Biffinator
Norm Smith Medallist
- Joined
- Dec 8, 2007
- Posts
- 5,046
- Reaction score
- 4,554
- Location
- Bunyip, Gippsland
- AFL Club
- Melbourne
- Other Teams
- The Exers
“You know that I abhor decent, clean-living James Hird!” I bellowed back at Deestroy. “The man with the perfect hair, the perfect family, the perfect job and whatever. Does the rental-car come with a sick-bag?”
“Get your flabby arse into gear,” the venerable Moderator shrieked. “Your previews are lucky to hit one thousand hits. That’s unacceptable. This could be your last interview. Perhaps that Duritz bugger should take the reins!”
Grumpily, I drove over to the suburb of Essendon. Gloom was my companion – and my huge canine Brutus, whose lineage is inscrutable. When I was growing up in the Seventies, there had been two guys in my entire year who barracked for the Bombers. Nowadays their supporter-base, having reached plague-like proportions, warrants a release of red-and-black myxo. Much like Geelong, the Bombers always seem to have our measure – the 87 Panasonic Cup and a minor finals victory in 1991 are meager compensation indeed.
The traffic was light and the destination was soon at hand. As expected, Hirdy’s residence, whilst Edwardian, was palatial. I misjudged the curb and collided with his Sulo Bin. It made a racket, prompting Jimmy to dart from the house. I leapt from the car to inspect the damage. There was none - but bottles of Pantene were scattered all over the nature strip.
“That wasn’t well done, Biff,” Jimmy commented softly. I stared at the debris.
“Errrrr, they belong to my wife,” the Essendon Coach said with the slightest of stutters. “Anyway let’s clean them up and get this interview over and done with. I’m on a tight schedule this morning.”
Minutes later, I was sitting in his sunroom with a sumptuous coffee in hand. A couple of maids were cleaning the house. Hirdy’s wife breezed in and out, accompanied by their children. It was all so happy – happy, happy, happy, like those corny American ads from the Fifties where everyone is blessed with perfect teeth and rose-like complexions. I had been in a reasonable mood when I’d crossed the threshold. Now, for whatever reason, I was spoiling for a fight and recklessly so. For the moment I managed to suppress the impulse. Even so, a line from the Ancient Greeks came to mind as I stared at the 2000 Norm Smith Medalist.
‘The Gods destroy those who smile too much.’
“Well James,” I growled testily at last, “congratulations on the great start to your coaching career. You’ve certainly galvanised the list and played some entertaining football thus far.”
“Thanks Biff,” he replied plainly. “But a good start does not equate to having a good season.”
“It’s been a tough old week over at Demonland – and rightly so. Do you share the view that Melbourne plays bruise-free football?”
“Not at all,” James replied with a tinge of artifice. “I could not understand that comment. When you’re facing the likes of Moloney, McKenzie, Rivers and Frawley, you earn your kicks.”
Baloney, I thought to myself. Your overall smugness belies such a sentiment.
“I really wish the Carlton boys hadn’t opened their mouths,” he added. “It is going to fuel up the Dees even more.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“So James, how do you think history will judge Matthew Knights?”
“That’s easy: he will be regarded as a fine Essendon coach. Knighter greatly strengthened our playing list and the culture itself. It is a pity that more on-field success did not come his way – and mainly for circumstances beyond his control. I have nothing but respect for the man and his accomplishments.”
“A fine Essendon coach?” I gulped. “Surely you’re not serious! Nor can I marry up that statement with your own behaviour and comments at the time.”
Hirdy nodded his head smoothly but kept his peace.
“So why did you feel so compelled to abandon your career as a ‘corporate high-flyer’ to pick up the pieces – and in such a rush as well?”
“It really had nothing to do with Matty’s own efforts. He was unlucky to be at the helm at a time when the list was in need of renewal. Key players were in the twilight of their careers. I’ve always wanted to coach. The time was right. Thankfully the family and my corporate partners were able to assist.”
Check, and boringly so. I turned my attention elsewhere.
“So what else is going on at Windy Hill?” I asked meekly. “Wasn’t there some sort of announcement last week?”
“Correct. We’re busy developing a Code of Conduct. It’s called the Essendon Way. It’s there to govern our on-field and off-field actions. Its foundation stones are Integrity, Accountability and Professionalism. It will underpin our success in the future.”
Stuff this, I thought to myself. It’s depth charge time.
“Yes, that David Evans guy – gawd he’s a bore-arse- was spruiking it on the radio with his usual sanctimonious claptrap - but how do you reconcile that with the manner of Bomber’s departure from the Handbaggery? It's a gross example of ‘fouling one’s own nest’. I’m no friend of Geelong but they deserved better than to be treated as a dunny wipe and lose Gazza in the process.”
Hirdy screwed up his face haughtily.
“That’s garbage, Biff. I have the utmost respect for Bomber – you should too. The same comment applies to David Evans, who is a genuine Captain of Industry.”
I snorted. “He's Ron Evan's boy, isn't he?”
“Bomber Thompson is the personification of the Essendon Way,” Hirdy pontificated remorselessly. “His fatigue throughout the 2010 season was plain to see. Geelong did well enough out of him: two premierships. He can stand tall in Moorabool Street. Bomber acted with the utmost decorum when he decided to leave Kardinia.”
“So deceit sits well with you, Hirdy? Unlike dead men – remember - Telstra invoices tell plenty of tales!”
“I see no point discussing this Biff. It’s been done to death. Ill-informed people have been grossly unfair to Bomber. If you are going to be rude like last time, I will ask you to leave. Besides, Frank Costa has no problem with Bomber and that’s the weathervane from my perspective.”
“Frank Costa would forgive Ivan Milat if asked. And on a more general note – does the Essendon Way stipulate that coaches mustn’t shag the girlfriends of the players?”
“Second strike Biff,” Hirdy commented primly. “Any more wanton stupidity and you’re out.”
We sat there uneasily. A ‘break-glass-push-button’ option came to mind. It would trigger Doomsday. It was also terribly unjust. Even so, I was thoroughly nauseous, both with myself and the nice-smelling guy on the other side of the table. Some fabrication, however, was required.
“Jimmy, I read somewhere or other that Dick Reynolds’ 1943 Best and Fairest Medal might go to auction – much like Len Thompson’s Brownlow.”
“Really? That’s interesting. I’ll pass that on to David. We’d want to put that in the Essendon Hall of Fame. He’s an icon of our club.”
“I don’t think it’ll cost you very much,” I replied nonchalantly. “After all, the guy was a shirker. While members of my family were up in New Guinea fighting the Japs – and one of them is still there too – he was swanning around on the flanks and ever so stylishly too.”
“Get out,” Hirdy hissed, uncharacteristically irate. “That’s a disgraceful comment. I am so looking forward to humbling your pissant club on Friday night. I’ve done it before – and on a much bigger stage too – and I am going to do it again. Your club will never amount to anything – not even bruises. And this is our last conversation – period!”
I laughed. “Well it is good to know that behind that finely manicured facade is an actual creature of flesh and blood.”
I was unceremoniously shown to the door. Infuriated with myself, I returned to car, Similarly, I could see that Brutus was at the end of his tether. He had a Doomsday Bomb of his own to unleash upon the world. With relish, I released him. Seconds later, he nuked Hirdy's front lawn. Conscience and the local bylaws dictated that I should clean up the monstrosity but on this occasion, I abstained. **** decent clean living James Hird. **** the Essendon Way. One Melbourne supporter – given what we have suffered since 64 – is worth one thousand of those cretins.
Every heart beats true – but Bombers by 35.
Biffinator.
“Get your flabby arse into gear,” the venerable Moderator shrieked. “Your previews are lucky to hit one thousand hits. That’s unacceptable. This could be your last interview. Perhaps that Duritz bugger should take the reins!”
Grumpily, I drove over to the suburb of Essendon. Gloom was my companion – and my huge canine Brutus, whose lineage is inscrutable. When I was growing up in the Seventies, there had been two guys in my entire year who barracked for the Bombers. Nowadays their supporter-base, having reached plague-like proportions, warrants a release of red-and-black myxo. Much like Geelong, the Bombers always seem to have our measure – the 87 Panasonic Cup and a minor finals victory in 1991 are meager compensation indeed.
The traffic was light and the destination was soon at hand. As expected, Hirdy’s residence, whilst Edwardian, was palatial. I misjudged the curb and collided with his Sulo Bin. It made a racket, prompting Jimmy to dart from the house. I leapt from the car to inspect the damage. There was none - but bottles of Pantene were scattered all over the nature strip.
“That wasn’t well done, Biff,” Jimmy commented softly. I stared at the debris.
“Errrrr, they belong to my wife,” the Essendon Coach said with the slightest of stutters. “Anyway let’s clean them up and get this interview over and done with. I’m on a tight schedule this morning.”
Minutes later, I was sitting in his sunroom with a sumptuous coffee in hand. A couple of maids were cleaning the house. Hirdy’s wife breezed in and out, accompanied by their children. It was all so happy – happy, happy, happy, like those corny American ads from the Fifties where everyone is blessed with perfect teeth and rose-like complexions. I had been in a reasonable mood when I’d crossed the threshold. Now, for whatever reason, I was spoiling for a fight and recklessly so. For the moment I managed to suppress the impulse. Even so, a line from the Ancient Greeks came to mind as I stared at the 2000 Norm Smith Medalist.
‘The Gods destroy those who smile too much.’
“Well James,” I growled testily at last, “congratulations on the great start to your coaching career. You’ve certainly galvanised the list and played some entertaining football thus far.”
“Thanks Biff,” he replied plainly. “But a good start does not equate to having a good season.”
“It’s been a tough old week over at Demonland – and rightly so. Do you share the view that Melbourne plays bruise-free football?”
“Not at all,” James replied with a tinge of artifice. “I could not understand that comment. When you’re facing the likes of Moloney, McKenzie, Rivers and Frawley, you earn your kicks.”
Baloney, I thought to myself. Your overall smugness belies such a sentiment.
“I really wish the Carlton boys hadn’t opened their mouths,” he added. “It is going to fuel up the Dees even more.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“So James, how do you think history will judge Matthew Knights?”
“That’s easy: he will be regarded as a fine Essendon coach. Knighter greatly strengthened our playing list and the culture itself. It is a pity that more on-field success did not come his way – and mainly for circumstances beyond his control. I have nothing but respect for the man and his accomplishments.”
“A fine Essendon coach?” I gulped. “Surely you’re not serious! Nor can I marry up that statement with your own behaviour and comments at the time.”
Hirdy nodded his head smoothly but kept his peace.
“So why did you feel so compelled to abandon your career as a ‘corporate high-flyer’ to pick up the pieces – and in such a rush as well?”
“It really had nothing to do with Matty’s own efforts. He was unlucky to be at the helm at a time when the list was in need of renewal. Key players were in the twilight of their careers. I’ve always wanted to coach. The time was right. Thankfully the family and my corporate partners were able to assist.”
Check, and boringly so. I turned my attention elsewhere.
“So what else is going on at Windy Hill?” I asked meekly. “Wasn’t there some sort of announcement last week?”
“Correct. We’re busy developing a Code of Conduct. It’s called the Essendon Way. It’s there to govern our on-field and off-field actions. Its foundation stones are Integrity, Accountability and Professionalism. It will underpin our success in the future.”
Stuff this, I thought to myself. It’s depth charge time.
“Yes, that David Evans guy – gawd he’s a bore-arse- was spruiking it on the radio with his usual sanctimonious claptrap - but how do you reconcile that with the manner of Bomber’s departure from the Handbaggery? It's a gross example of ‘fouling one’s own nest’. I’m no friend of Geelong but they deserved better than to be treated as a dunny wipe and lose Gazza in the process.”
Hirdy screwed up his face haughtily.
“That’s garbage, Biff. I have the utmost respect for Bomber – you should too. The same comment applies to David Evans, who is a genuine Captain of Industry.”
I snorted. “He's Ron Evan's boy, isn't he?”
“Bomber Thompson is the personification of the Essendon Way,” Hirdy pontificated remorselessly. “His fatigue throughout the 2010 season was plain to see. Geelong did well enough out of him: two premierships. He can stand tall in Moorabool Street. Bomber acted with the utmost decorum when he decided to leave Kardinia.”
“So deceit sits well with you, Hirdy? Unlike dead men – remember - Telstra invoices tell plenty of tales!”
“I see no point discussing this Biff. It’s been done to death. Ill-informed people have been grossly unfair to Bomber. If you are going to be rude like last time, I will ask you to leave. Besides, Frank Costa has no problem with Bomber and that’s the weathervane from my perspective.”
“Frank Costa would forgive Ivan Milat if asked. And on a more general note – does the Essendon Way stipulate that coaches mustn’t shag the girlfriends of the players?”
“Second strike Biff,” Hirdy commented primly. “Any more wanton stupidity and you’re out.”
We sat there uneasily. A ‘break-glass-push-button’ option came to mind. It would trigger Doomsday. It was also terribly unjust. Even so, I was thoroughly nauseous, both with myself and the nice-smelling guy on the other side of the table. Some fabrication, however, was required.
“Jimmy, I read somewhere or other that Dick Reynolds’ 1943 Best and Fairest Medal might go to auction – much like Len Thompson’s Brownlow.”
“Really? That’s interesting. I’ll pass that on to David. We’d want to put that in the Essendon Hall of Fame. He’s an icon of our club.”
“I don’t think it’ll cost you very much,” I replied nonchalantly. “After all, the guy was a shirker. While members of my family were up in New Guinea fighting the Japs – and one of them is still there too – he was swanning around on the flanks and ever so stylishly too.”
“Get out,” Hirdy hissed, uncharacteristically irate. “That’s a disgraceful comment. I am so looking forward to humbling your pissant club on Friday night. I’ve done it before – and on a much bigger stage too – and I am going to do it again. Your club will never amount to anything – not even bruises. And this is our last conversation – period!”
I laughed. “Well it is good to know that behind that finely manicured facade is an actual creature of flesh and blood.”
I was unceremoniously shown to the door. Infuriated with myself, I returned to car, Similarly, I could see that Brutus was at the end of his tether. He had a Doomsday Bomb of his own to unleash upon the world. With relish, I released him. Seconds later, he nuked Hirdy's front lawn. Conscience and the local bylaws dictated that I should clean up the monstrosity but on this occasion, I abstained. **** decent clean living James Hird. **** the Essendon Way. One Melbourne supporter – given what we have suffered since 64 – is worth one thousand of those cretins.
Every heart beats true – but Bombers by 35.
Biffinator.
