Benwah83
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- Oct 15, 2011
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I’d had it coming for years.
Like most Melbourne supporters, I’d lived with this little belief in the back of my mind that one day it’d all work out. That one day we’d be good, and that the brown and gold juggernaut would grind to a shuddering halt, then tumble down the ladder. These were merely thoughts, of course – I’d never dare vocalize such things. The Thought Police were never far away, and the utterance of such nonsense would guarantee you a one-way trip to the Ministry of (Un)sociable Football.
For example. I had a friend who supported Essendon – he was understandably chuffed about their Round 2 victory over the Hawks and started spruiking about how this was the ‘end of an era’. I hadn't seen him for weeks – I presumed he has been vaporized. Or he was tapped out on peptides somewhere. I couldn't be certain.
Anyway, they finally got me one Sunday evening. I was sitting at home, on my computer, on the Big Footy forums. Using a series of alias accounts I was on Bay 13 ragging on the Hawks after they failed against the Power the night before. They kicked my door in, the two of them, and dragged me to my feet. Hodge held me, while Lewis round armed me (late) across the face. I slumped into unconsciousness.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't know where I was. Presumably I was in the Ministry of (Un)sociable Football; but there was no way of making certain.
I was in a high-ceilinged windowless cell with walls of glittering brown and gold. The décor was making me ill.
I lost track of the time that I was in the cell, as I had no point of reference. Maybe 7 days? Others were brought into the cell, and then taken away. Dressed in yellow and black, blue and white, purple, red white and black – it didn't matter. The same pattern occurred. They’d be taken away, and then brought back later, bloodied and bruised. Taken away and brought back. Taken away and brought back. Each time, a little piece of them seemed to have been removed.
It always ended the same way. The guard would come in, identify the prisoner, say “you, Room 101!”, and drag them away, screaming. They never brought them back after that.
Finally, the door opened. At first, I couldn't see anyone there. It took me a few seconds for lower my eyes – the man in the brown and gold tracksuit. I shrieked.
“Don’t worry, Benwah; you are in my keeping. For many years I have watched over you. Now the turning point has come. I shall save you, I shall make you perfect”.
Two burly men entered the room either side of Clarkson. Dipper and Brereton. The grabbed me and dragged me out of the cell. Clarkson followed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The re-education process went on for a number of days. Clarkson turned the dial and waves of pain flooded through my body. It was frightening pain, because I could not see what was happening, and I had the feeling that some mortal injury was being done to me. Thoughts of a Demon resurgence were stripped away. Roosy was stripped away. Jackson was stripped away. Jones was stripped away. Watts, annoyingly, lingered for quite a time. Lines were drawn in the sand. Elbows were thrown. Everything good was stripped away, everything except him. I continued to hold him dear.
Through it all, however, Clarko was pleasant, almost sympathetic. He pitied me.
“I am taking trouble with you, Benwah”, he said, “because you are worth trouble. You know perfectly well what is the matter with you. You have known it for years, though you have fought against the knowledge. You are mentally deranged. You suffer from Melbourneitis. You are unable to see that you support a rabble of a football club, but you persuade yourself that everything will turn around. Fortunately it is curable. You have never cured it yourself, because you did not choose to. There was a small effort of the will that you were not ready to make. Even now, I am well aware, you are clinging to your disease under the impression that it is a virtue.”
“But you played for Melbourne!” I squealed.
This was the only time I saw anger flash across him. He looked like he was about to punch a hole in the wall, but he stopped himself. He smiled.
“Does the past exist concretely in space, Benwah? No. It exists in records and memory. All records of my days at Melbourne have been destroyed by the Ministry of Truth and, by the end of your re-education, you won’t remember my playing days at Melbourne either”.
The bloody Ministry of Truth. I knew about them. They were also responsible for Essendon's 'watertight' supplements records. I became indignant. “I heard from another new prisoner that you lost to the Giants on the weekend. THE GIANTS. That’s Melbournesque”.
Clarkson cranked the dial up to something equivalent to a Brain Lake sleeper hold. I dropped into unconsciousness.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The re-education continued for a few more days. Finally, at my weakest moment, the time came.
“It is time to strip away the last thing you haven’t given up. It is time to make you perfect”, Clarkson said.
“Are you taking me to Room 101?”, I asked.
“Yes, but we have a special name for it for you Melbourne supporters”, Clarkson smiled. “Guards, take Benwah to Room 186”.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bound to a chair, with my eyes pinned open, I didn't know what to expect.
“What is in Room 186” started Clarkson “is the worst thing in the world. This varies from individual to individual. In your case, this is…..”.
Clarkson pressed a button. A picture appeared in front of my eyes of a person in a Melbourne jumper.
Cale Morton.
I screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
“There is only one way to make this end, Benwah”, said Clarkson. “You know what you have to do”.
“I won’t!”, I sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t give him up.”
The picture moved closer to my face. I was pinned down and couldn’t look away. The pain was excruciating.
“You know what you have to do”, repeated Clarkson.
I screamed. I cried. I thrashed in the chair. Blood seeped from my skin where the binds around my wrists cut into me. Finally, I caved.
“Do it to Jesse! Do it to Jesse! Not me! Jesse! I don’t care what you do to him. Staple the picture of Cale to his face! Not me! Jesse! Not me!”
The picture vanished. My re-education was complete.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sitting in a bar around the corner from the MCG on a Saturday afternoon, my whole body was numb. I’d worked my way through a bottle of Victory Gin. Gazing into my empty glass, I mulled over the happenings of the past few weeks. Disassembled and stripped of my soul, I felt strangely cleansed. I sat, staring at the telescreen, waiting for the inevitable announcement….
Finally, a chorus of trumpets filled the room. The familiar sounds of The Yankee Doodle Boy poured forth. Over the top of this, the voice from the telescreen told its tale of goals and tackles and turnovers and slaughter. Flashes of brown and gold flickered across my eyes. The little man’s face then appeared. For years it took me to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath those angry eyes. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-witted exile from the loving breast! Two gin scented tears trickled down the sides of my nose. But it was all right, everything was all right. The struggle was finished. I had won the victory over myself. I loved Little Clarkson.
Whorks by 41.
Like most Melbourne supporters, I’d lived with this little belief in the back of my mind that one day it’d all work out. That one day we’d be good, and that the brown and gold juggernaut would grind to a shuddering halt, then tumble down the ladder. These were merely thoughts, of course – I’d never dare vocalize such things. The Thought Police were never far away, and the utterance of such nonsense would guarantee you a one-way trip to the Ministry of (Un)sociable Football.
For example. I had a friend who supported Essendon – he was understandably chuffed about their Round 2 victory over the Hawks and started spruiking about how this was the ‘end of an era’. I hadn't seen him for weeks – I presumed he has been vaporized. Or he was tapped out on peptides somewhere. I couldn't be certain.
Anyway, they finally got me one Sunday evening. I was sitting at home, on my computer, on the Big Footy forums. Using a series of alias accounts I was on Bay 13 ragging on the Hawks after they failed against the Power the night before. They kicked my door in, the two of them, and dragged me to my feet. Hodge held me, while Lewis round armed me (late) across the face. I slumped into unconsciousness.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't know where I was. Presumably I was in the Ministry of (Un)sociable Football; but there was no way of making certain.
I was in a high-ceilinged windowless cell with walls of glittering brown and gold. The décor was making me ill.
I lost track of the time that I was in the cell, as I had no point of reference. Maybe 7 days? Others were brought into the cell, and then taken away. Dressed in yellow and black, blue and white, purple, red white and black – it didn't matter. The same pattern occurred. They’d be taken away, and then brought back later, bloodied and bruised. Taken away and brought back. Taken away and brought back. Each time, a little piece of them seemed to have been removed.
It always ended the same way. The guard would come in, identify the prisoner, say “you, Room 101!”, and drag them away, screaming. They never brought them back after that.
Finally, the door opened. At first, I couldn't see anyone there. It took me a few seconds for lower my eyes – the man in the brown and gold tracksuit. I shrieked.
“Don’t worry, Benwah; you are in my keeping. For many years I have watched over you. Now the turning point has come. I shall save you, I shall make you perfect”.
Two burly men entered the room either side of Clarkson. Dipper and Brereton. The grabbed me and dragged me out of the cell. Clarkson followed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The re-education process went on for a number of days. Clarkson turned the dial and waves of pain flooded through my body. It was frightening pain, because I could not see what was happening, and I had the feeling that some mortal injury was being done to me. Thoughts of a Demon resurgence were stripped away. Roosy was stripped away. Jackson was stripped away. Jones was stripped away. Watts, annoyingly, lingered for quite a time. Lines were drawn in the sand. Elbows were thrown. Everything good was stripped away, everything except him. I continued to hold him dear.
Through it all, however, Clarko was pleasant, almost sympathetic. He pitied me.
“I am taking trouble with you, Benwah”, he said, “because you are worth trouble. You know perfectly well what is the matter with you. You have known it for years, though you have fought against the knowledge. You are mentally deranged. You suffer from Melbourneitis. You are unable to see that you support a rabble of a football club, but you persuade yourself that everything will turn around. Fortunately it is curable. You have never cured it yourself, because you did not choose to. There was a small effort of the will that you were not ready to make. Even now, I am well aware, you are clinging to your disease under the impression that it is a virtue.”
“But you played for Melbourne!” I squealed.
This was the only time I saw anger flash across him. He looked like he was about to punch a hole in the wall, but he stopped himself. He smiled.
“Does the past exist concretely in space, Benwah? No. It exists in records and memory. All records of my days at Melbourne have been destroyed by the Ministry of Truth and, by the end of your re-education, you won’t remember my playing days at Melbourne either”.
The bloody Ministry of Truth. I knew about them. They were also responsible for Essendon's 'watertight' supplements records. I became indignant. “I heard from another new prisoner that you lost to the Giants on the weekend. THE GIANTS. That’s Melbournesque”.
Clarkson cranked the dial up to something equivalent to a Brain Lake sleeper hold. I dropped into unconsciousness.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The re-education continued for a few more days. Finally, at my weakest moment, the time came.
“It is time to strip away the last thing you haven’t given up. It is time to make you perfect”, Clarkson said.
“Are you taking me to Room 101?”, I asked.
“Yes, but we have a special name for it for you Melbourne supporters”, Clarkson smiled. “Guards, take Benwah to Room 186”.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bound to a chair, with my eyes pinned open, I didn't know what to expect.
“What is in Room 186” started Clarkson “is the worst thing in the world. This varies from individual to individual. In your case, this is…..”.
Clarkson pressed a button. A picture appeared in front of my eyes of a person in a Melbourne jumper.
Cale Morton.
I screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
“There is only one way to make this end, Benwah”, said Clarkson. “You know what you have to do”.
“I won’t!”, I sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t give him up.”
The picture moved closer to my face. I was pinned down and couldn’t look away. The pain was excruciating.
“You know what you have to do”, repeated Clarkson.
I screamed. I cried. I thrashed in the chair. Blood seeped from my skin where the binds around my wrists cut into me. Finally, I caved.
“Do it to Jesse! Do it to Jesse! Not me! Jesse! I don’t care what you do to him. Staple the picture of Cale to his face! Not me! Jesse! Not me!”
The picture vanished. My re-education was complete.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sitting in a bar around the corner from the MCG on a Saturday afternoon, my whole body was numb. I’d worked my way through a bottle of Victory Gin. Gazing into my empty glass, I mulled over the happenings of the past few weeks. Disassembled and stripped of my soul, I felt strangely cleansed. I sat, staring at the telescreen, waiting for the inevitable announcement….
Finally, a chorus of trumpets filled the room. The familiar sounds of The Yankee Doodle Boy poured forth. Over the top of this, the voice from the telescreen told its tale of goals and tackles and turnovers and slaughter. Flashes of brown and gold flickered across my eyes. The little man’s face then appeared. For years it took me to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath those angry eyes. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-witted exile from the loving breast! Two gin scented tears trickled down the sides of my nose. But it was all right, everything was all right. The struggle was finished. I had won the victory over myself. I loved Little Clarkson.
Whorks by 41.
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