I am so over rugby union
I am so over rugby union.
And not just because the New Zealand International Mens First XV lost convincingly to the South African Springboks in the wee smalls of Sunday morning.
And not just because the "marketing" department at the NZRU has prohibited inappropriate use of the term "All Blacks" that they believe is their registered trade mark.
And not just because that the first thing that our pussy-whipped forwards vow to do after a decent thrashing is to "muscle up" for next time.
And not just because the media is fascinated with the underwear worn by a crippled first-five eight.
And not just because Brad Thorn can do eight, or that some kids are so poor that All Blacks need to sell them bottled water, with a 5 cent-per-bottle donation made to some made up charity, when the same kids can get perfectly good water out of a tap for nothing.
And not just because Richie McCaw is a cheat and has the captaincy skills of a possum trapped in the headlights of an approaching Kenworth.
And not just because our national selectors think that Jimmy Cowan is the best halfback in the country.
And not just because referees and match officials are incapable of seeing the basic infringements (forward passes, unstraight lineout throws, ball fed under hooker's feet, offside, etc) that I can clearly see from my Laz-y-boy(TM)).
And not just because this game has some patently stupid laws (the mark, the 22m drop-out (what's with that 22m anyway?), the advantage line...).
And it's not just because people can become All Blacks without ever having played club rugby or indeed without ever having been a member of a rugby club.
And it's not just because the NPC changes every season.
No, it's because it's not my game any more. Full credit to the NZRU for doing that.
I am converting immediately to the beguiling and strangely compelling sport of wife bouncing. Rule 1: Use somebody else's wife...
"Standing on your mother's corpse you told me that you'd wait forever." [Bryan Adams: Summer of 69]
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