… tonga and i are officially pissed

October 19th, 2008

Well I think it’s safe to say the World Cup is officially here.  By that I mean you’re about to get my first blog of blind World-Cup-related rage.  If an event occurs and Sassy isn’t outraged, then did it really happen?

This morning Rebecca Wilson climbed on her soapbox to explain why, by her infallible logic, the Rugby League World Cup is a non-event, a waste of time, and a manifestation of a massive and pitiful inferiority complex on the part of Australian rugby league.

About 8 hours later, I unwound my bedhair from the bedhead (how did it get stuck there? I know not), fell out of bed, guzzled two glasses of diet coke, realised I had no pants on, and decided I didn’t care. Then I read this article and had a minor rage-induced stroke.

Usually I ignore columns that are this clearly off-the-mark and irelevant, but now that we are firmly and happily embedded with the Irish rugby league team (not that kind of bedded, you dirty bitches), we feel like we have to stand up for our mans.

To qualify for football’s World Cup is a massive achievement. It takes months and months of jumping through hoops to earn your ticket.

Sadly, the same cannot be said for the league event.

It features teams from such league superpowers as Scotland and Tonga.

Do you see this paragraph? I AM OUTRAGED ALREADY. And not just because I find it horrifyingly pretentious when Australians refer to soccer as ‘football’, as though they are somehow cosmopolitan enough to recognise that the round ball is the only true football and everyone who doesn’t immediately realise football means soccer is a halfwit.  I say not so much ‘cosmpolitan’ as just being deliberately obtuse.

For everyone’s information, there are qualifying events for the World Cup, which is why Russia will not be participating this year. (We love you anyway, Russian Bears!)  But more importantly, um, does anyone find this deeply offensive and vaguely racist?

I hate this attitude that every country other than Australia, New Zealand and Britain is a waste of space in the World Cup.  It’s so arrogant, and for the most part I think it smacks of anglo-centrism.

It was only one hundred years ago that league was born in Australia. But now that Australia is the world’s dominant team, somehow we’re not willing to give any other nation even just a decade or two and a bit of a helping hand to develop the game and their squad and become a league heavyweight in their own right.

Rebecca Wilson is proud to call herself a die hard league fan.  Oddly, she says that this means she watches footy 26 weeks of the year.  Apparently Rebecca Wilson cares not for watching the finals.

But how can someone who loves watching the NRL be so patronising and dismissive about the very countries that produce the players she watches for 26 golden weeks every year? 

Does she love them in their club jerseys, just not in Pacific Islander ones?  Ooh those pesky Pacific Islands, always wanting to be involved in the World Cup, just because they are major contributors of the players who keep the game going. UPSTARTS! Damn them and their poly pride.

And if countries don’t have a strong national rep side, by this logic, they never will.  Because no one is ever allowed to compete at an international level unless they’re gonna win.  Right?

How about the participation of a second tier league nation in an international event is the kind of catalyst that leads a little boy to grow up and dream of wearing his national jersey and playing on the world stage?

Having sunk a few drinks with the Irish Wolfhounds yesterday I can say these boys are full of passion and excitement to be playing in the World Cup.  (And yes there is a post on the way about them, stay tuned, babies).

Livin on borrowed time, poor bastards.  Pic:Xinhuanet Photo

Shall we also start eliminating the battler nations from the Olympics?  BYE MOLDOVA!  God knows most of their athletes have no chance at reaching event finals, let alone winning a medal.

Should we boot out the shit teams from the NRL?  Just a few years ago Manly was at the bottom of the NRL table, but no one told Steve Menzies there was no point having them in the comp because they’d never get any better.

It honestly upsets me that people think there is no value in competition beyond the question of winning.  What a shallow, cynical way to see the world.  And what a slap in the face for all the players from World Cup nations – especially ones who didn’t qualify – who feel actual pride in representing their country.

Quite frankly I don’t think I want to live in a world where I can’t watch Eric the Eel live his dream at the Olympics.

I also feel like I should be worried about the emotional health of Rebecca Wilson’s kids right now.  They have some bleak athletics carnivals coming up in their future.

There are three nations who play league at any sort of elite level. Australia, New Zealand and England are the trio of countries in which rugby league is played at club level in quite large numbers.

Tonga, Scotland, Ireland and Fiji are rugby union and soccer strongholds. The likelihood that participation in a league World Cup will in any way change the status quo in any of these countries is very, very low.

This can only mean one thing. Rugby league suffers from a massive inferiority complex. While the AFL is content to rest on its domestic laurels, pockets of the league community are intent on trying to turn their game into an international one. This will, of course, never happen.

OH IS THAT WHAT IT MEANS?  An inferiority complex. Silly Sassy.  I thought what this actually meant was that Ireland, Scotland and Wales are Rugby League babies, and the fact that the Super League sees fit to expand into the Celtic nations is good proof that there is interest there and money to be made on the back of league.

God forbid you invest in a fledgling area.  It might turn out … gasp, to be a good thing, like the Gold Coast Titans.

I also thought it meant that the countries like Tonga and Fiji where Rebecca thinks league will never catch on are the exact same nations that are producing first grade talent to feed the Aussie league. Fui Fui Moi Moi anyone?

But then, Rebecca isn’t a believer in expansion. Why keep a competition that tries to grow rugby league in other nations?  It’s doomed to fail.

The real fact is this: this is not a sad delusional little attempt to make rugby league a world sport.  It already is a world sport.  All these countries competing in World Cup will be fielding players who were born or live in the countries they are reperesenting. 

The question is how we deal with league as a world game.  Call me a cockeyed optimist, but I think the best way is to just let the bitches play.

And hey, at least league truly is an international game.  If I recall correctly one of AFL’s initiatives is international rules. For those who don’t know, this is where Australia wants to play other countries, then remembers that no one else plays AFL.  This problem is only solved by changing the rules.  


But in the end, what’s most disappointing about the column is how wrong it is.

Rebecca Wilson thinks sales of tickets are non-existent and no one gives a shit about the cup.  www.sportinglife.com seems to think the final is a sellout and ticket sales have passed £2million.

Rebecca Wilson thinks league is a non-event in Melbourne, but crowds at Olympic Park average more than 14,000 for Storm home games, and Melbourne holds the record for the largest crowd ever in attendance for a State of Origin game.

Rebecca Wilson seems to think that Rugby Union has a legitimacy at world level league can only dream of, but surely no country has ever won the thing that isn’t Australia, New Zealand, the Saffas or the Poms.  To suggest that the success of a small group of dominant nations doesn’t make the whole competition a “farce” in union but it does in league is clearly ridiculous.

And the moral of the story is don’t you criticise my World Cup. I will cut you good.  Love Sassy.


when political correctness retards us all

August 23rd, 2008

So aside from my drunken excursions to unnerve NRL players last week I’ve pretty much been busy smoking my crackpipe and watching the Olympics, which means I almost missed out on the fact that people are protesting against Tropic Thunder.  

Not against seeing my filmcrush Robert Downey Jr playing a character who wears blackface, but against the fact that it uses the word ‘retard’.


Protesters, led by Special Olympics chairman and CEO Timothy Shriver, marched outside the world premiere of the Hollywood satire Tropic Thunder on Monday night.

Chanting and waving placards that read “Ban the movie, ban the word” and “Call me by my name, not my label,” several dozen people tried to get the message across that the word “retard” and making fun of the mentally challenged is not comedy material.

In Thunder, Ben Stiller’s character is an actor who previously attempted to go for Oscar gold by playing a character called “Simple Jack.”


I AM DEAD. Truly, I am dead.  Speechless and dead.  Dead and speechless.

It’s probs pretty obvious by now that I am crap at being politically correct – almost as crap as I am at keeping my mouth shut – but I like to think I have some kind of heart and some kind of conscience.  I know enough to know that there are Some Words you just don’t say, because no matter how much you might mean no harm, the wounds of the word run really deep and it’s simply cruel and lazy and selfish to tap into those old hurts.  We are clever enough to find other words to express ourselves and to do otherwise is just careless.

But surely we all know by now the context in which the movie uses the word retard, don’t we?  


Downey: Everybody knows you never do a full retard.

Stiller: What do you mean?

Downey:  Check it out. Dustin Hoffman, Rainman, look retarded, act retarded, not retarded. Count toothpicks to your cards. Autistic. Sure. Not retarded.

You know Tom Hanks, Forrest Gump. Slow, yes. Retarded, maybe. Braces on his legs. But he charmed the pants off Nixon and he won a ping-pong competition? That ain’t retarded.

You went full retard, man. Never go full retard.


I know you’ve all watched the Oscars and noticed the exact same thing that they’re making fun of.   Retard wins oscars.  At the very least it wins nominations.  But not Full Retard.  

For Sean Penn in I Am Sam, for Leonardo di Caprio in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, for Tom Hanks in Forrest Gump, for Dustin Hoffman in Rainman.  Retards are gold, people, if you want to be a credible actor.  

And this is surely what Ben Stiller wants you to think about – why is it so much more impressive to convincingly play someone with a mental disability or a condition like autism than it is to play someone who is equally distant from the actor in any other way?  Someone with a different culture?  A completely different life?  Someone extremely clever?

I think it’s a symptom, to be honest, of a society where political correctness is powerful enough an influence that We Don’t Say Those Words – words like spastic, or retard, or Special – but underneath, the people who were once labelled with any of those words are still just as marginalised.  Taking away the vocabulary of marginalisation hasn’t magically changed people’s attitudes.  All it’s done is blanket them.  Because we’re all politically correct, didn’t you know?

But whether we say the R-word or not, Westerners, and particularly Americans, still live in a culture where anyone differently abled, mentally or physically, is still characterised as the Other. The way Hollywood loves to gleefully reward a “normal person” for playing retard is just an institutionalised way of reinforcing the idea that they are making a sacrifice by doing it, that they are somehow slumming, giving up the privilege of being normal or looking normal, certainly looking desirable by deigning to portray someone ‘less than normal’ on film.  A nomination for an award is a recognition of the massive effort the actor has made in playing their part.

How utterly demeaning.  How surreptitiously discriminatory.  And worst of all is the sense throughout the whole process that Hollywood is patting itself on the back for its open-mindedness and compassion in recognising the disadvantaged or the disenfranchised.  

I see exactly the same system at work in the way that Hollywood fixates on straight actors playing gay. Charlize Theron as Aileen Wuornos, Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal in Brokeback Mountain, James Franco and Sean Penn in Milk.  It’s obvious in the way that they are lauded at awards ceremonies and the way that every interview sees the actors discussing their reservations in playing gay.

Because in our heteronormative culture, what could be more of a sacrifice than having to act as a homosexual?  (Except, perhaps acting as a retard).  How utterly awful!  What a sacrifice they make!  How they must fight back the bile when they have to kiss someone of the same sex.  Apparently it is all too easy to kiss a stranger, or someone you don’t find attractive, but only provided they are of the opposite sex.

It’s no different to the most obvious of all Hollywood prejudices: beauty.  If it’s not someone winning an oscar for playing a retard, or a paraplegic, or a fag, it’s someone being deemed SO BRAVE and SO TALENTED for putting on a fake nose and playing an ugly person.  

But as much as Hollywood loves showering praise on the Normals who play these Challenging roles, the one thing no one wants to talk about, let alone see on the big screen, is the real thing.  They don’t want to see ‘real retards’ just like they don’t want to see ‘real ugly’ or ‘real gays’.  What they really want is a watered-down Hollywood prettied-up version of the real thing.  So what we get is hot people playing ugly (not too ugly though!  A fake nose or a few extra kilos will do), straight people playing gay (with all the gay sex censored out, of course) and ‘normal’ people playing mildly retarded (with all the actual retards whitewashed out).

So tell me, what is it that we should be spending our precious time protesting against exactly? Which is more dangerous?  A movie that – shock, horror – uses the word retard, or the system that it’s satirising?  A system where every word is closely monitored and sanitised in the interest of political correctness, but every action more deeply ingrains the very prejudice those words used to embody.

And more importantly, tell me what better word is there to use to try and illustrate the kind of insidious prejudice we’re talking about?  

It’s just one more way that the veil of pc language has paralysed us, left us unable to discuss actual issues. Not even in a comedy film.

[promo stills via DreamWorks]


single girls: find out why your apartment smells like arse

August 3rd, 2008

Oh my GOD. I actually don’t even know where to start with this one. My head is spinning. And no that is not a result of booze – I stayed home last night thank you very much. Unfortunately this article has taken vodka’s place and caused me to vomit uncontrollably of a Sunday morn.

Right, let’s get into it:

That’s the truth about being single; it can be horrendous, only I’m not allowed to admit it. For a few months I have been leading what most anthropologists would describe as a highly unusual existence in my one-person flat, and yet prevailing 21st-century thought – the publishing industry, marketing bods keen to get their grubby paws on what’s left of my disposable income – are trying to convince me that being single is the best thing in the world that can happen to a person.

Well she got one thing right. Being single CAN be horrendous. You know what else CAN be horrendous? BEING IN A RELATIONSHIP. Surely if someone’s going to write about single life being a myth and not in fact ‘the best thing in the world that can happen to a person’, they’d try to avoid romanticising the alternative? Am I asking too much? Good grief.

Let’s move on:

Likewise, there’s a myth being perpetuated that being single is great! The loneliness, the effort, that musty smell in your flat because you spend far too much time in it, the fact that children think you’re weird – that’s all in your mind. A fabrication. You’re not bored, you just think you’re bored because being single is fabulous! There are more than 3 million single people living in Britain today – everyone’s at it, why not join in the fun? You can drink cocktails like they did in Sex and the City! You can play Nintendo into the dead of night! Absolutely nobody in the world gives a toss about you, but, never mind, you’ve won the lottery of life.

SO THAT’S WHAT THAT SMELL IS. The musty aroma of my failure as a human being. Honey, if it’s true that nobody in the world gives a toss about you (I sure hope her family don’t read her column. Talk about a slap in the face), perhaps it’s because YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE? Also why does she care that children think she’s weird? Damn those 5 year olds and their opinions! They really know how to put tears on my pillow.

Connected to this syndrome is another unacknowledged truth: that a lot of single people are mad. Some of them are single because they are mad. They tack uplifting quotes to their bedroom walls; they try to lure the attached away from their beloved with promises of a fabulous new life in which no one ever need share a tube of toothpaste again. They begin to excel in those activities that are traditionally dominated by the singleton culture, stalking and conspiracy theorising. But most of them are mad because they’re being driven insane by the pressure to be ecstatic about being single. Under the cover of normality they’re sectionable, trying to justify why they want to be alone so much. To this end they forensically inspect the relationships of their friends. “A lot of people are with the wrong people for the wrong reasons,” is their mantra and sincere hope. They gullibly fall for the claims of their friends with children who tell them how lucky they are to have nothing to do at the weekends. “How I envy you!” new mothers will tell their single friends. It’s an exercise in self-pity, of course. If in doubt, ask them to swap your life with theirs and watch them clutch their children.


Thank god for Intern Brownie and his smelling salts. At ease dear Brownie, I’m fine now.

Oh those silly single girls (because not once does she mention single men. Being a single woman is pathetic but apparently being a single man doesn’t even warrant discussion, it’s THAT AWESOME) and their inspirational quotes! Once I’m mazzed up with grubby offspring pulling at my skirt I’ll have no use for any of that nonsense. I’ll look back on my Tumblr and oh how I’ll laaaarf.

The entire article is just another way of putting all women in neat little boxes where we all want the same thing, feel the same way, are stupid and gullible and constantly lying to ourselves. I’m sure the writer’s feelings are genuine and I don’t at all think it’s wrong or weak to long for a relationship, but why does saying that have to mean that being single is inherently shit? Anyone who is seriously sitting at home wallowing in self-pity, belittling and shaking their head at single women who choose to oh you know, have FUN, might just have some issues that won’t be solved by finding The One.

I know if she were to stumble across this post she’d be all “zomg see, we’re not allowed to say anything bad about being single! brainwashed!”. No. Being single is awful and lonely sometimes, that’s true. My problem is with not acknowledging that it can also be great and insinuating that it’s impossible to genuinely enjoy life without a partner, and if you are you’re just kidding yourself. It’s all such a limited and negative way of thinking about women (and as I said earlier, her arguments revolve solely around women and the various cliches attached to having a vagina) and relationships, and only reinforces those ideas that we’re all just crazy potential stalkers until we’re rescued by The One. Bitch please.

Edit: I think Sassy’s thoughtz from the comments deserve to be included here:

all those nights I went out and MET boys, when the single rules say I should have been sitting home wallowing in my own stink and making creepy cross-stitch love letters to send to the guy who lives in the flat opposite.



where in the world is sonny bill feelings?

July 28th, 2008

 Oh yeah, the saga continues. Now the Bulldogs have come out guns a-blazing to try and sue Monsieur Feelings and stop him playing for anyone else. But the Supreme Court says they have to find him first.

And I should explain something at this point: If we Errol girls haven’t written anything serious about sbfeelings and his run from tha law it’s because we’re too angry and offended.  We hate this whole thing more than when the jukebox at the Judgy eats our $20 and then refuses to play our T Rex, Whitney Houston and Daryl Braithwaite selections.

I’m also a bit worried that the British process-servers they send after him don’t follow the NRL and won’t know where to look for the fleeing Kiwi. That’s why I’ve decided to do everything I can to help Greenberg and the dogs and prepared a brief and informative Sonny Bill Feelings dossier.

Height: 191cm
Weight: 108kg
DOB: 3rd Aug 1985
Distinguishing features: approx. 95 Polynesian cultural tattoos
approx. 1 x douchebag ‘WILLIAMS’ tattoo across upper back
1 x Dora the Explorer backpack

Appearance: Likely sporting trenchcoat, fedora, look of confusion, and vacant stare.

Artist’s Rendering

Last Sighting: Heathrow Airport, London.

Suggested search areas:

Leicester Square area, central London. Suspect reported to be mesmerised by locations with brightly-coloured and/or flashing lights.

London Aquarium, likely attempting to commune with sea creatures.

Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks. Suspect believed to hold an affinity with David Beckham. May attempt to seek Beckham’s advice before deciding on future movements.

Buckingham Palace Forecourt. May attempt to meet the Queen.

Tate Modern Gallery. Namely, playing in the ‘Embankment’ exhibition. (Wheeee!)

Special case considerations: Target is not fluent in English. Do not try and engage verbally. Sign-language advisable.


sassy's political round-up

June 30th, 2008

First of all I would like to announce that I am dedicating this post to my journalistic hero (political division), Michael Brissenden. His Canberra round-ups on the 7.30 Report were hilarious, accurate and really, really snarky. He always dug up the most fabulously unflattering footage of all the pollies and put on a super-derisive tone in his voiceovers and I miss him dearly. COME BACK TO ME MICHAEL!

Anyway. Dramaz ahoy in various Labor Governments today as Channel Nine revealed NSW Labor pollie Michael Costa was trying to make a deal to only approve K.Rudd’s computers in schools programme if they were paid $245 million as a secret kickback. No one was surprised.

Seriously. We’re not idiots. We all know the entire NSW Labor government is dodgy. It is, in fact, entirely possible most of our MPs have only made it into cabinet because they are part of a Stonecutters-esque underworld body where the rewards come in the form of political power and requirements for membership are a double chin, an Italian surname and a complete and utter disregard for ethics.

Who pushed the Lane Cove Tunnel through? We did, we diiiiiiiiiid!

Let’s call them the Ragazzi Club. And as the alternative to our beloved Ragazzi Club is Barry O’Farrell, let’s also just assume we’re stuck with them for awhile.

I have two massive problems with this turn of events, and both have to do with the fact that the whole thing leaked … because Federal Treasurer Wayne Swan left his Secret Government Officialzz Correspondence folder in the Channel Nine studios.

Really? REALLY? How can this keep happening? First the British Spy leaves his FOR BRITISH EYES ONLY file on the tube. Now Treasurer Wayne leaves his BLACKMAIL LETTERS manila folder on the chair at a news station. Surely the only thing that one really needs to remember as a holder of national or party secrets is that one doesn’t tell people. Or show people. Are there any other requirements to secret-keeping I have missed? I think not.

It’s like when you rob a bank, the first rule that you learn from the Big Book of Thieving is that you never leave your giant white cotton bag with the dollar sign on it behind in the bank. Sigh. This is rudimentary stuff, bitches. I am shocked you’re all doing so badly at it.

Now just you make sure you hold onto that box real tight there, Wayne honey!

But more importantly, not-Michael-Brissenden on the 7.30 report tells me the papers were memos from Michael Costa to the Federal Government. On paper and in typing. With names on them. I am starting to despair for the country right now. Surely the Ragazzi Club can do better than this?

Let me explain. By the time I was about twelve Mama Sassy had taught me that there are certain rules we follow in a civilised society to make things more orderly, simpler, and more pleasant. We call it etiquette. When you stay the night somewhere, you say ‘thank you’. When you see someone knocked up on the bus, you offer them a seat. And for the love of God, when a man writes a blackmail letter, he doesn’t put his name (or fingerprints) on it. He does it in cut out letters from the Woman’s Day glued onto white A4 paper. Like a gentleman.

Were these boys raised by wolves? I am tres perplexed. And I feel 99% certain June Dally-Watkins would be too.

I am also … I believe the closest word to the pain I am feeling is DEVO, that Alexander Downer is leaving politics. Our favourite bread-and-butter pudding of a man is quitting Aussie politics to become the United Nations’ Special Envoy to Cyprus. I know this will hurt Jessica most of all, but the plain truth is, it hurts me too. I love Alexander Downer. Adore him. It’s nothing to do with his policies because I don’t even know what his policies are. Who cares what a man has done in terms of policy when we have this?

I’ll miss you, A.Down. I’ll miss your cascades of meaty, wobbling jowls and the way they frolic and dance like angels below your mouth when you speak. I’ll miss your gay schoolboy curls, and your round rosy cheeks. But most of all, I’ll miss your voice. Listening to your Adelaide diction is like lying on a stuffy, sexless, uncomfortable white-person double bed while it’s strewn with a rain of ripe plums. It’s quite lovely. Farewell old friend.

In other news, it has come to my attention that, as much as our State and Federal politicians love a junket or a freebie, there is one thing that they are tragically neglecting to spend out hard-earned cash on: injectables.

See all those little lines on K.Rudd’s forehead? We call them marionette lines. Most definitely not there before the election. Also, nothing that a little botox wouldn’t solve. And, if the effects of stress have caused lines that are noticeable even when the forehead is at rest, maybe a little restylane as filler to smooth things out. If you’re wondering, it’s like collagen, but synthetic and not made using animal products. Everybody wins!

For Brendan, definitely a little muscle paralysis between the eyebrows to start. And a trough filling procedure using restylane beneath the eyes would take away almost all of his eyebag issues.

People can’t trust someone who doesn’t look like as though they fully trust themselves and their own judgment. Remember that, kids. Once you’ve found all the top-secret paperwork and ACME atom bombs that you left in bathroom stalls and on buses, I think you should all look into this.

Because I’ve bored you enough, that’s probably enough for today. This may be a regular thing, or, because I’m fickle with a ludicrously short attention span, this may never happen again. You will have to wait and see.


Men we love: Harry Kewell

June 19th, 2008

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:

So… until you lose then?


When injured, and arguably confronted with the tenuous nature of his success and his livelihood, not to mention the ever-present question of mortality, he explained:

I took a whack on my left ankle, but something told me it was my right. Innit?

Oh, Harry.

When wrapping his kneaded dough brain around the meaning of this sport they call the beautiful game, he concluded:

Sometimes in football you have to score goals.


How can this man coordinate all four limbs to play soccer at a world level? It amazes me. But that’s part of the magic of Harry. Just like his spivvy little mangy moustache. How can you not love him? When he sauntered onto the Footy Show tonight with his London accent and a pleather jacket my heart melted a little bit.

And when Fatty Vautin threw to him to give a promo for Politix who provided his outfit, and Harry Kewell answered ‘I loike fashion … just not going out and getting it, you know?’. Well I’m sure you can guess.

Oh. Harry.

* I may have added in the ‘innits?’, but I’m 99% certain he said them. You know he always does.

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? *


Reason #327 why Kiki should stop drinking

June 17th, 2008

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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!