Sime says

How do you like your eggs Seppy? Easy over, as they have been for the last 17 years? I bet you carry them home in a brown paper bag. Feeding the chooks is something that must have come naturally, for your battery hens in Curacao and 206 odd countries have paid you back in golden yolks for ages. Eggs Benedict would have to be your favourite meal Seppy. I can picture you along with Maradona sitting at the right hand of God, both men enjoying a feast. You’re lucky the police have stepped in to halt your cholesterol-fuelled rampage. They can see there is desperate need to change your high cost diet. Take a good hard-boiled look at yourself Seppy and clean up your act. There you were with egg on your face, standing at the podium after your dodgy re-election to top cock in the FIFA hen house.  “Let’s go FIFA, let’s go,” you crowed. More Daffy Duck than Foghorn Leghorn. It was only a matter of time before your Teflon-coated pan wore out and stuff began to stic...

Imprinting gets underway at an early age, so it’s little wonder that mothers and fathers are showered with love from their children on respective days in May and September. There isn’t a single reason for not recognising mums and dads but what about solo men, and women? Sime Says there’s a case for sanctioning Single’s Day, for single is one of the most influential words in the lexicon of life. From starting out as a single cell, lining up in single file and sleeping in a single bed to licking a single scoop of ice-cream and drinking a single shot of single origin coffee for a singular orgasm, single stands out from the crowd. Most of Europe runs under a single currency. RSVP and EHarmony depend on all who are single, and if you want further proof of purpose, ask Roger Federer and Serena Williams what value do they place on wearing a single’s crown? Single uncles, aunts and godparents dish out gifts and offer sage advice to children. They fill their mouths wit...

He was a leviathan. The six-foot-plus, 93-year-old giant sat with his back braced against my chest. His calloused left hand locked flat against the stark slate-coloured pavement on Castlereagh Street. I saw him topple over. He went down like a large Beech tree, the likes of which I had walked amongst a week ago when tramping along New Zealand’s Kepler Track. They too looked to be very old. Remarkably his head stayed clear of the ground and there were no cracks or scrapes as the tall-timbered fellow fell to earth. No one moved a muscle, for he was standing behind the jeering crowds that lined the streets on Anzac Day. But you could have felt the earth move. What do I do, turn a blind eye and walk on? I went to him. Whilst cradling his head I whispered words of reassurance and encouraged him to lie still. A moment or two passed before I sat him up and propped his heavy mass against me. He did not moan or whimper but bowed his head and cried dry tears for 30-seconds or so...

“You are not alone, just look around you,” I say as we stroll down the supermarket aisle. “You’re not the only octogenarian who has trouble turning the tap off. Providing nappies for newborns and pads for parents is saturation coverage and a marketer’s dream.” The shelves are awash with absorbent pads. There’s a flood of them, neatly stacked in all shapes and sizes: winged ones, wide ones, long ones, slim ones, super absorbent ones, pink, blue, green and white ones. It’s soul destroying, belittling, embarrassing, constraining and downright inconvenient as one reverts to nursery days, when the bladder puts a squeeze on one’s movements. But it can also be fun. Toilet humour runs deep. Bottom jokes are met with belly laughter and making light of any leakages is enough to wet ones pants. When it comes to incontinence, no confidence motions are on the rise in our house. The problem is not so much in the movement but rather, in keeping up supplies to cater for increasing dem...

Talk about pressing the flesh: he was barely recognizable, save for a tuft of stiff quills glued upright on the bitumen. Feet splayed, body flattened, what an undignified end it was to a strong, silent type. After much scraping and swallowing of grief, I shoveled the flat pack of feathers off the road. January 2015 marked a seven-year itch between me and my feathered friend, a male Tawny Frogmouth. Our courtship began in 2008 when I granted him roosting rights in the 100-year-old lily pily tree growing in my back garden in suburban Sydney. We were birds of a feather. He was a bachelor on the wing, I was a solo man in search of a mate on solid ground. Every morning for seven years we gave each other a wink before he settled down for some shuteye after a night out, and I tried my luck in the big city. If your surname is Frogmouth, you’re not doing yourself any favours with the ladies. Wearing non-descript grey plumage is not ‘dressing to impress’ and the ability to defecate wi...

In securing its own rebel tour of the airwaves Cricket Australia (CA) has inadvertently taken the game away from Auntie ABC. Seeing a need to grow the audience and maintain the relevancy of Test Cricket, CA pushed the ball for a quick single in 2013/14 and has since hit plenty of boundaries by expanding coverage of cricket via commercial channels. There was a time via ABC radio when Norman May, Alan McGilvray, John Arlott, Brian Johnston, Christopher Martin-Jenkins and others – all A-grade men of the airwaves – would put you in the grandstands or in the middle of the SCG or Lords courtesy of their lyrical prose. This season, ABC Radio’s commentating batting order is looking decidedly shaky. Only Jim Maxwell is left at the crease. He has a team around him but they have a long way to go to cement positions. Drew Morphett has been dropped and Kerry O’Keeffe has walked – only to return to the top order at 2GB. Meanwhile, the Fairfax Radio Network is looking to top th...

Let's play a straight bat. There's something not right about Michael Clarke commentating on cricket while he his still an integral part of the Aussie side. Binga does it for the Sixers and so does KP for his team in the KFC Big Basheroo, so what's the problem with Clarke voicing his opinions on the men in white? Everything I rekon. Cos this is Test cricket, the sacred cow of the Aussie Summer. We can't have 'our' skipper batting for the other side, the media. Can we? Clarke looks immaculate and has fitted in seamlessly into the Channel 9 commentary lineup. It's no mean feat to crack it into Chapelli's domain and that of other past legendary Captains. But should the current Australian skipper be moonlighting high in the stands and sharing insight into the team he is still padded to? No. Early form suggests Clarke has done enough to cement his spot in Gyngell's squad and has positioned himself perfectly for life after playing cri...

Darren Lehmann, the one time nuggety lefthander, aka “boof”, “shrek” and the Australian cricket coach has received a one-year contract extension. The dismissal of Lehmann’s predecessor Mickey Arthur was ugly. Dressing room dramas and a forgettable tour of India were missiles in a final over that sent Arthur’s pegs flying. Boof took guard and within seven months, helped to orchestrate a five-nil Ashes series whitewash and a hard-fought series win in South Africa. Whilst many a cricket tragic could KISS the coach for helping to turn the national team’s fortunes, Lehmann just prefers to Keep It Simple Stupid. For that is his philosophy. Play in-your-face, ball-tearing, run-feasting, aggressive cricket. Take the game to the opposition and don’t die wondering. Skill, entertainment and clubbing the ball were Lehmann’s hallmarks during his playing days for South Australia, and Australia. He scored 44 tons at state level. “There was no bogey team for Boof, he just accum...

When will the agony end? Never if you tune in to commercial TV. It’s time to stop kissing helmets, looking to the heavens and painting the ground in numbers. Just play cricket. In recent weeks, spectators and non-spectators have been told that cricket is to Australia as honey is to bees. Joined at the hip we are, or by the bottom, if you’re a bee.  Cricket is part of every Australian’s DNA, infused into the vegemite that we smear on our toast and faces when young. That’s why we feel the loss of one of our own, so much more . Is it? Well pass me the KFC bucket for I’m feeling bilious and ready to strip off the pads. The commentary of late is sick making and the players’ antics are crafted for the camera. Lets move on and let the willow smash a new path to the boundary. The real boundary, the fenceline, not some poncy cushioned hemline. It’s too easy to hark back to past cricket eras but they do look good in comparison to what’s being dished up early in...