Sime says

“KPow!” Not a scene from Batman but the sound of a KFC Big Bash bucket of dirty flannels being tipped on teammates by a Safrican Pom. What a load of twoddle from Kevin Pietersen, who is soon to take part in the Aussie summer of cricket. Yet another tell-all autobiographical expose, this one apparently full of cheesy moments, is available at all good bookstores. Cricketers are always chewing gum and eating their hands, particularly in the slips cordon, but what is it about people who feel the need to bight off the hand that feeds them? Knowing when to declare, up stumps and book a permanent seat in the grandstand is a moment of genius. Just ask Rabbitoh’s legend George Piggins. He fought a good fight, respectfully retreated when he knew his end was nigh, only to return last week and be welcomed back into the burrow with open paws. Throughout the process Piggins played a straight bat. Well played George. I haven’t read KP’s book, nor do I intend too. If someone s...

The AFL Grand Final is fast approaching and the urge to sit and expel thoughts is now. If footy, in all its forms, is considered by some to be an anal game full of roughheads, then an anal sense of humour befits all ball sports. Awash with brown and yellow on Saturday, the MCG is Australia’s super bowl. It’s the biggest day of the year, when all the hopes and dreams of one side will be flushed away while the other proudly claims the throne. It’s the ones versus the twos. Where a quick slash and run by one side will decide the result or a tight tussle, full of push and shove will determine which team comes out on top. What a relief it will be when the siren sounds. Best not get bogged down on the technicalities of a game when both sides are sure to spray and dump on one another. Harpic the herald angels sing, it’s going to be huge! What about those brown shirts? Nothing as ugly as Adolf Hitler’s hideous wardrobe but you’d have to agree, Hawthorn’s mellow yellow ...

I’m up in the air, not riding for SKY but cruising at the back of the peloton, in economy class. Having just ridden Le Tour Des Grand Alpes from Genève to Nice. I find myself in a tuck position time trialing my way back to Sydney. I thought cycling days were behind me, at least for 22 hours. My rider number is 55J. Elbows slotted under my armpits and knees knocking together, I’m squeezed in between a guy with Andre Greipel-like thighs and a Swiss champion with very long climbing legs. There’s no class in flying economy but there are economies of scale, particularly when it comes to feeding time.  Carbo loading reaches new heights on international flights as food trays resemble musettes filled to the brim. Conquering the smorgasboard placed in front of you is the Alp Duez of eating. Getting through everything without your digestive tract bonking is on par with any mountaintop finish.  KOM (King of the Mountain) is the one who successfully grazes his way thro...

“Taking liberties at the expense of others” is Wikibible’s definition of taking the piss. There’s been a lot of piss taking lately, most notably in South Africa. Ah yes “me lady.” I really needed to take a piss but my girlfriend was on the loo. I was stumped, so what did I do? I blasted my way in, had a slash, vomited in a bucket, then grabbed my bat and ball and bounced back into bed. In the words of one serial piss taker on Wimbledon’s Centre Court, please, “you cannot be serious.” Not to be outplayed by bubba Oscar’s performance, on the other side of the world, baby Prince George is pissing his pants. Wouldn’t you if confronted by a big painted Maori bottom during your first overseas trip at the tender age of eight months? Such a graphic display during the little Prince’s travels to NZ must have him peeing to his heart’s content, wizzing wonderful golden rivers to match the colour of the crown that will one day sit upon his head. He might be the next in line ...

So the crowd gave shirtless Nadal a serve. “You cannot be serious!” The guy has skin as smooth as a Plexipave court, a six-pack rack and a pair of abs that volleys of fans would queue up to squeeze. The Swiss was cheesed off, the trainer had his hands full of a near-naked bull and the crowd hissed. It was great theatre. Were the spectators blinded by the tsunami of Spanish sweat or was there just too much love for Switzerland on the back of Tony’s straight sets win in Davos? It’s game, set and match and still some are complaining about the actions of a few idiots courtside at Rod Laver Arena on Sunday night. Sections of the media have branded it as Australia’s day of shame. But isn’t that Australia Day? Sure it was a distraction, but just a murmuring. “Move on people”, just as one does when passing through a fart cloud in a supermarket. Hold your nose, voice your disgust and shop on. From booing elite athletes to calling some people monkeys, a bit of jeering, hooting a...

Leaning on the car while filling up with fuel at Bellingen, I had ants in my pants. Why was it taking so long? I felt an urge to Google ‘go-slow Bellingen bowser’, thought Wikipedia might give a fuller explanation and contemplated searching Tinder beside the tank to help pass the time. Seconds, minutes and hours ticked by quicker than the litres dribbled from the prostate-affected proboscis. From Coffs Harbour, Shlags and Steph had chosen the coast road route to Sydney, while I headed inland, via Bellingen and Armidale, in a bid to beat the traffic. The race was on. This was not the time to mollycoddle a geriatric gas dispenser. I needed to put a Tiger in my Tank, not a pussy, and was ready to send an ESSO-s to the cashier for some assistance. But then calmness came over me. A tranquil state that matched the serene scene – the beautiful Bellingen Valley. Although stationary, I was transported back to the 70s and decades before when flocks of Golden Fleece petr...