Something bad happened.
The boyfriend spontaneously signed up to Foxtel. Introductory offer. No sign up fee. All the channels for 30 days.
Last weekend I endured at least 93 hours of AFL game time. That includes attending a game and all the footage viewed either on the couch, at the pub or via the boyfriends phone. And now we have access to Foxtel and every football game, talk show and bloody replay for the entire season!
I think by the end of the winter, not only, will I have scabies and a vitamin D deficiency but a wealth of AFL knowledge.
For Christmas my brother and I bought Dad the entire 2016 Western Bulldogs Premiership season on DVD. Obviously Rossy had already seen all the games, the replays and the victorious Grand Final but we though he’d like to watch them again. Then a few weeks after Christmas my brother and I both recieve a text from Mum. This is all it read:
It seems the issue of having one TV and ready access to AFL is not only limited to those with a Foxtel subscription. Rossy was playing the games over and over, well into the night. All the while sitting on the edge of his seat and screaming at the telly. Neglecting to acknowledge he already knew the outcome of the game and the entire the season. Mum was less than impressed and unfortunately doesn’t have the option of watching anything else as there is only one TV in the house.
Back at the boyfriends on a rainy Sunday morning, I am granted full Foxtel access.
‘You can choose’.
The boyfriend says.
I smile relectantly thinking this is like when someone asks you if you would like a drink and when you reply with a ‘Yes’, they tell you to get it yourself. I feel like I’m about to be tricked, so I take the remote from his hand before he has time to reassess.
In my head I have already chosen. I already know the channel and the days programming. And although I’ve read 3 reviews online of this weeks ‘Real Housewives of Sydney’ episode, I know in my heart it’s all I want to watch. There is nothing quite like watching a middle aged woman wearing a gold sequin jacket and oversized gawdy earrings scream across a Persian caviar themed dinner: “you’re a pain sack”. What does that even mean?! I pretend to be shocked by the drama and claim I would never behave this way. I secretly love the questionable fashion choices and make a mental note to learn the 4 C’s of diamonds and why it would be beneficial to ‘shove it up your arse!’. I already regret doing this research on my own laptop though, as I know now I will not only be targeted by fertility marketing but also diamonds.
By the afternoon I have slipped into my office (the bedroom) to “read” and “write a blog”. But, secretly I listen to the footy that is being played in the next room while I look up botox online and the meaning of “pain sack”. Google reports a large link to the word “scrotum” in both instances (Yes, it’s a thing. Injecting botox into testicles!)
Now and then I yell out for a score update and or a wine top up. The boyfriend always delivers both to me in my office. Perhaps fearful I will return to his… along with the housewives.
*I’ve also been able to impress the boyfriend with my already acquired random AFL knowledge. Here are a few gems from the vault:
‘Didn’t Fev play for the Casey Scorpion’s after he retired from AFL?’
‘Jack Watts. He was the no. 1 draft pick a few years ago.’
‘Eddie Maguire has links to the mafia… The bloke who services the coffee machine at work told me.’