Well, it’s only a week to go until we’re jetting off in our winged womb to the deserts of Dubai. The travel documents arrived today, and it’s all starting to get very exciting indeed.
My biggest concern right now is “what will I wear?” A question for the ages when it comes to women.
My wardrobe seems as bare as the top of Clinton Perren’s head and it’s a little depressing. I might need to go on a shopping trip for a shopping trip, although that is just utterly ridiculous, as in reality I’ve more clothes than I could possibly wear in three lifetimes. Just pick out all the black and white gear and throw it in the bag.
The Collingwood boys have been in a ‘high altitude’ training camp in South Africa for the past couple of weeks, and it will be very interesting to see if this extra training improves their performance. If the photo of Brodie Holland in the paper is anything to go by, oh yes indeedy doody, it’s been worth it. Depending on just how big the boys’ win over Adelaide might be, I’ll be on the phone to Terry Oliver in a flash with a recommendation for the Bulls’ training regime for next season. Let’s face it – it can’t hurt. The only way is up from here.
I’ve been doing a little ‘high altitude’ training of my own over the past couple of weeks, although mine is confined to walking the hills of Hamilton and Ascot. Trust me, get a whiff of the heady scent of real estate in this neighbourhood and you’ll pop a nosebleed in an instant.
I’ve been a little on the sporadic side with my exercise regime of late – at my last checkup my doctor told me that I should keep exercising and eat the right foods, but I misheard her and thought she said “keep accessorising and buy the right shoes”. Oops. Easy enough mistake to make and consequently the primary working out I was doing was on ebay.
So, I thought I might try and turn my barge-ass into a pleasure-craft before the barge turns into a cargo freighter and I’m charged excess baggage on the flight. I’ve been up at 4:00am with my trusty hound pounding the pavement and thinking slim thoughts. There’s nothing quite like a tubby greyhound and a scorching case of Catholic guilt to spur a girl out of bed and into the trackpants faster than you can say “size 6 here I come”.
I’ve even been walking to work, although the satisfaction of that has been somewhat diminished by the fact that the UV index has been hitting the extreme mark of 14 by 8:00am each day. It’s necessary to leave home at 6:00am so that I don’t resemble a nuclear war survivor by the time I arrive in the office. It would seem just a little futile to be getting healthy and have buns of steel, only to find out that you’ve got 6 months to live because you’ve developed a stage 5 melanoma. My skin doesn’t like the sun and there’s no point in trying to change its mind. Pale is beautiful – just ask Nicole Kidman and her laser therapist.
Just as an aside on a completely unrelated topic (although maybe not that unrelated – I do kind of feel the size of a whale) - I have to walk past the Japanese Embassy on my way to work, and I’ve noticed that they’ve got security guards outside all the time now. Originally I thought that they must have a heavy entertainment schedule going, but have realised that it’s because of the whale protesting. Way to go! I am a cyber-activist myself and have sent off loads of letters and signed petitions in protest of whaling. Clearly something’s being done about this insidious trade and that makes me smile as I nod politely to the beefy blokes standing guard every morning. I’ll bet the uniform manufacturers didn’t quite envisage that they’d be dressing people the size of major appliances, but you get that on the big jobs.
It’s also wonderful to see that the Collingwood boys have been doing some fabulous work with the people in the African communities while they’ve been on their training camps. I really hope I get to chat with a couple of them about that and hear their stories. It’s always lovely to see footballers doing constructive things in the community rather than destructive things. Exhibit A – that idiot Wayne Carey, although he deserves not a moment of my time to comment further.
I hope the Pies are having a wonderful time and nurturing their skills both on and off the field. I can hardly wait to see them in action. Go Pies!
Thursday, January 31, 2008
It’s All About The Hair (Or Not)
It would appear that just about half of Australia’s professional cricketers are sponsored by various companies promoting hair loss solutions. In order to balance the universe’s yin and yang, the other half, naturally, are sponsored by various hair product companies, particularly those that manufacture the kind of industrial strength bleaching creams (which the boys evidently share with their wives) that could strip paint from an oil tanker, barnacles and all. Is it just me, or would it be appropriate at this juncture to offer some salient advice – stop bleaching the crap out of your hair you morons, and then you’ll stand a better chance that it won’t all fall out by the time you’re 30 (genetic predispositions aside).
Exhibit A would be Michael Clarke, bless his little cotton socks. Before Lara took to him with the number 1 blade, I suspect that young Michael may have been sponsored by not only every hair product company on the planet, but possibly also more than one canine obedience franchise – if he teased those poor tortured follicles once more they were seriously going to bite back, and hard (my bet is that they may have bitten Lara by mistake, which is why she got the clippers out).
Apart from his hair’s own personal publicity team, let’s not forget the huge backing Clarkie’s going to get from De Beers once they review their advertising budget for the year. I’m surprised Clarkie’s earlobes aren’t swinging somewhere near his thighs. I’ve not seen diamonds like that since Liz Taylor was last married to Richard Burton and am waiting for Pup to get into Pink’s groove and start putting them in his teeth. If he’s up for it, a timely call to South Africa will see him set for life in that regard. Unfortunately for De Beers, it would seem that none of the South African players is as addicted to bling as much as our Pup, although I’ll place a small wager that he and Kevin Pietersen (despite that he fled his homeland and is playing for England) have at least had a few words about hairstyles during the course of the last couple of Ashes tours. And what exactly was Kevin thinking? He looked like he was wearing an albino roadkill on his head.
On the ‘closer to home’ front, Shane Watson’s unending obsession with his tousled blond locks is also very amusing. Yeah – good luck with that and enjoy it while it lasts, Shane. Keep it up for too much longer and you’ll be needing to ring the other Shane for urgent advice on how to get back what you’ve suddenly lost all over your pillow (I suggest you don’t text him, it could get ugly).
Evidently I’m not alone in noticing these predictable scenes unfolding. The back page of the Courier Mail a couple of days ago had a photo of Warnie in the nets with Daniel Doran. Directly underneath the accompanying story was an advertisement for a hair regrowth provider, featuring, yep you guessed it – a half bald bloke with a blonde hanging off him – pick a cricketer, any cricketer. Oh, sweet irony.
In defence of the cricketers though, apparently they’re not the only ones obsessed by their hair. If ever he wants to change sports from being a Pie to being a Bull, Dale Thomas certainly will have plenty of mates to keep him company at the hairdresser on a Saturday morning. That’s an impressive mop for sure. If he stops bleaching it, he might even get to keep it for a couple of seasons more.
And just for the record, as far as hair goes, I like it dark. I’d take a bald guy over a blond guy any day of the week.
Exhibit A would be Michael Clarke, bless his little cotton socks. Before Lara took to him with the number 1 blade, I suspect that young Michael may have been sponsored by not only every hair product company on the planet, but possibly also more than one canine obedience franchise – if he teased those poor tortured follicles once more they were seriously going to bite back, and hard (my bet is that they may have bitten Lara by mistake, which is why she got the clippers out).
Apart from his hair’s own personal publicity team, let’s not forget the huge backing Clarkie’s going to get from De Beers once they review their advertising budget for the year. I’m surprised Clarkie’s earlobes aren’t swinging somewhere near his thighs. I’ve not seen diamonds like that since Liz Taylor was last married to Richard Burton and am waiting for Pup to get into Pink’s groove and start putting them in his teeth. If he’s up for it, a timely call to South Africa will see him set for life in that regard. Unfortunately for De Beers, it would seem that none of the South African players is as addicted to bling as much as our Pup, although I’ll place a small wager that he and Kevin Pietersen (despite that he fled his homeland and is playing for England) have at least had a few words about hairstyles during the course of the last couple of Ashes tours. And what exactly was Kevin thinking? He looked like he was wearing an albino roadkill on his head.
On the ‘closer to home’ front, Shane Watson’s unending obsession with his tousled blond locks is also very amusing. Yeah – good luck with that and enjoy it while it lasts, Shane. Keep it up for too much longer and you’ll be needing to ring the other Shane for urgent advice on how to get back what you’ve suddenly lost all over your pillow (I suggest you don’t text him, it could get ugly).
Evidently I’m not alone in noticing these predictable scenes unfolding. The back page of the Courier Mail a couple of days ago had a photo of Warnie in the nets with Daniel Doran. Directly underneath the accompanying story was an advertisement for a hair regrowth provider, featuring, yep you guessed it – a half bald bloke with a blonde hanging off him – pick a cricketer, any cricketer. Oh, sweet irony.
In defence of the cricketers though, apparently they’re not the only ones obsessed by their hair. If ever he wants to change sports from being a Pie to being a Bull, Dale Thomas certainly will have plenty of mates to keep him company at the hairdresser on a Saturday morning. That’s an impressive mop for sure. If he stops bleaching it, he might even get to keep it for a couple of seasons more.
And just for the record, as far as hair goes, I like it dark. I’d take a bald guy over a blond guy any day of the week.
The Australia v India Racial Saga
Honestly – will this thing ever go away? I’m so over it I’m halfway to the moon, with a good portion of the nation as my travelling companions. Everyone everywhere has an opinion on the issue and these are as diverse as the two countries involved. No doubt it’s keeping cab drivers, hairdressers and shopkeepers everywhere occupied in engaging discussion for hours on end.
It’s getting to the stage now where it no longer matters who started it, who said what to whom and who heard him say it. It’s just a major hissy-fit on steroids. If the new season of Desperate Housewives has anywhere near half this much drama, it’s a shoe-in for a massive haul at the next Golden Globes.
The media of course has a lot to answer for as well. They love this kind of trash and will keep flogging it until some other poor unfortunate person comes along for them to flog instead.
Quite frankly, the teams on both sides are monkeys. Actually no, they’re gorillas in the mist – great hulking silverbacks beating their chests and jostling each other for the alpha male position. I swear a group of 10-year-olds could behave better than this. It’s just so very disappointing. It makes one want to rethink the whole theory of Darwinism. Did we really evolve from apes, or was it the other way around? Looking at this behaviour, I'm not so sure I know the correct answer any more.
The saddest thing about this whole situation is that the original issue of racism is a very serious one. Not only does racism have no place in sport, it has no place anywhere. Any person who says or does anything that deliberately excludes another person from the general pool of humanity in whatever form it may take – racism, sexism, ageism, religion, economic status, education level; and the plethora of pathetic excuses that seem to be used to justify appalling behaviour – should be punished in whatever way is appropriate under the law. Vilifying another human being on any basis whatsoever is simply a vile and cowardly act, and can never be condoned under any circumstances.
The problem is that now, it’s not about the racism thing any more. It’s back to being about winning the argument at all costs. The racism issue has simply been lost in the endless games of one-upmanship between the two teams and it’s become a pathetic standoff. Everyone becomes tainted with this nasty stain, with precious credibility and reputation being lost all around.
Both the Australian and Indian cricket teams should simply count themselves as fortunate that they have at their unfettered access a tribunal that can deal quickly with racism complaints on their behalf. What about the millions of ordinary people everywhere else who have to face this kind of evil on a daily basis; in their workplaces, their communities, in public and sometimes as part of inherent government policy? Tell me this – who is on TV demanding that respected judges or anyone else make determinations in favour of those ordinary people to soothe their bruised feelings and justify their whingeing at the expense of the taxpayer? Welcome to the real world. Toughen up princess.
I don’t think there’s a person on the planet who takes these guys as seriously as they take themselves, and their egos have been let off the leash for way too long now. Time to pull your heads in boys and just get on with it. You lead extremely privileged lives and are revered by millions of people for what you do. Have some sensitivity about how the rest of us might feel about it and get some perspective about your position.
When it all boils down to it, there’s not a woman in the country who hasn’t had a major eye roll over the whole thing and is ready to simply say this, “OK boys, line up in the playground, all facing this way. That’s right. No shoving down the end there. Now, when I count to three, drop your pants and we’ll get out the ruler”.
It’s getting to the stage now where it no longer matters who started it, who said what to whom and who heard him say it. It’s just a major hissy-fit on steroids. If the new season of Desperate Housewives has anywhere near half this much drama, it’s a shoe-in for a massive haul at the next Golden Globes.
The media of course has a lot to answer for as well. They love this kind of trash and will keep flogging it until some other poor unfortunate person comes along for them to flog instead.
Quite frankly, the teams on both sides are monkeys. Actually no, they’re gorillas in the mist – great hulking silverbacks beating their chests and jostling each other for the alpha male position. I swear a group of 10-year-olds could behave better than this. It’s just so very disappointing. It makes one want to rethink the whole theory of Darwinism. Did we really evolve from apes, or was it the other way around? Looking at this behaviour, I'm not so sure I know the correct answer any more.
The saddest thing about this whole situation is that the original issue of racism is a very serious one. Not only does racism have no place in sport, it has no place anywhere. Any person who says or does anything that deliberately excludes another person from the general pool of humanity in whatever form it may take – racism, sexism, ageism, religion, economic status, education level; and the plethora of pathetic excuses that seem to be used to justify appalling behaviour – should be punished in whatever way is appropriate under the law. Vilifying another human being on any basis whatsoever is simply a vile and cowardly act, and can never be condoned under any circumstances.
The problem is that now, it’s not about the racism thing any more. It’s back to being about winning the argument at all costs. The racism issue has simply been lost in the endless games of one-upmanship between the two teams and it’s become a pathetic standoff. Everyone becomes tainted with this nasty stain, with precious credibility and reputation being lost all around.
Both the Australian and Indian cricket teams should simply count themselves as fortunate that they have at their unfettered access a tribunal that can deal quickly with racism complaints on their behalf. What about the millions of ordinary people everywhere else who have to face this kind of evil on a daily basis; in their workplaces, their communities, in public and sometimes as part of inherent government policy? Tell me this – who is on TV demanding that respected judges or anyone else make determinations in favour of those ordinary people to soothe their bruised feelings and justify their whingeing at the expense of the taxpayer? Welcome to the real world. Toughen up princess.
I don’t think there’s a person on the planet who takes these guys as seriously as they take themselves, and their egos have been let off the leash for way too long now. Time to pull your heads in boys and just get on with it. You lead extremely privileged lives and are revered by millions of people for what you do. Have some sensitivity about how the rest of us might feel about it and get some perspective about your position.
When it all boils down to it, there’s not a woman in the country who hasn’t had a major eye roll over the whole thing and is ready to simply say this, “OK boys, line up in the playground, all facing this way. That’s right. No shoving down the end there. Now, when I count to three, drop your pants and we’ll get out the ruler”.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Meeting Mr Wonderful – Part 2 - The Down Side
OK, so I’ve met this fabulous guy, who as it happens to turn out, is a professional sportsman. He’s gorgeous, but I think I wish he did something else for a living.
Shortly after the night we met, I saw him again, but this time it was a completely different situation, and one that I’ve realised I don’t care for at all. Each time I’ve seen him since, it’s been on his turf. He’s been in his uniform, and if I want to speak with him, I have to go and hang over a fence to do it. Absolutely ghastly and horrifying experience – I feel like some class of groupie and it’s truly hideous. I’ve never hung over a fence to talk to a man in my entire life, and I don’t see why I should have to start now. I’m wondering if there’s a man on the planet worth the humiliation, and I’m thinking the answer is no.
It’s a double-edged sword indeed – although I wish he’d had a different job, I’d also be ready to eat the face off him if he’d wasted the talent that God has obviously given him. I’m so proud of what he’s managed to achieve for himself so far, although his sporting prowess has almost nothing to do with my attraction to him. That’s entirely about him as a person. The fact he plays a sport I love is a bonus, but I could certainly live without it, and have absolutely no interest in sitting around with him talking about sport.
When I do see him play, it’s a grand example of a fine looking man doing what he does best. When he’s in good form, he’s very talented. Not to mention the fact that his butt looks great running up and down that paddock (particularly through a pair of binoculars which has been necessary on occasion). What’s a girl to do? If she has any sense of the arts at all, she’ll realise that there’s an obligation to appreciate something obviously made well with the help of a solid gene pool. Trust me on this – elite athletes at peak fitness are indeed a thing of beauty. Having said that, as much as he looks hot in the uniform, it unnerves me completely, which is absolutely the most ridiculous thing in the world, but it would also be absolutely true.
On the first night we met, I felt as though we were on equal ground and it was just wonderful to talk with him and not feel at all nervous about it. In 20-20 hindsight though, on the night we met I was having far too much fun with him to have time feeling nervous at all – that came later when I realised he wasn’t ‘just another guy’. Seeing him in uniform, in that massive venue with his team mates doing the job he’s paid to do is entirely a different situation, and it’s a complete mess altogether. Whether or not he would agree with me, he becomes a different person when he puts on that uniform; he’s suddenly one of a small, elite group of men and that changes a person’s demeanour and behaviour, whether they think so or not, and so it should. When he’s doing his job, he’s representing Queensland. The team has specific targets to reach and they have to do that in front of large crowds of people. If I have a bad day at work, nobody needs to know about it – I can just go home and soak in the bath until I feel better and start again tomorrow. If he has a bad day at work, he does it in the public eye and that’s got to be stressful on more than one level. Of course the reverse is true as well. I understand and respect that entirely. Then again, he does get very well paid to play a game for a living. He's not devoting his life to eradicating land mines in Cambodia and Africa, or healing the sick, or developing a cure for AIDS, or running NASA or BHP. He plays sport for a living. Why something so silly should make me nervous truly defies competent description, but it does. Perhaps it is the fact that I'm not overly fussed on sportsmen that does it. Who the hell knows? All I know is that it bites.
From my perspective, a public arena is definitely not conducive to personal conversation in any comfortable form. I’ve not seen him in any capacity other than his professional capacity since the night we met, and it just gets worse for me each time we see each other. I loathe talking with him in his environment because I feel so much less than him there, and that’s a truly awful feeling indeed. I’d seriously consider selling my soul to the spawn of Satan if I could just get him back on neutral ground in a relaxed environment and where we could have a normal conversation about absolutely anything but sport. It worked very well for us the first night we met, and I’ve no doubt it would work well again, particularly since we do seem to have a lot in common.
Frankly, I’m not a girl who struggles with words and never have been. I’ve a university Masters degree, an IQ of close to150, I’m an experienced public speaker, think very quickly on my feet, have won prizes for my writing, have been offered gigs on radio, and can speak three languages. However, the minute I see your man in uniform on his turf, I completely lose the power of coherent sentence composition. My mouth starts flapping like a sheet in a cyclone – what comes out of it is anyone’s guess, but it’s certainly not the witty, intelligent and profoundly normal conversation that’s going on in my head – in fact it’s not even on the radar. I’m positive that I come across to him sounding like a flaky bimbo, whose life revolves around nothing more than globetrotting, buying shoes, lying around like a sloth, and amusing herself with the most vulgar degree of self-indulgence. I am not that kind of person at all. He knows nothing of my deep commitment to social justice and human rights (which I’ve had since childhood), of my community work, of my devotion to my friends and family, my work ethic and all the other qualities that make me who I am. Sure, I do spend a lot of time travelling and buying shoes, but that’s window dressing. I do have a fabulous life, and I am grateful for every minute of it. I am very grounded as to what's important in life and what's not. Yet there I am, yapping away at him like a poodle on crack cocaine and making no sense whatsoever to anyone, least of all myself. I’m utterly horrified by what he must be thinking.
Even worse, when we’re talking, it’s in front of lots of people, which I detest with a vengeance and it makes me even more nervous. For all my outgoing demeanour and social activity, I’m also a private person and would much rather talk with him without the benefit of an audience. I cannot stand having people watching me and speculating as to what’s being said and what’s going on. I love attention, but not of the public kind. Put it this way – if I had a choice of going with him to a black-tie function with 1000 other people at the Convention Centre, or sitting on a blanket with him on a deserted beach eating fish and chips in the moonlight, I’d take the beach hands down any day. For sure, I’d go to the black-tie dinner and would have a great time, but I’d prefer privacy as my first choice.
The last time we spoke, I feel as though I made such a fool of myself I almost swallowed my tongue there and then. It brings tears to shame to my eyes and burns the cheeks off me just thinking about it. I’ve all but decided that I can never speak to him again until he’s at least five years dead, such is the depth of my embarrassment.
Men are so much easier to deal with when you can’t stand the sight of them or you have no respect for them. When you fancy them, it just does your head in.
Shortly after the night we met, I saw him again, but this time it was a completely different situation, and one that I’ve realised I don’t care for at all. Each time I’ve seen him since, it’s been on his turf. He’s been in his uniform, and if I want to speak with him, I have to go and hang over a fence to do it. Absolutely ghastly and horrifying experience – I feel like some class of groupie and it’s truly hideous. I’ve never hung over a fence to talk to a man in my entire life, and I don’t see why I should have to start now. I’m wondering if there’s a man on the planet worth the humiliation, and I’m thinking the answer is no.
It’s a double-edged sword indeed – although I wish he’d had a different job, I’d also be ready to eat the face off him if he’d wasted the talent that God has obviously given him. I’m so proud of what he’s managed to achieve for himself so far, although his sporting prowess has almost nothing to do with my attraction to him. That’s entirely about him as a person. The fact he plays a sport I love is a bonus, but I could certainly live without it, and have absolutely no interest in sitting around with him talking about sport.
When I do see him play, it’s a grand example of a fine looking man doing what he does best. When he’s in good form, he’s very talented. Not to mention the fact that his butt looks great running up and down that paddock (particularly through a pair of binoculars which has been necessary on occasion). What’s a girl to do? If she has any sense of the arts at all, she’ll realise that there’s an obligation to appreciate something obviously made well with the help of a solid gene pool. Trust me on this – elite athletes at peak fitness are indeed a thing of beauty. Having said that, as much as he looks hot in the uniform, it unnerves me completely, which is absolutely the most ridiculous thing in the world, but it would also be absolutely true.
On the first night we met, I felt as though we were on equal ground and it was just wonderful to talk with him and not feel at all nervous about it. In 20-20 hindsight though, on the night we met I was having far too much fun with him to have time feeling nervous at all – that came later when I realised he wasn’t ‘just another guy’. Seeing him in uniform, in that massive venue with his team mates doing the job he’s paid to do is entirely a different situation, and it’s a complete mess altogether. Whether or not he would agree with me, he becomes a different person when he puts on that uniform; he’s suddenly one of a small, elite group of men and that changes a person’s demeanour and behaviour, whether they think so or not, and so it should. When he’s doing his job, he’s representing Queensland. The team has specific targets to reach and they have to do that in front of large crowds of people. If I have a bad day at work, nobody needs to know about it – I can just go home and soak in the bath until I feel better and start again tomorrow. If he has a bad day at work, he does it in the public eye and that’s got to be stressful on more than one level. Of course the reverse is true as well. I understand and respect that entirely. Then again, he does get very well paid to play a game for a living. He's not devoting his life to eradicating land mines in Cambodia and Africa, or healing the sick, or developing a cure for AIDS, or running NASA or BHP. He plays sport for a living. Why something so silly should make me nervous truly defies competent description, but it does. Perhaps it is the fact that I'm not overly fussed on sportsmen that does it. Who the hell knows? All I know is that it bites.
From my perspective, a public arena is definitely not conducive to personal conversation in any comfortable form. I’ve not seen him in any capacity other than his professional capacity since the night we met, and it just gets worse for me each time we see each other. I loathe talking with him in his environment because I feel so much less than him there, and that’s a truly awful feeling indeed. I’d seriously consider selling my soul to the spawn of Satan if I could just get him back on neutral ground in a relaxed environment and where we could have a normal conversation about absolutely anything but sport. It worked very well for us the first night we met, and I’ve no doubt it would work well again, particularly since we do seem to have a lot in common.
Frankly, I’m not a girl who struggles with words and never have been. I’ve a university Masters degree, an IQ of close to150, I’m an experienced public speaker, think very quickly on my feet, have won prizes for my writing, have been offered gigs on radio, and can speak three languages. However, the minute I see your man in uniform on his turf, I completely lose the power of coherent sentence composition. My mouth starts flapping like a sheet in a cyclone – what comes out of it is anyone’s guess, but it’s certainly not the witty, intelligent and profoundly normal conversation that’s going on in my head – in fact it’s not even on the radar. I’m positive that I come across to him sounding like a flaky bimbo, whose life revolves around nothing more than globetrotting, buying shoes, lying around like a sloth, and amusing herself with the most vulgar degree of self-indulgence. I am not that kind of person at all. He knows nothing of my deep commitment to social justice and human rights (which I’ve had since childhood), of my community work, of my devotion to my friends and family, my work ethic and all the other qualities that make me who I am. Sure, I do spend a lot of time travelling and buying shoes, but that’s window dressing. I do have a fabulous life, and I am grateful for every minute of it. I am very grounded as to what's important in life and what's not. Yet there I am, yapping away at him like a poodle on crack cocaine and making no sense whatsoever to anyone, least of all myself. I’m utterly horrified by what he must be thinking.
Even worse, when we’re talking, it’s in front of lots of people, which I detest with a vengeance and it makes me even more nervous. For all my outgoing demeanour and social activity, I’m also a private person and would much rather talk with him without the benefit of an audience. I cannot stand having people watching me and speculating as to what’s being said and what’s going on. I love attention, but not of the public kind. Put it this way – if I had a choice of going with him to a black-tie function with 1000 other people at the Convention Centre, or sitting on a blanket with him on a deserted beach eating fish and chips in the moonlight, I’d take the beach hands down any day. For sure, I’d go to the black-tie dinner and would have a great time, but I’d prefer privacy as my first choice.
The last time we spoke, I feel as though I made such a fool of myself I almost swallowed my tongue there and then. It brings tears to shame to my eyes and burns the cheeks off me just thinking about it. I’ve all but decided that I can never speak to him again until he’s at least five years dead, such is the depth of my embarrassment.
Men are so much easier to deal with when you can’t stand the sight of them or you have no respect for them. When you fancy them, it just does your head in.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Meeting Mr Wonderful – Part 1 - The Up Side
There’s nothing worse for a girl than to think she’s safe in the knowledge that she’ll never, ever, ever fall for a cricketer or footballer. Enter, stage right, that wretched swine Murphy and his damn Law. Well, your man Murphy and I have quite the history together, and I’m always the loser in this dysfunctional relationship. He seems to enjoy picking up a bat and belting my brains to Sunday with it just when I’m feeling comfortable in life.
As with all things that knock you for six, it happens suddenly and when you least expect it. These are precisely the kinds of situations that I always imagine entertain God in the extreme, and keep Him amused for days, if not months, on end. He and Murphy must be business partners together. I certainly would have found it highly amusing had it happened to somebody else, but since it happened to me, it’s not bloody well funny at all. It’s sheer torture.
I met Mr Wonderful at a dinner, where I sat next to him throughout the evening. The best and worst part of that was that I had no idea who he was when we met. Even though he was there in a professional capacity, he was a very last minute inclusion. I had only been told the barest detail about him about 2 minutes before he walked in the door, and my brain hadn’t really had time to process any of that before we got involved in conversation. I’d never even clapped eyes on him before, let alone see him play. My excuse for that is that the last time I’d seen the team play, he wasn’t in it, and you’ll have already gleaned from previous posts that I’m just not interested in players anyway.
The best part about my appalling ignorance of him was that, because I had no preconceived ideas of what I should expect, conversation came very easily between us, partly because he is just so absolutely delightful there’s no help for it, and also partly because we evidently have loads of things in common. We didn’t really discuss his career, focussing instead on our mutual likes and dislikes, food, travel, fast cars, funny events, famous people we’ve met or would like to meet etc. Had we not been in a room full of people on a school night, I could quite easily have stayed up until sunrise with him without even noticing the time.
He did speak about his career at one point in the evening, although that was directed to everybody in the room rather than to me. I must confess that I wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying, as I was far too engrossed in checking out what he was wearing (I don’t think men truly have an appropriate appreciation of how a woman can sum up anatomical proportion; hair, eye and skin colour and texture; shape of the face, and size of mouth, hands and fingernails; general level of attention to personal hygiene; fabric, texture and exact shade of colour of shirt and pants and whether the belt and shoes complement them; quantum and quality of jewellery, if any, worn with the outfit; and the general ‘aura’ of a man within approximately 0.64 seconds of first looking at him, and then be able to recite, whilst blindfolded, with precision up to .999% accuracy, every detail of what she’s just observed. She will be able to recite such information verbatim for the next 136 years if ever called on it). And before you ask, yes, I can recall every single detail about Mr Wonderful from that night, but am choosing to keep that to myself.
Apart from committing to memory the salient points of this visual feast before me, the other reason why I wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying was that I was desperately trying to stop thinking of how much I’d like to crawl into his lap and bite him on the mouth. It took every shred of self control I possess to actually not do that when he returned to the table. I may be a Good Catholic Girl of solid moral fibre, but I am also neither blind nor in a coma, and he is drop-dead, toss-your-skirt-over-your-head gorgeous. Enough said.
He is seriously the most delightful person I’ve met in a long time, and apparently this opinion was not mine alone. Whilst I was thinking that I was the only person in the room totally in love with him by the end of the evening, apparently he was also impressing quite a few of the older ladies there, some of whom have since commented to me on how fabulous they think he is.
This made me feel so much better, as I’ve been known to be very, very wrong about people on first impression. On the odd occasion I’ve found deeply disturbed sociopaths to be charming and delightful in the beginning, so I’m not confident these days about my judgement calls. A great backup was that my friend Mary-Rita, who was also there that night, and who is always an excellent judge of character, agrees that he’s a lovely person, although she doesn’t quite get why I find him gorgeous. He doesn’t do it for her in the slightest, but that’s perfectly fine with me. Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder, and I do enjoy that what I see in him is not necessarily obvious to others. When I look at him, all I can think of is that a girl would have to be blind, stupid and very possibly in the grave for a year or two not to want to give him a very long, very serious second look. However, as I said, my opinion isn’t shared by some others, who think I have no taste at all except that what’s in my mouth.
What does seem to be obvious about him is that the essence of his character literally jumps out of him from the minute you meet him. I could say that he is gorgeous, kind and seemingly sensitive. Yeah right – he is indeed those things, but so is my dog.
It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly what made him so attractive to me (apart from the blatantly obvious it would seem). He came across to me as being genuinely grounded, generous, honest, open, friendly and intelligent (always a huge bonus in a professional sportsman, as that trait can never be taken as a given). What was abundantly clear to me from the get-go is that he is professional and completely dedicated to his sport; he has high standards and tries to live up to them always, and he is loyal to his family and friends. I value these qualities very highly in a person. He didn’t have me at hello, but he had me pretty shortly after that (that statement will probably only make sense if you’ve seen Jerry Maguire).
Clearly though, the man isn’t a saint, and I also sensed in him a simmering edgy naughtiness that he wouldn’t necessarily show to many people. I have no doubt whatsoever that he could be a filthy little rodent when he's with his mates doing boy-things. I think the slight glimpse of that flaw was what really caught my attention. I could be completely wrong about this, but I had a very strong feeling that his dark side and my dark side could be almost mirror images. Deeply scary, yet very alluring indeed.
At the end of the evening, I was almost ready to cry at the thought of walking away from him, which I just didn’t want to do. I kissed him goodbye (on the cheek of course), which is not something I’ve ever done before when I’ve met a couple of his team-mates or other people I’ve had to talk with in a similar situation. It surprised the hell out of me that I did it, but I was just so overwhelmed by him that I couldn’t help myself.
I drove home in a cloud for a bit before reality thumped me good and hard. You think Murphy’s Law bites? Well, reality bites too, and a lot harder. Just as I was settling into my romantic (and admittedly impure) thoughts, it hit me like a train. He is a professional sportsman, and I am not a blonde stick insect. Look as long and hard at him as I might – he won’t be looking back at me. Cloud suddenly turns black, and there are tears before bedtime.
God and Murphy have a lot of explaining to do.
As with all things that knock you for six, it happens suddenly and when you least expect it. These are precisely the kinds of situations that I always imagine entertain God in the extreme, and keep Him amused for days, if not months, on end. He and Murphy must be business partners together. I certainly would have found it highly amusing had it happened to somebody else, but since it happened to me, it’s not bloody well funny at all. It’s sheer torture.
I met Mr Wonderful at a dinner, where I sat next to him throughout the evening. The best and worst part of that was that I had no idea who he was when we met. Even though he was there in a professional capacity, he was a very last minute inclusion. I had only been told the barest detail about him about 2 minutes before he walked in the door, and my brain hadn’t really had time to process any of that before we got involved in conversation. I’d never even clapped eyes on him before, let alone see him play. My excuse for that is that the last time I’d seen the team play, he wasn’t in it, and you’ll have already gleaned from previous posts that I’m just not interested in players anyway.
The best part about my appalling ignorance of him was that, because I had no preconceived ideas of what I should expect, conversation came very easily between us, partly because he is just so absolutely delightful there’s no help for it, and also partly because we evidently have loads of things in common. We didn’t really discuss his career, focussing instead on our mutual likes and dislikes, food, travel, fast cars, funny events, famous people we’ve met or would like to meet etc. Had we not been in a room full of people on a school night, I could quite easily have stayed up until sunrise with him without even noticing the time.
He did speak about his career at one point in the evening, although that was directed to everybody in the room rather than to me. I must confess that I wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying, as I was far too engrossed in checking out what he was wearing (I don’t think men truly have an appropriate appreciation of how a woman can sum up anatomical proportion; hair, eye and skin colour and texture; shape of the face, and size of mouth, hands and fingernails; general level of attention to personal hygiene; fabric, texture and exact shade of colour of shirt and pants and whether the belt and shoes complement them; quantum and quality of jewellery, if any, worn with the outfit; and the general ‘aura’ of a man within approximately 0.64 seconds of first looking at him, and then be able to recite, whilst blindfolded, with precision up to .999% accuracy, every detail of what she’s just observed. She will be able to recite such information verbatim for the next 136 years if ever called on it). And before you ask, yes, I can recall every single detail about Mr Wonderful from that night, but am choosing to keep that to myself.
Apart from committing to memory the salient points of this visual feast before me, the other reason why I wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying was that I was desperately trying to stop thinking of how much I’d like to crawl into his lap and bite him on the mouth. It took every shred of self control I possess to actually not do that when he returned to the table. I may be a Good Catholic Girl of solid moral fibre, but I am also neither blind nor in a coma, and he is drop-dead, toss-your-skirt-over-your-head gorgeous. Enough said.
He is seriously the most delightful person I’ve met in a long time, and apparently this opinion was not mine alone. Whilst I was thinking that I was the only person in the room totally in love with him by the end of the evening, apparently he was also impressing quite a few of the older ladies there, some of whom have since commented to me on how fabulous they think he is.
This made me feel so much better, as I’ve been known to be very, very wrong about people on first impression. On the odd occasion I’ve found deeply disturbed sociopaths to be charming and delightful in the beginning, so I’m not confident these days about my judgement calls. A great backup was that my friend Mary-Rita, who was also there that night, and who is always an excellent judge of character, agrees that he’s a lovely person, although she doesn’t quite get why I find him gorgeous. He doesn’t do it for her in the slightest, but that’s perfectly fine with me. Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder, and I do enjoy that what I see in him is not necessarily obvious to others. When I look at him, all I can think of is that a girl would have to be blind, stupid and very possibly in the grave for a year or two not to want to give him a very long, very serious second look. However, as I said, my opinion isn’t shared by some others, who think I have no taste at all except that what’s in my mouth.
What does seem to be obvious about him is that the essence of his character literally jumps out of him from the minute you meet him. I could say that he is gorgeous, kind and seemingly sensitive. Yeah right – he is indeed those things, but so is my dog.
It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly what made him so attractive to me (apart from the blatantly obvious it would seem). He came across to me as being genuinely grounded, generous, honest, open, friendly and intelligent (always a huge bonus in a professional sportsman, as that trait can never be taken as a given). What was abundantly clear to me from the get-go is that he is professional and completely dedicated to his sport; he has high standards and tries to live up to them always, and he is loyal to his family and friends. I value these qualities very highly in a person. He didn’t have me at hello, but he had me pretty shortly after that (that statement will probably only make sense if you’ve seen Jerry Maguire).
Clearly though, the man isn’t a saint, and I also sensed in him a simmering edgy naughtiness that he wouldn’t necessarily show to many people. I have no doubt whatsoever that he could be a filthy little rodent when he's with his mates doing boy-things. I think the slight glimpse of that flaw was what really caught my attention. I could be completely wrong about this, but I had a very strong feeling that his dark side and my dark side could be almost mirror images. Deeply scary, yet very alluring indeed.
At the end of the evening, I was almost ready to cry at the thought of walking away from him, which I just didn’t want to do. I kissed him goodbye (on the cheek of course), which is not something I’ve ever done before when I’ve met a couple of his team-mates or other people I’ve had to talk with in a similar situation. It surprised the hell out of me that I did it, but I was just so overwhelmed by him that I couldn’t help myself.
I drove home in a cloud for a bit before reality thumped me good and hard. You think Murphy’s Law bites? Well, reality bites too, and a lot harder. Just as I was settling into my romantic (and admittedly impure) thoughts, it hit me like a train. He is a professional sportsman, and I am not a blonde stick insect. Look as long and hard at him as I might – he won’t be looking back at me. Cloud suddenly turns black, and there are tears before bedtime.
God and Murphy have a lot of explaining to do.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Cricketers & Footballers: Messiahs or Monsters?(2)
For anyone who knows me well, it really cannot be denied that I absolutely LOVE my sport, and particularly cricket. During the off-season for cricket, I’m dedicated to the AFL and love nothing more than getting along to games every weekend at the Gabba. I’ll even go so far as to fly to Melbourne to go to the MCG to see Collingwood play. And, apparently, I'll fly to Dubai to watch Collingwood play! Cricket though is my true love – it’s a beautiful game and I will fly anywhere in the country to watch the Bulls or Australia when I can. If the Bulls suddenly decide to play in Dubai, the Maldives, Outer Mongolia or Lichtenstein - I'll be on the next plane.
For anyone who knows me well, they’ll also know that, for as much as I love sport, I dislike players with an almost equal intensity. I’m not at all proud of it. It’s a gross generalisation on my part, but will say in my own defence that my dislike of players is based upon actual experience, which has unfortunately scarred me somewhat, and it’s on this experience that I’ve cultivated my admittedly harsh judgement against all professional sportsmen. The antics of Warnie, Wayne Carey, Ben Cousins and the entire Canterbury Bulldogs team have done nothing whatsoever to improve my views.
Being a female out in a public place with men of any kind in the immediate vicinity is somewhat akin to swimming in shark-infested waters with a cut hand. When alcohol and professional sportsmen enter the mix, it may as well be a severed artery.
My disillusionment with professional sportsmen started with a footballer (as it so often does). While still in Year 11 at high school, I met a boy who would go on to play for the Wallabies. We met at a party and he asked me out. I was terribly excited, but then again, what Good Catholic Girl isn’t going to be excited when a handsome, strapping lad asks her out to a party as his date? So, I went to this party with him and all seemed to be going well until the end of the evening, where he made it clear that I was expected to ‘get friendly’ with him – a lot friendlier apparently than a simple thank you and kiss on the cheek to say goodbye. I managed to wrangle myself and my virtue safely away from him on that occasion and imagined that maybe it was simply that he’d had a few too many beers and had forgotten himself. Surely a Good Catholic Boy wouldn’t be so disgustingly common? Surely he remembered that he needs to play by Catholic Girl Rules??? Or not. (Refer to Post 1 on this topic).
When he asked me out on a second date, I thought to myself that he would use this opportunity to make up for his appalling lack of manners on the first date. Ah, to be so young and stupid. Let’s just say that I was unceremoniously dumped after the second date when I didn’t end up naked under him in the back seat of his car, as he’d planned for me to be by about 10:30pm. All of his mates loved him to bits, and when he played for the Wallabies, I’m sure most of Australia loved him as well. As for me, well, every time I saw him on television, I remembered all over again that I was only 16 when I met him, and why I didn’t love him quite so much as everyone else did.
A couple of years later, I managed to find myself on the wrong end of a couple of the Broncos players at a Brisbane nightclub, but then again, I think every woman in the room found herself on the wrong end of those particular boys that night. Come to think of it, it’s a fair cop that every woman in Brisbane has inadvertently been on the wrong end of a drunken footballer at least once in her life. Egos the size of planets, consciences the size of walnuts, morals no larger than a grain of rice. It was revolting and so were they and I don’t plan on saying anything more about them.
A little while ago, I was working a second job at the Irish Club, and one of the Brisbane Lions held his 21st birthday party there. It must be stressed vehemently up front that the birthday boy is absolutely charming and delightful, greatly loved by everyone who knows him and his behaviour is beyond reproach. Unfortunately however, his choice in mates may be a little questionable. One of the other guests, who was also playing AFL professionally at the time, ended up in a serious fight with another person, which quickly got out of hand and exceptionally ugly. This player abused all the staff, smashed several trays of glasses, put his fist through a glass door, causing enormous damage to both the door and himself – there was blood all over the walls from his injuries – and he managed to completely ruin the night for everyone. I could swear it was as though he was in the grip of ‘roid rage’, as he didn’t seem to feel a thing and just exploded without any warning whatsoever. That level of violent behaviour in a person is frightening and extremely unattractive. The staff were all frightened and had to take refuge behind the bar at one stage until security and the paramedics took your man away.
So much for footballers – evidently the code of football matters not.
Unfortunately, my distasteful brush with sportsmen didn’t end there. A former Queensland cricketing great and a few of his mates happened to be at the Brekky Creek one night when I was there with some friends. Well, this cricketer had more than a skinful on board by the time that I found myself the fleeting object of his attention. I felt a pair of hands grabbing me from behind as he swooped on me like a vulture on road kill, and I whirled around in horror to look into a face that had appeared many, many times on television during his illustrious career. The fact that he had a wife (yet another blonde – go figure) and children at home clearly wasn’t the uppermost thought in his very small mind, and he evidently did not regard matrimony as an exclusive carnal arrangement. Judging from the howl of pain and vicious curses flying from his mouth, he didn’t exactly appreciate my entire body weight through a 10cm stiletto heel suddenly coursing through the middle of his foot. At least it got his hands back to himself and off my breasts. Thankfully, as he had the attention span of a houseplant, he moved on to some other poor girl immediately thereafter.
I should have kicked his ass and set it out for the dogs to finish off, but was too shocked and outraged to do much more than escape the scene as quickly as humanly possible. Even worse than the assault upon my person was the level of disrespect with which he treated me and other women around me. As they say in Top Gun “his ego was writing checks that his body just couldn’t cash”.
So much for cricketers.
Since those encounters, I’ve basically avoided all and any sportsmen like the plague of filthy little rodents that they obviously can be at times. I will say though that cricketers are generally nicer than footballers.
Whilst they’re on the field playing cricket or AFL, the players to me are Messiahs. I love my teams and will defend them to the death. Off the field though, I think they’re mostly scumbag Monsters and want nothing whatsoever to do with them on a personal level. Even now, I can barely tell you the names of all the Bulls, and nor can I tell you who’s currently playing for Collingwood. As far as I’m concerned, they’re simply animated chess pieces with numbers on their backs and only useful for playing the game. I love the team collectively, but just don’t really care about the individuals who make up the team.
Of course, the only problem with holding such deeply ingrained and unreasonable prejudices against all sportsmen based on the sins of a simple few, is that one day, you’re going to meet the one who completely changes your mind. And God help you when that happens.
(refer to next post coming up - ‘Meeting Mr Wonderful’).
For anyone who knows me well, they’ll also know that, for as much as I love sport, I dislike players with an almost equal intensity. I’m not at all proud of it. It’s a gross generalisation on my part, but will say in my own defence that my dislike of players is based upon actual experience, which has unfortunately scarred me somewhat, and it’s on this experience that I’ve cultivated my admittedly harsh judgement against all professional sportsmen. The antics of Warnie, Wayne Carey, Ben Cousins and the entire Canterbury Bulldogs team have done nothing whatsoever to improve my views.
Being a female out in a public place with men of any kind in the immediate vicinity is somewhat akin to swimming in shark-infested waters with a cut hand. When alcohol and professional sportsmen enter the mix, it may as well be a severed artery.
My disillusionment with professional sportsmen started with a footballer (as it so often does). While still in Year 11 at high school, I met a boy who would go on to play for the Wallabies. We met at a party and he asked me out. I was terribly excited, but then again, what Good Catholic Girl isn’t going to be excited when a handsome, strapping lad asks her out to a party as his date? So, I went to this party with him and all seemed to be going well until the end of the evening, where he made it clear that I was expected to ‘get friendly’ with him – a lot friendlier apparently than a simple thank you and kiss on the cheek to say goodbye. I managed to wrangle myself and my virtue safely away from him on that occasion and imagined that maybe it was simply that he’d had a few too many beers and had forgotten himself. Surely a Good Catholic Boy wouldn’t be so disgustingly common? Surely he remembered that he needs to play by Catholic Girl Rules??? Or not. (Refer to Post 1 on this topic).
When he asked me out on a second date, I thought to myself that he would use this opportunity to make up for his appalling lack of manners on the first date. Ah, to be so young and stupid. Let’s just say that I was unceremoniously dumped after the second date when I didn’t end up naked under him in the back seat of his car, as he’d planned for me to be by about 10:30pm. All of his mates loved him to bits, and when he played for the Wallabies, I’m sure most of Australia loved him as well. As for me, well, every time I saw him on television, I remembered all over again that I was only 16 when I met him, and why I didn’t love him quite so much as everyone else did.
A couple of years later, I managed to find myself on the wrong end of a couple of the Broncos players at a Brisbane nightclub, but then again, I think every woman in the room found herself on the wrong end of those particular boys that night. Come to think of it, it’s a fair cop that every woman in Brisbane has inadvertently been on the wrong end of a drunken footballer at least once in her life. Egos the size of planets, consciences the size of walnuts, morals no larger than a grain of rice. It was revolting and so were they and I don’t plan on saying anything more about them.
A little while ago, I was working a second job at the Irish Club, and one of the Brisbane Lions held his 21st birthday party there. It must be stressed vehemently up front that the birthday boy is absolutely charming and delightful, greatly loved by everyone who knows him and his behaviour is beyond reproach. Unfortunately however, his choice in mates may be a little questionable. One of the other guests, who was also playing AFL professionally at the time, ended up in a serious fight with another person, which quickly got out of hand and exceptionally ugly. This player abused all the staff, smashed several trays of glasses, put his fist through a glass door, causing enormous damage to both the door and himself – there was blood all over the walls from his injuries – and he managed to completely ruin the night for everyone. I could swear it was as though he was in the grip of ‘roid rage’, as he didn’t seem to feel a thing and just exploded without any warning whatsoever. That level of violent behaviour in a person is frightening and extremely unattractive. The staff were all frightened and had to take refuge behind the bar at one stage until security and the paramedics took your man away.
So much for footballers – evidently the code of football matters not.
Unfortunately, my distasteful brush with sportsmen didn’t end there. A former Queensland cricketing great and a few of his mates happened to be at the Brekky Creek one night when I was there with some friends. Well, this cricketer had more than a skinful on board by the time that I found myself the fleeting object of his attention. I felt a pair of hands grabbing me from behind as he swooped on me like a vulture on road kill, and I whirled around in horror to look into a face that had appeared many, many times on television during his illustrious career. The fact that he had a wife (yet another blonde – go figure) and children at home clearly wasn’t the uppermost thought in his very small mind, and he evidently did not regard matrimony as an exclusive carnal arrangement. Judging from the howl of pain and vicious curses flying from his mouth, he didn’t exactly appreciate my entire body weight through a 10cm stiletto heel suddenly coursing through the middle of his foot. At least it got his hands back to himself and off my breasts. Thankfully, as he had the attention span of a houseplant, he moved on to some other poor girl immediately thereafter.
I should have kicked his ass and set it out for the dogs to finish off, but was too shocked and outraged to do much more than escape the scene as quickly as humanly possible. Even worse than the assault upon my person was the level of disrespect with which he treated me and other women around me. As they say in Top Gun “his ego was writing checks that his body just couldn’t cash”.
So much for cricketers.
Since those encounters, I’ve basically avoided all and any sportsmen like the plague of filthy little rodents that they obviously can be at times. I will say though that cricketers are generally nicer than footballers.
Whilst they’re on the field playing cricket or AFL, the players to me are Messiahs. I love my teams and will defend them to the death. Off the field though, I think they’re mostly scumbag Monsters and want nothing whatsoever to do with them on a personal level. Even now, I can barely tell you the names of all the Bulls, and nor can I tell you who’s currently playing for Collingwood. As far as I’m concerned, they’re simply animated chess pieces with numbers on their backs and only useful for playing the game. I love the team collectively, but just don’t really care about the individuals who make up the team.
Of course, the only problem with holding such deeply ingrained and unreasonable prejudices against all sportsmen based on the sins of a simple few, is that one day, you’re going to meet the one who completely changes your mind. And God help you when that happens.
(refer to next post coming up - ‘Meeting Mr Wonderful’).
Cricketers &Footballers:Messiahs Or Monsters?(1)
One thing that has never ceased to fascinate me is how 12 men, each with disparate backgrounds, tastes and personalities, can seemingly form the deepest, most meaningful, for-life soul-mate relationships with women who all look exactly the same. I refer of course to the Australian cricket team and their very blonde wives/girlfriends.
Have you ever noticed that? The wife/girlfriend of almost every single member of the Australian cricket team (not to mention the Queensland Bulls, and every football team of every code in the country) looks EXACTLY like every other wife/girlfriend of every other member of the Australian cricket team (and the Bulls and the footballers etc). It’s like living in Stepford, and I have a theory that the reason these guys don’t spend too much time together in public with their partners is that there’s a very real danger that they could have one too many beers and accidentally go home with the wrong girl. For sure it would be an easy enough mistake to make.
Don’t get me wrong here – I’m not disparaging these women in any way at all, and I’m sure they’re all charming and delightful. In fact, I had the pleasure of meeting the very blonde wife of a Queensland Bull at the Melbourne Cup at Doomben a couple of years ago. She was just gorgeous and so very lovely to talk with (she and I share a taste for Alannah Hill fashion, so she’s a seriously cool chick in my view).
It just seems to be a frighteningly creepy coincidence. There are a couple of exceptions of course, but the odds are certainly in favour of blondes here.
Since we know that ALL men are attracted to blondes, it got me thinking about what kind of girls are attracted to what kinds of men. I think us girls work out in our early teen years what kind of guy we’d like to marry and we then set about trying to meet as many of them as possible in order to narrow down the field of contenders and choose the best specimen available.
By the age of 15 or 16, we seem to have divided into three fairly distinct camps –
1. those girls who want to marry doctors, lawyers, stockbrokers and the like;
2. those who want to marry tradesmen; and
3. those who want to marry someone famous – whether it be an actor, musician, media mogul or professional sportsman. Strangely enough, all the women from this category are blonde.
Most of my friends and I fell into the first category, although I do know some girls who chose the third category kind of men. It seems that we were all as stupid as each other and should have been like the girls who chose the second category, who clearly were the smartest of the lot.
Whilst the boys in the first category are now dropping dead like flies from stress related heart attacks and strokes due to malpractice suits, allegations of fraud and embezzlement, an overly energetic mistress, or losing millions on the stock market thanks to the US sub-prime mortgage crisis; the boys in the third category are in rehab, jail, on the front page of the paper with his undies round his ankles and a skanky ho in tow, involved in some sort of bribery scandal, or are out for the season with injury/slumping under bad form.
However, the boys in the second category are earning megabucks per hour as contractors in the never-ending building boom, buying their 26th house property and taking their happy wives and happy kids on fabulous debt-free holidays to Majorca, New York and Paris.
And I wonder where it all went wrong.
Apparently I must have completely missed some very important classes on offer while I was still at high school. While the Good (most of us Catholic) Girls who wanted to marry doctors and lawyers were busy going to Mass, studying biology, chemistry, the finer points of Shakespeare’s influence in English literature, and taking ballet classes after school, the ambitious blondes seeking famous husbands were taking classes of another sort entirely, such as:
-Botox 101
-Fake Tan Is Your Friend
-Dumbing Down Around Men
-Your Eating Disorder Needs Tic Tacs
-It Is Possible To Turn A Scrunchie Into A Dress For The Allan Border/Brownlow Medal dinner
-Chicken Fillets And Double Sided Tape
-How To Trap A Professional Sportsman into Marriage
and my personal favourite
-How To Suck A Cricket Ball Through A Garden Hose (your teacher: Paris Hilton)
Just quietly, I think that if those girls had taken that last class first, none of the other classes would be necessary, as everything else would have just fallen into place. But hey, you get that on the big jobs.
I’ve always been of the view that Category 3 husbands would make the worst possible partners. They’re so frequently away on tour, completely self-absorbed in their careers, prefer their mates to you any day of the week, and are shockingly notorious for their infidelity – we all know what “what happens on tour stays on tour” really means – right girls? Let’s face it, all sportsmen know how to bowl a maiden over, but the problem arises when they expect said maiden to get naked within approximately 3 hours of the first hello. Sportsmen clearly do not know how to play by Catholic Girl Rules, and nor do they want to because their enormous egos demand that they get what they want immediately.
“What are Catholic Girl Rules?” I hear you ask. Well, it’s probably easiest to explain it this way. You must look at Catholic Girls as something like a large health fund. You need to sign up and pay money each month, and some activities will be included as benefits from the start. These benefits would fall into the categories of things such as coffee dates, dinner and a movie, drinks at a hip bar, the simple pleasure of our company, and if we really fancy you – the merest partial glimpse of ‘the girls’ in a lace bra through a silk blouse. However, there is a very clearly defined waiting period for all major benefits, which clearly include physical access to ‘the girls’ and nudity of any description. If you listen to the Holy Father, such waiting period will be approximately 17,466 dates, or the honeymoon, whichever comes first.
Unfortunately I’ve also discovered that Category 1 guys make pretty lousy partners as well. It turns out that lawyers are indeed the locusts of the societal landscape, doctors have egos too big to fit into the room while you’re in it with him; stockbrokers are always ill from stomach ulcers, and merchant bankers are simply as dull as dull can be.
I’m sure Category 2 guys generally make pretty good partners, but apparently all of them are already married (to the smart girls who picked them in the first place) and none of the single ones are interested in me, as I’m far too ‘princessy’ for their tastes. It’s a shame really, as I’m rather fond of men who are good with their hands and who could build me a walk in wardrobe complete with the appropriate shelving to house my 200+ pairs of shoes.
So, it’s back to Category 3. However, since I’m a redhead with porcelain skin who refuses cosmetic surgery, and I bear absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to Paris Hilton, Posh Spice, Lara Bingle or an animated Barbie Doll, I figured that I’m immediately disqualified for selection as a cricketer’s/footballer’s girlfriend. This has never bothered me before, and indeed I’ve been quite relieved to know that I’m automatically out of contention (see Part 2 of this post).
Of course Murphy’s Law always comes back to bite you in the butt when you least want it to, and the one and only time in my life when I might want to actually go down that path is precisely the time when my disqualification is most evident. Sad really, as I think I’d be loads of fun to take to the Allan Border/ Brownlow/ Peter Burge/ end of Grade Cricket Season dinner and I’d play very nicely with all the other girls there.
Maybe I should have taken Paris Hilton’s class after all.
Have you ever noticed that? The wife/girlfriend of almost every single member of the Australian cricket team (not to mention the Queensland Bulls, and every football team of every code in the country) looks EXACTLY like every other wife/girlfriend of every other member of the Australian cricket team (and the Bulls and the footballers etc). It’s like living in Stepford, and I have a theory that the reason these guys don’t spend too much time together in public with their partners is that there’s a very real danger that they could have one too many beers and accidentally go home with the wrong girl. For sure it would be an easy enough mistake to make.
Don’t get me wrong here – I’m not disparaging these women in any way at all, and I’m sure they’re all charming and delightful. In fact, I had the pleasure of meeting the very blonde wife of a Queensland Bull at the Melbourne Cup at Doomben a couple of years ago. She was just gorgeous and so very lovely to talk with (she and I share a taste for Alannah Hill fashion, so she’s a seriously cool chick in my view).
It just seems to be a frighteningly creepy coincidence. There are a couple of exceptions of course, but the odds are certainly in favour of blondes here.
Since we know that ALL men are attracted to blondes, it got me thinking about what kind of girls are attracted to what kinds of men. I think us girls work out in our early teen years what kind of guy we’d like to marry and we then set about trying to meet as many of them as possible in order to narrow down the field of contenders and choose the best specimen available.
By the age of 15 or 16, we seem to have divided into three fairly distinct camps –
1. those girls who want to marry doctors, lawyers, stockbrokers and the like;
2. those who want to marry tradesmen; and
3. those who want to marry someone famous – whether it be an actor, musician, media mogul or professional sportsman. Strangely enough, all the women from this category are blonde.
Most of my friends and I fell into the first category, although I do know some girls who chose the third category kind of men. It seems that we were all as stupid as each other and should have been like the girls who chose the second category, who clearly were the smartest of the lot.
Whilst the boys in the first category are now dropping dead like flies from stress related heart attacks and strokes due to malpractice suits, allegations of fraud and embezzlement, an overly energetic mistress, or losing millions on the stock market thanks to the US sub-prime mortgage crisis; the boys in the third category are in rehab, jail, on the front page of the paper with his undies round his ankles and a skanky ho in tow, involved in some sort of bribery scandal, or are out for the season with injury/slumping under bad form.
However, the boys in the second category are earning megabucks per hour as contractors in the never-ending building boom, buying their 26th house property and taking their happy wives and happy kids on fabulous debt-free holidays to Majorca, New York and Paris.
And I wonder where it all went wrong.
Apparently I must have completely missed some very important classes on offer while I was still at high school. While the Good (most of us Catholic) Girls who wanted to marry doctors and lawyers were busy going to Mass, studying biology, chemistry, the finer points of Shakespeare’s influence in English literature, and taking ballet classes after school, the ambitious blondes seeking famous husbands were taking classes of another sort entirely, such as:
-Botox 101
-Fake Tan Is Your Friend
-Dumbing Down Around Men
-Your Eating Disorder Needs Tic Tacs
-It Is Possible To Turn A Scrunchie Into A Dress For The Allan Border/Brownlow Medal dinner
-Chicken Fillets And Double Sided Tape
-How To Trap A Professional Sportsman into Marriage
and my personal favourite
-How To Suck A Cricket Ball Through A Garden Hose (your teacher: Paris Hilton)
Just quietly, I think that if those girls had taken that last class first, none of the other classes would be necessary, as everything else would have just fallen into place. But hey, you get that on the big jobs.
I’ve always been of the view that Category 3 husbands would make the worst possible partners. They’re so frequently away on tour, completely self-absorbed in their careers, prefer their mates to you any day of the week, and are shockingly notorious for their infidelity – we all know what “what happens on tour stays on tour” really means – right girls? Let’s face it, all sportsmen know how to bowl a maiden over, but the problem arises when they expect said maiden to get naked within approximately 3 hours of the first hello. Sportsmen clearly do not know how to play by Catholic Girl Rules, and nor do they want to because their enormous egos demand that they get what they want immediately.
“What are Catholic Girl Rules?” I hear you ask. Well, it’s probably easiest to explain it this way. You must look at Catholic Girls as something like a large health fund. You need to sign up and pay money each month, and some activities will be included as benefits from the start. These benefits would fall into the categories of things such as coffee dates, dinner and a movie, drinks at a hip bar, the simple pleasure of our company, and if we really fancy you – the merest partial glimpse of ‘the girls’ in a lace bra through a silk blouse. However, there is a very clearly defined waiting period for all major benefits, which clearly include physical access to ‘the girls’ and nudity of any description. If you listen to the Holy Father, such waiting period will be approximately 17,466 dates, or the honeymoon, whichever comes first.
Unfortunately I’ve also discovered that Category 1 guys make pretty lousy partners as well. It turns out that lawyers are indeed the locusts of the societal landscape, doctors have egos too big to fit into the room while you’re in it with him; stockbrokers are always ill from stomach ulcers, and merchant bankers are simply as dull as dull can be.
I’m sure Category 2 guys generally make pretty good partners, but apparently all of them are already married (to the smart girls who picked them in the first place) and none of the single ones are interested in me, as I’m far too ‘princessy’ for their tastes. It’s a shame really, as I’m rather fond of men who are good with their hands and who could build me a walk in wardrobe complete with the appropriate shelving to house my 200+ pairs of shoes.
So, it’s back to Category 3. However, since I’m a redhead with porcelain skin who refuses cosmetic surgery, and I bear absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to Paris Hilton, Posh Spice, Lara Bingle or an animated Barbie Doll, I figured that I’m immediately disqualified for selection as a cricketer’s/footballer’s girlfriend. This has never bothered me before, and indeed I’ve been quite relieved to know that I’m automatically out of contention (see Part 2 of this post).
Of course Murphy’s Law always comes back to bite you in the butt when you least want it to, and the one and only time in my life when I might want to actually go down that path is precisely the time when my disqualification is most evident. Sad really, as I think I’d be loads of fun to take to the Allan Border/ Brownlow/ Peter Burge/ end of Grade Cricket Season dinner and I’d play very nicely with all the other girls there.
Maybe I should have taken Paris Hilton’s class after all.
The Footy’s Starting? But It’s Still Cricket Season!
For what it’s worth, it’s indeed my personal opinion that the month of February should be completely eliminated from the calendar for the good of humankind. It’s seriously the worst month of the year. The heat fairly fries the top layers of your skin right off you, and there’s just no respite from it, no matter what Messrs Fujitsu, LG, Daikin and Carrier might try and argue otherwise. And guys play cricket in this!
Many people I know decide to fast, diet, detox and perform other strange and unnatural acts during February, which said acts can turn their personalities from Prince Charming to Charles Manson within a few short hours. I swear I can hear them howling at the moon at night. Even the pot and Prozac addicts get jumpy in February. It’s no wonder at all that Valentine’s Day falls here. Riddle me this Batman – why is it that a guy could send me roses on the 14th day of any other month of the year in Brisbane and it would roughly cost him $50, yet on 14 February the same dozen roses will cost him $12,763 plus GST and delivery, and be already half dead by the time I get them? I’m telling you, it’s the heat. It’s surely got to be the reason why otherwise normally sane people suddenly think it’s acceptable to walk around with the kind of glazed look on their face that would do a Krispy Kreme proud; pay hostage prices for a dozen flowers of any description (and with a florist’s dozen you’re one short anyway – they’re clearly not as generous as bakers); be unable to walk into any restaurant in the South East corner without a 6-month prior booking; and send each other insanely mushy sentiments that would violate every stalking law on the statutes and shame the face off you on any other day of the year.
Like any self-respecting girl, I’m a true romantic at heart, but I confess I loathe Valentine’s Day as much as New Year’s Eve. Both of them are high on cliché and unrealistic expectation and low on spontaneity and fun. Valentine’s Day is not about love at all, it’s about finally submitting to heat-induced insanity by the middle of the month.
Not only that, but February’s a twilight zone kind of month where cricket season has not yet finished – for sure it’s actually just starting to get interesting as the top teams face off for a spot in the finals of the various competitions - the One Day series (currently called the Ford Ranger Cup), Twenty20 and the Shield (I know it's supposed to be called the Pura Cup these days, but for me it's always been the Sheffield Shield, and it always will be) - but the footy pre-season is also just kicking off. This unfortunate overlap of sports not only confuses a girl’s loyalties, but also her wardrobe colours, and that’s not…..well, it’s just not cricket is it?!
So how is it in my eternal foolhardiness that I’ve agreed to get on a plane and head to the Middle Eastern desert in February to watch what is essentially a winter sport, while the boys in maroon/white are still praying for the rain to stop and pounding the pitch in sweaty earnest?
In order to go and watch the Pies take on Adelaide in Dubai, I’m having to dig out the black & white stripes a little earlier than expected, miss out on most of a vital Shield match for the Bulls, and be plonking myself squarely in the middle of Shopping Mecca, where a body on a ‘mortgage stress’ budget and a shoe addiction that could kill a centipede has absolutely no place being at any point in time. What’s that about? I swear I’ve a concrete block disguised as a head, and it wouldn’t be the first time that small fact’s been noticed by anyone. Having said that, I'm as excited as can be and do realise how very lucky I am to have this fabulous opportunity.
But back to the Bulls.
The Bulls have had flashes of brilliance in an otherwise ordinary season and it’s fair to killing me to see them struggle so. It’s grim enough that Divine Intervention is begging to be called. Perhaps a word or 50 to St Sebastian might do the trick. It’s a sad state of affairs indeed that there’s no specifically dedicated Patron Saint of Cricketers, but there you have it (and for sure there’ll be a few words to be had with Archbishop Bathersby about that appalling oversight). Saint Sebastian is the Patron Saint of Athletes, and that’ll have to be close enough for the task at hand. It's not quite desperate enough yet to be begging St Jude (Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes) for help - I have more faith in Queensland than that. There’s an enormous well of talent within the Bulls, and whatever wicked thing’s decided to get in the middle of their winning ways in 2007, well, I wish it’d just be up and off and be quick smart about it. Perhaps an order of 12 St Sebastian pendant medals for immediate presentation to the team will change the course of the 2007-2008 season? Let’s face it – there’s nothing to lose here and everything to gain.
There are members of the team who have far more in them than to be getting out for 2, 3, 6 and 9; and giving away 13 off an over in recent innings, especially when I’ve seen them smack 50s, 60s and 100s and taking 3 or 4 wickets an innings in other games. I guess though that’s what cricket’s all about and why we love it. However, the rosary beads are surely getting a workout and my knees have calluses on them from kneeling in Mass and begging for a miracle.
The boys are about to be up for another Shield match and a One Day game in Tasmania this week, and let’s hope that they can take advantage of the great win they had over Tassie in the Twenty20 match at the Gabba recently. What a fabulous night that was! Everyone there was so proud of them. As well as playing more like the Bulls we know, you could seriously feel it in the air that the win had restored some of their self-confidence and belief that they can do better than what the ladders are reflecting this season.
While the Bulls’ season is drawing to a close, I hope that Collingwood’s season will rev up with a great start in Dubai. Bring it on boys and let the games begin!
Many people I know decide to fast, diet, detox and perform other strange and unnatural acts during February, which said acts can turn their personalities from Prince Charming to Charles Manson within a few short hours. I swear I can hear them howling at the moon at night. Even the pot and Prozac addicts get jumpy in February. It’s no wonder at all that Valentine’s Day falls here. Riddle me this Batman – why is it that a guy could send me roses on the 14th day of any other month of the year in Brisbane and it would roughly cost him $50, yet on 14 February the same dozen roses will cost him $12,763 plus GST and delivery, and be already half dead by the time I get them? I’m telling you, it’s the heat. It’s surely got to be the reason why otherwise normally sane people suddenly think it’s acceptable to walk around with the kind of glazed look on their face that would do a Krispy Kreme proud; pay hostage prices for a dozen flowers of any description (and with a florist’s dozen you’re one short anyway – they’re clearly not as generous as bakers); be unable to walk into any restaurant in the South East corner without a 6-month prior booking; and send each other insanely mushy sentiments that would violate every stalking law on the statutes and shame the face off you on any other day of the year.
Like any self-respecting girl, I’m a true romantic at heart, but I confess I loathe Valentine’s Day as much as New Year’s Eve. Both of them are high on cliché and unrealistic expectation and low on spontaneity and fun. Valentine’s Day is not about love at all, it’s about finally submitting to heat-induced insanity by the middle of the month.
Not only that, but February’s a twilight zone kind of month where cricket season has not yet finished – for sure it’s actually just starting to get interesting as the top teams face off for a spot in the finals of the various competitions - the One Day series (currently called the Ford Ranger Cup), Twenty20 and the Shield (I know it's supposed to be called the Pura Cup these days, but for me it's always been the Sheffield Shield, and it always will be) - but the footy pre-season is also just kicking off. This unfortunate overlap of sports not only confuses a girl’s loyalties, but also her wardrobe colours, and that’s not…..well, it’s just not cricket is it?!
So how is it in my eternal foolhardiness that I’ve agreed to get on a plane and head to the Middle Eastern desert in February to watch what is essentially a winter sport, while the boys in maroon/white are still praying for the rain to stop and pounding the pitch in sweaty earnest?
In order to go and watch the Pies take on Adelaide in Dubai, I’m having to dig out the black & white stripes a little earlier than expected, miss out on most of a vital Shield match for the Bulls, and be plonking myself squarely in the middle of Shopping Mecca, where a body on a ‘mortgage stress’ budget and a shoe addiction that could kill a centipede has absolutely no place being at any point in time. What’s that about? I swear I’ve a concrete block disguised as a head, and it wouldn’t be the first time that small fact’s been noticed by anyone. Having said that, I'm as excited as can be and do realise how very lucky I am to have this fabulous opportunity.
But back to the Bulls.
The Bulls have had flashes of brilliance in an otherwise ordinary season and it’s fair to killing me to see them struggle so. It’s grim enough that Divine Intervention is begging to be called. Perhaps a word or 50 to St Sebastian might do the trick. It’s a sad state of affairs indeed that there’s no specifically dedicated Patron Saint of Cricketers, but there you have it (and for sure there’ll be a few words to be had with Archbishop Bathersby about that appalling oversight). Saint Sebastian is the Patron Saint of Athletes, and that’ll have to be close enough for the task at hand. It's not quite desperate enough yet to be begging St Jude (Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes) for help - I have more faith in Queensland than that. There’s an enormous well of talent within the Bulls, and whatever wicked thing’s decided to get in the middle of their winning ways in 2007, well, I wish it’d just be up and off and be quick smart about it. Perhaps an order of 12 St Sebastian pendant medals for immediate presentation to the team will change the course of the 2007-2008 season? Let’s face it – there’s nothing to lose here and everything to gain.
There are members of the team who have far more in them than to be getting out for 2, 3, 6 and 9; and giving away 13 off an over in recent innings, especially when I’ve seen them smack 50s, 60s and 100s and taking 3 or 4 wickets an innings in other games. I guess though that’s what cricket’s all about and why we love it. However, the rosary beads are surely getting a workout and my knees have calluses on them from kneeling in Mass and begging for a miracle.
The boys are about to be up for another Shield match and a One Day game in Tasmania this week, and let’s hope that they can take advantage of the great win they had over Tassie in the Twenty20 match at the Gabba recently. What a fabulous night that was! Everyone there was so proud of them. As well as playing more like the Bulls we know, you could seriously feel it in the air that the win had restored some of their self-confidence and belief that they can do better than what the ladders are reflecting this season.
While the Bulls’ season is drawing to a close, I hope that Collingwood’s season will rev up with a great start in Dubai. Bring it on boys and let the games begin!
Why A Pie?
Along with everything else in my life that can have an apportion of blame, I blame my mother for my dedication to Collingwood. When I was 12, my mother made me pick an AFL football team. Her team was Hawthorn and I think she hoped that I would choose the same team, thus ensuring that we would spend many hours together on the couch on a Saturday afternoon, drinking tea and cheering on the Hawks. Little did she know. Clearly she had forgotten that no 12 year old on the planet is going to pick the same team as her parents – that’s just, like, soooo not cool. Not only that, when you’re 12, your parents suddenly become disease-ridden and you cannot stand to be in the same room with either of them for any protracted length of time, nor in fact admit that you actually know them, or are related to them. Whatever.
A further strike against Hawthorn is that brown and yellow simply do not belong together unless you happen to be some class of insect, and as I was great friends with the boys at Padua College who were in our year's social group, I should know all about that.
As there was no Brisbane team at the time, and since I didn’t really understand the rules of the game, I had to base my choice on the things I did understand without too much trouble – the colour of the jerseys and the cuteness of the players. Again, for every 12-year old girl on the planet, colour coordination is an imperative to avoid being a social pariah. Unless you are adept at colour coordination, left to your own devices you could commit such heinous fashion crimes so as to frighten the elderly, small children, animals, and embarrass everyone around you. Do that a couple of times and suddenly you'll find that there's nobody around you. It’s a minefield out there in peer-pressure-land. Also, at age 12, you don’t actually know enough about the opposite sex to realise yet how disgusting they are, and forever will be. All you know is that suddenly you’re looking at boys as though they’re something other than your father, your brother or the parish priest.
Whether or not any of these boys can string a coherent sentence together is completely immaterial when a girl is relegated to simply watching them (from a safe distance) run around an oval for 2 hours in short shorts and sleeveless shirts. The only thing that mattered to me is that they have beautifully defined arms like steel bands, lean thighs, tight butts and their ears aren’t taped to their heads. Oh, and another important thing – they have clearly visible necks, unlike the players of the codes of League and Union. So, armed with this vital information, I carefully watched the television and worked out who had the cutest boys and the best coloured jerseys. I’ve always been partial to the signature colours of the house of Chanel – black and white, so that pretty much narrowed the field then and there. Besides, black and white vertical stripes are slimming, which again, for any 12-year old girl on the verge of an eating disorder, is going to win you over every single time.
So, the decision was made, and I am a person who rigidly sticks to the unwritten rules of sport – once your team is chosen, you’re with them for life. It’s easier to divorce your husband than it is to switch allegiance to another footy team. It's just a shame that I can't make the boys wear camellias in their hair.
Ta da! I’m a Pie and proud of it (although had I at the time seen some of my fellow nest-mates, I may have taken a little longer to make my choice, and a different choice it may have been too). When I tell people I’m a Pie it certainly stirs up quite the reaction – mostly bad. However, love them or hate them, it seems that everyone has an opinion about Collingwood, even if they couldn't be bothered to have an opinion about any other team in the AFL.
The Collingwood Club can stand proudly on its record, its commitment to its members, supporters and the community it serves, and most of all to the code of AFL. We’re still the only team in the history of the game to have won 4 premierships back to back.
A further strike against Hawthorn is that brown and yellow simply do not belong together unless you happen to be some class of insect, and as I was great friends with the boys at Padua College who were in our year's social group, I should know all about that.
As there was no Brisbane team at the time, and since I didn’t really understand the rules of the game, I had to base my choice on the things I did understand without too much trouble – the colour of the jerseys and the cuteness of the players. Again, for every 12-year old girl on the planet, colour coordination is an imperative to avoid being a social pariah. Unless you are adept at colour coordination, left to your own devices you could commit such heinous fashion crimes so as to frighten the elderly, small children, animals, and embarrass everyone around you. Do that a couple of times and suddenly you'll find that there's nobody around you. It’s a minefield out there in peer-pressure-land. Also, at age 12, you don’t actually know enough about the opposite sex to realise yet how disgusting they are, and forever will be. All you know is that suddenly you’re looking at boys as though they’re something other than your father, your brother or the parish priest.
Whether or not any of these boys can string a coherent sentence together is completely immaterial when a girl is relegated to simply watching them (from a safe distance) run around an oval for 2 hours in short shorts and sleeveless shirts. The only thing that mattered to me is that they have beautifully defined arms like steel bands, lean thighs, tight butts and their ears aren’t taped to their heads. Oh, and another important thing – they have clearly visible necks, unlike the players of the codes of League and Union. So, armed with this vital information, I carefully watched the television and worked out who had the cutest boys and the best coloured jerseys. I’ve always been partial to the signature colours of the house of Chanel – black and white, so that pretty much narrowed the field then and there. Besides, black and white vertical stripes are slimming, which again, for any 12-year old girl on the verge of an eating disorder, is going to win you over every single time.
So, the decision was made, and I am a person who rigidly sticks to the unwritten rules of sport – once your team is chosen, you’re with them for life. It’s easier to divorce your husband than it is to switch allegiance to another footy team. It's just a shame that I can't make the boys wear camellias in their hair.
Ta da! I’m a Pie and proud of it (although had I at the time seen some of my fellow nest-mates, I may have taken a little longer to make my choice, and a different choice it may have been too). When I tell people I’m a Pie it certainly stirs up quite the reaction – mostly bad. However, love them or hate them, it seems that everyone has an opinion about Collingwood, even if they couldn't be bothered to have an opinion about any other team in the AFL.
The Collingwood Club can stand proudly on its record, its commitment to its members, supporters and the community it serves, and most of all to the code of AFL. We’re still the only team in the history of the game to have won 4 premierships back to back.
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