Billy Slater's Neck&Thighs: "thick all round"

Things are looking up down here in Victoria. Maybe it really will one day be “the place to be” like the inane number plates announce. My newsagent Carl was eager and very excited to tell me recently that my specially ordered Daily Telegraph is now delivered ON THE DAY, as opposed to a day later, and that he had been working tirelessly since Christmas to achieve this. “How many do you actually sell?” I asked him. “Oh, four or five…” “Yeh well maybe the suits in charge of programming at WIN will fall into line with you and acknowledge the existence of NRL – you could be a pioneer, Carl – you’re Burke and Wills right now!” This was met with an unblinking silence, a softly furrowed brow, and, finally, a low nervous laugh. AFL dimbulbs, what can you do? Actually, on second thoughts, Victoria still has a ways to go.

When the ray of light that is the All Stars game shone upon us and signaled the thawing of the off-season frost and the passing of the soul’s winter those fuckers at WIN showed Big Momma’s House. Astonishing. I actually watched the opening scenes wondering where Josh Dugan was and if he was possibly playing off the bench…

Well. Several weeks later, and who knew my shaken disgruntled fists and muttered voodoo curses could be laid to rest (transferred elsewhere, whatever) now that WIN has started showing Friday Night Footy on its digital sister channel?? Sometimes, life, you’re only seemingly sub-par. Let’s never fight again.

NRL on free to air television sparked the interest of my best friend, hence:  

WHAT CHANNEL I CANT FIND IT

-Got it

-And I thought I was the only one person to have shorts ride up in my crotch. These boys and their big thighs

Me - Note the Storms heritage collared jerseys, fabulous neck extension. Every team should bring them back. Need all the neck help they can get.

-Thick all round

Before I move on, I should point out that it took years of evolution for the human race to get to the point where our chins reside in lofty isolation, elevated from our shoulders by a vertical expanse widely known as “the neck”. Now to be fair, not every “neck” resembles the graceful nodding stem of a daffodil (see above). Tyra Banks understands this, which is why she is forever critiquing contestant’s photos on America’s Next Top Model with words to the effect of “YOU NEED MORE NECK”. The Morris twins understand this. Billy Slater understands this. NRL jersey designers do not understand this. To my mind this is the greatest flaw in the modern game. It is also the most easily rectified. Who gives a fuck about chicken wings, rolling pins, chin straps and crusher tackles, JUST MODIFY THE FUCKING JERSEYS ALREADY.

Apparently, teams are always looking for “the edge”, and despite the unfortunate current situation whereby the Storm have said edge over every team in the competition (but only just over the Raiders – GO RAIDERS) there is no doubt in my mind that their V-necked and collared jerseys provided additional ‘edge’ last night. The Knights looked second-rate in their collarless jerseys and they played second-rate football. Do the math. Kurt Gidley did the math, worked himself into a towering lather and eventually lost his shit entirely. He claimed he was screaming abuse at himself – “I CAN SAY WHAT I LIKE TO ME’SELF” – but the ref disagreed and penalised him for dissent. Of course, Gidley is one of the players who would benefit most from a collared jersey.  

It was a night for all the senses. Aside from the Storm’s elegant appearance I got to listen to Rabs and Gus commentating. Ok, so neither of them possesses the honeyed tones of Jeremy Irons. We have Brad Fittler on the sideline for that.  What they can do is emote. Goddamn are they emotive. Rabs is excitable and astute and Gus is full of bluster and hyperbole and they bitch and bicker at each other like a cantankerous old married couple and it’s the most awesome and entertaining thing ever and may they both live on eternally.

Gus was in good form last night; he said “wow” (Billy Slater, who else..), which is one of life’s great aural pleasures, and he also suffered some mental slippage and got stuck on the idea that the Storm were more soldier crab than human. I mean, who hasn’t?? He returned to the theme continuously over the course of the game, dreamily droning sentences such as “Like little soldier crabs, aren’t they – just marching up the field, marching marching…”  He also cast his gimlet eye over a Knights player, Zeb somebody, who knocked on for no apparent reason and under no apparent pressure, and ran right over Rabs’ sympathetic murmurings with the words “I KNOW, I FEEL SORRY FOR HIM TOO – BUT HE DOES PLAY THIS GAME FOR A LIVING!” Brilliant. Leave it to Gus to bring down the cold boot of truth.

Other stuff happened, like Cameron Smith berating his players lustily and at length after the final siren, despite them winning, and there was another game, featuring the fucking Broncos, as per, and they won, also as per, and the whole thing was very rewarding. You watch Friday Night Footy and feel the world disappearing. People say they experience the same sensation when a big gun goes off in their hands. I don’t know about that but I did have vague face-ache at the end of it all. Viva Victoria.

The First Rule of Fight Club Is

Word to the Storm: I am allll up inside your shit. WE ALL ARE.

There's nothing like being camped comfortably at the top of the table to make a team feel hunted and persecuted and hated by all, is there? Not if you buy into the Storm's cough *bullshit* cough attitude there isn't. It must be terrible for them, all that winning. Only, here's the thing. Call me particular, but employing an objectionable tackling style is no way to command the respect of adversaries. Neither is assuming any kind of a seige mentality. The very idea of a team as successful as the Storm taking up an 'us against the world' stance makes me feel....less than serene.

The way I see it, this mentality can only be seen to be credible when it's coming from an underdog team. Any footy fan worth their salt knows that to be a true underdog is in its own peculiar way a precious position to be in. A team that struggles to attract media attention and/or top talent is, basically by default, a team that struggles to attract respect. It's been shown time and time again that being underrated by other teams - being afforded valuable underdog status, in other words - can work very much in an 'under the radar' team's favour. Right now, coming into Round 16, do you think teams are going to prepare to take on the Raiders with the same intensity as if they were to be facing a benchmark team like the Dragons or  - god help us - Manly? Please.

Craig Bellamy is as cunning and wily as a fox and he's obviously an incredible coach, but the whole 'everybody's only talking about Sika Manu's crusher tackle because we're at the top of the ladder' defense? Belly, please. We're all talking about the crusher tackle because it's a dirty, dodgy move, and because we all know the Storm lead the way in employing controversial - read: dirty, dodgy - tackling tactics.

It's no coincidence that Manu also dropped his knees into Gareth Ellis' calves in what appeared to be a blatant effort to slow down the play-the-ball. You really think if the lowly Titans or Bulldogs busted out the same martial-arts style moves they wouldn't attract exactly the same kind of scrutiny, not to mention the wrath of Robbie Farah, that you guys have?

Just on that: was Farah fuming or what? I love seeing Robbie all wound up. It suits his defense-force like demeanor down to the ground. The man is a tightly coiled spring, of which I approve entirely. Well, you don't want a captain who looks like they spend all their down time in a hammock, do you?

Anyway, as you will recall with ease if you've been committing these posts to memory (and if not, why not?), I love to see a captain screaming at a ref with unbridled, enthusiastic hostility. It's hot. It even endeared me to Corey Parker once. Briefly.



....
no-one does this better than Gal


So when Farah yelled at Ashley Klein something along the lines of "THEY DO IT ALL THE TIME AND GET AWAY WITH IT!" and then said later he's seen Manu do the same thing "one thousand times" I found myself nodding sagely and saying "I don't doubt it, Robbie, I don't doubt it." He's very credible, is Robbie. And, of course, the Storm have employed a martial arts master as their wrestling coach for the last ten years - unleashing the chicken wing, the rolling pin, the grapple tackle and the crusher onto the unwitting NRL. Yup, they all originated in Melbourne. Show me something good to come out of this city - other than Eddie Perfect and The Age - and I'll show you something better that Sydney produced without any of the self-conscious fanfare. Sorry, Melbourne, but that's the way it is. Next.

The chicken wing holds a special place in my heart. I remember well the first time I heard the term, and the fact that I learned what a chicken wing was and paid a visit to the Big Prawn all in the same afternoon was a treat beyond dimension. I have to reign it in here and steer myself away from discussion of the BP lest I irreversibly inflame my righteous ire and lose all focus, but expect a stand-alone post on the subject of the BP's shameful state of neglect forthwith.

So. To the chicken wing, years ago. It was my brother - one minute sitting serenely next to me in a Ballina pub watching the Raiders being destroyed (most probably), the next minute leaping out of his chair and bellowing "RAGDOLL 'IM!" - I imagine in anticipation of an impending, violent tackle - who first brought the whole concept of bizarre, WWF-style tackles to my attention. I didn't pay rugby league then the attention I do now, more's the pity, but you don't have to have any feeling for the game at all to find the idea of rag-dolling innately brilliant and emotionally stirring. It really broke me up. I fell apart even more when, bolstered by my sudden, saucer-eyed  interest in matters of brutality he explained to me, in vivid language and with lavish gestures, what it meant to 'chicken wing' somebody.

Then the publican came over and asked him to lower his voice so he lowered his voice and then the publican asked him if he could kindly put his pants back on too, and had to supply him with a broom so as he could unhook them from the ceiling fan.

I'm just kidding, of course. We left the pants.

Anyway, chicken wings have occupied my thoughts off and on ever since.


Was this before or after the Cameron Smith grapple tackle controversy of 2007?

I have no way of knowing: other than looking it up in old notebooks, of course, for which I lack both the stamina and the inclination. Even if I did'nt, I'm distracted right now by trying to restrain myself from referring to said grapple tackle scandal as 'grapple-gate', because anytime I read or hear about another paltry incident that's had 'gate' tacked onto the catch-word I quietly start to emit smoke. I mean, honestly. Watergate to Brynne-gate, are you fucking kidding me? How did we as a society get from Richard Nixon and the American presidency to a two-bit whore from Oklahoma and Dancing With the Stars? Is it any wonder the mere act of living strains my patience almost beyond belief? I don't think so, no.



This seemingly irresistable compulsion to attach 'gate' to any mildly surprising or vaguely controversial incident deemed worthy of a two minute story on Sunrise or, if it's really thought to resonate, a special three minute report on The Morning Show (Larry Emdur I love you, but, really, you push it) and the fact I find it such a rank affront is symptomatic of a much wider trend, which is of course the dumbing down of all news. This is what really yanks my chain. Sometimes I sit through almost entire news bulletins before realising, usually around the time when I'm readying myself for the sport report, that I've actually been watching Entertainment Tonight or E News all along.


All of this brings me back to the good old grapple tackle (actually it doesn't, but I had to get back there somehow). Unless you have the brain of a mollusc you'll have noticed I have a terribly low tolerance for the Storm. I don't even like the Storm when I'm drunk. Especially not when I'm drunk, actually.

In light of this, I'm clearly not the person to be paying heed to if it's an objective or lucid discussion of grapple and crusher tackles you're after. You'll be far more likely (guaranteed, in fact) to get an objectionable and slanderous diatribe, frankly, except at this point I can't even be bothered delivering that.

I will say that Cameron Smith was guilty as all get-out back in 2007. Maybe all the clubs were grappling back then, sure, but it cracks me up to this day that Smith, maniacally competitive over-acheiver that he is, was the one who took the grappling to a whole other level and who, accordingly, copped an extravagent punishment - also on a whole other level - for his efforts.

Is that what they call poetic justice? Is it irony? I don't even know anymore, but it's funny as hell whichever way I look at it.  Speaking of which....