I don’t care who you are and what you barrack for, if you weren’t standing up, hand on heart, fighting back the tears when Harvs was chaired off the ‘G as a victorious Hawthorn formed a guard of honour, you ain’t human. Or you’re my wife. And there’s only one of them, so you ain’t human.

He’s 37 years old, people, and he’s run further and harder than any whining little taxpayer-funded, fat-arsed, so-called Olympian. Many of his team mates and opponents weren’t even born, or were still in nappies, when he first pulled on a Saints guernsey. He’s played in some of the worst teams to ever shame a footy ground, and he kept his heart and his work ethic.

When he hit his thirties he realised he couldn’t keep up the pace he used to, so he hit the bike and the treadmill, and shed muscle, in order to keep up with the frenetic pace of the modern game. The only player who comes close to his ability to shake off a tackle and keep his feet is the young Gary Ablett. He wasn’t a leader, but he was an inspiration, and for twenty years he was the heart of the Saints.

See ya, Rob, you will be missed, and you will never be forgotten.

* * *

Hawthorn won the Grand Final. As the result had nothing to do with Western Sydney and the vast opportunities it offers, and the Hawks brazenly reminded us all of the existence of a feisty little place called Tasmania, Demetriou has kept shtum. Which is a good thing.

I don’t like Hawthorn, but as long as they’re sponsored by Tasmania then I want them to win, and I want them to be on TV, and I want bloody Demetriou to see those eight letters enough times that he realises the fucking place exists and it’s given us some great fucking footballers, and it has a fucking Aussie Rules culture, and if you put a team there it would fucking work.

Somewhere in that enormous head floating above that endless treadmill of dark suits, there must be a brain that actually operates with neurons and chemicals and responds to light and sound and exists in the same dimensions as your brain and mine. The rest of the frontal-lobe-equipped football world feels like the audience at a pantomime, but we’re going hoarse from screaming “Behind you! BEHIND YOU!!!!” as he blissfully ignores the rampaging elephant that’s not just in the room, but is devouring the fucking room.

ABSOLUTELY NOBODY is looking at Western Sydney and saying “this truly is the place for an AFL club.” Having said that, absolutely nobody saw the value in playing an AFL exhibition match in an empty stadium in Bahrain. But it happened.

We keep going to the games, and paying for our memberships, and that keeps him in a job. Think about that.

* * *

Just needed a cup of tea and a bit of a lie down. Better now.

* * *

If, like me, you’re prepared to accept that motor racing is sport, and that cars are an essential part of said sport, you’ll have to accept that Top Gear Australia is acceptable subject matter for this column.

Oh my frakking God, what a pile of grey-yellow, saggy-arsed, floppy-elastic underpants this is. Despite all their protestations that they weren’t trying to clone the original with three Aussed-up versions of Clarkson May and Hammond, it’s clear that they have. And oh, so very very badly.

The worst thing about this show (and there are many bad things) is that they have missed what is fundamental about Top Gear. It’s not the cars, it’s not the challenges, it’s the three funny bastards talking about the cars, undertaking the challenges, and putting shit on each other. The English presenters are funny men in their own right, but put together their humour increases exponentially, because They Work Well Together. Top Gear is a melding of very funny individuals that forms a perfect whole, like the Fawlty Towers cast, or Bugs and Daffy. Or your editors.

Top Gear Australia is a melding of three middling-to-poor humourists who don’t.

* * *

Recently, in a fit of something or other, I purchased a bicycle. The idea is to ride to work a couple of times a week and get my fitness level somewhere above that of a fat old woman’s seventeen year old labrador. My last bike was a BMX, and the last time I rode that I was wearing a Miller shirt and Adidas Romes, and I pulled a mono in front of some girls and the front wheel fell off and I bruised my balls on the crossbar and Darren Spencer laughed so hard he pissed his pants, and neither of us ever got near any of those girls ever again, even when we were fourteen and had a bottle of Stone’s Green Ginger wine to trade.

Here I am with a 12-speed velocipede I bought on ebay, so old it’s not even a Road Bike, it’s a Racer. I’ve hopped on it a few times, mainly to go to the pub, and every time, I slap myself in anger that I forgot to wear Anything But Jeans. Ouchy ouchy my poor chafed tackle.

Riding a bike around, I am reminded why I hate Lance Armstrong. Riding as far as I do bloody well hurts, and I know that even if I push myself rrrreally hard over the next twelve months, I still won’t be able to reach a top speed on the flat that he makes up ungodly mountains for two weeks at a time. Before he won seven Tours de France in a row, he recovered from testicular cancer, by the way.

He retired a couple of years ago, a very rich man, and disgustingly accomplished. But not for old Lance a life of deep-fried peanut butter sandwiches and cocaine dwarves. No, he’s been keeping himself busy with endurance mountain biking (150km races up and down dirt tracks on scary-arse mountains, in case you were wondering), and running the odd marathon. But that’s not enough for him, so he’s coming back to multi-million dollar lycra world, and is kind enough to launch his return here in Australia.

He’s my age. He’s got a resting heart rate of about 11. He could run a marathon faster than I could ride it, and, given that he’s the most drug-tested athlete in history, it’s fairly safe to say that he’s done it drug-free in a sport that’s become a metaphor for chemical enhancement.

* * *

For several years I have followed the Tour de France with a fair to middling amount of interest. This year, I somehow managed to sit up every sodding night til 2 or 3 in the morning, absolutely transfixed by the tactics, and disappointed, yet not surprised, that Cadel Evans didn’t win.

Why was I not surprised? Because it’s a team sport, and Evans’ team wasn’t as strong as some of the others. The point of teams in cycling is that they’re built around one or two stars, and the other seven or eight riders (domestiques) are there for support, in the form of slip-streaming, and to attack the top riders from the other teams, particular the yellow jersey.

This is done by keeping a couple of domestiques close to the overall leader in the rankings, then send them up to make a move that he can’t ignore if he wants to hang onto the yellow. So for that stage and the next couple, the leader is riding faster than he should, and is thus weakened for the next few days. So are the domestiques, but they’re paid to be expendable, that’s their job. They’ve knocked out their lead rider’s competition, which is exactly what happened to Cadel Evans this year.

And that’s what makes the drug cheat situation in cycling so sad. If you and I are swimmers, and I’m a drug cheat, then I just swim faster than you; I can’t make you swim slower. But over the three weeks of Le Tour, I can make you ride slower, by wearing you out.

Results in cycling have been so utterly contaminated by drugs for so long now that the sport is in serious trouble. Team sponsors are dropping out, often mid-event, and there’s less money in it. The irony in this is that the cheats are cheating so they get better results and are thus worth more money, except that their behaviour means there’s less money to go around. Could it be that Adam Smith’s Invisible Hand Of The Market is making the correction where WADA and all the others can’t?

* * *

Did you know there’s a basketball league in Australia? If I run a few names by you, dim memories of the early nineties, when AFL types were scared of the Next Big Thing may come to you. Sydney Kings anyone? Melbourne Tigers? Andrew Gaze? Those glory days are long gone, folks, and basketball is desperately scratching in the dirt for an audience, some sponsors, some TV interest would be handy too, I guess.

So they relaunch their comp at a magnificently deluded time, ignorant of the AFL finals, the Olympics, A-League football and the Storm. It’s clear that Demetriou didn’t do the Bug-Nutty Fuck The Game As Hard As You Fuck The Punters Sports Administration Diploma on his own.

* * *

Gender-related sport comments follow.

I hate women’s tennis. Women swimming is just as boring as men swimming. Men’s beach volleyball is a whole lot more pointless than when women do it.

* * *

Spring is upon us, and here’s a hint for twenty-somethings. In order to make life easier and less confusing for the rest of us, could you all please wear cheap knock-offs of what was worn to this year’s Brownlow, get yourself rrrreally annoyingly shaffed on cheap sparkling and Crown Lager, work on outrageous sunburn, then show up at a quiet local pub somewhere, screaming into mobile phones and carrying your shoes. That way it will be abundantly clear to us all that you’ve been At The Fucking Races.

Thank you.

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