On Sunday I went down to Leith to see my friend Lainey run in her first half marathon. Thirteen miles is a truly grueling endeavour, but luckily there was plenty of sustenance around - all the essential carbohydrate, protein, lard and gristle an athlete needs.
I don't know what it is about running events that make me want to bawl like a baby. I don't care much for the sinewy professionals; it's the ordinary folk that tug at my heartstrings. I watch out for the really old, the really slow, the really wobbly and just let the tears stream behind my sunglasses. I wonder about all those different lives and stories, how they came to run in such a long race, what it means to them. You can't help feeling good about humanity.
Lainey finished in fine style and we were so bloody proud. I didn't cry all over her as she was salty enough already!
All that armchair athletics had me totally bursting for the loo so we went over to the Ocean Terminal shopping centre. All three levels of retail paradise were clogged with proud runners and their shiny medals.
In the ladies, I was washing my hands and reflecting on that touching sporting spectacle when a woman staggered out of a stall. She had very pink cheeks and was wearing a tracksuit and trainers.
I beamed at her, my eyes still glistening with tears from before. "Well DONE!" I said cheerily.
She shot me a bewildered, what the fuck, you freak look and quickly made her exit. That's when I noticed all the shopping bags. Oh. She was not a runner. She was just a lady doing her shopping, who happened to have pink cheeks and a casual sporty style.
Anyway, I forgot my embarrassment when I spotted the most genius contraption on the wall.
A hair straightener for hire! Just insert a £1 coin!
This has to be the most marvellous innovation in public toiletry since those chew-able balls of toothpaste. Straight hair is very important to chicks in this country. It needs to be straight, it needs to be flat, it needs to be scorched into submission. Which is easy enough to achieve at home, but there's always the danger your work will come undone the minute you step out into the weather. But thanks to the Straight 'N' Go, no girls-night-out needs to be tragically cut short by frizzy locks.
LASS 1: Omigod, I've got a kink!
LASS 2: Dinnae worry doll, I've got a pound!
After an agonising five-month wait, the 2007 MotoGP season starts tomorrow! If you're in the UK and you have a telly, it all cranks up at 11.30AM on BBC2.
Seriously folks. The last season was the most wild and thrilling spectacle I'd ever witnessed. More exciting than say, being trapped naked in a tub of Nutella with Ed O'Brien from Radiohead. And 2007 is set to be a cracker, with Valentino Rossi on pole and looking to claw back the title he lost last year. To make things interesting, everyone is on new 800cc bikes that look to be even speedier than the old fellas.
My grandmother used to be a hardcore rugby league fan; nothing would come between her and the Parramatta Eels. We showed up for a visit one Mother's Day and she made us all sit quietly in the kitchen and completely ignored us until half time. It's only now that I can understand her priorities. I've entered all the MotoGP dates into my diary and all social engagements, holidays and haircuts between now and November shall be arranged around the race calendar.
So. If you have just 45 minutes to spare every couple of weeks, I urge you to give the two-wheeled soap opera a chance. There's plenty of characters and crashes and OVERTAKING, unlike those Formula 1 ponces. There's bimbo brolly girls and midget men in leather suits with horrible designs. Just give it a go, is all I'm saying. Somebody, share my joy!
The longer I'm away from Australia the more obsessed I become with sport. I guess it's a sad little way to feel closer to home.
Top Three Sporting Spectacles of 2006
3. Commonwealth Games, March
For that one glorious day when Scotland topped the medal tally, for the hilarious lawn bowls commentary, and just for two wistful weeks watching beautiful Melbourne on the telly.
2. World Cup, June/July
The highs! The lows! The weeks on the couch with barely a pause to bathe! I'll never forget the joy of Australia v Croatia or the devastating kick in the guts that was Australia v Italy. And I will just gloss over that whole headbutting palaver and remember the most important lesson to be learned from the World Cup - that Zinedine Zidane looks much better without hair.
L: Non. R: Oui!
1. MotoGP, The Entire 2006 Season
The day before the first race of the year started I almost wrote an entry BEGGING somebody, anybody; to tune in and give this sport a go in 2006. Share my joy, you bastards. But I didn't, and World Champ Valentino Rossi crashed out on the first turn, kicking off the most spectacular, unpredictable, tense, action-packed season in history.
From the nailbiting finish at Mugello to Dani Pedrosa "taking out" his own teammate at the penultimate race, to Rossi's devastating crash right in front of our stand at Valencia, there were many moments when I almost wept at being so bloody fortunate to witness the sheer brilliance of it all! Luckily Gareth bought me the Season Highlights DVD so I can relive it over and over like a sad git.
And Mothership, I apologise for being a little distant when you first arrived on my doorstep back in July; but it was right in the middle of a very exciting British GP.
Most Unspectacular Sporting Spectacle of 2006(07)
The Ashes
As I write this, I'm watching the English tail being killed off in the final test match. Or to be more accurate, I'm watching the radio coverage on the digital telly, which means just voices and a scoreboard. If you want moving pictures with your cricket over here you have to pay for Sky cable. Damn you, Rupert Murdoch! But the BBC's radio commentary and nightly TV highlights were great, and their ball-by-ball live blogging action is always hilarious.
79 sleeps until the 2007 MotoGP season starts.
There is something compelling about a man with a ham. A giant pig leg with the hoof still on it, slung casually over his shoulder like a banjo. There were hundreds of Ham Men at the MotoGP in Valencia. At the gates, security guards confiscated cans of beer and jars of olives but it was perfectly okay to bring in your giant pig leg and a very large knife for carving it.
On Saturday during the Qualifying, I was torn between watching the bikes or the Ham Man sitting in front of me. Every couple of hours he would haul the ham onto his lap, the little black trotter resting on his shoulder. Then he'd whip out his knife and saw away like a cello, peeling off perfectly thin slices. His mate carved up breadsticks and arranged the ham and plump wedges of tortilla on top of them.
"Well," said Gareth as they munched away, "Sure beats chips and curry sauce!"
"Why didn't we bring a pig leg and a big knife?" I whined. The heat made me cranky as it was, but a severe dose of Ham Envy was pushing me over the edge. Especially when all I had was a shitty cereal bar and a bag of crisps from Tesco.
Somewhere someplace over the last four years I completely lost my tolerance for high temperatures. My body has erased its memory of going to school and baby-sitting sheep and frying chickens at KFC in the middle of harsh Australian summers. Now it whimpers and turns a violent shade of pink when faced with anything over twenty-five degrees.
On Qualifying Day it was well into the mid-thirties. We baked in direct sunlight in an unsheltered grandstand for the six hottest hours of the day. Surely this was grounds for having my Australian passport revoked. I feverishly slapped on more sunscreen and pulled my hat down harder over my brow. And what possessed me to wear jeans? I was frying. Frying! I expected black smoke to rise from my thighs at any second. I chugged down more water but you could almost hear it spit and fizz into nothing as it hit my innards. There was no escape.
Finally it was over and the Ham Men picked up their piggies and we headed for the train station, all 100,000 of us. I was deliriously happy despite being semi-blinded by stray sunscreen, because Valentino Rossi had snatched pole position and Australia's own Troy Bayliss had qualified second. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, the most exciting MotoGP season evah would be decided and we would be right there! I quite literally began to tremble with what I assumed was anticipation.
It took two hours to fight our way to the station. This is always a bit of an ordeal. It's not so much a station as a tiny little platform overlooking the orange groves. There's tens of thousands of people waiting for very infrequent trains that have half a dozen clunky carriages. And it's only a single track line, so it always seems like forever. When we finally got onto the platform there must have been 500 people wedged on with us.
So many bodies. So many sweaty bodies in garish, polyester Official MotoGP merchandise. I sipped my now-warm water and watched a bunch of Spanish people sitting on a crate of freshly-picked oranges. They tossed the red string bags around the platform and everyone helped themselves, chattering as they peeled with nimble fingers.
"They're eating fruit," I whispered to Gareth, "Look at them all! Fruit! Have you ever seen something passed around a train platform that wasn't a smoke or a can of Irn-Bru?"
I could feel the temperature climb higher. Where was the train? I stood on tip-toe in an attempt to gulp in some fresh air. And that's when I recognised the feeling. A sudden hollowness in my belly. A limpness in my limbs; a tiny rumble as if my blood was about to boil. Uh oh. That ol' Radiohead Concert Feeling.
"Are you okay?" asked Gareth. I nodded silently and linked my arms around his neck.
My vision swirled in and out of focus. I pinched my arm hard and growled to myself, You are not going to faint! Especially not in front of these beautiful Spaniards and all their hams and oranges!
But down I went. Gareth reported that my legs collapsed gently like a folding garden chair but my hands stayed clenched around his neck, so I was balanced on my tiptoes and swaying like an orangutan. Down and out cold in the heat amongst the orange peels.
"Whoa dude!" Gareth yelped, "Steve, give us a hand here!"
Gareth's mate Steve immediately sprang to action with his precision Army Reserve training.
"Excuse me people! Make way!" he yelled. The crowd shuffled aside obediently as they hauled my limp, red, dehydrated lump of a body to the back of the platform. "Gracias, gracias!"
A nubile young Spanish lass with a Nicky Hayden baseball cap leaped forward and furiously fanned me with the paper fan she happened to be holding.
"Thanks!" said Gareth.
"De nada," she shrugged sweetly.
"A chick did not fan with me a fan," I scoffed later, when I had returned to consciousness.
"She totally did!" said Gareth, "Lots of the Spanish chicks had fans. You should have seen her fanning you, it was brilliant. It was like an old silent movie or something!"
The first thing I saw when I came round was concrete and the orange peels and the golden feet of Spanish people.
"Oh fuck."
"Are you alright?" asked Gareth.
"I am fine. Just humiliated."
"I don't think you've had enough to drink and eat today."
"I told you we should have got a pig leg." I sat up slowly and adjusted my hat, pulling it down over my nose and wishing the brim would swallow my red face and my inept, weakling body too.
Mercifully, a train arrived. I sprang to my feet, got my elbows out and began fighting my way through the crowd. I had to get a seat. I knew I would spew if I had to stand for an hour back into Valencia. There were all manner of limbs and orange crates and sun-umbrellas and hams poking into me but I wriggled my way on board and slumped into the last seat. Score!
Gareth and Steve made it on too, and gave me the thumbs up. More pretty Spanish chicks squeezed on too, many of them giving me sympathetic smiles. I felt my face burn redder and redder.
And then the train pulled away. In the wrong direction.
So we had to pile off at the next stop and it was another two hours before we finally got back to Valencia. We stopped at the hostel to change before going out to replenish my energy levels with paella.
It was then I noticed my eyebrows. They were completely caked with multiple applications of sunscreen. White and bright like two fuzzy caterpillars.
"Did you know about this?" I pointed accusingly to Gareth.
"Oops."
"No wonder those Spanish chicks were smiling at me! As if I didn't look stupid enough already, the red and hapless foreigner conked out cold! Why didn't you tell me!"
"We were busy scraping your lifeless form off the platform, remember?"
"Fair enough."
"Anyway," he grinned, "What are we going to do about this growing trend of you passing out at Exciting Events? You'll have to start a new category for your blog, Places Where I Fainted. First the Radiohead concert, now the MotoGP."
"I hardly call two faints in three years a growing trend!"
"Yeah, well, you can forget about that trip to the Cream o Galloway ice cream factory. It's far too dangerous."
The Scene of the Crime. I took this pic in 2004 but it's the same spot, except it was twice as crowded this year! D'oh.
We went to sunny Valencia on the weekend for the final race of the MotoGP season. This shot is just to establish how bloody hot it was out at the track.
There were 130,000 people in the crowd on Sunday and seven of them came up to me at various intervals as I was slapping on the sunscreen. They cupped their hands and asked in Spanish could they borrow a drop. Well I think that's what they said, it was all Blah blah blah por favor to me. But it was nice to play a small role in the prevention of a senseless peeled nose on a handsome Spanish face.
I basted myself so often that after the race I wasn't just crying because Valentino Rossi fell off his bike and lost the World Championship, but because my eyes were so flooded with chemicals a la Laboratoire Garnier.
In other news, I turned 29 today. Two things happened: I woke up with an acne convention on my chin AND my friend Maghie gave me a gift pack of skin care products that included eye cream. EYE CREAM. My eyes grow old but my chin stubbornly remains in adolescence. Hmmm.
Yesterday was magnificent. There was a wee football match in Glasgow with Scotland taking on the mighty World Cup finalists France in a Euro 2008 qualifier.
Scotland won! 1 - 0!
We were in the car at the time; our mate Steve had issued a last-minute invitation for a night out in Weegieland. I'd forgotten all about the match, but when we flipped on the radio to find Scotland had scored with just twenty minutes left to go, I got swept up in the agonising, hysterical countdown to the final siren.
It was a historic victory, as the presenters on Radio Scotland breathlessly reminded us every seven seconds. The Scottish team hasn't enjoyed much success in recent years; the match reports are usually pretty grim. On a good day you'd get a "gallant in defeat" sort of headline. They have been rebuilding nicely under their new manager Walter Smith, but last night's victory was still a major upset.
The presenter's voices were raw with pride and emotion. In Australia we're so confident about sport and victory is often expected; demanded. But when it happens over here it can be a magnificient surprise and everyone goes mad in the most joyous, infectious way. Forgive the paraphrasing here but one radio presenter rasped, "Everyone out there keeps saying we're crap! But we're no crap. We just beat France. So everyone, just stop saying we're crap! Because we're no!"
Then another bloke got carried away interviewing Gary Caldwell, the Scottish goal scorer. "Hold on... I have to give you a cuddle first before I ask you any questions. Ahhhh... this cuddle is from all of Scotland!"
Steve lives right near the stadium, so by the time we arrived the Tartan Army had flooded the streets. A singing and dancing swarm of blue and white; flags and kilts and Jimmy hats. People jumped out in front of our car, waving and cheering.
And other folk just tried to flag us down. Gareth's car is a six-year-old silver Peugeot 406, which happens to be the same vehicle as a great number of taxis in this country. Ever since he got it a few weeks ago, we can't go anywhere at night without some drunk leaping out and waving their arms, then giving us the finger when we don't pull over.
So we had a nice night out in Glasgow; it was impossible not to with everyone in such a good mood.
"It's just so brilliant," gushed a woman on the train, clearly overwhelmed by the victory, "At best I'd hoped for a 1-0 win to France. That would have been a respectable gubbing."
"Oh aye!" said her companion, "And now we're the best team IN THE WORLD!"
"How do you get that?!"
"Well Italy won the World Cup, but France beat Italy the other day, and now we beat the Froggies... so that makes SCOTLAND the best team in the world!"
"Ahh," said Gareth. "I love the logic of ten pints."
woohoo!
What a sad week! RIP Peter Brock.
All remaining Australian icons should just sit very still and not do anything. Don't go out. Don't touch anything!
If you're not Australian you might wonder, Peter Who? Well, Peter Brock was quite simply a motor-racing legend.
There's a race in the town where I was born called the Bathurst 1000, in which mighty V8 cars drive round and round a mountain-top circuit for one thousand kilometres. It's a strangely captivating event. I'd always get up to watch the start and vow not to waste six hours in front of the telly, but inevitably I'd be sucked in to the epic drama, all the speed and smoke and smashes.
Brocky won Bathurst an incredible nine times.
And he wasn't just ace behind the wheel. He was, as one of my aunts has repeatedly declared, "a complete spunk". When we first heard the news of his passing, Gareth asked, "Was Brocky a larrikin too?". He'd not heard of the word until this week when the media repeatedly used it in reference to Steve Irwin. Oh no, I explained. Brocky was a gentleman. As dashing and debonair as one could possibly be in a loud shirt smothered in sponsor logos.
I moved back to Bathurst for university and got to witness Brockymania close up. I loved those few days when you'd be woken by the low rumble of race cars up on the Mount. Bathurst is normally a quiet town but once a year its population swells, much like the way Edinburgh goes manic during the Festivals. Except with more beer guts and flannel shirts.
Everyone in Bathurst seemed to look on Brocky as an adopted son. One time my friends and I went down to a Meet The Drivers session to take pics for our photojournalism class. The queue for Brocky was three times longer than for any other driver. He charmed the pants off everyone from mulleted petrolheads to tiny kids to salivating housewives, all tan and sparkling brown eyes as he signed autographs.
Another year I was working in a coffee shop in a shopping centre, bored out of my tree watching customers screw up their faces as they choked down my cappuccinos (Note to coffee shop owners out there: Never hire someone to make coffee that doesn't like coffee. They have no respect for the beverage). There was a sudden clutter of teaspoons and excited whispers, Brocky! It's Brocky! There goes Brocky!
People poured out of the shops and trailed after him. Turns out a local radio station had set up outside the supermarket and were doing a live interview. I can't remember a bloody word he said; I just remember how the crowd gathered round in an adoring semi-circle, clutching their shopping bags or lapping at soft-serve cones, as Peter Perfect turned on the charm.
Momo, who is a legend in her own right, is quite possibly Brocky's greatest fan. She wrote a beautiful tribute today that left me misty-eyed. He really will be missed.
After the initial shock of the Zizou Head-Butt comes sadness, speculation and much furtive lip-reading. Perhaps we'll never know what really happened, but I hope the man himself speaks out soon.
My head says, violence bad! My heart says, violence perhaps understandable if what's alleged to be said was said! And then another, rather primal part of me aligns with this unique perspective from Heather of This Fish, in which she admits to finding Zidane's headbutt just a wee bit of a turn on:
"I turned back to the TV just in time to catch the immediate aftermath. A man's eyes were on fire and everything in his face screamed, 'Merde! I am one angry Frenchman!'And that's when I fell a in love.
The announcers started jabbering, as I waited for a recap. And then they showed it again. I sat in stunned silence. And by the third time... well, holy moly, I think I became pregnant by an instant replay."
Now before you leave outraged comments, just pretend for a moment that you had no knowledge of football or the context of the incident whatsoever, and you looked at the move purely as a display of manly biffo. Heather may just have something there. The sheer, decisive forcefulness of that butt is exhilarating and holds a certain animalistic appeal.
I don't wish to speculate as to who said what or who's right or wrong in this situation; I'll let the journalists scrap over that one like Scottish seagulls on a packet of hot chips. Instead let us pause and reflect on one thing of which we can be certain: Zizou is a handsome bloke. It's in the smile, the frown, the skillz, the eyes with shades of light and dark; the perpetually sweaty shaven head.
Actually it's really got a lot to do with the shaven head. He did nothing for me when he still had locks!
L: Non. R: Oui!
This reminds me that I am lucky enough to actually be married to a lad with a shaved head.
One time we were flipping through an old photo album and Gareth was sighing wistfully at his locks of yesteryear. But he just looked all wrong to me! I much prefer his current do, even though he says I can hardly call it a do if he has no choice in the matter.
We have a photo from Wedding Part III displayed on a bookcase. I think it's a bit cheesy when people splash their own mugs all over the house, but my mate Peita gave us a beautiful frame and it's just the one picture, high up on the shelf. Recently our friend Maggie was sitting on the opposite side of the room, squinting up at it.
"Shauna," she said in puzzled tones, "Why do you have a photo of the Pope?"
"The Pope?"
"Aye! Over there on the shelf. The Pope. You're standing right beside him!"
"The Pope?"
"Yes. The Old Pope, not the German one." She leaned forward in her chair. "Are you... are you feeding him cake?"
"Nooo!" I cackled, "That's Gareth! At our wedding!"
"No way." She ran over the bookcase. "It is too! You know, he really looks like the Pope from over there. It looks like he's got one of those wee white Pope hats on."
"That's not a hat," said Gareth, "It's just the AUSTRALIAN SUN shining on my baldy heid!"
One should never blog while overly emotional but I am going to press on, regardless of how mortified I will be tomorrow and how moronic you will all think me.
Firstly, hearty congratulations to the Italians!
Secondly, WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING ZIZOU?!
I truly thought the stupidest sporting thing I would see today would be Roger Federer's custom-made white blazer at Wimbledon. The Rog had been buttering my muffin since four years ago today, when he endeared himself to me with his tears upon winning the title for the first time. But when he stepped onto the court two weeks ago looking like a bartender on a P&O cruise ship, the fire in my loins faded significantly. There's no excuse for that sort of thing, unless you're auditioning for James Bond. But to be honest, my eye had already wandered by then, as I'd gone World Cup Mental and completely fallen for the lovely eyes, baldy head and twinkle toes of Zinedine Zidane.
How shite then, that the undisputed winner of today's Stupid Award turned out to be Zidane himself, with that horrible headbutting of Marco Materazzi during extra time. I have never been so... fucking... gutted. Yes, I have been an unashamed bandwagon-hopper with the World Cup. Gareth always finds it hilarious how swiftly I become so passionately obsessed with sporting events, but this one was particularly all-consuming. So to see Zidane's sparkling career finish in such a moment of madness was utterly devastating. Why did you do that? Why did it have to end this way? I alternately screamed at the telly and tried not to bawl.
Dudes. To see someone you idolise do something so crazy is gobsmackingly impossible to comprehend. It was like Valentino Rossi had reached over and slashed someone's tyre in the middle of a MotoGP, or Adam Gilchrist had pulled up a stump and poked a batsman up the arse for a laugh; or Thom Yorke gatecrashed a Coldplay show and whacked Chris Martin over the head with a 20 kilo bag of Fair Trade coffee. Oh hang on, that last one's just my secret fantasy.
It is just such a rubbish ending to a tournament of ups and downs and downs. Though I may finally understand the offside rule, it still feels like all I gained from five weeks of football is a paler complexion, a crushing sense of disillusionment and slightly larger arse.
Rafael Nadal: outplayed; and outdressed by both Federer
AND some little boy with his top button done up.
So Australia is out of the World Cup. What a fizzer of a game after last week's dramatics. But I'm proud of the lads and I'm sure we'll be cheering them on again four years from now. It's definitely been the most entertaining bandwagon I've jumped on for awhile!
Well! I think I've erased about five years from my life and destroyed the springs of the couch during the Australia v Croatia match tonight. I was shaking like a shitting dog throughout the whole thing. The tension, comrades; THE TENISON!
Gareth adds: "And how many times did you scream, 'Noooo, you fucking IDIOT!'."
About 475! And the longer the game went on the more syllables I added to the word, in increasingly Australian tones.... NOOOOOOOUUUEEEEEEEWWWWW!
But the end result was 2-2 so Australia are through to the second round! Huzzah! We play Italy on Monday. Which really sucks because instead of perving on the supermodel cheekbones of the boys in blue, I will have to concentrate on cheering on our lads. 'MON THE AUSSIES!
doh.jpg
During French Open Final last Sunday I decided that clay is my favourite tennis court surface. Sexy Legs Rog and the boy Nadal were just covered in red dust by the end of the match. This is the closest thing you get to Live Male Mud-Wrestling. All they need to do is strip off, tattoo the sponsor logos onto their biceps, hose down the court and away we go!
There's just so much sport going on at the moment I can barely breathe. Wimbledon is just around the corner. Then the Tour de France. And growling away in the background is the MotoGP season. It's been pure heart-in-mouth excitement, especially compared to the plodding, poncy pile of shite that is Formula One.
But right now, much to my surprise, I've gone a bit World Cup Crazy. Consequently I have not done any writing this week. Or bathed regularly.
I can't wait for Australia v Brazil. Tonight I made the meringue for my Very First Pavlova which I really hope turns out because I'll be serving it up to the in-laws during the game. There's always a debate about whether this dessert actually comes from New Zealand, but tomorrow we shall call it Aussie, even though the passionfruit was probably flown in from Brazil.
During tonight's shambolic USA v Italy match they announced there will be a very special guest Australian commentator joining the ITV team tomorrow - SHANE WARNE. A leading football pundit, apparently.
UPDATE: I reckon we did alright, eh? And the pav wasn't too shabby either.
My boss called today from Melbourne. It was 1.30AM and he was just back from the rugby. He sounded disgustingly happy, what with his attending of sporting events, his bicycle ride down by the Yarra, his catching of trams. Then he dashed off because he needed to be up early for the start of the triathlon. Hmmmph.
The boss is at the Games as part of the Glasgow 2014 bid team. I'd pleaded most pathetically for months to be allowed to tag along. Because not only am I a tops secretary, I'm a tops Australian secretary. I can speak the language, dammit! And what if he needed a REALLY IMPORTANT LETTER typed in the middle of the night? What if he couldn't figure out how to use Australian photocopiers?
But my begging was all for nothing. Well if he finds himself in a 7-Eleven in the middle of the night, totally starving and not knowing which chocolate bar to buy, he'll be sorry I wasn't there with my native expertise.
Tonight the BBC took a few English athletes for a hot air balloon ride over Melbourne. The sunrise, the gum trees, the lovely skyscrapers; it all made me feel funny inside. I went from thinking, "Aww, nice fluff piece" to big fat homesick tears in about two minutes.
On a lighter note, can someone tell me what the bloody hell Condoleeza Rice is doing at the Commonwealth Games? Why is she chatting to Ian Thorpe? And what is she pointing at?
My theory is America is about to annexe the Commonwealth. Look at the guy sitting behind Thorpie, he's just figured out her plans.
Let's all just pause and admire the Commonwealth Games Day One Tally before it disappears!
Australia and Scotland, one and two. How ya like them apples, Mother England?
It is very, very strange watching the Commie Games from the other side of the world. I was all psyched up to support Scotland, since Australia has enough of a cheer squad already, but the BBC telly coverage is so freaking Anglo-centric that I'll barely get a chance to wave my saltire!
And how the BBC team love to slag off the Aussies and our over-confidence! How they gloat about any medal we don't win! They just held up copies of today's Age and Herald Sun and sniggered at how many pages were devoted to sport. "Oh those Aussies," said that horsey-looking presenter chick, "They're so sports mad!". Well maybe if you were a bit sports madder, you'd win more medals!
Ahem.
I know I'm only miffed because I'm used to playing the Underdog. When you're watching the Olympics in Oz, it's all about Australia versus Evil America. Whether it's the pool or the athletics or the ping pong, we just want to see the battlin' little Aussies stick it to the mighty Yanks. Fight fight fight! (I always imagine us like a yappy little terrier, nipping at the heels of a honking huge Alsatian. It's all very important to the wee terrier but does the big fella really give a damn?)
But over here at Commonwealth Games time, England is the underdog! Australia becomes the evil one! It's Australia winning all the medals and trampling over the little countries. I've heard them cursing us in the office, Those Bloody Aussies. We can't pretend we're just lovable convicts. They want our BLOOD, people. I'm scared.
I'd assumed going to see a bike race in Australia would be pretty much the same as seeing a bike race in Scotland. Same speedy bikes, same clouds of dust, same hairy bikers, same skanky lassies in lycra shorts. However, there was one major difference: the food.
Last summer at the British Superbikes at Knockhill we had agonised over our options:
- burgers of questionable origin
- chips and curry sauce
- chips and brown sauce
- chips and red sauce
If you choose curry sauce they slap it onto the chips for you, scooping it up from a metal tray, all yellowy brown like toxic waste, the surface stiff and puckered from hours under a heat lamp. If you want Red or Brown it's DIY from plastic bottles with crusty nozzles. And don't ever call it ketchup or tomato sauce. That has to be one of my favourite things about Scotland. It's either Red or Brown sauce. Just like when you're a kid and your Mum asks what flavour milkshake you want, and you say, "PINK!".
When we arrived at Phillip Island a few months later for the Australian MotoGP, I saw the same white vans plonked all round the circuit. My stomach purred in anticipation of being dished up the same greasy slop by the same sweaty-browed ladies.
But while a few served traditional burgers and chips, the majority of the vans were rather... cosmopolitan. There were fresh salad wraps, turkish kebabs, german sausages on fat white rolls, meat pies, baked potatoes, samosas, noodles, wood-fired pizzas and a freaking gelato stand.
They even had Real Coffee. It was bizarre, hearing the familiar schhhhhhh of the coffee machine right next to screaming motorbikes. Baristas fished out Melting Moments and chocolate cookies from glass jars with those dainty little tongs. Biker Types balanced their helmets in one hand while stirring their cappucinos with the other. This was no styrofoam and watery Nescafe stirred with a Paddlepop stick operation. They even had plastic lids! And two kinds of sugar!
"Look at those big Aussie guys there, they're just sooo tough with their leathers and lattes!"
"It's all a bit poncy, isn't?"
"Damn right it is!"
"You want a hot chocolate?"
"Yes please."
I won't bore you with the details of the race, because I know most people aren't terribly interested in MotoGP. But let me tell you it's one of the greatest ways a girl can spend two days, and not just because for once the queue for the Ladies loo is heaps shorter than the Mens. MotoGP is also noise, smells, adrenaline, engines, crashes and slutty chicks holding umbrellas over tiny men in leather suits.
On Saturday we watched the qualifying from opposite the pit lane, peering into the garages through my zoom lens at the mad buzz of mechanics and riders. On Sunday we perched in Bass Strait Grandstand, the race right in front of us and the ocean at our back, as Valentino Rossi cruised to yet another victory.
After the race came the grand palaver of getting back to Melbourne. With tens of thousands of bikes, cars and coaches all trying to escape at once, it took over an hour to crawl off the tiny island. This provided great entertainment for those staying behind. Every house we passed had people sitting in front yards and verandahs, hanging from the balconies with beers, watching the passing parade. Even when we finally reached the turn-off for Melbourne, more people appeared from out of the hills, jumping up and down beside the highway, waving flags and beers.
This strange spectacle continued for almost the entire two hours back to the city. Just people bloody everywhere, grinning and leering and waving; turning the side of the highway into one big living room. The roads were flanked by rows of folding chairs, occupied by beer-bellied blokes, knitting grannies and bikinied teens with mirrored sunglasses. There were dogs and babies and cartwheeling kids. People picnicked on car roofs, in the back of utes and in the middle of roundabouts. Two guys had even brought along a sofa. Life can be pretty quiet in small Aussie towns, so a few thousand motorbikes swarming by all at once could be the most glittering day of the year. At least it's a great opportunity to drink beer and jump up and down like a dickhead.
"What the hell are you Australian people about?" Gareth asked, gawking out the window in amazement.
"I don't know. We're a bunch of idiots!"
And I'd never been so proud.
My latest bout of homesickness has come in the form of compulsive purchasing of Australian Women's Weekly Cookbooks. I have read Muffins, Scones and Bread about fifteen times now and it still makes me misty-eyed. In this age of verbose Nigellas and irritating Jamies, there's something simple and so darn sensible about step-by-step instructions, no fuss photography and precise measurements. You can be safe in the knowledge that every recipe has been triple-tested in the famous ACP Test Kitchen under Kerry Packer's watchful eye and gelatinous jowls. And how can you go wrong when it's edited by someone called Pamela Clarke? Is there a more trustworthy, wholesome name than Pamela Clarke? Florence Nightingale or Mother Theresa, perhaps.
Now I've started watching the cricket. I've always had a deep loathing for cricket, the way it hogged the television during summer holidays and stopped me from watching Days Of Our Lives. But because it's The Ashes and my native people have come to Britain, it's suddenly become interesting. Mostly because if an Aussie gets out or does something crap, everyone at work asks gleefully, "What HAPPENED Marshy?" as if I was the bloody selector and personally responsible for every ball.
So I swotted up at the BBC's Sport Academy so I could fake a knowledge of cricket beyond Those Blokes On The Weet-Bix Ads. The site explains all the rules and the jargon, so before long I knew what the guy in the oven gloves did and could then smugly answer questions from fellow cricket-virgin Gareth as if I'd known all along.
The end of the Second Test was magnificent. I could hardly believe I was wasting a rare sunny Scottish Sunday morning watching blokes in pyjamas grabbing their balls, but it was a true nail-biter. Gareth was hooked too, and asked afterwards, "Is cricket always this exciting?".
Apparently not. The commentators who seemed about to explode in their sensible slacks said it was one of The Most Thrilling Test Matches EVAH. So I don't know if I'll become a cricket fan, but I have a newfound respect for the sport and the team that so many of my countryfolk are obsessed with.
Take Shane Warne for example, who not only performed brilliantly in the Second Test, apparently tried to arrange a threesome with his wife and one of his squeezes in order to save his marriage. Forget self-help books and poncy counsellors, that's a genius idea! My marriage is still going strong but I might ask Gareth if he's up for one as a preventative measure.
Who needs Big Brother when you've got Wimbledon? Instead of paying a pound to text some little slag out of the BB house, you can just sit back and watch the finest tennis players evict each other from the court. There's no drunken snogging, but they do have better legs.
Just like Big Brother, I tend to ignore the spectacle for the first wee while until they filter out the rubbish, leaving the more interesting characters behind. After that I'm hooked for every episode, sneaking online at work to check the scores, staying up late; watching previews and highlights and rain delays. I was right there to the last broadcast when the Beeb did their usual grainy montage of the past two weeks. I curled up on the couch with misty eyes, smiling and nodding, "Ohh bless, I remember that bit. Oh wasn't that one marvellous. Oh classic shot. Happy days."
A few highlights:
Best Newcomer
When Tim Henman lost in the second round, the hopes and expectations of a nation were dumped on Scottish sensation Andy Murray. Henmania was snuffed out at last, now the annual frenzied fortnight where Britain actually gives a shit about tennis shall be painfully known as "Andymonium". It will be interesting to see if the tabloids call him British when he wins and Scots when he loses, a la Russell Crowe who's Australian if he wins an Oscar and Kiwi if he clocks someone on the scone with a telephone.
Best Commentator
Jimmy Connors made a great addition to the BBC team with his intelligent commentary and boyish enthusiasm. He'd often let fly with a giddy "Wow!" or "Unbelieeeevable!" after a great shot. He had one of those wholesome, mild, Gee whiz Mom, your cookies sure taste great! all-American accents that makes you wish he was your dad.
However the star of the show is still Boris Becker and his bleached echidna haircut. I love his inability to pronounce "Wimbledon" and his charming English, "Roddick just did not have the full horsepowers today". Best of all is how he nods, narrows his eyes and pouts ridiculously at the end of a big sentence. I sat in front of the telly for three nights trying to record this for you but still couldn't catch him at the right moment, which shows not only how sad I am but also my shithouse photography skills.
Best Match
Maria Sharapova v Venus Williams in the Women's semi-final. Some people were put off by their constant grunting, some found it both hilarious and faintly arousing.
Best Eye Candy
I can't believe I used to have the hots for Pete Sampras and his All-Conquering Monobrow. I blame Cleo magazine and the Daily Telegraph. According to a Cleo article in the early 90s, statistically the most enduring relationships occur when the bloke is six years older than the girl. Then during the Australian Open, the Telegraph reported that Pistol Pete was six years older than me. Well they didn't phrase it exactly like that, but I was teenager and it was a long hot summer and I figured we were destined to be.
I moved on a few years later upon noticing that Mark Philippoussis had better legs. But then I realised that he too had a monobrow, and was getting a bit fancy with his facial hair. Plus hooking up with Delta Goodrem was most off-putting. So I moved on to Roger Federer. Roger may not grunt, but he has great hair and cried when he won yesterday, even though he'd won twice before. Such sudden bursts of pent-up emotion are devastatingly attractive. Plus he is Swiss, so he would be efficient and tidy. But then again I do have a tops husband and he has that long term girlfriend who washes his clothes with the Special Laundry Powder during tournaments. He was also born in 1982, and it's just wrong to be perving on someone born in the 80s.
MOTHERSHIP: So have you been running much since your marathon?
SHAUNA: What marathon?
M: Your marathon. I read all about it on your website.
S: I didn't do a marathon. I did a 5k.
M: So what's the difference?
S: Well, a 5k is 5 kilometres, and a marathon is 42 kilometres.
M: Ohhhh, I see.
S: Have you been telling everyone back home that I ran a marathon? Are they expecting some sort of sculpted sporting goddess to step off the plane?
M: Quite possibly!
I should have known there was a misunderstanding when I texted her post-race and she texted back, "Can I brag?".
Signs your running event may be in Scotland:
- It's raining so hard that worms have been washed up from underground.
- There's a burger van.
- The chick beside you at the starting line is eating a burger from said van AND smoking a fag at the same time.
So I had returned to the scene of the crime. That is, the crime of Falling On My Arse Repeatedly. Do you recall my disasterous descent from Arthurs Seat last January? Yesterday's race was at Holyrood Park, which winds it way around the bottom of the Seat. And like that fateful day conditions were wet and slippery, so it was a toss up whether I would collapse first from exhaustion or clumsiness.
The Race for Life had a cracking atmosphere. 7000 women jumped around in the rain waiting for the race to start while puzzled dog walkers looked down at us from the hills. It was an interesting crowd of all ages, shapes and sizes. Some folk had little pink signs on their backs with the names of loved ones they'd lost. Some folk were in fancy costume. Some were just content to gulp down their pre-race cigarette and let the irony of smoking at a cancer charity event waft over their head.
I ended up starting with the Walkers, due to an existential crisis in which I didn't think I was Runny enough to be with the Runners. My number 56 was stapled to my t-shirt since there was not a safety pin to be found in our house. Who the hell has safety pins? My mum, my granny, my supremely organised sister; they would have had safety pins. It took Gareth and I around half an hour to attach the stupid number without getting it crooked and/or piercing my boobs but I was happy with the end result. They say safety pins are punk rock but STAPLES are more rock than rock itself, I do declare.
The race began with intense confusion and claustrophobia as I wove my way through the blur of legs and arms and tiny shorts and puddles, only to be confronted with the Hills of Evil. I grumbled and swore my way upward in a slow and painful manner, hating every damn second. Finally the course evened out and soon I'd reached the halfway point. And then something clicked in my brain and I began to run like the wind. Okay, maybe not like the wind. Maybe like a very faint breeze that briefly tickles your nose. But it felt like the wind to me. The second half felt so smooth and calm and dare I say... enjoyable. I tuned out the crowd and heard nothing but the steady thump thump thump of my ill-fitting shoes.
I know this was Only A 5k, I know it was Just A Charity Event but I can't begin to tell you what a big deal this was for me and how buzzed I still feel. I tried to disguise my anxiety with jokes in the last entry but I had invested a lot of time and emotional shit into this whole running palaver. Some day I will tell you about how different things used to be, how a few years ago I would have told you I'd eat a bucket of gravel before I'd ever run five kilometres.
I must have looked like an idiot, charging for the finish line in a late burst of speed, my red-blotched mascara-streaked (what possessed me to wear mascara?) face suddenly breaking into a huge, dopey grin. I beat my previous personal best time by almost three minutes. I was so elated and overwhelmed that my first immediate reaction was to cry. Except all I couldn't because my second immediate action was to try to catch my breath, so my lungs were confused and all I could do was make these strange strangled chicken noises. Only when I found Gareth in the crowd did I finally have a wee sob and he was kind enough to just give me a hug and look slightly bewildered. I guess all I can say is that there is no greater thrill than doing something that you never believed you could be capable of doing.
Thank you to everyone who sponsored me. You not only helped me reached my fundraising target but actually doubled it. This will make the folks at Cancer Research UK very happy. You guys rule the school!
For as long as I can remember there was always something to dread. Something to angst about while staring at the ceiling late at night, something that made me wake up with fear and loathing piled in my gut like bricks. Something that I had to deal with that I really didn't want to deal with. Like swimming lessons, family dramas, piano recitals, exams or unemployment. I grew so accustomed to having something to freak out about that I'd freak out if the freakiness ever subsided.
The last thing that gave me that dreadful feeling was my weekend job at Geriatric Rescue, where I'd fret about upcoming shifts for days in advance. But I quit that job and with all that cheery getting married palaver, I was sleeping like a baby! The lack of dread and about-to-shit-my-pants feeling was deeply unsettling. I kept waiting for a bus to mow me down. I don't know if it's Catholic guilt, inherited martyrdom or some masochistic streak, but if you're not suffering on some level, how are you supposed to know that you're alive?
So that's why I took up running.
Ooh I hate running.
It doesn't help when your earliest memories of running are being chased around a field by giant birds with spurs on their feet while your mother watched and laughed. And then there's the bitter sting of high school PE classes, where I was unable to trot more than fifty metres without coughing up a lung and my face going violently beetroot. By far the slowest in my class, I was always picked last for teams. One by one my chosen classmates would line up behind their Captains, til only I remained in all my red-haired red-cheeked crapness.
CAPTAIN A: Ummmm. I pick that tree.
CAPTAIN B: I pick that stray cat over there.
CAPTAIN A: I pick that abandoned chip packet.
CAPTAIN B: Dammit! ALRIGHT then, I pick Shauna!
I have an Internet Friend named Julia, a lovely American who has lived in Italy for over twenty years. She is not only a keen runner but holds running clinics all over the country to encourage women into the sport. Sensing I needed a challenge, she offered her training expertise in a virtual capacity. I told her that I can't run, not even the birds with the spurs could get me moving. But she insisted anyone could learn to run. Well that is fair enough for her to say; she who did a marathon in Thailand in stinking summer humidity... Just For Fun. But she was persistent, and I recognised the familiar I don't wanna! terror in my stomach, so I knew it was something I had to do!
Firstly we had to pick a goal. Apparently it's not enough to potter around the park; you need to train for a specific race otherwise you'll be tempted to skip sessions and sit on your arse watching the Men And Motors channel. So I picked the Race for Life 5k. This wildly popular charity event is for women only, so I figured I could lose myself in the crowd and hopefully not come last. Plus I could be motivated by guilt! If people sponsored me, I'd be forced to stick with it.
Gareth volunteered to train with me. He said he wanted to be supportive, but I secretly sulked. Not only was he already humiliatingly fitter than me, his presence meant I would actually have to do some running. I couldn't just sit under a tree for half an hour, splash my face with water then go home and announce, "Dude! Tough workout!". So by the time we finally started I felt ready to throw up from fear.
Ooh how I hated it. Every single step. Within thirty seconds I knew the vacancy of Dreadworthy Thing In My Life had been filled. I thought I'd built up a reasonable level of fitness with all my halfassed classes and weight training, but running was something else altogether. There was no instructor to tell me what to do. There was no machine to slump on when I got tired. There was no stack of Reebok steps to hide behind if it all became too much. It was just me, my body and the open road. This was tough!
When you've avoided running your whole life, it feels quite bizarre to rearrange your body in a running-type configuration. Julia's instructions were customised for the absolute beginner, so I alternated walking with one-minute bursts of running. Or rather, one-minute bursts of slightly swifter shuffling. My lungs! My poor lungs! Where had all the air gone? Why was my face on fire? I had never felt so utterly inept in my life. I was so embarrassed that I looked at the ground the whole time, hopefully rendering me invisible to Real Runners who'd scream, "Begone, amateur!". How was I ever going to last five kilometres?
Gareth on the other hand loped along effortlessly, throwing punches in the air a la Rocky while singing, Shauna's training! Getting strong now! Won't be long now!. When we finally finished my face was so red it melded seamlessly with my hair and eyebrows and I became one great shiny blob of unfitness. Gareth hadn't even broken a sweat. The bastard.
That was ten weeks ago. What we need here is a Rocky-esque montage of my amazing progress since. We wouldn't even need to make it in slow motion, because my motion is slow enough already. Cue soft focus and stirring orchestration!
Imagine if you will:
— Pathetic pre-run arguments that all go:
SHAUNA: I can't believe you're making me do this AGAIN!
GARETH: I'm making you do it?
S: Yes you!
G: You'll be fine!
S: But we only did this two days ago! Shouldn't that be enough? Until the end of time?
— A dramatic collapse on grass at the end of Week Three Session Two followed by dramatic declaration, I will never walk again!
— Shauna's attempts to hurl abuse continually thwarted by lack of fitness: "I puff puff hate THIS and I puff puff hate YOU!
— The ongoing saga of The Reddest Face in the World:
CONCERNED FATHER-IN-LAW: So you got a wee bit sunburned today?
TOP ATHLETE SHAUNA: Nooo, I am still recovering from my run three hours ago.
— The Hill Sprints of Week Five: Gareth racing up stairs and jumping around pumping triumphant fist in air a la Rocky; Shauna arriving some two minutes later.
— Great moments of fatigue and delirium, when Shauna is so slow that Gareth must literally run on the spot to match her pace:
S: My body won't work! I can't run anymore!
G: But running means you need to lift your feet off the ground!"
— Revenge of The Vegetable Chilli: In which Shauna farts uncontrollably when running up hills.
— Tears and icepacks as our athlete is sidelined by injury. Experts recommend increasing your mileage by no more than 10% per week, but some bright spark wrote down Julia's instructions incorrectly and accidentally increased it by 25%! OWW OWW OWW. I was never good with numbers.
— The touching finale. Once again collapsed on the grass after a gruelling run, the athlete experiences her first endorphin rush:
G: You look as though you enjoyed that.
S: No I didn't.
G: You did so.
S: Perhaps, briefly. On some level.
After ten weeks, running is still serving me well as That Thing What I Hate To Do. I commence bitching and moaning before each session and do not let up until we're finished. Then I feel all smug and virtuous for about 24 hours, before starting to fret about the next run. Each step I take is still a constant battle between my increasingly adventurous body and my lazy, sabotaging brain. There's those brief, thrilling moments when my legs and arms move like liquid and my mind just floats above. Mostly there's sweat and crankiness and small yappy dogs getting under my feet. But it's actually bloody brilliant to feel The Dread again. I feel so alive!
Sunday is the big day. I am trying to remember to breathe. I know I have improved out of sight, but I still think all those leathery old grandmas will breeze past me, so much fitter despite the fact they live on tins of cat food. But it's all for a good cause, and I've not yet reached my sponsorship target! If you'd like to make a donation please visit my Race for Life page! All proceeds go to Cancer Research UK. The more money you give the guiltier I'll feel. At least go check it out for the mildly comical sight of my big head poorly Photoshopped onto Paula Radcliffe's body!
And if you're in Edinburgh on Sunday and happen to be near Holyrood Park, just look for the ultra slow chick with the tortured expression. My red face will probably be visible from space.
It was a perfect Sunday morning in Valencia, the sky so obnoxiously bright and blue that I could finally understand why those moaning Brits on reality shows always migrate without job prospects or knowledge of basic Spanish. We were crammed on a train platform with thousands of locals, all headed to the track for the Motorcycle Grand Prix.
It's a whole other entry altogether to explain how my ridiculous obsession with MotoGP began, but after seeing Dead Lenin on Red Square there obviously was a void to fill. I began watching the races with Gareth out of pure politeness, but within a few weeks I became Miss Tragic Bike Geek and convinced him that we HAD to go to Spain to see a race FOR REAL, otherwise I would become very difficult to live with.
So once you've eaten haggis and peeked longingly under kilts, what Scottish thing can you do next?
It's time to curl.
The sport of curling is a big deal here -- Scotland won a gold medal at the last Olympics. So we wanted in on the broomstick action. Rory's wife Jane, the maestro of event management, rounded up a dozen curious folk and booked us both rink and coach.
I think I expected a wee frozen pond in the middle of a field. Instead there was a clubhouse with a wood-paneled porno set ambience, beer on tap and curling memorabilia smirking at us from behind glass.
Oh man, I thought with a shiver, this is gonna be like those movies where the zany city people stumble into the outback Australian pub, and the weatherbeaten locals look up from their beers and say, What the fuck are you doing 'ere?
But they just ignored us. We all noted the massive window overlooking the rink, through which the regulars would be able to witness our spectacular debut. Then one of the guys reported they'd overheard the coach telling his cronies, "Got some amateurs coming in today. Should be good for a laugh."
The coach was a prime specimen of maleness, tall and thick with an alluring shrub of chest hair bursting out of his polo shirt. He rattled off a list of Rules Not To Be Broken. He was terrifying.
He told us to go put on our clean shoes. We trotted obediently to the change rooms, getting pumped by giving ourselves mighty curling alter-egos like The Broominator, Curl Gurl, and Broom With A View.
It was crispy out there on the ice. We lined up along the edge like baby ducks, tentatively dipping our feet over the edge.
"Curling is the best cardiovascular workout you can get," he began, "The University of Edinburgh have done studies to prove it."
We huddled on either side of him in two neat little rows. He explained how the game worked, something about circles and curls and lines and sweeping and team captains. My brain whimpered and I only heard, "Blah blah blah blah!".
Finally it was time for him to show us his prowess. The stone sailed neatly along the ice. He put his hands on his hips and gave a satisfied smile, "Yes. That was a good shot.
"Right, you each have a go, one at a time."
Holy shit. I had been here before. That patronising voice. My lack of comprehension. The public showcase of uncoordination. In front of boys, too. Eww. Yes, it was that sickening feeling just like high school P.E. class, only now my breasts were better developed.
So what you have to do is lean on your broom a little, lunge off from this starting block thingy, and push the stone down the ice towards the big circles. Sounds easy enough. But according to coach, we were shite. "Too hard!", "Too soft!", he said in bored tones. That was when he wasn't scoffing at the lesson going on next door.
"See those people over there?"
"Yes sir."
"That's no way to teach someone to curl," he shook his head and the manly chest hair nodded in agreement. "No way at all."
We moved onto sweeping.
"You have to sweep HARD. You can press right down on these brooms. You won't break 'em. Even I can't break 'em."
We all nodded and scrcch-scrcched at the ice. I used to be a dab hand at sweeping the floors at KFC. But sweeping on ice, sideways, while running after a speeding stone was quite a different prospect.
By the time we split up into teams I was really packing it. All around us, seasoned curlers were rushing up and down the ice, sweep sweepity sweep, grunting, shouting, sliding halfway down the rink on one knee like Torvill or bloody Dean, their toupees flapping gently. But I could not get the fucking stone to move, my instinct was to try and lift it and throw it, and seeing since it weighed 44 pounds, all I was doing was slowly disengaging my arm from its socket.
"See, I bet you saw curling on TV and thought it looked easy!" came the helpful tip from the coach.
Soon enough he buggered off, probably to go break large trees over his knee for fun. We started figuring out this great sport for ourselves. Some of the group were naturals, I'm always in awe of people who just get the hang of things right away. Some of us took a little longer. Before long it was great fun and strangely addictive. I could have wept for joy when mind and body finally connected and I pushed the stone then remembered to let go, only to have it knocked out of play a minute later (damn Scots. The sport is in their blood).
We played a few ends and the Yellow Team consistently defeated the Red Team, darnit. Two hours of sweeping and stone-pushing and chit chat flew by. Soon our time was up and the coach reappeared with a water dispenser on his back to spray the ice, strutting around and waving his hose.
"What a man," I sighed.
"He is just like Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing," said Rhi, "The big blokey bloke about town who knows all the moves."
"If only your name was Baby, you could meet him at midnight for some horizontal sweeping."
We finished in spectacular style, with one member of the group crashing to the ice just as all the club members were back inside and watching from the mega window. Ohhh it looked painful. I feared for his spine and felt guilty for thinking, "Wow, I'm so glad it wasn't me!" Last I checked he was recovering nicely.
Oh that Christy Turlington with her exquisitely flared nostrils; remember when she sat on the cover of Time in the lotus position? Now there's a dame who loves a bit of yoga.
These days everyone's into it, for all sorts of reasons. You have the old-school devotees, the ones who've been saluting the sun since the dawn of time. They're sincerely in tune with the spiritual side things, they breathe deep and delicately. Their posture is so good and upright you'd think the clouds were made of iron and they had magnets on their heads. They could stay in a pretzel pose for a week and the serene expression on their face would not waver.
Then there's those recent converts, who perhaps grew bored with stepping or treadmilling and sought new paths to perky buttocks. Or maybe they saw Christy contorting on Oprah with her designer yoga pants and Nostrils of Tranquility, and thought yoga seemed the hip hop happening thing to do. These people are sometimes seen dashing from the bus stop, with their Gucci yoga mats nestled under their arms, bleating, "Ohmygod if I'm late to class Swami will so kill me!"
There may exist be a third camp, perhaps too shy to speak about their particular motivation. These are the people who rock up to class each week just because it makes them feel dead sexy.
At my gym, the Body Pump class and the Iyengar Yoga class finish at the same time. The Pumpers come out all red-faced and grunting, great slabs of sweat on their backs, comparing biceps with their friends and making plans to meet up later to lift up a few tractors for fun. Then the Yoga kids come gliding out, pink-cheeked with liquid eyes and faraway smiles. Sure, there's all that inner peace malarkey, but maybe there's something else going on?
Perhaps some people find something rather sensual about it. All that deep breathing. All that stretching and bending. All that beautiful slowness. And then sometimes you get to use those kinky strap thingies that help you reach further than you've ever reached before! Woo hoo!
Of course these particular motivations are more likely if your teacher happens to be a Scottish man with a soft, soft accent. One with R's that come rrrrolling in from the wildest highlands rrrrright into your nether regions. One that wanders round the room occasionally to check your technique, and when you're laying there with your legs in the air all wrong like a dead cockroach, he ever so politely nudges your foot into the correct position, which makes you start to plot other ways to screw up so you can be corrected again! And again!
Right at the end there's ten minutes with the lights off, eyes closed and in the corpse pose. Nothing but that lovely voice telling you to just rrrrelax. Let all thoughts leave your mind. Squeeze this, release that. Feel your body floating. Sure, his words are addressed to the whole class, including the alarmingly elastic granny down the front and the weird guy with the headband who takes it all so seriously. But dammit, you reserve the right to daydream that he's only talking to you.
Hmm. Yoga purely as an excuse to get bendy. Yoga with no regard for spiritual enlightenment or fashion or a six-pack stomach, just a vague desire to become a flexible freak. Yoga for a chance to arrange your limbs in a complicated manner without risk of an unpleasant disease or a broken heart. And you get to keep your tracky pants on.
The Poo is into the Wimbledon final! This is good news for Australia, and particularly good news for fans of aesthetically-pleasing male tennis players.
He's got the tattoo, the dreamy long legs... if only he'd shave that annoying fluff off his chin. And let's not forget he has the best grunt in the game - it's a rather saucy uuuuhhhh that can really fire up ones imagination.
So tune in, Australia! Set your alarm clocks and support this little Aussie battler! Who cares if he lives in California?
Wimbledon haiku:
"Tim Henman to win"?
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Ha ha ha ha ha
UPDATE: Oh Poo. My wee heart is broken! But you'll be back! We love you! And well done, Federer. He's crying! Oh don't you want to cuddle him? I love an emotional winner!
There is noone left to oggle in the Australian Open Tennis Men's Draw.
First The Poo was bundled out, and then that sleeveless American hunk James Blake departed. These tragic losses were in spite of our best attempts at bribing them to play better, ie. much gentle coaxing at the telly:
SHAUNA: If you could try a little harder, I will buy you a lolly.
RHI: If you win this point, you can take me out for dinner.
S: If you make this an ace, you get to see me naked.
R: Crikey! He double faulted.
S: Bastard.
Australian Open haiku:
my loins love sight of
lanky legs of tennis men
in the morning dew
When no British Lion would do a post-match jersey swap with Wallaby star Justin Harrison, his mother took swift action, penning a scathing letter to The Australian. In reference to the Lions skipper, she wrote:
"Johnson . . . showed the epitome of ignorance and arrogance, as displayed all tour, by refusing rudely to swap jerseys with Justin," Mrs Harrison wrote. "I'm tempted to write to his mother, if I could be assured he has one that would lay claim to him."
Ooh er. Go Mumsy!
And here come the excuses! Our season's too long! We play too many games! We had too many injuries! We were too English! Shut up, and go home. Aaaaaaaahahhahaha! Okay, no more rugby. I promise!
Update: Oops! I lied! Here's some more excuses.
Can you believe that tennis? I nearly had a little cry. I'm watching it again on Fox Sports. It's bloody amazing, I tells ya. Woo.
One bone I have to pick concerns the commentary of Pat "Has Been" Cash. Sure, you won Wimbledon in 1987 but that begs the question, whaddya done lately? Nothing but sit on your arse, blathering into the microphone, your pathetic commentary barely veiling your jealousy and contempt for the new generation of players. At one point Rafter pulled out an impressive smash to win a point, but no congratulations from Patty Cash: "Oh not one of his best smashes!" he says. "In fact one of the worst! It was a nervous little smash! But I guess it will have to do for today!"
I'll give YOU smash, Patty Cash. How's about we chain you up to the net and Ivanisevic serves some 307 km/h balls in your direction? Or if he's unavailable, I will just thrash you myself with a great big chequerboard headband.
I got suckered in to watching the rugby tonight. It's amazing how sport can morph you from sane person to Pom-hating monster in a few short minutes. Yes, I'm aware there's more to the British Lions team than Englishmen, but it's much more fun to rage against a Pom than the other three countries. Anyway, the Wallabies got soundly beaten, despite me yelling "die you pasty faced bastards!" at the telly. It's amazing how quickly you forget your own very pasty complexion and English ancestry at these times.
My sister, who has about the same knowledge of rugby as me (sweet bugger all) had a tantrum, maintaining that it's unfair that England, Ireland, Wales and Scotland get to combine for this superteam, they're got such a big pool to choose from, and we're such a tiny innocent sparsely populated nation! Therefore the only way it could possibly be fair would be if the Lions played the cream of the Aussies, South Africa and the All Blacks!
Sore losers? Us? Never! :P
My life is now complete, kiddies. I just saw the man who I've been lusting after longer than Sexy Ed from Radiohead, longer than Mr Darcy, longer than The Bloke With The Cello In The LG Ad, Catherine Zeta-Jones, The Guy At Flight Centre or Arnaud Clement. I've been fixated on this particular lad since the 1992 Barcelona Olympics. Yes folks, I am of course talking about Russia's finest son, swimming superstar ALEX POPOV!
My sister and I had been out Dog Kennel Shopping, which is a thrilling activity for a rainy Sunday. We were heading home, kennel-less and disillusioned (who the hell wants to pay $200 for a plastic kennel? I mean I love Harry and all, but, crikey), when Rhiannon said she was hungry and fancied one of those bread roll thingies from Baker's Delight that have cheese and tomato and herbs stuffed into them. I said that sounded nice but it meant we'd have to go to Manuka because it is the best stocked of the bazillion BD's in Canberra. But could I be arsed going to Manuka when the Civic one is right near our place? So we ummed and ahhed over this vexing issue... do we go all that way and be guaranteed to get the bread but take half an hour to find a park... or do we take a risk and go to the closer Civic and hope that they'll have what we want? Well I am such a wild thing, I live on the edge and all, so we went to Civic.
I cruised on in to the City Markets looking my sexiest in tracky dacks and sweatshirt with Harry paw-mark on my hip (he'd jumped up with muddy feet to say bye) and ratty hair (mental note: when I next look at hair in mirror, must remember: wash hair) when I see this long, lean graceful specimen of a man towering over the ATM, picking away at the buttons. I gasped audibly. Be still my raging hormones!
"Wot?" said my sister.
"Looooooook!" I hissed, as discreetly as possible, as we walked past him.
"Him? Oh. Very nice."
"Yes yes, but LOOK who it is! It's Alex Popov!"
"Holy shit, you're right!"
I busied myself with some random fruit at the vegie markets while casually looking back at him. Yep, it was him alright. That impossibly tall and long body, lovely hair, and sleek, shiny, daggy looking tracksuit that all Eastern Bloc countries bought in bulk in 1950 and have been using ever since (amidst decades of political turmoil, bloody wars, the fall of communism, one thing has remained constant - the Daggy Tracksuits).
"We're going to the bakery," Rhiannon reminded me as I gawked away. Oh yes. Bakery.
They didn't have our bread. We went into Supabarn to find an alternative, my sister looking for food while I babbled, "Should I go get my camera out of the car? I can't believe I left the camera in the car! The one time I leave it behind and something actually happens. It's only a tiny camera. A spy camera if you will. I could have taken a picture while he was at the ATM. I could have pretended I was lining up for cash. Hey he's going over to that cafe now. He's looking at the pastries. Oh there's his wife and kids too. They're very sweet. I could just duck out and get the camera. Do you think I should go get the camera?"
Rhiannon rolled her eyes at me. "You can go get the camera if you want," she said, adding silently "and if you do I'll forever think you're a fucking idiot."
He was taking his sweet time at the cafe, looking at all the pastries and sandwiches. Noooo Alex! I wanted to say. I've had those sandwiches, they're total shite! The bread always tastes stale and they slather them in mayo. Oh that poor misguided, aesthetically pleasing fool. Oh... yes. Must go get that camera.
My sister said she would wait in the car and babysit our lunch, that she would have nothing to do with my paparazzi leanings. I huffed back into the shops, my camera fired up and hidden under my sleeve, already zoomed in to the max with the flash turned off, so I could shoot from as far away as possible. I did about three laps of the cafe, which is just an open plan kind of thing plonked in the middle of the markets, hiding behind some shopping trolleys, behind the pasta place, behind a pot plant, looking for the perfect place to shoot. But then I looked at him there with the wifey and kiddies, looking all happy and ordinary eating their lunch and I thought how rude it would be for me to take their picture. I still fired the shutter in his general direction as I ran back to the car, feeling most ridiculous, and captured this lovely picture:
..which bears little or no resemblence to Mr Popov (pictured below):
Oh well. What kind of shot would it have been anyway? Not a skimpy Speedo in sight!
I went to the rugby last night, which is a very un-Shauny thing to do. But some South African team gave my sister some tickets, and I had no plans. So why not, eh?
I don't know much about the game. They ran a lot in this direction.
And also in the other direction.
They kicked some goals.
The ref blew his whistle a lot.
The players got pissed about that.
Half time and the old geezers behind us shared biscuits that they brought in a Tupperware container. How cute!
This geezer brought Glad-Wrapped ham and pickles sandwiches.
We scored a shitload of points in the second half. The crowd went wild but you can't bloody see coz of this bald geezer's head.
They had lots of scrums. Always lovely to see men grunting and pushing each other around
They did that thing where the dude chucks the ball from the sideline and they lift someone up to catch it.
I surprised myself by having a great time. Even though I didn't manage to pick up any of the sexy blokes in the crowd. Exhibit A: Hubba hubba!
Purrrrrworthy bloke du jour: Arnaud Clement, French tennis stud muffin who was runner up to Andre Agassi in todays Australian Open final. While my sister spent the past fortnight mopping up her puddles o' drool over Pat Rafter, the Frenchman was my lust object of choice. Clemmo is 23 years young, like myself, and is just damn cute and sweet and looks a treat out there on the court. And his broken English and gorgeous accent are most endearing. Of course, he just may be a dirty old Frenchman in his native toungue, but I wouldn't have any complaints about that either! Mwahaha.
All this tennis and grunting reminds me of my own lack of tennis prowess. I can't begin to tell you how unathletic I am. I couldn't even manage to manouever myself out of the womb, they had to do a C-section. From there I became a clumsy little child, then blossoming forth into a uncoordinated teen devoid of all sporting ability whatsoever. My mother railroaded me into netball and hockey but I didn't know the rules, and I tripped over a lot. I couldn't run, jump, skip, tackle, anything. PE classes were my greatest nightmare. My report cards said, Shauna tries hard but is ultimately hopeless.
Wednesday Sports was another nightmare of mine. Spending a sweltering February afternoon on a tennis court was my idea of purest hell. To make it worse, I somehow had acquired very sporty friends who were blessed with coordination and knowledge of the game. I begged them to let me play on one of the back courts, so there would be fewer witnesses to my pathetic skills.
I watched serve after serve whoosh over my head, slowing down the game for everyone else, sulking on the sidelines as the rules were explained to me for the seventeenth time. I wished they would just give up on me. My temper was rising, the 15+ sizzled on my skin, I glared at my friend as she served to me. I swung back wildly and let fly with a wild gutteral URRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNGGGGGGGH! to rival Monica Seles. Racquet connected with ball with an almighty thwack. I'd finally hit it!
We all stood in disbelief as the ball sailed over our court, over the fence, over the front courts, over the front fence, over the gardens, out onto the highway where it slammed into the front of a semi-trailer with a pleasant little bong! sound, hurtled through the air halfway along the bridge, dropped off the side and finally plopped down into the murky Lachlan River.
"Miss Shauna! Go and fetch that ball!" yelled the teacher. My friends were piles of giggles on the scorching court. I rubbed my aching arm and felt quietly pleased with myself. I didn't hit another ball all day.
Patriotic sentiment is running high in my neighbourhood today. I counted no less than 9 blokes in floppy hats with Victa mowers on my morning walk. My street is so frightfully suburban it rivals Ramsay. If it's not the smell of mower fuel and freshly chopped buffalo, then it's snags on a barbeque. Of course, my house is the black sheep of the street, with rebelliously unkempt lawn and a psychotic dog.
Cringe-worthy links abound from this Metafilter thread about the shoddy US coverage of the Olympics. This champion article sums it all up. My favourite quote: "The most popular magazine is Australian Women's Weekly, owned by Australian Consolidated Press. It's read by men and women alike, has news, sports and gossip, but is not easily categorized."
Hooray, the carnival is over. My favourite part of the Closing Ceremony: those delicious ten seconds when I thought that precocious little youngster Nikki Webster was going to be offered to the cauldron as sacrifice to the sporting gods. As her voice soared higher and higher, the little platform thingy crept up and up, I was so sure we'd soon see 4 foot of barbecued diva. No such luck.
I normally refrain from blogging my dreams but this one really tickled me. It was the final night of the Olympic swimming and there was a new event, the 4 x 100m MIXED freestyle relay. Two guys, two girls, and whaddya know? Me, who couldn't dogpaddle across a puddle, was in the Australian Team!
In the team with me was Bigfoot Ian Thorpe, the rather tasty Michael Klim, and this very petite, delicate and distinctly non-sporty lady that I work with.
So we're getting ready to begin and pulling