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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inspired by Sassy’s thoughts from her Olympic crackden, I thought you might like to meet my new Olympics Boyfriend, Ryan Lochte. I knowwww, I should’ve picked an Aussie. But he was the first one I noticed and you just can’t fight fate. I also can’t resist a man with pretty curls and lips so fiiiine.

I’ve never had an Olympics Boyfriend before but I’m convinced it’s pretty much the best idea ever. Not only is he an imaginary boyfriend like my various celebrity mans and will therefore never break my heart/expect birthday presents/ask to do me in the arse, but he’s only gunna be around for a couple of weeks. Because let’s face it, it takes all the hoopla of the Olympics to actually get me watching swimming and the chances of me taking any notice of Ryan once it’s over are slim to none.

To be honest he actually comes across as a bit of a tool (well I think that’s a given being American and all):

Nuff said. But that’s ok, because it’s only two weeks and I can overlook the douchiness and concentrate on things like this:

The Golden Goggles — swimming’s annual awards gala — were held the Sunday before Thanksgiving in Beverly Hills, and Lochte showed up wearing one of his recent purchases, a white leisure suit that looked as if it had last been worn in Saturday Night Fever.

I think we need to revisit that sentence. A White. Leisure. Suit. AMAZING. And from the same article:

Before reporting to the ready room, where all the finalists gather before the race, Lochte had a brief conversation with [his sister] Megan.

“Rye, Rye, are you nervous?” she said. Instead of answering, Lochte said, “I need 70 euros.” Megan was taken aback. What for? she wanted to know. “To get a box of cigars,” Lochte said, grinning. His sister returned to her seat and informed her parents, who were nervous wrecks, that Lochte was fine.

I also can’t help but love anyone who’s comfortable with this:

But what pretty much sealed the deal was discovering that swimming can apparently be almost as homo as League*

Sassy says that last one is so “GET A STUDIO PHOTO WITH YOUR PARTNER…TREASURE THE MEMORIES ALWAYS”, and it isss.

*Please ignore Michael Phelps who is a douchebag of epic proportions with no redeeming qualities ala Ryan.

edit: I just read this and felt it needed inclusion:

The event took place at 10:03 a.m. Beijing time to accommodate NBC’s desire to show it live in the U.S (Beijing is 12 hours ahead of ET). Lochte said he got up at 6 a.m. and ate McDonalds

All the Oh Errol girls are tres ambivalent about the news that Intern Brownie has been offered a new fulltime gig and will be leaving us at the end of the year. Proud as punch and happy because we love him dearly, but kind of devo, because … well we’ll just miss seeing his confused little face around the office. Spilling Eccoccino on his Dragons jersey, accidentally wiping photocopy toner all over his face, purring when I tickle him under the chin.

Worst of all, it means the search is on for a new intern to take his place. Errol is a full-time enterprise you know. We can’t manage this shit on our own.

So while Jessica is already busy planning Brownie’s farewell party, I’ve been distracting myself poring through the pile o’resumes we’ve received in the past few weeks. Seems like the kids have heard about Brownie’s sweet hot tub deal and want a piece of the action.

One application letter had the name T.Carney on the back and weird spots of discolouration on the envelope so I just kinda left it sealed and threw it away. Joel Moon’s application was just a set of shirtless photos of him. HOW SHALLOW DO YOU THINK WE ARE, JOEL? Well I kept the photos, so probably quite shallow. But this is a business Joel, so don’t expect an interview.

Just kidding. You’re on the shortlist darlin.

I also binned a few that were unsigned and filled with mysterious white powder. I think we can all guess who they were from.

One in the pile really caught my attention though. After I finished licking the meat pie residue off Greg Bird’s letter, I realised it was one damn impressive set of references.

Now I already have a soft spot for the amazing Birdman. I know I usually say bitchy things about the Sharks, but what can I say? He’s a fiesty little pugdog. I like that.

I love his hilarious expression in his NRL ad with Ben Mendelsohn. I love his crazy Mexican bandido moustache:

… almost as much as his ridiculous lady-glasses. Bitch has no shame. I also like that.

I especially love his Ancient Rome-style tendency to gluttony. I would bet anything he also has a fetish for eating during sex. You know it’s true. True and hot.

But it was his reference from his (admittedly not always the most sportsmanlike) teammate Paul Gallen that really set him apart.

Two for the price of one! DOUBLE THE LOVE. Come and get it, sunshines.

Ugly Betty has given us lots of wonderful things – adorable geeky Henry, Whilhelmina Slater’s glorious evil, guest appearances from LiLo/Christian Siriano/Vicky Beckham, Betty’s fierce nephew Justin and one of the greatest moments in television history where he performs a one-man Hairspray show on the subway.

etc etc. My favourite Ugly Betty gift though, is Amanda and Marc. These two have chemistry like woah. And you know why? Because they’re BFF fo rlz. How cute is that? I love TV, but I love it even more when fiction crosses over into ~real life~, mostly because it makes it easier to pretend my favourite TV characters actually exist. Although there does need to be a line drawn, because if I found out Kyle Chandler actually invites Taylor Kitsch over for dinner and has a cute coach/father figure thing going on IRL, I’m pretty sure I might actually burst with glee. I’m just thinking of my health.

In fact Michael and Becki are apparently even more BFF than I originally thought, because in conducting my Very Important Research for this post I discovered there are an obscene amount of pics of the two together at various events. Possibly more than there are of Sassy and Kiki together.

I also discovered that Becki is married. She’s mazzed up AND she has a fierce gay best friend. What a champ. I think I might love her a bit.

Also, The Guardian tells us that they enjoy performing as Neil Diamond and Babs in their spare time. OF COURSE THEY DO.

M: For a Hollywood benefit we did perform You Don’t Bring Me Flowers
B: As Neil Diamond and Barbra Streisand, with a fake witch nose.
M: Chest hair. Full outfits. You could hear a pin drop.
B: It was frightening because we were so committed.
M: It was almost like a Lifetime movie it was so serious.

And on that note, I think I’ll leave you with Marc and Amanda’s Dreamgirls rendition. God bless YouTube. And Ugly Betty.

*and by ‘we’ I mean me, Kiki and Sassy. Jessica will have no part in this, and I think Emma might hold the same opinion. Also I feel odd referring to him as a man coz lord knows he barely is one but whatevs.

I love Hanson. Yep, I do. I was obsessed with them back in ’97 like every other 13 year old girl back then, but lost my way in about 1999 when I switched my Taylor love for Mark Hoppus (wtf?) and Pacey of Dawson’s Creek fame (I may have expressed this by shouting “I Love Paceeeeeeey” from the top of the Tower of Terror at Dreamworld, but I digress). Kiki on the other hand is fiercely loyal and has unashamedly held onto her HanLove for the whole 11 years. And once again under her influence – I am easily lead in case you haven’t noticed – I got back on the HanTrain (how many times do you think I can refer to Han’something’ in this post? Place your bets ppl).

It’s pretty clear why TayTay is a Man We Love, but I’ll put it in bullet points anyway:

• He completely overtakes the label of ‘hot bitch’ and moves straight on into ‘completely fucking angelically beautiful’. There’s actually not even words for that level of beauty.

• He always writes/sings the best songs on the album. This is a fact. The non-Tay songs are always crap.

• His singing voice is perfect and he loves a moan or twenty in between lyrics. Ohhhh oooooh *thrust*

• He loves an accessory, especially scarves and necklaces. He clearly loves his necklaces more than literally anything in the world.

• He has no idea how deeply uncool he is and it’s totally endearing. In this interview they told this bullshit roundabout ~RockStar~ story about how they snuck Zac in some club (but in the end I don’t think they actually snuck him in. This is how far they have to stretch for a badass musician story) where they were hanging out with COLIN from RADIOHEAD. Did you hear that guys? They know COLIN from RADIOHEAD. Oh Taylor. There’s this other quote too which the Internets have failed me in delivering again but I swear it’s true, where he’s all “we want all kinds of people to love our music – soccer moms, Metallica fans…DON’T YOU KNOW WE KICK ASS?”

• Because he can’t do anything normal. Over at The New Way they have an ongoing list of Things Taylor Hanson Can’t Do, which I guarantee is full of lolz even for people who don’t know why it’s funny.

• Because of this part in the HanDoco Strong Enough To Break where he, in all seriousness, tells Isaac to “take the pickle out of his doody”. Or possibly booty. Either way it’s hilar. This probably could’ve gone in the ‘because he has no idea of how uncool he is’ point but I think it needs it’s own. Also, please note that this is Jessica’s one and only favourite HanMoment.

• He dances like a fool/white guy.

• He gets drunk, poses with random girls/bottles of vodka WHO AREN’T HIS WIFE and allows people to take photos of it for our benefit. THANKS TAYLOR!

If we lived in an age before television and moving pictures, the text of this post would simply read: ‘Because he is a hot bitch’.

Maybe I’d mention his ponytail a little too, because those were some good times. God knows it wouldn’t mention soccer at all, because I care not for soccer.

But because I can see him move and talk on the ‘television’ and understand words and sentences in the language they call English, I know that Harry Kewell is so very much more.

Harry Kewell is just so … special (and yes I mean that in That way). And I love him … the way you love a special child.

Oh, Harry.

When our idol Errol was confronted by journalists and by his place in history he dripped gems like:

I despise mediocrity above all things. I fear it, yet I know some of my performances have been mediocre. I also know that I have turned in half a dozen good performances. I call myself a bum; but I have been working hard most of the days of my adult life.

What would I be like at seventy? At seventy I confidently hope I will have had at least eight more wives, have grown a stomach that I can regard with respect and can still walk up the stairs to the bedroom without aching or groaning.

 

When bowed by the weight of World Cup competition, living under the burning eyes of the world’s media, Our Harry pondered, and pondered, and finally – ever so slowly – said in his tiny slow-mo British halfwit voice:

Well, You’ve got to believe that you’re going to win, and I believe we’ll win the World Cup until the final whistle blows and we’re knocked out. Innit? *

All my Torchwood love is thanks to Kiki. Much like Jessica’s footy obsession, I initially resisted, thinking it would just be like Buffy which I straight up hate with the fire of a thousand suns. But Kiki was persistent and she made me watch a YouTube fanvid (lol! fanvids) of Captain Jack getting it on with a dude – bitch got me right in the vagina.

Torchwood is by no means a ‘good show’ in terms of dialogue (well it has awesome dialogue but it’s no No Country For Old Men. Which actually I haven’t seen or read and have no knowledge of how good it’s dialogue is, I just know Zeffie said he wished he could do a film like that, and that’s good enough for me) or character consistency or any of those fancy things, but it honestly has everything you could ever need to be entertained. Mans kissing, girls kissing, aliens kissing, SO MUCH KISSING. All of them are shagging each other on and off, except Jack and Ianto (two dudes! Yes!) who shag regularly and play naked hide and seek (fo rlz. They actually talk about this in one of the episodes. Unfortunately we don’t see it. BOOO).

It brings the lolz, and the violence, and the sads. It even made our cold-as-ice friend Yassy shed a tear (which she stresses was a LONE TEAR). Some of the stories really make you think too – I couldn’t sleep the night me and Kiki watched the episode where they talk about it being ‘just darkness’ after you die. Neither could she, apparently. Why we didn’t crawl into bed together and spoon all night to soothe our fears of death I’ll never know. It’s also totally self-referential, like in this one ep where Captain Jack has this guy all up in his face and he’s like “So, this is quite homoerotic”. YES. YES IT IS JACK.

The hetero stuff is pretty hot too. Take this for example, when Owen pins Gwen up against a tree and says:

Last night, with about five hundred screaming and over-excited women, I saw the Sex and The City movie. I won’t spoil it, but I will say that in it, Miranda sits down at a table, draws a thick black line down a sheet of lined paper, and starts trying to turn her husband Steve into a list of PROS and a list of CONS.

(If you’re wondering, the fact that he always flashes his naked white butt is not on either of the lists).

It’s a flashback to series four, where confused Miranda decries a pros-and-cons approach to relationships as ‘judgmental’ and Carrie sagely points out:

So am I, and as I left the cinema, I did.

Pros:

Samantha has had some amazing work done, and it gives me hope for my future.

At one point Carrie roams the street in pyjamas, a calf-length caramel fur coat and a sequinned beanie. That is some champagne Little-Edie-Grey-Gardens fashion magic right there.

My ticket was a donation to the very worthy Tour de Cure.

Cons:

I left with an simmering sense of vague depression, and without a good thirty points of the IQ I had when I walked in.

And as I read my list back I couldn’t help but wonder: when it comes to love, when things get too confusing, is the answer really still as simple as a list of pros and cons?

You see lately, my man Saint Kevin and I have been having some problems. Let me explain.

Pros:

In the beginning he was so sweet, doing things he knew I’d love without me even having to ask. Always willing to say sorry when he knew he was in the wrong.

But maybe, like Miranda, in making a commitment to him I made him, in the long-run, complacent.

Cons:

All of a sudden, he hates my taste. He never wants to do or see what I want. He argues with me over what we should watch and always chooses the dvd.

And what is a couple without common interests? Sure we still both love Cate Blanchett films, but is it really enough? He doesn’t even enjoy drinking until we have alcohol blackouts anymore.

It turns out the things I thought were important to us, what we talked about for our future, just aren’t priorities to him.

Mum did always tell me that a happy marriage is built on shared goals and values. Actually, I lie. Mainly she always told me “there’s nothing wrong with marrying someone with money,” but she said that other stuff sometimes too.

Or, when it comes to matters of the heart, do we need to use our hearts instead of our heads? Is love a matter of silencing your inner critic, throwing logic out the window, and following your gut?

I think I’m willing to take that chance. Let’s settle it this way: Saint Kevin, I know Parliament isn’t sitting next week. Tuesday lunchtime, if we both make it to the mid-point of our two neighbourhoods by midday, it means we’re willing to start again. You overturn the solar means test, I forget about the Bill Henson debacle, and we start again. Deal?

See you in Goulburn, baby.

Word on the street is that coming out of the closet is kind of tricky. And if we lived in more homo-friendly times, maybe you could pop into Angus & Robertson and buy your flamboyant youngest son an illustrated edition of ‘Little Troy Likes to Sleep with Boys’ to explain some things. In the meantime, we have High School Musical.

I could write a (probably extensive) blog about why High School Musical is one of the greatest films ever made and why I love it like my own child, but in the interests of brevity, suffice to say Zac Efron is magical.

His bad acting and joyful dancing make me feel sunshiney in my heart. On the day he was born, two silver winged unicorns cut a sliver from a shimmering rainbow and gave it substance in the form of a little boy. A little boy who grew up to love Liza Minelli and mascara.

And before you get all het about him being underage in the movie, it’s no pervy love. (Just quietly, if it was, him being underage also wouldn’t discourage me. Because I’m inappropriate like that). More that I want to adopt him, and shield him from the corrupting influences of the bad bad world.

I don’t even like to think of him being a real boy, to be honest. I feel like if you ever saw him pantsless, there would be only a skin coloured pair of plastic undies, like on a ken doll.

But far more than just being a Disney musical cheesefest that you either love or hate, respectively, depending on whether or not you are a totally awesome human being, HSM is an allegorical, inclusive, pro-diversity, homo-nurturing, singing, dancing masterpiece. Oh, it has LEVELS.

And it’s all thanks to this man.

Oh snap Kenny Ortega! Who doesn’t love a dancer with a gut?

Fun fact about Kenny: not just the director and choreographer of HSM. Boy also choreographed Xanadu. Xanadu! Amazing.

I suspect he’s also the one who made sure Zeffie’s Troy wardrobe is almost entirely in shades of blue so we can see his pretty blue eyes. Awwwww.

So you know the female spies who were sent into occupied France in WWII and posed as refugees to evade capture? (Because who would willingly go pose as a refugee, of all things? It would totes suck.) Kenny Ortega’s like that. Like a gay spy sent into the film industry posing as a Disney director. Because who would try and be socially progressive in Disney, of all places, right?

That’s the genius. HSM is a ‘love story’, allegedly. *cough cough* But for all the passion between Zeffie’s character Troy, and Gabriella, played by the loathsome and corpse-coloured Vanessa Hudgens, they might as well have named her character ‘ghost of homos future’. In fact, I will call her that, from now on. Because I wish she would die and stop tormenting me with her pallor and her baby voice.

The real love story is between Troy and musical theatre, specifically the delightfully named upcoming East High winter production ‘Twinkletown’. Teenage basketball superstar Troy discovers – one crazy new year’s eve – that he … GASP … likes to sing. He is ashamed, as all men apparently should be, to discover that singing makes him happy in his little golden soul.

He pretends it didn’t happen. He represses. He hides it from his friends. He tells himself it was just one time! I was drunk! Everyone has a blow job from a guy once in their life … right?

But baby can’t fight it for long. Like a bloodhound on the trail of homo criminals, he sneaks into the auditorium behind a janitor’s trolley. And soon golden boy Troy is in the running for a lead part in Twinkletown.

And there’s no question what being in a musical represents. (Sorry, Musicale. Because theatre folk are fancy like that).

Musicales are run by the single, bejewelled, unhinged drama teacher Miss Darbus. Also known as a faghag spinster.

Troy and Ghostie’s competition for the lead parts are the spangly, manipulative, narcissistic, bedazzled Sharpay and her fierce gay brother Ryan. (We know he’s gay cause he wears hats. Hats, people! Always with the hats!)

But that wily Kenny lets us think this is a bad bad thing. Musical practice makes Troy miss basketball practice with his 100% heterosexual, manly team mates. Sharpay is a heinous scheming bitch in a sequinned shrug.

Miss Darbus mercilessly forces the basketball boys to paint in detention. Ryan is a halfwit who loves Ashton Kutcher and jazz squares. Troy’s bff Chad points out that musicals produce hateful tools like Michael Crawford, which is surprisingly insightful. And true.

And the gay starts to spread, like ebola. Or jam. Other kids start confessing things: like playing the cello. Or loving to dance. Or – crime of all crimes – liking to bake.

Chad: Zeke … is BAKING.

If this was a live show, this would be the part where a gopher walks across the front of the stage with a cardboard sign readng ‘HOMOS RUIN LIVES’.

Instead we have something much much better:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/v/FBVUlgG8Lm8&hl]

The gays are ruining everything! I bet they also killed the dinosaurs! And Jesus!

The nerds and the basketball team form an alliance to create a straight army, rip Ghostie and Troy apart and stop all the musical madness before something gets burned down or God sends another flood.

Confused little angel Troy turns to his daddy (incidentally, Troy’s mum seems to have disappeared. There are seriously no breeders in this movie at all) and asks:

Troy: Dad, did you ever wanna try something new, but were afraid of what your friends might think?

It’s actually tres poignant. Daddy Bolton is having none of it though, and tells little Troy to get back to basketball like a real man and stop sucking dick. IT’S REALLY SAD.

But success, for the basketball team in their republican red uniforms, and the nerds in their KKK white labcoats, is bittersweet. Troy can no longer sink baskets (no, that’s not a euphemism) and chemical equations hold no joy for forlorn Ghostie. Suddenly, the world is bland and colourless, and the valuable lesson is finally learned.

The straight army mobilises once more to weasel our star-crossed lovers back into the Twinkletown call-back audition and let Troy’s soul sing itself to freedom.

The Wildcats even share the love with the drama club:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/v/y-vK4HQj5GA&hl]

EXCLAMATION POINT!

And as the movie swells to its low-budget spangly climax, Troy and Ghostie take to the stage to sing the anthem for closeted gay teens all over the world falling in love for the first time – Breaking Free:

We’re soaring, flying
There’s not a star in heaven
That we can’t reach
If we’re trying,
So we’re breaking free

You know the world can see us
In a way that’s different than who we are
Creating space between us
’Til we’re separate hearts

But your faith, it gives me strength
Strength to believe…

Can you feel it building
Like a wave the ocean just can’t control
Connected by a feeling
In our very souls
Rising ’til it lifts us up
So everyone can see…

We’re breaking free
We’re soaring, flying
There’s not a star in heaven
That we can’t reach
If we’re trying, yeah we’re breaking free
Running, climbing
To get to that place
To be all that we can be
Now’s the time so we’re breaking free
More than hope
More than faith
This is truth
This is fate
And together, we see it coming
More than you
More than me
Not a want, but a need
Both of us breaking free

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/v/tvkh29RKFRY&hl]

It makes angels dance and the Wildcats win the Big Basketball Game.

And at last – oh, at last! – the entire multicoloured United Colours of Benetton cast join in the gym for singing, dancing, and a big group hug. Best of all, Ryan gets to dive into a big pile of basketballers. It’s no Ashton Kutcher, but I’m so happy for you, Ryan!

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/v/k7zzbB17Fvo&hl]

Aaah, sweet resolution. The good ship SS Diversity sets sail into the sunset with the entire HSM cast on board. I only regret that there isn’t time in one post to talk about the brilliant Batman and Robin, possessive-girlfriend relationship between Troy and his bitchy queen Chad. All in good time, my babies. For now, let’s just watch them skip.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/v/SV9slef7KdM&hl]

First off, everyone should be watching/have watched Friday Night Lights. I dunno what the deal is with it being on Aussie TV – I think it might’ve been on Ten HD or some shit, but it is totally worth buying the DVD’s (or pirating if you’re that way inclined). It not only features the hot bitch that I’m about to talk about but at least two others including the AMAZINGLY HOT KYLE CHANDLER (and yes that does have to be in capitals. Always.) and that my friends is worth the price of a DVD/going down for piracy alone. And aside from Teh Hot it’s actually a really good show. The tagline for Friday Night Lights should be “You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll want to touch yourself”. Props to me for that one.

RIGGINS. Where do I start? Basically, Tim Riggins is a god amongst Texan men. He’s seventeen, his reasoning for playing football is “I just like to hurt people”, he regularly turns up drunk/hungover (hot teens drinking FTW!) to practice, he’s troubled and Just Wants To Be Loved, he’s a bit of a whore but since it stems from said lack of loving it’s all just kind of adorable, he hardly ever says a word and when he does it’s something awesome like how The Scarlet Letter is “about a gal named Scarlet, obviously”. Gal! Love! Oh, and he’s really hot. Like, have-a-change-of-undies-ready hot. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Also, he’s a one-time Ferret Minder. Riggins and ferrets! Be still my heart!

Even the characters recognise and acknowledge Riggins’ awesome, like in the first episode of Season 2 when Landry seriously says “you just need to ask yourself WWRD – What Would Riggins Do?”. Right on, Landry. Right. On.