Okay, after my mash letter to Shane - the most perfect boy's name for an Australian accent; complemented noicely by Cheryl, for a lass - I'd just like to explore one last cricket-related topic: what is it with all the hands on bums?????
It seems no achievement can go by without a bunch of men gathering together and slapping each other on the buttocks. This has been a source of bemusement to Grumpy and I for many seasons now. It seems like an odd way to express congratulations or approval, doesn't it? When I'm at work I don't want my boss to come charging over to me yelling, "Hey, that was an excellent paper you wrote!" and grabbing my arse - whether my overlord is a man or woman. And I don't want to touch anyone else's bum.
But what really gets me is that the bum-pat isn't simply opportunistic - oh look, here's someone's bum waggling right out there with nothing else around it: I think I'll just trot over and touch it. No, no; as the team comes running in to gather in celebration, no matter how far from the centre person, no player will be deterred from laying paw on posterior. Arms snake in and out and in between all manner of obstructions, to finally rest a hand on the sacred gluteus maximus.
Who knows what else they touch on the way in. Best not to dwell too long upon such an unpleasant subject.
Look, rubbing the head is fine; slapping the back is also fine; you wouldn't hear a peep out of me, peeps, if the handshake came back into vogue (to replace the stupid habit of touching fists; it was fine when the West Indians did it, but just recognise your own inherent non-West Indian uncoolness and refrain); but please, please leave the butt rubs for your babies, whatever baby means to you.
6 comments:
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Spam: the bum-slap of the internet.
Yeah, maybe. But if you saw my boss, you wouldn't want his crusty mitts anywhere near any of your body. Believe me.
mmmmm.... homer-erotic cameraderie ....
Hmm. You're very into the footy, aren't you SF?
How about the walloping South Freo's Bulldogs dished out to Claremont in yesterday's WAFL grand final!
Alongside the all-in brawl, my favourite moment was when ol' ma Simpson presented the medal, named after her late hubby, for best on ground.
"This award has dominated my family's life," Mrs Simpson proclaimed in a long-winded lecture that drew heckles from the pro-Bulldogs crowd.
Then, with a far-away smile, Mrs Simpson proceeded to present the medal to: "No.8, Toby McGrath."
Young Clint Jones, who wore No.8 and had performed solidly without standing out, hopped to the makeshift dias:
"Well, this is a surprise," he began, blonde mop-top swinging whimsically in the breeze, "I'd like to take this opportunity to thank ..."
... at which point the M.C. stepped in to explain that in fact Toby McGrath, who was wearing No.39, had won the Simpson Medal.
Exit Jones, stage right, mop-top now drooping over his sunken forehead.
"Sorry, mate," a jubilant McGrath blared across the Subiaco P.A., "that must've been quite embarassing."
And so very, very Freo.
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