IF there is any justice left in the world of modern league, true league
fans, Souths and Norths should play out this year's grand final.
Just when we thought the spirit of league was dead, what should turn
up to restore our faith! Yes, a couple of traditional league calling cards
– a few George the Turds left in a Souths player's motel room.
Of course, that born-again, new-age league suck, George Piggins, called
them faeces. But we knew them for what they were – plump, spiralling,
smelly, gorgeous Georges in all their groganesque glory.
Even the aftermath of the wondrous event took me back to the glory days
of league in the 60s and 70s.
Julian "I'll put the motion" O'Neill, a true modest team player
if every there was one, refused to take all the credit. But of course the
bootlace licky arseholes who control league today can't understand the concept
of team play. There's always got to be a stools pigeon to take all the limelight
– or the blame.
All I can say is that if only Souths could take that terrific, solid, pre-season
form into the comp, they would be morals for a grand final berth.
Unfortunately, they have one slight problem. Their team is full of has-beens,
beens and never wases. Back them at lucrative odds to score the wooden spoon.
They will be able to stir the shit with that.
Norths, on the other hand, can be compared to Betty the Bike, an obliging
lass of my youth in the rough end of Brissie town and probably, if the truth
be known, my first real lust.
Betty the Bike was "practically a virgin", a fact she dutifully
reminded you of every time she let you take her out of the garage for a
spin.
For the best part of a decade, Norths have been "practically premiers!!"
I'm sure I don't have to explain further, true league fans, what I think
Norths will well and truly be, just as Betty the Bike always was, by season's
end.
Still, it was beaut to hear young Matt Sears admit that even at his somewhat
tender age he was addicted to rum and coke.
It was a modest claim – he wasn't boasting or nuthin' – just declaring
his connection with the greats of league past.
You know where you stand with the truly great league players, unlike cricketers.
I mean, really, how embarrassing was the form of Ricky Ponting, admitting
he had a drinking problem?
What sort of a role model is that – not spelling out precisely to starry-eyed
youngsters who one day hope to emulate their heroes, as to exactly what
the drinking problem was.
Too pissed to put the glass to your mouth. Too broke to afford another drink
after six hours on the soup. Or, most shameful of all, too pissed or just
not mean enough to be able to go the knuckle with some other fuckknuckle
in a respectable and competent way when 23 sheets to the wind.
Gosh, it is any wonder why the young un's are turning up to the sissy aerial
ping pong played by poofs in tight pants!
If you've got a problem with the drink, Ricky sweetheart, then spill your
guts!
How's a youngster to know how to handle the hard stuff when he doesn't even
get to know half the extent of your problem.
I'm willing to give Matt Sears the full drum. Better get out on the old
rumbo and coke before your games, lad, because you sure as hell won't have
anythin' to celebrate after them.
Let's look at some of the other also run-ons in the battle for the Thomas
Kenfuckingnearly Cup.
Melbourne. Fucked. Life as abovedogs is never, ever, as rosy as underdogs.
Sydney Shitty Roosters: Well and truly plucked by season's end, with the
plucker finding out there's not much depth to them at all.
Newcastle: if they can muster a full run-on side of drug-free players, they're
rooted anyhow. Paul Harragon's crook legs make Laurie in La La Land look
like a fuckin' ballerina.
Canberra: Just like little Johnnie Howard's drugs policy, the once-proud
Raiders are no longer the full syringe.
That pretty much leaves us with Brisbane, Parra, the Bulldogs and St George/Illawarra/Birdsville/Blackbutt,
with Auckland and Penrith this year's surprise packets, but lacking the
personal for the business end of the season.
I don't fancy the dog's breakfast that calls itself St George/Illawarra/Birdsville/Blackbutt
clicking in its first season.
Brisbane is too short to risk the hard-earned money of the missus.
So true league punters, it's the Bullies at around 9 to 1 or Parra at 16
to 1.
Back Souths to win the wooden spoon. Back Auckland to make the eight.
And do you really give a flying fuck who wins the Daly M? They should rename
it the Brownnose Medal and give it to whoever comes out with the most idiotic
statement of the season.
Alright, yeah, so Laurie in La La Land would have a walk-up start. But there's
a few pisspot bimbo sports journos who would give Laurie in La La Land a
real run for his money.
And of course a special medal should be struck for Whinger of the Year.
Ben Ikin is showing good early form. Poor former Bananabender Benny is homesick
and wants to leave New South Wailes.
Can you blame him: NSW has never been anything other than a PENAL colony!
That's right – It's full of DICK HEADS!
But enough of the Bash's carefully considered analysis of the '99 season.
Spare a though for the courage of Soloman Hoaremoano.
Rather than live off the earning of some model, he's decided, not only to
go all religious on us, but to stick his head into a Balmain scrum to boot!
Oh, Soloman, Soloman, Soloman. How could you so easily have brushed aside
the dream of every adolescent Tom's Prick and Harry's in Australia.
Soloman, Soloman, Soloman! Ditching the Pleasure Machine. Where is the wisdom
in that?
Cop-u-lata,
The BASH
