Dear NRL...

Dear NRL,

Please sort your shit out...

Here is a six point plan:

1. Dump these incompetent batch of referees, in a professional age they are a fucken disgrace, they can't even count to six, I wasn't allowed past the first grade until this task was mastered. Let me see if I have this algorithm correct. Two on field refs, two touchies and one man in the box, all with two eyes each, therefore;
(2 + 2) + 1 x 2 = useless Twats!!

2. Sort out the ruck; if I wanted to watch a bunch of grown men wrestling on the ground grabbing each other by the balls on the weekends I'd line up at cube... If they wanna try it on send them to the pine for 10, they'll soon stop.

3. Sort out the salary cap debacle, teams shouldn't be punished because they develop talent. How the roosters can go from premiere ship contenders in 2010 to contenders again after a 'rebuild' in 2013 is farcical... Where is the incentive to develop players when you can just throw wads of cash around.

4. Please provide incentive for attacking league: hit up, hit up, hit up, hit up, dummy half and kick on the fifth is not my idea of a good time.

5. Give the Raiders a chance, they develop all this talent only for them to piss off once they out grow moose heads...make hem accountable FFS!!

6. Please reinvent the footy show, I have to see that old red headed prick on my tele on a Thursday evening I'm going to be sick. 'Crack a fatty' may have been funny in 1996 but not now. The two best presenters you had buggered off to Fox Sports (Sterlo and johns) and instead we have this geriatric old fart pedalling out jokes two decades past their prime.

The Revered Rev

The revered Reverend; Pete Nelson

My first encounter with the man affectionately known in Canberra cricketing circles as ‘The Rev’, was as part of the opposition, a young upstart trying to forge my way up the grades, playing on a dodgy wicket in the leafy suburb of Aranda. Plodding to the wicket with his team precariously placed at 5-30 was an elderly gentleman shoulders hunched, dragging his bat behind him like a man who’d lost his dog off its leash.

Being a naive and chirpy teenager I piped up from the slips cordon ‘let’s see how he goes upstairs’ (a signal to the bowler to rip the ball in short at the ribs or head of the batsmen) I thought to myself ‘let’s see how the old bloke handles the quick stuff’ as our tear away steamed in. I felt a sense of guilt as the quickie dropped the ball in short and it seared towards his sternum, guilt that soon turned astonishment as the old fella swivelled onto the back foot and uncoiled a pull shot a young Ricky Ponting would have been proud of, the ball rushing to the mid-wicket boundary. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief my skipper at gully quipped ‘don’t bowl short to the Rev’. Between overs I said ‘why didn’t you mention something earlier?’ he replied ‘I thought you young punks needed to learn a lesson.’

It was the first of many lessons I would learn from the ‘Reverend’ Peter Nelson.

Pete Nelson was aged 55 that day in Canberra and had been playing in the Nation’s capital for nearly eleven years. He made his Canberra cricketing 1st grade debut at the tender age of 46. At time of publication, he is the leading run scorer for the North Canberra-Gunghalin Cricket Club (NCGCC), amassing 6530 runs at a tick under 30 in 274 games, with no danger of being overtaken anytime soon.

Before his debut in Canberra, he started his cricketing career, like many others, tagging around Launceston with his uncles, shadow batting in the dressing rooms of country cricket games emulating fellow left handed heroes Arthur Morris and Neil Harvey. At the age of eight he began playing for the Glenn Dhu State School in Launceston before going onto represent Riverside and Northern Tasmania.

He regards his finest cricketing hour as also his greatest disappointment, when as a young man, he was selected to play in the Tasmanian XI against the great West Indies side of the late 60’s. This team included the likes of Wes Hall, Charlie Griffith and Sir Garfield Sobers. Just days before the match he made a trip to the countryside on business. Arranging with his family before he left, ‘If Bob Ingermell’s calls tell him I’ll be back Friday evening and ready to play the following day‘. As anticipated ‘Bob’ called on Thursday eve only for a member of the family forget the previous conversation; claiming ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry Pete’s away in the country’. Come Saturday when he arrived to the game as a spectator, he bumped into Vice Captain Neil Hawke who stared daggers at him ‘WHY ARE YOU NOT PLAYING TODAY?’ With disappointment sprawled across his face Pete explained the situation.

His proudest innings came for Northern Tasmania against a quality seam bowling attack, where he grafted 47 on a sticky pitch, he and Barry Harman putting on 65 for the first wicket guiding his team through a difficult morning session, where he banked on all his concentration and reserves. Not a score that would have people reaching for the record books, but a contribution that he said ‘helped his team to victory’ a common theme during his career of putting the team before himself.

He played with and against many fine cricketers during those developmental days on the Apple Isle: John Hampshire, Len Maddocks, Neil Hawke, Dougie Walters and idiosyncratic English keeper Allan Knott. The latter left the greatest impression with his attention to detail and professionalism, particularly when after suffering an Achilles tendon strain, he refused to drive a stick shift vehicle preferring instead to be driven around town to avoid further damage.

Being part of the winning premiership team in 1981 while playing for the Malvern Sub-District cricket side in Melbourne was a highlight. Here his team was the best of 28 sides and took out both the two day and one day competitions. It wasn’t until the following pre-season he became aware his team mates where being paid to play, Pete simply played for the love of the game… and the following year top the averages for the side.
That season he played against former Adelaide Crows coach Malcolm Blight who was representing Doncaster, Malcolm got wind of Pete’s occupation. Coming up against a raging turner and a mouthy Blight who whenever Pete was beaten past the outside edge would exclaim ’HALLELUJAH!!’ from 1st slip. In the Rev’s words ‘there were more Hallelujah’s than runs that day’.

1st row, 2nd from the left; with the ACT over 60's national premieres.

This year at the Over 60’s National Masters Tournament, representing the ACT, the old boys took out the trophy. Pete had taken part in the past seven tournaments and was overjoyed to finally bring home the Silverware from this year’s tournament.

From an early age Pete had to make a choice between faith and cricket; when in the 1970 pre-season he was selected in the Tasmanian squad but because training clashed with his religious commitments, Pete had to make a tough decision for any young man, he chose faith.
He claims it to be central point in his life and has always taken priority over his sport. Often required at funerals and weddings, he has always given others priority. One day during a match, he was called away by an emergency phone call from a member of his Parish who was suicidal; he left immediately to support them.

These days there are three things he enjoys most about the game: the exercise it provides in his 70th year, ‘some people go to gyms, some run kilometres along the roadside, I go to cricket practice.’ he professed. Secondly he enjoys learning more about the game, ‘You never know all there is to know about the game, there are always ways you can learn and improve in this game’. Finally he loves the challenge of adapting the skills of the game to his waning reflexes and eye sight. More recently and reluctantly he has put away the pull and hook shots he was famous for in his younger days.

He sees the role in community sport pivotal in promoting understanding between cultures and playing part in the lives of young people who participate. This is especially true for those who may come from difficult families or circumstances or with no father figure around. It highlights the role club mates and mentors can play in supporting these youngsters.

During his time in Mildura, he coached an Aboriginal team at a time when there was racial tension in Australia, he saw the value sport played in creating respect and understanding between cultures. Aboriginal’s who played against white teams in the area, were recognized and greeted at the markets or the grocery store, an unusual occurrence in that day. ’Sport was the one medium, especially in that area, that was able to break down barriers’. He saw the structure it was able to provide Indigenous people in their day to day lives. In modern day cricket he sees the value it has in starting a dialogue between cultures.

Retired from official Pastoral duties, the Rev now plays the role of a spiritual advisor at the Australian Institute of Sport for athletes who have moved away from home. Providing counsel when they suffer injuries, the loss of a loved one or generally feel they have hit a road block.
Off the field, the Rev has recently received awards for volunteering his services for his beloved NCGCC, he has also been awarded for 50 years’ service to the game an award he claims ‘you only need to stick around for’, both of which he greatly appreciates.

Asked if there is anything he would have done differently ‘Oh yes‘ he proclaims, I would have listened more, practiced harder, believed myself more and not been intimidated by the opposition from the mainland in my younger days’. ‘It wasn’t really until David Boon and Ricky Ponting came along that people in Tassie started to believe they could be good enough to go to the next level’.

Receiving one of many award

Rev though, is not of the numbers and figures he has accumulated or the achievements he has collected along the way.....His is the story of a man who puts everyone before himself. His team mates, his family and God.

In many ways he is like the thousands of volunteers who turn up, unpaid, to co-ordinate, organise and score at sporting grounds across the country every weekend. But for the Rev, it is his humility, selflessness and uncanny ability to make others feel better by his mere presence that makes this man someone special.

My enduring memories of him, is as a 70 year at a local College oval for preseason fitness training, running shuttle runs with clubs mates a quarter his age and co-ordinating net sessions making sure each player has the chance to bat and bowl and then, time permitting, he straps on the pads in the fading light of the Nation’s Capital sky, ready to take on the new ball, once again, putting everyone before himself.

 Thank God for the Rev!!





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.