They say Australia doesn’t really have a class system. Not like Europe. None of that old-world hierarchy, no rigid pecking order… just a nation of equals having a go. And for most of the year, you can almost believe it.

But Easter Sunday is that rare moment where the mask slips just enough to see the outlines underneath. The caste system we pretend we’re above.

Every Easter, Australia conducts one of its most sacred rituals... the classification of social structures through chocolate. You don’t choose your Easter egg. Your Easter egg chooses you, and in doing so, it tells a story about where you came from, where you think you belong, and how you’d quite like to be seen.

Some of us grew up with the humble Dairy Milk bunny... solid, dependable, no airs, no graces. It did the job. Picked up in a trolley between a loaf of TipTop and a 2L of milk. Nobody made a speech about it, and nobody needed to.

Others arrived with the gold-wrapped rabbit. Same sugar, different postcode. Suddenly there’s a ribbon involved, a bit of ceremony, a quiet understanding this isn’t just chocolate... it’s positioning. Aunty's making sure everyone knows where it came from, just in case the foil didn’t already do the talking. These didn’t come from the Reject Shop, and by God we’ll hear about it.

Then there’s the Haigh’s crowd. You don’t eat those so much as curate them. They sit on the table like a centrepiece, something to gesture toward mid-conversation while someone pours a Pinot. The chocolate itself is almost beside the point. What matters is what it signals… taste, restraint, a certain fluency in spending just enough to look effortless. Your host will offer them around, of course... but there’s a private part of them keeping count, quietly resenting anyone who actually takes one.

And in the middle sits the Footy Egg. An object so profoundly Australian it feels like it should be issued alongside a TFN and a Bunnings snag. Practical, vaguely patriotic, and completely uninterested in subtlety. You know exactly what it is, and so does everyone else.

Now at our age, nobody’s eating Easter chocolate anymore. They’re just justifying it. And like most things in this country, it ends up being less about taste and more about identity... quietly signalled, gently reinforced, and fiercely protected.

Anyway… however you justify it, Happy Easter, you absolute weirdos.