Brownlow blues

There is nothing inherently wrong with a time of 17.01 around The Tan running track, a distance of 3.85 km. In fact, by all accounts, its quite a good time. And its not the fact that I ran exactly the same time two fortnight’s in a row, both times I knew I couldn’t have run any faster to lessen the time. However the ridiculously competitive spirit within me wants to make every attempt a PB and (more significantly) beat my boss who is also running the Tan regularly and is now 30 seconds ahead of me. So, I’m disappointed with that time and will be looking to beat it next attempt. Not sure if I will by 5 seconds or 50 but I will !

There was plenty wrong with the Brownlow presentation on Monday night. As you know, I am a bit of a sucker for Award shows, Oscar’s night and Brownlow night feature prominently in my annual viewing calendar. The anguish on the faces of those who really want to win (such as Scott West last year) and the round by round highlight packages form a great recap to kick start Grand Final week. But the Funniest Home Videos-like commentary framing the highlights was the first on a long list of what to hate about that coverage this year. Bruce really needs a good smack in the head for his incessant blabbering about “did you knows” and “what abouts”. We really haven’t missed him while the footy was at channel 9. Even Eddie must have been kicked after his first year calling games because he has toned down his oh-so-interesting stat talk. The player interviews were as vacuous as ever; Bruce’s “interview” with Bartel the second it was apparent he had won was cringe-worthy and gratuitous as he would be on stage in just a couple of minutes more (“We just wanted to say, well done Jimmy. Congratulations from all of us. Well done”); and Ricky Olarenshaw managed to sideline whatever female viewership was left by 11pm with his take on partner’s use of their man’s credit cards. It seems that Demetriou was given instructions to read out the votes at double pace however that seemed redudant when ch.7 filled in the “extra” time with an unfunny cross to Stephen Curry (of the Toyota grand final highlight ads) and interviews with retiring players Hird, Kouta, Riccuto and Archer via a video tape and then have them on stage to ask them the same questions in person. And finally, the red carpet show preceding the medal count was as disappointing as ever with very few dresses actually being shown. It can’t be that hard to show what every woman in town wants to watch ? Show the frocks! Show the frocks. Don’t show Garry Lyon, Sam Newman or any of the other has-been meatheads in a not-so-witty piece to camera.

And in a new segment, I would like to name some things that I hate. Celebrating this time of year, I hate the Royal Melbourne Show. The rotten, over-tired, crashing from too much sugar darlings crowd on to my train at going home time, take up all the seats, carry way too many show bags/balloons/giant stuffed animals and talk way too loudly when all I want to do is get home quickly and quietly.
I do love the Grand Final parade however. It is my one day a year when I can be a starry eyed groupie in the crowd, cheer on the footballing heroes as they drive by in the backs of the sponsor’s four wheel drives and sing along to the club songs played out by the marching bands.