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I could very easily get lost in that link: each section has highlighted words that just BEG me to click on them and see what I find. I just found this poem, which is in itself worthwhile. I found it by clicking on the word diggers. I'll include some of the explanations. (All of the following are quotes from the site.)
Briefly, a digger is an Australian solider, typically from WWI and WW2. They are revered, and, in many ways, epitomise the real Australian culture that is perhaps dying with them.
The following is a poem in their honour.
Diggers Lament
It was with great sadness, that we saw
a dusty old digger, turned from the door
for a century he and his mates had drunk
and laughed and cried, and lived through war
But now it seems, he is not the right class
No suit, no tie, no belt of brass
To him it was all a tragic mystery
Who were these Australians, who had forgotten their own history?
Somewhat in shock, we skulled our beers
and rushed to join, our aging peer
hey cobber, we yelled, knowing his tounge
he turned and stared, eyeing us one by one
We built this bloody country, said he
with our bloody hands
we spilt our blood, we gave our youth
and this is the thanks we have
In our day the pub was for one and all
a place for laugh and cheer
at the very least, an honest bloke
could find an honest beer
Now noone wants to know us
they throw us on the street
sometimes I wonder why we bothered
getting butchered, like raw meat
the fair dinkums we were known as
as we fought the war of hate
but most of all, we aussie blokes
fought for one another - as good mates
Now I look around at Sydney
Well, it just ain't the same
the crowds - they aren't my people
what they are is just a shame
they shove, they push, they toot their horns
they speak american if you're lucky
the dinkum aussies, my cobbers and I
we're disappearing in a hurry
there's no shouting, mateship or blokeyness
and 'bloody oath' is considered crude
they think they are all winners
I just think they're bloody rude
they carry on, throughout their lives
chasing the almighty zac
but they know no joy, they have no mates
they'll die alone - for moneys sake
and what's worse, he sighed, is not here and now
but where we're going to be
and I ask myself, as I slowly die
what happened to my country.
David Downie, 2000
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I found this by clicking on class:
Australia has long been touted as the classless society. One only has to walk down the tired streets of Sydney and hear people shamelessly crying 'mate, mate - could you spare a dollar?' to know that this is no longer the case. Yet having said that, it does not mean that we are the same as everyone else.
The difference lies, not in the fact we all share equal wealth, or that there is no difference between a CEO on two millions dollars a year and the dunny scrubber on 12 grand a year, but in our attitude, generally speaking, to the swarming masses. As discussed elsewhere on this site, one of the great things about being Australian is that generally speaking it is the common traits that are considered to be Australian. Hence, if someone drinks, swears, says g'day, loves his footy, dislikes bludgers and bignoters and speaks all sorts of slang, then he is a fair dinkum Aussie. And, generally speaking, we like fair dinkum Aussies, and would all like to think that we are one ourselves, and we can certainly all share a beer together. Hence, in some important ways, we are all the same.
==========================================================
Cobber - Old Australian for mate, heavily used in the period of the first world war. Seldom heard in modern times, but understood by all.
Fair dinkum is an old Australian expression very roughly translating to mean genuine.
To shout is Australian meaning to buy something for someone. In a drinking context, it means to purchase a round of drinks (ie one for each person), often with the expectation of reciprocation. This was its original meaning.
The link to bloody is too darned intersting to post just part of it! Go take a look: http://www.australianbeers.com/
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Worse yet - Harry-Potter-related Often speculate as to where JKRowling gets/got her names from, and so "bludger" caught my eye... Hence, if someone drinks, swears, says g'day, loves his footy, dislikes bludgers and bignoters and speaks all sorts of slang, then he is a fair dinkum Aussie. I found this link http://www.anu.edu.au/ANDC/Austwords/bludger which expands on the term, at least as previously used. For better or for worse, the new usage may contaminate the original beyond recognition.
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Dear wofahulicodoc: I enjoyed the link, but was frustrated by inability to find out how Harry Potter author was related to it.
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"Bludgers" are the big heavy balls in Quidditch that go rocketing around, used to assault the other team's players ("trying to knock them off their brooms") by propelling the balls at them with a big bat or paddle - the players assigned to that task are called Beaters.
(JKRowling has nothing to do with the link, just with Bludgers.)
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For reference to lots of fair dinkum Aussie language: http://www.koalanet.com.au/australian-slang.html Enjoy... 
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I'd assumed JK Rowling's use of bludger was related to bludgeon.
Bingley
Bingley
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old hand
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I'd assumed JK Rowling's use of bludger was related to bludgeon.
Me too. That's why I immediately could imagine what a bludger was supposed to do in a Quidditch game.
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An amazingly accurate description of the Aussie BBQ culture. And another long post from yours truly.
The Tong-Master Griff was at the barbecue and Joel was at the barbecue and I was at the barbecue; three men standing around a barbecue, sipping beer, staring at sausages, rolling them backwards and forwards, never leaving them alone. We didn't know why we were at the barbecue; we were just drawn there like moths to a flame. The barbecue was a powerful gravitational force, a man-magnet. Joel said the thin ones could use a turn, I said yeah I reckon the thin ones could use a turn, Griff said yeah they really need a turn it was a unanimous turning decision. Griff was the Tong-Master, a true artist, he gave a couple of practice snaps of his long silver tongs, SNAP SNAP, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of his wrist, rolling them onto their little backs. A lesser tong-man would've flicked too hard; the sausages would've gone full circle, back to where they started. Nice, I said. The others went yeah. Kevin was passing us, he heard the siren-song- sizzle of the snags, the barbecue was calling, beckoning, Kevinnnnn ...come. He stuck his head in and said any room? We said yeah and began the barbecue shuffle; Griff shuffled to the left, Joel shuffled to the left, I shuffled to the left, Kevin slipped in beside me, we sipped our beer. Now there were four of us staring at sausages, and Griff gave me the nod, my cue. I was second-in-command, and I had to take the raw sausages out of the plastic bag and lay them on the barbecue; not too close together, not too far apart, curl them into each other's bodies like lovers -fat ones, thin ones, herbed and continental. The chipolatas were tiny, they could easily slip down between the grill, falling into the molten hot-bead-netherworld below. Carefully I laid them sideways ACROSS the grill, clever thinking. Griff snapped his tongs with approval; there was no greater barbecue honour. P.J. came along, he said looking good, looking good -the irresistible lure of the barbecue had pulled him in too. We said yeah and did the shuffle, left, left, left, left, he slipped in beside Kevin, we sipped our beer. Five men, lots of sausages. Joel was the Fork-pronger; he had the fork that pronged the tough hides of the Bavarian bratwursts and he showed a lot of promise. Stabbing away eagerly, leaving perfect little vampire holes up and down the casing. P.J. was shaking his head, he said I reckon they cook better if you don't poke them. There was a long silence, you could have heard a chipolata drop, and this newcomer was a rabble-rouser, bringing in his crazy ideas from outside. He didn't understand the hierarchy; first the Tong-master, then the Sausage-layer, then the Fork-pronger -and everyone below was just a watcher. Maybe eventually they'll move up the ladder, but for now - don't rock the Weber. Dianne popped her head in; hmmm, smells good, she said. She was trying to jostle into the circle; we closed ranks, pulling our heads down and our shoulders in, mumbling yeah yeah yeah, but making no room for her. She was keen, going round to the far side of the barbecue, heading for the only available space . . . the gap in the circle where all the smoke and ashes blew. Nobody could survive the gap; Dianne was going to try. She stood there stubbornly, smoke blinding her eyes, ashes filling her nostrils, sausage fat spattering all over her arms and face. Until she couldn't take it anymore, she gave up, backed off. Kevin waited till she was gone and sipped his beer. We sipped our beer, yeah. Griff handed me his tongs. I looked at him and he nodded. I knew what was happening, I'd waited a long time for this moment - the abdication. The tongs weighed heavy in my hands, firm in my grip - was I ready for the responsibility? Yes, I was. I held them up high and they glinted in the sun. Don't forget to turn the thin ones Griff said as he walked away from the barbecue, disappearing toward the house. Yeah I called back, I will, I will. I snapped them twice, SNAP SNAP, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of my wrist, rolling them back onto their little bellies. I was a natural, I was the TONG-MASTER ... but only until Griff got back from the toilet.
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This is an Aussie BBQ? One of my sons spent 3 weeks in Zild after graduating from college to visit his best friend who had married a Zildean and had gone to live there. My son enjoyed himself very much except for the food. According to him, they hardly ever ate meat unless it was in the form of sausage (notwithstanding that his friend worked as a butcher in his father-in-law's shop), and his description of a cookout (our word, not sure what they call it) is just like Doc C's.
What say, Max -- is it so?
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Can't speak for Max in Zild (love that nickname), but can vouch for Aussie BBQs being a place for the snag (Aussie slang for Sausage not Sensitive New Age Guy wish there were as many S.N.A.G.s as there are the other type  )
However, am surprised a little that Zild didn't have more to offer. Lamb is certainly THE meat - in every possible form: chops, sausages, roasts, liver, kidney, brains. Or at least, that was my experience...
But - far be it for me to speak for a Zilander... we have rivalries of every possible type, so ... come on Max. Tell us about your Barbies.
Hev
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Hey, doc-- loved the story! Same thing here, yup. Man, I could SMELL those sausages!
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BYB held This is an Aussie BBQ? One of my sons spent 3 weeks in Zild after graduating from college to visit his best friend who had married a Zildean and had gone to live there. My son enjoyed himself very much except for the food. According to him, they hardly ever ate meat unless it was in the form of sausage (notwithstanding that his friend worked as a butcher in his father-in-law's shop), and his description of a cookout (our word, not sure what they call it) is just like Doc C's.
Sorry BYB, but your son must have been mixing with Westies (people from Western Auckland who live in or near the foothills of the Waitakeres), as different a breed as you can get from the rest of New Zealand (unless you count people from Tamaki, Papatoetoe, Papakura, Titirangi, Henderson, Kumeu, One Tree Hill, Mt Wellington, South Auckland, or ... hang on, let's just say Aucklanders).
The barbie is usually one of two things, or somewhere on a continuum between the two - a quick searing of snarlers which are then wolfed down half-raw, followed by copious amounts of beer or a gourmet's delight, accompanied by fine wine.
Barbies these days are quite varied. When S. and I got married a couple of years ago, the entire "wedding breakfast" was cooked on a barbecue, and you would never have known it by taste alone. The fact that the cook was working in the middle of everything was kind of a giveaway, however.
However, in all fairness to our Striner friends in the West Island, they are the absolute masters of the barbecue. Barbied garlic prawns are right up there with divine. The Zildish prawns are tiny, puny, pale little things by comparison, and they just plain shrivel up when they hit the grill.
I've never seen a barbie culture thing going in Zild, but, boy, I sure have in Brizzie and Melbourne. There was a murder in the Strine a few years back over who was going to cook the meal on the barbecue, if I remember correctly. Can't remember the details, though.
The idiot also known as Capfka ...
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I'd assumed JK Rowling's use of bludger was related to bludgeon.
I'd assumed it to combine "bludgeon" and "nasty little buggers".
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