As it was dubbed in Oz was Germany's trouncing of the Australian Socceroos 4-Nil in their World Cup opener in Durban, South Africa.
And then the knives came out.
Forget about kicking the team when they were down, this was a blood bath. Incompetent coaching, unfit players, poor training, ill discipline, lack of spirit, you name it and the team was guilty. Radio talk shows poured scorn on the Socceroos, callers lambasted them and their World Cup merchandise was knocked down to 50% off in the shops. The team had not so much lost a game as disgraced a nation. Australia had been mortally wounded on the international stage, nay, far more importantly, on the international sporting stage. How, people asked, was this possible for the 'Lucky Country'?
Most telling was that for the first time in two months the 'Super Profits Mining Tax' proposed by Prime Minister Kevin Rudd [who as I write this has been removed as PM by in a backroom coup and the Super Profits tax has now been dropped] was knocked out of the top news spot.
Surely Australians didn't actually think they'd beat Germany? And surely they have more important things to worry about such as why mining companies virtually run the country, dictate policy and believe they should pay less for the people's resources? Or for that matter even the appalling quality and price of beer in this vast nation of thirsty people?
Monday, July 12, 2010
'Number D3, that's D3'
Whoohoo! I grabbed the ticket off the table and went up to claim our prize in the meat raffle of the Northern Hotel in Byron Bay.
The prize table groaned under the weight of heavily laden BBQ trays of steak and chicken, lamb chops and burgers and artery clogging breakfast trays of eggs, bacon and sausages. A carnivore's delight, a meat eater's Garden of Eden laid out on the table, ours for the picking.
Our tray was piled high, but sadly not with ground offal and rump or wing and topside or ribs and legs but rather with oranges, kiwi fruit, apples, grapes, avocados, tomatoes and corn on the cob. Yep, we'd opted for one of the maligned 'fruit and veg' trays of the meat raffle.
An oxymoron and the carnivore's curse of living in a tent with no fridge.
The prize table groaned under the weight of heavily laden BBQ trays of steak and chicken, lamb chops and burgers and artery clogging breakfast trays of eggs, bacon and sausages. A carnivore's delight, a meat eater's Garden of Eden laid out on the table, ours for the picking.
Our tray was piled high, but sadly not with ground offal and rump or wing and topside or ribs and legs but rather with oranges, kiwi fruit, apples, grapes, avocados, tomatoes and corn on the cob. Yep, we'd opted for one of the maligned 'fruit and veg' trays of the meat raffle.
An oxymoron and the carnivore's curse of living in a tent with no fridge.
'Hold it, hold it! I call this scraping the bottom'
Jamie 'The Tactician' of Double Time, our racing yacht, was on the helm, well lubricated by pre-race beers in the pub, a can of XXXX lager balanced on the compass housing as we bore down on the seawall adjacent to the Cairns marina.
I was on the starboard winch ready to haul in the foresail sheet as soon as we tacked, one eye on the depth sounder. 4.0 metres, 3.5 metres, 3 metres, 2.5 metres...'maybe we should tack...' and still Jamie pressed on. Jean, the owner of Double Time started protesting in her Indiana-Australian drawl, Charlie the normally calm Australian navy man on the main sheet began tugging at his beard and the early evening strollers on the seawall, now 10 metres off the bow, raised their eyebrows in anticipation of our imminent wreck.
How did this happen? Hours before we had woken up in a tent in the ancient Daintree Rainforest at Cape Tribulation 120 km north of Cairns and now here we were manning the winches in a Cairns Yacht Club race on a boat with three skippers ploughing their way through a fridge full of beer.
Then Jamie spun the helm, Karen let go the back winded foresail, I hauled it in and we were off on the opposite tack, clearing the rocks by 5 metres and now bearing down on a forest of sailboats and mooring piles. Jean took a verbal strip off Jamie about it being her boat, rocks, burning in hell and all sorts. Jamie waved her off and promptly cracked another can of XXXX while pontificating about the need for smoother transitions on the winches when tacking to keep our speed up in the hope of catching the lead yacht.
An hour later, with a little surreptitious help from the engine, we drifted in fifth, boat and crew intact, beer fridge empty. It had been a heady day of America's Cup high drama on the seas, ducking and weaving amongst the competition, fast tacks and gybes, cutting angles, stealing wind and clashing egos all at a blistering 3 mph.
I was on the starboard winch ready to haul in the foresail sheet as soon as we tacked, one eye on the depth sounder. 4.0 metres, 3.5 metres, 3 metres, 2.5 metres...'maybe we should tack...' and still Jamie pressed on. Jean, the owner of Double Time started protesting in her Indiana-Australian drawl, Charlie the normally calm Australian navy man on the main sheet began tugging at his beard and the early evening strollers on the seawall, now 10 metres off the bow, raised their eyebrows in anticipation of our imminent wreck.
How did this happen? Hours before we had woken up in a tent in the ancient Daintree Rainforest at Cape Tribulation 120 km north of Cairns and now here we were manning the winches in a Cairns Yacht Club race on a boat with three skippers ploughing their way through a fridge full of beer.
Then Jamie spun the helm, Karen let go the back winded foresail, I hauled it in and we were off on the opposite tack, clearing the rocks by 5 metres and now bearing down on a forest of sailboats and mooring piles. Jean took a verbal strip off Jamie about it being her boat, rocks, burning in hell and all sorts. Jamie waved her off and promptly cracked another can of XXXX while pontificating about the need for smoother transitions on the winches when tacking to keep our speed up in the hope of catching the lead yacht.
An hour later, with a little surreptitious help from the engine, we drifted in fifth, boat and crew intact, beer fridge empty. It had been a heady day of America's Cup high drama on the seas, ducking and weaving amongst the competition, fast tacks and gybes, cutting angles, stealing wind and clashing egos all at a blistering 3 mph.
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