Australian Accent Quotes

Flight 2039 to Boston is now boarding at gate 14A," a voice announced over the PA system. Nellie sighed. "I love Irish accents." She paused. "And Australian accents. And English accents." A dreamy look came over her face. "Theo had an awesome accent." Dan snorted. "Yeah, there was just that one tiny problem. He turned out to be a two-timing, backstabbing thief.

It's always the accent that drives you American women crazy. I'd no idea you fancied it, too…” he trailed off. “Oooh, fancied it. Say more like that,” I begged, smiling into the pillow. “Like what, Grace?” “Talk British to me,” I whispered, only half joking. “Dustbins.” “More,” I encouraged. “Crumpets.” “More!” I demanded. “Knickers.” If I could hear Jack Hamilton say a second word for the rest of my life, it would be knickers. “Say put another shrimp on the barbie!” I cried. “Grace, that's Australian,” he chided. “Say it!” “Fine. Put another shrimp on the barbie. Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Aaaahhhhhhh!” I screamed into the phone.

Hello," She said. There was a long silence. "Hello," said Artemis again. "Are you talking to me?" said the tree. It had a faint Australian accent. "Yes," said Artemis. "I am Artemis." If the tree experienced any recognition, it didn't show it. "I'm the goddess of hunting and chastity," said Artemis. Another silence. The the tree said, "I'm Kate. I work in mergers and acquisitions for Goldman Sachs." "Do you know what happened to you, Kate?" said Artemis. The longest silence of all. Artemis was just about to repeat the question when the tree replied. "I think I've turned into a tree," it said. "Yes," said Artemis. "You have." "Thank God for that," said the tree. "I thought I was going mad." Then the tree seemed to reconsider this. "Actually," it said, "I think I would rather be mad." Then, with hope in its voice: "Are you sure I haven't gone mad?" "I'm sure," said Artemis. "You're a tree. A eucalyptus. Subgenus of mallee. Variegated leaves." "Oh," said the tree. "Sorry," said Artemis. "But with variegated leaves?" "Yes," said Artemis. "Green and Yellow." The tree seemed pleased. "Oh well, there's that to be grateful for," it said.

Was there anything cuter than an Australian accent? A baby koala, maybe.

There Rhoda sits staring at the blackboard,' said Louis, 'in the schoolroom, while we ramble off, picking here a bit of thyme, pinching here a leaf of southernwood while Bernard tells a story. Her shoulder-blades meet across her back like the wings of a small butterfly. And as she stares at the chalk figures, her mind lodges in those white circles, it steps through those white loops into emptiness, alone. They have no meaning for her. She has no answer for them. She has no body as the others have. And I, who speak with an Australian accent, whose father is a banker in Brisbane, do not fear her as I fear the others.

He came up and, with a broad Australian accent, said, “G’day, mate.” Uh-oh, I thought. I’m in trouble.

Her soft voice played over his senses like it always had, her English accent more pronounced than ever. Or was that because his ears had become acclimatized to the Australian accents around him again? He didn’t know. He pulled in a slow breath, headache forgotten, the subtle scent of Emily’s perfume filtering into his body. His stomach knotted, his balls grew harder, that delicate fragrance flooding him with memories too haunting to bear. She’d cured him of anaplastic astrocytoma, and in the process inflicted him with something else. Something powerful and—he was discovering all too quickly—inescapable.

The Worst Man in Australia Australians love The Simpsons, except, naturally, the episode where the family goes there. That episode was condemned in the Australian parliament, which is a Hooters, by the way. They didn’t object to us saying the Australian penal system involved kicking offenders with a giant boot, or that their prime minister’s office was an inner tube in a pond. Nope. What they didn’t like was our cast’s attempt at doing an Australian accent. Mind you, the true Australian accent is semi-incomprehensible

Idling the dinghy, bringing it quietly in closer and closer to the croc, Steve would finally make his move. He’d creep to the front of the boat and hold the spotlight until the last moment. Then he would leap into the water. Grabbing the crocodile around the scruff of the neck, he would secure its tail between his legs and wrap his body around the thrashing creature. Crocodiles are amazingly strong in the water. Even a six-foot-long subadult would easily take Steve to the bottom of the river, rolling and fighting, trying to dislodge him by scraping against the rocks and snags at the bottom of the river. But Steve would hang on. He knew he could push off the bottom, reach the surface for air, flip the crocodile into his dinghy, and pin the snapping animal down. “Piece of cake,” he said. That was the most incredible story I had ever heard. And Steve was the most incredible man I had ever seen--catching crocodiles by hand to save their lives? This was just unreal. I had an overwhelming sensation. I wanted to build a big campfire, sit down with Steve next to it, and hear his stories all night long. I didn’t want them to ever end. But eventually the tour was over, and I felt I just had to talk to this man. Steve had a broad, easy smile and the biggest hands I had ever seen. I could tell by his stature and stride that he was accustomed to hard work. I saw a series of small scars on the sides of his face and down his arms. He came up and, with a broad Australian accent, said, “G’day, mate.” Uh-oh, I thought. I’m in trouble. I’d never, ever believed in love at first sight. But I had the strangest, most overwhelming feeling that it was destiny that took me into that little wildlife park that day. Steve started talking to me as if we’d known each other all our lives. I interrupted only to have my friend Lori take a picture of us, and the moment I first met Steve was forever captured. I told him about my wildlife rescue work with cougars in Oregon. He told me about his work with crocodiles. The tour was long over, and the zoo was about to close, but we kept talking. Finally I could hear Lori honking her horn in the car park. “I have to go,” I said to Steve, managing a grim smile. I felt a connection as I never had before, and I was about to leave, never to see him again. “Why do you love cougars so much?” he asked, walking me toward the park’s front gate. I had to think for a beat. There were many reasons. “I think it’s how they can actually kill with their mouths,” I finally said. “They can conquer an animal several times their size, grab it in their jaws, and kill it instantly by snapping its neck.” Steve grinned. I hadn’t realized how similar we really were. “That’s what I love about crocodiles,” he said. “They are the most powerful apex predators.” Apex predators. Meaning both cougars and crocs were at the top of the food chain. On opposite sides of the world, this man and I had somehow formed the same interest, the same passion. At the zoo entrance I could see Lori and her friends in the car, anxious to get going back to Brisbane. “Call the zoo if you’re ever here again,” Steve said. “I’d really like to see you again.” Could it be that he felt the same way I did? As we drove back to Brisbane, I was quiet, contemplative. I had no idea how I would accomplish it, but I was determined to figure out a way to see him. The next weekend, Lori was going diving with a friend, and I took a chance and called Steve. “What do you reckon, could I come back for the weekend?” I asked. “Absolutely. I’ll take care of everything,” came Steve’s reply.

He came up and, with a broad Australian accent, said, “G’day, mate.” Uh-oh, I thought. I’m in trouble.

Steve had a broad, easy smile and the biggest hands I had ever seen. I could tell by his stature and stride that he was accustomed to hard work. I saw a series of small scars on the sides of his face and down his arms. He came up and, with a broad Australian accent, said, “G’day, mate.” Uh-oh, I thought. I’m in trouble. I’d never, ever believed in love at first sight. But I had the strangest, most overwhelming feeling that it was destiny that took me into that little wildlife park that day.

One of my favorite memories of Harriet was when John Edward, the psychic medium, came to the zoo. He found out almost by accident that he could read living animals. Everything Harriet communicated to him was absolutely spot-on. Although John hadn’t been to the zoo before, Harriet told him that she used to be in another enclosure and that she liked this one better. That made sense because her current enclosure was bigger. Harriet also said that she liked the keeper with an accent, but it wasn’t Australian or American. John was having trouble placing the accent, and then he met Jan, who was English. “That’s the accent,” he said. Turns out Jan had been taking care of Harriet since before I had ever visited the zoo. John also said that Harriet had had blood drawn from her tail--which was correct, since we’d done a DNA profile on her. One thing, though, John had wrong. “Harriet misses her blanket,” he said. “You know, John,” I said, “Harriet can’t have a blanket, because she tries to eat everything.” “She misses her blanket,” John politely insisted. After he left the zoo, I asked Steve about it. “Did Harriet ever have a blanket?” Steve laughed. “Nah, mate, she’d have just eaten it.” Weeks went by. I visited Steve’s dad, Bob, and told him about everything John Edward had said, right up to the blanket. “He was spot-on until he got to the blanket,” I said. Bob’s face widened with a big grin. “Actually, back in the eighties,” he said, “a woman knitted a blanket for Harriet. On cold nights, before we had given Harriet a heat lamp, we would put the blanket over her shell, hoping that it would help contain some of her heat during the night.” I laughed. I couldn’t believe it. Bob said, “Harriet had that blanket for weeks and weeks, until one day she tried to eat it. Then we had to take it away.

Today I didn’t actually ski on anything other than the bunny slope, but at least I graduated from ski class.” She jerked her thumb at Leah. “Klutz over here has to take the class again tomorrow.” Leah wiggled her eyebrows, not at all offended. “You bet. Ian is such a hottie. He’s Australian and has the most delicious accent. I adore it. He promised to give me private lessons tomorrow if I don’t do any better.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I won’t do any better tomorrow.” “He’s that hot, huh?” “His presence melts snow.

How’s it going, Johnny?” I asked, looking back at Johnny and his magazine. “Super!” he said, in his charming Australian accent.

I might be detecting a bit of an accent here You are?........ Uh huh. I have a very good ear. English, right? [with a mock British accent] 'Hello, Governor! Oliver Twist! More bread, please, sir!' Australian, actually. Really? Similar flags, though.

Although Swedish is one of the few languages on this Earth that I enjoy the sound of. That and Japanese. French is all right, Italian is tolerable depending on who’s speaking it. Everything else makes me cringe. Even English with some accents is bad. Australian? Spare me.

Jefferson and Becky and I step onto the rickety dock, which feels more solid under my feet than I expect. I can’t help gawking at the ships as we go. Jefferson, never one for shyness, cups his hands to his mouth. “The Charlotte!” he hollers. “We’re looking for the Charlotte!” Sailors shake their heads. One rakish fellow leans over the side of his ship and shouts in an Australian accent. “Oi! If you find Charlotte, tell her I’m looking for her, too!” “Rude humor is a mark of low character,” Becky shouts back. “Of course I’ve got low character,” the sailor responds. “I come from down under!” His crewmates laugh. Jefferson looks to me as if to share a grin, but I shake my head. Becky Joyner is on a mission, and this is no time to cross her. The sailor wisely returns to work. We pass another ship and reach the end of the dock. Still no Charlotte. “Maybe this is the wrong place,” Jefferson says. “I’m sure this is it,” Becky says. “I reread the letter and checked the directions with people at the mission before we came down to the waterfront.” If Becky says she’s sure, she’s sure. “Maybe they left already?” “I made inquiries,” Becky says. “The Charlotte was expected to remain in port.” Her knowledge doesn’t surprise me one bit. Thanks to her restaurant regulars, Becky now has more connections and better information than anyone I know. “We must have missed it,” I say. “We just need to head back and start over.

She’s either Australian or South African. I often get their accents confused.

At least I know you are American.” Crap! “What? I bloody am not…mate.” “That could be the worst Australian accent I have ever heard.” “That’s because…I’m British. Jolly good. Pip, pip! Long live the queen!” He flicked me an amused glance and kept tapping keys. “Not British either.” “Alright, fine, I’m a lass from Ireland. Top of the morning, boyo!” “So you are not in Australia, England or Ireland. Thank you.

friend who says he’s from France but was in Africa and has an Australian accent,

Rebecca has a lovely lilting accent. I think it might be Australian?

dressed… oddly. He nodded hello but pecked at a terminal behind the counter like he was wrapping something up. Jason examined Pierre with an eagerness that matched Pierre’s inspection of him, once he turned his full attention away from the terminal. He looked so pleased to see Pierre that for the first time he regretted dressing up to travel. He hadn’t considered that an affluent appearance might hamper his ability to negotiate terms of a financial transaction. Most of the time dressing well led to a degree of deference and better treatment. Jason however was regarding him like a prize steer that would soon be select cuts of beef. “Good day,” Pierre said, and tried to keep a pleasant face and made an attempt at humor. “Are you the Jason of fame, heralded by your establishment’s signage?” “I wouldn’t hire another Jason,” the fellow said bluntly. “If one wanted to hire on I suppose I might, if he let me call him George. Life’s perplexing enough without feeling like I’ve slipped into speaking in the third person every day. Fortunately there’s little enough to distract me on ISSII to make it a burden to keep the doors open without help. It’s like a very quiet little town.” “Indeed, I noticed the lack of a crowd in the corridor,” Pierre agreed. “Been that way since the war, and it’s been slow to come back all the way. But I figure in another five years, maybe six years it’ll be hopping again.” Pierre nodded politely. He’d really like to know why the fellow thought so, but he’d leave it for another time rather than neglect his business. “I wonder, if you might do currency exchanges among your services? I find the shuttle service I wish to take to Home doesn’t take EuroMarks. I’d like something they take, preferably Solars to facilitate other payments when I reach Home or beyond.” “I wouldn’t mind a bucket of them myself,” Jason allowed. “But for most transactions they’re a bit unwieldy. A full Solar is twenty five grams of gold or platinum. Most folks use the smaller coins and bits or a credit card that can shave transactions down to the milligram.” “What would you suggest? I have EuroMark credit, banknotes, and a small amount of Suisse Credit bars. What would be easiest?” “Not that I don’t want the business, but I’m too little a fish to risk handling a large sum of EuroMarks with currency fluctuations being what they are. EMs are depreciating assets anyway. Now, I’d take your gold if you were staying here, but the banks on Home will give you a much better conversion rate, and I’d rather you not be pissed off at me and tell everybody to avoid the scoundrel on ISSII after you found that out. I know the exchange rate looks bad but go back to the Russians and tell them you want to convert your EuroMarks to Australian dollars - they’ll do that. The gold, it don’t matter, it’s not going to fluctuate in value very much. If you finish up your business and want to take any of it back to France you can’t take it as Solars and you’d have to pay for a second exchange.” “I never said I was French, nor did I mention speaking with the Russians.” “I hear your vowels and can place your province if not your town under that fancy Parisian accent. It’s five hundred and twenty of my steps from here to the bank and Peter called and told me you were on your way. As I said, it’s like a small town here. If you sneeze