So now heaps of you blow-ins who can't speak 'Strine are cummin' to Steak 'n' Kidney for the Games, dunkin' yer tucker in sauce and never takin' yer shout. Well, strike me pink if I don't stand up and barrack.
Here's the good oil: These bloody Games have been shadier than a rat with a parasol. Nothin' but whingin' and bluin' since we got 'em. Not to chuck a wobbly, but I hope the whole shonky mess goes down the gurgler.
First, the journos dob in the pols on that tickie rort. Turns out those bludgers were floggin' the pick of the tix to their mates from the big end of town and leavin' the bits to us nongs. The nobs got a bucketing. Still, more than a million tix are goin' beggin'! That's big bikkies!
Then there's Bondi Beach, which is a ripper place to see spunks starkers and sneak a gargle or two from a tinnie. Those no-hopers turned it into a kinuglee vollie stadium! Not only that, but the shells there'll cut up the ponces' plates of meat! Who's the drongo runnin' this circus?
Then there are the shark biscuits, the banana bender whose noggin showed up in the guts of a mega potato coddie last week (No furphy! It's the ridgy-didge!), the trains that keep goin' troppo and the dodgy baggage system at Kingsford Smith that's as useless as a pocket on a singlet.
The athletes' village is not only next to the guests of Her Majesty, but it's also chips—no couches, just plastic furniture. The journo center is an old unpainted cattle pen. Oh, and not to earbash, but I'd wear yer warm clobber. It can be colder than a dead Tazzie's dodger in July. Plus, we've had southerly busters lately, which ought to be fun for the chuckers, eh? Say, mate, is that my javelin stickin' out yer arse?
Goodonyer for comin', but, fair dinkum, this dog's breakfast has Buckley's chance. When it's over and the Games've come a gutser, we know all these big-noters will disappear like rats up a drainpipe and leave us without a brass razoo.
The Games were supposed to be a pearler. Bushwah. If it's rainin' palaces, we just got hit by the dunny door.