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While you were asleep: The English Empire flies again, New South Wales wins, a heavily salted fifteen minutes of fame

Well, Monday. It’s a thing. Overnight, England dared to dream, New South Wales actually won and one notable out-of-touch Turk voted for another. 

 

 

England bests tiny country, received as a victory on par with Wellington.

Citizens of the world know but one thing. There is nothing more grating than a cocksure Brit. To be fair, confidence to the English is as nip is to cats. They can’t really handle it, and thus, the plot is thoroughly lost, and the guttural sounds of Zombie Nation are heard above the nation they’re assaulting with their vivacity. The English have no stomach for it. Their empire was one build on nervous toffery, afternoon tea and ribald cynicism. It wasn’t built on success.

This morning, you’ll cross paths with the cavernous mouth and the radiant faces of the English you know, and while their elbows might be directed into your ribs, and their barbs lash across the back of our Socceroos, know that deep down they expect monumental failure. Yes, they might have been Panama 6-1, a scar across the landscape not seen since they started digging the ‘canal, but history is against them.

 

 

It’s best you remind them of it.

19861996. 1998. 2002. 2010. 2016.

 

 

New South Wales reverses the curse, enables something more horrific upon the populae.

While we’re on the topic of sport versus history, last night New South Wales did something they haven’t been able to do in the lifespan of a cat, beating Queensland at the game of short-shorted physical abuse. The headline type scrawled across the breakfasts of both metropolitan landscapes states that the wait is over.

Which is disappointing. A team that hadn’t won in a decade is something very special. It was loss that defined us. It was the hope that killed us. We were birthed through crisis, through disappointment. We lost, because of course we did.

 

 

However, this morning, we’re winners and winners are grinners, and because we won, we can now cut Queensland away from the Commonwealth and cast it into the sea. But, as we chant New! South! Wales! ad nauseam, know that deep inside we’re actually blue. Not for the colour of our shirts, but the tint of our hearts.

We’re winners, and I don’t like it.

 

Turkey apes 2016, bringing back Erdogan and Salt Bae for another term.

As every doctor/your mum says, too much salt in your diet is not good for you. They also say that you should stay in school, you know, just in case your boyish fling at being famous dosen’t work out.

Nusret Gökçe has decided to ignore them both. The man colloquially more familiar as the ‘Salt Bae’ has returned to our frontal lobes with the same old tired bullshit. Yeah, salt. We get it.

 

 

Strangely, this is the second election in a row that he’s done this. Which tells us something pressing. He’s started to take his fame seriously, which means he’s less likely to do what we all want. The desperate last clutch at fame through naked photographs.

Less clothes, bae. Not more.

Also, less Erdogan. Not more.

 

 

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