Weak XVIIIth Commie Games Edition™:The Empire Games Strike Back

Because somebody has to give a shit, and it might as well be us: we hereby present all the news that's printed to fit direct from the start of the XVIIIth Commie Games in Melbourne, easily the finest city to put its candidature forward to host these magnificent Games on this particular occasion. (Also, coincidentally, the ONLY city to put its candidature forward to host these magnificent Games on this particular occasion.)

MONK REPLACES THORPEDO (AND YOU THOUGHT HE WAS SEXUALLY AMBIGUOUS ENOUGH AS IT WAS)
Sydney teenager Kenrick Monk will swim the 100m and 200m Freestyle events, replacing Ian Thorpe after his decision to pull out of the Games due to a mystery illness. Monk had originally been selected on the Australian team in the 4 x 200m Relay. “I'm not going to try and go out and be Ian Thorpe. I'm going to be Kenrick Monk," he said. Which is good as he’s probably the most qualified and only candidate. His brother Bulletproof was not available for comment.
Michael Klim, Olympian and former world record holder, has declined the offer to compete in the 100m Freestyle at the Games. Klim briefly considered taking up backstroke but realised that his career had been going backwards for years anyway. A futher complication was that his name backwards would be Milk.
Thorpie’s mystery illness has been attributed a variety of ailments including bronchitis, pneumonia, emphysema, salmonella, thrush, Dengue fever, bird flu, SARS, calicivirus, the clap and athlete’s head. Our tip: footrot. Think about it. You heard it here first.

XVIIITH COMMIE GAMES EDITION™ IMAGE OF THE WEAK














Yes. Quite.


ROGGE SKIPS GAMES IN FAVOUR OF GOING TO COLES'
Senior figures in the Commie Games movement are disappointed that the head of the Olympic movement has cancelled plans to attend the Commie Games in Melbourne.
The cancellation by International Olympic Committee president and haughty Belgian dentist Jacques Rogge has officially been blamed on a busy schedule, but Olympic sources said it was a snub to Melbourne 2006 chairman Ron Walker, over his denying Games accreditation to Australian IOC official Phil Coles. There has been animosity between both men since 1990, with Mr Coles accused of not voting for Melbourne in its bid to host the 1996 Olympic Games. Late on Thursday Mr Walker criticised Dr Rogge for cancelling his trip.
"I respect Dr Rogge but for him to boycott the opening ceremony of the Commonwealth Games in support of Mr Coles is inexcusable," he said.
The background to this (hey, I've actually done my research for once... OK, so I ripped it out of the SMH) is that Melbourne finished fourth (i.e. fuckin' nowhere) in the race to host the 1996 Olympics (won by the Coca-Cola Bottling Co. of Atlanta, Georgia) and Mr Walker blames Mr Coles for sabotaging the bid he and others worked on. Mr Coles has denied the accusation, citing the fact that the bid was sabotaged from the outset by being from Melbourne. Australian Commonwealth Games official Sam Coffa, who sits with Mr Walker on the M2006 board, also expressed disappointment. "Of course I'm disappointed; Mr Rogge is the world's top sporting personality," he said. Which is clearly rubbish. Everyone knows it’s Dick Pound.

STOP BATON OFF
In the week prior to the recent World Superbike round, world champion Troy Corser took the Queen’s Marital Aid on a lap of Phillip Island on his GSX-R1000 (or more accurately someone else’s GSX-R1000, to wit the same joker who was paying for the tyres). They even did him up a natty little commemorative set of Marital Aid Relay leathers so he looked like a complete twat.


















Corser: Shit, this fuckin’ torch has gone out. Fuckin’ childproof lock… Hang on a sec, I’ll relight it…

Troy Corser is from Wollongong.

INCISIVE AND INTELLECTUAL COMMENTARY RELATING TO THE ARTISTIC AND CULTURAL MANTLEPIECE (SORRY, MASTERPIECE) THAT WAS THE XVIIITH COMMIE GAMES™ OPENING CEREMONY
What the fuck was up with the fish?

Yeah, I know there was supposed to be one 'aquatic lifeform' for each member of the commonwealth, and that the fish in question was meant to represent the qualities of each nation, but seriously... what the fuck was up with the fish?

I no pay ten dollar for fish.

PLEASE GIVE GENEROUSLY
Long-time associate of The Weak, AJ Hooligan (the most shit-hot sports photojournalist ever to crawl out of the Mororo badlands) is currently in Melbourne for the Commie games (or the "fuckoffeveryoneelse we'rebetterthanyouatsportexceptwhentherussiansandtheyanksjoinin" Games as he prefers to call them). He reports that the city’s infrastructure isn’t coping as well as one would hope. Heading along the freeway across town towards Telstra Dome for the Sevens he came to a dead halt in traffic and thought to himself, "Bloody Melbourne. This traffic seems worse than last time I was here. Nothing's even moving."
AJ noticed a police officer walking back and forth between the lines of cars, so he rolled down the window on his rented Falcodore and asked, "Constable, what's the holdup?"
In a marked diversion from standard operating procedures for the Victorian fuzzy muff, Constable Care declined to shoot him about the head. He instead replied, "It's Eddie McGuire. He's just so depressed about his personal life - the thought of moving with the wife and kids to Sydney, the state of disruption amongst his beloved Magpies, Channel 9 losing the football coverage, having to give up the AFL Footy Show, Who Wants To Be A Millionaire and his Triple M Melbourne radio show, that he's stopped his motorcade in the middle of the freeway and he's threatening to douse himself in petrol and set himself on fire. He says his family hates him and he doesn't have the money to pay for the new house renovations at Point Piper and to bring his current house in Toorak up to scratch to put it on the market. We're taking up a collection for him."
"Oh really?” mused our correspondent. “How much have you got so far?"
"About three hundred litres,” replied the copper, “but a lot of people are still siphoning."

XVIIITH COMMIE GAMES EDITION™ MAN OF THE WEAK
Our Commie Games Edition Man of the Weak is new Storm halfback Cooper Kronk. He’s not turning out in the green and gold, but he’s in Melbourne and has a stupid-arsed name, and that’s tenuous enough a link for us. Go the Kronk.

GIRT BY SEA, MY ARSE
Medal tally from day one in the pool:
Scotland 2 golds
Sarth Efricor 1 gold
New Zillund 1 gold
Straya 1 gold

That's right kids. Our land which is dirt by sea (as most land is), our proud nation of swimming champions throughout the years, are being trounced by a bunch of hairy haggis merchants from a land girt by a frigid, polluted sea populated only by oil rigs and oil-soaked seals and cold enough to freeze ye bollockies off Jimmeh. But far, far worse than that... you know where this is going, don't you... yes. At the present moment, as Muddly Talker would have shouted, Australia has precisely the same number of swimming gold medals as Aotearoa. What's the big deal, you may ask? It's fucking New Zealand, that's the big deal. Let's remember exactly who these people are. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the words of the great Andrew Denton (back before he turned into Parkinson Lite):

A nation consisting of ten breeds of sheep -
Some of whom got the vote
Whose national flower is the ugg boot
And whose national noise is the gloat.

Fuckers'll probably win the Sevens too, now that we've lost to the Poms. So much for our killer Super Dooper 14 band of ringins - Latham, Too Queer Eye, Scott Out-Of-Fava and the Git, aka Capt'n Interpretive Hair. Thanks for coming, lads. Don't let the door hit your arse on the way out. Then again, it might be the Commie Games but there's no need to worry about Reds under the bed - none of them got picked in the Sevens side.
Apart from Chris Latham, the Queenslanders cry! But then again, as Queensland rugger buggers should be reminded as much as possible, our Chris was born and bred in central-western NSW. Which is the reason why (a) he's comfortably the best player on the Reds team and (b) he's quite useless when it comes to the after-match singalong around the banjo.

And if we're reduced to Queenslanders-playing-the-banjo-with-their-toes jokes then it's safe to say we're run out of material for another Weak...

Catch you later - the Doctor is OUT.

And now a word from our sponsor...

(For anyone who's ever been sworn at by a bogan chick in a bikini)

We’ve got the shrimps on the barbie
We’ve put the beers in the fridge
Lleyton’s here to welcome you, you pack of spastics
And Dell’s acid-tested the footpath.

We’ve shampooed the camels… gets pretty lonely out here, boy
We’ve got a few roos loose in the top paddock… probably explains why John Howard’s still in power
We’ve got the sharks out of the water… well most of them anyway
That’s the last time we use Packer as burley.

We’ve cleared the Lebs off the beach
We shot all the Abos when we got here
We’ve put the refugees behind razor wire
We’ve figured out how to play the banjo with our toes…

So where the bloody hell are ya, ya fucken foreign poofs?

Austraya.
It’s un-Australian to be from anywhere else.

We're red, because we're red, because we're red, because we're red. Existential crisis, anyone?

We're now four weeks into the Rebel Sport/Tooheys New/Vodacom/AWB Wheat Subsidies Rugby Super 14, and that can only mean one thing... the league must be starting soon. Thank Christ. There's only so much you can watch of three men trying to shove two men up three other men's arses. Unless you're a long-time subscriber to Rotten.com. In related news, Tub Girl has signed for the Queensland Reds; evidently their season couldn't become any more of a shitstorm than it already has.

(Don't worry. There's no way I'm going to put a link to that... And if you don't get it, trust me, cling to your ignorance for dear life, for it shall be your salvation, brethren! Hallelujah! Can I get a witness! Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition, etc.)

Actually The Weak is just pissed off because every time I 'tactically' tip against the Highlanders (trying to sneak an advantage in our local tipping comp against staunch Dunedinites who would rather sleep with a stinking Cantab than pick against their boys)... the tenacious blue and gold (and bits of maroon - token g'day to Southland) bastards get up, and I lose the bloody round.

Losing is something the Reds and the Western Hollow Farce have grown accustomed to... but at least one of them is pretty much guaranteed a win next week - they're playing each other. The way both are travelling, think I'll tip the nil-all draw.


ONE DAY YOU'RE GONNA GET CAUGHT WITH YOUR PANTS DOWN...

Could be worse. Could be Lou Vincent.

Vincent, encumbent NZ test opener and big-chinned Adelaide escapee, scored a quickfire century for the Black Caps in the recent fourth one-day international against the Windies. NZ duly won game four, as they had games one through three. Then, in game five, things didn't go quite to plan. For the Black Caps, who lost - the first time the Windies had won on Kiwi soil in 11 years. And for Lou Vincent, who had THIS happen to him.



Yes, our Louie went for a wee slide in the outfield trying to stop a boundary late in the game, came up with the ball and barrelled in a throw back into keeper McCullum's gloves... only to discover, as the crowd had moments before, that he'd just reenacted Malcolm Fraser's finest hour. The wardrobe malfunction was effectively blamed on a mission-critical drawstring failure. Not even Janet tried THAT excuse.

It got worse for Vincent the next day. Vincent was dropped from the test squad to face the Windies in the first test. Yes, after all that public humiliation, he'd been pantsed by the selectors as well. NZ Cricket announced they wanted to replace Vincent, who had stated a preference for the middle order, with a dedicated opener. And in his place picked rabid Northern Districts hair farmer Hamish Marshall, whose total matches opening the innings at international level amount to... um... that would be three fifths of fuck all, for those playing at home.

You know, some moments are so embarrassing they're never lived down, and noone would have blamed Vincent had he just wanted a crack to open up beneath him to disappear into. Someone should let him know you're not really meant to provide your own, however.

And, um, on that topic...


THIS'LL GET COMPLAINTS

Mardi Gras weekend in Sin City, that one night in the East when anything goes, if it hasn't gone already. Shiny, body-hugging shirts, glistening with sweat. Vibrant, proud colours - bold blues, iridescent yellows, shimmering in the evening heat. Men in pirate costumes, looking like Marco Pantani halfway up the Col de Turini; boys in bikinis, bodypaint, banners and bunting, bodies bouncing and writhing in a rhythmic display of pride and solidarity, of man's adoration of man - as compelling as it was astonishing.

And that was just the Marinators - Sydney FC's fans over in the Cove, Bay 23, were going off as well...

Sunday's A-League final brought the new league's biggest and smallest clubs together for a celebration of football's biggest year in decades. No matter than the match itself was largely crap. No matter that talismanic Trinidadian Dwight Yorke was fresh (i.e. very, very stale) off a plane from London and played like he was on horse tranquilizers. No matter that there were just as many goals as the Australia vs UR Gay world cup qualifier, i.e. one (by the sky-blue team instead of the yellow one this time). It was a massive Event, to rival anything since that November night at the Grand Old Girl, Stadium Austelstra. Just like that night, during the anthem, the crowd drowned out Little Miss Muffet to the point where she lost her place again and buggered it up, and noone cared. Instead of old mate Mark "What's Serbo-Croat for 'passenger'?" Viduka to wobble about to no effect whatsoever, Sasho Petrovski kindly filled in - if anyone's wondering whose shirt Alex Brosque will nick off with when he moves down from Brisbane, I'd say it'd be his.

Speaking of our old mates in sky blue from over the way, England played Uruguay mid-week in a friendly and struggled mightily to knock them over 2-1, fluking a last-minute winner which most definitely owed more to arse than class. Then again, given the flogging they were dealt last time they played us, it's not entirely unexpected...

Coming soon (i.e. whenever I can be arsed): The Weak In Sport's Largely Insulting And Not-Very-Accurate Guide to World Cup 2006. Don't watch a game without it. Don't watch a game with it. Don't do anything, really, in case the rash gets worse. Trust me, I AM a doctor, you know.

Token Audience Participation Segment

The Weak In Sport with Some Drunken Fuck would like to announce a couple of All New Intermittently Regular Features, which YOU, the humble reader, are invited to participate in. You see, here at The Weak, we're all about YOU. And if you believe that you'll believe anything.

Our first new segment is:

MAN OF THE WEAK
Nominees are called for the position of Man of the Weak. Nominees need not be either men or weak, involved in sport, alive, or even remotely interesting. Inaugural winner Tokyo Sexwale did nothing to win other than have a remarkably stupid name; that in itself is worth celebrating. After all, we're not about rewarding achievement here at The Weak In Sport. We're about slagging vaguely famous bastards off for no apparent reason. Any similarity to the Friday Fuckwit pedalled by the scabies-infested half of Frenzal Rhomb on Triple Jay is unintended, but inevitable.

Our second, not entirely unrelated, new segment is:

MAN-LOVE MOMENT OF THE WEAK
(aka the Symonds-Clarke Perpetual Trophy)
Yeah nah yeah mate ay. Australian cricket's most affectionate pair (that image of Symo vigourously spanking Pup in super-sloooow-motion from earlier in the summer still defies attempts to bleach it from the brain - might be because I'm using Speights as a disinfectant) have inspired our second new segment. I would figure this is largely self-explanatory. We will seek to find images of allegedly heterosexual sportsblokes in suitably humiliating positions of 'engagement' and put them in the interweb for the sake of a truly juvenile snigger at their expense. Of course, should we find images of allegedly heterosexual sportschickies in similar orientations, then that will go in an entirely different, yet-to-be-commissioned section of the site which will require users to have both a subscription and the ability to type one-handed. Of course, submissions (descriptive or imageric) for either category are welcome - just keep it vaguely clean, kids, this is a family site. I'm not entirely sure where this is going to go - probably downhill faster than a skeletoner on Propecia - but it seemed like a good idea two Speights ago. Given that proceedings will inevitably reach Smut Factor Nine regardless of my noble intent, I choose to blame Appleby in advance.


Oh yeah, and since your neo-Luddite correspondent has finally figured out that he doesn't need to wait to the end of the month to cram all his least worst ideas into one communique, this debacle may even get updated more than twelve times a year...