Steve Irwin lived how he died. Like a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry (actually no I'm not) but if you've got two young kiddies at home, stop fucking about with deadly-ass shit that will fuck you up. Up to and including the likes of stingrays, crocodiles, sharks, lions, tigers, baboons with Kalasnikov rifles, and even motherfuckin' snakes (whether on a motherfuckin' plane or otherwise). Irwin was the fourth-highest paid Australian entertainer worldwide (emphasis on 'was'). Now he's dead and his crappily named kiddies have no dad. They have plenty of money, sure, but they have no dad. Good swap, you safari suit wearing arseclown. And don't give me that bollocks about it being a 'freak accident'. You put yourself in those positions, you get fucked up. The only thing 'freak' about it was Irwin.
Oh but he would have wanted it that way...
Which brings us to the concept of celebrity death and the ludicrously empty platitude which is trotted out for personages of the ilk of the Crocodile Munter: 'Oh, he would have wanted to go out that way.' Aside from that being weapons-grade bullshit (how the fuck would you know how he wanted to 'go out'?), how does shuffling off the mortal coil in a supposedly 'appropriate' way make it any more acceptable? Regardless of the logic, this sort of tripe is pedalled every time an adventurer or sports identity drops off the twig in spectacular fashion in their line of work - for every mountain climber who loses his grip on the North Col of Everest, for every surfer lunched and/or munched by a shark, and for every extreme sports fuckwit who forgets to lace up his bungy cord, the same line is trotted out. To this day three-time Formula 1 world champion Ayrton Senna is considered to have died 'doing what he loved' - no, not that Playboy playmate he was dating at the time - rather than the less prosaic but possibly more factual observation that he died 'skewered through the scone on the end of a Williams FW16 right front suspension wishbone'.
Dally M shock: football team owned by News Ltd playing in competition owned by News Ltd dominates popularity contest voted on by News Ltd journalists
From death, to a long winter in Melbourne; pretty much even odds as to which would be more preferable. For the aptly named Storm (presumably Shitfight was already taken), the Melbourne winter actually had a point, judging from their profits out of last night's Dally M awards. Wayne Bennett protege Craig Bellamy skived off with Coach of the Year (narrowly edging out Souths' Bomber McRae), shortly before grapple-merchant hooker Cameron Smith nabbed the Big Cheese On Offer ahead of the Eelses' Nathan Hindmarsh and his comedy hair. He was presented with his trophy by Prime Minister and latent rockspider Johnny "I'd turn up to the opening of an envelope, so long as I don't have to shake hands with a boong" Howard. Smith joins a fine tradition of Rugby League's player of the year award being won by very, very mediocre footballers who have managed by some statistical miracle to have arsed a season's worth of decent games in succession. The roll call of Dally M and/or Rothmans medallists in the past 15 years who can be best described as very, very average is longer than you'd hope:
1991: Split decision. Ewen McGrady (Dogs) won the Rothmans and Michael Potter (Saints, I think) won the Dally M. Fucked if I can remember either of the bastards.
1994: David Fairleigh from Norths (remember them?) I seem to recall Centrebet suspended betting on the awards that year because the fix was in.
1995: Paul Green, apparently of Cronulla. Vaguely remember him. With him as their fearless leader in the halves, the Sharks failed to win so much as the meat tray at the Leagues Club.
2001: Preston Campbell, then also of Cronulla. Nice little fullah, all power to him, but seriously.
2004: Danny Buderus, The Newcs. Fuck he's overrated. Without Joey, he's a passenger.
2005: Johnathon Thurston, Cowlads. Again, nice kid, loves his mum and all that. But you tell me whether anyone remembers him in twenty years, for any reason other than the half-arsed way he spells his name.
2006: Cameron Smith, Melbourne. Never trust anyone with two surnames and no first name.
Sing when you're winning, bawl when you're losing
To tennis (yes, we must), and play in the 4th round of the US Open was suspended following a rain delay, caused by Andre Agassi losing to a random out of the crowd called Becker (not Ted Danson, nor that ginga Kraut tennis bloke from back in the day who got up that chick in that broom closet) and bawling like a little bitch for a good hour and a half. How to defile your heroic sporting legacy in one easy lesson: go out like a complete sook.
Then again, maybe Andrea had visions of this sort of stuff being dusted off as part of his career retrospective, and just couldn't deal...
I am Fabio, the most beautiful tennis player in the cosmos...
More? Of course there's more. Google Image Search in the house, y'all.
Proof that love is blind
As agitated Mexican dude Zack de la Rocha of Rage Against The Machine once spoke of that era: Back into '92 - still in a room without a view. Hopefully without a fuckin' mirror as well.
Bomber shot down
No, not Bomber Beazley - and what is it with fat guys with no leadership potential whatsoever being tagged 'Bomber'? - no, it's South Sydney supercoach Shaun McRae who's been downed and was last seen trailing an ominous pall of smoke from his tail (though that could have been from doing the Dance of the Flaming Arseholes as part of Souths' traditional Mad Monday celebrations.) Bomber McRae was given the arse as first team head coach on the eve of Round 26, in which Souths subsequently managed to distinguish themselves by losing to the Westie Bogans by about as much as they did last time they played, i.e. lots. 1996 Rothmans medallist (see, sometimes they managed to give it to someone who didn't suck) Jason Taylor takes over from next year. Which brings us to a magic moment of television from a recent episode of The Footy Show, car-crash TV at its finest. Perennially superfluous token ethnic Mario Fenech had crashed the North Sydney Team Of The Century party with a camera crew in tow and was doorstopping former Bears greats ref. their opinions on the big night. One of the Falcon's victims was Taylor, who looked absolutely thrilled about it.
Fenech: "Ah, hey, Jason Taylor, my man! We played together for the mighty red and blacks back in the day, didn't we mate!"
Taylor: "Ah yeah. Just because we played together doesn't make us friends, does it Mario?"
You broke the rules... now I'll rip out all your pubic Hair
OK so that's both a massively obscure Tenacious D reference AND an appalling segue, which can only but illustrate in tribute (ha! another one) the astonishing stupidity of former ICC umpire and freelance racist Darrell '$500K in unmarked non-sequential US bills in a suitcase behind the Lords changing sheds at midnight' Hair. Hair already has a reputation as a man who's not overly keen on what Roy and HG would call 'subcontinental wrist' - whether cocked at dubious angles a la Murali or when bent over a cricket ball directing fingernails into the seam as per Pakistan speedster Admiral Akhbar. So how to ensure that you're not run out of the game and derided as a delusional reactionary prepared to be bought at a (massive) price, Hansie Cronje style? (Cronje died when the cargo plane he was stowing away in, crashed into a big hill. 'Oh, but he would have wanted to go out that way.') Hey, why not write your boss an email offering to bugger off to the Maldives for $500K US and make the whole issue just go away? Irrespective of the fact that with global warming there shortly won't be a lot of the Maldives to bugger off to, it strikes us as a very slightly dodgy request on Hair's behalf.
Zidane's mom has got it goin' on
But not according to Marco Mattress, who's finally 'fessed up to what he sledged the lanky Algerian with on that fateful night in July. He admitted he'd been pulling Zidane's shirt for most of the game.
Zidane: Look, if you want my shirt that badly, I'll let you have it after the game.
Materazzi: I'd prefer your sister...
Materazzi further went on to point out he hadn't known at the time whether Zidane even had a sister. Presumably he's had that point clarified then.
We said it in July and we'll say it again now: Zidane is a wet sook who wasn't psychologically up to the pressure. This sort of sledging is so middle of the road these days it's been used to sell Snack Stops ('You know who else loves it? Yer mum') and the French should be thankful he's never been called upon to take block with Ian Healy over his shoulder and Glenn McGrath doing his teapot routine 22 yards down the strip.
Speaking of which... it's September, which means three things: finals football; Bathurst next month; and the summer of cricket is just around the corner. Which means the Ashes. Altogether now and practice, for any of you bastards who've actually managed to get tickets:
My old man
He told me
England will not bat till tea
With a nick-nack paddy-whack give-a-dog-a-bone
Barmy Army, fuck off home.
I think there's something in that for all of us.
The Doctor is OUT.
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