- Apr 2, 2012
- 9,873
- 12,372
- AFL Club
- Melbourne
- Moderator
- #1
‘Twas the week before exams and my mind was feeling frazzled. For once I decided to seek help and made a visit to the counsellor’s office. My first impression didn’t fill me with confidence. He was a short and rather chubby fellow; he’d clearly been the recipient of some second rate dental work and from beneath a patchy toupee’ a few loose strands of blonde hair struck out. He wore a suit which looked like he’d stitched it together himself and when he spoke it was clear he was straining to sound respectable. Clearly the cuts to tertiary education had started early.
Despite my reservations I figured I should try and make the most of my time there. He began by asking me what the problem was. ‘It’s pretty straightforward for this time of year I guess.’ I replied ‘I’m shitting myself about exams. I’m hanging onto a pass in most of my subjects by the proverbial bee’s dick and I’m not sure I can get through them all!’
As my deluge of anxiety gushed out the counsellor quietly took it all in with a glazed expression. He’d obviously been hearing this for weeks now. ‘Obviously you’re stressed and need to relax. Is there anything you could do in the days before your exams just to calm yourself? Or something fun to take your mind off things?’
‘Well there’s the footy on Monday. Although the game is against the shiteaters, so I doubt it’ll make me any less worked up.’ I said sourly.
‘The shiteaters? Whaddya mean by that?’ Said the counsellor in a curiously gruff tone. ‘I mean, could you explain why you are so aggressively hostile toward them? Who are these shiteaters you speak of?’ He quickly returned to his faux-sophisticated accent.
‘Collingwood. ******* Collingwood. The Shiteaters.’ I spat back. ‘Why do I hate them? I just do.’
‘Surely there is some reason though?’
‘Well,’ I began ‘it’s hard to pin down one reason really, and now that I think about it, I’m not sure there is one. I’d been brought up in a family bereft of Pies supporters and you know the rules, you support two teams; your team and whoever’s playing Collingwood. So that rubbed off on me too.’
‘That doesn’t seem like a very rational basis for such a vehement hatred as you seem to possess.’ Quipped the counsellor.
‘No, you’re right. Over the years it kinda diminished. Although some of their players really made me hate them. Didak and the Shaws for being giant pillocks; ‘Neon’ Leon for being a downhill-skier who’d beat up on us regularly; Travis Cloke for having a face like a hatful of arseholes…’
‘But most of those players aren’t even at Collingwood anymore!’ said the counsellor
‘I know! And Travis Cloke couldn’t hit the side of a barn over a jar of Nutella and couldn't catch a cold at Mt Buller! He’s pitiable if anything at the moment.’
‘So it must be something else?’
I racked my brain, surely there was. Then it was flooding back to me. That day; that kick; that dropped mark; that contemptible bastard Heath Shaw strutting around after the siren.
‘*.’ I swore. ‘Round 2 2010. Lost by a ******* point. Got worked up in the final seconds thinking Rohan Bail, of all people, was gonna be the hero. Looked like his kick was going for a goal, but no it would drop short. But wait! Ricky Petterd! He’d played the game of his life that day and flew for the mark in the square, then dropped it cold with 2 seconds left on the clock.’ From there my account of the day descended into a flurry of expletives; the counsellor simply looked on with what appeared to be a half smirk, though it might have just been the way his lips folded over his bent teeth. ‘But even that doesn’t really explain it fully.’
‘What more could there be?’ Asked the counsellor.
‘Their fans.’
‘What about them?’ He asked, rather bluntly.
I took a deep breath in: ‘They’re racists, they’re homophobes, they’re crims, they’re ugly, they leech off Centrelink, they perpetuate the poverty cycle with their thoughtless breeding habits, they smell, they have an overinflated sense of entitlement simply because they’re part of the biggest supporter base in the league, they’re fat, they have s**t tatts, they make s**t banners, they have no teeth, they think mullets are fashionable, they think uggs and shorts are fashionable, they think socks and sandals are fashionable, they give trackies a bad rep, they’re uneducated, that stupid ‘COLL-ING-WOOOOOOOD’ chant they do; I could go on like this for days. But most of all…’
‘Most of all what?’ Spat the counsellor. He seemed rather peeved at my denunciation of Collingwood fans.
‘That ******** Joffa. Double sided jackets are bad enough, but the gold? Jesus. If he was any more of a bellend he’d be strung up at Notre Dame!’
At this the counsellor got very angry. He spat out his dentures revealing a mouth even more deformed than I could have believed; think of that episode of the Simpsons where Lisa needs braces – he was the ‘without braces at age 20’ shot. Off came the toupee as well, revealing a shaggy blonde mullet that looked like it had been cut with a whipper-snipper. And finally, the infamous jacket. No wonder it looked so ordinary when I first walked in; he flipped it inside out, gold sparkling everywhere, momentarily blinding me. ‘Whaddya wanna sai ‘bout mi now ay?’
I was paralysed with shock for a few seconds. Surely this wasn’t the real deal? Surely not! I took a few seconds to really analyse it but when he pulled out a shiv made from a toothbrush I knew I had it was him and had to get out. Unfortunately his criminal experiences as a Collingwood supporter put him two moves ahead. Wherever I tried to escape to he blocked it off. The door, then the window; he knew where I’d be going.
‘U fink us ‘pies fans r dum ay mate! But weev been runnin’ from da cops all our lives! We no where da best runnin’ spots is! I no exackly wat ur finkin’ mate n you aint gonna be able to do it wif me ere!’
s**t. Gotta think faster. I needed a distraction. There wasn’t much around; the cupboards and desk in the office were bare. I searched my pockets and only found lint and some loose change; no more than a couple of bucks worth.
No more than a couple of bucks to me, that is.
I threw it past Joffa into the corner. I wasn’t sure he’d seen it at first, but as soon as it hit the ground he was onto it in a flash. I took my chance and bolted past him out the door of the office and through the lobby. After a couple of hundred metres of running I looked back. Joffa hadn’t given much chase in the end and was still at the door of the counselling centre. He was yelling something about me being a maggot and had both hands up giving me the bird. I turned around again and slowly made my way home, even more stressed than I had been to start with.
Fortunately Melbourne will set my mind at ease on Monday.
Dees by 1 point.
Despite my reservations I figured I should try and make the most of my time there. He began by asking me what the problem was. ‘It’s pretty straightforward for this time of year I guess.’ I replied ‘I’m shitting myself about exams. I’m hanging onto a pass in most of my subjects by the proverbial bee’s dick and I’m not sure I can get through them all!’
As my deluge of anxiety gushed out the counsellor quietly took it all in with a glazed expression. He’d obviously been hearing this for weeks now. ‘Obviously you’re stressed and need to relax. Is there anything you could do in the days before your exams just to calm yourself? Or something fun to take your mind off things?’
‘Well there’s the footy on Monday. Although the game is against the shiteaters, so I doubt it’ll make me any less worked up.’ I said sourly.
‘The shiteaters? Whaddya mean by that?’ Said the counsellor in a curiously gruff tone. ‘I mean, could you explain why you are so aggressively hostile toward them? Who are these shiteaters you speak of?’ He quickly returned to his faux-sophisticated accent.
‘Collingwood. ******* Collingwood. The Shiteaters.’ I spat back. ‘Why do I hate them? I just do.’
‘Surely there is some reason though?’
‘Well,’ I began ‘it’s hard to pin down one reason really, and now that I think about it, I’m not sure there is one. I’d been brought up in a family bereft of Pies supporters and you know the rules, you support two teams; your team and whoever’s playing Collingwood. So that rubbed off on me too.’
‘That doesn’t seem like a very rational basis for such a vehement hatred as you seem to possess.’ Quipped the counsellor.
‘No, you’re right. Over the years it kinda diminished. Although some of their players really made me hate them. Didak and the Shaws for being giant pillocks; ‘Neon’ Leon for being a downhill-skier who’d beat up on us regularly; Travis Cloke for having a face like a hatful of arseholes…’
‘But most of those players aren’t even at Collingwood anymore!’ said the counsellor
‘I know! And Travis Cloke couldn’t hit the side of a barn over a jar of Nutella and couldn't catch a cold at Mt Buller! He’s pitiable if anything at the moment.’
‘So it must be something else?’
I racked my brain, surely there was. Then it was flooding back to me. That day; that kick; that dropped mark; that contemptible bastard Heath Shaw strutting around after the siren.
‘*.’ I swore. ‘Round 2 2010. Lost by a ******* point. Got worked up in the final seconds thinking Rohan Bail, of all people, was gonna be the hero. Looked like his kick was going for a goal, but no it would drop short. But wait! Ricky Petterd! He’d played the game of his life that day and flew for the mark in the square, then dropped it cold with 2 seconds left on the clock.’ From there my account of the day descended into a flurry of expletives; the counsellor simply looked on with what appeared to be a half smirk, though it might have just been the way his lips folded over his bent teeth. ‘But even that doesn’t really explain it fully.’
‘What more could there be?’ Asked the counsellor.
‘Their fans.’
‘What about them?’ He asked, rather bluntly.
I took a deep breath in: ‘They’re racists, they’re homophobes, they’re crims, they’re ugly, they leech off Centrelink, they perpetuate the poverty cycle with their thoughtless breeding habits, they smell, they have an overinflated sense of entitlement simply because they’re part of the biggest supporter base in the league, they’re fat, they have s**t tatts, they make s**t banners, they have no teeth, they think mullets are fashionable, they think uggs and shorts are fashionable, they think socks and sandals are fashionable, they give trackies a bad rep, they’re uneducated, that stupid ‘COLL-ING-WOOOOOOOD’ chant they do; I could go on like this for days. But most of all…’
‘Most of all what?’ Spat the counsellor. He seemed rather peeved at my denunciation of Collingwood fans.
‘That ******** Joffa. Double sided jackets are bad enough, but the gold? Jesus. If he was any more of a bellend he’d be strung up at Notre Dame!’
At this the counsellor got very angry. He spat out his dentures revealing a mouth even more deformed than I could have believed; think of that episode of the Simpsons where Lisa needs braces – he was the ‘without braces at age 20’ shot. Off came the toupee as well, revealing a shaggy blonde mullet that looked like it had been cut with a whipper-snipper. And finally, the infamous jacket. No wonder it looked so ordinary when I first walked in; he flipped it inside out, gold sparkling everywhere, momentarily blinding me. ‘Whaddya wanna sai ‘bout mi now ay?’
I was paralysed with shock for a few seconds. Surely this wasn’t the real deal? Surely not! I took a few seconds to really analyse it but when he pulled out a shiv made from a toothbrush I knew I had it was him and had to get out. Unfortunately his criminal experiences as a Collingwood supporter put him two moves ahead. Wherever I tried to escape to he blocked it off. The door, then the window; he knew where I’d be going.
‘U fink us ‘pies fans r dum ay mate! But weev been runnin’ from da cops all our lives! We no where da best runnin’ spots is! I no exackly wat ur finkin’ mate n you aint gonna be able to do it wif me ere!’
s**t. Gotta think faster. I needed a distraction. There wasn’t much around; the cupboards and desk in the office were bare. I searched my pockets and only found lint and some loose change; no more than a couple of bucks worth.
No more than a couple of bucks to me, that is.
I threw it past Joffa into the corner. I wasn’t sure he’d seen it at first, but as soon as it hit the ground he was onto it in a flash. I took my chance and bolted past him out the door of the office and through the lobby. After a couple of hundred metres of running I looked back. Joffa hadn’t given much chase in the end and was still at the door of the counselling centre. He was yelling something about me being a maggot and had both hands up giving me the bird. I turned around again and slowly made my way home, even more stressed than I had been to start with.
Fortunately Melbourne will set my mind at ease on Monday.
Dees by 1 point.
