Well that’s how I reckon Marcos Baghdatis was feeling right after he was beaten at the Australian Open. Those in the know say it was a veiled message at his racquet sponsor who is no more. I disagree. He just felt like throwing a tantrum. And you might as well be fined for going hard out. Four racquets is always better than one.

Anyway check out Marcos’ tanty. Sorry about the ad. I had terrible trouble finding the footage. Maybe Marcos threw another stirkey and got it banned. Powerful people those tennis people. The ad’s pretty funny too.

I’m one of those annoyingly chirpy morning walkers. I bounce out of bed, down my three espressos, lace on my shoes and I’m off–all bouncy, smiley for my walk. (I am fully aware that the three espressos may be a contributing factor to my upbeat demeanor).

Afternoon walkers though, they’re a different bunch. Taciturn and grumpy with a jaded air about them. They think nothing of walking two abreast, pushing those going in the other direction onto the dog shit littered grass. They pull their caps down over their face, avoiding eye contact at all costs. This could be due to the fact that they’re having to haul their behinds around on a stinking hot afternoon, after working all day, but I have another theory.

It’s the lack of suitable greeting. Think about it. How do you greet someone in the afternoon? OK, I’m a teacher and I say good afternoon to school children every day, but outside the classroom, good afternoon sounds too formal. Uttered in casual surrounds it sound almost wanky like I think I’m the Queen or something.

G’day just doesn’t cut it, for no matter what the rest of the world says, most Aussie don’t really go around saying g’day all the time, just like the French don’t wear berets every day. Hi seems overly familiar. I’ve tried hello but that almost seems an invite to a conversation so no thanks.

No wonder afternoon walkers are so grumpy. Tired and having to negotiate a social minefield. No wonder I walk in the mornings. Image

This is my Gen X Girl column for this week’s Savvy magazine in the Townsville Bulletin.

Did you see those nasty fashion types dissing tennis queen, Sam Stosur, about her lack of fashion sense? Apparently her post US Open red and white striped dress with matching lippy was criticised by those in the fashion know as being hideous, ugly and even tranny-like. That’s rough.

Well boo sucks to you fashion critics. Samantha can wear a paper bag and parade around New York for all I care. She’s a tennis player—a US Open winner no less, not a fashion plate. And she’s sponsor’s dream for that little red stripey number was by Lacoste, the brand that funds her tennis wear. Smart girl.

Actually who are fashion critics? What job description do you have to fill to be a fashion critic? From what I can gather if you wear designer clothes and mix it with something from Vinnnie’s, you are cutting edge and therefore a fashionista who gets to sit in the front row at fashion shows. A designer bad and a sour look also add to the mix.

I’m guessing the people on cable show Fashion Police can label themselves critics. In that case hosting an entertainment show, being an old comedienne and the daughter of an old rock star must qualify you to be a spokesperson for what is fashionable.

The daughter of the old rock star to whom I referred is Kelly Osbourne. Do you remember her? Potty-mouthed, purple haired, potential Jenny Craig spokesperson, tattooed daughter from the imaginatively named reality show The Osbournes. Well flash-forward five years, she’s now a full-blown fashion critic. Not sure how it happened but it did.

In fact quite recently Kelly Osbourne got all lippy and criticised Princess Catherine for recycling clothes. Kelly said that she would want a new dress every day. Guess that’s why Prince William didn’t choose Kelly then. That and the drug-taking and the…well you get the idea.

I’m guessing that Princess Catherine probably would want a new dress every day, but prudently she realises that the British economy is in a bit of a mess and it probably isn’t the best time to be going all fashion show pony. Let’s have a reality check here, buying a new dress every day would be exhausting and, when the novelty wore off, just plain boring.

So who do the fashion critics love? Well they love Kate Moss, and I’ll be really honest here—and I may have alluded to this in previous columns—I just don’t get her. She has stringy hair, is cocaine skinny and has dodgy teeth. Yet any item of clothing that she puts on is deemed fashionable and everybody apes it. Weird.

Such is her power that she brought the opaque tight back into fashion. I so fashion dumb that I didn’t even know they were out of fashion. Black opaque tights are the staple of my winter wardrobe. They cover legs that haven’t seen a razor for a month and make you look taller and skinnier. Actually Kate Moss thanks for bringing them back.

Princess Catherine thanks you too. She’s been copping flak for wearing sheer pantyhose and boring shoes. I actually think the wearing of those items might be in the How to be a Princess handbook. I can’t see her rocking a pair of strappy Prada platform wedges to Buckingham Palace. Image

I love makeovers. Love TV makeover shows more for that matter. Property, people, lifestyles—I’m all over them. Just so long that some that was previously in need of some serious attention comes out looking all better at the end of it. Magic in my eyes.

So you can imagine my absolute fascination with the new public spectacle: The Beautification of Shane Warne—From Bogan to Baron. OK, I made that title up but I’m keeping copy write on it. I see a reality show in the wings. And I also hear the sound of beer cans around the country being crumpled in disbelief as Australia’s CUBBY (cashed up bogan) king icon goes all metrosexual.

It’s all that Elizabeth Hurley’s fault. She’s the one who got her sticky mitts all over Warnie and papered off the rough edges. And what has emerged from the chrysalis that was the drinking, smoking and ample-gutted Warnie grub? Why a butterfly so slick and smooth that he could go straight to Madam Tussaud’s Wax Museum without ever having to pose.

Do you remember Warnie BE (Before Elizabeth)? There was the cricketer’s tan, the wrinkles around the eyes, the fairly decent beer belly and the gelled up, highlighted Yeah-Yeah hair. He also sported calloused thumbs, not so much from bowling, but from texting, or should that be sexting, up a storm.

So what’s changed? Well the sexting has stopped, cleverly replaced by an addiction to Twitter that has unfortunately given us more information about Elizabeth and Shane’s private life than New Idea ever could.

The beer gut is gone, disappeared, no more. Apparently this is due to Elizabeth putting Shane on a diet that included lots of wheat grass. The diet was also conducted via Twitter so, just in case we were interested, we could share in Warnie’s weight loss journey. “Feel like a hot pie with copious amounts of sauce with crinkle cut chips!! What’s the best pie?” he tweeted, followed with: “NO Shane!! 78kg is target currently 82.5. Settle on a protein shake with an apple and banana – sob.” Gosh it sounds like he was having fun. But it has worked because he apparently lost 10kg. Well done, Warnie.

Warnie’s tan is nice and even now, as is his wrinkle-free face. Has someone been hitting the Fraxel laser and Botox? Well no–it’s all due to the magic effects of cosmetic company Estee Lauder’s moisturisers. I know this because Warnie tweeted it. Elizabeth gave us more specific information about the particular moisturiser when she further tweeted “So glad the Estée Lauder Resilience Lift moisturiser is working & everyone thinks you’ve had a face lift.” Would it surprise you to know that Elizabeth is the face of Estee Lauder. I see a big Christmas bonus for Liz.

Anyway like any good makeover show Warnie had his big unveiling at Elton John’s White Tie and Tiara Ball. He trotted out in his beautifully cut tuxedo, hair slicked back and de-highlighted. His eyebrows were waxed and there was a suggestion of mascara and guy-liner. Mascara! Guyliner!

And there is the picture complete—Shane Warne, trophy wife. Image

Let’s catalogue a list of Brendan’s more recent achievements. He got sacked by his club and flicked up to Brisbane for carrying on like an idiot on TV. There was the Lara Bingle shower photo scandal. He came out of that one much better than he deserved. Lara didn’t, but it’s hard to feel sorry for her. After all she wrecked Michael Clarke and the Australian cricket team.

Let’s add the one million bucks he punted and lost on the geegees. I’m glad he didn’t Twitter those tips—they must have been real shockers. One weekend he made 87 bets by text message, losing 50 thousand in the process. Betting by text? Let’s hope Shane Warne never hears of this.

Fev followed that mighty effort with two arrests for drunken behaviour and more visits to rehab than Lindsay Lohan. He failed on the footy field, admitted to a gambling addiction, then lost his house and his marriage.

And if that wasn’t enough, his daughter fell off the bed while he was supposed to be watching her. She just fell off the bed mind you, but Brendan, in an ADHD medicated state, fuelled by a remorseful six bottles of red wine and a propensity to over-reaction decided to kill himself by slashing his wrists. He didn’t succeed but he did get paid 100 grand to tell the story.

He sorted out his feeling of inadequacy by going to the Crown Casino for a crack at the poker tables. Some busybody do-gooder sent him home and that was that, except the media found out. It’s OK though because Fev has taken himself off to Los Angeles for a bit of R’n’R.

I’ve always thought LA the best place to go if you’re staging a public battle with gambling and alcohol addiction. Quiet, no temptation, no possible way to get into trouble is there? Yep Brendan Fevola, football player, addict, overpaid and ill-advised. Image

I blame Thorpey’s Angels. I think that’s the reason I’m not an Ian Thorpe fan. Do you remember that show? Thorpey was cast in the role of Charlie and three random females wanna be it girls of the time were the angels. They went around doing good deeds on a mission basis. Terrible, but the worst, the most wooden of all? Thorpey. Killed his TV career. Stone. Dead.

Anyway, back to Thorpey’s comeback. Right on time for the 2012 London Olympics. Big call. Wonder how he’ll go? I think he may have his work cut out. He may think he’s all Geoff Huegill but there’s a big, big difference between the Commonwealth Games and the Olympics. Sort of like under 8’s at Thargamindah Primary School and the state championships.

He’s a great bloke Geoff Huegill–we all love him. He’s even got a proper nickname–Skippy. Don’t know where it came from but that’s a decent nickname. It’s way better than Thorpey. We all know a lot of imagination went into securing him that nickname.

Sorry I’ve digressed again. Back to Thorpey’s comeback. Apparently he’s been sneaky. He’s been training all round the place, tricky little bugger. He hasn’t denied the comeback because that would make him look like a liar. He admitted that he “was really sneaky” and he instructed all those around him to “lie through their teeth”.What? Ethical compass much askew, Thorpey?

He’s aiming for the 100m events which seems weird considering his success in 200m and 400m events. And he’s old and let’s be frank, carrying a few more kilos than he should be. Those 100m events are prime meat for those young bucks who breeze in and and out of the event on a semi-regular basis. But if he swims over that distance he’ll be avoiding Michael Phelps. Oh my God, do you think he’s trying to avoid Michael Phelps? Say it isn’t so, Thorpey.

So fat, old, balding (you can arrange your hair anyway you like Thorpey–blind Freddy can see that receding hairline) Thorpey may well be swimming for Australia at London in 2012. He’s asked all of Australia to leave him in peace though. You know so he can concentrate on his training.

OK, we’ll do that Thorpey, but really you must have a chat to your manager. Who announces something as inane as a possible swimming comeback when the biggest cyclone in generations is about to cross the North Queensland coast? Why Thorpey does of course. And it was lovely how he made reference to the cyclone crisis amid his pleas that he vants to be alone.

Oh sorry, my mistake. He didn’t acknowledge it at all. Not a word. Speaks volumes.

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Check out Todd Woodbridge as Kim Clijsters takes him to task over texting her possible pregnancy.

Check out how Todd’s face matches his shirt by the end of the clip.  Image

I did this last year. You can read that post here.  I’ve had a look at them and am proud to say that I didn’t do any of them. Well done me.

So here’s this year’s list.

• I will not get a tattoo. Favoured by bogans, footballers, cricketers and Julia Roberts, I promise never to get anything tattooed on my body anywhere. Ever.
• I will not drink crappy grog. Or maybe I should amend that to say I will only drink bad grog when there is absolutely no decent stuff left in the house and it’s an emergency.
• I will not take a spin class. Yay what fun, building thighs like a brickie’s labourer while some bossy person with a commando complex bellows at you. Not for me.
• I will not visit India. Can’t think of one single reason that I’d want to. Not one. I can look at the Taj Mahal on youtube.
• I will not eat broccoli. I don’t care how good it is for you. It’s horrible, I hate it, I’m with every three-year old in the world who spits it out. No more broccoli for me this year.

That looks pretty achievable. I’m pretty confident that I’ll be able to sit back and look at this in a year’s time and know that I have been successful.

What’s your non-resolution? Image