footy observations: … I'm not not licking toads

October 1st, 2008

… Are we all joyful and excited about the Grand Final this weekend, kittens?  Globo Gym vs the boys in maroon?  Oh my god, what a coincidence!  Me either!  So let’s just try and deal with it in the most painless way we can.

Anne: Neely, you know it’s bad to take liquor with those pills.
Neely: They work faster.

The truth is that the lead up to this week’s game has caused nothing but trouble for me.  My night terrors that Melbourne might actually win … again, have been so bad that Intern John-John has started slipping xanax into my bedtime cocktail.  He knows I love my beauty sleep.  Apparently I kept trying to strangle myself with the bedsheet and waking the household up crying and screaming STOP REFERRING TO YOURSELF IN THE THIRD PERSON GREG INGLISSSSS.

Basically, Melbourne Storm have turned my life into Valley of the Dolls.  Except it’s football driving me to the prescription meds bottle instead of a philandering husband or a failing musical career.  That’s kinda sad, right?

On the bright side, at least I finally have a valid reason for why I alway wear ridiculous see-through pastel nighties.

I am also left with the horrible decision of whether to rock up at the game weaing nothing that supports any team, or … god I don’t even think I can say it … something MAROON.  Is there any colour more hateful than maroon?  To quote the always-eloquent Kiki “it’s like red that got shit in it”.

If love was a colour it would be marooooon

Worst of all, my decision to throw all my support behind Manly out of sheer petty dislike for the Storm has caused a giant domestic dispute Chez Sassy.  My brother / flatmate is still on the Manly hate-train, and when he realised on Monday I’m team Manly, he was Not Pleased.  He banged some drawers, I threw a martini, and the whole thing ended with him screaming:

“If you’d been there to seen them beat the Roosters in the semis in 1987 THEN YOU WOULD UNDERSTAND”

This is not necessarily true, because I would have been five, and probably too young to understand hate, understand who won, and/or remember any of those things if I did.  But whatever.  The end result is we’ve started dividing the fridge in two using sticky tape (my side has barely enough room for all my vodka and nailpolishes) and I swear yesterday he maliciously turned on the tap in the kitchen to scald me in the shower.

In other Melbourne news, the boys from south of the border are still on their quest to become the most martyred team in league.  Sacrificial grapple lamb Lamberon Smith is still upset about his suspension, Israel Folau suspects he’s being illegally stopped from leaping by opposition players while the refs do nothing, and Antonio Kaufusi has vowed to win the premiership for his fallen captain.  Yes, yes, we know.  You’re all very noble in the face of persecution.  Saint George the martyr has nothing on you kids.

I would make some kind of jokes about all that but to be honest I didn’t really read all those articles. They weren’t nearly as interesting as the news about Joyce Churchill.

JOYCE CHURCHILL was married to the greatest fullback of all time … but she has a soft spot for another. Asked which player’s neck she would most like to dangle the Clive Churchill Medal from as the man of the match from this Sunday’s grand final, she replies: “Billy Slater. I like him. I’d like to cuddle him.”

Joyce! You floozy!  Just quietly, we Errol girls do love a cuddle, too. We get it! I’m guessing Joyce would have some strong opinions on the Important Question of who should take out this year’s snuggliest man in league.  She’d certainly support our plan to individually snuggle each of the nominees to make sure our decision is correct.

I also think she would enjoy dropping by the Errol offices for an afternoon sherry or ten and a gossip.  I’m totally up for it.  Call me Joyce!  I’ll bake!

(By ‘bake’, obviously I mean ‘I’ll send Lachie down to the Bourke Street bakery for eclairs and pretend that I baked’).

And in news that honestly almost makes me wanna move to Queensland, the Gold Coast Titans have decided to bring in the dollars by setting up their own betting agency, and because they are intensely lateral and creative souls, they have called it Titanbet.

Fuck off Titans, this is amazing.  All the other leagues clubs are watching their punters push money into pokies to make a few extra bucks, not you Titans.  They’ve decided to screw that, and go straight into TAB-style punting.  They care not for the fact that they will be making money from people placing bets on events including the competition they participate in.  Conflict of interest?  What conflict of interest?  Here, have a palm tree-patterned betting card!

I love it.  More than anything I hope that they send the boys in when they’re injured and in the off-season to man the booths.  You know it would be good for business.  If you can’t trust Scott Prince with your bets, who can you trust?

Also, if we’ve learned anything from the Simpsons it’s that the best way to deal with a tropical community is to introduce gambling.  I hope the next item on the Titans’ agenda is to build an island casino.

Island native: If God is all-powerful, why does he care if we worship him?

Homer: God is powerful, but insecure. Like Barbra Streisand before James Brolin.

Island blackjack!  Island roulette! The possibilities are endless.  If anything can keep rugby league solvent then it’s the wonders of casino gambling.  Note to David Gallop: begin investigating themed casinos.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to have a nap.  I think the downers are kicking in.

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footy observations – hot bitch, blood and ballerinas

September 19th, 2008


Because you are all truly invested in my well being, lets begin with a Health Update! And god knows theres nothing more exciting than people talking about their health woes. CAN YOU HANDLE THE EXCITEMENT?

Thankfully, turns out I don’t have Ebola. So no Ben Hornby style bleeding from the eyes for me. It turns out I was vomming blood because I have…wait for it…an ulcerated eosphagus.  You know in cop shows theres always that one old crusty detective that’s all drinking coffee/booze/eating hotdogs and is all ‘GODAMNIT! we have to solve this murder! I don’t have time for this ulcer shit!’. THAT’S ME! I am now literally a withered old wino. I’m feeling like death warmed up and have been schlepping around the office sooking up a storm. Intern John-John just hates to see people sad, so today he waltzed in wearing this outfit to cheer me up.


He’s so thoughtful! If sunflower nipple pasties can’t cheer a person up, what can? By the way, he doesn’t like us to talk about it, but John-John regularly visits hospital wards dressed like this to bring happiness and goodwill to sickypants people. Sadly occupational health and safety laws require him to wear pants, but he powers on regardless.

(by the way, he keeps grabbing me and saying ‘Look Kiki no hands..balloon goes up! balloon goes down…balloon goes up! BALLOON GOES UPPPP!’. How is he making it move like that? Mystery!)

My doctor alleges its all due to my love of booze and subsequent hungover Nurofen Plus taking but clearly he has no idea. I know whats up. Google tells me another cause of this condition is stress. You know what REALLY caused my tummy tube problem? THE BLOODY DRAGONS.

ksjjdEzra Shaw/Getty Images

Have I ever had stress related health problems in the off season? I think not! I have made many a joke about my boys giving me a stroke or a heart attack but now those inconsistent bitches have gone and literally ULCERATED MY INSIDES. Needless to say I am not a happy chicken after their weekend efforts. Not only did we publicly tip them on the radio two weeks in a row but they also killed me in the soul with their absolute lack of form. They embarassed me both personally AND professionally. No wonder I’m bleeding internally.

To be honest I don’t want to talk about the actual football. Except THAT WAS SO A TRY. You know it was. I watched the game at Sassy’s house. When I say ‘watched’ I mean curled up in the fetal position on the lounge peeking at the horror through my hands. I had never noticed just how physical my reactions to my team are until Sassy helpfully pointed out…KIKI! THE DRAGONS MAKE YOU GO FETAL! YOU’VE GONE FETAL SWEETIE! And it’s true. They kill me.

Thankfully, although the Dragons couldn’t seem to muster much of a performance…Matt ‘Hot Bitch’ Cooper came through with a performance all his own. A fine performance in the arse…I mean arts. He musta known I was crying sad sad tears, because he just busted out some of his best arse work to date. Don’t squish squish Kiki, look…look how pretty my bum is!


I’m looking Coops! Awww it’s LOVELY! Thanks baby, thanks. But that wasn’t enough for Hot Bitch…at one point he even SMILED for me!


Oh wait no…that’s just his usual grimace of deep seated unfulfillment. Damn.

I was a little worried about this game. Worried in the sense of ‘will I have mixed feelings because I do kinda like Manly?’. Well no, as soon as the whistle blew all I could see was red and white. Manly who? SMASH EM BOYS. But then Jason ‘Flossy’ Nightingale and Our Davey Williams had some sort of horrific ingoal collision and managed to both injure themselves and I cared about someone in Maroon again. In our minds they are part of the Errol family and here was not one but two of our boys writhing in pain. SHIT! Get the jaws of life! THIS IS BAD KIKI, THIS IS VERY VERY BAD shrieked Sassy. OH GOD I KNOW, yelled I. Thanks only to our fervent prayers to the Baby Jesus, our mans emerged from the trauma relatively unscathed.

Despite his awesome/slightly disturbing howling at the moon try, The Hot Pioneer well…he had some no-no times. He even caused Dessie to yell MOTHERFUCKER at one point. He really did, I saw it. My lip reading skills are exemplary.


David immediately regretted his decision to groom his beard during play

Don’t worry Davey, we still love you. You know who else loves you? MATTHEW JOHNS. We thought our obsession with you was bordering on creepy, but Matty’s takes the cake. The Crush Cake! Or is that the Mancrush Cake? Mmmmm…cake.

That bitch can barely contain his delight whenever Davey is on camera. Sassy called it ages ago, and as usual ERROL IS ALWAYS RIGHT. We thought our thrusting at the TV was bad, but on Saturday night Matty showed us how Creepy is really done. In the aftermath of the Howling @ The Moon Try, Matty moaned into his microphone –

“Oooooh and hes howling at the mooooon! AND HIS HAIR IS PERFECT! Rabs forget your man Steve Matai, Williams is MY MAAAAAAN!”

Ummmmm. Well…..well, I have no words. So lets use pictures instead.


(Note – Pls look at Davey returning the love with an arse slap. Whore! I knew I liked him for a reason. We are kindred spirits Y/N?)

In a yucky week for league, I feel it’s necessary to not only remind myself, but everyone else…that there is still heart warming awesomeness in league. And it’s no suprise it’s coming from Snuggliest Man Nominee, Prince Scotty the Caramel. There is a backstory to these photos, but really who cares? The important thing is…Scott Prince is in a tutu. I LOVE HIM.



Gosh, he’s pretty.

EDIT – One of our lovely fans, Bel, has alerted me to yet another example of league awesomeness. I think this even out does Scotty in tulle.

kjkIllawarra Mecury

AMAZING. What can one even say about this? It’s awesomness almost transcends words.

But if you’re wondering, yes that is Jason Ryles dressed as Dell. And Big Dell inexplicably dressed as an angel. Two things…a) apparently blackface is still an acceptable form of dress up in Australia and b) doesn’t Big Dell fill out those white jocks well?

Well that’s it kittens. The very last time I can write about the Dragons for 2008. Needless to say I am now very much on Team Manly for the rest of the finals. Team Manly and Team Anyone-that-isn’t-the-Storm.

(Screencaps thanks to Lozzy, naked John-John from Naked For a Cause)

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meet the nominees: snuggliest man in league

September 12th, 2008

WHEEEE! Tonight is Slumber Party Night at the Errol HQ.  Tomorrow at 9am Sassy + Kiki make their debut (as a duo) on the wireless. Yes kids, we totally have a one way ticket to ~*RADIO SUPERSTARDOM*~. And despite our arrogance confidence, we are a biiiiit nervy.

We need all the moral support we can get, so we have gathered the troops around the fire for a snugglefest. Errol snuggles are the best. We have just buttoned Work Experience Boy Lachie into his Superman onesie, Intern Brownie is melting cooking chocolate on the stove in preparation for our Brownie’s Special Hot Chocolates (extra marshmallows) and we finally convinced John-John to actually do up his terry towelling shorty robe. It’s a fetching shade of lavender with JJ embrodiered on the chest in gold thread. Really brings out his eyes.

But before we settle down for our High School Musical marathon we have to present the nominees for the Errol for Snuggliest Man in League. John-John brought his own selection of movies but well … let’s just say we have to save them for after Lachie’s bedtime. And he’s getting pretty sleepy, so lets get started.

Firstly, for the newbies who might be confused as to what a Snuggly Man is… let us revist our Polarfleece Award announcement

There are all different types of attractiveness in this world. Men may not realise it, but ‘cute’ can mean a whole range of things. It’s possible to be intensely attracted to a man without immediately wanting him to put his penis in you. Yes really. When your first impulse is to take them to browse the soft furnishings section of Freedom, you have yourself a snuggly man.


Do we really have to say anything?  Have you seen his face?  LOOK AT THAT FACE.  LOOK AT IT!

Who’s a pretty boy?  Are you a gorgeous boy?

If we really had to say anything, we’d say it’s a little bit the eyelashes, a little bit the dimples, and a little bit that he still has the teensiest bit of babyfat. Baby Hayne has footy player confidence mixed with an adorable vulnerability that makes us go SQUEEEE (as we did at Origin).  Nobody puts Baby in a corner.


pic: stuff.co.nz

Well first of all, we just love a man with Two First Names. And hair that resembles carefully designed topiary. We think it’s nice that he puts in that kind of effort. His cuteness defies mere words. Take one look at Issac’s precious little face. If you don’t immediately see why he deserves to be in this category then well … you should just give up on life. For realz.

SCOTT PRINCE (aka Prince Scotty The Caramel)


Ohhhh Scotty. How we love thee! His extreme preciousness is even more remarkable considering he’s a DIRTY QUEENSLANDER. BOOO! HISSSSS! Usually we love it when Queenslanders suffer horrific injuries during Origin, but when Scotty snapped his teeny caramel arm in half at Origin 3 our hearts broke into little pieces. Kiki had a broken arm at the same time and likes to think this synchronicity means her and Scotty are somehow cosmically connected. Sadly she broke her arm running across the street to a gay bar at 5am and not representing her state in front of 80,000 people. But some would say they are both heroes … and we have to agree.

Scotty inspires big snuggle times. He combines intense cuteness with a cheekiness that makes our hearts go boom boom. We especially adore his ManLove affair with Benji Marshall. So much so that Sassy made a beautiful/touching/really creepy tribute video. Pls watch it immediately k thanks.




FLOOSSSSSY! We love love LOVE our Flossy. He gives us no feeling at all in our vajayjays, just in our hearts. Feelings of snuggles, flannelette PJs and non-sexual hair stroking.

We have christened him the labrador of rugby league. He embodies everything one loves about labs- enthusiasm, cuddliness and boundless energy. Not to mention the big dopey eyes and the shiny blonde hair. And you know if given the chance he would totally lick you on the face. AND YOU WOULD TOTALLY LET HIM.



Getty Images

I’m sure our regular readers are well aware of our Ben Hornby obsession. For the uninitiated, we here at Errol think our beloved Hornbag is vastly underrated…as a player and as a Cute Man.  Just because he’s pale like milk and his eyelashes/eyebrows/facial hair are invisible from a distance. I mean really. That is NO REASON to leave him out. Bastards!

Cuteness doesn’t only come in Daniel Conn shaped packages people. The Errol kiddies are all inclusive…we love everyone (except the Storm). The rangas, the fatties, the drunks and the under appreciated – WE LOVE YOU ALL!

There are two different types of Hornbag. Snuggly Hornbag and Despot Hornbag. Read about the intricate differences here. Obviously Snuggly Hornbag is the one in the running here.

Okay truthfully … we can’t really explain this one. WE JUST LOVE HIM OKAY? Don’t question us.

Needless to say there may be some tears in the judging room on the night before the Errols – this is a tough bitch of a category.  We invite all nominees to drop by the the Errol offices for a snuggle in the office beanbag to help us reach our decision. We promise to keep our hands to ourselves …. maybe.

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footy observations: … homer, ozzie and the straw

August 14th, 2008
The French Sirens are still Singing

For awhile, I was hopeful. Hopeful that the Olympics would completely blanket the sports pages and we’d be free of stories about THE DEATH OF RUGBY LEAGUE for two or three weeks. Sadly, no. Sonny Bill Feelings’ fugitive saga continues, and now Greg Inglis is apparently considering drinking the Khoder Nasser koolaid and heading to France.

I’m missing something, aren’t I? About the lure of the Nasser, and about Anthony Mundine. They speak and I hear english, everyone else apparently hears the sweet and seductive chimes of silver bells or the stirring roar of a “man with balls” and a rugby league role model.

If the courts ever do find Sonny Bill, will he be dressed in sunshine yellow robes, brushing Khoder Nasser’s hair, chanting “Jesus loves you” and answering only to the biblical name Meschach?

(The Polyphonic Spree are pissed you stole their look, by the way).

And Greg is kind of the last straw. I just can’t bring myself to care anymore. I have a lot of opinions, and even more rage, and even more love for league, but I’m finally spent. I’m happy to say to all the boys that if they want to go to France, just go to France. Off you go babies, on your bikes. I hear the south of France is lovely. Enjoy the scenery! Try the cotes d’agneaux!

Mmmmmmm cotes d’agneaux.

This is why you don’t visit the Springfield Mystery Spot

There is something that we really should be worried about, and I’m ninety percent sure that something is in the water over at Canterbury. Jessica’s beloved Reni Maitua is out for the rest of the season after a shoulder reconstruction. You might have guessed that things were Not Pretty when she heard the news. And after she had finally cried herself to the point of exhaustion and passed out on Intern Greg Bird’s shoulder, I had him move her to the couch and look up the rest of the Bulldogs team.

Turns out Reni’s busted shoulder is in fine company. It joins Willie Tonga’s announcement he’s heading to the Cowboys, Sonny’s defection to the Children of God – I mean, rugby – Arana Taumata being shipped out for punching someone’s jaw, Tim Winitana’s broken rib, and Ben Roberts and Lee Te Maari’s Cronulla punch-up dramaz as just one more reason why Belmore oval is a ghost town. WHAT IS GOING ON? How is it possible to lose so many players without actively knocking them off? Did they piss off the mob or something? Cause this shit is ridiculous.

As far as I can tell, this turn of events leaves only Hazem El Masri and … um, who else is left in the dogs? Nick Youngquest? Can he still play? Or is he still busy rescuing a local resident’s washing machine and household pets from a domestic fire?

I know Jarrad Hickey can’t still be playing, because he was accidentally hypnotised into thinking he’s a chicken; Andrew Holdsworth has been overdoing it on nerve tonic, and Andrew Ryan may or may not be suffering radiation poisoning.

That pretty much leaves us with John Kite, Ben Barba … and Daryl Strawberry. Right?

Sydney Water and Brian Waldron, I want you to get onto this immediately please. Jessica will have a stroke if it goes on much longer. She’s already started cackling at inappropriate moments and collecting cans of beans and foil to make helmets so she can climb into the basement and live as a recluse until the 2009 season starts. Bitch is seriously close to going off the deep end.

In the meantime, Jessica honey, why don’t we go to a happy place for awhile?

Titans Learn Read Good

pic: www.goldcoast.com.au

Oh yeah. That’s the good stuff.

Either Scotty Prince is pretty much an angel from above, or these boys have even better publicists than Big Dell, because it seems he and the Gold Coast Titans are launching an educational program.

An educational program. Called TLC. For little kids who need extra support at school. REALLY? Are you kidding me Scott Prince? Are you trying to kill me with cuteness? DAMMIT SCOTTY! I’M ONLY HUMAN. MY OVARIES, THEY CAN’T TAKE IT.

I was already feeling a little bit woozy when I saw that adorable picture of you with your kids. If this is some kind of late run to win the Snuggliest Man in League award, then all I can say is … it’s working. Tip of the cap to you, Mr. Prince. I don’t think the other bitches stand a chance.

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announcing: the oh errol awards 2008

August 3rd, 2008


We are proud, a little bit giddy and alot intoxicated to announce that this year, you have something to look forward to in the sad lull that comes between the Rugby League Grand Final in October and the supercrazypartyfuntimes intense competition of the rugby league World Cup. And isn’t that gonna be a great contest? Almost as compelling as the Commonwealth Games! Can you feel the excitement??

Anyway, that something is the 2008 Oh Errol Awards. We like to call them The Errols.

Today we will announce the nominees in all seven award categories. The lucky winners will receive their Errols at our glittering and illustrious awards ceremony in the Erskineville Bowling Club (beer on tap, food provided from the Chinese Bistro window). Hold onto your hats, bitches. Hereeeeee we go!

The Marlon Brando (the later years) Award for the Fattest Man in League

That’s right boys, this could be your future. Living as an eccentric recluse on an remote tropical island. Daily battling out-of-control bloating and the urge to wear nothing but muu-muus. Creepy companion midget is optional.

Past winners include Arthur Beetson and Daryl Brohman.

This year’s lucky nominees are:

Jarrad Hickey (Bulldogs)
Danny Wicks (Knights)
Mark ‘Piggy’ Riddell (Eels)
Adam Cuthbertson (Sea Eagles)
Steve Southern (Cowboys)

The award this year will also include a complimentary personalised jersey in the Parramatta Eels colours to recognise their excellent work as – by far – the fattest team in league.


The Fanta Pants Award for the Biggest Ranga in League



Previous receipients of the Fanta Pants award include Greg Florimo, Lance Thompson and Paul Vautin. The nominees for 2008 are:


Keith Galloway (Tigers)
Steve Southern (Cowboys)
Alan Tongue (Raiders)
Joel Monaghan (Raiders)
Peter Wallace (Broncos)


The winner of the Fanta Pants Award also receives a lifetime supply of Nair (to remove said Fanta pubes) and weekly therapy sessions to address the low self-esteem that is so often associated with a man of ginger persuasion.


The Polarfleece Award for the Snuggliest Man in League



There are all different types of attractiveness in this world. Men may not realise it, but ‘cute’ can mean a whole range of things. It’s possible to be intensely attracted to a man without immediately wanting him to put his penis in you. Yes really. When your first impulse is to take them to browse the soft furnishings section of Freedom, you have yourself a snuggly man.

Past Polarfleece winners have included the immensely snugglable Nathan Brown and Krisnan Inu.
This year the men we want to wrap ourselves ourselves up in a blankie with are:


Jarryd ‘Baby’ Hayne (Eels)
Issac Luke (Rabbitohs)
Ben ‘Hornbag’ Hornby (Dragons)
Jason ‘Flossy’ Nightingale (Dragons)
Scotty Prince (Titans)


Along with their Errol, the lucky winner will receive his very own alpine sweater, tin of drinking chocolate and a complimentary under-fleecy-blanket-snuggle from one of us. Kiki bags Hornbag.


The Des Hasler Award for the Best Hair in League
We can’t talk about this award too loudly around the office because Intern Brownie has a tendency to start weeping softly in the tea room, mourning for his dearly departed flaxen locks. We miss them too Brownie, we miss them too.
But in a league where there is so much douchey hair – Ben Roberts and Todd Carney we are looking at you – the men with the vision and strength to rise above peer pressure and sport truly luxurious manes deserve to be honoured.
Past receipients of the Des Hasler have included Peter Sterling (repeat winner 1983 and 1984) and Andrew ‘ET’ Ettingshausen.
This year we are deciding between the locks of:
Daine Laurie (Tigers)
David Williams (Sea Eagles)
Matthew Bell (Panthers)
Nathan Hindmarsh (Eels)
Ruben Wiki (Warriors)
To compliment his Errol, the winner of this award will also receive a gift pack containing Redken All Soft Treatment, two fro combs and a 15 minute scalp massage from intern John John. Don’t be alarmed if he leaves coconut tanning oil in your hair, it’s just his way.


The Caramel Delicious Award for the Best Skin in League
Look. We just notice Things Like This, okay? Some boys in the league have REALLY GOOD SKIN.  So good that we could just lick them.  Like a giant Werther’s caramel butterscotch.
So good, in fact, that were we inclined towards the old serial killer make-a-skin-suit out of someone thing, let’s just say these are the suits you’d want for formal occasions. And yes, we realise we are terribly terribly creepy. And you all love it.

Proud former Caramel Delicious winners include David Peachey. 

The nominees for this year are:

Willie Mason (Roosters)
Reni Maitua (Bulldogs)
Scott Prince (Titans)
Ashton Sims (Broncos)
Joel Moon (Broncos)

The Errol award for Best Skin will be accompanied by a pump pack of Palmer’s body lotion. Winners choice of Olive, Shea Butter or Original.


The Fuzzy Duckling Award for the Cutest Rookie of the Year

There are some young’uns making their way into the NRL who would deadset make your heart explode from adorableness. They just make our ovaries twinge with glee. Don’t question us, they just do. SO. MUCH. CUTENESS. SQUEEEE!

Previously the Fuzzy Duck has been awarded jointly to the overwhelmingly adorable Morris twins.

This year our awwww-radars are pinging for:

Kevin Locke (Warriors)
Marc Herbert (Raiders)
John Kite (Bulldogs)
Lachlan Coote (Panthers)
Wade Graham (Panthers)

When presented with their Errol, the winner will also receive a toybox filled with teddybears, matchbox cars and animal shaped soaps for bathtime.

The Matt Cooper Award for the Hottest Bitch in League

Technically, Matt Cooper should still qualify for nomination in this category. But we have (finally) realised that shit just isn’t fair. Who can compete with the Original Hot Bitch? His hotbitchness is above petty awards and mere competition. So even though we have disqualified him for competing this year, we will still honour mortals in the shadow of this god.
To date all Hot Bitch Awards have gone to Matt ‘Hot Bitch’ Cooper. Naturally.

The contenders in 2008 are:

Kayne Lawton (Titans)
Joe Picker (Raiders)
Matt Ballin (Sea Eagles)
John Williams (Cowboys)
David Williams (Sea Eagles)

This Errol will be accompanied by a bronzed cast of Matt Cooper’s bicep. Granted this prize may only serve to make them feel bad about themselves, but that’s really not our concern.

Over the coming weeks we will delve more deeply into the appeal of every nominee, methodically analysing why each of them are worthy of the honour. We did consider asking our readers for nomination suggestions but then we remembered we don’t really care what people who aren’t us think. No actually … thats a lie. We do love you all. We just love ourselves more.

Want to revel in the glamour of The Errols? Join us at the ceremony! Please send all ticket enquiries to errol@oherrol.com. Dress code is ‘Formal’, which means tuxedo t-shirts and double pluggers are acceptable and encouraged.

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the hot man news

July 23rd, 2008

We here at Oh Errol are nothing if not dedicated journalists. Committed to bringing you the most important news from around Australia and beyond.

And is there any news more important than hot mans in the NRL? I say no. Thanks to Bobby our reporter in the field, it has come to our attention that this weekend we will be treated to some fresh Canberran meat. Yes I am aware of how creepy that sounds, but I enjoy my sentence regardless. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Raiders young buck (Bobby’s words) Marc-with-a-C Herbert!

Image and video hosting by TinyPic

Look at that hair! Its strawberry blond deliciousness. He is thisclose to having a 1970s mop. Keep growing it baby! We are enthusiastic supporters of hair here at Errol. Hair love! The more hair, the better. On your head anyway. Although NRL players, may I just remind you that men are SUPPOSED to have body hair and religiously removing yours so you look like hairless cat is positively unattractive. No woman wants to hump a hairless man. No woman whose existence we approve of anyway.

Anyway, yes…MARC HERBERT! I hope for the sake of our eyes (and pants) that Captain Urination spends a lengthy stint on the sideline. We need more luxurious manes in rugby league. Although to be honest, no one can ever begin to come close to Dessy Hasler. BEST.HAIR.EVER. I’m convinced he’s got Kennedy blood running through those veins.

Readers, I’m also happy to report the future of NRL Hotness is looking bright. Incandescent even. I didn’t think Prince Scott the Caramel could get any more awesome, but he has. You see, he has been keeping his eye out for hotness north of the border. We didn’t even ask him to. He’s so pro-active! Keep this up and he may even join Brownie as an Errol intern. Lucky! So future intern, what have you got for us this evening?

“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.

Translation = THIS KID IS HOT.

Straight man code is so easy to decipher. You guys totally need to up the cagey factor if you wanna get one by us. It’s almost sad.

Anyway, Scotty… in your eagerness to describe the kids muscles of granite you forgot to to tell us his name. If you weren’t so busy eye raping him you woulda said “his name is Kayne Lawton.” You disgust me Prince. Objectifying a teenager like that. Have you no shame?

Seriously though, holy mother of GOD. Eighteen?? How is this possible? Wow just….wow. Hot Bitch Cooper, baby, you have an heir to the throne.

And finally, in the requisite human interest story that always concludes the news, let us talk about John Williams. Props to the mama and papa Williams who not only gave us The Hot Pioneer, but also produced the physical perfection that is his brother John. I would like to take this opportunity to say that my best mate knows the Williams from around the traps and thought I did too. We recently had a conversation that went something like –

K- You know who I love? The crazy bearded winger at Manly. David Williams.
S – Yeh we know him! And his brother! You know him Kiki…Hotdog! He plays for the Cowboys.

Um, no. No I don’t. Sure my memory is god awful (thanks vodka), but I’m preeeetttty sure I would remember a) a man called Hotdog and b) my eyes seeing THIS –

And that concludes the news for tonight. Go fuck yourselves, San Diego.

Hot Naked John thanks to the lovely Artie at FM Forums.

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the weekly manlove: benji and scotty edition

July 23rd, 2008

After the overwhelming success* of my footy observations last week, I’ve decided Errol needs more posts about love. And with all the pissing on people and scandal this week, we need it more than ever, right? So every week, if I remember, you’ll get another heartwarming exploration of what it is for a man to love another man. Yes, that loveliest and most fragile of all emotions, manlove.

This week is dedicated to Benji Marshall and Scott Prince. The finding of love, the testing of love, and the tyranny of distance.

* by ‘overwhelming success’ I mean ‘I found it funny’. Also Intern Brownie loved it. He said he had something in his eye, but you know he was totally having a cry. That big softie.

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State of Origin 3 : Black Wednesday

July 3rd, 2008

There was a lot of excitement in the air in the lead up to this game. A lot of Kiki the cripple’s excitement was probably because she hadn’t left the house in three weeks, had an intense case of cabin fever, and was completely desperate to see other people, to drink beer, and to abuse something or someone. But our hearts were also full to brimming with nerves for our baby blues and steely determination to take out this year’s State of Origin.

With Kiki clad in her very Jack Gibson-esque caramel vintage fur, and me rugged up in knitted cream beret and giant blues scarf, we set off – looking adorable – on the Hills Bus to do our bit to secure victory by drinking, abusing, dancing, cheering, and mocking hideous and hateful Queenslanders. Clearly we are an integral part of the NSW team.

If you’re wondering, yes we do do everything together. We’re creepy like that. We’re also blogging together right now. Because we’re nerdy like that.

The omens from the Gods were all pointing to success. We had cold beers in our hands and a pub carpark full of adorable mans dressed in blue to flirt with. There may be a mandrought, but when you corral all the colts it sure don’t seem that way.

When I (like an idiot, but not yet a drunken one) lost my cashed-up wallet in the crowd I was rescued by my own Origin angel. Adorably, his name was Mick. Mick the angel, dressed in a Blues jersey, who tracked down my wallet, tracked down my parents through Sensis and tracked down my mobile number to deliver it to me outside Gate K just as the first whistle blew.

Bet a Queenslander wouldn’t do that, bitches. They probably would have taken my eighty bucks and spent it on cans of Bundy for themselves and their girlfriends and/or sisters – who may be the same person – and Queensland stubby holders to put them in. You know it’s true.

After the origin miracle and two Smirnoffs we settled into the stadium to find something even more miraculous: ANZ Stadium was full of blue TRY signs, blue jumpers, blue wigs and blue pride. It almost had an atmosphere. Almost. I was so excited I almost peed a tiny bit. True story. Especially to see my baby Roosters Mitchell Pearce and Braith Anasta play together: LOOK HOW CUTE THEY ARE.

I know we all already know that the mighty blues were beaten, but let’s relive it in point form anyway. And I warn you in advance there won’t be much talk about football, because we don’t wanna talk about it, kk? All we have to say is THAT PASS WAS NOT FORWARD. Also, maybe if we had K Rudd hanging in our dressing room, things would have been different. Hmmmm?

* At only two minutes on the clock, we saw what everyone, deep in their heart, longs to see at Origin. A fight. Some biff. Big old anvil Petero Civenociva tackled Ben Cross with a high forearm to give away a penalty and the boys rushed from near and far to push and shove and throw a punch. Is there any sweeter experience than standing as one with 80,000 others to mime punches and scream ‘FIIIIIIIGHT!’ in the guttural animal tones of savages? I say no. Apparently I even scared Kiki a little with the intensity of my bloodlust. Who says there are no surprises in long-term relationships?

At the time, we actually thought it was a high tackle on Danny Nutley, and once the pro-violence group hysteria subsided we had to spend a good five minutes discussing when and how this mystery Danny Nutley selection wasn’t reported in the papers. Also isn’t he retired?

But now that I’m sober, I still say it’s an easy mistake to make. I bet everyone has confused Ben Cross and Danny Nutley at least once in their life. How often does a hairline like that come along anyway?


* Best of all, it was only minutes before we got to see it again. This is what has been missing from Origin, I say. NOT ENOUGH FIGHTING. In one moment of sheer sporting brilliance, Hot Bitch sprinted from the other side of the field to join the melee, and snapped Brent Tate’s head back with one swift grab of his ridiculous neck brace. This ensured he stayed vertical and could be more effectively pummelled by other New South Welshman. Now that is some smart thinking. I am also 90% certain that Craig Fitzgibbon had Pasty Greg Inglis in a headlock and I could die of joy at the memory of it.

* I should also say, as a general observation, I did not expect to be as overwhelmed as I was to be seated so very close to greatness. And by greatness, I mean the quivering molten human charisma that is Hot Bitch Cooper. You know whenever there’s a break in play and everyone is kinda exhausted and wandering? Not our Hot Bitch. He’s still standing there in ‘ready’ pose with all his muscles poised, sniffing out action, completely and utterly focussed. Like some kind of insanely hot football playing panther. Apparently hotness never rests.

It’s fair to say virtually nothing shuts the two of us up, but when he appeard on field, lust did. For at least four minutes. We just sat in silence and contemplated The Man; staring and thinking slutty, slutty thoughts. After a while, to be honest, we almost felt bad for raping him with our eyes. We exchanged a guilty look and wondered if we were somehow violating his human rights. I half-expected him to turn around and plead ‘I AM NOT A PIECE OF MEAT! I AM A MAN!’

When he scored the Blues’ only try, there was a frenzy of clapping and ‘GO HOT BITCH’ from our section of the stands, and since people with broken elbows can’t clap, a lot of foot-stomping from Kiki.

* Aside from the joys of close-up Coops, our D reserve seats behind the goalpost also offered a special blend of football fans from North and South of the Tweed. To our left, lovely gentlemanly St George Dragons fans. In front, a row of footy-lovin lesbians, and about twenty people dressed in matching blue plaid and facepaint. One aisle over, a man dressed as Where’s Wally? In one highlight from the closing minutes of the game, Where’s Wally and a group of teenagers erupted into mob violence in the stands and four men were arrested by police. Good times.

And to our right … wow. Where do we begin? How about: two ladies who embody every reason I have ever pitied or loathed a Queenslander.

Lady number one we shall christen “speak no evil”. Truly she did not speak. Not one word. Instead, she stared vacantly with mouth agape, in her Maroons jersey, strappy black kitten heels, and Amy Winehouse eyeliner. I’m a firm believer that those shoes are never the right choice, but surely even less so when you have feet like a hobbit. Are there no pumice stones in Queensland?

Lady number two more than made up for her though. “Hear no evil” spent eighty full minutes on her feet screaming ‘Queenslander’ in what can – political correctness aside – can only be described as a Deaf Voice. Even the Dragons fan to our left started contemplating physical violence fifteen minutes in, and he was at least thirty-five times nicer a person than we are. We felt mightily validated in our bitchery.

In the scheme of things, I guess they did need a win more than we did. When your hair and teeth are the same colour, you really deserve a little joy somewhere in your life.

* Injuries can make you laugh, and make you cry. Michael Crocker made us do both when he charged towards a kicking Mitchell Pearce and was knocked out by a football to the temple. I had previously thought nothing could be more hilarious than Dallas Johnson in Origin game one. I was wrong. The crowd rose to their feet and cackled as he staggered and side-stepped and swayed off the field like a Pantomime drunk. Every time he tried to stand his right leg buckled in a quivering Elvis impersonation, but old Mick just kept on trying. Who would have thought a ball to the head could bring so much joy? It also makes us happy that others are as cavalier towards head injuries as we are.

Hang in there, Mick mate.

Unfortunately the memory of those lolz wasn’t quite enough to ease our pain when our Baby Jarryd Hayne was knocked out in mid-tackle on a Queenslander. As he lay face down on the field we yelled in unison ‘OH NO IT’S BABY HAYNE!’ Put down your knitting, Hornbag! You might be going on!

A polarfleeced spectator turned around at that point and mockingly asked ‘ … baby?‘, but that doesn’t change the fact that he spent the rest of the game calling him Baby, too. I can’t wait till this nickname takes off Australia-wide. Go Baby, go!

We are also heartbroken that Caramel Scotty Prince has broken his arm. No one at the field even knew he was injured, he just … disappeared. Kiki likes to think the injury was a show of solidarity with her broken arm and they can now nurse each other back to health. I can’t figure out if he would prefer that to Wally Lewis, who actually did nurse him backstage. They looked super sweet together as Wally consoled him and pinned up his sling and helped him into his magenta dressing gown. Even when they’re Queenslanders you just can’t hate those two crazy kids.

(Don’t worry Steve Price, we can’t hate you either. You’re just too damn lovely).

* We also have a new Origin hero in the form of Ben “I’m not Danny Nutley” Cross. Not only was he the spark to the fire of the first fight in the game, he also played a starring role in the third one. The fight erupted when the missing link in human evolution that is Nate Myles threw Cross to the ground in a spear tackle. But our new baby Cross, despite being thrown onto his skull, just leapt to his feet and threw five amazing and hilarious uppercuts to a doubled-over Brent Tate.


If you’ve never seen a stadium full of people cheering and miming uppercuts, then you haven’t lived. It was amazing. Especially when we realised everyone hates Brent Tate. Knowing that restores my faith in humanity.

Note: I was considering including a picture of Tate, but we just don’t want his head on our blog.

* And finally, in the grand tradition of football, we drowned our sorrows afterwards. It was like a wake. Our hearts were sitting in our chests in a million little pieces. Thankfully vast amounts of Tooheys New and a cover band singing ACDC consoled us somewhat.

And as we set off on the 11.30 pm drunks only express from Homebush we also met five winners from Queensland who miaowed like cats, ran an auction to buy a bra for their lovelorn single friend to practice on, offered $14 to me if I would kick their ringleader in the nuts, and finally produced a replica Origin shield from thin air, signed by Danny Buderus. How is that possible? I think they stole it. It was also only the tragic lack of a felt tip pen that stopped the boys getting the transit cops to sign alongside it. The combined effect was that my heart healed a little bit, so thank you mystery boys. Can you believe people say Australian men aren’t charming?

We capped off the night with a visit to the always-classy Empire. This makes two visits to the Empire in six years, which I think is far too frequent. Don’t tell anyone.

It looked like origin had vomitted in there. Vomit made up of country boys, footy groupies, and maroon jerseys (suprisingly, no carrot – there’s usually always carrot). We were entertained by an under-20s footy team from Canberra, who squired us about, and seemed to enjoy the charms that Sydney has to offer. (Matt to Kiki: “nobody kisses like that in Canberra!”. I believe you on that one Matt). Wendell will be so disappointed he wasn’t there to watch.

In conclusion, they say tragedy and disappointment build character and teach life lessons. What we’ve learned from this experience is that two of Queensland’s most freakish players – Inglis and Folau – are, in fact, from NSW. This makes us kind of enraged. But we also learned that there is a silver lining to this awful cloud: at least Queensland can’t call themselves bloody underdogs anymore.

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Footy Observations of the Week # 2

May 27th, 2008

I’ve decided this will now be a regular thing for our little bloggy. Too much hilarity happens in rugby league to be encapsulated in just two recaps a week.

Lets talk about Sonny Bill shall we? What a week he’s had! Chock-a-block full of whinging, punching and some spectacular verbal diarrhea. On last weeks Footy Show he did an incredibly ill advised interview with Phil Gould, attempting to explain to The People why 400 grand a year just isn’t enough for his hot ass to live on. I’m starting to wonder just what sort of mentally challenged publicist SBW has hired.

Lets review the things we learnt in this car crash of an interview –

* SBW has ‘issues’ with the clubs management. ie – he doesn’t particularly love his bosses. Who the hell does heart their boss? No one, thats who.

* He hasn’t actually been offered a rugby contract of any kind. Nor has the ARU ever formally shown interest in him. At this point the choice of Union v League exists entirely in SBW’s head. Thus making all his public tanty throwing totally unneccessary. And extra annoying.

* He displays a somewhat tenuous grip on reality when he compares himself to the ‘average guy making $80,000 a year’. Who is this average guy earning 80 grand and when can I date him?

* SBW uses the good old “I’ve got to look after my family” justification. Despite the fact he is a single 22 year old with no wife or children. Can $400 grand a year not help feed your cousins SBW? Must be big eaters those Williams.

* In one of the best television moments in the history of the civilised world, Sonny Bill utters the words “people have to remember…I have feelings too”.

I swear to you readers, I actually slid off the lounge in a fit of incredulous giggles. I CAN’T BELIEVE HE JUST SAID THAT. Amazing.

Unsuprisingly, The People’s reaction to this interview wasn’t exactly positive. And this was predictably displayed in the press. And I think SBW was genuinely shocked that his Big Interview wasn’t the public relations success he had envisaged. But but…why don’t they liiiike me? I’m a good guuuuy! I swear! I’M JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE!

I honestly think Sonny Bill is probably a lovely guy and means well. But best intentions, road to hell etc etc. I think he just can’t understand why people find his whinging intolerable. He doesn’t get why The People just can’t sympathise with him. I think he is genuinely confused that people don’t understand where he’s coming from.

The problem is…he has been so famous from such a young age he simply can’t comprehend what it’s like to be normal. How can you be with all that constant adulation? Sonny, you are not just like everyone else. And you never will be.

Now lets discuss the delicious fall out from this saga. Sonny Bill’s palpable raaaage! LOVE IT! He was ‘hell in football boots’ last night against the Sharks. Bitch was pissed. Every tackle was fuelled by anger and it was awesome to watch. Usually he’s not one to start fights but last night he niggled till he could niggle no more. SBW and Greg Bird came thisclose to starting some midfield biff. Sadly the referee put a stop to that. Props to Birdy for going up against a pissed off Sonny Bill. That man has balls. And possibly a death wish.

The crowning moment occured when SBW stripped the ball from Ben Ross (as he has every right to). Ben Ross objected to this and pushed Sonny fairly hard in response. SBW reacted by jumping to his feet and throwing a cracker of a punch. WOOOO! I love biff. Is there anything greater? I say no.

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SBW you are a naughty naughty boy!

Now! Let us turn our attention to the awesomness that is Scott Prince. I know hes a Queenslander but I still adore him. I love the fact the Channel 9 commentators have labelled him ‘The Surgeon’ due to his clinical dissection of the opposition. Why they can’t just call him ‘The Prince’ is beyond me. I am also on a mission to find to solve the mystery of his ethnicity. He looks like no man I’ve ever seen. So lovely and caramelly. Mmm…caramel.

Anyway, he is generally likeable and plays some amazingly watchable football. But this past Sunday against the Tigers he revealed himself to be even more awesome than I previously thought. As you all know, a bit of biff occured… albeit very confusing biff. More like a clusterfuck of pushing and shoving than concentrated violence. The ref sends off Tigers forward Bryce Gibbs and Titans hooker Nathan Friend (who is a total mini version of Andrew Ryan donchathink?). Princey is mighty annoyed, goes up to plead his case to the ref and then gives us the biggest footy lolz of the year so far-

“You’ve sent their dumb forward off and you’ve sent off our smart hooker. It’s unfair!!”

Even better, after the game the press asked Bryce Gibbs if he was offended by the comment. He responded with this –

“He’s always called me a dumb front-rower, even when he played here…. “

BRILLIANT! brilllliant! Scott Prince you are my hero.

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go back in time