In which our intrepid hero offers his wisdom to an athlete of renown.

I’m draped across the lounge, watching National Nine Not-Nearly News. Predictably, Shane Warne’s extra-marital activities precede segments on the impending collapse of the NSW dental health system and the war in Iraq; in fact, Warne’s antics take up a sizeable portion of the bulletin’s first ten minutes.

It now appears that I’m the only human being on the planet never to have exchanged fluids with Shane Warne. Which is a shame, really; all these ex-lovers seem to be making an awful lot of money, alternately fessing up the sordid details of their respective liaisons, accusing Warne of harassment and hypocritically complaining that the media intrudes on their privacy.

And so, my advice to Warney is this: next time, cut out the middle men. Shag a journo instead.

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