Rebecca awoke in an uncomfortable position feeling rougher than Amy Winehouse’s clunge.
Which was appropriate, because as she slowly came to, she became aware of the raven haired London Jewesses lilting, and deeply affecting, version of Valerie playing somewhere in the background.
Wow thought Rebecca to herself. Chris’ taste in music has suddenly improved. Normally he only listened to Thirty Odd Foot Of Grunt and that band that Pat Cash and John McEnroe used to be in years ago.
But slowly Rebecca became aware that she wasn’t in her own bed. In fact, she wasn’t in any bed. She was on a couch. And as she let her long and delicate lashes open, it became obvious that it wasn’t a recording of Amy Winehouse she was listening to. It was the crack fancying chanteuse herself, sat only feet away from where Rebecca laid, her Fevolaesque fake tits heaving as she belted out her best known hit.
“And I miss your ginger hair and the way you like to dress,” she trilled to a small group who were circled around an enormous footy shaped glass topped coffee table.
What a group it was too. Rebecca’s previously heavy eyelids jolted wide open as she registered just who indeed it was sat before her.
There was Amy in the middle and around her sat Ben Cousins, Keith Richards, Bill Clinton, Nick Cave, Kim Deal from the Pixies and the ghost of Carl Williams.
“Wooow!” hooted Bill in the way Americans do as Amy drew to a close. “Honey, I’ve always had a thing for slutty Jewish scrubbers and you’ve got my deficit rising right there!”
Amy smiled demurely and then put her head and devoured a line of coke so big it had a pilot fish attending it.
“Sheeeee-it!” continued Bill, “baby, after I’ve put it everywhere else, I’m sticking my dick up your nose!”
The merry band of revelers clapped Amy as she went about and as he encouraged her along – “Come on Amy, that’s bigger than the one that killed Fletch in Vegas!” – Benny noticed his houseguest had awoken.
He came over, his rippling muscles glistening with beads of cocaine hydrochloride infused sweat.
“Morning gorgeous, get your beauty sleep?” he asked.
Rebecca was confused. Last thing she could remember was drinking shot after shot of Patron with Ben. Then nothing.
“You had one too many and flaked out on the couch. A few of the gang called and we thought we’d make a night of it.” Ben explained, gesturing over to where Keith Richards and the spectral form of Carl Williams were engaged in a good natured arm wrestle to see who would get the next line.
Rebecca nodded. She was still tired.
But she had to ask.
“Ben, last night, did we …?”
Ben looked at her with undisguised affection.
“No, you were a bit pissed and weirded out. I’m not that kind of guy. Don’t me wrong Becs, I like you, but I’m not that kind of guy.
“Why don’t you grab a bit more sleep? And don’t worry about us. Sure, we’re going to sit and put an entire Colombian village through college now, but we’ve all achieved massive success in our professional lives while enjoying a bit of recreational drug use after hours, its not like we’re widely scorned hypocritical fucking puissant so-called footy journalists who change position at the drop of a hat,” he said, allowing the author a gratuitous bit of editorializing.
Rebecca drifted off back to sleep to the entirely unlikely but captivating sight of a gacked up Bill Clinton dirty dancing with Amy Winehouse to Armand Van Helden’s legendery remix of Professional Widow.
She liked Ben’s house. She liked Ben too. And when he came and gently stroked her hair as he smiled at the former President of the United States and Little Miss Crackstain 2008 getting it on in his living room, she felt happier and safer than she had in years.
But she shouldn’t have. Because only a few hundred yards from Ben’s Docklands apartment, in the offices of shitful pathetic rag The Era, Caroline and Sam were watching the happy scene on the tiny webcam they had secretly installed in Ben’s house. convincingly disguised as a Bulgarian plumber, Sam had conned the talented yet unconventional midfielder into letting her onto his premises a few months before where she had installed the hidden camera.
“STHLUT!” screeched Caro as she watched Rebecca accept Ben’s gentle kisses. “FILTHY DIRTY LITTLE THLUT!”
Caro was visibly shaking with anger.
“HE’TH MINE! MINE MINE MINE MINE! I’M THE ONE WHO THTOOD BY HIM WHEN HE WATH AT HIS LOWTHEST M,OMENT AT WETHT COATHT! WITHOUT ME HE’D BE NOTHING, NOTHING I TELL YOU!”
Saturday, 24 April 2010
Friday, 16 April 2010
Polar bears
Chris was casually surfing the Net for a new picture of a polar bear marooned on a shrinking iceberg to use on his Bebo profile when he came across the news about Steven Seagal maintaining a harem of Russian sex slaves.
Geezo thought Chris, that sounds alright. He could just see it now. Hot blonde chicks with big knockers who talked like Borat. Could there by anything better?
The fantasy came alive for him immediately. A long limbed goddess with a lustrous flaxen man and eyes of blue like the deepest Siberian lake came striding toward him wearing only the tiniest of revolutionary red g-strings complete with hammer and sickle emblem, an AK47 slung across her ample Muscovite charms.
“You, Australian man, you vould like me to touch your pressure point yes?” she purred, casually throwing the assault rifle off over her shoulder, allowing her enormous yet firm globes to …
“OMIGOD! CHRIS! WHAT ARE YOUNG DOING?”
Becca, Bex. Shit, shit, shit.
Chris quickly fumbled at the fly of his Sass and Bide in no way gay jeans but it was too late. His tiny manhood, which didn’t even reach the second knuckle of the little finger even when he woke up in the morning with a serious case of pink steel, immediately lost tumescence and lay useless, like a pygmy sea slug in its death throes.
“Fucken hell Chris, last time you rooted me Harold fucken Holt was prime Minister, now I come up here on 10AM on a Tuesday morning and you’re cranking one over pictures of fucking polar bears!”
“No babes, no, that’s not what it was …” Chris began, before suddenly realising that it would probably be better to go with the polar bear story rather than tell her about the Russian sex slaves with Kalashnikovs thing.
“Why don’t you go down the zoo and fucken root a polar bear if you love them so much?” Rebecca demanded.
“Well, babes, the Royal Melbourne Zoological is a responsible organisation that takes pride in ensuring its exhibits have a humane enclosure that mirrors their natural environment as best as possible. Remember when I went to open the recycling depot there? Obviously they couldn’t keep polar bears as a city like Melbourne that experiences such extremes of summer …”
He had to duck as a set of car keys came flying at him at a million miles an hour.
“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THE FUCKING ZOO!”
And with that Rebecca stormed downstairs and out of the flat. Fuck this, fuck this fuck this fuck fuck fuck this this this!
She stuck her hand out and just like in a movie a taxi immediately pulled over.
“Where to toots?” asked the driver.
“I don’t know, just drive. Away from here.”
Fuck this. Rebecca was sick and tired of the miserable prick. Bad enough she had to put up with his endless droning bullshit about the environment, now he was actually masturbating over polar bears stranded on fucking shrinking ledges of ice.
She began scrolling through her phone with furious intensity. Stuff Chris. He might be content to jack off over endangered bears, she had more simple needs. She looked at the clock on the driver’s dashboard. 10.25AM.
She’d be getting fucked before midday. That much true. She was heading through the Bs and into the Cs, for Caro naturally, that old scrag was forever letting her know that anytime she wanted her carpet licked in the disabled dunnies at Southern Cross Station, all she had to do was call when her eye fell upon a number she forgot she even had.
Benny Cuz.
Cuz.
Cuzzy.
Hmmm thought Rebecca. She had always thought he was quite fit back at the Eagles, especially at the team parties, even if she had found the way that he always had a strange yellow/whitish crust on the corners of his mouths and eyes that often moved independently of each other a bit weird.
But stuff it, weird she could deal. The bloke was fit, had a dick bigger than a half sucked Tic Tac if the other girls were to be believed and hadn’t, to her knowledge, bashed the old fella one in front of a picture of a snow leopard.
So she did it. She pressed the green button.
Geezo thought Chris, that sounds alright. He could just see it now. Hot blonde chicks with big knockers who talked like Borat. Could there by anything better?
The fantasy came alive for him immediately. A long limbed goddess with a lustrous flaxen man and eyes of blue like the deepest Siberian lake came striding toward him wearing only the tiniest of revolutionary red g-strings complete with hammer and sickle emblem, an AK47 slung across her ample Muscovite charms.
“You, Australian man, you vould like me to touch your pressure point yes?” she purred, casually throwing the assault rifle off over her shoulder, allowing her enormous yet firm globes to …
“OMIGOD! CHRIS! WHAT ARE YOUNG DOING?”
Becca, Bex. Shit, shit, shit.
Chris quickly fumbled at the fly of his Sass and Bide in no way gay jeans but it was too late. His tiny manhood, which didn’t even reach the second knuckle of the little finger even when he woke up in the morning with a serious case of pink steel, immediately lost tumescence and lay useless, like a pygmy sea slug in its death throes.
“Fucken hell Chris, last time you rooted me Harold fucken Holt was prime Minister, now I come up here on 10AM on a Tuesday morning and you’re cranking one over pictures of fucking polar bears!”
“No babes, no, that’s not what it was …” Chris began, before suddenly realising that it would probably be better to go with the polar bear story rather than tell her about the Russian sex slaves with Kalashnikovs thing.
“Why don’t you go down the zoo and fucken root a polar bear if you love them so much?” Rebecca demanded.
“Well, babes, the Royal Melbourne Zoological is a responsible organisation that takes pride in ensuring its exhibits have a humane enclosure that mirrors their natural environment as best as possible. Remember when I went to open the recycling depot there? Obviously they couldn’t keep polar bears as a city like Melbourne that experiences such extremes of summer …”
He had to duck as a set of car keys came flying at him at a million miles an hour.
“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THE FUCKING ZOO!”
And with that Rebecca stormed downstairs and out of the flat. Fuck this, fuck this fuck this fuck fuck fuck this this this!
She stuck her hand out and just like in a movie a taxi immediately pulled over.
“Where to toots?” asked the driver.
“I don’t know, just drive. Away from here.”
Fuck this. Rebecca was sick and tired of the miserable prick. Bad enough she had to put up with his endless droning bullshit about the environment, now he was actually masturbating over polar bears stranded on fucking shrinking ledges of ice.
She began scrolling through her phone with furious intensity. Stuff Chris. He might be content to jack off over endangered bears, she had more simple needs. She looked at the clock on the driver’s dashboard. 10.25AM.
She’d be getting fucked before midday. That much true. She was heading through the Bs and into the Cs, for Caro naturally, that old scrag was forever letting her know that anytime she wanted her carpet licked in the disabled dunnies at Southern Cross Station, all she had to do was call when her eye fell upon a number she forgot she even had.
Benny Cuz.
Cuz.
Cuzzy.
Hmmm thought Rebecca. She had always thought he was quite fit back at the Eagles, especially at the team parties, even if she had found the way that he always had a strange yellow/whitish crust on the corners of his mouths and eyes that often moved independently of each other a bit weird.
But stuff it, weird she could deal. The bloke was fit, had a dick bigger than a half sucked Tic Tac if the other girls were to be believed and hadn’t, to her knowledge, bashed the old fella one in front of a picture of a snow leopard.
So she did it. She pressed the green button.
Monday, 15 February 2010
The Worm Turns
“Jesus babes!” said Chris as he picked up the Sunday paper and saw what Caro had written.
Rebecca rolled over in bed and saw her Chris standing there, his usually vacant face wrinkled into a mask of confusion and despair.
“What is it Chris,” she asked?
It was Chris’ habit to run downstairs as soon as he heard the papers hit the front door and rear through them looking for mentions of himself in the paper. It always broke her heart to see him start at the front and then go through the business section before ending up at the sport pages.
“I can’t believe it babes,” he moan, “I sent that press release about my idea for a wave powered perpetual motion machine to ALL the journos and not one of them picked it up, I can’t believe it.”
But today it was the back page he was holding, and pointing at frantically.
“Look,” he said, tears welling up in his big dog like eyes, “It’s that bloody Caro! She’s turned on me!”
Rebecca took the pages from his hands and read:
This journalitht ith known and wethpected for her integwity and wefuthal to be influenthed by otherth.
Tho it ith in thith light that I wite the fowwowing.
Carlton’th captain is a big thtinking pile of monkey thit and I’ve alwayth said it and anyone who thayth I haven’t is a sexistht wathist.
Hith behaviour of wate hath been nothing thort of diswaceful and I for one think that he thould be kicked out of footy forever and made to work in a thalt mine to waise money for the orphanth of Haiti.
Jesus though Rebecca to herself, the old bag has really gone on one here. Could it be any coincidence that she’d suddenly turned on Chris since he’d popped the question and put a ring on her finger? Or was that reading too much into it?
Surely a journalist of Caro’s standing wouldn’t conduct a hate filled vendetta against and individual or club simply because of something that had happened in her personal life? That would be unprofessional to the point of actionable by the Press Complaints Commission.
But then, Rebecca sighed to herself, this was Caro.
She got up and went into the bathroom where Chris was sobbing in front of the mirror.
“Why,” he cried “WHY? WHY DO BAD THINGS ONLY EVER HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE?”
“Come on babes” she said, “It’ll be alright, I’ve got a PR strategy that will put this old hag back in her box.”
Given her extensive media career presenting the weather on a regional TV station and having her photo taken at the races, Rebecca fancied herself as an arch media manipulator.
“You know that Wombats benefit gig that’s on tonight? We’re going, and you’re donating some money!”
Rebecca rolled over in bed and saw her Chris standing there, his usually vacant face wrinkled into a mask of confusion and despair.
“What is it Chris,” she asked?
It was Chris’ habit to run downstairs as soon as he heard the papers hit the front door and rear through them looking for mentions of himself in the paper. It always broke her heart to see him start at the front and then go through the business section before ending up at the sport pages.
“I can’t believe it babes,” he moan, “I sent that press release about my idea for a wave powered perpetual motion machine to ALL the journos and not one of them picked it up, I can’t believe it.”
But today it was the back page he was holding, and pointing at frantically.
“Look,” he said, tears welling up in his big dog like eyes, “It’s that bloody Caro! She’s turned on me!”
Rebecca took the pages from his hands and read:
This journalitht ith known and wethpected for her integwity and wefuthal to be influenthed by otherth.
Tho it ith in thith light that I wite the fowwowing.
Carlton’th captain is a big thtinking pile of monkey thit and I’ve alwayth said it and anyone who thayth I haven’t is a sexistht wathist.
Hith behaviour of wate hath been nothing thort of diswaceful and I for one think that he thould be kicked out of footy forever and made to work in a thalt mine to waise money for the orphanth of Haiti.
Jesus though Rebecca to herself, the old bag has really gone on one here. Could it be any coincidence that she’d suddenly turned on Chris since he’d popped the question and put a ring on her finger? Or was that reading too much into it?
Surely a journalist of Caro’s standing wouldn’t conduct a hate filled vendetta against and individual or club simply because of something that had happened in her personal life? That would be unprofessional to the point of actionable by the Press Complaints Commission.
But then, Rebecca sighed to herself, this was Caro.
She got up and went into the bathroom where Chris was sobbing in front of the mirror.
“Why,” he cried “WHY? WHY DO BAD THINGS ONLY EVER HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE?”
“Come on babes” she said, “It’ll be alright, I’ve got a PR strategy that will put this old hag back in her box.”
Given her extensive media career presenting the weather on a regional TV station and having her photo taken at the races, Rebecca fancied herself as an arch media manipulator.
“You know that Wombats benefit gig that’s on tonight? We’re going, and you’re donating some money!”
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Footycore
“Dinner’s nearly ready, Kyle, come out please!” shouted his Mum.
“Shut uuuup MUM!” Kyle screeched back.
He almost had the riff down on this tune and he wasn’t going to let that old bag distract him from it.
“Don’t you dare speak to me that way, young man! You get out here and eat your dinner right now!”
Kyle trailed out and sullenly pushed his steamed chicken breast around his plate. God he hated steamed chicken but Matty said the boys had to eat as much as possible of it. Marinated in coconut juice. Said it would ward off the damaging effects of the sun’s rays. Very concerned about the sun is Matty.
Kyle began running the song over in his head.
I’m always leading into space
But you never find me
I’m always bursting on the lead
But you never honour them
He hated when people called his music emo. Emo was so like 2006. No, what Kyle and his mates in The Reckoning played was nothing other than footycore. And tonight was there first gig – playing at a pub in Fitzroy as part of a benefit bash to raise money for the West Melbourne Wombats.
He’d known Jimmy Goodfellow from way back, playing juniours and when Jimmy had rung to see if The Reckoning would be interested in playing, he’d jumped at the chance.
Only mistake he’d made was telling the boys at training. Most of them were supportive. They knew what his music meant to him. But the bloke they’d taken with their first rounder, Jarkyn, predictably he’d been a knob about it.
Lockheed seemed to have taken an instant dislike to Kyle. Ever since he’d arrived, things had started going missing from Kyle’s locker. And in recent weeks, more ominously, things had started appearing.
Just the other day he’d gone in and opened it only to be confronted by a vile stench and a perfectly coil of faeces. He’d looked around but there was nobody in the grin save for Jarkyn, grinning like a Japanese soldier wanking onto a nurse’s uniform.
Kyle cleared his mind of the thought. He didn’t want anything distracting him from his performance tonight.
He wanted to put in a good one. This could be his break. Even Sam from The Era had texted to say she was coming.
He hadn’t expected that.
“Shut uuuup MUM!” Kyle screeched back.
He almost had the riff down on this tune and he wasn’t going to let that old bag distract him from it.
“Don’t you dare speak to me that way, young man! You get out here and eat your dinner right now!”
Kyle trailed out and sullenly pushed his steamed chicken breast around his plate. God he hated steamed chicken but Matty said the boys had to eat as much as possible of it. Marinated in coconut juice. Said it would ward off the damaging effects of the sun’s rays. Very concerned about the sun is Matty.
Kyle began running the song over in his head.
I’m always leading into space
But you never find me
I’m always bursting on the lead
But you never honour them
He hated when people called his music emo. Emo was so like 2006. No, what Kyle and his mates in The Reckoning played was nothing other than footycore. And tonight was there first gig – playing at a pub in Fitzroy as part of a benefit bash to raise money for the West Melbourne Wombats.
He’d known Jimmy Goodfellow from way back, playing juniours and when Jimmy had rung to see if The Reckoning would be interested in playing, he’d jumped at the chance.
Only mistake he’d made was telling the boys at training. Most of them were supportive. They knew what his music meant to him. But the bloke they’d taken with their first rounder, Jarkyn, predictably he’d been a knob about it.
Lockheed seemed to have taken an instant dislike to Kyle. Ever since he’d arrived, things had started going missing from Kyle’s locker. And in recent weeks, more ominously, things had started appearing.
Just the other day he’d gone in and opened it only to be confronted by a vile stench and a perfectly coil of faeces. He’d looked around but there was nobody in the grin save for Jarkyn, grinning like a Japanese soldier wanking onto a nurse’s uniform.
Kyle cleared his mind of the thought. He didn’t want anything distracting him from his performance tonight.
He wanted to put in a good one. This could be his break. Even Sam from The Era had texted to say she was coming.
He hadn’t expected that.
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Operation Marshland
Justin repeated the mantra to himself as he waited with his brother for the meeting to begin.
“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels!”
He looked at his brother’s twig like arm. The tattoo gave him strength.
Ana4Life
Justin was glad that Warren opened the door for him, as it was a heavy door. Add to that the fact that he felt disgustingly bloated after sharing that chip with Matt yesterday. Luckily Andrew from the other mob had swooped on it before they could finish it, saving him from going too far. But still.
Inside the room there was a little stage. Choco sat on it next a creepy looking bloke and a little kid. Justin sat down. He noticed the creepy man staring at him. He had cold dead eyes, the eyes of a man who’d known nothing but suffering in his life.
Choco got up and spoke:
“Gidday guys, bit of an update. Two things. First, we still haven’t got a major sponsor and second, Dean, who some of you have already met, has now officially come on board and will be responsible for developing our gameplan. Contrary to some unkind suggestions in the media, these two developments are not linked.
“I’ll hand you over to Dean now.”
The lean wiry man, whose figure was a sharp contrast to that of the ever expanding Choco, took the floor.
“Yeah nah look,” he began, “Before we get stuck into the gameplan, or Operation Marshland as I like to call it, I need to introduce someone myself. This young fellow is someone you’re going to see a lot of.”
He indicated the kid stand up.
“This young bloke embodies what I want the new team spirit to be. When you’re holding the ball above your head to indicate that its time to slow the game down – and you’ll be doing a fuckload of that – I want you to think of this bloke. When you’re chipping the ball back and forth across half back, remember him. When you’re crabbing the ball along the boundary line at an achingly slow pace, think of him. When the runner comes out when we’re 25 points up and got a run on to tell you to take the pedal off the metal, think of this name.
“Boys, Westoffs, Warren, I give you … Terry Bosniak.”
“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.”
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.
Thursday, 24 December 2009
A Christmas Carol
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!"
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!"
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.
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