Up yours!

Finished the pricks.

Good, now I can go finish reading Woody Guthrie's bio and finally get stuck into Rebecca. It's sunny, it's raining, it's Sunday, there's tea and football, dinner is all but sorted.

Life's good.

Up yours, you little yellow circley bastards.

Angry fairy dust.

You know how in Peter Pan, he shakes Tinkerbelle over someone so that her magic fairy dust sprinkles onto them, and then they come away being able to fly?
A little of that sparkley magic stays with them and they're not entirely mortal as a result of the encounter?

Well, in my own fashion, that's how I've been all day. Sort of.
But it's not been quite so glamorous or saccharin as Walt Disney would have liked, still it's been entertaining for both Hell Boy and Yoga Boy as we shopped and what not.

Last night, after months of planning not to go to the Souths /Roosters match due to emotional instability concerns, I gave in due to a last minute (surprise me) SMS from Hell Boy himself.

I told him it would be OK to go, but only if we sat with the Burrow.

No way could I sit with scum supporters. No way.

Besides, at these away games, the two warring factions (how quintessentially South Sydney) of fans, actually get together and sing the house down.
Most of their ditties are hilarious too.

I'd been telling Yoga Boy for years that he would love sitting with these people, but with little impact.
But I got him there, and very soon after he heard a song about Willie Mason being a cunt, his eyes shone with all the divine light of a freshly indoctrinated Hare Krishna disciple.

I spent far more of the game than I would have liked, with my head turned sharply to my left, pissing myself laughing at their songs, paying precious little attention to the game.
Oh well, at least I wasn't handing muffins around as well.

I have bruised hands from clapping.
My voice is in tatters.
My head is honestly still pounding 24 hours later.

And I'm still smiling.

Yet we lost and I don't care.
That felt like a win.
WTF? :O)

Well, I'll walk you through it.

Firstly, our boys played over those pretenders in the second half, we won the half time entertainment despite the fact that even their fans cheat at that, we outnumbered them, we out sang them, and best of all, we didn't have Siemens on our jersey. ;O)

Sitting in a packed bay at an aggro game, where people are constantly pushing past you due to beer going in or out of their bodies, stepping on your feet, knocking your jacket off the seat, yelling in your ear, imagining refereeing problems and burping hot dogs near you, and all the while, the fact that regardless that you've never met, you're instantly and irrevocably friends with them all, and that's a wonderful feeling.

If just one of them had those fucking filthy rags on instead of the majestic red and green, each and every one of these things would have caused untold agony.

But no.

To sit amongst a Souths crowd that large and be part of it as it functions as a noisy and powerful unit in a bid to protect and inspire the representatives of what it holds dear, is something I cannot describe to you.
You have to be a supporter of something to know this.
I'm sorry for people who never get to share in this with a large group at some stage.

My uncle told me once of a study he'd read that explained how people at football matches gradually and significantly increased their serum testosterone throughout a game.
Worse during close, aggressive games too.
Apparently it takes a while for this to return to normal, kinda like that fairy dust.

Well, my testosterone levels are at record highs and showing no real signs of backing off.

Seriously, I swear I scratched my balls a couple of times today already.
Felt pretty good too, I don't mind telling you.

But the fun doesn't stop there.

My attitude to shopping today gave me an insight into what it might be like for a man to enter a mall.
I am no longer surprised that they hate shopping.

I took offense at each and every person who walked in my path, wore something ugly, had too much perfume, I hated the lights, the noise, the smells - even the products.

I honestly wanted to confront the woman ahead of me at the fruit shop for individually bagging a capsicum.
I mean, come on!
It's a fucking capsicum you dumb whore.
And the bananas.
And the avocado.

Look, that shit upsets me anyway, but I usually don't want to take it outside.
I almost never visualise myself beating someone to death with an artichoke.

But then, they say that men are very visual.
And I was very visual today.

It's not good.

I take full responsibility for inflaming the situation by ordering a very large soy cappuccino right when I knew for a certain that what I needed was chamomile tea instead.
But I didn't want to look like a pussy in front of the boys, OK?

Got a problem with that?

BTW...

Still hate the Roosters
You know we still hate the Roosters
Still hate the Roosters
You know we still hate the Roosterrrrrs

They cannot win without cheating
They cannot win without cheating
Win without cheating
They cannot win without cheatinggggg...

Braith is a wanker
We know that Braith is a wanker
Braith is a wanker
We know that Braith is a wanker...


Epilogue:

After writing that, we went out for laksa and ended up having steak instead.
I really, really felt like steak too....

I'm going.

And I feel sick to my stomach.

My hands are shaking, I've hardly eaten all day and am now off to make a 2L thermos of chamomile tea to calm me down while I'm there. Or at least to throw at Anasta, the dirty Greek prick.

I have a score of beautiful people in similar mindset to meet there, won't be able to eat any of that shit food, am terrified for the boys and want to protect all my red and green friends.

Tell me again how healthy sports are.

But you know what?

I still hate the Roosters.

I really really really do.

Pity I don't drink alcohol.

Yellow circley pricks.

Did another 20 something of those evil little yellow circley bastards.

Did not enjoy my own company during this ordeal.

Am trying to get the pricks finished before I take myself off to Clair's to sew with her, Daniel, Dawn and Charm the Craft Diva next week.

No way I'll be able to hold all my cussing in if I have to work on circles at Clair's.

Bad enough I had to gag myself in the Souths corporate box in front of Dad at the weekend.
Don't get me wrong, I wasn't holding it back for Dad's sake, I'm just saddened he never got to see me at my best.
Nevertheless, I let out plenty of the following:-

Ahh, ya fah!!

That's not a fahh ahh ya dirty fahh!!!

Fahh ya fahh shi awwwgit cocksahhhh, pri.!!!

Cock shhh mahhfahh monkey fahh Jesus wept yaaa dopey son of a farrrrrrkk!

South Sydney - Part Three.

One of the most touching moments that came to me courtesy of the Rabbitohs, happened by the fridge one day at work.

Clair was telling me that she had been away and had encountered some scary guy in Souths thongs, had got excited and really wanted to approach him and talk about Souths, but was a bit put off by his general trailer creepiness.
But later she informed me that she,

"...had feelings for Souths."

How beautiful is that?
Just because it's something I love, she kinda loves it too.

That's what I love about being a supporter.
Nothing to do with the sport. For me it's sharing experiences - passion, triumphs, tragedies with the people I hold dear.

When we lose I worry about how Jeff will cope at work with the kids giving him grief, how Jo will feel all week, how it will impact all of the people I care about.

The joy of winning is just the same, only backwards.
I'm thrilled to finally see so many people who have done it tough, rewarded for their loyalty and endurance.
Good on us.

A few years ago on the forum, a couple of the boys were running an NFL Fantasy League comp.
My brother-in-law convinced me to join.
I thought that if I was going to learn a new sport that I should first choose a team - without any preconceived ideas.

So, I took myself team shopping on the internet.
I had to be careful.
I didn't want to accidentally wind up supporting the wanky, rich, cheating Roosters like side just because I thought their uniform was pretty.
Or because they were green like Souths.

Although, for the record, I do think that choosing a side because their fans wear cheese on their heads is quite a good idea.
Gretchen, it's probably best if you don't read that bit.
Good girl.

But I resisted the temptation to choose anything other than the perfect fit, and I barged into a few of the gigantic NFL fan forums.
Holy fucking fuck fuck.

There was something about the orange team that felt familiar and comfortable to me, so I posted an introduction in their tightly policed "football only section", telling them who I was, that I was thinking about supporting their team and asking them what the hell they were all about.

Then I went and did my grocery shopping.

By the time I got home, I had some proposals of marriage and a vote for Rookie of the year.

I also had a warning, "not to expect too much this year, we're in a rebuilding phase..."

I beg yours!?

They went on to explain to me that the club had been kicked out of the competition for 3 years (FFS- Twilight Zone or what?) and that they had pretty much been more or less fielding sub standard players, with a shitty admin and a crap coach...but were improving.
Slowly.

Sounds kinda familiar, hey.

"Pfffft, no big deal", I thought, "I can do that standing on my head."

And I did.
Am.

Once again, I recognised some extraordinary voices on that forum, even though I was asleep when they were awake and most of the time I had no idea what they were talking about.

I can do that standing on my head too.

And then Gretchen....the mother load.

Someone who is now loved by everyone I've ever mentioned her to.
And I pretty much mention her to everyone.

"Good morning, Vitamin King. Have I told you about my friend Gretchen?"

It could happen.

But you know what is going to happen? Tailgating at a Brown's game with Gretchen et al - hopefully as soon as next season.

I wonder what colour (color) her Tupperware is?

If she doesn't have any, I have a brown and orange 1970's set she can have. It's perfect.
__________________________________________________________________

PS You know what else makes me happy?
Clair and Gretchen have become friends.
That's as awesome a spectacle as Godzilla and Gamera uniting.

Hooray for football!

South Sydney - Part Two.

At some point, my excitement for South Sydney stopped being just a moral crusade and became part of my lifestyle.

(NB When I typed the above, it had a typo, so it read Oral crusader - a very fine title for a porno!)

I have always enjoyed surprising people with the maleness of some of my attitudes and interests, and when I fell in love with Souths, I felt as though I'd hit the jackpot.

Conspiracy theories, instant red and green family and sense of community, an enemy or ten, family outings, being able to shame large men with my superior knowledge of next week's team, innumerable opportunities to insert Up the Rabbitohs! into conversations and birthday cards inappropriately, the feeling of contributing to the restoration of something marvellous...

But if I'm 100% truthful, most of what I love about Souths is the fans.
The Cleveland Browns too, but I'll get to them later.

With everything the South Sydney club and it's fans have been through, and I won't go back over it, it's too awful, the people who have stuck with them have just got to be the most amazing folks in the world.
To me anyway.

That personality type is my absolute favourite.
And I'm talking about the ones who are more inclined to turn up when they're dead certain the team is going to get hammered.

The supporters, not the band wagon.

You know that expression - show me your friends and I'll tell you who you are?
When I look at my football friends, I swell with pride and I know that I'm doing something really right.
Actually, when I look at my friends in general, I feel as though I've found that bonus level in Super Mario World and I'm spinning around ecstatically making weird noises.

It wasn't long in my supporting history before I was pressuring Hell Boy to go to every home game, despite that ghastly hour getting out of the "car park", the incredibly long trip home with that empty, gutted feeling and the whole week following, having no possible way to excuse such a display, before starting the mental preparation necessary to back up the next week.

It wasn't long after that that I met a Souths legend through work. A man who had played in a three winning Souths Sydney grand finals!
The first player ever to win two Rothman's (now Dally M) medals!

This guy is not only a Souths legend, but he is a monstrous smart arse as well. Sag too from memory. Cat lover. Recently rifled through his shed trying to find me a pair of his grand final socks so I could frame them... I was planning on giving one to Jo...kinda like a demented friendship locket.

One day he dropped into work to get something for his dog's sex drive... and I bailed the poor guy up and talked Souths at him with such violence, that he actually had tears in his eyes from boredom.

At this very moment, I realised that I needed to find other Souths people to talk at, and not just pest the people around me.

And so I had a look at the Souths forum that both Hell Boy and Yoga Boy had been using.

I had never used a forum and I found it incredibly confusing for a time.
But I soon discovered that I could pick a pleasant personality out of the mix with very impressive accuracy.

Upon organising myself a Burrow jersey, I met Jo /Jobear. I had liked her from the very first time I heard her voice.
She is now technically my sista and has agreed to sing Glory Glory at my funeral.

We became friends so quickly and with such ease that my brother cautioned me...sleazy internet relationships and all that.

Well really, that depends on where you meet, doesn't it?
I suspect you're likely to experience shorter odds if you meet someone on a site where you're deliberately looking to sell yourself in order to find a relationship.
Everyone has a few hilarious RSVP stories they can tell at their friend's expense, but I've now heard a few good ones too.

Anyway, suffice it to say that Jo and I will never run off together.
Unless it's to a Tupperware party, a Souths fan day or some sort of baking expo.

Jo organised for our season tickets (I finally insisted we get them) to be with hers. Best seats in the house...right behind the bench.

When Game One rolled around and I was shyly passing around home made muffins from my Tupperware container with the green lid, Yoga Boy looked up, saw Jo passing around her home made rabbit shaped cookies from her matching red lidded Tupperware container, shook his head and said something to the effect of,

"Oh, I see."

Many, many times since then, I have dragged myself and my beloved boys to the game just to support Jo and the host of other beautiful friends we have made through this club.

Last Sunday was just such a day.
The team we were playing (smelly old Manly) had declared that they were just going to be using the game to improve their for and against.
We believed them.
We showed up anyway.

I like being one of those people and I adore having friends who are just the same.

We were rewarded by seeing Souths pulling the bastard's pants down and spanking them in front of all of their little friends, possibly costing them the minor premiership.

No muffins though. I'm off sugar.

On the very same forum that I met Jo, I stumbled into the social section one day, only to discover someone purporting to know more about tragic 80's music than I did.

The effrontery!

Three years on, we're still locked in a stalemate. Or at least I allow him to think so.

We even did a recent "resource swap", which in truth was just a nerdy showing off competition.
I won.

A few months ago, as I opened the cupboard that is home to our Souths gear (and the vacuum cleaner), one of my signed jerseys popped out.
And the first few names on it chilled my blood.

Adam MacDougall - let go by the club for being a dick head, went on to make fun of us and Rusty
Shannon Hegarty - aged me 1o years last season alone
Paul Mellor - played for us as a junior, left to play all his good footy elsewhere, returned to play in his dotage with us.

No no no no no NO!

Not good enough.

When I sacrifice a jersey, I want to be able to look at the signatures in years to come with absolute confidence that the people who signed it are going to make me feel proud.

So I changed my tack.
Screw the players, I'm only asking fans to sign it.
They're the real heroes.

The first signature I collected was Bob Log III from Tuscon Arizona... a one man band who gets women to stir his scotch with their boobies. OK, he'd never heard of Souths, but I think he's great. Even drew an arse hole on the bunny for us.

Next up was Hell Boy, a disgruntled Yoga Boy and then Jo.
I passed it around Bay 131 and all my bruddas signed it too. Plus a couple of forum people I like as well.
It's looking pretty good now, but there are at least a dozen more peeps who need to be on there, so it now lives in my bag every game day with a laundry marker - like I'm some 12 year old kid.
It's coming to Cleveland too.

Probably that will be what I'm wearing when they finally torch me.

South Sydney - Part One.

Before writing this, I've had to centre myself, align my chakras with the almighty red and green energy in the sky (not Santa), regulate my breathing and chant quietly to myself for 21 minutes.

21!

A few of you will understand it's significance.

A few of you will sit there, smugly believing that it's simply half of 42 and that that's what I meant.

You're both kinda right.
You're both nerds too, but that's OK.

If neither number excites you at all, you've clearly stumbled into my blog by accident and will be leaving again just as soon as you finish scratching your head.

Good. They're gone. And we're alone with my stupidity once again.
How nice.

So, I promised faithfully that one day I would try to explain my love of sport to you.
Initially my plan was to explain it to myself first, but who can be bothered waiting?

Better to stick to my overall approach to life - just make a start and figure it out as I go, making sure to keep the glass half full, my mind open, my heart full and my hands busy.

Can do.
Wow!Look at me go.

Right.

I must start by saying that I always detested sport.
I grew up in a half Slovenian household, meaning that weekends = soccer.
Except that in the 1970's, in lovely culturally tolerant Australia, it was better known as wogball.

So, I grew up in a wogball family.

My father played.
My father coached.
My father refereed.
My brother played.
My mother watched.
I complained, ate lollies, climbed monkey bars with other traumatised little girls and read a book, all the time secretly wishing shocking injuries on anyone with shin guards on.

I never watched a single second of that vilest of vile sports.

And when my father offered (insisted) to let me play netball, I told him outright that I would not be disposed of in that way, that only bitches played netball and that such a thing would occur over my dead body.

Very soon after that, I was allowed to stay home alone and do as I pleased.
He never mentioned netball again.

Two World Cups ago, Jeff timed me to see how long I could make it watching a wogball game without making a sarcastic remark.

15 seconds.

And I was trying! I really was.

So, with all these emotional land mines in my background, imagine my joy when I met and partnered my very favourite man in the world, only to discover that he would like to watch every single game of rugby league, every single week for 30 plus weeks a year for the rest of our lives.

Every one.

Hilarity ensued...

On our second date, he said to me,

"You're the one. All you have to say are two words and I'll know for sure...South Sydney!"

Naturally I refused.

C'mon! Sport!? What would you have done?
FFS

And rugby league at that!
Wogball's stupid, toasted cheese on damper plain Australian cousin.

"This isn't going to work", I thought.

And it wouldn't have either, had somebody not budged.

It was pretty much the only thing that we ever really argued about. It was awful.
I wanted him to enjoy the sport, but for me, having already lost every Saturday of my childhood to wogball, the prospect of losing chunks of my weekends as an adult to rugby league was devastating.

Even more devastating was the confusion and embarrassment of secretly purchasing a rugby league rule book soon after.

And then the frustration and humiliation of Friday night football.
Each Friday night, I would sit, alone, balancing a cat or two on the end of the lounge, desperately flicking through the rule book, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

And then the joy of disguising my increasing knowledge and familiarity with the game from Hell Boy until I was ready to unveil the new and improved me.

From memory I lasted like 3 games before standing bolt upright and screaming,

"Forward! That was a fucking mile forward!"

You see, I corrected my ignorance and I've never looked back.

But having learned football from Friday night matches in the early nineties, I became quite fond of the Canberra Raiders as a team. They were lime green and amazing to watch.

Hell Boy (my new blog name for Young Jeffrey -I mean, have you seen him?...LOL - he's a big red smart arse who loves cats) was constantly at me to support Souths (I'd liked them since childhood anyway) but I was in my early 20's and not inclined to do anything just because a man wanted me to.
I thought that learning rugby league was enough.

But in 1998, when Souths were unfairly kicked out of the competition, I saw the impact it had on him. I started looking into the reasons it had happened, as well as watching and appreciating the phenomenal fight that was put up to keep the club going during legal proceedings which might better be described as rape.

Uh-oh... nothing like injustice to capture my attention...

So, I started getting involved in ways that I understood - buying merchandise for a team who no longer existed, making 3 course red and green meals (kiwi fruit and strawberry shortcake is awesome), learning the club song...

Then they held a rally.
I offered to take Jeff and his brother. At the time they told me they didn't see the point. No-one would beat Rupert Murdoch and they would just get upset if they went.

I was most put out by this.
I still don't understand it all these years later.
You may not think you're going to win, but you must never let that stop you from being heard.

I could complain bound and gagged underwater, so having the opportunity to do it in the streets of Sydney with thousands of other people really appealed to me.

So, as the day of the second march drew near, I informed the boys that I was going if they'd like to come with, and was thrilled to finally be doing something positive for something they loved.

Incidentally, as we marched arm in arm amidst a sea of red and green, we were snapped and the boys (not me -FFS) made it into Who magazine as South Sydney zealots. ;O(

I was a little cranky about that. Still am.

At that rally, I joined the club, despite not being a Souths supporter. I made the boys join. I bought T-shirts, stickers and God knows what else.

I stood and listened to those speeches and songs, teary eyed, not quite understanding why I was so moved.
I'm slow, OK? I still hadn't figured out that I was a fan.

I also remember looking around at the immense crowd behind us and mentioning to Hell Boy that we were the only ones present with front teeth, but that I wasn't frightened.

I bought the Souths protest music CD and started playing it at home.
Jeff didn't like it, so I used to listen to it when I was home alone.
Still didn't know I was a fan though.

The day the final decision was handed down, I was collating the most evil stock take at home.
At 11 o'clock, I was sitting on the coffee table because my legs were shaking almost as much as the phone in my hands.

When the decision was positive for Souths, I sat and cried out loud all by myself.
As they cut to scenes of toothless, jubilant fans at the club, I vividly remember wiping away my snot and tears and saying out loud,

"Oh fuck, I'm one of them!"

Oh fuck indeed...



To be continued...

(Shut up, Happy Days did it...)