After going through Dr Yobbo's display of cricketing genius and wanting to smash heads since watching the inept display by Australia against the West Indies only to be tortured again by the dullest of dull Aussie performances ever witnessed, I want to put it to cricket lovers that Australian cricket is officially sleepy-byes. Having a nap. Kipping out. Basically they're scared of blokes who think that moisturiser is for girls (Michael Clark), referring to yourself in the third person (Michael Clark) and spending more than the last quarter's balance of trade on hair product (Cameron White, Michael Clark), is all pretty much a giant wank. Michael Clark represents all that is wrong with Australian Cricket. He's only in it for photo ops. His grin is that of a self-annointed Modern Player but below that mask is the visage of a conceit which is wrought in the fabric of narcissism and the meaningless false idolatory of Big Brother contestants. His performance in T-20 matches is abysmal, his will to win a cricket match is weak and his cricket brain is only slightly less feeble than that of his captain. In short, his place in the Australian team is simply a clever piece of marketing and Cricket Australia, the selectors and doe-eyed journos have fallen for a massive con. Meanwhile they've shunted out a winner who likes belting the opposition and having a beer.
It wasn't age which made the likes of Haydos, Gillie, The Greatest Living Cricketer (SK Warne), Langer, McGrath or even SCG Macgill retire. They just saw that the idea of beating up the opposition, getting on the sauce and ripping out some rock anthems was being replaced by soft, routine tactics written by slouch bikers in large print and posted in the opposition's dressing rooms so that they won't be offended by anything surprising or original, decaf soy latte sipping and iPods loaded up with moisturiser jingles. I just hope that Phil Hughes, Dave Warner, Ben Hilfenhaus, Mitchell Johnson and their ilk learn the value of cold Crownies being necked in a victorious dressing room in Madras, while an annoying bowler tries to lead them in a crap rendition of "Living On A Prayer" and the physio begs them to stop the spontaneous game of touch footy. The emasculation of Australian cricket is nigh. What was ever the point of standing out in the Australian summer sun for seven hours if it wasn't to drink cold beer afterwards? I'll be fucked if it was to test drive skin moisturisers. Just ask Warnie and Roy.