Tiger Woods has finally broken one of the longest droughts of his career, clinching the Arnold Palmer Invitational before satiating himself in a marathon hotel orgy with 100 carefully selected Orlando hookers and US$40,000 worth of Perrier Jouët.
Well, the last part is fictional, but would you blame him if it wasn’t? Seriously, the guy has copped it from more angles than [insert porn star of your choice] ever since he crashed his car into a fire hydrant some 30 months ago – a poignant analogy for what his life would become. But while the world has dined on the tawdry details – every lascivious voice message, the specific sexual requests, etc – for the best part of three years, Tiger has finally done what many thought seemingly impossible. He’s won a tournament. And now, with the Masters just weeks today, he could be an outsider to take home the Green Jacket once again. And while he’ll remain a punchline for sometime yet, he’s at least reminding us of what he was born to do – utterly dominate a sport in a way no one has ever before.
Woods is hard to dislike – particularly if you’re a man. He’s one of the greatest athletes to ever emerge and his incredible life story – took up golf at two; first broke 80 at a professional golf course at the age of eight – only adds to his aura. As an athlete of mixed race – one-quarter Chinese and one-quarter Thai, one-quarter African American, one-eighth Native American, and one-eighth Dutch, Woods has also proved something of an inspiration for other young minorities looking to take up what is a sport inherently designed for the white, cigar-puffing middle-class. He’s also dabbled in philanthropy, establishing a foundation aimed at promoting golf among inner-city children. Within it is a learning centre that provides college-access program for underserved youth.
Woods is easy to dislike – particularly if you’re a woman. Leaving the whole sexual deviancy thing aside, he doesn’t come across too well on the court. Whether it’s arcing up at fans who take photos in his backswing or chucking his club towards the crowd after an errant shot, Tiger’s calm, Buddhist roots clearly lie dormant. While men can appreciate his tenacity and competitive nature, women see a snarling misogynist with an acute sense of entitlement. He’s also made billions off his squeaky-clean image, which is perhaps tantamount to some kind of white collar fraud crime.
So what to make of the New Tiger? It is interesting that he’s coming into form just days away from the release of former coach Hank Haney’s tell-all book, which threatens to Give The Real Story on what Tiger was like to work with. In it, we will learn of Woods’ military obsession and how it nearly derailed his career, his petulance as a client, and, presumably, more scandalous deets on his sinful past. But Haney’s tome will show us nothing new or serve any purpose rather than boost an opportunist’s bank balance by cashing in on his relationship with the world’s most high-profile golfer.
The people are starting to come around to Tiger – and it’s about time. If there’s anything to be learned from Woods’ absolute fucking disintegration fall from grace, it’s that athletes are, on a human level, as deeply flawed as the rest of us. Not that we didn’t already know that.
Honestly, if that orgy story I made up was actually true, I wouldn’t hold it against him. The guy deserves to blow off a bit of steam – and what better way to do so than in a palatial five-star hotel with some of Florida’s finest.
Wayne Rooney has broken the wrist of a nine-year-old Manchester United supporter with a stray shot during his side’s 5-0 win at Wolverhampton Wanderers last weekend. However, the incident has provoked a new push to make milk mandatory in UK school canteens, a desperate – and possibly futile – attempt to prevent English youngsters from growing up into brittle, sugar-dependent adults.
Little Jamie Thomas was struck on the wrist as he tried galliantly to block a typically thunderous Rooney strike. In tremendous pain, the youngster managed to watch the first half of the match, but was later taken into the first aid tent before being ushered off to hospital.
Rooney has since apologised to the kid and arranged for one of his minions to send a letter and “personalised gift” to his home address. However, the Man United star has called on the UK School Canteen Association to bring in a new range of healthy food options to make available to school kids – including cartons of organic milk specifically to increase calcium levels.
“Clearly, this didn’t use to happen. When I was growing up as a little chav, I always drank a pint of milk every recess, which my mum packed for me everyday,” Rooney explained.
“It made my bones nice and strong and provided the calcium and nutrition needed to get me through the day. It also went really well with the durries I used to smoke covertly behind the girls toilets.”
“But now kids snack on lollies, sticky buns and fizzy drinks at recess and lunch – and look what’s happening! How the fuck are we going to produce the next David James or David Seaman if these little pricks can’t even make a simple save? Jesus, I only hit it at 85% force anyway, I was trying to curl it into the left corner!”
UK School Canteen Association spokesperson Myrtle Oswald told The Public Apology that the government funded body had actually implemented a healthy eating program back in 2003, but kids had shunned the initiative.
“They just didn’t want a bar of it. It was all about Dr. Pepper, Coke and Barr’s Ginger Beer. So we canceled the program immediately. But you could see the wave of injuries in the school playgrounds as as result of this malnutrition. Broken legs and arms at recess – all due to not getting that essential daily calcium fix.”
“This is an investment in UK football as much as it is in getting our kids ‘healthy for life’ – whatever the fuck that actually means.”
The SCA will meet today to vote on whether a new mandatory canteen menu should be implemented across the UK. If successful, it is expected that school bullies will beat the fuck out of little Jamie Thomas at recess on Monday.
Controversial swimmer Nick D’Arcy has qualified for the 2012 Olympic Games – but the celebrations were a little bit tamer this time around, The Public Apology can report.
D’Arcy has struggled in the four years since he was named in the 2008 Australian Olympic squad. Back then, the swimmer was charged with assaulting former Commonwealth Games triple gold medalist Simon Cowley on the very night he qualified for Beijing. He eventually pled guilty to one charge of recklessly inflicting grievous bodily harm, while the victim suffered multiple fractures to his jaw, eye socket, hard palate, cheek bone and nose.
As is often the case with these things, alcohol played a defining role in D’Arcy’s downfall. The Australian team had been celebrating at notorious Sydney scenester haunt Cargo Bar before graduating to nearby Loft Bar, where D’Arcy taunted golden boy Eamon Sullivan for refusing a drink. Cowley stepped in and offered a gentle, fatherly slap across D’Arcy face, which threw the youngster into a fit of violent, booze-fueled rage.
Four years on and D’Arcy has again qualified for the Olympic Games. But what, if anything, has changed? The Public Apology spoke exclusively with D’Arcy as to his exact whereabouts on the night of 18 March – and why he won’t be bashing blokes for no reason any time soon.
The Public Apology: “Nick, it’s fair to say that you probably weren’t slamming tequila shots, racking lines and buying “dancer dollars” at Men’s Gallery last Thursday night. So where did you kick things off that night?”
Nick D’Arcy: “Well I don’t know what you get up to on the weekend, Dave, but I just thought with all the intense media attention I’ve copped over the years that I’d take it easy this time around. Plus the King St Wharf bar scene has turned to shit in the four years since I’ve been there. It’s totes full of douchebag suits from KPMG and assorted Big Four banks trying to outdo each other in purchasing expensive rounds of 15-year-old double malt whisky, while basking in sexually charged – but ultimately futile – conversation about ‘the things I’d do to that chick in the pink dress’. ”
TPA: “That’s a nice analysis of the Sydney bar scene, Nick. But back to my question, where did you commence your celebrations last Thursday night. You’re not telling me that you simply went home to catch the My Kitchen Rules/Grey’s Anatomy double header?”
D’Arcy: “No, no, I’m not some sad fuck! You might be surprised by this, but I’ve managed to procure a girlfriend over the past four years.”
TPA: [muffled laughter]
D’Arcy: “Yeah, I know, pretty amazing right, with all the shit publicity I’ve copped over the past few years?! Not to mention that pesky little failed drug test in 2009 and my recent filing for bankruptcy. But yeah, she and I met up after the race and went for a soy chai at a cute little cafe in Evandale. After that I headed out to have a sedate dinner with my parents, who have been – as you’d expect from parents – long time supporters of mine.”
TPA: “And at which fine Adelaide establishment did the D’Arcy’s dine?”
D’Arcy: “We went to Redsalt, which is part of Adelaide’s new Crowne Plaza hotel. My family and I were treated to some of the freshest, in-season produce by chef Bradd John, whose reputation precedes him. The sage gnocchi that I ordered was perfectly flavour-matched with porchetta, braised fennel, capers, anchovies and lemon. In it, I sensed nuances of both France and Italy.”
TPA: [applauding] “Bravo, Nick D’Arcy. You clearly have a formidable palette and a wonderful sense of food history. But all that wank aside, may I ask whether the dinner was a dry affair? I know from personal experience that Redsalt is a strictly on-licence establishment; and being in Adelaide, I can only imagine the wine list would have featured some of the most desirable South Australian drops from the Clare Valley, McLaren Vale and the Barossa? Were you tempted to order a Setanta Black Sanglain Adelaide Hills Cabernet Sauvignon 2008, for example?”
D’Arcy: “No, no. Look don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing better than a full-bodied South Australian Cabernet. But I settled for a bottle of Evian sparkling water, which allowed me to enjoy my full-flavoured dish without compromising its integrity. See, I’m a changed man!”
TPA: “Some reports have said you were ejected from an insalubrious Adelaide nightclub later that evening. Is this just another case of journalists making up rubbish, or were you indeed out at 3a.m. as some have suggested?”
D’Arcy: “That’s rubbish. Absolutely fabricated, unfettered garbage. And I’d expect nothing less from The Public Apology, which has for years [Ed: this publication was launched in mid-2011] run a smear campaign against the D’Arcy name. Sure, I was ‘seen’ outside a nightclub last Thursday at 3a.m., but that’s only because I was heading to training and thought I’d do a bit of sight-seeing on the way. Some paparazzi saw me outside the nightclub and concocted a litany of lies. But I was obviously on my way to an early morning training session. I mean, fuck me – I was even wearing my speedos!”
TPA: “Ok, Nick, we believe you. So let’s fast foward to the London Olympics, assuming you don’t get yourself in more damage – be it financial or criminal – before then. After all this time, all these hurdles, will you be satisfied with anything less than a gold medal?”
D’Arcy: “Mate, I’ve worked my arse off to get here and I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t be disappointed with anything less than gold. But what I really crave is the approval of the Australian people. For example, I’d love it if my name wasn’t constantly prefaced with ‘the embattled/controversial swimmer’ in News Limited articles. It’d be great if following these Games I was, for example, ‘gold medalist Nick D’Arcy’, or ‘Australia’s boy wonder Nick D’Arcy’. Yeah, I really like the sound of the last one, actually.”
TPA: “And assuming all goes to plan, do you think Australians will ever forgive you for that fateful night four years ago?”
D’Arcy: “Mate, I fucking hope so. I’ve been really good lately, staying off the booze and avoiding getting into fights. But Australians have a long memory and some cunts just love cutting down tall poppies. I’ve actually been trying to re-edit my Wiki page for the past four years, but dickheads keep putting all my controversial shit back in there. I swear, some fucker has got a massive vendetta against me. Actually, looking at the writing style, it kind of reminds me of the way you write. Have you been hacking my Wiki page?! You little cunt!!!!”
TPA: “Fuck no bro, I’ve got better things to do. But we must never hide from the truth Nick; rather, we must grow to accept it and live with it. I wish you all the best in London and I hope – good fucking God I pray – that you stay off the cans over there long enough to win yourself a gold medal, and the redemption you crave so much.”
D’Arcy: “Cheers mate, appreciate it. I’ll do my best.”