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SPECIAL GUEST SCRIBE thesunnymunn
The series is over.
No more Border-Gavaskar trophy.
No more Kumble, no more Ganguly, no more glove changes.
No more debutants scalping the coveted wicket of the Little Master.
No more Polish coke-fiends taking time off from playing the villain in the "Saw" flicks, to snaffle 12/358 (!) on debut.
Smokin Jase Krejza
No more of Mark Nicholas pumping up ...every... ...single... ...delivery... ...as the most momentous in Test history.
No more Sunil Gavaskar reminding any batsman on more than fifty, seen to be playing a positive stroke, that "Test centuries don't come along every day."
And no more of Mark Waugh's Madam Tussaud mug slowly dripping away during the drinks interval.
If Junior covers the aussie summer, he will dead-set end up as nothing but a beady-eyed little puddle seeping through the Fox Sports desktop.
One (1) thing does, however, remain.
The half minute (30 second) inserts of televised muck, between overs.
Six (6) balls down and it's time for the visual equivalent of sprinting backwards through a desert whilst suffering intense jock-rot, nursing a belly-full of viagra and a head-full of acid...
not good fun, man.
Why are we still assaulted by this guff...?
Why are we constantly bombarded in an ambuscade of mid-strength beer commercials....?
Doug Mulray gets dragged within the hour (35 mins), and we've got to endure thirty (30) second slots of this cerebral gunk being shat over our screens all summer?!
No, thankyou.
Where's Kerry when you need him, putting the kibosh on these mid-strength humans and their contrived blokeyness...?
Where's Your Messiah, Now?!
Who are the subnormal numbskulls pitching this puss....?
- "ok, so basically, it'll be a bunch of blokey sort of blokes with nothing better to do than sit around all day being blokey, sipping on mid-strength froth - as blokes - talking about building a boat ....in a blokey sort of way..."
SOLD!
Fuck Off, XXXX Gold!
Fuck.
Right.
Off.
No one likes you.
You and your kind aren't welcome here.
Stay in India, i don't want you here for summer.
New Zealand don't want you.
South Africa don't want you (so we'll probably keep you around for those bastards, just to piss them off...)
Australia does not want you.
You have no (0) mates, XXXX Gold.
None (0).
Meet the head of XXXX advertising
I Swear, on my combined man-love for VVS and utter contempt for everything else Indian, that if i am forced to sit through another "race-changing moment" from the wheel of Jamie Whincup; i will begin focussing all my attention towards acts of pure evil.
So help me God, i will march straight into the advertising department of Castlemaine Brewery [presumably an old cubby house harbouring two petrified dog turds, a cup of hot fat with a hair in it, and a member of the Fritzl family] and issue anyone within ear-shot a severe "life-changing moment."
These gormless turds are slower than the Australian over-rate.
With the kiwis on our shores as, what should prove to be, pure fodder before the upcoming South Africa series; a long hot summer of cricket is already upon us.
Hard decks.
Richie Benaud.
six-twelve (612AM) on the wireless.
Abusing Andre Nel at third (3rd) man.
It all lies in wait.
And with a little slice of luck-pie, our collective grey matter may just scrape through, without being sullied by anymore of these insipid mid-strength beer commercials....
PLEASE.
Now, if you'll excuse me, it's just gone nine (0900) and i have rum to drink and lists to write...
God i loathe losing a Test series.
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Its become pretty obvious over the last few weeks to friends and family that I have a serious man-crush on V.V.S Laxman. And its not only because of his awesome name. Its mainly due to the fact that he refuses to perform against anyone except the best team in the world. He is the epitome of a clutch performer. His average is ten runs better against us than any other nation and that incudes Bangladesh and that feckless crew of incompetent cast-offs otherwise known as the English cricket team.
He reminds me a lot of another man with a ridiculous name, Clark Keating. Not in any physical sense of course. Clarks similarity to Carlos Tevez is no coincidence, he was a caveman.
Carlos Tevez
Leigh Matthews used to bring Clark out of hibernation around the beginning of September. No one knew where hed been for the regular season, presumably hed spent it clubbing things and generally freaking out about fire.
With his long, stringy hair and gruff exterior Clark was built like a battle axe and looked like the missing link. As the prototype of early man Clark had little time for the subtleties of professional sport, nor modern life for that matter. Clark was known for his monosyllabic instructions to his teammates. During the annual celebration that was a Lions premiership all Clark could be heard asking for was the hindquarters of a bovine and twelve virgins and most of that was done by semaphore and crude cave drawings.
Clark Keating
But shit was he effective. He boiled ruckwork down to its simplest essence i.e hit the ball as far forward as you can. And in Grand Finals amongst all the hubbub of tempo football and gut running the most important thing to do is get the thing going your way.
Malcolm Blight surprised himself in 1997 by selecting the most unlikely of big-game performers. Surprised not because he didnt think Shane Ellen would perform on the big stage but surprised because he, like the rest of us, didnt know who Shane Ellen was. Blighty remembered the face, but it was more like a face you remember from a strange dream you once had after eating too much cheese. But sure enough, there he was, this vaguely familiar construction of Blightys subconscious, bobbing up to kick five goals on the last Saturday in September.
Shane Ellen
A player who genuinely existed was Glenn Freeborn. He had supporters of both sides scratching their heads when he banged in three quick goals in 96 not because they didnt know who he was, but because they didnt think he was any good.
But reputations are made and lost in the heat of battle on the biggest stage. The main reason why VVS and his crew have been having their way with us on a wearing pitch on the fifth day is because the podgy bottle blonde from Blackrock is busy playing poker. Speaking of clutch performers
whether it was the final over of the day or the last drinks bell at the local, Warnie - The Master could always be counted on to get one to fizz out of the footmarks. He is greatly missed.
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So Collingwood paid a private investigator to find out if Benny Cousins was still on the gear. They also had a sit-down with Christine Nixon. I would have thought a simple phone call to the Banditos would have sufficed. Or maybe they could trap Benny in Bubble night club, surround him with coked-up heavies and have ARIA award winners Rogue Traders play their entire back catalogue. If Benny goes for his main artery with a bic pen you can bet your bottom dollar hes fully rehabilitated. Only serious meth addicts would have bought that CD- which gives a frightening indication of the extent of Australias ice problem.
Better yet (and this could be a good idea for reality T.V) send him out for a night on the gas with Todd McKenny. Todds weird enthusiasm, maniacal grin and dinner-plate pupils would be enough to scare Keef Richards straight.
Todd McKenny: Fiend
The bizarre Ken Done-inspired clothing choices would be one thing but getting constantly dragged off to cabaret shows while in the middle of a serious drug binge must have some lasting psychological impact. I can only imagine what Joseph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat would do to a fragile mind. My guess is Keef and Benny would have raised the white flag long before Todd deemed it time to have a kip in a public park.
Benny Cousins manager Ricky Nixon is outraged at this invasion of privacy. Not that any one in the footy world gives a shit what Ricky Nixon has to say. Hes gotten so many people off-side with his insatiable quest for a dollar that he rivals Aker in the self-serving-utter bullshit stakes. You could feel the nation rising as one when Nixon and Glen Archer faced off on Footy Classified a few months back. All of us pleading for a Ron Casey v Normie Rowe-style stoush. You could see Arch fighting back the urge to smash that pubic-hair headed drip on live television. If it had have kicked off Hutchy might have even caught one in the crossfire. Fucking A.
St Kilda are now highly fancied to give Benny a second chance, which would be a good move for the Saints despite overwhelming evidence that bringing in mature age ring-ins is asking for trouble. Sheeds was a massive fan of the left-field recruit. He had the odd success story (John Barnes) but mostly the experiments ended in tatters. His record struggles even in comparison to the remaining members of INXS who have continued to cheapen the memory of the great Michael Hutchance by recruiting mature-age members in a desperate effort to stay relevant.
Doc Wheildon v Jon Stevens- Doc broke both his legs wrestling with a cab on King St and Stevens wrote Take Me Back... INXS
Duane Armstong v Terrance Trent DArby- Duane couldnt kick, at least Trent could sing... INXS
Mal Michael v JD Fortune- Despite the fact Mal wasnt sure why he was there, JD takes the cake for saying that If Michael Hutchance was still alive wed be great mates. No JD, you won a reality TV show, Michael wouldnt piss on you. And your names JD... Sheeds.
Michael Hutchance's best mate
Not pretty reading really. But no doubt Sheeds would be the first to have a crack at Cousins and for good reason, Sheeds knows his onions. Fully rehabilitated, Cousins is a pro. The master of hard gut-running hes got at least three good years in him. It could be the missing piece of that elusive Saints premiership jigsaw. Which hopefully happens before the polar ice-caps melt or there is some kind of nuclear holocaust. After which all thatll be left will be the cockroaches and Keef Richards and a pirouetting Todd McKenny.
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All things considered, the Hawks have been worthy winners. A great example of the patience required when rebuilding from the bottom up. Theyve been gracious in victory under the fine on-field leadership of Sam Mitchell and Luke Hodge and few would deny Crawf his moment in the sun.
The same probably couldnt be said for their frog-voiced front man. Im sure theres a few of us getting tired of Jeff parading around in his ridiculous brown and gold crested jacket like an unfashionable Gatsby. Offering up ill-informed critiques on everything from Nathan Thompsons knee to the lunar moon landing like one of Statler and Waldorf from the Muppets. Some time ago I replaced jeff.com in my favourites with melbourneniteclubbouncers.com and the dickhead count inexplicably took a dive. That gives you some idea of the type of bloke were dealing with.
Jeff Kennet and friend
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Kevin Bartlett is a living legend of the game.
No doubt about it. He played 5 billion games and kicked god-knows how many goals. He won Grand Finals off his own boot. Hes been the only man on television with a comb-over that isnt plugging vacuums. The man has some decent form. No question.
Kevin Bartlett
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At the conclusion of another Grand Final, at least were sure of one thing
the AFL has no business around the words entertain and spectacular. There were members of the Pascoe Vale Girls High School Rock Eisteddfod Team taking the piss out of that shambles on Saturday. A perspex box. On the marquee day of Australias biggest sport in front of a crowd of over 100,000 the Premiership cup arrives in a sparkly perspex box. Then Glen Archer had to retrieve the cup from said perspex box. Im sure he was fighting back the urge to strike someone repeatedly in the kidneys as is his natural inclination when things arent going his way. He spilt blood on this sacred turf on this holiest of days and there he is blowing out sparklers like hes serving up McDonalds ice cream cake at little Johnnys tenth birthday. One of the drummers was drunk. No question. And if by some miracle he wasnt, well then hes just a dickhead. And probably should forever refrain from getting drunk.
The drummer in question
China may cop a lot of flak about manufacturing cheap electronics and maintaining a brutal and oppressive regime but shit do they wipe the floor with us when it comes to pre-game celebrations. It may even be worth a change in allegiance. Sure it may mean forgoing the right to download internet porn but at least their drummers arent pricks and there wont be a perspex box in sight. One of the actual proper highlights was Powderfinger belting out Long Way To The Top
if theyre struggling in the future why dont they just put on an AC/DC album from start to finish. It works at the Southern 80.
Luke Hodge played like he had the riff to Thunderstruck playing on a loop in his head, a performance that was equal parts toughness and sublime skill. Bomber Thompsons biggest gaffe was starting with Stokes, who seemed to be enjoying the Benny Hill theme on repeat and spent the day running around in circles groping at shadows.
A few things became obvious about Geelong over the course of the day. Firstly, they will still be awesome next season and secondly, Cam Mooney needs a lie down. Celebrating each goal by screaming blue murder at opposition supporters in a way that can only be interpreted as I just made love to your mother will surely only get him stabbed. It also makes him look like a dipshit when he misses one from straight in front
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September 18th 2008 23:03
This week may offer St. Kilda the opportunity for some long overdue finals success. The Saints have made a habit of promising the world and delivering an atlas. Halfway through this season people that didnt even support St. Kilda were sick to death of it. It was a peculiar type of frustration. The type that builds when someone has all the means to be doing better but isnt. Like Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett or Megan Gale and the unfunny one from Hamish and Andy.
Lyle Lovett
The Saints could even be described as a slightly more successful version of Fremantle Football Club. Year after year we tip the Dockers and year after year they disappoint. They are the biggest myth ever perpetrated on the Australian public. Even worse than carpet sweepers or Yakult. I know a Dockers supporter and his cynicism is extraordinary. Its not that hes a glass half empty kind of guy, its more like the glass has been smashed into a thousand pieces and the water has gone everywhere. And instead of water its battery acid.
And if you take a moment to reflect, you can understand why, what with Jeff Farmer and John Hutton and Peter Mann and Scott Chisolm and an ageing Tony Modra. Jesus, Gerard Neeshams diabolical trading history is enough to drive someone to self-harm. Trading away the no.1 pick that was used on a 16 year old Matthew Lloyd for a selection of Bomber bootstudders was the equivalent of swapping a Faberge Egg for a four-colour pen that only has green left
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September 10th 2008 23:21
Warwick Capper kicked 100 goals in a season.
Stop everything youre doing for a moment and take the time to let that sink in.
Warwick. Capper. One. Hundred. Goals
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I dont think there is footage available of Andrew Demetriou watching the Olympic Opening Ceremony, but I reckon Gomez was on the edge of his seat mimicking the moves of the Chinese drummers with a fierce intensity. Demetriou recognises a kind of genius in the brutal Chinese rule, he may even have taped the performance so he could practice the choreography with a hairbrush in front of the mirror. Dishing out his own lashing for each mistake. These are his kind of people.
The parallels between the two regimes have become such a distraction that Im ready to accept the notion that Adrian Anderson is actually just a CGI simulation of a human. Not quite the stretch it may seem when the AFL come clean and admit that, like the Beijing fireworks display, this was a move of necessity as there is no possible way humanity could have spawned someone so lacking in basic human emotion.
If you look closely, its all there; the dismissal of criticism, the strained relationship with the press, the uneasy grasp on the concept of free speech. When you study the AFLs reaction to Tassies bid for an AFL team theres even shadows of another, possibly dodgier, Communist regime
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