Preview Dees v the Tigers

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Biffinator

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“At the heart of every Richmond supporter there lies a streak of self-loathing – that is why they turn on each other like wild animals.”

This ex-cathedra maxim was ringing in my ears as I logged off from PuntRoadEnd.com, where I am an agent provocateur (and this is true). One of life’s simple pleasures is pretending to be a (rabid) Richmond supporter, the aim being to throw petrol onto the fire and then stand back in awe to behold the conflagration.

Anyway, I was feeling rather pleased with myself when an SMS came through from Deestroy.

“Biff, stop being so bloody smug! Your challenge this week, should you chose to accept it, is to infiltrate the Richmond Grog Squad – the mob who congregate behind the Punt Road goals and sing various dirges as the Tigers (sic) take it up the arse on the field. Your mission: create havoc. Bonus points if you shag Big Shazza, the Queen of the Richmond ferals.”

I accepted the mission on the spot. That left six days of preparation. I bought an old duffel coat from the Opp Shop. Soon afterwards, I purchased a number ‘8’ from Spotlight which I half-stitched onto its back. There was some junk mail in the letterbox that featured a pest control company. I cut out the word ‘Cockroach’, sticky-taped it to the back of the duffel coat and then (lightly) scribbled out the first four letters. Once done, I let the mutt sleep on it for the remainder of the week. I stopped having showers. Eschewing toothpaste, I brushed my teeth in coca-cola. I became a stranger to dunny paper, underpants and razors. It was out with the Mozart and in with the hard rockin’ pub songs and the High Art of Jimmy Barnes. Much to my wife’s anguish, I staged a few domestics which necessitated a visit from the Cop Shop. Come Saturday morning, I was ready. My own self-loathing was in floodtide. Come on the Tiges!

Now Richmond were playing the Dees. My first stop was the Cricketer’s Arms on Punt Road. It was midday. I barged through the front door and shouted hoarsely, “Who thinks Dusty Brownlow Martin is a ****ing deadset legend, eh?” I was immediately befriended by five bona fide members of the Richmond Grog Squad: Shane from Scoresby; Wayne from Wantirna; Mike from Moe; Rob from Rowville and Karen from Cardinia. Collectively, they held down one part-time job between them. Rob was an inveterate scratcher: he warranted a flea-bomb. Mike, who had a squint, had travelled all the way from the West Moe Caravan Park to support the ‘Mighty Tigers’ – a Pilgrim’s Progress indeed. Shane & Wayne looked as if they were born to play the roles of Banquo’s killers in Macbeth:

“I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed that I am reckless what I do to spite the world. . . . . And I another, So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune, That I would set my lie on any chance, To mend it, or be rid on't.”

The less said about Karen the better, lest cycling metaphors be invoked.

Now the quintet was thoroughly intoxicated; the cans of UDLs that were strewn at their feet bore testimony to their liquor of choice. We were all in agreement: whoever barracked for the Dees was a poofta and Jacky Watts was a trans at best. The remaining hour or so was spent betting on the Warragul dogs or baiting other Richmond supporters at the bar. Twice I had to avert a cat-fight between Karen and another Richmond slag. It was boob-on-boob action in every sense.

Come 1.30, it was time to lurch over to the ‘G. With the assistance of some healthcare cards – thoroughly fake - we trooped through the gates with little damage to our pockets. Karen had stashed a few cans of UDLs down her blouse; given the aesthetics, they were safer than the gold in Fort Knox. Once inside, we spotted one of the Bay’s most prominent Richmond supporters, Buddha Bing, primly making his way towards the Amway Superbox. He was a sallow looking guy. Hair-gel was trickling down his forehead like sweat. He was also wearing one of his famous Roger David reversible suits with an elastic tie. Sure, he barracked for the Tigers, but to the quintet he was an ideological enemy in a cheap pair of shoes. In no uncertain terms, Mike informed him that he was a ****ing goose – Richmond or no Richmond, only toffs sat in a superbox. And Buddha Bing had better stop trying to foist the Amway soap-powder on his old dear back in West Moe, no less.

It took us ten minutes or so to hobble our way over to the Punt Road end of the ground. In doing so, we profusely abused the opposition supporters that came our way – any buccaneer on the Spanish Main would have been shocked by their language but it was par for the course here. Additionally the spittle was a’flyin’. Ditties proclaiming the heroism of Richo or Dusty Martin were coined on the spot. To evade detection, I breathed incessantly through my mouth, made strange animal noises and walked with a limp. Our destination was at hand: the Richmond Grog Squad. The quintet introduced me to their peers. I was promptly accepted as one of their own, particularly when I screeched out: “Scully and Trengove ain’t worth a bum hair on Dusty’s ring!” Much like the Black Hole that lies at the heart of our own Milky Way, I could sense the presence of Big Shazza, but for the moment, a phalanx of uber-bogans stood between the two of us.

The game started not long afterwards. True to form, Richmond started to take it up the arse. The on-field debacle did not bother the Grog Squad who sang on regardless. It was time to initiate my mission. As it so happens, I am no mean ventriloquist. I targeted a particularly virulent section of the Grog Squad and let fly with the following

“Dustin Martin’s tatts are fake. He got ‘em from Cornflakes packet. His mummy rubbed a ‘em on with a twenty cent piece.”

A brawl erupted spontaneously. Haymakers were legion. A few unfortunates were kicked as they lay on the ground. The police soon waded in and nabbed the participants, much to the delight of the remaining members of the Grog Squad who sang the usual refrain.

Good but not great I thought to myself. I turned to another section and pitched:

“Chris Newman is more of a Western Star job than Joel Bowden. He’s as useless as a condom on a dog.”

Another brawl erupted, It was more vicious than the first. Minutes later, the main antagonists were hauled away by the constabulary. Stretchers were used to carry off the worst of the casualties. The ranks of the Grog Squad had thinned, but not to the point where I could readily approach Queen Shazza at the epicentre. It was time, therefore, to drop the P-bomb, however untrue it was:

There won’t be any father-sons from Richo – he’s too busy hanging around the dunnies at the Robert Peel Hotel. ‘Fleet’s in, time to sin’ is his motto!”

Another fight erupted. The Colosseum itself never viewed brutality of this kind. Not even Leigh Matthews would countenance the king-hits from behind that were being dished out like lolly water. Tannin-stained teeth clattered to the ground. The mist of brain matter saturated the air. Some of the Richmond wenches disappeared into the affray, only to emerge seconds later with big clumps of pubic hair in their hands. The Fight Club re-enactment lasted some five minutes or so, leaving the Grog Squad decimated but undaunted. Accordingly, I pushed my way towards the centre. And there, enthroned in her bogan glory, sat Queen Shazza on a bean bag.

In the universe, matter is counter-balanced by anti-matter. As I beheld this anti-regal figure, I realised that she too, in a feral sort of way, was the antithesis to Queen Elizabeth I as portrayed in the famous Armada Portrait. Each one of her monstrous thighs could have been sponsored by Samboy Chips. There was no bra in existence that had the tensile strength to uphold her gigantic mammary glands – nay, bovine udders. Nicotine patches had been attached to her nipples for whatever mad reason. Her skin was covered in blotches, acme and self inflicted scratch marks. Intrepid though I was, I dared not look below her navel to the Valley of the Werewolf. Verily, Queen Shazza was regnant over all that she surveyed. She did not need to see the game itself – she was randomly screeching out imprecations at the opposition as she sipped away on a UDL.

“Queen Shazza – so we meet at last. The circle is now complete. The Self-Loathing is with You!”

She flicked a toxic glance at me.

“What do youse want? I aint gonna suck your dick if that’s what youse wants. I aints no slag!”

I looked at her more deeply. It was not hard to foresee that one day she would drown on her own vomit or be smothered to death by one of her own boobs. Even so, the image of the Oracle from the Matrix flashed into my mind. Perhaps there was an affinity to be explored.

“Shazza, will the Tigers ever come good?”

She looked darkly into her can of UDL. The wellspring was dry. She threw it away and started to spit on herself, Richmond-style.

“The Toiges are always gonna be s**t. s**t – s**t – s**t!”

I then realised that the second of Deestroy’s challenges was a ‘Bridge too Far.’ Assuming my hydraulics were sound – an advocate of fat sex I ain’t – I had neglected to bring along a miner’s lamp, rope, and grappling hooks, the second assumption being that the target-area could be safely identified. Failure was mine. It was time to flee from her august presence. Like one of her courtiers, I spat on the ground, adjust my crotch and croaked out:

“See’s ya down at the pokies, Big Girl.”

Stupefied by the grog, she vomited all over herself and gave me a thumps up.

I rejoined the mob. Sylvia, who loves to play against the Yellow and Black, was running amok. Towards the end of the match, sadness overcame me. Standing with the Richmond Grog Squad would make anyone rethink their position on eugenics. Each of its members – indubitably - is a downpipe for DNA of the most degraded kind. Erroneous or otherwise, there is a belief that Man was created in the image and likeness of God. As I encompassed the mob around me – Come on the Mighty Tiges – this viewpoint was entirely redundant. It was the Triumph not of the Will, but of the Swineherd.

The match came to a dreary end. Much to everyone’s relief, the siren sounded. Wretches one and all, the Richmond players hobbled off. Sure they wore the same jumpers as players such as Captain Blood, Royce Hart and Hungry, but the comparison went no deeper. This was no Gotterdammerung – the Twilight of the Gods, it resembled, rather, a Requiem for the Pullets. Befittingly, the Grog Squad sang a dirge. Other than a surreptitious vomit on the Moe-bound V-Liner, there was nothing to look forward to. I quietly slipped away. Once home. I washed the Richmond excrement off my personage, apologised to my wife and regained my humanity.

The World will hold its breath. Dees by 10 points.

Biffinator.
 

Tulip

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****, you tipped us.

Oh well, quality write-up none the less
 

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syl

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I know you couldn't bring yourself to tip the vile Tiges but it does hurt my superstitious soul.

Thanks for the insight in to the southern stand at a Richmond match...
 

Canary

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Well, pencil this one in for a loss...:eek:

Maybe you should just tip a draw each week.

Quality as always :thumbsu:
 

Rudeurrection

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Love these the most Biff, the ones when truly stick the boots into a clubs supporters and culture, brilliant.

Cant wait to see what u have in store for the handbaggers and zombie park.:thumbsu::thumbsu:
 

00Stinger

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Melbourne by over 39.5 pts @ $6.25 this week boys....get on it
 

syl

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Something tells me you wont be receiving so many messages of adoration and support from opposition supporters this week, Biff :)
 

RandB

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Some vivid insight there.

Great read as always too, given up quoting passages - gold everywhere.

Shame it wasn't filmed, could have shown it all on 'Animal Planet'.
 

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telsor

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It amused and inspired me.

I thought to do the same thing to a group of Melbourne supporters, but in the end I decided I'd rather be at the game than the snow.
 

Tigerland

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“At the heart of every Richmond supporter there lies a streak of self-loathing – that is why they turn on each other like wild animals.”

Biffinator.
______________________________________________

Well there's 7 minutes of my life I'll never get back.

If you're going to ramble please try and make it somewhat interesting or even mildy amusing. 2 Fails there.

BTW Scully is going.
 

Rudeurrection

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______________________________________________

Well there's 7 minutes of my life I'll never get back.

If you're going to ramble please try and make it somewhat interesting or even mildy amusing. 2 Fails there.

BTW Scully is going.

And i thought Tigers supporters were supposed to have passion, not many brain cells, but passion none the less.

This pathetic wet lettuce slap wouldn't even get a rise out of the MCC members . :eek::eek::eek:


















Richmond supporters = weak :eek::eek::eek::eek::eek::eek::eek:
 

Biffinator

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______________________________________________

Well there's 7 minutes of my life I'll never get back.

If you're going to ramble please try and make it somewhat interesting or even mildy amusing. 2 Fails there.

BTW Scully is going.

Mate, 'Jim & Jan' it ain't, but any Melbourne supporter would take less than three minutes to read that.

Say no to pre-mixed drinks.

Biffinator
 

telsor

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And i thought Tigers supporters were supposed to have passion, not many brain cells, but passion none the less.

This pathetic wet lettuce slap wouldn't even get a rise out of the MCC members . :eek::eek::eek:

And if we posted something that would, we'd be carded.

Sorry, we're smart enough not to fall for that trick.
 

Crimson Azure

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Lamb on the spit
And if we posted something that would, we'd be carded.

Sorry, we're smart enough not to fall for that trick.

We have a thread for that, if you're worried...

We had an opposition poster tell his part of the story a few weeks ago when he made a cameo in one of Biff's previews.
 

telsor

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We have a thread for that, if you're worried...

We had an opposition poster tell his part of the story a few weeks ago when he made a cameo in one of Biff's previews.

With respect, as different team boards follow different rules, and impliment them in different ways, and I really can't be bothered learning the intricacies of all of them, I'll stick with the 'worst case' scenario and tread very, very carefully.
 
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