I think there's something in that for all of us.
The Doctor is OUT.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
The World Of Bollocks Higher Educational Supplement
I think there's something in that for all of us.
The Doctor is OUT.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Isn't it moronic: Additional
A late addendum to our earlier discussion on irony. While revenge is a dish best served cold, irony is a beverage best sampled as bitter as it is delicious, like Czech Pilsner.
Craig Bellamy is a short angry Welshman who plays for Liverpool. He hasn't played for Liverpool for very long, and he's not likely to play for Liverpool for very much longer. Bellamy has had more Premiership clubs than he's had court appearances for assault - just - and is yet to leave a club on amicable grounds, it's fair to say. His football career has been characterised by fallouts with managers, blowups with teammates, sendings-off and suspensions, and generally making a complete twat of himself.
What makes this season likely to be Bellamy's first and last for the Reds is the revelation that while on a training retreat in Portugal last weekend, prior to the resumption of the Champions League Of Etc overnight, he took two things. Now, there's a suspicion of hypocrisy here; Scousers are renown for taking pretty much anything they can get their hands on, which is why visiting team buses parked outside Anfield on match day are often found up on blocks. However, the club's ire has largely revolved around what Bellamy took. As stated, he took two things: he took offence at ginger Danish centreback John-Arne Riise's refusal to sing karaoke with him while out on the turps, and then he took to Riise with a five-iron.
Which Liverpool FC and their wholesome new US owners have not taken kindly to, funnily enough.
Bellamy in characteristic pose
Riise in characteristic pose
Fleet Street in characteristically calm and reserved reportage of proceedings
Despite the weekend set-to, and the thermonuclear controversy that has erupted in the aftermath, both Bellamy and Riise were named in Liverpool's squad to play Barcelona in the first leg of this morning's Round of 16 knockout clash at the Nou Camp (that's Spanish for New Camp, you know). Barca's early lead was cancelled out by a first-half strike from: Craig Bellamy. A highly valuable away goal for the return leg at Anfield. Or make that two highly valuable away goals, with a Reds winner struck in the second half by: John-Arne Riise. From a pass across the area from: you guessed it. Craig Bellamy.
Folks, that's irony.
Or five-irony, if you will.
The Doctor is OUT.
Craig Bellamy is a short angry Welshman who plays for Liverpool. He hasn't played for Liverpool for very long, and he's not likely to play for Liverpool for very much longer. Bellamy has had more Premiership clubs than he's had court appearances for assault - just - and is yet to leave a club on amicable grounds, it's fair to say. His football career has been characterised by fallouts with managers, blowups with teammates, sendings-off and suspensions, and generally making a complete twat of himself.
What makes this season likely to be Bellamy's first and last for the Reds is the revelation that while on a training retreat in Portugal last weekend, prior to the resumption of the Champions League Of Etc overnight, he took two things. Now, there's a suspicion of hypocrisy here; Scousers are renown for taking pretty much anything they can get their hands on, which is why visiting team buses parked outside Anfield on match day are often found up on blocks. However, the club's ire has largely revolved around what Bellamy took. As stated, he took two things: he took offence at ginger Danish centreback John-Arne Riise's refusal to sing karaoke with him while out on the turps, and then he took to Riise with a five-iron.
Which Liverpool FC and their wholesome new US owners have not taken kindly to, funnily enough.
Bellamy in characteristic pose
Riise in characteristic pose
Fleet Street in characteristically calm and reserved reportage of proceedings
Despite the weekend set-to, and the thermonuclear controversy that has erupted in the aftermath, both Bellamy and Riise were named in Liverpool's squad to play Barcelona in the first leg of this morning's Round of 16 knockout clash at the Nou Camp (that's Spanish for New Camp, you know). Barca's early lead was cancelled out by a first-half strike from: Craig Bellamy. A highly valuable away goal for the return leg at Anfield. Or make that two highly valuable away goals, with a Reds winner struck in the second half by: John-Arne Riise. From a pass across the area from: you guessed it. Craig Bellamy.
Folks, that's irony.
Or five-irony, if you will.
The Doctor is OUT.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Isn't it moronic... don't you think?
We begin with irony. It's a concept that often needs explanation, particularly to Seppos. Irony is not, as many believe, a description of a substance which has a larger than average proportion of iron. (Sample usage: Jeez Davo, that barbie hotplate is really... irony... ay.)
It is probably easier to define what irony is not; it is not, for instance, like rayeeeaaayynnne on your wedding dayyy. Indeed, precipitation at your marriage ceremony is about as ironic as a woman with a large mouth singing about going down on someone in a theatre. Hopefully not an operating theatre, though the standard of nursing care in certain expensive private hospitals is certainly better than you get in the public system.
However, there is a certain irony in the following.
Isn't It Ironic... Dontcha Think?
(And Dontcha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me?)
There's irony right there, given the Pussytwat Trolls are all heinous slappers you wouldn't even root for practice. But we digress.
Fabio Capello is the manager of Spanish footballing superclub Real Madrid, or at least he was at press time. Unlike his romance-novel cover-bitch namesake, Fabio lacks '80s poodle-rock-drummer hair or a largely synthetic six-pack (these days with a couple of bonus kegs), but Capello does have one thing in common with The Most Beautiful Man In The Cosmos: he hasn't been relevant since the '90s. Capello raked in the European titles with Roma and AC Milan back in the day, but judging by the clusterfuck of a job he's done at Madrid, that was a clusterfucking long time ago. Capello's masterplan for un-clusterfucking Madrid's long history of overspending and underdelivering was to basically hold a garage sale and sell off all the old rubbish that was cluttering up the place, like Ronaldo, Luis Figo and David Beckham. Indeed Capello was most delighted to get shot of Becks, declaring after the announcement of Becks' deal with US club LA Galaxy that the random-haired scarecrow-boning 'tard had played his last game for Madrid.
So much for the Context; now for the Irony, in sequential order:
1. Madrid, Becksless since the New Year as Fabio requested, have continued to travel like busted arseholes on CityRail;
2. Capello, shortstaffed and soon to be fired, has been forced to back down and offer Becks an apology and a recall;
3. Becks scored the winner on his comeback and has proceeded to carry the team around on his back for all ensuing fixtures to date, including this morning's 3-2 defeat of Bryan Munich in the European Champions League of European Champions Of Europe.
Seriously, Becks single-handedly salvaging Madrid's season after having been told to go fuck himself with extreme prejudice has got to be the most ironic development since Greenpeace sailed off to save the whales and got called in to save the whalers.
There is no irony, however, in the NZRU arrogantly pulling all their top players from the first half of the Super 14, and all the top NZ Super 14 sides also travelling like perforated fundaments adhering to Sydney public transport timetables. No, that's not irony, that's just karma.
Adelaide take ball; go home
The Hyundai A-League Grand Final turned out to be just like any other product with a Hyundai badge: sounded decent enough in concept when previewed in the media, but in the end you were glad you were only renting the shitbox for the afternoon. The only difference was the proportional lack of beige plastic swathed around the interior of the Telstra Dome. However, while the football turned out to be an exhibition of a man kicking a dog, the sledging was truly 'sledgendary', particularly in the pre-game. Best in show being Ernie Merrick, Melbourne's otherwise characterless coach, who reacted to the news that Cranky John Kosmina would have to coach Adelaide from the stands with the suggestion that Kossie should get a refund on his anger management training from the last time he got in trouble with the authorities. Kosmina's response was to target Fox Sports' hired goon, former Roar coach Miron Bleiberg, who immediately before Kossie came on had been exclusively revealing his own managerial insights as to who Adelaide would name in their starting lineup. To which Kossie pointed out, when he got on, that the team sheet had actually been put out an hour and a half ago, and furthermore, that was the kind of insight that had Miron up in the combox not down on the touchline with an actual coaching job. Not that Kossie would actually get to coach Adelaide from the sideline, in that game or in the future. Following Adelaide's 6-0 capitulation, Kossie is highly likely to be presented with the arse by the Reds, while captain Aloisi and vice-captain Veart have already been reassigned to lighter duties for their sulking in the post-match pressers.
Putting the 'P' in Phil
In possibly the least surprising story of the week, Phil Jamieson, a bogan from Lismore who sings in a band named after a prominent supporter of recreational drug use, is in rehab for drug use. The Grinspoon fronthuman's drug of choice appears to be pure methamphetamine, also known as 'ice' or 'P'. Evidently Phil smoked P but isn't all right, disproving the published theories of Kiwi band Deja Voodoo. However Green Spon's management are confident Jamieson will recover from his latest diversion from the plot and will return to sobriety and sanity very soon. Having seen Grinspoon live on the odd occasion, quite how anyone will notice if and when this occurs is beyond this correspondent, but rumours of the 'Spoon marking Jamieson's recovery by recording a cover version of 'Ice Ice Baby' are probably unfounded, as I've just made them up.
Always bet on black
The New Zealand BLACKCAPSLOCK have for many years been the regularly-beaten ginger stepkid of NZ sport, in the shadow of the all conquering All Blacks™ rugby union side. When the latter can actually be arsed to play rugby union, that is, which they're apparently not at the moment. With the ABs sitting around plaiting each others hair and talking about boys for the next few months, the spotlight has returned to the nation's cricketers, just in time for them to get arsed out of the Commonbealth Wank Series Finals by those shifty, shifty Englanders. They're shifty I tell you. Would you leave your car parked anywhere Paul Nixon is known to loiter? Shifty. And they're second favourites for the World Cup now, just ask their media. Yet another reason why the world must band together to ensure England never win another thing in international sport, ever. If there's any genuine risk, of course.... Anyway, on their return to NZ, talkback sport radio kindly tore Stefan Phlegming and co a new 'un, with mortgage salesman and former NZ 'keeper Adam Parore declaring it was time for Phlegming to bugger off to the great Fujitsu commercial in the sky (or at least to hand over the captaincy to Daniel Venturi, so named because he sucks).
Ah, yeah. About that, Adam.
Wellytron, Friday: NZ bowl Australia out for fuck all and win by 10 wickets.
Wankland, Sunday: NZ are set 336 to win. And proceed to, um, do so.
Cow Town, overnight: From four for fuck-all, NZ score tree fitty. Australia only thought they'd get two-fitty. And had only scored 346 themselves. Problem.
Cue Cricket Australia record books being filed resentfully into shredders: Second (and third) greatest runchases ever, first series 'blackwash', on top of the first ever 10 wicket loss. And cue a polite suggestion to Mr Parore: stick to flogging home loans. Then again anyone who ends up wedded to something Matthew Ridge once married clearly has no taste, discernment or capability for higher reasoning.
From the overnight game in H-town we offer two shout-outs:
Haydos, for giving it plenty of toe (ahem) in scoring the most painful, pointless and ultimately redundant one hundred and eighty-one n.o. in international limited overs history; and
Craig McMillan, for the fastest ever NZ ODI 100 (breaking Oram's record which had stood for about 15 minutes.) McMillan has long been a Weak in Sport favourite, ever since Dr Yobbo and our Rural Affairs Correspondent (honest, he's not had any rural affairs, Sarah would kill him) were sledging him on the boundary at a Gabba test many years ago. Indeed Macca went for the big slide on one Haydos slog and gouged out a length of turf for his trouble before rifling his return back to the keeper. 'Replace ya divot!' we bellowed. To which he could, and probably should, have responded, 'Fuck off you ocker cunts.' But no, he jogged back over, tidied up the wound, jumped up and down a bit on the replaced chunk of turf, gave us the thumbs up and trotted back to his position. Onya Macca. He proceeded to get a run with the ball later that morning, and proceeded to bounce three top-order batsmen out. A win on points for the fat man.
The Weak appreciates the work of Macca for three reasons:
The Doctor is OUT.
It is probably easier to define what irony is not; it is not, for instance, like rayeeeaaayynnne on your wedding dayyy. Indeed, precipitation at your marriage ceremony is about as ironic as a woman with a large mouth singing about going down on someone in a theatre. Hopefully not an operating theatre, though the standard of nursing care in certain expensive private hospitals is certainly better than you get in the public system.
However, there is a certain irony in the following.
Isn't It Ironic... Dontcha Think?
(And Dontcha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me?)
There's irony right there, given the Pussytwat Trolls are all heinous slappers you wouldn't even root for practice. But we digress.
Fabio Capello is the manager of Spanish footballing superclub Real Madrid, or at least he was at press time. Unlike his romance-novel cover-bitch namesake, Fabio lacks '80s poodle-rock-drummer hair or a largely synthetic six-pack (these days with a couple of bonus kegs), but Capello does have one thing in common with The Most Beautiful Man In The Cosmos: he hasn't been relevant since the '90s. Capello raked in the European titles with Roma and AC Milan back in the day, but judging by the clusterfuck of a job he's done at Madrid, that was a clusterfucking long time ago. Capello's masterplan for un-clusterfucking Madrid's long history of overspending and underdelivering was to basically hold a garage sale and sell off all the old rubbish that was cluttering up the place, like Ronaldo, Luis Figo and David Beckham. Indeed Capello was most delighted to get shot of Becks, declaring after the announcement of Becks' deal with US club LA Galaxy that the random-haired scarecrow-boning 'tard had played his last game for Madrid.
So much for the Context; now for the Irony, in sequential order:
1. Madrid, Becksless since the New Year as Fabio requested, have continued to travel like busted arseholes on CityRail;
2. Capello, shortstaffed and soon to be fired, has been forced to back down and offer Becks an apology and a recall;
3. Becks scored the winner on his comeback and has proceeded to carry the team around on his back for all ensuing fixtures to date, including this morning's 3-2 defeat of Bryan Munich in the European Champions League of European Champions Of Europe.
Seriously, Becks single-handedly salvaging Madrid's season after having been told to go fuck himself with extreme prejudice has got to be the most ironic development since Greenpeace sailed off to save the whales and got called in to save the whalers.
There is no irony, however, in the NZRU arrogantly pulling all their top players from the first half of the Super 14, and all the top NZ Super 14 sides also travelling like perforated fundaments adhering to Sydney public transport timetables. No, that's not irony, that's just karma.
Adelaide take ball; go home
The Hyundai A-League Grand Final turned out to be just like any other product with a Hyundai badge: sounded decent enough in concept when previewed in the media, but in the end you were glad you were only renting the shitbox for the afternoon. The only difference was the proportional lack of beige plastic swathed around the interior of the Telstra Dome. However, while the football turned out to be an exhibition of a man kicking a dog, the sledging was truly 'sledgendary', particularly in the pre-game. Best in show being Ernie Merrick, Melbourne's otherwise characterless coach, who reacted to the news that Cranky John Kosmina would have to coach Adelaide from the stands with the suggestion that Kossie should get a refund on his anger management training from the last time he got in trouble with the authorities. Kosmina's response was to target Fox Sports' hired goon, former Roar coach Miron Bleiberg, who immediately before Kossie came on had been exclusively revealing his own managerial insights as to who Adelaide would name in their starting lineup. To which Kossie pointed out, when he got on, that the team sheet had actually been put out an hour and a half ago, and furthermore, that was the kind of insight that had Miron up in the combox not down on the touchline with an actual coaching job. Not that Kossie would actually get to coach Adelaide from the sideline, in that game or in the future. Following Adelaide's 6-0 capitulation, Kossie is highly likely to be presented with the arse by the Reds, while captain Aloisi and vice-captain Veart have already been reassigned to lighter duties for their sulking in the post-match pressers.
Putting the 'P' in Phil
In possibly the least surprising story of the week, Phil Jamieson, a bogan from Lismore who sings in a band named after a prominent supporter of recreational drug use, is in rehab for drug use. The Grinspoon fronthuman's drug of choice appears to be pure methamphetamine, also known as 'ice' or 'P'. Evidently Phil smoked P but isn't all right, disproving the published theories of Kiwi band Deja Voodoo. However Green Spon's management are confident Jamieson will recover from his latest diversion from the plot and will return to sobriety and sanity very soon. Having seen Grinspoon live on the odd occasion, quite how anyone will notice if and when this occurs is beyond this correspondent, but rumours of the 'Spoon marking Jamieson's recovery by recording a cover version of 'Ice Ice Baby' are probably unfounded, as I've just made them up.
Always bet on black
The New Zealand BLACKCAPSLOCK have for many years been the regularly-beaten ginger stepkid of NZ sport, in the shadow of the all conquering All Blacks™ rugby union side. When the latter can actually be arsed to play rugby union, that is, which they're apparently not at the moment. With the ABs sitting around plaiting each others hair and talking about boys for the next few months, the spotlight has returned to the nation's cricketers, just in time for them to get arsed out of the Commonbealth Wank Series Finals by those shifty, shifty Englanders. They're shifty I tell you. Would you leave your car parked anywhere Paul Nixon is known to loiter? Shifty. And they're second favourites for the World Cup now, just ask their media. Yet another reason why the world must band together to ensure England never win another thing in international sport, ever. If there's any genuine risk, of course.... Anyway, on their return to NZ, talkback sport radio kindly tore Stefan Phlegming and co a new 'un, with mortgage salesman and former NZ 'keeper Adam Parore declaring it was time for Phlegming to bugger off to the great Fujitsu commercial in the sky (or at least to hand over the captaincy to Daniel Venturi, so named because he sucks).
Ah, yeah. About that, Adam.
Wellytron, Friday: NZ bowl Australia out for fuck all and win by 10 wickets.
Wankland, Sunday: NZ are set 336 to win. And proceed to, um, do so.
Cow Town, overnight: From four for fuck-all, NZ score tree fitty. Australia only thought they'd get two-fitty. And had only scored 346 themselves. Problem.
Cue Cricket Australia record books being filed resentfully into shredders: Second (and third) greatest runchases ever, first series 'blackwash', on top of the first ever 10 wicket loss. And cue a polite suggestion to Mr Parore: stick to flogging home loans. Then again anyone who ends up wedded to something Matthew Ridge once married clearly has no taste, discernment or capability for higher reasoning.
From the overnight game in H-town we offer two shout-outs:
Haydos, for giving it plenty of toe (ahem) in scoring the most painful, pointless and ultimately redundant one hundred and eighty-one n.o. in international limited overs history; and
Craig McMillan, for the fastest ever NZ ODI 100 (breaking Oram's record which had stood for about 15 minutes.) McMillan has long been a Weak in Sport favourite, ever since Dr Yobbo and our Rural Affairs Correspondent (honest, he's not had any rural affairs, Sarah would kill him) were sledging him on the boundary at a Gabba test many years ago. Indeed Macca went for the big slide on one Haydos slog and gouged out a length of turf for his trouble before rifling his return back to the keeper. 'Replace ya divot!' we bellowed. To which he could, and probably should, have responded, 'Fuck off you ocker cunts.' But no, he jogged back over, tidied up the wound, jumped up and down a bit on the replaced chunk of turf, gave us the thumbs up and trotted back to his position. Onya Macca. He proceeded to get a run with the ball later that morning, and proceeded to bounce three top-order batsmen out. A win on points for the fat man.
The Weak appreciates the work of Macca for three reasons:
- As a batsman he loves the slap and is congenitally incapable of operating at less than flat-fucking-strap;
- As a bowler he genuinely seems to be under the impression that he is actually a snarling, terrifying, super-quick, six-foot-ten West Indian express bowler trapped in the frame of a short fat man from Canterbury - very little in international cricket is funnier than a bloke who looks like Craig 'Popeye' Parry fuming in off the long run and serving up death-stares and chin music to the bemused bastard at the other end;
- And, most importantly, he continues a long history of short fat men competing at the highest level of world cricket, (Boonie, Warnie, Kegs Lehmann, Inzy) proving that cricket isn't about the shape of your body, it's about something much more deep and spiritual - how much piss you can sink on an international flight.
The Doctor is OUT.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Sense of humour failure
Last Weak, I know we promised 'more from the wide world of sport, including some material which might not be actually about cricket (ye Gods!) in coming Weaks.'
Well, there's a problem with that.
Nothing funny has happened in sport in the past two weeks.
Nothing at all.
There is nothing funny about losing to England in cricket. Nor is there anything remotely amusing about Otago's underdog provincial cricketers making the finals of the domestic 20- and 50-over competitions then getting absolutely annihilated by the JAFAs in both matches. Nor does it seem in any way humourous that every Strayan Super 14 side capitulated hideously in the most recent round, other than that team of flotsam, residue and leftovers out west coached by the most vehemently despised former All Black coach of modern times, largely for his inability to stop talking bollocks about his 'journey' and other synergy-leveraging management wankspeak. South Africa are on the verge of becoming the world's top-ranked ODI cricket side; Man Utd are now unbackable favourites to win the Premiership on the back of Cristi Ronaldo's Louganis-like efforts (both in terms of diving and being totally gay); in the A1GP, ze Chermans are pissing it in; the A-League Grand Final will be played between Melbourne and Adelaide, in the most cast-iron, gold-plated, Teflon-coated Who Cares Fixture of all time; and Craig Gower got on the piss and made a fucking idiot of himself in public yet again. None of these things are funny. Particularly Gower. There, my friends, is a congenitally demented bogan who needs to figure out he really should give up the fucking drink, pronto.
In short, the last sporting fortnight has been about as funny as Rove McManus. (He's had long enough, time to start putting the boot in again.) So instead we would like to bring the following to your attention:
Eddie McGuire wants to bone Humphrey B. Bear.
That's right folks, Channel Nine reichfuhrer and acclaimed knob Edward McGuire, not content with exorcising Skeletor from morning TV, wants to bone Humphrey as well. Granted, Humphrey spends much of his time without any pants on, which could be construed as overly provocative and could potentially incite Humphrey being boned against his will (particularly in the opinions of high court judges from his home state of South Australia). This is the latest in a string of high-profile incidents in which bears have been boned, as presented in our Rather Dodgy Looking News Graphic below (just double-click the button to enlarge it, as the actress said to the bishop, or something):
As that's about all we can Bear for this Weak...
The Doctor is OUT.
Well, there's a problem with that.
Nothing funny has happened in sport in the past two weeks.
Nothing at all.
There is nothing funny about losing to England in cricket. Nor is there anything remotely amusing about Otago's underdog provincial cricketers making the finals of the domestic 20- and 50-over competitions then getting absolutely annihilated by the JAFAs in both matches. Nor does it seem in any way humourous that every Strayan Super 14 side capitulated hideously in the most recent round, other than that team of flotsam, residue and leftovers out west coached by the most vehemently despised former All Black coach of modern times, largely for his inability to stop talking bollocks about his 'journey' and other synergy-leveraging management wankspeak. South Africa are on the verge of becoming the world's top-ranked ODI cricket side; Man Utd are now unbackable favourites to win the Premiership on the back of Cristi Ronaldo's Louganis-like efforts (both in terms of diving and being totally gay); in the A1GP, ze Chermans are pissing it in; the A-League Grand Final will be played between Melbourne and Adelaide, in the most cast-iron, gold-plated, Teflon-coated Who Cares Fixture of all time; and Craig Gower got on the piss and made a fucking idiot of himself in public yet again. None of these things are funny. Particularly Gower. There, my friends, is a congenitally demented bogan who needs to figure out he really should give up the fucking drink, pronto.
In short, the last sporting fortnight has been about as funny as Rove McManus. (He's had long enough, time to start putting the boot in again.) So instead we would like to bring the following to your attention:
Eddie McGuire wants to bone Humphrey B. Bear.
That's right folks, Channel Nine reichfuhrer and acclaimed knob Edward McGuire, not content with exorcising Skeletor from morning TV, wants to bone Humphrey as well. Granted, Humphrey spends much of his time without any pants on, which could be construed as overly provocative and could potentially incite Humphrey being boned against his will (particularly in the opinions of high court judges from his home state of South Australia). This is the latest in a string of high-profile incidents in which bears have been boned, as presented in our Rather Dodgy Looking News Graphic below (just double-click the button to enlarge it, as the actress said to the bishop, or something):
As that's about all we can Bear for this Weak...
The Doctor is OUT.
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