Monday, 26th June, 2006.

Last week I went to see Richard E. Grant's autobiographical film, Wah-Wah, a wonderful portrayal of life lived among the silly, pompous Brits as they clung to the remnants of Empire, this particular piece of Empire being Swaziland. This is not to say I did not feel a genuine affection for these people and the very odd life they had created where one maintained standards at all costs while keeping the natives at a friendly distance. After all, I grew up in England at a time when there were only two nationalities: British and Foreigners - and the Foreigners were the unlucky ones (and, yes, I am blushing as I'm writing this).

I've been aware of this question of nationality recently because of the World Cup where it seems (and I don't know the rules, of course) that anyone can play for any team - as a commentator said of the Australia/Croatia match the other day, "Our Croations beat their Croations". And tomorrow "our" Italians play "their" Italians and Norton Street, Leichhardt (Little Italy) will be closed for eight hours while this win-win situation is joyfully celebrated - mama mia! The only people losing out during the World Cup seem to be the referees who are now definitely the baddies no matter what their nationality.

Anyway, I have been awake during the early hours to watch the Socceroos and the dogs have raised their heads in mild surprise as I yell and throw my hands in the air and utter expletives. I'm cheering on the Socceroos and the Poms so it's good that I'm home alone with my divided loyalties: I once cheered the West Indies at a one day match at the Sydney Cricket Ground - very nasty. I won't be making that mistake again!