#304: Meet The Flintstones. Now Kill Them.

To further a recent discussion I'm having on that evil thing called Facebook...

It'd be nice to go just one day when I don't see someone trying to push some ignorant, misguided, hatemonging media racist's views down my throat? Be the US elections, be it the recent protests against the wankers who made the movie that attacks Muslims, be it anything - where is the tolerance these days? 

I was raised to accept everyone on their merits and not to hate anyone on the basis of their colour, creed or religion. Trust me, if I don't like someone it's due to their failings as a person, nothing more, nothing less. Eventually this world will implode beneath the racial hate and religious intolerance that it now wallows in. I'm not advocating love for all, but, by the maker, take a step back and stop believing everything that the media blowhards say. They know nothing more than anyone else and only appeal to the largely uneducated masses so they can keep their jobs. Use your brains people! 

Today a bald headed moron has written a hate filled screed attacking Muslims who were exercising their right to protest.  In most people's worlds it's perfectly acceptable for white Australians to riot and protest, but nobody else can do so, no matter what their religion, colour or creed.  It's a vicious cycle really.  But a here's something I'd like to share, and you can disagree with it all you want - go for it.

Rape.  As the Mother Of Jesus pointed out, there's an impression, fuelled by the media, that all Islamic people believe that, "...women deserved to be raped because of the way we dress!!!!"  Now I'm the first to agree that having such a stance isn't right, but then I've yet to meet one Islamic person that also agrees that women deserve to be raped due to the way that they dress.  Not one.  But to hide behind any excuse, especially religion, to justify rape is utterly wrong.  I'd like to say the following, the bulk of rapes in this country are done by white people who wear hoodies, so let's ban the hoodies and balaclavas. People have been raping others due to the way they dress since women started showing ankles.  The Hoodie doesn't hide behind religion thought, the hoodie hides behind something a lot more dangerous.  The Hoodie generally hides behind their upbringing, or blames a drug or alcohol addiction that they inflicted upon themselves, or blames society because they're too lazy to get a job and thinks the world owes them. The Hoodie blames everyone but themselves for their damage that they do.  Let's ban the Hoodie before we ban the Burqua.

Seriously.  When the media gets behind that, whioch they won't, instead of pushing racist, intolerant, anti-religious views that would have made Goebbels proud, then I might take notice.  Until then, don't believe what you hear - and keep your thickheaded views to yourself.  Nobody cares.

#303: Remember The Alamo!

To all of your bastards who were wondering where I'd gotten to, let's just say I was busy having a gigantic shit.  

Browsing that evil ole Facebook this morning I saw this photo and had a chuckle.  I pointed out, in the comments section, that it reminded me of some graffiti that used to be in the men's growler of the upstairs nightclub in Rundle Street in the 1990s and the story that went with it.  The night in question I went with my then girlfriend and a pal for some quiet drinks - an anomaly at the time because I was well into my phase of drinking myself into oblivion and swallowing almost any happy pill that was offered (or not).  Loads of fun really.  On the night in question some peon thought it'd be a good idea to crack onto my then girlfriend, who also thought it'd be a good idea to flirt with the guy in front of me with the view of making me jealous.  Really, we were as bad as each other, and I could never understand that.  Oh well, such is life.  After I'd told the idiot that it'd be in his best interests to leave the place I went for a quiet slash.  That's when the fun broke out.

The clown followed me in and decided to pick a fight.  I wasn't in really in the mood for any shenanigans so, in one of my more violent moments, I grabbed the swine and I put his head through one of the cisterns, thus breaking both the cistern and presumably his head, leaving the floor awash with Royal Doulton, dirty water and some claret. He lay on the floor, covered in filth and blood, moaning and twitching, so I left. A few months later I went back for a night out and went for a slash to find that the cistern hadn't been replaced but someone had written, "Personal Jesus Wuz Here!" 

I fucking loved it.  And I hope that bastard still has a headache.  In my dreams I imagine that he has a Royal Doulton logo permanently etched onto his forehead.

#302: Ladies Night In Buffalo

Go ahead, name all of these guys- some of the finest men to grace the wrestling ring, ever, and some of the greatest duds of all time.

Ok, we all know Classy Freddie Blassie - our Patron Saint...so fuck off you pencil neck geeks!

This little fucker wrestled back in the days when it was acceptable to call him a midget.  Now you say midget and people get the shits up, but it's alright to call someone a hillbilly or a retard - go figure.

Somehow I get the impression that this guy might have been gay.  If he wasn't then he should have been.  Life At The Outpost indeed!  Sean Delaney would have LOVED this dude.

Fuck it, let's call it as we see it - a hillbilly midget!!!

This man got more pussy than you ever will, and rightly so.  Say hello to Gorilla Monsoon.

#301: Dine Out At The Pizza Hut

What can anyone say about Grenville Dietrich that hasn't already been suppressed by the courts under defamation laws?  Well, quite a lot really.  I remember seeing Grenville line up for North Adelaide after sharing quite a few ales with him the night before at a nightclub owned by a guy who used race Speedway cars on Friday nights.  I say the night before, but I'm being quite kind here; we stopped drinking at around 5am, whereupon Grenville tried to chat my mother up and duly lined up for North Adelaide at around 1:30pm the same day.  He ambled out onto the ground, took his position, attacked the ball, kicked a goal and promptly spewed his guts up.  And they were quite considerable guts indeed.

Grenville got his start with Richmond, but ended up at North Adelaide.  Richmond were more than satisfied with the bald headed goal kicking machine that they had in the form of Kevin Bartlett, and, let's be frank here, once Kevin got the ball nobody else touched it into it was thrown back in from the stands.  Handball is still a swear word in the Bartlett house, so it made sense that Grenville would seek out better opportunities.  And opportunities there were.  Sobriety was a swear word in Deitrichland by the mid 1980s, and Grenville, smelling of piss and booze, was always able to kick a bagfull during a game, even if he did wobble on his feet a bit.  Be it Cobbs Restaurant or Regines Nightclub or the Gaza Clubrooms, Grenville was always welcome to wine, dine and grog on until he passed out.


Now before you think that Grenville was a dud, remember that he was coached by the legendary Mick Nunan.  As a coach Mick was unique - if he had a dud player then he'd make sure that they performed.  If he had a star player then he made sure that they played like a star.  Mick didn't really care what they did on the field, be it Andrew Jarman kissing guys or Grenville having a quiet ralph in the forward pocket, just as long as they did their magic and won the games.  Mick was hard, but fair - if I had to pick a coach to go into battle with, then it'd be Mick Nunan, every day of the week and twice on Sundays.  Mick copped a lot of stick for telling Grenville, mid-game, that he father had just died.  it might sound cruel, but in Mick's world a man deserves to know about such things as soon as they happen.  I agree with Mick there.  If Grenville had been coached by a lesser man then we'd not be here.  

Grenville may have weighed a lot, but it was pure fat.  When he slimmed down he injured himself, such was the disruption to his centre of gravity.  But his best injury came after training one fine night, when he rode his bike in his shorts to the local pizza shop, ordered two large with the lot and attempted to ride home.  Halfway there he went arse up and scalded himself with one of the surpremes.  Picking himself, and the pizzas, up, he went home, sat down and ate his way through the evening, only to discover that he'd not be able to play for a couple of weeks due to burns on his legs.  I've heard of players being taken out by dog bites, but pizza burns is the best of them all, and that's what makes Grenville unique - he did it his way, and nobody else could do what he could do.  And if they tried, then they more than likely would be in a jar by now.


Ladies and gentlemen, hide your children, cover your grog and eat your pizza, I give you the man of the hour, Grenville Deitrich!


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Taken from an introduction given a the opening of the Prospect Pizza Hut.
 

#299: Meet Dudley McDud

People often ask me, who was the King of the Duds when it comes to AFL.  Could it be Port Adelaide's Matthew Westoff?  Romano Negri? Could it be someone like David Gallagher, who was a dud at two clubs?  Or someone else?  Well, to that I say no, because those duds played the game at AFL level - even duds like Adam Saliba and Jim West played at least one game.  I hear you utter names like Trevor Clisby, who never played a game despite being on an AFL list, but he was only ever drafted by one club.

The King of all Duds has to surely be this guy - Darren Bartsch.  You may rightly ask who.  Bartsch was drafted by West Coast Eagles, but he stayed in Adelaide, conversely David Hynes, one of the best ruckmen that Port Adelaide produced in the 1980s, went over to the Eagles at the same time that Bartsch was drafted to be rewarded with a premiership medallion.  If, as is claimed, that grand finals are won and lost in the ruck, then Hynes was a better than decent pick-up for the Eagles (as an aside, if anyone suggests that Hynes was a dud, I'll happily wander over and basch some sense into your head).  However Bartsch was delisted without playing a game for the Eagles.  Geelong then picked him up, but he again stayed in Adelaide and never played a game for Geelong - you can see the pattern developing by now.  The Adelaide Crows then placed him on their inaugural playing list, which seemed to be a perfect fit - Bartsch could remain in Adelaide and not have to worry about travelling to play and train.  Oddly enough he didn't get a game there either and was duly delisted at the end of 1991.  Brisbane then drafted him in 1992, but again he stayed in Adelaide, never played a game and was delisted.  Essendon then drafted him in 1993, this time he travelled to Melbourne on Thursdays to train and play, returning to Adelaide on Sundays, much to Kevin Sheedy's amusement, but never played a senior game and was delisted.  He did star in the reserves though, for what it's worth.

By that stage he joined Port Adelaide with the view of getting onto the Power's list, but that never happened because he did his back.  Disillusioned with a system that had treated him so cruelly, he gave up the game and retired to become an off-field success. If you lost count I'll bring you back up to speed - five clubs drafted Darren and he failed to play a single AFL game.  It's a shame that Port didn't pick him up as that'd have made it an even six.

He now holds the dubious all time record of being drafted and never playing at AFL level, a record that is unlikely to ever be beaten, as these days a player gets two chances at the most. Ladies, gentlemen and ships at sea, I'd like you to meet Darren Bartsch - KING DUD.

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The above text comes from an introduction that I gave at a function to auction off Bartsch's many never worn pristine condition AFL jumpers.  I am available to introduce anyone at a function, for a reasonable price - just email and ask.

#298: Gotta Get A Grip

Can you just imagine the sheer research that went into this document? Those poor FBI agents had to sit through multiple screenings of Deep Throat, solely to research it and write down a synopsis, detailing each sordid act that was on display on the big screen. No wonder the Special Agents in charge of the investigation redacted their names out of the end result, but such are the sacrifices that one has to make in the course of such investigations. I hope they had a decent supply of popcorn and tissues on hand. 

I'm not sure if this would have been one of the perks of the job, or one of the drawbacks. I can see having no problems sitting in a dark theatre watching a porno for a few times, but I can't see how you'd be able to watch it with a notepad perched on your knee being expected to jot down a detailed synopsis of the plot, such as it was.  And not look at anyone else.  And not stick your hands in your pockets.  Sounds like special torture to me.  And it might be me, but check out the write up for the last twenty minutes or so.  After going in to great detail the synopsis kinds of fades away - it must have been too much for the buzz cuts to bear.

Here's something to ponder - if FBI agents into this much detail, and sat there watching porn for the job, what do you think they had to do when they investigated gay bars and the like...

 

#297: The Six Strings That Drew Blood

Watch the video and sign the petition. It's a worthy cause and, trust me, naming an alley after one of Australia's most influential musicians is a damn sight better than naming it after a politician or some other cretin who nobody knows and who nobody will remember 30 years from now.  Rowland's music lives on, and will continue to live on for decades to come.  So, listen to Jesus here and do the right thing - sign up and let the state of Victoria know that you want to visit the Rowland S Howard Laneway.