Mr Aussie Cricket Scandal

For over a century the Aussie cricket team has served as guardians of Australia’s moral compass. If they were playing fair, honest cricket then we too could regard ourselves as an honourable nation. 

Alas, there has been some pretty bloody ordinary cricket lately as Bancroft, armed with a piece of fluro tape had cleaned bowled Australia’s reputation onan international stage, and local accounts manager Paul is fucking pissed off. 

Paul is careful not to overstate the significance of this sporting shitcuntery:

“Smith, Warner, Lehman and Bancroft should be publicly flogged for bringing this nation into disrepute! I sat my youngest down to explain what happened to him and he said, ‘daddy why can’t a pace bowler generate swing without violating Law 41 of the Laws of Cricket’, he’s only 3! From the mouths of babes. This truly is the darkest day in our history, our greatest shame”

Fair dues, if Australia can cling on to the idea that rubbing a bit of dirt on a ball is the worst thing we’ve ever done, we’re looking pretty good in the history books.

Paul’s computer at work is beginning to look scary. Not monster scary, but the chaotic newspaper wall in ‘A Beautiful Mind’ scary. He has dozens of tabs open about the scandal and is frantically typing about his hot takes in every forum available. 

After his 7th coffee for the morning he storms into a British coworker’s office, “this whole thing reeks of Warner doesn’t it, Smith looks the kinda guy who’d call the police on his own party because it was getting dangerously close to 10pm, it’s a conspiracy”. 

The Brit is loving it, “your cwicketers are all a bunch of cheats innit, who cares that we got bowled out for 58, it’s a bwoody national disgrace mate”. Ahhh, Paul loves it, yeh, spit on his team, call them a bunch of dirty whores. 

Paul decides to Uber home on the off chance the driver may be Indian. Well, what are the odds? He gets in, “cricket fan?” His driver instantly unleashes a sub-continental tsunami of judgment on the Aussie’s actions, “and I tell you Mr Paul, this Mr Warner is a very bad man, it’s all him”.

Awww yeh, the pent-up frustration that had blued his balls had finally been released like he was Sonny Bill Williams in a nightclub toilet. Paul looks longingly into his driver’s eyes as some Rod Stewart plays on the radio, “I like you Sanjee, you understand me”.

Just get out of the Uber you freak and let it go.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?


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