Seriously. I'm MAD. Mad as a cut snake. Crazy as, I'm tellin' ya. Not "I'm crazy and therefore I'll give you large discounts on Telstra-branded mobile communications products" crazy... no, I'm more "sink vast quantities of piss then try to wobble home down the coast road at a good 120mph, then offer La Polizia a free character reference on arrival, along with my incisive dissection of the Middle East crisis" crazy. I tell ya, son, the Jews are a lot of fuckers, they're to blame for everything. Wha?... I swear, Drinkstable, I haven't had a cunt all night...
Bollocks to Glover, I'm too old for this shit
The Weak's theory du joir? That we should stop trying to use pretentious French phrases we don't understand. And that Mel lost the plot once he followed the lead of Pakistan middle-order wrist-merchant Mohammed Yousuf, previously Yousuf Youhana until he figured being called something as Christian as Joseph Joseph wasn't getting him selected or laid in a country which is more Muslim per head than Lakemba, and grew a big fuck-off beard.
This by way of feeble segue to:
Poms regain plot; Ashes may be a stretch
Having failed dismally to install a Rheem in their clueless khaki-green opponents in the first test a week or so ago, the English cricket team (that's what their function appears to be anyway) rolled Pakistan with drinking time to spare in the second test over the weekend. 'Twas indeed one of those Pakistan performances that leave smiles on the faces of noone but the bookies (primarily shifty subcontinental types going by the name of 'John'.)
Meanwhile back on the shifty subcontinent, Home of Wrist, Sri Lanka completely fucked over the Saffers after Jayawardene and Sangakkara (aka The Kumar At Number Three) put on approximately six billion runs (oh OK, six hundred and twenty-four) for an all-wicket world record partnership in Test Match Kriggit. Which brings us to our Next Overarching Theme:
How bad are the Saffers?
Bad enough that all their decent cricketers are back wanting to play for England again, like in the '70s and '80s - and there isn't even the excuse that there's no SA team allowed in international competition.
Bad enough that their only good netballer, goalshoot Irene van Dyk (she isn't, since you asked) plays for New Zillund, even though they insist on putting her in cretinous Fisher and Paykel commercials which basically have the entire world champion Silver Fern team told to get back in the kitchen and make the man some eggs.
Bad enough that most of their best rugger buggers - your Rathbones, your Vickermans - would rather play for the Wallabies. The Wallabies, for Christ's sake.
Bad enough that their only decent race driver, Tomas Scheckter (son of 1979 F1 world champ Jody), supposedly targeted for Big Things, these days can only parlay his trade in an IRL team with the arse out of their collective trousers, because he was kicked out of the Jaguar F1 test team years ago for kerb-crawling his evenings away in his company XKR. And we don't mean bouncing two wheels over the red-and-white stripey bits like the V8 Supercar lads get up to.
OK so that's largely irrelevant to the argument, but it IS funny. You'd think a F1 driver, even if he was only a test driver and even if it was only Jaguar, could get laid without having to trawl for hookers in Northamptonshire back streets.
Toys-Pram Dissociation Factor > Zero
The best tanty of the week also comes from the IRL - that's the going-round-in-circles version of Indycars that do the Indy 500, not the ChampCar series which is kind enough to provide background ambient noise for the monstrous pissup that constitutes the Gold Coast Indy - where series darling Danica Patrick proceeded to throw a massive wobbly on her car sputtering out of gas a couple of laps short of the finish. Insert cheap gag about this being inevitable, because women never remember to fill their car up... pause for editing... and we're done. The tanty, for those who missed it, was a masterclass of stamping one's little feet, kicking over plastic bollards, setting them back up and kicking them back over again, and generally carrying on like an Absolute Pork Chop. Danica, who announced the weekend of the race that she's giving the Rahal-Letterman team the arse in favour of Andretti-Green (more hyphenated names than AGM night at the polo club), will likely learn to make such announcements at the END of race weekends rather than in plenty of time for the lads on the crew to take their frustrations out by pissing in the fuel for the last pitstop.
Seemingly, it was a weekend for childish antics; preceding little Danica's hissy fit for the ages was an old-school(yard) exhibition of hair-pulling and handbags in the Bledisloe Cup test, described by rugby tragics as 'a good old-fashioned traditional test match' and by anyone who didn't go to a private school as 'tedious as the Jesus fuck'. The All Blecks, who as we've learned do handbags at ten paces better than any international XV around, busted out Guinness-pint-on-legs and renown piss-artist (the turf still hasn't recovered) Jerry Collins, who responded to the ruckmanship threat of Wallaby flanker George Smith by... pulling his hair and calling him rude names. It all worked out in the end though - Jerry apologised after the game. He even gave him his lunch money back.
Department of Corrections
We would like to apologise for a typographical error which slipped into one of the previous editions of our august journal. Following South Sydney's monumental trouncing of the Broncos about eleven weeks ago, we stated, "Every ten-game winning streak has to start somewhere, and ours starts here."
As it turns out, one of the words in this sentence turns out to be opposite to what it should have been. I think you can guess which one.
Anyway, that shit's done with. Slate wiped. Big up the Bunnies for schtuffing the Green Machine (themselves fresh-off duffing up the Saintses the week previous) with four O-for-Oresome first-half tries, most of which were set up by the lanky genius of former NSW Origin fullback (times one) David Peachey. Vaguely serious query of the Weak: how much of a bargain does the Peach look at this stage of proceedings? Souths picked him up for match payments and cab fare on his return from the UK, and he's single-handedly sorted Souths' halves dramas by taking the pressure off their young 6-7-13 combo (currently Champion, Williams and Sutton) at the line, giving them another option. Not that he was ever allowed to bust out the spare-five-eighths skills playing at Cronulla under Brett Kimmorley. It's my spotlight, sister.
Souths appear to be buying half the NRL's decent players next year - well, at least half the Kiwis' larger international train-on squad (Jeremy Smith, Nigel Vagina, Roy Asotasi, one of those big fuckers from Penrith with the hair, a few others I can't remember - plus you can't forget Russell and Martin Crowe, even if you want to) so it should be fully choice eh bro down Redfern way next year cuz.
And finally...
It's gonna be a boy.
That should save sending out a few emails.
The Doctor is OUT.
