The Evander Holyfield Experience

Recently some Kiwi pissheads of my acquaintance got it into their heads to organise a Brisbane-based mate's bucks' festivities around the festival of tyre smoke, beer and boobies that is the Gold Coast Indy. Apparently, according to the least injured of the survivors, it all went rather well, though the ringleader did confess to doubting Your Correspondent when my (few) years of Indy experience led me to advise him before the mission kicked off, "Be warned, Indy is a fuckin' zoo". Judging by the survivors' accounts, along with the televisual evidence on the box across the weekend, as well as the mutinous outcry from Premier Bligh over the amount of boobie action on show from the various balconies on course, a "fuckin' zoo" Indy has duly remained in the five years since Dodgy Brothers United FC attended in person. It's still all about piss, promo girls and petrolheadedness, in that order, and if you're among the four percent of people who have actually turned up to watch the race... fuck it, you really should have set the VCR instead. You'll be lucky to see more than the beer queue and the shitbox R&B outfit at Shooters Island.













What the Gold Coast Indy is famous for, part 1





















What the Gold Coast Indy is famous for, part 2

However, to be fair, things have changed at Indy. To be precise, the 'Indy' part has changed. Largely because the 'Indy' series, which in fact has been legally prohibited from calling itself 'Indycar' since about 1998, is so close to death the Chaser should be writing a 'satirical' song about it. The Champ Car World Series and the Gold Coast Indy alike have both had their respective eulogies written a few times over the year, but while the survival of the event now looks pretty secure after the V8 Egostars were given dual billing on the programme, the series itself looks a bit sick, particularly compared to the golden era of Champ Car/Indycar in the '90s, when the grids were packed with A-grade teams and names like Mansell, Andretti, Tracy, Villeneuve, Montoya, Zanardi, Franchitti et al were steering the conveyances. However in the late '90s a Super League style turf war broke out between CART (the organisers of the series which became Champ Car) and the organisers of the Indy 500, who took the 'Indy' trademark and set up their own, oval-tracks-only, yeehaa-Cletus series which initially was about as impactful as hitting a box-girder bridge with a stale Vegemite sandwich which someone has sat on. However, as the Indy Racing League series gathered momentum, and as CART's endemic incompetence drove away teams and engine manufacturers in their numbers, we now have a situation whereby the IRL is dominated by all the teams which used to be in Champ Car - Penske, Ganassi, Andretti-Green (formerly Forsythe-Green when Paul Tracy, Jacques Villeneuve and Dario Franchitti drove for them) - apart from Paul Newman's team who stayed loyal to the CCWS and are about all that is left of the decent squads, apart from 'Team Australia' (run by an expatriate Scotsman who has been based in the US for 30 years). Stars? None really, aside from Seb Bourdais who's won the last four CCWS titles consecutively and will be smegging off to F1 next year - and he's a charisma-free-zone. Ironically, the more ex-Champ Car teams and drivers which the IRL has taken on, the more like the 'old' Indycar series it's become, with more and more 'road course' races finding their way onto the schedule. This year's IRL series was a nailbiter, with Brisbane-born Kiwi Scott Dixon coming within half a lap of taking the championship, before running out of fuel on the last lap of the last race and handing the title to Italian-sounding Scot, and inveterate Ashley Judd shagger, Dario Franchitti - some kind of payback for losing out to Juan-Pablo Montoya in the '99 Champ Car series. The irony of all this is that despite the IRL finally 'winning' the war against Champ Car, they're both big-arse losers because the real winner is NASCAR. Most of the 'big' Champ Car/IRL teams now run NASCAR programs, and it's there where most of the 'big' names are headed now, including a lot of those names from the 'golden era' of Indycar - Villeneuve, Montoya, Franchitti, and quite probably Penske's Sam Hornish who won the both the IRL series and the '500 last year.

So why care? Unless you're in the 4% of punters at the Indy who do, you probably shouldn't. As the years go on, the driver names have become more obscure and the sponsors' stickers likewise, but so long as the Champ Car boys can turn up and present a glamourous-looking grid of loud shiny projectiles to provide background ambience for the piss-sinking and boobie-ogling, it doesn't really matter; the actual race fans are probably there to see Skaifey and Clowndes and the rest of the V8 boys. But the problem is that the CCWS is on the verge of not being able to actually provide a show at all - at their current rate of team withdrawal and IRL defection, they'll be struggling to present the contractually-ratified grid of 18 cars by next year. The Gold Coast deal with Champ Car is up for negotiation next year, and whether the Gold Coast Indy will actually have anything remotely 'Indy' about it is under serious question, as is the survival of the series, now populated almost entirely by no-name rent-a-drivers and two-bit teams with the arse out of their trousers.

Basically, CCWS and the Gold Coast Indy have three options:
- A merging of the ways between IRL and Champ Car, before both become more irrelevant than Britney Spears and NASCAR cannabalises the pair of them (this gets mooted every year but the various egos involved mitigate against it coming off);
- The CCWS and AVESCO (the V8 Supercar organisers) have actually talked about AVESCO taking over management of the CCWS, which would be a serious coup for the V8 boys - it'd mean more co-sanctioned international events for them, like the bizarre and redundant V8 rounds at Shanghai and Bahrain, but how it'd help Champ Car is anyone's guess;
- Or Champ Car could just do what Evander Holyfield should do: realise that their best days are behind them, that they've taken just a few too many smacks to the head, and that the only decent thing to do is to retire gracefully before they embarrass themselves further and sully the good memories so many people have of them - the insane debut race which everyone concerned tried not to win, the year Nigel Mansell ran out of fuel after the finish line and hobbled to the podium with his trademark whinging-Brummie limp, the race that ended in the dark with the street lights on and with Michael Andretti leaping over the chicanes like he was trying to cheat on Playstation...

At which point the GC Indy people would just need to get on the blower to Sheik Maktoum Maktoum El Maktoum With Hommus And Tabouli from the A1GP series, who would just lurve to get the gig to chase the V8s around the streets of Surfers. A more appropriate partner for Indy you'd struggle to find anywhere - A1GP's existing Australian event is a waste of time (apparently it's at Eastern Creek in February - why?), and they're a series founded on not needing to know anything about the drivers, the teams or the cars - just pick a country and yell for them - which is perfect for Indy's target demographic, i.e. pissheads looking for an excuse to party and hoping to see some carnage and/or titties. Let's face it, the crowd was already cheering for 'Team Australia' and someone called Will Power, who was clearly invented by a PR representative.

Make way for the Gold Coast A1GP, October 2009. You read it here first.

The Doctor is OUT.

Waiting to exhale

(Thanks be to Dawso.)

So the All Blacks are going home early (again) and the post-RWC blame-game is on for young, old and irrelevant across the New Zillund airwaves (again), with an orderly lynch-mob forming around the All Blacks and supercoach Henry, just as soon as they've finished metaphorically disembowelling the English work-experience kiddie who was in charge of blowing the pea on the night. Another world cup, another hapless sod to blame for the nation's misery. In '95 it was Susie the Saffer hotel waitress, the alleged poisoner of the ABs on match eve (who, unfortunately for the tale, was later proven to not actually exist); in '99 it was coach John Hart, who was gobbed on and had stuff chucked at him on his return; in '03 it was Georges Smith (late hit on Marshall) and Gregan ('four more years, boys'), though John Mitchell was the one who paid the price; and in '07, it's pretty much anything that moves and wears a black jersey. All pretty much as expected, although with one minor change of plan: the rabid media seem to be on their Pat Malone on this one. Unlike AB Failures Past, the great unwashed of NZ aren't joining the fourth estate on Operation Character Assassination this time around. Sure, a couple of thousand placard-waving Cantabs turned out to greet Air NZ flight AB-1-from-6 at Christchurch International Paddock, but to the massive disappointment of the foaming-at-the-mouth blamehound pundits, they primarly wanted to say thanks for trying, we still luv ya and stuff, and one shit day at the office out of every fifty is about par for the ABs.

Don't look now, kids, but New Zealand might have actually, finally, grown the fuck up.

Alas poor Norick, I knew him Horatio
It's been a fairly shit couple of weeks for '90s motorsport legends. Last month we sadly lost cheerfully insane rally exponent and comedy Scotsman Colin McRae, who lost his life, his son's, and some of his friends' in a helicopter endo. Now comes the news that the original Japanese kamikaze pilot Norifumi 'Norick' Abe, having like McRae retired from international competition, was taken out in an accident and is no longer with us. At a busy intersection in Kawasaki City, which sounds like a motorcycle dealership but isn't, Norick's scooter was cleaned up by a truck performing an illegal U-turn and the ex-MotoGP hero died pretty much instantly. Norick was Japan's two-wheeled hero of the '90s, having made his debut as a locally-entered, wild-haired 'wildcard' at the Japanese 500cc GP in 1994, and stupendously leading much of the race in a duel with Mick Doohan before dropping his Honda NSR500 on the last lap. Next year he was signed up by the factory Yamaha squad, where he spent most of his GP career, and while his results never quite matched his promise (he only won three races across his eight-year full time GP career), his lunatic riding style and rock star image ensured he remained a fan favourite.















Norick in '95, his first full GP season on the Yamaha

Abe rounded out his international career with a couple of years in world superbike, before returning home to the Japanese championship for a few more years in the sunshine, much like a Tony Vidmar or a Craig Moore have done in the A-League. He was third in the JSB1000 championship - still riding for Yamaha - when he was trucked over. Vaguely famous Italian person V. Rossi was a huge Abe fan back in the day, so expect some form of tribute this weekend at the Island - and knowing Rossi, if it's anything like the bullshit win he pulled out of his arse at Estoril in tribute to his fallen idol McRae, Our Case, Westy and the Mule might be pushing it uphill to score a home victory in the Aussie MotoGP.













Abe's last win was Brazil '01, with Rossi joining him on the podium; they were Yamaha teammates in Abe's final MotoGP season in 2003

Speaking of tributes, the Mule is apparently running a Barry Sheene tribute paintjob on his Suzuki this weekend, in honour of the backing and support Sheene gave the young fella on his way to MotoGP - presumably he'll go the whole hog and limp around the place gobbing off in a shifty-geezer Cockney accent, otherwise it won't be worth the price of admission.

And meanwhile...
On the drive home from the airport after his humiliating Chinese F1GP retirement, a dejected Lewis Hamilton decided to stop for petrol...












(Stolen from SniffPetrol.com yet again)

The Doctor is OUT, lap 31, parked in a gravel trap for no apparent reason whatsoever.

Them's the brakes

An instant karma smackdown. It's the only logical explanation for the Fordulent 1-2-3 which blighted an otherwise entertaining afternoon on The Mountain - your correspondent's earlier skiting at the expense of the hapless All Black Nation getting the response it deserved, i.e. my boys' blackest day on the big hill in my lifetime - Team Red haven't been wiped like that since the infamous factory Ford 1-2 in 1977. Meanwhile the HRT/HSV team pits were left strewn with discarded brake pads, warped disc rotors and puddles of fluid from bleeding the brakes on the Toll cars, the whole place looking like a scene from your local Midas (though without the massive overquoting and price gouging, obviously.)













Typical, you wait ages for a taxi and then three turn up at once

The Wallabies' loss was probably also my fault for laughing at an English postdoc who was wearing her nation's colours, shortly after their dismal game against Tonga. Clearly a karma get-square.

Mea culpa.

Which leaves just two unanswered questions from the weekend:

- Given all of the above karma-related reamage, how much of a pack of bastards must everyone in New Zealand have been in a previous life to deserve yet ANOTHER early flight from the RWC?

- Who the fuck would invest their pride and joy with Supercheap Auto Car Insurance?
(And if you make a claim, are you only allowed use cheap plastic parts from China for the repairs?)


The Doctor is OUT.

I predict a riot

CORRECTION

The World of Bollocks would like to correct an unfortunate error in a previous edition of this publication, dated September 9, 2007 and titled 'Community Service Announcement'. In this, we erroneously made the claim that the New Zealand All Blacks™ would 'choke' in the semi-final of the Rugby World Cup, in line with previously established protocols of behaviour. We apologise unreservedly for our error, which was in effect to vastly underestimate the capability of All Blacks™ to 'choke', having not even made it as far as the semi before activating Plan A, a.k.a. Operation 'Early Mark'.

We however stand by our assertion that this will lead to nationwide chaos, declaration of a state of emergency, looting in the streets, overturning of cars, burning of effigies et al, and most likely the entire All Blacks™ squad being bought outright by that bloke from Alinghi, and going on to win the 2011 Rugby World Cup for Switzerland.

Oh yeah and the Wobbilies lost too, bringing much anguish and heartache to the Liberal electorates and GPS catchments of Australia.

Sucks to be you, rugger buggers - but given that it IS all about me, not such a angst-ridden issue given that no bastard will be overly interested in talking about the egg-chasing at the pub today for Bathurst, which was looking a bit punishing after the first semi...

The Doctor is OUT.

PS Seriously, you should see the anchor on TV3 right now, back-announcing the 'highlights' of the second half - he looks like he's missed his morning dose of Zoloft. It actually looks like TV3 are parked on the same Paris rooftop as Les Murray and Johnny Warren were for SBS's France '98 coverage - except that Les or Johnny didn't look like throwing themselves off at any stage as much as old mate here...

Bathurst Beer Bingo

At the World Of Bollocks, we're all about making your lives just that little bit more fun and fulfilling. It's Bathurst weekend, and while that in itself will be having buck-toothed ute-driving yeehaas in boganlicious hysteria up and down the big wide flat brown land of Straya (and its damp lumpy appendages to the east), you may be one of the many people who 'don't
get car racing.' Maybe you have ovaries, or are of lefty environmental leanings, or are a big poofter. Our sympathies; the rest of you softcocks have no bloody excuse and are expected to report either to the couch or to the front bar of your local well in advance of 1030 hours this Sunday. You have been warned.

To aid the non-racegoer in better understanding and appreciating the subtle nuances of Australia's Great Race, The World Of Bollocks Has Used Up All Its Capitals Already has put together the following guide/preview/drinking game entitled Bathurst 2007: Enjoying 'The Great Race', Or Getting Fucking Smashed Trying.

Pre-race preparation
Unless you're planning to be at the pub, get lots of beers in. Lots. Trust me. The last time I watched the race sober was 1998, and Jesus H. fucking Christ was it dull. Besides, there's something quite religious about the experience of legitimately cracking your first beer at half-ten on a Sunday morning, just as the lights go out and the field pitches itself into turn one - quite appropriately named Hell Corner. Though that's primarily because if you don't turn left there and keep heading straight you end up in Lithgow.

Practice and qualifying
Don't go too hard in any Friday or Saturday sessions you take part in. Remember the mantra of endurance competition: to finish first, first you must finish. And by six on Sunday you'll be fucking finished, don't you worry about that sunshine.

Race day: win on Sunday, be fucking hungover on Monday
Bathurst race day is a marathon, not a sprint, and through the generations many have gone too hard too early and ended up parked in the weeds wondering what might have been, or at least wondering why the room won't stop spinning. In order to deconvolute the highly complicated scoring system in use at Bathurst, this is how it works.

The following is a series of incidents or events that, once witnessed by any one of your race team, are deemed worthy of 'a vessel' - that is, you will be required by race organisers to drain your drinking vessel into an appropriate orifice, hopefully your mouth. This is where the advantage of the throwdown stubbie or the NZ pub-spec 7oz (200mL) beer glass comes into play; choose wisely, don't be let down by your equipment.

























Or the quality of your race fuel, for that matter.

You will be required to consume the content of your vessel on occasion of the following:

• The race start

This moment is to be savoured, as it will be recalled next day as the point where, as the Back Of The Y team would have put it, SUDDENLY, THE STUNT WENT HORRIBLY WRONG.

• Announcement of a safety car period

For particularly long safety car periods, at the organisers' discretion, further 'vessels' may be called for. As a result of this policy Paul Radisich, after smearing the Team Kiwi along the bridge supports after the Chase, has been judged responsible for a large proportion of my hangover from last year.














The world's first rear-engined V8 Supercar hatchback

• Gratuitous, awkward commentary references to Peter Brock

A bit of a gimme really.

• Mark Skaife swearing on race radio

Likewise. Last year it didn't even take half a lap.

• Todd Kelly getting the Sandown squirts again

Which will probably result in Skaifey dropping the F-bomb as soon as he parks himself mid-puddle in the seat after a pit stop

• Confirmed sightings of anyone busting out the race tape and/or sledgehammer in pit lane
  
• WPS team driver Grant Denyer being referred to as 'the dancing weatherman'

What a twat

• Some poor bastard in pit lane getting cleaned up by another team's tyres/tools/car
  
• Idiot commentator Matthew White declaring after four or five dull-as-fuck hours that 'The action is really hotting up now' (V8 Supercars' equivalent to Tony Greig's 'Ut duzen't git more excitung then thus')
  
• Dick Johnson looking really, really old when interviewed in pit lane
  
• Neil Crompton boring everyone to tears with punishingly detailed dissections of roll centre adjustments, fuel mapping, and dicking around with those interactive 3D CAD drawings he flogged from Tasman Motorsport
  (However, Cromptonian references to individuals or teams 'managing the race' are not a 'Vessel' offence as the organisers would like to see someone still upright and functional beyond the two hour mark)
  
• Someone giggling when the commentators mention Mark Winterbottom
  

Certain extraordinary circumstances of great significance, unexpectedness or importance, as determined by the organisers, may require a 'double vessel' - that is to sköl, refill, and sköl once more. These include:

• Greg Murphy ripping the fuel hose off with his car like a few years back and going off to sulk in the team Portaloo again
  
• Craig Lowndes not making a smug shiny-faced arseburgler of himself such that you just want to stove in his stupid munchkin face with a shovel and scream 'Brocky never loved you and your missus is hideous, chumblybum'
• Someone bunkering the Chrysler 300C safety car in the sandtrap
  
• Someone other than Triple 8 or HRT/Toll-HSV winning the race
• Anyone still being sober at the four hour race update (to the point of being able to read the clock on the wall and surmise that this is indeed the four hour update)
  

And finally, should any of the following occur:

• The Chrysler 300C safety car stopping up at the campgrounds on top of the hill to pull burnouts and/or deliver slabs of piss from Bathurst Liquorland
• The Nissan GTR (aka Godzilla) coming out of retirement Rocky Balboa-style to show these young Falcodore upstarts how things were done back in the day (later to be disqualified for using performance-enhancing substances)
  
• Paul Morris winning the race

Stop drinking immediately as you are clearly pissed as forty bastards and have begun to hallucinate. We recommend finding a Powerade, a kebab and a taxi home.

Good luck, and remember, when the flag drops, the bullshit stops. The bullshitting, however, has only just begun.

The Doctor is OUT, lap 28, engine.

Grand final special: neither grand nor special

A very punishing weekend of sport, in the way that people who talk loudly about themselves at parties are very punishing people. Which is why it's taken until first practice at Bathurst to finally extrude our 2007 Footy Grand Final(s) Report.

Saturday: Sup 'G
Saturday afternoon's stoush between the Port Power Tools and the Geelong Unemployed Engine Assemblers at the 'G was in fact the first AFL Grand Final (indeed, the first whole game of AFL football) Your Correspondent has sat through for many years, probably since the short-lived love affair between the Lions and south-east Queensland. This year's telecast was brought to me in association with Sky Sport, Choadafone broadband and figuring out how to delay the satellite signal just long enough to sync the pics up with Roy and HG's online call (a proprietary methodology involving a DVD recorder and a fair amount of arse). This even enabled enjoyment of the pre-match entertainment provided by Geelong's finest bogan exports Jet, though they seemed to be neither enjoying the festivities nor anywhere near in sync themselves. This probably had something to do with the astonishing level to which the AFL had whored its corporate arse to major sponsors Toyota, demonstrated by Jet's bass player Mark being obliged to apply a broad strip of the roadies' best friend, gaffa tape, over the Ford logo on his Cats jersey. The AFL's commercial reamage was further highlighted by the retiring players' parade which took place not in visibility-friendly open-topped cars, as you'd probably expect, but in ALL NEW KLUGERS (in case you misheard the forty-seven booming ground annoucements), i.e. big hulking 4WDs with tinted windows. Geniarse. Then again Toyota don't get a lot of love out of the week immediately after the Grand Final, that of Bathurst, with Ford and Holden conspiring to get a monumental PR free-kick out of their exclusive involvement in V8 Supercars (and if Toyota could find enough content in their trouser to build a decent rear-drive V8 sedan, they might even get an invite to play in that sandpit too) so it wasn't that surprising, just a bit embarrassing. Of course Geelong went on to balls up Toyota's big afternoon by winning the Big Cheese On Offer and their captain giving a very public shout-out to their sponsors' product on the victory dais...

We're focusing on the peripherals of the game for one fairly considerable reason: there was no game. In light of this, let me tell you the story of a football club called Port Adelaide. They stink. The End. It was for good reason that HG Nelson started calling them as the Port Adelaide Dickheads midway through the second quarter; they were less use than a busted arse on International Busted Arse Free Day. As bad as Port were, Geelong were stoopid-good. The Bartel kiddie appeared very much worthy of the Brownlow (and, to my way of thinking, the Norm Smith as well, though that went to Steve Johnson - the start of a busy week for him having to back up in his old man's Falcon at Bathurst). As for the Sons Of God, the Ablett boys demonstrated conclusively the important role played by good genetics in being a top-line AFL footballer. As well as the important role played by not being on smack.





















Propecia: about the only banned drug Ablett Snr wasn't on

Sunday: Insert 'Perfect Storm' pun here, pause for editing/lynching
The 'Night Grand Final' may still piss off the purists, but one thing's fo' sho' - it makes for a markedly less shitbox pre-match show. Amazing what can be achieved with a couple of projectors from Rentlo, some old bedsheets and a stiff westerly, though someone really needs to enrol Darren Lockyer in the Larry Emdur 'Price Is Right' School of Waving Convincingly On Camera. He looked about as comfortable as Todd Kelly's Sandown 500 co-driver on race morning, on finding out the Toddler (a) had violent projectile gastric and (b) was taking the first stint of the race. As Philthy Phil from Grinspoon would have said, it was a hard act to follow. Actually Phil would probably have nicked the HRT Commodore from around the back of the pits while Toddler was parked on the bowl and tried to hock it at Theft Converters for P money. What has this got to do with the NRL Grand Final? Two fifths of fuck all, naturally, but thanks for asking. As predicted, the battle between the two most keenly disliked teams in the NRL was dominated by the News Limited Storm who eviscerated the Sea Urkels 34-8 in the most one-sided display of a man kicking a dog seen in... about a day and a half. Earlier, in the most anticipated reserve grade final since ever, the Northern South Sydney Rabid Bears were twenty seconds from winning the cup before the baby Eelses had to go fuck it up for them. Still, old man Peachey's wonderful and emotive post-match interview was worth the price of admission in itself. But even watching North Sydney's murderers (and South Sydney's vanquishers) getting their deserved comeuppance in the Big One was difficult to enjoy, as it was at the hands of a soulless, supporterless, Murdoch-owned 'franchise' with the integrity of a Liberal party campaign strategist and the spirit of a dentist's waiting room.














The Panthers beat the Eels in the Flegg final, thanks to Jason Akermanis

All in all, a shit weekend really, really topped off by former Raiders ballboy Mark Webber getting fucked over when within a poofteenth of leading the Jap GP at Fuji International Aquajet. Despite coming down with a touch of the Toddlers and hurling inside his helmet in the first couple of laps, it was a different streak of sick who ended his tilt - one named Sebastian Vettel, his pseudo-teammate from the other Red Bull team, who somehow conspired to pile into Webber while tooling around behind the safety car while Alonso's prang was being cleaned up and Nando was trying to figure out whether he could pin fault on someone else so as not to lose his 100% no-claim bonus. What a tool. Vettel I mean, not Nando, though he's looking a bit tardescent after parking his otherwise functional MP4/twentysomething McLaren in the roadside furniture and effectively conceding the F1 title to race winner Lewis 'Not a Jewess' Hamiltron. Latest rumours have Nando moving to Scuderia Ferret next year, with Felipe Massa Attack supposedly being farmed out to Toyota (to drive an ALL NEW KLUGER perhaps?) in place of the recently released Half Schumacher. Nando's teammate would then be Look-At-Me-Kimi Raikkonen, who in unrelated news has been vastly and repeatedly underrated by this column for what he actually is: a lunatic pisshound of the highest order. He might be the most boring post-race-interviewee since Mika Hakkinen (who was usually taking the piss anyway) but you have to give kudos to a man prepared to spend his off-weekends copiloting his mates' racing powerboat dressed in a gorilla suit, or entering snowmobile races under the name of James Hunt (lunatic pisshound F1 driver of 30 years ago.)













Of course 'James Hunt' could just be rhyming slang

Again, what has this to do with the Grand Final? Less than two fifths of fuck-all, as above, but both games were fucking appalling so I've got to write about something yeah?

Actually I've made it to the bottom of the page so I can stop now. Bathurst in three sleeps, kids. Get your drinking caps on. The Doctor is OUT.