Round 8, 2005

After 8 Rounds, one self-evident, inarguable conclusion can be drawn about season 2005. There are now only two genuine contenders for this year’s flag.

How do we know this? Why are we so confident in boldly asserting this truth?

The answer is simple: Because Richmond is third on the ladder.

TigerWatch, Week 8: After Collingwood sources during the week admitted that their lack of talent across the ground had forced them to resort to close-checking flooding tactics, the Tiges found little room to move against the Frozen Pies in the first 3 quarters. However, by the last stanza they managed figured out a way to escape the Malthouse dead hand, and suddenly found that they had more loose men than a Sydney Mardi Gras.

Enter Dr Pink.

Three quarters of non-descript play from The Footballer Formerly Known as Brownie meant that the reputation of his direct opponent, Collingwood’s James Clement (grateful defector from the Neesham/Drum regimes), was growing with every tackle made from behind. The last quarter, however, saw Dr Pink completely terrorise Clement with five of the best, and in the process inflict the greatest last quarter bath (Turkish that is – just how he likes it) since Jamie Shanahan joined 99,000 spectators half an hour early on Grand Final day ’97 to watch Darren Jarman single-handedly seal Crow glory.

Tiger fans will again be looking for something to get indignant about this week. They should look no further than the blatant conspiracy amongst bookmakers to talk them down. The latest premiership odds, as reported in The Age last Monday, are as follows:

West Coast: $3.25

Geelong: $5.00

St Kilda: $5.50

Brisbane: $8.50

Melbourne: $11.00 (ha ha)

Port Adelaide: $11.00

Richmond: $17.00

The fact that Tiger fans will get value for money by backing their team just won’t wash with them. “When are they gonna start showing us some respect?” fumed another browned off talkback radio caller this week.

Friday night saw Geelong rightly and rightfully confirm its status as genuine premiership contender, with a casual 70 point shellacking of a gloriously woeful Carlton, whose coach continues to have enormous chunks of credibility hacked out of his side with every passing round. Had Little Ablett not put on his own special sideshow, even Geelong supporters might have wondered why they had bothered to turn up, as the Cats barely needed to get out of second gear the whole night. This allowed the money hungry F-Train (no prizes for guessing what the F stands for) an opportunity to shine when basically no-one else (certainly not his teammates) gave a rat’s toss bag. However, the line from The Australian the next day said it all: “If Brendon Fevola thinks he is worth $500,000 a year as a possible match winning full forward, what must Matthew Scarlett be worth as a regular match winning full back?”

Despite their reasonable form, Geelong still manage to leave us wondering, having so far been unable to convince anyone that they have yet played at their best. Given that they managed to beat St Kilda by 3 goals last week after playing only one good quarter, beat Essendon by 8 goals with two quarters, and flogged Carlton by 12 goals with three quarters, the football world is gagging for them to finally get it together for a whole game.

But back to Ablett, who put on a one-man show as he reached into his old man’s bag of tricks. As an awestruck Tim Lane said on ABC radio: “This man could be the next Gary Ablett!”. Bear in mind that at the same age as Junior is now, The Great Man was still slumming it in Myrtleford, and was yet to even pull on a Geelong guernsey.

Laurence Angwin has been at it again, this time squealing to “The Bulletin” and accusing various “higher profile” Carlton players (without, of course, specifically naming any of them) of regularly partaking in illicit recreational drugs. Certainly not of the performance-enhancing kind anyway, one can safely assume. In other news, rumour has it that Ryan Houlihan took personal offence to Pagan’s “shielas and schoolgirls” jibe last week, privately confiding to his head coach that “it’s not my fault I’m born this way.”

After once again folding meekly in Melbourne, the Old Heave-Ho vindicated the theory previously aired on footballinvective.com that their win over Melbourne was a nothing more than a fluke. Melbourne, meanwhile once again proved on the weekend that beating Melbourne is no big deal after all. Todd Viney and Alistair Clarkson, both ex-Demons now on the Hawk brains trust, would have been eminently aware of Melbourne’s recent tradition of wafer-thin resolve. Thus, the Hawk players were all instructed to miss their regular pre-match body wax and refrain from hair peroxide re-tints for one week only, as part of a strict directive from coaching staff to look more mean and intimidating in front of Daniher’s men who, like a Care Bear, are so pretty, yet so soft. It was all just too much ruggedness in one day for the Dees. On the other hand, Fremantle also suffered the ignominy of being the only side in the AFL that have managed to fade out in the last quarter more dramatically than Essendon in any one game this season.

Warren Tredrea, like a well-hung alpha-male hippopotamus, stormed into the Sydney Swamp on Sunday expecting to create unmitigated havoc, only to find himself helplessly immersed in the bog of quicksand that is the Swans defensive zone. Unfortunately, the rest of the Port herd of hippopotami followed him in blindly, leaving Sydney able to do as they pleased (i.e. completely bore the crap out of all and sundry on their way to victory). Having been stung and wounded by Comrade Dimetriou’s attack on their style of play, Paul Roos and the Swans replied in the only way they knew how – quite literally the only way they knew how. Given that not even the intervention of the AFL’s top brass has been enough to get the Swans to renounce their anti-football, more serious measures are required. Perhaps the Office of Film and Literature Classification should step in and slap an X-Rating on Swans games at the SCG, to keep impressionable youngsters out and ensure they remain uncorrupted. Like the sight of Nicky Webster posing naked in this month’s FHM magazine, the Sydney style of play is Just Plain Wrong.

Way out West, the Eagle Playboy Mansion has been thrown into turmoil after the Juddernaut was suspended after retaliating against two Saints taggers who showed an unnatural interest in demonstrating their ball-handlings skills on him at point blank range. The shockwaves of this suspension will surely reverberate across the Nullabor and throughout Australia, as the football world comes to terms with the fact that Judd is now ineligible for the Brownlow and thus, won’t be invited to attend. This, of course, means that the amazing Miss Twigley (or Judd’s next equally outstanding find) will also be absent from footy’s night of nights. As we can see (below) such an outcome would clearly be Bad For Football:

Crisis talks are apparently underway at Subiaco between John Worsfold, the Eagles Board and Kerry Packer as to how:

(a) the Eagles’ credibility as the club-of-choice for porn stars can be upheld in the absence of the Chris and Rebecca Show on Brownlow night; and

(b) Channel Nine can avoid a ratings disaster on Brownlow night as disappointed male fans switch off after 5 minutes without the Twigley cleavage shot to retain their attention whenever Judd gets another vote and the cameras turn his way.

Rumour has it that the Eagles board has decided to implement Plan B, and farm Rebecca out to appear on the arm of a lesser player instead, to ensure that she is at least present. Negotiations are currently underway with Rebecca’s agent, with Michael “Goodfella” Gardiner and Ben “Corleone” Cousins offering to use their contacts to make her an offer she can’t refuse.

After eight rounds and just one paltry win against Pagan’s rabble, Collingwood is now stone, motherless last. My question is this: Where is the outrage? Where are the recriminations? Once upon a time, the prospect of a Magpie spoon would have had feral fans baying for blood, the entire board in turmoil (in the finest traditions of “The Club”) and the Herald Sun whipping itself into a feeding frenzy, with daily headlines assuring us that “There’s trouble down there at the Lexus Centre.” But there simply isn’t. Why has Eddie not gone to the media to declare his “100% support” for the coach? Why has Malthouse not gone to the media demanding the full support from the board, players and staff? Why have Collingwood players not been blatantly undermining the football department with off-the-cuff and ill-conceived statements concerning tactics or morale? Why are Collingwood supporters not tearing down what’s left of Victoria Park in rabid protest at their team’s rapid demise?

Numerous theories have been propounded as to reasons for this lack of disquietude. Firstly, Eddie has no choice but to back Malthouse, as his only current coaching alternatives would be Gary Ayres, or a return to the halcyon days of the Shaw era. A secret Eddie-led bid to recruit ex-Pie Chocko Williams as the man to lead Victoria Park back to premiership success was reportedly met with an abrupt “Up yours - and by the way, suck sh*t about Nick Stevens” from the charismatic Port identity. Malthouse is simply taking advantage of this fact, and rubbing his hands in glee at the prospect of priority picks and an end-of-season clean out. The players know that this purge will spare only the Cloke and Shaw boys, (in accordance with the Carringbush Nepotism Agreement, as previously outlined) and thus are living in a state of continual fear and paranoia, not unlike living in Stalinist USSR in the 1930s. The supporters are merely resigned to the fate of another requisite 32 years of mediocrity and heartache. That hardy cohort of supporters who managed to pass Grade 2 Maths know that another 18 (oops, I mean 17) years is still a long time to mourn in waiting, and have been forced to become necessarily patient and introspective. On the other hand, Collingwood’s newer breed of supporters – the type assiduously cultivated by Eddie – are probably too busy enjoying their Collins St long lunches and driving their Lexuses to their peninsula golf courses to worry about such trifling concerns as their club’s imminent humiliation.

However, whilst the Magpie Army shows all the fight of the French surrender monkeys of 1940, there’s definitely trouble down there at Arden Street, and the Rooboy natives are starting to get restless. Incredibly and unacceptably, for the third season in succession the Junkyard Dog has found new and innovative ways to throw away a strong start to the year. Well enough is enough. North fans have had a gutful of Shinboner Shitscared/Shithouse, and seek a revolution. They seek the Second Coming. Hence, we humbly suggest the solution to their woes, namely the BBB Plan – Bring Back Blighty. Few would argue that a dose of football enlightenment is just what is needed to revive the Roos, and the man himself has said that he is ready to step back into the fray. Accordingly, The Plan is as follows:

The 10 Point Plan to Bring Back Blighty to Arden Street:

Home Ground: North Melbourne no longer enjoys any distinct home ground advantage at Colon Stadium, whilst prime inner city real estate lies idle on weekends barely a kilometer away at Arden St. The Roos spiritual home should therefore be completely redeveloped into a 40,000 all-seater, members-only stadium, with the absence of spiv boxes a resounding feature. In the interests of recapturing North’s golden era of the 1970s, when the giant gasometer (below) towered majestically over the ground, the new stadium should be built to resemble a rusty old gasometer from the outside, and be known only as “The Gasodome”.

Home Ground (Part 2): Roos to continue to play three token games at Manuka Oval, which to further recapture the golden era is to be redeveloped to resemble Arden St in the 70s. Its pleasant grass embankments should bulldozed to make way for crumbling concrete terraces. The ground to be turned into a muddy bog before every game, a tin shed erected behind the goals at the Canberra Ave end, and all advertising hoardings to only feature ads for Budget Rent a Car and Courage beer.
Just as a huge bronze statue of E.J. graces the front of the Whitten Oval, and a bronze Captain Blood towers proudly over Punt Rd, the main gate to The Gasodome to feature a 20 foot bronze likeness of Blighty, with the pose capturing his most famous moment, launching into THAT torpedo punt from 110 metres out after the siren at Princess Park. The base of the statue to feature an interactive audio-visual display, where passers by can press a button and hear Mike Williamson’s classic commentary (“It’s a big kick! ….It’s a MAMMOTH kick!”)
All surrounding North Melbourne real estate to be bought up and redeveloped for a tailor-made private golf course for Blighty’s exclusive patronage and afternoon R&R.
Blighty’s contract to include allowance for unlimited return airfares to the back 9 at Palm Cove for meditation and spiritual enlightenment.
Shannon Watt offered as a sacrifice to appease the Gods (hopefully they won’t be insulted by such a humble offering).
A purge of dead wood upon Blighty’s arrival, just like at the Crows at the start of ‘97. Far be it from us to tell Blighty who should get the chop, but Corey McKernan probably shouldn’t wait till the last moment to fill out those organ donor forms.
Rigorous promotional campaign to endorse Daniel Wells as the next Andrew McLeod, the young hopeful who became a superstar after receiving the blessed anointing of Blighty in ‘97.
A promise by the AFL to re-introduce the 10 year rule to allow North to poach as many quality experienced players as it likes. Demetriou is all about equalization (or should that be collectivization?) and the North board should push for this as another means, along with priority draft picks and salary caps, to help less-resourced clubs compete fairly against those nasty domineering capitalists. Blighty should be reminded that both Ricciuto and McLeod (by sheer co-incidence) would both qualify.
A dartboard adorned with the faces of Rod Butterss and Grant Thomas to be conveniently located in the new Gasodome’s home team coaches box. Accessory novelty darts to be supplied – the perfect stress relief and motivational mechanism for whenever Blighty’s genius becomes too confronting for even himself.

Hero of the week: Ablett Junior – a poignant reminder to Collingwood that nepotism might indeed be the answer.

Cult figure of the week: Dr Pink. The Terrance and Phillip show continues at Tigerland, as Phillip found five goals worth of Tweasure in the last quarter.

Clanger of the Week: Michael Gleeson on the front page of The Age sport liftout penned a ridiculous article which declared that try-hard footballer, try-hard athlete and try-hard real estate agent Trent Croad and try-hard number 1 draft pick Luke Hodge would be a walk up start in the All Australian team up to Round 8 this season. It seems that the rare delusional disease that infects patients at the Glenferrie Sheltered Workshop has broken free of the quarantine zone and taken hold in the broader community. On 3AW on Tuesday night, serial media pest, try-hard physio and member of the All Australian selection committee Gerard Healy ominously sang the praises of Croad and Hodge, confirming to all that his fall from grace since his lairising Edelsten-financed, Capper-fuelled days is now complete. Honourable mention to Dwayne Russell, (whose Port sycophancy is simply sickening and obsequious to the extreme) who offered his support to the Hawk cause by throwing a trademark well-rehearsed smart-arse comment to Hodge: “Two wins for the season - must be encouraging down there for you guys?”