Books wot I have been reading

Archduke Franz-Joseph just fails to make his ground during the crucial Fourth Test in Melbourne.

Recently I’ve been reading two books that have given me tremendous satisfaction, so I thought I might share.

The Radetzky March by Austrian writer Joseph Roth is an account of the decline and decay of the Austro–Hungarian Empire as seen through the lives of the Trotta family while Out of the Running by cricket writer Gideon Haigh is an account of the decline and decay of the Australian test cricket team as seen through the life of Ricky Ponting.

Although at first blush, the two books seem widely dissimilar they have in common a number of themes.

One book is a masterly account of the slow decline of a once great power through a combination of inertia, excessive bureaucracy and greed, presided over by a paternal authority figure who is gradually losing his touch.

The other is a book about the Austro–Hungarian Empire*.

Taken together, they make an ideal gift for the loved one in your life who has an excessive interest in test cricket and Eastern Europe**.

* Boom, and dare I say, tish.

** True, this would probably rule out everybody in the English reading world apart from me and possibly Perseus, but that’s your problem.

"Oh dear, anothing sporting rant by Ramon. Maybe I'll make a cup of tea instead."

"Thirty seven million beers, thanks."

In breaking news allegations are emerging of a drinking session by key Australian players in the lead up to getting an absolute pantsing by the English a humiliating Ashes series defeat at the MCG.

The Age reports

A photo has emerged of the cricketers posing with fans at The World Restaurant and Bar in Southbank, reportedly taken just 12 hours before the Australian team took to the field on the fourth and final day of the Boxing Day Test.

The thrashing saw England retain the Ashes on Australian soil for the first time in 24 years.

It follows allegations by Melbourne-based Englishwoman Emily Goodyear in a British newspaper that the pair drank vodka with her and criticised their "boring" teammates for not going out drinking with them.

I think I speak for every Australian cricket fan when I say “well, durr”

If I was faced with the prospect of being whipped like an egg-sucking dog over five days in the face of several thousand jeering English fans and having the results broadcast around the world, then I would have been on the sauce from ten in the morning.

And I would have insisted on the drinks break being sponsored by Cooper’s Ale.

In related news The Boy has taken to cricket with an absolute mania and insists on discussing the LBW rule with me over dinner.

I’ve either created a monster or the next captain of the Australian team.

Possibly both.

January Stocktake Sale - Don't Miss Out!

Of Montreal's Kevin Barnes taking a break from gardening.

Through the power of digital technology, I am now offering my annual Best Of album via download. All you have to do is go to THIS LINK and all 26 songs in mp3 format are yours. What do you expect to pay? Not $49, not $39, not even $29. It actually costs nought dollars! That's right, if you download within 12 days this fantastic collection of music from the 80s, 90s, 00s and today (not including 80s, 90s or 00s) can be yours. You'll be the envy of all bloggers, tweeters, cyberbullies and trolls. Not to mention facebook status updaters. And it's absolutely safe! No trojans, viruses, worms, spyware or malware!

I know hard copies are better and they include artwork and a defined order but that's so last year. And it's a shitload easier for me to do it this way.

In other news, I'm giving up on cricket and focusing all my attention on stockcar racing.

Go Yellow!

Cats! And cricket! Something for everybody!!

Awwwwwwww

If at some time over the next few weeks, you find yourself making the following statement;

Of course, we should keep in mind England’s catastrophic collapse in the second innings of the Adelaide test four years ago,

and your friends nod sagely and say “yes indeed, good point”, then it’s perfectly possible you’ve been watching far too much cricket.

Or you have weird friends.

Probably both.

Weekend Retrospective

Cousin Ted Finds a Turd in the Yarra

The Election

Well, you know what? I've always hated the Liberal party, have never voted for them and would generally throw a turd into any small gathering of its supporters, but could not give even the smallest fuck that Brumby's government has gone (with all due sympathy for those who have lost their jobs).

The state coalition didn't really provide much of an alternative - it was more a case of Brumby losing it than Baillieu winning it - but Ted has always been labelled a moderate, doesn't appear to have any Kennett-like tendencies (this was the main instigator of my turd-throwing antics during the 90s) and is my second cousin once removed. I might even start calling him Cousin Ted. So, you know, whatever.


The Cricket

The first test was an odd one. Hat-tricks, double centuries, bad backs, poor catching. The Gabba wicket resembled a runway, the bowlers on both sides lacked penetration and Tony Grieg continued to make factual errors every third sentence. Adelaide offers little more to the bowlers - possible less - so perhaps we'll see 5 straight draws this summer. But for fuck's sake, drop Mitchell Johnson and Marcus North. What the fuck else do they have to do to lose their spots?


The Water

While it continues to bucket down outside, flood the Yarra and render my path to work totally inaccessible except to carp, my hot water system decided to pack it in on my 11th wedding anniversary recently. And what a pathetic race of people we've become when we are so reliant on hot water and can barely function without it. Boiling water in kettles and saucepans in order to fill the bath may seem like fun to the uninitiated but, I'm here to tell you, it ain't. Fortunately the plumber took all of 7 minutes to replace a part so small it couldn't be seen with the naked eye. He did, however, manage to charge $400 for it.


The Song

Woods is a lo-fi band from New York who, as far as I'm concerned, produced album of the year in 2009 with Songs of Shame. They followed it up with this year's At Echo Lake. This is Death Rattles:

Those Germans, eh!

"I'm wearing an octopus hat and I'm really, really pissed. Espanol! Espanol! Espanol "

The World Cup is over for another XXX years* and I’m sure most people here have forgotten most of it already.

Indeed, the only thing anybody will ultimately remember is the amazing performance of Paul, the psychic octopus.

For those who arrived late, this amazing cephalopod mollusc has correctly managed to predict the outcomes of all the games played by Germany and that Spain would win the Cup for the first time EVAH!!

In the course of his career, Paul managed to piss off a great number of people, including most of Germany when he predicted (again, correctly) that Germany would lose to Spain and be knocked out of the competition.

The ABC notes

Stung by Paul's "treachery" at picking Spain over Germany in last Wednesday's semi-final, some sections of the 350,000-strong crowd watching the game on giant screens in Berlin sang anti-octopus songs.

What. The. Fuck?

What sort of freak writes “anti-octopus songs”?

In German!

The PETA people have also tried to get into the action by putting out a media release demanding something, something but they can fuck right off.

* As you may have guessed, I’m a hit hazy about the details.

Valuable lessons life has taught me. Part one.

If you’re going to be playing a round of mini-golf later in the day with your son, don’t drink heavily beforehand because if you get a fit of the staggers and fall into the shrubbery near the 13th hole – you’ll look like a bit of a goose.

On the brighter side, it improved my golf game no end!

I even shot a hole-in-one on the last hole.

Just when you think you're free...

Kick it, kick it you goose!

For the first twenty years of my life, I was a passionate Essendon Football Club supporter.

Never missed a match if I could help it, knew the details of all the players, could sing the club song with the best of them.

Then, for some reason, I just stopped. Got sick of it and never watched a match again.

Until the day when The Boy started primary school and was presented with the question all Victorian kids must be able to answer.

“Which team do you barrack for?”

To say “I don’t barrack for any team” is not acceptable, as it will mark you out as a freak for the rest of your school days. Happily, a workmate was an Essendon member and could supply him with all the guff and thus The Boy became an Essendon man.

This is all leads up to the fact that we were matching the Essendon-Collingwood match on Anzac Day*. Much to my astonishment I found myself twitching and muttering things like “kick it, kick it you goose, down the middle, ohh not to him, down the middle, down the middle.”

Some things are buried so deep in your psyche, they never leave you.

*In which the Dons were absolutely flogged**.

** To cheer ourselves up, we sang the Essendon Club song***.

*** Though it could have been worse. He could have chosen Richmond.

What Was That Mark, You're a Dickhead?

Distracted? Bloody hell, I would be.

I hate the Grand Prix, its expense and its bombast. But that's not what this post is about. It's a tired old gripe of mine and I'm prepared to let it rest for now.

Further, I don't mind Mark Webber calling Australia a 'Nanny State'. After all, I've called it that myself occasionally. What I do object to is him lambasting the enforcement of law.

Speeding really can kill people. You shouldn't speed. It's dangerous. Also, according to the law, you're simply not allowed to exceed the speed limit. If you do, penalties apply. To suggest that penalties shouldn't apply is utterly preposterous. Why shouldn't they be? I don't think there's an adequate answer.

"But I was only doing 63 in a 60 zone!"

That's what speeding is! You know about speeding. You know there are penalties. Cop it.

"Er, I didn't know what the speed limit was."

Fuck off, twerp.

"It's just revenue raising".

No, it's not just revenue raising. Various other other penalties apply. Yes, revenue is raised, but, hey, here's an idea: don't speed and you won't contribute to revenue!

Perhaps we should call the incarceration of murderers "just prison filling".

At least he had a decent shave.

Punter was starting to think that opting to bat may not have been that great an idea.

There’s a wonderful scene in The Simpsons where Sideshow Bob*, on one of his many missions to murder Bart, steps onto a rake, gets whacked in the face, groans and moves to step onto another rake; wherein the entire pattern continues for a whole five minutes.

Whack, groan, whack groan, whack groan.

I bring this up because the expression on Ricky Ponting’s face yesterday during the – say we say – embarrassment of the first day of the Second Test does rather suggest the entire Sideshow Bob scenario.

Hughes, 0 – whack, groan,

Ponting, 0 – whack, groan,

Clarke, 3 – whack, groan,

Watson, 6 – whack, groan.

Fair shake of the sauce bottle Punter, that pitch was so green, I reckon I could have taken a couple of quick wickets**.

Of course, if we win, I’ll do what every other sports journo does and pretend I never said any of this.

* The cartoon character, not Senator Bob Brown.

** This may not be true.

Boxing: WTF?

''Everyone who doubted me, shove it up your bottoms, you don't know shit … to all the critics that bagged me, you don't know jack shit"

Hmm.

Australian Danny Green (pictured) smashed American Multi World Champion Roy Jones Jr in 90 seconds last night. Smashed him. Beat him to such an extent that the referee called it off before the end of the first round.

Good on them. I don't care if they want to fight each other, if they want to break each other's noses and damage each other's brains irreversibly in a fit of testosterone-charged violence. I actually quite like watching top level boxing and I certainly don't think it should be banned. But why the hell would you do it?

I like the theatre too. The mutual respect hidden behind the inevitable weigh-in face-off at the press conference where they shout inarticulate half-sentences at each other.

Ape-men, acting out man's most primal instincts, i.e. to fight each other. Once upon a time - in stone-age times - winning a fight was rewarded with the right to rule the clan, and the loser was shunned. Now, both participants get shitloads of money and the winner, a fuck-ugly belt.

Progress?

My God Ritchie, there's a cat on the field!

The following conversation occurred late last night at Lenin House.

Me: “By the way, who won Celebrity MasterChef?”

The Mrs: “Some cricketer. Simon Kitty or something.”

Me: “Simon Katich?”

The Mrs: “Yes, that’s him”

And talking about odd conversations; Pers old son, are you still getting pleading messages from Suicide Girl?

Sore Loser

God I hate losing to the Mother Country. If Sri Lanka, NZ or the Windies beat us, I really don't mind, and if it's India, Pakistan or South Africa beating us, I feel a little pain, but not much. But losing The Ashes? Oh, the pain, the pain... especially when that smug fucking cunt Flintoff does that arms in the air thing he does when he gets a wicket, or when that sunglass-wearing get-a-haircut noob Swann takes them.

If the Queen knights the English team again (which she did in 2005) I'll seriously have to reconsider my monarchist leanings.

I sat up late in my pyjamas with a hot milo and a purring cat by my side, hoping to watch the most incredible comeback in cricket history... what I got was the fucking ten stooges. Punter was looking great, but Hussey called him through on a risky single, and Flintoff, of all people, smashed down the stumps and Punter was out by foot. It was a rotten call from Hussey, and the commentators joked that at the lunch break, Hussey would do well to avoid Punter in the dressing room. If I was Punter I would have waited til Hussey had finished his cucumber and egg sandwich and then applied a solid mandible claw.

Once Punter was out, it was all over for another two years.

You know what we needed last night? Andrew McDonald and Andrew Symonds. Why weren't they in the team? Why? Why?

Cunts.


Smug cunt.

**

(Psycho Bitch update - the next day she told her boyfriend that my neighbour Paulie tried to have sex with her, and so the boyfriend started making death threats to poor Paulie. Paulie asked me to stick up for him, because I was a witness to the real story, but that meant approaching the psycho boyfriend, which made me nervous. Fortunately, the cops got involved, and like a good old Western, the psycho couple were told to be 'on a bus by Monday'... Small town justice. I love it here.)

Lesbian vampire cricket players ahoy!

Useless, fat idiot goes out cheaply. Again.

After much analysis and consideration, I’ve finally worked out why England is giving us such a whipping in the cricket.

They’ve employed lesbian vampire cricket players as their new coaches.

Clearly the unholy powers of the undead give the Poms an unfair advantage; such as the power to mesmerise Australian batsman and the ability to fly (see above).

I call on the International Cricket Association to take action now to stop this foul and unnatural practice.

And how exciting is this series turning out to be?

Man is born to suffering as the sparks fly upwards.

Whoops!

In one of those amusing ironies with which life is replete, I took the Boy to his first AFL match – the last quarter of the Essendon/Richmond match at the “G” – only to have the Dons play like a bunch of drunken stumble bums and go down like a sack of wet wheat.

Still, he enjoyed – in the following order;
* The train trip into the match,
* Chasing the seagulls going into the ground,
* Discovering the seats at the ground go up and down,
* The players were also on television,
* Chanting “Essendon *clap, clap, clap* Essendon, *clap, clap, clap*”,
* The actual match,
* Chasing the seagulls going out of the ground,
* The train ride home,
* Chanting “Essendon *clap, clap, clap* Essendon, *clap, clap, clap*” all the way home from the station.

I haven’t the heart to tell him Essendon actually lost.

I’m hopeful he will ultimately take away two important life lessons from this, namely;

A) Barracking for a football team and voting Labor leads to a lifetime of heartbreak and
B) Seagulls are remarkably stupid creatures and deserve to be chased.

Damn you Perseus.

2005, 2009?

"Freddy" Flintoff seems rather pleased with the outcome

Late at night at Lenin House, the phone rings.

Me: “Hello”

Ponting: “Ramon, Ricky Ponting here.”

Me: “Punter! How’s it going?”

Ponting: “Could be better. Look, comrade, we’re in a bit of a hole here and I understand you’re a dab hand at spin. Could you come over and help the boys out?”

Me: “I’ll be on the next flight Punter.”

Ponting: “Thanks Ramon, you’re a mensch.”

*click*

Me: “You useless, fat idiot.”

This is shaping up to be the best Ashes series since 2005. The Second Test was an absolute cracker; tension, drama, the prospect of an unbelievable Australian victory until Freddy Flintoff came roaring in with the seven devils of hell behind him.

I’m almost vomiting with excitement*.

Bring on Edgbaston!

*Yes, Squib, excitement.

Monday Sports Wrap

What an awesome sporting weekend!

First up, The Ashes, which came down to the last few overs but unfortunately ended in a draw. There's players we can point fingers at, such as Michael Hussey, whose sacking I was calling for pre-tour and managed only three runs. But, although he proved again that he is one of the best batsmen ever, Captain Knucklehead for some reason decided he'd put Marcus North in for a bowl when England were nine wickets down and we only had a few overs left. The English tail poked and prodded North all over the Welsh countryside and managed to see the day out. The ghost of Dylan Thomas laughed at us. Siddle was on fire, Johnson, though bowling erratically, was still capable of taking off their heads, but no, Ponting, with his inbred Tasmanian low IQ problem, put in a part-timer and we end up with a draw. Ah well, at least there was some argey bargey... I missed it but apparently Johnson and Siddle got their backs up and were hurling abuse at the pommy batsmen. Johnson went chest to chest with Pietersen and after Siddle whacked a player with a bouncer, he sledged him for getting medical attention. That's the spirit.

Tour de France was also awesome, though Cadel Evans got fucked up the arse by a group of nine breakaway riders who refused to let him ride with them. I couldn't be bothered explaining the nuances of this - tactically its complex and unless you sit and watch the race it makes no sense, but know this: Evans was fucked up the arse after attempting one of the bravest moves in recent Tour history. He probably won't win the Tour because of it, but he will take home the moral victory. One thing I do love about Cadel Evans is that like Ian Botham, when interviewed, he avoids sporting cliches and actually speaks his mind. He could have said "Oh, that's racing, I'll just have to concentrate on the next stage..." but no, he said of the incident, ""Ah ... I just get so sick of being told: 'Why don't you go in an early breakaway? Why don't you do this? Why don't you do that? You'd think anyone in the Tour de France would let me go in a breakaway, and then when they get into a break with me ... they carry on like three-year-olds with their tantrums.".

The footy was also fantastic. Though Richmond appears to be tanking and wouldn't beat the Lorne Under 12's, it's exciting to see some of the younger players show a bit of dash. Though we like our footy players with names like Barry, Ian and Kevin, the next generation of Tiger stars are called Trent, Jayden and Robin. Pooncey names, but exciting prospects. I've never actually said that of Richmond for 25 years... And Ben Cousins? Wow. Fucking starring. We at least got that one right at Tigerland. Geelong losing was also intriguing to watch. Yes, they were missing half their stars, but even so, it's Geelong. You just assume they'll win, but now they've lost two in a row. Some are calling their demise, but I'm going the opposite. Hear this: They will be unbeatable in September. Also, the Hawthorn v North match was the best one to watch because it was like the 1970's. It hailed, the players were covered in mud, it was low scoring... Awesome. Finally, Barry Hall gave up. I'll miss him. It was like having Vyvyan from The Young Ones on the Swans team - mindless violence was always an option, and that was half the fun of watching Swans games.

In other news: Mark Someone, an Australian, won some car race thingamy. I'll leave it to ShitBMX to comment rapturously on that piece of triva. And at the pub last night for Mermaid's 20th birthday, I got into a game with some locals where you had to think of film titles and change the last word to 'cunt'. So, The Bourne Identity becomes the Bourne Cunt. Dead Poet's Cunt. One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Cunt. Full Metal Cunt. For some reason, the game spread across the party and it was played for hours with much enthusiasm by all. This is the reason one should never make any life decisions when drunk.

Weekend Sports Wrap

Soccer

Australia made the World Cup finals for the second time in a row, and only the third time ever. Unlike the last two times, we were expected to make it this time 'round, now that FIFA, the world governing body of soccer correctly located us in Asia as opposed to somewhere in the South American vicinity. Our tee-totalling Dutch coach Pim Verbeek is to be now known as 'Aussie Pim'. Can't wait for the World Cup. Can't wait for the spectacle, the thrill, the sleepless nights and the inevitable depression when we're kicked out, but hopefully not by a cheatin' divin' Itie this time.

Cricket

Only three days in, we're already eliminated from the world Twenty20 championship. Brett Lee and Michael Hussey were both shithouse, and yet again on TSFKA I call for their sacking from the Ashes team. Meanwhile, Andrew Symonds didn't even play because he broke team rules by having a beer and not telling anyone he was having a beer... after-hours. He said today that he 'didn't fit in'. On the one hand, if you want to be an elite sportsman getting paid millions of dollars, maybe a reliabce on 'having a beer' every night is not such a good thing, but on the other hand, 'having a beer after-hours without telling anyone' should not really be a sackable offence. If it were that, Ramon and Lewd Bob would be unemployable. But really, when all is said and done, it was only Twenty20, and who gives a fuck?

Footy

My team Richmond lost again. We've won two out 11 matches and sit second last on the ladder in this, the fifth year of Terry Wallace's 'five year plan' to make us successful. Unlike the USSR though, Richmond get rid of failed despots pretty quickly, and Wallace coached his last game on the weekend and now some 12 year old called 'Jade' is coaching us. It's hardly a coaches name. In recent history we've had Terry, Robert, Tony, Tommy, Kevin, John and Spud. Now we have 'Jade'. God help us, but if he selects the team by blindfolding himself and throwing darts at players' names on the wall, and his tactic is to 'get the ball and kick it towards the goals' he'll do better than Wallace anyway.

Cycling

Tour de France is less than a month away. Cannot. Wait. I love the scenery, the SBS commentary with hardly any ads, the drug scandals and the bosomy models handing over the champagne to the winner each and every day. For those who've never watched a whole race, I highly recommend staying up one night and watching one in its entirety. It's little wonder they take steroids. I couldn't even walk up some of those hills.

Power Reading

Just like the Australian cricket team, I failed at my attempt to read 'War & Peace' in 48 hours, but only because another sport interrupted my progress - 'Power Drinking With Hot Chick', at which I excelled, but two days later, I think I am still hungover.

Armchair Expert

I urge non-cricket-loving TSFKA-ers to get into The Ashes which starts on July 8 this year. As a sporting spectacle, it's just another series of cricket test matches, but as an event, it is a traditional and wonderful chance to smash up whinging poms and get revenge on them for sending us to this god-foresaken desert hell for stealing a loaf of bread.

Also, it will be handy to have even a dilletante's knowledge so when me, Catlick, Ramon and Bob suddenly say, "Fucking Hussey" you won't think it's a typo-ridden outburst against some trollop in the news. The Ashes is so important, we may even get 'Jamie' back because if I remember rightly, he and Ramon are co-Presidents of the 'Sack that Inbreed as Captain' (S.I.C.) club.

It also about regaining some pride after they beat us last time The Ashes was played in England. Who can forget the English cheer squad singing "You're Only Good At Swimming" and "God Save Your Queen" on the final day of the final test back in 2005? It was only Shane Warne that stood up to them in that whole series, and he had the awful task of bowling the last ball of the lost series (although a slow spin bowler, he bowled a bouncer at Flintoff's head).

Today, the touring team was announced. It is:

Ricky Ponting, captain
Michael Clarke, vice-captain
Stuart Clark
Brad Haddin
Nathan Hauritz
Ben Hilfenhaus
Phillip Hughes
Michael Hussey
Mitchell Johnson
Simon Katich
Brett Lee
Graham Manou
Andrew McDonald
Marcus North
Peter Siddle
Shane Watson

...and already the bogans are screaming for blood because of the exclusion of Andrew 'Roy' Symonds. But ignore this. In the last two years he has struggled to even bowl at all, he can hardly hit, looks too unfit to run and has been plagued with injury and behavioural problems*. At his peak he was fucking exciting and brilliant to watch, but his peak was a long time ago. The reason the bogans are having a sook is because Symonds is Bogan Pinup-God.

He has been replaced as the Number One all-rounder with Andrew 'McRanga' McDonald who as far as I'm concerned is a great choice. His bowling, although not awesome, is tight, very controlled and almost impossible to score off. His batting, once it gets going, is quite awesome. He is also young, enthusiastic and heralds the future of our cricketing team.

But I have other problems with the selections.

Brett 'Binger' Lee? Is he even still playing? Was he ever any good? What the fuck?

Michael 'Mr. Cricket' Hussey? Don't get me wrong, he's wonderful to watch when he's on a roll, but the only roll he's on is a pork roll, and when your batting average starts to resemble your shoe-size, it's time to go.

So I'm already calling for the selector's heads.

Tait should have been picked. Yeah, he has mental illness and when he bowls, the ball can go anywhere between middle-stump and the Gents, but I've seen him smash actual IQ-points out of batsmen's heads he's that fast.

And they should have swapped Michael Hussey for David Hodge, who is just as good a batsman as Hussey, but happens to be able to bowl a bit too.

Meanwhile, Hautitz has been chosen because he's our best specialist spinner. It reminds me of the great line by John Lennon. Given the style of music, he was asked if Ringo was the best drummer for The Beatles, and he replied, "Ringo wasn't even the best drummer in The Beatles." Hauritz may be the best specialist spinner in Australia, but even so, I'd still smash him out of the ground and I'm an utter spac of a batsman. Clarke and Katich are already in the team, and they can bowl good spin. Just use them! And pick another batsman, like Hodge?

From my armchair, I am better that the Australian Selection Committee.

Meanwhile, England are finding form in recent months, and so the battle will be hot.

Can't wait.

* I agree with Leaping Larry L though - when Roy decided to ditch a team 'meeting' for a fishing excusrion, he did what we all feel is morally right. Is there anything more over-rated than a 'meeting'?

Dokic - 2 Things

Jelena Dokic has gone public with the sporting world's worst-kept secret - that her crazy nutjob father used to physically abuse her. I feel for this girl, always have.


One Thing

I am reminded of the time I unwittingly made the front page of the Herald-Sun. It was Jelena's first match in Australia representing Serbia. The Herald-Sun (and other tabloid outlets) had made a big deal of it in the lead up, suggesting that people would jeer and boo because of her seemingly unpatriotic decision to represent the country of her birth rather than the country that raised her. But, as always, the tabloids undersetimate the average intelligence of the common person. We could all see that it was her crazy father's decision, not hers. She was 17 or 18 at the time, and clearly under the thumb of a despot.

So when she came out to face Lindsay Davenport, nobody really jeered. Oh, there was a clown or two up the back, drunk, trying to join a mob that failed to materialise in the first place, but from my seat, one row from the front, all I heard was a mix of quiet and generous applause for Jelena. I cheered louldy for her. We knew the poor girl was suffering under her father, and our cheers were as much in sympathy as they were celebratory.

But the tabloids ignored the real event. Front page of the Herald-Sun the next day came an article saying the crowd had 'mixed feelings', and ran a shot of some people cheering, some not. There, right smack bang in the middle of a close up of a randomly picked section of the crowd, was me. I was eating sushi, and my mouth looked like it was in a frown. They clearly took the photo at some other time, because when she came out on to centre court, I was cheering for her.



My Mum rang: "Did you boo that poor girl?"
Me: "No Mum, Jesus. I was eating sushi. I cheered."
My Mum: "And who's that girl you're with? She looks pretty."

Seconds later my sister rang from Sydney.

"Did you boo Dokic?"
"Did Mum ring you?"
"No, you're front page of the Sydney paper."
"For fuck's sake."
"And who's the curly-haired chick?"

The Sydney one was worse, because the picture was much bigger and the headline was, 'Fans Boo Dokic'.

The calls and emails kept coming, and worst of all, Damir Dokic, the anti-christ himself, was interviewed and he got a hold of the paper and pointed at me saying I was a disgrace for jeering his daughter... but I didn't! I would've jeered him because he was a cunt, but not hs talented and obviously abused daughter.

Sigh.

But anyway, years later, of course, the tabloids are now throwing so much support behind her that you can smell their guilt in it.

Second Thing

I hope that none of the resident TSFKA-ers with kids even remotely act like Domir Dokic (I'm sure you don't). I remember as a kid doing aths and footy - there were some parents of other kids that were insane about their child's sporting performances, and as even as young as 10 years old, I knew that their parents were acting stupid. I'm not a parent, but I'd like to think that if I was, I'd give support to my kids' sports, but never ever be one of those parents on the sidelines screaming abuse. My Dad was perfect... he was the athletic club's treasurer and volunteer, so he was involved as such, but never once did he become angry or even pressure me to perform better. He helped me to perform better, but never insisted that I do.

Domir Dokic is of course the extreme opposite of this. He is a failure at life, a failure as a father, a failure as a real man, and for that, he punished his extremely gifted daughter. I have nothing but sympathy and support for Jelena.

I just hope they don't make a schmaltzy film about it. But they will.