The Graeme Aldridge Unappreciation Society

The Weak In Sport for Monday January 29

This Weak we are challenged by a series of unanswered, nay unanswerable, Questions Without Notice:

• Can ANYONE beat Tiger, FedEx (that's Roger not Kevin) or the Strayan Criggit Team?
• Is the most entertaining thing in the universe watching a back four of Victorians marshalled by Kevin Bloody Muscat getting torn a new 'un and shipping four goals to Newcastle?
  
• Is Sin City NSW shortly going to be obliged to drink its own pee?
  
• If so, who wants to be the first to bust out one of The Weak's favourite lines from Red Dwarf, 'The water's been recycled so many times it's starting to taste like Dutch lager?'
• Wouldn't you reckon the Israeli president would be famous enough to be able to get laid without resorting to Rohypnols?
  
• Isn't Lily Allen just that geezer from The Streets singing falsetto in a stupid wig?
• Who the fuck voted her putrescent spume into the Hottest 100, for Christ's sake?

And, last, but by no means least...

• How the FUCK, people, do you manage to go into the last ball of a domestic Twenty20 game with your opponents needing twelve runs off the last ball... and somehow conspire to LOSE THE FUCKING GAME?

Actually, we can answer that one. But first, let me introduce our...

Wanker Of The Weak
It's this guy.

His name is Graeme Aldridge. He's a right-arm medium-pace bowler, and vaguely handy lower-order batsman, for Northern Districts, the NZ domestic province that covers the top half of the north island other than Auckland. You won't have heard of Graeme, because he's not worth hearing about. He's not a bright young prospect, he's not BlackCap (sorry, BLACKCAP) material, he's not much more than adequate for NZ first class cricket.

Basically, he's a bit crap, really.

But that's not why he's our Wanker Of The Weak. Graeme Aldridge is our Wanker Of The Weak because yesterday he managed to lose a match in such diabolically shitbox fashion he should be run over by a truck and thrown into a skip.

The Auckland Aces (one presumes the name was imposed upon them by Some Marketing Geniarse, now unemployed) were chasing 161 in Sunday's State Twenty20 game against Northern Districts at Seddon Park in Hamilton. And they weren't going to make it. They needed twelve off the last ball, which as anyone who knows two fifths of three eights of fuck all about cricket (i.e. not you, Lawry) is not mathematically possible unless something goes drastically pearshaped. All ND's death bowler needed to do for his bottom-of-the-table side to win, yes WIN, against the hated JAFAs was to propel some form of legal delivery down the strip towards BLACKCAP reject Andre Adams, NZ's version of an early-career Andrew Symonds (in that he's of West Indian origin and noone can figure out why he gets picked for the national side), who was facing up at the striker's end.

Unfortunately for ND, their death bowler of choice was Graeme Aldridge. Who proceeded to bowl a waist-high full toss, to which Adams played what some would call an 'educated edge', or Ian Chappell once called a 'lucky French cunt'. A boundary to deep fine leg... and a no-ball. Which under Twenty20 rules equates to two extras, and a free hit ball.
No matter, still six to win... Ah. Cue Aldridge serving up a wobbly half-volley which Adams, barely believing his luck, dispatched over the sightscreen to Aldridge's six-o'-clock.
Auckland get twelve runs off one legal delivery.
Auckland win the game.
And Auckland overtake Otago on points, such that the Volts (no, they didn't pick their fuckin' name either) will no longer host the Twenty20 final this weekend. Instead of being played in front of thousands of engaging Speights-fuelled bogans (yours truly inclusive) perched in the sunshine on the grassy banks of the University Oval, Dunedin, the final, though still between Otago and the JAFAs, will be played at Eden Park Number 2 Oval.

Graeme Aldridge not only managed to single-handedly lose an unloseable game for his province, but has also fucked my weekend's entertainment.

The Weak recommends his neutering.

Wanker Of The Weak Highly Commended: an Australian sports journalist, who will remain unnamed, who described Jacob Oram as 'the poor man's Chris Cairns'. He remains unnamed because I can't be arsed finding out who he was, but he's a total choad warrior. And is now presumably taking credit for 'motivating' Oram's NZ-record 101 off 71, rather than accepting he was flat-out-wronger than the cat stapled to Donald Trump's head.

OMG, an actual LIVE sports report from this alleged sports reporter, whatever the fuck next
That's right kids, your correspondent actually got off his burgeoning arse and attended a real live sporting event this past weekend! Sure it was just Otago vs Canterbury in the State Twenty20 comp (thus making this the most coverage NZ domestic cricket has ever, or will ever, get in this forum), and the combination of sunshine, beer, cricket and skiving off work on the afternoon of Australia Day does in hindsight seem something of a fuckin' no-brainer. But your correspondent did The Weak a sterling service, as befits this oracle of renown. We drank. We talked bollocks. We drank some more. We shouted abuse at random Cantab outfielders (though not anywhere as much as the massively drunk bogans to our left who decided Canty's Shannon Stewart had a girl's name and as such serenaded him with 'He's gay, he's bent, his arse is up for rent, Shannon Stew-art... He's queer, he's heinous, he likes another man's penis, Shannon Stew-art...' etc. Class. The one in the Broncos muscleshirt didn't like being reminded that his lot might have been NRL premiers but they'd still lost to Souths, old son. And we bitched and moaned as ancient ex-BLACKCAP slaphead Chrus Hirrus smacked sixty-odd off forty-odd in the dying stages to run down Otago's indifferent 139 (on a pitch as flat and beige as Central Otago) and win the game for Canty.... despite members of the crowd sledging him unmercifully over a missed runout and a dropped 'sitter' in the Otago innings, as well as his truly dreadful TV outings advertising a South Island bakery franchise (resulting in the immortal line from Broncos Man, 'Fuck off back to Couplands'). Judging by Harris' dimensional increase since his international career, Couplands are paying him in pies.

The Stefan Phlegming Approach To Winning ODI Games In Australia, Or Not Losing By Much
Of course, back in the day, Flash Harry (as the NZ media tagged him, ironically one imagines) was an integral part of the rather useful Kiwi squad of five or six (or eight) years ago, who won a Test series in England, drew one in Oz and shut the Aussies out of their own one-day Tri-Series finals (only to get pantsed by the Saffers.) And it's been good to see, on the evidence of their handy win against the Poms in Adelaide earlier in the Weak (and Stefan Phlegming's comments after that game) that the BLACKCAPSLOCK may finally revert to their tried-and-tested game plan from the 2001/02 ODI series in Australia.
It goes a little something like this:

1. Bat first.
2. Lose a bucket of top order wickets in the first 20 overs and end up five for seventy.
3. Get whoever's batting six (eg Harry the Flasher) to nudge it around a bit.
4. Get whoever's batting seven (eg Cairns, a.k.a. the rich man's Jacob Oram) to lob a few into the merch tent.
5. Scrape 200.
6. Bowl tighter than a fish's arse.
7. Win.
8. Rort the bonus point system by 'winning slowly' so you play the fuckin' Yaapies in the finals and not Oz.
9. Lose to the fuckin' Yaapies in the finals.
10. Look really stupid.
11. Appear in a Fujitsu air-con commercial in which you look more wooden than your bat, who you get out-acted by.
    
12. Look even more stupid.

Of course all of this complexity is rather redundant when playing against the current England one-day team, who to successfully defeat you need only (a) turn up and (b) not fall over laughing when they run into bowl such that you get out because you weren't concentrating. As a very old joke goes, the Poms are never likely to end up in the Family Court on domestic violence charges: they're utterly incapable of beating anyone.

More from the wide world of sport, including some material which might not be actually about cricket (ye Gods!) in coming Weaks.

The Doctor is OUT.

Would the real Eric Gilchurch please stand up?

Chrissy? Nah, pretty quiet here, not much new. You?

The Weak In Sport for Pretty Much The Last Month Or So

As five minutes' exposure to the E! Channel will no doubt enforce with giddying militancy, it's Awards Season. Whether it's the multi-hour sob-n-wankathon of the Oscars or Golden Globes (no, not J.Lo's arse) or the astonishing tedium of Allan Border Medal Night (no, keep that medal count going, I really DO care who was the third best player for Australia in the POQ Cup one-day game against Outer Turkmenistan in Octember), gaudy coloured metallic trinkets are changing hands faster than ziplock bags of oregano and lawn clippings at Schoolies. Don't knock it, it's a legitimate way to make some holiday cash, and its not as though the little bastards can tell the difference.

So in the spirit of Awards Season, The Weak In Sport (a wholly owned subsidiary of The World Of Bollocks) brings you the Dodgy Awards for 2007. Admittedly we've only had about two and a half weeks of 2007 and all we have to talk about is cricket and a bit of A-League, but dammit, we're getting in early.

The Muhammed Ali 'I Am The Greatest, And You're Shit' Award for Showing The Appropriate Level Of Disrespect To The Opposition
The Australian cricket team, for entertaining the idea of sending McGrath and Warne out to open the innings chasing 46 runs at the end of the Sydney test match. It would have been the ultimate insult to the English team. It would have been entirely justified.
Special commendation: the New South Wales cricket team, for picking Joey Johns in their Twenty20 squad. In this case it wasn't the opposition that had earned disrespect, but the game itself. Former great Henry Lawson blew up deluxe (thanks v. much Fat Man) over it but NSW were granting the tournament just as much credence as it deserved.

Commonbealth Wank Series Man Of The Match, Man Of The Series, Actually Fuck It Let's Give Him The Allan Border Medal, If They Gave It To Pup They'll Give It To Any Bastard
That guy who took the one-handed catch in the crowd off Gilchrist while talking bollocks to his mate on the phone. Irony of the day: that guy is a volunteer firefighter, while Jon Lewis gets paid to play cricket. Whafuck?
Special commendation: Cameron 'Bundy Bear' White. Yes, he's a Victorian. But he slaps it harder than Lleyton at a press conference, has only the fourth or fifth stupidest hair in the squad, and he's keeping Brad Fucking Hogg and his permanently lolling tongue out of the side.
Special needs: Brad Hogg.

The Artfully Stained Bedsheet Award for Best Banner At The Cricket
The guy with the one which said 'I Am The Real Eric Gilchurch'. You can't have missed him, he was on every ten minutes. He must have been sitting in the stand where Eric kept lobbing his sixes into. Cue Kirk Douglas: 'I am Eric Gilchurch.' 'No, I am Eric Gilchurch.'

Olympic Luge Gold Medal for Sledging
AKA the Shane Warne Perpetual Trophy, for his reminder to Paul Collingwood of his place in the grand scheme of things - making seven runs in the Oval Test is perhaps not something that one should straightfacedly accept a MBE for. Warney even offered to lend him some stamps so he could post the thing back to the palace.
On the topic of MBEs (if not sledging) - and in the process unceremoniously ripping off SMH's Mad Monday - Royal grandkiddie Zara Phillips picked up British Sportshuman of the Moment for her efforts in some sort of rich bastards' sport possibly involving horses, and with it was given a complementary MBE (and continental breakfast). Considering who hands these out, isn't that like getting a Xmas present from 'Santa'?
Special commendation: Fabio Capello, coach of Real Madrid, who in recent days has been hounded with questions about the departure of Rabid Beckman to Hollywood in order to have his photo taken, turn up to premieres with his lobotomised anorexic wife and very occasionally take the odd free kick for the LA Galaxy. So, how will Madrid cope with Becks' departure, Fab?
"Sorry, didn't he leave months ago?"
Actually he said nothing of the sort. But you know he wanted to.

Stevie Wonder Fluoro Pink Windcheater Award for Fashion Designer Of The Year
Whoever the fuck is designing the Aussie cricket uniforms at Adidas. Granted, they couldn't figure out a way to fuck up the Test uniform - convention dictates it's the cream, the bone, the white, the off-white, the ivory or the beige, love - but the greatest cricket team in the Known Universe turned up to the SCG for last week's Twenty20 international against the hapless Poms looking like they'd just taken to New Zealand's grey boiler suits from the '92 World Cup with a big yellow highlighter pen. (Ironically the Kiwis, with a much better grasp of retro kitsch than Team Oz, had busted out replicas of their own '92 outfits in their recent Twenty20s against the Lankans.) And for an encore, defecating on almost 30 years of Australian limited overs outfits proudly turning out in Sir Robert Muldoon's canary yellow (or is that Australian gold my friend and don't you fuckin' forget it?), Adidas' kit-design arsewits stuck the ODI squad in what looks like a Socceroos away strip from the late '90s. Canary yellow indeed.

The 12th Man Memorial Ponytail for Best Performance In The Central Commentary Position
AKA the Richie Benaud Gold Plated Snickometer, for a career of topsness, including but not limited to the following:
A ball is bowled down leg side. 'Wide' is signalled.
Former Australian wicketkeeper and perpetual tool Ian Healy spends the next half an over making the plaintive case that this rule is preposterous, that not being able to bowl the ball at all down the batsman's legside is unnecessarily unfair, that today's game is designed by batsmen for batsmen, and that a rule change is the only reasonable response.
Silence.
"What do you think Richie, do you agree with me?"
More silence.
"In a word," replied Richie, "no."

'Australian Idol' Platinum Digital Voice Tuner for Most Cringeworthy Musical Recording (limited to sportspeople in order to prevent the entire Top 40 being nominated)
Brett Lee's Bollywood pop duet. And you thought Six 'N' Out were pox. Jesus fuckin' Christ.

TNT Freight Award for Perpetually Late Shipments (anyone who's dealt with these talentless arseclowns knows of what we speak)
The Perth Glory back four (fuck me, it's not a cricket one) for shipping two goals in the second half against Melbourne, and two more in the second half - make that two well into stoppage time at the end of the second half - of last week's home game against Newcastle.

The __________ Award for Taking It Any Way They Can Get It (identity of person award named after withheld following defamation proceedings)
The Barmy Army. Having lost 5-0 to Dad's Army, these lads will take a win any way they can. Even if it involves turning up to a Sydney FC game and cheering on the New Zealand Knights. As can only be expected for Englishmen pretending to be New Zealanders they were thoroughtly embarrassed about it - but not nearly as much as the Sydney F'n'C's who contrived to lose the match 1-0.

And finally:

The Nathan Fien/Karmichael Hunt/Steve Devine/Brad Thorn/Lou Vincent/Definitely Not Russell Crowe Award for Being Most Likely To Cause A Trans-Tasman Sporting Eligibility Stoush In About Twenty Years Time
Who else?
This guy.
















In solidarity with his brothers, Lucas busts out the Black Power salute from the Olympic athletics podium, Mexico '68.

Neither of us have had the heart to tell him he isn't black.


The Doctor is OUT.


PS And as promised, a "Warney's Fucked Off" Special Commemorative Edition Spotters' Badge (no real reason to call it that, other than that every other bit of shite memorabilia at present seems to be commemorating Warney fucking off) for our Neattii, the Cro who flew West - that wasn't her causing a fracas with the Serbs at the tennis, honest Officer - for being the first to guess at the Socceroo-captaining origins of Dr Yobbo Jr's given name. It's not actually why he's called Lucas, but we promised her a shout-out anyway.