UPDATE: HERE ARE SOME XXXX CHEERLEADERS FOR ROB_399.

I have to admit something that I really don’t want to: Queenslanders are right.

Truly, they are.

And what they’re right about is that tired old statement they trot out every year: “State of Origin will never mean as much to NSW as it does to Queensland”.

It’s true, it won’t.

And to explain why we probably need a little history lesson. When the Greatest Game of All came to live in Australia, it stopped by NSW first. There was a NSWRL, pretty soon there was a QRL, and there were games between dudes from NSW and dudes from the banana state.

The Blues won the first one against the baby Queenslanders in a 43-0 bloodbath. And for like a zillion years after that (except apparently the 1920s, when I assume all the Blues boys were too busy getting pissed in speakeasies to turn up and actually play sober) NSW kept winning. And worst of all, then they got cashed up, and anyone who could catch a ball north of the border moved to Sydney to get rich and nail chicks.

Is that Dally Messenger on the right?

Fun fact: “prior to 1956, Qld had won 25% of series played.”

Fun fact 2: “from 1956–1981 this number dwindled to only 3.8% with only 1 series win, in 1959.”

Thanks for the factz, internet!

But let’s leave it to some of Queensland’s own to explain why they kept on playing interstate games anyway:

The defeats, even though sometimes severe, far from disuaded the resilient Queenslanders. QRL officials openly stated that “We know we are not champions,” but felt that their only hope of raising the team’s standard was by playing against “such fine exponents as the New South Welshmen.”

Oh man. Trust me, if you’re from NSW that quote is delicious.

And why’d they start the rivalry up again with the new State of Origin in the 80s? Same ole reason. Cause people were forgetting that footy players in the Sydney comps came from north of the border, too. Queensland needed to prove that their footy exports were just as good as people from the Fancy State. And they did! What’s the current Queenland series-win ratio? Like 66%? SEE! WE’RE ALL GOOD AT FOOTY! (Not sarcastic, btw).

But the rest of it, the stuff about Being A Queenslander, well … we never understood it. We still don’t, really.

We get the part where you hate us, cause we hate you too. Not individually, of course … cause how can you hate Scotty Prince? But as a group. It’s just how we was raised. We hate the icky maroon you wear. We hate how you trumpet on and on about some kind of Queensland spirit. We hate how you select dudes from Fiji and New Zealand. We hate when you claim to be underdogs when you aren’t, and we hate even more when you win. Origin hate is universal.

But the bit about being Different and Special? This baffles us.

Like this dude in the Courier Mail.

Apparently:

“Being a Queenslander is not about what is written on a piece of paper, it is about who you are and what is in your heart.”

“They cannot understand this, because it is terribly difficult to squeeze anything into something the size of a split-pea.”

OH SNAP. Nothing burns like being compared to an obscure and unpopular legume. It’s not even one of the good ones that go in tacos. Mmmmm tacos.

Now it can’t be that being a Queenslander means having some unique skill or talent, cause the Blues have won a fair few cracking matches, no? Special shout-out to Ryan Girdler. TOOT TOOT!

So what, exactly, lurks in Queensland hearts that isn’t in Blue ones?

It’s not about ‘passion’ surely? Has anyone cared more than Turvy Mortimer when he collapsed on the ground, punching it in a frenzy of sheer, violent release after winning the Blues’ first ever Origin series in 1985? I have no proof of this, but I’m pretty sure he cried, as well.

It can’t be about determination, or tenacity, or competitive drive, because both teams are masters of fighting on even when a series is lost. It’s why there are so few series whitewashes in Origin history.

And it can’t be about bravery, or how in the hell did Brett Hodgson have the guts to back up from this tackle and keep running the ball at a line including the Raging Bull Gorden Tallis like a mouse running at …. well … a bull? Not to mention how Joey charged back from a broken jaw to win game two in 2005. That’s why his arse is so big, it’s full of courage.

From the outside looking in, it seems to me that the one thing Queenslanders feel in their hearts that’s missing from every NSW chest is a kind of hybrid feeling: a special mix of inadequacy and perceived invisibility. A feeling of being underestimated. If the desire for recognition was a colour, it would be maroon.

And it’s something Blues don’t have because, well, we’ve never had as much to prove.

Until the great XXXXX fiasco of 2010, NSW had never been a proper underdog. We started the league so we had more teams, and we started installing pokies, so we had more money. We were dominant in lots of ways. So that’s what, a century of self-assurance? No wonder the fans took it relatively easy. It wasn’t our war to win.

All of a sudden I realise this must be how the pretty, popular girls in high school school feel. The kind of girls who never realised how many people actually hated them.

We weren’t even mean! We were just … present. We had no idea you felt so unloved!

Which makes the XXXXX series record the equivalent of someone you don’t remember walking up to you at a school reunion, waving their paycheck and your high-school boyfriend (now their husband) in your face and saying SUCK ON THAT, BITCH!

What’s next? Will Queenslanders tell us they invented post-its?

We may not have had a quarrel before, but fuck all y’all if we don’t have one now. Queensland have been fuelling their hate with inadequacy since 1930 and NSW has been waaaay behind the 8 ball. We were apathetic. Content, even. We didn’t know what it felt like to suck for more than a year or two.

And Queenslanders have been going through this for a CENTURY. No wonder they’re so damn mad. You would have to build a mythology to sustain your sanity through that kind of extended emotional frustration.

Just like the ancients invented God to cope with the trauma of being slaves and hauling rocks up Pyramids, the Queenslanders have invented ‘the Queensland spirit’ to cope with being considered the less successful State in their formative years. They needed to believe that – even if they weren’t always winners on paper – they had SOMETHING the other state didn’t have. That thing was an intangible, magical Queensland spirit.

And even now they’re full-grown and fully competitive and have a team full of Aussie reps, they can’t stop believing that myth.

By comparison, we’ve only really had five years of true suffering. Meaning NSW has only just started to write a book of myths. It involves Queensland being mercenaries and cheaters, so even if we lose, at least we still have our integrity.

But how can 5 years compare to 100? We’ve barely gotten started. So you’re right, Queenslanders. In the scheme of things: we don’t care.

But it doesn’t mean we don’t hate ya. And it doesn’t mean we won’t win.

Pic. Getty Images

Oh, Martin. How could you do this to us, Martin Kennedy?

We always thought Martin would be remembered for:

a) being a handsome ranga (cause god knows they’re rare enough … it’s pretty much him and the Love Shack, right?)

b) being born after 1980 and somehow still being named “Martin”

c) being an Oh Errol fave – remember when we did this adorable interview with him at the Easter show?

He’s a Bertie Beetle man! So cute.

d) and the rarest of all football achievements, the SELF-INDUCED TRIP-OVER FALCON.

But then he had to play a blinder against the Tigers and tell the media that he’s a Queenslander through and through.

Gotta be honest, that grosses the hell out of me.

This isn’t half-baked. You are either a Queenslander or you’re not and I am,” Kennedy said. “It was only when I went to Queensland that I started playing footy.

“I had 12 months of playing with my mates in NSW but it was in Queensland when I started to play seriously.

“I was born in NSW but my early years were on the farm in northern NSW. When you are young you really don’t know who you want to play for.

“My idols are Shane Webcke and Steve Price.

“If you grow up in Queensland, Queensland player are your idols.

“My greatest achievement before playing first grade was making the junior Queensland sides. All the junior rep teams I made were in Queensland.

ARGH, THE COBRAS THE COBRAS! Aside from ‘miss, did you know your dress is caught in your underpants?’ those are pretty much the most upsetting words I’ve ever heard. See, I can get on board with people living their whole lives in Queensland and growing up bleeding cane toady maroon blood. But the idea of someone who’s lived, you know … anywhere else, and choosing to call themselves a Queenslander blows my damn mind. And makes me feel a little nauseated. All that maroon *shudder*

But here’s the main thing: Geoff Carr (sup Geoff! how are ya?) says they don’t know which state he qualifies yet, but the important thing is: YOU CAN ONLY QUALIFY FOR ONE. First senior game. Not one senior game, not ten. It’s not like getting on a plane and choosing the chicken or the fish. Rules are rules.

Pic courtesy of awesomestorm. Thank you missy!

Amirite or amirite Cooper Cronk?

According to our Errol-fanz, responses to this whole Martin Kennedy debacle include:

“WE DON’T EVEN NEED HIM FOR QLD!”, “Who gives a rats arse?”, and even “They can have Kennedy, we’ll take Inglis back”.

Here’s the way I see it:

If it turns out he’s a Queenslander, then crack a XXXX and let’s all smash a Red Bull and a Stillnox.

If it turns out he’s a proper Blue, then … can we turn him down? If you don’t want to play, you shouldn’t, right?

And if the answer turns out to be “he’s eligible for both and he chooses Queensland like Greg Inglis” then I will straight up cut a bitch. And if being eligible for whichever state you like most is the new rule, I will also then build a time machine and go back and put every player who idolised a NSW player straight into the Blues team. Adrian Morley, come on dowwwwn! Doesn’t matter where you’re from! Just matters that you have love in your heart and a footy in your hands.

Queensland kinda needs to make a decision here. Either State of Origin is heaps important and shit, and actually proves something, in which case you have to follow the rules. Or, it’s just a random game we play and you might as well go nuts and start buying in Maori in the Origin version of Storm-salary-cap cheating. Mal Meninga could even make a little hand-made card and post it to the Crusaders saying ‘Sonny Bill, your wish has come true! You’re a Queenslander, eh bro!’

But if you’re not gonna take it seriously, no one’s allowed to cry when they win. Kk? Deal.

In other Maroon news, the NRL’s newest coach Anthony Griffin has told his boys not to fall in love with themselves after their winning streak.

“We’ve been good but it’s really important we don’t fall in love with ourselves,” he said after naming an extended 20-man squad on Tuesday.

Oh no, no, don’t worry, boys. When he says ‘love yourselves’ he didn’t mean THAT.

Ben Hannant, it’s okay. You can go back drinking your water, it was just a metaphor.

And Sammy Thaiday, don’t look so sad, since it’s a metaphor you can still have Special Alone Times if you want to.

And last, but not least, another man who wears a maroon uniform is in trouble for not keeping something in his pants.

Well of course Anthony Watmough is in trouble for peeing on the Corso. Oh, Watmough. And I won’t judge, because I’ve read the bible, and I’m pretty sure there’s a bit in there about letting she who has never peed in the street at night cast the first stone.

All I know is fish gotta swim. If you have a keg like Watmough in your second row, sometimes he pees in the street. Or calls someone’s outfit slutty. Or turns up to a community event in white board shorts.

He’s just … Watmough. Amirite, Cooper Cronk?

It’s a first for the season, y’all! I would like to congratulate Craig – also known as Rugby1847, or CRAIG THE TIGER – on being the first seppo to crack the top ten of the ErrolTips competition ladder in 2011.

Craig, if you don’t know him, is one of our beloved Jacksonville Axemen, infamous for (allegedly) being cautioned in a New York airport for roaming the airport on all fours, pretending to be a tiger, and attempting to lick a female passenger’s leg. This is why we LOVE HIM.

Overall, the ladder looks a little something like this:

And yep, there he is, just behind all the Aussies, Errol-friendz/relatives and mystery-tippers. As for where I am …. nowhere. Nothing to see here. Let’s change the topic.

OH HEY, IS THAT A UNICORN?

*disappears*

Pic. Robert Peet via SMH

I believe that Bennett stands somewhere below Jack Gibson, which is somewhere just above God.

- Roy Masters

Meeeemories, like the corners of my miiiiiiiind ….

Uncle Wayne, did you have to leave so soon? He told the world today that he’s getting his ass out of Kogarah (yes, yes and the Gong! Put down your pens and stop writing complaint emails, Steelers fans) at the end of 2012.

But then … we knew that didn’t we? It was only ever a short-term thing. Wayne was the kind of guy who floats into the Dragons’ life, reminds them that romance still exists, picks them flowers, makes them feel alive, wins them a premiership, then gets back into his dusty old pick-up and drives on.

You know, like in the Bridges of Madison County.

… why do you think the players call him Clint Eastwood?

Y’all know it, bitches!

But we’ve had some good times between us in the last two years, while he was rocking the Red V.

Remember when Kiki showed him her Dragons necklace, then touched his arm and told him it was like touching Jesus?

Remember all the special times he shared in the coaches box with Hot Bitch Cooper?

Not to mention the time they replayed the Wayne Bennett Australian Story on the ABC and I stupidly re-watched it and cried like a bitch. Again. Listen to him talk about his son without weeping like a lost kid in Franklins. DO IT. I DARE YA.

And of course, the time I like to call The Unpleasantness, when he led the Dragons in a crushing grand final win over my gorgeous little trouble-making Chooks. Sigh.

And here’s the deal: “it’s not about money”. Which, if you ask me, is bitch-crazy. If that was me I’d be raking in cash and buying the shit out of the whole of Melrose Avenue.

But reading between those lines, Uncle Wayne’s looking for a new project. He’s on the hunt for his next downtrodden, disillusioned housewife so he can restore her faith in love.

Which means if you are an NRL club that no one – EVER – expects to win a premiership again, you’re in luck. Roll up kids, if you’re a confirmed loser without any kind of hope at all, you could be the winner of a SHINY NEW WAYNE BENNETT.*

*COMES COMPLETE WITH PREMIERSHIP TROPHY.

Knights fans? Cowboys fans? … Come one, come all! Leave your applications in the comments section, why don’t ya?

ATTENTION READERS: THIS POST CONTAINS 80% OF A PERSON’S DAILY MENTAL NUTRITION.

Welcome darlings! It’s the first game recap of 2011, and it should have happened a lot sooner. It couldn’t though, because for the last three weeks I’ve been living with no internet. NO INTERNET. IN MY HOME. It’s straight-up torture. My flattie and I are thisclose to just giving up on modern life and going full Amish, churning our own butter and marrying dudes called Samuel. Then at least I could wear adorable brightly coloured maxi-skirts like whatever that movie is where Kirstie Alley makes over an Amish community while she’s on the run from the law.

What was my point? Oh yes, it’s the Cowboys v the Storm, it’s in Townsville (meet you in the casino after the game) and it’s raining.

The Fox boys tell us this will be a “clash of two great halfbacks”, which I think we all know means “an 80 minute battle to see who’s the best at bitching out referees”.

Warren says “Jonathan Thurston, what a battle it will be against Cooper Cronk”. Luckily, Waz is not referring to a real battle, because I think we all know that if this was a real battle Cooper Cronk would straight up spear someone in the eye, while JT would be the one at the back, hiding in a haystack weeping, and wearing an enemy uniform underneath his own just in case he’s about to get captured.

We know this because Cooper Cronk is a fierce bitch. And even Craig Bellamy agrees:

See? Fierce! (And thanks to Eliescha for finding it xx)

The game starts with Brian Norrie – or as we like to call him, Johnny Anonymous -  losing the ball, the Storm giving away a penalty, and Cam Smith wearing an elastoplast headband. With his stubble and his headband all diagonal and askew, he looks vaguely like a homeless Vietnam Vet.

When he says ‘spare a dollar’, it means ‘kick a field goal’.
Pic. Getty Images

Billy Slater chases up a Storm kick and tackles Matt Bowen and I am overwhelmed by cuteness. What can I say? I have a weakness for fullbacks on the lower end of the neck-length-spectrum.

The Storm fire up another grubbery kick, and if you can take a minute or two to watch this handy YouTube clip, I think TLC sum up my feelings on this game better than any other words could. U-N-P-R-E-T-T-Y.

Kalifa Fai Fai Loa gets his first touch, and as always when I hear his name pronounced ‘Fai Fai Law’ I feel like we’re talking about an obscure maritime treaty and giggle cause I’m a massive nerd.

Little Matty Bowen (yes that is his official name. Feel free to call him LMB) offloads and the ball gets to Will Tupou for a try on the right, but JT misses the conversion cause he’s too busy thinking how much of a bitch I am for saying he’d be a terrible soldier.

Hey, did you remember Anthony Quinn existed? I totally didn’t. Soz Quinny.

Kalifa Fai Fai Loa picks up the a Storm kick from just in front of the try line, runs it back, keeps running, OMG HE’S STILL RUNNING GO KALIFA GO GO GO! He drops it out to LMB for a beautiful try. LMB seems to think about diving in like a showpony, but resists. I like to think it’s cause he just really cares about safety. OH&S, y’all!

JT makes it 10-0, and when Ashley Graham barnstorms past Anthony Quinn I make a conscious effort to forget Anthony Quinn again.

Laurie Daley tells us that you always have to be aware with Cam Smith that he can kick, and that he’s looking to kick 40 …. 20s. In the 8 or 9 mintue pause between saying the words ’40′ and ’20′, Cam Smith kicks a 40-20.

An error to melbourne. An error to NQ. Waz says “it’s a greasy old night”. Mmmm greasy. I could smash a sausage roll.

Kevin Proctor makes a run of approximately minus 15 metres, Cronk kicks on the 5th tackle, it’s batted off to Sika Manu who .. loses the ball when he’s tackled from behind. It’s bleak. If you didn’t see it, just imagine Sika Manu trying to ground the ball, and replace each hand with one of these:

Yep, it was like that.

Cooper Cronk is not pleased with this turn of events. He’s screaming wildly for Justin O’Neill to kick the ball, but instead he passes to Billy Slater who … passes to the ground.

Pic. Getty Images

Considering I tipped the Storm this is wildly depressing, so let’s all take a moment to lift our spirits with a glorious picture of Flossy Nightingale …. um, well I don’t really know what he’s doing. Maybe he’s chasing butterflies. Or passing an imaginary football. He’s just Flossy, you know?

Bless.

The Cowboys reach their fifth tackle, take a kick, every man and his dog chases it in-goal. Dane Nielsen gets kneed in the face and rolls his ankle simultaneously. Ashley Graham somehow decides to go all Paul Mercurio and slides in on both knees, then knee-butts the ball dead. I would explain it but I … I don’t even know.

Everyone at Errol HQ is enjoying the Cowboys’ recent uniform redesign.

To my surprise and delight, someone in the stands reboots the Melbourne mixing desk and the Storm bust out a beautiful set play for Gareth Widdop to score a try. Cam Smith kicks a kick of amazingness for a 10-6 scoreline. Pretty sure I just heard a player yelling ‘what the fuck’ caught on the referee’s mike. I agree, mystery player. I agree.

Pic. Getty Images

Coming back from halftime, Tariq Sims goes for a strip on Billy Slater and is penalised. Of course he is. Sims boys attract penalties like flames attract moths. To explain it in footy terms, the Sims family is to penalties what Luke O’Donnell is to punch-ups. And to hotness. Oh Luke O’Donnell, we miss you already.

Sika Manu is taken off with leg troubles. Tonight is really not his night. It’s possible he’s offended the gods.

I notice Cameron Smith has taken off his headband. Did I offend him?

The Cowboys run in a try through Ash Graham and there is absolutely no doubt of any kind that the tipping gods hate me. This is the worst. 16-6 Cowboys.

I  miss about 10 minutes of the game because I happen to find this article online.

Perhaps it is because of the criticism that Andrew Johns has been ordained the next Immortal by some experts.

In what universe is Andrew Johns getting an easier ride to potential immortality than Darren Lockyer? Excuse me while my head explodes.

When I actually remember there’s footy on, Lozza is telling me Widdop is “a good mover on his feet”. As opposed to not on his feet. I love you, footy commentary. Never, ever change.

Matty Bowen runs in a beautiful try and grounds it with his torso from a JT kick for 22-8, and Ash Graham bags a double for 28-6. Just to clear things up, when the cmmentators say Matty Bowen is “changing his wheels” on the sideline, they are not talking about the “PAUL GALLEN GRABBED ME ON THE WHEELS” kind of wheels. They mean his shoes.

Proctor mounts a massive hit on Bowen, Billy saves a Fai Fai Loa try with a kick to the grandstand. If only my campaign for a rugby league six-and-out rule last year had worked. I won’t even get started on my petition for the shirtless v pantsless All-Stars.

The Fox boys tell me Ash Graham “has 19 runs tonight”. No wonder Billy is confused.

Melby have only one person on the bench, btw. Which is just like the Roosters on Sunday arvo, except that this wasn’t Neil Henry’s fault.

To finish off the rain-soaked tipping carnage, Tariq Sims somehow manages to run in a try without getting penalised, and it’s 34-6. Did that really just happen? Is this a betting scandal game again? Because I am 99% sure I’m not drunk.

Andy Raymond interviews “a very happy Dallas Johnson”, who looks pretty much the same as angry Dallas Johnson, and sad Dallas Johnson, and all other Dallas Johnsons. How could Andy even tell? Maybe Dallas just announces his feelings, like ladies with botox have to do.

I AM VERY HAPPY.
I AM VERY ANGRY.

Cooper Cronk tells Australia that: “I know this sounds silly, we’re not really focussed on winning games at the moment.” WELL THAT’S LUCKY COOPER CRONK.

Wayne Pearce tells us this win will be good for the Cowboys, because it’s like “mental nutrition”. Hello my new favourite phrase.

Stay tuned for a wrap of my all-round terrible tipping and the Erroltips leader board later this week.

Well this week has been truly, truly terrible. Not exaggerating, it was worse than the day I discovered that Peter Everett was leaving Ready Steady Cook. NO! PETER! Remember the good times we had recapping his adventures in gropery with Sam Burgess and Robbie Farah? Sigh. I wonder what he’s doing now. Probably sitting at home watching Elizabeth Taylor documentaries and eating chicken crimpies straight from the box.

No, this is much, much worse. Readers, I tipped two out of eight. TWO. Which means that while our shiny Errol leaderboard for people who are vaguely competent and tip more than TWO in a round looks a little something like this:

… and that’s right, my name is nowhere to be seen on it. Where am I, you might ask?

OH THERE I AM. FOUND MY NAME. JUST CHILLIN’ DOWN AT NUMBER 60. Yep, number 60. This means I’m doing worse at footy tipping than Lifeguard Hoppo. And no offence to Hoppo, because he saves drowning Irish backpackers and is tre hilarious and has lovely blue eyes and we generally adore him, but, well … this shit is dire. Hoppo is approximately 70 years old and it’s a miracle he can even use the internet so the fact that he is beating me at tipping is terrible and cannot be allowed to continue.

Bottom line? I blame the Sharks. Clearly that Shane Flanagan is an olive-skinned supercoach. The Sharks out-defended, out-controlled, out-patienced and out-Dragonsed the Dragons. Except, you know, that the Dragons don’t have a carpark that doubles as a swamp and needs to be closed when it’s raining heavily and mother nature requires it back to use as a water catchment. I assume that’s what the recent renovations at WIN Jubilee were adding.

Coincidentally, Wade Graham has clearly been on some kind of Dragons and Jamie Soward-inspired regime because if you dressed the two of them in red and yellow they are both straight-up nuggets.

Mmmm … nuggets.

What was my point? Oh yes, remember when Wade Graham was just a teeny blue-eyed teen making his debut alongside Lachlan Coote? And Lachie was on his way to being awarded his Boy Scout patch for Irish Dancing?

Pic. Getty Images

They grow up so damn fast. Now Lachie’s doing business studies and Wade’s just one more off-season away from having a rig as big as Paul Gallen’s.

More importantly, remember when the Roosters played good footy? As in … LAST WEEK? The memory seems as distant as the memory of Jarrod Mullen playing Origin. (Funnily enough, the memory of Jarrod Mullen bending over in front of me at a charity golf day two years ago is still as clear as crystal. Gotta thank your mother for a butt like that).

What we’ve learned is that a Gidley-less Newcastle is successful, the Cowboys are still capable of being more dreadful than your wildest dreams, and this season, no team is invincible.

The closest we’ve got is the Melbourne Storm, led by the fiercest bitch in league, Cooper Cronk.

Pic. Getty Images

See how Cam Smith is smiling in joy and celebration? Meanwhile Cooper Cronk is:

a) making a mental note to pick up some hair product on the way home;

b) figuring out exactly how he can kneecap Jonathan Thurston and steal his State of Origin halfback jersey without attracting the attention of the cops.

Here’s a hint, Coops: do it with a crutch in a Brisbane casino and everyone will just assume it was JT’s own fault.

So, bearing in mind how unpredictable footy is this year, here are our ridiculous predictions for round three:

Souths, those lucklass japesters, will win a match. Sassy will then declare her love for Greg Inglis, despite him being a Queenslander.

Braith Anasta will compliment the refs on their fine and reasonable decision-making.

Feleti Mateo will make spot-on offloads and set up three tries.

Peter Everett will join the footy show.

COME ON UNIVERSE MAKE IT HAPPEN!

Mazeltov, kittens! (I can say mazeltov now because I found out last year I’m officially Jewish. Surprise-Jew!)

Mazeltov, congratulations and happy happy days because footy is officially back.

Well, happy days for everyone except John Cartwright. Let’s drag out a picture from 2010 that already sums up the current state of mind of Oh Errol’s reigning sexiest coach in league:

… so, pretty much as normal then. And what about Des Hasler?

Yup, still throwing the semi-regular tanty. So the world is as it should be. Carry on, then.

And just like you know that it’s Christmas when you see the ham shelf at the deli is empty, the department stores start pumping out Kenny G carols, or when drunk girls start roaming the street dressed as slutty santas … there are a few telltale signs that footy is upon us.

For one thing, Freddy Fittler and Joey Johns appear back on your tv like two comical little angels of lolz. Watching them giggle on channel nine is music to our ears, like the laughter of children playing with the Christmas toys. Except it’s unlikely Freddy or Joey will pull anyone’s hair or vomit after drinking part of the mysterious chemical solution that came with their Magic Garden.*

* Unlikely, but not impossible.

note: may not be actual Morris.

You also know it’s that time o’year when a Morris brother (this time it was Josh) streaks away on his long, long bambi legs to score an 80+ metre try. No one catches a Morris! They’re adorable little genetic freaks!

Next thing you know, a player we adore is struck down by injury. This is heartbreaking, and inevitable. Like finding out that the teeny tiny box under the tree you thought was from Cartier is actually tiny because it contains a gift voucher from Katies. Devo.

Little Joshie Morris and Sam ‘Ready Steady Cook‘ Burgess are both out for at least a month, Manu ‘fierce bitch’ Vatuvei is gone for two months, and baby Chase Stanley and Scott Geddes are gone for the season. HEARTBREAK. It’s just Katie’s vouchers and Nickelback CDs all over the place.

These are the times when I’m grateful I have the Daily Telegraph to keep things in perspective.

Forget about players’ emotional health or Johnny Lang and his attempts to figure out his line up for the Bunnies’ next game even though he can’t find his glasses and no one will listen to his old man stories: WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF OUR FANTASY TEAMS?

In other, less shocking news, Parramatta didn’t suck in round one. Do you know why this isn’t surprising? Cause you totally read my preview over on One HD where I said they wouldn’t suck.

Right? Thought so. THANKS FOR YOUR SUPPORT GUYZ.

And because I’m heaps good at watching movies and heaps good at writing shit, I believe I compared Stephen Kearney and his rag-tag crew of lifesavers, old men and Daniel Mortimer to Gene Hackman and his team of ringers in the feel-good family classic ‘the Replacements’.

From now on I shall refer to him exclusively as Gene. Gene Kearney. Dan Mortimer can be Keanu Reeves.

Meanwhile I can’t wait till Parra make the top eight and people start wearing Hackman masks on the train. The Gene-Train!

And in the least shocking news of all, Uncle Wayne’s Dragons are still carving up the NRL. Because Uncle Wayne is the ultimate life coach. His book even made Kiki have feelingz and we all know she almost never has those.

The only thing we don’t know is where he’s going next year. It’s like NRL lotto … no matter what your team, you could be the winners! And your prize is a shiny new premiership delivered in the hand of Wayne Bennett.

And you know you’d accept him too. Don’t lie. I mean like Brian Smith and all … he got us to the grand final, and I find it cute and fitting that he coaches the Roosters and kinda looks like a little chicken, also he was super-polite to me when I interviewed him at Ringrose Park. But I’d still trade him in for Uncy Wayne.

It’s like the freebie five for married couples. If you meet anyone on your freebie five, you can shag ‘em, and your husband can’t complain. Which makes Wayne Bennett the coaching version of Hot Bitch Cooper.

Or, I dunno, Beyonce if you’re a dude.

HERE’S A LOLZ GRAPHIC WE PREPARED EARLIER AND RE-USED CAUSE WE’RE LAZY.

Now there’s a game recap coming later this week, but first let’s check in on Erroltips 2011.

We have 113 intrepid tippers on board so far, the tiny vodka bottles are being handed out as we speak, and as of week one, the leader board looks like this:

This is a vitally important Errol post!

Is it a scented hand-writted note in which we apologise for a lack of posting frequency? Well of course not. Because love means never having to say you’re sorry.

Although yes, as always, we have been ridiculously busy. For example, today I did important things like cleaning the lint out of my dryer cause it kept making a weird beeping noise. I also spent a good ten minutes listening to the following educational conversation in my workplace about the Quiksilver Pro:

1: how do the surfers know who’s winning?
2: they say it over the loudspeaker from the beach, like ‘red is winning, white you need an 8.4 on this wave to take the lead’
1: well you’re screwed if you’re deaf then
2: deaf people would never be pro surfers, cause of their balance
1: you’re kidding, deaf people have BETTER balance
2: no they don’t! it’s like an inner-ear thing
1: no, because they can’t hear it means all their other senses are heightened
2: balance isn’t a sense!

Instead, this post is us asking you for a favour. As JFK said, ask not what Errol can do for you … ask what you can do for Oh Errol.

(Don’t worry, it doesn’t involve getting off the couch, or spending money).

On Friday, we kick off the JUGGERNAUT that is the Oh Errol 2011 tipping comp. If you haven’t joined it, you’re only contributing to the chances that I will win again, and my ridiculously massive ego will only get larger. Do you want to be responsible for that? Hmmmmmm?

Of course not. So hustle over and join for your chance to take home a selection of ffaaaaabulous cash and prizes.*

JOIN THE OH ERROL TIPPING COMP

* may not be actual cash and prizes.

See ya next week for the first week’s tipping update and another year of footy recaps, ranting and objectification xx

Kittens, there are many, many things that I cannot explain about the Golden Globes.

I can’t explain why, even though she’s objectively smoking hot, Megan Fox kind of grosses me out. I can’t explain why Angelina Jolie looked like she was on about fifteen xanax for the whole ceremony. Or why Robert Downey Jr can be simultaneously so short, so odd, and so incredibly attractive.

Who knows? He just is.

More importantly, I have NO GODDAMN IDEA how Jennifer Love Hewitt could play an accidental hand-job-giving happy-endings masseuse in a TV miniseries and end up nominated for an award in the same category as Judi Dench.

What I can do – really, really well – is judge things. And here are my top five hand-picked Most Memorable Looks of the Week:

1. January Jones and her rack. Because if you’re not nominated, and you dress like Jessica Rabbit, you still win. Win at LIFE.

2. Look! It’s Gossip Girl’s Leighton Meester taking a break from her life as a polygamous sect-wife to attend the Globes. I can’t be bothered googling so I’ll just assume every one hated this, but it ticks every single one of my style boxes. Faded floral print? High waist? Leg’o'mutton sleeve? Yes please! It has serious 1970s Gunne Sax vibes, and I already own six of those dresses from second-hand stores.

3. I am 99% sure that this look is lifted from a Shape magazine photo spread about loving your curves. Grab a form-fitting shape-enhancing one piece swim suit with matching sheer sarong and you can go from the pool to the cocktail bar in no time. See page 65 for stockists.

4. I look at this dress and the big red rose growth in the middle, and all I can think of is that skin cancer ad, where little red melanomas start growing and crawling around in your bloodstream as you tan. SKIN CELLS IN TRAUMA! HER DRESS HAS A MELANOMA! Thank you Nat, for reminding me of the danger of sun exposure. Also, congratulations on the award ‘n’ shit.

Pic source

5. So it wasn’t at the Golden Globes but dammit if this didn’t make my day. Greg Bird in cricket whites, y’all. Greg Bird in cricket whites. Apparently at the SCG the other night, playing to support the Learn, Earn Legend program, Birdy bowled 4 for 6. Sadly, not enough to snag victory for the legends team over the junior team they played against. But at least it confirmed something I would totally have guessed: Birdy’s a spin bowler. OF COURSE HE IS. Just like our beloved Shane Warne. Why sprint 30 metres to bowl, when you can take two steps and flick your wrist?

Golden Globes pics. Getty Images

Is there any sweeter feeling? As of today it’s only 53 sleeps till NRL season 2011 starts. That means only 53 sleeps until nerds like us have an excuse to spend our weekends screaming at sportsmen at footy grounds or on the tv instead of having to, you know, leave the house, wear proper shoes, and pay $17 for cocktails on a Friday night.

Who’s down with that kind of stuff?

Sorry, who’s down with that kind of stuff OTHER than most girls?

Not us, is the answer. We prefer a $4 meat pie and the luxury of reclining on a grassy hill while other humans perform feats of strength and daring for our entertainment.

This is as opposed to what has happened over the past few weeks, where I recline on my chair at work and watch Australia (usually) lose at cricket. In between, I eat takeaway edamame and bitch about how if the umpire can’t call no-balls when they happen, and only refers them when a catch is taken then WHAT IS THE BLOODY POINT OF THE RULE? It’s only being used like … 5% of the time.* Travesty! It fills me with the same kind of rage as when tries are disallowed for a step into touch by the video umpire even though there was a touch judge right there the whole time. If he stepped out, wouldn’t the touchie have called it? Isn’t that his JOB? WELL ISN’T IT?

* disclaimer: am not mathematician. insert your own percentage here.

I just get so mad sometimes, you know? And you know what helps?

Yep, that’s Tim Bresnan of the English cricket team. Tim Bresnan, the man with the best and crispest Sprinkler dance moves in England. He’s celebrating winning the Ashes. Specifically, he’s celebrating by being a dancing dynamo. Bresnan, you fill me with so much joy. I wish you were Australian. Feel free to wait till you’re about to check in for your flight home, tell your teammates you could smash a Boost Juice, and sneak off in a cab, kk?

Also we seriously have to thank various sporty (and non-sporty) dudes for coming up with ways to raise money for Queensland that idiots like us can get involved with. We’re too far away – and probably too unfit – to help in person, but we still want to do everything we can and give all the money we can, and nothing makes you realise how much of a community Australia really is like sport.

I even got completely sucked into watching two hours of the Rally for Relief in Melbourne … but how could I resist?

SPORTS CHICK CHEST-BUMP!

Andy Murray head-butting the ball. Pat Rafter being lovely like Jesus. Novak Djokovic playing winners while sitting on the floor drinking water. Rafa Nadal telling the crowd to “BE GENEROUSLY!” Novak Djokovic offering to put his hands down Ana Ivanovic’s dress to fix her mike. Novak Djokovic and Andy Roddick making ass-jokes … when I see that kinda shit, my brain just says yes, please!

No wonder I ended up donating again.

I also learned educational things. Like that Lleyton and Bec Hewitt are raising a tiny troupe of aryan babies. So blond!

And how Rafael Nadal can totally speak English, he just sometimes pretends not to. He’s the Fui Fui Moi Moi of tennis!

My only hope is that Fui is one of the Parramatta players who head up to Queensland tomorrow to help first hand with flood relief. You need giant objects moved? You need this man.

We also hope that Mark ‘Piggy’ Riddell, his lady and his new little baby (piglet?) are doing well.

disclaimer:may not be actual child in question.

And if you now need to close this window, well, why don’t you open this one?

Tennis pics: Getty Images