#110 – ADHD

22 03 2010

The bogan’s desire for glory manifests itself in many different ways. There’s the uninformed gambling, the process of getting huge, the killing of things, and so much more. All of this glory-hunting takes up significant slices of the bogan’s time, so the bogan is prone to taking shortcuts on other things to ensure that it can fit in the viewing of a Twenty/Twenty cricket game before going to the pub to watch a cover band butcher “Sex on Fire”. One of the things that regularly get short-changed by the bogan is the adequate raising of its children.

Due to neglect, a massive can for breakfast each day, and impulsive and anti-intellectual parental role models, the bogan’s children are quite likely to behave like uncontrollable morons. While the bogan parent is always eager to acquire cheap glory, it is vehemently unwilling to accept responsibility for the conduct of bogan junior, despite little Bilynda and Maxxx busily setting fire to the upholstery in the formal dining area. Using the same mental shortcut that caused it to decide that it had a gluten allergy, the bogan will loudly and arbitrarily declare that its recalcitrant offspring has ADHD. At this point, the bogan parent feels relieved and reassured that none of this mess is its fault.

The calmness and relief is shortlived, however, because parent-teacher interviews are very stressful for the bogan parent. Faced with professionally trained opinions on its child’s behaviour, rage surges through the bogan’s veins like fuel through a jet ski. It decides that because bogan junior can do no wrong, the teacher needs to be taken down a peg or two, in the process gaining much-needed exposure to the bogan’s “real world”. The teacher rudely suggests that the child might not have ADHD, and could perhaps benefit from better guidance and support. The teacher also suggests getting a medical opinion on the alleged ADHD, which is interpreted by the bogan parent as a statement of doubt that the bogan might not be a medical expert. This is unacceptable to the bogan.  Amidst the screeching, the finger pointing, the feigned shock, and the threats of retribution, the bogan parent will variously assign blame to the other students, other parents, the teacher, or the fundamental concept of education. It will eventually storm out, vowing to itself that it will craft its child even more closely in its own image.

At a subsequent BBQ, the bogan will proudly regale all attending about the time they stuck it up the Headmaster. It will describe in vivid detail every unreasonable conclusion and every pathetic excuse that justified their spawn interrupting and assaulting 30 other innocent children stupidly focused on obtaining an education.

#83 – Twenty/Twenty Cricket

11 02 2010

The bowler turns on his heel as he approaches the top of his run, tosses the ball from hand to hand, steam very nearly bursting out of his nostrils, given the furious energy he has built up leading into this moment. Gradually, he begins his run, first at an amble, then a run, before hitting the crease at an Olympian sprint, simultaneously throwing his arm over his shoulder and releasing his small leather projectile at his nemesis at nigh-on 100 miles an hour. The die is cast, the first delivery bowled in anger of what will hopefully be an epic contest.

The batsman, in a split second, sizes up the speed, trajectory, movement and bounce of the ball. Instantly, he assesses the placings of the fielders, the chances of success. He’s facing a great bowler with a head full of steam, and he’s yet to find his rhythm. He steps forward, raises his left elbow, presents a straight bat, and sends the ball safely back to the other end of the pitch. Game on.

Then, from the crowd, emerges “Fucking hit the thing you lazy cunt! It’s twenty twenty!”

Welcome to Twenty/Twenty (or in the bogan-abbreviated, text-speak vernacular, T/20) cricket. Cricket, thirty years ago, was abridged for the nascent bogan into World Series Cricket – taking the traditional 5-day, 450-over epics and trimming them down to a neat 100 so that they could all be bowled in time for bed. Colourful clothes and night games were the norm, and bogans embraced the x-treme spectacle of cricket for the attention-deficient.

However, as is always the bogan way, turning a five-day sporting event into an eight-hour sporting event was not enough. Thus, from the depths of the mother country, T/20 was born. Cutting back like a newspaper editor who just saw his daughter reading TMZ, cricket was whittled away to a positively skeletal 40 overs, creating the ability to finish a match in three hours.

Of course, x-treme brevity was not sufficient to mollify the bogans’ impatience for sixes and fours. Cricket geniuses incorporated ‘power plays’ from one-day cricket, because clearly the bogan enjoys power of any sort, its total lack of awareness of what power plays are or their effect notwithstanding.

The boundaries were moved even closer to the batsmen, almost guaranteeing that if they closed their eyes and connected, said fours and sixes would ensue. And naturally, when these inevitable fours and sixes are scored, the bogan masses, clad as they are in flag-capes and cheap knock-offs of the Australian uniform, can celebrate. Celebrate along with fireworks. Fireworks that are effectively large stoves, spewing forth flame, allowing one household’s annual natural gas consumption to be spent igniting flame bursts on the sidelines. Meanwhile, over the loudspeakers, ‘Who Let the Dogs Out’ pumps, elevating the bogan to a new level of patriotic hysteria. Meanwhile, at the pub among those already kicked out, a bogan glasses some cunt.