Matthew Whelan and Daniel Ward listen in to the yellow wiggles. But the rest of us have no idea what’s going on. (Getty)

This article first appeared on Footy Almanac and The Roar.

I know it’s part of footy culture, but the incessant “BALL!” shouts from the outer have gone too far.

The AFL’s loudest supporters might be the most entertaining, but they have an unhealthy obsession with playing backseat umpire.

If you were a foreigner, attending an AFL match for the first time, you’d have to assume the umpires were clueless.

The frequency and volume of disgruntled supporters is evident in every minute of every game.

Their fury is almost always directed at the men in white, yellow, green and red.

Despite popular belief, the umpires are often correct and the crowd is seldom correct.

Without having carried out a quantitative survey, I’m confident that at least eighty percent of the crowds’ tackle complaints are unwarranted.

For instance, not every tackle deserves to be rewarded with a free kick.

The holding-the-ball rule states that players can only be penalised if they have had “prior opportunity to dispose of the football”.

Everybody knows this rule. It’s repeatedly dictated to spectators during radio and television commentaries.

Yet as soon as fans enter the ground this knowledge seems to vanish from their consciousness.

There appears to be some kind of force between the MCG car-park and the level one seating area that transforms calm, earnest people into raucous bleaters.

This same force is what makes supporters so much angrier at the ground than when they are at home, watching the television imitation.

This force is the voice of the umpire, or absence thereof.

When watching AFL on television, it’s easier to be restrained. Every umpiring decision is dissected, with endless replays and expert insights.

More importantly, though, we can always hear the umpire’s voice.

As annoying as umpires can be, their amplified directions help fill in the gaps.

We might not necessarily agree with a decision made against our team, but if we’ve heard their explanation then we’re more likely to forgive them.

At the ground, however, such forgiveness is impossible.

Instead of listening to ex-coaches and football experts, one’s perception of the game is influenced by partisan diehards, each of whom hold a fervent conviction in their ill-directed jeers.

Unless one has access to a radio, they are likely to find themselves joining in with their neighbours and finding frustration in every unexplained decision.

A typical AFL crowd

This frustration doesn’t wane either; with every subsequent puzzling call, the spectator’s anger mounts. Eventually, when the final bell rings, that is all the supporter can think about.

Often their rage precipitates into an excuse; the only reason their team lost by 100 points was because of that “ridiculous free kick” early in the first quarter.

A fellow spectator’s fury can be entertaining up to a point – the passion associated with the crowd is one of the primary reasons we love the live game.

But when supporters are chronically aggravated, it begins to place a dampener on the aesthetic experience of others.

Footy is supposed to be a form of entertainment; we don’t pay a few hundred dollars a year to feel irritated, but to enjoy the spectacle of this unique Australian sport.

Broadcasting the umpire’s microphone over the loud speakers across the ground could radically change the way we watch AFL.

The policy could have its critics early on, but it would eventually offer consolation to perennially hot-headed fans.

Diehards would no longer need to feel needless confusion over every blow of the whistle.

After every disagreeable decision, they could listen in to the umpire’s justification and consider their opinion from there.

Furthermore, this could also help new supporters of the code – such as those living in Gold Coast, Western Sydney and Canberra – develop a strong familiarity with the rules.

This measure wouldn’t eliminate passion, supporter engagement or even the odd “BALL” shout. Those things will always be part of the AFL, whether we like it or not.

What the measure could do is improve the culture of AFL spectatorship and remove unnecessary abuse and wrath from our grandstands.

Without converting the crowd into a group of choirboys, this measure could foster a more welcoming environment for sensitive families and impressionable tourists alike.

The biggest winners, however, would be the men with the microphones. The umpires.

After all, all they want is a little bit of love and understanding. They just want to be heard.

It wasn’t hunger; in the preceding hours I’d consumed a big bowl of pasta, a fruit platter and some delicious mango muffins. This was rather a feeling of nervousness.

The prospect of starving myself for five days was everything but attractive. I didn’t like the thought that my meals were about to become a lot smaller and infrequent.

While my stomach grumbles were only psychosomatic, I can only imagine what it is like for people of the developing world, some of whom don’t know when their next meal is going to come.

In my current intern role at an international-based charity I come in contact with this kind of hard-luck story quite regularly. One of my main duties is writing human interest stories about Ethiopian and Tanzanian families, whose daily meals are a struggle. Some eat three times a day, some eat once, some don’t eat at all.

These are facts I struggle to come to grips with. Even now, after five days with limited subsistence, they are still horrific numbers.

Funnily enough, my brief encounter with butterflies on the strike of midnight was the hungriest I felt all week.

Over the course of the week I learned that $10 can actually afford one a decent diet. While my breakfast meals of plain toast and one-fifth of a banana felt like a bit of trial, my other meals were quite nourishing. Tuna became my saving grace; one tin of the salty meat supplied me with five sandwiches worth of flavour. Even the excess oil in the tin served a purpose; I used this liquid for cooking during my nightly pasta and vegetable dinner.

For those who feel ripped off by my lack of starvation, I will concede that the week wasn’t easy. Yet Live Below The Line wasn’t challenging because of my hunger; it had more to do with temptation.

On Monday night I just happened to be meeting up with a bunch of school friends, some of whom I hadn’t seen in months. Throughout the night I sat at one end of the table, sipping water. I watched as my friends dug into three large and very appetising pizza dishes.

Afterwards, when we were organising the bill, one of my friends was nice enough to ask me to pay for them all. I kindly refused.

Two days later, I joined in on the celebrations for my boss’ birthday. With all of my colleagues aware of my five-day challenge, they made a conscious effort to pass the cheesecake away from me. I appreciated their concern, but couldn’t help but lick my licks when my eyes made contact with the cake’s glorious filling.

That night the torment continued. At a University soiree, which cost me $30 to attend, I found myself surrounded by platters of finger food and a bar tab. Once again I was left to capitalise on the free water.

As frustrating as it was that such occasions fell on the same week as my diet, I am really thankful that my schedule panned out how it did.

First of all, these social events gave me an invaluable opportunity to raise awareness about the Live Below the Line campaign. When people asked me why I wasn’t eating, I explain the fundraiser and my motivations for doing so. When questioned as to whether I was starving I informed people otherwise. “It’s amazing how much you can eat on $2 a day,” I would explain.

One of my favourite photos from Tanzania. These kids were wonderful and deserve a better life.

The second major benefit was that these experiences opened my eyes to the excessive lifestyles lived by those in the Western world, myself included.

Here in the West, we live to eat; those in the developing world eat to live.

This consumer culture isn’t necessarily a bad thing in itself; given how much food we have on offer to us, it’d be a shame for us not to enjoy ourselves and eat it all.

This culture only looks bad when we compare it to those who don’t have as much. I return my thoughts to the rural Ethiopian and Tanzanian people I’ve been writing about. While food is of huge importance to them, it’s not the centrepiece of their lives. Most of their stories tell of their dreams to build new houses, start up businesses and send their children to school. Sure, they want to feed their families but that’s often just an interim goal, not the be-all and end-all.

It’s difficult for me to assess how I will be behave in the future; it will be very easy to revert back to the heavy-eating lifestyle I’m so accustomed to. I know I should use this experience as a platform to build on, but I’m reluctant to make promises I’m not going to keep.

One thing that’s more certain, however, is that I will continue to put my money where my mouth is. Donating to causes such as Live Below the Line gives people in developing countries the opportunities that many of us take for granted. Every one of our donations might be small, but if it is helping disadvantaged or vulnerable individuals give themselves a second chance at life, then it is a worthwhile investment.

To donate to my Live Below the Line campaign, head to https://www.livebelowtheline.com/me/kevinhawkins

Thank you to everybody who has donated to Live Below the Line, particularly those who have opened up their pockets in response to my blogs and Facebook activity. Over $1.3 million – and counting – has been raised so far, thanks to your efforts.

Also, I wish to congratulate everybody who has participated in this fundraiser. Kudos to Larissa, Danilee, Tom and anyone else I know who has taken the courage to complete this challenge.

In my most recent blog entry I claimed that food was the centrepiece of my 2009 African adventure.

That was a bit of fallacy. As hungry as I was, I was also extremely stingy.

Ask my three housemates about the time I returned a discounted box of baby tomatoes to the local supermarket to claim a R10 ($1.50) refund.

Or perhaps you could ask them about my visit to the town’s brand new KFC. For months I had been awaiting the opening of this franchise, only to purchase two small chicken wings – the cheapest option on the menu – once the big day finally arrived.

My most notable cost-cutting achievement, however, took place before a five-day backpacking expedition to Swaziland.

I spent my time in Swaziland trekking past wild animals and cycling atop steep hilltops. It was a high-energy holiday, with little time for breaks.

To keep me going, it would have made sense to grab some meaty, high-carbohydrate meals.

But no, those were far too expensive.

Instead I settled for a couple of sandwiches and some cookies. Over those five days I spent just R43 on food, the equivalent of $6.45.

I am as thrifty as my appetite is large. And I’m willing to starve on occasion if it means saving money.

My menu for the week (click to enlarge).

This philosophy has made me the perfect candidate for Live Below the Line.

On Sunday night I went out shopping with my mother and together we sought out the best bargains. My best purchase came from the bargain trolley at the Chinese grocery store, where I picked up a large eggplant (roughly the size of two cricket balls) for 25 cents and a bag of lettuce for 50 cents.

On day one of my mission, both the eggplant and lettuce bag came in very handy, the former giving my dinner taste and the latter giving my lunch roll mass.

Below is my shopping list for my five-day diet:

1 x tuna in oil, 425g – $1.89
1 x soy linseed grain loaf – $1.50
7 x rolls – $0.97
8 x red apples – $0.83
7 x mandarins – $0.69
1 x pasta penne – $0.59
2 x tomatoes – $0.53
1 x lettuce – $0.50
1 x capsicum – $0.49
2 x potatoes – $0.42
1 x banana – $0.34
2 x eggs – $0.32
1 x eggplant – $0.25
1 x onion – $0.22
60g sultanas – $0.20
1 x carrot – $0.15
TOTAL = $10.01

Yes, I know; I went over the limit. If it’s any consolation I probably won’t eat all of my bread.

To donate to Live Below the Line, head to https://www.livebelowtheline.com/me/kevinhawkins

Not convinced yet? Tom Nice will make you think otherwise…

Live Below the Line – click on the image to sponsor me

When I couldn’t finish my meals as a child, my mother would often tell me there were “lots of hungry children in this world”.

I always thought of this as a bit of a crude analogy; was she imploring me to finish my meal or send it off in the mail?

Regardless, two facts are undeniable.

First of all, I have access to far too much food.

Secondly, there are thousands of people out there – millions in fact – who don’t eat nearly enough.

In 2009, I flew over to Africa to test out this theory for myself.

I expected to see undernourished children, begging me to spare them my lunch. I expected to see hopeless families, lamenting over an empty dinner bowl.

But poverty was far more subtle than that.

Early in my trip, I spent my weekends visiting aid-dependant Tanzanian villages. The communities here would greet me with joyous singing and over-enthusiastic dances. They would then show off their generosity, offering me servings of their delicious local produce.

Ironic as it sounds, the locals considered my gluttony a compliment to both their cooking and hospitality. On the other hand, I considered this a free meal and used such opportunities to cross off “cultural experience” from my African wishlist.

After visiting a few more of these villages I began to subconsciously compare them against one other. Indeed, by the time I reached the final one on my itinerary I remember complaining to a fellow volunteer that this community hadn’t given us anything.

I might have looked philanthropic, but these Tanzanian village people were far more generous than I.

They didn’t dance for us. They didn’t sing. They didn’t even offer us a drink.

They just accepted our gifts and thanked us. I felt a little ripped off.

Only later did it register to me that this had nothing to do with their lack of generosity and more to do with their poverty.

I’d be lying if I said these village experiences didn’t challenge my perceptions about the developing world. What they failed to do was change my behaviour – I could see their poverty with my own two eyes, but was too busy enjoying myself to contemplate it.

As paradoxical as this might sound, my daily food intake actually increased over the following eight months of my trip. During my East African tour, for instance, I was always the first person to accept a third helping. At my boarding school placement, meanwhile, I set a volunteer record by consuming 16 pieces of bread in a single day.

It was a habit that made a mockery of my initial intentions to diet before leaving Australia, in order to prepare myself for a continent renowned for chronic food security.

For the most part my dietary patterns were probably good for the local economy. Yet it led me into a false sense of security. I came home from Africa with a full stomach, but little empathy.

Over the next five days, I’m going to subject myself to a challenge that my colonialist attitude didn’t let me attempt during my time abroad.

I have just $10 – or $2 a day – to spend on my meals between Monday 7 May and Friday 11 May. That figure includes breakfasts, lunches, dinners and snacks.

The $2-a-day mantra is based on figures from the World Bank, which suggest that people living in extreme poverty survive on less than US$1.25. The Australian equivalent is actually more like $1.23 than $2, so it looks like I’m already spoiling myself.

Furthermore, once you factor in transport, accommodation, utilities, etc. my daily costs will far exceed my daily $2 allowance. It’d thus be dishonest for me to claim to actually be living below the poverty line.

Nevertheless, the next five days will be a struggle. I love food as much as anybody, so this small sacrifice may in fact feel monumental.

Participating in Live Below the Line is not about changing the world. For me, it’s about shaping my behaviour in a way that my African trip failed to do. While that journey might have opened my eyes up to what poverty looks like, I hope the next five days gives me an impression of what poverty potentially feels like.

That might sound a pretty self-indulgent motivation, but don’t worry; I won’t be the only beneficiary from this social experiment. All the money I raise will be going towards the Oaktree Foundation and their work in Papua New Guinea. To find out more about this work, head here, here or here.

Scroll down for a video that explains the potential benefits of your donation.

To donate, head to https://www.livebelowtheline.com/me/kevinhawkins

I will be documenting my experiences over the next five days on my blog.

Guvera. Quite possibly the best service on the internet.

There’s a nice view up here, from the moral high ground.

As I watch over my fellow music devotees scavenging about in the wastelands of online piracy, I am busy dusting off my harp and appreciating music at its finest.

That’s right; I’m not like the others. My music collection isn’t dirty like theirs.

I buy my music. Legally.

My reasons for abiding by the law are hardly complex; I am opposed to stealing and believe that people deserve to be paid for their labour. As a former muso myself – who spent about a year spruiking a mediocre EP – I have a vague idea of what it must be like for real musicians.

During one of my sales pitches, a friend told me they weren’t going to buy my record because they’d already burnt a copy from a friend. On one level, I was pleased; the fact that she desired to listen to my tunes was music to my ears. On another level, I was gobsmacked; I couldn’t understand how a personal friend could be so brutally tight-fisted.

Don't let me tell you why to use it. Let them.

I see the music industry as a cruel game of natural selection. The most uniquely talented bands don’t necessarily survive; rather, it’s the crafty ones – who can penetrate the charts and conceive the most identical twin music babies – that survive through to the next generation.

As such it is up to the music shopper to intervene. It is their responsibility to reward the most gifted artists before they go extinct.

In saying all that, I can’t help but feel my place aboard this high horse is a tad unjustified.

The last time I bought a full-priced record was 86 months ago, back in March 2005. Regrettably, it was a copy of NOFX’s greatest hits compilation. And it probably doesn’t even count, because I bought it with a Sanity voucher.

Since then I’ve added 323 physical CDs to my anthology. They’ve come from a range of sources, namely op-shops, garage sales, pawn shops and the occasional magazine giveaways.

For all the money I have invested in this collection, little of that has gone to the artists.

Correction; none of that goes to the artists.

The fact that my money often goes to charities somewhat re-affirms my morality. Yet I can’t help but wonder whether this I-pay-for-what-I-get attitude mirrors the BitTorrent junkie, who claims that because he pays his internet bills his music is legal.

For a cheapskate with a moral conscience, like yours truly, the missing piece of the puzzle would be some kind of service, which both offers the customer a cheap price and rewards the artist for their effort. That would be perfect. If only…

I’d hate to sound like a press release, but such a service does exist. It’s called Guvera.

When Guvera first kicked off back in 2010, it created a bit of buzz in the music indsutry. As the name suggests, it promised to offer music fans a revolution in the way they purchased content. Its business plan was ambitious, but simple all the same. Fans clicked on advertisements, advertisers paid for music, and fans got to keep the music.

When I first heard about the service I presumed it was a scam. However, 32 free albums later I’m convinced that it is the best internet service in the world. You might think such a superlative is unnecessary. But that’s because you haven’t used it.

Like other internet music website, Guvera is a pay-per-download system; every song costs the user a certain amount of credits. The catch is that these credits are absolutely free. They are paid for by various businesses, which draw benefits from free advertising.

For the user this could be perceived as an inconvenience; one has to sacrifice as much wall space on Facebook as they want free music. However, over the last two years I’ve both increased my Facebook friend tally and bolstered my mp3 library. If the ads I’m posting are annoying anybody they certainly haven’t made it known.

Guvera’s positives far outweigh its negatives. So far this year the service has granted me 15 free albums; that’s almost one per week.

Given my track record of purchasing music at discount prices, let’s presume each of those CDs would have cost me $5 (in reality they would each be in excess of $20). The amount I have thus saved this year is the equivalent to a concert ticket, a flight to Sydney, or a few very nice dinners. Given that we’ve still got another eight months left in the year, I could well be upgrading that flight to Singapore.

The music Guvera has bought me isn’t too shabby, either. Among this year’s mix have been Radiohead, Kanye West, Nirvana, Bluejuice, 360, Bloc Party and Angus & Julia Stone. In years gone by I’ve also picked up half of Weezer’s discography, a bit of Powderfinger, some Gotye and even The Mars Volta.

Pretty easy-to-use interface.

In other words, Guvera is just like any other music store. Sure, it doesn’t have everything; it’s probably not the place to find that obscure 70s funk record. But of the three or four songs on your wish list at the moment, Guvera’s probably got two.

As one might imagine the commercial support for Guvera has wavered throughout its relatively short lifespan. In its early days, the website was able to offer listeners roughly one album a month. That month soon became two months, and that two soon became five.

One constant throughout this period, however, was the provision of another valuable service: free streaming. That alone makes the website a worthwhile companion to all music lovers. It also means there’s no risk in trying out a new band before permanently embracing them.

Today it appears that the days of infrequent downloads are over. The website is booming with partners, with brands as diverse as the Australian Institute of Eye Surgery and Discovery Holiday Tours on board (but don’t worry; they’re also sponsored by some mainstream brands like TAC, Monster Energy and the Big Day Out). Furthermore, Guvera gift cards are now distributed at rock festivals and Bushells highway stops alike.

Long story short, the brand is taking off and it’s time you jumped on the bandwagon. After all, you’re already 32 albums late.

Guvera’s Facebook page offers three downloads once a week. Like the page, click on the “My Soundtrack” tab and agree to advertise Guvera on your timeline. If you are opposed to the idea of giving free publicity to a corporation – particularly one that ostensibly has communist links – think of Guvera as an amiable philanthropist.

Note: I am not affiliated with Guvera in any way. I am nothing more than a passionate – and thrifty – music lover, giving my endorsement to a quality service.

Below is a pictorial piece I wrote and illustrated, originally published in Farrago (Issue 3, 2012). Your challenge is to match up the Australian politicians with both a description of their personality (listed on the right-hand side) and their policy position (listed on the left).

If you’re up for the challenge, post your results below. Alternatively, if you’re feeling creative, download the picture, draw up some squiggly lines in Microsoft Paint and post your results to my email (see Contact Me tab above).

Stay tuned for the answers…

Click on the image to expand (download is 365kb). Credit to Farrago for the layout.

Disclaimer: Please note that the personality descriptions do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the author. They are supposed to represent common perceptions held by the Australian public.

Download Bats and Blisters at Deuce Kick's Facebook page.

I can’t write a bad review about Deuce Kick’s debut record.

It’s not because I know the lead singer. Nor does it have anything to do with the quality of the music.

Rather, there’s no point criticising Deuce Kicks because the duo have already launched their retaliation. It’s called Bats and Blisters.

Bats and Blisters, the first release of Melbourne-based duo Deuce Kicks, is a pre-emptive response to the potential critics and an unapologetic rejection of disinterested passers-by. From the opening track, the duo already demands reverence, inviting followers to either jump on the bandwagon or jump ship.

It’s a bold – and perhaps cocky – statement for a young group. But Deuce Kicks have more than just potent verbal arrows to fire at their opponents. They’ve got talent. And a hell of a lot of it, too.

Deuce Kicks is the lovechild of rapper Dox Phonic and DJ Droopy. The partnership is a match made in heaven; Dox is as quick-witted as Droopy is versatile. Droopy is as savvy as Dox is shrewd.

Dox Phonic is a revelation behind the microphone. To quote the man himself, every verse of his is an opinion piece and these songs are his kids. Over the course of Bats and Blisters’ five tracks, Dox critiques – among others – hipsters, rivals and tryhards. He even takes a stand for his religion, chastising his persecutors.

But while his observations are as astute as they are sharp, Dox shines brightest when puffing up his ambitions and analysing his paranoias. With promises like “I’m gonna cook the front row like rangas in the sun”, there’s no secret that Dox is determined to be a musical force.

Dox Phonic and Droopy

There’s a fine line between arrogance and confidence. Dox arguably crosses that line on occasion, suggesting that “if I’m ahead of myself, then competition couldn’t be”. At times, his lyrics imply that he and Droopy are the solution to all of music’s deficiencies.

Thankfully the pair aren’t liars. If they’re not already famous, they should be. And this record has the potential to take them there.

The title of the EP probably refers more to the metaphorical – if not physical – hits and bruises Dox Phonics has endured over the past 21 years. But the title takes on dual meaning for the listener; Deuce Kick’s music hits you in the face like a baseball bat.

Mind you, it’s not a painful experience. The analogy only extends as far as saying that Bats and Blisters delivers an unexpected punch to your senses. This isn’t music for the faint hearted; this is poetry, read aloud to the soundtrack of eclectic rhythms and dynamic riffs.

A.Advocate is a triumphant opener; if the duo ever launches their own TV show, this would undoubtedly be their theme song. Marked with a memorable self-referential hook, which wouldn’t sound out of place on a rock anthem, this is a fitting introduction to the record, if not the Deuce Kicks brand.

By the song’s conclusions, Dox’s forceful invitation to “help shout the name/Deuce Kicks, baby” is ingrained in the listener’s mind. If you didn’t know who you were listening to when the track began, you now stand corrected.

Chop Shop continues where the opener left off; though lacking its predecessors’ catchy chorus, Dox’s lyrical prowess carries on uninterrupted. The track begins with what sounds like a quote from a film you’ve never seen. In reality it’s just Dox putting on an accent; all the quirky pieces of dialogue, unforeseen sound effects and instrumental changes can be attributed to Droopy’s creative juices.

Droopy’s other big moment comes in the song’s bridge when Dox’s verbal assault progressively accelerates. While Dox should be acknowledged for the speed of his verbal delivery, one suspects he couldn’t perform the same verbose rant live. Either Dox has the tongue of a god, or Droopy is a sound-engineering mastermind.

The third track Counter3 is the EP’s most notable achievement; if there’s a song on this record that takes Deuce Kicks places, here it is. Haters of autotune are gonna hate. But the blunt second verse and the accompanying vocal solo is Dox at his honest best.

Medicine rivals the other tracks in terms of lyricism – “you stay so underground that all your fans are geologists” – however its comparatively languid chorus doesn’t give it as much penetration as album highlights A.Advocate and Counter3.

The finale Caffeine/Prelude is an ambitious, yet satisfying, effort. The riff is catchy enough and the lyrics follow a similar path to the preceding tracks. Yet the sudden change into R+B takes the listener by surprise; Dox’s switch from freestyler to pimp snatches the audience out of their comfort zone.

While Caffeine/Prelude won’t be to everyone’s taste, it’s the record’s most creative arrangement. But if fans are taken aback by Dox’s schizophrenic vocals, they have nothing to fear; once again Droopy comes to the rescue.

Determined to conclude the record with a lasting note, Droopy gives the original riff its own breathing space. Then, with rising momentum, Droopy unleashes an electronic cornucopia on his listeners, serving them one final taste of Deuce Kick’s enticing flavour.

For a debut effort, Bats and Blisters is sensational; it far exceeds the kind of thing you’d expect from a pair of amateur artists. Droopy’s production is second to none, while Dox’s rhymes are worthy of their short film.

If there’s one criticism, it’s that Dox raps too well. By that, I’m not trying to suck up to the lead singer; rather, Dox’s crisp poetry is so many miles ahead of his expected output that his singing occasionally fails to keep pace.

I have no qualm with Dox’s vocal ability; no less than a year ago the same man was delivering falsettos in camp University musicals. But at times Dox’s high notes seem strained. While in tune, they lack the penetration of his rhymes.

To his credit, Dox’s passion never escapes and, in terms of the album’s narrative, his desperate vocals fit the picture. Aesthetically, though, hip-hop works best with vocal contrasts. Dox deserves praise for his ability to cater his voice to the mood of the song, but one can’t help but wonder whether a female guest vocalist could have added a new dimension.

If this criticism sounds a tad harsh, it’s because you’re not Dox; if there’s one thing you learn from Bats and Blisters it’s that Dox “was born not to give a s***”. Whatever doesn’t kill Dox literally makes him stronger. And one has little doubt that Deuce Kicks will only go from strength to strength.

Bats and Blisters is available for free download here.

Alternatively, you can support the artist by purchasing Bats and Blisters on iTunes.

Like Deuce Kicks on Facebook

Bats and Blisters Promo (David McGorlick)

This article first appeared in Farrago (Issue 3, 2012). Every issue, my column “Life S’port” will tackle a different sporting concept.

Farrago Edition 3, 2012: Grab one from Melbourne University.

For 24 consecutive hours I shut myself off from the world.

No Facebook. No television. No contact with other human beings.

I wasn’t training to be a monk. Nor was I forgoing Western pleasures in an attempt to empathise with the developing world. I was trying to avoid the AFL results.

In Melbourne, attempting such a goal is wishful thinking. Even in the trendy inner-city, where coffee drinkers pretend to have little interest in the sporting landscape, there’s still a chance that somebody will unintentionally weave the most recent football scorecard into conversation.

You might wonder why would I even want to steer clear of the footy scores. But as a football diehard I love nothing more than sitting on the couch, switching on the telly, and enjoying the game. Yet by “couch” I mean desk chair; by “telly” I mean Internet; and by “the game” I mean a slow-bandwidth replay of the previous afternoon’s action.

My most recent score—avoiding challenge was almost a success; for the best part of a day I cruised along in blissful ignorance, without any knowledge of the game’s outcome.

Yet Murphy’s Law prevailed yet again. Five minutes into the second quarter, my father burst into my room and instinctively revealed “last night’s” results.

The irony was that his brutal spoiler was good news; my team had pulled off an unlikely victory. Yet this came as little consolation; the game had suddenly lost its aesthetic appeal.

It was as if somebody had prematurely revealed to me that Luke Skywalker shared genes with Darth Vader. Sure, it’s a fantastic twist. But without one-and-a-half films worth of context, it’s just a fleeting piece of pop culture trivia.

I feel quite proud of my ability to write an article that includes references to both AFL and Star Wars. I am such a man.

While many sport lovers care more about the end than the means—to them, a win is a win is a win—I beg to differ. As joyous as a victory might look on paper, it tastes best when served as a two-hour long banquet of surprises.

After all, sport—like Star Wars—is fundamentally a form of entertainment. At least, that’s what it’s supposed to be.

Cinemagoers don’t watch films for the trailers alone, and connoisseurs don’t visit art galleries to chat to the security guards; they follow their respective pursuits to admire the art. It’s debatable, though, whether the same can be said about sport.

Sport’s value thrives on the spirit of the contest; nothing is more engaging than watching two opposition sides put everything on the line, all in the name of competition. This same principle applies as much for gridiron as it does for chess.

Yet never has sport been more polluted by periphery elements than it is today. This is represented no better than by The Age, which includes both Sport and Business as a single lift-out. Superficially this is just a marriage of convenience; readers love tabloid lift-outs as much as Fairfax loves cost cutting. But commerce has invaded the sporting sphere in such a way that it’s difficult to know where The Age’s two sections split.

In today’s corporate sporting empire, players are reduced to employees. Umpires are ombudsman. Spectators are stakeholders. Coaches are like a boss.

This is understandable to a degree. Whether we like it or not, sporting clubs—all the way down to grassroots level—need money to operate.

Bigpond AFL, 12 hour delay. How I love thee.

This becomes an issue, though, when fans become more attached to the club brand than they do with the sport itself. When supporters buy memberships purely to delay a struggling club’s inevitable death. When keyboard warriors chastise their own players for attempting the magnificent (read sixers in cricket, or slam dunks in basketball) instead of maintaining a “professional team attitude.” When one-eyed devotees voluntarily torment themselves to confidence-crushing losses because they think it’s somewhat honourable.

Some call this club loyalty. Others call it religion. I call this a distraction.

Fantasy sport—the online phenomenon behind Dream Team and Supercoach—is another case in point.This global obsession—or at least a variation of it—first began over fifty years ago when Harvard academics predicted which baseballers would score highest in a given year. The game has since soared to great heights this millennium, on the back of the dotcom boom.

On one level, this movement has given sport an extra dimension of entertainment. It has given fans a reason to take interest in otherwise neutral contests; in the fantasy world, you no longer support a single club, but an assortment of players.

The major drawback is that the fantasy world can very easily overtake reality. Some “fans” overlook the beauty of the contest because they’re too busy watching the statistics. Indeed, I know of AFL supporters that find sufficient pleasure out of this numbers-watching hobby alone.

They don’t even watch the game anymore. Not even the highlights. Not even the 24-hour delayed telecast.

They’re following sport without the sport. You may as well follow the stock market.

This article first appeared on On-Line Opinion

There’s a hilarious scene in Monty Python’s Life of Brian, where the People’s Front of Judea discuss an action plan to save Brian’s life. With Brian minutes away from crucifixion, the members of the political group unanimously agree that urgent action is required. They contend that the team can ill-afford to sit around discussing the matter. Five minutes later, the mise-en-scène returns to the discussion table. Only now, after a formal vote, has the group decided to fulfil their “immediate action” mandate.

I can’t help but draw similarities between this farce and the recent appeals made by Australian politicians.

If there’s one thing both major parties can agree on, it’s that the political debate in this country focuses too heavily on the inane, trivial and irrelevant. The only problem is we’ve been lamenting about this for the last twelve months. We are still yet to see any immediate action, per se.

The oft-repeated rhetoric from politicians is that policies, not personalities, are what matter most. The superficial reporting of politics, they argue, is detrimental to the health of our democratic debate.

Sure, public policy might not be as sexy as the lure of celebrities. And yes, most of our perceptions of politicians are without doubt shaped by their personalities. But the reforms passed through parliament are more important than the people that make them.

Media barons and gossip columnists aside, almost everybody seems to agree with this sentiment. On Q&A, for example – a television program that prides itself on its balanced nature – such statements are regularly treated to universal applause.

Last Monday night’s episode of the ABC panel show highlighted a perfect example. On the panel sat political representatives and expert commentators and in the crowd sat politically engaged citizens.

While the conversation did touch on relevant topics such as forestry and gambling reform, a good chunk of the night was focused on Julia Gillard’s backside. Unlike the episode from a fortnight earlier, where Germaine Greer surprisingly turned this into a national conversation, this week’s discussion was critiquing the subsequent backlash.

In unison the crowd and panellists alike came to the conclusion that Ms Gillard’s bottom was not worth discussing.

Once again, the regulation comeback came to fruition. Labor’s Julie Collins reinforced the unimportance of personal appearance and the strong Tasmanian crowd gave her an affirming ovation.

The fact that people continue to applaud this point is no blight on them, after all they confirming a valid complaint. The point has already been made, and has been laboured to death. We’re still stuck on the same page we were on a year ago.

Julia Gillard and Tony Jones share a laugh

Yes, we know all too well that the political discourse in this country can be pitiful. But too many politicians are only adding to the noise.

The Demon players leave the field

Melbourne’s 41-point loss to Brisbane was disappointing, but not because it didn’t honour Jim Stynes.

There is no doubt that Jimmy Stynes had a profound impact on the Melbourne Football Club.

Likewise it goes without saying that his untimely death two weeks ago has sent shockwaves through the playing group.

Jimmy meant a lot to them. And of course they would have wanted to honour him.

It would have been a glorious football fairytale had the Demons beat Brisbane on Saturday.

But the reality is that fairytales are make-believe. While every now and then a real-life equivalent might pop up life doesn’t necessarily operate the way we’d always like it to.

From an Aussie Rules perspective, the reality for the Demons is that they simply aren’t good enough at the moment.

Indeed, the Dees were behind the eight ball even before Stynes passed away.

In the weeks leading up to the season proper, Melbourne was smashed by Hawthorn by 79 points, before losing to the lowly Port Adelaide by 48.

Both losses were convincing and brutal. They were also the kind of thing you’d expect from a bottom-eight side, trying to acclimatise themselves to the structures of a new leader.

Sure, it’s naive to read too much into pre-season form. But Melbourne fielded strong sides in both games. And they wanted to win.

After all, why wouldn’t they have? Given the Demons’ rotten run of luck over the past few seasons a win is a win is a win, pre-season or not.

Furthermore, with new coach Mark Neeld wiping the slate clean, every player was playing for their spot in the team.

That Melbourne followed up these disappointing performances with a poor performance against the Lions is a shame. But it’s understandable and should have been expected.

Yes; Jim Stynes’ death should have provided the Demons players with some extra motivation.

But can motivation be directly translated into skill? Can motivation improve a player’s strength, speed or kicking ability?

Jim Stynes and the fans that adored him

People talk about the spirit of a person living on in a team’s performance. But how does that work in pragmatic terms?

Did fans honestly expect the ghost of Stynes to be present in the mortal bodies of the Melbourne playing group?

We are talking about demons after all.

Without trying to state the obvious, the Melbourne players can only do what they can do.

The death of Jimmy Stynes might have made them emotionally stronger, or given them a bonus incentive to win. But it’s unreasonable for us to expect that it would have made them better footballers.

Better footballers for a solitary weekend, I might add.

If Melbourne is seriously dedicated to honouring Stynes and his legacy, fans don’t want this to be represented by fleeting moments anyway.

Rather, they want to see chronic changes in attitude and behaviour.

It is flawed to expect that the Demons put in 110 percent for games of emotional significance.

First of all, giving 110 percent is physically impossible. It’s an utterly meaningless piece of rhetoric.

Secondly, such a concept implies that the team plays below their capacity on a regular basis, and that they possess an extra supply of skill and effort, tucked away in an “emergency-only” container.

What rubbish. If a team is capable of winning a game of football, then I expect them to play their hardest to win that game of football, regardless of the occasion.

Thirdly, this logic forgets to account for the opponent. The Brisbane players wanted to win that game of football just as desperately as their Melbourne foes.

Stynes’ death wouldn’t have compromised the intensity and passion with which the Lions intended to bring to the game.

The Melbourne players are not heartless. They love Jimmy as much as anybody.

And the Melbourne players work and play hard. Like every other team in the competition they don’t compete half-heartedly.

As such, Melbourne fans should not blame their club for not living up to fairytale expectations.

If anything, their biggest complaint should be that the Demons simply aren’t yet good enough.