DozzyThe Off-Season Is No Place For Minnows
October 16th 2008 04:54
All things considered, the Hawks have been worthy winners. A great example of the patience required when rebuilding from the bottom up. They’ve been gracious in victory under the fine on-field leadership of Sam Mitchell and Luke Hodge and few would deny Crawf his moment in the sun.
The same probably couldn’t be said for their frog-voiced front man. I’m sure there’s a few of us getting tired of Jeff parading around in his ridiculous brown and gold crested jacket like an unfashionable Gatsby. Offering up ill-informed critiques on everything from Nathan Thompson’s knee to the lunar moon landing like one of Statler and Waldorf from the Muppets. Some time ago I replaced jeff.com in my favourites with melbourneniteclubbouncers.com and the dickhead count inexplicably took a dive. That gives you some idea of the type of bloke we’re dealing with.
Luckily, since the hysteria of Grand Final week has faded there hasn’t been much to report on Jeff, and not really much to report on footy in general. SEN spent an entire day frantically describing the conclusion of trade week where nothing actually happened. It takes a special talent to describe ‘Collingwood’s pick 93 to Brisbane for Anthony Corrie’ and make it sound slightly more interesting than a luxury car commercial and unfortunately that level of talent does not exist in human form. Jim Maxwell is probably the closest thing and he’s in India. Poor Huddo could barely hide his frustration and seemed ready to square up to the Bulldogs brains trust when they dared to leave the trade session early without a key forward.
The off-season talk can be limited to Melbourne’s early stab at pre-season or the International Rules series. Which ever way you look you’re going to see a pasty Irishman with a desperate glint in his eye. Although I’ve got confidence in the great man Stynes, it’ll be interesting to see whether Russell Robertson turns up or not, you know, with that burgeoning music career to think of. God knows the world needs more cover versions of 'Jessie’s girl'. Sandwich it between 'Echo Beach' and the Greece Mega-mix and the room starts spinning and suddenly it’s every Saturday night Twister ever had and I’ve got Woodstock bourbon on my boat shoes.
Come on Russ give us something we can either enjoy or heap scorn on, not something so vanilla as an album of joyless covers. Featureless. They’re about as interesting as Kevin Rudd’s face. Or the sex life of Tom Gleisner. An album of low-fat, salt-free rice cakes.
If nothing else, you do have to appreciate his enthusiasm. The emotional impact of the lyrics to 'Jessie’s Girl' are highly debateable but nevertheless when Russ performs it live he reaches for it like it’s 'Eternal Flame' at a wake. He was belting it out at the races the other weekend and looked as though he was suffering from a chronic case of guitar face like he was Tommy Emmanual wailing with Nathan Cavaleri on Hey, hey it’s Saturday. Unfortunately there was no Daryl Somers to jump on the drums- Russ had a real drummer.
The other nervous Irishman I refer to would be the bloke Vossy decked last time the International series went ahead. Actually, in that case it could be a number of nervous Irishman. I was at Croke Park for that game. It was pretty much nothing but an all-in cage match in front of 80,000 people. From the outset the fists were flying, blood was spilt and there was barely an eye on the ball. The crowd of men, women and children rose as one in a rage of senseless blood lust.
It was fabulous.
From the stands it was easy to see that Vossy was very deliberate in his pursuite of random violence for that game, but by no means was it a one-sided bashing as their press wailed in the aftermath. But therein lies the problem with the whole concept. When one of the sides is losing convincingly their press and their supporters immediately start pointing out the ridiculous nature of the hybrid game and how they’d rather spend their time sniffing oil-based paint and playing sudoku than catch a game live. There’s just no real passion for the game that has been fostered over years of desparate battle. Which is a shame, because international competition is great for a sport, but this particular re-invention feels a little forced. The AFL have made concessions to entice the Irish back on board but I fear unless it’s close on the scoreboard it will fade into the ether like 'Taken Out'. Hopefully with a little more dignity and less slappers.
It’s probably the reason God invented the round ball.
The same probably couldn’t be said for their frog-voiced front man. I’m sure there’s a few of us getting tired of Jeff parading around in his ridiculous brown and gold crested jacket like an unfashionable Gatsby. Offering up ill-informed critiques on everything from Nathan Thompson’s knee to the lunar moon landing like one of Statler and Waldorf from the Muppets. Some time ago I replaced jeff.com in my favourites with melbourneniteclubbouncers.com and the dickhead count inexplicably took a dive. That gives you some idea of the type of bloke we’re dealing with.
Jeff Kennet and friend
Luckily, since the hysteria of Grand Final week has faded there hasn’t been much to report on Jeff, and not really much to report on footy in general. SEN spent an entire day frantically describing the conclusion of trade week where nothing actually happened. It takes a special talent to describe ‘Collingwood’s pick 93 to Brisbane for Anthony Corrie’ and make it sound slightly more interesting than a luxury car commercial and unfortunately that level of talent does not exist in human form. Jim Maxwell is probably the closest thing and he’s in India. Poor Huddo could barely hide his frustration and seemed ready to square up to the Bulldogs brains trust when they dared to leave the trade session early without a key forward.
Frightening.
Come on Russ give us something we can either enjoy or heap scorn on, not something so vanilla as an album of joyless covers. Featureless. They’re about as interesting as Kevin Rudd’s face. Or the sex life of Tom Gleisner. An album of low-fat, salt-free rice cakes.
If nothing else, you do have to appreciate his enthusiasm. The emotional impact of the lyrics to 'Jessie’s Girl' are highly debateable but nevertheless when Russ performs it live he reaches for it like it’s 'Eternal Flame' at a wake. He was belting it out at the races the other weekend and looked as though he was suffering from a chronic case of guitar face like he was Tommy Emmanual wailing with Nathan Cavaleri on Hey, hey it’s Saturday. Unfortunately there was no Daryl Somers to jump on the drums- Russ had a real drummer.
Russel Robertson with a face melter
The other nervous Irishman I refer to would be the bloke Vossy decked last time the International series went ahead. Actually, in that case it could be a number of nervous Irishman. I was at Croke Park for that game. It was pretty much nothing but an all-in cage match in front of 80,000 people. From the outset the fists were flying, blood was spilt and there was barely an eye on the ball. The crowd of men, women and children rose as one in a rage of senseless blood lust.
It was fabulous.
From the stands it was easy to see that Vossy was very deliberate in his pursuite of random violence for that game, but by no means was it a one-sided bashing as their press wailed in the aftermath. But therein lies the problem with the whole concept. When one of the sides is losing convincingly their press and their supporters immediately start pointing out the ridiculous nature of the hybrid game and how they’d rather spend their time sniffing oil-based paint and playing sudoku than catch a game live. There’s just no real passion for the game that has been fostered over years of desparate battle. Which is a shame, because international competition is great for a sport, but this particular re-invention feels a little forced. The AFL have made concessions to entice the Irish back on board but I fear unless it’s close on the scoreboard it will fade into the ether like 'Taken Out'. Hopefully with a little more dignity and less slappers.
It’s probably the reason God invented the round ball.
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