First things first: IT’S MOTHERFUCKING SHARK WEEK! YEAH!

Ironically, even though we don’t like Cronulla, we LOVE Shark Week. What’s better than a Shark documentary? Nothing. That’s what.

As you should already know, our office motto – well one of our office mottos – is actually “live every week like it’s Shark Week”. Wise words, no? We totally stole it from 30 Rock.

(Our other mottos include, but are not limited to: “Pants are for suckers!” “of course I want another pie!” and “if it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing in hotpants”. That last one is embroidered on the label of all Intern John-John’s shorty shorts).

Pic. Getty Images

In honour of the glory that is Shark Week, we want to give a shout-out to Errol hero, Russell Crowe. There was yet more proof over the weekend that he is awesome and benevolent like Jesus:

RUSSELL CROWE gave eight indigenous kids the day of their lives last Sunday when he treated them to an afternoon in his corporate box. The kids were largely from a mission in Bourke and were rewarded with a trip to Sydney as part of a program called Centacare. ”We told them they’d come to Sydney and get to go to the footy if they had 100 per cent attendance at school for a period of time,” said Mark Hollman, who oversees the program. ”And they all did that, so we got in touch with Souths Cares, who organised tickets and packs and footies for the boys.”

These kids were from the back of Bourke and they’d never seen the front of Bourke. When they got to Lithgow and saw a lake some of them thought it was Sydney Harbour. ”When we got to Sydney I got a call from Russell’s manager, Grant Vandenberg, who said we might get to come up to the box and meet Russell. Not only did we get that but all the boys sat in the box for the entire match. Russell fed them all and went up to each of the boys individually and had a chat to them. They were just blown away by the whole day. They have not stopped talking about it since it happened.”

… Seriously.

Back with the mere mortals, Brett Kimmorley says he might finish out his 85-year footy career at the Sharks. Or at least he won’t rule it out. He met with Shane Flanagan about it, and then said, “to be honest, it would be like going home … I spent such a large part of my career there.”

We just have one thing to say about all of this: WHY? Why, Noddy, why?

We choose to express our advice to Noddy in picture form.

As if we all didn’t know already that the Shire and their team is cursed. What other conclusion can you draw from the fact that they have never won a premiership, that they’re $x million in debt and that Toyota Stadium is constantly beset by a freezing cold wind of death that may or may not be the result of having built it on the remains of some kind of burial ground for the criminally insane?

We had proof again on Saturday night when the West Tigers won an ugly, ugly game over the Sharks at Leichhardt. Let’s be honest, the Tigers had no right to win. The Sharks were well and truly in the game until – bizarrely – Ben Pomeroy scored a possible try …. and was penalised. Even referees hate the Sharks. It was the most ridiculous decision of the season so far, and that’s coming from a Roosters fan (Izzy Folau, anyone?)

Nyello Houston? We have a reffing problem.

Little known Sassy fact: I studied epistemology at uni (of couse I did). Also known as the philosophy of logic. So to help y’all, I put my little logic hat on and made up symbols to represent the five main facts in this case:

1. The ref had called held on the tackle

2. He called it relatively early when he hadn’t done that all game (deemed irrelevant)

3. After the ‘held’ call, Pom continued to fall towards the line, then put the ball down.

4. After the ‘held’ call, at roughly the same time, Bryce Gibbs came into the tackle.

5. Somehow, Cronulla was penalised.

Then I put them all into a logic equation to see if I could make it work, and all I came up with was:

I’m 99% sure this stands for ‘God hates the Sharks’. Even during Shark Week! Sucks to be from Cronulla.

We also found out yesterday that God doesn’t care for the Matty Johns Show. God as in Wayne Bennett, not biblical God.

(You can tell the difference between them because, although both are omnipotent and all-knowing, bible God has never won a premiership).

John Singleton, Matty Johns and Shane Webcke all rang Uncle Wayne to try and get an interview, and Uncle Wayne said … no thanks.

“But he said no … maybe he’s too important.” – Singo

We don’t like to stick our noses into other people’s business (lies, of course we do), but of course he’s too important! He’s Uncle Wayne. Frankly, we’re surprised he even talks to the humans, well, the ones who don’t have schizophrenia with attendant aural delusions anyway. So don’t feel bad Singo.

And to finish off the footy and God round-up, we’re still trying to figure out what to make of the Malbourne vs Canberra game yesterday. Well, not so much the game. Clearly, much as we adore the Raiders, Melbourne played better. (Even Brett Finch played well and apparently he’d spent Friday night getting pissed. He obviously doesn’t get two-day hangovers like we old ladies do). We mean the weather.

How does a game go from this:

Pic. Getty Images

… to this:

Pic. Getty Images

in less than 80 minutes? That’s a hailstorm! For reals. To quote the double rainbow dude, WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

All of  a sudden, it was hailing, Cameron Smith and Billy Slater were on the sideline (being divas? maybe), the Storm had won the game and a PROP was trying to kick goals and failing miserably, Ryan Hinchcliffe was hiding under Jeff Lima, and David Shillington was tenderly cradling Josh Miller’s injured head to protect him from the hail. It was anarchy!

Cooper Cronk totally thinks you’re soft Hinchcliffe. Just look at his face.

KODAK. MOMENT!

It was one of the best/weirdest moments of the season so far.

Stay tuned for a recap of my personal BEST moment – the Roosters vs Eels game from Saturday night. It’ll be posted soon, promise!

Thanks to Cronkster for the Shillington cap, and Lucy Pryor for the Lima cap.

EXCITING NEWS, DARLINGS! The new edition of Rugby League Player mag came out this Monday, and it’s the 2009 Yearbook issue. And yes, this is pretty exciting on its own, considering it has sweet photo essays and you can win stuff and they have end-of-year awards (sure they’re not as hilarious and amazing as the Errol Awards, but what is? By the way the awards are coming … don’t worry babies!)

The point is: IT ALSO HAS A COLUMN BY US. Kiki and I wrote a double page wrap up of ‘The Year in Review’, complete with hilarious jokes about all the important stuff, like Robbie Farah’s nipples, tap-arse, Wendell, rangas, awkward run ins with Anthony Watmough and State of Origin bloodlust.

SEE? IT’S US! (complete with gratuitous picture of my nerdy reading glasses).

If you haven’t read it already – go! buy! IMMEDIATELY. You won’t regret it.

Oh yeah, in other news the Kangaroos won the Four Nations n stuff. If you missed the game, I can summarise it for you pretty quickly. For 60 minutes it was a competition, then for, um, about 20 minutes or so it just looked like this:

… but repeated over, and over, and over again ad nauseum till the buzzer sounded; then like this:

It was a Billy Slater hattrick, which meant the commentators went on and on incessantly about how well Billy was making up for The Unpleasantness during last years World Cup final against New Zealand. Do you think Billy just cracks it whenever someone brings that up? God knows I would. After all he only did it once, right?

OH MY GOD! THAT WAS ONE TIME!

Of course Brett Morris wasn’t gonna come off empty-handed. You know how it’s not really a State of Origin until someone gest punched? Well, in 2009 IT’S NOT A FOUR NATIONS GAME IF B.MOZ DOESN’T SCORE.

Let me rephrase: it’s not a Four Nations game unless B.Moz scores … then the stadium decides to play ‘Land Down Under’ so we can all rock out like massive nerds. Thanks stadium music selector-man! I love Men at Work! *hippie dance*

I do have to be truthful though: when the Aussie boys shaved their mos off last week, it kind of broke my heart. I was deadset struggling to support them through my sorrow. I couldn’t even manage to bother getting up at 6am on Sunday to watch them. Remember last time I left the pub to watch a game? Now that was dedication. I just can’t muster up that kinda devotion anymore though.

The only man holding onto my love is the consistently awesome Nathan Hindmarsh. Oh, Hindy. I adore you even though last week you totally looked like a serial killer with a shotgun. We also, apparently, have something in common. When we’re happy, we celebrate EXACTLY THE SAME WAY. By cracking open the champas and taking our pants off. No one can celebrate properly with elastic digging into their waist. It’s just Science.

CALL ME HINDY! LET’S BE BESTIES!

I’ma miss seeing that mo on my tv, siiigh. In all honesty, I’m also gonna miss the English commentary team. I didn’t want to like them … but they’re just So Damn Excited. They love life! And Brett Morris! And Sam Burgess! And footy! And the crowd! And ESPECIALLY WHEN THE ENGLISH SCORE A TRY! Their ridiculous excitement for life is totally contagious, and every time they come on I somehow find myself nodding and clapping in agreement with everything that they say, especially when they say things like:

“He is a MAN-MOUNTAIN, Greg Inglis!”

Well-spotted, boys. He really is.

But there is no way I could possibly sum up the glory of the Four Nations as successfully as Nathan Hindmarsh did in the Daily Telegraph:

BIGGEST EATER: David Shillington, hands down. I suspect he might be pregnant, he orders two of everything. And he isn’t shy when dessert comes either.

FUNNIEST STORY: We’d all ordered our food in Paris one night and Trent Waterhouse thought of a joke. He made himself laugh so much he couldn’t spit it out. When he got his mouth working, he asked Ryan “how’s your beef stroganHOFF”. We were all in stitches.

[not gonna lie, I loled. Oh, Trent].

MOST UNTIDY TEAM-MATE: Justin Hodges. I think he unpacks his bag with great vengeance and furious anger. I am pretty sure he wears a pair of undies for four days – forwards, backwards, inside out forwards and inside out backwards. I pity the man rooming with him.

DESCRIBE YOUR ROOM-MATE IN ONE SENTENCE: David Shillington is a softly-spoken 115kg cuddly bear.

[He also pops the collar on his Kangaroos blazer ... ooh, FANCY].

IS THERE ONE PLAYER WHO CHANGED YOUR PERCEPTION OF HIM FOR GOOD OR BAD? Sam Thaiday changed my perception of him for the better. And David Shillington has changed it for the worse – all that food that goes in has to come out and I’m looking forward to breathing fresh air again.

Let’s do the whole thing again in four years, kids. What do you say?

Image credits: All Four Nations pics via Getty Images

One week into Movember already … I’m so happy/sad/overwhelmed in my pants region. Obviously I’m overjoyed that people are starting to show some dirty facial hair, but kinda heartbroken at the same time that my favourite month of the year is already a quarter over. IF ONLY THERE WAS A WHOLE MO-YEAR. Mo-thousand-and-ten, anyone? Two-thousand-and-beard-leven?

Just think about it, people. That’s all I ask.

Meanwhile the Four Nations is also almost over, which I suppose we should talk about. The Kangaroos held out a spirited comeback by the English last weekend, blah blah blah … the main thing is Adrian Morley didn’t start any fights. This meant I was disappointed, so let’s move on. Even though they won, the boys still have to face off against France before making it to the final.

And there’s been lots of dramz about the fact that Inglis and Cam Smith and Billy Slater weren’t going to be in the team. Instead, (one half of the cutest twins on earth) J. Moz and Michael Jennings were picked to play in the centres, Robbie Farah at hooker, and Cooper Cronk on the bench.

Sexiest coach in league nominee Tim Sheens is Not Pleased.

Everyone was calling them the “B team”, which in my opinion = not really that bad. Call me crazy, but considering my greatest ever sporting achievement was taking out the 50m backstroke final at the Independent Girls Grammar Schools’ Sporting Association swimming carnival in 1993, I reckon being in the B team for the Kangaroos is pretty fucking sweet. Just sayin. Apparently Tim Sheens has higher standards than me, though, because he was tres offended.

Kiki was also offended, because she agrees with whatever Tim Sheens thinks, because, and I quote “HE’S JUST SO DREAMY”. True story.

Personally, I also think reuniting the Mozzie twins on the left side of the field is a stroke of coaching genius. First of all, it will give them a psychological boost to get them over the fact that while everyone else in the Kangaroos is sporting amazing Movember moustaches, they’re sporting … um … skin. Sure you’re hairless, but you’re representing your country! Good for you darlings!

Will the Errol girls still love me if I can’t grow hair for charity?

Secondly, it’s totally gonna confuse the Frenchies. Since Setanta folded, I’m guessing the French haven’t been watching much of the NRL. Assuming French television is as backwards as french plumbing, this means all they’ll have had to watch for the past few months is right-wing political talk shows, repeats of Neighbours dubbed into French and old Jane Birkin film clips.

Clearly, this means that they’ll get the shock of their lives when two identical twins run out on the field and they have to mark them.

They’ll be all mais qu’est-ce que c’est? Quelle confusion! Est-ce qu’ils sont des gemelles? Je ne sais pas! Croissant! Ou est-ce qu’on met le table?

(Disclaimer: some of that may have just been random snippets from my year 7 French book. Whatever. Just be grateful I didn’t accidentally explain to you how to get the bus to Creteil to go windsurfing).

The point is Tim Sheens is a Machiavellian genius.

There’s also a lot of talk about the French being niggly in the game, because they have nothing to lose. I also think it would happen, mainly because they are French. Europeans care not for rules! It’s one of my favourite things about them. I almost fell over in shock the first time I got to a Metro station in Paris and realised not only are there no voiceovers warning you to stand back from the track and no yellow lines, they even let you OPEN THE DOOR YOURSELF. Insanity! Who knew there were places where you’re allowed to do as you please and fend for yourself? You can even drink in the street.

As opposed to Australia where there are rules for absolutely everything, because we are considered to be inherently kind of incompetent and untrustworthy and need to be protected from ourselves. IT’S CAUSE WE’RE CONVICTS, ISN’T IT?

Meanwhile if you think we’re excited about footy, you should see the French kids. They’re bandits for the Kangaroos! Apparently they mobbed Jonathon Thurston and trapped him against the side of the team bus with the sheer force of their fandom.

Maybe it’s because he’s a world-famous halfback. But maybe, just maybe, it’s because the French appreciate a good moustache. I’m going with the mo. You know it makes sense! It also explains why there’s that massive flock of kids surrounding David Shillington, because he is growing an especially natty mo, don’t you think?

Aw, stop it you guys! You’re making me blush! (Just kidding, don’t stop).

What can I say? I’m a sucker for a classic mo. As much as I enjoy the way Jonathon Thurston looks as though he was a key player in the Sydney waterfront dispute of 1998:

(Pls feel free to use your imagination to insert and/or photoshop Jonathon Thurston here.)

… I can’t resist a neat little 1930s moustache. Which means that the Sassy prize for the first week goes to Cooper Cronk:

Amazing. It’s almost Errol Flynn-ish. Naturally, we adore it.

Jennings and Thaiday are eager to be considered for next week’s Sassy prize

Yes, yes, we see you too, boys.

And while we’re talking facial hair, shout outs have to go to Billy Slater, for his amazing Super Mario effort:

Nathan Hindmarsh for his ongoing transformation into Russell Hammond:

and, um …. participation awards? Sure, let’s call it that, for Jarryd-with-a-Y and Robbie Farah:

Participation awards, babies! (Also, in Robbie’s defence, he has probably been too busy negotiating with the Unions and transport companies on the waterfront with JT to have time to grow a mo).

Remember to watch the game TONIGHT on channel 9, and come back with your game/mo updates. And to sponsor the boys:

GO HERE

All pics via Getty Images.

So the boys are playing this match down in our Nation’s capital, Canberra, which means that for the last week foxtel has been bombarding me with ads where Alan Tongue stands in front of the camera in his turtle headgear and announces that the Roosters are in for “… SOME CAPITAL PUNISHMENT”.

As a footy follower, do you know what I love? PUNS ABOUT THE DEATH PENALTY. I love them almost as much as when players are forced to do embarassing promos. Heart.

Note: this is a completely arbitrary pic of Alan Tongue. I could have used a recent one, but I prefer this. I like how it looks like he and Monaghan are waiting anxiously to go into Court on trial for public rangadom. BUT WE CAN’T HELP IT YOUR HONOR!

The Raiders are milling about in the change-room looking cheery and relaxed, except for David Shillington, who mainly just looks skinny. SO SKINNY!  I feel a little bit worried. Do they not have pies in Canberra?

Mmmmmmm pie.

Note to self: send Shillo a care package of four-and-twenties.

The Roosters are standing like unwilling refugees in the away change-room, and J Aubs looks a little like he might vom. On the bright side they have some new super-cute jerseys with little white collars and mini v-necks. I approve. Minichiello has his collar popped, possibly because Terry Biviano jjuzhjed him before they left the house, possibly because he actually really enjoys being referred to as the Count and is just running with the look.

Ees possible!

The boys run on field and something amazing happens: The Roosters don’t suck.  

The forwards are running forward with something that looks like confidence and determination, and somehow even though the Raiders have totally been bogarting the possession of the ball … there are no points on the board.  I believe this is what was missing last week, and I believe it’s called … ‘defence’. Hallelujah!

Pic. Glen McCurtayne

That’s when I remember I actually tipped the Raiders and I feel confused and guilty and kind of like the roosters must know that I was disloyal.  I’M SORRY.

Note to self: find way to make it up to the Roosters. Consider fruit flowers?

Pic. Glen McCurtayne

 
Minichiello grabs the ball and prances through defenders only to be brought down just before the try line. It’s an awkward pile-up of a tackle and Mini comes out of it looking like he’s riding on Space Mountain and holding his leg in a really worrying way.

Even though he’s limping like a half eaten gazelle he shoos away the trainer and stays on the field. Oh, Mini, you so brave. I love you even though you have a body made of glass now and haven’t played a full season for at least two years.  I’m not even being sarcastic, I really do. I just wish you weren’t made of delicate delicate parts like Rod Wishart.

Peg-leg Minichiello moves out on the wing and in the next Roosters set he staggers across the line with his popped collar like a hunchback to score a try.  AMAZING! TRY BY THE ONE-LEGGED MAN!

Mitchell Pearce can’t manage a conversion but he can manage a really random kick out on the full a few minutes later. Luckily, he is now signed to the Roosters until 2012, which means plenty of time to work on that tricky kicking business.

Mitchell needs some more study times on the big book of no-nos.
Pic. Getty Images.

The Raiders kick and Mitchell Aubusson looks over his shoulder then decides the best way to stop Joel Monaghan grabbing it is to leap sideways and use his butt to deflect Monas.  It’s kind of … graceful.  Balletic, even! I like to think M Aubs is a massive fan of So You Think You Can Dance and has been practicing this at home with J Aubs.

Both teams start passing to mid-air and dropping the ball and this feels a lot more like last week. Frank-Paul Nuuasala is on field and gets all ghetto when he’s pushed around in a tackle. Whut, whut? He is thisclose to ripping someone’s weave out.

The Roosters also show what they thought of Shillo’s comments during the week and David Milne is shocked.

OH NO HE DI-INT!

Justin Carney takes out the Mayan King Soliola while he’s in mid-air and Braith Anasta isn’t having any of it. Oooh, biff! Well, at least as close as you can get to biff in 2009, which is grabbing people’s jerseys and pushing then a little bit. Maybe sometimes kicking them in the thigh like Colin Firth and Hugh Grant in Bridget Jones’ Diary. Braith then taps the ref really condescendingly on the shoulder and a little bit of my love dies.

Justin Carney also somehow has Jamie Soward’s hair on as a kind of hair-hat. Halftime, 4-0.

The Raiders botch two great try opportunities and try and reach some kind of record for turnovers. Shaun Kenny-Dowall pops in for a revenge try on the left wing, and Josh Miller and Mark O’Meley collide with a massive smack like two giant towel men made of wet towels. The towel men have a little trip to Disneyland and we replay the collision three times on Foxtel IQ because we are gross and creepy.

At this point I think I can sum up the rest of the game by saying: Braith Anasta loses his damn mind.

It all starts when he dives to tackle David Milne right on the try-line and manages to be dragged sideways so that he runs crotch-first and horizontally into the comically cow-print goalposts. Ten minutes later when he finally manages to struggle to his feet he bends over to check on his boys … maybe gently remind them that this kinda stuff happens in footy.

But Braith Anasta’s crotch is having none of this. Braith Anasta’s crotch is MAD AS HELL AND NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE.

Pic. Glen McCurtayne

Don’t worry, he doesn’t actually rip T Camp’s head off.

Instead, Braith Anasta’s crotch sends in Mitchell Pearce for a try. Then Braith Anasta’s crotch leaps over Justin Carney in the in-goal and miraculously grounds a ball right on the dead ball line for another try.

Just to rub it in Canberra’s face, Braith Anasta’s crotch finishes his decimation of the Raiders by intercepting a pass and running 40 metres to score a single-crotch try. Fitzy converts for 28-0.

At this point, Bronson Harrison manages a sneaky last-minute Green Machine try, but Braith Anasta’s crotch doesn’t give a shit. Braith Anasta’s crotch then gives the whole of Canberra the forks … game over, bitches. 28-4.

I don’t know how it happened, but somehow I have ended up Errol’s senior Hot Man Correspondent. Okay, that’s a lie…I know exactly why it’s happened. Because I am a perve of the highest order and deeply enjoy sexually objectifying football players on the internet. They say everyone has a calling, and I think I’ve found mine.

Because some of you are anti-nudity kill joys, I will do as I promised and use my warning sign. IT GALLS ME TO DO THIS PEOPLE. JUST SO YOU KNOW.

I didn’t think my pants could get more excited than they did at Hot Man Christmas, but last week’s Footy Show proved me wrong. AND HOW! Not only have the geniuses behind the Gods Of Football calendar recognised Our Davey William’s hotness, now they have out done themselves and delivered us Kayne Lawton in all his glory. KAYNE FREAKING LAWTON! I thought we were the only ones who knew he even existed. Us and Scott Prince. Together we discovered KayLaw’s sexy and brought it to the world via this blog. Most of you are probably too lazy to click, so I’ll give you a taste of Prince Scott The Caramel’s take on Kayne.

“He is a freak,” said premiership-winning captain Prince. “I just shake my head.

“I have been doing weights for seven or eight years now and I haven’t got half the body that kid has.”

“I haven’t seen him play yet, but seeing him train in the gym with us, he has definitely got an athlete’s body,” said Prince.

For those who don’t know, KayLaw is the halfback in the Titans Under 20′s side. Apparently he’s quite good with the ball. Whatever. I care not for his footballing abilities, and apparently neither does Scotty. Let us check out the aforementioned ‘athletes body’.

Ohhhhh yeah. Thats some good….’athletic ability’ right there. Maybe Kayne could fly his athletic ass down to Sydney and we could work out. WORK OUT WITH NO PANTS ON.

The tan! The eyes! THE ARMS! Did I mention the tan? Guuuuuuuh its all too much.

At this juncture I would like to assert Errol ownership over Kayne and anything vaguely Kayne related. We found him first and if you want to touch him in his special area you have to come through us first. Send Intern John-John an email and he will place you in the waiting list. Tell him he’s a spunk while you’re there, coz he gets super jealous when we talk about men-that-aren’t-him being sexytimes.

One time we found him burning an effigy of Matt ‘Hot Bitch’ Cooper in the stationery cupboard. Luckily intensive psychotherapy is covered under the comprehensive Errol health plan. We are a very progressive workplace, what can I say.

I guess I should mention that Kayne is eighteen years old. Yes, eighteen. I felt a bit weird about mind molesting him…for about 2 seconds. And you know why? BECAUSE I DESERVE THIS GODAMNIT. Boys never looked like this when I was eighteen. Oh no. It was all acne, Lynx body spray and burping Jim Beam in my face at the Castle Hill Tavern. HOT!

Teenage boys are way hotter these days, and I for one feel ripped off and I refuse to feel bad for eyeing off year 12 students in the food court. It’s not my fault officer! It’s their slutty uniforms and scruffy hair! DON’T PERSECUTE ME FOR A NATURAL RESPONSE.

I spose I can’t ignore Daniel Conn’s appearance in the calendar. The Gays loooove him but me, not so much. Obviously he is a perfectly formed human, but he just doesn’t give me a lady boner. And I’m sure he will cry himself to sleep when he reads this.

For ages I couldn’t work out why he doesn’t do it for me, but I think I’ve put my finger on it. He is so….groomed. He literally doesn’t have one visible body hair hair. He’s all gleaming and perfect…like a human Ken Doll.

My lack of admiration for him is probably just self protection. I know he would take one look at my hideously messy hair and filthy Converse and vomit a bit in his mouth.

Now onto a man that is everything Ken Doll Conn isn’t. Biiiig Davviiiddd Shillllington! OUR SHILLO! Shillo is the polar opposite to Daniel. I bet he would love my aversion to hair brushing and 5am schooner drinking. The best thing about Shillo is his obvious pride for his lustrous chest hair. OUT AND PROUD BABY!

 We Errolers are avid chest hair enthusiasts and know a good rug when we see one. And we nominate Shillo as having The Best Rug In League. We would add it as a category to our Errol Awards but it would upset the delicate balance we have constructed. Okay that’s a lie, we are just lazy bitches. Next year Shillo, next year. For now, let us revel in your hair based awesomeness -

Shillo totally drew the short straw for this photoshoot. For some reason they enlisted him to help reorganise the warehouse and forced him to lug around giant chains all day.

HE ISN’T A CLYDESDALE PEOPLE. Just coz he’s big doesn’t mean you can use him for all your heavy lifting. How can you do this to him? I mean look at this face! It would make angels weep!

I will NOT stand for this sort of discrimination. Next time Shillo does a shoot, I’m going with him. I can comb his chest hair and make sure no one takes advantage of him. Except me of course, because that’s a given.

All screen captures from our favourite blog, Schillo photos from Gods of Football. Go check it out, it’s for a great cause.

That title would’ve been much cuter if I’d posted this yesterday and called it Chest Hair Tuesday, but it was just impossible to find a moment between getting Work Experience Boy Lachlan settled and snuggled, and Intern John-John constantly dragging us outside to watch him do ‘The Dolphin’ in the pool. YES WE’RE LOOKING JOHN JOHN. YES WE DO WANT TO SEE IT AGAIN.

pic: boyculture.typepad.com

You might have gathered that we’re avid cheerleaders of the beard. Some might call us Beard Enthusiasts. Well, our hair appreciation also travels south (no, not that far south. I only talk about that on weekends. Well that’s a lie, but not today kids) – we love a good rug. Whoever decided mans should wax their chests (or you know, anything at all) needs to be throttled. Speaking of hair removal, this reminds me I need to have a talk with John-John about the tube of Nair I bought last week and then found empty in his bum-bag. I suspect he wasn’t using it on his chest though, so that’s a plus I guess.

I suppose I kind of get it though, even if I do disapprove with a fiery hot intensity. There’s some amazing chest forestry out there and if you’re a guy who can only manage randomly scattered puffs of hair no matter how many Skin, Hair & Nails vitamins you take, it’s easier just to shave it off and pretend you COULD have a silky covering of man-fur but just CHOOSE NOT TO OK. Like guys who pretend they haven’t heard of/are too cool for Movember when they don’t want to show the world their pissweak mo effort.*

In an effort to groom our entire male readership to exactly our liking (after which we shall take over the woooorld), and more importantly to please ourselves, we’d like to provide some Hairy Role Models.

Let’s start with some vintage fur – Burt Reynolds**

That right there is one of the most famous chest rugs, no? Not ‘famous’ in the sense that it’s attached to a well-known actor, but famous of it’s own accord. I honestly can’t (though it’s possible that by ‘can’t’ I actually mean ‘won’t') recall a Burt movie where his chest hair hasn’t acted alongside him, emoting on cue like a true pro.

I think it’s best performance though is during Burt and Dolly’s Sneakin Around number in The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (can’t wait for those google searches). We like beer and rodeos, detective books and dominoes, football games and Cheerios too Burt! YouTube also blessed me with what is titled “burt reynolds in a group shower scene”. HOW DID IT KNOW I’D ENJOY THAT? I have no idea where it’s from – the only description is the mysterious and non-helpful ‘from a silent movie’ – but let’s not ask questions and just enjoy Burt soapin’ his rug.

A more current chest hair representative is Mark Ruffalo, who we think of as the thinking woman’s hot bitch. Oh Maaaark.

pic: markruffalo.net

Sometimes our favourite mans really disappoint us in the chest hair department though. Yes Kyle Chandler, I am looking at you. Bitch is known for his amazing head of hair which, like Burt’s rug, emotes accordingly and always professionally.

“I cannot believe you’re getting me involved in this Lozzy”, says Kyle Chandler’s Hair

But apparently Kyle’s body spends so much time attending to his scalp, meticulously giving each strand of hair the strength of a small army and talent of the Actor’s Studio, that it forgets everywhere else. Kyle Chandler is quite hairless. We know this because the interns trawled through screencaps, pics of him wearing lowcut shirts and videos of 90′s TV appearances until the wee hours of the morning for us. Without us even asking! They are so creepy.

Speaking of unexpected hairlessness, this has all got me rather concerned about one of our Oh Errol faves Shillo. We’ve expressed our appreciation for his rockin the chest hair in Gods of Football, but on close inspection (it would’ve been closer but Lachie lost our magnifying glass outside while looking for ladybugs) of last week’s shirt lift, Shillo is looking frighteningly hairless in comparison.

pic: hotaussiefootyplayersshirtless.blogspot.com

Darlin, have the rest of the boys been whispering poor advice on body hair in your ear, or are our eyes playing tricks on us? Please let it be the latter.

*Of course none of this applies to men who are either blondies with pale baby-duck downs or are just naturally rather hairless. Or, you know, underage. It’s wanting to be a hairless cat on purpose that bothers us. As for Movember, IT’S FOR A GOOD CAUSE GUYS. Whether you can grow a good one or not is not the point. Though we will most certainly mock those with pissweak mo’s, it’s from a place of deep love and appreciation. And thirst for lolz.

**I had another pic here but it was scaring the interns every time they scrolled down, so it had to be changed. Clicky if the mystery is killing you.

Well Intern Brownie and I are officially on non-speaks. Again. I hate when we have our little tiffs.

After the undignified thrashing that Intern Greg Bird and his sharks gave my Roosters on friday night (20-0! Kill me now!), compared with the Dragons 34-6 win over the Warriors, Intern Brownie has been unbearable. Dancing around the office celebrating his team’s finals chances, singing ‘Saved by the Dell’ and occasionally making sad little chicken noises.

NOBODY LIKES A GLOATER, BROWNIE.

And because I can’t blame my boys, or Saint Freddy (even though he seems to want to blame himself) I’ve become very upset with Intern Brownie.

It’s blindingly obvious by now that the Roosters have some serious psychological issues going on. I know they can win games, they just can’t manage to want to win games. It’s ripping my heart out to watch. Which is why I can’t blame them, you know? Those kids have enough to deal with. My message to the boys is just forget about the loss and concentrate on reciting the affirmations your therapist gave you:

I AM WORTHY OF LOVE AND ADMIRATION.

I HAVE UNTAPPED AND INFINITE POTENTIAL.

I DESERVE SUCCESS.

Good boys. They’ll start working soon.

It’s a shame too, because Brownie and I had been having such a lovely week. Knocking off work at lunch to lie top-n-tail on the couch and watch the Olympic diving together, eating jelly snakes and giving insightful commentary on the springboard events, re-enacting rhythmic gymnastic routines using the left over crepe paper from Hot Man Christmas. See if I play ‘Italian ribbons routine’ with you this week, mister. Hmph.

I should probably also point out at this point that the Errol office is in disarray this morning anyway, and I’m sure you can guess why. We awoke to the news that Intern Greg Bird won’t be fronting up for work today … because he’s kind of in jail.

Needless to say this is Not Good News to face first thing on a Monday. We Errol girls aren’t very good at mornings in general life, let alone when one of our employees has been charged with assault. I’ve already had two high-kick Mimosas ** and it’s not even ten thirty yet.

And I think for now, that’s all we’ll say about that.

Back to my sad chooks for a moment. The only bright spot in that whole game was that Paul Gallen’s grapple tackle on our Errol favourite, David Shillington, caused a little bit of push-n-shove. Shirt-lifting push-n-shove. Our favourite kind!

pic: Getty Images / smh.com.au

Have you been working out more, Shillo? On the Parramatta low-carb diet? Either way we’re all very impressed. Even John John!

And it seems like the Roosters are also determined to outdo Manly as the most retro team in the league. They’ve introduced some snazzy new workout suits and debuted them at the Roosters fan BBQ. It almost goes without saying that I approve. So seventies! So New York Jew!

(Thanks to Browder for the fab Braith pic)

CHAS TENENBAUM I LOVE YOUR WORK!

Now onto the Warriors (STOP LAUGHING, INTERN BROWNIE. JESUS). I’m going to be honest, for most of this season I was completely indifferent to the Warriors. Didn’t like em, didn’t hate em. Plus they were kind of far away so it was easy to just pretend they didn’t exist. That was all before they started their mass beardathon. It is hilarious and I love it.

The Channel Nine commentary team announced on Sunday they have solved The Mystery of The Beards (that they’re tributes to Ruben Wiki) but … didn’t we all know that already? Way to fall off the pace Channel Nine! We here at Errol have been discussing this vitally important news story at our afternoon cocktail hour for weeks. WEEKS I TELL YOU! We are all over the facial hair news.

And we are especially all over it insofar as it involves Michael Witt and his amazing ginger moustache. We just love a man who grows a surprise ginger mo and doesn’t shave it off in a moment of despair and vanity. Perhaps I misjudged you, Mr Witt. FLY THE FLAG WITTY! We love it.

Meanwhile the Tigers have brought back the old Wests jerseys to wear while being beaten by Manly. FINALLY, A V NECK. I’m ever so happy. Because do you know who looks good in a round neck? That’s right, the answer is “not football players”.

Sure they may not have won, but they looked fabulous. Look how flattering that is. Especially on Daine Laurie as he scored two one-man tries, side-stepping defence with his old gold legs, dreadlocks in full flight. The man must be eight feet tall.

And in the process of winning over the Tigers, how much better was Anthony Watmough’s game? I like to think he has been paying attention to his horoscopes and spent a morning at home focussing and preparing mentally for his game:

Spend a little extra time and energy at home today, as there are issues just starting to arise that you can handle with ease at this point.

The other possibility is that Des Hasler giving the boys the silent treatment after their loss last week to the Rabbitohs scared them into a win. Oh, Des! The silent treatment? Can’t you just imagine it?

I hope that while he was refusing to speak to the boys he also made extra noise while he did the washing-up in the kitchen and bashed pots and pans together and when anyone asked what was wrong just shouted “NOTHING. I’M FINE. CAN’T A MAN WASH UP WITHOUT BEING QUESTIONED ALL THE TIME?”

Poor boys though. Apparently the Manly kids just can’t make anyone happy lately. As if it’s not bad enough that they pissed off the wardrobe mistress and art director of the Gods of Football and were forced to play poker in their white hospital boxers for a segment on The Footy Show. That was super awkward.

And, kittens, I hate to leave you on a sad note, but in the Raiders vs South Sydney game yesterday Troy Thompson was taken off field with a ruptured achilles, and Marc-with-a-C Herbert with a medial ligament injury.

NOT THE HERB! We are utterly heartbroken. Herb is one of our Errol favourites and we can’t bear to think of the rest of the season without him. Rest up for 2009 Herbie baby.

* Next time I promise to actually write something about, you know, football. This week you just have to settle for the Important Business of uniform fashions, facial hair, and therapy updates.

** If you were wondering, it’s just like a regular Mimosa, but with an extra shot of Tanqueray, for that little high kick to the brain. WHEE!

Christmas in July? Pfffft. Who wants to spend a boring weekend in a Blue Mountains B&B rolling about in fake snow? No one, thats who. You know what they don’t have for Christmas in July? Hot shirtless football players.

Here at Errol we are all about Christmas in August. We celebrate Hot Man Christmas. With much fervour. Intern Brownie has helped us decorate the office with fairy lights and tinsel. He is suprisingly adept at interior design.

As usual, Intern GregBird contributed little to nothing and spent the whole time sprawled on the lounge yelling LOWER…NOW TO THE LEFT while stuffing his face with mince pies. Then I ‘accidentally’ spilt egg nogg on his leg and told the rest of the office it was jizz. Oh, how he cried.

And our new work experience boy John-John Williams has really got into the spirt by wandering about wearing nothing but a Santa hat. What can we say, he just Likes Being Naked. Who are we to object?

Anyway, last night on The Footy Show Santa delivered our presents. In the form of our favourite boys wearing not much more than a bow. Apparently we have been very very good girls this year because the hotness was staggering.

Okay, full disclosure time. We all wanted to blog about Hot Man Christmas but I was the only one who had the self control to stop humping the lounge and actually type. Because I am a nothing if not a Dedicated and Professional journalist.

Last nights segment on the new Gods of Football calendar brought two of our favourite things – hotness and lolz.

THE HOT

1) The words ‘god’ and ‘football’ cannot be spoken without mentioning Hot Bitch Cooper, and thankfully the wise calendar makers agree. I literally have no words for how these photos make me feel. So lets use maths instead.

Hot Bitch + little clothing = happy Pink V

2) I love it when Santa brings suprises. Imagine our excitement when we unwrapped Davey Williams! SQUEEEE! We really weren’t expecting that. We thought we were the only ones who appreciated his awesome Daveyness. Actually, we would like to take credit for starting the entire ‘David Williams is attractive’ movement. His appearance in the calendar is clearly directly related to us and no one will tell me any different.

As we always suspected, The Hot Pioneer is well….hot. Sassy was overwhelmed with a sudden urge to convert to Christianity after witnessing Dave bear a striking resemblance to Jesus. A sexy sexy Jesus. He even rocked a crucifixion pose. HALLELUJAH!

Oh and that smile?? Wow….just wow.

3) Another delightful suprise was the appearance of David Shillington. Rabs calls him a ‘big impressive thing’ and after seeing this footage we have to agree. We are all over that chest hair. It’s fucking great.

I’ve seen Shillo clad in only undies with my own eyes and I have to say…it is quite the sight. TEAM SHILLO!

4) The hot hooker! Matt Ballin, our very own Errol personal trainer, is flashing his perfectly toned body for the calendar. All those extra push ups have really paid off Bal. I’ll see you for our boxing session on Tuesday.

Wait is that…is he…wearing lipgloss?

5) Nathanael Barnes I have absolutely no idea who you are, but godamn you are a welcome addition under my Hot Man Christmas tree.

THE LOLZ

1) The Manly boys certainly drew the short straw in the underwear department. The cruel wardrobe mistresses decided to dress them in horrifying white boxer shorts. Baggy, voluminous WHITE boxer shorts. They look like something a grumpy nurse would dress you before you’re wheeled in for surgery.

Look at them. They KNOW they look ridiculous. Bless.

2) The Tigers are apparently Leather Gays now. Awesome.

3) And the Roosters are a 90s boy band on the set of their new video ‘Shirt Off For Love’. By the way, their second single ‘Trimmed Pubes Are For Winners’ is an absolute cracker.

4) This one needs no explanation.

Something tells me underweared horseplay in an alley isn’t entirely unusual for these two.

5) Shaun Kenny Dowall arrived on set late and was stuck with the shit undies. THOSE ARE FOR LADIES SHAUN. THEY ARE BIKINI BRIEFS.

Pink? Is that you?? I loved that President song!

But by far our favourite moment of last nite was our adorable ginger kitten Ranga Josh competing in the quiz. He promised he would flash us the peace sign as a visual shout out and HE DID! Amazing. He is now the official Oh Errol mascot. WE LOVE YOU RANGA JOSH!

Go register for your preview of the calendar here. And make sure you buy one. It’s for charity so we demand it. Happy Hot Man Christmas babies!

(Massive thanks to our all time favourite blog for all the amazing caps. We love you matey!)

Monday night football! Oh, I’m so glad it’s back on tv now. This Monday my brave Roosters are taking on the … well, the not very lovable Tigers. I can’t think of any specific reason to dislike them, but somehow they are just a whole lot less likable now Scotty Prince has left (love you Scotty!) Clearly it was the Prince-Marshall lovematch that made them appealing.

This whole situation is not helped by all the close ups of Keith Galloway in the Tigers locker room. It’s so intense seeing a ranga in that Fanta skin-tight jersey. I don’t even know what I think anymore.

Over in the Roosters den of brilliance Braith Anasta’s hair is especially porcupiney and I like to think that means he’s feeling extra fiesty.

Big Willie Mason and David Shillington are snuggling on each other’s shoulders, and to be completely honest, it kind of makes me a little happy in my pants. There. I admit it. I am so ashamed.

Brandy Alexander and Beige Warren Smith remind me for about the EIGHTY-FIFTH TIME that Shillo will be leaving the chooks next year to go to Canberra and if they mention it again I swear I’m gonna cut a bitch. I’m heartbroken enough already.

Let me take a moment to explain: I love Shillo. Mainly this is because he is tres lovable.

Love that he always, always has his pants fall off his arse at at least one point during every game.
Love that when they introduce all the players at the Sydney Football Stadium with inspirational descriptions like ‘lean mean try-scoring machine, Shaun Kenny-Doowwwwwwell!’, his title is just: ‘Big David Shillington’. Heart.
Love that last Australia Day he got utterly blind and emerged from the pub bathroom to do a solo on the dancefloor dressed only in underpants, shoes, and an Australian flag. *
Love that he has such a little speaking voice.
Love most of all that he was the cake-decorating champion on the Footy Show.

Sigh. I shall miss you Big David. I suspect you’ll miss me too.

And of all the teams to sign him, the librarians of the NRL, Canberra. Boy can’t go pantsless down there in the cold. And is this signing even allowed? I thought they had an all-ranga policy now? It certainly looks like it. TAKE GALLOWAY INSTEAD!

Now I’m all upset. Anyway it’s a total bitch of a night, cold and rainy and kinda foggy, and I am ever so glad I’m home in my jammies instead of five minutes down the road contracting pneumonia (I love my boys but not that much). Oh, that reminds me, we may well miss some action about ten minutes in because I stupidly put a facial on, and you know you have to wash those motherfuckers off right on time or they completely solidify, immobilise your face and are a mission to wash off.

Outside in the chook pen we get a shot of a giant sign that just says:

WE’LL BEAT YOU WITH OUR COCKS

Chris Ferguson is that you!?

The Tiges hit the field with Brett Hodgson looking a worrying shade of grey as always. How can a professional sportsman look so beat down by life? He looks like he’s being granted his last wish: to play at the SFS with his idols. Thanks Starlight Foundation!

Thankfully a burst of smoke from the fancypants firework shooty things settles over the field so I can’t really see Nate Myles run on (DIRTY QUEENSLANDER!), but I do Big Willie’s beard. It’s looking extra groomed and boybandy tonight … there goes my ladyboner.

And we’re off! I totally miss the first set because that damn smoke is everywhere. It’s like they’re playing in soup. Let’s just assume nothing that exciting happens though.

Once the smoke clears it’s even harder to recap. Big Willie knocks on. Someone throws a dud pass. Anasta kicks a ball completely horizontally from the inside of his boot. Spectators cower in fear.

The Roosters are amazingly strong running from dummy half, and the Tigers are amazingly swift and wily in defence against fifth tackle kicks. DAMN YOU TIM SHEENS AND YOUR EFFECTIVE COACHING. Almost try! No try. Almost try! No try. We haven’t left the Tigers’ end in about twenty minutes but the Roosters just get rejected from the try line again and again and it’s all so very frustrating. I realise this must be how soccer fans feel all the time. No wonder the angry poms riot.

Great run from Amos Roberts for the Roosters, knock on to Perrett. I feel so rioty! I feel better when the camera cuts to Hodgson looking sadder and more decrepit than ever with lank little locks of hair flattened to his head by the rain. Crafty Lawrence scuppers another Roosters run at the try line.

FINALLY, praise christ, the Tigers make it into the Roosters’ end of the field. Why am I happy about this? I don’t know what I think anymore.

The rain gods ruin a great run from the Tigers on the left hand side – just as I’m yelling TACKLE YOU LAZY BASTARDS, Lawrence passes to no one. Hurrah! We get a fab centre-screen reminder that Willie Mason wears black Nancy Ganz under his shorts.

As I am on the verge of setting a foreigner on fire, little Mitchell Pearce shoots a brilliant pass to the right for Amos Roberts for a try, and battleaxe Craig Fitzgibbon converts. Go the baldies!

Five minutes later a brilliant pass from a mid-tackle, rapidly falling Anthony Tupou to little Mitch Aubusson a metre from the try line. And when he sees Starlight Hodgson coming in from the side, my clever little Aubbo darts between the goal posts to score and Starlight runs headfirst into the pole. DOESN’T HE HAVE ENOUGH TROUBLES ALREADY?

(Actually, that’s a lie. I don’t feel sorry for him at all. I actually laugh. I’m a bad person with a cold black heart).

Man o War Fitzgibbon converts but another five minutes in we have dramaz ahoy when the video ref takes a good four hours to review a maybe-try to Pearce. Is it a knock-on if it goes sideways? Is it? Really? No try. Bah.

After a brief halftime interlude, we come back to plenty more dramz: almost tigers try, dramaz in the midfield, dramaz on the sideline. Dramaz when Anasta bounces a pass right off Seitimata Sa’s head by accident and it goes dead. Keep it up, boys!

Robbie Farah takes a break from his hectic schedule of riding up and down Norton Street in his best mate’s car to score a try. A thousand Tigers fans celebrate. Boo hissss.

Little Mitch Aubbo makes a BEAUTIFUL break from an early Benji ‘dead to me’ Marshall kick and sets off downfield. He slaps off Bronson Harrison with his slappy little left hand (is that his name? Bronson? Did I make that up? Whatever), and kicks off Matthew Head from his leg like a humping dog.

Run Mitchy, run!

TRY! I do a little dance in my elk-print pyjamas. Mitch grins. Hugging abounds, and Mitchells Pearce and Aubusson take it straight into the realm of man-on-man love when Pearce snuggles Aubbo’s neck solidly for fifteen seconds. (I counted).

Oh hay, in other news, my ladyboner is back.

Armadillo Fitzgibbon converts.

In the next few minutes the Tigers are reprehensibly robbed of what is clearly a try by the video referee … for, I don’t even know what. IT WAS A TRY, DAMMIT. Tuiaki makes up for it with a heartwarming 70 metre run and sets up a Tigers try. Justice is done! Oh wait, except that then the world really begins to monsoon and Pearce knocks over a field goal.

19-10 Roosters win, fulltime.

Better luck next time, kids. Bring Scotty Prince with you when you come back.

Kind regards,
Sassy

* For photos of this event, please contact Kiki directly.