Round 1 (2009) BLUEBAGS v TITANS

[The Piper]

Forum 7s - Round 1 2009
NEWTOWN BLUEBAGS v GOLD COAST TITANS

-v-

The 2008 Grand Final Replay

The Sandy Crack Cup

Game Thread:
* Please note - This is a game thread only, therefore only game posts can be made here (Teams, Articles).
* Any other posts may result in loss of points and is at the discretion of the referee.
* Only original articles, not used in previous games, will be marked by referees.

Naming Teams:
* 5v5 (+ 2 reserves for visiting team, 3 reserves for home team)
* No 'TBA' or changing players named
* Captains must stick with original teams named

ALL THE RULES & REGULATIONS: http://f7s.leagueunlimited.com/rules.php

FULL TIME: Wednesday 25th March 2009 at 9pm (Syd time)
REFEREE: Pistol
Venue: Henson Park

**The Referee Blows Game On!**

CLICK HERE FOR OFFICIAL WORD COUNTER

 

[Titanic]

The Gold Coast TITANS v Bluebags

Looking forward to renewing the rivalry with the old "enemy" and competing for the Sandy Crack Cup, here come the Titans:

The Run-on Team
1 Amadean
6 tits&tans
7 Titan Uranus
11 Titanic
13 TITs_ANonymouS

The Bench
4 Tigers_are_Pro
8 bgdc

 

[Willow]

The Bluebags bus proudly rolls onto the Henson Park hill for the opening round of the 2009 F7s premiership.
Fans scramble as Gorilla throws some ciggies out of the window. Behind him are Rexxy who dips his cap, EA shakes his fists, and Black Kitty blows some kisses. The rest of the team are still pushing the bus into position.

BLUEBAGS TEAM - ROUND 1, 2009
***SANDY CRACK CUP***

Willow (c)
Black Kitty (vc)
Gorilla (vc)
Everlovin' Antichrist
Rexxy

Res:
Drew-Sta
ozbash
petetheileet

Good luck one and all. :thumn

 

[Willow]

Kick off!

Willow | Bluebags

The Skull

In 1971, St George and South Sydney faced off in rugby league's match of the day at the Sydney Cricket Ground. Spectators were treated to the sight of Eric Simms making a try-saving tackle on Johnny King, and that of a Jewish first-grade player, halfback Mark Shulman playing his second season with Saints.

In the crowd was Ross May, better known as "The Skull", a self-styled Nazi and fanatical St George supporter who, in his heyday, frequented just about every major public event. No stranger to yelling anti-semitic abuse, the Skull perhaps experienced a series of internal conflicts when a pint-sized Jewish player ran onto the field and directed the attack of the team he supported.

Love him or hate him (I never heard anyone say they love him), the Skull was one of those blokes that got around. I have seen him at numerous events myself, but I've only met him once; quite recently at a BBQ in 2008. We were introduced, said a few words - turns out he is hard of hearing - and that was that. Then he bludged one of my beers.

Of course, every team has it's nutty supporters, most are harmless - the jury is still out on the Skull's level of harmlessness. Make no mistake, he's had his share of drama and unsavoury moments. Everyone seems to have a story, mostly hearsay, but there are few things on the public record that can be taken as fact.

A former member of the Australian National Socialist Party, Ross May was gaoled for six months for bashing a journalist in 1972. He has also been accused of using intimidation to silence opponents. Many simply dismiss him as a serial pest.

Nevertheless, and despite his many shortcomings, it's hard to ignore the sense of theatre that May, and characters like him, brought to Sydney in the often politically turbulent period of the 1970s. The Vietnam war was at an end. Australian voters had just elected Gough Whitlam's Labor Party, thus ending 23 years of conservative government. Unionist Jack Mundey instigated the world's first green bans, and thousands of anti-apartheid protesters disrupted the South African Springboks rugby union tour.

Against this background was the Skull.

In September 1973, dressed in a full Nazi uniform with swastika, May showed up at a trailblazing Gay Pride Week street march, and tossed into the crowd a pink carton labelled '15 quarts of vaseline'. A travelling Communist Party fellow trampled the carton into the pavement. and a potentially serious altercation was brewing. In retrospect however, it was all part of the show. The Skull then held up an anti-gay placard before being told to move on by the Sargeant of Police. Of course the cops belted a few gay demonstrators before the day was out, but it is refreshing to know that even in the 1970s, the NSW Police seemingly had less time for Nazis.

May co-founded the National Front in the 1980s, keeping him busy in between standing on milkcrates in order to peer over the fence of Kogarah Jubilee Oval - the only way he could watch football after being banned from the ground some years earlier.

It has been said that May has an extensive list of contacts, a little white book that reads like a who's who of neo-Nazis, far rightists and assorted Ku-Klux-Klans... or does he?

The other side of the story reckons the Skull is living on past glories and is essentially a fraud.

After making a name for himself, May was apparently abandoned by his white supremacists mates for not being true enough to the cause. Rumours abound that he was only into Nazism for the fame, and the chicks. If true, the Skull's interest in the lunatic fringe of politics is now probably somewhere between nil and zero.

Perhaps it is all part of the rich tapestry of the White Nationalists, many of whom blame 'neo-Nazi provocateurs' like the Skull for giving them a bad name... and here I was thinking you couldn't write this stuff.

Suffice to say, at the BBQ I didn't have much time for the Skull, and I wasn't the only one. For the majority of the afternoon he sat alone, occasionally meandering over to the esky to bludge another beer. He was a typical old fella, an eccentric sitting in the corner and taking advantage of the free feed. There's one at every gathering.

In the here and now, the Skull looked very much like the harmless old character.

|750 words|

Ref:
-Greenleft article http://www.greenleft.org.au/1998/329/20576
Australian-Jewish Affairs Council article http://www.aijac.org.au/review/2002/278/bp278.html
-Stormfront post from 'radnat' (Dr Jim Saleam) http://www.stormfront.org/forum/showthread.php?t=255912
-Jubilee Avenue history spot http://www.jubileeavenue.com.au/history/history_70s.php
-Gorilla's photo album

 

[Willow]

Information for the referee - Bluebags substitution:

Out: Everlovin' Antichrist has aggravated and old injury.
In: Drew-Sta continues his unbroken run in the first grade.

 

[Rexxy]

Rexxy for the Bags...

Something Keeps Dragon Me Back

I have a confession. In these dark days of financial chaos, headlines and court cases, I still follow rugby league. Been doing it all my life. From when my Dad took me to see the great Johnny Raper play. It’s always been a great game to play and an even better one to watch. It helped mould the person people see today.

It taught me how to be part of a team, how to win and how to lose. You supported your mates and you backed up if they made a break. You commiserated and celebrated as one. You’d pay thousands of quid to some self-help guru to learn such qualities today.

I learnt how to catch public transport safely. “Always sit up near the guard”, my Nan would say. I learnt navigation when my cousin marched us 7 miles from home to watch my team play - only to abandon us for a girl he met at the game. Now if I get lost anywhere in the world, like say Manhattan, the compass in my head quickly re-aligns. Harlem is Tempe, West Village is Sutherland, Brighton; Chelsea and Canterbury is Hells Kitchen. No surprises there.

Walk up Stone Mountain in Atlanta Georgia in a Saints shirt, and someone stopped and asked how the team was going. Go into a pub in the north of England and someone will buy you a pint if you regale them with stories of Norm Provan or Billy Smith. In Flanders fields where the poppies blow, between the crosses, row on row, an old farmer asked “Is ze one they call Gaznier still alive?”

Following my team also taught me about where I grew up. My team used to play at a ground called Earl Park. That’s where in 1928 the infamous Earl Park riot took place, when a mob of angry spectators - one wielding an axe, invaded the field after a dodgy decision. Today, they’d just call for the video ref.

Brighton, on the shores of Botany Bay, is where Captain Cook came ashore and ordered a Milkshake and a Battered Sav from a mysterious race of milk bar proprietors who to this day defy carbon dating.

So, if I’m such a rugby league die hard, why the need to re assert my faith? The game I love has taken a pounding lately. In the press and on the talk-back many fans and commentators openly question the games future.

Don’t get me wrong, players misbehaved in the past, but it didn’t matter. They could get on the juice and make fools of themselves, maybe damage the odd cab - but people didn’t care. Pubs were made for drinking in, not mincing with a microphone to a karaoke clip. You would go there to have a yarn with someone interesting and not yell over piped music, or poker machine noise. You didn’t have to compete for girls with some real estate agent drinking Jägerbombs.

It’s not footballers who have changed, but us. We are the ones who let them down, by ordering veal in something called jus, instead of a steak served with chips and no rubbish. We are the ones who got soft and started driving cars with dual synchronous gear boxes and dabbling in arbitrage. The players are still now what they were back then - a product of our making. We all cant play sport at a high level. But they can. Like film stars, footballers are a construct of their public. It’s us who creates them and hoists them high on pedestals.

Their only job, back then as it is today, is to come out other side of 80 minutes of blood, mud, sinew, sinew and battle, triumphant. Gods standing on top of the mountain, undefeated, as a band of brothers who have been to war, seen heads blown off, and eyballs ripped out, and returned home as mortals. To a loving wife and a cup of tea. Nothing more, nothing less. All the rest is for the gossip columns and the candy arses who write them.

On behalf of the public I would like to thank every player who has ever pulled on a boot and apologize on behalf of every spotty nuffy snapping candids with a cell phone, ever chick who wanted 15 minutes of pink oboe blowing fame, and every backslapping hanger on.

Long Live St George. Long live Rugby league.

 

[gorilla]

gorilla stubs out the durrey, spits and staggers on ....

******************************************
The Big Punt

“Boys ! Ay boys – dinners ready, next try and come in !”
“Awright Mum. Mate, check this out – ‘Thurston runs on the last tackle, dummies and sprints … he kicks ahead and’ ..”
“Ee-ah Jono … you’ve kicked onto ol’ Mrs Murgatroyd’s roof. Go and get it, quick, before your mum comes out.”
“Jono! Kick to me – kick it orf the roof !”

Foxsports
Thurston kicks off new season with new goal
By Karl deKroo
March 05, 2009 Johnathan Thurston kicked off the NRL season from atop Sydney Tower and then vowed to kick-start a North Queensland revival as well. (1)

“Sam, did they check my rope ?”
“JT relax – it’s a cinch, trust me I’m your manager. Just keep behind the rail and put up a torp”
“Should I aim at anything ?"
"Can I put both boots on ?”

This was reported to be the worlds highest bomb, but where did it go ?
Was the kick muffed and we never heard about it ?
Thurston lifted the ball beautifully – those at the scene recalled that, with the flash of cameras; there was an incidental strobe-thing happening, you could see his boot warp the ball at impact.

It was was successful – the ball just spiralled off into the night lights – all white and red, slicing through shadows as it pushed down.
Like a bad swan-flock car accident , the ball hit the roadway at Bridge Street, carried by the surge of evening breeze off the Quay harbour. In the time-honoured, corner post tradition, the ball hit its sharp ovoid angle and , even on a twist, shot low, hitting a skinny and heat-ravaged London Plane tree before rocketing almost on a parallel angle to the footpath – but not quite, so the ball arced across toward the shops hitting a little girl of about 6 years old in the head and sending her arse over apex. She actually vertically rolled over.


Well, I’m sh*tting you.

It didn’t hit the kid, in fact it just bounced into the arms of this 12 year old boy. He caught the ball without really even seeing it. Instinct in his hands that moved them both toward the ball as it came looping over after thudding into the tree.
He leaned forward when he first caught it in his side-eyes and moved toward the ball as it rose off a simple round-bounce on the footpath.
The boy stepped forward and switched his weight onto the outside of his foot and pushed down diagonally to take him off in another direction toward the bin, which he accidentally knocked into before falling onto the road where he was clipped by a George Street to QBV bus.


Well, that’s twice I’ve been sh*tting you now, and it’s not a normal thing for me – almost not fair.

Foxsports
Thurston kicks off new season with new goal
By Karl deKroo
It was Thurston who provided the show-stopping moment as he kicked a tethered football from the observatory deck of Sydney Tower - some 260m above the ground - to signify the start of the season. (2)

Yep, that’s right – the ball was ‘tethered’.

I can appreciate the public liability issues associated with just randomly punting a ball into the CBD in the dark of night from a height of 260 metres. Who knows where the ball would go, and what damage it would cause, or even if AAMI would be happy and smiley, a la swan-flock attack, to deal with the insurance consequences.

'Tethered' means it had a big strong string attached and the ball would spiral out to the length of string and then just jerk about and back to flop around against the outside of the Centrepoint Tower like a lost sperm, or a fluffed drive from a K-Tel Golf-O-Matic Backyard Driving Range set.

'Tethered' means that all the excitement had gone out of the event, it was a hollow act with all the sterilised pomp of the NRL organised, David Gallop-driven risk minimisation approach possible.

I know Thurston was 'tethered' like a rock climber with more straps and waist-to-groin connections than Michael Jackson. That’s understandable.

I just wish the ball was tethered by elastic so that, like that K-Tel Golf-O-Matic Backyard Driving Range set, the dammed ball would fly back at you at the same speed and thrust as you launched it. Now that’s excitement without public safety risk !


(1) and (2) http://www.foxsports.com.au/story/0,8659,25140726-23214,00.html?from=public_rss

******************************************************

749 words between the stars

 

[Black Kitty]

Black Kitty pulls herself away from her adoring fans. After assuring them that they will get their carton of beer after the match if they cheered loud enough, she flitters across the field for the Blue Bags…

Drink. Drunk. The difference is U

Sound familiar? It’s the slogan for the prime time television commercial that’s been running for some time now to get us all to think of the consequences of our actions when we drink. Catchy? Maybe. Thought provoking? Perhaps. Effective? Doubt it.

Now it may come as no surprise to anyone that knows me that I have an opinion on this notion of enforced sobriety, as promoted by the National Rugby League and it’s representatives during football season. After all, I do have an opinion on most things! But it’s the side I have taken that has taken most of my football and pub loving friends by surprise. I love my footy and I love to kick back on the weekend with a nice cold beverage while I’m watching it. But on this occasion I really must side with the NRL. The game’s reputation is really taking a battering from all this bad publicity.

Normally I would argue that out of hours they are entitled to do whatever they please, though harm ye none. But you see, that’s where we fall down. Or rather, that’s where they fall down. In drunken stupors and immature antics they end up hurting themselves or someone else. These boys should know better. I cannot call them men as they most defiantly have not grown up, even though the number of candles on their birthday cake would suggest otherwise. There is an obvious problem for some of our football elite where alcohol and bad behaviour are concerned. But should the NRL really have to play mummy to them? Ground them for being naughty? No they shouldn’t have too. Which makes it all the more pathetic that they do.

You see, although I believe to some degree that footballers are just like any other ordinary Joe doing his or her job, and should therefore be able to quell the day’s angst in whatever way the wish (within reason and the law). I also believe that as celebrity figures in our society they have an obligation to us to set good examples to those of weaker conviction. It both angers me, and saddens me, that these grown men of such standing in the community do not have the brain power, or will power, to be able to have just one beer. They still seem to be of the adolescent thought pattern that every time alcohol touches their lips the have to continue until they are completely ‘written off’.

Brett Kimmorley is one of many footballers who seems to be very concerned about what his fellow footballers are doing to the game’s reputation with their off field antics. Voicing his concerns to The Daily Telegraph, he seemed to be very well aware that the reputation of the game he loves is being tarnished greatly by these actions. He is quoted as saying, "This isn't something rugby league can keep tolerating. We have to protect the game. When an incident happens we are all tainted. We have to start learning.”

I really think that Brett has a point, it is the game that ultimately takes the hits. Lets face it, its reputation wasn’t overly squeaky clean to begin with. Well not as far as some public opinion was concerned. Not where, and when, I grew up anyway. Opinions seemed to be slowly changing for the better there for quite some time. But now, with so many instances of newspaper headlines featuring this or that drunk or drugged footballer, the reputation is sinking faster than the Titanic.

So in the end, do I think the NRL have the right to impose the bans it’s proposing? In a word. Yes. If these boys can not grow up and act like responsible adults then they should still be treated like the immature miscreants that they are acting like. After all, their job isn’t your average Joe’s 9 to 5 gig and whether or not they are in their team jerseys they are highly recognisable for who they are. If they love their game so much, they should think about keeping its good name intact, before it disappears for another decade or so.


**695 words including title according to the official word counter**

Sources:
The Daily Telegraph: http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,25207777-5001023,00.html

 

[Drew-Sta]

Drew-Sta takes his first hit up for the season with the Bluebags!

Anything you can do...

John O’Neill slammed his fist down on the table, muttering curses under his breath. He threw The Daily Telegraph across the room; the thin, tabloid newspaper floating to the ground to lay with the front page up. On it was the face of Brett Stewart after his recent axing due to alcohol abuse and the sexual assault allegations.

“Lote, get your ass in here!”

Lote trundled in, careful not to tread on the newspaper.

“Yes, Mr O’Neill?”

“Lote, those bloody league-nuts have done it again,” O’Neill blustered, waving his hands in a comical display of frustration and his face erupting into the colour of a beetroot.

“I’m not sure I quite follow you, Mr O’Neill,” Lote answered, a confused expression crossing his face.

“Brett Stewart has run the games reputation through the mud with his actions and Anthony Watmough has embarrassed both his club and sponsors.”

“THAT’S EXACTLY MY POINT!” O’Neill exploded, jumping to his feet and waving his hands above his head.

“They’re always in the bloody newspapers! They’re always getting publicity! They’re always on top, Lote! We’re losing the PR battle, don’t you realise?”

“S-S-Sir, they’re disgraces to their game! How can we be losing?” Lote stammered.

“Haven’t you heard the old saying ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity?’”

O’Neill’s face was shifting between a deep purple and an angry red. Flecks of spit were at the side of his mouth. Lote also noticed that John wasn’t wearing any pants, and instead it seemed as though he sat at his desk in Superman boxer shorts.

“Those bloody Leaguers, always grabbing the media spotlight. Why does David Gallop get to be the man in the spotlight all the time?”

“I’m not so sure he enjoys that role Mr O’Neill,” Lote answered.

“In any case, we should be proud that Rugby Union has such a clean bill.”

“That’s all rubbish Lote,” O’Neill replied, sitting down and returning to a semblance of sanity.

“Half the Wallabies are out getting pissed off their nut each week. The issue is no-one in Australia KNOWS who plays for the Wallabies, so the press don’t give a rats when the police reports are filtered through."

"McLean! Get your resigning ass in here!”

In a split second, a beady eyed, hunched man limped through the doorway.

“Yesssss, my master. What is your bidding?”

“McLean, you need to come up with some sort of media-grabbing PR stunt. You know, something like when we convinced Wendell to take cocaine. Man, we got weeks of publicity out of that.”

O’Neill’s eyes lit up and he looked over to the tall Wallaby, still standing in his office, “Say, Lote, you don’t happen to enjoy a line or two do you?”

“Of course not!” choked a shocked and dismayed Tuquiri.

“I can’t believe you’re suggesting I take drugs just to boost the publicity of Rugby Union!”

O’Neill grunted in disappointment before turning back to McLean. “What are you thinking would be good?”

McLean thought for a second, before a smile crept across his face and he began to wring his hands together in glee. “Yesssss sir, I have an idea. I think I have it!”

“Well, spit it out!” O’Neill answered, leaning forward in excitement.

“We’ll e-mail our members…” McLean began, his voice wobbling with excitement.

“…and invite them to come to the Tooheys Tah Bar. It is most conniving.”

“You idiot, that’s not going to get anyone’s attention,” O’Neill fired back, the insult acting like a physical blow to McLean, who flinched back from the negative comment.

“Unless…”

O'Neill let out an evil laugh.

"Gallop will never see this one coming."

---

David Gallop picked up his morning newpaper off the front lawn and meandered back into his house. Sitting back with his morning cuppa and a piece of toast, he turned a few pages in and was surprised to see an article about the ARU. Reading it, he couldn't help but chuckle.

"ARU e-mails kids, inviting them to the Toohey's Tah Bar for a few pre-game drinks." Gallop, after reading aloud the summary, grabbed his mobile phone and started to make a call.

"Yep, Ricky. How are you? I'm good mate. Look, John O'Neill is at it again, and I need to ask you a favour. You know Brett Seymour? I was wondering if you could get him to do something for me..."

 

[Titan Uranus]

Titan Uranus steps out of F7s hibernation (for the Titans), exchanges holiday stories with his team-mates and compares tan lines only to find that Titanic and T&T, who holidayed together, don't have any. Oh well, bring on the Baggers.

750 words on the nose, including the title according to the OWC.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
​

Betrayal
​

I remember choosing my side at a young age although what I remember most was the team colours of red and white. There was never any real choice. It was, like with most of us, a family thing and I followed my dad. Soon enough it seemed like I was giving any spare money I had to them and they became a significant part of my life.

They pulled off a few big name signings as well as developing local talent which they continue to do to this day. These people then give interviews stating their commitment to the cause and how devoted they were.

It is comments like these that make it such a hard blow to deal with, even now, whenever I find out that one of them has decided to leave us. Some go to our competitors, some leave the country, while others switch codes entirely. There are times when I don’t know which one is the worst.

I know that we benefit from such moves too though – our current star performer came from a major rival. Yet, it doesn’t make the defections any more palatable.

That being said, Kelly staying with St George (later Westpac) and not returning to CBA did make a welcome change from the mercenaries in this game who go wherever they can get the best contract, completely devoid of loyalty. I can even begin to kid myself that it makes us somewhat better than the rest that such a big name can be swayed to stick with us.

I take comfort in knowing that things like this somehow makes Westpac the best in the land and not ANZ, even if they took the title of world’s most sustainable bank after we had held it for five years straight. I also enjoy mocking those at the CBA for not being able to hang on to Kelly. And while we Westpac-ers (and former Saints) laud Kelly we have little time for likes of Morgan and Joss who left for different businesses. Deep down though I know that Kelly’s “loyalty” may have had a lot to do with her $18m plus salary – just don’t tell any NAB supporters I said so.

This may seem ridiculous and rightly so; no one really cares about inter-bank transfers or if some city banker decides to leave the game altogether. This is even though most people are fairly loyal to their own bank, or that we should pay greater attention to whom we are entrusting our money, especially in the current economic climate.

So why should it matter when players do the same. They also need to support their families and like the rest of us will try to do what’s right by them. In this light, castigating them for such decisions is what is ridiculous, and we just need to grow up a little more, or do we?

Players know that when they choose to make a career in the game that it is not a normal job. No banker gets to have thousands of fans sing his name week in and week out. No oil executive is going to be adored by millions of people and be a role model to younger kids. On top of this no child ever grows up wanting to be CEO of Qantas, Bundaberg Rum or Jetstar. Any one of us would gladly play for our side for free. That’s because we know what a privilege it is and because our teams invoke such a strong sense of fidelity through living on their ups and downs every year of our lives.

Therefore players should know better than to insist how committed they are to their clubs and how much they love being a part up of the set-up only to leave as soon as the next best thing comes along. That just means that what we once thought was an expression of mutual love was nothing but lies. Being lied to hurts but when it’s by or about something or someone you love it makes it far worse.

Analogies may make the behaviour of fans seem absurd however such analogies are erroneous. The NRL is not analogous to anything and if certain players insist on changing their allegiances as frequently as their hairstyles then they should fully expect to have thirty pieces of silver hurled at them. That is certainly what I feel like doing at times if only I didn’t know how much they’d appreciate the extra cash.

 

[Amadean]

Amadean welcomes the new season by doing the helicopter in the Titan's change room before running out to deja vu.

737 below the bump


***************



Bombay Boozer



Right, so I’m sittting in a Mumbai bar, surrounded by guys and girls who’ve just finished work and are out for a few drinks and some more laughs. There’s cricket on the TV, the guys next to me are arguing with the barstaff about the strength of their Long Island Iced Teas. The air smells of beer, popcorn and poorly applied aftershave.


The music just changed on the stereo, from some Dido rubbish to Bryan Adam’s ‘Summer of 69’. Now, I’ve spent my fair share of time on local footy club dancefloors and RSLs back home and I’ve heard the reactions to this tune before. Back in Randwick the first few chords would ring out, there’d be a cheering shout and then every male in the place would start to play air guitar.


The same happened here.


Now, this struck me as a little strange. After all, I’m in some random Bombay sh1thole bar. Here, saying ‘namaste’ or ‘Sehwag’ to a complete stranger results in a drawn-out and emotional discussion. In Souths Juniors words are drowned out by the pokies, but they’d still react the same when ‘We Will Rock You’ comes on. It seems to go beyond the these superficial drink/music/aftershave markers too: when I went to take a slash no bugger in there washed his hands, exactly like down the Palm Beach Surf Lifesaving Club.


Now, we could spin this off into some Commie-hugging psalm about how GLOBALISATION IS EVIL. But, frankly, the story doesn’t check out. I’m sitting in a dive bar in the outskirts of Bombay and I’ve seen four iPhones. These people are the famed ‘emerging middle classes’ of India and they couldn’t be having more fun if I went around giving them all Ectasy Enemas™.


The point I’m making, in a slightly roundabout fashion, is that the more things change, the more they seem to stay the same. Sitting in the Emerald Laughter Bar, my current location, I’m struck by how bloody similar these guys and girls are to those I know back home.


Of course they’re not. If I were to shout out “The BJP’s actions in Mangalore were cowardly” (look it up) then I’d be arguing with half the people in the joint. If I were to shout out “Shah Rukh Khan interferes sexually with small boys” then, joking aside, I probably wouldn’t make it out of here alive.


Yet when another AFL ponce is caught powdering his nose, or soccer is referred to as FOOTBALL or even when people complain about League’s scrumming… then I blow a bloody fuse. Of course, this isn’t likely to happen right now, as NRL to this lot probably refers to a political party.


Yet as I’m sitting here, checking the League results on the laptop, following the cricket on the big screen, it all feels oddly familiar. Honestly, I’d feel more out of place in a crowd of Doggies fans than I would here, but then in a Bulldogs crowd I probably would’ve been sexually assaulted by now (what, still too soon?).

League isn’t as tribal as some sports, notably the Pom’s soccer antics, but those generalisations about Manly wankers, Roosters snobs and Newcastle illiterates seem to ring fairly true sometimes. I’m sure later in the evening, when I’ve had a few more drinks with some of the guys here, I’ll find them taking the piss out of blokes from Assam or Uttar Pradesh for the same reasons.


I like the sweeping dislikes of the NRL. I like the fact that if I meet a Raiders fan in a pub he’ll a) not stand his round and b) have voted Green in the last election. I like the common touchstones of admiration as well: say ‘The King’ to any fellow citizen of God’s Own Country and we’ll immediately have a half-hour chat about how the great Mr. Lewis was far superior to Andrew Johns.


For all the air guitars and bad pick-up lines floating through the bar tonight, no matter how similar the clothes, phones and jokes, it isn’t the same. If I could overhear just one phrase of “yeah, but you can't trust a bloody Penriff guy, can you?” I’d feel perfectly at home. But I can’t, so I don’t.


Still, the beer’s cold, the curry’s good, the people are nice and the cricket's on. Cultural jet lag: self indulgence.


“So, that bloody Steyn can bowl alright, can’t he?”

 

[tits&tans]

tits&tans for the Titans casually meanders on to the field, shakes the months-old cobwebs out of his hair, stretches those under-worked limbs and fingers and stares around...

750 words (OWC) below the stars

**********

​

Rugby League: Art or Science?
​

To address this question honestly, if not impartially, one must begin with a review of the pertinent definitions.

The word science comes from the Latin scientia with root scire meaning "to know". The most fitting definitions are:


- methodological activity, discipline or study;
- an activity that appears to require study and method.

In contrast, and leaving aside all philosophical debate regarding whether art can be defined, relevant descriptions may include:
- a system of principles and methods employed in the performance of a set of activities;
- a skill acquired by experience, study, or observation.

Are these really so different?

Whether League is an art or a science will, perhaps, never receive a simple answer. Roughly speaking, one may say it is a combination of both; that is, so far as the means of playing League are concerned it is a science, and so far as the application of the means is concerned, it is an art, (though the preponderance is perhaps inclined towards the latter). This also applies in various degrees to medicine, law and other professions. For instance, we say “medical science” but we speak of the “art of healing”.

Though what may be regarded as belonging to the sphere of science can be mastered, such as learning by heart the details of a particular play, what comes within the province of art can never be properly executed without intelligence, patience, experiment and experience. A man may have mastered the rules and subtleties of League from books and from watching video reruns, but if he plunges into a NRL match for the first time, equipped only with book knowledge, however profound it may be, the chances are that he will get smashed … badly.

For sure, there are born-players, just as there are born-poets and born-painters; but the average NRL player has become such through necessity, practice, experience and in most cases, training. Indeed, ever since the bloated pigskin was first picked-up, the desire to compete has been indelibly imprinted on the minds of mankind, and of course when Rugby League was “discovered”, administrators (rudimentary sports scientists) began to devise rules, teams and systems to make it ever more appealing. Therefore it’s reasonable to argue that every person has the instinct to play League, though it may lay dormant and he may be unconscious of it through circumstances or inertia. Put a man on an island, from which he has no means of escape, but on which he has access to a ball, a flattish area of land inhabited by friendly, energetic natives and given time he will become a proficient player.

This ability to play League may well reside within all of us, but it can take the necessity of circumstance or the finely honed skill of a good coach to persuade it to emerge.

Many would argue that looking at League from a perspective of movement, rather than that of skill, one sees beauty and flow, similar in essence to brush strokes on canvas or the motions of a dancer. In this sense, League would be an art. This is not to say that it has no scientific basis, but rather because it involves, in general, a complicated process and is of near infinite variety. Players derive their knowledge of the game more from experience than books and trust the hand and the eye, rather than depend on a stopwatch or training equipment. Indeed, this could be backed up by taking an example from last round, where Manly were believed to be the best team. The Sea-Eagles’ players were conditioned and trained according to the best scientific principles, yet the ultimate difference was the Warriors’ flamboyance.

Others claim that the very existence of a set of rules and a systematic structure demonstrates League’s scientific foundation. Training systems and game strategies are based on the scientific principles of biology, psychology and even mathematical game theory. A team’s performance record is methodically and thoroughly dissected and the statistics are carefully recorded. These data are then used to prepare for upcoming games and to adjust tactics.

I would align myself with those who claim that advancements in “sports science” and technology are removing the enjoyment and the athlete’s artistic skill from sporting performances. Furthermore, League’s spirit and magic are being eroded by reducing it to a series of mathematical equations.

However, I’m not sure that being painted as a bunch of artists or artistes fits the image that we, as hardcore League supporters, would prefer to evoke.

**********

Footnotes/Sources/References
American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language
www.dictionary.com
Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary

 

[TITs ANonymouS]

The crowd goes wild as a new comer for the Titans, in fact to the Sevens in general, runs out onto the field....TITs ANanonymouS! He/She is really sporting a couple of beauties there!

750 words including the title according to the OWC.

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Musings of a Footy Widow​

You know it’s that time of the year again when the headlines that had shouted “Death Toll Rises in Iraq” and “Economic Slow Down Equals Hard Times Ahead” have been replaced by “Footy Antics”. Yes, such enthralling topics as “League Hero Caught in Love Triangle with hand in Cookie Jar” replace the death and misery of our fellow man worldwide. Ho hum, already I pine for the days of national disasters.​

Nevertheless, it's footy season again. No more dinner table discussions about the kids, the job, the house or even the very old, but much beloved (by me at least) cat. If you believe the papers then you couldn’t be blamed for thinking that all players are sexual deviants. Judging by the recent alleged bunch of rapes, perhaps, there should be a team called the Grapes, along with Vikings, Ponies and even Chickens for heavens sake!​

Oh, the utter banality of it all! Here I stand, enshrouded in our (his) favorite team’s colored apron drying the dishes while he sits transfixed in front of the telly, bent forward, stubby in hand. He’s lost in a world of his own, either deliriously happy or so morose that it wouldn’t be safe to leave any sharp instruments lying about.​

His choice of language is a concoction of profanities and slang that even Oxford scholars would have difficulty interpreting. Nevertheless, though his mutterings may not officially be recognized as part of the English vernacular, their meaning is crystal clear. For those of us unlucky enough to be within earshot, the passion and venom shine through.​

Based on what he says, there seem to be some very strange “people” playing this game. Apparently, intelligence is an unnecessary requirement. He wantonly labels players and officials alike with some quite delightfully quaint terms; “you dumb gorilla” (as intellectually challenged as a lemur) and “you stupid ape” (someone with the mental agility of an orangutan) are stand outs.​

Apparently good looks are also not a prerequisite for this game. The phrase “face like a gibbon’s ring-piece” seems to be one of his favorites, as does “you great hairy chimp” (one who resembles a marmoset) just to name a few.​

The worst diatribe though is reserved for the guys who always seem to be wearing pink. Their names are all Ref. They are always singled out for special treatment and must endure the most horrific language: “as stupid as a dead wombat” or "as blind as Skippy in headlights". In fact, Skippy must be really old by now and with his failing eyesight, I wonder why his team allows him to continue playing?​

I am never sure what to think when I hear him scream “you crazy baboon” or “you monkey’s arse” (anus of a simian). Is he still talking about the footy or has he moved on to the zoo or a description of his boss?​

Still, sometimes there is a friendlier side to these games. There are a lot of players that must be terribly nice chaps; so much so that they are known as fairies or cup-cakes. I think that their mothers must be very proud of them.​

One thing I do know is that no matter how nice a player is, he always has a soiled jersey to bring home. This extra burden is passed to us; the wives. We already have to deal with the usual pile of soiled clothes that are carelessly strewn around the house. All, that is, except for the hallowed “team jersey”. This is treated with care, hung up properly and with strict instructions to only hand wash.​

Over the years, he has built up quite a collection, because, for some unknown reason, the team changes its style every few years. Maybe Target had sold out of the previous design and the new one was on special or something. It has to be something like this, because surely no team would voluntarily change their style and risk such reactions from their loyal fans about having to buy a “bloody new one again”.​

Thankfully, the first game is almost over now. He seems to be in a good mood, so his team must be winning. What a relief. When his team loses it’s bad enough but when they lose and should have won (well, according to him), he turns into one of those King Kong-like players and is a nightmare. According to Animal Planet, such monkeys are easy to appease, but my hubby is impossible.​

---------------------------------------------------------------------​

 

[Titanic]

Titanic (for the Titans), fondles the Sandy Crack Cup, tip-toes delicately out on to the field, waves to the crowd of two asleep under the scoreboard, smiles ingratiatingly at the ref, thumbs up to the team and faces the imposing Willow and his likely lads... game on. (750 OWC)
....................................................................................................................................

Gazpacho & Paella

Hola amigos, my name is Miguel and I am from Espana. I like Rugby League because I am a man.

You see, I have had many beautiful loves in my life but always my heart has stayed true to my first… League. It’s a sensual game, not unlike the love of a mysterious woman who you meet over a cocktail one night in an empty hotel lobby… it’s wild, unpredictable yet full of heady scents and undiscovered places.

I wish to share my passion with you just in case you don’t truly understand it, like you possibly don’t understand women. League cannot be tamed. It will not be tamed! It can only be appreciated, touched and tasted. Let’s begin with the ball…

The League ball is a fickle and temperamental mistress. She does not give her love away freely, unlike the British whore, Soccer, where she cannons recklessly from being at one player’s feet to another’s. In League she must be earned, cajoled and seduced from the opposing team’s clutches.

League is a game of territory, and games within games, of rebukes and advances, and late night champagne dinners by candle light. Often, players kick away possession to move play nearer their destiny, the try line. This is a ploy, of course, because, like a woman scorned, this only serves to redouble the ball’s passion and loyalty. A heated battle for possession often ensues where the more powerful lover can win back her harlot heart once more and score!

But how does one lose such possession, you ask? Well, I, Miguel, will tell you:

- Kick the ball to the opposition: “Get away from me, harpy! Yet, I love you.”
- Unsuccessful kicks at goal: “I am sorry, Miguel, it’s that time of the month”
- Intercepted pass: “What is this? Pedro signed his name at the bottom of my love letter to the beautiful Lolita? Curse him!”
- Dropped pass: “I’m late for my date! Oh, no! Pedro was here before me! They’re now kissing! I cannot continue to live.”
- Knock-on: “No, Miguel! You may not see my daughter again until you have a job!”
- Ball goes out of play: “No, means no, Miguel! Come back when you’ve learned how to respect a woman!”

Sometimes it’s necessary to become violent and prove your manhood, such as wrestling a bull, or kissing Ugly Esmeralda when she sleeps. In League, you do this by tackling the player who has the ball. You may not push, shove or trip him, though, as that’s the way that the pansy-men from the next village play. A tackle is a true manly tackle when the player in possession is thrust to the ground.

Now, you ask me: “Miguel, how can I tell which man is manlier?” Well, I, Miguel, will answer you… with scoring.

- Tries are worth four points. This is placing the ball over the try line. It’s like climaxing. You then have the opportunity of kicking for a conversion. This is worth two points and is like having the woman climax too.
- A drop goal is worth one point. It’s like a hand job by the old barn.
- Penalty goals are worth two points. Just like hand jobs ordered by the policia.

A man cannot be everywhere at once, not even the strongest man from our village, so teams are made up of 13 players and 4 interchanges:

- Hooker… penis of iron
- Prop forwards… balls of the penis of iron
- Second row forwards… extra balls to ensure virility
- Lock… mouth that keeps the woman relaxed with heavy mustachioed kisses
- Halfback… wine that helps you move from kisses to making love
- Five-eight… purring poetry that you whisper in the woman’s eager ear, so that the woman will not notice your hands moving over her delicate body
- Centres… moon, and stars, and violin music. They’ll help you always and be there for you when you need them
- Wings… hands that remove panties, lift up dresses and unclothe the woman, revealing her in her full naked glory
- Fullback… your friend at whose house you go and hide because the woman’s husband came home. He’ll say that you aren’t here when they come knocking but secretly will organize another rendezvous for you

And there, my foreign Forum friends, you’ve hopefully learned a little about League from your new friend Miguel. Embrace your team with passion, with vigor and, like a lifetime lover, be sympathetic to her deficiencies and be there for her in times of need.

Adiós amigos.

 

[Pistol]

Fulltime

 

[Pistol]

 

[Willow]

Thanks Time Keeps & Ref.

Coming off the pitch I can tell you that both sides know they've played a game today.

Good luck one and all. Fantastic match.

 

[Titanic]

Off to a flying start. 5v5 onya Titans. A new season is launched and apart from a couple of loose passes, the old feeling was still there. Thanks 'Bags, see youse in the back bar and over to you Mr. Referee.

 

[Black Kitty]

Good Luck guys and gals from both teams.
May the best Bagger win!
It's good to be back in game! :lol:

 

[Non Terminator]

Well done all! Particularly liked Black Kitty's, well done to you!