Josh Dugan's Sweetness..& other stuff

Weird things are happening everywhere.

It’s a strange season. Cosmic aberrations abound.

Darius Boyd has taken to weeping in dressing sheds at half time, and probably at full time too, poor little pie.

Mitchell Pearce is picking up Pussy Cat Dolls and maybe (unsubstantiated) Nicki Minaj while on Blues training camp in Melbourne.

Luke Lewis has been stood down as captain; a masterstroke devised by Ivan Cleary and designed to simultaneously demoralise and galvanise while at the same time helping to keep Lewis’ self-esteem in check.

Des Hasler has nothing to maniacally rake his fingers through after shaving off his lion-like mane.

Krisnan Inu has abruptly been sold to the Bulldogs and may turn out to be coachable after all.

The Sharks have been winning games.

Jamal Idris has gained weight and grown so puffy that his edges resemble rising pizza dough that’s been set aside in a bowl on a windowsill. 

Todd Carney came down with a shocking case of the Yips during his Origin debut and made numerous strange and unhelpful contributions to the game.  

Brent Kite took over Billy Slater’s high-ball duties in Origin because Billy Slater couldn’t take one to save his life. His uncharacteristically tenuous command of a fairly simple skill was a welcome development. It was also totally disorientating.

The Bulldogs and the Eels have become my favourite teams to watch; for entirely different but equally rewarding reasons, including but not limited to Jarryd Hayne's lazy charm and Josh Reynolds' abrasive feistyness.

There are some unshakable certainties though.

Brett Stewart remains as aggressively petulant as ever.

Luke Lewis continues, despite his tribulations, to trail a vague air of menace and mongrel behind him.

Laurie Daly’s eyes still look like cornered rats.

The police have netted another Rooster in their wily civic net.

Chris Sandow continues to do his best imitation of somebody who can play.

Timana Tahu continues to do his best imitation of somebody who is not a psychopath.

Dane Tilse still looks like someone who is making good progress on his learn to read program but still has to move his lips to get through the longer words.

Queensland continues to win with a good amount of ease.

Josh Dugan’s sweetness and beauty continues to trouble the air around him.  

Cameron Smith is as irritating as ever.

Braith Anasta’s head is still magisterial and profound.

Dave Taylor’s head still looks like something on a spit.

Wayne Bennett’s press conference comments still have no chance of being mistaken for an author being interviewed on Radio National.

Daniel Vidot is proving to be just as much of a liability for the Dragons as he eventually became for the Raiders.

Hating on referees is now seen to be an even more legitimate and desirable pastime for players, ex-players, fans, coaches, journalists, children, livestock and judges on The Voice.

Willie Mason is still boss.

- All this is about all I ask out of life.

The Raiders are a Russian Novel

Last Sunday, my god.

That Raiders Roosters game was full of abominations too monstrous to describe or even name.

A week has passed. The immediate, astonished horror has worn off, but everyday objects still have the sharp angry edges they took on shortly after kick-off. I mean, MY GOD. I legit started thinking some kind of extraterrestrial invasion was underway. If I hadn’t been so transfixed by the suffocatingly slow unfolding of scenes on my television screen I would have been down on my hands and knees searching for hidden microphones in the kitty litter or something.   

As it happened, part way through the diabolical second half a tiny muscle under my right eye leaped and began to twitch and for the rest of the game the erratic behaviour of my face perfectly reflected the erratic behaviour of both teams. Once the rotten stinking curtain was rung down on the game my face stopped jerking but a kind of soupy, confused mist seethed into my brain and settled over things. Everything pretty much as usual for the week that followed, then, except for the grimmer than usual drive of blood in my skull and a great sense of foreboding – perversely gripping -  regarding Monday night’s Raiders Tigers game.  Football. Jesus God.

The thing about the Raiders is that they’re so unpredictable, so unknowable. And not in a good way. I believe, generally speaking, that if you can’t do it well then it’s not worth doing. Clearly not everyone agrees. As the damage to my nerves mount there are many alarming signs that the Raiders may not be entirely on top of matters. This is all very familiar.

Last week, before we both went cold on the entire organisation my brother and I decided that the Raiders need to buy someone, since every other club seems to be buying people in a frenzy of spending (whatup Titans) and signing. But who? I suggested Willie Mason, and my brother unexpectedly became very excited. Who knew?  

1.“I like him. We should go for it. ! Can’t see him moving to Canberra though, he would hate it worse than you!”  

2. “Going cheap isn’t he? I heard he might end up playing for the Toowoomba Pythons and work in the tomato factory there during the week!”

I looked into this and the offer, as reported back in December 2011, was actually to play for the Guyra (population 2500) Superspuds, who have won four of the past nine Group 19 grand finals and pay $250 per game.  Club official Terry Vidler said “We’d take him. He would cause a lot of interest in our town. We’ve got a tomato farm out here, it’s a big deal. He could work there.”  As rustic and charming and fuckoff-hilarious as this all sounds, I much prefer the idea of Willie getting an NRL start. If the skeleton of Matt Orford’s soul can be resurrected and made to dance and sing and drop balls and bungle kicks then Mason more than deserves the same opportunity. Also, he’s got mad game! He’s awesome! So what if he talks a lot of smack? It’s “refreshing”. I heard Daly Cherry Evans interviewed the other day and every line uttered was flat and robotic and entirely devoid of humanity and humour. It was horrible. I want boorish hooligans rearing up through the mist and blurting out robust and original opinions of the “everyone’s entitled to have one” variety. Decorum and decency are terribly over-rated.

Anyway. On the Raiders, I plan on rounding the corner and fully overcoming my crippling sense of resentment sometime today, in preparation for what will probably be more of the same tomorrow evening. This, people, is the way of the world.

One of the worst parts of the whole thing last week was that I got so goddamn excited after their win over the Titans. I convinced myself that some kind of seismic shift had occurred; that it was different to their first win of last season, when they annihilated the hapless Sharks in that unseemly opening match. There wasn’t much element of skill involved then and absolutely no pretense of two equally matched teams. The whole thing resembled hyenas tearing open a gazelle much more than it did a traditional game. It was terrific. God it was a good time. Really great.  What wasn’t so great was the fact that it was pretty much the only joy Raiders fans got to experience. For the season. That’s, like, months. Long, bleak months. Russian novel months.

After last week, the implications are profound and distressing:  Perhaps we are standing on that same threshold. Perhaps we have always been there.

It's Paul Gallen, bitch!

So. Roosters v Sharks. Obviously, my focus here was the return of my favourite prodigal problem child Todd Carney.

I can't wait for him to find fierce form again. In the meantime, I have Paul Gallen. We all do. More on him later though.

In the event, Carney played ok, although I am yet to order my thoughts enough to work out how I feel about him being rushed back into the side right now. Shouldn't he be taking time off for a period of mental readjustment? Is it even possible for footballers to mentally readjust? So many questions. And if there's any club that's going to withold answers to urgent questions it's the Roosters.



Mental Readjustment 101

 It's times like these when I really miss Willie Mason's presence in the game. Remember when he came out and called Nick Politis a big fat bastard or whatever it was and totally got under his skin with it? Good times.

Or when he said by way of a retrospective interview re. the Bulldogs that "we won the competition on No Doze"? No one does candid like Big Willie. Or, as my brother refers to him, "that refrigerator with eyes".

By the by, rumours suggest Mason may soon make a shock return from the UK, and that the newly depleted Sharks may make a play for him. Fantastic. Make it happen. We need more lippy types in league. We also need more pictures like these:

Even though the Roosters are my number 2 team, I like the Sharks. You gotta like the Sharks. I like the idea of the Shire having their own team in the same way that I like Newcastle having the Knights. Teams like these are bred for hostility, which I approve of.

Anyway, the game gets going and I really don't notice anything much in terms of play or even Carney because I'm too busy wondering for what feels like the millionth fucking time why the predominant colour on nearly every team's jersey is WHITE nowadays, and working myself into a steaming lather as a result.

Really, of the many thousands of things I have never been able to understand, this in particular stands out. Case in point: the Tigers.

Now, I have as loose a grasp on the intricacies of the home and away jersey combinations as anybody else, ie. I don't understand it in the slightest. I do know this though: under no circumstances should the Tigers wear white jerseys. Ever. Lately, I squint my eyes up like Andrew Ryan's and I STILL can barely see a trace of black or orange anywhere on there. Same with the Broncos. In what world do the Broncos not wear maroon with yellow? I don't know who thieir head designer is but if I could I would gut them like a fish. I mean, honestly.

Anyway, the Roosters jerseys are a massive fail. There's a band of blue around the bottom that looks for all the world like some kind of Danoz waist cincher for women, a block of red around the throat that does nothing for the whole 'not enough neck' situation afflicting footballers, and then a vast swath of skin-tight white. Terrible, terrible stuff, from which I do not recover readily. If at all.


Quelle horreur

 I really only get drawn into the game when Gus grabs my attention by commenting of Carney that

                                                  "this man's got to see some ball".

Later in the piece Mitchell Pearce starts *ahem* giving him some ball and they get to throwing it around a bit and this pleases me because together they play like a poem and, also, I always appreciate hearing Rabs roar things like

                                                 "and Pearce goes to Carney"
in that rich, lusty way of his.



"balls, two"


Other than observing that Carney looks a little on the thin side, and concluding that he looks retro as a result, nothing much about the Roosters other than their god-awful jerseys manages to keep my attention.

Pretty much all of that goes to the Sharks. It's all them.

They're playing at Shark Park, they're ahead for the whole time and they spend the second half of the game bathed in that late afternoon sun so specific to autumn. It's buttery and soft and mellow and it makes everything look beautiful. Even the most derelict Sharks supporters look civilised and approachable in this light. Kade Snowden looks house-broken! Similar results can be acheived at home by rubbing Vaseline over a camera lens.

The only person the beautiful light does nothing for is Paul Gallen, which in itself is testament to the man's towering might and power. What does he need with atmospheric mood lighting anyway? It's Paul Gallen, bitch!

How awesome is Gal? Sure, he looks as vast and unbecoming as a brick apartment block, but goddamn if he isn't the fiercest player in the game right now. Watching him throw himself and the entire opposing team around with such brutal and violent intensity never fails to put me in a positive and upbeat frame of mind. Full credit to Gal here, as this takes some doing.

Also, although he is cruelly unsympathetic on field, off it he is by all accounts as soft as a mouse's belly.

Exhibit A:

He admitted a few weeks ago that in the lead up to the birth of his second baby he was wrung out with anxiety because he was unable to imagine loving another child as much as his first daughter Charly:

"I have been saying to my missus that I am worried that I won't love this one as much. But people say you love them all equally".

If you don't love this statement and sentiment, well, frankly, you're fucked.