Chuck us a beer, Murali

Welcome to 2006. For the benefit of All Blacks™ deputy coach Wayne Smith, various Seppo ESPN presenters and a bunch of other retards out there, that’s pronounced twenty-oh-six, not two-oh-six. Learn to count, idiots. The only Roman Empire still kicking around these days is Roman Abramovich’s Chelsea. (And at a stretch, Roman Tucker’s Rocket Science, though they weren’t heard from in the Hottest 100).

Pedantry aside we shall get stuck into it:

HOW IS HE?
An engaging summer of cricket, marked by Skwarne setting the Nokia down just long enough to claim the single-year record for wickets taken (then again if it wasn’t for the texting his fingers wouldn’t have been dextrous enough to start landing the flipper properly again for the first time since Tubby was captain) and also by the rise of Twenty20 cricket. Rather than being an approaching apocalypse set to lay waste to all other forms of the game, as predicted by various Hanrahan types (most famous quote: 'We’ll all be rooned' repeated ad nauseum) in and around the game, Twenty20 proved to be no more or less revolutionary or fulfilling than a Maccas cheeseburger: silly, fun, instantly forgettable, and not in any way to be used as a source of long-term nutrition. Cricket authorities in Australasia are using this form of the game in exactly the most appropriate way: as a means of getting someone, ANYONE, to come along to domestic cricket, other than the players’ families and a few bored mates and hangers-on under sufferance. (Of course, The Weak's cynicism ref. Twenty20 has absolutely nothing to do with Otago getting beaten by Central Districts on Friday night. Fuck off back to Napier you bastards.)

SWEDISH MESSAGE: ENGLISH PRESS ARE WANKERS
England manager (at press time) Sven-Goran Eriksson has been ensnared in a tabloid sting where following a series of unfortunate events which bore no fault of his own, Sven was compelled to slag off a bunch of footballers/managers/random people to a News Of The World ‘journalist’ with a tea towel on his head, and will officially vacate the position straight after the World Cup in Chermany – as he was probably going to do anyway, unless the FA could have convinced him to stay. The delightful philanthropists of Fleet Street have flogged themselves silly over Sven in the past weeks, decrying him for having dared to follow up a job offer, the bait for the tabloid sting, notwithstanding his likely unemployment post-July; for having had affairs with several women while in the job, including his secretary Faria Alam and TV personality Ulrika Jonsson, notwithstanding his bachelor status; and for, well, basically being a stinking foreigner. There’s plenty of highly-credentialled Englishmen who could do the job better, they howl. Like who, for Christ’s sake? Terry Venables? Graham Taylor? Kevin Keegan? Glenn Hoddle? Chris Waddle? Bobby Robson? Brian Robson? Robson Green? Or the current press favourites, Bolton manager Big Sam Allardyce and new Man Citeh boss Stuart 'Psycho' Pearce, who both seem vaguely (and rightly) embarrassed about all the attention?

The sad fact is that under Sven, England have consistently performed better than at any time since their World Cup win in 1966 – they’ve been quarter-finalists at the last two World Cups (in the most recent case, beaten only by the eventual winners, courtesy an arsey free kick by that horse-faced gimp from Barca) and topped their group in qualifying for Germany 2006 – and only a couple of rare, unfortunate losses to the likes of Northern Ireland have blotted his escutcheon. (Oh, yeah, and that sunny morning in February 2003 at West Ham's Upton Park – England 1, Australia 3. Try and claim that wasn’t a sporting highlight for the ages.) The sad fact, to underline this, is that Sven has been England’s best manager in decades – and solely because he’s not English, he’s been kicked out of the job. One might ask why a major English tabloid, purportedly with the interests of their readers at heart, would wish to disrupt and/or derail the nation’s World Cup preparations less than six months from kickoff in Germany, given that this is probably England’s best opportunity to win the thing in forty years. The answer, of course, is that the tabloids, being parasitic c—tmerchants of outrage and misery, stand to gain much more circulation from an ignonimous first-round exit than a heroic victory.

Never mind, Sven. There’s always a job for you down here - Sydney FC will probably be looking for someone to go out clubbing with Dwight Yorke and make sure he doesn’t get himself into too much trouble. After all, Australia’s very welcoming to migrant peoples, you know. (That Faria Alam woman’s not a Leb though, is she?)

HEALTHY, WEALTHY AND WIRED
According to a news item blatantly ripped off from AAP, drinking two cups of caffeinated coffee decreases blood flow to the heart during exercise, and the reduction may be most pronounced at high altitudes. Research at the University Hospital Zurich (two doors down from the Ponds Institute) found that during exercise, caffeine led to a 22 percent drop off in myocardial flow reserve (a measure of blood flow to the heart) at normal oxygen levels and a 39 percent decrease at low-oxygen levels (as at high altitude, like most Saffer rugby grounds). Now your correspondent ain’t no medical expert - I’m not that kind of doctor - but these results would seem to contradict those of noted sports physiologist and Wallabies captain (at press time) George Gregan, who estimated that ingesting vast quantities of weapons-grade caffeine immediately prior to a match improved his performance levels by as much as 7%. We at The Weak are not quite sure how his numbers correlate with those of the Zurich study, but to our mind, the logical, scientific response to Gregan’s claim remains the same in the light of this data as it was beforehand: seven percent of nothing is still nothing, George.

IN MOST TEAMS, THE COACH CARRIES THE PLAYERS, EXCEPT FOR THE WALLABIES, WHERE THE PLAYERS CARRY THE COACH
Which brings us to the World in Union. Following a year in which the All Blacks™ won everything and the hapless Wallabies won bugger-all, the blood-letting has begun on the left-hand-side of the ditch. Eddie’s already goooorrrne, and George is likely to follow. The intrinsic appeal to coaches of taking the helm of the Good Ship Wallaby has been clearly illustrated by the willingness of candidates to run like buggery in the opposite direction when the prospect of becoming Wallabies coach is mentioned.
Rod Macqueen: ‘Uh, no thanks, but I’ll help pick someone if you like...’
Ewen Mackenzie: ‘Um, cheers, but I’d rather spend my time with the ‘Tahs. I’m all for hopeless causes – we’ve hired ‘Dell after all – but let’s not get carried away.’
Alan Jones: ‘Oh please pick me, I’d be ever so good. After all, I single-handedly won the Grand Slam in 1984. If it wasn’t for me, Campo would still be selling himself on street corners. I’m the only man for the job… Just out of interest, there’s no Lebs in the team is there?’
David Nucifora: ‘You didn’t want me fifteen minutes ago and now I’m a candidate? Fuck off. Anyway, I’m a Kiwi now. Chur bro, guv us a L&P out of the chully bun, thet’s choice eh.’

So despite the NZ press vigorously pressing the claims of Crusaders coach Robbie Deans (given that he was lieutenant in the reviled John Mitchell regime for the AB's failed RWC campaign of 2003, our Kiwi brethren may not be trying to be overly helpful here), it seems the job will go to Queensland’s John Connelly. That’s right, Australian rugby is at such a low ebb that even former Reds coaches are starting to look appealing. Connolly drove the QRU bus back in the mid ‘90s when they actually used to win stuff (having the likes of Horan, Little, Eales and Lynagh at his disposal probably didn’t hurt). In the dying years of sham-ateur rugby, Connolly’s Reds were nigh-unstoppable, winning the old Super 10 twice – as has been previously observed in this forum, Queenslanders seem only able to win sporting tournaments in which they can count the participants on the fingers of both hands, i.e. eleven and a half or less.

Based on this model, all we need to guarantee success is to either
(a) wind back the clock to 1995 and persuade Horan and Eales to tug on a gold and green jersey again (for God’s sake it’d be more compelling than letting Timmy call the games with Gordon "He's in for the try! The young centre! He's doing a PhD at Massey University on the reproductive cycle of the ewe!" Bray on Seven), or
(b) lobby the IRB to reduce the number of major international teams by ten-fourteenths so we can adopt our Super 10 plan of attack for international success. Under this proposal two in the top seven teams in the world would be politely invited to bugger off and join the queue at C—terlink. Under this plan, theoretically at least, we may have a decent chance of winning the Tri-Nations should the IRB choose to dispense with flotsam such as the Boks and the Blacks (sorry, the All Blacks™).

Of course, this would never happen the way I’ve outlined here, for one obvious reason: it would require the Wallabies to be ranked in the top seven teams in the world.

TONIGHT’S WINNING NUMBERS: 6, 9, 16, 37, 39 & 84
As Regurgitator observed, music is sport. So with this by way of a paper-thin segue, the Triple J Hottest 100 was run and won again on Straya Day, transfixing an entire nation (with the possible exception of those punters who were getting their crotches sniffed by drug dogs at the Sydney Big Day Out). In fact, even Australia’s best-loved Punter skived off work on Jan 26 with the apparent intent of bending an ear to the Hundred – proving once again that our captain is the Aussiest Aussie in all of Aussie, even if he is from Tasphobia. Mind you they don’t get double time and a half for working on public holidays, or penalty rates if the day-nighters run overtime. Another example of Johnny Howard’s militant industrial relations legislation hitting little Aussie battlers where it hurts…

Winner of the world’s largest music request show was veteran balladeer and professionally shabby Oz-rock frontman Bernt Fanny, with his song ‘That one what sounds like them other ones what he done with Power Rangers’, edging out that ‘precocious little c—t’ who used to bang Claire Danes (why, Lord, WHY?) and a band of cartoon characters with a fake drummer (no, not the White Stripes). Moral victors by sheer weight of numbers/volume of hair were Seventies throwbacks Yo’mother (who’s on the top of Butterfingers’ ‘Things To Do’ List, allegedly). In a triumph of glorious rock over fetid mud (c.f. the Bloc Party), the ‘Mother had all six numbers on their ticket come up in this year’s J-Lotto draw, thumbing the nose (or just flipping the bird) at whinging critics who say they’re just ripping off Sabbath, Zeppelin and Purple. Their success in Triple J’s annual ‘new music’ poll was in hndsight no surprise, given that most J listeners were born long after Sabbath, Zeppelin and Purple went arse-up. For his part, ‘Mother lungsman and Axe-minister That Dude With The Massive Af' went out of his way to thank all of their long-term supporters and fans, with special thanks going to the joker and the thief in the nayyyght.

So ended the Hunnert for another year - not so much a race that stops a nation like the Melbourne Cup, but like the Bathurst 1000, a nation’s excuse to crank up the BBQ, cauterise a few snags and get on the piss all day to the extent that no bastard can actually remember what happened over the final thirty songs/laps, let alone who actually won the fucking thing. (I think it was Skaifey but it could have been Murph. Or Franz Ferdipants. Or was that last year?)

Which brings us to Damir Dokic.

HOLY SHIT, ONE OF THESE TENUOUS BLOODY SEGUES ACTUALLY CAME OFF
World tennis’ maddest of all mad dads (and it’s a field packed with quality) hit the headlines recently with his comments, mildly paraphrased, that he intended to contract a former Serbian general, currently before the beak at the Hague for war atrocities, to assist him in (a) kidnapping his daughter Jelena a.k.a. ‘The Dot’ (cheers for reminding me, Mel) and/or (b) nuking the fine city of Sydney, as revenge for the blatant conspiracy between Australia, Croatia and the Vatican to force him to eat barbequed sausages on hot days. “They are the crazy ones, not me,” declared Damir, possibly a little under the weather. “They give you the hot sausages when it is 40 degrees outside.” One could say the idea of Damir being given the hot sausage on a 40 degree day may sound a little like a plot excerpt from the sequel to Brokeback Mountain, but that would be crass. And as both our readers will attest, we don’t do crass here at The Weak In Sport.

STONE THE FLAMIN’ CROWES: RUSTY’S AN AUSTRAYAN
In Zid-born actor and mobile communications expert (in that he is expert in making communications equipment become mobile) ‘Crazy Russ’ Crowe, cousin of former Kiwi ‘cruckuters’ Martin and Jeff, will shortly become an Australian citizen in a move expected to officially lower the average IQ of both nations. It’s a busy time for Our/Your/Their/Someone Or Other’s Russ at present, with his bid to purchase the South Sydney rugby league club gathering momentum, the prospect of fatherhood, and a new band assembled to follow him around on his next ‘solo’ tour. Granted, they’re a fucking pile of shit just like his last band the Thirty Odd Foot Of C—ts, but as observed above, we don’t do crass here. We certainly don't overuse the word c—t for misguided comic effect. That would be a c—t of a thing to do.

MURALI: CAN’T BOWL, CAN (AND DOES) THROW
(And whatever happened to Scott Muller anyway?)
In a cynical move intended to boost crowds during this summer’s one-day Vile Bilge Series, Yaapie spinner Pik Botha has been reported for bending it like Beckham (‘it’ being his elbow) and as a result appears to chuck the six-stitcher more blatantly than even Our Russ with a hotel handset. This has succeeded in drawing pissed bogans, like demented moths to a flame, to ‘neutral’ matchups between guest teams Sri Lanka and Sarth Efricor, revelling in now having twice the opportunity to scream the following at foreigners (and definitely not at Brett Lee): “Chuck… chuck… chuck… chuck… chuck chuck chuck chuck-chuck-chuck
chuck-chuck-chuckchuckchuckCHUCKCHUCKCHUCKCHUCK… NOOOOOOO BALLLLLLLL!!!!”

Under the Southern Cross I stand, a sprig of wattle in my hand, a native of my native land - Australia, you fuckin’ beauty.

THE LEAGUE OF GENTLEMEN* (EXTRAORDINARY OR OTHERWISE)
*Presuming ‘gentlemen’ are obliged to get woefully off-chops and grab the arses of ex-players’ teenage daughters at charity golf tournaments
To the NRL news desk… as you’d expect, there’s bugger-all news. Bennett got the arse as Kangaroos coach, Rusty’s still trying to buy Souths, and Joey’s crocked. Pretty much as per program, then.

ONYA BIKE
Testing for the new MotoGP season has begun in earnest on hereto-deserted racetracks across the globe, and already the pre-season chat is all about one thing: the desperation of former champions Honda to reclaim their crown, having in recent years lost Valentino Rossi, and then the next two world titles to the boys from the piano factory, Yamaha. Honda’s response for 2006 has been to hand out works-supported RC211Vs to anyone under twenty-five who has passed their L’s and can sign their name in duplicate on a legally binding contract without needing to use a crayon. Having pensioned-off aging B-graders Biaggi, Barros and Bayliss (sorry Troy - Taree still loves you buddy) to world superbike, Honda have signed in their place a cadre of well-credentialled youngsters from the 250cc class, such as Dani ‘The Ped’ Pedrosa, Toni Eliarse and Our Casey Stoner to join established Honda young guns Marco Melandri and Nicky ‘Ah plays th’ banjo’ Hayden. On Yamaha’s side, all they have to fight back with is aging not-quite artists like the Texas Tornado (no relation to the New Orleans Hurricane) Colin Edwards. Oh yeah, and some guy who goes by the handle of The Doctor… and not that weedy guy from Triple J. Maybe this will be the first year this millennium that five time champion Rossi actually fails to win the world title. (And maybe John Howard isn’t a poisonous midget who hates poor people and darkies.)

No, Rossi will win, despite Honda ordering a round of junior burgers to compete with the Big Mac. King of the kids will most likely be Casey Stoner, who’s got a fantastic future ahead of him – it’s not often you can say that about a 21-year old stoner from Kurri – and Bayliss will proceed to destroy the field in world superbike back aboard the big red Duke, which he recently described as 'just like his favourite armchair' - explains why noone ever sits in Troy's chair in the family living room at Casa del Bayliss. Probably something to do with it not being overly comfortable having one's tender love spuds crammed against the pointy end of a teardrop-shaped fuel tank for two 45 minute races on a Sunday afternoon. Works for him though, apparently - he's got three young kids, so the boys must still be functional...

However, getting back to Honda, one gets the feeling that their chances of beating Yamaha this year in MotoGP would have been much greater had they simply taken the money they'd budgeted for running five factory bikes, and instead sent this in a brown paper bag to Jean Todt at Ferrari with a covering note politely asking whether Dr Rossi might be seriously considered for a F1 drive in the very near future. Like before the first MotoGP of the season.

HINDSIGHT IS PERFECT: COR, GET A LOAD OF THE PERFECT HIND ON THAT ONE
As we look forward to 2006, we must also look backward to 2005, as well as to the left and right, otherwise we’ll get cleaned up crossing the road. We hereby present the 2005 Dr Yobbo Sporting Achievement Awards, better known as the Dodgy Awards.

Team of 2005: take your pick from any of the following (in no particular order) - the Footballroos, the West Balmain Tigers, the South Melbourne Swans, the All Blacks™, or Chelski Football Club. Then again, who cares who you pick. I pick Souths, form team of the last eight weeks of the NRL, with a Highly Commended to Otago’s gallant NPC team who stuffed the Cantabs (twice) en route to a gallant final loss to the JAFAs. If you don’t like it, fuck off and write your own sports column.

Highlight of 2005: Australia qualifying for Deutschland, Deutschland Uber Alles. We’ll probably end up losing like dogs to the Cros, the Japs and/or the Brazilians (how many is a Brazilian again, Dubya?) and Hooose Hiddink will bugger off to coach Engerland, so it seems likely that night at Telstra will be remembered as the high point of the whole endeavour. Unless some Frankenstein-style experiments succeed in reanimating Mark Viduka before June.
Highly commended: Fred Alonso and Renno winning the world F1 championship. A highlight for three reasons: (1) Fred appears to have a personality and gives interesting interviews, in contrast to his major opposition at Ferrari and McLaren (not withstanding one J.P. Montoya, The Weak's favourite Colombian since Carlos 'The Paddle Pop Lion' Valderrama); (2) it proved team boss and crocodile-skin-handbag lookalike Flavio Briatore was actually doing something on his weekends other than banging supermodels like Heidi Klum and Naomi Campbell (again: why Lord, WHY?); and (3), that big-chinned arseclown Schumi was left for dust.

Lowlight of 2005: guess. This country does not negotiate with terrorists; nor do we lose to Englishmen. Particularly at sports which require sunlight to play.
Lowly commended: those who we lost along the way. Andy Caldecott and Richard Burns, both recently gone, spring to mind, though there were others. Vale, gentlemen.

Aussie Joe Bugner Memorial comeback award: Richard T. Poontang of Mowbray, Loncesston, for hitting fourteen centuries in two tests and ending the year the top-rated batsman in the world, mere months after bending over and taking it from Skunkboy and Fuckoff in the Ashes.
Highly commended: Eddie Jones, for getting another coaching job after being fired from the Wallabies. Any job at all is an achievement. Even if it is the Reds.

Self-perpetuating stereotype award – Tasmania’s favourite son/brother/cousin/all of the above Marcus Ambrose leaving V8 supercars to go off and race NASCAR trucks in the States. Yee-haw Cletus, get me the shotgurn.

Prettyboy of the year: Sebastian Loeb, undisputed rally champion of the world, former male gymnast and freelance Tom Brady impersonator (you know, that multiple Superbowl-winning quarterback for the New England Patriots, who looks like that French rally driver guy.) Seb won ten out of the sixteen events on the WRC trail this year, and is likely to grind the field into paste again this year, even without factory support from Citroen this season. Seb only has one problem: he sounds worryingly like Serge the fashionista-terrorist seal cub from the Mr Hell show.
Highly commended: former Cleo Manwhore of the Year, Craig ‘Not the face!’ Wing, despite the fact he hasn’t played on the wing since his days at Souths Juniors.
Not highly commended at all: Haitch Kewwwell and his poncy bloody pigtails. His form for Liverpuddle might have improved but his coiffure is still, um, interpretive at best. Note to Harry: stop going to the same beautician as your soapie-starlet missus.

And the Dodgy Awards Man of the Year goes to: former F1 and Indycar legend Alex Zanardi, who won a race for BMW in the 2-litre World Touring Car Championship late in the year. Big deal, you say? Zanardi should probably be dead, having lost both his legs and seventy percent of his claret in a massive Indycar crash a few years back. Hence, big deal. Alex Zanardi, The Weak In Sport stands and salutes you. (Well, perhaps standing isn’t entirely appropriate, but we salute you anyway.)
Highly commended: Talking Boony.

Take care out there. The Doctor is OUT.

Generic introductory statement: 2006 Welcomes You

Bloggers, eh. What a bunch of self-immersed, egotistical, whiny, desperate, look-at-me, try-hard sad cases. "Oh, listen to me, I have opinions, I'm worthwhile... the tedious minutiae of my meaningless existence is of such obvious interest to the citizens of the world that I must broadcast it across the world wide web..." Pleading for the attention, credibility or respect they clearly didn't get as children, as their parents ignored them, their peers reviled them, and their latent ADD went unmedicated. Blogs give these pathetic, rightfully marginalised cretins a voice for the mawkish, irrelevant, cringingly ill-conceived sentiments that fester in the back of their tiny minds like virulent salmonella on three-day-old KFC remnants.

Welcome to The Weak In Sport with Dr Yobbo. I am he, and evidently, I am a blogger. They weren't in the habit of prescribing Ritalin in the mid-Eighties, apparently. For the vomitiferous abortion of bad taste you see before you, you can either blame that, or various drunken mates of your correspondent who demanded this shit be worldwide. (Careful what you wish, Mofo...)

This shit began as an intermittent, half-arsed sports-related diatribe dispatched about the place via email, and has grown and developed to become what you see today: an intermittent, half-arsed sports-related diatribe on a free blog site. 2005's missives are archived at right, retaining all the freshness and flavour that topical humour always does when reviewed months or years later. 2006 brings a new format, new challenges, but more than likely, most of the same jokes. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do making paper stunt-planes out of the cease-and-desist letters from Russell Crowe's lawyers.

Therefore, for 2006, peace and goodwill to all mankind, and up the fuckin' Rabbitohs.

The Doctor is OUT.