Blasphemic though it may seem for an alleged sports columnist, I'm not watching the Olympics. I refuse to. Officially it's as a protest against China's human rights record, actions in Tibet, aggression towards Taiwan, global warming culpability, nuclear testing profligacy and anything else we can pin on the little bastards before lunchtime, but in reality, it's because no-one born on the sunny side of the ditch can possibly stomach two weeks of Kiwi-centric Olympic coverage on TVNZ, watching breathlessly as the brave Kiwi hope finishes a plucky ninth in the dressage or the kayaking or the flower arranging or the rugby union or whatever other bumfuck-irrelevant sports Nuw Zillund seems to specialise in. Not to mention a complete and total lack of a NZ equivalent of Roy and HG to make any form of sense out of the cascading font of verbal diarrhoea which constitutes Olympic commentary on the best of days at TVNZ. 'Right, Fred, you're a commentator, yeah? What do you usually commentate on? Rugby? Good, you're calling the cycling road race. Good luck, and don't let the fact you don't know a fucking thing about what's going on prevent you spouting utter bollocks for the entire duration of the event. Toodle pip.'
So instead I'm going to talk about Wolfmother breaking up. Not that this is news; anyone who saw, heard or even heard of their shambolic, discordant performance at Splendour could have guessed things were on the cusp of going pear-shaped in excelsius deo. One review suggested 'drummer Chris Ross and bassist/keyboardist Myles Heskett were playing one show, while Andrew Stockdale fronted Andy Andy and the Andy Andy’s, an imaginary band more interested in the adulation of an intoxicated festival crowd than playing remotely in time with his actual rhythm section'. Oooh, feel the burn. Next day the press release (in itself an oxymoron) hit the streets annoucing the band's disintegration.
These announcements are always great fun as a drinking game; skol for every mention of 'artistic differences' or 'by mutual consent' or other bits of wank. The Wolfie presser is a particularly fine example of the breed. "Longstanding frictions"... "extended break"... "irreconcilable personal and musical differences"... "focusing energies on new projects"... In fact, everything short of the closer-to-actual-factual "Andy Stockdale got LSD (Lead Singer Disorder, a condition first diagnosed by Dr Edward Van Halen in chronic sufferer David Lee Roth in 1985) and the other two decided they'd rather play Kraftwerk-style electronica than churn through another year of touring with the insufferable big-'froed prat." Wolfmother will continue in name with Stockdale and an entirely new supporting cast - hey, it worked for Lemmy over the years - but it's hard not to see this as another case of band emerges, band records enormous fuck-off album, band gets huge, band disappears up lead singer's arse never to be heard from again. Or alternatively, in the case of the Darkness, band disappears up lead singer's nose.
What they really need - what might have saved one-and-a-half album bands like the Darkness from extinction - is some kind of publicity stunt designed solely to boost flagging sales of their dismal current album. Preferably as cheap, as tawdry and as mercenarily transparent as possible. Something like the Veronicas have pulled off by not only having half their head count turning up on the internerd with baps akimbo, but then organising a press call for aforementioned tween-impersonating twiglet to bound out of a very flimsy-looking hastily assembled Super A-Mart flat-pack closet and declare her undying love for flange, in particular that belonging to some vacuous pop tart from MTV Australia. Although reading the fine print, our Jess appears to have sworn off other forms of red meat as part of the deal. And it's not as if this approach is entirely gender-reversible - your man Andrew the Afro is unlikely to get much mileage shacking up with Andrew G - though imagine the potential for hair product sponsorship tie-ins.
The other problem with the tits-out lesbos-in approach - other than its inherent gender inequality - is that it doesn't really give you anywhere to go after that should your career really start to come to a spluttering halt. After that, there's only rehab or a celebrity sex video in order to get attention. Or, if you're Britney, all of the above. And while a celeb sex video between Thingy Veronica and The Other One might be moderately popular in some circles, we of course here at this august family publication couldn't possibly endorse the promotion of such a thing. The irrelevance-prolonging celeb sex tape is a tricky art form and one best left to the likes of Britney, Paris, Pam Anderson and... Kate Ritchie?!?!?
Oh THAT's wrong. That's deeply, deeply wrong. I know her career's gone a bit arsebag since she quit Home and Away after starting there as a drama-trained foetus 20 years ago, and things have to be grim for anyone to end up working with Merrick and fuckin' Rosso, but seriously... for Christ's sake, how far is this going to go? Who's going to be next? Alf Stewart? I don't want to see his flamin' mongrel, that's for sure.
Actually, if you want our prediction: it's always the former child stars. You heard it here first: Nikki Webster. As Beijing has shown, after the spotlight fades, life's not so great for annoying tykes famous only for lip-synching through Olympic opening ceremonies...
The Doctor is OUT.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
What I learned on my holidays
Not that it was a holiday of course, it was bloody hard work etc etc bollocks. Here's what two weeks in England and Europe taught me about England and Europe.
England is not part of Europe.
London might be an hour and a half from northern France by Eurostar, but England's as much part of Europe as is Pakistan.
European cities smell of wee.
Be thankful this isn't Smell-o-Vision.
What this photo doesn't show (thankfully) is the Belgian approach to public toilets: literally, public toilets. Meaning open-air slashers on street corners. And yes, the Belgian male populace were happy to drop trou and water the plastic even in brilliant mid-afternoon sunshine. And noone thought this was in any way odd.
Belgians are odd.
QED. But what could realistically be expected of a country famous solely for soapy beer, chocolate and pedophiles?
From our Latest Advances in Soapy Beer files: Hoegaarden Citron. Soap with lemon flavouring. Think Sunlight dishwashing liquid with carbonation.
European universities are run-down shitholes.
The main lecture block at the University of Gent resembled a cross between the access tunnels at St James Station on Sydney's decrepit City Circle underground, and a tiled urinal from a '60s pub.
We are shit hot.
We might be from the other side of the world, but scientifically, we've got the Eurotrash covered. Our patented brand of 'Break stuff to figure out how it works' science had Engerland and the Continent's finest running scared. Or, in the case of the boss' old boss, making very dubious excuses. 'Sure we can't do any functional studies in our model system, but the advantage of that is it's easier to come up with hypotheses...' Which you, erm, can't test.
Afrikaans may be the language of love, but Flemish Dutch gets the chicks hotter, wetter and nastier than a dockworker's armpit.
On a related topic, the Flemish Dutch for 'Art' is 'Kunst'. Appropriately. Particularly appropriately given that the Museum of Contemporary Art translates as 'Museum Actuele Kunst'...
...which is quite fitting since I've always maintained contemporary art is actually a load of old vag.
Of all the European races to get on the piss with at a European conference, the best by far are Australians and New Zealanders.
Which was why our tribe of drunks comprised me, two Kiwis, three girls from Queensland and a couple of lost Poms and Seppos.
Russians can't hold their piss.
Judging by the pair of sorry fuckers who attached themselves to our party after the conference dinner, nicknamed 'Gropie' and 'Fightie' based on their preferred means of interaction with our peeps. Interesting fact: the current poo-fight in South Ossetia was instigated by Russia getting fucked off by Georgia talking to a girl Russia was interested in, and Georgia's mates telling Russia to fuck off when Russia tried to get friendly.
Londoners could use cheering the fuck up. Seriously.
Ever wondered why no Londoners actually work in hospitality in London anymore? It's because they're shit at being hospitable. And because the one million Poles have to do something (other than holding up the power lines of course.) The Cockney shuttle bus driver who took us to our hotel on our first hours in London genuinely looked in hideous discomfort as a result of us paying him to do the job he was employed to do.
This is largely because:
The English are genetically inferior to Australians and New Zealanders.
Think of the settlement of the Antipodes as an experiment in targeted evolution. Take all your resourceful, entrepreneurial, risk-taking adventurers - either by rounding up volunteer migrants or by locking up a bunch of petty criminals and Irish nationalists - and remove them from your gene pool, to send them tens of thousands of miles to the other side of the world. Is it any wonder their offspring go on to be a bunch of self-motivated, intelligent, competitive, authority-ignoring hard cases who routinely kick your arse at any sort of competitive meeting, sporting or intellectual? Or why the genetic flotsam that stayed home are such a sorry bunch of gits? Whose only recognisable features seem to be (a) whinging and (b) the ability to spontaneously self-aggregate into a queue when in gatherings of three or more? Britain's Sports minister declared in the papers that they were on track for a record haul of medals at Beijing; unfortunately noone pointed out that competitive queueing is only a non-medal demonstration sport at this games, though obviously it's in for London 2012. Give an Englishman the opportunity to be in a queue, and then to be able to whinge about being in a queue, and you've got an Englishman who's mere seconds away from combusting with delight. Which, of course, he will whinge about.
The only reason anyone bothers painting pedestrian crossings on European roads is to give approaching drivers sighting marks to line up their targets.
Though you may be in the right, the ensuing argument may be difficult to win, given the language barrier and the fact they're in a car. I find loud swearing works quite well.
The Tube rocks.
Literally. Though usually it just wallows like a harpooned whale. Time for a bit of trackwork methinks lads? Or, in the great British tradition of patronising euphemism, 'planned engineering'?
All the well-worn, long-standing cliches about English food and drink are well-worn, long-standing cliches because of one simple fact. They're true.
The food's awful, the coffee's hideous (burnt and bitter, as results from turning your espresso machine up to Vulcanize like a prize fuckwit) and the beer's warm. Even when it's thirty degrees outside.
You know things are grim when this bucket of arse starts looking a winner.
I am an accent slut.
Seriously, get me away from home for just a week or so and I'll pick up anything you've got. Five days in Flanders field and I'm sounding like John Travolta in Goldmember.
Is good, yessh?
In the words of TISM: London. The five hundred most snooty people think something's important. Big fuckin' whoopie.
Yeah, London's OK. It's a big city. People everywhere, stuff happening. But it's not worth the price of admission. Quite why generations of kids from both sides of the ditch are compelled to fling themselves at it like moths to a blue electric zappy thing is a bit beyond me.
And Jesus suffering fuck is it a dash on the exxy side.
Streetside parking lot in average London side-street. Or maybe the Historic Supercars display at the British Motor Show. I don't remember which.
Singapore Airlines have some fuck-off weird ideas of what constitutes breakfast.
Pork vermicelli? At 6am? Not even superhot Asian poontang in a silk full body condom is convincing me that's a good idea. I'll have the rubberized omelette thanks Chung Li.
And finally - read your ticket stub. It speaks the truth.
Mine is from the HANNspree World Superbike Round at Brands Hatch, and says the following: 'WARNING: Motorsport can be DANGEROUS. Despite the organisers taking all reasonable precautions, unavoidable accidents can happen. In respect of these you are present at your own risk.'
We had a fantastic day at the Superbikes. We watched bikes, drank beer, ate rubbish food and got rained on. Craig Jones didn't have a fantastic day. Craig Jones died last Monday night from injuries he sustained in a hideous crash in the Supersport race. By all accounts he was a lovely lad, great white British hope, career on the up-and-up, leading the race in front of his home crowd, when it all went horribly, horribly wrong for him. And for a mate of his, Kempsey's 2001 World Supersport champion Andrew Pitt, third in line behind Jones when he highsided off his Honda at 200 kays directly into the path of the following freight train, whose own CBR600RR inflicted the injuries which finally did for him. I could talk about how empty platitudes like 'He went doing what he loved' must be for his family, his mates or even Andrew Pitt, or the hideous sinking feeling in my own gut watching them trying to peel him off the tarmac fifty yards from where I was standing, unfurling a bright red curtain to hide the reality from the punters, while the fuckers on the PA chortled on idiotically and oh-so-Englishly as though nothing at all was going on.
Leaving us with two final thoughts: (a) the English are gormless, spineless cunts; and (b) Craig Jones, despite being English, was - is - more a man than anyone who left Brands Hatch on their own two legs that day.
Vale that man.
The Doctor is OUT.
England is not part of Europe.
London might be an hour and a half from northern France by Eurostar, but England's as much part of Europe as is Pakistan.
European cities smell of wee.
Be thankful this isn't Smell-o-Vision.
What this photo doesn't show (thankfully) is the Belgian approach to public toilets: literally, public toilets. Meaning open-air slashers on street corners. And yes, the Belgian male populace were happy to drop trou and water the plastic even in brilliant mid-afternoon sunshine. And noone thought this was in any way odd.
Belgians are odd.
QED. But what could realistically be expected of a country famous solely for soapy beer, chocolate and pedophiles?
From our Latest Advances in Soapy Beer files: Hoegaarden Citron. Soap with lemon flavouring. Think Sunlight dishwashing liquid with carbonation.
European universities are run-down shitholes.
The main lecture block at the University of Gent resembled a cross between the access tunnels at St James Station on Sydney's decrepit City Circle underground, and a tiled urinal from a '60s pub.
We are shit hot.
We might be from the other side of the world, but scientifically, we've got the Eurotrash covered. Our patented brand of 'Break stuff to figure out how it works' science had Engerland and the Continent's finest running scared. Or, in the case of the boss' old boss, making very dubious excuses. 'Sure we can't do any functional studies in our model system, but the advantage of that is it's easier to come up with hypotheses...' Which you, erm, can't test.
Afrikaans may be the language of love, but Flemish Dutch gets the chicks hotter, wetter and nastier than a dockworker's armpit.
On a related topic, the Flemish Dutch for 'Art' is 'Kunst'. Appropriately. Particularly appropriately given that the Museum of Contemporary Art translates as 'Museum Actuele Kunst'...
...which is quite fitting since I've always maintained contemporary art is actually a load of old vag.
Of all the European races to get on the piss with at a European conference, the best by far are Australians and New Zealanders.
Which was why our tribe of drunks comprised me, two Kiwis, three girls from Queensland and a couple of lost Poms and Seppos.
Russians can't hold their piss.
Judging by the pair of sorry fuckers who attached themselves to our party after the conference dinner, nicknamed 'Gropie' and 'Fightie' based on their preferred means of interaction with our peeps. Interesting fact: the current poo-fight in South Ossetia was instigated by Russia getting fucked off by Georgia talking to a girl Russia was interested in, and Georgia's mates telling Russia to fuck off when Russia tried to get friendly.
Londoners could use cheering the fuck up. Seriously.
Ever wondered why no Londoners actually work in hospitality in London anymore? It's because they're shit at being hospitable. And because the one million Poles have to do something (other than holding up the power lines of course.) The Cockney shuttle bus driver who took us to our hotel on our first hours in London genuinely looked in hideous discomfort as a result of us paying him to do the job he was employed to do.
This is largely because:
The English are genetically inferior to Australians and New Zealanders.
Think of the settlement of the Antipodes as an experiment in targeted evolution. Take all your resourceful, entrepreneurial, risk-taking adventurers - either by rounding up volunteer migrants or by locking up a bunch of petty criminals and Irish nationalists - and remove them from your gene pool, to send them tens of thousands of miles to the other side of the world. Is it any wonder their offspring go on to be a bunch of self-motivated, intelligent, competitive, authority-ignoring hard cases who routinely kick your arse at any sort of competitive meeting, sporting or intellectual? Or why the genetic flotsam that stayed home are such a sorry bunch of gits? Whose only recognisable features seem to be (a) whinging and (b) the ability to spontaneously self-aggregate into a queue when in gatherings of three or more? Britain's Sports minister declared in the papers that they were on track for a record haul of medals at Beijing; unfortunately noone pointed out that competitive queueing is only a non-medal demonstration sport at this games, though obviously it's in for London 2012. Give an Englishman the opportunity to be in a queue, and then to be able to whinge about being in a queue, and you've got an Englishman who's mere seconds away from combusting with delight. Which, of course, he will whinge about.
The only reason anyone bothers painting pedestrian crossings on European roads is to give approaching drivers sighting marks to line up their targets.
Though you may be in the right, the ensuing argument may be difficult to win, given the language barrier and the fact they're in a car. I find loud swearing works quite well.
The Tube rocks.
Literally. Though usually it just wallows like a harpooned whale. Time for a bit of trackwork methinks lads? Or, in the great British tradition of patronising euphemism, 'planned engineering'?
All the well-worn, long-standing cliches about English food and drink are well-worn, long-standing cliches because of one simple fact. They're true.
The food's awful, the coffee's hideous (burnt and bitter, as results from turning your espresso machine up to Vulcanize like a prize fuckwit) and the beer's warm. Even when it's thirty degrees outside.
You know things are grim when this bucket of arse starts looking a winner.
I am an accent slut.
Seriously, get me away from home for just a week or so and I'll pick up anything you've got. Five days in Flanders field and I'm sounding like John Travolta in Goldmember.
Is good, yessh?
In the words of TISM: London. The five hundred most snooty people think something's important. Big fuckin' whoopie.
Yeah, London's OK. It's a big city. People everywhere, stuff happening. But it's not worth the price of admission. Quite why generations of kids from both sides of the ditch are compelled to fling themselves at it like moths to a blue electric zappy thing is a bit beyond me.
And Jesus suffering fuck is it a dash on the exxy side.
Streetside parking lot in average London side-street. Or maybe the Historic Supercars display at the British Motor Show. I don't remember which.
Singapore Airlines have some fuck-off weird ideas of what constitutes breakfast.
Pork vermicelli? At 6am? Not even superhot Asian poontang in a silk full body condom is convincing me that's a good idea. I'll have the rubberized omelette thanks Chung Li.
And finally - read your ticket stub. It speaks the truth.
Mine is from the HANNspree World Superbike Round at Brands Hatch, and says the following: 'WARNING: Motorsport can be DANGEROUS. Despite the organisers taking all reasonable precautions, unavoidable accidents can happen. In respect of these you are present at your own risk.'
We had a fantastic day at the Superbikes. We watched bikes, drank beer, ate rubbish food and got rained on. Craig Jones didn't have a fantastic day. Craig Jones died last Monday night from injuries he sustained in a hideous crash in the Supersport race. By all accounts he was a lovely lad, great white British hope, career on the up-and-up, leading the race in front of his home crowd, when it all went horribly, horribly wrong for him. And for a mate of his, Kempsey's 2001 World Supersport champion Andrew Pitt, third in line behind Jones when he highsided off his Honda at 200 kays directly into the path of the following freight train, whose own CBR600RR inflicted the injuries which finally did for him. I could talk about how empty platitudes like 'He went doing what he loved' must be for his family, his mates or even Andrew Pitt, or the hideous sinking feeling in my own gut watching them trying to peel him off the tarmac fifty yards from where I was standing, unfurling a bright red curtain to hide the reality from the punters, while the fuckers on the PA chortled on idiotically and oh-so-Englishly as though nothing at all was going on.
Leaving us with two final thoughts: (a) the English are gormless, spineless cunts; and (b) Craig Jones, despite being English, was - is - more a man than anyone who left Brands Hatch on their own two legs that day.
Vale that man.
The Doctor is OUT.
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