You know that feeling you get when someone really old and important dies, like Eugène Ionesco in 1994 or Edmund Hillary in 2008, and you think: "Blimey, I thought he died 30 years ago"?

I had a similar feeling when I read the sad news about Miriam Margolyes.

"Cripes," I thought, "did Miriam Margolyes not take Australian citizenship in protest at England's class-riddled society until a week ago? I'd have guessed she did that in about 1983."

The wonderful actor – who among us has not enjoyed a glimpse of her Professor Sprout? – has commuted between London and New South Wales for years, because her girlfriend is Australian. So it's possible that Margolyes is taking dual citizenship as a gesture of romantic redefinition, during these last poignant years where two women cannot legally marry, which would be a nice reason to do it.

Nevertheless, the whole thing seemed rather pointed when she said, in Canberra after the citizenship ceremony: "I don't like class distinction and there is far too much of that in England. There's an energy here, an optimism, a vitality. I think England doesn't have that any more."

With all due respect and admiration for the honey-voiced legend, oh please. Try selling your lovely "classless Australia" to an Aboriginal person! The country's constitution has two clauses making it formally legal to discriminate against people on grounds of race! The prime minister, Julia Gillard, said last year that it might be time to think about having a referendum on those clauses. That's big of her.

We Brits all imagine fewer barriers between people in Australia, picturing a great stretch of free and easy land, compared to our pokey, grumpy, jealous, angsty little country. But please note: equal marriage is not in place there, either. Julia Gillard is openly against it. Even civil partnership is confined to particular states, a restriction that I consider, frankly, to be a bit gay.

I'm not saying Australia isn't the most fluid and classless of all the countries that have massacred indigenous populations for the sake of a bigger garden. It's a terrific place, in many ways; I've spent time there and loved it. It's fun, it's adventurous, it's beautiful. And Australians have a great sense of humour. (I hope they can hang on to it through the following paragraph.)

Enthusiasts bang on about the marvellous Aussie "lifestyle", which basically comes down to eating shellfish outdoors in your pants. Or going to the beach at 9am on a Wednesday covered in zinc cream. But I understand. It does feel joyous. It's certainly more fun than doing that in Blackpool.

I suppose I'm just bored with hearing famous actors take alternative citizenship while complaining about the social barriers in our society, when embracing one that has plenty of its own. The same principle applies when millionaires emigrate while moaning about "punitive" and "discriminatory" tax, of course. (I was fascinated to see Gérard Depardieu accepting the warm hand of Russian citizenship from his chum Vladimir Putin, thus simultaneously becoming and ceasing to be one of the dodgiest men in France.)

There are plenty of other things to complain about, exclusive to Britain, which would make a change from the old class chestnut. So, in friendship, I offer lovely Miriam (or the next big name to hoof it abroad) a range of more original reasons to go elsewhere:

1. It's simply too annoying that the British economy is dependent on the arms industry but we haven't had a civil war in over 400 years. How unpatriotic of everybody. I've had it, I'm going.

2. I can't face opening another newspaper showing an array of female celebrities wearing backless, sleeveless, plunging dresses on a red carpet in January. Why haven't they got coats on? In Hollywood, or Cannes, the weather's warm. The coatlessness makes sense. Why would they do it in central London in the snow? For fear that they might otherwise not be included in a bitchy magazine spread with rings drawn round their cellulite? The mystery is driving me mad. I'm out of here.

3. Nobody in the UK displays a house number properly. You can never see them from the road. Some of the houses don't have numbers at all, they have names. Some of which are puns. As for signs with the actual road name on them, we're all over the bleeding shop. Sometimes they're up on the side of a building, sometimes they're attached to poles in the pavement. Half the time, they're not there at all. And this in a country where the roads are all weird and wiggly! Have you ever tried finding someone's house at night? You're up and down the whole postcode with a torch and a pair of binoculars. That's it. Goodbye. You can reach me in America, on a nice straight road with a name like 3rd Street.

4. I can't bear to live another week in a place where cigarettes are sold in newsagents. Have we not been to France? Cigarettes should be sold in bars! Our domestic practice is all wrong, not to mention dangerous. Imagine all the vulnerable teenagers who pop into a newsagents for an innocent pack of B & H, seduced into coming out with an armful of magazines. Disgusting. I'm off to Paris. I don't mind buying a tiny glass of weird liqueur that I hadn't intended, but I draw the line at Homes and Gardens.

5. If I have to listen to another person droning on about the class system, I might claw my own eyes out. Jeez! Change the record! I only popped out for a cup of tea! Can we ever talk about anything else? I'll see you in Riyadh.

www.victoriacoren.com