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Writing

18th November 2010

What a miserable day. Barely warmer than April at the Riverside. Colly spent most of the morning walking round topless as if it was half time at the Stadium of Light. All pink belly and granite nipples pointing towards you menacingly. Like a sow in heat, or…well, Katie Price in Heat, I suppose.

Australia spent the day throwing their reserves at us. Cameron, George, McKay, O’Keefe and Smith. Not quite Napoleon’s Imperial Guard, although much the same result. Bell was their Le Hay Sainte. Collingwood their Hougomont.  And Australia A charged into our sunken road with as much success as this laboured metaphor.

Quiet night in town. Hobart feels like that Yorkshire pub from American werewolf in London. “Beware the moon, lads.  Keep to the road.” Why? Werewolves? No. Fosters promoted INXS theme nights. Terrifying. Frankly I’d rather run the risk of being bitten by a local lycanthrope than sip at a Light Ice to the soundtrack of Suicide Blonde. But I’m out voted and in we went.

Now, how do we explain Michael Hutchence’s erotic asphyxiation induced death to Straussy without comparing him to South Africa?

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