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.
Friday 30 October 2009
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.
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