Homoerotic Fan Fiction Uncovered in Australian Dressing Rooms

Following Usman Khawaja’s salacious bum grab of Adam Zampa during the recent One Day series against New Zealand, The Public Apology can exclusively reveal an extract of erotic fan-fiction found by cleaning staff after the game.


Adam Zampa sat quietly alone, polishing his bat in the Australian changing room. He had dreamed of being amongst these lockers since he first picked up a bit of wood and started frantically playing with his balls in that Shellharbour backyard all those years ago.

He was nervous, sure, but his excitement was also palpable. The familiar scent of the oil that lubricated and hardened the willow in his hand went some way in calming his nerves as well.

“What a nice hunk of wood.”

He looked up and saw a man he had long looked up to, leaning languidly against the changing room entrance. Usman Khawaja. THE form player of international cricket.

Zampa reddened under his gaze.

“Don’t blush baby,” Khawaja smiled, “I like a man who takes care of his kit.”

Zampa smiled sheepishly back. “I saw you bat today, your stroke play was magnificent.”

Khawaja gave a careless shrug, as if to say it ain’t no thang.

He entered the room proper and sat by Zampa’s side. “I can teach you if you like?”

"It was consensual ... "
“It was consensual … “

“Teach me how to bat?”

“Yeah. I’ve learned a few things around the circuit. Do you consider yourself an all-rounder?

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Khawaja chuckled and then gently rubbed his thigh. “You’re funny. I like funny … You’ve got a fine leg too.” His hand moved up and grabbed Zampa’s middle stump. “Will you bat with me?” He asked, before getting right up in his grill to score a cheeky single on his lips.

“Uh – I suppose.” Zampa stammered. The taste of fluorescent zinc still dancing upon his lips as he hardened between Khawaja’s vice like grip.

Khawaja swiftly pulled back the covers of Zampa’s training silkies. “Let’s start with a full toss so I can see your pull shot.”

“I’m more of a hooker …”

His soft hands stopped in their tracks. “I don’t bounce that way.” He said sternly.

“Of course.” Zampa spluttered apologetically. “I’m sorry, it’s your call.”

Before he knew what was happening, Khawaja had spun him around and had his face pushed into the cold, wet cement of the floor. His posterior arched longingly in the air.

“How about I just bowl while you keep?” He whispered gruffly into his ear.

“Ok.” Zampa replied nervously. Khawaja had a tight grip of him and he was beginning to worry it was more than he could handle.

“Did you bring any gloves?”

“Always.” He slipped one on and gently slipped inside him. “Howzat?” He asked with a surprising tenderness.

“I’m a little worried about runs, I’ve got form.”

“It’s ok. I love a dusty wicket.” He reached under and gently cupped his baggy green. “No ball?”

“A childhood accident.” Zampa responded impatiently, tired of being treated like he was a maiden and keen for a powerplay. “Just shut up and fuck me, you FUCKING COWARD!”

Dramatic reenactment.

Enlivened, Khawaja started pushing the boundaries. He worked wood and ball furiously together in a symphonic harmony that had Zampa humming as he began to feel the full force of his debut. It was a rough, grinding knock and just what was needed in the context of the session.

“Are you a finisher Adam? Finish me!” Khawaja shouted at the top of his lungs.

“YES! YES! YES!” Was Zampa’s euphoric response.

With one fine straight drive, Usman shuddered and reached his milestone deep within Zampa’s player’s tunnel.

Zampa sobbed with joy beneath him. “I love you.” He whispered, as he tried to extract himself from the tangle of limbs and turn to face him.

“I’m not out yet.” Khawaja grumbled as he pushed him back down. “I like to stay in as long as I can.”

Eventually, Khawaja removed himself from both Zampa and the glove – the latter he hurled it into Davey Warner’s kit-bag with a sinister chuckle.

“Will I see you again?” Zampa asked desperately from the ground, his face awash with emotion.

Khawaja looked coldly at him as he put his thick willow away and sidled to the door. “No. That’s over.”

By Alasdair McClintock

Should Steve Smith Be the Next Australian Captain? TPA Decides

As previously flagged, The Public Apology is running a 4-part series to determine who should succeed Michael Clarke as Australia’s next test captain. In this first instalment, Ben Shine takes a close and at-times absurd look at the short-odds favourite, Steve Smith.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Steve Smith has all the right attributes to captain Australia, but that doesn’t mean he should.

On paper, he looks the perfect fit. Steve is not only very good at cricket, he’s a marketer’s dream: blonde, supremely talented and in possession of the most Anglo name imaginable.

But while someone called “Steve Smith” may provide comfort and familiarity for Australia’s white, suburban fan base, a deeper look reveals at the name some serious red flags.

On first glance, Steve Smith shares his name with the erstwhile Minister for Defence and Western Australian MP – who by all accounts was a competent and decent bloke, but one who was promised and then passed up not once, but twice, for the coveted Foreign Affairs Ministry (in favour of Kevin Rudd and Bob Carr, no less).

There is a lesson to be learned here. Steve Smiths are nice, good at what they do, but ultimately aren’t ruthless enough to land the prize gig. Always the bridesmaid…

By all accounts a lovely guy
By all accounts a lovely guy

But there is more to Steve Smith’s name, and these extra details provide an illuminating insight into the man’s character.

The Public Apology’s Investigations Unit dug a little deeper (checked Wikipedia) and discovered  Steve’s full name is actually Steven Peter Devereux “Steve” Smith.

This is worrying.

Firstly, while the name “Steve Smith” may appear very English and evoke the strong cultural and historical bonds between Australia with the Mother Country, the cricketer’s middle name “Devereux” points to Gaelic bloodlines.

The French are known primarily for their fine food, wine, art and willingness to accept exiled rugby league players – not their cricket. Equally, their reputation for wilfuly surrendering at the slightest provocation is not a characteristic we want to see in our Captain.

The second, and most important thing to note about Steve’s name is that he is in fact, not a Steve, but a Steven. While the presence of the single letter “N” would appear insignificant, I assure you it is not.

Names say a lot about a person’s character, and Steve and Steven represent two very different types of people.

Steve is a breezily cool dude whose effortless success on the pitch is only matched by the runs he notches up on the circuit.

Steve lived by the mantra: A durry a day keeps the doctor away
Macca always played better with a durry

Steve is supremely gifted, but also inherently lazy. He can win you a game, but he can also lose you a game.

In contrast, Stevens*carry a lot of emotional baggage. Typically speaking, a Steven is a bit of a square. He is a mother’s boy whose innate lack of self esteem is expressed in a desperate desire to please others.

Steven wants to be known as Steve, but will never, ever shake his long-form moniker – which is only ever delivered in a condescending manner, like a parent admonishing a naughty child.

Steven faced the dim prospect of yet another grounding
Steven faced the dim prospect of yet another grounding

Needless to say, a Steven should not be captaining Australia.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Australia in the midst of a crisis. Our economy is painfully transitioning from resources to services-led growth, the Government is struggling to pass budgetary measures needed to address rampant national debt and our cricket team just returned from a spanking by Pakistan in Dubai.

We need a strong leader to get us out of our current situation. We need a Captain who is characterized by his toughness, grit and pragmatism, as well as the presence several personality disorders.

Our Captain should be taciturn and prone to bouts of grumpiness, like he is stoically battling a mammoth hangover. Gruff, in desperate need of a bacon and egg roll, yet determined to win the day.

Skip looks sternly towards the dressing room - he had asked for his Berocca fifteen minutes ago.
Skip glared towards the dressing room – he had asked for his Berocca more than fifteen minutes ago.

Steven Smith, for all his admirable qualities, does not fit this description.

Steven is fantastic cricketer, but as his name suggests, he tries a little too hard to be cool. He wears a flat-brim snapback cap, but it falls flat (pardon the pun).

It's cricket, yo.
But it’s cricket, yo.

Steven also can’t sledge properly. Try as he might, but batsmen and teammates alike confuse his insults with good-natured conversation. He, is simply put, too nice.

What Australia needs now is a tough, no-nonsense Captain to steer us through the uncertain and forever-changing landscape of international cricket.

We need a Steve, not a Steven.

By Ben Shine

*Not to be confused with Stephen, as in Stephen Roger Waugh. This name bestows entirely different characteristics.

It May Be An Arab Gulf Emirate Very Far from Home, But What Happens in Dubai Does Not Stay in Dubai

Like a young woman on her first Contiki trip to Europe, the Australian Test side did something overseas they wouldn’t normally do.

Finding themselves thousands of miles from home and seemingly liberated from the stifling social expectations of their peers, parents and boyfriends, they chose to recklessly experiment.

While the Aussies did not enter a three-person sexual liaison ala the plot to Vicky Cristina Barcelona, they still did get up to some pretty weird shit.

It was difficult to resist Javier's charms
It was difficult to resist Javier’s charms

Whether it was dumping Alex Doolan for someone who considers it acceptable to play a reverse sweep shot in Test cricket (while batting at first drop, no less), or Michael Clarke employing a straight hit, and other odd-ball fielding tactics, the Australians tried things in the UAE they wouldn’t normally do at home.

And while this experimentation will not likely result in an awkward conversation at the sexual health clinic three months down the track, it has a more immediate impact. Chiefly, it lowers the prestige of the Baggy Green.

It’s clear the Australian selectors wrote off these Tests as irrelevant. With plenty of fan sentiment capital in the bank following the successful Ashes series and tour of South Africa, they chose to experiment in a series watched by a few.

But it backfired. The Australian cricket team were caught off-guard by the reaction to their 2-nil shellacking at the hands of Pakistan in Dubai – but they shouldn’t have been. Michael Clarke should not be “bemused” that his captaincy was questioned upon his return.

As the pin-up boy for the iPhone generation, Clarke should know better. Dubai may be in another time zone, but with things like the Internet, Foxtel and live score apps, the action on the pitch has never been closer.

If it can pay taxi drivers, it can do anything.
If it can pay taxi drivers, it can do anything.

Maybe the Aussies could’ve gotten away with this in the eighties. Not now. Not with the Internet, social media and weird shit like Snapchat and Tinder.

Just like rugby league players are slowly (ever so slowly) learning that “what happens on tour” no longer “stays on tour”, what you do overseas is now just likely to be noticed as if you were doing it in front of someone’s nose.

While this technology may be simultaneously ruining / making our lives better, it is also making location and distance irrelevant.

Australia is no longer beset by the tyranny of distance. The sooner Boof, Clarke et al realise this, the better.

By Ben Shine, with staff writers