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In the public relations move of the millennium, the AFL proposed recently that Australias greatest entertainment export (AC/DC) and their unique band of loyal supporters (The World) move their little concert thingy from Etihad Stadium to an alternative venue (Flemington Racecourse) to accommodate the most prestigious sporting tournament in the world (The NAB Cup).
Theres obviously a number of things wrong with that scenario. Sure, during Springtime Flemington Racecourse is the venue of choice for quality group one racing, heavy drinking suits and promiscuous hairdressers, but for anything other than the nags, the place struggles. The last major event outside the gee-gees was the visit of the Pontiff back in the eighties. A monumental case of blasphemy the more you look at it. Tens of thousands of pilgrims and catholic schoolkids worshipping on the very patch of grass where the term dry-rooting was coined.
The Pope visited there you know...
When you study the carnage of Oaks Day and the like, there is no doubt about Flemingtons capacity to cater for excessive binge drinking and low level sexual assault that would suit an AC/DC gig, but its probably the small matter of quality sound where the place falls short.
However, this debate may all be a waste of time because in the end the whole exercise is just a desperate move by the AFL to gain some bargaining power in the fight with Etihad Stadium over better stadium deals for its clubs. Perhaps its simply a noble fight for a noble cause by a noble warrior? Or more realistically, its just a horrendous strategic ploy that has pitted the AFL administration against the entire western civilisation (AC/DC fans).
Gillon McLaughlin from the AFL went to great lengths to stress that they too, like the common man, were all fair dinkum Accadacca fans. No doubt theres a unique personality trait associated with anyone in the higher echelons of AFL officialdom, but Im struggling to believe that its a shared love of heavy rock. The idea of anyone named Gillon punching the air to The Jack with a can of Woodstock bourbon wedged between his knees is as believable as the Ponds Institute. I would think the only thing likely to get a man named Gillon genuinely aroused is the news of a spike in blue chip shares or a free table at the Flower Drum. Its more likely he got his youthful kicks wanking over Mick Hucknall with an AV chord wrapped around his neck while he waited for his trust fund to mature. But that might be just me.
The fact of the matter is that Ian Collins from Etihad has everyone over a barrel. And when that bloke is confronted with the opportunity to inflict a slow and vicious form of torture he gets all giggly at the deliciousness of it all.
Ian Collins
Its only a matter of time before Collins does a Monty Burns and tries to sell the sun back to us. At the moment hes simply content in collecting outrageous sums from skint clubs. If all goes well, hell push the clubs out of the venue with his outrageous demands and we can all go back to watching footy in suburban grounds with cans and meat pies and hard wooden seats and Etihad will focus on cultivating its super race of insufferable dickheads via events like 'Sensation'.
Full Forwards
Adrian McAdam
I was there when McAdam kicked seven goals on debut against Richmond at the MCG. Forgetting the fact it was against the Tigers and he was probably picked up by Richard Lounder, it was the most brilliant display of doing absolutely nothing Ive ever witnessed. I think me and my brother covered more ground walking to the toilet and back that night.
His outright refusal to do ANYTHING involving physical exertion was a sight to behold. Its hard enough go through your normal day avoiding effort - at some stage youre gonna need to climb some stairs or open a fridge door - but to do it in the middle of a professional sporting contest
In front of 30,000 people
and kick seven! Thats an extraordinary effort
well, effort may be a poor choice of words there. Whenever a pack formed, McAdam would simply jog in the other direction. When his man ran off down the ground, there was Adrian, staring intently at the finer detail of his boots.
Adrian McAdam walking his dog
Even as a young boy that performance left a lasting impression on me and it probably goes a long way to explaining the antipathy displayed by us members of Generation Y. Shit, if Adrian McAdam can kick seven on debut in an AFL game without disturbing his resting heart rate, why should I bother putting on a fresh load of washing? Endeavour is for suckers.
McAdam went on to kick 60-odd goals that year, pretty much doing the same thing
that is, interspersing short moments of sublime skill with long periods of inactivity where he seemed to be exhibiting all the signs of heavy sleep. Opposition teams then figured him out by taking the outrageous step of having another human stand next to him for four quarters.
In a final act of genius, he was traded to Collingwood but refused to turn up to training and went back to the Alice.
I last caught a glimpse of the great man in a documentary about an outback town
there he was, uncredited and in the background wearing a pair of North Melbourne tracksuit pants with NZI insurance emblazoned on the side, probably telling the story of how fucking easy it is in the big leagues. L.E.G.E.N.D.
Scott Hodges
If the stories coming out of the SANFL in the early nineties can be taken as gospel, Hodges was performing miracles on a weekly basis in the Port Adelaide goal square. According to the croweaters Mary Mackillop had nothing on this bloke. Mind you at the time they were still coming to terms with the concept of the Hyper-colour t-shirt, so its fair to say they were easily impressed. But either way, with his tremendous mullet and top-shit strut it seemed as though Hodges was a monty for big screen glory.
As it turned out Hodges was destined to go straight to video. In the Beta section alongside the collected works of Matthew Modine.
Scott Hodges was a B-movie star, the Brian Dennehey of the AFL the type of talent that could never quite cut it in the big leagues. Make no mistake, no one has owned the midday movie more than Dennehey. Up against Days of our Lives on channel nine, Dennehy could be seen over on seven regularly chewing up the scenery in the likes of Shattered Dreams : Tonya Harding story or a biopic on John Wayne Bobbit. Sure, a couple of films that are ideal company when youre going through that weird phase in your life when youre eating a lot of cereal in your underpants and regularly having impure thoughts about Kerri-Anne Kennerly. But when you finally stop smoking brekkie bongs and come to your senses you realise that Brian Dennehey hasnt been seen in a multiplex since he was chasing around that barely functioning retard, John Rambo. And probably for good reason.
Scott Hodges
The opportunities Hodges did get at the Crows (and there more than a few) he would take position in the goals square, preening himself in readiness for a performance worthy of the top billing. Meanwhile, Tony Modra, the real A-lister, was busy using the Hodges barnet as a step ladder and making his own way to Hollywood.
Simon Beasley
Has there been a more unlikely candidate for a) the hurly burly of the VFL and b) the hurly burly of H division?
Strutting his stuff in the Footscray forward line in the eighties, Beasley was quite the sight. Tall and thin and brittle, Beasley had the complexion of a sickly child from the middle ages. He looked likely to keel over at any moment from rickets or scurvy or the bubonic plague or a combination of all three. A tall drink of water, Beasley also had a melon-head of some impressive dimensions which seemed to be balding in front of our very eyes. The blonde wisps of hair that did remain were more of a thin mist and looked like individual strands of corn-flavoured candyfloss instead of actual follicles. Despite his impressive efforts for the Dogs (he kicked a bagfull of goals) it was almost impossible to shake the nagging feeling that Beasley was just a high school geography teacher who had wandered onto the field after taking a wrong turn in the search for the loo.
Beasleys time after football has been even more intriguing, after making a mint as a heavyweight bookie, the man who looks as though he could solve algorithms in his sleep blamed poor bookeeping for some seriously dodgy accounts. There was a time when jail team seemed a real possibility. Considering Beasley is about as intimidating as Roland Roccacheli in rollerblades, sending him to the big house seemed farcical. Especially since the likes of Craig Hutchison get to wander the streets seemingly immune from prosecution.
Well the Tiges had a crack last Saturday against Geelong didnt they? Dare say you could mark that one down as an honourable loss. And that is probably the absolute worst thing you could say to a Richmond supporter this week apart from mouthing the words Wallace and contract extension - coffee enema would probably be more warmly received.
Nuff said.
Supporting Richmond is a heavy emotional burden. The afflicted carry it around like an Irishman does Catholic guilt. Forever aware that the days following an honourable loss are just small chinks of light breaking through the all-encompassing greyness of a footy season. For a glorious mid-week stretch the food tastes a little better and the air seems a little cleaner and Herald Sun hacks are showering your team with plaudits like gutsy and brave. It usually takes to about the eight minute mark of the second quarter on the following Friday night before the whole charade is shattered and you realise that Greg Tivendale/Darren Gaspar/Kane Pettifer/Jordan McMahon/Richard Tambling are complete frauds and are proceeding to get spanked to such an extent that even the weird guy from I.T with the sweaty top lip and a face like an old mans knee starts to snigger when you break down in tears next to the water cooler on Monday morning.
But shit, thats what supporting Richmond is all about. Tiger fans understand this. Thats the burden of their faith. Just like Collingwood supporters acknowledging their tendency to lack basic literacy skills and a left incisor tooth. Or North fans coming to terms with the fact that our Greatest Ever Footballer is a shit bloke and we have the financial security of an Icelandic bank.
So what was Eddie McGuire doing? In his capacity as a commentator hes mouthing off about the Tigers and predicting an early exit for Wallace. Is he not aware of the old adage No one gives my wife/girlfriend/brother shit but me? Hes instigated a shit-fight with the club that invented them. Can you imagine if the situation was reversed and the Tigers had a pop at the Magpie hierarchy? McGuire would probably issue a fatwa on anyone caught wearing yellow and black before lapsing into the early throes of a conniption fit. Honestly, its almost as if he truly believes that hes overseeing the second incarnation of the Roman Empire sometimes.
Like when Eugene Arocca decided to take up the position of CEO at North after the Magpies overlooked him for the role and McGuire said You walk out that door and you can never come back. Jesus, its a footy club Eddie, not the fucking Sopranos. Ever heard of career advancement? The bloke has ambition. Calm. Down.
The Collingwood brains trust
Theres another thing wrong with the whole stinking situation, the term as a commentator hits a dud note with me. Eddies reputation for live commentary has diminished to the level of a slightly less hysterical Daryl Eastlake. He was an undeniably great host of the Footy Show, and is probably quite serviceable as the main man on Millionaire if I actually gave two fucks about gameshows, but his footy work is below par. Hes a Collingwood man, not a footy man. And that makes all the difference in a good call.
Bruce is the pinnacle. Why? Because his passion for the game, while quite disturbing on occasions, transcends any bias toward his own team. His throaty calls of CAAAAAREY were a calling card. Then theres those passages of play in a crucial stage of a big game on a Friday night in front of a bumper crowd that still make the hair stand on end.
Cameron over the top to Daffy, Daffy squares it to Campbell. Campbell, gets around one, gets around two then feeds off to Broderick under pressure who looks in board to Maxfield. Maxfield runs to 50, go on Stuey kick a goal, Tiges in front!
Ricky Nixon drove his car under a tram while drunk and then fled the scene of the accident.
Read that sentence over a few times. I defy you not to feel all warm and fuzzy inside. The first time I heard that news was like the first time I heard Hey Jude.
Nixon's car: A beautiful thing
Its great to see that even in theses times of financial hardship, when corporations are handing out million dollar executive bonuses and the rest of us have resorted to drinking vanilla essence on a Friday night, theres still room for a genuine prick to get his comeuppance.
Make no mistake, that was a win for the good guys.
Half Forward Flank
Phillip Matera
Phillip Matera followed in the grand tradition of the likes of Steven Hocking, Phillip Neville, Donald Cockatoo-Collins, Mimi McPhearson, Dean Waugh, Dannii Minogue, and Mariah Careys sister who was a hooker (yet, no doubt a heaps better human and possibly had more artistic merit). On the shit sibling scale Phillip probably sits somewhere between Lachy Daddo and Don Swayze, which isnt the worst place in the world - there are hoardes of us Animal House fans still waiting on a laugh from that fraud, Jim Belushi. And that doesnt include the weird laugh-like cough of disgust that emanated from my shattered being when I accidentally watched K-911 (the sequel to K-9) while I was waiting for Sports Tonight to come on
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Dud-baiting: the process by which someone with limited or no sporting ability questions the appearance, physicality and existence of those with slightly better levels of sporting ability and have utilised them at a professional level.
Its been a while between drinks but the summer of tennis has been a little time consuming, what with the five-hour epics, J.A banging on about the deuce court and female tennis players from the Eastern Bloc. The other day I looked up from my dinner to glance at Ana Ivanovics first round match and when I went back to my food I realised that my dinner was as cold as Andrew Demetrious touch - Id been staring at the T.V screen for 35 minutes. Not long after I realised it wasnt a T.V at all but just a poster of Ana Ivanovic. Thats when I realised I had to get out of the house
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The criteria for this elite team is simple, it is made up of misfits, forgotten duds and players with funny names or a bizarre physical appearance. Keep in mind there has been absolutely no consideration made for players with talent, unless of course the player had none at all.
These are the players that linger in the dark, forgotten corners of your mind along with Mello Yello and the fat kid from Hey Dad. Embrace them.
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Its probably a good thing that the draft as a televised concept was shelved by Channel Seven a few years ago. Possibly because the sight of Andrew Demetriou and Adrian Anderson reading out sets of personnel numbers in a cold, lifeless fashion has a little bit too much of a Third Reich ring to it. Scares the kiddies.
Its always sobering to see a 17-year-old kid barely through Year 11 dealing comfortably with a media scrum that has Craig this is a big story, this Hutchison at its head. I distinctly remember having difficulty with the concept of arse versus elbow when I was his age but Jack Watts looked like the type of marquee player long-suffering Dees supporters can cling to as they mourn the loss of Nathan Carroll (joke).
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Its become pretty obvious over the last few weeks to friends and family that I have a serious man-crush on V.V.S Laxman. And its not only because of his awesome name. Its mainly due to the fact that he refuses to perform against anyone except the best team in the world. He is the epitome of a clutch performer. His average is ten runs better against us than any other nation and that incudes Bangladesh and that feckless crew of incompetent cast-offs otherwise known as the English cricket team.
He reminds me a lot of another man with a ridiculous name, Clark Keating. Not in any physical sense of course. Clarks similarity to Carlos Tevez is no coincidence, he was a caveman.
Carlos Tevez
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So Collingwood paid a private investigator to find out if Benny Cousins was still on the gear. They also had a sit-down with Christine Nixon. I would have thought a simple phone call to the Banditos would have sufficed. Or maybe they could trap Benny in Bubble night club, surround him with coked-up heavies and have ARIA award winners Rogue Traders play their entire back catalogue. If Benny goes for his main artery with a bic pen you can bet your bottom dollar hes fully rehabilitated. Only serious meth addicts would have bought that CD- which gives a frightening indication of the extent of Australias ice problem.
Better yet (and this could be a good idea for reality T.V) send him out for a night on the gas with Todd McKenny. Todds weird enthusiasm, maniacal grin and dinner-plate pupils would be enough to scare Keef Richards straight.
Todd McKenny: Fiend
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