JOINING the flow with hundreds of other league supporters coming to a bottleneck as security guards check people for unsafe objects in their luggage amongst the vegemite sandwiches, plastic bottles of weak lemon cordial and an extra jumper or two in case it gets a little chilly after the game on the way home because the worst thing that can happen, especially after a loss, is to feel miserable and cold with the knowledge you will cop abuse from people at work, the following Monday, from colleagues who hardly ever watch the game on television let alone live, as I am about to do but I need to weave my way through the snaky path set up with an almost frozen "metal pipe" like configuration, noticing almost subliminally that no one ever intentionally touches these dividers in the middle of winter lest they remain stuck to it till summer whereas I, safely traverse the labyrinth, pull out my wallet and part with a bit less than an hour?s worth of work to watch my beloved South Sydney Rabbitohs, no doubt, cop a thrashing from invaders of a modern, contemporary, fully News Ltd funded other Rugby League team who have enjoyed more success in the last five years than Souths have in the last fifteen years of mediocre misery which is akin to the last hot dog I ate, after the last game which left me with regret for both watching the last thrashing and eating what in effect is a warm much-of-a-nothing but; I will not be thwarted as I make my way to the nearest entrance gate where I allow a scanner to read the stub of my as yet, un-creased ticket of misery yet to come, coupled with, the ever so slight expectation of a miracle win which allow me some form of retribution but hello, there, before my very eyes I spot a kid handing out freely, the Rabbitoh News which I greedily snatch up to eagerly peruse the well written, incredibly positive, spin on Club happenings and news but what I really would like to read is my own contribution about The Burrow, located towards the back amongst the profile of the latest, very attractive, Cheergirl who gets paid to wear skimpy outfits and do a routine to a completely boring top-forty tune which is all magnified inadequately on the big screen which I cannot see as yet as not only am I still making my way to Bay 38 but I have just walked past a partial split in the stadium support where wheelchair bound fans settle in with their carers tucking in cosy blankets that remind me of better things I could be doing on a god forsakenly cold, wintry, Saturday night but those thoughts disintegrate as I promenade past the first mini beer outlet, to my left, which already looks like they are having trouble making the beer flow seamlessly into eagerly awaited plastic cups, ahead, two utterly bored looking shop keepers watching the traffic go right past their stall that is filled with over priced Souths merchandise where every Souths fan knows never to buy objects from there, as the money never makes it back to the club but nonetheless, Souths fans are truly educated thanks to the aforementioned Rabbitoh News paper wherein, by the time I actually reach Bay 38, hundreds of copies will have been ripped up to make confetti to be thrown each time Souths score a try where I have been informed that we have a twelve garbage bag backlog which will probably end up at the local pet shop come Round 26 but such is the faith and hope that smothers all those Souths fans that have come to the game fully expecting a win against all odds, against facing reality and that the only attraction these days are fleeting moments of lustful pleasure at twisting ones neck trying to catch the eye of a gorgeous young woman in very tight jeans and wearing the opposition colours much to my compounding dismay but perhaps, I can fantasise approaching after the game, for a consoling hug giving me an equally fleeting opportunity to garner what little sympathy I deserve as I approach the first steps of Bay 38 and pan the scene of the entire stadium before me wishing I had bought a beer first as I now must trudge back to the bar.
HATE is a tremendously powerful emotional feeling. It?s high up there in the power stakes and sits along nicely beside Love. Hate cannot exist where there is no Love.
I heard George Negus once say, ? Making love is like cooking Paella? you have to stir the dish gently to not break the rice?. For me it?s more like cooking Scrambled Eggs; but I digress.