Justin repeated the mantra to himself as he waited with his brother for the meeting to begin.
“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels!”
He looked at his brother’s twig like arm. The tattoo gave him strength.
Ana4Life
Justin was glad that Warren opened the door for him, as it was a heavy door. Add to that the fact that he felt disgustingly bloated after sharing that chip with Matt yesterday. Luckily Andrew from the other mob had swooped on it before they could finish it, saving him from going too far. But still.
Inside the room there was a little stage. Choco sat on it next a creepy looking bloke and a little kid. Justin sat down. He noticed the creepy man staring at him. He had cold dead eyes, the eyes of a man who’d known nothing but suffering in his life.
Choco got up and spoke:
“Gidday guys, bit of an update. Two things. First, we still haven’t got a major sponsor and second, Dean, who some of you have already met, has now officially come on board and will be responsible for developing our gameplan. Contrary to some unkind suggestions in the media, these two developments are not linked.
“I’ll hand you over to Dean now.”
The lean wiry man, whose figure was a sharp contrast to that of the ever expanding Choco, took the floor.
“Yeah nah look,” he began, “Before we get stuck into the gameplan, or Operation Marshland as I like to call it, I need to introduce someone myself. This young fellow is someone you’re going to see a lot of.”
He indicated the kid stand up.
“This young bloke embodies what I want the new team spirit to be. When you’re holding the ball above your head to indicate that its time to slow the game down – and you’ll be doing a fuckload of that – I want you to think of this bloke. When you’re chipping the ball back and forth across half back, remember him. When you’re crabbing the ball along the boundary line at an achingly slow pace, think of him. When the runner comes out when we’re 25 points up and got a run on to tell you to take the pedal off the metal, think of this name.
“Boys, Westoffs, Warren, I give you … Terry Bosniak.”
Thursday 21 January 2010
Wednesday 20 January 2010
The Reckoning
Brendan walked into his new changing rooms. He was getting used to the different circumstances but he did miss some of the old familiar sights, the carpet of brown paper bags around Chris’ locker, the Lousville Slugger in other Chris’ locker.
But he liked it up here. He’d already bonded with the other blokes, especially the big fella who he’d be sharing the forward line with. They shared a sense of humour, with a liking for witty T-shirts a favourite.
Brendan had picked up a new one just today and was waiting to show Jono.
“Hey, fuckface,” he shouted as he entered the locker, “Check this out!”
Jono turned around. He saw Brendon wearing a T-shirt that read “ORAL SEX”
Then Brendon turned around slowly to reveal the legend on the back of the shirt.
“A TASTE OF THINGS TO COME!”
Beneath the hilarious kicker was an equally hilarious cartoon of a woman with full red lips opened to reveal her tongue which had a target painted on it.
“Oh. My. Fucken. God!” exclaimed Jono, “That is dead set the fucken funniest thing ever!”
Other blokes gathered around and immediately cracked up when they saw it. It was agreed the cunt who’d thought that up was definitely a comedy genius. Richy reckon the same bloke must have done Jono’s “If Found, Please Return To The Pub!” shirt, which until then had been considered the funniest thing anyone in the squad has ever seen.
“Alright cunts”” boomed Vossy as he stormed into the changing rooms, wearing one of those T-shirts that is cut away at the side and marked with as if it indicate the wearer had suffered a shark bit, “Stop fuckarsing around and start training! I’m trading at least fucken ten of you at the season no matter what! I’m not fucken losing that bet with Leppa!”
The boys trooped out led by Fev.
“Brendon,” barked the coach.
The big fella felt a shot of panic. He knew he hadn’t done anything bad recently, but you never knew. Maybe some of the really bad stuff from before nobody had found out about had come to light.
“Nice T-shirt. Like it. Some of you blokes could learn from his attitude.”
And with that, the temperamental ranga grabbed his favourite pool cue and beat an Irish rookie swiftly over the back of the legs to hurry him out the door.
But he liked it up here. He’d already bonded with the other blokes, especially the big fella who he’d be sharing the forward line with. They shared a sense of humour, with a liking for witty T-shirts a favourite.
Brendan had picked up a new one just today and was waiting to show Jono.
“Hey, fuckface,” he shouted as he entered the locker, “Check this out!”
Jono turned around. He saw Brendon wearing a T-shirt that read “ORAL SEX”
Then Brendon turned around slowly to reveal the legend on the back of the shirt.
“A TASTE OF THINGS TO COME!”
Beneath the hilarious kicker was an equally hilarious cartoon of a woman with full red lips opened to reveal her tongue which had a target painted on it.
“Oh. My. Fucken. God!” exclaimed Jono, “That is dead set the fucken funniest thing ever!”
Other blokes gathered around and immediately cracked up when they saw it. It was agreed the cunt who’d thought that up was definitely a comedy genius. Richy reckon the same bloke must have done Jono’s “If Found, Please Return To The Pub!” shirt, which until then had been considered the funniest thing anyone in the squad has ever seen.
“Alright cunts”” boomed Vossy as he stormed into the changing rooms, wearing one of those T-shirts that is cut away at the side and marked with as if it indicate the wearer had suffered a shark bit, “Stop fuckarsing around and start training! I’m trading at least fucken ten of you at the season no matter what! I’m not fucken losing that bet with Leppa!”
The boys trooped out led by Fev.
“Brendon,” barked the coach.
The big fella felt a shot of panic. He knew he hadn’t done anything bad recently, but you never knew. Maybe some of the really bad stuff from before nobody had found out about had come to light.
“Nice T-shirt. Like it. Some of you blokes could learn from his attitude.”
And with that, the temperamental ranga grabbed his favourite pool cue and beat an Irish rookie swiftly over the back of the legs to hurry him out the door.
Tuesday 5 January 2010
That Statement In Full
The stench of booze, sweat and stale Chiko Rolls assaulted Chris' olfactory organs as he stood in front of the assembled football media to read the statement he had prepared.
"Hi, thanks for coming," he began.
He'd wanted to put in a joke early on, but Rebecca had forbidden it. Expressely forbidden it.
"You've embrassed youerself and us enough lately, I'm not going to let you get up there and tell that awful bloody story about the horse and Michael Jackson on national television," she'd fumed.
So Chris began.
"As many of you are aware, this club has been troubled by a series of recents events where players have acted, and let's be frank here, like a bunch of fucken five year olds with ADD who've been jacked up with the Cuzzy juice and let loose in the Big W toys aisle. In their underpants.
Now, as captain and chief bagman ... er ... head of the leadership group, I have to say that the buck stops with me. About a million a year of them, plus the entirely in no way shifty compensation for my tireless work as an Environmental Ambassador for Shady Holdings.
Given that situation, after a series of long and tense meetings with the club hierachy, one of which I escaped from by saying I was going to the toilet then climbing out the bathroom window, I've decided that I will take responsibility for the players under me.
If you look to the left of stage, you will see Sticks holding a pitchfork in case I try and run away again before finishing this statement. That is how seriously I take my role.
Many people have observed that when I captained my old club, the culture of the joint descended to the point where Amy Winehouse came into the clubrooms to score once and left in disgust. Blokes were on it day in day out, flatlining in Vegas, robbing chemists, hanging out with bikies, but I swear on my Grandmother's grave, I didn't see a single thing.
And even if I did, I wouldn't have known what it was, because I'm a good clean cut media friendly bloke who got a high ENTER score. Have I mentioned that before? That I got a high ENTER score? It completely makes up for any accidental letting of my hand go near blokes' faces or pressure points.
Anyway, now I've rocked up here and every cunt is on the booze and I seem to be copping the blame. Just coz I sat with Fev all day at the casino getting slaughtered. And just coz I was on that boat when Levi Stubbsjeans or whatever the little lagging lightweight is called was gently encouraged to join the boys in a few palate cleansing ales.
Having taken all that on board, and having engaged in discussions with the rest of the leadership group, fucktards to a man as they are, I've come to the conclusion that from now on, we have to be honest with the club, with the supporters, and most importantly, with ourselves.
So I'm going to start now.
Youse can all go and get fucked. I've had a gutful of you all. Fuck footy. I've got a giant pile of cashed stashed. Ever since I come back to Melbourne, its been one thing after another. Missus bloody turned carpet muncher with Caro, I get the blame coz Fev goes off his rocker and gets a big set of fake tits then youse all turn on me coz we do what footballers since time immemorial have been doing and get maggot drunk and act like fuckwits.
Well, fuck the lot of youse. I'm retiring. You'll have to find some other dumb cunt to pour a bucket of shit on now.
Fuckity bye fuckheads!"
And with that, as the assembled footballer media sat jaws agape and even Sticks let the pitchfork fall limply by his side, Chris stormed off and out the door.
A chapter of football history had closed.
"Hi, thanks for coming," he began.
He'd wanted to put in a joke early on, but Rebecca had forbidden it. Expressely forbidden it.
"You've embrassed youerself and us enough lately, I'm not going to let you get up there and tell that awful bloody story about the horse and Michael Jackson on national television," she'd fumed.
So Chris began.
"As many of you are aware, this club has been troubled by a series of recents events where players have acted, and let's be frank here, like a bunch of fucken five year olds with ADD who've been jacked up with the Cuzzy juice and let loose in the Big W toys aisle. In their underpants.
Now, as captain and chief bagman ... er ... head of the leadership group, I have to say that the buck stops with me. About a million a year of them, plus the entirely in no way shifty compensation for my tireless work as an Environmental Ambassador for Shady Holdings.
Given that situation, after a series of long and tense meetings with the club hierachy, one of which I escaped from by saying I was going to the toilet then climbing out the bathroom window, I've decided that I will take responsibility for the players under me.
If you look to the left of stage, you will see Sticks holding a pitchfork in case I try and run away again before finishing this statement. That is how seriously I take my role.
Many people have observed that when I captained my old club, the culture of the joint descended to the point where Amy Winehouse came into the clubrooms to score once and left in disgust. Blokes were on it day in day out, flatlining in Vegas, robbing chemists, hanging out with bikies, but I swear on my Grandmother's grave, I didn't see a single thing.
And even if I did, I wouldn't have known what it was, because I'm a good clean cut media friendly bloke who got a high ENTER score. Have I mentioned that before? That I got a high ENTER score? It completely makes up for any accidental letting of my hand go near blokes' faces or pressure points.
Anyway, now I've rocked up here and every cunt is on the booze and I seem to be copping the blame. Just coz I sat with Fev all day at the casino getting slaughtered. And just coz I was on that boat when Levi Stubbsjeans or whatever the little lagging lightweight is called was gently encouraged to join the boys in a few palate cleansing ales.
Having taken all that on board, and having engaged in discussions with the rest of the leadership group, fucktards to a man as they are, I've come to the conclusion that from now on, we have to be honest with the club, with the supporters, and most importantly, with ourselves.
So I'm going to start now.
Youse can all go and get fucked. I've had a gutful of you all. Fuck footy. I've got a giant pile of cashed stashed. Ever since I come back to Melbourne, its been one thing after another. Missus bloody turned carpet muncher with Caro, I get the blame coz Fev goes off his rocker and gets a big set of fake tits then youse all turn on me coz we do what footballers since time immemorial have been doing and get maggot drunk and act like fuckwits.
Well, fuck the lot of youse. I'm retiring. You'll have to find some other dumb cunt to pour a bucket of shit on now.
Fuckity bye fuckheads!"
And with that, as the assembled footballer media sat jaws agape and even Sticks let the pitchfork fall limply by his side, Chris stormed off and out the door.
A chapter of football history had closed.
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