After viewing some of the diveball world cup then going back to watching international rugby today, it’s so easy to see why rugby is failing hard as a spectacle.
First whinge point: rugby goalkickers taking 3 excruciating interminable minutes over every fucking penalty shot. Ref, 30 seconds max for these cunts, then ping em. As a former 1st 5 it shits me blind. It’s not hard to kick penalties, the gap between the posts is wide as fuck yet some of these unnatural laborious cunts are taking the piss. eg, take Japan’s Tamura, an innately dogshit goalkicker. Elaborate windup and cockfluff and chest pout and big screen hair-check and subsequent hair adjustment flick, then a few toe-jabs and some elaborate Jonny Wilkinson tai-chi wank with his arms, then 3 minutes of breathing exercises before he eventually wanders in to kick the fucker. The whole damn stadium is expected to just sit there entranced at this vainglorious rigmarole. Yes, rugby hates their fans. “Fuck he must be good if he’s taking this long, Jonny Wilkinson and Dan Carter didnt even take this long” the fans murmur. Eventually Tamura remembers why he’s there and then proceeds to wander in and heroically shank yet another piss-easy chance wide of the posts, a la Goromaru style.
In contrast to rugby, soccer flowwws along, the ref has fuck-all to do really, you dont even notice the prick let alone know every single fucken thing about him as we do with miked-up rugby refs, their every waking thought broadcast live, we know their every quirk, every foible and mannerism, every trait and tic. They are one of the stars and they not so much officiate the match as imperiously and omnisciently adjudicate over it. In comparison, in soccer the ref is basically the 23rd guy on the pitch. In rugby he’s #1. Soccer goal goes in and it’s an explosion, boom, players and fans go berko. Celebrations break out. Where’s the ref? Fuck knows, who cares, it’s all about the players, the sport, and the fans. Great release. The entire focal point of the sport has just been attained. This is the moment. What a moment. Were you there?
Compare that with rugby these days when a try is scored, fans immediately start to whoop but BAM, down comes the inevitable stiffy killing double-tweet cockpunch from ref that shatters you out of the moment as well as bombing you right out of the entire try-scoring narrative, yes, the purpose of the entire fucking sport and hello, the reason why you’re there in the first fucking place. Instead of exultance, everyone, players and fans, just quietly sags and droops. Not unlike their stiffies. Players proceed to stand around with hands on hips. Checking the big screen. Having a drink. Maybe time for a quick massage. Maybe even time to wander up to the concourse for a quick pie.
The game has stopped. It’s at a standstill. This could go on for minutes. No one fucken knows. The fans? Fuck the fans. They were ready to erupt and yet now they’re left there with their dicks in their hands unable to shower their love jazz all over the show. Those fan cunts are dead fucken last on the modern rugby agenda. They can wait for as long as it takes, fuck them. By now the thrilling try-scoring moment, the tapestry framing the entire purpose of the sport, is becoming a fading memory, minutes have gone by, the thrilling moment has been reduced to a phantom limb in limbo, as if it were Shroedingers Cat, neither dead or alive, cruelly banished to an uncertain realm of memory while TMO George Ayoub tries to keep his grot browser from going up on the big screen.
For fucks sake soccer, do not go down the video ref path. Goalline technology is all you need.
Time drags on for a bit. Still no decision. Fans just stand there confused as they surreptitiously wipe the sad wee drops of smeggy precum on the fan in front of them. “WHY have they structured our entire sport to self-defeatingly and repeatedly clang the bride’s skull on the eaves as the player whisks the mad ho over the threshold at the peak moment of ecstasy?” the more verbose fans may ruminate.
Yes, the ref’s indulgence in indecision at the expense of the fan has stymied the actual main point of the entire fucking experience. The thrill is gone.
Oops, the try is not given. The players have had a nice long rest. Well refreshed now. The fans, um, fuck the fans, the stadium is only 10% full anyway. Crikey, I wonder why. Refs can now restart the atmosphere-drained match and get on with the business of setting up yet another potential premature ejaculation moment.
Or, eventually, the 4 officials may actually give the try. But, thrill-wise, the moment is lost. Hey, go fuck yourself everyone, no momentous orgasmic celebration for you as there is with every single wendyball goal. A few dozen fans cheer for the TMO decision but fuck you it’s just not the same now. Watching a refs arm go up 4 minutes after the fact, hey go fuck yourself buddy, it’s just not the same here 4 minutes later, we’re not here to see you, you fucken cunt. Enjoying TMO-awarded tries in rugby is like trying to whack it to the credits of a fucken porno vid.
NZ Stuff Herald 