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.

It’s that time of year! First of all I just have to mention that last night, at the Hordern Pavilion, travel-size Matt Orford took home the Dally M Award for player of the year.

Chris ‘Sonic’ Sandow was Rookie of the Year, and much-loved ginger statesman Alan Tongue was Captain of the Year.

We have to mention it because … um, wait one sec- … oh yes, because it’s prestigious. Very prestigious.  I always forget that there are other Awards shows than the Errols.

The Dally M Awards ceremony is the glamour event of the Rugby League calendar, the night of nights, the Oscars of the NRL.

And of course I don’t mean to be disrespectful at all if, while I’m watching it, I giggle a little bit at how uncomfortable NRL players look in their suits and squeal things like ‘it’s like watching a dog walk on it’s hind-legs! … or a bear ride a BICYCLE!’ every time a player pulled at his tie or squirmed on-stage.

I just really love that they make the boys get dressed up and feel awkward to get their awards.  It’s so cruel.  Like forcing kids to sit through school speech night in their blazers in the middle of December.

Anyway.  Congratulations Matty and Alan and Chris and all the other winners. Love and kisses from the Errol girls for your very fine footballing. I hope that during your reign on the Dally M Throne you do all you can to promote world peace and help alll the children of the world.

In other news, I have been pretty zen so far about this whole Death of Rugby League drama.  There’s a lot of distress about players leaving the NRL, but I kinda figured if players want to go live in Kamp Khoder and play French Rugby or move to Super League then they’re going to do it whether we all have conniptions or not.  Right?

Not any more kittens. That was way back when we were just talking about Mark Gasnier, Luke Rooney, Sonny Bill Feelings, and maaaaaybe Greg Inglis.  Now, it seems, we’re talking about BIG DELL.

Apparently Dell might move to Super League next year.  DELL. SUPER LEAGUE.  This is the last straw bitches!  As if I’m not upset enough already that Willie Mason is injured and won’t play again until halfway through next season.  Because I can handle giving up my totally awesome Sonny Bill Feelings jokes, and I can live without Gasnier’s flashes of brilliance … but Big Dell is hilarious.  Forget about football, bitch makes me laugh.

And unless it’s to the hospital to rub Big Willie Mason’s back while he recovers from knee surgery, then I don’t want Wendell Sailor going anywhere.  DO YOU HEAR THAT DELL?

There’s also the little matter of one Matt ‘Hot Bitch’ Cooper: for years the devoted left centre to Mark Gasnier’s right, the 4 to his 3, the Robin to his Batman, the Albert to his Queen Victoria.

When Monsieur Gaz announced his departure at the end of the season to play Rugby in France we were deeply worried about how our Hot Bitch would fare without his loving manpanion beside him on the field.

We were so worried, in fact, that when it finally started to look like Hot Bitch was moving on into a bromance with the Dell, we were so relieved we didn’t even notice that Lachie had accidentally come to work in his jammies again.

Still, it goes without saying that we are Not Impressed with the prospect of Dell leaving. Hasn’t Hot Bitch been through enough? A heart can only take so much breakin, you know.

WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE HOT BITCH?

I personally think the Roosters Toyota Cup team were all cut up about this issue too, because I don’t quite know how else to explain them going crazy on Friday night. There was KICKING and everything.

The chicks just … lost their shit against the Dragons, and managed a whole new special kind of brawling hat trick when three of them were sent off.  And, um, I guess well done kids?  It is quite impressive to win a game playing 10 men on 13, but in general – honeys no.  Stop that please.  At least until I’ve had a drink.

The chicks and their 10-man win might make the Raiders feel a little better though.  Apparently the Canberra Raiders have also been to the Springfield Mystery Spot, because like the Bulldogs … they just have no players left. Literally, not enough able-bodied men to make a full first-grade side.

The Queanbeyan library is TOTALLY UNDERSTAFFED.  EMERGENCY! WHO WILL OPERATE THE MICROFICHE?

Little Cy Lasscock (heh, Lasscock) from the Under-20s might even have to try and pull a John Kite and back up from playing the the Toyota Cup semi-finals for the Raiders semi-final against the Sharks.

Either way, my advice to the Canberra kiddies is to take a leaf out of the Bulldog’s book and ease the pain of being in a totally shit situation by having a ridiculous French-themed party.

Oh, those crazy Bulldogs!  Ringing in Mad Monday by dressing as Frenchmen.  Nothing makes you feel better about a complete annus horribilis like a dress-up party does, especially if your costume includes a bitchy dig at Sonny Bill Feelings. (Except for in the case of Reni Maitua, who apparently is Too Cool to dress up.  Bitch please).

Luke Patten and mystery man:

original pics: News Limited

… you are my new heroes.

And lastly I wanna say HAY to all the boys who stayed scoreless this year and were forced to nudie run on Monday.  Hope it wasn’t too cold, kids.

Gather round little vuns!  Footy observations time!  Only a short one this week as we have been super busy planning Intern Brownie’s farewell party.  So many novelty Brownie wigs to buy, so many balloons to blow up, so many arguments about what to engrave on the back of his farewell gold watch.

Plus since John John was planning to secretly change the engraving to a pornographic sketch, we had to send little Lachie to the jewellers instead and he mixed up his lefts and rights again and ended up lost for a whole afternoon.  Long story. (Don’t worry we eventually found him safe asleep in one of the puppy cases at Pets Paradise).

Anyway, let’s dive in.

VUN!

abc.net.au file pic

Not only will the Roosters be taking on the St George Dragons next week in the last round of the regular footy season – meaning there may well also be a domestic hetero-life-partner dispute between Kiki and me – but Anthony ‘the Count’ Minichiello has decided to up the drama by making his long-awaited return to the Roosters side.

Mini!  I missed you so!  It’s been two months since he was last on the field, due to his back of glass, and I like the sense of occasion he’s brought to his return to the game.  Saving it up until the final week of competition, for a game that will determine whether the Roosters will finish in the top four of the competition, against the team that beat them last time the two teams played at the footy stadium.  Oooh the drama.

I think someone’s been taking advice from Terry Biviano.  I will be in no way surprised if he enters the field on a white horse wearing nothing but his cape and a pair of stilettos.  Girl knows her drama like she knows her ghd (and that is HOW).

Mainly I just hope that Mini isn’t injured again this Friday night, and especially not by one of the Dragons.  Kiki and I are watching the game from the members’ stand instead of The Cheap Seats (like we usually do), so we have promised to be on our absolute best behaviour and try not to spill anything or break anything or embarass ourselves in public, and that kind of shit just might bring us to blows.

TWO!

screencap: leaguehq.com.au

Um … how is it possible that two men are going before the judiciary this week for spitting?  Two!  In the same week!  When has anyone been called up for spitting before ever?  Never, as far as I remember.*  Admittedly too much television and loud music and vodka has destroyed most of my long-term memory cells, but I maintain that this is a very odd turn of events.

But oh yes, beardy Wade McKinnon of the Warriors and Matt Hilder from the Knights are both in trouble for gettin their spit all up in peoplez faces.

And sure, maybe they did.  But what I wanna know is how exactly the judiciary decides.  How do you know where someone is spitting?  Spit aim is notoriously bad, so how do you decide what they were spit-aiming for?  Did they hit the official?  Did they hit Anthony Quinn?  Does that make a difference?  If there’s spit-trauma do they get a sterner punishment?  What if Anthony Quinn was being a bit of a wanker and totally deserved it?  (I love him but it’s entirely possible).  What if it was the same touchie who made the ridiculous Issac Luke 40-20 call?  Was there a second spitter?  Behind the bushes, on the gravelly road?  SO MANY QUESTIONS.

And more importantly, will that League HQ screencap be an exhibit in the hearing?  God I hope so.  I love how you can actually see the spit flying like a comet from his mouth.  I also hope there’s a whole video of the spit-incidents with a spotlight digitally added and an NRL official with a wooden pointer walking the panel through it moment by moment, tracing the path of the loogie and using trigonometry to thusly determine the target at which the spittle was aimed.

THAT IS ONE MAGIC LOOGIE.

THREE!

leaguehq.com.au

And making up the third bad boy of this post: Steve ‘Ray Warren’s Man’ Matai is also being sent to the Principal’s office.  This time for a high tackle, not for on-field hocking, if you were wondering.

Now I like to think I am in touch with the people of Errol, and I am sensing that the people don’t really care about that.  Instead, our readers look to Errol for the important developments in league, the major issues.  Issues like Steve Matai’s hair.

I like to think being in a professional football team is kinda like prison, and in all those hours when Des Hasler is giving them the silent treatment again and the boys have no pressing appointments to train or be weighed or eat protein bars or sit in ice baths they just loll around the Manly clubhouse plotting their escapes and braiding each other’s hair.

And they’re so creative!  Bless their little hearts.  I especially like this one with the perpendicular row down the middle.  Very … dinosaur, non?  I can’t wait till they get together to do Dave Williams’.  GOOD LUCK WITH THE BEARD, GUYS!

* It was in 2005, according to the Herald.

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!

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.

I’ve been awake for about an hour and my boys are playing the Raiders at their home ground down in Canberra, so I settle into the couch with my heater to watch the game and/or mock Canberrans. It’s pretty much my hobby. Intern Brownie has worn himself out playing with his toys all morning so is napping against my knees, sighing every so often in his sleep, and twitching a little bit. I think he’s dreaming about chasing rabbits.

A while ago I referred to the Raiders as the librarians of the NRL, and so far this game has done nothing to convince me they’re not. Listening to the commentators read out the Canberra team line up feels like listening to the branch HR manager read out next week’s roster for the Queanbeyan local library.

… Colin Best? I want you down in the Religious Non-Fiction stacks this week cataloguing the new texts. Marshall and Glen, you’re on lending and returns all week. Terry, you’ll be conducting all school tours as well as reading hour with help from Trevor and Adrian. Neville Costigan is just on call, and Alan Tongue will be manager while I’m on leave.

The weather down in Canberra looks miserable and I think it’s going to rain. This makes a lovely meteorological metaphor for the feeling of dread I have in my guts about this game. I worry about the Roosters’ defence and I don’t know if they can pull this off, but yet I live in hope.

The teams run onto the field and I am taken aback yet again at just how ugly the Raiders uniforms really are.  That green is truly unflattering.  Except on Joe Picker of course, who has the face of a little Irish boytoy so he pulls of the Irish green. He is welcome to leave Canberra and come live in my pants.

Within a minute a penalty is awarded and Joe Picker has injured his ankle in the very first tackle (NOT THE FACE!) and I feel this will be a dramatical game. The Roosters are playing with some good intensity, thank god, and Big Willie Mason seems to be running against the line with some passion.

Todd Carney of the artistically shaven hair just misses out on a 40-20 and I am so so relieved. My relief lasts … oh, about two minutes though, as the Raiders break from within their own half and Terry Campese (TERRY! I THOUGHT I SENT YOU TO THE READING ROOM?) grabs a pass from Colin Best and dives through a giant hole in the woeful Roosters defence for a try with about three other Raiders in support. Carney converts for a 6-0 lead.

The Roosters’ pet play – the bomb to the right-hand wing – fails miserably and little Sam Perrett can’t manage a try. Seriously is this the only play the Chooks have in attack? Work on that please Freddy Fittler. It starts to rain. The camera flicks to Freddy on the sideline in a raincoat drinking a cuppa tea from a styrofoam cup and awwww I can’t stay mad at you Freddy baby. Gimme a hug?

Carney makes a 40-20 kick for another set. Two sets later Perrett’s chasing narrowly avoids another.  I almost suffer a small stroke when the Raiders whip an intercept from the air from a shockingly slow Riley Brown pass and sprint downfield. NOOOO! HE WAS OFFSIDE! Both that, and nifty little Amos Roberts runs him down. Sorry I almost knocked you off the couch Intern Brownie. Forgive me?

In other news omg Foxsports is being so ridiculously low-rent right now I can’t believe it. A Carney kick to the in goal is batted over the sideline and the commentators can’t even remember what the rule is for what happens next. They babble incoherently for what seems like hours while they look it up on wikipedia or something.

In the meantime Intern Brownie kindly reminds me that there will be a Roosters kick for the restart. He’s so helpful like that. He also makes excellent cookies.

Anasta grabs a 40-20. Carney grabs another 40-20. What is going on down there? I am amazed. Anthony Cherrington is staggering worryingly and I think there’s something wrong with his teeth but the brave little tiger doesn’t want to leave the field. Nooooooo! Not Cherrington! I honestly couldn’t bear it if he was badly injured. He is – I swear to God – an actual rugby league player whose junior club is Paddington. Cross my heart, PADDINGTON JUNIOR. Do you know how rare those are? He’s pretty much a Tasmanian Tiger. If we lose him the species is doomed.

Those crafty Raiders turn their 40-20 into a pass from Alan Tongue to Marshall Chalk for a try under the posts and a conversion. 12-0. My heart is so sad. Anasta is pissed and getting fiesty in defence. I feel you, Braith. And Jesus Christ, just seconds from half-time Canberra bombs to the left wing, Colin Best grubber kicks twice and when he trips, Marshall Chalk grounds the ball for a try.

Conversion. 18-0 Raiders. Halftime.

I have now officially woken Brownie up and when the half is over he makes me a cuppa and holds me while I weep gently for a few minutes.

Second half. Things are not looking up. Adrian Purtell grounds a Colin Best kick on the left hand side. 24-0. Another almost Canberra try. Followed by another almost Canberra try. I think I feel pins and needles in my left arm. That’s bad, isn’t it?

Oh yeah, that position is pretty representative of the situation you’re in at the moment Mitchell Pearce. Excellent interpretive work. You’re looking at a high distinction in drama class this year for sure mister.

Carney kicks a drop-out that I honestly think travels 70 metres. I also realise he is also growing a ratstail. THAT’S ONLY CUTE WHEN MATT COOPER DOES IT. Joel Monaghan grabs a high ball and steamrolls littls Shaun Kenny-Dowall for a try.

The bargain basement Foxsports commentary team observe that when Monaghan goes for a high ball against another player he’s always 50/50 to get it. Um. That’s just an irresponsible calculation of probability. Have you even taken into account field position, environmental factors and the influence of different opposing players? I think not. That offends me as a mathematician.

God has mercy on me when Carney misses the conversion for 28-0. He also lets Braith Anasta through some marshmallowy Canberra defence for a try, and my favourite fossil Craig Fitzgibbon converts for 28-6.

Anasta chips into goal and speedy Amos nips in for a try, followed by another conversion to Rhinoceros Fitzgibbon for 28-12. Shaun Kenny-Dowall then massacres an amazing opportunity with a shocking knock on. Amazing that Shaun can have so many names, so little ball control.

And as the clock ticks down, the final nail in the chooks’ coffin is reserved for Monaghan who scores under the posts to give Carney an easy conversion. 34-12. My mighty heart is broken. At least Wayne Pearce seems to have raised little Mitchell well because he is super-polite and lovely in defeat as he congratulates all the Raiders. Either that or he’s smiling with satisfaction that – for once – he’s one of the hottest-looking players on the field. (The Roosters uniform is much more lovely and flattering, non?)  But you can decide that for yourselves, kids.

This is a Big Game. Well, not a big game in the sense of being packed with Big Names, because 85 Bulldogs players are currently out injured, and the Roosters have six boys who are off because they’re busy getting ready for State of Origin. Instead we have lots of little baby Roosters (chicks?) having their first go at first-grade, and lots of Bulldogs I’ve never heard of. Also not really in the sense of a big crowd. I can see two little boys who are supporting the dogs, the regulars over in the chookpen, and … well yes. Let’s not talk about that.

What we do have though is the long-awaited return of Sonny Bill Feelings. I can’t wait to see whether he storms onto the field and single-handedly crushes all the inexperienced chickens for a thousand one-man tries, or whether he comes out wearing his Sonny-Bill-Feelings-sadface and spends eighty minutes rocking and crying on the sideline.

And it should be a big game in terms of grudge, if nothing else. We all remember the dogs-chooks ‘bred not bought’ fiasco, and even though former Bulldogs Braith Anasta and Big Willie aren’t playing tonight, I still think there’ll be some tension on the field. I settle in and send up a little prayer for some grudge-match biff. If they all play nice, I will be so disappointed.

The boys kick off and get started, and within 90 seconds the Bulldogs have christened the game and given away a penalty with a forward pass to the always-concerned Andrew Ryan. He always looks so very, very sad. It troubles me.

A little comic relief comes from the sidelines in the form of the Roosters Origin recruits sitting in the stands in what certainly look like some snappy little rental suits. Braith Anasta looks like nothing so much as a Hammerhead shark wearing a suit. Willie Mason looks like a schoolboy on human growth hormone and he turns and waves to the camera like a moron who’s never been on television before. OH HAI MUM! Anthony Tupou and Craig Fitzgibbon have that vague air of confusion about them that they always have when they’re together. It’s very endearing.

Roosters scrum feed, Roosters lose the ball. Bulldogs lose the ball. James Aubusson crushes Nick Youngquest in a monster of a tackle as he catches a long kick from Amos Roberts. It’s fantastic. Especially fantastic because I suspect Nick Youngquest may be a total douchebag and I like watching him suffer. More of that please!

More penalties. More intense tackling. Oh yeah, that’s the good stuff.

Someone single-handedly tackles the voluminous Jarrad Hickey and I’m a little amazed. That must be like felling a redwood, or moving a mountain. Sonny Bill loses the ball and Laurie ‘Jolie Laide’ Daley announces that whichever team plays the simplest tonight will win. I think whoever can actually hold the ball in their actual hands will win. It’s not even raining so bitches have no excuses. Maybe they need to use something on their palms before they play. Do they do that already? When I learned pole dancing we used hairspray and it works a treat. What was my point again?

Clearly the bulldogs care not for Laurie’s advice, because when they’re awarded another set of six they do not elect to ‘play simple’. Instead, they go absolutely insane. Hickey attempts to cross the line for a try but is held up and ends up smashed against the goal post vertically. The ball then heads back to Ben Roberts who spins erratically in a tackle and manages to kick the ball BACKWARDS. Awesome. Well done guys.

That reminds me – not only are Ben Roberts and Amos Roberts both playing tonight for different teams – we also have both Aubussons and both Paeas playing in the Roosters team tonight. I have trouble telling the Aubussons apart normally because they have similar haircuts (and I’m an idiot) so god knows what will happen tonight. At least Mickey and Lopini Paea have the decency to have radically different heads. God. Way to make my job difficult NRL.

When a knock on gives the Roosters a penalty, Reni Maitua cracks it, throws down the ball and stares daggers at the world in general. It is honestly terrifying. I feel like his piercing reptile eyes are burning through my skin.

When the Bulldogs regain possession Sonny Bill Feelings makes a beautiful break towards the right of the field and – facing five chickens in defence – offloads to our beloved Hazem El Masri on the right wing for a try. Aw Sonny Bill! Looks like a little boy somewhere has been taking his meds! Good for you bb.

The always serene Hazem converts for a 6-0 lead but SBFeelings isn’t having any of it. He stalks off downfield flushed-cheeked and enraged, arm veins protruding, grass plastered to his forehead, and my pants explode.

And while I will admit that the brooding thing is kinda hot, but would it kill you to crack a smile? Maybe I was wrong about those meds after all.

The chicklets counter with J Aub putting up a bomb from 30 metres out. Soliola rushes towards Douchequest and Heka Nanai in the race for the ball and there is a bit of confusion about what happens now so I will give you my version, which is obviously the right one. Douchequest leaps for the ball, misses with his hands, and kinda forearm butts it in a knock on. At this point Nanai is standing in front of him, doing nothing. Soliola is leaping over Nanai, arms outstretched, towards the ball. He knocks it sideways in the in goal and an Aubusson of some description collects it for a try.

Sadly the video ref calls Soliola’s bat a second knock on and denies the try, and I have to live with it. Bah.

More penalties, many bombs from the Bulldogs towards the chicks’ line, lovely takes from little Shaun Kenny-Dowall on the right and leaping Sam Perrett on the left. Voss is being a battler as usual and recycles the phrase “that is a good skill”. It wasn’t good commentary last week, and it won’t fly this week mister. Peter Sterling is still ranting about the Soliola/Aubusson no-try debacle. IT’S BEEN TEN MINUTES STERLO. EVEN I’M OVER IT NOW.

Sterlo wins me back though by being delightfully biased and yelling “there’s still time for the Roosters to win!” and suggesting that no-look passes are very “in vogue” today. Oh, Sterlo. Always up with the latest fashionz.

Forward passes, knock-ons, dropped balls. Amos Roberts falls over three or four times while collecting the ball. And seriously? Not a trace of rain in the sky. I am baffled.

J Aub offloads to Soliola and onto little Sam Perrett who makes a valiant dive for the corner, for what turns out to not quite be a try. Gold star for effort though kiddies. This brings on another period of borderline brilliance and borderline idiocy, as Setaimata Sa makes a lovely break through the line for a long run, then loses the ball only a metre from the tryline for no apparent reason to the defence. It’s collected by Douchequest, who runs what I think is giant figure eight horizontally on the field before handing it to Arana Taumata, who outruns Amos Roberts for a 70 metre try. Great name.

Hazem misses the conversion and it’s 10-0.

On the return, the chicklets grab the ball and are led upfield by wily Sam Perrett. Amos Roberts takes the ball over to the left and Sa sends an unexpected grubber into the corner for Brent Grose to ground for a try. Try! Excitement! Whole length of the field on only one tackle! And Sa can kick? Sa can kick! See Sa kick!

Related note to parents everywhere: Please stop naming your sons Brent.

Amos is flummoxed by the angle and misses the conversion. 10-4.

SBFeelings loses the ball. We see Big David Shillington flash some butt cheek for I think the third time so far. Bulldog Jarrad-with-an-A Hickey is taken off-field with a corked thigh. Poor guy. As injuries go, chicks don’t really go for the ‘corked thigh’, you know?

Mark O’Meley knocks on a ball with his crotch.

Halftime.

Back on the field, Amos Roberts falls over again. J Aub does good things in defence. More fumbles. Cryin Andrew Ryan threatens near the tryline. Amos makes a lovely run, and Perrett runs on, and Aubusson’s kick falls dead from El Masri. Paddo boy Anthony Cherrington makes another lovely break, and Amos drops another grubber kick for Sam Perrett to leap on in goal.

You adorable cheeky bastard.

Truthfully, I feel that this shouldn’t have been a try. It’s just a feeling. But then when I watch the replay I have to admit he was in field, and he did have his hand on the ball when it hit the ground. So why does it feel like he wasn’t actually in control of the ball? Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway because the video ref awards it on benefit of the doubt.

Also I’m kinda fine with that. Mainly, because I think he disallowed a good try earlier, and secondly because I am all for the benefit of the doubt rule. I like it. I think it’s nice. It’s like saying to the players: you tried really hard, and you did well, and I’m going to reward you with points. I believe in you. I BELIEVE IN YOU. Maybe if people were more supportive in general in the NRL, delicate little flowers like SBFeelings wouldn’t feel so alone and act out as a result. And if the I-BELIEVE-IN-YOU cultural revolution has to start with the video ref, then so be it.

From little things, big things grooooooooooow.

No conversion, and the score is 10-8 to the doggies.

At some point Nanai becomes concussed. Oh well. Just send him over to the sidelines to sit with corked-thigh Jarrad-with-an-A Hickey. Jarrad is, in fact, on the sidelines at this point riding the exercise bike, and I swear to you all I see fat rolls. I do believe we have another dark horse in the race for Fattest Man in League 2008. Oh yeah. Hickey’s comin for you Danny Wicks!

My boy J Aub yells ‘same again’ and drops another low kick for a Shaun Kenny-Dowall try. Predictable, but oh so satisfying. Amos remains defeated by the uprights and fails to convert.

12-8 to the chicklets!

SBFeelings has been a bit absent for awhile and I wonder if he’s off having a tear in the loos. J Aub accidentally headbutts Brad Morrin and draws blood. The penalties continue to rain down from heaven. In the next Roosters set Jake Friend comes perilously close to the tryline. Who the hell is Jake Friend? Where did he come from? A cross-field kick from teh Roosters finds SBFeelings in the in-goal area. Oh, there you are Sonny! Unfortunately though SBFeelings then has a moment of complete cock-eyed optimism and attempts to singlehandedly kick and chase out of goal. As you might have guessed, it doesn’t end well. Back to the loos with you Sonny.

Lil Amos grabs the ball and charges for the try line with three doggies dragging from his shirt. He deposits the ball on the tryline for what he thinks is no try and shakes his head at the COULDA-WOULDA-SHOULDA of it all. Sa makes me fall in love by tripping and falling right in front of Amos with his crazy masking tape headband on. Bless.

And I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. The video ref is starting the I-BELIEVE-IN-YOU revolution RIGHT NOW. He cares not that Roberts doesn’t think he scored a try – HE’S GIVING HIM ONE ANYWAY. You deserve it Amos baby! BECAUSE YOU’RE WORTH IT. This is insane. Amos is cackling with laughter and can’t believe it either. He shakes his head and converts for 16-10.

Is this the longest recap in history? It feels long.

More misdirected kicks, including one into a dog’s head. Tackles aplenty. Penalties ahoy. AND AN INTERCEPT!

Sa yoinks a Taumata pass from the air and storms off downfield in his crazy headband, fending off Maitua with a palm to his face and bellyflopping in goal for a 90 metre try. Sa can run? Sa can run! See Sa run! The Origin boys in the crowd jump and cheer with joy. Tupou is on some kind of two minute time-delay and as everyone is sitting down he finally stands up to see what all the fuss is about. Oh, Anthony.

Roberts nails the conversion for 24-10. 24-10! That’ll teach you all to tip the Bulldogs, and yes, I am looking at you Brad Fittler. Especially you.

Tupou is still grinning.

The doggies counter with a sneaky little pass via SBFeelings to Winetana for a try.

24-14 chicklets.

Time’s a-tickin, and on the buzzer the dogs are refused a try by the video ref for a push on Soliola. Ooooh, that lovin attitude didn’t last too long.

That means a fulltime win to the chicklets over the puppies. J Aub is robbed of man of the match in favour of the oft-falling Amos Roberts, but I make my peace with it when I realise they probably only did it as an excuse to ask Amos about the Unexpected Try. I would do the same thing, that whole thing was amazing.

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.