one for the ladies

June 19th, 2012

We just watched the Women in League TVC made by the NRL and it’s a bit beautiful, don’t you think?

Beautifully written, beautifully made and a beautiful example of how much people can give to something they love, like their kids, or plain old footy, without being paid big bucks or lavished with attention.

It also says to girls and young women something you’d kinda hope to say to every kid: that what you do with your time is valuable. That even if it doesn’t feel like people care, hard work is its own reward. That sooner or later, the world will notice. That you should and can do whatever you choose to do, even if it doesn’t seem glamorous or impressive.

But for girls, that’s where it gets a bit tricky. If you get what you want, and if what you want is a chance to make a living in rugby league, then all of a sudden there’s a whole lot of can’t in your life.

Can’t buy shoes with peep-toes anymore cause people with spikes are running in the vicinity.
Can’t quite manage to find a unisex polo shirt that fits.
Can’t travel with the team cause there’s no-one to room with.
Can’t pee for the next twenty minutes cause there are naked dudes in there changing.
Can’t go into the sheds with the other journos and interview players because the stadium security guard doesn’t think ladies belong there.
Can’t guarantee I won’t crack it if another person asks me where I “picked up” my workmates when they see us in a pub.
Can’t get drawn into an argument when people say the team’s playing “like fucking girls!”
Can’t remember the last time you got your hair-colour done.
Can’t be bothered answering that question in the press box cause you always just ask my male colleague afterwards anyway.

But the truth is … can’t is not unusual. You can’t find an easy job in footy, no matter how hard you look and no matter what you’re hiding under your team-issue trackies. For most, a full-time job means seven days a week, because footy waits for no man (or woman). It means arriving at 8am to start supervising preparations for a 7.30pm kick-off. It means staying until 1am to film and upload press conferences and interviews. It means coming into the office at 5am to read through all the emails from fans with suggestions for changes to the playing roster: “dear sir, thank you for your email …”

I’ve met the ladies and men who do all those jobs.

For the guys who wear jerseys, it means pushing your body to its limits, a public private life, and the chance that living your dream will leave you in pain for the rest of your life.

So why would you bother? At least the players get fame for a little while, glory if they’re lucky, and riches if they sign up with a media network once they retire.

Everyone else just gets a polo shirt and a party pie on game day.

The real question is how could you NOT bother?

For every johnny anonymous who calls you a slut, there are ten men with the kind of crows feet that come from watching a footy team train every morning who will sit down and have a beer with you and talk about the game. For a girl who’s been more used to being told she doesn’t understand offside and marker defence, that feels like a gold medal.


Or a premiership-winning captain who’ll stick his head in and tell you that you look like a million bucks. Probably because you wore lipstick that day. Fancy!

Best of all, there’s the hug that comes after you win a game you were written-off in and you could swear every one of your 8pm rage-outs in the office actually helped it happen.

There is nothing like it. It’s the closest you can ever hope to get to the game you love. Toilets with no hand soap in them don’t mean much in comparison.

Sure, maybe because of your ladyparts … you could never have achieved it in an NRL jersey. But you got the next best thing.

And that’s the answer to the final question: why Women in League round?

Because, like men who want to become nurses, or women who want to fix cars, women who make a living in rugby league do it hard. They take second-best to get there from people who don’t think chicks belong anywhere near a footy field, or people who simply think they’re strange.

Sometimes, they take second-best because they think there will never be a chance for them to run out in a women’s rugby league competition for anything more than a bag of peanuts and a few heckles.

And outside the NRL, they do it for love not money. They do it to try and make sure that their own kids can have everything they want, including a chance to put on their size small junior socks and play footy on the weekend.

So why not have a week to stop and say to all the women in league: good job, ladies … and sorry about the polo shirts.

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we can’t help it if we’re popular: a defence of rugby league

January 6th, 2012

People! We have shocking and alarming news. Please, sit. Maybe grab a hanky and hold it to your mouth with a fluttery hand.

Paul Pottinger thinks our beloved rugby league is an atrocity.

First of all, atrocity is not a word to be thrown around lightly, young man. (Old man? Middle-aged man? Who knows. We care not for proper research. Would much prefer to eat crisps and watch cricket).

‘Atrocity’ is Significant. It should be saved for situations where it is warranted, like war crimes, Kardashians and Queensland winning a seventh Origin.

Mysterious-aged-Paul tells us no footy means none of the:

“… stifling tedium of blanket coverage, the grinding banality of match commentary, the sub-trivial parish pump gossip and news of yet another player’s off-field atrocity.”

“The featureless white noise of the mate-against-mate, meathead-against-meathead cavalcade is comfortably distant; just a grim prospect. Like root canal treatment.”

Pretty sure as soon as Robbie Farah comes home from the cricket and Ben Te’o finishes his law readings for the day they will both be OUTRAGED at being called meatheads, Paolo.

(Can we call you Paolo? We think it makes you sound more festive.)

Apparently Paolo has a few gripes with footy.

Number one is that a non-Yank once missed his flight and then played for the Tomahawks.

You know who’s missed a flight and isn’t mentioned in this article? EVERYONE WE KNOW.

You know who has a particularly loose grasp on the concept of international allegiance and isn’t mentioned in this article? EVERYONE IN ENGLISH CRICKET.

It’s probably not even worth pointing out that calling our special brand of footy “a loud provincial oaf let loose upon the big city – obnoxious, flatulent and prone to publicly displaying its genitals” is pretty damn ironic. It’s actually the verbal equivalent of a giant blimp named “the Irony” that flies around in the airspace above rural Victoria filled with pantsless players from St Kilda.

SEE WHAT WE DID THERE? Almost as good as when we put a CRL logo on an orange.

Number two is that we have tackles, and not proper ye olde rucks. This is ‘manufactured’. As opposed to say, NFL. Or penalty goals. Or anything else that happens due to rules and not the natural flow of a bunch of guys holding a ball.

Oh honey, we are sensing a pattern. Despite being pretty much dudes in dresses, we do occasionally do girly things.

We have spent countless hours with our girls getting drunk, eating cheese and analysing why boys do the things they do.

Why does he like her? Why didn’t he call? What does this text mean? HE WROTE AN X AT THE END THAT MEANS HE LOVES ME RIGHT? Yeah, we’re neurotic and stereotypical. We admit it.

But all that experience is why we were able to come up with some special ladylike insight into Paolo’s opinion piece.

He doesn’t really hate league cause of it’s American-football-style corporate sponsorship, the money it – like AFL – gets from booze companies, its rules, how muscly its players are, or the fact that, like Rugby union, there are only four countries with a proper hope in hell of winning each World Cup.

Nope, like he says, he doesn’t dislike it at all.

What he really hates is that other people adore it. It’s just like when your ex-boyfriend gets his next girlfriend. You don’t actually hate this girl, even if she the lady equivalent of rugby league. You don’t hate her cause she’s brassy or loud, hates wearing pants, loves smashing too many cans, tells the same stories or says inappropriate things. Not gonna lie, that was just a description of our worst qualities.

You feel like ya hate her cause he likes her more than you. Just like Paolo hates rugby league, and not other sports with the same sponsors or scandals. Paolo hates that the Sydney papers and his neighbours down the street like it more than … whatever he follows. For some reason it feels like it’s probably rugby union as well as MMA. And even though MMA is objectively AWESOME, the whole thing is still better summed up with a different four-letter word: envy.

Confession: we do all care to a creepy degree. WE JUST REALLY LOVE FOOTY. Why else would we give a shit that Ben Hannant had swine flu? Or that Brett White enjoys Bonsai as a hobby? Dude’s right to be envious of how much passion there is for league, on and off the field. It’s why we like punch-ons. It’s proof they’re feeling as angry as we are.

Our saints are like B.Moz, the NSW winger with the broken leg who leaps onto it anyway. Our holy day is when we stop and remember John Sattler’s broken jaw.

And despite what ya might think, Paolo, that passion is why footy is on your back pages eight months a year, not the fact that the sport continued through WWI. Sometimes players punch on, sometimes they get outed on TV for having the runs, sometimes TVs fall apart and Billy Idol happens, but we love our league anyway.

How did the Johnny Come Comparatively Lately code wrest popularity from its parent? By inherent superiority? Crowd-pleasingly open play? Or the fact that for five seasons it was the only game in town?

The NSW and Queensland rugby unions suspended senior competition during World War I. Rugby league did not. When Balmain played Glebe in the 1915 grand final, young men were being sacrificed at Gallipoli. The Queensland Rugby Union was unable to reform until 1929.

By no means do I impugn those who played on or to suggest that many thousands have not worn both khaki and club colours. But it does strike me as a slightly anomalous note when the code wraps itself in the flag and has the Last Post played at its Anzac Day Test.

There are only three paragraphs in your article that make us angry, and there they are! As entertaining as it might be to think league joyfully embraced World War as an opportunity to play more games, grow their brand and conquer the Australian market while the soldier’s backs were turned … BITCH PLEASE.

Yes, and they probably also went back to the sheds afterwards and laughed it up at how funny it was that their friends and countrymen were dying, too, huh?

If you wanna know more about all the OTHER sports that played on through the war, RL1908 can tell you all about ’em.

And if you wanna read a much more smarterer and more eloquent guy explaining why he loves rugby league despite/because of its violence, you should read Murderous Exhibitions by Michael Winkler. It’s AMAZING.

In the meantime, we’re gonna drink some industrial beer and count down to round one, and let Gretchen Weiners sum this whole thing up in one easy sentence:

Love and kisses,
Kiki and Sassy

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confessions of a blues fan: the queenslanders are right

April 6th, 2011


I have to admit something that I really don’t want to: Queenslanders are right.

Truly, they are.

And what they’re right about is that tired old statement they trot out every year: “State of Origin will never mean as much to NSW as it does to Queensland”.

It’s true, it won’t.

And to explain why we probably need a little history lesson. When the Greatest Game of All came to live in Australia, it stopped by NSW first. There was a NSWRL, pretty soon there was a QRL, and there were games between dudes from NSW and dudes from the banana state.

The Blues won the first one against the baby Queenslanders in a 43-0 bloodbath. And for like a zillion years after that (except apparently the 1920s, when I assume all the Blues boys were too busy getting pissed in speakeasies to turn up and actually play sober) NSW kept winning. And worst of all, then they got cashed up, and anyone who could catch a ball north of the border moved to Sydney to get rich and nail chicks.

Is that Dally Messenger on the right?

Fun fact: “prior to 1956, Qld had won 25% of series played.”

Fun fact 2: “from 1956–1981 this number dwindled to only 3.8% with only 1 series win, in 1959.”

Thanks for the factz, internet!

But let’s leave it to some of Queensland’s own to explain why they kept on playing interstate games anyway:

The defeats, even though sometimes severe, far from disuaded the resilient Queenslanders. QRL officials openly stated that “We know we are not champions,” but felt that their only hope of raising the team’s standard was by playing against “such fine exponents as the New South Welshmen.”

Oh man. Trust me, if you’re from NSW that quote is delicious.

And why’d they start the rivalry up again with the new State of Origin in the 80s? Same ole reason. Cause people were forgetting that footy players in the Sydney comps came from north of the border, too. Queensland needed to prove that their footy exports were just as good as people from the Fancy State. And they did! What’s the current Queenland series-win ratio? Like 66%? SEE! WE’RE ALL GOOD AT FOOTY! (Not sarcastic, btw).

But the rest of it, the stuff about Being A Queenslander, well … we never understood it. We still don’t, really.

We get the part where you hate us, cause we hate you too. Not individually, of course … cause how can you hate Scotty Prince? But as a group. It’s just how we was raised. We hate the icky maroon you wear. We hate how you trumpet on and on about some kind of Queensland spirit. We hate how you select dudes from Fiji and New Zealand. We hate when you claim to be underdogs when you aren’t, and we hate even more when you win. Origin hate is universal.

But the bit about being Different and Special? This baffles us.

Like this dude in the Courier Mail.


“Being a Queenslander is not about what is written on a piece of paper, it is about who you are and what is in your heart.”

“They cannot understand this, because it is terribly difficult to squeeze anything into something the size of a split-pea.”

OH SNAP. Nothing burns like being compared to an obscure and unpopular legume. It’s not even one of the good ones that go in tacos. Mmmmm tacos.

Now it can’t be that being a Queenslander means having some unique skill or talent, cause the Blues have won a fair few cracking matches, no? Special shout-out to Ryan Girdler. TOOT TOOT!

So what, exactly, lurks in Queensland hearts that isn’t in Blue ones?

It’s not about ‘passion’ surely? Has anyone cared more than Turvy Mortimer when he collapsed on the ground, punching it in a frenzy of sheer, violent release after winning the Blues’ first ever Origin series in 1985? I have no proof of this, but I’m pretty sure he cried, as well.

It can’t be about determination, or tenacity, or competitive drive, because both teams are masters of fighting on even when a series is lost. It’s why there are so few series whitewashes in Origin history.

And it can’t be about bravery, or how in the hell did Brett Hodgson have the guts to back up from this tackle and keep running the ball at a line including the Raging Bull Gorden Tallis like a mouse running at …. well … a bull? Not to mention how Joey charged back from a broken jaw to win game two in 2005. That’s why his arse is so big, it’s full of courage.

From the outside looking in, it seems to me that the one thing Queenslanders feel in their hearts that’s missing from every NSW chest is a kind of hybrid feeling: a special mix of inadequacy and perceived invisibility. A feeling of being underestimated. If the desire for recognition was a colour, it would be maroon.

And it’s something Blues don’t have because, well, we’ve never had as much to prove.

Until the great XXXXX fiasco of 2010, NSW had never been a proper underdog. We started the league so we had more teams, and we started installing pokies, so we had more money. We were dominant in lots of ways. So that’s what, a century of self-assurance? No wonder the fans took it relatively easy. It wasn’t our war to win.

All of a sudden I realise this must be how the pretty, popular girls in high school school feel. The kind of girls who never realised how many people actually hated them.

We weren’t even mean! We were just … present. We had no idea you felt so unloved!

Which makes the XXXXX series record the equivalent of someone you don’t remember walking up to you at a school reunion, waving their paycheck and your high-school boyfriend (now their husband) in your face and saying SUCK ON THAT, BITCH!

What’s next? Will Queenslanders tell us they invented post-its?

We may not have had a quarrel before, but fuck all y’all if we don’t have one now. Queensland have been fuelling their hate with inadequacy since 1930 and NSW has been waaaay behind the 8 ball. We were apathetic. Content, even. We didn’t know what it felt like to suck for more than a year or two.

And Queenslanders have been going through this for a CENTURY. No wonder they’re so damn mad. You would have to build a mythology to sustain your sanity through that kind of extended emotional frustration.

Just like the ancients invented God to cope with the trauma of being slaves and hauling rocks up Pyramids, the Queenslanders have invented ‘the Queensland spirit’ to cope with being considered the less successful State in their formative years. They needed to believe that – even if they weren’t always winners on paper – they had SOMETHING the other state didn’t have. That thing was an intangible, magical Queensland spirit.

And even now they’re full-grown and fully competitive and have a team full of Aussie reps, they can’t stop believing that myth.

By comparison, we’ve only really had five years of true suffering. Meaning NSW has only just started to write a book of myths. It involves Queensland being mercenaries and cheaters, so even if we lose, at least we still have our integrity.

But how can 5 years compare to 100? We’ve barely gotten started. So you’re right, Queenslanders. In the scheme of things: we don’t care.

But it doesn’t mean we don’t hate ya. And it doesn’t mean we won’t win.

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sassy’s grand final wrap-up: only one errol can win

October 5th, 2010

I won’t lie, there was a point – about 15 minutes into the second half of the grand final – where I cried. Not snotty Marley and Me-type crying. It was more a general Brett Morris-esque welling. I promised Kiki before the game that I wouldn’t weep, and I was determined to keep my promise. I’m nothing if not really petty and really stubborn.


By that point, all was lost and I knew it and it was heartbreaking. More than once I wished I was watching the game at home so at least I’d be able to listen to Rabs Warren commentate. His voice is just really comforting, and boy did I need comfort. Then Flossy Nightingale scored his second try and I got beer all done the back of my 2009 wooden-spoon jersey from over-excited Dragons fans and the sheer cold shock of being covered in mid-strength beer (they were fresh ones) snapped me back from the crying abyss.

So here’s how the game went down from our seats in the stratosphere.

The view from our seats: I should’ve known this was a bad omen.

SO MANY DRAGONS FANS. Those bitches was everywhere! And who was surprised? After last year, they had to Believe. Their team just had to transfer their skills into the finals series. On the other hand, as a Roosters fan, there’s a reason I didn’t have tickets: Because I’m not insane. I’m only that much of an optimist when I’m drunk or take a knock to the head.

I was expecting maybe … seventh or eighth for my boys. Knocked out first or second round of the finals at best. You know, something respectable, but not excessive. Something to inspire them to keep going for next year. Little did I know that Brian Smith – teeny tiny Smithy of the soothing voice and the dry, dry jokes – was a Rooster-whisperer and my team would start pulling Tigers-2005-style wins off as the season went on. It was like coming out of a hellish breakup (also knownas 2009) fat, acne-covered and depressed, and all of a sudden realising you’ve met the most perfect guy EVER. I was shocked and amazed and delighted.

Is it sad that I’m comparing my footy team to a boyfriend? Probably. But considering I spend Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday nights with football, it’s pretty accurate.

In the end, it turned out the 2010 Roosters/my new boyfriend weren’t going to have the whole fairytale package. They lost the grand final/he snores … but whatever. They made me happy, and I’m proud. And here’s why I think my babies couldn’t pull it off and Kiki’s dragons could.

GRAND FINALS NEED GRAND FINAL PERFORMANCES. I’m looking at you, Jason ‘Flossy’ Nightingale. The Dragons left-side is always their go-to attack side (shout out to Brett Morris for making the Kangaroos side again!) but with Gasnier back they started moving the ball to Flossy on the right wing, and the Roosters were too tired/demoralised to keep him out. Flossy you little gun! We always believed in you! It totally helped that he wore his lucky boots: those black ones that make it look like he’s a little kid who forgot his boots and had to play in school shoes. Maybe he could get sponsored by Clarks?

Truthfully, we thought he’d take the Churchill medal, but it turns out Joyce still really loves fullbacks (remember her lolz quotes about Billy Slater?), and I’m pretty sure Flossy doesn’t give a shit anyway cause he’s a grand final-winner.

Instead, we got to see Darius Boyd give one of the most unintentionally nerdy speeches ever when he accepted the Clive Churchill. It started with him standing around awkwardly and yelling ‘WOOO!’ and ended with him saying “now let’s go party!” like an American frat boy. Oh, Darius. It was an appropriate speech to hear when the Whitest Team in the NRL had just won a grand final.

Darius bringin cool back to the locker room whut whut

(For the record, not saying they’re white supremacists n stuff, just that they’re literally WHITE. B.Moz, Hornbag, Benny Creagh, you see where I’m going. There’s a lot of milk in the Dragons fridge and not much coffee).

WHAT’S THAT WAYNE BENNETT QUOTE ABOUT A CHAMPION TEAM NOT A TEAM OF CHAMPIONS? Cause yeah … that. I thought Floss was the best on the field and the most improved on the field but I wouldn’t fault any of the others, bar a few rain-related mistakes. Dean Young killed it. Jeremy Smith killed it, while looking like even more of a complete babe than usual.

Exhibit A. Dean Young congratulates Jeremy Smith on winning a non-tainted premiership and being a dirty spunk.

Weyman killed it, while he was on the field. Which reminds me, I refuse to believe Daniel Conn came in with a swinging arm until I see it. I also plan to never watch the replay, so Daniel Conn is innocent. The end. QED.

And lastly, TWO HOOKERS ARE BETTER THAN ONE. At least that’s what Charlie Sheen says. Boom tish! With the beauty of hindsight, 80 minutes of Jake Friend was no match for Dean Young and Nathan Fien. They were too sharp and speedy and his defence got too soft. Sad but true. I wouldn’t say any of my boys had shockers. They just didn’t bring the spark: they were a six when – at times this year – they’ve been a nine. Two words: next year.


Wanna know WHAT WE DID?

The UDL really brings out Yassy’s classy side.

Through a massive stroke of luck, we had tickets to the game, and the always fabulous Yasmin came with us, even though her two favourite players Moonie Vanoodie and Jarrod Yee-Hah weren’t playing. It probably helped that she has dirty crushes on Todd Carney and Ben Creagh, though. She sat between us, and even let me lay my head on her shoulder in despair in the second half. Usually she doesn’t much care for being touched, so thank you Yas!

After the game, while the Indian Roosters fan in front of us openly wept and was consoled by his girlfriend, we decided the best way to celebrate Kiki’s win, drown my sorrows and avoid train queues was to head to the Olympic Park pub and drink UDLs and dance to a covers band. Nothing cures sadness like dancing to Footloose and some comforting hugs from random Roosters fans and kindly Dragons while Kiki can-can dances around the pub. The general theme of the night from Drags fans was: BUT YOU GUYS DID SO WELL THIS YEAR! CONGRATULATIONS!

Kiki’s Grand Final headpiece (she made it herself!) both entertained and confused drunk people.

Next stop: The Beach Road Hotel for Kiki to gloat at Roosters fans. The only problem was that everyone there was so pissed they thought she was wearing Roosters colours.

And lastly: a drink and a pizza with our mate Shorto from the Jacksonville Axemen. Love you Shorto! Say hi to your dad for us!

I can’t express how much I adore every single Rooster for rebuilding us back into a team to be proud of this year. They finished second but it’s not enough of a reward for everything they did. All I can say is that seeing this broke my heart. It hurt even more than seeing Fitzy leave for the English Super League with a wooden spoon and a 16-point loss to the Cowboys, urgh.

And just as I was about to fume about Mark Gasnier sailing back in to get a Premiership ring, he stepped in to comfort Frank-Paul the Wrecking Ball:

Two words: NEXT YEAR. Next year, my darlings.

All pics: Getty Images

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footy observations: barbecues and theatre sports

August 12th, 2010

Well it happened, friends. Kiki’s Dragons and my Roosters clashed at the SCG. YES WE SURVIVED. It was surprisingly … civilised. Maybe the SCG just gives out those kind of vibes, because the whole thing was generally sunshiney and positive and lovely and genial. No, I’m not joking. Neither of us even got up and sang a song about scoring tries while doing an obnoxious little dance (which we usually really, really enjoy).

It also helped that there was a fucking fierce Roosters fan sitting behind us in a NSWRL-era jersey, who could perfectly imitate a rooster.

It’s hard to be depressed with a woman in a footy jersey cock-a-doodle-doing behind you. I think my mum actually has that embroidered on a teatowel.

It also helped that there was a lot to like. I cried a little tear when Kane Linnett limped from the field, but Todd Carney run the ball eased the pain. MAubs at centre for next week? Don’t mind if we do. Sure it might all go down in flames, but you can’t deny he runs beautiful lines and the bitch does have some footwork. I believe.

And lastly, it helped that some people had equally traumatic weekends:

Exhibit A: Intern John-John had to have his weekly leg-wax in public (well it was for charity)

Exhibit B: all of womanhood suffered as one when Matt Ballin’s face got injured. NOT THE FACE! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

Exhibit C: J.Aubs discovered that when you’re out injured for the season … you’re suddenly at the bottom of the pyramid and the boys totally make you do all the shit jobs.  eg. take over when there’s smoke burning your vulnerable little eyes. As if he doesn’t have enough problems! Stop laughing Todd Carney!

Exhibit D: Oh, Beau. That’s him trying to hail a cab after his weekend performance.

Exhibit E: The Storm lost Greg Inglis …. and their will to live.

That reminds me: in completely expected and in no way surprising signing news, Greg Inglis is a Bronco. We all know he’s a fucking bandit for a maroon jersey. Also, we totally predicted it in the latest issue of Rugby League Player (buy it. It’s ace). We also predicted GI will take his boat with him to Brissie and start a Whitsunday charter sail operation that ends in tragedy. We’re pretty much Nostradamus, or something.

Errol fave Flash Gordon is staying at Penrith,while Jeremy Smith has joined the dark side and signed to the Sharks. If nothing else, we hope he somehow manages to cheer up Anthony Tupou with his love and friendship. WHY SO SAD, TOOPS?

Apparently Steve Matai turned down the Warriors before he confirmed a deal with Manly, meaning his deal with Manly will be a whole lot less. He is a master negotiator, no? We’re 99% sure that when Manly do give him a deal it will be for a glass of water and one of Des’ used hairbrushes and he’ll fall to the ground running in circles like Homer negotiating with Burns.

And up in Brissie, the elder statesmen Darren Lockyer STILL refuses to announce his retirement, and Corey Norman is rapidly turning into Peter Costello, waiting and waiting for John Howard to retire until all of a sudden Malcolm Turnbull’s party leader and Costello is losing his hair. Sucks to be Corey.

Related question – if Darren Lockyer was a vampire, he would be the Master from Buffy, yes?

But screw signings, more importantly JAMAL IS ON TV. He’s signed is a brand new deal to get him on the Footy Show and on that cop show. You know, the one with Gary Sweet.

Well played, Channel 9. Well played. To quote Jamal “I’m not the next big thing, but I’m pretty close to it”. AMEN.

But best of all, DES HASLER MADE A FUNNY. Last night at the Harbord Diggers, George Rose and a team of players took on Dessie’s team in the “Stage of Origin” theatre sports. Just take a moment to think about that, won’t you? Dessie sticking his arms through someone’s armpits and pretending to interview a celebrity. Dessie playing ‘subtitles’. Dessie pretending to do accents.


And on that note, I’m gonna leave you with a picture of the Roosters being adorable at a Mission Australia pre-City to Surf barbecue (shoutout to Dan!), and a link to see a shirtless George Rose rocking out at Stage of Origin. You’re welcome.

Hey, Shaun Kenny-Dowall, why so concerned about sausages?

(All game pics: Getty Images)

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roosters vs eels recap: in todd we trust

August 4th, 2010

Pic. Getty Images

We’re resurrecting an Errol tradition – the footy recap! So for any of you who actually have lives and missed the Roosters vs Eels game on Saturday night – aka the GAME OF THE ROUND, BITCHES – you can experience all the magic right here.

So the game’s over at Parra Stadium, which means two things.

1. The Eel mascot will make an appearance, which is one of our favourite things.  You know when he puts his tail between his legs, like a … ? Well, you know. He’s wildly inappropriate and totally not PG and this amuses us greatly.

2. The Eel’s mascot girlfriend will also make an appearance, which without fail makes me want to die. Seriously, a MASCOT has a better love life than me. Shit is dire.

As the Roosters run out I would like to remind you all that YES we do have the shortest shorts in the league and you all fucking love it. Brian Smith is rocking jeans and sneaks like ‘WHAT UP? I’M A COOL DAD’.

Fui Fui Moi Moi’s all corn-rowed and running out with the starting side which I think means the Eels mean business. He’s the human equivalent of a floor-length leather trenchcoat. He also has hamstring tape all up the back of his leg, and instead of the usual two-strap wishbone style it’s about eight pieces of tape. This is obviously because his legs are enormous.

The Chooks take the first set and within three minutes they’re within ten metres of the tryline. It only takes two more sets and M.Aubs runs for the line, hits a hole and busts through beautifully to ground the ball like a red-white-and-blue dynamo. MAAAUBS!

While Todd Carney’s lining up the conversion, Kiki rings me to dicuss how much on a scale of 1 to 10 we adore Maubs (it’s totally 10), and how much he’s realised his potential this season. She says his runs through the line and in open space remind her of Ben Creagh. I rant about how much I love his positioning in support when the halves have the ball and his pretty strawberry-blond hair and call him ‘the new Steve Menzies,’ which she’s maybe not quite convinced of.

Uncanny, no?

Todd ‘Hotpants’ Carney bends forward to take the kick and Kiki predicts the short-shorts are going to end in disaster. “I think it’s only a matter of time until we see a testicle.”

Jarryd-with-a-Y Hayne, in his current incarnation as the Hayne-Plane, looks pissed.

[Note from Sassy’s stepdad: He’s a COM-PLAIN.]


Parra are having no luck, Feleti Mateo loses the ball, there’s some niggle afoot and the Roosters move into attack again. Hotpants Carney throws a magical cut-out pass to Sam Perrett who pops it back to Shaun Kenny-Dowall for a try. Or as we like to call him, PINK MAAAAN! So rosy! So fast!

And as far as we can tell, the Pink Man nickname is catching on. People all over the world, from all eras, at costume parties and even in cartoons are paying tribute to NRL’s Pink Man. He’s a cult hero!

The Roosters look so dangerous I may faint. I’m swooning all over the place at how well the forward pack are playing. Ryles! Myles! Kennedy! I’d marry you all right now!

They play through the middle and Mitchell Pearce throws an offload of beauty to Minichiello for a try. I am DYING. Jarryd-with-a-Y does not so much resemble a plane as something Medieval covered in spikes that they used to torture infidels. He looks even angrier than before.

At least I think he looks angry. On the next set Parra do some weird shit that makes me think they didn’t know it was the last tackle, so maybe all of them, including Jarryd-with-a-Y are just confused?

I would like to suggest that, to help with his confusion, Jarryd-with-a-Y might like to consult the safety card in his seat pocket. If he does, he will see that if he’s looking for a try, a line of red, white and blue players will show him how it’s done.

Welcome to Roosters Air! Where hotpants are just part of the uniform.

There’s some push’n’shove between Frank-Paul Nuuausala and Justin Poore. The Roosters give away about six straight penalties until Parra finally make it through for a Jarryd-with-a-Y try. UGH. STUPID PLANE ARMS. GOD. STAB STAB.

Wait, where was I?

Parra kick to the Chooks’ line and for some reason, instead of playing at it, every single man just stands around and discusses whether they prefer Johnathan Cainer or Mystic Medusa’s horoscopes while the ball bounces. Kane Linnett (hi Kane! We remember you fondly from the Jets!) is the first to put down his chai and grab the ball, then sprints downfield, offloading at the last second to Phil Graham for a try.

Kiki rings me and we both admit we actually had goosebumps on our forearms. If we weren’t ladies, we would probably also have actual footy-induced boners. Amazing! Hotpants gets his fourth conversion. Four for you Todd Carney! You go Todd Carney!

Finally the Eels do something. A Tim Tam Tahu break from Plane pass, a Hotpants Carney intercept, Sam Perrett loses the ball, I think I’m having a stroke, and Hindy runs 30 metres to score. Oh Hindy, we love you more than life. Do you know what you should do it you love Hindy too?


In the second half, I won’t lie, I lost my mind a bit. All my notes say is this:

is todd adjusting his crotch tape in the middle of the field?

shit kane might be injured.

how good does todd look now he’s given up booze? so lean! so youthful!

adamson is ranting about “the passing and the christmas” is he drunk?

fuck me carney incredible spiral pass dead of joy.

are the short shorts a tribute to ronnie palmer? miss u, love u ronnie.

joel reddy dives over can’t see what happens cause 3 chooks. ref says held up. joel reddy is BLOWING UP like woah.

whee it’s proof you only have to wait three weeks to get a lucky refereeing decision.

hayne is he trying to start a fight??? he’s a war plane! throws a massive tantrum about … I have no idea. but it’s lolz.

oh god ANOTHER penalty oh god oh god oh god. penalty count is 11-4 FUCK ME.

roosters finally back in attack, their defence has been awesome. tim mannah is cycling and it’s cute.

imagine how dangerous skd could be if his passes were more reliable??

The Hayne plane is having difficulties.

wow. wow. eels look like they want to die.

HAHA brian smith just gave thumbs up to the camera

he goes up to fui to say well played, naaaw.

oh shit I think d morts is crying. that’s sad.

I know, I know, I sound functionally illiterate. But if you read that really REALLY loudly, it’s just like watching a game with me. End result 48-12.

And now I’ll leave you with my boys being adorable winners in the locker room.


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origin wrap-up 2010: baby blues and report cards

July 8th, 2010

Recently, we’ve made a lot of new discoveries.

As part of her ‘Wet July’ campaign*, Sassy discovered that the Beach Road Hotel is exactly one longneck’s walk from her front door. She loves a roadie, and hates drink driving.

Kiki discovered that cleaning out a rabbit hutch is Extremely Unpleasant. Turns out her new pet bunny Preston Campbell is far less hygienic and tidy than the real Preston Campbell.

And after being slightly distressed last night (there may have been a tear or two) we discovered that even when you get maroon-washed you can still feel pretty proud the next morning.

See those big penguins? That’s us. Bein’ proud Origin parents.

Let’s break it down.

Three weeks can make a shitload of difference, huh? Even though the first ten minutes wasn’t exactly all the Blues dreams come true (understatement), the next 60 proved that when you play like you can win and get your blue asses all up in Queensland’s business, then you can win. It was a slightly-less-violent version of last year’s game three attitude. It also reminded us of the game back in 2009 where the bottom-eight Raiders beat the Minor Premiers St George out of nowhere just by gettin all up in their grills. This is also known as The Game Where T.Camps Threw a Ball at Dean Young’s Head. Also known as One Of Our Favourite Games Ever.

Hugging Gidley = v. important part of captain’s duties.
Pic. Getty Images

Straight after full time, we won’t lie, we were desolate. Seeing them come so close, but fall short, was sad sad sad. It may have even caused us to self-medicate with booze. But in retrospect, this is good. We is PROUD.

The last five years for NSW supporters have been like a five-year lesson in parenting. What do you do when you have children who disappoint you? What do you do when they make bad choices, when they get bullied, when they don’t believe in themselves? How do you deal with kids who fail to live up to their potential?

Apparently – and we checked this with our own mums to make sure – you can’t give kids back. It’s called ‘abandonment’ and people frown upon it.

Little Kurt just doesn’t understand.

So we stuck with the boys, just kept telling them we loved them and makin em peanut butter sandwiches or whatever young people eat these days … and last night we finally got the parental payoff. We think they call this feeling … PRIDE?

We get it now when parents say that they don’t care what mark you get “JUST AS LONG AS YOU TRY YOUR BEST DARLING”.

So let’s give some special shoutouts to our kids:

WE’RE SORRY, KURT GIDLEY: After all this drama, turns out you can play like a fucking demon when you want to (and when the selectors put you on the bench, where a good utility belongs). We’re sorry about the time we said on twitter you were ruining our lives. Now who else wants to sign the apology card?

WHAT UP FORMER INTERN GREG BIRD! Birdy, we knew you could do it all along. You’re a tough little nugget of awesome, and you proved it when you went over the line to ground the grubber, and in defence. ORIGIN 4 LYFE.

JARRYD HAYNE: Great game. Your other games weren’t great, but whatevs. That cut out pass to Brett Morris was MAGIC. You’re totally getting a bike for Christmas.

TOM LEAROYD-LAHRS AHOY! What? We have eyes. And as well as being a hot bitch, Tommy LL proved you don’t have to be the kind of player that racks up judiciary points to have enough (that hated word) “mongrel” to play Origin. Bitch is tough.

PAUL GALLEN: We don’t say nice things about Sharks players. You can make up your own complimentary feedback.

Pic. Quentin Jones

And the best bit of it? Not one player in that team played themselves out of a Blues jersey. For New South Welshfolk this feels weird. But we assure you it’s totally normal. We dare you to tell us who shouldn’t get another chance. Not even B.Moz when he cruelly murdered a try. Not even Ennis with his …. poor choice to join in a punch up in his own half. Not even Flash Gordon in his First Ever Origin, playing in the Position of Death. Sure there was that moment where he had some kind of attacking brain snap and ran in-field when the left side was open but whatever, Gidley ended up scoring anyway.

Sure Queensland played through some gaps out wide but that’s not necessarily a wing failure. That’s a whole line failure. And we’re 99% sure it’s the kinda thing that you fix by playing together, no?

They all played like boys who want to wear blues jerseys. Meaning they all played like boys who deserve blue jerseys. Luke Lewis, in the minutes he was on the field played like TWO men who should wear blue jerseys.

The exception was probably the last ten minutes, when they played like guys who all of a sudden realised they might actually win this thing and were so shocked and delighted and confused by the prospect of it happening that they lost their damn minds. But it happens, right? When you’re not used to winning it’s harder to win. Next time, it’ll be a teeny bit easier.

The maroons are good at football, bad at counting. Check out JT, Matt Scott and Darius.
Pic. Getty Images

Meanwhile, this is probably the point where we should discuss Queensland. We don’t like doing this. Yes, you’re all very good at football. Yes, that was a very good kick Darren Lockyer. Yes, Sam Thaiday we know you love fightin’, but stop trying to join in other people’s punch-ups. Also, tie your shorts a bit tighter next time pls.

Yes, letting Israel Folau take the last conversion attempt was kind of gross. (Nothing personal, Izzy). We could have written it off as “a touching farewell” if it wasn’t for the whole matter of Queensland first REFUSING to pick him on moral grounds, then picking him anyway cause he’s one of their two best wingers, then pimping him out as a hero. GROSS.

Do you know what is personal though? B.Moz and his injured knee. We blame you. Kiki in particular blames you. If someone in a balaclava knocks on your door then Tonya Hardings your knee, it’s probably her.

We would like to suggest that any team that would injure Brett Morris – beloved by all – is clearly in league with the powers of darkness.

As opposed to our team, who are on the whole pretty handsome, totally lovable, and wear delightfully short shorts.

And that’s SoO for 2010, over and out.

You stay classy, Origin fanz.
Pic. Cameron Richardson

* Wet July is just like Dry July, except instead of getting sponsored to be sober … you give money to charity yourself, then get drunk. Feel free to join in.

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origin 2010: you’ll have to speak up, I’m wearing a towel!

May 20th, 2010

What up kittens? Time for your daily roundup of all the important bizness happening in the two Origin camps.

In completely unsurprising news, the Herald got Craig Bellamy to admit that he can’t promise there won’t be any fighting on the field in game one. Wait does that even make sense? Ok, so, yes, you’re telling me there might be fighting. And … what else? Is the sky blue? Is Hot Bitch Cooper sexy? TELL ME HERALD WRITERS, I MUST KNOW.

Maybe they’ve been learning from Mal ‘Cap’n Obvious’ Meninga, who has suggested to his team that getting wasted on (alleged) Stilnox and (alleged) Red Bull conallegacoctions is not the best way to prepare for an Origin game and perhaps they should try not to do that again.

The Tele tells us that Benny Creagh is going to take it to Darren Lockyer in Game One and generally make his life a pushy, tackly hell.

Creagh has been ordered to “terrorise” the veteran Queenslander in Wednesday night’s opening Origin game at ANZ Stadium. Creagh’s brief will include hammering Lockyer in attack and defence.

And it’s a weird situation, because all the Creagh-haters would say he can’t make anyone’s life hell, because he’s too busy pushing Justin Hodges then hiding behind Anthony Watmough. To that we say oh hellll no. Benny Creagh is a thinker (seriously). After Trent Waterhouse’s send off that bitch thought better of his push and backed off before he ended up on the sideline. Our Benny Creagh is S-M-R-T.

There’s more to All-the-way-with Benny Creagh than meets the eye. Remember when Luke Bailey said he was like Ivan Milat?

That was hilarious and/or terrifying. Locky might need to watch out.

Yet Locky seems so … unworried. Just chillin in the casino on a cruise ship. Looks like his relaxing cruise with Izzy Folau is really workin out.

And the Blues have brought in a new and deadly secret weapon: Freddy.


The deal is that awesome Blues from the Past like Freddy, Blocka, Joey, Laurie Daley and the Chief are going to be staying with the boys for a few days in camp to spread their wisdom and inspire the team. Plus they’ve already had a night talking to Garry Jack, Peter Wynn and Rod Wishart. JEALOUS. And sure, we’d love to have Blocka and the guys hanging around inspiring us, but Freddy is special. Is it just me? He’s so …. comforting. Put me up on a ledge in the middle of a nervous breakdown and he’s the man I’d want talking me down.

Seriously, can you name any other Origin great who you could imagine this senctence is about:

OPTIMISM sauntered into the NSW Origin camp yesterday with a towel around his waist and a copy of The Daily Telegraph under one arm.


If I was facing up to this:

in a weeks time, a man in a towel is the kind of man I want giving me advice. Am I right?

All pics Getty Images

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origin 2010: maroon is such an unfortunate colour

May 19th, 2010

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


Cooper Cronk

David Shillington

Neville Costigan

David Taylor


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).


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.


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.


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?

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friday night recap: dragons vs bulldogs

March 26th, 2010

At Errol HQ, we never like to do things straight away if we can let Future Us look after it instead. So how about a really late recap of the Dragons vs Bulldogs from the weekend? Awesome.

I’m watching this game form the couch. Sure I’d rather be hanging in the gong at WIN Stadium looking at the water views (they really are lovely) and basking in the kind of satisfaction that only comes from being within stalking distance of both Hot Bitch Cooper AND Wendell Sailor, but a girls gotta take what she can get. And what I got … is lazy.

The Bulldogs fans have a sign that says ‘STAGGERING’. Really, guys? Of all the options, you went with a tribute to David Stagg? No offence to Dave, but he’s not really a marquee player, is he? For the mums and gays reading, if you cast him in Beaches, he’d be Barbara Hershey, not Bette Midler, right?

The Dragons play a great first set with a brilliant kick from Tiny Dancer but I’m too busy being shocked that Hornbag has new spanx on. Thery’re all … white! And shiny! I thought Hornbag was gonna hold onto those old manky faded blue-grey spanx until the end of eternity. I always figured when nuclear armageddon came, all that would survive would be cockroaches, and Hornbag’s blue bike pants. Pretty sure Hornbag would love me comparing his crotchal region to insects, just quietly.

Pic. Getty Images

After about ten seconds Darius Boyd throws a great pass right to B.Moz to dive in like superman for a try. Kiki sends me text messages that just say ‘B.MOZZZZZz‘ and ‘FANTASY LEAGUE SUCK IT‘.

I send one back that says ‘F*CK ME THAT’S THE FIRST TIME I’VE EVER SEEN BALL-HOG PASS A FOOTY.’ Dah-rius, honey, if you can pass like that, how come you’ve never done it before, hmmmm?

Brad Fittler gives me updates from the sidelines and I feel like- much as I love Freddy – of all the post-footy jobs you could possibly give him, why would you pick one where you can only hear his voice?

He has a lovable face, relevant things to say, footy cred like woah, and … a voice like a punch-drunk boxer. It’s like listening to Milo Kerrigan tell me about the Dragons.

I swear to god he actually says “I can pretty much guarantee that they’ll end up the other end the bulldogs in not too long time”. I think he’s nervous. DON’T BE NERVOUS FREDDY DARLIN.

There’s some crazy sea mist action on the field and newly-recognised hot bitch Jeremy Smith’s new curly hair is all windswept and drenched, swoon. It makes me sad that he hid his hot under a Storm jersey for so long.

Weyman goes in for a tackle and Rabs cackles “talk about some prime beef coming together there! Hickey into Michael Weyman!” I know when I think of Jarrad Hickey the first thing I think of is beef. Mmmm wagyu.

Dean Young scores, but Sowie can’t convert. I think he got the prance wrong and it put him off.

They have to send in an interchange player for Jarrad Hickey cause Wagyu Jarrad is deadset EXHAUSTED. He’s the dampest, sweatiest man I’ve ever seen and I’m scared he might have a stroke.

Brad ‘Milo Kerrigan’ Fittler gives us a weather report: “there’s a bit of breeze, it’s not too hot. You just get a bit of a lather up.”

Sassy can’t wait till Freddy’s known as the Most Trusted Name in Weather.

Is the weather getting messy? Aaa-aaaaaask Freddy!

Benny Creagh puts a hit on David Stagg that is completely massive and Dave takes a quick ride on the Teacups that makes the ‘STAGGERING’ sign in the crowd seem really cruel and ironic.

At this point I really need to pee but apparently I would rather risk internal complications and hold it in than stop watching the footy. Also, is it just me or is Luke Priddis kind of a bizarro Trent Barrett?

The doggies have a chance at a try on the left hand side, but Dah-rius takes Bryson Goodwin over the sideline to stop it, then patronisingly pats him on the head. And when Bryson gets his bitch on and wants to start a fight, Dah-rius runs away. He fights like me!

Beau Scott takes his place, because dammit if Beau isn’t the angriest bitch ever as soon as he steps onto a football field. All of a sudden Hornbag, Ben Hannant, and Flossy nightingale are in the middle of an actual fight and I feel like there is no one in the world less suited to be involved in punchy punchy times. If the camera could show what was actually happening in there Ben Hannant and Flossy would just be nuzzling each other’s necks like giant puppies. J.Moz and B.Moz run away to fake fight each other on the other side of the field, also known as “entertaining the crowd with a show of brotherly love” according to Rabs.

… hasn’t he seen Philadelphia?
Pic. capped by Cronkstaaaah

Rabs, this prase “brotherly love”, it means something that you don’t think it means. Trust me.

Other things Rabs has told us tonight include that Jamal Idris used to do Discus, and that Sterlo is a “whippersnapper”. These things may or may not be true.

At half time Kiki rings me to discuss the fight and to tell me she has run out of clean undies and is freeballing. We are officially way too close.

The boys finish their oranges and the second half starts. This is also known as ‘Rabs being even more fucking hilarious/senile than usual”.

There’s a fiesta of Warriors-esque passes and, on the sideline, Milo Kerrigan the weatherman interviews Michael Ennis. Rabs thinks “the players are really improving … what about Sam Thaiday’s oratory skills!”

The game loses momentum, until Beau Scott brings down a bulldog and Rabs calls him “a bounty hunter! They don’t get away from him!”

I hear his new movie is really shit, though.

The doggies finally get a try in; Gary Warburton is penalised for a high tackle because I think we all know that good things don’t happen to men called Gary Warburton.

No, Gary, NO!

The dragons charge into Green and Hickey in defence. I’m impressed. I’d be too scared they’d eat me. Emmett scores, Kimmorley is enraged, and I am completely confused by whatever is going on with the reffing. For the record, I’m not even drunk.

Also, yes that was very good Nick Emmett but please don’t wink at me through the tv again. It’s unnerving. We hardly know each other.

Meanwhile Kimmorley is still angry and frantically miming obstruction at the ref like a netball umpire in slo-mo.

Kiki phones me again and we declare Hornbag as the Errol man of the match.

Ben Creagh slams Kimmorley and mini-Hoppo takes a looong ride on Space Mountain. I yell out “thanks for comin’ Kimmorley!” like a dirty bogan.

B. Moz runs in for his third try of the noght and I seriously cannot even process how unfair this is. Remember our fantasy experiment? I really REALLY need this kind of talent in my team, but B.Moz refuses to give in and just steal a car or something. He’s so fucking selfish. My fantasy team is so gonna lose this week.

With that the ref blows the whistle, 26-6. I cry a little for my poor unfortunate fantasy team … and did I mention I need to pee again?

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