Dane Eldridge – Queensland Kills Origin, Now Please Don’t Kill Your Daddy!

The autopsies have wrapped up. Wally Lewis has induced some sedatives. We’ve allowed enough time for a Mal Meninga piece about rodents and grime.

That means the emotional dust has officially settled on State of Origin 2013 and it’s time for the sensible wash-up from the straight-thinking public.

Canvassing y’all intelligent realists, I’m hearing the same thing.

All are in wistful agreement that the concept of Origin footy, so loved, so revered, so profitable, is now officially dead. And I decree said ‘y’all’ to be on the money.

Yep, it’s true. I don’t mean to make your kids cry, but the game’s lips have turned purple and the once-vibrant vascular organ of interstate rugby league in Australia has now stopped, never to pump midweek adrenaline through the veins of the eastern seaboard ever again.

After eight series of predictability, last Wednesday night will be remembered as when we started digging a hole in the plot, booking the church, calling up a priest and assembling a choir that could lip-sync Timomatic’s new single as well as sing ‘Amazing Grace’, because this thing was kaput.

‘Mate vs Mate’ is buried. Cremated. Pushing up sugar cane. Floating towards the floor of the Brisbane River with bricks tied to its feet. Pumped fulla’ fluff by an Ipswichian taxidermist and mounted on the wall inside the QRL offices like a prized antler.

Once again: Origin. DEAD. Gone and forgotten.

This ghastly judgment is a conclusive quantum leap much in the fashion of the wailing and downtrodden Queenslanders and their busted spirit of 2000, but it’s an accurate one.

The reason Origin is cactus is this.

The Blues, despite recently producing performances that came within autograph-requesting distance of their demigod opponents, will never win another series. And that’s a fact.

NSW’s fascist mayorship of Loserville was confirmed with stark certainty at ANZ Stadium that Wednesday night.

With the majority of possession and field position, the weight of the whistle and a naked and greased-up crowd firmly behind them, they still managed to regally muff their shot at breaking the chokehold.

A better opportunity to break the trend you shall never come across.

In the aftermath, amateur CPR from hopeful players and apologists wasn’t enough to mask the embarrassing writing on the wall.

The great state of New South Wales totally stinks at footy and Queensland are untouchably tops, and it doesn’t look like changing anytime soon.

In a concept that relies heavily on its only two partaking teams both having a decent shout at the winning champers, it’s a poisonous circumstance that has proved ultimately fatal.

So with the final breath sucked by a great servant of the game of rugby league, its time to do what a wealthy yet emotionally unfulfilled trophy wife-turned-widow would do, and that’s pick through the remaining assets.

International league is in the nursing home, so all that’s left that divides us is the all-powerful National Rugby League.

Now moreso than ever, this must be respected and cherished for what it is: an awesome competition thanks to the brilliance of NSW.

Let’s be honest. Us Southerners, with our greater business acumen, superior infrastructure and better stuff, started this excellent product over a hundred years ago and nurtured it to today’s giddy heights. To be honest, it really should be called the N(SW)RL.

Without the totally transparent and faction-free NSWRL, the original and the greatest league administration, there would be no sparkle-spewing NRL that we see today, and there certainly wouldn’t be anything interesting coming out of Queensland.

Who gave the Broncos a shot and saved your state capital from becoming a shanty town?

Who had the patience of mind and fatness of wallet to nurture the feeble Cowboys?

Who was gullible enough to believe the fiscal assurances of Michael Searle?

The N(SW)RL, that’s who.

So to the clubs, players, coaches and fans from across the Tweed, also now known as ‘murderers’, you should do yourselves a favour and remember this.

Before you go killing any more forms of the game with your barbaric greed for success, remember who your Daddy is.

All that’s left in the game was given to you by generosity of the original ‘rugby league headquarters’ in Phillip Street, Sydney.

Don’t try to kill the hand of the rat that feeds you.

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