Sunday, 7 August 2011

Dear Diary (2009)

Tuesday 5th May, 2009.

After having been in Melbourne for two months, spending every Friday night struggling to stay awake until midnight to watch some Rugby League, I have been informed that an acquaintance has bought us tickets to an AFL game. I’m flabbergasted to say the least at this news.

Wednesday 6th May, 2009.

I begin watching news reports about AFL. Not, to learn about the game, players or tactics. No. I’m looking for any information I can use against the players. I’ve been informed I will be supporting Hawthorn, for no particular reason. I was quietly hoping for North Melbourne, purely because of the recent news reports regarding their chicken sex video fiasco. Boundless amounts of material!

Alas, I wasn’t without fortune. A Hawthorn player, whose name I couldn’t be bothered remembering was reported as having a pot belly. Perfect!

Thursday 7th May, 2009.

I have been handed the onerous task of obtaining information about how to get to the game. I provide train timetables which, intentionally, yet unfortunately have us arriving at the game 19 days late. I am thusly bribed with State of Origin tickets. I reluctantly behave. To my joy, after several weeks of searching, I have found a newsagent that sells Rugby League specific magazines and purchase one. I feel it’s glossy, yet thin and flimsy cover. Memories come flooding back of happier times, when my race of Rugby League aficionados were the most important race in society. My brain soaks up all the information the magazine can provide me, like a starving Owen Craigie eating all he can, not knowing when he will eat again. Oh dear, I’ve missed so much Rugby League I’ve already gone back to Owen Craigie fat jokes!

"Rugby League! Rugby League! Where art thou Rugby League?"

Friday 8th May, 2009.

I decide that due to the mind-numbing ‘sporting’ encounter I am about to endure tonight, I should prepare myself. I decided that I would work myself into the same state of mind as any AFL-loving dimwit would. I decide to carry out the most inane, boring and repetitive jobs possible all day whilst at work. I have a blindingly brilliant idea! I will do an hour overtime of previously described occupation to ensure I am as brain-dead as everyone else at the game.

We arrive at the stadium that sounds like some middle-eastern leader from medieval times.

“Prince Etihad will see you now. Please put on these excessively small shorts and violate a chicken before meeting him”

A steward at the game touches my bag and assumes it is safe and allows me to move on.

“Damn, I could have stuffed some C4 and detonators in a jumper and put them in my bag!”

Another loud steward informs everyone that Gate 1 is easier to access the stadium, thus all 45,000 AFL-morons walk in that direction like the brain-dead sheep that they are, lo and behold, ensuring Gate 1 is now the most difficult gate to enter. Gate 1 also happened to be the gate which we had to enter through.

Once inside and at our seats, we find ourselves surrounded by idiots who scream incoherent ramblings to the players, stupidly believing that they actually possess the skills to carry out said commands. Many times over, players fumble the ball, fall over, kick way off target and for the most part, stand around touching each other. At these times I managed a few cliched jokes regarding pie consumption to the previously mentioned pot-bellied star.

I stood six times throughout the match. Four times to antagonise those behind me, once to get to my seat and once to leave.

Someone behind me stated with amazement upon my much anticipated departure from the stadium, that some player made three tackles for the game. I informed them that an NRL player recently made 74 tackles in a game.

They retorted by singing what can be assumed to be the team song of the victors, which concerned me, because from where I sat, there were no winners.

We hurried home just in time to watch the Friday night NRL matches.

Ah, real sport.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.