Kingdom of Piety

Filed in AFL by on December 10, 2010

We are deep in the bowels of The Age of Sanctimony and there are few institutions safe from the pious and politically correct nature of our times. We are losing a war inch by inch and most are too ignorant, too compliant or too caught up in their own selfish existence, where they view themselves as the sole star of their own high drama, to care. Preciousness has got Australia by the balls in the filthiest of squirrel grips and we will collectively be singing a high c in alt if we don’t force a release. These are unpleasant days for those of us who refuse to accept such moral oppression and whining indignation as the norm.

Last week I decided to throw out the Dunhill’s, at least as a permanent hobby. There were many reasons, none of which I’m all that keen to discuss. Needless to say the reasons are far from political outside of that little sneak Rudd jacking up the taxation rate.

Any roads, after twelve hours of the old cold turkey that left me as fidgety as an ice freak with no meth and three days until the Centrelink cheque arrives and as focussed as a kid diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder after two litres of Fanta, it was down to the pharmacy. Self discipline has never been my strongest suit and it became most apparent that I would need to fill my house with all forms of patches, gums, lozenges, deodorants, jaffas and other assorted necessities if this whole non-smoking fad was to take. Preparation. That would be the key.

I am a little thrown off by the attractive young pharmacist who, when discussing the story of patches and gums and the like, slipped into the conversation that she smoked. That had me on the back foot and playing across the line. Perhaps this whole anti-smoking thing was a bit of a beat up? It didn’t seem particularly satisfactory that a health care professional advising me on the practice of giving up the gaspers still snuck out for a cheeky fag on the back step. At any rate, I decided to push on and was most interested in the patches as they seemed the most painless option.

“You can put them anywhere on your body” she said, “anywhere without hair.”

“Hmmm” I laughed nervously, “we have obviously never slept together and I clearly haven’t been in for a skin cancer check recently.”

“I believe you are correct on both counts, sir” she responded. “At any rate, don’t be so precious. You will just have to rip those hairs right out. Never mind that. We girls have to do it all the time.”

She was right. It was time to stop being so precious.

“By the way, you laugh like Seth Rogan” she said as she handed me my change.

“I look like Seth Rogan?” I asked, not hearing her properly as thunderous thoughts of my smoking life, now likely ended, shot through my mind. Billy Bragg’s New England was the soundtrack and those wonderful times smoking all came flooding back: I love the words you wrote to me but that was bloody yesterday, I can’t survive on what you send every time you need a friend.

“No, you are much better looking than Seth Rogan. But you laugh like him.”

“Right” I said, wandering away a little chuffed until it occurred to me that the group above The Seth Rogan Line ranges from Hugh Jackman to Gabe Kaplan and is not a particularly elite group. At least I wasn’t below it, I neurotically reflected, relieved.

My smoking pharmacist who has never given me a skin cancer examination had me thinking about preciousness, however, and how goddamn sensitive most have become.

It truly is The Age of Sanctimony and it is a depressing prospect that we may not outlive it. Fuck the early nineties. That is when the slide into self-righteousness and sanctimony all begun to pick up speed, moving from a fringe hobby to a mainstream sport. The excess of the eighties would always come at a cost. And we are still paying the heavy mortgage of widespread piety and a general acceptance of moral indignation.

Those indoctrinated by the game of AFL are certainly one lot who have adopted piety as their number one pastime.

Talkback radio, newspaper columns, press conferences and television programs in Victoria have been devoted to the expression of outrage at the final minutes of State of Origin III and the subsequent reaction to the fisticuffs by the NRL, the players and coaches, the Sydney media and rugby league fans everywhere.

Pious AFL barrow pushers such as Patrick Smith and Caroline Wilson, both renowned for their utter contempt for rugby league, have gone on radio and on television and written articles declaring the dust up between Steve Price and Brett White a disgrace and an outrage. It will be the death of rugby league. It was the behaviour of Neanderthals they proclaimed. Rugby league will die if violence like that is allowed to occur. That behaviour would never be approved in the AFL. The NRL has condoned such wickedness by refusing to hang those involved. Women and the corporate world will never support the NRL. The NRL is locked in a barbaric time warp. Rugby league is a game for thugs. It is little wonder that the NRL is only supported in two states (little regard is given to the fact that 52.8% of Australia’s population live in those two states). It is a terrible spectacle to watch. Violence on the street is encouraged by violence on the sporting field. It is a terrible image for the code. Blah, blah, blah. Somebody think of the children!

Talkback hosts and callers have echoed the same dull and ignorant and biased mantras in Victoria ever since the full time siren sounded at Lang Park last Wednesday, firing off the same incoherent and ill considered screeds that one would expect from someone who would engage in the whole talkback pantomime.

The likes of Patrick Smith even had the gall to offer advice to the NRL: “if rugby league is to grow its code outside its Australian home, then it must change the way it is played on the field”. A precious and pompous comment from a precious and pompous git as loathed within his own sport as he is by followers of rival codes. Sensationalistic coat tuggers and snake oil salesmen like Patrick Smith have some bottle attempting to impose their values and beliefs on a code in which they know nothing about like an eighteenth century missionary trying to spread the word of god in West Africa and the Far East. With any luck, there will be an instance of a local uprising that will see Smith burned to the stake and Caroline Wilson left crying in the corner and begging wild-eyed for mercy and forgiveness.

For two journalists who garner no respect within their own sport, they are both extremely opinionated about the performances of other codes. It was during the Border years that Patrick Smith last produced something relevant. And Caroline Wilson has been made to look like a blind weatherman with her weekly exclusives that prove to be nothing but lies, guesses and mistruths. She may get a ticker-tape parade if one of her exclusives proves correct, such is the rarity.

On the Offsiders program on Sunday, Roy Masters was ambushed by AFL apologists and avid rugby league haters Caroline Wilson, Gerard Whateley and host Barry Cassidy. They chided the game, demanded to know why such violence was condoned, lauded their own sport and set about spinning the same sensationalistic drivel designed to make the AFL look good by comparison. They pounced like a pack of rabid dogs who have heard the bell, unsure why they were attacking but adamant they were doing so from the moral high ground. They refused to engage in debate. They refused to answer Roy’s questions.

The more I learn about fans of the AFL and the media that reports on the game, the more I am of the belief that the AFL is some form of modern day cult. Members are hypnotised and then sent forth to prophesise and spread the word of Australian Rules football, forever spouting the party line, always keeping the faith. Original and well constructed opinions on rival sports are as rare as a Cronulla premiership.

Even sanctimonious AFL boss Andrew Demetriou opted to offer his almighty thoughts on the Origin brouhaha, stating “it wouldn’t happen in our game and if it did there would be an outrage…I’m not sure why some people saw some benefits in that, particularly in a time where we’ve seen some really terrible violence going on in our state”. It was the unfettered arrogance you would expect from someone involved with the AFL.

How quickly Barry Hall and his king hit on young Staker from West Coast were forgotten. It may have only happened in 2008 but Dean Solomon elbowing a player not looking in the head is seemingly ancient history. Chris Judd getting a single week for eye gouging was deemed an acceptable penalty. All of these and many more conveniently forgotten by AFL reporters and officials and fans this week as they all go to town on rugby league.

The AFL drones are right: a stand up stoush between two big men would never occur in the AFL. Rather, cheap shots and elbows and headbutts are the norm. No player has the gumption or the ticker to engage in a one-on-one scrap and the AFL is more concerned with PR than seriously wiping out grubby play. Players aren’t really schooled in genuine toughness, particularly in the modern game.

Perhaps Andrew Demetriou would be better off reconsidering his doomed move to West Sydney and attempting to stop the decline in physicality in Australian Rules football. AFL football, for the most part, is virtually a non-contact sport these days. That is fine. The AFL is what it is. They have made their bed and now they can lie in it. They have fundamentally changed the culture of AFL football and that has been accepted in Victoria. Good luck to them. I don’t dislike Australian Rules football but it isn’t my chosen sport and it isn’t the chosen sport of many, nor does it sit high upon Mount Sinai and cast judgement upon other sports. Some of us prefer to mix hardness in with skill and speed for our chosen football code.

That is AFL and Victoria though and north of the Murray where the native game is beloved for its hardness and brutality and courage, the odd display of fisticuffs is accepted as part of the deal. It is hardly common practice, even in the cauldron of Origin football, so when it does occur it is treated with the correct perspective: a couple of fiery chaps throwing hands. There is no need to bring out the noose nor is there a need for any sanctimonious and reactionary screed. To the credit of the National Rugby League and the majority of rugby league scribes, the bleating and the bitching from outside the game was treated with the contempt it deserved; ignored and dismissed.

The most telling point seeping from all the Victorian piousness was the fact so many had watched a code they all seemingly loathe for its violence and barbarism. For a sport that Patrick Smith claims is not even a niche one in Melbourne, there seemed to be plenty of interest in the match down south.

There is no doubt that we are living in oppressive times when an old fashioned barney, fair and even, is decried as the end of civilisation and a reversion to a less enlightened man. But this is the Kingdom of Piety so strap yourself in as the screeches of indignation and outrage and sanctimonious despair will not be quieting anytime soon.

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