Wanda’s a great cook, but some things I see on television make me spit with disgust.
My best mate Geoffrey remains in an aged care facility where he’ll probably stay for the next 10 years, sipping custard and chewing jelly for his remaining days.
I was visiting the poor fellow and together we watched the Matildas.
At one point, Geoffrey called a forward pass.
I wasn’t sure whether he was talking about the football or the wind he’d sent through the room.
He blamed the custard he’d eaten not five minutes before, but those sorts of smells take much longer to mature.
Regardless, here we were getting rather excited by a nil-all draw.
And on the screen they show a picture of our prime minister.
That’s nice, we agreed. Albo’s taking an interest in women’s sport alongside the rest of the nation he leads.
The drama unfolds, Courtnee Vine slots the winning penalty, I do a little jig, and Geoffrey reaches for his grape juice which I send flying into his lap after an ill-timed slap on the back.
As I’m cleaning residue from Geoffrey’s arm, there’s bloody Albo again.
This time he’s on the field with his arms in the air like he’s coached the Matildas to their finest victory.
Sure, a fine victory. But the spin doctors have clutched at a few straws, and poor old Albo now has a public relations disaster to deal with because some buffoon thought it was a good idea to push him in front of the cameras to steal some of the limelight.
We’ve learned over the years that politicians can make great sporting ambassadors, like the day in 1983 when Bob Hawke told an adoring public their boss would be a bum if they sacked absent employees.
The glowing endorsement for drinking at 8am endeared our leader even more to the working class who were already in awe of his 11-second yard glass skol at Oxford.
Albo however, is no Bob Hawke and when standing on the field looked about as awkward as John Howard bowling a cricket ball.
It is the job of the political spin doctors to capitalise on moments which make the voting public feel good, and thereby creates a connection – a time in their life they’ll associate with happiness, and, er, Albo.
I see on Sunday other politicians couldn’t resist their opportunistic moment, greeting the Matildas at a civic ceremony in Brisbane.
There were more elected representatives on stage than there were Matildas.
Then one decides it’s a great time to announce that there were a few million dollars set aside in the budget to help grow and foster women’s sport.
So, at an event designed to give people a chance to say thank you to their heroes who’d made them smile and laugh and cheer over the past three weeks, we see a crusty numbers cruncher make it seem like the Matildas had made them dig deeper into their pockets to help future stars of female sport.
That’s the point I spat my brunch onto the table.
You see, the money had already been allocated in a budget paper nobody bothered to read. So a spin doctor decided that now would be a great time to remind everyone that governments actually spend money on this stuff.
It’s shallow and it makes me sick. It’s distasteful, and takes us all for fools.
Let the girls have their moment. Don’t make them sit through political point scoring between waves to the crowd.
Hey Wanda, have we got any more bread. I lost my toast.
