Actually, I don't want to talk cricket. It's too depressing. Basically, it's a non-stop marvel at the incompetence of three people who apparently know nothing about what makes a good side doing their thing, as they are continually hornswaggled by a pack of useless players who prove unable to contribute anything over an entire year of cricket being once more unable to contribute anything at the crunch time a month later.
Just.... the Australian team should be thus:
1. Chris Roger
2. Shane Watson
3. Usman Khawaja
4. Cameron White
5. Michael Hussey
6. David Hussey
7. Brad Haddin
8. Mitchell Johnson
9. Nathan Hauritz
10. Mark Cameron
11. Ryan Harris
12. Doug Bollinger
And a preferable selection panel would be
1. Dame Edna Everidge
2. Bernard Black
3. A 2 litre bucket of pigs vomit
Suffice it to say, the cricket has been turned off in this household today because the Boxing Day morning has been the time of morning that crushes childhood dreams of sporting heroics under its heel, then brews the dust into coffee with the addition of hellish urine and throws the brew into the faces of every orphan in the country while filming it before sending the results to Australia's Funniest Home Videos and somehow escapes justice.
The tragedy being just a week ago we had one of the great of the great cricketing victories.... that I was THERE to witness! Yes, I was in Perth last weeekend! The guy who barely ever leaves his house, went not only to another house, but to house in another state! What's more, it was a PUBLIC house! And I still didn't get laid.
Ah, were those the finest 50 minutes of my life, seeing the majestically and disproportionately large-bottomed Mitchell Johnson along with Ryan Harris, seemingly a parallel universe version of myself raised by wolves to eat chips and kick arse (there was a severe potato shortage in W.A that weekend...) tear the English two new arseholes and an extra mouth, because if a job is worth doing it is worth overdoing. The roar of the crowd when Jimmy Anderson's middle stump went cartwheeling was amazing, all the moreso because I was in one of the smaller grounds of this fair country. The only downside was being forced unwillingly to cut short my improvised soliloquy on the astronomical amounts of inbreeding within Graeme Swan's veins by the standards of his backward nation when I remembered I was surrounded by English supporters, including one who was especially pissed off apparently due to being too pettily annoyed during the auditions for Grumpy Old Men.
The real purpose of the visit to WA was to see the [second] greatest live act on the planet!!!! Who are Muse, by far the best three-man meterosexual Queen tribute act to make the Billboard charts on a regular basis. Aha, I jest - their music is the stuff of Triple J sad-acts somehow given ascension into the forms of angels with unlimited talent. And, yes, that is actually a compliment.
Their tour, I believe, cost them something in the area of $155 million to setup and you can see every cent lavishly being wasted before your eyes. If film isn't being projected onto a surface, a strobe light will. Anything that can explode into anything will, and also into something else. If there is any oppurtunity to transform a guitar into a 2 billion candle power spotlight whilst somehow playing it like an air-raid siren, it shall be taken and use to violate a special member of the crowd. Speaking of the crowd, they are video and displayed at various times on the walls, on the instruments, and on Matt Bellamy's junk. All of this only happens after the band has descended using pneumatic elevators from 20 foot high towers erected in the stage. I believe that the eletricity is all generated using a furnace that runs exclusively on dodo souls, on sheer principal of badassery.
This is quite nice to look at. But I wouldn't say the experience was entirely positive. Firstly, the events staff went out of their way to be dicks. Because the cricket ended so early, we were there at Bassandean quite early - about five hours early. We weren't the only people there, though, because most of the population of Perth is unfamiliar with this 'music' we have on the East Coast and is keen to see what all the fuss is about. I was #77 in line, a number I remember because I was instructed by staff to write it on my hand as the first 100 got in early, and something extra special.
What was it, I hear you ask me. What, Jared? Did you get to meet Matt Bellamy? Did you hold his hand? Did you get his phone number? Can *I* have his phone number? Does Dom want to watch? Is he allowed to join in? Enough of this!
The answer, is ..... nothing. Like the confectionary in Valve's Portal, it was nothing but a lie to keep us docile.
But because I thought we were getting in early, when security told me that opened drinks were not allowed I left my 2.0 litre bottle of vanilla coke unmolested as would be logical, keeping it by my side for four and a half hours UNTIL the line started moving (or at least people were told to stand up and jerked around further) when I was helpfully told that we weren't allowed to bring in anything but water and it would have to get thrown away.
Keep in mind.... this is fucking Perth. It's hot. I've had a glass of water and a Sprite all day. Now, I skull what of the Coke I can in a few minutes, because I'm told we're going in any minute.....
40 minutes later, we get in.
1 hour after that, we get to see the support act.
1 hour and FIFTEEN MINUTES after THAT, comes the actual act.
Because my friend always wants to be at the front, that's where we are. Because Perth never gets any concerts, and because they've been left to wait for a ridiculous amount of time, the crowd of human beings has devolved into a rabid pack of fucking dogs and the Mosh is out of control. And by poor herd instinct, there is a baffling scenario where all the middling-to-well-built shirtless guys are to the right of the stage, and all the fragile teenybopper girls are to the left. Helpfully, I'm standing on the frontline and get pressed into a makeshift and incredibly sweaty shield-wall midway through the third track.
Incredibly jumping along to the music along with all the waiting gets me dehydrated and soon I'm only held upright by the crush of half naked sweaty men... insert 'business as usual' joke here.
To make things even more heavenly 20,000+ people need to get out of the grounds through three ever-narrowing gates WITH TURNSTILES that act as the most brilliant bottleneck ever. Colonel Richard Sharpe would be having wet dreams about us as a French army if he'd seen the lumbering approach to the exit, imagining a single company of redcoats station by the ticket window who could utterly destroy us.
Luckily the British hadn't declared war on us that day because we had to get to the airport in FIFTEEEN MINUTES.
The moral of the story is stay the fuck at home and listen t music on an Mp3 player. Guess what I got for Christmas? Coincidence? I think not...