After training every Thursday evening, the football club that I play for (I say play, but I’ve played a total of 4 games this year, the majority of them quite badly) announces the teams for their firsts, reserves and thirds at the local pub. One of the traditions of this evening is what could only be described as a ‘light entertainment program’, run by several of the players. The program features segments that are generally solely employed in order to have a good natured dig at the players and get a few laughs from the audience, which they often do. The hosts utilize a PowerPoint projection as if giving a high-level boardroom presentation to potential seed investors.

I’ve already had the misfortune of making several appearances on the program since I started playing at the start of this year, the most recent of which was when the enterprising hosts discovered a match report from an opposition team we’d just beaten where the following was written about me;

‘Kicking towards Royal Parade, Blacks scored first goal when its huge sequoia tree of a full-forward with a backside three axe handles wide latched onto the ball as it wafted over a pack of players at half-forward.  His long kick bounced a fair way along the ground before rolling through.’

I’ve got a huge issue with the comparison they’ve drawn about my arse being three axe handles wide. I mean, I know what the author is getting at (I’ve got a massive arse and he was trying to convey this to his audience…) but the example that’s been given is pretty ordinary. An axe-handle is long, but not particularly wide. My message to the author? “Your analogy sucked almost as much as your pitiful attempt at writing, you ignorant cunt. Additionally, your match report was rife with spelling and grammar errors. Give up.”

Oh and for those of you playing at home, see below image of a sequoia tree.


An old family photo. I’m second from the left.

Anyway, I digress. Tonight at the pub, the program was being projected onto the wall to a group of around 50 players, coaches and support staff. I was half way through absent-mindedly eating a rather forgettable Chicken Parmigiana when I peered up from my plate to the wall and laid eyes on an all-too-familiar moustachioed face staring back at me.

Word of Bankingcommish has evidently (and inexplicably) gotten around, even at my footy club. For some reason, in the picture on the wall my head had been superimposed onto Batman’s body and they were referring to me as ‘The Dark Knight’, assumedly due to the dark nature of my social commentary and the noble origins of my family name.

I was now sitting in a room with 50 people who were being read excerpts by the host from ‘South of the river’, one of the most offensive posts I’ve written so far (albeit incredibly fucking apt!) The worst part of the whole evening was that there was no explanation given as to why I even wrote a blog and no mention of the wager whatsoever. This gave the impression that I wrote a blog for no reason other than a belief that people actually want to read what I write. This is the exact reason that I hate blogs, bloggers and the motherfucking blogosphere.  In the eyes of the audience tonight, (for all intents and purposes) I might as well have been Perez Hilton.


/end communication