Australians get pissed and thrown out of a club in London

Three Australian got pissed on Saturday night. They went to a series of fancy London nightclubs the likes of me would never see in a jillion years.

Brett Lee, Mitchell Johnson and that Callum Ferguson were on the razz to celebrate their pounding of the Englanders. Whilst painting the town canary orange in Mo*vida, they attracted the attention of a crowd of City Boys.

Champaigne cocktails flowed as liberally as office instant coffee. So much so, that the Ozzlers switched to "drunk, arsey types" and began to prattle on about their triumph over England.

Endlessly.

So irritating was their company that the finance workers eventually expunged their company. Skuffles followed. As did the intervention of the bouncers, whereupon the Australian role-models to millions were ejected into the cold, dark London night.

The source for this is a highly reputable organ that is not on its last knackers before bankruptcy proceedings kick in on Friday.


Being caste out by City bankers because you’re being too much of a bragging tit is, I wager, an achievement of unparalleled prattishnes. Again, Australians lead where only friendless pissheads dare.

What’s Australian for “rubbish”?

Australians, being a crude bunch, offer the English speaker a variety of terms to express disapproval.

Now, with the recent invasion of Ozzy finest into England, the Antipodean idiom is introducing these phrases to the British.

Let us look at some of these new words:

Nathan Hauritz (verb): to spin uselessly in a confused dither.

Michael Hussey (noun): a tired, redundant knacker whose productive life has passed.

Brad Haddin (verb): to drop.

Brett Lee (noun): Michael Hussey.

Ricky Ponting (noun): a sort of nasty dog-thing native to Australia, that looks ugly, smells worse and finds itself misdirecting other dogs.

Stuart Clark (noun): Brett Lee.

Giles Ashley (adverb): performing better than the entire Australian nation at spinning.

Dr No beats up that nasty witch from Sleeping Beauty

India are doing quite well against Australia. Theoretically, this shouldn´t be surprising. Australia are pretty useless at the moment. But, as we all know, that fact rarely results in their losing.

Nevertheless, the two evil sides of world cricket are slugging it out. The Ozzlers are evil because they just are. And India are evil because they are trying to take over the world. At least all the Aussies wanted to do was piss all over it.

That, I could take.

The fact that in every “Irish” bar in Europe, there are at least three Australian males complaining about people “back home” is as bad as the Ozzy Offensive got. But, if the Indians get their way, every visit to a bar will result in serious food poisoning.

Seeing as cricket is “scripted” now, we can assume that the baddies are battling it out for a final, epic face-off against the goodies. In this case, this is England.

It´s irrevelant that the goodies are a useless sack of disabled potatoes right now. Just look at Rocky. My Aunty Derrida´s cat boxes better than Rocky, and she´s been dead for twelve (both my relative and her cat – it was a tragic, if surreal accident).

The point being, rubbishness does not prevent glory. So, if the Hollywood rules of drama apply, we can expect England to eventually overcome the victors in this show-down, through a tense, if unlikely series of events.

Then England will get to Rodger the girl. Who, in this case, will be Keira Knightley.

(You may be interested to hear that I went to school with above film bint. Apparently, she had a thing for me. But I had to say no. We simply don´t share the same tastes in skirts.)

Laugh at the Australians and their hopeless spinners

AH AHAHAHA

This rotational Antipodean incompetence brings back warm jolly memories.

Australians are absolutely, totally, comprehensively, hilariously useless at spinning. That their best spinners are part timers - one a Somerset lad, another a bloke more interested in fishing than cricket - only adds to international mirth.

Of course there’s a lot of joyous Schadenfreude to be had in their Sheisse bowlers. Naturally, it doesn’t matter how terrible their players are, the Australians will always win anyway.

Right. Let’s rate the Ozzies’ finest:

Bryce McGain – the sum total age of his body parts is equal to that of the Black Forest. He’s injured at the moment. I haven’t confirmed that this is his current status, but his permanent condition is of some degree of invalidity.

Jason Krejza – Not only does this bloke have a rock ‘n roll name, but viewing his stats is like ascending a stairway to heaven. That is, if heaven is full of massive spinner-bludgeoning titans. In a word: HA! In more: AAAAHAHAHAHAAH!

Now we come to the real snorters:

Cameron Biscuit - Originally from the Clark’s Village in Street, this Somerset lad turned evil, and joined the dark side. And then, after leaving Gloucestershire, he hooked up with the Ozzies. Whilst he played in the English county leagues, he topped the averages of spinners that weren’t Mushtaq Ahmed.

Andrew Brummie - Another Turn-Coat, this man has, for some reason, put countless world attacks to the sword. How this is, I’m not sure. Worse still, he’s a spinner that sometimes bowls medium pace. What sort of monster this thing is, I’m not sure. But, I suppose this strange ogre is from Birmingham. So, I suppose it sort of makes sense. Ewwwww.

Anyway, the point is this:

Laugh and jeer at the Australians. Do it now. Do it before they grind your side into the dust with their feckless bowlers.

The curse of our times

The only problem of having an insane amount of work to do, to the point when you are still at your desk until late on Friday night and looking forward to another weekend in the office, is that other distractions lurk.

Take, for instance, facebook. As a snooty and generally disagreeable kinda guy, I looked down on facebook, neglecting it for years. “Rubbish” I thought.

Now, when you’re working, it is difficult to get diverted by blogging; declaring that “I am going to write a post” requires intention and commitment. I need to deliberately take time off work to compose a blog.

Facebook, on the other hand, is the silent killer of distractions. Its subtle demands orbit discretely on your peripheral awareness.

And this is bastard of a website, is slowly pulling me from my work – extending the amount of time I spend at my desk. I’m searching for people I shared maths lessons with, frantically trying to correct the inadequacy of my “friends” total.

There is some cricket activity going on there. Kinggers and Ballsers both have a following. But that’s not the point, really, is it? Its purpose is to keep you from work; to detain you indoors and away from real, actual people.

In other news, some Australians became intimately close with some other Australians.

Australians moving to England

The tour details of Australia’s tour to England in 2009 have been announced. They arrive in May and depart in late September.

That’s four months. They’re probably going to claim squatters’ rights. Well, I suppose that’s only fair, seeing as that’s how we claimed Australia in the first place.

The administrators, displaying how hip and “wiv it” they are, decided to pack the tour with seven one day internationals. Yes, remember those? Fifty over cricket was what our granddads used to play, before Bollywood took over the sport.

I used to think that five-match ODI series were too long. Then seven became the norm. Then everyone decided to hate fifty-over cricket.

All except for bureaucrats in Australia and England. They think everyone else are bastards, and are going to stick it to ‘em with as many tediously drawn out out-moded competitions as possible.

In fairness, ruling out tyrannical self-indulgence, if I ran these sorts of things I would do it in the same way: aim to piss everyone else just so I can bellow with malevolent amusement.

They’ve also decided to give the Welshies a test match. Also, Hampshirians, a county so non-descript that its residents have no name (except for Southampton folk, who are affectionately known as “scummers” bless ‘em) have been awarded a test match as well.

It’s sad that Trent Bridge doesn’t have a test. I can only assume that this is because their ground is “too good” and not at all in Cardiff.

The tourists play only one four-day match against a county side. Rain will probably reduce this to a two day match. Meaning that Australia’s preparation is pathetically short.

Having said that, the Aussies won’t need much practice before playing against the pathetically short Englanders. But, it’s the thought that counts; at least pretend you take the opposition seriously.

That’s all we ask.

We can take repeated humiliations and spineless slumps. We’re used to it. Just say that you think we’re "not to be underestimated” or something and the English nation will be happy enough.

You can take our dignity. But please don’t take our pride.

Or is it the other way around?

Australians: Are they all bastards?

A difficult question. Especially when we consider the affliction that is Germaine Greer. What twisted people would willingly exact that thing upon the world? This issue has reached new levels of importance with Sri Lanka’s up-and-coming tour of Oz.

Arjuna Ranatunga, former Lankan captain and heaviest man at the Chorlton-on-Beans May Day Fayre 1998-9, warned Muttiah Muralitharan to stay away from the tour, for fear of the abuse the spinner is likely to receive. Jason Gillespie expects loads of it.

For some reason Australians hate Murali. To me, this is unfathomable prejudice: Murali is great. He also has a medical condition which means he cannot straighten his arm. He cannot help bowling without a bent arm.

Should we ban Shane Watson from international cricket for having pathologically crap hair? No, he can’t help being a twat – he was born that way.

The arm business is only half it. The remaining abuse is likely to come from the fact that he is not Australian. An unthinkable crime, I know. But Sajid Mahmood and Monty Panesar suffered from these malicious attentions during the last Ashes series.

We can only surmise that Australia is a bastardly place full of, in the main, bastards. That may be unfair. Not everyone that lives there is nasty. There’s some British ex-pats, for one.

But if this frequent racial abuse is to continue, we may have to consider the possibility of Australia forfeiting the right to host international matches although. This may give the rest of us a chance. But, you know, something has to be done. I don’t know what…or how. All I know is that I don’t want to pay for it. Or anything else.

Frolicking Australians

During this World Cup, there has been a steady photographic stream of cricketers on the beach looking smug.

“Yes, I play a game for a living, and, if that isn’t bad enough, I think I fancy a frolic by the sea. Oh? Another cocktail? If you must.”

The worst pictures have come from the Australians.

The Australians are the best at everything. Even enjoying themselves.

Whether it's a team romp in the sand…

…feeling a long rod between their thighs….

…or showing off their man-boobs, the Australians do it best.

Bastards.

In fact, look at Haydos face. It doesn't look like he's enjoying himself. He looks like me on holiday, and I'm bloody rubbish at having fun.

Look like me and test match cricketers have yet another thing in common.

Here. Have some unprofessional looking space. On me.



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