Keep the Bastards Honest: A Bulldogs Playoff Run, Mean Times Above the Pacific and The Final Yelp of Don Chipp

Filed in Other by on December 5, 2010

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”.

It was probably a callous and crude thing to say at the time and with the benefit of hindsight and sobriety I accept that. But I don’t back away from it. The man who founded the Australian Democrats because he couldn’t stand that treacherous S.O.B Fraser would have looked upon the modern party and wondered what the hell happened. He would have bitterly contemplated how hacks like Stott-Despoja and pragmatists like Lees- both stupid fools and petty women who didn’t understand the first thing about minor party politics or the Australian electorate- had squashed the once proud and righteous Australian Democrats. Each kick to the balls of the Democrats was one more sharp pang Don Chipp had to deal with.

But that is God, death and the wonderment of the universe. And, of course, a sound argument against the role of female types in big time politics. Selah, to that.

The reason my accountant met me at the airport is only important to him, me and the proud officials of the Australian Taxation Office. He has been advised that as long as I am kept away from the violence of prison and large debt, he will be paid. Otherwise he had better find a quiet network of friends, a new city and a decent beard.

Tangents, vicious tangents. I can’t seem to get a grip. Pluto still has me rattled and the rains are tumbling heavily and the deadline for this screed is inching ever-closer and the wolves are at the door, so to speak.

But I take solace from the fact that my feet are now on Australian soil and that the Bulldogs are on The Run for Glory. No more Nazi security staff prodding at me, asking me questions about explosives and political persuasions and reasons for visiting the United States. Drugs, Niner football and a jazz escapade wasn’t going to make the nut and I could think of little else.

And no more disappointment. The Niners may sadden me but it is more than offset by another Bulldogs shot at the stars, another run for Premiership Glory.

Punters, pundits, writers, twats, hacks and wannabes are all shooting their mouths off, telling me and everyone else who will listen to their rubbish that the Dogs are shot, that they can’t win it all now. Too many injuries. No momentum.

They are wrong. Nobody knows League like Old Uncle Punt knows League and he is telling you that the Bulldogs will pound the Raiders into oblivion and then, well, it is onward and upward to Victory. They won’t be walking away from 2006 losers. Come October 1, with a rampaging sea of blue and white filling Telstra Stadium, the Dogs will stride by the team offered up for the sacrifice and win their third title in five years.

Queers and fools will sit you down and solemnly tell you that with no Asotasi and no Tonga, there is no Dogs. By this stage, I have usually punched them in the mouth and walked away, angry at their stupidity and bitter that these people can find gainful employment and a version of happiness.

Losing Big Roy hurts. Missing Maitua has a minor impact. Tonga getting injured is about as important as Germaine Greer.

The one injury which does concern is Tony Grimaldi, the blood and glue of Canterbury-Bankstown. He is The Balls and his tackling will be missed. But replacing him is fellow Big Five member Dallas McIllwain. The D-Train can play and he loves to get dirty. He will get the job done, never mid that. So when someone brings up some jammy argument about the Dogs being smashed with injury…drive him to the ground and tell him the D-Train sent you.

The Big Five, dear reader, I hear you say. Indeed. The Big Five. An institution created in the mid-nineties and continued by your venerable writer and some close associates who call themselves Bulldogs that pays homage to dour, hardworking Bulldog backrowers. It honours former and current champions and once you’re in- with Steven Price being the only member who has had his status withdrawn after his treacherous stomping on the grave of The Bullfrog- you remain a Big Five Great. Players like Steve Reardon, Barry Ward, Robert Relf, Dennis Scott, Jamie Feeney, Darren Smith, David Thompson and Simon Gillies have all been honoured with Big Five status. And, of course, your Big Five today…Tony Grimaldi, Andrew Ryan, Brad Morrin, Nate Myles and The D-Train. All men among boys, standing for all that is great and noble about Rugby League and the Canterbury-Bankstown Bulldogs.

Again, we have slipped away. And with the clock ticking and the rain teeming and the story due, we hit the conclusion to this nonsensical rambling.

The Bulldogs will win. The Lot. Bet it, dream it, live it. It is inevitability that late on October 1, Andrew Ryan will be holding aloft another premiership trophy.

The rush of anticipation that just splashed inside me like paint from a ladder tells me all will be okay. Golden Times. Magnoloius Times. Winning Times.


Comments are closed.