Ok these recaps are going to have to become so much more frequent. For a non-event, the Rugby League World Cup isn’t skimping on the pre-competition action.

Once I recovered from our night on the tiles with the Blarney Army after meeting the Wolfhounds last weekend – not with the players, of course … they have training to do, remember? - I realised that the World Cup was being completely hilarious and we were missing it.  Travesty.

Mick ‘Jan Brady’ Robertson has been off training with the Scottish team, eating haggis and being generally awesome about having to rock the kilt at formal occasions:

Looking forward to that, it will be a bit interesting I don’t think I have the legs for it.

DON’T UNDERSELL YOURSELF BABY!  You’ve got good knees and you know that’s really the main thing, right?

Note to Scotland: I hope they get matching vests too. Arrange that pls.

Actually, bloody everyone is turning out to be a bit lovable in this world cup.  It’s so confusingggg.  The French – those poor bastards – have now been moved from Caloundra to Canberra, but even they’ve managed to stay classy.   Eric Anselme said he was honoured.

… It’s good to be part of the facilities of the Raiders.  They are a very great club. I remember as a young guy in France I grew up watching Mal Meninga.

Seriously, bitches, how am I meant to cope with this?  I can’t handle it.  I have a hard enough time coping with torn loyalties in the NRL, and I hate half the teams in that.  There’s nothing worse than watching a team you like walk, heads bowed, from the field after a loss.  So what do you do if you like both teams?  I’M GONNA BE HAPPY/MISERABLE WHOEVER WINS.  Excuse me while I take a xanax.

My original World Cup plan was to take out my snark on the Aussie team and the poms.  Before you say anything, no this doesn’t make me a traitor.  Non-Aussies just often don’t understand the careful dynamics of Australian league.  And while I love my country, that love is almost almost outweighed by the fact that – as a New South Welshlady – I loathe Queenslanders.  Individually, they may be lovely, but on the field, they are nothing but dirty Queenslanders dressed in disgusting Maroon.  It’s Just Fact.

And the Aussie team is horrifyingly packed with them. At the Kangaroos Bondi training session, it was dirty Queenslanders beachside as far as the eye could see. They even outnumbered the sunburnt pommie tourists. BUT SIR, THEY’RE EVERYWHERE!

Billy Slater on a surfboard, Brent Tate practising mouth-to-mouth, Greg Inglis … being Greg Inglis.  Ok so I don’t know what he was doing but I KNOW HE WAS THERE. And perhaps, most disturbingly of all, Johnathan Thurston wearing inappropriate white boardies. Even Billy Slater won’t put up with that shit.

Really, mate? You went with white? I know we’re meant to be bonding but I’m just not comfortable knowing you quite this well.

[I'm assuming the lifesavers are proud New South Welshman and like us, loathe Dirty Queenslanders. Therefore may I suggest that they are not so much demonstrating mouth to mouth as attempting to suffocate Tate by using the burking method? I saw it on Law and Order once so it must be real. -K]

The only redeeming thing about the whole beach training fiasco was seeing Ron ‘the Cougar‘ Palmer – trainer for my babies, the Roosters – rocking out in his Official Aussie Team Budgie Smugglers.

No one is surprised Monaghan has to wear a rashie. The sun is not kind to rangas.

But then even those crafty Queenslanders won my heart. They unleashed their secret weapons in the form of Steve Price in his custom-designed Kangaroos bucket hat (HE JUST REALLY LIKES BUCKET HATS, OK?) and Scotty Prince, aka Prince Scotty the Caramel … and they were hugging. Game over, I’m done. I officially now don’t hate any team in the world cup. You adorable bastards.

But the real stars of the news this week are team Fiji. Media outlets are falling over themselves to pimp out the fact that the Fijians are staying in Woy Woy and drinking Sustagen Kava from plastic cups.  If I was feeling narky and English-majory today I would maaaaybe say that all this press interest has an air of ‘the noble savage’ about it, but instead let’s say that the Errol gals don’t need any convincing about how awesome Fiji is.  And not just cause we are oddly fond of Jarryd ‘Baby’ Hayne.

We love them almost as much as Andrew Johns loves Akuila Uate.  Uate is lining up for Fiji in the Cup, and Joey says:

In all my years in rugby league I’ve never seen a better athlete than this bloke … it’s all raw power.

And even though I’ve only seen him on the field once or twice, it does seem like he’s lining up to be a bigger, better Lote Tuqiri.  But, and this is where it gets a little weird:

You touch him and the muscle fibre is incredible. His vertical leap is phenomenal and the bloke has a backside you could sit a drink on. It’s frightening to think just how good he could be.

Why is this in the newspaper? Is Joey considered some kind of arse conoisseur, based in his own impressive booty? Is he the go-to man for arsenalysis? HOW DID THIS COME ABOUT?

… Sigh. Look, I hate when someone manages to be creepier than me.

I have to admit something.  While Errol is undoubtedly avant-garde; and while we are pretty much world leaders in bringing you the hot man news and informing you on issues like on-field squabbles, bromance, Matt ‘Hot Bitch’ Cooper’s ratstail, and things with hearts photoshopped on … sometimes even we drop the ball.  Or our cocktails. Whatever the metaphor is.

One of those times has been this month, while Australia has been playing their test series against India.  We did mean to watch the first two tests, truly, we swear!  But somehow whenever we went to turn on the tv at Errol HQ we ended up dancing to the disco classics on MusicMax.  Ooops.

I think it’s cause I’m not really back into my cricket ritual yet.  It’s weird watching cricket without spending a day at the beach first and falling asleep on the couch. 

But fear not, I’m back, babies.  I’m back like Michael Taylor in the commentary box … answering all the vital questions, like “is that seagull on screen eating a Burger Ring or a Cheezel?”

So let’s get cracking.  Apparently the international cricket governing bodies have been paying attention to tv this year and picked up that people … well, sometimes they find cricket boring.  Shocking! 

EXHIBIT A: “CRICKET … WATCH US STAND”

I like to imagine them all in their boardroom sitting down brainstorming the problem with Lindsay Naegle from the networks, and writing down her suggestions.

THE PEOPLE WANT DRAMA! … ACTION!

BUT AT THE HEART OF IT, WE NEED EMOTIONAL CONNECTION.  PEOPLE NEED TO FEEEEEL THE GAME.  YOU KNOW, OUTBURSTS, BLIND RAGE, ALL THAT EMOTION CRAP.

And they must have listened cause this second test was a freaking drama-fest.

Aussie fans were smacked on the wrist and sent home without any dessert for wearing t shirts that read: “Beer with Mahatma, Bets with Gupta, Dancing with Indira and still getting the runs“.

Do you know what’s always funny?  PUNS ABOUT DYSENTERY.

Our boy Ishant Sharma (we are in the middle of a heated debate right now about whether he or Dennis Lillee should be the new Errol Patron Saint for summer) is even longer-haired and more bangled and man-jewelleried than ever. 

He’s like a one man percussion set.  A one man percussion set strapped to a praying mantis, and we fucking love it. He is also even more of a freak than last year, and his twisty unexpected bowling took Ponting’s wicket for the fifth time in the last five Australia-India tests.  One of the best batsmen in the world!  Five times!  He’s a magic man!

Zaheer Khan was fined thousands for getting a little bit excited when Hayden was bowled, which I believe means he made like Carl Barron and did the forks.   SUCCCKAAAAAAAAA!

Hussey. He even bowled that hack HUSSEY. Bitch.

And as Australia careened with shititude to a humiliating loss, Brett Lee got pissed (not in the good way).

What babe? Just tell me what I did!

Seems he got all disgruntled with ole Ricky Ponting for playing every other bowler in the team (and a few randoms from the crowd) but him before lunch on the fourth day, and it turned into a total cricket-pitch domestic.

LIKE YOU REALLY DON’T KNOW? God you are so inconsiderate sometimes. IF YOU DON’T KNOW I’M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU.

Don’t you walk away from me Brett Lee!

Look at all the baggy greens just standing there watching.  I hate to say it, but do you know who would have broken this shit up?  Roy.  Oh yeah.  Andrew Symonds is totally the Hot Bitch Cooper of the Aussie cricket team. 

But Roy still isn’t back in the team.  Hasn’t he been suspended from school long enough to make up for that oops-I-kinda-went-fishin incident?  A man goes fishing once and he’s in the doghouse permanently?

WE LIKE ROY!

If anyone could force those two to shake hands and swish their toes in the sand while they mumble ‘I’m sorry’, then it’s Roy.  That fierce bitch can do anything.  We love him here at Errol.  Kiki and I once spent a whole summer’s afternoon hungover at a BBQ eating cheese and freaking out my brother’s friends by pretending to feed it to our inflatable KFC Andrew Symonds. 

I wish I were kidding.

In other news, if everyone can just scroll up a little …. yes …. yes, that’s far enough. Do you notice something to the right of Bretty and Rix’s squabbling? IT’S CRICKET HORNBAG.

That shit is uncanny. Is it … has someone pinned down Brad Haddin with the clippers of doom?  It’s freaking me out. I prefer to think he knew how much we missed Ben ‘Hornbag’ Hornby and did it for the Errol girls. Nawwww.

All pics: AP

The general concensus seems to be that 2008 hasn’t been the glittering and successful rugby league centenary year we might have hoped for.  Not for any reasons that have to do with playing the game itself … but just because any use of the word ‘footy’ in the media or in public seemed to be followed by the words ‘sex scandal’, ‘urine’, ‘cage-fighting’, ‘shooting’ ‘controversy’ or ‘international fugitive’.

At least it was representative of league’s past, right?  You have to admit that league is fantastic at creating dramaz.

But it does mean that a lot of other league news that might have grabbed the headlines has been shunted off to the corner along with soccer and Australian hip-hop to be ignored.  Actual Good Things are happening off the paddock, and if you’re not a big Josh Massoud fan or a regular at Nathan Hindmarsh’s blog, you might have missed em.

Just this month, Justin Poore, Nathan Hindmarsh, Todd Carney, Jarrad Hickey, Todd Payten and Jared Warea-Hargreaves are all travelling Rwanda as part of an NRL group on a trip organised by ex-Raider Paul Osborne.

And in a country where genocide has left so many – women and children in particular - without homes and without families, the boys are working to build facilities as part of the Village of Hope.  It’s an organisation providing for widows and for orphaned children who, without this kind of help, would likely be homeless and living in abject poverty.

We respect them all for giving what they are capable of giving to ease the burden of poverty. And we don’t just mean money – even though we all know that’s vitally important.

Some of the beauty for me in seeing young Aussie men making this trip is in the learning that there is something that a person as an individual can give – like time, or labour, or friendship, as well as possessions or donations – that can ease someone else’s lack.  It’s a worthwhile reminder of how powerful we all are as individuals, and how connected.

These awesome pics are all by Gregg Porteous via www.news.com.au – Head here to see the whole series.
 

Oh Errol is proud to be a part of Blog Action Day 2008. 

We Errol girls are All About Love.  And we hate it when we hear whinging about Aussies only winning minor medals in the Olympics.  God forbid you’re the second or third best in the world.  ONLY SECOND IN THE WORLD. SECOND OUT OF SIX BILLION? UNACCEPTABLE! Hang your heads in shame, bitches! 

Combine that with the fact most of us have trouble making it up the stairs to the front door after a night out* – let alone doing anything vaguely sporty - and it’s probably not surprising we think Anna Meares and Sally McLellan are completely bloody amazing. 

It’s not just because they are incredible athletes, because they are determined, or because they’ve both just won silver medals at these Olympics.  Not because Anna Meares now has one gold, one silver and one bronze in Olympic cycling and has made me cry when she won each one of them. 

Not even because the incredible Anna also recovered from a horrible race fall and near paraplegia seven months ago to win that medal.  (I’m totally about to cry again writing this).  SHE’S JUST REALLY INSPIRATIONAL, OK?

We love them because … well, because they are adorable.  Unaffected, joyful, honest, brash, humble, hilarious and totally Aussie.  I started loving Sally the second Channel 7 tried to give her the ‘you must be so shocked that you fluked yourself into the finals’ edit and she basically told them to piss off.  I enjoyed that.

Michael Dodge/www.foxsports.com.au

But then she went and almost combusted with joy when her place was announced, and gave us one of the best post-race interviews you’ll ever see:

OH MY GOD IS THIS REAL?  YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. 

DID YOU SEE ME?  DID YOU SEE ME? 

DID YOU SEE HOW PUMPED I WAS?  I WAS MORE PUMPED THAN I HAVE EVER BEEN IN MY WHOLE LIFE.  SHIT! 

I COULD SEE A GIRL PASSING ME BUT I JUST KEPT RUNNING MY OWN RACE. AMAZING.  I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. 

SHIT!

By my count she said ‘shit’ about eight times.  On international television.  In front of billions of viewers.  WE LOVE YOU SALLY! 

I can’t decide whether Sally’s stream of consciousness swearing is cuter, or the fact that Anna used the phrase kitchen sink to sum up her Olympic experience.

I went to the final in with the attitude ‘I’m going to throw the kitchen sink, so I hope you’ve got big shoulders’. But man, she threw the kitchen sink at me!

Kitchen sink!  Awesome.  And how do you feel, Anna darlin? 

Absolutely SMASHED.  But you know what: I feel so good.  For all I care that silver medal could be gold.

So happy!  So cute!  So anyone start bagging them and you’ll have five fiesty Errol girls, two interns and one naked, enthusiastic work experience boy to deal with.  I also have a mean right hook, if you’re wondering.

* Emma is, of course, the exception to this. She does the sports on behalf of all of us, and when she gets home from a night out, bounds up the stairs like a lively kangaroo. A well-dressed, drunk, lively kangaroo.

In posting about my Olympics Boyfriend Ryan Lochte (who I’ll admit has since been kind of forgotten amongst all the Aussie Olympics highs. Worst imaginary girlfriend evs), the lovely Hazy diverted our attentions to a cuter, homegrown and just all-round fucking adorable curly-haired swimmer Andrew Lauterstein. HOW’S THAT FOR A NAME?

pic: ninemsn.com.au

pic: goldcoast.com.au

Okay so this is officially my first non footy post. It takes Big Emotionz to shake me out of my footy haze. And that emotion is hate. I am in the grip of a hatin feveeer. As I’m sure regular Errol readers have realised, Sassy has many nemeses and enjoys shooting them down with her e-words of poison. I hate just as many people/things as Sassy, but I am far too lazy to write about them. Usually.

You see, I really love the Olympics. I am all over that shit. I was lucky enough to attend the Opening Ceremony for Sydney in 2000 and …..hold on kids, Kiki is gonna say something with actual sincerity: it was honestly one of the greatest moments of my life. Yes, really. Also one of the most emotional. As soon as those horses galloped out with the Australian flags I burst into tears and didn’t stop for the next 2 hours. Damn tears almost ruined my carefully applied boxing kangaroo face tattoos. Lucky I still had my glittery Aussie flag halter top from Supre to tide me over.

I am a tragic patriot and nothing makes me happier than seeing our Aussie babies do well. But I also just love watching athletes achieve their dreams. Dreaaaams….herrooooessss….teaaaaars! I am a disgusting sap, but I just can’t help it. Tonight I cried when the Chinese men won their synchronised diving gold medal. I also just really enjoyed yelling GO WANG GO at the TV. Heheh, his name means penis.

I say this because I want you all to know I am not completely adverse to foreigners winning medals over Australians. I ain’t no jingoist bitches!

Now, for the hate. Oh, Michael Phelps. Where do I begin? If there was ever a person that completely encapsulates the word douchebag – it’s him. He is thisclose to ruining my Olympics experience. Every time his head pops up on my television my skin literally crawls. The vein on my forehead pulsates with anger. My hands form fists and my nails dig into my palms. Oh god oh god oh GOD. I HATE HIM SO MUCH.

1) The fact he walks out with an iPod shoved in his ears. Every other swimmer in the entire world seems to be able to make it from dressing room to diving block without music, but not Michael Phelps! He even listens to it while his competitors are being announced. Such humility, such respect. And you just know he is listening to Fiddy and thinking he is gangstaaaa. Coz he be AMERICAAAAN yo!

2) The way he celebrates. Yeh, he is an amazing swimmer. No one can take that away from him. But you know what? Being a champion doesn’t mean you have to carry on like an absolute tool.

I don’t even know what to say. It’s just….gross. The whole spectacle is just repugnant. If I was American I would be utterly mortified by him. This sort of behaviour is why the world hates America. Oh you thought it was the invasions and stuff? Nope. It’s the douchebaggery of their athletes.

5) And finally, the way Tumblr is spazzing out over him. Granted, at least it’s a change from the constant ‘ ZOMG Obama is the messiah!1!1!1′ hyperbole…but seriously, if one more person tumbl-wanks over him I am going to cut a bitch. The Phelps e-jizz is deadset splattered all over my dashboard and I am Not Happy.Someone today posted that he won gold despite water filling his goggles and ‘blinding him’. And he is totes a hero and omg lets suck his dick now. Bitch please, you don’t need to see to swim. I’ve swum my whole life without ever opening my eyes. And by ‘swum’ I mean floating around on a lilo sipping a cocktail, occasionally dipping underwater when my head gets too hot. But my point still stands.

You now what you do need to swim though? The ability to breathe. And if you want REAL swimming heroics, look no further than Our Grant Hackett. Who won a 15oo metre gold medal in 2004 with a collapsed lung.

AH-HAH! Take that Phelps!

*shadow boxes*

Damn these Olympics. It’s fair to say that we have kind of lost our minds in all the excitement. If Olympics is my crack then I’m pretty much Doherty right now. I should just give up and start painting pictures of the Olympic rings on my flat walls with my own blood.

To give you an idea of just how far gone we are, the Qantas Liesel Jones ad just came on tv and Kiki and I both had to take off our geek glasses to wipe away the tears. It was the war veteran in the medals that really did us in. IT’S ALL JUST SO EMOTIONAL.

We are also in the middle of a spirited debate on whether beach volleyball is a sport that can be legitimately included in the Olympic Games. On the one hand, it’s hot people in skimpy outfits. On the other hand, it’s hard to eat a pack of tim tams looking at that. In the pro column, the crazy Chinese DJ just played Billy Joel’s ‘Uptown Girl’ and Tie Me Kangaroo down, but more importantly – is it even beach volleyball if there’s no beach? That’s not a beach. I think it’s just a sandpit. At least at the Sydney games there was a real beach. GOD NOW I’M ALL CONFUSED.

We are no fair-weather Kookaburra fans. We have been all over our hockey-playing boys since … well, ever. It makes no sense, because we know no one who plays hockey, and we’re certainly not hockey-playin gals. Kiki because she has no hope of ever simultaneously coordinating her legs, her arms and a hockey stick, and me because I played it for two weeks in year five and was politely asked to transfer to netball because I was too violent to be trusted with a stick of any kind. True story.

Kiki is proud to say to that her best ever Olympic experience was spending two weeks after a tonsillectomy dosed up on painkillers and watching every single event through a pethadine haze. Apparently she was so overcome with excitement when the Kookaburras finally took out the Dutch in the 2004 gold medal match – after years in the hockey wilderness and the shadow of the Hockeyroos – that she burst a blood vessel in her throat. She may have been sitting on her own in the living room at 5am and choking on her own blood but that didn’t stop her screaming. True story.

Why is it that we kind of hate soccer, which seems to have almost exactly the same rules, but hockey is so amazing? Who knows. It Just Is.

One reason might be that our boys are so universally adorable. Perhaps even more adorable than their coach, Barry Dancer. Best. Name. Ever.

Have you met Desmond Abbott? Little Des just scored two fantastic goals against the Canadians in his first ever Olympics and made our hearts dance. There are not enough men named Des in this world. REPRESENT, LITTLE DESSY!

The Aussie hockey site tells me Des is an exciting, silky skilled midfielder/striker. Silky! We love you silky Des.

It also tells me that Jamie Dwyer – our fearless hockey captain – goes by the nickname Foetus. FOETUS. I love Australians. We greeted the news of his corked thigh in tonights hockey game with twin cries of ‘nooooo, not foetus!’ We’re ever so glad it’s just a muscle strain, foetus darlin.

Did I forget to mention that the Kookaburras are the whoriest team in the whole competition? No, sleeveless tops aren’t regulation, and yes, other teams wear sleeves. What can we say? Our boys just like to show off their incredibly toned and tanned arms and … wait what was I saying? Oh yes. THEIR GUNS NEED TO BREATHE! DON’T LOCK THE GUNS AWAY!

I especially enjoyed Matthew Wells’ bare arms waving his hockey stick at the umpire in the Australia-Canada match to dispute a decision. Ooooooh angry mans. Matty Wells can give me a bit of stick anyday.

Hockey has that magical property, like firefighting uniforms, of making everything uncontrollably hot. On a related note do you think they mist them in between halves? They’re all so … glistening. It also has the massive advantage of involving hockey sticks, so we can make as many pervy ‘stick’ jokes as we like (see above).

Possibly my only complaint is that the 2008 boys have decided not to sport their seventies terry headbands this Olympics. Bring them back, babies? Just for me?

Going up: Longnecks

I have this recurring nightmare. I walk into the Party Factory* at about 11 on a Friday night. I realise I recognise every single person there, and every single person there recognises me, then turns to all their friends and whispers behind a cupped hand about all the horrific things I did last night in the Brighton Bar and (kinda mercifully) don’t remember.

I do have that weird prickly feeling though. You know the one? Where your brain knows something embarassing happened but can’t quite bring itself to remember, so it just tries to warn you to stay in the house until it all blows over and everyone who might have seen the spectacle unfold eventually dies of old age. That feeling.

I hate that feeling. I should also admit that this isn’t so much a nightmare as just a dream version of actual life experience. The downside of having a gigantic white girl fro is that complete strangers can walk up to you in a bar and say ‘I remember you! You’re the girl who …’

Excuse me while I kill myself.

And there’s only one thing that makes this better. Surprisingly, no, it’s not vodka this time. Vodka has no going up, going down. It’s a classic, like a quilted lambskin Chanel.

It’s the humble longneck. Full of nourishing carbohydrate-laden beer to fill your belly and soothe your brain. Swaddled in a paper bag so no one knows whether you’re drinking something disgusting like VB. Ideally shaped to avoid accidental spills. Ergonomically designed to nestle in the crook of your arm like an adorable beer-baby, so you can drunkenly look down at it and think at least somebody loves you.

Oh, longneck. Why’d you stay away so long?

Going down: Jaeger

I hate to admit I’ve even tried Jaeger. It’s the drink of American douchebags who can’t hold their booze, who stagger from the bar with their frat buddies all “DUDE! I JUST HAD TWO SHOTS OF JAEGER AT THE BAR … AND I’M WASTED“. Blech.

But I caved. And all the embarassing things I alluded to just then? They are all Jaeger’s fault. If the devil was a fabric, he’d be satin. Reflecting light on all your fatty bits, redirecting all your money to the dry cleaner, and bunching up in wrinkles at your crotch so you look like your vajayjay is prematurely aged.

And if the devil was a drink, he would be Jaeger. And if you’ve ever seen a boy vomit Jaeger into a bathtub, you’ll know it’s true.

* [Also known as the Oxford Art Factory]

I’m not even going to talk about how offensive, outdated and potentially harmful Ladette to Lady is. I’m certain it’s been covered by almost every feminism focused blog out there (with good reason) with much greater skill than I can manage. I just can’t help but want to talk about this though:

CHANNEL 9 is giving uncouth women a chance to polish their diction and stop causing friction in the Australian version of Ladette to Lady.

Following the highly successful UK version of the reality show, which is set at Eggleston Hall Finishing School in England, Nine is on the prowl for Australian women, most likely the trashy type, to appear a new series of Ladette to Lady.To sign up and see if you have what it takes, or more precisely what you’re lacking in manners, then go to www.ninemsn.com.au/ladette.

If you have false teeth, you may want to remove them before taking your happy snap and emailing it to them.

Do I even need to say how completely ridiculous it is to be offering Aussies a chance to ‘polish their diction and stop causing friction’ (wtf at that sentence, by the way)? We’re a nation of convicts! We swear and drink and are ‘uncouth’ in the womb. Christ, if Oh Errol wasn’t called just that it could be called Oh Uncouth.

We were thinking in celebration of the Australian spirit, why not take the piss out of this whole thing by applying for it? Not seriously, of course – we’re way too awesome for reality. I’m sure every single one of us here at Errol would qualify, and some of our stories might even shock the producers into scrapping the whole idea. I can totally imagine them reading our application and being all I DID NOT SIGN ON FOR THIS KIND OF DEBAUCHERY!!

So we had a quick looksee, all eager and filled with excitement at the possibilities, only to have our hearts sink simultaneously upon downloading the application. It’s super low rent. Shit is like, a Word document that looks frighteningly similar to the ‘surveys’ I used to make my younger sister do for ‘fun’ in primary school (apparently I had market research aspirations. Ah the good old days). Well done, Channel 9!

We also felt severely overwhelmed trying to decide which trashbag stories to include. We assume they’re looking for controversial, but what exactly does Rachel Moses at Channel 9 think is dramatical enough to get a gal on this show? Let’s evaluate our options.

Should we include -

The one where one of us ended up handcuffed to an aluminium garden chair in the industrial end of Zetland? Not controversial enough surely.

What about being kicked out of a Melbourne hotel for ordering room service Coronas at five am, accidentally sending two naked men to answer the door and dropping the tray of beers?

Is it ladette behaviour to straddle numerous gay shirtless men (then pash their faces off) at Sydney’s infamous Stonewall?

How about getting it on with a seventeen year old in a suburban shopping centre park?

Frequenting a pay-per-hour establishment in the heart of the Gold Coast?

Or accidentally waking up in your own bed spooning a stranger…… or a pantsless dreadlocked man (who makes the bed in the morning without being asked. A courteous manwhore!).

Then we remembered we’re not just inappropriate. We’re also lazy. Soz, Channel 9, you’ll have to manage without us.