“The end of our elaborate plans. The end of everything that stands. The end.”
On the whole, real estate agents are selfish, greedy pigslappers who deserve an eternity in the fire-laden pits of hell and damnation. Maggie, from a real estate agency my mustachioed lawyer warned against mentioning for fear of lawsuits and blacklistings, is the queen pigslapper, a woman who gets her kicks from rolling around in her own cesspool of lies, deceit and broken promises. Kim, from another real estate agency that my mustachioed lawyer again advised against mentioning for fear of lawsuits, blacklistings and potential physical attack, is just as scummy and will be getting her due when forced onto the street with an ice problem and no cash as God takes his subtle vengeance on those fucking with destiny.
“The things which the child loves remain in the domain of the heart until old age. The most beautiful thing in life is that our souls remaining over the places where we once enjoyed ourselves”
As I sat high up in the plastic thrones of Sydney’s modern day coliseum, ensconced among a brethren of fellow travelers who scream and shout for the greatest game of all, gazing down upon the battlefield of fairytale green and chalk white, two sets of legendary warriors draped in familiar colours and set in familiar formations, deep in the annual battle for glory and immortality, I was swept back to a simpler time.
“Character is formed in the stormy billows of the world” -Johann Wolfgang Goethe
I have read a lot of Goethe over the last week. I plowed through Faust. I sat up all night, cranked on red wine and finality, and read every word of The Sorrows of Young Werther. I ignored all phone calls from bookmakers, publishers and creditors and sat solemnly, cross-legged, through Elective Affinities.
Brothers…Sisters…members of my congregation have doubted!
Of course, loyal readers and distrustful letter writers, I will devote a column to the retired warrior Tony Grimaldi. Of course he is not just an addendum. Of course, the man needs a fitting tribute from the only man fit enough to write one.
When I landed back in Australia, wearied from a little over a week of wild eyed fun, Niner depression and a trip spent wedged next to a bulimic ex-nymphomaniac who spoke incessantly of God and food and the evils of gratification, my accountant- who I had meet me at the airport- whispered to me that Don Chipp had buckled his belt for the last time. “Ah well,” was all I could mutter, “probably for the best that he went before the Democrats and God knows, they don’t have long left”.
Andrew Johns was wrong. But he was right. And this whole kafuffle is a massive overreaction by the NRL and their incompetent bunch of officials. And worse, it is return fire for a number of incidents- relating to punting associates of Andrew Johns- that have had the rumour mill running hot for months but are impossible to prove.
I arrive, on our weekly binge of words, ramblings and brutal accusations, bearing good tidings and better news. The moon shone bright and the stars sparkled a spring time smile and my sober shell filled with child-like giddiness.
Late last Thursday, bunkered down in my cold Canberra winter abode, thoroughly reading through the daily news and eating something resembling pasta, Kinky Friedman’s “Sold American” blaring out the saucy cackling of the coven next door, word was passed down the line that Canterbury legend Tony Grimaldi had been re-signed for another season. It was a victory for The Working Class Hero, a just reward for a man who had given so much and asked so little.
Nobody could have foreseen the events of last Friday evening. It was the perfect storm. Having drunk heavily for the preceding two days and two nights with four Danish tourists and a depraved moustached frame dealer from the western suburbs of Adelaide, I wasn’t thinking a great deal about the Friday match-up.
It was last Saturday, somewhere around six bells, when I reflected quietly and thanked the Good Lord for the choices I have made that had led me to the fortunate life position in which I currently reside.
As I sat in a full King O’Malley’s smack in the nexus of Canberra, I smirked to myself and thought of that old Lou Reed tune Men of Good Fortune. I had just woken up from last night and finished belting out Tigerland for the second straight week and I decided to catch the Raiders-Cowboys clash, feeling a contest was on the cards. I ordered a pint from the busty bar girl and turned, in dismay and sadness, to see that there was no rugby league.
Chaos rules the roost today and there is not a whole lot I can do about it. Carnage is in the nest and it could stay until spring. Until then, it looks like a swirling tide has beset itself upon me and I can do nothing but ride it out…for good or ill, of course. It won’t all be bad-just hurried and unexpected and disorganized.