Please spare me – not another tosh sodden story about the Rusties

It has taken a lot to get me back to the typewriter.   But the avalanche of rugby league tosh and bum-fuddle that has bloated the Daily Dread and the slim-line Clever Chronicle about the Rusties for the past week has finally done it.

Sure it was moderately pleasing to see the Rusties beat the Hasslers. If only that the lesser evil triumphed on the evening.

That there was a player stupid enough to play on with injury in such a match then that is indeed unfortunate.  However when a team’s management is desperate enough for an elusive title, that in this century, they allow not one but two players to play on with significant injuries then why should I stand up and say well done?  Why should I doff my lid to this errant disregard for a players welfare re-badged as courage?

And I don’t care if Sam Bully Beagle farts Walzing Matilda through a crack in his skull.  And I don’t care if the previously estranged George ‘Grumpy’ Piggins tongue kisses Al Packer.  I don’t care about the fucking Book of Feuds. But I do care for the players who in years to come will to be cruelly crippled because dickwits believe that the ends justify the means.

Frankly I just don’t care about simple Souths anymore.  Because they are, as I have said before, the new Manly and they stink.  The coach Mid-Carder Maguire imported from Dullcity South a bag of wrestling holds and throws that has quagmired the free-flowing game to the extent that every contested tackle is an exercise in grip, grope and grapple.  He had no problem with injured players playing on.  No worries. That he got Coach of the Year shows how little respect the NRL numbskulls have for the future of the game.

And of course both the Dread and the Clever regaled us with wonderful ownership tales about Rusty’s partner, Petro Hyphen selling out. Petro has wanted out even before Al Packer’s speakeasy started to sponsor the Rusties.  Petro apparently hated the Club to be so heavily associated with gambling. Of course it will not be a problem now with Al, from the big end of town.  As Grumpy says:

“It’s fantastic, his father used to help us and if James takes the role, and it looks as though he is, it’ll be fantastic. It’s fantastic for him to be there to help the club … that is the real big end of town. The [Crowe Group] said they were going to go to the big end of town, well, Packer is the big end of town, I’ll tell you. It means you can buy better stock, make sure everyone is content, that the fans get a fair go. It should be pretty special.”

So Grumpy is right – It’s going to be “pretty special’ in 2015 – the big end of town in control of Souths.  So get used to it folks, the Crownies are here to play and stay.
Step right up.  Double your money.  Not one powerful fat prick shrouded in a white bunny jacket but two – crowing from the balcony as their boys belt and bash each other into an early grave.
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A contrast of clowns – The Bubbler and Bozo

I believe that my innovative ideas for sport and society in general have been treated unfairly in the past.  For example, the idea of combating childhood obesity by having weighing scales and narrower gates at the entry of all our schools was summarily dismissed by the health nazis and civil liberty losers.  So what happens?  I get hung out to dry and the kiddies just keep adding the avois du pois as they stumble from one fast food joint to the XXL section of Lowes.

And so I’ll reheat another of my sporting strategies.  It is a gem. The objective is to eradicate dickheads from the game of league.  Obviously this has been prompted by the carnival acts of one, Todd Clown Carney.  This strategy is quite simple as it is for rugby league administrators. It is a test for all aspiring first graders.  It involves a range of real life scenarios.  Consider just a couple.

Scenario 1: You’ve had a great win and you’re celebrating with your team mates – Dicko, Mazza and Bumsy at a night club.  You go to the men’s toilet.  While relieving yourself, Mazza asks you to pretend to urinate into your mouth while he takes a picture. You take the following action.

a.  You urinate on Mazza

b.  You spin around like a sprinkler spraying other patrons because you like to involve everyone in the fun

c.  You comply with Mazza’s request and begin ‘bubbling’

d.  You realise you should not be in a night club and you leave immediately after telling Mazza he is a ‘homo’.

Scenario 2: You are in licensed premises and drunk.  You see an eftpos machine and your first instinct is to:

a.  Urinate into the tray because the toilets are more than 50 metres away

b. Try and phone your girlfriend on the eftpos machine

c.  Get out a $1000 from the machine and go to the casino

The test would go like this.  Once each player has answered the questions their results are tabulated and then adjusted via an IQ factor – that is the Ink Quantity – quite simply we measure the total surface area of the player and then measure the area of the player that is covered by tattoos.  The greater the percentage of area covered the less the player scores.

I know it’s not the total solution but I think we would weed out a lot of the undesirables in the game.  Sure we could lose a lot of players so we would need to ensure we have plenty of under 16s available to play first grade.  But wouldn’t it be worth it?  No knuckleheads clogging up the pages of the Daily Dread with their unimaginative circus acts.

I note that Clown Carney’s agent, David Riolo, an ex-player has hit out at the Sharks for terminating Clown’s act before he had a chance to showcase his talents in front of the Board.  May I suggest, ever so humbly at this time, Mr Riolo should be canvasing new opportunities for Mr Clown more commensurate with his obvious talents.  I would say any fountain manufacturer worth their salt would sign up young Toddy to appear at trade shows and the like.  Festooned with fairy lights as he went through his various bits of doodle work such as the ‘Petrol Pump’, the ‘Cascade’ and the ‘William Tell’ would allow the world to see the real Toddy Carney.

However as one clown exits the wonderfully entertaining clown, Liam Bozo Fulton, has been forced to leave the game through injury.  What a contrast in clowns!

Fulton, a real no-nonsense forward with West Tigers has played above his weight (96 kgs) season after season, carrying multiple injuries, he never gave up playing the game he clearly cherished.  The notion of Bozo playing above the bar started with the Greystanes Devils U/7s – he was only four at the time.

Fulton has a wry sense of humour and in the early days he would assume a range of characters and ring up the local sports talk-back jocks who fell for his colourful anecdotes. No one was spared, when the NZ import, Wade McKinnon turned up at the club he received a call from a man claiming to be the club’s marketing manager, asking him to ensure he wore a suit and tie on game day and to pen a speech on the club and deliver it to Tigers sponsors after the match.  He did both before he found it was Bozo at work.

Quite simply, Carney and his inked cohorts have no place in sport.  Whereas players like Liam Fulton are the sport. Their legacy of imagination and courage stays with us long after the other tattooed tumbleweeds have blown out of town.

Best of luck Bozo.

Swings and soft touches and an all-rounded education

I was in a cafe at the pointy end of the suburb where I occasionally sleep last Sunday morning.  It’s Balmain – the suburb where ‘boys’ allegedly never cried.

After ordering a cup of get-up from the flash bloke behind the percolator I spotted a prosperous family of five.  They were happy.  Led by a chinless Charlie and a pouting consort they filled their sensible upper middle class mouths with flash food while the kiddies dined on exotic juices and dealer marshmallow infused caffeine.  There were no arguments.  No one spoke.  They were all glued to their various devices from iPhones to iPads.  No need.  Why bother? Time was up and running and the favourite was indifference.

I’m not saying the good old days of Balmain were all beer and skittles either. There was a time when a round or two for a pound or two was de rigueur for a relaxing Friday night. People talked, shouted and shoved. Granted the subjects discussed may not have been put options or periodontitis but they talked.  Like most inner-city suburbs you are now more likely to be hit by a SUV or a pram than one of Blood Roddy’s indiscreet haymakers.

And so next morning at the cafe while I watched the daily dull flow of blazered Herberts and Harriets heading to their private fun factories, I found myself in a bit of a funk.  This was not my time and some may say that it actually was never my time.   But then in a flash I had my mojo back.  I was swinging on the cherry chandelier. The inside back page of the Daily Dread’s sporting pages was all that it took.  A glimpse of the good old days.  A story of a weekend of ill-tempered stinks, slurs and a sex scandal –  all involving rugby league players.  What a joy!  The old values.  A bloke, a rugby league player having a good old Ronnie Coote in a car with an actress old enough to be his Mum.  Lordy it’s almost enough to make you believe in Amway.

But of course when a few lads go off the path some clown has to come out and say that this sort of behaviour is stopping parents from letting their kids play rugby league.  I beg your pardon.  This is exactly what these soft croissant-fed poor wretches need if they are to grow up Renaissance men and women.  They do not need an exclusive daily dose of ballet, oboe and tai chi.  That does not cut the mustard in educating the whole child.   Sure buy them a subscription to the New Yorker and let them play an instrument other than the pink piccolo by all means.  But at the same time let them get a bloody nose on the field of dreams and screams, walk to their local school and then reward them with a TAB account on their ninth birthday.

You see some may say that there is little evidence to support this idea of exposing our youngsters to the common man’s arts to help the holistic development of a kiddie.  Evidence you say?  Well I’ll give you a couple of examples of people who have sadly not had a rounded education  – ‘Peanuts’ Packer and ‘Gilligan’ Gyngell.

Now here are two men who attended the elite Cranbrook School and have lived a sheltered and incredibly privileged life.  Now in their middling years they wield great power and influence.  Fortunate lives some may say.  And like our rugby league bad boys who may be considered to have unfortunate lives, they have also not had the breadth of opportunities, for other reasons, of mixing parlays with Puccini but they still end up the same way. On a Bondi sidewalk fighting, frothing and frotaging like two large rutting stags.

The upside of course is that now very few mothers will ever want their sons and daughters to grow up the same way and become sad, narrowly educated persons of influence.

 

 

Diamonds are forever dull in this town Bud!

I was having a quite time at the Club that time Forgot.  I saw him coming through the doors but he saw me first.  It was my acquaintance Freddy the Ferret who approached, dressed to spill, as if propelled by a mixture of dynamite and adrenalin. His attempted subtle whisper amounted to an injection of a small, unwanted cup of spittle in my ear.  As usual it was Ferret at his obtuse best. “The Major Leaguers are in the Emerald City and they are controlling the game.”   As usual I had little idea what the Ferret was on about or on at that time.  He hissed urgently again, “The NBL man…the big stick boys are here to play and I’m not in the same postcode pilgrim!”

It appeared Ferret was in a fix.  An occasional colour piece scribe for the Daily Dread, Ferret found that the NBL (NBL for those who don’t know or couldn’t care less is the National Baseball League) were trying to screw down local press to their Yanky squirrel grip media rules. You know the stuff – yes you print and publish what we want or you don’t get anything.  Apparently the legal eagles for the Dread and the Drone were playing home ground advantage but still Ferret couldn’t get a word in anywhere.

The Arizona Diamondbacks and the LA Dodgers are to play each other baseball on Saturday and Sunday in Sydney…..yawn.  They say 80,000 people have bought tickets. The dearest tickets are $498 (Platinum) and the penny dreadfuls in the Trumper Concourse – among the hot-dog wrappers and tats are a pricey $89.  That’s fine by me.  It’s important that stupid people pay a lot of cash to get an education in how stupefyingly boring the game of tip and run is.

Of course the Major League Baseball group and franchises need a dollar to pay the performers.  Clayton Kershaw who slings the bean for the Dirty Dodgers will earn a tidy sum of $93,150 and 68 cents every day for the next 2,556 days.  That seems reasonable to me.  You might argue that’s the equivalent of around 2,500 school teachers for a year but you would be missing the big point. Clay entertains.  Teachers teach.  Move on Madge.

Despite Ferret’s lean word count the other agencies have had no trouble in sycophantically spewing forth liberal column inches of froth and gee-whiz.  Stories about the game, the stats and how miraculously the hallowed turf of the SCG has been transformed into a baseball stadium crowd the front sports pages and lead television coverage.  Our young sports journos who have sucked on the teat of Fox Sports for far too long cannot conceal their tumescent wetness for a game of rounders.

However, just 287 kilometres down the M3 there is another game playing.  Our game not some dopey bunt, run and spit game. It’s the final of the Sheffield Shield between the NSW Blues and the Western Warriors at Manuka Oval.  A noble game. I know this for a fact because my mate Banker rang to tell me he was sitting down watching the game today.  He went on to say that it was an open gate affair so it it’s obvious none of the 22 lads were going to earn $93K for the day.

The final of the Shield has been sent packing to Capital Dulltown because some indolent fool at the Cricket Ground Trust thinks that the SCG must stand for Some Clever Gold.   Sadly the only person who will find gold in their pan is Munster Murdoch’s Fox Machine as this is patently a marketing exercise with little regard for growing the game here. Which in a way is a mixed blessing.  The only contact the Dodgers and Diamonds have had with kids was at a photo op at Bondi. Arhh the imagination of the PR machine and the complicity of a dumbed down media.

Instead of day at the SCG where every kid from across Sydney and surrounds could come into the SCG and feast on a day of cricket or two we have a couple of games of bunt and run between two overpaid bunches of backy chewing bumsters.  It just does’t add up.  In fact the players of this turgid game cannot add up themselves – former yankee catcher,Yogi Berra once said, “Baseball is ninety percent mental and the other half is physical”.  

Howzat for a summer of fat and foolishness

I was unlucky enough to be in the same room as Ian ‘Charity’ Botham in mid-November. ‘Charity’ was there to speak, for a fee I assume, to a gathered group of people who were there to support the fundraising efforts of the wonderful Randwick Petersham Cricket Club.  Apart from sticking the boot into one of Australia’s past cricket captains, ‘Charity’ was his usual pugnacious self declaring it was to be a 5-0 whitewash to England.  He wasn’t alone as many declared Poodle Clarke’s lot no chance.

Some seven weeks on the Australian press is full of praise for ‘our boys’.  We cannot get enough of the redemption of Stinky Ink Johnson, the Woman behind the Warner and the glory days of Box Head Haddin and rightfully so.  We don’t like the Pink Poms.  We actually don’t think the Barmy Army is actually that amusing anymore and most think despite Charity Botham’s ‘good work’ that he is truly a work of self-exploration.

But while I too was momentarily swept away on the tide of the good times I foundered on a reef of grief when I opened today’s Sydney Morning Chook.

Hadn’t these boys learnt anything from what had happened at Lords last August?  The Independent as did many other papers reported on, “Star players such as Kevin Pietersen, Stuart Broad and Jimmy Anderson reportedly queued up to relieve themselves on the strip while team-mates cheered wildly.”

So what do we see on page 2 of the Chook?  Well what you see is a photograph of the Australian players and support team on the SCG pitch at midnight pouring beer over each other.  You also see one distinguished player mid-ground on his knees with his strides pulled down with his freckle on display.   Beneath the Southern Cross he kneels.

Top stuff. This is how we celebrate.  Down on our knees with grog running down our crack.  Such models these boys.  Arhh just letting go after a hard 12 months.  Common cut us some slack. But it’s not the only way we celebrate is it?

Firstly we sing the amusing ‘Under the Southern Cross I Stand” on the strip after the last wicket falls so every impressionable kid can clearly hear the last line, courtesy of Channel 9, “Australia, you fucking little beauty”.   What poetry.  These Renaissance men clearly have the full quiver of arrows.  It’s the tradition you wowser.  Sure, however inane and silly the song is, that’s their choice – but in the shed dopey.

I wonder if Stink Ink, Box Head or Chunky Cheese Taylor would like it if some clown at the pre-school started to read slightly different nursery rhymes to their little ones? Nursery rhymes like “The Three Fucking Pigs” or “Thomas the Cock Sucking Tank Engine”?  How do feel you about that boys?  No just having fun chaps, you know, nudge-wink-wink…just a case of boys being boys.  Counter the first photo with that of Clarke and coach Boof Lehmann walking arm in arm around the SCG.  Boof with his beer and Poodle with his Frog Fizz.  A lovely photo of a moment of reflection.

So we can now enter on the plus side of the summer cricket ledger an incredible Australian Test Series triumph against odds.  Sadly on the debit side we now have to place in large, the increasingly turgid television burger that is the commercial television coverage of cricket in Australia.  The burger is seemingly composed of small slivers of cricket coverage smothered with cheap talking sauce that is sandwiched between excessive amounts of advertising for fat food and bad beer.

From our ledger we can also remove the opportunity of elite players to show some respect for the sporting public and to further show that the celebration of a victory doesn’t mean you have to act like some tatted yokel in a Kings Cross beer barn.

Stuff the Crackers Reg

I’m going to throw my cards clearly on the table. I really couldn’t give a flying fart about NYE.  To me it’s just another lame excuse for people with too much hop juice in their flat heads to further illustrate the strong link between very low IQs and ink square inch.

To add to my bag of humbug I’ll go to the crackers.   I’ve had my fill of pyrotechnics.  With a cost of a butchers blade under $7M I think we deserve a little more.  Every Saturday night some dope at Darling Harbour celebrates some corporate misdemeanor by lighting the wick.  To me crackers say “I’ve run out of the smarts and I give up….I really don’t have that much to say.”

Each year there is apparently a need to present the crackers in a new light.  Why because fundamentally all your are going to get is noise and light. So this is achieved by the roping in of artists and others under the bullshit title of creative director.  It doesn’t improve the show it really only does one thing – it creates a new angle for the media feed to the parrots.  This year it was Reg ‘Mental’ Mombassa – a beautiful sort of subterranean rock creature with a head only a cheese grater can produce and a blind mother could love.  I like Reg.  I like a bloke who looks like a debt collector on ice.   But if anyone thinks the putting of a bloody big eye on the Bridge actually created anything other than a candle in the windstorm they are parlaying the ‘pud’.

If Reg wanted to really impress us with his credentials then his one minute display at 10.30pm required the personal touch.   I wanted Reg to drive his ute down to Foti Fireworks at Marulan and pack a few bungers himself.   In fact all of the bungers.  I don’t think Fortunato Foti would mind as Reg has a wide enough palette to be able to make the crackers sing and if he doesn’t there is enough information on the web to tell him how to.   But he didn’t.  He just copped his fee and fed the chooks.

But the disappointment I felt with Reg not putting in was nothing compared to slop bucket that was splashed across our screens for four hours by the ABC (allegedly).   I say allegedly because I only saw the last bit of the this dumb play.   So to quote SMH journo Neil ‘Mustard’ McMahon:

“Lawrence Mooney and Stephanie Brantz attempt to wrangle the annual harbourside celebration into something new, fresh and interesting. It was – in case you missed it and have only your own embarrassments to contemplate today – like watching a Quentin Tarantino remake of The Sound of Music.”

I came in at the bum end of the coverage to see Mooney and Brantz flanking some harmless clown with hair that looked as if a bunger had gone off in the middle of it.  It was mindless fill banter so inane that I thought the ABC must have been taking a feed from the Shopping Channel.  Moody has been defended by ‘Mustard’ as a man of “great and varied wit”  – well what I saw was a half-witted effort of a sinking man scraping his stomach across the cringe zone of poor taste.  To add to the sloppiness of the coverage was Brantz’s totally inappropriate plug for the sequined shimmy she was wearing.  This farce was of course the perfect starting flag for the frothing right to say ‘chop chop’ to the ABC.

In hindsight the same old crackers and the ABC cringe coverage cocktail were the perfect entrée into 2014.  The bad news is that there is more to come with an inept government in Canberra and a gutless one in NSW you’ll soon see the real crackers go off in this Year of the Rabbit – and that’s Tony Rabbit folks.

Belated Happy 2014 to all you poor lucky bastards. 

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.