OH HAY BITCHES!

It’s no secret that Errol is a gay-friendly zone. If there were a blog-equivalent of PFLAG, then we’d be in it. If we weren’t technologically retarded we would put a happy little rainbow flag on the site to show you.

So keep your Mardi-hate away from the comments section, please. It’s one night! If you care not for parades and rainbows and glitter and topless ladies on bikes, you can stay home and work on your cross-stitch. If you need a break, maybe google all the great things the gays have given you, like Elton John songs, Olympic gold medals, and the Pauline Hanson Mardi Gras float where her huge creepy head was chasnig ‘ethnic’ fish n chips down Oxford St. Remember that? Shit was incredible. Incredible, and eerily lifelike.

Sadly this year – because we’re heading to Homebush for the Charity Shield Bunnies vs Dragons game tomorrow – we can’t watch the parade or put on fake eyelashes and join in the insanity afterwards. Tragedy. Now we’ll never find out what ridiculous shenanigans we would’ve pulled off during the course of the night. Would Kiki have ended up with a torn tulle fairy skirt and chewing gum in her hair again? Would I wear something ridiculously inappropriate again like a skintight leather skirt and be unable to sit or stand without a burly gay lifting me? Would we meet a Karl Lagerfeld drag king again and start a fight by pulling his ponytail? (Sorry about that, btw). WOULD ANYONE PASH A GAY MAN? So many unanswered questions.

We probably would’ve headed for Charlotte Dawson’s Arena party, so maybe she can fill us in later. Get onto it pls Daws.

So instead, we have to celebrate Mardi Gras Eve. I plan to spend it at home doing what everyone should be doing pre-Mardi Gras: fake tanning. You know it’s true.

That way I’ll also look golden brown when I try and defuse fights between Dragons fan Kiki and our friend Yassy (new and devoted Bunnies fan).

What I like to think Wendell will be wearing on the night.

Personally, I’m kind of undecided. On one hand, I have a weird love for St George. Partly, that’s because I find their halves combination of Tiny Dancer and Hornbag completely adorable, and would kinda love to ask them over for afternoon tea to explain in depth that I totally believe in their skills even though they occasionally have flat games where they seem to shut down run out of attacking options.

Also partly because I think Uncle Wayne might be some kind of superhuman. He is the only person so far in my life to render me speechless. Even after two champagnes I couldn’t talk to him. I was muted by Benny. And I am never mute. I’m also overly invested in Jason ‘Flossy’ Nightingale and his success: a) because he looks like a labrador when he plays, and b) because following in Wendell Sailor’s footsteps is tough.

On the other hand, I have a massive platonic crush on Peter Holmes a Court. He’s seriously up there with Lee Furlong now on my list of non-sexual crushes. He’s just so clever! And so nice! And so pretty! On the Goldy – because I am a tool who does embarassing things – I announced to a group of rugby league bigwigs that “Peter Holmes a Court is a DREAMBOAT”. God I’m a winner. Which of course means if I cheer against the Bunnies it will have to be in secret in case the Dreamboat finds out.

And as a warm up to footy tipping for this year (have you joined our comp yet? GO DO IT NOW) I’ll even tip the game for ya – Dragons will win it but not by much. Matt Cooper will remain ridiculously hot, Beau Champion will play almost as well as he did at All-Stars, and Tiny Dancer will dance again (hopefully in a Mardi Gras-themed headgear).

Happy Mardi Gras babies!

The important news is that Errol HQ will be pretty empty for the next week or so. You see, Intern John John’s busy with pre-season training up in FNQ, work experience boy Lachie is spending the weekend out in Penrith at the Panther’s members day …. And us? We have a busy week ahead of BEING AWESOME.

Tomorrow Kiki and I are hitting up the Return to South Sydney game at Redfern Oval, and entertaining some lucky peeps at a pre-game party. Then we’re flying up to the Gold Coast to bring you live bloggy-updates about all the All-Stars vs Indigenous preparations.  Lozzy’s volunteered to mind the nest/water the plants/make sure no neighbourhood hooligans break in and steal our booze, then she’s coming up on Friday so the whole Errol crew can watch the game together.

Okay, so maybe not so much “BEING awesome” as “BEING three losers … around awesome people”. Potato, Potahto.

And if 2009 was the year of rugby league scandal (aren’t they all?) …. Then 2010 marks the Return to League. Every Lote, Timana and his dog is coming back to the loving arms of rugby league.

We knew you’d come back, babies!

Timana Tahu has come from the dark side of the force, aka rugby union, to play with the Eels. Lote’s come from the Telegraph’s back page to sign with the Tigers … even Greg Bird has come back from his busy schedule of court appearances to sign with the Titans.

It’s just like that Peter Allen song: all of the shiiiiiiips come back to the shoooorrrrre. He wrote that about rugby league, right? Yep I thought so. He totally did.

Just quietly, he would also totally approve of Greg Bird’s choice of team: the Titans have by far the prettiest uniforms in the league. I know this because my fierce gay friend Rick tells me so. Also, because Prince Scotty the Caramel plays for the Titans, and whichever uniform he wears is by default the prettiest.

More importantly, how many potential halves do the Titans have now? Mat? Scott? Preston? Greg? Is Carty running a full two-string team now, like NFL? Shit is ridiculous. And by ‘ridiculous’, clearly I mean ‘I’m shitty they don’t play for my team’.

I also, apparently, have the mind of a small child. Because anytime anyone mentions Lote’s new job, they seem to use the phrase ‘Lote the tiger’, which causes my brain to produce this image of Tony the Tiger:

LOTE THE TIGER I LOVE YOUR WORK! AND YOUR TASTY SUGARY CEREAL!

I like to think Lote picked the Tiges purely for this reason. Mark my words within six months he’ll be wearing a jaunty red neckerchief with his Tigers uniform and spruiking Frosties breakfast cereal in the ad breaks of the Channel 7 evening news. Mark. My. Words.

Kiki thinks the powers that be at the Tigers needed to hire Lote to keep up their dreadlock quote. After losing Daine Laurie to the Panthers they were in serious deficit.

It’s also possible he just wanted to be close to Blake Ayshford. After all, the man has eyes.

And while other teams have been busy bringing ex-league players back to the fold, my boys the Roosters have been busy signing up … Steggles.

That’s right kids, Steggles chickens are the new major sponsors of the Sydney Roosters, and it’s the greatest thing I’ve ever heard. If there’s one thing Errol loves, it’s Really Literal Thinking.

Remember that time Kiki posted about going to Orange AND USED A PICTURE OF AN ORANGE?

Yep, we are all over this chicken-to-chicken connection. Sure, as Brett Oaten kindly pointed out, it might not be the best fit for a team of Roosters to be sponsored by a company whose primary business is the wholesale slaughter of chickens.

The chicken formerly known as Brent Grose.

And as twitterer and generally hilarious human Jen Bennett suggested:

… now we know what they do with underperforming players. Wait, has anyone seen Fittler recently?

LIES! They told me they sent Freddy to a farm!

I like to think Daniel Conn was being serious when he told facebook now they get paid in chicken. Mmmmm, chicken. What footy player doesn’t love food, hmmmm? More importantly, what self-respecting footy player doesn’t love chicken?

We know for sure that Stanley Waqa does, because he told us so the first time we ever met him, back when he was playing for the Newtown Jets. I believe his exact words were – as he looked up from eating a chicken schnitzel: “… I love chicken”.

I rest my case.

All they need now is to convince the Steggles sister brand – Bartter Eggs – to sponsor the Roosters Under 20s side. It’s called Brand Synergy. Get onto it, Nick Politis.

[Personally I think the Chooks should print all position numbers on jerseys this year as Nugget 1, Nugget 2 etc etc - lozzy]

But back to the Return to South Sydney match tomorrow: the Bunnies will be playing the Manly Sea Eagles, and there’s one man we’re especially excited to see.

Michael Robertson … come on down!

The reason? We really, really need to check out his backside.

I’m serious. According to the Cumberland Courier, back in the day when Robbo was signed to the Sea Eagles, he was a legs-and-arse charity case. The generally accepted wisdom was that a footy player needed strong legs and a lot of junk in the trunk (this certainly explains Wendell’s success), but Robbo:

“… failed miserably on the sight test. His legs wouldn’t have been out of place on an anorexic chicken while his backside was non-existent.”

Poor Robbo, with his chicken legs and sad, unpadded pelvis.

And poor Robbo for having it revealed in the newspaper. Why does the media constantly print and broadcast embarrassing things about Robbo and his crotchal region? Remember the wang dance?

But rest assured, because we are committed journalists and confirmed perves, we will use our time tomorrow at Redfern Oval wisely, and make sure that we suss out the current state of Robbo’s union, so to speak.

Till next time, make sure you check our twitter account for all the vital Errol hapz. See you on the Goldy!

Talk about some slack blogging, kittens. How long has it been since we wrote anything? More importantly, how long has it been since there was football on? We are not coping well with the lack of footy in our lives.

The only thing that’s keeping me from weeping uncontrollably about the whole thing is that I am currently too exhausted/dehydrated/generally beat down by the festive season to muster up tears. I’m dessicated Sassy right now. With the amount of Christmas parties with open bars and ‘OMG WE NEED TO CATCH UP BEFORE CHRISTMAS’ pub-trips and beers while we’re watching Danny Green fight and Fleetwood Mac concerts I seriously do not have that much moisture in me.

I also haven’t cleaned my house, or managed to face the grocery store in about two weeks, so I am basically living on things in tins I find in the pantry, and amongst several gigantic piles of clothes that look a lot like some kind of hurricane relief drive. HEEEELP! See what happens when there is no footy? I lose my damn mind and need to be rescued by either my mother or the Red Cross.

But do you know what made me feel better? Someone helpfully pointed out this week that Lowes have their new season ad images up on their website. We all know what that means …. FOOTY PLAYERS IN NORMAL PEOPLE CLOTHES. It’s my favourite thing! It’s like when you see Venus Williams in an evening dress. It’s strange and unusual and special like an eclipse, or a unicorn.

And my favourite new picture of all is of Scotty Prince being a dapper and amazing business man:

Scotty auditions for the Wall Street sequel.

Considering that I am currently living in my own festive season filth and have about eight baskets full of dirty laundry, I am considering taking his advice and heading down to just buy myself a whole new wardrobe. I think we all know that living out of my remaining clean clothes just isn’t working. Yesterday I had to dress as some kind of 1970s housewife because all I had left that was vaguely wearable was a selection of rainbow-coloured sundresses.

And while I’ve been living in a state of permanent hot chip and free beer hangover, the NRL boys have also been busy. In Todd Carney and Jason Ryles’ cases, busy freaking me out. Sure I knew they were coming to my team the Chooks, but actually seeing them in Roosters merchandise is unnerving like woah. I felt equally weird the first time I saw Anthony Tupou as a shark. IT’S WEIRD AND WRONG AND I DON’T LIKE IT, ONE BIT.

I’m not even kidding you when I say I find this picture of Jason Ryles:

Jason and Stuart use their pocket flashlight to search for their missing dignity.

MORE normal than this:

He actually makes a kinda reliable looking security guard, don’t you think? And Todd Carney, for his part, makes a really really good pattycake partner. Mitchell Pearce told me so.

Up in Queensland, whenever they manage to find time out from their hectic schedule of electoral scandal and debating whether daylight savings fades curtains, the Broncos have been busy busting their guts to get super-fit for the 2010 NRL season.

They do this by staging some kind of …. Broncos Olympics? That’s totally Denan Kemp and Peter Wallace practising long jump, right? Whatever. All I know is that I really love Peter Wallace’s zinc nose. It’s very Michael Hussey. It’s also an excellent example to young rangas everywhere … SUN SAFETY IS COOL, KIDS!

Some of the boys struggle with the concept of ‘hurdles’

I also like to think that Israel Folau has really settled in with the Brisbane team. Like maybe in the early days he had a few teething problems. He’s sort of a baby still as footy players go, maybe he played up a little, ran off at training when he saw something shiny or a dog passing by, had trouble concentrating. But since they put him on a lead, little Izzy has really stepped back into line.

If you can keep him in the one place long enough, Izzy’s quite the good listener.

.. he just needs a hand-holding partner when the team walks anywhere or crosses roads. His road safety still needs some work.

And in a lil round up of the rest of the NRL teams, the Tigers boys are being cheeseballs over on Tigers TV (I don’t know that Steve Folkes would approve of this break from training, just quietly):

Justin Poore now has HAIR! Must be because he’s at Parramatta now, far far away from Ben Hornby and his Hornbag Clippers of Doom:

And, possibly inspired by Todd Carney, John Sutton spent Rabbitohs training week in Coffs Harbour playing pattycake with dolphins:

Pic. Frank Wedward

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go eat a tin of corn kernels. Till next time, darlings.

All other pics via the awesome BS and his blog, and Getty Images.

Ok first of all: tell me you watched Monday night football. Right? If you didn’t, it means you missed two of the greatest television moments so far in 2009.

1) being the boys cracking my shit up presenting this week’s Monday Night Retro, and;
2) being Joel Monaghan cracking the shits when Melbourne scored, lying on his tummy on the grass and banging his feet on the ground like an angry kid in a supermarket. The Storm make me feel exactly the same way, Monas.

I’m not gonna talk about that game though, because Canberra are kind of my second team and it’s just too depressing. Let’s talk Tigers instead.

So if you’re following us on twitter (you should be) you’ll know I went to the Tigers vs Rabbitohs game on Sunday at the SCG. God knows you wouldn’t have found out about it on Facebook, because those fascist bastards shut us down. This fills me with rage because they said we weren’t ‘an individual’ when quite clearly we are a collection of individuals and if those couples who have joint ‘MARRIAGE IS ALL ABOUT SHARING’ Facebooks get to stay then so should we.  FIGHT THE POWER!

Until they can prove to me there is an actual individual named JonAndMelinda Clarke with 8 albums of wedding pictures then I will continue to be pissed about this.

What was my point? Oh yes, sunday afternoon footy. God the SCG is glorious on a Sunday afternoon. Even in the shitty seats on the east side with the advertising banners in front of you and the pretty Sydney sun in your eyes. STILL LOVELY. I do enjoy a good example of historical architecture.

We could almost telepathically hear the voice of Phil Gould sitting in the Channel 9 commentary room stroking some kind of cat (and/or Ray Warren) and purring I lovvvvvve Sunday afternoon football, don’t you Rabbits?

Instead of our fave fake married couple Gus and Rabs, though, Kiki and I and our Errol BFF Suchy got the commentary of some poor man’s Errols behind us. By which I mean they call David Kidwell ‘Kiddy’, and Fetuli Talanoa ‘Tally’. Let’s be honest … as nicknames go, they’re no Tiny Dancer or Hot Bitch, are they, boys?

Even though we were squished on one side looking into the sun, the SCG was amaaaazing. So so beautiful, and such a fantastic enthusiastic crowd. The little kids in footy jerseys were cute enough to touch even my cold, black heart. It is also one of the top ten best things in life when little kids yell out criticism at the field. Like, ‘way to drop the ball, dickhead!’ and ‘that pass was FORWARD!’

Their snarkiness is to me like babies’ laugher is to normal people.

In other news, I have realised that when you’re not a fan of either team, a messy game is an entertaining game. It’s not like when I watch the Roosters and almost have a stroke every time they have no-no times.

I was seriously so relaxed, just chillin in my seat, looking for my Lucas Paw Paw ointment that I totally brushed the Rabbitohs mascot. Apparently he was standing there for aaaages waiting for me to shake his hand or hug him so he could keep going and I just studiously ignored him. Sorry bunny! Please don’t badmouth me to Rusty! 

You can bet I wouldn’t have missed it if the Tigers mascot came by, because from what I can tell the actual Tiger has retired and just been replaced by the Ali Baba Kebab man. I’m assuming he gives out kebabs, in which case I think this is a brilliant development. Mmmm …. food.

Normal jersey …

… Robbie Farah spray-on jersey. How does he lift his arms?

After last week’s Country vs City I thought Robbie Farah was all over the blue number 9 jersey for State of Origin. He played the shit out of Wade Park. And he didn’t change my mind on Sunday. He distracted me slightly with his super super tight sprayed on Heritage jersey (do they have to cut him out of it, like a swimmer?) and his new beard (it looks hot, keep it up Robbie) … but I’m still team Robbie for Origin.

Especially after he ran smack-bang into lil Issac Luke in the second half and scared the hell out of me. I swear I heard the collision. I thought we were in for another Anthony Quinn convulsions incident and I was all set to cover my eyes like a Delicate Lady. I mean … what? I am a Delicate Lady! Ask anyone!

*cough*

But Robbie soldiered on, and apparently puked like crazy as soon as he got off the field. Which is why I can’t be disappointed he missed the field goal when Souths evened it up at 22 all. He was concussed, people. That’s the kinda spirit that you need for State of Origin. The spirit to take a violent knock to the brain, then continue playing a game in which it’s likely your already fragile brain will be knocked once again.

It’s actually a bit weird to see a player get hit in the head and have it not be Mick Crocker. Yes, Mick is back. And in case you didn’t realise, he decided to try and start some tensionz on the field within the first five minutes … just to get your attention. Either that, or someone mocked his spray-on hair.

Meanwhile even I wasn’t expecting Nathan Merritt to pop out of nowhere and kick a field goal with one second to go. And no, I’m not exaggerating … literally one second. NATHAN MERRITT. Really? In the end we had to take Tigers fan Suchy out on the field for some post-game frolicking on the SCG to ease his pain at his boys losing by 1 point. ONE POINT. 

It’s times like these (when you aren’t a fan of the losing team) that rugby league is amaaaaaazing.

teeny tiny tiger!

Getting to run onto the field is heartwarming for at least five reasons (plus possibly a few more that I don’t remember cause I was a bit tipsy). It involves seeing boys try to create a kicking tee from a white loafer, a plastic schooner glass, and a mate’s hand. It involves adults momentarily losing control and tacking little kids for footballs. Also, people kicking balls into other people’s heads. Everyone loves a falcon!

There’s also the boyfriend running away from his girlfriend with a footy in his hand; when she falls over on the grass, he looks back … then just keeps running. That boy has a field goal to kick, after all.

Plus the awesome sight of a policeman pretending to arrest someone just so his friends could take photos. This is why I love Australia.

The only vague downer was the man kicking a Sherrin around on the ground … and when we booed him for bringing his dirty AFL ball onto the grass he answered ‘um, it’s the SCG’.

So … what? If the name of the ground matters, then you should be playing cricket, DICKHEAD. I hope he got hit in the brain with that Sherrin.

And on that cheerful note, special thanks to the Rabbitohs supporter who got taken out of the SCG by police. He was so cheery! Even the potentially incarcerated had a great day! That’s the magic of Heritage Round.

Thanks to the fierce Cronkster and Kiki’s swish new iPhone for the pics.

Last weekend’s footy was a veritable festival of lolz. The Lolz Festival! I would totally go to that. Who am I kidding, I would be straight out performing. No…HEADLINING. Youse are all invited backstage of course. Together we will make that rider our bitch.

Err anyway, because Sassy and I are literally married we have a system where we support each others teams. She has been to the last few Dragons games with me, so this last Friday it was my turn to accompany her to watch the Chooks.  We proceeded to get quite drunk at our friend’s BBQ (hi Denee!) then tottled off to the footy.

To put it mildly, what a crap game. The atmosphere was non existent (sup cricket crowd!) and the first half was like watching a reggies match. The Chooks served up some of their trademark ridiculousness, including a player getting up to play the ball to no one, looking around to find a guy behind him….who was also looking around searching for someone. I squealed in horror and spilt my drink. THANKS CHOOKS. Those drinks deadset cost 15 dollars.

Meanwhile I spent most of the game trying to figure out how to get live scores from the Dragons game on my fone. I gave up and went back to the BBQ, hopped on Denee’s laptop and was delighted to see my babies came up with a win. Not a huge suprise, but god knows I love seeing the boys on the top of the table. I even did my Top Of The Table Dance which is basically star jumps until I get buggered and fall on the floor clutching my side in pain.

In natural light, Kiki’s bronzer looked decidedly greenish

Afterwards we walked stumbled down to the Leagues Club to meet some of the Bondi Rescue boys for a drink (I know, I know, we are such total celebs. Autograph line to left…). After way too many Smirnoff Blacks we decided it would be an awesome idea to accost poor Shaun Kenny-Dowall and ask him vitally important questions like ‘SKD! WHY DID U WEAR THONGS IN YOUR GODS OF FOOTBALL SHOOT? IS IT COZ YOU’RE SCARED OF GETTING TINEA?’

To his credit, he was very gracious and tolerant of our crazy. Also, we would like to apologise for terrorising some of the baby Chooks. Specifically to Sandor Earl for bringing up trimmed man pubes in our first ever conversation.

Back to the Dragons. Sadly Hot Bitch Cooper is STILL out, but obviously Channel 9 read Errol (well duh, who doesn’t) and decided to give me some sideline action to soothe my pain.

Joey - So Coops, how does it feel when Kiki violates you on the internet?
Hot Bitch – Yeh mate…not bad. Wish she would stop doing that heavy breathing thing on my voicemail though.

Tiny Dancer Soward continues to be an amazing human. Going great guns for the Drags, and more importantly for our beloved fantasy teams. His pre goal kicking dance routine is one of the top 5 greatest things about league. Like, ever. Obviously the Parra crowd doesn’t think so, those bitches were all up his business with their boos. Poor ignorant people. Everyone knows you do NOT interrupt Sowie Kapowie.

UM EXCUSE ME FUCKERS…BIT OF SHOOSH FOR MAH DANCE OKAY?

Sassy and I also watched the Cowboys v Titans. We don’t really care about either team, we just didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to watch not one but TWO teams in white shorts. Specially when said teams include Willy Zilly, John John and Luke O’Donnell. Granted, it did take us approximately 20 mins to figure out why the Cowboys looked to be playing in the Newtown Jets strip (hehe…strip), but it was totally worth it.

Onto Monday night footy. I tipped the Bunnies because well… it was Easter. Flawless logic right? WRONG. DAMN YOU RABBITOHS. Thankfully though, this game delivered two things I love: biff and lolz.

The biff was….okay, I wasn’t watching that closely. I’m still not quite sure what started it. But it sure escalated into something kind of amazing pretty quickly. Nothing says celebrating the resurrection of Christ like fisticuffs on the footy field right? We were delighted to see the muchly adorable Benny Lowe right in the middle of it. The man has curls, a sweet tan, great pins and most importantly…dimples. Clearly a new Errol fave.

This brawl’s for you, Jesus!

And then there were the lolz. These lolz stemmed from severe embarassment. Which everyone knows is the best kind of lolz. As the boys ran on for half time, a rain soaked Andy Raymond informed us that Ben Hannant wouldn’t be returning for awhile because he had a, and I quote, “case of the runs”. Oh….my god. As if tap arse isn’t embarassing enough on it’s own, now the poor bloke has to have it reported as news on national television.

Because my brother and I are basically 12 yr olds, we dissolved into a fit of giggles and started imagining if Hannant shat his pants whilst on the field. Would he have to go to the….Shit Bin? Would the ref stop the game? YOU…HANNANT..SHIT BIN! GET YOURSELF CLEANED UP! Would the trainers whack him in an adult diaper, give him a change of shorts and send him back on out there? Or maybe even…stitch his ass up?

And on that charming note, I’ll see you next week.

Screencaps from the awesome BS. Shooshing the crowd joke unashamedly stolen from Lozzy.

I know, I know, this is a bit unexpected. Usually I never write about the Storm or the Rabbitohs very often. 

This is because as an avowed Roosters fan, the Rooster Code tells me I should mock and ignore Souths as often as possible.  And as a New South Welshlady and, you know, someone with a soul, the universe tells me to hate the Storm.

But since I am a massive trashbag and slept through almost every other game this weekend, this is what you get bitches.

We open with Andy Raymond doing his usual wander-round-the-field talking to camera schtick.  I seriously can’t believe he still does it, actually.  Especially since the last time I saw him do it he was coming down the tunnel at Brookvale Oval and accidentally walked face-first into the back of a giant piece of bunting.  JUST STAND STILL ANDY. 

The Bunnies run on and are still wearing black shorts.  The gays will not be pleased.  Melbourne are running onto the field tonight through a huge purple FAREWELL BOOFA sign.  Fireworks explode everywhere, Geyer kinda headbutts his way through the crepe paper and we’re in business.

If you’re wondering, I am firmly Team Russell Crowe today. 

After we gave our tips on Nova on Friday arvo I was devastated to see that my prediction of a miracle win for Parramatta didn’t come true.  I Really Hate Being Wrong.  But tonight I would be more than happy if you little Bunnies could pull off a win and prove me wrong.  GO TEAM RUSTY!

And for all the Storm fans who read this and get upset when I say disapproving things or make fun of neckless Billy Slater and Mick Crocker’s hair, I will try and explain. 

Every team in the NRL has a soul, you know?  A group mojo.  A general team vibe.   Well, every team except Melbourne, that is.  They give me no vibes at all. They are just so … functional.  Everything they do just Works.  It’s like they are an unstoppable all-powerful heartless fighting force.  Every time someone refers to their home ground as ‘the graveyard’, I hear ‘THE DEATH STAR’.

It’s all too slick and reliable.  Like a perfectly-trained dog. 

Even tonight when they ran on field, their fireworks exploded at the perfect time in perfect unison. 

(As opposed to on Friday night when I watched my Roosters at the SFS.  Our fireworks exploded in perfect unsion … as the DRAGONS ran on-field, leaving the Chooks to blindly grope their way on field through an all-encompassing fog.  GOOD WORK GUYS.)

Look, I just kinda hate them, ok?   I even hate how their stupid name is a singular noun instead of a plural.  How can a group of men equate to ONE STORM?  HMMMM? 

Anyway. From now on I shall just refer to them as the Globo Gym dodgeball team and Craig Bellamy as White Goodman.  I know I already mentioned the Death Star, but I enjoy mixing metaphors, so SHOOSH.  THEY ARE GLOBO GYM DODGEBALLERS AND STORMTROOPERS.  ALL AT ONCE, K?

That’s totally what Bellamy’s office looks like, isn’t it?  I thought so.

In a clash of soap opera names, Beau Champion and Dallas Johnson hit up in a tackle and Champion hits the turf.  You may have won this round, Dallas, but you haven’t won the war!  I will still get my hands on Denver-Carrington Oil, you rogue, just you wait.

In other news, Dallas Johnson appears to have lost his razor and is looking very Gary-from-team-America.  I think bearded isn’t really a good look for you, honey.  Stick to the Dynasty clean-shave.

Unstoppable Israel Folau fends off two Bunnies with an amazing break and whips up a Melbourne penalty.  Greg Inglis manages a freakish Inglis offload while being tackled and sends Geyer in for a try on the left hand side.  Ooh, this will not be pretty.  The Average Joes are in for a beating.

I gasp when Billy Slater is sent off for a professional foul by slowing down the play the ball near the try line.  Amazing!  Billy Slater in the sin bin!  All of a sudden I like this game a lot more.  Bring down the Death Star, boys!  You can do it! 

The referees call a kick hitting Chris Sandow ‘playing at the ball’ and give Melbourne another set of tackles.  I am OUTRAGED.  The commentary team and I are OUTRAGED.  It turns into a Melbourne try via Anthony Quinn and I am so outraged I open a beer. 10 points to nil and thanks for ruining my low-carb diet Quinny.  GOD.

pic: Getty Images

Billy Slater comes back from the clear plastic sin bin tube and someone calls Chris Sandow a terrier as he makes a tackle. I feel he looks more like Sonic the Hedgehog.

Cameron Smith slides through for an easy try and this is what troubles me about you Cam. According to www.leaguehq.com this is “celebrating”:

pic: Penny Stephens

DON’T LOOK SO HAPPY CAMERON. IT’S TACKY.

Matthew Perry Jason Taylor looks about as joyful as Cam Smith right now.

The referee makes a ridiculous call about Cooper Cronk not playing at the ball when it looked identical to Sandow’s penalty. Apparently life just isn’t fair on the Death Star. But a glimpse of Average Joe salvation comes over the horizon when fiesty little Sandow and his Bee Boots kicks along the left side. It bounces as if pre-ordained to mini-hot bitch Luke Capewell, who sends the ball from the side of his boot in-field for Merritt to ground.

Capewell, you adorable cheeky bastard! Bitch is multi-talented and he has dimples. Swoon!

One more Globo Gym try sends us into halftime at 20-4.

Billy Slater opens the second half score with a 100m try and … hey don’t the Rabbitohs love a yellow shoe?  These Melbourne tries are getting so common it’s like I don’t even notice anymore.  (No, Billy doesn’t smile, if you’re wondering).

Another try to Slater thanks to prodigy Folau, and one to Brett Anderson who, despite scoring an awesome try, kinda looks like he’s crying.  I am seriously worried about these boys and their emotional health.  Another to Jeremy Smith and we’re at 42-4.  Game over, babies.

The Melbourne Storm look … well I suppose they look relatively happy.  They’re not really smiling but they never smile.  Do they?  I guess they are hugging and whatnot.  Mick Crocker is asked about Craig Bellamy and says “it’s just nice to see him … not cranky”. 

Oh my god those poor kittens. Is that why you’re so efficient and restrained boys?  Does mean daddy Craig not care for happiness? HAS WHITE GOODMAN OUTLAWED SMILING?  That bastard!

I sort of just want to give them all a hug right now.  Except maybe Anthony Quinn.  He’s in the book of feuds for damaging Errol Patron Saint Dave Williams last time Melbourne played Manly.  DON’T MESS WITH ERROL, BITCHES.

And, as predicted, this means Globo Gym have also won the minor premiership.  Let that be a lesson to us all: you don’t mess with the Death Star.

[Feel free to leave all your praise for Kiki's AMAZING photoshop of Bellamy as White Goodman in the comments.  AMAZING.]

And look out for a Roosters vs Dragons recap this week too. 

I want to warn you in advance, this recap may have a few gaps in it.  This is because I think the stress of watching it may have given me a small aneurysm.  Thanks, Roosters.  It certainly isn’t because of the copious amounts of wine I drank or because we cracked open the beers at work at 2pm.  Ahem. 

Also, it might contain a few profanities.  Thanks, touch judges.

The boys are playing at the Footy Stadium and people have been talking this match up all week as a Local Derby, and using words like Bad Blood, Rivalry, Tradition, and Vengeance. 

I have some of my own phrases to describe it though, like ‘if the Roosters go missing again tonight I will cry myself to sleep,’ ‘why is Pamela Anderson here?’ and ‘PLEASE STOP MENTIONING CRAIG WING AND HIS SHOULDER WE DIDN’T MEAN TO BREAK HIM PLUS WE TOTALLY ALREADY APOLOGISED FOR THAT.’

Pic: Mark Evans / news.com.au

It’s only a few seconds after kick-off and I start to freak out.  Apparently our favourite ageless komodo dragon, Craig Fitzgibbon, isn’t captaining the Roosters tonight.  Um … who, what?  No Fitzy?  Ma perche?  Braith Anasta will be captain in his place, and while I love Braithy, this is most distressing.  Even moreso when someone hints that the reason might be an attitude problem.  I am speechless.  I have no speech.  Next I’ll be hearing Steve Menzies has a petty theft problem.  SAY IT ISN’T SO!

It just feels … wrong.  Is there something in the air?  Because the adorable Issac Luke is starting from the bench for South Sydney, which also seems weird and wrong.  Plus Sam Perrett has combed his hair forward into some kind of Julius Caesar fringe and it looks horrendous, and for some reason Craig Wing – who I’m sure favours his right foot – has just kicked twice from his left boot. I keep expecting Warrick Moss to pop in and scare the bejesus out of me.

The Rabbitohs are holding onto the ball like happy greedy children, racking up multiple sets in a row.  When they pack a scrum Craig Wing is standing in the middle of the front row laughing from the sheer joy of it all. 

The Roosters for some reason are enjoying – when they do have the ball – passing it to no one in particular.  If you were aiming for that gap behind Aubusson, then you were right on the money, kids!

Scott Geddes seems to have taken a little trip to Disneyworld and I guess it must have been from the fend Willie Mason just gave him.  I know he’s a big man with big dinnerplate hands, but really?  That must be one hell of a fend. 

Anasta sends a huge bomb downfield and Luke Capewell whips it from the air. He has improved so so much this season.  Also, I would like to mention he is completely fucking adorable.  You win at life Lukey!

The Roosters somehow manage to turn another pass-to-nobody from Setaimata Sa into an Amos Roberts try.  AAAAH!  So it was a STRATEGY.  You evil genius, Mr Fittler.  4-0.

Mitchell Pearce decides that this would be a really good time to score another try, so he calls an impromptu huddle to prepare for the next scrum and a Roosters feed.   He whips out a miniature wooden easel, a set of yellowing blueprints and a large antique Globe, puts on his reading glasses and begins outlining his elaborate plan for the next play to the rest of the Roosters. 

Once he’s certain they all understand the play, he walks out of the footy stadium, chops down a tree, handily carves it into a rudimentary ballot box, and asks the rest of the players to vote on whether they will go ahead with The Plan, which has been officially dubbed Proposition #429.

I assume it gets passed, because the Roosters take the ball from the scrum and move into a tricksy blindside play.  That ends in disaster when Setaimata Sa completely ignores a pass and Souths take possession.  I think I hear Pearce yelling ‘… I ASKED if you had any questions and YOU SAID NO.’

Pic: Getty Images

Mitch Aubusson passes the ball to the crowd over the sideline.  Phil Gould thinks both teams are trying hard but are both out of form.  I think … yes.  And on the field, as in the sack, it doesn’t matter how hard you try if you don’t know what you’re doing.  All the effort in the world won’t change the fact that … honey, that’s not where the clitoris is.  Trust me. Really, it’s not.

A pass from Pearce to Anasta turns into a Mitch Aubusson try in the left hand corner and yes!  getting warmer!  Souths are whinging about a forward pass but I care not.  There was a forward Souths pass that the ref missed in like the first five minutes.  The difference is that I didn’t mention that one.  Because I’m POLITE.

Galapagos Island turtle Fitzgibbon is still out of sorts and misses the conversion: 8-0.

Mess happens, then Anasta sends Anthony Tupou through a gap for a try just before halftime. Conversion, 14-0.

Pic: Getty Images

The second half has me spilling my drink in joy as Sam Perrett dives over the try line trailing John Sutton and Craig Wing, and Anasta follows that try up with another for 22-0.  It all happens in less than ten minutes and Souths haven’t even touched the ball yet. 

And can I just say I am all over Anasta tonight.  It took me a little while to warm up to him in the Roosters jersey, and it seems like everyone else in the world has decided on some reason to dislike him, but I’m sold.  TEAM BRAITH.  I’ve seen him punched in the face (twice), shouldered in the face, blamed for losing Origin, and I’ve even seen him crawl on his hands and knees across the footy stadium in round one before he was able to get up and rejoin the game.  Bitch is unstoppable and I love it. 

What I am not all over is the Souths uniform.  Black does not go with red and green.  That is all. Russell Crowe, if you are reading, could you possibly bring back the white shorts and accessories? Thanks darlin.

The Roosters have been gradually losing their shit for a little while onthe field and Souths finally capitalise with a lovely Nathan Merritt break for a try.  I find out Geddes didn’t hurt his brain earlier he just got poked in the eye.  I shouldn’t laugh, should I?  The Roosters decide the Rabbitohs deserve another so Perrett takes a John Sutton kick in-goal and drops it for Sutton to ground.  Someone is talking about offside but HOW CAN YOU BE OFFSIDE IF YOU WERE THE KICKER?  Insane.

22-10.

I am completely lost and confused when all of a sudden Souths have about eight tackles in a row and the little tackle counter shows no numbers at all and the only thing the commentators seem to be talking about is cricket analogies.  THAT ISN’T HELPING.  Braith Anasta is busy having a philosopshical discussion with Referee Lyon about whether a marker can be allowed to chase when the ref calls advantage then pulled up for a tackle later.  I DON’T KNOW BRAITH, THIS IS ALL HURTING MY BRAIN.

Pic: Mark Evans / news.com.au

I squeal with delight when little Issac Luke magics a break and leaps and prances downfield for a try.  See this is why I can’t believe he was on interchange! He is too fabulous for words.  Sandow and his amazing bumblebee boots convert for 22-16. 

This makes me smile, because it’s probably true:

Voss:  How do you think Freddy’s feeling right now?

Gould: He’s probably eating a muffin.

With only five minutes left on the game clock, and on the fifth tackle of a Rabbitohs set, some man I’ve never heard of named MacPherson kicks into goal.  Mitchell Pearce decides to ignore the ball and let it roll through his legs as adorable Luke Capewell leaps in and grounds it.  TRYYYYYYY!  I’M SO HAPPY!  AND EXCITED!  BUT HEARTBROKEN! 

THERE’S NO EMOTICON FOR WHAT I’M FEEEEEEELING.

Now I can’t tell you whether what happens next is just dumb luck, or some kind of cosmic intervention by Jack Gibson, but Sandow’s conversion attempt HITS THE GOAL POST and bounces away.  The score stays at 22-20 and oh yeah, there’s the aneurysm.

And with only twenty seconds to play, Sandow’s bumblebee boots kick a 40-20 and I swear my heart literally stops beating.  The bunnies race to pack their half of a scrum against mid air.  Somehow the touch judge decides it’s not a 40-20 and I involuntarily throw the remote and scream BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT TOUCHIE!

The last twenty seconds tick away and I am spent.  I’m so relieved the Roosters won despite all their best efforts in the second half to throw their lead away; I’m so disappointed Souths didn’t get their miracle comeback; and I’m so in love with the little halfbacks.  Mitchell Pearce was a defensive wall in the first half, and Chris Sandow was creativity personified in the second.

I think maybe they call this feeling … sportsmanship?

Well Intern Brownie and I are officially on non-speaks. Again. I hate when we have our little tiffs.

After the undignified thrashing that Intern Greg Bird and his sharks gave my Roosters on friday night (20-0! Kill me now!), compared with the Dragons 34-6 win over the Warriors, Intern Brownie has been unbearable. Dancing around the office celebrating his team’s finals chances, singing ‘Saved by the Dell’ and occasionally making sad little chicken noises.

NOBODY LIKES A GLOATER, BROWNIE.

And because I can’t blame my boys, or Saint Freddy (even though he seems to want to blame himself) I’ve become very upset with Intern Brownie.

It’s blindingly obvious by now that the Roosters have some serious psychological issues going on. I know they can win games, they just can’t manage to want to win games. It’s ripping my heart out to watch. Which is why I can’t blame them, you know? Those kids have enough to deal with. My message to the boys is just forget about the loss and concentrate on reciting the affirmations your therapist gave you:

I AM WORTHY OF LOVE AND ADMIRATION.

I HAVE UNTAPPED AND INFINITE POTENTIAL.

I DESERVE SUCCESS.

Good boys. They’ll start working soon.

It’s a shame too, because Brownie and I had been having such a lovely week. Knocking off work at lunch to lie top-n-tail on the couch and watch the Olympic diving together, eating jelly snakes and giving insightful commentary on the springboard events, re-enacting rhythmic gymnastic routines using the left over crepe paper from Hot Man Christmas. See if I play ‘Italian ribbons routine’ with you this week, mister. Hmph.

I should probably also point out at this point that the Errol office is in disarray this morning anyway, and I’m sure you can guess why. We awoke to the news that Intern Greg Bird won’t be fronting up for work today … because he’s kind of in jail.

Needless to say this is Not Good News to face first thing on a Monday. We Errol girls aren’t very good at mornings in general life, let alone when one of our employees has been charged with assault. I’ve already had two high-kick Mimosas ** and it’s not even ten thirty yet.

And I think for now, that’s all we’ll say about that.

Back to my sad chooks for a moment. The only bright spot in that whole game was that Paul Gallen’s grapple tackle on our Errol favourite, David Shillington, caused a little bit of push-n-shove. Shirt-lifting push-n-shove. Our favourite kind!

pic: Getty Images / smh.com.au

Have you been working out more, Shillo? On the Parramatta low-carb diet? Either way we’re all very impressed. Even John John!

And it seems like the Roosters are also determined to outdo Manly as the most retro team in the league. They’ve introduced some snazzy new workout suits and debuted them at the Roosters fan BBQ. It almost goes without saying that I approve. So seventies! So New York Jew!

(Thanks to Browder for the fab Braith pic)

CHAS TENENBAUM I LOVE YOUR WORK!

Now onto the Warriors (STOP LAUGHING, INTERN BROWNIE. JESUS). I’m going to be honest, for most of this season I was completely indifferent to the Warriors. Didn’t like em, didn’t hate em. Plus they were kind of far away so it was easy to just pretend they didn’t exist. That was all before they started their mass beardathon. It is hilarious and I love it.

The Channel Nine commentary team announced on Sunday they have solved The Mystery of The Beards (that they’re tributes to Ruben Wiki) but … didn’t we all know that already? Way to fall off the pace Channel Nine! We here at Errol have been discussing this vitally important news story at our afternoon cocktail hour for weeks. WEEKS I TELL YOU! We are all over the facial hair news.

And we are especially all over it insofar as it involves Michael Witt and his amazing ginger moustache. We just love a man who grows a surprise ginger mo and doesn’t shave it off in a moment of despair and vanity. Perhaps I misjudged you, Mr Witt. FLY THE FLAG WITTY! We love it.

Meanwhile the Tigers have brought back the old Wests jerseys to wear while being beaten by Manly. FINALLY, A V NECK. I’m ever so happy. Because do you know who looks good in a round neck? That’s right, the answer is “not football players”.

Sure they may not have won, but they looked fabulous. Look how flattering that is. Especially on Daine Laurie as he scored two one-man tries, side-stepping defence with his old gold legs, dreadlocks in full flight. The man must be eight feet tall.

And in the process of winning over the Tigers, how much better was Anthony Watmough’s game? I like to think he has been paying attention to his horoscopes and spent a morning at home focussing and preparing mentally for his game:

Spend a little extra time and energy at home today, as there are issues just starting to arise that you can handle with ease at this point.

The other possibility is that Des Hasler giving the boys the silent treatment after their loss last week to the Rabbitohs scared them into a win. Oh, Des! The silent treatment? Can’t you just imagine it?

I hope that while he was refusing to speak to the boys he also made extra noise while he did the washing-up in the kitchen and bashed pots and pans together and when anyone asked what was wrong just shouted “NOTHING. I’M FINE. CAN’T A MAN WASH UP WITHOUT BEING QUESTIONED ALL THE TIME?”

Poor boys though. Apparently the Manly kids just can’t make anyone happy lately. As if it’s not bad enough that they pissed off the wardrobe mistress and art director of the Gods of Football and were forced to play poker in their white hospital boxers for a segment on The Footy Show. That was super awkward.

And, kittens, I hate to leave you on a sad note, but in the Raiders vs South Sydney game yesterday Troy Thompson was taken off field with a ruptured achilles, and Marc-with-a-C Herbert with a medial ligament injury.

NOT THE HERB! We are utterly heartbroken. Herb is one of our Errol favourites and we can’t bear to think of the rest of the season without him. Rest up for 2009 Herbie baby.

* Next time I promise to actually write something about, you know, football. This week you just have to settle for the Important Business of uniform fashions, facial hair, and therapy updates.

** If you were wondering, it’s just like a regular Mimosa, but with an extra shot of Tanqueray, for that little high kick to the brain. WHEE!

Full disclosure time: I’m a Roosters fan, so like Willie Mason I’m programmed to hate the Rabbitohs. I may even be typing this while wearing a Roosters navy blue fleecy throw-rug as a cape (it was a gift, ok?). But I’m going to try to be as nice as possible and use as few profanities as I can while I recap.

I actually didn’t even mean to watch this game, but:

a) I’m feeling shady on the couch on a Saturday night
b) it’s the only game on
c) I didn’t realise Bring it On (BEST MOVIE EVER) was on free-to air, and
d) I kind of enjoy watching train wrecks.

The game is at Bluetongue stadium up in Gosford (hi John Singleton!) and I have no idea why. Back in my day, sonny, there were home games and away games. There were no ‘random central coast’ or ‘random Homebush stadium’ corporate agreement games. There are about eight people in the crowd and one of them is a man with a giant gut and a hearty ginger moustache wearing a Rabbitohs jersey and a Rabbitohs green construction helmet. Bless. I hope that helmet has a plastic beer dispenser attached to the side I can’t see.

Greg Alexander and Warren Smith are commentating, and while I love Greg (hello his nickname is Brandy. Awesome), between these two guys the commentary is about as thrilling as a box of hair, so clearly I’m gonna have to entertain myself.

Dallas Johnson runs on in a headgear and I laugh again to myself like a crazy person at the memory of him getting knocked out and staggering off-field in the first Origin match. Might I suggest a stackhat instead, you battler? I’m so going to hell.

Cameron Smith is all beardy AS ALWAYS. Does the man never shave? And why is his stubble grey? Nigel Vagana (heh, Nigel) is wearing his tiny Mexican moustache and mind-puzzle braided hair that I love so much.

I think George Ndaira from the Rabbitohs is wearing some kind of crazy bright white cotton bandage around his head like a cartoon character with a head injury … seriously? I have no idea. Folau comes out of the dressing room eating, as always (you don’t get that large by skimping on nutrition).

David Kidwell is still on the team even though he gets inappropriately drunk, and this makes me happy. Binge drinkers represent! I think he still has a bad knee from injuring himself playing with his daughter in the backyard. I love an un-coordinated professional athlete.

We have a minute’s silence for the late Rabbitoh Jack Rayner – I start wondering if the NRL is killing the old blokes off to make the Centenary year more poignant – and Cam Smith kicks off to start the game.

In the first set of six we get a close up of Billy Slater’s ass and I am totally convinced that purple satin shorts are a terrible idea. Little Isaac Luke is playing halfback, who, by the way, I totally love. I’m not sure why, but I think it’s partly cause he’s the replacement Craig Wing – and I do adore little Wingy, sorry the Roosters broke your shoulder in round one! – and maybe also partly because I like hearing the commentators just call him Luke. Like Cher.

A few minutes in Greg and Warren announce that this is South’s best set of six for the game, which basically means no one has dropped the ball. The Storm come close to a try but about 25 Souths players hold Steve Turner off the line. I wish I could tell you which ones, but since they kicked the drunks out of the team I honestly have no idea. They all look vaguely the same and I also don’t care because the Rabbitohs bore me. Let’s just say a mob of Miscellaneous Bunnies do good stuff in defence. I feel better when Warren tries to describe it and can’t figure out who the hell they are either. “Turner is held off by Kidwell, Merrett … and … others.”

Three minutes in, No Neck Slater fumbles a kick from Cooper Cronk and misses a try. Maybe it’s because he can’t look up! Five minutes in Turner knocks on a Cronk kick for no try. Little Luke tackles Slater and he drops the ball. This is going to be a long game.

Eight minutes in, Asotasi comes close for a try. Vagana makes it over and is held up for no try. Rabbitohs get another set and Widders manages to fuck up their excellent field position by passing a lofty and lovely pass to no one and over the side line.

The cameraman is obviously a total bitch because he keeps cutting away to sad little Jason Taylor sitting all by himself on the sideline in a beige plastic chair and looking more Matthew Perry-esque than ever. Greg reckons from the sideline “you can’t see anything! All you can see is legs”. I’m pretty sure that explains that.

By thirteen minutes in, Melbourne find a massive gap around Vagana and send Chambers through for a try. Scruffy Smith can’t convert, but at least there are points on the board. Scotty Sattler on the sideline gives his summary of the game as Melbourne being “flat” and Souths playing with “controlled desperation”. He’s pretty much right.

No Neck Slater drops the ball. A Miscellaneous Bunny drops the ball. No Neck Slater drops the ball a few more times. By twenty minutes in I realise I’m barracking for the Rabbitohs. Whyyyy? God I am such a masochist.

Jeff Lima gives away a penalty for holding a tackle, but I suspect it’s because he was too fat to get up. He is quite the barrel of a man. Johnny Sutton loses the ball to Billy Slater. Don’t worry, he’ll drop it soon! This is all getting too tragic for words.

Cronk kicks across field and instead of anyone actually trying to catch it, Anthony Quinn just jumps onto Vagana’s back like a monkey. Next a ball literally falls out of the scrum into the middle of nowhere. In one spectacularly bad set, Dean Widders passes to no one near the try line; No Neck Slater misses the ball, Chambers tries to kick it and succeeds only in standing on Vagana. Vagana headbutts the ball into goal, and Cronk knocks it dead. No try. THIS IS CHAMPAGNE FOOTBALL, PEOPLE.

Thank Christ it’s halftime! 4-0 to Melbourne. I get a beer, in case being drunk will make this go faster.

We come back with a really creepy recording playing of little kids singing ‘Glory to South Sydney’. It will haunt my dreams. Brett White’s being massaged by a trainer and I start to find him oddly hot. Is this like some variant of Stockholm syndrome?

I realise this is not going to be much better than half one. On a big kick from Cronk, Vagana pushes his own teammate over and lets the Storm almost score a try. WHAT IS GOING ON? I can only guess he has money on the opposition. Or he has syphilis, and it’s making him insane.

Souths knock on.

Melbourne knock on.

I consider topping myself.

Vagana is sent off limping. Probably another teammate kicked him in the shin for being a useless douche. Cronk drops the ball. Souths kick the ball into a Melbourne player’s head. I get a horrifying shot of Cronk’s red undies. He must wear them every week:

Idiot Souths give away a penalty kick for two points. Storm grab another try and conversion. Try to the Bunnies (FINALLY) and a puff-n-shimmy and conversion for little Luke. Field goal to Cronk.

Score is 13-6.
My mental state is “controlled desperation”.

Another penalty kick – two points for the Storm. Police lights are flashing in the distance. Oh, how I love the Central Coast!

Another try for the Bunnies thanks to Struggles Vagana.

15-10 to the Storm … and finally, the pain is over. I need another beer.