gottabegood
Juniors
- Messages
- 571
I just can't believe the endless hammering Rugby League gets across all media, which no other sports receives. Have a look at this one. Truly these people are the true scum/thugs of the earth. I don't buy any toungue in cheek crap.
http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/stories/s2254161.htm
I hate rubgy league
Worst. Sport. Ever.
The eastern states of Australia - well, two of them at least, were brought to a standstill on Wednesday night. It was "Origin Night" a feast of football well-enough hyped to draw even the most casual observer of Rugby League into the couch-dwelling fray.
I freely admit to watching about ten minutes of it, because State of Origin is supposed to be the ultimate iteration of domestic Rugby League. Instead, it showed the game up for what it is: the stupidest sport in the history of the universe. Dumber than golf, less engaging than curling and even less preferable than having your skin flayed off and being dropped from a helicopter into the middle of a salt pan.
There. I said it.
Rugby League is violent, brutish and ugly a game played by thugs for the enjoyment of other mindless peons who need their entertainment spoon-fed to them. Don't believe me? Then ask yourself this: Why else would Rugby League need commentators who seem to think that the only way to deliver a call of the game is to have a serious crack at permanently deafening anyone within a ten mile radius, if it wasn't for the fact that the people watching the game are clearly too stupid to follow the action?
Legendary commentator Ray Warren shouts like he's trying to sell water-damaged Persian carpets at less than ten per cent of their retail value. And the more he shouts, the less believable he is like a carpet commercial shill, he sounds like he's edging closer to having a stroke with every forced syllable that leaves his foam-flecked lips.
That's why, for the State of Origin match, I tried to listen to the 'alternative' commentary, delivered with tongue firmly in cheek by Roy and H.G. on the Triple J network. But the only radio I own is in my car - and without the visuals, even Roy's dry wit and H.G's hilariously unintentional renaming of Carmichael Hunt no prizes for guessing which part of the female anatomy that name became could keep me interested in the match.
I was discovered, ten minutes later, slumped behind the wheel of my Mazda, like an antipodean George Michael, only less stoned. Thankfully, I wasn't driving at the time but it was still embarrassing, being caught napping by a neighbour who is now, I'm sure, utterly convinced that I have a substance abuse problem.
But I digress.
The "sport" of Rugby League is the most helplessly pointless endeavour known to man. It's a sham of a sport. Its supporters claim it's better than Rugby Union because it 'flows more' an interesting claim, considering that the action grinds to a screaming halt every time someone is caught with the ball.
It's supporters claim that it's one of the toughest games on the planet. And I suppose, if you believe that large, meat-headed, sweaty men wrestling with each other is tough, then yeah ... I can see your point.
But considering that many people honestly believe that a desire between overtly heterosexual men to wrestle each other in mud is a sure sign of a repressed homosexuality, it's not a difficult argument to make that many of the players may well be hiding something from themselves. At least Ian Roberts had the balls (pardon the pun) to come out.
It's little wonder, then, that the most-watched TV show to deal with the topic of this sport is a haven for cross-dressing Neanderthals who love nothing more than getting a bit Benny Hill with each other, while in drag. I don't care if they like it the thing that they have clearly failed to consider is this: The nature of the comedic aspect of burly blokes dressing up as sheilas is, actually, pretty demeaning to women. And I know a lot of broads who take exception to that kind of sexist punishment in the media.
Worse still is the grossly exaggerated manliness of some of the players, whose only distractions from their on-field gropings of each other are beer-fuelled 'boy's weekends' that end up in seedy motels, while they undertake the noble pursuit of the fairer sex sometimes entirely without the lady in question's permission.
In some footy circles, this is entirely respectable behaviour, as mates egg each other on in the pursuit of a root after the game.
And even the on-field antics of some Rugby League players are utterly deplorable - John Hopoate's decision to skip medical school and proceed straight to providing free prostate checks for opposing players is just one example of how these gormless idiots behave. They're less-developed than cavemen brawling over who gets to eat the best part of the mammoth.
The footy clubs, from which these 'sportsmen' earn their keep are up in arms at the moment over a proposed tax increase on poker machine earnings that could see them bankrupted and to those clubs, I say "Good Riddance". When they're not busily fleecing their patrons of their hard-earned dole cheques with the pokies, they're selling them a shallow belief in the false god they call "The Team".
I remember the days when the players weren't professional, highly-strung athletes. To play First Grade footy for the local team was an honour you undertook for the love of your sport (such that it is...), and in between weekend matches, the players held down normal, regular jobs.
It was not uncommon to see a well-built young man going over for a try on Sunday afternoon, and then seeing him emptying your bin into a garbage truck the following Tuesday morning.
These days, it's all about the players they're pampered, treated like prized possessions, taken out of their box for the game, and then wrapped carefully in cotton wool and stored until the next time the Club wants to play with them. Add to that the ridiculous salaries some of them command and it's little wonder the Clubs have to leech as much money from their fans as humanly possible.
The whole Rugby League industry is a sham. A cruel hoax. The sale of parochial false hopes to hapless punters is a disgrace smile at them, take their money at the gate for the match, gouge them $19 for a pie and a beer at half time, then even more over the bar at the Club at the end of the game.
What little's left over is put through the ever-present poker machines and all to pay a bunch of low-brow boofheads to act like a pack of pigs around a dropped melon on a Saturday afternoon.
Rugby League's dwindling fan-base is evident in the falling number of club members and supporters through the gates at the games. And the bigwigs at League HQ are still scratching their heads trying to figure it out.
Well, here's a hint, fellas: The game stinks, the players are serial boozehounds, drug takers and the clubs are bankrupting their own members by pushing for more poker machines to pay a bunch of players with the economic ethics of two-dollar whores it doesn't matter who's paying the piper and more often than not, it's the fans who can't afford it.
http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/stories/s2254161.htm
I hate rubgy league
Worst. Sport. Ever.
The eastern states of Australia - well, two of them at least, were brought to a standstill on Wednesday night. It was "Origin Night" a feast of football well-enough hyped to draw even the most casual observer of Rugby League into the couch-dwelling fray.
I freely admit to watching about ten minutes of it, because State of Origin is supposed to be the ultimate iteration of domestic Rugby League. Instead, it showed the game up for what it is: the stupidest sport in the history of the universe. Dumber than golf, less engaging than curling and even less preferable than having your skin flayed off and being dropped from a helicopter into the middle of a salt pan.
There. I said it.
Rugby League is violent, brutish and ugly a game played by thugs for the enjoyment of other mindless peons who need their entertainment spoon-fed to them. Don't believe me? Then ask yourself this: Why else would Rugby League need commentators who seem to think that the only way to deliver a call of the game is to have a serious crack at permanently deafening anyone within a ten mile radius, if it wasn't for the fact that the people watching the game are clearly too stupid to follow the action?
Legendary commentator Ray Warren shouts like he's trying to sell water-damaged Persian carpets at less than ten per cent of their retail value. And the more he shouts, the less believable he is like a carpet commercial shill, he sounds like he's edging closer to having a stroke with every forced syllable that leaves his foam-flecked lips.
That's why, for the State of Origin match, I tried to listen to the 'alternative' commentary, delivered with tongue firmly in cheek by Roy and H.G. on the Triple J network. But the only radio I own is in my car - and without the visuals, even Roy's dry wit and H.G's hilariously unintentional renaming of Carmichael Hunt no prizes for guessing which part of the female anatomy that name became could keep me interested in the match.
I was discovered, ten minutes later, slumped behind the wheel of my Mazda, like an antipodean George Michael, only less stoned. Thankfully, I wasn't driving at the time but it was still embarrassing, being caught napping by a neighbour who is now, I'm sure, utterly convinced that I have a substance abuse problem.
But I digress.
The "sport" of Rugby League is the most helplessly pointless endeavour known to man. It's a sham of a sport. Its supporters claim it's better than Rugby Union because it 'flows more' an interesting claim, considering that the action grinds to a screaming halt every time someone is caught with the ball.
It's supporters claim that it's one of the toughest games on the planet. And I suppose, if you believe that large, meat-headed, sweaty men wrestling with each other is tough, then yeah ... I can see your point.
But considering that many people honestly believe that a desire between overtly heterosexual men to wrestle each other in mud is a sure sign of a repressed homosexuality, it's not a difficult argument to make that many of the players may well be hiding something from themselves. At least Ian Roberts had the balls (pardon the pun) to come out.
It's little wonder, then, that the most-watched TV show to deal with the topic of this sport is a haven for cross-dressing Neanderthals who love nothing more than getting a bit Benny Hill with each other, while in drag. I don't care if they like it the thing that they have clearly failed to consider is this: The nature of the comedic aspect of burly blokes dressing up as sheilas is, actually, pretty demeaning to women. And I know a lot of broads who take exception to that kind of sexist punishment in the media.
Worse still is the grossly exaggerated manliness of some of the players, whose only distractions from their on-field gropings of each other are beer-fuelled 'boy's weekends' that end up in seedy motels, while they undertake the noble pursuit of the fairer sex sometimes entirely without the lady in question's permission.
In some footy circles, this is entirely respectable behaviour, as mates egg each other on in the pursuit of a root after the game.
And even the on-field antics of some Rugby League players are utterly deplorable - John Hopoate's decision to skip medical school and proceed straight to providing free prostate checks for opposing players is just one example of how these gormless idiots behave. They're less-developed than cavemen brawling over who gets to eat the best part of the mammoth.
The footy clubs, from which these 'sportsmen' earn their keep are up in arms at the moment over a proposed tax increase on poker machine earnings that could see them bankrupted and to those clubs, I say "Good Riddance". When they're not busily fleecing their patrons of their hard-earned dole cheques with the pokies, they're selling them a shallow belief in the false god they call "The Team".
I remember the days when the players weren't professional, highly-strung athletes. To play First Grade footy for the local team was an honour you undertook for the love of your sport (such that it is...), and in between weekend matches, the players held down normal, regular jobs.
It was not uncommon to see a well-built young man going over for a try on Sunday afternoon, and then seeing him emptying your bin into a garbage truck the following Tuesday morning.
These days, it's all about the players they're pampered, treated like prized possessions, taken out of their box for the game, and then wrapped carefully in cotton wool and stored until the next time the Club wants to play with them. Add to that the ridiculous salaries some of them command and it's little wonder the Clubs have to leech as much money from their fans as humanly possible.
The whole Rugby League industry is a sham. A cruel hoax. The sale of parochial false hopes to hapless punters is a disgrace smile at them, take their money at the gate for the match, gouge them $19 for a pie and a beer at half time, then even more over the bar at the Club at the end of the game.
What little's left over is put through the ever-present poker machines and all to pay a bunch of low-brow boofheads to act like a pack of pigs around a dropped melon on a Saturday afternoon.
Rugby League's dwindling fan-base is evident in the falling number of club members and supporters through the gates at the games. And the bigwigs at League HQ are still scratching their heads trying to figure it out.
Well, here's a hint, fellas: The game stinks, the players are serial boozehounds, drug takers and the clubs are bankrupting their own members by pushing for more poker machines to pay a bunch of players with the economic ethics of two-dollar whores it doesn't matter who's paying the piper and more often than not, it's the fans who can't afford it.
