In news just in, Australia has qualified for the World Cup.
That’s the actual World Cup, with emphasis on World,
rather than ‘leftover bits of the Commonwealth and a few
other random backwaters’ as per the World Cups we're more
accustomed to. And hasn't it been a long and winding
goat-track which has circuitously, but fortuitously, brought
the nation of Arstraya to this milestone of nationhood.
Having beaten the Canucks in a penalty shootout only to be
Argie-bargied out of contention singlehandofGodly by a
resurgent Maradona in 1993, then falling over ridiculously
in the last 20 minutes against Iran in 1997, and proving to
be ‘not even able to beat UR Gay’ (thanks very much
Challen comma G full stop) in 2001, the Socceroos finally
staggered into the finals with a 4-2 shootout win over the
two-time World Champions. Admittedly the two times in
question were 1930 and 1950 so unsurprisingly some of their
better players of that era had retired, or had at least
declined in form somewhat. Some were even older than Roy
Keane.
In our proud time-honoured tradition of jumping on any
bandwagon which happens to trundle past, the Grate Arstrayan
Pubic packed out Kooee Stadium to boo the Uruguayan anthem
and scream ours so loud the little curly-haired moppet
totally lost her place. Honouring another time-honoured
tradition, the Socceroos responded to this heartfelt support
by spending the first half hour getting completely carved up
and having their arses handed to them. Uruguay were
directing traffic all over the park and the Aussie defence
was creaking like Kirstie Alley’s armchair. At which point
coaching maestro Aussie Guus (in the time-honoured tradition
of Aussie Joe Bugner) had a bit of a think and decided that
what the formation needed was one less defender. Geniarse.
Haitch Kewwwell and his superfluous pigtails ponced onto the
field to replace the crocked Popovic and proceeded to set up
the tie-equalising goal with only his second touch.
Admittedly his second touch was in point of fact a
horrendously miscued shot on goal that diverged at right
angles to the intended direction of travel. Parma’s
favourite slaphead Marco Bresciano sorted the rest and
Straya bossed it from thereon.
However as the tension rose and Craig Foster, former
Socceroo and highly professional SBS ‘colour man’,
proceeded to progressively and completely lose it, the
winning goal proved as elusively difficult to grab hold of
as a George Gregan ‘pass’ from the scrumbase. It was
left to Boro’s Mark Schwarzer, hero of the ’93 shootout
with the moose-shaggers, to save the day - and Obsacura
(sorry, Osasuna) striker Aloisi to clinch it. Cue much
silliness from all concerned, team, crowd and nation alike,
and from Fozzie, the most endearingly desperate show of a
supposedly neutral commentator’s true colours since the
late great Johnny Warren dissolved into tears at full time,
Australia-Iran 1997. Indeed Fozzie screamed Johnny’s name
as though he’d netted the winner himself... and perhaps,
in some mystical, metaphysical way, he had. Australia
rejoiced as one, with the possible exception of AFL chief
Demetriou comma A full stop who proceeded to have a little
think about what this might mean for the future of his footy
code in particular, and then proceeded to shit himself.
As well he should. Bollocks to ‘soccer’ not being our
national game. If you weren’t out in the streets bellowing
'Campione, campione, ole ole ole-o' you are more
un-Australian than John Howard. It’s tantamount to being
parked outside Lucas Heights with a bootful of fertilizer.
CAMPIONE DEL MONDO?
So how will Straya fare on D-Day ’06 as we invade Germany
again? Hopefully not like on Omaha Beach (thanks very much
Vale comma Y full stop). Last time in ’74 we were, not to
put too fine a point on it, pants; not exactly unexpectedly
given we were drawn with both Germanys and Chile. Ditto our
Kiwi neighbours who somehow managed to qualify for Spain
’82, and went on to get walloped in all three games. More
recently, the only form guide we can take is how the teams
who’ve defeated us have gone on to do in the tournament
proper. And the news there ain’t great: everyone who beats
us has an absolutely shit time of it. In USA 94, Argentina
went out arse-backward after the resurgent Maradona’s
surges were correctly ascribed to ingesting Colombian
Go-Fast by the bucketful. In France 98, Iran achieved two
fifths of bugger-all but at least beat the Septics. And in
Korea-Japan 2002, UR Gay got pantsed in every game they
played. Looks like this may be a World Cup which we won’t
win every second time we turn up. That bandwagon may well
have plenty of room again come the second round of Germany
2006, as well as a significantly improved power-to-weight
ratio.
INSERT SEAMLESS SEGUE HERE
So Australia is finally going to the World Cup. NZ can’t
be arsed with going to all that trouble; instead, they’ve
arranged for the World Cup to be brought to them. Not the
real one, that would be too much trouble - they've set their
sights on the smaller one, the one which reminds them of
themselves - half-arsed, parochial and self-delusionary,
with incorrectly shaped balls. Amazingly, the IRB demurred,
despite several nations, including their ditch-sharing
neighbours, voting for the Japanese bid in order to (a)
promote the game into new horizons and (b) wind the Kiwis
up.
In a totally uncharacteristic response, New Zealand has
cried foul and whinged about this like spoilt snotty-nosed
brats in a manner never seen before. Except for 2003 when
they couldn't provide clean stadia (ever heard of a broom,
boys?) and were arsed from the joint RWC bid... or George
Smith's supposedly late hit on Justin Marshall in that same
tournament's semi final... or that NZ horse which finished
third or fourth or whatever at the Melbourne Cup, having
been cheated out of obvious victory by the VRC watering the
course for Makybe Diva's benefit... or the brothers Chappell
and their underarm problems...
In unrelated news, Ireland has spent the last six months
collectively bleating about the Tana Umaga tackle on Brian
O'Driscoll during the Lions series which resulted in their
captain badly dislocating his hair, including Umaga being
symbolically barred from several pubs in Dublin due to his
'history of thuggish violence'. New Zealand for their part
has laughed this off, derided the Irish as poor losers, and
declared Christ, can't you people just get OVER it?
With the World Cup hosting rights, the just-completed Grand
Slam, the World Sevens title, the Super 12, the Tri-Nations,
the Bledisloe, whatever it is that they play against South
Africa for (possibly first dibs on the most attractive
sheep?), and the Lions series trophies in the NZRU cabinet,
the only thing NZ Rugby hasn’t won in the last year has
been the respect or even mild interest of any nation who
fails to gives a fuck about rugby. Which, compared to NZ, is
every other country on Earth.
NEWSPOLL SURVEY: 67.31% OF SURVEY-BASED STATISTICS
ARE MADE UP ON THE SPOT
In a recent survey of every Australian who has ever lived,
the only person left in Australia who thinks George Gregan
is still cut out to be Wallabies halfback is Eddie Jones. In
a related story, the only person left in Australia who
thinks Eddie Jones is still cut out to be Wallabies coach is
George Gregan.
WARNING: IN A MARKED DIVERSION FROM OUR USUAL
FORMAT, THEFOLLOWING CONTAINS ACTUAL OPINIONS
AND FACT-BASED ANALYSIS RATHER THAN
UNSUBSTANTIATED SLANDER AND KNOB JOKES
To the casual observer, the Wobbilies do tend to remind one
of hapless waterbuffalo wallowing in the swamp waiting for
someone to finish them off with the Winchester rifle, but
the real reason isn't Eddie's incompetence or George's
encroaching senility. Amazingly, astonishingly even, it's
the absence of Stephen 'Bernie' Larkham. Yes, Bernie, the
running-slow-as-buggery-in-a-straight-line-and-somehow-emerging
-in-a-gap merchant, that scarecrow in headgear who noone really
thought was up to much because he never appeared to actually
DO anything. At least Matt Burke had comedy hair that could
be used as a barometer/windsock/sundial to indicate how his
kicking game was travelling. But take Bernie away from the
equation and they're rudderless. Our Weekends Without Bernie
are exacerbated by the fact that his understudies Sludge II
and the Git are plainly not cut out for the job. There
appears to a bloody good reason that Sludge never played
anywhere but in the outside backs for Cronulla and Qld, and
his league coaches knew it: He's not even close to a half.
He'd be barely two fifths of a half. Which, at one fifth, is
not very much. Particularly when he's trying to be
five-eighth. The moral of the story is simple: (a) Rogers
should fuck off back to wing-three-quarter and (b) William
Webb Ellis wasn’t very good with fractions.
One gets the feeling the ARU should and would sack everyone
up to and including the ballboys, bus drivers and halftime
orange slicers and start from scratch... but for the small
matter of having absolutely noone else to pick from.
Everyone in Australia has had a run - EVEN the Reds players
who are, let's be honest, endemically and congenitally shit
at rugby. Likewise finding a replacement for Eddie the hairy
dwarf has been difficult in the protracted absence of anyone
who's spent more than 15 minutes in charge of a Super 12
team that has won more games than they've lost. On that
note, as many have observed, the ARU might wish to see if
'Aussie Guus' Hiddink knows the rules of union, as he's
shown a talent for salvaging lost and hopeless causes.
INEVITABLE HEADLINE ABOUT AUSTRALIAN CRICKET
‘RISING FROM THE ASHES’
Following that certain unpleasantness which we shall not
discuss (which happened to coincide with the English summer)
the Australian middle order is being purged like a bulimic
model’s innards on the opening night of Mercedes Fashion
Week. Latest to be ‘govern the fluck’, as the Kiwis
would say, was Allan Border Medal winner - you just KNEW
that would have to come back and bite Cricket Australia on
the arse - Michael Clarke. Clarke has been feted as a future
Australian captain, and just like the last bunch of future
Australian captains (Punter, Tugga, Tubby at ODI level) has
been generously granted some time off to ride the pine for a
while. Judging by the dropping of Clarke, the Australian
selectors appear to be no longer blinded by their policy of
pursuing youthful vigour to revitalise the team, or by the
shining light emanating from his arse. The RSPCA has
requested that all surviving Australian batsmen are to be
placed on the Endangered Species register to prevent further
decimation of their number.
APPARENTLY THERE IS STILL SOME RUGBY LEAGUE
BEING PLAYED AT THE MOMENT
Wayne Bennett, the wizened old uncle of the NRL (also the
one who’s worn the same clothes since 1963 and shouldn’t
be trusted with small children) has long been a model of
relaxed pragmatism among the rarefied air of professional
rugby league, where pressure is high and sense of
perspective is low. When the Broncos, or in previous years,
the Qld Origin team have travelled badly, he’s never been
one to make a fuss or buy into media predictions of turmoil
and disaster. Likewise, as Australian coach, this view has
prevailed. Before the start of the Tri-Series, Bennett was
clear in his declarations: Australia will not dominate
international rugby league forever. Australia need to get
used to this, and get over it. No matter how good a team is,
we all have to lose some day, was the inference, and now is
as good a time as any. When the Kiwis beat Australia in
Sydney for the first time in two generations, Bennett stayed
stoic and defiant over the media outcry: We all have to lose
some day, and now is as good a time as any. And now, after
the Kiwis ‘blanked’ the Kangaroos in the final, Bennett
has again made his point clear: We all have to lose some
day, and now is as good a time as any. Well, Wayne, that’s
one viewpoint. Another is that we all have to retire one
day, and...
OBITUARIES
Other than the careers of Eddie Jones and George Gregan
(even that’s a bit too obvious for this column) this week
saw the sad, but somewhat predictable, passing of former
Northern Ireland international pisshead and part-time
footballer, George Best. Overshadowed by the Man U star
heeding the final whistle was the terrible loss on the same
day of former world rally champion Richard Burns, who was
claimed by a brain tumour on the fourth anniversary of his
world title win in 2001 - and barely the second anniversary
of his diagnosis with astrocytoma (having blacked out on the
drive up to Wales for the start of Rally GB in the fast lane
of the M1). Burns will be remembered as a great competitor,
a true champion, and England’s greatest rally driver of
the modern WRC era, but most importantly, as the guy who
gave comedy Scotsman Colin McCrash the absolute shits for
years on end. For that, above all else, we salute you sir.
Vale Dick Burns.
WEAK IN SPORT EXCLUSIVE: OUR FIRST EVER RABBITOHS
NEWS UPDATE THAT DOESN’T MENTION RUSSELL CROWE’S
BAND BEING A FUCKING PILE OF SHIT
The South Sydney District Rugby League Club have been foiled
in their efforts to return to their Redfern Oval base (and
therefore to remain, in a literal sense, the South Sydney
district rugby league club) by the recent decision of South
Sydney Council to turn the facility over to the community
for greenspace, citing the chronic shortage of safe,
family-orientated locations for local community Steve
Randell types to hang around childrens’ playgrounds, local
community hookers to service their local community
clientele, and local community smack addicts to successfully
locate a vein courtesy the golden glow of local community
sodium streetlighting. George Piggins, on emerging from the
council chambers, declared “The Bunnies have been
completely fucked.” As it turned out, he wasn’t actually
discussing the Redfern Oval redevelopment but the evidence
presented in the adjoining courthouse. There’s animal
lovers, folks, and then there’s animal LURRVVERS.
And on that bombshell...
