No place for fluff
Paddy Lewis
FLUFF. That’s what we were served up over Christmas, and it made me (for one) look further afield for a sporting fix as I luxuriated in the best summer a Southern traveller could ever want.
I hate fluff. If I could, I’d convince SKY TV to get rid of the E! Channel and in particular those women with the fat bums whose step-dad used to be a great decathlete before he got sucked into their mother’s vortex.
I blame the Carcrashians (yes, I know, it is spelt incorrectly on purpose) for the local sports media getting a fixation on Sonny Bill Williams every time he stepped out the door. Sonny Bill has coffee, Sonny Bill goes to Whakatane, Sonny Bill upset after latest punch bag turns out to be a criminal on the lam. Sonny Bill gets white jandals, new haircut, and uses public toilet….it’s just fluff.
Nevertheless, you can tune out that fluff whilst on holiday. You can change channels on the radio. You can stay away from the TV. My problem is that I can’t stay away from the outside world. It’s the old journalist’s curse. You want to know what’s going on. So you make the early morning trek every day from the holiday house to the rundown old dairy further along the beach to buy the paper. Never mind that it only takes you four minutes and 30 seconds to read it and see it’s all fluff, you do it anyway.
You put the radio news on while you’re making the screaming hordes breakfast before sending them all to the beach. Listening to the radio brings a day of it, because one thing leads to another and then you’re listening to the soporific cricket commentary while you doze on the sun lounger.
In a roundabout way, that brings me to more fluff. 20/20 cricket is the curse of the Devil. And it’s as fluffy as a cute little bichon puppy (I hate them too).
All cricket-playing blokes know of at least one schoolmate who could knock the cover off a cricket ball but wasn’t particularly interested in spending all day doing it. As a result, thanks to fluffy-haired Martin Crowe, we now have the cricketing equivalent of a trim soy decaf moccachino ruining any chance we have of having a team of decent strokemakers and players who are able to bat for long periods without wanting to beat the ball to death every time it approaches. We will be annihilated when South Africa arrive to play us in three Tests, because of 20/20 fluff.
Speaking of cricketing fluff, it appears every Australian cricket commentator (whether they were born in Australia or not) seems to have been raised on the Oprah Winfrey school of fluff. A less kind person might say they were fluffers for the Australian side, but this is a family-oriented column…oh, hang on…
Anyway, the odd wet day during the Indian Test series drew me to the TV for approximately the exact amount of time it took someone like Mark Nicholas or Tony Grieg to kiss the collective backsides of the Aussie cricketers. They need a course from the grumpy old man of cricket, Bryan Waddle, on fluff avoidance.
Fluff is found under couches and in bellybuttons. It has no place in sport.
I hate fluff. If I could, I’d convince SKY TV to get rid of the E! Channel and in particular those women with the fat bums whose step-dad used to be a great decathlete before he got sucked into their mother’s vortex.
I blame the Carcrashians (yes, I know, it is spelt incorrectly on purpose) for the local sports media getting a fixation on Sonny Bill Williams every time he stepped out the door. Sonny Bill has coffee, Sonny Bill goes to Whakatane, Sonny Bill upset after latest punch bag turns out to be a criminal on the lam. Sonny Bill gets white jandals, new haircut, and uses public toilet….it’s just fluff.
Nevertheless, you can tune out that fluff whilst on holiday. You can change channels on the radio. You can stay away from the TV. My problem is that I can’t stay away from the outside world. It’s the old journalist’s curse. You want to know what’s going on. So you make the early morning trek every day from the holiday house to the rundown old dairy further along the beach to buy the paper. Never mind that it only takes you four minutes and 30 seconds to read it and see it’s all fluff, you do it anyway.
You put the radio news on while you’re making the screaming hordes breakfast before sending them all to the beach. Listening to the radio brings a day of it, because one thing leads to another and then you’re listening to the soporific cricket commentary while you doze on the sun lounger.
In a roundabout way, that brings me to more fluff. 20/20 cricket is the curse of the Devil. And it’s as fluffy as a cute little bichon puppy (I hate them too).
All cricket-playing blokes know of at least one schoolmate who could knock the cover off a cricket ball but wasn’t particularly interested in spending all day doing it. As a result, thanks to fluffy-haired Martin Crowe, we now have the cricketing equivalent of a trim soy decaf moccachino ruining any chance we have of having a team of decent strokemakers and players who are able to bat for long periods without wanting to beat the ball to death every time it approaches. We will be annihilated when South Africa arrive to play us in three Tests, because of 20/20 fluff.
Speaking of cricketing fluff, it appears every Australian cricket commentator (whether they were born in Australia or not) seems to have been raised on the Oprah Winfrey school of fluff. A less kind person might say they were fluffers for the Australian side, but this is a family-oriented column…oh, hang on…
Anyway, the odd wet day during the Indian Test series drew me to the TV for approximately the exact amount of time it took someone like Mark Nicholas or Tony Grieg to kiss the collective backsides of the Aussie cricketers. They need a course from the grumpy old man of cricket, Bryan Waddle, on fluff avoidance.
Fluff is found under couches and in bellybuttons. It has no place in sport.
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