Brown eyed girl

Royal Watcher. Still, apparently, a valid job description for certain cretinous dropouts of the Fourth Estate. What I've learned from Royal Watchers, particularly those who've stalked the Windsors over the years is that in matters of Royal etiquette, it is at all times critical to remain decorous, staid and reserved. To choose one's words carefully. To observe protocol. And with that, I ask:

Pray tell, has one seen the Royal Ringpiece?

Yes those dastardly Chermans have been at it again, leering motordrives akimbo to snap a split-secont helicopter-mediated bare-bottied upskirt of the Duchess of Cambridge. Can we Bild it? Yes we can Fuck off and Google it yourself you pervs. This of course is a gross violation of the woman's privacy and in any reasonable world those responsible for capturing and publishing would be up on charges of being grotty fucking sex pests. But... celebrity. So apparently it's All Cool.

And you looked, anyway. Of course you looked. So the system works. The market wins. Supply and demand. If the punters didn't care about the Royals, like any other celebs, they wouldn't be kept around to make a living off their fame. Problem is, some of those punters want more than a Royal wave and a 'May husband and aye so loved visiting your countray' out the back window of a flag-bonneted Roller. And it's not as though the Royals are willing signatories to that part of the deal, the pap-snaps, the upskirts. This was not consensual. If Kate had photocopied her arse at the Palace Xmas Party, that might be a different prospect.

There's plenty of scope for focused, surgical dissection of this debate, analysing how and why society allows certain human females to be exploited in such a way. There is a place for discussion of how the patriarchy classifies females somewhere between quasi-human subspecies and tradeable chattels.

This is not that place, because there are cheap bum jokes to be made, and I'm a cheap bum. For as Sir Robert Menzies said, 'I did but see her arsing by, but I will love her till I die.'

Just as well it was Bob Menzies and not Bob Ass-kin.

OK, I'm done.

The Doctor is OUT.

Play some D

Happy New Year! Sorry, I overslept.



So, much as you'd successfully forgotten Brassy ever existed, let alone had a second single after Work It Out, I'm trying to pretend Round 2 of the NBA Playoffs isn't happening. Not just because of the inevitable miserable comedown from the awesome-beyond-awesomeness of the first round, with fifty games of comebacks, buzzer-beaters, top seeds being dragged to elimination game 7s by bullish underdogs, Big Game Dame's series-winning three, The Joey Crawford Show, heroes, villains, engineers foist on their own petard, and Donald Sterling being told to GTFO. OK, mainly because of that. But also because my Blazers are getting torched by the Evil Empire, those inglorious bastards in monochrome, the San Antonio Spurs. And that's just a bummer. It's a bummer on the scale of the ending of The Empire Strikes Back, like watching Vader hack bits off Luke over a first-to-four series. With resident evil genius Pop, of course, playing the role of the Jedi Formerly Known As Anakin. Or possibly some sort of heavily meteorite-impacted moon.

He may have been a total bastard, but he was handy on the blues harmonica pic.twitter.com/691gHMpcEd
— Dr Yobbo (@DrYobbo) May 4, 2014

Wonderful as it was to watch the overmatched underdog Mavs take them to seven games, the Empire was never not going to Strike the Fuck Back. As OK Go observed: the house wins. The house always wins. And even with Straya's very own Torres Strait Towelwaver on board, it's still impossible to cheer for the Spurs, unless you're a dick, or a 'basketball purist', which means you're a dick with pretentions.

Still, the one bright spot of round 2 - besides Roy Hibbert taking a tip from Black Sabbath's Iron Man, somehow reanimating his ancient gigantic frame and lumbering Godzilla-like after all the h8rs who'd de-bandwagoned on him for being gahhhbage for months - has been the Clippers-Thunder series. It's got everything. Even things you don't want, like Donald Sterling not wanting to GTFO. It's got Blake and KD and Mad Russ and CP3 and DeAndre Jordan bricking freethrows and Steven Adams' elbow-proof face and Caron Butler taking your calls now and Doc being a gentleman and a scholar and Scott Brooks wearing glasses in order to appear intelligent and then making astonishingly fucking dumb moves in the final minutes to undermine that completely. And BIG BABY DAVIS IN THE MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE. GET HIM A ROOM OR PREPARE TO FACE THE FLYING KEYBOARD OF JUSTICE. It's tremendous. It's 2-2. It's going seven games. And the winner gets to get beaten by the FUCKING SPURS.

Unless they can learn how to play some D.

The Doctor is OUT.