First published November 20, 2013 by  

Enemy Number One Kevin Pietersen having another whinge – is it any bloody wonder that he became a Victorian and a Pom? Send him to Noosa where he belongs.

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What sort of f*****t knocks back a free medium-rare eye fillet with mushroom sauce and coleslaw and a jacket potato packed full of bacon and sour cream washed down with a few schooners off the wood at the Brekky Creek?

Perhaps a reformed alcoholic like Archie, forced by genetics to take his steak with a soda water and lime (real limes please and plenty of ice). Or maybe his mate Damo, who’s watching his weight and opts to meet the calorie count by doubling the number of schooners and eating a grilled barramundi instead?

Their date Laura Geitz is captain of the Diamonds and a married woman who loves her country and, sadly for the boys, her husband so she’s entitled to choose a Caesar salad and stay off the turps and drink mineral water, but at least she’s there in the Spanish Garden and wouldn’t miss an afternoon at the Creek for quids.

But it’s a sad indictment on the current Australian bowling attack that Kevin Pietersen, the boorish Boer who shat upon the nation of his birth because he couldn’t make it as one of the white seven of the Protea’s eleven, can bowl into town and knock back an invite to the Brekky then tell us that BrisVegas is boring.

Boring? You’ve got to be f*****g kidding.

Is Miranda Kerr boring? Orlando Bloom didn’t think so, neither does Nicole Kidman ‘cos hubby Keith’s a Brissy boy. And given that Geoffrey Rush has won a few acting awards Hollywood reckons we’re not too sluggish, and the boys from Savage Garden had a few top ten hits too so our singing’s not so shabby either. Certainly The Veronica’s don’t seem to think so, and The Saints, Regurgitator and Powderfinger appear to agree.

Cathy Freeman’s training may have been boring prior to winning the 400m Olympic Gold, and Stephanie Rice probably thought the black line at the bottom of her Brissie pool was crap until she won three gold medals, and we’re sure Rocket Rod Laver found 10,000 forehands a day at the old Milton courts excruciating until he became the first bloke to win the Grand Slam. But Alan Jones and John Eales weren’t particularly bored when they won Grand Slams and World Cups were they KP?

And Kev – why is it that so many s*******e rats are named Kev – we’re sorry that our man Kingsford-Smith didn’t stop at Pietermaritzburg to say g’day en-route to making the first Trans-Pacific flight, but it was a bit out-of-the-way and when he asked himself the question “Pieterermaritzburg –  Where the Bloody Hell are Ya?” and couldn’t answer it, well he just kept on flying.

And Charlie’s question is one that you probably won’t be able to answer yourself, because you bolted from the joint when you realised that cricketing greats like Victor Mpitsang (who?) were going to keep you out of the local side. But those of us who like the idea of a fair go, and remember the great Breaker Morant, know that it was your mob who kicked Mahatma Gandhi off the train because of the colour of his skin, thus setting in train the events that ended British rule in India and ultimately led to the death of apartheid at home. Bad luck that hey?

But you can’t have these coloured buggers keeping you out of the side can you mate? I mean for f***’s sake you Saffers survived 100 years without a brown face on the oval (except the lunch boy and the bloke who cleaned the dunnies) so why did you need to start now? Since that bloody Mandela ripped the pass cards up and let them sit in the front of the bus things have gone from bad to worse, but haven’t they ever watched a test match (probably not because you didn’t play them for thirty years) – the Proteas wear white not black, because it’s a white man’s game up in Natal.  Which of is course of why you legged it to over to England and are now the most hated man in the British Isles.

But don’t worry KP that’s nothing compared to how we feel about you here in the land of Can Do. You’re just bloody lucky mate that Lillee and Thommo aren’t bowling at you on Thursday, because then you’d be bloody bored. With holes right through you. They’d knock your big head from your shoulders and Thommo, who loves Brisbane, would be putting them at your guts all day and then we’d see how smart you are bigmouth.

We suppose you think it’s safe to mouth off because our bowling was rubbish over there in the damp, dreary dull as dishwater land of Prince Charles and other exciting coves like Geoff Boycott, but mate you don’t shit in an eagle’s nest and expect to get the better of it. Mitch Johnson ain’t too happy with you brother, and they reckon he’s been throwing them down like fireballs in the Gabba nets every time he thinks of you. And we’ve just been foxing about Watto, he’ll be bowling – straight at your head.

So make sure you wear the kevlar Kev ‘cos our boys are gunning for you.