by Ian Bland
Since 2007 Ian Bland has penned and presented a poem each Sunday as “Bland on Bland” on Melbourne radio station 3RRR, blending satire, humour and keen observation to create insightful stories drawn from contemporary rural and urban Australia.
Spruiking his verse from stages, tables and pavements across the country and beyond, he has performed in every conceivable location from concert halls, ballrooms and The National Gallery, to coal vaults, pubs, cemeteries and the steps of Parliament.
He has released two albums of songs, 2008’s “Drifter” and 2012’s “Angel in Reverse.”
Grand Final day at Sulphur Creek
The mood at best, was tense
The medics carried mace
Barbed wire secured the fence
The Razor Hill Vultures
Were are a vicious bunch of thugs
The Captain, Coach and President
On bail for dealing drugs
The Coffin Bay Boners
Would kill before defeat
All worked at the abattoir
And were used to carving meat
‘Suckhole’ Spragg, ‘Agro’ Cline
And Tarquin ‘Choirboy’ Kronk
‘Bonehead’ Greeves, ‘Snowball’ Filch
And one simply known as ‘Gronk’
Stan Gooch had only umpired
Seven games in the reserves
But they needed someone tough
Who wasn’t prone to nerves
Stan was just the ticket
With the build for contact sports
Picture Kim Beasley’s arse
In Warwick Capper’s shorts
Before the ball was bounced
There was mayhem all around
Two Vultures and a Boner
Lay unconscious on the ground
When Stanley blew his whistle
All the players did was scoff
He appealed to both the captains
They told him to piss off
He had to take control
Or he’d never get it back
So he charged in like a rugby prop
And split apart the pack
“I’ll say this once” barked Stan
“So listen up you turds
I’m giving you the facts
So better mark my words”
“To you I’m just an ump
But Proctology’s my profession
I’m an expert in arseholes
If you’ll pardon the expression”
“I’ve seen skinny, fat and hairy
Loose, tight and torn
But the arsehole I can’t handle
Is still waiting to be born”
“So you arseholes go in hard
The way it should be played
But cross the line you’ll find out
How well I know my trade”
The opening was a cracker
Both sides played the ball
A bit of argie bargie
Jumper holding, that was all
Quarter time, all tied up
Best game in years, they reckoned
The Boner’s ‘Ferret’ Burns
Slotted three to start the second
‘Filthy’ Frank Fasalo
Decked Burns behind the play
A fifty metre penalty
And the Boners kicked away
A ‘Hitman’ Harmes torpedo
Put the Boners up by five
But ‘Weasel’ Belcher’s snap
Kept the Vultures hopes alive
Third term, honours even
Neither side could get the jump
Tempers sort of held in check
All credit to the ump
Stan didn’t muck around
When Gaylord Munce was floored
The fifty metre count
Stretched from full back to full forward
The final quarter started
With a goal from ‘Veggie’ French
The Boners coach went berko
Dragging ‘Bonehead’ to the bench
When ‘Hatchet’ Hobbs was nabbed
For pulling ‘Mullet’ Fisher’s hair
Mullet kicked a pearler
And the match was back to square
The game was on a knife edge
A premiership at stake
No-one gave a stuff
How many rules they had to break
Lester ‘Bluetongue’ Izzard
Was as mad as he was crude
So proud of his nickname
He had his tongue tattooed
Couldn’t kick or handball
Didn’t even train
His talents lay inflicting
Excruciating pain
He’d barely left the bench
Nothing done by halves
He ran his boot stops down the back
Of ‘Snowball’ Filch’s calves
‘Daggers’ Sharp did his bit
To even up the odds
As ‘Ferret’ pulled his socks up
‘Daggers’ kneed him in the cods
While ‘Suckhole’ Spragg punched
The BeJesus out of ‘Vegie’
‘Hatchet’ snuck behind
And performed the perfect wedgie
As ‘Veg’ tried to extricate
His shorts from up his crack
‘Bluetongue’ seized the moment
And sunk his teeth into his sack
The fighting escalated
Spread from goal to goal
The umpires tried their best
But could not regain control
Eye gouging, headbutting
Kicking, biting, tripping
Elbows, coat hangers
King hits and squirrel gripping
Stan growled “I warned these arseholes
Now I’m fed up to the gills
It’s time I introduced them
To my non-umpiring skills”
He leapt into the melee
No interest in debate
Licked his index finger
And shoved it right up ‘Bluetongue’s’ date
‘Bluetongue’ froze rigid
Like a Peters’ Cream Between
Stan had entered territory
No man had ever been
‘Veg’ saw his chance
To retrieve his half chewed knacker
Stan was back in charge
Took the game by the clacker
He gave a twist or two
‘Bluetongue’s’ eyes glazed like glass
Just a day at work for Stan
Finger up an arse
“These big macho bruisers”
He used to tell his mum
“Curl up like little puppies
When a finger’s up their bum”
Stan had a theory
Why most blokes try to pike it
They were scared, so he reckoned
Scared they might just like it
The players stood there stunned
A bewildered, eerie, silence
No-one quite knew what to do
They were used to “healthy” violence
“Hands up anybody else
Who wants their prostate checked
Muck around again” cried Stan
“You know what to expect”
The remainder of the game
Was played well within the law
The sides traded goals
And the match wound up a draw
The coaches went bananas
“That was way outside the rules”
Stan cried “So are shirt fronts”
I’m not tolerating fools”
Now there’s scope within the rule book
For some interpretation
But nowhere does it mention
Rectal examination
“You’re all washed up,” they told him
But that didn’t worry Stan
“Too much like work” he huffed
As he copped a lifetime ban
Clearly his behaviour
Was improper, irrespective
But no-one could deny
It was spectacularly effective
Think outside the square
You can accomplish anything
Stan thought outside the square alright
He thought inside the ring
There’s a message in this sordid tale
The message is “neglect”
Your arsehole, like your nails and hair
Deserves the same respect
You blokes who don’t like doctors
I know just how you feel
But if it helps to keep you healthy
Well, the finger’s no big deal
There’s one thing in this life
As sure as tax and death
You’ll cop it up the freckle
If you stick it up the ref
Very entertaining Ian as a magot I don’t think I will follow Stans example !
Thanks Ian very clever indeed !
Loved the rhythm and clever rhymes, Ian. The subject matter is not my go, but your style has the makings of the ‘bush bard’ of footy.
Welcome aboard.
loved it.
I better book in a “DATE” with the doc soon.
But i hardly know him.
Dinner first ol mate?