Rebecca watched Chris as he slept. The heat had gone from the Melbourne air and she was glad. But it wasn't a New York Christmas all snowy and white like in Friends. In fact, it was nothing like that. It was another shitty Christmas with Chris lying next to her stupified by drink.
He stirred under her not entirely friendly tone.
"Ooooh, jeez, oooh, no, Kinkosaurus, no." he muttered.
Rebecca nudged him hard.
"Hey fuckwedge," she whispered with a terrifying purposefulness into his ear, "Wake up."
The idiot stirred.
Where am I, he murmured, what's going on? His eyes opened an inch, the stench of a million beers coming from his parched mouth.
Rebecca lifted herself onto one elbow and her obviously fake tits moved not a millimetre with the resultant gravity.
Chris told her the story of his mad delusion of being transported to medieavel France and thus not being able to remember how he had been on the alcohol soaked boozy boat trip that he had allegedly been captaining.
Rebecca gave him a disdainful glare but that didn't matter, as the incident had tied up a storyline that wasn't really going anywhere and took loads of work.
"Well you haven't been in ancient France or whatever babes, you've been out drinking like a two headed Scotsman. Anyway, merry Christmas babes. I remembered even if you didn't. I'll see you downstairs in halfa, I'm going for a shower."
As she got out of the bed and glided over to the ensuite, she chuckled to herself. That dolphin shaped shower head she'd treated herself to would be paying for itself in just a few minutes.
Chris didn't care. Or thought he didn't care. Or thought he had no reason to care. But he had a reason to care. A BIG reason to care.
He was barely a blink back into his sleep, dropped deep into Morpheus' grasp, when the clanking of the chains began.
As Rebecca applied the multi-purpose shower head to her crisply shaven undercarriage, a great fever struck Chris in the room but two metres and a wall betwixt away.
The rattle of the malevolent chains grew louder and Chris was insensible.
"WAKE O CHURLISH ONE!" came a low cry.
Chris forced his eyelids open against all his better judgement.
"YOU SEE ME NOW!" came the voice again, "TELL ME WHAT YOU SEE!"
Eyes blurred, Chris saw but a ghostly haze, only great shining eyes defining it as something recognisable.
"Leave me hideous shade! I care not for Christmas cheer! Take thine rattling and fattling and be done with you!"
But the shade, for it was Benny Cousins, the Ghost of Christmas Past, was not so easily dispersed.
"Piss off shitlicker," Casper Cousins said, "I'm here to remind you what a dumb fuck you are. Remember when we were at West Coast and you were captain and me and Azza and Mick and Kerry and every cunt was getting into the gear and then when your contract ran out you fucked off back to Melbourne and let every cunt think it was something to do with us? Well ooooh ooooh I'm a ghost, both as a person, and more importantly now as a footballer since you made me play for Richmond, so I'm here to haunt you and shit."
(The ghost of Chad Fletcher enters stage right)
"Chaddo!" cried the shade, "Have you got those ummm ... pizzas ... we talked about?"
The ghost of Chad Fletcher nodded solemnly.
"Sweet as. Yeah, to sum up Chrisso mate, you're a fucken fraud. Your nice guy act is over. Word of advice, don't try and eye gouge the final ghost. Laterz biatch!"
And with that, the Ghost of Christmas Past disappeared.
Chris was barely recovered when he was struck by a terrible visitation. A boat rocked upon stormy seas. Seas so stormy they threw a great froth, a spray. Chris looked closer. It wasn't a sea of normal water, it was a distended yellow, bile yellow. It was a sea of beer.
"WOOOOOOOOOOH!" uttered Levi Casboult, unfortunate Carlton rookie forced into a a dangerous drinking game, "WOOOOOOOOH! Oh captain my captain, where is my captain?"
And Chris saw himself at the back of the boat, engaged in trite conversation centring on himself with a few tired club officials. The phantom let out an unearthly howl and the boat sank as if struck by hit a torpedo, Chris drinking merrily even as the waves lapped up and over the innocent's face.
He knew then he'd seen the Ghost of Christmas Present.
What now he thought, rising into a halfworld that wasn't sleep yet was far from wakefulness. What new torment awaits?
"GIIIIDDDAAYY FUCKFACE!" a shrill voice sang, like the world's most annoying smoke alarm.
Chris shrank beneath the covers of his expensive bedding now, wanting to hide his eyes yet daring not lest the apparition turn violent.
"I'MMM JAAARKYN LOCKHEEEED! AND I'M THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS FUTURE!"
Thursday 24 December 2009
Tuesday 22 December 2009
Suck Shit Dumb Cunts!
Brendan sat contendly with his newborn child resting against the scar where his once magnificent breasts had been. But his loss, our loss, was not so raw these days.
He'd fitted in well at Brisbane, the boys making him feel more than welcome. And the knowledge that his coach and a few team-mates had been involved in a savage bar brawl made him think that the joint had a culture almost designed for the likes of him.
And now this. He was watching TV reports about two Carlton players who'd been banned from the casino after causing trouble. So much for the theory that getting rid of him would somehow erase a 'bad culture' from the joint.
He reached for his phone and his pressed the green re-dial key. He'd been dialling this number repeatedly all day.
After two rings, Sticks picked it up.
"Yes Brendan, what is it this time?" he asked with exasperation plain in his voice.
"Oh," said Fev, "I just wanted to ring to say SUCK SHIT DUMB CUNT!"
Sticks hung up and Brendan chortled to himself. It wasn't going to get old anytime soon.
The looked at his phone again and this time press the hotkey for Chris' number. He put the phone up to his ear but it simply rang out. Again. Hadn't been picked up all day.
Where WAS Chris when Brendan wanted so much to taunt and goad him?
It wasn't like Chris to go missing when the heat was on with off-field matters.
Not like him at all.
He'd fitted in well at Brisbane, the boys making him feel more than welcome. And the knowledge that his coach and a few team-mates had been involved in a savage bar brawl made him think that the joint had a culture almost designed for the likes of him.
And now this. He was watching TV reports about two Carlton players who'd been banned from the casino after causing trouble. So much for the theory that getting rid of him would somehow erase a 'bad culture' from the joint.
He reached for his phone and his pressed the green re-dial key. He'd been dialling this number repeatedly all day.
After two rings, Sticks picked it up.
"Yes Brendan, what is it this time?" he asked with exasperation plain in his voice.
"Oh," said Fev, "I just wanted to ring to say SUCK SHIT DUMB CUNT!"
Sticks hung up and Brendan chortled to himself. It wasn't going to get old anytime soon.
The looked at his phone again and this time press the hotkey for Chris' number. He put the phone up to his ear but it simply rang out. Again. Hadn't been picked up all day.
Where WAS Chris when Brendan wanted so much to taunt and goad him?
It wasn't like Chris to go missing when the heat was on with off-field matters.
Not like him at all.
Friday 11 December 2009
Wednesday 2 December 2009
Feareth not!
Sorry for lack of updates lately. Been mega busy. But feareth not, not the travails of Sir Chris the Overrated shall be back soon to amuse yon masses during Yuletide.
Tuesday 24 November 2009
He Couldn't Have Gone Too Far, Could He?
Rebecca woke late but content. Chris had finally popped the question and she'd said yes. Yes, yes, yes.
It had been a tough decision. They'd had quite an interesting a year. But then, as he got down on one knee in the two grand a night luxury apartment he'd rented and presented her with a chunk of diamond that must have taken three blokes to prise from the dirt in South Africa, the Noosa sunlight glinting off the posh car he'd bought her, his bulging wallet prominent in his pocket as he balanced with the ring profferred on a velvet cushion with gold lining, she'd found it easy to say yes. After a few questions.
"Is that real gold thread," she'd asked.
"Of course babes, of course it is."
"And how many dresses will I have?"
"As many you want babes."
"And will I be able to arrive in a gold plated limo that runs on expensive perfume fumes?"
"Of course babes."
"And will I get to have 1000 bridesmaids all wearing expensive dresses and will we have Beyonce performing and will I get to release a flock of endangered doves at the end of the ceremony?"
"Babes, nothing is too much for you"
"And at the end can we burn a giant pile of money in front of the cameras while you kiss me adoringly so those sluts at school who called me Skeletor and flushed my head down the dunny can watch it and cry hot salty tears at their own pathetic lives which are in no way as affluent or successful as mine?"
"Sure thing babes. We can even have special letters reminding them they haven't been invited to the nation's wedding of the year delivered to their houses!"
That was a nice touch, thought Rebecca. Good old Chris. He was worth hanging onto.
She reached out for him in the bed but he wasn't there. He'd been up late the night before writing emails to Kevin Rudd offering his services to guide the ETS through parliament but
She looked over. His side of the bed was unmade. This again wasn't weird. He was a bit of neat freak and if he got up early, as he often did, for a run, or to lick Mr Pratt's gravestone clean, he would carefully make his side before heading out.
Rebecca let her head fall back on the pillow and sleep envelop her again.
He couldn't have gotten too far, could he?
It had been a tough decision. They'd had quite an interesting a year. But then, as he got down on one knee in the two grand a night luxury apartment he'd rented and presented her with a chunk of diamond that must have taken three blokes to prise from the dirt in South Africa, the Noosa sunlight glinting off the posh car he'd bought her, his bulging wallet prominent in his pocket as he balanced with the ring profferred on a velvet cushion with gold lining, she'd found it easy to say yes. After a few questions.
"Is that real gold thread," she'd asked.
"Of course babes, of course it is."
"And how many dresses will I have?"
"As many you want babes."
"And will I be able to arrive in a gold plated limo that runs on expensive perfume fumes?"
"Of course babes."
"And will I get to have 1000 bridesmaids all wearing expensive dresses and will we have Beyonce performing and will I get to release a flock of endangered doves at the end of the ceremony?"
"Babes, nothing is too much for you"
"And at the end can we burn a giant pile of money in front of the cameras while you kiss me adoringly so those sluts at school who called me Skeletor and flushed my head down the dunny can watch it and cry hot salty tears at their own pathetic lives which are in no way as affluent or successful as mine?"
"Sure thing babes. We can even have special letters reminding them they haven't been invited to the nation's wedding of the year delivered to their houses!"
That was a nice touch, thought Rebecca. Good old Chris. He was worth hanging onto.
She reached out for him in the bed but he wasn't there. He'd been up late the night before writing emails to Kevin Rudd offering his services to guide the ETS through parliament but
She looked over. His side of the bed was unmade. This again wasn't weird. He was a bit of neat freak and if he got up early, as he often did, for a run, or to lick Mr Pratt's gravestone clean, he would carefully make his side before heading out.
Rebecca let her head fall back on the pillow and sleep envelop her again.
He couldn't have gotten too far, could he?
Monday 16 November 2009
Sunday 15 November 2009
Parc d'Victoire
Sir Mick of Gayfer landed in the dead of night in the carpark of the Hoddle Street flats. It was lucky it was night as the journey through the tear in the time space contiuum had torn his chain mail and other knightly accoutrement from his body.
Sir Mick was not a man given to self reflection. Contrary to the philosoper's maxim, he had lived the unexamined life. So it was that he didn't bother himself too much about the fact that he had been untimely ripped from his own world and set about finding something to wear.
He had little patience for those who dwelt on the past. It was like when he was on the Crusades with the Errant Knight Sir Campbell of Brown. The feisty little barrel on legs held a grudge against Sir Matthew The Diver, a long time foe.
And how Sir Campbell had droned on and on about what he would do to Sir Matthew upon their return from seizing Christendom's holiest places from the hands of the Saracen.
After they had sacked Constantinople:
"Oh by the Shroud of Our Lord, I shall runneth through Sir Matthew with mine lance when I do return to castle."
As Antioch lay in flames, her citizens either slain or sold unto slavery:
"YEA VERILY! I keep mine sword sharpened upon the dark heart of the Jews so it may pierce the hide of the mangy cur Sir Matthew 'pon my return!"
By the campfire as Saladin's emissarries sought parley with the Templars outside Jerusalem itself:
"Hear me now, I shall return from this holy work and seize Sir Matthew and torture him for many days in my filthiest dungeon and then, just as he thinks death's cold grip arrives to bring him peace from my infernal torments, I shall let him rest and then when he hath regained his strength, LO! I shall return unto the fray with the heated spikes and the sharpened nails and all the instruments of pain I can muster!"
It really was fucking tiresome.
So without further ado Sir Mick he set about finding some garb to wear. Luckily for him, a local heroin enthusiast had partken in perhaps a bit to much of his chosen tipple and lay prone in the bushes.
"Ah," Sir Mick thought to himself, "This serf has been waylaid by bandits, or has fallen victim to a sorceror. I shall remove his rags and take them as my own."
Having donned the knock off three stripe Adidas tracksuit and Collingwood polo shirt so common to the bottom feeders of Melbourne's criminal underclass, Sir Mick set off to find his bearings.
He was immediately startled by cars racing along Hoddle Street.
"What manner of witchery is this, yon devil's chariot?" he mused, but being made of stern stuff, he simply kept a wary eye on the squat iron horses as they sped about their business.
After a mile or so he began to grow weary. He needed rest and victuals. But there seemed no welcoming glade where he could rest his head. Then he saw the sign that gladdened his heart.
Victoria Park.
It was the wrong around but the meaning was unmistakeable. It was his own father's estate, Parc d'Victoire, named after a particularly successful campaign against the rebellious Walloons in the north. He set forth.
He arrived to find a vast expanse of grass. The jousting lists! Ah, the memories he had of the afternoons spent there, seeking the favour of a fair maiden through his skill in the martial sports.
Then there were the games, the jesters and the fools.
He strode to the centre of the grass and took in the scene. Yes, this was a place where he felt at home.
He saw in his mind's eye a great throng of unwashed serfs and peasants gathered to witness the spectacle, heard their jeering and hooting as the painted cretins danced for their amusement, their shrill cackle during the goading of the blackamoors.
Yes, this Victoria Park, this was a place he could call home. He laid down his tired head in the centre of the field and slept the sleep of the content.
Sir Mick was not a man given to self reflection. Contrary to the philosoper's maxim, he had lived the unexamined life. So it was that he didn't bother himself too much about the fact that he had been untimely ripped from his own world and set about finding something to wear.
He had little patience for those who dwelt on the past. It was like when he was on the Crusades with the Errant Knight Sir Campbell of Brown. The feisty little barrel on legs held a grudge against Sir Matthew The Diver, a long time foe.
And how Sir Campbell had droned on and on about what he would do to Sir Matthew upon their return from seizing Christendom's holiest places from the hands of the Saracen.
After they had sacked Constantinople:
"Oh by the Shroud of Our Lord, I shall runneth through Sir Matthew with mine lance when I do return to castle."
As Antioch lay in flames, her citizens either slain or sold unto slavery:
"YEA VERILY! I keep mine sword sharpened upon the dark heart of the Jews so it may pierce the hide of the mangy cur Sir Matthew 'pon my return!"
By the campfire as Saladin's emissarries sought parley with the Templars outside Jerusalem itself:
"Hear me now, I shall return from this holy work and seize Sir Matthew and torture him for many days in my filthiest dungeon and then, just as he thinks death's cold grip arrives to bring him peace from my infernal torments, I shall let him rest and then when he hath regained his strength, LO! I shall return unto the fray with the heated spikes and the sharpened nails and all the instruments of pain I can muster!"
It really was fucking tiresome.
So without further ado Sir Mick he set about finding some garb to wear. Luckily for him, a local heroin enthusiast had partken in perhaps a bit to much of his chosen tipple and lay prone in the bushes.
"Ah," Sir Mick thought to himself, "This serf has been waylaid by bandits, or has fallen victim to a sorceror. I shall remove his rags and take them as my own."
Having donned the knock off three stripe Adidas tracksuit and Collingwood polo shirt so common to the bottom feeders of Melbourne's criminal underclass, Sir Mick set off to find his bearings.
He was immediately startled by cars racing along Hoddle Street.
"What manner of witchery is this, yon devil's chariot?" he mused, but being made of stern stuff, he simply kept a wary eye on the squat iron horses as they sped about their business.
After a mile or so he began to grow weary. He needed rest and victuals. But there seemed no welcoming glade where he could rest his head. Then he saw the sign that gladdened his heart.
Victoria Park.
It was the wrong around but the meaning was unmistakeable. It was his own father's estate, Parc d'Victoire, named after a particularly successful campaign against the rebellious Walloons in the north. He set forth.
He arrived to find a vast expanse of grass. The jousting lists! Ah, the memories he had of the afternoons spent there, seeking the favour of a fair maiden through his skill in the martial sports.
Then there were the games, the jesters and the fools.
He strode to the centre of the grass and took in the scene. Yes, this was a place where he felt at home.
He saw in his mind's eye a great throng of unwashed serfs and peasants gathered to witness the spectacle, heard their jeering and hooting as the painted cretins danced for their amusement, their shrill cackle during the goading of the blackamoors.
Yes, this Victoria Park, this was a place he could call home. He laid down his tired head in the centre of the field and slept the sleep of the content.
Thursday 12 November 2009
Made In Heaven?
The rolling breakers of the Noosa headland rolled breakingly in Chris' middle vision.
He was about to make an honest woman of her.
Bloody Rebecca, crazy old Becks. They'd been through a lot. There he was, hottest shit on the West Coast and unaccountably short of a date on Brownlow night so he'd done what any normal bloke would do: he'd called a modelling agency and asked for the hottest one they had.
A season of magic - even if he said it himself - later, and she was his.
There'd been some bumps along the way. The drug allegations about the club, the drug stuff being proved, his good mate dying then being resuscitated on a trip overseas, his other good mate being done for forging a prescription, his other other good mate having to retire under a drug-coated cloud, that same mate being arrested off his face on drugs, another mate actually dying from a fast food overdose, none of that had anything to do with his decision to chase the brown paper bag ... er, dream ... which represented his desire to go HOME.
Then when they'd gone home there'd been the whole carpet munching stuff with the missus and Caro. Less said about that the better.
He looked through the enormous plate glass window of Moe's, the posh restaurant he'd chosen to pop the question.
He steeled himself for it. Took the enviromentally friendly diamond ring that had in no way been mined then transported over thousands of miles to end up in his pocket, from his pocket. He went in.
Half a world and an ocean of time away, Sir Mick of Gayfer took his beloved's hand.
"Ma blonde, mon cheri," the noble knight began, "We 'ave found amour zat knows no bound-aries. Mon pipi, 'e stands to leerve your petit jambon!"
The court of the Franks rose as one to acclaim the Dauphin Gayfer's romantic gambit.
The bravest back pocket knight in all of Christendom, chosen by the ailing liege Baron Mick d'Chateau Malt as his succesor, was set to wed the fairest maid of them all, Madmoiselle Leanne of Edelstone.
"Let urs seal nous bond magnifique!" he pronouced, sliding the ring he had taken from a dead Saracen's finger upon her wan thin digit.
Little did either dolt know that a sorceror was at work.
A conjurer. The devil's own. The damned. An alchemist.
A pharmacist.
"LEAVE ME WOULD YOU VICTORIAN TOAD!" raged the Wizard Of The West.
"A FUCKEN GUN MIDFIELD I HAD! NO GAPS! OUTSIDE, INSIDE, IN AND UNDER, RUNNERS, BLOCKERS, EVERYTHING!"
The Wizard Woosha added extra boot of duck and light of tunnel, poke of toe and drop of head, call of ball and advantage paid and just as he was about to add the final drop, sauce of plugger, his errant knight Sir Daniel of the Horse's Salve came running, mistaking the potion pot for a home brewed Valium cook, and nudged his arm.
Wizard Woosha could not help the final salt entering the broth. Then the bubbling, the spoil and troubling. Cackles, overflow, a sudden drop in temperature, a harsh wind screaming off unseen mountaintops.
As the enraged shaman rained down blows upon his miscreant apprentice, a great schism cut the very heavens that towered above them.
CRACK!
Lightning spread a false light from horizon to horizon and backly thus.
"Loki the Trickster God walks this night!" breathed the idiot Daniel to his master.
"Yes, yes, he does. Sumich knows what sorcery will be required to cage this beast again," his mentor replied, diving for shelter under an enormous tree branch.
The camera lifts from the pathetic pair. See it. Believe it.
It ascends to the meridian point and hovers. We breath a beat.
Then a cataclysmic bolt of thunder/lightning ... thlightning ... distracts us.
A great vortex in the world, like in shitty adventure movie videos you would watch as a kid, perhaps wagging school, appears.
Into it from our dimension, the unwilling bald brave of bodgy payments, Sir Chris the Overrated, is ripped untimely from his newly betrothed, and flung into the maelstrom.
On the unknown pitch, a great wind blows through the pristine hall of Sir Mick of Gayfer's nuptials.
As he is taken into the maw of the daemon, he cries:
"O LADY LEANNE! FIND YOU I WILL! BACK I SHALL BE! SHAG NOT ANY OF MY TEAMMATES FOR I TRULY KNOW I AM PUNCHING ABOVE MY WEIGHT!"
The two men, seperated by epochs and a fair slice of footy ability, were sucked into the mighty draft.
Imagine now crappy special effects, sort of like looking through a kalediescope when you're really pissed.
And as they passed in the depths of the wormhole, modern day shitman and ancient hero, an unearthly voice, perhaps the voice of time itself, was heard to utter:
"Isn't this just a big rip off of that criminally unappreciated Frog movie Les Visiteurs that got shitly remade a while ago by cockmuncher Americans? Hopefully this shit ripoff will be better than that."
TO BE CONTINUED
He was about to make an honest woman of her.
Bloody Rebecca, crazy old Becks. They'd been through a lot. There he was, hottest shit on the West Coast and unaccountably short of a date on Brownlow night so he'd done what any normal bloke would do: he'd called a modelling agency and asked for the hottest one they had.
A season of magic - even if he said it himself - later, and she was his.
There'd been some bumps along the way. The drug allegations about the club, the drug stuff being proved, his good mate dying then being resuscitated on a trip overseas, his other good mate being done for forging a prescription, his other other good mate having to retire under a drug-coated cloud, that same mate being arrested off his face on drugs, another mate actually dying from a fast food overdose, none of that had anything to do with his decision to chase the brown paper bag ... er, dream ... which represented his desire to go HOME.
Then when they'd gone home there'd been the whole carpet munching stuff with the missus and Caro. Less said about that the better.
He looked through the enormous plate glass window of Moe's, the posh restaurant he'd chosen to pop the question.
He steeled himself for it. Took the enviromentally friendly diamond ring that had in no way been mined then transported over thousands of miles to end up in his pocket, from his pocket. He went in.
Half a world and an ocean of time away, Sir Mick of Gayfer took his beloved's hand.
"Ma blonde, mon cheri," the noble knight began, "We 'ave found amour zat knows no bound-aries. Mon pipi, 'e stands to leerve your petit jambon!"
The court of the Franks rose as one to acclaim the Dauphin Gayfer's romantic gambit.
The bravest back pocket knight in all of Christendom, chosen by the ailing liege Baron Mick d'Chateau Malt as his succesor, was set to wed the fairest maid of them all, Madmoiselle Leanne of Edelstone.
"Let urs seal nous bond magnifique!" he pronouced, sliding the ring he had taken from a dead Saracen's finger upon her wan thin digit.
Little did either dolt know that a sorceror was at work.
A conjurer. The devil's own. The damned. An alchemist.
A pharmacist.
"LEAVE ME WOULD YOU VICTORIAN TOAD!" raged the Wizard Of The West.
"A FUCKEN GUN MIDFIELD I HAD! NO GAPS! OUTSIDE, INSIDE, IN AND UNDER, RUNNERS, BLOCKERS, EVERYTHING!"
The Wizard Woosha added extra boot of duck and light of tunnel, poke of toe and drop of head, call of ball and advantage paid and just as he was about to add the final drop, sauce of plugger, his errant knight Sir Daniel of the Horse's Salve came running, mistaking the potion pot for a home brewed Valium cook, and nudged his arm.
Wizard Woosha could not help the final salt entering the broth. Then the bubbling, the spoil and troubling. Cackles, overflow, a sudden drop in temperature, a harsh wind screaming off unseen mountaintops.
As the enraged shaman rained down blows upon his miscreant apprentice, a great schism cut the very heavens that towered above them.
CRACK!
Lightning spread a false light from horizon to horizon and backly thus.
"Loki the Trickster God walks this night!" breathed the idiot Daniel to his master.
"Yes, yes, he does. Sumich knows what sorcery will be required to cage this beast again," his mentor replied, diving for shelter under an enormous tree branch.
The camera lifts from the pathetic pair. See it. Believe it.
It ascends to the meridian point and hovers. We breath a beat.
Then a cataclysmic bolt of thunder/lightning ... thlightning ... distracts us.
A great vortex in the world, like in shitty adventure movie videos you would watch as a kid, perhaps wagging school, appears.
Into it from our dimension, the unwilling bald brave of bodgy payments, Sir Chris the Overrated, is ripped untimely from his newly betrothed, and flung into the maelstrom.
On the unknown pitch, a great wind blows through the pristine hall of Sir Mick of Gayfer's nuptials.
As he is taken into the maw of the daemon, he cries:
"O LADY LEANNE! FIND YOU I WILL! BACK I SHALL BE! SHAG NOT ANY OF MY TEAMMATES FOR I TRULY KNOW I AM PUNCHING ABOVE MY WEIGHT!"
The two men, seperated by epochs and a fair slice of footy ability, were sucked into the mighty draft.
Imagine now crappy special effects, sort of like looking through a kalediescope when you're really pissed.
And as they passed in the depths of the wormhole, modern day shitman and ancient hero, an unearthly voice, perhaps the voice of time itself, was heard to utter:
"Isn't this just a big rip off of that criminally unappreciated Frog movie Les Visiteurs that got shitly remade a while ago by cockmuncher Americans? Hopefully this shit ripoff will be better than that."
TO BE CONTINUED
Monday 9 November 2009
A Thin Crop
"Why should you have the honour of representing the West Melbourne Wombats son?" Knacker asked the lanky pale bloke in front of him.
"Fooked if Ah know, me agent joost said Ah should coom here because you lot were tekin' any old bassa with a bit of athletic abiliteh," the bloke replied.
Knacker shook his head. It was true. You had the Woods taking on some Yank on the basis of a YouTube highlight, Sydney with their rugby bloke, various Irish types. It was getting beyond a joke.
He couldn't blame this Pommy bastard, buggered if he could remember his name, for dipping his toe in the water on the grounds he was half good at lacrosse.
"Me main concern is the 'eat out 'ere," he continued, "Look here now like, it's only November and Ah'm fookin' sweatin' like a fat lass."
Knacker didn't know what to make of that. He thanked the Pommy for his time and said he'd be in touch.
He took a deep breath. Up next was Jarkyn Lockheed. He took an instant dislike to the cocky little shit the second he walked in the door.
"Why should you have the honour of playing for the West Melbourne Wombats?" asked Knacker.
"I shouldn't, youse are shit. Don't draft me, I'll just piss off after two years," the big smartarse smirked, obviously looking for a reaction.
Knacker wasn't biting though.
"Good to hear, we didn't want you anyway. Hope you didn't have too much on yourself to go number one pal," he said gruffly, standing by the door, indicating he should leave.
"Er, what, umm ..." spluttered Jarkyn, who had indeed stolen $3k from his dying Grandma to put on himself as the number one draft pick.
"As I said son, thanks for coming, we had our doubts about you and you've just confirmed them. You might be a lot of things son, including a very talented footballer, but you're not a Wombats man and never will be."
Knacker sat down. That had been easier than he'd expected. Stuck up little cunt. Knacker couldn't wait to tell one of the boys to knock him rotten.
One more to go. The one he had a good feeling about. Bunyip.
There was a booming knock at the door that almost startled even Knacker.
He got up and answered it. It was Bunyip. Christ, thought Knacker to himself, this is one big bastard.
"Sit down, sit down," he said. He watched with interest as Bunyip manouevered his large form into the small chair.
"Now tell me why you should have the honour of playing for the West Melbourne Wombats?" he asked, employing the same line he'd used on all the other prospects.
Bunyip leant forward and answered immediately.
"Because I owe my life to wombats and I have a great debt which I must repay unto the proud beasts."
This Knacker hadn't expected.
"Do tell," he said.
"In the before time," began Bunyip, "I was lost in the bush and I was about to starve when a wombat came to me and it offered itself to me. 'Take me' it said, 'And devour me and I shall give you life'. So I picked it up, smashed it against a rock and ate it whole.
"Ever since then, I've known that I would play for the Wombats. It is like it is written in the stars, like a higher force is guiding me."
He looked wistfully out the window and even though it was broad daylight, just for an instant, a twinkle in the sky appeared.
Knacker took this all in. The kid seemed sincere. He gave him the once over again. Yep. Centre half back written all over him.
He extended his hand.
"Welcome to the Wombats son."
Bunyip smiled. This was good.
"Fooked if Ah know, me agent joost said Ah should coom here because you lot were tekin' any old bassa with a bit of athletic abiliteh," the bloke replied.
Knacker shook his head. It was true. You had the Woods taking on some Yank on the basis of a YouTube highlight, Sydney with their rugby bloke, various Irish types. It was getting beyond a joke.
He couldn't blame this Pommy bastard, buggered if he could remember his name, for dipping his toe in the water on the grounds he was half good at lacrosse.
"Me main concern is the 'eat out 'ere," he continued, "Look here now like, it's only November and Ah'm fookin' sweatin' like a fat lass."
Knacker didn't know what to make of that. He thanked the Pommy for his time and said he'd be in touch.
He took a deep breath. Up next was Jarkyn Lockheed. He took an instant dislike to the cocky little shit the second he walked in the door.
"Why should you have the honour of playing for the West Melbourne Wombats?" asked Knacker.
"I shouldn't, youse are shit. Don't draft me, I'll just piss off after two years," the big smartarse smirked, obviously looking for a reaction.
Knacker wasn't biting though.
"Good to hear, we didn't want you anyway. Hope you didn't have too much on yourself to go number one pal," he said gruffly, standing by the door, indicating he should leave.
"Er, what, umm ..." spluttered Jarkyn, who had indeed stolen $3k from his dying Grandma to put on himself as the number one draft pick.
"As I said son, thanks for coming, we had our doubts about you and you've just confirmed them. You might be a lot of things son, including a very talented footballer, but you're not a Wombats man and never will be."
Knacker sat down. That had been easier than he'd expected. Stuck up little cunt. Knacker couldn't wait to tell one of the boys to knock him rotten.
One more to go. The one he had a good feeling about. Bunyip.
There was a booming knock at the door that almost startled even Knacker.
He got up and answered it. It was Bunyip. Christ, thought Knacker to himself, this is one big bastard.
"Sit down, sit down," he said. He watched with interest as Bunyip manouevered his large form into the small chair.
"Now tell me why you should have the honour of playing for the West Melbourne Wombats?" he asked, employing the same line he'd used on all the other prospects.
Bunyip leant forward and answered immediately.
"Because I owe my life to wombats and I have a great debt which I must repay unto the proud beasts."
This Knacker hadn't expected.
"Do tell," he said.
"In the before time," began Bunyip, "I was lost in the bush and I was about to starve when a wombat came to me and it offered itself to me. 'Take me' it said, 'And devour me and I shall give you life'. So I picked it up, smashed it against a rock and ate it whole.
"Ever since then, I've known that I would play for the Wombats. It is like it is written in the stars, like a higher force is guiding me."
He looked wistfully out the window and even though it was broad daylight, just for an instant, a twinkle in the sky appeared.
Knacker took this all in. The kid seemed sincere. He gave him the once over again. Yep. Centre half back written all over him.
He extended his hand.
"Welcome to the Wombats son."
Bunyip smiled. This was good.
Wednesday 4 November 2009
Always Wanted To Play For The Tigers. Honest.
Caroline walked into The Era's offices resplendent in her new fake tan. Summer always presented her with a condundrum. She liked to look good with a tan, but she was a delicate creature and didn't like exposing her soft skin to the harsh sun. So a fake tan it was.
"How now brown cow" murmurmed Liam as she waltzed into the newsroom.
"What," she snapped?
"I just said, How's it going now?" Liam replied with a smirk on his face.
"I thee you O'Loughlin," Caro snarled, "I thee you and your thmarmy gob. You'll get taken down a peg or two thoon my boy, oh yeth you will!"
She strode past him and into her office where she snatched her keys off her desk and strode out the door, a barely disguised 'Moooooooooooo!' following her as she went.
Half an hour later, she was sitting in a non-descript kitchen in a house in Melbourne's eastern suburbs. Jarkyn Lockheed's house.
The young man in question came striding confidently into the room. Caroline assesed him - big, strong through the shoulders, bit of a cheeky chappie glint to the eye.
But he wouldn't be getting off too easy. Caroline had heard the stories about his attitude, especially to women, and the game's self appointed arbiter of what was offensive to women wasn't going to let this chance slide. But first though, she'd soften him up with some easy questions.
But the young bloke got in first.
"Wow, have you just come back from holiday?" he asked, "That's a great tan. Bali?"
Caroline came over all girlish but then recovered herself to begin the interview.
It was when she asked who he'd barracked for as a kid, that she almost slid off her seat.
"I thought you knew," he said, Caro marvelling at his soft genuine eyes, "I'm a Richmond supporter. Love the Tiges, always have. Best club in the land by a mile. My dream has always been to lead the Tiges to a flag. Just standing there in the middle of the MCG, hearing the crowd roar YELLOW AND BLACK as the play the song over and over, the premiership cup in my hands. Just be awesome, that's why you play isn't it? That's what drives me. Between you and me, this is whaddaycallit ... off the record ... if I do get "
Caroline hadn't been this wet since the first time she'd managed to get three fingers up Rebecca all those months ago. The rest of the interview went smoothly. She saw no reason to bring up those horrible rumours. He brought them up himself and she found his heartfelt denials more than believable.
And he was a believable young man. He had indeed barracked for Richmond. For a season in 95 when they had been flying and looked like winners. Then he'd been a die hard Rooboy before discovering how great Essendon were a few years later. Then he'd remembered those family holidays in Queensland and his love for Brisbane. And Sydney. And his love of Victoria's second city.
And as Caroline left to file a glowing story about the lovely young and misunderstood Jarkyn Lockheed, the bloke himself went back to his room to continue what he'd been doing prior to the interview - sending pictures of his dick with a smiley face drawn on it in black texta to random 13 year old girls on Bebo.
"Dumb bitch," he smirked to himself, thinking of how eagerly Caro had lapped up his bullshit.
He pressed send and an instant later, a girl in Wendouree was scarred for life.
"How now brown cow" murmurmed Liam as she waltzed into the newsroom.
"What," she snapped?
"I just said, How's it going now?" Liam replied with a smirk on his face.
"I thee you O'Loughlin," Caro snarled, "I thee you and your thmarmy gob. You'll get taken down a peg or two thoon my boy, oh yeth you will!"
She strode past him and into her office where she snatched her keys off her desk and strode out the door, a barely disguised 'Moooooooooooo!' following her as she went.
Half an hour later, she was sitting in a non-descript kitchen in a house in Melbourne's eastern suburbs. Jarkyn Lockheed's house.
The young man in question came striding confidently into the room. Caroline assesed him - big, strong through the shoulders, bit of a cheeky chappie glint to the eye.
But he wouldn't be getting off too easy. Caroline had heard the stories about his attitude, especially to women, and the game's self appointed arbiter of what was offensive to women wasn't going to let this chance slide. But first though, she'd soften him up with some easy questions.
But the young bloke got in first.
"Wow, have you just come back from holiday?" he asked, "That's a great tan. Bali?"
Caroline came over all girlish but then recovered herself to begin the interview.
It was when she asked who he'd barracked for as a kid, that she almost slid off her seat.
"I thought you knew," he said, Caro marvelling at his soft genuine eyes, "I'm a Richmond supporter. Love the Tiges, always have. Best club in the land by a mile. My dream has always been to lead the Tiges to a flag. Just standing there in the middle of the MCG, hearing the crowd roar YELLOW AND BLACK as the play the song over and over, the premiership cup in my hands. Just be awesome, that's why you play isn't it? That's what drives me. Between you and me, this is whaddaycallit ... off the record ... if I do get "
Caroline hadn't been this wet since the first time she'd managed to get three fingers up Rebecca all those months ago. The rest of the interview went smoothly. She saw no reason to bring up those horrible rumours. He brought them up himself and she found his heartfelt denials more than believable.
And he was a believable young man. He had indeed barracked for Richmond. For a season in 95 when they had been flying and looked like winners. Then he'd been a die hard Rooboy before discovering how great Essendon were a few years later. Then he'd remembered those family holidays in Queensland and his love for Brisbane. And Sydney. And his love of Victoria's second city.
And as Caroline left to file a glowing story about the lovely young and misunderstood Jarkyn Lockheed, the bloke himself went back to his room to continue what he'd been doing prior to the interview - sending pictures of his dick with a smiley face drawn on it in black texta to random 13 year old girls on Bebo.
"Dumb bitch," he smirked to himself, thinking of how eagerly Caro had lapped up his bullshit.
He pressed send and an instant later, a girl in Wendouree was scarred for life.
Friday 30 October 2009
A Madman Says
The phone in Alistair's office blared into life and he took the call on the third ring.
"Us thit Elistair Cluckson?" asked a female voice.
"Yes," replied Alistair, resisting the urge to add a 'Who the fuck did you think it would be dipshit?'
The woman continued.
"Wull, Muster Cluckson, my nime is Mrs Sweedasbro. Joyce Sweedasbro, from Waitangiwangiwongirongirua in Un Zed," she seemed with an authority that struck the little man as somewhat misplaced.
"And how can I help you Joyce Sweedasbro?" he asked.
"U'm runging to tull you not to try and take my Duncan to play your stupud Ozzie game. He's a Kiwi and hu'll play for the All Bleks, thunk you very much," she sniffed before hanging up what Alistair imagined (correctly) to be one of those old school big black phones with a rotary dial that was sat on a small table in a large hallway in a remote farmhouse ringed by giant snow-capped Lord of the Ringsesque mountains.
Fuck's sake, he thought. This fucken club. The push into New Zealand was verging on a straw too far. For Alistair, being a coach was about identifying blokes for his players to smash and calling journalists cunts. End of. Not all this shit.
Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse, bad news in the tall solid, yellow and brown jacketed form of Jeffrey Gibb Kennett came striding confidently into his office.
Clarko snuck a quick look at the former Premier's eyes. Yep, the dart and flash was there. The quick jerky movement. Mad bastard was having one of his turns.
"Alistair my good man!" Kennett boomed. "We must speak! I have been visted by the Goddess! The muse! Inspiration surges through me!"
Clarko indicated he should sit, but Kennett ignored this, pacing the room in an agitated fashion.
"This push into New Zealand, what do you make of it?" he demanded, stooping to jab an insistent finger into the coach's chest.
"Not much, dunno if they're Hawthorn people," Alistair replied.
He'd learned early on that if you used the phrase 'Hawthorn people' to the President, it usually set him off on an enormous rant he'd get so involved in, that one could usually sidle away and leave him railing against imaginary enemies and their conspiracies.
"QUITE RIGHT!" Kennet thundered, "And do you know what, what the worst bit is? There's a whole country out there PACKED TO THE RAFTERS with good Hawthorn people and we're ignoring them!"
Alistair judged the distance to the door from his desk. But Kennett was blocking the path.
"SCOTLAND!" he roared. "Magnificent country, magnificent people! Brave, hardy Highland souls, temper of nature but fierce of spirit! You cannae keep a good Scotsman down! Did you know I went to Scotch College?"
Alistair nodded. Yes, Mr Kennett had made this information publicly avilable on the odd occasion.
"This is my plan! Look at that big strapping lad Hamish McIntosh North have. Fine Caledonian blood! Imagine a team entirely composed of them, tossing opponents about like cabers, subsisting entirely on a diet of porridge and Englishman, wearing our new tartan uniform. Stirs the blood doesn't it boy, stirs the blood!"
Clarko, who hadn't the heart tell him Hamish McIntosh wasn't actually Scottish, saw a chink of light from the hallway and was about to make a run for it when Kennett grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and lifted the smaller man to his feet.
"Come on then! We'll go and see my new training jape for the lads! This will get them going!"
Sensing he was doomed to spend the day in the madman's grasp, or at least until the blokes with white coats and the tranquiliser gun arrived, he went limply.
"What are they doing then?" he asked weakly.
"TRAINING RAVENS TO FLY UNDERWATER!" screamed the serial failure flogbag.
"TRAINING RAVENS TO FLY UNDERWATER DEAR BOY!"
And with that Kennett applied a headlock to the mini-coach and frogmarched him out of the room down down to the swimming pool, where by the water's edge, sat a cage containing two worried looking ravens he'd personally captured the night before.
"Us thit Elistair Cluckson?" asked a female voice.
"Yes," replied Alistair, resisting the urge to add a 'Who the fuck did you think it would be dipshit?'
The woman continued.
"Wull, Muster Cluckson, my nime is Mrs Sweedasbro. Joyce Sweedasbro, from Waitangiwangiwongirongirua in Un Zed," she seemed with an authority that struck the little man as somewhat misplaced.
"And how can I help you Joyce Sweedasbro?" he asked.
"U'm runging to tull you not to try and take my Duncan to play your stupud Ozzie game. He's a Kiwi and hu'll play for the All Bleks, thunk you very much," she sniffed before hanging up what Alistair imagined (correctly) to be one of those old school big black phones with a rotary dial that was sat on a small table in a large hallway in a remote farmhouse ringed by giant snow-capped Lord of the Ringsesque mountains.
Fuck's sake, he thought. This fucken club. The push into New Zealand was verging on a straw too far. For Alistair, being a coach was about identifying blokes for his players to smash and calling journalists cunts. End of. Not all this shit.
Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse, bad news in the tall solid, yellow and brown jacketed form of Jeffrey Gibb Kennett came striding confidently into his office.
Clarko snuck a quick look at the former Premier's eyes. Yep, the dart and flash was there. The quick jerky movement. Mad bastard was having one of his turns.
"Alistair my good man!" Kennett boomed. "We must speak! I have been visted by the Goddess! The muse! Inspiration surges through me!"
Clarko indicated he should sit, but Kennett ignored this, pacing the room in an agitated fashion.
"This push into New Zealand, what do you make of it?" he demanded, stooping to jab an insistent finger into the coach's chest.
"Not much, dunno if they're Hawthorn people," Alistair replied.
He'd learned early on that if you used the phrase 'Hawthorn people' to the President, it usually set him off on an enormous rant he'd get so involved in, that one could usually sidle away and leave him railing against imaginary enemies and their conspiracies.
"QUITE RIGHT!" Kennet thundered, "And do you know what, what the worst bit is? There's a whole country out there PACKED TO THE RAFTERS with good Hawthorn people and we're ignoring them!"
Alistair judged the distance to the door from his desk. But Kennett was blocking the path.
"SCOTLAND!" he roared. "Magnificent country, magnificent people! Brave, hardy Highland souls, temper of nature but fierce of spirit! You cannae keep a good Scotsman down! Did you know I went to Scotch College?"
Alistair nodded. Yes, Mr Kennett had made this information publicly avilable on the odd occasion.
"This is my plan! Look at that big strapping lad Hamish McIntosh North have. Fine Caledonian blood! Imagine a team entirely composed of them, tossing opponents about like cabers, subsisting entirely on a diet of porridge and Englishman, wearing our new tartan uniform. Stirs the blood doesn't it boy, stirs the blood!"
Clarko, who hadn't the heart tell him Hamish McIntosh wasn't actually Scottish, saw a chink of light from the hallway and was about to make a run for it when Kennett grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and lifted the smaller man to his feet.
"Come on then! We'll go and see my new training jape for the lads! This will get them going!"
Sensing he was doomed to spend the day in the madman's grasp, or at least until the blokes with white coats and the tranquiliser gun arrived, he went limply.
"What are they doing then?" he asked weakly.
"TRAINING RAVENS TO FLY UNDERWATER!" screamed the serial failure flogbag.
"TRAINING RAVENS TO FLY UNDERWATER DEAR BOY!"
And with that Kennett applied a headlock to the mini-coach and frogmarched him out of the room down down to the swimming pool, where by the water's edge, sat a cage containing two worried looking ravens he'd personally captured the night before.
Thursday 29 October 2009
When The Big Men Fly
That Off Season Charity Album You've All Been Waiting For!
Disarm - Alan Didak
Computer Games - Jesse Smith
Cocaine - Ben Cousins and Wayne Carey
Up The Injunction - Lance Franklin and The Barristers
Mascara - Killing Heidi feat Kyle Reimers
One - The Western Bulldogs and St Kilda Football Clubs Charity Collective
Deutschland Uber Alles (Acoustic mix) - Nick Riewoldt
Born To Run - Cale Morton
The Four Finger Blues - Daniel Chick
Shippin' Up To Brisbane - Brendan Fevola
These Days (Turned Out Nothing Like I Had Planned) - Terry Wallace
My Way - Andrew Demetriou
Don't Piss Down My Back And Tell Me It's Raining - Denis Pagan
Unfinished Sympathy - Ang Christou
The Complete Specials Medley - Bruce McAvaney
Fairytale of New York - Luke Ball and Dean Bailey
Sweet Caroline - Sam Lane
Smack My Bitch Up - Nathan Lovett Murray
Brown Paper Bag (Roni Size original mix) - Chris Judd
Baby Hit Me One More Time - Barry Hall
We Are The Champions (Instr) - The Fremantle Football Club Choir
Disarm - Alan Didak
Computer Games - Jesse Smith
Cocaine - Ben Cousins and Wayne Carey
Up The Injunction - Lance Franklin and The Barristers
Mascara - Killing Heidi feat Kyle Reimers
One - The Western Bulldogs and St Kilda Football Clubs Charity Collective
Deutschland Uber Alles (Acoustic mix) - Nick Riewoldt
Born To Run - Cale Morton
The Four Finger Blues - Daniel Chick
Shippin' Up To Brisbane - Brendan Fevola
These Days (Turned Out Nothing Like I Had Planned) - Terry Wallace
My Way - Andrew Demetriou
Don't Piss Down My Back And Tell Me It's Raining - Denis Pagan
Unfinished Sympathy - Ang Christou
The Complete Specials Medley - Bruce McAvaney
Fairytale of New York - Luke Ball and Dean Bailey
Sweet Caroline - Sam Lane
Smack My Bitch Up - Nathan Lovett Murray
Brown Paper Bag (Roni Size original mix) - Chris Judd
Baby Hit Me One More Time - Barry Hall
We Are The Champions (Instr) - The Fremantle Football Club Choir
Sunday 25 October 2009
Wight There Ath It Happenth
The other Era footy journalists were gathered in the centre of the room talking about time trials at early pre-season training sessions.
"God, I miss footy," said Liam.
Caro sniffed haughtily as she passed them. This was the time of year she liked most - no footy. It meant the whole working week - all 12 hours of it - could be devoted to pursuing personal agendas, colluding with the league to better those personal agendas and continuing her ongoing hypnotherapy to erase the memory of that time Dad had come home with a skinful and kicked her cat to death in the living room after Keith Grieg had pipped Kevin Bartlett to the 1973 Brownlow medal.
She sat at her desk and read the long piece she'd just written about fallen North star Wayne Carey and his autobiography. Not that she'd actually read said autobiography. But why let that get in the way of a good story? She saved it into her North Melbourne/Kangaroos/Gold Coast folder, which contained 750 gigabytes of material.
The next biggest, the West Coast/Benny When He Was Bad And Not Totally Reformed And A Model Citizen Like He Is Now He's At The Tiges folder had just over 700.
For old times sake, she glanced through the North folder. Such fond memeories. There was the two years campaign she's led claiming that North would relocate to the Gold Coast. She pulled up one of her favourite pieces, the one where she claimed the smart money was on the league overseeing a relocation of North.
And who could forget that brilliant campaign about a video of a chicken doing silly things. She fondly recalled how she'd suggested repeatedly that Mazda would abandon North over the issue. That was the thing about being a senior football writer. People believed you because you had the inside track.
She lay back in her ergonomic chair and closed her eyes and allowed herself to repose. Within seconds, she was asleep.
Then again, she was having the dream. It was the last week in September of 1973, Caro was just 13 and lamenting the fact that dental technology was not yet advanced enough to deal with the hideous rows of shark like teeth protruding from her bottom jaw.
There she was, playing with Mr Tiddles, her beloved cat. She'd been allowed to stay up and watch the Brownlow medal telecast from the Southern Cross Ballroom. Everybody knew that Richmond hero Kevin Bartlett was a shoo-in to win. But then something horrible happened. A nobody from those poverty stricken losers at North Melbourne began racking up votes. Nobody had ever heard of him. And he played on the wing or something.
It was horrible, like a train coming towards her and she couldn't get out of the way. Finally, in the end, it came. Her beloved Kevin had been beaten. By a North Melbourne player.
She was still sobbing and clutching Mr Tiddles tight an hour later when her father came bursting into the room, red faced and belligerent.
"FAAAAARRRK!" he screamed, "There'll be no holiday to Dromana this summer. I bet all our money on KB!"
The noise and the kerfuffle had startled Mr Tiddles, who leapt out of Caros' arms.
"NOT FUCKEN YOU TOO!" her Dad roared at the small creature as it came towards him, "I'VE HAD A GUTFUL OF THIS SHIT!"
With that he took a quick step forward and launched his right leg forward, catching Mr Tiddles square betwdeen his four legs and sending the unfortunate feline hurtling through the air, paws splayed wildly, heading towards the back wall of trhe living room at what could only be a fatal velocity.
Caro's eyes opened before Mr Tiddles hit said wall with a sickening thud and slid down to the skirting board lifeless and leaving a thin trail of blood behind him. She always woke up just before that.
She blinked awake and opened her email. It was a from the layout boys asking what she intended doing for her column the next day.
North she thought suddenly, I'll do something on North. She didn't know why, she just had a feeling in her bones there was something wrong down at Arden Street that needed investigating. And even if there wasn't she'd find something.
"God, I miss footy," said Liam.
Caro sniffed haughtily as she passed them. This was the time of year she liked most - no footy. It meant the whole working week - all 12 hours of it - could be devoted to pursuing personal agendas, colluding with the league to better those personal agendas and continuing her ongoing hypnotherapy to erase the memory of that time Dad had come home with a skinful and kicked her cat to death in the living room after Keith Grieg had pipped Kevin Bartlett to the 1973 Brownlow medal.
She sat at her desk and read the long piece she'd just written about fallen North star Wayne Carey and his autobiography. Not that she'd actually read said autobiography. But why let that get in the way of a good story? She saved it into her North Melbourne/Kangaroos/Gold Coast folder, which contained 750 gigabytes of material.
The next biggest, the West Coast/Benny When He Was Bad And Not Totally Reformed And A Model Citizen Like He Is Now He's At The Tiges folder had just over 700.
For old times sake, she glanced through the North folder. Such fond memeories. There was the two years campaign she's led claiming that North would relocate to the Gold Coast. She pulled up one of her favourite pieces, the one where she claimed the smart money was on the league overseeing a relocation of North.
And who could forget that brilliant campaign about a video of a chicken doing silly things. She fondly recalled how she'd suggested repeatedly that Mazda would abandon North over the issue. That was the thing about being a senior football writer. People believed you because you had the inside track.
She lay back in her ergonomic chair and closed her eyes and allowed herself to repose. Within seconds, she was asleep.
Then again, she was having the dream. It was the last week in September of 1973, Caro was just 13 and lamenting the fact that dental technology was not yet advanced enough to deal with the hideous rows of shark like teeth protruding from her bottom jaw.
There she was, playing with Mr Tiddles, her beloved cat. She'd been allowed to stay up and watch the Brownlow medal telecast from the Southern Cross Ballroom. Everybody knew that Richmond hero Kevin Bartlett was a shoo-in to win. But then something horrible happened. A nobody from those poverty stricken losers at North Melbourne began racking up votes. Nobody had ever heard of him. And he played on the wing or something.
It was horrible, like a train coming towards her and she couldn't get out of the way. Finally, in the end, it came. Her beloved Kevin had been beaten. By a North Melbourne player.
She was still sobbing and clutching Mr Tiddles tight an hour later when her father came bursting into the room, red faced and belligerent.
"FAAAAARRRK!" he screamed, "There'll be no holiday to Dromana this summer. I bet all our money on KB!"
The noise and the kerfuffle had startled Mr Tiddles, who leapt out of Caros' arms.
"NOT FUCKEN YOU TOO!" her Dad roared at the small creature as it came towards him, "I'VE HAD A GUTFUL OF THIS SHIT!"
With that he took a quick step forward and launched his right leg forward, catching Mr Tiddles square betwdeen his four legs and sending the unfortunate feline hurtling through the air, paws splayed wildly, heading towards the back wall of trhe living room at what could only be a fatal velocity.
Caro's eyes opened before Mr Tiddles hit said wall with a sickening thud and slid down to the skirting board lifeless and leaving a thin trail of blood behind him. She always woke up just before that.
She blinked awake and opened her email. It was a from the layout boys asking what she intended doing for her column the next day.
North she thought suddenly, I'll do something on North. She didn't know why, she just had a feeling in her bones there was something wrong down at Arden Street that needed investigating. And even if there wasn't she'd find something.
Thursday 22 October 2009
Bang Goal.
"What about me?" asked Ringo from the back seat as Knacker pulled away from the Housing Commission carpark.
"What about you?" the coach replied in a tone that Ringo would have detected warning signs in if he weren't stoned and pretty fucking thick to begin with.
"Why don't I get a blindfold? I could tell Jimmy what's happening?"
"The kid's got a point," said Shaun.
Knacker shook his head at the state of the youth today.
"There should be something under the seat."
Shaun reached gingerly under the passenger seat and rummaged around. He eventually found, amongst the old McDonald's drink cups and empty lighters, something that felt soft and furry.
He fished it out and held it up. It was an old Wombats footy sock.
"Hey!" exclaimed Knacker. "I've been looking for that. That's the sock I was wearing in my last game. Put it on son."
He gestured to Ringo, who received the sock with some distaste but still tied it around his head.
"It smells," he said, "And my eyes are stinging."
The rest of the journey was conducted in silence. Soon, they reached their destination.
The MCG.
The two men led the boys through the carpark and to the gate Knacker had arranged for his mate who worked on the groundstaff to leave open.
"Ringo son," he said, "I'm giving you a packet of ciggies here. I want you to smoke them one after another until there's none left. If you can do that, I'll give you ten bucks. But I want to see the butts. No cheating. You can take the blindfold off after the third dart."
Ringo accepted the offer gladly.
The three turned and went inside the great hallowwed cauldron.
Shaun and Knacker had discussed what they'd do next beforehand. While the coach gently took the younger man down the race and onto the oval, guiding him with one hand and holding a large sports bag he'd taken from the car in the other, Jones went up to the glass fronted media suite.
He went up flights up stairs and down a seemingly endless corridor. He heard a sharp crack of thunder and the strip lighting flickered. Along the corridor hung paintings of the greatest ever to play the greatest game. When he got Knacker's portrait, he stopped and looked, saw the old bloke in his prime, fresh, new again.
There was another peal of thunder and he could have sworn he saw Knacker's portrait wink.
He hurried to his station, ensuring the small camera he'd brought was fully charged and operational.
On the field, Knacker and Jimmy had reached the centre square.
"Stop here," ordered Knacker. Jimmy stopped.
Knacker slipped his blindfold off and Jimmy blinked in the dark, registering where he was slowly, finally, amazed.
"Time for the test," said Knacker, grabbing a beaten up old Sherrin from the sports bag.
"What's the test, what do I have to?"
"Everything and nothing son. And do it now," Knacker said, booting the footy difrectly up in the air, rocketing above them as lightning split the sky in two.
For a second Jimmy was lost, alone, abandoned in the vastness of the black MCG night. Then he felt Knacker nudge him slightly, knew immediately what to do.
Never taking his eyes off the ball, he stuck his arse out ever so slightly and manouevered the bigger bloke away from its path. As it fell, he extended one padded arm loose at the shoulder. At the first touch of leather on palm, he brought his hand back into himself and pivoted, took those two quick steps away that he'd never forgotten how to take, broke into a longer stride.
He saw the white line of the centre square looming up, took and bounce and loped one more long stride before, just as the 50 rose, lunging his left leg back and going bang fucken goal through the big sticks at the Jolimont end.
The ball hung in a magical arc, stopped for a moment by the biggest crack of thunder yet. In the media box, Shaun Jones stood open mouthed in awe.
As the ball rattled around the empty seats, Jimmy turned to Knacker and walked back.
"Did I pass the test," he asked.
Knacker took a moment himself. Imagined standing just here in a few years time on a little stage, holding up the premiership cup with the young bloke standing in front of him.
"Yes, Jimmy," he said, "Yes you fucken did."
"What about you?" the coach replied in a tone that Ringo would have detected warning signs in if he weren't stoned and pretty fucking thick to begin with.
"Why don't I get a blindfold? I could tell Jimmy what's happening?"
"The kid's got a point," said Shaun.
Knacker shook his head at the state of the youth today.
"There should be something under the seat."
Shaun reached gingerly under the passenger seat and rummaged around. He eventually found, amongst the old McDonald's drink cups and empty lighters, something that felt soft and furry.
He fished it out and held it up. It was an old Wombats footy sock.
"Hey!" exclaimed Knacker. "I've been looking for that. That's the sock I was wearing in my last game. Put it on son."
He gestured to Ringo, who received the sock with some distaste but still tied it around his head.
"It smells," he said, "And my eyes are stinging."
The rest of the journey was conducted in silence. Soon, they reached their destination.
The MCG.
The two men led the boys through the carpark and to the gate Knacker had arranged for his mate who worked on the groundstaff to leave open.
"Ringo son," he said, "I'm giving you a packet of ciggies here. I want you to smoke them one after another until there's none left. If you can do that, I'll give you ten bucks. But I want to see the butts. No cheating. You can take the blindfold off after the third dart."
Ringo accepted the offer gladly.
The three turned and went inside the great hallowwed cauldron.
Shaun and Knacker had discussed what they'd do next beforehand. While the coach gently took the younger man down the race and onto the oval, guiding him with one hand and holding a large sports bag he'd taken from the car in the other, Jones went up to the glass fronted media suite.
He went up flights up stairs and down a seemingly endless corridor. He heard a sharp crack of thunder and the strip lighting flickered. Along the corridor hung paintings of the greatest ever to play the greatest game. When he got Knacker's portrait, he stopped and looked, saw the old bloke in his prime, fresh, new again.
There was another peal of thunder and he could have sworn he saw Knacker's portrait wink.
He hurried to his station, ensuring the small camera he'd brought was fully charged and operational.
On the field, Knacker and Jimmy had reached the centre square.
"Stop here," ordered Knacker. Jimmy stopped.
Knacker slipped his blindfold off and Jimmy blinked in the dark, registering where he was slowly, finally, amazed.
"Time for the test," said Knacker, grabbing a beaten up old Sherrin from the sports bag.
"What's the test, what do I have to?"
"Everything and nothing son. And do it now," Knacker said, booting the footy difrectly up in the air, rocketing above them as lightning split the sky in two.
For a second Jimmy was lost, alone, abandoned in the vastness of the black MCG night. Then he felt Knacker nudge him slightly, knew immediately what to do.
Never taking his eyes off the ball, he stuck his arse out ever so slightly and manouevered the bigger bloke away from its path. As it fell, he extended one padded arm loose at the shoulder. At the first touch of leather on palm, he brought his hand back into himself and pivoted, took those two quick steps away that he'd never forgotten how to take, broke into a longer stride.
He saw the white line of the centre square looming up, took and bounce and loped one more long stride before, just as the 50 rose, lunging his left leg back and going bang fucken goal through the big sticks at the Jolimont end.
The ball hung in a magical arc, stopped for a moment by the biggest crack of thunder yet. In the media box, Shaun Jones stood open mouthed in awe.
As the ball rattled around the empty seats, Jimmy turned to Knacker and walked back.
"Did I pass the test," he asked.
Knacker took a moment himself. Imagined standing just here in a few years time on a little stage, holding up the premiership cup with the young bloke standing in front of him.
"Yes, Jimmy," he said, "Yes you fucken did."
Tuesday 20 October 2009
I Thought You Were A Cushion
Knacker and Shaun edged carefully through the door.
"Pleased to meet you Mr Ryan," said Jimmy in his best tone.
"You too son, glad to make your acquaintance," the gruff coach replied.
Shaun shook Jimmy's hand limply and muttered his hellos. He looked around the Commission flat. There was a tiny black and white telly perched on a milk crate in the corner of the living room. And a coffee table that looked it had come from out the back of the St Vinnies shop. Jesus.
"Come through guys, come through to my room, meet my best mate Ringo!" Jimmy urged.
The two men did as they were instructed.
Jimmy closed the door behind them quickly.
"Sorry about that but I needed to get you in here quickly before Mum tried to hit you up for money," he said.
Knacker looked around for somewhere to sit that wasn't the young bloke's bed. Never sit on another man's bed. It was a rule of his. You never knew what he'd been up to in it. Finally, he saw a beaten up old armchair in the corner and plumped for that.
He sat down on Ringo, who immediately let out a sharp yelp.
"Jesus, sorry son, didn't see you there. I thought you were a cushion!" Knacker exclaimed.
Ringo drew himself up to his full four foot four and reached for the enormous dragon shaped bong that was sitting on the windowsill and smoked the pot contained within with a flourish.
As he breathed the smoke out with force he said:
"No Knacker, I'm not a fucken cushion. I'm Ringo."
Shaun had taken a seat on the bed - obviously not following Ryan's dictum - on the bed next to Jimmy.
"Let's cut to the chase. Jimmy, you're a gun footballer. I know it, Knacker knows it, maybe even Ringo here knows it. We want you to get fit, we'll draft you, play for the Wombats next year."
There. He'd said it.
"What?" said Jimmy.
Knacker took up the cudgel, waving away the remnants of Ringo's bong.
"You. Play for the Wombats. For me. Inside outside mid. Your left foot. Hitting blokes tits high laces out."
Jimmy didn't look convinced. He shook his head, reached for the bong. Knacker intercepted and grabbed his wrist.
"Look son, I've got young fellas beating down my door for the sniff of a chance to try out for a hope of being drafted. In the big league. Now I'm giving you that chance here and now. Boys out there would bite off their left nut for this," he said with all the grandeur he could muster.
"How?"
Ringo.
"What?" said Knacker.
"How would they bite their nuts off?"
"They’re prime athletes son, they’re flexible. Now stop interrupting. Jimmy, yes or no. Do you want to do it. This is one night only offer."
Knacker let it hang.
Jimmy ummed and ahhed.
"Um, ah."
To the surprise of everyone in the room, it was Ringo who spoke.
"You should Jim! You should bloody listen to Mr. Ryan. Remember that time when your Mum’s boyfriend gave us that thousand bucks to piss off for the weekend and we went to Adelaide and watched the Wombats play? Remember that? And remember how we kicked that goal in the last minute and we beat the dirty bastards by a point and they all went mental and that bloke threw a golf ball at me? You could do that Jimmo, you could."
Jimmy considered then slowly said yes, like he'd always known he would.
"Good," said Shaun, "We'll be back with the forms tomorrow."
"Not so fast," said Knacker, "He has to pass a test first."
"What test?" asked Jimmy.
"Don't worry son, you'll pass it, I know you will. Now put this blindfold on."
Jimmy looked understandably hesitant.
"Come on son, its not like me and Shaun are gunna drive you down the docks and rape you."
Jimmy shot a glance at Shaun.
"He's right. We're not going to rape you."
It wasn't how he would have done it, but then, he'd said he'd leave the motivational stuff to Knacker.
"OK then."
Jimmy stood up and Knacker quickly wound an official Wombats tie around his eyes.
"Can I come too," squeaked Ringo, obviously only now feeling the full effect of the giant bong he'd just smoked.
Knacker looked at Shaun. Shaun looked at Jimmy. Jimmy looked at the back of the blindfold.
"If you must then," sighed Knacker.
And the four men, Wombats one and all, headed out the door and away through the living room, past Jimmy's mother who was licking a bit of tin foil, and out into the unutterable and mysterious Melbourne night.
"Pleased to meet you Mr Ryan," said Jimmy in his best tone.
"You too son, glad to make your acquaintance," the gruff coach replied.
Shaun shook Jimmy's hand limply and muttered his hellos. He looked around the Commission flat. There was a tiny black and white telly perched on a milk crate in the corner of the living room. And a coffee table that looked it had come from out the back of the St Vinnies shop. Jesus.
"Come through guys, come through to my room, meet my best mate Ringo!" Jimmy urged.
The two men did as they were instructed.
Jimmy closed the door behind them quickly.
"Sorry about that but I needed to get you in here quickly before Mum tried to hit you up for money," he said.
Knacker looked around for somewhere to sit that wasn't the young bloke's bed. Never sit on another man's bed. It was a rule of his. You never knew what he'd been up to in it. Finally, he saw a beaten up old armchair in the corner and plumped for that.
He sat down on Ringo, who immediately let out a sharp yelp.
"Jesus, sorry son, didn't see you there. I thought you were a cushion!" Knacker exclaimed.
Ringo drew himself up to his full four foot four and reached for the enormous dragon shaped bong that was sitting on the windowsill and smoked the pot contained within with a flourish.
As he breathed the smoke out with force he said:
"No Knacker, I'm not a fucken cushion. I'm Ringo."
Shaun had taken a seat on the bed - obviously not following Ryan's dictum - on the bed next to Jimmy.
"Let's cut to the chase. Jimmy, you're a gun footballer. I know it, Knacker knows it, maybe even Ringo here knows it. We want you to get fit, we'll draft you, play for the Wombats next year."
There. He'd said it.
"What?" said Jimmy.
Knacker took up the cudgel, waving away the remnants of Ringo's bong.
"You. Play for the Wombats. For me. Inside outside mid. Your left foot. Hitting blokes tits high laces out."
Jimmy didn't look convinced. He shook his head, reached for the bong. Knacker intercepted and grabbed his wrist.
"Look son, I've got young fellas beating down my door for the sniff of a chance to try out for a hope of being drafted. In the big league. Now I'm giving you that chance here and now. Boys out there would bite off their left nut for this," he said with all the grandeur he could muster.
"How?"
Ringo.
"What?" said Knacker.
"How would they bite their nuts off?"
"They’re prime athletes son, they’re flexible. Now stop interrupting. Jimmy, yes or no. Do you want to do it. This is one night only offer."
Knacker let it hang.
Jimmy ummed and ahhed.
"Um, ah."
To the surprise of everyone in the room, it was Ringo who spoke.
"You should Jim! You should bloody listen to Mr. Ryan. Remember that time when your Mum’s boyfriend gave us that thousand bucks to piss off for the weekend and we went to Adelaide and watched the Wombats play? Remember that? And remember how we kicked that goal in the last minute and we beat the dirty bastards by a point and they all went mental and that bloke threw a golf ball at me? You could do that Jimmo, you could."
Jimmy considered then slowly said yes, like he'd always known he would.
"Good," said Shaun, "We'll be back with the forms tomorrow."
"Not so fast," said Knacker, "He has to pass a test first."
"What test?" asked Jimmy.
"Don't worry son, you'll pass it, I know you will. Now put this blindfold on."
Jimmy looked understandably hesitant.
"Come on son, its not like me and Shaun are gunna drive you down the docks and rape you."
Jimmy shot a glance at Shaun.
"He's right. We're not going to rape you."
It wasn't how he would have done it, but then, he'd said he'd leave the motivational stuff to Knacker.
"OK then."
Jimmy stood up and Knacker quickly wound an official Wombats tie around his eyes.
"Can I come too," squeaked Ringo, obviously only now feeling the full effect of the giant bong he'd just smoked.
Knacker looked at Shaun. Shaun looked at Jimmy. Jimmy looked at the back of the blindfold.
"If you must then," sighed Knacker.
And the four men, Wombats one and all, headed out the door and away through the living room, past Jimmy's mother who was licking a bit of tin foil, and out into the unutterable and mysterious Melbourne night.
Sunday 18 October 2009
Convincing
Shaun Jones wasn't used to this sort of thing. He was a middle class boy who'd played a middle class sport in tennis at the highest level. He'd grown up in the kind of suburb where you played kick to kick with your mates in the local park until the streetlights came on and nothing bad ever happened. He didn't often find himself stepping over broken glass and syringe packets at the base of the stairs of an inner western Melbourne Housing Commission block.
Luckily, his companion was built of slightly sturdier stuff. Knacker Ryan had been famed in the 70s for his toughness. A rugged half back flanker for the notorious 'Wild Wombats' sides of the time, the story went he'd once gone to an opponent's house the night before a game carrying a snake and left the unfortunate bloke in no doubt as to what he could expect the next morning merely by standing on the front porch, the harmess carpet python - not that his opponent was to know that - coiled menacingly about him.
Gotta keep going, Jones told himself. The plan was starting to come together. He'd convinced old Ryan to step up and coach the Wombats if he could keep them in Melbourne. That alone, he knew, would bring thousands of disaffected supporters back to the fold. But now they needed some talent onfield to back it up. Common sense said that drafting Jarkyn Lockheed would do that, but he had a nagging doubt about the kid. To be frank, he was an arsehole, and most certainly not a Wombats man.
"Come on then," growled Ryan, "Let's get this over and done with."
As the lift in the Commission block was fucked - naturally - they had to climb the stairs. And the bloke they were going to see, Jimmy Goodfellow, lived on the 19th floor of the 20 storey monstrosity. Naturally.
On the fourth landing lay a perfectly formed coil of human faeces.
"At least someone in here's keeping regular," observed Knacker as he studied the turd with what seemed like inappropriate enthusiasm to Jones. "Hope its our boy. A good diet is essential for a healthy sportsman."
By the time they'd gotten to the 19th floor, both men were striving for breath.
"Which one is it?" Ryan asked, his chest rising and falling heavily.
"Guess," replied Jones.
Knacker looked down the narrow concrete walkway. On the door of flat 3 lay the remains of a faded "Wombat Wizardry 89!" sticker that somebody had tried to scratch off.
They went forward and knocked on the door.
The metal mail slot opened quickly.
"Is Jimmy Goodfellow there?" Jones asked, using his best voice.
"Who's asking?" retorted a female voice.
"It's Shaun Jones here," he answered.
"Show us your warrant or you can piss off."
"What?"
"I said fucken show us your fucken warrant or fuck the fuck off!" the woman shouted.
From the flat, Jones heard another voice, male.
"Mum, who is it?"
"It's the bloody cops and if they don't piss off quick sticks, I'm calling the bloody civil liberties on them!" came the answer.
"Mrs Goodfellow, I'm not a policeman, I'm Knacker Ryan!"
"What?" she shouted back through the letterbox.
"I said I'm Knacker Ryan!"
"It's not the jacks, Jimmy, it's some bloody bounty hunters! What have you and bloody Ringo been up to now?"
"Muuuuuum, its Knacker Ryan, he's come to see me about footy. Let him in"
And thus slowly, the door opened to reveal a woman in a pink dressing gown with a Holiday 50 dangling from her mouth, and slightly behind her, the bloke who would become the best player the West Melbourne Wombats had ever seen.
Luckily, his companion was built of slightly sturdier stuff. Knacker Ryan had been famed in the 70s for his toughness. A rugged half back flanker for the notorious 'Wild Wombats' sides of the time, the story went he'd once gone to an opponent's house the night before a game carrying a snake and left the unfortunate bloke in no doubt as to what he could expect the next morning merely by standing on the front porch, the harmess carpet python - not that his opponent was to know that - coiled menacingly about him.
Gotta keep going, Jones told himself. The plan was starting to come together. He'd convinced old Ryan to step up and coach the Wombats if he could keep them in Melbourne. That alone, he knew, would bring thousands of disaffected supporters back to the fold. But now they needed some talent onfield to back it up. Common sense said that drafting Jarkyn Lockheed would do that, but he had a nagging doubt about the kid. To be frank, he was an arsehole, and most certainly not a Wombats man.
"Come on then," growled Ryan, "Let's get this over and done with."
As the lift in the Commission block was fucked - naturally - they had to climb the stairs. And the bloke they were going to see, Jimmy Goodfellow, lived on the 19th floor of the 20 storey monstrosity. Naturally.
On the fourth landing lay a perfectly formed coil of human faeces.
"At least someone in here's keeping regular," observed Knacker as he studied the turd with what seemed like inappropriate enthusiasm to Jones. "Hope its our boy. A good diet is essential for a healthy sportsman."
By the time they'd gotten to the 19th floor, both men were striving for breath.
"Which one is it?" Ryan asked, his chest rising and falling heavily.
"Guess," replied Jones.
Knacker looked down the narrow concrete walkway. On the door of flat 3 lay the remains of a faded "Wombat Wizardry 89!" sticker that somebody had tried to scratch off.
They went forward and knocked on the door.
The metal mail slot opened quickly.
"Is Jimmy Goodfellow there?" Jones asked, using his best voice.
"Who's asking?" retorted a female voice.
"It's Shaun Jones here," he answered.
"Show us your warrant or you can piss off."
"What?"
"I said fucken show us your fucken warrant or fuck the fuck off!" the woman shouted.
From the flat, Jones heard another voice, male.
"Mum, who is it?"
"It's the bloody cops and if they don't piss off quick sticks, I'm calling the bloody civil liberties on them!" came the answer.
"Mrs Goodfellow, I'm not a policeman, I'm Knacker Ryan!"
"What?" she shouted back through the letterbox.
"I said I'm Knacker Ryan!"
"It's not the jacks, Jimmy, it's some bloody bounty hunters! What have you and bloody Ringo been up to now?"
"Muuuuuum, its Knacker Ryan, he's come to see me about footy. Let him in"
And thus slowly, the door opened to reveal a woman in a pink dressing gown with a Holiday 50 dangling from her mouth, and slightly behind her, the bloke who would become the best player the West Melbourne Wombats had ever seen.
Those Draft Tips
Liam O'Loughlin's names to look out for in the draft, including the projected top three and a smokey.
JARKYN LOCKHEED
Tall, pacy and with sticky hands, Lockheed is the archetypal modern day key position forward. Not lacking for confidence in his own ability, the only obstacle that will prevent him going in the first two or three is the unsavoury footage that has emerged on YouTube of events in the carpark during the formal at one of Melbourne's leading girl's private schools.
An Eastern Suburbs boy by birth, and arrogant arsehole by nature, he'd make an ideal fit for Hawthorn, but is unlikely to slip that far.
MARK "BUNYIP" SMITH
The proverbial boy from the bush, the kid they call "Bunyip" is certain to go top five. Having busrt onto the juniour scene late in in the year, he has made an immediate impact as a key defensive sort who can swing forward and snag a few goals. Speaking of snags, Smith holds the Australian record for eating sausages, consuming 127 in less than two minutes at the Murray Bridge Show earlier this year.
With a booming left foot eerily reminscent of the sadly-departed manbeast Stewart Dew, Bunyip will be a quality pick up for any side. Only question is over his ability to settle in the big smoke. If the Wombats can do that, don't be surprised if they take him ahead of Lockheed.
JAVIER "EL BOLO" BARRAGUERRA
Set to become the games first Venezuelan player. The stocky uncompromising midfield re-distributor comes with the personal seal of approval from Hugo Chaves himself. Likes: sharing the ball around, making provocative Aker-esque public statements. Dislikes: Gringo yanqui imperialism. Coke in his rum.
JIMMY GOODFELLOW
The ultimate smokey. Was the highest rated juniour in Victoria until the untimely death of his father, which sent Goodfellow into despair, and some say off the rails in a big way. However a little bird suggests that Goodfellow has been back in training in attempt to regain fitness and that local side the West Melbourne Wombats, who he supported as a kid, might just be willing to take a punt on him. If it works out, it'll be the biggest draft steal since James Hird went in the hundreds.
JARKYN LOCKHEED
Tall, pacy and with sticky hands, Lockheed is the archetypal modern day key position forward. Not lacking for confidence in his own ability, the only obstacle that will prevent him going in the first two or three is the unsavoury footage that has emerged on YouTube of events in the carpark during the formal at one of Melbourne's leading girl's private schools.
An Eastern Suburbs boy by birth, and arrogant arsehole by nature, he'd make an ideal fit for Hawthorn, but is unlikely to slip that far.
MARK "BUNYIP" SMITH
The proverbial boy from the bush, the kid they call "Bunyip" is certain to go top five. Having busrt onto the juniour scene late in in the year, he has made an immediate impact as a key defensive sort who can swing forward and snag a few goals. Speaking of snags, Smith holds the Australian record for eating sausages, consuming 127 in less than two minutes at the Murray Bridge Show earlier this year.
With a booming left foot eerily reminscent of the sadly-departed manbeast Stewart Dew, Bunyip will be a quality pick up for any side. Only question is over his ability to settle in the big smoke. If the Wombats can do that, don't be surprised if they take him ahead of Lockheed.
JAVIER "EL BOLO" BARRAGUERRA
Set to become the games first Venezuelan player. The stocky uncompromising midfield re-distributor comes with the personal seal of approval from Hugo Chaves himself. Likes: sharing the ball around, making provocative Aker-esque public statements. Dislikes: Gringo yanqui imperialism. Coke in his rum.
JIMMY GOODFELLOW
The ultimate smokey. Was the highest rated juniour in Victoria until the untimely death of his father, which sent Goodfellow into despair, and some say off the rails in a big way. However a little bird suggests that Goodfellow has been back in training in attempt to regain fitness and that local side the West Melbourne Wombats, who he supported as a kid, might just be willing to take a punt on him. If it works out, it'll be the biggest draft steal since James Hird went in the hundreds.
Tuesday 13 October 2009
Goodbye, Brendan's Tits
"That's me going now Chris," Rebecca shouted as she quickly closed the front door behind her. She heard him grunt something approaching a farewell from upstairs.
He'd be there, at the computer, still trying to sort out flights and arrange an audience with the Dalai Lama.
"I can't see why you can't just fly straight into Dharamsala," he'd been whinging for the last few dyas, "QANTAS are so shit."
The argument had been raging for a while now. Where to go on holiday. Rebecca wanted to go to Paris. Hit the shops, drink nice wine, buy clothes, have a fuck up against the window in a posh hotel with a view of the Eiffel Tower. What was the point of being young and effluent if you couldn't do stuff like that?
But Chris was determined to get an audience with the Dalai Lama.
"This season has really drained me babes. I feel like my sprogs are turning into potential serial killers, there's so much bad karma backing up in my balls. I need absolution from His Holiness," he'd said.
Rebecca had resisted the urge to point out to the fuckwit that he was mixing up Tibetan Buddhism and Catholicism. Instead, she'd gone to see Brendan instead.
She'd been amused at his Brownlow night antics until she'd found out about the alleged monstering of the female journo in the toilets. Given her own views about the reprehensible Sam and her vile hypocrisy as regards matters footy and sexual, she couldn't in any honesty maintain Brendan as a friend. But she'd do it with a bit of class, see him off to Brisbane and let him know that he'd stuffed up, but if he worked hard, he could still redeem himself.
"They're making me get rid of these," the big bloke said glumly at the laneway coffee shop where they met, indicating his spectacular Scarlett Johanssonesque fake tits. Not that Scarlett's are fake.
"Browny texted and said if I turn up with them still on, he's gunna smash me with a fire hydrant."
"When do they go," Rebecca asked.
"Tonight," replied Fev, cupping the great globes wistfully.
"It's probably for the best," Rebecca said. "I hope you can work it out Brendan. I did my best to help you, but by Christ you turn into a cockmuncher when you're on the piss."
She got up and left. She knew it was the last time she would see Brendan, and his show-stopping funbags. She didn't look back.
Less than a kilometre away, a more savage confrontation was taking place.
It was Sam's first day back at work, and she had some scores to settle.
"Let'th get you thtarted back on thomething nithe and eathy," Caro had cajoled, but Sam was having none of it.
She'd rounded on Liam as soon as she entered the newsroom.
"YOU!" she'd screeched, "TRAITOR! QUISLING! BENEDICT ARNOLD!"
"What," he'd stumbled, looking up from the draft review he'd been working on
Her eyes rolled back in her head like that chick from Lost and she'd begun speaking in a low tone, as if guided by an unseen hand.
"Hovering 'twixt the void that divides the realm of the living and the dead," she murmured, "YOU! I saw you betray us all! Speak to the Wombatman you did. Tell him everything you did! YOU! YOU!"
She fell to the carpet frothing at the mouth and fitting like an epileptic at a rave.
"Ith thith twue?" snapped Caro
A silence fell.
Liam considered his answer.
He'd be there, at the computer, still trying to sort out flights and arrange an audience with the Dalai Lama.
"I can't see why you can't just fly straight into Dharamsala," he'd been whinging for the last few dyas, "QANTAS are so shit."
The argument had been raging for a while now. Where to go on holiday. Rebecca wanted to go to Paris. Hit the shops, drink nice wine, buy clothes, have a fuck up against the window in a posh hotel with a view of the Eiffel Tower. What was the point of being young and effluent if you couldn't do stuff like that?
But Chris was determined to get an audience with the Dalai Lama.
"This season has really drained me babes. I feel like my sprogs are turning into potential serial killers, there's so much bad karma backing up in my balls. I need absolution from His Holiness," he'd said.
Rebecca had resisted the urge to point out to the fuckwit that he was mixing up Tibetan Buddhism and Catholicism. Instead, she'd gone to see Brendan instead.
She'd been amused at his Brownlow night antics until she'd found out about the alleged monstering of the female journo in the toilets. Given her own views about the reprehensible Sam and her vile hypocrisy as regards matters footy and sexual, she couldn't in any honesty maintain Brendan as a friend. But she'd do it with a bit of class, see him off to Brisbane and let him know that he'd stuffed up, but if he worked hard, he could still redeem himself.
"They're making me get rid of these," the big bloke said glumly at the laneway coffee shop where they met, indicating his spectacular Scarlett Johanssonesque fake tits. Not that Scarlett's are fake.
"Browny texted and said if I turn up with them still on, he's gunna smash me with a fire hydrant."
"When do they go," Rebecca asked.
"Tonight," replied Fev, cupping the great globes wistfully.
"It's probably for the best," Rebecca said. "I hope you can work it out Brendan. I did my best to help you, but by Christ you turn into a cockmuncher when you're on the piss."
She got up and left. She knew it was the last time she would see Brendan, and his show-stopping funbags. She didn't look back.
Less than a kilometre away, a more savage confrontation was taking place.
It was Sam's first day back at work, and she had some scores to settle.
"Let'th get you thtarted back on thomething nithe and eathy," Caro had cajoled, but Sam was having none of it.
She'd rounded on Liam as soon as she entered the newsroom.
"YOU!" she'd screeched, "TRAITOR! QUISLING! BENEDICT ARNOLD!"
"What," he'd stumbled, looking up from the draft review he'd been working on
Her eyes rolled back in her head like that chick from Lost and she'd begun speaking in a low tone, as if guided by an unseen hand.
"Hovering 'twixt the void that divides the realm of the living and the dead," she murmured, "YOU! I saw you betray us all! Speak to the Wombatman you did. Tell him everything you did! YOU! YOU!"
She fell to the carpet frothing at the mouth and fitting like an epileptic at a rave.
"Ith thith twue?" snapped Caro
A silence fell.
Liam considered his answer.
Friday 9 October 2009
Sam's Funeral
The priest took a huge swig from the hip flask he kept with him at all times and stumbled to the pulpit.
Caroline crossed her fingers and hoped it wouldn't be too bad. She'd only been able to afford the cheapest celebrant - a Father Jack Hackett - after Sam's doddering old fuckwit of a Dad had insisted he had no money.
"Put it all into War Bonds. War Bonds! Never for get the Lusitania! Defend Tasmania!" he'd ranted
Caroline looked around the empty room. It was just her and Grandpa Simpson. Outside, a seagul on the next rooftop sqwuaked out into the empty air.
The celebrant steadied himself at the pulpit with another swig of Auld Begrudgers Six Month Old.
"Well fuck me sideways and call me Peter fucken Filandia, there's no cunt here is there?"
Caroline closed her eyes. It was going to be worse than she'd feared.
"I've been in the hatching, matching and dispatching game for forty fucken years and I tell you what, you can tell what kind of person the trick was by how many cunts turn up for the funeral. And fuck me, I've done some bad ones but this is the worst, by the length of the Flemington fucken straight.
"I done Ronald Ryan and he got shitloads more than this. Even that paedo cunt who killed his Mum with the chainsaw cracked double figures," he slurred.
Caro wanted to say something but just couldn't. She glanced over at Sam's Dad, who had fallen asleep, a long tendril of drool hanging between his gaping mouth and reaching down to connect with his ill fitting brown polyster suit.
"They reckon that if you've got nothing good to say about somebody, you shouldn't say anything at all, but youse have paid for half an hour and since the charges I can't do my blue material any more, so stuff it.
"Sam then. I had a bit of a flick through some of her stuff this morning while enjoying the morning constitutional and fuck me, what a load of frogshit she came out with. I'm a Catholic priest with a fondness for fanny and a dislike of pretty much everyone in the world who isn't a miserable ageing white alcoholic Richmond supporter like me, so I'm pretty well versed in sickening, stomach churning hypocrisy but I even I can't hold a candle to this one."
Caro looked again at Sam's Dad. He hadn't moved. She hoped to Christ he wasn't dead too. She couldn't handle two funerals like this.
"As I said, I'm a Richmond supporter and the shit that bitch wrote about Kevin bloody Sheedy trying to root a dingo was plain disgraceful. I am going to say nine novenas tonight petitioning a vengeful Lord to condemn her unto eternal damnation on the strength of that alone.
"But it gets worse. Despite all that shit, where the fucking cretin pretended to be outraged on behalf of all womanhood on the basis of something that never even happened anyway - and really, I've heard more compelling feminist arguments from strip club owners - then lo and behold, what do I see on the goggle box the other night, but this dumb moll flirting with that boofhead Fevola at the Brownlow and egging him on and generally contributing to his sense of being able to do whatever he wants.
"Then what happens a few hours later? The big dickhead goes and actually sexually intimidates a woman in a toilet. And have we heard anything from Sam, the loyal Carlton supporter, or her fuhrer" - and here he fixed Caro with a gimlet eye - "about this? Do we fuck."
The thirsty cleric paused to take breath and enjoy a generous swig from his flask.
"So, as many good judges predicted at the time, by pumping up that Dingogate non-story into an entirely unprofessional and vindictive confection of smears and half-truths, the imbecelic fraud has left herself and her shitful excuse for a paper entirely unable to comment on a genuinely horrifying alleged sexual crime by a footballer with anything approaching credibility.
"What qualifications has she got anyway? Looks to me like she only got her job because this dribbling old fuckwit in the front row once, amazingly, managed to get lucky with a sheila."
Again the dipsomaniac prelate paused but this time, thankfully for Caro's sake, he lost his balance as he drained the final drops of his flask and and collapsed backwards, striking his head savagely on the marble step behind him.
An hour later, having hired some removalists to carry Sam's coffin out of the church in the absence of anyone - anyone at all - willing to act as a pallbearer, Caro and the hearse arrived at the dusty, windswept cemetary where the witch was to be interred forever more.
Caro's heart leapt as she noticed a large crowd had gathered around Sam's plot. At she got closer, she saw something was amiss. The group was moving strangely, jerkily. She drew closer and saw a familiar face leading the group, which numbered at least 50 or more.
"Adam, what'th going on here?" she asked.
The man turned around, looking slightly sheepish.
"Oh, hi, Caro, we were practising," he replied.
"Pwactithing fo what?" she demanded.
"The disco tonight," he stammered, "Yeah, just practicing our dancing for the disco tonight."
Caro didn't need to hear it. It was obvious they had all gathered to dance on Sam's grave. At the car park, vehicles were arrving every second and disgorging occupants with the same intention.
But they were to be denied that pleasure. As the workman unloaded Sam's coffin, the temperature dropped suddenly and dark clouds gathered on the horizon. A peal of thunder shook the very heavens themselves and an enormous crow swooped to land on Sam's putative headstone, emitting a great caw that came from the bowels of Hell itself.
"Look," said Adam, pointing with genuine fear at Sam's coffin which had begun to shake ominously. "LOOK!" he cried.
Slowly but undeniably, the lid of the coffin began to rattle and shake until it lifted and a thin scaly claw emerged. The coffin lid hit the mud softly.
Then, with the assembled crowd of grave-dancers quickly heading back and away from the hideous spectacle, Sam rose from the coffin, the marks on her face and body where the Dewosaurus had torn at her healing before their very eyes.
"A dark magic is at work here," howled Daniel Pratt, "Let us flee for the sanctuary of the Lord's house. Or the pub, whichever's closer!"
As the crowd fled in terror, only one figure remained. Caro.
"Oh Thammy!" she squealed, "Thammy you're back!"
Thammy was indeed back. And she wasn't very fucking happy at all.
Caroline crossed her fingers and hoped it wouldn't be too bad. She'd only been able to afford the cheapest celebrant - a Father Jack Hackett - after Sam's doddering old fuckwit of a Dad had insisted he had no money.
"Put it all into War Bonds. War Bonds! Never for get the Lusitania! Defend Tasmania!" he'd ranted
Caroline looked around the empty room. It was just her and Grandpa Simpson. Outside, a seagul on the next rooftop sqwuaked out into the empty air.
The celebrant steadied himself at the pulpit with another swig of Auld Begrudgers Six Month Old.
"Well fuck me sideways and call me Peter fucken Filandia, there's no cunt here is there?"
Caroline closed her eyes. It was going to be worse than she'd feared.
"I've been in the hatching, matching and dispatching game for forty fucken years and I tell you what, you can tell what kind of person the trick was by how many cunts turn up for the funeral. And fuck me, I've done some bad ones but this is the worst, by the length of the Flemington fucken straight.
"I done Ronald Ryan and he got shitloads more than this. Even that paedo cunt who killed his Mum with the chainsaw cracked double figures," he slurred.
Caro wanted to say something but just couldn't. She glanced over at Sam's Dad, who had fallen asleep, a long tendril of drool hanging between his gaping mouth and reaching down to connect with his ill fitting brown polyster suit.
"They reckon that if you've got nothing good to say about somebody, you shouldn't say anything at all, but youse have paid for half an hour and since the charges I can't do my blue material any more, so stuff it.
"Sam then. I had a bit of a flick through some of her stuff this morning while enjoying the morning constitutional and fuck me, what a load of frogshit she came out with. I'm a Catholic priest with a fondness for fanny and a dislike of pretty much everyone in the world who isn't a miserable ageing white alcoholic Richmond supporter like me, so I'm pretty well versed in sickening, stomach churning hypocrisy but I even I can't hold a candle to this one."
Caro looked again at Sam's Dad. He hadn't moved. She hoped to Christ he wasn't dead too. She couldn't handle two funerals like this.
"As I said, I'm a Richmond supporter and the shit that bitch wrote about Kevin bloody Sheedy trying to root a dingo was plain disgraceful. I am going to say nine novenas tonight petitioning a vengeful Lord to condemn her unto eternal damnation on the strength of that alone.
"But it gets worse. Despite all that shit, where the fucking cretin pretended to be outraged on behalf of all womanhood on the basis of something that never even happened anyway - and really, I've heard more compelling feminist arguments from strip club owners - then lo and behold, what do I see on the goggle box the other night, but this dumb moll flirting with that boofhead Fevola at the Brownlow and egging him on and generally contributing to his sense of being able to do whatever he wants.
"Then what happens a few hours later? The big dickhead goes and actually sexually intimidates a woman in a toilet. And have we heard anything from Sam, the loyal Carlton supporter, or her fuhrer" - and here he fixed Caro with a gimlet eye - "about this? Do we fuck."
The thirsty cleric paused to take breath and enjoy a generous swig from his flask.
"So, as many good judges predicted at the time, by pumping up that Dingogate non-story into an entirely unprofessional and vindictive confection of smears and half-truths, the imbecelic fraud has left herself and her shitful excuse for a paper entirely unable to comment on a genuinely horrifying alleged sexual crime by a footballer with anything approaching credibility.
"What qualifications has she got anyway? Looks to me like she only got her job because this dribbling old fuckwit in the front row once, amazingly, managed to get lucky with a sheila."
Again the dipsomaniac prelate paused but this time, thankfully for Caro's sake, he lost his balance as he drained the final drops of his flask and and collapsed backwards, striking his head savagely on the marble step behind him.
An hour later, having hired some removalists to carry Sam's coffin out of the church in the absence of anyone - anyone at all - willing to act as a pallbearer, Caro and the hearse arrived at the dusty, windswept cemetary where the witch was to be interred forever more.
Caro's heart leapt as she noticed a large crowd had gathered around Sam's plot. At she got closer, she saw something was amiss. The group was moving strangely, jerkily. She drew closer and saw a familiar face leading the group, which numbered at least 50 or more.
"Adam, what'th going on here?" she asked.
The man turned around, looking slightly sheepish.
"Oh, hi, Caro, we were practising," he replied.
"Pwactithing fo what?" she demanded.
"The disco tonight," he stammered, "Yeah, just practicing our dancing for the disco tonight."
Caro didn't need to hear it. It was obvious they had all gathered to dance on Sam's grave. At the car park, vehicles were arrving every second and disgorging occupants with the same intention.
But they were to be denied that pleasure. As the workman unloaded Sam's coffin, the temperature dropped suddenly and dark clouds gathered on the horizon. A peal of thunder shook the very heavens themselves and an enormous crow swooped to land on Sam's putative headstone, emitting a great caw that came from the bowels of Hell itself.
"Look," said Adam, pointing with genuine fear at Sam's coffin which had begun to shake ominously. "LOOK!" he cried.
Slowly but undeniably, the lid of the coffin began to rattle and shake until it lifted and a thin scaly claw emerged. The coffin lid hit the mud softly.
Then, with the assembled crowd of grave-dancers quickly heading back and away from the hideous spectacle, Sam rose from the coffin, the marks on her face and body where the Dewosaurus had torn at her healing before their very eyes.
"A dark magic is at work here," howled Daniel Pratt, "Let us flee for the sanctuary of the Lord's house. Or the pub, whichever's closer!"
As the crowd fled in terror, only one figure remained. Caro.
"Oh Thammy!" she squealed, "Thammy you're back!"
Thammy was indeed back. And she wasn't very fucking happy at all.
Tuesday 6 October 2009
Under The Bed
Jack lay terrified in his bed. He'd heard the noise again.
There it went again. AGAIN!
Summoning every ounce of his courage - one - he edged his hand from under the doona slowly toward the panic button. He prayed the monster below would not detect the tiny click that sounded as he depressed it. Closing his eyes and praying vehemently to his God, Garry Lyon, he pushed it down.
His Mum was in the room within seconds, brandishing a broom.
"What is it Jack?"
Jack squeaked:
"It's under the bed Mum. The Dewosaurus. I can hear it rustling and growling."
His Mum shook her head.
"Oh God Jack, there's nothing under your bed. It's just the central heating. That Dewosaurus thing is dead, everybody knows that."
"What if it isn't Mum? What if it came for me?"
His Mum pushed the broom under the bed with great force.
"Look Jack, there's nothing under there. Nothing! Except for that sock you think I don't know about.
"You need to harden up Jack. You'll have to play next year, properly," she said.
"But what about Sam? Look what it did to her!"
"I'm glad she's dead. If you ever manage to get a root, she'd probably put it on the front page of The Era," she replied coldly.
Jack's mother wasn't the only person in Melbourne who was glad Sam was no more. There were 3.5 million, and growing every day as New Australians happened across her hateful screeds, in Melbourne alone.
Sam was not missed by many.
But Caro missed her, and displaying a streak of compassion and loyalty sadly lacking in her journalism, she'd stuck by her protege to the end, doing much of the funeral arranging and trying her darndest to get people to turn up.
At that very minute, Liam and one of the sub editors, a good bloke called Will known universally as 'Thirsty', were packing up and heading to the pub.
"You guyth," Caroline implored, "You'll come to Sam'th funeral tomowwow won't you?"
Liam had been wise and arranged an alibi inadvance.
"Sorry boss, can't," he smiled, "I'm on trade rumour duty tomorrow remember?"
Caroline nodded. She'd assigned him to it at his own suggestion only a few days earlier. She now saw what he'd done.
"What about you Thirthty, thurely you want to thee Tham's thoul asthend to the majethtic kingdom that thurely awaith her?"
Thirsty ummed and ahhed and shifted from foot to foot, desperately searching for a suitable excuse. Finally, he hit on one.
"Sorry, can't. I've got an appointment at the clap doctor. I've specially requested an invasive urethra examination."
Caro sighed. This wath probabwy the motht inventive one yet. The men took their opportunity and quickly departed into a waiting lift.
"Fair enougth," Caro said to an empty newsroom.
It would just be her and Sam's doddering old man, who would almost inevitably crowbar a diatribe about why Tasmania deserved a footy team, in attendance then.
There it went again. AGAIN!
Summoning every ounce of his courage - one - he edged his hand from under the doona slowly toward the panic button. He prayed the monster below would not detect the tiny click that sounded as he depressed it. Closing his eyes and praying vehemently to his God, Garry Lyon, he pushed it down.
His Mum was in the room within seconds, brandishing a broom.
"What is it Jack?"
Jack squeaked:
"It's under the bed Mum. The Dewosaurus. I can hear it rustling and growling."
His Mum shook her head.
"Oh God Jack, there's nothing under your bed. It's just the central heating. That Dewosaurus thing is dead, everybody knows that."
"What if it isn't Mum? What if it came for me?"
His Mum pushed the broom under the bed with great force.
"Look Jack, there's nothing under there. Nothing! Except for that sock you think I don't know about.
"You need to harden up Jack. You'll have to play next year, properly," she said.
"But what about Sam? Look what it did to her!"
"I'm glad she's dead. If you ever manage to get a root, she'd probably put it on the front page of The Era," she replied coldly.
Jack's mother wasn't the only person in Melbourne who was glad Sam was no more. There were 3.5 million, and growing every day as New Australians happened across her hateful screeds, in Melbourne alone.
Sam was not missed by many.
But Caro missed her, and displaying a streak of compassion and loyalty sadly lacking in her journalism, she'd stuck by her protege to the end, doing much of the funeral arranging and trying her darndest to get people to turn up.
At that very minute, Liam and one of the sub editors, a good bloke called Will known universally as 'Thirsty', were packing up and heading to the pub.
"You guyth," Caroline implored, "You'll come to Sam'th funeral tomowwow won't you?"
Liam had been wise and arranged an alibi inadvance.
"Sorry boss, can't," he smiled, "I'm on trade rumour duty tomorrow remember?"
Caroline nodded. She'd assigned him to it at his own suggestion only a few days earlier. She now saw what he'd done.
"What about you Thirthty, thurely you want to thee Tham's thoul asthend to the majethtic kingdom that thurely awaith her?"
Thirsty ummed and ahhed and shifted from foot to foot, desperately searching for a suitable excuse. Finally, he hit on one.
"Sorry, can't. I've got an appointment at the clap doctor. I've specially requested an invasive urethra examination."
Caro sighed. This wath probabwy the motht inventive one yet. The men took their opportunity and quickly departed into a waiting lift.
"Fair enougth," Caro said to an empty newsroom.
It would just be her and Sam's doddering old man, who would almost inevitably crowbar a diatribe about why Tasmania deserved a footy team, in attendance then.
Friday 2 October 2009
You Scratch My Back, I'll Scratch Yours
The relationship between Shaun Jones, the putative saviour of the West Melbourne Wombats and Liam O'Loughlin at The Era was developing nicely.
They'd formed the habit of meeting for a beer or two on a Thursday night at a pub in North Melbourne. What had started as a professional thing was now soldifying into a firm friendship.
Of course, they also still swapped tidbits that could assist the other in their working days.
"You guys have got a bit of breathing room on the relocation stuff," Liam said as Shaun returned to the table with a frothing jug and two pots.
He looked at the young journalist quizzically.
"Why do you say that?"
"Caro's heading off to Germany to Doctor Schikelbruber's Adavanced Clinic for Industrial Dentistry for a few weeks tomorrow. I saw the flight stuff on the printer today. Must be getting her braces retightened. The league won't do anything while she's away."
Jones absorbed it, the young bloke was right. He was an astute fella, that was for sure. Perhaps if the mission to save the Wombats was successful, there could be a job for him at the club doing media stuff. But that was getting way ahead of things.
Now the quid pro quo.
"So," the journalist began, "Any idea who you'll be taking in the draft?"
After their awful season, the Wombats had the coveted number 1 pick.
"Ah jeez mate, everything says Jarkyn Lockheed doesn't it? He's big, he's quick, he kicks goals, but I dunno, there's just something about him isn't there?"
"You mean he's arrogant prick that his team-mates despise who's more than likely gunna end up on a rape charge one of these days?" asked O'Loughlin.
"Yep, pretty much. We did an interview with him the other day and he insisted on showing us this video he had on his phone of himself shagging a cat. Why would you do that? Between you and me, that Bunyip kid from South Australia looks a goer. I've only met him once, but he seems more Wombats materials to me than Lockheed. Kid's a showpony. Essendon can have him. I've got a tip for you though. Remember a kid called Jimmy Goodfellow?"
O'Loughlin thought hard.
"Name rings a bell," he said.
"Midfielder, classy but goes hard, can kick a goal. Was being talked up about two years ago," Jones said.
"Oh yeah, I remember him. Something happened to him didn't it? He went off the rails in a big way?"
"Yeah, its a pretty sad story. He comes from the flats over there," indicating the huge Housing Commission blocks that loomed over the suburb, "His Dad died in a car accident a few years ago and his Mum has gone bad. Its drugs they reckon. He's sort of raising his little brother and looking after her as well. Had to give footy away and get a job."
"Geez, that is awful," O'Loughlin said.
"Thing is, kid can bloody play. Talent alone, he's best in the draft by a street. Now if we can get the club back on its feet, we could pay him a decent wage and he wouldn't have to work. Plus we could sort out help for his family."
"All sounds well and good mate," Liam replied.
"So, here you go, little scoop, we're going to take him with our last pick I reckon. I'm going to visit him after this, have a chat with him. We've been in contact and he's keen on the idea."
"Thus a resourceful and ambitious journo who predicted this out of left field before the draft would see his stock his rise dramatically then?"
"You got it mate," said Jones, "Look, I've got to shoot off and see the bloke in question. You got any plans for the night?"
"It's me birthday today," Liam said.
"Oh jeez mate, I didn't know, happy birthday!" Jones said with genuine sincerity. "You doin' anything special?"
O'Loughhlin replied:
"Missus is taking me out and said she'd let me put it up the shitbox afterwards"
"Sounds like a plan, sounds like a plan" replied Jones, before stepping away to go and visit the kid who turn out to be one of the greatest players ever.
They'd formed the habit of meeting for a beer or two on a Thursday night at a pub in North Melbourne. What had started as a professional thing was now soldifying into a firm friendship.
Of course, they also still swapped tidbits that could assist the other in their working days.
"You guys have got a bit of breathing room on the relocation stuff," Liam said as Shaun returned to the table with a frothing jug and two pots.
He looked at the young journalist quizzically.
"Why do you say that?"
"Caro's heading off to Germany to Doctor Schikelbruber's Adavanced Clinic for Industrial Dentistry for a few weeks tomorrow. I saw the flight stuff on the printer today. Must be getting her braces retightened. The league won't do anything while she's away."
Jones absorbed it, the young bloke was right. He was an astute fella, that was for sure. Perhaps if the mission to save the Wombats was successful, there could be a job for him at the club doing media stuff. But that was getting way ahead of things.
Now the quid pro quo.
"So," the journalist began, "Any idea who you'll be taking in the draft?"
After their awful season, the Wombats had the coveted number 1 pick.
"Ah jeez mate, everything says Jarkyn Lockheed doesn't it? He's big, he's quick, he kicks goals, but I dunno, there's just something about him isn't there?"
"You mean he's arrogant prick that his team-mates despise who's more than likely gunna end up on a rape charge one of these days?" asked O'Loughlin.
"Yep, pretty much. We did an interview with him the other day and he insisted on showing us this video he had on his phone of himself shagging a cat. Why would you do that? Between you and me, that Bunyip kid from South Australia looks a goer. I've only met him once, but he seems more Wombats materials to me than Lockheed. Kid's a showpony. Essendon can have him. I've got a tip for you though. Remember a kid called Jimmy Goodfellow?"
O'Loughlin thought hard.
"Name rings a bell," he said.
"Midfielder, classy but goes hard, can kick a goal. Was being talked up about two years ago," Jones said.
"Oh yeah, I remember him. Something happened to him didn't it? He went off the rails in a big way?"
"Yeah, its a pretty sad story. He comes from the flats over there," indicating the huge Housing Commission blocks that loomed over the suburb, "His Dad died in a car accident a few years ago and his Mum has gone bad. Its drugs they reckon. He's sort of raising his little brother and looking after her as well. Had to give footy away and get a job."
"Geez, that is awful," O'Loughlin said.
"Thing is, kid can bloody play. Talent alone, he's best in the draft by a street. Now if we can get the club back on its feet, we could pay him a decent wage and he wouldn't have to work. Plus we could sort out help for his family."
"All sounds well and good mate," Liam replied.
"So, here you go, little scoop, we're going to take him with our last pick I reckon. I'm going to visit him after this, have a chat with him. We've been in contact and he's keen on the idea."
"Thus a resourceful and ambitious journo who predicted this out of left field before the draft would see his stock his rise dramatically then?"
"You got it mate," said Jones, "Look, I've got to shoot off and see the bloke in question. You got any plans for the night?"
"It's me birthday today," Liam said.
"Oh jeez mate, I didn't know, happy birthday!" Jones said with genuine sincerity. "You doin' anything special?"
O'Loughhlin replied:
"Missus is taking me out and said she'd let me put it up the shitbox afterwards"
"Sounds like a plan, sounds like a plan" replied Jones, before stepping away to go and visit the kid who turn out to be one of the greatest players ever.
Wednesday 30 September 2009
It's All About Honesty, Babes
"Wow, that's the biggest mix bowl I've ever seen," said Brendan as he sat down in Chris and Rebecca's kitchen. "You must be able to mull up like an ounce in there!"
Chris looked at him coldy.
"It's a actually a Mongolian lentil pot mate," he said, as if he was talkling to a retarded child.
Rebecca hated Chris when he was like this and even more so now. Anyone could see filling Brendan up with a million litres of piss at the Brownlow was going to end in disaster. And Chris hadn't really done anything about it at the time.
But he could see which way the wind was turning and had, like the mercenary turncoat he was at heart, gone with it.
The powers that be at Carlton had assigned him the job of breaking the news to Brendan that he'd be put up for trade. He'd invited the big bloke around to his house to let him know and asked Rebecca to be there when he told him.
"He knows you and he likes you babes, it'll be better if you're there," he'd reasoned.
Rebecca suspected the reason Chris wanted her present was that he was afraid the bigger man would kick off and wanted her there to try and deter him.
Obviously sensing something was up, Brendan tried to get on the front foot.
"Look skip, yeah I stuffed up I know that, but ..."
Chris dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
"It's too late mate. We're going to put you up for trade. It's gone too far this time."
Brendan's head sank. Then Chris started with the speech. Rebecca had urged him just to tell Brendan they were dumping him and leave it at that, but no, Chris had insisted on giving the speech too.
"It's all about honesty, babes, it's all about honesty," he'd said.
He stood up and began pacing in front of the table. Rebecca curled her toes in embarrassment.
"Look mate," Chris began, with the kind of obnoxious false sincerity he'd mastered over the years, "You need to look at this as an opportunity, but you also have to take responsibility here too."
Rebecca held her head in her hands and wished she could be very far away.
"The last time you mucked up mate, the club told you it was your last chance and now you've mucked up again, we've got to stand by our word, or what would we look like? We'd look like frauds mate, and that's not the Carlton way. We're the honest club, the reliable club and we have to stand by that. You know, when my relentless homesickness suddenly came over me that day when Mr Pratt rang a few years ago, I thought, 'Really, there's only one place a bloke like me who is willing to shit in the face of the club that gave me my start belongs, and that's Carlton'"
Warming to his theme, Chris picked up a large banana from the fruit bowl and held it as he paced, sometimes pointing it directly at Brendan to emphasise a point.
"Think of some of the great players who have represented this club mate, guys like John Nicholls and Jimmy Buckley and Wayne Johnston. How would they feel if they found out we weren't being straight up? They'd be disgusted. And it's not just players mate, itd everyone administrators, guys like Mr Pratt, even the fans. Could look Judy Moran in the eye and tell her the club her boys loved wasn't legit? Neither could I.
"So take the opportunity mate, learn from it. Grow as a person. Here, look, I got this book for you, its called The Humility Of Failing Happily, its got all like Chinese sayings and Native American wisdom and shit. I used to keep it by the dunny and flick through it when I was snapping one off but I've read them all now, so you can have it."
He passed over the yellowing dog eared book. Brendan took it and considered it.
The big forward stood up and took a deep breath. He was visibly preparing to say something. Chris felt a warm glow within. He'd obviously gotten through to the big bloke and now, his leadership skills having worked their magic, Brendan wanted to thank him for setting his life back on track.
Chris waited expectanctly, using that look he'd practised for the last rounds of the Brownlow, the one where you expected the votes to come in because hey, you were pretty bloody good after all, but not up yourself and arrogant.
"Why don't you go and fuck yourself?" said Brendan.
"What?" asked Chris, blinking furiously.
"You heard me you stuck up piece of shit. Why don't you go and fuck yourself?"
Rebecca interjected softly: "Don't Brendan, not now"
"Nah, stuff it Becs, someone has to tell him. You swan around like your shit doesn't stink mate. You dogged on West Coast to come here, you pretend like you've always loved Carlton when every cunt knows you only came here coz Pratt gave you that bullshit job at his company. You act like you deserve to win every Brownlow but you go for bloke's eyes at the bottom of every pack. You're a bullshit artist mate. Everyone laughs at you, thinks you're a fuckwit and you don't even know it. At least I know I'm a dipshit when I get on the piss."
He turned and made to leave, but spun on his heel and offered a parting shot. He flung the book back at Chris.
"You can stick this up your fucken arse too. Native American wisdom. What a load of bullshit. Maybe get a book and how to root your missus properly, then she wouldn't be looking to see what's on the other side of the fence" he spat.
A few minutes later in his car outside, he was getting his breath back. Rebecca knocked on the window. He let her in.
"Well, I think that's your career at Princes Park over," she laughed.
"Yeah, spose it is. Glad I said it but. Sorry about that stuff about him not rooting your properly"
"Don't worry about it. Truth hurts I suppose. Where are you going to go now," Rebecca asked.
"Hawthorn or St Kilda," the big man replied.
"Did you say them because they were the first things that came into your head," Rebecca asked.
"Ummm, yeah," he replied.
"There's one more thing Rebecca. I'm gunna need your help again. If I want to find a new club, I'm gunna need to get rid of these," he said, gently cupping his enormous breasts.
Rebecca bit her lip. She really would miss those tits, but she understood too.
Chris looked at him coldy.
"It's a actually a Mongolian lentil pot mate," he said, as if he was talkling to a retarded child.
Rebecca hated Chris when he was like this and even more so now. Anyone could see filling Brendan up with a million litres of piss at the Brownlow was going to end in disaster. And Chris hadn't really done anything about it at the time.
But he could see which way the wind was turning and had, like the mercenary turncoat he was at heart, gone with it.
The powers that be at Carlton had assigned him the job of breaking the news to Brendan that he'd be put up for trade. He'd invited the big bloke around to his house to let him know and asked Rebecca to be there when he told him.
"He knows you and he likes you babes, it'll be better if you're there," he'd reasoned.
Rebecca suspected the reason Chris wanted her present was that he was afraid the bigger man would kick off and wanted her there to try and deter him.
Obviously sensing something was up, Brendan tried to get on the front foot.
"Look skip, yeah I stuffed up I know that, but ..."
Chris dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
"It's too late mate. We're going to put you up for trade. It's gone too far this time."
Brendan's head sank. Then Chris started with the speech. Rebecca had urged him just to tell Brendan they were dumping him and leave it at that, but no, Chris had insisted on giving the speech too.
"It's all about honesty, babes, it's all about honesty," he'd said.
He stood up and began pacing in front of the table. Rebecca curled her toes in embarrassment.
"Look mate," Chris began, with the kind of obnoxious false sincerity he'd mastered over the years, "You need to look at this as an opportunity, but you also have to take responsibility here too."
Rebecca held her head in her hands and wished she could be very far away.
"The last time you mucked up mate, the club told you it was your last chance and now you've mucked up again, we've got to stand by our word, or what would we look like? We'd look like frauds mate, and that's not the Carlton way. We're the honest club, the reliable club and we have to stand by that. You know, when my relentless homesickness suddenly came over me that day when Mr Pratt rang a few years ago, I thought, 'Really, there's only one place a bloke like me who is willing to shit in the face of the club that gave me my start belongs, and that's Carlton'"
Warming to his theme, Chris picked up a large banana from the fruit bowl and held it as he paced, sometimes pointing it directly at Brendan to emphasise a point.
"Think of some of the great players who have represented this club mate, guys like John Nicholls and Jimmy Buckley and Wayne Johnston. How would they feel if they found out we weren't being straight up? They'd be disgusted. And it's not just players mate, itd everyone administrators, guys like Mr Pratt, even the fans. Could look Judy Moran in the eye and tell her the club her boys loved wasn't legit? Neither could I.
"So take the opportunity mate, learn from it. Grow as a person. Here, look, I got this book for you, its called The Humility Of Failing Happily, its got all like Chinese sayings and Native American wisdom and shit. I used to keep it by the dunny and flick through it when I was snapping one off but I've read them all now, so you can have it."
He passed over the yellowing dog eared book. Brendan took it and considered it.
The big forward stood up and took a deep breath. He was visibly preparing to say something. Chris felt a warm glow within. He'd obviously gotten through to the big bloke and now, his leadership skills having worked their magic, Brendan wanted to thank him for setting his life back on track.
Chris waited expectanctly, using that look he'd practised for the last rounds of the Brownlow, the one where you expected the votes to come in because hey, you were pretty bloody good after all, but not up yourself and arrogant.
"Why don't you go and fuck yourself?" said Brendan.
"What?" asked Chris, blinking furiously.
"You heard me you stuck up piece of shit. Why don't you go and fuck yourself?"
Rebecca interjected softly: "Don't Brendan, not now"
"Nah, stuff it Becs, someone has to tell him. You swan around like your shit doesn't stink mate. You dogged on West Coast to come here, you pretend like you've always loved Carlton when every cunt knows you only came here coz Pratt gave you that bullshit job at his company. You act like you deserve to win every Brownlow but you go for bloke's eyes at the bottom of every pack. You're a bullshit artist mate. Everyone laughs at you, thinks you're a fuckwit and you don't even know it. At least I know I'm a dipshit when I get on the piss."
He turned and made to leave, but spun on his heel and offered a parting shot. He flung the book back at Chris.
"You can stick this up your fucken arse too. Native American wisdom. What a load of bullshit. Maybe get a book and how to root your missus properly, then she wouldn't be looking to see what's on the other side of the fence" he spat.
A few minutes later in his car outside, he was getting his breath back. Rebecca knocked on the window. He let her in.
"Well, I think that's your career at Princes Park over," she laughed.
"Yeah, spose it is. Glad I said it but. Sorry about that stuff about him not rooting your properly"
"Don't worry about it. Truth hurts I suppose. Where are you going to go now," Rebecca asked.
"Hawthorn or St Kilda," the big man replied.
"Did you say them because they were the first things that came into your head," Rebecca asked.
"Ummm, yeah," he replied.
"There's one more thing Rebecca. I'm gunna need your help again. If I want to find a new club, I'm gunna need to get rid of these," he said, gently cupping his enormous breasts.
Rebecca bit her lip. She really would miss those tits, but she understood too.
Monday 28 September 2009
Yin And Yang
Caroline pressed Sam's buzzer again, but still no answer. She was getting worried now.
"Thammy, Thammy, it's only me!" she implored through the letterbox.
It wasn't like Sam to miss work and not call in. For two days running. And especially not Mad Monday, a veritable goldmine for a "journalist" obssesed with footballers getting up to juvenile and tasteless yet essentially harmless hijinx.
For Sam to miss this, something must be truly wrong.
Caroline knocked one more time and got no response. She decided to take matters into her own hands.
Hoping she wouldn't have to climb it, she pushed at the side gate and it opened obligingly. She did not notice them but a few hours later, police forensic officers would identify the coarse strands of fur caught on the wire and adjacent bushes as belonging to Homo Dewosaurus.
Sam lived alone. Caro knew that. Her last housemate had left after one of Sam's Abu Ghraib fuelled hairbrush wank sessions.
Caro picked her way through the hundreds of silver goonbag bladders Sam had collected over the last month.
She got to the lounge room window and looked in. She wished she hadn't. Blood spattered on the walls. The furniture had been smashed by an unholy force. And in the middle of it all, Sam's broken body.
Hundreds of kilometres away, the Dewosaurus was racing time itself. He knew that from when the sun went down on this day, he had only the hours of no light. Once the great fiery orb rose to cast its harsh glare on the land of the mortals, the Dewosaurus would be no more.
As he pushed through the scrub, he felt his energy draining. He had not consumed the one of from Grand Final night. That was for the ceremony, not the belly. When he'd struck her, she'd bled a strange green liquid that had stung his paw ...
He had two calls to make before his time fell. The Shaneosaurus. Then Bunyip.
Half an hour later he approached the gaping maw of the cavern where his Lord dwelt. He uttered the customary password roar but heard nothing in return. He ventured into the void.
Far away, in the chamber of the Shaneosaurus, he saw a faint illumination. He roared again and this time heard something low and tragic. He roared a third time and the sound, like a million of the world's saddest violins all being played at once, intensified.
He kept going.
The Dewosaurus entered the Great Hall Of The Shaneosaurus gingerly. He did not want to surprise his master.
The spectacle that greeted him was magnificent in its abandoned desperation.
The collosal blonde King Of The Fat Bastards was slumped despondent in his throne of human skulls. A baseball bat sized of rough hewn tobacco encased in an A3 sheet burnt dangerously toward its end. At his feet were littered the remains of a thousand bottles of Midori, some smashed, some still intact, green tendrils visible in their glass interior.
"Sire!" said the Dewosaurus.
The Shaneosaurus lifted his eyes from wherever his mind had been.
"Dewosaurus" he replied in a soft growl.
The smaller one let the moment sit.
"I have come to say goodbye, my liege, before the hours take me."
The Shaneosaurus considered him. Approach young one he said and as the Dewosaurus drew close, the yellow one sprang forward and grasped him, held him close to a furry chest matted with endless tears.
"Shit fucken kicking mate, shit kicking fcucken cost us badly," he sobbed.
The Dewosaurus struggled for breath, his face pressed into the wiry jungle of the Shaneosaurus' chest.
"You wouldn't have fucken missed those shots would you? Would you mate? You would have sunk them!"
As always, the Shaneosaurus' wisdom knew no bounds. Yes, the Dewosaurus would have taken the goal scoring opportunities that mere puny humans like Schneider and Milne had squandered. He would have dobbed them. He would have brought his master his one unattainable prize.
"Yes Lord Shaneosaurus, yes I would have."
The Shaneosaurus released his grip. He set the Dewosaurus on his feet.
"A great one among our kind you are O Dewosaurus! Before you go to endless Bainmarie In Sky, I give you this one gift."
In his enormous yellow paw, the Shaneosaurus held a single normal sized cigarette.
"Give this to your apprentice. If ever in mortal danger he finds himself, then smoke this fag in one drag, and an hour on this world you shall have to help him!" he pronounced.
The Dewosaurus took the enchanted dhurry and tucked it behind his ear.
"For obvious fucken reasons, if he has any brothers and sisters, don't let them find out. You don't want to be summoned to help some little shit get the Mel Meninga up his cousin," the Shaneosaurus counselled.
The Dewosaurus growled his acquisence. Then the two embraced for the last time.
"Worry not sire, go back on the tank and get some more draft picks and you might finally win something," he said.
The Shaneosaurus nodded ruefully. St Kilda really were shit.
"Fare thee well O great Dewosaurus," he cried as his favoured underling departed up the darkened passage, "Fare thee well you magnificent fat bastard!"
A hop skip and a jump later, the Dewosaurus was lightly tapping on Bunyip's window. Weighed down by sleep, the apprentice gazed lazily out the window until he saw the enormous visage of his yeti-sensei fill the glass.
Bunyip rushed outside. Glancing at the eastern sky, where dawn's first salmon fingers crept over the horizon, the Dewosaurus knew he didn't have long.
"YOUNG ONE!" he boomed, perhaps the last time his voice would ever be heard.
"TAKE THIS CIAGRETTE! IF EVER YOU NEED HELP, ONLY IN WORST OF TIMES, YOU SMOKE IN ONE BREATH! THEN THE DEWOSAURUS WILL COME, FOR BUT ONE HOUR! USE THIS WISELY!"
Bunyip understood immediately.
Dewosaurus grabbed him in a great bear hug.
"Defintely go first round you will. Maybe even top five if team pick according to best available talent rather than by positional need!"
"I go now," whispered the Dewosaurus.
He extended a big furry index finger. Bunyip met it with his own.
As the day began to make itself felt, the Dewosaurus left our world. Slowly at first, then with ever increasingly rapidity. In the quickest moment, Bunyip felt the bulk pressing a finger against his own go, saw a crumpled suit of thick fur fall before him, as if it were just a costume donned for a higher purpose.
A tiny bumble of sparkle light danced before him. The essence of the Dewosarus. Bunipy saluted then tossed back his head and let fly a mighty roar. A manbeasts's roar. The sparkle stopped in its motion, and like a tracer bullet, blazed into the oblivion with a perfectly curved trajectory. In seconds, it could be seen no more.
This night my friends, take a moment to step outside. Onto the street, your garden, the exercise yard for any Collingwood supporters who may have someone reading this to them.
Survey the ancient obsidian canopy that envelopes us all, pierced by pinpricks of brightest light. Select one of these twinkling dots, one that smiles for you, focus upon it and know that from far away, another time, another place, yet inextricably intertwined with yours, the Dewosaurus watches content in his mighty heart.
Bunyip does.
"Thammy, Thammy, it's only me!" she implored through the letterbox.
It wasn't like Sam to miss work and not call in. For two days running. And especially not Mad Monday, a veritable goldmine for a "journalist" obssesed with footballers getting up to juvenile and tasteless yet essentially harmless hijinx.
For Sam to miss this, something must be truly wrong.
Caroline knocked one more time and got no response. She decided to take matters into her own hands.
Hoping she wouldn't have to climb it, she pushed at the side gate and it opened obligingly. She did not notice them but a few hours later, police forensic officers would identify the coarse strands of fur caught on the wire and adjacent bushes as belonging to Homo Dewosaurus.
Sam lived alone. Caro knew that. Her last housemate had left after one of Sam's Abu Ghraib fuelled hairbrush wank sessions.
Caro picked her way through the hundreds of silver goonbag bladders Sam had collected over the last month.
She got to the lounge room window and looked in. She wished she hadn't. Blood spattered on the walls. The furniture had been smashed by an unholy force. And in the middle of it all, Sam's broken body.
Hundreds of kilometres away, the Dewosaurus was racing time itself. He knew that from when the sun went down on this day, he had only the hours of no light. Once the great fiery orb rose to cast its harsh glare on the land of the mortals, the Dewosaurus would be no more.
As he pushed through the scrub, he felt his energy draining. He had not consumed the one of from Grand Final night. That was for the ceremony, not the belly. When he'd struck her, she'd bled a strange green liquid that had stung his paw ...
He had two calls to make before his time fell. The Shaneosaurus. Then Bunyip.
Half an hour later he approached the gaping maw of the cavern where his Lord dwelt. He uttered the customary password roar but heard nothing in return. He ventured into the void.
Far away, in the chamber of the Shaneosaurus, he saw a faint illumination. He roared again and this time heard something low and tragic. He roared a third time and the sound, like a million of the world's saddest violins all being played at once, intensified.
He kept going.
The Dewosaurus entered the Great Hall Of The Shaneosaurus gingerly. He did not want to surprise his master.
The spectacle that greeted him was magnificent in its abandoned desperation.
The collosal blonde King Of The Fat Bastards was slumped despondent in his throne of human skulls. A baseball bat sized of rough hewn tobacco encased in an A3 sheet burnt dangerously toward its end. At his feet were littered the remains of a thousand bottles of Midori, some smashed, some still intact, green tendrils visible in their glass interior.
"Sire!" said the Dewosaurus.
The Shaneosaurus lifted his eyes from wherever his mind had been.
"Dewosaurus" he replied in a soft growl.
The smaller one let the moment sit.
"I have come to say goodbye, my liege, before the hours take me."
The Shaneosaurus considered him. Approach young one he said and as the Dewosaurus drew close, the yellow one sprang forward and grasped him, held him close to a furry chest matted with endless tears.
"Shit fucken kicking mate, shit kicking fcucken cost us badly," he sobbed.
The Dewosaurus struggled for breath, his face pressed into the wiry jungle of the Shaneosaurus' chest.
"You wouldn't have fucken missed those shots would you? Would you mate? You would have sunk them!"
As always, the Shaneosaurus' wisdom knew no bounds. Yes, the Dewosaurus would have taken the goal scoring opportunities that mere puny humans like Schneider and Milne had squandered. He would have dobbed them. He would have brought his master his one unattainable prize.
"Yes Lord Shaneosaurus, yes I would have."
The Shaneosaurus released his grip. He set the Dewosaurus on his feet.
"A great one among our kind you are O Dewosaurus! Before you go to endless Bainmarie In Sky, I give you this one gift."
In his enormous yellow paw, the Shaneosaurus held a single normal sized cigarette.
"Give this to your apprentice. If ever in mortal danger he finds himself, then smoke this fag in one drag, and an hour on this world you shall have to help him!" he pronounced.
The Dewosaurus took the enchanted dhurry and tucked it behind his ear.
"For obvious fucken reasons, if he has any brothers and sisters, don't let them find out. You don't want to be summoned to help some little shit get the Mel Meninga up his cousin," the Shaneosaurus counselled.
The Dewosaurus growled his acquisence. Then the two embraced for the last time.
"Worry not sire, go back on the tank and get some more draft picks and you might finally win something," he said.
The Shaneosaurus nodded ruefully. St Kilda really were shit.
"Fare thee well O great Dewosaurus," he cried as his favoured underling departed up the darkened passage, "Fare thee well you magnificent fat bastard!"
A hop skip and a jump later, the Dewosaurus was lightly tapping on Bunyip's window. Weighed down by sleep, the apprentice gazed lazily out the window until he saw the enormous visage of his yeti-sensei fill the glass.
Bunyip rushed outside. Glancing at the eastern sky, where dawn's first salmon fingers crept over the horizon, the Dewosaurus knew he didn't have long.
"YOUNG ONE!" he boomed, perhaps the last time his voice would ever be heard.
"TAKE THIS CIAGRETTE! IF EVER YOU NEED HELP, ONLY IN WORST OF TIMES, YOU SMOKE IN ONE BREATH! THEN THE DEWOSAURUS WILL COME, FOR BUT ONE HOUR! USE THIS WISELY!"
Bunyip understood immediately.
Dewosaurus grabbed him in a great bear hug.
"Defintely go first round you will. Maybe even top five if team pick according to best available talent rather than by positional need!"
"I go now," whispered the Dewosaurus.
He extended a big furry index finger. Bunyip met it with his own.
As the day began to make itself felt, the Dewosaurus left our world. Slowly at first, then with ever increasingly rapidity. In the quickest moment, Bunyip felt the bulk pressing a finger against his own go, saw a crumpled suit of thick fur fall before him, as if it were just a costume donned for a higher purpose.
A tiny bumble of sparkle light danced before him. The essence of the Dewosarus. Bunipy saluted then tossed back his head and let fly a mighty roar. A manbeasts's roar. The sparkle stopped in its motion, and like a tracer bullet, blazed into the oblivion with a perfectly curved trajectory. In seconds, it could be seen no more.
This night my friends, take a moment to step outside. Onto the street, your garden, the exercise yard for any Collingwood supporters who may have someone reading this to them.
Survey the ancient obsidian canopy that envelopes us all, pierced by pinpricks of brightest light. Select one of these twinkling dots, one that smiles for you, focus upon it and know that from far away, another time, another place, yet inextricably intertwined with yours, the Dewosaurus watches content in his mighty heart.
Bunyip does.
Sunday 27 September 2009
Peas In A Pod
The gravel crunched beneath Dean's feet as he walked across the desolate and windswept Alberton carpark toward the figure that waited at the other side, solitary and melancholy.
The wind from the nearby sea was cold and Dean tucked his mullet into the back his jacket for added warmth.
The other figure came to meet him. When they were a few paces away, the taciturn type extended a gnarled hand in greeting.
"Tunnel, good to see ya."
"Yeah nah look, good to see you too Choco," Dean replied.
It was the most either man had said in days.
They walked towards the training rooms in contemplative silence. After a few minutes, Dean spoke, his tone an empty chip packet blowing in maudlin Sunday afternoon ennui.
"How's things around here anyway?" he asked.
Choco looked back at him with a thousand yard stare.
"We're up to our bottom lip in debt, the players hate me and our gameplan is negative and shit," he replied without any discernible emotion.
Dean smiled inwardly as they continued their slow progress. He'd fit right in here.
He took out his phone.
"Just gotta make a quick call Choc," he said.
Choco merely nodded before picking up a stone and throwing it at a crow that had landed ahead of them. It missed.
Dean dialled the number, got a quick answer.
"Mrs Power, yes look its Dean here. I was wondering if Sam was there."
The wind from the nearby sea was cold and Dean tucked his mullet into the back his jacket for added warmth.
The other figure came to meet him. When they were a few paces away, the taciturn type extended a gnarled hand in greeting.
"Tunnel, good to see ya."
"Yeah nah look, good to see you too Choco," Dean replied.
It was the most either man had said in days.
They walked towards the training rooms in contemplative silence. After a few minutes, Dean spoke, his tone an empty chip packet blowing in maudlin Sunday afternoon ennui.
"How's things around here anyway?" he asked.
Choco looked back at him with a thousand yard stare.
"We're up to our bottom lip in debt, the players hate me and our gameplan is negative and shit," he replied without any discernible emotion.
Dean smiled inwardly as they continued their slow progress. He'd fit right in here.
He took out his phone.
"Just gotta make a quick call Choc," he said.
Choco merely nodded before picking up a stone and throwing it at a crow that had landed ahead of them. It missed.
Dean dialled the number, got a quick answer.
"Mrs Power, yes look its Dean here. I was wondering if Sam was there."
Friday 25 September 2009
On The Rampage
There is nothing like the centre of Melbourne on the Friday before the Grand Final. The atmosphere, the team colours in the crowded streets, the sheer electricity about the town.
And this year, the added spectacle of a Mexican standoff between armed police and an enormous enraged beast with a devastating hangover and a taste for human flesh.
The tequila drinking session in the park had left him much the worse for wear. Between, them Fev, Brown, Colin and man beast that used be Stewie Dew had drunk a crate of tequila washed down with a slab each. At one point, Fev had climbed a tree in an attempt to reach an owl's nest he claimed he could see and then got stuck up the tree and the Dewosaurus had had to go up after him and rescue the drunken sot.
It all got a bit messy after that. Browny did the right thing and handcuffed Fev and frogmarched him into a taxi. Colin disappeared muttring something about heading to The Men's Gallery while Danny Four Fingers had long since disappeared with a group of large heavily tattooed men.
Stupefied by drink, the Dewosaurus had wandered the streets before laying his great head on the first flat surface he could find.
Unfortunately for him, it was the steps of Parliament House. He slept until mid morning, oblivious to the crowd that had gathered around him. Upon awakening, he was startled and took flight, seeking shelter from the tumult.
The crowd on Bourke Street parted like the Red Sea as the Dewosaurus rampaged down the tramlines. The noise, the confusion, the incessant dinging of the tram bells and now the blaring sirens all combined to confuse the great beast. The ringing in his ears, the noise, the colour.
He picked up a car and threw it smashing into the plate glass windows of a coffee shop, sending the latte sipper inside scurrying for cover.
The Dewosaurus headed down the Bourke Street hill, unaware that the police had set a trap for him. As he lumbered through the intersection with Exhibition Street, divisional vans screeched to a halt on all four corners. Immediately, policemen took up position, their service revolvers pointed directly at him.
The crowd quickly surged behind the police to encircle the Dewosaurus. He was trapped. He quickly looked left, right, even above him the police helicopter hovered.
He roared at the police but unlike so many times before, they did not flee at his threat. Instead, they held their ground, knuckles wrapped around pistols turning white with determination. One of the policeman was a Geelong supporter and he was itching to get revenge for that third quarter burst last year.
A expectant hush fell over the crowd. The Dewosaurus snorted and pawed at the ground. Would he charge? One last desperate bid for freedom? Surely such a brave but futile act could only be met with a hail of bullets.
Then something magical happened. From out of the crowd came a slight figure, hands outstretched, approached
The Dewosaurus caught its scent. Soft, unthreatening, nothing to be afraid of.
The figure approached the great beast and laid a tiny, womanly hand on his heaving snout.
“Hello. My name is Bryce. What’s yours?”
The beast was confused. Normally he would swipe such a puny thing away, but he felt nothing but peace from this small wisp of a thing. This Bryce was no threat, it carried no malice in its heart.
He would trust Bryce. He sank to his haunches and waited.
Bryce turned to the crowd and from nowhere, slightly tinny mood music appeared:
"Why are we persecuting this poor misunderstood creature? It isn't his fault he is what he is. So he looks a bit different. Don't we all look a bit different, you sir for example, " said Bryce, pointing into the crowd at Luke Hodge, "you look like you've eaten the entire frozen food section at your local Safeway and have a face like a squished tomato, but nobody wants to hunt you down and kill you do they?"
Luke nodded. Bryce was right.
"Can't we all look into our hearts and find a little bit of room for Stewie? He might be hideously ugly on the outside, but on the inside, he's just a normal person with feelings like the rest of us."
The music that had appeared from nowhere now switched to soaring strings. Morgan Freeman walked out of the crowd and shook Bryce's hand. Together they embraced the Dewosaurus who shook his mane appreciatively.
The police lowered their guns and the commanding officer came over.
"Great speech there Marc"
"I'm Bryce"
"Whatever. Tell you what, we've give this bastard a ten minute headstart, after that, all bets are off."
The policeman who's 'Geelong Gay Premiers' tatoo was visible through his light blue shirt nodded grimly.
"OK," said Bryce, "That sounds fair."
The Dewosaurus was about to head through the crowd, who were stroking him appreciatively and beginning to chant his name, when a hideous screech broke the bonhomie.
Looking for all the world like one of Macbeth's witches, Sam's hateful thin reedy voice was heard:
"NO! NO! KILL IT! KILL IT! KILL THE PIG! KILL PIGGY!"
The Dewosaurus, recognising danger, went immediately into combat mode. He sparng hundreds of feet into the air in a single mighty bound. He stuck his landing on top of a skyscraper like a gymnast and emitted a deathly roar that was heard as far away as Melbourne's new training ground in Orbost.
Where the Dewosaurus had been so close to perhaps regaining some humanity, now Sam's appearance had driven him once more back into his animal side.
"Why," asked Bryce of Sam, "Why do you have to ruin everything good in footy with your bullshit childish talentless fucking know nothing seedy death and sex obssesed crap, you monstrous witch?"
Sam merely cackled in reply, before raking Bryce's face with her claws and scampering off down a laneway.
The amusement over, the crowd began to depart home and get a skinful before the Grand Final tomorrow.
Once they had all filtered away, a single melancholic figure was left in the middle of the empty streets, yellowing autumnal leaves gusting around him while hot salty tears ran down his cheeks.
It was Luke Hodge.
"I'm not fat," he sniffed.
"I'm just big boned"
And this year, the added spectacle of a Mexican standoff between armed police and an enormous enraged beast with a devastating hangover and a taste for human flesh.
The tequila drinking session in the park had left him much the worse for wear. Between, them Fev, Brown, Colin and man beast that used be Stewie Dew had drunk a crate of tequila washed down with a slab each. At one point, Fev had climbed a tree in an attempt to reach an owl's nest he claimed he could see and then got stuck up the tree and the Dewosaurus had had to go up after him and rescue the drunken sot.
It all got a bit messy after that. Browny did the right thing and handcuffed Fev and frogmarched him into a taxi. Colin disappeared muttring something about heading to The Men's Gallery while Danny Four Fingers had long since disappeared with a group of large heavily tattooed men.
Stupefied by drink, the Dewosaurus had wandered the streets before laying his great head on the first flat surface he could find.
Unfortunately for him, it was the steps of Parliament House. He slept until mid morning, oblivious to the crowd that had gathered around him. Upon awakening, he was startled and took flight, seeking shelter from the tumult.
The crowd on Bourke Street parted like the Red Sea as the Dewosaurus rampaged down the tramlines. The noise, the confusion, the incessant dinging of the tram bells and now the blaring sirens all combined to confuse the great beast. The ringing in his ears, the noise, the colour.
He picked up a car and threw it smashing into the plate glass windows of a coffee shop, sending the latte sipper inside scurrying for cover.
The Dewosaurus headed down the Bourke Street hill, unaware that the police had set a trap for him. As he lumbered through the intersection with Exhibition Street, divisional vans screeched to a halt on all four corners. Immediately, policemen took up position, their service revolvers pointed directly at him.
The crowd quickly surged behind the police to encircle the Dewosaurus. He was trapped. He quickly looked left, right, even above him the police helicopter hovered.
He roared at the police but unlike so many times before, they did not flee at his threat. Instead, they held their ground, knuckles wrapped around pistols turning white with determination. One of the policeman was a Geelong supporter and he was itching to get revenge for that third quarter burst last year.
A expectant hush fell over the crowd. The Dewosaurus snorted and pawed at the ground. Would he charge? One last desperate bid for freedom? Surely such a brave but futile act could only be met with a hail of bullets.
Then something magical happened. From out of the crowd came a slight figure, hands outstretched, approached
The Dewosaurus caught its scent. Soft, unthreatening, nothing to be afraid of.
The figure approached the great beast and laid a tiny, womanly hand on his heaving snout.
“Hello. My name is Bryce. What’s yours?”
The beast was confused. Normally he would swipe such a puny thing away, but he felt nothing but peace from this small wisp of a thing. This Bryce was no threat, it carried no malice in its heart.
He would trust Bryce. He sank to his haunches and waited.
Bryce turned to the crowd and from nowhere, slightly tinny mood music appeared:
"Why are we persecuting this poor misunderstood creature? It isn't his fault he is what he is. So he looks a bit different. Don't we all look a bit different, you sir for example, " said Bryce, pointing into the crowd at Luke Hodge, "you look like you've eaten the entire frozen food section at your local Safeway and have a face like a squished tomato, but nobody wants to hunt you down and kill you do they?"
Luke nodded. Bryce was right.
"Can't we all look into our hearts and find a little bit of room for Stewie? He might be hideously ugly on the outside, but on the inside, he's just a normal person with feelings like the rest of us."
The music that had appeared from nowhere now switched to soaring strings. Morgan Freeman walked out of the crowd and shook Bryce's hand. Together they embraced the Dewosaurus who shook his mane appreciatively.
The police lowered their guns and the commanding officer came over.
"Great speech there Marc"
"I'm Bryce"
"Whatever. Tell you what, we've give this bastard a ten minute headstart, after that, all bets are off."
The policeman who's 'Geelong Gay Premiers' tatoo was visible through his light blue shirt nodded grimly.
"OK," said Bryce, "That sounds fair."
The Dewosaurus was about to head through the crowd, who were stroking him appreciatively and beginning to chant his name, when a hideous screech broke the bonhomie.
Looking for all the world like one of Macbeth's witches, Sam's hateful thin reedy voice was heard:
"NO! NO! KILL IT! KILL IT! KILL THE PIG! KILL PIGGY!"
The Dewosaurus, recognising danger, went immediately into combat mode. He sparng hundreds of feet into the air in a single mighty bound. He stuck his landing on top of a skyscraper like a gymnast and emitted a deathly roar that was heard as far away as Melbourne's new training ground in Orbost.
Where the Dewosaurus had been so close to perhaps regaining some humanity, now Sam's appearance had driven him once more back into his animal side.
"Why," asked Bryce of Sam, "Why do you have to ruin everything good in footy with your bullshit childish talentless fucking know nothing seedy death and sex obssesed crap, you monstrous witch?"
Sam merely cackled in reply, before raking Bryce's face with her claws and scampering off down a laneway.
The amusement over, the crowd began to depart home and get a skinful before the Grand Final tomorrow.
Once they had all filtered away, a single melancholic figure was left in the middle of the empty streets, yellowing autumnal leaves gusting around him while hot salty tears ran down his cheeks.
It was Luke Hodge.
"I'm not fat," he sniffed.
"I'm just big boned"
Thursday 24 September 2009
Drinking With The Dewosaurus
The great beast stirred in its hidey hole.
"Ya shure itsh him," slurred Brendan as the group gathered round the form that lay prone in the deepest bushes in the Exhibition Gardens.
"Could fucken just be a binny or something. We fucken should fucken set him on fire and see what happens," the shaven headed, newly be-titted hoon continued.
Browny turned around.
"Fucken turn it fucken up mate. You've fucken caused enough fucken trouble as it fucken is."
The big bloke from South Warnambool had a point.
The media had only caught the briefest taste of Brendan's antics on Brownlow night. The spewing off the balcony, the harrassment of other guests, the horrendous acapella version of DJ Otzi, all these paled into insignificance compared to what he got up to once the Dewosaurus search party had set off into the haze of a million Crownies to try and get a few gargles into their mate Stewie.
Within minutes he'd bought a Big Mac and had rooted it, to graphic conclusion, against a tram stop, to the horror of those watching. Then, when the tram had arrived, he'd repeatedly charged it front on, headbutting the windscreen and shouting maniacally 'Look at me! Look at me! I'm Graham Polak!"
Then, as they reached the Gardens, where Brown had a sixth sense that the Dewosaurus would be lurking, Brendan used the turn of pace that made him so hard to stop on the lead to pursue and quickly capture a possum that had been foraging for seeds and nuts on the floodlit grass.
The other players looked on apprehensively as Brendan examined the terrified creature.
"Fucken don't worry, I'm not gunna hurt it," he said, with a look of indignation that anybody would even consider such a thing. Instead he carefully tucked the marsupial deep within the vast chasm of his cleavage, leaving only its small grey head poking out.
Back at the beast's lair, Brendan continued to agitate to be allowed to assualt the sleeping form in some fashion.
"Fucken look mate, leave the fucken brainy shit to fucken Browny," said Colin. "You'll fucken just fucken fuck it up."
The others ushered Brendan away as Brown leant down to the huge form and waved a bottle of tequila under its nose.
"Stewie, Stewie mate, that you? Come and have a fucken drink mate!" he cajoled.
The creature stirred. Brown kept the bottle under its nose like a dose of smelling salts.
"Carn Stewie, have a few shandies for old times sake. Its just me and Col and Fev and that. Nobody's gunna hurt ya. Just a few drinks."
First one red eye opened, the another. Brown drew back carefully as the Dewosaurus awoke from its slumber. He then reached forward and carefully placed the tequila bottle in its paw.
Slowly, the creature came to. He dimly recognised Brown from the old days. More importantly, he sensed no threat. And what was this in his paw? It smelt strong and familiar.
He put the bottle to his lips. Ah yes, he recalled what this potion was. He drained the bottle in fell swig.
"That's the fucken spirit Stewie," enthused Brown, indicating that the others should pass him another bottle. "Get this one into ya Stewie."
The Dewosaurus tanned the second bottle. This, he remembered how much he liked this. He let out a friendly Chewbacca type growl to indicate he meant no harm. On hearing this, the others came forward and gave him pats on the back and the like.
"Fucken good to see you Stewie mate, fucken ace."
And so it came to pass that Brendan, Jono Brown, Colin and the Dewosaurus all hit the piss together in a central Melbourne park.
Nothing bad could come of that surely.
TODAY'S POST BROUGHT TO YOU BY BEER!
I LIKE BEER! SEE BELOW TO DONATE TO THE BEER FUND!
"Ya shure itsh him," slurred Brendan as the group gathered round the form that lay prone in the deepest bushes in the Exhibition Gardens.
"Could fucken just be a binny or something. We fucken should fucken set him on fire and see what happens," the shaven headed, newly be-titted hoon continued.
Browny turned around.
"Fucken turn it fucken up mate. You've fucken caused enough fucken trouble as it fucken is."
The big bloke from South Warnambool had a point.
The media had only caught the briefest taste of Brendan's antics on Brownlow night. The spewing off the balcony, the harrassment of other guests, the horrendous acapella version of DJ Otzi, all these paled into insignificance compared to what he got up to once the Dewosaurus search party had set off into the haze of a million Crownies to try and get a few gargles into their mate Stewie.
Within minutes he'd bought a Big Mac and had rooted it, to graphic conclusion, against a tram stop, to the horror of those watching. Then, when the tram had arrived, he'd repeatedly charged it front on, headbutting the windscreen and shouting maniacally 'Look at me! Look at me! I'm Graham Polak!"
Then, as they reached the Gardens, where Brown had a sixth sense that the Dewosaurus would be lurking, Brendan used the turn of pace that made him so hard to stop on the lead to pursue and quickly capture a possum that had been foraging for seeds and nuts on the floodlit grass.
The other players looked on apprehensively as Brendan examined the terrified creature.
"Fucken don't worry, I'm not gunna hurt it," he said, with a look of indignation that anybody would even consider such a thing. Instead he carefully tucked the marsupial deep within the vast chasm of his cleavage, leaving only its small grey head poking out.
Back at the beast's lair, Brendan continued to agitate to be allowed to assualt the sleeping form in some fashion.
"Fucken look mate, leave the fucken brainy shit to fucken Browny," said Colin. "You'll fucken just fucken fuck it up."
The others ushered Brendan away as Brown leant down to the huge form and waved a bottle of tequila under its nose.
"Stewie, Stewie mate, that you? Come and have a fucken drink mate!" he cajoled.
The creature stirred. Brown kept the bottle under its nose like a dose of smelling salts.
"Carn Stewie, have a few shandies for old times sake. Its just me and Col and Fev and that. Nobody's gunna hurt ya. Just a few drinks."
First one red eye opened, the another. Brown drew back carefully as the Dewosaurus awoke from its slumber. He then reached forward and carefully placed the tequila bottle in its paw.
Slowly, the creature came to. He dimly recognised Brown from the old days. More importantly, he sensed no threat. And what was this in his paw? It smelt strong and familiar.
He put the bottle to his lips. Ah yes, he recalled what this potion was. He drained the bottle in fell swig.
"That's the fucken spirit Stewie," enthused Brown, indicating that the others should pass him another bottle. "Get this one into ya Stewie."
The Dewosaurus tanned the second bottle. This, he remembered how much he liked this. He let out a friendly Chewbacca type growl to indicate he meant no harm. On hearing this, the others came forward and gave him pats on the back and the like.
"Fucken good to see you Stewie mate, fucken ace."
And so it came to pass that Brendan, Jono Brown, Colin and the Dewosaurus all hit the piss together in a central Melbourne park.
Nothing bad could come of that surely.
TODAY'S POST BROUGHT TO YOU BY BEER!
I LIKE BEER! SEE BELOW TO DONATE TO THE BEER FUND!
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