Back into the Belly of the Beast...

It's been a solid two years since I was in Sydney, and I don't have fond memories of the place. It cost me two thousand (2000) dollars and two years worth of public transport. And all because some weasely little judge had a grudge against Queenslanders (and drink drivers too it would appear).

Then five (5) months before that I was exiled from Sydney licking my wounds. I staggered away with my tail between my legs, nursing a shattered collar bone, a broken heart and high as a kite on hillbilly heroin.

But this weekend I have to venture back to that wretched city to meet and greet The Missus' extended family. Which is no problem. I've never had any qualms about meeting the family.

The real fear comes from Sydney, diving head first back into the belly of the beast. If all goes well, I'll return penniless and missing a thumb. However, if things go poorly, and Sydney finally finishes the job, I won't return. Keep a sharp eye on news reports coming out of Sydney, because one day, they may find pieces of me washing up on the steps of the Sydney Opera House.

Or maybe I'm just overreacting a tad.

Code Red...

The Missus just sent me into a fit of panic. We had just finished a feed of balsamic chicken, with mashed potato and garlic, when she began stamping her feet on the ground with a baffled look on her face. She leant down to feel the couch and ground between her legs.

"Why's it all wet down here," she asked.

Instant flashbacks from the previous weeks antenatal class struck me like a wet bag of shit. People in the know call it amniotic fluid. I was dumbfounded and instantly clutched The Missus between the legs. Holy creeping Jesus, I thought, at least I finally finished The Girls cot before she decided to make her final bid for freedom.

The Missus was even more stunned than I was. She glared at my hand between her legs and asked what the hell I was doing. My fear and anxiety stunted my vocal chords. To signify the sheer magnitude of this situation I dabbed at the wet patch on the ground and sniffed it.

In the antenatal classes, the teacher told us that amniotic fluid had a very distinct, pungent smell.

There was no odour. I finally realised The Missus' pants were dry as a bone.

The Missus began laughing like a fiend, explaining the wet patch on the ground was condensation from her water bottle. As it turned out The Missus had forgotten that she moved it only moments before. So it's good to know that in a high pressure situation like that, I will turn into a mute buffoon with a blank stare on my face.

The Shit Storm Rages On...

There's an old saying: Rugby Union is a thugs game played by gentlemen but Rugby League is a gentleman's game played by thugs. That may be true, but after the revelations this week, Rugby League is not only played by thugs, but also managed by fraudsters, cheats and devious hooligans.

The Melbourne Storm have lost premierships, sponsors and fans by the bucket load since revelations they have been rorting the salary cap for five (5) years came to light. It really shouldn't be too much of a surprise that the Storm were conducting back-alley deals to sidestep the salary cap though. How else could they have maintained a dynasty of some of the most highly-regarded players for so long?

Of course, like the death of a flamboyant celebrity, jokes are flying around thick and fast about the Storm's little mishap. I heard one just yesterday that made me think: What do Jake Gyllenhaal, from Brokeback Mountain, and the Melbourne Storm have in common? They've both been fucked by a ledger. Which is true. It has been revealed that Storm management kept a record of their dodgy dealings, a bizarre move by any stretch of the imagination. Haven't they ever seen 'The Untouchables' or 'Casino'? Those two gangster movies taught me a great deal growing up: NEVER KEEP RECORDS OF YOUR BROWN BAG DEALINGS! It's corruption 101.

Now the newspapers around the country are calling this Australia's greatest sporting scandal, which is true. It has seen a couple of one-off's. First of all, the NRL's punishment against the Storm: stripping them of Premierships, Minor Premierships and declaring that the they will earn no premiership points for the rest of the season. Another first has seen sporting agencies around the country refunding a number of 'Wooden Spoon' bets. That's right kiddo, this is a humdinger.

Now the players are left to compete in a futile competition for the remainder of the year. The NRL are still digging for more dirt to find the depths of this farce. More heads will roll, that's for sure.

And me? Well, I'm going to sit back and watch this shit storm rage on with a slight grin, because the fact of the matter is, I was never much of a Storm fan to begin with.

End of an Era...

Australia is a country founded off the backs of convicts. No one is ignorant of this fact and perhaps that's why we have always had a deep fascination with crooks. Ned Kelly is a National Hero - he was also an armed robber and murderer. 'Chopper' Read is now a stand up comic, artist and author - he too was an armed robber and murderer. So it is no wonder that the death in custody of Carl Williams is front page news around this Great Brown Land of ours.

Williams' antics over a five year period captivated the Nation. His was a twisted, multi-faceted tale of double crosses, gun shots, drugs, police corruption and triple crosses. Williams was eventually convicted of four (4) killings, but the police claim he was an integral part of at least eleven (11) shootings around Melbourne, and let's be fair, they're probably bang on.

Now let's get down to brass tacks - fair enough, Williams was a convicted drug trafficker, but he was no devil incarnate. Push come to shove, if I were shot in the guts by a pair of maniacal siblings, I would probably go a bit sideways in the head too. Unleashing a savage reign of vengence throwing an entire city into fits of fear wouldn't be out of the scope of possibility for me either.

Williams has become such a cultural phenomenon that Channel Nine, in their infinite wisdom, based an entire television show on him. There were Carl Williams T-shirts, a Carl Williams Facebook page and half a dozen books about him.

But alas, now he is dead. Pummeled about the head by some sort of prison gargoyle with a piece of metal wrenched from an excercise bike. It's hard for one not to lament whether five years of drug and sex crazed homicidal lunacy was worth a couple of years in jail and being bludgeoned to death.

Anyway, now he's dead and so is the end of an era.

The Greed Heads Strike Another Blow...

Australia is no stranger to lady corruption. Roger Rogerson, Sir Robert Askin, Trevor Haken, Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen: each of these men were at one time or another the pinnacle of corruption in Australia.

But these days there is a new breed of greed. A new generation of dodgy officials making deals in dark rooms, swaggering around boasting fistfulls of cash. These men have been given the power to govern and control - but it would seem that's just not enough.

Notorious criminal Neddy Smith once said of the NSW police service, "It's the best police force that money can buy," and so it seems to be with NRL refferee's. These wingnuts are out of control. Fair enough, they have to wear pink jerseys onfield - enough to strike a blow to any man's ego - but do they have to sell their integrity to the highest bidder like some wretched whore?

This season has seen some bizarre reffereeing. To any lay-person, these decisions may seem idiotic, outlandish, even downright strange. But not to me. No, I have a keen eye for brutes forming a stomp circle around honesty and fair play. This season has shown a pattern of favoritism that can only be explained by Greed Heads dressed in pink selling their whistle to NRL clubs with the highest bid. It's easy to rig an NRL game: lopsided penalty counts, turning a blind-eye and obscure interpretations of rules can help any side win a game.

Corruption is the only reasonable explanation for what we have seen so far this year. Either that or the truth is alot worse. Maybe these refferee's are simply idiots dressed in pink.

The Apocalypse dawns...

These are strange and anxious days. The Missus and I have been stock piling everything we may or may not need for the forthcoming apocalypse. That's right kids, R.E.M. hit the nail on the head, it's the end of the world as we know it.
Parenthood.

The Missus has been carrying around our little girl for thirty-two (32) weeks now, which means we're close to the business end of this thing. A scary thought considering I haven't been able to piece her cot back together. After two unsuccesful attempts to knock the cot together, I've come up short and had to call in reinforcements.

Friends and wellwishers wretched stories of premature births don't help either. Every time The Missus farts, burps or looks a little cock-eyed, a ferocious terror floods over me. The baby girl can't come yet, she won't have anywhere to sleep!

So until the cot is pieced together, The Missus has to cross her legs. Otherwise baby girl might have to spend her first night at home sleeping in a drawer, either that or a shoe box.