Soccer Magazine
I thought I was going to be subjected to all manner of talk about the goddamn AFL grand final today at work. I wasn’t. Life can be surprising. There was only the one mention of it and it was short and surreal and featured my unorthodox and acerbic boss screaming up beside me in his shitbox Brumby. The thing was smoking. You know that bogan slogan, ‘black smoke don’t mean it’s broke’? It does not apply here. That Brumby is busted. He leaned out the window to enquire how I was going and denied me any opportunity to respond by barking “Christ I was happy the Swans got up – I don’t go for them but JesusGod no fucken way was I gonna sit there and watch that Franklin bastard win anything!”, immediately throwing the Brumby into gear with a great lurch, planting his foot and departing in a spray of sand and topsoil. I didn’t have anything to say in response anyway, it probably worked out for the best. Much like the game itself. From what I understand. Given that I understand absolutely nothing and am AFL agnostic. 
