In news just in, Australia has qualified for the World Cup.
That’s the actual World Cup, with emphasis on World,
rather than ‘leftover bits of the Commonwealth and a few
other random backwaters’ as per the World Cups we're more
accustomed to. And hasn't it been a long and winding
goat-track which has circuitously, but fortuitously, brought
the nation of Arstraya to this milestone of nationhood.
Having beaten the Canucks in a penalty shootout only to be
Argie-bargied out of contention singlehandofGodly by a
resurgent Maradona in 1993, then falling over ridiculously
in the last 20 minutes against Iran in 1997, and proving to
be ‘not even able to beat UR Gay’ (thanks very much
Challen comma G full stop) in 2001, the Socceroos finally
staggered into the finals with a 4-2 shootout win over the
two-time World Champions. Admittedly the two times in
question were 1930 and 1950 so unsurprisingly some of their
better players of that era had retired, or had at least
declined in form somewhat. Some were even older than Roy
Keane.
In our proud time-honoured tradition of jumping on any
bandwagon which happens to trundle past, the Grate Arstrayan
Pubic packed out Kooee Stadium to boo the Uruguayan anthem
and scream ours so loud the little curly-haired moppet
totally lost her place. Honouring another time-honoured
tradition, the Socceroos responded to this heartfelt support
by spending the first half hour getting completely carved up
and having their arses handed to them. Uruguay were
directing traffic all over the park and the Aussie defence
was creaking like Kirstie Alley’s armchair. At which point
coaching maestro Aussie Guus (in the time-honoured tradition
of Aussie Joe Bugner) had a bit of a think and decided that
what the formation needed was one less defender. Geniarse.
Haitch Kewwwell and his superfluous pigtails ponced onto the
field to replace the crocked Popovic and proceeded to set up
the tie-equalising goal with only his second touch.
Admittedly his second touch was in point of fact a
horrendously miscued shot on goal that diverged at right
angles to the intended direction of travel. Parma’s
favourite slaphead Marco Bresciano sorted the rest and
Straya bossed it from thereon.
However as the tension rose and Craig Foster, former
Socceroo and highly professional SBS ‘colour man’,
proceeded to progressively and completely lose it, the
winning goal proved as elusively difficult to grab hold of
as a George Gregan ‘pass’ from the scrumbase. It was
left to Boro’s Mark Schwarzer, hero of the ’93 shootout
with the moose-shaggers, to save the day - and Obsacura
(sorry, Osasuna) striker Aloisi to clinch it. Cue much
silliness from all concerned, team, crowd and nation alike,
and from Fozzie, the most endearingly desperate show of a
supposedly neutral commentator’s true colours since the
late great Johnny Warren dissolved into tears at full time,
Australia-Iran 1997. Indeed Fozzie screamed Johnny’s name
as though he’d netted the winner himself... and perhaps,
in some mystical, metaphysical way, he had. Australia
rejoiced as one, with the possible exception of AFL chief
Demetriou comma A full stop who proceeded to have a little
think about what this might mean for the future of his footy
code in particular, and then proceeded to shit himself.
As well he should. Bollocks to ‘soccer’ not being our
national game. If you weren’t out in the streets bellowing
'Campione, campione, ole ole ole-o' you are more
un-Australian than John Howard. It’s tantamount to being
parked outside Lucas Heights with a bootful of fertilizer.
CAMPIONE DEL MONDO?
So how will Straya fare on D-Day ’06 as we invade Germany
again? Hopefully not like on Omaha Beach (thanks very much
Vale comma Y full stop). Last time in ’74 we were, not to
put too fine a point on it, pants; not exactly unexpectedly
given we were drawn with both Germanys and Chile. Ditto our
Kiwi neighbours who somehow managed to qualify for Spain
’82, and went on to get walloped in all three games. More
recently, the only form guide we can take is how the teams
who’ve defeated us have gone on to do in the tournament
proper. And the news there ain’t great: everyone who beats
us has an absolutely shit time of it. In USA 94, Argentina
went out arse-backward after the resurgent Maradona’s
surges were correctly ascribed to ingesting Colombian
Go-Fast by the bucketful. In France 98, Iran achieved two
fifths of bugger-all but at least beat the Septics. And in
Korea-Japan 2002, UR Gay got pantsed in every game they
played. Looks like this may be a World Cup which we won’t
win every second time we turn up. That bandwagon may well
have plenty of room again come the second round of Germany
2006, as well as a significantly improved power-to-weight
ratio.
INSERT SEAMLESS SEGUE HERE
So Australia is finally going to the World Cup. NZ can’t
be arsed with going to all that trouble; instead, they’ve
arranged for the World Cup to be brought to them. Not the
real one, that would be too much trouble - they've set their
sights on the smaller one, the one which reminds them of
themselves - half-arsed, parochial and self-delusionary,
with incorrectly shaped balls. Amazingly, the IRB demurred,
despite several nations, including their ditch-sharing
neighbours, voting for the Japanese bid in order to (a)
promote the game into new horizons and (b) wind the Kiwis
up.
In a totally uncharacteristic response, New Zealand has
cried foul and whinged about this like spoilt snotty-nosed
brats in a manner never seen before. Except for 2003 when
they couldn't provide clean stadia (ever heard of a broom,
boys?) and were arsed from the joint RWC bid... or George
Smith's supposedly late hit on Justin Marshall in that same
tournament's semi final... or that NZ horse which finished
third or fourth or whatever at the Melbourne Cup, having
been cheated out of obvious victory by the VRC watering the
course for Makybe Diva's benefit... or the brothers Chappell
and their underarm problems...
In unrelated news, Ireland has spent the last six months
collectively bleating about the Tana Umaga tackle on Brian
O'Driscoll during the Lions series which resulted in their
captain badly dislocating his hair, including Umaga being
symbolically barred from several pubs in Dublin due to his
'history of thuggish violence'. New Zealand for their part
has laughed this off, derided the Irish as poor losers, and
declared Christ, can't you people just get OVER it?
With the World Cup hosting rights, the just-completed Grand
Slam, the World Sevens title, the Super 12, the Tri-Nations,
the Bledisloe, whatever it is that they play against South
Africa for (possibly first dibs on the most attractive
sheep?), and the Lions series trophies in the NZRU cabinet,
the only thing NZ Rugby hasn’t won in the last year has
been the respect or even mild interest of any nation who
fails to gives a fuck about rugby. Which, compared to NZ, is
every other country on Earth.
NEWSPOLL SURVEY: 67.31% OF SURVEY-BASED STATISTICS
ARE MADE UP ON THE SPOT
In a recent survey of every Australian who has ever lived,
the only person left in Australia who thinks George Gregan
is still cut out to be Wallabies halfback is Eddie Jones. In
a related story, the only person left in Australia who
thinks Eddie Jones is still cut out to be Wallabies coach is
George Gregan.
WARNING: IN A MARKED DIVERSION FROM OUR USUAL
FORMAT, THEFOLLOWING CONTAINS ACTUAL OPINIONS
AND FACT-BASED ANALYSIS RATHER THAN
UNSUBSTANTIATED SLANDER AND KNOB JOKES
To the casual observer, the Wobbilies do tend to remind one
of hapless waterbuffalo wallowing in the swamp waiting for
someone to finish them off with the Winchester rifle, but
the real reason isn't Eddie's incompetence or George's
encroaching senility. Amazingly, astonishingly even, it's
the absence of Stephen 'Bernie' Larkham. Yes, Bernie, the
running-slow-as-buggery-in-a-straight-line-and-somehow-emerging
-in-a-gap merchant, that scarecrow in headgear who noone really
thought was up to much because he never appeared to actually
DO anything. At least Matt Burke had comedy hair that could
be used as a barometer/windsock/sundial to indicate how his
kicking game was travelling. But take Bernie away from the
equation and they're rudderless. Our Weekends Without Bernie
are exacerbated by the fact that his understudies Sludge II
and the Git are plainly not cut out for the job. There
appears to a bloody good reason that Sludge never played
anywhere but in the outside backs for Cronulla and Qld, and
his league coaches knew it: He's not even close to a half.
He'd be barely two fifths of a half. Which, at one fifth, is
not very much. Particularly when he's trying to be
five-eighth. The moral of the story is simple: (a) Rogers
should fuck off back to wing-three-quarter and (b) William
Webb Ellis wasn’t very good with fractions.
One gets the feeling the ARU should and would sack everyone
up to and including the ballboys, bus drivers and halftime
orange slicers and start from scratch... but for the small
matter of having absolutely noone else to pick from.
Everyone in Australia has had a run - EVEN the Reds players
who are, let's be honest, endemically and congenitally shit
at rugby. Likewise finding a replacement for Eddie the hairy
dwarf has been difficult in the protracted absence of anyone
who's spent more than 15 minutes in charge of a Super 12
team that has won more games than they've lost. On that
note, as many have observed, the ARU might wish to see if
'Aussie Guus' Hiddink knows the rules of union, as he's
shown a talent for salvaging lost and hopeless causes.
INEVITABLE HEADLINE ABOUT AUSTRALIAN CRICKET
‘RISING FROM THE ASHES’
Following that certain unpleasantness which we shall not
discuss (which happened to coincide with the English summer)
the Australian middle order is being purged like a bulimic
model’s innards on the opening night of Mercedes Fashion
Week. Latest to be ‘govern the fluck’, as the Kiwis
would say, was Allan Border Medal winner - you just KNEW
that would have to come back and bite Cricket Australia on
the arse - Michael Clarke. Clarke has been feted as a future
Australian captain, and just like the last bunch of future
Australian captains (Punter, Tugga, Tubby at ODI level) has
been generously granted some time off to ride the pine for a
while. Judging by the dropping of Clarke, the Australian
selectors appear to be no longer blinded by their policy of
pursuing youthful vigour to revitalise the team, or by the
shining light emanating from his arse. The RSPCA has
requested that all surviving Australian batsmen are to be
placed on the Endangered Species register to prevent further
decimation of their number.
APPARENTLY THERE IS STILL SOME RUGBY LEAGUE
BEING PLAYED AT THE MOMENT
Wayne Bennett, the wizened old uncle of the NRL (also the
one who’s worn the same clothes since 1963 and shouldn’t
be trusted with small children) has long been a model of
relaxed pragmatism among the rarefied air of professional
rugby league, where pressure is high and sense of
perspective is low. When the Broncos, or in previous years,
the Qld Origin team have travelled badly, he’s never been
one to make a fuss or buy into media predictions of turmoil
and disaster. Likewise, as Australian coach, this view has
prevailed. Before the start of the Tri-Series, Bennett was
clear in his declarations: Australia will not dominate
international rugby league forever. Australia need to get
used to this, and get over it. No matter how good a team is,
we all have to lose some day, was the inference, and now is
as good a time as any. When the Kiwis beat Australia in
Sydney for the first time in two generations, Bennett stayed
stoic and defiant over the media outcry: We all have to lose
some day, and now is as good a time as any. And now, after
the Kiwis ‘blanked’ the Kangaroos in the final, Bennett
has again made his point clear: We all have to lose some
day, and now is as good a time as any. Well, Wayne, that’s
one viewpoint. Another is that we all have to retire one
day, and...
OBITUARIES
Other than the careers of Eddie Jones and George Gregan
(even that’s a bit too obvious for this column) this week
saw the sad, but somewhat predictable, passing of former
Northern Ireland international pisshead and part-time
footballer, George Best. Overshadowed by the Man U star
heeding the final whistle was the terrible loss on the same
day of former world rally champion Richard Burns, who was
claimed by a brain tumour on the fourth anniversary of his
world title win in 2001 - and barely the second anniversary
of his diagnosis with astrocytoma (having blacked out on the
drive up to Wales for the start of Rally GB in the fast lane
of the M1). Burns will be remembered as a great competitor,
a true champion, and England’s greatest rally driver of
the modern WRC era, but most importantly, as the guy who
gave comedy Scotsman Colin McCrash the absolute shits for
years on end. For that, above all else, we salute you sir.
Vale Dick Burns.
WEAK IN SPORT EXCLUSIVE: OUR FIRST EVER RABBITOHS
NEWS UPDATE THAT DOESN’T MENTION RUSSELL CROWE’S
BAND BEING A FUCKING PILE OF SHIT
The South Sydney District Rugby League Club have been foiled
in their efforts to return to their Redfern Oval base (and
therefore to remain, in a literal sense, the South Sydney
district rugby league club) by the recent decision of South
Sydney Council to turn the facility over to the community
for greenspace, citing the chronic shortage of safe,
family-orientated locations for local community Steve
Randell types to hang around childrens’ playgrounds, local
community hookers to service their local community
clientele, and local community smack addicts to successfully
locate a vein courtesy the golden glow of local community
sodium streetlighting. George Piggins, on emerging from the
council chambers, declared “The Bunnies have been
completely fucked.” As it turned out, he wasn’t actually
discussing the Redfern Oval redevelopment but the evidence
presented in the adjoining courthouse. There’s animal
lovers, folks, and then there’s animal LURRVVERS.
And on that bombshell...
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Australians all let us rejoice, for we are shit at sport
We begin at the beginning:
INEVITABLE RUBBISH PUN ABOUT 'RAKING OVER THE ASHES'
Well, the Ashes are lost. (I'd suggest looking down the back
of the couch, that's where most of us tend to lose small
useless objects). And the great cricketing nation of
Arsetralia, to use the Seppo pronounciation, wants to know
who to blame. This is somebody's fault. Preferably someone
small, chippy and from a piss-ant island such as Tasmania
that we should be able to deport, given relatively minor
changes to border legislation (little Johnny's excluded most
tiny meaningless coastal islands from our immigration
boundaries, after all?)
But, folks, I come before you (not literally; the laundry
bill would be alarming enough) to tell you that we can't
blame the inbred little Tasphobian with the galloping
alopecia (takes emphasis away from the second-head-removal
scar.) It's not Poontang's fault. Nor is it batting maestro
McGarth's fault, despite being crocked with injury every
time someone politely asked him to trundle in and roll the
arm over. Nor can we finger Skwarne (though he has the PXTs
on his phone to suggest otherwise) for a complete lack of
judgement and tactical foresight. (Have you SEEN some of the
slappers he's tried to pull?) It's not his fault. It's not
even the fault of the cadre of arsey, technique-free-zone
left-handers in our top order who batted like right-handed
older brothers having a go at batting leftie in backyard
cricket so that the younger kids could have a chance. Nor is
it the fault of John 'You can't tell I used to have a
moustache' Buchanan and his Laptop Of Ineptitude. And much
as we'd like to, we can't blame the only New Zillunder
involved, umpire extraordinaire (as distinct from umpire
excrement) Billy “The Kid(dy molester)” Bowden. No,
folks, the blame lies elsewhere.
It's my fault.
Look, I'm sorry. I never thought it would come to this. They
were travelling OK for so long, didn't seem to need my
input. How wrong I was. (Cue Led Zep playing 'Nobody's Fault
But Mine'.) I'm so sorry, great nation of mine until about
five minutes ago (anyone see NZ demolish India in that ODI
final the other day?) But I'm buggered if I'm copping the
blame on my own. If you're reading this, it's your bloody
fault too.
Because if you're between the ages of 25 and 30, hold
Australian citizenship, and can run 22 yards holding a
short-handled plank without falling on your arse, you have
been derelict in your duty to your nation. You should be in
the Australian cricket team. Do you see anyone of our
generation in that team? Jesus Christ, you couldn't have
done any worse than the geriatrics we sent. Why in God's
name have we been forced to go into battle, nay into a WAR,
with our greatest enemy, with a team so old it makes an
episode of Dad's Army look like Play School? (If they could
make it look like Hi-5 I'd be more impressed. Three-fifths
of same, at least.) It's very simple why and how loyal
footsoldiers like Martyn, Hayden, Langer, Gillespie and
Gilchrist have lost their form. They've just forgotten their
technique, plain and simple. Along with their correct home
address, their medication regimen, and their teeth.
WE'RE SHIT AND WE KNOW WE ARE
The great sporting nation of Australia has been struck by a
collective moment of horror: we're actually not very good at
sport. The Australian cricket team lost to an English team
spearheaded by a South African with a skunk stapled to his
head. The Wallabies bravely managed a heroic third place in
the Tri-Nations just gone, with old mates Eddie and George
retaining their jobs on the reassuring basis that noone
could think of anyone who could take over who might be less
shit than them. We may be able to guarantee that an
Australian based team might win the NRL, but we won't make
the World Cup (the proper one that the whole world tries to
get into) courtesy our time-honoured tradition of Losing The
Plot Catastrophically come the big qualifiers. (Ah, at last
something the English can emphathise with. How about them
Northern Irish, Svennis?) Bathurst, Australia's Great Race,
will be won by either Greg Murphy (Kiwi), Steven Richards
(Kiwi) or Marcus Ambrose ((a) Tasmanian and (b) a complete
arse, therefore his nationality is an irrelevance). The only
world championship an Australian will win this year is the
world superbikes (courtesy either a T. Corser of Wollongong
or a C. Vermeulen of Yandina. Go the Ginger Factory.) In
short, we're rubbish.
However, I have a strategy. Do what everyone else does.
Cricket: Take chequebook to South Africa. Wave in front of
disaffected whiteys too impatient/arrogant/self-obsessed to
wait their turn for first XI selection behind dirty horrid
coloured folk.
Rugby: Take chequebook to Pacific Islands. Wave in front of
ridiculously talented Fijians, Samoans and Tongans in order
that they desert their birth nation in favour of the
hallowed black (sorry, gold) jersey. If you can't be
bothered flying to tiny, insignificant islands in the south
Pacific, I gots three words for y’all: South Auckland
Represent! (Although this would contravene the policy on not
flying to tiny, insignificant islands in the South Pacific.)
Football: Take chequebook to Europe. Wave in front of
heavily qualified, very well regarded international coach
with proven track record in taking very average national
teams a long way into the deadly-serious bit of the World
Cup...
Nah, that’s never going to happen is it.
BOOK CLUB
Andrew Flintoff has written an autobiography. Or, rather,
Andrew Flintoff has employed a ghostwriter to write an
autobiography. It’s called ‘Being Freddie’, presumably
because ‘Mein Kampf’ or ‘Men are from Mars, Women are
from Venus’ were already taken. All well and good apart
from one thing: on the grand scale of things, Andrew
Flintoff has been around for about fifteen minutes. What the
fuck has he actually DONE in the last 25 years to warrant
publishing the story of his life and times?
Next week, we review the new book from talkative Finnish F1
star Kimi Raikkonen, titled ‘Book’, exploring the Ice
Man’s very inner thoughts and emotions. As a preview, we
serialise dramatic moments from Kimi’s exciting and
challenging life and career. Join us now during the dramatic
run-in to the 2001 World Championship decided in Japan,
where Kimi stood to maybe, just maybe, defeat Michael
Schumacher for the world title:
“The car… was… good… and tyres… were… good…
and… strategy… good.”
DISASTER RELIEF APPEAL
The events of recent weeks have reminded us that it is our
duty, as citizens of this little blue and green orb, to look
after those of us less fortunate, our brethren for whom
circumstances have made life almost unworthy of living. To
this end, I’d like to suggest we begin a sponsorship drive
for the poor, wretched residents of that low-lying,
stinking, desolate, diseased, corrupt and shattered city -
you know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about
Brisbane.
Imagine what it’s like to live in Brisbane at the moment;
imagine the misery that has been bestowed on that proud
bogan people. Their standard bearers, their maroon-and-gold
gods, the mighty Broncos, were pole-axed by a bunch of
uppity adolescents in orange and black who didn’t even
have the good grace to wave bye-bye as they ran in their
thirty tries to one. It’s been another year where it
ain’t good to wear maroon, at club or state level. The
Reds were shit this year, shit last year, and have been shit
ever since the Super 14 was a Super 10. This supports the
theory that Brisbane-based football teams can’t win
competitions with more than ten teams, as they have to take
off their boots and socks to be able to count up that high.
This would also explain the Queensland Roar (shortlisted for
the Crappest Name In Sports) and their reasonable showing in
the eight-team A-League, although this theory obviously
doesn’t apply to anyone from west of Ipswich who can
generally count to at least thirteen without taking off
their cowboy boots. Which brings us to the Cowboys,
themselves responsible for inflicting yet more agony on the
benighted populous of Brisvegas; while the Broncos have
floundered, the Cowpokes have flown. Other codes aren’t
salving the residents’ fevered brows. The Lions went out
arse-backward in the AFL very early in the piece, resulting
in all the Lions’ fans having to revert to barracking for
their old Melbourne-based teams which they used to follow
before moving up to Queensland. (Ever wonder why the Lions
because hugely popular straight after all the Victorians
moved in? Though to be fair, they were escaping political
persecution from a merciless dictator - Jeff Kennett was in
charge. Largely because they put him there, shortly before
buggering off.)
My point is, you have to feel for Queenslanders. (For my
part, I’ve tried to feel for Queenslanders in the past,
but I’m getting married next month so I’m not allowed to
do that anymore.) So I propose we stand by our bogan
brethren and show our support. Not with money, but with a
symbolic gesture of solidarity. Next weekend, a minute
before kickoff in the Grand Final, we shall all face the
west, bellow “Yee-Haa Cletus!” and simultaneously play
the riff from Duelling Banjos on our mobile phones. Who’s
with me?
Nah, you’re right, bloody stupid idea.
ONE GOAL WIN TO THE REDS IN NZ NATIONAL CHAMPS
Last weekend’s MMP National Championships went down to the
wire, with the Reds under their fearless captain Helen
‘Headbasher’ Clark edging out rivals the Blues and their
leader Donnie ‘Bugger the Darkies’ Brash by 50 goals to
49. The Reds’ win was widely attributed to their repeated
attacking focus down the left wing, against the conservative
style of the Blues. Brash was hoping for better support from
star substitute Winston Peters, but the cagey right-winger
chose to play so far out on the right wing as to be largely
over the sidelines for much of the game, losing his seat on
the bench in the process. In the next round, Headbasher
takes on George ‘Dubya’ Bush, again. Provided Dubya
manages to evacuate troops from northern Italy, following
the disasterous and ill-conceived invasion borne out of his
self-declared War on Tiramisu.
THIS JUST IN
It has been brought to my attention that the Sydney Swans
and the West Coast Eagles are to play against each other in
the VFL (sorry, AFL) Grand Final, at the Melbourne Cricket
Ground. One wonders who all the Lions supporters will back
in this one? Presumably South Melbourne; those ex-pats Vics
have long memories... What a tragedy, Melbourne’s big day
ruined, absolutely RUINED by another all-interstate grand
final. Gotta tell you, my heart bleeds. I can hear Eddie
McGuire and Sam Newman sobbing about it from all the way
over here (along with bleating about salary cap concessions,
cost-of-living allowances, draft pick favouritism, etc etc
etc.)
Not that we hear anything about that in the Kiwi media. The
AFL grand final will be live on Saturday - on Sky Sport 3.
Where it will be watched by two men and a dog. The rest of
NZ will be watching the NPC/Ranfurly Shield game between
Wellington and Canterbury. And hoping the Cantabs lose like
the dogs they are, goddammit.
IT WAS MARC ELLIS AFTER ALL
Told you. After months of speculation (it’s hard to
illustrate just how enormous a story this was over here -
proving once again that Aotearoa, in the grand scheme of
things, is basically a small provincial town), former Otago,
All Black and Warriors winger and TVNZ personality Marc
Ellis was arrested, brought before the beak, and convicted
of possession of a Very Bad Drug, namely five tabs of E. He
was fined $300, i.e. sixty bucks a tab - exactly what he’d
paid for the things in the first place. Wow, that was worth
the effort. As for co-accused ex-leaguie Brent Todd, he may
be thicker than two short planks, but he’s not dumb enough
to fly back to New Zealand from his Gold Coast base to get
arrested on the considerably more serious drugs charges
which have been laid against him.
CINDERELLA MEN: BLOODY HARD TO FIND FOOTBALL
BOOTS IN THEIR SIZE
Form team of the NRL for the final eight weeks of the
competition, the mighty South Sydney Rabbitohs, look likely
to be taken over by New Zealand’s favourite wannabe
Australian, Rusty “The Gladiator” Crowe (and some
faceless business dude who noone gives a stuff about.) The
actor, comedian (inadvertent, usually), all-round good guy
and writer of such moving ballads as ‘Swallow My Gift’
is renown as a hopeless Souths tragic (meaning he’d have
fitted in seamlessly into the Rabbitohs backline of the last
four seasons) and has mounted a friendly takeover of the
club. To be fair, Crowe’s public profile and reputation as
well as his passion for the red and green will benefit the
club enormously, in terms of attracting sponsors and fans,
as well as generating sufficient public opinion to bulldoze
miscreant local councils who still hope to evict the Bunnies
to Gosford in favour of a lesbian organic lentil farmers
collective or some other eco-bollocks at Redfern Oval. Not
only that, given that he earns the equivalent of the NRL
salary cap every two hours, his money management skills
should also hold the club in good stead. As a Souths fan, I
have to say I endorse Rusty taking over. But I’d temper
those comments with the observation, noted by other
commentators, that Russell Crowe’s band is a fucking pile
of shit.
FOOTY TIPPING : NOT AS MUCH FUN AS COW TIPPING
This week's predictions from the Doctor of Destiny:
Dragons over Tigers by 12-
Eels over Cowboys by 13+ (take the points start on NQ)
Wellington over Canterbury by 12-
Swans over Eagles by a goal (plus or minus two)
Chelsea over anyone and everyone by several to nil
(applicable for the rest of the season)
Martyn over the hill, hotly pursued by Gillespie, Hayden
and Langer
Symonds over Boonie's flight-home piss-sinking record
by two cans
Kate Moss over two lines of blow by lunchtime
Get onto that lot and you’ll get onto a winner. Hey, as a
tipster I mightn’t be as attractive as Lady Luck, but
I’m also not dumb enough to be getting boned by Craig
Gower.
And on that note of wisdom, I'll catch you bastards later.
INEVITABLE RUBBISH PUN ABOUT 'RAKING OVER THE ASHES'
Well, the Ashes are lost. (I'd suggest looking down the back
of the couch, that's where most of us tend to lose small
useless objects). And the great cricketing nation of
Arsetralia, to use the Seppo pronounciation, wants to know
who to blame. This is somebody's fault. Preferably someone
small, chippy and from a piss-ant island such as Tasmania
that we should be able to deport, given relatively minor
changes to border legislation (little Johnny's excluded most
tiny meaningless coastal islands from our immigration
boundaries, after all?)
But, folks, I come before you (not literally; the laundry
bill would be alarming enough) to tell you that we can't
blame the inbred little Tasphobian with the galloping
alopecia (takes emphasis away from the second-head-removal
scar.) It's not Poontang's fault. Nor is it batting maestro
McGarth's fault, despite being crocked with injury every
time someone politely asked him to trundle in and roll the
arm over. Nor can we finger Skwarne (though he has the PXTs
on his phone to suggest otherwise) for a complete lack of
judgement and tactical foresight. (Have you SEEN some of the
slappers he's tried to pull?) It's not his fault. It's not
even the fault of the cadre of arsey, technique-free-zone
left-handers in our top order who batted like right-handed
older brothers having a go at batting leftie in backyard
cricket so that the younger kids could have a chance. Nor is
it the fault of John 'You can't tell I used to have a
moustache' Buchanan and his Laptop Of Ineptitude. And much
as we'd like to, we can't blame the only New Zillunder
involved, umpire extraordinaire (as distinct from umpire
excrement) Billy “The Kid(dy molester)” Bowden. No,
folks, the blame lies elsewhere.
It's my fault.
Look, I'm sorry. I never thought it would come to this. They
were travelling OK for so long, didn't seem to need my
input. How wrong I was. (Cue Led Zep playing 'Nobody's Fault
But Mine'.) I'm so sorry, great nation of mine until about
five minutes ago (anyone see NZ demolish India in that ODI
final the other day?) But I'm buggered if I'm copping the
blame on my own. If you're reading this, it's your bloody
fault too.
Because if you're between the ages of 25 and 30, hold
Australian citizenship, and can run 22 yards holding a
short-handled plank without falling on your arse, you have
been derelict in your duty to your nation. You should be in
the Australian cricket team. Do you see anyone of our
generation in that team? Jesus Christ, you couldn't have
done any worse than the geriatrics we sent. Why in God's
name have we been forced to go into battle, nay into a WAR,
with our greatest enemy, with a team so old it makes an
episode of Dad's Army look like Play School? (If they could
make it look like Hi-5 I'd be more impressed. Three-fifths
of same, at least.) It's very simple why and how loyal
footsoldiers like Martyn, Hayden, Langer, Gillespie and
Gilchrist have lost their form. They've just forgotten their
technique, plain and simple. Along with their correct home
address, their medication regimen, and their teeth.
WE'RE SHIT AND WE KNOW WE ARE
The great sporting nation of Australia has been struck by a
collective moment of horror: we're actually not very good at
sport. The Australian cricket team lost to an English team
spearheaded by a South African with a skunk stapled to his
head. The Wallabies bravely managed a heroic third place in
the Tri-Nations just gone, with old mates Eddie and George
retaining their jobs on the reassuring basis that noone
could think of anyone who could take over who might be less
shit than them. We may be able to guarantee that an
Australian based team might win the NRL, but we won't make
the World Cup (the proper one that the whole world tries to
get into) courtesy our time-honoured tradition of Losing The
Plot Catastrophically come the big qualifiers. (Ah, at last
something the English can emphathise with. How about them
Northern Irish, Svennis?) Bathurst, Australia's Great Race,
will be won by either Greg Murphy (Kiwi), Steven Richards
(Kiwi) or Marcus Ambrose ((a) Tasmanian and (b) a complete
arse, therefore his nationality is an irrelevance). The only
world championship an Australian will win this year is the
world superbikes (courtesy either a T. Corser of Wollongong
or a C. Vermeulen of Yandina. Go the Ginger Factory.) In
short, we're rubbish.
However, I have a strategy. Do what everyone else does.
Cricket: Take chequebook to South Africa. Wave in front of
disaffected whiteys too impatient/arrogant/self-obsessed to
wait their turn for first XI selection behind dirty horrid
coloured folk.
Rugby: Take chequebook to Pacific Islands. Wave in front of
ridiculously talented Fijians, Samoans and Tongans in order
that they desert their birth nation in favour of the
hallowed black (sorry, gold) jersey. If you can't be
bothered flying to tiny, insignificant islands in the south
Pacific, I gots three words for y’all: South Auckland
Represent! (Although this would contravene the policy on not
flying to tiny, insignificant islands in the South Pacific.)
Football: Take chequebook to Europe. Wave in front of
heavily qualified, very well regarded international coach
with proven track record in taking very average national
teams a long way into the deadly-serious bit of the World
Cup...
Nah, that’s never going to happen is it.
BOOK CLUB
Andrew Flintoff has written an autobiography. Or, rather,
Andrew Flintoff has employed a ghostwriter to write an
autobiography. It’s called ‘Being Freddie’, presumably
because ‘Mein Kampf’ or ‘Men are from Mars, Women are
from Venus’ were already taken. All well and good apart
from one thing: on the grand scale of things, Andrew
Flintoff has been around for about fifteen minutes. What the
fuck has he actually DONE in the last 25 years to warrant
publishing the story of his life and times?
Next week, we review the new book from talkative Finnish F1
star Kimi Raikkonen, titled ‘Book’, exploring the Ice
Man’s very inner thoughts and emotions. As a preview, we
serialise dramatic moments from Kimi’s exciting and
challenging life and career. Join us now during the dramatic
run-in to the 2001 World Championship decided in Japan,
where Kimi stood to maybe, just maybe, defeat Michael
Schumacher for the world title:
“The car… was… good… and tyres… were… good…
and… strategy… good.”
DISASTER RELIEF APPEAL
The events of recent weeks have reminded us that it is our
duty, as citizens of this little blue and green orb, to look
after those of us less fortunate, our brethren for whom
circumstances have made life almost unworthy of living. To
this end, I’d like to suggest we begin a sponsorship drive
for the poor, wretched residents of that low-lying,
stinking, desolate, diseased, corrupt and shattered city -
you know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about
Brisbane.
Imagine what it’s like to live in Brisbane at the moment;
imagine the misery that has been bestowed on that proud
bogan people. Their standard bearers, their maroon-and-gold
gods, the mighty Broncos, were pole-axed by a bunch of
uppity adolescents in orange and black who didn’t even
have the good grace to wave bye-bye as they ran in their
thirty tries to one. It’s been another year where it
ain’t good to wear maroon, at club or state level. The
Reds were shit this year, shit last year, and have been shit
ever since the Super 14 was a Super 10. This supports the
theory that Brisbane-based football teams can’t win
competitions with more than ten teams, as they have to take
off their boots and socks to be able to count up that high.
This would also explain the Queensland Roar (shortlisted for
the Crappest Name In Sports) and their reasonable showing in
the eight-team A-League, although this theory obviously
doesn’t apply to anyone from west of Ipswich who can
generally count to at least thirteen without taking off
their cowboy boots. Which brings us to the Cowboys,
themselves responsible for inflicting yet more agony on the
benighted populous of Brisvegas; while the Broncos have
floundered, the Cowpokes have flown. Other codes aren’t
salving the residents’ fevered brows. The Lions went out
arse-backward in the AFL very early in the piece, resulting
in all the Lions’ fans having to revert to barracking for
their old Melbourne-based teams which they used to follow
before moving up to Queensland. (Ever wonder why the Lions
because hugely popular straight after all the Victorians
moved in? Though to be fair, they were escaping political
persecution from a merciless dictator - Jeff Kennett was in
charge. Largely because they put him there, shortly before
buggering off.)
My point is, you have to feel for Queenslanders. (For my
part, I’ve tried to feel for Queenslanders in the past,
but I’m getting married next month so I’m not allowed to
do that anymore.) So I propose we stand by our bogan
brethren and show our support. Not with money, but with a
symbolic gesture of solidarity. Next weekend, a minute
before kickoff in the Grand Final, we shall all face the
west, bellow “Yee-Haa Cletus!” and simultaneously play
the riff from Duelling Banjos on our mobile phones. Who’s
with me?
Nah, you’re right, bloody stupid idea.
ONE GOAL WIN TO THE REDS IN NZ NATIONAL CHAMPS
Last weekend’s MMP National Championships went down to the
wire, with the Reds under their fearless captain Helen
‘Headbasher’ Clark edging out rivals the Blues and their
leader Donnie ‘Bugger the Darkies’ Brash by 50 goals to
49. The Reds’ win was widely attributed to their repeated
attacking focus down the left wing, against the conservative
style of the Blues. Brash was hoping for better support from
star substitute Winston Peters, but the cagey right-winger
chose to play so far out on the right wing as to be largely
over the sidelines for much of the game, losing his seat on
the bench in the process. In the next round, Headbasher
takes on George ‘Dubya’ Bush, again. Provided Dubya
manages to evacuate troops from northern Italy, following
the disasterous and ill-conceived invasion borne out of his
self-declared War on Tiramisu.
THIS JUST IN
It has been brought to my attention that the Sydney Swans
and the West Coast Eagles are to play against each other in
the VFL (sorry, AFL) Grand Final, at the Melbourne Cricket
Ground. One wonders who all the Lions supporters will back
in this one? Presumably South Melbourne; those ex-pats Vics
have long memories... What a tragedy, Melbourne’s big day
ruined, absolutely RUINED by another all-interstate grand
final. Gotta tell you, my heart bleeds. I can hear Eddie
McGuire and Sam Newman sobbing about it from all the way
over here (along with bleating about salary cap concessions,
cost-of-living allowances, draft pick favouritism, etc etc
etc.)
Not that we hear anything about that in the Kiwi media. The
AFL grand final will be live on Saturday - on Sky Sport 3.
Where it will be watched by two men and a dog. The rest of
NZ will be watching the NPC/Ranfurly Shield game between
Wellington and Canterbury. And hoping the Cantabs lose like
the dogs they are, goddammit.
IT WAS MARC ELLIS AFTER ALL
Told you. After months of speculation (it’s hard to
illustrate just how enormous a story this was over here -
proving once again that Aotearoa, in the grand scheme of
things, is basically a small provincial town), former Otago,
All Black and Warriors winger and TVNZ personality Marc
Ellis was arrested, brought before the beak, and convicted
of possession of a Very Bad Drug, namely five tabs of E. He
was fined $300, i.e. sixty bucks a tab - exactly what he’d
paid for the things in the first place. Wow, that was worth
the effort. As for co-accused ex-leaguie Brent Todd, he may
be thicker than two short planks, but he’s not dumb enough
to fly back to New Zealand from his Gold Coast base to get
arrested on the considerably more serious drugs charges
which have been laid against him.
CINDERELLA MEN: BLOODY HARD TO FIND FOOTBALL
BOOTS IN THEIR SIZE
Form team of the NRL for the final eight weeks of the
competition, the mighty South Sydney Rabbitohs, look likely
to be taken over by New Zealand’s favourite wannabe
Australian, Rusty “The Gladiator” Crowe (and some
faceless business dude who noone gives a stuff about.) The
actor, comedian (inadvertent, usually), all-round good guy
and writer of such moving ballads as ‘Swallow My Gift’
is renown as a hopeless Souths tragic (meaning he’d have
fitted in seamlessly into the Rabbitohs backline of the last
four seasons) and has mounted a friendly takeover of the
club. To be fair, Crowe’s public profile and reputation as
well as his passion for the red and green will benefit the
club enormously, in terms of attracting sponsors and fans,
as well as generating sufficient public opinion to bulldoze
miscreant local councils who still hope to evict the Bunnies
to Gosford in favour of a lesbian organic lentil farmers
collective or some other eco-bollocks at Redfern Oval. Not
only that, given that he earns the equivalent of the NRL
salary cap every two hours, his money management skills
should also hold the club in good stead. As a Souths fan, I
have to say I endorse Rusty taking over. But I’d temper
those comments with the observation, noted by other
commentators, that Russell Crowe’s band is a fucking pile
of shit.
FOOTY TIPPING : NOT AS MUCH FUN AS COW TIPPING
This week's predictions from the Doctor of Destiny:
Dragons over Tigers by 12-
Eels over Cowboys by 13+ (take the points start on NQ)
Wellington over Canterbury by 12-
Swans over Eagles by a goal (plus or minus two)
Chelsea over anyone and everyone by several to nil
(applicable for the rest of the season)
Martyn over the hill, hotly pursued by Gillespie, Hayden
and Langer
Symonds over Boonie's flight-home piss-sinking record
by two cans
Kate Moss over two lines of blow by lunchtime
Get onto that lot and you’ll get onto a winner. Hey, as a
tipster I mightn’t be as attractive as Lady Luck, but
I’m also not dumb enough to be getting boned by Craig
Gower.
And on that note of wisdom, I'll catch you bastards later.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Time to launch Nasser into orbit with the other space-junk
We start this Weak with poetry, in the style of the classics
- Wordsworth, Keats, Coleridge... and above all, Whalley and
McDougall, aka two c--ts from Newtown with a gig on national
breakfast radio.
AN ODE TO NASSER HUSSAIN'S COMMENTARY SKILLS*
I don't get a million bucks for getting out of bed,
I don't get a million fucks when I punch blokes in the head.
But even if the Ashes coverage makes you wanna spit
At least we know the Pommy callers are up to fucking shit.
(*For Nasser Hussain read Michael Atherton, for those
getting the Channel 4 feed)
THE 'EDEN GARDENS' AWARD FOR THE DUMBEST
CRICKET CROWD IN THE WORLD
No, for once it's not the Indians, who would resoundingly
cheer the Gatorade drinks buggy if Sachin was at the wheel -
no, the new world champions at giving bad crowd are the
denizens of Greater Manchester, or at least the 21,000 who
didn't get turned away at the gate at Old Trafford
overnight. Cricket is undergoing a resurgence in England;
decades of the Pom public ignoring the game entirely
because, well, they were genetically crap at it, has given
way to mass national obsession with beating the convicts at
something. Anything. Result: a crowd made up entirely of
drunken Man U supporters with as much awareness of the rules
and nuances of test cricket as they would of, well,
football. Every bumped ball, windy waft outside leg, or ball
cannoning into pad - even, or especially, if it pitched
outside leg - begat an unholy wail from our remarkably thick
ethnic forebears. My friends, we've all been there - the
Gabba, the SCG, Wherrett Park No. 2 oval - and we Aussies
know what it takes to give quality crowd at a big game. And,
O Barmy ones, it takes knowing more than two fifths of fuck
all about the game and showing up thoroughly off-chops on
Wankingbone's Old Incorrigible or some other
room-temperature colostomy-bag supernatant.
RUGBY: WHO GIVES A SHIT, WE'RE LOSING
The Wallabies missed Stephen Larkham's deceptive ability to
do absolutely nothing, i.e. step or change direction not a
jot and still wade across the advantage line like a man
mildly annoyed at being late for his train, with consecutive
losses to the Fat Stinking Racist Saffer C--ts as well as
the Shaggeurs de la Baa-Baa. This may have something to do
with playing what appeared to be a garden gnome in headgear
in Larkham's place at first five-eighth. Latham also
relinquished his spot in the backline due to illness;
despite Kim Beazley offering to take over once more, Eddie
Jones went for some kid from the University of Queensland
side who done sorta OK, particularly in the first 15 minutes
(which is about all I watched - ever had that odd sense of
impending doom?)
Later than night, or next morning given that their parents
had sent them to bed at what we learned folk know as Big Dog
time, underage teenyboppers throughout the Land of the Long
White Clod were distraught with the news that their lovely
little man Danny Carter was GOOONNNE for the season with a
busted leg, busted head and busted arse (to paraphrase the
great R.R. Slaven). Every adult male in New Zealand (bar
perhaps David Lange) have been suggested as replacement
halves - everyone, that is, except Otago number 10 and
former All Black fullback Nick Evans (or is that All Bleck
fullbeck Nuck Ivens?) Suits us fine, the lad ripped Bay of
Plenty a new arsehole on our behalf at the Brook on Sunday
afternoon in the first round of the NPC; if the Kiwi
bo-selectas don't want him we can probably put him to use...
GRATUITOUS MENTION OF HOW TOPS SOUTHS ARE TRAVELLING
Yet another hapless bunch of waterbuffalo floundering
aimlessly in the swamp waiting for the coachwood-and-myrtle
faithful to roll up in the Land Rover and finish them off
with the shottie, would be a generous way to describe
Souths' latest victims, the Fyshwick Ring Raiders. The NRL's
form team again ran up a cricket score against their
opposition (OK, only if Australia are batting, but a cricket
score nonetheless) on their glorious crusade towards
victory, eternal glory, and most importantly, the need for
any more stultifying pre-match 'motivational' speeches by
Russell Crowe. (Whose band, as has been noted elsewhere, is
a fucking pile of shit.)
NAME SUPPRESSION MY ARSE, IT'S B---T T--D AND M--C E---S
NZ's biggest off-field sports story is the identity of two
big-name ex-Warriarse players involved in a so-called white
collar drug ring, whose names have hereto been protected by
name suppression. Several weeks of highly enjoyably
subterfuge came to a disappointing end when it was revealed
the 'celebrity' implicated in the more serious of the two
sets of charges (involving possession, supply and sale of
Naughty Chemicals) was former Raiders meataxe and freelance
idiot Brent Todd. Most observers were hoping the long arm of
the law was after former Manly and Wankland fullback and
erstwhile TV c--t Matthew Ridge, as the man is a total arse
with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Ridge's sparring
partner and fellow dual international Marc Ellis, described
vaguely as the Matthew Johns of NZ sports TV (a description
which does neither of them any favours), is most people's
favourite for the lesser charge, amounting basically to
trying to score a few tabs of eccy off the co-accused. Some
people will do anything to make Auckland nightlife seem
bearable.
LAYING SOME CABLE
Apparently the Premiership started over the weekend. I
missed it. I don't get any of the games on my Sky Sports
subscription. Lesson: If resident in NZ, don't skimp on your
pay TV sports package, or you will get every bloody game of
rugby played on either or both islands between half-arsed
bum-fuck provinces you will neither know or care about, and
miss anything vaguely interesting. Day 4 of the Ashes got
bumped in favour of NZ vs Lithuania in basketball. I shit
you not. Furthermore, the NZ basketball team are in
possession of THE gayest name in international sport. Forget
the Socceroos: here come the Tall Blacks.
Every NZ sporting team is generally the Black Somethings -
the All Blacks, the Black Caps (cricket, currently in
Zimbabwe beating the locals - guess it makes a change from
Mugabe doing same), the Black Sticks (hockey), the Ice
Blacks (ice hockey), the Black Ferns (women's rugby - yes,
it's just as scary as you imagine), the aforementioned Tall
Blacks etc etc etc. A very special mention has to go to the
NZ badminton team, however, who flirted with the idea of
naming themselves the Black Cocks.
SPOONMAN: COMES TOGETHER WITH YOUR PLAN
The scrap for the wooden spoon continues apace in the
Nashinal Bugry League with Newcastle and Souths stacking win
atop win like former NZ leaguies stocktaking their powdered
goods. For once your family Doctor's hyperbolic bullshit is
vaguely in the same suburb as reality as the bottom two
teams are feared by everyone in the comp. Apart from the
Dragons of course, who are clearly juiced up on whatever
Toddy's cooked up in the back shed and are going like 40
bastards, judging by their ceremonial taking-apart of the
Shonkos last weekend. The Big Red V are looking good to play
in another grand final this year, which will undoubtedly end
in horrific, soul-destroying arse-busting dismay and failure
like the last five or six times they've made the big one.
Right Craigus? (Cue the Cough Drop and another penalty try
on fulltime...)
WORK FOR THE DOLE SCHEME
Third test: only half the Australian team turned up for
work, and only for one day out of five. How true-blue Aussie
is that? Apparently the entire top order were on a week-long
flexiday. And Gilchrist just couldn't be arsed. Working two
weeks in a row? Bugger that. He is from Lismore after all.
VALENTINO ROSSI FAILS TO WIN CZECH MOTO GP AT BRNO
Largely because it hasn't happened yet. But it will, and he
will. It's Mick Doohan all over again, except the bike's
yellow instead of his teeth.
VALE DAVID LANGE
The single most impressive Kiwi this side of Sir Ed Hillary
passed away this week. Yes, it's got bugger all to do with
sport, though the big fullah liked his motor racing and
pedalled a race-prepped Laser very competently in a mid-80s
Kiwi one-make racing series... while still being Prime
Minister at the time. Much kudos. The equivalent would be
little Johnny turning out next weekend in the V8 Utes series
at Ipswich or Oran Park (the little c--t would be in a Ford
as well, I'd wager...)
Over the course of his too-brief tenure as PM (shortened by
the same medical woes that eventually knocked him over, as
well as the traditional Labour blight of stab wounds from
behind) he managed to thoroughly shit both the United States
of America and the Republique de France, wankers all, and
put NZ very much on the map. That's it there, bottom right
corner, across and down a bit from Ulladulla.
To finish with my favourite quote from the mountain of
retrospective stuff the networks have churned out over the
past few days from Lange's media career:
Lange stalking down a Parlimentary corridor, pursued by
media scrum.
"Mr Lange, could we please have a brief word?"
Without skipping a beat, and with the faintest trace of a
smile, Lange replies, "Wombat."
Vale David Lange and catch the rest of you bastards later.
- Wordsworth, Keats, Coleridge... and above all, Whalley and
McDougall, aka two c--ts from Newtown with a gig on national
breakfast radio.
AN ODE TO NASSER HUSSAIN'S COMMENTARY SKILLS*
I don't get a million bucks for getting out of bed,
I don't get a million fucks when I punch blokes in the head.
But even if the Ashes coverage makes you wanna spit
At least we know the Pommy callers are up to fucking shit.
(*For Nasser Hussain read Michael Atherton, for those
getting the Channel 4 feed)
THE 'EDEN GARDENS' AWARD FOR THE DUMBEST
CRICKET CROWD IN THE WORLD
No, for once it's not the Indians, who would resoundingly
cheer the Gatorade drinks buggy if Sachin was at the wheel -
no, the new world champions at giving bad crowd are the
denizens of Greater Manchester, or at least the 21,000 who
didn't get turned away at the gate at Old Trafford
overnight. Cricket is undergoing a resurgence in England;
decades of the Pom public ignoring the game entirely
because, well, they were genetically crap at it, has given
way to mass national obsession with beating the convicts at
something. Anything. Result: a crowd made up entirely of
drunken Man U supporters with as much awareness of the rules
and nuances of test cricket as they would of, well,
football. Every bumped ball, windy waft outside leg, or ball
cannoning into pad - even, or especially, if it pitched
outside leg - begat an unholy wail from our remarkably thick
ethnic forebears. My friends, we've all been there - the
Gabba, the SCG, Wherrett Park No. 2 oval - and we Aussies
know what it takes to give quality crowd at a big game. And,
O Barmy ones, it takes knowing more than two fifths of fuck
all about the game and showing up thoroughly off-chops on
Wankingbone's Old Incorrigible or some other
room-temperature colostomy-bag supernatant.
RUGBY: WHO GIVES A SHIT, WE'RE LOSING
The Wallabies missed Stephen Larkham's deceptive ability to
do absolutely nothing, i.e. step or change direction not a
jot and still wade across the advantage line like a man
mildly annoyed at being late for his train, with consecutive
losses to the Fat Stinking Racist Saffer C--ts as well as
the Shaggeurs de la Baa-Baa. This may have something to do
with playing what appeared to be a garden gnome in headgear
in Larkham's place at first five-eighth. Latham also
relinquished his spot in the backline due to illness;
despite Kim Beazley offering to take over once more, Eddie
Jones went for some kid from the University of Queensland
side who done sorta OK, particularly in the first 15 minutes
(which is about all I watched - ever had that odd sense of
impending doom?)
Later than night, or next morning given that their parents
had sent them to bed at what we learned folk know as Big Dog
time, underage teenyboppers throughout the Land of the Long
White Clod were distraught with the news that their lovely
little man Danny Carter was GOOONNNE for the season with a
busted leg, busted head and busted arse (to paraphrase the
great R.R. Slaven). Every adult male in New Zealand (bar
perhaps David Lange) have been suggested as replacement
halves - everyone, that is, except Otago number 10 and
former All Black fullback Nick Evans (or is that All Bleck
fullbeck Nuck Ivens?) Suits us fine, the lad ripped Bay of
Plenty a new arsehole on our behalf at the Brook on Sunday
afternoon in the first round of the NPC; if the Kiwi
bo-selectas don't want him we can probably put him to use...
GRATUITOUS MENTION OF HOW TOPS SOUTHS ARE TRAVELLING
Yet another hapless bunch of waterbuffalo floundering
aimlessly in the swamp waiting for the coachwood-and-myrtle
faithful to roll up in the Land Rover and finish them off
with the shottie, would be a generous way to describe
Souths' latest victims, the Fyshwick Ring Raiders. The NRL's
form team again ran up a cricket score against their
opposition (OK, only if Australia are batting, but a cricket
score nonetheless) on their glorious crusade towards
victory, eternal glory, and most importantly, the need for
any more stultifying pre-match 'motivational' speeches by
Russell Crowe. (Whose band, as has been noted elsewhere, is
a fucking pile of shit.)
NAME SUPPRESSION MY ARSE, IT'S B---T T--D AND M--C E---S
NZ's biggest off-field sports story is the identity of two
big-name ex-Warriarse players involved in a so-called white
collar drug ring, whose names have hereto been protected by
name suppression. Several weeks of highly enjoyably
subterfuge came to a disappointing end when it was revealed
the 'celebrity' implicated in the more serious of the two
sets of charges (involving possession, supply and sale of
Naughty Chemicals) was former Raiders meataxe and freelance
idiot Brent Todd. Most observers were hoping the long arm of
the law was after former Manly and Wankland fullback and
erstwhile TV c--t Matthew Ridge, as the man is a total arse
with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Ridge's sparring
partner and fellow dual international Marc Ellis, described
vaguely as the Matthew Johns of NZ sports TV (a description
which does neither of them any favours), is most people's
favourite for the lesser charge, amounting basically to
trying to score a few tabs of eccy off the co-accused. Some
people will do anything to make Auckland nightlife seem
bearable.
LAYING SOME CABLE
Apparently the Premiership started over the weekend. I
missed it. I don't get any of the games on my Sky Sports
subscription. Lesson: If resident in NZ, don't skimp on your
pay TV sports package, or you will get every bloody game of
rugby played on either or both islands between half-arsed
bum-fuck provinces you will neither know or care about, and
miss anything vaguely interesting. Day 4 of the Ashes got
bumped in favour of NZ vs Lithuania in basketball. I shit
you not. Furthermore, the NZ basketball team are in
possession of THE gayest name in international sport. Forget
the Socceroos: here come the Tall Blacks.
Every NZ sporting team is generally the Black Somethings -
the All Blacks, the Black Caps (cricket, currently in
Zimbabwe beating the locals - guess it makes a change from
Mugabe doing same), the Black Sticks (hockey), the Ice
Blacks (ice hockey), the Black Ferns (women's rugby - yes,
it's just as scary as you imagine), the aforementioned Tall
Blacks etc etc etc. A very special mention has to go to the
NZ badminton team, however, who flirted with the idea of
naming themselves the Black Cocks.
SPOONMAN: COMES TOGETHER WITH YOUR PLAN
The scrap for the wooden spoon continues apace in the
Nashinal Bugry League with Newcastle and Souths stacking win
atop win like former NZ leaguies stocktaking their powdered
goods. For once your family Doctor's hyperbolic bullshit is
vaguely in the same suburb as reality as the bottom two
teams are feared by everyone in the comp. Apart from the
Dragons of course, who are clearly juiced up on whatever
Toddy's cooked up in the back shed and are going like 40
bastards, judging by their ceremonial taking-apart of the
Shonkos last weekend. The Big Red V are looking good to play
in another grand final this year, which will undoubtedly end
in horrific, soul-destroying arse-busting dismay and failure
like the last five or six times they've made the big one.
Right Craigus? (Cue the Cough Drop and another penalty try
on fulltime...)
WORK FOR THE DOLE SCHEME
Third test: only half the Australian team turned up for
work, and only for one day out of five. How true-blue Aussie
is that? Apparently the entire top order were on a week-long
flexiday. And Gilchrist just couldn't be arsed. Working two
weeks in a row? Bugger that. He is from Lismore after all.
VALENTINO ROSSI FAILS TO WIN CZECH MOTO GP AT BRNO
Largely because it hasn't happened yet. But it will, and he
will. It's Mick Doohan all over again, except the bike's
yellow instead of his teeth.
VALE DAVID LANGE
The single most impressive Kiwi this side of Sir Ed Hillary
passed away this week. Yes, it's got bugger all to do with
sport, though the big fullah liked his motor racing and
pedalled a race-prepped Laser very competently in a mid-80s
Kiwi one-make racing series... while still being Prime
Minister at the time. Much kudos. The equivalent would be
little Johnny turning out next weekend in the V8 Utes series
at Ipswich or Oran Park (the little c--t would be in a Ford
as well, I'd wager...)
Over the course of his too-brief tenure as PM (shortened by
the same medical woes that eventually knocked him over, as
well as the traditional Labour blight of stab wounds from
behind) he managed to thoroughly shit both the United States
of America and the Republique de France, wankers all, and
put NZ very much on the map. That's it there, bottom right
corner, across and down a bit from Ulladulla.
To finish with my favourite quote from the mountain of
retrospective stuff the networks have churned out over the
past few days from Lange's media career:
Lange stalking down a Parlimentary corridor, pursued by
media scrum.
"Mr Lange, could we please have a brief word?"
Without skipping a beat, and with the faintest trace of a
smile, Lange replies, "Wombat."
Vale David Lange and catch the rest of you bastards later.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Origin of the specious
Well folks it was another week when the forces of good
defeated the forces of evil. Australia defeated the
apparently-not-shit English cricketers. The Wallabies saw
off the tryless and plotless Boks. The ABs concluded their
complimentary three-phase rugby tutorial session with the
Lions. The mighty NSW Blues flogged the XXXXed Qld Maroons
(apologies to the banana-bending banjo soloists in the
audience). Everyone called Schumacher didn't win. And Souths
beat someone. Anyone. Huzzah! (OK so that little Kentucky
fried shit Nicky Hayden beat my brother Vale Rossi in the
MotoGP, but that's my problem not yours.)
NEWSFLASH
Phil Gould has cemented his place in sports analyst history
by working out that the reason NSW beat Qld (and the Eelses
subsequently beat the Dragqueens) was that they had larger
people on their team. Apparently rugby league players are
better if they are more physically able to tackle each other
or capable of evading another player's tackle, i.e., if
they're bigger. The man's a dead set genius. Who would have
thought? Clearly not the Maroon selectors, who set about
selecting an accurate half-scale model of an Origin
backline, picking the smallest set of backs this side of the
Lower Clarence Magpies under 8s. When confronted with his
midgetory opposite number Matt Bowen, Anthony Small Stringed
Instrument wasn't sure whether to tackle him or prune him
like a bonsai plant.
Meanwhile, the shock non-selection of Innisfail Bill,
Queensland's favourite ex-trackwork jockey and part-time
model (for the FA Cup trophy), was considered by many as the
most controversial dropping of a player named Slater since a
former NSW opener developed a debilitating powder-related
nasal habit in the months leading up to the last Ashes tour
and couldn't work out which of the three fluoresencent Andy
Caddicks was supposed to be bowling at him. Though team
management preferred to use such phrases as 'unfortunate
loss of form', and later, 'anklyosing spondylitis'.
And in case you missed it, the Rabbitohs got up on the
weekend.
POLITICALLY INCORRECT SMARTARSE COMMENT
WHICH WE SHOULD USE NOW WHILE WE STILL CAN
(courtesy a certain Dr M. Dawson of Somewhere Near Tamworth,
Rural NSW)
Seeing as though the Brisbane league team is called the
Broncos, the new Gold Coast team should probably be called
the Mules, in honour of Schappelle Corby.
Don't look at me like that. This is what happens when you
name your children after US stand-up comedians. Just ask her
younger brother Seinfeld. (And you didn't even know they
were Jewish.)
BUGGRY UNION
And the apocalypse is surely nigh, with clear signs of the
imminent end of the world evident for all the world to see,
such as England presenting a servicable cricket side, and
Wendell Sailor not being totally shit anymore. Who knew?
Apparently the Reds didn't, having sold him to NSW. The
Waratahs, of course, snapped Dell up, as they are
desperately short of showboating, egocentric,
talent-optional ex-Queensland backs with shiny boots,
permanently spotless jerseys (on account of never dirtying
them with tackling et al) and dubious preferences in
hairstyling or lack thereof.
Speaking of slapheads, Aotearoa's favourite World Cup
winning English rugby coach (also Aotearoa's least favourite
World Cup winning English rugby coach, given the size of the
field to choose from) cheerfully wandered away from the
shambles of the most expensively equipped, ludicrously
over-sized and monstrously over-prepared rugby tour in all
of history (we're talking the Lions tour here, where
six-week tour involving a dozen or so games required 51 -
count them, 51 - players). His parting remarks: that he'd
wished he'd brought even more players and spent even more
money. Another genius. He'll do well at newly relegated
Southampton Football Club, his apparent next destination:
they have no money and all their players buggered off
elsewhere when they dropped out of the Premier League.
Did I mention Souths won again? Against Team Noddy? Who
wasn't even knackered from Origin or nuffin? How good are we
etc?
THE STUPIDEST IDEA IN THE WORLD
Powerplays. Supersubs. No, it's not NHL hockey, but like pro
ice hockey it's played seriously by about six nations. It's
the ICC's new regulations for one day cricket folks, which
are in place in the current NatWest One-Day-International
Series/Challenge/Tournament/Filling In Time Before The Ashes
Starts competition between Us and Them. It's not so much
that the new rules are incredibly stupid - they are, there's
very little doubt about that - but the England Cricket Board
(apparently they have one) have decided that the 12th man
who gets a bat or a bowl, depending on whether Poontang
wants to nick off before five o'clock and get his bets on at
the TAB, should be called the 'Supersub'. No idea whether
you can get the Supersub with your choice of five freshly
baked breads, three cheeses and a dorky looking Seppo called
Jared telling you to Eat Fresh. (It's good they've got that
particular public health initiative cos otherwise we'd all
be compelled to Eat Stale, Rank And/Or Fetid.) But even more
cringeworthy is the shiny new PR spin for the blocks of
overs with field restrictions at the start of the innings,
and referred to as 'that block of overs with field
restrictions at the start of the innings'. Now,
whacko-the-diddlio, the fielding captain can shunt them
around in blocks of five, and better still, they're
called... wait for it... POWERPLAYS! Jeezarse Kerist, they
were up all night coming up with that one. Any more
hockey-style crap like this and cricket will be just about
as broke as the NHL, as well. Though they could bring a few
advances across, like those brawls where you pull the dude's
jumper over his head and smack him in the chops. Send Symmo
after that stupid-haired Yarpie fucker Pietersen (after
filling our representative with fermented beverage, of
course.)
And in other news, the ECB has again rewritten history for
PR purposes, by renaming Gladstone Small the Black Steve
Harmison.
And in other other news, Souths beat Cronulla. Badly.
Opposing club officials were later seen remonstrating in the
carpark, with a reliable source claiming to have overheard
George Piggins offering the advice, "Now why don't YOU lot
go and fuck off to Gosford instead?"
THE TITLE OF 'THE STUPID SCHUMACHER BROTHER'
HAS ALWAYS BEEN HOTLY CONTESTED
(I don't actually have anything to say about them, I just
like that headline.)
FOOTBALLROOS, MEAT PIES AND HOLDEN CARS
The Australian national football side (yes, they have one)
finished a very un-Australian arse-last at the recent
Confabulations Cup, shipping goals like demented Qantas
ground staff (presuming the goals were carefully inserted
into someone elses's boogie board bag... OK so this is
wearing thinner than Mary-Kate Olsen, I'll change topic.)
This subsequently and rather inevitably resulted in the
official giving-of-the-arse to head coach Beep Beep Farina.
Apparently having the high-level coaching experience of
leading the now-defunct Brisbane Strikers (who?) to the
championship in the National Soccer League (what?) wasn't
enough to give Franko the skills needed to (a) get us to the
world cup, (b) stop the whole thing from proceeding directly
down the Brasco or (c) end up more of a joke than El Tel.
Correction, at least under El Tel we managed to beat Tunisia
- three-nil, as I recall...
AND NOW THE AFL RESULTS
Yeah, right. Who honestly gives a flying inverted fuck with
two and a half twists, pike and a side salad? I moved here
to get away from mind-numbing Victorian shite like AFL,
Eddie McGuire and Delta Goodrem.
CRICKET AGAIN
In the short period of time while the ECB wasn't in session
thinking up yet more stupid new marketing catchphrases for
things that have been forever, a couple of games of cricket
went on, in which Australia were crap, then good, then crap,
good, crap and good again. We here at Dr Yobbo World
Domination Enterprises Inc. (registered in the Solitary
Islands) have developed a new scientific instrument to
accurately predict the form of the Australian cricket team
in any upcoming fixture. We envisage the sales of this
instrument will skyrocket, particularly in the back offices
of Indian TABs. Though we are currently in the process of
developing patent protection for our invention, we can
exclusively reveal that the new instrument will consist of a
precision-minted coin, complete with instructions on tossing
and/or flipping techniques, with SHIT HOUSE stamped on one
side and SHIT HOT on the other. We are accepting pre-orders,
so order now to ensure disappointment.
GOLF
A small German hatchback, native to the Eastern suburbs of
Sydney. Personally, I'd save up for the new GTI, apparently
it's a weapon with the DSG sequential gearbox.
SMOKING GRASS
Another year, another identikit Wimbledon tournament,
distinguished only by the Tin Henman losing like a true
Englishman (i.e. badly and often) early in the first week
rather than early in the second. Other than that it was all
as per program at Wimbledon this year - Roger the Dodger
won, Llittle Lleyton llost, and yet again, the Wombles were
conspicuous by their absence. 'Common are we', my arse.
SILVERSTONE: GREY CONCRETE
Flat, featureless and impossible to pass on - it must be the
jewel in the crown of British motorsport, Silverstone and
the British F1 Grand Prix. A balding Colombian in an
ill-fitting grey jumpsuit won the race, largely because he
woke up that morning and decided he felt like it. What Juan
Pablo was doing on the other ten race mornings so far this
year remains unknown, but Connie Montoya appears to be
pregnant again. Kimi Hakkinen... no, that's not right...
Mika Raikkonen? Anyway, that Finnish dude (not that other
Finnish dude) carved through the field from midpack in a
breathtaking and audacious drive onto the podium, behind
championship rival Fred Alonso. Eloquently outlining his
day's thrilling adventures and divulging the very thoughts
and feelings which motivated his performance to a captivated
TV audience of millions (or millions less than there used to
watch before Schumacher started winning all the time),
Kimika explained, "Uh... de car... was gud.. and it went...
fast... ja... uh... and tyres... gud... and... yeh... very
hap... py." By which time I'd fallen asleep and missed the
end of the interview. Thank Christ.
UPCOMING FIXTURES
In an astonishing development, there is NO INTERNATIONAL
RUGBY on New Zealand TV this weekend. Greater metropolitan
areas have been declared disaster relief areas as shocked
and stunned residents, surviving on rations of Lions tour
highlights, come to terms with a weekend stripped of hope,
understanding, and Murray Mexted's gaffes about big-titted
chicks in the crowd.
Oh and a bunch of other stuff is on too.
Up the Rabbitohs. The Doctor is OUT.
defeated the forces of evil. Australia defeated the
apparently-not-shit English cricketers. The Wallabies saw
off the tryless and plotless Boks. The ABs concluded their
complimentary three-phase rugby tutorial session with the
Lions. The mighty NSW Blues flogged the XXXXed Qld Maroons
(apologies to the banana-bending banjo soloists in the
audience). Everyone called Schumacher didn't win. And Souths
beat someone. Anyone. Huzzah! (OK so that little Kentucky
fried shit Nicky Hayden beat my brother Vale Rossi in the
MotoGP, but that's my problem not yours.)
NEWSFLASH
Phil Gould has cemented his place in sports analyst history
by working out that the reason NSW beat Qld (and the Eelses
subsequently beat the Dragqueens) was that they had larger
people on their team. Apparently rugby league players are
better if they are more physically able to tackle each other
or capable of evading another player's tackle, i.e., if
they're bigger. The man's a dead set genius. Who would have
thought? Clearly not the Maroon selectors, who set about
selecting an accurate half-scale model of an Origin
backline, picking the smallest set of backs this side of the
Lower Clarence Magpies under 8s. When confronted with his
midgetory opposite number Matt Bowen, Anthony Small Stringed
Instrument wasn't sure whether to tackle him or prune him
like a bonsai plant.
Meanwhile, the shock non-selection of Innisfail Bill,
Queensland's favourite ex-trackwork jockey and part-time
model (for the FA Cup trophy), was considered by many as the
most controversial dropping of a player named Slater since a
former NSW opener developed a debilitating powder-related
nasal habit in the months leading up to the last Ashes tour
and couldn't work out which of the three fluoresencent Andy
Caddicks was supposed to be bowling at him. Though team
management preferred to use such phrases as 'unfortunate
loss of form', and later, 'anklyosing spondylitis'.
And in case you missed it, the Rabbitohs got up on the
weekend.
POLITICALLY INCORRECT SMARTARSE COMMENT
WHICH WE SHOULD USE NOW WHILE WE STILL CAN
(courtesy a certain Dr M. Dawson of Somewhere Near Tamworth,
Rural NSW)
Seeing as though the Brisbane league team is called the
Broncos, the new Gold Coast team should probably be called
the Mules, in honour of Schappelle Corby.
Don't look at me like that. This is what happens when you
name your children after US stand-up comedians. Just ask her
younger brother Seinfeld. (And you didn't even know they
were Jewish.)
BUGGRY UNION
And the apocalypse is surely nigh, with clear signs of the
imminent end of the world evident for all the world to see,
such as England presenting a servicable cricket side, and
Wendell Sailor not being totally shit anymore. Who knew?
Apparently the Reds didn't, having sold him to NSW. The
Waratahs, of course, snapped Dell up, as they are
desperately short of showboating, egocentric,
talent-optional ex-Queensland backs with shiny boots,
permanently spotless jerseys (on account of never dirtying
them with tackling et al) and dubious preferences in
hairstyling or lack thereof.
Speaking of slapheads, Aotearoa's favourite World Cup
winning English rugby coach (also Aotearoa's least favourite
World Cup winning English rugby coach, given the size of the
field to choose from) cheerfully wandered away from the
shambles of the most expensively equipped, ludicrously
over-sized and monstrously over-prepared rugby tour in all
of history (we're talking the Lions tour here, where
six-week tour involving a dozen or so games required 51 -
count them, 51 - players). His parting remarks: that he'd
wished he'd brought even more players and spent even more
money. Another genius. He'll do well at newly relegated
Southampton Football Club, his apparent next destination:
they have no money and all their players buggered off
elsewhere when they dropped out of the Premier League.
Did I mention Souths won again? Against Team Noddy? Who
wasn't even knackered from Origin or nuffin? How good are we
etc?
THE STUPIDEST IDEA IN THE WORLD
Powerplays. Supersubs. No, it's not NHL hockey, but like pro
ice hockey it's played seriously by about six nations. It's
the ICC's new regulations for one day cricket folks, which
are in place in the current NatWest One-Day-International
Series/Challenge/Tournament/Filling In Time Before The Ashes
Starts competition between Us and Them. It's not so much
that the new rules are incredibly stupid - they are, there's
very little doubt about that - but the England Cricket Board
(apparently they have one) have decided that the 12th man
who gets a bat or a bowl, depending on whether Poontang
wants to nick off before five o'clock and get his bets on at
the TAB, should be called the 'Supersub'. No idea whether
you can get the Supersub with your choice of five freshly
baked breads, three cheeses and a dorky looking Seppo called
Jared telling you to Eat Fresh. (It's good they've got that
particular public health initiative cos otherwise we'd all
be compelled to Eat Stale, Rank And/Or Fetid.) But even more
cringeworthy is the shiny new PR spin for the blocks of
overs with field restrictions at the start of the innings,
and referred to as 'that block of overs with field
restrictions at the start of the innings'. Now,
whacko-the-diddlio, the fielding captain can shunt them
around in blocks of five, and better still, they're
called... wait for it... POWERPLAYS! Jeezarse Kerist, they
were up all night coming up with that one. Any more
hockey-style crap like this and cricket will be just about
as broke as the NHL, as well. Though they could bring a few
advances across, like those brawls where you pull the dude's
jumper over his head and smack him in the chops. Send Symmo
after that stupid-haired Yarpie fucker Pietersen (after
filling our representative with fermented beverage, of
course.)
And in other news, the ECB has again rewritten history for
PR purposes, by renaming Gladstone Small the Black Steve
Harmison.
And in other other news, Souths beat Cronulla. Badly.
Opposing club officials were later seen remonstrating in the
carpark, with a reliable source claiming to have overheard
George Piggins offering the advice, "Now why don't YOU lot
go and fuck off to Gosford instead?"
THE TITLE OF 'THE STUPID SCHUMACHER BROTHER'
HAS ALWAYS BEEN HOTLY CONTESTED
(I don't actually have anything to say about them, I just
like that headline.)
FOOTBALLROOS, MEAT PIES AND HOLDEN CARS
The Australian national football side (yes, they have one)
finished a very un-Australian arse-last at the recent
Confabulations Cup, shipping goals like demented Qantas
ground staff (presuming the goals were carefully inserted
into someone elses's boogie board bag... OK so this is
wearing thinner than Mary-Kate Olsen, I'll change topic.)
This subsequently and rather inevitably resulted in the
official giving-of-the-arse to head coach Beep Beep Farina.
Apparently having the high-level coaching experience of
leading the now-defunct Brisbane Strikers (who?) to the
championship in the National Soccer League (what?) wasn't
enough to give Franko the skills needed to (a) get us to the
world cup, (b) stop the whole thing from proceeding directly
down the Brasco or (c) end up more of a joke than El Tel.
Correction, at least under El Tel we managed to beat Tunisia
- three-nil, as I recall...
AND NOW THE AFL RESULTS
Yeah, right. Who honestly gives a flying inverted fuck with
two and a half twists, pike and a side salad? I moved here
to get away from mind-numbing Victorian shite like AFL,
Eddie McGuire and Delta Goodrem.
CRICKET AGAIN
In the short period of time while the ECB wasn't in session
thinking up yet more stupid new marketing catchphrases for
things that have been forever, a couple of games of cricket
went on, in which Australia were crap, then good, then crap,
good, crap and good again. We here at Dr Yobbo World
Domination Enterprises Inc. (registered in the Solitary
Islands) have developed a new scientific instrument to
accurately predict the form of the Australian cricket team
in any upcoming fixture. We envisage the sales of this
instrument will skyrocket, particularly in the back offices
of Indian TABs. Though we are currently in the process of
developing patent protection for our invention, we can
exclusively reveal that the new instrument will consist of a
precision-minted coin, complete with instructions on tossing
and/or flipping techniques, with SHIT HOUSE stamped on one
side and SHIT HOT on the other. We are accepting pre-orders,
so order now to ensure disappointment.
GOLF
A small German hatchback, native to the Eastern suburbs of
Sydney. Personally, I'd save up for the new GTI, apparently
it's a weapon with the DSG sequential gearbox.
SMOKING GRASS
Another year, another identikit Wimbledon tournament,
distinguished only by the Tin Henman losing like a true
Englishman (i.e. badly and often) early in the first week
rather than early in the second. Other than that it was all
as per program at Wimbledon this year - Roger the Dodger
won, Llittle Lleyton llost, and yet again, the Wombles were
conspicuous by their absence. 'Common are we', my arse.
SILVERSTONE: GREY CONCRETE
Flat, featureless and impossible to pass on - it must be the
jewel in the crown of British motorsport, Silverstone and
the British F1 Grand Prix. A balding Colombian in an
ill-fitting grey jumpsuit won the race, largely because he
woke up that morning and decided he felt like it. What Juan
Pablo was doing on the other ten race mornings so far this
year remains unknown, but Connie Montoya appears to be
pregnant again. Kimi Hakkinen... no, that's not right...
Mika Raikkonen? Anyway, that Finnish dude (not that other
Finnish dude) carved through the field from midpack in a
breathtaking and audacious drive onto the podium, behind
championship rival Fred Alonso. Eloquently outlining his
day's thrilling adventures and divulging the very thoughts
and feelings which motivated his performance to a captivated
TV audience of millions (or millions less than there used to
watch before Schumacher started winning all the time),
Kimika explained, "Uh... de car... was gud.. and it went...
fast... ja... uh... and tyres... gud... and... yeh... very
hap... py." By which time I'd fallen asleep and missed the
end of the interview. Thank Christ.
UPCOMING FIXTURES
In an astonishing development, there is NO INTERNATIONAL
RUGBY on New Zealand TV this weekend. Greater metropolitan
areas have been declared disaster relief areas as shocked
and stunned residents, surviving on rations of Lions tour
highlights, come to terms with a weekend stripped of hope,
understanding, and Murray Mexted's gaffes about big-titted
chicks in the crowd.
Oh and a bunch of other stuff is on too.
Up the Rabbitohs. The Doctor is OUT.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Michelin: rather deflated at the moment, thanks for asking
Folks,
An instructive weekend of sport. To better understand the Goings On, we shall break down the various protagonists into those who are Tops, those who Suck, and those who are Total Arseclowns.
(I'd call them Total C--ts but some of you are reading this at work.)
THESE PEOPLE ARE TOPS
Otago's cheerful rabble of a NPC team - gave the pride of the four home rugby nations a Bloody Good Scare and woulda coulda almost mighta won the whole thing if the bastards hadn't 'cheated like buggery' (a direct post-game quote from the Otago captain). Also managed to shut the Barmy Army up for long stretches, which from my seat in the stands was TOPS.
Joey Johns. Goddamn. At the very least, this should Noddy-proof the Origin halfback spot for a good few years.
US Open champ, the man they call Cambo (over here, anyway.) Get that up you Tigger. Can we call him the Darker-than-Dark Shark now?
The Footballroos (is that what we're supposed to call them now?) for belting a metric shitload of goals past a couple of world cup winning footballing nations in the Boche and the Argies, and proving that we're good enough to play at the top level, if only we could work out a way to avoid shipping four goals a game ourselves.
The Bangladesh cricket team. Ye Gods. Old Richie Benaud should probably have left the dusty old Olivetti typewriter on the shelf when he decided to slag them off in the press and declare them a blight on international cricket. What better way to get their revenge than to make Richie's beloved home side look like a bunch of faulty dildos at a lesbian convention? Super effort that. Absolutely maaarvellous.
Oh, alright, them Saints. You have to be bloody good to beat Souths on our current form, dammit.
THESE PEOPLE SUCK
The Michelin men. Ten laps is a lot shorter than 73 laps, yet they made a left-rear F1 tyre that met exactly those specifications. Vive la merde.
The Australian First XI, collectively and individually, but in particular: Richard Poontang, for ranting and raving at everyone else re commitment and focus, and then falling over first ball (literally) to an innocuous not-really-swinging-yorker expelled limply by the White Gladstone Small. Damien Martyn, for astonishingly poor shot selection. Roy Symonds, not for being too drunk to play, but for being un-Australian to lack skills enough to get away with it. Shane Watson, for being Shane Watson, i.e. as much use as a busted arsehole. John Buchanan, for being a gormless accountant often confused with a respectable coach of cricket. In conclusion, Jesus Christ, who loses to England for God's sake. Canary yellow indeed.
The British and Irish (and going progressively more irish as the tour proceeds) Lionesses, for not only cancelling all their charitable appearances in Otago the day they arrived (the entire point of a tour is to get out of the hotel and meet people isn't it?) but for scamming a win over Otago which they didn't deserve. If that's their test side for Saturday against the ABs, they deserve to get beated like a red-headed stepchild (or a Michelin tyre engineer out the back of the F1 pits.)
Kevin Pietersen and Andrew Strauss. Haven't you Bokke bastards got a country to go home to?
THESE PEOPLE ARE TOTAL ARSECLOWNS
Ferrari, the FIA and the myopically cretinous overlords of F1 who refused to put a temporary chicane in the flat-out banked turn at Indy and thus allow the Michelin-shod teams to safely run their cars in the USGP this morning, even when they offered to start from the back of the grid, without scoring any points, just so F1 wouldn't make total arses of themselves in the biggest sports and sales market in the world. Nope. Too hard. Screw 'em. Thus ends F1's great US adventure, and deservedly so.
Manly, just because.
Sir Clive Woodward, ditto. Memo to you and the midgetory drop-goal merchant: This one's for the world cup final you obnoxious slaphead. Go you Anzacs. (Well, they would be if Steve Devine played.
No, I don't have a lot of spare time on my hands with the new job, why do you ask?
Catch you later - cheers.
An instructive weekend of sport. To better understand the Goings On, we shall break down the various protagonists into those who are Tops, those who Suck, and those who are Total Arseclowns.
(I'd call them Total C--ts but some of you are reading this at work.)
THESE PEOPLE ARE TOPS
Otago's cheerful rabble of a NPC team - gave the pride of the four home rugby nations a Bloody Good Scare and woulda coulda almost mighta won the whole thing if the bastards hadn't 'cheated like buggery' (a direct post-game quote from the Otago captain). Also managed to shut the Barmy Army up for long stretches, which from my seat in the stands was TOPS.
Joey Johns. Goddamn. At the very least, this should Noddy-proof the Origin halfback spot for a good few years.
US Open champ, the man they call Cambo (over here, anyway.) Get that up you Tigger. Can we call him the Darker-than-Dark Shark now?
The Footballroos (is that what we're supposed to call them now?) for belting a metric shitload of goals past a couple of world cup winning footballing nations in the Boche and the Argies, and proving that we're good enough to play at the top level, if only we could work out a way to avoid shipping four goals a game ourselves.
The Bangladesh cricket team. Ye Gods. Old Richie Benaud should probably have left the dusty old Olivetti typewriter on the shelf when he decided to slag them off in the press and declare them a blight on international cricket. What better way to get their revenge than to make Richie's beloved home side look like a bunch of faulty dildos at a lesbian convention? Super effort that. Absolutely maaarvellous.
Oh, alright, them Saints. You have to be bloody good to beat Souths on our current form, dammit.
THESE PEOPLE SUCK
The Michelin men. Ten laps is a lot shorter than 73 laps, yet they made a left-rear F1 tyre that met exactly those specifications. Vive la merde.
The Australian First XI, collectively and individually, but in particular: Richard Poontang, for ranting and raving at everyone else re commitment and focus, and then falling over first ball (literally) to an innocuous not-really-swinging-yorker expelled limply by the White Gladstone Small. Damien Martyn, for astonishingly poor shot selection. Roy Symonds, not for being too drunk to play, but for being un-Australian to lack skills enough to get away with it. Shane Watson, for being Shane Watson, i.e. as much use as a busted arsehole. John Buchanan, for being a gormless accountant often confused with a respectable coach of cricket. In conclusion, Jesus Christ, who loses to England for God's sake. Canary yellow indeed.
The British and Irish (and going progressively more irish as the tour proceeds) Lionesses, for not only cancelling all their charitable appearances in Otago the day they arrived (the entire point of a tour is to get out of the hotel and meet people isn't it?) but for scamming a win over Otago which they didn't deserve. If that's their test side for Saturday against the ABs, they deserve to get beated like a red-headed stepchild (or a Michelin tyre engineer out the back of the F1 pits.)
Kevin Pietersen and Andrew Strauss. Haven't you Bokke bastards got a country to go home to?
THESE PEOPLE ARE TOTAL ARSECLOWNS
Ferrari, the FIA and the myopically cretinous overlords of F1 who refused to put a temporary chicane in the flat-out banked turn at Indy and thus allow the Michelin-shod teams to safely run their cars in the USGP this morning, even when they offered to start from the back of the grid, without scoring any points, just so F1 wouldn't make total arses of themselves in the biggest sports and sales market in the world. Nope. Too hard. Screw 'em. Thus ends F1's great US adventure, and deservedly so.
Manly, just because.
Sir Clive Woodward, ditto. Memo to you and the midgetory drop-goal merchant: This one's for the world cup final you obnoxious slaphead. Go you Anzacs. (Well, they would be if Steve Devine played.
No, I don't have a lot of spare time on my hands with the new job, why do you ask?
Catch you later - cheers.
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