Australians make the worst husbands according to a British study.  Apparently it’s because we don’t do the housework.

Scandinavia – of course, and the USA and Britian, all better.

Better husbands because they’ll do the housework.
Well, I say Australia is the last bastion of a true male. A true bloke who can live in squalor and never notice it. A bloke who can sleep in sheets until they change themselves. A bloke who says why empty the kitchen bin, you can always stuff more in it. A bloke who says clean the shower recess? It gets cleaned and washed down every time I have a shower, doesn’t it?

As for doing the housework, I’m proud to say that Australia is a land where if you chuck a cricket ball up the main street, chances are you’ll hit a bloke who’ll declare;  if you have to do the housework after you get married , why the bloody hell would you get married?

Go on, then darling, marry Sven then, see how like it. Oh, the kitchen will gleam, and you could serve soup in your bidet, but you’ll never know the joy of a bloke who’s happy with the one pair of underpants for the week – why add to the laundry pile? All Aussie blokes all you need to do  to clean a shirt is leave it on the bedroom floor for a couple of days.  See, we may not do  housework, but we have many strategies for reducing it.

Barbequeing is popular in Australia because you never need to clean a barbeque. Oh, I’m sure divine husband Nigel ruining a pork sausage on his Weber on his allotment in Norwhich cleans his, and I know that Chuck incinerating a weiner on his eight burner monster connected directly to a Texan oil derrick also cleans his, but any Aussie bloke knows that a barbeque is cleaned simply by turning it on.  The flames consume remaining pieces of barramundi or crocodile that were stuck on the grill and any further remnants are removed by cooking the kid’s sausages first.  We then cook the adult’s meal; often Fillet of Shark, wrestled that morning from the bay while surfing, or perhaps Kangaroo Fillets, cut from a beast felled with a boomerang from the mobs common in our city streets.

Why wouldn’t you want an Australian bloke? Bugger the housework, Australian men – it’s well known – play beautiful tennis, can round up cattle on horseback, have narrow hips and rarely speak except to deliver a devasting laconic aside.

But you go right ahead, darling. If you’d rather walk up the aisle with chip butty Nigel, or hamburger arse Chuck or herring head Sven because they’ll keep the linen cupboard well ordered, you’re missing out on a bloke who can drink beer with one hand, choke a taipan with the other and as long as you keep the beer cold for him, couldn’t give a dead dingo’s donger if you keep the place clean.