From our 'Oh for fuck's sake' file...
The Britpop civil war of the '90s has finally reached armistice. Peace has been declared. Where once pitched battles raged across the stages and the pages of the British music industry, there is now rapproachment between the two warring tribes of Britpop, between those who follow the Mancunian Brothers Gallagher and those who set their star by that floppy haired tweek who went on to sing for Gorillaz. Oasis versus Blur, people. Get with the program.
Anyway, as some old dead fucker from Liverpool once wrote, war is over. And the peacemaker? Not a fairly shit action flick with George Clooney and a dubiously un-ginga Nicole Kidman (why did the last 10 minutes on the big nuke timer go for twenty on-screen?) but... cheese.
Our story begins with former Blur bass player Alex James who has packed in the London celebrity gig and fucked off to the sticks. He lives in a house (a very big house) in the country, doesn't drink smoke laugh takes herbal baths in the country... Sorry. Anyway he's got a farm in the Cotswolds and makes cheese. Not dick cheese either, the proper stuff.
And it seems, if Sources Close To The Band (i.e. some cunt from the NME who made this shit up) are accurate, cheese was the glue that held Blur together for so long. "Cheese was the glue that held Blur together so long," A Friend was quoted as saying. "Damon (Albarn, aforementioned tweek) and Alex (James) have always been enthusiastic about cheese. But it wasn't until recently that Alex discovered Liam (Gallagher) and Noel (Where's me fruit platteh) shared their obsession." Who this Friend Of The Band is, other than a tedious name-dropping arsetard, remains a mystery, but pretty safe to say it's not Graham (Coxon), former guitarist for Blur, who is still of the opinion that Damon (Albarn) and Alex (James) are a pair of (fuck)wits. Oasis, for their part, are no strangers to producing their own cheese (insert Be Here Now joke here, pause for editing.)
Anyway Farmer James has invited Albarn and the Gallaghers up to his cheese factory to jointly develop a special edition cheese for the upcoming BRIT awards. James, whose life has transitioned completely from hard drugs to soft cheese, has remarked, "It's amazing, the friends you can make, just through cheese. People get very emotional about it!"
Maybe not a complete transition away from the 'hard drugs' side of the ledger then methinks? Someone tell him to stop mainlining the Gruyere.
The Doctor is OUT.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
As the dhey is long
"I used to be a homosexual. But I had to give it up, because it made my eyes water."
Michael Gambon, Top Gear, 2006
This edition of the World of Bollocks is totally gay. Or, if you prefer, ghey. By 'ghey', of course, I mean the postmodern redevelopment of 'gay' presently in hipster vogue, which 'implies all the formerly offensive stereotypes of uselessness/weakness then associated with effeminate homosexual men in 1970's sitcoms, whilst carrying with it no actual implied sexuality connotations' (Urban Dictionary). Two meanings... ghey... it's a homonym. Forget it.
And be warned gents, it's a long one. (Ooh err Matron.)
Art films are always about gay cowboys eating pudding
The fat kid speaks truth. The star of the most well known of aforesaid fillums left us last week, and with his passing left more questions than answers, one of the most pressing of which is that of 'How completely tardescent do you have to be to actually Google 'Keith Fletcher' instead of 'Heath Ledger'?'
But the most pressing of the questions left behind after Ledger's departure is this.
What the fuck is this fucking fucktard's story anyway?
The World of Bollocks would like not to introduce Shirley Phelps-Roper, spokeshag for the Westborough Baptist Church in Kansas and the charming godhatesfags.com. Yes, we'd like not to introduce this shrivelled-up bile bag, but the following story unfortunately requires it. Phelps-Roper, on Washington radio, on the death of Leaf Hedger:
"Heath Ledger is in hell. He is dead and he is in hell. We must warn this nation that if you follow his example, you will go to hell with him. He used his big megaphone called fame, that he got in his hands, to scream out across the globe that God is a liar. God said homosexuality is an abomination and he said, "that's a lie, it's okay to be gay". God said, "Though shall not commit adultery" and he said, "That's a lie. It is okay to change your sex partners and your spouses more often than you change your undergarments". So God, pursuant to his promises, cut him off. He is dead and he is in hell. We must warn this nation that if you follow his example, you will go to hell with him."
Riiiight.
Aside from the minor issue that Phelps-Roper herself had a child out of wedlock and is therefore not only a hypocrite but a SINNER! SATANIC CONCUBINE! HEATHEN! WITCH! Now if she weighs the same as a duck... she's made of wood... and therefore... A WITCH! A WITCH! BURN HER! Let's make her into a ladder.
Uh, yeah. The other problem with the otherwise eloquent argument of this sour-faced streak of fermented cat's piss is that Heath wasn't... actually... gay. Oh sure, he might looked pretty into it on set while he was bumming the bloke from Donnie Darko, but while the cameras weren't rolling he was fairly desperately trying to prove it was all pretend acting and stuff, going to the extent of not only taking up with his female co-star, the chubby one from Dawson's Creek, but burying the bone in her garden and planting his seed. Is that a mixed metaphor? Whatever. He gave her one, which is more than Dawson ever fuckin' managed. Or maybe he did, our flat were generally too busy playing drinking games to notice.
Anyway, traditionally the only thing which deep South extreme right wing religious nutjobs hate more than them fags is that Say-tanick devil music - every metal act from Metallica to Twisted Sister (no, really) has felt the brunt of the bible belt. So what we really need, in order to send these god-bothering arsetards completely off the deep end, is an old-skool, snarling, fearsome, eat-your-children heavy metal frontman.
Who just happens to be gay as the day is long.
On cue...
I give you the man, the myth, the legend... Rob Halford of Judas Priest, the original Metal God. When this man declared that he was Hell Bent For Leather, he meant it, children.
Knights eject Johns
Buggering up an otherwise fairly tops weekend for the one-time steel capital of Newcastle (go the Jets), the city's third-favourite Johns boy, freelance ponce and Heath Ledger impersonator Daniel, and his former kiddie band Silverchair were summarily given the arse by pommie Pink Floyd channellers Muse in the battle of the Almighty Hunnert on Straya Day, with the latter's stupendously overblown Knights of Cydonia outpointing the Chair's Straight Lines by some 13 votes, the democratic equivalent of a pubic hair. Which appears to be what young Danny is sporting on his face at present, in the form of the most-glued-on-looking goatee in Christendom, in 'landing strip' style of course. Presumably Ms Imbruglia dropped him because he kept scouring the bottom of the shower recess for fresh ammo for the Advanced Hair people after she'd been in for her daily ablutions. Or maybe it's because even after ten years in the spotlight he still looks like a snotty-nosed tween brat from Newy's bogan west (or north, south or east for that matter), as likely to be able to grow his own facial hair as to be able to write a decent rock song.
For the record, Knights of Cydonia was eleventh on The World's voting shortlist of ten. And having finally seen the film clip - which is precisely the piss-taking cyber-sci-fi spaghetti Western the song itself demands to be set to - your correspondent thinks he should have revised his voting strategy towards making that winning margin 14 votes.
Anyway. Silverchair are totally ghey, which is the tenuous link which we're maintaining here. Along with ABC youth radio. Which, of course, is Triple Ghey.
Gordon Ramsey? Fucking amateur
In the '80s, everyone worked at the ABC were either communists or poofters, according not only to fascist fruitbat Sir Joh but former TV chef and professional swearing enthusiast Peter Russell-Clarke who thanks to the power of the internerd is now famous not only for his catchcry 'Where's the cheese?' but also for his formerly less well-known refrain of 'Fucking fry the cunts till they go black you prick.' Along with this infamy has come a part-time gig hosting a sweary cooking segment on the latest iteration of Triple J Breakfast, so it's not all bad. Which, as an aside, could probably be said about the latest breakfast show lineup of Robbie Buck, Random Book Chick and Dr Lindemans, with former ABC fave Ms Warhurst now Myffing in action courtesy Triple M throwing money at the problem of their dire ratings, and the Doctor's Frenzal Rhombmate Jason Whalley-Kilmer effing off O/S with his GF. Having heard precisely none of the new show (other than the original Peter Russell-Clarke interview on the Triple J website, which is just as convulsively, eye-wateringly funny as the YouTube blooper reel itself) the World of Bollocks is obviously in the perfect position to comment, but it seems from their guestbook that even at this early juncture the listeners are sipping the Haterade on the new combo, spouting bile and sledgescence and wailing like spoilt brats for the return of the previous encumbents. Which, of course, is precisely what everyone said when Jay and the Doctor replaced Adam and Wil (another Triple M turncoat bastard)... and when Adam replaced Paul, Mikey and the Sandman... and when that lot replaced Mikey and Helen... and even when Mikey and Helen replaced Maynard F# motherfucking Crabbes for fuck's sake...
Back to Peter Russell-Clarke. Your Correspondent, along with several of The World's loyal, dissolute, enthusiastically pissheaded audience, was taught high school science by a man with a disturbing likeness to PR-C, with a bit of Wallaby Jack (an early evolutionary precursor of Russell Coight) spliced in for shits and giggles. Of which there were mind-numbingly few when our very own, slightly ginga Russell-Clarke was in session - the giggles I mean; the shits were what we ended up getting once he'd been talking continuously for forty-five minutes out of the fifty the period allowed. Having said that, I'd like to give the man cue credit for being the main reason I decided to pursue a career in the biological sciences. I'd like to, but it'd be pretty much total bullshit. Actually it was because the chicks were way hotter than in physics or chemistry lectures. Yes, we're that shallow here at the World of Bollocks.
What's Hindi for 'Ow my arse'
And finally, no discussion of ghey/gayness would be complete without mentioning one group of individuals who appear to be walking very oddly today: Cricket Australia, fresh from being bent over the bonnet of the ICC's ute and royally shafted with the Indian cricket board's mighty Grey-Nicolls blade. (Actually it'd be more likely to be a MRF wouldn't it?) Given that the Indians procure three quarters of the coin in the ICC's coffers, the dodgy dealings which resulted in Harbhajan Singh not having a case to answer for his 'monkey' sledge (as previously discussed here and here and here) were as unsurprising as they were utterly, inescapably corrupt. And ghey. I did mention ghey didn't I.
While world cricket is being held financial hostage by the Indians - a nation which can reasonably and charitably be characterised as a bunch of fucking nutters with the rational reasoning skills of a four year old and an effigy-burning fetish that really needs some professional psychological care - there will be no fair hearing for Australian cricketers, and Australian cricket, in forums such as these. In all future meetings between the pair, the on-field umpires, the third umpire, the match referee, right down to the motherfucker who drives the big-arse Gatorade-bottle drinks cart will be hand-picked by the Board of Control for Cricket in India.
To which Australia can, and will, have only one response.
Not merely to beat them, but to ground the sorry little fuckers into the dust at each and every opportunity which is afforded to them.
With a big, friendly, Tourism-Australia-approved smile on their faces, of course.
The Doctor is OUT.
Michael Gambon, Top Gear, 2006
This edition of the World of Bollocks is totally gay. Or, if you prefer, ghey. By 'ghey', of course, I mean the postmodern redevelopment of 'gay' presently in hipster vogue, which 'implies all the formerly offensive stereotypes of uselessness/weakness then associated with effeminate homosexual men in 1970's sitcoms, whilst carrying with it no actual implied sexuality connotations' (Urban Dictionary). Two meanings... ghey... it's a homonym. Forget it.
And be warned gents, it's a long one. (Ooh err Matron.)
Art films are always about gay cowboys eating pudding
The fat kid speaks truth. The star of the most well known of aforesaid fillums left us last week, and with his passing left more questions than answers, one of the most pressing of which is that of 'How completely tardescent do you have to be to actually Google 'Keith Fletcher' instead of 'Heath Ledger'?'
But the most pressing of the questions left behind after Ledger's departure is this.
What the fuck is this fucking fucktard's story anyway?
The World of Bollocks would like not to introduce Shirley Phelps-Roper, spokeshag for the Westborough Baptist Church in Kansas and the charming godhatesfags.com. Yes, we'd like not to introduce this shrivelled-up bile bag, but the following story unfortunately requires it. Phelps-Roper, on Washington radio, on the death of Leaf Hedger:
"Heath Ledger is in hell. He is dead and he is in hell. We must warn this nation that if you follow his example, you will go to hell with him. He used his big megaphone called fame, that he got in his hands, to scream out across the globe that God is a liar. God said homosexuality is an abomination and he said, "that's a lie, it's okay to be gay". God said, "Though shall not commit adultery" and he said, "That's a lie. It is okay to change your sex partners and your spouses more often than you change your undergarments". So God, pursuant to his promises, cut him off. He is dead and he is in hell. We must warn this nation that if you follow his example, you will go to hell with him."
Riiiight.
Aside from the minor issue that Phelps-Roper herself had a child out of wedlock and is therefore not only a hypocrite but a SINNER! SATANIC CONCUBINE! HEATHEN! WITCH! Now if she weighs the same as a duck... she's made of wood... and therefore... A WITCH! A WITCH! BURN HER! Let's make her into a ladder.
Uh, yeah. The other problem with the otherwise eloquent argument of this sour-faced streak of fermented cat's piss is that Heath wasn't... actually... gay. Oh sure, he might looked pretty into it on set while he was bumming the bloke from Donnie Darko, but while the cameras weren't rolling he was fairly desperately trying to prove it was all pretend acting and stuff, going to the extent of not only taking up with his female co-star, the chubby one from Dawson's Creek, but burying the bone in her garden and planting his seed. Is that a mixed metaphor? Whatever. He gave her one, which is more than Dawson ever fuckin' managed. Or maybe he did, our flat were generally too busy playing drinking games to notice.
Anyway, traditionally the only thing which deep South extreme right wing religious nutjobs hate more than them fags is that Say-tanick devil music - every metal act from Metallica to Twisted Sister (no, really) has felt the brunt of the bible belt. So what we really need, in order to send these god-bothering arsetards completely off the deep end, is an old-skool, snarling, fearsome, eat-your-children heavy metal frontman.
Who just happens to be gay as the day is long.
On cue...
I give you the man, the myth, the legend... Rob Halford of Judas Priest, the original Metal God. When this man declared that he was Hell Bent For Leather, he meant it, children.
Knights eject Johns
Buggering up an otherwise fairly tops weekend for the one-time steel capital of Newcastle (go the Jets), the city's third-favourite Johns boy, freelance ponce and Heath Ledger impersonator Daniel, and his former kiddie band Silverchair were summarily given the arse by pommie Pink Floyd channellers Muse in the battle of the Almighty Hunnert on Straya Day, with the latter's stupendously overblown Knights of Cydonia outpointing the Chair's Straight Lines by some 13 votes, the democratic equivalent of a pubic hair. Which appears to be what young Danny is sporting on his face at present, in the form of the most-glued-on-looking goatee in Christendom, in 'landing strip' style of course. Presumably Ms Imbruglia dropped him because he kept scouring the bottom of the shower recess for fresh ammo for the Advanced Hair people after she'd been in for her daily ablutions. Or maybe it's because even after ten years in the spotlight he still looks like a snotty-nosed tween brat from Newy's bogan west (or north, south or east for that matter), as likely to be able to grow his own facial hair as to be able to write a decent rock song.
For the record, Knights of Cydonia was eleventh on The World's voting shortlist of ten. And having finally seen the film clip - which is precisely the piss-taking cyber-sci-fi spaghetti Western the song itself demands to be set to - your correspondent thinks he should have revised his voting strategy towards making that winning margin 14 votes.
Anyway. Silverchair are totally ghey, which is the tenuous link which we're maintaining here. Along with ABC youth radio. Which, of course, is Triple Ghey.
Gordon Ramsey? Fucking amateur
In the '80s, everyone worked at the ABC were either communists or poofters, according not only to fascist fruitbat Sir Joh but former TV chef and professional swearing enthusiast Peter Russell-Clarke who thanks to the power of the internerd is now famous not only for his catchcry 'Where's the cheese?' but also for his formerly less well-known refrain of 'Fucking fry the cunts till they go black you prick.' Along with this infamy has come a part-time gig hosting a sweary cooking segment on the latest iteration of Triple J Breakfast, so it's not all bad. Which, as an aside, could probably be said about the latest breakfast show lineup of Robbie Buck, Random Book Chick and Dr Lindemans, with former ABC fave Ms Warhurst now Myffing in action courtesy Triple M throwing money at the problem of their dire ratings, and the Doctor's Frenzal Rhombmate Jason Whalley-Kilmer effing off O/S with his GF. Having heard precisely none of the new show (other than the original Peter Russell-Clarke interview on the Triple J website, which is just as convulsively, eye-wateringly funny as the YouTube blooper reel itself) the World of Bollocks is obviously in the perfect position to comment, but it seems from their guestbook that even at this early juncture the listeners are sipping the Haterade on the new combo, spouting bile and sledgescence and wailing like spoilt brats for the return of the previous encumbents. Which, of course, is precisely what everyone said when Jay and the Doctor replaced Adam and Wil (another Triple M turncoat bastard)... and when Adam replaced Paul, Mikey and the Sandman... and when that lot replaced Mikey and Helen... and even when Mikey and Helen replaced Maynard F# motherfucking Crabbes for fuck's sake...
Back to Peter Russell-Clarke. Your Correspondent, along with several of The World's loyal, dissolute, enthusiastically pissheaded audience, was taught high school science by a man with a disturbing likeness to PR-C, with a bit of Wallaby Jack (an early evolutionary precursor of Russell Coight) spliced in for shits and giggles. Of which there were mind-numbingly few when our very own, slightly ginga Russell-Clarke was in session - the giggles I mean; the shits were what we ended up getting once he'd been talking continuously for forty-five minutes out of the fifty the period allowed. Having said that, I'd like to give the man cue credit for being the main reason I decided to pursue a career in the biological sciences. I'd like to, but it'd be pretty much total bullshit. Actually it was because the chicks were way hotter than in physics or chemistry lectures. Yes, we're that shallow here at the World of Bollocks.
What's Hindi for 'Ow my arse'
And finally, no discussion of ghey/gayness would be complete without mentioning one group of individuals who appear to be walking very oddly today: Cricket Australia, fresh from being bent over the bonnet of the ICC's ute and royally shafted with the Indian cricket board's mighty Grey-Nicolls blade. (Actually it'd be more likely to be a MRF wouldn't it?) Given that the Indians procure three quarters of the coin in the ICC's coffers, the dodgy dealings which resulted in Harbhajan Singh not having a case to answer for his 'monkey' sledge (as previously discussed here and here and here) were as unsurprising as they were utterly, inescapably corrupt. And ghey. I did mention ghey didn't I.
While world cricket is being held financial hostage by the Indians - a nation which can reasonably and charitably be characterised as a bunch of fucking nutters with the rational reasoning skills of a four year old and an effigy-burning fetish that really needs some professional psychological care - there will be no fair hearing for Australian cricketers, and Australian cricket, in forums such as these. In all future meetings between the pair, the on-field umpires, the third umpire, the match referee, right down to the motherfucker who drives the big-arse Gatorade-bottle drinks cart will be hand-picked by the Board of Control for Cricket in India.
To which Australia can, and will, have only one response.
Not merely to beat them, but to ground the sorry little fuckers into the dust at each and every opportunity which is afforded to them.
With a big, friendly, Tourism-Australia-approved smile on their faces, of course.
The Doctor is OUT.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Leaf Hedger drops off the twig
What, too soon?
Anyway that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. Today I want to talk about why the people in nominal control of cricket in Australia (that would be Cricket Australia, for those into nominative determinism) are, to quote that great philosopher, movie star and turdologist Kenny Smyth, as silly as a bum full of Smarties.
Cricket Australia and the willow and leather community at large (as distinct from the whips and leather community, to which Tony Greig also belongs) have been whinging all summer about the lack of crowds at their Big Events. While the SCG test pretty much sold out all days (partly because of the quality of the game, but mostly because the ground was only at two-thirds capacity courtesy a bloody great big fuck-off industrial strength hole where the Doug Walters Stand usually reposes), nobody turned up to the tests in Brisbane and Hobart, the WACA barely pulled fifty thousand across the four days of the recent Perth test despite the ultimate week-long promotional exercise in the form of Bollygate, and even Bill Lawry's beloved Victorians couldn't be arsed turning up to the MCG on Boxing Day. Excuses by the metric shitload have been trundled out by the authorities to explain the lack of bums on seats - the lack of pulling power of subcontinental teams, the hangover from the over-hyped Ashes series, unfriendly prevailing winds, global warming, Peter Reith's continuing non-deadness and the decline of organised religion in Western civilization.
Bollocks. How about these two suggestions, Cricket Oz, to fix the lack of crowds at test matches, both of which resulting from Your Fucking Fuckups in the recent past:
1. Stop letting jacked-up security Nazis fuck up the fun for everyone at the game, particularly your core target audience. 'Oh but we're trying to make things better for families,' CA piss and moan. This just in: families don't go to the cricket. They can't fucking afford to go to the cricket, either in terms of time or money. The only people who can afford to spend the entire contents of their day and their wallets sitting around drinking warm, flat, low-alcohol dog-slash out of carcinogenic plastic cups are cashed-up, single, 18-30 pisshead males - the very clientele CA's decade-long aggressive anti-yobbo campaign has driven off. Like it or not, CA, cashed up 18-30 pissheads are your key demographic. NZ has this absolutely sussed - check out the way the Phoenix has marketed themselves, pulling tens of thousands to go see the worst side in the A-League, or even this weekend's Wellington Sevens for another perfect example of how to market to young, modern, dynamic, disposable-income pissheads who will get dressed up like eejits, sink piss all day, have a great time and who your sponsors and your caterers will absolutely lurrrve (your security and/or cleaning contractors, maybe not so much.) CA, it's about time you took the long-standing advice of Gold Coast business roundtable magnate TMD.com - encase Pisshead Alley in its entirety in Plexiglas and let the natives build beer snakes, chuck stuff at each other during the Mexican Wave, and sledge fat seccies to their heart's content. Keep up the beer deliveries and the pie warmer stocked and you will absolutely COIN it in.
2. Stop pretending you're the only game in town. Cricket is the national sport by default, just like VB is the nation's most popular beer - because regional preferences for other products don't translate nationwide (for XXXX, Tooheys and Cascade read league, union and AFL.) You're not the only game in town so scheduling test matches in cities when there's something else on. Why did only ten thousand show up to the Saturday of the Hobart test in November? Because twenty-four thousand were up the road at Symmons Plains watching the V8 Supercars. And that was just the Saturday - race day on Sunday pulled even bigger numbers to Symmons (and inevitably away from Bellerive, either in person or on the box). How do you manage to schedule the only test match Tasphobia has had in two years up against the biggest-attended sporting event the island hosts? Particularly when the V8 Supercar calendar had been released for twelve months before the actual event? By being iron-clad, Kevlar-reinforced, Teflon-coated fucktards, that's how.
So have CA learned from being monumentally out-crowded by the V8 boys in Tassie? Have they bollocks. They've done it again this very week. The Adelaide test is scheduled for.... the exact week the Tour Down Under is on, the biggest professional cycle race in the southern hemisphere (as of this year, the Tour down Under is the first and only UCI ProTour event outside Europe, meaning that all the top teams which usually contest the Tour de France, Giro d'Italia et al have sent full-spec teams down here to take on the Aussie all stars in the UniSA squad.) The Tour will pull daily crowds in the tens to hundreds of thousands (85K on day one alone) - not quite up to the level of Le Tour (the Frenchie one) which often sees a million people a day lining the route, but metric arseloads more than will be scattered around the Adelaide Oval. If you're wondering where the crowds are at the Adelaide test, they're probably out on the streets of Hahndorf with a cold Coopers in hand cheering on Robbie McEwen and Stuie O'Grady.
For all that CA deserve all the flak they get and all the crowd they don't. It doesn't stop there, of course; as a result of these shabby logistical arrangements, the Indians are quite rightly up in arms, with widespread occurrences of effigies being burned in the streets. Of whom I've got no idea, not that it seems to matter two fifths of fuck all. At the world cup after losing to the Bangers it was Sachin and Sehwag who got the en flambe treatment; last week it was Punter and the umpires; this week it's (dick)head of Indian cricket Sharad Pawar and/or whichever selector left Sourav Ganguly out of the one-day side. Next week, Christ knows. With any kind of luck, probably this twat.
You know you're a cutting-edge pop culture icon when trendy US shirt websites like bustedtees.com have made a shirt about you. You also know you're about 14:59 into your fifteen minutes of fame and can safely fuck off any time now.
The Doctor is OUT.
Anyway that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. Today I want to talk about why the people in nominal control of cricket in Australia (that would be Cricket Australia, for those into nominative determinism) are, to quote that great philosopher, movie star and turdologist Kenny Smyth, as silly as a bum full of Smarties.
Cricket Australia and the willow and leather community at large (as distinct from the whips and leather community, to which Tony Greig also belongs) have been whinging all summer about the lack of crowds at their Big Events. While the SCG test pretty much sold out all days (partly because of the quality of the game, but mostly because the ground was only at two-thirds capacity courtesy a bloody great big fuck-off industrial strength hole where the Doug Walters Stand usually reposes), nobody turned up to the tests in Brisbane and Hobart, the WACA barely pulled fifty thousand across the four days of the recent Perth test despite the ultimate week-long promotional exercise in the form of Bollygate, and even Bill Lawry's beloved Victorians couldn't be arsed turning up to the MCG on Boxing Day. Excuses by the metric shitload have been trundled out by the authorities to explain the lack of bums on seats - the lack of pulling power of subcontinental teams, the hangover from the over-hyped Ashes series, unfriendly prevailing winds, global warming, Peter Reith's continuing non-deadness and the decline of organised religion in Western civilization.
Bollocks. How about these two suggestions, Cricket Oz, to fix the lack of crowds at test matches, both of which resulting from Your Fucking Fuckups in the recent past:
1. Stop letting jacked-up security Nazis fuck up the fun for everyone at the game, particularly your core target audience. 'Oh but we're trying to make things better for families,' CA piss and moan. This just in: families don't go to the cricket. They can't fucking afford to go to the cricket, either in terms of time or money. The only people who can afford to spend the entire contents of their day and their wallets sitting around drinking warm, flat, low-alcohol dog-slash out of carcinogenic plastic cups are cashed-up, single, 18-30 pisshead males - the very clientele CA's decade-long aggressive anti-yobbo campaign has driven off. Like it or not, CA, cashed up 18-30 pissheads are your key demographic. NZ has this absolutely sussed - check out the way the Phoenix has marketed themselves, pulling tens of thousands to go see the worst side in the A-League, or even this weekend's Wellington Sevens for another perfect example of how to market to young, modern, dynamic, disposable-income pissheads who will get dressed up like eejits, sink piss all day, have a great time and who your sponsors and your caterers will absolutely lurrrve (your security and/or cleaning contractors, maybe not so much.) CA, it's about time you took the long-standing advice of Gold Coast business roundtable magnate TMD.com - encase Pisshead Alley in its entirety in Plexiglas and let the natives build beer snakes, chuck stuff at each other during the Mexican Wave, and sledge fat seccies to their heart's content. Keep up the beer deliveries and the pie warmer stocked and you will absolutely COIN it in.
2. Stop pretending you're the only game in town. Cricket is the national sport by default, just like VB is the nation's most popular beer - because regional preferences for other products don't translate nationwide (for XXXX, Tooheys and Cascade read league, union and AFL.) You're not the only game in town so scheduling test matches in cities when there's something else on. Why did only ten thousand show up to the Saturday of the Hobart test in November? Because twenty-four thousand were up the road at Symmons Plains watching the V8 Supercars. And that was just the Saturday - race day on Sunday pulled even bigger numbers to Symmons (and inevitably away from Bellerive, either in person or on the box). How do you manage to schedule the only test match Tasphobia has had in two years up against the biggest-attended sporting event the island hosts? Particularly when the V8 Supercar calendar had been released for twelve months before the actual event? By being iron-clad, Kevlar-reinforced, Teflon-coated fucktards, that's how.
So have CA learned from being monumentally out-crowded by the V8 boys in Tassie? Have they bollocks. They've done it again this very week. The Adelaide test is scheduled for.... the exact week the Tour Down Under is on, the biggest professional cycle race in the southern hemisphere (as of this year, the Tour down Under is the first and only UCI ProTour event outside Europe, meaning that all the top teams which usually contest the Tour de France, Giro d'Italia et al have sent full-spec teams down here to take on the Aussie all stars in the UniSA squad.) The Tour will pull daily crowds in the tens to hundreds of thousands (85K on day one alone) - not quite up to the level of Le Tour (the Frenchie one) which often sees a million people a day lining the route, but metric arseloads more than will be scattered around the Adelaide Oval. If you're wondering where the crowds are at the Adelaide test, they're probably out on the streets of Hahndorf with a cold Coopers in hand cheering on Robbie McEwen and Stuie O'Grady.
For all that CA deserve all the flak they get and all the crowd they don't. It doesn't stop there, of course; as a result of these shabby logistical arrangements, the Indians are quite rightly up in arms, with widespread occurrences of effigies being burned in the streets. Of whom I've got no idea, not that it seems to matter two fifths of fuck all. At the world cup after losing to the Bangers it was Sachin and Sehwag who got the en flambe treatment; last week it was Punter and the umpires; this week it's (dick)head of Indian cricket Sharad Pawar and/or whichever selector left Sourav Ganguly out of the one-day side. Next week, Christ knows. With any kind of luck, probably this twat.
You know you're a cutting-edge pop culture icon when trendy US shirt websites like bustedtees.com have made a shirt about you. You also know you're about 14:59 into your fifteen minutes of fame and can safely fuck off any time now.
The Doctor is OUT.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
A band by any other name would sound as crap
Hello there. Each year the Onion's A.V. Club compile their list of the worst band names to cross their path, either by appearing in their gig listings or just by being happened upon on MySpace. This year's edition is, as you'd expect, gold so go read it now (I said NOW you bastards) but as a taster here's the World of Bollocks' not in any way plagiarised summation of the ones which had us giggling the most:
As Your Attorney
The Asbestos Tampons
Baboon Torture Division
Ballcock Assembly
Bi Furious
Capitalist Hippie Complex
Car Full Of Midgets
Clusterfunk
Coach Said Not To
Dance Me Pregnant
The Dead Kenny Gs (both an excellent pun and something we could all be happy about)
Dyslexic Speedreaders
Fixed Gears Are For Jerks And Lesbians
Funk You and the Horse You Rode In On (the highlight of an extensive list covering every possible imaginable usage of ‘funk’ in a band name)
Gay Witch Abortion
General Patton & His Privates
Happy Mothers Day, I Can't Read
Harmonica Lewinsky
The House That Gloria Vanderbilt
It Shoulda Been Lars (they speak the truth)
Jewsus
Manchowder Tsunami (actually one bloke's Guitar Hero band name)
Neil Diamond Phillips
One Small Step For Landmines
The Pleasures Of Merely Circulating
Prognosis: Killing It
Ringo Deathstarr
Shitdisco
Skull Sküll (points for random usage of umlauts in the finest metal traditions)
Special Ed & The Shortbus
Statutory Grape
Sudden Infant Dance Syndrome
To Live And Shave In L.A.
Whore Du Jour
Yo Mama's Big Fat Booty Band
TICKLE ME EMO
Cliffs and Bitter Endings
Cross My Heart Hope To Die
Enigmatic Heart
Flowers Of Romance
The Ghost Is Dancing
Grave For The Fireflies
Gray Lines Of Perfection
I Would Set Myself On Fire For You
Order Of The Dying Orchid
Pieces Of A Dream
Winter Took His Life
RANDOM PROFANITY
Big Fucking Thunder
Cock Rock For Cannibals
Cocktards
Cribshitter
Expensive Shit
Fuckwolf
Ima Fucking Gymnist
The Mister Fuckhead Ensemble
Monster Cock Rally
The Pussy Pirates (first line of bio: "FIRST OFF WE'RE AN IDEAS BAND. I THINK WE PROVED THAT WITH ‘FUCK MOUNTAIN’")
Psychedelic Horseshit (who describe their sound as "trashcans fucking on cheap speed")
Slutbarf
Snatch Magnet
Stay Fucked
Steaming Wolf Penis
Those Fucking Unicorns
'Trashcans fucking on cheap speed'? They're ripping off our sound
A band name which sadly didn't turn up on the annual Worst Band Names list was that of an ex-Newcastle four-piece called Rainbow Junk. The Junk largely missed getting a guernsey because (a) it's not actually that bad a name and (b) they haven't played any gigs in North America. Well, not during calendar year 2007 anyway, other than a couple of gigs in Montreal pub gigs in November. For those of you late on arrival or slow on uptake, the Junk is the artistic endeavour of brother Grotboy, hipster fashion victim to the stars, and his admittedly talented Newy muso mates (particularly ace axeman Jack who shreds like a Magimix.) Their work sounds somewhat like Californication-era Chili Peppers newly back on the smack and feeling vaguely melancholy about it. From a lyrical perspective, they choose to take an abstractist deconstructional approach to their art (read: they make less sense than Mark Geyer after nine cones - yours or his, it wouldn't make much difference.) Then again that statement should be read in the context of someone prepared to un-ironically admit to liking Airbourne, therefore indicting me as a bogan rural hick from the sticks who secretly wants to drive around in a big fuck-off ute with a bullbar playing Acca Dacca at earwax-melting decibels. (Guilty as charged, Cletus.)
Grotboy in his short-lived 'Glenn Medeiros' phase
Anyway Ben and the boys have been in LA for about a month or so and have a couple of gigs lined up over the next few weeks. Someone must like 'em. Massive Attack's former producer, allegedly (a good story which we fervently hope is true.) So all the luck in the world to the lads - all of us at the World of Bollocks sincerely hope and trust that the record deal turns up before the immigration department do...
The Doctor is OUT.
PS As always here at the Bollocks, we welcome your suggestions for your own worst/best band names, album or song titles etc. Your correspondent has a list longer than God's own schlong which was compiled in a spasmic fit of mid-PhD procrastination, intended for a novel which remains stoutly and justifiably unfinished - some sort of bizarre genetically engineered hybrid of Still Crazy (the film), He Died With A Felafel In His Hand (definitely not the film) and Captain Stupidity (the immensely poor textual comic-strip which someone I know reasonably well once perpetrated on the world, or at least the bits which were paying vague attention).
The world may be a sick and wrong place but it surely deserves better than to suffer this indignity seeing the light of day.
PPS How about Debilitating Smack Habit for a band name? Presumably they'd open for Amy Winehouse.
As Your Attorney
The Asbestos Tampons
Baboon Torture Division
Ballcock Assembly
Bi Furious
Capitalist Hippie Complex
Car Full Of Midgets
Clusterfunk
Coach Said Not To
Dance Me Pregnant
The Dead Kenny Gs (both an excellent pun and something we could all be happy about)
Dyslexic Speedreaders
Fixed Gears Are For Jerks And Lesbians
Funk You and the Horse You Rode In On (the highlight of an extensive list covering every possible imaginable usage of ‘funk’ in a band name)
Gay Witch Abortion
General Patton & His Privates
Happy Mothers Day, I Can't Read
Harmonica Lewinsky
The House That Gloria Vanderbilt
It Shoulda Been Lars (they speak the truth)
Jewsus
Manchowder Tsunami (actually one bloke's Guitar Hero band name)
Neil Diamond Phillips
One Small Step For Landmines
The Pleasures Of Merely Circulating
Prognosis: Killing It
Ringo Deathstarr
Shitdisco
Skull Sküll (points for random usage of umlauts in the finest metal traditions)
Special Ed & The Shortbus
Statutory Grape
Sudden Infant Dance Syndrome
To Live And Shave In L.A.
Whore Du Jour
Yo Mama's Big Fat Booty Band
TICKLE ME EMO
Cliffs and Bitter Endings
Cross My Heart Hope To Die
Enigmatic Heart
Flowers Of Romance
The Ghost Is Dancing
Grave For The Fireflies
Gray Lines Of Perfection
I Would Set Myself On Fire For You
Order Of The Dying Orchid
Pieces Of A Dream
Winter Took His Life
RANDOM PROFANITY
Big Fucking Thunder
Cock Rock For Cannibals
Cocktards
Cribshitter
Expensive Shit
Fuckwolf
Ima Fucking Gymnist
The Mister Fuckhead Ensemble
Monster Cock Rally
The Pussy Pirates (first line of bio: "FIRST OFF WE'RE AN IDEAS BAND. I THINK WE PROVED THAT WITH ‘FUCK MOUNTAIN’")
Psychedelic Horseshit (who describe their sound as "trashcans fucking on cheap speed")
Slutbarf
Snatch Magnet
Stay Fucked
Steaming Wolf Penis
Those Fucking Unicorns
'Trashcans fucking on cheap speed'? They're ripping off our sound
A band name which sadly didn't turn up on the annual Worst Band Names list was that of an ex-Newcastle four-piece called Rainbow Junk. The Junk largely missed getting a guernsey because (a) it's not actually that bad a name and (b) they haven't played any gigs in North America. Well, not during calendar year 2007 anyway, other than a couple of gigs in Montreal pub gigs in November. For those of you late on arrival or slow on uptake, the Junk is the artistic endeavour of brother Grotboy, hipster fashion victim to the stars, and his admittedly talented Newy muso mates (particularly ace axeman Jack who shreds like a Magimix.) Their work sounds somewhat like Californication-era Chili Peppers newly back on the smack and feeling vaguely melancholy about it. From a lyrical perspective, they choose to take an abstractist deconstructional approach to their art (read: they make less sense than Mark Geyer after nine cones - yours or his, it wouldn't make much difference.) Then again that statement should be read in the context of someone prepared to un-ironically admit to liking Airbourne, therefore indicting me as a bogan rural hick from the sticks who secretly wants to drive around in a big fuck-off ute with a bullbar playing Acca Dacca at earwax-melting decibels. (Guilty as charged, Cletus.)
Grotboy in his short-lived 'Glenn Medeiros' phase
Anyway Ben and the boys have been in LA for about a month or so and have a couple of gigs lined up over the next few weeks. Someone must like 'em. Massive Attack's former producer, allegedly (a good story which we fervently hope is true.) So all the luck in the world to the lads - all of us at the World of Bollocks sincerely hope and trust that the record deal turns up before the immigration department do...
The Doctor is OUT.
PS As always here at the Bollocks, we welcome your suggestions for your own worst/best band names, album or song titles etc. Your correspondent has a list longer than God's own schlong which was compiled in a spasmic fit of mid-PhD procrastination, intended for a novel which remains stoutly and justifiably unfinished - some sort of bizarre genetically engineered hybrid of Still Crazy (the film), He Died With A Felafel In His Hand (definitely not the film) and Captain Stupidity (the immensely poor textual comic-strip which someone I know reasonably well once perpetrated on the world, or at least the bits which were paying vague attention).
The world may be a sick and wrong place but it surely deserves better than to suffer this indignity seeing the light of day.
PPS How about Debilitating Smack Habit for a band name? Presumably they'd open for Amy Winehouse.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Fully Sikh mate
No more on Bollyline I promise, though I still don't know what the fuck's going on. The usually insightful Peter Roebuck in the SMH has bade farewell to the plot entirely with a hysterical demand that Punter be fired from the Australian captaincy (for what? Not being sufficiently nice? When did that become a KPI associated with the job?) to be replaced with, one imagines, the Rev Tim Costello or Saint Delta Goodrem. This is ludicrous, much like the Indian team's claim that the Harb actually meant 'monkey' as a term of endearment towards Symonds - rather than as a description of Roy as a hairy, mentally deficient dark-skinned primate who spends large amounts of time up trees eating bananas - in line with the allegedly positive connotations usually ascribed to the word in Hindu circles. Presumably we're meant to ignore the fact that Harbhajan is about as Hindu as Tom Cruise; if he were any more 'fully Sikh' he'd be a subwoofer in the boot of a lowered Civic in Punchbowl. This makes about as much sense as the Japanese equating 'racist' Australians' 'barbaric' culling of 'endangered' kangaroos with their 'culturally significant' whale hunt. Apparently just like with roos out west, humpbacks are in such unsustainable numbers in the Southern Ocean these days they just chuck themselves over the bow of your boat as you try to cruise past. Absolute plague proportions. And you always get fucked over on your no-claim bonus with single vehicle accidents, just ask that bloke in charge of the Pasha Bulker.
As an aside, you'd be pretty fucked off if you were the Japanese whalers. Just trying to sneak up on a couple of hapless cetaceans on the quiet, Elmer Fudd style, and suddenly you've got half the Australian Navy trailing you around making a hideous fucking din with their prehistoric diesel ships and their inveterate rowdy piss sinking (don't let Sea Patrol Boat tell you otherwise) plus the Sea Shepherd nutters trying to pound you from behind like it's shower hour at Long Bay, the Rainbow Warrior endeavouring to get the Greenpeace corporate logo in the news footage in time for this season's membership pledge drive, Reuters, CNN, the Channel Seven chopper (chills me to my feet, as it happens)... anyone think the whales just might figure out to stay the fuck away from the Very Loud Shit going on over thattaway? As the Mint Chicks put it, I may be crazy but I'm not dumb.
(Who dey? Kiwi band. Best in the land, allegedly - winners of best album, best rock album and best group at the NZ Music Awards this year. They're OK but a bit patchy. Reckon they listened to a lot of Regurgitator growing up.)
Which segues seamlessly into what I actually wanted to talk about which was new music, and in particular Tha Hunnert. That being the Triple J Hottest 100, as much an Australia Day tradition these days as Sydney Big Day Out, the Baggy Greens annihilating someone or other in a cricket game in Adelaide, and bogans chucking rocks at Lebs on Cronulla beach. Notwithstanding the fact I've listened to two fifths of fuck all Js this year - apart from Roy and HG, though they edit the songs out of the podcasts - I exercised my democratic right to vote. And discovered two things: (1) there's a lot of new stuff I really should get around to listening to at some point and (2) I have no fucking idea who's going to win the thing. Much the same as Wheels Car Of The Year, which is the other big award thingy which comes out this time of year - usually you can have a stab in the dark at a potential winner (maybe the new Mondeo?) but this year, fuck knows. Radiohead? There or thereabouts, getting lots of attention with their 'edgy' release strategy, but is there an actual single in there? A single? Egad. They're far too conceited to dwell on such irrelevant minutiae as that, the self-immersed twats. Bloc Party? Also twats, and what they've released is basically a prog-rock concept album (and a pretentious one at that) which never bodes well for anything much. Wolfmother? No album, just the single - might work for them, might work against. There doesn't seem to be any big acts on the BDO bill which might get a commensurate publicity boost to their Hunnert chances, such as Queens of the Stone Age had a few years back - unless someone votes for Killing In The Name of course... But there'd be a Chair in there, and the Butler too; there'd presumably be some Northern Monkeys, the married siblings White, potentially an arcade-oriented conflagration and presumably a somersault with Pyke. And then there's perennial scoreboard attendant botherers Powderfinger, who have a new album and should by rights just have to turn up and have top ten slots dumped into their wheelbarrow, but...
I'm actually wondering if Powderfinger's demographic are actually on the verge of leaving the Triple J demographic. Whether the Venn diagrams are about to stop intersecting. The Finger were largely products of the '90s, and their fans likewise are predominately teenage products of the '90s themselves. As such, the twenty-something Finger freaks who voted the Brisvegans to consecutive Number Ones in 1999/2000 are now scaring thirty, probably have families, and have probably stopped listening to Triple J in favour of the Wiggles (generally not through choice). For the Finger, you can also read the Spoon, who've been kicking around since the mid '90s themselves (though their most recent post-Phil-on-P album is actually half decent), and ditto the Chair, although they've been more successful reinventing themselves as a girly-teenybopper ballad band (it'd be interesting to see how their current demographic would take to the likes of Israel's Son...)
So why have the kids of the '90s stopped listening to Triple J, you may ask? Well exclusively for The World of Bollocks I voxpopped several members of this all-important ABC1 target demographic - well Moff and AJ anyway - and got the following answer: "They play too much fucking shit." Which is as informative as it is concise. Basically, it's no longer worth it to wade through the angst-ridden emo bilge and the arseloads of shitbox local hiphop to wait to hear something listenable. At which point Moff went into an apoplectic diatribe about My Chemical Romance, and the air turned a malleable shade of blue. As you'd expect.
For my part, fuck My Chemical Romance as well. But Teenagers has an ironic charm, one which is completely intentional on the bands' part. For fuck's sake, it's basically Ugly Kid Joe's (I Hate) Everything About You just without the hair extensions. They're taking the piss out of their own target audience and deserve points for bravery (having thus managed to commercially blow both feet off). No idea how they convinced the record company to let them release it, but more power to them. At least the little emo fuckers sulking in the crowd have to cheer up when they hear it. And having come back home after three weeks away to grass ankle-high and swaying in the breeze, I wish my lawn was emo so at least it could cut itself.
Still didn't vote for them though. Fuck that, I have standards to uphold. Mainly went for new stuff from the Hives, the Spoon, OK Go and the Fratellis (the latter two outfits' albums having previously been reviewed here, the former pair to follow next CD review column.) Plus a token vote for the Finger, just to see if they trouble the scorers again this time around. Probably not, but we elderlies need to look after each others' interests.
The Doctor is OUT.
Afterthought: Still bewildered by the fact Kellie from Hi-5 was in the Teen Queens. How fucking old does that make you feel? Anyone remember the Teen Queens? They weren't exactly Triple J fodder, let me tell you...
As an aside, you'd be pretty fucked off if you were the Japanese whalers. Just trying to sneak up on a couple of hapless cetaceans on the quiet, Elmer Fudd style, and suddenly you've got half the Australian Navy trailing you around making a hideous fucking din with their prehistoric diesel ships and their inveterate rowdy piss sinking (don't let Sea Patrol Boat tell you otherwise) plus the Sea Shepherd nutters trying to pound you from behind like it's shower hour at Long Bay, the Rainbow Warrior endeavouring to get the Greenpeace corporate logo in the news footage in time for this season's membership pledge drive, Reuters, CNN, the Channel Seven chopper (chills me to my feet, as it happens)... anyone think the whales just might figure out to stay the fuck away from the Very Loud Shit going on over thattaway? As the Mint Chicks put it, I may be crazy but I'm not dumb.
(Who dey? Kiwi band. Best in the land, allegedly - winners of best album, best rock album and best group at the NZ Music Awards this year. They're OK but a bit patchy. Reckon they listened to a lot of Regurgitator growing up.)
Which segues seamlessly into what I actually wanted to talk about which was new music, and in particular Tha Hunnert. That being the Triple J Hottest 100, as much an Australia Day tradition these days as Sydney Big Day Out, the Baggy Greens annihilating someone or other in a cricket game in Adelaide, and bogans chucking rocks at Lebs on Cronulla beach. Notwithstanding the fact I've listened to two fifths of fuck all Js this year - apart from Roy and HG, though they edit the songs out of the podcasts - I exercised my democratic right to vote. And discovered two things: (1) there's a lot of new stuff I really should get around to listening to at some point and (2) I have no fucking idea who's going to win the thing. Much the same as Wheels Car Of The Year, which is the other big award thingy which comes out this time of year - usually you can have a stab in the dark at a potential winner (maybe the new Mondeo?) but this year, fuck knows. Radiohead? There or thereabouts, getting lots of attention with their 'edgy' release strategy, but is there an actual single in there? A single? Egad. They're far too conceited to dwell on such irrelevant minutiae as that, the self-immersed twats. Bloc Party? Also twats, and what they've released is basically a prog-rock concept album (and a pretentious one at that) which never bodes well for anything much. Wolfmother? No album, just the single - might work for them, might work against. There doesn't seem to be any big acts on the BDO bill which might get a commensurate publicity boost to their Hunnert chances, such as Queens of the Stone Age had a few years back - unless someone votes for Killing In The Name of course... But there'd be a Chair in there, and the Butler too; there'd presumably be some Northern Monkeys, the married siblings White, potentially an arcade-oriented conflagration and presumably a somersault with Pyke. And then there's perennial scoreboard attendant botherers Powderfinger, who have a new album and should by rights just have to turn up and have top ten slots dumped into their wheelbarrow, but...
I'm actually wondering if Powderfinger's demographic are actually on the verge of leaving the Triple J demographic. Whether the Venn diagrams are about to stop intersecting. The Finger were largely products of the '90s, and their fans likewise are predominately teenage products of the '90s themselves. As such, the twenty-something Finger freaks who voted the Brisvegans to consecutive Number Ones in 1999/2000 are now scaring thirty, probably have families, and have probably stopped listening to Triple J in favour of the Wiggles (generally not through choice). For the Finger, you can also read the Spoon, who've been kicking around since the mid '90s themselves (though their most recent post-Phil-on-P album is actually half decent), and ditto the Chair, although they've been more successful reinventing themselves as a girly-teenybopper ballad band (it'd be interesting to see how their current demographic would take to the likes of Israel's Son...)
So why have the kids of the '90s stopped listening to Triple J, you may ask? Well exclusively for The World of Bollocks I voxpopped several members of this all-important ABC1 target demographic - well Moff and AJ anyway - and got the following answer: "They play too much fucking shit." Which is as informative as it is concise. Basically, it's no longer worth it to wade through the angst-ridden emo bilge and the arseloads of shitbox local hiphop to wait to hear something listenable. At which point Moff went into an apoplectic diatribe about My Chemical Romance, and the air turned a malleable shade of blue. As you'd expect.
For my part, fuck My Chemical Romance as well. But Teenagers has an ironic charm, one which is completely intentional on the bands' part. For fuck's sake, it's basically Ugly Kid Joe's (I Hate) Everything About You just without the hair extensions. They're taking the piss out of their own target audience and deserve points for bravery (having thus managed to commercially blow both feet off). No idea how they convinced the record company to let them release it, but more power to them. At least the little emo fuckers sulking in the crowd have to cheer up when they hear it. And having come back home after three weeks away to grass ankle-high and swaying in the breeze, I wish my lawn was emo so at least it could cut itself.
Still didn't vote for them though. Fuck that, I have standards to uphold. Mainly went for new stuff from the Hives, the Spoon, OK Go and the Fratellis (the latter two outfits' albums having previously been reviewed here, the former pair to follow next CD review column.) Plus a token vote for the Finger, just to see if they trouble the scorers again this time around. Probably not, but we elderlies need to look after each others' interests.
The Doctor is OUT.
Afterthought: Still bewildered by the fact Kellie from Hi-5 was in the Teen Queens. How fucking old does that make you feel? Anyone remember the Teen Queens? They weren't exactly Triple J fodder, let me tell you...
Monkey magic
Well, an unbeaten 162 in the first dig, then knocking in another sixty-odd and taking 3 for 51 on a bum ankle is more than decent.
Yes after all that unseemly smut from the Munter we're back onto cricket (it's the Liver Cleansing Diet for the soul) and still wading through the unanswered questions in the aftermath of the fairly remarkable SCG Test. Having just watched the Day 5 highlights again, some questions seem to be finding answers, such as why Punter just kept sending batsmen over the top to oblivion for no apparent reason in a demented bid to push their score above 400 - it was either an attempt (eventually aborted) to get Hussey an unbeaten 150, or they knew Sachin was into numerology and figured a target score of 333 would really fuck with his head (333 being halfway to hell, as it were.) Worked.
However many imponderables remain, some of which include:
- Why on Earth did Pup Clarke stand his ground after being caught at slip having hit the cover off it?
- Did he know he was starting a trend?
- Was Brad Hogg serious or was he taking the piss?
- Was Steve Bucknor serious or was he taking the piss?
- Who was it that decided Mitchell Johnson was any good?
- Do you think they could un-decide it again fairly swiftly as he's actually rather pants?
- Is India (team and nation) now the worst losers in international sport, at least until the Portuguese footballers drop out of Euro2008 and Cristi Ronaldo cracks the shits again?
- Given the attention of their rabid media, are India's cricketers now the England footballers of world cricket? Although maybe without so much of the sinking of piss, the spit-roasting of Page 3 slappers and the pedalling of ghostwritten World Cup 2006 diaries (memorably summarised by Newcastle's Joey Barton as 'I played shit, here's my book')
- But most of all, what the Jesus suffering fuck was it that we did that was 'contrary to the spirit of the game', given that four Indian batsmen dissented from leaving the field on being given out by the umpires, one of their players continued a sustained programme of racial abuse against the only coloured member of the Australian team, and Indian team management and officials have subsequently conducted a systematic campaign of disinformation and slander against the umpires in order to have the appointed match officials replaced with ones more of their choosing, to the point of threatening to cancel the tour, quite literally taking their bat and ball and going home?
You can tell it's me and not the Munter from the big words, hey.
Of course most of those questions I can't answer because, basically, I haven't been paying attention. I haven't been watching the cricket that much, because I've been too busy... watching the cricket. On the other channel, and in person. Sadly, I am one of several thousand people in Dunedin and the Otago area who deliberately and willingly paid money to see Bangladesh play a test match. Then again it's been 10 years since Dunedin actually got to host a test match (which was rained out without a ball being bowled... not so surprising about the hiatus then) and the first to be hosted at the awesome 'village green' style University Oval, as bigged-up previously in this column, and let's face it there's fuck all else to do in Dunedin in the first week of January as everyone else has fucked off home or on hols. So Dunedin, or what was left of it, brought its picnic blankets down and sat in the sunshine on the grass banks to watch the game. And basically it was just a bit spesh. The sun shone throughout, the beer was cold, the kebabs were non-fatal, the kiddies were playing pick-up games of cricket on the surrounding fields, and it was about as far from drinking warm plastic cups of XXXX Gold at a kiln-hot Gabba and shouting encouragement at Simon Katich to stop being quite so funereally glacial at scoring fucking runs for Christ's sake (not that anyone I know would be in that position) as you could get. Of course it was over in three days, but that didn't matter - nor did the fact that other than centuries from Matthew Bell and Jacob Oram, the BLACKCAPSLOCK batting lineup was as per usual as sturdy and weatherproof as a condom knitted from Kraft Singles. It didn't even matter than newly returned Otago old-boy, wickie-batsman Brendan McCullum, made a serious attempt to kill me and Lucas. (We were standing ten metres beyond the boundary and his six still cleared us and almost landed in the drainage canal ten metres behind. He got out next ball. Instant karma.) Better still, despite new BLACKCAPSLOCK captain Daniel Venturi (because his captaincy sucks - who lets Bangers get to 161 for no wicket in their second dig after bowling them out for 137 in their first?) whinging about the small boundaries it seemed everyone was thrilled with the success of the venue and the match (getting ANY sort of crowd, let alone a couple of thousand peeps a day, to test match cricket in NZ is a massive achievement) and we might even get to play someone vaguely good at cricket next time tests are scheduled. The Windies are down here next year, which would be perfect - NZ aren't likely to beat them in three days, nor vice versa. Only problem is that getting more than three glorious days in a row might be a bit beyond the great random weather generator stationed over Dunedin. But hey, that's why we invented global warming. To give Al Gore something to do after inventing the internet.
The Doctor is OUT.
Yes after all that unseemly smut from the Munter we're back onto cricket (it's the Liver Cleansing Diet for the soul) and still wading through the unanswered questions in the aftermath of the fairly remarkable SCG Test. Having just watched the Day 5 highlights again, some questions seem to be finding answers, such as why Punter just kept sending batsmen over the top to oblivion for no apparent reason in a demented bid to push their score above 400 - it was either an attempt (eventually aborted) to get Hussey an unbeaten 150, or they knew Sachin was into numerology and figured a target score of 333 would really fuck with his head (333 being halfway to hell, as it were.) Worked.
However many imponderables remain, some of which include:
- Why on Earth did Pup Clarke stand his ground after being caught at slip having hit the cover off it?
- Did he know he was starting a trend?
- Was Brad Hogg serious or was he taking the piss?
- Was Steve Bucknor serious or was he taking the piss?
- Who was it that decided Mitchell Johnson was any good?
- Do you think they could un-decide it again fairly swiftly as he's actually rather pants?
- Is India (team and nation) now the worst losers in international sport, at least until the Portuguese footballers drop out of Euro2008 and Cristi Ronaldo cracks the shits again?
- Given the attention of their rabid media, are India's cricketers now the England footballers of world cricket? Although maybe without so much of the sinking of piss, the spit-roasting of Page 3 slappers and the pedalling of ghostwritten World Cup 2006 diaries (memorably summarised by Newcastle's Joey Barton as 'I played shit, here's my book')
- But most of all, what the Jesus suffering fuck was it that we did that was 'contrary to the spirit of the game', given that four Indian batsmen dissented from leaving the field on being given out by the umpires, one of their players continued a sustained programme of racial abuse against the only coloured member of the Australian team, and Indian team management and officials have subsequently conducted a systematic campaign of disinformation and slander against the umpires in order to have the appointed match officials replaced with ones more of their choosing, to the point of threatening to cancel the tour, quite literally taking their bat and ball and going home?
You can tell it's me and not the Munter from the big words, hey.
Of course most of those questions I can't answer because, basically, I haven't been paying attention. I haven't been watching the cricket that much, because I've been too busy... watching the cricket. On the other channel, and in person. Sadly, I am one of several thousand people in Dunedin and the Otago area who deliberately and willingly paid money to see Bangladesh play a test match. Then again it's been 10 years since Dunedin actually got to host a test match (which was rained out without a ball being bowled... not so surprising about the hiatus then) and the first to be hosted at the awesome 'village green' style University Oval, as bigged-up previously in this column, and let's face it there's fuck all else to do in Dunedin in the first week of January as everyone else has fucked off home or on hols. So Dunedin, or what was left of it, brought its picnic blankets down and sat in the sunshine on the grass banks to watch the game. And basically it was just a bit spesh. The sun shone throughout, the beer was cold, the kebabs were non-fatal, the kiddies were playing pick-up games of cricket on the surrounding fields, and it was about as far from drinking warm plastic cups of XXXX Gold at a kiln-hot Gabba and shouting encouragement at Simon Katich to stop being quite so funereally glacial at scoring fucking runs for Christ's sake (not that anyone I know would be in that position) as you could get. Of course it was over in three days, but that didn't matter - nor did the fact that other than centuries from Matthew Bell and Jacob Oram, the BLACKCAPSLOCK batting lineup was as per usual as sturdy and weatherproof as a condom knitted from Kraft Singles. It didn't even matter than newly returned Otago old-boy, wickie-batsman Brendan McCullum, made a serious attempt to kill me and Lucas. (We were standing ten metres beyond the boundary and his six still cleared us and almost landed in the drainage canal ten metres behind. He got out next ball. Instant karma.) Better still, despite new BLACKCAPSLOCK captain Daniel Venturi (because his captaincy sucks - who lets Bangers get to 161 for no wicket in their second dig after bowling them out for 137 in their first?) whinging about the small boundaries it seemed everyone was thrilled with the success of the venue and the match (getting ANY sort of crowd, let alone a couple of thousand peeps a day, to test match cricket in NZ is a massive achievement) and we might even get to play someone vaguely good at cricket next time tests are scheduled. The Windies are down here next year, which would be perfect - NZ aren't likely to beat them in three days, nor vice versa. Only problem is that getting more than three glorious days in a row might be a bit beyond the great random weather generator stationed over Dunedin. But hey, that's why we invented global warming. To give Al Gore something to do after inventing the internet.
The Doctor is OUT.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Literature review with Dr Munter
[Offensive content warning. No shit. I'm not even close to joking - Dr Y]
Yeah g'day. Munter here, entertainment reporter fuckin' extraordinaire. Bin a while since me last report, less said about that the better. Remember how I said sheep don't press charges? Yeah seems farmers do. Bastard was just jealous I got to her first. Bit like Nikki Webster's old man back in the day, come to think of it.
[I did warn you - Dr Y]
Anyway yer man Dr Yobbo got me in to knock out a literature review of the latest groundbreaking publications in me field. As you'd probly be aware the leading journals in me field are fuck-off-tedious gossip mags targeted at post-menstrual haggises so this probably won't take too long.
Women's Day (NZ edition), December 18, 2007
Actually I just made the fuckin' date up as I can't remember which issue it was. It might not even have been Women's Gay. Could have been No Idea or that supposedly Weekly one which comes out monthly. Then again Women's Monthly tends to mean something a bit different round where the Munter grew up, something which 200 shiny sheets of glossy un-absorbant magazine paper ain't gonna be much help with. Old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher, you know how it is. How'd we get onto Nikki Webster again? (Same way as usual. Rohypnol. All them Schoolies toolies can't be wrong.)
[Fuck's sake, this is even grossing ME out - Dr Y]
All of which brings us back to the point which we came here to discuss: chicks who get paid to shake their arse for blokes' entertainment.
So anyway, this one was worth the price of admission alone. Strawberry blonde, like Nic Kidman back in the day before she fucked off and married that impotent Scientologist midget with the big honker and the miniscule cock. Slender as you like - the Munter tends to prefer them with a bit of meat on their bones, but I wasn't gonna kick her out of bed if she farted - great legs, tits, and an arse you could open a stubbie with. I had me usual seat, kicking back with a beer - Jesus they charge like a wounded bull these days - as this chick started doing her thing. Her eyes meet mine, she's got this dirty little grin on her face. None of this 'going through the motions' rubbish you get with some other so-called 'professional entertainers'. 'Going through the motions' is what you used to do swimming off Bondi before they extended the outfall - it's not what you want when you lay down your hard earned for a bit of fun yeah? Anyway this one was no talk and all action, me favourite. Harder than four unit maths I was.
So she crawls on all fours across her little stage in some sort of skimpy skin-tight athletic legging sort of schtick - not the usual get-up but I wasn't writing to the ODT to complain.
"I'm a dirty little piggie," she purred with that spank-my-arse grin.
Fuckin' bet you are luv, I nodded.
"And I need to take a bath...."
At that point I almost knocked me beer over on the remote control. Hey, like the song says, five in the arse, let's do it together...
[Not getting any better is it? Christ on a bike - Dr Y]
Fuck off beardy. Me point is that children's television has certainly changed a lot since the Munter was a little tacker. Back in the day you didn't see Play School presenters like Noni Hazlehurst on all fours begging to be hosed clean. Well, not until her acting career really started to go downhill and the MILF porn sites started recruiting.
Which brings us round to today's Journal Club article: 'Hi-5's Kellie: The truth behind my tears', the abstract of which follows:
So apparently the spankable blonde one from the five-in-the-arse lot cracked the shits royally at the afterparty ARIAs or the Logies or something because the one she used to be rooting - the curly headed fucker who you were sure had to be a arse burgler, I know I was certain as - decided to not only park his pork in an alternate bacon buttie but took his new chick to the party and dragged her into all the photos to rub her nose in it. The blonde chick I mean, not the new girlfriend, though if she needs that in order to get her properly house trained then I got no problems with it, what people do in their own houses are their business, particularly now that me telescope is in the shop being repaired (OK, scraped clean).
The background to this is that everyone else in the group are rooting like Viagra-powered rabbits and the blonde was missing out, as she'd just busted up with her new lad. Curly had his new chick, the ginga hottie married young (fucking Christians), the token Asian got up the duff to the non-poofter from Savage Garden (there was one, apparently) and has since been replaced with a different token Asian from a different Asian subgroup, Korean instead. As for the other fullah Tim he's not up to much as he's laid up in traction. To be fair I always reckoned he was a fat smug cunt but then I found out he writes for a motorbike mag and isn't a total fucking choado after all. Of course the reason he's in traction is that he royally fucked himself chucking his R6 track bike down the road at the Creek one weekend, but top points for trying son. As regards pants action, after his big stack he's presumably riding (something) appropriate to the conditions like the ads tell you to. Actually shouldn't laugh, for a while there the poor bastard was in a chair and I don't mean that fucking awful kiddie band from Newy.
Like all good science cunts I've done me research and can give you the following burning insights (though apparently the burning goes away after you use the ointment for a couple of days):
Until next time... Copulater.
Yeah g'day. Munter here, entertainment reporter fuckin' extraordinaire. Bin a while since me last report, less said about that the better. Remember how I said sheep don't press charges? Yeah seems farmers do. Bastard was just jealous I got to her first. Bit like Nikki Webster's old man back in the day, come to think of it.[I did warn you - Dr Y]
Anyway yer man Dr Yobbo got me in to knock out a literature review of the latest groundbreaking publications in me field. As you'd probly be aware the leading journals in me field are fuck-off-tedious gossip mags targeted at post-menstrual haggises so this probably won't take too long.
Women's Day (NZ edition), December 18, 2007
Actually I just made the fuckin' date up as I can't remember which issue it was. It might not even have been Women's Gay. Could have been No Idea or that supposedly Weekly one which comes out monthly. Then again Women's Monthly tends to mean something a bit different round where the Munter grew up, something which 200 shiny sheets of glossy un-absorbant magazine paper ain't gonna be much help with. Old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher, you know how it is. How'd we get onto Nikki Webster again? (Same way as usual. Rohypnol. All them Schoolies toolies can't be wrong.)
[Fuck's sake, this is even grossing ME out - Dr Y]
All of which brings us back to the point which we came here to discuss: chicks who get paid to shake their arse for blokes' entertainment.
So anyway, this one was worth the price of admission alone. Strawberry blonde, like Nic Kidman back in the day before she fucked off and married that impotent Scientologist midget with the big honker and the miniscule cock. Slender as you like - the Munter tends to prefer them with a bit of meat on their bones, but I wasn't gonna kick her out of bed if she farted - great legs, tits, and an arse you could open a stubbie with. I had me usual seat, kicking back with a beer - Jesus they charge like a wounded bull these days - as this chick started doing her thing. Her eyes meet mine, she's got this dirty little grin on her face. None of this 'going through the motions' rubbish you get with some other so-called 'professional entertainers'. 'Going through the motions' is what you used to do swimming off Bondi before they extended the outfall - it's not what you want when you lay down your hard earned for a bit of fun yeah? Anyway this one was no talk and all action, me favourite. Harder than four unit maths I was.
So she crawls on all fours across her little stage in some sort of skimpy skin-tight athletic legging sort of schtick - not the usual get-up but I wasn't writing to the ODT to complain.
"I'm a dirty little piggie," she purred with that spank-my-arse grin.
Fuckin' bet you are luv, I nodded.
"And I need to take a bath...."
At that point I almost knocked me beer over on the remote control. Hey, like the song says, five in the arse, let's do it together...
[Not getting any better is it? Christ on a bike - Dr Y]
Fuck off beardy. Me point is that children's television has certainly changed a lot since the Munter was a little tacker. Back in the day you didn't see Play School presenters like Noni Hazlehurst on all fours begging to be hosed clean. Well, not until her acting career really started to go downhill and the MILF porn sites started recruiting.
Which brings us round to today's Journal Club article: 'Hi-5's Kellie: The truth behind my tears', the abstract of which follows:
So apparently the spankable blonde one from the five-in-the-arse lot cracked the shits royally at the afterparty ARIAs or the Logies or something because the one she used to be rooting - the curly headed fucker who you were sure had to be a arse burgler, I know I was certain as - decided to not only park his pork in an alternate bacon buttie but took his new chick to the party and dragged her into all the photos to rub her nose in it. The blonde chick I mean, not the new girlfriend, though if she needs that in order to get her properly house trained then I got no problems with it, what people do in their own houses are their business, particularly now that me telescope is in the shop being repaired (OK, scraped clean).
The background to this is that everyone else in the group are rooting like Viagra-powered rabbits and the blonde was missing out, as she'd just busted up with her new lad. Curly had his new chick, the ginga hottie married young (fucking Christians), the token Asian got up the duff to the non-poofter from Savage Garden (there was one, apparently) and has since been replaced with a different token Asian from a different Asian subgroup, Korean instead. As for the other fullah Tim he's not up to much as he's laid up in traction. To be fair I always reckoned he was a fat smug cunt but then I found out he writes for a motorbike mag and isn't a total fucking choado after all. Of course the reason he's in traction is that he royally fucked himself chucking his R6 track bike down the road at the Creek one weekend, but top points for trying son. As regards pants action, after his big stack he's presumably riding (something) appropriate to the conditions like the ads tell you to. Actually shouldn't laugh, for a while there the poor bastard was in a chair and I don't mean that fucking awful kiddie band from Newy.
Like all good science cunts I've done me research and can give you the following burning insights (though apparently the burning goes away after you use the ointment for a couple of days):
- The ginga's real name is Sharlene, which couldn't be more Kath and fuckin' Kim if you tried.
- The blonde is actually in her mid-30s and used to be in the Teen Queens. No, fucking seriously.
- The fuckers responsible for the whole idea of putting heinously hot women in clingy outfits on kids TV also did Bananas in Pyjamas. Are you thinking what I'm thinking, B1?
- As regards actually informing or entertaining anyone, Hi-5 might work well as early-morning spank-bank fodder for out-of-work Invercargill truck drivers but I'm told the kids still prefer the Wiggles. Plus their dads can go along to the Wiggles without worrying about being arrested for molesting the performers. Winner.
Until next time... Copulater.
So as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted...
Uh, yeah. Bit of a discontinuity in the updates there. I did mention I was taking a month off didn't I?
Fuckin' Northern monkeys
Anyway I was going to begin this year's diarrhoetic diatribe with a thorough-going schmackdown of Richard Poontang, bonsai Australian captain, for his monumental hubris in not declaring Straya's second SCG innings shutski until near-as-buggery-to-lunch on Day 5, giving them near-as-buggery-to no time at all to bowl India out, just because he and the rest of the Baggy Green brainstrust (stop sniggering up the back) were so massively hard-on to give the Injuns negatory chance to win the game because of the ill will between the two squads. And as a result of the Mowbray midget's arrogance, India got away with a draw, didn't they? Wanker.
Except of course I fermented that particular line of argument in the many hours preceding the penultimate over of Day 5's scheduled play, whereupon Michael Clarke did his usual job of taking both (a) Lots for Fuck-All and (b) a great big crap upon the chances of the subcontinental contingent's hopes of keeping the series alive heading into Perth.
So, yeah. Good job Punter, judged to perfection as ever...
So instead the World of Bollocks is left scratching its bearded head (and no that's not a euphemism) over the carryings-on of the Indian team and its management in the aftermatch aftermath. For those who came in late, yesterday arvo Harbhajan Singh was brought before the beak after the close of play to answer for having called Roy Symonds a monkey, on the basis of his being dark-skinned banana bender who happens to pong a bit. What the Harb failed to understand was that (a) 'monkey' isn't a very nice thing to call a gentleman of West Indian extraction and (b) Roy pongs because he never washes his dreads, and it's not as if the Turbinator is in a position to make the big calls related to sweaty, stinky personal headwear lifestyle choices; there's a valid reason there's not a queue of Indian teammates wanting to sit next to the Harb on the team bus back to the hotel at the end of play. Anyway most of the Strayan team including the physio and the bus driver put their hand up to give evidence to match referee Mike Proctor that the Harb had definitely said them things yer Honour, and the Proctologist duly lived up to his reputation. The beak granted the Harb a three-match holiday from busting out his skills despite the character reference supplied by his batting partner, unknown rookie sensation Sachin Tendulkar, and the fact Chanel No. 9 failed to produce any sonic evidence of his Mouthing Off. Not even a Hot Spit thermal signature from him gobbing off or even spitting the dummy.
The intruguing element to the mammoth six and a half hour misconduct hearing was the Indian team's attempt to lob an overspinning red herring leg break into the mix by trying to have Brad 'The Cock' Hogg indicted on a corresponding charge on the basis that he called someone or other a bastard, which the Indians claimed was as offensive in India as being called a monkey. Notwithstanding their ludicrous position that they don't understand how 'monkey' could be viewed as a racial taunt (this after all the shit directed at Symonds in the Indian ODI series?), the most bizarre thing about this is that the Indians would choose to make an attack on the only Australian team member to have tried his arse off for the Indian cause during the course of the game. Arsey first-innings 70-odd aside - which looked good at the time, I will grant thee - but for fuck's sake people, the guy was picked as his nation's spin spearhead on the most tweak-friendly wicket in the land, and yesterday was sent out to earn his coin under the most spin-friendly conditions imaginable, to wit day 5 on a dusty, degenerating SCG pitch. Result: Australia's spin spearhead was utterly outbowled by a pair of part-timers, one of which was hobbling about on a munted ankle (not to mention his hurt feelings about the monkey insults), the other of which is and remains a peroxided bogan from Campbelltown preoccupied with appearing in piss-poor TV ads and shagging the arse off fake-tanned slappers with a penchant for aviator sunnies.
So yeah. Good job Pup, judged to perfection as ever...
Stop batting off you bastards. Sorry, I mean monkeys. Don't want to offend anyone reading this on their two minute lunch break in a Mumbai call centre
___________________________________
That's it for now although we end with a housekeeping note; after being inundated with literally a request (thanks v. much J. Clarkson) the World of Bollocks will probably get around to sorting some sort of aRSSy feedburner update thing for you lazy goatfelchers who can't be arsed checking the page to see if I've gotten off my burgeoning post-Xmas coit and written anything recently. There, that should get you lot more excited than a B-grade swimsuit model at an Allan Border Medal afterparty.
The Doctor is OUT.
Fuckin' Northern monkeys
Anyway I was going to begin this year's diarrhoetic diatribe with a thorough-going schmackdown of Richard Poontang, bonsai Australian captain, for his monumental hubris in not declaring Straya's second SCG innings shutski until near-as-buggery-to-lunch on Day 5, giving them near-as-buggery-to no time at all to bowl India out, just because he and the rest of the Baggy Green brainstrust (stop sniggering up the back) were so massively hard-on to give the Injuns negatory chance to win the game because of the ill will between the two squads. And as a result of the Mowbray midget's arrogance, India got away with a draw, didn't they? Wanker.
Except of course I fermented that particular line of argument in the many hours preceding the penultimate over of Day 5's scheduled play, whereupon Michael Clarke did his usual job of taking both (a) Lots for Fuck-All and (b) a great big crap upon the chances of the subcontinental contingent's hopes of keeping the series alive heading into Perth.
So, yeah. Good job Punter, judged to perfection as ever...
So instead the World of Bollocks is left scratching its bearded head (and no that's not a euphemism) over the carryings-on of the Indian team and its management in the aftermatch aftermath. For those who came in late, yesterday arvo Harbhajan Singh was brought before the beak after the close of play to answer for having called Roy Symonds a monkey, on the basis of his being dark-skinned banana bender who happens to pong a bit. What the Harb failed to understand was that (a) 'monkey' isn't a very nice thing to call a gentleman of West Indian extraction and (b) Roy pongs because he never washes his dreads, and it's not as if the Turbinator is in a position to make the big calls related to sweaty, stinky personal headwear lifestyle choices; there's a valid reason there's not a queue of Indian teammates wanting to sit next to the Harb on the team bus back to the hotel at the end of play. Anyway most of the Strayan team including the physio and the bus driver put their hand up to give evidence to match referee Mike Proctor that the Harb had definitely said them things yer Honour, and the Proctologist duly lived up to his reputation. The beak granted the Harb a three-match holiday from busting out his skills despite the character reference supplied by his batting partner, unknown rookie sensation Sachin Tendulkar, and the fact Chanel No. 9 failed to produce any sonic evidence of his Mouthing Off. Not even a Hot Spit thermal signature from him gobbing off or even spitting the dummy.
The intruguing element to the mammoth six and a half hour misconduct hearing was the Indian team's attempt to lob an overspinning red herring leg break into the mix by trying to have Brad 'The Cock' Hogg indicted on a corresponding charge on the basis that he called someone or other a bastard, which the Indians claimed was as offensive in India as being called a monkey. Notwithstanding their ludicrous position that they don't understand how 'monkey' could be viewed as a racial taunt (this after all the shit directed at Symonds in the Indian ODI series?), the most bizarre thing about this is that the Indians would choose to make an attack on the only Australian team member to have tried his arse off for the Indian cause during the course of the game. Arsey first-innings 70-odd aside - which looked good at the time, I will grant thee - but for fuck's sake people, the guy was picked as his nation's spin spearhead on the most tweak-friendly wicket in the land, and yesterday was sent out to earn his coin under the most spin-friendly conditions imaginable, to wit day 5 on a dusty, degenerating SCG pitch. Result: Australia's spin spearhead was utterly outbowled by a pair of part-timers, one of which was hobbling about on a munted ankle (not to mention his hurt feelings about the monkey insults), the other of which is and remains a peroxided bogan from Campbelltown preoccupied with appearing in piss-poor TV ads and shagging the arse off fake-tanned slappers with a penchant for aviator sunnies.
So yeah. Good job Pup, judged to perfection as ever...
Stop batting off you bastards. Sorry, I mean monkeys. Don't want to offend anyone reading this on their two minute lunch break in a Mumbai call centre
___________________________________
That's it for now although we end with a housekeeping note; after being inundated with literally a request (thanks v. much J. Clarkson) the World of Bollocks will probably get around to sorting some sort of aRSSy feedburner update thing for you lazy goatfelchers who can't be arsed checking the page to see if I've gotten off my burgeoning post-Xmas coit and written anything recently. There, that should get you lot more excited than a B-grade swimsuit model at an Allan Border Medal afterparty.
The Doctor is OUT.
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