By now everyone in the English speaking world will have heard the name Jamie Neale.
In case you've been living under the proverbial rock, he's the 19 year old British backpacker who recently emerged after 12 hours lost in the Australian bush in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney.
The SES, Police, and volunteers scoured the mountainous bush searching for him only to discover after the 12 days he walked into a fellow bushwalkers camp, for all intents and purposes unharmed.
Rejoice! As one could imagine. The would-be prodigal's father flew from England and joined the search, going as far as scratching his son's name on some rocks in an area his boy was assumed to have been.
The media, like vultures, leapt at the story, quoting words like miraculous, amazing, astounding - and currently is in its final throes. Lost walker found; congrats all round, slaps on back; media interest and offers for exclusive.
The TV images of the boy, I'd have to say were of a...well, normal boy with red nostrils. Thin, but not gaunt; pale, but not in any fashion emaciated. Wide-eyed, and a bit reserved but not traumatized into speechlessness.
In short, arguably not what one would expect from starving for 12 days and having to resort to eating berries.
Frankly I hadn't much more interest in this tale than I had in the recent bombings. But as the media had it shoved down my throat with its half-hourly reports, I found myself unable to not ruminate over the reported story and its facts.
One of which is the recent emergence of a certain 200,000 dollars offered by 60 Minutes for the exclusive. Which the chap took, with the assurance to give "most" of it to the volunteers. (The initial reported offer, one day after, was 60,000, all of which apparently was going to the 'teers).
The same day another report surfaced regarding the lad's competing in an eating contest which saw him down four large pizzas in an hour, the night before he set off on his hike. That's a significant amount of fuel, I mean, four large pizzas. That could effectively last a body between 5 days and a week. Yes, one would feel hunger, but there would still be plenty of "fuel" to run the engine for that approximate length of time. The following 5 days could be accounted for with, say 3-5 days worth of chocolate bars. After the gluttony, 1 bar per 24 hours would suffice - for, though admittedly not indefinitely, a period of 5-7 days at least.
Also, water is plentiful in the mountains.
That's it - that's all would be required. Then after the requisite amount of time, in this case 12 days, you just walk into a camp, look exhausted and let the rescuers do their thing.
So gorge yourself before leaving, bring along several bars of high energy food (chocolate, it has to be chocolate) and off you go. That's how I'd do it. Then hang out in the bush for a while conserving your energy, snacking on the chocolate, drinking stream water.
Wait til you've had enough and look appropriately grubby, the saunter into a bush walker's camp.
Couple of nights in the hospital, statement for the media, story offer.
Kerching!
Saturday, July 18, 2009
DEVILS ELIXIR
Aka: Grog...Piss...Booze.
On a radio show today, the host was conducting a segment on the proposed outlawing of alcohol advertising in sports.
There was much hand-wringing of course, though any sanctimony was thankfully absent, replaced instead with a stoic professionalism - fabricated of course.
Nevertheless, the predominant leaning was towards the shaking of the head, the "what can we do?" syndrome.
Present on the show were the two men; the presenter and an industry product representative.
Playing the sycophantic advocate first, the presenter started with the veiled accusation that alcohol management had indeed reached an out of control stage and that its promotion through every sporting event was simply an exacerbation.
The rep responded as if reading from an industry guide on preselected cliched responses.
"Inappropriate behaviour..."
"wont be tolerated..."
"we support responsible comsumption..."
et al, et al...
He goes on...
We supply the small regional clubs with revenue, in turn keeping people in work, supporting the youth, developing them to the top rung of the sport. If alcohol advertising in sport is banned, the "bush" will suffer. (This a veiled threat of his own).
So on they parried; "Isn't it the case that...?", "No, we are committed to..." a choreography in formal appropriateness. And earning the station a substantial revenue.
Meanwhile those who embrace the "buy one get one free" sales pitch continue to purchase gallons of piss, proceed to tip it down their addled throats and drunkenly stumble through life acting like league players.
Everybody gets their cut, condemns it, again, and lets it slip from public interest until the next time, which historically, is never far away.
The thing is, (that the various protagonists are fond of sweeping under the carpet) alcohol is a moneyspinner for all.
It is a mutli-trillion dollar business - in global terms, not just here in Oz. From those who manufacture it, including those who gather/grow the ingredients to those who sell it at the counter, and at each stage in between, everyone takes their percentage.
Including the radio station and its talent, who duplicitously camouflage this with the facade of "giving the public a voice".
The fact is, each and every presenter of mainstream radio follow an agenda set by their employers, themselves driven predominately by political preference.
So in fact, a given presenter can rarely if ever be trusted to give their honest opinion - unless said opinion concurs with that of his/her employer.
The whole thing is driven by the need to earn revenue and the God's honest truth rarely, if ever enters into it.
And this...is why alcohol abuse will, much like climate change has become, be one endless talkfest with the odd tax grab thrown in to help swallow the bitter pill.
On a radio show today, the host was conducting a segment on the proposed outlawing of alcohol advertising in sports.
There was much hand-wringing of course, though any sanctimony was thankfully absent, replaced instead with a stoic professionalism - fabricated of course.
Nevertheless, the predominant leaning was towards the shaking of the head, the "what can we do?" syndrome.
Present on the show were the two men; the presenter and an industry product representative.
Playing the sycophantic advocate first, the presenter started with the veiled accusation that alcohol management had indeed reached an out of control stage and that its promotion through every sporting event was simply an exacerbation.
The rep responded as if reading from an industry guide on preselected cliched responses.
"Inappropriate behaviour..."
"wont be tolerated..."
"we support responsible comsumption..."
et al, et al...
He goes on...
We supply the small regional clubs with revenue, in turn keeping people in work, supporting the youth, developing them to the top rung of the sport. If alcohol advertising in sport is banned, the "bush" will suffer. (This a veiled threat of his own).
So on they parried; "Isn't it the case that...?", "No, we are committed to..." a choreography in formal appropriateness. And earning the station a substantial revenue.
Meanwhile those who embrace the "buy one get one free" sales pitch continue to purchase gallons of piss, proceed to tip it down their addled throats and drunkenly stumble through life acting like league players.
Everybody gets their cut, condemns it, again, and lets it slip from public interest until the next time, which historically, is never far away.
The thing is, (that the various protagonists are fond of sweeping under the carpet) alcohol is a moneyspinner for all.
It is a mutli-trillion dollar business - in global terms, not just here in Oz. From those who manufacture it, including those who gather/grow the ingredients to those who sell it at the counter, and at each stage in between, everyone takes their percentage.
Including the radio station and its talent, who duplicitously camouflage this with the facade of "giving the public a voice".
The fact is, each and every presenter of mainstream radio follow an agenda set by their employers, themselves driven predominately by political preference.
So in fact, a given presenter can rarely if ever be trusted to give their honest opinion - unless said opinion concurs with that of his/her employer.
The whole thing is driven by the need to earn revenue and the God's honest truth rarely, if ever enters into it.
And this...is why alcohol abuse will, much like climate change has become, be one endless talkfest with the odd tax grab thrown in to help swallow the bitter pill.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
ANTICHRIST DOING THE ROUNDS AGAIN
We of course by now all know to whom I refer. Al Gore.
Well, he's travelling the globe again, in the obligatory jet plane depositing more pollution than I, for example, will ever leave. Presumably Mrs Gore remains in the McMansion burning the midnight oil (which, to repeat, uses more power in one single month than the average American home does in an entire year!)
There is zero point at this juncture in the rollercoaster that climate change has become in entering into debate, especially when one considers the multitudes of retards who have fallen for Gore's propaganda.
And while these retards comprise about 50% of society the world over, that fortunately means there is 50% who don't subscribe.
Unfortunately, as previously alluded to, the whole thing is now a self-perpetuating leviathan and those who drive it have all the power. (World leaders et al).
Which sucks a bit.
However, on the positive side, it would appear that those who are attending the current "trough" (free holiday, plane rides, hotel accommodation, self-congratulatory slaps on backs all round...) aren't very enthusiastic about any agreement being reached. Probably, almost certainly because the draconian measures suggested are going to cost the various protagonists not a little amount in terms of loss of jobs, industry etc.
A few home truths about climate change ("global warming's been consigned to the redundant bin...).
It was raining here in Oz yesterday. Today it's sunny. That...is climate change.
With a population of 6 1/2 billion and counting, there is no way we're NOT going to have an effect on our world, especially when we seem intent on ripping up forests like they've been deemed illegal. Vegetation is the planet's lungs and if the lung capacity of an organism is reduced, the ability of that lung to work is also diminished. In this case, the extra CO2 that 6 billion people do produce is not processed and released back into the atmosphere as life-giving oxygen. Vegetation, as I'm sure you know, thrives on CO2 like we do on oxygen.
So do not listen to anything that charlatan has to say for his agenda has nothing to do with saving the planet. Just a way of cementing his name in the annals of history.
Word of caution though, Adolf Hitler's name is well ensconced in the same history.
Well, he's travelling the globe again, in the obligatory jet plane depositing more pollution than I, for example, will ever leave. Presumably Mrs Gore remains in the McMansion burning the midnight oil (which, to repeat, uses more power in one single month than the average American home does in an entire year!)
There is zero point at this juncture in the rollercoaster that climate change has become in entering into debate, especially when one considers the multitudes of retards who have fallen for Gore's propaganda.
And while these retards comprise about 50% of society the world over, that fortunately means there is 50% who don't subscribe.
Unfortunately, as previously alluded to, the whole thing is now a self-perpetuating leviathan and those who drive it have all the power. (World leaders et al).
Which sucks a bit.
However, on the positive side, it would appear that those who are attending the current "trough" (free holiday, plane rides, hotel accommodation, self-congratulatory slaps on backs all round...) aren't very enthusiastic about any agreement being reached. Probably, almost certainly because the draconian measures suggested are going to cost the various protagonists not a little amount in terms of loss of jobs, industry etc.
A few home truths about climate change ("global warming's been consigned to the redundant bin...).
It was raining here in Oz yesterday. Today it's sunny. That...is climate change.
With a population of 6 1/2 billion and counting, there is no way we're NOT going to have an effect on our world, especially when we seem intent on ripping up forests like they've been deemed illegal. Vegetation is the planet's lungs and if the lung capacity of an organism is reduced, the ability of that lung to work is also diminished. In this case, the extra CO2 that 6 billion people do produce is not processed and released back into the atmosphere as life-giving oxygen. Vegetation, as I'm sure you know, thrives on CO2 like we do on oxygen.
So do not listen to anything that charlatan has to say for his agenda has nothing to do with saving the planet. Just a way of cementing his name in the annals of history.
Word of caution though, Adolf Hitler's name is well ensconced in the same history.
Monday, July 13, 2009
OPI SAYS NO TO TAZERS
The Office of Police Integrity will release a report next month attacking Victoria Police over the number of police shootings.
It is for this reason the OPI also have serious misgivings about arming officers with the new Tazer electric guns (in case they shoot each other maybe...).
I wrote a while ago about the case of the 15 year old boy, by the name of Tyler Cassidy. This boy, a 45 kilogram boy, having just been robbed on the public rail system, had returned home in an agitated state, grabbed a knife or two, and left, still in a state of high agitation.
His mother immediately contacted the police and informed them of the circumstances, seemingly secure in the knowledge that the police could and would apprehend the boy and bring him home safely.
Well, the rest as they say, is history. Four, that's four armed police officers indeed did locate the boy and in an act more reminiscent of a Nazi death squad, for all intents and purposes executed the youngster.
The coroner is currently investigating the boys death.
It should also be noted that although 10 shots were fired, only 7 found the mark.
And what happened to the cops? Counselling. Boohoo, poor wittle powicemen had to summarily execute a boy and they get counselling.
This would also tend to laugh in the face of the Police Association secretary, Senior Sargeant, Greg Davies' statement that "the force was well trained".
The OPI report, which is a wide-ranging analysis of Victoria Police's use of force, "will also recommend officers not be given Taser stun guns", OPI spokesman Paul Conroy said.
"There was insufficient emphasis on alternative uses of force and insufficient monitoring and analysis of use of force", Mr Conroy said.
"Alternative use of force" I would suggest could well involve four grown men/women being able to subdue a 15 year old boy no matter how many knives he was carrying. There was four cops for God's sake. That's one from each point of the compass. Are we seriously to believe the cops in this country are so utterly fucking useless at their job, that they can't disarm a young boy when it's 4 to 1???
"The education and training is not focused properly and insufficient," he told AAP on Monday. "The police are not in a space to be issued with Tasers".
"A lot of work needs to be done in training needs."
So there you go. These people whose job it is to protect us from the violent and criminal are in short, inept. That is of course unless they're sitting in their cars pointing hairdryers at inadvertent speeders. Then they can protect us like mfs.
And you see, we're told ad nauseum to respect the "police officer" like he or she is some sort of divine protector. Well, let me tell you something, any respect I have for anybody has been earned or they don't get it.
Respect can't be bought; it can't be awarded, it can't be bartered. It isn't conferred on the back of some title. It can only be earned.
And I can count on the fingers of one hand the amount of cops who have indeed earned such respect. I'll wager I'm not alone either.
It is for this reason the OPI also have serious misgivings about arming officers with the new Tazer electric guns (in case they shoot each other maybe...).
I wrote a while ago about the case of the 15 year old boy, by the name of Tyler Cassidy. This boy, a 45 kilogram boy, having just been robbed on the public rail system, had returned home in an agitated state, grabbed a knife or two, and left, still in a state of high agitation.
His mother immediately contacted the police and informed them of the circumstances, seemingly secure in the knowledge that the police could and would apprehend the boy and bring him home safely.
Well, the rest as they say, is history. Four, that's four armed police officers indeed did locate the boy and in an act more reminiscent of a Nazi death squad, for all intents and purposes executed the youngster.
The coroner is currently investigating the boys death.
It should also be noted that although 10 shots were fired, only 7 found the mark.
And what happened to the cops? Counselling. Boohoo, poor wittle powicemen had to summarily execute a boy and they get counselling.
This would also tend to laugh in the face of the Police Association secretary, Senior Sargeant, Greg Davies' statement that "the force was well trained".
The OPI report, which is a wide-ranging analysis of Victoria Police's use of force, "will also recommend officers not be given Taser stun guns", OPI spokesman Paul Conroy said.
"There was insufficient emphasis on alternative uses of force and insufficient monitoring and analysis of use of force", Mr Conroy said.
"Alternative use of force" I would suggest could well involve four grown men/women being able to subdue a 15 year old boy no matter how many knives he was carrying. There was four cops for God's sake. That's one from each point of the compass. Are we seriously to believe the cops in this country are so utterly fucking useless at their job, that they can't disarm a young boy when it's 4 to 1???
"The education and training is not focused properly and insufficient," he told AAP on Monday. "The police are not in a space to be issued with Tasers".
"A lot of work needs to be done in training needs."
So there you go. These people whose job it is to protect us from the violent and criminal are in short, inept. That is of course unless they're sitting in their cars pointing hairdryers at inadvertent speeders. Then they can protect us like mfs.
And you see, we're told ad nauseum to respect the "police officer" like he or she is some sort of divine protector. Well, let me tell you something, any respect I have for anybody has been earned or they don't get it.
Respect can't be bought; it can't be awarded, it can't be bartered. It isn't conferred on the back of some title. It can only be earned.
And I can count on the fingers of one hand the amount of cops who have indeed earned such respect. I'll wager I'm not alone either.
Monday, July 06, 2009
SOMEONE NEEDS TO CLIP THIS BIRD'S WINGS
The "Bird" of whom I speak is one Greg Bird, the cowardly rugby league player who was recently prosecuted for glassing his girlfriend.
Well, it has emerged that he is now facing yet more charges for assaulting another woman, this time in a Cronulla nightclub.
This spineless coward needs to be locked up. And then his fellow inmates need to hand out some natural justice in the form of beating him to a pulp. Then we'll see how hard he is.
Cowardly excuse for a man.
Well, it has emerged that he is now facing yet more charges for assaulting another woman, this time in a Cronulla nightclub.
This spineless coward needs to be locked up. And then his fellow inmates need to hand out some natural justice in the form of beating him to a pulp. Then we'll see how hard he is.
Cowardly excuse for a man.
CHURCH Vs STATE
John Howard, the former Prime Minister of Australia, has given a broad-ranging interview to Macquarie Radio.
In part, he spoke about the "stolen generation" issue, an intervention that saw children removed from their natural parents in the name of protecting them.
Said children were being abused, often sexually, and really, what else could have been done? The innocents in life must indeed, be protected from such a life. Kids of white parents are to this day removed if such action is warranted. And rightly so, any decent person would agree.
He also stood by his decision not to "say sorry" to the indigenous people for the intervention, saying, "No, I took the view that it's very easy for the current generation to apologise for mistakes of an earlier generation, and because it's so easy to do that I think it's meaningless,"
In this particular decision, I agree entirely. "We" didn't remove their children (from sexual abuse remember). Why should "we" apologise?
Howard went on to say he never regretted any of the major decisions his government made.
I should add that, notwithstanding the fact that Howard was a carreer politician of some forty years, and therefore pondlife, I have also held him in higher regard than most of his kind.
And I have agreed with the majority of his decisions.
However, in the radio interview he brings up, and sides with, the matter of one's personal beliefs being "brought forward into their public life".
And in principle, when one's referring to, basic moral values (interestingly, something the average politician chooses to ignore when it suits - if indeed they were ever awsare of a thing called moral value), I would also agree.
But one must also be cognizant of:
Tony Abbott - and his ilk. My utter contempt for this man is well known.
Abbott has attempted on several occasions to force his religious beliefs on this nation via legislation; first with the abortion drug RU 486, then in handing a pregnancy counselling service to his mates in the Papistry.
RU486 is a drug that facilitates miscarrige and is used globally as a safe way to terminate a pregnancy. Abortion is a personal choice taking in a myriad of factors and normally arrived at after much soul-searching and heart-rending acceptance of facts.
But Mt Abbott's a raging Papist and in his position, if he doesn't agree with abortion then neither can the public it seems. (In point of fact, the bill was voted down in the House, thank goodness - but nevertheless, that this odious little man could attempt such a flagrant violation of the pro-choice demographic is an indictment in itself...).
Not satisfied with his defeat, Abbott then "back-doored" the matter, and slyly awarded the pregnancy counselling service to the very people who share his belief - the young boy-buggering robed ones in the catholic church. Yeah, like we're going to get a fair shake now...
In fact, the Papistry is at least as dangerous as Islam. They may not be actively involved in a war with anyone currently but the reach and control they have over the world's 2 billion catholics has a greater effect on the world than we may be able to conceive.
So the last fucking thing anyone needs is some papist in government expanding this reach on those who deny such a belief.
Careful Johnny.
In part, he spoke about the "stolen generation" issue, an intervention that saw children removed from their natural parents in the name of protecting them.
Said children were being abused, often sexually, and really, what else could have been done? The innocents in life must indeed, be protected from such a life. Kids of white parents are to this day removed if such action is warranted. And rightly so, any decent person would agree.
He also stood by his decision not to "say sorry" to the indigenous people for the intervention, saying, "No, I took the view that it's very easy for the current generation to apologise for mistakes of an earlier generation, and because it's so easy to do that I think it's meaningless,"
In this particular decision, I agree entirely. "We" didn't remove their children (from sexual abuse remember). Why should "we" apologise?
Howard went on to say he never regretted any of the major decisions his government made.
I should add that, notwithstanding the fact that Howard was a carreer politician of some forty years, and therefore pondlife, I have also held him in higher regard than most of his kind.
And I have agreed with the majority of his decisions.
However, in the radio interview he brings up, and sides with, the matter of one's personal beliefs being "brought forward into their public life".
And in principle, when one's referring to, basic moral values (interestingly, something the average politician chooses to ignore when it suits - if indeed they were ever awsare of a thing called moral value), I would also agree.
But one must also be cognizant of:
Tony Abbott - and his ilk. My utter contempt for this man is well known.
Abbott has attempted on several occasions to force his religious beliefs on this nation via legislation; first with the abortion drug RU 486, then in handing a pregnancy counselling service to his mates in the Papistry.
RU486 is a drug that facilitates miscarrige and is used globally as a safe way to terminate a pregnancy. Abortion is a personal choice taking in a myriad of factors and normally arrived at after much soul-searching and heart-rending acceptance of facts.
But Mt Abbott's a raging Papist and in his position, if he doesn't agree with abortion then neither can the public it seems. (In point of fact, the bill was voted down in the House, thank goodness - but nevertheless, that this odious little man could attempt such a flagrant violation of the pro-choice demographic is an indictment in itself...).
Not satisfied with his defeat, Abbott then "back-doored" the matter, and slyly awarded the pregnancy counselling service to the very people who share his belief - the young boy-buggering robed ones in the catholic church. Yeah, like we're going to get a fair shake now...
In fact, the Papistry is at least as dangerous as Islam. They may not be actively involved in a war with anyone currently but the reach and control they have over the world's 2 billion catholics has a greater effect on the world than we may be able to conceive.
So the last fucking thing anyone needs is some papist in government expanding this reach on those who deny such a belief.
Careful Johnny.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
BETTER THAN...SEX
Those who know me will be well aware of my all-consuming love of two wheels. I've often been asked to explain what it is that thrills me so. To try to explain this I’ll describe a lap of Eastern creek racing circuit (as it’s the freshest in my mind…).
...crossing the start/finish line a few laps in and in a rhythm, the machine – in this case the bike in the pics, a ZX7R, is in top gear approaching 260 kilometres an hour. Which in fact, compared to the one litre bikes, is a bit slow actually – the modern litre missiles would be scraping 300 perhaps.
It has just exited turn 12, a relatively tight left-hander and rocketed down the straight.
Heading for turn 1.
Turn one is frightening; a fast left sweeper, with a brutal bump right on the apex.
And the secret to this corner requires nerve, the sort of nerve that defines racing; one has to wait until the very last minute – almost until over-shooting seems certain – before tipping it, or more accurately muscling it, into the turn. At this point the entire machine, even the best set-up ones, is flirting with instability as the forces of physics battle with the suspension/frame etc.
Nervous time.
It gets "nervouser"
Mere seconds later (the machine’s at about 200 clicks here – after scrubbing of speed and banging it down into 5th) the bike’s tilted over to about 40-45 degrees from 90, the knees slider’s on the tarmac, a raw scuff being heard, and felt through the knee.
Maximum (or close to it, restricted by machine set-up and aforementioned rider nerve) lean. To lose it here is a bowel-clenching thought – good chance of serious injury to person – quite possibly death, and undoubtedly a smashed to bits machine.
Hit the apex, clench over the bump, and wind back the throttle as the machine exits the turn, the rear wheel begging to let go its tenuous grip on the tarmac, to be followed by "losing it" (smashed/injury/death…).
As it straightens up, more power can be fed into the tyre and in a matter of milliseconds the bike is at full power again heading for the far side of the track in the classic racing line.
Here we come to the part of the explanation I like to call, "nearly shitting my pants".
Following the racing line, and at full power, around 250 plus again, the machine encounters the second irregularity in this particular corner. Except this time, as mentioned, it’s at full power. At the apex, it’s at the run-through part – coasting almost - albeit momentarily. Motorbikes, any race vehicle in fact, behave very differently when under power.
How this particular beast reacted to this bump under said power, was to violently "tankslap", an action where, because the front wheel is very light, the clip-ons (handlebars) slap from side to side, only being arrested by the lock stops. Believe me – the rider, supposedly in charge, is no more than a passenger at this point (always meant to get a steering damper...).
Thankfully, as can happen, the sheer momentum carried the bike over the bump quickly and the "slapping" subsided. Phew! Pants okay – no need to change.
Back onto full power again and scream towards turn 2, a hairpin, though not officially (officially the hairpin is turn 9...). The aim here, is a speciality of some, namely yours truly who is the master of the thing I’m coming to – late braking. Don’t master this…you’ll never win – end of story.
Similar to turn one, the machine races up to the turn, leaves it until the very last moment, almost to the point of overshooting again, then leaves it a split second longer...and "stands on everything", a colloquialism for braking extremely hard. Sit up (to catch the wind with the body); stick out elbows, stick out knees, fill lungs with air to increase surface area and provide unfettered view of corner, and lock arms, all the while yanking the brake lever in with 2 fingers.
If you’re doing it right, you’re at this point on one wheel – the front; the back’s in the air, and usually "fishtailing" left and right as final approach adjustments are made.
This time however, something else altogether more potentially "pant-filling" occurred. What I’ll call "shitting my pants #2".
Remember the "tankslapping" episode, just seconds ago, from which the pros have already recovered. Well, so vicious and violent it was, that when our intrepid racer yanked on the lever, it came right into the handgrip without any stopping power at all. Now normally this is because the front end has flexed under the extreme trauma of the slap and the brake pistons have been pushed back off the discs. Easily fixed. Just pump the lever and braking power swiftly returns – no big deal.
Wrong!
This time the right brake line had got caught between the lock stop and whipping steering head – on subsequent inspection the line was hanging by a few strands on outer sleeve.
So...250 clicks and no brakes. If you didn’t know what your sphincter was before, you can now taste it in your throat!
Eesh.
Suffice to say, and to cut a long story short (er), I managed to stop before hitting the tyre wall – by about a metre. See what happens when you let a dickhead fit your brake lines!!.
Anyway, to get back to the hot lap: reviewing: hard on the brakes, that work this time (I went and got another line and put it on my bloody self and went out next session…), fishtailing etc. knocking it down the gears from 6th to 1st, and tip it into the turn. The knee slaps against the tarmac, followed by the footpegs and outside toe of boot. (See pic)
Again, clip the apex, and feed in the power, the rear tyre protesting under the power. Threatening to spin while the front, in equal protest, tries to break contact with the surface; the only thing preventing it, the rider leaning his weight (yes, his – women can’t race, don’t even try arguing with me on this, ladies...) over the front.
Race towards turn 3, a fairly fast right-hander, short-shifting from 2nd to 3rd. Tipping in, feeling knees contact the surface, hit apex, feed in power, rear threatens again (for the record it does it on the exit from every turn, or you're not trying hard enough so...) and as the turn straightens out into a rise, front heads skywards (more leaning). Over crest and down the other side into turn 4 with more hard braking. Braking downhill is very, very risky. Gravity’s against you, too.
Round turn 4, knee on the deck and blast toward 5.
Whereas heading for 4 there’s plenty of time to show off with a nice power wheelie, 5, although also uphill with a crest at the top, has not enough distance to wheelie and get the front down in time to reduce speed for 6 and 7 which constitute the chicane. Also probably the third-hardest braking area on the circuit. Fortunately, there’s a cheat, which is more yet another test of nerve, where if an opponent gives an inch, big-balled racers take a mile and whip across the packed earth on the inside of the "rumble strip" whilst flashing past the not so big-balled rider on the way to more "eyeball against the inside of the visor" braking. This my friends, is one part of the attraction. At the point of tipping-in, the entire front end is under incredible pressure and the rider’s experiencing about 3Gs. A lonnng sweeper follows (see pic)
and begins to rise yet again. As always, the power is fed in, precisely this time, spinning the rear intentionally in parts, while trying to conserve the tyre integrity (a million races have been lost due to tyre disintegration). Eventually, though, inevitably of course, the exit is reached and with a final controlled spin, the machine yet again rockets towards its destiny.
I’ll digress again here to tell of on "off", another racing term to describe falling off, or sliding off as the case maybe.
Slingshot is a term that describes a particular method of cornering popular in the 90s. it involves, instead of the classic slow entry method; high in-corner speed, low but consistent lean angle way, a method whereby the rider drives straight through the entry in a straight line and brakes hard, (can’t win without it!) completely bypassing the traditional apex, slams the bike onto its side, smashing everything off the ground, knee, peg, boot, turns hard and fast, and "slingshots" out in an identical straight line to the entry vector. This method is known as the quick entry. And its principal fundamental is the removal of the corner proper, entirely. It works.
So off I went, "in the zone" as they say. Blitzing it (also as they say). Screaming round the circuit. Up and down the gears. Heading for my next challenge to be undisputedly conquered.
Or so I thought...
In my supreme confidence I did as all the greats do – I overstepped. I went too far – out into the track ne’er used, awash with track detritus, slippery, unstable...no sir – don’t want to be in there...no place for two wheels to be...
Both my tyres – ultimately the only thing keeping the machine upright; two patches of rubber no larger than the palm of a man’s hand – simultaneously gave way. At the angle of lean I simply "settled" onto the tarmac and let the greater weight of the machine draw it away from me. Off we went, my trusty steed and I towards the grassy run-off area. It’s not an entirely unpleasant experience sliding off like this – it’s almost like an adventure park ride at about 80 ks. And one learns to slide with the bike mere feet in front so that when the speed reaches acceptable levels the rider can start to pick the bike up before they stop moving.
I didn’t time it quite perfectly this time though but nevertheless still sprung up myself and bolted towards the arresting machine. (Effectively, the race is over, but it never has nor will stop us trying to win).
Damn and blast! All was well but for one crucial point. My baby...my crutch...without you I cannot win. The front brake lever lay embedded in the grass, right into the soil beneath. Broken in two – but two inches left. Dirty bastard. Off to get another – found a delightful chap who gave me his spare (racers are the nicest people). Back out next session. Seeing a pattern here?
Returning to the lap, as it’s become known: correctly, we would race up the rise in a straight line towards this new, more aggressive apex, go through the motions: hard braking et al, slam various expendables of the ground, turn the machine, lift bike upright and bury it, often laying a huge black line as the tyre attempts to strip itself of its surface layers (part of the attraction #2). Hell on the rubber though. See "million races lost".
But the effects otherwise are instantaneous as the full power transmits through the significantly larger surface area of the upright machine and the bike screams out of the turn like a crazy Irish banshee.
Heading down (again) towards the second hardest braking point on the circuit. Turn 9 – the hairpin proper, officially. In truth it is actually identical in terms of tightness to turn 2, (my hairpin...aye, it’s moine!)
More crazy braking, rear in the air (honestly, the rear brake on a racebike is obsolete frankly), fishtailing, the engine roaring as it’s fed down through the gears, using the engine as yet another arresting technique...tip into the right this time. It has a slight camber, along with the mild downhill slant. Straightforward.
This side of the tyre, though, is a double-edged sword; though rarely used by this point on the track so it is, to be fair, fresh - plenty of rubber, but at the same time, cooler, almost certainly not at optimum operating temperature. This can carry the risk of the bane of a racers existence – the always injurious highside. A brutal ind often ignominious way to dismount, resulting in breakages to body (arms, legs, feet etc. I in fact, broke my right forearm, mangled pinkie finger, broke back of hand). They never don’t hurt. Makes a fair mess of the bike – especially when it catches on something and cartwheels, when it proceeds to disintegrate in front of the eyes. Pieces exploding off it. Fairing plastic, tank, wheels even. Fuckin thing just comes apart...
So easy does it; feed in the power, get upright as quick as you can. Employing the fast in technique leaves the door wide open for a block pass here so fairly tight, the requisite hard braking and follow the classic line. A straight awaits and here we tuck the head behind the screen; the knees tight into the tank; elbows in and wind the throttle to the stop firing 3 gears into it in not many more seconds. The engine howls in ecstasy; this...is what it lives for. At this very moment we both live for this. We are one. I lie pressed close to her heart; she to mine. I have her by the throat, wringing every last ounce from her. Underneath she obeys, eager to please, on wings of fire she catapults me towards my desire. Rearing like its organic cousin – in triumph. I let her coast for a while, huddled down behind the screen, I tease her by shifting balance...
Enough. Time to get down; the next turns approach, another chicane, but so fast and wide, it can be ridden straight through. Drop the wheel. Another thrill electrifies me. Can this get better? Surely not, surely this is a peak – it must be. My heart races. I feel like I can fly. I am a single-minded machine. I have but one purpose...
The final two turns: 11 and 12 – which can easily be transformed into one lonng sweeper. Into 11, straight through, let her come right out to the rumble strip; caress it; continue the smooth turn, set it up right, the exit from 12 leads to the start/finish straight. It is essential, imperative to get good drive onto this. If you’ve previously fucked your tyre with your fuckin around sliding the rear, then this, second only to lack of hard braking, loses races.
My steed and I explode onto the straight and once again I lay close to her as we blast like a ride-on guided missile across this straight. Putting every gear into her we soon reached our top speed, around 270 clicks.
We do this another 30 times.
Afterwards in the garage as she plinks her satisfaction whilst cooling down, I wander the pit in a state of ecstasy, the adrenaline, though diminished, still flowing with purpose – like an engine shifted into neutral at speed slowing exponentially.
Strangely, my high lasts until nearly precisely my partner is cold. While she sleeps, her work done, I float the rest of the day.
As I said - better than sex
...crossing the start/finish line a few laps in and in a rhythm, the machine – in this case the bike in the pics, a ZX7R, is in top gear approaching 260 kilometres an hour. Which in fact, compared to the one litre bikes, is a bit slow actually – the modern litre missiles would be scraping 300 perhaps.
It has just exited turn 12, a relatively tight left-hander and rocketed down the straight.
Heading for turn 1.
Turn one is frightening; a fast left sweeper, with a brutal bump right on the apex.
And the secret to this corner requires nerve, the sort of nerve that defines racing; one has to wait until the very last minute – almost until over-shooting seems certain – before tipping it, or more accurately muscling it, into the turn. At this point the entire machine, even the best set-up ones, is flirting with instability as the forces of physics battle with the suspension/frame etc.
Nervous time.
It gets "nervouser"
Mere seconds later (the machine’s at about 200 clicks here – after scrubbing of speed and banging it down into 5th) the bike’s tilted over to about 40-45 degrees from 90, the knees slider’s on the tarmac, a raw scuff being heard, and felt through the knee.
Maximum (or close to it, restricted by machine set-up and aforementioned rider nerve) lean. To lose it here is a bowel-clenching thought – good chance of serious injury to person – quite possibly death, and undoubtedly a smashed to bits machine.
Hit the apex, clench over the bump, and wind back the throttle as the machine exits the turn, the rear wheel begging to let go its tenuous grip on the tarmac, to be followed by "losing it" (smashed/injury/death…).
As it straightens up, more power can be fed into the tyre and in a matter of milliseconds the bike is at full power again heading for the far side of the track in the classic racing line.
Here we come to the part of the explanation I like to call, "nearly shitting my pants".
Following the racing line, and at full power, around 250 plus again, the machine encounters the second irregularity in this particular corner. Except this time, as mentioned, it’s at full power. At the apex, it’s at the run-through part – coasting almost - albeit momentarily. Motorbikes, any race vehicle in fact, behave very differently when under power.
How this particular beast reacted to this bump under said power, was to violently "tankslap", an action where, because the front wheel is very light, the clip-ons (handlebars) slap from side to side, only being arrested by the lock stops. Believe me – the rider, supposedly in charge, is no more than a passenger at this point (always meant to get a steering damper...).
Thankfully, as can happen, the sheer momentum carried the bike over the bump quickly and the "slapping" subsided. Phew! Pants okay – no need to change.
Back onto full power again and scream towards turn 2, a hairpin, though not officially (officially the hairpin is turn 9...). The aim here, is a speciality of some, namely yours truly who is the master of the thing I’m coming to – late braking. Don’t master this…you’ll never win – end of story.
Similar to turn one, the machine races up to the turn, leaves it until the very last moment, almost to the point of overshooting again, then leaves it a split second longer...and "stands on everything", a colloquialism for braking extremely hard. Sit up (to catch the wind with the body); stick out elbows, stick out knees, fill lungs with air to increase surface area and provide unfettered view of corner, and lock arms, all the while yanking the brake lever in with 2 fingers.
If you’re doing it right, you’re at this point on one wheel – the front; the back’s in the air, and usually "fishtailing" left and right as final approach adjustments are made.
This time however, something else altogether more potentially "pant-filling" occurred. What I’ll call "shitting my pants #2".
Remember the "tankslapping" episode, just seconds ago, from which the pros have already recovered. Well, so vicious and violent it was, that when our intrepid racer yanked on the lever, it came right into the handgrip without any stopping power at all. Now normally this is because the front end has flexed under the extreme trauma of the slap and the brake pistons have been pushed back off the discs. Easily fixed. Just pump the lever and braking power swiftly returns – no big deal.
Wrong!
This time the right brake line had got caught between the lock stop and whipping steering head – on subsequent inspection the line was hanging by a few strands on outer sleeve.
So...250 clicks and no brakes. If you didn’t know what your sphincter was before, you can now taste it in your throat!
Eesh.
Suffice to say, and to cut a long story short (er), I managed to stop before hitting the tyre wall – by about a metre. See what happens when you let a dickhead fit your brake lines!!.
Anyway, to get back to the hot lap: reviewing: hard on the brakes, that work this time (I went and got another line and put it on my bloody self and went out next session…), fishtailing etc. knocking it down the gears from 6th to 1st, and tip it into the turn. The knee slaps against the tarmac, followed by the footpegs and outside toe of boot. (See pic)
Again, clip the apex, and feed in the power, the rear tyre protesting under the power. Threatening to spin while the front, in equal protest, tries to break contact with the surface; the only thing preventing it, the rider leaning his weight (yes, his – women can’t race, don’t even try arguing with me on this, ladies...) over the front.
Race towards turn 3, a fairly fast right-hander, short-shifting from 2nd to 3rd. Tipping in, feeling knees contact the surface, hit apex, feed in power, rear threatens again (for the record it does it on the exit from every turn, or you're not trying hard enough so...) and as the turn straightens out into a rise, front heads skywards (more leaning). Over crest and down the other side into turn 4 with more hard braking. Braking downhill is very, very risky. Gravity’s against you, too.
Round turn 4, knee on the deck and blast toward 5.
Whereas heading for 4 there’s plenty of time to show off with a nice power wheelie, 5, although also uphill with a crest at the top, has not enough distance to wheelie and get the front down in time to reduce speed for 6 and 7 which constitute the chicane. Also probably the third-hardest braking area on the circuit. Fortunately, there’s a cheat, which is more yet another test of nerve, where if an opponent gives an inch, big-balled racers take a mile and whip across the packed earth on the inside of the "rumble strip" whilst flashing past the not so big-balled rider on the way to more "eyeball against the inside of the visor" braking. This my friends, is one part of the attraction. At the point of tipping-in, the entire front end is under incredible pressure and the rider’s experiencing about 3Gs. A lonnng sweeper follows (see pic)
and begins to rise yet again. As always, the power is fed in, precisely this time, spinning the rear intentionally in parts, while trying to conserve the tyre integrity (a million races have been lost due to tyre disintegration). Eventually, though, inevitably of course, the exit is reached and with a final controlled spin, the machine yet again rockets towards its destiny.
I’ll digress again here to tell of on "off", another racing term to describe falling off, or sliding off as the case maybe.
Slingshot is a term that describes a particular method of cornering popular in the 90s. it involves, instead of the classic slow entry method; high in-corner speed, low but consistent lean angle way, a method whereby the rider drives straight through the entry in a straight line and brakes hard, (can’t win without it!) completely bypassing the traditional apex, slams the bike onto its side, smashing everything off the ground, knee, peg, boot, turns hard and fast, and "slingshots" out in an identical straight line to the entry vector. This method is known as the quick entry. And its principal fundamental is the removal of the corner proper, entirely. It works.
So off I went, "in the zone" as they say. Blitzing it (also as they say). Screaming round the circuit. Up and down the gears. Heading for my next challenge to be undisputedly conquered.
Or so I thought...
In my supreme confidence I did as all the greats do – I overstepped. I went too far – out into the track ne’er used, awash with track detritus, slippery, unstable...no sir – don’t want to be in there...no place for two wheels to be...
Both my tyres – ultimately the only thing keeping the machine upright; two patches of rubber no larger than the palm of a man’s hand – simultaneously gave way. At the angle of lean I simply "settled" onto the tarmac and let the greater weight of the machine draw it away from me. Off we went, my trusty steed and I towards the grassy run-off area. It’s not an entirely unpleasant experience sliding off like this – it’s almost like an adventure park ride at about 80 ks. And one learns to slide with the bike mere feet in front so that when the speed reaches acceptable levels the rider can start to pick the bike up before they stop moving.
I didn’t time it quite perfectly this time though but nevertheless still sprung up myself and bolted towards the arresting machine. (Effectively, the race is over, but it never has nor will stop us trying to win).
Damn and blast! All was well but for one crucial point. My baby...my crutch...without you I cannot win. The front brake lever lay embedded in the grass, right into the soil beneath. Broken in two – but two inches left. Dirty bastard. Off to get another – found a delightful chap who gave me his spare (racers are the nicest people). Back out next session. Seeing a pattern here?
Returning to the lap, as it’s become known: correctly, we would race up the rise in a straight line towards this new, more aggressive apex, go through the motions: hard braking et al, slam various expendables of the ground, turn the machine, lift bike upright and bury it, often laying a huge black line as the tyre attempts to strip itself of its surface layers (part of the attraction #2). Hell on the rubber though. See "million races lost".
But the effects otherwise are instantaneous as the full power transmits through the significantly larger surface area of the upright machine and the bike screams out of the turn like a crazy Irish banshee.
Heading down (again) towards the second hardest braking point on the circuit. Turn 9 – the hairpin proper, officially. In truth it is actually identical in terms of tightness to turn 2, (my hairpin...aye, it’s moine!)
More crazy braking, rear in the air (honestly, the rear brake on a racebike is obsolete frankly), fishtailing, the engine roaring as it’s fed down through the gears, using the engine as yet another arresting technique...tip into the right this time. It has a slight camber, along with the mild downhill slant. Straightforward.
This side of the tyre, though, is a double-edged sword; though rarely used by this point on the track so it is, to be fair, fresh - plenty of rubber, but at the same time, cooler, almost certainly not at optimum operating temperature. This can carry the risk of the bane of a racers existence – the always injurious highside. A brutal ind often ignominious way to dismount, resulting in breakages to body (arms, legs, feet etc. I in fact, broke my right forearm, mangled pinkie finger, broke back of hand). They never don’t hurt. Makes a fair mess of the bike – especially when it catches on something and cartwheels, when it proceeds to disintegrate in front of the eyes. Pieces exploding off it. Fairing plastic, tank, wheels even. Fuckin thing just comes apart...
So easy does it; feed in the power, get upright as quick as you can. Employing the fast in technique leaves the door wide open for a block pass here so fairly tight, the requisite hard braking and follow the classic line. A straight awaits and here we tuck the head behind the screen; the knees tight into the tank; elbows in and wind the throttle to the stop firing 3 gears into it in not many more seconds. The engine howls in ecstasy; this...is what it lives for. At this very moment we both live for this. We are one. I lie pressed close to her heart; she to mine. I have her by the throat, wringing every last ounce from her. Underneath she obeys, eager to please, on wings of fire she catapults me towards my desire. Rearing like its organic cousin – in triumph. I let her coast for a while, huddled down behind the screen, I tease her by shifting balance...
Enough. Time to get down; the next turns approach, another chicane, but so fast and wide, it can be ridden straight through. Drop the wheel. Another thrill electrifies me. Can this get better? Surely not, surely this is a peak – it must be. My heart races. I feel like I can fly. I am a single-minded machine. I have but one purpose...
The final two turns: 11 and 12 – which can easily be transformed into one lonng sweeper. Into 11, straight through, let her come right out to the rumble strip; caress it; continue the smooth turn, set it up right, the exit from 12 leads to the start/finish straight. It is essential, imperative to get good drive onto this. If you’ve previously fucked your tyre with your fuckin around sliding the rear, then this, second only to lack of hard braking, loses races.
My steed and I explode onto the straight and once again I lay close to her as we blast like a ride-on guided missile across this straight. Putting every gear into her we soon reached our top speed, around 270 clicks.
We do this another 30 times.
Afterwards in the garage as she plinks her satisfaction whilst cooling down, I wander the pit in a state of ecstasy, the adrenaline, though diminished, still flowing with purpose – like an engine shifted into neutral at speed slowing exponentially.
Strangely, my high lasts until nearly precisely my partner is cold. While she sleeps, her work done, I float the rest of the day.
As I said - better than sex
Thursday, May 28, 2009
GOTTA LOVE THOSE CHASER BOYS...
For those not in the know, the Chaser boys are a group of five characters who produce a TV comedy show for Australia's ABC.
Their irreverence is the stuff of legend - and not just in Oz. If you've been keeping a watching brief here you'll remember the APEC stunt. The link below is a reminder:
http://muttars.blogspot.com/2007/09/apec.html
Well they've just begun their third (and last apparently) series. And in it they've taken a shot at the Cronulla Sharks Rugby League Team (see post beneath this).
They somehow got into the control box of the stadium during a game and announced over the PA system, to the entire stadium, "Would all players involved in the sex scandal 7 years ago please come to the office?"
They were last seen scarpering after someone was heard to say, "someone call security".
LMAO. Classic Chaser.
Their irreverence is the stuff of legend - and not just in Oz. If you've been keeping a watching brief here you'll remember the APEC stunt. The link below is a reminder:
http://muttars.blogspot.com/2007/09/apec.html
Well they've just begun their third (and last apparently) series. And in it they've taken a shot at the Cronulla Sharks Rugby League Team (see post beneath this).
They somehow got into the control box of the stadium during a game and announced over the PA system, to the entire stadium, "Would all players involved in the sex scandal 7 years ago please come to the office?"
They were last seen scarpering after someone was heard to say, "someone call security".
LMAO. Classic Chaser.
Friday, May 15, 2009
MATTHEW JOHNS
My first thought was, Looks like the Johns boys are at it again”, referring to Andrew Johns’ discretion of being caught by the London Bobbies in possession of the much maligned “e” tablet. At that time I sided with Johns, citing that he was considered the best 5/8th in world rugby league and as such he could just tell them to get fucked! (The result if he did so couldn’t’ve been much worse an outcome after they laid him bare at the altar of public condemnation. Poor bastard. Completely subjugated by relentless, withering castigation.
What got my head in a bucket was the stomach-churning sanctimony – compete with finger-wagging. Oh how I’d like to grab that finger and snap the fucker!!)
Anyway, I digress. “Joey” (Andrew Johns’ nickname from his adoring public) got over it, as people do – the Rags quickly lose interest and move on after they’ve milked the story for all it’s worth. The sanctimonious even themselves I’d suggest, got tired of their own bleating on and slithered, noses in the air, back to whichever rock they live under ready to spring out again should anyone smoke a joint or say fuck in public.
Not to be outdone by his pill-carrying brother, Matthew Johns, the younger sibling, decided to stick it to some starstruck chick in a hotel room. To be precise, “Matty” Johns (His nickname, also from an adoring public)…and friend decided to stick it to her. Though the “friend” hasn’t presented himself (who could blame him, really – why would you???) and Matty’s lips are sealed (and coming from a man where “grassing/squealing” was paid for in kneecaps, that’s as Ali G would say, “Respect”, with the hand flourish those rapper types use).
So, to recap, we have a 19 year old woman (whilst still in the teens, a 19 year old is considered an adult woman) who freely and uncoerced went with two rugby league players (remember, these boys have been hit too hard once too often and can quite often be observed thinking with the wrong head…) to a hotel room. Why would she do that? To “talk”? To maybe play one against another? Or to have theem both? Either way it’s fairly clear to all but the most fanatically feminist or blinkered head-in-the-sand that this girl/woman was intent on having sex in the room.
Which indeed proved to be the case. The other Johns brother nailed her. And when considering the Godlike status in which he was held, she would have been a keen recipient. All day every day these women throw themselves with wanton abandon at these league stars. In toilet cubicles (Sonny Bill Williams and Candize Fallon), alleys, wherever they can actually, and both Johns’s were the cream of the crop – apparently (least they weren’t pretty boys, I’ll give them that).
It’s unclear who the friend was as I’ve mentioned; also unclear is whether or not he jumped on for a go after Mattty – or at the same time).
Now here it gets a bit odd, as the room started filling up with more players – some even going to the extent of entering through a bathroom window like the zombies of the old films.
Where they proceeded as is reported, to engage in various sex acts with the woman, including but not restricted to I believe, whipping out their weiners and “shoving” or waving them in the girls face (while you’re down there, love…).
This all occurred 7 years ago. The woman recently approached the authorities with the information approximately 5 days ago, creating, unsurprisingly, a shitstorm not unlike the one Matty’s brother faced about 5 years ago. This one driven by the tide of female respect advocates (Note: this author is an advocate of womens’ rights himself – as long as they understand this author by virtue of being a male, is superior). The rape crisis centre was even quoted despite the NZ Police fully investigating and finding no legal case to answer.
Case closed.
Until now. Johns appeared on TV like a good little soldier and gave a heartfelt apology to the schtuked woman. His wife, sat stoically supporting her husband in a show of solidarity, though it’ll be years before Matty gets any honey from this one I’d suggest.
The schtukee had everyone fooled with her tearful recollection of the night. Her face blurred, with only her chin and lower lip clear, she has refused to identify herself, despite Johns being international news.
Back and forward the sides of the argument swung. League players not having the best reputation, were vilified; the suits came out in force, condemning and assuring. Womens’ advocates threw their own shots, laced with the ever-present emotion and demanding women be treated with respect, damn it!
On and on it went. Reaching a stalemate of sorts. The NZ Police declined to reopen the case citing, again, no charges to press. And then out of nowhere came a witness for the defence.
A friend or workmate of the woman, on a Channel Ten report tonight, claims she heard the woman “five days or so after” boasting that she had 5 or 6 men at once. She could be lying but this is consistent with the earlier quote from Johns, that the woman, after Johns had dismounted as it were, said, “someone get over here and have sex with me”. Which is, quite obviously a damning statement, demand even.
Somebody in fact did, “get over there”. Johns is staying tight-lipped. And a further report has just emerged of the woman's employer witnessing her boasting for several days about the great night she had with two league players.
Cat amongst the pigeons time. This in complete contradiction to her earlier televised performance.
Virtually case dismissed, such as it was. But mud sticks and the already well-known anomie of Rugby League, not long recovered from the last transgression mere weeks ago, will suffer another blow.
The fact is, this should have never left the Johns’ home. It is about personal fidelity towards one’s wife. This distasteful episode has all the hallmarks of a chase for easy money. The woman claims she only recognised Johns. Are we to believe she had no recollection of the second man? The one who was in the party of 3, who originally went to the room? Wasn’t he one of the “5 or 6”? The second, surely?
Lucky you didn’t knock her up, eh Matty? Sue ‘em, Matty, sue the fuck out of them and beg your wife’s forgiveness…and keep your dick in your pocket, y’fuckin’ caveman.
The media leapt at this, immediately, as they do, to the defence of the poor put-upon woman. (Make up your minds for fuck’s sake – thought you were equal??). Forcing Johns to bear humiliation on international TV. The wife; the kids. The intrusion in their lives.
With, it transpires, only half the story…
And they have their own money – no government (read taxpayer of course) baleout. AND…Rupert Murdoch, the newspaper and media giant, who has to quote Denny Crane, “more money than God”, has created new charges for his online viewing or something similar.
Yeah Matty, take ‘em to the cleaners!!!
What got my head in a bucket was the stomach-churning sanctimony – compete with finger-wagging. Oh how I’d like to grab that finger and snap the fucker!!)
Anyway, I digress. “Joey” (Andrew Johns’ nickname from his adoring public) got over it, as people do – the Rags quickly lose interest and move on after they’ve milked the story for all it’s worth. The sanctimonious even themselves I’d suggest, got tired of their own bleating on and slithered, noses in the air, back to whichever rock they live under ready to spring out again should anyone smoke a joint or say fuck in public.
Not to be outdone by his pill-carrying brother, Matthew Johns, the younger sibling, decided to stick it to some starstruck chick in a hotel room. To be precise, “Matty” Johns (His nickname, also from an adoring public)…and friend decided to stick it to her. Though the “friend” hasn’t presented himself (who could blame him, really – why would you???) and Matty’s lips are sealed (and coming from a man where “grassing/squealing” was paid for in kneecaps, that’s as Ali G would say, “Respect”, with the hand flourish those rapper types use).
So, to recap, we have a 19 year old woman (whilst still in the teens, a 19 year old is considered an adult woman) who freely and uncoerced went with two rugby league players (remember, these boys have been hit too hard once too often and can quite often be observed thinking with the wrong head…) to a hotel room. Why would she do that? To “talk”? To maybe play one against another? Or to have theem both? Either way it’s fairly clear to all but the most fanatically feminist or blinkered head-in-the-sand that this girl/woman was intent on having sex in the room.
Which indeed proved to be the case. The other Johns brother nailed her. And when considering the Godlike status in which he was held, she would have been a keen recipient. All day every day these women throw themselves with wanton abandon at these league stars. In toilet cubicles (Sonny Bill Williams and Candize Fallon), alleys, wherever they can actually, and both Johns’s were the cream of the crop – apparently (least they weren’t pretty boys, I’ll give them that).
It’s unclear who the friend was as I’ve mentioned; also unclear is whether or not he jumped on for a go after Mattty – or at the same time).
Now here it gets a bit odd, as the room started filling up with more players – some even going to the extent of entering through a bathroom window like the zombies of the old films.
Where they proceeded as is reported, to engage in various sex acts with the woman, including but not restricted to I believe, whipping out their weiners and “shoving” or waving them in the girls face (while you’re down there, love…).
This all occurred 7 years ago. The woman recently approached the authorities with the information approximately 5 days ago, creating, unsurprisingly, a shitstorm not unlike the one Matty’s brother faced about 5 years ago. This one driven by the tide of female respect advocates (Note: this author is an advocate of womens’ rights himself – as long as they understand this author by virtue of being a male, is superior). The rape crisis centre was even quoted despite the NZ Police fully investigating and finding no legal case to answer.
Case closed.
Until now. Johns appeared on TV like a good little soldier and gave a heartfelt apology to the schtuked woman. His wife, sat stoically supporting her husband in a show of solidarity, though it’ll be years before Matty gets any honey from this one I’d suggest.
The schtukee had everyone fooled with her tearful recollection of the night. Her face blurred, with only her chin and lower lip clear, she has refused to identify herself, despite Johns being international news.
Back and forward the sides of the argument swung. League players not having the best reputation, were vilified; the suits came out in force, condemning and assuring. Womens’ advocates threw their own shots, laced with the ever-present emotion and demanding women be treated with respect, damn it!
On and on it went. Reaching a stalemate of sorts. The NZ Police declined to reopen the case citing, again, no charges to press. And then out of nowhere came a witness for the defence.
A friend or workmate of the woman, on a Channel Ten report tonight, claims she heard the woman “five days or so after” boasting that she had 5 or 6 men at once. She could be lying but this is consistent with the earlier quote from Johns, that the woman, after Johns had dismounted as it were, said, “someone get over here and have sex with me”. Which is, quite obviously a damning statement, demand even.
Somebody in fact did, “get over there”. Johns is staying tight-lipped. And a further report has just emerged of the woman's employer witnessing her boasting for several days about the great night she had with two league players.
Cat amongst the pigeons time. This in complete contradiction to her earlier televised performance.
Virtually case dismissed, such as it was. But mud sticks and the already well-known anomie of Rugby League, not long recovered from the last transgression mere weeks ago, will suffer another blow.
The fact is, this should have never left the Johns’ home. It is about personal fidelity towards one’s wife. This distasteful episode has all the hallmarks of a chase for easy money. The woman claims she only recognised Johns. Are we to believe she had no recollection of the second man? The one who was in the party of 3, who originally went to the room? Wasn’t he one of the “5 or 6”? The second, surely?
Lucky you didn’t knock her up, eh Matty? Sue ‘em, Matty, sue the fuck out of them and beg your wife’s forgiveness…and keep your dick in your pocket, y’fuckin’ caveman.
The media leapt at this, immediately, as they do, to the defence of the poor put-upon woman. (Make up your minds for fuck’s sake – thought you were equal??). Forcing Johns to bear humiliation on international TV. The wife; the kids. The intrusion in their lives.
With, it transpires, only half the story…
And they have their own money – no government (read taxpayer of course) baleout. AND…Rupert Murdoch, the newspaper and media giant, who has to quote Denny Crane, “more money than God”, has created new charges for his online viewing or something similar.
Yeah Matty, take ‘em to the cleaners!!!
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