I don’t mind getting ruinously drunk. I don’t mind the odd cockroach race. And I love a barbecue, especially if there’s ruinously drunken cockroach racing involved. But one of the things I really like about Australia, or I used to anyway, was our quiet reluctance to wave the flag in everyone’s face; a reluctance which has gradually given way to an uglier, brutish readiness to paint the flag on our arses and sit on the face of anyone who looks even remotely disinclined to play along.