It’s Ashes time. And in between sleepless nights and bleary days everyone’s talking about delay tactics, shitty umpiring, Australia’s performance at Lord’s, and how much of an arrogant chav bastard Freddie Flintoff is. However, after tuning into SBS’s coverage of the series and checking my television settings to make sure I hadn’t accidentally tuned into Amateur Hour on Channel 31, I’m surprised that the biggest Ashes talking point isn’t …

Stuart MacGill: can’t bat, can’t bowl, can’t host

Jeebus H. Cat, the man is atrocious! Whenever SBS crosses back to the studio during lunch I am overwhelmed with feelings of embarrassment for him; that’s if I can stop cringing at the telly long enough. It’s like watching a nervous schoolkid, spooked eyes staring straight down the barrel of the camera, wee their pants from fear live on air. Every night for ten nights.

I know that it’s wise to head your sports broadcasts with someone who knows the game and who can talk from experience, but surely they could’ve found someone better than MacGill. Even Damien Martyn, with his complete lack of charisma or presence would’ve made a better host — at least he’s watchable. But between MacGill and that goose Greg Matthews I’ve been tempted a number of times to throw the flat screen off the balcony.

Stuart MacGill, you’re on the list.

UPDATE: From MacGill’s Wikipedia page:

MacGill is noted as an intellectual type, having once read 17 books on a tour of Pakistan

I suppose reading one book on a cricket tour is enough to get yourself smeared as an intellectual.

UPDATE II: Further down the Wikipedia page the plot thickens:

He has a fondness for wine and books, once reading 24 novels during a tour of Pakistan.

Both “facts” are sourced from a Cricinfo bio, which states:

The son and grandson of Western Australian state players, he socialised with friends who weren’t cricketers in his playing days, and was often portrayed as a thinker, a misfit, the odd man out. It was something he played down, although he once read 24 novels on a tour of Pakistan.

Socialised with non-cricketers! The shame.

Baby Rogenous is now almost 19 months old, so this week I figured it was high time I started indoctrinating him. You can’t afford to waste any time with this sort of thing.

Now, I know what you’re all thinking … but no, I don’t mean politically. I might be a pernicious Leftist, but I’m not that pernicious — he’ll need to be at least two years old before I read him The Communist Manifesto, and I’ll wait until he’s mastered Twinkle Twinkle Little Star before bothering with The Internationale.

Instead, I’ve started him on an area second only in importance to politics — sport. Lesson no.1 was football codes, and I’m delighted to say he passed with flying colours:

(Transcript here if you can’t understand babytalk)

Next week, I think I’ll introduce him to Club Wah’s superb Ashes for the Ignorant series.

Now, we can only speculate as to why a certain GrodsReader was Googling for stories about the rugby league (don’t worry, I don’t know what that is either) player who’s owned up to having group sex with a New Zealand woman, but the search results returned to him have either broken open a sensational news scoop or revealed an embarrassing balls-up in the SMH news room.

Look a little closer.

Isn’t that Bristol Palin? What was she doing in New Zealand seven years ago?

(Thanks to reader Possum.)

This evening I announced to all and sundry on Facebook that I have finally decided what I’m going to do with my stimulus money — if I ever get it. (Memo to Rudd: Hurry the fuck up and gimme the money!)

The responses I got in return were surprising, ranging from “Are you insane?” to “Weirdo” to “I don’t think that’s what Rudd had in mind”.

So, what is it that I am going to do with my filthy lucre, dear GrodsReaders? Well, I’ve decided to go…

SKYDIVING!!!!1!!

Big freakin’ deal, huh?

Thing is, it’s entirely justified: skydiving is bloody expensive and I’ve been wanting to do it for years, but could never justify the money (or, more likely, never had enough money). Besides, Kevin didn’t tell me HOW I should spend it, did he? Or if he did, I must’ve missed it — possibly deliberately.

I figure I’ll be in Byron Bay in July on what seems to be becoming an annual pilgrimage there (yeah, lefty greenie hippy country… makes sense, don’t it?) and I might as well jump out of an aeroplane while I’m at it.

Is that insane? Weird? Wrong?

Has anyone got their money yet, out of curiousity? And would you spend a portion of it on skydiving?

Growing up in regional Queensland in the 1980s meant watching locally produced commercial television, some of which must count among the most execrable ever broadcast. Also, watching local television meant being subjected to what amounted to a round-the-clock brainwashing campaign on behalf of Castlemaine Perkins. By my recollection, there was a plug for Fourex every 4.2 minutes, most of which included the only celebrities Queensland had at the time (other than Jackie McDonald): sportsmen.

What with the hoo-ha about the State election, a friend reminded me of the existence of this abomination. Since I saw it about 5000 times in 1985, it’s only taken one viewing to ensure that I can’t rinse the sounds or images from my mind. I thought I’d share the pain with GrodsReaders.

NB

1. The heady blend of alcohol and retro-styled homeroticism.

2. Thommo’s mullet.

3. When they say that there’s been an 80s fashion revival, they’re lying. That is 80s fashion, and you don’t see hipsters getting around in anything that comes even close.

If I can’t get it out of my head soon, I’m calling Dr Nitschke.

In what was surely the most shocking upset in world sport since Leon Bertrand Spinks beat Mohammad Ali in 1978, GroupThinkFC was bundled out of the finals tonight, scoring a meagre two goals against the opposition’s 10.

Still, it wasn’t a total loss. We were beaten by a team named Dirka Dirka, which can only mean they’re Islamist terrorists — which, as we all know, means Teh Left still wins.

Peace be upon them, Mohammed jihad.

The challenge was to lose by less than 20 goals and the mighty, mighty GroupThinkFC rose to the challenge, losing by only eight goals. With a final scoreline of 11-3 against the best team in the competition, GroupThinkFC is into the finals series! Bring on the slaughter (of us)!

Respect our authoriteh!

Today is possibly the most momentous day in the history of sport. Ever. For tonight the mighty GroupThinkFC, barring monumental fuckup, will go through to the finals series of its soccer competition.

Is it possible that this uniform could finally demand a little bit of respect?

You read that right, GrodsReaders: GroupThinkFC + finals. This is the same team that has spent three seasons getting predictably and embarrassingly creamed on a weekly basis, but getting gradually better in the process. Better enough, it seems, to clock up a couple of genuinely good wins in the past few weeks and make it into the top four. Of course, given the form of the top three compared to GTFC we’d be slaughtered in the finals, but it would just be nice to play.

Take that, Emos and nerds!

So tonight’s the last game of the regular season and Roger Rogenous (Ant’s brother) has calculated that if we lose by less than 20 goals we’re finals-bound. Mind you, if anyone can lose by 20 goals it’s the people’s football team. Cross your fingers for us and I’ll post a match report tomorrow morning.

I was flicking through a book named Mongrel punts and hard ball gets: an A–Z of footy speak just now and found what is undoubtedly the greatest description of Aussie Rules I’ve ever read.

Apparently it was written at the beginning of the 20th century by one Hway Ung, a Chinese scholar in Melbourne:

I went … to see the game they call Foo-pah … It is played in winter heaven, for it requires top endurance and activity … Men on one side try to kick goose-egg pattern ball between two poles that represent a gate or entrance. They run like hares, charge each other like bulls, knock each other down rushing in pursuit of the ball to send it through the enemy’s pole… 

I defy anyone to do better than that.

UPDATE: Oh, dear. Just out of curiosity, I plugged a line from the above quote into Google and came up with this:

The following excerpts were written in 1899 by a Chinese visitor, describing his experience in America (Hwuy-yung, A Chinaman’s Opinion of Us and of His Own Country, London: Chatto and Windus, 1927).  He was writing for Chinese readers who were eager to know what Americans were really like.

Authors Paula Hunt and Glenn “the Bolt” Manton: research FAIL.

UPDATE II: Do click on that link, though. There’s some very funny stuff, including this earth-shattering observation about Americans:

Their arms and ears do not reach to the ground, as we depict them.

Slapfight III slapfighters revealed.

Be afraid. Very afraid.

Police have advised the public to point and laugh if they see these men.

Mis dedos! Mis dedos! Por el amor de Dios, ¿DÓNDE ESTÁN MIS DEDOS!!1!

Oh, está bien … aquí están. 

In 2007 we saw Slapfight I.

In 2008 we saw Slapfight II.

But in 2009 we’re still waiting for Slapfight III. Come on, Croatian and Serbian youths of Melbourne! Don’t let us down.

Tonight at Melbourne Park, Daryl Braithwaite — former frontman of 1970s rock band Sherbet — is performing in the Heineken Beer Garden as part of the Australian Open’s line-up of free entertainment.

If you are planning to attend this event, please note: do not, under any circumstances, carry this image in the back of your mind while Mr Braithwaite is on stage:

Enjoy the show.

And not a moment too soon.

(May or may not be a trophy I “won” for participation in primary school soccer)

After the past few weeks of humiliation we had reached crisis point, where a loss to soccer’s favourite emos would result in GTFC members self-harming. But we won, we won by playing rooly good soccer, and we won for the first time as a complete team with nobody missing. Six glorious goals to two.

Suck shit, emos.

Luckily the game wasn’t without its funny moments thanks to the tall ginger emo who spends most of the game in goal laughing maniacally at things that aren’t funny. At one point he was on the field and marking Jeremy when he shrieked, “Stop looking at my balls! Why are you looking at my balls?” I swear that Jeremy only glanced at ginger’s balls. It was hardly a stare.

Then when the freak was marking me he said, “You look just like my friend Scott. I liiiiike my friend Scott.” Exactly how do you respond to that?

Anyway, despite the late finish we retired to bar for a quick victory beer (or cola for one member — guesses in comments.) Cheers to the mighty, mighty GroupThinkFC!

Bartender! Make mine a cordial.