NOTHING WITHOUT ME!

Rebecca awoke in an uncomfortable position feeling rougher than Amy Winehouse’s clunge.

Which was appropriate, because as she slowly came to, she became aware of the raven haired London Jewesses lilting, and deeply affecting, version of Valerie playing somewhere in the background.

Wow thought Rebecca to herself. Chris’ taste in music has suddenly improved. Normally he only listened to Thirty Odd Foot Of Grunt and that band that Pat Cash and John McEnroe used to be in years ago.

But slowly Rebecca became aware that she wasn’t in her own bed. In fact, she wasn’t in any bed. She was on a couch. And as she let her long and delicate lashes open, it became obvious that it wasn’t a recording of Amy Winehouse she was listening to. It was the crack fancying chanteuse herself, sat only feet away from where Rebecca laid, her Fevolaesque fake tits heaving as she belted out her best known hit.

“And I miss your ginger hair and the way you like to dress,” she trilled to a small group who were circled around an enormous footy shaped glass topped coffee table.

What a group it was too. Rebecca’s previously heavy eyelids jolted wide open as she registered just who indeed it was sat before her.

There was Amy in the middle and around her sat Ben Cousins, Keith Richards, Bill Clinton, Nick Cave, Kim Deal from the Pixies and the ghost of Carl Williams.

“Wooow!” hooted Bill in the way Americans do as Amy drew to a close. “Honey, I’ve always had a thing for slutty Jewish scrubbers and you’ve got my deficit rising right there!”

Amy smiled demurely and then put her head and devoured a line of coke so big it had a pilot fish attending it.

“Sheeeee-it!” continued Bill, “baby, after I’ve put it everywhere else, I’m sticking my dick up your nose!”

The merry band of revelers clapped Amy as she went about and as he encouraged her along – “Come on Amy, that’s bigger than the one that killed Fletch in Vegas!” – Benny noticed his houseguest had awoken.

He came over, his rippling muscles glistening with beads of cocaine hydrochloride infused sweat.

“Morning gorgeous, get your beauty sleep?” he asked.

Rebecca was confused. Last thing she could remember was drinking shot after shot of Patron with Ben. Then nothing.

“You had one too many and flaked out on the couch. A few of the gang called and we thought we’d make a night of it.” Ben explained, gesturing over to where Keith Richards and the spectral form of Carl Williams were engaged in a good natured arm wrestle to see who would get the next line.

Rebecca nodded. She was still tired.

But she had to ask.

“Ben, last night, did we …?”

Ben looked at her with undisguised affection.

“No, you were a bit pissed and weirded out. I’m not that kind of guy. Don’t me wrong Becs, I like you, but I’m not that kind of guy.

“Why don’t you grab a bit more sleep? And don’t worry about us. Sure, we’re going to sit and put an entire Colombian village through college now, but we’ve all achieved massive success in our professional lives while enjoying a bit of recreational drug use after hours, its not like we’re widely scorned hypocritical fucking puissant so-called footy journalists who change position at the drop of a hat,” he said, allowing the author a gratuitous bit of editorializing.

Rebecca drifted off back to sleep to the entirely unlikely but captivating sight of a gacked up Bill Clinton dirty dancing with Amy Winehouse to Armand Van Helden’s legendery remix of Professional Widow.

She liked Ben’s house. She liked Ben too. And when he came and gently stroked her hair as he smiled at the former President of the United States and Little Miss Crackstain 2008 getting it on in his living room, she felt happier and safer than she had in years.

But she shouldn’t have. Because only a few hundred yards from Ben’s Docklands apartment, in the offices of shitful pathetic rag The Era, Caroline and Sam were watching the happy scene on the tiny webcam they had secretly installed in Ben’s house. convincingly disguised as a Bulgarian plumber, Sam had conned the talented yet unconventional midfielder into letting her onto his premises a few months before where she had installed the hidden camera.

“STHLUT!” screeched Caro as she watched Rebecca accept Ben’s gentle kisses. “FILTHY DIRTY LITTLE THLUT!”

Caro was visibly shaking with anger.

“HE’TH MINE! MINE MINE MINE MINE! I’M THE ONE WHO THTOOD BY HIM WHEN HE WATH AT HIS LOWTHEST M,OMENT AT WETHT COATHT! WITHOUT ME HE’D BE NOTHING, NOTHING I TELL YOU!”

Polar bears

Chris was casually surfing the Net for a new picture of a polar bear marooned on a shrinking iceberg to use on his Bebo profile when he came across the news about Steven Seagal maintaining a harem of Russian sex slaves.

Geezo thought Chris, that sounds alright. He could just see it now. Hot blonde chicks with big knockers who talked like Borat. Could there by anything better?

The fantasy came alive for him immediately. A long limbed goddess with a lustrous flaxen man and eyes of blue like the deepest Siberian lake came striding toward him wearing only the tiniest of revolutionary red g-strings complete with hammer and sickle emblem, an AK47 slung across her ample Muscovite charms.

“You, Australian man, you vould like me to touch your pressure point yes?” she purred, casually throwing the assault rifle off over her shoulder, allowing her enormous yet firm globes to …

“OMIGOD! CHRIS! WHAT ARE YOUNG DOING?”

Becca, Bex. Shit, shit, shit.

Chris quickly fumbled at the fly of his Sass and Bide in no way gay jeans but it was too late. His tiny manhood, which didn’t even reach the second knuckle of the little finger even when he woke up in the morning with a serious case of pink steel, immediately lost tumescence and lay useless, like a pygmy sea slug in its death throes.

“Fucken hell Chris, last time you rooted me Harold fucken Holt was prime Minister, now I come up here on 10AM on a Tuesday morning and you’re cranking one over pictures of fucking polar bears!”

“No babes, no, that’s not what it was …” Chris began, before suddenly realising that it would probably be better to go with the polar bear story rather than tell her about the Russian sex slaves with Kalashnikovs thing.

“Why don’t you go down the zoo and fucken root a polar bear if you love them so much?” Rebecca demanded.

“Well, babes, the Royal Melbourne Zoological is a responsible organisation that takes pride in ensuring its exhibits have a humane enclosure that mirrors their natural environment as best as possible. Remember when I went to open the recycling depot there? Obviously they couldn’t keep polar bears as a city like Melbourne that experiences such extremes of summer …”

He had to duck as a set of car keys came flying at him at a million miles an hour.

“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THE FUCKING ZOO!”

And with that Rebecca stormed downstairs and out of the flat. Fuck this, fuck this fuck this fuck fuck fuck this this this!

She stuck her hand out and just like in a movie a taxi immediately pulled over.

“Where to toots?” asked the driver.

“I don’t know, just drive. Away from here.”

Fuck this. Rebecca was sick and tired of the miserable prick. Bad enough she had to put up with his endless droning bullshit about the environment, now he was actually masturbating over polar bears stranded on fucking shrinking ledges of ice.

She began scrolling through her phone with furious intensity. Stuff Chris. He might be content to jack off over endangered bears, she had more simple needs. She looked at the clock on the driver’s dashboard. 10.25AM.

She’d be getting fucked before midday. That much true. She was heading through the Bs and into the Cs, for Caro naturally, that old scrag was forever letting her know that anytime she wanted her carpet licked in the disabled dunnies at Southern Cross Station, all she had to do was call when her eye fell upon a number she forgot she even had.

Benny Cuz.

Cuz.

Cuzzy.

Hmmm thought Rebecca. She had always thought he was quite fit back at the Eagles, especially at the team parties, even if she had found the way that he always had a strange yellow/whitish crust on the corners of his mouths and eyes that often moved independently of each other a bit weird.

But stuff it, weird she could deal. The bloke was fit, had a dick bigger than a half sucked Tic Tac if the other girls were to be believed and hadn’t, to her knowledge, bashed the old fella one in front of a picture of a snow leopard.

So she did it. She pressed the green button.

The Worm Turns

“Jesus babes!” said Chris as he picked up the Sunday paper and saw what Caro had written.

Rebecca rolled over in bed and saw her Chris standing there, his usually vacant face wrinkled into a mask of confusion and despair.

“What is it Chris,” she asked?

It was Chris’ habit to run downstairs as soon as he heard the papers hit the front door and rear through them looking for mentions of himself in the paper. It always broke her heart to see him start at the front and then go through the business section before ending up at the sport pages.

“I can’t believe it babes,” he moan, “I sent that press release about my idea for a wave powered perpetual motion machine to ALL the journos and not one of them picked it up, I can’t believe it.”

But today it was the back page he was holding, and pointing at frantically.

“Look,” he said, tears welling up in his big dog like eyes, “It’s that bloody Caro! She’s turned on me!”

Rebecca took the pages from his hands and read:

This journalitht ith known and wethpected for her integwity and wefuthal to be influenthed by otherth.

Tho it ith in thith light that I wite the fowwowing.

Carlton’th captain is a big thtinking pile of monkey thit and I’ve alwayth said it and anyone who thayth I haven’t is a sexistht wathist.

Hith behaviour of wate hath been nothing thort of diswaceful and I for one think that he thould be kicked out of footy forever and made to work in a thalt mine to waise money for the orphanth of Haiti.

Jesus though Rebecca to herself, the old bag has really gone on one here. Could it be any coincidence that she’d suddenly turned on Chris since he’d popped the question and put a ring on her finger? Or was that reading too much into it?

Surely a journalist of Caro’s standing wouldn’t conduct a hate filled vendetta against and individual or club simply because of something that had happened in her personal life? That would be unprofessional to the point of actionable by the Press Complaints Commission.

But then, Rebecca sighed to herself, this was Caro.

She got up and went into the bathroom where Chris was sobbing in front of the mirror.

“Why,” he cried “WHY? WHY DO BAD THINGS ONLY EVER HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE?”

“Come on babes” she said, “It’ll be alright, I’ve got a PR strategy that will put this old hag back in her box.”

Given her extensive media career presenting the weather on a regional TV station and having her photo taken at the races, Rebecca fancied herself as an arch media manipulator.

“You know that Wombats benefit gig that’s on tonight? We’re going, and you’re donating some money!”

Footycore

“Dinner’s nearly ready, Kyle, come out please!” shouted his Mum.

“Shut uuuup MUM!” Kyle screeched back.

He almost had the riff down on this tune and he wasn’t going to let that old bag distract him from it.

“Don’t you dare speak to me that way, young man! You get out here and eat your dinner right now!”

Kyle trailed out and sullenly pushed his steamed chicken breast around his plate. God he hated steamed chicken but Matty said the boys had to eat as much as possible of it. Marinated in coconut juice. Said it would ward off the damaging effects of the sun’s rays. Very concerned about the sun is Matty.

Kyle began running the song over in his head.

I’m always leading into space
But you never find me
I’m always bursting on the lead
But you never honour them

He hated when people called his music emo. Emo was so like 2006. No, what Kyle and his mates in The Reckoning played was nothing other than footycore. And tonight was there first gig – playing at a pub in Fitzroy as part of a benefit bash to raise money for the West Melbourne Wombats.

He’d known Jimmy Goodfellow from way back, playing juniours and when Jimmy had rung to see if The Reckoning would be interested in playing, he’d jumped at the chance.

Only mistake he’d made was telling the boys at training. Most of them were supportive. They knew what his music meant to him. But the bloke they’d taken with their first rounder, Jarkyn, predictably he’d been a knob about it.

Lockheed seemed to have taken an instant dislike to Kyle. Ever since he’d arrived, things had started going missing from Kyle’s locker. And in recent weeks, more ominously, things had started appearing.

Just the other day he’d gone in and opened it only to be confronted by a vile stench and a perfectly coil of faeces. He’d looked around but there was nobody in the grin save for Jarkyn, grinning like a Japanese soldier wanking onto a nurse’s uniform.

Kyle cleared his mind of the thought. He didn’t want anything distracting him from his performance tonight.

He wanted to put in a good one. This could be his break. Even Sam from The Era had texted to say she was coming.

He hadn’t expected that.

Operation Marshland

Justin repeated the mantra to himself as he waited with his brother for the meeting to begin.

“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels!”

He looked at his brother’s twig like arm. The tattoo gave him strength.

Ana4Life

Justin was glad that Warren opened the door for him, as it was a heavy door. Add to that the fact that he felt disgustingly bloated after sharing that chip with Matt yesterday. Luckily Andrew from the other mob had swooped on it before they could finish it, saving him from going too far. But still.

Inside the room there was a little stage. Choco sat on it next a creepy looking bloke and a little kid. Justin sat down. He noticed the creepy man staring at him. He had cold dead eyes, the eyes of a man who’d known nothing but suffering in his life.

Choco got up and spoke:

“Gidday guys, bit of an update. Two things. First, we still haven’t got a major sponsor and second, Dean, who some of you have already met, has now officially come on board and will be responsible for developing our gameplan. Contrary to some unkind suggestions in the media, these two developments are not linked.

“I’ll hand you over to Dean now.”

The lean wiry man, whose figure was a sharp contrast to that of the ever expanding Choco, took the floor.

“Yeah nah look,” he began, “Before we get stuck into the gameplan, or Operation Marshland as I like to call it, I need to introduce someone myself. This young fellow is someone you’re going to see a lot of.”

He indicated the kid stand up.

“This young bloke embodies what I want the new team spirit to be. When you’re holding the ball above your head to indicate that its time to slow the game down – and you’ll be doing a fuckload of that – I want you to think of this bloke. When you’re chipping the ball back and forth across half back, remember him. When you’re crabbing the ball along the boundary line at an achingly slow pace, think of him. When the runner comes out when we’re 25 points up and got a run on to tell you to take the pedal off the metal, think of this name.

“Boys, Westoffs, Warren, I give you … Terry Bosniak.”

The Reckoning

Brendan walked into his new changing rooms. He was getting used to the different circumstances but he did miss some of the old familiar sights, the carpet of brown paper bags around Chris’ locker, the Lousville Slugger in other Chris’ locker.

But he liked it up here. He’d already bonded with the other blokes, especially the big fella who he’d be sharing the forward line with. They shared a sense of humour, with a liking for witty T-shirts a favourite.

Brendan had picked up a new one just today and was waiting to show Jono.

“Hey, fuckface,” he shouted as he entered the locker, “Check this out!”

Jono turned around. He saw Brendon wearing a T-shirt that read “ORAL SEX”

Then Brendon turned around slowly to reveal the legend on the back of the shirt.

“A TASTE OF THINGS TO COME!”

Beneath the hilarious kicker was an equally hilarious cartoon of a woman with full red lips opened to reveal her tongue which had a target painted on it.

“Oh. My. Fucken. God!” exclaimed Jono, “That is dead set the fucken funniest thing ever!”

Other blokes gathered around and immediately cracked up when they saw it. It was agreed the cunt who’d thought that up was definitely a comedy genius. Richy reckon the same bloke must have done Jono’s “If Found, Please Return To The Pub!” shirt, which until then had been considered the funniest thing anyone in the squad has ever seen.

“Alright cunts”” boomed Vossy as he stormed into the changing rooms, wearing one of those T-shirts that is cut away at the side and marked with as if it indicate the wearer had suffered a shark bit, “Stop fuckarsing around and start training! I’m trading at least fucken ten of you at the season no matter what! I’m not fucken losing that bet with Leppa!”

The boys trooped out led by Fev.

“Brendon,” barked the coach.

The big fella felt a shot of panic. He knew he hadn’t done anything bad recently, but you never knew. Maybe some of the really bad stuff from before nobody had found out about had come to light.

“Nice T-shirt. Like it. Some of you blokes could learn from his attitude.”

And with that, the temperamental ranga grabbed his favourite pool cue and beat an Irish rookie swiftly over the back of the legs to hurry him out the door.

That Statement In Full

The stench of booze, sweat and stale Chiko Rolls assaulted Chris' olfactory organs as he stood in front of the assembled football media to read the statement he had prepared.

"Hi, thanks for coming," he began.

He'd wanted to put in a joke early on, but Rebecca had forbidden it. Expressely forbidden it.

"You've embrassed youerself and us enough lately, I'm not going to let you get up there and tell that awful bloody story about the horse and Michael Jackson on national television," she'd fumed.

So Chris began.

"As many of you are aware, this club has been troubled by a series of recents events where players have acted, and let's be frank here, like a bunch of fucken five year olds with ADD who've been jacked up with the Cuzzy juice and let loose in the Big W toys aisle. In their underpants.

Now, as captain and chief bagman ... er ... head of the leadership group, I have to say that the buck stops with me. About a million a year of them, plus the entirely in no way shifty compensation for my tireless work as an Environmental Ambassador for Shady Holdings.

Given that situation, after a series of long and tense meetings with the club hierachy, one of which I escaped from by saying I was going to the toilet then climbing out the bathroom window, I've decided that I will take responsibility for the players under me.

If you look to the left of stage, you will see Sticks holding a pitchfork in case I try and run away again before finishing this statement. That is how seriously I take my role.

Many people have observed that when I captained my old club, the culture of the joint descended to the point where Amy Winehouse came into the clubrooms to score once and left in disgust. Blokes were on it day in day out, flatlining in Vegas, robbing chemists, hanging out with bikies, but I swear on my Grandmother's grave, I didn't see a single thing.

And even if I did, I wouldn't have known what it was, because I'm a good clean cut media friendly bloke who got a high ENTER score. Have I mentioned that before? That I got a high ENTER score? It completely makes up for any accidental letting of my hand go near blokes' faces or pressure points.

Anyway, now I've rocked up here and every cunt is on the booze and I seem to be copping the blame. Just coz I sat with Fev all day at the casino getting slaughtered. And just coz I was on that boat when Levi Stubbsjeans or whatever the little lagging lightweight is called was gently encouraged to join the boys in a few palate cleansing ales.

Having taken all that on board, and having engaged in discussions with the rest of the leadership group, fucktards to a man as they are, I've come to the conclusion that from now on, we have to be honest with the club, with the supporters, and most importantly, with ourselves.

So I'm going to start now.

Youse can all go and get fucked. I've had a gutful of you all. Fuck footy. I've got a giant pile of cashed stashed. Ever since I come back to Melbourne, its been one thing after another. Missus bloody turned carpet muncher with Caro, I get the blame coz Fev goes off his rocker and gets a big set of fake tits then youse all turn on me coz we do what footballers since time immemorial have been doing and get maggot drunk and act like fuckwits.

Well, fuck the lot of youse. I'm retiring. You'll have to find some other dumb cunt to pour a bucket of shit on now.

Fuckity bye fuckheads!"

And with that, as the assembled footballer media sat jaws agape and even Sticks let the pitchfork fall limply by his side, Chris stormed off and out the door.

A chapter of football history had closed.