NRL

Rating: 6.2/10; The haircuts need work.

Arguably the past time of Australia’s working class, National Rugby League (NRL) has a cult like following spanning from “up norf” to “down souf”. After hearing about it for so long and suffering from constant chat about it in bloke friend groups, I decided to try and sit through various matches my housemate put on the television.

It was hard to analyse such a sport when your mate is constantly either yelling at the ref, the players or to himself. In between outbursts, I began to think the whole competition being sponsored by a large rum company is no coincidence.

Aside from athletic ability, one of the first things you notice are the haircuts. A bunch of blokes and a pair of clippers usually ends in tragedy, but thanks to creatine and a cocaine addiction, these guys will always be the reason your girlfriend bothers to take any interest in the sport.

“Wow, they’re really talented I guess..” She’ll say before you gently remind her of your stats back in 2013, hoping to win her back. Only to be met with silence and her eyes gazed upon some bloke with the last name of Ponga. Chin up champion, you love your abs so much you protect them with a layer of VB and dominoes pizza aye brother.

It’s lucky you’re not playing anyway to be honest. The real winners after each game are the neuroscientists duct taping jelly together for an easy $100k.

The commentators are evidence that childhood dreams don’t always come true. They’re the sort of people that needed to constantly toss a footy in the air during school and unfortunately didn’t grow out of it. Every head knock from the 80’s has left them with no other memory from life, it’s only footy and beer slushing around in their skull. Any topic of conversation other than footy is essentially Chinese.

A good example of someone like this would be your uncle, who could give a whole lecture about a game at Christmas time while you don’t have to say a single word. Put his mate in a room with him and it’s a perpetual motion machine of conversations about nothing. Get stuck in a car with them and you’ll find yourself fighting urges to jump out.

The game itself is 80 minutes of fully grown men yelling at a ball. My gaze was fixated upon the plethora of sponsorships that littered the grounds, and the flames that added three tonnes of emissions each time a try was scored. Players would often get confused and find themselves running at other players rather than just dodging them. I was then told these maniacs were called ‘forwards’ because they can only run forward. Similar to other simple animals with small brains.

The ‘backs’ had unlocked abilities such as the sidestep in the lower levels of rugby league, so they usually score the points. Forwards commonly find themselves jealous of their fitter, smarter, and better-looking counterparts, but their weight means they can never catch them to tell them what they really think.

Getting into a fight, also known as a ‘biff’, made for interesting viewing. Two big fellas in an open paddock with nothing but testosterone and brain damage will result in excellent ratings for media companies. 90% of their noses are already broken so I say, “let the boys play.”

Some improvements the NRL should implement:
• Putting their players on a literal leash when they’re not playing footy.
• Yes or No questions only in the post-match interview.
• BRING BACK THE BIFF.

TAH.