Why I Fucking Love Origin

I am a passive man. Simple, in a way. Am I Simply the Best? No, but I needed to reference that somewhere in this article.

Yet come this time of year, I begin to feel my testosterone rising – and the desire to witness some form of athletic brutality becomes almost too much to bear. I need to see flesh hitting flesh; bone crunching tackles; blood trickling from head wounds… I need to see BIFF!

There is something incredibly cathartic about seeing 34 of the best athletes Australia has to offer beating the absolute hell out of each other. I usually abhor violence in every way, even on the footy field (in fact especially on the footy field), but for 240 minutes each year (sometimes a little longer) I drop all my moral compunctions and not only accept it, but demand it.

Renowned psychiatrist, Carl Gustav Jung, often spoke of The Shadow. Our inner darkness. He said it needed to be confronted, even embraced, and may be borne from “primitive animal instincts which are superseded during early childhood by the conscious mind.” Intrinsically, he is saying that my natural aggressiveness – obviously stifled by a loving family – is still there, and that I occasionally need to acknowledge it. Throw the metaphorical pacing tiger a bit of meat, so to speak.

Yung, an Origin fan
Jung, an Origin fan

It is often used to explain why a lot of far-right Christians go bat-shit crazy and end up killing their entire family. They didn’t confront their shadow. Refused to acknowledge it. Let it stew up inside them until it eventually spewed out at the slightest provocation in a volley of bullets and bile. The religious might call it the Devil; Scientists might call it human nature.

But whatever it is, it might go a long way to explain both my RedTube search history, and my love of State of Origin.

Even after eight years of Queensland dominance I still bay for New South Wales’ blood. I live in Sydney now, enemy territory, and my interactions become more and more hostile as we near kick off.

I’m not yelling “QUEENSLANDDDDDEEEEERRRRR!!!!!” in the faces of old women as I pass them in the street, I assure you, but I am less likely to wish them good morning, unless it’s with a self-knowing smirk of superiority – Yeah, fuck you Granny. You know we’re gonna win, I know we’re going to win, so suck it up you New South Welsh C*nt.

My father once described it to me as “cruelty to animals”, yet for three Wednesdays a year he pours himself a beer, plonks himself in front of the television to take in the barbaric spectacle. What’s more, I am yet to see him call the RSPCA (although that would be funny). Is that your inner darkness, Daddy? Do I need to check your search history? (Oh fuck, the very thought…).

"Let's go home son, RedTube awaits."
“Let’s go home son, RedTube awaits.”

For 80 minutes next Wednesday I will become much of what I hate in sport. A one-eyed, hysterical, shit dribbler, hurling abuse at a group of men I have never met before, but loathe simply because they are from a state I now choose to live in. It makes no sense.

Logic is kicked to the curb, its belongings hurled out the window with a spray of profanity, as I drink litres of XXXX Gold (even though I can’t stand the stuff) and giggle maniacally in my maroon hat.

So this Wednesday, if you happen to cross my path, forgive me, I know not what I do. Do not judge the wild-eyed Queenslander as he hurls empty cans at the television screen and at anybody wearing blue, instead join him in this chaotic, unabashed hatred. It may just save your family.

By Alasdair McClintock

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