Fair dinkum, Girt by Sea for the grand finale of the Coupe Mondiale.
It is, to be fully francis with you Dear Diary, the stupidest line in any national anthem. Ever. Anywhere. ‘Girt’? How they can hold their heads up at the UN is beyond me. No wonder they wear those hats with corks: distracts attention from the lyrics.
I’ve been practicing in the mirror not laughing just in case the cameras have a peek during the singing. I’m going with the “I’m only doing this press conference because it’s in my contract” face. I think I’m getting the hang of it.
It’s an all in sort of weekend. One winner, one loser. Dan’s last play with the orchestra. Young Richie in his fourth Coupe, and playing like he’ll notch another four. The Smith Brothers getting their swing thing going. Lurch doing the Monster Mash. Ma’a jiving the reggae.
Just hoping that Nigel the Welsh Conductor isn’t reading any of the chooks’ nonsense about how to twirl the baton, boyo. He’ll be fine if he just goes with his rhythm, and keeps a sharp eye on that Pooper.
Sheila Shag’s got the 56 pairs of grundies sorted, but there’ll be none of the big boy special massage relaxation technique until we’re past the after-party. There’s relaxed, and then there’s exhausted, and at the moment I reckon I’m finely balanced. Don’t know whether I’m looking forward to the Big Day or wishing it never arrives.
Crikey, she’ll be a party. Or a wake. Either way, there’ll be a fair few Maketu Steak and Onion washed down with some of the local’s extra best amber medicine.
Cripes, got to go. Wyatt’s done his groin again. Wish he’d leave it alone.
Yours in anxious