(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.
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