A mass of navy blue, gold and grey greeted me as I wearily clambered my way onto the central platform of Perth train station. The navy blue and gold were obvious and familiar, but the grey of a rapidly aging membership base that clutched on to their guaranteed tickets like the way a vulture clutches the rotting flesh of a pitiful creature in its hooked maw was a new addition to my yearly pilgrimage. This was the collective that still asked why Phil Matera wasn’t playing. ‘I like him, he’s good,’ was the extent of their footballing knowledge.
My demons jumper stood out like Dean Terlich in a room full of footballers, primarily because it was the least demonic thing in the vicinity.
For the twelfth year in a row I was making the harrowing journey to the satanic hell-pit known as Beelzebub’s Domain Stadium, and for the twelfth year in a row I came prepared for disappointment, a response conditioned in me by - not only years of losses - but the unbridled arrogance of a legion of fans drunk on decades of success. Twelve years and not a single win. ‘I must be cursed,’ I mused. For as long as I’d been going to games in the West, Melbourne had never won. Christ, the best result was when we only lost by 11 to Fremantle after an electric third quarter. Best players – Sylvia, Frawley and Macdonald. I was high on that ‘win’ for weeks.
I had left home earlier that day cautiously optimistic. ‘Surely we have to bounce back after the horrid display last week.’ I thought to myself. ‘We’ll bring in Oliver and Nibbler, and Hogan will have a field day on his old home turf. Not to mention Jones, Viney, Tyson and Gawn. Without Naitanui Gawn will be unstoppable.’
This faint glimmer of hope was snuffed out as soon as a s**t-stained child wearing a vintage gradient guernsey yelled at me ‘the demons are gonna get PWND today, you’re (sic, assumed) bald pussy captain is weak as s**t.’ I laughed politely (another conditioned response), but my head started playing Simon & Garfunkel’s ‘Sound of Silence.’
Wounded, I found a secluded nook next to a patented Perth meth-head and fell into a stupor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I came to the entire platform was empty, and a faint red glow permeated across the station. It was otherworldly. I checked my phone. 14:36. The game started a minute ago, if I left now I could probably catch the second quarter. I called an Uber – Colin Sylvia driving a Holden Monaro was 3 minutes away. He was only rated one star. Unnerved by the lack of people I hurried to the exit.
Just as I opened the door to the bright white lights of the city a flickering neon sign caught my attention. I felt drawn to it. A voice in my head was saying ‘yes Canary, go towards the light.’ Against my better judgement I closed the door to the outside world and wandered toward the light. As I approached the sign the red glow was replaced by pitch black. All I could see was the neon light.
I was close enough now that I could make out the particulars of the sign. It was an arrow, pointing me deeper into the darkness. Within the flashing bulbs were the barely legible words ‘MFC fans this way.’
I continued down the path. My eyes were adjusting to the darkness and I slowly began to see a looming structure ahead. A single fluorescent light in a sickly shade of red and blue dangled from the ceiling, illuminating the surrounds. I breathed in sharply – could this be the answer? Could I be the one to lift the curse?
Feeling a strange sense of calm, I moved my hand along the exterior. Feeling some grooves I examined closer. Twelve years of dust encased the shell of the structure. I brushed away the grime and the muck and saw exactly what I feared. Branded on the side in professional typeface with immaculate kerning were the words ‘Western Demons Bandwagon, est. 1987 ’ but next to it, written in dried, crusty blood was ‘disbanded 2004.’
One of the nearby doors was hanging off its hinges, so I entered the relic. The inside was lit only by a seemingly endless number of screens showing replay after replay of the many MFC failures in Perth since 2004. ‘What is this place’ I muttered to no-one in particular. ‘A graveyard,’ a sinister voice replied.
As I made my way down the carriage I tripped, and - to my horror - when I looked down I saw the sprawled, mangled body of Steven Armstrong, although his bloated face made it hard to tell it was him. Leaning in closer it looked as if he’d been strangled, with the murder weapon still around his neck – ‘2006 Premiership Medal, Steven Armstrong.’ ‘Apt,’ I thought.
Next to Steven was a zip-lock bag of a mysterious white powder. ‘No,’ I said, throwing the bag away. ‘That would be too easy.’
Determined to find an answer to the MFC’s Perth performances I continued down the carriage. Echoing down the carriage I could hear the mindless, incoherent babbling of what sounded like a small child. A large, naked body was curled in the foetal position, rocking back and forth. I tried to edge past the wretched thing but suddenly it looked at me with fear in its eyes, its incomprehensible ramblings more pronounced. I could make out the distinctive facial features and mental scarring of Cale Morton. He had the number ‘88’ branded into his forehead.
I was getting closer to the end, I could feel it. A metal door blocked my way. Weapons-grade deadlocks prevented me from opening it. A distorted, menacing voice rang out over the PA.
‘So, Canary, you have come to find out your beloved Demons are incapable of winning in Perth?’
‘Who are you? Why have you brought me here?’ I asked, my voice breaking in fear.
‘Oh, you’ll find out soon enough. Before you do, I have just one question. Why support the miserable, pathetic failures you call a football club?’
‘Gee, I don’t know really. I didn’t want to be like everyone else at school. Everyone else supported the Eagles.'
‘You fool! Don’t you see? When you live in Perth there is only one football team to support. I have enough trouble containing those Purple deviants. I control this city, I control your destiny. I do not take kindly to miscreants like you undermining me. And now, like the rest of you snivelling sad-sack wannabe skiers you have played right into my hands. All you have done is given me another body to add to my collection.'
The metal door flew open and a winged servant who looked oddly like Jamie Bennell leapt at me, pinning my arms to the floor.
A masked figure caped in gold and navy blue leered down at me.
‘You should’ve moved to Melbourne when you had the chance.’
Jamie pulled out a syringe filled with a thick substance and injected it into my arm.
‘Noooo!’ I cried out.
‘It’s too late, Canary.’ The figure took off his masked to reveal the scarred visage of a corrupted Adam Simpson.
‘Come, sleep my child. When you wake you shall join my army, and together we shall rule the west.’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
‘Wake up man, wake up.'
Someone was shaking me and I reluctantly opened my leaden eyes. The platform was bustling again, the flock of navy blue, gold and grey had returned. The meth-head I was sharing the nook with wanted to stretch out.
‘Geez, I need to get my beauty sleep,' he said.
I apologised and looked down at my phone. 17:30. The game was over, I’d slept through everything. Prepared for the worse I checked the scores on my phone.
A faint smile touched my lips. Maybe the curse was broken?
Demons by 12.
My demons jumper stood out like Dean Terlich in a room full of footballers, primarily because it was the least demonic thing in the vicinity.
For the twelfth year in a row I was making the harrowing journey to the satanic hell-pit known as Beelzebub’s Domain Stadium, and for the twelfth year in a row I came prepared for disappointment, a response conditioned in me by - not only years of losses - but the unbridled arrogance of a legion of fans drunk on decades of success. Twelve years and not a single win. ‘I must be cursed,’ I mused. For as long as I’d been going to games in the West, Melbourne had never won. Christ, the best result was when we only lost by 11 to Fremantle after an electric third quarter. Best players – Sylvia, Frawley and Macdonald. I was high on that ‘win’ for weeks.
I had left home earlier that day cautiously optimistic. ‘Surely we have to bounce back after the horrid display last week.’ I thought to myself. ‘We’ll bring in Oliver and Nibbler, and Hogan will have a field day on his old home turf. Not to mention Jones, Viney, Tyson and Gawn. Without Naitanui Gawn will be unstoppable.’
This faint glimmer of hope was snuffed out as soon as a s**t-stained child wearing a vintage gradient guernsey yelled at me ‘the demons are gonna get PWND today, you’re (sic, assumed) bald pussy captain is weak as s**t.’ I laughed politely (another conditioned response), but my head started playing Simon & Garfunkel’s ‘Sound of Silence.’
Wounded, I found a secluded nook next to a patented Perth meth-head and fell into a stupor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I came to the entire platform was empty, and a faint red glow permeated across the station. It was otherworldly. I checked my phone. 14:36. The game started a minute ago, if I left now I could probably catch the second quarter. I called an Uber – Colin Sylvia driving a Holden Monaro was 3 minutes away. He was only rated one star. Unnerved by the lack of people I hurried to the exit.
Just as I opened the door to the bright white lights of the city a flickering neon sign caught my attention. I felt drawn to it. A voice in my head was saying ‘yes Canary, go towards the light.’ Against my better judgement I closed the door to the outside world and wandered toward the light. As I approached the sign the red glow was replaced by pitch black. All I could see was the neon light.
I was close enough now that I could make out the particulars of the sign. It was an arrow, pointing me deeper into the darkness. Within the flashing bulbs were the barely legible words ‘MFC fans this way.’
I continued down the path. My eyes were adjusting to the darkness and I slowly began to see a looming structure ahead. A single fluorescent light in a sickly shade of red and blue dangled from the ceiling, illuminating the surrounds. I breathed in sharply – could this be the answer? Could I be the one to lift the curse?
Feeling a strange sense of calm, I moved my hand along the exterior. Feeling some grooves I examined closer. Twelve years of dust encased the shell of the structure. I brushed away the grime and the muck and saw exactly what I feared. Branded on the side in professional typeface with immaculate kerning were the words ‘Western Demons Bandwagon, est. 1987 ’ but next to it, written in dried, crusty blood was ‘disbanded 2004.’
One of the nearby doors was hanging off its hinges, so I entered the relic. The inside was lit only by a seemingly endless number of screens showing replay after replay of the many MFC failures in Perth since 2004. ‘What is this place’ I muttered to no-one in particular. ‘A graveyard,’ a sinister voice replied.
As I made my way down the carriage I tripped, and - to my horror - when I looked down I saw the sprawled, mangled body of Steven Armstrong, although his bloated face made it hard to tell it was him. Leaning in closer it looked as if he’d been strangled, with the murder weapon still around his neck – ‘2006 Premiership Medal, Steven Armstrong.’ ‘Apt,’ I thought.
Next to Steven was a zip-lock bag of a mysterious white powder. ‘No,’ I said, throwing the bag away. ‘That would be too easy.’
Determined to find an answer to the MFC’s Perth performances I continued down the carriage. Echoing down the carriage I could hear the mindless, incoherent babbling of what sounded like a small child. A large, naked body was curled in the foetal position, rocking back and forth. I tried to edge past the wretched thing but suddenly it looked at me with fear in its eyes, its incomprehensible ramblings more pronounced. I could make out the distinctive facial features and mental scarring of Cale Morton. He had the number ‘88’ branded into his forehead.
I was getting closer to the end, I could feel it. A metal door blocked my way. Weapons-grade deadlocks prevented me from opening it. A distorted, menacing voice rang out over the PA.
‘So, Canary, you have come to find out your beloved Demons are incapable of winning in Perth?’
‘Who are you? Why have you brought me here?’ I asked, my voice breaking in fear.
‘Oh, you’ll find out soon enough. Before you do, I have just one question. Why support the miserable, pathetic failures you call a football club?’
‘Gee, I don’t know really. I didn’t want to be like everyone else at school. Everyone else supported the Eagles.'
‘You fool! Don’t you see? When you live in Perth there is only one football team to support. I have enough trouble containing those Purple deviants. I control this city, I control your destiny. I do not take kindly to miscreants like you undermining me. And now, like the rest of you snivelling sad-sack wannabe skiers you have played right into my hands. All you have done is given me another body to add to my collection.'
The metal door flew open and a winged servant who looked oddly like Jamie Bennell leapt at me, pinning my arms to the floor.
A masked figure caped in gold and navy blue leered down at me.
‘You should’ve moved to Melbourne when you had the chance.’
Jamie pulled out a syringe filled with a thick substance and injected it into my arm.
‘Noooo!’ I cried out.
‘It’s too late, Canary.’ The figure took off his masked to reveal the scarred visage of a corrupted Adam Simpson.
‘Come, sleep my child. When you wake you shall join my army, and together we shall rule the west.’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
‘Wake up man, wake up.'
Someone was shaking me and I reluctantly opened my leaden eyes. The platform was bustling again, the flock of navy blue, gold and grey had returned. The meth-head I was sharing the nook with wanted to stretch out.
‘Geez, I need to get my beauty sleep,' he said.
I apologised and looked down at my phone. 17:30. The game was over, I’d slept through everything. Prepared for the worse I checked the scores on my phone.
A faint smile touched my lips. Maybe the curse was broken?
Demons by 12.
