The Rugby World Cup!! Yeah! Fantastic! Whooooooooo!
No? Not excited? Not ready to blow all your money to watch huge blokes cavorting in mud?
Watching all the blithering hype at the moment you’d be forgiven for believing that th
e whole country is teetering on the brink of some huge collective orgasm at the thought of this grotesque, bloated event getting under way. Yet a poll in today’s NZ Herald puts a little perspective on things. The question they ask is; ‘Have you bought tickets for the Rugby World Cup 2011?’
42% say ‘No, they are too expensive.’ Fair enough, times are hard and it will be difficult to justify the money spent to sit in the expensively renovated Eden Park sipping your tiny thimbleful of genuine imitation Heineken-style fizz while the All Blacks somehow manage to blow it at the last minute.
A pitiful 13% managed to figure out the complex business of clicking on the ‘Yes, I can’t wait!’ option. Well done lads! Now lets see if you can remember that difficult shoelace tying trick as well. Extra points if you can manage it without dribbling down your shirt front.
So what of the other 45%? Surprise surprise, they all opted for the ‘No, I’m not interested in it.’ option. This made my day. The truth is out in the open at last, most of us simply don’t care. And why should we? Despite the relentless torrent of drivel, bombast, hype and semi literate grunting on this topic that pours from our newspapers and televisions each day, most of us have better stuff to do and think about.
In fact, let me wax heretical here for a few moments and say it out loud, Sport is BOLLOCKS.
It’s crude, pointless, vulgar and above all unhealthy. It crushes the spirit and maims the body. How many kids each year end up with long term physical problems such as damaged knees, spines and faces simply because their witless parents and schools forced them into taking part in sport?
Lots, that’s how many. And who ends up paying? We do, and the declining fortunes of the well intentioned but doomed ACC can be traced back to this. The hypocrisy is astounding. Smoke the odd relaxing cigarette and you find yourself blamed for all of society’s ills. Health care? You must be joking! You brought it on yourself and nobody has any sympathy for you.
But if you get rolled into A&E one Saturday afternoon with compacted neck vertebrae or a shattered kneecap you get treated like a decorated war veteran. Your ongoing care and therapy will cost us thousands yet somehow this is OK.
Now, at this point, given the broad statistical breakdown that I have mentioned above, roughly half of you will be nodding in general agreement. Yet the other half, (Assuming they can find someone to read it out loud to them and explain what some of the longer words mean) will be horrified. ‘Sport is good!’ they will assert. “It builds team spirit, gets people out in the fresh air and ner-ner-ner-ner….”
Well I’m sorry, but you are just plain wrong. If you want team spirit and fresh air then there are plenty of ways to get it without resorting to sport. Besides, what sort of team spirit are we talking about here? Look at it close up and it’s just monotonous thuggery, pointless noise and nothing better to drink afterwards than Lion Red.
So why do I feel this way? Let me try and explain.. I went to an old fashioned school. We got taught Latin and had to wear uniforms. The teachers wore gowns and had canes they were allowed to use. It was all rather splendid and I’m eternally glad I got to go to such a place. I got a great education and had a pretty good time all things considered. The old cliché about school being the best years of your life is probably overstating it a bit, the best years of my life tended to involve drinking beer and dancing with girls, diversions that were entirely absent from my school days, but all in all it was pretty good.
The only genuine horror was sport, which was, (And I’m sorry to use the filthy and revolting word here…) COMPULSORY. Every Wednesday afternoon, unless you could fake illness with sufficient skill, it was off to the horrible playing field in your shorts and rugby jersey. Then, before the physical brutality could begin came the ultimate evil, the emotional cruelty that sports fetishists seem to relish so much. The picking of the ‘teams’. You all remember this despicable ritual I’m sure. The two heartiest young thugs, (Destined no doubt for lives of pompous arrogance and domestic violence) were appointed ‘Captains’ and required to pick their teams by alternate choice. Now if, like me, you were a large and ungainly child, doomed from an early age to wear the kind of huge plastic spectacles they inflicted upon the hopelessly myopic in those days, then your appeal to the sporting young bucks was amazingly limited. Or, as the parlance of the times had it; “Oh Lord Sir! We don’t have to have Knight on our team do we? He’s a total SPAZZ!”
Thanks guys, I hated you too. And still do. I still see your kind of swaggering, bullying retards around these days, still desperately trying to get us all involved in the stupid, cruel rituals that are the only thing that can make their stunted and moronic souls feel alive and relevant.
So here’s a resounding two fingers up to the beastliness of sport. To the injuries, the cretinous chanting, the vulgar sponsorship, the domestic abuse that follows every defeat, the mud, the watered down beer and the soul destroying tedium of the post match analysis.
The ‘Flannelled fool at the wicket and the muddied oaf in the goal’? Here’s a suggestion for them; Bugger Off.