Friday, February 22, 2008

Ball-Kickin' Vol 1

And so the weekend approaches, which means it will soon be time to sit back and watch uncensored and unaltered images of balls beamed straight to my TV screen. Love those balls. Especially in close-up.

Happy days.

For starters I shall be forced to watch some of that silly rugby in the Super 14, simply because the NRL comp hasn't yet kicked off. This happens every year and I can't help but feel like every year the sport, the ARU and John O'Neill waste a grand opportunity to slyly seduce another convert to their sport.

I try to watch, I really do. But let's be honest, it's f*cken rubbish. Even watching it drunk.

I tried to explain the game to My Better Half (and one who views sport generally as some sort of anti-matter nonsensical waste of time and space - a bit like FaceBook really) last year, and I could only come up with..."A bit like rugby league, except every time something interesting threatens to happen, they blow a whistle and stop to kick for goal."

And as usual, I am so f*cking spot-on I make William Tell look like he's simply closing his eyes and hoping for the best. His son's name was Walt by the way, for a zillion trillion trivia points.

Apparently there have been some more Super 14 rule changes this season. Which probably brings the tally of rule changes up to something approaching 6,276 in the past few seasons. All aimed at trying to make the game more interesting to watch, I gather.

If any of these $hit-for-brains imbeciles actually stopped sipping chardonnay long enough to look outside their window (minus their monocles), they'd realise all the rule-changes necessary to turn rugby (pronounced roog-beh)into an entertaining spectacle of skill, power and pace have ALREADY BEEN MADE.

The result has been called rugby league for, oh, about ONE HUNDRED YEARS now, you f*cking planks.

So looking past that unpleasantness, Foopball will take pride of place this weekend.

My beloved Man Utd will take on the Bar Codes of Newcastle in what is surely a banana-peel game for the Red Devils.

I mean, Newcastle are fodder at the moment. They are aimless rabble. They are pants. And that's not even getting to the comedic brilliance of re-hiring Kevin "Loov Et Ef We Beat Them, Jest Loove It!" Keegan as their manager.

And therefore, this is exactly the sort of game where United turn up, act disinterested for the first 15 minutes and then, concede some sort of goal-off-the-shins (probably Viduka the fat ba$tard) in the 16th minute and then proceed to squander eight thousand and fifty two million different opportunities to score, eventually losing 1-0 or jagging a late injury-time equaliser.

No doubt whomever Arse-anal are playing will trot out for kick-off and then, immediately upon hearing the opening whistle, turn around, drop their pants en masse, then lube up to take it long and hard for 90 minutes (presumably whilst squealing like pigs) so that l'Arse win comfortably by 3 goals.

Newcastle against United, by contrast, will play as though their f*cking families are being held for ransom by Somali warlords in Mogadishu. F*cking bull$hit is what it is I tell you.

Finally the A-League Grand Final will be contested between Newcastle (the Hunter Valley version) and Central Coast.

I was largely indifferent with regards to cheering for one lot over the other, but having read Craig "I'm a F*ckwit, Me" Foster slag off the Coast in the Sydney Morning Herald last week for playing football he rated as in the "bottom tier" of the league, I am now the biggest Coast fan in the world (short of getting my erection tatooed with the club logo) - if for no other reason than to force Foster the F*cknificent to cry over his keyboard while lamenting that Newcastle (in his mind the reincarnation of 1956 Real Madrid) didn't win.

Geezus if they win the pompous little f*cktard will be unbearable. You will think from his ensuing gloating that he personally coached the side to the title using, as an instructional ploy, his own YouTube highlight reel (using his whole career, should get up to about 13 seconds of highlights, including slow-mo replays of a guy who looks like Ronaldinho but has a Photo-Shopped head of Foster the F*cknificent) - completely ignoring the fact that his phone remains deafeningly silent every time there is a coaching vacancy anywhere in the world.

Space, even.