Its Rugby World Cup year, you might have noticed.
Apparently it’s going to be mega. One in three of us are not really interested, according to some poll, but that doesn’t mean it’s not going to be epic. Which includes the prices, as demonstrated by the new All Black jersey which will set you back a $190, but what price national fervour aye?
It’s not really new, in a design sense, although Ze Germans at Adidas reckon it took them two years to develop so it must contain adamantinum or something cutting edge like that. It’s black, of course, but now sports a white collar, like the jersey used to when the ABs wore their wife beating pride in the shape of a Steinlager badge on the right tit.
They say it’s a collar but it’s not in the traditional sense of the word. When your boss says smart casual dress Friday means ‘a collar’ he’s not expecting you to turn up in a tight titty tee with a white panel of fabric around the neck, no matter how slimming it is on you.
Incidentally, why has casual sex Fridays never caught on? I’ve made that suggestion at every workplace and it usually only ever results in me getting kicked out of the social club. Go figure.
Collars disappeared from rugby jerseys when some bugger realised that they were quite good for grabbing hold of, just like each others knobs. At that point it was decidedly uncool to have anything clutch able anywhere, thus in ushered the skin tight era of jerseys, which admittedly do look fantastic on the Adonis’s playing the game at the highest level, not so much on the fat fighters in the stadium watching.
Notice though, that the shorts have not got any tighter?
Now Kiwis being the must have sheep we are, lap this shit up, especially if we think we’re the first to get something. Thus Ze Germans have flogged a shit load of these jerseys all at full price, laughing all their way to the bank. It is a lovely accent is Ze German, even in moments of great humour. And they might just have continued to do so unabated, until the story broke that it’s actually cheaper to get the things online, from overseas.
Considerably so, which proves a little theory I’ve had since I started buying named, numbered and long sleeved football jerseys on line at the same price a plain, short sleeved one appears on the rack here; we’re getting shafted.
The AB jersey, lame faux collar or not, is our national jersey. It shouldn’t cost NZers nearly $200 to buy one. By all means, flog it to the Japs for that much but make it affordable for kids up and down the country to own one, for fucks sake. Football fans can own an All Whites jersey for $150, so what’s the diff?
Adidas reckon that they’re price comparable with other jerseys, like those of the Warriors. Who gives a shit, if someone is silly enough to pay that for a club jersey then mark those suckers up I say. Even the Warriors training jersey costs that much! Maybe they’ve got The Bad Mutcher running the merchandising at the club because nobody beats his meat. It says so on the radio ad.
They reckon that selling them here that much keeps NZ business in the black (no pun intended). What, like Rebel Sport, who will send their profits off to their Australian shareholders? Oh and the price hasn’t changed since 2009 they claim, like it’s a good thing. Pull the other one Adolf; it was a fucken rip off then too.
I like Adidas stuff. I own a fair bit of it and I won’t buy any other brand of football boots other than Ze Germans. Yes, I am aware of how the company convinced football to sell it’s the soul back in the seventies for a bunch of tracksuits and tricolour footballs and how the game has been paying for it since, but I also know they know their shit.
Including, it would seem, how to fleece an unsuspecting National populace. Buy online peeps, The ‘Das wins either way but at least you can have the satisfaction of not being taken for a sucker.
Showing posts with label Rebel Sport. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rebel Sport. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Monday, November 29, 2010
Sonny Bill & The Mormons
Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I was a Mormon.
Not because I have a hankering to find God, it’s just that I just love their uniform. And they wear it so well; rain or shine you’ll go a long way before you find anyone wearing the classic white shirt and black tie combo quite as sharply as a Mormon does.
Cyclists could take note from the Mormon too for he doesn’t need to invest in those silly “I’ve got more pretty labels than you” lycra numbers that so many of you wear. Oh no, all the Mormon needs are two bike clips (one for each leg) and the truth.
I once had a divine moment with the Mormons.
It all started when I contracted chicken pox at the grand old age of twenty. I was consequently holed up in the flat feeling rather sorry for myself, watching daytime TV, going through the flatmates underwear draw – that kind of thing – when there came a knock at the door.
On the doorstep were two Mormon girls, one of which was a gorgeous, blonde, American girl.
Maybe it was the fumes from the cream they give you to rub on the scabs but for some reason I thought she was an angel and after politely declining their offer of a chat on account of said blistering, porous rash, invited them back for a cuppa the next day.
Needless to say I spent most of that next morning prepping myself for a meeting of porno proportions. I can’t recall the number exactly but I probably took the edge of twice, maybe three times. Yes, I may well have been sick with the complexion of a kid working at McDonalds but I was betting on working the ClubDes charm that day I don’t mind telling you.
Imagine my complete surprise and I’ll admit, terror, when the knock came and I noticed out the corner of the lounge window, not one, not several, but tens of Samoan Mormon boys converging on my doorstep.
Now I know they say God works in mysterious ways but he damn well knew what he was doing that day. Either they were going to leave having converted me or it was going to be one hell of a gang bang. I never did answer that door that day, or any other time the big fulla has knocked.
But I love that Mormons are what they present themselves as. If they knock on the door you know what you’re going to get, which is more than I can say with Rebel fucken Sport, the weakest sports store ever.
They’ve spent a lot of money this year on having brick shit house and all round hunk of man spunk, Sonny Bill Williams, do their ads. I think they should’ve spent their money on organising their stores so that you can actually find something and stocking the place for if and when you do.
This is what happens when you have a virtual monopoly of a retail genre like Rebel do. You can pretend to have sales which are really nothing more than a slight reduction in overpriced stock and you can hire staff more interested in dancing to the radio playing in store than knowing where the shin pads are kept.
Because where else are we going to go aye? The guy on the High Street who sells fishing rods, rifles and aertex shirts, in that order? He wouldn’t even know what a T90 is if you showed him a picture, even then he still wouldn’t give a shit. He certainly wouldn’t stock it any time soon.
But, just like the Mormon, what you see is what you get. Amen to that.
Not because I have a hankering to find God, it’s just that I just love their uniform. And they wear it so well; rain or shine you’ll go a long way before you find anyone wearing the classic white shirt and black tie combo quite as sharply as a Mormon does.
Cyclists could take note from the Mormon too for he doesn’t need to invest in those silly “I’ve got more pretty labels than you” lycra numbers that so many of you wear. Oh no, all the Mormon needs are two bike clips (one for each leg) and the truth.
I once had a divine moment with the Mormons.
It all started when I contracted chicken pox at the grand old age of twenty. I was consequently holed up in the flat feeling rather sorry for myself, watching daytime TV, going through the flatmates underwear draw – that kind of thing – when there came a knock at the door.
On the doorstep were two Mormon girls, one of which was a gorgeous, blonde, American girl.
Maybe it was the fumes from the cream they give you to rub on the scabs but for some reason I thought she was an angel and after politely declining their offer of a chat on account of said blistering, porous rash, invited them back for a cuppa the next day.
Needless to say I spent most of that next morning prepping myself for a meeting of porno proportions. I can’t recall the number exactly but I probably took the edge of twice, maybe three times. Yes, I may well have been sick with the complexion of a kid working at McDonalds but I was betting on working the ClubDes charm that day I don’t mind telling you.
Imagine my complete surprise and I’ll admit, terror, when the knock came and I noticed out the corner of the lounge window, not one, not several, but tens of Samoan Mormon boys converging on my doorstep.
Now I know they say God works in mysterious ways but he damn well knew what he was doing that day. Either they were going to leave having converted me or it was going to be one hell of a gang bang. I never did answer that door that day, or any other time the big fulla has knocked.
But I love that Mormons are what they present themselves as. If they knock on the door you know what you’re going to get, which is more than I can say with Rebel fucken Sport, the weakest sports store ever.
They’ve spent a lot of money this year on having brick shit house and all round hunk of man spunk, Sonny Bill Williams, do their ads. I think they should’ve spent their money on organising their stores so that you can actually find something and stocking the place for if and when you do.
This is what happens when you have a virtual monopoly of a retail genre like Rebel do. You can pretend to have sales which are really nothing more than a slight reduction in overpriced stock and you can hire staff more interested in dancing to the radio playing in store than knowing where the shin pads are kept.
Because where else are we going to go aye? The guy on the High Street who sells fishing rods, rifles and aertex shirts, in that order? He wouldn’t even know what a T90 is if you showed him a picture, even then he still wouldn’t give a shit. He certainly wouldn’t stock it any time soon.
But, just like the Mormon, what you see is what you get. Amen to that.
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