irish eyes are crying

November 23rd, 2008


Yeah, this post is so late it’s almost redundant. Soz, but I’ve been busy being a Triple M superstar. We are also having some serious discipline problems with our staff here at Errol HQ, which is severely affecting our productivity. Intern John John has been sent to a special Intern Bootcamp for his recent insolence. Intern Danny Wicks is being punished for his insurrections by having his daily food budget cut to only $200 and Work Experience Boy Lachie is currently sitting on the naughty step. IT’S A NIGHTMARE PEOPLE.


Anyway, onto the Irish. Our beloved Wolfhounds have well and truly left our shores and my heart is broke. Broke broke broke. Well at least it was. I think I’m okay now. I’m only bursting into tears twice a day. PROGRESS! As I’ve said repeatedly on Errol, I am not a particularly emotional person. However I am well … I’m kind of sentimental. I just get attached to things. People and objects.

When I travel I honestly can’t bear to pack my precious vintage tees into my check-in suitcase. They must be on my person at all times. Suitcases get lost. It happens all the time. It’s DANGEROUS. My cabin bag never contains toiletries … who cares if you lose your moisturiser?  You can always buy more. You know what you can’t buy more of? Priceless Fleetwood Mac vintage tees, thats what. This sentimentality of mine can cause problems. Last time I returned from the US my cabin bag was chockas and I refused to risk trusting my precious vintage to baggage handlers so, well … I just wore it.


Much to Sassy’s delight, I flew from LA to Sydney dressed in approx 4 layers, including a bright yellow vintage adidas tracksuit and carrying multiple shopping bags filled with hats. As we were checking in, Andrew G rolled up in a silver convertible and sauntered through with one bag. ONE BAG. He totally judged me with his eyes. Bitch.

ANYWAY, I get attached to shit. And the Irish boys were like the finest vintage tee money can buy. You wanna pack em in your bag and take them everywhere you go. Okay that sounded creepy, but you know what I mean. THEY ARE LOVABLE OKAY?

Marlo, Lozzy and myself were so invested in the boys’ success that we travelled to the Goldy to watch the boys play their semi-final against Fiji. What a heartbreaking motherfucker of a game.

First of all the administrators of Skilled Park, in their infinite wisdom, decided to split up the Blarney Army into a million pieces. The boys kept looking into the stands for their wall of green love and NOTHING. And this time we weren’t even close enough for them to hear our creepy/encouraging yelling. Obviously if we were, they totally woulda won.

The boys tried hard. Things were made difficult by the fact it was a godamn injury fest. Mick McIlorum (aka Irish Channing Tatum) made an awesome tackle but possibly crushed his chest cavity whilst doing so. Finn split his head open at some point. Tandy’s nose leaked blood almost the entire match, and Scott Grix had his face ripped off his skull and literally BROKE BONES. It was like the Civil War out there people!


I half expected their trainer to emerge with a rusty saw, a flagon of whiskey and a hunk of wood for biting down and amputate legs right there on the sideline. Come to think of it, that would be kind of awesome. Maybe next time.

In summary, they lost. And our collective hearts broke. Unsurprisingly, we all reacted to this trauma by getting completely and utterly shitfaced together.  But in our defense it was their last night! AND THERE WAS FREE BEER! Well, the beer was free for the team and their entourage. In my mind that meant me. The other girls don’t have the same charming sense of entitlement as me and actually PAID for drinks. Suckkkeeeers.

I also promised a few of you I would take photos, and I did! Except at some point I drunkenly accidentally changed the camera to black and white mode and couldn’t see figure out how to change it back. So you get black and white photos.

Lets break this down shall we?



Otherwise known as Mick Cassidy, Mick-Cass was by far our favourite of the squad. Sure, he didn’t get much game time but he did get lots of Errol girls time and THAT’S WHAT MATTERS. That’s what he will be telling his grandkids about and you know it.

At 35, Mick-Cass is the oldest man in the World Cup … and possibly the world. He insists he isn’t in fact the oldest, but whatevs.  Until we see a birth certificate for Stanley Gene we refuse to change our story. All I know is … he played in the 1995 World Cup. 1995! I don’t think I even had pubes back then.

Reasons we love Mick-Cass –

1) He has a gut but he wears Speedos when training
2) He gives good hug
3) He wears beige Crocs because ‘they go with everything’
4) He is the blondest man in the universe
5) He loves us

We adore him so much, Marlo decided to buy him a gift in the form of some accessories for his beloved Crocs. She trotted out in her lunchbreak and purchased two little pieces of Croc jewellery for him … one an Aussie flag and the other a four leaf clover. Here she is presenting said gifts:



Okay no, this is the cutest thing ever. Ladies and gentleman, I present to you – Mick-Cass and Hot Ginge Gleeson.


If you can find something cuter than that I will switch my allegience from Dragons to Sharks.



That’s him on the left. And yes … that is his real name. Like Mick-Cass he didn’t get much game time but we like to think us showering him with love made up for it. Since the boys went home we have met some people that have sworn he was a tool but to us he was AMAZING. We feel like … Wayne Whisperers.

To say Wayne is charming is a gross understatement. This bitch literally drips charm. I mean that in the least icky way possible. He is also kinda unhinged. The entire evening in the Goldy he would walk up to me, grab me by the shoulders and lick my cheek. From jaw to forehead. Then walk away WITHOUT SAYING A WORD. He did at least 4 times. And it was probably the highlight of my year.

He also immortalised himself on Marlo’s t-shirt with the message: ‘you make my rats tail curl’. WE LOVE YOU WAYNE!


Otherwise known as Michael McIlorum, Ireland’s answer to Channing Tatum was another favourite of ours. Despite the fact he is the surliest man in surly town, his mojo could be seen (sensed? can you see mojo?) from space. One sneer and a ‘hello darlin’ and we were goners. We also enjoyed his retro mid game stretching.

We like to think we won him over. Proof?

Profile photo on the official team website –


Photo taken when with us –


You can’t argue with science.

And now for some more happy snaps from our Errol album!


You’re packed and you’re stacked ‘specially in the back
Brother, wanna thank your mother for a butt like that


Liam Finn shows off his head wound.


Blanchy and Pat Richards representing the Aussie born Irish contingent. We heart you boys!


FM Forum favourites Bob Beswick and Karl Fitzpatrick looking supremely uncomfortable after I told them to pose for their gay fans. After a few beers Bob was decidedly less uncomfortable and began showing me his luxurious chest hair. He reminds us of a brunette Hot Bitch Cooper. Wait … can men be brunettes? They can now.


Gareth Haggerty shirtless bartending. Don’t ask.

And that’s about it. Well, I have more pics but they are definitely not for public consumption.

We had such an awesome experience with the Wolfhounds and the Blarney Army. They even gave us gift packs! Gift packs and free beer! LOVE! We feel so lucky to be invited along for the ride and we want to thank the boys for letting us hang around and annoy/molest them.

Everyone in the team was really committed and we believe they can do even better at the next World Cup. I just wish I didn’t have to wait four years to get my face licked by Wayne Kerr.

[I’d like to add that while it was awesome hanging with the Irish boys, my own personal highlight was seeing Manly winger and Man We Love Michael Robertson. Just like, strolling by at the Goldy, apparently uniting with any old North Western European team since Scotland was kicked out. If you’re wondering, he was SO lovely and even posed for photos with us, which I may or may not tape to my ceiling like I used to do with Hanson posters. – lozzy]


r-l-w-c w-r-a-p: go you irish, go!

November 9th, 2008

So I have an apology to make. There has been no World Cup news from me for aaaages, and I’m sorry kittens. I know, I know, you’re all jonesing. But you see I have been extremely busy doing Important and Urgent things, like giving myself pedicures, buying spangly cardigans from St Vincent de Paul, and getting drunk and going to see Richard E. Grant in My Fair Lady. By the way yes, I LIKE MUSICALS. MUSICALS AND RUGBY LEAGUE. I’m pretty much a renaissance woman.

And now cause I’m sleepy from sunbaking, let’s just go over the important bits, shall we?


New Zealand played England. Australia played England. England lost. Twice. And the truth is … we didn’t really care.  About any of them.

But I’m kinda starting to think maybe someone has tipped off the Aussie team in particular that the kids here at Errol HQ care not for the Kangaroos, because it seems like those bitches have been working overtime to win us back.

After trying to lure us back by pimping out the adorableness of Prince Scotty the Caramel on the field (… almost worked, but not quite. HI SCOTTY!), they upped the lovable factor by naming Terry Campese in the squad to play Papua New Guinea tonight. Or, as we like to call him, Corporal Campese of the Light Horse.

When we suggested Terry can rock a hat, this isn’t what we had in mind.

And in what is kind of like the footy equivalent of sewing knives in your suit sleeves or hitting below the belt in boxing, then those crafty bitches went and did this:


Damn you Kangaroos! LOOK HOW CUTE THAT IS. Four Kangaroos cruisin’ around in their tiny pink jeep, like Derek Zoolander and his freewheeling model pals. Drinking orange mocha frappaccinos. Singing to Wham, frolicking in petrol stations.

The only difference is that I’m pretty sure that little pink Jeepy, or mini-moke, or whatever those crazy Queensland folk call it, is working a wholllle lot harder than Derek Zoolander’s Jeep.  That poor little engine is pushing around four International league forwards.  WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CARBON EMISSIONS?  In other news, is Brent Kite throwing gang signs? For serious?

Either way, I’m almost starting to … care. This is horrifying. But fear not children, everything will be ok. Just trust Aunty Sassy and look at the Queenslanders. FOCUS ON THE QUEENSLANDERS.

… gasoline fight!

ABORT ABORT! Ok, I’m back to mild distaste and indifference now. That’s more like it. Let’s have a quick gin and get back to things we actually care about.


We’ve been on Team Wolfhound since the World Cup started, and now that the Irish boys have decimated Samoa and topped their pool, everyone else is too. ABOUT TIME, BITCHES. You know it’s lonely out here sometimes, being totally cutting edge like we are. *flicks hair*

And WE ARE SO PROUD OF OUR MANS. Not just because that was some fucking entertaining footy, but because they had a blinder.  WE KNEW YOU COULD DO IT, BABIES.  Pat Richards grounded three tries, and kicked enough goals that I’m actually rethinking whether the Irish will have to bring in some kind of Priest to exorcise the bad spirits from his goal-kicking Leg of Doom.

As we suspected, Wayne Kerr is a foolproof good luck charm whenever he’s named in the team.  At the very least he has a 100% success rate so far.

And everyone’s favourite hot ginge (sorry, Prince Harry) Sean Gleeson almost made Kiki spill her drink in excitement when he ran in his try.  We’re only a lil bit sad that we couldn’t make the trek out to sit with the Blarney Army again.  We love those crazy kids.

Disclaimer: may not in fact be Sean Gleeson

I would love to analyse the game for you, but I was a little nervous on the boys’ behalf, and I may have been drunk SO THIS IS WHAT YOU GET. And the end result is that Lozzy and Kiki are jetting up to the Gold Coast on Monday night to watch the Errol-approved Wolfhounds take on Fiji for a spot in the semi-finals.

I have a weird feeling that watching the game back at Errol HQ with Intern Danny Wicks and work experience boy Lachie while we hold the fort is gonna be stressful. As if it’s not tricky enough on a normal night trying to make sure Danny Wicks doesn’t eat all the chalk from the stationery cupboard again and deflecting Lachie’s questions about why people call Intern John John ‘hotdog’ and where babies come from. Now I have to choose between our Irish and the Fijians.

HOW CAN YOU CHEER AGAINST BABY HAYNE? It just Doesn’t Seem Right. I also have to make a really tough decision between whether we go for Irish Whiskey or vodka pineapple (my Fiji happy hour drink) for after-work bevvies. My life is so hard.  Perhaps I shall have both.

Game pics: Getty Images

Jeepy pics: news.com.au


a world cupdate!

November 1st, 2008


See what I did there? That is the sort of A grade wit people expect from Errol. In my defence, it ain’t my fault. Much to John John’s horror, Intern Danny Wicks has been bringing in truckloads of baked goods every day this week and it’s all I can think about. Mmm….cupcake.

ANYWAY…how super party happy fun times as the World Cup been so far? The Errol team has been absolutely loving it. Lets break things down shall we?

The Wolfhounds


Well it’s safe to say we have fallen head over heels In Love with the boys, their staff and the Blarney Army. We have basically decided to be part of their entourage, whether they like it or not. We like to think our pushy sense of entitlement is charming. Sassy and I headed out to Parramatta Stadium to watch them in action against Tonga on Monday night. Being sheltered Eastern Suburbs girls, neither of them had ever actually been to Parramatta. Their wide eyed contempt wonder was something to behhold.

That combined with the fact it was the Hottest Night Ever and we were watching two foreign teams made us feel like we were on some bizarre overseas holiday. Sweating profusely whilst watching footy = strange. Strange and gross. It was also a peculiar experience to watch a team line up that you have sorta kinda gotten to know. There was actual NERVES on our part. Mostly because we wanted them to leave the field with their heads still on their shoulders, but we just really want them to do well.


Why is that? Well, despite the fact they are clearly adorable…we are behind them because we believe they deserve the success. There’s been a bit of chatter about the lack of first generation Irish in the team but honestly, these boys are committed. They are bloody proud of that jumper and played their absolute hearts out the other night. They were in it until the last second and were totally shattered after the game.

They felt like they let their team, their supporters and their country down. We patted their backs, massaged their egos and told them a million times IT’S OKAY YOU PLAYED SO WELLLLLLL but it didn’t seem to change their minds. Still sad face city! So I reverted to what I know best. Inappropriate touching. A few arse grabs and everyone was all smiles again. See! I am good for something. Maybe I could even molest the NSW Blues into victory next year? Magical molesting!


As for the game, media and fans alike have praised the boys for their bravery in defence and we have to agree. Apart from their pocket rocket hooker, Tonga is a team of brick shithouses.Stuff that they are BRICK SHITMANSIONS! Seeing Stuart Littler drag a Tongan boy out into touch was one of the highlights of our year. For serious. We were also really impressed with the Wolfhounds fantastic kick and chase. Enthusiasm for the win!

To be honest, this was a stressful bitch of a game. I was thisclose to asking for take away vodkas and retreating to hide in Sassy’s Rav 4. If I wasn’t so horrifically lazy, I totally would have. I thought I was nervy with the Dragons, but watching boys you kinda sorta know play IS THE FREAKING WORST. How do people do it? I deadset had a minor stroke. My left side still isn’t functioning correctly and I will be forwarding my medical bills to Rugby League Ireland.

And, in the interests of full disclosure, we have to admit we all have a giant school girl crush on centre Sean Gleeson. Or as we call him, Hot Ginge Gleeson. To be frank, this took us by surprise. Sure, we are decidedly pro ranga here at Errol….but finding a man of ginger persuasion actually ATTRACTIVE? In our pants? How did this happen?

Well he is pretty much the most adorable man in Adorabletown. To quote the ever eloquent Sassy –

When he smiles, baby ginger striped kittens burst out of flowers and frolic in the sunshine.

IT’S TRUUEEEEE! We are tres invested in his well being and kept standing up and yelling creepy supportive things from the sideline. When he messed up a pass that woulda been a sure try our hearts broke for him. Everyone was all pissy, but  we were all IT’S OKAY SEANY! WE STILL LOVE YOU! IT’S GONNA BE ALRIGHT BABY!


In the second half, he got absolutely poleaxed by a Tongan we died a second, more horrible death. He lay prone on the ground, obviously in a large amount of pain. Because we are excellent journalists we knew all about his health problems, and we were instantly reminded he had been battling a back injury all tour. NOOOOO! NOT HIS BACK! HIS ADORABLE ADORABLE BACK! We were light headed from the fear. Or humidity. Whatever. When he bravely got up and limped away we were overjoyed…THAT’S IT DARLIN! WALK IT OFF! GOOD BOY! WE LOVE YOU!

We thought nothing of our shouting love until as we were leaving the old bloke behind us taps me on the shoulder and seriously says ‘tell your boyfriend Sean he did really well’.

Yep, we are officially dirty ranga lovers.

The Passionz


Despite Rebecca Wilsons arrogant assertion that no one cares about the World Cup, the passion on display during the tournament so far has been truly inspiring. Judging from Monday nights turn out, no one told the Tongan fans that Madame Wilson sees the Tongan team as nobodies. God guys, haven’t you heard? You are minnows! MINNOOOOOWS!

Seriously though, shit was breathtaking. I love league more than life itself, and to know that international league has that much support warmed my cockles. Hehehe…cockles. I haven’t heard noise or felt atmosphere like that since…well I can’t remember the last time. Sitting as lone Irish supporters in a bay of Tongans was well…interesting. Those bitches are formidable. A young boy kept turning around giving me filthies every time I yelled something pro Irish. Given the fact at 12 yrs old he was at least 3.5 times the size of me, I considered pulling my head in. I didn’t, because I am stubborn and obnoxious. But I CONSIDERED it.

The deafening TONNNNGA…TONGGAAA chant combined with the wall of green noise coming from the Blarney Army caused me to sarcastically yell OH YEH WILSON NO ONE CARES ABOUT THE WORLD CUP HMMMMMMMMMM. More than once. Coz in my mind, she totally heard me.

Now add Samoa to the mix and we get the awesome spectacle that was last night. Unsuprisingly I am not exactly an expert on Pacific Island relations except for that one time I went for a job with some sporting company that was running the Pacific Games. In my interview they seriously asked if I ‘minded dogs’, because apparently there is ‘a lot of wild dogs in Samoa’. And do I mind flirting with Samoan officials because ‘that is the way things get done in the Islands’. I wish I was joking.

AND THEY DIDN’T EVEN HIRE ME. Can you believe that? I’m not qualified enough to flirt with lecherous Samoan bureaucrats or beat away packs of wild dogs with a giant stick. Awesome.

Errrr anyway so yeh, I don’t know much about the Islands. I had no idea that Tongans and Samoans don’t feel loveytimes towards each other. WHO KNEW!

“I grew up in Grey Lynn and there were always issues with Tongans and Samoans. It got pretty bad at one stage, a couple of dudes got their heads chopped off at the markets,” Vagana told NZPA of when the rivalry turned ugly in South Auckland.

Got their heads chopped off? Makes our ‘rivalry’ with the Kiwis look pretty piss poor. Maybe if we had market beheadings our games would actually be interesting. Get on that boys. CHOP CHOP! Lolz…chop.


Anyway, what a game! And even better than the game…the war dances. WAR DANCES. They are literally the coolest things I have ever seen. The puffed cheeks, the macho posturing…the imaginary spears. It’s all too much. I think we should convene a conference of leaders from all Pacific Island nations to come up with a war dance for each NRL team. Sure, this may be disrespecting thousands of years of culture but HOW AWES WOULD IT BE? Imagine Whitey McWhites like Brett Finch busting out some Haka style moves. Amazing.

Needless to say my new found love for all things Islander will be immediately forgotten when the Irish take on Samoa next week. ERIN GO BRAGH!


r-l-w-c w-r-a-p: all is full of love

October 24th, 2008

Ok these recaps are going to have to become so much more frequent. For a non-event, the Rugby League World Cup isn’t skimping on the pre-competition action.

Once I recovered from our night on the tiles with the Blarney Army after meeting the Wolfhounds last weekend – not with the players, of course … they have training to do, remember? – I realised that the World Cup was being completely hilarious and we were missing it.  Travesty.

Mick ‘Jan Brady’ Robertson has been off training with the Scottish team, eating haggis and being generally awesome about having to rock the kilt at formal occasions:

Looking forward to that, it will be a bit interesting I don’t think I have the legs for it.

DON’T UNDERSELL YOURSELF BABY!  You’ve got good knees and you know that’s really the main thing, right?

Note to Scotland: I hope they get matching vests too. Arrange that pls.

Actually, bloody everyone is turning out to be a bit lovable in this world cup.  It’s so confusingggg.  The French – those poor bastards – have now been moved from Caloundra to Canberra, but even they’ve managed to stay classy.   Eric Anselme said he was honoured.

… It’s good to be part of the facilities of the Raiders.  They are a very great club. I remember as a young guy in France I grew up watching Mal Meninga.

Seriously, bitches, how am I meant to cope with this?  I can’t handle it.  I have a hard enough time coping with torn loyalties in the NRL, and I hate half the teams in that.  There’s nothing worse than watching a team you like walk, heads bowed, from the field after a loss.  So what do you do if you like both teams?  I’M GONNA BE HAPPY/MISERABLE WHOEVER WINS.  Excuse me while I take a xanax.

My original World Cup plan was to take out my snark on the Aussie team and the poms.  Before you say anything, no this doesn’t make me a traitor.  Non-Aussies just often don’t understand the careful dynamics of Australian league.  And while I love my country, that love is almost almost outweighed by the fact that – as a New South Welshlady – I loathe Queenslanders.  Individually, they may be lovely, but on the field, they are nothing but dirty Queenslanders dressed in disgusting Maroon.  It’s Just Fact.

And the Aussie team is horrifyingly packed with them. At the Kangaroos Bondi training session, it was dirty Queenslanders beachside as far as the eye could see. They even outnumbered the sunburnt pommie tourists. BUT SIR, THEY’RE EVERYWHERE!

Billy Slater on a surfboard, Brent Tate practising mouth-to-mouth, Greg Inglis … being Greg Inglis.  Ok so I don’t know what he was doing but I KNOW HE WAS THERE. And perhaps, most disturbingly of all, Johnathan Thurston wearing inappropriate white boardies. Even Billy Slater won’t put up with that shit.

Really, mate? You went with white? I know we’re meant to be bonding but I’m just not comfortable knowing you quite this well.

[I’m assuming the lifesavers are proud New South Welshman and like us, loathe Dirty Queenslanders. Therefore may I suggest that they are not so much demonstrating mouth to mouth as attempting to suffocate Tate by using the burking method? I saw it on Law and Order once so it must be real. -K]

The only redeeming thing about the whole beach training fiasco was seeing Ron ‘the Cougar‘ Palmer – trainer for my babies, the Roosters – rocking out in his Official Aussie Team Budgie Smugglers.

No one is surprised Monaghan has to wear a rashie. The sun is not kind to rangas.

But then even those crafty Queenslanders won my heart. They unleashed their secret weapons in the form of Steve Price in his custom-designed Kangaroos bucket hat (HE JUST REALLY LIKES BUCKET HATS, OK?) and Scotty Prince, aka Prince Scotty the Caramel … and they were hugging. Game over, I’m done. I officially now don’t hate any team in the world cup. You adorable bastards.

But the real stars of the news this week are team Fiji. Media outlets are falling over themselves to pimp out the fact that the Fijians are staying in Woy Woy and drinking Sustagen Kava from plastic cups.  If I was feeling narky and English-majory today I would maaaaybe say that all this press interest has an air of ‘the noble savage’ about it, but instead let’s say that the Errol gals don’t need any convincing about how awesome Fiji is.  And not just cause we are oddly fond of Jarryd ‘Baby’ Hayne.

We love them almost as much as Andrew Johns loves Akuila Uate.  Uate is lining up for Fiji in the Cup, and Joey says:

In all my years in rugby league I’ve never seen a better athlete than this bloke … it’s all raw power.

And even though I’ve only seen him on the field once or twice, it does seem like he’s lining up to be a bigger, better Lote Tuqiri.  But, and this is where it gets a little weird:

You touch him and the muscle fibre is incredible. His vertical leap is phenomenal and the bloke has a backside you could sit a drink on. It’s frightening to think just how good he could be.

Why is this in the newspaper? Is Joey considered some kind of arse conoisseur, based in his own impressive booty? Is he the go-to man for arsenalysis? HOW DID THIS COME ABOUT?

… Sigh. Look, I hate when someone manages to be creepier than me.


irish eyes (and pants) are smiling

October 20th, 2008

You kittens might remember that Sassy and Kiki were off to meet the Irish Wolfhounds on Friday. We considered just going to their official jersey presentation this Thursday to do our actual interviews, until we realised that we’d be passing up an opportunity to get drunk in the afternoon to get to know the team in an informal way as part of our research.

dlfkgone of the many outfit options considered for the occasion

We set off for the Mona Vale golf club, and applied our make up in the carpark, much as we imagine Jana Wendt did in her heyday. We are such winners. And we suspect the Mona Vale staff are tres impressed by those vagrant go-getter journalist girls who live in a car.

We should also point out that we were the only women in a sea of about fifty men, which is much like what we imagine it feels to be the only gazelle in a pride of lions. Kiki wore high heels for approximately two minutes before popping back into the Rav to change into thongs, possibly to better run from the stalking lions.  But what can we say? These are the kinds of sacrifices we make for Errol. We’re like immersion journalists … or something. Just call us the Hunter S Thompsons of rugby league.

As for the Wolfhounds, let’s just say we think we’re on a winner here.  If not World Cup winners, then definite front-runners for the perviest team in the cup.  They are to football what Errol is to the world of journalism. Delightfully low-rent (economy class flights, anyone?), totally confused as to what they are sposed to be doing at what time and well … maybe a tiny little bit drunk.

lkdgHigh tech training techniques spur the Irish on to certain victory

We never thought we would meet people who could keep up to us in the sexual innuendo stakes but these boys put us to SHAME. AND! Just like us their perviness is charming and not at all offensive. Of course.

In the interests of full disclosure, we should admit that we weren’t in our finest form.  We’re not tactful ladies at the best of times, and Kiki in particular spends most days with her foot firmly lodged in her mouth, but the evening with the Wolfhounds was memorable even for us.  How about we review the top five foot-in-mouths to give you a general idea?  In no particular order:

1) Kiki loudly announces to the Blarney Army I’M GONNA GO CHANGE MY SHOES, I FEEL LIKE A DIRTY PROSSIE.

2) … sits down next to the team, a good 3-5 minutes after meeting them, and points out ‘you are all a lot more attractive than I expected. I thought you would be all withered, sunburnt and fug like the Irish backpackers that skeev around Bondi!’

3) .. decides to explain in detail the Oh Errol team’s patented ‘We Don’t Fuck Footy Players (except Hot Bitch Cooper if he ever offered)’ policy. In her defense the Irish had made the mistake of asking why Coops was the singular exception to this rule and she merely obliged with excruciating detail. We maintain they really did need to understand the intricate levels of his hotness OKAY?

4) … rants for a good 10 minutes about a certain ex NRL player who shall remain nameless being a complete douchebag without realising most of the table are his current Super League team mates.

5) … and finally, corners poor Pat Richards to ask “did you hear about Sonny Bill?!”  She felt his answer of “errr yes…of course I did” was her queue for a soliloquy detailing SBW, more about SBW, her feelings on SBW and the 100 reasons why he is a “complete and utter DOG”.  Pat just sat there smiling politely, clearly wishing he was elsewhere. Far, far away from Kiki and her rantings.

In summary?  Pretty much the usual Errol.  but fear not, we did get the answers to the questions on everyone’s lips about the Wolfhounds:

Yes, they are handsomer than you’d think.

Yes, they are almost all sunburnt.

Yes, they do drink cider.

Yes, Wayne Kerr is his real name.

And a ‘loose forward’ is actually some kind of lock. Which is disappointing, and not nearly as pervy as we’d hoped / it sounds.

Because we are journalistic renegades, we decided to to turn the tables and let the boys throw a few questions our way:

“Why are you here?”

“Are you wearing a wire? I think I should check.”

“What newspaper do you work for?”

“If you’re a journalist, where’s your little pen and paper?”

“If you’re journalists, why are you drinking?”

“So do you go for footballers then?”

“Where’s my ice?”  (seriously Wayne Kerr, we are not your waitresses!)

In general, the boys are positive about their upcoming matches.  The only people who seemed even vaguely worried about facing up to the Tongan and Samoan forward packs were the two non-footballers.  ‘But … but have you seen Tonga?’ we cried.  ‘THEY HAVE A 120KG 18-YEAR OLD!’  Our cautionary tales about the Islanders were met only with confused faces and the response ‘… but we are from Ireland’.  It’s cause Aussies don’t say the letter r, isn’t it?

They are also surprisingly artsy, and can fashion a fairly lifelike piece of human anatomy from a bbq dinner. We think the team in general seemed impressed by Sassy’s creative suggestions re: potato salad.

And the truth is, we’d love to give you some snark or some dirt on the Wolfhounds, but those bitches are just too likable.  If Sean Gleeson were in the NRL, he’d be a shoo-in for snuggliest man. We explained to him that in Australia he is known as a ‘ranga’, but technically is actually more of a ginger nut. He has the cutest smile ever, in case you’re wondering. Stevie Gibbons conducted probably the least confident auction in history, and it was awesome. How can you not love a man with the same name as Our All Time Super Idol Stevie Nicks?


If Michael McIllorum was a Yank he could make a tidy career as a Channing Tatum impersonator.  Karl Fitzpatrick won us over immediately with his greeting of ‘I didn’t think you were real! I thought ‘why would 4 girls from Australia be messagin me? I even deleted ya message! But here you are .. in 3D!’ And Wayne Kerr has enough charisma for about four men. Okay … make that five. Seriously, he is kind of amazing.

gfkMcIllorum happily particpates in Errol HQ’s Pants Off Friday

Oh yeah, and what about the football?  Right. Football. We could tell you everything the experts say, and we could make up some stuff about how the individual players have played in Super League – cause God knows we’ve never watched ESL in our lives – but wouldn’t you rather the truth? Truth is – they are damned awesome.

All of them. I know alot of people are getting behind the Pacific Island nations but we are unequivocally throwing all our support the Wolfhounds. Australia, be damned! (By the way almost the entire Kangaroo squad is made up of Dirty Queenslanders and we DON’T LOIKE IT. HMPH.)

We’ll be watching Ireland play Tonga on Monday night at Parramatta and we will bring you our reports on their game and the progress of their sunburn without fail.


footy observations – crack, bbqs and a pot'o'gold

October 12th, 2008

Ok so you people have been hassling me non stop all week to do a new post and I can’t take it any more. Apparently Errol has turned you all into Tyrone Biggums, jonesing for your sweet sweet Kiki crack. So because I’m a dirty enabler, I’m giving into your demands and delivering you some grade A goods in the form of this blog. Light up those pipes kids, here we go!


As previously discussed, we will be covering the Irish Rugby League Team’s trip to Australia for the RLWC. They could not have picked anyone better to be doing so as a) Sassy and I are the most Celtic people in Celtic town and b) we enjoy traditional Irish activities, ie: drinking beer and eating carbs.

In honour of the Irish boys imminent arrival, we are painting the Errol office green. Intern John-John is super!excited! to greet the Irish and has been slipping green food dye in our morning smoothies, making lewd jokes about his ‘pot of gold’ and keeps holding a four leaf clover above my head going KIKI LOOK…KISSY KISS! YOU HAVE TO ITS TRADITION! I don’t have the heart to tell him the tradition is mistletoe specific.


I was also planning on doing a recap of the Grand Final….until I watched it. Don’t get me wrong, I am tres happy with Manly’s win but 40-0 doesn’t exactly make for a thrilling post. It’s a try by Manly….and another try by Manly…and…yet another bloody try by Manly. WOOOO.

Sassy and I had tickets to the game, but due to our severe lack of self control we spent the afternoon sprawled on my loungeroom floor trying to fight our rising nausea. You see, we celebrated our radio superstardom a liiiiittle bit too hard the night before. The details are a tad fuzzy but let’s just say tequila was involved. Tequila and air guitar.


So instead of heading off to the footy we crashed my brothers grand final BBQ in a way only we can. Apologies to all my brother’s mates who were subjected to us lolling about in our pyjamas (sans bra), accessorised with matted hair and panda eyes. AVERT YOUR EYES BOYS. We did however provide some exclusive ~*Live Errol Commentary*~ which I like to think made up for such grossness.

When Sassy finally deemed it necessary to have a shower she yelled from the bathroom KIKI….GET ME A SAUSAGE SANDWICH…WITH ONION. Because I am literally the best wife in the world I did as she requested and then she proceeded to eat said sausage sandwich spreadeagled on the hallway floor clad only in a towel. I sat next to her while I attempted to comb out my unintentional Amy Winehouse beehive from the night before. HOW ARE WE SINGLE?? For reals boys, you are missing out big time.

All I have to say about the Grand Final is a) I am thrilled that the Beav got his fairytale and b) WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT PRE-GAME ‘ENTERTAINMENT’?? For a few minutes I thought the badness was due to my hangover. I furiously rubbed my eyes in the hope people banging on BBQs would transform into something actually awesome but no, that was it. That’s all the NRL has got for us. Look, I know Grand Final entertainment has never been stellar (apart from 2001 when Barnsey descended in a chopper and sang Working Class Man…amaaaaazing) but this was errrrr…..well.lk

Look I am all over some stadium sized entertainment. It can be fantastic. Examples being the 2000 Olympics Opening Ceremony and my participation in the 1995 School Spectacular. If you haven’t performed a dance at he Entertainment Centre to the Jackson Five’s ‘Can You Feel It?’ clad in a fluro yellow leotard and gold sequinned harem pants you just haven’t lived.

To be serious times for a moment, why does the NRL consistently under sell itself? They have a GREAT product but they somehow just don’t realise how great it really is. Although pre-game entertainment is fairly insignificant in the scheme of things, it’s kind of indicative of how the NRL views itself. And that’s upsetting, because they, and all of us are way better than that. I KNOW they can do better. Come on boys, call us! WE CAN HELP!

Right, now onto other things Kiki Is Pissed Off About. The Kangaroo squad was announced during the week and congratulations to all the boys but um….WHERE IS HOT BITCH COOPER?? We all fervently scanned the team list looking for our boy but….nothing. Surely it’s a typo? An administrative oversight? WHAT IS GOING ON?


If nothing else Coops shoulda been selected on humanitarian grounds alone. Not only has he suffered through yet another dissapointing year at the Dragons but his beloved husband and centre partner, Mark Gasnier, has abandoned him and taken off to France to be with other mans. Mans in pink jerseys. I think the only thing stopping Hot Bitch from totally giving up on life is his new manfriend, the Big Dell. That and the fact that I keep visiting him with messages of encouragment. And by ‘visiting him’ I mean sitting outside his loungeroom, tapping on the window yelling DON’T CRY HOT BITCH, KIKI’S HEEEEEERE! I STILL LOVE YOU BABY!

Errr…back to the Kangaroos. We were overwhelmed with joy to see Terry Campese get selected. We love T Camps! There is alot of hotness in the NRL but Terry is entirely on his own level. T Camps is well….well he’s handsome. There is a severe lack of handsome men in the world these days. Being hot is common, being handsome is classic. Terry possesses a type of old school handsome that is reminiscent of portraits hung at the Australian War Memorial.


Sassy has been wondering who we could photoshop in sepia now The Beav is leaving our shores, but fear not wifey….we now have Corporal Campese of the Light Horse to maintain the Errol vintage mans quota.

And that’s it kids. You satisfied yet?

(naked John from Naked For A Cause)