Almanac Rugby League – Barricades, Brick Walls, BrisVegas Voodoo and Eternal Springs Sprung – Or How Archie and the Bead Twirler’s Onesies Turned Gorgeous’s George Favorite Footy Team’s Premiership Promising Season into a Pumpkin Scone


See that flash flood flowing east tonight down the Great Western Highway into the Sydney Harbour, washing through the Heads, then swirling into the Pacific Ocean and all the way down to Botany Bay before washing up right next to where the First Fleet landed on the oil-soaked black beaches of beautiful bayside Kurnell?

You’ve probably been wondering where the hell all that water’s come from, given that it hasn’t rained for days, haven’t you readers? Well Archie has the answer to the riddle, and it’s pretty simple sportsfans – the torrent that you’ve been watching is not precipitation, it’s tears.

Gorgeous George’s tears.

Poor bloody George.

After surviving a summer full of trials and tribulations – repeated defamatory attacks by Fairfax and the ABC, false testimonies about titanic wads of cash nesting in non-existent top drawers of dunnies, flawed fallacious findings by millionaire barristers mystified by the difference between boxers and  their managers, threats made by a translucent skeleton to arrest his hot sister and missus, and a gutless attack launched from the safety of a distant bar table by a cacophonous galah wearing cufflinks (see below) – the Cronulla Sharks number one fan began the NRL season with huge hope.

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Georgenormous hope in fact, the same belief in Sharkie success and fairies at the bottom of the garden that he has carried since the day he was delivered in a Western Sydney maternity ward by the former master Bulldogs hooker turned medico George Peponis, who swaddled him in a blue, black and white nappy for a joke after Georgous’s Dad turned up at the hospital late and four sails to the wind with his equally sozzled mates Tommy Raudonikis and Terry Lamb in tow an hour after the full-time whistle had blown time on yet another flogging that the now-defunct but then deadly Western Suburbs Magpies had given the Sharks down the road at Belmore Oval as little George popped his smiling mug into the world, much to Big Jim Byrnes later chagrin.

Now there are some people out there who will bag a bloke for a lifetime of loving a team of pitiful losers with an empty trophy cabinet containing nothing but moths and a joke of a 1979 made-for-television Amco Cup.

In fact it’s widely rumored that during his recent decade-long stint as the Cockroach’s high performance scientist the long-haired, legendary lecture-hall luminary Albert Einstein repeatedly advised the NSW selectors  that the definition of insanity was simply doing the same thing over and over again again expecting different results. Hence the wholesale changes to the Blues line-up after each year’s series flogging.

But Gorgeous George has always reckoned that a bloke who believes that E = MC2 when everyone knows that it’s made from MDMA mixed with large quantities of starch and glucose powder is nothing but a bloody Bavarian idiot, and scoffed that all you have to do is look at Albert’s haircut to know that the combless clown’s brains have been wrecked by squaffing far too many of the savagely-cut over-priced pingers, and that as a result the drug-addled atom-splitter’s advice is worth tw0-thirds of f*ck all, and that it’s overpriced at that.

Yep young Gorgeous is firmly of the view that only a suckhole like Sticky, or a brickhead like Bellyache, or a loser like Loz the Schnoz would take such an ill-informed idiot like Albert’s advice, and so he sticks like La Famiglia brand glue to what he knows and loves and remains blindly loyal to his beloved Sharkies, despite the fact that the show-ponies from the southern Shire haven’t won a proper pennant or premiership since both the footy club and Vanilla Ice were born all those years back in the summer of ’67.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast the Pope named after George famously declared, and being a tit man from way back our Gorgeous has since New Year’s Day been telling anyone who would listen – the sum total of the audience being the deaf old bloke over the back and the underpaid shift-working coppers from the AFP surveillance team sitting in the black van with the tinted windows out front – that this was the year that Gallen and the girls would finally be swilling spumante from the Provan-Summons cup come that sun-drenched Sunday evening in September after Collette had kicked off the Steeden with a stirring rendition of the national anthem-in-waiting Ring My Bell.

And for four inglorious Emerald City months of mud, rain and freezing f*cking cold it seemed to the primary-school educated, Resch’s-sculling footy fanatic that Gorgeous George’s near half-century faith in miracles might finally come true, for despite the obvious handicap of having a team full of geriatric king-hit merchants like Paul Gallen, banned from Brisvegas bride-bashers of the cut of Benjamin Barba, and feckless fools with anger management issues of the ilk of Andy Fifita, the hitherto hapless Sharks appeared for a fleeting moment to be the eighty-minute equivalent of Samson before that cuckolding cow Delilah cut off his locks, winning game after game against all comers until finally one glorious Sunday arvo in the Shire they equaled the Bulldog’s 2002 salary-cap rorting streak of fifteen in a row by carving up the absolutely useless Knights once led by Andy Johns, a man who just between you, me and top drawer of the dunny knew more than a little about E equaling MC, and like an idiot from the north coast kept the proof in his back pocket.

Geez the Sharkies streak made for a long 15 weeks for fella’s like me who are fond enough of George to push the green button on the mobile dog and bone the sixteenth time in six minutes that he calls, and then suffer his animated declarations that the drought was at long last over, and that there was no doubt whatsoever – ‘NO DOUBT WHATSOEVER! BUDDY!’ – that the Beijing-based bulsh*tters had it all arse up with their ideas that it was the Year of the Monkey, ‘cos it was without any doubt whatsoever -NONE ARCHIE! NONE! – that 2016 was in fact the Year of the Shark, and that in just a few short months Ennis the Menace was going to lead his bunch of black, white and blue perennial losers all the way from dummy-half to the promised land.

But there was just one problem with Gorgeous’s gushing proclamations, for although he may well have Googled ‘hope’ and ‘Pope’ and started sprouting quotations that gave the mug punter the impression that he was a PhD wielding poetry-loving mystic, the wiser heads among his mates such as yours truly always knew that George’s ADHD affliction meant that he never read a poem beyond the line or two that excited his attention, and as a result he always remained just shy of a furlong short of understanding the true meaning of the poet of the day’s refrain.

Of course the boys and I never stated as much publicly, for growing up in Geebung we were excellently educated and thus were aware from an early age that loose lips both sink smugglers ships and piss off volatile medicated wogs with tits, and it’s simple common sense that no erudite early morning drinker wants to upset his mate before the first at Bundamba, for how’s a simple Burwood bankrupt businessman who loves Joe Dolce supposed to back a bloody winner if the poor bastard’s got steam coming out of his over-sized small island south of Etruscan ears?

I can however share the secret of George’s reading difficulties with you now sportsfans, because for reasons soon to be explained a thoroughly gutted George gave us the imprimatur this evening after he had a sic-pack, slugged down a bottle of bourbon, sculled a scintilla of Sambuca slammers, and then damned near overdosed on a litre of over-proof imported Ouzo.

As you would imagine my mate Gorgeous was somewhat more than ordinarily affected by alcohol, and in this extremely inebriated state gave us the green-light to share the secret of his self-driven poetic semi-illiteracy, and after borrowing the AFP boys breathalyser and blowing .45 gave us the wink and the nod to quote you the next lines from his favorite poem penned by the Pope, and after the Hope Springs Eternal in the Homosapien Tit bit it goes like this:

Man never is, but always to be blest;

The soul, uneasy and confin’d from home, rests and expatiates in a life to come.

 Lo! the poor Indian,

Whose untutor’d mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.

Translated to pictures for the benefit of dyslexic Doug’s and Dianne’s and artistic aesthetes like my ever-loving bride the Bead-Twirler who prefer illustrations to italics, Pope’s paean looks exactly like this:




And like this:



And like this too:


It’s not a pretty picture is it punters?

In fact it’s so bloody ugly that I felt compelled to drop my grieving mate Gorgeous a text, and a line with the fanatical Sharkies fan that the great pugilistic guru Eddie Futch was famously forced to say to Smokin’ Joe Frazier when, after looking the goods for the first 14 rounds against Ali, the later-failed nightclub singer found that he couldn’t go the distance to the finishing post. Eddies wise words went as follows:

“Sit down son. It’s all over”

Yeah OK, my text to Gorgeous George was a bit bloody harsh I know. But it wasn’t you that was forced to listen to the Alexander the Great-loving Greek bastard banging on about Cronulla’s prospective NRL premiership glory for 105 painful days and nights while the Bronco’s were falling in an explicable heap was it sportsfans? So judge not lest you be judged, or unless you’re the loud-mouthed Judge and Jury Judy at least.

But don’t for a minute think that your cocksure humble correspondent doesn’t have a heart me hearties, for knowing how much Gorgeous loves onesies, pumpkin scones, Queensland and good sorts, at 12.01am this morning I sent my Greek-Australian much-maligned mate a sweet selfie that I knew would cheer him up no end.

The grief-stricken plastic gangster hasn’t replied yet – he’s probably passed out pissed on faux fox fur ottoman in the outhouse – but I’m hoping that when the trust-funded hungover wanna-be hoodlum harboring the heart-wrenching broken dreams wakes up in the morning he reads the second line of my text and forwards it on Gal just like I asked him to, for I’m sure it’ll cheer Cronulla’s Captain Courageous up no end.

And if that doesn’t then I’m sure a bit of E=MC2 will.

PS and BTW – does anyone have a couple of spare Storm onesies hey can courier up post- haste to the Geebung Polo Club?



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About Archie Butterfly

Archie's decided to follow the dream and try become the next great Aussie bush poet. They all think he's mad. He's out to prove them right!


  1. Whoah.



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