HUMOUR
We're not doing particularly well at the Olympic Games, you'd have to say. Although, it should be noted, when we say "we", we most definitely aren't referring to the nation as a sporting totality in the Athenian context.
Oh cointreau, as the bishop said to the absinthe. In fact, as a
nation, "we" are doing spiffingly well at these particular Olympalladiums, all things considered.
And they have been - by an eminent group of mathematical persons who beaver away at the OESeedy or the World Bonk or somesuch, producing reams of convoluted international comparisons which we're only allowed to mention if the results make us look better than some unstable, impoverished Third World Pacific state like, say, Australia.
Fortunately, in this case, they do.
Because what these World Bonkers have concluded is that if you divide the number of athletes in the village then they probably won't have a very good time.
But if you multiply the number of athletes by the number of stars on their flag and subtract the number of sports in which people have to compete standing up then "we" as a nation have won more medals sitting down than any other country in the world.
Better still, only the tiny, land-locked principality of Uzbekistan-on-Sea has enjoyed greater overall success at the Games. Its sole athlete, a hermaphrodite weightlifter, won medals in both the men's and women's sections, picking up bronze in the clean and scrub and a gold in the snitch and jerk. (Mainly because he/she was the jerk that snitched on the Greek guy who got disqualified.)
In summary then, largely thanks Georgina and Caroline and Sarah, "we" as a nation can hold our heads up high.
But the same cannot be said for "we" as blokes. Mainly because "we" (that is, us non-sheila persons) have been absa-bleedin'-lutely perrrrthetic.
Things may yet change but to date "we" blokes simply haven't performed. "We" haven't dug deep, mate, "we" haven't given it heaps, mate, and "we" haven't stuck to the game plan. Mate.
For a start. "we" haven't finished. Well, not in the medals, anyway. It's the girls who've got the gold. The boys have got the raspberry.
One rather controversial explanation has been advanced by Dr "Knobs" Grouter from the University of Dargaville's Rather High Performance Institute. He says blokes participate in sport only for one of two reasons.
"It's either the money or the birds," says "Knobs". "Nuffink else. It's dollars or dollies."
Dr Grouter believes the Olympics' amateur tradition may be a gender-specific socio-economic disincentive in this modern day and age. "Jeez," he says, "you're paid less over there than you'd get for being the Warriors' cheerleaders' physiotherapist.
"And the birds aren't that flash, either, to be fair. Apart from ours. But unless you fancy some ginormous Bulgarian shot-putter with more testosterone than the whole All Black backline, you're probably outta luck. Strewth, I was. Now, where's me cheque? You don't get expert opinion for nuffink, mush."
Such contentious views might explain the delicate and vulnerable state of our male athletes; but no matter how fragile their psyches, it remains lamentably true that our blokes have pretty much failed to front - except at the back.
What makes this particularly galling is that it comes so soon after cabinet minister John Tamitosterone courageously resurrected the red-blooded heterosexual. Well, he might've dug old Blokus Erectus up, and he might have put him back on a pedestal, but he sure didn't send him to Affenz.
Perhaps John Walker's right. Perhaps the Olympics do need a total revamp. We all know males have a very short attention span.
And maybe, after a 100 years, us blokes have just got bored. Maybe we're tired of chucking sticks and running round in circles, not to mention jumping into sandpits and doing that silly walking thing that makes you look like you desperately need to get to the dunny.
(You're allowed to say "dunny' now, 'cos we're red-blooded again. But don't mention the civil war - only publicly funded bureaucrats and academics can talk about that.)
Anyway, back at the Olympics, perhaps it is time for a revamp and some new bloke-friendly events to give our lads a fighting chance. Look, if we had air-punching and marching in step with everyone yelling "Enough is enough", gold would undoubtedly be our Destiny. Imagine the headlines:
Lion Brian leaves rivals godsmacked
No quicker vicar than faster
blaster master pastor
My date with Destiny - Rachel tells all
Whoops. How did that sneak in? No matter. The point's made. Novelty is what we need. We've got it with our electoral system, we want it with the flag, let's have it with Olympic events for blokes.
Let's have a bag race - Dr Don would do well there.
Let's see Dick "The Cereal Killer" Hubbard and lite highweight champion Johnny "Two Lane" Banks clamber into the five rings for a no-holds-barred kick-boxing bout to decide who'll be next mayor of Auckland.
And if beach volleyball can be a sport, let's offer medals for that legendary Kiwi bloke's party trick involving ... how to put this ... ummm ... gaseous emissions and a cigarette lighter.
Strewth, there are former Lincoln students who could produce a jet of flame like a Skyhawk on afterburners. Get 'em shooting at a target and we've gotta go gold.
Besides, if we are going to have a civil war, there are obvious military applications (for both sides).
So ungird your loins, blokes, and break out the baked beans. Your country needs you.
HUMOUR
We're not doing particularly well at the Olympic Games, you'd have to say. Although, it should be noted, when we say "we", we most definitely aren't referring to the nation as a sporting totality in the Athenian context.
Oh cointreau, as the bishop said to the absinthe. In fact, as a
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