So now heaps of you blow-ins who can't speak 'Strine are cummin'
to Steak 'n' Kidney for the Games, dunkin' yer tucker in sauce
and never takin' yer shout. Well, strike me pink if I don't stand
up and barrack.
Here's the good oil: These bloody Games have been shadier than a
rat with a parasol. Nothin' but whingin' and bluin' since we got
'em. Not to chuck a wobbly, but I hope the whole shonky mess goes
down the gurgler.
First, the journos dob in the pols on that tickie rort. Turns out
those bludgers were floggin' the pick of the tix to their mates
from the big end of town and leavin' the bits to us nongs. The
nobs got a bucketing. Still, more than a million tix are goin'
beggin'! That's big bikkies!
Then there's Bondi Beach, which is a ripper place to see spunks
starkers and sneak a gargle or two from a tinnie. Those no-hopers
turned it into a kinuglee vollie stadium! Not only that, but the
shells there'll cut up the ponces' plates of meat! Who's the
drongo runnin' this circus?
Then there are the shark biscuits, the banana bender whose noggin
showed up in the guts of a mega potato coddie last week (No
furphy! It's the ridgy-didge!), the trains that keep goin' troppo
and the dodgy baggage system at Kingsford Smith that's as useless
as a pocket on a singlet.
The athletes' village is not only next to the guests of Her
Majesty, but it's also chips--no couches, just plastic furniture.
The journo center is an old unpainted cattle pen. Oh, and not to
earbash, but I'd wear yer warm clobber. It can be colder than a
dead Tazzie's dodger in July. Plus, we've had southerly busters
lately, which ought to be fun for the chuckers, eh? Say, mate, is
that my javelin stickin' out yer arse?
Goodonyer for comin', but, fair dinkum, this dog's breakfast has
Buckley's chance. When it's over and the Games've come a gutser,
we know all these big-noters will disappear like rats up a
drainpipe and leave us without a brass razoo.
The Games were supposed to be a pearler. Bushwah. If it's rainin'
palaces, we just got hit by the dunny door.
Apparently, many of you foreigners who aren't familiar with the
Australian dialect will be arriving in Sydney for the Olympic
Games, slathering your food in ketchup and never buying a round
of beers at the pub. Well, pardon me if I don't stand up and
Here's the news: These darn Games have been somewhat
controversial. Lots of complaining and arguing since we got
them. Not to overreact, but I hope the whole fraudulent mess
goes down the toilet.
First, the media squealed on Olympic officials and politicians
over a ticket scam. Apparently, those lazy good-for-nothings were
selling the best of the tickets to VIPs and leaving the rest for
ordinary citizens. Said officials were severely criticized.
Still, 1.25 million tickets remain unsold. That's a lot of money!
Then there's Bondi Beach, which is a fine place to see
attractive, nude sunbathers and enjoy sips of canned beer. The
officials built an unattractive volleyball stadium there, even
though shell fragments might cut athletes' feet. Which
knucklehead is in charge?
Then there was the spate of sharks attacking boaters and
swimmers, the man from north Queensland whose head was found in
the stomach of a giant grouper (That's not a myth! It's the
truth!), the trains that keep derailing and the malfunctioning
airport baggage system, which is of little use.
The athletes' village is not only next to a prison, but it's also
parsimoniously appointed--no sofas, just plastic furniture. The
media center is a converted cattle pavilion and will not be
painted. And not to speak too long, but wear warm clothes. It can
be colder than a deceased Tasmanian man's private parts in
midwinter. We've had fierce winds lately, which ought to be fun
for the javelin competitors, yes? Excuse me, friend, is that my
javelin protruding from your behind?
Good for you for coming, but, honestly, this mess of an Olympics
doesn't have good prospects for succeeding. After the Games have
failed, we know the officials will leave quickly, and we'll be
left with only the bills.
We were told these Olympics would be wonderful. Hardly. If it's
raining palaces, we just got hit by the outhouse door.
COLOR PHOTO: DANA FINEMAN/SYGMA
Then there's Bondi Beach, a ripper place to see spunks starkers
and sneak a gargle or two from a tinnie.