Deestroy
Norm Smith Medallist
AFL Premiership Round 20
Hawthorn V Melbourne
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Sunday Aug 15
MCG 2:10 PM (Local Time)
Melbourne Forecast Melbourne Radar
Ladder:
Season Win/Loss
Hawthorn V Melbourne
________________________________________________________
Sunday Aug 15
MCG 2:10 PM (Local Time)
Melbourne Forecast Melbourne Radar
Ladder:
Season Win/Loss
The Melbourne Perspective:
PLEASE NOTE THIS INTERVIEW IS FICTITIOUS AND PERTAINS ONLY TO FOOTBALL MATTERS:
Drawing back on a Malby Red, I stood next to the Sir Kenneth Luke Stand in the late afternoon and beheld the remnants of VFL Park. The famous scoreboard was dust. The nearby dam, where I had once swum in my youth, was now a cesspool of mud. Squat little boxes, masquerading as town-houses, stretched to the horizon and beyond. I turned my attention back to the remaining grandstand. For whatever reason, its concrete reminded me of a bunker. Without warning, an image of Klaus von Stauffenberg – the hero who had tried to assassinate Hitler at the Wolf’s Lair - flashed through my mind. What could it mean, I asked myself. Was destiny knocking on my door?
“The Leader will see you now,” a prim-looking guy in a brown-shirt (with yellow lapels) boomed out. I looked down at my suitcase. All that it contained was a half eaten apple and a notepad – alas, there was no bomb.
“Follow me!” he ordered curtly. “And put out that cigarette. They’re forbidden here; and if you want to eat something, only vegetarian meals are allowed.” With his jackboots echoing in my ear, he led me down a dark corridor into the bowels of the Sir Kenneth Luke Stand. I passed through a metal-detector. He left me in a large room with a marble floor. There were no windows. Gloom-ridden, I was now alone in the office of the Leader.
To the right, there was a large hawk statue – or at least I thought it was a hawk – with its wings outstretched triumphantly. Its talons had the world in its grasp (and someone had wrapped a hideous Hawthorn scarf from the 1970s around its neck). The ten premiership cups were nearby, gleaming like bullion. The walls were plastered with various Weg posters from the premiership years and endless snapshots of September glory. I asked myself: is this Victory Disease? Were the Melbourne offices like this back in late 1964 after the twelfth premiership had been claimed? Hubris never goes unpunished; but with a young-enough Buddy on the list, who can say when the Day of Reckoning will come for the Hawkers? Downcast, I felt like the prophet Daniel at the court of King Belshazzar, surrounded by ill-begotten gold. Oh, for someone to write Mene, Mene, Tekel u-Pharsin on the wall: ‘You have been weighed in the balance and found wanting – your kingdom is divided and it cannot stand,’ but there no room on the walls for any such message to be inscribed.
The door opened and an all too familiar person strutted in.
“Ahhh, Biffinator, welcome to the Eagle’s – oophs, the Hawk’s Nest,” he boomed.
“Jeff, it is a great honour to meet you,” I replied. One of his adjutants also appeared.
“Are you sure that you don’t want a red wine?” Jeff offered as he settled into his chair. “It’s getting late in the day. I have a nice little vintage from an estate in the Barbarossa – what am I saying - the Barossa valley!”
I declined this offer, requested a coffee and sat down.
“Jeff, thanks for your time. I am a big fan of yours. I thought you were a terrific Premier of Victoria. I was really disappointed when you were defeated by Hack-Bracks. If you have been given more time then perhaps . . . .”
That was the last word I got in for the next ten minutes or so. Jeff went berko. Evidently the mere mention of his successor (and his own downfall) was enough to send him into a rage, and oh, how the wind blew! He pounded a map that lay on his desk. Froth bubbled out of his mouth. His eyeballs were bulging forth from his skull. Guttural words peppered his speech. Watching on in amazement, I sensed that his secretaries and adjutants in the office outside were standing on the other side of the door to eavesdrop in. Ten minutes later, the tempest finally died away. He drew a deep breath and sipped away at his water. Thinking it best to ignore the entire episode, I congratulated him on the successful venture into Tasmania and asked him what lay ahead.
“Hawthorn’s Reich –Biff, what is wrong with me today – reign is going to last over 1000 years,” he boomed as colour returned to his face. “That means we must expand overseas. Europe, for instance, is an untapped market. We can blitz them easily. Under my leadership, the Hawthorn Football Club will unleash an onslaught – marketing-wise, I should add - into Poland, followed by Norway, Holland, Belgium, France and the Balkans – they are all ripe for the picking. There is a lot of growth potential in Russia. It is largely untapped. If we want to remain a superpower, we should invest our energies there. As always, we will follow the Hawthorn Way: One Team - One Goal - One Leader.”
“So one day, a yellow and brown scarf will be flying from the bell-tower of the Kremlin?” I asked.
“Yes, Moscow,” he murmured dreamily. “Moscow.”
Behind him, the fax-machine stuttered into life. Jeff leapt from his chair to scrutinise the incoming fax.
“Good, good,” he trumpeted, doing a jig on the spot. “Eddie over at Collingwood has just signed our Non-Aggression-Pact. There is no reason why the two Super-Powers of the league cannot respect each other’s sphere of influence. This alliance will be permanent. We are certainly going to keep our end of the bargain!”
The smirk on his face became more pronounced. Something is up, I thought to myself; but he ain’t gonna tell me.
“Jeff, what are your views on the current health of the league?”
“Biffinator, there is no other way to put it, but it is time for a final solution. The successful clubs must head off in one direction; the sickly clubs, in another! Yes indeed, the latter must be euthanized. Norf is a running sore; Port is a failed experiment; your own Demons are a joke – yes, a joke with no debt but no money; St Kilda will never win anything; Sydney is being propped up by the league. It is the survival of the fittest. We are strong and we are going to become stronger. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a brown and yellow boot stamping on a human face—forever!”
After a moment’s thought, he added.
“And once St Kilda has been given the bullet, they won’t need their colours anymore. We might incorporate them into a new away jumper for the Hawthorn Football Club.”
I sighed.
“Jeff, the recent membership results made for sobering reading. It is astonishing how many kids you’ve signed up as members.”
“Yes, yes. We are very proud of the Hawthorn Youth. They’re well drilled and disciplined. We will be holding some rallies for them soon. When an opponent declares, ‘I will not barrack for the Wee & Poo’, I calmly say: ‘Your child belongs to us already... What are you? You will pass on. Your descendants, however, now stand in the new camp. In a short time they will know nothing else but this new juggernaut.’”
There must have been a function occurring elsewhere in the complex. Faintly, we could hear their rendition of ‘We’re a Happy Volk at Hawthorn’. Jeff’s eyes, in response, went glassy.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered to himself. “Hawthorn uber alles!”
He stood bolt-upright. His right arm – menacingly – began to arc towards the ceiling.
“Don’t do it Jeff,” I shrieked. “Just don’t do it.”
I reached for a nearby glass of water and threw it in his face. He dropped his right hand to his side. Before he could react any further, a Hawthorn official burst into the room, followed by a sheepish-looking Buddy.
“Great Leader, I have some calamitous news to report,” he said breathlessly.
I was quickly shooed out of the room. As I walked past Buddy, I whispered.
“Well done, dumb-arse. Garland is waiting for you. Dees by 1 point.”
And I made good my escape.
Biffinator











