Economics: Super Seduction
Interview: Bono and Me
Unions: The Eight Hour Day and the Holy Spirit
Technology: From Widgets to Digits
Education: Dumb and Dumber
Health: No Place for the Young
History: The Work-In That Changed a Nation
Review: Dare to Win
Poetry: Labor's Dreaming
The Locker Room
Morals Beat Hasty Retreat
Uncounted Cost Of Asbestos
Voting Farce Expands
I Beg To Differ
The Locker Room
Game, Set and Yawn
"Boredom: the desire for desires." - Leo Tolstoy
A long time ago, sometime last month, there was cricket being played.
Games wandered around like an old dog a the park; coming from nowhere and heading nowhere, falling across the gaze of a contented public that sprawled across the nation's lounges in a contented stupor, soaking up the soporific poetry of the ABC commentary and the absurd theatre of the TV coverage.
It was a harmless and pleasant time. The sun baked down outside while the ritualistic spectacle unfolded like some kind of hybrid between performance art and opiated athletics meet.
But while cricket was quietly minding it's own business, intoning numbers like some Coptic Bishop recites psalms, an evil spectre was looming.
Bursting onto this summer idyll like a Sunday morning leafblower came the Australian Open.
A sport least suited to radio coverage than tennis is hard to contemplate.
Sailing was pretty hard to fathom during the America's Cup, but the interloping coverage of the tennis last month was a scandal of mammoth proportions.
"Backhand! Forehand! Forehand! Forehand! Backhand!"
Certainly, someone's hand was pretty busy.
When slotted against the poetic anarchy of the cricket coverage it sounded quite bizarre. About as listenable as an experimental electronic orchestra from Berlin.
To add insult to injury it was possible to hear the Australian cricket team in action on Cricket plus in the Caribbean, but not in Australia.
One could hear of Afridi's exploits in Kingstown, but not in Kingswood.
"Is no natty dred mon!"
What flea-bitten, dopey headed, aluminium brained clot came up with this broadcasting the tennis on the radio at the expense of cricket idea?
Whoever it is, someone should get a blueprint of their brain. It will be handy if ever you wish to build a moron.
Speaking of morons, it's hard to tell from this distance whether Greg Norman is a moron or a congenital idiot.
The smart money is firming on the latter.
To watch his chisel-jawed visage in the corporate box while Lleyton is embarrassing himself in public again is to wonder at why this man is held in esteem by anything, let along human beings.
This man's achievements matter not a jot in the scheme of things. Given his abilities you'd think that his sole commercial value would be to advertise something that wanted to demonstrate its choking qualities.
I've seen flat basketballs with more spine.
No wonder he admires the little brat from Adelaide, they deserve each other.
And what's all this weird shit with the blonde girlfriend?
If the locker room wants to put up with blonde idiots he'll go surfing.
This column has suspected all along that tennis is some middle class front for wife swapping; either that or some wacko cult that worships deodorant.
Tennis is very strange.
Let's just hope we don't have to put up with Wimbledon buggering up the ashes series any more than Foxtus already has.
Phil Doyle - going in-off on the black
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