Bubbles on for the Eels
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The Headline You Never Got to See
I would like to tell you a story, if I may; a true tale of intrigue, deceit, love and desire, make of it what you will.
On April 10 of this year, the Rugby League community was saddened, though not surprised, to hear of the retirement of one of the superstars of the game, in Andrew Johns. Like him, love him, loathe him, the general consensus is that he was one of, if not the, greatest players to strap on the boots and take to the footy field. The reason behind his forced retirement was cited as being an injury to his neck sustained during a Knights training session the previous week. Not so. I am here to set the record straight, and to give you the inside scoop as to the real reason behind his retirement.
This story takes place exactly a week previously. It was Tuesday 3 April; the place, Newcastle Panthers Club (the fact that anything momentous could happen here is intriguing enough, isnt it?)! The band, Wolfmother, were taking to the stage to deliver their brand of revamped seventies rock and an interesting quartet of fans were there to partake in the revelries. These included myself and my man, together with my ex-husband and his brand new girlfriend (didnt I tell you, intrigue, love and desire you have to admit, this story really does have it all!).
Before Wolfmother were due to take to the stage, the man and I went looking for the amenities, having already indulged in a number of quiet ales to set the mood for the evening. Now, if you would indulge me for just a moment, its necessary for me to fill you in with some background information before we continue with our tale. Tragically, I was born into this world without, or at least with very little of an asset known as coordination. At the best of times, under the most optimum of conditions, I manage to get my feet tangled, consequently spending a great deal of time bumping into things. In fact, after a night on the drink, I can spend up to an hour the next day playing the ever-entertaining game of 'Name that Bruise', often relying on imagination in the absence of actual memory to fill in the blanks.
So, here we are back at the Wolfmother gig and we are on our search for the bathroom, when the man suddenly exclaims, Hey, theres Kurt Gidley. I immediately turn my head to where he is pointing and predictably, my tenuous equilibrium was thrown askew and I did a massive stumble to my right; a stumble that was pulled up short when I knocked heavily into another person. Now, a further thing you need to know is that I was endowed with a rather large set of breasts and as is often the case when I hit the town (working on the motto, if youve got em, flaunt em), they were pushed up and out; all cleavage. The way I fell into this other person, well, it was a boobs-n-all hit and he didnt stand a chance. As I turned in the process of stammering out an apology, I looked up and
f**k, youre Andrew Johns! In his haste to get a good look at exactly what had just run into him, Joey spun his head around (hello, whiplash anyone?), mouth agape, while the man laughed and high-fived him, exclaiming with a wink, Theyre good, arent they?
And so, the evening continued and of course the story evolved from a simple hit and run (or tit and run!), to me having been felt-up by Joey, and fun was had by all.
The next day at work, I was entertaining the girls with my story, giving them all a good belly laugh, when I was heard to say, Imagine if he got injured, what the headlines would be Johns Gone for Season, Taken out by Random Boobs! (Hello, hex anyone?).
So there you have it, believe what you will about this so-called training injury, but whether it was a case of whiplash in the act of copping a good eye-full, or the mother of a all hexs, Im here to claim responsibility for taking the great Andrew Johns out of the game (keep it under hat though, would you, as I reside in the Newcastle area and have no wish to enter the witness-protection program as Public Enemy #1!).
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