Readers of these perceptive and illuminating insights into Aussie culture will be stunned to learn that when it comes to being in Australia, this isn’t my first rodeo. It’s probably the seventh or eighth – although I will concede that this is the first time I’ve been here as a legal permanent resident.

The first occasion I ventured to the Land Down Under was in 2004. Two things drove this decision. One was that I’d been working massive hours at an investment bank in London and hadn’t taken all my holiday allowance. This liberal organisation, having made it impossible to book any time off, then informed its staff that on a ‘use it or lose it’ basis, we’d lose all days we hadn’t taken by the end of the year. So I booked three weeks in November.

The second reason was that I’d recently received my British passport. For those who have always travelled in the possession of a passport from a mainstream/legitimate country, it’s hard to grasp the significance of this. For other holders of one of the world’s less desirable passports – yes, it was like having the millstone of legend released from around the neck.

I had previously held a Zimbabwean passport – or ‘Green Mamba’ as it had become known due not only to its glossy plastic cover, but because it was as toxic as the venom of this mean-spirited denizen of the snake nation. This document didn’t enable its holder to travel much of anywhere without a visa, which could be an unbelievable hassle. While my British mates could happily nip across the channel for a day’s booze shopping in Calais, I would have to spend some days in advance applying for a visa at the French Embassy – a killer of spontaneity if there ever was one.

Once, my girlfriend and I bought a budget package deal for a holiday on Kefalonia. To get a Greek visa, I had to rise before dawn and take the Central Line to Holland Park to join a queue of fellow hopefuls outside the building, all clutching the relevant documentation. We waited for what felt like aeons until the door flew open and a short, officious man marched out, moving down the line and assigning every individual a number. He stopped at 40. “We will take 40 applications today – the rest . . . come back tomorrow!” I was 39.

Having filled out all the documentation, paid the fee, and submitted to a short interview, I left my Green Mamba at the Embassy, waited a day or two, then went through the whole process again: rise before dawn, Central Line, queue for aeons, count to 40, and ingress. The application was successful but I was knackered before the holiday even started. What this process taught me was that, if you want to visit someone’s country, you have to submit to whatever hoops they decree you should jump through – they’re not much bothered if you can’t fulfil the criteria or don’t like the process.

I’ll draw a veil over the rigmarole of obtaining a U.S. visa, or the fact that my Green Mamba ensured an interview on touch-down at JFK or O’Hare, with associated searches of one’s baggage and person.

With a passport like the British one – and at the time, of course, it was an EU one – a whole new world of hassle-free travel opened up. With all that saved-up leave and a good mate who’d done it before, I scoped out an itinerary based on friends and family I could stay with: a cousin in Brisbane, a long-lost but recently rediscovered university friend in Canberra, an old work colleague in Port Macquarie.

My travel companion had a connection in Melbourne, so we added that to the list. Internal flights were cheap, we were travelling light – it was a recipe for a rollicking good time.

There was a slight hitch at the airport when I checked in: it turned out even Brits needed a visa to enter Australia, but this was secured with one phone call from the check-in desk to Canberra and I strapped in for the interminable flight without any worries. My stop-off was one hour in Singapore, which I spent walking up and down the concourse at Changi airport, little knowing that one day I’d live on the little red dot for ten years.

By this point the chronic discomfort of the Economy seat and the subsequent lack of sleep had created a condition not too far from schizophrenia: delusions, hallucinations, disorganised thinking and speech. I have no memory of landing in Sydney and transferring to the Brisbane flight; perhaps this was all achieved in a somnambulistic state.

One thing was clear: my last-minute visa was valid and I was crossing borders as a Brit. Surrendering the Green Mamba had involved a little soul-searching – surrendering one’s birthright, posing questions for one’s very identity – that kind of thing. But oh, the joy of breezing through immigration unhindered! That’s an identity I can cleave to.

Anyway, given various digressions and irrelevant details, this is getting a bit long – so part 2 will chronicle the amazing adventures my younger self encountered on this trip of discovery. Stay tuned . . .