so much potential

I rented this film the other night. Terribly disappointing movie. An hour and a half into it, and they still didn’t get to the part where Steve and Mark made 464 for NSW.

Ho ho hmmmm

T’is the season to be jolly, falalalalalalalala la la la la and all that. My halls are officially decked with holly and shit, because it’s TOTALLY CHRISTMAS WOOO.

With a great Christmas comes great responsibility, and the biggest responsibility is grabbing some decent pressies for your loved ones, even though Christmas is all about spending time with your family and shit. It just turns out that it’s a lot easier to spend quality time with your family if you have a new iPod.

So what do you get your family, friends and loved ones? After perusing a handful of Chrissy catalogues over the weekend, it became apparent that there is a veritable smorgasbord of shit out there in which to stuff a stocking with, and while I can’t tell you what you should buy – you probably know your great aunt Gladys better than I do – I can tell you what NOT to buy.

Nose hair trimmers.
Some people in this world have hairier nostrils than others, but there’s probably a better time and place to tell them that than when everyone’s sitting around the Christmas tree. Little Johnny unwraps his Ninja Turtle toy, Little Sally opens her Barbie carousel, and Uncle Mike opens his nose-hair trimmers and spends the next few hours nervously sipping his Christmas beer and pretending that the fact that everyone in his family reckons he’s a big hairy munter doesn’t bother him.

Adult “gag” gifts.
As hilarious as farting garden gnomes that tell you to “Go fuck yourself” or pull their pants down and have a wank are, they should not be given as gifts unless you:
(a) are a bogan, or
(b) you want to officially announce to your family that you really don’t give a fuck & wanted to spend $20 to prove that.
Note: if you do opt for the wanking gnome toy, make sure you nick the batteries out of your host’s remote control to power the thing. It’ll really piss them off and completely top off your Xmas.

Home-made gifts.
There are two rules that dictate whether or not you should give hand-made gifts at Chrissy:
1. If you can actually make things to the point where you own a shop that sells them, you are entitled to give whatever the hell you want as gifts.
2. If you are six years old or younger, you are entitled to give your mum whatever piece of shit you constructed in the last few weeks of school.
That’s it though; no one else is allowed to try and give crappy home-made mugs, paintings or shoeboxes with glitter and macaroni glued onto it as a present. While it’s “the thought that counts,” it also might bother them that they bought you a Nintendo in exchange for a collection of ‘interestingly shaped rocks.’

Techy gear
Buying for teenagers is getting fairly tricky these days, so unless you know exactly what the little bundles of joy actually want, don’t even fucking think about it. Imagine the look on poor Emo Johnny’s face when he opens up an X-box when he really wanted a PS3, or the humiliation that Emo Sally would face when she turns up to school with an iPhone 3 instead of the iPhone 4. Your technological fuckup would be commemorated forever on Twitter as @EmoJohhny writes “mi parentz r fukin stoopid a xbox iz NOT a PS3 fukin douche I cant evn play left4dead FML”

Happy shopping, merry Christmas and have a rollickingly drunken new year!

3rd Ashes Test preview

Australia head into the Perth Test 1-0 down in the series, a scoreline that flatters them somewhat, with an unlikely chance to level up this greatest of sporting stoushes. Stoushe stoushe stoushe.

Following the embarrassment of losing a Test in Adelaide, a place that was invented solely for the purpose of having a high-scoring draw in Test matches, the Aussie line-up has undergone a few necessary changes: Gone is Marcus North, who finally became shit enough to be dropped completely and forgotten about forever; Simon Katich was struck down by sideways-walkingitis (the most common affliction of crabs) and will have his Achilles’ heel reconstructed Robocop-style; some bloke that no one had ever heard of before (even his mum) called Michael Beer has come into the team simply because the Australian selectors wanted, nay, needed, someone who could provide journalists and copywriters with a clever play on words for their headlines. It has been too long since “England have been Warne-d” and “Casualties of Waugh” were seen gracing the back pages of our newspapers, and even though “Ponting is rubbish” is true, as a headline it just lacks a little magic. I look forward to “Poms feast on Beer” and “Beer gives Aussies hangover” during the game, followed by “Pub with no Beer” after he gets kicked out of a nightclub for exposing himself at a bonding session following another innings defeat. Anyway, Beer is the newest addition to the 10-man spin-bowling condom used by the Australian selectors to protect Steve Smith from being career-endingly fucked by the English batsmen.

Speaking of Smith, he has curiously been brought into the team for the Perth Test - not because of any amount of cricketing skill - but as a stand-up comedian. I would have thought that having someone who is able to bowl or bat might be more useful to a cricket team, but I guess that’s why I’m not a selector. Steve secured his position in the team by beating fellow comics Akhmal, who is still telling Lebanese jokes on Good News Week; and Russell Gilbert, who hasn’t told a joke in about 23 years.

Phil Hughes has earned himself a recall after a few years in the wilderness. Hughes is a bogan child who will one day probably be an arrogant fuck of an Australian captain - many have claimed that his weakness against bouncers and short-pitched bowling will be his downfall, but not much is written about the fact that Hughes stands roughly around the same height as a cricket stump, so anything that bounces on the pitch can therefore be deemed as “short-pitched” bowling.

Mitch Johnson is back in contention after “being rested” for the previous game, and is talking up his ability to bowl well on his home pitch. Mitch moved to Western Australia around three years ago and has played approximately two games there. If he was speaking about his actual home ground (the Gabba), then his smack-talking was even more out of line as he sent down 42 wicketless overs for 170 runs in the first Test.

Can this Aussie bunch reclaim a bit of pride and restore balance to the Ashes contest? Well… Clarke is useless, Ponting’s the same, Watson has a morbid fear of big scores, none of the bowlers learnt from Hilfenhaus’ first over in Adelaide (and every ball that Glenn McGrath has ever bowled) about where to land the ball, and the selectors seem to be overstocked with baggy green caps that they are desperate to get rid of... so my answer is "no."

Every kid who’s playing state, club, church or backyard cricket right now is in the running to play for Australia within the next month. It’s a great time to be a cricketer; pity it’s not a great time for Australian cricket.

what else is on?

As we head into summer, the TV networks all decide that they’ve worked hard enough in bringing us such inspirational programs like The Boss Is Coming For Dinner and Cops: LAC, so they go off the boil and put on any old rubbish to fill the 4am – 3:59am timeslot. The off-ratings period is a chance for us to see the same kind of shows that we’ve been watching all year, but with a worse cast and semi-retarded writers.

Here’s what we can look forward to on Aussie TV over the next few months:

Biel of Fortune – contestants spin Jessica Biel around on a wheel for no real reason other than people will watch Jessica Biel do pretty much anything.

Two and a Half Wendts – Jana Wendt stars in her long awaited television revival in this black comedy about a journalist and a cloning machine (includes Lotto results)

So You Think You Are Grant – contestants compete to be Australia’s best Grant Denyer look-alike and take over Grant’s busy television schedule.

SeaShane – drama series starring Shane Warne, Shane Lee, Shane Heal, Shane Crawford, Shane Bourne and Shane Watson as part of a community who discover how hard life can be when you’re called “Shane.”

Bana Man – animated series based on one man’s ability to turn into actor Eric Bana.

Law and Border – former Test cricketers Stuart Law and Allen Border are part of an elite detective squad who solve crimes in between commentating for Fox Sports and appearing at public speaking obligations.

Seal or No Seal – contestants guess whether the suitcase that they are carrying contains the body of soul singer Seal, or another celebrity.

Farmer wants a Fyfe – Hey Hey It’s Saturday cartoonist Andrew Fyfe tries his hand at farming, but still finds time to draw some shit.

Bondi Jett – martial arts star Jett Li shows residents of Australia’s most famous beach new ways to defend themselves against poorly made lattes and chicks with dogs in their handbags.

The Apprenticeship – contestants compete against each other for the chance to win a minimum wage job for four years.

The Doohan Transfer – motorcycle legend Mick Doohan and a panel of experts discuss the best ways to recover from a shattered spine.

How I Met You, Marcia – in this long-running sitcom, Australian Idol judge Marcia Hines is reminded about how the time a fan bumped into her at the shops.

Fran vs Wilde – The Nanny star, Fran Drescher, fights 80s pop star Kim Wilde.

Love Tim May – drama series surrounding former Test spinner.

Packed by the Rafters – Pat Rafter and his family help ordinary Australians to move house by loading their furniture into a removalist truck.

Undercover Ross – newsreader Ross Stevenson dons a false moustache and a wig to try and gain employment without anyone noticing.

Steady Eddie Cook – Australia’s favourite cerebral palsy suffering comedian turns his hand to cooking, with awkward results.

Roll on, winter months!

Zap!

Moviefone recently ran a contest asking for “America’s Biggest Harry Potter fan.” I was going to enter, but (a) I didn’t know that the contest was being run, (b) don’t know what Moviefone actually is, (c) am not American, and (d) am not really that much of a Harry Potter fan, despite owning one of the books and a pirated copy of the first movie. I figure that if I did enter the comp, that with this much dedication I would have at least been in the top three.




I don’t know what annoys me more about this guy – the fact that his voice shits me to tears or that it’s almost impossible to stop watching. I think my favourite part is around the 2:14 mark when his mum (who’s holding the camera for him) almost axes him and forces him to break character, which would have required him to start all over again. I’m assuming he got his mum to do the filming, because I think it would be rare for someone like this to have other friends who were actually real and able to operate a video camera.

I also like when he name drops Harry Potter author J.K Rowling as “Jo”, kind of the same way I name drop U2 guitarist The Edge as “The” in conversation.

While I do appreciate the lengths that being an obsessed fan will go to, I can’t help but worry that the next time I see this guy, he’ll be found dead in a castle, wearing a suit made out of Daniel Radcliffe’s skin.

Baggy Green Balls

People might think I hate the Aussie cricket team. I don’t. I love them. I love them like an illegitimate red-headed step child that I beat daily with a sock full of batteries.

For my fellow Australian fans, the first two Ashes Test matches have been fascinating for those of us who enjoy pulling the wings off flies whilst boiling your own scrotum in vats of chilli oil.

In the past five days, the former champions of the cricket world (aka The World) have achieved the following:
Collected six wickets in conceding 1,192 runs and bowled 304 overs, whilst losing twenty-one wickets in 211 overs for 656 runs. To say we’re half as good at batting and three times as bad at bowling as England would be just about right.

I’ve been following the Aussie team for as long as I can remember, and my D-grade indoor cricket record speaks volumes of that. In my illustrious career, if a batsman hit a short, wide ball for four, we’d follow the tried and untrue method of bowling shorter and wider. To be fair to my team, we’d normally had a couple of beers before we played and had to pay about $15 a game for the privilege. I’m assuming that Ponting didn’t cough up too much cash to pad up and score 9 runs in the latest Test.

My indoor cricket team were shit, and we appreciated that fact. We didn’t try and sledge the opposition batsman when they hit us for six (around 5 balls per over). Cricket Australia is in the position now where Shane Watson can’t give lip to Alistair Cook for having a pooncy name and then ask Shane Warne to get him out. There’s no Adam Gilchrist to hit a quick 90 runs off one Graham Swann over to push the run-rate up. These days, there’s Ricky Ponting and there’s Doug Bollinger. One’s a retarded, shaved monkey and the other has taken those shavings and glued them to his head.

Australia is now on par with New Zealand and the West Indies. They are marginally ahead of Pakistan, only because the Pakis keep taking bribes to try and be shit, rather than accept a salary to actually be shit. They’re a half-step up from Zimbabwe and Bangladesh, two countries whose cricketing heroes can be seen at the village markets selling hand-raised piranhas in order to feed their families, get an education and buy a cricket stump with what’s left over.

Cricket Australia – it’s time to get some respect, some perspective and someone worthwhile to give the Allan Border medal to. If you’re short of candidates, I once got two wickets in a row in indoor cricket, but sent down a short, wide one for the magic hat-trick ball and was subsequently hit for six. The batsman and I had a beer after the game and laughed about it. Not together, mind you, but the thought was there.

Girls girls girls

Following the first Ashes Test in Brisbane, it became clear that the Australian cricket team are a massive bunch of girls, and so I will judge them accordingly.

Mischa Barton: Katich
You know what to expect when Kat krabs his way onto the field – nothing fancy, no bullshit, plays the same way every time, love him or hate him. By the time he got to have another crack in the second innings at the Gabba, the game was dead and it was obvious to everyone watching that he had come down with a massive case of the Mischa Bartons and just couldn’t be fucked trying any more.

Angelina Jolie: Watson
Everything about Angelina Watson seems good, but when was the last time you seriously enjoyed watching her movies/seeing Watson play? People like her/him because they think they should, not because they actually do.

Lady Gaga: Ponting
No one knows where she came from, what she does or what gender she is. People also ask these questions of Lady Gaga.

Nicole Kidman: Clarke
Everyone used to love “our Nicole” when she was first making her way into the Hollywood elite and staking her claim as the next big thing. Then people realised that she really wasn’t that attractive, couldn’t act and kept appearing in fucking terrible movies. Pup Clarke has followed this trend by relying on his reputation as Australia’s next captain to not bother doing anything of use to anyone and just la-la-la-ing his way through life. I’d smash both him and Kidman in the face, if I thought there was any part of them that wasn’t completely plastic.

Natalie Portman: Hussey
I don’t think I need to talk about how awesomely hot, talented and so freakin close to perfect I think Mike Hussey is. Portman is ok too.

Lindsay Lohan: North
Fucking nightmare. Every time LiNorth leaves rehab/gets runs, they get back on the smack/ducks and generally make a mockery of being rich/an Australian cricketer.

Waitress at the trendy café that you always walk past: Haddin
You always have a bit of a perve at the waitress at the trendy café, but you’re never quite sure about her. Sometimes she appears nice and relaxed, is wearing a Decemberists t-shirt, and you think that maybe you should talk to her… but the next day she acts like a bitch, makes shit coffee, is wearing a Phil Collins t-shirt and has knuckle tattoos. Brad Haddin makes a decent coffee, but that’s about all.

Betty White: Johnson
Some time over the past few years, Betty White crept back onto our screens, appearing randomly in tv shows and commercials, playing up the fact that she’s Betty White, an old duck who’s a bit “quirky”. It worked well for her, until the ‘Mitch Jonhson’ novelty factor wore off and now no one gives a fuck about either of them, and would actually prefer the rapping granny from the Wedding Singer to come back.

Bryce Dallas Howard: Doherty
Everything is there and looks nice enough – hair, eyes, mouth, body… but for some reason, it doesn’t quite gel together. Still, Bryce and Doherty are adequate subs when there’s no one better around.

Britney Spears: Hilfenhaus
Whenever Britto has fucked up, she’s been lucky enough to be able point to the people around her and say, “Sure, I shaved my head… but I’m not off the planet spastic like Amy Winehouse/ Lindsay Lohan/ Paris Hilton.” Hilfy gets that, and points out that he bowled better than Johnson just to keep his head off the block.

Winona Ryder: Siddle
Remember when everyone loved Winona? Then she disappeared… and no one noticed or cared?

Ashes, Ashes we all fall down

Sorry for the lack of updates lately; I’ve been growing a moustache and didn’t realise how much time it would take up.

I’m an excited little pirate right now, as it’s getting close to the beginning of the Ashes – according to my horoscope, it actually begins on Thursday. And they say that those things don’t work. Pfft.

Due to the untimely demise of Paul the Psychic Octopus, I am putting my faith in Todd the Psychic Dinosaur, an inflatable T-Rex who lives at my house to predict the outcome of this tremendous sporting series.

Todd sees all and knows all

Ponting is a girl and will once again show himself as Australia’s worst ever captain. He’ll also get caught hooking the ball a lot and will spend the majority of the Ashes looking confused and spitting on his hands. Top score of 47 and an average of considerably less.

Mitchell Johnson will struggle to make the ball land anywhere on the wicket. The word “unpredictable” should be used as a drinking game when listening to the Channel 9 commentary, and will lead to unprecedented levels of alcohol poisoning among Australian cricket fans.

Michael Clarke will continue to look like a 15 year old boy and will miss at least one Test match due to him having the body of an 87 year old crack addict.

Shane Watson will have that stupid, smug expression knocked off his stupid, smug face. He will also miss a Test match due to him sharing Michael Clarke’s 87 year old crack addict body.

Mike Hussey will force-feed his critics a piece of humble pie. Should get a nomination for Australian of the Year, get a Guernsey to host the Logies and will be romantically linked to Jennifer Aniston.

Marcus North will make a mockery of the Australian selection process by not scoring any runs, not taking wickets and dropping a lot of catches, but will keep his spot in the team, simply because no one really knows what he looks like, so they can’t tell him to stop turning up.

Brad Haddin will be at his fumbling, bumbling best behind the stumps, is only in the team because he has always been "the next Australian wicketkeeper" following Adam Gilchrist's retirement. He should probably pop over to Dirty Dirk Nannes' house with a case of beer as a 'thank you' for breaking Tim Paine's hand the other night, or he'd be watching the game on cricinfo.com score updates like the rest of us.

Xavier Doherty will be under a spot of pressure; he’s stepping into the massive ballet shoes of Nathan Hauritz and making his debut against a team who aren’t being paid to lose. Could quite easily become Australia’s Dan Vettori, just not as good looking.

Simon Katich is awesome and will one day rule the galaxy with Mike Hussey.

Doug Bollinger will require more than a “hilarious” prankster personality to keep his spot in the team. I am also hilarious, and all my hair is my own so I am probably closer to securing a spot than Douggie.

Peter Siddle grew up wrestling crocodiles and using snakes for dental floss while lumberjacking his way through Victoria. It wasn't until he began his life as a professional cricketer that his body began to fail him. Won't take many wickets, but will succumb to injury before he gets dropped.

Steve Smith will keep being that short, chubby blonde kid who can’t bowl as well as that other short, chubby blonde kid, and we should all probably get over that and maybe even look at dark-haired leg spinners for a change.

Ben Hilfenhaus will kick himself that he wasn’t born in England so he could be part of a winning team.

Todd’s prediction: England win 2-1.

Neigh

It’s the first Tuesday of November, so it’s time to buy a new frock, donk some feathers in your head and donate $20 to the nearest bookie, all in the name of celebrating the “Race that Stops the Nation,” the Melbourne Cup.

This day fucking astounds me, honestly. For those not in the know, the Melbourne Cup involves a bunch of horses who run a lap of a racing track, you know, kind of like every other fucking horse race in history. The winning jockey is named a national treasure and Australia’s greatest athlete, the horse is given the good bits of hay and immortalised on a Carlton Draught stubbie lid trivia question, and the cashed-up alcoholic dickwhacker owner is declared a saint who can speak to animals, when all they really did was buy a fucking horse who happened to run slightly faster than all the other horses in the race.

The day itself used to hold some kind of prestige; now it’s an excuse for drunk sluts to be drunk sluts from 8am, and if you haven’t spewed on yourself, lost a shoe and hooked up with eight pissed fuckmuppets who are at the races for the sole reason to hook up with drunk sluts, then you’ve failed, and you might as well just stick to drinking the dregs of champagne from bottles that you “found” outside corporate tents. Nothing warms my cold, dead heart more than seeing drunk bogans at the races leering at a television camera during the evening news.

The only reason the race actually stops the nation is due to the fact that a lot of people around Australia are quite literally forced to have a punt on the outcome of the race, so there’s at least $2 of vested interest there. I also remember during each year of school, students had to sit down and observe the yearly custom of watching a bunch of horses run around a field. It may not have left a glowing reminder of a “great Australian tradition” in my memory (other than seeing my primary school teachers crying because they bet their yearly salary on a horse that probably still hasn’t finished), but it did inspire me to think that a more interesting way to run the race would be if half the horses went in the opposite direction to the others, and the jockeys carried morning stars and cricket bats.

I’m not saying the day is a complete waste of everyone’s time though, far from it. If you enjoy the Cup, good on you. If you’re one of those dickheads that makes the news because they slapped $250,000 on a trifecta, only to have one stupid fuckbag horse come in fourth and so you lost it all, good on you. If you have a punt and win, good on you. If you enjoy shrieking at brightly coloured midgets sitting on thoroughbred nags, good on you. Just leave me out of it while my I am forced to drink beer, eat chicken sandwiches and ignore my phone calls at work.

I went for a job as a blacksmith the other day and the guy asked me if I had any experience shoeing horses.
“No”, I replied, “but I once told a donkey to fuck off”.

small, annoying item #102,427,812

Why the fuck do places with double doors always have one super-glued shut? And why is it always the one that I try to go through?

Fucking Ponting

“I’ll take the blame,” says Ricky Ponting, regarding the Australian cricket team’s loss against India. That’s fucking handy, dickhead, because we’re all blaming you.

Captain Ponting insisted that “spin” bowler Nathan Hauritz be part of the team to tour India; Hauritz had been fairly impressive (especially by his standards) in the last series against Pakistan, a team who had all been paid by book-keepers to lose the games they played. Strangely, when the Australian team played against India, a team who were being paid to win games, they found the competition a bit different.

When the Indians were asked to chase 200-odd runs on the final day of the test match, the Aussie captain decided to take all of the fielders out of catching positions and asked Nathan Hauritz to roll his arm over. With the field set back against the slow bowler, it became a little bit too easy for the Indian batsmen to adopt the age-old backyard cricket tradition of “tip and run.” Since Hauritz couldn’t turn a car on a Nascar track, this made the task of defeating the Indians a bit harder. Ponting has kept faith in his team-mate and suggests he pisses off back to NSW and fucks up their team for a bit.

Australia lost the Indian series 2-0, with Ponting claiming that the result was “a bit harsh.” In a two-game series, I would say that the result was “fair” and Australia were “lucky” that it didn't stretch out to three games.

NRL Grand Final 2010: There can be only one

Here it is, sportsfans – welcome to the end of the season. And what a bottler of a season it has been; the Storm were ousted as big fat cheats, Brett Stewart was cleared of being a big fat sexual deviant, Jonathan Thurston confirmed that he is a big fat pisshead, Joey Johns became a big fat racist, Israel Folou is just a big fat loser, the NSW Origin team are all big fat fucking fucks and the majority of the NRL are just a bunch of big fat dickheads (except for Alan Tongue, who is a legend).

In my first NRL blog of 2010, I said the following:

My hot tips: Cronulla to win the spoon, Storm to win the premiership (again) and
the Raiders will not do too much to bother anyone. The Roosters will have a
fucking dismal season and everyone in the Titans will get arrested for separate
incidents. Willie Mason will do nothing like he has for the last 20 years of his
career, Braith Anasta will also continue his fine run of uselessness, Todd
Carney will get into a lot more trouble, since he is in a much bigger place with
way more people to rape and piss on and a whole new city in which to get drunk
and bashed. Whoever’s coaching the Broncos will get fired, and Lockyer will take
over as captain/coach and retire because he's not good at being either.

I couldn’t be bothered re-reading my predictions, so I’m just going to assume that I’m 100% correct on all of those issues.

Dragons vs Roosters
I’ve been on the Dragons bandwagon for quite some time now, and hated the shit out of the Roosters for even longer. I still can’t believe they’ve made it to the Grand Final – Todd Carney can’t either, and he’s still not sure if this is just a massive acid trip that has lasted nine months.

I think it would be a total injustice to the St Georgians if they lost this match – they have been out and out the best team this year and have played the better football (note: not always the most exciting football; the way they destroyed Manly in the first week of finals was painful, cruel and utterly ruthless). Plus, I have a man-crush on Jamie Soward; not only because I am fairly confident that he is one of the few people in the universe who would not be able to tackle me, but because he dances when he kicks:



That would have been better if he’d actually kicked the goal, but you get the idea.

The Roosters, well… fuck. Not even their mums love them with their shit haircuts and rubbish tattoos and supermodel girlfriends that they have to hide from their regular model wives. If Carney and his partner (I mean that in the literal sense), Mitchell Pearce don’t play well, expect the streets of Bondi to be awash with latte-flavoured tears as the Chooks go down by at least 40. And if they play well, they will only lose by around 10.

Thank you umpires, thank you ball boys.


Why do tips suddenly appear… every time… I am near?

NRL 2010: Finals Week 3 – the Battle of Who Could Care Less

It has been a sad, quiet week in Canberra following their exit from the finals race last Friday night. Actually, it hasn’t been any different to any other week in Canberra, to be perfectly Francis.

Titans vs Roosters
It’s the CLASH OF THE TITANS… and the Roosters. If there are two teams who deserve to be in this position any less than these fuckers, I’d like to meet them (and then smash them all in the face with my crowbar). The Chooks have been praised (by themselves and their tattoo artists, mainly) for coming back from winning the wooden spoon last year to somehow be in the running to compete in the Grand Final in 2010. Instead of giving them credit for doing well this year, maybe someone should say, “Well what the fuck was last year all about, you spastics?”

The Titans had last weekend off, which to me never really seems like a good way to keep a winning formula and to carry momentum with you into the next round. Their entire team was under the dreaded injury cloud (“and for those north of the border, there is a small boat alert as an injury cloud moves your way, but should clear by early next week”), so it gave them a chance to crack out a few extra ice-packs. This means that this weekend's team will be filled with players who haven’t taken the field for the last five weeks and who are coming back from injury. If I was a Rooster (and I thank Vishnu that I’m not), I would be a fairly excited little coke-snorter about playing this game. My cash is going for the “upset” – Roosters to sneak home by 8.

St George vs Tigers
Here’s a fun game to play: between now and whenever the hell this game is on, every time you hear or read the word “chokers” in connection with the Dragons, take a drink. Your weekend will whizz by in a glorious blur.

The Dragons must be absolutely pissing in each others pockets with happiness that the Tigers somehow cheated their way to victory over the Raiders last weekend, officially clearing the path to premiership glory. I think it’s kind of sweet in a retarded, naïve way that the Tiges think they actually have a chance to win this game.

It’s tip to be square.

Mat Rogers attempts to beat Brett Stewart in the sexual misconduct stakes

(and yes, I know this is actually a sweet photo - I still fucking hate Rogers though)

Pop Quiz, Hotshot...

Back in my day, a week would rarely go by without hearing about kids falling off their roof because they were trying to “fly like Superman” or being admitted to hospital with missing eyes after making ninja weapons out of rusty corrugated iron, gaffa tape and a chainsaw blade. We would risk life and limb just for that one moment that our friends would say, “Fuck, Mister Evil Breakfast; I swear you actually turned into Spider-Man just then. Also, would you like some help to straighten out your spine?” I would spit out a mouthful of blood and respond, “I fucking am Spider-Man,” before passing out.

I haven’t heard anything even remotely like that for years; the worst hijinx that kids are getting up to these days is posting “YOUR FAT!!!11 LOLZ” on some fat kid’s Facebook page, throwing an online Pokemon ball at a ‘friend’ they’ve never met and then “pwning” some “newbs” on World of Warcraft in a universe that doesn’t exist.

In an attempt to bring back senseless violence and carefree danger to the masses, I am going to pick up where I left off since stabbing my neighbour with a sword (an old fence paling) at age 12 in a dramatic recreation of what would happen if He-Man and My Little Pony ever met. As an adult, I possess the means, the money and the alcohol to surpass the backyard ninjas and pirates (and He-Man if his power sword was indeed a splintery old piece of wood) of my youth - I can become any fucking hero I want to be.

I bring to you, dear readers, and drivers of Canberra: SPEED: The Reality Event. Speed was a 1994 movie starring Keanu Reeves (winner of the Mister Evil Breakfast Award For Being The Most Awesome Human Being Ever [MEBAFBTMAHBE]) and Sandra Bullock (Mister Evil Breakfast Award For Being Fairly Hot Even Though She’s A Bit Old And Has Had To Resort To Doing “Based On A True Story” Movies [MEBAFBFHETSABOAHHTRTDBOATSM]).

The basic premise of the film is that there’s a bus that can’t drop below 55 mph or it will explode and kill the guy from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

To play Speed, I was required to don a pair of awesome sunglasses, work out for a bit (not too long though, I got tired and bored pretty quickly) and hop into my car; a 2005 Ford Focus (for the uninitiated, it’s basically the same as a rally car - it has a similar engineering TAFE course) and hit the streets.

55 miles per hour is 88.51 kilometres per hour, by the way. That’s pretty quick to maintain, and on the day that I decided to play Speed: The Reality Game, I still had some shit to do; I wasn’t going to let a bomb get in the way of me hitting up McDonalds, going for a beer and picking up some ill-thought out Ebay purchase from the Post Office.

Stupidly, I hit the magic 55mph coming out of my driveway, so I really put myself under some pressure from the get-go – could I somehow get through the Maccas drive-thru, order a large Big Mac meal, 6 nuggets and a hot apple pie whilst maintaining close to 90kmh? Turns out I couldn’t, but I was honestly let down by the fucktards at the McDonalds window, who not only technically blew me up, but also lost the lives of the passengers in the car in front of me, one behind, and at least one person in the restaurant. To top things off, they didn’t even give me my fries. In all fairness, I was yelling “I’ve got a bomb! I’ve got a bomb!” into the speaker box, which probably scared the Maccas workers a little and may have caused some unnecessary panic.

Driving whilst eating a Big Mac (and texting a few mates) at 90kmh turned out to be harder than I thought, and I “exploded” another few times on my way to the pub. I almost had a newfound respect for Sandra Bullock until I remembered that she made Miss Congeniality 2 and quickly changed my mind; in fact, I wish she had exploded in my car with me, or at the very least held my little tub of McDonalds sauce so I could dunk my McNuggets.

After a quick pint (it was three), I was ready to hit the road again, in a much better frame of mind to navigate the streets at close to 100 clicks. My game plan from here on in was to maintain speed at all time, lest I lose the last third of my McDonalds Coke to a fiery death. Leaving the pub immediately presented me with an issue as I came across a red light, so I did the right thing by the world and put my head down and sped through it. It was nice to hear other motorists cheering me on with honking horns and raising their middle finger in the universal sign for “You’re number one!” as I careered through the busy intersection. I maintained speed for another 10 minutes or so until I became bored with driving straight down the highway (keep in mind I didn’t have Sandra Bullock in her prime to keep me company) so I headed back into the suburbs to spice things up a bit.

Short story even shorter, I ended up “dousing” the “bomb” in someone’s backyard swimming pool (via three fences and after running over a dog) about four minutes later. I was hoping to inspire a new wave of children to copy some violent movies and fill the hospital emergency ward with injuries involving match-bombs and home-made nunchuks. But as the media caught wind of the events of the day, they thwarted my plans and ensured that the only injuries the youth of today will receive will be getting their chubby fingers caught in the middle of video game discs.

NRL Tipping: Finals week 2

And then there were six. Goodbye Manly, goodbye Warriors. Thanks for making up the numbers this year, please pick up your lollybag on the way out. Buh-bye now.

Raiders vs Tigers
RAIDERS RAIDERS WOOO! This game should be an absolute fucking nut buster (I’m planning on busting three) and will no doubt have the people of the nation’s capital suffering heart attacks, sweaty palms and busted nuts. The Tiges have either been asked to invent reasons why they might not play (injuries, births, Bieber fever) or they are going to have to ask their mascot to take up position in the second row.

Whatever the case may be, the Raiders will roll another big cat on their way to the Granny. Mark my words. Mark them.

Roosters vs Penrith
It honestly doesn’t matter who wins this game, because they’ll lose next week anyway. For what it is worth, my money’s resting on the Chooks to get up, despite them being incredibly rubbish in last week’s hard-fought (read: lucky) win against the Tigersers. They missed a billion tackles and gave up almost 2000 metres, yet somehow came away with the points. Like the Tiges, the Panthers don’t have the strike power to make them pay for their turnstile defence, and somehow, somehow, the Bok Bok Boks (that’s a chicken noise, for anyone playing along at home) will live to fight another day.

It's not quite rugby league, but it's good enough for me

If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my tips.

Seriously

Dear Channel 10,

I would just like to congratulate you on continuing your outstanding level of excellence in terms of news and programming quality. I would never have known that 2010 marked the tenth anniversary of the 2000 Olympics without your sensational coverage of some kind of bizarre celebration of a sporting event that had around eight hours of vision showing Cathy Freeman waiting to light a giant candle. The four people who cared enough to turn up to see it created a great “atmosphere” in which John Paul Young (seriously?) was able to “rock out” to.

I would also like to thank you for not showing The Simpsons and instead deciding to concentrate on repeated highlights of the “anniversary celebration” including an interview with two volunteers from the Sydney Olympics. I then sat riveted to the screen as the guy who used to host Sports Tonight described a fireworks display for all the viewers. You should have warned me that fireworks were involved though; it scared the shit out of my ceramic cat collection.

Next year will be the first anniversary of the 2010 Soccer World Cup and I hope that this milestone is recognised for its part in bringing the world together.

I would also like to commend your journalists for never shying away from the big news stories, especially international events. I rely on your news bulletins and updates to stay on top of current affairs, and without your constant “Top Story Recaps” I would never have known that Oprah Winfrey and a horde of rich, screaming American women were coming to Australia. I shall practice turning two syllable words into complete sentences, elongating the ends of words and raising my voice for no apparent reason for her arrival. Oh sorry, for HE-ER ARRIVAAAAAAAL.



The best part about your news coverage though, Channel 10, is the far reaches that your journalists will go to in order to provide us with vision. In a rare story last night that wasn’t about Oprah Winfrey’s visit “down under,” I saw that George Michael (“George MICHAAAAAAAEL”) crashed his car into a shop while smoking a crack-pipe or something. As the story unfolded, highlights of George’s career were revealed to us, from the obligatory “Wake me up before you go-go” video to his appearance on an episode of “Extras” starring Rick-ky GERVAAAAAIIIIIIIIIS. Apparently the news budget doesn’t allow for file footage of a guest appearance on a free-to-air television series, so credit must go to the genius who decided to show YouTube clips of George Michael instead. I’m super impressed that you decided to use the grainy, obviously-videoed-from-a-TV-using-a-bad-mobile-phone-camera-then-uploaded-to-the-internet version, too.

Carry on the good work! I look forward to you flogging the shit out of Modern Family (I can see that you already have the first series billed as “classic” episodes, while we are just entering season two). All the best with squeezing every last drop out of MasterChef – I particularly enjoyed watching Junior MasterChef; I’m sure all of the kids involved in that cash cow have bright futures with the cooking careers that their parents are in no way pushing them into. I know I had my whole life planned out when I was 12, too.

Kind regards,


Mister Evil Breakfast

PS. Have you ever thought about doing a police drama?

NRL Finals Week 1: La la la

IT’S FINALS WEEK AND I AM SO FUCKING EXCITED RIGHT NOW I CAN’T FIND THE CAPS LOCK KEY.

Oh wait, there it is.

Titans vs Warriors
It’s the CLASH OF THE TITANS… and the Warriors. This is a fucking cracker to pick – two teams that I know very little about except that I hate the Titans’ Mat Rogers, the greasy fucker, and I have no ill-will towards the Warriors at all. In fact, I quite like them.

But this isn’t a popularity contest, apparently; there’s some kind of rugby league game involved. I have the sneaking suspicion that the Warriors will play the better football, but the Titans are going to end our Kiwi cousins’ season this weekend. Kumate kumate.

Tigers vs Roosters
This match-up sees two massive show ponies come together as Benji “Remember my flick pass of 2005?” Marshall and Todd “…yeah it’s a real… uh… you know… uh… dream come… you know… true for me… to uh… you know…” Carney lock horns. These guys are actually two of the game’s true drawcards who play fairly different brands of footy. Where Benji will use a bit of razzle dazzle and fancy footwork to find gaps in the defense, Carney will look for the unmarked player, the cross-field kick, the short flat pass and the massive quantities of ecstasy and cocaine to get the job done.

Dally M player of the year Todd Carney is possibly still chasing space shuttles as we speak (possibly looking for signs of a personality – mission failed), which bodes quite well for the Tigers lads who will be thinking about more than another sponsorship deal. After a good ninety-eight hours of to-ing and fro-ing between these teams, I’m putting my faith in Benji’s Magpie-Tiger hybrid to get me home. Go fuck yourself, Carney, you fucking fuck. Your tattoos are shit, too.

Panthers vs Raiders
The mighty fucking Raiders travel to Pussy Town for another walk in the park after catching some sun on the Brisbane banks last weekend. The Panthers will be confident after last week’s big win over the team coming last, so well done to them. Their recovery session consisted of robbing a home for blind orphans and making fun of Julia Gillard for having red hair.

No one can stop the Raiders this year. Nobody.


Dragons vs Manly
Now, I’m not going to say that Manly suck – I’ll leave that to everyone else. I’m just going to say that they might as well not even bother turning up for this game. And judging from who they’ve got playing this weekend, it seems that they aren’t. With a million people out on suspension (see you in 2028, Matai, you fucking slack prick), another thousand on the injured list and the rest being from Manly, this could be the most embarrassing moment in the Sea Eagles proud history since John Hopoate touched people up on the field and Brett Stewart did it off.

Expect Saints coach, Wayne “I smiled once in 1984, now fuck off” Bennett, to be able to take 12 men off the field for the duration of the second half and still win by 60.


I will tip for you at night-time; I will tip you in four places.

Sometimes there’s such a thing as “too much charisma”

We can find the perfect blend

It has been a crazy time in Neighbours of late, with dodgy business dealings, blackmail, confessions, break-ups, hook-ups, a wedding and an attempted murder all thrown into the mix. And let's not forget the "brave" storyline about a young gay man who came out to his friends at school, received support for being gay and then left the Neighboursverse forever, lest he ruin the perfect Caucasian (except for the Indian doctor), heterosexual garden of Eden that is Ramsay Street.

The truth about Steph’s baby finally came out after Paul Robinson bugged Steph’s phone, recorded a conversation between her and Dan (Libby’s ex-husband) about her accidental pregnancy and then played that recording during a fundraising event for the radio station that he owns. The shit was flung and Libby and Steph became sworn enemies for at least three episodes.

Libby has since hooked up with Steph’s old boyfriend, Lucas, who also just happens to be Libby’s ex-husband’s brother who she was previously shagging on the side. She has also had to deal with her ugly son Ben suddenly moving schools to some kind of “gifted child” academy after doing an online IQ test, submitting the score, being offered a scholarship, accepting and being shipped off there within the hour. Strangely, that school was in “the country,” and “the country” is usually where the privileged children are all bundled off to, right? Right. This all came about after ugly Ben got into trouble for staring out the window during class because his teacher’s lessons were ‘boring’. Welcome to school, ugly Ben. Get used to it. I’m just glad you’re not uglifying the opening credits anymore.

Ringo and Donna tied the knot in a “beautiful” “wedding” that wasn’t at all “tacky” or “hastily cobbled together” and followed the correct Neighbours rules of (a) going to Lassiters and (b) then to Charlie’s Bar for the reception. The only thing missing was Harold’s takeaway shop, which was taken care of by people constantly leaving the wedding to duck in for a quick milkshake and slice of cake. Either there was no food being served at the wedding, or Harold’s is lacing their food with crack. My money is on the fact that no food was being served, as it was a wedding put on by Ringo, who hasn’t had a job since that one day he spent as a brickie’s apprentice.



As is every married Neighbours couple’s dream, R&D returned from their honeymoon and moved straight back in with Ringo’s adopted family, Karl, Susan, Zeke and Libby. It’s just what every newlywed couple craves, really. Well that, and you know, a job would be good.



But the mainstay of Erinsborough lately has been the fall and fall and attempted murder of Paul Robinson. I get lost in the details, but Paul was skimming off one of his millions of businesses to pay for something else blah blah blah construction accident blah blah blah slept with an old American woman blah blah blah dodgy dodgy blah until he ended up being pushed off the balcony at his hotel.

As he lies in hospital with feeding tubes, machines that go ‘ping’ and one of those contraptions that breathes for you (which is kept on hand for any of Ramsay Street’s residents), his son, Rob Farnham (previously “sometimes Scottish son of Paul Robinson”), his ex-girlfriend Natasha and general do-gooder Summer are putting their heads together (aka “multiplying zeroes”) in trying to work out who knocked Robinson over the edge. Ignore the fact that the police have interviewed the entire town and have realised that everyone has a reason to kill Paul, the brains trust should be able to piece together the night of the crime and find the perpetrator. So far they have accused… well… everyone, including each other. By process of elimination, they will get to the bottom of this case… never, and we will follow them every step of the way.

Such a shameful waste of innocent fairy lights

NRL Round 26: It's the Finals Countdown

Holy crap, we’ve made it to the final game of the season. Thank you linesmen, thank you ballboys. With finals spots up for grabs this weekend, every league fan the world over should be sitting in a pool of their own glistening, sticky saliva. Me, well I’m just waiting for Canberra Milk to reintroduce Raiders Lime back into the market, a ploy that hasn’t been seen since the early 90s. Green milk? Fuck yes.

Titans vs Tigers
It’s the CLASH OF THE TITANS… and the Tigers, and is shaping up as a genuine noodle-scratcher to tip. Both teams have booked their place in the finals, both teams surprised everyone by doing that, and both teams have me yelling abuse from my couch until I am hoarse. This one deserves to end in a draw, but seeing as that hasn’t happened since 1972, my head says Titans, my gut says Tigers, and my left knee (“Ol’ Clicky”) is still supporting the Hunter Mariners. Stupid Clicky.

Broncos vs Raiders
RAAAAIDERS! RAAAAAAIDERS!! WOOOOO WOOWoooWOOOooo! RAAAAaaIDERS! LAALA LA GREEN MAACHINE! WOOOO!
Darern “if I’m not here, forget about it” Lockyer has decided not to risk injury again this week and once more sits out on the sideline. Wally “Wally Wally Wally” Wallace needs a shoulder reconstruction but his dedication to the team is so high that he’s going to play. A fully-fit Wallace doesn’t really bother anyone, so having him with half an arm and Dave Shillington up in his face all game probably scares people even less. Thanks for the security escort into the finals, Brissy. We appreciate that. WOOOOO RAAAAAIDERS!

Eels vs Warriors
Warriors. Next!

Panthers vs Sharks
Despite the Sharkies coming good (round 24 is probably not the time to try and launch a finals surge though, and last place really isn’t the ideal springboard), Penrith SHOULD win this one comfortably. But knowing them, they won’t turn up to play and be smashed all over the park. Defense will be a dirty word in this game.

Cowboys vs Roosters
Apparently Todd Carney is front-runner for the Dally M award (the highest accolade you can achieve in the NRL). Just imagine how well he’d be going if he wasn’t constantly smacked out of his head? The Cowboys really haven’t done much this year except look forward to next season. Thanks for coming, Cowbs. Add another loss to your tally for me. Cheers.

Storm vs Knights
Melbourne have opened the gates and are charging punters $1 to get in to watch this one. If only the bar would charge $1 beers as well, I’d probably consider making the journey. Melbourne will abso-fucking-lutely destroy the Knights without even breaking sweat. This game is going to get embarrassing for the Newcastle lads.

Manly vs Bulldogs
Expect some no-nonsense, hard-hitting, action-packed, fast-paced football… but not from either of these guys. Check out the little leaguers at half-time; I love those kids. Manly will win this one in a scrappy, ugly game that will go for about 60 minutes longer than it needs to.

Dragons vs Rabbitohs
By the time this game kicks off, the Rabbits will know whether or not they can qualify for a finals spot, which will determine how well they play. But that won’t matter, because they’ll be beaten by the Dragons regardless. So just tip them. Thanks for 2010, Souths, see you next year. PS. I love you, Sam Burgess.


U Can’t Tip This

The condition that could affect 50% of the world

Australian quasi-celebrity Matthew Newton made news this week by allegedly beaten seven shades of shenanigans out of his model girlfriend Rachael Taylor whilst holidaying in Rome – ‘holidaying’ is an Italian word for “being an unemployed actor and nailing a hot chick in a foreign country.” This has turned Australian audiences against the son of TV legend and long-time death-knell for Australian television productions, Bert Newton, and forced Bert, most of Bert's head and handbag wife Patti, back onto our television screens to defend their - sorry, his - good name. Just think what life would be like without the Newtons on TV – some other head on a stick would have to host the all-too entertaining clip show ‘20 to 1’ - maybe the bloke who was the puppeteer for Agro; I reckon if he’s not in jail for molesting every chick he’s ever met, he’d be pretty good at it. I’m not putting any money on that, though.

As Bert and Patti revealed on their very touching, sincere and carefully scripted interview on A Current Affair, Matt has “a mental illness” and needs “treatment” for his “condition.” I believe that Matt has in fact been diagnosed with a massive case of the “fuckwits,” which he inherited from his parents. While it isn’t entirely curable, it can be controlled through not taking copious amounts of meth while sucking on a bottle of vodka.

Being a fuckwit can be hard, especially for a fuckwit of Matt Newton’s proportions. As mum Patti offered to the cameras earlier this week, “Matt has never been one to take anti-depressants or behaviour-modifying drugs. He is too creative to allow his mind to be dulled.” Well, we wouldn’t want to put a curb on Matt’s creativity as he expresses himself by reciting lines that someone else has written while someone else tells him how to say them. Least of all should we worry about the career of Matt’s now ex-girlfriend and unwilling sparring partner, Rachael Taylor, whose job consists of looking pretty. Looking pretty isn’t the most challenging of all jobs, but is made slightly harder after you’ve been punched in the face and had your head smashed against a marble floor.

Being a fuckwit can be hard

Matty’s career has gone from strength to strength since appearing as “Fuckwit Kid” in the Aussie movie Looking for Alibrandi and a string of roles in failed TV shows such as ‘Fuckwit Surgeon’ on The Surgeon and ‘Fuckwit Guy’ on Right Here, Right Now followed, before playing himself (‘Fuckwit’) on Stupid, Stupid Man. His latest role was in the “stirring” Channel 9 blockbuster series Underbelly where he played a naked buttock who liked to paint. For his performance as New Zealand drug lord Terry Clarke’s arse, Matt Newton received Logie awards for “Most Incorrect Accents Used For One Character” and “Actor Most Overshadowed by Sally from Home and Away.”

Incidentally, I have nominated Bert and Patti for next year’s Logies in the ‘Best Dramatic Role’ category after performing quite well as ‘Concerned Parents’ in their ACA interview.

Bert and Patti Newton prepared for their role by meeting real-life Concerned Parents

“Matt has always had a violent temper, even as a young kid,” said Bert and Patti as they wandered down memory lane in an effort to work out the exact moment that Matt graduated from being a dickhead to being a fuckwit. Strangely, Matt’s violent temper has never shown itself to giant Maori bouncers at Sydney nightclubs, football players, or for that matter, anyone with a set of testicles and traces of testosterone flowing through their body.

Currently, Matt is sitting somewhere nice and warm in a drug and alcohol rehabilitation centre, waiting for the media storm to die down and the out-of-court settlement cheque to Rachael Taylor to clear before he graces our television screens once more and somehow gets away with beating the shit out of a woman.

Get well soon, fuckwit.

MEBCAM presents: Canberra's hidden struggle

In a recent survey that I just made up, asked no one about and invented the results for, twenty-million Australians were asked the question What are your first thoughts when you hear the word ‘Canberra’? and a whopping 78%... no, let’s make it 87% of them responded with:

* Fireworks
* Porn
* Pot

Back in the good old days, Canberra was the NeverNever Land of Australia – your wildest dreams could come true, as long as they involved small tubes filled with gunpowder, hardcore pornographic films, and smoking marijuana.

Unfortunately, these three items were deemed to be attracting the wrong sorts of people to the nation’s capital, and Canberra became inundated with what the locals called ‘fuckwits’ who abused the rules and started getting too stoned and blowing off their boners with penny bungers. A campaign to “Save the Fuckwits” was born and laws were passed so that you had to have a license to buy fireworks, the porn you could buy was the same that you could get for free on the internet or buy in any other city in the world, and you couldn’t grow as much weed as you wanted to.

This has left Canberra a shadow of its former self, which wasn’t even much of a shadow to start with, to be perfectly honest, and especially not in winter, which is really when you need your porn, pot and crackers, and is also the season that takes up around 90% of the Canberra year.


The fuckwits kept on coming in plague proportions though, and settled in the extreme southern and northern suburbs of Canberra. Many stores in Charnwood reported entire orders of flannelet shirts and black jeans being purchased or stolen within minutes of delivery. With bottles of Jack and old AC/DC tapes fuelling their new-found freedom, the fuckwits continued to buy their porn, pot and fireworks in bulk, and as new generations of fuckwit began turning up to wag school and join Centrelink queues with missing fingers, a bong in their back pocket and a raging hard-on, new, harsh laws were announced.


Canberrans are now left to wander the streets in a semi-sober state, our “Firecracker Night” is possibly the only one in the world where firecrackers are actually outlawed, and our porn stores now double as cafes and legitimate massage parlours. If you are visiting Canberra in the near future, please bring an ounce, a couple of Roman Candles and a giant dildo, and donate them to a Canberra family in need. This kind of suffering just shouldn’t happen in this day and age.

NRL Round 25: Talking Nonsense

No one knows how this game of "stop copying me!" started, or when it will end.

My tips took an absolute fucking hammering last week. Just a few weeks ago, I was sitting pretty at the top of the ladder like a pretty man on top of a ladder, and now look at me; sitting in the middle like Malcolm from Malcolm in the Middle.

Still, can’t dwell on the past – it does little to provide shelter and warmth, and it is nowhere near public transport and local shops.

Warriors vs Broncos
Well well well. Haven’t those Brissy boys proved themselves to be a one-man team? With Captain Lockyer nursing a cuticle on the sideline, the Broncs have impressed me about as much as a pizza with anchovies when I specifically asked for no anchovies. The Warriors lost last week, but fuck it, with Lockyer out of action, they shouldn’t have too much to worry about from the Brissy lads.

Rabbitohs vs Eels
Fuck you to the Bunnies who sucked harder than my brand new vacuum cleaner (well, before it broke anyway) last weekend. The Eels are still sore after their heartbreaking loss last week – apparently they were going to marry the finals series (or at least have a commitment ceremony) that has ended their season. Still, if they were better players, they would already have secured their spot in the top eight. Useless fucking Parra. Um. Souths to win, I guess. Only because they still have some kind of motivation. Parra are already balls deep in hookers in Bali, I reckon.

Sharks vs Titans
It’s the CLASH OF THE TITANS… and the Sharks. I just did some homework (something about Pythagoras’ theorem) and then read something about the Titans resting their entire side (two players) for this game. With second place wrapped up like an incredibly square and therefore easy to wrap-up Christmas present, they can afford to be fucksticks about the next few weeks. Which is handy, because the Titans really are fucksticks.

Knights vs Dragons
These traditional medieval rivals make my heart soar. The only thing that I like more than medieval shit is pretty much everything else in the world. The Knights are playing decent footy at the moment (apparently; I’m not watching them because I don’t like watching things that suck), and St George have got a case of the Chokes a bit early this year. At least last season they waited until the finals before they decided to let down their supporters. I think they will splutter through this game though and really “stick it up” those people who say they are “shit” by beating the team coming eleventh.

Raiders vs Cowboys
Six wins from the last seven weeks, which could otherwise be called “eleven wins from twenty-four weeks”, puts Canberra as the form team in the comp. Looking to either be “Parra from last year” or “themselves from 1989,” I’m saying that they’ll go all the way to the Grand Final from here. I can’t even begin to imagine how drunk I’m going to be that day.
PS. Canberra to win this game as well.

Tigers vs Storm
This game will be decided by the crowd, I reckon. And by that, I mean that neither team should turn up and they should just let the rabble on the hill debate the topic, "Who deserves to win?" Due to this match being a Tiggers home game, they’ll probably have the numbers on their side. As a side note, if it was a competition to see whose supporters had the most teeth, Melbourne would win hands down, even if the only Storm fan who turned up was “Gummy” George from St Kilda.

Roosters vs Sea Eagles
There’s always one pube in the soup, isn’t there? And this week, it’s this fucking game. The Roosters are playing absolute fucking shite right now (sorry, I’ve just gone all Scottish on myself, so I'll finish this tip in Trainspotting style) and mah big fa’ finger es pointin’ streight a’ Mister Fancy Pants Todd fookin Carney (actually, it’s giving me a headache). Toddy has been shithouse lately, but with the Ben Cousins documentary airing on telly this week, no doubt he will find a couple of pointers on how to perform properly while being a fucking dickhead on drugs. Easts by a couple.

Bulldogs vs Panthers
The Doggies will want to send off Brett Kimmorley with a win this weekend. I’d like to be able to fly-kick a dinosaur. I think my wish is somewhat more achievable. Poor Noddy. Poor dinosaur; I’m going straight for the throat, and that always hurts.


Tip like an Egyptian…

MEBCAM presents: Know your Canberra - MANUKA

Manuka is an ancient Canberran word meaning “disputed pronunciation” as no one really knows how to say it correctly, but it is most well-known by its traditional bogan name ‘Maaarnikar,’ and should be spoken through the back of one's nose.

The Manuka region is home to several varieties of people – from the metrosexual type men who sit around in polo shirts and sip on lattes while preening their trendy faux mullets and contemplate growing ironic moustaches while also contemplating the meaning of the word ‘ironic,’ to the platinum-dyed blonde princess who reapplies her lip gloss between dainty nibbles of an organic grain-fed goat-cheese sourdough foccacia with a side order of organic grain-fed baby octopus as she sucks down Vogue cigarettes, Manuka really does attract all kinds of people, from wankers to tools and dickheads.

Other Manuka-sexuals to keep your eyes peeled for are the Canberran reality TV stars who are just one reality TV show away from being actual reality TV stars. These party-goers are easily spotted as they wander across from the nearby bars and clubs of Kingston such as B-Bar, Lot 33 and the Kennedy Room. With a mix of shitty electronic music spun by the best DJ that one kid and a computer can provide, drinks that the Kardashian Hiltons order and drugs that remind them just how awesome they really are still pumping through their veins, these young up-and-comers of the future look, feel and have been snorting lines of cocaine from a toilet cistern while vomiting their nineteenth Sex on a Cosmopolitan Beach cocktail all night long. The urban Canberra scene is dominated by witty banter from these future inheritors of their parents' money, and visitors to the Manuka region are treated to regular four-hour long philosophical debates regarding which R'n'B guy would be the best root, which of their friends' partners they have already rooted, and how pretty each of them are after being on a diet of cheap drugs, Chupa-Chups and rooting for three days straight.

Before you head off to Manuka, you should be aware that the businesses in Manuka have their own customs, cultures and language.

For example, upon ordering a drink or a meal at one of Manuka's thousands of identical cafes, your order will be acknowledged by the waiter rolling his or her eyes at you. Luckier still if you receive a clicking of the tongue as they avoid eye contact and speak in monosyllabic responses.

Coffee orders must be specific - if you would like a flat white or a cappuccino, please be precise about when you would like it. "One flat white please. Today, if you're not too busy, otherwise I can come in next Wednesday and grab it?"

Many Manuka restaurants will also employ someone to stand at the door to tell you that the restaurant is, in fact, closed at 1pm on a Saturday. In Manuka, they decide when you're hungry and when you should eat.

If your favourite Manuka eatery gets boarded up, don't panic. This happens at least four times a week in Manuka. While it will take a while to get used to the name change, you can rest assured that the food and service will all be of the same standard that you enjoyed about the last place.

Stores in Manuka are second-to-none when it comes to quality, as long as you're looking for a vase or a fruit bowl and don't care about money or style. Many shops do have a dress code, so please tie a cardigan around your shoulders if you do plan on browsing. A goatee is also an acceptable Manuka trend.

Location-wise, Manuka cannot be faulted; it pretty much sits at the bottom of my street, so whenever I feel like I want to be ignored by carefully groomed, hungover waiters or surrounded by screaming, peroxide-enhanced slappers, it’s a short wander down to the overpriced cafes and dirty dishwater caffeinated beverages. And the last time I did that, I moved tables three times and annoyed everyone.

My hash browns are just so post-modern that it hurts.

Canberra's Favourite Pastime

Canberra is well known for its sporting prowess, with teams like the Comets (cricket), the Cosmos (soccer), Bushrangers (baseball) and Cannons (basketball) reaching the highest echelons available to all professionally amateur sportspeople. And as the old Canberran saying goes, “where there’s sport, there are bets. And where there are bets, there is me, because I am Canberran and this is what we do; it’s a wonderful pastime that we all enjoy and the popularity of taking bets wasn’t just made up by a blog writer.” Trust me, it’s an ancient, traditional saying. Seriously.

The most popular of all the betting games for capital dwellers is taking a punt on the weather. During the weather updates on TV news segments, quickly take a stab at whether Canberra will beat any other state in terms of temperature. Traditionally during winter, Canberra rates quite low in the sunshine stakes, but usually takes bragging rights over our genetically-challenged brothers in Tasmania. 2010 has thrown the capital’s betting into disarray as day after day we saw the Apple Isle’s temperature soar, often reaching double figures without even getting below zero at any stage of proceedings. For once, Canberra felt like the red-headed stepchild of the greatest nation in the world. Millions of Berrans have billions of fingers crossed that during the summer months, Canberra takes its revenge on Tassie and the mercury starts to boil in thermometers from Banks to Gungahlin. It’s a little known fact that Canberra competes with well-known hot spots Queensland, Northern Territory and Western Australia for the title of “fucken hottest place on earth, mate.” For the sneaky punter, don’t be afraid to throw a few bucks down on the ACT for at least a podium finish. Just don’t expect it to last, and time your bets properly.

Go fuck yourself, Tassie

NRL Round 24: Whoooooooo are you? Who who? Who who?

The Roosters were happy to sign up the Simon Says champion for a three-year deal

This single sentence is the entire introduction to this week’s tips; I hope you enjoy it.

Knights vs Broncos

Normally the Broncs are like your mate who is always up for a beer when you give him a bell. Reliable and fun, but just enough of a knob to make you realise why you don’t hang out with him more often. The Broncos are without Darren Lockyer, which is like your mate drinking too much and taking his pants off in the bar. Still, it’s better to be out with that guy than the Newcastle equivalent, who is buying drinks for the hot blonde in the hope that she’ll drunkenly make out with him. She won’t.

Panthers vs Rabbitohs

Wow, the Panthers really suck right now. Like, a lot. So much so that they don’t deserve to be in fourth place anymore, which is handy, because the Bunnies are going to knock them off that rung this weekend.

Sea Eagles vs Warriors

Imagine if Manly and the Warriors were two guys who had applied for the same job and were being interviewed. The interviewer asks, “So tell me what happened in your last game?” The Warriors bloke says, “Weel bro, we won aginst the Knights, hey, end even though they aren’t heving the most siccissfil seasin, it wis still good to play will end come up wuth the points, hey?” Meanwhile the Manly bloke says, “Well we got fucked over by the ref. I mean, fucking hell, how Gasnier got that fucking try is a fucking joke. Turned the whole fucking game on its fucking head. Seriously, it was fucked. We always get fucked over by the refs.” I reckon I know who’s getting that job and who’s going to go back home and tell people that they got fucked over by the whole fucking interview process.

Cowboys vs Bulldogs

Everyone loves a bit of comic relief to lighten up a tense situation, but this game is shaping up to be a shambolic showdown of slapstick shenanigans. While it will be entertaining to watch for a few minutes, it probably won’t hold too many people’s attention for a long time. This could be a good game to take the kids to see and show them why you should stay in school. For what it’s worth, I reckon the Cowboys might even be able to rustle up a rare win… and by rare, I mean it will be a long way from “well done.”

Storm vs Sharks

It’s almost impossible to pick how the Storm are going to play anymore. But it’s also impossible to pick the Sharks. Last week they somehow got away with a win against the more-fancied Roosters, but I’ve got a funny feeling that they’ll be finding it hard to sit down after the arse-kicking they’ll receive this week.

Raiders vs Dragons

The Raiders are “that guy” who will talk to anyone that will listen about “the time he beat St George.” What he doesn’t tell you is that when he beat St George, they were missing nine of their regular team. With a bit of work, he could probably step up against the Dragons, and with a bit of luck, might just even win. But no one wants to tell him that he’s a dickhead, because he’ll spend the rest of the night telling you 1,000 reasons why he’s not a dickhead, and most of them will be about the time he beat St George.

Eels vs Tigers

In every high-school movie, there’s the hot jock guy who’s a complete dickwad and he always gets his comeuppance at the end; usually his girlfriend finds out he’s a knob or he gets a bucket of goat poo thrown on him. Both of these teams are those guys and so this will turn out to be a bit of a shit fight. I don’t care who wins, to be honest… but it will probably be the Tigers.

Roosters vs Titans

It’s the CLASH OF THE TITANS… and the Roosters. You know those guys who don’t study for exams but piss it in, don’t work hard and get promoted, don’t exercise and land hot chicks? Those pricks who fall ass-backwards into money without trying, land the first rental place they apply for, get all the green lights when they’re running late and never have a problem when walking through the metal detectors at the airport? The guys whose speeding tickets never arrive and who get waved through the breathalyser? Both of these teams are those guys. Titans to win.

Tip tip tipping on heaven's door...

NRL Tipping - Round 23: The drinks are on me

The zombie invasion is beginning, and it's already claimed Joel Monaghan

I'm all about metaphors and similes at the moment. They are as awesome as a piece of pizza with sliced brilliance and sprinkled with radness. Drinking is also a lot of fun, so I'm combining my two great loves for this week's tips.

Broncos vs Eels
The Broncos are like a fine wine that keeps improving with age and is really only appreciated by old people with a lot of money who don’t use it to get drunk on. A tasty, tasty wine. Parramatta, on the other hand, are like a shot of Jaeger. It tastes horrible, costs a shit-tin and gets you legless fairly quickly. The Broncos will leave you with a feeling of superiority over your Jaeger-drinking Eels counterparts as they wake up with no memory of the night before, a wicked hangover and a feeling of worthlessness.

Sharks vs Roosters
For this game, I am likening the Sharkies to a bag of goon. It’s cheap and nasty, and while it will do in a pinch, you don’t want to drink it every night. The Roosters are more akin to a nice scotch – it has a touch of class about it, but secretly you just want to add a dash of Coke to it. Todd Carney’s probably good for a line or two.

Titans vs Cowboys
It’s the CLASH OF THE TITANS... and the Cowboys. Another battle of Queensland pride, so it’s a fight between Powers and XXXX. You can slug XXXX all day; it is mid-strength after all. You do need to drink about six slabs of it before you like the taste of it though. Powers – well who the fuck knows about it? I don’t think anyone’s drunk it since 1984... but I’ll have a schooie of that before I settle for a XXXX.

Bulldogs vs Raiders
The Doggies have a sense of port about them – if you feel like having one, it either means you’ve had way too much to drink already, or you’ve run out of real drinks. Canberra, meanwhile, should be donked into a brown bottle and have a green label slapped onto them. Good ol’ reliable VB. You know every pub will have it, and while it may not be fancy-shmancy, it’s reliable.

Warriors vs Knights
Our kiwi cousins have proven themselves to be like a Bacardi Breezer, while the Knights are an out-of-date light beer with rust around the lid, poured into a dusty glass and costs you $7 for some reason. While you may not admit to drinking a Breezer, you can’t deny that it’s pretty fucking tasty. Just don’t let your mates catch you buying them at the bar and you’ll be fine.

Storm vs Rabbitohs
Ah the Storm... at the moment, the Storm are like wandering into a cocktail bar, picking a sexually-themed summer drink, paying over $20 for the bartender to muddle a pear and pour some vermouth over a mandarin rind and sprinkle it with crushed ice and apple with a pinch of raspberry coulis. It all sounds fancy as fuck, but you're not sure what it’s going to taste like, whether you’re going to enjoy it, and more importantly, if it’s going to get you pissed. Souths are more like propping yourself up on a stool at the RSL and sucking on a couple of Carlton Draughts for a pleasant afternoon. I know which one I’d prefer.

Tigers vs Panthers
Right now, the Panthers are playing like my love affair with bourbon and Coke. By that, I mean that if you see me with the devil’s brew, it is “that time” and you’d better watch out, because I’m probably going to vomit, cry and fall asleep on you. But when I’m at the bar deciding what to order, a bourbon somehow sounds like a good idea – even though I know that it never really is. For this game, I’m having a glass of water with the Tigers. Yes, it’s boring, but it also means that you’re not dragging me to the taxi rank later on.

Dragons vs Sea Eagles
I have been in love with Pure Blonde beer for a while now – it tastes good, isn’t wildly expensive, gets me drunk and has 1/3 the carbs as regular beers. That pretty much sums up the 2010 St George Dragons; even though I will occasionally venture out and have another beer, Blonde knows I will always come back to it. Manly is like a Guinness – there’s only so much that the human body can cope with before it starts to eat itself from the inside. While a Guinness can be quite lovely, it should be reserved for that once-a-year occasion. This isn't it; barkeep - another Blonde, thanks.

Now I’m a bit thirsty.

It’s a long way to tip if you wanna rock and roll.