AGB Footy

HIP HIP ROUÉ

The new football season is finally ... thankfully ... about bloody time upon us.

I know, I know this is very stupid reaction. Spectator sports are vicarious pursuits unfit for serious consideration by logical men. There's a very good chance I've wasted more than half my life reading, watching, talking and thinking about a childish pastime played by oafs and which has virtually no direct impact on my existence. But what are you gonna do? I love it; I'm addicted.

In the spirit of this critical reflection, then, let's step it up a gear. Let's inject that little bit of class that only refined and well bread Melbourne supporters can provide. Rather than celebrate the new season with yet another tedious post about umpires, coaches, injuries, tactics, Tiff's tits or why the other teams are rancid stinking scum (they are, you know), let's just ask this; what is Melbourne? Or rather, WHO is Melbourne?

Well, let's do both. Situated on the Yarra River and originally briefly called Batmania and Bearbrass, Melbourne is now one of the biggest cities in the world (area-wise). That's the what. Melbourne was named after Viscount Lord Melbourne. Born William Lamb of Brocket Hall*, Melbourne was Prime Minister of England in the times when women lusted after Hugh Grant. That's the who.

And that's all you get. Apart from this: the Dean of St Pauls (ironically named, Sydney Smith) on our man Lamby.

"If the truth must be told, our Viscount is something of an impostor. Everything about him seems to betoken careless desolation; anyone would suppose from his manner that he was playing at chuck-farthing with human happiness; that he would giggle away the great charter, and decide by the method of teetotum whether my lords the bishops should or should not retain their seats in the House Of Lords. I am sorry to hurt any man's feelings, and to brush away the magnificent fabric of levity and gaiety that he has reared; but I accuse our minister of honsety and diligence; I deny that he is careless of rash. He is nothing more than a man of good understanding and good principle, disguised in the eternal and somewhat wearisome affectation of a political roué."

Go 'Mons!

CHERRY GRIPE

"The ripe juicy cherries and moist coconut smothered in rich 'Old Gold' Dark Chocolate ensures a unique taste experience."

-- Cadbury

"Absolutely FREEZING," brrrrrrrrred Tiffany Cherry from Cairns' Cazaly cool-room. "Three degrees, it is."

In fact, three degrees it isn't.

Granted Fox Footy's boundary cheesecake had slipped into the vernacular, but as far as contradictions go, that one's just a little too elemental to let pass un-challenged. Freezing is zero, not three.

We'll give her the benefit of the doubt, though. It could be she was distracted by the possibility of a ticklish visual incident; vis-a-vis chest and chiller.

Anyhoo, good to see the Demons get up last night. Bad to listen to Alastair Lynch rabbit on about Brizroy all night. And Clinton Grybas is a nightmare. Even if you forgive the sucking up to his colleagues AND his relentless cross promotions, it can only be a matter of weeks before he starts giving time checks and "Rocky Roads" type traffic reports.

That's enough out of me. More rigorous, incisive and deeply thought out analysis may be found here; Every Day Is Like Sunday. May be.

NB: Any inferred sexism is purely inten ... err ... accidental. Boundary riders are an unnecessary gimmick whether they be boy, girl or somewhere in between. Mmmm, juicy, moist, smothered.

HALF-TIME AT THE FOOTBALL*

Yesterday in Melbourne two men with jackets off, ties loose, sleeve rolled up and brows furrowed were hunkered down over a coffee table compiling a list of "possibles" ...

1. Kids with streamers.
2. Kids with flags.
3. Kids with balls.
4. Kids with sticks.
5. Kids with kids.
6. Inflatable toys.
7. The Lloydy.
8. The Dipper.
9. The Hirdy.
10. The ... other one.
11. The sprint.
12. The Batmobile.
13. The Sun Kick.
14. The lady who didn't know the national anthem.
15. Slim Dusty.
16. The Batmobile.
17. Angry Anderson.
18. John Farnham.
19. Julie Anthony.
20. John Williamson.
21. The giant cigarette packet from the rugby.
22. The Grim Reaper Singers.
23. Billy Idol.
24. .... Millsy.
25. Guy Sebastian.
26. The Fat kid from Hey Dad.
27. Nudge.
28. Kath & Kim.
29. Piffy the bell ringer.
30. Lleyton and Bex.
31. Slim Dusty.
32. Peter Allen.
33. More kids.

"Phew. Let's have some lunch, Ben. And turn on the TV, I think that American gridiron Superbowl grand final is on today. Let's see what they do for entertainment."

Buckley turned it on just in time to watch Paul McCartney's rip through Drive My Car, Get Back, Live And Let Die and Hey Jude. Perfect for the format. Absolutely magnificent.

Demetriou and Buckley sat watching quietly, pensive, occasionally swapping glances. The show finished and Demetriou leant forward, scrunched up the list and threw it in the bin. "Fuck," he sighed, and sculled his Evian.

* Dave Warner song from 1981 with entirely appropriate lyrics. No, really.