Perhaps I should explain myself. I once wrote an instalment of this column entitled Provincial Satirist No More, in which I performed a very Australian act. In short, having recently moved my possessions from a house in Wollongong to a flat in Sydney, I performed a hatchet job on the city of my birth.

Unwittingly, I mimicked generations of ex-patriates who moved to London, mocked their native nation and received a bronze circle of recognition at Circular Quay for their trouble. Although the Wollongong Walk Of Fame is yet to acknowledge my contribution to the city - no doubt due to the infernal machinations of the infinitely corrupt, reactionary and arsehole-ridden local council running things down there - I'm now aware that I carried on a proud Aussie literary tradition.

Now I have adjusted to the heady pace of Sydney, which I've been reliably informed by both a doctor and John Birmingham is "an easy city to live in", my lack of worldliness is becoming palpably obvious. It's easy to be urbane and learned in certain circles, but when pub conversation turns to the multitudinous metropolises of the globe, all the untravelled gentleman can do is nod along with a knowing face, hoping knowledge picked up from wire-fu films, The Bill and a lifetime of reading MAD Magazine will get him through.

Awareness of my lack of awareness only manifested this past weekend, when I visited the southern end of Darling Harbour for the first time since the First State 88 bicentennial celebrations seized the imagination of a small, dried-ice-cream-like-the-astronauts-eat-enjoying boy. Like a stranger in a strange land, I oohed and aahed at the pastel playground, wasteful water features, anachronistic carousel and racist buskers dotting the landscape. Feeling like an excited tourist in the city I've inhabited since Australia Day 2006 brought home how little I deserve the mantle of jaded social commentator.

Perhaps I should explain myself further. To date, my legendary journeys span the east of Australia, from Brisbane, through Canberra to Melbourne. Beyond that, I know of nothing but Wollongong and the few parts of Sydney I've eyewitnessed over the course of the past twelve months. If you want a reasoned discussion on the sinister motives behind the location of methadone clinics in Wollongong, I'm your man - but don't ask me what the bread's like in New York or how Naples smells on a spring morning.

Lacking even the minor international perspective of a passport-wielding jetsetter who had their hair braided in Bali when they were 14, spent a year fucking fellow backpackers in dingy European hostels and/or read Mary Moody's Au Revoir leads me to believe I'm at a disadvantage in the satire game. If I only have one lens through which to view the new season of The Biggest Loser, water recycling or the effeminate manner in which Matthew Newton approaches spousal abuse, how can I be sure I'm getting full comedic potential from the headlines of the day?

There's only one answer. I'm booking a Contiki tour.