The Coodabeen Champions | Billy Boils

I once worked as a lackey for a leading automotive manufacturer in Geelong.

At the end of a shift you’d pass through the front gates, where security personnel would check bags for any pilfered parts or property.

It was an inconvenience and more than a little intrusive, but I could understand the reasoning behind it.

It was possible that a co-worker with a moral code looser than most, could have slipped an engine block into his Gladstone, or secreted an exhaust system for next years model behind the lunchbox in their TAA bag.

We grumbled about it, but copped it sweet.

It was valid corporate conduct.

We would have cut up rough however, if the inquisitive apes tracked us down during the Christmas holidays and started rummaging through our luggage or beach bags.

If they tracked us down on sabbatical and dragged us in off a nice left-hander at joe’s to ferret through the pockets of our board shorts.

That would not have been on.

We were on our time, we no longer represented or had association with THE MAN.

More than a little intrusive, it would have been a violation of our civil rights.

Unpardonable, inexcusable, heavy-handed, wrong.

Imagine then, my horror, at reading The League were considering acting upon a lunatic suggestion gleaned from a tabloid poll of footy fans, which supported drug testing their lackeys, the players, year-long.

i.e. out of season.

During the Christmas holidays, on sabbatical, in their own time.

This, League, goes beyond madness, it is sinister megalomania off the wall, off the planet,  off the rails , on it’s way to hell in a handcart , wheels fallen off, with a turd as a paddle.

Sure, in the interest of fair play and righteousness drug test your performers during the sporting calender.

Illicit behaviour has no place in the public arena.

We understand and accept  the reasoning behind this.

But when a man has laid down his tools, walked away, and immersed himself in the quiet enjoyment he is entitled to, there is no right, nor room, for your barnacle beak to attach itself leech-like to their private and personal celestial sphere.

Keep your nose out of it.

 If a group of players are enjoying their lay-off at a tropical resort, what right do you have dispatching your drones to whip out a paper cup to collect a sample mid stream as a fellow relieves himself at pools edge, pants around ankles, belly full of sauce, in full view of  female guests and little kiddies.

Come on Andrew.

The surface of the League's earth is flat.

Learn to navigate a course within its parameters, or risk sailing over the edge of madness on which you now teeter.

I’m Billy, and I’m boiling.