Sunday, December 30, 2012

Big Bash League



I love cricket. I come from a long line of cricket-lovers and married into a line of cricket tragics.

I had a relative who was part of an Ashes tour in England under the great Sir Donald Bradman, although as the reserve wicket-keeper, he didn't get to play a Test. I had an in-law who umpired Sheffield Shield matches and practically lived for the game.  My Son gained entry to his high school through a specialist cricket program. My Husband played every summer until I got sick of washing his whites. I even worked with a guy who won the Bradman Medal (okay, I admit that's a tenuous connection).

I watch cricket when it's on TV. I've seen every form of the game - from Tests, One-Dayers and Twenty20 to schoolkids, district and local turf cricket - and am equally happy with any of them. Well, mostly. Okay, sometimes I read a book instead. But I cry whenever an Aussie batsman makes a century. I cry when a favourite retires (I may have sobbed for days when Steve Waugh packed away the baggy green, but maybe that's because I wasn't as keen on Ricky Ponting). I cried when South Australia won the Sheffield Shield. I cry when one of the greats passes away (especially Hookesy).

So when someone from the South Australian Cricket Association calls, I listen.

Would I like to come to all of the Adelaide Strikers home games at Adelaide Oval (the most beautiful cricket oval in the world, some say) during the Twenty20 Big Bash League season as a sort of social media ambassador, get media accreditation, access all areas, sit in the air-conditioned press box (now AKA Twitterpit), help myself to food and drinks, wear a Strikers shirt, and tweet about the game, the atmosphere, the crowds, whatever I want??

Hell. Yes.

Actually, wait. It was more of a HELL. YES.

Unfortunately, thanks to a horrible virus which knocked me for six for a couple of weeks, I missed the first home game, but have made the most of my opportunity since then.

Sunday, December 23rd, 42 degrees Celsius
Adelaide Strikers v Sydney Sixers
A win for the Strikers

I thought I was going to faint just on the way to the game thanks to the heat, but stayed conscious by repeating the mantra "air-conditioned press box, air-conditioned press box..."

The crowds are greeted at the gates by these clever stilt-walkers at
every home game. If I felt hot, imagine how much they were sweltering
under their costumes and make-up..... Bravo.
Lots of freebies were given out at the gates, including wigs,
sweatbands and inflatable thunder sticks.  I must add that I
love our team colours, they really stand out in the crowd.

My view from the press box
The Adelaide Strikers warming up before the game. Really, they could
have just stood there, it was still 42 degrees.

By the way, you may notice that more than half of Adelaide Oval is under construction at the moment, severely limiting crowd numbers, but I'm sure once the oval is fully open for business again, the crowds will be at capacity. If you build it, they will come.

Part of the crowd in front of the old heritage-listed scoreboard

As darkness encroached and a cool change swept across the oval (it
dropped down to 39.8 degrees C), the lights took over
It was such a hot night, I kept saying that I didn't really want to eat
anything except maybe some cold, fresh fruit. If you wish it,
it will come.
The Members' hospitality area

Husband asked "Are you going to come up to the Members' Stand to sit with us for a while?"
Me "Air-conditioned press box..."

Kristy and Henry, a couple of my companions in the Twitterpit
Yes, I even watched the game, which we won

Thursday December 27th, a much more pleasant 26 degrees Celsius
Adelaide Strikers v Melbourne Stars
A very close loss

I was devastated that one of the biggest drawcards for the Stars, Shane Warne, had chosen to skip the country and be with his fiancee Liz Hurley instead of playing this game. I had all my best Botox and hair transplant jokes ready to tweet. Shattered, I'm telling you.

My shirt and my pass, ready to rocknroll
My view again. I think I even sat in the same chair.
Some of the early action, as the Stars got off to a cracking start
Was great to see lots of bums on seats up in the Members' Stand
The press box, AKA the Twitterpit
Happy tweeter. Two of my tweets appeared on the
 big screen at the oval. Oh, and they gave us
another fruit platter.
Even cranes and construction work look beautiful at Adelaide Oval
under lights and a pink and purple sky
The moon on a stick...no, it's just a light tower
The Twitterpit got tense as the game got tight.
Kristy still managed a grin.
Sadly, we had a loss, but the boys were still rocking their
 blue afros on the way home

Kieron 'Polly' Pollard
I could go on and on about all the funny, interesting and exciting things that happened, and that was only out in the carpark, but words won't quite capture the atmosphere. There is something for everyone, of every age, from Smash the dancing mascot, a mechanical bull, fireworks and music, to brilliant, fast-paced cricketing action and some of the biggest hits you'll ever see (especially when the bat is in the hands of Strikers player, Kieron Pollard). A rousing rendition of the great Aussie anthem "More Beer, More Beer, More Beer..." gets the crowd going, and there is nothing quite like looking down at the grassed area when a certain song blasts out of the speakers, to see almost every child in the crowd going Gangnam Style. Hilarious.


And if you haven't seen the two cricketers who were momentarily deafened and almost crapped themselves when fireworks went off near them, check out the video.




As somebody tweeted, "If you can't beat em, kill em with fireworks".

Our next home game is on January 10th against the Perth Scorchers, and I'll be there again, tweeting and cheering. If you're in Adelaide, get there! If you're not in Adelaide but have Foxtel, watch it!
If you're not in Adelaide and don't have Foxtel but have Twitter, follow my tweets! (all with #BBL02 and #strikeforce hashtags)
If you're not in Adelaide and don't have Foxtel and don't have Twitter.... sigh. Poor you.

And if you're American, you have probably not understood a word about this cricket stuff....

GO STRIKERS!




Thanks to Jenny from SACA and Michelle, my favourite social media consultant

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

It's beginning to look a lot like... my Christmas tree is on fire

No real flames, just a strange unintentional blurry light effect











Merry Christmas, everybody. Hope you all find some joy in this year's festive season, and begin 2013 with enough love, resilience, stamina, serenity and well-timed sarcasm to see you through another year.


Monday, December 17, 2012

My Apocalypse Bucket List: Part Two


So, you've seen my WHO To Do List, now for Part Two. 

THINGS TO DO - I should get a wriggle on, not many days left.

Get another piercing, only forget the ears and eyebrows this time, choose somewhere... different.

Play a role in a Quentin Tarantino movie. Even if I'm just a dismembered corpse.

Find the exact source of the smell in my Son's room and nuke it.

Hurl Alan Jones, the Kardashians, and all copies of 50 Shades into an abyss as sacrificial offerings.

Put in a swimming pool. Hey, if I'm going up in flames, I'd like to be cool while I'm burning. Umm...

Flick the switch that makes the London Eye go round so fast it flings off into the Thames.

Have the honour of naming William and Catherine's baby. I'm leaning towards Reginald or Kylie.

Get a tattoo of my kids' names in another language. Misspelled, so that it means something rude.

Do a Playboy centrefold. With my clothes on. Just showing my mind. SEXIEST. CENTREFOLD. EVER.

Pass a law enforcing all celebrities to wear underwear so I won't have to see Wardrobe Malfunction headlines in my dying days.

Make sure Eddie McGuire isn't around to host the live broadcast of Countdown To The Apocalypse:Who Wants Be A Zombie?

Slash the tyres of certain cars in our street.

Ignore housework. We all know I'm going to Housebitch Hell anyway.

Walk up and down the Mall, screaming "LEGGINGS ARE NOT PANTS".

Get Jamie Oliver to cook a meal for me, and not one of his 15 minute cheats, but a gourmet feast.

Buy a REAL Jimmy Choo handbag instead of a Hong Kong genuine imitation.

Find a unicorn, because I know they're out there.

Sip some Penfold's Grange and watch the wine connoisseurs' faces when I say "Meh, piss is piss". Again.

Approach every woman wearing gaudy floral-printed jeans and say "You know, if you survive the apocalypse, you'll look back in a few years, see yourself in photos wearing those jeans, and say 'What the fuck was I thinking?' You know that, don't you?"

Track down the first person who thought playing The Chicken Dance at a wedding reception was a good idea, and train a thousand mutant chickens to peck him to death.

Get a boob job. BWAHAHAHA. Kidding. My boobs are magnificent.

Get a tummy tuck. Wish I was kidding.

Convince Dumb Dog it is possible to sleep past 7.15am on weekends. Maybe that way we can sleep through the apocalypse.

Read all of the books. Except any biographies by politicians, because bullshit.

Tell that one guy what an arsehole he is. Oh, two guys. Wait, also.... yeah, this could take a while.

Get to the last page of the Internet. That means I win, yes?





I could go on and on and on. 
What's on your silly list?


Monday, December 10, 2012

My Apocalypse Bucket List: Part One




TO DO: in no particular order (except maybe the first four, they're favourites)

George Clooney, high on Nespresso.

Hugh Jackman, after he's shaved.

Ewan McGregor, with The Force.

Daniel Craig, shaken not stirred, bow tie on.

Orlando Bloom, dressed as Legolas.

Kate Winslet. What? I have no problem with being bi-curious if the world's about to end and I have to say she totally does it for me, as far as women go.

Natalie Portman. See above.

Hugh Laurie, not as House but with his natural British accent.

Robert Downey Jnr, in his Ironman suit.

Johnny Depp, as any of his characters. Oh, maybe not Edward Scissorhands. Ouch.

Barack Obama. No explanation necessary.

Prince Harry, but not in Vegas.

Sting, for the 80s.

Tom Hardy, also British. Hmmm.

Any one of the vampires.

Jude Law, as long as he doesn't bring the nanny. Unless the nanny is Kate Winslet.

Joel Madden, sans toothpick.

Jared Leto, unless he has his pink mohawk back. Or his blonded eyebrows. Or no eyebrows. Hmm, maybe he's a little bit weird for me after all.

David Beckham, as long as he doesn't speak. That's one British voice I don't like.

The Australian Men's Hockey team. Okay, maybe not all of them.

Keanu Reeves, because Matrix.

Mark Wahlberg, with his Boogie Nights prosthesis.

Jack Baillieu, especially if he rides up to me on his polo horse.

Eminem, because you've got to lose yourself in the moment. And he'll only get one shot.

Jason Statham. I don't know, maybe it's the British accent again? Clearly, I have issues.

Keith Urban, as long as Nicole doesn't find out. She's tall. I'm scared of her.

Oscar Pistorius, with or without his blades.

Lance Armstrong, without his lycra.

Justin Timberlake, so we can bring sexy back one last time before the zombies get us all.

Some guy I once knew called James. He was British too. I'm not right in the head.

Harry Connick Jnr and Michael Buble. Together. No, not like that, I just want them to croon some smooth songs in the background.






I'm sure I've missed many of my past heart-throbs. 
So, who would you add?
Bear in mind we only have about 11 days left...



Monday, December 3, 2012

The Ghosts Of Christmas Past



Remembering....

The year my young niece ate everything edible in her Santa sack (and probably everyone else's) for breakfast, then had a 30 minute car ride, and started vomiting when she got to our place. Yeah, enjoy your Christmas lunch everybody.

When I was 3, jumping around with excitement so much that I pulled a muscle or something in my neck and appeared in every photo with my head tilted to one side, looking like Rain Man.

That's me, Rain Man, in the middle

The year I woke up and discovered I still wasn't pregnant. For the thirteenth month in a row.

The year I got drunk very quickly and danced like a fool to swing music played on old vinyl records, all while wearing a yellow paper crown. Oh... that was the same year as above.

The time I made, and burned, four enormous pavlovas before managing to turn out three edible ones. That's a total of 42 eggs, people.

When my son was 3 (must be something about that age) and my Husband shut the car door on the poor kid's hand. Happy Howling Christmas to my sister's entire street.

The year I had a beautifully laid out, sit-down lunch for fifteen people in our new family room, which was mid-construction. With only two walls and a roof up but no windows or doors, much of the day was spent praying for no wind. We were lucky.



The day I may have had a few drinks and was photographed on the sofa cuddling a toy koala.

The day I may have had a few drinks and was photographed on the sofa cuddling my niece's new puppies up against my own puppies.

The day I may have had a few drinks and... oh, who am I kidding...

Spot the puppy...

The year I was given a cowboy type dress-up costume, including chaps, silver guns and optional Sherriff's badge. And my family wondered why I was a tomboy.

The time we gave all the kids water pistols, and while one nephew spent a great deal of time leaning over our back fence shooting the neighbour's chooks, I spent a great deal of time ambushing my sister-in-law.

The year we all wore the stoopidest shiny crowns ever.

I think I am either waving, or saying "I need FIVE MORE DRINKS to
keep this crown on".

The year we had a Tropical Holiday themed lunch, including Hawaiian shirts, plastic flower leis, mosquito net tent and flaming bamboo torches. No, I have no idea why.

When my sister finally gave up on her 70s style Fluffy Ducks, Blue Lagoons and Banana Daiquiris, and made Midori & Lemonade her Christmas Drink of choice. I don't think she has seen her blender since that day.

The year Santa gave Son a Big Dipper tipper truck and track set. The truck made it's way around the construction site track, picking up a handful of small black plastic balls and depositing them elsewhere. My Son decided to deposit one up his nose. I had to buy myself new tweezers as soon as the shops opened after Christmas.

The year I sat on Santa's (my Dad's) lap at a Christmas Party to choose a Kris Kringle present from his sack, and pulled out the gift I had contributed three times in a row. Finally we cheated and looked in the sack so I could get something else.



My first Christmas as a mother. Actually, that's a lie. I don't remember anything, I hadn't slept for the six weeks since Son was born.

The time my mother gave Daughter the ugliest, scariest clown doll any of us had ever seen. It never made it into our house. Somehow it was trapped in the boot of our car for a week and then vanished. There was a reported sighting at a local charity shop, but this was unconfirmed.

The time Daughter was flushed and grumpy because of a urinary tract infection. Multiplied by 6 years.

The time the cat destroyed half the Christmas tree decorations. Multiplied by 17 years.

The time I swore we would go away somewhere by ourselves for next Christmas. Multiplied by 26 years.


                                            *******************************


Now if you'll excuse me I need to go find the decorations which will be destroyed this year by the Pets of Christmas Present....



LinkWithin

Related Posts with Thumbnails