Don’t mention the garlic

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A few weeks back I flew into Ballina.  Gateway to the profoundly beautiful and delusional.  On the plane were the usual faded flowers and tatted pretend-me-nots mixed in with the odd whiffy backpacker.  So far so good.  I was uptraded into a gold nondescript vehicle with a faulty rear view mirror that occasionally dropped onto the floor.  So far so good. I then popped around the corner to the Aldi store to get a few vittles to chew on in the hinterland.  Most items purchased were subsequently found to be quite good – the cheese in particular but I should have examined the entrails  a bit more closely in the produce section.  The sad wilted stuff reminded me of a fruiter in Newtown before the sharp set moved in.  I called him Kevin – “Fruiterer to the Disappointed”.  Passing by to grab a caffeine needle you’d see the saddest carrots and lettuce imaginable.  I suppose it’s good to know Kev is advising Aldi these days.  I reluctantly grabbed a knob of garlic that appeared reasonable.  Later that evening when preparing a meal I discovered that every clove was old, rotten crap.  Bloody Germans.

I was disappointed.  But moved on.  That is until I happened to be driving through one of the hinterland hamlets of Clunes.  Everything was pretty perfect until that moment. I was tuned into Paradise FM. The song playing at the time was “That’s when I think of you” by the Australian band ‘1927’.   And that’s when I found myself behind an Aldi truck.  It all began to come together.  Was this a sign?  Was the band name a clue to the year the German firm grew their garlic.  Had it been stored in some underground bunker since that time?  But it was the picture on the back of the German truck of a blond-haired blue-eyed girl filling her fat little gob with a large slice of watermelon and smiling …no mean feat…that really got me.  Yeah man it really got me going.

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So on my return to the pointy end of Balmain I took a shiraz sedative and penned an email to Aldi with a few shots I’d taken for a bit of colour.

Dear Aldi

I understand that you are a German company allegedly synonymous with efficiency and quality.  Well chaps I can see why the Germans lost two wars given my profoundly disappointing experiencing on the 11 May 2015.  The 11th May strangely enough was my birthday – yes I am an older citizen of this country as you can obviously deduct from the fact that I referenced the war and I’m wasting what is left of my diminishing life writing to you over 82 cents worth of your awful garlic.    So to continue, I went to your Ballina store (on my birthday) and bought some garlic (see photo and receipt attached).  As you can see the garlic was reminiscent of the rotten teeth of someone who was either on ice or was dug up out of an Irish bog pit.

What do I want from you Mr Aldi?  Well not much really as I know full well pessimists never get disappointed.  But I will stake my claim quite simply.

1. I want you to stop selling sub-standard produce and I would like you to tell me how you are going to do this?

2. And I want an appropriate gift voucher (it was my birthday after all) to compensate for the fact that I couldn’t cook one of my very special signature dishes that evening (a chicken & tomato dish in case you may be vaguely interested) due to your sub-standard produce.

They’ve got four days to get back to me according to their very efficient website.  I’m biding my time.  I’ve got my army disposal camouflage pants on. I’m ready for whatever the German firm wants to throw at me and I’m particularly comforted by the fact that we’re already two zip up against them.

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The Yobbies – a winning national disgrace

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What a horrible bunch of brattish self-centred turd-like creatures the Yobbies are.

Of whom do I speak?  Guess – it’s your team if you want them.  It’s not mine.

I have not followed the Australian cricket team with any enthusiasm since Poodle was shirted by the Kat and stormed out of the SCG dressing room into the arms of the Bungler.  I declare that I backed the Kiwis with my hard-earned all the way in this World Cup as I was charmed by their attitude to the game and general behaviour.

However reading Greg Baum’s incitefull incision into the national team’s heart this morning has only reinforced my deepening dislike for this disgraceful bunch of VB swigging swine. Baum wrote:

“In a corner of the glowing image of Australia’s World Cup triumph is a blot that no amount of rubbing ever will remove. It is the disposition of the Australians at the dismissals of three New Zealanders during a largely one-sided final. Brad Haddin mocked Martin Guptill by clapping his gloves in Guptill’s face after he was bowled by Glenn Maxwell, while Grant Elliott and Daniel Vettori were sent on their respective ways with volleys of words.”

The nastiness of Brad ‘Magnon’ Haddin’s ‘gloving’ of Guptill deserves special mention. This act of childish spite should have brought a ringing condemnation from the press if we had people in the profession who could for once not take the jingo line every time they ‘write’ with their patriot flecked pens.  Baum is the exception to this trend.  Even the normally balanced Andrew Webster displayed his past Daily Dread credentials in the SMH today with an extremely piss poor load of bloated bilge.

Magnon’s reported Monday morning shallow rant on Triple Mediocrity post piss-up with his descriptors of team drunkenness shows what a knob-brow this gum sucking glover has become. Magnon believed that anything that was done out there “wasn’t below the belt.” He went on to say that the “Kiwis were so nice they deserved sledging”.

The Yobbies simply do not understand the fundamentals of good, fair behaviour within the context of competitive sport.  The continued snide, sickening sledging that is explained away as “part and parcel of the game” is not that. It is simply an unimaginative expression of weakness not strength.  The quiet, statesman like McCullum and the considerate actions of his team are everything the Yobbies cannot imagine.  Kiwi Grant Elliot’s consolation of Steyn at the end of the semi-final and the shaking of Poodle’s hand by four Kiwis after his dismissal in his last one-day innings shows the mettle of this fine team.

What do I hope for the future.  Very little is possible.  You cannot educate mugs particularly when they believe they have the keys to the hate locker. You cannot change an ingrained culture of a winning team when administrators and the majority of the press tug their forelock to this graceless bunch.  And so we are left with a bitter taste and an apt description of this mob crafted over a hundred years ago. In his ‘Man from Ironbark’, Banjo Patterson described perfectly your national team,

“Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all…”

 

Your pissing in the wind if you want all sportspeople to be role models

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You may have heard that little known Darwin horse trainer Chris Pollard has been suspended for 12 months after indecently exposing himself and urinating on the stewards’ room window at Fannie Bay racecourse.

“On the evening of  Friday 6 March, 2015 at the Darwin Turf Club when intoxicated and positioned outside the full-length panel windows of the Stewards’ Room and in full view of at least two female staff members, he did indecently expose himself and urinate on the window whilst an official Stewards inquiry was in progress.”

Pollard is currently appealing a nine month suspension having returned a positive urine sample to the prohibited substances cannabis and ice. It is unknown if Pollard was merely offering stewards a B-sample so that it may be subjected to further testing.

Pollard does have form allegedly when it comes to the use of drugs but not necessarily on himself. One of the horses he had trained, Ziggler, tested positive for cannabis and methamphetamine after a sample was taken at trackwork at Fannie Bay on January 23.

Now I’m not saying what Pollard has done should be encouraged.  However I defy most people not to find his actions extremely funny.  It’s a bit like a fart in church.  But would I want Mr Pollard to be a model for young people entering the equine industry?  Certainly not.

This unrealistic expectation of sporting administrators who continue to demand that the gaggle of often morally and mentally challenged boofheads under their loose control should be used as community role models continues to astound.  The shock and horror on the faces of administrators as they fumble at yet another press conference to explain why some crudite decided to feign intercourse with a dancing bear on You tube while dressed in team colours is all to common.

Lets look at the cattle in question.  In all codes of football for every considered gentleman you have overinflated borderline criminals who flounce around the public domain primitively beating their roided pecs.  These are generally the characters who think Stephen Hawkins has a sister Jennifer who is way more better and that bubbling should be an Olympic sport.

So why in the world would we expect them to act like village vicars?  Well I believe it stems from the irrational yet strangely held belief that these are our champions – they battle for us.  They generally do things we couldn’t and wouldn’t.  Supporters of teams within sporting world develop an affection for a team for a range of reasons that could be purely geographical or for some random emotional imprinting in childhood years.   It’s often irrational but once it starts it takes as much effort as removing a butt tattoo to lance the attachment to your team.  When a disgraced star that we had previously loathed moves into our coloured tent then we immediately forgive them.  Possibly it’s because they have now become ‘our’ boofhead.

It came as little surprise to myself last month when certain players were exposed as being users of snorting snow.  The use of cocaine across society is incredibly widespread.  Around 8% of Australians over the age of 14 have used it.  Everyone from pin-striped CBD harlots to your country-roaded tradies riding inner-city boom waves are fuelled up on the blizzard blow these days. Apparently cocaine is now the preferred poison for many a young sporting buck as it doesn’t pack on the pounds like a raft of Reschs does.

So what to do some ask? To me the solution is simple.  You sign a contract that has clearly defined expectations.  You cross the line.  Gone.  Next please.  No you cannot go to France, England or Japan.  The adage of boys will be boys or spirited hi-jinx as the explanation should hold no sway.  That was your job description and now you have new choices in your life – go to TAFE, a building site or directly to gaol.  It’s that simple.

Crimes and punishments – postcodes and privilege

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Some months have passed since a couple of incidents in the northern NSW coastal town of Byron Bay have come and gone washed from the collective media memory by tinsel, trivia and tragedy.  The incidents unsurprisingly involved players from two football codes that are ‘poles’ apart as were the punishments. How they were handled serves as a reminder of how privilege and social class still influence perception in this country. The way both the media and the organisations responded shows quite clearly that we meter out our doses of media outrage based on expectation while still tugging our forelock to the lofties.

Greg Bird on his wedding day in early December must have felt like, to quote the squeaky vocal popsmith Brett Dennen, “Like a pirate in a pawn shop with a pocketful of jewels.”  Bird’s alleged crime was to squirt between two cars and to be spotted.

Bird has been a ‘grub’ by most definitions.  Students and teachers from his alma mater Rutherford High situated at the crumb-end of Maitland in the Hunter testify to his ‘charms’.  So at approximately 7.30pm on a balmy December evening, in the car park outside the Byron Bay Beach Hotel, after saying “I do” he then “Did do”. Poor judgement we would all accord.  However the crime of attempting to urgently relieve yourself discreetly in a public place could be levelled against most if not all of us.  Having had a surfeit of golden throat charmers who hasn’t desperately tried to find a safe spray haven away from the crowds?

“It’s put a dampener on our wedding weekend. I’m incredibly embarrassed and disappointed at myself,” Bird told reporters.  Well that’s generally what liquids do Birdie old son – they dampen.  As yet it is unproven that he actually bubbled onto a marked police vehicle but he was issued with an infringement notice on the following Monday.

The Clever Chronicle recorded another incident in the same street and the same town just a few weeks later that involved the Wallabies captain, Michael ‘Right Way’ Hooper.

The Australian Rugby Union says it has no plans to take disciplinary action against Wallabies captain Michael Hooper after he was involved in an incident that drew police attention in Byron Bay.  The 23-year-old was out early on Monday morning when one of his friends allegedly jumped on a parked car.  Police said the two men were then seen pushing over a road sign, which was later repositioned without damage. 

The ARU said the star breakaway, who is holidaying in Byron Bay, was “not involved in any serious misdemeanour”. “Michael has been open and transparent with the police and Australian Rugby Union,” a spokesman said. “We don’t expect any further action to be taken in relation to Michael’s involvement in the matter.”

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The only way is to the ‘right’ – Hooper’s handy w

Look I know most of us after a few bundies try and influence traffic flow by pushing over the odd set of traffic lights or stop signs.  So in no way am I trying to determine what incident is higher on the Richter Scale of Rudeness – it’s too late as the media, the police and associated organisations have decided for us.  Birdie is a grub and ‘Right Way’ is a chap having a lark with chums after a few ales.  After all ‘Right Way’ was schooled in values at St Piles X on the north shore of Sydney – he knows good from evil, right from wrong.

Regardless of whether a sign was repositioned the criminal act of vandalism as opposed to relieving oneself between cars seems to me quite similar in terms of stupidity.  However the punishments that were determined by each of the codes and clubs were clearly a million miles apart.  Bird was fined by his Titans Club $15,000 and stripped of the co-captaincy while Hooper remained a transparent likely lad escaping any punishment.

Today the media reports on Willie Sillie Mason’s alleged anti-social behaviour, apparently wrestling with his equally dopey brother in public in NZ at the Nautious Nines Tournament.

One fan said Mason was happily signing autographs and posing for photos throughout the event and one scuffle with his brother wasn’t showing the whole picture. Another said Mason was polite and though he may have been helped out of the venue by police, the only reason was that he was getting hounded by excited fans. Mason told the Daily Telegraph that it was after conducting a promotional engagement at the tournament that he engaged in the scuffle with his brother.  “I did have a wrestle with my brother Les when I was leaving Eden Park, but that was just a brotherly wrestle and there was nothing in it,” Mason said.

The Byron incidents make me wonder how Mason’s bro-wrestle will be treated.  Will it be seen as an “open and transparent” incident of good humoured hi-jinx from two spirited boofheads or will the more likely moral tumbrel rumble for heads to roll and the feckless fool to be summarily punished?  Hopefully so for then we can all sleep soundly knowing that the crime fits the punishment.

Getting on the wrong side of the Maules is definitely right

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In these slippery times when a galaxy of inked fools parade like very special tools in social media, texting and bubbling their unmerry way into notoriety there are occasional great acts from elite players that restore one’s faith in what is possible.

David Pocock, openside flanker with the Brumbies and Wallies was caught exercising near, well actually on, a monster truck at the Maules Creek mine on the weekend.

Now every bum-heavy couch dweller knows that the Wallies run out of gumption and go in the last quarter of every match they have played this century. Whether it’s too many soft pillows and chardonnay showers I don’t know.  But here is young ‘Poco’, a player who is working long and hard to build his level of fitness to a higher level.  By climbing up onto a monster truck and lifting heavy chains to secure himself to same monster, ‘Poco’ has demonstrated that he is a man willing to go the extra yard.  But what happens? He gets a burn notice from the pin-striped pinocchios.

As the Clever Chronicle reported “My parents were always clear with my brothers and I when we were growing up that you have to have the courage of your convictions and that when you commit to something you must fully commit. That’s why, this weekend I travelled to the Leard Blockade,” Pocock said.

He wanted to raise awareness about the plight of the community of farmers and local Gamilaroi people in the Leard Forest region, whose land and sacred sites he said the Maules Creek mine threatened to destroy. 

The 26-year-old was one of nine people arrested at the protest and charged with offences including entering enclosed land without a lawful excuse.

The ARU Toady Unit issued the following press release shortly after.  They were obviously running out of ink or ideas at the time.

“The Australian Rugby Union has issued a formal written warning to David Pocock following his arrest yesterday. While we appreciate David has personal views on a range of matters, we’ve made it clear that we expect his priority to be ensuring he can fulfil his role as a high-performance athlete. The matter is now subject to legal proceedings and we will now let the legal process take its course.”

What a cart load of sanctimonious tosh!  At a time when a player texts a lewd, humiliating photo to a female employee of the ARU and then gets to play weeks later we get this piece of moral turpitude.  Look we all understand about breaking the ‘law’ so don’t use that flimsy given.  Here we are talking about enriching and newly defining the character of a sport that allows participants to express their personal view of the world without prejudice or fear.  In the end Australian Rugby, by trotting out meek lines of not bringing the game into disrepute, player responsibility to the code and other toad-like simpers is simply reversing the game into irrelevance for most thinking and passionate people.

And why should we be proud of this bloke?  Well quite simply he has shown great  courage in risking his playing future and possibly ‘devaluing’ his long term corporate ‘worth’ to do what he considers is right.  In a world that recognised players moral worth rather than their ability to simply conform to convenient and controlling codes of player behaviour then ‘Poco’ would be lauded rather than warned.

To the ARU, once gain you have shown a lack of courage, insight and imagination.

To David Pocock, well done fella, you have all of the above in spades.

We need a ‘Chilla’ not a character killer

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I read Clothhead Fitzsimon’s article in the Clever Chronicle this week with interest.  It went beyond his normal fare of good journalism, reheated jokes and sideswipes.  A solid writer, amusing after chicken dinner speaker, who slopes in the coffee shops of Mossman crafting columns moated by his laptop and a sling of surl.  This weeks spray was a very effective, well-considered iron fist in glove piece on the very scrubbed and increasingly pinker Alan ‘Bloat’ Jones.  It appears that Bloat has been smacking his thick pursed lips at the thought of being a very important part of the new Wallies.  Like an autograph hunter who is buoyed by the chase of just another signature, Jones still believes he is of the time rather than out of it.

Some credit Jones as being the mastermind behind the Grand Slam win in the early eighties.  I don’t.  He simply had the horse power.  Any bozo with a vocabulary of twenty words and a lettuce whip could have shoved this talented bunch of boofs across the line.  What Bloat is very good at is taking the gold and leaving the tailings. He is great at the black board of history where he arduously scrubs out any other contributors as he underscores and bolds his “struggle street’ credentials.

Of course, Bloat is loved by those inside the tent, however as many have learned if you don’t toady to the Bloat then your stay in the tent is terminated.  Of course this is an extension of the ‘pick and stick’ philosophy that has spawned a rotating bunch of men who come under the spell of a very, very clever man.  Of course the price you pay for being part of this hubris hurdy-gurdy is that you apparently get the flick if you don’t stick.

FitzSimons article mentions Bloat’s criticisms of John Eales.  In a spurn on Triple M, Bloat allegedly called Eales an “overrated player” and admonished him for having both a media commentator role with Schlock Sports and being an ARU director.  Why so Mr Bloat?  Why the need?  Well it is interesting that John Eales was called to give evidence to support John Coates in a defamation case against Bloat some years ago.  I’m not sure whether this may or may not have had any influence on Bloat’s attack on Eales.  However given his ‘p&s’ philosophy one suspects that it could have influenced his words just a wee bit. The ABC reported back then:

A court hearing has begun in Sydney to hear defence arguments and decide damages in a defamation action brought by Australian Olympic Committee president John Coates against radio broadcaster Alan Jones.

Mr Jones commented on an incident in the women’s eight rowing finals at the Athens Olympics, in which one of the crew, Sally Robbins, stopped competing.

The jury found Mr Jones implied that Mr Coates had ordered a cover-up and bullied Robbins’s crew into saying what he wanted them to and that he was incompetent in the way he handled the matter.

A Supreme Court jury has previously found Mr Jones defamed Mr Coates during three broadcasts on 2GB radio in December 2004.

Mr Coates’ lawyer has told the Supreme Court that Mr Jones repeated the allegations, despite being told by former Wallabies captain and women’s rowing team mentor John Eales that they were not true.

FitzSimons also writes in the ‘Clever’ about Jones’s possible ambition, “one of your former charges called me on Wednesday and said it seemed as if you were going to get the Wallabies manager’s role.” Oh dear, how could that be true – you have so, so much on your plate Mr Bloat?  It is interesting to read the wonderful Mark Ella’s comments on the Tour Manager in 1984, Charles ‘Chilla’ Wilson.  Of this former Wallaby captain, Ella said:

“I couldn’t think of a better manager. I played for Australia for six years. Thank God I had Chilla Wilson for three of them. With Jonesy up there dominating everything, Chilla was the perfect foil. He was quiet, unobtrusive and didn’t make a lot of noise.”

So should Jones, the highly successful media man be brought back?  Oh don’t, please don’t bring him back or I’ll be forced onto the Drambuie Drip ..again.  We don’t need this dated windfarmer’s view of Wally World anymore.  We need more ‘chilla’ rather than killer and we need to be fairer and firmer with errant players.  Mr Bloat seems incapable of either.

Checks and the Flaming Edgar…

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I knew Michael Cheika was cut from a different cloth than the normal Rah Rah Royal Blue.  My heart soared when he bounded up onto the podium after the Waratahs’ win wearing beautiful bone slip-ons, baggie trakkies and a winter coat.  It was a strong statement. It was Gold Coast meets Lazy Bones.  It said it’s not what I look like, it’s what I do.

‘Checks’ obviously does not believe in the corporate camouflage stuff unlike some within the rugby hierarchy.  You know the stuff – the herringbone harrys and the busted brat boating hoes that seep of privilege without performance. These winter wonder skids that self-proclaim and herd together in a congratulatory conga line whenever the team comes out to play.  As these chinless charlies enter into never-ending spiral of pretentious conceit our man “Checks’ has no need to pretend.

This fella is not a one-trick pony.  Due to his language skills (French/Italian) he landed a job with Cullottes Dinnigan and later started his own business called ‘Live Fashion’. Yeah right.  I mean if anyone had a chance to put on the Armani it was Checks.  But he didn’t.

Born to Lebanese parents between Redfern and Coogee he cut his teeth playing for NSW and had coaching stints in France and Italy.  He is considered a thoughtful coach – a man of passion who can sometime border on the highly emotional without the Bundy drip. He is up now for Coach of the ‘Wallies’ and no doubt will head off on Friday.  He will not only make a fist of it but he will put his whole, thoughtful and honest body to the wheel.  However there is a lot of cleaning to do.

Bill ‘The Pill’ Pulver spoke of the “core values of our game” on Saturday night after the resignation of Ewen McKenzie. Oh please spare me the syrup.  I wrote some time ago that Ewie didn’t seem to be the man for the job. However I take no pleasure in his demise as I believe he has been treated shabbily.

While ‘The Pill’ blamed the media for all of the mess there is something very wrong here within ARU world. There is a ‘flaming edgar’ simmering at the door of the ARU.  The Pill and others have sat on their hands for far too long and have refused to put it out.

There are no ‘core’ values in the game if players can completely dictate the terms of engagement.  The petulant performance of Hooper and others within the team who blindly supported the disgraceful acts of text treachery by Beale need to be sent packing.  I don’t give a flying fruit bat about who may have or has not been converting behind the sheds nor do I care for those allegedly talented dicks who spoil then demand preferential treatment by the panderers.

Beale, Hooper and anyone else who cares to can toad-off overseas and play for any team that has the ego and cash capacity to contain them. These ego-enlarged players have lost the right to play for our country because they considered themselves to be more important than the team.

Good luck Checks and don’t lose the ‘bone beauties’ fella.

 

Rabbid Abbott – Saviour, Psychopath or Simple Shirtlifter?

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Within 24 hours of his statement that he was going shirt Putin,Tony Abbott has backed away from a blue by saying he was now going to have “a robust conversation, a very robust conversation”.  What a let down.  What a tool.  Another core promise broken.

I’d pay a bundle of bitcoins to see Rabbid Abbott attempted pantsing of Shootin’ Pootin and I bet most of you would too.

I could think of nothing better than these two having a round or two for a rouble or two.  A contest between two of the world leaders who love nothing better than to posture, poke and pan-handle politically.  They may not be the brightest surfing the world stage but they are certainly the most likely to drop duds and engage in physical pursuits.

It’s a promoter’s dream. If I was running the stink I’d stage it at Sea World during the G20.  I’d put a large chunk of ice from the Boondall Iceworld in the Shark Tank to create an iceberg effect.  I’d then have Rabbid and Poots coated in pig fat and lowered onto the berg to batter each other like two desperate, rutting stags.  The purse would be the automatic resignation of the loser from the leadership of their country.  Either way one country wins.

Predictably the usual suspects weighed in to support Rabbid. ‘Soups’ Newman, the tiny terrier premier of Queensland yapped his approval.  Obviously ‘Soups’ doesn’t have the frame to threaten Poots or anyone above twenty-four inches short so he has firmly placed himself behind the Big T.

“That is the thing about Tony Abbott, he has got the guts to do that and I would certainly welcome him making our feelings known to Mr Putin.”

Guts you say ‘Soups’.  Guts.  Is that what it is?  You know who showed guts in the last 24 hours you little toad?  It was not our alleged PM it was a Mr Paul Guard.

Who is Paul Guard?  Well Paul Guard lost both parent’s in the destruction of Flight MH17. In an amazing show of courage on last night’s 7.30 Report he showed why he is a young man to be deeply admired and why Tony Abbott is a disgrace and embarrassment to us all.  Paul Guard spoke clearly on a topic he could be excused for becoming highly emotional about. He said;

“It’s really plays into Putin’s hands in many ways if you were to ostracise him because he does tend to like to paint himself as a bulwark of Russian dominance standing up to the West, so, you know, it’s useful, I think, to engage him and to offer both incentives and potential sanctions, depending on Russia’s behaviour.”

“I don’t think there would be much achieved by uninviting him, not that Australia has that power anyway. But at the end of the day, dialogue is what’s needed and I think that dialogue is going to be useful at the G20 in terms of trying to send Russia a message that there are things Russia could be doing and should be doing to secure peace and to get to the bottom of what happened to MH17 as well.”

In absolute contrast Abbott’s statements and posturing are that of a person who is unable to come to grips with the subtleties of modern politics.  He struggles to form cogent arguments and simply states then restates slogans and grabs.

Paul Guard, like the others who lost family and friends, has been let down.  They all deserve to be represented in world politics by a person who is capable of expressing our national position on such matters with dignity and a higher level of thinking.  Sadly Rabbid Abbott appears to be incapable of both.

 

 

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

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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.

A contrast of clowns – The Bubbler and Bozo

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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.