After Grog Blog

TITS ONLY ROCK n ROLL

GrogFlog's back from the hols, tanned, rested and ready. When we started this thing, sex and violence were highlighted as key themes so inevitably we'd get it on with Russ (big tits!) Meyer sooner or later. So we'll start with the first film he ever made for a major (big tits!) studio, Beyond The Valley of The Dolls for 20th Century (big tits!) Fox.

(1970. Colour. Script: Roger Ebert (yes, that Roger (small tits!) Ebert) and Russ Meyer. Direction: Russ Meyer. Cinematography: Fred J. Koenekamp. Score: Lynn Carey, Paul Marshall, Stu Phillips, Bob Stone and The Strawberry Alarm Clock. And a special shoutout to hair stylist Edith (big tits!) Lindon who went well above and beyond the call of duty on this one.)

We open on a sweet, naive girl pop group (with big tits!) from the sticks, heading for the big time in LA - only to be plunged into a maelstrom of kinky sex, bouffant hairdos, drugs, sleazy lawyers, polyester shirts, big tits! even more kinky sex, greedy flower children meeting tawdry showbiz tinsel, lesbians with big tits! acid rock, black magic and big tits! But true love (and genuine big tits! as opposed to fake ones) triumphs in the end and the gentle people live happily ever after while the baddies all die by the bullet and the sword. So much for the plot (but not the big tits!).

You cats should really dig this flick. It's a real gas man. The costumes, the hairstyles, the sets, the big tits! the art direction and the actors and other props all come across like something out of an X-rated Brady Bunch. And it's chock full o' lines like: "I'd like to strap you on sometime.", "Lance Rocke is no Prince Valiant.", "There's juice freaks, and pill freaks, and then everybody's a freak! What you need is grass or a downer or something.", "I beseech you to get thine ass in gear and garb your angry loins.", "You will drink the black sperm of my vengeance." and that old pickup line we've all used so many times "I've got a wading pool of mayonnaise!"

Not to mention yer classic scenes of loving couples (with big tits!) running through sunny meadows in slo-mo, freakout parties full of big tits! in Hollywood hot tubs, old straight guys getting stoned for the first time in hippie pads and hip photographers coaxing hot vogueing out of strategically nude models with big tits!

And Beyond is populated by characters like porn star Ashley St Ives sporting at least two sets of false eyelashes (and big tits!), the "World Boxing Champion" who seems strangely unable to afford a shirt (apparently so he can keep showing off his big tits!), a sword-wielding pop Svengali (with big sideburns!), the young Pam (big tits!) Grier already getting her foxy brown on, Martin (medium sized tits!) Bormann moonlighting as a bartender...and entering upstage right into various party scenes, a much-loved Russ Meyer regular - Charles Napier's chin, followed only a few minutes later by Charles (big jaws!) Napier himself.

But wraparound kitscharama (and big tits!) aside, Beyond the Dolls is also worth seeing 'cos Russ is actually a technically brillant flick helmer. The narrative accelerates like a '70 Corvette (with big tyres!), the cinematography is super crisp, shots are vividly lit and framed (especially when they feature big tits!) and the razor-sharp editing should be taught in film schools now. Plus some of the music still holds up pretty well in a Nuggets lost psychedelic treasures kinda way (You can really shake your big tits! to the soundtrack).

Basically, Beyond The Valley Of The Dolls is well beyond parody - and yet weirdly perceptive about the riffs, characters, big tits! and general vibe of swinging sixties LA crashing headlong into the whole Manson Family thing. Watching it now, it's clear some of the actors ( and their big tits!) were already about to get lost forever in the murky canyons of fin de siècle LA back then. But the flick itself is still a fucking hoot. Such is the godlike, pre-pomo genius (and big balls!) of the man that us mere mortals knew as Russ Meyer.

GrogFlog's verdict: "This is my happening, and it freaks me out!" 6 out of 10 big tits!

Viewer Tip: Watch it with subtitles enabled. There's some funny and seriously whacko lines that get lost among the overlapping party dialogue and big tits!

Coming soon: Burt Lancaster and his deadly typewriter, secret Government experiments on kids, James Coburn getting in like Freud and big tits!

BUTCHER OF BAGHDATIS

STRAIGHT TALKING FOOTY

One of these days a football network is going to come up with a novel concept. A show where serious, mature, grown-up football-type experts sit around talking about football. Think about it. No talking over each other, no locker-room stories, no pranks, no heartwarming puff pieces, no rank cross-promos, no viewer contests, no contrived arguments, no comedians talking about the eighties, no players. Just people with brains talking about the caper. A suckless version of Talking Footy is the type of thing.

Such a show is unlikely to come from Seven:

A name Seven may consider, perhaps in a lighter format, is radio talent Matt Tilley.

A friend of Seven identity Tim Watson and a football fanatic, Tilley hosted a football quiz show on Fox Footy three years ago and has raised his profile with success at Fox FM and through his top-selling CD of recorded telephone calls.

Recorded telephone calls? Lighter format? Footy Quiz shows? Shit. A. Brick. Pass the asp, Cleopatra. If that's the sort of gear Seven are looking at, I've only got one question: Is there even the remotest chance they won't cock things up?

HOT AIR?

"Politics, maaan. If you're hanging on to a rising balloon, you're presented with a difficult decision. Let go before it's too late? Or hang on and keep getting higher? Posing the question, how long can you keep a grip on the rope?"

Noted 20th century theorist, and drug felon, Danny from Withnail, has been keeping an eye on blog fights downunder.

WILD IRE

"There are wildfires at Kinglake," said the girl on the radio news. Wildfires? There's been a little too much of this business on the radio and television. The deadheads who read the news bulletins are unlikely to have a clue, the fools, they just ooze out whatever tripe is plonked in front of them. Getting detail wrong is often not their fault*. It's difficult enough for them to get the rhythm right -- "Tony Taglio ... FOR ... Southern Cross ... NETwork News." -- without having to worry about what they are reading. Most likely it's some hipster deadshit in a newsroom smugly slotting it into his or her copy. Well, stop it, you posturing fuckers. We don't have wildfires here in Straya, we have bushfires.

* Is it anyone's fault they're an idiot? It's one of those questions, isn't it.

THERE'S NO ROTATION POLICY HERE

Well, hello there. You can stop wondering whether I've been rested for Australia Day. Despite initially being left out of the Adelaide line-up, Cricket Australia insisted I watch telly and blog. "Nope," came the hard word from head suit, James Sutherland, "stakeholders need your product."

He specifically wanted me to count how many times Mark Nicholas said 'amazing', 'splendid' or 'wonderful'. Gut reaction leans to the latter, and indeed it's currently well in front, but when it comes to lavish adjectives it's quite a task keeping up with The Hampshire Gusher.

Afterwards Sutherland pulled me aside for a quiet word in my shell-like. "While you're at it, Tone" he whispered all guile, "suss out if the mug punters ... err ... consumers prefer Ian Chappell's 'Sri Lunker' or Tony Greig's 'Mooraly Doorun'." Apparently CA want to expand the Boony Doll repertoire. "The cricket's on the telly" just wasn't 'cutting through', as we say in advertising.

SWATCHING GRASS GROW

"Sometimes in Switzerland, there is some cows watching." That's a good one, don't you think? It caused me quite the snigger as my finger traced the words in today's Age. Who doesn't love it when foreigners butcher Engrish? Must have been Roger Federer, I thought. He Swiss, he have accent, he have cow, and he funny to boots.

But I was wrong! It wasn't Roger, at all, it was that halfwit Martina Hingis. Not that I mind she's a cretin, per se, what gets right up my bugle is her voice. You ever had a good listen? What a hideous affair it is - Scylla OR Charybdis she ain't. Then again, while it might just be me, surely I can't be the only one whose teeth throb when Hingis speaks.

IGNORANCE WAS BLISS

Used to be I hadn't seen Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Now I have. All of you people who said I'd like it were wrong - what a steaming pile it was!

If you haven't seen the movie, count yourself lucky. But on the off chance you're down the video shop, contemplating a big mistake, here it is in a nutshell:

Jim Carrey and Kate Winslett hook up; she dumps him; their brains are washed in a colander; their memories are erased; repeat.

Mind you, if that's your thing, fill yer boots. But better you put it down quick sticks and go grab The Life Aquatic instead.

Over at Rotten Tomatoes there are 206 reviews of Eternal Dumbshine, a bare 14 of which are negative. Apparently teenagers are now reviewing movies, the impressionable cretins. What's the bet many look back in 10, 20 years and groan "What the fuck was I on, maaaan?"

BIRDY NO NO

Typical. Aaron "Flu" Bird has one of the few good nicknames in Australian cricket, but he was forced to change it to Birdy. Birdy? Christ, can Crick-Aussie get any softer? Surely even the barest trace of imagination would have produced something better, zany maybe, a little out-there. Birdo, for instance, or Birdos.

Chickening Out

Twenty20 silliness reached its climax at North Sydney Oval yesterday when Victoria took on NSW in the domestic final. Thankfully, by then the controversy over the nickname of young Bankstown quick Aaron Bird had subsided, for he had agreed to wear "Birdy" on his back rather than his preferred moniker, "Flu". Bird was persuaded not to go with "Flu" amid fears it might upset the major sponsor of the Big Bash tournament, which happens to be KFC.

SPECIES

Are you a sportsman's wife? (This includes you, boys.) Well, come on then, be honest - you're dreadful, aren't you.

Moving on up

Foster doesn't like sport - and he's even less fond of sportsmen's wives as a species.

"I am generally deeply sceptical about how they came to be the partner of someone in public life and their motivations for being there," he says.

When he answered the phone on that Sunday morning, Foster thought it was a friend playing a prank. After accepting it was Simone Warne on the line, he says, "I told her that 90 per cent of sportsmen's wives are dreadful."

LLEAVE IT OUT!

The Hun is a shocking cheerleader. Just look at their front page the Wednesday after Lleyton Hewitt struggled to beat Czech nobody Robin Vik in the first round of the Aussie Open.

Can't remember precisely what the little writing says, but it's something along the lines of what's inside: "LLEYTON Hewitt has conjured one of the greatest comebacks of his career to keep his Australian Open dreams alive." Shrill rubbish, of course.

The Tuesday night post-match article was a more measured affair. "Hewitt scrapes through in five sets," read the headline, before going on "AUSTRALIA'S top player Lleyton Hewitt has narrowly avoided a shock first round exit at the Australian Open with a comeback five-set win." That's more like it.

The heavies at the Hun must have thought that a little too dour and decided to spice it up. By the following day they'd swung into action with the bullshit above. There was a back page spread, too.

I don't have a problem with Hewitt, he doesn't excite me either way. So he plays some superb tennis. So he's a bit of a turd. So what! What DOES annoy me is the way the Hun barracks. That they act as Hewitt's fan club newsletter is to be expected, I suppose, from a paper that's become little more than a tedious celebrity rag. If there's one good thing to come out of Hewitt losing, it's that we've been spared a frenzy over Lleyton, Becs and baby.

There's another benefit, too. Leapster in the Sunday Age:

Snoozer of the week

YOU can probably be deported for saying this by now, but the green and yellow clad urger squadron with the pre-packaged chants at the tennis constitutes a viable alternative to conventional pharmaceutical sleep remedies. Whatever waters your petunias, I guess, but when the budgie-garbed mouth militia are on screen, it’s awfully hard not to think about that scene from The Life of Brian, where an unruly mob, chanting as one and as if hypnotised, professes, "Yes. We. Are. All. Individuals." If I had to cite one reason I don’t go to the tennis any more, I already did.

Who knows. Maybe the Hun, like me, realise this could be Hewitt's last chance to win an Aussie Open. Here's MY big prediction, for what it's worth: Hewitt will NEVER win another grand slam tournament. The game has gone past him.

IT SOUNDS ALRIGHT ON TAPER

Do you remember when Australia missed the final of the VB series in 2001/02? Of course you do. There was all sorts of kerfuffle about rotation of players, experimentation of batting orders and general ballsing-up. The press had a field day. But apart from Channel Nine, Crick-Aussie and the retards who traipse along to join in the wave and get their signs on telly, who really gave a shit who won that snore-fest?

Not me. Far as I'm concerned, the Aussies can tinker with the formula all they like, just as long as they win the only tournament that matters to me - The World Cup.

Look at what happened in the one-day summers in the year before they won each of the last two World Cups. In 1997/98 they were continually beaten by South Africa until the Yarpies, as is their wont, choked in the finals. I suppose you could say BOTH South Africa and Australia were tuning up for 1999. Then in 2001/02 Australia struggled against both NZ and SA and didn't even make the VB finals.

Grim stats, no. Yet in both cases, by the time the subsequent World Cups came around, Australia (despite struggling early in the 1999 affair) were in good shape and won both tournaments, 2003 in a canter.

Conversely, this summer it is with some trepidation that I see Australia doing better than they did in those previous two. Admittedly neither South Africa or the Shrees are a patch on previous tours, but that doesn't alter the fact that there's most definitely such a thing as peaking too early. Look what happened to NZ in 2001/02. The Kiwis were on fire that summer, but they showed their hand too soon. By the time the 2003 World Cup came around everyone knew what they were up against when they played NZ, and the Kiwis flopped badly. Not that that's a bad thing. (Nor did it help their cause that they forfeited a match.)

Fortunately, Australia aren't sitting on their laurels. (Do you sit on your laurels?) There has been even more experimentation this time round, and it's pretty obvious Australia have their eyes on the two things that matter - The Ashes and the 2007 World Cup. The media, too, seem to have a finer appreciation of what Australia are up to.

Still, fingers crossed. All the planning in the world can mean bugger all. While Australia can afford to drop games now, it's not the same in a World Cup. One dropped catch (thanks, Hersh), half an hour's bad batting, a dodgy pitch, a spot of weather and your campaign might be over. The Aussies have done extraordinarily well to win the last two, but while they're still the best team on paper, their luck won't hold forever. (Nor will the Aussie tapering be ignored by the other teams.)

Minefields please: ODIs are invariably better when the side batting first struggles. If Australia bat first and bat well, the game is as good as over. Look at some of their memorable wins and you'll note they've been achieved by either posting or chasing a lowish first innings total, some on skittish pitches.

• Sydney 1995: Paul Reiffel stars with bat and ball as Australia chase down 172 in a rain reduced match at the SCG.


• New Years Day 1996: Bevan hits a four off the last ball as Australia chase down the Windies' 172.


• World Cup Semi-Final 1996: West Indies collapse as Australia defend 207.


• World Cup Semi-Final 1999: Daffy Donald Duck as Australia "defend" 213.


• World Cup Pool Match 2003: Bevan and Travis Bichel ease Austraia past England's 204.


• World Cup Super Sixer 2003:  Australia rout NZ for 112 while defending just 208.

And what's the best match so far this summer? When Australia failed to defend 228 last week.

PLEASE EGGSPLAIN

Sure is hot today. Hot enough to fry an egg, perhaps. Tell me, has anyone ever reeeally fried an egg in the hot sun? I know, I know, there'll be some old picture of a navvy cooking an egg on a shovel, but I've got my doubts.

YOU BETTER BELEIF IT!

Leif Garrett once said "If there is anything I would tell anybody in this profession, it is never believe your own press."

Did you know Garrett's breakthrough (for want of a better word) movie, Skateboard, was the first movie from writer/producer Dick Wolf? He of Lawn Order, Inc. Ever since Leif's been on the way down and Dick on the way up. Wonder when they crossed - mid eighties, perhaps? About the time of Cheerleader Camp, or as it was called in England, Bloody Pom Poms.

SOFT OPTION

Everyone is going on about who has the Best Favourite Blog. While they're at it, we'll poll the Worst Soft Drink. Here's mine:

1. Fanta
2. Diet Anything
3. Fanta

Etiquette Tip: Only savages drink out of plastic bottles.

PAGE RAGE

There is the impossible - winning arguments on the internet, for instance. And then there is the very impossible - like turning to an exact page first time. Do you experience this problem? You need to read page 70 but - "100, 80, 74, 72 ... 60? What that fuck! Stupid book!" Your mood invariably turns sour as the book skips from the page before to about ten pages after. It's a disturbing set of affairs. A packet of antique Limits to anyone who can come up with a workable solution.

TAKE IT TO THE LIMITS!

Just saw an odd thing up in Box Hill. A very fat man, 40 some years old, driving a lime green, late eighties Mazda 323. Looked like he was wearing the car. Oblivious to the fact he may need the jaws of life to get out the door, he shovelled McDonald's fries into his pie-hole. That was with his left hand. With his right, he tapped the wheel in time to his sonic-boom stereo. If that's not grotesque enough for you - he seemed unwilling to let a mere mouthful of fries prevent him from belting out a more-than-usually gruesome version of The Eagles' Peaceful Queasy Feeling. Hardly the latest thing in supercharged doof doof. Wish I had a camera and a strong stomach.

Update! Limits are diet biscuits - doubtless everyone knows that.

NTINI MEENY MINEY MO

We all know how that works out, right. Catch a tigger by the toe. "Tigger?" you inquire sceptically. That's right, tigger with a T. Obviously, I never meant anything different. How dare you suggest otherwise!

Get the drift? Not a million miles away, something similar has been bugging me.

John Blackman, alias Dicky Knee, visits the Aussie dressing room giving Shane Warne a bright idea. Makhaya Ntini has a dicky knee, Dicky Knee is John Blackman, ergo Makhaya Ntini is John Blackman. Funny, no?

Well, no.

Why didn't Warne call him Dicky Knee? Ntini doesn't know either Dicky Knee or John Blackman, but it's obvious which is funnier. Ntini and Dicky even have the shaggy black hair under their caps.

Instead Warne calls him John Blackman -- Black man, geddit? -- and has the front to get the hump at suggestions his comment had racist undertones. If YOU were going to call a black man Blackman, would it not cross YOUR mind he was black? Chances are it would. Chances are, too, you think Warne is a complete cretin. But while he probably ain't no Rhode Scholar, he probably ain't no complete cretin, either.

I'm tipping sly dig or a joke fallen flat. You draw your own conclusions. Or speculate wildly - it's up to you.

Speaking of ... umm ... jokes: here's News Limited's Ben Dorries cracking foxy in the Hun:

Ntini poised for speedy comeback

INJURED South Africa fast bowler Makhaya Ntini could make a shock return to terrorise Australia's batsmen in the current VB Series.

A To Zzzzzzzzzz

Anyone seen the Commonwealth Games Information Channel on Foxtel? It's grouse! An entire channel devoted to 24 hour advertising of what's on come March, everything from Athletics to Zimbabwe Sanctioning. So don't dawdle - add it to your Foxtel favourites now.

REMEMBER THE NUMERO

Recently watched an updated version of The Alamo. As far as I can remember it was an improvement on the John Wayne version - it was certainly shorter. But it left me with a nagging question: can Dennis Quaid act? I say not. Billy Bob was ok, as was Leon Rippy, and Jason Patric coughed a lot. Should it's scheduling coincide with your having absolutely fuck all better to do, watch it. Otherwise, hop into that vacuuming you've been putting off.

Soldier: "Brung you 32 good men, Sir."

~~ The Alamo

Bit of a trick here - this is an example of how 32 doesn't work. You see, at the Alamo there was indeed a relief column of 32 men, it wasn't made up by the writers. Keep that in mind next time you spot the number.

WOOD THINGS COME IN TREES

Cyclone Clare sure had the memories ... flooding back. Zing! I lived in The Pilbara for twelve years and spent many a tempest getting shit-faced with my housemates. That was the done thing in those parts. As soon as the red alert went up you sprung into action, slick teamwork being the go. "Righto then. Tone, you do the pub run. I'll get the videos. Rob, you see to the snacks. Nige, you fill up the genny." During Cyclone Chloe in March 1984 the back of our house blew down but we didn't notice until the next day. "Hey, look at this, boys," someone said. "Shit a brick! There's no beer left."

Soon after we moved into a bigger, less rubbly house where we met a Croatian psycho named Steve The Wog. "Hello, boys. Here - drink Vee Bee," commanded Steve, handing us a can by way of a greeting. "Is good beer. Drink, fucking." Steve lived in an ancient caravan in the back yard and, as far as we could tell, had two hobbies, drinking beer and nurturing this sapling beside his van. Sadly for all concerned, but most of all the sapling, it was run over. That night Steve burst through the back door brandishing a massive kitchen knife "WHO KILL YOUNG WOOOOOD?" Us cowards all looked at Deano - he'd flattened the tree with his deadly treadly. "You cunt, fucking! I kill you!" He rushed at Deano, but instead of filleting the poor slob, Steve suddenly laughed "Haaaaa, you shit, boy!" and stolled out whistling. We laughed, too - just not at first.

Twenty-two years on and in lieu of a real tree, here instead is a Brief History of the Tree in My Street. What better way to make it up to Steve. It's the least can be done for a bloke who is probably dead from liver disease, but you never know.

EASE UP, MOTHER BROWN

Is it right that when English sport's fans sing a song it's always My Old Man's a Dustman with different words?

Martin McCague has a noggin
In it he has much crap
And when he runs in to bowl
He says 'draw me a map'

Sure seems that way, but there are others. Row, Row, Row Your Boat gets a run, as does The Hokey Kokey, among other ... err ... timeless refrains. But no matter what you think of them, the point is - they're singable. (The "Barmy Army ... Barmy Army" chant is strangely hypnotic.)

What about our selection? Well, you already know where I'm going, don't you. The hideous Aussie Three Times is just about our lot, coupled with the Mexican Wave. No sane person participates in this nonsense. Whereas the bath-dodgers' chanting points to a bunch of pissed accountants on holiday having a laugh. Our one song screams "Flee! Bogans!" It's tragic.

Then there's Jerusalem. Spine tingling, right. But what do WE get? If the powers that be (marketers) had final say it would be Hey, True Blue by John Williamson, PA*. Jerusalem versus HTB - not much of a contest, is it.

We don't even have a worthwhile maybe. I'd pick Dave Warner's Half Time at the Football, but apart from the fact virtually no one's heard the song, it's just a little bit blue. Khe Sanh could probably be beaten into shape. I'm not holding my breath. This morning on the wireless, fatheads rung in suggesting songs. Downunder said one caller. Whoopee-not. Another proposed a spastic version of Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again. "Bravo, that's great," oozed the radiohead. "I hate a sunburnt country," sighed at least one listener.

* Professional Australian.

DIRECTOR'S CATS

Just watched King Arthur (Director's Cut). It's hard to imagine this was an improvement. What's one body part being hacked off compared with another? That's mainly what the film amounted to, Arthur and the team slicing up Saxons, and Keira Nighty in wode. But it's a bit rich, don't you think, for a movie released in 2004. Shouldn't a little more time pass? It would give the director a chance to reflect on things, or develop a drinking problem, at the very least. How long can it be until first release fillums are labelled Director's Cut?

Still, it gave me an idea. If bigtime film people can change their gazillion dollar projects because they don't like the way the claret splatters, why can't I change my posts? There is no reason, is there.

So, at the risk of being labelled a fractious auteur, here is yesterday's post which had been butchered after producers read the rough cut. It incorporates ALL that legendary stolen lost footage and the second pun in the title which market research deemed laugh-lite:

Sox Offiender (Director's Cut)

People complain a little too much about socks worn with sandals. Do you know why that is so? Well, I will tell you why that is so. It is because they are boring, and most likely bloggers.

Better, don't you agree.

TWENTY/20 VISION

The Quicket. So I watched some, and then I blinked. Did I miss anything?

SOX OFFENDER

People drone on about socks and sandals. Why, I don't know. If you've got cold feet, you put on socks. It's really not that difficult.

NOT QUITE RIGHTS

Just prior to Christmas one of my Sydney spies had lunch with Channel Seven honcho David Leckie. You'll recall this was also just prior to Channel Nine submitting their $780 million bid for the AFL rights. Not surprisingly, the rights came up in conversation. "If Packer died this week," Leckie said, "James would make sure Nine got the rights." A superb mozz, it turned out, coupled with an accurate prediction. Kerry Packer DID indeed punt the pail the following week, and Nine DID win the rights. As we now know, that's not how things ended. While Kerry is still dead, and Seven cross their fingers he will be for some time yet, Nine didn't ultimately end up with the rights. In 1997 Seven had paid $20 million to secure the option to submit the final bid; this option they exercised last Thursday when they increased their initial offer to trump Nine. A result that may have surprised Leckie who had also conceded "There is no way we'll match Nine's offer." An incorrect and/or misleading statement that neatly echoes last year's media coverage of the whole rights issue. "Seven/Ten coup!" "Nine back in the running!" Seven/Ten in the box seat!" "Cloud Nine!" You get the picture? One thing comes racing to mind -  all over the place like a mad woman's sh ... erry.

So now that Seven/Ten have the rights, where does that leave us? Well, me.

For a start, let me make one thing clear - up until 2001 I loathed Channel Seven's footy coverage. I'm not really sure why, but it's probably something to do with their continually boasting "Seven has been home of football for 40-odd years". Has been, is right. The claim that somehow Seven provided superior coverage because they had done so since John Coleman did his knee at Golgotha was a tedious insult. Their coverage, especially their commentators, had for at least the previous ten years been utterly dreadful. If you don't believe me, take a squizz at some of their nineties footage currently shown on Fox Footy - it's gruesome. Nor should it be ignored that in those 40-some years, natural technological advances aside, Seven made startlingly few worthwhile improvements to their telecasts. I was happy they lost the rights. A change is as good as a long weekend, they say. Losing the rights might make them lift their game for next time. For the next five years we would be spared Ian Robertson's back-pedals "Oh well, I suppose the umpire's in the best position" after he'd bagged a decision. Or his shit-canning spectators doing what spectators do "Look at that idiot!" Seriously - he says that. Or Terry Wheeler's "I'm just happy to be here." Well, that's what it amounted to for Terry, and for that matter, Seven in general. Then there was Seven's mantra - never bag the product. They took suck-coverage to previously unhoneyed heights of unctuousness. They even suspended a commentator for criticizing Telstra Dome's surface. Absurd.

That's not to say I'm a huge fan of Nine or Ten.

It's often said that Nine's Friday night telecasts are as good as Aussie Rules coverage has ever been. There's something in that, but it's a little overstated. Sure, the package is slick, what with all the bells and whistles, but there was a little too much garnishing for me. And don't forget, the games are still not live. Their Sunday afternoon live games were adequate, despite Dwayne Russell, but their 4 pm replay was dodgy. Chock full of ads and with Tony Jones continually glancing at a lap-top sitting on his desk. Why? Who knows. Standard studio prompts apparently weren't good enough. Maybe they'd spent all the budget on Friday night. This farce is probably why Seven want Sunday twilight games. Nor was I ever comfortable with Eddie in his role as Collingwood prez, media journo and Friday night caller. Nine's blurring of those roles smacked of arrogance. "We think Eddie's the best caller, so that's the way it is." Ed as host, but not caller, would have been a satisfactory arrangement. Apart from anything else, Eddie is not a particularly good caller. He's ok, sure, but up against the pros, Cometti, Lane, McAvaney, he comes across as an excited schoolboy. Not surprisingly, most of the blockheads ringing up radio stations in recent days have given one reason in particular for their being glad Seven has the rights - no Eddie. Rock all punters have rung to bag Nine's coverage. Of course, plenty of those callers were also glad to be shot of Dermot Brereton. They're right, the guy is an embarrassment, a pretentious clod. And the haaaiiiirrr!!

Channel Ten is strictly meat and potatoes. Tim Lane is fine, but Anthony Hudson's voice is sport's nearest thing to fingernails on a blackboard. Steven Quartermaine is cut from the same cloth as Eddie. Few commentators make as many outright mistakes as Michael Christian, he's a boob. Ten's special comment teams are atrocious. Steven Silvagni is token, he's getting better, but he's a colourless drone in the box. Malcolm Blight employs the scattergun approach, throw ten way-out comments and maybe one will appear vaguely sensible. Robert Walls is a specialist in the bleedin' obvious. "That was a great goal, Robert," throws Huddo. "Yes, Anthony, it was." Thanks, guru - thanks for fuck all. Ten also have a fixation whereby a variety of statistics must be stuck in the corner of the screen. Thanks, guys, but the score will do. Their camerawork is haphazard. The last quarter in the grand final was just abysmal. Chances are they set a world record for the number of unnecessary crowd-shots. Tip to Ten: it's the game we want to see, not the clods in the crowd.

A quick note on the ratings. Accepted wisdom has Seven picking up one to two points to finally best Nine as the top channel. This doesn't add up. For years when Seven had the footy, it tanked in the ratings, yet when they lost the footy, they improved their numbers. There's every chance that now they have the footy back, Seven's numbers will drop. Nine has suddenly freed up zillions of dollars to throw at other promotions, while Seven is already talking about cutting costs. And, of course, Nine are still going to clobber the other stations in the rugby league states. Come to think of it, should a footballed-up Seven go backwards in the ratings hot on the heels of a footballed-up Nine performing below their best (Although they ARE still winning!), it will make for an interesting bidding process next time round. Will the worth of televising footy be revised down? Does that mean the next rights would sell for less? That'd be a kick in the pants for the AFL. It would be a laugh, too, if Foxtel refused to deal with Seven and Seven ended up having to show Friday night games live into Sydney against the rugby league double-headers. I'll make a bold statement here: Seven did not shell out all that money so they could rate single figures in Sydney. Fox will threaten to knock back offers from Seven, but only to drive down the price. Seven need Fox to help defray the cost of the rights and to take the heat off in the northern markets on Friday night.

Boiled down to leather and liniment, most footy fans just want to see the games. This is like as not going to stay the same as it is now - a 5/3 split between free-to-air and Foxtel. (If Seven strike a deal with ESPN, and ESPN slot in ads like they do elsewhere, I'm dumping cable.) There's every chance the vision will be as good, if not better, than it is now. And yes, that does mean we'll continue to get too many close-ups, and not enough perspective footage.

Nope, it's not the vision that has me concerned, it's the commentary. Who's in the frame?

Bruce McAvaney is a certainty to be the front man. He knows his onions, they key is to get him to turn off the sugar and appreciate that there's nothing wrong with being critical. No gushing would be a bonus. Dennis Cometti is the best footy commentator in the land. Needs to lay off the comedy routines, but it would be criminal if Seven didn't have him back. Tim Lane will still be doing his thing at Ten.

After those three, the pickings are slim. There is a huge pool of callers and special comments men, but little depth. Wayne Schwass, Wayne Carey, Tim Watson, Danny Frawley, James Brayshaw (in moderation) are a few that I can handle, but they are way outnumbered by the plonkers. While Fox, Ten and Nine have plenty of dead wood, just look who Seven currently have in stable and I defy you not to howl in pain. Robertson, Sandy Roberts, Dipper, Joanna Griggsh may show up somewhere (Women commentators?), Rex Hunt, Paul Salmon - fuck! That line-up is just too hideous to dwell on. Paul Salmon?!? Sob. Fingers crossed Seven will show us some mercy. With any luck they'll ditch the boundary rider gimmick and ban "roll the dice", "the dish", "coast to coast" and "kicking from the paint".

Expect to see about the same from Ten. It's Seven that needs to take the big strides to catch up to, and then overtake current standards if it doesn't want to be unfavourably compared with Nine. But as always with Seven there's the gnawing suspicion that they'll jump into the new era full steam a-hind. What's that I hear? That's What I Like About Football, is it? No it's Fanfare for the Common Man.

CACKAPULCO GOLD

You got Foxtel? Well, check out this interview with Cheech & Chong on Showtime. Yes, that Cheech & Chong - "Dave's not here, maaan" and all that guff. I know, I know, their laugh-by date's a concern, but don't jump the gun and get all stoner-gag harrumph on me. Sure, drugs come up, but mainly they just talk about those days. It really is a funny interview with a couple of likeable blokes. Pity it only went for 25 minutes.

FOOLS BOLD

"Graham Smith made a 'bold' declaration". How many times you hear that today? Or a variation of it - brave, sporting, tempting, take your pick. Plenty, I'd say. To be perfectly frank, I was stunned when Smith waved the Saffa innings closed, I was expecting them to bat for at least another half hour to further lessen the chance of an Aussie win. A target of 287 on pitch kept in good nick by the weather, and without any spinners to speak of meant that Yarp Efrica needed their seamers to get early wickets or they were in big trouble. Turns out Langefelt, Pollock, Jacques and Nel couldn't cut through so that once the shine was off the ball, they were basically fucked. Nor is that your pants-wetting battery of speed demons circa the 1980's Windies. In short, Smith misread the pitch. It was similar to when Australia played New Zealand at the Gabba in 2001. Steve Waugh (seemingly goaded by Mark Taylor in the commentary box) made a 'sporting' declaration on day 5 after much time was lost due to rain. This left NZ with an eminently gettable target of 284. NEVER give a sucker an even break. Australia had dominated the game, yet here was NZ suddenly given a chance to pinch the match on what amounted to a day three pitch, historically the best batting day at the Gabba. In the end, Australia only managed to draw the game after McGrath bowled an over of balls wide down leg side - hardly a dignified save.

Where the circs differed was in the motivations for the declaration. Australia were (over?)confident of bowling out NZ to take a 1/0 lead in the series whereas SA needed to win today to draw the series so Smith was left with a difficult decision to make. He made it wrong. Smith criticised Ponting for not making a 'generous' declaration in Perth, thus backing himself into a corner whereby he needed to make the 'bold' call or he'd look like a dick. If I was the sort of bloke who had a tendency to feel sorry for opposition players, I might almost, nearly, just about be tempted to feel sorry for him. But I'm not. While the weather undoubtedly denied Sorth Efrica the chance to set up a big total, Smith has talked the talked, but dramatically porked the walk. Stiff shit to him.

Incidentally, the last captain to declare twice and lose a test was Honsie Cronje in January 2000 when two declarations meant England won a test by two wickets in what was generally considered an ... err ... 'interesing' result. South Africa's second innings declaration was designated as a forfeit whereas England's first innings declaration was marked with the somewhat less pointed 0/0 dec. Not that I'm, you know, suggesting anything untoward happened today. Not at all. Never. Perish the thought.

Unbogging ourselves from declarations. To chase down any 'challenging' fourth innings target the side batting last needs one particular thing to happen - to keep the scoreboard ticking over. There's no future in plodding to a result, sides that try on that business invariably build the pressure on themselves until a spate of wickets sees them having to stonewall for a draw. In fact, that's almost what I expected to happen today - sans the plodding. Australia would have been expected to have a dash early and maybe get in some bother late in the day thus causing them to put up the shutters. But in Ricky Ponting, Australia have just the batsman to keep the runs flowing. He is currently the best batsman in the world and in ... ahem ... 'career best form'. His innings today was another gem. Ponting = Gun. At no stage was he troubled by the toothless bowling, and then when South Africa threw in the towel around the tea break, easy runs were there for the taking. Why wasn't Nel introduced to shake things up? Rudolph and Botha? Yer kidding, right. Mind you, even as Australia were cruising to victory fingernails were consumed as I recalled previous painful chases. Fanie De Villiers, anyone? As noted cricket stalwart, Dr Zachary Smith was prone to say "Oooh, the pain".

Australia have now won the series 2/0 when at stages, and in particular, if Sarth Efrica had held their catches, the Aussies could have looked at losing 0/3. The Yarps play disciplined, hard cricket and back at home will be hard to beat. But. They need better bowlers.

BO BALL

Johan Botha chucks it, that much is clear. Sadly, what's not clear is by how much - just calling "no ball" doesn't cut it. New rules prevent an umpire from looking at Botha and making a judgement. In matters of chucking, unlike Elbee, an umpire isn't trusted to umpire. Ludicrous, of course, but there you are.

How did it come to this? Well, the ICC, for whatever reason (Sno job?), were looking for an out which had them assessing old footage to determine that nearly ALL bowlers chuck, ergo there needs to be a little flexibility (a wickedly flexible word, in itself) in the rules. Ha! That's a good one. Like a little wobble in, say, Dennis Lillee's action should or could be compared with the structural abortion that is, say, Murali's doosra. Speed merchants will always be able to bowl pretty damn quick without flex, sure, some will occasionally wobble, but on the other side of things, spinners will never be able to bowl the doosra without flex. (Sacky Mushtaq's toppy is my exception, but as toppy implies, I don't consider it a true doosra.) In other words, by comparing a spinner's action against the vastly different action of a fast bowler, spinners are allowed to cheat. Farcical, I know.

The single greatest criticism of the new process is that a bowler can try to work within the allowable tolerance at the UWA bowling doctor, get certifiad A1, but then out on the field, do pretty much what he likes. It's that old comparison thing of getting your driver's license. If you are caught driving like an idiot, you can't then use the excuse "Now, come on, officer - driving recklessly? But I passed my test!" Dave Richardson at the ICC, while comparing Botha to Harby, acknowledges (inadvertently?) that point in today's Australian.

Amount of flex sees Botha in new light

Harbhajan's case highlights the problems with the ICC's handling of suspected chuckers. The body found that he did not throw when being analysed but appeared to when playing.

"There is no doubt that the action analysed in the University of Western Australia showed Harbhajan bowling with an action that is in accordance with the regulations," ICC general manager of cricket David Richardson said.

"The analysis of the action used during the Pakistan match identifies some differences including the position of the feet and the speed of the delivery.

"However, Mr Portus (the biomechanist) was unable to reach a definitive conclusion on the action used against Pakistan because of the quality of the footage and the camera angles used.

First up - good stuff. It's an anomaly too glaring to let pass indefinitely, or until the ICC hope the problem goes away. But should you choose to play a shot - those of you not hard of thinking will spot the other contradiction. Dodgy old footage is good enough to ping Lillee and co for chucking, but the latest in flash footage is not good enough to do the same for Harby and his fellow campers. I mean - Sky and/or Channel 4 - Channel 9.

Once we've ironed out Botha, let's kick the racist stuff and go after the real offender/s.

AROUND THE BLOCKHEAD

Should you happen to possess 40/40 vision, you'll spot the spirit of Charlie Brown alive in our neighbourhood. The rest of you cloth-eyed bats better click the pitchure.