KEEP SCROLLING DOWN KIDS, THE REGULAR POSTS ARE WAITING FOR YOU BELOW!

Why yes, it IS that time again. After the overwhelming* success of ErrolTips 2009, we’re putting on our tipping pants (note: we may not actually be wearing pants) and starting that shit up again for another year.

We even had a proper meeting to figure out ways that we could improve on last year’s ErrolTips Experience (TM). Because, um … last year’s winner was southsydneyrussellcrowe – we like to think that’s the real Russell Crowe – and he still hasn’t collected his prize. It’s possible that’s because he’s in France. It’s also possible that he wasn’t especially keen on the idea of hitting the town with the Errol girls and drinking Smirnoff Blacks with a straw while we rock out at the Judgment Bar. CAN’T IMAGINE WHY.

We have to change the prize this year regardless because in the last six months the Judgy has turned into a pub police state. Drinking there is like a trip to old East Germany, except with fewer trench coats, uglier carpet, and LESS FUN. The bouncers don’t even wear Hawaiian shirts anymore! Instead they wear threatening vests that say RSA Marshall and patrol the floor looking for anyone with balance issues or sleepy eyes so they can promptly evict them.

This is clearly ridiculous, because who goes to the Courthouse unless they actually are blind drunk? No one’s stopping by the judgy at 7am on a Saturday morning for a coffee and a chat. If I was sober, I would totally stop and think, hey, maybe I have better and more productive things to do than drink a schooner at dawn while chatting to a man with waist length hair and a teardrop tattoo on his face.

ANYWAY. We have new revamped prizes that we hope you’ll enjoy. The winner of this years comp will take home their choice of:

1. a not-yet-ripe banana

2. an Oh Errol stubbie holder

3. the Mystery Box.

No, there is no cash prize, because there is no joining fee. Bloggers don’t have money and we didn’t want to price ourselves out of the competition. Also,we’re not materialistic and we do it for love and blah blah whatever. Now get your asses over to footy tips, sign up and join in:

JOIN ME NOW NOW NOW

There will be weekly updates talking up the winners and mocking the losers, plus, of course, the mystery box. Heh, box.

* May not have, in fact, been overwhelming.

According to our mate Swainy: “Jesus, you guys know more about the NSW Cup than anyone else alive”.

He said this while holding a beer at the Coogee Bay Hotel (don’t judge us), but nonetheless he’s probably right.

WE JUST REALLY LIKE THE NSW CUP OKAY? What’s better than an afternoon sitting on the hill watching the footy with a $6 sausage sandwich and KB combo, surrounded by really really cute dogs? Nothing, that’s what. And the best thing is it starts again this week with a Saturday afternoon Henson park double-header afternoon extravaganza.

The NSWRL launched the NSW Cup for this year on Thursday morning at the SCG with a cavalcade of rugby league stars. And by ‘cavalcade of stars’, it’s possible that I mean I walked in, saw Paul Sironen, and  had to try and remain silent and normal-looking while internally I pointed and lost my shit and yelled ‘ZOMG THAT’S PAUL SIRONEN’!!?!?!?

Apparently seeing him do Lowes ads for the past ten years hasn’t made me immune to Siro yet.

As far as goss from the launch goes, we can confirm that yes, David Gallop does look very noble and slightly like a returning war hero with his arm sling; yes Paul Sironen is very large; yes the Sharks are fielding a team in the NSW Cup for 2010; yes the Central Coast Centurions have totally cute uniforms, and yes: the acerbic and hilarious Jason Taylor IS going to be the new coach for the NSW team in the NSW Residents State of Origin competition.

We’re pretty happy with this turn of events because it means that NSW have yet another competition to win this year to help us regain our dignity. Hurrah!

Representatives of all the teams were there to show off their team colours and be interviewed on stage, and we wanna give them all a special shout out for their awesome fashionz. We especially loved Ian Hayes from the Auckland Vulcans, who forgot his footy boots and had to wander around networking with footy bigwigs in just his footy socks. We were also super impressed by Eddie Paea rocking a Rabbitohs jersey with denim shorts – also known as jorts – and Michael Stolk in his Wests Magpies jersey and black suit pants. It says he’s formal, but he’s also here to play footy.

We talked to Lee Bennett from the Tigers, Corey from the Central Coast Centurions, Michael Stolk from Wests and Ray Moujalli from the Newtown Jets … and made the mistake of letting them interview each other. DAMMIT YOU BOYS LOVE THE CAMERA.

Watch it and tell us what you think/who you love/which team you support xx

So the NRL launch this week didn’t just involve your team captains standing awkwardly in front of Sydney landmarks. It also involved a Brand New NRL ad. It has everything you could want, if what you want is lady-farmers, a sculptor, an old man at a busstop and stuff about FEELING ALIVE. Comment and tell us what you think, why don’t ya?

Alternatively, if you don’t care, watch this awesome NRL promo from 1989, also known as SASSY’S FAVOURITE YOUTUBE VIDEO EVER. (It really is, I have it bookmarked and everything):

Happy Friday darlings!

It’s just a fiesta of a week this week. It’s as though the Universe designed it specifically with me in mind. WHAT WOULD SASSY LIKE TO SEE?

Well it pretty much goes like this:

1. FOOTY’S BACK!

The NRL made it official that the footy season is back with a booze-free launch extravaganza on Wednesday (also known as a Brett Stewart drylaunch). Oh, football, my sweaty, infuriating, sometimes violent boyfriend. I’m so glad you’re back.

I’m also so glad that you decided to announce your return by making all the team’s captains and representatives stand in full uniform on a barge in the middle of Sydney harbour with a huge mock NRL trophy. Yes, people, this is what happiness looks like:

Pic. Ryan Osland

Also, HI ALAN TONGUE. We think you’re lovely!

And David Gallop and Jarryd-with-a-Y Hayne made it official by making some fantastically cheesy jokes to the media:

… there was little alcohol or glitz and glamour when the NRL did so again yesterday.

Just bad jokes.

ASKED if he felt the Eels had a stronger team this season than when he led them on their stunning run to last year’s grand final, Jarryd Hayne told reporters: ”Yeah, a lot of the boys can lift a lot more weights, so they’re stronger.’

”There’s no truth to the rumour that Willie [Mason] and I will be doing a reality dieting show in the boardrooms of Australia, called My Boardroom Rules,” said NRL chief executive David Gallop in reference to Mason’s criticism of the ”fat businessmen” on the Roosters board who wanted him out of the club.

Oh, DG. I actually have no idea if he has any kids, but based on that joke I now feel certain that he has both kids (cause that was a total dad joke) and a fucking sweet idea for a TV franchise. My Boardroom Rules? Yes please.

Wes Carr can write the theme song. Rexona and Powerade can be the sponsors. And DG and Big Willie can be the new Simon Cowell and Ryan Seacrest, trading barbs while my brother and I sit on the couch, eat vegemite toast and talk about how we suspect they’re secretly having a bromance. I like to think Big Willie will dismiss the fatcats who haven’t lost enough weight by looking them up and down and announcing: “Big Willie pronounces you … TOO BIG.”

In other news I also feel certain that Lozzy would’ve laughed at those NRL launch jokes. Go on and comment and prove me, right Lozzy. Prove me right.

2. CRY ME A RIVER

Remember how amusing I thought it was when Steggles started sponsoring the Roosters? Manly obviously took that as a comedy challenge and made a special announcement this week on their website:

RECEIVE A FREE TISSUE PACK WITH EVERY ONLINE MERCHANDISE ORDER!

There are so many ways that I love this promotion. It’s perfect for everyone! For Manly fans to cry into when their team loses, and for Silvertail-haters to snot into when they have hideous infectious colds. You can even wave them as white surrender flags when the DJ starts playing Eagle Rock again at Brookie. MAKE IT STOPPPP!

3. DOGS NAMED AFTER PEOPLE ARE THE BEST KINDA DOGS

So apparently I’ve found the future boyfriend for my dog this week. You know, my dog. Dolly Parton the greyhound. Because some excellent human has named their greyhound after Taniela Tuiaiki.

Pic. Mark Evans

I totally see the resemblance. It’s the muscular ass, right?

According to the Tank:

“It was a bit of a shock when I heard that there was a greyhound named after me. It’s something that doesn’t happen every day.”

Well-spotted, Tank. It doesn’t happen every day. Footy players being literal is one of my favourite things.

Now all I need is for Zac Efron to ask me over for a platonic night of snuggles and Disney movies and all my prayers will have been answered. Call me, Zef.

Notice anything different about me? YES, THAT’S RIGHT, KIDS. I AM FEELING EXTRA SMUG TODAY.

One of my top twenty favourite things in life is Being Right. I’m basically an idiot and – to be honest – it doesn’t happen very often, so when it happens twice in one week I get some extra swagger in my havaianas.

Remember last week when I warned Knights fans that this year they were stuck at the bottom of the wheel of footy fates and they should spend the rest of the year in their backyard bunkers?

I think the Knights should just accept that they are the new Roosters (who were the new Bulldogs) and will suffer calamity all year. Just hibernate for the next 12 months. As a Roosters fan, trust me, it’s not worth the psychological trauma of staying awake.

No it wasn’t just a brief, horrible dream. You really are the new Roosters. The latest news is that Danny Wicks’ scooter buddy Chris Houston has been charged with drug offences by police and stood down. Which means, well, badtimes for him. But more importantly, no more jokes about him looking like an old-timey blacksmith for us. It’s always the bloggers who suffer.

As the voice of experience though, I’m here for you darlings. I know the pain. I made it through 2009. Sure, I lost a few brain cells from incessantly banging my head against the nearest supporting wall, but then I found out that also burns calories. WIN.

And if you follow the Errol twitter you’ll also know that, as soon as the Houston story broke, I knew in my heart of footy hearts that somewhere a subeditor would see this story, grin with glee and headline it HOUSTON, WE HAVE A PROBLEM. Aaaaand this morning the Sydney Morning Herald subbing pool did. I am pretty much Nostradamus right now.

Check my rocking white tights, whut whut.

While I’ve been living in my belltower writing down the future on parchment and that, and Knights fans have been buying up big on Xanax, Errol’s favourite ladykiller Tim Sheens sent his boys to etiquette class.

Class valedictorian and Tim-Sheens-in-training Beau Ryan.
Pic. Gregg Porteous.

Etiquette class! I’m not even kidding, I think this is genius. After all, I went to etiquette classes at June Dally-Watkins’ deportment school and look how well I turned out. Sure I may be tactless and inappropriate, but I can sit down without flashing, set a table with proper cutlery, and if I ever run into the Prime Minister and a Catholic priest simultaneously at a cocktail party I can introduce myself and shake hands perfectly, all while holding both a canape and a glass of champagne. I believe these are what they call “life skills”.

…. hmmm. Tell me more about this “can of peas”, Sassy.
Pic. Gregg Porteous

I’m also going out on a limb and suggesting to the lovely etiquette trainer that maybe Tim Molzten needs a few more lessons.

SCOFFING A DANISH FROM MICHEL’S PATISSERIE AT MEDIA EVENTS IS NOT ON THE LIST OF APPROPRIATE BEHAVIOUR MOLTZ. Seriously, it’s not. Just ask Beau Ryan. You can’t kiss a lady’s hand with danish breath.

We all might want to consider giving up the booze, too, because apparently Todd Carney’s new policy of laying off the beers has rekindled his love for life.

Pic. Phil Hillyard

So happy! Now that he doesn’t have to take up valuable time buying, refigerating, drinking and sleeping off beers, and dealing with awkward questions about people’s pants catching on fire, Todd has rediscovered the simple joys of a roller coaster. A sunset. A rainbow. An afternoon spent shopping with Shaun Kenny-Dowall or with a cup of Earl Grey on his balcony.

He was hands down the hit of the Roosters Luna Park fan day.

That worried looking lady? Yep, she’s been reading the tabloids.

Wondering why the Roosters all look so happy, by the way? Oh, yeah, cause we won again. That’s all. Carry on.

Love Sassy xxo

OH HAY BITCHES!

It’s no secret that Errol is a gay-friendly zone. If there were a blog-equivalent of PFLAG, then we’d be in it. If we weren’t technologically retarded we would put a happy little rainbow flag on the site to show you.

So keep your Mardi-hate away from the comments section, please. It’s one night! If you care not for parades and rainbows and glitter and topless ladies on bikes, you can stay home and work on your cross-stitch. If you need a break, maybe google all the great things the gays have given you, like Elton John songs, Olympic gold medals, and the Pauline Hanson Mardi Gras float where her huge creepy head was chasnig ‘ethnic’ fish n chips down Oxford St. Remember that? Shit was incredible. Incredible, and eerily lifelike.

Sadly this year – because we’re heading to Homebush for the Charity Shield Bunnies vs Dragons game tomorrow – we can’t watch the parade or put on fake eyelashes and join in the insanity afterwards. Tragedy. Now we’ll never find out what ridiculous shenanigans we would’ve pulled off during the course of the night. Would Kiki have ended up with a torn tulle fairy skirt and chewing gum in her hair again? Would I wear something ridiculously inappropriate again like a skintight leather skirt and be unable to sit or stand without a burly gay lifting me? Would we meet a Karl Lagerfeld drag king again and start a fight by pulling his ponytail? (Sorry about that, btw). WOULD ANYONE PASH A GAY MAN? So many unanswered questions.

We probably would’ve headed for Charlotte Dawson’s Arena party, so maybe she can fill us in later. Get onto it pls Daws.

So instead, we have to celebrate Mardi Gras Eve. I plan to spend it at home doing what everyone should be doing pre-Mardi Gras: fake tanning. You know it’s true.

That way I’ll also look golden brown when I try and defuse fights between Dragons fan Kiki and our friend Yassy (new and devoted Bunnies fan).

What I like to think Wendell will be wearing on the night.

Personally, I’m kind of undecided. On one hand, I have a weird love for St George. Partly, that’s because I find their halves combination of Tiny Dancer and Hornbag completely adorable, and would kinda love to ask them over for afternoon tea to explain in depth that I totally believe in their skills even though they occasionally have flat games where they seem to shut down run out of attacking options.

Also partly because I think Uncle Wayne might be some kind of superhuman. He is the only person so far in my life to render me speechless. Even after two champagnes I couldn’t talk to him. I was muted by Benny. And I am never mute. I’m also overly invested in Jason ‘Flossy’ Nightingale and his success: a) because he looks like a labrador when he plays, and b) because following in Wendell Sailor’s footsteps is tough.

On the other hand, I have a massive platonic crush on Peter Holmes a Court. He’s seriously up there with Lee Furlong now on my list of non-sexual crushes. He’s just so clever! And so nice! And so pretty! On the Goldy – because I am a tool who does embarassing things – I announced to a group of rugby league bigwigs that “Peter Holmes a Court is a DREAMBOAT”. God I’m a winner. Which of course means if I cheer against the Bunnies it will have to be in secret in case the Dreamboat finds out.

And as a warm up to footy tipping for this year (have you joined our comp yet? GO DO IT NOW) I’ll even tip the game for ya – Dragons will win it but not by much. Matt Cooper will remain ridiculously hot, Beau Champion will play almost as well as he did at All-Stars, and Tiny Dancer will dance again (hopefully in a Mardi Gras-themed headgear).

Happy Mardi Gras babies!

Now I’m not a Parramatta fan, especially not when being a Parramatta fan involves people wearing creepy Jarryd Hayne face-masks on the train on Sydney’s Western line. I HATE MASKS! Masks and all related bizness including but not limited to puppets, dummies and clowns.

But I know that there is some shit in rugby league that you need Parramatta for.

For one thing, they’re the club that gave us the new favourite drinking game in the Errol Office. It’s called Fui Fui Moi Moi, and you play it … all the time. Literally. It’s not just a drinking game, it’s a lifestyle choice. Every time you hear those four words, you need to track down the nearest drink and make it disappear in your mouth. No excuses! Which is how I found myself on Saturday night, sitting outside a house party in Darlinghurst, desperately trying to steal the nearest vodka when the host appeared in Parramatta footy shorts and announced that he was Fui Fui Moi Moi.

DRINK.

That’s not all, of course. There’s another thing no other club can do as well as the blue and gold do: crack my shit up in the news. Remember the Great Chinese Food Scandal of 2009? Amazing! And now Paul Osborne has been over in India schmoozing Bollywood stars to be new ambassadors for the Eels in Australia.

Joel Reddy I love your work!

If you can tell me you didnt automatically picture Joel Reddy wearing eyeliner and dancing his thoughts and feelings complete with hand gestures, then you lie, liar. I’m gonna picture that every time I get a bit sad counting down the last month until Proper Footy Season starts.

Fui … is that you?

Now that Brett Lee’s given up test cricket, it’s pretty much perfect timing for him to play opposite Fui in a Bollywood heroes and villians extravaganza. Look into it, Osborne.

It’s an idea I like a whole lot better than having to trek to ANZ Stadium in Homebush – as we like to call it, the Cavernous Shithole – to watch the Dragons play the Eels. Sure, they say, it will be better for the game. The winner is rugby league. Thousands more people will get to see the match. Um, is that really the point? There’s more to life than quantity, kids. Think about it.

Would you rather hold hands with 20 cute girls, or pash 10? Would you rather let more people spend two hours sitting in the Cavernous Shithole praying for sweet merciful death, or fewer people have a rockin good time at Parra stadium, complete with the Parramatta macarena and someone starting a fight. You know it’s Parra tradition. It may be the only stadium in the world where every time a game is played a fight breaks out … in the members section. Makes me proud to be Australian.

VOTE 1 PARRA STADIUM.

PRAISE THE FOOTY GODS, IT HAPPENED! My darling little scandal-rats and wooden spooners won a game yesterday. Roosters vs Tigers, Foundation Cup, 28-10. If I were any prouder I would have to punch myself in the trachea for being so annoying.

Do I care that it was only a trial match? No, darlings, I don’t. Does it sober me up a little when I remember that the Tigers didn’t name a full-strength team? Of course it doesn’t, kittens. Do I think it’s slightly premature and kind of obnoxious to bedazzle ‘SUCK IT SUCHY’* in red white and blue crystals onto the butt of a pair of swimmers and prance about wearing them to taunt/horrify him? Bitch please.

She could be a farmer in those clothes.

Being a footy fan is like being a farmer. You have to cut up the hay while the sun shines. Or some shit like that. You have to make the most of small victories, otherwise before you know it 2002 is a distant memory, your hooker might go to gaol and people start sending you pictures of wooden spoons. The whole hay business is also multiplied by a factor of Matt Cooper’s hotness if you’re a Roosters fan because everyone hates you anyway, so you have nothing to lose.

It’s like when I was a teenager and had my First Proper Job in a charcoal chicken shop. Oh, the greasy, glamorous stench of poultry-based employment!

Ola Chickens!

Turns out chicken-slinging had its downsides. Who would’ve guessed? Downsides like having to regularly shampoo the smell of cooking oil out of your hair, and finding chicken stuffing embedded in your vans/shoelaces/thongs. Yes, I did wear vans, what of it? It was the nineties, don’t judge me.

Also, downsides like having to deal with at least ninety-five men a day who would order a quarter chicken and follow it up with the requisite leering cheeseball ‘I’m a breast man, myself!’ joke even though you SPECIFICALLY ASKED LEG OR WING TO TRY AND AVOID THIS SITUATION. I’M NOT EVEN WEARING A LOW-CUT TOP. GOD.

Wow, now that I write it all down, working in chicken really is like going to a football game, huh? Frequent and unsubtle sexual innuendo and everything!

But the point is this: after spending a day covered in stuffing and pretending to smile at people’s shit jokes, you feel like you deserve something. Even if that something is a free chicken burger you make yourself and a slap on the ass from the cute Russian stockboy. Chicken-slingers and Roosters fans gotta take what life gives em. And this weekend – life gave me a Todd Carney-led Roosters trial match Renaissance. THANKS TODD! I LOVE YOU NOW!

In other news it was actually totally unplanned that my Roosters simile was also about chickens. Amazing. I feel like Lozzy will really appreciate that. [IT'S TRUE. I DO! I would also like to add that I went to this game, and seeing Steggles announced as the major sponsor not only on the giant screen but also across the loudspeaker will NEVER STOP BEING FUNNY  - L ]

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and write ‘TODD 4ORIGIN’ on my forearm in Sharpie.

* Suchy being our Errol bestie, as well as a lifelong Tigers fan.

Anyone a teeny bit bored? As in, bored and counting down the hours till the Friday arvo bottles of cheap white wine appear from the storeroom at 5pm?

Well a little video is up of the afternoon Kiki and Sassy spent at White Water World with the NRL and Indigenous All-Stars and some awesome kids last week on the Gold Coast. Check out George Rose’s sweet chest hair and do rag, Sam Thaiday looking like all his Christmases have come at once, and Gorden Tallis explaining why he calls Wendell Sailor ‘Oprah’.

CLICK HERE TO WATCH IT

Before you ask – no, we didn’t plan this whole water world excursion just so we would have an excuse to interview the players shirtless. We’re shameless, so if we wanted to do that, we’d totally just ask at a normal function. (If David Gallop’s reading from hospi THAT WAS A JOKE. Cough).

It was a One Community day where indigenous and disabled kids could hang out with their fave players … and yes, they all had more fun than we thought was humanly possible. We are v annoyed we forgot our swimmers.

And as for the venue? More like everyone went to White Water World because it’s Preston Campbell’s favourite place, and we all know he’s a very persuasive man.

And for those of you going on dates tonight, I’m throwing in my new favourite internet discovery: A DATING GUIDE FROM 1938. SERIOUSLY. Amazing! Read it and snare yo man, ladies and gay men. Or, if you’re like me, read it and realise all the things you’ve done wrong on dates.

Write this down darlings – no putting on tights in the living room. Haven’t we all made that mistake? Or at least adjusted our tights with one hand (cause the other one has a glass of vodka soda in it) in the middle of the Brighton Bar while loudly exclaiming ‘DAMMIT WHY DO I ALWAYS HAVE LADDERS IN MY TIGHTS?’ and showing them to passing strangers in leather jackets and bandanas. Which is of course in no way an actual story from my general life.

Because it’s 2010 and I live in Australia, the only man I’ve ever met who carries a hanky is my Grandpa Norman, who used to tuck it in the sleeve of his maroon v-neck sweater before he left the house, while wearing beige shorts and long socks. So … unlikely to be a problem.

TOTALLY have this one in the bag already. I never look bored! Usually I just make a kinda snarky face and say ‘COOL STORY HANSEL’ and change the topic. Then they find my complete lack of tact horrifying and/or refreshing and we go from there.

FOR WHEN A MAN DANCES, HE WANTS TO DANCE! I am totally printing this out and putting it on my wall.

Honestly? If a man ever picked me up for a date like a 50s gentleman I would die of shock. This rule is therefore moot as dead ladies don’t put on their own makeup, embalmers do it for them. True story.

Still relevant. Still. Relevant.

So public pashing is out?

And drunken crying?

I CAN’T EVEN FLIRT WITH THE WAITER? WHAT KIND OF FASCIST DATING GUIDE IS THIS?

… and this is why I prefer my gay boyfriends. If a man doesn’t want to talk about Alexander Wang, what are we gonna talk about?

What is this …. dig-ni-ty they speak of?

FASCISSSTS!

DAMN THESE VANCOUVER OLYMPICS. Is there no end to the torment they want to put me through?

First of all we had to endure at least eight weeks of endless Foxtel ads for the Olympics, featuring – for some completely unknown reason – Michael Buble all sweaty and gross and dishevelled, wearing  a hockey shirt, and telling us all to come experience ‘his Canada’ while some godawful one of his pop-swing songs plays in the background.

It actually got to the point where I started hearing Buble crooning ‘I just haven’t met youuuuu …. yet!” in my dreams. Friends, Michael Buble songs are only good for one thing: and that’s for giving to your aunty on CD as a Christmas present. I don’t like him in my tv, or in my brain.

And FYI, Michael, YOUR LAST NAME IS PRONOUNCED BUBBLE. IF IT WAS BOOB-LAY IT WOULD HAVE AN ACCENT ON THE E, WOULDN’T IT?

What was my point? Oh, yes.

Not content with sending Buble to interrupt my attempts to lie very still on a Saturday morning and watch 3 hours of Simpsons in peace while I try and recover from a dirty hangover, the Vancouver Olympics have now broken our fearless rugby league leader. We found out yesterday that NRL boss David Gallop went over there on a mini-Olympic break and promptly broke his collarbone. Thanks, Vancouver.

What are we gonna do now? Who’s going to stand outside NRL headquarters when the next scandal happens looking stern and dignified and laying down the law? Cause God knows it’s impossible to look dignified in a sling. It just can’t be done. It’s science.

Meanwhile, according to Phil Rothfield in today’s paper, while DG is the most powerful man in rugby league, the number two most influential person is Jarryd Hayne.

So, um … has anyone seen Jarryd-with-a-Y lately? First of all he’s picked on the bench behind fullback Billy Slater for the All-Stars game, until Billy pulls out with an injured ankle. Now he’s ranked the second most influential man in league … and the number one contender gets involved in a mysterious skiing accident.

Jarryd-with-a-Y poses with a celebratory cigar.

DOES JARRYD HAVE MYSTICAL VOODOO POWERS?

We are a bunch of superstitious bitches, and our answer to that is … yes. Yes, he does. Burn the witch! burn the witch!

So get out your lists and write it down: never call Nick Politis fat, and never finish above Jarryd Hayne on any kind of list. It will only end in broken bones, or being exiled to Far North Queensland like Willie Mason.

And because DG isn’t back in town yet, we can’t send him a giant ridiculous basket of fruit flowers to cheer him up like we did that time Greg Inglis was arrested for allegedly assaulting his girlfriend (they’re festive! Plus they’re easy to eat with one hand). Instead he’ll have to settle for some e-fruit flowers that Intern John-John rustled up.

If you’re wondering, the card says:

‘We’re glad you didn’t do a Sonny Bono. Feel better soon DG! Love and kisses, Errol.’

ps if Shaun White is reading this – Shaun? Herro?

What is it, dude?

Who am I kidding, of course he’s reading. Well don’t worry, Shaun, I still love you! Even though the Olympics have been so mean to me, seeing rangas succeed in snowboarding never gets old. Your gold medal looks lovely with your orange curls. Love, Sassy.