DAMN THESE VANCOUVER OLYMPICS. Is there no end to the torment they want to put me through?

First of all we had to endure at least eight weeks of endless Foxtel ads for the Olympics, featuring – for some completely unknown reason – Michael Buble all sweaty and gross and dishevelled, wearing  a hockey shirt, and telling us all to come experience ‘his Canada’ while some godawful one of his pop-swing songs plays in the background.

It actually got to the point where I started hearing Buble crooning ‘I just haven’t met youuuuu …. yet!” in my dreams. Friends, Michael Buble songs are only good for one thing: and that’s for giving to your aunty on CD as a Christmas present. I don’t like him in my tv, or in my brain.

And FYI, Michael, YOUR LAST NAME IS PRONOUNCED BUBBLE. IF IT WAS BOOB-LAY IT WOULD HAVE AN ACCENT ON THE E, WOULDN’T IT?

What was my point? Oh, yes.

Not content with sending Buble to interrupt my attempts to lie very still on a Saturday morning and watch 3 hours of Simpsons in peace while I try and recover from a dirty hangover, the Vancouver Olympics have now broken our fearless rugby league leader. We found out yesterday that NRL boss David Gallop went over there on a mini-Olympic break and promptly broke his collarbone. Thanks, Vancouver.

What are we gonna do now? Who’s going to stand outside NRL headquarters when the next scandal happens looking stern and dignified and laying down the law? Cause God knows it’s impossible to look dignified in a sling. It just can’t be done. It’s science.

Meanwhile, according to Phil Rothfield in today’s paper, while DG is the most powerful man in rugby league, the number two most influential person is Jarryd Hayne.

So, um … has anyone seen Jarryd-with-a-Y lately? First of all he’s picked on the bench behind fullback Billy Slater for the All-Stars game, until Billy pulls out with an injured ankle. Now he’s ranked the second most influential man in league … and the number one contender gets involved in a mysterious skiing accident.

Jarryd-with-a-Y poses with a celebratory cigar.

DOES JARRYD HAVE MYSTICAL VOODOO POWERS?

We are a bunch of superstitious bitches, and our answer to that is … yes. Yes, he does. Burn the witch! burn the witch!

So get out your lists and write it down: never call Nick Politis fat, and never finish above Jarryd Hayne on any kind of list. It will only end in broken bones, or being exiled to Far North Queensland like Willie Mason.

And because DG isn’t back in town yet, we can’t send him a giant ridiculous basket of fruit flowers to cheer him up like we did that time Greg Inglis was arrested for allegedly assaulting his girlfriend (they’re festive! Plus they’re easy to eat with one hand). Instead he’ll have to settle for some e-fruit flowers that Intern John-John rustled up.

If you’re wondering, the card says:

‘We’re glad you didn’t do a Sonny Bono. Feel better soon DG! Love and kisses, Errol.’

ps if Shaun White is reading this – Shaun? Herro?

What is it, dude?

Who am I kidding, of course he’s reading. Well don’t worry, Shaun, I still love you! Even though the Olympics have been so mean to me, seeing rangas succeed in snowboarding never gets old. Your gold medal looks lovely with your orange curls. Love, Sassy.

We Errol girls are All About Love.  And we hate it when we hear whinging about Aussies only winning minor medals in the Olympics.  God forbid you’re the second or third best in the world.  ONLY SECOND IN THE WORLD. SECOND OUT OF SIX BILLION? UNACCEPTABLE! Hang your heads in shame, bitches! 

Combine that with the fact most of us have trouble making it up the stairs to the front door after a night out* – let alone doing anything vaguely sporty - and it’s probably not surprising we think Anna Meares and Sally McLellan are completely bloody amazing. 

It’s not just because they are incredible athletes, because they are determined, or because they’ve both just won silver medals at these Olympics.  Not because Anna Meares now has one gold, one silver and one bronze in Olympic cycling and has made me cry when she won each one of them. 

Not even because the incredible Anna also recovered from a horrible race fall and near paraplegia seven months ago to win that medal.  (I’m totally about to cry again writing this).  SHE’S JUST REALLY INSPIRATIONAL, OK?

We love them because … well, because they are adorable.  Unaffected, joyful, honest, brash, humble, hilarious and totally Aussie.  I started loving Sally the second Channel 7 tried to give her the ‘you must be so shocked that you fluked yourself into the finals’ edit and she basically told them to piss off.  I enjoyed that.

Michael Dodge/www.foxsports.com.au

But then she went and almost combusted with joy when her place was announced, and gave us one of the best post-race interviews you’ll ever see:

OH MY GOD IS THIS REAL?  YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. 

DID YOU SEE ME?  DID YOU SEE ME? 

DID YOU SEE HOW PUMPED I WAS?  I WAS MORE PUMPED THAN I HAVE EVER BEEN IN MY WHOLE LIFE.  SHIT! 

I COULD SEE A GIRL PASSING ME BUT I JUST KEPT RUNNING MY OWN RACE. AMAZING.  I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. 

SHIT!

By my count she said ‘shit’ about eight times.  On international television.  In front of billions of viewers.  WE LOVE YOU SALLY! 

I can’t decide whether Sally’s stream of consciousness swearing is cuter, or the fact that Anna used the phrase kitchen sink to sum up her Olympic experience.

I went to the final in with the attitude ‘I’m going to throw the kitchen sink, so I hope you’ve got big shoulders’. But man, she threw the kitchen sink at me!

Kitchen sink!  Awesome.  And how do you feel, Anna darlin? 

Absolutely SMASHED.  But you know what: I feel so good.  For all I care that silver medal could be gold.

So happy!  So cute!  So anyone start bagging them and you’ll have five fiesty Errol girls, two interns and one naked, enthusiastic work experience boy to deal with.  I also have a mean right hook, if you’re wondering.

* Emma is, of course, the exception to this. She does the sports on behalf of all of us, and when she gets home from a night out, bounds up the stairs like a lively kangaroo. A well-dressed, drunk, lively kangaroo.

In posting about my Olympics Boyfriend Ryan Lochte (who I’ll admit has since been kind of forgotten amongst all the Aussie Olympics highs. Worst imaginary girlfriend evs), the lovely Hazy diverted our attentions to a cuter, homegrown and just all-round fucking adorable curly-haired swimmer Andrew Lauterstein. HOW’S THAT FOR A NAME?

pic: ninemsn.com.au

pic: goldcoast.com.au

Forget our ongoing Phelps: Demi God or Douchebag? debate. I think it’s a good day for a little vintage Olympic goodness.

And yes, I am going to write all of this from the top of my head without doing any research of any kind. Not even googling. I’ve had a weird sportscrush on Popov since I was ten and I just think he’s lovely. Judge me if you like.

Remember when swimmers wore speedos, and had body hair? Amazing.

This is a boy who first learned to swim when he was terrified of water.

Who held the 50m freestyle world record for almost a decade.

Who – when he won the 50 / 100 sprint freestyle double for the second time at the 1996 Olympics (the Johnny ‘Tarzan’ Weissmuller double) – gave his 100m gold medal to his coach, Gennadi Touretski, to say thank you.

Who – when he was stabbed in the streets of Moscow a month after the Atlanta Olympics – endured emergency surgery and three months of rehab to come back and win his two pet events the next year at the European Championships.

And who – now that Aussie waterbaby Eamonn Sullivan holds both of the world records that used to be his – is nothing but excited to watch Sullivan and Alain Bernard go faster.

And if you’re wondering what all these things mean: they mean he’s a classy bitch. Happy friday, kids.

(this post is alex popov-approved)

Okay so this is officially my first non footy post. It takes Big Emotionz to shake me out of my footy haze. And that emotion is hate. I am in the grip of a hatin feveeer. As I’m sure regular Errol readers have realised, Sassy has many nemeses and enjoys shooting them down with her e-words of poison. I hate just as many people/things as Sassy, but I am far too lazy to write about them. Usually.

You see, I really love the Olympics. I am all over that shit. I was lucky enough to attend the Opening Ceremony for Sydney in 2000 and …..hold on kids, Kiki is gonna say something with actual sincerity: it was honestly one of the greatest moments of my life. Yes, really. Also one of the most emotional. As soon as those horses galloped out with the Australian flags I burst into tears and didn’t stop for the next 2 hours. Damn tears almost ruined my carefully applied boxing kangaroo face tattoos. Lucky I still had my glittery Aussie flag halter top from Supre to tide me over.

I am a tragic patriot and nothing makes me happier than seeing our Aussie babies do well. But I also just love watching athletes achieve their dreams. Dreaaaams….herrooooessss….teaaaaars! I am a disgusting sap, but I just can’t help it. Tonight I cried when the Chinese men won their synchronised diving gold medal. I also just really enjoyed yelling GO WANG GO at the TV. Heheh, his name means penis.

I say this because I want you all to know I am not completely adverse to foreigners winning medals over Australians. I ain’t no jingoist bitches!

Now, for the hate. Oh, Michael Phelps. Where do I begin? If there was ever a person that completely encapsulates the word douchebag – it’s him. He is thisclose to ruining my Olympics experience. Every time his head pops up on my television my skin literally crawls. The vein on my forehead pulsates with anger. My hands form fists and my nails dig into my palms. Oh god oh god oh GOD. I HATE HIM SO MUCH.

1) The fact he walks out with an iPod shoved in his ears. Every other swimmer in the entire world seems to be able to make it from dressing room to diving block without music, but not Michael Phelps! He even listens to it while his competitors are being announced. Such humility, such respect. And you just know he is listening to Fiddy and thinking he is gangstaaaa. Coz he be AMERICAAAAN yo!

2) The way he celebrates. Yeh, he is an amazing swimmer. No one can take that away from him. But you know what? Being a champion doesn’t mean you have to carry on like an absolute tool.

I don’t even know what to say. It’s just….gross. The whole spectacle is just repugnant. If I was American I would be utterly mortified by him. This sort of behaviour is why the world hates America. Oh you thought it was the invasions and stuff? Nope. It’s the douchebaggery of their athletes.

5) And finally, the way Tumblr is spazzing out over him. Granted, at least it’s a change from the constant ‘ ZOMG Obama is the messiah!1!1!1′ hyperbole…but seriously, if one more person tumbl-wanks over him I am going to cut a bitch. The Phelps e-jizz is deadset splattered all over my dashboard and I am Not Happy.Someone today posted that he won gold despite water filling his goggles and ‘blinding him’. And he is totes a hero and omg lets suck his dick now. Bitch please, you don’t need to see to swim. I’ve swum my whole life without ever opening my eyes. And by ‘swum’ I mean floating around on a lilo sipping a cocktail, occasionally dipping underwater when my head gets too hot. But my point still stands.

You now what you do need to swim though? The ability to breathe. And if you want REAL swimming heroics, look no further than Our Grant Hackett. Who won a 15oo metre gold medal in 2004 with a collapsed lung.

AH-HAH! Take that Phelps!

*shadow boxes*

It feels a bit weird to be writing this post because I am not a very politically correct kind of girl. Not through a conscious choice, so much as I have a bad memory for what is acceptable and what is not, and a bad habit of opening my mouth and saying things that end up sounding completely inappropriate and vaguely offensive.

Being tactful and mindful is not my strong suit, basically, so I feel like I should tread pretty carefully around anything to do with race lest I say something even more offensive or look like a hypocrite.

But in another binge Olympic session last night, my tv asked me ‘have you tasted Yum Cha?’ And now that I know they’re not talking about actual Yum Cha, but a Channel 7 morning Olympics chat show, um, doesn’t that seem a wee bit racist?

I think the name Yum Cha is adorable, in theory. I love actual Yum Cha. I could eat a good six baskets of har gao on my own. I also like that it’s a food-related activity, with the word YUM already in the title. See? CUTE!

But considering that this is a panel show on the biggest event in world sports, held in the most populous country in the world, a country responsible for more export than any other, widely considered the next great global superpower, it seems to me it’s kind of … demeaning. Especially in that Crazy Azian Font they’ve decided to use for it.

I can’t imagine a major television network would ever put on an Olympic show for the Barcelona Olympics and call it Tapas Telly, or one for Athens and name it Souvlaki at 9.

So why is it different for China?

What were the other options? The Panda Show? Fortune Cookies? Was there talk in the office of using a whorey but submissive Chinese masseuse in a Cheongsam as a host, or a pointy little Chinese hat as a logo? Will Mickey Rooney paint on eyeliner, put in his fake teeth and come on as a special hilarious Asian guest reporter?

(Wait, is he even alive?)

I know it doesn’t seem like much to go on – the name of one light-hearted tv show – but my addiction means I’ve watched a lot of the three days of coverage so far.

I’ve seen the new Panasonic ads that screen at least ninety-five times a day, where a horde of hilarious screaming Chinese Stereotypes rock up at a whitey’s door waving Chinese teapots and Woks and crowing NI HAO! before pushing their way inside to monopolise his fab new Panasonic flat-screen.

Get it? It’s totally funny, because Chinese people aren’t like white people. They live in gigantic extended families and wear Cheongsams as everyday wear and have piercing screeching Chinese voices. They cook in woks on the couch in the living room while they watch television and let off fireworks and their houses smell like Chinese food. Also, they’re poor! They would never have their own amazing wide-screen television to watch the games on.

I literally saw it and laughed. Because it’s not even something you can take pause at like the contrived and sneaking sexism of the type you see on Foxtel’s ads on Bundy Monday night football. It’s too blatant. What else can you do but laugh?

By the time I’d seen the Yum Cha ad almost as many times as I’d seen the Panasonic ad, I was starting to feel weird. It doesn’t help that I was also bombarded with the requisite filler shots of Beijing and its inhabitants in between events. Let’s learn about Beijing! Isn’t it cultural! Every single shot seemed to be of an elderly Chinese man with a drooping mo on a bicycle. Or a rickshaw. Or young girls making peace signs or hugging the cartoon Olympic mascots. I’m surprised there were none of people eating chicken feet or cooking dogs.

The overwhelming message of the whole experience is Chinese! They’re crazy! And Asian! Watch them do Crazy Asian things!

In fact, the only respite I’ve had from that view of China is the incessant commentary on the Chinese levels of smog.

I don’t think I’ve even really heard mention of how many medals they’ve won. (I just looked it up and it’s 14).

I don’t think there’s any conscious racism at play, but are we – as a nation, if not also representatives of Western attitudes in general – subconsciously determined to find ways to discount or delegitimise China? Do we think that portraying it as backwards and polluted, or comical and non-threatening, will somehow neutralise our increasing fear that a non-white (and god forbid, communist) nation will become the most powerful nation in the world?

Considering there are already so many Australians with Chinese backgrounds, what more will it take to push China out of the ethnic stereotype playchest into the real world?

I’ll say it again – I feel weird.

edit: Thanks to the Guardian I just found out there are other (completely insane) things we could be contending with instead of plain old Yum Cha and per capita medal counts. Spain, you have absolutely killed me.

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

Well the completely and utterly expected has finally happened. Remember all that stuff I said about the Olympics? As predicted: complete bullshit. The Olympics isn’t too much sport, nor too many sports, and there is absolutely no chance of my boycotting anything in it. I’m done for. I may never sleep again.

I spent last night huddled in the green tv glow in my terry robe, clutching my tumbler of diet coke and promising myself just one more race and then I’ll go to bed. Just one more. One more can’t hurt, right? A person only needs five hours … four hours sleep. Right? That’s all the guy in The Firm slept for and he outwitted the mob.

Then all of a sudden they were replaying Stephanie Rice winning gold and I had to watch that. Then I kind of had to watch our boys in the rowing, because it’s not fair to neglect them, is it? It would be sportist. And sexist. And gymnastics … well look I just really like gymnastics, ok? I love how gymnasts are just so … gymnasty. Their whole bodies are shaped for nothing but gymnastics. They’re human bonsai; modern and socially acceptable demonstrations of the victory of determination and conditioning over human genetics. You can’t look away any more than you could look away from those gory pictures of freshly unbound Chinese feet in history books at school.

So instead of focussing on work (and thankfully instead of scratching imaginary bugs through my skin) I’ve been reading the Olympic schedule for the day and jonesing for more. Do you know what I had to miss to go to work today?

Swimming finals, synchronised diving and equestrian events.

EQUESTRIAN EVENTS. Is there anything I love more? No, no there isn’t. Needless to say I am pissed. It’s the cross-country too, bitches, and there is no other event with as high a probability of someone falling face-first into a pool of murky river-water as the cross-country. Not even steeplechase, and you can quote me on that. I already missed out on watching live dressage yesterday thanks to Channel Seven and itis unnecessary broadcasting of some inconsequential and unimpressive bottom-of-the-table AFL game, and all I have to say is there are no hats in AFL. It cannot hope to compare with an event where men and women in blazers and sixties riding helmets prance on horseback in diagonals.

It’s magical. Like watching a dog walk on its hind legs. I’ve decided I really enjoy watching humans defy the natural order of things. I also like seeing ponies with their hair all done up and their hooves all shiny. It’s like the horse formal. I wonder if any of them shag in uncomfortable positions in a horse trailer afterwards.

And, yes. I am an angry addict when I don’t get my fix. Wanna make something of it?

Do you know that diver Matthew Helm has vertigo? I shit you not. He stands on a 10 metre platform and dives through a fear of heights. And I AM MISSING IT. You’d be angry too.

Plus what if some of the Americans turn up to their events in their ridiculous newsboy caps? I will be devo. If a yank wears a lame Kangol hat and no one makes a bitchy joke about it, what’s the point?

So in case anyone else is feeling as bitter and yearning as I am today, I’ll leave you with possibly the greatest piece of photoediting I have ever seen. This is what you call JOURNALISM.

The Sydney Morning Herald Olympic Gallery of Shirtless Men. Bravo, Herald. Bravo.

[pics: Getty Images / smh.com.au]