No doze, a no go!!

Caffeine and I have long had a tenuous relationship, a single cup of coffee enough to send me dashing for the bathroom quicker than Usain Bolt out of the starters blocks. So much so that I completely avoid the roasted bean.

So it was with great naivety that I dared take something stronger.... After a long weekend of camping, fishing and drinking in no particular order, at the beautiful coastal town Narooma, I thought to purchase some no doze for the trip home in case fatigue set in.

Caution: May cause rapid bowel movement

After a night of slumber that would make sleeping beauty envious, the caffeine tablets became surplus to requirements, making my way back up the Clyde with relative ease.

Not wanting to waste the product I decided on taking them to work and having them instead of a can of coke for the three o'clock lulls. Day 1: I took one following my lunchbreak to get me through the afternoon before taking a second on the way to cricket training to see if they aided with reaction time and reflex.

With limited affect I thought I would persist with usage, the following day and approximately 24 hours after my initial dose, I had returned from my break about to set out for my afternoon courier duties. As I collected my gear I had a sudden and urgent call of nature in the backdoor department. Making it in a knick of time I was grateful this sudden urge hadn't hit me ten minutes later in the drivers seat.

Brushing of the dilemma as an aberration I continued with my daily pick me up.. Taking one tablet daily, with no major side effect.

When Saturday came round, cricket was again on the schedule and in the final session of play eccentric batting all rounder Tim Coggan dared his teammates to a glass of
Pre-trainer to give them a buzz in the afternoon session. Declining the invite I compromised by saying I would down a couple of no doze so Coggs wasn't on his lonesome.

I was without any obvious side affects, meanwhile Coggin was dropping faster than the Irish pound, I carried on business as usual.

Following the largish weekend I'd had camping, I opted for the mature option of abstaining for the weekend.  I rose as fresh as a daisy on the Sunday morning feeling so upbeat I offered housemate/teammate/human bean pole George Mccaffrey a lift to work in hope of a free breaky at Urban Foodstore.

On completion of downing a delicious combination of scrambled eggs, bacon and advacado I decided on a spot of retail therapy in the city centre. 300 meters into a 1.5 km walk to town I cocked a leg as I passed the Civic police station in an attempt to clear some excess air from the system!!

'HE GAMBLES, HE LOSES!!'

Like a shot of lightning through the midnight sky I realized that the air was filling with something much more sinister.

Instinct took over and I clenched tighter than a Jewish businessman... Once I gained control of the situation I scanned the horizon for potential 'unloading zones'. Being 10am on a Sunday morning my options were severely limited, I saw Uni Pub across the road in the distance and made a bee line towards it. I made it only as far as across the road to the bus stop before surge mark II attacked. There I was standing to attention legs crossed buns squeezing tighter than a boa constricter to keep this thing at bay with my arm rested upon the bus stop to keep the impression I was a regular public transport user awaiting my lift for the morning.

Eventually I made it to Uni Pub only to be hit with the devastating realization that it was outside of opening hours. Option two was a hundred meter journey to the local IGA to use the staff facilities. Given the state I was in 100 meters may as well of been the size of the Simpson dessert. With all my might I managed to waddle my way across the intersection and into the front doors in urgent search of relief..

I approached the counter:
Wheats 'Hi there, terribly sorry to interrupt and I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't an emergency but may I use your bothroom!?'
Store Attendant: 'sorry sir but it's staff only'
Wheats: 'listen'... I continued. 'I AM a DESPERATE man, I'm begging you!!'
S.A: 'Im sorry sir company policy, but there Is a cafe across the road that has a bathroom'

'You've got to be fucking kidding me' I murmured before walking penguin style across the road to the cafe.

' I hear you have a bathroom, can I please use it!?' I pleaded. 'sure sir' I breathed a sigh of relief and the tension in my body eased somewhat. ' there is just a gentleman using it at the moment so if you wait in line you can go after him'.

The word 'FUUUUCKKK' crossed my mind, there I stood outside the public cubicle, searching for potential hidey holes I could empty this tidal wave trying to escape my anus. Without putting to fine a point on it, it was like trying to stop a volcano with a couple of slices of bread.

After what seemed like a fucking eternity, old mate eventuated from the gents and handed the key over. I made my way a shell of a man down the hallway to the restrooms.

Pulling down the strides looking for relief, it was clear most of the damage had been absorbed between the cheeks. As I sat there huddled over the Royal Doulton like a dog rooting a cricket ball, I thought to myself 'I am a 31 year old man, what the FUCK is going on!?'

The remainder of the afternoon, I ventured no further than 15 meters from the closest dunny.

Suffice to say, I have ceased my course of no doze....

Heading to the gym?

Signing up to your local gym and giving away your hard earned is the easy part. When you turn up to your first session, like school, its important to know there are certain factions and you best know which one will suit your exercise style.

Not gay at all- Spotting squats

Gym Junkies: - The alpha males, the apex predators of the gym you know the type. I mean there's working out and then there's looking like you've spent the past decade raiding pop-eyes fridge. These guys are so big that I don't think they even look good anymore, its all very well to get HUGE but when you cant get through a doorway by conventional means anymore its probably time to put down creatine and go for a jog. These guys are easily distinguishable as they tend to suffer cotton allergies and are proud owners of the one sleeve tat (note. they may look amazing in your 20's but comeback with your shrivelled balls, saggy gut and shrunken arms after the realities of raising a family and maintaining a full time job cut into you work out time). While they are the apex predators in the gym this facade quickly disappears once outside Fitness First walls, when asked to multiply 2x2. They normally calorie count, carbo load and supplement to extremes. You feel the urge to say 'get a life chump' save for fear of being picked up and dead lifted. So good at getting into shape they sometimes turn it into a full time career by becoming personal trainers, gym staff or supplement salesmen. They can been seen spending their spare time on the beach taking selfies and posting them via social media, blissfully unaware that the camera also works pointing in the other direction. All semblence of manliness and masculinity fly out the window when asked by a mate to 'spot some squats'. Often over compensating for small genitalia, lack of personality or sporting a Jarrod Roughead (see. inset)

Hawthorn Ruckman- Jarrod Roughead

Lycra lovers: - Think Michelle Bridges... for every alpha male there must be a female equivalent, Lycra so tight you can see what was consumed for breakfast, I cant help but think these specimens developed from a self consciousness from lack of breasts in adolescence. They look as though they spend their spare time crushing watermelons between their thighs. Not only are they intimidating to other women they are also intimidating to regular men... while their definition is admirable you don't want a woman so ripped she looks as though she snap your knob clean off in a moment of unbridled passion. Whilst they look amazing at the gym, this does not always convert well to formal wear with cleavage appearing to be a curious combination of boobs and pectorals, think 'tec's' or pit's. Can often be seen spruiking the benefits of 'clean eating', 'raw juices' and 'steamed vegetables' on social media. Possibly compensating for personality disorders, poor cleavage or a Jarrod.

The worlds most famous Titty Wobble Bum- Kim Kardashian

Muscles chubby guts/Titty wobble bums:- These are the guys who try, by god they do... but try as the might they just cant pass on the doughnuts and cheesecake. The girls are typically pretty and from the waste up look a million bucks but lower the eyes a little and its easy to see every surplus calorie on a one-way road to a pair of thunderous thighs... for the chaps its all about the gut. Arms and shoulders like an ox but the only sit ups they complete are getting off the couch to grab another six pack from the fridge. You sense they will never quite master the exercise/calorie balance.

Mr Puniverse: You know the guy, has all the gear, does all the one percenters, takes all the supplements but just doesnt have any of the muscles... these poor bastards slog their guts out day in day out at the gym for little reward. A salesman's dream, as no amount of protein powder, supplement or creatine will give them the rewards they so badly desire. The laughing stock of the weights room and would be better suited to running marathon's with DeCastella and Monaghetti. Workout with the goal in mind that one day, one girl, somewhere will notice they bench press.

Marathon runner/Mr Puniverse- Steve Moneghetti

The no shows:- It doesnt quite add up, they talked up a storm when they signed, the cards still in the wallet yet there's no results. All they have to show for their gym membership to date is a massive void in their bank account where funds used to be... No doubt after being coaxed into purchasing a 12 month membership from the overly attractive and persuasive appraisal officer. They dont quite realise you have to actually exercise to achieve anything, will look amazing one day when they eventually make it through the front doors....

- Heading to the Gym Part II-

Hate the game, not the player!!

After a week of graft and toil at the Department of Innovation, Industry, Science & Research I decided to let my hair down (figuratively speaking) so hence made my way to our fortnightly happy hour at the 'Patterson’s Curse' function room Industry House to knock the edges off the week that was.

Knocking the froth off a few local ales, the Jolly Joker was announced and whilst disappointed not to hear my numbers called, my dismay was dissipated when I realised the $250 cash reward was going to an attractive Maltese Philly out the Resources Energy & Tourism stable. Lucianne was her name... I imagined her first name was to be pronounced to match her exotic looks, something like *Lu-chi-ahn* that I could imagine rolling off a Salma Hayek tongue... unfortunately in reality it had a distinctly Australian twang *Lucy-Anne* more suited to the droll of a Kath and Kim.

Two beers in I went in search of ANU talisman and all round good guy Bryn Evans to join me in my round, on my way to his office I spotted the Philly (Lucy-Anne) heading in the wrong direction. After a formal introduction and brief chat I guided her down the home strait to collect her riches.

Collecting my stable mate we headed back to the fashions of the fields, an entertaining evening was looking promising. Bryn introduced me to a very attractive lesbian (let’s face it most of them are doing us a service by taking care of each other) colleague who shared our unbridled enthusiasm for the fairer sex. Whilst it was unfortunate she didn’t bat for our team she was able to offer invaluable advice. It was almost unfair, it was like having your very own how-to-manual in picking up chicks, being part of the gender which leaves most men scratching their heads she had incredible insight we tapped into.

To add to the excitement an ex-flame and the love of my life to date was also observing the hour of happiness between throwing me filthy sideways glances between drinks and was accompanied by her recently acquired husband.

However, I was too busy enjoying free drinks, teasing and flirting up a storm to care. In-between chatting to the princess of Malta I received tutelage and words of encouragement from the helpful les-be-friend.

Sadly the boozed up DIISR staff had drunk the bar dry so we were ushered out the door and made our way to Knights Bridge wine bar. For those of you who haven’t been there, it is a dimly lit hang out for young to middle aged pretentious public servants. Lines such as ' Fiscal policy, robust action and touch base' are thrown about by a bunch of hubristic wankers.... which made it the perfect setting for my next move.

After cracking joke after joke duly greeted which cheers of laughter (I had my Mojo on) to say I was optimistic about my chances would be an understatement. When thirst was upon us once again I thought it was about time I entered the shout for the first time, scanning the menu for refreshment I glanced to the left only to see the 'ex' enter the premise. Naturally I was greeted with the now familiar look of distain this time followed with the double head flick and sigh in disgust.

I returned to the group explaining the predicament to my lady companion, she suggested a kiss on the cheek might have the benefit of showing I had no residual feelings and possibly creating a glimmer of jealousy (probably not).. being ever the opportunist I pressed that one on the lips would be more convincing, as I moved in for the kill. More flirting ensued and after a wink of approval from the lessie, I moved outside to celebrate what I envisaged a lay down (literally) mazaire..

I thought I would take the opportunity to bask in the glory of what could potentially be the most enjoyable evening of my existence (not only picking up one of the hottest birds in the Department but in front of my ex girl and her chest thumping husband) by having a celebratory cigarette.

I strutted my way back towards the pack confident of taking the philly back to my home stable, just as I was about to turn to suggest we exit the bar and head back to my place to hit the hay, I caught the eye of my lesbian tutor. Just as I was about to thank her for her timely advice she abruptly interrupted me to inform of my weakening grasp. When I interrogated her on the topic, she told me there was a suitor playing cards tricks. As I turned & spotted my rival I looked pitifully at his pathetic attempt to cut grass, I took half a step to gather my damsel in distress only to catch a glimpse of her AB-SOLUTEL-Y spell bound face by this clearly manufactured attempt at a pick up.

She was COM-PLETE-LY enamored by this (admittedly relatively charming and not entirely ugly looking) David Copperfield wannabe!!

I was like a boxer knocked down by a Lottery punch.. after a night of dancing, skipping and prancing around the ring picking apart my prey with crisp left jabs and brutal right hooks, I had suddenly been floored by a ferocious uppercut right on the chin.

I was out on my feet and given the standing 8 count, quickly I retreated to my corner punch drunk a mere spectator as 'Coppers' worked his magic. After being patched up and receiving words of encouragement from my dutiful corner I made my way back in somewhat wobbly condition into the firing line. After all night masterfully cutting the ring with superb footwork and lightning quick wit I was a mere shell of my former self.

I had gone from sharp wit to desperation; it was with a foggy head and poor judgment I resorted to throwing Hail Mary's in hope of connection. In a last ditch bid in what was quickly becoming a losing battle I threw everything behind this one when delivering the line 'I’m heading home, you coming with?'

The reply sent me to the canvas... 'Sorry I don’t shag workmates'.... I squirted out a thinly veiled attempt at indifference 'Whatev's' before being carried out of the ropes by my support team shaking my head in disbelief at the preceding events (imagine George Foreman after Rumble in the Jungle)

The following day still in a state of shock explaining the night to my cricket mates one piped up with 'ah the old card trick, he must have read 'The Game'. 'The Game'? I pressed... 'Yeah it’s a book on picking up chicks, using body language cues, distracting possible rivals and magic tricks'. 'I knew it, I knew it was manufactured... what kind of flog walks around a night club with a deck of cards in his hands!?'

Now.... where do I get myself a copy of this book!?    

Defriending facebook and meeting Moe & Gym (Jim)

So for the month of May Ive decided to implement a few changes to better spend my time.

I concluded that I spend too much time reading the mindless drivel that emanates from my associates on the recently valued $30 billion social website. Its not so much that facebook is the axis of evil as some of those in the baby boomers would have you believe but it has in ways made me sub-consciously lazy. Over the first three days of deactivating my account I have noticed that whenever I have a quiet moment or downtime I have a sudden pang to log onto 'the book' much like a smoker feels the need for another nail in the coffin when the moment arises. Ive had this habit for the past three years ever since facebook became accessible via I-phone, on the bus, on my lunch break.... not on my lunch break.

There have been times when I have logged off facebook only to log back on in moments of excruciating boredom and noticed nothing has been updated whatsoever. Another alarm bell rang when I was logged onto the website via mobile and I-pad concurrently. It is true that sometimes I panic when realising I no longer have the itch of logging on to scratch but then I try remember what it was like days pre- face book. I'm not a huge watcher of television, this stems from my days at CIT studying Communication and Media where like a magician revealing a trick they ruined the magic of the idiot box.

In my younger mis-guided days this time was often spent 'socialising' with friend's at the pub playing pool and pumping tunes through the Duke box.  Which leads me to my next point, as a result of habit and in order to pro-long my lifespan somewhat I regularly submit myself to detoxing after an arduous cricket/drinking season. As you can imagine this leads to a lot of 'downtime' time that on previous attempts have been met with excessive facebook and solitaire to fill the void.

Smoking is another vice which is associated with 'socialising' and another vice shelved during the detox period (with the intent of shelving it for good). In order to fill the gaping hole left in my life I have signed up to Club Lime, the Gold Creek edition. Gold Creek is creating a niche for itself with a village sporting gymnasium, tennis courts, golf course and eateries within a small vicinity.

For the first time visitor the gym can be an intimidating place to begin, for starters many avid gym enthusiasts have been working on their poses in gymnasium mirrors around the capital for many years. Its a bit like church, the actual building is fine it just gets ruined by the dick head's that participate inside. If I were an martian looking down on a weights room for the first time I'd assume that the key to lifting heavy objects is grunting loudly, excessive breathing and a strut that includes the carrying of invisible watermelons.

But once you become accustomed to the excessive amounts of testosterone floating around the place, there are some benefit's to be had. Primarily you are doing something good for yourself, the body was made to move, so it makes sense to make it stronger and fitter and the only way to do that is to move it. Secondly there are like minded females worthy of a sideways glance doing the same, there are the female equivalents of the men around but there are also some humane ones and finally not all blokes going to the gym are stereotypical meatheads. Infact, I have met quite a few friends from other walks of life who attend and are now gym buddies. The friend you have who motivates you to go when you're really not feeling it and push a long with the odd spot here and there, the bonus of meeting these people from outside the gym is you have something in common other than pumping out of few sets.

It may have even come to the point now where I wake up and if I don't make it to see my mate Jim I feel somethings awry. Occasionally I have found myself taking a cheeky peek in the mirrors to see if there have been any recent developments in the guns department.

The other past time which has been a long term bad habit is golf... much like cricket, it is a game when going well is like shelling pea's and when it goes badly enough to put the competitor in a mental asylum. Unfortunately my state of play puts me in the latter category, all too often I only seem to get one or two facets of play down pat while the other two go out the backdoor. Once in a blue moon my driving off the tee will show up to the party only for my stronger suits (irons and short game) to make a hasty exit. I have been told by numerous so called experts that I should be playing off a single figured handicap, with the numbers I have been returning that dream is as far away as my burning ambition to marry Jessica Alba.

Then the other night, whilst looking after Andre the giants cat, I caught site of surfing super star Kelly Slater being interviewed on the golf show. On first appearance his swing seemed awkward and rigid but the ball went a long the right course, it turns out he plays off 5 and has a great deft of hand with the putter in reach. Slater modelled his swing on an eccentric character by the name of Moe Norman. Moe played back in the 70's and it was believed he had a case of undiagnosed autism, Moe's theory was if that's the way god made him, then that was the way he was supposed to be.

As convention was not Moe's strong suit, he constructed a swing phrased 'the one plane swing', without getting into technicalities he essentially and ingeniously (sometimes a by product of autism) simplified the swing to make it far easier to hit solid, pure strikes every time. Moe was renown as the the cleanest, straightest ball striker of his generation (he could lay a blanket on a fair way and hit a four iron on to it at will.) Unfortunately due to his idiosyncratic personality which was at odds with the stiff and rigid officials of the day (possibly because of the 9 iron implanted up their rectums) he was sadly pushed away from the US PGA and moved back to compete in Canada where his unique charm was welcomed by those that loved his gentle nature. Thankfully before he passed away in 2004 he was recognised by the same authority that shunned him for his achievements and innovations to the great game.

Sceptically I ventured to the range the following day to test Moe's theory. The first ball I hit with the adjustments went left... far left 'Oh well, nothing unusual there, nothing ventured nothing gained' I reasoned. Again next shot far left but clean, there was no hooking, it was a clean pull left, just like the first. The next ten balls I hit were all clean as the catholic church (sarcasm) but to the left so I made the adjustment of aiming far right. To anyone who has tried this when hooking the ball will know it is an open invitation for old mate slice to join the party... but it didn't. I wasn't hitting them straight, I was pulling them across my body but they were coming off flush and more importantly all landing in the same vicinity. Those who have witnessed my game will note this occurrence is less frequent than an apology from the church mentioned above. Progress was being made.

Clearly something wasn't quite right, Im yet to witness on the tour to date aiming at the next fairway in an attempt to hit their own but something was also going well... very well as I hadn't mis-hit a ball since implementation. With ten balls to go, I made the ever so slight adjustment of swinging the club on a more upright path rather than swinging around myself. BINGO... bang clean, pure and most importantly STRAIGHT, dead straight... excitingly for all you fellow hackers out there the next 9 balls were more of the same. It goes without saying, I CAN NOT wait to hit the links to further test this theory... Im hoping against hope that it wasn't just a fluke... but surely I couldn't fluke 30 odd clean shots on the trot.

If you haven't already I recommend you Youtube the name Moe Norman now.

Matthew Newtons mental health problem.

Poor Matthew Newton.... he has found himself in trouble with the authorities once again in the US of A. Matthew suffers from a mental illness, his dilemma is he suffers from an acute case of 'being a cunt'. It is not an issue to be taken lightly and its treatment not easy to come by, unfortunately prescription medication and cognitive therapy are rendered useless.

The most effective therapy known comes in the form of a 6 foot 7 Samoan by the name Jonah to grab the sufferer by the collar and punching the 'cunt' of him similar to the way the priest exorcises the demon from Regan MacNeil in the 1973 classic The Exorcist.

Seriously what a joke.... there are genuine cases of mental illness which people deal with on a daily basis, I'm unaware of any of them which directly lead to the abuse of women, cab drivers, bar staff and hotel clerks. The fact he is attempting to use mental illness as an excuse for his impetuous and aggressive behavior is a disgrace and should taken into account against not for him when he faces the judge. He makes no attempt to improve his behavior, instead fleeing the country and hiding behind this smoke screen he has created for himself.

Meanwhile, there are people with genuine mental illness' depression, addiction, anxiety issues who day by day struggle to keep there heads above water. Ben Cousin's has been dragged from pillar to post by an melodramatically infatuated media who seems to have very little understanding or empathy of his plight. They fail to comprehend how a Brownlow medalist, All Australian, Premiership winner can be an addict, they don't understand the fact that mental illnesses don't discriminate.  Either they don't understand or don't care so long as their next story makes headlines, recent footage of an enraged Cousin's pushed to the limits screaming at a reporter who had followed him on a flight and then proceeded with a badgering line of questioning exemplify this. It was an ugly incident and I'm sure he regrets it but to a degree it is understandable.

Some are of the belief once you become famous and earn a handsome wage at the public's expense then you open yourself up to this intrusion, I can't agree. When does it end, when you run out of money? When you ruin your career? When you lose your family? When you overdose?  It is a personal matter and he should get the same privacy an office worker with the same issues would.

It may seem that I am defending Ben, which maybe I am. I have heard statements from ill informed adjudicators which make me wonder how far we as a society really have come in regards to mental illness. 'I think Ben is just a party boy, how can an addict have the discipline to be an All Australian footballer?' came from Sam Newman.  'I think the documentary and book were just attention seeking exploits' was another. Just because he has documented his problems in the public domain by no way cures him from the day by day grind it will take him to beat his demons, writing a book while cathartic does not magically cure him.  People nowadays may be outwardly more inclined to be sympathetic but still lack education. 

My point is, Ben's issues are real and he more than anyone he realises he has to face them. The one person he hurts most is himself but he and many others dont go out of their way punching the lights out of people when they dont get their own way. Of course his family suffers the brunt of his burden, as all families in this situation do.

Newton to me, is a petulant brat.. the son of a famous Australian couple with no discernible qualities apart from a short temper and a feeble right hook. Possibly his frustration stems from a lack of talent which has so far me-eked out poor attempts at humor on 'Thank god your here' and the worlds worst attempted Kiwi accent in the second series of Underbelly. He is hiding behind a wall of a taboo subject in the hope it may gain some sympathy for a someone who doesn't deserve any. Until he puts his fists down no one is inclined to listen to him.

Hopefully the judge will find him guilty and imprison him for a period long enough for him to wake up to himself, his lesson might be more advanced with a cell mate similar in dimensions to Jonah.

Cliff Hanger

June 1994 was a busy time for me, I had just started my first year at St Francis Xavier High and was enthusiastically trying to create a niche for myself in the ‘cool’ group. I had shown myself as a capable sports person as well as a snazzy dresser best exemplified on uniform free days when I had the opportunity to show off my slouch jeans. For those of you not in the know, slouch jeans came ridiculously oversized and in garish colours. The colour I’d regretfully chosen was bright purple...

Anyhow, on a brisk Sunday afternoon, I along with my sister and her squeeze at the time decided we should go abseiling at the local forest reserve ‘Ginninderra Falls’. ‘Falls’ was an appropriate title as many adventurers had fallen arse over tit on their travels to the recreational mecha.  

Abseiling is an adventure sport where people with more money than sense throw themselves ass backwards down a cliff face supported only by a ludicrously overpriced sliver of rope for fun (think Bear Grylls without the limited cuisine). I had some experience at the endeavour as my nutty next door neighbour at the time loved nothing more than putting his life in harm’s way in order for a cheap thrill.  Begrudgingly he lent me his harness for the day and told me to take care of it otherwise I would be reimbursing him for a replacement.

I had previously ‘seiled’ the cliff face and it was a pretty easy face for beginners... that is of course is if you have the right amount of rope. My sister’s boyfriend an outdoor adventure expert in the army, was keen to show off his prowess by abseiling a 50 metre drop with a 45 metre piece of rope!! After descending to a small cliff face he unclipped from the rope before unleashing a series of manoeuvres across sheer rock face before climbing up the mountainside impressed with his own work.

Upon his arrival back at the mountain top he reassured us of our safety claiming we were in ‘good hands’, although I had the distinct feeling he was only trying to put those good hands to use on my sister and I was just a pawn in his game. Carefully we made our way down the cliff face to ledge where ‘Bear’ would plan his next move in our journey, all very well to trapeze across the rocks when it’s your job, now you’ve got a 12 year old boy and his sister to take care of.

As our self confessed super hero navigated a way for us the rest of the way down the cliff we stayed perched on the ledge five metres from solid ground. ‘Bear’ went to lift himself up the edge when the boulder he bore weight on removed itself from the rest of the wall and headed directly towards him. Knowing he had no chance of surviving the impact he leapt off the ledge and fell five metres towards a steeply declining mountain floor collecting tree branches, shrubs and gravel along the way. ‘He’s fucking dead’ I cried into my sister’s shoulder. ‘It was my idea, I’ve fucking killed him.’ Although the idea of him sleazing onto my sister repulsed me, manslaughter wasn’t yet on my agenda!!

Anxiously we waited for any signs of life peering down the hill, after a 10 minute wait finally we heard rustling from below. Suffering severe lacerations to his head and body and with a broken arm ‘Bear’ threw it into a sling before putting it in his mouth and trudging bravely up a 45 degree angled hill, Ok I guess he was a tough bastard after all.

Back on the ledge my sister decided to leap a two metre gap to the other side of the hill, beneath which was a 10 metre drop onto rugged terrain.. in hindsight the idea was mental but relying on her 10 years of long jump experience from a childhood full of little athletics, she cleared the drop and then some... scrambling her way up the mountain. ‘Stay here, Ill go get help’ she said... ‘I’m not going ANYWHERE’ I thought.

After a 20 minute wait I was joined by a Park Ranger who was sent down to inform me the police were on their way and to keep me conversed and avoid any temptation of jumping off the cliff.

An hour went by and I was joined by another expert conversationalist this time from the police department, a friendly officer who looked like he had enjoyed the perks of a life time of free donuts joined me for a three hour chat. He did a good job and we shared the odd joke while I waited for the Police Rescue to do their thing. At one stage during the afternoon we were joined by a pesky news camera which was filming me from a distant vantage point in anticipation of some action. The only action that was going to occur was the explosion of my bladder, after 3 hours dying for a slash I told the officer I was ‘busting, but I’m not going while the camera is on 'cos he will put it on the tele.’ The officer made the camera man turn away while I attended to my urgent call of nature back teeth nearly floating before returning to my ledge a much relieved and relaxed little camper.

With the sun setting the Police Rescue finally made its way towards me after what seemed like an eternity. My hero, who didn’t resemble Gary Sweet in the slightest collected me and took me down the rest of the journey. My dignity was shelved for the time being as I clung on for dear life down to the mountain floor. With a huge sigh of relief we hit solid foundations and worked our way back up the hill, upon arrival I was rushed by a camera crew with the reporter leading the way with microphone in hand. The crew was briefly thrown aside as a mad woman pushed them aside before swooping me in her arms.

Mum was obviously caught up in the moment and after cramping my style in front of what I guestimated would be a 20’000 strong viewing audience, I dusted myself off in order to make myself presentable for the camera by cow licking my fringe. The journalist questioned my mother on her feelings throughout the ordeal before questioning me, I spat out some mindless dribble more concerned about the appearance of my New Kids on the Block style hair cut than what was coming out of my mouth.

Next down was my usual partner in crime the next door neighbour, I was impressed that he was so concerned for my safety he was the next down after my mother. His first question was ‘Is my harness ok!?’.... ‘Yes, your harness is fucking fine.. Im ok too by the way!!’ I replied before handing it over, after giving it a thorough inspection for any damage he turned to me and muttered something along the lines of 'that’s good then.’

We made our way back home me sheepishly tucked up in the back seat eager for a hot chocolate and some dinner, normally I couldn’t stand the grub mum dished up on a nightly basis but this time I was much more appreciative.

The local news flashed at 6pm, with the host highlighting the story of ‘Man falls off a cliff while boy left stranded’. We watched and I could see the amusing side to it all knowing everyone was alive and well, I could even stomach being hugged by my mum on the tele. Just as I was about to change channels after the local news I caught a glimpse of the national highlights.... there I was again in all my glory happy pants and all in the clutches of my panic stricken mother!!

It was too much to bear... the phone started ringing as nosey family members who hadn’t been heard from in decades checked in.

‘Everyone gets there fifteen minutes of fame’ my father consoled. ‘Great’ I thought ‘everyone gets there fifteen minutes and there’s mine at the age of 12 cutting a lone figure, taking a leak five metres off the ground before being rescued by a policeman and mauled by my mother in front of a national audience...Fucking Brilliant!!’

I woke up the following day telling mum I was too sick to go to school (is embarrassment an illness!?) Normally taking days off school was harder to come by than a friendly lesbian but mum let it slide on this occasion. I went and visited ‘Bear’ in the hospital and was reminded that I got off lightly, he was literally being held together by staples, stiches and bandages, he lay there motionless while the morphine worked overtime to keep him pain free.

On the Tuesday I decided I couldn’t milk anymore days off school so I made my way to the bus stop on Petterd St. where long time friend Celeste greeted me. I thought I may have slipped under the radar after five minutes of silence before she questioned ‘where you on the news the other night!?’ ..avoiding her question I stepped onto the bus which was eerily quiet and after swiping my card I walked down the aisle to a standing ovation!!

Whilst embarrassed I must say I quietly enjoyed the extra attention throughout the day. For my fifth and favourite class of the day we had P.E. playing a game of soccer, contesting a ball with a fellow classmate I won the battle for the ball while he lay frustrated on the turf ‘Fuck you, you fucken.... you fucken Cliff Hanger!!’....and so it was for the next 18 months whenever I pissed someone off they had a ready made retort!!

One more reason to hate Sylvester Stallone and his shithouse movies!!

Equality

So I was on the bus this morning and spotted a girl strolling the pavement with really small shorts on, if they were any smaller they may as well have been a belt.... anyway she had a bit of cellulite, nothing wrong with that really apart from maybe poor wardrobe selection policy.

Anyway, It made me think though... that women are the masters of camouflage & deception, just go to any woman's cosmetic website, they have a range of products that will make your boobs bigger, your arse smaller, eyelashes longer, lips fuller, eyes sparklier, cheekbones higher and all kinds of assortments of make up!! MAKE UP... the most deceitful product on earth. Anyone who has woken up to a stranger in their bed only to realise it’s their partner they are seeing for the first time sans make up would be lying if they said they didn’t feel slightly cheated!!

But NO ONE bats an eye lid...

but if a bald man  pops on a rug, EVERYBODY takes this piss out of him!! How is that fair!?

I have too much time to think on the bus!!

Happy New Year Punter!!

Happy New Year Punter!!

What a relief it was to get the nay-sayers off your back. It seems as though in this country once you pass a certain age the knives come out for sharpening. The Australian media has a long history of hounding batsmen (most of them champions) once they lose form past the age of about 32. Stephen Waugh copped it, so to Brian Lara when he visited these shores.



Brian Lara's stunning pull shot



The problem is, the men who sharpen these knives whilst I'm sure have impressive credentials hanging from their study room walls, have little to no cricketing credentials whatsoever. They call upon statistics to support their claims but statistics can be manipulated to create any picture you want to paint. Take for example Michael Hussey, before this series began apparently his position in the side was clouded. After all he had had a lean return from the previous two 2-test series against the Protea's and the Kiwi's. While statistically that is accurate, what is also accurate is that he was convincingly the leading run scorer on the previous tour of Sri Lanka and fought single handedly against the best bowling attack in the world during the Ashes.

Then there are the technical sides of the game they begin to pick apart, with limited expertise to back their claims.

With Brian Lara they claimed in middle age he became jumpy at the crease, Lara had always had an exaggerated back and across movement. It was born out of being bought up playing against much taller men extracting extraordinary bounce, it was a mechanism to get on top of the bounce and allow him to play the lethal pull and cut shots he was famous for.

When Mike Hussey was out of form they claimed he was beginning to show weaknesses out the off stump while Steve Waugh began showing an increasing awkwardness behind the short ball. Even Dravid and the great Tendulkar came under fire when they lost that ever elusive yet critical element 'form' in '08' and '06' respectively.

Now we come to Ponting, while his figures over the past few years have been underwhelming to say the least, something he has agreed to, you don’t write off champions.

For the wolves that have been circling and have an affliction with statistics Punter gave them a smorgasbord to feast upon. No Test hundreds since 2009, an average of 26 in the past two years and so on.

Then came the technical analysis. There were claims the extra weight of his new rug had exaggerated his head movement falling across to the off side, his trigger movement had become exacerbated, his movements were jerky and his pull shot nullified as his reflexes dimmed and confidence was battered after a Kemar Roach throat ball.

The truth is, every batsmen has technical weaknesses, it’s just a matter of minimizing the weak and amplifying the strong. Watching advertisements during the Boxing Day test when Punter flogged a dodgy brand of vitamins which, if they have you believe give you super human strength, flashed images of Punter in his hay day scoring back to back double hundreds.

The images proved to me what I had long believed; Ponting has always been jerky at the crease. It stems from a sharp open faced back lift towards 3rd slip and a baseball style front foot pump which allows him to play his cuts, back and front foot drives, flicks through mid-wicket and that famous swivel pull shot!!

It also makes him prone to exaggerated movements across his stumps particularly early in his innings, opening up the chance for LBW and nicks into the cordon, modes of dismissal we've seen all too often in the past 18 months.     

For me the turning point came early last year in the World Cup semi final versus the Indian's themselves, he had long been out of form and was fighting against playing the way he had done all his career and playing a slightly more subdued game without the dominance he expected of himself.

When Tendulkar went through his battle's he stripped back his technique to the bare essentials, productive foot movement, presenting the full face and shedding the egotistical part of his mindset that wanted to dominate to become a run accumulator. Ponting likewise had to find his way, not easy for two players used to having their way with the world’s best for well over a decade. One adjustment is the selection of his pull shots, gone are the days when he could hook the world’s deadliest from back of a length, now the reality is, like the rest of the mortals he needs to play the shot with an element of discern.

Muddied but not beaten

In these past few innings the blueprint has been laid, this is the way forward for Ponting’s career. It was appropriate to see the street fighter from the back alleys of Mowbray, stand up and receive generous applause shirt muddied and spitting dirt after the scrap of his career!!

En-gah-lund (Part 5)

The following weeks things slowed down a little as the responsibility of employment took over. My initial weeks were spent acclimatising to taking calls on the 'frontline', frontline was put in place so clients could speak to a person instead of an automated machine message. Im sure Im not the only one who's been caught out on a late night trying to get home only to be answered by a robot saying 'We have your address at 7 Gambir Sq, Bondi, is this correct?'... 'No, its not fucken correct I dont live in Sydney you silly tart!!'

Anyway it was a good opportunity to get to meet some non cricket related colleagues. Within one short week I had already been invited out to join them for a Friday night drink at their regular haunt the (Egg and Spoon!?) and before you knew it was downing pints and enjoying the gaming machines on offer. The machines in England are much different to those down under, for starters the games were normally of the quiz variety and required some sort of brain function and took time to get through. Secondly you were playing for a pittance so there was never any chance of financial gain, so unlike Australia it wasnt a case of mindlessly slapping away the kids inheritance and college fund.

Between shifts I was still able to fit in the odd game of cricket, on one such weekend I turned up late on a Saturday afternoon to watch the conclusion of the first's team game. After a bit of a Friday session the previous night I was slightly dusty and engaged in a hair of the dog. In England its not unusual to have a beer with a 'top', otherwise known as a 'Shandy' this made it sweeter and makes for easier drinking and unlike Australia requesting it is not followed by queiries regarding your sexuality.

After the firsts had finished I was joined in the bar by the club's premiere batsmen keeper and according to himself also the clubs finest drinker Mark Hatting. 'Hatty' wasnt the world’s biggest man (roughly my size) but pound for pound could match it with anyone, so of course backing my ability, it wasnt long before the challenge was laid.

We settled into (Sleazy corner) with Mrs Sterlo talking filth and ordered some greasy pizza's before last drinks were called at 10:30. When confronted with this for the first time I was somewhat shocked, it was a far cry from the nights at Western Districts which finished well into the :am.

However on this occasion, Mennis had in hand a spare key he had acquired and we all made our way out to one of the sightboards where we waited for the cleaners to finish hoovering the clubhouse before we snuck back in. Truth be known, they were fully aware what was going on and there was an unwritten rule that said if we didnt take care of the clubhouse and tab then the key would be confiscated.

So Hatty and I continued with our beer swilling before pulling up stumps before our game the following day, declaring it a draw and leaving with a new found respect for each other. They made their way home while I made my way to the changing sheds to make myself a Bear Gryll's style bed out of left over thigh guards, miscellaneous pads then topping it off with a series of wool knit sweaters for blankets and drifted off to sleep.

The next morning I woke up ROUGH, I mean REALLY rough. Now I have had my fair share of hangovers but this was something else, the seriousness of the situation was confirmed when minutes later I rushed to the change room toilets confronted with a question no man should have to answer...'Do I spew in to crap or crap in to spew?' After a moments hesitation I decided that I could handle snapping one of into some chunder but there was no fucking way I was spewing into a freshly spray painted toilet bowl. DIS-GUST-ING!!

Somehow I manoeuvred myself from the toilets and underneath a shower in an attempt to ready myself for the days play, I lay in the feotal position on the floor for the next 45 minutes with my body temperature fluctuating between FREEZING FUCKING COLD to BOILING BLOODY HOT with only the slightest adjustments of the tap.

Luckily for me the game was called off because of heavy rain, not that I could have have taken part anyway. Anyone who has spent time around cricketers knows they are not the most sympathetic of creatures and my state was the cause of great mirth around the change room. When Hatty caught wind of my state he walked in with arms raised claiming the championship with a TKO.... I was in no state to argue and when I heard once the game was called off he backed up that day I agreed he was a worthy champion.

Meanwhile I was bundled into the back of Mennis' car making my way back to his place to be laid on my death bed, his mother simply said 'what have you done to him?!' when she saw the shell of a man I had become overnight. At this stage the water I was ingesting wasnt staying put and the only relief I could gain was in the form of a cold wash cloth on my overheating forehead!!

On the Monday I felt only slightly better and was able to manage some water but food was still a 'no-no' so I called in sick and felt sorry for myself watching movies for the rest of the day.

When back at work on the Tuesday still not 100% I was asked to complete a 're-admission' into work interview (a rather invasive protocol) to answer questions on my illness. When quizzed:

 'What do you think was the cause of your illness?!"

I could only reply:

'I couldn’t be sure but I think it must have been some of that greasy pizza from Saturday night!!'