Some of you –and you know who you are – believe that
the great modern ideology, Rugby League Football, would have no direction
were it not for the presence of its foremost philosopher, Laurie in La La
Land Daly.
It is comparable, your thesis goes, to the queer community who could never
follow the bent and wide without the spiritual guidance of Dorothy and the
Tin Man from Oz.
Well, cobblers to you, me maties.
Put this lot into your hookah and smoke it – what follows is the philosophical
discontinuities of one Robert, Bob, Basher, the Bash Brown.
As one who has played both league and rah rah at the top level - give
or take a dozen rungs - I was amazed how easily Willie Carne jogged into
the Queensland rah rah side, and perhaps a short jump to a Wannabe guernsey.
Think of all the pain of the hard way to the top in the past. I am talking
about copping a half time spray from former Wallaby coach, Alan Jones.
In these days of marketing bullshit, a profile gets Carne the nod, without
rah rah experience.
You think the other members of the Reds would object. But no. To a man,
they stood up to be counted and said: “We wanna play with our Willie.”
The ABC of a thousand cuts is always good for a laugh. They tell me
the only reason the new head honcho got the nod was so’s Malcolm Fraser
could quip: Donald McDonald, where’s me trousers?”
If you were asking who’d wannabe number one at the ABC, think of the
plight of the boss’s brother in rhyme, John McDonald.
The Toowoomba lad has thrown his ring into the hat to replace Narko Arthurson
at the ARL. McDonald must be wondering what it will be like taking on Rupert
Mudrake. Nude mud wrestling with a 10 foot boa constrictor, that’s
what’ll be like.
Anybody who has tried to walk it will tell you, it’s a long way
from Lithuania to Sydney’s Western Suburbs. That’s the road the
revered Thomas Raudonikas has taken, via a rest stop beside the tomato bins
of the Rocklea markets.
They tell me that with the collapse of communism, the gangsters have taken
over Lithuania, the land of the Raudonikas’ ancestral home.
One saving grace: it couldn’t happen here in Australia. It’d be
like John Singleton taking over the ALP - laughable!
Super league has got it all, hey! Except for the two best footballers
in the world - Freddy Fittler and Steve Menzies. Oh, and except for the
most valuable club player in the world - Jim Dymock. And I almost forgot
the best coach in the world -Bozo Fulton. Just a joke, true league fans.
Of course, I am referring to Gus Gould.
Which makes Super League a bit like a desperate woman hankering after Howard’s
End. You might get your Super, but you’ll have to wait at least five
years.
They tell me - and they know who they are - that Laurie Daly was about
to do a Willie Carne if Super League had been struck down by legal Cryptogoodnight.
Seems that Daly was about to accept the professorial chair at Bonn University
in Post Modern Comparative Modern Philosophy.
Forget the rumours the Bash is about to desert his loyal readers and accept
the posting in Daly’s stead. Bonn University? I don’t even speak
French! Though I can understand a smidgin from my schoolboy Latin. Semper
Fidolis - that’s been my lifelong motto - always feed the dog.
Like Quentin Tarantino, we are all cultural products of Yangui televisual
crap. Quite simply, we don’t believe the truth when we hear or read
it. The Bash still fields disbelief from doubting Thomasinas about props
rubbing capsicum juice into hookers’ eyes and coaches feeding young
recruits aspirin and telling the new chums they are benzedrine.
Both stories are 105% true. It is a universal truth that, QED, moving lips
equals lies told. But that only applies in politics and the bars, legal
and public.
We Aussies rightly relish the sport of poking fun at Kiwis. Judging
by their thrashing at the hands of the Pommy cricket side, they have started
seriously taking the piss outa themselves.
Tell the perennial jokes. I have always thought the Kiwi love affair with
sheep was basically sound. Who has not had a stray thought of a simpler
life when the bills come rolling in every bleeding week? What about a small
sheep herd coralled under a bridge over a river someplace. Shelter, food
and water, clothing, sex and a sheep’s bladder for a football. Sure
it might make lousy television, but you couldn’t beat the cheap parties.
Buddha, Friday Evening Live would really be something.
Cop u lata,
The Fillosofa Lizard.
