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.
