Johnny Ramone was in a fucken good band, but he was a cuntWhich brings us to Launceston, Tasphobia. Not content with loosing chippy small-man-syndrome sufferer Richard Ponting on the world, Launceston went on to excrete former V8 racer and insufferable arseclown Marcos Ambrose a mere two years later. You may remember him as Greg Murphy's dance partner from the Cutting at Bathurst a few years back. Marcos Ambrose was in a fucken good team, but he was a cunt; even made Ingall look a bit less of a twunt. He did potter around to a couple of championships but his inability to set a car up for endurance spec - i.e. not stiffer than a fucking skateboard and chewing through its tyres inside half a thirty-lap stint - meant he never contended for more than a few hours in the only race that matters on the Strayan calendar. Stone Brothers gave up on trying to partner he and the Enforcer because neither were prepared to budge an inch on their preferred setups, which were diametrically opposed. In the end, frustrated in multiple attempts at the Big Hill, Ambrose took his bat and ball and nascent pattern baldness and fucked off to where his inbred redneck styles would be properly appreciated. NASCAR. After a couple of years to make it through the B-grade ranks, he finally made his top-flight NASCAR debut last weekend at Infineon Raceway - one of just two 'road course' races the oval-obsessed stock car series visits, meaning he was basically drafted in for this race for his specialist ability to turn left AND right.
That's why he was on stage left, and Joey was up front
Marky, Dee Dee, Tommy, Gary, Phil and Steve
They were all too lazy, to get on the record sleeve
Second verse, different from the first,
Hey redneck, get in the fucken hearse
And while we're at it, before it's too late
Invite your tall skinny mate
Oh fuck
Gabba gabba you suck
Gabba gabba you're fucked
Gabba gabba you're dead
Anyway, anyone who's seen more than fifteen minutes of Ambrose's V8 career could have predicted the three take-home messages from his debut:
(1) He was quick - running as high as second at one point
(2) He crashed into someone quicker than him - running as high as second solely because of punting Juan-Ton-O-Pies Montoya off at the hairpin (after which point Montoya's crew chief mildly suggested that one-race-wonders like Our Marcos might like to respect the chances of people who were actually trying to score points for the championship, and not try to deposit them in the weeds)
(3) He fucked the car up because he has the mechanical sympathy of a rabid gorilla on P - after a tap from the gloriously named Elliott Sadler (for whom, it would seem, time is a traveller*) he managed to punch a hole in the gearbox casing through which the entire lubricative contents of same flowed out.
Good to see some things never change. One that had, though, was Ambrose's demeanour in post-race interviews. Instead of the snotty little crank who used to sulk whenever anyone with a headset and a cameraman in tow stuck a mike in his face and asked how he'd managed to fuck it up this time, Ambrose was all down-home charm and media-trained sponsor name-dropping. And he was putting on the broadest Strayan accent heard since Steve Irwin bellowed his last 'Crikey! Have a look at this little beauty!' This is vaguely understandable from a PR perspective as further evidence from our US correspondent suggests Americans are too stupid to discern an Australian accent from Stephen Hawking on helium, unless it's offering to toss prawns on outdoor grilling equipment on their behalf. But it's still laughable, pathetic and thoroughly, embarrassingly shit.
The Doctor is OUT, presumably hit up the backside by Marcos Ambrose like everyone else.
*Tenterfield Saddler is both a song by renown son-of-the-Tablelands Peter Allen, and a beer brewed in its honour. Appropriately it tastes highly reminiscent of something which has been in long-term contact with a stockman's sweaty arse. The saddle I mean, not Peter Allen.
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