WORLD CUP AFTERMATH:

"BATTED, STEVE; BOWLED, WARNEY!"

First things first: where did you go, Mister R. Benaud, when a nation tuned its lonely ears to you? (two-two-two)
The hugest gold-plated chubby-enhancing sporting event since ameboid slime first pitched it in short, and we're abandoned by the tanned goanna-bot and left with the commentary equivalent of the Twin Towns childminding room.
Richie, I'm sorry. Nothing was the same without you. I love you. I want you back. Please come home soon. Love, Australia.
In his absence, the one and only question which remains to be answered is: "Ray Martin. Why, oh W..H..Y?"
Obviously, Ray was there to provide a chipboard framework for the mind-numbingly annoying car-people's trivia comp, but couldn't it have been pre-recorded?
I lost several close friends as a direct result of the grindingly idiotic patter between Uncle Ray and his mate Simon 'Deputy Dawg' O'Donnell. One friend self-combusted, another two flung themselves through plate-glass windows, and the last didn't survive an attempted Linda Blair 360. That's what Uncle Ray can do to a man.
Worst of all, as the cup went on, he became increasingly over-familiar. At first, Australia's most favourite, most overpaid autocueist seemed to gauge inherently that carrying on like an ex-player would cause a holy wind to arise from the collective screaming mouths of every Aussie cricket fan and sweep him to a fittingly-bloody end.
But whaddya know, eh? By the end of it all, our old pro was shootin' the shit like it was only yesterday that he and The Don had stepped onto the verdant sward at The Oval to tonk those pathetic 1948 Vincibles around for a quickfire 150 a piece.
By tournament's end, his feet were up, the spiked boots had been discarded, his 3lb Duncan Fearnley had been left in the corner to cool down and his conversation was peppered with "Well, Heals..." and "What would Tubby say?"
Still, someone had to grip the clipboard to give the infomercial that in-the-trenches/nerve-centre feel. And no-one grips a clippie as well as Uncle Ray – when the price is right.
But Christ, you know things are grim when Simon O'Donnell starts to sound incisive. If the Wide World of Profits ever insists on using Ray in such a role again ..... well, a class action on behalf of the people of Australia would definitely be called for.
Anyhow ... it'll be another few years before the Aussies must defend the trophy they won by mixing an astonishing amount of arse with a familiar mix of class.
And what cricket, eh?
Steve "Genghis" Waugh and his shrieking hordes have finally returned for a tickertapeparadefest after hacking, cleaving, sledging and generally shitting-from-a-great-height-upon every cricketing nation in their path.
The team, written off after struggling early to ensure some juicy odds with a certain Pakistani bookie named George, has come back to serve some steaming goat pie to the burgeoning naysayer community.
To win the final - and the coveted Gilded Doover - the Aussies had to make grainy paste from the likes of Pakistan, South Africa and ... well, the rest of 'em in the known world.
But let's face it, the three-way showdown – Pakistan, South Africa and the world's greatest cricketing nation ever - was always on the cards. It was only a matter of who was going to get hurt most in the scrimmage. And as it happened, our lads are currently farting through silk.
The latest news is that match-throwing allegations against the Pakis are being taken 'very seriously' by the Pakistani powers-that-be.
Word up, Wasim ! Whether you threw it or not, the real final was the semi; and everybody knows it!
What cricket! A big-hittin', fast bowlin' swingapalooza that kept everybody happy. Especially when the Soot Effrikens did a Rolf Harris and tied me kangaroos and went DOWN, sport!
Then that final... that's when the team that the rest of the world just loves to hate decided to eat out Pakistani-style, and then, mopping the remnants from their grinning chops with little squares of buttered Tip-Top White Hi-Fibe, they got down to the serious business of parading like pissed parrots for the world's press.
Ah, yes, what endearing images – Swampy Marsh collapsed in a slick of spent sauce; booze being emptied over the coveted whatsaname; booze being emptied over anything; booze being emptied over everything.
It engendered a curious unfurling in the groin to know that all those beady-eyed Soot Effrikens were enduring the sight of those "feckin Aussies" on their 6 o'clock news. Those proud, noble heroes slipping over each other in puddles of their own piss and puke.
So all credit to our hyper-heroes, they deserve all the cirrhosis they can intake.
So then, with no further ado, let's now run through some highs and lows from the tournament that stopped a grateful planet mid-pitch...

- 'Horf-smort' Herschell Gibbs tossing away the tournament. yok yok yok.
- Ooh-Aah's return to form to emasculate, eviscerate and otherwise incinerate the Windies, including his 'unplayable' delivery to cuddly Brian 'Tickle-me-Elmo' Lara.
- Steve "Boer" Waugh smashing over 3 million runs in the supadupa eight encounter to start the zombie-rot hoodoo over Soot Effrika.
- Paul Reiffel - briefly- becoming Australia's Most Wanted after lovingly assisting that ball over the fence for 6. (We wouldn't have burnt your house down and killed yer dog, you old sonovagun, if we'd known you were going to redeem yourself so well with a miserly spell in that lop-sided final.)
- Ooh-Aah's mashin' with passion of Crashin' Bashin' Gnashin' Lashin' but-above-all Thrashin' Sachin. Crumbed fillet, pure and simple.
- The 'press blackout' early in the tournament over reports that Lance Klusener and Jonty 'Glovepuppet' Rhodes were being charged with indecent acts involving their captain's mother. In a press release obtained by this reporter, the ageing Mrs. Cronje states: "I don't know what all the fuss is over. Those two lovely boys were simply next in line. My Hansie just gets greedy."
- The threat of proxy war hanging over the entire Pakistan-India match.
- Warnie's Springbok shiskebab – Gibbs, Kirsten and Hansie – at precisely the time they needed to be skewered.
- The Kiwis (briefly) looking like they actually believed they had a snowball's chance in hell, only to be Paki-pasted and hit for sex when it counted most.
- That hang-dog way Allan Donald skulked back to retrieve his bat after SCREWING UP EVERYTHING !
- Bill Lawry achieving some vintage feedback during the last two overs of the big game.
- The way that Tony 'Kick an Aussie when he's not Down Under' Greig would have veldt (sic) watching his beloved pack of Aryan prancers as they were sliced, diced and julienned before his bulging eyes by our bronzed larrikin sun-gods. Go you convict bastards!
- The stunned-mullet faces on the Rainbow Nation supporters in the crowd. Pure poetry!

But enough said. It was huge, it was grand, it was spectacular, and WE WON!

So until then, remember this little ditty they'll be singing in the city for months to come, especially when they've been on the gin and the beer...

A flash bunch of bastards from Oz
Went winging to London (just 'cos);
By bluffing it early
they appeared somewhat girly
And then CAME BACK AND KICKED EVERYONE'S TIRED, SKANKY BACKSIDES AND MADE IT QUITE APPARENT JUST WHO THE GODDAM BEST CRICKETING NATION IN THE FUCKEN' UNIVERSE IS!

HE'S GOT HIM, YE-ESS!