Four Bunches of Sheilas – But Only One That Can Play – The Tale of Laura and the Three Lamb-Hearted Losers

Fred Dagg’s absolutely right – we just don’t know how lucky we are.

Where else in the world but Australia could you possibly have the privilege of spending a rainy Brisbane Saturday on the couch watching the three worst footy sides in the history of mankind?

Nowhere! That’s where.

We are dead set blessed. Six straight hours of absolute bloody pea hearted defence; weak-gutted contests and hit-ups; unbelievably bad decision-making; totally inept coaching; and unrivalled world-class uselessness – all in one day!

The Bombers, the Warriors and the Reds. Back-to-back examples of how not to play football, in three different codes. The replays of their disgraceful performances should be made compulsory viewing for every young aspiring Australian sportsman.

First up we had Essendon; the ‘poor me’, hard-done by victims of ASADA bastardry; coached by the ‘genius’ James Hird, a bloke paid a million bucks a year because he’s such a brilliant Charles in Charge.  A right Charlie is a far more apt description, as he masterminded the Bombers bombing out for the 3rd week in a row, a gave the kiddies a masterclass in how not to play the game of Australian Rules Football. And this, the team who according to the guileless guru were going to take the finals by storm!

(And the way, why does everyone call it AFL these days? Referring to a code by the name of the football league in which it plays – or doesn’t, in the case of the Bombers – is a bit like the Kiwi’s saying they’re going on holiday to Aussie, isn’t it?).

I suppose the spineless display by the men – if you call them that – in red and black shouldn’t come as any great surprise. After all, Peter Costello was once their number one ticket holder, only to be replaced by the bloke who appointed Alan Joyce to run QANTAS. A shiver looking for a spine to run up, and bloke who’s chose one prefers to lie supine. It’s not exactly a winning formula, is it?

Then along came the Warriors. The Once Were Warriors – way back in 2011 – before the Sea Eagles soared and cut them down at the knees. Despite a few short winning streaks sparked by hot potato touch-football style play over the intervening years, on their knees is where they remain, and will for many a year to come judged on this weekend’s pathetic capitulation to the Roosters.

Dead set, how does a team virtually untouched by Origin, and playing at home, turn up a 16 point lead against a bunch of Sonny Bill-less one time premiers on the slide, who have lost all their key players to Wednesday night’s big match?

By being a pack absolutely f*cking hopeless clowns, that’s how.

By dropping balls that 12-year-olds would catch, and refusing to get their jerseys dirty by tackling, and coming in off their wing,  and kicking straight to their opponents on the 5th, and having brain explosions and trying to mark mis-kicked field goal attempts in the red zone and dropping the bloody ball, that’s how.

By having a coach who seems to have had his tongue cut out and his hands chopped off, and a half back whose brain goes into pause for 80 minutes every week, and a fullback with hands for feet, and a culture that sees success as failure, and a fan base that dwindle by the week as they go home from each game so despondent they have to rip up their season pass rather than end up in a padded cell.

It was just awful to watch, and for 40 odd minutes I was slagging off the Auckland-born missus and calling it a weak-gutted Kiwi thing, but then the whistle blew for the second half of the Reds v Waratahs game, and suddenly the shoe was on the other foot and it was me who was copping it in the eye.

All of a sudden it was my team conceding four tries in 20 minutes, and dropping balls that 12-year-olds would catch, and refusing to get their jerseys dirty by tackling, and coming in off their wing,  and kicking straight to their opponents on the return, and having brain explosions all over the park.

It was my team with a coach who seems to have had his tongue cut out and his hands chopped off, and a half back who once was a warrior, but in the space of a single off-season lost both his pace and the plot; and a first five who were psychologically taken apart by the boiling-blooded Kiwi mob in the year that the Warriors were once Warriors – the bloody crowd! Not the All Blacks – and has never been the same since. That this stencilled, mullet headed intercept-thrower has ever played almost 60 tests is a sad indictment on the state of the once-proud Australian game – Weary Dunlop must be rolling in his grave.

Throw in a fullback with hands for feet, a centre who so much loves how he looks in the mirror that he dares not enter the fray, for fear that his hairdo might get messed up; a culture that sees success as failure; and a fan base that would dwindle by the week as they go home from each game so despondent they would have to rip up their season pass rather than end up in a padded cell, but don’t have to bother because their season has mercifully ended, albeit in utter, shambolic disgrace; and you have the 2015 annual report on the Red.

Good on ya fellas. We’d chain to the bronze of the King, so the punters in puce could give you a kick as they enter the Cauldron to worship the talent of JT and his band of blokes that believe that giving just 110%’s a damned dogong’s display of flea-hearted footy: but most of you cowardly b*stards have already fled in disgrace across the border dressed in your yellow yard clothes, so begone with you and good riddance.

The French folding to Hitler without a yelp in 1940 seems gallant in comparison to the lily-livered collapse of this cross-code trio of tadpoles. The lot of them should give their nearest team-mate a headbutt, hang their own boof-heads in disgrace, and code-hop over to croquet. What a bloody joke they all are.

Thank God for Laura Geitz and the Firebirds, that’s all I can say. They might play like a bunch of sheilas, but at least that’s how they are supposed to bloody play. And they do it damn well. They put these pitifully poor excuses for blokes to shame.

 

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!

Comments

  1. Peter Fuller says

    Archie,
    That’s a very impressive rant. I know very little about the rugby codes and didn’t watch either of those matches. However, as a Carlton supporter smarting from some early season capitulations (and welcoming the heat being directed elsewhere) I hear you brother.
    I also applaud your hostile reaction to the northern States affectation of describing Australian (rules) football as AFL. Aussie rules is an acceptable diminutive and aerial ping-pong is a tolerable dismissive, equivalent to soccer fans referring to rugby players as egg-chasers.

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