Earlier this week the world was gripped with jolly green festivities as St. Patricks day was celebrated.
And it made me realise that I had been embracing the way of the Irish more intently than I ever realised before.
Since my days as a youngster, I distinctly recall an utter dislike for AFL, big cities, fancy food and life’s little extravagances.
During the mid-1990’s I was devout in my support of the ARL against the Superleague.
Oh how time has changed.
I left the country and moved to the city in 2004.
I now reside in AFL heartland, Melbourne (I still despise AFL though).
I have just had my first home built and I moved in last weekend, a house filled with all the mod-cons, brand new appliances and state of the art … everything really.
Then along came St. Patrick’s Day.
‘Twas early in the morn, as I sat in my shiny new home, that I picked up my mobile phone, with full intention of making the one call that could transport me out of my AFL dominated mire. The excitement started at my heart and raced around my body as I keyed the numbers into the phone.
The phone began ringing, each tone seemingly taking an age;
‘Ring, Ring. Ring, Ring’
I felt like a little child looking at a clock on December 24, waiting for Christmas.
Then the automated message greeted me. There was no turning back now. Sure there was, but my mind was made up, besides, it’d be rude to walk away from a conversation now. I was about to go full circle and make a complete liar and contradiction of myself.
After several prompts and speaking to a machine which had the uncanny ability to understand what my voice relayed from my brain, in what is sometimes an unnerving situation because it sounds like a conversation with the future, I was put on hold.
I was back watching the clock at Christmas, while listening to some looped jazz fusion style music whose volume wavered from completely silent to speaker-busting, static-sounding loud on a very strict, unwavering cycle, making it impossible to catch the tune.
Then, the music stopped. My heart palpitated.
“Hello, how can I help you?”
Sure, there are a million answers you could give to this question, but she knows that I’ve been caught in the web.
I wouldn’t have waited through the dial tones to come this far without a question.
I wouldn’t have spoken to the human robot in a somewhat uneasy manner without a genuine request.
I wouldn’t have studied the inadequate volume control of the hold music without a feasible query.
But now the pressure was on. I knew this moment would come, it was inevitable. I felt prepared for the moment, but just like a fullback steadying himself to field a bomb in the dying seconds of the grand final, with the opposition bearing down on top of him, hoping to snatch a famous victory, nothing can ever ready you for the actual time when the moment is upon you.
The feeling of betrayal was rushing over me, subconsciously. Everything I stood for was about to be blown away.
You got me in the end. I had no way out. He knew it too.
He was sitting in his spacious office, quietly laughing inside his somewhat evil mind.
“I’d like to connect to FOXTEL please”
I can’t believe I said that.
I even said please.
I’ve turned my back on my morals, once again. Rupert got me.
The conversation continues. I feel dirty, almost as though I’m indulging in the worst sin possible.
I’m excited more than anything.
I should not be enjoying this! I should be not excited!
But I am.
I am informed that it will be installed on Wednesday. An exchange of pleasantries ends the transaction and I’m left, lying in the bed I just made, physically and metaphorically.
Wednesday arrives. The installation man doesn’t. It’s been so long since I had rugby league on my television that I am starting to behave like a drug addict. I’m a rugby League addict and FOXTEL is my drug and my cure.
I’m told I now have to wait another week due to some error on their system.
I can’t take it anymore!
Stop toying with me, Rupert!
You’ve taken my morals; you’ve got me in your web. Stop teasing me!
I NEED MY RUGBY LEAGUE NOW!!!