…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…
