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While you were asleep: Sydney takes lesson from heatwave, Donald moves fictional event, Kyrgios wins title

The first workday of the year. The horror. Overnight, we saw the laurels of victory planted on the sweaty shoulders of Sydney, Donald go the full Donald and Nick Kyrgios play against type.



Sydney survives the hottest day on record, adds meta-layer of smug.

Yesterday, Sydneysiders had the World’s Hottest Day tattooed into our memories (and also our derma), and it seems that we should take something from the experience. After all, 47.1 degrees in Penrith is certainly nothing to sniff at (I have allergies), but this morning, when the weather has decided to not be difficult, I feel the lesson is obvious.



For those who didn’t let me finish, and planted ‘global warming’, you are incorrect. See me after class, lets all point and laugh and them, students. Har-de-ha-ha. No. I feel the true merit of yesterday is the 78 years of history it erased. It is important, as every golden sweltering day your elder relatives can barely remember beyond it being far hotter than today, sport, is now irrelevant. We won. We took that mantle, the bragging rights are ours.

Stop crying, Uncle Clem. You’ve still got the memory of that time it unexpectedly snowed near the beach in 1956.

…over to you, 2018.



Donald Trump’s fake ceremony suffers from booking issues.

The slip into the unreal, as Baudrillard planted, is real. The writhing sea of stupidity that is the Trump administration is deep enough to drown in. However, the jewel in the Donald’s homemade crown is his ‘Fake News Awards’ a ceremony that showcases the best of hack job journalism against him. It is also fake.


Which might be the reason why the date keeps changing. Must be hard to lock down a real-world venue for a fictional evening. Moreover, this follows the route of the thoughts of longhair David Foster Wallace, who complained that irony was ruining our culture, primarily because it has no merit. Essentially, we use it to sound smart, but it’s making us stupid, as we claw the highest branch of snark, instead of planting our own tree.

Subtext: Donald, shush now.

Double subtext: Do you need a presenter?



Nick Kyrgios bags first win on Australian soil, same old criticism.

Oh, Nick Kyrgios you beautiful hot mess. Overnight one of the prodigal twins of Australian tennis did something rather unexpected. They won a tournament on home soil, with Tricky Nick scoffing the entree to the Australian Open, the Brisbane International, dismantling generic Seppo gentleman Ryan Harrison 6-4, 6-2.



Which presents a problem. One that affects all of us as a nation. You see, ordinarily when people disappoint us consistently and do so as an introduction, the concrete sets, and the wool of the black sheep grows ever curlier. From there, all future successes are measured against the length of the coat. Or, put simply, against that disappointment. This usually takes the form of a ‘but’ at the end of a sentence, or a dredging up of the original sin.

For example, Kyrgios won, but:



Even if Isobel came from a place of humour, or obvious fact, fair enough. But, even bombing into the local Lourdes, a major win, will probably not totally absolve St. Nicholas of his sins. To some, he’ll always be what he started as.

That being said, I personally hope that Kyrgios continues to step to his own complicated beat. He’s our own Kanye West, and that matters. Why? Tennis is often a desert, totally devoid of signs of life.

What? Paul Bettany is the most entertaining tennis player I’ve ever watched.

And he’s bloody awful.






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