No matter what critics may say about the faults of Australians, they can never criticise them for being selfish when it comes to sharing knowledge. Almost from the moment I landed in Australia I ran into Aussies who wanted to instruct me in the cultural secrets of their country. Even perfect strangers, once they discovered they had found a real live immigrant, would instantly set about educating me on all matters of importance.

At first I thought that every individual Australian had been assigned one piece of data which they were duty-bound to tell to strangers. Later I found out that all Australians are stuffed full of these fragments of information and they go about telling them not only to strangers, but to each other also, as frequently as possible. Because of this cultural exercise of Australians, I rapidly learned, mostly from people I had never seen before and never met again, that the top of the arch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge is 134 metres above sea level; Australia invented the lamington; Archer won the first Melbourne Cup; ..... the heart of a horse called Phar Lap is in a museum; Jackie Howe, wearing a singlet, sheared 321 sheep by hand in eight hours; the venom from a single taipan can kill 23,000 mice; Australia invented the ballot box; Ned Kelly was the best bushranger in the land; and a bloke called Don was the world's greatest batsman (later I found out that a batsman had some sort of role in a game called cricket).

Australians have millions of such fragments of important information and, because of a compulsion to tell everybody about them, people like me found it rather easy to settle into the Australian way of life. When I got my driver's licence I was virtually surrounded by crowds of people who wanted to ply me with information about Australian traffic etiquette and highway habits.

Macka Malone was one of those people, always willing to sprout forth gratuitous advice at the drop of a hat. He could usually be found having drinkies at a place just off the Cross called The Grotto. On this particular day we were discussing the financial disaster which had befallen a mutual friend who had copped a speeding ticket. "Shit, Ricky!" Macka says over the top of his glass. "Fancy copping a ticket for bloody speeding, mate. You would think the stupid bastard would have had a 'copper's kiss' stuck in his licence". "'What's a copper's kiss?" I asked. "Sorry, Ricko old mate," says Macka. "I forgot you're one of them foreigners. A copper's kiss is like this, see. When yer get yer licence, yer always shove some of the folding stuff in it like. Then, when the stupid mug copper pulls yer over and asks to see yer licence, he quietly removes the dough, hands yer back yer licence all friendly like and before yer can say 'ave another drink on me, Macka, yer on yer way."

Surfers Paradise was a town like no other in Australia or maybe even the world. There was no police station, no ambulance centre, just a one man fire brigade which attracted a lot of volunteers if ever a fire was stupid enough to break out. The one important fire of some years earlier was said to have been more of a competition than a rescue effort. It was claimed that while the rescue team were rushing inside and carrying the massive piles of furniture outside, the owner and his friends were on the other side of the building tossing it all back in again in an effort to maximise the insurance payout.

One day in the wee small hours, while at Main Beach, two kilometres north of Surfers, Charlie Lees and I were wondering what to do with half a bottle of Scotch we had left over. In those days travelling from Main Beach to Surfers was simple. The highway was just a two-way road.

We decided to show the contents of the bottle who is boss, and to do that at my place in Orchid Avenue. The favourite way to get there was to drive down the highway and turn left where Orchid Avenue started. This was a short street running parallel with the highway. An alternative was to carry on along the highway one street further, then double back to my place. Certain there would be no traffic at that hour, we thought a race was in order - Charlees in his Woolsley versus me in my Dodge. Charlees was to take the longer route, as he had the faster car. We arrived at our destination at the same time, which showed that our handicap system was perfect.

In third place was a police utility, which apparently got caught in the slipstream and was sucked along behind Charlees. The cops were unhappy because they only got a bronze medal. They loudly accused Charlie of driving at either faster than the speed of light, or close to 70 kph in a 50 kph zone. I had been doing my customary 100 kph on the faster route, but that got lost in the argument.

A Coolangatta publican got the bright idea that if he could teach his floorshow singer/guitarist, who couldn't read music, how to play the guitar properly, he could place him in the band and thereby save paying the wages of one musician. So he put the teaching proposition during the Friday night floorshow to another singer/guitarist who was somewhat more professional.