The Young & The Restless Raiders

I understand that blog wise I have – what is the correct terminology here – dropped the ball. This ball dropping extends to all areas of my life. Whatever. Dropping balls is as legitimate a lifestyle as any. Just ask the Raiders.

In the event, I actually blame the Raiders. Who doesn’t.  

The Raiders were the one relationship I trusted to sustain, distract and comfort me in times of uncertainty and I didn’t notice it happening at the time but at some point during the season this relationship took a grievous turn toward near-total apathy so that three months’ worth of incidents and machinations failed to elicit any emotion or response from me at all but seeing the Raiders describe Jarrod Croker as a “flashy” player on Facebook causes me to flip the fuck out.

Setting aside the season-spanning, serialised saga of ceaseless negativity, the Raiders appear to have reached a new juncture in their grim narrative by categorising Croker as a “flashy” player.

This is what they’ve come to. They are so parched of hope and devoid of talent that Croker now rates as a flashy player.

Ye Gods. Because no offence to Jarrod but I register strong objections to this claim. Actually, offence.  

He doesn’t pass, he can’t tackle, and even if you don’t take into account the permanent internal damage that missed kick in 2010 obviously inflicted he still looks like he’s perpetually on the brink of a psychic meltdown and needs his mum.

Here is Croker holding back the beckoning abyss

Leaving aside his undiagnosed and chronic PTSD, the nice – not flashy, nice - thing about Croker is that he has no desire to ever leave Canberra. He is HAPPY in Canberra. He enjoys a FULL AND VIBRANT LIFE in Canberra. He didn’t even want to leave Goulburn to move to Canberra and make grade because the carefully laid out roads alarmed and overwhelmed him. There is something essentially decent about this, especially in light of what has been happening at the Raiders for a long time but was thrown into rude relief this year so that they are now what are referred to in professional media circles as a “problem club”, which is also nice.   

Here is Dugan signing with the Dragons

Of course, the professionals are right, but most of this year’s unpleasant ‘problems’ are representative of a psychological syndrome at the Raiders that I notice has become steadily and now suddenly worse as the years wear on – that of finding Canberra a dissatisfying and dispiriting place to live and play in.

Canberra is not going to change. Young and restless players are going to continue to find themselves trapped in Sartre-like “huis clos” – a “no exit” hell of their own making, and will continue to lose fans and alienate people by seeking or forcing releases.

Here is Blake being bad 

Short of relocating the entire club to Perth I don’t know what can be done about this.  

Performance-wise, the Raiders veer between the passable and the incompetent. Off-field, they have always maintained a relatively calm surface which has been ruptured at obligingly spaced intervals by the sort of scandals that are better understood if you keep a copy of the ACT’s criminal statutes handy and prominent.

The gradual and then sudden unspooling of Todd Carney’s entire Canberra career, Joel Monaghan being blown by a teammate’s dog, Josh Dugan confounding everyone by turning out to be a total dickhead and Blake Ferguson making me so sad I can’t even bring myself to mention him beyond this point on here are some of the more seismic ruptures.

See also:

Coach Furner’s sacking

The senior player revolt that led to Coach Furner’s sacking

Hemorrhaging hundreds of points in a series of huge late season losses

Suffering the most catastrophic loss in club history – Storm 68 Raiders 4

Dropping from a lofty ladder position to one lower than Clint Eastwood’s balls but still higher than the Eels

Papa Josh announcing his plans to join the priesthood

Anthony Milford’s attempts to avoid having to suffer the dreadful corrosive reality of living in Canberra now that people outside of Canberra know his name        

Papa and Milford going rogue and getting on the drink two days before their must win match against the Warriors in Auckland which   

Papa throwing up in their hotel corridor

Letting Sam Williams go and now facing the very real possibility of going from having too many halves to no halves next year

Sandor Earl being awarded the opportunity to explore his capacities for regret, despair and banned substances outside of the NRL  

The death of #Dorguson

Ricky Stuart

Here are Papa and Milford being best friends



Here are Papa's shorts creeping into his crotch 

 

Here is Milford's hair
 

Here is Blake being bae

Here is everyone who has anything to do with the Raiders

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Raiders Rattle The Storm.

The inner flutterings of my intuition told me the Raiders were going to win this game. I texted my brother, I told him “I predict an upset, same as last year!” “Not me” he wrote back. My hold on the real world has always been slight at best, but something tells me I am right and he is wrong and I serenely ignore his suggestion, and everyone else’s (except, I imagine, the lovely and ever-loyal Laurie Daley) that the Raiders will be badly beaten.

The game starts but I am making custard in the kitchen. I don’t know what I miss but it probably involves Cooper Cronk rushing around being authoritative and yappy.

Raiders post the first points, ten minutes in. Blake Ferguson does sensational athletic things under the high ball, comes up with it, slams it down, leaps up and slams the ball away. Huzzah. Croker converts. 6-0.

Ferguson is playing with two spectacular black eyes. I note with interest that he has never looked better. He looks less like a half-formed amphibian and more Tyler Durden.

Reece Robinson gets a ball to Sandor Earl and Earl gets over. It’s pronounced “Shannnndor”. Is that Celtic? Those stars on his thighs don’t look very Celtic. I remember sitting in Bruce Stadium in 2010, when he was on the wing for Penrith, staring at that star-spangled thigh and thinking it was one of the more horrendous assemblages of tattoos I had seen. This was back when Joel Monaghan was on the wing for the Raiders. It was a good time, 2010. You sat right down close to the sideline so you could hear the hits and the things that people called out to Monaghan – nice things, because Monaghan was nice – and often Monaghan, because he was right there, would turn and look and acknowledge the shout-out. Usually it was just “HEY MONAGHS!!!” but once it was “HEY MONAGHS YOU’RE A FUNNY FUCK!!” which was astute, because he was, and didn’t that sense of humour prove to be his ultimate undoing - which, as the (my) theory goes, marked the general decline in morale and cohesion at the Raiders, the results of which we are still seeing, circa 2012. But I digress.

Cameras cut to Mal Meninga sitting broodily in some lofty box. The commentators announce he has been in the Raiders dressing rooms. Doing what, I wonder? I have no time and no appetite for Mal Meninga. I would rather hear that Ricky Stuart had been in the dressing room, frankly. Croker’s conversion fails; he sends a large lump of grass a good way up into the air though. 10-0.

Play resumes and Croker gets a flick-pass away. Several seconds later Brandy Alexander says words to the effect of “Croker raced up and made first contact.” This is all very, very strange. Unfamiliar.

Fifteen minutes in the Storm get their first real chance to post points. The Storm post points. This, this is familiar. Momentum shifts and swings towards the Storm. Doom-tinged doubt creeps in to my mind. This is exactly what these Raiders cannot handle. Defensive tests unnerve them, they unravel. Earl, who has just been tossed into touch a moment prior, gets up out of the line to shut things down for Melbourne on the fifth. I exhale. Relief. After defending their own line Canberra have a good set of six. My god. Also, they’re offloading. I’ve never seen the Raiders offload en masse like this. Twenty five minutes in and their completion rate is 9 from 10. My god in heaven.

The Storm make an error. Reece Robinson passes long to Eddrick Lee, who juggles, re-gathers and crosses for a try in the corner. Croker, gaping like a hooked fish, misses by a mile. 14-6.

Next thing, while I’m occupying myself wondering whether the Raiders can get through a solid set after posting points, they are occupying themselves by immediately going ahead and posting some more points. Quick hands from Josh McCrone to Ferguson, who busts a tackle, fends like T-Rex and links with Earl – TRY!

Next, Anthony Quinn knees Ferguson in the head. It flattens him. Eventually he wobbles to his feet.

In the 39^th minute Justin O’Neil gets a second try for the Storm, on Canberra’s left side. The problem side. Fun fact that is really no fun at all: Canberra has conceded 34 tries through their left hand side this year. Their left hand side defense gapes like a ripped circus tent, basically.

Halftime, 20-12. As they run off Mark Gasnier looms up and opines of Canberra “they’re actually doing a Melbourne Storm on the Melbourne Storm!” He gets this out without fucking it up and is clearly very pleased with himself. It still astonishes me that anyone would give Mark Gasnier a microphone, but at this time I’m feeling generous and find myself murmuring something like “good on you Gaz”, which is neither a sentence nor a sentiment I am familiar with. This is an unusual night all round.

Still, I’m not comfortable. To be a Raiders fan is to be in a perpetual state of discomfort. They can’t be trusted. They are famously unreliable. Also, the Storm are irritatingly reliable. And they love a strong second half. I picture them in the dressing room, being re-programmed with Bellamy’s exclusive and secret ‘retreat, evaluate, recalibrate’ software. The thought makes me feel extremely edgy.

The second half starts. A ball from McCrone leaves the Storm looking a long way short in defense and gets Eddrick Lee over for his second try. Lee was on track to becoming a basketball superstar until advice from an uncle swayed him towards football. He’s fucking massive; a big, lanky, loose assemblage of limbs and circuitry. Croker misses the conversion. No offence, but can’t someone else do it? Actually, offence. He stinks. 24-12.

Cronk kicks a 40/20. This is not good. This is very, very bad.

The Raiders hold the Storm back, but only barely. They get the ball back and advance it up the field with an ease and aptitude that I have never seen.

With 56 minutes gone Croker scores a try from a Joel Thompson one-arm offload, much to the distress of Cronk, who is screaming maniacally at Strom players to slide across, slide across! The Storm are ruffled! Less surprisingly, so is the terminally inept Mark Gasnier. He interjects to observe that “three repeat sex – pardon me – sets - for the Raiders here…” I get up to light some incense.

Next, McCrone throws a long looping ball out to Earl. Another try! Another missed conversion.

Shaun Fensom makes a bust and sets off down the field like a great thundering bison.

Robinson gets a ball to Lee, who makes it a hat trick of tries, which in turn makes a lump form in my throat. Croker, who looks like he has a perpetual lump in his throat, makes the conversion. This takes it to 40-12, the largest margin the Storm have ever been beaten by at AAMI Park. Audacious. We really have no business beating the Storm at all, let alone at their home ground, and by a record breaking margin. I relax and begin to revel in this unaccustomed brilliance.

The siren goes. David Furner winks at some unseen person from the coaching box. Such is my mood that I find this rakishly charming. Alluring, even. Winning throws a golden glow over what would otherwise be a sleazy and lowbrow gesture from a man as flinty as Furner. Ferguson and Earl do a special handshake, one with twitching fingers and pumping motions. This is also charming.

Gasnier, chatting amiably to a peevish Jason Ryles, says that the Storm were ‘uncharacteristical.’ This is not the first time I have heard Gasnier use this non-word. I can’t help but feel that the leap from leaving an absurdist 4 a.m. voicemail message to sideline commentary has been something of a stretch for Gasnier. He is far better suited to the former, I feel. I’m no expert, but surely that must be the greatest voicemail message in Australian history. The flashes of lewd, Wild-like wit are unparalleled in their excellence.

Finally, cameras cut to the Raiders dressing sheds. They’re all in a big circle clapping and hoo-haa-ing and belting out the team song and then Eddrick Lee breaks ranks, moves into the centre of the circle, drops to the floor and STARTS DOING THE WORM.

Josh Dugan Where You At

Furner, Just Admit It.

The Raiders are deeply entrenched – languishing, even - in the hog-wallow at the bottom of the ladder. They have lost their grip. Watching them play requires a great, marrow-taxing exertion of patience and stamina. It leaves me wrung-out, and with a filthy feeling that lingers for a long time. Who needs this? Not fucking me.

At the very least, their work-rates and demeanors are not living up to that of their namesakes.  The Vikings were manly and drank out of skulls and didn’t take any crap from anybody. I can’t help feeling like the Raiders have moved far, far away from these roots. Victor the Viking’s pre-game dancing is more menacing than the entire current Raiders playing team combined. I’m no marketing expert, but I think this means brand Raider has an image problem.

Of course, the Raiders also have injury problems. This is convenient, as it allows David Furner to maintain his veneer of delusion and lies when confronted with suggestions that things may not be going so well for him as coach.  News of inane and bizarre injuries do not help. In fact, it is fucking distracting. For example:

Jack-Boom Wighton is out for the season after a freak accident sustained WHILE BOUNCING ON A TRAMPOLINE AT HIS HOME which did terrible damage TO HIS LITTLE TOE. (My brother, spluttering and very near speechless – “A trampoline??? Does he have kids??? Who bounces on a trampoline??? Who even has a trampoline???)

What can you say? He lives in Canberra. It’s a full life.

((“Just twelve months ago, young Jack Wighton was working as an office trainee packing envelopes at Raiders headquarters in Canberra.”)) 

Anyway. Watching that god-awful 40-0 affair on the weekend I was struck afresh by their irredeemable badness.

Still, I felt cheered because I thought for sure that the fact that coach Furner is grooming the corpse of a dramatically dead football team had been demonstrated perfectly over an entire 80 minute period. And, y’know, I was hoping that this would lead to his termination and expulsion. Effective immediately.

Yeah, no. Not only did this not happen, he also said he took a variety of positives from the game. Astonishing! The man is committing numberless offences against my sensibilities; he’s turning me into a mouth-frothing hell-cat, I’m losing my fucking grip here and he thinks things look positive?? Fuck you, Furner!

I have enough yawning-void and looming-ruin type stuff in my daily life. Plus there’s winter to contend with. Winter brings a whole raft of problems. How to source a bulk load of the goose fat I like to coat myself in, for example.  It also requires a substantial rearranging of my fragmented psyche. So, you know, I really do not need an additional motive for agitation here.   

I could do without the Raiders sucking this badly, basically.

Jarrod Croker.  Jesus-mother, we need to talk about Jarrod.

(("This counts as a tackle, right??"))

Croker doesn’t look like he is even playing football anymore. Croker looks like he is playing a game of Catch the Oily Pig, and not actually catching any oily pigs.  

Is it neurological wherewithal he lacks? Is anemia or neuralgia or something causing him to be a slow flaccid mess? He hasn’t always missed this many tackles has he? Surely he hasn’t always been so absurdly, cartoonishly bad? Why is no one talking about him? Is it because he already looks like a refugee from a Dickens tale who is prone to suicidal despair? Why is no one talking about the Raiders in general? Why does Travis Waddell still have a contract? Why hasn’t anyone keyed Furner’s car/face/person? Why does Furner still have a contract??

Am I the only one asking these questions?

Here are the texts my brother sent me during and after the game. He too feels this hurt very deeply.

I just walked in to see the try from a scrum knock on. Great work

Furner can’t read

Marshmallow

Jasper would be able to tackle better than that   (Jasper is our mother’s foolish crippled whippet.)

That is about as good as Croker can do – tackle a man who is already down

Did he let in another?

What are the commentators saying?

Titans aren’t going to finish last and I can see the Panthers and Eels springing a few more upsets, so you know where that leaves us…

I’m long gone   (he left – fled, you could say)

Dugan looked uncomfortable from what I saw of him – will he be wearing 6 next week?

Wouldn’t matter how bad he went, with Furner in charge and Croker still in 3, Dugan could let in 50 points a game and still be 6 in 2015.

Not that I blame Dugan of course

Furner….

Were there comments about Furner or the future of the club?

Jesus… But the club will not ever change anything will it… Keep the coach and keep re-signing shit players. In HQ they must think that everyone else is wrong and their time will come. The 3^rd Reich will be back before the Raiders.

Aside from all the obvious issues, they are not going to win games without a real captain who can talk at the players. Campo wasn’t much of a captain but he was still the best man for the job. They really need to consider buying a senior marquee player. Like Orford….

God damn, just kick them out of the comp so no one has to care anymore. And let Furner carry the drinks and the oranges at halftime.

Watching Footy Show highlights of Tiger tries and Croker was involved in all tries (apart from one)!!!

--------

“They” “say” a little failure is good. Gives your face some texture.

“They” also “say” drinking your morning urine is a useful and healthful habit.

“It” is all “relative”, but, really, enough already.  

Mysterious Ways - Raiders 2012

I had a bad feeling about things yesterday. The Raiders, because they are maddening and mysterious, cannot be relied upon to win the games they are even vaguely expected to. Ever. So going into the Eels game, it felt like it could easily become one of those seventies exploitation movies where marauding inbred hillbillies set upon foolish interlopers who are looking for gas. And, y’know, rape them and stuff.

Luckily, Jarryd Hayne didn’t appear to be in the mood for such frivolities. Football, either. 

Still, this foreboding, this muted dread continued for the first fifteen or twenty minutes while the Raiders got themselves organised out there. More conventional teams tend to undertake this element of their preparation before the game actually starts – it’s sometimes referred to as a ‘warm up’ -  but no matter, no matter.

So. Basically, the Raiders won and the Eels continued the particle by particle disintegration of any hope that they will ever win a game, ever again.

It was also an afternoon of very strange football from which even a more stable person might have drawn disturbing conclusions. Happily, since I have been away, enveloped in hostile Himalayan mountains and isolated from any entertainment whatsoever aside from my mother’s very particular style of humour (she’s a nurse, so bodily emulsions and excretions feature prominently), I found the game to be pretty fucking great. Certainly it was highly stimulating. I mean, perhaps it wasn’t so great for those who are fans of defense (left side, anybody? Bueller..??) and finesse and consistency and Jarrod Croker making tackles, but these subtle shortcomings were all part of the fun. It was truly top notch entertainment. The fact that the Raiders won was a pleasing but entirely incidental benefit.

Another (far less pleasing) incidental was me spending spent 24 days with a keen Sharks fan while away. By the end of it, NAY – from the start of it – I would have rather wallowed in a pool of fragrant vomit - which I actually did do, horrifyingly – than spend any more time in his presence. Not because of the Sharks thing, though. More due to the fact that he was just such a dick. ThankGOD for the Sharks thing, really, because it gave us weighty topics to talk about – Paul Gallen, for one. And Blake Ferguson.

I also spent time with a cop – A COP , for chrissakes - from Wodonga, who confessed his deep-seated desire for Taser use to become widespread in Victoria and his longing to Taser Todd Carney. Or, as he put it, to “MAKE HIM DO THE CHICKEN.” Because that’s what they call it, don’t you know. He even gave a physical demonstration, which really did resemble what I imagine the movements of a hysterical, epileptic chicken with many millions of volts administered by a dimwitted fascist running though it would look like. Toddy, for the love of God stay the fuck away from Wodonga. Albury, too, to be safe. Unless you’re passing through on your way to mine, of course, in which case stick to the Hume and drive like stink.

Anyway. How is the talk surrounding the Eels? The apocalypse cometh!! Jesus. Hey, the other day? When my mother was rubbing crème into my feet (you heard me) and she made the observation that I had the beginnings of a corn on my little toe? Well I too am on a slip-stream to the apocalypse. I mean, aren’t we all?

Still, the Eels were groping around like eyeless worms for much of the game, they do look pretty poxy. Whatever. Forget them. Here are my three favourite match moments:

1.      Jack Wighton, who Laurie Daly had previously referred to as one of the game’s ‘merchants of speed’, scoring the winning try in the final minutes. Blake Ferguson grabbing and kissing his head and making my heart kick against my ribs. Football. Bringing us spurious, savage tokens of manhood from around the time that Christ was a hunk of flesh hanging off a cross.

2.      Blake Ferguson looming up into the camera while talking to that goose Mark Gasnier post-match and blurting “Aye can I just say g’day to my pop – my nan and pop in [insert random flyblown town name here] – how youse goin’!! –“. It was adorability itself. Gasnier looked slightly bewildered, mildly sheepish, and entirely idiotic. As usual.

3.      Man of the match Josh Dugan saying “Body’s 100% and I’m feeling fresh” YES IT IS, BITCH, YES IT IS.”  

Speaking of looks, how about Nathan Hindmarsh’s impersonation of a sweating, shambolic itinerant derro yesterday? His fucking jersey was midriff! It was riding halfway up his goddamn torso, shit was unseemly! Also, seeing him give lumbering chase as Blake Ferguson scored that spectacular long-range try (Sample text: “Go Frogboy GO”) vividly underscored the fact that the march of time is an absolute fucker, whichever way you look at it. The hooves of destiny beat for Hindmarsh and doesn’t he damn well know it. He looked like he should be slumped on a stool inside a coastal RSL club belching beer fumes into some two-bit barmaid’s face. He looked like he wished he was.

When it was all over, Josh Dugan tweeted a picture of himself sitting in his kitchen eating ham. Just kidding. He was without a shirt looking like he’d been kicked in the ribs by Gestapo boots. Like he isn’t fierce enough already, fuck! After his Raiders beating the Eels and Todd Carney’s Sharks beating the Storm and Billy Slater being binned this was more than my fevered brain could metabolise. I practically started seeing parades of pink elephants hurling past my retinas. Years of hermetic seclusion have run down my tolerance levels.

The other, obvious highlight of the round was Johnathan Thurston having to pull down his shorts and have his junk closely attended to. Midgame. As an entire stadium of Newcastle fans howled their approval. This excited me. A lean, dark and hungry looking man of doubtful repute dropping his shorts? YOU BETTER BELIEVE IT.  

Retro Raiders!

Round 4, Raiders vs Tigers.   

Best Bits:

1.      Terry yelling at the refs. Terry arguing with the refs. Terry entering into disputes with the refs that had nothing to do with him. Terry been scolded by a ref: “I don’t need your help Terry”. Terry in general. TERRY.

2.      Warren Smith in commentary observing Joel Thompson leaping to his feet with intent to agitate after a tackle and saying mildly “yesss…always looks to be happy to accommodate somebody if it gets a bit frisky out there is Joel…”

3.      Jack Whighton, who my brother and I have taken to referring to only as Jack Boom, giving it to Benji Marshall around the chin and leaving him reeling and drooling like Brendan Fevola at the 2009 Brownlows. Do not be fooled by his sweet nineteen year old sugar-face and baby animal eyes, people: he is an agent of aggression – less sunbathing Labrador puppy, more chained-up-overnight-at-the-wreckers-attack dog. My approval is wholehearted.

4.      Reece Robinson. He just… SEEMS SO NICE. And he hustled back from injury early – risking messing up that pretty face with his fractured cheekbone – to fill in at fullback for Dugan and had a high-octane and audacious blinder. He ran! He leaped! He contested! He caught! He did it all and he looked fine doing it! Consequently, he was the subject of pervy texts – not for the first time – from my girl J-Bo. Example: “Robinson I love his assssssssssssss!!!!!” He pleased us both greatly. This makes him a people-pleaser, and proves that he really must be very nice.

5.      Footage of the Raiders belting out the victory song in the sheds, and Blake Ferguson accompanying with his half River dance, half stroke victim choreography. It has a name, his collection of moves – ‘The Fergie Dance’.  A sublime visual representation of victory.

6.      Laurie Daly’s chickens finally coming home to roost. He is clearly burdened with a psychic blockage that prevents him from tipping against the Raiders, no matter how diabolical their form. You just don’t see loyalty and resolve like that anymore.

7.      Jarrod Croker – sweet sad eyed man-child, summing things up beautifully in his post-match interview with the stirring words “Guess we played a bit of Raiders of old.” Croker! Jesus me! That is the most deeply meaningful and poignant post-match sentiment I have ever heard.

8.      Raiders 30, Tigers 16. Ye olde Raiders REPRESENT.

Way to be a Buzz Kill, Carney.

That was some bittersweet shit there at the SFS last night. 

The whole thing has left me looking something like this...

Vandelay Industries!

The Sweetness:

- The Raiders won. This was their first win at the SFS since 1995. That's a long time between drinks.

- Croker washing the last traces of the blonde, Shane Warne-circa-1997 tips out of his hair. Vast improvement.

- Croker's nose bleeding for most of the 80 minutes. At one stage he kicked a goal with what looked to be half a tampon stuffed up one nostril.

- Greg Alexander cracking a funny. Don't believe me? Cop this: "Here comes Massey! Can he get it to Ferguson? They'd really be ploughing up the field then! Loz? Loz....?"

- Brett White throwing a punch at some ex-Storm teammate and leering at him through a busted mouthful of blood. I don't know what it is with this guy and his frequently bleeding mouth but I find it to be one of the hottest things in the game. It's inexplicable.

- Brett White taking his teeth out - I know, I had no idea either, and this may go some way toward explaining his propensity for dishing out and taking punches in the mouth -  on the sideline, grinning into the camera and kicking his legs happily like some kind of deranged, heavily bandaged lunatic who spends their days at train stations because they're not quite ready to be institutionalised.

- Tom Learoyd Lars' huge, galloping goose-step.

- Josh McCrone having another blinder, getting Man of the Match for the second week running and revealing that he leaves his mouthguard in for interviews for superstitious reasons: "I don't take it out 'til I've had me shower". Amazing.

Last week when he conducted his post-match interview through his mouthguard I didn't realise at first and thought he just had a really really retarded voice. I won't lie, the first thing I thought was "Oh my GOD he has the voice David Shillington is supposed to have - if Shilly had Bells Palsy or something...". Y'know, because Shilly has the sweetest, softest voice in the entire NRL, which is somewhat at odds with his hulking 110 kg frame and brutal on-field antics.

- The locker room footage of Blake Ferguson doing a victory dance surrounded by a circle of shirtless, shouting Raiders banging on eskies and locker doors and wotnot. Stirring stuff.

-Brian Smith being his usual jibbering, delusional self in the post-game press conference. The man is a space cadet of the highest order. Imagine for a moment what it's going to be like when Matt Elliot joins him as assistant coach next year. it's gonna be levitation and astral travel and Deepak Chopra and The Art of War at every turn. I can't wait.

The Bitterness:

- Lars ripping his bicep tendon late in the second half and ending his season. Dang.

- Knowing that, had things gone differently, that totally would have been Joel Monaghan centre-stage and dancing like a clown in the post-game celebration. Double dang.

- Braith Anasta sitting next to Brian Smith at the press conference, wearing a towel and being forced to listen to the public ramblings of his useless fool of a coach. Braith is way too bitchin' to be subject to that kind of rubbish and I squirmed through the whole thing on his behalf.

- I've been avioiding it, because it's terribly sad, but obviously the worst thing about this game was that it brought the whole Todd Carney 'What Could Have Been' thing into rude focus. Just seeing him on the field wearing the Roosters tri-colours among Raiders was jolting, frankly, and I'm resigned to the fact that it always will be. I kind of wanted him to have a fuck-off incredible game, because god knows the boy could do with a bit of a boost. Put it this way, I recognise an unravelling mind when I see one.

As it was, he had another average game and as it was I felt awful for him. The really bitter part of the night came when he was bailed up at the end of the game and made to talk about the Roosters' woeful season thus far and the fact that the possibility of making the finals had just slid completely off their horizon. He managed to string together a few cliches but he was so shaken that he forgot himself for a moment and actually referred specifically to himself. I KNOW. STOP THE PRESSES. If what he said hadn't been so sad I would have clapped my hands in delight. Like how seals clap their flippers at SeaWorld, you know? That's my natural reaction when JT laughs, when Gal fobs off a compliment, or when Ennis does anything at all, really.  Here's what he said: "It's gonna be tough but........ I won't surrender yet." Note that there is no mention of 'the boys' in that sentence? Toddy is totally blazing a trail. Either that or he's having a breakdown.

When he said "all credit to Canberra" and mumbled something about them being a very special team I kind of came unglued.

This is the guy who said openly, pre-string-of-scandals, that he never wanted to leave Canberra and the Raiders and harboured no aspirations to ever do so. Goddamn.

So, anyway, the Raiders owned it, the Roosters blew it, and the whole thing left me wrung out and overwrought.

Then I got a look at the ladder and saw that we'd leap-frogged not only the Roosters but the Eels too and that jolted me back to my senses; by which I mean I hissed and did a Hewitt-style starting-the-mower move and generally forgot the night's bitter bits. Sometimes it pays to be a pin head.