The Calf-Blood Princes* have travelled up from Manly to play the Gold Coast Titans in Queensland and I’m watching it because I know from my over-the-shoulder glances in the pub on Friday night that it was a cracker of a game, but I am also totally surly about it because my favourite Titan won’t be there. Prince Scotty the Caramel was – of course – injured in the Origin decider on Wednesday. Now he has a broken arm to match two past broken legs and it’s clearer than ever that while boy might be a marvel on the field he also has bones of glass. If they can inject muscles with calf-blood down in Manly is it really that difficult to pop a few calcium supplements in Caramel Scotty’s Gatorade? Really?

Sigh. I’m going to miss our little Prince. I will try and care about the Titans without him, but I can’t make any promises.

Events are dramatical from the outset, with the Titans looming with a kick near the tryline on the left hand side, and losing it equally quickly when Ben Jeffery pops a pass to Luke O’Dwyer who is so surprised he drops the ball. Aw honey, don’t worry! They’re in it again immediately with Anthony Laffranchi snapping up the ball and nipping through a gap in defence for a charging try.

If I may, Mr. Laffranchi, I would like to know where the hell this form was on Origin night. Hmmmm? You perverse bastard. That was a classy try, and as a Blues fan I resent it. Mark Minichiello sees the score sitting at 6-0 for his team and decides this is far too comfortable, handing the ball back to the Sea Eagles with a truly gigantic knock on. Clearly Minichiello does nothing on a small scale. He is hands down the largest Italian I have ever seen. He is a man-mountain. If he was back in Campania surely he would be a star attraction for the other tiny Italians. Possibly lifting up men while they sit on benches as a show of his superior strength.

Steve Matai is injured in a tackle and sent back to the dressing room coughing up blood and with a bruised lung and I’m totally grossed out.  Also, confused that they use cling wrap on this injury.  It’s hard to imagine NURSE, PASS ME THE GLAD.

The Calf-Blood Princes seize on possession and rustle up some lovely plays on the right hand wing, some beautiful plays on the left, and wangle their way to another set of six tackles. Good work little Brett Stewart! (Although once I question Laffranchi after this game you, my son, will be next. I don’t think I even saw you with the ball on Wednesday night. Remember that). Right again for a just-not-quite attempted try by that hot bearded bitch David Williams. Left again, right again, and Steve Bell dives over the tryline trailing Nathan Friend and miscellaneous Titans from his jersey. Nathan Friend is oddly lovable in general, but tonight he has on a special baby pink headgear to show support for breast cancer research and my heart is full. I would like to see more pastel headgear in rugby league in future. Plus he’s just so tiny. He’s a pocket hooker!

I have no idea whether the ball ever hit the ground but the ref says yes and Itty Bitty Matt Orford makes the kick for a 6-6 score. I’m cool with that, because – I know you were wondering – I’m totally barracking for Manly tonight. Usually I am violently opposed to anything involving the colour maroon but I love Steve Menzies like you wouldn’t believe so Manly it is. He’s just so … manly. In that old-fashioned, 1900s, leaving the farm to sign up for World War I, because ‘… reckon that’ll be a laugh, right boys?’ way. You know?

I have also never ever heard a single bad word about him, and considering what tragic gossips league boys are, I’m pretty sure that makes him Jesus in headgear. I also cannot remember a time when I watched football and he wasn’t playing for Manly, so he may also be undead. Just sayin.

Oh, Steven.

Ray Warren announces that Menzies is ‘Mr. Kewl’. Phil Gould announces “my god this is a magnificent stadium”. One of these things is true. Guess which one. Maybe take a look back at that picture of Menzies before you answer. The two old women are certainly in fine form tonight and I love it. They are basically Kiki’s and my future right there in man form. Sitting in their arm chairs, squabbling about video referee decisions and whether it is acceptable for Phil Gould to leave his seat in the commentary booth to grab a biscuit or whether this is only allowed when the product is a sponsor of the show.  Amazing. 

Adam Cuthbertson lumbers across the field and we have another unexpected entry in the race to win Fattest Man in League 2008. This competition is really heating up. There is a slew of knock ons from all and sundry. Manly send an enormous kick across field and while Corporal Menzies of the Light Horse trips and misses, David Williams leaps for the football and barely misses out on another try.

In fact, Steve Bell from Manly is also looking particularly bearded and Bushrangerish at the moment. Between those two and Menzies, Manly are definitely shaping up as the most retro team in the league. I approve.

[I have a SERIOUS thing for Steve Bell. He makes me tingly in bad places. He's kind of balding, is a Queenslander and plays for Manly so why do I want to lick his tummy so bad? - Kiki]

Michael Hodgson sends Manly winger Michael Robertson off on a little Disneyland sortie with a huge shoulder, and the Titans attack with some fabulous Mat Rogers dummies until lil Luke O’Dwyer forgets about holding onto the ball again. He just does not win at life today. Well a lot of people don’t, I suppose, because there are lost footballs and knock ons as far as the eye can see. This is such a scrappy game and I love it. I think the anarchy is the sign of lots of risk taking and ball movement. Thumbs up. Ooh, and a double knock on. Amazing.

Tinyman Orford magics a break and an offload to Corporal Menzies for a lovely jump and try on the right hand side of the field. Now this is football! Gould says he’s too excited to sit down. Why couldn’t we have Menzies in the team for Origin? So what if he’s retiring. I know he’s a thousand years old but I care not for numbers. Bitch is evergreen! MENZIES FOR ORIGIN.

Tinyman coverts. 12-6 Calf-Blood Princes.

Preston Campbell makes a leap across field that comes nowhere near the ball he was aiming for. Gouldy supposes he misread the windsock. Bless. Rabs calls Jamie Lyon a man of steel. I think that only works if by ‘steel’, you mean ‘not steel’. And that just about sends us into halftime.

David Williams, you do us proud. Just moments into the second half, Ned Kelly catches a long kick in goal, and runs it out into play. When Mat Rogers fells him in a tackle he plays the ball and shows admirable flexibility with a nifty downward dog before staggering into goal. So noble! Sacrificing a good twenty thousand brain cells to let his team keep running downfield.

The Titans run a lovely decoy player and Friend the pockethooker passes to Davies for a try. A conversion evens the score at 12-12. Interference with the play the ball earns the Sea Eagles a penalty and Mat Rogers brings the score to 14-12. Go you calf-blood princes.

Teenyman Orford one then proceeds to set up a Jamie Lyon try. 16-14.

Ned Kelly makes an amazing break, sprinting for the tryline, grinning wildly, pursued for the full 90 metres by pockethooker Nathan Friend like an Irish Setter pursued by a Pomeranian. It’s magic. Matty Johns yells ‘look at him howling at the moon!’ and hotbitch Kelly grounds a try. David Williams, you can howl at my moon anyday. I don’t know that means exactly, but you can be sure it’s dirty.

His bushranging partner Steve Bell and fellow Hills boy Heath L’Estrange run in for man cuddles. Hills district represent!

Conversion: 22-14.

Flash to a Manly supporter in the crowd holding a sign that reads:

Corporal Menzies breaks to send flying Brett Stewart in for another length-of-the-field try. Conversion! So much excitement! Steve Menzies is Jesus in headgear!

30-14.

A lad in the crowd obviously agrees with me, because he’s holding up a giant sign that reads I HEART BEVER.

And in case a 16 point lead isn’t crushing enough, right on the full time buzzer, the ball runs through Lyon’s hands to Orford, directly backwards to little flying Stewart and in for a try. Conversion.

34-14 Sea Eagles. Orford dances for joy. Stewart is standing in a circle of Manly players re-enacting the final try with his hands and I die of cute. I don’t even smoke but I kinda need a cigarette.

* TM Kiki.

NO ONE LIKES US
WE DON’T CARE

There was a lot of excitement in the air in the lead up to this game. A lot of Kiki the cripple’s excitement was probably because she hadn’t left the house in three weeks, had an intense case of cabin fever, and was completely desperate to see other people, to drink beer, and to abuse something or someone. But our hearts were also full to brimming with nerves for our baby blues and steely determination to take out this year’s State of Origin.

With Kiki clad in her very Jack Gibson-esque caramel vintage fur, and me rugged up in knitted cream beret and giant blues scarf, we set off – looking adorable – on the Hills Bus to do our bit to secure victory by drinking, abusing, dancing, cheering, and mocking hideous and hateful Queenslanders. Clearly we are an integral part of the NSW team.

If you’re wondering, yes we do do everything together. We’re creepy like that. We’re also blogging together right now. Because we’re nerdy like that.

The omens from the Gods were all pointing to success. We had cold beers in our hands and a pub carpark full of adorable mans dressed in blue to flirt with. There may be a mandrought, but when you corral all the colts it sure don’t seem that way.

When I (like an idiot, but not yet a drunken one) lost my cashed-up wallet in the crowd I was rescued by my own Origin angel. Adorably, his name was Mick. Mick the angel, dressed in a Blues jersey, who tracked down my wallet, tracked down my parents through Sensis and tracked down my mobile number to deliver it to me outside Gate K just as the first whistle blew.

Bet a Queenslander wouldn’t do that, bitches. They probably would have taken my eighty bucks and spent it on cans of Bundy for themselves and their girlfriends and/or sisters – who may be the same person – and Queensland stubby holders to put them in. You know it’s true.

After the origin miracle and two Smirnoffs we settled into the stadium to find something even more miraculous: the cavernous shithole that is ANZ was full of blue TRY signs, blue jumpers, blue wigs and blue pride. It almost had an atmosphere. Almost. I was so excited I almost peed a tiny bit. True story. Especially to see my baby Roosters Mitchell Pearce and Braith Anasta play together: LOOK HOW CUTE THEY ARE.

I know we all already know that the mighty blues were beaten, but let’s relive it in point form anyway. And I warn you in advance there won’t be much talk about football, because we don’t wanna talk about it, kk? All we have to say is THAT PASS WAS NOT FORWARD. Also, maybe if we had K Rudd hanging in our dressing room, things would have been different. Hmmmm?

* At only two minutes on the clock, we saw what everyone, deep in their heart, longs to see at Origin. A fight. Some biff. Big old anvil Petero Civenociva tackled Ben Cross with a high forearm to give away a penalty and the boys rushed from near and far to push and shove and throw a punch. Is there any sweeter experience than standing as one with 80,000 others to mime punches and scream ‘FIIIIIIIGHT!’ in the guttural animal tones of savages? I say no. Apparently I even scared Kiki a little with the intensity of my bloodlust. Who says there are no surprises in long-term relationships?

At the time, we actually thought it was a high tackle on Danny Nutley, and once the pro-violence group hysteria subsided we had to spend a good five minutes discussing when and how this mystery Danny Nutley selection wasn’t reported in the papers. Also isn’t he retired?

But now that I’m sober, I still say it’s an easy mistake to make. I bet everyone has confused Ben Cross and Danny Nutley at least once in their life. How often does a hairline like that come along anyway?

  
See?

* Best of all, it was only minutes before we got to see it again. This is what has been missing from Origin, I say. NOT ENOUGH FIGHTING. In one moment of sheer sporting brilliance, Hot Bitch sprinted from the other side of the field to join the melee, and snapped Brent Tate’s head back with one swift grab of his ridiculous neck brace. This ensured he stayed vertical and could be more effectively pummelled by other New South Welshman. Now that is some smart thinking. I am also 90% certain that Craig Fitzgibbon had Pasty Greg Inglis in a headlock and I could die of joy at the memory of it.

* I should also say, as a general observation, I did not expect to be as overwhelmed as I was to be seated so very close to greatness. And by greatness, I mean the quivering molten human charisma that is Hot Bitch Cooper. You know whenever there’s a break in play and everyone is kinda exhausted and wandering? Not our Hot Bitch. He’s still standing there in ‘ready’ pose with all his muscles poised, sniffing out action, completely and utterly focussed. Like some kind of insanely hot football playing panther. Apparently hotness never rests.

It’s fair to say virtually nothing shuts the two of us up, but when he appeard on field, lust did. For at least four minutes. We just sat in silence and contemplated The Man; staring and thinking slutty, slutty thoughts. After a while, to be honest, we almost felt bad for raping him with our eyes. We exchanged a guilty look and wondered if we were somehow violating his human rights. I half-expected him to turn around and plead ‘I AM NOT A PIECE OF MEAT! I AM A MAN!’

When he scored the Blues’ only try, there was a frenzy of clapping and ‘GO HOT BITCH’ from our section of the stands, and since people with broken elbows can’t clap, a lot of foot-stomping from Kiki.

* Aside from the joys of close-up Coops, our D reserve seats behind the goalpost also offered a special blend of football fans from North and South of the Tweed. To our left, lovely gentlemanly St George Dragons fans. In front, a row of footy-lovin lesbians, and about twenty people dressed in matching blue plaid and facepaint. One aisle over, a man dressed as Where’s Wally? In one highlight from the closing minutes of the game, Where’s Wally and a group of teenagers erupted into mob violence in the stands and four men were arrested by police. Good times.

And to our right … wow. Where do we begin? How about: two ladies who embody every reason I have ever pitied or loathed a Queenslander.

Lady number one we shall christen “speak no evil”. Truly she did not speak. Not one word. Instead, she stared vacantly with mouth agape, in her Maroons jersey, strappy black kitten heels, and Amy Winehouse eyeliner. I’m a firm believer that those shoes are never the right choice, but surely even less so when you have feet like a hobbit. Are there no pumice stones in Queensland?

Lady number two more than made up for her though. “Hear no evil” spent eighty full minutes on her feet screaming ‘Queenslander’ in what can – political correctness aside – can only be described as a Deaf Voice. Even the Dragons fan to our left started contemplating physical violence fifteen minutes in, and he was at least thirty-five times nicer a person than we are. We felt mightily validated in our bitchery.

In the scheme of things, I guess they did need a win more than we did. When your hair and teeth are the same colour, you really deserve a little joy somewhere in your life.

* Injuries can make you laugh, and make you cry. Michael Crocker made us do both when he charged towards a kicking Mitchell Pearce and was knocked out by a football to the temple. I had previously thought nothing could be more hilarious than Dallas Johnson in Origin game one. I was wrong. The crowd rose to their feet and cackled as he staggered and side-stepped and swayed off the field like a Pantomime drunk. Every time he tried to stand his right leg buckled in a quivering Elvis impersonation, but old Mick just kept on trying. Who would have thought a ball to the head could bring so much joy? It also makes us happy that others are as cavalier towards head injuries as we are.

Hang in there, Mick mate.

Unfortunately the memory of those lolz wasn’t quite enough to ease our pain when our Baby Jarryd Hayne was knocked out in mid-tackle on a Queenslander. As he lay face down on the field we yelled in unison ‘OH NO IT’S BABY HAYNE!’ Put down your knitting, Hornbag! You might be going on!

A polarfleeced spectator turned around at that point and mockingly asked ‘ … baby?‘, but that doesn’t change the fact that he spent the rest of the game calling him Baby, too. I can’t wait till this nickname takes off Australia-wide. Go Baby, go!

We are also heartbroken that Caramel Scotty Prince has broken his arm. No one at the field even knew he was injured, he just … disappeared. Kiki likes to think the injury was a show of solidarity with her broken arm and they can now nurse each other back to health. I can’t figure out if he would prefer that to Wally Lewis, who actually did nurse him backstage. They looked super sweet together as Wally consoled him and pinned up his sling and helped him into his magenta dressing gown. Even when they’re Queenslanders you just can’t hate those two crazy kids.

(Don’t worry Steve Price, we can’t hate you either. You’re just too damn lovely).

* We also have a new Origin hero in the form of Ben “I’m not Danny Nutley” Cross. Not only was he the spark to the fire of the first fight in the game, he also played a starring role in the third one. The fight erupted when the missing link in human evolution that is Nate Myles threw Cross to the ground in a spear tackle. But our new baby Cross, despite being thrown onto his skull, just leapt to his feet and threw five amazing and hilarious uppercuts to a doubled-over Brent Tate.

THAT’S IT! GIVE IT TO BRENT TATE!

If you’ve never seen a stadium full of people cheering and miming uppercuts, then you haven’t lived. It was amazing. Especially when we realised everyone hates Brent Tate. Knowing that restores my faith in humanity.

Note: I was considering including a picture of Tate, but we just don’t want his head on our blog.

* And finally, in the grand tradition of football, we drowned our sorrows afterwards. It was like a wake. Our hearts were sitting in our chests in a million little pieces. Thankfully vast amounts of Tooheys New and a cover band singing ACDC consoled us somewhat.

And as we set off on the 11.30 pm drunks only express from Homebush we also met five winners from Queensland who miaowed like cats, ran an auction to buy a bra for their lovelorn single friend to practice on, offered $14 to me if I would kick their ringleader in the nuts, and finally produced a replica Origin shield from thin air, signed by Danny Buderus. How is that possible? I think they stole it. It was also only the tragic lack of a felt tip pen that stopped the boys getting the transit cops to sign alongside it. The combined effect was that my heart healed a little bit, so thank you mystery boys. Can you believe people say Australian men aren’t charming?

We capped off the night with a visit to the always-classy Empire. This makes two visits to the Empire in six years, which I think is far too frequent. Don’t tell anyone.

It looked like origin had vomitted in there. Vomit made up of country boys, footy groupies, and maroon jerseys (suprisingly, no carrot – there’s usually always carrot). We were entertained by an under-20s footy team from Canberra, who squired us about, and seemed to enjoy the charms that Sydney has to offer. (Matt to Kiki: “nobody kisses like that in Canberra!”. I believe you on that one Matt). Wendell will be so disappointed he wasn’t there to watch.

In conclusion, they say tragedy and disappointment build character and teach life lessons. What we’ve learned from this experience is that two of Queensland’s most freakish players – Inglis and Folau – are, in fact, from NSW. This makes us kind of enraged. But we also learned that there is a silver lining to this awful cloud: at least Queensland can’t call themselves bloody underdogs anymore.

And they say the news is depressing.

I have to confess right now that I am a closet Todd McKenney fan. Love him. Know it’s wrong, love him all the same.

Not just because he played Nathan Starkey in Baz Luhrmann’s masterpiece Strictly Ballroom (Pam Short’s broken both her legs … and I wanna dance with you), although obvs that helps a lot. Love him because he’s a total bitch. Love his crazy jug ears. Plus he has a place in my street I think because once I walked the dog past him in my trackies while he was waiting in the street with suitcases, and he totally said ‘what a handsome dog’. HANDSOME. True story. Want me to tell it again?

Sometimes I even watch Dancing with the Stars in the vain hope that he and Sonia Kruger will do a spectacular reunion samba. (Was that going too far with the honesty?)

And now after his infamous discovery in Rushcutters Bay park, passed out on Anzac Day afternoon with ghb in his pocket – and bloodstream – Todd McKenney has said possibly the sweetest words any celebrity can say.

“They weren’t my drugs! Someone put them in my pocket when I took my pants off.”

In his statement to police he explained the whole crazy mix-up. And quite the farcical mix-up it was. See Todd – and who HASN’T done this? – got a little heated on the dance floor and took off his pants. And while his pants were circling his ankles, some misbegot stuffed ghb in his pocket. Also, in his drink.

You know it makes sense.

I can say from personal experience that at about 3am that dancefloor at Gilligan’s is a furnace. The only thing worse is the dancefloor at the Palms. If I ever wore pants I’d be ripping those bitches off too, bb. Sometimes the crotch just really needs air.

There is nothing I love more than the old pants-off explanation from a celebrity. It’s like a lunar eclipse: it only happens rarely, but when it does, god is it beautiful. Possibly the only other pants-off incident to top this is our girl Lindsay Lohan’s valiant effort last year.

Sure Lilo was off her face, climbed in an SUV, stalked her assistant in a high-speed car chase and had cocaine in her pocket. But, guys:

“THEY WEREN’T MY PANTS.”

Sure you whip off your pants, Todd, but do you pants swap? Hmm. I thought not. And that’s why I do adore you McKenney, but Lilo owns my heart.

Since we believe our fingers are firmly on the cultural pulse, we’ve decided to share our wisdom with the internets. And if you’re lucky, we might do it on a regular basis. We actually wrote it together, but Kiki’s profile was feeling a little alone and underused so we’re posting as Kiki today. It just can’t understand that mummy can’t use her typing hand. We figure it doesn’t matter anyway because we seem to share a brain between us.

Going up: Greyhound races

(we’re in there somewhere)

As a kid, because she spent every summer at the beach near the excitement capital of Nowra on the NSW south coast, Sassy spent a lot of rainy days at the Nowra roxy cinema and the Nowra dog track: placing sneaky bets with the bookies via Nan and running riot amongst the bogans. And this year, we’ve rediscovered it.

We do love a venue where the acceptable pantswear includes tracksuits. Even with ugg boots. There are no lines at the dog races: not for the $3 beers, not for the $8 black russians, not for the hot dog van, and not even for the stand that sells baked potatoes with various toppings (including coleslaw).

And Sydney’s Wentworth Park is the ranging prairie of Sydney nights out, room for all! Feel free to move away from the stinky yeeros van and sit on the concrete or get right up close to the puppies as they prance along in their colourful vests and get ready to race. What could be more fun than finding out the dog named ‘Lulu Diamond’ you’ve bet on is actually – quite obviously – a male dog, prancing past in its pink jersey with all its manliness swinging in the breeze? Surprise testes brighten any evening.

The dogs are delightfully lowbrow. Bookies won’t judge you for betting $2 each way (and by the way – how much fun is gambling? so much fun), the locals are chatty bastards, and even the ATM is actually a friendly man in shorts and long socks in the TAB with an EFTPOS machine.

Look, IT’S JUST FUN. OK?

Note: feel free to refer to the dogs as “the dishlickers”. It’s endearingly Australian.

Going down: Horse racing

There might be horses there, but do you ever see them? Try even reaching the track through the sea of suited-up douchebags in Dior sunnies (they’re for LADIES) and tandoori-tanned girls in lycra cocktail wear and bedraggled fasincators and you’ll find yourself with a heel stuck in the grass, cheap champagne spilled on your ass, and a man in Oakleys trying to chat you up.

They call it the sport of kings. Really it’s the sport of the entitled crowd from Cargo bar, and horses … somewhere around the place.

If you make the effort to make a day of the races – and really, don’t you feel like you should? – there’s nothing more depressing than arriving in your adorable outfit to face a wall of minidresses and strappy diamanted sandals. We love the notion of glamour at the races: men in coats and vests, and women who look pretty, not whorey, but the reality is horrifying. RACEWEAR IS NOT COCKTAIL WEAR, GIRLS.

The races shouldn’t be about Bacardi Breezers, Sneaky Sound System, and picking up, and let’s not even get into people who take party drugs at the races. Blech. It’s a cesspool of corrupted faux-glamour.

When you get over it too, we’ll see you at the dog track.

The Friday night recap is a special edition this week. Since I’m staying at Crippled Kiki’s this weekend, you’ll get double the awesome from us as I blog, and she nurses her broken elbow on the couch and sporadically chimes in with bitchy and hilarious comments.

This Friday sees Cripple’s baby Dragons playing the Penrith Panthers who I am completely indiff …. um, who is that? It seems that over the past fourteen weeks I have failed to notice that there is a completely, insanely, tousle-haired, bedraggled hot bitch of a second-rower playing for Penrith. He’s got a slight gut, a slight stagger, slight stubble, and a slight whiff of woke-up-on-a-pub-floor-and-was-unexpectedly-signed-to-play-league about him. His name is Matthew Bell and he may be our perfect man.

See I had this hole in my heart from when Nathan Hindmarsh lopped off his shaggy hair, but now it is finally filled. The Panthers website tells me his interests include fishing and camping, but I’m sure we can cure him of those.

Where was I? Oh yes, the footy.

Even before the game starts tonight has already been some Champagne football. In the Wests Tigers vs Brisbane Broncos clash we discovered the truly fabulous Daine Laurie. He’s two metres of giant man with a full head of dreadlocks, and his ridiculously long legs may or may not be made of Cadbury Old Gold.

Kiki thinks he’s reminiscent of a pre-Rugby Union (as she puts it ‘PRE-BETRAYAL’) Lote Tuqiri.

According to the Herald, Cadbury Daine almost conceded a penalty when he ‘shoved’ Corey Parker. We’re pretty certain that shit wasn’t no shove. It was a bitch slap. Left hand to the left cheek, left hand to the right cheek on the way back. Bitch. Slap. Everyone says so. And Corey Parker definitely agrees because he grabbed his cheek in shock and made the international mouth-open OH NO YOU DIDN’T BITCHSLAP ME face. Gold.

Now, on to the main event.

The Dragons aren’t messing around tonight and within about five minutes have me face-down with hysterics as Jarrod Sammut lets a kick fly directly into little Jamie Soward’s face and it ricochets from his forehead back into Sammut’s chest to a surprised and delighted Petero Civoneciva.

There is actually an audible smack when it hits Soward’s tiny peanut head and Kiki shudders and flails a little bit due to flashbacks of a football-to-temple incident in the school playground in year nine.

The cobras … the cobras!

Old warhorse Petero can’t manage to turn it into a try and I’m unexpectedly sympathetic because he looks completely fucking exhausted. He’s drenched in sweat and starting to sway a little. Not to mention that ole Oak Tree Petero already has giant beige knee braces on both knees and one elbow strapped. Bitch has enough problems. We also couldn’t handle it if anyone else league-related dies this year.

Crafty Trent Waterhouse breaks through the bewildered Dragons to send Rhys Wesser in for a Penrith try. Go Danny Glover, go! Ray Warren thinks the Panthers are particularly ominous tonight. I like to think ominous is today’s word on Rabs’ word of the day calendar.

And even though the Dragons are now 6-0 down, Jason ‘Flossy’ Nightingale JUST LOVES PLAYING RUGBY LEAGUE! As he tackles a passing Panther we are certain we see him giggle in delight. Kiki christens him the Labrador of rugby league, and if he had a tail he’d be wagging it now.

He even looks a tiny bit joyful when he attempts a left hand sideline run for a try and is tossed into touch. Oh, Flossy.

The commentary team are also sparkling today, and when little Jamie Soward and his headgear clean up a ball in the goal area Andrew Voss chips in “Soward was good skill”. Sage words, Vossy.

Phil Gould refuses to be outdone in the commentary box and decrees that the Dragons’ ball-running remains strong.

“It may have only been eight metres but it was a bloody good run”.

Who knew there were criteria for a run on the field other than how far you run on the field? Not I. Yhat’s amazing, Gus. Gould has also named two Penrith players ‘Big F’ and ‘Big P’ and doesn’t seem to care that no one has any idea which players he’s talking about.

Snuggly Ben Hornby goes down in a tackle and comes up with a bleeding eye. Kiki is distraught that her Hornbag is injured, but one plus is that the trickles of blood are making his usually undefined eyes stand out a lot on screen. Ben Creagh’s head was also broken a little a few tackles ago and is still bleeding. Why does Creagh’s head always break??

It upsets Kiki a lot and she starts reminding me that scientists say brain damage is one of three causative elements in creating serial killers. If he also has a personality disorder we are all in trouble. WATCH OUT FOR BEN CREAGH KIDS.

Down on the sideline Andrew Johns has also finally reached the conclusion that the Panthers are looking ominous tonight. Yep, definitely the word of the day on the boss’ desk down at Channel Nine. Except when Joey says it it comes out as ‘onimous’. Bless.

Gus Gould continues to up the insanity levels and announces:

“This is an opportunity for Penrith to pull their pants down”.

THAT’S NOT AN EXPRESSION GUS.

I don’t really know what happens then because I am distracted by Wade Graham who has some of the most beautiful eyelashes I’ve ever seen (that’s not a joke, I really was. Kiki was too), but it ends with Luke Lewis scoring another try for the Panthers.

Flossy looks pissed and it’s really unnerving. Like being growled at by a Guinea Pig. Jason Ryles is chewing his nails and I think that explains why the Dragons couldn’t stop Lewis getting across for a try. Pay attention, bitches. Matty Johns reminds me why I am completely in love with him by pointing out ‘LUKE LEWIS IS A FOOTY PLAYER’. Indeed.

12-0. Halftime.

The Dragons prance into the second half breathing fire and bleeding Ben Creagh – now with preventative tape around his skull – stretches an arm around Sammut to score a lovely try. Chesty Bond Gasnier is joyful, but Ben Creagh and the also bleeding Hornbag don’t so much look happy as they do like refugees who’ve just cleared the crest of the hill and realised they still can’t see the border. Those head injuries must be painful.

Jamie Soward marches on the spot in his little soldier dance and converts for a 12-6 score.

Only a moment later Soward passes to Josh Morris of the Amazing Morris Twins who strides through the defence and sets off sprinting for the tryline. With his long long legs he eats up the distance and dives in for a try, his regulation NRL shorts looking like natty little hotpants on his aforementioned long long legs.

Fun fact: Kiki has named her ample boobs after the Morris twins in honour of her team. I believe that lefty is Brett and righty is named Josh, but you may like to confirm that with her.

Another conversion for the Tiny Dancer Jamie Soward. 12-12.

Even more wonderfully, Andrew Johns makes a joke. AND IT’S FUNNY. He watches dancey Soward march on the spot and observes that as a retired player he has plenty of time for leisure activities, and on his last African Safari he realised this looks exactly like the mating dance of the African Love Bird. See! Funny! Good for you Joey darlin.

Flossy. Oh, Flossy. The next play sees precious little Floss kneel and reach out his arms to catch a falling bomb kicked by Penrith. Only, no catch is made. His little arms stay motionless as the ball hits the ground and bounces away. Flossy looks up, looks down at his arms. Looks up, looks down. Somehow, the ball is nowhere to be seen. And when, two minutes later, he stands and sees a slow-motion replay of the moment on the big screen, the tiny cogs in his labrador brain click into place. I DIDN’T CATCH IT. He screams fuck. It’s oddly adorable. Our hearts explode in unison from the cute.

After a slew of ridiculous penalties against the Panthers, Frank Pritchard (could he be the mysterious Big F?) reels out of a tackle to slam the back of his head against Hornbag’s right cheek. A bleeding Big F staggers away as Hornbag grabs his head and realises he now has a bleeding gash under his eye to match the seeping taped one above. MY FRICKIN EYE!

Kiki hugs a pillow and offers to kiss it better. Clearly she worries not about AIDS. Or Hep C.

In what is surely a gift from God to gay men everywhere, Brett Morris is pulled down in a tackle and his whole, bare, shining white arse is de-shorted in all it’s glory to the entire stadium and thousands of TV viewers. FM Forums have already dubbed it THE BEST DAKKING OF THE YEAR.

It really is amazing. I think we might have seen testicle. I’m kind of shocked.

Soward pops in a field goal for 13-12 but the guys from Channel 9 are too busy showing replays of Brett Morris’ arse to care.

Gouldy crows with glee ‘I told you they’d pull their pants down!’

OK I stand corrected Gouldy. But just this once.

Matty Johns skeeves into the microphone that he doesn’t know which beaches in Woollongong Bretty’s been going to but he cerrtainly doesn’t have any tan lines. He also suggests a shot of Bretty’s full moon as a future NRL ad campaign. Oh Matty, you homo. That’s why we love you.

In a final storm of anarchy, and a cutting moment of indignity, Hornbag drops the ball, falls over, and resurfaces with blood pouring from his eyes like a Latin saint.

In a highlight of the game so far they whip him off field and send him back like this.

Kiki’s being all precious about immortalising Hornbag’s humiliation, but fuck off cause she can’t type. That is HILARIOUS. Best of all is the pure rage in his eyes. Bitch knows he looks ridiculous, and he is Not Pleased with this turn of events.

MY FRICKIN HEAD!

The whistle blows to give the Dragons a 13-12 win but Hornbag can’t crack a smile. Physically, I mean. That tape looks tight. The draggies hug in their fleecy red robes and might I suggest that Matthew Bell come spend the night consoling himself in my pants, thanks.