You know that feeling that you get when you wake up in the middle of the night, covered in a cold sweat following a nightmare, a horrible nightmare that involves the fucking Cronulla Sharks versus the Melbourne Fucking Storm in the fucking Grand Final and you still aren’t sure if Cronk got that ball down, and then you fall asleep again and you dream that you’re Edrick Lee and your hands have been replaced by paddles?
Yeah, I’ve had that feeling for a week now.
So here we are, with the Sharks v the Storm in the big one. The Sharks completely overwhelmed the Cowboys last week, giving the North Queenslanders a pantsing that will probably take them a while to recover from. Many people claimed that the Cowboys were still recovering from their frantic extra-time win from the week before, but those people are dribbling fuckwits. If a team of professional athletes with access to the best trainers and conditioners in the country are still tired from doing a 90-minute workout instead of an 80-minute one seven days previous, they should be kicked out of the NRL and shot into space. To their credit, the Sharks did play pretty well, and kept the Cowbs on the back foot, backed by a huge amount of possession that they haven’t had since Stephen Dank was working for them.
Melbourne, on the other hand, limped home against a Raiders side that will still be kicking themselves (and Edrick Lee) for fucking up too many opportunities, although the turning point was the sin-binning of perennial numbnut Jack Wighton, who managed to stop a runaway Marika Koroibete (which was good), and then held onto him for as long as it normally takes him to tie his shoelaces (which is about eight minutes on a good day). I don’t have a problem with the decision to sit the muffin down for ten minutes, but it probably would have been a better result if, you know, he didn’t get sent off. He probably could have just let the guy score and stayed on the field. It might have been better for the team.
Just sayin’. Poor old Simple Jack. One day, life will make sense to you.
|Get used to this sight - Edrick Lee on the bench|
So what about this week?
SHARKIES VS STORMIES
Last week, the Storm wingers made a total of two runs which were not harmless hit-ups, dummy-half runs or kick returns. The Raiders wingers made sixteen. That pretty much sums up the difference in style, but at the end of the day the Storm won and that’s what matters. People may not like how they play the game (everybody), but the Storm play it better than anyone.
Cronulla are playing the more attractive and more effective style of league right now, which pains to me say. Like really, I have a weird pain in my left nut just thinking about them winning a premiership. I don’t like Gallen, I don’t like Maloney, I don’t like Mick Ennis and I can’t fucking stand the Cronulla fans. Do you get a Southern Cross neck tattoo, pair of Von Zipper sunglasses and a bumbag with every ticket to Shark Park these days?
The best case scenario is that the Storm win and then get stripped of their premiership (again) following another salary cap investigation.
Grand final drinking game
Drink every time Gus Gould whinges about a refereeing decision and goes on about it for the next ten minutes.
Drink when Gus Gould complains about the referee’s use of the bunker.
Drink when Paul Gallen takes a harmless hit up on the fourth tackle. Have another if it’s within 20 metres of the try line.
Have a drink whenever there’s some fucking loose unit in the crowd doing a shoey.
Drink whenever Jarryd Hayne is mentioned.
Drink whenever Melbourne are described as “clinical”
Drink every time a player feigns injury to slow the game down for the opposition.
Drink when Gus Gould describes a player as being “out on his feet.” Have a double if it’s the whole team.
Drink for every forearm to the face that you see. Good luck on Monday.