a state of origin with no beer

May 27th, 2011

It is a truth universally acknowledged that some things should never be done sober. Like wedding toasts, or watching the Royal Wedding, or ten-pin bowling.

Add Origin to that list. It’s a game that’s a delightful, brain-buzzing, gut-trembling riot of footy and yelling and aggression and tries when you’ve had a beer or two, and it’s over before you can say “Darren Lockyer looks like the Master from Buffy”.

When you’re stone cold sober in your place of work, like your fearless correspondent Sassy was, Origin goes for an E-T-E-R-N-I-T-Y. Every Queensland set happens in horrifying movie-style slow-motion. It was AWFUL. No one should be forced to go through that. And the papers thought Willie Tonga was courageous? Bitch, please.

It’s actually made me feel some empathy for the Queensland tendency to smash some Red Bull and Stillnox. It’s especially ironic when you’re watching two teams sponsored by VB and XXXX play each other. STOP MOCKING ME WITH YOUR CAPITAL LETTER BEERS, YOU BASTARDS!

What the hell Queensland dude. Just … what the hell.

The only upside is our that a non-cloudy brain means we can bring you some extra accurate rage. Let’s break down game one, shall we?


Don’t lie, there were a few. For one thing, there’s a been a lot of controversy over our decision to declare that the first “Cattledog” happened after the whistle at approximately the 81st minute of the game (meaning the guess of 72 minutes was closest). Sure, the game was technically finished, but they were still on the field, Thaiday was a-swingin’ around getting fiesty, Greg Bird was trying to lay ’em on Corey Parker and we were cheering. As far as we’re concerned, it was the very definition of Cattledog.

We would also humbly suggest that James Blunt as pre-game entertainment wasn’t the best call. Man-motional pop doesn’t psyche anyone up to play footy, does it? Next time can’t we just make Phil Gould do his on-field inspirational speech twice instead? It gives us GOOSEBUMPS, no word of a lie. He’s the Robin Williams of the Dead Poets Society that is rugby league. O Captain, my captain!

And that’s before we even get to the forward passes from dummy half and a few dodgy tackles *cough*Willie*cough*.  All things I would gleefully have missed out on noticing had I not been so lucid.

(Not kidding, I miss a lot when I’m at games. Like that time at ANZ Stadium when Kiki and I loudly demanded to know how the hell Danny Nutley was playing State of Origin when he was retired. A nice man in the next row had to explain that it was Ben Cross).

We like to call one elbow ‘herbs’ and the other one ‘spices’.

Clearly, things that I don’t count as bad calls include people going the face massage or the neck-region in a tackle. That’s just the delightful spice on the roast that is a tackle in Origin.


You know I don’t like saying nice things about Queeslanders, but goddamn Matt Scott got Jan Brady-ed on Wednesday night. Cameron Smith man of the match, really? Who exactly does M.Scott have to French kiss to get some recognition?

That’s not a rhetorical question, by the way. Because I know at least eight young ladies who will gladly volunteer. Apparently they like his burly, Lazarus-esque flava.

Even Vossy looks a little overwhelmed, no? Pic by the amazing Fall of Reach

M.Scott was a rampaging beast in the first half. And that’s not to say the Blues forwards were pushovers … he was just unstoppable. Like two Fui Fui Moi Mois having a wrestling bout inside a Maroons jersey. I would even go so far as to use the word “outstanding”. I will also, later, go so far as to have a 50 minute shower to try and wash off how dirty I feel after saying that.

But apparently Cam “Marcia Brady” Smith is still the star of the show. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!

And M.Scott being robbed of his prom queen crown isn’t as bad as the rap some of our baby Blues are getting.

To anyone thinking Mark Gasnier deserves the boot, you’ll have to get past us first. Gaz was a saviour! While our forwards fell down in defence … who was there? Gaz. Damn straight he was. Right next to Aku Uate and his giant ass. Defending like demons, and in between running the ball at the line like they thought they weighed us much as Wendell. Those boys have no fear. And watching Aku charge upfield is almost as glorious as watching him bust moves on the dancefloor.

Beau Scott? Not a chance! Twitter loves calling him on his faults (as if getting your punch on is even a fault, but whatevs) but that boy stood up.

Duges you glorious bogan! You can put a ‘such is life’ decal on our car anytime.

Next you’ll be telling us Josh Dugan was out of position in defence … oh wait, no people did say that. But were they not watching his 25 FLAWLESS takes of the high ball? His threatening drifting runs across the line? His sparkly diamond studs?

Bitches, please. Don’t even try and pull that Jarryd ‘Marcia’ Hayne line on us.

He may be the train, or the plane, or any other mode of communal transportation, but Duges justified his selection every time he grabbed the ball.


Oh, New South Wales. No matter how many series we’ve lost, the Blues never ever stop winning our hearts.

Greg Bird, your aggression is spectacular. Dugan, your sneaky offloads are a delight. Jennings, your try was #footyboner in its purest form.

This picture was saved on my desktop as “husband”.



Much as we love our boys in blue, we have Some Things to Say. Things of the tough-love variety. The backs of the team can go play on the swings, but our forward pack needs to sit down and hear this.

When your backs are running at the line harder than you are … that shit’s not cool.

When you play better at Toyota Stadium than you do in Origin … that shit’s not cool.

When Gasnier’s making try-savers in the middle of the field … that shit’s not cool.

When M.Scott makes more metres than four of you combined … that shit’s not cool.

I say this with love. Angry, scary love, like Gran from Angry Boys. I only say it cause I know you’re better than this ‘n’ shit.

You’re not just called a pack cause you pack into a scrum. You’re a motherfucking wolf pack, boys! You watch each other’s backs. When you’re tackling a man, three of you go in so you can wrap up the ball. Every extra metre a man makes from a shifty Sam Thaiday offload is a knife into our delicate little hearts.

And every time a NSW forward runs with no other forwards anywhere around him, we die a little inside.

Be the pack. Live the pack. Go to Vegas and secretly slip ecstacy into the pack’s drinks. Whatever it takes, right? Good.

Now gimme a hug then go hit the swings with Jennings, we’ll see you next camp.

And if any of the Blues fans out there feel a little … desolate after the loss, chin up kittens. Not only was it a valiant performance, but it brought us this:


Pics. Getty Images

  • Phil

    Also Danny Nutley was a filthy Queenslander.

  • Anonymous