"Well that's the best piece of journalism I've ever seen in the Herald," said my workmate. He put his coffee down, and stared at his laptop screen in admiration.
"Which one?" I asked. "The Kate McClymont piece about ICAC?"
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"No, that was OK. I mean the story about the British removalists."
Ah, of course. I knew the one he meant, but I had to correct a point of detail.
"Not just British removalists," I said, "but 'burly' British removalists."
"Yes," my friend agreed. "They were burly removalists and yet they were still scared by a huntsman spider ..."
I was forced to jump in once more: "A huntsman spider which – according to the BBC – was 'the size of a guinea pig'."
Yes, my friend agreed, a huntsman spider "the size of a guinea pig".
At that point we both just sat there for a while and considered the story. As published midweek, it was a simple enough tale. A couple had moved from Australia to Britain. A huntsman spider had insinuated itself into the shipping container.
A supervisor was quoted: "He ran two miles up the road when he first saw it," he said, describing one removalist.
Sorry, one "burly" removalist.
My friend took another sip of coffee.
I said: "I'm not even sure what burly means."
"Oh," said my friend. "It means strong, muscular, very large. These men are the best the UK can offer. They are gods among normal people and yet when confronted with a measly, placid, friendly, mosquito-devouring huntsman, the poor things run for the hills.
"I mean, if a burly Pom is this scared, imagine what a normal-sized Pom would do."
![A giant huntsman spider triggered the fear of Poms everywhere.](http://web.archive.org./web/20170731153547im_/http://www.smh.com.au/content/dam/images/g/x/h/t/9/w/image.imgtype.articleLeadwide.620x349.png/1501077172674.png)
A giant huntsman spider triggered the fear of Poms everywhere. Photo: RSPCA
We sat there for a moment longer, letting the tale capture our hearts. That defeat in the cricket? Somehow it had lost its sting.
"They clearly don't realise they are harmless," said my friend, interrupting the silence. "If he was found in an Australian house, he'd be treated like a member of the family."
I nodded in agreement. "That's the least of it. He'd be given a nickname. 'Hairy Legs', something cute like that. Or maybe 'Mr Hairy'. If you had a toddler, she'd treat him like a pet. She'd sing him lullabies at night."
We savoured some more. The British really had stuffed up in 1942 when they failed to hold Singapore. Disappointed? We were ropeable. Then there was that thing – was it 1973? – where they joined Europe and stopped buying our lamb chops. That wasn't good either.
It was good to see them get their comeuppance.
"I have a cousin in the UK," I said.
"I have a brother," he said.
We went back to our laptops. "Should we send the story direct on Facebook Messenger?" my friend asked. "Or put it on Facebook, then tag them?"
I took a sip of coffee. "Best to do both," I advised. "That's what I did with the flying fox story."
He looked at me quizzically. I had to explain. It was late last year and The Times of London reported that Australia had been struck by a plague of flying foxes. These tiny, sweet-faced bats can, it's true, create problems with their poo. The Times, though, wasn't focused on the poo. It was focused on the size of the animal.
![Flying foxes wreaking havoc.](http://web.archive.org./web/20170731153547im_/http://www.smh.com.au/content/dam/images/g/i/6/q/g/d/image.imgtype.articleLeadwide.620x349.png/1436256236403.png)
Flying foxes wreaking havoc. Photo: Ofer Levy
The name flying fox, the paper confided, grew from the fact the animals were the size of foxes. Essentially, it was a fox with wings. The way the paper carried on, you could see them dive-bombing sheep and carrying the bleating animals back to their nests.
Of course, I'd sent the link to my cousin so she might better understand how brave I must be to walk out my front door each morning; a man dive-bombed by winged foxes.
Better still, the story had come just after Mick Fanning had punched the shark.
"Oh, that was great," said my friend. "I loved that story."
I asked: "Did you send the Mick Fanning video to your brother?"
"Oh, yes," said my friend. "I posted the video wherever I could. I told everyone we're given shark defence lessons in primary school, and that Mick was just doing what every Australian is taught to do when confronted by a shark."
"Me too," I said. "Plus, I sent them the Australian Museum official entry on the drop bear – 'Thylarctos plummetus, a large, arboreal, predatory marsupial related to the koala ... around the size of a leopard or very large dog'. That really did freak them out."
![Terrifying: Mick Fanning's unforgettable encounter last year.](http://web.archive.org./web/20170731153547im_/http://www.smh.com.au/content/dam/images/g/l/o/d/k/x/image.imgtype.articleLeadwide.620x349.png/1475659530899.png)
Terrifying: Mick Fanning's unforgettable encounter last year. Photo: Association of Surfing Professionals
My friend purred with pleasure. "They must think we are so brave – what with air-born foxes and the drop bears, the spiders the size of guinea pigs and the need to punch a shark just in order to have a weekend swim."
I nodded grimly. "We're brave, all right. I'm brave. You're brave. And we're not even that burly."
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