It was like a scene straight out of Crocodile Dundee. I kid you not. The Englishman (me) rolls up at the roadhouse bar where I’m greeted by an old leathery tanned bloke with tight jeans, dirty vest and cowboy hat, Jeffrey the Aborigine and his indigenous mates, and a couple of raucous ‘Sheilas’ (the local women). I’m desperate for an ‘arrival beer’ and ask for a recommendation. “Just don’t drink the VB,” shouts one of the ladies who I learn has spent most her life driving dumper trucks down the local mines. “You know what the VB stands for don’t ya — Vaginal Backwash,” she cackles. I play it safe, leave the Victoria Bitter in the fridge and opt for a Coopers Sparkling instead, which I’ve developed a taste for over here.