there’s nothing Aussies love as much as a good match/ bout/ game of good old hearty sport - this all-encompassing warm and fuzzy feeling even extends to the competition.
the commentators (Aussie through and through of course!) were nothing if not enthuasistic - the last thing you could accuse them of was of being indifferent.
they hollered, they yelped, they gasped and they must have been bloody clambering on top of the broadcasting desk and hopping up and down for all i know - all we got was the voice-overs and not the visuals, fortunately (or unfortunately for the pervy ones amongst us).
obviously there was a distinctly patriotic slant to their commentary.
think slatherings of praise, liberally mixed with dollops of adulation and garnished with a touch of hero-worship, for whatever an Australian athlete (medal-winner or not) chose to do, whenever they did it - even if they’re just towelling themselves off after a run/ swim/ lift.
Commentator # 1: "Ooooh, Plugger, did you see that towelling action there? First-class stuff that is"
Commentator # 2: "Yes, Dazer, I certainly did - that performance deserves a medal. You wouldn’t expect anything less from a world-class athlete like that"
Commentator # 1: "I was there for the ‘98 towel-off in Kuala Lumper - some of the greatest towelling sequences ever, never seen so much sweat being mopped up so fast, mate!"
Commentator # 2: "Well we might be seeing some towelling action today that could challenge that, Dazer"
you get the picture.
but the commentators were equally enthuasiastic about the competition - and if they were a touch less fawning and fulsome in their praise, who could blame them?
case in point: the weight-lifting finals.
the Aussies had come and gone and i have to say, they were pretty good.
lifting 3 times your own body weight is no mean feat for us humans, never mind what those darn iron-pumping little critters can do! (p/s: ants can lift 20~50 times their body weight! *gulp*)
and then the Malaysian contender came on and *phew-wittt* he must have been sponsored by Tiger Balm or something because he was clad in a skin-tight, orange, tiger-stripe Lycra suit.
oh, and his hair was dyed to match as well - some festive orange-and-black streaks were worked into his very fashionable and impeccably-coiffed semi-mohawk.
i was completely overcome by laughter at this point, because for all that macho-my-balls-are-bigger-than-yours swagger, he had the face of a very, very, very camp hairdresser (mind you i said camp, not gay, and those two are not mutually exclusive either!)
and it didn’t help that his coaches were psyching him up by pumping the air and shouting completely Malaysian encouragements in spot-on Manglish such as "You can do it one!" and "GO! GO! GO!" - and by patting him on his Lycra-clad tiger-striped bum.
by this stage i was laughing so hard i was leaking tears and hiccupping -simultaneously.
and the first thing out of the Aussie commentators mouths?
"Here he comes - TIGER BOY!"
TIGER BOY?!
*howls with laughter*
of course they continued calling him Tiger Boy throughout the three trials - provoking laughing fits in me and my sister each and every time.
by the end of it we were limp, exhausted and aching - who’d thought we’d be getting such a good workout simply from watching TV?
but anyway, the Aussies struck gold and Tiger Boy had to be content with a silver - but i’m sure he would have been happier with a medal that matched the colour of his orange tiger-striped Lycra suit.
