Ugh, my head. While you weren’t present, Tim Cahill revealed our footballing entitlement, Seth Rogen’s mum hunted him on Twitter, and Donald Trump still can’t let the moron thing go. A rose by any other name, right?



Cahill’s brace shatters Syrian dreams, Australian assumptions.

Something struck me last night as I endured cardiac torture watching the Socceroos scrape past Syria, once again aided and abetted by the almost religious figure of Tim Cahill’s forehead: We, as a footballing nation, are entitled. As the camera panned across glum nervous faces from minute 54 onwards, the general vibe felt was that we really shouldn’t be actually playing a proper game against Syria. We all wondered in four-letter words how we found ourselves here. I daresay that we’ve become used to the grass-fed, organically produced silverside of liquid football, so much so, that as soon as Ange brought home a different kind of cut, we lose our minds.



But, while we lust for that better meat, we should embrace the truth instead of assuming the fiction. The truth is that we’re not very good. The reason why we’re still travelling on that meandering road, taking in the vista of not-so-picturesque Asian backwaters is that we deserve that much. We haven’t qualified, because we haven’t deserved to qualify.

Moreover, I believe the location of last night’s game is also to blame. Back in 2005, we bested Uruguay in the same building to the grandest method possible. It was a penalty shootout win that eliminated 40 years of angst. It was drama upon drama. I feel everyone has gleefully popped the lid off the footballing Prozac ever since, but using more pills to distract themselves from the point that the high is duller. Since out zenith of being cheated out of a World Cup Quarter Final by a brittle Italian, we’ve progressively regressed. In 2010, we failed to escape the group by goal difference, in 2014 we failed to take a point; in 2017, we face risky holiday destinations. The reason why we now face Panama or Honduras is because they’re on our level. We’ve now become the weakest team in the group. The team people hope to draw.

What we have here is a failure to communicate, with ourselves. Because we missed out for so long, we’ve missed the formative lessons. We’re not always going to be good. Things fall apart, not with a bang, but rather a series of muted misplaced balls.


We need to address the future, for, very soon the grandfather of our football, the one who holds the family together is going to be gone. Consider Tim’s brace last night as one of the last times he’ll be lucid. We need to start thinking about selling the family home of footballing idealism that we’ve all lived in since.



Seth Rogen’s mum takes to Twitter to find Seth, Twitter responds. For some reason.

Well, it’s officially official. The snake has finally eaten itself. Social media has now officially devolved to a maternal yell over the fence. Is Seth over there? Overnight, Seth Rogen, which you might know from the thousand identical roles as the grubby weird protagonist who has a weird job and no prospects in every Hollywood comedy, has gone missing.



Well, not missing. But his mum doesn’t know where he is. I suppose, yes, I’ll look rather foolish/hateful if he turns up dead in a ditch, but until then, yay, levity.

However, the points that must be made must be made thusly. Seth’s mum asked where Seth is, and garnered a response that I’ll never reach, bar me going the full Paddock. And that certainly is not happening. I’m a nothing but a humble news algorithm. Unless the whole Skynet thing happens. But, I’m fairly certain the first thing we hit will be Twitter. We news bots have already taken over your precious retweets.

Send bobs before we send bombs.


Donald’s moronic grudge slips into day four, nation turns its weary eyes to you/away from him.

Yesterday, we spoke of the Donald’s ability to hold a pointless grudge and drag everyone’s IQ down in the process. One day later, and the whole thing has got a bit meta, as this happened:


Which, and I feel like I can safely comment on this, but this sounds like classic juvenile male behaviour. I’ve seen it, because I’ve been it. It takes many identical forms. Who can urinate the highest up a wall, who can smoke one’s wheels the longest, or indeed who possesses the most impressive todger. Much like those who propose the above acts, I’m willing to surmise that Donald chose the IQ test as a means of alpha-ing his greatest fear. I’m not scared of looking stupid, so I’ll publically prove that I’m not. See! Anyone who was scared of being outed as a moron wouldn’t publically call for an IQ test. Guys?



The Top 5 Tweets from Overnight






Share via