The first time I darkened the shores of Oz, in 2011, I was delighted to discover that the clichés I’d grown up with were true. No, there weren’t blokes in corkscrew hats and Fosters-stained boots, unsheathing massive knives as they drunkenly gabbed about Sheilas and shrimps. But there was that thing us outsiders have come to expect of Oz, and which many of us admire: a ballsiness, a willingness to speak as one finds, even if, or especially if, it pisses off the prim and winds up The Man.