I am posted up in Vang Vieng, Laos.  After four days, I’ve basically been given the run of “Reggae Bar”.  All I got to do is look after Mr. Sing, and his interests.  This is what I do. 

There’s loads of things–RUGBY TOUR, most importantly–that have happened and gone down in the past week and a half.  I’ve got at least fifty little viginettes that would make an incredibly entertaining story.  But when you’re feeling happy and really enjoying current circumstances, over-sharing just seems self-important and unnecessary.  So I’ll not trouble you today. 

For right now, I’m happy as. 

Play On,

RugbyJoe

My dear amigo Randy—the sign-painting wild-man from New Mexico, my father in some circles—is back in Phuket.  The whiskey is ready.  Good stories about sailing to Oman, motorcycling madness in Cambodia, he’s looking for another boat—hopefully to Indonesia this year.  Randy is drinking his Thai whiskey on the rocks, as usual.  We’ll see where this goes. 

And it went…somewhere, that’s for sure; we got There.  Eventually Randy was ejected from the local late-night live-music venue, for taking Christmas decorations from the rafters and draping them over his shoulders, and then disrespecting the staff something mighty…Aih-ya!  There was scotch, a couple beers at a jazz club, then a liter of Johnny Walker—during which things got silly—which mi compadre only made it half through.  I stayed and finished the Red Label, politely bidding Randy adieu, and left with the staff after closing, having been fed tasty complimentary rice porridge. 

Ah, well, whatever.  I’d reckon you don’t care much about a little one-nighter me and Big Papi put on, nor should you.  So we’ll go on with Now and Today.  Let’s see how far this goes in a good spicy Thai meal, three kilos of mangosteens, and three Singhas, for washing down. 

Today was a Good Day.  It began, as most of the past week, with me rising after noon.  Bacon and eggs and tomatoes and toast and good tea started things right again.  And a paper to keep current, always.  Speaking of… 

The Bangkok Post tells me that flights through Suvarnabhumi (the main airport) are, “surging during the Lunar New Year holiday period.” up 23% year-on-year, in spite of the recent terror alert issued by the American embassy, and the murky arrest plot—he says it’s all a set-up by Israeli intelligence—of a Hezbollah-linked Lebanese man, and one big ass stockpile of fertilizer. 

Strange rumblings, unanswered questions, stone-faced men with dark glasses and identical suits…lots of loose ends, no one saying too much. 

“What’s going on?”  Don’t think anyone is totally sure…  

And then another business section story right nearby, titled “No more low season in Phuket”.  Indeed, my friend, indeed.  “China, India, Russia…flock here.” 

Absolutely eye-popping year-over-year statistics: Mainland Chinese +103% to nearly 150,000, Russians +109%, 150K as well…overtaken Australians, who had been the largest visiting nationality since 2005.  Yes, yes, things are changing on this here island; the atmosphere has taken a noticeable shift. 

This drift has led to a perceptible change in tone of this place.  It’s like the difference between a Russian and Australian party—both will be boozy, yes; but there always seems to be a mildly threatening undercurrent bisecting a Russian social shindig, ominous quiet and a heavy sense of “who’s got the power”…whereas the Aussies are just loud, drunk, and conspicuous.  You could say the Russos are more polite–and in a way they are–but it feels enforced and vaguely sinister. 

Ah, it’s a crazy world, isn’t it…Good People eat shit and get trampled, while occasional kleptocrats like Vlad Putin run wild and get rich, crapping-on and degrading all standing in their way, or even mild nuisances.  No question of where the power lies… 

But that’s a tale for another day…and I’ll not demean Russians any more, as plenty of them are Good People.  Different, that’s for sure. 

And then the Post takes us to the US, where our Federal Reserve is about to take a more “transparent” turn, giving interest rate guidance forecasts.  Awkward men shuffling in their dark suits, making murky decisions to keep it all humming along, uncomfortably delivered press releases—a band of nervous tension stretching through. 

When will it snap or slack?—does anyone know? 

Do you think more than 10% of the American population has any real idea what the Federal Reserve is, does, and where it’s power derives from?  Do you?—I highly doubt it.  Ron Paul—kooky, sure…at least he thinks about things; more of the same silence from sheepish masses. 

And then, the real goodness in there—the wild story of Kim Dotcom, Internet file-sharing (or stealing, depending on your point of view) maverick, a German living in New Zealand making, allegedly, $115,000 a day in 2010, from supposedly illegal copyright infringement.  Massive parties, yachts, drugs, a long extradition fight beginning.  Sounds like a 1980s Miami tale—terabytes and terabytes of 1s and 0s instead of nose-candy. 

Weird?—why yes.  Mr. Dotcom turned pro, on a big sorta scale, years ago.  Wowness. 

So yes, back to The Day: After getting a proper dose of The State of Things, it was time to head off and catch up with friends, have another good meal, and get a swim and workout before dark. 

My people were there, as they always are, slowly looking after the whims and desires of beach-going tourists.  I brought some firecrackers for Chinese New Year—their family has some Yunnan blood—and they set them off in front of their little temple, while I enjoyed a post-workout seafood curry platter, and the local naked fat baby chucked my oval about in the sand. 

It was nice.  The sunset over Kata Noi was particularly brilliant this day. 

Speaking of those firecrackers…I was scolded by the stout, shirtless Thai-nese man whose shop I patronized—he was pissed, or worried—for my barely-swinging, though unwieldy-looking, satchel.  After three minutes of browsing in total silence he erupted with a stream of off-Thai jabbering, saying something I didn’t understand, but which was clearly of importance.  His son explained that the bag worried him. 

Precipitously perched gimcracks everywhere, one red box on another red box on another red box on another red box on…And such narrow little aisles.  No room for even the slenderest fa-rang with a backpack to turn around in.  No harm, no foul, right? 

And then what, eh?  Well, things continued lazily post-sundown.  A bit of shopping, some biking around, general leisure.  Followed by a truly phenomenal foot massage—about $9 US—one hour of heaven on the toes, rubbing and grinding and pulling just right, courtesy of a happy-to-please middle-aged Thai lady.  And a spot of William Faulkner as accompaniment—ah, yes. 

Back to my people, this time at home—a massive compound of one-story houses, a dozen-ish dotting a hillside dirt path, four generations a short stumble apart. 

What I would have noted about that scene, if the notebook had made the journey:

(This place is beautiful.  Tee-nee su-ay mak. These are Good People.  Jai-dee, jai-dee.  It is different and beautiful, the place is softly colorful everywhere and the air is fresh, and All is Good, at least Right Now.  Ja-kee is swaying and dancing–cigarette in one hand, whiskey & soda in the other–while he mumbles to the Thai radio music. 

They don’t play cards around these parts, only gamble on soccer, and there are no matches tonight.  Bird cages, Chinese New Year flags, pictures of the boys during their monk-time—so many charming little details in every nook and cranny.  I am lightly mocked but they always tolerate my presence, and we crack jokes at one another for no reason at all.  Strange and quietly awkward at times, of course, but Good Fun and Happiness.  Good People, no doubt. 

Laos or Thai?  Fa-rang, of course.  Ti-en returns with food, then Daeng’s son stops by.  The young one doesn’t drink whiskey.  “Phom mai gin lao…” 

Waving that massive meat cleaver knife around would be a bad idea right now…but it looks so shiny and lonely.) 

And now back to the On On, peaceful quiet all around.  My Irish buddy Gavin—a good bloke, if a bit jangled—stops in with supplies.  Getting’ wild, runnin’ amok…?  Nope, not tonight, polite conversation—a sound and respectable thing. 

“So what is it we should do with this awful mess?” 

“Ah, well, I suppose there’s not much we can…Be a good person and be happy.  Find a nearly deserted tropical island and making nice with the local Big Man, get a Good Wife and raise polite babies.  Or just be a good person and be happy.” 

“Some people aren’t so fortunate.  They end up raped, robbed, beaten, or some combination of the three.  Or butt-fucked by The Man.” 

“But not us, not tonight.” 

A busload of Chinese rocks past; where they’re headed at 3 AM I’ve no idea.  The East is rising. 

Yes, it has been a good day. 

Bangkok on tomorrow’s night bus, Krung-Thep for rugby training, then Laos the day after that—Vientiane 10s on the weekend.  Oh Happy Day! 

Words cannot express how excited I am for rugby, so I’ll not much try.  After seven months without playing, the idea of actually getting out there and doing rugby this weekend has me so excited I might poop myself at any moment.  Goddammnit rugby is grand. 

Play On,

RugbyJoe

“I can’t say I’m proud of all of the things that I’ve done, but I can say I’ve never intentionally hurt anyone.”  -Waylon Jennings

And that’s one helluva better description of recent happenings than I myself can muster, in original individual thoughts, or coupled with a catchy tune, for that matter.  Wild Fun.  Crazy Rampaging.  Crippled mess. 

Another slog on an airplane, two third-world bike accidents, and a few nearly human days roaming around familiar places reacquainting with the friendly locals…and shitloads of well-deserved stares.  Oh my, oh my, it’s been a trip. 

It’s finally Time.  Time to jump back on the wagon, get Right, sort things for myself and tell a colorful travel story…and rugby’ll get in there, of course.  Good gracious, it’s been a long and miserable time without proper lingual expression.  Endless, miserable fifteen-hour days on the tractor, feeding the world.  Twenty-seven million bread-loaves worth of wheat, no bullshit.  Doing the hard yards to satiate your hunger.  Your welcome. 

As it stands, I’m a living monument to Bad Crazy and running amok.  Every human—Thai, tourist, some middling combination of being—who has laid eyes upon me the past three days has done a double take.  And I don’t blame them, not at all, not even a little bit.  Shambles. 

My left eye is blackened, eight stitches neatly cross the brow, skid marks adorn a fair chunk of my left arm, random bits of flesh are missing all over this body, my feet look like they took a shotgun blast and, just to top it off, my left front tooth and it’s next door neighbor are severely chipped, leaving a significant hole in my smile; I am a sight for sore eyes, indeed.  Another dumb farang, a poor boob who’s pushed his luck too far, gone too fast, and now has the body blotches to prove it.  Ah, well, mai pen rai.  Fuck it, Good Fun, right?  I sure think so. 

It is good to be in Thailand.  I am still alive and, apart from these temporary markings and some residual aches and pains, just damn fine, thank you very much. 

Exactly one week ago I was checking a big “must do” off my Australian list—slaying a kangaroo after finishing my last full farm shift—while off-roading with a spotlight in tow and an old Merle Haggard ditty blaring.  It was damn fine fun, and now, considering the present situation, seems a long way back down the proverbial personal road.  Or just yesterday. 

This past Saturday morning I got on a plane at Perth International Airport; I was tired and hung-over, yes, but suitably prepared for another savage attack on my adopted Asian homeland.  Before midnight that same night, Thailand had clearly gotten the better of me. 

After arriving at Phuket airport, I made fast friends with a flock of French tourists, and sorted us a discount mini-bus to town; all was going well, for the time being.  After getting dropped a few blocks from my usual haunt—the On On Hotel—I linked up with two confused and frustrated Canadian birds, who were having severe difficulty acquiring adequate accommodation.  As usual, my Thai skills immediately found a need to fulfill.  Onward.  Forward. 

Upon learning of my past experience as a resident of Phuket, the fine ladies were eager for all sorts of assistance; I obliged and told them that my usual resting place was just around the corner, and should meet their budget requirements.  Excitement was pervasive and thanks duly appropriated, particularly after finding that My Place was exactly what they were looking for. 

They went to get settled and cleaned up and I made a beeline for my motorbike rental guy, hoping to catch him before closing-time, and then the large local market, which absolutely never closes.  Post-fried chicken, with a full arsenal of Thai whiskey, I was feeling damn fine.  I’d slid right back into routine; it was all the same, I was untouchable, yes, yes. 

Rocking back up to the On On as my Kiwi hell-raising partner lingered by the entrance, no wrong could be done.  It was time to get into the heavy stuff, straight away.  Whiskey and Red Bull went down faster than Jenna Jameson, and a few tequila shots were bloody brilliant.  We were making quick work, without getting out of hand or turning to Aussie bogans.  Respectable fun with slightly raised voices. 

Soon enough, the Canadians were back, and thirsty—so we took care of them, of course, as any decent hosts would.  Figuring that the modest consumption thus far, coupled with a decent feed and sporadic waters, wouldn’t negatively affect my driving ability, it seemed only natural that I offer these two finely-boned fellow travelers—newcomers to Phuket, just a couple hours in—a sight-seeing ride. 

After a bit of reassuring—“I used to live here, for fucksakes, this is my island.  I’ve done this hundreds of times.  I’m a professional, damnit”—they were enthusiastic. 

“Why yes, a tour would be pleasant.”  Chica numero uno hopped on behind me, ready for adventure.  And off we went.  Vamos.  Into the Night. 

All was well.  The lady gripped me tightly as we took a relaxed lap of Phuket Town, then headed across the island, a bit more rapidly, to stare at the mass ugliness of Patong Beach, the Festering Sore.  Fun was had and Good Times were going swimmingly; I was a stellar, informative tour guide, and pretty sure a handjob woulda been promptly provided, had I merely made the polite request.  I was going a bit fast here and there, of course, but not taking any particularly obscene risks, and my previous “professionalism” assured both myself and Ms. Cute-Smile.  My motley variety of whit and charm was in full flourish.  All was quite well. 

Back at the On On, all was just as sound.  My compatriot was entertaining finely and the second Canadian was anxious for a spin, as well.  A bit more was eaten and another nip or two taken, before speeding off for the night’s second adventure.  Hooray, hooray.  No wrong can I do. 

And that sojourn was going nearly as well: Kata, Karon, Patong, just another good spin with a hot bird on the back of a bike—innocent good times, being human and enjoying it.  And then things hit the fan… 

Coming out of Patong, motoring along at a completely reasonable pace, the night took an awful turn for the worse.  The narrow, crowded street had me stuck behind a small gray Nissan jalopy, pissed off and wanting for the wind in my face again.  Then traffic coming from the other direction suddenly petered out, providing a nice opening around to the right, which I took zealously. 

Right as I zipped past the pokey fucker, things changed; road construction was underway and the street had morphed into a multi-level fuckabout.  My passing lane, to the right, was a continuation of the same boulevard I’d been humming comfortably along; the lane I needed to get back in, to my left, was suddenly some janky brick higher-tiered crap-circus.  Why anyone, particularly in Thailand, would see the need to transform a perfectly suitable road into a brick thoroughfare is totally beyond me.  And there was no signage indicating the project underway. 

Ever try to take an uneven junction sideways on a bike?—not exactly easy.  Not at all easy when that junction you’ve got to surmount is a solid three-inch ledge, comprised of freshly cut bricks, sprinkled with sand…and you’re going 40 kph on a shitty third-world motorbike that was the Last One Left. 

Things went sideways fast, no doubt.  I’m not sure exactly how I landed, but I know that the Canadian avoided injury (other than two small scrapes, on her knee and hip) while I, like a gentleman, took most of the collision.  Bike flying, me skidding off, woman on top as I slammed to the brick edge—face meet pavement. 

The half-dozen locals standing nearby being Thai sprang to their feet.  “Aih-ya!  Mista, you hurt, you hurt!  Need go to hospital!”  They weren’t fucking around, I knew this was substantial straight away; concrete and brick are unforgiving headmistresses.  Severe stinging everywhere, the entire body aflame. 

The Canadian was in agreement with the brown folk.  “Oh my Gawd, you’re bleeding everywhere.  Your eye looks bad.  Holy shit!” 

I touched my pained brow—it was sliced to fuck-all, opened up like a hot breakfast sausage cut length-wise.  I bit down on my chewing gum—it crunched like sand from splintered enamel—and moved my tongue around my mouth, realizing that there was now a major gap in the left-front side of my grin.  “Get on the bike.  We need to get out of here.” 

“Mista, mista, you need go hos-pee-tall.  You hurt.” 

My rider was in obvious and understandable distress.  “Oh.  My.  Gawd.  Whadda we do?  You’re hurt!” 

“You need to get on the bike and we need to go.  If we stay, the cops are gonna turn up soon enough, and that’ll be bad on all fronts.”  I’ve heard too many stories about what happens when a westerner has a bike mishap…And I stand by my reaction to this clearly-fucked situation.  It was Go Time. 

“What the hell!?!  You need to go to the hospital now, you’re bleeding all over.”  I yanked my shirt over my head and tied it tightly, to soak up the blood.  To hell with this frightened jabbering, it was time to be persuasive. 

“I understand you’re scared shitless, but you’ve gotta trust me.  We need to leave, NOW.  This goes from bad to much worse if we don’t leave.  I’m fine for now.  I’ll get to the hospital as soon as I get you back safely.  On.  The.  Bike.” 

And to the locals: “Don’t worry.  Me OK.  Mai pen rai.  I go to hospital soon.” 

The ride back to town was a tad uneasy, peppered with lots of “I’m sorry.”  And “just go slow.”  Somehow I retained my warped sense of humor, and she managed more than one laugh.  Twice untimely detours—to avoid police checkpoints at red lights—were in order.  But we got back.  Safe, sound.  Straight to the shower to clean off, a mirror look or two to confirm and survey the damage, a handful of gory pictures, then off to the hospital. 

Thai hospitals can be a bit frightening at 11 pm.  A crazed little bastard on the table next to me, jacked to the gills, waving his bloody, bandaged arm in my face, screeching, “I mow, maaan.”  (I’m fucked up, dude.)  Polite, caring staff.  Ragged parents with ragged babies.  A deathly-looking old fella in the corner, hacking his trachea out.  Strange vibrations. 

Eight stitches, bandages everywhere, an antibiotic regimen, and some decent painkillers—all for about $30 US. 

And now, as the dust has settled and I’ve moved back on to some sort of human schedule, I feel OK.  Life is still good.  The scars will be good reminders and I’m sure I’ll heal up just fine. 

Ya know the craziest shit of all this (other than my significant and wide-ranging personality defects…)  is that rugby was what got me into travel and madness and running amok in the first place.  I sure as hell wouldn’t be here, or in this condition, if not for the oval—probably middle management at some regional bank, something hideous and awful. 

In spite of the pain, it’s still worth it. 

Thank you, rugby…and Coach Eric Huss, for everything. 

Wouldn’t change a thing, wouldn’t trade my place for anyone else’s.  It’s My Life, I live the fuck out of it and own it harder than most of these dumb muppets; though bike accidents do hurt more than a little bit.  Oh well…mai pen rai. 

Ah, yes, Led Zepplin on the music box, that’s the fucking ticket.  Nothing like Good Music to keep the rhythms squared. 

After all this down-time and very little writing of any consequence, I have a decent feeling that almost no one in their right mind would keep checking up on my gibberish.  Only a mad jack-tard with more faith than sense would keep seeing if I post anything of consequence. 

You may be filthy swine, yes, but I do appreciate anyone who has managed to stick through the awful muddle and prolonged silences, hoping for something decent.  Every once in a great while…?  I’d even like to buy the few respectable ones of you that remain a drink, a proper adult beverage. 

In fact, the first one of you dirty cocksuckers (or Good People, if you prefer) to properly identify themselves in the comments section of this post gets a six-pack of good beer the next time we meet. 

Name+any acceptable commentary=free beer. 

Perhaps one of you has posted something that I’ve missed (I get plenty of junk mail comments from greasy self-serving capitalist types, which I don’t approve, and have led to me viewing any “comment notice” with extreme suspicion), and if so, I’m goddamn sorry as hell.  The schedule I operate on and the circles I run in don’t lend themselves to dependability or consistency.  Strange hours, Night Psychosis, howling at the moon. 

Back when I was posting with regular reliability, I used to get a fair few decent comments…Ah, the Good Ole’ Days… 

I remain, thankfully and generously, yrs. in Fear & Loathing…and Spirited Defiance, always. 

Play On,

RugbyJoe

PS—“Don’t bite off more than you can chew, there’s things down here the devil himself wouldn’t do.”  -Toby Keith, my Bahamian amigo

I have written a bit lately.  Smatterings of verbage and adjectives about this or that local diddle, and rugby, of course.  There have been a dozen or so little blurbs about this or that—wild dolphins on Christmas Day was incredible—but I’ll let them rest for today.    Mostly I have been reading, and thinking, and working.  Lots and lots of working… 

Feeding this hungry world. 

Lots of thinking and reading and general loveliness (these damn Aussies seem to say “lovely” a hell of a lot).  Workouts again, plenty of slow sumptuous holiday meals, occasional classy social affairs with stylish people.  I am incredibly blessed to have made the connections I have in Australia and elsewhere globally. 

Rugby is still happening, at least in Europe.  Definitely check up on that goodness.  Watch rugby, watch rugby!  Not so much professional rugby happening in these southern climes right now.  (Super 15 won’t get rolling for another couple months—grrr!)  Occasional “classic match” replays on the Foxtel are keeping me satiated for now. 

Heineken Cup, Premiership (Saracens, that’s all I’m sayin’), Top 14, Rabo Direct—very nice, very nice.  The European professional rugby competitions provide awesome oval action on a weekly basis.  Perhaps make friends with a satellite & DVR sort of bloke. 

Blah, fuck it.  I don’t feel much like babbling.  Over-sharing is a funny thing, though not always jovial, especially considering the strange world we now live in.  Yes, the written word is a wonderful way to collect one’s thoughts and “get right” with the world or others but, as with most things, there’s a double-edged sword. 

Who is reading?  Could They be listening?  Let’s hope not. 

Above all, I thank my family for one particular thing: raising me to be a person who thinks. 

Thinking is good, reading is swell.  Words and Art can be power, more dangerous than any one-time cluster-bombing…or military campaign.  Just ask Ai Weiwei, or all those Egyptian tweeters. 

Maybe Bashar Al-Assad sometime in the next twelve months…we can hope… 

Beware unintended consequences… 

Australia is beautiful, rugby is grand.  I love rugby. 

Play On,

RugbyJoe

PS—Saracens

Aha!  I’ve done it! 

Once again I’ve harvested more than the trucks can haul; the boss gave me a morning off (merely an eight and a half hour workday) to head into Geraldton for some shopping.  A fresh, functional power cord has been acquired for my magic box.  I can now do some proper diddling, hoo-ray.  You fuckers are going to get some decent writing again, soon enough. 

But for now I’m outtie, cuz it’s still fourteen hour days and mad amounts of cereal grains; someone’s gotta feed this hungry world… 

Thanks for stumbling back into my little bit of cyberspace, and huge congratulations for a couple of Good Rugby People (The Jameson and Twitchy Brian) getting their female situation sorted for all eternity.  Engagements are swell, even if I’ll not be crossing that bridge anytime particularly soon.  Some day, before thirty-five, probably.  But for now it’s Doing Me, and that’s Australia for now. 

Thailand and My People again.  Can’t wait. 

Much love to all ya’ll.  Rugby is sweet. 

I love rugby. 

Play On,

RugbyJoe 

PS—enjoy your breads and cereals…and your welcome.

The power cord of my filthy blasted magic box has failed me again; no charge will it take. Upset am I.  Grrr. 

This happened once last year in Asia, leaving me similarly distraught…but the bugger all of a sudden started working again a couple weeks later, salvaging my silly gibberish piles.  Unsureness as to when I might be able to utilize a proper word-processor reigns.  Will you ever get another decent post from me?  Have you ever…?

I am typing this (short) post from a rent-a-box (so many dirty Thailand jokes…) in Kalbarri, about 150 kms north of the farm right on the West Australian coast.  Kalbarri is known for its scenic gorges.  It is sunny and near 90 degrees.  The beach is sandy and swell.  I am not cold.  I am quite hot, as a matter of fact. 

After working like a mad savage for two-and-a-half week, I’ve harvested more grains than the trucks can haul.  Full on have I been.  The Good Boss, bless his soul, gave me $100, the keys to a 4×4, a Waylon Jennings cd (he has exceptional taste in music), and a six-pack of Carlton Dry.  He told me to have fun because I deserve it.  The rest of today will be spent exploring Kalbarri National Park.  Maybe I’ll even take pictures. 

Screw over-sharing, I should get my ass out there.  Experience is waiting.  And the mind takes and stores better pictures than any camera… 

Rugby, rugby, rugby…rugby is fricken awesome.  You all should follow rugby more closely. 

Ta ta for now.  It’ll be back to ass-busting tomorrow.  Someone’s gotta feed this hungry world. 

Play On,

RugbyJoe 

PS–Good on the Wallabies for winning me $30 (sports betting is legal and widely available in Australia, and I’m keen to take advantage) against Wales last night.  I returned from a stellar beer and whiskey session just in time to see Leigh Halfpenny get binned and the men in yellow turn the heat on and take control of the contest.  More cheers for Shane Williams ending his incredible international career in proper style.  Dude scored a try on the last play of the match, capping his stellar Welsh oval-tossing just right, if on the wrong side of the final scoreline this time.  The classy mighty midget has had a helluva run.  Enjoy your family, mate.

Hi there. How are you? Well I hope. Cuz I’m…Ok. Sure as hell not cold.

I have been a busy, busy rugby nomad. Between harvesting massive amounts of cereal crops, keeping the Bad Crazy away, and saving local properties from fire (seriously, there was a 600 acre crop and bush fire, during which my boss and I performed admirably) I barely have had time to shake my willy. It has been a full-on couple of Aussie weeks. And I wish I had time to shake my willy…

But anyway…Australia is warm and the crop is near record and work is very long, but rather good. As far as time-selling and personal comfort goes, I’m doing alright. Ice Hell this is not. And bat-shit won’t happen tomorrow.

More time for writing I wish I had. Eat, work, sleep, do it again—this is my schedule. Occasionally I get a chance to check my email. And you know that saying about wishing in one hand, right?

So yeah, I’m busy as shit. I’ll get you people something at least once a week. Once the harvest season is over, much more will flow. Until then, I’m still sorry.

If you don’t know about All Black Zac Guilford’s Cook Island adventure, Google that shit. I can’t decide if it’s more funny or sad…probably about equal parts both. Hopefully the chap actually makes some changes this time. Naked, bleeding, assaulting people who ask if he needs help, leaving with a group of women he’d been partying with before…don’t know if I’d shake his hand or slap him first. One helluva story.

And the RFU really need some major changes. Such a pity the way they treated Johnno.

For now, keep on keeping on.

Rugby is good. Rugby is great. I love rugby.

Play On,

RugbyJoe

PS–Nigel Melville still has Farty Pants…

A bit over a week ago, Martin Johnson—captain of England’s 2003 World Cup-winning team, second row badass extraordinaire, general rugby legend—resigned his post as current head coach of the English national team, amid much snorting and hullabaloo.  Johnno had spent several years in the head post and was credited with being exceptionally loyal and trying to foster a proper team atmosphere.  Unfortunately, something (many things) went wrong in the lead-in and execution at the recent World Cup. 

Previous to receiving the head job, Johnson had never coached at any level.  He was specifically recruited by the Rugby Football Union (RFU—the sport’s governing body in England) and then blamed for the squad’s lackluster performance at this year’s World Cup.  To his credit, Johnson took responsibility for his side’s disappointment in New Zealand; everyone else within the RFU, not so much…               

Following the dissatisfaction of the 2011 campaign in New Zealand, the RFU undertook a review, and stated that Johnno would “be allowed to re-apply for his position”.  T’was and remains a total joke.  Rob Andrew, the RFU’s professional rugby director—who sat next to Johnson during his resignation press conference—is busy putting together reports and making biting criticisms, while refusing to accept any responsibility whatsoever.    It has been blame, blame, blame, shame, shame, shame. 

The RFU has been undergoing a reshuffling for some time now.  Over and over again, newspaper reports in the UK have publicized massive problems within the RFU.  Recently the chairman, Martyn Thomas, announced he was stepping down, amid allegations of gross mismanagement, incompetence, and huge organizational dysfunction.   The RFU has been rightly portrayed as an out-of-touch good old boys club, with lots of pointless layers of bureaucracy and shitloads of people trying desperately to hold on to their own little title or slice of rugby real estate.  It is a sad, sad state of affairs…and Rob Andrew leads the tard brigade. 

Honestly, I don’t blame Johnno for walking away.  He’s a legend in his own right and doesn’t need or deserve the public flogging he has recently endured.  His part of the press conference was a lesson in thoughtful class.  Sure, the buck needs to stop at the head coach (Johnson took responsibility for England’s poor RWC performance, while Rob Andrew refused) but others within the staff and certainly his superiors should and must acknowledge their role in the debacle. 

I feel you Johnno.  Screw the RFU and their heavy-handed paternalistic bullshit, enjoy your time away.  Crap on Rob Andrew and his minions… 

Should the RFU want to retain any shred of credibility (might be too late) they’ve got to clean house now.  Stay tuned.  This is not over. 

Play On,

RugbyJoe                

PS (post writing, pre-posting)—check out the leaked reports which have been published in England (http://www.espnscrum.com/england/rugby/story/154814.html) OMG.  Wow.  Total failure.  Horrible, just horrible. 

A good Graham Jenkins column on Rob Andrew (http://www.espnscrum.com/england/rugby/story/154711.html).  Absolute travesty what the RFU has become.  Shame.                                                                                                                                 

Fourteen hour work days leave little time for decent writing.  The crop is getting harvested and I performed admirably in a massive crop and brush fire in the neighborhood the other day.  I’m sorry for the lack of decent babble.  More coming.

I finally feel like sharing again.  Hurray for you, maybe.  Here goes. 

I have been in Australia for five days now.  It is quite warm.  Warmth is much better than the snowy cold miserableness I left behind.  Wisconsin is grand, except the winter months.  Short days, ice everywhere, gray crappiness, ick.  I am glad to be back in Australia. 

Skimmed a massive koi pond.  Picked up the poop.  Watched the BBC.  Worked on my tan.  A worthwhile few days at my Aussie family’s place. 

Now back on the farm near Geraldton, getting on the Real Work schedule.  Harvesting wheat, chucking some sheep around, a bit of this and that.  Brilliant heat and sun (though not as much as we’d like for harvest…), golden wheat-fields.  After one day of work I already have a wicked farmer’s tan. 

Thai floods, mai sabai.  Hope everyone in BKK is getting on alright.  We’ll see each other in a couple months. 

Rugby is awesome.  I love rugby.  We’ll chatter about rugby again real soon.  Heineken Cup drama, Johnno retiring, tardy heavy-handedness for Mike Tindall, Zac Guilford’s OMG Cook Island madness…it’ll all be there.   

Being cheerful is much easier when you’re not freezing your ass off. 

And life is beautiful, sometimes… 

Play On,

RugbyJoe

PS—Thanks for reading and sorry for the brief absence.  After a grueling, but generally successful, fall rugby season (9-1 isn’t perfect, but “Come On”…), getting ready for international tomfoolery has been front and center.  Rugby we’re back to now, whenever it’s not tractor time.  Hugs and giggles…

Hello there. 

I will not waste further time with pleasantries.  Let’s talk about rugby…because rugby is great, no doubt.  Oh yeah, grand stuff. 

A random tad from the Rugby World. 

New Zealand is still basking in the glow of their World Cup triumph, as well they should.  Reports have the All Blacks lugging “Bill”—the Kiwis name for the William Webb Ellis trophy—on a tour of the entire dual-island country.  After a wonderful tournament, the people of New Zealand want to see what all this fuss was about.  Now they have the special chalice for themselves, for the next four years at least. 

Good for New Zealand.  They should enjoy their party.  They deserve it. 

In related All Black news: Graham Henry has officially stepped down as New Zealand’s head coach, in a move that was widely known and discussed beforehand.  Big props to Coach Henry for everything—five Tri-Nations, three home nations Grand Slams, the freakin’ World Cup—accomplished by the All Blacks on his watch.  Hopefully Mr. Henry does continue with his work as a “coach mentor”.  Of particular note, and not to be understated insofar as Henry’s contribution to All Black success, is everything “team culture” and “positive environment” fostered on his watch.  No doubt, part of the All Blacks’ achievements must be credited to “Ted” Henry’s fostering of an atmosphere “that makes it easier for players to succeed than to fail.” 

Good for you, Graham Henry; you’ve done great things.  Keep it up when you can fit it in…but don’t forget to enjoy some fishing and family time.  Definitely an instance of a rugby man having earned his personal moments. 

Sonny Bill Williams has re-signed with the NZRU for at least one more year, switching teams in the process-–from Christchurch’s Crusaders to Hamilton’s Chiefs.  It is presumed SBW’s new contract, as previous ones have, contains a clause allowing him to continue fighting professional boxing bouts.  Lord knows capitalist super-athletes like Sonny Bill need their extra exposure… 

To the Frogs, who still are, and should be, flying high. 

Imanol Harinordoquy has admitted that the French players totally tuned out coach Marc Lievremont after the end of pool stages.  The player(s) didn’t like how Lievremont focused so much criticism specifically on them.  The World Cup campaign became “our adventure.  It was meant to be the nice experience of 30 men.  We had to free ourselves from his supervision.”  Damn, talk about a mutiny… 

Harinordoquy, for one, along with most of his French teammates “will not miss him (Lievremont).”

No real surprises here.  The French hated their coach.  This was well known. 

As for Harinordoquy’s club team…Biarritz, former Heineken Cup champions and finalists as recently as 2010, is facing the worst start to a season in a long, long time.  Following a 41-0 drubbing at the hands of Clermont Auvergne, the Basque club is firmly rooted to the league table’s bottom and desperate for the return of their international stars.  Biarritz need a momentum change. 

Let’s hope Yachvilli and big Imanol are just what Serge Blanco—France all-time great and Biarritz’s club president—is praying for.  They need it.  Z Ngwenya catching some torrid form wouldn’t hurt, either. 

Oh, let’s go to a random musing. 

Most of me wants to pull a Hunter; load up on the finest acid and have some Good Crazy driving fast and playing excellent music at high decibels.  Ah yes, howling at the moon.  Perhaps catch The Rum Diary at some respectable local theater.  Now that’d make for a fun day, wouldn’t it?  If only I had some acid…and a motorcycle. 

But yes, yes, the rugby, damnit.  Cuz that’s why were here. 

I reckon my World Cup coverage was real half-ass, amateur-hour flim-flam.  It was sporadic and disorganized and contained only small smatterings of Real Truth…It was not very good.  I still had, by my reading of the rugby Interweb, more posts than any other American source, save RugbyMag’s repetitive newsies. 

And RugbyMag’s stuff was very Eagle-centric, while I managed, at one point or another, to mumble about every participating team.  I’m patting myself on the back, very lightly.  As for others…At their very best, the Deadspin guys killed it, as we’ve all done at one point or another, in something or another; then they left, as I’ve certainly done too.  It was great, then it was no longer. 

What happened, Dave and Chris?  Where are you?  Funding withdrawn?  Press credentials yanked by authority figures?  The Good Time Express gone off-kilter?  Hookers and organized crime, perhaps?  I miss you guys… 

Whatever, my crap still sucked.  The Deadspin guys did have a few great posts before falling silent.  It is a reflection on the greater American rugby media establishment…Aih-ya. 

Ya, ya, now off I go jabbering again.  Where was I?  I know…leaving.  That’s right.  How could I forget?  I’ve got further important planning to do, due diligence and such. 

Yes, enough for today.  Rugby is fucking sweet.  Huge rugby on the weekend. 

It shall be spirited. 

Play On,

RugbyJoe