one for the ladies

June 19th, 2012

We just watched the Women in League TVC made by the NRL and it’s a bit beautiful, don’t you think?

Beautifully written, beautifully made and a beautiful example of how much people can give to something they love, like their kids, or plain old footy, without being paid big bucks or lavished with attention.

It also says to girls and young women something you’d kinda hope to say to every kid: that what you do with your time is valuable. That even if it doesn’t feel like people care, hard work is its own reward. That sooner or later, the world will notice. That you should and can do whatever you choose to do, even if it doesn’t seem glamorous or impressive.

But for girls, that’s where it gets a bit tricky. If you get what you want, and if what you want is a chance to make a living in rugby league, then all of a sudden there’s a whole lot of can’t in your life.

Can’t buy shoes with peep-toes anymore cause people with spikes are running in the vicinity.
Can’t quite manage to find a unisex polo shirt that fits.
Can’t travel with the team cause there’s no-one to room with.
Can’t pee for the next twenty minutes cause there are naked dudes in there changing.
Can’t go into the sheds with the other journos and interview players because the stadium security guard doesn’t think ladies belong there.
Can’t guarantee I won’t crack it if another person asks me where I “picked up” my workmates when they see us in a pub.
Can’t get drawn into an argument when people say the team’s playing “like fucking girls!”
Can’t remember the last time you got your hair-colour done.
Can’t be bothered answering that question in the press box cause you always just ask my male colleague afterwards anyway.

But the truth is … can’t is not unusual. You can’t find an easy job in footy, no matter how hard you look and no matter what you’re hiding under your team-issue trackies. For most, a full-time job means seven days a week, because footy waits for no man (or woman). It means arriving at 8am to start supervising preparations for a 7.30pm kick-off. It means staying until 1am to film and upload press conferences and interviews. It means coming into the office at 5am to read through all the emails from fans with suggestions for changes to the playing roster: “dear sir, thank you for your email …”

I’ve met the ladies and men who do all those jobs.

For the guys who wear jerseys, it means pushing your body to its limits, a public private life, and the chance that living your dream will leave you in pain for the rest of your life.

So why would you bother? At least the players get fame for a little while, glory if they’re lucky, and riches if they sign up with a media network once they retire.

Everyone else just gets a polo shirt and a party pie on game day.

The real question is how could you NOT bother?

For every johnny anonymous who calls you a slut, there are ten men with the kind of crows feet that come from watching a footy team train every morning who will sit down and have a beer with you and talk about the game. For a girl who’s been more used to being told she doesn’t understand offside and marker defence, that feels like a gold medal.


Or a premiership-winning captain who’ll stick his head in and tell you that you look like a million bucks. Probably because you wore lipstick that day. Fancy!

Best of all, there’s the hug that comes after you win a game you were written-off in and you could swear every one of your 8pm rage-outs in the office actually helped it happen.

There is nothing like it. It’s the closest you can ever hope to get to the game you love. Toilets with no hand soap in them don’t mean much in comparison.

Sure, maybe because of your ladyparts … you could never have achieved it in an NRL jersey. But you got the next best thing.

And that’s the answer to the final question: why Women in League round?

Because, like men who want to become nurses, or women who want to fix cars, women who make a living in rugby league do it hard. They take second-best to get there from people who don’t think chicks belong anywhere near a footy field, or people who simply think they’re strange.

Sometimes, they take second-best because they think there will never be a chance for them to run out in a women’s rugby league competition for anything more than a bag of peanuts and a few heckles.

And outside the NRL, they do it for love not money. They do it to try and make sure that their own kids can have everything they want, including a chance to put on their size small junior socks and play footy on the weekend.

So why not have a week to stop and say to all the women in league: good job, ladies … and sorry about the polo shirts.

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erroltips update: now with added cancer

June 2nd, 2011

Time to check in on tips! Where am I, you may ask? NOWHERE. THAT’S WHERE.

Shaggy owned last week with a perfect round (does that still get you a Whopper?) and the bestest margin:

And the omnipresent BroncoBaby is still sitting on top of the overall leaderboard with voodoorock:

Amazing work guys. In no way am I bitter at my own terrible for- … HEY! IS THAT A SHIRTLESS MAN WITH CLIPPERS?

via Gregg Porteous

Indeed it is. It’s a shirtless Jeremy Smith weilding clippers at Shark Park. And if you speak Spanish, you’ll already know that ‘Shark Park’ translates roughly to ‘graveyard of halfbacks’. We learned that from Anchorman.

The reason for the clippers? It’s call to arms week in the NRL, so the clubs and the boys are finding crafty ways to raise money and awareness for men’s cancer.

via Reece Carter

I was trying to explain this at work the other day and may have accidentally referred to it as “YOU KNOW, CANCER WEEK”, but you know what I mean. My idiot heart was in the right place. (Mainly, that’s with my burly, hilarious, polo-shirted menace of an uncle who’s having chemo for cancer at the moment … love you uncle Linden! He even had to give up drinking, which we all know is the absolute worst. Cancer, you Machiavellian bastard.)

Luckily for all of us, the Sharks decided to do this by shaving moustaches and taking their shirts off. It’s our favourite kind of fundraising. Next, we would like to suggest they wear hotpants and hold a carwash. Pretty sure Jeremy Smith would rock the hell out of a pair of American Apparel running shorts, and it’s common knowledge that everyone loves a carwash set to disco classics.

Wanna help? Here’s the list of everything happening this weekend.

Happy tipping, kids!

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footy observations: a salute to glamour

May 31st, 2011

Some people like the fancy things in life. Bollinger. Cigars. Caviar.

Stuff like Chopard watches, sky-beds and … rugby league. Ah, rugby league. The sport of kings! (The bloodthirsty Medieval kind, anyway). And luckily for all of y’all – we know you must be those kind of people considering you’re reading Errol, right? – today’s post is a wrap-up of one of the most glamorous weeks in league history. You can go ahead and read it on your customised iPad 2s on your yacht. Settle into your Eames chair and let’s get started.

We started it off with a trip to the Triple J studios to talk to the Doctor about State of Origin (national broadcaster! glamour!) and you’ll be extra proud to know that we arrived at the office during the middle of a team meeting taking place in the reception area. We hope all the loyal employees at JJJ enjoyed me walking through the door, mid-conversation, saying “YEAH I HAVE A COCK … I TUCK IT BACK WHEN I’M WEARING A TIGHT SKIRT”.

In context, it totally made sense … sort of.

And if you missed it, lucky you can listen to it online: BEHOLD THE MAGIC OF TECHNOLOGY.

Just head to six minutes in and go nuts. The Doctor’s also pretty lolz if you feel like following him on the Twitter.

But while we were busy basking in the glory of radio stardom (guest appearance! glamour!) up in Queensland things were a little more … unpleasant. The Gold Coast Titans were subjected to eight disallowed tries on Friday night. Eight! It’s a conspiracy!

Do the refs hate them because they’re beautiful?

We actually have confirmation via one of our favourite humans – George Rose – that the Titans are known as the “beautiful people”. According to Tommy Learoyd-Lahrs, soon as you hit the goldy you becaome at least 100% more attractive.

Pic. Getty Images

Would you argue with that? We wouldn’t.

The downside of course, is that you’re the coach of the woeful 2011 Titans, you have to find ways of coping with the endless run of disappointing losses and grim wins. Apparently coach Carty has chosen to cope by eating his feelings.

The beleaguered coach is rarely sighted outside his natural habitat of the coach’s ‘box’ ….

… and as a prey animal, may appear startled if he senses he is being watched. Proceed carefully.

The key sign of a coach under pressure is the loss of fine motor-skills and subsequent sausage roll disasters.

These are dark times indeed for Errol’s reigning sexiest coach in league. As for the reigning Hot Bitch Award for Hottest Bitch in League (aka Hot Bitch Cooper), the curse against the hot people of the world continues. What’s doing? Coops has a busted cheekbone from the weekend’s game:

Pic. via @RealBigdell

All this is doing is confirming our conclusions from the Great Fantasy League experiment of 2009. Hot people are FRAGILE. It’s just science.

As for south of Sydney, the Raiders haven’t named Terry Campese to play this week, which breaks our hearts a little. We love his long-range kicks and his comical Cheshire Cat grin. On the bright side, it leaves him free to continue bringing his special brand of off-field civvies glamour to our nation’s capital:

Pic via
Canberra Raiders

Meanwhile in Sydney’s glorious West, the Parra Eels are bringing the glamour back to coach travel:

via Tim Mannah

Naw, he’s like a sleeping angel!

And if the boys from the lonely island have taught us anything through the magic of song, it’s that nothing is more glamorous than a boat.

Exhibit A:

Just like how Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas taught us that G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S involves flying first class, up in the sky.

This explains why the Queensland Origin team made their own salute to glamour in the form of a special trip in Careflight’s rescue boats and lifty things. See, they’re just like the gondola chairlifts at a ski resort! Except, you know, bright yellow and made of plastic. And in a pool.

Billy heard the lyrics “flossy, flossy” and did his best Flossy Nightingale expression.

Ben Hannant still goes to Taco Bell, Drives through, raw yeah

JT wants to know just who the hell thinks he’s not still real. WHO? HE’S STILL JT FROM THE BLOCK.

Special thanks to the amazing Fall of Reach for bringing us the magic of Carty and the Sausage Roll incident! xx

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a state of origin with no beer

May 27th, 2011

It is a truth universally acknowledged that some things should never be done sober. Like wedding toasts, or watching the Royal Wedding, or ten-pin bowling.

Add Origin to that list. It’s a game that’s a delightful, brain-buzzing, gut-trembling riot of footy and yelling and aggression and tries when you’ve had a beer or two, and it’s over before you can say “Darren Lockyer looks like the Master from Buffy”.

When you’re stone cold sober in your place of work, like your fearless correspondent Sassy was, Origin goes for an E-T-E-R-N-I-T-Y. Every Queensland set happens in horrifying movie-style slow-motion. It was AWFUL. No one should be forced to go through that. And the papers thought Willie Tonga was courageous? Bitch, please.

It’s actually made me feel some empathy for the Queensland tendency to smash some Red Bull and Stillnox. It’s especially ironic when you’re watching two teams sponsored by VB and XXXX play each other. STOP MOCKING ME WITH YOUR CAPITAL LETTER BEERS, YOU BASTARDS!

What the hell Queensland dude. Just … what the hell.

The only upside is our that a non-cloudy brain means we can bring you some extra accurate rage. Let’s break down game one, shall we?


Don’t lie, there were a few. For one thing, there’s a been a lot of controversy over our decision to declare that the first “Cattledog” happened after the whistle at approximately the 81st minute of the game (meaning the guess of 72 minutes was closest). Sure, the game was technically finished, but they were still on the field, Thaiday was a-swingin’ around getting fiesty, Greg Bird was trying to lay ’em on Corey Parker and we were cheering. As far as we’re concerned, it was the very definition of Cattledog.

We would also humbly suggest that James Blunt as pre-game entertainment wasn’t the best call. Man-motional pop doesn’t psyche anyone up to play footy, does it? Next time can’t we just make Phil Gould do his on-field inspirational speech twice instead? It gives us GOOSEBUMPS, no word of a lie. He’s the Robin Williams of the Dead Poets Society that is rugby league. O Captain, my captain!

And that’s before we even get to the forward passes from dummy half and a few dodgy tackles *cough*Willie*cough*.  All things I would gleefully have missed out on noticing had I not been so lucid.

(Not kidding, I miss a lot when I’m at games. Like that time at ANZ Stadium when Kiki and I loudly demanded to know how the hell Danny Nutley was playing State of Origin when he was retired. A nice man in the next row had to explain that it was Ben Cross).

We like to call one elbow ‘herbs’ and the other one ‘spices’.

Clearly, things that I don’t count as bad calls include people going the face massage or the neck-region in a tackle. That’s just the delightful spice on the roast that is a tackle in Origin.


You know I don’t like saying nice things about Queeslanders, but goddamn Matt Scott got Jan Brady-ed on Wednesday night. Cameron Smith man of the match, really? Who exactly does M.Scott have to French kiss to get some recognition?

That’s not a rhetorical question, by the way. Because I know at least eight young ladies who will gladly volunteer. Apparently they like his burly, Lazarus-esque flava.

Even Vossy looks a little overwhelmed, no? Pic by the amazing Fall of Reach

M.Scott was a rampaging beast in the first half. And that’s not to say the Blues forwards were pushovers … he was just unstoppable. Like two Fui Fui Moi Mois having a wrestling bout inside a Maroons jersey. I would even go so far as to use the word “outstanding”. I will also, later, go so far as to have a 50 minute shower to try and wash off how dirty I feel after saying that.

But apparently Cam “Marcia Brady” Smith is still the star of the show. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!

And M.Scott being robbed of his prom queen crown isn’t as bad as the rap some of our baby Blues are getting.

To anyone thinking Mark Gasnier deserves the boot, you’ll have to get past us first. Gaz was a saviour! While our forwards fell down in defence … who was there? Gaz. Damn straight he was. Right next to Aku Uate and his giant ass. Defending like demons, and in between running the ball at the line like they thought they weighed us much as Wendell. Those boys have no fear. And watching Aku charge upfield is almost as glorious as watching him bust moves on the dancefloor.

Beau Scott? Not a chance! Twitter loves calling him on his faults (as if getting your punch on is even a fault, but whatevs) but that boy stood up.

Duges you glorious bogan! You can put a ‘such is life’ decal on our car anytime.

Next you’ll be telling us Josh Dugan was out of position in defence … oh wait, no people did say that. But were they not watching his 25 FLAWLESS takes of the high ball? His threatening drifting runs across the line? His sparkly diamond studs?

Bitches, please. Don’t even try and pull that Jarryd ‘Marcia’ Hayne line on us.

He may be the train, or the plane, or any other mode of communal transportation, but Duges justified his selection every time he grabbed the ball.


Oh, New South Wales. No matter how many series we’ve lost, the Blues never ever stop winning our hearts.

Greg Bird, your aggression is spectacular. Dugan, your sneaky offloads are a delight. Jennings, your try was #footyboner in its purest form.

This picture was saved on my desktop as “husband”.



Much as we love our boys in blue, we have Some Things to Say. Things of the tough-love variety. The backs of the team can go play on the swings, but our forward pack needs to sit down and hear this.

When your backs are running at the line harder than you are … that shit’s not cool.

When you play better at Toyota Stadium than you do in Origin … that shit’s not cool.

When Gasnier’s making try-savers in the middle of the field … that shit’s not cool.

When M.Scott makes more metres than four of you combined … that shit’s not cool.

I say this with love. Angry, scary love, like Gran from Angry Boys. I only say it cause I know you’re better than this ‘n’ shit.

You’re not just called a pack cause you pack into a scrum. You’re a motherfucking wolf pack, boys! You watch each other’s backs. When you’re tackling a man, three of you go in so you can wrap up the ball. Every extra metre a man makes from a shifty Sam Thaiday offload is a knife into our delicate little hearts.

And every time a NSW forward runs with no other forwards anywhere around him, we die a little inside.

Be the pack. Live the pack. Go to Vegas and secretly slip ecstacy into the pack’s drinks. Whatever it takes, right? Good.

Now gimme a hug then go hit the swings with Jennings, we’ll see you next camp.

And if any of the Blues fans out there feel a little … desolate after the loss, chin up kittens. Not only was it a valiant performance, but it brought us this:


Pics. Getty Images

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erroltips update: laaaaaadies!

May 19th, 2011

It’s been a few weeks between drinks but here’s the deal: the ladies are kicking arse. So much so, that my brother texted me the other day to say “Broncobaby is annoyingly good at tipping”. Why yes, yes she is. Much love to the ladies (and the very few dudes) who are chillin’ in the Errol top ten:

But also … better watch your backs, bitches. After some ABYSMAL early rounds, I am climbing my way back to the top, round by round.

Muahahaha! Stay tuned for heaps more Origin goodies in the next few days x


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welcome to origin season, bitches

May 17th, 2011

Oh, how I’ve missed you Errol-ers. I remember the carefree days of regular blogging, mocking sportsmen far and wide and telling embarassing personal anecdotes whenever I felt like it. But lately, things have been a little … demoralising.

My noble employer has decided to turn One HD from a sports channel to a general entertainment channel, which is actually kind of awesome since it means we get wicked awesome shows like An Idiot Abroad and Sons of Anarchy. But let’s just say that dealing with irate members of the public abusing you via the twitter and the Facebook and threatening to send in bombs to the office (that really happened) can put a dent in a girl’s inspiration to write footy blogs.

Although it did teach me fun facts, like there are at least 8 people on Twitter who want a dedicated A-League show on free-to-air TV, and that, often, people are straight-up nuts. Good to know.

The other thing that can get a blogger mighty depressed is OH MY GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME ROOSTERS? Losing to the Sharks at Shark Park is the worst kind of loss. It’s embarassing, it bodes badly for the rest of the season, and it proves that even my successful Nathan Gardner voodoo doll isn’t enough to save my team.

No wonder Nate Myles is leaving to go to the Titans. Up there it’s all sunshine and Jamal Idris and children’s tv, back in Bondi it’s driving Todd Carney to AA meetings and drowning your sorrows at the Maccas near Tom Ugly’s bridge after you lose to Cronulla.

But just when I hit the lowest point and was fighting the urge to put on a snuggie and eat a wheel of cheese as big as my head Liz Lemon-stylez … Mal Meninga inspired me.

But the big story was 25-year-old Nielsen, who has only racked up 42 first grade games since his 2008 NRL debut before getting the Origin call. 

Nielsen comes in for Inglis who is expected to be ruled out for up to a month after again injuring the hip that required pre-season surgery.

North Queensland-bred Nielsen looked overawed facing the huge media contingent in Brisbane on Tuesday but Meninga had no problem throwing him into the Origin deep end.

Asked what Nielsen could offer the side, Meninga said: “He’s a proud Queenslander.”


Apparently in Queensland, pride in your State is the footy equivalent of how mums suddenly get super-strength so they can lift their four-door Yukon SVUs off their squished babies in a Walmart carpark. (Why does that only happen in America, by the way?)

Forget about 15 years of training and dedication and footy education, all you need is pride! Queensland spirit conquers all!

And just like that, I was revived by how irritated Queenslanders make me!

Although I do have to give massive props to Mal for his team selection in general.

1. I find Dane Nielsen’s curly hair completely adorable. If he wasn’t a dirty Queenslander I’d travel back in time to 1993 and put an A4 poster of him from TV Hits on the back of my bedroom door like I used to do with JTT.

Boilers still got it, ladies!

2. Petero! I just like seeing that ole Oak tree out on the field. It reminds me of the time he and Steve Price were bunkmates in the ‘Boiler Room’ and I lol to myself every time.

3. Corey Parker and his AussieBum undies are a fine, fine addition to any team. I assume that the little sewing minions at AB are whipping up a range of Maroon undergarments and speedos for him as we speak. If you’re not sure on the size, maybe just go ahead and assume he wears his speedos like Chris Heighington wears his jerseys … circulation-threateningly small. The ladies and gays of Queensland will be grateful, at least.

4. A+ for effort and improvement on the legitimacy front. Well, mainly it’s probably just the result of bad luck and coincidence. But for whatever reason, the Maroons is now almost entirely made up of men from Queensland. Hurrah! GOLD STAR FOR YOU GLEN COCO. YOU GO GLEN COCO.

And how do you properly pay tribute to this new team of authentic Maroons? By introducing them under a blue spotlight to old-school 90s classics like Jump Around by house of Pain. Oh yessss. If you missed the Queensland team announcement, Imma recap that shit for you, because I think it may be just about as hilarious as that time Nips Farah and Sam Burgess were on Ready, Steady, Cook!

We open on a dimly lit Brisbane conference room. Chairman of selectors Gene Miles says stuff that is boring. He then tells us that the first player named for the Maroons squad will be Billy ‘Pony Club’ Slater.

Birry saunters out and is hit by a crazy blue spotlight as the speakers start blasting a sweet 90s mix of “Whoomp! There is is” AND “Pump Up the Jam”. Did he pick it himself? I like to think so. He carries a little cardboard sign saying ‘Billy Slater’ up to the stage and some girl who is obviously the Queensland Origin version of Adriana Xenedis takes it and puts it in a little slot on the stage backdrop.

Ooh, drama! It’s like Wheel of Fortune! Can I have an ‘M’ for Meninga, please Tony Barber?

Darius Boyd comes out to ‘Raise some hell’ and Dane Nielsen gets P!nk. Huh. Gene reads all the names so sceptically. Like there’s an implied IF THAT’S REALLY YOUR NAME after every person. The [alleged] Willie Tonga comes out and they forget to press play, so he just walks to the stage to give Adraiana his card in silence, then sits in his little seat for a few seconds while we finally get to listen to the intro to House of Pain ‘Jump Around’. Not gonna lie, I enjoyed it.

Jharal Yow Yeh rocks out to the Black Eyed Peas ‘Pump It’. And by ‘rocks out’ clearly I mean ‘walks quickly and nervously while looking at the ground and possibly blushing’.

Finally, the grande dame of Queensland footy Darren Lockyer emerges and it’s time for The Final Countdown. Seriously? I don’t even know. When I try and remember what it looked like all I can see it this:

Hey, do you guys remember the 90s trance-dance-techno hit Here’s Johnny? Well hello there Jonathan Thurston!

Matt Scott! Guns n Roses! More Queenslanders! And what song could suit Cam Smith better than Macho Man?

From now on, he shall be known as ‘The Cop’ … or ‘The Biker’. Depending on my mood. There’s totally a resemblance, right?

No Birdy, that’s not a dig at moustaches. Yours is pretty much our favourite thing in footy right now.

Petero is Bad to the Bone. Sam Thaiday gets Bad Boys. This is all so weird I can’t even explain it. The weirdest thing is that they didn’t pick either ‘Gimme More’ OR ‘Barracuda’ for Cooper Cronk. Big mistake. Huge.

I make all my coworkers watch it approximately five times. We realise Nate Myles is accidentally spelled NATE MILES on his little card.

I know, right?

Sometimes, I think Queenslanders do this shit on purpose to amuse me. The XXXX / spelling jokes write themselves, people!

And just as I start to worry that with the addition of Corey Parker, the Queensland team will be almost as adorable as my boys in blue, I snap back to my senses.

Even our 18th man is slightly oversized, often confused and completely lovable like a labrador puppy. If labrador puppies had sweet dance moves.

Aaah we love our boys. And the rest of you, get back to us at the end of July and we’ll start back up where we left off, yeah?

Pics. Getty Images

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sassy does coachella: aka things you learn in the desert

April 29th, 2011

Before we get started, if you’re into reading and shit, I just finished reading Bossypants by Tina Fey and it’s DELIGHTFUL. She’s funny and clever and self-deprecating and tells stories about how awesome Alec Baldwin is. I felt smarter just reading it.

Also, I read it on kindle which is one of my favourite things to do, because I feel like I’m living in the future.

And if you’re into people in armour and all things nerdy, am currently obsessed with Game of Thrones. If I have to go to prison for illegally downloading, I would like it to be for this show.

But I promised a Coachella post, and dammit if I won’t deliver!

Are there some bits I don’t want to tell you about? Perhaps there are. I do some really embarassing stuff, so I like to limit the amount I put on here to just the highlights, like the time I accidentally SMS-ed Ryan Girdler, or the time I woke up with leaves in my hair.

And are there some things I don’t remember? Perhaps there are. Sometimes a girl just needs to cut loose, you know?

As for the rest of it, here goes.


The last few times I’ve been to LA I’ve stayed in Santa Monica and spent my time tooling around on 1970s low-rider bicycles down to Venice Beach, buying friendship bracelets from the nutters on the boulevard, and eating onion rings with margarita chasers.

This time when we stayed in LA, we crashed at the Roosevelt in Hollywood and the LA cliches were all Right There. Lauren Conrad walking through the lobby! (perfect hair and super super skinny legs in leather leggings). Samantha Ronson bowling in the Spare Room! (she looks like you’d think she looks). Billy Zane at the next table over at the Chateau Marmont! (he’s kind of bloated and dresses like a Central American drug trafficker). David Beckham coming to the hotel for lunch!

I don’t get a ladyboner for Becks but I will say that in profile he is one of the most objectively beautiful men I’ve ever seen. Like Jared Leto. Like you could lick that face. It’s the same way I feel about Diane Kruger.

I saw Becks in his button-down shirt and a beanie and sunnies, but apparently when he pulled in to the driveway to give his car to the valet he was wearing an insane shiny black plastic wig over his hair.

I don’t know if this makes me vain, but I think I would rather get caught on camera by TMZ than look like this.

Meanwhile next time I stay there I’m challenging Samantha Ronson to a bowl-off because I am REALLY GOOD AT IT. Who knew? Add it to the list of reasons people assume I’m a massive lez. Right under ‘wears flannies and tracksuit pants from Lowes’, ‘played softball in year eight’ and ‘loves footy’.

Turns out – like most things – bowling is more fun when you can do it while drinking. Also CHECK MAH SWEET RENTAL SHOES.


So on day two we picked up our car and discovered … it wasn’t there. You know when you book a car for 10am? Well in America, bitches better turn up at 10am, or they give it to someone else. Why? Who knows. It’s a mystery, like why you tip the person who brings your bags to your room, but you don’t tip the guy who brings your rental car round from the lot. They’re both JUST DOING THEIR JOBS. WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE? IF I’M NOT MEANT TO TIP EVERYONE JUST GIVE THEM BADGES OR SOMETHING SO I KNOW ALREADY.

The point is you will end up driving the only car they have left, which will be an eight seater Yukon the size of a regular 2 bedroom apartment, on the freeway out to Palm Desert. And you had better not have spent the night before drinking absinthe cocktails and dancing in Hemmingways like I did, or it will be one of the most painful days of your life.

As for Palm Desert, it has lots of old people and golf courses and resorts and flamingos. So it’s kind of like … Florida without the ‘gators. And the desert in general … is really really hot. So hot you want to weep. Mrs Pizzinga was right.


Two days before I left Sydney I poodled on into the bank to get some american dollars so the LAX cab driver wouldn’t yell at me again for trying to pay for my ride with a creddie. The dude asked where I was going, then told me “one of the other tellers went to Coachella. He said it was a …. loose occasion”.

Judging by this photo, I was so worried about the loose occasion, I considered hiding my possessions, prison-style.

Jason obviously knows his stuff, because Coachella is pretty much powered by medicinal marijuana, and acid is apparently back in fashion. Which means there are no aggro drunk guys in watermelon helmets, but lots of stoned people who might accidentally catch your hair on fire. You win some, you lose some.


Thanks to the lovely and generous Anella from EMI, we wrangled some VIP passes for the festival. And can I just say … those VIP bitches have it sweet.

In the 38 degree desert heat, the VIP sections have grass, no lines for booze, an air-conditioned bar, special fans to mist you with cool water, not to mention amazing celeb sightings like Alexa Chung, one of the Clarins sisters, Prince, Paul McCartney, Daria Werbowy, Dan Patch and Gale Harold from Hellcats, McLovin, Ke$ha, and I can’t exactly remember the rest.

I do remember seeing Pacey from Dawson’s Creek though, and I may lost my shit a little. I am so uncool.

If you need us, we’ll be by the taco stand. Mmmmm mexican.

But it’s not all fun and taco stands. I learned that you might make friends with a crazy bartender who looks like Gary Busey dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and a captain’s hat, but just cause he tells you you’re pretty doesn’t mean he’s not ripping you off $4 every drink. To think I tipped that guy! Screw you, seaman!


So many of the bands were so, so good. The Strokes are once again awesome, Sleigh Bells blew my mind, Kanye was incredible until he started playing chariots of fire and being a douchebag, Robyn was a dance-party-extravaganza and so was Chromeo, Bright Eyes and the National (I only saw a few songs) were heartbreaking, Alison Mosshart from the Kills is the hottest bitch ever, Cold War Kids are really good at festivals, but two of my faves were the little Aussie bands.

America is in love with Cut Copy and the Presets and they both killed it. Well done, Aussie boys!


Ferris wheeeeel!

So here’s how the story ends: after the third day and night of the festival, we trekked home, slept, got up and got ready to pick up our car (on time) and head back to LA. About halfway up the freeway I felt a little woozy, then a little nauseated. I announced that maybe it might, you know … be kind of a good idea to pull over, at some point, just anywhere that’s convenient, if …. OH MY GOD PULL OVER NOW NOW NOW I’M NOT GONNA MAKE IT.

Of course on a freeway driving on the wrong side of the road pulling over isn’t that easy.

Which is how I ended up puking chocolate milk into an empty paper Starbucks bag in the passenger seat of a Chevy somewhere outside Palm Springs.

Ron Burgundy was right, I really really regret buying that delicious refreshing chocolate milk.

Ron Burgundy is always right.

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the bitch is back, and so is steve matai

April 24th, 2011

Like Elton John, the Bitch is back. Did you miss me? I can only assume you spent the last eight days in the corners of your bathrooms, rocking gently and moaning ‘Sassy’ … yes? Thought so.

In Northern England this is how they say NEVER LEAVE ME AGAIN. Men of few words.

Meanwhile apparently footy got at least 80% more fabulous and 45% more scandalous while I was gone.

I turn my back for seven days and Todd Carney is out with (alleged) assaulter Anthony Watts, getting his (alleged) drink on and (allegedly) denting the very slim hopes NSW have of actually winning an Origin series again. Why are the brilliant always so blighted by scandal and misfortune? He may have the face of that little dude on the MAD magazine covers, but in reality, Todd Carney is the Robert Downey Jr of the NRL. Oh, Ro.Ju. If only I could import him to give his special brand of wise and slightly sarcastic brand of hard-earned life advice and help Todd sort his shit out.

Sadly, Ro.Ju was not one of the 96 celebrities we spotted in LA, so that’s not gonna happen. Instead, I’m planning to do the next best thing, which is to chase Todd out of Coogee – because God knows nothing good EVER happens in Coogee – and force him to sit through the classic ‘Only You’ starring Marisa Tomei and Robert Downey Jr while we talk about our feelings. Possibly with a ‘Heart and Souls’ chaser. If that doesn’t help him turn his life around and avoid getting the sack, nothing will. Am I right?

Of course it doesn’t help that while I was dealing with the knowledge of Todd’s suspension – excuse me for a second while I wipe my tears – I was also dealing with Jharal Yow Yeh running through the Tigers’ defence at the SFS like a windy little maroon freight train.

He might as well have been wearing a blinking neon sign saying ‘THE FUTURE OF QUEENSLAND ORIGIN’ while he taunted me with his flashy step and nifty hands. Sigh.

On the other hand, Sam Thaiday might as well have been wearing a giant neon sign that said ‘LOLZ’, because he spent at least 66% of that game arguing with the referee, and there is nothing funnier than an outraged Sam Thaiday. Especially since his new haircut kind of makes him look like a man wearing a puffy ladies shower cap.

Except maybe shirtless Sam Thaiday squatting in front of a palm tree.

Wanna make something of it, bitches?

And down at Brookvale, Steve Matai did everything but wear a sign saying ‘OH HAY LET’S DANCE.’

Can I get a MA-TAI?


Who knew this is what happens when the Matai scores a double?

Imagine the frenzied worm he would’ve busted out if the ball hadn’t headed to Wang Man Robbo and he’d managed to grab the third try.

But by far the worst thing that I missed on holiday was the dire situation over at Errol Tips. Obviously I’m feeling super party times that Suzi Firth, Bingle and the crew are in the top ten. (And check out Kiki lookin all smug!)

But then I remember …. Hoppo. Lifeguard Hoppo, who teases us mercilessly about everything, has cracked the top ten. THIS CANNOT CONTINUE. This is the same man who always alerts the helicopters when I go swimming and tells them to look out for migrating whales.

In his kids’ colouring books, Hoppo captions this ‘Sassy’

So, old man Hoppo, much as we love and respect you, and even though our parents taught us to always respect the elderly … you’re going down. It is my personal mission to beat him in 2011 footy tipping. Are you with me, kids?

But more importantly, I think I might’ve been a little jetlagged, because yesterday I passed out and didn’t wake up for twelve hours, missing two – count ’em, TWO – valuable games of footy. What did I miss?

Pics. Getty Images

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erroltips: round five, overseas flights and theo huxtable

April 12th, 2011

SO MUCH FOOTY NEWS. Jamal’s going to the Goldy, and Uncle Wayne’s going to Newcastle … allegedly for the princely sum of $6 million. Can you imagine how many Henny Penny chicken rolls that buys?

As for Jamal: on one hand, the Titans biggest worry isn’t the centres … is it? (hint: no)

But on the other hand, JAMAL’S GETTING A TV SHOW. This is one of the most brilliant footy initiatives we’ve ever heard. It’s right up there with Indigenous All-Stars.

The giant human teddy will be following in the hallowed footsteps of such other tv luminaries as Malcom-Jamal ‘Theo Huxtable’ Warner from the Cosby show, and the classic C Bear and Jamal starring Tone Loc.

Yes, you heard that right. There are clips on YouTube and everything. Tone Loc is a multimedia superstar.

As for tipping superstars – Earl Hickey won round five, which leaves the overall leader board looking a little like this:

ps I’m coming 82nd. Shut up.

But what I’m hoping is that not seeing any footy for a week will somehow help my tipping (it can’t make it any worse). Because I’ll be here:

for the next week, dancing embarassingly and talking loudly in an Aussie accent and generally having holiday partytimes. So your tipping update will be a little late next week, but I’ll be tweeting from LA and Coachella if American phone networks let me and Kiki’ll be manning the Errol footy updates with help from John John and his hotpants.

Leave a comment if you have a cute American boy to set me up with / a killer idea for Jamal’s new TV show / requests for LA photos or updates.

See you soon! xx S

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footy observations: heritage round and a bar with no beer

April 11th, 2011

It’s heritage round! And to celebrate the rich and wonderful past and the mighty clashes and rivalries of rugby league, we played more rugby league. In different jerseys. Trust me, it’s more awesome than it sounds, okay?

disclaimer: may not be actual shark park.

As if we needed more proof that Toyota Stadium is an affront to nature. Apparently it’s now impossible to even get a beer there.

The NRL club were criticised following Saturday’s clash with Manly at Toyota Stadium, with complaints fans had to wait for up to 40 minutes in the refreshments queue only to find there was nothing left to buy.

Well, I assume we’re talking about beer. Because I’ve met Australians before, and I am 99% sure no one would bother complaining about a few bottles of Coke Zero. Except maybe John Cartwright, and he openly admits he has a problem.

To quote international hot mess and general life-icon Amy Winehouse, WHAT KIND OF FUCKERY IS THIS? If people wanted to wait in long queues to receive nothing, they would go to that post office next to Technology Park, also known as ‘where efficiency goes to die’. Perhaps this is why it took Manly so long to lock that shit down.

On the other hand:

There was also a brawl between supporters towards the end of the game that led to a police officer injuring his ankle.

… and no one is surprised. Wouldn’t you riot if you were there at Shark Park? They closed down the Red Rooster there. I rest my case.

In other news, most footy analysts would say that the Dah-rius Boyd starred for the Dragons on Sunday, what with his great ball-running and bamboozling of defence and intercept tries and whatnot, but I think we all know the real winner here is one Hot Bitch Cooper.

Obviously the winner is also the mob of spectators who got to watch a team of men play in the rain in white shorts. But in terms of actual players, it’s Hot Bitch Cooper.

You see, Hot Bitch is like a vintage Dior fur. Mainly, because he stops the senseless slaughter of innocent minks.

But also, because he just gets better with the passing years. He’s a rampaging, try-scoring, defensively brilliant centre with the legs of some kind of super-hot ancient deity. The kind Greeks carved statues of. Also, the kind perves on the internet talk about even though it’s totally creepy. Cough. (In my defence – what else is the internet for?)

Jamal salutes the past by tying his pigtails with strands of Terry Lamb’s hair

This is as opposed to the Bulldogs, who got straight up carved up. That’s a technical term. You can decide for yourselves whether this was a last-ditch attempt to lure Wayne Bennett to Canterbury next year (the man wants a challenge, after all) or whether Andrew Ryan, Kris Keating and Jamal Idris all suffered sever head injuries at Belmore during the week impairing their spatial awareness and decision-making faculties. Flip a coin, if you like. Either way, Kris Keating will now spend the rest of his career being heckled about intercept tries. At least he’s got Brett Kimmorley around to coach him. Convenient.

Thanks to a severe lack of Foxtel I missed the Melbourne Storm game, but based on the feedback from Twitter, the most important point about the game was that Matt Duffie is adorable. No objections from us.

But we do want to give a special Errol prize (hint: the prize is inappropriate groping) to Adam Woolnough for growing the finest Heritage Beard this side of the Great Dividing Range.

Put that man on a fixed gear bike in a flannel shirt and he would be fighting off the ladies and causing hipster boners all the way across Surry Hills. Who doesn’t have a weakness for a bench player with a pioneer beard?

I also, by sheer coincidence, got forwarded an online petition this morning from one Mr. C. Cronk requesting signatures to support his bid to have CRONK in gold lettering across his back for all 26 rounds of the regular season. I totally signed it, because that would be fucking sweet.

And the Errol stamp of disapproval for the round goes to the Newcastle Knights for not using Heritage Round as a perfect excuse to bring back Henny Penny as jersey sponsors. That happy little Henny Penny logo is one of the defining memories of the Knights from our youth (along with Joey and the Chief) and we wants it back. Make it happen, Nathan Tinkler!

Some might call that a gratuitous video of men in speedos and Tina Turner … we call it ‘heritage’.

Pics. Getty Images

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