Rod Cunthorpe is the brains behind a new breakaway pro surfing tour. Unfortunately he made the mistake of emailing Kelly Slater and telling him about it.

Rod’s the brains behind a new breakaway pro surfing tour. Unfortunately he made the mistake of emailing Kelly Slater and telling him all about it.

Hey fuckholes, by now you’ve probably heard a few rumours about a new whizzfuck breakaway pro surfing tour. You’ve also probably heard that old Rod Cunthorpe, as ever, has been at the centre of all the commotion, dipping his sticy wick and stirring the pot. Well it’s all true and I’m here to use my column to turn those ugly rumours into crystal clear cold shiny fact. That’s right, I basically proposed the whole new deal, and to prove it, here is a transcript of an email conversation between myself and one Kelly Slater, where I walked him through the proposal that could drag pro surfing into the 20th century.

From: [email protected]

[email protected]

Hey Head Slap, sorry about the other night, I should never have put that dencorub in your sunscreen bottle, let alone in your missus’ vagicream. She was a bit hot under the uhm… collar, wasn’t she? Anyway… laugh? Christ, did I. But enough apologies cos I have a revolutionary idea that will take pro surfing back to its early ‘80s heyday. I’m thinking bums on seats, packed summer beaches, 485 surfers per comp, 76 comps per year, bigger trophies, less prizemoney. And, mate, you could even judge the whole thing!

[email protected]: Who is this? How have you hacked into my email account? Is this a prank? Vagicream, what the… Anyway I’ll set you straight – I’m thinking the opposite. It’s about eight top ranked surfers, eight handpicked wildcards, eight mega profile events…

[email protected]: Yeah, yeah exactly like I said and with eight spectators – we could have a competition, kinda It’s a Knockout meets Ultimate Cage Fighter to see who watches all the events. Dudes would have to say, try and finger all of Sunny Garcia’s ex-wives while he marauded around smoking ice with a spiked club. Or the first eight lucky punters able to wrestle Eddie Rothman, pin him and give him the typewriter, complete with sharp finger drum on his chest and end of reel head slap. Or maybe we pick the survivors out of 15 referees of a drunken Irons brothers brawl…

[email protected]: No, not eight spectators, it would be all about the live webcast, backed with a primetime TV package that has direct synergies with the live output. It would be all newly skinned with consistent graphics, editorial tone and TV production, point of sale merch, high definition cameras and expert commentary, a complete visual package.

[email protected]: That was my idea too! We can do live crosses in between women’s volleyball matches to Darrel Eastlake giving it the big “Huuugge”, Mike Gibson talking about cut downs and the rest of the 30 second segments devoted between hot chicks on the beach eating pluto pups and ‘best camel toe’ bikini comps. Fuck Slats, I have a full blown rabid mongrel just thinking about it.

[email protected]: What on earth are you talking about? Who are you? How did you get my email? I’m talking prime time TV, only eight tour stops, huge prizemoney, corporate brand backing and removing the ASP, basically a well meaning, but toothless, sanctioning body, whose lack of real assets make it a current stumbling block. I want surfing and the surfers to own the sport and capitalise on an untapped global market.

[email protected]: Eight stops yeah, kinda like a walk home from the pub isn’t it? Three stops for the kebabs, three for the post kebab vomits, and two for the Rohys to kick in. Yep I’m with you Slats and I’ve got the vision and know-how to make it happen – I’m seeing me, you, Middelton, South Point, Crescent Head, Cocoa Beach, that chef that surfs on TV, Jennifer Anniston on a Stand Up Paddleboard, your manager, a hot presenter with fake cans from ESPN, Bondi Beach… A heady souped up mix of high performance waves, futuristic surfing, global mass marketing, huge hits on Clitter and FaceCum, big bucks, nude sluts wrestling with live lobsters as weapons in huge clear tanks and me and you battling it out for the world title!! Oh God, I’ve just spunked all over my Commodore ‘64.

[email protected]: This isn’t cool. I don’t know what acid you are on, but you’re off beam, delusional and I’m calling the cybercops, my manager and every one of my eight lawyers. This is about taking control from the event sponsors, about surfers having control of their sport and pushing it like never before…

[email protected]: Sorry Slats, gotta go, the keybbbbbbbooooarrrrrrd issssss stttticckkkkkkking. And I’ve had a new hit on the webcam I stashed in my 14 year old cousin’s toilet. We’ll talk later, in the meantime, keep this under wraps…