A New Zealand accent is not a beautiful thing.

No, let's just be honest here - we're simply not doing a good job of representing the English language. Have you heard what we do to our vowels?

It's all fine and dandy while we're all the way down here, keeping to ourselves, but we're not really cut out for the world stage.

Proper British accents, or a nice Californian drawl - now those; those are solid. Everyone, the world over can understand them, they're well-liked, they don't get hassled on the playground.

Australians really get out and about, and since there's more of them around, most foreigners have come across a few in their time and naturally, indulged in a one night stand; because it's what they do in the movies with Aussies. They're continually ranked lower than New Zealand when it comes to accent enjoy-ability, and you can't argue with scientific facts. If we mangle the language, they rip its guts out and feed it to their dingos.

South Africans? Look out. If there's a South African in the room, you'll bloody well know about it. You'll never meet a nice South African, and that's because they're eternally resentful that a speech impediment is actually an improvement on their accent.

And no, I don't want your spicy spiral sausage, goddammit!

So, let's maintain our perspective. Even if the New Zealand accent has its flaws, things could be worse.

But, it's not until you get up out from Down Under that you really see where we stand.

England: Cold, Old, and Mean.

I moved to England a few years back. I knew what I was doing, unleashing myself on the world with this voice.

Find a channel on TV showing The Bold and the Beautiful. Then another playing Shortland Street. Flick between the two.

As a New Zealander, you may feel a growing distaste as you come to realize, for the first time, just how mentally sluggish we sound compared to others. It's not good. Not good at all.

So, you move to England, with dreams of bumping up your cool factor with a British lilt before hometime.

Intelligent, sophisticated, charming. Yes, thanks, I'll take all of the above.

But you will learn child. Don't judge a people by their accent. Wait, I know I already did that to my fellow Southern Hemispherians, but this time it's different. I overestimated the British bastards.

They suck you in with their fancy pants one minute, and slap you with heavy helping of snobbish pretentiousness and a scone-eating smirk the next.

They're so far up their own arses a search and rescue Corgi couldn't place them.

Maybe they're not as bad as I'm painting them here. Maybe they're nice to other people.

Because they're flat out a-holes to Kiwis.

"New Zealand? Oh, yes. Mummy and daddy are paying for me to visit there in my Gap Year. I heard the savages have calmed down somewhat."

Yeah, alright, you don't like how many of us are over there. So, we may have taken over large pockets of London with our beer-swilling and BBQs. So, we've conquered and claimed Clapham Junction, Wandsworth, and substantial portions of Shepherd's Bush - but it's all kebabs and charity shops anyway.

They don't understand us. They make fun of our accents. We're like the bastard children they created, but disowned years prior, before finding a wife and producing legitimate offspring with pointed noses, stiff upper lips and the 'I'm better than you' attitude down to a tee.

I felt dejected by their jibes. My Kiwi pride wobbled.

God Bless America.

"I'm from New Zealand."

The line I had grown to resent in England, turned into my favourite phrase - upon touching down in The Land of Hopes and Dreams.

"New Zealand? Well aren't you far away from home! I love your accent! What's it really like all the way down there?"

What is this? You're actually interested in New Zealand? You like the way I talk? Well, then.

"Yes, ma'am - I am from New Zealand. Born and raised. Part New Zealand Maori, even. Yes, this is a t-shirt I had printed just now - 'Proud Kiwi', yes, that's what we're called; Kiwis! Isn't it precious. Yes, I will have a complimentary hotdog."

Americans couldn't get enough of it. They were so interested in my 'exotic' accent and my 'tropical paradise' of a home country (didn't want to burst their bubble).

(If I'm being honest though, I could have literally made up an accent, and a country. Americans aren't big on geography.)

My pride swelled. For the first time in my life - my nationality and my accent were assets.

So I went home.

The Welcoming Arms of Aotearoa.

There's nothing like a few years abroad to really get a new perspective on your homeland.

Surrounded again by your own people, you start to rialize howe licky you ah to be a paat of thus spicial kimmunitee, complitly uneek, and reah, lyke diminds in the ruff of Down Undah.

Some have loved it, some have poked fun at it, and some haven't understood a word of it, but bugger it - it's mine.

I don't think I need to change my accent, or 'stop talking weird' anymore. Forget everyone else - I don't talk weird, I think we talk awesome. And, while I still can't quite say that the Kiwi accent as a thing of beauty, I wouldn't swap it for anyone else's.