An Investigation
A heartfelt confession from a New South Welshman who has accepted the truth.
It's time we had a conversation as a state. For too long, we've lied to ourselves. We've made excuses. We've blamed the ref. But the truth has been staring us in the face, or more accurately, weeping in a dumpster. Here are seven undeniable reasons why my team, the New South Wales Blues, is, in fact, dog shit.
This is a grown adult on a six-figure contract. He has a personal nutritionist, a sports psychologist, and a sponsorship deal with a major bank. He is, at the time of writing, sitting in a dumpster behind the stadium, weeping quietly into a half-eaten kebab.
Meanwhile in Brisbane, the entire Maroons squad is at the Caxton having a quiet beer with their families. The contrast is, frankly, embarrassing for everyone involved.
There comes a point in every Blues supporter's life when the cupboard is bare, the bottle shop is shut, and the pain has nowhere left to go. What happens next is shown to the left. We will not be elaborating on the specifics.
It is worth noting that no Queenslander has ever, in the recorded history of the sport, been driven to this. They have other coping mechanisms. Chief among them is winning.
He is still wearing the jersey. He has been in there for forty minutes. The hot water ran out twenty-five minutes ago and he has not noticed, because he is currently somewhere between Stage 3 and Stage 4 of post-match Blues grief.
Queenslanders shower to get clean. New South Welshmen shower to be alone with their thoughts, which are, at this particular moment, exclusively about Cameron Munster.
The fluorescent lighting. The hum of the pie warmer. The clerk who has seen this exact man, in this exact jersey, three Wednesdays running. A chiko roll. A Paddle Pop. A Big M for the drive home. This is the official post-match meal plan of the New South Wales fanbase.
NSW Health has been contacted for comment. They did not respond, presumably because they are also Blues supporters, and presumably also at a servo.
It is 4pm on a Tuesday. The curtains are drawn. The phone is face-down on the bedside table, because every notification is another mate from Brisbane sending through the highlights reel with a thumbs-up emoji.
He has not been to work. He has not eaten. He has, at one point in the afternoon, considered moving to Melbourne and supporting AFL, but the shame of that is somehow worse than the shame of this. So he stays in bed.
It is 11:47 on a Sunday night. The voice on the speaker has stopped asking what he'd like, because she already knows. Quarter Pounder meal. Coke, not Sprite. He has rolled through this drive-thru three times since full-time. She no longer asks if he's okay.
In Queensland, the Maccas drive-thru is somewhere you go after a long shift. In New South Wales, it is now somewhere we go to feel something. Anything. Preferably with cheese.
A frilly apron. Tears falling silently into the dishwater. Triple M on the kitchen radio replaying every Maroons try in slow motion, with commentary by Gus Gould. This is the final stage. Acceptance, in domestic form.
He has stopped saying it will be different next year. He has stopped blaming the referee. He is doing the dishes, and he is crying, and the kookaburras outside are laughing in what he is now certain is a Queensland accent.
In Conclusion
In summary, my team is dog shit. The evidence is overwhelming. The footage is harrowing. The Maroons are simply better, biologically, spiritually, and strategically. If you are a Blues supporter reading this, I'm not angry. I'm just disappointed. And mildly concerned about your hydration.
Queenslander.