Mobbs
A Large Portion, Yes
This is what I wrote back in 1996, about our last win, being against Freo. Bear with me, its long, and there's a heap of in-jokes :
FITZROY vs FREMANTLE
Up until that fateful weekend, I had toned down on the drinking,
and had only utilised Saturday nights for sessions. But last week
one friend (Carlton supporter) was on her way overseas, we had to
wish her well (and make sure she was, in all actuality, finally
p**sing off). So on Thursday I rolled up to Cha Chi's Mexican
restaurant in Nicholson Street. It wasn't really in Nicholson
Street it was on Nicholson Street. Or beside Nicholson Street.
There I reacquainted myself with an old buddy called Midouri
Marguerita, two jugs full, to be exact, my one and only cocktail
love (although Chris Mainwaring has offered on various occasions
to extend that genre of my social set). I also indulged in some
Mexican food - after purchasing a bar heater on Wednesday, I ate
a fajita on Thursday. Lots of chilli, two of some so big I was
expecting them to walk down the stairs in pyjamas.
After surri surrupt serrupt blatently stealing everybody's
serviette from the table, I managed to complete that meal, and
after a bit of idle banter I was back on my way home. Hopefully a
good night's sleep would see me fit for the next day.
It did, but the next day was a little more depraved than the
last. I met my sister Laurel (Collingwood supporter), and boarded
a train at Murrumbeena (ancient aboriginal phrase meaning 'place
where the Murrumbeenas are'). From there it was into the city
(the train, that is, not the Murrumbeena). We ignited at
Flinder's Street, and walked to Mother's Bar.
Downstairs, mates Rob (Footscray supporter) and John
(football-adverse person) were awaiting. Rob had already
repainted the toilet, and John being an employee at the bar, had
been paid two spirits (Casper & Zuul) to return it to it's
original state. Shortly after Davo the Hook (congratulations for
ruining your life, you idiot) arrived, and then Trev (Saint Kilda
supporter) made his appearance. We were so primed we could even drink
the beer that Bill (Essendon supporter) serves.
Other arrivals during the evening included Pete (support in
question), Cam, John, Bryan, Scotty (from Telecom Mobilenet),
Nicole, Jodie, Dermott (great fan of limericks), Alistair
(Hawthorn supporter), Bel and Tony (Adelaide supporter). I
seriously cannot remember whether we left early or if the pub
closed, but our next step was for a portion of us to juxtapose
our unworthy selves into the Carlton Club. Trev was unsuccessful
at gaining entry, and everybody had different views on why this
occurred. Some thought he may have appeared overly intoxicated.
Wrong. Some were of the opinion that he had a bad name from being
there before. Wronger. Others again argued the arguable argument
that he had said something silly on our arrival to the man who
had only had the hook in about a week. Wrongest.
The fact is, the Carlton Club does have a little bit of a
reputation for simple scuffles and worse kerfuffles. Trev being a
big boy, and looking as though he had once been through Hell and
not sent any postcards, well, I think the staff are a little
sizeist in sake of wariness. Seriously, the bouncers were a pack
of Murrumbeenas.
This time we were upstairs, and migrated (it was south) to the
pool room, where a stranger beat about five of us by very narrow
margins (at pool, that is). The juke box blared, two of Justin
Murphy's sisters (there's probably a few dozen of them) tried to
pick up John but were turned down for being post-pubescent. A
bloke called Bruce gave me about eight conflicting reasons why he
was skint, and we continued to enjoy ourselves.
I left around fiveish, ate Hungry Jack's, and caught a taxi home.
Bryan, also having had enough of the evening, came back and ran
straight for the couch, complaining about the cold and feeling
somewhat crookish. I retired unbeaten and was out shortly after.
Awoke about ten, looked outside, Bryan had done his usual runner
and left the couch strewn all over the carpet. Sensing the need
for haste, I bounced from my bed into a pair of jeans (which do
indeed now stand upright without help, I wish I could be that
erect that early in the morning) and applied rapidity in my rush
to get to the footy. Met Cam at Flinders Street, met Scotty and
John on the train. They advised us of Scotty's recent appointment
as the Repo Manager for Telstra. Suddenly, we are at West
Footscray.
All round good lead up, I reckon.
At the footy, we perused a seemingly underdone team of Juggers
show far too little application to do a deed on the Collingwood
twos. I indulged in a couple of cans of Elevator before dragging
out my first Melbourne Bitter for the day, the brand of which I
repeatedly pointed out to boundary rider (?) Neil Kerley.
Shouldn't he be at Pinnaroo or something?
A Collingwood player, poor little number 45, had about nine
billion runs around the boundary line, but still was not utilised
on the ground itself. We took this unfortunate type under our
wing immediately, and promised him we'd give him a run if he
crossed over and played for Adelaide-Brisbane-Carlton-Essendon-
Fitzroy-Footscray-Fremantle-Geelong-Hawthorn-Melbourne-North
Melbourne-Richmond-Saint Kilda-Sydney-West Coast Eagles. He did
get a run later on, and was the catalyst in Collingwood kicking
right away toward the end of the match.
A special segment of the MOB, of which I was most definitely not
a member, tended to pick on one of our blokes all through the
reserves. Unfortunately, said unfortunate managed to play right
into their hands, but I'm sure he'll be back to his best form in
coming weeks, although some even suggested that that was his best
form. But we did lose that match, and the seconds will have to
play well against North (or whoever their opponents will be this
week) to get four points, let's hope they improve. Fuzz was quite
clearly the best of our team.
Commendations to the Cheer Squad for the run-through, even if the
John McCarthy caricature did look a little like that bloke on the
front page of Mad magazines. On the other hand, Fremantle must
have left their condom at home, and ran out unhindered by any
Fire-in-the-Sky type enclosure. It was then that the party began.
Although we started off well, the Fremantle Gelatis broke back to
have an early lead at one stage during the first quarter. Joycey
strained himself again, attempting to get to TWO IDENTICAL KICKS
THAT WERE'NT ACCURATE ENOUGH FOR HIM TO GET TO WITHOUT STRAINING
HIMSELF. Murphy got attacked by a vampire, and came off to the
plasma pit. Then, right in front of our good selves, an unnamed
mann from Fremantle performed an act better suited to our
exhibition matches in London. Had Holmer been facing him, I'm
sure the fellow would have quit footy immediately and gone back
to belly dancing.
That made us rather p**sed. Not the MOB, the team. Generally,
beer and spirits make the MOB p**sed. But a couple of early
pieces of uncalled for S**tfish brutishness intoxicated Fitzroy
right off. And then we started to make our ire tell on the
scoreboard. Our ire ran to the teacher and said "The scoreboard's
being naughty". As a result, the scoreboard became ticked off,
and began to tower over the Motherdockers.
SCOREBOARD (To Gina G's "Ooh, ah, a little bit more")
Ooh, ah, look at the scoreboard,
Ooh, ah, look at that score.
Ooh, ah, look at the scoreboard,
What the **** are you here for.
Ooh, ah, look at the scoreboard,
Ooh, ah, look at that score.
Ooh, ah, look at the scoreboard,
Check that out you ****ing *****.
Our mozzie-size midfielders, some only a couple of games in to
what will surely become a set of illustrious careers on the
field, created havoc at centre bounces, while Speedy Molloy
fulfilled his role as Nana's right-hand man in defence, actually
defeating his two opponents by playing them from behind. It may
not have worked against that Welsh b****** last week, but it was
a ploy into the hands of which played both Bandy & Oreoli. Sapple
did the sweeping magnificently in his new attire (looks better
now, you can see less of his face), and Frankie "No Comment"
Bizzotto put tears into the eyes of many F**knuckle forays
forward with his stout "get past me and I'll hunt yer down and
kill yer" defence. But Speedy was the most inspiring, at one
stage a wayward Fremantle Easel kick landed amongst a nest of
both teams' players on the fifty metre line, and the crowd had
already start to breathe "Jarrod", even though he was about ninth
from the jack two feet from the ditch. Yeah, he got it, the doubt
was about how the fans knew he'd be the one to clean up.
Our forward line was our weakest link. S**thouse Mellington will
have to start kicking some goals if we're to beat the better
performers, and last week wasn't good enough. I'm talking about
the poster. I'm talking about having to juggle marks. I'm talking
about having to rove off your own lead. I hope Cougah realises
there's more than a little sarcasm in this. It's alright, Cougs,
you might just scrape in for a vote from me. Other than Cougah,
Barks, Krusty and the Broady Boy were amongst a number of strong
contributors up forward. The latest rumour is that this year's
State of Origin match between Victoria and the Allies will be
played at the Calder Park Thunderdome.
It was hard to fault any of our players, except perhaps Darren
Holmes for not realising that Peter Mann is from North Melbourne
and is therefore undoubtedly a king-hitter. Efforts like Primus'
run and tap along the wing and Bamford's checkside pass to
teammate Mick Dwyer convinced us that we wouldn't lose this
match, with or without a Fremantlepiece attempt at a comeback in
the last quarter. Fellas, it's better than losing. Ain't it?
Votes :
9 - Murphy, Carter.
8 - Molloy, Mellington, Pike, Bamford, Dwyer, Johnson, McCarthy,
Bizzotto.
7 - Hawking, Barker, Cassidy, Primus, Dent, Paxman, Morton.
6 - Clayton.
3 - McGregor.
1 - Holmes, Boyd.
When the only blokes under 5 five votes scored at a rate of 2.5
votes per quarter (10 for the match, it's not a bad effort from
the team.
Pretty well every one of our ugly heads got on telly that night
(and a few cute heads, too), so we're happy. A kick ensued after
the match, where I was outplayed by three three-foot high
opponents and a complete stranger held the other end of the
session. We moved to the Gelati-car owned by Denis, and screamed
our way to the pub, having mid-flight conversations with
neighbouring vehicles, attempting to pick up young nubile
Richmond-supporter type girls on the way, and getting told off in
no uncertain terms by the skipper of the ship for asking him too
many times "Where the f**k are we?"
Arriving at the hotel, we knew what to expect, the place was
teeming with folk who I'm sure would not have been there had the
day been another disgrace for the FFC. Even the media were out in
full force, made it bloody hard to get to the bar. Because of the
likely crush, I stayed in the Public until the constitutional
vote-giving had concluded, then moved into the Social Club.
We put in a fair session, and left at about closing time. Fletch,
myself and John threw our weary frames into his little
Mortonmobile, and went to the Junction Oval. Just for a look
around, and to inhale the atmosphere.
For once, even that place seemed satisfied.
------------------
Hallowed be thy Roy
FITZROY vs FREMANTLE
Up until that fateful weekend, I had toned down on the drinking,
and had only utilised Saturday nights for sessions. But last week
one friend (Carlton supporter) was on her way overseas, we had to
wish her well (and make sure she was, in all actuality, finally
p**sing off). So on Thursday I rolled up to Cha Chi's Mexican
restaurant in Nicholson Street. It wasn't really in Nicholson
Street it was on Nicholson Street. Or beside Nicholson Street.
There I reacquainted myself with an old buddy called Midouri
Marguerita, two jugs full, to be exact, my one and only cocktail
love (although Chris Mainwaring has offered on various occasions
to extend that genre of my social set). I also indulged in some
Mexican food - after purchasing a bar heater on Wednesday, I ate
a fajita on Thursday. Lots of chilli, two of some so big I was
expecting them to walk down the stairs in pyjamas.
After surri surrupt serrupt blatently stealing everybody's
serviette from the table, I managed to complete that meal, and
after a bit of idle banter I was back on my way home. Hopefully a
good night's sleep would see me fit for the next day.
It did, but the next day was a little more depraved than the
last. I met my sister Laurel (Collingwood supporter), and boarded
a train at Murrumbeena (ancient aboriginal phrase meaning 'place
where the Murrumbeenas are'). From there it was into the city
(the train, that is, not the Murrumbeena). We ignited at
Flinder's Street, and walked to Mother's Bar.
Downstairs, mates Rob (Footscray supporter) and John
(football-adverse person) were awaiting. Rob had already
repainted the toilet, and John being an employee at the bar, had
been paid two spirits (Casper & Zuul) to return it to it's
original state. Shortly after Davo the Hook (congratulations for
ruining your life, you idiot) arrived, and then Trev (Saint Kilda
supporter) made his appearance. We were so primed we could even drink
the beer that Bill (Essendon supporter) serves.
Other arrivals during the evening included Pete (support in
question), Cam, John, Bryan, Scotty (from Telecom Mobilenet),
Nicole, Jodie, Dermott (great fan of limericks), Alistair
(Hawthorn supporter), Bel and Tony (Adelaide supporter). I
seriously cannot remember whether we left early or if the pub
closed, but our next step was for a portion of us to juxtapose
our unworthy selves into the Carlton Club. Trev was unsuccessful
at gaining entry, and everybody had different views on why this
occurred. Some thought he may have appeared overly intoxicated.
Wrong. Some were of the opinion that he had a bad name from being
there before. Wronger. Others again argued the arguable argument
that he had said something silly on our arrival to the man who
had only had the hook in about a week. Wrongest.
The fact is, the Carlton Club does have a little bit of a
reputation for simple scuffles and worse kerfuffles. Trev being a
big boy, and looking as though he had once been through Hell and
not sent any postcards, well, I think the staff are a little
sizeist in sake of wariness. Seriously, the bouncers were a pack
of Murrumbeenas.
This time we were upstairs, and migrated (it was south) to the
pool room, where a stranger beat about five of us by very narrow
margins (at pool, that is). The juke box blared, two of Justin
Murphy's sisters (there's probably a few dozen of them) tried to
pick up John but were turned down for being post-pubescent. A
bloke called Bruce gave me about eight conflicting reasons why he
was skint, and we continued to enjoy ourselves.
I left around fiveish, ate Hungry Jack's, and caught a taxi home.
Bryan, also having had enough of the evening, came back and ran
straight for the couch, complaining about the cold and feeling
somewhat crookish. I retired unbeaten and was out shortly after.
Awoke about ten, looked outside, Bryan had done his usual runner
and left the couch strewn all over the carpet. Sensing the need
for haste, I bounced from my bed into a pair of jeans (which do
indeed now stand upright without help, I wish I could be that
erect that early in the morning) and applied rapidity in my rush
to get to the footy. Met Cam at Flinders Street, met Scotty and
John on the train. They advised us of Scotty's recent appointment
as the Repo Manager for Telstra. Suddenly, we are at West
Footscray.
All round good lead up, I reckon.
At the footy, we perused a seemingly underdone team of Juggers
show far too little application to do a deed on the Collingwood
twos. I indulged in a couple of cans of Elevator before dragging
out my first Melbourne Bitter for the day, the brand of which I
repeatedly pointed out to boundary rider (?) Neil Kerley.
Shouldn't he be at Pinnaroo or something?
A Collingwood player, poor little number 45, had about nine
billion runs around the boundary line, but still was not utilised
on the ground itself. We took this unfortunate type under our
wing immediately, and promised him we'd give him a run if he
crossed over and played for Adelaide-Brisbane-Carlton-Essendon-
Fitzroy-Footscray-Fremantle-Geelong-Hawthorn-Melbourne-North
Melbourne-Richmond-Saint Kilda-Sydney-West Coast Eagles. He did
get a run later on, and was the catalyst in Collingwood kicking
right away toward the end of the match.
A special segment of the MOB, of which I was most definitely not
a member, tended to pick on one of our blokes all through the
reserves. Unfortunately, said unfortunate managed to play right
into their hands, but I'm sure he'll be back to his best form in
coming weeks, although some even suggested that that was his best
form. But we did lose that match, and the seconds will have to
play well against North (or whoever their opponents will be this
week) to get four points, let's hope they improve. Fuzz was quite
clearly the best of our team.
Commendations to the Cheer Squad for the run-through, even if the
John McCarthy caricature did look a little like that bloke on the
front page of Mad magazines. On the other hand, Fremantle must
have left their condom at home, and ran out unhindered by any
Fire-in-the-Sky type enclosure. It was then that the party began.
Although we started off well, the Fremantle Gelatis broke back to
have an early lead at one stage during the first quarter. Joycey
strained himself again, attempting to get to TWO IDENTICAL KICKS
THAT WERE'NT ACCURATE ENOUGH FOR HIM TO GET TO WITHOUT STRAINING
HIMSELF. Murphy got attacked by a vampire, and came off to the
plasma pit. Then, right in front of our good selves, an unnamed
mann from Fremantle performed an act better suited to our
exhibition matches in London. Had Holmer been facing him, I'm
sure the fellow would have quit footy immediately and gone back
to belly dancing.
That made us rather p**sed. Not the MOB, the team. Generally,
beer and spirits make the MOB p**sed. But a couple of early
pieces of uncalled for S**tfish brutishness intoxicated Fitzroy
right off. And then we started to make our ire tell on the
scoreboard. Our ire ran to the teacher and said "The scoreboard's
being naughty". As a result, the scoreboard became ticked off,
and began to tower over the Motherdockers.
SCOREBOARD (To Gina G's "Ooh, ah, a little bit more")
Ooh, ah, look at the scoreboard,
Ooh, ah, look at that score.
Ooh, ah, look at the scoreboard,
What the **** are you here for.
Ooh, ah, look at the scoreboard,
Ooh, ah, look at that score.
Ooh, ah, look at the scoreboard,
Check that out you ****ing *****.
Our mozzie-size midfielders, some only a couple of games in to
what will surely become a set of illustrious careers on the
field, created havoc at centre bounces, while Speedy Molloy
fulfilled his role as Nana's right-hand man in defence, actually
defeating his two opponents by playing them from behind. It may
not have worked against that Welsh b****** last week, but it was
a ploy into the hands of which played both Bandy & Oreoli. Sapple
did the sweeping magnificently in his new attire (looks better
now, you can see less of his face), and Frankie "No Comment"
Bizzotto put tears into the eyes of many F**knuckle forays
forward with his stout "get past me and I'll hunt yer down and
kill yer" defence. But Speedy was the most inspiring, at one
stage a wayward Fremantle Easel kick landed amongst a nest of
both teams' players on the fifty metre line, and the crowd had
already start to breathe "Jarrod", even though he was about ninth
from the jack two feet from the ditch. Yeah, he got it, the doubt
was about how the fans knew he'd be the one to clean up.
Our forward line was our weakest link. S**thouse Mellington will
have to start kicking some goals if we're to beat the better
performers, and last week wasn't good enough. I'm talking about
the poster. I'm talking about having to juggle marks. I'm talking
about having to rove off your own lead. I hope Cougah realises
there's more than a little sarcasm in this. It's alright, Cougs,
you might just scrape in for a vote from me. Other than Cougah,
Barks, Krusty and the Broady Boy were amongst a number of strong
contributors up forward. The latest rumour is that this year's
State of Origin match between Victoria and the Allies will be
played at the Calder Park Thunderdome.
It was hard to fault any of our players, except perhaps Darren
Holmes for not realising that Peter Mann is from North Melbourne
and is therefore undoubtedly a king-hitter. Efforts like Primus'
run and tap along the wing and Bamford's checkside pass to
teammate Mick Dwyer convinced us that we wouldn't lose this
match, with or without a Fremantlepiece attempt at a comeback in
the last quarter. Fellas, it's better than losing. Ain't it?
Votes :
9 - Murphy, Carter.
8 - Molloy, Mellington, Pike, Bamford, Dwyer, Johnson, McCarthy,
Bizzotto.
7 - Hawking, Barker, Cassidy, Primus, Dent, Paxman, Morton.
6 - Clayton.
3 - McGregor.
1 - Holmes, Boyd.
When the only blokes under 5 five votes scored at a rate of 2.5
votes per quarter (10 for the match, it's not a bad effort from
the team.
Pretty well every one of our ugly heads got on telly that night
(and a few cute heads, too), so we're happy. A kick ensued after
the match, where I was outplayed by three three-foot high
opponents and a complete stranger held the other end of the
session. We moved to the Gelati-car owned by Denis, and screamed
our way to the pub, having mid-flight conversations with
neighbouring vehicles, attempting to pick up young nubile
Richmond-supporter type girls on the way, and getting told off in
no uncertain terms by the skipper of the ship for asking him too
many times "Where the f**k are we?"
Arriving at the hotel, we knew what to expect, the place was
teeming with folk who I'm sure would not have been there had the
day been another disgrace for the FFC. Even the media were out in
full force, made it bloody hard to get to the bar. Because of the
likely crush, I stayed in the Public until the constitutional
vote-giving had concluded, then moved into the Social Club.
We put in a fair session, and left at about closing time. Fletch,
myself and John threw our weary frames into his little
Mortonmobile, and went to the Junction Oval. Just for a look
around, and to inhale the atmosphere.
For once, even that place seemed satisfied.
------------------
Hallowed be thy Roy