Prediction Player Claim 2018: Ben Reid - limbs are temporary, class is permanent

[Saintly Viewed]

BEN REID CHRISTMAS SPECIAL PENDING

Fake news.

Should be turning white

 

[Saintly Viewed]

Tell you what Ben better deliver!

He's hyped this Christmas Special as IF Jesus will personally appear in the thread.

Lol

 

[Saintly Viewed]

 

[Saintly Viewed]

Tell you what Ben better deliver!

He's hyped this Christmas Special as IF Jesus will personally appear in the thread.

 

[Vicky Park]

Tell you what Ben better deliver!

He's hyped this Christmas Special as IF Jesus will personally appear in the thread.

Its a big build up Walter. Ben had better come up with the goods. Swan Lake? Man of Glass? A documentary on calf injuries? Holidays in Germany, visiting dubious doctors? He's got a bit to work with, other than his hair. That horse has bolted, nothing to see here.

 

[left at home]

He is such a tease

 

[WalterBlaknWhte]

Its a big build up Walter. Ben had better come up with the goods...

Don't worry I'm riding Ben like a prisoner on a conjugal visit.

(Keep it on the down low but he sprained his typing finger. He does not trust any medico - for good reason! So we are using the healing power of a purple hanky and a piece of quartz we bought in Olinda)

 

[Magpie Girl]

Don't worry I'm riding Ben like a prisoner on a conjugal visit.

(Keep it on the down low but he sprained his typing finger. He does not trust any medico - for good reason! So we are using the healing power of a purple hanky and a piece of quartz we bought in Olinda)

Should be right in no time

 

[Good Degoe]

Exquisite

 

[Saintly Viewed]

Don't worry I'm riding Ben like a prisoner on a conjugal visit.

(Keep it on the down low but he sprained his typing finger. He does not trust any medico - for good reason! So we are using the healing power of a purple hanky and a piece of quartz we bought in Olinda)

If the finger is injured I want to know how is De Goeys dog?

 

[Saintly Viewed]

Exquisite

Nobody messes with the Jesus

 

[WalterBlaknWhte]

If the finger is injured I want to know how is De Goeys dog?

Hmmm

Think you are now confusing our Ben with a rugby league player

 

[Saintly Viewed]

Hmmm

Think you are now confusing our Ben with a rugby league player

What a great witty response.

I likes.

Not the dog in the rugby way, just the response

 

[WalterBlaknWhte]

The Ben Reid Christmas Special!


Hey Guys, it's Ben Reid here and it's time for the Ben Reid (me) Christmas Special!

Mum, the Veteran WAG, says that Christmas is a time for giving. She also says Delta Goodrem will never get her hands on one of her boys, but that's better left for a dedicated post. Anyway, the best thing I can give my thousands of Pies' fans and 43 Swans' fans - those tools confuse me with Sam – is some festive Ben love. So, let's get on with it!

I’ve put a lot of work into this note - unlike most of the correspondence I receive. IF any of your kids plan to send me a drawing please tell them that a crayon stick figure with ‘Your my hero Ben’ won’t impress me. Have told the PR glossies to forward such rubbish to Langers, who’ll take anything that doesn’t abuse him. Expect big things from Langers in ’18. Whilst I am Captain of the Forward Line, it won’t stop me from taking mids and backs under my large wings. Langers needs guidance from an All Australian Intercept Marking Machine, not some journeyman with a TAFE certificate in leadership (no offence Maxy). I can mark anything, even IF my head is being ripped off while I do it:



You’ll note that I always write ‘Christmas' not ‘Xmas’. As my old Sunday school teacher said, ‘IF you take the “Christ" out of “Christmas" you’re left with Mary in need of a new alibi’. He actually said ’skanky ho in a manger’ but that’s the sort of sexist language that Darce and the club are stamping out. Expect big things of Darce down back in ’18 IF he stays healthy and he leaves his trampoline hands at home. Poor bugger is still on a drip because his vegan blood couldn’t deal with being starfished. Grunds has been a true friend – he reads Darce French surrealist poetry to pass the hours. Those two are always handing haiku notes to each other while Bucks explains his game plan (assume it's his game plan with all those pictures of crabs on the board).

Christmas in House Reid has always been huge. Dad is still a competitive beast so he smashes the neighbours with his display of lights. The early years weren’t so promising. Brucey’s a cheap f*cker so he carved his own Santa and reindeers – the latter looked like whippets with mange rather than creatures that could defy the space-time continuum. He also did the wiring himself which blew the district grid and sent toddler Sam to intensive care for a week. But Brucey persisted and this is our house below. We all love Summer so the family is doing every thing it can to contribute to global warming.



As you probably know, I'm a third generation footballer: Granddad, Uncle John, and Brucey all played VFL. However, I'm the only legitimate champion, which really pisses-off Sam. I’m a humble guy but I don’t mind putting Sam in his place. I also don’t mind putting cousin Simon in his place. Nanna was fawning over him last Christmas because he got accepted into medical school. Later that afternoon during backyard cricket I slipped off the polo and made sure Nanna could see me flex the rig. Probably overkill for Simon that I was wearing my 2010 medal. Win it, wear it! In the happy snap below, Clokey didn't start smiling until I told him we didn't have to take it one week at a time anymore. Beamsy and Daisy took that advice too far, but YOLO! Unless of course you are a Buddhist, Hindu, or do yoga, in which case you don't only live once.



The Reids are hospitable people and we always invite a few Christmas orphans. Because Dad played for the Filth, we often have The Dominator for lunch (his families enjoy the day without him). This year I’ve invited Adam Oxley. I will tell my extended rellies that he is a real dero - he dresses like a grunge band roadie - to win extra kudos for my charitable nature. It won’t be free rein though for the Ox; he’ll be expected to wash-up and leave the candy on the tree. Mum likes our friends to visit but only if they are respectful. Jackson Paine was banned after he left the toilet seat up and BenKen was expelled after he did something unspeakable to Mum’s rabbit fur coat. I like Ben but he didn't contribute to the pantheon of Great Collingwood Bens: Johnson, Kinnear, Hudson, and Reid (me). Special call out to Benny Sinclair, the only bloke to make my body look robust.

There is tension between Mum and my Smoking Hot WAG. Let's be clear, IF push comes to shove, I'm choosing my WAG. This is her Chrissie outfit:



But make no mistake, Mum's not like Kieren Jack's mum - a Veteran WAG struggling with retirement - she just wants to protect her first born and most beloved. Mum still recalls how badly an earlier WAG hurt me one Christmas. So devastated – I was brought to tears. All it took was one yank of the bonbon from the WAG and my shoulder dislocated. While I writhed in pain on the linoleum, underage Sam and the soon-to-be-ex-WAG wrestled over the bonbon toy. Mum gave me a swig of brandy and popped my shoulder back in like a pro. It was all too much for Bruce. He ripped off a turkey drumstick, sat in a tyre in the pool, and refused to speak for the rest of the afternoon. Don't get me wrong, I love Bruce like a father, but he can be a hard campaigner at times. Remember he got reported for the Filth for whacking Rotten Ronny Andrews when he played for Collingwood.

People falsely assume that Sam and I are close. Sam's always been jealous of my footy talent and that I'm Mum's favourite. He's always knocking off my stuff: from ballet flats to Rogaine. I’m not one hundred per cent sure we're full brothers – Mark McClure gives him a birthday present every year but gives me sweet FA. If he wasn’t my brother, and it wasn’t illegal, I’d fire bomb his car. Not with him in it - that’s hardly Christmassy. Last year Gubby was trying to recruit Sam on even more coin than me. On what planet is that just! The last thing we need is an injury–prone swingman. Just before Gubby sent Sam his contract, I showed him the YouTube video of the final minutes of Footscray v Collingwood 1984 R10. I told him Sam emailed it to me for a laugh (an alternative fact). Gubby shredded the contract and spat, ‘Happy now?! Who else am I going to recruit for the forward line?’ I panicked. Really panicked. More than when I was kicking for goal in my first season. Before I could think I blurted out, ‘Chris Mayne!’ So, now you all know the truth. The reason we recruited Mayne is because of bloody Sam. This picture is the closest Sam and I have been for years. You can see that ponderousness runs in the family.



The House of Reid does not always distinguish itself with its Christmas food. Brucey grew up in the country and is sentimental about his bushfire meats. Once he cranks up the Weber ('Max' as Grunds inexplicably nicknamed the BBQ) he does not stop until incineration is complete. Mum asked IF I wouldn't mind cooking this year. Brucey will sulk for a while, but once he bites into this turducken he'll forgive me:



I'm going to stuff a deboned chicken in a deboned duck and stuff it all into a deboned turkey. Kirby is getting me some minced turtle to fill in the cavities. The Smoking Hot WAG thinks I'm hopelessly ambitious because I rarely cook. Am pretty confident though because I'm preparing it at Balmy's house under the big fella's supervision. He would often tuck into a Turducken while he watched Thursday night training. Balmy is the king of engrastration. This year he is putting a sparrow in a quail, in a chicken in a turkey, in a goat, and finally, in a skinned and cleaned whole camel. He will then roast the lot in a hole in the ground. For his family he will have a ham.

BTW: Any creative ideas for Secret Santa? I've drawn Gosling Phillips and he irritates the f*ck out of me. Went to his house and he has pinned in his hallway every Little Aths' ribbon he has ever won. Limit's $20. Wish I'd drawn Goldy. I could have given him a framed photo of me and he would have genuinely said thanks (although the Santa would not be so secret then I guess).

At Christmas, I like to go to midnight mass and reflect upon all the things I am grateful for. Apart from a sprained typing finger, I'm in great physical condition. Mum loves me more than Sam and Dad's got plenty of canned food and ammo IF we ever need it. My WAG adores me and I'm an All Australian, Collingwood Premiership player. I then like to meditate upon The List of Grievances. Top of my list are the doubters, the Vicky Park's of the world who think I'm a hasbeen. Next are the eco-warriors who want to deny us climate change. Then come the haters of dance. And finally, come the people who mock my hair - or more follicularly - my loss of hair. Don't think your jibes don't hurt. Which is why I was delighted when one of your fellow posters wrote me this kind letter:

Dear Ben,

I don't want you to think I'm another liniment sniffer. I'm not writing to you as a footy fan but as a fellow man, someone who has also had his fair share of successes and setbacks.

My business has a revolutionary approach to hair restoration. Revolutionary!

I lather full fat Greek yogurt (really it's Turkish yogurt but no matter for now) all over my luxuriant body hair. The culture in the yogurt turbo-charges growth of my pelt, meaning that I can be shorn four to five times per week. With our patented technology, my silky pelt can be transplanted on to any fleshy surface. You look like a perfect candidate. Since your a Collingwood champion, at no extra charge, I would upgrade you to the vicuna of my pelt: my butt hair. Please find below photos of me.

Your friend,

ottoman


Front Picture



Back Picture



ottoman has shown us the Christmas spirit friends!

Reach out to one another this Christmas. We're all people - we all have fears and dreams. Some of us are champion footballers, nearly all of you are not.

Your hero,

Ben

 

[left at home]

The Ben Reid Christmas Special!


Hey Guys, it's Ben Reid here and it's time for the Ben Reid (me) Christmas Special!

Mum, the Veteran WAG, says that Christmas is a time for giving. She also says Delta Goodrem will never get her hands on one of her boys, but that's better left for a dedicated post. Anyway, the best thing I can give my thousands of Pies' fans and 43 Swans' fans - those tools confuse me with Sam – is some festive Ben love. So, let's get on with it!

I’ve put a lot of work into this note - unlike most of the correspondence I receive. IF any of your kids plan to send me a drawing please tell them that a crayon stick figure with ‘Your my hero Ben’ won’t impress me. Have told the PR glossies to forward such rubbish to Langers, who’ll take anything that doesn’t abuse him. Expect big things from Langers in ’18. Whilst I am Captain of the Forward Line, it won’t stop me from taking mids and backs under my large wings. Langers needs guidance from an All Australian Intercept Marking Machine, not some journeyman with a TAFE certificate in leadership (no offence Maxy). I can mark anything, even IF my head is being ripped off while I do it:



You’ll note that I always write ‘Christmas' not ‘Xmas’. As my old Sunday school teacher said, ‘IF you take the “Christ" out of “Christmas" you’re left with Mary in need of a new alibi’. He actually said ’skanky ho in a manger’ but that’s the sort of sexist language that Darce and the club are stamping out. Expect big things of Darce down back in ’18 IF he stays healthy and he leaves his trampoline hands at home. Poor bugger is still on a drip because his vegan blood couldn’t deal with being starfished. Grunds has been a true friend – he reads Darce French surrealist poetry to pass the hours. Those two are always handing haiku notes to each other while Bucks explains his game plan (assume it's his game plan with all those pictures of crabs on the board).

Christmas in House Reid has always been huge. Dad is still a competitive beast so he smashes the neighbours with his display of lights. The early years weren’t so promising. Brucey’s a cheap f*cker so he carved his own Santa and reindeers – the latter looked like whippets with mange rather than creatures that could defy the space-time continuum. He also did the wiring himself which blew the district grid and sent toddler Sam to intensive care for a week. But Brucey persisted and this is our house below. We all love Summer so the family is doing every thing it can to contribute to global warming.



As you probably know, I'm a third generation footballer: Granddad, Uncle John, and Brucey all played VFL. However, I'm the only legitimate champion, which really pisses-off Sam. I’m a humble guy but I don’t mind putting Sam in his place. I also don’t mind putting cousin Simon in his place. Nanna was fawning over him last Christmas because he got accepted into medical school. Later that afternoon during backyard cricket I slipped off the polo and made sure Nanna could see me flex the rig. Probably overkill for Simon that I was wearing my 2010 medal. Win it, wear it! In the happy snap below, Clokey didn't start smiling until I told him we didn't have to take it one week at a time anymore. Beamsy and Daisy took that advice too far, but YOLO! Unless of course you are a Buddhist, Hindu, or do yoga, in which case you don't only live once.



The Reids are hospitable people and we always invite a few Christmas orphans. Because Dad played for the Filth, we often have The Dominator for lunch (his families enjoy the day without him). This year I’ve invited Adam Oxley. I will tell my extended rellies that he is a real dero - he dresses like a grunge band roadie - to win extra kudos for my charitable nature. It won’t be free rein though for the Ox; he’ll be expected to wash-up and leave the candy on the tree. Mum likes our friends to visit but only if they are respectful. Jackson Paine was banned after he left the toilet seat up and BenKen was expelled after he did something unspeakable to Mum’s rabbit fur coat. I like Ben but he didn't contribute to the pantheon of Great Collingwood Bens: Johnson, Kinnear, Hudson, and Reid (me). Special call out to Benny Sinclair, the only bloke to make my body look robust.

There is tension between Mum and my Smoking Hot WAG. Let's be clear, IF push comes to shove, I'm choosing my WAG. This is her Chrissie outfit:



But make no mistake, Mum's not like Kieren Jack's mum - a Veteran WAG struggling with retirement - she just wants to protect her first born and most beloved. Mum still recalls how badly an earlier WAG hurt me one Christmas. So devastated – I was brought to tears. All it took was one yank of the bonbon from the WAG and my shoulder dislocated. While I writhed in pain on the linoleum, underage Sam and the soon-to-be-ex-WAG wrestled over the bonbon toy. Mum gave me a swig of brandy and popped my shoulder back in like a pro. It was all too much for Bruce. He ripped off a turkey drumstick, sat in a tyre in the pool, and refused to speak for the rest of the afternoon. Don't get me wrong, I love Bruce like a father, but he can be a hard campaigner at times. Remember he got reported for the Filth for whacking Rotten Ronny Andrews when he played for Collingwood.

People falsely assume that Sam and I are close. Sam's always been jealous of my footy talent and that I'm Mum's favourite. He's always knocking off my stuff: from ballet flats to Rogaine. I’m not one hundred per cent sure we're full brothers – Mark McClure gives him a birthday present every year but gives me sweet FA. If he wasn’t my brother, and it wasn’t illegal, I’d fire bomb his car. Not with him in it - that’s hardly Christmassy. Last year Gubby was trying to recruit Sam on even more coin than me. On what planet is that just! The last thing we need is an injury–prone swingman. Just before Gubby sent Sam his contract, I showed him the YouTube video of the final minutes of Footscray v Collingwood 1984 R10. I told him Sam emailed it to me for a laugh (an alternative fact). Gubby shredded the contract and spat, ‘Happy now?! Who else am I going to recruit for the forward line?’ I panicked. Really panicked. More than when I was kicking for goal in my first season. Before I could think I blurted out, ‘Chris Mayne!’ So, now you all know the truth. The reason we recruited Mayne is because of bloody Sam. This picture is the closest Sam and I have been for years. You can see that ponderousness runs in the family.



The House of Reid does not always distinguish itself with its Christmas food. Brucey grew up in the country and is sentimental about his bushfire meats. Once he cranks up the Weber ('Max' as Grunds inexplicably nicknamed the BBQ) he does not stop until incineration is complete. Mum asked IF I wouldn't mind cooking this year. Brucey will sulk for a while, but once he bites into this turducken he'll forgive me:



I'm going to stuff a deboned chicken in a deboned duck and stuff it all into a deboned turkey. Kirby is getting me some minced turtle to fill in the cavities. The Smoking Hot WAG thinks I'm hopelessly ambitious because I rarely cook. Am pretty confident though because I'm preparing it at Balmy's house under the big fella's supervision. He would often tuck into a Turducken while he watched Thursday night training. Balmy is the king of engrastration. This year he is putting a sparrow in a quail, in a chicken in a turkey, in a goat, and finally, in a skinned and cleaned whole camel. He will then roast the lot in a hole in the ground. For his family he will have a ham.

BTW: Any creative ideas for Secret Santa? I've drawn Gosling Phillips and he irritates the f*ck out of me. Went to his house and he has pinned in his hallway every Little Aths' ribbon he has ever won. Limit's $20. Wish I'd drawn Goldy. I could have given him a framed photo of me and he would have genuinely said thanks (although the Santa would not be so secret then I guess).

At Christmas, I like to go to midnight mass and reflect upon all the things I am grateful for. Apart from a sprained typing finger, I'm in great physical condition. Mum loves me more than Sam and Dad's got plenty of canned food and ammo IF we ever need it. My WAG adores me and I'm an All Australian, Collingwood Premiership player. I then like to meditate upon The List of Grievances. Top of my list are the doubters, the Vicky Park's of the world who think I'm a hasbeen. Next are the eco-warriors who want to deny us climate change. Then come the haters of dance. And finally, come the people who mock my hair - or more follicularly - my loss of hair. Don't think your jibes don't hurt. Which is why I was delighted when one of your fellow posters wrote me this kind letter:

Dear Ben,

I don't want you to think I'm another liniment sniffer. I'm not writing to you as a footy fan but as a fellow man, someone who has also had his fair share of successes and setbacks.

My business has a revolutionary approach to hair restoration. Revolutionary!

I lather full fat Greek yogurt (really it's Turkish yogurt but no matter for now) all over my luxuriant body hair. The culture in the yogurt turbo-charges growth of my pelt, meaning that I can be shorn four to five times per week. With our patented technology, my silky pelt can be transplanted on to any fleshy surface. You look like a perfect candidate. Since your a Collingwood champion, at no extra charge, I would upgrade you to the vicuna of my pelt: my butt hair. Please find below photos of me.

Your friend,

ottoman


Front Picture



Back Picture



ottoman has shown us the Christmas spirit friends!

Reach out to one another this Christmas. We're all people - we all have fears and dreams. Some of us are champion footballers, nearly all of you are not.

Your hero,

Ben

Gave you a like for the wag, and poor otto’s hair do.

 

[Good Degoe]

Did a quad coming down the chimney

 

[jmac70]

The Ben Reid Christmas Special!


Hey Guys, it's Ben Reid here and it's time for the Ben Reid (me) Christmas Special!

Mum, the Veteran WAG, says that Christmas is a time for giving. She also says Delta Goodrem will never get her hands on one of her boys, but that's better left for a dedicated post. Anyway, the best thing I can give my thousands of Pies' fans and 43 Swans' fans - those tools confuse me with Sam – is some festive Ben love. So, let's get on with it!

I’ve put a lot of work into this note - unlike most of the correspondence I receive. IF any of your kids plan to send me a drawing please tell them that a crayon stick figure with ‘Your my hero Ben’ won’t impress me. Have told the PR glossies to forward such rubbish to Langers, who’ll take anything that doesn’t abuse him. Expect big things from Langers in ’18. Whilst I am Captain of the Forward Line, it won’t stop me from taking mids and backs under my large wings. Langers needs guidance from an All Australian Intercept Marking Machine, not some journeyman with a TAFE certificate in leadership (no offence Maxy). I can mark anything, even IF my head is being ripped off while I do it:



You’ll note that I always write ‘Christmas' not ‘Xmas’. As my old Sunday school teacher said, ‘IF you take the “Christ" out of “Christmas" you’re left with Mary in need of a new alibi’. He actually said ’skanky ho in a manger’ but that’s the sort of sexist language that Darce and the club are stamping out. Expect big things of Darce down back in ’18 IF he stays healthy and he leaves his trampoline hands at home. Poor bugger is still on a drip because his vegan blood couldn’t deal with being starfished. Grunds has been a true friend – he reads Darce French surrealist poetry to pass the hours. Those two are always handing haiku notes to each other while Bucks explains his game plan (assume it's his game plan with all those pictures of crabs on the board).

Christmas in House Reid has always been huge. Dad is still a competitive beast so he smashes the neighbours with his display of lights. The early years weren’t so promising. Brucey’s a cheap f*cker so he carved his own Santa and reindeers – the latter looked like whippets with mange rather than creatures that could defy the space-time continuum. He also did the wiring himself which blew the district grid and sent toddler Sam to intensive care for a week. But Brucey persisted and this is our house below. We all love Summer so the family is doing every thing it can to contribute to global warming.



As you probably know, I'm a third generation footballer: Granddad, Uncle John, and Brucey all played VFL. However, I'm the only legitimate champion, which really pisses-off Sam. I’m a humble guy but I don’t mind putting Sam in his place. I also don’t mind putting cousin Simon in his place. Nanna was fawning over him last Christmas because he got accepted into medical school. Later that afternoon during backyard cricket I slipped off the polo and made sure Nanna could see me flex the rig. Probably overkill for Simon that I was wearing my 2010 medal. Win it, wear it! In the happy snap below, Clokey didn't start smiling until I told him we didn't have to take it one week at a time anymore. Beamsy and Daisy took that advice too far, but YOLO! Unless of course you are a Buddhist, Hindu, or do yoga, in which case you don't only live once.



The Reids are hospitable people and we always invite a few Christmas orphans. Because Dad played for the Filth, we often have The Dominator for lunch (his families enjoy the day without him). This year I’ve invited Adam Oxley. I will tell my extended rellies that he is a real dero - he dresses like a grunge band roadie - to win extra kudos for my charitable nature. It won’t be free rein though for the Ox; he’ll be expected to wash-up and leave the candy on the tree. Mum likes our friends to visit but only if they are respectful. Jackson Paine was banned after he left the toilet seat up and BenKen was expelled after he did something unspeakable to Mum’s rabbit fur coat. I like Ben but he didn't contribute to the pantheon of Great Collingwood Bens: Johnson, Kinnear, Hudson, and Reid (me). Special call out to Benny Sinclair, the only bloke to make my body look robust.

There is tension between Mum and my Smoking Hot WAG. Let's be clear, IF push comes to shove, I'm choosing my WAG. This is her Chrissie outfit:



But make no mistake, Mum's not like Kieren Jack's mum - a Veteran WAG struggling with retirement - she just wants to protect her first born and most beloved. Mum still recalls how badly an earlier WAG hurt me one Christmas. So devastated – I was brought to tears. All it took was one yank of the bonbon from the WAG and my shoulder dislocated. While I writhed in pain on the linoleum, underage Sam and the soon-to-be-ex-WAG wrestled over the bonbon toy. Mum gave me a swig of brandy and popped my shoulder back in like a pro. It was all too much for Bruce. He ripped off a turkey drumstick, sat in a tyre in the pool, and refused to speak for the rest of the afternoon. Don't get me wrong, I love Bruce like a father, but he can be a hard campaigner at times. Remember he got reported for the Filth for whacking Rotten Ronny Andrews when he played for Collingwood.

People falsely assume that Sam and I are close. Sam's always been jealous of my footy talent and that I'm Mum's favourite. He's always knocking off my stuff: from ballet flats to Rogaine. I’m not one hundred per cent sure we're full brothers – Mark McClure gives him a birthday present every year but gives me sweet FA. If he wasn’t my brother, and it wasn’t illegal, I’d fire bomb his car. Not with him in it - that’s hardly Christmassy. Last year Gubby was trying to recruit Sam on even more coin than me. On what planet is that just! The last thing we need is an injury–prone swingman. Just before Gubby sent Sam his contract, I showed him the YouTube video of the final minutes of Footscray v Collingwood 1984 R10. I told him Sam emailed it to me for a laugh (an alternative fact). Gubby shredded the contract and spat, ‘Happy now?! Who else am I going to recruit for the forward line?’ I panicked. Really panicked. More than when I was kicking for goal in my first season. Before I could think I blurted out, ‘Chris Mayne!’ So, now you all know the truth. The reason we recruited Mayne is because of bloody Sam. This picture is the closest Sam and I have been for years. You can see that ponderousness runs in the family.



The House of Reid does not always distinguish itself with its Christmas food. Brucey grew up in the country and is sentimental about his bushfire meats. Once he cranks up the Weber ('Max' as Grunds inexplicably nicknamed the BBQ) he does not stop until incineration is complete. Mum asked IF I wouldn't mind cooking this year. Brucey will sulk for a while, but once he bites into this turducken he'll forgive me:



I'm going to stuff a deboned chicken in a deboned duck and stuff it all into a deboned turkey. Kirby is getting me some minced turtle to fill in the cavities. The Smoking Hot WAG thinks I'm hopelessly ambitious because I rarely cook. Am pretty confident though because I'm preparing it at Balmy's house under the big fella's supervision. He would often tuck into a Turducken while he watched Thursday night training. Balmy is the king of engrastration. This year he is putting a sparrow in a quail, in a chicken in a turkey, in a goat, and finally, in a skinned and cleaned whole camel. He will then roast the lot in a hole in the ground. For his family he will have a ham.

BTW: Any creative ideas for Secret Santa? I've drawn Gosling Phillips and he irritates the f*ck out of me. Went to his house and he has pinned in his hallway every Little Aths' ribbon he has ever won. Limit's $20. Wish I'd drawn Goldy. I could have given him a framed photo of me and he would have genuinely said thanks (although the Santa would not be so secret then I guess).

At Christmas, I like to go to midnight mass and reflect upon all the things I am grateful for. Apart from a sprained typing finger, I'm in great physical condition. Mum loves me more than Sam and Dad's got plenty of canned food and ammo IF we ever need it. My WAG adores me and I'm an All Australian, Collingwood Premiership player. I then like to meditate upon The List of Grievances. Top of my list are the doubters, the Vicky Park's of the world who think I'm a hasbeen. Next are the eco-warriors who want to deny us climate change. Then come the haters of dance. And finally, come the people who mock my hair - or more follicularly - my loss of hair. Don't think your jibes don't hurt. Which is why I was delighted when one of your fellow posters wrote me this kind letter:

Dear Ben,

I don't want you to think I'm another liniment sniffer. I'm not writing to you as a footy fan but as a fellow man, someone who has also had his fair share of successes and setbacks.

My business has a revolutionary approach to hair restoration. Revolutionary!

I lather full fat Greek yogurt (really it's Turkish yogurt but no matter for now) all over my luxuriant body hair. The culture in the yogurt turbo-charges growth of my pelt, meaning that I can be shorn four to five times per week. With our patented technology, my silky pelt can be transplanted on to any fleshy surface. You look like a perfect candidate. Since your a Collingwood champion, at no extra charge, I would upgrade you to the vicuna of my pelt: my butt hair. Please find below photos of me.

Your friend,

ottoman


Front Picture



Back Picture



ottoman has shown us the Christmas spirit friends!

Reach out to one another this Christmas. We're all people - we all have fears and dreams. Some of us are champion footballers, nearly all of you are not.

Your hero,

Ben

I've got the horn.

 

[Vicky Park]

Walter, sorry I mean Ben, the Xmas Special is a masterpiece, a tour de force. Made even better by a complete absence of Brodie Holland. Thank God he’s not involved in the Reid family Xmases.

But one disappointment. What’s happened to Ben’s personal soft tissue expert, Dr Hans-Wilhelm Muller-Wohlfahrt of Munich? Surely he could contribute some Xmas stollen to the family banquet. Would be lighter and healthier than Balmey’s Camel.

 

[Saintly Viewed]

The Ben Reid Christmas Special!


Hey Guys, it's Ben Reid here and it's time for the Ben Reid (me) Christmas Special!

Mum, the Veteran WAG, says that Christmas is a time for giving. She also says Delta Goodrem will never get her hands on one of her boys, but that's better left for a dedicated post. Anyway, the best thing I can give my thousands of Pies' fans and 43 Swans' fans - those tools confuse me with Sam – is some festive Ben love. So, let's get on with it!

I’ve put a lot of work into this note - unlike most of the correspondence I receive. IF any of your kids plan to send me a drawing please tell them that a crayon stick figure with ‘Your my hero Ben’ won’t impress me. Have told the PR glossies to forward such rubbish to Langers, who’ll take anything that doesn’t abuse him. Expect big things from Langers in ’18. Whilst I am Captain of the Forward Line, it won’t stop me from taking mids and backs under my large wings. Langers needs guidance from an All Australian Intercept Marking Machine, not some journeyman with a TAFE certificate in leadership (no offence Maxy). I can mark anything, even IF my head is being ripped off while I do it:



You’ll note that I always write ‘Christmas' not ‘Xmas’. As my old Sunday school teacher said, ‘IF you take the “Christ" out of “Christmas" you’re left with Mary in need of a new alibi’. He actually said ’skanky ho in a manger’ but that’s the sort of sexist language that Darce and the club are stamping out. Expect big things of Darce down back in ’18 IF he stays healthy and he leaves his trampoline hands at home. Poor bugger is still on a drip because his vegan blood couldn’t deal with being starfished. Grunds has been a true friend – he reads Darce French surrealist poetry to pass the hours. Those two are always handing haiku notes to each other while Bucks explains his game plan (assume it's his game plan with all those pictures of crabs on the board).

Christmas in House Reid has always been huge. Dad is still a competitive beast so he smashes the neighbours with his display of lights. The early years weren’t so promising. Brucey’s a cheap f*cker so he carved his own Santa and reindeers – the latter looked like whippets with mange rather than creatures that could defy the space-time continuum. He also did the wiring himself which blew the district grid and sent toddler Sam to intensive care for a week. But Brucey persisted and this is our house below. We all love Summer so the family is doing every thing it can to contribute to global warming.



As you probably know, I'm a third generation footballer: Granddad, Uncle John, and Brucey all played VFL. However, I'm the only legitimate champion, which really pisses-off Sam. I’m a humble guy but I don’t mind putting Sam in his place. I also don’t mind putting cousin Simon in his place. Nanna was fawning over him last Christmas because he got accepted into medical school. Later that afternoon during backyard cricket I slipped off the polo and made sure Nanna could see me flex the rig. Probably overkill for Simon that I was wearing my 2010 medal. Win it, wear it! In the happy snap below, Clokey didn't start smiling until I told him we didn't have to take it one week at a time anymore. Beamsy and Daisy took that advice too far, but YOLO! Unless of course you are a Buddhist, Hindu, or do yoga, in which case you don't only live once.



The Reids are hospitable people and we always invite a few Christmas orphans. Because Dad played for the Filth, we often have The Dominator for lunch (his families enjoy the day without him). This year I’ve invited Adam Oxley. I will tell my extended rellies that he is a real dero - he dresses like a grunge band roadie - to win extra kudos for my charitable nature. It won’t be free rein though for the Ox; he’ll be expected to wash-up and leave the candy on the tree. Mum likes our friends to visit but only if they are respectful. Jackson Paine was banned after he left the toilet seat up and BenKen was expelled after he did something unspeakable to Mum’s rabbit fur coat. I like Ben but he didn't contribute to the pantheon of Great Collingwood Bens: Johnson, Kinnear, Hudson, and Reid (me). Special call out to Benny Sinclair, the only bloke to make my body look robust.

There is tension between Mum and my Smoking Hot WAG. Let's be clear, IF push comes to shove, I'm choosing my WAG. This is her Chrissie outfit:



But make no mistake, Mum's not like Kieren Jack's mum - a Veteran WAG struggling with retirement - she just wants to protect her first born and most beloved. Mum still recalls how badly an earlier WAG hurt me one Christmas. So devastated – I was brought to tears. All it took was one yank of the bonbon from the WAG and my shoulder dislocated. While I writhed in pain on the linoleum, underage Sam and the soon-to-be-ex-WAG wrestled over the bonbon toy. Mum gave me a swig of brandy and popped my shoulder back in like a pro. It was all too much for Bruce. He ripped off a turkey drumstick, sat in a tyre in the pool, and refused to speak for the rest of the afternoon. Don't get me wrong, I love Bruce like a father, but he can be a hard campaigner at times. Remember he got reported for the Filth for whacking Rotten Ronny Andrews when he played for Collingwood.

People falsely assume that Sam and I are close. Sam's always been jealous of my footy talent and that I'm Mum's favourite. He's always knocking off my stuff: from ballet flats to Rogaine. I’m not one hundred per cent sure we're full brothers – Mark McClure gives him a birthday present every year but gives me sweet FA. If he wasn’t my brother, and it wasn’t illegal, I’d fire bomb his car. Not with him in it - that’s hardly Christmassy. Last year Gubby was trying to recruit Sam on even more coin than me. On what planet is that just! The last thing we need is an injury–prone swingman. Just before Gubby sent Sam his contract, I showed him the YouTube video of the final minutes of Footscray v Collingwood 1984 R10. I told him Sam emailed it to me for a laugh (an alternative fact). Gubby shredded the contract and spat, ‘Happy now?! Who else am I going to recruit for the forward line?’ I panicked. Really panicked. More than when I was kicking for goal in my first season. Before I could think I blurted out, ‘Chris Mayne!’ So, now you all know the truth. The reason we recruited Mayne is because of bloody Sam. This picture is the closest Sam and I have been for years. You can see that ponderousness runs in the family.



The House of Reid does not always distinguish itself with its Christmas food. Brucey grew up in the country and is sentimental about his bushfire meats. Once he cranks up the Weber ('Max' as Grunds inexplicably nicknamed the BBQ) he does not stop until incineration is complete. Mum asked IF I wouldn't mind cooking this year. Brucey will sulk for a while, but once he bites into this turducken he'll forgive me:



I'm going to stuff a deboned chicken in a deboned duck and stuff it all into a deboned turkey. Kirby is getting me some minced turtle to fill in the cavities. The Smoking Hot WAG thinks I'm hopelessly ambitious because I rarely cook. Am pretty confident though because I'm preparing it at Balmy's house under the big fella's supervision. He would often tuck into a Turducken while he watched Thursday night training. Balmy is the king of engrastration. This year he is putting a sparrow in a quail, in a chicken in a turkey, in a goat, and finally, in a skinned and cleaned whole camel. He will then roast the lot in a hole in the ground. For his family he will have a ham.

BTW: Any creative ideas for Secret Santa? I've drawn Gosling Phillips and he irritates the f*ck out of me. Went to his house and he has pinned in his hallway every Little Aths' ribbon he has ever won. Limit's $20. Wish I'd drawn Goldy. I could have given him a framed photo of me and he would have genuinely said thanks (although the Santa would not be so secret then I guess).

At Christmas, I like to go to midnight mass and reflect upon all the things I am grateful for. Apart from a sprained typing finger, I'm in great physical condition. Mum loves me more than Sam and Dad's got plenty of canned food and ammo IF we ever need it. My WAG adores me and I'm an All Australian, Collingwood Premiership player. I then like to meditate upon The List of Grievances. Top of my list are the doubters, the Vicky Park's of the world who think I'm a hasbeen. Next are the eco-warriors who want to deny us climate change. Then come the haters of dance. And finally, come the people who mock my hair - or more follicularly - my loss of hair. Don't think your jibes don't hurt. Which is why I was delighted when one of your fellow posters wrote me this kind letter:

Dear Ben,

I don't want you to think I'm another liniment sniffer. I'm not writing to you as a footy fan but as a fellow man, someone who has also had his fair share of successes and setbacks.

My business has a revolutionary approach to hair restoration. Revolutionary!

I lather full fat Greek yogurt (really it's Turkish yogurt but no matter for now) all over my luxuriant body hair. The culture in the yogurt turbo-charges growth of my pelt, meaning that I can be shorn four to five times per week. With our patented technology, my silky pelt can be transplanted on to any fleshy surface. You look like a perfect candidate. Since your a Collingwood champion, at no extra charge, I would upgrade you to the vicuna of my pelt: my butt hair. Please find below photos of me.

Your friend,

ottoman


Front Picture



Back Picture



ottoman has shown us the Christmas spirit friends!

Reach out to one another this Christmas. We're all people - we all have fears and dreams. Some of us are champion footballers, nearly all of you are not.

Your hero,

Ben

That is the funniest best post ever!!!!!!

Have no idea how you know Ben, but whatever you do, cherish that friendship, nurture it.

Gold re Balme's Xmas food, the family get a ham. Brilliant!

Gosling Phillips, I'd like credit for, but that aside, seriously how many ribbons must he have down his hallway.
(What a crap nickname flip, when you gave Gosling starting at you everything you look at Flip)

Mark Mclure brilliant, present for Sam.

And I knew Sam was the real culprit in the Mayne scandal.

Pure gold

 

[Saintly Viewed]

Ps you built it up and built it up....

And it was better than any build up,

 

[Quicky]

Reid has a lot to answer for with Mayne it seems. I reckon he needs to take a pay cut and help us recoup all the monies

 

[Tarkyn_24]

Kinnear

 

[ottoman]

The Ben Reid Christmas Special!


Hey Guys, it's Ben Reid here and it's time for the Ben Reid (me) Christmas Special!

Mum, the Veteran WAG, says that Christmas is a time for giving. She also says Delta Goodrem will never get her hands on one of her boys, but that's better left for a dedicated post. Anyway, the best thing I can give my thousands of Pies' fans and 43 Swans' fans - those tools confuse me with Sam – is some festive Ben love. So, let's get on with it!

I’ve put a lot of work into this note - unlike most of the correspondence I receive. IF any of your kids plan to send me a drawing please tell them that a crayon stick figure with ‘Your my hero Ben’ won’t impress me. Have told the PR glossies to forward such rubbish to Langers, who’ll take anything that doesn’t abuse him. Expect big things from Langers in ’18. Whilst I am Captain of the Forward Line, it won’t stop me from taking mids and backs under my large wings. Langers needs guidance from an All Australian Intercept Marking Machine, not some journeyman with a TAFE certificate in leadership (no offence Maxy). I can mark anything, even IF my head is being ripped off while I do it:



You’ll note that I always write ‘Christmas' not ‘Xmas’. As my old Sunday school teacher said, ‘IF you take the “Christ" out of “Christmas" you’re left with Mary in need of a new alibi’. He actually said ’skanky ho in a manger’ but that’s the sort of sexist language that Darce and the club are stamping out. Expect big things of Darce down back in ’18 IF he stays healthy and he leaves his trampoline hands at home. Poor bugger is still on a drip because his vegan blood couldn’t deal with being starfished. Grunds has been a true friend – he reads Darce French surrealist poetry to pass the hours. Those two are always handing haiku notes to each other while Bucks explains his game plan (assume it's his game plan with all those pictures of crabs on the board).

Christmas in House Reid has always been huge. Dad is still a competitive beast so he smashes the neighbours with his display of lights. The early years weren’t so promising. Brucey’s a cheap f*cker so he carved his own Santa and reindeers – the latter looked like whippets with mange rather than creatures that could defy the space-time continuum. He also did the wiring himself which blew the district grid and sent toddler Sam to intensive care for a week. But Brucey persisted and this is our house below. We all love Summer so the family is doing every thing it can to contribute to global warming.



As you probably know, I'm a third generation footballer: Granddad, Uncle John, and Brucey all played VFL. However, I'm the only legitimate champion, which really pisses-off Sam. I’m a humble guy but I don’t mind putting Sam in his place. I also don’t mind putting cousin Simon in his place. Nanna was fawning over him last Christmas because he got accepted into medical school. Later that afternoon during backyard cricket I slipped off the polo and made sure Nanna could see me flex the rig. Probably overkill for Simon that I was wearing my 2010 medal. Win it, wear it! In the happy snap below, Clokey didn't start smiling until I told him we didn't have to take it one week at a time anymore. Beamsy and Daisy took that advice too far, but YOLO! Unless of course you are a Buddhist, Hindu, or do yoga, in which case you don't only live once.



The Reids are hospitable people and we always invite a few Christmas orphans. Because Dad played for the Filth, we often have The Dominator for lunch (his families enjoy the day without him). This year I’ve invited Adam Oxley. I will tell my extended rellies that he is a real dero - he dresses like a grunge band roadie - to win extra kudos for my charitable nature. It won’t be free rein though for the Ox; he’ll be expected to wash-up and leave the candy on the tree. Mum likes our friends to visit but only if they are respectful. Jackson Paine was banned after he left the toilet seat up and BenKen was expelled after he did something unspeakable to Mum’s rabbit fur coat. I like Ben but he didn't contribute to the pantheon of Great Collingwood Bens: Johnson, Kinnear, Hudson, and Reid (me). Special call out to Benny Sinclair, the only bloke to make my body look robust.

There is tension between Mum and my Smoking Hot WAG. Let's be clear, IF push comes to shove, I'm choosing my WAG. This is her Chrissie outfit:



But make no mistake, Mum's not like Kieren Jack's mum - a Veteran WAG struggling with retirement - she just wants to protect her first born and most beloved. Mum still recalls how badly an earlier WAG hurt me one Christmas. So devastated – I was brought to tears. All it took was one yank of the bonbon from the WAG and my shoulder dislocated. While I writhed in pain on the linoleum, underage Sam and the soon-to-be-ex-WAG wrestled over the bonbon toy. Mum gave me a swig of brandy and popped my shoulder back in like a pro. It was all too much for Bruce. He ripped off a turkey drumstick, sat in a tyre in the pool, and refused to speak for the rest of the afternoon. Don't get me wrong, I love Bruce like a father, but he can be a hard campaigner at times. Remember he got reported for the Filth for whacking Rotten Ronny Andrews when he played for Collingwood.

People falsely assume that Sam and I are close. Sam's always been jealous of my footy talent and that I'm Mum's favourite. He's always knocking off my stuff: from ballet flats to Rogaine. I’m not one hundred per cent sure we're full brothers – Mark McClure gives him a birthday present every year but gives me sweet FA. If he wasn’t my brother, and it wasn’t illegal, I’d fire bomb his car. Not with him in it - that’s hardly Christmassy. Last year Gubby was trying to recruit Sam on even more coin than me. On what planet is that just! The last thing we need is an injury–prone swingman. Just before Gubby sent Sam his contract, I showed him the YouTube video of the final minutes of Footscray v Collingwood 1984 R10. I told him Sam emailed it to me for a laugh (an alternative fact). Gubby shredded the contract and spat, ‘Happy now?! Who else am I going to recruit for the forward line?’ I panicked. Really panicked. More than when I was kicking for goal in my first season. Before I could think I blurted out, ‘Chris Mayne!’ So, now you all know the truth. The reason we recruited Mayne is because of bloody Sam. This picture is the closest Sam and I have been for years. You can see that ponderousness runs in the family.



The House of Reid does not always distinguish itself with its Christmas food. Brucey grew up in the country and is sentimental about his bushfire meats. Once he cranks up the Weber ('Max' as Grunds inexplicably nicknamed the BBQ) he does not stop until incineration is complete. Mum asked IF I wouldn't mind cooking this year. Brucey will sulk for a while, but once he bites into this turducken he'll forgive me:



I'm going to stuff a deboned chicken in a deboned duck and stuff it all into a deboned turkey. Kirby is getting me some minced turtle to fill in the cavities. The Smoking Hot WAG thinks I'm hopelessly ambitious because I rarely cook. Am pretty confident though because I'm preparing it at Balmy's house under the big fella's supervision. He would often tuck into a Turducken while he watched Thursday night training. Balmy is the king of engrastration. This year he is putting a sparrow in a quail, in a chicken in a turkey, in a goat, and finally, in a skinned and cleaned whole camel. He will then roast the lot in a hole in the ground. For his family he will have a ham.

BTW: Any creative ideas for Secret Santa? I've drawn Gosling Phillips and he irritates the f*ck out of me. Went to his house and he has pinned in his hallway every Little Aths' ribbon he has ever won. Limit's $20. Wish I'd drawn Goldy. I could have given him a framed photo of me and he would have genuinely said thanks (although the Santa would not be so secret then I guess).

At Christmas, I like to go to midnight mass and reflect upon all the things I am grateful for. Apart from a sprained typing finger, I'm in great physical condition. Mum loves me more than Sam and Dad's got plenty of canned food and ammo IF we ever need it. My WAG adores me and I'm an All Australian, Collingwood Premiership player. I then like to meditate upon The List of Grievances. Top of my list are the doubters, the Vicky Park's of the world who think I'm a hasbeen. Next are the eco-warriors who want to deny us climate change. Then come the haters of dance. And finally, come the people who mock my hair - or more follicularly - my loss of hair. Don't think your jibes don't hurt. Which is why I was delighted when one of your fellow posters wrote me this kind letter:

Dear Ben,

I don't want you to think I'm another liniment sniffer. I'm not writing to you as a footy fan but as a fellow man, someone who has also had his fair share of successes and setbacks.

My business has a revolutionary approach to hair restoration. Revolutionary!

I lather full fat Greek yogurt (really it's Turkish yogurt but no matter for now) all over my luxuriant body hair. The culture in the yogurt turbo-charges growth of my pelt, meaning that I can be shorn four to five times per week. With our patented technology, my silky pelt can be transplanted on to any fleshy surface. You look like a perfect candidate. Since your a Collingwood champion, at no extra charge, I would upgrade you to the vicuna of my pelt: my butt hair. Please find below photos of me.

Your friend,

ottoman


Front Picture



Back Picture



ottoman has shown us the Christmas spirit friends!

Reach out to one another this Christmas. We're all people - we all have fears and dreams. Some of us are champion footballers, nearly all of you are not.

Your hero,

Ben

a-hole
Those photos were supposed to be private. Something between you and me.
I now have women trying to belt down my door pleading for me to let them get their hands on a bit of Otto pelt.

 

[WalterBlaknWhte]

I now have women trying to belt down my door pleading for me to let them get their hands on a bit of Otto pelt.

No surprise.

Brazilian Regret, or the Remembrance of Lost Pubis, is a very real phenomenon where people lament having been too zealous in the lasering of their pubic hair (from Miley Cyrus to the Duchess of Kent).

Both of us are businessmen - albeit not very good. There is an opportunity here for the two of us, IF we can put our blood feud aside.

 

[ottoman]

No surprise.

Brazilian Regret, or the Remembrance of Lost Pubis, is a very real phenomenon where people lament having been too zealous in the lasering of their pubic hair (from Miley Cyrus to the Duchess of Kent).

Both of us are businessmen - albeit not very good. There is an opportunity here for the two of us, IF we can put our blood feud aside.

Sorry can't talk at the moment.
Decided to let all the women who were beating my door down in. Now my Russian housemaid Tatiana and I have discovered that Yogurt wrestling can be played as a team sport.
Happy days.