BAAA bup BAAA. BUPBUP BAAAAAAAA

(this title must be sung or played with horns)




The A Team.

Iconic show of decades gone by. Launching pad for the career of Mr T. Source of so many Spaced references. Inspiration behind the best little Aussie team to put on a show in Edinburgh.


And a pretty kickarse action flick.


Granted, I love love Bradley Cooper. And have since the days of Alias. One of my London flatmates was a Vaughn girl. One liked the icyness of Sark. But I always had eyes only for Will Tippin. Boyish green. Sparkling pale eyes. Sigh!


And another grant must be that I was totally hungover. And in the mood for some seriously trashy trash, incapable of consuming much more than the poppiest of popcorn movies.


But I loved this movie. So unlikely. So so funny. Fantastic action sequences, and iconic characters, soundtracks and one liners.

It took me AGES to figure out that Murdock was being played by Sharlto Copely (the dude from District 9) and he was so so good. Quentin 'Rampage' Jackson filling the boots of Mr T had a big task... as well as a rediculous slash hysterical slash scarily fitting name. And I'm under no delusions - Mr T not the greatest actor of anybody's generation. See the Snickers ad for evidence of that. So he did a pretty good job. Liam Neeson, he of the velvety voice, seems to make some strange choices in films. I still haven't seen Taken, but I hear it is a laugh. And he hops from period battle dramas to Star Wars and back again. But his Hannibal is honourable and likable. Even though I kept thinking 'wow, he must reek of cigar smoke... is he really allowed to smoke there?'

And Bradley was pretty droolworthy... Ah. Faceman... Jessica Beil may have rediculously pouty mouth. But I would have swapped for a little while just to have a turn.

I found it interesting that the enemy in this one is not the Arabs. Not the paranoid Bush-era anti-Muslim stuff that there seems to have been for a few years. Not even really hiding behind a non-descript accent. The Man, The Establishment, The Government... these are the things it is OK to question now. Does that mean this poppiest of popcorn is a part of the revolution...?

The quest for an 'S' on my chest

Amidst the Football Fever that has taken over the world (not just the town, or the state, or the country... as OTHER football fevers (note:lower case) have done before), the Mighty U14s took to the park today for the first time in a month. And while I have enjoyed my Saturday mornings to myself, I have missed them playing. Have missed barking instructions from a sideline, and have missed getting to the end of a fairly fruitless hour, full of adrenaline and frustration.

Unfortunately, there are only 4 teams in our division this year. Which means there is only 3 weeks in each round, and we revisit the same faces quite frequently. Again, contributing to the frustration.

And when one of my midfield rep-player stars has a heel injury that we are waiting to heal (that would be the 5th time I have made that lame joke... but the first time I have made that one), and when my stopper injured his back last night at rugby, and my sweeper's thumb is being "gay" (I am interpreting this as "not straight", for fear of launching in to another lecture), and one of my strikers got belted square in the eye by a now suspended Year 10 thug... We weren't fielding a team running at full strength. And ended up drawing 2-2, when on paper we really should have run away with it.

Interestingly, both teams seem to have been watching plenty of SBS. So much diving and tumbling, and even a little bit of too-far-up-the-field offside-traps reminiscent of Lucas Neill. An ex-Mighty U13 player even got a yellow card. Good to see the boys are as inspired as I am by the World Cup.

Last year, we started weak, and the Mighty U13s built and grew over the season to finish 3rd on the ladder. This year, we started really strong. Our first cut was the deepest. And since then, we have hardly scratched the surface.

I quite like to refer to my sidekick and myself as Supercoaches. But I fear this title is not deserved at this stage...

Friday Night Letdown

I named my car Henry when I got him 5 years ago. He is a 15 year old bottle green Mazda, with a grey tweed interior. With the tweed, and the overwhelming desire for him to be reliable, I thought Henry was a fitting name.

And most of the time, he does really well for me. He starts a bit dodgy - a new starter motor has been required since I got him. He hates the cold, especially in the mornings. He has steered me into life-saving swamps. He has zoomed me up and down the New England countless times. He has been a good egg.

Sparky hates him. "Scrap Metal." Though not all of us can swan about in a brand new Rav4.

I know he is a bomb. But to me, he is Tha Bomb.

Until he decided to unceremoniously shit himself in the drive thru at Oporto. A guilty pleasure on a Friday night, with extra, extra chilli... OK, maybe the staff know my order now...

Battery. Dead. Groaning and choking.

Phone call to NRMDad, swooping in to the rescue with the jumper leads in the Merc (27 year old Merc...) and I was on my way again.

The things that annoy me the most about this situation:
a) This is a shitty way to spend a Friday night.
b) Sparky is proven correct. Grrr.
c) Admitting to my parents that I am partaking in fast-food. Junk guilt still exists, even though I have smashed through the 30 age barrier.
d) Henry is NOT living up to his reliable name.

And now I have to ponder The Next Car question...?

Round Ball Fever

The Boy Factory is not usually a hospitible place for The World Game. The round ball has been booted for many more centuries than that weird egg shaped one. There are millions more players of soccer, billions more viewers and supporters. There is more money in the salaries and sponsorships than any other sport (though golf has the biggest prize money). And the World Cup Finals are the Biggest Sporting Event in the world.

And I love it.

Last World Cup, with Guus, and Viduka, and the new A League, Australia was on a football upswing. Things were good. Unreasonably good, really. We were punching well above our weight and made it through some very lucky games. I have hope, and I have belief in the Socceroos, but I would never profess to having a depth of confidence in them. I mean we got really lucky, but we are really not a footballing nation. Rugby? Yes. League? One of the few. AFL? The only (though Gaellic is similar...). Cricket? Carve it up. Speed skating...? Well, our Socceroos are a little like Steve Bradbury.

George Negus, self confessed football tragic, describes us as a bit like a third world country when it comes to development in football. As our focus is split between codes and sports, our athletic talents are divided and conquered. Hence the long times between trips to the World Cup Finals waterhole.

The Socceroos tragic opening this year was very tricky to watch. What with the sandpaper lining my eyelids at 4am, it wasn't just the emotional impact of watching the boys in blue (and NOT green and gold???!?!? What is WITH that??!?!?) impale themselves on their own mediocrity. Germany really are a superb team. With their crisp white uniforms (a little too white, perhaps?) and brilliant ball skills. And a vast depth of experience playing as a team.

I was bitterly disappointed in the way that Lucas Neill's boys played. There was no trust. There was no passing. There was great gaping corridors opening up in the back line. I was almost surprised the Aussies weren't laying down strip lighting so the Germans could see their way towards the goal a little better. There were so so many failed offside traps. There was so much backchat to the ref.

And then there was the ref dishing out cards to all and sundry for the minorest of taps and slides. Timmy Cahill was sent packing on a red for a nothing tackle based more on momentum than malice. The tiny ex-Samoan really holds the hopes of the nation on his fairly low-to-the-ground shoulders (hey! look at the judgement from the tall girl!!.... he is probably about my height...) and with the red, Cahill was promised a few extra days holiday.

And of course there is the coach blame. Verbeek actually didn't field a striker til about 3/4 the way through. Cahill was playing up front, but he is a midfielder...? There was no towering Josh Kennedy... and Kewell (also a midfielder) was decidedly noticable in his absence from the field.

The Mighty Under 14s have the benefit of my watchful yet inexperienced coaching eye each Saturday morning. They hear my ladylike bellow from the sideline; encouraging, cajoling, instructing. Dramatically falling over when breakaways miss the goal mouth. Biting my fist when the ball sneaks behind our backline. And each week we talk about trust. We talk about passing. We talk about filling the gaps, about letting each other run out, about picking up the slack behind each other. They still need me to talk about the importance of shooting - you can't score if you don't shoot (the same advice applies for chasing tail, too).

On Saturday morning, if my boys play like the Socceroos did, they will be seriously punished at training next week.

Favouritist New Spoonerism

Some people like Chief Wiggum's "Bake 'em away, Toys"

The ridiculousness of Chish and Fips is always giggleworthy.

But asking for a Beg and Achin' Roll is the sweetest of spoonerisms I now know