3 clubs, 23 rounds, A slab of passion….

Load it up and Bang it home

It still beggers belief that these unions continue on that last day of September. My daughter missed the Grand Final – against her wishes – by attending the wedding of a friends father. Even if you are not a footy fan, surely you’re not that much of a smart arse that you push through with your nuptuals despite a high likelihood that it will cause unbearable tension post fixture perusal within family and friend circles. Will they both be attending on the big day? What of the chilling realisation that a rapid thought free gift of a footy themed olive oil set from the wedding gift register will be so misunderstood?

Rest easy weary celebration traveller for you are among friends. A recent Sportsyear survey, as reported by that august journal of peer reviewed research The Herald Sun, found that one in four Australians has missed such events in favour of following and or attending sport. An admirable one third surveyed pulled the pin on family gatherings to soak in a game. Why arent we saluting these people on the nation’s current affairs channel as the real antipodean heroes? Forget your 35 carat wedding rings and your shark attack survival stories, open the dialogue with the men and women who channel our nation’s great spirit by looking relatives and friends in the eye and say boldly “No”.

The Herald Sun goes on to report that two in three partners are “happier and listen more” after watching sport. There’s even a suggestion from “sexologist” Dr Nikki Goldstein that if sport causes tension in those couples where one party is cool or luke warm at best about our great game,  a compromise to just let the other party watch without hassle results in better sex post game – more attentive, more caring, more drunk.  Even the slowest amongst us can see the many holes in this premise. Honestly who wants to hop on the flesh and bone pogo after a devastating loss unless driven by the selfish horror of revenge. You dont want to talk, caress, hug or listen after a belting. You need grieving time, solitude, chips, and fizzy drinks.


Personally I’ve found this “happiness” effect is “cancelled out” where both partners are nuts about sport unless accompanied by an unspecific and constantly moving target of domestic acts that provoke a tipping point of passion, usually, even purposefully enacted once the other has passed out from exhaustion after the game. And when your respective teams are playing the physical atmosphere is cage fight rather than love boat.  Furthermore, the guernsey can really only be worn to bed if the grand final has been won, and only on that eve. Supporters of teams that go back to back or more are really pushing the envelope. Watch the cheap markers for capturing your teams stars autographs lest you transform your partner into a Picasso during the fifth quarter.

Maybe I’m a dinosaur but I find the good Doctor’s “Ladies a plate please” approach to this complex interpersonal game day sexual mechanics a total misunderstanding of today’s modern woman who hit the turnstiles in huge numbers accross sports every day. She’s not to be lectured by some reality show imbibing parasite determined to hide the remote post game.

However if these surveys give you comfort to foolishly think you can have it all,  don’t join the dots on these two findings – they are not connected unless you crave domestic ostracision.   You can not, for example, expect to drop out of the reunion, weather the tirade of outrage from life partner, pop on the tele or hit the ground, then front up home with that goofy smile primed for a post game bang. Do not believe in the fairy tale called make up sex once you’ve become a statistic. You wont be getting lucky for a few rounds. More if the winning streak continues. And anyway you are delusional, other research suggests 40% of us would take sport over sex. The other 60% are playing Super Coach. We are barely winning the war against ourselves.

Sex and Sport – like family reunions, birthday parties, weddings, birthdays and anniversaries – just do not mix. And if your excuses are so injured by team selection time and your form conspires to force social attendance – pack a trannie. And a radio.

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Hit me on the chest with your centimetre perfect pass