We might be a nation of boofheads and bogans, but deep down, we’re really a pretty compassionate lot. We feel the pain of others. However, when it comes to feeling the pain of Yanks, we’re masochists. We can’t get enough! Sure, we love thrashing Poms at cricket, or West Indians, or New Zealanders, but we’re good winners, generally. Beating Europeans leaves us a bit cold, and we hardly compete against Asia unless it’s at sports they’re really good at, like ping-pong or archery. We can afford to be gracious there, as they barely register on the care metre. But deep down, when it comes to sport – any sport – what we really enjoy doing is giving grief to Septic Tanks.

It’s all about history. We’ve had pretty good reason to be crook on the Septics. Going right back to Young Griffo, a century ago, they’ve ridden roughshod over us every chance they’ve got. When Griffo won the world featherweight title from Torpedo Billy Murphy in 1891, the Seppos didn’t like it, did they? Murphy had won the title from their legitimate champion, so Murphy was obviously the titleholder. But when Griffo boxed Murphy’s ears off in Sydney, the Wanky Doodles decided that it wasn’t a legitimate title win, because it wasn’t won on their soil. Griffo reluctantly left for the States to get what was rightly his. Despite his brilliance against their best, Griffo was either completely robbed, or the contests deemed no-decision fights. Griffo, a soak in and out of the ring, slowly declined into alcoholism and never returned home.

Still, Griffo’s career was chockers with Yank-bashing feats, and a couple of said Yanks are rated, by their own “experts” of course, as the greatest in their divisions. Australia cheered Griffo from afar. If only they had Foxtel back then.

Then there’s poor old Les Darcy. Whenever we partake of the international sport of pointing the finger at America, Les – along with Phar Lap – is certain to come up.  Les punched the soulcase out of America’s best as well, but he became someone the bloody Yanks, who had all the power, were able to ignore or bully.

Aaaah theYanks. Where would we be without ‘em? Where would our victimology be without the Great Victimiser? They’ve have been so ignorant of us, they don’t even know they’ve been ignorant of us! Ever since our ratty little convict ancestors straggled off in one direction from Mummy England’s abode, some time after America’s noble puritans strode off in another, we have always lived by a certain myth: they got all the power and recognition, but we had the talent. They demanded our attention and we despised our little brother status.

Our distaste for all things American has been aggravated by the emergence of the Brash Yank. Around forty years ago, any vestige of good sportsmanship they inherited from the Old Dart had finally been shed. Losing to them was now that much harder to swallow, and victory was the sweetest feed of all. Nothing like seeing a totally shell-shocked Yank going home with his tail between his legs. Gotta love it. Funny thing is that they still wonder why they can’t find anyone to love them as much as they love themselves.

Dine out on a few of these – not a definitive menu, just a selection of some of the more satisfying spreads.

Mike Wenden Spitz in their general direction, Mexico Olympics, 1968

1968, and Mark Spitz is probably the first real example Aussies have experienced of the “Man who would be King” syndrome – and it’s only the beginning. Trouble with blokes like Spitz is that, when they sing their own praises, it’s never an unaccompanied solo. When he isn’t blowing out his own bag all over us, the Yank press are doing it for him. Just as they do later with Phelps, Retton, Greene, Lewis, Jones, et bloody cetera. Spitz is a mollycoddled swimming prodigy. Junior world records. American records. His old man is one of those pushy buggers who keep on saying that the only thing that matters is coming first in everything. Even his Indiana College team mates don’t like him because he’s forever bragging that he’s better than they are.

Four years later, Spitz ends up winning seven golds at Munich. But in Mexico his hour of greatness is put on hold, thanks largely to a polite, intelligent young Aussie from Sydney’s west named Michael Wenden.

Spitz comes to Mexico City with ten world records already to his name, and smugly predicts he’s going home with six golds. He believes everything the fawning Yank press write about him.

Wenden’s no slouch – a bit of an agricultural stylist in the water, but he’s been quietly trying out revolutionary new land training methods, based on isometrics. The kid’s been getting up at four in the morning before school, then putting in hours of training and study in the evenings.

Spitz’ first attempt at his big medal haul is in the final of the 100-metre freestyle, and it’s there that he comes up against Wenden. No contest! Wenden blitzes him, setting a new world record of 52.2 seconds in the process. Spitz is so perplexed he can’t even manage second place, being beaten for silver by another Yank, Ken Walsh. It’s the most decisive 100 metre freestyle win in Games history.

The race begins a spiral downwards for Spitz. Having chased Wenden in that final, he spends the rest of the week chasing everyone else. By the end of the meet, Spitz comes last in his pet event, the 200 metre butterfly. Geez, does that cut us up!

Wenden goes on to win gold in the 200 metres, touching out another Yank born-to-ruler, Don Schollander, in an Olympic record.

The 1973 Davis Cup team wins 5-0

For five years, the Septic Tanks have been winning the thing while all our greats – Newcombe, Laver, Roche, Rosewall, Stolle and Emerson – have been barred because they’ve had contracts with World Championship Tennis. The Aussies are pretty cheesed off about having to sit around and watch the Yanks walk away with the Cup every year. Newcombe reckons there’s a Yank conspiracy to keep us out of the Davis Cup, and who can argue? Seems obvious now.

By the time 1973 rolls along, the Yanks consider the Cup safely theirs. Laver and Newk are supposedly on their last legs, and a new wave of Yanks, led by Jimmy Connors, is on the way up. Tennis has never witnessed a brat like Connors, and even the Yanks find him beyond the pale when he demands to play in the final and skip the preliminary rounds. Yank coach Dennis Ralston decides to leave him out of the final, sticking with the team that got America to the final. Bewdy!

But, the way the great Laver and Newcombe play that weekend, Connors’ presence is never going to make much difference.

This is the first indoor final, and it’s on the Yanks home soil, in Cleveland. Laver, Newk, Kenny Rosewall and Mal Anderson are determined to beat the Yanks five-zip and show ‘em who’s really paying the rent. It’s a massacre. After the first day, they’re 2-0 up. Newk beats Smith in five sets and Laver comes out and does the same to Tom Gorman, whipping those top spinners and curly serves home like the freak he is. Then comes the doubles. The Seppos reckon this will turn everything around. Smith and Erik van Dillon have never been done in Davis Cup doubles, but against the Aussie legends, they win a handful of games and lose in straight sets. By the time the reverse singles come around, they’re demoralised. Rocket and Newk romp home, and coach Neale Fraser never even has to play Kenny Rosewall or Mal Anderson. Five-splat. Doesn’t get better than that.

1975 Australian Open Final: John Newcombe beats Jimmy Connors 7-5, 3-6, 6-4, 7-6.

The Connors juggernaut looks unstoppable. He’s beaten nothing but Aussies in his three Grand Slam titles of 1974. The only reason he doesn’t win the French that year is because he’s boycotted it. He’s Uncle Sam’s Revenge. The New Laver. Two minutes he’s been around and the Yanks dare to mention him in the same breath as the great Rocket Man. Newk comes along for the Oz Open Final, and Connors has that “meet the new boss” attitude. Before the tournament, The Mouth brags, with a typical Yank sense of irony (naaaht! – that’s the word they use to convey irony over there), “He should do more talking with his racket than his mouth. Every time I reach a final, Newcombe is missing.”

It’s a windy day, but Newk is determined to blow the brash bucket mouth off the court.

Newk serves up 17 aces. Connors is one of the great returners, but the wily old moustachioed one disguises that serve so well, Connors doesn’t know whether it’s Christmas or Park Avenue. The serves keep going short and wide in the deuce court, and Connors thrashes around trying to catch them. Newk’s returns are all low and to Connors forehand – one of his weaknesses. Connors drops the bundle in the fourth deliberately serving a double-fault after he reckons he’s got a bad call. Probably still thinks he can win from there. You don’t do that against Newk, mate. It doesn’t go to five.

Months later, Arthur Ashe emulates Newk’s tactic and pinches Wimbledon off the rampaging Connors. Classic.

Australia steals the America’s Cup 1983

The America’s Cup has always been one of those “we’ll stop at nothing” events for the Yanks. By the time the Aussies, led by John Bertrand and sponsored by Allan Bond, arrive at Newport, they’ve held the bloody thing for 132 long years, they have no intention of ever losing it but want to continue insulting everyone ad infinitum by going through the motions every four years. What they don’t know is that a canny, cunning piece of good old Aussie ingenuity, embodied in the bespectacled, barely-educated eccentric genius Ben Lexcen, is about to overcome a century of American dominance, marked by cheating and blatant disregard for, and re-writing of, the rules.

To make it worse, Yank Skipper Denis Connor has one of those heads you see on every Biff, Chuck and Chip, oozing privilege, sprouting gleaming tombstone teeth, sporting suntan and superior demeanour.

Before the race, after the Aussies have won 31 of 34 qualifiers races against all comers, straw-hatted officials from the New York Yacht Club meet with Bond and inform him that they won’t allow Australia II to compete, because its design is illegal. Or something. Bond’s expecting it, but can’t help blowing his stack. He plays his hand: “Listen”, he says, “we can resolve this in one of two ways; either we meet on the Cup course or we meet in court. Either way, I’m going to win”. They put on their boaters and walk out miffed.

Equipment failures cost Australia II the first two races. Bond’s syndicate pull a race back, but then Connor wins again to give the Americans a 3-1 lead in the best of 7 final.

Australia II hits back once more and then level the series at 3-3. Everything’s at stake in the final race, and it looks as if the Cup’s going to stay in America as Connor leads from the start. Australia trails by 45 seconds, then 57 as they round the buoy. There’s just no way Australia II can sail almost a minute faster down that 4.5-mile leg, unless Conner makes a blue. He does. Conner, aware of the fast Aussie boat’s downwind ability, gybes over to the left looking for some wind. Johnny Betrand goes right, and finds the two windshifts that shove him 21 seconds ahead.

Connor tacks like a madman – 47 times on the final leg, but Bertrand is able to match his every manoeuvre. It’s great! Connor all over the place like a madwoman’s knitting, and Betrand just calmly swanning in. As they converge at the bottom of the last leg, all Australia II has to do now is stay in front. Who can forget the image of the boats coming together with OZ Two 41 seconds in front, all the hooters and people going off? Or Bondy, like some ham-fisted conductor, signalling the removal of the canvas skirts as the boat is lifted out of the water, and revealing Benny Lexcen’s winged keel? And Men At Work, they must have been beside ‘emselves! ‘Land Down Under’, a little ditty that’s quietly slipped off the charts two years before, threatens to become our next bloody national anthem!

True to form, the Yanks have never inducted Lexcen into the America’s Cup Hall of Fame and never will.

Glynis Nunn flogs Jackie Joyner-Kersee – by a bee’s

Even today, when you read Yank accounts of Jackie Joyner-Kersee’s career, they’ll mention how she was pipped for a heptathlon gold in 1984, but you’d be hard-pressed finding the name of the person who beat her. I’m here to tell you it was our own Glynis Nunn.

Kersee’s endured some incredible tragedy in her life, and seems a quiet and dignified sheila. She can’t help it that by an unfortunate accident of birth, she was born in America. Little old Glynis Nunn rolls into L.A. with everything to win against Kersee. The Yank’s already a bloody giant of athletics and later on she gets voted by Sports Illustrated as the female athlete of the 20^th Century.

Due to a ban by Eastern Bloc countries, Nunn’s in with a great chance in the heptathlon. But the Yanks – you know: “oooooaaaaah, Jackie Joyner bloody Kersee!” JJK’s the solid favourite.

The heptathlon is a two-day torment made up of the 200-meter dash, 100-meter hurdles, high jump, shot put, long jump, javelin throw, and an 800-meter run. Nunn can’t stand the 800 meters. If she has to depend on it, she’s probably buggered.

Anyway, come the last event – the bloody 800 metres – she’s around 30 points behind JJK. What’s more, she’s got to beat Joyner by 2.5 seconds or more. JJK has her own problems – something about a hammy or something – and as she’s running around the track, her brother, who’s just won a gold medal, is running beside her on the final leg, egging her on.

We think we’re watching the end of some Murrkin feel-good tear-jerker and the scriptwriters have only got one ending in mind: bye-bye Glynis. Anyway, Nunn hauls herself over the line only 2.46 seconds ahead of JJK, and it looks as though the Septics have their perfect ending. After twenty minutes no-one knows who’s won the bloody thing. We’re thinking, “Yep that’s right. Build up the suspense. When they announce Kersee as the overall winner, it’s all gunna be slow-motion and violins and all the lowlights of JJK’s tragic life floating before everyone’s eyes.” But no. The winner is announced and its – little Glynis Nunn, by a lousy five points – the proverbial bee’s – 6390 to 6385! JJK comes within six-tenths of a second of winning the gold medal. Would have been very poignant if she’d been Aussie. Glynis never claimed to be anything in the glamour stakes, but mate, she’s everyone’s pinup girl that night.

Of course, Joyner-Kersee is devastated, and so are we! But she’s only 22, and she goes on to win every bloody heptathlon she ever competes in, set records that still stand, sprint, run and jump the arse of everyone in the world. But they’ll never take that win away from our little Glynis. What a hero.

The 4X100 metre freestyle relay. 2000 Olympics

We’re still stoned on the euphoria of opening night when this happens. Never mind the fact that Gary Hall Jr was actually extremely complimentary toward Australia and Australian swimming in his interview three weeks before the Sydney Games. Hall said, “We’ll smash ‘em like guitars”, and that’s all we need to hear, mate. Like a red rag to any red-blooded Aussie, especially coming from some Yank named “Junior” with his punchable Biff-Chuck-Chip bonce. Expressing his liking for us and all, Hall has the makings of a decent sort of bloke. But fancy saying that! And he’d bragged, four years earlier, that he was going to knock the great Popov off his 100 metre perch – and failed. Tosser.

The Yanks believe in their supremacy as a relay team, and they never get done in this event, but this night, they don’t know what hits ‘em. Klim goes out first and sets a new 100 metre world record, just like that. 48.18 seconds. Chris Fydler and Ashley Callus just manage to hold them off. Callus loses a half-second advantage over Jason Lezak, but then he hauls him back, so Thorpie has a slight start on Hall. Hall’s a sprinter and Thorpie isn’t renowned as one. Hall’s one of the fastest in history. Thorpe is about 26th fastest over 100. But what a battle. After only 20 seconds, Hall catches Thorpie. Half a second in front at the turn. But Thorpe keeps powering away, riding that wave of his, looking like a bloody great porpoise. Twenty metres out, they’re even. Then, amazingly, Thorpie goes past him and touches 2/10 of a second in front. Crowd goes crazy – even Johnny Howard, the zany guy. The Yanks have swum a second inside their world record and are still beaten.

And it gets better. Klimmy hasn’t forgotten Hall’s Pete Townsend promise, and his air-guitar riposte on the pool deck, backed by his team mates, is inspired. As an “up yours Yank”, it’s up there with the best.

The water Polo team wins in the last second of the Olympic final in 2000

Ask any Collingwood hater: the only thing better than thrashing someone you hate is beating them controversially in a close one – preferably after the siren. At the pool in Sydney, we have the double pleasure of doing just that to the Yank sheilas, and then watching their coach prowl up and down the deck throwing a tanty.

The Yanks have been giving us a hammering in general play, and it’s only some incredible saves from Liz Weekes that keep us in the match.

The home side moves to a 3-2 lead in the final term, but with only 20 seconds left, the USA draws level with a goal. Australia powers down the pool and manages to manufacture a shot that beats the goalkeeper. Less than ten seconds to go. The goal’s disallowed because a foul has been called before the shot. The ball’s at half-way with two seconds on the clock. Too far out. The ball comes to Yvette Higgins. It’s three-all with a second to go. Brenda Villa of the U.S. deliberately fouls Higgins, because she’s trying to stop her getting away a shot with that rifle arm of hers. Now, according to the rules Higgins should have to pass the ball after the whistle, which would seal a U.S. win, because regulation time would expire before the Aussies can get a shot away. Instead, Higgins turns and fires a shot over Bernice Orwig, the U.S. goalkeeper. It thumps into the net.

No one knows what to think. Aussie players aren’t certain the goal will count. The world-record crowd of 17,000, screaming one second ago, are hushed. The Yank coach, Guy Barker, and his staff are arguing with officials and the players are called back into position. As it turns out, they only do that to call the game over. They’ve agreed that, because Higgins has fired from outside the seven-metre mark, the goal is legit.

Yvette Higgins. Liz Weekes. Dead-set legends of Aussie sport.

November 2001. Kostya Tszyu gags Zab Judah, KO 2

A classic. Judah, the self-proclaimed gangsta rapping hip-hop dude of world boxing, is all mouth from the moment he meets the humble Kostya in 2000, and publicly disrespects him. All backwards cap, backwards trousers and backwards brain, he attends all of Tszyu’s fights, getting up from his seat and imitating a robot, getting cheap laughs from the crowd. He’s rated top-three pound-for-pound. He’s on Sports Illustrated’s front cover. Success had gone to his head, and given that there’s not much up there, it’s bound to be a short visit. At the time, the Yanks don’t think much of Tszyu, and even Showtime’s obnoxious ring interviewer Jim Gray takes every opportunity to belittle Kostya’s performances in post-fight interviews.

Before their fight, Judah’s camp uses every trick in the book to put Kostya off his game, even eating into his training time at the MGM Grand before being ejected by police. At the pre-fight press conference, the King of Bling jives incessantly into his mobile phone over the microphone as Kostya tries to answer questions. When asked about a rematch clause, Zabby says, with all the impish disdain he can muster: “Winner take all. Loser can go home get a job.”

Judah walks out to the ring surrounded by the Boyz ‘N’ The Hood: Tyson, Joppy, Whitaker, Vargas, all chanting “sooopa Joooodah” trying to make it look like a turf war or something. Kostya just stands in the ring ignoring it, but he’s got this glint in the eye.

Judah’s hot in round one, catching Tszyu with a wild, fast uppercut. Tszyu, unperturbed, continues to stalk the big mouthed Bronxter, hurting him with barely-noticeable punches. In round two, Judah changes his game plan, because he’s been forced to by Tszyu’s relentless pursuit. As the round winds into its last ten seconds, Tszyu feints a punch over Judah’s left shoulder, Judah slips it and Tszyu times the follow-up right to perfection as Judah comes upright. Judah goes down. What happens next is precious. We’re treated to the now-famous sight of Judah getting up, legs acting as though they don’t want to know each other, and even trying to launch a wobble-headed Bollywood rap at the referee, before falling on his face. The referee immediately stops the fight, then grabs Judah, preventing him falling a third time. The ensuing ruckus, with Judah, throwing chairs, screaming, swearing and trying to choke referee Jay Nady, is pure comedy. In case anyone missed the comeuppance of it all, Kostya reminds the interviewer of Zab’s words when asked about a rematch: “Remember what he said at the press conference? Winner take all. It’s a boomerang.” Too-bloody-shay!

March 2004. Robbie Peden embarrasses Nate Campbell.

During that IBF super-featherweight world title eliminator, Australia’s Peden pulls off a swifty to rival that bloke who made the Statue of Liberty vanish. It’s an even contest, but to hear the Wanky Doodle commentators, you’d think the heavily-favoured Campbell is giving Peden the beating of his life. Then Campbell belts him in the belly and Robbie bends over and turns away. Campbell throws a hard follow-up right to Robbie’s head.

Peden’s still watching Campbell out of the corner of his eye and rolls with the punch – a hint that he might not be as hurt as his agonized body language suggests. Campbell thinks he’s got him on toast, and so he’s pretty amused. He drops his arms. This doesn’t escape Robbie’s notice, so he stumbles forward and swings a couple of feeble punches that miss. He lurches closer, then even closer, and Campbell’s still doing nothing, as if he expects Peden to just fall on his face like a fool. By this time, Robbie’s resting his head on Campbell’s chest.

Campbell can’t help himself. If he’s going to flog Peden, he’s going to do it in true Yank style. So he drops his hands and grins with mock pity. Suddenly Peden springs upright like a jack-in-the-box and launches a pearler of a left hook that catches Campbell on the point of his chin! Campbell falls over like someone’s flicked his “off” switch. While the Yank interviewers are slopping over with sympathy for the embarrassed Campbell, we’re cacking our backsides off.

Campbell, like Judah, learns little from his public embarrassment. If anything, it makes him more strident and hysterical in his condemnation of his conquerer. He reckons Peden’s a “nobody” with “no heart”. Hmmm. No heart versus no brains – tough call.

Yank commentators create all sorts of furphies in their post-fight analyses, and gullible fighters and fans believe them. Campbell continues to believe he was leading by a mile when he was knocked out – and that the fight was “stopped” prematurely – even though Robbie did the referee’s job for him. He reckons he hurt Peden. He was right. He reckons he had him at his mercy. He was wrong. In the rematch, in Melbourne, Peden punches holes in him, getting an eighth-round stoppage and winning the IBF world super-featherweight title.

Thorpe silences Phelps in Athens, 2004

Despite what anyone has said beforehand, this is a grudge match. The Phelps phenomenon is like the Spitz spectacle. Phelps sends out warnings to all and sundry that he’s going to challenge Thorpe directly in the pool in his own events. Yank articles even have headlines like “Eight Gold Medals” – written as though they’ve already been earned.

You see, as they do, the Yanks have scientifically considered their verdict, and weighed up all the facts, before declaring Phelps – you sitting down? – The Best Swimmer In The World! Phelps, like Spitz 32 years earlier, has stated his intention to win seven gold medals. Eight if possible. Aussies don’t begrudge him his Herculean quest. After all, Athens is the home of the epic. But turn it up! Even when Phelps beat Thorpie in the Seppo’s own pet event, the 200 metres Individual Medley, at Barcelona in 2003, it was the first time Thorpie had ever attempted it at the international level, and he still came second!

Phelps decides to enter the 200 metre freestyle. You bloody bewdy! He’s arrogant enough to enter Thorpie’s territory, with Van den Hoogenband and Hackett thrown in for good measure, in order to prove his claim to the “world’s best” title. He’s walked into one!

The Gas Tanks have taken umbrage at Thorpe’s outlandishly mild observation that Phelps might be stretching himself by going after Spitz’ record. The sheer effrontery of such common sense defies the irrational hype that they’re working hard to have everyone believe! What’s this Thorpe guy think he is – American? Phelps responds tartly with something about the feat being beyond Thorpe, but not himself. Then Kieren Perkins weighs in and calls Phelps unproven. The Yanks are practically apoplectic! That’s always good for a wheeze, isn’t it?

The morning of the 200-metre final, more Aussies are out of bed at 4 am than for any other event in history.

It’s the usual thing, Thorpie looking languid, Hackett looking long, Van den Hoogenband energetic and Phelps – well, frenetic. Hoogie’s still out in front at 150, and we probably don’t mind if he gets up – anyone but Phelps – but then Thorpe just cruises past him like a big battleship. Hoogie comes in second and after that – well, who cares?  All right, we’ll give Phelps the bronze. He’s had that sewn up right from the start. His whole race has bronze written all over it. He’s barely figured in the “Race of the Century”, except to push the front runners along a bit. Poor Phelpsy gets out of the pool looking like a beaten and bewildered young Yank. It’s terrible. The best and worst of sport right there in front of the entire world. Tugs on the ticker strings, it does. We laugh. We cry. Nah, come to think of it, we just laugh!

Anyway the Yanks backpedal pretty quickly after that race in their headlines. “Did we write Eight Gold Medals? Ooops. We meant ‘World’s Best Swimmer murders Phelps as expected.’ We apologise for the subbing error.”

Honourable mention

4000 pursuit, 1984 Olympic Games

Michael Grenda, Kevin Nichols, Michael Turtur and Dean Woods surprise everyone and win the gold medal by riding the backsides off the Seppos, who’ve stridden into the velodrome with their high-tech graphite disc wheels, and those aerodynamic hats on top of their pointy heads. The Aussies come along with real spokes on bikes that weigh about twice as much. In fact, Woods has borrowed his from a team mate who’s discarded it because it’s outdated. The final starts real well. America’s Dave Grylls is chomping at the bit, but when he goes to take off, it looks as though he’s trying to kick-start the bloody thing. That’s because he’s missed the pedal completely. Ye-he-hessss! Conventional bikes, low expectations, well-heeled Yanks – all the ingredients of a very satisfying win, with comedy thrown in.

Tokyo 1964. Bob Windle thwarts the plans of two Yanks at once in the 1500 metre final

There’s no talk of Windle before the race. All we hear is Roy Saari and John Nelson’s race plan. Saari, the world record holder, and Nelson, intend to pace each other and completely shut Windle out. Windle, a versatile and powerful swimmer, pulls a swifty early, charging away after the first 200 metres. Shocked by this blitz, Nelson and Saari abandon their plans and flail after Windle. It’s hilarious. Every time either Nelson or Saari even look like challenging, Windle pulls teasingly out of range. Nelson winds up second, 1.3 seconds in arrears. Saari, his rhythm and stroke thrown into utter confusion, comes second-last.

Seoul 1988. Duncan Armstrong comes from nowhere to beat the great Biondi.

This would have made the Top Ten if Biondi had been another dredge mouthed Yank, but he was a relatively nice bloke. Armstrong was ranked 46th in the world the previous year.  In a field that includes the great Gross and the equally-great Biondi, Armstrong sits back pretty anonymously until 50 metres out, then pulls out one of the most demoralizing bursts of speed you’d ever see to pass Biondi and then the German Holmertz in world record time. He does it all in the last five metres! The best thing about the win – and the worst for Biondi – is that it so disappoints the Yank press, who thought Biondi would come home with the magic eight golds. He “only” manages five, and his failure to supersize isn’t good enough for gluttonous Yank appetites. Poor starving bastards.