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Writing23rd December 2010

Ye Gods, Christmas is almost upon us and after an innings victory followed by a 267 run defeat, Santa must be struggling to work out if our batsmen are naughty or nice. The press certainly are, as they continue to lambast the same players they were deifying the week before. It’s the same kind of virgin or whore worldview society imposes on women. Yes, that’s right sisters, I may be built like a prop forward and sweat pure testosterone, but I can empathise with the patriarchal subjugation of womankind. Especially those women who possess the genetic attributes society has conditioned men to find attractive. They suffer the most and I for one am standing right behind them. Next to them. Standing right next to them.

Bit of a weird afternoon today. No training, instead a met and greet with the public in Melbourne city centre. It’s times like this that Cap’n Ring-on-a-String’s natural charisma and monotone voice come to the fore. As any concerns management had about an overly energetic audience where calmed, along with the crowd, by an Andrew Struass master class in saying nothing of interest, slowly. It worked brilliantly. We were able to sip away at a couple of bottles we’d brought to fortify us whilst his voice droned on like an audio book of Midsummer Murders on half-speed.

That meant an afternoon of signing autographs with no smartarse comments from the crowd. No civilian sledging. No scorecard from Perth to be signed. Just the faint background noise of confused infants wondering why Santa’s helpers smelt like daddy when he’s gets back home late on a night.

It’s called Christmas spirit, young Jason and Kylie, Christmas spirit.