||Issue No. 144||12 July 2002|
The Lotto Economy
Interview: Capital in Crisis
Industrial: No Sweat
Bad Boss: Super Spam
History: Living Treasures
International: Axis of Evil
Solidarity: Pride of Place
Technology: The Art of Cyber-Unionism
Poetry: The Masochism Tango
Satire: Foxtel-Optus Merger 'Anti-Repetitive'
Review: Bob Carr's Thoughtlines
Sweat Shops – Coming To A Street Near You
Glassworkers Walk for the Umpire
Drivers Frozen Out by Corporate Spin
Coca-Cola Brews Storm In A Tea Cup
Bush Prepares for War on the Wharves
Safety Summit A Hit With Unions
Beattie Faces Bargaining Face-Off
Casual Work Exploits – Catholic Church Agency
More Effort Required On Disabled Workers
Protecting Security Officers From Disease
The Locker Room
Week in Review
Labor Council of NSW
The Locker Room
Playing To The Whistle
"There's always been more money in Sydney. Not just for sport, but for cultural things too, like organised crime." Barry Dickens, 'League of a Nation', 1996.
The haircut with a whistle, Bill Harrigan, was dropped the other week for robbing Parramatta of not only a win, but also their dignity. God knows; one thing Parramatta needs is Dignity.
I remember when they burnt down the old wooden grandstand at Cumberland Oval after they finally managed to win a Grand Final, and even that was over Newtown. Where's the dignity in beating Newtown?
They still have the best moniker - the Eels. It always raises a chuckle when those bozos at the NRL Marketing try to produce a savage looking eel. It ends up looking like some kind of snarling bicycle tube.
Of course they had that wonderful monogram of the bloke in the canoe spearing eels in the Parramatta stormwater drain, but they couldn't very well call their team the 'Blackfellas'; the marketing people wouldn't hear of it, which is a shame.
So from the days Darcy Lawler (who was as straight as a coathanger) through to Hollywood Hartley and onwards they've always been cruelled by the refs.
The referee is a strange kind of fish; a sort of professional unpopular bloke. Professional is the operative word as these guys are paid a bit more than your average nurse or schoolteacher.
When I was growing up a lot of them were cops, which made sense, as cops are unpopular anywhere.
The best I've ever seen was the Grasshopper, Barry Gommersall. What a champion; he was there to referee the Rugby League, so he let the fights continue on in the background, and the kiddies love that kind of thing.
You could tell he was a member of the ALP.
Even in the Australian game the white maggots have been having a bit of a sook because people have been threatening to come around and burn their houses down and that sort of thing.
Idle threats are as part and parcel of footy as warm beer, cold pies and the smell of Dencorub.
Maybe they could recruit people like serial pest Peter Hoare. They'd love the attention of the few hundred or so souls that actually make it out to the games these days, and everyone would be happy.
On the subject of crowds, there was a doozie of a report from a recent
Melbourne Storm game where a spectator watched one of the attendants as she spent some time swiping a ticket over and over again at the turnstile. The witness asked the attendant if she was trying to break the ground record single-handedly, only to be met with a smile by way of reply.
Have we ever had a more loathsome champion than Llittle Lleyton. To think that other kids his age are working part time while trying to finish school while this little turd carries on like some three-year-old on steroids - it makes a body want to vomit.
Footy is the answer for these brats. Richmond's Richardson was sent back to Coburg after his little dummy spit. He should have been sent further - Coburg deserves better.
Speaking of Richmond, if the meek shall inherit the earth then their entire backline may well end up being property developers.
Phil Doyle - squeezing out a handball in the forward pocket.
Read wierd libellous shit and craziness dressed up as sanity
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