An Australian Christmas

Christmas is The Balls.

Every year, sometime around October when the sun starts to sting and giddiness fills the air, I get a call from my old friend The Sponge.

“Captain Punt…will you be in town for Christmas Eve?” The Sponge always asks, greetings and small talk not being his most powerful suit.

“Sponge, you evil sodomite, of course…where am I every Christmas Eve?” I respond, my heart filled with joy that the tradition will continue on one more year.

“Glad to hear. I’ll see you then. I have to go now. International calls are not cheap from the bowels of a Bangkok parlour” he slurs, the phone clunking before I can spurt out a farewell.

So sometime soon I’ll have my assistant book me on the midday flight to Orange. I should be awake by then.

I’ll sneak quietly back home like a bird in the night and re-live old times. I’ll dump my bags and drink tea with the old gal and have an afternoon kip and be at The Metropolitan by seven.

And then it will be schooners and whiskey and handshakes and hugs and the realisation you have less in common with your old associates than you did last year. “Mmm, so how are you (“Jesus, what’s her goddamn name?”) um, Cass? What are you doing with yourself? Working at Coles you say? Me? I’m not up to much…just a bit of writing, traveling around, drinking…yeah, I’m a writer…no, I don’t know Bryce Courtney…no, I don’t read Bryce Courtney…well, good to see you again anyway…yeah, we should definitely talk more…I don’t have a number at the moment, but if you give me yours…”

As the hours tick by and the stories flow fast and the sense of discomfort that pervaded the evening has lifted like a morning fog, you stop and think for a minute. It’s Christmas. And then you get a pat on the back from Jenny- an old sparring partner from way back- who decides to shoot for a low blow by mentioning the inadequate performance of the Bulldogs this year.

“Well, never mind that Jenny….would you like to bet that they’ll beat those fairy floss Dragons of yours next year? No? Didn’t think so…you know they’re soft…what, you don’t remember ’95 when I cleaned you up?”

But that’s by the by.

At eleven bells, the bar-keep yells last drinks, the Catholics (and recently converted Protestants) suck back the last of the tequila and stumble up the hill to Midnight Mass. After an hour of ensuring the Sponge doesn’t grace Mrs Murray with the contents of his stomach and some boisterous caroling from the loft, it will be off to bed. The drunken stupor followed by the hazy slumber.

When the sun hits the morning sky like the North Star, the little ones in the house will stir old Uncle Nick, bringing on the hangover ever so quickly. As I wander through the kitchen and scarf down some water on the way to the cacophony of excitement in the lounge, I’ll stop a moment and realise that what I wanted for Christmas won’t be in my Santa sack this year.

I don’t want much, but what I want won’t fit in the sack.

My first Christmas wish, as it has been for the last few years, is to see Chris Anderson come home. The mighty Bulldogs need the discipline of Ando. God, Canterbury need the love of Ando. It’s time to bring back the great man. He is the greatest coach in any sport, ever. A big call that may not be backed up by statistics but deep down, everyone knows I’m right. It is criminal that this hero has been ostracized by the League community. It is worse that the club in which he has done so much for- Premiership glory, consistent greatness, dumping that punk McCracken-won’t invite him home. The day Ando walks back in, the Dogs are locks for the Premiership. Remember that. 

Also, I’m quite positive the slain carcass of Shane Watson, or at the very least, an airtight assurance from Cricket Australia that Shane Watson will never play test cricket again, will not be neatly wrapped for my opening on Christmas day. (Calm down, calm down…it’s Christmas…there is no need to sully the festive cheer with another anti-Shane Watson rant.)         

I can’t envisage a Seattle Seahawks Superbowl ring in my stocking this year either. Of course, if they can win same by late January, that will be more than adequate. Even now, the Hawks are great value at $9 to win it all. They are the standout NFC team and will win the NFC. And here’s the tip…you won’t be getting $9 on Superbowl Sunday about the NFC team. You can’t knock the Colts…you really can’t…but you have to look for value and there have been some heavy favourites get rolled in recent Superbowls. Some favourite punters are still recovering from the vicious stomping they took when the 14-and-2 Rams got punished by the Pats. It would be quite a present if Bleak City could fund a February retirement.

The Richmond Football Club actually showing some degree of post-May talent would also be a welcome Christmas gift. I have come to the conclusion that the Tigers are not a winter team. That is a problem. I just can’t see the AFL changing to a summer format. And I can’t see Richmond getting any better when the mercury gets low and the skies grey, so the safe thing to do would be to bet against Tigerland when winter arrives. Load up on them until the first of June…you’ll collect while the collective hopes of Richmond fans Australia-wide rise and when you start backing against them, you’ll be collecting while Richmond fans implode and ponder which method is the least painful…

There are many other things I would like Santa to bring me that I know he won’t. But I still hold out hope…hope for Saturday afternoon rugby league…hope for daytime grand finals…hope that Channel Nine won’t keep crossing to the news before the final session of the cricket is finished…hope that Richo will learn to kick straight…hope that some betting agency will allow unlimited seat multis at the next Federal election…hope that the Gauc gets his bollocks back…hope that we see another champion like The Diva…hope that Uma Thurman will come to the realisation that her whole life has been an unfulfilling vacuum without me…

One Christmas wish that may actually be fulfilled this year on Christmas morn, while most unlikely, would be the obliteration from the Sunday Telegraph of that vindictive disgrace, “Rebecca Rothfield”. If I can open up the paper while the bon-bons are popping and the plum pudding rising, and not see her column and the baseless lies and vindictive “reporting” that fills her page, it will be a most merry Christmas.

But I’ll settle for a bottle of Irish and a Pogues CD.

Dear reader, have a most alcohol fuelled and punt-drunk Christmas break, filled with fruitcake and backyard cricket and relatives you never see and afternoon kips in the sun. Ho ho ho.

And that, my friends, is that.