For those who didn’t come down in the last shower, which in some areas, was a few years ago, you would know that Rugby League’s premier competition started in Australia in 1908.
And for those who learnt to count using a rock, you wouldn’t realise that the game is now 100 years old. This is cause for a bloody huge celebration.
So lets all get drunk!
Why get drunk? Because the flowing of the amber fluid instigates the flowing of ideas. Some of the best ideas have come from drunk men, such as bigger glasses for putting alcohol into for consumption, tying a bloke to a toilet that he’s passed out on and the splitting of the atom, to name but a few.
Now, it has come time for those great thinkers to come up with a grand idea for Rugby League’s 100th birthday in Australia.
So here to discuss the birthday, we have a panel of four drunk experts. They are Johnno, a drunk man who runs his own plumbing business, Bill, a drunk man who has retired and plays golf every second day, Smithy, a drunk man who works as a welder and Mick, a drunk man who runs his own drinking business.
Drinking starts at 6pm.
Interview starts at 11.47pm.
Mick: I reckon, what we gotta have, is something just like that first day. Every club wearing the same designed jumpers and stuff eh?
Bill: Bloody oath! I reckon they should also have the teams that played each other on that first day, line up against each other again on the centenary.
Smithy: Half those bloody teams aren’t even around anymore you idiot. Shouts to barman MORE BEER!
Bill: Yeah they are, we still got the bunnies and the roosters, who else was there?
Johnno: It says ‘ere that Balmain played Wests…
Smithy: Well that’s stuffed that idea of yours up Bill, they are one team now.
Bill: They’re still kickin in the lower grades, bung em on the telly for a game.
Mick: You can’t be thinking straight. You shouldn’t have gone to the crapper the last time, your IQ dropped another 48 points.
Smithy: I bet he only needed a half flush too
Laughter all around, until Bill throws a wayward right hook at Smithy and falls over, then Johnno picks Bill up and gets him another beer.
Johnno: So Balmain played Wests, Souths played Norths, Easts played Newtown and Glebe played Newcastle, how the bloody hell are you gonna get those mobs up against each other?
Bill: I don’t bloody know! I’m just throwing up an idea. I didn’t hear any of you complaining with my theory on relativity. Eh? EH? Yeah, idiots!
Mick: Yeah alright, we get the point. I say we bring back the 1908 rules.
Johnno: Does that include the original interchange rule as well?
Mick: I guess so, what was it?
Smithy: Did they have substitutes back then?
Bill: Nah, Don’t think so, I thought they only used a reserve if a bloke got injured and couldn’t play.
Mick: We’ll make that the rule then!
Smithy: Are you kidding? Today’s props would keel over and cark it!
Johnno: Hey, that would mean spear tackles and high tackles would also be allowed again.
Bill: Now that’s what the fans wanna see!
Smithy: The fans wanna see players being turned into cripples? You moron Bill, go and give yourself a dozen you idiot.
Bill swears loudly and throws another wayward right hook at Smithy before missing and punching Johnno’s schooner and spilling his beer all over the bar. Bill’s shout again.
Mick: You know what, I like this idea. We’re gonna bring back illegal tackles, the old jumpers, the old teams. It’s just like when we had to figure out a solution for the second world war. If I remember rightly, Johnno suggested an unlimited interchange for that one.
Johnno: Yeah, that’s right, the unlimited interchange. It was brought in far too late, by then Easts had dropped the H bomb on Balmain at Hiroshima and stuffed everything up.
Bill: You blokes are blind.
Smithy: I can still see you’ve got a head like a rotten pumpkin.
Bill swings with a right hook and connects this time, with the barman! He is consequently kicked out and last drinks are called.
Well there we have it, another productive meeting with the NRL decision makers. Looks like we’ll have to wait til happy hour next week for something more productive.
Showing posts with label Drunks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Drunks. Show all posts
Sunday, 7 August 2011
Bar Footy (2004)
Many a drunken conversation is about bettering your fellow conversers previous comments. Drunken conversation related to sporting prowess is always one of great interest for me though.
As a barman for some years, there are many interesting thoughts shared: funny, smart, stupid, deep, unintelligible, mindless gibberish describes the majority of it. But one topic I always seemed fascinated by was the drunken Rugby League conversation.
Most of these conversations start at around 10.45pm on a Friday night after the patrons have finished critiquing the decisions by players and officials of the nights televised match on the television located in the bar area.
Considering these men all played amateur football, under different rules and when weight divisions were in place, not age groups, it seems to be slightly out of order for them to be commenting on an evolved version of the game they once played.
The drunken conversations start out with who played against the oldest people due to their weight. I always thought heavy kiddies meant they were overweight, but these men spoke as though they were 8 years old, 6 foot tall and 80 kilos of pure muscle, while all the people of the same age were at most, half the size.
Then come the amazing feats of strength, skill and speed.
“I remember making 60 tackles in 30 minutes one game!”
“I remember scooping the ball up in my own in-goal and racing the length of the field untouched to score under the sticks to win the Grand Final!”
“I remember scoring 7 tries in one game!”
Rolling my eyes at three drunk fat middle aged men talking like they were the greatest players alive, I pour them all another beer, knowing that the stories will undoubtedly get better.
“I played reserve grade when I was 15!”
“I scored 3 tries in my first ever game and got man of the match!”
“I almost got to play for a club in Sydney!”
And with that last comment, the stories pick up a notch. Not surprisingly the amount of alcohol consumed increases, as the amount of honesty decreases. ‘What the Hell, give ‘em more beer!’
“We used to play under the 8 tackle rule.”
For men who were reliving their youth and trying to sound young, to be reverting back to this comment always confused yet enlightened me. They forge on regardless.
“I was compared to that Longhands bloke who used to play for the Dragons.”
“The game today is soft, if those blokes had’ve been playing when I did they woulda got smashed!”
“They’re a bunch of wimps, I was twice the player half of those overpaid idiots will ever be!”
Then with a shaky outstretched hand clutching at the middle glass, the all take another mouthful of the amber fluid and continue hurtling down a memory lane that only exists in the bottom of a middie.
“I used to play alongside Arthur Beetson!”
“I remember having a fight with Les Cleal in reserves one year. I smashed him with two punches!”
Then the comparisons of manhood ensue, with the conversation going a long way off topic. Two hours, and many more beverages, later, the conversation comes back to the nights game which they had viewed. The armchair critics begin their spiel.
It’s also at this stage the speech begins to slur, and memory decides to go and take a leak, without its owner.
“I bet thoshe bloody refsh are being paid by clubsh. Shee shome of the decisions made tonight? They were a joke!”
Some incoherent mumbling ensues before the next comment of intellect.
“I reckon they’re bein’ bribed, we never had that problem when I played footy, refs always called it shtraight down th’ line, none of thish crap that went on tonight. It’s a joke!”
Invariably, the conversation then goes back to where it started, with many more reminiscing beginning with “back in my day” and more misunderstood swearing under the breath.
One thing I would like to see, and I know these drunken men would be up for it after a few ales, is a drunken game of league. Let us not worry about weight divisions. Let us not worry about age, size or injuries. These men speak with such enthusiasm about their talents, it’s hard to believe that they are mere mortals.
We can tape the game and after 80 minutes, go back to the bar, and with beer in hand, watch the game and see who really was honest.
As a barman for some years, there are many interesting thoughts shared: funny, smart, stupid, deep, unintelligible, mindless gibberish describes the majority of it. But one topic I always seemed fascinated by was the drunken Rugby League conversation.
Most of these conversations start at around 10.45pm on a Friday night after the patrons have finished critiquing the decisions by players and officials of the nights televised match on the television located in the bar area.
Considering these men all played amateur football, under different rules and when weight divisions were in place, not age groups, it seems to be slightly out of order for them to be commenting on an evolved version of the game they once played.
The drunken conversations start out with who played against the oldest people due to their weight. I always thought heavy kiddies meant they were overweight, but these men spoke as though they were 8 years old, 6 foot tall and 80 kilos of pure muscle, while all the people of the same age were at most, half the size.
Then come the amazing feats of strength, skill and speed.
“I remember making 60 tackles in 30 minutes one game!”
“I remember scooping the ball up in my own in-goal and racing the length of the field untouched to score under the sticks to win the Grand Final!”
“I remember scoring 7 tries in one game!”
Rolling my eyes at three drunk fat middle aged men talking like they were the greatest players alive, I pour them all another beer, knowing that the stories will undoubtedly get better.
“I played reserve grade when I was 15!”
“I scored 3 tries in my first ever game and got man of the match!”
“I almost got to play for a club in Sydney!”
And with that last comment, the stories pick up a notch. Not surprisingly the amount of alcohol consumed increases, as the amount of honesty decreases. ‘What the Hell, give ‘em more beer!’
“We used to play under the 8 tackle rule.”
For men who were reliving their youth and trying to sound young, to be reverting back to this comment always confused yet enlightened me. They forge on regardless.
“I was compared to that Longhands bloke who used to play for the Dragons.”
“The game today is soft, if those blokes had’ve been playing when I did they woulda got smashed!”
“They’re a bunch of wimps, I was twice the player half of those overpaid idiots will ever be!”
Then with a shaky outstretched hand clutching at the middle glass, the all take another mouthful of the amber fluid and continue hurtling down a memory lane that only exists in the bottom of a middie.
“I used to play alongside Arthur Beetson!”
“I remember having a fight with Les Cleal in reserves one year. I smashed him with two punches!”
Then the comparisons of manhood ensue, with the conversation going a long way off topic. Two hours, and many more beverages, later, the conversation comes back to the nights game which they had viewed. The armchair critics begin their spiel.
It’s also at this stage the speech begins to slur, and memory decides to go and take a leak, without its owner.
“I bet thoshe bloody refsh are being paid by clubsh. Shee shome of the decisions made tonight? They were a joke!”
Some incoherent mumbling ensues before the next comment of intellect.
“I reckon they’re bein’ bribed, we never had that problem when I played footy, refs always called it shtraight down th’ line, none of thish crap that went on tonight. It’s a joke!”
Invariably, the conversation then goes back to where it started, with many more reminiscing beginning with “back in my day” and more misunderstood swearing under the breath.
One thing I would like to see, and I know these drunken men would be up for it after a few ales, is a drunken game of league. Let us not worry about weight divisions. Let us not worry about age, size or injuries. These men speak with such enthusiasm about their talents, it’s hard to believe that they are mere mortals.
We can tape the game and after 80 minutes, go back to the bar, and with beer in hand, watch the game and see who really was honest.
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