The Worst Bit Of The Season

Andrew turned up the music as the annoying fat bald man in front of him made it obvious he would not cease his tiresome yammering anytime soon.

Pachelbal's Canon In D Major.

Divine.

"Excuse me sir, I really think we need to discuss the new looking at the back rule ahead of the Grand Final. The interpretation could cause some outcry if my boys get it wrong," Jeff pleaded.

Andrew let his eyelids fall and depressed the mute button on the remote to his $2.5m gold plated Bang and Olufsen office sound system. Money well spent.

"Jeff," he said in a tone which I'm sure you can all imagine, "Put it in a memo or get a visit from Sledge. Your choice."

Jeff, who wasn't as dumb as his face or his many new rules suggested, took the hint.

"Very well sire."

The dolt left Andrew's office in the traditional fashion, his tie an impromptu chamois dragging arross the marble a few inches ahead of its owners face as he withdrew with extreme deference.

Andrew made the music return by applying the slightest pressure to the button underneath his thumb. The soaring strings returned. Glorious.

He hated this time of year. The imbeciles that were the great unwashed public cock-a-hoop with their tawdry pastime. Finals, they would shout, it's the FINALS!

Primitives.

As if this weekend wasn't bad enough, there was the Grand Final looming in just over a week's time. God, what a spectacle. Nearly a hundred thousand country-fried rubes gawking in wonder as an FA-18 fighter soared overhead. Yes, idiots, he longed to shout from his royal box, yes, mankind has mastered the feat of controlled flight. 'Tis no wizard's illusion, serfs, there's indeed a man controlling the great silver bird.

Andrew couldn't wait for the hated 'season' to be past so he concentrate on the real business of the year: shafting the pathetic West Melbourne Wombats up to the lucrative Hunter Valley where they belonged. That'd be the last of his KPIs met. Then the Sith Lords on the Commission would give him his promised reward. In both cash and liquid form.

His reverie was unexpectedly disturbed by a lisping banshee with a really shit haircut.

"Andwew!" it cried, "Andwew, good newth!"

Again he silenced the music. He would hear the witch speak.

Caroline was excited, babbling. He wondered if she'd been dining at the Y again.

"Tho Bwendan hath actuwawwy got the tith. And fuck me thidewayths with a thtick, they're wippers!" she enthused.

His expression made it plain she should be concise.

"OK, tho I've got exwuwsive wights to the stowy. I weckon we wun with that until after the thtupid Gwand Fiwnal. That way, you can thtitch up these sthupid Wombats and I can wun that stwaight after. You win, I win, evewybody wins."

"Except the Wombats," he said in that tone of voice he'd been practicing in the mirror that he was sure made him sound like Al Pacino.

"Everybody except the Wombats."

As Andrew fell back into the spell of the music, the magnificent music, Caro was heading to The Era's office in a cab.

As soon as she arrived, she called Sam into her office.

The younger woman splayed herself herself in the chair, chewing gum and occasionaly shoving her hand gruffly down underneath her skirt to scratch herself like a monkey.

"You need to way off on this Bwendan thing. No questionth. This ith stwaight from the top," she ordered.

Sam considered her with ill-disguised contempt.

"You fucken rooting someone again," she spat, more a statement than a question. "You mining some new bitch's seam?"

Caroline had to play this one carefully. Sam had become increasingly unpredictable of late. The hairbrush that sat on her desk was increasingly bloodied every time Caroline walked past. You never knew who'd she'd turn on next.

"Tham, Tham, my cwazy widdle Tham. Pathienth, pathienth, ipetuwouth one. Thometimeth you have to weawise that dithcwetion ith the better part of vawour. Your time will come, that much is thure," she said in the most conciliatory of tones.

Sam stood, pawed at her itchy red raw lady region, and left muttering inaudible imprecations.

Phew, thought Caro to herself. That wath a cwose wun.

Next cab off the rank was that pesky Liam. He always banging on about attention to detail, his ethics, his bullshit integrity stuff. Young bloke wouldn't go far in footy journalism if he kept that up.

"Wiam," she shouted into the phone, "Get your arth in here. I need some wesearch on Bwendan for a piethe I'm doing. Basiceth and thtuff. How many goalth he'th kicked, avewage Dweam Team thcore, who he playeth for, that kind of bowing thit."

The game was afoot.