The Dogs of Origin and How an old GOAT can go out with glory.

Most years, The Stool is moved, and The Dogs take prime position. Granted, it’s hard to see the screen from The Dog end of the counter, but no one wants a Dog every minute of The Game.

The last time I wasn’t in charge of The Dogs at The Pub for Origin was the last time The Blues bothered to turn up with a team that could compete.

A free ticket, fifty bones on loan and a Queensland victory meant I abandoned my post to watch The Maroons get one back that time.

We understand the concept of playing for pride north of The Tweed and didn’t forget it last night.

I told the boys on the other side of the bar well before kick off that Lang Park, Billy Slaters farewell and the fact we had fuck all else to play for would result in The Maroons taking this match. They laughed in the manner that only those who could barely win a match in eighteen years can laugh.

The Dog crowd was diminished as a result of the well documented ILIBTIASOR (I Live In Brisbane, Therefore I Am Scared Of Rain) syndrome.

The fact NSW had won the series already probably didn’t help, but it was a poor turnout from The Massive. Dogs were left abandoned and it was left to The Mexicans behind the bar to provide the cheers whenever The Blues did something useful.

They didn’t factor in young William and the power he would bring with captaincy. The cheeky little fucker was everywhere.

A streak of Maroon that showed the New South Welsh debutantes what Origin is really about. Lacking Smith, Cronk, Thurston and Inglis, Queensland was tipped to fall well short this series, and they did.

With true style.

In that moment when you need to send a Legend off in style, you lift.

That’s the difference.

We knew we’d lost the series but there was no way in Fuck that The Blues would come into our house, push us around and prevent us from sending off The Player of The Series and probably the best fullback we’ve seen so far without a win.

But this whole diatribe is supposed to be about The Dogs.

Wild Boars may have been freed from a cave in Thailand, but The Dogs are the key.

Lack of consumption resulted in charity and as a result, Boundary Street was fed.

Those poor little buggers in Chiang Rai would more than likely knifed each other for ‘The Best Free Dog in West End’.

It’s a good thing they weren’t around or have any knowledge of Rugby League.

I do wonder whether or not they have visual access to The World Cup. It would be paramount to torture if they don’t, but the poor little fuckers didn’t even have light for a week.

Back to the point - West End wussed out on Origin but The Dogs didn’t.

Wild Boars be processed and eaten in celebration of Billy ‘The GOAT’ Slater.

It was clear from the outset, that the over proportionate number of NSWelsh would be against us from the yelling at screen perspective.

It was The Dogs that proved decisive.

Gorged on lips and arseholes, The Blues support faltered.

Overindulging on Swine was their undoing.

A strong supporter is a hungry supporter.

The game was a guaranteed result but the classic fashion in which The Maroons pulled it off was an appropriate send off for that young little fucker (we’re the same age) to chip kick a ball and enter Origin History.

True Legend of League.

Long Live The Dogs of Rumpus.