Gidday. How ya going mate? That's the bloody story.
Now here's a thing. When I was down at the old Local last weekend and I bumped into a smart little prick. A right shifty bastard... called himself Black Toddadder. He shouted me a couple a jugs, talked smooth like some bloody flashy real estate agent too. Next thing ya know, bugger me, I've promised him a couple a articles for some RugbyHeads site.
Jesus Christ! So here I bloody am. And now the cows are milked and the wife's buggered off to her Women's institute thing, here's a few of me thoughts on the Crusaders and the way they dealt to those city slicker Waratah's.
First of all, flamin cripes! Have ya ever seen an uglier bunch than those Waratahs? Someone spent a whole month of bloody Sundays beating those buggers with an ugly stick. Phil Waugh... Holy hell! Phil bloody Swamp Monster! Trevor Bayliss's bull terrier had a prettier face than his. And that was after it came off second best in a fight with the bull-bars on old Ned's ute!
To be fairly frank, and I know you can all relate, I remember the first half of the game a hell of a lot better than the second. But, it was happy hour down at the bloody pub and I always consider it me social responsibility to support the local businesses.
So if there were any Waratah tries in the second half, well flamin' good on them. But you won't hear shit about them from me, if you'll pardon me bloody French.
Most of you blokes will be agreeing with me when I say that young Dan Carter is flamin' brilliant. And you'd be bloody right. When it comes to slipping the defence, he's as slick as a milking shed floor at 7am.
Truth be told though, I'm a bit bloody worried about his kicking lately. Didn't he kick a higher percentage than fat in a bottle of cream last year? This year, cripes I dunno. If ya ask me, I reckon he could chuck in those bloody underwear ads and concentrate on scoreboards instead of billboards!
Was it just me who thought that in the final the Waratah's were thicker than honey on a cold morning? That Lotty Tikkery fella is like a bloody turbo-charged Kingswood. Big bugger and quick. Well, they never showed him the leather. Mat Rogers? I tell you what... Mat bloody Rogered their chances of winning by kicking the flamin' ball away all night! Not that I'm complainin' mind.
One bloke who impressed me was that big spongy pud, Matt Dunning. Around jug number four I saw him launch himself at a loose ball. He flew through the air like a giant flying walrus and flopped down right next to the ball more like a woolsack full of custard. Mind you, it was a cryin' shame for him it was just after McCaw got there. Later on I saw the big bugger change direction on a 2 cent piece. Not bad for a fella who usually has the same turning circle as an aircraft carrier.
Clarkie who's got a sheep farm out on Station Road reckons the Crusaders are more reliable than his 1968 Massey Ferguson tractor. He'd be bloody right! Clarkie's flamin' lucky if he can get the old Ferg started five times out of ten. The Crusaders have held that Super12 trophy damn near as often as a Women's Institute barn dance over the past decade. Fifty percent is not bloody bad, and a damn sight better than a whack in the face from a wet sheepdogs tail .
Next year it's Super14. Personally I reckon twelve teams was plenty enough. A dozen beers. A dozen flamin' eggs. Twelve just makes good bloody sense. Anyway. fourteen will just give the Crusaders a couple more teams to pound into the turf.
Well. That's enough typing for an old farm boy. See ya's down at the pub.