Inquest

In the wake of their cruel and frustrating exit from the world cup, Australia is going through the inevitable inquest. In fact they are going on and on and about that dive to the point of relentless tedium.

It was a dive and it was tough luck, but this country needs to wake up to some eternal soccer truths if it is to get over the unfamiliar feeling of entering a competition and not winning it.

The first lesson is that Italians dive and, more often than not, win close and dour matches. The second lesson is that Harry Kewell is always injured, this time developing gout after the game against Croatia. Apparently another medical first for the world’s most committed footballer.

Thankfully the backlash against this sentiment has started. There is a growing voice reminding the maudlin, arriviste soccer fans that their team won only one game out of four, and that supporting plucky losers is not the Aussie thing to do. Leave that sort of thing to the Poms!

On an average day Australians enjoy nothing better than bringing the rich and famous down off their pedestal. Only public figures of the stature of Kylie, Don Bradman or Dame Edna are safe from the relentless sniping which they so enjoy. Even Rolf Harris gets a hard time, and the bloke is a true Aussie legend of galactic significance who, I think, may still hold the West Australian junior back stroke record.

Anyway back to the football, hopefully for the last time, as our own world cup inquest drags on and the welcome sight of Sven’s back fills the media. In England’s scrapbook of penalty shoot out losses, this was my most challenging as I watched in a room full of Australians at an engagement party which, until the footy came on, was a pretty good night.

Restraining strong language and putting on a brave face were not easy at all in the face of numerous smirking Aussies. But manage it I did…barely.

After all that, I was happy to leave the city and it’s angst ridden, yellow shirted mob behind and head into the hills for a day out. Firstly to find a bit of peace and quiet, then, fortuitously, to find a pub which helped me to forget all about penalties.

Called Grumpy’s, after the two middle aged chaps who run the place, it operates on a very simple basis; if you don’t like pizza or home brewed beer, go elsewhere. On the other hand, if you want pizza you have only ever dreamt of and unique beer, just make sure you get there early. The beauty of the place is that they know what they do well and don’t bother with anything else.

The owners look like they take full advantage of their product too, which is always a good sign. The only problem is who gets the car keys!

Other events, a couple of weeks ago, saw my TV debut while queuing in the small hours for the second round of Ashes ticket sales. When I eventually got to the front of the line, it was 10.30am, by which time I should have been beavering away at my desk.

As I may have mentioned in the past, Adelaide is a small town and I was spotted on the evening news by at least five of my colleagues, firstly standing in line and then making a show of counting my tickets wearing a big grin, as instructed by the cameraman.

All of which was a little embarrassing as, strictly speaking, I should have been at work. Fortunately my boss likes his cricket and is an understanding chap.

As for Mandy, she had been gently dozing in front of the TV and narrowly avoided a nasty falling off chair incident as I filled the screen. The poor girl didn’t deserve a shock like that as she was getting over another rotten run of shifts at the hospital. Bless her, they do get their money’s worth at that hospital.

But despite the long hours, she still seems to be enjoying herself, even in the coldest South Australian winter for 40 years. They never mentioned that in the brochure!

Keep well
M&W