Stop the dopes! A raft of dunces sails on

As I swagger around the CBD Sydney streets looking for fat sunburnt Poms to taunt, with my Australian colours wrapped around my swollen gut and my post Ashes glow shining, I  do so with absolute impunity.   I am safe in the knowledge that the defender of good humour, Tim ‘Pee-wee’ Wilson, is going to look after blokes like me who just want to have a little fun at the expense of others.

Wilson was the policy director of the Institute of Public Affairs for the last seven years before George ‘Randy’ Brandis anointed him yesterday as ‘Defender of Japes and Insults’ or as it is known to others, Chief of the Human Rights Commission.  See for years you had this stupid Racial Discrimination Act that stopped you from having a good-natured dig at ethnic groups.  You know the stuff that appears in emails from people generally called Bob, who happen to choose to live in a caravan in Rockhampton or Karratha.  Bob’s missives are generally about Muslims or some other group that are responsible for everything that Bob and his mates simply cannot understand.

‘Randy’ Brandis who sadly doesn’t appear to have nuance or subtlety in his kick or live in a caravan is on a mission from a white god to get rid of Section 18c of the Racial Discrimination Act.  This divisive anti-jape bit is found in Part IIA :  Prohibition of offensive behaviour based on racial hatred, which makes it unlawful to publish material that offends or insults a person or group because ”of the race, colour or national or ethnic origin of the person or of some or all of the people in the group”.

In an act to protect and reward their Fourth Estate right-wing attack dogs, PM ‘Rabbit’ and ‘Randy’  will fulfill an election promise to introduce legislation to repeal a section of the Racial Discrimination Act that Andrew ‘Nuten’ Bolt was found guilty of breaching in 2011. It will change the definition of racial vilification in what the government says is a move towards restoring free speech laws to their full power.

‘Pee-wee’ Wilson claims on his website that he defends his alleged radical thought with fact – in fact he does the opposite.  In a breathlessly pompous piece on his website entitled, “Free speech does not discriminate”, facts are hard to find. He blithely assumes that everyone is like him, multi-degreed and doing ok in the lucky country.  Pee-wee argues for a free market of spurn and burn.

“But the solution is more speech, not less. We should preserve the right to speak out, mock them and ridicule them for the stupidity of their comments or the hate in their heart. And that also applies for incorrect statements. Free speech isn’t limited to factual accuracy. If it were, we’d never have a contest of ideas where ideas are proposed, exposed and corrected. The argument behind 18C is to afford some people higher legal standing than others for factors outside their control. It’s the antithesis of equality before the law.”

What ‘Pee-wee’ relies on is padded armchair theory.   This is white bread rhetoric from a man who conveniently believes that minority groups will be able to combat a wave of hate and stupidity with words.  They do not need legislative protection.  “Mock them” says Wilson.  What he is well aware of is that most of the groups he speaks of have little or no power and he now wants them to have less.

The problem here is the expected bad form of the Liberal right has in fact mirrored the Obedian behaviours of the Labor right in NSW. There is barely a struck match between these two in the shitawful stakes.   This is not about a Liberal government however – it is about privileged people using their power.

In reality, none of this would have happened if their good mate, ink blot ‘Nuten’ Bolt hadn’t got pinged under 18c of the Act.  Now it’s payback time for all of Rupe’s faithful scribes that so artfully picadored the flailing Labor beast.  So now  the Parrots, Prices and Nutens will have one of the last legislative hate hand brakes removed so they can now fearlessly peddle their ignorant, simplistic black and white slop without the contamination of fact.

The social engineering is beginning with the reduction of protection for the poor and miscellaneous miserable bastards, cuts to lower class welfare and the rooting of public and low socio-economic private sector education against a backdrop of dull and unimaginative policy reform based on repeal and repression.  This is the bunch that Lawson imagined in his “The Man from Ironbark” when he said, “their eyes were dull, their heads were flat – they had no brains at all.”

And so it goes as punitive policy bleeds this country of hope and tolerance this disgraceful bunch of dopes rope themselves together on their raft of right-wing ideology and head down their Ayn Rand gorge of wet dreams.  

What’s in a name… Jarrad, Jarryd, Jarrod, Javin?

A few months ago ‘Fancy Pants’ Clancy sent me a short piece from Peter Cronin in the Monthly.  Peter cleverly placed some of the 2013 AFL players into certain ‘name’ categories.  ‘Pants’ suggested that someone should have a go at using the names of the likely lads of Rugby League.  So to make at least one aged surfer happy I have had a swing at it using a few of Peter’s delightful headings but have added a lot more ‘clown’ ones.  You’ll note the Adult Entertainment category is quite large and growing and I do believe that the ARL Commission will have to address that in the coming season.

Some of you may believe that some of the names have been made up, however I assure you that a fertile river of imagination is running through league land.  We can all sleep well at night in the knowledge, that parents in maternity wards from Rooty Hill to Roma are daring to delve deeper into their alphabet soup.

Rugby League names in 2013/14 Rosters (from First Grade and Under 20s)

Names suitable for jockeys and petty criminals

Charlie Grubb (winner), Jack Bird, Greg Bird, Jake Mullaney, Josh Dugan, Billy Rodgers, Shannon Crook and Sam Short

Names suitable for adult entertainment stars

Peni Terepo (equal winner), Daniel Penese, Kyle Felte, James Luff, Sam Hoare, Eric Newbigging, Sam Tagataese, Steve Liki, Jake Dooner, Mitch Garbutt and Will Pearsall (equal winner)

Names suitable for Grand Final Half-Time Entertainers

James Taylor, Sam Cook (winner), Scott Bolton, Rainer Power and Slade Griffin

Names suitable for a Boutique Men’s Wear Shop

Brayden Williame, Jason Nightingale, Dean Whare (winner), Beau Falloon, Gerard Beale and Trent Merrin

Names suitable for a long distance trucker

Semi Radradra, Brody Rigg  (winner), Brock Cope and Tohu Harris

Names suitable for Investment bank or money launderer

Branxton Stanley (winner), Hayden Crowley, Alex Clark-Kennedy, Mitchell Barclay and Jack de Bellin

Names suitable for those who believe they are blessed

Samsen O’Neill, Jacob Host (winner), Isaac John, Tim Mannah, Mitchell Allgood, Mitchell Moses and Herschel Gideon

Names suitable for Rodeo Rider/Rancher/Bush Ranger

Mitch Rein , Jack Stockwell  (winner), Bronson Harrison, Kane Morgan, Ben Ridge, Sam Scarlett, Dayne Weston

Names suitable for a cage fighter

Jacob Loco, Jake Mullaney, Darcy Lussick, Jai Arrow, Dean Britt, Blain Rozs  (winner), Waqa Blake, Sisa Waqu and Will Chambers

Names suitable for butcher or meat stylist

Charly Runciman (winner), Matthew Groat, Nigel Plum and Sauaso Sue (special mention)

Names suitable for DJ or Rapper 

PJ Lose, Yaw Kitty Glimin (winner), Fred Junior Mauala, Cheyse Blair, Tyson Frizell and Dee Jay Harris

Names suitable for progeny of parents who didn’t really make much of an effort

Ben Smith, Chris Smith, Ben Roberts and Esera Esera  (winner)

Names suitable for each-way punters

Ava Seumanufagai, Delouise Hoeter  (winner), Peta Hiku and Kelly Tate

Ten first names that don’t appear on any team’s roster

Cyril, Cecil, Raymond, Reginald, Ronald, Gavin, Larry, Bruce, Barry or Brian

Ten surnames that don’t appear on any team’s roster

Duck, Spratt, Bear, Beer, Clay, Langlands, Raper, Summons, Provan or Beetson

Names suitable for supporting cast of Games of Thrones

Tariq Sims, Abraham Attalah, Thoren Fidow-Kele (winner) and Tom Humble

Names suitable as drunken instructions

Wellentony Tafua Satini     Translation: Well then Tony Tah for Saturday

Daly Cherry-Evans            Translation: Daily Cherry,  Evans?

Akeripa Tia-Kilifi (winner)   Translation : Arh tah ripper Tia Maria Cliffy

Kirisome Junior Kirisome  Translation: Carry some Junior, Carry Some!

Brad Soe                          As in :  Brad so what’s up Bro?

Leva Li                              As in : Leave her Lee, she’s not worth it!

Fascinators and fools starring at the Theatre of the Absurd

I don’t read the Daily Terror much these days as there is enough horror looking in the bathroom mirror each morning without having to contend with nut crushers like “What woman in their 20s need to get over”.  But I was so glad I picked up the slag rag in the local coffee shop today.  If I hadn’t I wouldn’t have caught the wonderful Kenny Callander piece about the trough they put on to promote the joke called the Theatre of the Horse at the revamped Randwick Racecourse.

Kenny, the father of Richie the Beanbag who fills the screen on TVN wrote: “Perhaps I am missing something, but how can the Australian Turf Club spend a rumoured $500K on members of the so-called ‘in’ crowd at yet another launch on Thursday night when it is supposed to be cash strapped.”  You don’t get dealt dud cards by Ken C.  He admits that if he hadn’t had a conflicting engagement he would have been there with bells on and drowning in giggle juice with 550 other clowns who had no doubt had either bare-arsed on Big Brother or were Sophie Mirabella‘s wedding planner.

At a crack under a grand a head it must have been some spread and no doubt Australia is buzzing now about the Theatre of the Horse.  Obviously patrons were not served ‘Devils on Horseback‘ washed down with Reschs golden throat charmers but more your high-end fare.  But I wanted to know more about it so I typed into Google – “Flash party at Randwick on Thursday night”.  Spending half a million in cold harry nash you’d want the dailies to spruik big time however the Terror was the only major daily newspaper that seemed to bother with a spray about the shindig albeit in their Entertainment Section – you see that’s what it is all about folks –  it’s entertainment!

“Actress Rachel Griffiths spearheaded a stellar guest list which also included Minister for Tourism, Major Events, Hospitality and Racing and Arts George Souris, Arrowfield’s John Messara along with Prime Minister Tony Abbott’s daughters Frances and Bridget. Guests arrived at the newly finished Theatre of the Horse, an outdoor arena modeled on something similar at Royal Ascot, at dusk – here they downed Moet champagne while watching a 10-minute equine-themed performance by composer Anton Koch and creative director Ignatious Jones which commemorated the champions of the turf.”

Look Koch and Jones are two of my favourite pairings and when it comes to equine themed entertainment they are without par.  They are golden.  They are the Zager and Evans of the Hoofenanny.  My question is why this equine extravaganza was wasted on the these Primo Donnas and Kevin Kebabs who only come out of the cave when the carnivals are on?  Why wasn’t it run past the 15,000 paying culture starved punters last Saturday who had parted with their gold to watch the Spring Champion Stakes at Headquarters?    No!  No way.  This gold was for really important people like Tommy the Tooth Waterhorse and his consort Hoda.  Who possibly watched the ATC committee members dressed in horse costumes as Phar Lap, Tulloch, Kingston Town, Gunsynd, Octagonal and Black Caviar dancing to a piece of pure Koch.

But then these treasures were treated to a banquet dinner, dubbed the ‘Royal Feast’, tucking into citrus-scented tuna tartare and braised wagyu short rib.  Apparently Tooth and Co then moved to Level Two to be entertained further post-Koch, in three precincts –  a dance floor, a circus with acts including snake charmers, contortionists and burlesque dancers and a third called The Spring Carnival (possibly an empty space).

The Terror’s article then refers to another one of the freeloaders, walking coat-hanger, Nicole Trunfio who is allegedly an avid racegoer. Nic says she loves going to the races because, “It is a nice reason to get dressed up, drink some champagne and see all the fashion.”  Perhaps one should tap Nic and tell her that it’s actually about horses not clothes horses but why bother she is probably right.

So that’s it.  The snake charmers at the ATC believe if you feed the media and hobble to the top end of town then that’s how you build the business.   So of course as Kenny Callander points out a couple of bookmakers who kick in a quart mill of taxes a year get the bum’s rush while glamour gets a guernsey every time.  I’ll bet a meat pie to a mud crab mousseline that not one struggling bush jockey or busted arse trainer got a ticket to the Feast either!

Sadly the races these days are not really about horses anymore they’re about a few people and fashionable ideas.   That’s a few hundred people full of fizz and citrus scented tuna tartare who proudly ponce around to Koch and Jones’s absurd equine fantasies.

Hird the word? He’s Roi de Merde

I don’t like people in their fifties with personal trainers.  

In fact if they are only twenty to forty something and I see them grunting and sweating on the kikuyu as they shadow box in my local park with some bloke called Travis or Kent my first instinct is to go the knuckle.  However being a mild-mannered chap I just go to the claret blanket for comfort.  They drive me to drink these people who have abrogated personal responsibility for getting fit as they struggle against the natural order of life.  It beats me why these bumblers cannot accept the fact that getting fat and useless is a part of growing up. What’s wrong with a brisk walk in your Volleys to the TAB or the bottle shop to sharpen up your nether regions?

It’s the same with hair.  I cast a very keen almost suspicious eye over some bloke with a surfeit of hair who has hit the forty mark and still allows curls to bother the collar.  If he has in his fashion arsenal a pink body shirt then I mark him down even further with a very, very large black question mark.

And so like a cream bun to a Fatty Finn we come to James Hird.  Now I’m not sure if this Roi de Merde has a pink shirt but judging on his performance over the last two years or so he should have a closet full.  If he’d been around in the sixties Hirdy would have been running around in paisley pinks, platform clogs doing a nice line in jumping juice and mushrooms.

I declare now I have never liked the cut of Hird’s jib.  To me there has been something different about him ever since he became coach of the Bombers in 2011.  Occasionally imperious but mostly haughty, Windy Hill’s favourite son was given the keys to the family’s black and red Kingswood at a far too early age for mine. It was only a matter of time before he would be caught speeding or going through a school zone talking on his mobile.

There has been a rising odeur de merde about this golden boy since he became Coach ‘Roi’ Hird.  He was far too perfect and we know what that means don’t we?  All of us imperfect creatures that go to parties with our fly undone and dribble on our chins.  Yes we can detect a bloke who is hiding stuff.  No one on the planet is clean in our books. That’s where we imperfect creatures start from – the presumption of guilt and then we tunnel relentlessly down for the brown.

One of the problems with perfect people is that they do not accept imperfection (or failure) easily.   ‘Roi’ obviously needed whatever edge he could get in whatever form so his team could get to the top.  This is not a problem for us imperfect creatures – if we stumble across failure again, we simply get pissed or blame someone else.

‘Roi’s’ ability as player is not questioned here. Two hundred and fifty-three games of ‘bounce’ must count for something.  But as the outrage generated by the injection of ball-catching hormones into AFL players continues this character has been a justifiable free kick for every semi-colon cowboy who wants to ride the drug clean horse.  ‘Roi’ will most likely return to the game and Essendon after he has served his time. A mere year seems lettuce leaf light in my book. Hird says “I should have done more and I’m very disappointed that I didn’t but it’s now time to move on”.

I also think ‘Roi’ should move on too.  He should move on a long way.  In fact I think he should move to California or possibly Las Vegas because that’s where shallow people go to wallow in their conceited self-belief. Perhap’s he could do his Cert IV in Personal Training, clogging up the parks of LA as he works with other perfect people like Sarah Palin or Donald Duck. I don’t think it is appropriate for him to return to AFL in any capacity.

Some months ago I wrote in a post titled “Boneheads Overdose in an Orgy of Self-Pity” about the reaction from certain NRL clubs to the AAC Report;

“But now if they get it right we can avoid going back to the black days of the lightly framed bulking up mysteriously in the “off” season under the instructions of chemists and charlatans who have as their only consideration a fat fee. Now we can hopefully see clubs think less about untried chemistry and more about the welfare of young blokes who just want to get onto the paddock and ‘go hard and straight’.

To me this quest for perfection and success is killing sport as we once knew it.  We need new heroes.  We need your average Joe and Janet who work two jobs to get to Badminton finals overseas knowing they are still ranked 230th in the world and have about as much chance as a bubble through a mincer of making the finals. We don’t need any more golden boys or girls and we need to punish appropriately those who go against the natural laws of life and sport.

Punters – put a cross on the door – we are a dying breed

I picked up today’s Herald in hope of a good read.  Fool you say.  You are a simpleton. But you see I’m a dewy-eyed optimist despite the fact I know pessimists never get disappointed.  But after reading endless splodge in the early general news about Bad Habbits and Kev Clean with a brief cameo from the annoying Jane Caro (who looks increasingly more and more like the third Banana in Pyjamas) – I was thirsting for some real news.  It was not forthcoming.  On page three there was some borrowed tosh from AFP quoting a study by some Yank psychologist that found that 64% of blokes wanted their dates to cough up a bit of harry nash for the bill.  Really? They interviewed 17,000 people to find that out?  No wonder R&D is being scaled back in this country.

So I went in search of some real news. That’s racing news. News from the Equine Empire.  But it’s not an easy search.  No way.  You need the skill of a Burke or a Wills.  To get to it you have to use your plough to cut a swathe through pages of bleeding obvious.  Through the glamour sports of thugby, ‘stacks-on-the-mill, tip and run, aerial ping-pong and any other minority sport ranging from handball to long distance dating.  And there hiding at the bum-end of the Herald was the good oil from Chris ‘Logie’ Roots, Maxy ‘Lead-Weight’ Presnell and a few other pork-hatted Harrys.

To be fair on Friday the Herald gives us a treat – a weekly dose.  It’s called The Form – our special paper – separated from the rest of the paper like a leper.  But it’s such a relief. It’s an oasis for old timers with sepia memories of Rail Lover, Summer Promise and Gatum and Gatum.  But there appears to be very few people like us who want to read about horse racing or look at the fields as the Herald generally doesn’t give much of a run to the thoroughbreds these days let alone publish the fields during the week. That is unless they are tainted with touch of celebrity like the Waterhorses or the jughead ‘Blue-Tongue’ Singleton and then the Herald indulges in an orgy of he said that and she said this.

No it’s a wasteland if you want to get decent racing stories these days in the mainstream press.  But it is not only the press that ignores us and turns our sport into entertainment. We, the punters are an endangered species, a curiosity to be poked and pitied. I do not include in this category those who bung on a fascinator or slide into a cheap shiny suit once a year and drink gallons of giggle juice then clog up tote lines when we, the Punters are trying to place a decent bet.  Nor am I talking about the poor silly buggers who play one-armed bandits.

By punters I mean people who do the form and back their judgement – week in – week out on horseflesh.  I’m talking about people with faces rubbed red by the sun and looks like dropped pies.  These are my people.  These are the good guys and you sanctimonious others are our enemy.  So a bloke loses his house, his wife and his car – not necessarily in that order and you say “shame”.  I say learn from your mistakes cobber.  Saddle up again next Saturday – you are closer to a win after a loss.  As Pittsburgh Phil, the very successful American gambler said many years ago, “Lose your money, you lose nothing.  Lose your confidence, you lose everything.”

But very few understands us.  We are herded into corners at functions where in conversation we are the subject of superior looks and pitying eyes and ridicule from those who have investment properties, straight teeth and kiddies at Knox or St Brians of the Bruised.  They trot out “you know you can never win” and “it’s a mug’s game you know” as if they have just invented wisdom.

Please. Gives us a break.  Back off.  Go and do some ironing or catalogue your stamps you bunch of wide-eyed bodeens.  We know we can’t win.  What do you think we are totally stupid?  Do you think on Monday’s when we have to eat mince instead a steak we don’t know that we have not won first prize in the four-legged lottery?

You, the enemy will never understand that chancing your arm against the odds is such a liberating force nor do we expect you to do.  Just leave us alone.  Don’t talk to us.  Go off and watch another episode of Master Chef in your fluffy slippers and leave us to imagine the 100-1 winner and all other matters pertaining to the impossible dream.

“I’ve never met a nice South African”

 

So ‘Take-The’ Mickey Arthur wants a couple of million for allegedly being racially discriminated against. Fair call Mickey. Why not $20M? Go the long-handled tonk big boy you have little to lose against those callow CA types.  It’s an ambit isn’t it ‘Take The’? As Toni Basil sings in that wonderful 1980s anthem, written by Chapman & Chinn, Hey Mickey, “You think you’ve got the right but I think you’ve got it wrong”.

Sadly Mickey your legal brief also got it wrong.  You are nothing special.  Let you fully understand the fact that we dislike most, if not all South African sportspeople. Perhaps you could lead a class action?

The truth is you were discriminated against not on race but on the following grounds;

Lack of performance as a coach. You simply didn’t get enough wins you poor old sausage.

Lack of communication. You allowed Poodle Clarke to further divide an ordinary team and then you tried to put in place faux disciplinarian measures when it was far too late.

Lack of judgement. You have to take some of the dubious credit for some curious selection strategies of the last two years.

Lack of imagination. Despite the fact that ‘those who are in the know’ say you are good bloke,  (this defence will probably be dismissed as hearsay), you appear a bit dull and unimaginative in the way you coached the team.

Of course if the Cricket Australia legal eagles wish to mount a winning argument against your claim for damages then they need only to play Spitting Image’s video , “I’ve never met a nice South African”, to the beak.  Oh Mickey you’re not so fine.  Case dismissed. 

Just click on here to view the video and see what Mickey’s up against.  

 

England – a smaller land of dopes without glory

Where does England begin and end? Does it start in Capetown and end in Dublin?  Is Scotland England?  I didn’t do geography at school but can someone tell me how can all these moaning, mincing  “You know what I mean?” types who flock here from the dull and blighted poly-country allegedly called England claim Andy Murray and the Lions as their own.

England is according to textbook definition a part of Great Britain that is in turn part of the United Kingdom.  Let’s get it straight you bunch of desperate toe rags– you Englishmen – it’s not the 19th Century. The sun has set on your Empire and it’s not very bright!

Fact One:  The Webb-Ellis Trophy was won by Wales boyo – not England.  You had fuck-all English players in the team.  And after having to endure 30,00 middle-class unimaginative wally wankers from FOUR countries, combined only by convenience, wail “Lions, Lions, Lions” for over ninety minutes you don’t seem very bright.  You seem to cling to the notion that you are a witty crew.  Good with banter are we?  Well I’ll be rogered by the Housemaster.  You have a premier league football team in London where grown men gather and sing, “I’m forever blowin’ bubbles”.   No wonder you emigrate here bringing your dubious IT and telemarketing skills together with your tinea you mob of unwashed bodeens.

Fact Two:  Wimbledon was won by a Scotsman.  Devoting the first nine pages of The Times to Murray’s win just shows how dull and devoid of imagination you are and how desperate you are to claim anyone as English.  Have you tossers heard of Hadrian’s Wall?  The Scottish Parliament?  I know why you think he is an Englishman.  Andy is a very very dull lad that had all imagination drained from his body at an early age. But deep down it must rankle you to see Andy ‘Hootmon’ Murray win because you Englishmen hate the Scots.  But I’ll tell you something for nothing old sausage – not as much as they hate you.

 Fact Three:  The only real thing you (England) have won lately is the Ashes First Test.  And you won that because you cheated.  Stuart Broad failed to walk despite having clearly hit a catch to slips.   He is just a horrible little spotty spoilt herbert.  He is now defended by that stupidly tattooed South African lump who once had a hairstyle reminiscent of a skunk, Kevin Pietersen who says he has every right not to walk.   And speaking of South Africans – how many ex-Boers do you have in your rotten cheating team?

To paraphrase the Australian Bodyline era cricketer William Woodfull, “There were two teams out there; one was trying to play cricket and the other was not.” So it seems the only thing you Englishmen have actually earned lately, you bunch of simpering Simons, is our continued and deserved contempt you horrible little people.

The language of violence – Just another conversation with Team Blood

I’m not a wowser.  I’m quite fond of a ‘love-tap’ and a ‘squirrel grip’ when done to a Queenslander.  It springs from the time I injudiciously told an irreverent Bjelke-Petersen joke in that state and was subsequently knocked out.  What I don’t like is the Fairfax rugby league writers that seem to think they can save their sinking, shrinking paper by becoming even more violently tabloid than the Terrorgraph.

In today’s SMH the Fairfax Team Blood’s Michael Carayannis, writes that Blues player, Trent Merrin has said “I’m not going to pull punches if provoked.”  Dopey Merrin instigated a silly ineffective punchathon in Game II of the State of Origin series not because he was provoked but because he is obviously stupid and had no real impact on the game until that time.  Just in case we didn’t understand what stupid violent men do in league, Team Blood put a large photo next to Carayannis’s story of NSW captain Paul ‘Pig-Dog’ Gallen thumping Nate ‘The Defecator’ Miles in the gob.

Read further into the paper and you find, Andrew Webster (Chief Sports Writer) getting quite moist about the Origin I barney, ‘Pig-Dog’ v ‘The Defecator’.  Webster obviously has the scoop of what ‘The Defecator’ said to the ‘Pig-Dog’ – it’s along the lines of “Is that the best you’ve got? C’mon then. Let’s go.”  Pure Shakespeare.  But then Webster goes on to  talk about other recent indiscretions including Billy “The Skidmark” Slater’s elbow on Mitchell Pearce‘s cheek in Origin II. The paper is riddled with this sort of nonsense and very little serious analysis but they should not be singled out.

When Warriors played the Brisbane Broncos recently the television coverage by a New Zealand television station and shown on Fox Sports did little to restore anyone’s faith that the media were taking the violence in league seriously.  After a Warrior’s try they showed footage of a ‘fan’ in a Warriors mask dragging his thumb across his throat in a cutting motion.  Later that night when the Newcastle Knights beat the Gold Coast Titans it was reported as the “Knights smashing the Titans”. It’s not that the administrators, the players and the fans haven’t given the media enough violent incidents to write about.  It seems that a new wave of SMS hacks simply do not have a solid grounding in the sport they write about and therefore they write about easy stuff –  the biff, the blood and the bull dust.

And now in Sydney on this rainy Tuesday night we may even see more violence for the Fairfax Team Blood to write about.  Tonight the NSW Blues have been given the night off for a ‘bonding session’ by their extremely thoughtful and wise coach, Loz ‘Mad Eyes’ Daley.  So if you see a member of Team Blood hanging around the Cross tonight looking for a Bungling Blue or two.  Help him out.  Go up to him and give him something to write about – give him the best you’ve got – give him a love-tap.

Rugby Union – never heaven mainly boring

So this is the game they play in heaven is it?  In that case the concept of heaven must have been drawn up from plans taken from Hieronymus Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’.

The glimpses of this special heaven have been on show for the last month or so  – though it seems longer – with the British Lions tour of Australia.  This rugby team representing the cream of England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales came to us via a piss poor match against a sad, disheveled bunch of Barbarians (Baa Baas in rugby speak) who looked medicated in Honkers.  This match was staged before a braying bunch of Hooray Henrys and pissed expats at the request basically of HSBC who paid a shit-load of money to have the boys stop-off on their way to the colony.  You will not see a bogan beer sponsor anywhere. Rugby union sponsor land is the land of the wealth generators who hope to trap the high net-worth individuals who crave so dearly their dose of this incredibly dull game.

There is a sense in every aspect of rugby to suggest that this is a game for those who have attended St Bede’s of the Bleeding Buttocks or other such clannish private sector schools that nourish the inner child’s desire to be a merchant banker.  The old English saying, “Football is a gentleman’s game played by ruffians, and rugby is a ruffian’s game played by gentlemen” tends to suggest the sense of entitlement that drips from the game’s followers.  Say that the sport is an elitist light for attracting like-minded must-have moths brings scorn from the rugger-buggers who cite the number of Polynesian players now playing the sport as evidence that this is the game of the people.  The reality is somewhat different.

The record of indigenous players in Rugby Union is poor.  As the wonderful ex-Wallaby, Mark Ella commented in his Australian article in May 2013;

“Watching other sports speak so proudly of their indigenous athletes makes me feel disenchanted about rugby union. My sport likes to talk the talk but fails to deliver.

Rugby makes very little effort to encourage participation from those outside of the private school sector.”

What has been overlooked is that this Lions tour has simply highlighted the major emerging weakness of rugby union.  It is fundamentally a highly technical game and it is getting worse.  The stubborn refusal of the IRB to actually have rules that make sense and that can be consistently interpreted by referees is astonishing.  In the early 1800s, when William Webb Ellis attended the Rugby School, the alleged starting ground of the game, there were no formal rules.  Little has changed.  As Rob Gibson wrote in the SMH Rugby Heaven, “Casual viewers of last Saturday’s Test will have been baffled, as so many have over the years, at the constant packing and repacking of scrums by South African referee Craig Joubert, and his random allocation of blame for its repeated collapses and other misadventures.”

Of course the ‘purists’ will bang-on about the phases, the rolling mauls and other subtleties of the game as they clutch their moist groins bemoaning that we mere mortals cannot see the real game.  But I say bull fuck to you boyo – I see the game that could replace Mogadon.  You and your Gucci gang are like P76s – you are disappearing from the earth because you no longer have the capacity to be relevant in a time when fast, open, skillful play is what people want.

If you look at the statistics from the Second Kickathon played in Melbourne last Saturday night as stated in greenandgoldrugby.com you will find sobering stats.

“The Wallabies also carried the ball 459 metres to the Lions’ 140.  Israel Folau was a standout on attack once again. 90 metres from 11 carries with 6 defenders beaten and 2 clean line breaks.”

It tells the true story of heaven doesn’t it?  Heaven is a place where you really cannot run free unless you have had a grounding in less controlled sports.  Heaven is a place of constant whistle blowing – arh the bells the bells.   When you compare the 1328 metres made on average by a rugby league team in the NRL in 80 minutes you start to wonder whether union will end up a curio enjoyed by a smitten few over a tincture of sherry.

But still the smugness of the Barnacle Bill Pulver who now heads the game is somewhat overwhelming.  Pulver’s comments about NRL/AFL convert Israel Folau were like a cheap perfume that strangles reason after a brace of golden throat charmers.  Pulver was quoted in the press as saying that Folau would become a very good player once he understood the “nuances” of the game.  What “nuances” do you speak of Barnacle?  Catching the ball cleanly? Scoring tries?  Running the ball? Taking on the man and beating them?  All the things that most rugby players have forgotten about.

This is the sort of talk you would expect from the head knob of a game played in heaven as he looks down on the unwashed.  It is also the attitude that will continue to see the game serve the elite few and bore the majority of us into an atheist’s stupor.

Consultants equal whatever you want – it’s what they do best

This will be a short post – I don’t really want to bore you but can someone tell me is the current definition of a consultant that I have match the one they have?  Mine is simply that a consultant is someone who is paid well above their worth and does stuff-all to tell the person signing the cheques that they are incredibly good.  Are we on the same page?  Yes that’s what a consultant would say – the same page.  Well in fact that’s what it seems the majority of consultants do. That is to ensure that the people who employ them are on the page.  That is that any so-called, independent report written by the top consultant tools around town reflect favourably on the client.  Hoot mon – it’s the old ‘who pays the piper’ riff isn’t it Jamie?

I read yesterday in that glorious piece of Sabbath freckle wipe (The Sun Herald) that Echo, the consortium who wants to polish the fading Star casino is taking on ‘Son of GoannaJamie Packer‘s Buggaryou zillion dollar casino for high rollers.  From all reports the Echo proposal is a thoughtful piece of work – pledging bridges and bouncers with backgrounds in bonsai, Liszt and the ballet.

The Freckle trumpets, courtesy of the new breed of investigative reporter, Tim Barlass, “Secret billion-dollar plans revealing key elements of one of the two bids vying to dominate the city’s casino business in the future can be revealed for the first time.”  Gosh, secret, really?  Perhaps Tim is a distant nephew of Bluey Bargearse – now that would make sense.  How else would Timmy get a “secret” report?

But wait there is more.  Super sleuth, Sean Nicholls from the Freckle has uncovered yet another “confidential” report done by PwC (Price Waterhouse Cooper).  Yes that’s how they want it portrayed in print – the little “w” is obviously due to the devalued nature of the Waterhouse brand name after cousin Tommy let the side down.

Strangely the ‘little w’ confidential report trashes Jamie Packer’s claim that his Buggaryou Project would bring in millions of visitors to Sydney.  They (or Echo say as they are paying them) it’s a mere 10,000 visitors.  And ‘little w’ should know they have a “Private Business Barometer” on their site.  It is obviously a very good tool for developing slogans such as “What you can do today to realise and discover the potential of tomorrow”.  Well bugger me – that’s a deep crock.

 

Packer’s Crown mob employed Allen Consulting so obviously the ‘Big As’ are going to be glass half-full on Crown stuff.  No, it’s overflowing like a waterfall – growth of $440M per annum and an extra 1400 jobs.  But hold onto your Keno cards, Echo’s pencillers, the “little w”, obviously use a different slide rule as they say only 810 jobs and a paltry $90M!

 

But wait there is even more. Sunday night news was full of John ‘Lucky Starr‘ O’Neill* spruiking the benefits of the Echo/Star proposal.  Now Lucky has had more jobs than Warnies had roots but if he’s behind the proposal then it’s got to be good.  John’s no mug.

 

 

Come this morning the Freckle’s print partner, the Sydney Morning Herald put on a new face.  A wrap-around cover featuring – wait for it – The Star.  Now is it a coincidence that Freckle’s leak, Lucky and the wrap-around all came within 24 hours?  No that’s what integrated marketing is all about – you simple fool.  It’s about dangling the advertising dollar out there in exchange for pretty press puff pieces.

 

 

 

 

 

So what’s going on here?  Leaked, confidential documents going to the press.  Two large consultancy firms coming up with totally different figures that appear to match their master’s expectations. Can we no longer trust consultants? Can we no longer expect balance from the press?

It’s chaos, our complex world is spinning.  Do we really need a bigger casino let alone two? I need to have my compass reset.  I wonder if ‘little w’ could lend me their ‘ethical business barometer’ – I hear it was last used in the sixties.

 

 

* You will all remember Lucky Starr’s 1962 hit, “I’ve been Everywhere”. If not do yourself a favour.