AN APPEAL TO THE PLAYERS - AND A PERSONAL OFFER OF BEER TO ANTHONY BORIC AND THE TEAM FROM MACDADDY - IN THIS REPORT. (WE KNOW YOU GUYS, PLAYERS AND ADMIN, READ THESE REPORTS…SO LISTEN UP.)

I think it's important for us to extinguish from our minds the first 40 minutes of this game, and most of the second 40 minutes, too. Africa is a place of abject poverty, endemic corruption, totalitarian brutality, and debilitating diseases, so it is possible that there are words in one of their many languages that can capture the sheer awfulness of this Harbour effort, but there sure as feck isn't anything in English that can. I'll go and check my Dictionary of the Bubonic Plague Years.

Something is rotten in the state of our forward pack and I'm not talking about the contents of James Hinchco's bowels after a night at the Masonic on the lager and curry. We seem unable to win ball when it matters; when it doesn't matter, we usually can't make it matter; and on the rare occasion that we do make it matter, we drop it. My personal feeling is that we should do something about this before I snap and kill someone.

Secondly, our backs lack spark at the moment. 'Lack spark' is a euphemism for 'are a fecking mess'. It is fortunate for them that they are not getting much quality ball, because that means we cannot fully determine how bad they are. Smylie can hold his head high, as can Matt France (who was our second-best loose forward, despite his being a halfback and only playing about 11 minutes). Whilst he might not be holding his head high, Gopperth need not yet hang his in shame. Same goes for Nafi who, bored shitless on his own wing, at least made some effort to look interested by effecting a couple of try-saving tackles on the other one. However, we need to improve a little bit in other departments, preferably before I kick another hole in my lounge door.

Now, I have been on the blower to MacDaddy and he has asked me to convey the following important plea, verbatim, in this match report. Because MacDaddy shares several character traits with Begbie, the psychotic nutter from Trainspotting, I agreed to run it:

"Dear Anthony Boric
Last season, in my 'Season in Review' and possibly in my 'Where are they then?' articles, I indicated that I didn't really think that you were as good as you thought you were. I'm an old c**t who knows nothing. Come back immediately. Please don't take two weeks off. Please save our miserable season from falling further down the shitter. If you come back and help us against Northland, I"ll personally buy you a dozen, regardless of the result. If you come back and help us to beat the Scum (that's Auckland, you young ignoramus) I'll send you and the team a couple of dozen, some soft drinks for the Islanders' Christian Massive, and some of those f**king rancid Woodstock RTDs that I know you youngsters like these days. I realize that all your piss is paid for by the union and that you're all rich as f**k, and that my paltry offering doesn't mean jack in this anti-grass roots era - but I know that somewhere, buried down deep underneath those cold, professional bench-pressed pecs, beats the committed heart of a gruff old sentimentalist.
Yours grovellingly,
MacDaddy
P.S. I'm a left-footer, too. Go the Pope."

MacDaddy insists that he is serious. The delivery will be made to the Union, on the condition that Brent "Wash My Car, Bitch" Todd and Doug Rolleson will not embezzle them, overvalue them, write them off as a business expense, and use the proceeds to buy Hurstmere Road.

Our only hope for rescuing this season is to beat the Scum. If we beat them and don't make the quarters, I'll still be content enough not to kill myself. Use Northland as a training run - experiment, try things, blood newbies, screw the result - and let's get in shape for the 27th. Come on, boys.