Monday, July 28, 2008

The new Anne Maree Cooksley and the fine art of dating footballers

Originally uploaded by JungsPN

I was really pleased to wake us this morning in a transcendent glow that everyone is waking up to what a terrible coach Mick Malthouse is, that oil is getting cheaper, and most of all, that Anne Maree Cooksleys mantle as Australias premiere model slash actress slash champagne sipper at a premiere is under threat. Somehow, it made it into the newspaper that Chadwick Models star model Kasia Z, exciting, the ex girlfriend of Grant Smillie, has possibly, maybe, if you squint, got off with Lance Franklin, the Hawthorn player. I'm excited by this, as I'm excited we're entering a golden age of AFL Wags, of kiss and tell exposes in the Herald Sun, of players girlfriends ending up hosting travel segments and weather reports, taking the jobs of Jaynie Seal and Monique Wright. What Twigley started, I hope Z can continue - I was upset that the Herald Sun comments section on the story the Miss Z may have snogged Mr F to be disappointing. So many people took the time to say "who cares", but I was disappointed in this attitude. I think the pursuit of minor celebrity, of marrying a footballer or being someone like Jake Wall (TV hopeful) is an important aspiration. In fact, what is a blog, but not a desperate hope for some kind of minor fame - we all want it, don't pretend we don't.

I've mentioned a few times the important role the WAGs of the local football team in Penguin played - namely, at 1/2 time scraping the mud off the teams boots with a Paddle Pop stick. I was always aware growing up if a girl had to choose between average old me with my brains and collection of stickers, and a guy who could play football, I was always going to lose out to guys who could play football. This is accepted in Tasmania, although it is still a shame - I wouldn't mind having a crack at Miss Z, but it's not going to happen, I don't play football. This was made abundantly clear to me on one semi legendary round the pubs rumour/apocryphal story/but it was really true discussion when someone told me there was a game in the South of Tasmania one day where the rickety old manual scoreboard at a ground had the same score on it at 3/4 time as at 1/4 time. This was because one of the local girls had taken a footballer into the scoreboard, paid the attendants to leave, and, well, kept the scoreboard ticking over in another way. I've seen some very ugly footballers with some very ugly personalities, and yet they all date stunners. Oh well, such is life I guess, I think that most of the footballers I knew in Penguin ended up alcoholics or bankrupt or mired in some kind of scandal, almost like Gods payback for being able to pick the towns most beautiful girls. It was almost karmic allignment.

I don't know if there's a male equivalent of a WAG or a group equivalent of the WAGs. It'd obviously be the HABs, but it's not really as punchy. I certainly didn't date, say, the beloved and lovely Kathryn Harby, the worlds best looking netballer, but I did secretly have a relationship with a netballer at the local level for months, albeit, one of the worlds laziest relationships. I went to one function as a handbag, a HABag if you will (I like that) with her, at the casino, that I snuck out of the house to go to. It was something, I think a best and fairest dinner, or an end of season function. What was interesting was that all the netballers got up and danced really vigorously while the males (and lets be honest, the lesbian life partners) who were brought along uncomfortably gathered in the corner - a glimpse into Brownlow medal night, as we picked at our shrimp cocktails and discussed generic bland topics. My girl ended up being the good samaritan and taking some of the girls home, so I stood there, idly biting my nails, and I felt really uncomfortable as the girls talked about their sexual conquests, how much they were going to drink, how much sex they were all going to have in Germany, and the size of their boyfriends, er, manhood. As a study in role reversal, it was a classical night, I really should have taken a pen. I didn't like being a handbag, but I was still in at least some kind of inner circle that was exciting, had cheap drink and delicious prawn cocktail. No wonder girls line up to go the Brownlow...

I think back to that night a lot, it was definitely a really strange night, I ended up standing outside waiting for a cab in the rain like some kind of discarded minor celebrity groupie. I also think back to a night at Crown, when a footballer from Melbourne, and by that I mean the team, not just the city. One of their players, off a big win, was stumbling through the casino clearly on drugs. Our party looked over and saw him stumbling through, trying to spin the chocolate wheel and take chips off peoples tables. Security, genuinely, was awe struck that he was even there, and was letting him do it, until he tried to grab someones wig off their head. At that point, security had to intervene, and they threw him out, into the car park, and no doubt went off to phone their contacts at the Herald Sun with a juicy story. We saw him an hour later, lying in the gutter, barely moving, and we were going to take a photo, and he looked like the single greatest hobo in the entire world. At which point his impossibly angular, impossibly glamourous, impossibly blonde girlfriend in a million dollar dress looked at him, drunk off her head, muttering "some place you got us to sleep tonight fucker" and lay down in the gutter beside him, wrapping herself around him. Nice work, I guess, if you can get it...

Welcome to the world Kasia, yer gonna love it...

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