Lost in the jungle

Speaking of trolls, Mike Whitney has taken up residence in my neighbour's letterbox.

It's a bit spooky, and every time I open the front door, it's like he's telling me to weed the goddamn front lawn and write some Batsy. I know I shouldn't pander to trolls, but he's probably right.

It's been a big winter. I got Foxtel and an enormous flat-screen TV, just in time for a dismal one-day series against England. I think HD is made for sport - the hyper-reality makes everything look oddly fake in drama - but it doesn't do the sportsman's complexion any favours. In this photoshopped world, it's a long time since I saw a famous person's pores, but there's nowhere to hide when they put up the profile shots. I guess no one is supposed to care about that, except for George, and who cares about him any more? Seeing baseball on Foxtel has also confirmed my love of the Buddha Warrior type. I look forward to seeing these well-calibrated folk at the SCG.

In the T20, Watson continued to exasperate with his usefulness. Great final. Pat Cummins looks like a young Glenn McGrath, but also a lady who used to be in animated advertisement for hayfever medication. Her head would swell up until she was all nose and eyelashes, and Pat nails that look. I know, a sad reference without pictures, I searched to no avail.

Easy Tiger

I don't often read the Sports pages, but I'm a bit sorry about that now, because something excellent dropped out of them this morning, lurking in the Shaver Shop catalogue. The trouble people have to go to just because there isn't a masculine equivalent for "bikini line".