Don’t forget these awards

The Honourable S. Muller: The man courted controversy and poor performance.

 

Well folks, the other night at the Allan Border Medal, Michael Clarke, the golden pup of Aussie cricket, walked away with more silver ware than was on the tables and further cemented his position as Australian cricket’s main man. And good luck to the lad, he definitely was best performer for our national team this summer and proved to the Indians that even a once regarded self-indulgent, tattooed, latte sipping priss can be forgiven and embraced by a harsh public if he can do the business on the field. A lesson is surely there for some of their blokes.

So with all the Awards for best players settled neatly in the gloves for another year and Shane Warne deservedly inducted into the hall of fame, it’s time for the SSD to give its own awards out for the past year.

In recognition of all feats that have been sour, strange or forgettable during the past year of Aussie cricket, the SSD would like to celebrate these feats with the inaugural Scott Muller Awards. These awards will also include a new inductee into the C.U.N.T.S (cricketers union of non test selection) hall of shame.

  1. Most outstanding dummy spit – Simon Katich. It was hard to give this to the Kat as I am a fan, but he really bared his claws to the selectors in that press conference.
  2.  Most outstanding fall from grace – Mitchell Johnson. Johno just couldn’t get it right, but it took an injury for the selectors to finally say bon-voy-age! Johno now finds himself well down the pecking order of Australian fast bowlers, going from 1st to about 8th in about 3 months.
  3. Worst test player of the year – Brad Haddin. This hurts, but Hads has had a shocker! This chap may find himself drinking with Johno at the CUNTS bar shortly too. Hads also easily picked up the wickets for pickles award as well for his brain explosion against NZ earlier in the summer as well.
  4. Worst one day player of the year – Brad Haddin. It’s a big night for the gloveman, but he played everything up until our home one day series this year with modest returns.
  5. Worst BBL import – Paul Collingwood. Colly had a shocker, his batting was typically ugly and scoring stuff all runs only made it all the more dreadful. His finest moment came when playing the Melbourne Stars. Colly dropped two absolute sitters at cover in the space of 2 overs; hopeless from a bloke who was given an MBE for fielding.
  6. Most baffling decision – The selection of George Baily. I don’t even need to comment on this.
  7. The newest inductee into the C.U.N.T.S hall of shame is – Doug Bollinger. The rug is still a fine bowler, but after turning up to the Adelaide oval last year after what looked to be a few weeks of watching the box and downing pizzas, the Rug hasn’t been invited back. And he probably won’t be.
  8. And the final award. The Scott Muller award for 2012 goes to; Cameron White. The Bear did outstanding to be dropped from the one day side and the T20 side this year, handing back the Captaincy along the way. But, big Cam also had a forgettable BBL tournament which netted the stunning returns of: 55 runs at 7.86, striking at 75.34 and the rather large round figure of zero tallied in the wickets column. You’d have to think he can forget about a CA contract next season too. So, in true Scott Muller glory, The Bear, has been told he can’t bowl, can’t bat, and you’d have to expect, don’t come back from the selectors! Well done Bear!

Congratulations Bear! You can now permanently watch the game from the stands.

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India: Buttered chickens who became Xmas turkeys!

Piss off boys! Let's hope the pilot is not as lazy as you blokes are between the wickets

As you may be aware, my tolerance for Indian cricket reached its simmering limit this summer. After watching this bunch of shit heads tour our country with contempt and tarnish the great game of cricket with their self-indulgent, destructive attitudes all while playing to the standard of a second 11 County side, I, for one, can’t wait to see the back arse of these pricks climbing into an air Indian airline who I hope will treat them with as much respect and laziness as they showed here. I definitely don’t think my spray titled “India: Rogan Tosh” came within a Bangal tiger’s dick length of expressing how frickin pissed off I’ve been with this bunch of players and their pathetic governing body.

So, I was pleasantly pleased when sorting through the fish and chip wrappers this morning to find a man, who by the looks of it, has had just about enough of this rabble as well. Malcolm Conn, of the Tele, unleashed a scathing piece on this woeful team of individuals which toured our nation, and while doing his darn best to keep within journalistic guidelines, he lets the bastards have it!

So I’ve done us all a favour and printed it here for all to see.

Enjoy!

 Thank goodness Tuesday night’s game against Sri Lanka in Hobart will be India’s last on this tour – barring some major mathematical quirk of results which will see them make the finals.

India cannot go home soon enough to their bulging bank accounts and flat, grassless wickets. (You can say that again) 

Sachin Tendulkar’s run out for 14 at the SCG last night typified India’s tour. Pathetic.

To remonstrate that he had been blocked by Brett Lee when they barely touched was just woeful. Tendulkar was not forced to alter course and he gave up attempting to make his ground.

He may once have been the greatest modern cricketer in the world and India the new arrogant financial force in the game, but on and off the field this rabble will go home with no redeeming features.

 
It was yet another example of India treating the greater game with scant respect.It is impossible to believe that India was the number one Test team in the world for nigh on 20 months and won the World Cup in April.

Instead, Australia has been presented with the same under-prepared shambles who lost top place on the Test table with a 4-0 flogging in England mid-year.

This over-paid, over-indulged, over-aged bunch of prima-donnas should be ashamed of themselves.

But when you’re paid millions to frolic about in the IPL and millions more by leading Indian companies in a rapidly-expanding economy, what does it really matter?

Cricket would be a curiosity rather than a serious world sport if it was not for the money and passion of a vast Indian population.

With a billion people, an exploding middle class of 300 million and no significant competition from other sports on the global stage what does India lack, apart from decent administration and a worldly team?

Does India really care about the greater good of the game?

From the experience of this tour the answer is a resounding no.

Start with captain MS Dhoni. In remarkable displays of incompetence, or lack of caring, he has been suspended for slow overrates during the Test and one-day series.Of all the records ever set in cricket how many skippers will manage to get themselves suspended twice on the same tour in different forms of the game?

India treated its passionate and vocal supporters with contempt (locking them out of training sessions), remains in the Stone Age as the only country which refuses to embrace technology for umpiring decisions and makes no attempt to promote the game.

Tendulkar, the most loved and admired player in the game, has made no effort to address his many fans at any stage during more two months on tour.

The only time he managed to utter anything to anyone besides his team mates and staff came before yesterday’s match.

He made a short thank-you speech after being awarded honorary membership of the Sydney Cricket Ground, where he has a Test average of 157.
 
Is India ever going to embrace the global cricket community, or remain just a whinging, home ground bully?

Malcolm, I couldn’t have said it any better.

Cheers to you mate.

A couple of thoughts for the comming season

I’m going to put a couple of thoughts on table for all to see, as well as put some Nostradamus predictions for NRL 2012 on the goal post.

  1. If Wayne Bennett manages to get the Newcastle Knights to finish in the top 4, surely he then can be placed head and shoulders above any coach in history. I personally don’t think he needs a premiership to confirm that status. A consistent competitive outfit which finishes in the top 4 will be all I need for proof of his greatness.
  2. Souths will most likely stumble again, and I’m thinking big bopers Inglis and Burgess may yet have another tampon riddled season which will cruel their side’s hopes for the year.
  3. Manly may still have a pretty good playing roster, but how long will it be before Choc starts to slide off the tracks and derails a few of the blokes around him? This bloke is a bit of loose one off the field. Not only has Toovey got that to contend with, but he also has to contend with, perhaps, slightly lower enthusiasm levels from the playing group (It can take a whole season to get over a mad Monday celebration following a grand final win); high expectations towards him from the board, players and fans; AND, if either the halfback or Stewart get injured this season, kiss it good bye boys. 
  4. I actually think the Chooks could build on their late season form from last year and silently make their way into contention, just like they did 2 years ago.
  5. I seriously believe the Dragons will fall off the wheel come mid year. With origin games placing a strain, Bennett’s dust finally disappearing and Pricie’s rein taking full hold, the Dragons will lose focus and wobble. I think injuries will also play a big factor for them this year, as in I see some significant ones on the horizon.  
  6. The Sharks will actually have a good year this season. I reckon a top 8 birth is looking pretty solid at this stage and I also think that the likes of Carney and Gallon will stay fit for most of the year.
  7. It will be no change at Bellmore, the Dog’s fans will still be a bunch of frickin wankers! Isn’t there a soccer team they could follow?
  8. Robert Lui will be a better foil for JT than the last bloke was. However, Lui will still be the biggest hole seen in a defensive line since the Italian army of WWII.  I don’t know if Henery did his home work, but in defence, the side with Lui plays a man down. Utterly useless!
  9. While we are on Robert Lui, I know there is one person who is praying that the Cowboys win the GF this year, and that’s Mrs Lui. I don’t know how much Lui and his missus have in common, I’m guessing not much, however, I know they share the same defensive skills. So a long bender of celebrations for Robert rather than a night of defeat followed by a boxing lesson would be definitely more appealing to Mrs Lui.
  10. Sam Burgess will continue his good form off the field in the Kings cross area cutting a swath through the inner city precinct, leaving a bevy limping women in his wake. 

 

Spoilt and tormented? Just say Tah

Another year, another ulcer?

Or could we dream of releasing the esteemed Pinot blanc for a drought-breaking victory snifter?

This is the hard knock life for the supporters of the NSW Waratahs.

The devoted have become accustomed to the blended feeling of hopeful expectation and gut-wrenching concern over the years. It’s an icky emotion which is aggravated by performances which can be likened to sitting at a generously stacked manic depressive poker machine.

Rocky needs to work on his hide'n'seek skills.

We’ve witnessed the team go 12 rounds toe-to-toe with heavyweights such as the Crusaders before fronting up disjointed and drowsy the following week and being trampled by one of the 20 cent South African provinces in a siesta-inducing punt fest.

 
 
I’ve seen aristocrats from the north shore sobbing into their chardonnays with such frustrated force that their monocles have fallen off.

So what will Super Rugby 2012 bring for the spoilt and tormented in sky blue?

If there’s been one constant with the club, it’s that they’ve never had any issues baiting the big names to roll up and have a run. And it’s no different this year with a couple of big fish from the Australian rugby scene landing in town to ply their trade.

Well-travelled pack madman Rocky Elsom is here and he’s been given the captaincy. Except he’s out for the first 8 weeks.

Convenient.

Another valuable addition to the payroll is backline Mr Fix-it Adam Ashley-Cooper. He’s left the exhilarating lifestyle of the ACT for Tah-land to beef up our depth and keep the hyphenated surname quota up to scratch.

AAC and Berrick racing for parking spots.

There’s also the underrated Sarel Pretorius who topped the tryscoring charts last year with South Africa’s breadline Cheetahs team and a homecoming for barrister backrower Dan Vickerman.

On the other hand, there’s been a few who have had the temerity to depart our great rugby organisation.

Seeing a ruck and maul without breakdown viking Phil Waugh will just look downright weird, and conjuring sparks in attack without Wallaby wonderkid Kurtley Beale will certainly be causing new coach Michael ‘Axle’ Foley a few sleepless nights.

Sarel: where the f*ck did his leg go?

The campaign commences with a curveball that has swung on a right angle.
 
 
Playing the defending champions and detested rivals Queensland in a ‘home’ game at the characterless ANZ Stadium with a truckload of talent on the sidelines and an unproven captain would’ve added teeth-grinding to Foley’s already restless sleep patterns.

Drew Mitchell, Lachie Turner and Berrick Barnes will join Vickerman and Elsom in making up one mighty sick bay, whilst veteran benchie Daniel Halangahu will take the role of captain in a combination of circumstances that will have the Tahs faithful scratching the noggin right up until the final hooter.

An appropriately confusing way for the Super 15 to commence in bona fide Waratah style.

Oak out. Forrest in.

The Gonski Report had far-reaching effects that stretched further than the local education scene when it was handed down this week.

A copy even found its way to John Inverarity’s desk, which served as profound inspiration for the gawky former school principal to take snap amputation action.

On Monday, he rapidly used it to whack Ricky Ponting across the head just before he asked him to leave the Australian ODI bureau forever.

Ricky didn’t think the parting book-slap would arrive so rapidly, as was evident in the terse yet candid delivery of his pyjama game adios yesterday. And I’ve got to admit, it creeped up on me also.

Will you now please finally admit to extensive follicle tampering?

His Lazarus effort in the India test series after an agonizing period of nada in the lead-up had the media locking up the torture chamber and putting the rose-coloured glasses back on, thinking that he was back to his erstwhile mode of invincibility.

He even had a couple of games back in the box seat with the 50 over captaincy.

But the cold hard bitch of retirement speculation is always lurking in a nearby hedge when you are at Punter’s crusty age. Give her 2 or 3 poor knocks to get her randy and she’s ready to swing the stiletto of separation at a moment’s notice, regardless of who you are or how many vitamin ads you appear in.

We should’ve never doubted how closely she shadows the elderly, holding a rolled-up Daily Telegraph, ready to brutally wield on a tidily kept Advanced Hair head when essential.

The hard numbers indicated that Punter was in a poor stretch. But the scenario was missing the typical prolonged groundswell of torment from the press baying for his blood this time around.

The unlikely source of the final coffin’s nail was freshman Peter Forrest.

It's all your fault, Pete.

When he found his feet immediately at international level, a bottleneck was created at the top of the order.
 
With David Warner and Matthew Wade cemented and Michael Clarke and Shane Watson to return, suddenly this summer’s 4 failures became glaring for Punter, making him the loser in a game of musical chairs.

In a blink of a Beef’n’Bourbon black eye, Ricky is now Gonski.

I’m stating the obvious here; his exit is like uprooting a huge oak tree that dominates a backyard space.

The term ‘end of an era’ would do exceptionally well to find a better example than the little hairy man’s departure from the Australian ODI scene.  

D/L: WD?

ELD 2.0 WENT CRICKET CROSS-EYED ON FRIDAY AND ASKS DUCKY-LEW… WHAT’S DOING?

 

What’s the chances of Albert Einstein and Thomas Edison being exhumed and revived so they can take a geeze at the Duckworth/Lewis system?

We’ve got blokes who have lived the game for eons who willingly concede that they give this perplexing headf*ck on steroids a wide berth at all times.

Aaahhhh.... Good times.

It seems only the planet’s greatest minds would have the required grey matter muscle to whip out the protractor and abacus and get this thing nipped in the bud.

We all understand the concept and intention of Duckworth/Lewis, and to be honest, most of the time it seems to work pretty well. However this maybe due to the fact that noone has the maths diploma to challenge it.

Nevertheless, bar the occasional inquiry from a weirdo with too much time and a calculating device, it trucks on uninhibited.

It’s time in the spotlight of negativity peaked in 1992.

Anything that unreasonably asks a South African team for 22 from the final ball to win a tense semi-final always has my tick of approval, even if merely for comedy value.

But since then, the lads have been getting meticulously funky with their equations as the game has evolved. Thanks to this, everyone has swapped inquisitive probing for indolent trust in the method after realising you would be better off trying to decode a Chinese tax-pack.

Nobody has a spare 7-10 days to sit on their can to try and split the cricket atom every time it smells like there’s a defect in the calculation.

However, on Friday night it had me somewhat puzzled as to how Ducky and Lewballs managed to reduce Australia’s total by 8 runs at the close of their innings.

Duck & Lew: no wonder the formula is shite. That's a soccer ball and a tennis ball.

With the rain delay, the brains trust were able to nut-out a new set of game conditions so the game could be completed, much to the chagrin of Aussie cricket fans who would’ve preferred a tropical monsoon to flush away a forgettable day at the office.

The rain stayed away and the guidelines were followed.

So why did D/L need to double-dip on the state of the game and pilfer another 8 valuable runs from Australia’s already porpoise total?

Shouldn’t the details agreed on at the time of the delay be the final guiding light to the game’s conclusion?

I could understand the madcap tally recipe being called on if rain intervened again. But it stayed away.

It’s got me stuffed.

Please help a cross-eyed brother.

 

So boys, what do you think about Dragons and Souths year?

Dribblers, after watching the charity shield, what are your early thoughts on how the Dragons and Souths go this year?

 

The Dragons?Bunnies?

Remember this Man?

I didn’t think it was possible for Phil Rothfield to run second in a 2 man dunce race.

Any senile scribe who regularly promotes his lack of grey matter in a tabloid that thrusts out 90 pages of street bedsheets daily is fairly well doomed from the moment they get out of bed in the morning.

He’s also a Cronulla supporter. (Apologies to the cultured and knowledgeable ones out there.)

Phil. The man asking the hard questions.

But yesterday I witnessed this boilover result in the dash of fools, and I was all too happy to drape the silver around his neck and hand him the bridesmaid’s bouquet.

As for the revered gold, it was won by a veteran of the event who hadn’t been seen in the racing silks for a while.

Ladies and gents, please welcome back to the victory dais Mr Anthony Mundine.

The Man with the colossal mound of accomplishments in the game of improper and unsuitable statements has roared out of the yakking backwoods and set the Daily Telegraph pages alight.

What powered Choc to glory was some vintage toil which would’ve had his youthful version beaming with delight.

For me to offer any further commentary on the masterpiece would be akin to lashing the Mona Lisa with house paint, so please bask in the glow of the Mundine magnum opus for yourself.

Put on your slippers, load your favourite pipe and swing to these sweet sounds.

Phil: What about your NRL career. What about the old comments that you were better than Brad Fittler and Laurie Daley? I described them at the time as disrespectful.

Anthony: At the time, I truly believed it. You ask Fittler or Daley who was their biggest nemesis. If they’re honest, they’ll say it was me.

PR: C’mon Choc, they could play.

AM: Of course they could. I just think I was better.

So all of those blows to the scone haven’t helped Mundine to forgot those famous misguided statements from yore.

If only he could bite his lip more often.

And if you thought that was good, then wrap your laughing gear around this beauty.

PR: OK, where to now, Choc. What are your goals for the next couple of years?

AM: I wanna shock the world … I want to get to a Pacquiao or Mayweather.

PR: Are you serious?

AM: I’m in that league. If I don’t beat them, I’ll give them the fight of their life.

Maqnifique!

And another box ticked; we finally know the truth why Manny and Floyd have been avoiding each other for so long.

Mundine is on their radar.

 

Zimbabwe cricket: Hating life

A week ago, I had my verbal firearms deployed in preparation of a full strike on the ICC and Zimbabwe Cricket after the African nation’s limp exhibition in New Zealand.

Brendan Taylor: needs a hug.

But after their last match of the tour, I withdrew the warheads and replaced them with 4-ply Kleenex due to the cruel nature of its conclusion.

After being mercilessly manhandled from the top of the Long White Cloud to the bottom, it was fitting that the jaunt wrapped up in the callous style it did.

As I wrote earlier in my piece Six-stitcher Saturday, they commenced the trip in Napier by crashing to the largest arse-kicking in their test history, an innings and 301 run lesson inside 3 days, with 33% of playing time flushed out by rain.

The cricket world has always given some leeway to the results of a team that has only just been readmitted to the test arena, but any which way you crunch these numbers, they always come out like a Sunday morning post-boozer gob refund.

Things didn’t improve when they moved on to the pyjama game, which was a series of comical cricket scores that had to be seen to be believed.

Game 1 was an acceptable margin for a minnow playing offshore, going down by 90 runs chasing a modest 248.

From there on in though, it was a boot-filling session for the Black Cap bats and an eye-popper for the stats geeks, as the behemoth numbers piled up.

Kane Williamson in his low act of winning a game of cricket for his country.

Zimbabwe fell 141 runs short of New Zealand’s 372 in Whangarei, and then 202 runs short of another jumbo total of 373 again at their graveyard of McLean Park in Napier.

Grisly.

By this time, Zimbabwe skipper Brendan Taylor must have been looking for the noose.

Despite all of the desire to jump on a plane back to Bulawayo to hunt ivory, they still had a pair of 20 over games to play. And I’m sure they viewed this as 80 overs max until an undeserved airport can session.

The sewer standard continued in game 1 with another coasty victory by the home side chasing down 159 with 7 wickets and 19 balls in hand.

But game 2 produced the ‘junk in the car door’ moment to top them all.

Batting first, Zimbabwe gave the Black Caps bowlers the kitchen sink.

Using the ‘f*ck it’ approach to batting, they racked up a frightening total of 2/200, and with it some long lost confidence and swagger probably last seen when they were bowling to 10 year olds at the Auckland school clinic.

Finally the luck was running with the Africans, and the wiz started to fizz when 2 wickets fell in 2 balls to leave the Kiwis 5 down and needing 21 from 9 with 2 fresh bats at the crease.

You could see the temperature of the complimentary Steinlagers in the Zimbo sheds dropping in anticipation of one last elephatine victory piss-up and accent-laden victory interview before bidding adieu. 

Shit is gettin' real up in here!

Cue Kane Williamson.

The technically sound batsmen, with a reputation far from being a belligerent blaster, was the man fate chose to swoop and pilfer the proverbial candy pudding from the infant.

Doing something akin to opposing UN humanity laws, he blasted 4,2,4,6 and 4 from a 5 ball innings to steal the novelty winners cheque from the jaws of a consolation loss.

And with that, the Zimbabwean’s tour was over, finalising itself in an appropriate manner of further discomfort, this time of a more agonizing nature.

It would have you filthy at life.

One hopes this has not caused tears of sadness and/or laughter.

 

 

Beware of tasty triangular Indian chicken

ELD 2.0 IS SEARCHING FOR THE LOCAL LOVE OF OUR TRI-SERIES. IT MAY BE LYING IN INDIAN SUCCESS!!

 

Our trusty opinion-driven website has been a desolate tract for dialogue regarding the current triangular ODI series in 2012.

In true Australian style, we kicked off the summer by protesting for change because the team had been tanking with efforts that belonged in the tip. Now we are producing the platinum, we’ve all lost interest.

MS: bringing hat-less back.

Typical.

A test series that had us perculating in the Baggy Green followed by two concise hits of short-form amusement might have moved our sights prematurely to the footy season and/or Sonny Bill’s blockbuster title fight.

But I reckon it’s time to refocus.

The expired and whiffy chicken breast that you thought this summer had become might be ready to throw back on to a grill with the heat on full whack.

And through pursed lips this is spoken, but the potential salmonella exterminator could be India.

The notion of a sneaky consolation prize before home time could turn their recent mini-resurgence from shot glass to litre bottle.

As per protocol, they are a touring team that is beginning to acclimatise around the 5-7 week mark of an Australian road trip, just after the novelty of our fine women and VB wears off.

Get on the GG.

And the big dogs in their kennel are starting to snarl.

Guatam Gambhir is too good of a player to have continued his batting malaise and he is beginning to show some silk, along with his batting bulldozer captain MS Dhoni, who has kept cool as a cucumber on a sinking samosa all campaign.

He must be commended for his conduct in the wake of yesterday’s ‘Lance Armstrong’ over.

Finishing the game with a tied result when the 30th over was missing a ball would’ve had me reaching for the valium, but to his credit, he remained unruffled.

Also consider their form stallion Virat Kohli, who has blossomed on the back of some competent offerings with blade and lip in the latter stages of the test series, as well as certified wily bastard Zaheer Khan and his band of no-frills seamers.

Looking for something between your legs?

I remember ranting like mad when they pinched this trophy last time they were on our shores after I had lost interest. They’ve walked this path before.

They are a slumbering giant that has the potential to rouse and stunt Australia’s recent authority.

In saying that, our boys have dealt splendidly with the unlucky voodoo-dolling the squad has been copping for months, so confidence is high in the face of shite luck. It’s going to take a scorching run of form for them to be overhauled.

The chicken is set to be delectable and full of flavour. So give it a burl.

As for the third wheel Sri Lanka… well, they haven’t been paid for 9 months.

If I went to work for nothing but the excitement, my productivity levels would reduce from my usual output of 50% to around 35%. So don’t be surprised if you see a fade out.

I think they can be excused if they would rather throw in the towel and chase VB’s and women.

It’s footy time again!

Righto wafflers, it’s that just about that wonderful time of year again. The Start of the NRL footy season!

So let’s get in early, put in your top 8 predictions for the year, don’t worry it doesn’t have to be in order, but put down who you believe will be there at the business end of the season.

For you creative dribblers out  there, feel free to post any elaborations about your choices.

Here are mine:

Melbourne (best spine in the comp)

Tigers (of course I would pick them)

Bulldogs (F#*king Des!)

Cronulla (Comon Carney!)

North Queensland (the wife beater knows how to play outside a genius)

Brisbane (lots of young guns)

Warriors (Can’t leave them out)

Knights (good spine, great coach)

It was tough I know, some real rough ones there. I left out Manly because I don’t think they can have an injury free run like they did last year. Stewart or Evans get injured and ther’re cooked! The chooks, Parra and Canberra will battle it out for with who ever comes 8, but will ultimately be left short. And I’m sorry Dragons fans, but your Bennette hangover will only last until mid season, after which time you will be f#*ked!

Spicy Red Fruitcake ensures Premier viewing

Manchester United vs Liverpool. She’s a certified spicy-a-meatball every time.

One day we will be doled out a soulless 0-0 draw complete with some chamomile tea at the interval, no bookings, and all played in front of tranquil fans who link arms together to sing Kumbaya, which will finally mark a break in the cycle of chaotic abhorrence.

But until then, let the madness ensue.

For the irregular round-ball follower, these are the games that you stay up for on a Saturday night. Get the lads over, put on a bet and watch the 2 traditional red-dogs from the Mother Country tear each other to shreds as you move into your 11th lukewarm beer.

In all honesty, you wouldn’t change this recipe for quids. I don’t know how it happens, but the moons seem to align to produce subplots whenever these 2 leviathans clash which multiplies their hatred to scalding point.

A serene opening to the match.

How about a little dash of racism to amplify tensions?

It seems that any type of provocation is warmly welcomed when they catch-up for a game and a proverbial kick in the Umbro-marked rocks.

And if you thought that the froth and bubble from one game of this behaviour was enough, then you were well and truly force-fed dessert on Saturday night.

In true theatrical villain style, it was the same fruitcake who kicked off the mayhem.

It seems an abrasive maniac like Luis Suarez was tailor-made for the industrial oven of these fixtures, and he took his reputation in the folly stakes from prince to king on Saturday by laying the slipper into the hive of wasps he created from the last match.

An uncomplicated handshake with Patrice Evra to end the feud in the pre-match procedure was too much for Luis so he simply refused.

I seek reconciliation.

The situation was primed to be hosed down but he took the alternative option of the orthodox brush, which was not roundly accepted by Evra and his teammates.

What unravelled from there were scenes of untainted looseness.

Whilst Evra seemed ready for the hatchet burial at the handshake, by game’s end he had made his resentment known in the halftime tunnel as well as in front of Suarez at the Stretford End of Old Trafford at the final whistle, where all of the hyper Manchester enthusiast geezers live.

Then it kicked off with the bosses.

Sir Alex Ferguson, a man who appreciates using a clear line of communication, labelled Suarez a ‘disgrace to the Liverpool Football Club.’

Liverpool boss Kenny Dalglish fired back by defending Suarez and verbally ripping the television interviewer a new behind for daring to lay the blame at the feet of the barmy South American.

It seems blind loyalty and the lack of a telly for a replay in the coaching dugout had Kenny trotting out this defensive gem.

It doesn't seem to be working.

In addition to all of this hoopla was a pulsating 2-1 win to United which kept up the tasty contest at the summit of the Premier League with their other detested rivals Manchester City, whom they also regularly kick nuts against.

Bloody fantastic cuisine from kick-off to f*ck-off.

Now I’m not propping up racism, nor peanut behaviour in general from loaded footballers on the other side of the planet.

But you can’t deny this 90 minutes of lunacy was fookin’ gold!

Decoding the pre-season

In 2012, your footy team is due to compile the greatest season in the history of their existence.

The hopes, dreams and punting aspirations of you and your fellow supporters have been buoyed by the revitalised optimism of your coach and the lack of imagination at the microphone from plank footballers.

There's easier ways to remove wallpaper.

Your club has opened the door to local media to give the fan base a glimpse into the drab world of the pre-season as well as a precise insight into how far advanced they are over the opposition.

Believe them; they are the team to keep under observation this year. They’ve seen through eyes stinging with sunscreen that affairs are different in this pre-season, and the good times will flow when it’s chow time in the competition proper.

Your fire of expectation will then be doused with petrol by the tabloids.

Being hungry for a throwaway line and some buzz in the arid league summertime climate, they inflate these disjointed mutterings into ‘news’, sending your belief soaring.

Single file for the ice cream truck please.

For the green and uneducated who sit in the round 1 waiting room for the first time, here’s a few examples of sunstroke-induced footyhead blethering.

Example number 1: the dense second-rower with amnesia.

“This is the hardest pre-season I’ve ever taken part in.”

Really? Again? It’s incredible that this yardstick has been topped with every consecutive year since you debuted.

Example number 2: the vain fullback who is most probably looking into a mirror.

“I’m the leanest and fittest I’ve ever been.”

You just consumed 25 pork pies and a slab over Christmas which may be muddying the waters.

Example number 3: the bored coach trying to fit a summer holiday into his team management obligations.

“We’re taking the boys to a remote location for a 3 day camp where they can bond as a unit and concentrate totally on football.”

Calling all paparazzi. Code Red. There’s a potential scandal brewing in the outback that will be energized by schooners and nudity.

The Tigers working off some of Robbie's kebabs.

Example number 4: the naive and desperate coach trying to convince himself that his questionable new signing is a reliable purchase.

“He’s taken on a senior role among the playing group and is leading by example. He has really turned the corner.”

Do we really need to mention any names here?

Example number 5: the impressionable new teammate who is astonished by the exertions of a veteran/youngster with a lifeline/journeyman.

“His work ethic is second-to-none. He is training the house down.”

It’s because he’s off contract at the end of the year.

Commission wishin’ is the pits

Keeping tabs on the establishment of the new NRL Independent Commission makes me feel like I’ve committed to a challenge of finishing a gigantic serving of hot bullshit from a bottomless bowl.

I’m pretty sure that I was sprouting my first underarm hairs when they began talking about setting in motion this magnificent directorial answer to all of the game’s burning mind-benders.

And still to this day, all I see is vintage Aussie rugby league administration being applied with the standard hand-brake of personal agendas and 1970’s pub team raffle techniques.

Plus some extremely elongated tufts in my pits that could nearly be dreadlocked if I so pleased.

Now I must admit that I possess nil business acumen, and wouldn’t know the first place to start when setting up something as convoluted as a horde of fat cats trying to run a boofy sport.

However, I am tremendously proficient at verbal slobber and can smell my own from a mile away.

There were no pictures to represent the 'faceless suits', so Gallop can wear the blame.

I also know what the official definition of “f*cking yonks” is. And there’s been at least 7 trips around the sands of that timepiece since I had barrenly stark underarms.

The economical truths coming from these faceless suits resemble a man who is building up the courage to get his tubes tied.

Set a date. Postpone. Set a date. Postpone.

But let’s not deny it; evading the cutting of the fat, and doing it at the pace of a stoned pensioner, simply fits the game like an old favourite glove.

The off-field sector of rugby league in Australia has produced a catalogue of clueless circus acts over the years. Luckily, the blushes created by the hijinks of the front office has always been pulled up off the canvas by the product on the field.  

So it just seems suitably righteous that this ordeal should linger suspended in some galaxy of procrastination for a longer than needed period of time. These well-heeled boardroom folks need to respect the culture that has been created by years of footy faux pas, as well as take the time to ensure they are able to milk the daylights out of this thing to suit their own schemes.

It wouldn’t be rugby league without some fruitless boardroom twaddle.

But please hurry the f*ck up.

Equal rights? Give yourselves an uppercut!

A few years back, women’s’ tennis pulled the wool over the world’s eyes and claimed that women were deserved of  the same prize money as the men’s. At the time, the regime thought that, we, the tennis public watchers of the 4 majors only, would agree with the tennis administrators in the knowledge the women’s game is close to the popularity of the men’s and is therefore  just as entitled to the games riches. Well, like an infant we accepted that tosh served up from our tennis superiors and gleefully clapped the female tennis stars who could now stand shoulder to shoulder with their opposite gender under an equal opportunity employer. Don’t make me sick!’

Holding this trophy was harder than my match

Tell me something, can you tell me of an employer who gives one gender the same pay cheque as the other for doing half the work? Well that’s exactly what’s happening in the screech filled world of women’s tennis. Women are collecting the same prize money as the men, yet, they still only play a maximum of 3 sets compared to the men’s 5. That’s right, at the Aussie open Victoria screecharanka and Maria Yellitover played just over an hour and collected the same purse’s as Novac and Rafa after the later 2 played the longest final in history. To put that into numbers, the screech fest that was the women’s final was just 1/6 of the length of the mens. That’s Bullshit!

I say, women should be playing 5 sets – at least at the majors – if they want to be collecting the same dosh, or pay them accordingly. It’s a discrimination issue the fact that we mollycoddle these women claiming they can’t play more than 3. Give me a break!

The women these days are fitter than they’ve ever been. And you can’t tell me you would’nt want to see a couple of the broads currently slapping the yellow furies to be on court for longer. Who would say they’ve had enough of  watching Anna Ivanivich bound around the court? Please.

So boys, make some noise and shake some trees, this ain’t on. If they want to collect a man’s pay, play the man’s way!

I need a stretcher and a drip; I'm fucked!

Warming the Pine

Sport for those with comfortable couches.