I’m starting a sports movement.

Hopefully by the grand final it will have swept the length of rugby league land like that Mark Coyne State of Origin try when everyone handled the ball including the linesmen and the Queensland strapper.

My victims’ club will be called Say No To Nine.

You think of the world’s top 10 injustices and the refusal of one television station to bow to the unanimous wishes of its viewers by showing the NRL grand final at 3pm would be up there with George W. Bush’s presidency.

Last Saturday I listened to caller after caller on ABC Grandstand whine about the NRL allowing a bully-boy broadcaster to schedule the grand final at night. They all said: “I know it will never change, but …”

Well I say to you deluded types who wail, but watch just the same: Ask not what you can do for Channel 9 and its smarmy advertisers – tell Channel 9 what it can do for you, or they can stick their stinking grand final. Text them repeatedly with this hook line: no 3, no me.

Which means if the grand final is not at 3pm, then I’m watching some real knuckleheads in Kath and Kim.

How do you think Pink Floyd got to tear down the Berlin Wall brick by brick? By saying: “Ooh, I know it’s a nasty bit of works – the symbol of totalitarian repression of the human spirit, but you get used to it, and the barbed wire, guard posts and murderous machine gun bursts sort of grow on you after a while.”

A freaked-out drug taker, who was not Andrew Johns, once advised: Turn on, tune in, drop out.

I think Timothy Leary was referring to the Melbourne Storm’s game plan against the Broncos in the first final when they caught Brisbane in goal for repeat sets of six.

The Say No To Nine motto is: Turn off, tune out and drop off (to sleep).

Judging by the ratings of late, the Say No To Nine moratorium seems to have started as soon as Eddie wanted to be more than a millionaire host.

But, the turn off has to be just more than a mass click of the TV remote button.

We need some dramatic impact. One of the most riveting film scenes ever is when a loony Jack Nicholson, playing RP McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, refused to be manipulated by a psychotic psychiatric nurse – a control demon who makes the Channel 9 poltergeist possessing David Gallop look like an amateur.

RP got the timid, institutionalised patients to vote against Nurse Ratched so they could watch the World Series baseball on television. Like a spiteful video referee, the she-devil said the equivalent of “No try, penalty”.

So RP went to the television anyway and started hooting and hollering at the blank screen, cheering home run hits. And all the other patients joined in and one actually believed he saw the action – which is one advantage of being insane.

So I want all you Say No To Niners, between “No 3, no me” texts, to go outside next Sunday at 3pm. Light the barbie, unscrew the stubbies, burn the snags and cheer your self silly in front of the lifeless plasma.

And don’t forget to cheer: “Three at last! Three at last! Thank God Almighty, three at last!”