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WOGBALL - A GAME FOR ALL THE SHEILAS
Australia, Great Southern land, unique, diverse, rugged, untamed. So that just about sums up the women then!
The people of this nation rose from penal servitude to sporting mastery of many team games. Love of all sport and a competitive nature are indelible parts of the national psyche. Some sports though are treated with more reverence and equality than others, as I will explain.
It's still the land of opportunity and the great racial melting pot, almost literally in the depths of a 100'F Summer day. The place has sucked in millions of migrants from all corners of this diverse globe for over two hundred years, attracted by it's offer of a future and more importantly a chance, a fair go and loads of bikini clad stunners on the beach.
Predominantly the nations these migrants leave behind, also this planet's populace, are totally and overwhelmingly in love with our great love. Tits, big mammarius protruberances... I mean Footer. Oops! Sorry there, my latest medication hasn't quite kicked in yet for my Tourets typing problem.
So, you would think that they, the extremely knowledgeable and passionate, Greater Spotted Aussie Sporting public, would knowingly understand and accept our obsession, Association Football. The round ball code, invented in Blighty and perfected around the globe, the one, the only truly World game.
Answer; No chance ya Pommy poofter twats! Why?
Well there is a conspiracy in Oz. Against Football. It's a war of words raged continuously by the biased print and television media in favour of the other football codes. Aussie Rules, nee aerial ping-pong, Rugby League, nee thick necked fuckers grunting a lot and sniffing each other's arses, and Rugby Union, nee game we are World Champions at where they grunt in well mannered Eaton tones and more genteelly sniff each other's arses!
Every perceived negative aspect of our game is reported with amazing piousness and tut, tut, glee by every broadsheet, daily, website and media outlet in this great competitive sporting nation. Oh! Don't they just love to mention the hooligans, remember them?
No amount of lobbying on our part will change the hackneyed ill informed view of our game and it's predominantly wonderful fanatics, the supporters. Every time there is a sniff of crowd trouble at a game it's reported in the main news whether in Europe, Millwall lads on tour, or when England play. Millwall fuckers in England shirts. The good side of the game is hardly ever reported apart from a nano blink flash in the mainstream sport reports. Exasperating! GerrabigblackdogupyaMate!
In their bigoted one eye, we deserve to be derided because the ball is round. We play Wogball, we watch and love the poofter's game, we are proponents of faggotball.
Posturing testosterone machismo is a pre-requisite for every Aussie male, they see the skill and balance of our game as somehow effeminate. On occasions Aussie Rules ping pong can be brutal but, there are some disturbing analogies too of Aussie maledom. As I regularly point out to my 'Dinky Dyed' Aussie Mates, usually over a few 'fucken oath Mate' tinnies, or a schooner or middy or two of piss on tap at the local. How come, every major City here, has an annual Gay Pride march, the Gay Mardi Gras.
I gleefully inform them, that we don't have a Gay Mardi Gras procession through the mean streets of the Boro, Thsweetcheeks! Plus, I find it rather disconcerting at the Australian males propensity to don female attire, especially lingerie, at the drop of a hat. Just have a fancy dress party and all the Aussie males come dressed in the wife's French maid outfit with the fuck me boots and a portion of strapadicktome on the side. What's worse is the little Sheila in tow usually comments how it's not her gear at all, before polishing off the six litre cask of Pinot Noir under her arm!
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not a gay basher and I certainly don't drop the soap in the shower either but, I wouldn't fling on the wife's lingerie just to show the lads at the local footy club how good my arse looks in a g-string or how toned my thighs looked under sheer nylons. Some of those footie shorts too, are shorter and tighter than those legendary gold one's Kylie wore (munch growl), and are so tight you can virtually see the rubber chicken scrambling for freedom.
Deary me Thsweetcheeks. Back to the conspiracy.
Very little of the live game is relayed on free to air Aussie TV. Most of that stuff resides on pay TV, namely Foxtel. A national multicultural channel, SBS, does a sterling job of holding up our end but their Mr. Football, a character called Les Murray frankly gives me the fucking shits.
Buffont grey quiff, gold rimmed specs and a propensity for over pronunciation of Italian & Hispanic names. Barcelona becomes Hartheloona, Raul becomes Rhowhool, Milan becomes Meelaan and Maradona becomes fat drug addled little Argy fucker who looks like a giant beach ball on helium who robbed England with the hand of God.
He purports to be an icon and fountain of knowledge on the 'World Game', the way he waffles shite you'd think he invented the game, but I'm afraid he's a fountain of decaying relevance and badly researched articles. One in particular on SBS's 'World Game' website, attracted my ire, as it spouted some garbage about Lardarse Viduka taking the easy option of, "Signing for
a virtually unknown, unpopular, unfashionable North Eastern club Boro - Middlesbrough, when he had the world's elite knocking at his door scrabbling after his signature, Roma, Real Madrid, Milan, Darlington!"
Warra load of Bollocks!
I wrote in person to the great man, slagging him for his poorly researched article which lacked any knowledge of it's subject matter, Boro, and was shoddy in the extreme. I suggested he was so piss week he should apply for a job with London's Daily Star as sub-editor of the tits and bums page.
In conclusion, I requested that Mr.Murray should go to his bathroom, remove all his clothes, get totally naked, turn with his back to the mirror, bend over, look between his legs and he'll see a large open orifice in the mirror. I suggested he'd just talked out of said orifice. Fuckwit. Surprisingly he didn't see fit to furnish me with a relevant reply. Mmm...
The stereo-type of Skippies being bad losers is illustrated by the nobber who lives over the road from me. He avoided me for over a month after that glorious kick by wee Johnny. I watched him hide in the bushes outside his house one Sunday night as I put the bin out. He couldn't even come over with a beer and say "Well done ya Pommy twat!" Mind you, the fact my balcony was still decked with England shirts, flags and numerous red n'white Boro scarves may have put the wanker off somewhat.
He's doing the same routine again now after England kicked their arses in the glorious Ashes series. Well he would do, after regaling me with frothy mouthed invective bullshit about the all conquering Aussies kicking England's collective arse 5-0. England would be forced to follow on in every test he proffered.
I was about to send an email to Lords, to tell the selectors to send the boys on holiday and don't bother to turn up, the nob spanker was so sure. I recollect, I vehemently disagree my old asswipe, so we had an amber nectar wager on that one which probably explains the plonkers disappearance all of a sudden.
Got to be honest though, I'm a bit careful about amber nectar wagers. Experience has taught me to be more circumspect. Namely, Boro will beat your fucking lot no worries, carton of piss on that one Maayyte! Up yer arse!
I've suffered for my allegiance and lessons have been learned. I was working in the far north of West Australia in the mid 80's, a rugged area known as the Pilbara, where men are men and sheep are very attractive alternatives to the fairer sex. Where summer is eight months and riddled with days of railway line twisting 110'F scorchers. Local people go Troppo, a term for fucked in the scone because of the heat, & the lack of a root. Usually the married men then.
Yes, there are quite a few of the Teesside on tour brigade up there too.
At that time, 1988, Boro under the management of the immortal Bruce Rioch, had dragged themselves from the precipice of 1986 and it's closed gates and shoestring budgets to an unlikely season in the First Division. All achieved with virtually the same players they'd flew to the moon with, all well marshalled by the immortal Mogga.
Inspiring stuff, and it certainly affected the tint of the rose coloured glasses I wore that season. Twelve fucking cartons of Emu bitter draught to the worse, I slunk into semi-depression as my Beloved slipped backwards kicking and screaming to the confines of the old Division Two.
The Yo-Yo and my wallet well and truly took some hammer that season. But, all was not lost. Being a canny Teessider, I hit on a solution very early. I'd take a cold carton of ale, my wager payment, around personally then stay there to help the recipient drink the bugger to oblivion. Hic.
Ingenuity, a craft learned from the Crafty. Enough Said.
ERIMUSRED.
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