BOOGITY BOOGITY BOOGITY

LET'S GO RACIN' BOYS. For all hard-case racing fans, this is one of the best moments of the year: the first full weekend of the new season. While several series have already kicked off their schedule for the year, the weekend just gone was the first of the year when one looked at one's EPG and discovered ALL THE THINGS WERE ALL AT ALL THE TIMES. FUCK YEAH RACING. LET'S GONE CUNTS.

V8 Supercars Round 2.5, Symmons Plains, ten minutes south of Launceston, various times across Saturday and Sunday afternoon AEST
One wonders if Red Bull's shitfit over the direction (or striking lack thereof) and expense (or ludicrous surplus thereof) of Formula One will extend to their regional motorsport activities. As we noted on #BALLS not so long ago, energy drinks have taken over from ciggy sponsors as crucial financial underwriters of many sports, particularly racing; where once was the Marlboro Holden Dealer Team there is now Red Bull Racing Australia. Given RBRA, aka the artists otherwise known as Triple 8 Lucky Star Golden Donkey Palace Race Engineering & Online Casino are expanding to a third factory-supported entry for 2016, one assumes their cashflow remains in a happy place.

Shit place to park there ya fucken genius

This being the 2.5th V8SC round of the year (the Melbourne GP support gig counting halves), the season report card so far: new coverage is a step up; new Falcons are hatful-of-busteds fugly on a level not seen since the death of the AU XR8; Volvo Polestar Racing have the dreaded Second Album Syndrome; if the Erebus AMGs could find a sponsor and a sandwich bag of luck they'd be laughing; and the upper management of V8SC can still go and stick a firecracker in their arse and fuck off because we still remember how you cunts tried to whiteant the Bathurst 12 Hour with your pissant test session. C+.

Formula One Round 2, Sepang International Circuit, over the road from Kuala Lumpur airport, 3pm local time, hot and humid with a chance of sweaty bawbags
Pop quiz, asshole. What's more unAustralian: (a) supporting New Zealand over Australia in the Cricket World Cup final at the G; or (b) not even watching the Cricket World Cup final because there was fucken racing on? Since unAustralianism is a quality to be pursued at all costs, how about (c) all of the above. And then topping it off with the most unAustralian act imaginable: finding yourself warming to Sebastian Vettel.

Yes, that Vettel. Mark Webber's old mate. Australia's Public Enemy Number (Formula) One. Sebieber. Der Proktologist. The guy who could beat anyone so long as he had a bespoke rule-bending hypercar, but given more menial equipment got his arse handed to him by Dan Ricciardo last year, cracked the shits and fucked off to Ferrari.

We've been here before: smug Cherman multi-champ heads to Ferrari to drag them out of the doldrums. Worked last time, eventually - though not before pissing away most of the goodwill the Scuderia had earned over the years. Why's it different now? Is it because Vettel has more positives to his personality? Is it residual guilt over what became of Schumi, still somewhere in home-care exile, body and mind shattered? Is it because Schumacher's squadra was Benetton with a red top-coat, whereas the new Ferrari is resolutely Italian? Or is it just because they're up against the two Mercedes drivers, and the two Mercedes drivers are fucken flogs. Hamiltron carries more bling than the love child of Mr T and Brett 'Chunky Gold Chains' era Lee, and whinges like an entitled brat in the toy aisle at the Warehouse. Rosberg wants to be known as clever and cerebral like Prost, but unfortunately is not very good at the clever cerebral stuff like 'saving your tyres' or 'using less fuel' or 'not running into your teammate' or 'being quick'.

I'm not mad at him. Indeed, I pity the fool

Why overanalyse it. Watching Vettel... sorry, watching Ferrari (and Vettel) beat the Mercs was fun. Even if, with stinking humidity and sixty-three-degree track temps, it completely buggered the participants. Slouched on the podium, delirious with exhaustion and success, Vettel declared his plans for the post-race to the world: "I'm going to get really pissed."

He's more Australian than we thought.

MotoGP Round 1, a racetrack in a desert, Qatar, the middle of the fucking night

FIFA's recent admission that yes, they were going to compound the clusterfuck of awarding the 2022 World Cup to a desert country with no credible history in football by moving the tournament to November-December, thus fucking up the majority of club football seasons worldwide, set a new high water mark for acts of astonishingly futile petrodollar-fuelled fuckwittery ref. holding sporting events in the desert in the middle of the night in winter. Which makes MotoGP the OG hipsters: they've been doing this shit for years. 

Speaking of OGs, Valentino Rossi entered his 20th season of world championship motorcycle racing with the same attitude as always, but better hair. As the only '70s dude in a room full of fucking millennials, the old dog's had to learn new tricks - he's now dragging his elbows on apex kerbs Marquez-style cos that's hot right now. Having seen off the Spanish Armada of Marquie Marc, Lorenzo and Pedrosa, Rossi outdragged the Ducatis of countrymen Iannone and Dovizioso to the line to win his eleventy millionth Grand Prix since his debut shortly before the birth of several of his rivals. If a Rossi-Ducati-Ducati podium following on from a Ferrari F1 triumph didn't result in a national holiday in Italy, the fuckers weren't trying hard enough.

IndyCar Round 1, the streets of St Pete, the armpit of Florida, heading-off-to-work-o'-clock NZST
To the Firestone Gran Pree of St Petersburg on the shores of Tampa Bay, described on ESPN as 'Florida's version of Monaco' by former F1 veteran and Indy 500 winner Eddie Cheever who either took a few too many head knocks in his IRL days or needs to lay off huffing paint thinners. 2015 Indycars have sprouted winglets, with the base Dallara chassis having been swarmed over by the R&D arms of engine suppliers Chevy and Honda to provide a bit more downforce and a bucket more ugly. Honda Performance Development's aero kits in particular appear to have been made out of the packaging they came in, like someone who got midway through construction of some woebegone IKEA flatpack and just cracked the fucking shits completely. Team Penske, who developed Chevy's aero kit when they weren't funding Marcos Ambrose's repatriation expenses, qualified their four entries 1-2-3-4, which showed what a fucking tops job Honda did with the boxcutters and balsa wood.

Next day a series of yellow flag processions were held between which short burst of racing were intermittently broken out, until someone broke something off their car and the bits carpeted important bits of racetrack. Chevy took the top six places but Honda outscored them in broken winglets 9 to 2. In the Penske-off up front, Old Man Montoya somehow darted, drifted and fishtailed to his first street-track win since the Monaco GP of 1863 in a Williams pulled by a horse, despite being run down (and then run into) in the late laps by reigning Indycar champion Will Power who is from Toowoomba and apologises in advance. Yes, that's why his eyes are weird like that.

NASCAR Round Umpteen, Martinsville Speedway, somewhere in the red states where the only winglets they have come with buffalo hot sauce and that's the way Jesus likes it

Fuck, I dunno. Bunch of cunts went round and round, some of 'em stacked it, and at the end some Cletus called Denny won. Fuck watching that shit. Even hard-case race fans have standards.

The Doctor is OUT.

Done like a dinner

Indeed, news broke overnight that motoring presenter and ridiculous flog Jeremy Clarkson had been relieved of his high-paying gig at the British Broadcasting Corporation, despite staunch support of a noisy minority of munters, bigots and fuckwits, in particular JC's BFF David Cameron. Not to mention his 11 year old daughter who is reported to be on a hunger strike until Clarkson is reinstated, or until Daddy buys her another pony. Her reaction to the news of old mate quitting 1D was not available at press time.

Firing Jeremy Clarkson from Top Gear is a frightening precedent for all of us who like to punch ppl in the face while throwing a tantrum
— Andy Richter (@AndyRichter) March 25, 2015

In the realm of great Pyrrhic tantrums of the recent past, Clarkson's is immense; that of his erstwhile offsiders May and Hammond, refusing to do the show unless the pube-headed waxworks reject was reinstated, is similarly pointless and self-defeating. Both have slightly rescinded the rhetoric today, and both will find gigs easy enough to come by (as both are excellent camera talent and genuinely likeable), but Top Gear - at least this iteration of it - needs to die along with Clarkson's taxpayer-funded career.

This would be a tremendous point at which to put the screens up around @BBC_TopGear and put it to sleep. It's time.
— Dr Yobbo (@DrYobbo) March 19, 2015

This. (Yes, I'm agreeing with myself. Someone has to.) Not just because Clarkson is a dreadful arse, a boorish, bigoted, climate-denialist Tory bully masquerading as an anti-Establishment rebel while being a card-carrying member thereof... though there is that. No, because the experience of the various international Top Gears has proven that the only thing preventing TG from being Just Another Car Show (as May observed in his comments today) is the repartee between the presenters. It's the only reason the show works at all. Airdropping the inveterately twatty Chris Evans of Radio One into proceedings to replace Clarkson will work about as well as when the Australian producers tried the same with some random trumpet player. Although Alan Partridge would be an interesting wrinkle.

@DrYobbo I keep meaning to tell you and forgetting: I watched through all of Top Gear, and sometimes Jeremy Clarkson reminds me of you.
— Melissa Dunphy (@mormolyke) April 19, 2012

Ohhh get faaaarrrrkked.

Clarkson, of course, will be fine; untempered by the modulation of May and Hammond, he'll get to make as many terrible fucking vanity DVDs as the market can stand, featuring him overrevving hypercar unobtania around cracked runway tarmac like a monumental bellend while gurning 'POWEERRRRR' at a GoPro; pen a regular race-baiting column for the Torygraph; run for fucking parliament in the safe Conservative seat of Jumping-Over-Shark. He won't just fuck off somewhere and shut up. More's the pity.

IMO, they should bin the lot of it - presenters, format, executive producer - and give the show over to actual car guys and Fifth Gear (the show recycled from the ruins of Old Top Gear in the earlty Oughts) alumni Tom Ford and Jonny Smith, recently returned to the Beeb for Mud Sweat and Gears. Gritty reboot or GTFO. Otherwise, TG is all played out. Old white men arguing about cars on taxpayer funded overseas junkets ain't getting it done in 2015.

Still, it's kinda sad. See, I liked Top Gear. No, that's too dilute. For a decade, Top Gear has been the only show I consistently watched (or DVR'd) on free to air network television. For all Clarkson's fuckwittery, his character was necessary for the show to work in the three-handed character-driven context it dwelt within. And even if this required anyone with a brain to suspend disbelief and convince themselves that he was intended by the producers as a satire of the grunting right-wing reactionary flog he played on television, it worked as far as that device was capable of taking it.

Although binning Clarkson was clearly the right move for all manner of reasons, the temptation will be for the BBC to look for a like-for-like replacement to keep the TG cash farm rolling. Even though this Clarkson's clearly broken, they could just go out and get a new one.




The Doctor is OUT.

All hail the Hairy Jav

Alright, settle down. It wasn't the greatest game ever played. It wasn't even the greatest Cricket World Cup semi final in which South Africa choked were beaten in the final over as a result of pressure-related errors. But it was fucken good times on and off line. Grant 'The Hairy Javelin' Elliot spearing a penultimate-ball six into the Eden Park crowd off a rank Dale Steyn half-tracker set New Zealand ablaze after several hours of the most astonishingly squeaky-bum semi-final cricket known to the history of the land, if not the sport.

In case... Sorry, OF COURSE you want to hear Jason Hoyte call the winning six by the #hairyjavelin again http://t.co/p3kMCV8EFr #NZvSA
— #DareToDream (@TheACCnz) March 24, 2015

Interesting was the response of the Twitter fanbase of putative finals opponents Straya. By and large, through the course of the game, trans-Tasman sibling rivalry was set aside, less through ANZAC loyalties and more courtesy the adoption of an 'anyone but the fucken Saffas' mindset. Aside of course from the usual shit sheep jokes and jibes about immigrants making up 2/11ths of the team and 11/11ths of the winning shotmakery; for most modern Western democracies, 21st century international migration practices aren't something to hate and fear, but as we know, Straya isn't most modern Western democracies.

No, the interesting part was the nervous reaction from Strayan fans which went along the lines of 'let's see how they go when they move from a postage stamp to an envelope.' Not apparently a reference to eating glue off the backs of mailing stationery, because not everyone is of the intellectual standing of Dave Warner, but to the sizes of grounds in NZ and Australia respectively; Australia's cricket ovals are Australian Rules football grounds (first and foremost these days), while NZ's often (but by no means exclusively) double as rugby pitches. That perception mismatches with reality following the rise of boutique Ovals like University and Hagley at the expense of Carisbrook and the old Jade Stadium in pre-quake Chch; the Caketin in Welly was always AFL-sized (no less so than the SCG), and Eden Park is bigger than it was pre-RWC2011.

Still, what US baseball writers would call 'park effects' definitely impact what we see here. How will NZ do on a 'proper' sized ground? NZ have played 40-odd ODIs in the last two years, some of which will have been on 'proper' sized grounds. Why don't we know the answer to this already, other than scratching through foggy memories for anecdata? If this was baseball, someone would have run the numbers. They'd already have calculated the park effects for every ground - the team-independent, game-independent contribution to scoring determined by the metrics of the park itself. In baseball, park effects or park factors cover everything from the distance to the fences, to the local air pressure; Coors Field in Denver is a big field at altitude, and is a place pitchers go to be immolated like a Viking funeral, while AT&T Park, the San Francisco Giants' home field on the bay and at sea level, has the rep as being as dampening on offence as a trip into the waters of McCovey Cove. Baseball wonks can pull park effects out of their stats and determine the contribution to success or failure of a team, or even an individual pitcher or batter, which can be nominally put down to the field they play in.

So why doesn't someone run the numbers for cricket? Not just for this, but for anything? As we learn more about the way advanced metrics have transformed the way we understand sports - particularly stat-heavy American sports like baseball and basketball, where understanding-through-measuring is at its apex - the question arises, why isn't this part of our sports? Not just in terms of team back-office strategy, but more important for the most important part of the game (the person paying the bills, i.e. Me), as part of how the game is explained to fans through commentary and analysis.

Cricket, in particular, stands out as a sport dying to be advanced-metric'd to within an inch of its life. Like baseball, the original poster-sport for next-gen stats wonks, it's a game of individual contests which can be probabilistically defined: each bowler-on-batter contest has a defined series of outcomes which can be recorded, mapped, and predicted based on past outcomes, to the point where you can calculete the 'win contribution' of every one of these hundreds and thousands of interchanges. Sabermetrics not only transformed the landscape of how baseball was played and managed and how its teams were assembled and dismantled, but launched the nascent numbers-driven political punditry careers of the likes of Nate Silver of Five Thirty Eight, whose statistical models (honed through his experience developing baseball metrics) famously picked the 2012 US presidential election results with 96% accuracy.

Whether it's park effects, or determining an death-overs equivalent to the 'times through the order' penalty which has been identified and granularised for pitchers late in a baseball game through the twin encroachments of fatigue and familiarity, we should be able to understand cricket better through smashing stats. Indeed, it's not so much a question of why this isn't a part of cricket - it would defy belief for it not to be, and (for instance) for it not to be part of the armoury of laptop-toting coaches like John Buchanan which so reviled Warney - but why it isn't part of how the mainstream media explains the game to us. Are we too stupid, or are they? The answer sits somewhere in the middle: they can afford to be stupid, because they think we are.

A couple of weeks ago on #BALLS Beeso and I talked about how some of the SportVue player-tracking technology which was unlocking the advanced-metrics codes of basketball - a more complicated sport to mathematicise without the binary contests and more easily defined outcomes of baseball - was originally developed in Australia for AFL football. This tracking tech means the position of players relative to the ball can be mapped, so you know (for instance) who's nominally guarding who, who's attempting too many hopeless contested long 2s, who's bludging on D, and even mathematically assessing who the best defensive players in the league are based on their ability to (a) deter shotmaking and/or (b) defend shots when made. This sort of knowledge doesn't replace the 'eye test', but it does unlock the power of being able to scientifically verify ideas the eye test throws forth, or pick out stuff it can't see. This is clever, cool stuff, and it adds to how we understand and enjoy the game.

As we know, Knowledge is Power, and Power is a Team in the AFL (a shit one, but a team nonetheless). Why isn't the same kind of cool tracking tech-led metrics informing the reportage of AFL football? Could be that the AFL sports media isn't up to the level of analysis required, partly because they are stupid Victorians who are stupid, partly because they don't think they have an audience which cares? The American experience seems to be that quality-seeking audience comes along as you invest in quality in your analysis. However, it could just be that in the NBA, the league owns the tracking data, and make it available for analysis by the media or even just by punters with smarts; in the AFL (and in other leagues), the clubs do, and they ain't sharing - to their benefit, but arguably to that league's detriment. It's one thing to hoard the clever algorithms, and the clever people; it's another to prevent the data even making it to light. That way, whether the media want to smarten up their act or not, they're unlikely to have the tools or skills to. Which means those of us who pay the league's bills (whether as paying punters, cable TV subscribers, club members, or just sets of sponsor-ready eyeballs) and who want a little bit more data weighted behind the cliched post-hoc assertions of smug, combox-bound ex-players, are left disappointed by the fact our sport is still discussed, analysed and commentated upon in the same fashion as always: gurning populist shit dribbled by absolute fuckwits.

Tops.

The Doctor is OUT.

A history of violence

To know Ndamukong Suh is not, generally, to love him. Suh plays the position of defensive tackle in the National Football League, in which role he has come to be broadly regarded as the dirtiest player in the competition. Even in an inherently violent game like NFL, Suh's brutality stands out: a laundry list of late hits and head twists, high shots and low blows, stamps, stomps and sledges over his brief years in the league had rocketed the league's best and filthiest defensive tackle to the top of every neutral fans' list of Most Hated Player In Football. It's easy to see why. If Suh was a rugby player, he'd be a niggling French forward of the 80s, all dark arts and dirty tricks - gouging, elbowing, clotheslining, rucking Buck's ballbag, punching Peter Fitzsimons about the head... actually, not all bad then.

Ahead of Suh's looming free agency this month - he's out of contract, and despite his all-pro worth on the field, the Detroit Lions couldn't afford to resign him at the pricetag he was likely to fetch on the open market - the invariably excellent Brian Phillips of Grantland wrote a searing piece on Suh, pitched to the fans of the teams who might think of acquiring him: if he pulled on your shirt, could you cheer for him? Given all the vicious, red-misted fury with which Suh plays, and all the headlong pole-vaults he makes over the faded lines of sportsmanship, could you possibly reconcile your fandom with having this goon in your colours? Is winning at any cost worth it if the cost is Ndamukong Suh?

The answer is, fuck off, of course it is. As the Miami Dolphins no doubt nodded to themselves as they backed up the Armaguard van to make him the highest paid defensive player in the NFL. Miami are paying Suh franchise-quarterback money to lock him up for the foreseeable future, notwithstanding the minor fact it'll prevent them having sufficient coin to sign anyone to put around him.

But Phillips' point is worth exploring, because no matter what code of football or of sport, there's inevitably That Guy. There's ALWAYS That Guy. The one you CANNOT abide. The dirty cheat, the thug, the flopper, the gouger, the big-talker, the niggle merchant, the shiny overexposed cock with the eminently punchable face. That Guy. You know him, you hate him. You've always hated him. Every fan of every team hates him. And then... he comes to play for your team.

And then what?

Then, you either suck it up and adopt your new pet munter, or you chuck it in and find something else to do.

That Guy is across all sports, although his precise form varies by code. The Rugby League is strong with gurning, Neanderthal meatheads (type specimen: William Mason.) Cricket favours the chippy flog, like David 'DAVEEYYYYY' Warner; while football and basketball's hate-to-love types are typically your bitey, floptastic red-mist niggle-merchants like Suarez or Costa, Rodman or Artest. Then there's your flat-out cheating bastards like old mate Lance. And if you're really lucky, and the That Guy fairies have been particularly generous, you'll get the magical quadrella of a thuggy, chippy, niggly, cheating prick, otherwise known as Paul Gallen.

Yes, he's a psychotic fuckwit, but he's *our* psychotic fuckwit. Carn the Blues #OneInARow

I have form with this, and I admit it: I'm easily bought. I'm as mercenous as the arseholes who get signed to play for the teams I support. Did I stop barracking for Souths when Mick Crocker, Queensland's eminently hateable proto-Gallen thug of the earlier oughts, came to play for us? Did I fuck. (Then again if being bought by Rusty fucken Crowe wasn't enough to drive me away, Crocker Shit would hardly make much difference.) Carlos Tevez, a footballing Escobar henchman on a very dodgy contract landing at West Ham? Saved us from relegation. Nice work son. You name 'em, I've backed 'em. Public enemies and walking enemas. The hated and the loathed. LeBron at Miami? Whincup at Triple 8? The Australian team under RRRRRRICKY PONTING? Schumacher at Ferrari?

Ay, there's the rub.

Ferrari was my team as a kid. More than any football or cricket side. Because of my Italian roots, because of my youthful obsession with Formula One, because they hadn't won a world title since I was in nappies and for some reason I appear to be drawn to historic teams which have run to shit *cough Souths cough West Ham cough the fucken Oakland Raiders cough* And they had cool cars and cool colours and cool drivers like Berger and Alesi who did things The Right Way.

And then they fired all the cool people and hired that venal big-chinned flog Schumacher and half his team from Benetton, who'd won his first world title despite the team being disqualified from several races for inveterate cheating *and* his punting Damon Hill out of the season-ending Australian F1GP.

I tried. Really, I did. For the whole first half of the '96 season, until I realised: fuck this. This wasn't Ferrari. This was a Schumacher ego trip. And when he tried his Damon Hill move on Jacques Villeneuve's Williams at the season-ending race in Spain a year later, the point was underlined. Sometimes, winning at any cost just isn't worth it.

Oh, and obviously any team this cunt is on has no fucken show. Goes without saying.

The Doctor is OUT.

PS: @beeso and I are recording #BALLS this evening, and this'll likely come up; post your suggestions for terrible shitcunts you've had to endure in your team's colours, particularly those who joined after their terrible shitcuntery was already clear to all, either below in the comments or on Twitter @theBALLSpodcast.

Shampoo for my real friends, real poo for my sham friends

So, Thomas Taw. Yes, him again. We've discussed his work in the past, turning up on the backs of shampoo bottles spouting absolute bollocks. He's still at it, because keep gettin' dem checks:

Yes it's a shit photo, this isn't Instagram, fuck off

Only a thorough wash, removing oil and residues, can leave your scalp fresh and energised.
- Thomas Taw, complete fucking genius

I'm glad that Tommy Boy is here to explain to us how to wash our hair. What's next, he explains conditioner isn't primarily designed for wanking with? (Unlikely, given the look of him)

And yet what I'm baffled... nay, flummoxed about, is why Unilever haven't extended this clearly market-dominating approach (cos you find me another Shampoo For Blokes in the aisle at your local superduopolymarket) to other products in their range of consumer goods.

Like toilet paper, for instance. 

Only a thorough wipe, removing dags from matted arsehairs...

There's a thought. Despite decades of specialisation in shampoo technology, they still haven't developed one for the downstairs shrubbery. Not everyone's into Brazilians, you racists.

The Doctor is OUT.

#BALLS: The Weak In Sport, in your ears

Salutations, flogs. The year 2015, apart from being the eponymous Future in the Back To The Future series of fillums, marks ten years since Dr Yobbo's World of Bollocks first emerged online, in its original format of The Weak In Sport. And since 2015 is all about ill-advised journeys back in time, Your Correspondent has joined in league (and other codes) with long-time bloglaborator Beeso (of Lantanaland, formerly of Mother Foccacia) to launch what amounts to The Weak in Sport in podcast form:

INTERNET, NOT ONLY DO WE HAVE A PODCAST, BUT NOW WE HAVE A TWITTER. LOOK UPON OUR #BALLS, YE MIGHTY, AND DESPAIR. pic.twitter.com/zUlE88qVjr
— #BALLS (@theBALLSpodcast) March 5, 2015

The seeds of this terrible terrible idea came when Your Correspondent guested on Beeso's Cheeee(eeeee?)sy podcast last year - initially with a very brand-compliant (for me and for Beeso's podcast) pub chat about beer, wine and foodie things, then a pinot-driven argument about basketball and Karmichael Hunt's inadequacies (some of which may have been explained post-hoc). This, in effect, was the pilot episode for #BALLS.

After months in the planning (translation: much faffing about ordering mics and testing connections) #BALLS dropped (har har) officially this month, with two eps now in the can and available wherever good podcasts are available, and shit ones like ours. Including, to the astonishment of all involved, the iTunes Store:

Clearly Apple's standards have dropped off since Jobs did likewise #BALLSoniTunes
— Dr Yobbo (@DrYobbo) March 5, 2015

As noted shoutily above, not only do we have a podcast (which will drop weekly, usually recorded on Fridays or Saturdays, late at night over an beverage or several) but we also have a Twitter account, and an email address for feedback. So far feedback has largely centred upon the dimensions of our penis(es) and how we are in need of augmentation in that area, which is disappointing, as these listeners clearly have us confused with Kyle Sandilands.

The good news for World of Bollocks fans (both of you) is that this also means STUFF IS ABOUT TO OCCUR HERE TOO. I'll be using WoB as a sounding pad for ideas during the week which we might kick around on the weekend. Which means YES THERE MIGHT ACTUALLY BE THE OCCASIONAL FUCKEN POST HERE FOR A CHANGE. WAHOOOO.

Anyway. So there's that.

 

The Doctor is OUT.