Tuesday, January 11, 2011

We didn't want the Ashes anyway...

Thank Christ the Ashes Test series is over. (You're welcome). Australian cricket sure has hit a new low and as such, I deem it necessary to give a few pointers of advice to Cricket Australia and the team of girls who represent this once-fine country. Yes, I know every bloke and their goat has done this before I got around to it, but fuck - I've only just come out of an Australian-cricket-induced coma and need to get a few things off my ruggedly hairless chest:

  • Get rid of the bowling, batting and fielding coaches. Appoint one coach for all. These players are supposed to be the best eleven cricketers in the country. If they don’t know how to bat, bowl or catch by now, then fuck em – stop paying them to play cricket and send them back to their backyards until they learn. Few things in life will prepare you for the rigours of the five-day game than facing an older brother or cousin with a half-taped tennis ball in his hand and an electric wicket-keeper at both ends.

  • Forget about sports psychologists. Stop being a pussy. If you can’t hit the ball, lying down on some fucking idiot’s couch and telling him about the time you had a dream where you thought you were David Schwimmer isn’t going to help that. Take your fucking bat, grab some idiot with a ball and tell him to piff it down at you over and over again until you can manage to hit it off the pitch.

  • Stop being dickheads and rushing off to fucking gallery openings and catwalk launches for your shithouse fashion label after a game. Stay in the dressing room and get pissed with your team and learn a bit of camaraderie.

  • Don’t pick dickheads who have played a handful of games and taken even less wickets as your frontline spinner. You wouldn’t pick some bloke that no-one’s ever heard of to be your opening batsman, so why would you pick him to bowl against some of the best batsmen in the world?

Following the debacle of the Sydney Test, I have once again likened the members of the team to a pack of girls:

Phillip Hughes = Olsen Twins.
They don’t look like they came from, or belong to, this planet. I hope they head back home soon.

Shane Watson = Justin Bieber.
They both worry too much about their hair and less about what they actually do for a living. Show me proof that Bieber is a guy.

Usman Khawaja = Dido.
Dido’s first few CDs were met with massive success. She even went so far as to put a recording studio in her house. Then no one ever heard from her again. Ussy has potential, but probably shouldn’t install a baggy green cleaning machine in his lounge-room just yet.

Michael Clarke = Kirstie Alley.
Remember when Kirstie Alley was mildly attractive and destined for big things? Yeah. Those were good days. Enjoy your retirement, Clarkey.

Mike Hussey = that chick from Gossip Girl.
You know late at night when Gossip Girl comes on the TV and for some reason you don’t turn it off? It’s because of the hot blonde chick.

On a side note - the last time I blogged about Mike Hussey I compared him to Natalie Portman. Since then, I understand that Nat has come out as saying that she is pregnant. I think the most disappointing thing about this is that Mike Hussey had nothing to do with it.

Brad Haddin = Julia Gillard.
Both got to where they are by default and will only be there until we can find someone better.

Steve Smith = Liz Hurley.
Liz and Steve have both been boofed by Warney, and neither live up to expectations. Unless Ms Hurley has a time machine, she will probably never make it back to where she should have been following her stellar performance in Austin Powers. As for Steve… well, he probably needs to stop squinting like Stuart Macgill and start bowling a bit more like him.

Mitchell Johnson = Megan Fox.
When Megan Fox exploded on the scene, she was nice to look at and had the world at her feet; now she’s a mess of collagen, plastic and Brian Austin Green. There was a brief period where Johnson looked like he might also get married to David from 90210 (the original series) but even that guy knew a useless fucking cricketer when he saw one.

Peter Siddle = Joan Cusack.
Not conventionally pretty, but funny enough that she doesn’t have to be, and no one tries harder. I’m sure Sids would prefer to be likened to her more successful, rich and attractive sibling, and if he’d played better then he might have been.

Ben Hilfenhaus = Ke$ha.
Releases the same song over and over and is somehow still getting paid for it, despite it sounding shitter and shitter. Stop going through the motions, Hilfenhau$, and I might like you again.

Michael Beer = that chick from Alice in Wonderland.
Both were plucked from absolute obscurity to fill important roles that they actually occupied fairly decently. Alas, they were both in shithouse, overrated productions and may be remembered forever for them.

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