Mr Invisible
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This is a long read, but shit it made me laugh.
Starts off attacking us but wait till you hit the part he addresses Mad Monday, it's absolutely hilarious (and about half way down).
He's a Dragons supporter for the record (incase you miss it).
https://amp.smh.com.au/sport/nrl/ha...nth-of-shits-and-giggles-20180906-p5028n.html
Hair of the Dogs: Here's a site for Mad Month of shits and giggles ...
By Darren Kane
7 September 2018 — 8:00pm
Did you ever read about a frog
Who dreamed of bein’ a king
And then became one?
“I Am”
Neil Diamond
Cuttin’ straight to the chase here, geez Louise I detest the Canterbury Bulldogs. If there weren’t a litany of reasons already, but now I haven’t been able to eradicate the chorus to Sweet Caroline (the garbled version, oft sung in Irish pubs at the fighting and kebab hour) off the endless loop playing inside my head, since 8am on Tuesday.
And I’m pretty damned sure I ain’t no Robinson Crusoe in that department. Chalk it up on that long, long list. And believe me, I’ve been maintaining that index for decades.
I’ve hated Canterbury for as long as I can remember, really. I think it all started the day the Bulldogs “defeated” St George; by a single, solitary point in the 1985 grand final at the SCG. All it took was a Peter Mortimer try in the corner, scored off a blatant forward pass, followed up by a late Andrew Farrar field goal that never touched the ground as he kicked it (that’s how I like to remember it, anyway). No damned video refs bunkering underground back then, when you needed them!
The Canterbury shade of blue is God-awful. As far as canines go, bulldogs seem such a slobbering and unhygienic breed. The salary cap scandal of 2002, which still dwarfs all similar indiscretions committed since, in terms of sheer audacity and unsophistication. That repugnant Coffs Harbour “incident” of 2004 and the lingering unease, that some parties involved got away with serious crimes.
That whole “Dogs of War” mythology that spins out of Belmore … PLEASEEEE! The only “wars” I’ve ever witnessed at Bulldogs games have taken place in the grandstands or on the streets after the full-time whistle.
I’m serious, if there’s a sporting franchise on this planet that I truly do find abhorrent in every sense of the word, it’s the Canterbury Bulldogs.
My daughter, who’s not yet nine years old, seems infected with a virus which manifests as her having become a Sharks supporter. That is lamentable, though it must be said that the only other explanation as to why she supports Cronulla is that she knows it pisses me off.
My son, fortunately, has never once wavered right from the day he saw the light and became a Dragons man (and LONG may he suffer, just like the rest of us). But if ever a day dawns, where Jack dares to switch, and supports the Bulldogs ... well I’m sure there’s other families that would have him!
So in that context, you’d safely conclude I’d have been killing myself laughing this last week, since learning about Canterbury’s Mad Monday capers at the Harbour View Hotel, smack bang under the southern approach to the Sydney Harbour Bridge. I mean seriously, who’s the Einstein responsible for the three minutes of planning of that end-of-season soiree?!
And what’s not to love about a rabble of "idiotic" (Todd Greenberg’s words), "dickheads" (to quote NSW Sports Minister, Stuart Ayres) Bulldogs players getting towelled up from 360 different angles and having to face the inevitable consequences. All over a bit of naked tabletop dancing before the sun’s even gone down, the slaughter of a couple of Neil Diamond songs, finished up with a [very] public technicolour yawn to bring proceedings to an eventual conclusion? Viewed through a prism held by someone who loves the Bulldogs as much as do I, that narrative is golden.
Seriously though, does anyone actually care a whole lot, about any of this? I mean, hands up who didn’t embark on a nudie run or three some time during their 20s? Is this nothing more than manufactured, hysterical outrage that’s driving the necessity to punish, and to "send a message"?
Eyesore: Police officer Mitch Newton pictured at the Bulldogs 'event'. Photo: Fuck News Corp
I wonder how many little seven-year-old Bulldogs supporters have been properly traumatised, crying into their little Bulldogs jerseys this week, upon momentarily glimpsing the image of Bulldog’s winger Marcelo Montoya, frozen in time in an apparent paralytic coma, lying on the footpath running directly beneath the Bradfield Highway? None, I reckon.
How many fewer Stinger cars did Kia – the Bulldogs’ major sponsor – sell this week, because Canterbury forward Adam Elliott (who, apropos not much, surely must be the lovechild of 80s WWE wrestler, “Leaping” Lanny Poffo) got so excited by hearing the opening strains to Sweet Caroline that he thought it best to relieve himself of his undies? Do you reckon any Bulldogs supporters will cancel their season tickets for 2019 over this? Will any fewer eyeballs be glued to the four finals matches played this weekend? Nah … me either.
Drunken nonsense this may be, but the antics of a few Bulldogs miscreants isn’t exactly gonna shift the planet off its axis or detonate the NRL’s revenue forecasts, despite what the doomsdayists might have you think. If systematic doping and salary cap rorting have little such detrimental effect, Mad Monday shenanigans will have about no impact on the bottom line.
There’s a few things though, about "Mad Mondays", that make little sense to me. First, the very concept seems quite intertwined to football codes, and rugby league especially. If the teams that just finished up the season in the Super Netball league have an analogous predilection for embarking on an end-of-season festival of madness, they’re a damned sight better at planning their escapades than rugby league players could ever hope to be.
Second, if this whole Canterbury thing is a lesson in anything, it’s that logistics count for EVERYTHING! I mean, how hard is it to hire out a whole pub for a couple of days and put security on the door to not let a single punter in, or out? Because the real threshold issue here, is not that the Canterbury players did anything especially newsworthy – they just didn’t draw the blackout drapes first.
Suitably remote: What's not to love about quarantining Mad Monday to Great Keppel Island
Photo: Tourism Queensland.
In the alternative, I see from reports this week by Fairfax Media that Great Keppel Island is a bit of a white elephant at present. Here’s a stellar idea – instead of turning the place to “get wrecked” into a crypto-currency micro-economy, why doesn’t the NRL hire the whole island for a few months each year, fill all the fridges with enough Coronas (the modern-day rugby league player’s beer of choice) to sink the USS Missouri, and then introduce a new rule that all players must report at check-in on the island within 24 hours of their team being bundled out of the finals, and stay until Melbourne Cup day?
For if the NRL rented an entire tropical island resort for a couple of months and hosted one humungous Mad Month of shits and giggles, that’d stop the media dead in its tracks. You could even get Jeff Probst to host the whole shooting match, and turn it into a reality show of some sort. It’d rate its backside off.
See maybe I’m just a simple idiot (as opposed to a “strip down naked in the pub” flavour of idiot), but I can’t for the life of me fathom the ridiculous fascination which some sections of the media have, with hounding rugby league players at the end of a long season, hoping beyond hope they’ll get the money shot of a little-known fringe player dressed as Oscar the Grouch, having a 3am "up 'n under" in the gutter.
And just finally, while I’ve still got you, can I just say that I don’t get what those same stalkers with telephoto lenses, and the people who write vitriolic copy about the pictures they take and about how the NRL should wield the big stick and then the even bigger stick, actually want rugby league players to become. I mean, are we really into turning frogs into kings here? And if we are, why exactly do we want that?
It’s almost as if some of us are too afraid to think that rugby league players can be idiots, just like everyone else.
Starts off attacking us but wait till you hit the part he addresses Mad Monday, it's absolutely hilarious (and about half way down).
He's a Dragons supporter for the record (incase you miss it).
https://amp.smh.com.au/sport/nrl/ha...nth-of-shits-and-giggles-20180906-p5028n.html
Hair of the Dogs: Here's a site for Mad Month of shits and giggles ...
By Darren Kane
7 September 2018 — 8:00pm
Did you ever read about a frog
Who dreamed of bein’ a king
And then became one?
“I Am”
Neil Diamond
Cuttin’ straight to the chase here, geez Louise I detest the Canterbury Bulldogs. If there weren’t a litany of reasons already, but now I haven’t been able to eradicate the chorus to Sweet Caroline (the garbled version, oft sung in Irish pubs at the fighting and kebab hour) off the endless loop playing inside my head, since 8am on Tuesday.
And I’m pretty damned sure I ain’t no Robinson Crusoe in that department. Chalk it up on that long, long list. And believe me, I’ve been maintaining that index for decades.
I’ve hated Canterbury for as long as I can remember, really. I think it all started the day the Bulldogs “defeated” St George; by a single, solitary point in the 1985 grand final at the SCG. All it took was a Peter Mortimer try in the corner, scored off a blatant forward pass, followed up by a late Andrew Farrar field goal that never touched the ground as he kicked it (that’s how I like to remember it, anyway). No damned video refs bunkering underground back then, when you needed them!
The Canterbury shade of blue is God-awful. As far as canines go, bulldogs seem such a slobbering and unhygienic breed. The salary cap scandal of 2002, which still dwarfs all similar indiscretions committed since, in terms of sheer audacity and unsophistication. That repugnant Coffs Harbour “incident” of 2004 and the lingering unease, that some parties involved got away with serious crimes.
That whole “Dogs of War” mythology that spins out of Belmore … PLEASEEEE! The only “wars” I’ve ever witnessed at Bulldogs games have taken place in the grandstands or on the streets after the full-time whistle.
I’m serious, if there’s a sporting franchise on this planet that I truly do find abhorrent in every sense of the word, it’s the Canterbury Bulldogs.
My daughter, who’s not yet nine years old, seems infected with a virus which manifests as her having become a Sharks supporter. That is lamentable, though it must be said that the only other explanation as to why she supports Cronulla is that she knows it pisses me off.
My son, fortunately, has never once wavered right from the day he saw the light and became a Dragons man (and LONG may he suffer, just like the rest of us). But if ever a day dawns, where Jack dares to switch, and supports the Bulldogs ... well I’m sure there’s other families that would have him!
So in that context, you’d safely conclude I’d have been killing myself laughing this last week, since learning about Canterbury’s Mad Monday capers at the Harbour View Hotel, smack bang under the southern approach to the Sydney Harbour Bridge. I mean seriously, who’s the Einstein responsible for the three minutes of planning of that end-of-season soiree?!
And what’s not to love about a rabble of "idiotic" (Todd Greenberg’s words), "dickheads" (to quote NSW Sports Minister, Stuart Ayres) Bulldogs players getting towelled up from 360 different angles and having to face the inevitable consequences. All over a bit of naked tabletop dancing before the sun’s even gone down, the slaughter of a couple of Neil Diamond songs, finished up with a [very] public technicolour yawn to bring proceedings to an eventual conclusion? Viewed through a prism held by someone who loves the Bulldogs as much as do I, that narrative is golden.
Seriously though, does anyone actually care a whole lot, about any of this? I mean, hands up who didn’t embark on a nudie run or three some time during their 20s? Is this nothing more than manufactured, hysterical outrage that’s driving the necessity to punish, and to "send a message"?
Eyesore: Police officer Mitch Newton pictured at the Bulldogs 'event'. Photo: Fuck News Corp
I wonder how many little seven-year-old Bulldogs supporters have been properly traumatised, crying into their little Bulldogs jerseys this week, upon momentarily glimpsing the image of Bulldog’s winger Marcelo Montoya, frozen in time in an apparent paralytic coma, lying on the footpath running directly beneath the Bradfield Highway? None, I reckon.
How many fewer Stinger cars did Kia – the Bulldogs’ major sponsor – sell this week, because Canterbury forward Adam Elliott (who, apropos not much, surely must be the lovechild of 80s WWE wrestler, “Leaping” Lanny Poffo) got so excited by hearing the opening strains to Sweet Caroline that he thought it best to relieve himself of his undies? Do you reckon any Bulldogs supporters will cancel their season tickets for 2019 over this? Will any fewer eyeballs be glued to the four finals matches played this weekend? Nah … me either.
Drunken nonsense this may be, but the antics of a few Bulldogs miscreants isn’t exactly gonna shift the planet off its axis or detonate the NRL’s revenue forecasts, despite what the doomsdayists might have you think. If systematic doping and salary cap rorting have little such detrimental effect, Mad Monday shenanigans will have about no impact on the bottom line.
There’s a few things though, about "Mad Mondays", that make little sense to me. First, the very concept seems quite intertwined to football codes, and rugby league especially. If the teams that just finished up the season in the Super Netball league have an analogous predilection for embarking on an end-of-season festival of madness, they’re a damned sight better at planning their escapades than rugby league players could ever hope to be.
Second, if this whole Canterbury thing is a lesson in anything, it’s that logistics count for EVERYTHING! I mean, how hard is it to hire out a whole pub for a couple of days and put security on the door to not let a single punter in, or out? Because the real threshold issue here, is not that the Canterbury players did anything especially newsworthy – they just didn’t draw the blackout drapes first.
Suitably remote: What's not to love about quarantining Mad Monday to Great Keppel Island
Photo: Tourism Queensland.
In the alternative, I see from reports this week by Fairfax Media that Great Keppel Island is a bit of a white elephant at present. Here’s a stellar idea – instead of turning the place to “get wrecked” into a crypto-currency micro-economy, why doesn’t the NRL hire the whole island for a few months each year, fill all the fridges with enough Coronas (the modern-day rugby league player’s beer of choice) to sink the USS Missouri, and then introduce a new rule that all players must report at check-in on the island within 24 hours of their team being bundled out of the finals, and stay until Melbourne Cup day?
For if the NRL rented an entire tropical island resort for a couple of months and hosted one humungous Mad Month of shits and giggles, that’d stop the media dead in its tracks. You could even get Jeff Probst to host the whole shooting match, and turn it into a reality show of some sort. It’d rate its backside off.
See maybe I’m just a simple idiot (as opposed to a “strip down naked in the pub” flavour of idiot), but I can’t for the life of me fathom the ridiculous fascination which some sections of the media have, with hounding rugby league players at the end of a long season, hoping beyond hope they’ll get the money shot of a little-known fringe player dressed as Oscar the Grouch, having a 3am "up 'n under" in the gutter.
And just finally, while I’ve still got you, can I just say that I don’t get what those same stalkers with telephoto lenses, and the people who write vitriolic copy about the pictures they take and about how the NRL should wield the big stick and then the even bigger stick, actually want rugby league players to become. I mean, are we really into turning frogs into kings here? And if we are, why exactly do we want that?
It’s almost as if some of us are too afraid to think that rugby league players can be idiots, just like everyone else.