The Great Effemination of the Australian Cricket Team: Thoughts from the Buffalo Club

 

What the hell happened? Where did it all go wrong? Who is to blame? And where can they be found?

One minute, the Australian cricket team is made of men and warriors, mustachioed heroes and goddamn legends. Men like David Boon and Dennis Lillee and Rodney Marsh and Alan Border and Max Walker were and are iconic Australian men, intrinsically linked by three great bastions of masculinity; cricket, booze and facial hair.

Drinking contests were started before the plane left Mascot en route to another Ashes tour and playing for your country hungover was not an uncommon practice. Legendary tales of Walters, O’Keefe and Hogg still circle like they should, stories of incalculable heroism and humour that gave the Australian cricket team character. Even two-bits like Tony Dodmaide and Simon Davis gave us a tickle and a reminder of the depth of character in Australian cricket. The men loved it and the women too.

Even into the Nineties, under the regime of Tubs, the scene was still okay. Sure, there were pretty boy pansies like Brendan Julian and Damien Martyn but this was more than offset by manly characters such as Mark Waugh (The Gambler), Steve Waugh (The Warrior), Ian Healy (The Troublemaker) and the captain himself, Mark Taylor (The Fat Bastard). The Australian cricket team still had its balls, so to speak.

Not now. These days, the Australian cricket side limps around like a castrated ninja summing up his options, staggering along without bollocks or pride.

Deep in the cavern known as The Buffalo Club- where membership is exclusive and reserved for those with common sense, a love of green and two goddamn testicles located somewhere in the pants region- I sat, brooding and angry, with friends, associates, well-wishers, junkies and statisticians watching Australia’s opening Champions Trophy match against the West Indies. I had reached the realisation that I loathed a damned significant proportion of the Australian cricket team. Even the minstrel doll who looks upon the Buffalo Club from his glass ensconced perch, affectionately known as Swanee, couldn’t raise a smile. And that is saying something because if Al Jolson and the minstrel scene can’t make you laugh, not much will.

Swanee- how I love ya, how I love ya, my dear old swanee.

I had never prepared for the day when I would hate the majority of the men chosen to represent Australia in the fine game of cricket. Hate is a strong word but it is apt, and well considered. When the side flashed up on the screen and I cast my eye down the list of players, I was disgusted and appalled and wondered where it had all gone wrong. I yearned for Geoff Marsh and Greg Dyer and Brad Hodge.

Maybe it was Greg Campbell, maybe he is to blame…

My thoughts on that pigslapper Shane Watson have been well documented and will continue to be espoused in this very column if he is given yet more chances over the summer. The useless himbo is a genuine all rounder all right- rubbish at everything. He is as useless with the bat as he is with the ball and he is so stupid he makes Rebecca Wilson seem logical. But he has blonde hair, so of course, he fits right into the Ricky Ponting XI. The same applies, though to a lesser degree, with Michael Clarke, Nathan Bracken and Brett Lee. Michael Clarke has done nothing to earn a spot in either Australian side yet because he is a pretty boy, he gets a bait. His first class average is somewhere around the Wayne Phillips mark. Nathan Bracken fulfills the two most important criteria Australian selectors look for these days- he is a pansy and he is a left arm one at that- so he just has to be chosen and probably will be until Australian selectors realise how rubbish most left arm bowlers are. And Brett Lee…well, he is hard to criticise these days and in the one day scene, he is as good as it gets. But he never deserved the chance he got in the first place and if he was built like Carl Rackemann, be rest assured he wouldn’t have been fast tracked into the Australian team.

Then we get to Adam Gilchrist. Australia’s greatest keeper-batsman of all time has turned from a pleasant young kid to a whiney, moralising twat. Ricky Ponting is one of the dumbest captains I’ve ever had the misfortune of watching. Glenn McGrath sold out Narromine for highlights in his hair and a hummer in The Shire. Marto is still the same selfish, incorrigible fool who lost us the Sydney Test in 1993/94 and who has done nothing to redeem himself since. A team of pretty boys and deadbeats and that is calling it like it is.

Thank the Lord above for Michael Hussey, Brad Hogg and Andrew Symonds, I guess. Not being pretty or stupid (the latter being a matter of debate when it comes to Andrew Symonds), all three probably have a limited lifespan in the game. The Ponting regime of pansiness, stupidity, weakness of heart and a desire to get in touch with the inner-woman of the side will see to all that.

It is sad to see the Australian side plummet to such depths of personality disorder. It has reached a point where they are no longer the pride and joy of a nation but a laughing stock who deep down, Australians want to see fail. Not collectively, of course. We all want the Aussies to win. But individually, constant failure for most of these no-hopers is the secret desire of most red blooded Aussie men who rip meat from shanks with their teeth and who drink until they throw up and then drink some more.

For the good of Australian cricket, the men of Australia must rise up and be heard. Let us be characterised by intelligence, courage, honour and masculinity. Not stupidity and prettiness.