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.
