Why so Cirrus?

Local cloud, Gary Smith

A cloud has responded to reports that he doesn’t know what he’s doing when he forms and dissipates all day.

Local cloud, Gary Smith, says the public try and predict his behaviour all the time and whinge, sometimes even to his face, when he comes into view. But he says he is just misunderstood.

“We arrive, we rain on you, we disappear; that’s just we do. When I was growing up I wanted to be a thunderstorm, or I could have been a hurricane if I applied myself, but sometimes you just need to stick to a solid, steady income to make ends meet”, he said, as he struggled to stay in one spot without the wind blowing him away.

Cloud Gary reads reports and forecasts about his behaviour but says it’s mostly fake news, “I read an online weather report this morning that gave me a 95% chance of clouding over the sky, but I’m unpredictable, man. The weatherpeople on the media rarely know what they're talking about”, Gary said, before waving two fingers in front of his mouth to summons a pink fluffy cloud to prove his point, just like Monkey in the 1980s TV series Monkey.

He also questions the validity of people who make a living talking about weather all day. “I mean, I know I’m part of the natural phenomenon process, but don’t you think a weatherperson is a job created by media to give boring people something to talk about on camera”. 

Human Dick Jones doesn’t like clouds, saying “when they finally eff off, it’s a very nice day!” 

Cloud Gary agrees, saying “the feeling is mutual; this is something humans and clouds have in common”, adding that he’s not the biggest fan of humans either. “I always hear they want me to make them a silver lining or something, like I’ve nothing better to do all day than create some sort of positive aspect over their shitful existence”.

Test Cricket - Australia vs the Hobbitses

 Some hobbitses fighting over the precious.

The New Zealand cricket team and its fans have taken a well earned break from sheep shearing, wine guzzling and Lord of the Rings ‘hobbitses’ role-playing to pop over to the Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG) to play some good ol’ fashioned proper sport that doesn't involve sheep, wine or hobbits.

This is the second Test in a trilogy of fantasy matches featuring these gnome-like hobbits battling evil warlords (the Australians, stay with me) for control of a magical place called the MCG.

As it turns out, the newly designed activity program for hobbitses at the MCG does in fact allow for all of the important leisure pursuits that New Zealanders enjoy.

The MCG Fun Curators have decided that fans should no longer have to choose between attending a Test Cricket match or maintaining basic hygiene standards, because now the MCG offers a barber service.

It is not clear whether it is for sheep and hobbits as well, but I saw a human-ish looking man in the barber chair having his sheep-like beard tended to, so he could sit back and watch the match in the blazing Melbourne sun/wind/rain/hurricane (depending on the time of day you choose for your manscaping). This is the new cricket. This is men living their best lives. It’s a great time for sheep shearing hobbitses to be alive.

The MCG has stepped up big time his year. There are a variety of goods and services on offer at the ground that you wouldn’t normally expect from a day at the cricket. You can get a shave, get a haircut, shear some sheep, indulge in some fush and chips, play some rugby probably and do some Haka, I don’t really know. Nevertheless, exhausting day!

Credit to the boys, the creative types at the MCG, they really are making the Fushy Chaps (my nickname for the drunk New Zealand larrakins who made their way across the fishy ditch to the Test) feel right at home. The Chaps are loud, and singsongy. Never mind ’alcohol free areas’; I’d need a New Zealander free area.

Where do we even draw the line with spectator entertainment at stadiums these days? I’ve got no idea, but I also have an idea, Cricket Australia. How about Pay to Play, where for a few hundred quid (going to charity) you get to field for Australia for 5 minutes? I didn’t say it was a good idea. I’m sure the Australian captain Tim Paine would more than welcome a drunkard twit running around his outfield tripping over their hobbit feet. Stupid hobbitses.

The Australian captain has been awfully perplexed lately at the Umpire Decision Reviewing System, the DRS, and rightly so. To be fair, the meaning of the acronym DRS should change with each ref decision. For example, Didn’t Really See, Dat Ref Shite, Didn't Review Shite. The reviewing system needs a systemic review.

Anyways, it’s looking like a win for the Aussies. We wants it, we needs it.

Happy Black Cat Day

It's Chat Noir Day! Black cats across the nation are looking forward to scaring the bejesus out of everyone who comes across their path today, Friday the 13th.

Local tabby cat, Jim Cumberbatch, said “it puts people into a clusterf**k of hysteria and panic when they see a black cat on Friday the 13th and I do not hate it. The only time it’s unlucky to see a black cat is when you’re a mouse.  You humans need to grow some furballs”.

"That's going to be my schtick this Friday 13th. While black cats are comparatively dull and boring to more interesting textured and colourful felines like myself, they nail the scary stuff", Mr Cumberbatch said.

When advised that he wasn’t a black cat and was, henceforth, not that scary, Mr Cumberbatch was non-puss-ed. “I’ve got my onesie costume ready. Imagine this with a black onesie on”, before catapulting himself off his roof onto a reporter’s head, in what can only be described as an aggressive manner. “If I throw in a bit of eye contact stare and borrow my tradie mate Bryan’s ladder, they lose their friggin’ minds”.

When asked if he was bothered by praying on all the paraskevidekatriaphobic’s out there, Mr Cumberbatch said “I’m a cat, I don’t speak French I’m fairly certain”.

Before adding, “as if humans can’t get any more stupid, they get scared of a black 25cm high four-legged animal, which is kind of racist, and then develop some weird  fear of Friday the 13th, a fear of the number 13, and a fear of the friggin’ Norse goddess after whom Friday is named, who was coincidentally called Frigg. I’m not the main perpetrator here”.