Thursday, June 30, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Found truths...
Borrowed words are so much sweeter. so much easier. Why write when you can steal?
Youse guys refuse to gimme a chop-out, I exhausted my supply of dubious humour last week to no avail, so...
Here's a reblogged, repurposed, recycled piece of prose with an internet pedigree purer than the Battenburgs... PunchDrunk via Demonland via Big Footy etc etc. I don't know who the Biffinator is, but I like the boy.
And also, yet another Rennie Ellis shot showing Tigerland as it was, in 1974, a slimmer, more desirable place than it is now. But isn't everywhere?
I've already run this past some of the PunchDrunk Tigers for sign-off, so it's ok, it's even got a Shakesperian reference:
“At the heart of every Richmond supporter there lies a streak of self-loathing – that is why they turn on each other like wild animals.”
This ex-cathedra maxim was ringing in my ears as I logged off from PuntRoadEnd.com, where I am an agent provocateur (and this is true). One of life’s simple pleasures is pretending to be a (rabid) Richmond supporter, the aim being to throw petrol onto the fire and then stand back in awe to behold the conflagration.
Anyway, I was feeling rather pleased with myself when an SMS came through from Deestroy.
“Biff, stop being so bloody smug! Your challenge this week, should you chose to accept it, is to infiltrate the Richmond Grog Squad – the mob who congregate behind the Punt Road goals and sing various dirges as the Tigers (sic) take it up the arse on the field. Your mission: create havoc. Bonus points if you shag Big Shazza, the Queen of the Richmond ferals.”
I accepted the mission on the spot. That left six days of preparation. I bought an old duffel coat from the Opp Shop. Soon afterwards, I purchased a number ‘8’ from Spotlight which I half-stitched onto its back. There was some junk mail in the letterbox that featured a pest control company. I cut out the word ‘Cockroach’, sticky-taped it to the back of the duffel coat and then (lightly) scribbled out the first four letters. Once done, I let the mutt sleep on it for the remainder of the week. I stopped having showers. Eschewing toothpaste, I brushed my teeth in coca-cola. I became a stranger to dunny paper, underpants and razors. It was out with the Mozart and in with the hard rockin’ pub songs and the High Art of Jimmy Barnes. Much to my wife’s anguish, I staged a few domestics which necessitated a visit from the Cop Shop. Come Saturday morning, I was ready. My own self-loathing was in floodtide. Come on the Tiges!
Now Richmond were playing the Dees. My first stop was the Cricketer’s Arms on Punt Road. It was midday. I barged through the front door and shouted hoarsely, “Who thinks Dusty Brownlow Martin is a ****ing deadset legend, eh?” I was immediately befriended by five bona fide members of the Richmond Grog Squad: Shane from Scoresby; Wayne from Wantirna; Mike from Moe; Rob from Rowville and Karen from Cardinia. Collectively, they held down one part-time job between them. Rob was an inveterate scratcher: he warranted a flea-bomb. Mike, who had a squint, had travelled all the way from the West Moe Caravan Park to support the ‘Mighty Tigers’ – a Pilgrim’s Progress indeed. Shane & Wayne looked as if they were born to play the roles of Banquo’s killers in Macbeth:
“I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed that I am reckless what I do to spite the world. . . . . And I another, So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune, That I would set my lie on any chance, To mend it, or be rid on't.”
The less said about Karen the better, lest cycling metaphors be invoked.
Now the quintet was thoroughly intoxicated; the cans of UDLs that were strewn at their feet bore testimony to their liquor of choice. We were all in agreement: whoever barracked for the Dees was a poofta and Jacky Watts was a tranny at best. The remaining hour or so was spent betting on the Warragul dogs or baiting other Richmond supporters at the bar. Twice I had to avert a cat-fight between Karen and another Richmond slag. It was boob-on-boob action in every sense.
Come 1.30, it was time to lurch over to the ‘G. With the assistance of some healthcare cards – thoroughly fake - we trooped through the gates with little damage to our pockets. Karen had stashed a few cans of UDLs down her blouse; given the aesthetics, they were safer than the gold in Fort Knox. Once inside, we spotted one of the Bay’s most prominent Richmond supporters, Buddha Bing, primly making his way towards the Amway Superbox. He was a sallow looking guy. Hair-gel was trickling down his forehead like sweat. He was also wearing one of his famous Roger David reversible suits with an elastic tie. Sure, he barracked for the Tigers, but to the quintet he was an ideological enemy in a cheap pair of shoes. In no uncertain terms, Mike informed him that he was a ****ing goose – Richmond or no Richmond, only toffs sat in a superbox. And Buddha Bing had better stop trying to foist the Amway soap-powder on his old dear back in West Moe, no less.
It took us ten minutes or so to hobble our way over to the Punt Road end of the ground. In doing so, we profusely abused the opposition supporters that came our way – any buccaneer on the Spanish Main would have been shocked by their language but it was par for the course here. Additionally the spittle was a’flyin’. Ditties proclaiming the heroism of Richo or Dusty Martin were coined on the spot. To evade detection, I breathed incessantly through my mouth, made strange animal noises and walked with a limp. Our destination was at hand: the Richmond Grog Squad. The quintet introduced me to their peers. I was promptly accepted as one of their own, particularly when I screeched out: “Scully and Trengove ain’t worth a bum hair on Dusty’s ring!” Much like the Black Hole that lies at the heart of our own Milky Way, I could sense the presence of Big Shazza, but for the moment, a phalanx of uber-bogans stood between the two of us.
The game started not long afterwards. True to form, Richmond started to take it up the arse. The on-field debacle did not bother the Grog Squad who sang on regardless. It was time to initiate my mission. As it so happens, I am no mean ventriloquist. I targeted a particularly virulent section of the Grog Squad and let fly with the following
“Dustin Martin’s tatts are fake. He got ‘em from Cornflakes packet. His mummy rubbed a ‘em on with a twenty cent piece.”
A brawl erupted spontaneously. Haymakers were legion. A few unfortunates were kicked as they lay on the ground. The police soon waded in and nabbed the participants, much to the delight of the remaining members of the Grog Squad who sang the usual refrain.
Good but not great I thought to myself. I turned to another section and pitched:
“Chris Newman is more of a Western Star job than Joel Bowden. He’s as useless as a condom on a dog.”
Another brawl erupted, It was more vicious than the first. Minutes later, the main antagonists were hauled away by the constabulary. Stretchers were used to carry off the worst of the casualties. The ranks of the Grog Squad had thinned, but not to the point where I could readily approach Queen Shazza at the epicentre. It was time, therefore, to drop the P-bomb, however untrue it was:
“There won’t be any father-sons from Richo – he’s too busy hanging around the dunnies at the Robert Peel Hotel. ‘Fleet’s in, time to sin’ is his motto!”
Another fight erupted. The Colosseum itself never viewed brutality of this kind. Not even Leigh Matthews would countenance the king-hits from behind that were being dished out like lolly water. Tannin-stained teeth clattered to the ground. The mist of brain matter saturated the air. Some of the Richmond wenches disappeared into the affray, only to emerge seconds later with big clumps of pubic hair in their hands. The Fight Club re-enactment lasted some five minutes or so, leaving the Grog Squad decimated but undaunted. Accordingly, I pushed my way towards the centre. And there, enthroned in her bogan glory, sat Queen Shazza on a bean bag.
In the universe, matter is counter-balanced by anti-matter. As I beheld this anti-regal figure, I realised that she too, in a feral sort of way, was the antithesis to Queen Elizabeth I as portrayed in the famous Armada Portrait. Each one of her monstrous thighs could have been sponsored by Samboy Chips. There was no bra in existence that had the tensile strength to uphold her gigantic mammary glands – nay, bovine udders. Nicotine patches had been attached to her nipples for whatever mad reason. Her skin was covered in blotches, acme and self inflicted scratch marks. Intrepid though I was, I dared not look below her navel to the Valley of the Werewolf. Verily, Queen Shazza was regnant over all that she surveyed. She did not need to see the game itself – she was randomly screeching out imprecations at the opposition as she sipped away on a UDL.
“Queen Shazza – so we meet at last. The circle is now complete. The Self-Loathing is with You!”
She flicked a toxic glance at me.
“What do youse want? I aint gonna suck your dick if that’s what youse wants. I aints no slag!”
I looked at her more deeply. It was not hard to foresee that one day she would drown on her own vomit or be smothered to death by one of her own boobs. Even so, the image of the Oracle from the Matrix flashed into my mind. Perhaps there was an affinity to be explored.
“Shazza, will the Tigers ever come good?”
She looked darkly into her can of UDL. The wellspring was dry. She threw it away and started to spit on herself, Richmond-style.
“The Toiges are always gonna be [censored]. [censored] – [censored] – [censored]!”
I then realised that the second of Deestroy’s challenges was a ‘Bridge too Far.’ Assuming my hydraulics were sound – an advocate of fat sex I ain’t – I had neglected to bring along a miner’s lamp, rope, and grappling hooks, the second assumption being that the target-area could be safely identified. Failure was mine. It was time to flee from her august presence. Like one of her courtiers, I spat on the ground, adjust my crotch and croaked out:
“See’s ya down at the pokies, Big Girl.”
Stupefied by the grog, she vomited all over herself and gave me a thumbs up.
I rejoined the mob. Sylvia, who loves to play against the Yellow and Black, was running amok. Towards the end of the match, sadness overcame me. Standing with the Richmond Grog Squad would make anyone rethink their position on eugenics. Each of its members – indubitably - is a downpipe for DNA of the most degraded kind. Erroneous or otherwise, there is a belief that Man was created in the image and likeness of God. As I encompassed the mob around me – Come on the Mighty Tiges – this viewpoint was entirely redundant. It was the Triumph not of the Will, but of the Swineherd.
The match came to a dreary end. Much to everyone’s relief, the siren sounded. Wretches one and all, the Richmond players hobbled off. Sure they wore the same jumpers as players such as Captain Blood, Royce Hart and Hungry, but the comparison went no deeper. This was no Gotterdammerung – the Twilight of the Gods, it resembled, rather, a Requiem for the Pullets. Befittingly, the Grog Squad sang a dirge. Other than a surreptitious vomit on the Moe-bound V-Liner, there was nothing to look forward to. I quietly slipped away. Once home. I washed the Richmond excrement off my personage, apologised to my wife and regained my humanity.
The World will hold its breath. Dees by 10 points.
Biffinator.
Thank you Biffinator, thank you ball-boys.
Youse guys refuse to gimme a chop-out, I exhausted my supply of dubious humour last week to no avail, so...
Here's a reblogged, repurposed, recycled piece of prose with an internet pedigree purer than the Battenburgs... PunchDrunk via Demonland via Big Footy etc etc. I don't know who the Biffinator is, but I like the boy.
And also, yet another Rennie Ellis shot showing Tigerland as it was, in 1974, a slimmer, more desirable place than it is now. But isn't everywhere?
I've already run this past some of the PunchDrunk Tigers for sign-off, so it's ok, it's even got a Shakesperian reference:
“At the heart of every Richmond supporter there lies a streak of self-loathing – that is why they turn on each other like wild animals.”
This ex-cathedra maxim was ringing in my ears as I logged off from PuntRoadEnd.com, where I am an agent provocateur (and this is true). One of life’s simple pleasures is pretending to be a (rabid) Richmond supporter, the aim being to throw petrol onto the fire and then stand back in awe to behold the conflagration.
Anyway, I was feeling rather pleased with myself when an SMS came through from Deestroy.
“Biff, stop being so bloody smug! Your challenge this week, should you chose to accept it, is to infiltrate the Richmond Grog Squad – the mob who congregate behind the Punt Road goals and sing various dirges as the Tigers (sic) take it up the arse on the field. Your mission: create havoc. Bonus points if you shag Big Shazza, the Queen of the Richmond ferals.”
I accepted the mission on the spot. That left six days of preparation. I bought an old duffel coat from the Opp Shop. Soon afterwards, I purchased a number ‘8’ from Spotlight which I half-stitched onto its back. There was some junk mail in the letterbox that featured a pest control company. I cut out the word ‘Cockroach’, sticky-taped it to the back of the duffel coat and then (lightly) scribbled out the first four letters. Once done, I let the mutt sleep on it for the remainder of the week. I stopped having showers. Eschewing toothpaste, I brushed my teeth in coca-cola. I became a stranger to dunny paper, underpants and razors. It was out with the Mozart and in with the hard rockin’ pub songs and the High Art of Jimmy Barnes. Much to my wife’s anguish, I staged a few domestics which necessitated a visit from the Cop Shop. Come Saturday morning, I was ready. My own self-loathing was in floodtide. Come on the Tiges!
Now Richmond were playing the Dees. My first stop was the Cricketer’s Arms on Punt Road. It was midday. I barged through the front door and shouted hoarsely, “Who thinks Dusty Brownlow Martin is a ****ing deadset legend, eh?” I was immediately befriended by five bona fide members of the Richmond Grog Squad: Shane from Scoresby; Wayne from Wantirna; Mike from Moe; Rob from Rowville and Karen from Cardinia. Collectively, they held down one part-time job between them. Rob was an inveterate scratcher: he warranted a flea-bomb. Mike, who had a squint, had travelled all the way from the West Moe Caravan Park to support the ‘Mighty Tigers’ – a Pilgrim’s Progress indeed. Shane & Wayne looked as if they were born to play the roles of Banquo’s killers in Macbeth:
“I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed that I am reckless what I do to spite the world. . . . . And I another, So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune, That I would set my lie on any chance, To mend it, or be rid on't.”
The less said about Karen the better, lest cycling metaphors be invoked.
Now the quintet was thoroughly intoxicated; the cans of UDLs that were strewn at their feet bore testimony to their liquor of choice. We were all in agreement: whoever barracked for the Dees was a poofta and Jacky Watts was a tranny at best. The remaining hour or so was spent betting on the Warragul dogs or baiting other Richmond supporters at the bar. Twice I had to avert a cat-fight between Karen and another Richmond slag. It was boob-on-boob action in every sense.
Come 1.30, it was time to lurch over to the ‘G. With the assistance of some healthcare cards – thoroughly fake - we trooped through the gates with little damage to our pockets. Karen had stashed a few cans of UDLs down her blouse; given the aesthetics, they were safer than the gold in Fort Knox. Once inside, we spotted one of the Bay’s most prominent Richmond supporters, Buddha Bing, primly making his way towards the Amway Superbox. He was a sallow looking guy. Hair-gel was trickling down his forehead like sweat. He was also wearing one of his famous Roger David reversible suits with an elastic tie. Sure, he barracked for the Tigers, but to the quintet he was an ideological enemy in a cheap pair of shoes. In no uncertain terms, Mike informed him that he was a ****ing goose – Richmond or no Richmond, only toffs sat in a superbox. And Buddha Bing had better stop trying to foist the Amway soap-powder on his old dear back in West Moe, no less.
It took us ten minutes or so to hobble our way over to the Punt Road end of the ground. In doing so, we profusely abused the opposition supporters that came our way – any buccaneer on the Spanish Main would have been shocked by their language but it was par for the course here. Additionally the spittle was a’flyin’. Ditties proclaiming the heroism of Richo or Dusty Martin were coined on the spot. To evade detection, I breathed incessantly through my mouth, made strange animal noises and walked with a limp. Our destination was at hand: the Richmond Grog Squad. The quintet introduced me to their peers. I was promptly accepted as one of their own, particularly when I screeched out: “Scully and Trengove ain’t worth a bum hair on Dusty’s ring!” Much like the Black Hole that lies at the heart of our own Milky Way, I could sense the presence of Big Shazza, but for the moment, a phalanx of uber-bogans stood between the two of us.
The game started not long afterwards. True to form, Richmond started to take it up the arse. The on-field debacle did not bother the Grog Squad who sang on regardless. It was time to initiate my mission. As it so happens, I am no mean ventriloquist. I targeted a particularly virulent section of the Grog Squad and let fly with the following
“Dustin Martin’s tatts are fake. He got ‘em from Cornflakes packet. His mummy rubbed a ‘em on with a twenty cent piece.”
A brawl erupted spontaneously. Haymakers were legion. A few unfortunates were kicked as they lay on the ground. The police soon waded in and nabbed the participants, much to the delight of the remaining members of the Grog Squad who sang the usual refrain.
Good but not great I thought to myself. I turned to another section and pitched:
“Chris Newman is more of a Western Star job than Joel Bowden. He’s as useless as a condom on a dog.”
Another brawl erupted, It was more vicious than the first. Minutes later, the main antagonists were hauled away by the constabulary. Stretchers were used to carry off the worst of the casualties. The ranks of the Grog Squad had thinned, but not to the point where I could readily approach Queen Shazza at the epicentre. It was time, therefore, to drop the P-bomb, however untrue it was:
“There won’t be any father-sons from Richo – he’s too busy hanging around the dunnies at the Robert Peel Hotel. ‘Fleet’s in, time to sin’ is his motto!”
Another fight erupted. The Colosseum itself never viewed brutality of this kind. Not even Leigh Matthews would countenance the king-hits from behind that were being dished out like lolly water. Tannin-stained teeth clattered to the ground. The mist of brain matter saturated the air. Some of the Richmond wenches disappeared into the affray, only to emerge seconds later with big clumps of pubic hair in their hands. The Fight Club re-enactment lasted some five minutes or so, leaving the Grog Squad decimated but undaunted. Accordingly, I pushed my way towards the centre. And there, enthroned in her bogan glory, sat Queen Shazza on a bean bag.
In the universe, matter is counter-balanced by anti-matter. As I beheld this anti-regal figure, I realised that she too, in a feral sort of way, was the antithesis to Queen Elizabeth I as portrayed in the famous Armada Portrait. Each one of her monstrous thighs could have been sponsored by Samboy Chips. There was no bra in existence that had the tensile strength to uphold her gigantic mammary glands – nay, bovine udders. Nicotine patches had been attached to her nipples for whatever mad reason. Her skin was covered in blotches, acme and self inflicted scratch marks. Intrepid though I was, I dared not look below her navel to the Valley of the Werewolf. Verily, Queen Shazza was regnant over all that she surveyed. She did not need to see the game itself – she was randomly screeching out imprecations at the opposition as she sipped away on a UDL.
“Queen Shazza – so we meet at last. The circle is now complete. The Self-Loathing is with You!”
She flicked a toxic glance at me.
“What do youse want? I aint gonna suck your dick if that’s what youse wants. I aints no slag!”
I looked at her more deeply. It was not hard to foresee that one day she would drown on her own vomit or be smothered to death by one of her own boobs. Even so, the image of the Oracle from the Matrix flashed into my mind. Perhaps there was an affinity to be explored.
“Shazza, will the Tigers ever come good?”
She looked darkly into her can of UDL. The wellspring was dry. She threw it away and started to spit on herself, Richmond-style.
“The Toiges are always gonna be [censored]. [censored] – [censored] – [censored]!”
I then realised that the second of Deestroy’s challenges was a ‘Bridge too Far.’ Assuming my hydraulics were sound – an advocate of fat sex I ain’t – I had neglected to bring along a miner’s lamp, rope, and grappling hooks, the second assumption being that the target-area could be safely identified. Failure was mine. It was time to flee from her august presence. Like one of her courtiers, I spat on the ground, adjust my crotch and croaked out:
“See’s ya down at the pokies, Big Girl.”
Stupefied by the grog, she vomited all over herself and gave me a thumbs up.
I rejoined the mob. Sylvia, who loves to play against the Yellow and Black, was running amok. Towards the end of the match, sadness overcame me. Standing with the Richmond Grog Squad would make anyone rethink their position on eugenics. Each of its members – indubitably - is a downpipe for DNA of the most degraded kind. Erroneous or otherwise, there is a belief that Man was created in the image and likeness of God. As I encompassed the mob around me – Come on the Mighty Tiges – this viewpoint was entirely redundant. It was the Triumph not of the Will, but of the Swineherd.
The match came to a dreary end. Much to everyone’s relief, the siren sounded. Wretches one and all, the Richmond players hobbled off. Sure they wore the same jumpers as players such as Captain Blood, Royce Hart and Hungry, but the comparison went no deeper. This was no Gotterdammerung – the Twilight of the Gods, it resembled, rather, a Requiem for the Pullets. Befittingly, the Grog Squad sang a dirge. Other than a surreptitious vomit on the Moe-bound V-Liner, there was nothing to look forward to. I quietly slipped away. Once home. I washed the Richmond excrement off my personage, apologised to my wife and regained my humanity.
The World will hold its breath. Dees by 10 points.
Biffinator.
Thank you Biffinator, thank you ball-boys.
Drunk on a ladder R13
The 8's keep coming. No prizes, but sometimes an 8 is enough.
Hat's off to the other Dick, Dickwad, for a totally perfect couple of weeks. Two 8s and two weeks of picking the crucial margin exactly, as in zero. That's good tipping and it sees him enter the 8 with a bullet (3 green arrows means 3 weeks of upward mobility in a row).
Tassy has elbowed his way one clear of Jesper again, and there are about a million drunks milling around at the bottom of the stairs just waiting for a chance.
I haven't got round to doing the Dreamteam bizzo again this week. But anyone who wants to know, does already... Maybe next week.
Likewise I'll send some PunchDrink guff through asap.
Hat's off to the other Dick, Dickwad, for a totally perfect couple of weeks. Two 8s and two weeks of picking the crucial margin exactly, as in zero. That's good tipping and it sees him enter the 8 with a bullet (3 green arrows means 3 weeks of upward mobility in a row).
Tassy has elbowed his way one clear of Jesper again, and there are about a million drunks milling around at the bottom of the stairs just waiting for a chance.
I haven't got round to doing the Dreamteam bizzo again this week. But anyone who wants to know, does already... Maybe next week.
Likewise I'll send some PunchDrink guff through asap.
Friday, June 17, 2011
PunchDrink #1. Officially well overdue, but now well on its way.
I miss you guys like stink. Let's get together and have a vastly belated drink.
Pop this in your electronic brain on your computer machine thing:
Thursday July 7 2011.
Details to follow.
Pop this in your electronic brain on your computer machine thing:
Thursday July 7 2011.
Details to follow.
AFL Supremo mid year report
A fellow PunchDrunker found this document blowing along Docklands this morning, apparently from the desk of The Great One. We thought it only fair to share:
Hello underlings. Big boss here with a mid-season review of all I survey.
It is my happy task to reassure you all. Our game is in the best of hands and in a wonderful condition.
Yes, I hear concerns from those beneath me, from the man in the street, the woman in the kitchen, but let me tell you, you must agree with everything I say. Things could be no better.
I will present some issues that have been raised with me, and respond with a very truthful answer. It may not appear to be truthful, you may not believe me. I really do not care. I have top job and you don’t.
1. “The Easter round and the following round wherein we had games on pretty much every day of the week for 2 weeks was just ridiculous and played havoc with my tips”.
Stiff. I don’t care. How can too much football ever be too much? We do these things for reasons you do not need to concern yourself with. You are not that smart really. Just rest assured we do it for the good of the game. Think of Rugby League. You wouldn’t want that to happen would you?
2. “The Jack Trengove suspension of 3 weeks for applying what all pundits describe as ‘the perfect tackle’ was a case of the league sending a message, by making an example of a player from a club with a poor supporter base and no political clout. By contrast Daisy Thomas deliberately punches a bloke in the face, gets one week, Jarrad Waite deliberately kicks a bloke in the balls, gets nothing. 50 other examples of the same Trengove tackle, some with worse injury consequences, get nothing but applause. I could go on.
Do you think maybe the AFL should get back to FOOTBALL and put the moralising and lesson-giving a bit of a break?”
Look, Melbourne deserve what they get. Everyone knows they’re silvertails and public sympathy for them is ultimately as deep as a Justin Bieber song. Who would you rather bastardise? In fact we’re particularly proud that in both games since Trengove has come back we’ve had one of our umpires deliberately back into him, just so we can gouge an extra fine from him each week for umpire contact. Oh yes, he may be an upstanding individual, but we must teach players not to question the ultimate authority. Football is no place for upstanding individuals who question. Them and their little tweeting mates.
Back to Melbourne... The Scully thing. When... if he leaves, it’s their own fault. They were never supposed to stage an off-field recovery anyway. Bloody Jim Stynes. They should have merged with the Hawks back in ‘96. Then they would have ‘won’ a flag in ‘08. And my Kanga’s wouldn’t have to look to Tassy because there would be less competition in the local scene. Everyone knows the new GWS team, which, look into my eyes, deep into my eyes, will become a much loved part of the local community, will be far more important to the longevity of the game than the founding and oldest club. Everyone.
Did I mention the Demons are silvertails?
3. “Umpiring just seems to get worse and worse each year. The new ‘advantage’ rule seems to be drawing criticism weekly, the holding the ball interpretation is a constant problem, and umpire consistency is frankly a joke. Umpires are like acting. You don’t notice good acting, but you sure as hell notice bad acting. Has someone ever explained to them no-one shows up to watch the umpiring?”
Umpiring today is of the highest standard ever. If a player is pinged for holding the ball, while in fact his tackler is the only one with hands on the ball, both hands, as I saw last week, this is a true interpretation of the rules. True interpretation. I can’t explain why, but I don’t need to. If a player takes advantage, and it’s not... well it’s HIS FAULT. The more fault that lies with players, the better it is for us.
4. “What was your opinion of Eddie McGuire’s claim that a fellow spectator’s comments were racist, when in fact, if anything the comments simply referred to a player's criminal record without the merest hint of race. Surely it was Eddie himself making an instinctive and racially bigoted link between criminality and aboriginality?”
Look, Eddie is Collingwood. I only make scathing observations of the more poorly supported clubs. Do you take me for a fool?
5.”With the recent re-election of Sep Blatter as head of surely the most corrupt sports body in the world, the question should be asked what are the terms of your tenure, and how can we get rid of you?”
Sep is a good friend and mentor of mine. It’s NOT HIS FAULT that some dodgy African and South American officials were caught. I’m sure they will be more careful next time. I’m staying here, you can’t get rid of me, I have a stronger power base than Gaddafi.
6. It seems that the worst thing about AFL football at the moment is the AFL itself. Surely your focus is on money and personal power rather than the welfare of our on-field game, its supporters and grass roots?”
That’s just silly.
Hello underlings. Big boss here with a mid-season review of all I survey.
It is my happy task to reassure you all. Our game is in the best of hands and in a wonderful condition.
Yes, I hear concerns from those beneath me, from the man in the street, the woman in the kitchen, but let me tell you, you must agree with everything I say. Things could be no better.
I will present some issues that have been raised with me, and respond with a very truthful answer. It may not appear to be truthful, you may not believe me. I really do not care. I have top job and you don’t.
1. “The Easter round and the following round wherein we had games on pretty much every day of the week for 2 weeks was just ridiculous and played havoc with my tips”.
Stiff. I don’t care. How can too much football ever be too much? We do these things for reasons you do not need to concern yourself with. You are not that smart really. Just rest assured we do it for the good of the game. Think of Rugby League. You wouldn’t want that to happen would you?
2. “The Jack Trengove suspension of 3 weeks for applying what all pundits describe as ‘the perfect tackle’ was a case of the league sending a message, by making an example of a player from a club with a poor supporter base and no political clout. By contrast Daisy Thomas deliberately punches a bloke in the face, gets one week, Jarrad Waite deliberately kicks a bloke in the balls, gets nothing. 50 other examples of the same Trengove tackle, some with worse injury consequences, get nothing but applause. I could go on.
Do you think maybe the AFL should get back to FOOTBALL and put the moralising and lesson-giving a bit of a break?”
Look, Melbourne deserve what they get. Everyone knows they’re silvertails and public sympathy for them is ultimately as deep as a Justin Bieber song. Who would you rather bastardise? In fact we’re particularly proud that in both games since Trengove has come back we’ve had one of our umpires deliberately back into him, just so we can gouge an extra fine from him each week for umpire contact. Oh yes, he may be an upstanding individual, but we must teach players not to question the ultimate authority. Football is no place for upstanding individuals who question. Them and their little tweeting mates.
Back to Melbourne... The Scully thing. When... if he leaves, it’s their own fault. They were never supposed to stage an off-field recovery anyway. Bloody Jim Stynes. They should have merged with the Hawks back in ‘96. Then they would have ‘won’ a flag in ‘08. And my Kanga’s wouldn’t have to look to Tassy because there would be less competition in the local scene. Everyone knows the new GWS team, which, look into my eyes, deep into my eyes, will become a much loved part of the local community, will be far more important to the longevity of the game than the founding and oldest club. Everyone.
Did I mention the Demons are silvertails?
3. “Umpiring just seems to get worse and worse each year. The new ‘advantage’ rule seems to be drawing criticism weekly, the holding the ball interpretation is a constant problem, and umpire consistency is frankly a joke. Umpires are like acting. You don’t notice good acting, but you sure as hell notice bad acting. Has someone ever explained to them no-one shows up to watch the umpiring?”
Umpiring today is of the highest standard ever. If a player is pinged for holding the ball, while in fact his tackler is the only one with hands on the ball, both hands, as I saw last week, this is a true interpretation of the rules. True interpretation. I can’t explain why, but I don’t need to. If a player takes advantage, and it’s not... well it’s HIS FAULT. The more fault that lies with players, the better it is for us.
4. “What was your opinion of Eddie McGuire’s claim that a fellow spectator’s comments were racist, when in fact, if anything the comments simply referred to a player's criminal record without the merest hint of race. Surely it was Eddie himself making an instinctive and racially bigoted link between criminality and aboriginality?”
Look, Eddie is Collingwood. I only make scathing observations of the more poorly supported clubs. Do you take me for a fool?
5.”With the recent re-election of Sep Blatter as head of surely the most corrupt sports body in the world, the question should be asked what are the terms of your tenure, and how can we get rid of you?”
Sep is a good friend and mentor of mine. It’s NOT HIS FAULT that some dodgy African and South American officials were caught. I’m sure they will be more careful next time. I’m staying here, you can’t get rid of me, I have a stronger power base than Gaddafi.
6. It seems that the worst thing about AFL football at the moment is the AFL itself. Surely your focus is on money and personal power rather than the welfare of our on-field game, its supporters and grass roots?”
That’s just silly.
Drunk on a ladder. Round 12.
Oh yes, so much has happened since last we met. So much and and so little.
Apologies once again for being a dirty stop-out. You see what often happens is I just get the ladder done, it's home time, I have nothing to say (never did really). Then I just miss the presses basically.
That and my spiralling love and respect for our beautiful game at the moment. The year is not quite what it was meant to be, for many of us....
Anyhoo, here we are.
And my goodness, the drought is well busted isn't it? A solitary eight up til round 10 and then a whole heap of 'em all on top of each other. But the one that matters, the only one, was Fordy's magnificent solo effort in Round 11. For this he wins Uncle Doug's hamper, a Tontine pillow, a size 8 frozen chicken from Tegel and around about 80 or so bucks. Congrats mate.
Apologies and commiserations to my old mate Dirk, who in the interim pulled out a perfect 7 (in a week of 7 games). Last time I looked 7 is not 8, but if you want to get a petition together to have 7/7 considered an 8 I'll be happy to view it thus.
To the rest of you, about ten of you, who picked up 8 last week, well done, but due to a crowd of you reminiscent of the 112 Tram, stiff, you get nothing. Timing is all.
Anyway here's the latest state of play. Tassy and Jesper tussling it out a couple clear and the eight looking pretty consistent, but quite a few not too far away.
Apologies once again for being a dirty stop-out. You see what often happens is I just get the ladder done, it's home time, I have nothing to say (never did really). Then I just miss the presses basically.
That and my spiralling love and respect for our beautiful game at the moment. The year is not quite what it was meant to be, for many of us....
Anyhoo, here we are.
And my goodness, the drought is well busted isn't it? A solitary eight up til round 10 and then a whole heap of 'em all on top of each other. But the one that matters, the only one, was Fordy's magnificent solo effort in Round 11. For this he wins Uncle Doug's hamper, a Tontine pillow, a size 8 frozen chicken from Tegel and around about 80 or so bucks. Congrats mate.
Apologies and commiserations to my old mate Dirk, who in the interim pulled out a perfect 7 (in a week of 7 games). Last time I looked 7 is not 8, but if you want to get a petition together to have 7/7 considered an 8 I'll be happy to view it thus.
To the rest of you, about ten of you, who picked up 8 last week, well done, but due to a crowd of you reminiscent of the 112 Tram, stiff, you get nothing. Timing is all.
Anyway here's the latest state of play. Tassy and Jesper tussling it out a couple clear and the eight looking pretty consistent, but quite a few not too far away.
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