It hasn’t been a spectacular year for me in the footy tipping. Although I was thankfully nowhere near the come bottom of the competition, after leading for a short period during the year I ended up fifth at the end of the season, three points off the lead. That formidable trophy won’t be coming to my place any time soon.

Thankfully a work colleague set up a finals tipping competition. It’s based around shares that started at 10 cents each. You could buy shares before last Friday, and your shares on whichever team(s) you wanted. Any shares on losing teams are lost, and the value of the remaining shares of the prize pool goes up accordingly. So I coughed up $10 and put my 100 shares on three teams that looked pretty safe.

And lost everything in the first smegging week.

Perhaps next year I will relive some of my past glories.

I had a reasonably bad cold last week, and I’m still periodically coughing yeuchhy stuff up very noisily. At its worst, I worked from home, which was actually pretty good — I reckon I got more done at home than I would have done at work, thanks to the tranquility.

Thanks to a contact in the industry I got a quick look around a railway station booking office last week. Conspicuous above one of the internal doorways (facing away from the customer window) was a Jesus Christ. Obviously they need all the help they can get to keep the trains running on time. (But apparently Our Lord had not been pleased that morning, as my train was cancelled.)

I never got around to having a proper housewarming party last year, but have finally organised a “1st anniversary since buying” party for some good friends and relatives. No, I’m not inviting the blogging world at large, sorry. Yes, I am going to have to work very hard in the next fortnight to make the place presentable.

About an hour before the Cats vs Dogs game started, I changed my tip from Dogs to Cats. And boy am I glad I did… they turned out to win by one point. I ended up with 6 tips out of 8 (the Carlton/Essendon draw counts as a point for everybody). As of the end of round 16 I’m top of the tipping ladder by a point to Marita, followed by Rae, so at this rate the ugly trophy may be making a return visit to one of our houses this September.

To my surprise, no unbearable pangs for chocolate… yet.

Now for a bit of controversy.

I really enjoy doing footy tipping, and indeed watching it can be quite entertaining. Love a bit of kick-to-kick in the park.

But footy, for real? Nup. I reckon it’s a mug’s game(*). As much as I might make fun of the Americans and their super-armour-padded version of football, I can appreciate that they’re trying to avoid injuries. Footy is not a low-risk game. Fundamentally it’s a game that is punishing to the body.

And then there’s the collisions. Despite precautions, serious injuries abound. Just a few weeks ago Collingwood’s Blake Caracella wound up with a severe neck injury. Apparently James Hird has suffered just about every injury imagineable. And occasionally there are deaths.

A fascinating article in the Good Weekend a few months ago (probably not online, even if I could remember the title) looked at where professional football players go to once they retire. For many by the ripe old age of 30 or 35, their football careers are over, and they have done permanent damage to their bodies — a stark contrast to the fit healthy young men they appear to be when playing.

The result so many of them seem to end up with is not something I’d wish on anybody. There are far less punishing sports around, and it all makes me rather thankful that my kids aren’t that interested in playing footy beyond the occasional kick.

And those who play, well hopefully they enjoy it. But even more importantly, I hope they know the risks, and act accordingly.

(*)Admittedly I’m a natural sloth, and don’t participate regularly in any organised sport.

You have to feel some pity for the Australian morning daily papers. All this World Cup excitement, including a game last night won by Australia, but the lead times to get their newspaper onto peoples front lawns by breakfast time means they can’t report the results. They try and make up for it, but there’s only so many World Cup colour supplements one can handle.

Personally I’m nowhere near fanatical enough to tune in that late at night (knowing what havoc it would have the following day through lack of sleep). But there are those that do. One guy at work did the ultimate and flew to Germany for the month, without even having to book a ticket to see a game. That’s dedication.

There’s been talk recently of moving the AFL Grand Final from its Saturday afternoon slot to an evening one, apparently for the benefits of TV. My question is: what could they gain? It’s already a sell-out at the ground, and consistently the highest rating single TV programme of the year. I find it hard to believe they’d gain any more viewers or advertising dollars.

Meanwhile the ABC has finally announced the new series of Doctor Who will air in July, starting with the Christmas episode. Yep, “Christmas in July”. I wonder how long it took the promotional people to come up with that one, and more importantly, did they hold off on showing it specifically to gain that piss-weak tagline?

They don’t seem to have learnt yet that big audiences might be gained by jumping on the bandwagon of worldwide near-simultaneous broadcasts, and harnessing existing publicity. In the global village, I want to watch what my neighbours are watching.

Did they really delay broadcasting Doctor Who (a show which is mainstream enough to be the subject of many downloads on what’s becoming known as Channel BT, and regularly gets mentions in popular newspapers such as MX) just so they could show Rocket Man in that timeslot first? All respect to Robson Green and the rest of the cast, but a cute premise, a setting in yet another UK village full of eccentrics, and an Elton John song for the theme tune don’t make a hit.

Brant Webb and Todd Russell, trapped down in that mine in Beaconsfield, Tasmania, have been talking to their rescuers as the final stage of digging commences.

“So we are trying to talk to them about things that they can relate to, and things we can keep on an even keel and keep their spirits steady. We might get on to topics such as football, and things they can really grasp onto.”

Yikes. I wonder if they’ve been told about the Freo/Saints game.

PS. Friday morning: I wonder if I’m going to get my footy tipping 7/8 last week downgraded to a 6/8?

Bye bye to the Commonwealth Games.

I’m not normally that enthused by sport, but going to see the athletics at the MCG enthused me somewhat. I also saw the big fish thingies on the Yarra on Friday night, and enjoyed wandering amongst the big crowds. I watched some of the TV coverage, and noted that there were possibly only two sports that I could not even attempt without risking immediate and serious injury to myself: gymnastics and diving.

Two thirds of the team from Sierra Leone have gone missing, presumably wanting to stay in Australia. Anyone would think they didn’t want to go back to their war-ravaged poverty-stricken country.

Anything to escape the sight of 1000 Dame Ednas, I suppose. Jeez, gimme a break.

Ah well, the Games have finished now.

For just ten days there were heaps of people roaming the streets with huge Games ID tags with undecipherable acronyms written on them.

For just ten days you could catch a train after 7pm without waiting for half an hour, and a bus home from the station in the evening. Barely a single cancellation in that time, yet this morning the old familiar beep beep of an SMS train cancellation alert was back.

For just ten days, some of the world’s best athletes were wandering around town. Some of the Canadian team on Friday were intrigued enough to explore the esoteric and exotic realm of TieRack in Collins Street. Earlier I observed one of the Botswanan team chomp down a burger. (Hopefully it was after his event.)

For just ten days, you could blame anything that went wrong on The Games.

For just ten days, no matter how crowded the streets were, or how long it took to get anywhere, everyone seemed to be in a good mood.

Now it’s all over. I think I’ll miss it.

Australia’s Kerryn McCann says she was prepared to be beaten in the women’s marathon, until she heard the roar of the MCG crowd. — The Age

Such a thrilling thing I haven’t seen in a long time. She didn’t know it, but 76,500 of us in the MCG were watching her progress against Hellen Cherono Koskei of Kenya from about Princes Bridge onwards. They kept exchanging the lead, and as they came through the tunnel back into the ground, the crowd stood and erupted into a roar. Kerryn crossed the line just two seconds ahead, to deafening cheers around the stadium. What a fantastic moment.

All of the runners, both men and women, got big cheers as they came in, applause at their strength and ability, having run the 42.195Km course all around Melbourne.

Errol Duncan of St Helena got a special cheer — during the two initial laps of the stadium, he managed to get half a lap behind the others, and almost kept doing laps before directed out onto the course. He finished last, almost an hour behind the winners, but by golly he finished, to plenty of applause.

Other notable moments on the day:

During one of the EAD (Elite Athletes with a Disability) 100 metre heats, a visually impaired runner kept going after the finish line, doing almost a complete lap before being stopped.

The crowd’s awe of watching South African Sunette Vil Joen’s winning javelin throw of 60.72 metres.

Amusement at the remote control car used to ferry the javelins back to the athletes. Imagine, there’s a guy out there somewhere whose job at the Games is to work the remote control car.

Medal ceremonies for the women’s and men’s marathons, and the women’s javelin. We stood and sang for Advance Australia Fair. We stood for the others (Isaac remarking of the Tanzanian national anthem: “I don’t know this one.”)

Watching the fastest man on the planet, 100 metres world record holder Asafa Powell of Jamaica zoom off down the track, before slowing down to what seemed like a jog whe he realised he didn’t need to stress to win his heat.

Right at the end some woman ran onto the ground and was tackled by two police officers.

But mostly: Though perhaps not as much as for the Aussies, there was plenty of enthusiastic applause for all comers, for all who did well, no matter what country they were from.

(And before you ask, transport to and from the venue was relatively smooth. Plenty of extra trains on my line, crowded but not uncomfortable. Not so on the Burnley lines after the event, with trains few and far between, causing platforms 9+10 to fill and the station entrance to be periodically closed, in turn causing delays for the crowd on Brunton Avenue. Blame the Games.)

Ahhh… the Commonwealth Games opening ceremony… the flying tram… landing on a giant Melway. You know what, if I had designed the opening moments, that’s probably how I would have done it. Didn’t understand the juxtaposition of ballet dancers and trail bikes though.

…

I noticed in a city drycleaners the other day a sign indicating there could be problems getting clothes back on time… due to traffic restrictions and other delays imposed by the Games. And I’ve seen similar signs elsewhere.

It’s brilliant. You can blame any problem on the Games.

“Sorry I’m late… The Games…”

“I think I’ll work from home tomorrow… you know… The Games…”

“Sorry boss, didn’t get that report done. The Games…”

“I know I didn’t get you a birthday present… it’s The Games…”

“Yes I’m sorry I forgot our anniversary, and the car has a flat battery, the kids didn’t get fed, and the cat died, your mum’s got gastro and the house is a tip… you know, it’s The Games.”