Is the Australian cricket team just a bunch of dickeads?
Are these blokes just a bunch of arseholes? This was a theme picked up at a recent inner west dinner party with my fellow Princess Sam
Princess Sam says....
“They might be arseholes but they’re our arseholes.”
I found myself uttering these very words quite recently, in defence of the indefensible: the Australian cricket team.
I was at a BBQ at a friend of a friend’s gorgeous Art Deco flat in Ewart Street. There were four of us: the host and her equally lovely friend, who were both from New Zealand, had agreed to break bread with two Aussies - Our Marrickville Princess and yours truly.
The cricket was on somewhere in the background – Australia playing New Zealand in a one-dayer - and, considering our salon bridged both sides of the Tasman, we took more than a passing interest.
Now, I do realise that the Australian cricket team is utterly indefensible. They wear canary yellow tracksuits. They call themselves Warnie, Watto, Symmo and Punter. They text too much and sledge even more.
And worse – on this Sunday, they were playing New Zealand. New Zealand, who serve their dish of Daniel Vettori on a bed of sleek black trakkies (apparently brown was the new black only up until the late 1990s…) with lovely wire-rimmed specs on top. Who play…but really, who cares? Let’s just stick with Vettori.
Yet, when I noticed that the Princess was supporting New Zealand on this occasion, I had to say my piece. I had recently returned from a two and a bit year sojourn to the UK where I had to learn to love ‘our boys’ after they lost the Ashes to the locals in 2005. I had figured out how to focus on Gilchrist and his sportsmanship, on the fact that ‘Bing’ Lee had managed to grow up (except for his nickname…and that band, obviously…oh, never mind!) and to pretend to accept the fact that ‘Punter’ was obviously deeply misunderstood by the clientele of Bourbon & Beefsteak who thought him a petulant little man, and that he did not even vaguely resemble George W. Bush.
Our Princess was, however, not buying my rhetoric: “I love the cricket and I know I’m Aussie, but they’re arseholes,” she remonstrated.
And this is where I puffed up my chest, sucked in my breath and uttered in sage-like earnestness: “They might be arseholes but they’re our arseholes.”
Now, it would be prudent to point out that this was no charcoal snag and warm tinny evening. There were three types of cheese (like Michelin stars, I think the more cheeses there are on the table, the posher the do – but I was born in Blacktown so I’d take that cheese with more than a few grains of salt, Kraft Cheddar Cheese-style) so, clearly, the evening was civilised.
And I was not.
But surely it’s OK to indulge in that atavistic urge to love the devil you know? To pin your colours to canary yellow tracksuits and thump your chest with teary pride when Symmo hits the winning runs and screams in the face of his opponent rather than shake hands gracefully?
Nonetheless, I remain troubled by it all.
I found myself uttering these very words quite recently, in defence of the indefensible: the Australian cricket team.
I was at a BBQ at a friend of a friend’s gorgeous Art Deco flat in Ewart Street. There were four of us: the host and her equally lovely friend, who were both from New Zealand, had agreed to break bread with two Aussies - Our Marrickville Princess and yours truly.
The cricket was on somewhere in the background – Australia playing New Zealand in a one-dayer - and, considering our salon bridged both sides of the Tasman, we took more than a passing interest.
Now, I do realise that the Australian cricket team is utterly indefensible. They wear canary yellow tracksuits. They call themselves Warnie, Watto, Symmo and Punter. They text too much and sledge even more.
And worse – on this Sunday, they were playing New Zealand. New Zealand, who serve their dish of Daniel Vettori on a bed of sleek black trakkies (apparently brown was the new black only up until the late 1990s…) with lovely wire-rimmed specs on top. Who play…but really, who cares? Let’s just stick with Vettori.
Yet, when I noticed that the Princess was supporting New Zealand on this occasion, I had to say my piece. I had recently returned from a two and a bit year sojourn to the UK where I had to learn to love ‘our boys’ after they lost the Ashes to the locals in 2005. I had figured out how to focus on Gilchrist and his sportsmanship, on the fact that ‘Bing’ Lee had managed to grow up (except for his nickname…and that band, obviously…oh, never mind!) and to pretend to accept the fact that ‘Punter’ was obviously deeply misunderstood by the clientele of Bourbon & Beefsteak who thought him a petulant little man, and that he did not even vaguely resemble George W. Bush.
Our Princess was, however, not buying my rhetoric: “I love the cricket and I know I’m Aussie, but they’re arseholes,” she remonstrated.
And this is where I puffed up my chest, sucked in my breath and uttered in sage-like earnestness: “They might be arseholes but they’re our arseholes.”
Now, it would be prudent to point out that this was no charcoal snag and warm tinny evening. There were three types of cheese (like Michelin stars, I think the more cheeses there are on the table, the posher the do – but I was born in Blacktown so I’d take that cheese with more than a few grains of salt, Kraft Cheddar Cheese-style) so, clearly, the evening was civilised.
And I was not.
But surely it’s OK to indulge in that atavistic urge to love the devil you know? To pin your colours to canary yellow tracksuits and thump your chest with teary pride when Symmo hits the winning runs and screams in the face of his opponent rather than shake hands gracefully?
Nonetheless, I remain troubled by it all.
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