the person I am today.
Fast forward to now, and my wife and I reside in a world-famous iconic destination.
Bondi, like London, boasts a wealth of inhabitants who hail from around the globe. Wealth being the appropriate word. Unlike London, pretty much all who strut their toned, tanned tushes around, seem to be loaded!
At least that’s what they want the casual observer to conclude.
You suspect that there are more ‘veneers’ than just those located in the pearly white gobs of these mirrored sunglass wearing bombshells.
Arriving here, I naturally felt the urge to fit in.
My wife being Australian, felt it less so. However I, being so far away from home, had a strong desire to just ‘belong’.
Surrounded by boats, I investigated being part of the sailing set. Non-starter that one. Do you know how much boats cost!? Contrary to our Bondi neighbours who all appear to have money burning a hole in their budgie-smugglers, we are far from prosperous. My budget couldn’t even stretch to a used peddle-o!
Further ideas of inclusion were either dismissed or culminated in failure seasoned with embarrassment.
Motorbikes – Popular amongst the natives. Scary. Screams midlife crisis.
Cycling – Too unfit. Feeling self conscious in those little shorts they wear.
Surfing – The locals make it look easy. It is not. From putting on a wetsuit to carrying the surfboard down the beach, paddling it out to open water and standing on the stinking thing, it is a STRUGGLE! If it wasn’t for my perfected floundering doggie paddle technique getting me to dry land, I’m not certain I’d be here today… All hail the 200-meter swimming certificate!
Urban Cowboy – Noticed a few cowboy hats worn by rugged types around the city. Seeing there is a noticeable absence of actual cows in Sydney, I thought I could look the part without any danger of being ‘roped’ into any bovine themed activity.
I purchased a soft material wide-brimmed style hat in blue.
As I attempted to perfect my ‘mosey’ around town, rather than nods of approval from any fellow metropolis dwelling buckaroos, they looked at me like I was a wig wearing chicken. Apparently, you’ll get laughed out of the rodeo If you turn up in a blue velvet hat.
Despondent, I asked my wife where I was going wrong?
She confessed that she didn’t understand the point of this attempted image conversion.
“You’re English!” she stated. “You may be 10,000 miles away from England, but that doesn’t change the fact that you are English.”
Then she gave a shrug.
“Why try to be anything else?”
I pondered on the question. Why WAS I trying to be anything else?
I am a Londoner. I’m just a Londoner in Bondi.
An Englishman in Sydney.
With that simple but eye-opening revelation, I proceeded to be just that.
I substituted death defying attempts at surfing with pulling my trousers up to my knees and having a relaxing paddle. I sometimes order tea in coffee shops. In supermarkets, I scorn the inferior brands of gravy and scour the shelves, searching for Bisto. If invited to watch Australian Rules Football down the pub, I will politely do so while wearing my Crystal Palace F.C top, patiently waiting till gone midnight for the English football to take over the screen.
“Hello” is substituted with a rhetorical, “Alright?”
I call men “Gezzer”, women, “Darlin” and reject the Aussie drink measure of a schooner for a pint.
These traits are sometimes met with eye rolling from the locals, often accompanied with “Flamin Poms…” being uttered under breath.
This would be acknowledged with a nonchalant shrug. I would just remember the sage lyrics of Mr. Gordon ‘Sting’ Sumner,
“Be yourself, no matter what they say.”
Then I’d apologise… Because I’m English… and that’s what English people do.
You Know It Makes Sense 