What a sad week! RIP Peter Brock. All remaining Australian icons should just sit very still and not do anything. Don't go out. Don't touch anything! If you're not Australian you might wonder, Peter Who? Well, Peter Brock was quite simply a motor-racing legend. There's a race in the town where I was born called the Bathurst 1000, in which mighty V8 cars drive round and round a mountain-top circuit for one thousand kilometres. It's a strangely captivating event. I'd always get up to watch the start and vow not to waste six hours in front of the telly, but inevitably I'd be sucked in to the epic drama, all the speed and smoke and smashes. Brocky won Bathurst an incredible nine times.

And he wasn't just ace behind the wheel. He was, as one of my aunts has repeatedly declared, "a complete spunk". When we first heard the news of his passing, Gareth asked, "Was Brocky a larrikin too?". He'd not heard of the word until this week when the media repeatedly used it in reference to Steve Irwin. Oh no, I explained. Brocky was a gentleman. As dashing and debonair as one could possibly be in a loud shirt smothered in sponsor logos. I moved back to Bathurst for university and got to witness Brockymania close up. I loved those few days when you'd be woken by the low rumble of race cars up on the Mount. Bathurst is normally a quiet town but once a year its population swells, much like the way Edinburgh goes manic during the Festivals. Except with more beer guts and flannel shirts. Everyone in Bathurst seemed to look on Brocky as an adopted son. One time my friends and I went down to a Meet The Drivers session to take pics for our photojournalism class. The queue for Brocky was three times longer than for any other driver. He charmed the pants off everyone from mulleted petrolheads to tiny kids to salivating housewives, all tan and sparkling brown eyes as he signed autographs. Another year I was working in a coffee shop in a shopping centre, bored out of my tree watching customers screw up their faces as they choked down my cappuccinos (Note to coffee shop owners out there: Never hire someone to make coffee that doesn't like coffee. They have no respect for the beverage). There was a sudden clutter of teaspoons and excited whispers, Brocky! It's Brocky! There goes Brocky! People poured out of the shops and trailed after him. Turns out a local radio station had set up outside the supermarket and were doing a live interview. I can't remember a bloody word he said; I just remember how the crowd gathered round in an adoring semi-circle, clutching their shopping bags or lapping at soft-serve cones, as Peter Perfect turned on the charm. Momo, who is a legend in her own right, is quite possibly Brocky's greatest fan. She wrote a beautiful tribute today that left me misty-eyed. He really will be missed.

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After the initial shock of the Zizou Head-Butt comes sadness, speculation and much furtive lip-reading. Perhaps we'll never know what really happened, but I hope the man himself speaks out soon.

My head says, violence bad! My heart says, violence perhaps understandable if what's alleged to be said was said! And then another, rather primal part of me aligns with this unique perspective from Heather of This Fish, in which she admits to finding Zidane's headbutt just a wee bit of a turn on:

"I turned back to the TV just in time to catch the immediate aftermath. A man's eyes were on fire and everything in his face screamed, 'Merde! I am one angry Frenchman!'

And that's when I fell in love.

The announcers started jabbering, as I waited for a recap. And then they showed it again. I sat in stunned silence. And by the third time… well, holy moly, I think I became pregnant by an instant replay."

Now before you leave outraged comments, just pretend for a moment that you had no knowledge of football or the context of the incident whatsoever, and you looked at the move purely as a display of manly biffo. Heather may just have something there. The sheer, decisive forcefulness of that butt is exhilarating and holds a certain animalistic appeal.

I don't wish to speculate as to who said what or who's right or wrong in this situation; I'll let the journalists scrap over that one like Scottish seagulls on a packet of hot chips. Instead let us pause and reflect on one thing of which we can be certain: Zizou is a handsome bloke. It's in the smile, the frown, the skillz, the eyes with shades of light and dark; the perpetually sweaty shaven head.

Actually it's really got a lot to do with the shaven head. He did nothing for me when he still had locks!

L: Non.   R: Oui!

This reminds me that I am lucky enough to actually be married to a lad with a shaved head.

One time we were flipping through an old photo album and Gareth was sighing wistfully at his locks of yesteryear. But he just looked all wrong to me! I much prefer his current do, even though he says I can hardly call it a do if he has no choice in the matter.

We have a photo from Wedding Part III displayed on a bookcase. I think it's a bit cheesy when people splash their own mugs all over the house, but my mate Peita gave us a beautiful frame and it's just the one picture, high up on the shelf. Recently our friend Maggie was sitting on the opposite side of the room, squinting up at it.

"Shauna," she said in puzzled tones, "Why do you have a photo of the Pope?"

"The Pope?"

"Aye! Over there on the shelf. The Pope. You're standing right beside him!"

"The Pope?"

"Yes. The Old Pope, not the new Evil one." She leaned forward in her chair. "Are you… are you feeding him cake?"

"Nooo!" I cackled, "That's Gareth! At our wedding!"

"No way." She ran over the bookcase. "It is too! You know, he really looks like the Pope from over there. It looks like he's got one of those wee white Pope hats on."

"That's not a hat," said Gareth, "It's just the AUSTRALIAN SUN shining on my baldy heid!"

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One should never blog while overly emotional but I am going to press on, regardless of how mortified I will be tomorrow and how moronic you will all think me. Firstly, hearty congratulations to the Italians! Secondly, WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING ZIZOU?! I truly thought the stupidest sporting thing I would see today would be Roger Federer's custom-made white blazer at Wimbledon. The Rog had been buttering my muffin since four years ago today, when he endeared himself to me with his tears upon winning the title for the first time. But when he stepped onto the court two weeks ago looking like a bartender on a P&O cruise ship, the fire in my loins faded significantly. There's no excuse for that sort of thing, unless you're auditioning for James Bond. But to be honest, my eye had already wandered by then, as I'd gone World Cup Mental and completely fallen for the lovely eyes, baldy head and twinkle toes of Zinedine Zidane. How shite then, that the undisputed winner of today's Stupid Award turned out to be Zidane himself, with that horrible headbutting of Marco Materazzi during extra time. I have never been so… fucking… gutted. Yes, I have been an unashamed bandwagon-hopper with the World Cup. Gareth always finds it hilarious how swiftly I become so passionately obsessed with sporting events, but this one was particularly all-consuming. So to see Zidane's sparkling career finish in such a moment of madness was utterly devastating. Why did you do that? Why did it have to end this way? I alternately screamed at the telly and tried not to bawl. Dudes. To see someone you idolise do something so crazy is gobsmackingly impossible to comprehend. It was like Valentino Rossi had reached over and slashed someone's tyre in the middle of a MotoGP, or Adam Gilchrist had pulled up a stump and poked a batsman up the arse for a laugh; or Thom Yorke gatecrashed a Coldplay show and whacked Chris Martin over the head with a 20 kilo bag of Fair Trade coffee. Oh hang on, that last one's just my secret fantasy. It is just such a rubbish ending to a tournament of ups and downs and downs. Though I may finally understand the offside rule, it still feels like all I gained from five weeks of football is a paler complexion, a crushing sense of disillusionment and slightly larger arse.

Rafael Nadal: outplayed; and outdressed by both Federer
AND some little boy with his top button done up.

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So Australia is out of the World Cup. What a fizzer of a game after last week's dramatics. But I'm proud of the lads and I'm sure we'll be cheering them on again four years from now. It's definitely been the most entertaining bandwagon I've jumped on for awhile!

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Well! I think I've erased about five years from my life and destroyed the springs of the couch during the Australia v Croatia match tonight. I was shaking like a shitting dog throughout the whole thing. The tension, comrades; THE TENISON! Gareth adds: "And how many times did you scream, 'Noooo, you fucking IDIOT!'." About 475! And the longer the game went on the more syllables I added to the word, in increasingly Australian tones…. NOOOOOOOUUUEEEEEEEWWWWW! But the end result was 2-2 so Australia are through to the second round! Huzzah! We play Italy on Monday. Which really sucks because instead of perving on the supermodel cheekbones of the boys in blue, I will have to concentrate on cheering on our lads. 'MON THE AUSSIES!

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During French Open Final last Sunday I decided that clay is my favourite tennis court surface. Sexy Legs Rog and the boy Nadal were just covered in red dust by the end of the match. This is the closest thing you get to Live Male Mud-Wrestling. All they need to do is strip off, tattoo the sponsor logos onto their biceps, hose down the court and away we go!

There's just so much sport going on at the moment I can barely breathe. Wimbledon is just around the corner. Then the Tour de France. And growling away in the background is the MotoGP season. It's been pure heart-in-mouth excitement, especially compared to the plodding, poncy pile of shite that is Formula One. But right now, much to my surprise, I've gone a bit World Cup Crazy. Consequently I have not done any writing this week. Or bathed regularly. I can't wait for Australia v Brazil. Tonight I made the meringue for my Very First Pavlova which I really hope turns out because I'll be serving it up to the in-laws during the game. There's always a debate about whether this dessert actually comes from New Zealand, but tomorrow we shall call it Aussie, even though the passionfruit was probably flown in from Brazil. During tonight's shambolic USA v Italy match they announced there will be a very special guest Australian commentator joining the ITV team tomorrow – SHANE WARNE. A leading football pundit, apparently.

UPDATE: I reckon we did alright, eh? And the pav wasn't too shabby either.

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My boss called today from Melbourne. It was 1.30AM and he was just back from the rugby. He sounded disgustingly happy, what with his attending of sporting events, his bicycle ride down by the Yarra, his catching of trams. Then he dashed off because he needed to be up early for the start of the triathlon. Hmmmph. The boss is at the Games as part of the Glasgow 2014 bid team. I'd pleaded most pathetically for months to be allowed to tag along. Because not only am I a tops secretary, I'm a tops Australian secretary. I can speak the language, dammit! And what if he needed a REALLY IMPORTANT LETTER typed in the middle of the night? What if he couldn't figure out how to use Australian photocopiers? But my begging was all for nothing. Well if he finds himself in a 7-Eleven in the middle of the night, totally starving and not knowing which chocolate bar to buy, he'll be sorry I wasn't there with my native expertise. Tonight the BBC took a few English athletes for a hot air balloon ride over Melbourne. The sunrise, the gum trees, the lovely skyscrapers; it all made me feel funny inside. I went from thinking, "Aww, nice fluff piece" to big fat homesick tears in about two minutes. On a lighter note, can someone tell me what the bloody hell Condoleeza Rice is doing at the Commonwealth Games? Why is she chatting to Ian Thorpe? And what is she pointing at?

My theory is America is about to annexe the Commonwealth. Look at the guy sitting behind Thorpie, he's just figured out her plans.

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Let's all just pause and admire the Commonwealth Games Day One Tally before it disappears! Australia and Scotland, one and two. How ya like them apples, Mother England? It is very, very strange watching the Commie Games from the other side of the world. I was all psyched up to support Scotland, since Australia has enough of a cheer squad already, but the BBC telly coverage is so freaking Anglo-centric that I'll barely get a chance to wave my saltire! And how the BBC team love to slag off the Aussies and our over-confidence! How they gloat about any medal we don't win! They just held up copies of today's Age and Herald Sun and sniggered at how many pages were devoted to sport. "Oh those Aussies," said that horsey-looking presenter chick, "They're so sports mad!". Well maybe if you were a bit sports madder, you'd win more medals! Ahem. I know I'm only miffed because I'm used to playing the Underdog. When you're watching the Olympics in Oz, it's all about Australia versus Evil America. Whether it's the pool or the athletics or the ping pong, we just want to see the battlin' little Aussies stick it to the mighty Yanks. Fight fight fight! (I always imagine us like a yappy little terrier, nipping at the heels of a honking huge Alsatian. It's all very important to the wee terrier but does the big fella really give a damn?) But over here at Commonwealth Games time, England is the underdog! Australia becomes the evil one! It's Australia winning all the medals and trampling over the little countries. I've heard them cursing us in the office, Those Bloody Aussies. We can't pretend we're just lovable convicts. They want our BLOOD, people. I'm scared.

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