Welcome back, babies!  Have you missed our footy recaps in the off-season? My guess is yes.  Because we are funny bitches.  Actually, that’s a lie.  More like football is a funny bitch.  How did we live without it for so many months?

I’ve already cracked up once today at the news that Denis Fitzgerald wants to ban the Parramatta players from the booze.  Now you know we don’t take league dramas lightly … but really, Denis?  Really?  This is the plan?  If this is the best they got, then dammmmmn league is in trouble.  In the brilliant words of Nathan Hindmarsh: “good luck policing that”.

Best of all: the news crews asked the boys what they thought as they arrived back at the airport from New Zealand … and Joel Reddy was carrying a bag full of duty free booze.  Um … it’s for my girlfriend? Oh yeah, this is gonna work a treat.  I’m sure the urine tests will also do wonders for player-admin relations.

Meanwhile I’m recapping the Eels-Warriors game, if you’re wondering, because there is not a chance of me recapping my boys playing the Rabbitohs. That shit was brutal.  Once I peeled myself off the ground and stopped trying to gnaw off my own leg, then lost interest and ate a biscuit instead, I repressed all the memories for my own mental health.  So this is what you get.  Now onto the footy.

The boys are playing down in New Zealand, which means that the Warriors have to run onto the field through that really terrifying dripping, dark sewer tunnel that leads from the change room out onto Mt. Smart Stadium. Considering that the Warriors also wear black, and are being led out by a phalanx of little kids, the whole thing is very Law & Order: SVU. Dun-dun.

To the tunnel! Emergency in the tunnel!

They are still not running out to Patti Smith ‘The Warrior’, which I feel is a total travesty.  It’s as if the staff down there don’t even read Errol.

Because the game is at Mount Smart, we also get the Kiwi Sky commentary team. I know they have names, but I don’t know them.  Let’s just call them Tum and Phul.

The Kiwi boys are super emotional tonight, and to be honest, so am I.  The incredible, ageless Steve Price is about to play his 300th game of Rugby League.  But also, everyone is still in mourning for Sonny Fai, after his loss in the off-season.  The sadness on all the team and friends’ faces during a minute of silence is almost too much to bear.  RIP, Sonny.

Gordon Tallis pops his head up on my TV to congratulate Pricey, and tell us all “I dunno how you can be that pretty and play in the front row”.  HE IS PRETTY.  I’m so glad somebody else noticed.  And even more glad it was Gordie. I totally have a dirty old man crush on Steve Price.

Steve Price is also pretty much a miracle man because:

a) he is a Dirty Queenslander, and;

b) we somehow love him nonetheless.

SEE?

 

How can you not love that? It’s so … tender. Steve Price and Scotty Prince should be studied for science.

The game starts with the Warriors all over possession like me all over a scruffy-haired boy at the Brighton Bar … but less pervy.  One of our Errol favourites Manu Vatuvei almost dives through on the left hand wing for a try.  THE BEAST.  He’s cut off his fro, but that bitch still looks fierce.

I should admit that I tipped the Kiwis in our ErrolTips competition, so I almost spill my drink in joy when Joel Moon slip’n'slides under a defender for a Warriors try.

Joel Moon has just moved down from Queensland to play for the Warriors, and I’ll admit I’m not a Moon afficionado, but I’ll take a wild guess that this guy:

… not a big fan of cold New Zealand weather. He definitely doesn’t look happy that he has to wear pants on the field.  The clothes!  They burn!

Ropati, Moon and Henderson are lurking around the tryline, and the Warriors look kinda scary today.  After teasing me for minutes, they send in Russell Packer for a try. I have never heard of this Russell Packer, which may be because I generally show little to no interest in anything that involves New Zealand.  Nonetheless, that is a cracker of a name.  I would enjoy more men named Russell in general life.

Disclaimer: May not be actual Russell Packer.

Apparently Denan Kemp is the new Kiwi kicker, which reminds me that Michael Witt has been unceremoniously booted from the team and has flounced off to … play union or something. Traitor. 12-0.

If I haven’t mentioned Parramatta much, it’s because they haven’t done much. Krisnan Inu proves me wrong by taking a lovely catch from a high ball.  Luke Burt joins in and pops a ball to Ben Smith for an Eric Grothe, Jr try.

Did anyone else forget about Eric Grothe? I’ll admit it, I did.  Which is sad, because he is kind of a hot bitch.  Things are always more emotional when they involve hot people.  Tum and Phul enjoy rubbing in the fact that back in 2005 he was playing tests, while in 2008 he was playing reserve grade with boys ten years younger than he is. It’s super mean and I enjoy it.

I seriously thought he was still in reserve grade, but apparently he’s been moved out of remedial and back into the big boys’ class.  Good for you, mister.

In the process of crossing the line, Eric Jr also becomes the first man to flash his arse in 2009. FIRST CRACK OF THE YEAR!  His family must be so proud.  Burt converts for 12-6.

Vatuvei makes another fabulous break, and Michael Luck in his awesome retro headband comes up against Nathan Hindmarsh.  I am so completely overjoyed … Hindy’s seventies hair is BACK.  *high kick*

Russell Hammond we love your work!

I like to think he found out about the 2008 Errol Awards and was so devastated not to win ‘Best Hair‘ that he grew it back just for us.  Between this and Joel Reddy’s seventies mop my pants are really enjoying this game.  What can I say?  I love a man with long hair.

Fien sets up a Hohaia try and Tum and Phul use the phrase “in the thick of things”.  I shudder. [I'd like to point out that we were all chatting on msn when this happened, which meant Kiki and Sassy both e-yelled 'THUCK OF THUNGS!!' at the same time. This is the kind of behind the scenes gold you guys miss out on - lozzy] Parra’s Jarryd Hayne gives away a penalty and Tum and Phul scream ‘JARRYD HAYNE YOU ARE DEADSET KIDDING YOURSELF”.  I love an unbiased commentary team. Can I also say that Hayne is playing in the number sux jersey and I am really uncertain that he can pull this off. It unnerves me. Anyway, carry on.

Fui Fui Moi Moi smashes the ball from Brent Tate and it’s halftime. 18-6, Warriors.   Cut up the oranges!

We come back onto the field and Eric Grothe starts doing his best to be sent back to remedial class.  He is deadset Fumbles McGee.

Try to Hohaia, try to Hayne, OHMYGODIMISSEDYOUSOMUCHFOOTBALL! NEVEREVERLEAVEMEAGAIN!

Meanwhile I totally take back everything I said about Tum and Phul, because Fierce Manu Vatuvei smashes into Jarryd-with-a-Y Hayne and they carol: “that was SPECTACULAR! … if not illegal”.

They have their priorities straight.

Eric Grothe knocks on and cracks it. He is thisclose to lying down and banging his fists on the ground. Someone doesn’t want to have to go back to using paper scissors, am I right?

Josh Cordoba is pulled up for a penalty, which is clearly a penalty of LIES. A Warrior quite clearly popped the ball out with a knee in the tackle.  I will say that in general I lovvve the two ref system though. So fast! No video ref! It makes me happy in my pants. Sure we have an awkward moment where one ref calls knock on, and one calls play on, but I figure they can just resolve any problems like that in the same way we resolve problems in the Errol office. By mixing cocktails, watching movies and braiding each other’s hair.

And much as we finished off the first half, Fui Fui Moi Moi farewells the game by absolutely smashing a Warrior, braids a-flying. Michael Luck gets carted off, and … curtain. 26-18.

Football, I’m so glad you’re back.

Now, I would like to write a post for you all about the grand final.  Unfortunately, I was so atrociously hungover and rubbish that I don’t remember very much. Also, I can’t be bothered.  

There is also a much more pressing issue to deal with: if 2008 was a golden year for the beard in rugby league, then every golden age eventually has to end, right?  So I think we need a little post to act as a fond farewell to the beards that made 2008 so entertaining.  Let’s light a few tealights, shot some Scotch, and mourn for the facial hair that is no more.  (If you need to change into something black, I can totally wait too.  I’m already wearing a black netting veil and channelling Blair Waldorf).

Forgive me father for I have been to the Brighton Bar … again.

First to leave us were the boys in black. After their loss to the Sea Eagles our favourite bearded boys, the New Zealand Warriors, decided to sacrifice their hilarious and delightful facial hair to charity.  Sigh. Is there anything worse than when people do something for charity?  I say no. Because apparently ‘things for charity’ translates as ‘things that make Sassy sadtimes’.  Like when mum decided I was too old for dolls and gave my Strawberry Shortcake dollhouse to the childrens’ hospital.  AS THOUGH CHILDREN IN A HOSPITAL HAVE TIME TO PLAY WITH DOLLS.  GOD. THEY’RE SICK, REMEMBER?  What was my point?

IT’S JUST ALL SO SAD. I’m gonna miss you crazy bushrangers. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go and start making my Movember advent calendar. Only four weeks to go till my most favouritest month of the year!

Goddamn if they aren’t going to be a long four weeks too. I am tres pissed off. I awoke from my drunken slumber to find out that Errol Patron Saint David Williams had stolen my lady Venus in the aftermath of Mad Monday and shaved the beard. The only explanation I can possibly come up with for why he defied our explicit wishes and went the razor is that he overheard us discussing our Top Five Favourite Movie Gettin’ Square and our Top Three Favourite Ginger David Wenham and came to the conclusion that it was a brilliant idea to make himself over in the image of John Francis Spiteri.  Davey, nooooooo!

Is that … a mullet? I do believe it is. What are you gonna do, mate, put up some shelving?

I’m sorry your Hhonour I didn’t mean to say ‘shit’, it’s just that this fucking guy’s gettin to me.

And as well as leaving you with the evidence that Dave hasn’t practised shaving in at least six months: (make sure you shave AFTER you shower, kids, when the hair is soft)

Who’sh gonna pay for my bush fare?

I’ve also tracked you down some exclusive Errol footage of Dave rocking out on Mad Monday. Goodbye, beardbye, and enjoy babies.

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

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

note: not my actual hand

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

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

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

note: not actually Kiki

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

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

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

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

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

I do however object to two things in this article.

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

David wished Kiera would stop making yucky jokes about his wood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know how you love Kiki’s health updates, so today you get one from me.  EXCITEMENT.  A mental health one at least.  In the lead up to this game I had a dull feeling of resignation that this was the last stop on the line for my chookies, and I was starting to freak out, because – since I have no mid-term memory cells left – I literally couldn’t remember what I filled my spare time with when it wasn’t football season.  Anyone?

I do love me some cricket, but more in a falling asleep on the couch in the afternoon in my swimmers with a beer way than a rabid fan way.  HOW WILL I FILL ALL MY TIME WHEN THE GAME IS OVER?  I was starting to even consider taking up a hobby, fo realz.  This was especially bad because I’m not even really sure what my hobby-choices are.  The only ones I know of are Mah Jong and bushwalking and cross-stitch.

Luckily, you can all stop worrying, babies.  As I lay on the beach on Saturday I looked up and remembered THIS IS WHAT I DO.  BEACH.  Sweet sweet beach.  Incidentally, Kiki and I also looked up a little bit later and saw Big Dell frolicking on the sand with his bbs wearing fluorescent boardshorts, but that’s a whole other post.

The moral of the story is that I don’t have to take up crochet (thank god, because it probably would have ended in a drunken needle injury) and we can get down to the recap.  Also, that I am sunburnt.

If you don’t want to read all the words that are on the way, just look at this picture instead:

pic: Getty Images

So the New Zealand Warriors run onto the field to some AC/DC Back in Black action.  Clearly I am not opposed to AC/DC, or to cock rock in general.  It makes my heart smile when the Roosters run on to Motley Crue.  But Warriors, darlings, I think you need an update.  The Storm run onto AC/DC.  And I can’t have the Warriors (who I kinda love now) running onto the same band as my footy nemeses The Storm.  My little pea-brain couldn’t handle it.

And how has no one suggested Patti Smith ‘I am the Warrior‘?  Not just because it’s a fuck-off great song, but because Patti Smith is a fierce bitch.  Do you know who else is a fierce bitch?  Wiki.  IT ALL FITS.  Listen to these lyrics and tell me it’s not perfect.

Who’s the hunter … who’s the game?

I feel the beat … call your name

I hold you close … in victory

I don’t wanna tame your animal style …

You won’t be caged … in the call of the wild

Clearly I am just going to play this in my own home before the Warriors play next week and start calling Ruben Wiki ‘jungle child’.

pic: Kenny Rodger

The Kiwis haven’t skimped on the dramz tonight.  The Warriors are in their all blacks and the Roosters have turned up in their pretty all-white uniforms to a stadium of screaming black-clad Kiwi fans.  It’s all very dramatical and allegorical and other words ending in ‘-ical’.

It’s like Daniel in the lion’s den.  Except that maybe in the bible they didn’t have fireworks or Maori drummers or traditional dancers in coconut bras.  Whatever.  I like to think they did.  You just know Mary Magdalene was a bandit for a coconut bra and grass skirt.

It is approximately one second before the Warriors send in Lance Hohaia for a try and Michael Witt’s ginger mo steps up to the tee and converts.  6-0.  Oh, Roosters.

About two seconds later the referee needs a new whistle.  I shit you not.

The Roosters make a beautiful break until Amos Roberts loses the ball and has his head broken.  Tragedy!  I love Amos!  Although I was really disappointed when I found out he calls his newborn baby son ‘Mossy’ as in ‘Amos’ not as in ‘Named after Ian ‘Mossy’ Moss of Cold Chisel’.

Mitchell Pearce magics a 40-20 kick and takes a pass from Braith Anasta to dive into goal.  TRY!  GO BABIES GO!   Except … why is nobody hugging Mitchell Pearce?  David Shillington is hugging Mitchell Aubusson.  Everyone else is hugging each other.  Mitchell Pearce just wanders around a bit until finally Lunchlady Doris – I mean a Roosters trainer – brings him a Powerade and claps him on the back.

He is seriously a man-island.  And not the good party-island kind.  Is he in the bad books for stealing someone’s lucky socks?  Did he dob on the guys for something?  Fart in the plane on the way down?  Does he play Nickelback in the team bus?

Poor Mitchell Man-Island Pearce.

Frill-neck Fitzgibbon converts.

pic: Getty Images

I accidentally mush my nail polish all over my hand when Minichiello explodes from nowhere to come face to face with a Soliola kick, kicks again, chases and dives into goal neck-and-neck with Hohaia for a SO-CLOSE-BUT-SO-FAR-NO-TRY.  Yes, I do paint my nails while I watch the footy.  I like to multitask.

Except apparently the Universe enjoys toying with my emotions. Because, inexplicably, Tony Archer sends it to the video referee and a penalty try is awarded.  Penalty try?  First penalty try of the year?

Are you kidding me faceless video ref?

Let me explain.  I am incredibly biased towards my team.  Everything they do is fine by me. Teams that beat them do not deserve to live.  Brad ‘Freddy’ Fittler’s chuckle is music to my ears.

But this is completely ridiculous.  I do not approve of the penalty try rule.

Benefit of the doubt makes sense to me – where something is so very very close and video footage is inconclusive we’ll give the attacking team a little leeway. It makes the fans happy, it makes the game exciting.

But penalty try is a contradiction in terms.  It says if there is no try, because of a penalty – then instead of giving you a penalty we will give you a penalty try. BUT THERE WAS NO TRY. If there was no try, there is no way that anyone can say whether there would have been, but for the penalty.

Sure you can say there would probably have been a try, but how likely does it have to be?  More than 50%? More than 75%? Highly probable? Slightly probable?  Can you tell yet that I studied law?

Would you be happy to see your team lose a grand final with a penalty try?

I think it says it all that it was a penalty try that gave the Storm their first premiership.  That Rule and That Club are united in propagating the forces of darkness.

It is a flimsy and ill-defined rule and I resent it’s usage.  I say send the offender off for ten or something and let the situation sort itself out.  And yes, it is possible I am just saying that because I like seeing people get sent off.  I like watching the little sooky cartoon bull huff across the screen.  WANNA MAKE SOMETHING OF IT?

Anyway, the Roosters are awarded a try and Komodo Fitzgibbon converts so feel free to ignore that whole series of ranty paragraphs.  HURRAH FOR PENALTY TRIES! I LOVE YOU PENNY!

Anasta field-goals and we all go for a half-time cup of tea and lie-down.

Shall we discuss facial hair again while the boys are napping?  I say yes. It’s not an Errol post without a mention of arses or beards.

My fiercest beard award tonight goes to Simon Mannering.  He actually won player of the year in the Warriors club this year, but I’m sure this award means so much more.  That is a cracker of a beard:

I assume you’re thinking one of two things right now: either ‘WHY ARE YOU ILLUSTRATING THIS GAME WITH PICTURES OF MEN IN A POOL?’ or ‘WHEEE! I ACTUALLY ONLY COME TO ERROL FOR THE GRATUITOUS SEMI-NUDITY!’

Sadly, both these responses are wrong. The right one is HEEE! Is there anything funnier than the Warriors wearing swimming goggles? I say no.

And just for the hell of it:

Steve Price, why you so tanned? I sense some solarium action, because god knows he can’t have been natural tanning in New Zealand.  That makes me love you a little bit Pricey.

The boys all run back out and the Roosters defence is a big ole pile of Marshmallow as Hohaia rolls in a try.  Mmmmmm … marshmallow.  Witty’s mo converts again.

In more plasma news, someone in the distance who may be Lopini Paea (I’m a little bit drunk so I can’t be sure) has a huge circle of blood on the bottom of his jersey and the front of his shorts.  He is sent off field to change his jersey, and – I assume – so that one of the Roosters trainers can sit him down in the locker room and give him the talk about What Happens When You Become a Woman.  If they’re really touchy-feely they might even give him a glass of red wine with his box of tampons.

The Warrior whose name I always forget who looks like a B-grade 90s movie actor* is held up in goal for no try. Let’s just call him Jeremy Sisto. Bad luck, Jezza.

Angryman Ian (not Brian) Henderson gets a Benny try. Oh, Roosters, I knew this would happen: 18-13. Another try to Manu Vatuvei’s gold teeth. I wanna feel sad but that bitch is just too fabulous. I want to see Manu and Dell have a weigh-in to determine biggest winger in league.

Knock on, double knock on, and a SECOND TRY FOR JEREMY SISTO. Way to excel in your day job, mister. The Roosters do dumb things and dig their own grave for 30-13. The crowd goes wild. Even I feel happy. IT’S JUST SO MAGICAL.

Lopini Paea is – seriously people, this is not me exaggerating – sitting on the sidelines with two tampons in his nostrils. Have you been watching She’s the Man? THAT’S NOT WHAT YOU DO WITH THEM LOPINI.

Perhaps most incredibly of all, Ivan Cleary smiles.

pic: Kenny Rodger

I comfort myself that at least this will feed the Roosters underdog complex for 2009. Next year, my darlings, next year.

Meanwhile I have saved this for last because this shit deserves to be the finale.  In the second half of the game, and in what must be the greatest hit I have seen this year, Ruben Wiki takes the ball, bares his teeth, ROARS and charges head on at the man-mountain that is Sia Soliola.

Kiki and I scream and wave our legs like we are riding imaginary bicycles because we are losers.  Then we mime punches for no apparent reason.  We discuss what is the furthest possible Disneyland from Auckland and decide on Paris.

Soliola reaches Euro-Disney before he even hits the ground, and like the complete and utter gentleman he is, Ruben comes back to help him up and check that he can still focus his eyes.  Goddamnit Ruben.  Could you be any more amazing?  No, no you couldn’t.  Especially not since that fierce bitch also turned to the camera and screamed WOOOOO when his side locked up the game.  I want to hug him like woah.

pic: Getty Images

So it’s safe to say I’ve buried all my hopes for 08 and jumped straight on the bearded Warriors bandwagon. If Ruben doesn’t get a premiership this year, there is no justice.

pic: Brett Phibbs

COME ON NEW ZULLAND!  As Ruben Wiki’s wrist bandages say: Carpe diem, bitches.**

* Aidan Kirk

** Disclaimer: it might not actually say bitches.

pic: Colleen Petch via news.com.au

Oh yeah, that’s the stuff.

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

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

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

But that’s neither here nor there.

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

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

HALLELUJAH!

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

IAN HENDERSON WILL CUT A BITCH

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

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

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

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

And I won’t lie, I kind of loved it.

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

Hendo, I salute your rage.

MICHAEL WITT IS A TOOL

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

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

pic: Photo Sports

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

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

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

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

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

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

pic: Getty Images

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

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

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

NO NO NO NO NO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

STOP YOUR WHINGING PRICEY!

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

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

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

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

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