Well it’s been a week since we set foot back on Aussie soil, and we’re almost over our jetlag/hangovers/really hot throat infections that we all got from each other.  Speaking of, Lozzy swears any illness suffered was from lack of Vegemite and not excessive consumptions of booze and food. WE NEED OUR VITAMIN B.

So here you get Part 1 of our trip, which we’ve narrowed down to include the things we think Errol readers will most appreciate – tales of us being inappropriate, inept, drunk and really really lolz. In dot points, coz that’s how we roll.

* We decided the best way to cure horrendous jetlag (Sassy was extra tired from lol’ing at Carl Barron on the plane. We mean his standup, not like he was ON the plane. Which would’ve been fucking amazing just btw) in LA was to take massive naps, then follow them up by eating mexican, drinking giant margaritas and getting hideously drunk.

Note: approximately one quarter of actual size.

Seriously guys, Americans make THE STRONGEST DRINKS IN THE WORLD. There is clearly no Responsible Service of Alcohol over there. Obviously, unlike Australians, Yanks can be trusted to have a few drinks then go home and … do whatever it is Americans do. Probably watch The Closer (seriously, they are unnaturally obsessed with that show).

If drinks that strong were served at home we would deadset not be a functioning country.  Not to mention that if you could buy booze 24 hours a day from pharmacies and service stations the way you can in the States we would never ever have a reason to stop drinking and go to bed.

Obviously these lethal drinks are directly to blame for us ending up in a fraternity hot tub later that evening. We wish we were joking.

To Sigma Chi (UCLA chapter) - thanks heaps for the hospitality, and living up to our expectations by having red plastic cups and beer pong. IT’S JUST LIKE THE MOVIES! We also hope the fraternity brother who found the two pairs of  abandoned tights  we left behind enjoys them. They may come in handy for their next hazing ritual.

* LA is all over the bootleg Obama merch – we bought t shirts for various lucky bitches back home and even found OBAMA WATER. Sassy scored the last travel mug available in the entire state of California … apparently those babies are massive sellers, and we’re not surprised.  It’s awesome AND practical.

Yes we can…buy illegal merchandise.

* For some unknown reason, we were an absolute hit with the people of Santa Monica. Especially with black men. Can we say that? ‘Black men’? Well we are! And they loved our work.

Highlights include 2 guys hanging outside a shoe store, hearing our accents then asking if we really have kangaroos in Australia. He then turned to his companion and said ‘YOU SEEN THOSE MOTHERFUCKAS?’ complete with a full kangaroo impression. Including hopping and his hands held up like little paws. AMAZING.

Also the man who yelled at Sassy from across the street DAAAAAMN…WHAT U DOIN WITH THAT BODY MAMI?

* We got to hang out with one of Errol’s biggest fans, the charming Von, who we took on a romantical bike riding group date along Venice Beach. He is quite the Southern gentleman and helped us remember how to ride. He even got behind Kiki and pushed her along until she figured out how to use the pedals.

Aussie men would never do something so chivalrous. Instead they would’ve just pissed themselves laughing at us, and maybe taken photos of us falling off and injuring ourselves horribly.  By the way, that expression ‘like riding a bike’, is such a lie.  Riding bikes is HARD. We had sore lady parts for days afterwards.

To Von – thanks for not being completely horrified when Kiki licked your face over dinner. Also for being generally adorable and letting us grope your sweet sweet muscles. We’ll return the favour when you come to Australia. Maybe without the face licking. We know it makes you uncomfortable.  In our defence, living with two other people, 24 hours a day, kind of erodes your personal boundaries, and we didn’t have many of those before we left Australia.

Our bike date led us to a truly amazing bar on the Santa Monica Boardwalk called Big Dean’s that has literally not changed since the 70′s, except that now it’s the local of Luis from Passions. Seriously, he was there.

Oh,  sorry…. did you say you’re not familiar with the soap opera Passions? LIAR.  Everyone loves Passions.Big Dean’s is famous for serving ‘the first beer of the day’ in Santa Monica, which is how we knew it was our kind of place.  We hit it off with a strange man named Huck and Eddie the Hot Bartender – we would tell you all about how we decided they should be in a new strand of Law & Order called Cat Detectives, but you kind of had to be there.

We then all walked (except for Sassy who RODE Huck’s pink bicycle really really fast. It was terrifying. If it were Kiki doing it there would’ve been broken limbs galore) to the classy establishment Bubba Gump Shrimp Co (JUST LIKE IN THE MOVIES!). There, of course, we made a spectacle of ourselves by getting drunk and dancing in the aisles to The Veronicas while everyone else there was just eating dinner.



Eating ten thousand calories a day gives you loads of energy for bike-riding. Thanks, American food!



Thanks to the Bubba Gump bar guy who told us since we were Australian we should forget the entire cocktail menu and just get Blue Hawaiians … “they’re the strongest drink on the menu”.  Clearly he has encountered Australians before. Our heads the next morning were not so grateful.

NO THANKS to Huck for riding off into the night with Sassy’s sunglasses after realising none of us were going to shag him. They were Really Good Glasses.

NO THANKS to Kiki’s brother.  When she rocked up at the hotel door and rang him to let her into the house he was very unhelpful, and very meanly pointed out: ‘you’re in America, you drunken fool’.

* You’re probably wondering why we spent all our time in Venice Beach and Santa Monica, when there’s you know … the whole rest of the giant Los Angeles metropolis to explore. The truth is, Venice is pretty much our spiritual home.  We like to pretend it’s still the seventies, and Jay Adams might appear unexpectedly over the crest of the hill and board down to the beach.

We also love that it’s a little pocket of America that’s completely free of khaki shorts, Juicy Couture tracksuits and Republicans.  Instead, you get awesomeness like this:



Sup? Nothin …. just playin my flute shirtless in the street.

Thanks to the lovely local who stopped us in our tracks to tell us “the sun … it shines for YOU, girl.”  THAT’S HOW NICE PEOPLE ARE IN DOGTOWN. Granted most of them are homeless and possibly mentally ill but whatevs. They make pretty crafts and dance to the music in the head. Happy crazies!

* Fear not though, explorers that we are, we jumped in our white Corolla (according to Thrifty Rental it’s “sporty”), put Sassy behind the wheel and some 1990s Coolio on the stereo, and hopped on the freeway to Hollywood.  It looked a lot like this:

We sang the Melrose Place song as we drove past Melrose Place, we bought vitally important things like vintage tutus, white denim shorts, and esoteric books and tarot cards from The Bodhi Tree bookstore …  Sassy even managed to throw a fit of cultural arrogance and earn a $45 parking ticket by parking on the wrong side of the road.

Thanks to the Los Angeleno who saw us arguing about the parking ticket (I TOLD YOU NOT TO PARK THERE! … BUT YOU CAN DO IT IN AUSTRALIA!) and just cracked up.  It was very Australian of you. Of course, we replied with the sentence we used every time people were confused/offended/disturbed by us: “It’s OK, we’re Australian”.

* Because we are awesome cultural investigators and anthropologists, we learned some valuable lessons about the United States and American culture that we would like to share with you.

1. Always keep wads of 1 dollar bills on you. You have to tip pretty much everyone. Yelling YOU SHOULD GET BARACK TO INCREASE MINIMUM WAGE or I’M AUSTRALIAN WE DON’T TIP THERE doesn’t go down very well. We decided everyone who needs to be tipped should wear a big brightly coloured badge saying ‘Please tip me’.

2. Never, ever, try to imitate Barack Obama giving a speech while speaking to a black person.  It will end up sounding like Robert Downey, Jr. in Tropic Thunder. That is not a good thing.

3. Do not watch American television. You will become addicted to Law and Order and CSI because one – if not both – of them is screening literally 24 hours a day. You will also develop this really overwhelming feeling that in order for your life to be complete, you need to buy the P90X Extreme Home Fitness System.

4.  Yanks, for some reason, don’t lick salt off their hands with Tequila shots. When they see you sitting at the bar licking the back of your own hand, they will think you are insane. True story.

Look out for Part Two of our United States of Errol adventures coming soon, kiddies.  And yes, by ‘coming soon’, we mean ‘eventually’.  But IT WILL be WORTH IT.  It’s the Rock Boat edition, so you know it will be good. Love and kisses from us.

KITTENS!  CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?  THE NIGHT FINALLY CAME.  The Steven ‘Beaver’ Menzies Tribute Dinner.   A night that is Notable and Important if for no other reason than because opportunities as good as this for embarassing yourself in a spectacular fashion in front of favourite sportsmen or celebrities don’t come along very often and a bitch has to take advantage of them when they do.

And if Kiki’s blog didn’t fully explain how excited we were to ask the Beav for a hug (we did, and he obliged), I think I can sum it up by saying this: our girl Kiki was early.  

[Sitting by yourself all dolled up in a hotel lobby = hello I'm a prostitute! You guys couldnt get there soon enough - K]

I would also like to point out my mammoth effort to be there: I actually wore makeup and proper shoes.  HIGH HEELS, EVEN.  I HOPE YOU APPRECIATED IT BEAVER.  If that didn’t mean more to him than all the accolades from Arko and Gus then I wash my hands of him.

And when we trotted on into the dinner – a few shampoos under our belts for courage and fancy handbags under our arms (something about a Beaver dinner just said MONGRAMMED DIOR to us, you know?) – we weren’t disappointed.  Beaver!  Lyons!  Toovey!  Eagles Angels! Gouldy! Mini cheesecake! Free Beaver books!

Excuse me if I have to sit down for a moment.  I’m a tad overexcited.  Free stuff gets me that way.  (You know they say thriftiness is next to godliness.  Or something).

And I know how eager you have all been for updates, so shall we walk through it in point form?  We can pretend each one is one of the free CDs John Hopoate took home for his kids.  Score for the Hopoate family!

* First, I have to ask some Very Important Questions.

The singing.  This doesn’t happen very often, but I was kinda speechless for a moment when a live singer was ushered onto the stage to sing the national anthem.  Is this normal?  Really?  To have to stand up in your suits and cocktail dresses and sing for two minutes before you’re allowed to get your seafood entree?  Is it cause it’s a FOOTBALL dinner?  You have to sing the anthem as though you’re at a game? 

If there’s anything more awkward than that I have NO IDEA what it is.

On the other hand, I am ALL FOR the auction prizes.  One of which was a silver headgear.  Oh yes, a cast of the Beaver’s headgear in antique silver.  I am dead.  Dead from laughter.  If I had that I think my life would be complete.  I’d charge $5 a pop for people to come and see my antique silver footy headgear.  That kinda thing goes right into the pool room.

* We also have a few thanks to make:

To the crowd in general for kindly not lynching me or our BFF and newly-appointed Errol publicist Marlo when they found out we are Roosters supporters.  So welcoming!  WELU MANLY!

To Reg Reagan, for passing on the name of his VB suit tailor to me.  I am all over that idea.  And I have no doubt my employers will be all over me turning up in a red and green logoed pencil skirt suit.  Faaabulous, non?

To Anthony Watmough, for not clocking any of us when we announced to him that he had a TERRIBLE game last week.  We mean it with love.  

To David Williams, for not placing restraining orders on us when we explained to him in great detail that his brother is our oft-naked intern and we have made him our patron saint (complete with enthusiastic re-enactment of patron saint woodchopping pose).  Oh no, we’re not creepy at alllll. 

We would like to thank Dave for the numerous hugs also.  Bitch gives good cuddle.

[Also for letting me stroke his beard while I purred like a kitten - K]

* Apology notes of the e-variety go to:

Matt Ballin: we ill-advisedly pointed out to him that he is a lucky nominee this year for an Errol for hottest bitch in league.  Poor little kitten.  He was baffled, and slightly scared.  I could see in his eyes that he just really wanted Steven to hurry the fuck up so they could grab the car and head home (they carpooled! I am dead!)  Imagine if we’d spilled that he also personal trains us all, complete with excessive hamstring stretching.   He may have had a stroke.

Matty Johns: you looked terrified of us, but fear not.  We’re not court-order creep-into-your-house-while-you-sleep skin-suit crazy (we’re far too lazy for anything like that).  We’re just your garden variety drunken eccentrics who enjoy accosting strangers.  No need to spend any money on upping your personal security details just yet darlin.

[The Beav - Sorry for not only giving you an Errol card and yelling I'VE BEEN OBSESSED WITH YOU SINCE I WAS 14 then nuzzling your shoulder, but then coming back repeatedly to make sure you still had the card in your pocket. And making you show me before I would leave you alone. Sorry x 1000 - K]

Aww Kizzy.  I think if you can do that to anyone, surely it’s the beav?

* We also want to send some love to our most favouritest people of the night:

De Bortoli.  Naturally.  That was some heartwarming sparkling wine.  I am certain I drank more than my $250 dollars’ worth.  And the mild headache today is totally worth it.  I had a bacon and egg roll and it fixed me right up.

Cliff Lyons – still rocking that mo.  Why fix what ain’t broken?

Suyin - as if she wasn’t fabulous enough in her tasselled minidress, she interrupted Beaver’s heartfelt speech thanking her “… for six years of happiness” with “IT WAS SEVEN!” from the crowd.  Needless to say, we’re a little bit in love.  Also with Wendy Harmer.

And Alex ‘Big Al’ Ma, who completely won our hearts.  Surely he is the most dedicated Manly supporter a girl could ever meet - he never even misses an away game.  Not even in Auckland.  Going to New Zealand for a team you love?  Might as well chop off a leg!

What a legend.  Also hilarious and adorable.  We’re not surprised though, to be honest big Al.  Not now we’ve met your parents – who are equally fabulous (hi Al’s mum and dad!)

I especially enjoyed the look on your mama’s face when she asked if we were footy players girlfriends and we answered in unison GOOD GOD NO.

We don’t shag footy players!  We just mock them on the internets thankyouverymuch!

* Fear not, we didn’t disappoint in the embarassing stakes either, kiddies.  How could you think we ever would?  We are always vaguely drunk and inappropriate.  We like to think it’s part of our charm.  Eh, it helps us sleep at night.

Kiki fell on the forgiving Suyin in a spectacular fashion - exposing the mammoth ladder up the back of her stockings – then pleaded sobriety.  IT WAS THE SHOES!  No one ever believes that.  

[ It was godamnit!! I'm not used to wearing heels! I also told her I'm so glad the Beav didn't marry some heinous gold digger and now I can rest easy knowing my hero has found himself a good woman. She seemed pleased/slightly creeped out - K] 

Craig Hancock ruffled my fro and announced to probably every former Manly great in attendance that I feel like a sheep.  Special.

I attempted to walk through a window, thinking it was a door.  Worst of all, I hadn’t even had a drink at that stage.  And because we hadn’t made sufficient spectacles of ourselves between seven and midnight, Kiki and I ended the evening with an impromptu Penny Lane dance across the shiny white floors of the Sofitel foyer. Shoeless.

We listen to the wind, to the wind of our soulssssss ….

* And last, but most certainly not least - the highlight of my entire evening.  You thought it would be the Beav, didnt you?  Well he is unparalleled in his loveliness.  He also gives great hug.  And his speech did make me cry – twice. (But then Phil Gould also made me cry.  I think Nick the Greek sitting next to me may have laughed at my weeping, and I don’t really blame him.  I just have a lot of feelings).

Tyra would not be pleased with my fierce face. NOT ENOUGH NECK!

Well the honour goes to Billy Birmingham.  Sorry Beav.  You didn’t tell us we were FIERCE, but the twelfth man seems to think we are.

He said fierce?  Yes, yes he did.  Does that mean he watches America’s Next Top Model?  I like to think yes.  I like to think he follows the time old ritual of spending Tuesday night sitting on the couch with Sushi Train takeaway and a beer painting his nails and bitching about how fabulously delusional Tyra is and which of the competitors may or may not be a man. 

Everyone does that, right?

[Billy was the highlight of my night too. He enjoyed our story about 'one time we had hot boys in our hotel room and we made them listen to Boned instead of making out'. He said THAT IS THE GREATEST THING I'VE EVER HEARD. We love you Billy! - K]

Thanks for the memories, Beav.  Kiss kiss.

First of all this isn’t so much a recap as it is a chance to peek into the mind of a Reformed Football Hater, and witness the power of Sassy and Kiki’s influence. We’ve been here before of course with Jessica’s journey, but she was much less resistant and quite easily slipped into obsession – I was a bigger challenge. I’m stubborn and stuck in my ways, I’ve always HATED sport and I have an aversion to muscly men.

Then once I had Kiki and Sassy to point things out for me and discovered bearded David Williams (btw we are apparently the go-to blog for info on ‘manly sea eagles with the beard’), it was ON. It’s kind of like how my mum refused to use a computer for years insisting that they’re unnecessary and boring, then found out how much lolz stuff there is on the Internets and now sends me texts to ‘search for Nora on YouTube’ (it’s a cat playing piano in case you’re wondering). THIS IS AMAZING! IT’S A WHOLE NEW WORLD!

So Friday night I settled in with an almost empty bottle of vodka (which I’m glad is almost empty since last time I watched something Important while drinking, I ended up not recalling the last 40 minutes of High School Musical) to watch my newly adopted bbs play Storm. I naively expected it to be kind of like last week with it’s hilar commentary on oranges and a smorgasbord of mans in the form of David Williams and Matt Ballin. I was WRONG. Well, the mans were there but the action was the brighter star. This game was FULL ON.

[Is that the pioneer breaking up a fight? That makes so much sense. I think in the colonies you really need someone with a cool head who'll keep the other boys in line when they try and punch each other up for eating someone else's serve of shepherd's pie at the dinnertable. - Sassy]

Giggle! His name sounds like animalz.

Anyway it was all so overwhelming I don’t think I can form proper paragraphs and will present the rest of my thoughtz in bullet points.

• There was a severe lack of Hot Pioneer here. Though I suspect maybe the gang at Channel 9 wanted to give us at Oh Errol a break after the unveiling of the Gods of Football pics. They’re just concerned for our wellbeing! We did however get to see Our Davey score a try in what was christened “Beaver and The Wolfman Part 2”. I love that they enjoy a running joke. Sadly no references to Enid Blyton this week though. More references to children’s literature pls boys!

• I straight up cannot STAND Billy Slater. I don’t know why, I don’t have a reason, it’s completely irrational, but I do know that my instincts are NEVER WRONG. Like how I always hated Jeremy Piven even though I’d never seen him in anything or knew much about him at all, and then he won the Emmy instead of Will Arnett in 2006. I KNEW I HATED HIM FOR A REASON. I was afraid to say this for a while in case Cooper Cronk found out and didn’t want to go on excursions to the zoo with me anymore (well he didn’t to begin with, nor does he actually know of my plans at all, but whatevs), but he’s on my Irrational Shit-List too now so it’s all ok.

• Rabs thinks Ballin has ‘blossomed’. AWWWW! It sounds like a line from the menstruation film they watch in Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret.

Coincidentally Ballin happens to make my lady flower blossom.

• My Boys almost score a try but video ref is feeling hardarsed. Gus is Not Impressed:

In related news, at this point my vodka bottle is officially empty.

• At one point Davey Williams gets picked up and absolutely SLAMMED backwards by Anthony Quinn. NOT THE CURLS! YOU LEAVE OUR FACE ALONE! I mean, his face. Right, his face.

• Someone is appalled by ‘the hide of the bloke’ regarding something Billy Slater did. I don’t actually know what it was but I CONCUR.

• Storm win. Surprise!

I’m clearly not an expert but I thought the Manly boys played a cracker of a game right to the end. Go boys go! And even though we lost and I ran out of booze, I just can’t be sad knowing they played so well. ILU MANLY! It’s also really hard to feel anything but joy while we’re still basking in the glow of our shiny new Christmas in August pressies.

[Note: Obviously if anyone from Fairfax or any of its regional and international affiliates comes across this blog I would point out that I LOVE de Brito's fine work for your upstanding online and print publications and could think of nothing more satisfying than a job in the same publishing institution for which he crafts his insightful and informative prose. Feel free to bear than in mind. Love and kisses, Sassy]

Lozzy reminded me a little while ago that there has been a sad lack of feminist ranting on this blog lately. And it’s true. I have completely dropped the ball.  It’s pretty much a tragedy.

Also, I like to look after the mysterious person who found our site by googling “Sam de Brito wanker”. Because that was AMAZING.

So today I give you a little vintage Sam de Brito. On one of his favourite topics too: women being delusional and demanding. Women! They’re crazy!

But I’m feeling nice today, so let’s start with the most amazing part of the whole column.  The part I agree with: 

The use of the word “drought” suggests there is an alarming absence of men on our shores, but to dispel that myth you need only visit a pub, TAB or the line-up in the surf at Narrabeen and you’ll find there’s plenty of us about.

What seems the essence of this complaint is that there is a “suitable” man-drought: a dearth of blokes who fail to fit some new set of criteria born of women’s magazines, Sex and the City and Diet Coke commercials.

It’s true! It’s not necessarily a general lack of mans that worries us.

(Although it is statistically true *cough*doyourrsearchdebrito*cough*)

It’s whether a lot of the mans out there are … kinda shit, to be frank. But here’s where we differ, and not just in the sense that I say stuff that is funny and he says stuff like:

So let me ask you this: if you were to order a pizza with 15 exotic toppings (extra couscous, please) and was told by the waiter, “sorry, we just have ham, pineapple, olives, pepperoni and capsicum” does the pizza fail to exist? …

Oh god.*

From experience I can tell you most single men just want a woman they can be themselves around, who doesn’t nag them to death and enjoys oral sex and ballsports as much as they do.

Many single women, however, have a laundry list of virtues that cover everything from how much their ideal partner should earn, to how they look, dress, dance and the correct apportioning of body hair.

They might say “I just want a nice normal guy who makes me laugh” but when said specimen approaches clutching a schooner of VB, he’ll be dismissed because of his Holden Dealer Racing Team t-shirt and she’ll continue to moon over the property developer in the Calibre suit sipping Pure Blonde.

This is what I call the “player conundrum” – because if a guy has got it going on, is in shape, well-presented, earns a respectable salary and has a cool job, he’s not looking to settle down ladies, he’s shagging for Australia with gals ten years his junior.

Not only did he manage to remind us in this paragraph one more time that men are relaxed, lovable and reasonable creatures tortured by the ridiculous demands of hysterical women, he also made me a bit nauseous.

Are we serious? Is the ideal man now a property developer in a Calibre suit sipping Pure Blonde? Low-carb beer, awful suits and a mercenary job? Kill me now if it is.

I would like to counter that perhaps these men are shagging women ten years younger because they are the only women wide-eyed and optimistic enough to find them attractive. Maybe women who’ve been alive for more than 19 years can see that they have no souls?  Because these are exactly the kind of horrific examples of manhood who make me worry about whether the men of Australia might be completely undateable.

More importantly – has it occurred to anyone that this “player conundrum” is massively one-sided and inherently sexist? If you are the kind of man whom De Brito seems to think is a ‘good catch’ – and excuse me if I gag a little when I say that – it’s completely acceptable for you to set specific guidelines for the women you are going to be involved with. You are completely justified in saying that from now on you will ONLY fuck women who are a decade younger than you.  And you’ll be applauded for it.

(Also cheers for reminding me De Brito that the only attractive quality for a woman is youth. Back on the shelf you old boilers!)

But if you are a woman, no matter how attractive or clever or hilarious or successful you may be, you better take what you can get, bitches. You certainly won’t be getting any attention from men with money because their ‘laundry list’ is a woman a decade younger with no interest in a relationship.  It’s nice that De Brito thinks men with BO problems deserve a chance from a hot woman, and maybe even love too, but women over 25 don’t deserve the equivalent from a man.

* I say that in the sense of ‘oh god what kind of joke is this?’ as well as ‘oh god, what kind of budget shithole pizza place is this?’

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.

Greetings dear readers! I’m sure you’re missing my hilaaaarious take on the world of rugby league. Crying yourselves to sleep right? I knew it.

Well sadly my hilarity is going to be somewhat tempered for awhile. My right arm is currently encased in a cast from shoulder to wrist rendering it somewhat difficult (and painful) to type for extended periods of time. I blame vodka, the rock hard asphalt of Oxford Street and most of all…gravity. THAT BASTARD. Obviously none of this was in any way my fault and anyone that suggests otherwise should take a good hard look at themselves.

So I can’t straighten my elbow. At all. I’m Binge Drinking Barbie!

Tomorrow I see an orthapedic person (apparently hes the Elbow King of Sydney) and will request a cast that is more blogging compatible. MY FANS NEED ME DOCTORRRR!

I’m feeling a little vulnerable right now. Wayne Swan has imposed a tax on alcopops. This is (allegedly) not a tax grab. It will (allegedly) help curb binge drinking among teenage girls. Binge drinking! The scourge of our society!

I was by turns scathing and indifferent to this, until I realised that my beloved Smirnoff Black Ice is an alcopop. Not the Black Ice!

And while I’m not exactly a teenage girl, I’m pretty much the same mental age. Am I so hatefully irresponsible that the Government has to take away my playthings? Why does Ruddy hate me so, when all I did was love him?

So once I had a Black Ice or two to calm my nerves, I started to think about this, as rationally and carefully as a half-drunk woman can.

I thought perhaps a tax can work. Perhaps women will look at the shoes in the window of Apex and decide not to waste their pennies on that breezer now that it’s so pricey because there are better things to buy. Just like the taxes on cigarettes are curbing their smoking habit. God knows they certainly won’t just buy something else to drink. *cough*sarcasm*cough*

Oh. Well, maybe even if they’re only drinking fewer alcopops in a night they will be better behaved, and less likely to pass out in gutters, pash ugly men, accidentally flash their vajayjays and vomit in the toilets at The Eastern. Because we all know that men drink alcopops less often than women, and they are brilliantly behaved. As are women who drink wine.

*coughcough*omgIcantanybemoresarcasticthanthis*cough*

So I had another half a Black Ice and a slice of pizza and thought perhaps this tax is but the first step towards taxing all booze, which probably would calm down drinking in general because once you run out of money altogether, there’s nothing left to do but jump in a cab home and run out on the fare (if you’re reading this mum, don’t worry, I never do that; you’ve seen me jog, there’s no way I could ever outrun a cabbie. I put it on my creddie, like a lady).

And I thought – as I moved into the morally outraged part of my drunkenness – THIS IS BLOODY RIDICULOUS. If this useless tax does anything other than line the treasury’s pockets I want no part of it. We are a land of drinkers!

A land where rum was ingeniously smuggled in underground tunnels to Sydney pubs!

A land whose sporting teams survive by virtue of alcohol sponsorship!

When my ancestors came to this country in the 1800s the first thing they did was get off the boat. And the second thing they did was start a brewery and make a tidy living. It’s historical.

Just think of all the things booze does for us. What lubricates our awkward parties? What helps us express our grief after funerals? What helps us take in enough calories to store up fat for the winter? What do we give our surly relatives who don’t like anything for Christmas? What do we use to christen ships?

And more importantly, what does binge drinking that aforementioned booze do for us?

Helps us make new bffs. Helps us express rage. Helps us find love.

I say ask not how you can stop binge drinking. Ask why you would ever want to.

[Edit: The lovely Eddie has informed me that some alcopops now come with FREE CONDOMS. So they even encourage safe sex. I rest my case.]