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Writing

21st November 2010

So, farewell then, Hobart. Before boarding for Brisbane, one last chance to breathe in your cultural atmosphere, which at the weekend consists of the underlying bouquet of Golden Virginia roll-ups, Fosters happy-hour and a Home and Away omnibus on TV. God, it’s reminded us all of home.

Quick flick through papers on flight. Australia’s press are ripping into their team’s spin options again. It’s like watching a Panda sit on its own young. Although I’m not sure how many people would regard Steven Smith as adorable. Come to think of it, Pandas probably get laid more often than the Australian press corps too. Have you seen them up close? They’d make a crime scene clean-up professional retch. And those are the pretty ones.

Brisbane; a jewel on the Queensland coast. A thousand miles to the north and thirty years in the past. Sadly thirty years in the past from Hobart, meaning we’ve moved from the 1950’s to the 1920’s. Perhaps we can find a flapper bar to keep Monty amused?

Met up with advance party at hotel. Swanny’s there with that bloody camera again. Yes, that’s it, I’ll do a funny dance for you. Play up to it, Tim. Don’t let him know you’ve polished off most of Solzenitzen’s First Circle on the plane. It’d shatter his world view…

And what an odd worldview it is. Somehow Graeme’s convinced himself he’s the new “nations sweetheart”. A Princess Diana minus the bulimia, if you like. A Rachel from Countdown without the looks or brains.  A Cheryl Cole but lacking the compulsion to punch toilet attendants.

Nope. No dunnie dust-ups from Graeme. And no skin tight mini skirt while we get two from the top and one from the bottom, either.

Dear God, the WAG’s can’t get here soon enough; my minds starting to wander…

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