Posts by Richard Llewellyn
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But the worst thing about the game was the horrendous commentary
Actually, having endured Gordon Bray for over a decade, I can vouch for a more universal malaise in commentary standards.
Its the pandering to the domestic audience by describing the games purely as a function of the local team - 'great defence there from the Wallabies, and now Wallabies on attack' yada yada
League was no different either - most people I knew switched off the likes of Phil Gould and Fatty Vautin and listened to Roy & HG do their brilliant thing (actually, I think the crushing seriousness of NZ rugby would well benefit from the Roy & HG treatment).
Although, I do find the british commentators to be of a better standard, particularly if their team has no hope of winning ....
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RL: that's Sport Review NZ
Ahem, thanks Mr Judd for rescuing the technically inept.
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Stu Wilson is a national bloody embarrasment
And on that note, I tip my hat to Richard Irvine for his most recent work at Sportsreviewnz@blogspot.com
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listen to the dropkicks, you bastards
I do, I do!
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a certain WC semi-final springs to mind
For gods sake, don't mention the war ........ yeah, if I hear over-parochial gits like Stu Wilson blithely and completely dismissing the Wallabies one more time I'll hurl.
Your typical Aussie sportsman likes nothing better than being told that they have no chance, and they still have enough decent - but aging - players across the park to sneak a result if we aren't on our game.
Peter Fitzsimons happily regales Aussie rugger after-dinner crowds with the story of how he, a few days before the 03 semi, encouraged Stu Wilson to explain in minute hyperbolic detail how little chance the Wallabies had, then published this sentiment in large font in his Sydney Morning Herald article the day of the game, which was then cut out and pasted on every single Wallaby changing hook by Eddie Jones.
Don't give them the ammo, please ......
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On the other, I thought: I'd be there again like a shot
Ditto - the discomfort of mud and rain forgotten immediately, the memories of being immersed in a 4 day mobile party town timeless, followed by the slow hitch-hike/recovery back to London.
As for the All Blacks, they are coming along very nicely. While the Boks had plenty of cheap shots, the likes of Flavell and Hayman can look after themselves just fine. Its the sheer mobility of our pack that surprises me, just wearing other teams down and showing the kind of skills and pace that backs can. I particularly enjoyed seeing Jerry and Burger renew their bone-crunching rivalry.
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'Packer Whacker' - heh, love it.
Shortly after Big Kezza shuffled off this mortal coil, there was a thriving Aussie cottage media industry recycling some of the considerable gruff wit and wisdom of Mr Packer, one of which seems directly related to the use of the Packer-Whacker.
Reputedly uttered after one of his several major heart-attacks, after being resuscitated by the afore mentioned (and as yet un-nicknamed) Packer Whacker, "I can tell you I've been to the f***ing other side and theres f***ing nothing there".
I dunno, looking back at the larger than life, upfront, rough as guts likes of Packer, as opposed to the master of the universe, elitist, sneaky likes of Fay and Richwhite, makes me agree with David - sometimes that Aussie colloqialism makes something bitter a little more palatable.
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Haydn, on that note, I'm also proud that I could honestly say I didn't actually know who Millie is.
I can never fully understand the rhymes or reason of editorial decision-making - just when you think you have it sussed, you get 'daughter of a celebrity on minor charge' as the front page, and in weekends NZH a factual article debunking the accepted wisdom on the biggest water-cooler story of last 4 weeks (Muliaga death) buried on page 12 or 13.
It's like a media version of William Goldman's famous axiom about the movie industry, 'nobody knows anything'.
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Actually, on the subject of the OE, I'd like to note my resignation, anger, and sheer admiration at those who through fate or (no) choice find themselves in that most invidious of professions, the rip-off artist.
Those who devise a thousand different ways to match their wits against suspecting and unsuspecting tourists/travellers (is there a difference?) and relieve them ever so smoothly of their pesos, quetzals, rupiahs, baht, roubles, etc etc.
If it can be done with a smile, a flash of wit, and most importantly, a lack of threat or violence, then one can only admire their skill and chutzpah. The difference between rip-off artist and artisan.
To the men in Calcutta who devised such a complicated scam to separate us from our travellers cheques, salut.
To the myriad tuk tuk drivers who specialised in being able to find whatever you wanted, like Radar O'Reilly, salut.
To the woman in Guatemala city passing off old magazines and newspapers as the latest issue, salut.
To the guys who mugged us in Belize City, I hope your peckers drop off.
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"a sobering experience on a packed bus in the middle of india that needs recounting?"
Heh - yeah. Running towards the end of an overland trip through India, we decided to cool off from the 40 degree plus temperatures in Delhi and Rahjistan, and decided to head to the far north, to a beautiful scenic place called Manali.
The bus ride from Delhi was one of those gruesome 'don't look now' experiences as for the best part of 17-18 hours we climbed mountain passes, overtaking on blind corners, passing perilously close to terrifying drops etc.
Unbeknownst to us, one of our travelling companions had come down with a fairly potent and quick acting form of Delhi Belly.
I was just starting to think to myself, gee, M's looking a bit rough, when the gurglings in his belly became all too apparent.
At this point, the bus had descended from a mountain to a nice, deep, flat valley, with very little in the way of shade or cover.
M sat hunched, with an increasingly pained expression on his face, when all of a sudden he decided he couldn't take it any longer, and ripping open his pack in a frenzy he grabbed a bog roll and raced for the front of the bus.
No translation required, the bus pulled to a stop, M leapt from the bus as the dust cleared, and every occupant of the crowded bus gathered eagerly at the windows to watch what was happening to the large, shaven headed kiwi.
With absolutely no hint of cover anywhere, and very little time to think about alternatives M was forced to squat in full view of the bus while his body violently purged itself, much to the mirth of the hooting and hollering passengers.
Some time later, he dragged himself back on-board the bus to a hearty ovation.