Sime says

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...

If one swallow doesn't make a summer, then why is a Swann going home for winter? This is anything but a single instance. Trott has already trotted off, Prior will be next to come up with a previous engagement hindering his selection and, if you believe the press, the English cricket team’s dressing room is rife with avian influenza. They are all shot ducks. Graham Swann’s decision to retire mid-series is one of the most disrespectful, selfish, rude and self-obsessed decisions made in 2013, second only to Astro Boy’s white-anting of the ALP. Lauded by some as being England’s best ever off-spinner, the 255-wicket-taking tweeker destroyed The Aussies in the Ashes series in England last summer and was Alistair Cook’s go-to man when a breakthrough was needed. Thank you Graham for bowling us over with your talent and for confirming that there is an “I” in team. Although you are not the first to spell it right, just ask Sebastian Vettel. Surprised? Not really. We are all pl...

In WA Colin Barnett wants to hook into sharks. In NSW Barry O’Farrell is the star in Casino Royale, while Tony and Chris are educating the rest of us on how to perform an ugly backflip. It’s December and everything’s arse up. It must be an end of year thing. The nation is punch drunk with broken promises and is now bracing itself for the final knockout blow: the best ever fireworks display, ever to be viewed on New Year’s Eve in Sydney. Twice as big … bigger, better, best! From the Opera House, “WOW”, and the Harbour Bridge, “”WOW”. You’ll even be able to send “love U” text messages to the Sydney Harbour Bridge pylon. Now that’s a personal greeting. “Triple WOW”. It’s all part of the touchy, feely, sugar-coated ‘showy’ finish to another year – Sydney’s way of glossing over all the detritus dished forth on 364 previous days. Cynical Sime? Christmas grouch? Mid-life crisis? Now, that’s a winning trifecta! It’s hard not to argue that the news cycle is predictable, full of s...

Stretching and contorting like an orb of sardines, the mass movement along the Great Ocean Road is not fish out of water. Totally at one on a scintillating stretch of bitumen, the lithe beings on bikes beetle towards the finish line. It’s September in the seaside township of Lorne in Victoria, where legions of cyclists gather to compete in Amy’s Gran Fondo (AGF). Batteries of bikes roll into town. Locked and loaded on top of vehicles they arrive in menacing numbers from all points north, south and west. There is safety in numbers: close to 4000 riders, spread across three events, bolster the ranks of a green army that rules the closed roads to traffic. Man is not a mouse but Mamil s (Middle-aged men in lycra) are in plague proportions at Gran Fondo time. From teens to 60+ veterans, mates and girlfriends assemble at the starting line. Age is no barrier but time is of the essence for stragglers who might fail to make the cutoff. Starting in rhy...

Koels aren’t the only birds creating a racket in Sydney. Plucky roosters are crowing from the rooftops and the din will continue well through summer. With sharpened spurs and clinical efficiency, the Sydney Roosters dispatched the high flying Manly Sea Eagles from their perch without barely ruffling their plumage during the 2013 NRL Grand Final. From early in the day, supporters of different feathers flocked together inside ANZ stadium to witness a back-to-the-70s, cage-fighting scrap between two of the NRL’s most polarising breeds. There was no love lost between the team that everyone loves to hate and their adversaries, whose roster value would top any winnings from chook lotto. In tennis circles the name Williams has a certain closeness about it, but in this game the Williams were poles apart. On one side a fledging eagle found himself incapable of launching off the ground and contesting the aerial bombardment. Weighed down by shaggy quills, wolf man W...

It’s a slow climb out of bed for many of us still struggling to fill the late-night void left by 169 finishers who covered 3500 odd colossal kilometres in France. But what now for weekend warriors, the legions of Saturday morning cyclists who have ridden the rivet on sofas and sprinted to the fridge during ad breaks for three weeks straight? The lack of sleep is sadly not the only reason for my comatosed state, it’s the persistent talk of drug taking that has permeated my body and the veins of many: Pantani, Ulrich, Armstrong and now, most gut wrenching of all, Stuart O’Grady. Stop the rot and get on your bike! Clip some cardboard to your wheels, time trial yourself around the block and make some noise. This is not the time to back peddle to 1998. Despite the juiced-up talk, the memories of this year’s TDF remain vivid and the discussion at the café is as invigorating as drinking alpine water from a spigot. Gabrielle Gate fried fis...