The Nitwits, Ratbags and Lunatics have put the big "H" into
hypocrisy with their sanctimonious anti-drugs-in-sport campaign.
Of course, they have been abetted by has-been crocks with exhausted
use-by dates and those pisspot idiot-box common tatters.
Some weeks ago, I was sharing some quality, court-controlled time with Daddy's
little girl, Roberta, watching the Porker's Channel Ninny Fathead Show.
This year, young Roberta has been the regular run-on-down-to-the-fridge
replacement for Bobby Junior. Bobby's on the bench – the workbench
in the garage where he's taken to mixing up a concoction of mushrooms, stale
bread, morning glory and banana and toad skins – all bound together
with glue – for a school science project, or so he tells me.
To tell you the truth, Bobby's no loss. Roberta, who is only five, can open
a twist top stubby like she was born to it.
Sadly, Bobby, who is 11 or 12 or 13 or something, still has to use a tea
towel to open a beer. I'm harbouring real doubts about that boy.
Anyways, we were watching the Fathead Show when up pops Laurie in La La
Land Daly, spewing forth about drugs in league.
"Who's that, Daddy?" asked the apple of my eye. Ever mindful of
my duty to educate the young, I replied: He's a cartoon character for adults,
sweetie. He's called Thomas the TugBoat."
Now, true league fans. We have grown accustomed to the faces of rugby league
spreading bullshit thicker than a National Party supporter growing a crop
of grass. But deadset, just how much room is there up Kneel WitLacker's
arse?
I've got one question for Laurie in La La Land. When they were sticking
those syringes full of morphine derivatives up the cheeks of your clacker
at half time, what did you think it was? Orange juice?
Remember what the TV bimbos used to say when a player got himself injured
before halftime and came back for the second session? You know, the guy
who fell badly in a tackle and lay whimpering like a sheila on the ground
with the top three inches of his tibia poking out through the skin and you
were dead cert that was the end of his game for the day. Out he'd run after
the break with nary a limp and the common tatters would all nod wisely and
say: "He got the magic needle at half time."
Mentioning the magic needle is now outlawed, but you can bet Doctor Sammy
Syringe still knows his way to the dressing sheds.
I would like to ask a few questions of these common tatters who now swear
on a stack of Ralphs there were no drugs in their day – Sterlo, Fatty
and Blocker. Nah, forget Blocker! Poor old Roachie I can forgive. A halfback
could be on the vinegar stroke in Blocker's ring before Roach even felt
the slightest bit queer, so I'm not going to expect the big fella to remember
anything that happened more than two minutes ago.
As for the other two, are they telling me that after my playing days in
the 60s, 70s, and early 80s at Lotus Glen Correctional Facility that drugs
somehow just disappeared out of the sport they play in hell?
Only true league fans with long memories will recall my tale of those good
old days in bush league when we more senior members of the side would get
some bennies into ourselves while we gave aspirin to the young blokes. The
bennies did us old hands the world of good because more often than not we
were carrying a niggling hangover into the game. But the young guns! Even
though they were as fit as fiddles, they'd think the aspirin were uppers
too and would play like dynamite.
Actually, I was only a very casual user of drugs. Not because I was a goody-two-shoes,
mind.
I just felt that having a spew at halftime and bludging for a third of the
game on the blind wing were integral parts of the complete game plan that
I had developed over many seasons. I was a bit superstitious about changing
a winning format.
Because I played in the 70s, I was beside a lot of players who were nowhere
near as shy about drugs. Smokey, I remember as a very good covering defending
lock and a great reader of the play. Every game, Smokey was bombed to the
eyeballs on pot.
I once asked him whether he got confused on the grass. Nah, Smokey replied
some time later. Smokey said it slowed things down for him. Most of the
time he was just a spectator and then he would be really rapt when he found
he could actually join in. He loved it.
A young bloke, playing second row in our side, tried the grass too. He came
up to me after the game and said: "Jeez, Bash, I was shitscared about
getting hit the whole game. It was horrible."
I took the paranoid young bloke aside and said: "Son, you've got to
be naturally stupid to play this game and not worry about getting hurt.
I've watched you play and trust me, lad, you don't need wacky tabbaccy.
I honestly believe you have more natural stupidity than 99 percent of players
I've seen."
"Thanks Bash," the kid replied. I don't want to brag, but that
kid went on to play for Queensland. I reckon my pep talk worked more wonders
than a chemist shop full of pep pills could have.
Now, "Doc" was a different kettle of fishheads. I could never
get through to Doc. Doc earned his name not through studies, but for the
constant medical attention he needed throughout his involvement in rugby
league.
Doc played the game on most drugs, both legal and illicit then available.
His favourite was LSD.
I fondly remember one grand final we won, a victory marred by Doc being
carried off to hospital before halftime.
As soon as our post-game victory celebrations were finalised, I visited
him in hospital. I couldn't believe he'd been in there six weeks.
Doc was still tripping in his bed. I broke the news we'd won and he punched
the air victoriously, sending his drip flying. "Won what?" he
asked after the excitement had died down.
I said he'd had played a really good game until he'd tackled his side's
goal post miles behind play and he said that was nice.
But he seemed distracted, continually checking his medical chart to see
if they were giving him enough petherdrine. I left him to rejoin me winning
mates for the last few days on the piss.
That was rugby league in the 70s.
Times may have changed, but if anything the gladiatorial contest of rugby
league is even more dependent now on the surgeon's knife and the pharmacist's
concoctions.
So, true league fans, back to me main beef about this anti-drug push.
This new campaign to root that horny old sheila, Anna Bollocks, out of the
sport is a flamin' joke!
Even that ugly old Olympics fascist Juana Samwich knows that, and isn't
he copping plenty for slipping up with the truth.
I don't really care if they carry on with their drugs testing crap. I just
don't want to see it all over the TV. It really frightened my daughter when
I threw my sixteenth tinny, half-full, as was the tinny, at the TV screen.
I know what I'd do now if young Bobby comes up to me to say he's smoking
hootch. I'll nod calmly at him, then beat the living daylights out of him.
Hey, I'm entitled.
This is One Nation country up here in Queensland. We have shit for brains
and hypocrisy every day for breakfast.
Cop u lata,
The Bash
