Hair Enough

So I'm reflecting on the previous night on the turps with a mate and she tells me of the raving reviews she got on her fresh new haircut.

"Nick said he liked it, saying my hair reminded him of Twiggy and Jeff said it was quite a bit like a Beatles cut."

My reply...

"Yeah, it's like your hair is taking people's minds back to the things they really love in their life. Come to think of it, your new cut does remind me a little bit of Peter Daicos."

Photo from the brilliant WCE blog, Corkintheocean.

Taz Gone

I'm too gutted to talk about it.

The World's Only Accepable Personalised Number Plate

As seen parked at the footy last week.

My Jamie Turnover Embarassment

Last night at the pub after the game one of me mates ran to our group real excited because ex Collingwood hack, Jamie Turner was sitting in the other bar.

"All's not lost cos Jamie Turnover's here!"

Much excited banter follows.

Five minutes later I'm off to the toilet and me mate walks past as I'm opening the door to get in.

"I shout to him. Can't believe fucken Jamie Turnover is here!"

Guess who glances back at me from the urinals as I approach.

Yes.

"Hi."

"Hi," I reply.

On Beating Carlton

Um. I feel good. Don't care where they were on the ladder. We won the game and won the fight. I just feel good. Really good.

Hot Pies.

Lay Off Our Taz For Chris-Sakes!

I'm so sick of this obsessive bloodlust for Chris Tarrant right now. Even before last week's certain maritime themed nightclub incident, Taz was being blamed for everything from our so-so form to the war in Lebanon.

And it's getting much worse.

I woke Sunday morning drained by Saturday night's incredible game against Adelaide. It was intense, modern and intelligent football. As Kinky Friedman would say, the game was like Johnny Cash in 1958. Dangerous. Neither side gave anything inside their own backlines. Every kick and tackle so calculated. Not even livewires like DT and Didak could break free.

Well, that was the game I watched.

Not the Herald Sun's "Here's one we prepared earlier," front page headline teaser, FROM BAD TO WORSE: Another Shocking Night For Tarrant. Funny how there wasn't an article to go with the headline....

Taz played a pretty good game. There were only about four contested marks taken in either forward line all night. It was tough out there yet the dweeby lookin' John Ralph begrudges Taz's "only" 14 touches because most were taken "well up the field." No wonder Malthouse gets angry with these blokes.

But the worse example of blind Taz dissing appears in this mindless dirge by the Herald Sun and Fox Sports website's Mark Robinson.

"In a way, it was spooky when Tarrant had the ball, 53 metres out, 29 minutes gone, final quarter, his team down by five points.

Of all the people."

I'll leave his next flat and godawful similie out and jump to one of the most ridiculous and apallingly out of touch arguments ever attempted in football journalism.

"That he couldn't nail the goal was deflating. That he didn't man up at 30min 50sec, when Nathan Bassett got the ball, or at 31min 13sec, when Graham Johncock got the ball, and at 31min 36sec, when Johncock got it again, was even more so.

In two minutes, Tarrant had the chance to make a defiant statement.

He didn't.

The goal was difficult. Allowing his man to mark the ball three times in the dying minutes was infuriating.

Much like his off-field antics, you can forgive him once, maybe twice, but a third time? It's more than a coincidence."

Yes, that's right. Robinson is blaming Taz for not manning up while Adelaide were kicking backwards in the game's final minutes. He blames nobody else, only Chris Tarrant. An atrocious, vindictive and amateurish piece of analysis.

If you hadn't noticed, footy's got a little more complex than 'manning up' in the past 10 years. Taz was probably doing what he's told to do in his situation, sticking to a little midfield area (zoning up if you need it spelled out), ready to intercept a pass or more importantly, ready to pounce to our forward line if one of his team mates intercept. It's a tough concept to brain out but if everyone played on their men in that situation, a Crows player could easily, with the help of a block infield, break through to the middle of the ground and bang in another quick goal.

And how do we know Tarrant wasn't already manning up on another Crows player?

Materazzi, Millane, Pedro And Me

I love Marco Materazzi. He has Darren Millane's skill and balls, Craig Kelly's niggle and my very own good looks. Actually he does remind me a lot of myself on the football field.

Opposition crowds loved me. They would make interesting observations about my long hair while I would answer by taking out their lairish players, not for a pleasant night of pasta and an Italian short film, but by a late bump or a tad stronger than needed tackle.

My first "hit" was served in the final round of the under 12's Sydney football season. We, Forest Lions, were up against glamour and money club, St Ives. Can't quite remember his name but I think he was of South American origin (We'll call him Pedro), was cutting us up through the centre. At half time the coach took me aside.

"Glenny, I need you to sort this Pedro guy out. He's being too much of a lair. I want you to niggle him just like you did to that St George kid last week. Give him the sh1ts. Tackle him hard."

I did exactly that. Seven minutes intot he quarter I tackled Pedro so hard to the ground, I broke the poor kid's right arm. Legally, of course.

A proud moment.

We got beaten by the same team in the preliminary final by two points.

The next week, word had spread around the competition about my tackle. We were up against Pittwater and I tackled one of their stars. This wasn't premeditated. It wasn't even a hard tackle but, in front of the opposition crowd, he pinned me to the ground and started punching. Somehow I managed to flip and defend.

The umpire pulled us apart and announced mine was a fair tackle and sent the Pittwater player off. I announced the Pittwater player was a c*nt and I was sent off. The opposition fans and I then exchanged pleasantries.

Dad didn't see too much of it because he was goal umpiring up the other end. Mum missed it completely because as the club's Social Secretary, she was busy running a cake stall when it happened.

I'd love to sample Marco Materazzi's mum's cakes. I've heard her tiramisu is to die for.

Old People Are Ace!

Sitting in the rain watching the Pies being killed reminded me of the olden days at VFL Park.

Glorious.

It's comforting to wallow in the muck knowing Terry Wallace's dirty Tigers will only win one or two more games for the rest of the year. Such things never change. And surely Collingwood won't put on another effort like that in my lifetime.

Why am I so relaxed about yesterday's poo?

Two beautiful acts.

Act 1. Tom Hafey's 774 radio interview before the game. Tom loves reunions. He was talking up how he puts on an annual barbeque for all the 131 players he's ever coached. Tom lives for reunions. A couple of months ago he was invited to Denis Banks' house for dinner. Reckons it was one of the proudest nights in his life because Denis has grown to become such a marvellous person. Tom lives for this stuff. Then he tells us how he calls Peter Daicos fortnightly and that Daics is one of the most fantastic people you can meet. Agreed, Tom. He also loves it when players invite him to their weddings. What a nice bloke.

You're invited to my wedding, Tommy. First I gotta meet some girly up for it but when I do you're first on my list.

My next invite will go to the lady who made Act 2 so special. Half time in the Buntyn Dining Room, me and my usual bunch of irregulars are sitting at a table, gobsmacked at the Pies' rubbish first half. Not much going on until an ancient lady from the table next to us, wearing Swans and Pies colours OFFERS US HER TABLE'S BIG PLATE OF PARTY PIES AND SAUSAGE ROLLS! Her family weren't up for them and she didn't want them to go wasted.

Shocked and charmed, we couldn't refuse.

A few minutes later after the pies were demolished (the Pies we'd come to see were demolished a quarter and a half earlier), the Sydney/Collingwood supporting (yes, who cares) ancient lady GAVE US HER SCONES, JAM AND CREAM!

What a delightful lady!

Nick Davis Still Soft

Loved seeing Bucks get into Nick Davis on Saturday night for ducking his head. Longtime readers will know of my hate for the little prick.

When asked about it, Bucks told The Age:

"There's a lot of mud that's thrown out on the footy field and it only hurts when it sticks, and that's up to the individual that's receiving it how they handle that."

"I get sledged every week and I got sledged on Saturday night for a similar call, but it's how you react to it."

The Age also pointed out:

"Barry Hall sledged Buckley after he also dropped a mark soon after the Davis incident. Buckley continued to have an impact on the game despite Hall's verbal attacks. Davis, however, did not."

Good to see others noticing that Davis can't take the shit talk he so often gives out.

Rex's Secret Flashin'

Here's the highlights typed straight from my mum's copy of New Idea.

The Rex I'd see in the alleyway was like an excited 13-year-old.

Rex was a perfect gentleman. He would hold my hand, buy me flowers and talk.

"Rex is an exhibitionist," Robyn explains. And she admits he has a kinky side. "Rex was almost caught once about five years ago in a public place naked as a jaybird. A motorist caught him in full force with the headlights of his car. I had on this fluffy leopard print coat and Rex hid behind me and said: "If he asksyou, deny everything!"

As Robyn explains it, she would always be clothed, but Rex would have flung off his clothes by the end of their encounter so he was starkers.

He'd hold her chin so she did not avert her gaze.

"I was to look him straight in the eye and to breathe on him. I would tell him he was wonderful. Then he would work himself to a stae of excitement shouting: "Oh my God, you're going to kill me. You're going to give me a heart attack!"

A Boy And His Footballing Alpaca

I know I've posted this already at The Nightwatchan but I can't get enough of 8 year old Rory Matthews and Chicky, his footballing alpaca.

My friends are worried to the point of being told I've "clearly gone insane" with my excitement for this story. They could be right.

Rory's first game against humans since he made front page news was covered on all the channels' TV news last night.

Chicky watched the game from inside the family car parked behind the goalposts. At half time Rory guzzled water from a huge water bottle. Chicky had milk.

When asked what position Chicky would play if he could, Rory matter of factly stated that due to his strong tackling muscle, Chicky would play the backline, somewhere between centre half back and full back.

Strangely Jet, the border collie, Hamlet, the minature pig and Lu Lu the cockatoo were snubbed by television reporters last night.

Earlier this week Rory's dad told The Daily Telegraph:

"Because he's such a small guy, when he first started playing he was too much of a gentleman and would let everyone else get the ball, so I just threw Chicky out there one day when he was kicking because Chicky has an attitude, and it just started from there.

Now Rory is a tackling tiger. He is a fierce tackler on the field now."

Photos from The Daily Telegraph.

Boycott The "Inevitable"

So I wake this morning to read Channel Seven are pushing to have a night grand final next year. The AFL deny an approach by Seven and say they won't budge on staying with the day final. Shithouse ex-footballer and even more inept politician, Justin Madden reckons a night grand final is inevitable. Our fat president said the same last year.

Inevitable.

Big word, that. It's time for fans and columnists to strike back with a bigger word.

Boycott.

Boycott every every person and everything they peddle who utters the word. Channel Seven? No Mel & Coshie. Fat President? No McDonalds. Justin Madden? Tough call, but vote Liberal next election. That's how dire a night grand final is. If Justin Madden welcomes a night grand final, I'm voting Liberal next year.

More reason to detest Channel Bruce is the report they are about to strike a deal with Foxtel which will mean only half of the weekends' games will be seen on free to air television.

The Best Herald Sun Headline In Years

The Best Herald Sun Headline In Years, originally uploaded by glennpeters.

Pure subediting genius.

We Should Fight The 2002 Grand Final In The Courts

Now that the AFL reckon it's okay to change results after the game there's no reason why we shouldn't contest 2002. Anthony Rocca kicked a goal which was called a point. On replay it's clearly a goal.

The difference would have won us the grand final.

I'll see you in court!

Timekeepers Shlimekeepers

Last year I argued that AFL Season 2005 should be VOID because in our game against Sydney the timekeeper robbed us of 14 seconds from the last quarter.

When a similar thing happened last weekend in the game between The WA Anchors and Boo For StKilda I didn't give a rat's arse.

You see, I don't care for what happens to other teams in the competition. I only watch and read about Collingwood. Ask me what I think of your team's chance in the game next week and I will say something polite like, 'Gee I dunno, could be a close one.'

Ask me about what I think of your new Rising Star nominee and you'll get me talking up Heath Shaw and Dale Thomas .

Could watch Dale Thomas play all day. Love the guy. Grant Thomas? Reminds me of all the shitty fat bosses I've ever had. Can't stand the bloke.

The World's Biggest Winners

This week a few of us went to the AWB Kickbackwards Dome's nightclub, The Locker Room for a bit of post game gloating. After a 12 goal win it seemed the most sensible thing to do.

To get in we had to struggle through the throngs of Joffa hanger-ons singing his songs outside. Nerds and reprobates the lot of them. Love Collingwood and all but fark, I'm so over Joffa and his disturbed lookin' mates. Watching them celebrate a win is like being let into a band camp (as in there was this one time at band camp) five year reunion. Tedious as all fark.

But when it comes to disturbance, Joffa's brood has nothing on the clientel at The Locker Room. More on that in a second.

First we gotta realise The Locker Room is a nightclub in a football stadium. I'll repeat it. A nightclub in a football stadium.

Bad disco, Coogar Girls (yes, they do exist) and a hundred televisions playing the footy replay is a mixed up little paradise. The occasion is punctuated by the DJ sparking up the winning team's club song every twenty minutes. If he slackens off, the patrons start off their own rendition, over the top of Madonna's Ray Of Light.

Now for the clientel. I have an extremely good looking, intelligent and funny mate who met a longtime girlfriend half time during a Collingwood game at The Locker Room. The next time I see him I'm going to throttle him.

How could you meet the potential love of your life at the fricken Locker Room? One of our group discretely whispered to me, "The girls here are.... ahem.... a bit plain aren't they?" And the guys were at best portly but on the most part gobsmackingly enormous.

At least they loved singing Good Old Collingwood Forever and what the heck, each one of the humungous, official clubwear wearing pissheads is part of my brood.

I'm off to the bar. Anyone want another Coogar? Two pies, hotdog and chips perhaps?

Destined To A Life Of Pungent Pizza

In an act of one part star spotting and the other pure voodoo, me and a mate thought we'd go to Anthony and Sav Rocca's Carlton pizza restaurant and order takeaway last weekend.

Mark's Place is one of those "family" pizza restaurants. Chunky pine tables, kids menus, balloons, toys hanging from the roof, crayon coloured in pictures and plenty of second rate football parephenalia hanging on the walls.

Don Camillos it aint.

We didn't order the impressive looking Rocca's Rump or Pebbles' Porterhouse from the menu. Instead, went for a half hairy fish/half triple chili pizza.

The chili pizza was very hot, the hottest I've experienced in my long pizza history and the hairy fish was hairy as you want it to be. But there was a problem.

The pizza was incredibly pungent.

My poor old car, The Funbird Mk II still reeks of old pizza and it took three days to get rid of the unpleasant pizza aftertaste. The pizza odour coming from my pores during the next morning shower wasn't the only uncomfortable excretion experienced.

On the following Sunday, Anthony kicked eight straight goals in a stunning win against the Poos & Wees.

Shit. It was because of our visit to Anthony's pizza house, he kicked those eight goals. Had nothing to do with the dud kid who was on him or even the Pies' excellent kicking to the big man. Rocca's success was completely due to those stinking pizzas.

For the good of the club I have to eat from there every week.

I'm not sure my stomach will take it.

Is There A Doctor In The House?

Our first loss to Adelaide was irritating but I'm not ready to cake on the losing lotion just yet. Adelaide were surgical. They were technical. They were scientific. They were precisionistic. They were doctory. They were.... I've run out of the stoopid hospital words to describe them.

So have the newspapers.

Round one of every season, teams play fast and fit. Especially at the ...what are we going to call it this year? Viatel Stadium? The AWB Kickbackwards Grain Silo? Don't know.

Fresh teams like Adelaide are fast indoors. Get them out in the wind and the rain outside at the MCG (do they have the pleasure of playing there this year?) and they're kanoodling nobodies. The Pies looked best when they ran hard and loose. Sure, watching our kooky brand of footy was like watching the General Lee scamper from Boss Hog and his minions but who cares. I want Daisy Duke to pop out midway through the third quarter and kick a few. Was that you, Taz?

Down a gear. I liked our football on Monday.

I liked Dale Thomas' hair and pluck. I liked his interview with Dermott Bereton on the radio afterwards better. "Yeah, no, yeah, no. I guess if I can't run through those older fellas, I may as well jump over them."

Yeah, no, yeah, no, yeah.

Yeeee ha!

Happy New Year!

Bugger the Commonwealth Games.

Stuff the cricket.

Football season is here.

Life starts over.

Wanna Be In My Dream Team League?

I've started a league in the AFL's Dream Team fantasy footy competition. Of course I've decided to give it a catchy name, the VPFL, and maybe report results on this very website every now and then.

Victoria Park readers are real welcome to join. Just register at the Dream Team site and opt to join up under, LEAGUE CODE - 759042.

Another Reason Why We Shouldn't Respect The Sydney Swans

Even though we had a win on the weekend, I'm not going to give the pre-season competition any respect. Footy shouldn't start before the Sheffield Shield ends. It's still summer for frig's sake.

Anyway, check out what Paul Roos told The Age yesterday.

"It was a bit like the old prior opportunity had returned. Last year, I remember we were saying to our players: 'Look, it's going to be red-hot, you might be better off standing back and sweating on your opponent."

Exactly what we all suspected.