Biffinator
Norm Smith Medallist
- Joined
- Dec 8, 2007
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- 5,046
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- 4,554
- Location
- Bunyip, Gippsland
- AFL Club
- Melbourne
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- The Exers
Comrades - I am not quite sure where Deestroy is, but here is the preview for what it is worth (interstate teams are not easy):
Nausea overwhelmed me as we descended into Perth. Deestroy’s brief was terser than usual: redeem yourself. The city was in the grip of a year-long heatwave with no end in sight. Indeed, as I flew over the parched wheat-plains to the east, the Isaiah in me pronounced: forget the rain – invoke a deluge – that’s the necessity. After all, this is a State that is progressively cannibalising itself, tonne by tonne, to underwrite the jet-skis and lines of coke. We landed shortly thereafter. The road that led from the airport to the city, replete with adult-shops, tyre outlets and takeaway joints, added to my oppression – have we nothing more to show after six thousand years of civilisation? A verse came to mind jestingly as we drove past the Burswood Casino: “And Nineveh was a great city . . . . .” Soon enough, I was lying on my hotel-bed, a latter-day Captain Willard, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling fan. Euphoria could be purchased nearby in the guise of flesh or pills – but should one risk an impromptu encounter with Rose Porteous, Alan Bond or Brian Burke – the Holy Trinity of this Unholy State? A demiurge I ain’t. Night had fallen but the mercury did not follow suit. My stamina ebbed out. I drifted off into the shallowest of sleeps. No dreams were forthcoming.
I woke up after midnight and sipped the tap-water. It was eau de chlorine. Could this effluence be the source of the madness? Or was the pressure-cooker climate to blame? No answers came to mind - only a sense of repulsion. I opened the bar-fridge and an old can of Swan Lager snarled at me. That’s it, I said to myself madly, donning my Pumas and a Demons jumper: it’s time for a biathlon. If the muggers of Perth want my business, they’d better be quick on their feet.
Now, as it so happened, the route I chose had been infamously pioneered by Ben Cousins: starting from the Canning Highway, running through backyards, jumping fences, swimming out into the Swan River to finish up at the Blue Water Grill. I started off stoutly but my mind soon drifted away. What is one to make of the Eagles? Their Premiership sides of 92 and 94 came to mind with their bloated musculature. I also recalled Benny as he stood on the podium after the 2006 Granny, higher than a kite. What could it all mean? Fletcher had flat-lined but no hard questions had been asked: what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Party hard and play harder. It had taken a Victorian – Chris Judd - to walk out on the debauchery to bring it to a standstill - temporarily. But was it gathering force anew? Is there not a retributive force in the cosmos?
As I ran on, I became conscious that I was not alone. A spectral presence was keeping pace. I was not perturbed. This was Perth after all, where bizarro shit is the norm. I hazarded a glance: it was Lucifer himself, garbed in an old fashioned Eagles jumper. We deviated from the route. Soon afterwards, we were standing at Kings Park, overlooking Perth as though from the parapet of the Temple.
I bent over at the hips trying to catch my breath. With effort, I gestured roughly at his attire.
“'Is there any more hollow existence than living in Perth and following the Coasters?’” the Star of the Morning laughed. “I endorse that statement!”
He cackled again.
Me, I was still sucking in air by the pint.
“Poor Biff,” he sympathised. “Are you worn out yet? It’s not easy being a life-long Dees supporter. The Curse is still active: your club chose Watts over Nic Nat or Hurley, and Cook over Darling. Sooner or later, the debt will balloon out again: we both know that. Life is so short; why persist in your folly?”
I spat on the ground.
“I know the gig – isn’t this the point where you offer me three temptations?”
The Devil grinned impishly.
“That implies you have something that I want. You’re a Melbourne supporter after all - a sharecropper of dust!”
I told him bluntly to depart henceforth and multiply. Strangely enough, he complied. Wearily, I cast my gaze over the metropolis below me. Its lights were doing little to stave off the darkness. Somewhere in the shadows lay the Perth equivalent of Festung Europa – Fortress Subiaco. A test is coming our way – Round 6 – and our boys are hardly in scintillating form. The Eagles might be the reigning Spooners, but that’s because they were a rabble in 2010 – the baseline talent was still there. Unless our boys lift their intensity and work-rate, another soul-destroying loss will be added to the ledger. Could one defy logic, reason and probability – the Devil’s bedfellows - by tipping the Dees to prevail?
A glimmer became evident in the East. Was it dawn?
Bugger it, I said to myself in the gloom. Melbourne by one point. Light light, if only to die in.
Biffinator
Nausea overwhelmed me as we descended into Perth. Deestroy’s brief was terser than usual: redeem yourself. The city was in the grip of a year-long heatwave with no end in sight. Indeed, as I flew over the parched wheat-plains to the east, the Isaiah in me pronounced: forget the rain – invoke a deluge – that’s the necessity. After all, this is a State that is progressively cannibalising itself, tonne by tonne, to underwrite the jet-skis and lines of coke. We landed shortly thereafter. The road that led from the airport to the city, replete with adult-shops, tyre outlets and takeaway joints, added to my oppression – have we nothing more to show after six thousand years of civilisation? A verse came to mind jestingly as we drove past the Burswood Casino: “And Nineveh was a great city . . . . .” Soon enough, I was lying on my hotel-bed, a latter-day Captain Willard, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling fan. Euphoria could be purchased nearby in the guise of flesh or pills – but should one risk an impromptu encounter with Rose Porteous, Alan Bond or Brian Burke – the Holy Trinity of this Unholy State? A demiurge I ain’t. Night had fallen but the mercury did not follow suit. My stamina ebbed out. I drifted off into the shallowest of sleeps. No dreams were forthcoming.
I woke up after midnight and sipped the tap-water. It was eau de chlorine. Could this effluence be the source of the madness? Or was the pressure-cooker climate to blame? No answers came to mind - only a sense of repulsion. I opened the bar-fridge and an old can of Swan Lager snarled at me. That’s it, I said to myself madly, donning my Pumas and a Demons jumper: it’s time for a biathlon. If the muggers of Perth want my business, they’d better be quick on their feet.
Now, as it so happened, the route I chose had been infamously pioneered by Ben Cousins: starting from the Canning Highway, running through backyards, jumping fences, swimming out into the Swan River to finish up at the Blue Water Grill. I started off stoutly but my mind soon drifted away. What is one to make of the Eagles? Their Premiership sides of 92 and 94 came to mind with their bloated musculature. I also recalled Benny as he stood on the podium after the 2006 Granny, higher than a kite. What could it all mean? Fletcher had flat-lined but no hard questions had been asked: what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Party hard and play harder. It had taken a Victorian – Chris Judd - to walk out on the debauchery to bring it to a standstill - temporarily. But was it gathering force anew? Is there not a retributive force in the cosmos?
As I ran on, I became conscious that I was not alone. A spectral presence was keeping pace. I was not perturbed. This was Perth after all, where bizarro shit is the norm. I hazarded a glance: it was Lucifer himself, garbed in an old fashioned Eagles jumper. We deviated from the route. Soon afterwards, we were standing at Kings Park, overlooking Perth as though from the parapet of the Temple.
I bent over at the hips trying to catch my breath. With effort, I gestured roughly at his attire.
“'Is there any more hollow existence than living in Perth and following the Coasters?’” the Star of the Morning laughed. “I endorse that statement!”
He cackled again.
Me, I was still sucking in air by the pint.
“Poor Biff,” he sympathised. “Are you worn out yet? It’s not easy being a life-long Dees supporter. The Curse is still active: your club chose Watts over Nic Nat or Hurley, and Cook over Darling. Sooner or later, the debt will balloon out again: we both know that. Life is so short; why persist in your folly?”
I spat on the ground.
“I know the gig – isn’t this the point where you offer me three temptations?”
The Devil grinned impishly.
“That implies you have something that I want. You’re a Melbourne supporter after all - a sharecropper of dust!”
I told him bluntly to depart henceforth and multiply. Strangely enough, he complied. Wearily, I cast my gaze over the metropolis below me. Its lights were doing little to stave off the darkness. Somewhere in the shadows lay the Perth equivalent of Festung Europa – Fortress Subiaco. A test is coming our way – Round 6 – and our boys are hardly in scintillating form. The Eagles might be the reigning Spooners, but that’s because they were a rabble in 2010 – the baseline talent was still there. Unless our boys lift their intensity and work-rate, another soul-destroying loss will be added to the ledger. Could one defy logic, reason and probability – the Devil’s bedfellows - by tipping the Dees to prevail?
A glimmer became evident in the East. Was it dawn?
Bugger it, I said to myself in the gloom. Melbourne by one point. Light light, if only to die in.
Biffinator
