Oscar Predictions - Part 4: The Final One, Don't Worry

Following my previous post's patented rant about not enough movies being about dinosaurs and robots (I am still holding onto the idea that Transformers 3 will be saved by the introduction of the DinoBots), we come to the nitty-gritty end of the Oscars and pick the winners of the “big” awards; the ones that water-cooler conversations revolve around. Except for the water cooler conversation at my workplace, which usually goes, “Why does this water taste like urine?” while I fight the urge to tell people how I managed to pee in the water cooler without spilling any.

And the nominees for Best Director are:

Black Swan - Darren Aronofsky

The Fighter - David O. Russell

The King's Speech - Tom Hooper

The Social Network - David Fincher

True Grit - Joel Coen and Ethan Coen

I am always interested in upcoming films and who has been given the job of directing them, but I honestly don’t really know what the director actually does other than decide where to stick the camera. I’m sure if Steven Spielberg is reading this, he’ll let me know in the comments section.

Todd the Psychic Dinosaur reckons Dazza Aronofsky is going to win, but I think Todd just likes the name “Aronofsky”. I can’t blame him for that; it is pretty fucking fun. And for that reason alone, I’m agreeing with my green, plastic friend.

Best Picture movies are always sketchy. If you ask someone what their favourite movie is, they’ll give you a list of flicks they love, but won’t be able to name just one as their ultimate champion. My list includes Point Break, Scary Movie 4 and a Pilates DVD that I got for free in the mail.

This year, the contenders for Best Movie Ever are:

Black Swan

The Fighter

Inception

The Kids Are All Right

The King's Speech

127 Hours

The Social Network

Toy Story 3

True Grit

Winter's Bone

Todd is going out on a psychic limb and saying that The King’s Speech is going to take home top honours, while I’m pinning my hopes on the only movie out of that list that I’ve actually seen – Toy Story 3. If a bunch of animated action figures can make me cry, they deserve as many golden statues as they can handle. And I didn’t really cry, the cinema was full of pollen, and I was cutting onions and I had something in my eye.

I’d like to thank the Academy and my parents and God and my agent and it’s just an honour to be nominated.

Oscar Predictions Part III: Sith Menacing Jedis

Welcome to the third part in the ongoing saga that is predicting Oscar winners. The third part of a trilogy is always the worst. Or is it the best? Or somewhere in between? I can’t remember, although I think Jurassic Park 3 is better than Jurassic Park 2. I’m not sure about The Godfather 2 and 3, because I didn’t watch them (they don’t have dinosaurs or robots, so I’m not wasting my time). Robocop 2 was better than Robocop 3, but that’s not really saying much, as they both sucked. Robocop 1 is still awesome though.

I was originally going to predict a winner for each category, but no one cares about who wins for Art Direction and Cinematography, which only exist so “epic” films can get a guernsey, even if they’re shit like Pearl Harbour. It’s basically a pissing contest to see who has a better camera or who can afford to go and film a nice landscape shot in an untouched part of the world.

I’m also skipping Costume Design, a category that caters for period pieces and Shakespeare re-enactments (I see True Grit is nominated, which probably rules out the idea that it’s the sequel to True Lies, but still doesn’t discount the thought that it’s a prequel) and isn’t very interesting unless you’re into clothes that aren’t t-shirts, so I won’t waste time (or a paragraph) talking about it.

I’ll also gloss over the Editing prize, because in my mind it’s all about gluing reels of film together, which shouldn’t be that hard. Todd the Dinosaur thinks it would be hard, but he doesn’t have opposable thumbs and is an inanimate inflatable t-rex anyway, so most things are hard for him (except predicting the future).

I won’t predict who'll win for Make-Up either, because it’s really not that important unless you’re playing Freddy Krueger, and if a movie relies on make-up to gain interest, then I’m going out on a limb and saying that it’s a generally shit film that probably involves an old woman retelling her life story to some fucking kid. I won’t touch the Music categories either, because every movie should just play the theme to Indiana Jones whenever the need for music comes up.

Sound Editing? Nope.
Sound Mixing? Go fuck yourself in the ear.
Visual Effects? Normally this catgoery gets me moist in the nether regions (Todd as well), but lately I’ve been put off with movies being predominantly Visual Effectry to the point where you just sit around waiting for something real to arrive on screen. After sitting through the bullshit that was Alice in Wonderland, I wondered what the point of creating a computer-generated costume - in this case a chain-mail suit of armour - was all about when it didn’t do anything that real chain-mail armour wouldn’t have done. Waste of time and money and green screens, honestly. There’s people in Third World countries that don’t have green screens, and Hollywood wastes them on shit like Alice in Fucking Wonderland.

Tomorrow I'll wrap up the Oscar shit with all the big awards. Well, some of them.

PS. I did not like Alice in Wonderland.

Oscar predictions Part 2: Oscar's Revenge

Welcome to Part 2 of Mister Evil Breakfast and Todd the Psychic Dinosaur’s Oscar Predictions (MEBATTPDOP).

Today we delve into the world of Supporting Actors. The problem with giving awards to Supporting Actors is that you don’t know whether they deserve credit for being really good in a shit role, or if they should be recognised for making up for the lack of acting ability of the lead actor. There’s probably more to it than that, but in my world, all movies have three people – the lead, the support and an extra who changes hats to appear in all other scenes.

Actor in a Supporting Role
Christian Bale in The Fighter - John Hawkes in Winter's Bone - Jeremy Renner in The Town - Mark Ruffalo in The Kids Are All Right - Geoffrey Rush in The King's Speech

This is going to be a hotly contested contest, honestly, considering that WHO THE FUCK ARE JEREMY RENNER AND JOHN HAWKES? I’ve heard of the other blokes, although the name Mark Ruffalo makes me think of a young Mark Wahlberg, which I’m sure isn’t right (or healthy).

Fuck it, I’m backing Batman for this one.

Todd the Psychic Dinosaur reckons Aussie Geoff Rush was robbed for his performance in Mystery Men, so he’s giving him the nod.

Actress in a Supporting Role
Amy Adams in The Fighter - Helena Bonham Carter in The King's Speech - Melissa Leo in The Fighter - Hailee Steinfeld in True Grit - Jacki Weaver in Animal Kingdom

I went to a wedding last year and a girl at my table changed my seat so she could sit with her friend. She reminded me of Amy Adams, even though I’m not entirely sure I know which one Amy Adams is. I imagine her to be a bit like Reese Witherspoon, but a bit taller.

Anyway, Amy Adams won’t win. Helena Bonham Carter is in with a chance, as she’s playing a role unlike anything in her career – a movie without Tim Burton or Johnny Depp. Melissa Leo won’t win because I don’t know her (as an aside, is anyone involved with The King's Speech and The Fighter not nominated for something?), same with Hailee Steinfeld, which isn’t even a name. Which basically brings us to Aussie Jacki Weaver, who was pretty damn good in Animal Kingdom (one of the three movies I have seen), but she won’t win either. I guess this means that HBC is the front-runner, simply because I know her, she isn’t a tall version of Reese Witherspoon and isn’t foreign to American audiences.

Todd the Psychic Dinosaur thinks Hailee is in with a good chance, despite neither of us knowing her or the film she’s nominated for. True Grit? Sounds like the sequel (or prequel) to True Lies, which, despite being mildly entertaining, probably doesn’t deserve an Oscar.

Stay tuned for tomorrow’s instalment of Oscar shenanigans, where we skip pretty much all the shit categories and even some of the good ones.

You know that feeling where you need to pee, so you walk into the toilet and that need gets a hundredfold worse and then your zip gets stuck, and you have to start dancing and bending awkwardly so you don’t wet yourself while you wrestle with your fly and the pee feeling just keeps getting stronger?

Yeah, I just had that experience.

Oscar predictions Pt.1: Leaders

Sorry it has been so long since my last blog. I was starting a rock band and it took me way longer than I thought it would.

With the Academy Awards on at some stage this week (possibly, don’t ask me exactly when they’re on; it’s not like I’m being paid for researching shit), I thought I’d consult Todd the Psychic Dinosaur for his thoughts on who will walk away with an Oscar.

Sees all and knows all

Seeing as I have only seen three of the movies up for gongs this year (two of them on DVD), I figured an inflatable tyrannosaur would have about as much chance as I would of picking winners.

Actor in a Leading Role
Your nominees are:

Javier Bardem in Biutiful - Jeff Bridges in True Grit - Jesse Eisenberg in The Social Network - Colin Firth in The King's Speech - James Franco in 127 Hours

What we need to look at here is the fact that none of these actors really had to stretch too far to play their nominated characters; Bardem (presumably) played a Mexican, Jeff Bridges played a character not entirely dissimilar to the characters normally played by Jeff Bridges, Jesse Eisenberg played a real person who is socially inept, Colin Firth played an Englishman with a stutter (not to be confused with Hugh Grant) and Jimmy Franco was a bloke with his arm stuck under a rock. I believe Franco prepared for the role by trying to nick a packet of Twisties from a vending machine.

Todd the Psychic Dinosaur reckons Bardem is in with a chance, but only because nominating a foreign film seems like a fairly artsy-fartsy move to make, and so is putting $10 on James Franco.

My money is on Eisenberg, but only because I liked his work in Zombieland and felt sorry for him because he had to make out with Kristen Stewart in Adventureland.


Actress in a Leading Role
Up for the award:
Annette Bening in The Kids Are All Right - Nicole Kidman in Rabbit Hole - Jennifer Lawrence in Winter's Bone - Natalie Portman in Black Swan - Michelle Williams in Blue Valentine

Not only have I not seen any of these movies, I have actually only heard of one of them -Black Swan - so Natalie Portman gets my vote (she would have got it even if she wasn’t nominated).

Todd the Psychic Dinosaur just looked up The Kids Are All Right and thinks that Bening could be in with a chance for top honours because she plays a lesbian, which automatically gives her a massive Academy vote. I pointed out to him that Portman snogs Mila Kunis in Black Swan, which is way hotter than anything lesbian that Bening could do. This has changed Todd the Psychic Dinosaur's mind and now he's voting with me. You can never vote against hot lesbians.

So that makes two thumbs up for Portman, which is as high a score as you can get in this two-judge system, unless I grow a third hand… and if I do, I’d like it to be right on top of my head so I can scratch my face while I’m driving. And when I’m angry or scared, it can stand up like a crest and scare off predators. It can also hold my sunglasses in place when I bend over.

Tomorrow’s post will look at Supporting Actors, which will be about as exciting as a battle for second placed loser could possibly be.

It's the start of the year as we know it

Happy New Year everyone! *streamers and sparklers and champagne corks*

Now that the dust has settled on the awesomeness that was 2010 (I honestly can’t remember a lot of it, but I have been assured that it was “an alright year”), we can look forward to having another “alright” year in 2011. Are we saying two-thousand-and-eleven yet, or are we still twenty-eleven-ing things up? Vote now.

Here’s what happened in 2010 : some guy made a website that spilled the beans on Bigfoot or something, some chick didn’t quite sail around the world but we all pretended that she did, they changed the actor who plays Declan on Neighbours, no one made jetpacks and someone tried to make me cry by saying that the Tyrannosaurus Rex had feathers and looked like a massive drag queen.

So what's in store for 2011? I have consulted Todd the Psychic Dinosaur and he reckons it's going to be a doozy.

Sees all and knows all

Here’s what we should look out for this year:

Music:
* Altiyan Childs will not earn enough money to buy himself a real name.
* Everyone will tell Coldplay to “cheer the fuck up.”
* Lady Gaga will admit that she doesn’t really know what she’s doing either.
* Aussie hip-hop stoner metal bands will flood the market.
* John Farnham will perform his farewell tour “Dumptruck of Money” to critical and financial acclaim.
* The number of bands who have cleverly taken their name from food wrappers, road signs and instruction manuals will rise.
* Barbershop Quartets will place highly on charts all over the world.
* Prince will remain silent, thus ensuring he is a “superstar” forever.

Lifestyle:
* One word: Robots
* The iPad 2 will be released and people will still be unsure as to what it does, but will definitely need to buy one.
* The word “douchenozzle” is going to be huge.
* Grandfather clocks will make a brief, but massive, comeback.
* People who bought a 3D television will be openly mocked and they’ll realise that spending $4,000 on a new telly just so they could watch Avatar was actually a bit stupid.
* The letter Q will begin appearing in bogan names, and add a nice aesthetic to the superfluous Y. For example, the name “Kate” will be spelt “Qayte.”.
* Viking helmets and beanies with flaps will be popular in winter.
* I will once again try to wear a scarf and not look really awkward.

Movies:
* I’ll pay another $18 to see a new Transformers movie, even thought I know it will be really, really shit. Even Shia LeBouef didn’t like the last one.
* Due to the success of The Social Network movie, films about MySpace, youTube, ticketek.com.au and mylifeistwilight.com will take over the cinema.
* The Hoyts cinema in Woden will be studied by palaeontologists as a ‘window into 1998.’
* Hollywood will flex its creative muscle and start producing more movies containing: superheroes, 80s tv shows, cartoon franchises, bestselling novels, vampires, wizards, talking animals, sequels, prequels, sidequels, remakes, relaunches, and reboots after people complain about all the original ideas polluting the theatres.

Celebrity:
* Justin Bieber will discover cocaine, and the world will rejoice as he chews his own face off on live television.
* The term ‘celebrity chef’ will be downgraded back to ‘chef’ after people realise that watching a dickhead prance around a kitchen yelling at a wok is actually a bit shit.
* Warney will deny rumours that he has a ‘sex addiction’ because it’s a made-up term. He just likes rooting.
* Oprah Winfrey will die of natural causes after a crowbar is found wedged into her head.
* Kim Kardashian will do… something.

Dinosaurs:
* Still extinct.

Happy New Year, douchenozzles!

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.

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.