We have a new favourite journalist over at Errol.  A proper journalist too!  Not a *cough*journalist *cough* like us.  Let me explain.

So we’ve mentioned before, many times, and in great detail, that we feel … awkward about the Australian World Cup team.  ‘Awkward’ in the sense of ‘we don’t like them’.  SORRY.  WE JUST DON’T. 

But even though we can’t cheer for them we still have our faves in the squad, and finally one of them is getting the recognition he deserves.

… people are really talking about me?
Pic: Steve Christo

Kyle Mackey-Laws … well first of all, Kyle Mackey-Laws has a freaking amazing name. 

Kyle Mackey-Laws has also broken down the numbers to explain why Joel Monaghan is – as we suspected all along! HAH! - a legend.

If numbers are anything to go by, Canberra Raiders star Joel Monaghan is a certainty to live out a dream this week.

Monaghan has played in all four of the Kangaroos’ World Cup matches, and statistics released yesterday show he should be one of the first picked for Saturday’s final.

Monaghan has made the second most linebreaks behind Fiji’s Akuila Uate (10) with six, his four tries have him fifth on the try scoring list and he only trails teammate Paul Gallen (9) in offloads with eight.

We always knew Mona was the bidness.  We endured the suspicious looks all through Australia’s first game against New Zealand as we yelled out GO RANGA, GOOOOO! across the footy stadium.  We even nominated him in the Errol Awards.  And now we have have mathematical proof of his awesome.  YOU CAN’T ARGUE WITH NUMBERS.

If you are wondering, Kyle Mackey-Laws works for the Canberra Times. Not a national paper, the Canberra times.  Seriously, are we the only people outside the ACT who appreciate Monaghan, aside from that little kid with the GO RANGA sign at the footy stadium? 

Last week when our gorgeous publicist Marlo saw the Australian team at the Sydney airport and ducked over to accost Monghan and inform him that he is her favourite (he totally is), the rest of the Aussies responded with a chorus of ‘REALLY?’.  That is so depressing.

It’s a travesty, in fact.

So if the Kangaboos take out the Kiwis this weekend in the World Cup grand final, at least our mans Monaghan will get a bit of the glory.  It’s a small comfort.

Even though I can’t manage to muster up any excitement about this game, I am tres dedicated to you all, and I am going to put all my personal disdain aside to give you updates on the the two teams anyway.  I’m even going to do it now, despite the fact that it’s after 12pm on a Friday, which means according to my schedule I should already have transferred my phone line to Lachie’s desk and be making Champagne punch in the kitchen.  SEE WHAT I DO FOR YOU KITTENS? 

The Aussies have taken a slightly unconventional approach – I think inspired by Manly’s preparation for the NRL grand final – and rocked a little dance training:

One. Singular. Sensation.

A little Quiet Time:

… and for Christmas I want a World Cup and a pony.

 
And a little group bonding:

SCOTTY PRINCE JUST LOVES CUDDLES.

New Zealand have … ok I have no idea what they have been doing. Nothing interesting, I imagine, because they are New Zealanders. Is that offensive to Kiwis? It is, eh.

All I really need to know about their team is that Ruben Wiki mixes their Kava, because that is fantastic. It’s also true, because Manu Vatuvei told us so. I don’t believe a man with gold teeth would lie.

And so we lumber and faint into the end of the World Cup.  Kangaroos vs Kiwis, Maroon enemies vs Trans-Tasman enemies. 

May one of the teams win.  Or neither.  I don’t really care.

Aussie training pics: Getty Images

It is my personal belief that Twenty20 cricket is one of mankind’s greatest inventions.  I’m not even exaggerating.  If you ask me, it’s right up there with Penicillin and wireless internet and pikelets and Smirnoff Blacks. 

Apparently I am also the only member of the public and of the sports journalism fraternity (KIDDING! no one actually thinks I am a journalist) who thinks this.  According to everyone else in the world Twenty20 will render test cricket extinct, eliminate New Zealand’s test teams, and is only for the kind of idiot who doesn’t understand Proper Cricket.  I can’t be bothered googling any more but I bet somewhere someone is saying Twenty20 cricket also increases global warming and eats babies.

To that I say, how can something that combines sport with a Def Leppard soundtrack and the Kenny Loggins hit Footloose ever be bad?  If loving that makes me an idiot then I AM PROUD TO BE THAT IDIOT.

Test cricket and Twenty20 are like beer and vodka; St Vinnies and quilted Chanel; Gram Parsons and Cher. There is a time and a place for both.  There is also plennnty of room in my summer cricket schedule and on my couch for both, so let’s all snuggle in the cushions, pour a vodka-ginger-ale, and make out, shall we?

Anyway, let’s talk about the Twenty20 comeback on Friday night.  Australia vs the State cricket All Stars.  It was everything I hoped for and more.  And it’s for charity.  Amazing.

GILLY GILLY GILLY GILLY

As much as I missed Twenty20, I missed Adam Gilchrist more.  I don’t care if he’s playing for Australia or the All*Stars.  (By the way I have had that Smashmouth song in my head for the full three days since I heard that stupid name). 

… dear sassy, I feel the same way

I’ve been looking for a new non-sexual cricket husband to replace Gilly for the full six months since he retired, but no luck yet. I still just love that cheeky bastard.  And I think I love him even more now that he’s been retired for only six months and already started getting a little bit chub.  We all know I love an athlete with a few extra kilos, and those skins you were wearing under your uniform aren’t fooling anyone, Gilly darlin.  You might want to invest in some Nancy Ganz.  They make them for men now, too.

My heart ached a little bit when he came out to bat and announced that he got cramps warming up.  And they say cricket isn’t athletically demanding.   Meanwhile whoever came up with the idea of miking players during Twenty20 is a genius.  I would actually quite like to hear Gilly miked up just in his general life.  Calling people old and chubby, talking about his jimmy back, making bad calls to other drivers/pedestrians/his wife like he does to his running partner on the pitch (YES!  … NO! … SHIT SORRY).

His cheekiness and Mike Hussey’s, well … Husseyness, are endlessly entertaining. 

WE LIKE ROY

Pic: Dave hunt / AAP

Man the selectors went all out for this game.  Those bitches just really know how to push my buttons.  Roy made his comeback and said laconic things into the mike and the crowd went crazy and screamed like he is their God.  Which, at the risk of being blasphemous, he pretty much is.  Who else would turn around mid-game and pull out two little kids named Tom and Tom from the crowd and send them out to field on his boundary?  Oh yeah, I said it: ROY IS JESUS.  When I saw those little kids’ joyful and terrified faces my ovaries all but danced in joy.  And when Roy dressed them in his Australian team cap my ovaries grabbed their drinks and made a little conga line, prancing around singing CRICKET-CRICKET-CRICK-ET!  

Cutest. Moment. Ever.  That’s the magic of Roy. 

MY FRICKEN EYESSS

I have to be completely honest, this Twenty20 wasn’t one giant lovefest.  There was some shititude.  Because even though they were finally giving the State cricketers a chance to shine in the ~*~All*Starz~*~ team, they still kinda stuck the boot in at the same time. 

It’s as though the powers that be said: Yes, state-boys-who-get-no-recognition-from-most-of-the-Australian-public … we agree this state of affairs is depressing and unfair.  So we will let you play against some of the Australian team in a flashy televised Twenty20 match (not all the Australian team, cause they’re kinda tired from playing Proper Test Cricket in India, but a few of them). That’s foine.  No worries, mates.  STAND PROUD AND BE COUNTED.

There’s just one catch.  One teensy, tiny catch that we aren’t going to mention until you get to the locker room to change into your uniforms.  You see … you have to wear this:

DAMN.  That is harsh.  I had thought that the normal Aussie Twenty20 uniforms were some of the ugliest things I’d ever seen.  The reason I say that they’re ugly is because … well, because I have eyes.  I also find them a bit creepy, because they make everyone in the Australian team look like they are lifeless robotic legomen.  (Except I would never say that to Andrew Symonds, obviously, because in his uniform he looks like a robotic dreadlocked legoman who could totally kick your ass if he wanted).

Lego celebration!

The most unfortunate is Brett Geeves, because – thanks to his new Movember moustache – he is the sad Mexican Legoman of the Australian team (sombrero sold separately).  Normally I’m a believer that a Mo rescues any outfit.  Clearly this uniform is the exception, and it makes me angry.   The man is growing a kickass mo for Movember, can’t we all show him a little respect and let him wear a proper shirt?

See? Isn’t that better?

Wait … does the Aussie team have a name when they play Twenty20?  I’m thinking maybe Cricket Australia should just run with the hideous uniform Lego vibe and call them the Legomen.  THE AUSTRALIAN TWENTY20 LEGOMEN. We could get them sponsored by Lego!  They would be all over it as a way to target kids and families. YOU KNOW IT MAKES SENSE.  Feel free to use my idea and pay me in booze.

The kids just love meeting their Twenty20 idols.

But, anyway.  That’s not the point.  The point is this: in the scheme of things, wouldn’t you rather look like a Legoman than a jockey?  It’s just demeaning.  Those poor All*Starzzzz.

Michael Dighton may have captivated us all with 32 runs from 8 balls (heh, balls).  But the reward is being on national television dressed as a contender in the Johnny Walker 2500m stakes.

And if you were wondering about the actual game … the lawn jockeys won.

Oh, kittens.  The Errol office is so sad at the moment.  It’s semi-finals time in the World Cup, which means that all the teams we met and fell in love with on the footy field are gradually packing up their bags of boomerang souvenirs and VB accessories and heading home.  

Papua New Guinea have been booted after coming fourth in the pool of death. Tonga and Samoa have taken their wardances and gone home. The Frenchies are returning to (a probably frosty reception in) France. Perhaps they can use their wooden spoon to make a nice souffle to cheer themselves up?  I hope so.

And Kiki is busy drying her tears at the moment, but once she manages to stop crying into the keyboard, she’ll also fill you kids in on the Errol trip to the Gold Coast to watch the Irish Wolfhounds play Fiji in the quarter finals, and saying goodbye to our adopted Irish team.  WE MISS YOU ALREADY BABIES.

Sif all that wasn’t bad enough, we also lost Errol favourite Corporal Campese from the Aussie team.

I feel so uncool.
Pic: Ian Hitchcock

In a tres dramatical incident, T Camp was poked in the eye by Neville Costigan in the Australia-PNG match, and had to bow out of the rest of the World Cup.  Poor baby could have gone blind.  I’m not even kidding.  A footy career ended by a poke in the eye.  YOU CAN’T MAKE THIS STUFF UP.  

So now it’s all come down to Australia (sans Terry), New Zealand, England … and Fiji.

It feels a bit like the end of holiday camp. All our friends’ parents have come and picked them up already, except because our mum is running late we’re left sitting on the steps with the kids we weren’t even friends with anyway.  Making awkward conversation about if we’re coming back next year, remembering how someone said they wet the bed and we kind of believe that they do.  Avoiding eye contact, exchanging email addresses even though we’re totally never gonna write to each other. 

Sigh.

I’ve think we all know by now I have a problem cheering for the Australian team. Not even seeing Toops and Fitzy on the bench can change that. And now that Baby Hayne has announced that playing for Fiji has changed his life and chased away his demons I am 100% team Fiji.  What’s not to love about a team that can make the semi-finals and provide informal therapy?

Are you there, God? It’s me, Baby Hayne.
Pic: Phil Hillyard

Remember how I called the World Cup a soap opera? Aside from a good demon possession, there was only one thing the cup was missing: a redemption arc, and someone finding God.  DING-DING-DING JACKPOT!  Thanks to Baby Hayne this is now officially the Most Dramatic World Cup Ever. I love it. GO BABY HAYNE, GO!

And really, how can you not love Fiji? This is the team that sings in harmony on the football field. Those bitches are talented.

They also freely admit to being unfit. ME TOO! Athletic ability is totally overrated.

Darren Lockyer says their biggest danger is that they play ad-lib in attack.  ME TOO!  Well, ok, not in ‘attack’ as such.  And not in any sports of any kind.  But I still think planning is totally overrated in general.  I care not for preparation and gameplans.

While we’re talking Locky, he also doesn’t seem to remember who’s in the Fijian team.  This worries me.  Are you feeling ok Darren, baby?  Just the other day you couldn’t remember who was in the English team either.  Has he taken more knocks to the head than I realised?

Pic: Peter Rae

If I’m not mistaken, Daz also turned up to the Fiji-Australia photocall without his shorts.  At least that’s what the Herald says.  Just look at the ones he had to borrow.  Are they … clown shorts? Oh my god, are they CULOTTES?  Green and gold culottes?  Maybe they had them made when they were making Steve Price’s custom green and gold bucket hats.

I am becoming a bit concerned actually that Darren may be losing his damn mind.  If someone doesn’t get him some Omega 3 and write the boy a list of who he plays for and what to bring to the game I honestly think he we might see him run out to play Fiji completely pantsless, play the ball backwards, then accidentally tackle Billy Slater. 

And if you think I’m a little harsh on Australia, I apologise.  I know Greg Inglis is all put out that the Kangaroos don’t get enough love. 

I think we thoroughly deserve the praise that we should be getting but we’re not.

Firstly, that sentence is intense. Is he using the subjunctive? I think he may have created some new kind of grammatical structure.

But also, I’m sorry, Gregory. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, even though you chose to become a dirty Queenslander. You’re right. It is a little bit unfair. And it is a little bit to do with the team being so good.

The Kangaroos are the Roger Federer of rugby league. Too professional, too efficient, too … Swiss. Footy is all about emotion, and the Aussies just don’t give me any at the moment.

But now that I’ve said that … suck it up Inglis. SUCK IT UP. You’re about to (probably) win a World Cup.   You’ve won a premiership and an Origin series. People have called you the best player in Australia.  Um, what more do you want, mate?  So a few people think the team’s boring. At least you didn’t get POKED IN THE EYE.

There is far too much whinging going on and I don’t loike it. Inglis thinks no one loves him (in at least four tenses). England hate the refs. Ade Gardner hates the grapple (don’t we all?)  Benji Marshall is all offended that the English turned their back on the Haka.

Can’t we all just take a leaf out of Flossy Nightingale and Sam Perrett’s dayplanner and have a nice waterslide?

So I have an apology to make. There has been no World Cup news from me for aaaages, and I’m sorry kittens. I know, I know, you’re all jonesing. But you see I have been extremely busy doing Important and Urgent things, like giving myself pedicures, buying spangly cardigans from St Vincent de Paul, and getting drunk and going to see Richard E. Grant in My Fair Lady. By the way yes, I LIKE MUSICALS. MUSICALS AND RUGBY LEAGUE. I’m pretty much a renaissance woman.

And now cause I’m sleepy from sunbaking, let’s just go over the important bits, shall we?

AUSTRALIA … NOT LIKABLE ENOUGH FOR A DECENT TITLE

New Zealand played England. Australia played England. England lost. Twice. And the truth is … we didn’t really care.  About any of them.

But I’m kinda starting to think maybe someone has tipped off the Aussie team in particular that the kids here at Errol HQ care not for the Kangaroos, because it seems like those bitches have been working overtime to win us back.

After trying to lure us back by pimping out the adorableness of Prince Scotty the Caramel on the field (… almost worked, but not quite. HI SCOTTY!), they upped the lovable factor by naming Terry Campese in the squad to play Papua New Guinea tonight. Or, as we like to call him, Corporal Campese of the Light Horse.

When we suggested Terry can rock a hat, this isn’t what we had in mind.

And in what is kind of like the footy equivalent of sewing knives in your suit sleeves or hitting below the belt in boxing, then those crafty bitches went and did this:

DO THE JITTERBUG!

Damn you Kangaroos! LOOK HOW CUTE THAT IS. Four Kangaroos cruisin’ around in their tiny pink jeep, like Derek Zoolander and his freewheeling model pals. Drinking orange mocha frappaccinos. Singing to Wham, frolicking in petrol stations.

The only difference is that I’m pretty sure that little pink Jeepy, or mini-moke, or whatever those crazy Queensland folk call it, is working a wholllle lot harder than Derek Zoolander’s Jeep.  That poor little engine is pushing around four International league forwards.  WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CARBON EMISSIONS?  In other news, is Brent Kite throwing gang signs? For serious?

Either way, I’m almost starting to … care. This is horrifying. But fear not children, everything will be ok. Just trust Aunty Sassy and look at the Queenslanders. FOCUS ON THE QUEENSLANDERS.

… gasoline fight!

ABORT ABORT! Ok, I’m back to mild distaste and indifference now. That’s more like it. Let’s have a quick gin and get back to things we actually care about.

THE WOLFHOUNDS GET THEIR ROAR ON

We’ve been on Team Wolfhound since the World Cup started, and now that the Irish boys have decimated Samoa and topped their pool, everyone else is too. ABOUT TIME, BITCHES. You know it’s lonely out here sometimes, being totally cutting edge like we are. *flicks hair*

And WE ARE SO PROUD OF OUR MANS. Not just because that was some fucking entertaining footy, but because they had a blinder.  WE KNEW YOU COULD DO IT, BABIES.  Pat Richards grounded three tries, and kicked enough goals that I’m actually rethinking whether the Irish will have to bring in some kind of Priest to exorcise the bad spirits from his goal-kicking Leg of Doom.

As we suspected, Wayne Kerr is a foolproof good luck charm whenever he’s named in the team.  At the very least he has a 100% success rate so far.

And everyone’s favourite hot ginge (sorry, Prince Harry) Sean Gleeson almost made Kiki spill her drink in excitement when he ran in his try.  We’re only a lil bit sad that we couldn’t make the trek out to sit with the Blarney Army again.  We love those crazy kids.

Disclaimer: may not in fact be Sean Gleeson

I would love to analyse the game for you, but I was a little nervous on the boys’ behalf, and I may have been drunk SO THIS IS WHAT YOU GET. And the end result is that Lozzy and Kiki are jetting up to the Gold Coast on Monday night to watch the Errol-approved Wolfhounds take on Fiji for a spot in the semi-finals.

I have a weird feeling that watching the game back at Errol HQ with Intern Danny Wicks and work experience boy Lachie while we hold the fort is gonna be stressful. As if it’s not tricky enough on a normal night trying to make sure Danny Wicks doesn’t eat all the chalk from the stationery cupboard again and deflecting Lachie’s questions about why people call Intern John John ‘hotdog’ and where babies come from. Now I have to choose between our Irish and the Fijians.

HOW CAN YOU CHEER AGAINST BABY HAYNE? It just Doesn’t Seem Right. I also have to make a really tough decision between whether we go for Irish Whiskey or vodka pineapple (my Fiji happy hour drink) for after-work bevvies. My life is so hard.  Perhaps I shall have both.

Game pics: Getty Images

Jeepy pics: news.com.au

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*