Glutbusters

Why I Have Been Away #3

More sport. This time the Tour de France.

My friend Tom has been kind enough to compile this explanatory memorandum for those of us who have no idea how the whole thing works.

As suspected, there are several races within the race. These have an order of importance and leaders are identified as follows:
- Yellow Jersey - General individual time ranking (otherwise known asthe General Classification or GC)
- Green Jersey - Individual points ranking (sprinters' jersey)
- Polka dot Jersey - General best climber ranking
- White Jersey - Young rider ranking
- Black numbers on Yellow background - General Team Ranking - no jersey for this one
- White numbers on Red background - General most aggresive rider (awarded after each stage - not cumulative)

Presentations are given to the following aftereach stage:

- The stage winner;
- The leader of the general ranking on time, who receives the yellow jersey;
- The leader of the general ranking on points, who receives the green jersey;
- The leader of the general ranking of best climber, who receives the red polka dot jersey;
- The leader of the general ranking of the best young rider, who receives the white jersey;
- The winner of the competitiveness prize for the stage.

So no presentation for the best team.

OK, so the Yellow Jersey, or race leader is determined by their overall time. This is taken from group and individual stages and most importantly, includes time bonuses for doing clever things. So, for example, the first three riders to cross the finish line at the end of each stage (not including time trials) get a time discount of 20" 12" and 8" respectively.

For 'intermediate sprints' (sprints set up along the days route), the first three get 6" 4" and 2". So your basic yellow jersey wearer is usually the quickest bike rider across all disciplines - that's why you see the likes of Robbie McEwen wearing yellow in the early stages (before individual time trials and hills come into it) and your Lance Armstrongs at the end (cos they may not be sprinters, but they overtake everyone eventually).

The green and polka dot jerseys are done purely on points - time has nothing to do with these ones. The closer you finish to first at each sprint or climb banner, the more points you get.

So why do all the unglamorous ones slog their guts out for the famous ones like Lance and Robbie? Pretty much the cash. Prize money is usally shared among the team. So if you finish the tour with the Yellow jersey you get 450,000 Euros to share, the Green jersey = 25,000 and the polka dot = 25,000. If you finish a stage first = 8,000, second = 4,000, third = 2,000. Best team overall gets 50,000 euros and an additional 2,800 for a stage win.

So there you go. Tom's easy to follow guide to the Tour de France.

What more could you POSSIBLY need to know!?

From The Mother Country

A selection of text messages and emails I received from my italian friends before, during and after our 1-0 loss to them:

BEFORE

HERMES: We ll own u

FEDERICO: cmon peter, we all know that italy sucks, but don't
get too excited about that, it's just a blody game. I
support Australia anyway. Aussie!!Aussie!!Aussie!!Aussie!!Aussie!!Aussie!!Aussie!!*

DURING

SARA: Aussies seem really angry during the anthem or is it the sun in the eyes? in bocca al lupo!**

SARA: De luca (I think she meant Viduka - ed.), bresciano, grella... Is it Italy vs Italy?

AFTER

SARA: I can only say, "che culo"!***

FEDERICO: we cheated again, didn't we? That's Italy, our politicians are cheaters, so what would you expect from the rest of the population? Cheaters!

HERMES: The 8th king of Rome.

We'll get them in South Africa.

*Federico has a penchant for repetitive text messages. He has been known to send one consisting only of "VIDEODROME. VIDEODROME. VIDEODROME."
**Good luck. Lit: "into the mouth of the wolf".
***Fluke! Lit: "arse".

Why I Have Been Away #2

I have been writing a play.

One of the (very many) things in my life that suffered when I took on a very demanding writing job was the amount of time I could dedicate to personal projects. In an attempt to remedy this, I took a week off work in March to give myself the concentrated block of time necessary (for me) to punch out anything of any worth, and I loved it. So any spare time I had in the following weeks went on this play, and Glutbusters suffered as a consequence. Such is life.

This play is about sexual assault in football and the surrounding issues. The challenge is keeping up with the offences that players keep committing. Since I started writing:

• Dean Brogan (Port Adelaide) has allegedly snapped a bloke at the airport;
• Brodie Holland (Collingwood and Neighbours) and his fiancee have been charged over an alleged assault at a Melbourne nightclub;
• Heath Scotland (Carlton) is facing possible assault charges after allegedly slapping a woman at the Next Blue Bar at Southbank;
• Heath Black (Fremantle) has been fined for an assault at the Perth Cup;
• Ashley Sampi (formerly of West Coast has been fined over a domestic dispute that involved a knife and the speculation of self-harm;
• Colin Sylvia (Melbourne) has been ordered by a court not to assault his girlfriend after a drunken incident that may or may not have involved threatening murder.

What the hell is going on?

How Happy Am I?

Very happy indeed.

Why I Have Been Away #1

I have been watching a lot of the World Cup. And it has been putting tremendous demands on my time.

As that previous post shows, I am not from a soccer family. But like so many others, we were always a World Cup family, starting with my Dad shaking me awake in a motel room in Healesville to see Cameroon beat Argentina in the opening round of Italia '90. Because of our heritage, our team was Italy, which is kind of like barracking for Richmond. They often show a lot, but they are more often cruelly denied.

So it is magnificent to have my own country there. I've always found it fascinating the way national characteristics are played out in national football teams. Traditionally, the Brazilians are flamboyant, exciting, attacking; the Germans are defensive, well-organised, efficient; the Italians are passionate, but prone to falling apart under pressure; and the Japanese are industrious without being spectacular. Gross generalisations, all of them, but I loved the way they played out.

It's been ace for me to see Australian national characteristics coming through in our national team. We're determined, we're hard-working. We're physical, and we don't dive. And we absolutely refuse to give up until the very end. These characterstics got us through the Japan game, and prevented us from falling to pieces against Brazil (as Australian teams of old might have done).

Times like this, when I am filled with the good side of Australian spirit, I get depressed that Australian nationalism has in many ways become associated with things like Cronulla. So it's nice that we're having a little bit of success in something that is truly international - hopefully it will remind us that we are just an island at the bottom of a very big world after all, and go some way to breaking that association.

Equilibrium Restored

MONDAY

NAME: Chad Morrison
CLUB: Collingwood (AFL)

BAC:0.093

TUESDAY

NAME: Reni Maitua
CLUB: Bulldogs (NRL - famous also for gang rape)

BAC: 0.165 (on P-Plates)

But it's alright, kids. They're sorry. You may continue to idolise them.

UPDATE: Collingwood have fined Chad Morrison $20,000. That's actually a pretty serious fine. He would be on, at the most, $200K, so about $120K after tax. A sixth of his annual income is a fair whack. Kudos to Collingwood on that one.

UPDATE II: Eddie's said it better than me (believe me, I'm as shocked as you are). Also, considerable debate going on over at Mr Lefty's.

Thank God

Life can return to some semblance of normality.

For a week at least.

Asking The Tough Questions

Upon viewing this photo...

...three questions immediately arise:

1. What is that expression on Mark Webber's face? Is he actually Bruce Campbell or a long-lost relative of same?

2. Does the removal of the sponsor's logo from that football qualify as some of the worst photoshop ever?

3. Why is Brad Green STILL ALLOWED TO WEAR THE RED AND BLUE?

Someone must have the answers.

Deutschland, Deutschland

I first understood that the World Cup was special when, at the age of 11, I sat with my father in a cheap motel somewhere in rural Victoria at 3am or some ridiculous hour, watching what I was told was one of the greatest upsets in world football: Roger Milla's Cameroon beating Diego Maradona's Argentina in the early matches of World Cup Italia '90. We followed Italy in those days (my father was born there) and a couple of weeks later Dad shook our bunks, back at home now, and urged me and my brother to the lounge room immediately - it was Italy v Argentina in the semis, and it had gone to penalties.

We lost, and so began an education in the cruelty of the penalty shootout. Italy, led by Roberto Baggio, would go on to make the final of World Cup USA '94, to be beaten by Brazil. On penalties. Again. Baggio and captain Franco Baresi missing their shots.

But tonight I could leave Italy behind, for now my country is on the way to Germany to stand with the giants of world football in the greatest sporting event in the world. No longer do I have to imagine a connection to men with strange names, a stranger language, and a shirt none of my mates wore. Now those I follow will have grown up in Dandenong, Keilor, Penrith. They grew up eating Paddle Pops, drinking Solo, watching Double Dare. Their roots may be as far flung as mine, but they are my countrymen.

And on their shoulders will my hopes rest.

Godspeed, Socceroos.

A Very Glutbusters Grand Final Day

0500. Is it time to get up yet?

0530. Please. Can I get up now?

0545. Please please please can I get up?

0600. Wake. Lie in dark waiting for alarm. Grand Final day is better than Christmas.

0630. Alarm.

0655. On bike. Getting pissed on. Heaps shitter than Christmas.

0715. Arrive at MCC Members Gates. Walk around perimeter of ground to back of queue of blueblood toffs lining up for their first footy game of the year. Claim moral highground.

0720. Still walking. Passing hall of famers. Leigh Matthews' moustache even more implausible on a 10-foot bronze statue.

0725. Arrive at end of queue, only metres from where I parked my bike. Marvel at how many young members have the collars of their polos upturned.

0800. Queue begins to move. Collars remain firmly vertical despite stiff breeze.

0815. In ground. Monster elderly members en route to brilliant seats - front row of level 3.

0850. Receive ticket. Go home.

1100. Receive call from friend with two free tickets that she can't use. Swear. Remember workmate who is a Swans fan (and lecherous Paul Roos lover), and her 12-year-old daughter even more (though less on the Roosy, more on the Kirky). Offer them as possible candidates to receive tickets. Friend announces she will ring a couple of other people first. End call. Crisis of faith - should I have lied and said I didn't have tickets and then passed them on to let two fans go to the Grannie? Could I have begged? Should I have pleaded? Have I failed the gods of football by not laying down my dignity to get a fan a GF ticket?

1130. Friend rings again. She is plagued by similar doubts. Offers tickets.

1135. Call work colleague. She does loud squeals down the phone. She tells her daughter, who does loud sobs.

1140. Shit! Should I have thought of The Redhead first? To whom to I owe first obligation? Her or football?

1230. Amidst toffs again as I arrive to collect the tickets from friend at the Athanaeum Club. Tickets not there. Head to ground.

1240. Tickets have arrived. Back to the club.

1245. On way to the ground. Tickets in wallet - the dreams of a little girl now in my hand. Pretty comfortable with "hero" status.

1300. Meet colleague and daughter. Daughter head to toe in swans gear. Tracksuit, jumper, scarf, 9 badges, face painted. Weak with excitement. Hand over two tickets to paradise. Or hell on earth - we'll see.

1310. Shit! They were AFL Members' tickets! The horrible possibility that I have lured a young girl from Hurstbridge in the hope of seeing her Swannies win a flag only to be denied at the final hurdle by an overly-officious AFL person rears its ugly, ugly head. More panic.

1320. In ground. SMS from workmate confirms they are at their seats and that she has already knocked off a couple of burbies to calm her nerves. Who could blame her.

1331. Delta subjects us to her ugly, ugly voice. I'm all-a-quiver. (False alarm, just gas).

1339. Australian Idol finalists perform Waltzing Matilda. Peter from Glutbusters heard to exclaim (a little too loudly) "could you butcher this song any more you talentless shits?" Stands by it in face of stern glares from fellow members.

1356. Michael Bublé. Why?

1400. Dame Edna. Gold.

1432. National Anthem. Roar. Goosebumps.

1435. Perhaps the greatest football game I have ever seen begins.

1530. Father and I divided in our loyalties. Me the Swans. Him the Eagles. To be more precise: him Chris Judd.

1700. Leo Barry takes the biggest mark of the year. Me and Dad exhausted yet buzzing in the knowledge that we have just seen one of the all-time greats.

1710. I weep. Again. Deep down, just a little bit, and I'll never admit it, and I have no idea what you're talking about, I wished I barracked for Sydney. A sneaky look at Dad suggests he might feel the same.

1800. Call from colleague. Daughter heard to say "best day of my life". Turned out the seats were near workmate's brother, and they were able, when the siren went, to exchange glances and remember their father, a Blood from way back, who died earlier this year.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. God, I love football.

Circle Of Life

Heartbreaking tribunal controversies?

A mysterious Brownlow leak playing havoc with the odds?

Not enough tickets for all the fans?

I love Grand Final week.

Self-Analysis Time

In the wake of Roger Federer's demolition of Andre Agassi in the latter part of Sunday's US Open Final, and Agassi's concession that he has never seen a player like Roger, it's time to examine that other loose cannon on the tennis circuit - Peter from Glutbusters.

So let's break down the game.

Forehand - Once the lynchpin of a formidable schoolboy game, perhaps its most famous moment was being ripped off the back foot past an approaching Rob C on the dusty red en-tous-cas of court 1 at St Andrew's Church, Brighton, around 1995. Now a shadow of its former self. At its best: a crushing weapon of demoralisation; at its worst, an embarrassing shank capable of sending balls into neighbouring courts/houses/heads.

Attire - Defiantly casual. Collars shunned unless part of deliberate retro pastiche of tennis fashions past. Shorts appropriately-lengthed; neither religion-revealing (a la John McEnroe circa 1982) nor obtrusively long (see Rafael Nadal). Anklet socks preferred for calf definition and lengthening of legs except on certain surfaces. (Tips for new players: on grass and en-tous-cas/clay, longer socks prevent your shoes filling up with crap from the court- Ed.)

Backhand - Aesthetically the rival of Federer's. Front foot planted and knee gracefully bent. Tremendous shoulder rotation. Ball striking tragically generates about as much power as a newly-retired midweek lady. Wish I had listened to my coach when, at age 10, he counselled a double-hander. Recently-outed (at the time) lesbian Hana Mandlikova hit one (or did she?). Either way, I wasn't interested.

Accessories - Excellent use of trendy sunvisor in neutral grey. Wristband (always present on right wrist) rotated through a variety of styles/colours and used theatrically for brow mopping at crucial moments. Key to club kept on bright green Prince lanyard next to Prince racquet - the syncronicity of marque suggesting sponsorship as a not unlikely possibility.

Volleys - Solid. Spectacular in fact. Particularly down low. A crushing piece of the Glutbusters armory.

Serve - Punishing. Economical, Sampras-esque technique, excellent reach, unparalleled accuracy. See Fig 1.

Fig. 1

Temperament - Top class mastery of a broad range of tantrums, from the frustrated racquet-bounce to the despairing self-flagellation ("Peter, you fuckwit") to the run-for-your-lives-kids-there's-a-psycho-on-court-twelve explosiveness of hitting balls into, and occasionally over, the back fence.

Big-game experience - Held on to win a nail-biter in the Men's Doubles (Section 2) at the Cohuna Lawn Tennis Club Easter Tournament 2005. Nerves of steel.

Look out, Roger.

Me? I Like Football

I have been absent for a while.

One of the reasons for this is that I have had all my emotional and spiritual needs satisfied by the football that I have attended over the last couple of weeks.

Wait! Before you write me off as some Crown-Casino-sports-bar-frequenting, angry-when-drunk, taper-together-of-buns jock, hear me out. I am aware that football, indeed all sport, is, for many, not all that important. And I agree. I'm happy to indulge the "sport teaches us about ourselves/heroes/values" arguments. Hell, I've even trotted them out from time to time. I believe I have also, in a particularly joyous moment, actually said to my brother "football is life on a green field".

But ulitmately, it's trivial. Which is why I take it so seriously. Because I've always got that escape - if the Dees, a kick away from their first grand final in 27 years, are beaten after the siren, it hurts. But the next day/week/month: it's just a game. It is, in the end, inconsequential. Imagine if I put all my emotional eggs in the ALP's basket come election time? Where's the escape to spending nearly ten years under the reign of an ultra-conservative little rodent? None. You never hear anyone say, "ah, it's just the government that's going to rule us for the next three years, it doesn't really matter."

So, in (interim) conclusion: take sport seriously, take politics lightly, or you'll want to slit your wrists.

How seriously? I am able to bring tears to my eyes when I think of what it would feel like to be there with my dad and brother the day the Dees win a flag.

How seriously? Dad used to send me and my brother off to sleep with pop tests of players' numbers.
Number 9 for Geelong? Bruce Lindner.
Number 28 for Melbourne? Jamie Duursma (famous also for something else).
Number 7 for Carlton? Wayne Johnston.
His nickname? The Dominator! (And now married to Stingers "star" Kate Kendall)

How seriously? Here is an excerpt of my match review from last Saturday Night's Melbourne v Western Bulldogs (Footscray!) game - partially simulcast on Every Day Is Like Sunday.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Me
My Dad - Longer-suffering than I. He held my hand while I stood in the mud as the Dees beat Footscray at the Western Oval in Round 22 of 1987 to make their first finals series in 23 years. The first time I saw him cry was when Gary Buckenara crushed our hearts three weeks later. I barrack for Melbourne because he threatened me with familial excommunication if I didn't. Tough love.
The Redhead - Doesn't know a lot about football, but is learning. Is appropriately loyal to her team (Brisbane) for appropriate reasons (she was born there and lived in Fitzroy). Understands my irrational emotional involvement.
My Mum - We've met her before. Doesn't really "get" football. Used to barrack for Carlton. Now tolerates Melbourne for our sake. Talks loudly throughout game because of headphones. She does, however, bring tea and cake.

The match report we don't need. The situation is thus: Melbourne, for the second week in a row, had fought back from the dead and are just behind. Peter, for the second week in a row, was deriving absolutely no pleasure whatsoever from the experience. Just stomach-shrinking tension. Hopefully followed by relief. Possibly followed by disbelief, disappointment, anger, inebriation, violence, headache, and eventually sadness.

We have a shot for goal. Pretty much to win the match. Me and Dad are head in hands. Can't watch. Redhead is discreetly silent. Mother heard to comment: "isn't this exciting?" Supreme effort of will required to avoid ugly scene. Goal. Wild scenes followed by two more minutes of near-vomitous tension. Siren.

Now the interesting bit: tears. The relief of it all just got the better of me and I wept, not uncontrollably, but with less decorum than I expected of myself. Kids in front of me were nudging their mates and saying "dude, check out that guy crying". My mother gave me a clean handkerchief and all was forgiven. The Redhead gave me a hug. Dad and I just shared a look in which was contained my deepest thanks for putting me through the pain that leads to moments like this. The song was sung, but I couldn't make the words. My hands shook for an hour.

God, I love football.

Best Lonely Hearts Clubman

Hi! Thanks for logging onto "Man Up", the AFL's online matchmaking service.

There are three (3) matches for your search queries:

sensitive, fun-loving, gentle.

FRASER

G'day, my name's Fraser. Umm, I haven't really done this sort of thing before. Yeah, I'm gentle and shit, whatever. Got rid of the mullet last year, so pretty sensitive. And I get fashion and all that faggy stuff. Check me shirt. I love going out and having a good time. You know, nothing silly. Just a few shandies with some mates then home in time for Taggart. Some of the boys cut loose every so often, but I'm not really into all that stuff.

So yeah, give me a call. Love to catch up for a coffee, whatever. I'd prefer an anti-diuretic, but I'm easy.

STEPHEN & LEIGH

Stephen: Hi there, girls!
Leigh: G'day!
Stephen: I'm Stephen.
Leigh: And I'm Leigh.
Stephen: The boys call me Milney. The ladies generally call me Steve. Or the accused.
Leigh: The accused, yeah. Me too. Or Leigh. Whatever. I play football.
Stephen: They know that.
Leigh: Oh, right. I've got really muscly arms.
Stephen: Leigh, shut up, you're ruining it.
Leigh: Sorry.
Stephen: Yeah, it was all a bit of a misunderstanding that accused stuff.
Leigh: Yeah, yeah. Misunderstanding.
Stephen: It was just me and Leigh, you know and... um... God, what was her name?
Leigh: Shit.
Stephen: Oh, what was it?
Leigh: Ummm....
Stephen: Hang on, hang on... Nope. Gone.
Leigh: Anyway. Top bird.
Stephen: Top bird, yeah. So it was just me and Leigh here and whatsherface and that other one...
Leigh: Shit.
Stephen: You were keen on her.
Leigh. Yeah. God, I don't think I even knew her name then.
Stephen: Right. Top bird, though.
Leigh: Oh, yeah. Top bird.
Stephen: So. Just us. Boys will be boys, you know. Nothing in it.
Leigh: What did they say about it?
Stephen: Insufficient evidence.
Leigh: That's it. Insufficient evidence.
Stephen: So hop on, ladies. We're clean
Leigh: If we could get twins...
Stephen: Shut up, Leigh.

WAYNE

Hi. Oh, geeze.

long pause

Sorry... but...

long pause

Hi there. Phew. It's been a while since... you know... I've been in the game. God. Where do I start? Um... since my wife and I... oh, I really don't want to go into it. It was mutual, is all I'll say. But I've been a bit lonely. Was in Adelaide for a while. Back home now.

sighs

So yeah. Give me a call. I'm after companionship. Looks aren't important, really. Not to me. When I'm with a woman all I really see is her soul, her spirit, you know.

Thanks for visiting "Man Up". Hope you find the right "match" for you!

Someone's got their work cut out for them.

Cop That, You Bastards

Or... Classic Dummy Spits Throughout The Ages

Mark Latham - 2005

Nine months or so after crashing to an election defeat at the hands of John Howard, former Opposition Leader Mark Latham's biography arrives, pointing the finger from beyond the political grave at:

State Premiers Carr, Beattie and Gallop: "A-grade arseholes"!
Kim Beazley: "a conservative, stand-for-nothing type of leader"!
The media: "drama queens"!

Ah, youse are all a pack of cunts!

Curiously silent on Mark Latham, though. Classic tanty stuff.

Jeff Tarango - Wimbledon, 1995

Pat Rafter said of Jeff that "he couldn't play tennis very well". Not to worry! The little known American player guaranteed his place in the annals of the game's greatest dummy spitters on the hallowed courts of the All England club. Dissatisfied with a line call, he remonstrated with umpire Bruno Rebeuh, who stood firm. He told courtside spectators jeering him for his petulance to "shut up", called the umpire "the most corrupt official in the game" and when docked a point for a code violation, packed up his bat and ball and went home, leaving his wife to slap Bruno for his troubles.

If you're calling that out my wife is SO gonna bitch-slap yo' ass, motherfucker!

Eric Cantona - Selhurst Park, 1995

A classic straw-that-broke-the-camel's-back story: the day Cantona did his nana. Premier League. 1995. Manchester United v Crystal Palace. Cantona, the gifted Frenchman. Able to do seemingly impossible things with a soccer ball. Famed for punching his own goalkeeper in 1987. Blessed with the ability to hack opposition ankles with an unusual brutality. Red carded after one such hacking, he stalked to the bench, his Gallic temper bubbling. A stray comment (allegedly racial) from "fan" Matthew Simmons was all it took to send Eric flailing into the crowd, studs up, to land a deft kung-fu kick on Simmons. 120 hours of community service (and a fair old knackering on the fence) followed.

Fuck World War 1! You English are all wankers!

Normie Rowe / Ron Casey - Midday with Ray Martin, 1991

Blue-haired ladies around the nation got the shock of their lives in 1991 when a debate on republicanism degenerated into schoolboy violence. Shock jock Ron the republican sneered at muso Normie the monarchist and Vietnam vet, called him a "bloody hero". Normie stalked across the stage, called Ron a "low rat". Ron stood up to take it like a man. Normie pushed him back into his chair. Ron sprung to his feet like a man possessed and landed a cracker on Normie's jaw. Ray shat himself. Security guards intervened. Awesome.

Yeah! That's the bloke! Had a fight with Ron Casey on Ray! Yeah!

Peter from Glutbusters - Peter's House, 1982

My third birthday. Hear that? MY birthday. So all you little pricks sucking down fairy bread and red cordial on my dime, you just get your filthy hands off my new toys. Play with the old shit, I don't care, just don't touch the new stuff. Don't touch it! I don't care if you gave it to me, it's mine! What's that, Mum? You're going to lock me in my room? Fine! See if I care! I'll just fire a parting shot:

"YOU CAN ALL GO AND GET FUCKED!"

Three years old. I'm not proud. I remember watching the kids from my mother-wardened prison, eating ice-cream out of those square cones. Pricks.

Contributions to the Dummy Spitting Hall of Fame welcome. Apply within.