First of all this isn’t so much a recap as it is a chance to peek into the mind of a Reformed Football Hater, and witness the power of Sassy and Kiki’s influence. We’ve been here before of course with Jessica’s journey, but she was much less resistant and quite easily slipped into obsession – I was a bigger challenge. I’m stubborn and stuck in my ways, I’ve always HATED sport and I have an aversion to muscly men.

Then once I had Kiki and Sassy to point things out for me and discovered bearded David Williams (btw we are apparently the go-to blog for info on ‘manly sea eagles with the beard’), it was ON. It’s kind of like how my mum refused to use a computer for years insisting that they’re unnecessary and boring, then found out how much lolz stuff there is on the Internets and now sends me texts to ‘search for Nora on YouTube’ (it’s a cat playing piano in case you’re wondering). THIS IS AMAZING! IT’S A WHOLE NEW WORLD!

So Friday night I settled in with an almost empty bottle of vodka (which I’m glad is almost empty since last time I watched something Important while drinking, I ended up not recalling the last 40 minutes of High School Musical) to watch my newly adopted bbs play Storm. I naively expected it to be kind of like last week with it’s hilar commentary on oranges and a smorgasbord of mans in the form of David Williams and Matt Ballin. I was WRONG. Well, the mans were there but the action was the brighter star. This game was FULL ON.

[Is that the pioneer breaking up a fight? That makes so much sense. I think in the colonies you really need someone with a cool head who'll keep the other boys in line when they try and punch each other up for eating someone else's serve of shepherd's pie at the dinnertable. - Sassy]

Giggle! His name sounds like animalz.

Anyway it was all so overwhelming I don’t think I can form proper paragraphs and will present the rest of my thoughtz in bullet points.

• There was a severe lack of Hot Pioneer here. Though I suspect maybe the gang at Channel 9 wanted to give us at Oh Errol a break after the unveiling of the Gods of Football pics. They’re just concerned for our wellbeing! We did however get to see Our Davey score a try in what was christened “Beaver and The Wolfman Part 2”. I love that they enjoy a running joke. Sadly no references to Enid Blyton this week though. More references to children’s literature pls boys!

• I straight up cannot STAND Billy Slater. I don’t know why, I don’t have a reason, it’s completely irrational, but I do know that my instincts are NEVER WRONG. Like how I always hated Jeremy Piven even though I’d never seen him in anything or knew much about him at all, and then he won the Emmy instead of Will Arnett in 2006. I KNEW I HATED HIM FOR A REASON. I was afraid to say this for a while in case Cooper Cronk found out and didn’t want to go on excursions to the zoo with me anymore (well he didn’t to begin with, nor does he actually know of my plans at all, but whatevs), but he’s on my Irrational Shit-List too now so it’s all ok.

• Rabs thinks Ballin has ‘blossomed’. AWWWW! It sounds like a line from the menstruation film they watch in Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret.

Coincidentally Ballin happens to make my lady flower blossom.

• My Boys almost score a try but video ref is feeling hardarsed. Gus is Not Impressed:

In related news, at this point my vodka bottle is officially empty.

• At one point Davey Williams gets picked up and absolutely SLAMMED backwards by Anthony Quinn. NOT THE CURLS! YOU LEAVE OUR FACE ALONE! I mean, his face. Right, his face.

• Someone is appalled by ‘the hide of the bloke’ regarding something Billy Slater did. I don’t actually know what it was but I CONCUR.

• Storm win. Surprise!

I’m clearly not an expert but I thought the Manly boys played a cracker of a game right to the end. Go boys go! And even though we lost and I ran out of booze, I just can’t be sad knowing they played so well. ILU MANLY! It’s also really hard to feel anything but joy while we’re still basking in the glow of our shiny new Christmas in August pressies.

OH MY GAWWWWWWWD!1!11!!

I am so overwhelmed with joy right now I don’t even know where to begin. My fingers are paralysed with excitement and have almost forgotten how to do typey times. No cute little butterflies in Kiki’s tummy. Oh no. My stomach has been over taken by giant radioactive moths with the attitude of Samuel L Jackson in every movie he’s ever made. Motherfucker moths!

Thanks to The Newest Manly Fan Lozzy alerting us to the event, today Sassy, Marlo and I purchased tickets for his tres important and illustrious tribute dinner. ZOMG WE ARE REALLY GOING. As a trio we have already experienced much success socialising in the football sphere, and we hope to be just as personable this time around. We pray Gordon Tallis attends so we can do the Hustle again. Bitch has the moves.

Aaaaah, memories.

Sadly for all involved I think it’s a sit down dinner. I was hoping for a buffet. For two reasons….a)the endless amount of Beaver Buffet jokes to be made and b) so I could shoot the breeze with Alan Jones over the omelette station.

Oh god oh god oh GOD. Deepest apologies to Our Lord but I don’t know how to cope with such excitement without blaspheming constantly. Soz big guy! But you see, a lifelong dream of mine is about to come true. I am about to meet the Beaver.STEVE FREAKING MENZIES PEOPLE.

Okay readers, a bit of explanation is in order. We have indeed covered the ageless awesomeness that is The Beaver in previous posts, but I have yet to fully explain my obsession with him. It’s something so intrinsic to my Kikiness that I just couldn’t casually drop it into something as insignificant as a game recap. This shit needs it’s own post. Oh yeh, it’s that important.

Steve Menzies was my first Real Crush. The year was 1995 and I was 14 years old. At the time most teenage girls were obsessed with Devon Sawa and obsessively buying TV Hits for new posters of him. Not me. I was the weirdo clad in a blues jersey with Menzies across the back (thanks Peter Wynn!) scarily pestering the newsagent…HAS THE NEW RUGBY LEAGUE WEEK COME OUT YET…FOR THE LOVE OF GOD TELL ME!!

I don’t remember when I first started crushing on Steve. Obviously at some point I saw something in him and thought ‘this is the man for me’. Maybe it was the headgear. Or the fearless way he would run at the line and miraculously break through scoring a trillion tries a season. Regardless of its origins, my Steve Menzies crush personifies the mid 90s for me. Just for the record, unlike my slutty peers I was generally unimpressed by actual boys. I just wasn’t interested in ‘going for walks’ in the bushland during house parties. I’M WAITING FOR STEVE THANKYOUVERYMUCH.

(Obviously things changed once I discovered alcohol but lets leave that for another blog shall we?)

I still don’t know exactly what it is about Beaver that makes me go SQUEEEEEE. He just does. I can’t explain it and I think thats part of the joy. But oh, the drama. Teenaged me did not take kindly to anyone speaking ill of him in my presence. The amount of rubbish pick up I did at school directly related to Steve Menzies incidents is kind of shameful. However….I still maintain ‘accidentally’ pushing a boy down the stairs for saying Beaver is over rated is PERFECTLY REASONABLE. I mean broken ankles heal right?

And lets not even start on the Steve related fights I had with my mother. Unsuprisingly she wasn’t a massive fan of me permanently scarring the walls with Blutak with my myriad of Beaver posters. Bedroom okay, but Kiera do we really need them in the loungeroom? Errr yes mother we do. We also need them stuck to the windows so Beaver faces outwards into the street because our neighbours need to know how much he means to me.

On more than one occasion I remember storming out of the room crying I HATE YOU MUM!!! HE DOES NOT HAVE A BIG NOSE.ITS JUST PROMINENT!! *slams door*

As time progressed my crush dissipated into almost nothing but a sentimental ‘awww I used to love him!’ type deal. I thought this was the case until I ran a certain Mick Monaghan in a fine Manly establishment a few years ago. He announced that I had ‘schmick pins’ and ‘excellent definition in the calves’ (thanks Mick, it’s the pilates) and then casually I told him about my teenage Steve Menzies obsession. He responded by getting out his mobile and saying ‘hey look! I’ll call him now you can speak to him!’ then dialled his number.

I FROZE. My hands at my mouth, my eyes widened in terror. I think my knees even buckled. I CANT TALK TO HIM….WHAT WHAT WHAT….WHAT WOULD I SAY? OH MY GODGODGOSL;IHSFKHG!!! You know what they say about flight or fight? I chose flight. I turned on the spot and fleed to the safety of the bathroom (how very SBW of me). I’m fairly sure I stayed there for the next 20 minutes trying desperately to stop shaking. I spent the rest of the night trying to avoid Mick and his mobile of terror.

Suffice to say, my Steve Menzies crush is still very much in effect. If any of you are also attending the dinner, I’ll be the girl in the fetal position under the table.

I have officially watched Too Much Footy this weekend. And it’s only Sunday. Good God. So there is pretty much no chance of me writing a coherent play-by-play recap of anything I’ve watched. My little pea brain just can’t hold that much information, you know?

I have just enough room for exactly one full 80 minutes of memory, and after that for everything that goes in something has to get the boot, and I’m just left with a memory trail that goes something like CASHMERE! … jerseys, scrum, hot bitch … THAT WAS A KNOCK ON! Which is totally normal brain function, right? I thought so.

Remember that time I took a home wine-making course and forgot how to drive?

 

Not the face!

There was love, there was lust, there were heroes, there was tragedy.

The game started with a whole set of lingering close ups of David ‘Ned Kelly’ Williams. Either channel nine has been reading Errol and decided to give the punters what they want, or they have hired a new homo cameraman with excellent taste. Either way, I approve.

I’m not so keen on the commentary that goes with it though, because Matty Johns quite clearly is seriously in manlust with ‘The Wolfman’ and it makes me slightly uncomfortable. He makes this blog look chaste and reserved by comparison. SHOOSH ALREADY MATTY! Just be quiet please and go back to making your collage of ‘things that remind you of David Williams’. Make sure you include that bamboo placemat you found at Freedom last week. Mmmmm smells like beard.

I am also so impressed that Ned Kelly is now completely committed to the beard. Wanna know how I know? He’s shaved around the neck. That’s right. It’s not a joke anymore, kids. It’s a Trademark (TM). (If you’re wondering he was also having an excellent hair day. Great definition in the curl. Have you started using product, Mr. Williams?)

In other vitally important football hair news, it seems Steve Matai now has cornrows. Really, Matai? Cornrows? I don’t know what to say. What I do know is that it’s not 1995 and you’re not in Bali. Think about THAT.

When he walked on field Ray Warren actually commented on the ‘”rows of corn” Matai is sporting’ and I think that if Rabs knows what the word ‘cornrows’ means, then cornrows are no longer cool.

QED. Full marks for me.

I actually think Gus Gould and Rabs as a duo have gotten even crazier in the last seven days. I didn’t think it was possible. I like it. I can’t decide whether I loved it more when they quarrelled about how much Rabs loves Steve Matai (Gus: And your man Matai tries to convert … Rabs: He is not MY MAN MATAI. I do not OWN Steve Matai), or quarrelled about the age at which they stop giving players oranges at halftime.

Rabs: Do you WANT oranges? Hmmm? Because I will go and GET you some navals.

I can’t wait till they allow gay marriage in Australia and those two can officially settle down. It’s never too late for love, boys!

The game also proved that cornrows do not constitute a form of head protection when Cornrows Matai and teammate Luke Williamson pushed in for a try on Luke Lewis. In the process Matai and Lewis butted heads and the results were not pretty. Williamson ended up in the middle of a creepy, blood-soaked NRL tableau, with collapsed Matai on his left hip, and bleeding Luke Lewis lying to his right with his head cradled in Williamson’s knee like a unicorn being tamed by a virgin.

I’m not going to lie, it was weird. Poor little Williamson, sitting bolt upright in between two bleeders, kinda gingerly patting Luke Lewis’ hair and making an awkward face that says HE’S NOT EVEN REALLY ON MY TEAM. DO I HAVE TO BE NICE TO HIM? YOU GUYS?

And then more tragedy … Steve Matai sort of made me like him. Even with the cornrows! Don’t you dare tell anyone. Once they patched up his bleeding skull, put a headgear in his hand, and send him back to the sideline, that crafty bitch won me right over with his vanity. He stood there in limbo for aaages, half putting the headgear on and laughing with embarassment.

I CAN’T GO OUT THERE IN THIS THING. THERE ARE CAMERAS! PEOPLE WILL LAUGH!

.. and then he didn’t. Seriously, that was it. We didn’t see him for the rest of the match. Matai had a tanty and refused to go back on looking ridiculous and left David Williams to take over the goal kicking with his patented brand of talking-to-himself crazy before every goal.

Note to the video ref in this match: I can’t BELIEVE you went ref’s call on that Brett Stewart try. At the very least you could have given him Benefit of the Doubt. I mean, dammit, the kid has DIABETES. Is there not some kind of BENEFIT OF DIABETES try rule??

And, lastly, saddest of all: Menzies. Oh, Menzies. Still brilliant with the ball. A fearless statesman of league, a vision in headgear. But, like Penrith’s own Danny Glover – Rhys Wesser – Menzies’ legs ain’t what they used to be. When he broke down the right hand side with a clear 70 metres between him and the try line, there was no cry from the commentary box of ‘JUGGERNAUT’. There were forty great metres, then an offload and a tackle. It makes me sad. I think it made him sad too. It seems relentless time has worn upon the demi-God of football as it wears upon us mortals. Manly won 30-10, but it still feels like the end of an era.

God damn was this a depressing game. Melbourne won. The Titans were ground up like tiny sad little peppercorns. No one was surprised. Cameron Smith apparently shaved but still had a grey beardshadow. Now he is a wolfman. Israel Folau did amazing things and is still a Mormon. Matt Geyer is still bald. The Titans (even the ones who aren’t injured) are still totally sick of life. Scott Prince was petrified with cold on the sidelines like one of those caveman corpses they recover from glaciers. I seriously think his hands might have been fused together with frostbite.

I can’t even talk about it anymore. 44-4.

Cronulla Sharks vs St George Illawarra Dragons – The Battle of Captain Cook Drive

Now this game was Real Football. It was intense. Like grabbing-someone’s-arm, have-to-see-how-it-ends football. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Matt Cooper look so intense. At the end of the game he even made an emotion. In his face and everything!

Pie-eating Greg Bird was so focussed in his return game that he didn’t cry once. Hornbag was possibly the angriest I’ve ever seen him. I checked with my pants and they agree.

It was also alllll yours St George, but towards the end I think you lost focus, and the Sharks didn’t. I’m sorry boys, but it’s true. I definitely don’t think they have more heart, but I think they showed more on the field. I will say though that this was a war of attrition, and you Dragons boys took it really hard.

Brett Morris was taken off with an injured shoulder. Justin Poore with a dislocated knee. I felt like there needed to be a halftime armistice for you to gather up the fallen before the battle began again. There’s something that toubles me about you Dragons though, and it needs to be said: the head-shaving. Please explain. If I was extending the war metaphor I would say that, as armies go, you look more like an Aryan Brotherhood militia than anything else. Is this your doing, Hornbag? Do you want everyone to look neat and practical like you?

Even Dan Hunt and Justin Poore were sporting newly shaven cue balls last night. Not to mention you Hornbag, Matt Cooper, Jamie Soward, Dean Young and at least one Morris twin (with the other twin’s hair also getting progressively shorter). Or wait a second – IS THIS BROWNIE’S DOING? Does Intern Brownie shave all your heads before each game so you all match his hairdo? I am absolutely appalled Brownie. Did you even think about me and how much I love a good head of hair? Hmmmm? I am shocked by your selfishness.

You Dragons have a long way too go before you look as military as Luke Covell though. He is tres jarhead. The hair, the American jaw, the glassy quality in his eyes. (Which is also why I’m not keen to say a word against him. Well done on your win, scary Luke Covell! Please don’t finish me off with friendly fire!)

Oh yeah, Flossy Nightingale also got dakked. Big time. I only like clothes- on- Flossy, but Kiki DEMANDED we post the photos, because and I quote ‘thats what the punters expect from Errol Sassy….bare arse.’

South Sydney Rabbitohs vs New Zealand Warriors – The *****

Okay FINE I didn’t really watch this. Don’t judge me. I’m not even going to pretend that I care. The Rabbitohs won.

PS Hi Russell Crowe!

Sydney Roosters vs North Queensland Cowboys – THOSE BOYS NEED THERAPY

Do you know what this game was full of? (Apart from the Roosters being distracted and making me worry about whether they are psychologically prepared for the focus and discipline required to win consistently in a professional sport).

It was full of my favourite rule. I’ve said in the past how much I love Benefit of the Doubt, and yes I still love you Benny. You are very sweet and very supportive. But this new rule? Well, it just makes me laugh. And that’s so very important in a relationship.

If you don’t follow league you won’t know that packing a scrum when one is called stops the clock. So a team that’s despy for more time will, as soon as the ref calls for a scrum, sprint to the location, and DIVE into one as fast as is humanly possible. Except because the other team doesn’t give a shit, it’s just five men with their heads between each other’s arses standing in a triangle packing a scrum against thin air. It is HILARIOUS. I adore it. More of that please! And if you want more people to watch rugby league, you could liven it up a bit. Maybe give them extra points if they can manage to make a pyramid? I’d pay to watch that.

This game was amazing in that it also managed to distract me from the hotness that is JohnJohn Williams. (Note to John – I see you shaved off the beard! Thank God! I’m so glad you read Errol and listen to our suggestions).

Because out of nowhere my Chooks have suddenly become the whoriest team in the league. When did this happen? I have no idea. Those uniforms were not regulation, I’ll tell you now. They were twice as tight around the guns, a good 5 cm shorter in the shorts, and I love it. GOOD WORK ROOSTERS DESIGN TEAM.

My personal highlight was when the Mayan King Soliola actually rolled up his sleeves for most of the first half. Weren’t they whorey enough for you, baby? Wanted to flash a little more bicep? My only regret is that I can’t find a picture anywhere on the internets of Brent Grose in his painted-on jersey. Bitch did not get that in the adult section of the Roosters store, that is for sure. It was an XS outfit on an M man. I don’t think he could even lift his arms. Which would also explain a bomb he missed, now I think of it.

Luke O’Donnell tried so hard, but just couldn’t compete for attention. Not even with a midriff-flash. And despite the Rooster’s strange success complex that means they can’t play well unless they’re underdogs, they managed to win the game. Or rather, not lose it. I think it was the shorty-shorts. Helps em run faster. Makes em feel pretty, too.

And to finish I would like to point out that since Sonny Bill fled the country, I think Willie Mason has finally realised they’re never getting back together, and moved on and found someone else. And do you know what? GOOD FOR YOU BB. It’s healthy! I know you loved him, but you can’t pine forever.  I think it’s lovely.

I guess we have to say it – Sonny Bill. Sonny Bill has left on a jetplane for France to play rugby. I’ll warn you now, the only good part of this story is that a customs official spotted him leaving and phoned up Ray Hadley on 2GB to pass on the news. I love Australia!

Oh, Sonny Bill. Now his svengali manager Khoder Nassar and professional troublemaker Anthony Mundine want us to think about your feelings.

STOP BEING SO SELFISH GUYS! WHAT ABOUT SONNY?

Well I’ll say it. I’m done with Sonny Bill’s Feelings. And I pity the stewardesses who had to sweep up his mountains of damp tissues on his flight to Paris. He’s the weepy kid in class who cries if he drops his sandwich. He’s the spoiled cousin who steals your Mariah Carey Christmas CD because he didn’t get one and really really wants it. Muuuuum! I bet he even had a tanty when he got off the plane in Singapore and realised he left his Ectivity Peck in the seat pocket.

He will never be happy. At least never while he’s not taking his lithium. Bitch is dead to me.

Also, I lied when I said there was only one good thing about this story. The other one is that Sonny Bill Feelings thought he could creep out of the country unnoticed. Of course! Six foot tall Samoans visit Paris are SO HARD TO SPOT in a city like Paris on a continent with little to no Polynesian migration. Maybe he even wore sunglasses to throw them off his trail. GENIUS! Way to blend in Sonny baby.

[Note - I like to think Sonny went all Get Smart on our asses and wore a fake moustache, fedora and beige trenchcoat to the airport in a desperate attempt to escape unnoticed. I bet Choc Mundine packed all the spy essentials in SBW's Dora the Explorer backpack. - Kiki]

Khoder … is that you? Herro? This shoe phone is hard to use.

You know SBW landed in Singapore and thought he was already in France. He’s probably wondering why all the French are so short and Asian looking. And why are they eating noodles, where are the croissants? AND THE BERETS? I WAS PROMISED BERETS.

Bon-jour? Guys, bon-jour?

All this drama tires me, but at least I had Roosters vs Manly on Sunday afternoon to soothe the soul. Is there anything cuter than family day? I say no. All those little kiddies snuggled in their ponchos staring eagerly at the football, and rushing onto the field to mob Willie Mason. They all love Willie Mason. Who can explain why? I swear my ovaries twinged … just a little bit. Mainly thanks to the six year old boy behind me who announced in the first half:

Manly suck. They are wasting my time.

People don’t say it enough, but this is how football is meant to be. It’s not meant to be a sad mob of the faithful struggling to get to ANZ Stadium to buy $7 beers in the middle of a concrete wind tunnel. It’s meant to be the bottom levels of the footy stadium packed with people, kids in their own Roosters jerseys with their name sewn on the back, dads cuddling their daughters in matching maroon, and little ones getting to meet their idols.

It even warmed my cold black heart. I was so impressed I even managed not to yell out anything pornographic about the Hot Pioneer David Williams or the fact that men playing football in the rain may well be one of the hottest things god ever created. You know, because I didn’t want to corrupt the children. It took a lot of willpower let me tell you. I hope all those parents appreciated it, dammit.

SEE WHAT I WAS DEALING WITH? I’m pretty much Ghandi right now in terms of self-restraint. Also, who would have guessed Matt Ballin and Riley Brown were such snugglers?

While we’re talking about David Williams, can someone from Manly tell me what is this?

Are you doing in-house catalogues for Manly merchandise? Or do you just pay the hot pioneer a really povo salary so he has to resort to posing in Rivers catalogues so he can afford his rent? Will he be selling men’s sweaters and lightweight moccasins (perfect for sailing!) next? I don’t understand. Don’t get me wrong, I kinda love it. But no, I don’t understand. You can totally tell they were using a wind machine.

We’re also prouder than ever of fiesty little intern Brownie. Brian Waldron from the Storm has threatened legal action but Oh Errol is having none of that. Yesterday after the game we took Brownie to Ruby’s for a latte and told him stand strong, baby. The Storm might threaten a defamation suit, but truth is a defence to defamation (thanks, law degree!). More importantly if anyone tries to take you to court we’ll cut them good. I also have a mean right hook (thanks boxing trainer Sandra!).

And Brownie stood strong. OH YEAH, FIGHT THE MAN!

I’m being serious though that I can’t take much more of this. With Gaz leaving, Brownie going postal, and Sonny Bull stealthily leaving the country we’re at our limit for dramz. Calm it down for a little while, will you kids? We’re getting old. Also, we’re rapidly running out of gin.

Hello children! Aunty Kiki has her right arm back! TOOT TOOT! It’s still hurty but at least I can type and cut my own food up again. It’s pretty exciting I’m not gonna lie. Also due to only being able to do my makeup with my left hand, I’ve spent the last 4 weeks looking like Marge when Homer set the makeup gun to whore. Not pretty.

I know I usually do the Dragons recaps, but Sassy has banned me from doing so this week. For some reason she thinks I am ruled by my emotions (BULLSHIIIIT!! I AM TOTALLY IMPARTIAL!) and can’t be subjective enough to write about Gaz this close to his defection. So! I chose Manly v Parra because I quite like both teams. Okay who am I kidding, I just wanted an excuse to watch the Hot Pioneer (aka David Williams) in action. And photoshop him.

I was planning on doing the usual play-by-play recap but honestly apart from a few flashes of brilliance, this game was boring as shit. So let us just review the 5 most important points of the evening. Important to me anyway, and that’s what matters.

1) Parramatta is fat…FAT FAT FAT!

The commentators have been alluding to this glaringly obvious fact for the past few weeks. But they are more polite than I. They say things like ‘Parramatta have problems with their fitness’ and ‘the Eels all seem to be a similar body shape’. Guys, its okay…you can say it. The boys from the west have turned into fatty mcfat fats. The mayors of Fat-town. The fattest bastards in allllll the land.

Perhaps our favourite perennial fattie Piggy Riddell has been sharing nutrition tips with his team mates. Its been well publicised that Piggy shed a few kilos at the start of the season. But the diet was clearly too restrictive. Facist diet! It’s not his fault he has a healthy appetite.
Now he thinks some people are too obsessed with his skinfolds and eating habits..

But the hunger is still there. Yesterday at the launch of Parramatta’s new sponsorship deal, Riddell was famished.

Yes! People are obsessed! FIGHT THE POWER PIGGY! And he has. Leagues answer to Carl Williams has bravely stood up to the facists by steadily gaining weight over the season. He has clearly fallen off the wagon. And taken the rest of the Eels with him.

This week Parramatta’s Fat Issue has reached a critical level. Their brilliant-on-paper backline has been dealt a severe blow with the sudden withdrawl of Feleti Mateo. The official story is injury, but dear readers…..I know what really happened. That fat bitch drowned in a vat of ranch dressing on Thursday night. ERROL SPEAKS THE TRUTH PEOPLE.

Look at that gut. Seriously….look at it. I’ve never seen a gut like that on a man before, let alone a footy player. It’s kind of amazing. Feleti my darling, it’s okay. I too struggle with flat stomachness. Lets hang out! Sizzler next Wednesday night?

2) Brett Stewart continues to make me feel bad about myself

Seriously Brett, stop it. Stop being a full blown diabetic and being an elite athlete at the same time. I think it’s a huge accomplishment when I drag my alcohol soaked carcass to pilates a few times a year, and here you are being all excellent and high achieving while suffering a serious chronic illness. Rubbing it in my face every single week. Bastard.

3) Matt Ballin should live in my pants

Not only is his form brilliant of late, he is also a very very attractive man. He makes our ladytarts* smile. I can’t believe I haven’t noticed it until now. Okay thats a lie…Sassy noticed it. And sent a helpful text message that read something like OMG REVELATION KIKI…MATT BALLIN IS A HOT HOOKER!!! Yes, yes he is.

(Note – Lozzy, the former Hater of Footy and newly minted Manly fan found the second photo on her OWN. She has definitely drunk the football Koolaid.)

You know what else Matt Ballin can do? Increase our physical fitness…personally. I’m not being creepy, he is an actual personal trainer. Of course it would involve us having to travel all the way to Narrabeen to be trained, but I think it’s worth it to have our hammies stretched like this -

Oooh, its a deep burn.

4) Gus and Rabs further descend into madness

AND HILARITY! God, I love these two. Rab’s mild dementia and Gus’s blind rage…they are great. Matty asks them if they have ever seen a fatter 5/8 than Piggy on Friday night. Rabs replies something like -

“Nothing wrong with being fat…..though you make a good point. Why are you and Gus so obsessed with physique anyway?’

Gus announces “well when I next to such a physical specimen as yourself every Friday night, its hard not to be Rabbits”.

AMAZING.

5) The Hot Pioneer can do everything

When I say ‘do’ everything I mean ‘attempt’. His goal kicking wasn’t exactly El Masri-esque but I was impressed he gave it a go. Partcipation award baby! I mean who knew he could kick too? I guess when you’re on the run from the law on horseback you gotta be multiskilled. I also enjoyed the close ups of him talking to himself before every kick. Ned Kelly beard + self talking = hot crazy man.

If it wasn’t already blindingly obvious, we at Errol are completely obsessed with this man. Most people say he would be hot if he shaved the beard of, but we disagree. We say, unequivocally…KEEP THE BEARD BABY.

And one extra point. Can someone please explain to me the point of the video ref using ‘Refs Call’?? It is RIDICULOUS. If the ref can make a call, why doesn’t he? What in the hell is the point of sending it to the VR and then making it yourself anyway? It makes no sense and its a bloody outrage. I’m writing an strongly worded letter to Robert Finch as we speak.

*Copyright Lozzy

HQ photos of Hot Pioneer and our new personal trainer from the Manly Fan Gallery. Genius photoshopping by me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Steven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tinyman coverts. 12-6 Calf-Blood Princes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conversion: 22-14.

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

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

30-14.

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

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

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

* TM Kiki.

NO ONE LIKES US
WE DON’T CARE

Edit: the lovely *cough*snide*cough* Kiki has just pointed out to me that, in fact, I watched this game on Sunday afternoon, and not on Monday night. In retrospect, I concede that this might be true, especially because it was still daytime when I watched it. What can I say?  I blame the vodka.

This is not going to be your usual recap. Mainly, this is because I didn’t see most of the game. More that I clutched my schooner, covered my eyes, and waited for eighty minutes to pass. Also, because I was drunk.

In other words, sometimes football is a bitch.

I’m a Sydney girl, and if I know one thing it’s that when my city is in a foul mood, she can make your life miserable. But when she turns on the charm, you go running straight back into loving her, because, really, who can resist that face?

And like my Sydney mistress, when footy is feeling vindictive, all you can do is stay put, remember the good times, drink another beer, and wait for the fight to blow over.

Sigh.

My Roosters beaten by Des Hasler’s Manly: 42-0.

Truthfully, the score is no surprise. From the first three sets and the moment I get to the pub, the boys look … scared. Little and scared. This is a completely different team to the team who won so convincingly against Parramatta before Origin 1. To quote that wordsmith Phil Gould:

They wet their pants.

I run to the bar for a drink. Anthony Minichiello is finally back on the field playing this week after an eternity recovering from injury. We’ve missed you baby! (If you’re wondering more specifically why he was out of the game and hasn’t played in any of my other recaps, it’s because his back is made of glass).

Mini is tackled by two Sea Eagles and ten old-timers around the bar start cackling. Someone yells out ‘CALL THE CHIROPRACTOR’. That joke is both hurtful and medically inaccurate.

I cover my eyes.

Manly spread the ball everywhere and the Roosters look constantly shocked. Their line of defence starts throwing up as many rips as Kiki’s opaques (tip your waitress!) and I start looking for distractions.

Ooh, hello David Williams’ beard. I have a serious weakness for a man in a Ned Kelly beard. I wrote in a magazine review back in February that beards were back, but the mans of Sydney have seriously disappointed me so far re: jumping on the beard bandwagon. My eyes, my heart, and my pants all request that you pick up your game, thanks.

Halftime. Apparently a man proposes to his girlfriend and she accepts. I die a little inside at how tacky that is. I die a little more when the teams run back on, and in a mere twenty minutes, the score explodes from 14-0 (vaguely respectable) to 42-0 (bloodbath).

At least I’m happy for Steve Menzies that his team is trashing mine so horrifically. Look at that face! So endearing, so upstanding. I feel like a head like Steve Menzies’ simply doesn’t belong in 2008. He shouldn’t live in an era of ipods and league sex scandals. He should be playing football in the original baggy cotton jerseys, marrying a woman called Jean, and controlling his tears in a stoic and manly fashion when he boards the boat to be sent to Palestine for training in 1940.

Instead he plays professional league and runs a mortgage brokerage. You know you’d totally trust him with your mortgage, too.

I feel exactly the same way, Anthony Cherrington.

Twenty more minutes and, at long last, the pathos ends. Curtain.

If anyone’s interested, I then go on to down a vodka or thirty and make quite the drunken spectacle of myself. It’s a real trainwreck. Des Hasler, I hold you completely responsible.

Hot Bitch Cooper is out with a niggling back injury and seems rather miffed at his inelegant surroundings. Those cheap ass chairs look mighty uncomfortable and I worry about his fragile back cramping up in the chilly air. I immediately wish I was there to lie underneath him and act as a human pillow. I never go cold Coops! A constant 37 degrees! It’s good for your muscles. Keeps them limber.

The game kicks off. Rabs informs us that Baby Chase is turning 19 years old next week. I for one am thrilled because this means I can stop feeling guilty for thinking hes a bit of alright. About 6 minutes in Anthony Watmough charges in to join a tackle and manages to knock himself out using his team mate Josh Perry’s skull. It’s quite an achievement and he floats off to Disneyland for a good few minutes.

While hes busy riding the giant teacups Beau Scott sneakily shoots through and scores a try for the Dragons. The commentators discuss whether BeauBeau deliberately targeted Woozy Watmough or it was just a lucky coincidence. I like to think it was deliberate because thats what footy is all about – taking advantage of your semi concious opposition.

Soward misses the conversion with an absolute shocker of a kick. I shake my fist in anger. Nothing much happens until the 15th minute when Speedy Stewart gets on the outside of Nightingale and sends David Williams over for a Manly try. I am horrified to find myself deeply attracted to Williams despite his horrendous Ned Kelly beard. Orford (who I’m sure is technically a little person) easily converts. Manly leads 6-4.

23 minutes in and Soward sends a kick across field, Manly fumbles and Ben Hornbag Hornby cleans it up and triumphantly scores a try for the Dragons. I really really love Hornbag. He is one of the most lovable players in the NRL. He is also vastly underrated. I’m not talking about his footy either. Fact is, he suffers the major injustice of never being recognised as one of the HotPlayers eventhough to the trained eye he totally is. I can see your hidden cute Hornbag! I’m the cute whisperer.

You see, up close he is super adorable but due to his extreme blondness he looks kind of well…beige on TV. This upsets me and I strongly suggest eyelash tinting. Maybe eyebrows too. Hell, I’ll even do it for him! We can make a night of it.

 

Hornbag being beige from a distance

Being adorable close up. SEE! ADORABLE PEOPLE!

Okay back to the action. Soward converts and performs a rather hilarious dance routine whilst doing so. Rabs likens it to a jazz waltz but Gouldy insists it looks like his cat when its about to take a shit. I maintain he is simply auditioning for the position of head baton twirler in the Dragons marching band. A few more jazz hands and hes pretty much there.

The next phase of the game is marked by shocking incompetence by the Dragons. They manage to screw up seven sets of 6 in a row. SEVEN SETS! By this time I’m left with no cushions on the lounge as I’ve thrown them all at the TV in a fit of rage. Manly take advantage of the Dragons ineptitude and Beaver Menzies shimmies through for a fantastic try. I adore Steve Menzies. 34 years old and bitch plays like a guy half his age. And he’s just so damn nice. He also hasn’t aged since about 1997. It must be the headgear, its keeping his skin supple!

Orford converts and we go to halftime with Manly leading 12-10.

Second half! The Dragons start by dropping the ball. Hooray! Something new and different for them! 51 minutes and Steve Matai decides to take out Soward about 5 minutes after he kicked the ball. Soward lies prone on the ground and I fill with rage. Matai you dirty bastard! I want to rip out that ridiculous rats tail and strangle you with it. Why is it a foot long? Gross. Well deserved penalty to the Dragons.

Soward recovers from the late hit and manages to launch a cross field kick resulting in about a million leaping bodies clamouring for the ball. Nightingale somehow finds the ball and gets it down. The try looks doubtful and predictably goes to the video ref. The VR literally looks at the try for about 5 minutes. JUST MAKE A CALL FOR CHRISSAKE. Gouldy hates the ridiculousness as much as me, remarking that people have gotten bored and gone off for a pie. Mmmm….pie.

Finally the VR does the unthinkable and rewards the try due to benefit of the doubt. YAAAY! I love this ruling. It’s the rule equivelant of a participation medal. You tryed so you deserve some love! Have the 4 points! Soward misses the conversion. Damn!

64 minutes and Menzies looks to go in for another try but drops the ball. 69 minutes and technical little person Orford sends a kick across field. Michael Robertson seems to defy gravity and retrieves it for an awesome try in the corner. Orford converts. Manly leads 18-14. My heart is in my mouth. COME ON DRAGONS! Speedy Stewart momentarily breaks my heart by appearing to get a try in the 72nd minute. It’s ruled a no try due to a knock on. I praise Jesus.

75 minutes and Bretty Morris pulls some brilliance from no where and puts his twin Joshy in for a beautiful try.Its twintastic! Its 18 all. Come on Soward, do your dance! Jazz hands baby! His crazy dance pays off and he converts with a phenomenal kick. My heart returns to my chest. I think we might win!

FULLTIME! Inexplicable Dragons victory!

Despite their general atrociousness my boys somehow pull off a win. Gouldy announces that the Dragons must be ‘absolutely brain snapping’ for their supporters. It’s true, they are. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love you boys!

 

So! The game is being played at that lovable old stalwart of suburban grounds – Brookvale Oval. Tribalism is an important part of rugby league and I love going to and watching games at ye olde ovals but daaaamn Brookie is looking tired. I’m pretty sure the injured players and their entourage are being forced to sit on plastic school chairs underneath a large piece of corrugated iron encased by a chain link fence.