Hi, I’m Dan Vettori. You know, international cricketers don’t often get to see the sights, so when I found myself with time on my hands recently, I was delighted to dust off the day pack and enjoy historic Hobart.

From the team hotel, walk just a few blocks towards the Tasman bridge and you’ll suddenly be out of the city and amongst greenery and trees on the Domain. There’s parrots in the trees, a reasonably priced cafe, and plenty of room to stretch the hammies and forget all about cricketers with the ability to run pain-free and the “how’s that!” and the “how’s the leg?” Fuck those guys.

From there, it’s a short walk to Sullivan’s Cove, and the sights and sounds of the docks. The shipping activity and the colourful characters means great people watching, and the chance to just melt into the crowd and be just another guy with a beard and a sad, sad story. I had a great night sampling 19 or so of the local whiskeys, and singing sea shanties with fishermen in the streets. They loved my ‘Quint from Jaws’ impression!

The day after, I recommend getting up early and exploring the streetlife and cafe scene of Salamanca. The Machine Laundry Cafe does a fantastic Eggs Benne, the service is fast and friendly and a bit slow on the uptake spotting the old ‘mini bar vodka in the tomato juice’ trick, happy days! I spent a very happy morning there trying not to look at cricinfo on my phone.

Don’t miss the Cadbury Chocolate Factory, with a fascinating tour. You can learn about how your favourite chocolate bars are made. The staff are knowledgeable and friendly, and know how to handle a weeping professional athlete on a self-destructive Violet Crumble eating binge with both professionalism and understanding. Visitors also receive a chocolate treat.

I’d recommend Hobart as a relaxing place to visit – aimlessly walking about a strange city for five days was a great way to deaden the pain of being injured while NZ won our first test on Australian soil since 1985. Hobart’s charms and character meant I could forget about those niggling concerns that the selectors reckon a four seam attack is the way to go long term for the moment. Happy travels everyone!

- a TV comments man writes for sportreview.net.nz

Ok, Ok, Ok. Something’s wrong, REAL wrong. It’s going to be pretty frickin’ hard for me to do my job here. I just can’t see any way this struggle is going to be massive, classic or bruising.

It’s a mid table clash – no-one’s going up, no-one’s going down, literally nothing is riding on the result. There’s no match-ups for representative honors, or scores to settle. This isn’t going to be an arm wrestle, the cocking players are warming up like they’re going to ENJOY THEMSELVES out there. Whoop-de-fuck, get the monopoly board out.

I might as well head home and clear the bottles out of my bed.

I mean, it’s Super Shitting Sunday. The crowd expect some bone crunching action, and yet, it looks as exciting as nine hours in Rotorua International’s transit lounge. I’ve done it, I know.

The coaches? Those fuck-knuckles have a – get this – mutual professional respect. Fuck it. There’s been no outbursts, no slagging, no argument over who’s the underdog. Come ON! I was *this close* to shitting in a bag and cycle couriering to the dugout, let me tell you. That would have mixed things up a bit.

So fucked.

I’m not seeing a range of options here. If this struggle isn’t going to be titanic, that means I’ve showered for NOTHING. I even got ClearEyes from the night chemist on the way home last night. If anyone wants to cock punch a prop and blame it on the opponent’s full back, I’ve got some Sky City chips up here for ya.

Ah fuck it, what’s the point? This match is going to be as much fun as my engagement. Let’s just do a bomb threat and head to the Cossie, they’ll be cranking on a Sunday. Can anyone do an Irish accent?

Hi, I’m Dan Surchzek, former former Senior VP, Adidas Minority Pussy-Ass Sports Division, Pacific rim. Last time we met I was coming off six weeks of Jack Daniels and crying at the ranch. I knew I’d reached rock bottom when I found myself on the roof trying hit the Fedex guy with my Hummer.

So I got the fuck out of the desert – hit the gym, hit rehab, and started a consultancy of my own here in LA, Surchzek Sports No FUCK YOU Ltd. Got bunch of hungry kids from Pi Lamda Kappa working for me – you gotta be hungry when it’s work or a swim in the Hammerhead aquarium. You wanna spend the afternoon in there pretending to be an air hose? No? Head down, motherfuckers.

So, I just got in from 14 sets of of tennis when the phone goes – it’s some black singlet fuck from New Zealand Cricket, who’s all “Dan, our bowling attack is weaker than milk. The Aussies are batting until they just can’t stay awake! This is the most unfair fight since the Feelers took on ACDC in a bar brawl.”

I didn’t know who the fuck the Feelers were. Didn’t matter. I needed time to think, so I had Brad bring me a wrappa-frappa vanilla cream vente with extra Absinthe. One the one hand you got the Aussies – they’re tougher than Mrs Ex-Surchzek’s bitch Lawyer arguing over a parking space after a few drinks. On the other hand you’ve got the Kiwis, probably the only team in the world with an end of season ‘best knitting’ prize. We’re talkin’ assholes v pussies.

The situation reminded me of the SSNFY LTD team off-site. Anyone can take the team to a hotel for PowerPoint and hugs – my team’s offsite was three weeks naked in the desert – you survive, you still got a job. Thinking back, the turning point was when I buzzed the fellas in my chopper and threw them some Rambo-knives so as they could hunt rattlers. I took me some pussies out to the desert, but I bought me back some assholes – they just needed the right tools. Are you thinking what I’m thinking, amigo?

I’m on fuckin fire – I get New Zealand on the phone and tell ‘em “little Timmy Southee’s not going to scare any Aussie batsman, no matter how fast he runs – but give Timmy a bat of his own, and you even up the odds. You get me? A solid block to Katich’s helmet’s gonna make him think twice about being out there. A good connection with Clarke’s protector’s gonna make him think of spending the winter with Lara. A potentially career threatening hit to Ponting’s knee will have him shaving his arms and heading for the Channel Nine commentary team.

Bam! The Surchzek of mass destruction has done it again, and I still got time to make my 10am Ultimate Fighting Max class – the max means I’m fighting Panda Bears. Surchzek out.

“…and then Toddy said to me ‘OK mate, I’ve signed your arm, now get out of my bathroom…

“What’s that mate? Bangladesh? Yep, it’s a strip club, we were headed there for Dirk’s stag, but I got into a fight in KFC and spent the night in a cell. Nicked all their bog roll, though.

“What? Cricket? Bangladesh? It’s a country? Key the Falcon, never heard of it. They any good? Useless? Yip. If the Black Caps can beat em they must be as handy as four Swiss army knives in your arse.

“I’ll tell you the problem with Cricket – Cricketers are farkin soft. You’re meant to spend summer in The Sounds drinking piss with a broken arm, not getting grass stains out of your trousers. I bet those Cricket shit heels haven’t even been on a Jet-Ski.

“I mean the AUSSIES are good at Cricket. Aussies. We gave them Robbie Farkin Deans and they can’t even get a decent Rugby team together. That’s about as wrong as taking your missus to the trots. We could sort the Black Caps out with Robbie, a bottle of Coruba and a locked room.

“Have I watched any of the games? I’d rather try and shave my back. Julie Seymour could be wandering around in her undies at fine leg, and I’d only flick over during the ads.

“We done? Good.

“…anyway, I farkin wish I hadn’t drawn Stephen Brett on me Drizabone in Vivid…”

Hi, I’m Chris Martin, Black Caps paceman and ‘get the roller ready’ batsman. Har!

As an international Cricketer, I’ve got it pretty good, bowling, fielding, practicing, traveling the world, looking myself up on cricinfo.com, walking through airports with a big bags. It’s a great time.

But sometimes, you know, I reckon it’d be sweet to work in an office. Walking in, all “What’d you get up to at the weekend?”, “What about the Rugby?” and “I bet it’s raining in Wellington!” I mean, usually when I walk into the dressing room, I’m all “Who nailed my bat to the door? And my bloody undies?” Offices are awesome.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great life being a Cricketer, chewing gum and reading the paper and that, but I could really handle just, like, photocopying TPS reports and staring at the wall. I’d be into that. By myself. Just… thinking. Wicked!

I couldn’t imagine anyone in an office giving me shit about my name, either, people in offices would be all “Chris Martin? Yeah, I really love Coldplay, eh. I’ve got all their albums, do you want to come watch my ‘Viva La Vida La Birmingham’ Blu-Ray one night? I’ve got a massive, massive plasma. And a BMW.” That’d be wicked.

You just know where you stand in an office, everyone’s got a desk, a seat, work to do. I wouldn’t even mind being on a kitchen roster, I’d probably grumble a bit, but it’d be fine, really. There’s a whole DEPARTMENT to sort out your problems. The HR department. You could probably look yourself up on hrinfo.com. I’d love an HR department here, no more thrashing about blindly in the showers bawling “FIGHT YOU! FIGHT YOU ALL! COME ON!” Good times.

So yeah, count me in. Looking forward to that office. Coffee. Signing big cards and putting money in envelopes. Maybe a computer. A cake on your birthday! Probably have to buy it yourself, but still. Probably be heaps less bats chucked around in an office. Eh. That’d be sweet.

Life is pretty sweet on the All Black bench. I mean check out the view – we’re talking ground level. Half way line. You CAN’T get closer to the action than this. I’ve even got an umbrella. That says All Blacks on it.

“What’s that? Warm up? Few stretches? Want a cuppa while I’m up? No? OK then.”

This rules. Running around. Warming up. I’ll probably cough up some snot badgers or bust out the wicked nose clearances later. Maybe the folks will catch it on telly.

What people at home don’t realise is that it’s not *really* a bench. It’s actually a whole lot of seats in a row, kind of seats you get a lot in school halls or gyms. They’re pretty comfortable, and take no time at all to stack away.

“Hey! Can I have one of those Poweraides? Blue one? Thanks mate!”

We get those free, by the way. I could probably get a Moro if I wanted.

So yeah, it’s a pretty good deal I reckon, spending your Saturday nights on a bench. It can get pretty cold in the winter, but you still get to have a shower after. The only thing to remember is shutting up when Ian Smith’s talking into his microphone, Smithy gets a pretty sandy vagina if you bugger up his bit. Those Moros come in handy, sometimes.

So yeah, this is it. Kicking back, sat on your arse catching the game. You can really see the world from a bench. I mean, if I get picked for the tour I could be sitting on benches in Italy. Wales. France. I bet the HQ benches are frickin’ sweet.

- You get here by 5.45am. You’re not here by 5.45am, it’s the car radio.

- Come alone. You bring the wife? You’re going home. Kids? You’re going home. That Welsh guy from your work? Home. Clear? Good.

- Bring beer.  Yeah it’s Sunday morning, but this is Rugby. We drink. There’ll be no ‘make one can last the whole game and pour most of it in the sink like the World Cup’, either. It’s three cans per half minimum, and I’m going to be watching you like a fucking hawk.

- You stay quiet while I’m arguing with the commentators unless you’re saying “yeah, Greg’, ‘that’s right, Greg’, ‘good point well made, Greg’, or ‘you should be the commentator, Greg’. I’ll be ringing Deaker after, too, don’t you worry.

- Seeing as you’re around here watching my Sky, I’m going to need $25. That’s half my month’s subscription. Not fair? An 18 month ban from the Rugby club for shit that was never proved’s not fair, either. Just cos a joker’s got spray can on him for a bit of DIY on Sunday doesn’t mean he’s sprayed ‘We Are All Qeers’ on Eastern’s coach. Does it? Didn’t think so.

- Choose one from ‘cell phone off’ or ‘painful kick in the nuts’.

- If the All Blacks win, we’re on the piss for the day, mate. You gotta celebrate. DIY, Kid’s day, blah blah blah, what are ya? We’re going to the RSA. You’re driving.

- If the All Blacks lose you need pack your shit and be out in 60 seconds, starting from final whistle. If I’ve got a whole day of staring angrily at the lawn mower ahead, I want an early start.

…so Yoda pulled up in his Ford and says “What the bloody hell are you doing in my wheelie bin?”…

What’s that mate? Cricket? Shiiiiiiiiiit. Cricket’s about as interesting as shopping, I reckon. Shopping that’s not at Bunnings.

How are we going, anyway? We lost to Bangladesh? Doesn’t surprise me. Bloody  Black Caps. They’ve got more losers than the Graham farkin’ Henry fan club AGM.

We won the next one? Doesn’t surprise me. You can turn bad form around pretty farkin’ easily when you want to. Reminds me of Smelly Dave’s 21st. He was spewing when we called compulsory six wine skulls, one for each toe on his left foot. He did them alright, but had to go sit quietly in the laundry for a while. Fair enough, it was 8.30am. Still did a 3.19 for the yard, pretty fair effort, that.

Last one’s tonight? We’ll lose. There’s no mongrel. They need mongrel. And Robbie Deans. Robbie’d have that pack of pretty boys performing before you could say “SORRY I BURNED THE TOAST, PREFECT MERTHENS, NOT THE STRAP, NOT THE STRAP!” Ah ha. Yeah.

I might watch the match, but fark, if something else comes up, like a case of Canterbury Draught in the driveway with the dog, forget it. We done? Good.

…so yeah, I don’t reckon the Wallabies’ white bra-stripe is that bad, actually…

More

Hola, I’m Dan Surchzek, former Senior VP, Adidas Minority Pussy-Ass Sports Division, Pacific rim. Me and Adidas had a little falling out when the partners actually dragged their sorry asses into the building and saw my new office. My $134,000 new office. You know, taste is an extremely personal thing – if you can’t handle sculpture of a gargoyle raping a goat, that’s your problem, not mine. Ces’t la fuckin’ Vie amigos.

I needed time to think, so I bought a ranch in Arizona. Got me a porch, a sniper rifle and a bluetooth headset. I can sit in the shade, take calls and nail baby Armadillos all day long. I’m a consultant now.

So yesterday I just finished a 25 mile run when the phone rings – it’s New Zealand on the line. No, they don’t wanna fit rocket launchers on NZL92 to make that shit interesting. It’s the Rugby Union. They’ve got a problem with the NPC. Sheesh. You ring the Surchzekenegger and interrupt his warm down with a Rugby problem? The NPC? What is that, the National Pussy Championship? Fuckin’ Rugby.

Anyhoo, it’s their money. They got three problems. Number one: The crowds don’t give a shit about the NPC. Number two: The players don’t give a shit about the NPC, they all want to be in France. Number three: The Rugby Union don’t give a shit about the NPC. Turns out they get more money for showing porn. Whatever. They need a plan to kill this piss-ant competition once and for all.

They came to the right place. The Surchzekinator always has a plan. When Pi Lamda Kappa had a situation, and everyone was screaming ‘I can’t believe a spine can do that!’ and ‘But I’m the Governor’s son!’ it was me who got the paddling pool and the wood chipper. I’ve had more great plans than Paris Hilton’s had freakin’ morons. I needed some time to think. I chugged Power-shakes with Jack chasers. I shot a few Armadillos. I went on a crying jag on the kitchen floor. When I came to I had all the answers.

Turns out it’s real simple. You got a competition you don’t want? No problem, you make it self destruct like a Surchzek Senior parole hearing. The crowds don’t give a shit? Screw ‘em, we’ll have security rough the fans up when they enter, rough ‘em up during the game, and rough ‘em up on the way out. You want a drink? Drink goat piss. You want food? Eat shit on rye. $25 bucks each. Oh, and we’ll be playing ‘Barbie Girl’ all day long, as loud as it goes. You gotta be careful what you wish for, right?

Players wanna go to France? Whatever, there’s more Rugby players in New Zealand than crabs on my ex-wife. Actually, fuck those guys, we’ll force some midweek lady golfers to play for freakin’ Tarankai. How you like them apples? Three or four weeks of humanity-sapping action like that will bury the NPC once and for all. It’ll be like an Armadillo in the Surchezk cross-hairs. People will vomit when they just see the LOGO. The NZRFU can concentrate on makin’ money in the Super 36. Yeah, I’m consulting on that one, too.

So, the Surchzeker has solved all New Zealand’s problems and I’d only been consulting a week. Only thing to do, friends, is load the rifle, pour a Martini, and start thinking about breakfast. Catch you on the flip side, Amigos.

Great to see the Herald’s graphic artists stoop to the crappy-PowerPoint-speech-bubble-level. Pull up a chair boys, there’s beer in the fridge. Mind the stain… that one too… there you go.

Here’s today’s front page:

And the close up…

This is great, but remember – you can make them say anything. Why stop at paraphrasing what they’ve already said? Go nuts, really. It’s fun. Case in point:

(click for original)