Mobbenfuhrer
13 Jun 2003, 16:25
Anyone remember Clive Waterhouse's thirty odd unforced errors in the final AFL football victory?
It started when he ran out in his stupid long white hair, as though he was Jesus and Fitzroy wasn't.
Immediately the massing throng of 5000 ( or thereabouts :) ) Roys fans took to him like a colony of ants takes to a fly that you've torn the wings off and dropped onto the ground near its patch entrance. There may not have been a record crowd there, but there was certainly a record number of concerted effort contributors.
Needless to say, not too long into the match, the normally funcitonal Clive finally got out onto his own which was the only way he was going to achieve possessiondom.
Standing freely and unhindered for the mark, he cleanly spilt the pill and then chased it around for a minute at ground level, to the cheerful derision of the Roys throng who found a special glee in eating Clives to make them dead.
Now subject to even louder and more coherent attention from the crowd, Clive continued on to perform an assortment of royal stuff-ups, now at the complete mercy of the chanting warriors in the stands.
Cliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive .... they would say ... Cliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive .... and he didn't let us down ... by ensuring he let himself, and his team, and his team's supporters, down. He would have better served humanity by digging himself a hole and burying himself in it. But he wasn't serving humanity, he was serving Fitzroy, and what a pleasant, trooublefree thrall he made.
It was a pleasure to be a part of the swarm that made Clive cry.
Justifiable infliction of trauma. It's faaaaantastic.
It started when he ran out in his stupid long white hair, as though he was Jesus and Fitzroy wasn't.
Immediately the massing throng of 5000 ( or thereabouts :) ) Roys fans took to him like a colony of ants takes to a fly that you've torn the wings off and dropped onto the ground near its patch entrance. There may not have been a record crowd there, but there was certainly a record number of concerted effort contributors.
Needless to say, not too long into the match, the normally funcitonal Clive finally got out onto his own which was the only way he was going to achieve possessiondom.
Standing freely and unhindered for the mark, he cleanly spilt the pill and then chased it around for a minute at ground level, to the cheerful derision of the Roys throng who found a special glee in eating Clives to make them dead.
Now subject to even louder and more coherent attention from the crowd, Clive continued on to perform an assortment of royal stuff-ups, now at the complete mercy of the chanting warriors in the stands.
Cliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive .... they would say ... Cliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive .... and he didn't let us down ... by ensuring he let himself, and his team, and his team's supporters, down. He would have better served humanity by digging himself a hole and burying himself in it. But he wasn't serving humanity, he was serving Fitzroy, and what a pleasant, trooublefree thrall he made.
It was a pleasure to be a part of the swarm that made Clive cry.
Justifiable infliction of trauma. It's faaaaantastic.