Cleaver's Games: March 27

There are times when irony is so rich it is impossible to ignore. Like during the past week when some newspapers have breathlessly reported on the culture of binge drinking within the New Zealand camp.

This insidious culture was fully in evidence last night, although there wasn't an athlete in sight.

Last night was "blow out" night among the journalists. As soon as the last story was filed - around 8pm local time in my case - the bottle tops were opened, the caps were unscrewed, the cask wine was untapped.

It was a natural release after two solid 20-hour weeks.

The photographers went mental. They always do.

There's an inherent photographer-reporter tension that always rears its head at events like the Commonwealth Games.

Scribblers v Snappers.

While we scribblers are quite happy with our place in the general scheme of things, snappers are always miserable. They're frustrated artists, veritable van Goghs forced to work alongside clowns and tragics.

When the bell signals the end of the game they pour their frustrations out in a single hit. That's what makes them such dangerous individuals.

I'm sitting next to one as I write this. Thank God they can't read.

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READERS' VIEWS

Oi, I wanna hear your thoughts about the closing ceremony not about photographer-reporter tensions :). I am feeling petulantly dissatisfied, unsatisfied, whatever the word is. Please do a rave up about the boy and the duck (but it's a goose OK), the closing ceremony, the colours, the art, the music, the bands, the wonderful speeches - cough - and oh yeah the athletes. And, well you know, the general brain dump that I have grown to love and respect.
- Rosalie Crawford