Ron views himself as an old school, knockabout, St George figure that is on a personal crusade to slay the dragon of contemporary footy culture.
Armed with his trusty landline, Ron gallantly rides into the wireless battle every day to offer takes hotter than the tomato in a Pilbara FIFO worker’s toastie. That is to say, only real men can handle Ron’s opinions.
Ron is feeling particularly spicy today. Partly due to the middies he’s pounded down his gullet at lunch and partly because he’s spotted an opportunity to call any man born after 1956 a big girl’s blouse.
Today he’s incensed about Nat Fyfe touching an umpire. Being Ron, he dials up his favourite talkback station and comes in hot,
“What’s happening to this game? I remember I played in my club’s 1974 grand final and the umpire called me for holding the ball. I knocked his block right there and then, none of this match review nonsense. After the game, we went for a beer and he let me look up his wife’s skirt. Then I followed him home and belted him again just so he knew not to make the wrong decision again. That’s how real men played”
See, Ron thinks everything about the AFL is unacceptably soft. However, you have to remember that he comes from a generation of men who believe any bump that doesn’t cause immediate hospitalisation is “soft”.
In Ron’s defence, today’s call was progress for him because he broke a 10-year rule of his to not mention Fyfe due to the star going by a “girl’s name”. Who said you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks?
As the afternoon rolls on, Ron continues to wet his whistle and he finds himself staring into the abyss of another call complaining about footy players who don’t pull their socks up and the state of haircuts in the game.
Radio producers are always on high alert when Ron starts up about haircuts. His colourful selection of slurs means he’s no stranger to the dump button. Today, Ron has brought up Bailey Smith – it’s battle stations at the control desk.
Luckily, Ron has avoided another rant about how he’d refuse to shower with a “bloke like that” in his day. Instead, calling for the young midfielder’s immediate public flagellation for his white powdered indiscretion. Naturally, to be televised live at halftime.
“That boy needs a right flogging. I’d bloody do it myself with my belt *audibly sounds of Rons struggling to take his belt off* and I wouldn’t stop until the bloody buckle fell off! That’s how real men were taught discipline not bloody crying into the camera about ya feelings”
It’s true. Back in Ron’s day, no one snorted lines to unwind after games. They’d just drink 23 beers at the club and then drive home. It was good honest fun you see.
By mid arvo, Ron has had too much to drink as is evidenced by the front of his pants looking like the pavement at Kalamunda Wet & Wild. He figures he’ll put in one more call before eating a plate of boiled meat.
“If I got my hands on that little rentboy Jack Ginnivan… *producers immediately end call*”
As sloshed as Ron is he doesn’t even notice he’s been disconnected so spends the next 15 minutes screaming joyfully into the void indulging in every slur under the sun. It’s a good call for Ron. He can retire to bed satisfied.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?
