No, you couldn’t make it up. Drugs, lawyers, threats, allegations, counter allegations, spin doctors, witch doctors, club doctors, thugs, bodybuilders, Mexican supplements, pig’s brains, calf’s blood, tanning agents, sexual stimulants, payments and denials. This circus has Wednesday night telemovie written all over it – Stephen Curry as Hirdy and Lachy Hulme as The Chief. Hopefully it’s all about the football next season.
Shock shock horror –he didn’t, did he? Forget the confession on Oprah for Le Tour’s biggest bullshitter. The most startling thing about this whole grubby affair was the fact that so many lycra-wearing devotees continued to believe right until the final stage. Seriously, how many confessions from former teammates, witnesses and medicos does it take before the penny drops? When you’re the only one left in the room who has a different story – your credibility is smashed. HE CHEATED. HE LIED. His legacy is shot. It’s all rather heartbreaking.
Despite being 700 years old we never thought old bacon face would call it quits. There was talk of a cryogenic chamber being installed at Old Trafford – where the Scottish maestro would take icy naps between fixtures – and wheeled out for Cup finals. Alas, the reign is over. Now it’s just his terrifying legacy that remains. Just spare a thought for poor David Moyes. In recent press conferences he has the pained look of a man who’s suffering extreme constipation. Big shoes indeed.
In a single click of a button Shane Warne’s selfie joined the pantheon of reclining nudes. Slide over Sleeping Venus there’s a new beauty in town. It wasn’t the strong chest that drew our attention but those eyes, mesmeric, pale blue and twinkling with mischief. You know what they’re saying – and it can’t be printed. I’m starting a petition for this snap to be immortalised on canvas and hung at the National Gallery of Victoria. Title – ‘Spinning legend at rest’.
Lovely, lovely Adam Scott. You wont find Adam whooping it up with a series of bottoms twerking in his face. This Mr Perfect might have all the danger of a bowl of jelly but boy can he play. What a year. How things have changed – this was the man who carried, somewhat unfairly, the ugly tag of choker – just like his blond-haired idol. He’s broken his Major duck and he obliterated his choker tag. Who could forget that spectacular monster birdie putt on the second play-off hole at the US Masters? Now that took balls.
Eleven titles this year and one word – ferocious. In both desire and style. She’s a natural born killer on the court. At times it’s like watching a lion take on a chicken – someone’s going to mauled. She might not be the most loved tennis player ever to have graced the game but she is arguably the best. Eighteen years of dominance. She notched up 78 wins this year (including the French and US Opens) and just four defeats, with 480 aces thrown in for good measure (more than any of the top men). Even archrival Sharapova would be impressed with that… or maybe not?
Australian Cricket Team
Not since Lazarus has there been such a dramatic turnaround in fortunes. Sure, we weren’t complete flops in England, but not even the most dedicated flag-waving, zinc-wearing, cricket nut would have predicted this slaughter. And slaughter is putting it mildly – have any of the old enemy looked even remotely threatening? I’ve seen Golden Retrievers with more bite. The English will need more than homework to save them come Boxing Day.
‘One huuunnddred n eighty!!’ There is something strangely compelling about this growing sport. And it’s not just the size of the darters that’s extraordinary, check out the size of the audience. Tables full of chanting Smurfs, Father Christmases, singing knights, nuns, wizards, leprechauns, inflatable hammers, togas and pints of beer. Thousands of pints of beer and not a single green salad in sight.
Let me make it really simple – for sportswomen in this country to get a commercial TV deal they have to get their tits out. Only when the Men’s Diamante Jockstrap Netball League starts up can I possibly support it.