Well, well, well, well, well.

I popped down to the Geebung IGA this evening at 10.30pm to buy a slice of humble pie, but as I walked toward the fresh-baked stand Deepak the Duty Manager blocked my well-trodden path and dourly stated that it was his melancholy duty Mr Butterfly to inform me that pies of the humble variety had been selling like hotcakes since the Broncos crossed the line for a try in the last minute against the Eels, and that not only were the said delicacies sold out in the Bung, but indeed across the length and breadth of the pineapple state south of the Tropic of Capricorn, and that there wasn’t a humble pie to be found from Bilinga to Bundy and Birdsville to Brisbane and all the barren bloody way back.

According to the real deal seller of home-made, re-heatable butter chicken meals a thick-headed loudmouth named the Raging Bull had, utilising his extensive network of halfwits wearing T-shirts blazoned with the banner ‘I’m an Ignorant Prick’ as commission agents, snapped up the whole of the Pineapple Paradise’s humble pie supply, and you couldn’t get a slice for love or money anywhere in the triangulated area beginning at Surfers and zooming all the way west from the town of 1770 out to the strangely-named sarcophogous posing as a city called Stonehenge.

‘Why Mr Archie, Why?’ wailed Deepak, who was visibly close to breaking down in tears at the thought of the sales gone begging.

‘If only I had foreseen that humble pie would have been in such great demand I could have ordered a thousand more from my daughter-in-law’s cousin in Delhi, repackaged and newly best-by-dated them and sold them for a seven hundred percent mark up Sir!’ the 7am-midnight market baron bleated. ‘What is the cause of such unprecedented demand Mr Butterfly, I simply do not understand!’

No you don’t Deepak, but I forgive you because at least you have an excuse, for they don’t play the great game of rugby league football back in the land of fakirs and garam masala.


Gordon Tallis on the other hand – an NRL and State of Origin Legend, in his mind at least -has none whatsoever, and no matter how much humble pie he eats this weekend it won’t be enough to assuage the ignorance that lead him to bagging the crap out of a bloody good bloke almost every day for the past fortnight, and sticking the slipper into Wayne Bennett to boot, for not giving Cumquat Kevvie Walters a reprise gig as halves coach for the Bronco’s after his outstanding efforts last year culminated in Baffled Benny Hunt spilling the Steeden in the grand final and gifting JT yet another chance to show us that he’s a rugby league God, and granting him an extra NRL premierhip ring for his efforts.

You’re a genius Gordy, just like your ghost writers from Murdoch’s monopoly fish and chips wrapper rag in Vegas who stuck the Guru’s newly installed halves coach Joe Wehbe with the monicker ‘Neville Nobody’ and labelled the highly-successful sports motivational expert as little known and a ‘quasi-NRL assistant’.


Little known?

Neville Nobody?

Pull your f*cking head of your arses chaps and chappettes.

You are talking here about the bloke who inspired the usually sublimely selfish and uninspirational Shaun Johnson to lead the Kiwi national team to an unprecedented three test wins in a row against the Aussies in 2015, the first time the long white clouders had achieved such a feat since Betty was crowned Queen of Pommyland way back in ’52, and he threw in the first Anzac Day test after seventeen years of mid-season floggings just for good measure, and because he bloody could.

Neville Nobody?

Did anyone see Anthony Milford play last night?


Notice the number on his back?

It was a six, which means that he plays in the halves, and had thus spent the past week under the spell of Neville Nobody, aka Joe Wehbe, perhaps the most successful and softly-spoken high performance motivator in the code at this present moment in time, and if the truth be told maybe for the past few years and beyond.

The Golden Boy’s season has been sinking into a well-acknowledged slump, and given that Miracle Milford plays outside Baffled Ben it’s no bloody wonder isn’t it? But Nev Nobody’s clearly worked out the key to the kid – f*ck that useless c*nt Hunt, just take ten defenders on on your own son – and all of of a sudden the BrisVegas boys are back in the Premiership race, big time.

Gordy may not know what goes through the great man’s head, but we all know what goes through his. We flush it down the dunny every morning.

And unlike Tallis’s diatribes full of tripe, that’s no sh*t.