We met up at the Greenwood Tree and got pissed as parrots.
Ireland was playing Australia at the S.C.G. I'd left the moke behind the Olympic. About two o'clock we had the last round and walked down Oxford St. Another shout at the Town Hall and O'Loughlin bought a bottle of Henessys.
Back past the Olympic and across the road to the Paddo entrance. Bouncers. Big bouncers. I'd forgotten about the whisky until Mick suddenly chucked a ewie. The bouncer had spotted him with the banned substance but he'd shooftied in time. In the middle of the road we conferred.
Conferences are all right, like chokoes. But if you want a bit of flavour you need a bit of action. I grabbed the bottle, shoved it down the front of my pants, did a Ghandi with my stomach pulled in real hard. You couldn't see the bottle (I hoped). Maybe if he grabbed me he'd think I had a hard on, a big one. Mission accomplished, we paid and got ourselves a place on the Randwick end under the scoreboard. By kick-off time the place was packed.
In front was a bunch of biggish blokes.
Mind you, Frank Pannucci was no midget. His dad had been a bootmaker. Made boots for some St. George players. Might have made Langland's white tearaways even. Anyway his number two son was a bit short of six feet and about half that across the chest. Long black hippy hair and big enough to hold a bull out to piss or at least a small heifer. I guess fighting the wog stuff growing up in Haberfield he would have had to defend his ancestral origins more than once.
The blokes in front turned out to be all right in the long run. They made bits of smart-arses of themselves early on by painstakingly explaining the difference between Union and League. I'd played a bit of the ruggerbuggers stuff at Paddo Tech until the tackles started to hurt. I think Frank had put his head in the odd scrum or two.
Dunno about Micko. He'd make it sound like he knew anyway. Smart feller Mick.
Well, you all know the result. Every time Ollie Campbell kicked a goal we'd cheer and take a suck of the Hennessys. Deadly he was. Deadly. They left his boot and straight over the black dot. Like a rat up a drain pipe. "Bellisimo," as Frank might say.
Halfway through the game and the Irish whisky, I started to yell "POG N' BOLLER, POG N' BOLLER." They stood this for a while then Pannucci said. "What the hell's this pognerboller shit." "That's Gaelic for up the Irish I tell him. You wogs wouldn't know about that." I think he swore at me in Italian but that was alright until I started on "POG N' HARN- POG N' HARN" when the greens were in front. It was near the end of the game and the grog.
Things started to get a bit hazy so I don't remember if they got to know that 'pog n' harn' meant 'kiss my Irish arse'. At least that's how it sounded when Seamus used to say it. But then a lot of things sounded a bit strange when Seamus said them, especially when the horizontal champ (as Declan called him) was pissed.
The game over we headed for the exit, finally emerging from the underground crush at Moore Park Rd. opposite the Olympic. Of course the pub was chocker. Overflowing with Rugby players and hangers on. All shit hot for poor old Oz. Of course they weren't too happy that the IRA had done them. Bless your right boot, Ollie.
They were sort of like the bloke who leaves home, the sun is shining, he's backed a winner, he's on a promise and headed for the local. And steps right into a fresh, soaking, sloppy dog's turd.
Memory being not like it was, I remember a fat bloke with a white polo necked jumper and me and him having a bit of an argument. That's right. He told Frank that he didn't look much like an Irishman to him, not even an Australian. More like a wog. I mean after all, that's a bloody insult.
The next thing he (the fat bloke) grabbed the old felt hat off my head and made to throw it out onto Moore Park Road. I was fond of that hat. It had its own history. And I'd put a green feather in it in honour of the occasion.
Being a coward at heart so it must have been the grog I started throwing myself around. Fortunately my mates got me away. The numbers were hardly in our favour not to mention the philosophical gulf.
I remember driving half way to town before they took the keys off me.
I woke up later, stiff as a honeymoon prick in the back of the moke. And I'd spewed all over myself.
And my hat.
Ireland was playing Australia at the S.C.G. I'd left the moke behind the Olympic. About two o'clock we had the last round and walked down Oxford St. Another shout at the Town Hall and O'Loughlin bought a bottle of Henessys.
Back past the Olympic and across the road to the Paddo entrance. Bouncers. Big bouncers. I'd forgotten about the whisky until Mick suddenly chucked a ewie. The bouncer had spotted him with the banned substance but he'd shooftied in time. In the middle of the road we conferred.
Conferences are all right, like chokoes. But if you want a bit of flavour you need a bit of action. I grabbed the bottle, shoved it down the front of my pants, did a Ghandi with my stomach pulled in real hard. You couldn't see the bottle (I hoped). Maybe if he grabbed me he'd think I had a hard on, a big one. Mission accomplished, we paid and got ourselves a place on the Randwick end under the scoreboard. By kick-off time the place was packed.
In front was a bunch of biggish blokes.
Mind you, Frank Pannucci was no midget. His dad had been a bootmaker. Made boots for some St. George players. Might have made Langland's white tearaways even. Anyway his number two son was a bit short of six feet and about half that across the chest. Long black hippy hair and big enough to hold a bull out to piss or at least a small heifer. I guess fighting the wog stuff growing up in Haberfield he would have had to defend his ancestral origins more than once.
The blokes in front turned out to be all right in the long run. They made bits of smart-arses of themselves early on by painstakingly explaining the difference between Union and League. I'd played a bit of the ruggerbuggers stuff at Paddo Tech until the tackles started to hurt. I think Frank had put his head in the odd scrum or two.
Dunno about Micko. He'd make it sound like he knew anyway. Smart feller Mick.
Well, you all know the result. Every time Ollie Campbell kicked a goal we'd cheer and take a suck of the Hennessys. Deadly he was. Deadly. They left his boot and straight over the black dot. Like a rat up a drain pipe. "Bellisimo," as Frank might say.
Halfway through the game and the Irish whisky, I started to yell "POG N' BOLLER, POG N' BOLLER." They stood this for a while then Pannucci said. "What the hell's this pognerboller shit." "That's Gaelic for up the Irish I tell him. You wogs wouldn't know about that." I think he swore at me in Italian but that was alright until I started on "POG N' HARN- POG N' HARN" when the greens were in front. It was near the end of the game and the grog.
Things started to get a bit hazy so I don't remember if they got to know that 'pog n' harn' meant 'kiss my Irish arse'. At least that's how it sounded when Seamus used to say it. But then a lot of things sounded a bit strange when Seamus said them, especially when the horizontal champ (as Declan called him) was pissed.
The game over we headed for the exit, finally emerging from the underground crush at Moore Park Rd. opposite the Olympic. Of course the pub was chocker. Overflowing with Rugby players and hangers on. All shit hot for poor old Oz. Of course they weren't too happy that the IRA had done them. Bless your right boot, Ollie.
They were sort of like the bloke who leaves home, the sun is shining, he's backed a winner, he's on a promise and headed for the local. And steps right into a fresh, soaking, sloppy dog's turd.
Memory being not like it was, I remember a fat bloke with a white polo necked jumper and me and him having a bit of an argument. That's right. He told Frank that he didn't look much like an Irishman to him, not even an Australian. More like a wog. I mean after all, that's a bloody insult.
The next thing he (the fat bloke) grabbed the old felt hat off my head and made to throw it out onto Moore Park Road. I was fond of that hat. It had its own history. And I'd put a green feather in it in honour of the occasion.
Being a coward at heart so it must have been the grog I started throwing myself around. Fortunately my mates got me away. The numbers were hardly in our favour not to mention the philosophical gulf.
I remember driving half way to town before they took the keys off me.
I woke up later, stiff as a honeymoon prick in the back of the moke. And I'd spewed all over myself.
And my hat.
