The Cracks Are Starting To Appear.

First, some nice work from Gawker.

Pippa Middleton's butt: Is it real? Opinions differ!
"I'm not convinced that it's completely natural... she may have had some sort of pants that gave her a little bit of a lift, or even a little bit of padding" says London spa owner Lesley Reynolds Kahn. "[E]xpensive dresses are designed to do all the heavy lifting on their own... and couture is almost always going to do more for a lass than a pair of jeans," says E!'s Natalie Finn. "Please give me food," says a starving Somali child. 

No, I'm not desperate enough for visitors to post a photo of Pippa's arse. That's so last financial year.

Which reminds me of this marvelous bit of repartee I had with a young StKilda supporter girl on Friday night.

Me: "OOH ST KILDA, THE CRACKS ARE STARTING TO APPEAR!"

Girl: "WELL, PULL YOUR PANTS UP THEN!"

I believe the kids of today would say that I was "totes pwned".

Some football supporters yesterday.

 Orxx.

Pussy Cat Pussy Cat Where Have You Been?

Big adventures in the past week have kept me away from The Nightwatchman.

Hell started Tuesday.

After a particularly tough day of dealing with a difficult laptop computer, even more difficult friends and writing about sustainability (who isn't writing about sustainability these days?), I was super duper excited to get a table with a less difficult mate at my fave-ever counter meal establishment, The Robert Burns.

The Robert Burns seafood paella is the best in Melbourne but not Tuesday's.

Nope, on Tuesday I copped a bad arse hit of food poisoning, losing 3 kilograms in 24 hours.

Which brings me to the ANZAC spirit. When walking the Kokoda our diggers often suffered from bad cases of the trots like mine. With hand under their trousers, they would march through the mud and up the hill.

Uppiddy up up and downiddy down down.

It was this kind o' spirit that got me through the ANZAC game. In the pub before the game I was a wreck. No beers and I could barely concentrate on me footy mates' conversation. Whether Chris Egan was to play or not, I didn't care.

More compelling- what if I have to rush to the Gary Glitter during the game? Not even the hardiest of soldiers would dare use a MCG cubicle. Visiting the London Tavern's was scary enough but the MCG my frickin' sheesh.

After advice from mates to get in the car and get the hell away to a bogue house with a TV in the toilet I decided to drag my leakin' behind to the game.

Only had to visit the MCG khazis twice.

First visit and I queued behind a 19 year-old bloke who urinated into the toilet WITH THE SEAT DOWN.

As my fave Catherine Tate Show character, Nan Taylor would say, THE FUCKING LIBERTY!!

And what a surprise, the kid was no Elvis Costello, his aim being nowhere close to being true. If I wasn't so rushed to wipe the seat and get down to business I would have beat up the little freak.

For all of us.

Second visit no problem. Didn't miss anything. Only a few ball ups apparently.

Top game too.

Tears came to my eyes when Heath Shaw won the ANZAC Medal.

It wasn't the first time for tears that day and neither was it the last.

My arse was on fire.