And… we’re back.
I’M SUPER, THANKS FOR ASKING
This month saw the return of the Super 12… sorry, the Super 14… well, there’s no point counting the Saffer teams, they travel like week-old mussels, so let’s call it the Super 9… actually given the form of the Australian teams maybe that should be the Super Seven and a half... look, I’ll start again.
The Super Pick-A-Number-Between-One-And-Fourteen kicked off the international rugby calendar this month (about five minutes after it ended) with the traditional ‘local derbies’ weekend... a tradition of exactly one year in succession. Week one saw those stinkin’ fuckin’ Cantabs cheat… sorry, defeat the Highlanders up at Jaded Stadium (ah well, at least we sorted out the JAFAs the week afterwards at Casa del Pain) and across the ditch at Suncorp, Dell was homecoming queen for the Tahs (right town, anyway) vs the Reds, and was received warmly by his fellow Queenslanders; they kept signalling that in their eyes, Wendy was still number one. Noone had the heart to tell them they were using the wrong digit, bless…
Controversy marred the Tahs’ pre-season preparations when in a decision that had absolutely nothing to do with slow news weeks and fumbling grasps for publicity, they decided to wear numberless jerseys in a preseason game vs the Crusaders. To demarkate each player, initials were used, similar to the incredibly stupid nicknames the Aussies had on the 20/20 shirts at the Gabba last month. Reasons for the change varied depending on who you talked to in the NSW squad:
Coach Mackenzie: "We felt there was too much fixation, internally and externally, on the numbers the players had on their backs. The players shouldn't be inhibited by their run-on number. The Waratahs aren't about who plays 10 or who plays 13 because those positions are only temporary on the playing field."
Tuqiri: "It's a great move. The numbers aren't significant, especially with our roving game plan, so I think it's an initiative that makes sense rugby-wise too."
Sailor: "I can't count to 15."
This revolutionary new plan was vetoed by NZ, on the basis that this was obviously another dastardly Australian subterfuge along the lines of the underarm delivery and stealing Phar Lap, Richard Wilkins and Russell Crowe; and by South Africa, even though they also struggle to count to 15 as well; they generally have to drop their strides to count up to 21.
And in breaking news, Scotland beat England in the Four And A Half Nations. I don’t have anything funny to say about this because the result itself is absolute comedy gold. Hee hee.
AUSTRALIA BAH-RAINS ‘EM IN ASIAN CUP QUALIFIERS
Uh… yeah. And in other futebawl news, Chelsea’s pitch is rooted. If only poor old Roman Avenhadashityabitch had a few spare bucks to spend on some new turf, or at least a couple of bags of grass seed and Osmocote down at his local Bunnings. During the Blues’ recent loss to the Fluorescent Fuck-Off Yellows (which blind kit-designing bastard at Nike saw fit to make Barcelona’s away strip look like hi-vis jackets for night-shift road workers?), ESPN’s resident leprechaun-shagger Tommy Smyth (aka Smith-With-A-Feckin’-Y) commented “I’ve seen better ploughed fields in auld Eireland.” This claim seems dubious on the count that Smyth is about as Irish as Dicey O’Reilly, or for that matter any other pub owner in south-east Queensland.
IT’S JUST NOT CROQUET
‘Sense of humour failure’ appeared to be the prevailing theme of the cricketing summer just gone. Strayan captain Ricky Puntering took a very dim view of the comedy stylings of one Phillip Tufnell at the massive mutual circlejerk that was the Allan Border Medal. When even Phil Tufnell is slagging you off for being crap, you are in a fuckin’ poor state. Likewise, when the best your network can scrape together for entertainment purposes is a guy who couldn’t bowl or throw long before Scott Muller lacked those qualities, and whose only contribution to the comedic oeuvre was his batting technique, it’s no surprise the only show on your network which rated decently this month was your former chairman being lowered into a deep hole while being insincerely sanctified by a bunch of brown-nosing lickspittles. (Good word, that.) Pity it wasn’t the current chairman - presumably Eddie’s box will be black-and-white striped when he goes. Can we lock THAT in, please?
Also about as funny as a Packer funeral were the signs. This year the worst trend in world cricket hit Australia - the practice, pioneered in the renown comedy melting-pot of the subcontinent, of bringing blank signs and markers along to the game and coming up with unbelievably unfunny ‘live commentary’ by scribbling onto same and holding it over your head like a total choad warrior. It wasn’t even our friends from the subcontinent who were the worst offenders - some of the Sri Lankan efforts were nation's best practice (‘We know you have no balls, stop yelling it out’ being a good example). But by far the worst was Channel Nine’s seamless between-delivery cuts to ‘crowd shots’ where ‘crowd members’ hold up suspiciously professional looking signs in precisely identical typeface to Nine's remarkably unimaginative new corporate identity, advertising their turgid 2006 lineup - thus descending to a level of appallingly gratuitous cross-promotion that not even the Endlessly Self Promoting Network would be prepared to inflict on their long-suffering audience. (Tommy Smyth is punishment enough, for Christ's sake.) For years Nine’s coverage has been blighted with this kind of crap but Season '05/'06 was just an endless procession of plugs for bogus quasi-3D Ricky Ponting posters, being told that you can pay eight bucks a month to watch the same coverage which you’re currently watching for free except on a ludicrously tiny screen, and of course, plugging a shitpile of fucking horrible excuses for television. In the end, not even the commentary team could abide it; best moment of the summer, hands down, was when Nick Markolas (aka That Fuggen Pommie Bastard What Keeps Bringing Up The Ashes), inadvertently or not, plugged the AB Medal night by mentioning that it followed Desperate Slutwives. Which, of course, are on Another Station, slightly to the left along the VHF band.
RUSTY WATCH (hey wasn’t this thing 100m waterproof?)
The knives are out in the battle for control of the South Sydney District Rugby League Club between son-of-a-Mascot-muffler-shop-owner Our Russ plus offsider/moneyman Son-Of-Robert Holmes a Court, who are offering to make a large cash injection into the ailing coachwood and myrtle concern, and old mate George Piggins who seems to think the club can operate perfectly well on two bucks fifty and a couple of Cabcharge vouchers thanks very much. The battle for control of the club failed to hinder the boys in their traditional pre-season Charity Shield game against the St George-Dapto Dragons. In doing so, the Rabbitohs managed to triumph over not only the controversy of the preceding weeks, and a fired-up Big Red V outfit who'd kept them scoreless in the first half; Souths also managed to win despite turning up to play in THE worst looking rugby league jumpers EVER. Including the Super League era. Seriously. Even Pro Hart phoned up to complain.
The latest developments in the Maximus-for-Rabbitohs saga involve Rusty’s cousin, former captain of the Beige Shirts (evolutionary precursor of the Black Caps) Martin Crowe, who will be invited to sit on the board of the Bunnies in Rusty’s stead, should Son-Of Robert's three mill cheque fail to bounce. Now in charge of Sky Sports in NZ, Crowe has extensive experience in the international sports industry, as well as having played in same. However, his league credentials are largely unclear, extending solely to emulating Mark Geyer in appearing in one of those cringeworthy ‘Yeah yeah’ ads for Advanced Hair Studios. And even then, these gentlemen were Johnny-come-lately merchants, mere arrivistes, compared to the original and the greatest… come on down, Greg Matthews.
In Mo’s honour we would like to award the Greg Matthews Memorial Hairpiece for Most Outstandingly Choice Perfomance By a Sportsman/woman In a Television Advertisement, for 2005. Nominees are:
• Greg Murphy, for his woefully poncy 007 impersonation in a Holden Rodeo commercial which The Weak sincerely hopes doesn’t get run outside of NZ
• Richard Poontang playing cricket on a dry lake bed, having men in white coats sniff his hairy Tasmanian armpits, then turning into a large anthropomorphic Rexona spraycan (note to the creative types involved: you're meant to spray the client's product on yourself, not inhale it like nitrous immediately prior to 'storyboarding' sessions)
• Every Lowes commercial ever made
But the winner is… Fujitsu Airconditioners, for their continual employment of spokespeople who do not appear to need cool, clean Fujitsu comfort, on account of being made entirely of wood. if you thought Tubby Taylor was a bumbling halfwit in the Oz commercial, you should see the NZ version, ‘featuring’ Black Cap-tain Stephen Fleming in the most wooden performance in all of history. If you get the chance, watch it, if only to see a man being out-acted by his own cricket bat.
THE MAN OF THE WEAK...
...this month takes us to South Africa to meet the ‘seatholder’ of that nation’s A1GP entry (makes him sound somewhat like a toilet accessory; A1GP boss Sheikh Maktoum El-Maktoum Maktoum O’Maktoum Maktoum-Maktoum-Jones should probably think about a new title for the chairpeoples of each country’s team for next year). A former African National Congress powerbroker under Mandela, who served briefly in his government in the early ‘90s, now a business leader and captain of industry, our Man's name suggests that the Japanese interest in ‘cetacean research’ may be an elaborate cover for more nefarious and perverted goings-on: ladies and gentlemen, I give you Tokyo Sexwale.
AN EXCESS OF HORSE POWER
Anthony Gobert, former 500cc Grand Prix and world superbike rider, turned up in court in his native south-western Sydney earlier in the month for the apparent crime of trading in his bike for horse... not so much ‘a’ horse but ‘moderately large amounts of same injected intra venously having been freshly smuggled into the country up someone's clacker’. It appears Gobert has battled substance issues for many years, and has managed to piss away a potentially brilliant career as a result - being dumped from the factory Suzuki Grand Prix outfit in the late 90s, and the factory Ducati superbike team in the states earlier this decade, to name just two career opportunities for which Gobert couldn't get into gear because he couldn't get off the gear. It's a sad and salutatory sale, but The Weak is not quite sure why noone figured this out earlier - say about ten years ago when he won the world SBK round at Phillip Island on the old Kawazaki ZXR750 and proceeded to celebrate on the podium by throwing his cap and gloves to the crowd… and then his helmet… and his boots… and finally his leathers. He then proceeded to stand at... um... attention, in boxers and an idiot grin, while they played Advance Australia Fair. Things are looking up for the Go Show since his appearance before the beak, as he’s since managed to score… a ride in the world supersports for the first two rounds of the year. Come on, we wouldn’t be making poor ‘scoring’ jokes at the poor man’s expense, of course. Here at The Weak, we don’t talk smack about people.
APPARENTLY THE WINTER OLYMPICS WERE ON JUST NOW
We'll continue the substance abuse theme as we wing our way to the Torino Winter Games, where the powder has been flying, and some snow as well. Winner of the Alex Watson Memorial Espresso Machine for most obscure doping-related exclusion from an Olympic event was the slaphead Seppo skeleton slider who was turfed out that most insidious of performance enhancing drugs. EPO? Nandrolone? Rohypnol? No, folks, something much worse - Propecia. According to Roy and HG's favourite Canadian, the World Anti-Doping Agency's Dick Pound, Propecia and other hair-loss remedies are chemica non grata as far as they're concerned as they can be used as a masking agent. Like, for instance, in trying to mask the large areas of exposed scalp on the top of your scone, you bald bastard.
Testing for drugs such as Propecia seems to reflect the observation that with modern advances in sports science and nutrition, the average age of Olympians is increasing. Now for a sport like skeleton, closely akin to sliding face-first down the Coffs Harbour Aquajet strapped to an Exocet missile, this might seem counter-intuitive; then again, given the spectacularly suicidal nature of the sport itself, any skeleton competitor who lives to any sort of advanced age must be a more than competent skeletoner (as distinct from Skeletor, i.e. Jessica Rowe). WADA, faced with this changing profile of their target audience, are bringing in a raft of new tests, such as compulsory in-competition testing for beta-blockers, low-dose aspirin and arthritis cream. They considered testing for Viagra or Cialis, but Dick Pound said it would be too hard.
Meanwhile elsewhere in Northern Italy a whole bunch of other people slid along or down a bunch of things strapped to bits of fibreglass, and the Austrians won, mainly because they were on more go-fast than Gobert. The Weak would like to care, but can't. Instead, we quote from those great philosophers of our time, TISM, from their seminal 2001 work X-Treme Sports Can Kiss My Arse:
Met a snowboarder
Who wasn’t a turd?
No neither have I.
The idea’s absurd.
You get on a plank
You slide down some slush
Fall on your arse
Say ‘Man, what a rush!’
I think there's something in that for all of us.
The Doctor is OUT.
PS Vale Sludge One; peace and clarity Sludge Two.
