Sime says

Crook back?, depressed?, or are you still green with envy for the bookies who stole your dough in the running of the Melbourne Cup? It doesn’t really matter, because Christmas is coming! If you’re Ken Freeman, all that matters is the universe. This bright boffin recently appeared from a barrier out wide to claim the Prime Minister’s Science Prize and pocket a cool $300,000 in the process. If you think you’ve been in the dark for too long, the chances are, you have. Freeman has lit up the world in his discovery that there’s a lot more to the universe than just stars, gas and dust. It might be invisible dark material but as a matter of fact, it’s dark matter. Galloping past the winning post, Freeman remarked his prize was “recognition of the value of basic research”. French scientist, Francois Lasne from the National Doping Agency in France is worthy of similar praise for six years she spent developing an anti-doping test for EPO. In the process, she lanced Armstrong’s ...

They’re off and it’s My Lucky Day in the 2013 Melbourne Cup. Americain and went from the gates in a flash while Dunaden did it again, settling early into his stride. Ethiopa moved tectonic plates under hoof to call Australia home and repel other Unusual Suspect s while Galileo’s Choice, Green Moon and Lights of Heaven looked skywards for inspiration. At the 1000-metre mark Precedence is given to Cavalryman on the charge up Mount Athos while Kelinni neighs “ Voila Ici” to Tac de Boistron and Jakkalberry . 1200 to go and the field is bunched as Sanagas lets fly to leave Mourayan in a cloud of methane. Under the whip, Niwot reaches Glencadam Gold who pulls the trigger on Winchester which strides into the lead. Into the home straight they turn and My Quest For Peace has an uphill battle to hold off a fast-finishing Fiorente and Red Cadeaux . But down the outside comes the kiwi connection with a late lunge on the line and ensure every punter is a Zabeelionair...

As if life it isn’t hard enough to stay ahead of the pack, now a commercial radio program has turned into Aunty overnight. Quicker than Jamie Whincup piloted his petrol tank to victory at Mt Panorama yesterday, the Macquarie Network has pulled, or strategically withdrawn all advertising from a certain morning radio program. Now, without any ad breaks, what hope does one have in keeping up with the spurious hyperbole that fills the airwaves during a certain breakfast radio show. At least with a short drink’s break provided by Kemeny’s, enjoying a free ride around the block in a Merc and listening to a warm word from Woollies, one was spared from a troll’s tirade, if only for 90 seconds or so. But now there is no toilet break, unless you tune in from London; there’s not even a drinks session. Instead, it’s all out attack across the airwaves, like Chris Gayle and the Calypso Kings hitting the Sri Lankans for six in double quick time and claiming the spoils. Whether...

Jets of urine hit the hubcaps with pinpoint accuracy and leave trickling mosaics on my car’s dust-covered wheels. The kelpie culprits circle the vehicle, somewhat ecstatic at bailing up a mechanical beast in their territory. Being greeted by cocked legs and a firm handshake is the way it’s done down on Munna, a 3700-acre property near the township of Coolah, in NSW. It’s a place I’ve visited since lifting my own leg in nappies at an early age. Man and his dogs enjoy a symbiotic relationship on Munna, a bond built on trust and respect, where four legs are faster than two and canine training is developed on the run. You wont find any puppy parlour or poncy poodles with clipped arseholes in this neck of the woods. This is Red Dog country where a kick from a cow, pesky thorns under paw and tumbling off the tray of the Toyota are all part of a dog day afternoon. Released from their kennels at first light, the lithe pack of hounds scoot across the ground nippin...

Given the oceans of green and gold tears that have flowed poolside in London, it’s no wonder that Liesel the 30-tonne whale washed up in Newport, Sydney, recently. A flood of saline spread from the London 2012 Crying Games and launched this behemoth onto the rocks in a personal best effort. While Newport locals became misty eyed at the site of Liesel occupying all eight lanes in their coastal sea pool, it’s a crying shame she didn't at least win gold before bloating big time on the beach. “GOLD, GOLD for Australia” were immortal words spoken by ABC sports broadcaster Norman May, a man viewed by some to be the voice of the Olympic Games. But as we approach the finishing post in London 2012, this precious metal is looking noticeably scarce in the Australian camp. And aren’t we being told it! If you want pots of gold change channels as you’d have better luck backing Gina Rinehart in her quest to claim Fairfax than putting your house on the Boxing Kangaroo. A sneaky silver ...

The first week of Le Tour is yet to finish and already Gabrielle Gate has fried fish and whipped up an omelet quicker than Mark Cavendish won Stage 2. With 17 mouth-watering courses to come, bike riding has never been so appetizing. GetUp Simon Sheikh, you’ve peaked too early. You may well have startled Sophie Mirrorball on Q&A but your fainting episode has not fooled legions of cycling fans whose attention is focused on Le Grand Boucle . Like Sylvain Chavanel’s vain attempts at sprinting for glory in the first stages of the race, Simon Says “settle in the saddle Simon, pace yourself, for it’s a long and torturous ride to Paris.” Thanks heavens for Le Tour de France . There’s nothing better than 3400-odd ball-breaking kilometres to put a bit of distance between oneself, Gina Rinehart and blubbering politicians. Bound for Les Alps I’m leaving the mining mistress in her underground bunker and ‘the boats’ far behind. So too Tomic’s tantrum, Stosur’s sad sojourn...

What a load of cobblers. For the past three weeks I was told NSW would win Game 2 of the State of Origin. And we did, well they did. “The boys done good”. Nothing else mattered. Sticky Stuart and Smell Mafinga bled blue and maroon blood for the media during the build up, and there were endless one-on-one interviews with various players or bricks with eyes. It was saturation coverage, the clouds rolled into Sydney and it pissed down with footy talk. The streets flooded with superlatives and the game was of national significance, the result bigger than the Mabo decision or Lindy and Michael’s exoneration. I should win The Voice , for I’ve had enough of this banal agenda which is not just confined to the footy field. Increasingly, our national broadcaster is guilty of running facile material close to the top of its nightly TV news bulletins. On radio, two giggly girls host its morning program and I can go no further to escape their shrill and nasally babble than Radio ...

On the long weekend, eager to switch off news from the political pig pen that is Canberra, I made tracks to a friend’s farm in outback NSW to shoot the breeze and some vermin. In the morning sunlight, the jet black back of the sow gleamed. She stood proud within the sorghum stubble and treated her hairy boar of a husband and four obese piglets to breakfast. With the .222 rifle locked and loaded, we thumped across the rich black land determined to stop these hoofed hitchhikers in their tracks. With nostrils twitching and their heads pointing skywards, it wasn’t long before our quarry detected a scent of human in the air and started trotting towards the nearest exit from the paddock. The killing of these grunters was not intended as an act to satisfy one’s lust for blood. For we were not a pair of sporting shooters trigger happy at the prospect of creating carnage in national parks or straddling our kill and posting ph...

In the Millennium year it was Castaway Tom Hanks who befriended a volleyball on an island in the South Pacific. Fed-exit 12 years into the future and I have became just as attached to an inanimate companion, a frisbee called Wilson. Wilson is no ordinary airborne object. He is in fact a hollow ring or ‘Aerobie Pro’ to his flying mates. Effortless when hovering and a climber of clouds, he can loop to the left or right with ease, and circle work the sand when he lands. This svelte piece of sporting equipment is listed in the Guinness Book of Records after flying 406 meters with a single throw. Look out London! Far from following the movie script, hurtling into the ocean and washing up on the shores of a deserted island, the setting could not have been more serene for my friends, Wilson and me to bond on a beach south of Batemans Bay.  We hit the sand armed with surfboards, surf skis, footies, fishing rods and enough toys to leave the Pixar prop department empty at Easte...

“I’m ‘Nobbes’”, he said, shaking my hand with purpose. What an unfortunate name I thought while peering over his shoulder for my bags. I’m sure he’d met many knobs like me in his 25 years on the island, striding off planes, full of impatience and pushy metropolis manners. This earthy islander who fishes for his supper and grows his own food, knew how to handle blow-ins from the mainland. “Ease up ease up,” said Nobbes, you’re on Lord Howe Island time now. His disarming statement put me at ease instantly. It had been 35 years since my last visit to Lord Howe and I feared it might have lost the carefree charm that is its passport. Within moments of arriving on the island, I discovered bicycles outnumbered cars, kids were allowed barefoot at school and the honesty-box was still in use at the golf club. Three ticks of approval and three to go to complete a six-pack of surprises on this World Heritage-listed gem, 600km northeast of Sydney. You can climb a mountain, swim with fi...

Momentarily stunned, I stood in the middle of the carriage like a rabbit caught in the headlights of Le Metro , unable to move, transfixed by the beauty of the French belle. The sound of a siren alerting passengers of the imminent closure of carriage doors awoke me from my love-struck stupor. Caught on the hop, I struggled to haul my baggage from the train in time. The doors closed, trapping one arm inside attached to a suitcase. In the seconds that it took to untangle my language, get help from bemused Parisians and pull myself back together, mon dieu , she was gone. Striding out like Carla Bruni at Art et Metiers station, she was lost in a sea of frogs exiting the underground. Desperate to catch sight of her again, I climbed stair-by-stair, escalator-by-escalator, dragging my wheely bag along the tiled labyrinth of tunnels. “ Allez allez ” I exclaimed in faultless French until finally reaching the street above, breathless and bereaved. Accepting my loss, and with the ke...

Top deck, front row seats, a 180-degree panoramic view of the Sydney Cricket Ground. Is there a better way for one sport obsessive to start 2012? It’s all over now: Ricky Ponting and David Hussey played for their places in the team and Michael Clark thought the best way to win admiration from a demanding Australian public was to score runs. And that he did … many hundreds in fact. The Sydney test match is an occasion not just for wearers of the baggy green. For spectators it represents five consecutive days to sit or stand at the bar, drink bucket loads of beer and cheer on the jolly chaps dressed in white. It means so much to so many: farmers catch-up with mates, fathers bring their sons in the hope of scoring a signature on their bat before the end of play, and members jostle for prime seats in the stands behind the bowlers arm.  And that’s where the fun begins.  This year the chubby chequer seated to my left would have made a great umpire and a batsman’s best fr...