I haven’t been as disgusted since the ARU appointed a Kiwi to coach the Wallabies. My good friend James Haskell emailed me with a link to this cesspit of despicable character assassination asking me to set some records straight.
I’ve always admired James as a fellow traveller, a bloke who is aware of his greatness as both a rugby player and person and unflinchingly unafraid to blow his own bugle regardless of how many raspberries come his way. Modesty, I maintain, and as I have convinced James, is a vastly overrated trait best left to the modestly talented.
James and I personally go back a very long time. As far as a New Zealand hotel room during the 2011 World Cup. At my age, eighteen months is a very long time. Not that I was there, obviously, but James’ explanation of an alleged incident led me to realise I had found a soul mate:
“She was a hotel maid, she was doing what hotel maids do – vacuuming – while I videotaped her in order to show my girlfriend how it’s done and the sooner she gets on with it instead of taking f****** tennis lessons the better”, James was quoted as saying in a press report that I can’t put my hands on at this particular moment.
In other words, far from the lurid scenario painted in the media, James, from my point of view, was merely – and very reasonably – reminding us all of a woman’s role in society.
Now some of you may be aware of my recent public flogging for daring to Tweet that a woman shouldn’t write about rugby. It’s not as if I said women should be kept barefoot, pregnant and chained to the kitchen sink. And I wouldn’t!
I don’t begrudge women footwear. I don’t want their filthy feet soiling my white silk bed sheets. Nor should they be pregnant. With the sole intention of exploiting the ludicrous maternity leave provisions that have insinuated themselves into business, threatening to undermine the entire capitalist system as businesses large and small founder while the lactating lasses sit in coffee shops nattering with their fellow lactating freeloaders sipping lattes while responding to Guardian IT surveys. Nor do I want them chained to a sink. How will they reach the stove to cook my dinner?
You might also have heard that I apologised for any offence my Tweet might have caused. Well, I had my fingers crossed.
How I long for the days when glass ceilings were what you found in garden greenhouses.
How I long for the days when tries were scored thanks to skilfully evading opponents:
Instead of trampling over the top of them. I pointed this out to the Honey Badger – the latest pathetic excuse for a Wallaby back – the other day. “Fuck off, yer big girls blouse”, he said.
Yes, it all comes back to women.
Believe me. If God had sidled up to me and asked me for a rib to create Woman, I’d’ve quoted the Honey Badger.