I worked on my lover’s birthday
And on the day our son was born
I had to work on Christmas day
Served New Year’s cheer till the crack of dawn.
I held a tray the very day
We were awarded the Olympics then
Cleaned up the Premiers mates.
My arm went numb waiting for Tom and Nicole
Who arrived 2 hours late.
I served the P.M. dinner
And survived 13 Easter Shows.
Tended bar at private parties
Shared the client’s top-shelf blow.
Labour Day and Anzac Day
I leave the family behind,
To smile and nod at strangers
Who’ll drink until their blind.
Yes, the agency will find you work
On days you’d rather be home
And then for the rest of the bloody year
They won’t even bother to phone.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
The True AFL Issue
Football, Football, Football! Will we ever be satisfied with your lot.
The game is to slow; the game is too violent; the game is too drug addled; drink is destroying great potential; violent behaviour of players so long banned on field are manifesting themselves in casinos, girlfriends apartments and car parks.. Off field dramas. With betting on football at an all time high, will the AFL experience the same behaviour from the umps as the NBA has with their referees? These points sell papers but we can't seriously think that is were the real problems lie?
In the commercial caused rush demanding creative/commercially sponsored alternatives to make the game faster and more exciting than ever, are we failing to recognize the one off field location responsible for most of the violence, trash talk and behaviour so extremely unacceptable it would bring a Klu Klux Klan burning into disrepute? I bet my fuzzy bum that you know of which I speak, kind reader. Correct! The commentary box.
Men shouting at each other, at callers with valid points about the game, at piss heads that call after the game and especially yelling at no one in particular, just yelling, may have had its day when most of the players wore facial but, mate, it is the 21st century and this is the footy. We expect beef flowing through the microphones at the games each week, not cocktail franks.
Rather than complain (And Christ knows after a puff I do go on) I humbly offer these few suggestions for the men who call the footy on weekends and then spend the rest of the week wandering through the slum of ignorance.
First: Let's get the work FRICK-IN worked into the patter of a game. For example: 'That Frickin' umpy is having a shocker. 'He kicked the Frickin' bladder out of the frickin' ball for what must be the frickin' goal of the frickin' day! 'Tell me (add name of commentator here), have you been frickin' drinking on a empty head or are you just frickin' blind?' It works beautifully on a word beginning with the letter F. If you deny ever using the word fuck as a powerful, insistant adjective, well, fuck you. We use the word and inject it like an orphaned adjective into every corner of our speech. But we do that for we are all musical and the meter of the sound makes our conversations sing.
The rain in Spain... stays mainly on the plain.
The ball landed right... in the frickin players hands.
The used of this simple little word could turn the mugs behind the mikes into the Mozart's of commentary.
Secondly: If nothing else, let's be honest. A player does not get hit in the groin region, the abdomen or has his meat and two veg slide off the platter. It's called his BALLS people; the player was struck soundly in the NUTS. Is it so hard to say? Have we been so desensitised by the carnage shown hourly on TV that our point of distress is no longer visual but verbal? To paraphrase MY FAIR LADY, 'We don't care what others do actually, as long as they pronounce it correctly'. To be fair, balls, nuts, testes, and other colourful descriptions of the sweet meat may not flow easily off the lips of many. Therefore I suggest we use one phrase and one phrase only: whacked in the knackers. An Australian phrase, leaving no doubt what we are describing and yet soft and funny enough to avoid offending (almost) anyone. We all know why we laugh when a man gets whacked in the knackers...it's because it's not our knackers that are getting whacked. Thus life remains balanced.
The last suggestion is one that could have an enormous effect on future generations. Every culture, every society within a culture bemoans the loss of aspects that are unique to that specific group. These include dress, food, even areas such as respect and how respect is to be offered. The one great loss of any cultural group is its language. The identity and history of any group is kept alive by oral tradition. Think how many terms from your childhood have disappeared. (What did happen to the word 'Strewth!'?) How many more terms are slowly fading into a history no one will record?
Therefore I suggest footy commentators become the keepers of the phrases. That those who are employed as football commentators keep all Australian verbal idioms alive. Think of it; the AFL would become a cultural bank in which we can withdraw near forgotten pieces of what made this country unique. Of what keeps us Australian. Of course there would need to be a change in thinking as to whom is the best qualified as a football commentator/keeper of the cultural flame of language. A change of personal is required and perhaps that would be for the best of all concerned.
A story to illustrate how to make the game better.
A booking agent for many of the bigger clubs in Sydney died. The church was packed. However, conspicuous by his absence was the dead man's competition, the other big-club-booking agent. Noticing this, one of the acts both men hired went over to see the agent still alive and tell him about the day.
He was gruffly met at the door.
'Suppose ya been to the funeral, heh?'
'Yeah, I was.'
'Church packed?"
'They were spilling out the doors.'
'Yeah. I always told the bastard, "Give em' what they want and everyone will show up!"
What we want, really, is footy. Give us that and every bastard will turn up!
The game is to slow; the game is too violent; the game is too drug addled; drink is destroying great potential; violent behaviour of players so long banned on field are manifesting themselves in casinos, girlfriends apartments and car parks.. Off field dramas. With betting on football at an all time high, will the AFL experience the same behaviour from the umps as the NBA has with their referees? These points sell papers but we can't seriously think that is were the real problems lie?
In the commercial caused rush demanding creative/commercially sponsored alternatives to make the game faster and more exciting than ever, are we failing to recognize the one off field location responsible for most of the violence, trash talk and behaviour so extremely unacceptable it would bring a Klu Klux Klan burning into disrepute? I bet my fuzzy bum that you know of which I speak, kind reader. Correct! The commentary box.
Men shouting at each other, at callers with valid points about the game, at piss heads that call after the game and especially yelling at no one in particular, just yelling, may have had its day when most of the players wore facial but, mate, it is the 21st century and this is the footy. We expect beef flowing through the microphones at the games each week, not cocktail franks.
Rather than complain (And Christ knows after a puff I do go on) I humbly offer these few suggestions for the men who call the footy on weekends and then spend the rest of the week wandering through the slum of ignorance.
First: Let's get the work FRICK-IN worked into the patter of a game. For example: 'That Frickin' umpy is having a shocker. 'He kicked the Frickin' bladder out of the frickin' ball for what must be the frickin' goal of the frickin' day! 'Tell me (add name of commentator here), have you been frickin' drinking on a empty head or are you just frickin' blind?' It works beautifully on a word beginning with the letter F. If you deny ever using the word fuck as a powerful, insistant adjective, well, fuck you. We use the word and inject it like an orphaned adjective into every corner of our speech. But we do that for we are all musical and the meter of the sound makes our conversations sing.
The rain in Spain... stays mainly on the plain.
The ball landed right... in the frickin players hands.
The used of this simple little word could turn the mugs behind the mikes into the Mozart's of commentary.
Secondly: If nothing else, let's be honest. A player does not get hit in the groin region, the abdomen or has his meat and two veg slide off the platter. It's called his BALLS people; the player was struck soundly in the NUTS. Is it so hard to say? Have we been so desensitised by the carnage shown hourly on TV that our point of distress is no longer visual but verbal? To paraphrase MY FAIR LADY, 'We don't care what others do actually, as long as they pronounce it correctly'. To be fair, balls, nuts, testes, and other colourful descriptions of the sweet meat may not flow easily off the lips of many. Therefore I suggest we use one phrase and one phrase only: whacked in the knackers. An Australian phrase, leaving no doubt what we are describing and yet soft and funny enough to avoid offending (almost) anyone. We all know why we laugh when a man gets whacked in the knackers...it's because it's not our knackers that are getting whacked. Thus life remains balanced.
The last suggestion is one that could have an enormous effect on future generations. Every culture, every society within a culture bemoans the loss of aspects that are unique to that specific group. These include dress, food, even areas such as respect and how respect is to be offered. The one great loss of any cultural group is its language. The identity and history of any group is kept alive by oral tradition. Think how many terms from your childhood have disappeared. (What did happen to the word 'Strewth!'?) How many more terms are slowly fading into a history no one will record?
Therefore I suggest footy commentators become the keepers of the phrases. That those who are employed as football commentators keep all Australian verbal idioms alive. Think of it; the AFL would become a cultural bank in which we can withdraw near forgotten pieces of what made this country unique. Of what keeps us Australian. Of course there would need to be a change in thinking as to whom is the best qualified as a football commentator/keeper of the cultural flame of language. A change of personal is required and perhaps that would be for the best of all concerned.
A story to illustrate how to make the game better.
A booking agent for many of the bigger clubs in Sydney died. The church was packed. However, conspicuous by his absence was the dead man's competition, the other big-club-booking agent. Noticing this, one of the acts both men hired went over to see the agent still alive and tell him about the day.
He was gruffly met at the door.
'Suppose ya been to the funeral, heh?'
'Yeah, I was.'
'Church packed?"
'They were spilling out the doors.'
'Yeah. I always told the bastard, "Give em' what they want and everyone will show up!"
What we want, really, is footy. Give us that and every bastard will turn up!
To the Beach
TO THE BEACH
A young woman
who cared
for me as
I was happily
losing my
battle with the booze
attempted
to show me
an
alternative to
sitting at the bar.
On a perfect
Sunday to drink
she walked me
to the top of
a cliff overlooking
the sure is pretty Pacific
and showed me
as the devil once
did for Jesus
all the glory that could
be mine
while removing her top
and lying back
breast perfect.
Yeah
that’ll help.
W.M. SPECHA 10/07/07
A young woman
who cared
for me as
I was happily
losing my
battle with the booze
attempted
to show me
an
alternative to
sitting at the bar.
On a perfect
Sunday to drink
she walked me
to the top of
a cliff overlooking
the sure is pretty Pacific
and showed me
as the devil once
did for Jesus
all the glory that could
be mine
while removing her top
and lying back
breast perfect.
Yeah
that’ll help.
W.M. SPECHA 10/07/07
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