I now know why Superman never actually killed Lex Luthor; why the Ninja Turtles didn’t stab Shredder through the neck at the earliest opportunity and why Osama Bin Laden will never be found – everybody needs a nemesis.
If Shredder was defeated in his conquest for world supremacy, the people of earth would celebrate – the gateway to Dimension X would be closed forever, Krang and his legion of Foot Soldier minions would be stuck in limbo and life would be pretty sweet for everybody on this great round planet we call home. But then what would the Turtles do? Sit around and wait for a new supervillain to turn up and make a mess of things? Hell no. That might never happen, and with the amount of pizza they consume, they would turn into massive fat loser turtles who lose their nunchuks in their own rolls of belly-fat before it did. They need the Shredder as much as he needs world domination.
I am officially without a nemesis.
Ponts lost the Ashes three times and then dropped the World Cup after having it in his spit-stained hands for twelve years. To put that into perspective, that means that when Australia first won the trophy, Steve Smith hadn’t even been born yet. Punter’s form has been scratchy (at best) for the last 18 months, going without anything even resembling a score and generally letting down his sponsors, potential sponsors, former sponsors, Cricket Australia and their sponsors, and quite possibly a few Aussie supporters as well. Ponting didn’t know which end to hold the bat, couldn’t tell the difference between a yorker and his left arse cheek, had no idea how to make runs and had a knack of ushering the ball straight to fieldsmen or directly onto his stumps.
Ricky Ponting loves jam doughnuts
People (like me) were calling for him to be sacked (or killed) (by me) as captain, as a player, as a functioning member of society. He lost his temper against a telly in the change room, he took offence to Steve Smith running into him when fielding, he tried to cheat when he was clearly out and he kicked a puppy whilst peeing on an orphanage that he’d just set on fire. And then he went and did the most Australian thing imaginable – he scored a century against a formidable bowling attack to ensure his place in the team for at least the next year. Even with his squinty chipmunk eyes, Ricky Fucking Ponting could see that Australian cricket was in steady decline and could only get worse, so he called the least-surprising press conference in the history of the world and appears to have handed the steering wheel of the broken, battered and half-sunk Titanic to Michael Clarke, including the use of the middle name “Fucking”.
Michael Fucking Clarke. Are you serious? Michael Clarke should not be the next captain of Australia. Michael Clarke is barely an Australian cricketer, let alone one fit enough to lead them. Sure, he has the occasional good day with the bat, and can be an attractive strokeplayer, but so was Mark Waugh. So was Damien Martyn. So was Jason Gillespie.
Michael Fucking Clarke is a marketing tool. He has an unsurprisingly bland Twitter account, he dates models, he drives nice cars, he has a non-offensive trendy haircut and enough tattoos to be deemed fashionable at the moment. He eats at trendy cafes and wears expensive suits. He is a walking, talking, Tweeting commercial for the game of cricket, and will wear the Australian captain’s title as if he deserves it for selling the most raffle tickets for a school fete.
He won’t lose his temper with Mitchell Johnson for bowling rubbish down the leg side.
He will allow opposition batsmen to farm singles from whichever spinner is chosen for that particular match.
He will whistle and wave his arms around a lot, but will not have set plans for any batsmen.
He will be polite and politically correctly honest during press interviews.
He will swear at an appropriate time during one of these press interviews to give him “edge”.
He will feast on bowling attacks when there is no pressure.
He will get out at the most inappropriate time when there is.
He will not change his batting style to suit the situation.
Michael Clarke doesn't even carry his own bat on or off the ground
I officially have a new nemesis.