The Muffin Top 2003-2007

It is with huge relief and no little thankfulness that As A Dodo can confirm the death of The "Muffin Top", which was first announced by the BBC on 15 August 2007.

The Muffin Top - the unsightly excess of flab spilling over the top of a pair of trousers, was born at some time in the early noughties. It was at this time that a Western population used to levels of activity more usually seen in a three-toed sloth and individual levels of food intake usually found only in Biblical-scale swarms of locusts first came into contact with large amounts of expensive, low-slung and tight-hipped trouserage originally designed to adorn the bodies of fashion models whose monthly ingestion consisted only of a piece of lettuce, several thousand cigarettes and enough white powder to mark out the pitch at Wembley for all eternity.

The early meetings of these two - one an irresistible piece of designer-inspired clothing, the other an almost immovable piece of lard - did not go well. Those who witnessed the early attempts to mate obese bodies and slim denim still recoil in horror at memories of twisted bodies, ripped fabric and shop assistants rendered blind by rivets popping free of their blue-jean homes. Yet somehow, union was achieved - hundreds of pounds of adipose tissue were eased slowly inside denim sheaths, copper riveted buttons were slipped into the appropriate holes and vast amounts of fat, together with wholly unnecessary inches of buttock crevice, leapt upward and outward in exuberant celebration.

For years, the new child went - like a child in a David Pelzer book - unnamed, wandering the streets of the Western world (and anywhere else obesity and poor fashion sense went hand-in-hand) lonely and unloved. It was in Australia that it first found its true home, after an irritatingly fit Aussie popping into Starbucks noted the similarity between the midportions of the American tourist in front of him and the overspilling extra large muffin she was holding and finally gave the phenomenon its name - just before being whacked in the face by the American tourist in front of his equally large husband.

From there on The Muffin Top went from strength to strength - seeing off such phenomena as the whale tail - and finding a place on streets across much of the globe, often just outside the nearest fast food restaurant. Many assumed that The Muffin Top would always be with us, a handy reminder of the evils of consumerist society, but it was not to be. Bored at last with their hipster jeans, designers now decreed that the world should wear high waisted skirts and trousers, forcing the overspilling flab within a new casing and starving it of the exposure it so obviously craved.

The Muffin Top will be buried in an overly small coffin at midday, only for most of it to pop out seconds after the lid has been banged on. It is survived by the belly bulge, the turkey wattle, the banana fold, the love handle and the bingo wings.

England's Hopes of Retaining "The Ashes" 2005-2006

England's Hopes of Retaining "The Ashes" suffered an ignominous death in Brisbane today, passing away during those "wee small hours of the morning" which are so notoriously the time for the weak and infirm to shuffle off this mortal coil, a reputation they doubtless gained due to the fact they are also the hours when any English cricketers who happen to be in Australia at the time will be beginning the day's play.

The manner of England's Ashes Hopes' death - going down amid the boos and jeers of a hard-bitten audience of 40,000 Australians after a half-hearted display of comical batting and inept bowling - will have come as a shock to all those who remember the Hopes' in their prime, just one year ago. Back then England's Ashes Hopes were the country's favourite entertainment, a travelling show that journeyed from cricket ground to cricket ground mounting an extraordinary display of pyrotechnic batting and laser-guided bowling, culminating in spectacular victory over the Aussies. Such was its popularity that Britons who had never previously shown any interest in cricket before - including millions of football fans, thousands of console-addicted teens and vast numbers of senior politicians eager to jump on any passing bandwagon - began to profess an undying love for the thwack of leather on willow or, even better, leather on Australian body part.

England's Ashes Hopes were to reach their apotheosis on 13 September 2005, when the members of the troupe - arriving in high spirits (thought to be largely gin and vodka) in Trafalgar Square after a night out on the town (and in several bars) - were feted by a massed crowd in Trafalgar Square, before being taken to Number 10 Downing Street for a reception with the Prime Minister himself. It was at this point that the first chink in England's Hopes' armour began to show, after Andrew "Freddie" Flintoff failed - despite having imbibed sufficient alcohol to stun several large elephants or a whole American tourist - to be sick over the PM when Mr Blair asserted how happy he had been to witness Donald Bradman scoring the winning goal for the England XV at the end of the fifth chukka.

From such heights the fall is inevitably far and fast. Within months, the ravages of time were showing upon the bodies of the cast: limbs (particularly those belonging to Michael Vaughan, Simon Jones and Andrew Flintoff) began to fail and the old passion suddenly seemed to be lacking (particularly in the vicinity of Marcus Trescothick). With new members drafted in to the troupe in haste and a packed tour schedule to fulfil, performances inevitably began to suffer. What was once the greatest show in England grew ever more reliant on extraordinary displays of strength from its new leader, Andrew Flintoff. When even these began to fail to bring in the crowds, England's Hopes started to become a sad parody of their former selves, with some even whispering that what simple spectacles they could achieve were aided by performance-enhancing umpiring.

With a certain grim inevitability, the cast of England's Ashes Hopes - like Ernie Wise - found themselves heading to Australia to try and recapture a portion of former glory. No longer Michael Vaughan's Conquering Heroes, they had reinvented themselves as Fred Flinto's Army: a comedy troupe - featuring such luminaries as Steve "Mind Yer Winders" Harmison, Kevin "The Mad Badger" Pietersen and Geraint "Butterfingers" Jones - who would emerge from their clown bus at each new venue before collapsing spectacularly in a display of comedy batting. Sadly, British acts of this sort had been regulars upon the Australian cricket stage for nearly two decades, leading to an inevitable death in Brisbane this morning.

The funeral for England's Hopes of Retaining the Ashes will be held a week on Tuesday following the close of the second Test. The sermon will be delivered by Steve Harmison ... probably in the direction of Ulan Bator. England's Ashes Hopes will be buried alongside England's Association Football World Cup Hopes, England's Rugby Football World Cup hopes and Tim Henman. Well-wishers are asked not to send flowers ... but if they could rustle up some competent cricketers that would be hugely appreciated.

Those Who Knew Them: Steve Irwin 1962-2006

Welcome to the first in an occasional series, in which we at As A Dodo throw our columns open to the family, friends and acquaintances of the recently deceased. For the first in the series, we approached someone who worked for many years with the famous Australian naturalist Steve Irwin, his old sparring partner Mr Bruce Crocodile.

'Jeez mate, Steve Irwin, what can you say? I know a lot of people across the whole ruddy world are gonna miss old Stevie. A lot of people. Not quite so many animals mind you. Take me for instance, there I was one arvo lying around in a creek up near Kookamularatawatimadingo waiting for a couple of tourists to decide to have a skinny dip (I hate to get sidetracked, but I love it when that happens: "I say, Davina, have you seen this funny log? - It looks just like a crocodile", "Yes it does, doesn't it Anthony? Anthony? I say Anthony, where are you?", "Awwwlllfggfggsgdfgs get it off me, oh Christ get it off my rawlf arrgle, crunch" - it's great, mate, and tasty too). Anyway, there I was in the creek minding my own bizzo, next thing you know there's some sunbleached ocker with a noose around my gob, pointing me at a ruddy camera and telling everyone about my mating habits. I ask you, how would he have liked it if I'd done that to him? Not that I reckon he got round to doing much mating himself - not with shorts that tight.

Fair do's, I admit I had a bit of a grudge against old Steve from that day on. Especially when he upped and stuck me in his ruddy zoo. He looked after us pretty well though. Sure there was always the risk he'd try and stick a finger up your freckle to make you smile for the camera, but the accomodation was pretty decent and the tucker was ace. Once he even offered me his baby. Fair play to him: he might have spent the last ten years giving me the raw prawn but serving up your firstborn as a mid-morning belt-loosener makes up for most things in my book. The bugger of it was the press was there, so he had to take the little ankle biter away before I even got a taste.

Anyway, Steve Irwin. Decent bloke. And anyone who denies it doesn't know Christmas from Bourke Street. At least he got off his fat date and did something with his life - even if that something was buggering around with animals who just wanted a quiet life and the odd pommie tourist to snack on. Go on, raise a tinny to him. And if you're ever down here in Oz, come over to the zoo and look me up, I won't bite ... honest.'