In a Weak in which both slots in the NRL Sol Trujillo Premiership were reserved by two franchise united as much by their unlikeability as their ownership by News Limited, and in which Llittle Lleyton proved he was (a) a loser, (b) a cock, and (c) never to be allowed in the company of foreigners again, there was one little sliver of good news. The Hamster woke up.
According to the massively unreliable Gerbily Clarkson, Richard Hammond, having suffered a 'serious brain injury' in his infamous jet-dragster endo, and been in a critical condition (strike one) in intensive care (strike two) in a specialist neurological ward (strike three and you're fucked), opened his eyes, sat upright in bed and asked 'What happened?'
You've been in a car accident, he was told.
He thought about this for a moment.
'Was I driving like a twat?'
He then proceeded to stagger out of bed to go for a slash.
The Hamster is now out of danger and back in a general ward. He'll be back. He may be forcibly restricted to testing girly hatchbacks stuck in first gear in perpetuity, but he'll be back.
He's doing it in the Ryder Cup!
Some more good news. America: fuck nah. The Seppos were trounced by the Euros at the Special K Club, not even getting close to touching them in either the golf or the subsequent pissup at the hotel bar which allegedly proceeded until five in the morning. It was nowt but a shambolic clusterfuck from a Septic perspective - even Tiger's idiot Kiwi offsider managed to drop his nine-iron in one of the lakes on course. In his defence, there were 13 of the fuckers to choose from (lakes, not irons), and it's not the first time it's been suggested that those fucking ordinary Nike sticks of Tiger's be dropped down a well.
Yer not from round here, are yer
The spiritual home bases of the two premier footy codes will both play host to interstate interlopers in this weekend's Grand Final stoushes. In the NRL event, the Toowoomba Clydesdales will play Brisbane Norths, while the AFL final will again be dominated by people who aren't from Melbourne, with Sydney playing the Wessayeeed Coast. Of course this signifies the end of the world to the Sydney NRL or Melbourne AFL media mafia, who've decried the prospect of an interstate grand final as a sure sign of the likely demise of the 'traditional' teams of both competitions.
Here's a suggestion. Swap.
Melbourne were minor premiers, followed by daylight, the Dogs and more daylight. They might be cunts (isn't that a band?) but if either side deserves home advantage out of the unlikeable, unwatchable NRL grand final matchup it's probably the Strum. So play the game at the MCG already. As for Homebush, the Swans played their prelim final there against the Dockers (Melbourne VFL tragics please note: your beloved GF came perilously close to being a Subiaco Oval derby) so it's certainly capable of hosting the game. One of the Dockers even thought the game was going to be played at the SFS - prompting Paul Roos to suggest that he was welcome to turn up there but running into Big Pond Webcke at full tilt might be an unwanted side effect. So Melbourne-Brisbane in Melbourne; Sydney-West Coast in Sydney. Where's the problem?
Meanwhile in A-nother League...
Speaking of unlikeable Melbourne teams, you'd have thought that running into Stan Lazza's handy Perth side at the end of a Long Arse Flight would have knocked the smugness out of Kevin Bloody Muscat and his Malbun Victree. Hell no - nothing for the Glory, two for the Victory. Elsewhere, the NZ Knights continued to suck a suckload of suck, even though all their New Zealand players have long since fucked off to other A-League clubs and are stinking the place up there instead. They're not quite arse-last however - that honour jointly goes to the Marinaras and the Jets, proving that putting two A-League clubs within 100km of (a) each other and (b) the biggest and richest club in the league was an act of genius for which FFA supremo John O'Neill should be given the arse. What, he's already gone?
Skwarnewatch
Recent studies have indicated that prolonged use of hair dyeing agents increases the risk of brain tumours. Anecdotal evidence from the English county cricket final seems to also suggest it turns you into a clueless fucking lunatic, after Hampshire bogan-in-chief Shane Warne started bowling all sorts of rubbish (no, on purpose) including lobbing the ball 20 feet in the air from a standing start, as part of a bizarre protest about his opponents not declaring so his lot could win. Clearly Skwarney has become used to the English just rolling over and taking it while he's been in the country - but at least this time they didn't run to the papers with the disturbing hydraulic details. More recently, Warne proved the Clairol was really starting to permeate deep into the cortex when he decided to slag off his national captain and his coach in the media, and then declared England favourites to retain the Ashes, on the basis that they... um... won it last time. In related news, Warne also backed the Wests Tigers to win the NRL, and Simone to come back.
And finally...
Lleyton, we said don't come home. Are you fucking deaf, you little shit?
The Doctor is OUT.
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