their associations with the occult, and write exclusively with paper and ink. Some Correspondents have been known to use typewriters, but these are becoming less common nowadays.
Most of the Correspondent’s output is directed towards newspapers, and can cover a wide range of subject matter, from young men’s visible underpants, to the lack of decent, wholesome shows like
The Good Life
on our TV screens, to the Americanization of the language, to young women’s visible underpants. Homosexuals are frequently referenced, with Correspondent opinion divided as to whether they are irredeemably sinful perverts, or socially destructive radical communists. Women are also a popular topic due to their habits of dressing wrongly, having too much sex, complaining too much, not being ‘enough like women back in my day’, being unable to take a compliment, not smiling enough, refusing to accept that they’re different from men, and carrying around an excessive amount of bottled water. Most Correspondents’ letters will conclude with a polite request for someone to inform the Correspondent as to where it will all end, or a demand that everybody be forced to join the army. In their mellower moments, the Correspondent will write letters that whimsically recall their youth or the brand of hair cream people used on their street in 1937, or else they will compose limericks about current events. This is the point at which most public health experts recommend euthanasia.
When not writing to newspapers, Correspondents like to write to government departments to deny they owe, or to demand more, money; to major corporations complaining about the quality of their product in the hope of getting something for free; and to their relatives to pass judgment on their lifestyles and tell long, dull stories about the Correspondent’s day-to-day life that won’t end until the writing becomes illegible.
Correspondents’ physical appearance is the subject of much conjecture, as it can’t be ascertained with absolute certainty that a Veteran is a Correspondent without observing his domestic habits and stationery drawer.
A more publicly visible Veteran is the Anzac and Bitters , a gnarled and bad-tempered Bloke whose natural habitat is the pub, and whose diet consists entirely of alcohol and cigarettes. This species is known for its short fuse and pungent odour: a mixture of tobacco, mothballs, and regret.
The regret stems from the fact that the Anzac and Bitters is a Veteran in two ways: both in the scientific, taxonomical sense that we use in this book; and in the sense that he has served in his country’s military, or at the very least has seen a lot of war movies. Now that his military service (or the military service of some Blokes he knows) is over, the Anzac and Bitters regrets ever serving, since his country has all gone to hell anyway. Many people who live in Anzac-and-Bitters-infested regions are quite familiar with the plaintive cry of the breed, ringing out clear across the suburbs: ‘What the bloody hell were we fighting for?’ Some consider this a beautiful, almost musical accompaniment to daily life in Australia, although God knows who they are.
The Anzac and Bitters draws his sour outlook on life from the observations he sees around him: a country increasingly defined by violent street crime, foul language, promiscuity, disrespectful youngsters, and, most of all, foreigners. It is the last which perhaps sticks in his wrinkly craw the most intolerably. ‘Why did we fight the war if we were just going to let all these bloody foreigners in anyway?’ the Anzac and Bitters will enquire of his bartender, who will, if he is a wise and experienced professional, not answer – engaging an Anzac and Bitters in conversation is the surest way to subject yourself to a full-frontal attack, dooming you to a very tedious evening. The lack of a response will not necessarily deter the Veteran, though – the Anzac and Bitters is a hardy and
Most of the Correspondent’s output is directed towards newspapers, and can cover a wide range of subject matter, from young men’s visible underpants, to the lack of decent, wholesome shows like
The Good Life
on our TV screens, to the Americanization of the language, to young women’s visible underpants. Homosexuals are frequently referenced, with Correspondent opinion divided as to whether they are irredeemably sinful perverts, or socially destructive radical communists. Women are also a popular topic due to their habits of dressing wrongly, having too much sex, complaining too much, not being ‘enough like women back in my day’, being unable to take a compliment, not smiling enough, refusing to accept that they’re different from men, and carrying around an excessive amount of bottled water. Most Correspondents’ letters will conclude with a polite request for someone to inform the Correspondent as to where it will all end, or a demand that everybody be forced to join the army. In their mellower moments, the Correspondent will write letters that whimsically recall their youth or the brand of hair cream people used on their street in 1937, or else they will compose limericks about current events. This is the point at which most public health experts recommend euthanasia.
When not writing to newspapers, Correspondents like to write to government departments to deny they owe, or to demand more, money; to major corporations complaining about the quality of their product in the hope of getting something for free; and to their relatives to pass judgment on their lifestyles and tell long, dull stories about the Correspondent’s day-to-day life that won’t end until the writing becomes illegible.
Correspondents’ physical appearance is the subject of much conjecture, as it can’t be ascertained with absolute certainty that a Veteran is a Correspondent without observing his domestic habits and stationery drawer.
A more publicly visible Veteran is the Anzac and Bitters , a gnarled and bad-tempered Bloke whose natural habitat is the pub, and whose diet consists entirely of alcohol and cigarettes. This species is known for its short fuse and pungent odour: a mixture of tobacco, mothballs, and regret.
The regret stems from the fact that the Anzac and Bitters is a Veteran in two ways: both in the scientific, taxonomical sense that we use in this book; and in the sense that he has served in his country’s military, or at the very least has seen a lot of war movies. Now that his military service (or the military service of some Blokes he knows) is over, the Anzac and Bitters regrets ever serving, since his country has all gone to hell anyway. Many people who live in Anzac-and-Bitters-infested regions are quite familiar with the plaintive cry of the breed, ringing out clear across the suburbs: ‘What the bloody hell were we fighting for?’ Some consider this a beautiful, almost musical accompaniment to daily life in Australia, although God knows who they are.
The Anzac and Bitters draws his sour outlook on life from the observations he sees around him: a country increasingly defined by violent street crime, foul language, promiscuity, disrespectful youngsters, and, most of all, foreigners. It is the last which perhaps sticks in his wrinkly craw the most intolerably. ‘Why did we fight the war if we were just going to let all these bloody foreigners in anyway?’ the Anzac and Bitters will enquire of his bartender, who will, if he is a wise and experienced professional, not answer – engaging an Anzac and Bitters in conversation is the surest way to subject yourself to a full-frontal attack, dooming you to a very tedious evening. The lack of a response will not necessarily deter the Veteran, though – the Anzac and Bitters is a hardy and
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