Since we met the blues boys yesterday, I guess it’s only “fair” and “reasonable” that we talk about the Queensland Origin team. And like most things that are fair, it will be unpleasant. Like sharing shit with your brothers and sisters, and giving people back their lost wallets and cash if you find them. Boo fairness.

Here they are in all their maroon glory:

Billy Slater

Darius Boyd

Greg Inglis

Willie Tonga

Israel Folau

Darren Lockyer (c)

Johnathan Thurston

Matthew Scott

Cameron Smith

Petero Civoniceva

Nate Myles

Sam Thaiday

Ashley Harrison

Interchange:

Cooper Cronk

David Shillington

Neville Costigan

David Taylor

DARREN LOCKYER IS CAPTAIN, IN OTHER NEWS THE SKY IS BLUE

Well of course he is. If you’ve won four series, don’t fix it, right? And the other regular things are the same too. Billy Slater’s at fullback, Peter Civoniciva now has 200 rings around his trunk but is still the starting prop, and Neville Costigan is on the bench instead of on the field. Poor Neville. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. At least it’s a step up from 18th man, no? At this rate he’ll be a starting second-rower before I die.

As for you Darius Boyd – I was starting to … tolerate you this year. Out of the Broncos maroon Boyd started to run at the line at fullback, even PASS the ball to set up tries, and I almost said nice things about him. Needless to say, the truce is off. YOU’RE GOING DOWN, BOYD. Mark my words (and Timana’s hands).

IT’S COOPER CRONK, BITCH

OH HAY! Our favourite footy field-marshal is FINALLY in the maroons team. Fuck it that he’s on the interchange bench, he’s finally there. All those minutes in 2009 spent waiting for someone to suffer a game-ending injury in training so that he could take off his 18th man rags and run on the field. Finally, the Cronk’s time has come! Much as I hate the maroons, I’m a teeny tiny bit excited that Cooper Cronk’s special brand of bossiness is gonna be on the sideline at ANZ. Mock me if you must.

MAN VS MACHINE

Of course the big question is if Cameron Smith’s elbow will heal up in time for the first Origin game. Which is actually the perfect way to find out what we’ve been wondering for so long: are the Melbourne Storm man or machine? It’s simple. If he’s ruled out and Matt Ballin steps in, he’s human and may live. If he heals up, we have definitive proof he’s a cyborg, and he needs to be reprogrammed into a benevolent baker before he conquers the world.

WHERE’S BOWRAVILLE AGAIN?

Aaaah yes. There he is. Right there in the centres, most hated of all maroons. I’m looking at you, Greg Inglis. And before anyone says anything, yes I know under the rules he can play for Queensland. And no, I will never ever get over this. You know why?

It’s not ABOUT who the rules say he can play for. This is State of Origin. The whole point is passion. The passion for where you come from, and the blind momentary passionate hate for whoever comes from somewhere else. Call it footy xenophobia. Sweet, sweet footy xenophobia. And you can’t have both.

It’s not like the touchy-feely world cup business where you can feel Australian and Fijian. Nuh-uh. You can only love one State and it’s compulsory to hate the other one.

You certainly, definitely can’t spend 16 years living in NSW until you all of a sudden play seniors and join the Maroons. TREACHERY! At least if the rest of the team yells ‘QUEENSLANDER’ like Billy Moore, I know they’re committed to their horrible, horrible team. And I feel compassion for them, because I am saintly and serene and loving like Jesus, and because they were brainwashed from birth and clearly had no choice. But no sympathy for Greg Inglis! He chose darkness and there’s no excuse for that.

So spill it – do we think Queensland can make it five in a row? We say oh hell no. These are desperate times and we believe in our blues. But either way, I’m calling Sam Thaiday as the danger man. He’s skinnier and meaner than before and he’s going to tear shit down.

Weaknesses? I don’t know how to feel about Dave Taylor. He could be a wrecking ball, but he could also be a complete an absolute menace. He’s an unknown quantity, no?

The only other good thing I can think of to say about this team is that Ben Te’o is 18th man. I just really like saying his name. Ben T’aaay’oh.

Thoughts, rants, poems of love?

“It’s just been a weird night … and I’ve had a little bit to drink.”

So here’s the disclaimer: I went to Ladyhawke on Saturday night, and despite being Super Responsible and leaving the pub (I know, amazing right?) at well-maybe-a-little-bit-after-midnight like Cinderella, I was … well, look I was drunk when I watched this. Basically, I take no responsibility for being overexcited or imagining shit. But I think it’s more important to focus on the fact that I left a pub while it was still dark. That’s a massive achievement for me, JUST SO YOU KNOW.

To start with, is it wrong to say that I’m a bit in love with the British League commentators? Cause I am. No, not for their comical accents. Those bitches are insightful. They care about the important things: like explaining to the general European public that back in Australia Robbie Farah has a kebab named after him, but DON’T WORRY GUYS, IT’S A HEALTHY KEBAB! IT HAS CHICKEN AND VEGETABLES IN IT AND EVERYTHING.

God forbid anyone in the United Kingdom mistakenly think that Robbie Farah and his visible abs are schilling for some greasy obesity-inducing second-rate kebab. The commentary team are all about accuracy.

Well, all about accuracy … and historical lolz. After explaining in great detail that Northern Frenchies don’t play league because league was one of the things – along with freedom and equality – that Hitler cared not for, they start calling the French defence ‘the resistance’. It’s funny cause it means two things! *slaps knee*

These people? Yep, defenders of freedom and rugby league fans.

Meanwhile if you ever get heckled by rugby union fans for liking league, you can always ask whether they know that the Nazi collaborators and Vichy government in WWII France banned league and promoted union. Yes, people will think you’re a massive loser, but better that than a union follower, right? WE’RE THE RESISTANCE, BITCHES.

It also makes me happy to know that there are other nerds out there if the commentary team ever stumble onto Errol and read our footy posts from last year, they will totally enjoy Kiki’s jokes about Winston Churchill and Stalin and the Cronulla Sharks.

As for the game: not gonna lie, the Aussies didn’t live up to their potential as a team (and the Frenchies agree) but I care not. They had moustaches, and they entertained me, and that’s what counts.

So let’s talk about the Aussie boys.

MOS WIN MATCHES

Um, you know it’s true. No sooner had I pointed out that Cooper Cronk has one of the greatest moustaches in league history and reminds us of a latter-day 40-20 kicking Errol Flynn:

… really? I look that good?

Than he’s all up in the French’s business filling in for Thurston and Lockyer and generally being awesome. Sure, I’d had about six voddies, but I could still tell that the team looked way better in the second half when Cooper came off the bench. IT’S ALL IN THE MO, DARLINGS.

LESSONS FROM WAYNE PEARCE

And if Cooper’s lucky charm is a mo, then Robbie Farah’s is his headband. Remember way back in July when Robbie Farah rocked the tape headband and got his punch on with Anthony Watts?

Well from what he told us at the Kangaroos media call before the boys left, he’s … well he’s kinda proud. He also promised us that he’d bring back the headband as a rugby league look. After all, there’s nothing more Tigers than a tape headband, is there? Even Wayne Pearce knows the answer to that question.

Anyway, we’re pleased to observe that HE TOTALLY DID. Bitch is a man of his word! And there is no way you will ever convince me he didn’t tape himself up as an act of generosity and charity purely to entertain the Errol girls.

Although I do kinda wonder if Robbie just reserves the tape for special occasions, like when he punches on in the scrum, or when he’s going to appear in the starting Kangaroos team on international television. I say it’s no coincidence that Robbie rocked the shit out of the elastoplast in Paris just as he got his start as hooker, right?

THE ACTION IN THE STANDS

Meanwhile, as Robbie stepped in at dummy half, Cam Smith rested it up and discussed history with Brett White in the stands.

(Apparently Cam Smith totally enjoys history, by the way. That wasn’t just me projecting. I read it on the internet so you know it’s true).

French background dude does not appreciate Movember.

Don’t those handlebar moustaches just make you proud to be Australian? I love knowing I’m from a country that thought, you know what will do wonders for men’s health issues? Facial hair.

And with their schmick green Aussie blazers, I love that the touring Kangaroos kind of look like they’re on tour in Paris in 1975. Devils on horseback, anyone? Maybe a prawn cocktail?

I’m actually a bit offended that the Frenchie in the expensive-looking chocolate brown leather jacket in the background is looking so judgy and unimpressed by Cam Smith and Brett White and their handlebar efforts. IT’S CALLED MOVEMBER. IT’S FOR CHARITY. GOOGLE IT.

… but French background dude does find Anthony Watmough hilarious.

Meanwhile if you look in the foreground, NRL media manager David ‘D.T.’Taylor is kicking Movember’s ass with his mo, too. AMAZING WORK DAVE!

When the camera panned to the crowd during the game I almost spat out my diet coke in shock/joy, because Spotting D.T. is one of my favourite footy past times. It might even be better than my other favourite footy past time: ‘picking jobs for Nathan Hindmarsh’s kids’ (I’ll explain that one another time).

Wherever there are NRL players, there has to be an NRL media manager. So spotting D.T is like playing Where’s Wally – he has to be there somewhere, it’s just a question of where.

Exhibit A:

HI D.T! WE LOVE YOU!

You get extra points in this game if you manage to find a pic where he’s standing in the background looking sort of like a creep.

IT’S A MOZTRAVAGANZA!

I don’t know if I should mention it but we totally called it! As predicted, the Mozzie twins were a double-act of awesome against the French, racking up two tries each for a total of four. Four tries for their country? Shit is ridiculous!

I actually think while I was watching the game, when the commentators reminded us all they scored four, I may have yelled out FOUR FOR YOU GLEN COCO, YOU GO GLEN COCO!  Apologies to my neighbours. (Except the one who practises the flute every weeknight. They deserve it for annoying the hell out of me).

Clearly the French were dazzled by the Mozzie’s long long Bambi legs, super-speed, and general twinniness, those adorable over-achieving bastards.

Best of all? THE MOZZIES SLEDGE EACH OTHER. As they raced each other to ground a kick for a try I am 100% sure I saw B.Moz mocking J.Moz. And when he scored a second try, he made the international sibling expression for – HAH!

It’s all scratched knees and sibling rivalry in the Morris house

See? I have a brother and I totally make that face too. It’s a universal expression loosely translated as ‘I WIN!’ The only thing better was that when J.Moz got his first try on the board, he celebrated by getting caught on camera first giving an ‘I love you’ shout out to his family back home, then saying ‘thank fuck for that’. Bless.

THE SHOWDOWN

So the English shocked everyone by beating the Kiwis (I’d fallen asleep by this point), giving them the chance to play the Kangaroos in the final on the weekend. Allegedly Tim Sheens has told his team the gloves are off, and if anyone plays dirty, they should give it back. JUST DON’T HIT THE MOZZIES. THEY’RE TOO CUTE FOR VIOLENCE!

THE MONEY

Have you sponsored the Kangaroos yet? WELL HAVE YOU? You know you want to:

SPONSOR THE KANGAROOS

All pictures Getty Images

Screen caps by the amazing Cronkster, who’s on holiday in Fiji right now. HAVE FUN DARLING!

So it has come to my attention that some people who read this blog are …. what’s the word? Queenslanders. Oh, yes. I remember it well from my two trips to Queensland in the last few weeks. Apparently every single ad on tv in the entire state has to mention that word about EIGHT TIMES. Queenslanders … looking after Queensland. The insurance to deal with what Queensland throws at you. The Queensland bank you can trust.

KILL ME NOW.

I’m starting to wonder if they do it for the same reason they invented the infamous State of Origin ‘Queenslander’ chant: so they can remember where the hell they’re from. Those three syllable words can be tricky. OH YES, I SAID IT. I’m a petty NSW girl and making cheap jokes about Queensland is all I have left.

What was my point?

Oh yes, Queenslanders have trotters State of Origin is just days away. So the boys we don’t go for have put on their hideous maroon training gear and are busy getting ready for Origin II. How are they doing this, you ask? Well not, as you would guess, by living in huts they crafted from paperbark and training with footballs they have sewn themselves. Although I’m sure they’re still keepin it real.

Oh no, instead Mal and the crew took them back to the facility to be tuned up and detailed, all shiny and ready to go for the next match.

I KNEW IT. Ever since guest-blogger Bec told me, I knew it! They is robotsssss. Robots with human covers. And greatest athlete Billy Slater is their leader. That’s the only possible way to explain how good he is. He’s a super-human! Can’t you just imagine the day he was born? Bursting forth from his pod like Neo in the Matrix.

IT’S A BOY!

Cam Smith has the new Captaincy learning program installed (Lockyer’s gonna be out of service eventually).

Folds away for easy storage.

Crocker after his yearly buff-n-wax. So shiny!

… the Steve Price even comes with mix-n-match accessories.

Extra aggression apps for JT.

Word on the street is that Mal is also a little bit nervous about Joel ‘Big Red’ Monaghan being added to the NSW team after Michael Jennings was ruled out with injury.

Jennings packs his things and leaves the State of Origin house immediately. He thinks Cassi the bogan will win.
Pic. Brett Costello

“… big Joel, he’s got experience, he’s been there before, he’s a really rock solid player and very good in the air obviously and a good talker.”

NO ARGUMENT THERE, MAL. Monas never shuts up. He especially never shuts up when he’s taking the piss out of me. When I asked him the other night at Magenta Shores if he and Jarrod Croker share a hairdresser with the Aussie cricket team he came back with “… like you and Andrew Symonds?’

DAMMIT. I GOT BURNED BY MONAS AND MARIO FENECH IN ONE DAY. My life sucks.

Like the blues, burned three times by the maroons. FOURTH TIME’S THE CHARM. Till next time, kittens.

Because you are all dirty, dirty Errol addicts, you will know already that we were … let’s just say mildly unimpressed by the NRL Grand Final entertainment. Not that we don’t enjoy a little bit of Noiseworks on the jukebox at the Judgy on a Sunday morning (we totally do), it’s more that we feel the DIY-costumes, helicopter-full-of-random-military-men and barbecue percussion theme perhaps didn’t quite represent the highest level of entertainment to which humanity can aspire. You know?

Luckily, we are heading square into Rugby League World Cup territory, and while it might be a disturbingly one-sided competition which Australia is almost certain to win, those bitches do know how to organise entertainment.

No outdoor furniture instruments here, kids! No Just Jeans flares, no giant foam hands. Instead, the World Cup has organised it’s very own soap opera. I like to call it Days of our League.

I also know that some of you have lives and might have missed a few episodes in the last few weeks; luckily you have me to fill you in.

PILOT EPISODE - STORM DAMAGE

Every good soapie starts with a dramatic incident … right? We open in the aftermath of a violent brawl, with former Australian captain and founder of the SmithCam Enterprises chain of oil wells and high fashion boutiques sitting in the slammer on charges of attempted murder by head-ripping-off.

‘But I’m innocent!’, he cries.

‘Take the deal you guilty bastard, it’s the best you’ll get!’, I yell at the television.

Will our international mogul and Captain of industry fight his way free to make the world cup?

EPISODE TWO – RIPPLE EFFECT

The community of Leagues Hollow is still in shock at recent events. With its leader serving his sentence after losing his trial, long-time rivals Manly Goldfields have led a hostile takeover and seized a majority in the Aussie team.

Loyal first mate and board member Michael Crocker lies in a hospital bed with a broken rib, and competitors are eyeing off Justin Hodges’ spot.

Who’ll come out on top?  And is there anything left for Cam Smith to fight for, now that fellow Queenslander Darren Lockyer has taken his place at the head of the Australian team and in all the company’s promotional material?

EPISODE THREE – ISLANDERGATE

A mysterious stranger returns to the Australian team. I ring the girls because I am totally confused about this turn of events and can’t figure out what the hell is going on.

How is Anthony Tupou in the Aussie team stealing Mick Crocker’s job?

Wasn’t he playing for Tonga?

Remember? Shell-anne told Kimberley that he was kidnapped by bounty hunters and sold to the Tongan league team … then he totally got Stockholm Syndrome and decided to stay with them until Australia paid the ransom to get him back.

GOD I’M SO CONFUSED.  I don’t even know what I think about this whole mess.

Yet there Toops is, sitting around the boardroom table at Kangaroo Corp, chilling with Craig Fitzgibbon and Steve Price discussing their old man football business.

Not to mention that all of a sudden Fui Fui Moi Moi and Tim “the Tank” Tuiaki want to run off to Tonga and the Kangaroos won’t give em up.

I need a drink.

EPISODE FOUR – THE FIGHTING IRISH

Pic: Michael Clayton-Jones

Because there wasn’t enough drama in one small town: Cam Smith is free, but still hasn’t got his captaincy back, and a young man emerges from the shadows to claim a spot in the Kangaroos calling himself David Campese’s long lost nephew.

Brett White has broken his contract to play for the Irish, claiming a bung toe.  Well that’s kinda understandable.

Shannon McDonnell joins with a … YEAH ME TOO, claiming a dodgy hamstring and the Irish are officially pissed. There’s enough rage to send a little the way of the British, who are flying up in first class while the Irish and all their sacks of … taties, or something, are crammed back in economy. THAT IS SO HARSH.

In previews for next week, a spurned Aussie vows revenge.

… aaand I think that pretty much brings us up to date, kittens.  That’s all the drama covered so far.  So unless someone steals someone’s baby / identity / corpse / Secret Swiss bank account details, we should actually be able to talk about football soon.  Amazing!

THE RANTY BIT

If you are feeling a little bit sad that I haven’t ranted about anything so far today – I do love a good self-righteous rant – then fear not.  You can get your fix with my opinions on the whole Islandergate eligibility issue. 

To be honest … I don’t see the fuss.  I know, I know, there are formal eligibility rules, and you don’t really want players playing for a different nation every year, but is there really such a  problem if players want to be a little whorey around world cup time?

The real problem here seems to be caused by the simple fact that the Australian team is the most competitive in the world. This is rugby league after all.

So if you identify with two countries and one of them is Australia, then the choice you’re really being asked to make is between choosing Oz and possibly never playing rep football at all, or playing for a team that has no chance of winning. You’ll be punished one way or another.

I know that people are complaining that this whole issue is just proof that footy players are mercenary – out for the best rep spot they can get – and they don’t feel any patriotism at all. But I don’t see how it’s possible to set down a hard and fast rule that sportsmen can only love one country.

The NRL draws talent from all over the Pacific and if you have players who are born in one country and live in another, or identify with another culture because of family ties, shouldn’t they be eligible for both? Um, Australia will let you have dual citizenship, and I’m gonna put it out there that maybe international security and the whole participating in the democractic process thing is a little bit more important than who plays for what footy team.

I am all for people feeling that they have multiple cultural, ethnic and national identities.   And I think players shouldn’t be forced to choose just one country for all time.  Even though technically they aren’t, the two year rules in place now already make it seem that way for some players.

This isn’t like State of Origin, after all.  God knows there can be no dual loyalties in Origin.  You’re either a News Wouth Wales supporter or … you’re evil. HISSSSS.

To be honest, I mainly just want to change the RILF permissions process because sitting through players having to get down on their knees and beg to be allowed to play for a particular country is getting really tiring. 

So why can’t we have a world cup eligibility whore-athon?  I propose that we scrap the rules that tie the World Cup to other international tests and let the players chuck their lot in with as many teams as they like and can find any vaguely acceptable tie to.  Then when they get their offers, they make a final decision.  Like university.  Just being dumb doesn’t stop you putting in a UAC form with medicine in the number one spot.

Then a player who’s eligible for two countries just has a Rep Preference that they can change every two years, and a World Cup preference, which they make when the World Cup squad gets announced every four years.

The players are happy, I’m happy, there is at least a vague chance of some teams other than Australia winning the thing, and I don’t have to hear all this whinging anymore.   Yes it’s a bit harder for coaches and selectors, but whatevs.  That’s not me so I don’t really care.

TA-DAH!

Now I am off to practise my beer-drinking and my irish accent in preparation for interviewing the Irish team this Friday. If you want to read an actual journalist’s opinion on this, I recommend Andrew Webster.

… Are we all joyful and excited about the Grand Final this weekend, kittens?  Globo Gym vs the boys in maroon?  Oh my god, what a coincidence!  Me either!  So let’s just try and deal with it in the most painless way we can.

Anne: Neely, you know it’s bad to take liquor with those pills.
Neely: They work faster.

The truth is that the lead up to this week’s game has caused nothing but trouble for me.  My night terrors that Melbourne might actually win … again, have been so bad that Intern John-John has started slipping xanax into my bedtime cocktail.  He knows I love my beauty sleep.  Apparently I kept trying to strangle myself with the bedsheet and waking the household up crying and screaming STOP REFERRING TO YOURSELF IN THE THIRD PERSON GREG INGLISSSSS.

Basically, Melbourne Storm have turned my life into Valley of the Dolls.  Except it’s football driving me to the prescription meds bottle instead of a philandering husband or a failing musical career.  That’s kinda sad, right?

On the bright side, at least I finally have a valid reason for why I alway wear ridiculous see-through pastel nighties.

I am also left with the horrible decision of whether to rock up at the game weaing nothing that supports any team, or … god I don’t even think I can say it … something MAROON.  Is there any colour more hateful than maroon?  To quote the always-eloquent Kiki “it’s like red that got shit in it”.

If love was a colour it would be marooooon

Worst of all, my decision to throw all my support behind Manly out of sheer petty dislike for the Storm has caused a giant domestic dispute Chez Sassy.  My brother / flatmate is still on the Manly hate-train, and when he realised on Monday I’m team Manly, he was Not Pleased.  He banged some drawers, I threw a martini, and the whole thing ended with him screaming:

“If you’d been there to seen them beat the Roosters in the semis in 1987 THEN YOU WOULD UNDERSTAND”

This is not necessarily true, because I would have been five, and probably too young to understand hate, understand who won, and/or remember any of those things if I did.  But whatever.  The end result is we’ve started dividing the fridge in two using sticky tape (my side has barely enough room for all my vodka and nailpolishes) and I swear yesterday he maliciously turned on the tap in the kitchen to scald me in the shower.

In other Melbourne news, the boys from south of the border are still on their quest to become the most martyred team in league.  Sacrificial grapple lamb Lamberon Smith is still upset about his suspension, Israel Folau suspects he’s being illegally stopped from leaping by opposition players while the refs do nothing, and Antonio Kaufusi has vowed to win the premiership for his fallen captain.  Yes, yes, we know.  You’re all very noble in the face of persecution.  Saint George the martyr has nothing on you kids.

I would make some kind of jokes about all that but to be honest I didn’t really read all those articles. They weren’t nearly as interesting as the news about Joyce Churchill.

JOYCE CHURCHILL was married to the greatest fullback of all time … but she has a soft spot for another. Asked which player’s neck she would most like to dangle the Clive Churchill Medal from as the man of the match from this Sunday’s grand final, she replies: “Billy Slater. I like him. I’d like to cuddle him.”

Joyce! You floozy!  Just quietly, we Errol girls do love a cuddle, too. We get it! I’m guessing Joyce would have some strong opinions on the Important Question of who should take out this year’s snuggliest man in league.  She’d certainly support our plan to individually snuggle each of the nominees to make sure our decision is correct.

I also think she would enjoy dropping by the Errol offices for an afternoon sherry or ten and a gossip.  I’m totally up for it.  Call me Joyce!  I’ll bake!

(By ‘bake’, obviously I mean ‘I’ll send Lachie down to the Bourke Street bakery for eclairs and pretend that I baked’).

And in news that honestly almost makes me wanna move to Queensland, the Gold Coast Titans have decided to bring in the dollars by setting up their own betting agency, and because they are intensely lateral and creative souls, they have called it Titanbet.

Fuck off Titans, this is amazing.  All the other leagues clubs are watching their punters push money into pokies to make a few extra bucks, not you Titans.  They’ve decided to screw that, and go straight into TAB-style punting.  They care not for the fact that they will be making money from people placing bets on events including the competition they participate in.  Conflict of interest?  What conflict of interest?  Here, have a palm tree-patterned betting card!

I love it.  More than anything I hope that they send the boys in when they’re injured and in the off-season to man the booths.  You know it would be good for business.  If you can’t trust Scott Prince with your bets, who can you trust?

Also, if we’ve learned anything from the Simpsons it’s that the best way to deal with a tropical community is to introduce gambling.  I hope the next item on the Titans’ agenda is to build an island casino.

Island native: If God is all-powerful, why does he care if we worship him?

Homer: God is powerful, but insecure. Like Barbra Streisand before James Brolin.

Island blackjack!  Island roulette! The possibilities are endless.  If anything can keep rugby league solvent then it’s the wonders of casino gambling.  Note to David Gallop: begin investigating themed casinos.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to have a nap.  I think the downers are kicking in.

So you already know (if you’ve ever read this site) that we Errol girls aren’t really big fans of the Being Serious.  It’s annoying and kills our buzz. But since people just won’t stop discussing the Storm and Cameron Smith’s suspension I guess I should probably say something about it other than A DINGO GRAPPLED SAM THAIDAY.

If you hate serious stuff too, just skip to the picture of the fuzzy lamb and keep going from there.

If not, well, let’s call this my Cameron Smith and Grapple Manifesto.  Sadly it’s not the good Yves Saint Laurent kind of Manifesto.  It doesn’t involve Gisele or Kate Moss or fierce outfits.

It goes a little something like this.

1) The suspension and the media attention isn’t an anti-Storm persecution conspiracy. Don’t flatter/torture yourselves that it is.  
 
2) The real issue is simply that people don’t like grapples. They slow the game down and bore us all.  

3) For years the referee bosses did nothing and teams (yes, including you Melbourne) denied they did it.  Something had to give, and it happened to be Cameron Smith who was involved when everything finally came together: a grapple at the perfect angle to be caught on camera, by a high-profile player on a high-profile player, during finals series when everyone was watching, so that the grapple was indisputable. And I think everyone was just glad – finally – for a chance to do something about it.

4) If the media latched onto it, it’s party a reflection of public opinion, but also because they couldn’t ignore it. Smith did it in the most obvious way, he’s from a team that grapples really successfully and was destined for the grand final, and he’s Australian captain. Duh. If that’s not a big story in league I don’t know what is. If it was some nobody grappling some nobody then maybe little Andy Nobody might never have been cited or noticed at all, but that was never gonna happen in this case.

5) And yes it’s unfair when hundreds of other grapples have gone unpunished, but … you just have to get over it. I’m sorry. He did it. If 300 other players have gotten away with grapples in the past, then you can bet that some of them were from the Storm too.  Everybody benefited from the refs’ blind eye, including Melbourne and including Cameron Smith.  

He also did it really obviously on camera so the judiciary could see exactly what happened. There was no way you could argue that wasn’t neck contact or that it wasn’t intentional. So this time he was suspended. Just accept it and move on. He’s the sacrificial lamb and it sucks but it doesn’t change that he grabbed someone’s head unnecessarily. If it was someone else who was in his position I’d say the same thing.  

The end. Let’s all move on. Hopefully to a game with less boring wrestling.

Sadtimes for Lamberon Smith

See?  SEE HOW BORING THAT WAS?  God I feel all weird now.  Let’s talk about the game instead.  Just the important bits because a full recap would be too depressing.

ROLL CALL!

Can’t have a drama without characters, can you?  In the Globo purple, we had all the usual Melbourne boys, except Cameron (aka Lindy, aka Wolfman) Smith and Jeremy (aka ‘the Other’) Smith who were sitting on the sideline due to suspension, and Ryan Hoffman ruled out with a jimmy ankle.  Poor Ry-Ry – I feel your pain.  I have a dodgy ankle too!  And I suspect, like mine, yours is a result of high school netball.  I can just see him in a little GD bib.  Three feet!  Three feet! 

I would like to point out that Cameron has clearly been reading Errol because bitch actually shaved for once.  For serious. AMAZING.  He almost doesn’t have a Homer Simpson beardshadow.  Clearly he has a sense of occasion. 

And in the blue and black for Cronulla we had … wait, I know some of them turned up. Anyone?  I don’t see any Cronulla names on this attendance list.  UNACCEPTABLE.

Oh wait, no, I found two.  Misi J Talaupapa rocked up to the SFS, and so did Luke Douglas.  That is all. 

REPORT CARDS

You know how Luke Douglas actually bothered to show up to the game?  Unlike some other players who shall remain nameless?  *cough*Covell*cough*

Maybe it woulda been better if he didn’t.  Poor bastard.  Luke Douglas had a complete shocker, and god didn’t he know it.  If you look really really closely in the picture below, you can actually pinpoint the moment where he gives up on life and starts contemplating whether running into the goalpost really really fast might knock him unconscious hard enough to erase the horrible memories of this game.

The answer was no.

The only kid in the 2008 graduating class at Sharks High who even rates a pass is little Misi J Talaupapa.  And that’s not for his footy.  It’s for his fucking excellent extra-credit report, titled ‘PUNCHING ANTHONY QUINN IN THE FACE’.  Oh yeah.  The crowd mimed uppercuts and so did I. 

And blah blah blah you can argue all you want about whether Quinny, recently voted the Pinkest Man in League, went for the tackle on Misi in the in-goal with or without knowing that he had already grounded the ball.  Misi didn’t give a shit and neither did I.  He just knew HE’S MAD AS HELL AND HE’S NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE.

And that punch was the one good thing you Sharkies did for me that whole game.  I wash my hands of you. 

If I was feeling nice, I would say that maybe the Sharks were a little overwhelmed by the whole thing, especially after having two weeks with nothing to do but get nervous about being in the semi-finals.  I might even admit that when the game ended and Danny Nutley cried I maybe cried too justalittlebit.  (DON’T JUDGE ME!  HE SEEMS LIKE A REALLY NICE MAN!)

But really all you need to know is that, as always, supercoach Jack Gibson is right.

Waiting for Cronulla to win a Premiership is like leaving the porch light on for Harold Holt.

For all our non-Aussie readers, this is Harold Holt.  And in true Aussie fashion he lives on in our memories, and in the HAROLD HOLT MEMORIAL SWIMMING CENTER.  Oh, the irony. 

BIGGEST BITCH IN CLASS

BILLY: Oh no you did-int, Lima. Did you just say purple washes me out?
COOPER: Just let it go. It’s totes not worth it. Plus he’s right, you know.  I always tell you you’re more of a summer.

So with Lamberon Smith out of the picture, who’s the shoo-in to be the new Queen Bee?  Oh yeah, Cooper Cronk. Little Cooper got promoted to Captain and doesn’t he absolutely fucking love it?

Archer are you putting me on fashion report?  But it’s a MANDIGAN.  They are totally in fashion.  I SAW THEM IN INDUSTRIE.

See? Fierce.

The only thing he loves more than finally being in charge is getting to tell off Anthony Quinn like an overwrought mother with a misbehaving child. ZIP IT ANTHONY! ZIP IT!  ZIP IT! YOU’RE A VIRGIN WHO CAN’T DRIVE.

edit: some fabulous person has now uploaded this special moment to youtube – AMAZING.

(Snaps also to the commentator who observed: Nothing good ever comes of Anthony Quinn getting involved. He’s totally on my Christmas card list).

Ross – you get nothing.
 

ALL THAT YOU HAVE IS YOUR SOUL

There’s a moral to this game, and I’m gonna tell you what it is.  Kiki and I were firmly on Team Sharks for this game, because we figured that our hate for the Storm was so much worse, and we would ally with the Sharks to defeat the evil Storm like Roosevelt and Churchill teaming up with Stalin.

We were wrong.  Oh, so wrong.  The plan failed.  Like the Soviet Union, the communists fell under pressure.  WAY TO SCREW US OVER STALIN.  And now I just feel really, really generally … icky about the whole thing.   Let that be a lesson to you kiddies.  You can’t compromise your principles.

Jeffrey likes to buy tiny coffees so he can pretend to the boys they are normal lattes and his muscles are huge.

The worst part is how joyful the Storm are about their whole win.  Yes there were some dramas about Brett White being suspended, but just look at them, frolicking with their tiny tiny coffees at recovery.  As though they don’t have a care in the world.

Not my Macchiato! I mean … not MY REGULAR SIZED COFFEE.

LOOK, I JUST REALLY HATE SEEING THEM HAPPY, OK?  It galls me. If you’re wondering, I also hate them when they’re sad, but mainly, when they’re happy. I don’t like to see the pods beat the humans. It Doesn’t Seem Right. And now they can prance on into the grand final for a repeat of the match they won last year. WILL THE MADNESS NEVER END?

Sigh. Why don’t I just leave you with the boys looking vaguely ridiculous and slightly couplish wearing matching velour towels (I assume they’re embroidered with their initials, too).  See ya at Homebush, bitches.

bye Bob … bye Jean! thanks for everything! … best bed and breakfast we’ve ever been to!

All pics: Getty Images

I am not a woman of particular principles. Due to my continual stories of inappropriate behaviour you may have guessed this already, but let my explain it further. Fear not, I am a lady and always keep my undies on thankyouverymuch, and I would never steal, drink drive or deliberately hurt somebody … but I am definitely not a person who makes Sensible Decisions. Therefore I don’t tend to get all moralistic on your ass, because really … I’ve probably done/said the same thing. And much worse.

I keep my moral outrage pretty much contained to one area of my life … and unsuprisingly, that is football. I will never judge you bearing illegtimate children/drug taking/being an ex-con or even wearing stilettos with shorts. Okay thats a lie I will TOTALLY judge you for bad outfit choices. However my point still stands. Essentially, I am not a judgemental person. However, I will completely and utterly judge you for being a fan of teams I Hate. And these are the Broncos, the Sharks and of course the ever hateful Storm. Ditto for the players. BOOO! HISSSS!

note: not my actual hand

So herein lies my Moral Dilemma. Naturally, no team could ever replace my beloved Dragons, but I don’t want to opt out of finals fever simply because my babies didn’t make the cut. I guess I coulda chosen the Chookies in solidarity with Sassy and Marlo, but to be honest I just don’t give a shit about them. SOZ GUYS.

At first I thought I was firmly on Team Manly (due to my Beaver love), but those crafty bitches from New Zealand have snuck up and stolen my heart.  I is so confuuuused. Anyway, as I said last week, basically I am on Team-Anyone-That-Isn’t-The- Storm. All good, I thought. Oh, I was wrooooong.

This meant I had to not only stop hating, but actively CHEER for the Broncos. Oh my sweet jesus, this was really freaking hard. I felt so conflicted. When Darius Boyd scored I was even more conflicted coz I kept imagining him (allegedly) doing naughty bizness in toilets. And then seeing him in the pristine Red V next year. ARGH. Even worse was watching Sam Thaiday coz I love that fat hairy bitch. Surely a man who hands out carnations for mothers day couldn’t be involved in (alleged) yucky times? Sureeely? I’m gonna start The Sam Thaiday Innocence Project. I will be like a law student from Wisconsin working my preppy ass off to get wrongfully accused death row inmates out of jail. I hope they make a doco and put me on the Crime and Investigation Channel. That would be awes.

note: not actually Kiki

It was big time moral dilemmas. Everytime Brisbane would score I would leap to feet and yell YESSSS GO BRONCOS. OH GOD WHAT? GO BRONCOS? ARGH EW! YAY! NO SO;DFJKLIFJKLFJ!!! *combusts* As if that wasn’t bad enough this weekend I have to….oh god, can you guys smell something? It’s like…fake tan mixed with xenophobia. With just a hint of surburban nouveau riche. It smells like….Cronulla.

That’s right, this weekend I have to cheer the bloody Sharks. As a Dragons fan this is pretty much The Worst Thing Ever but really, it has to be done. It’s a matter of principle. Is this how Roosevelt and Churchill felt when they realised they had to ally with Stalin? Banding together to defeat the bigger evil?

(For those of you who are historically inept – those are the WW2 Allied leaders. The democratic USA and England had to ally with the communist Russia to defeat Nazi Germany. GET IT PEOPLE? THE STORM! THEY ARE EVIL.I really wish I didn’t have to explain my historical lolz, but after years of making History Jokes that no one gets I’ve realised not everyone is as massively nerdy as me. Unfortunately.)

Anyway, this shit makes me feel DIRTY. And not in the Kiki gets blind and pashes an shaggy haired 18 year old at the Brighton Bar sort of way. It’s in a bad way. If you find me naked in a Dettol bath scrubbing myself with a steel wool and muttering I’ll never be clean again…must…get…clean…don’t be suprised.

Lets move on to nicer things. You know who is Nice? Davey Williams! We loves him. Apparently the Herald does too. Today they wrote a whole article about him! Good for you Davey. They describe him as being “94kg of tightly packed muscle”. I would make a joke about wanting Dave to ‘tightly pack’ one of my muscles, but I won’t. Because I’m a lady.

I do however object to two things in this article.

ONE- they call him ‘The Wolfman’. GODAMNIT PEOPLE. HE IS NOT THE WOLFMAN. Everyone knows he is The Hot Pioneer. He rides horses, chops wood and looks sexy times in long johns. He doesn’t do…well…whatever it is wolf men do.

David wished Kiera would stop making yucky jokes about his wood

Listen to me carefully media peeps - just because Dave has a beard doesn’t make him a wolf man. This is why they need us on TV/writing articles/being generally omnipresent. If you look carefully (and god knows we have, repeatedly) he is actually quite hairless. You know who is a real wolfman? CAMERON BLOODY SMITH. That bitch quite clearly shaves everyday but still has a stubble shadow.

TWO- they have totally emasculated him with their captioning. Dave probably posed for this thinking, yeh bitches, I’m totes tough and awesome and a WINGER IN A TOP 4 TEAM. I am a MAN! YESSSSS!

Then they go and caption it “Size doesn’t matter….Manly’s David Williams”

I’m dead. DEAD! I am outraged on Daves behalf. For godsakes sub-editors, he’s already having trouble. He announced on the Footy Show this evening that he is ‘basically celibate, but not by choice.’

Times are dire for Davey’s pants. At this evenings Gods Of Football presentation he totally went the pash on Matt Ballin. He’s like…girls, boys…I don’t even care! For the love of god will someone just PLEASE TOUCH ME DOWN THERE!

He really is living on Toey Island because tonight, in an blatant attempt to get laid, he wore the tightest shirt known to mankind.

David, that’s totally your school shirt from Year 10 and don’t you even try to tell me any different. WHORE!

Anyway, in case you’re wondering, Bal took out this years Leagues Sexiest Sexy Man. Or Godliest Godly God of Football or something. That competition is fucking confusing. We have christened him GI Ballin due to his miltary!like!efficiency! and carved in granite hotness. Bitch totally carries it off.

Hello hot eyebrow scar! My vajayjay is saluting as we speak.

And finally, because we are all about the Warriors at the moment, I thought I would include some Steve Price. Okay that’s clearly bullshit. I just wanted an excuse to post this -

Holy old man hotness! That photo is suprising yet … arousing. Shit, I feel dirty again. Lachie, fetch me the Dettol!

PS – I know I’ve photoshopped Dave + another man + love hearts two weeks in a row but it isn’t my fault. If he stopped doing homoerotic things then I wouldn’t have to. SEE WHAT YOU MAKE ME DO DAVID?

(caps from our fave blog, Steve Price from the lovely kingfish at fmforums)

STORY OF THE WEEK KITTENS. You know what it is. After a heinous head-twist tackle on Sam Thaiday against the Broncos on Saturday, Cameron Smith is getting his ass hauled before the judiciary this week.

Word on the street is that he might be the one who is sacrificed on the altar of justice to bring an end to wrestling in the league.  Word on the street is also HE’S GUILTY BITCHES, and then the Melbourne fans on the other side of the street, and Mark Geyer, yell back HE’S INNOCENT! A DINGO ATE HIS BABY!  It’s trial by media, mildly hysterical, and I may just love it a little bit.

Oh yeah, put a wig on Cam Smith and he’s basically Lindy Chamberlain.  I mean that metaphorically, and also literally.  Bitch should have had a part in the miniseries.

And since I am completely biased and filled with irrational rage against the Storm, I can’t really give you a balanced take on this.  In fact, yesterday, Intern Brownie totally caught us in the stationery cupboard giggling like schoolgirls and making paper effigies of Cameron Chamberlain to burn out on the patio.  If you’re wondering, by ‘girls’, I also mean John John.  He used his pube trimmings to make a surprisingly realistic beard.  So resourceful.

And it seems, after his one episode of rage, Brownie has gone back to being the voice of reason in the office, because he calmly asked us to stop, and said:

“Everyone knows my thoughts on it but I just think that two weeks out from the grand final isn’t the time to be changing the rules,” Brown said. “Before next season I think they need to sit down … because it’s not just Melbourne that do it.”

DAMMIT I HATE WHEN YOU DO THIS BROWNIE.  Spoil our fun by suggesting that punishing one person for something when multiple other people have gone unpunished may be slightly unfair.  It’s tres infuriating.

Incidentally, it’s also lucky for Cam Smith, because otherwise he’d just be left with Benny Elias protesting his innocence.

“Fair dinkum, if you psycho-analyse every tackle like that, no one would be playing the game,” Elias said.

Benny, honey.  I don’t think psycho-analyse means what you think it means.

But since Brownie is out buying paddlepops for the boys as a thank you for working late, I’m gonna give you my opinion anyway.  HANG EM ALL!  I am done with the wrestle.  It is strangling the game I love.  And if the fall-guy happens to be Cameron Smith, then it could happen to a nicer guy.  Not only the captain of the Globo Gym dodgeball team, but a dirty queenslander.  (As always, apologies to our Queensland and Melbourne readers).  And yes, I am petty and vindictive.  Don’t pretend you don’t love it.

We’ll be gathered around the wireless to find out the outcome tomorrow night.  In the meantime, we sent Lachie to the Shire to monitor the Sharks’ preparation for their clash with Globo Gym this weekend.  We are ever so proud he went on public transport by himself (although we did write his phone number on his hand just in case).

I was expecting him to come back with pics of intense training, team bonding, or Paul Gallen leaving the sports psychologist’s office.  Instead we got Sharks beachside recovery sessions, and something I didn’t really understand involving Brett Kimmorley.  I think Kiki expresses it best in photoshop form.

This had better be part of some raw-food cave-man diet plan that will help you beat the storm, Kimmorley.  That’s all I have to say.

And in the lead up to the semi-finals on the weekend (Warriors ftw!) everyone else is busy having a pissing contest over who has the most feelings.   Honestly has there ever been a league series with so much talk of feelings?  THERE AREN’T MEANT TO BE THIS MANY FEELINGS IN FOOTBALL.  It is a deadset sobstory marathon in league at the moment.  It’s like every team in league is making their tapes to send into Oprah to ask for a Special Oprah Miracle.  Beaver’s retiring! Wiki’s leaving! I used to be obese! My whole family died in a fire!

Sigh. Man up why don’t you kids?  Less whinging, more practising.

If anyone has reason to whinge it’s Anthony Tupou, and I haven’t heard a peep from him.  Not only is he out of the finals and moving to the Sharks (poor baby), Toops also has a broken kidney.  The Warriors broke his kidney!

And apparently they don’t have medical staff or hospital press liaisons in Auckland because the only quote they had about the injury was from Braith Anasta.

Roosters captain Braith Anasta said he was “weeing blood – never a good sign”.

Thanks, Dr. Anasta, for your considered medical opinion.  Now, can I suggest we wrap up this press-conference?  Dr. Anasta has to get back into theatre for his next operation.

That’s all, folks.  Feel better Toops.

And the rest of you kids can leave your praise for Kiki’s photoshop genius in the comments.  She has outdone herself, yes?

pic: Colleen Petch via news.com.au

Oh yeah, that’s the stuff.

So you might not know this, but we Errol girls are tres spiritual.  Over in the corner at Errol HQ, just between the hanging egg chair and the booze cabinet, we have a little footy shrine.  It has fairy lights and everything.

On Friday afternoons we light a few tea light candles, leave a cold schooner as an offering to the Gods of Footy, and ask the universe for a weekend of exciting games, for wins for our beloved babies, and, just sometimes, for some teams to lose.

After that we like to finish off our Friday dacquiris, send the boys home, crank up the T.Rex and more often than not end up dancing to Britney on a podium at Stonewall at about 5am. True story.

But that’s neither here nor there.

What’s really important is that THIS WEEK IT HAPPENED. We prayed for an underdog victory by the Warriors and it came true.

They (including me in my Nova footy tips) said that the eighth-placed team would never beat the minor premiers. But clearly they didn’t factor in that Errol is totes hooked up with the universe.  On Sunday night, the Warriors defeated the Storm and bitches, it was magical.

HALLELUJAH!

Let’s relive the good times (in point form because I am too tired for play-by-play).

IAN HENDERSON WILL CUT A BITCH

MATTY GEYER STARTED IT! HE CALLED ME NAMES!
pic: George Salpigtidis

Is Lozzy right? Is it the beards? Are they full of dark and delicious evil and starting to possess the owners?  (Which just by the way would be totally awesome). Because the Warriors were pissed on Sunday night. And none more pissed than fiesty little Ian ’stop calling me Brian’ Henderson.

On Friday night when Braith Anasta and Justin Hodges squared up at the Footy Stadium I thought fo sho at least one of those bitches was gon get her weave ripped out.

When Henderson squared up against seemingly every single member of the Storm, I thought someone was gonna lose a whole row of teeth. His fists of fury were just waiting for an excuse to punch someone.

And I won’t lie, I kind of loved it.

Not just because I have a not-so-secret aggressive streak (I blame my high school water polo career), but because it makes me think everybody hates the Storm.  Even Steve Price was feelin angry.  Steve Price!  Amazing. Next thing I’ll find out Craig Fitzgibbon doesn’t like Brent Tate or something and my life will officially be complete.

Hendo, I salute your rage.

MICHAEL WITT IS A TOOL

I admitted a little while ago that I felt a little bit of Witty-love creeping up on me.  It seemed like out of nowhere the Warriors were a festival of facial hair and Mr. Witt was the proud new owner of a gleaming ginger mo.  I suspect that a lesser man would have reacted to the shame of a surprise ginge tinge with either their razor or a box of Just for Men for Beards (it really exists, I swear), but Witty has soldiered on with the tangerine lip.

He’s sacrificed vanity for team spirit and hilarity.  And as someone who has gone to dress-up parties as a half-dead abduction victim complete with fake blood clearly I care not for vanity. (It was a Twin Peaks party, if you’re wondering. I don’t just enjoy imitating victims of crime).

pic: Photo Sports

Well bitch has completely won me over now. As final try-scorer thanks to a barnstorming run from the fucking fierce Manu Vatuvei, he didn’t just put the ball down.  He held it over his head and taunted the storm chasers.  HE TAUNTED THE BEAST!  Bitch is pretty much the Will Smith of Rugby League right now. He flew right into that death star. Wait, that was Independence Day. WHATEVER. In my mind he also spat out a pithy one-liner when Cameron Smith couldn’t reach him in time and crumpled to the ground next to him.

Best of all, he got in trouble with the coach and big brother Pricey for the taunting and said this:

“I actually thought that there was only one dude chasing me and I thought when I stepped him right at the end I could just stand in the in-goal and waste time standing there before I put the ball down. But someone else was right there so I ended up looking like a bit of a tool and a big-noter.”

OOPS. SOZ IVAN CLEARY AND STEVE PRICE! DIDN’T MEAN TO ACT LIKE A TOOL.

I say it was worth looking like a tool Witty to see the Storm look bitter and disappointed. Oh yeah, this is what they call Rugby League, boys.  Welcome to my world.

That’s actually why you won’t be getting a Broncos-Roosters post this week, by the way, kittens.  IT’S JUST TOO PAINFUL.  The second-half collapse ripped my heart out. The only thing that comforts me is thinking that maybe, just maybe, the loss to the Broncos was a scheme of diabolical genius from Brad ‘Freddy’ Fittler. That loss is what put the Roosters on the opposite side of the draw from Melbourne. GASP!

pic: Getty Images

I know, I know, so maybe he doesn’t really strike you at first glance as an evil genius, but you know he’s hiding something behind that chuckle. No one looks that content and relaxed all the time unless secretly they are pulling the puppet strings on everything around them.

Or if they do, they probably wouldn’t be able to, you know, dress themselves or open doors.

HE IS A MACHIAVELLIAN GENIUS, OK? Don’t crush my delusions. Just trust me on this one.

NO NO NO NO NO

First of all, thanks for lending me your commentary catchphrase as my heading, Phil Gould.

As for you, vanquished captain Cameron Smith: this could have been a perfect opportunity to win me over. Which, obviously, is at the top of your list of TOP TEN VERY IMPORTANT THINGS TO DO: 1. MAKE SASSY LOVE ME.

As I was cackling with delight at the Warriors miracle win, there was a moment where Cam Smith could have said WELL DONE WARRIORS and a smidgen of empathy might have led me to start being justalittlebit fond of you.  But no. Instead I got:

“No disrespect to the Warriors, but we lost the game yesterday, I don’t think they beat us. That’s not being arrogant. If we didn’t give away so many penalties, we would have won the game.”

Are you trying to make me dislike you now?  Because I really like Hazy and co.  And I have been trying to like the Storm, for our loyal readers’ sake if nothing else. AND YOU KEEP COCKING IT UP.  Work with me, Cameron darling. Work with me.

Compliment the team who beat you.  Just a little!  It won’t hurt.  It can even be grudging, if you like.  Or if you can’t bring yourself to tell them they played well, at least tell them you like their bushranger beards.  Something.  Anything.  Sigh.

(I’ll give you a hint, calling them whingers doesn’t count.)

“It worked for them, didn’t it?” Smith said. “It’s certainly something that we don’t do. The referee’s out there to do a job. We don’t ever go out there to try and ask him to give us penalties or anything like that. He’s the one with the whistle and he’s got to make up his own mind but it’s a tactic that worked for them, so good on them.

“They should be refereeing the game by how they see it, not what they’re hearing from opposition players.”

“I think you’d be pretty hard up to try and find some footage of any of our players whingeing about what other teams do to us,” he said. “That’s just the way we’re coached, just to get on playing footy.”

STOP YOUR WHINGING PRICEY!

All I can say to that is NO NO NO NO NO (TM Phil Gould).

Finally, in other news I should also say that the race for best hair in league is getting closer and closer. You could throw a blanket over the field! Mmmm blankie. I had thought Dave Williams had it in the bag, but Ruben Wiki was looking extra Soul Glo-y on Sunday night.  Plus obviously he is just completely adorable. GOD OUR WORK IS JUST SO DIFFICULT SOMETIMES.

Back to the Errol drawing board I guess.  Actually can someone replace the drawing board paper?

No, not you Lachie … John John’s been sketching again. I’ll tell you what he sketched when you get older.

Someone else?  I need a fresh bit of paper on it so I can cover it with STORM SUX comics and MRS WITT written 95 times in calligraphy. Thanks, Intern Brownie.