opinion

- You get here by 5.45am. You’re not here by 5.45am, it’s the car radio.

- Come alone. You bring the wife? You’re going home. Kids? You’re going home. That Welsh guy from your work? Home. Clear? Good.

- Bring beer.  Yeah it’s Sunday morning, but this is Rugby. We drink. There’ll be no ‘make one can last the whole game and pour most of it in the sink like the World Cup’, either. It’s three cans per half minimum, and I’m going to be watching you like a fucking hawk.

- You stay quiet while I’m arguing with the commentators unless you’re saying “yeah, Greg’, ‘that’s right, Greg’, ‘good point well made, Greg’, or ‘you should be the commentator, Greg’. I’ll be ringing Deaker after, too, don’t you worry.

- Seeing as you’re around here watching my Sky, I’m going to need $25. That’s half my month’s subscription. Not fair? An 18 month ban from the Rugby club for shit that was never proved’s not fair, either. Just cos a joker’s got spray can on him for a bit of DIY on Sunday doesn’t mean he’s sprayed ‘We Are All Qeers’ on Eastern’s coach. Does it? Didn’t think so.

- Choose one from ‘cell phone off’ or ‘painful kick in the nuts’.

- If the All Blacks win, we’re on the piss for the day, mate. You gotta celebrate. DIY, Kid’s day, blah blah blah, what are ya? We’re going to the RSA. You’re driving.

- If the All Blacks lose you need pack your shit and be out in 60 seconds, starting from final whistle. If I’ve got a whole day of staring angrily at the lawn mower ahead, I want an early start.

…so Yoda pulled up in his Ford and says “What the bloody hell are you doing in my wheelie bin?”…

What’s that mate? Cricket? Shiiiiiiiiiit. Cricket’s about as interesting as shopping, I reckon. Shopping that’s not at Bunnings.

How are we going, anyway? We lost to Bangladesh? Doesn’t surprise me. Bloody  Black Caps. They’ve got more losers than the Graham farkin’ Henry fan club AGM.

We won the next one? Doesn’t surprise me. You can turn bad form around pretty farkin’ easily when you want to. Reminds me of Smelly Dave’s 21st. He was spewing when we called compulsory six wine skulls, one for each toe on his left foot. He did them alright, but had to go sit quietly in the laundry for a while. Fair enough, it was 8.30am. Still did a 3.19 for the yard, pretty fair effort, that.

Last one’s tonight? We’ll lose. There’s no mongrel. They need mongrel. And Robbie Deans. Robbie’d have that pack of pretty boys performing before you could say “SORRY I BURNED THE TOAST, PREFECT MERTHENS, NOT THE STRAP, NOT THE STRAP!” Ah ha. Yeah.

I might watch the match, but fark, if something else comes up, like a case of Canterbury Draught in the driveway with the dog, forget it. We done? Good.

…so yeah, I don’t reckon the Wallabies’ white bra-stripe is that bad, actually…

More

Great to see the Herald’s graphic artists stoop to the crappy-PowerPoint-speech-bubble-level. Pull up a chair boys, there’s beer in the fridge. Mind the stain… that one too… there you go.

Here’s today’s front page:

And the close up…

This is great, but remember - you can make them say anything. Why stop at paraphrasing what they’ve already said? Go nuts, really. It’s fun. Case in point:

(click for original)

A Mormon missionary stands at your door and enthuses about an expanded Super 14 to establish rapport.

G’day my main mate.

Did you hear? 18 teams in the Super 14. No bull-pucky. You gotta hand it to the Rugby Union - there’s nothing can’t be made better with more teams and more games. Eh. That total entertainment package just got WAY more sick.

I mean, take the Super 12. I loved it. I LOVED IT! But a man soon got to thinking if, say, the Hurricanes could beat Perth. At Rugby. Or, how New South Wales would handle a composite team drawing its players from the Free State and Northern Cape Provinces. And whaddayaknow, SANZAR came to the party. Me and my buddies settled a few bets, lemme tell ya.

And the Tri-Nations? More games means more EXTREME. Yeah! Mate.

Look at Baseball, that’s like, 160 games a year. You could have a Super 160. Imagine the Hastings Razorbacks’ rush defence facing off with the Tamworth Rhinestones’ back row. Woah. Mate. Rugby Union in your face once again.

Back at the dorm, Elder Barry says a Super 18 is a poke in the eye of all right thinking Rugby fans, possibly the most moronic move ever, and it makes him want to start watching ‘poofball’, whatever that is.

I say - gimme five! Or gimme 18, if that was anatomically possible. Eh.

I’m Dan Surechzek, Senior VP, Adidas Minority Pussy-Ass Sports Division, Pacific rim. Last night, Dan Surechzek slept like a fuckin’ baby. A heavily sedated baby. But this morning… it’s 7.15am and there I am, takin’ a shower after my 14 mile run to the office, and the phone rings (yeah, my fuckin’ iPhone’s waterproof). I take the call - it’s New Zealand on the line, but this ain’t some some hairy-dick hobbit wanting his ring back, no, they’re screamin’ “Dan! We got ourselves a fuckin’ SITUATION!”.”You can’t tell the jerseys apart!” they’re sayin’. “The All Blacks and the only other team in the world with similar colors are playing, and you fucked it up, Dan!” they’re tellin’ me. The thing they don’t realise, right, is that Dan Surechzek NEVER fucks up. Sure, there was that one time in college, but if you wanna join Pi Lamda Kappa, man, those are the risks you take. No-one FORCED the kid to run off that car park roof in blind terror. He chose his own path. He’s gotta look at life in a wheelchair as an opportunity, am I right? It’s up to HIM now.

Anyhoo, as we all know, when the shit hits the fan, El Surechzekio goes straight into solution mode. I get Vantella-May to bring me a triple shot mocha no cream, with some Avocado on toast on the double so I can think, and roll the tape. If New Zealand has got a problem, my 8.30am Racquetball game goes right out the fuckin’ window, lemme tell ya.

Here’s the deal. On one side, we got Richie McCaw and the All Blacks. On the other side, we got some bunch of fuckin’ pussies from Scotland. Hang on… hold the fuckin’ burrito - Surecheckarino’s spotted the problem straightaway - you Kiwis just don’t know how to watch Rugby. Sure, the whole thing’s a mess of grey and black and blue and grey, but you gotta forget about that. Forget it. Listen close. What are the All Blacks wearing? That’s right, a three fuckin’ dimensional garment with bodymapping technology. Made out of ClimaCool. IT! DOESN’T! FUCKIN! MATTER! About the color! And I haven’t even mentioned the Powerweb. Are you guys blind, or what?

And Scotland? Scotland got Canterbury jersys. With piping. And a chest-zone-separate-and-lift-power-strip. And what are those jerseys made of? That’s right, Temex Polycotton. You guys got me out of the shower for this? You’d have to be retarded not to tell the difference. AND a fuckin’ moron. Temex! ClimaCool! Temex! ClimaCool! It’s not so hard, is it? Sheesh.

I am so fuckin’ on. I get New Zealand back on the line, and after a bit of the ol’ Surechzek hairdryer treatment, they’re soon seeing things my way. Lemme tell you guys, we don’t spend an absolute shitload on R+D for some shit for brains with three sheep in his ass to interrupt my shower and tell me they can’t tell a ClimaCool from a fuckin’ Temex. Fuck me. Sideways.

Still, that fire’s out, and I can still make my 9.45am Pilates class. And hey - I mean, this is Rugby right? At least it wasn’t Hockey, or Basketball, then we’d have a REAL fuckin’ situation on our hands. Hasta manana, amigos.

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Once, I hated rugby. It was that stupid thing my dad and brothers watched Sunday afternoons when 90210 was on. AND they made the lounge stink like beer and wet wool. Eeeeeew!

Then Bev from the office dragged me along to watch the Hurricanes play the Whoever-they-ares. I wasn’t holding out much hope - chardonnay came in a funny plastic bottle, I got sauce all down the front of my top, and there were no cute guys in the crowd. Looked like Rugby was fully gunna suck.

And then… they started playing MUSIC. Woah. Who knew that just playing music turned rugby from something fully stupid to a night out that totally rules! “I don’t knowwwwwww - oh - oh - oh! WHY DOES LOVE! DO THIS TO MEEEE!” “HEEEEEEY HEY BABY! OOOH! AAAAH!” Then the DJ played the Feelers! And Robbie Williams! We were dancing like it was a night club! I’ve got to hand it to them - Rugby certainly is a total entertainment package!

The Rubgy DJ doesn’t just play the best music - he’s soooo funny! In the very first huddle thing, one guy went off injured - and he played ‘Another one bites the dust!’ Hah hah hah! He’s such a hard case! Then the ref made some stupid call, and he played Wet Wet Wet’s “Sweet little mystery!” Hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah! What a crack up!

Next thing you know the home rugby guys went ahead on the scoreboard, and he stuck on ‘One step ahead’ by Split Enz. Classic. He’s funny AND clever. I go every week now, it totally fits in with my lifestyle. I get my face painted, and wave my big finger glove around.

I have to take my hat off to the Rugby marketing guys (or my dreadlock wig). Before, Rugby was just stupid and smelly, and now, with music, it’s a perfect Friday night out with friends and family. The Sevens is even better - there’s more music and less Rugby! Choice! I buy the official Hurricances Jerseys every year just to say thanks! My wardrobe’s full of them! See you there!

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What-o! Well, the first week has been absolutely top class. No casualties to report so far, apart from Fossington-Garter - he tried to beat Brampton-Minor’s record of 43 Pink Gin and Tonics on the flight to the Caribbean, and was dreadfully sick. The entire first class cabin had to fart about in Oik class while it was sorted out. Frightful bore, Sir Mick was extremely annoyed.

I will say one thing - the Barmy Army’s organisation really has been first class. One of the chappies met us in the resort lobby with all the Barmy Army kit, I purchased some official golf balls, cargo shorts, a corkscrew, brolly, bag tags and locks, as well as a smashing tie. I even picked up a rather lovely logo-d Mount Blanc pen. The boys in the office will be awfully jealous.

The first match is against New Zealand. Those Kiwis are a queer lot. We got the better of those rotters when we flew in for the Lions’ tour - we were sat in the Hilton’s lounge bar after the third test singing “Who the ruddy hell are you?” and “Show us your Empire” all night long. Smashing. And Sir Clive truly is a splendid bloke, so easy to talk to.

Anyway, we finally met some New Zealanders in St Lucia, and after a spot of banter they challenged us to a boat race. Rather silly of them, as Quentington-Louvers’ father had had the catamaran sent ahead. The chaps rowed out, rigged up and were ready to race, but did those Kiwis show up? Not bloody likely. Scared of the Empire’s sailing prowess, what? Dreadfully disappointing.

Afterward we popped to the local night spot, when who should come into the VIP area but Andrew Flintoff! He immediately recognised Chortlington-Leatherington from the MCC fundraiser when he ran through the long room with only a Bacon and Egg tie on. Crackers, he is. Apparently the chaps had lost the match - well, we took a leaf out of the Kiwis’ book and challenged HIM to a boat race. We asked if he’d a boat, and he said he’d sort something out. And do you know, that dirty rotter never showed up either - god only knows what happened to him. Honestly.

The World Cup? Mate, well hopefully we’ll get a big fright against the Boks in the Semi, just to keep the boys focused, then clean up the Froggies in the final. That’ll farkin learn them for ‘99… Eh?

Cricket? Hoo-farkin-ray. I know as much about Cricket as Fatty Walters knew about his 21st after we spiked his yardie with Pepe Lopez. That’s not a farkin lot, mate, I’ll tell ya. While you’re here, how come we have to put up with Ian Smith doing rugby? He might be built like a prop running a bakery but he knows as much about Rugby as my dog. Less, I reckon. Mate, tell you what, you guys can have Mex, that’s fair as.

Mate, I know one thing. The Black Caps are Farkin. Useless. They always fark it up. Back at school we’d gave the cricketers a hiding in the boat races. They’re worse than Poofballers, mate. Or Ali Williams. I’d only watch cricket if the 2004 Super 12 final was on the Rugby Channel, the dog was at the vet and the missus was home. I’d rather KNIT.

Is that a programme? Gis a look at the team… Jesus. Fleming? That guy is a farkin liability, I’ve NEVER seen him score ANY runs, and he still gets in the team, mate. Unbelievable. A bloody Aucklander in a Cantab’s body.

Taylor? McCullum? Never heard of them. Vettori? Sounds like a poofball player. Bloody looks like one too. What happened to Rod Latham? They should get him back. And Lee Germon. Mate.

Hang on. Kenya? Ireland? Farkin Bermuda? Jesus, look at the guts on that guy - six weeks chopping piss in the West Indies, it’s gunna be Farkin. Massive. Growing the game? Growing Bermudan bellies more like. Heh.

Anyway, the Black Caps need someone like Robbie Deans, mate. He’d be farkin ace, he’s won like 8 Super 12’s, and those bloody Aucklanders won’t let him have the ABs. That’s it - Deans and Marshall, get Justin in the team, we’d win this bloody World Cup. Not that I’D give a shit, mate. Are we done?

…and then Richie said to me “Get out of my way, you pillock”. Happiest day of my life, mate.

A Mormon missionary stands on your door step and talks you through the recent Chappell-Hadlee series to establish rapport. G’day my main mate.

Did you catch the big cricket games in the weekend, amigo? Lemme tell ya - I sucked back a few Banana Primos watching that one.

Matthew Hayden? The Aussie’s lead off guy? His hitting was SICK! In the time out I was all “there’s no way these Kiwis are coming back” man, they are lower than a punctured bike tyre, and but I was so wrong. I hadn’t been that excited since the last America’s Cup. Wait. No, I wasn’t excited about that. That sucked. Dang.

Craig MacMillian? He was TOTALLY in my face. Eh. How many homers did that guy hit? BAM! And Shane Bond, man, when he comes in with his fast ball me and the fellas at the dorm were too psyched. We we rockin’ man, you should have been there - Elder Zach had to come down to our room and at first he was all “You guys simmer down”, and we were all “No way Jose, this game’s going right to the bottom of the ninth, you gotta get down with the Cricket” and he was all like “Whoah - these Kiwis are kicking some SERIOUS hiney” and soon he was chugging on Banana Primos like he was one of the guys. We still took a lickin’ the next morning, but we were high on cricket, dude. And God.

Man, I can’t wait to tell the guys back in Salt Lake City about cricket, they show it on ESPN 5. Baseball? No-one’s gonna care dude, I’m a total wicket head now, I swear. Eh.

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G’day Mate. Here by yourself? Same here.

What are ya reading? The paper? I don’t bother, eh.

Got the sports section? Didja see they announced the Cricketers for the World Cup? Pack of girls, yinnow.

Shit, I’ve got pie on me.

The Aussies bloody laugh at us. Mate, they’ve got guys averaging 300 in domestic cricket that can’t make the team, yinnow? And a guy that bowls at 200 Ks. I’m moving to the Gold Coast next year, my cousin reckons it’s choice. Piss is cheaper there, eh. You get all the rugby on TV, too. You’re quiet, eh mate?

Tuffey got picked. Fark’s sake. Remember when he bowled that over for 38 at Eden Park? Farkin’ embarrassment. I could do better. You should’ve seen me in high school. Would’ve made First XI but for that FX82 going missing. Fark you like reading that paper, eh? Mate?