Hard to kill

I bought a car yesterday. I like buying cars, particularly with other people's money. If forced to use my own, or my wife's (which I like to pretend is my own), I like picking my moment and swooping on Serious Fuck-Off Bargains. Like, say, a pristine, tight-as-a-drum 2001 Subaru Legacy 250T B-Spec wagon with airbags, ABS and just under 150K on the clock. For five and a half thousand Pacific Pesos. Bargainlicious. TradeMe.co.nz FTW, yet again.

Used cars are fucking cheap in NZ, for the same reason that NZ has no domestic auto industry any more: floods of cheap second-hand Japanese imports, as well as from other RHD south-east Asian markets like Singapore. NZ's roads are full of cheap Jappo dungers, recent-shape BMWs and Audis still smelling vaguely of teriyaki, and Subarus. LOTS of Subarus. Particularly down here in the Deep South where all that lovely all-wheel-drive grip comes in Bloody Handy come shit weather season, for getting up to the slopes, or if you're really unlucky, just for getting down to the shops.


Yup, NZ loves a Subaru. Even if the illiterate fuckers can't pronounce the name properly. They seem to think it should be said with the accent on the second syllable, presumably as it'd be if it was a Maori word - suBAAAru. Either that or it's some sort of self-perpetuating sheep joke.

I love Subarus too. That's my dodgy old Impreza under the mid-June dandruff above. Bought it for fuck-all of nothing as a second car, and have tried everything I knew to kill the thing, to no avail. Even combining my 'enthusiastic' driving style with nasty mud-slush-rock farm tracks out the back of AgResearch Invermay failed to discourage it from trooping onwards and upwards. I've never been able to properly break any Subaru I've owned, which is probably why I like them. Up until the most recent generations (by which I mean the stuff far too new for two underpaid researchers to be able to afford) they're noisy, agricultural, use too much fuel and you can never get the seat as far back as a six-foot pilot would like for really long trips... but they're solid, dependable, usually handle bloody well, and most importantly - and uniquely among Japanese cars - they've got character.

My Subaru thing does go a long way back, admittedly. As a five or six year old they were my dream car. Not a Ferrari, or a Lambo - a Subaru 4WD wagon. Just the simple combination of a normal car that you could take off-road and go anywhere in. I don't even remember if anyone we knew had one, or whether I'd just seen them at the Alstonville Motor Show. Eventually the Ferraris and Lambos won out, but the spark never quite went away. Between DMDY and myself this is our fourth, spanning a '92 Liberty sedan, a '96 Legacy 250T wagon (in every country bar Australia the medium-sized Subie is called the Legacy, but was renamed Liberty for Oz out of respect for the objections of the war widows foundation of the same name who weren't that keen on a car made by a Japanese firm that once used to bolt together fighter planes for Hirohito), my '97 Impreza and the 'new' '01 Legacy 250T B-Spec which effectively replaces it. The latter three were all Japanese imports, hence the unrecognisably stupid names - the 250T is a non-turbo (despite the 'T') 2.5 litre four, B-Spec referring to the upspecced sports version with Bilstein shocks.

In my old lab, the one I did my PhD in, I ended up with a reputation. Not just for sleeping with superhot postdoc chicks either (well it was just the one, to be fair). A reputation for being the go-to dude when it came to helping new lab members - usually from other countries - find wheels. This is harder than it sounds, even if your old man seemingly used to shop for used cars like a hardened TAB punter laying wagers on the trots (count 'em off, across the duration of my 31-plus years: XA Falcon wagon, HT Kingswood 253 ute, HG Kingswood 186 panelvan, '71 ZD Fairlane 351, utter utter shitbox MkI Cortina (nicknamed the Ford Canardly, as it 'canardly' get out of its own way), '82 XE Falcon, '85 VK Commodore, '97 Magna V6 (later to become Elvis), busted arse '99 AU Falcon that'd spent most of its life being flogged down dirt roads in western NSW, ex-copper '04 BAII Falcon that to this day still reeks of donuts and fat sweaty arse - not to mention the '76 Golf which outlasted most of them, racking up some 900,000 km in 21 years, along with three engine rebuilds, eventually ending up on a colostomy bag which collected the oil which was blowing out through the breather pipe and returned it to the motor - and the '97 Starlet and '01 Mazda 2 that eventually replaced it.) Every time I talk with the old man on the phone he's thinking about getting a new car. Usually from ex-government auctions. He doesn't need one, he just likes the process of shopping for one.

So I inherited that talent, for want of a better description, and brought it to the lab with me. Helped DMDY into that Liberty. A Japanese postdoc who hadn't driven a manual in years (THAT was a fun test drive) into a Festiva. A northern Irish postdoc mate into a Saab 900 (the exception that proved the rule about Saab drivers being tossers). A Dutch mate into another Liberty, bought from a Dutch couple up near Sandgate - the finer points of that negotiation taking place in impenetrable Nederlander-schpeek, yessh? Old flatmate the King of Seed into a Camira wagon that he loved to death (its own, inevitably. They were not well put together, even if they did go around corners rather nicely). That two-grand Camira was my only epic assistance fail, not counting my old Sin City flatmate Jase whose $2000 1987 Magna (which I'd tried to disclaim responsibility for supporting his purchase) grenaded itself at pace in peak hour on the Princes Highway not far from St George's Taj Mahal leagues club. Handbrake and swearing, both employed vigorously, were needed to alleviate that particular state of affairs. Perhaps in avoidance of such outcomes, or just to avoid a big bag of smugness on my part - ITWPT fans, think Angus very deliberately scheduling his guitar-buying trip to Brisbane for when self-appointed expert McCarthy couldn't come with - oldest of all old flatmates Craigos conspicuously avoided my input when deciding to buy a student conveyance. He bought an old Daewoo, from a dealer, for thousands more than he ought. Caveat fuckin' emptor kids. It's served him OK though, to be fair. Still shoulda bought Elvis off me though.


The newbie awaits pickup tomorrow evening. I'd love to take it for a run, say up to Queenstown for the conference I'm off to at the end of the week, but dull realities such as the need to have child restraint bolts etc etc etc put into it (as well as not wanting to pay for petrol) will probably mean leaving the new toy behind with DMDY and joining the boss in his Citroen Xsara Picasso diesel for the roadtrip up the range. Rock and/or roll. Is unlikely to feature (Nature podcasts would be at much shorter odds) but we might crash the odd winery on the way for lunch. Another good reason not to drive, I suppose...

The Doctor is OUT.

Body paint and magic dirt

On Monday morning I got up at sparrow's fart to fly to Palmerston North. Sorry, I'll retract that, as it was factually incorrect. 4.30am is far, far earlier than any self-respecting sparrow with normal digestive habits would have even considered cranking one out. Point is, I got up stupidly early to fly to Palmerston North. On purpose. Now, can I possibly convey in these words how much of a shithole Palmerston North is to the blissfully unaware reader who might not ever have experienced its utter, utter crapness? Unlikely. If I was that good a writer I wouldn't be going to dodgy research conferences in Palmerston Fucking North would I. Suffice to say that it is not a place you want to be. Imagine a tenth-scale model of Adelaide, except without the interest or excitement.


When sitting on a plane, on a runway, in a paddock, in pre-dawn darkness, waiting for the Air NZ techs to reboot the 737 (they literally turned it off and back on again), there are a few things you'd probably not see. One of which is aforesaid Air NZ techs running around with jumper leads. The other is Air NZ's 'wacky' new safety video. 'Wacky' is an adjective best attributed to crap radio morning crews, not so much safety briefings meant to provide you with the means of separating yourself from grim death should Boeing's finest have a disagreement with the Earth's surface. But NOOOOO. Some marketing wonk has decided Air NZ is 'the airline whose fares have nothing to hide' - i.e. hidden taxes and charges. Neither have anyone else's. It's called ADVERTISING LAW. However, that minor point hasn't been allowed to detract from aforesaid wonk's Creative Concept: Air NZ staff in bodypaint! Geddit? Nothing to hide? GENIARSE!!! Of course, it's all tastefully done, with nary a hint of tit. Which makes it UTTERLY POINTLESS. And that fucking cover of 'Got You Under My Skin' is retina-clawingly twee.

But that's not the real problem. The real problem is this. You're a man. It's early. TOO early. You're a long way from your bed. You've gotten up before you've.. erm, gotten up, as it were.

And some trolley dolly wearing nothing but a couple of coats of Dulux is cracking cutesy jokes at you.

This is NOT what you need in your life right at the moment.



But at least the cute brunette hostie's lovely buttocks (skip to the end) were more memorable than Palmy itself, which appears to be a large light industrial estate with a paddock in the middle of it.


However, bizarrely, there do seem to be a few Flange Gasket fans about the place, judging by this monument to Our Angus, dodgy drunken hero of In The Worst Possible Taste:


But at least they have a sense of humour in Palmy. Particularly at the airport, where they charge you a $5 'development levy' for the privilege of leaving (ostensibly for improvements to the carpeted shed that is Palmerton North International Airport's main and only terminal, despite the fact no such improvements have been done since 1979) - and then put you on a plane narrower than your missus' shopping-trolley hatchback and wave you off in the direction of Wellington, home of The Worst Weather In Christendom, into howling northerlies and crosswinds, fishtailing like a bogan's ute and bouncing like that brunette hostie's buttocks. Or at least how they do when I close my eyes and go to a Happy Place. Which I was doing a lot of as the pencil plane repeatedly and spontaneously dropped like a fridge off a waterfall and my lunch began exploratory research as to how a return visit might be received by key demographics, like the statuesque dark-haired girl with the expensive looking camera opposite me.


This is to prove it is actually possible to walk away from a Beech 1900D which has managed a perfect three-point landing - both wingtips and the nose touching down in quick succession - in a standard-issue forty-knot Wellington gale. And then get on a 737 with the bodypainted brunette (and the nasty blonde, and the incredibly gay dude, and the other incredibly gay dude, but I wasn't paying immense volumes of attention) for another hour and fifteen home. Still, they had bagel crisps and Steinlager Pure to give away, like a drive-by Black Thundering that you could actually enjoy. No icy cold 600mL Coke Zeros or copies of the new Christina Aguilera single here. Thank fuck. And for once, possibly a record amongst the Air NZ domestic fleet (at least this far south of Auckland), one of the hosties was younger than forty-five. Would have looked decent in bodypaint, most likely.


(About the only remotely SFW bodypaint image I could find on Google Image Search. Plenty of less-so variants therein, if that's your bag, man.)

A mortal note to finish on: vale Dean Turner from Magic Dirt who passed away from a rare form of cancer a few days ago. I can't claim to have been a huge Dirt Freak but they were definitely one of that generation of Australian bands who I grew up listening to on Triple J, along with the likes of Spiderbait, Grinspoon, Regurgitator, Custard, the Living End and so on. To state the obvious he died far too young and will be sorely missed. The same weekend, it was reported the Hoodoo Gurus' Brad Shepherd had evaded a narrow scrape with cancer, so at least we might again see the Gurus - or hopefully even the Monarchs - astride a stage damaging eardrums again. Not something we'll ever get to again see of the Dirt, sadly.

This is the Dirt cranking Vulcanella live for Channel V's Detour of 2004 - the lyrics are self-indlugent teen angst pap that Adalita (bogan goddess that she is) should be ashamed of, but it does have a Big Dirty Fuck-Off Riff to it which deserves due respect.



Play it loud. The Doctor is OUT.

I got two fitty

The World of Bollocks, nee The Weak In Sport, here celebrates its 250th post. Since the debut of this august tome in its current Bloggeriffic format in January 2006, it could be said we've literally made every post a winner. Except we'd be LYING. That one about the history of the Ford rally team was not a winner. It was the epitome of Fucking Dull in point of fact.

To the news of the week:

Les Paul passes away aged 94.
To be buried in sunburst maple coffin with trapezoidal pickups.

What, too soon?

I don't play guitar and what I know about guitars is mainly through rock-fan osmosis or from research done for In The Worst Possible Taste. But I know enough to know that the Gibson Les Paul IS rock music. As much, if not more so, than its great rival (if inanimate creations of wood and steel can be gratuitously anthropomorphised to the extent of having rivals) the Fender Stratocaster. Think Rock And/Or Roll and you the distinctive curve of a Les Paul or the pointy bits of a Strat. Or maybe the even pointer bits of a SG, or the flat-out hair-metal stupidity of a Flying V or an X-Plorer. Point is, you might not know the names, and nor could you be arsed finding them out unless you were writing a novel about a slightly second-hand alternative rock performer of the early Naughties, but you know the shapes and silhouettes: Angus Young (the real one) sweating over his red SG, Hendrix playing his left-handed-strung Strat backwards, upside-down and with his teeth; Pete Townshend windmilling his Les Paul Special on the way to industrial deafness and possibly a shoulder reconstruction.

So, in short: the Gibson Les Paul and its dodgy knockoffs was, is and evermore will remain Rock and Roll. Les Paul himself did much more than just give his name to a kick-arse rick guitar, but London to a brick it's what his name will live forever for.


Just like that Irish bloke who used to work for Fender, Strat O'Caster.

Of course, the best forum in which to hear Mr Paul and Mr O'Caster's legacies employed in the manner to which they were intended is to listen to modern rock radio. Nah, just kidding. Find your local classic rock station and glue the dial knob there and there only. Or, move to New Zealand, which appears to have not one but TWO high-quality nationally syndicated rock FM stations. Which, at my last count, was two more than Australia had. (Sorry Nat.) The imaginatively named The Rock FM takes the role of the New Rock station, while Radio Hauraki, previously a classic rock station, has aggressively repositioned itself in The Rock's face with a much recenter(erer) playlist, while still cranking the legendary shit it built its demographic on (Stones, Who, Zeppelin, Purple, Sabbath.) FM radio may be the last bastion of Gen X, given that the fluoro-clad nuff nuffs of Y have, like, too short an attention span for, like... oh look is that totally like Andrew G from Idol?

I've learned new things too since I've started listening to the radio again. I had NO IDEA Whitesnake had released more than one song, let alone as many as seem to turn up on NZ rock radio. I had no idea I still knew every word to Kenny Wayne Shepherd's Blue On Black despite having never owned the song in any format or particularly liked it, just heard it more than a couple of times on Triple M Sydney about ten years ago - the downside of my method of undergrad uni exam study was that not only did the course I was cramming at the time get absorbed, but so did whatever else I was listening to at the time.

But most of all, I've learned that while as the Divinyls put it, there's a fine line between pleasure and pain; it's more pertinent to note that as David St Hubbins from Spinal Tap observed, there's a fine line between stupid and clever.

For those who would question the above, I give you Choad Kroeger and Nickelback. And their mainstream rockchart hit (with a capital 'S'), 'Something In Your Mouth':

Got to meet the hottie with the million dollar body
They say it's over budget but you'd pay her just to touch it
COME OWWWWN!!!

For. Fuck's. Sake. And it gets Even Betterer:

You're rip'n up the dance floor honey
(You naughty woman)
You shake your ass around for everyone
(You're such a mover)
I love the way you dance with anybody
(The way you swing)
And tease them all by sucking on your thumb.

Anyone see where this might be headed?

You're so much cooler when you never pull it out
'Cause you look so much cuter
With something in your mouth.

Now if that's not the lardiest slab of spray-on lyrical cheese since Kurt Cobain killed off the last of the Sunset Strip hair farmers, I don't fucking know what is.

Rank and venal hypocrisy, I hear you cry. This from the responsible grown-up behind such lyrics as 'I wanna be Angus Young, he's thunderstruck; I wanna be Angus Young, half his fuckin' luck.' (You wait until we get to Beef Week Queen. That's a fucking pearler. 'I want the Beef Week Queen, she likes her red meat if you know what I mean... I want the Beef Week Queen, she’s dressed for success, and relatively clean... I want the Beef Week Queen, knows her Brahman from her Limousin... Not so hot but I don’t care, she just wants it medium rare...')

The point is, and it's a horrendous one to have to come to terms with, because it's a desperate indictment on society today:

Choad and his Canadifriends aren't actually taking the piss.

Angus is taking the piss - both the fake one and his elderly namesake. Most of the Sunset Strip hair farmers were taking the piss too, or at least were aware it was all a big fucking joke. Choady Boy, as near as I can tell, is dead serious when he gurns like a constipated wrestler, 'You look so much cuter with something in your mouth.' What, pray tell? Chewing gum? Dentures? Her retainer? At least he could have added 'Take out your fuckin' retainer, put it in your purse.'

Nickelback need to be driven into the sea at the sharpened point of a thousand bayonets. This is scientific fact.

However, in these depressed, recessionary times, it's good to see that some people still have job satisfaction.


The Doctor I mean, not the podium girl. Though one wonders however if there is a literal Czech translation for 'camel toe'.

The Doctors (all of the above) are OUT.

America: f**k yeah

What's doing. This post follows on from two others - one of mine where I went on and on and bloody ON about my thing for old-school US and Australian muscle cars of the late '60s and early '70s; and one of YDog's where he took his camera through an Iowan antique car museum and snapped a bunch of cool old stuff vintaged up to the 50s. As a response I thought I'd dig out this lot of photos of some more recent American iron from earlier in the year.

But first let me introduce you to a friend of mine.

This is Monster version 1.0. He's the good looking one.
Back on the first weekend in March, on a sunny Saturday afternoon (back when there WAS SUN in Dunedin, for fuck's sake), he and I rocked up to the the 20th annual USA Day, a showcase of American muscle cars and the like, held at the Tahuna Park showgrounds near St Kilda beach. Never been before and was astonished by the scale of the thing. Fill a football ground to bursting with rows of parked, gleaming US iron from throughout the 20th century - but mostly from the US muscle car heyday of the 60s/70s - turn on the sunshine and the BBQ, and there's your prescription for a Good Day. (Going to the Super 14/Shihad double-bill at Carisbrook after dark was a pretty epic, if deafening, ending - but that's another story entirely.)

First-gen Camaros are my pick of the US muscle car oeuvre. Dunno why. Maybe it's because they're something of an American equivalent of the same-era HK-HG Monaro GTS, my favourite out of the locals (apart from maybe the LJ Torana XU1... or the A9X hatch... or one of the early Brock HDT Commodores... or a VH Charger R/T...)

Or maybe it's just 'cos I've got the shirt to match. The MC5: Detroit's other great fire-breathing, high-octane export of the late '60s.

Couple more Gen I Camaros, early and late vintage. This gives a hint of the scale of the thing - here we're about midway across the paddock and the scene stretchs right to the edge of the dunes. Not bad for a town of a hundred thousand. Car clubs from all over the land contribute to the festivities, of course.

They weren't exactly short of Camaros, anyway.

Or 'Vettes.
Or 'Stangs. Or GTOs. Or Mopars. Or even the odd AMC Javelin.

Fair representation of Dodge Challengers too. To be honest I reckon the Challenger would have been largely forgotten by the passage of time had it not been for two things - one, the movie Vanishing Point (and the Audioslave music vid tribute which came out a few years back), and two, Dodge releasing a fucking awesome remake of the thing, in line with Ford exhuming the Mustang and GM the Camaro.

It's Deep Purple, it's from 1972 and it's heavy metal. Would that make it Machine Head?

Plymouth Superbird behind M1 there - best known these days for its role in Pixar's Cars. You can't tell I'm a parent yeah?

'Starsky and Hutch' Ford Torino. A God-awful fugly lump of shite, but still cool. In a God-awful fugly kind of way.

Generation II Camaro. Not as cool as the first gen, but this particular one was pretty tidy.

Original Pontiac Goat (as distinct from the Monaro-based thing they were selling more recently). Though M1 more interested in something over THERE.

Or over THERE maybe? '78 Corvette Stingray (not really as painfully shiny-white as this, M1 just kindly smeared his fingers across the lens at some stage before the day's proceedings) with a early '70s Plymouth GTX.

Plenty of Ford stuff of course, just didn't photograph it because (a) Fords are ghey and (b) there's only so many pristine '65 Mustang Fastbacks you can look at before going 'How much for one again?' There's a dealer in South D that seems to specialise in them, the bastard. Anyway, two alternative takes on Blue Ovaldom - a Shelby Cobra and a NASCAR Thunderbird from the late 80s. Both probably replicas but who cares.

Original 1970 Challenger R/T in Hemi Orange. Just like M1's favourite Hot Wheels car (though technically that's a newbie.)

Bit over the 'Vettes now.

Plymouth Barracuda with a 383 Hemi and a plutonium-green paintjob. See this one around town occasionally. Numberplate reads 'SAVGAS' (suffixed in small text with 'FOR ME TO USE')

This was our (my) favourite - a '68 Camaro SS 350, gold with black GT stripes. Want. Now. That or the shiny black Z28 from the T-shirt photo.

Time to go now. Bye bye!

The Doctor is OUT.

To everything there is a season

Spring has sprung. Well, not here. In Hungary. The spring in question being one off a BrawnGP Formula One car, which has sprung into the locality of one Felipe Massa to the detriment of his continued interest in the sport. Which brings us to the Point of the Exercise: it's Comeback Season. Whether we blame Lance Armstrong returning to the Tour, or AC/DC returning for one of their own, the defining cultural meme of Now is most definitely the Lazarus Act, the return of ancient creaking greybeards to the fields and stages on which they used to kick all manner of arse. And of these, none is so great or so astonishing as that which was announced last week.

Yes, salad-dodging middle-order bludger Craig McMillan is returning to NZ cricket for the domestic T20 series.

Nah it's not. It's Schuey. He's BAAAAACK. Forty years old, a bit older, a bit fatter, a bit more busted-arse - courtesy an ill-advised flirtation with German national-championship superbike racing - and all of a sudden, busted out of his stud paddock to fill in for Felipe while they lever the dents out of the eggshell that constitutes his head. But the World of Bollocks asks - when the best from the past are well past their best, is this ever a good idea? If they're as far past their best as Brett Favre, the answer is pretty obvious, even if it's a little long in the arriving. Stay the fuck home and play golf instead. This is the way with comebacks... for every Ali-after-getting-banned there's an Ali-after-getting-old. So with that in mind we present:

The World of Bollocks Comeback Rater

Michael Schumacher, Scuderia Ferrari, Formula One 2009
Coming back from: Several years getting splinters in his arse, and one getting plates in his shoulder
Chances: Pretty decent. Ferrari are improving on pace, plus his teammate Raikkonen can't be arsed - spent his weekend off crashing rally cars in WRC Rally Finland - so he can't help but look good.
Comeback rating (on a scale of Warwick Capper to Jason McCartney): Alfie Langer in Origin III

Lance Armstrong, Team RadioShack, Tour de France 2010
Coming back from: A bunch of years shagging AOR radio songstresses and not riding bikes up big fuck-off hills. Followed by one gentle lap of France riding shotgun for BFF Albie C*ntador getting the Nike LiveStrong logo into as many photo ops as possible.
Chances: Good, but not as good as the Septic sportsmedia would want them to be. Didn't see the best of him in TdF '09, due to contractual obligations, but chances are he's simply not as handy up hill as he used to be. Will depend massively on who Uncle Johan manages to ink to Radio Shack deals to ride along side Lance in 2010.
Comeback rating: Stacey Jones

Karmichael Hunt, Gold Coast Football Club, VFL/AFL
Coming back from: A brief dalliance in rugby league to return to his childhood dream growing up in the Aussie Rules hotbed of Auckland, playing for a club that didn't exist in a sport he'd never heard of.
Chances: Not flash. Probably has the athletic ability to eventually compete, but absolutely, positively, does not have the mental wherewithall to cope with being shit at his new sport for as long as it'll take for him to progress beyond being the worst kick in the VFL, let alone AFL. Not to mention being the PR focal point for the entire GC17 enterprise, at least until they sign someone actually decent at footy rather than for their worth as a publicity stunt. May go and hide in the toilets for a while if it becomes too much for him. Won't be allowed to bring friends anymore either. Speaking of which, his fellow league defectors have most definitely set the precedent here with their lack of persistence with their new codes - Sailor, Rogers, Lotsa Tequilas and even Tim Tam Tahu only last week, taking a pay cut to return to the Eels. And those blokes only left to play rugby, not aerial ping-pong with all the other pissed amputees having a tiff.
Comeback rating: Bjorn Borg with a wooden racquet

Craig McMillan, Canterbury, NZ domestic Twenty20 cricket
Coming back from: Eating pies
Chances: Good - will have plenty more pies chucked at him in this form of the game
Comeback rating: Warnie in the IPL, on a smaller scale apart from the arse

Triple 8 Lucky Horseshoe Golden Shower Casino and Race Engineering Workshop, aka Team Vodafone, V8 Supercars 2010
Coming back from: Several years building fuck-off quick Falcons, despite beginning life in the UK as the official factory Vauxhall (General Motors UK) touring car team and hence probably belonging in red
Chances: Exceptional, unless Lowndes and rest of team lynched by toothless Ford fans in carpark at Ipswich Raceway next month
Comeback rating: Michael Jordan after that baseball thing

Australia, Ashes cricket, 2009
Coming back from: 1-0 down with two tests to play
Chances: Fucking ordinary if they keep picking the Plumber et al
Comeback rating: Brocky at Bathurst, any of the 47 times he tried it

Australia, Ashes cricket, 2010/11
Coming back from: The above
Chances: Guaranteed win
Comeback rating: AC/DC

Malcolm Turnbull, Federal Opposition Leader
Coming back from: Utegate, a Federal Police inquiry, massive electoral unpopularity and generally being a born-to-rule cock
Chances: Threefold - Buckley's, none and fuck all
Comeback rating: Less likely than a Spinal Tap drummer

The Doctor is OUT.
Chance of a comeback: Mike Tyson.
(There'll be one, but it'll make no fucking sense to anyone.)

Gratituous cross-promotional exercise

Go here, read this.
http://motherfoccacia.blogspot.com/2009/08/beginners-luck.html

Thank you for your custom.

The Doctor is OUT.