How Richie McCaw RUINED My Christmas!
Greetings boys and Happy 2019 – if such a thing is even possible after the horrible festive season I just endured! In an entirely unexpected twist of fate, the final week of last year ended in Cartel-created catastrophe….and it’s all Richie McCaw’s fault! Gather around broskis, because boy does Uncle Belson have a story for you!
To celebrate the end of 2018, me and a few of the boets from the pub decided to head to a tropical location for a bit of a Boetcation. After a long, hard year all we wanted to do was lie in the sun, swig brandy and look for fights with Poms on the beach. After quizzing various travel agents on where Poms tend to frequent over the festive season, we finally settled on an island paradise in South East Asia. I arrived at the airport and checked in my luggage but couldn’t see any sign of my fellow boets. Strangely, all of their phones went to voicemail so I had no way of locating my allies for the upcoming beach battles that we had planned so meticulously in the pub.
I figured they probably got stuck in traffic and had no reception so I made my way through immigration and boarded the flight. Almost immediately I began to smell a rat because although the boets had promised me they’d booked seats right next to me, strange foreigners began to claim their seats instead. I inquired with the air hostess but she assured me the strange fellows alongside me were indeed sitting in the correct seats. I tried calling the boets again but alas, their phones still went to voicemail. I should’ve known at the time that a high level Cartel operation was underway, but being in the Christmas spirit I dropped my guard….and boy would I live to regret it!
After what seemed like an eternity we eventually got airborne and I managed to sneak out my secret stash of 100% pure Yarpie medicinal brandy to get me through the next 16 hours. As the brandy began to take effect I donned a set of earphones and fired up the in-flight entertainment. Browsing the catalogue of movies on the screen in front of me, I immediately recognised the familiar face of the Cartel’s favourite son: one Richie McCaw! What on earth was McCaw doing on my in-flight entertainment?! Even worse, his mug was emblazoned on a so-called documentary titled: Chasing Great.
“What a load of garbage,” I exclaimed. “More like Cheating Great!” A few people turned around and stared at me. A small child began to cry. I felt a well of anger building in my belly and noticed that my heart was beating faster. It was a feeling I was very familiar with from previous TV encounters with McCheat. Fortunately, I had an antidote at hand and duly mixed myself a triple medicinal brandy and coke! Pretty soon I couldn’t even hear the child crying anymore. While I confess I should’ve known better, curiosity finally got the better of me and I began watching the Cartel’s bullsh!t propaganda movie, while I muttered to myself that this was obviously a deliberate ploy by Cartel agents to torture me before my holiday.
My fears were soon confirmed when I noticed that the man sitting next to me was Japanese! He was even wearing a Brave Blossoms rugby jersey! He smiled at me and I immediately realised he was a Cartel plant. I showed him my fist and he quickly looked away. Fortunately, on the TV screen in front of me I saw the familiar hulking green edifice of Ellis Park and my mood brightened. The All Blacks were taking on the Boks and I couldn’t help shouting “CHEAT!” every time I caught a glimpse of McCaw. But sadly, the sole purpose of this FAKE documentary was to rub Kiwi salt in Yarpie wounds. It was a replay of a Boks-AB game, which the sheepboys won 27-20 thanks to a blatantly ILLEGAL lineout move by McCaw himself. But the worst thing was seeing none other than Schalk Burger saying nice things about McCheat. “I think Richie McCaw has won more test matches than I’ve played,” Burger gleefully told the camera.
“How much Adicash did they pay you to say that Schalk?!” I screamed. The next scenes were even worse. The Cartel appeared to have actual footage of actual Yarpies asking McCaw for his autograph! “TRAITORS!” I shouted. Again, I saw the Japanese man looking at me, although he was no longer smiling. I took another swig of my brandy and scowled back at him. Again, he looked away.
The Cartel propaganda piece was now back in New Zealand. What followed was a lengthy ode to McCaw’s idyllic Kiwi childhood. I am sure you can picture it: Richie riding on a red pickup being chased by a flock of sheep sheilas; his first day at school accompanied by his pet lamb on a leash; and footage of him watching the 1987 World Cup as a wee nipper. He even confessed to doing the haka in the shower as a kid! “Hahahahaha,” I shouted. “How embarrassing!”
But then things turned truly bizarre. Richie’s Old Man started bragging about his youngster’s childhood exploits. He began regaling the audience with stories of how young Richie used to go jogging on the farm for a whole 3km before returning home! “PATHETIC!” I shouted. “Grandma Malice Keating used to drop me off in the middle of the Kalahari to test my endurance and it sure as hell was longer than 3km from home. Once it took me weeks to make it back!”
Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up and there was a young lady in uniform with a concerned look on her face, asking if I was okay. I explained to her that her airline was broadcasting Cartel propaganda and FAKE NEWS. She handed me a small white tablet and said it would “make me feel a lot better”. I took her word for it and dutifully swigged the tablet. Miraculously, she was right! I started to feel better almost immediately. The horrible Cartel propaganda movie even began to take on a comedic tone.
Richie started to whine about how tough it was at boarding school. “Hahahahaha! Boarding school boohooo. At that age I did three years of solitary confinement in the Keating family basement!” I laughed.
As if that weren’t enough, McCaw started bragging about getting an A in chemistry, physics and calculus! “Hahaha! What a poof and a nerd! Beat him up!”
By now I was feeling amazing. The scenes in front of me were literally swimming across the screen. I began to see faces bulging out towards me. First it was some Kiwi hack claiming McCaw didn’t cheat but was merely able to “interpret the angles that referees deem acceptable”.
“FAKE NEWS!” I shouted.
Next up was Stuart Barnes claiming: “If you play within the laws you’ll never amount to anything”. “EXACTLY!” I agreed. “That’s why I never got picked! I played within the laws!”
Only Phil Kearns got it right, labeling McCaw a “smarmy bastard”! “TELL THEM KEARNSEY!” I yelled in support.
I soon began to drift in an out of consciousness. Things appeared and then disappeared. I noticed several passengers had gotten out of their chairs and were pointing at me. I gave them the middle finger, took another swig of brandy and maintained my focus on the propaganda tale in front of me.
McCaw was now reminiscing about being knocked out of the quarter final by Wayne Barnes in the 2011 World Cup. “Stop bleating sheepboy! Wayne Barnes for president!”
Suddenly I saw a burly man approaching me. He was holding what appeared to be a taser and was waving a finger at me. I burped in his face and sat down. One of the cabin crew ladies appeared to be holding him back and he began to back away.
“Listen to her fella. You don’t want to mess with Uncle Belson!” I shouted. He glared back at me but the hostess led him away to safety.
Back on Propaganda TV McCaw was now climbing into a small aircraft. The next minute he was gliding over the horrible landscape of New Zealand, surveying his Cartel-funded domain. It was more than I could take.
“SHOOT IT DOWN!” I shouted. “BOMB IT OUT THE SKY!”
What followed was a bit of a blur. I saw a glimpse of the burly man striding towards me. I felt a sharp pain and my body started shaking all over. Then everything went ALL BLACK! When I awoke I was strapped to a bed. I couldn’t move at all. Six police officers were carrying me off the plane. On the tarmac my fellow passengers were clapping and cheering. I tried to wave at them but my hands were strapped to the bed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Japanese man. He was smiling again.
I spent the next couple of days caged in a cell before being whisked away to an undisclosed location. I was then tried in a Kangaroo court in a foreign language. I proclaimed my innocence but was only met with laughs and the shaking of foreign heads. Instead of enjoying my vacation on the beach I was put on the next plane back to Yarpie Land. Only this time I was strapped to a chair in the cargo area. My eyes were covered and I was denied any in flight entertainment. Even my Yarpie medicinal brandy was confiscated! The biggest indignity of all was being watched over by the burly man who had decided to wear an All Black jersey while he escourted me home.
After landing on sacred Yarpie soil he handed me over to the local police. As he strode away he suddenly swung around and shouted: “Hey Belson, Richie says Merry Christmas.”
I KNEW IT!!!