David Gazard, WAGs, cricket and the end of western civilization as we know it

I remember when I played cricket, it was up at 4 am, down in coalmine to dig day's tonnage, then off thru professional gate under noon day sun to hit a ton, then after victory sing team song, then off to pub to down ton of beers, then back to mine for little overtime. By time that was done, another ton or so in shovel, it was 4 am and day started all over again. Tons of fun.

And your wife or girlfriend?

Get out of it, had nowt need of WAGs. Bloody wymn, ton of 'em around but endless useless distraction in man's world of thwack of willow on leathery balls. Though come to think of it, some lads did like thwack of leather on balls.

You will of course recall Dr. Johnson's wise words on woman preachers:

"Sir, a woman's preaching is like a dog's walking on his hind legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all."

Now apply that to women playing cricket and you'll see the state of the game. Now imagine something even worse. The absolute horror of wives and girlfriends turning up to watch a game of cricket being played by their menfolk. WAGs they've come to be called by all and sundry, shorthand for women against games.

Oh no, I sense a gigantic earthquake, a huge rumbling, pillars collapsing, vast shrines being torn apart, huge tsunamis raging across oceans, god screaming in horror in his remote eerie. Say it ain't so, for the love of everything decent and pure and village green, tell the world it ain't happening.

But it is, and who better to tell us of this disaster, this unnatural catastrophe, than David Gazard in WAGS aren't about team happiness, but marketing.

Now as all you lads know, leaving the trouble and strife at home while going down pub wit lads is the surest way to marital happiness, and by far the best way to win at cricket is to make sure the women are in another continent.

You see, the problem with the WAGs is that, sadly, they're more interesting than the cricket or the cricketers - well at least to the media. And their presence certainly doesn't help the lads in their bid to thwack the English around:

Had they not been there, it’s quite probable we would have gone down to county side Northamptonshire because we’ve all been assured by Cricket Australia that the boys play better if the WAGs are in attendance.

Seeing as we have managed to win just one of the seven tour games so far, I tremor at the thought of what would have happened if CA hadn’t had the foresight to support the significant others/B-grade celebrities and female wannabes to stay with the cricketers for the first part of the Ashes.

Not to mention the sluts and the groupies. Bloody wymn, can't live with them, and can't play cricket without 'em and can't play cricket with 'em.

Because you see Mr. Gazard's thesis, adumbrated at great and tedious length, is that the women on tour in England with the decent Aussie lads are just there to generate press headlines (not that he has any problem with wives and girlfriends and families spending time with their partners, oh no no no, he just has problems with wives girlfriends and families turning up at the cricket).

The Australians have struggled for coverage in recent years and fielding an underwhelming side for this tour was bound to lead to the need to generate interest. At times, during the last tours to the subcontinent, you had to look hard to find match reports in the back pages of the papers.

You can almost see the smart, young marketing executive at CA telling anyone who’d listen that linking celebrity with cricket would fire up the ratings.

Cue fashionistas for instant pictures and fire up a catfight between a player’s mother and attractive girlfriend. Bingo, instant coverage.

Cue Gazard rant about Paris Hilton as a role model, stars leaking sex tapes, actors indulging in bad behavior, and men going shopping:

So it stands to reason that I’m not really going to be greatly interested in recent coverage of Michael Clarke and Shane Watson carrying the shopping bags for their girlfriends in London.

Carrying shopping bags? Oh no, say it ain't so. Metro lads in London carrying bags for girlies like a bunch of girlies. What are they? Pussy whipped? What kind of behavior is this? Could it smack of - gasp - bizarre and immoral behavior, a rough equivalent of looking at a Paris Hilton sex tape?

I recognise that boosted coverage doesn’t necessarily mean that the greater numbers of readers endorse celebrity activity; they often just enjoy looking at their bizarre and immoral behaviour or looking at the pics of the latest fashions. Put simply, reading about the freak show doesn’t mean readers are about to follow the freaks.

Oh thank the dear lord. Men have been saved from carrying shopping bags. Such bloody bizarre and immoral behavior. That's just too extreme a fate for any man, whether cricketer or commentariat columnist.

But wait, there's still more rant in Mr. Gazard, and it must come out with the explosive force of a volcano finally unplugged. Because he can remember the good old days when a man was a man, and a woman stayed in the kitchen making the tea and scones, and bugger me dead, there wasn't a picture of a woman to be found anywhere, just the smooth thwacking sound as a man with willow drove a leathery ball to the boundary:

I might come across as an old codger at age 45, but I remember the good old days when we didn’t need Lara Bingle to drive an interest in the cricket. And we certainly didn’t need to stir a family fight to get the promotion on track.

I remember Steve Waugh demonstrating toughness and resilience with a double ton at Sabina Park, leading Australia to victory with its first series win in the West Indies for decades.

I remember in 1989 watching Mark Taylor and Geoff Marsh bat all day at Trent Bridge, racking up 0- 301 as the Aussies destroyed the Poms 4-0 in that series.

I just enjoyed watching them do it and I didn’t need pictures of Lara Bingle sending texts to her agent about her next fashion shoot to inspire me to watch it.

Sob. Those were the days when a man was a man and the women carried the shopping bags, while the man had a quick few schooners in the pub.

But who, you might ask - as I confess I had to - is this Lara Bingle who texts and plans fashion shoots while watching the cricket -  and makes men carry shopping bags? Well it seems the sweet thing is engaged to be married to cricket vice captain Michael Clarke, he who is the designated bag carrier for the aforesaid Bingle (where' s the twelfth man or woman when you need them?)

Now you might think that it quite reasonable that Clarke and Bingle get together, and do what they like together. You know, there's no law against a man and a woman forming a relationship and having a fuck or even getting hitched if that's their desire. And while on tour Bingle seems like a fair companion even if she has the looks of a model, and I gnash my teeth while she texts her next fashion shoot.

But it outrages Gazard in a most perplexing way. Somehow it's the fault of Cricket Australia that the couple are an item and on tour together, and worse that CA authorities seem quite content that Clarke is involved with a glam item, and are quite happy to see her on tour with him. And even milk it for a bit of publicity!

Don't they know that women should be kept in a cupboard, or have their head in a paper bag, and only be brought out at night once the lights have been switched off? Otherwise we are facing the imminent collapse of western civilization into a Paris Hilton inspired orgy of loose sexual anarchy.

Cue the outrage:

Maybe Lara Bingle and Jessica Bratich might get a few extra eyeballs across the CA website, but the organisation’s willingness to attach itself to the whole celebrity saga seems to me to be an admission that the team can’t attract viewers on talent alone.

Who wins? No doubt pandering to an obsession with celebrity might generate a few extra dollars, but ultimately in this moral race to the bottom, no-one.

Jessica Bratich you ask? Well she's the hot girlfriend of flailing, failing fast bowler Mitchell Johnson, who is possibly spending too much time bowling in a wayward fashion down the leg side when he should be aiming for the bat. But now you know she's just another celebrity panderer involved in the muck heap race to the moral bottom.

Jeez, I never thought a little tits and arse would so threaten a man, but there you go. Perhaps there's room in the priesthood for Gazard? 

Bratich has even turned up in Ralph's babes section, but I'm wanting John Cleese to change his mind and do another set of Fawlty Towers. 

By golly, if David Gazard doesn't get the role of the harumphing major, there's no natural justice in the world.

And seeing as how it offends him so, we thought we'd run a few pictures of scorchingly hot babes Bratich and Bingle. Hey Australia's losing the cricket, so why not have fun with a bit of babe watching on a Friday.

Now lads if you feel a stirring in the loins, you have two choices. Reach for the computer and compose a Gazard style rant about how wymn are ruining cricket and the world and your mental stability, or bow your heads and recite with me this holy writ, our ever so favorite bestest poem we love to revive every so often, courtesy of Sir Henry Newbolt, entitled Vitai Lampada:

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night --
Ten to make and the match to win --
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red, --
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; --
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks,
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

This is the word that year by year
While in her place the School is set
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind --
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

For the love of the lord, put down those shopping bags, you pussies, and thwack that leather. And if you don't know how, let David Gazard show you the way.

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night --
Ten to make and the match to win --
A bumping pitch and blinding tits,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a bikini'd girl,
Or the selfish hope of a season's sex,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! play up! and carry those shopping bags!"

(Below: we believe these are snaps of Jessica Bratich).