The round started out with a fine game between Adelaide and Hawthorn but was soon soured by the Channel 7 commentary team who decided to liberally sprinkle the moniker 'Poppy' through the call. When Bruce dropped 'JJ' (Josh Jenkins) on us and then waxed about Thompson, informing us 'he's a chiselled body, we know that' even inanimate objects went crimson with embarrassment. It's gotten to the stage now that I believe a magistrate would dole out a reduced sentence on a murder rap if the defence attorney used a 'incited by Bruce nicknames/diminished responsibility/temporary insanity' strategy.
Umpire Shiny Bum was very hot on Hawthorn and 8 metre passes to Puopolo so by the 4th quarter Umpire Baldy had to give some even ups. Don Pyke appears to have improved the Crows collective IQ by 1000. They corral players well and box clever. Even Cheney, the journeyman's journeyman, was playing smoothly. Mentally they weren't conceding anything and at one stage were handballing diamonds, ping, ping, ping. Very impressive from the Crowbots.
At the North/Suns game were observed some amazing acrobatics, both verbal and physical. Derm informed us with inescapable iron logic that slo-mo takes longer, finally knocking that ages old controversy into a cocked hat. Lonergan astounded with something old too with a baulk and spin – something not seen since PT Barnum stalked the dustbowls of America. The mini-Goldstein, Michael Firrito, was having an ordinary time of it as was a frustrated Tom Lynch who was being smothered by super-pest Scott Thompson like a fire blanket. It was then that the bald monk, little Baby Jesus, offered Thompson a remedial lower back shiatsu knee massage.
Rocket had coached Jarrad Grant at the Dogs and Grant clearly entered the Suns disguised as a mysterious Amish drifter and shed builder. Unfortunately Amish couldn't hit the side of an enormous Pennsylvanian barn door with a handball. Ben Brown, the original crazy clown, got into the act and Derm told us that Saad's 7 or 8 year old brother 'smelt very good.' Hmmm. A Dwayne/Dermott combo is hard to beat and much gold is delivered. Dwayne noted '2 metre Peter has no one in front of him' except Lynch and Rischitelli as the people with eyeballs could attest. But I prefer Dwayne's logical fallacies, like 'found a gap where there was none'. Derm thought that it would be better if mids running forward used their 'viewfinder'. To me it's unprofessional to look at 3D dinosaurs and Swiss mountains while playing football, classical lairising – but I'm not a 5 day/5 night premiership player. By the end, North were rolling Gold Coast into a sludge pond and not even an Andrew WK blood mo to Tarrant could deny them. Top of the table, for now.
At Adelaide Alan Fels of ACCC fame tossed the coin and everyone had to listen to INXS when Led Zeppelin's 'When the Levy Breaks' might have been more apt. The umpires got into the game early and it appeared Broadbent had bought his own brown paper bags. Luke Darcy told us Robbie Gray had taken his game to another level but clearly not the kill screen, not tonight sweet Robbie. Mackie suffered dropsy early and in a moment of unbridled passion, Dangerfield tried to rip Ebert's gear off right there on the field, not even down the race. Danger's got to have it. In what shrinks term sublimated rage Ebert then tried to pop Cameron 'Jazz Ballet' Guthrie's head off.
The game was heating up and Ruggles gave away 3 penalties in world record time. Bad Ruggles! No Ruggles! The two chunkiest men in football since Stuart Dew were out there – Wines and Hawkins, and this was a game for endomorphs. Broadbent rolled Kersten up like a Swedish spongecake so by the end of the 1st quarter it was melee time, a Battle Royale! Caddy looked like your PT Barnum strong man and Chris Scott a low spoken bovver boy.
The game was becoming more violent than A Clockwork Orange and Selwood emerged at one point looking like he'd taken on a hessian sack full of bandicoots. Dangerfield tried to push Hartlett into an early grave, backwards, and patches on the oval suggested cemetery plots for Port coaches and Power dreams.
On SEN's call of the GWS/Saints game there was much talk about the amplitude of Mumford who Scott Lucas imagined if turned into Osso Bucco could feed a thousand. A thousand whats? I thought. Whales? And just as Dermott enjoyed the smell of young Saad, Ox very much enjoyed Mummy's calves. The Saints were earning their earthly virtues on this earth and with 5 minutes left in the first were down 26-1. Then there was a mini revival, pentecostal style, with much flapping. Savage booted an enormous goal, Riewoldt kicked his 400th and Sinclair kicked a beautiful dribble goal from the boundary line. Testify! Tony Shaw talked about stanzas of play like the poet he is.
The second wasn't great for St Kilda but the 3rd represented mini-revival with only a 10 point buffer to GWS with 30 seconds to go. Oooh, let's all go down to the river and get holy. But no! Steel puts his foot through one in the goalmouth and Jebus was saddeth. By the 16 minute mark of the 3rd the gap was 28 points and Toby Green virtually stopped for a wiz on the goal line before sinking Saint dreams for a 34 point lead. Game over.
Richmond and the Demons lined up for what would be a spectacular disappointment for Tiger fans. Brayshaw's freak goal while being tackled was like Houdini making a pavlova without the recipe. Hamish McLachlan, in Channel 7's patronising house-style, starts calling Garlett 'Jeffy' and a checkside from 'Jeffy' put the Dees in front by 10 at quarter time and there was much merriment at the quarter time melee to celebrate. Halfway through the 2nd Bugg shits Tiger fans by giving a Dale Thomas 'shhh' to the cheersquad, well except for a few good Tiger sports who seemed somewhat amused. When Vince kicked one leading into halftime it was a 22 point lead to the Dees and squeaky bum time for Hardwick and Tiger faithful.
Basil Zempilas gave us a wonderful pun in the 3rd after Ellis kicked a tight corkscrew 'Ellis (slight pause for effect) in Wonderland.' You with me kids? 'In Wonderland'. Yes! Dees go into the 4th 20 up and Garlett after snaffling 3 and some goal assist work is referred by his surname in a win for my sanity. Oh no, too soon – back to 'Jeffy Garlett' who gives another assist for goal – then kicks a goal and back to Garlett. It's a see-sawing commentary but Melbourne gobble up Richmond like a seafood platter.
On ANZAC Day I don't suffer the usual nerves, mainly because I've been prescribed medication to get me through the 2016 season, but it's all excitement early as Moore sets up the American Cox for the first goal. And the goals keep coming! On SEN they've wheeled out Malthouse to work alongside Maxwell, but boy Mick Malthouse sure picked the wrong week to pick over the carcass and gloat.
Sidebottom – the spitting image of a young Paul McCartney – was, as they say in gay Munchen 'spectakooler'. Even when he tackled and ended up looking like some type of cape on a super villain, I didn't mind. The Collingwood forward line looked different, potent – but what was it? The space created by forward movement, quick forward entry, mids hitting up the best option? Or not having someone sitting in there spoiling the picnic by taking a sulky wiz next to the kids? Pleasant.
Pass the Bucks
Nick Maxwell mentioned on SEN's 'Crunch Time' that Nathan Buckley was not a big one for motivating his players. Now Bucks is the archetype of the ardent self-improver with an intense personal history including getting into a pool hall fight with his Vietnam veteran father – but Jesus H Bucks, most people are not like you. You're more intense than Repo Man who Harry Dean Stanton informs us 'is always intense'.
Check out most of your players. Tim Broomhead thinks it's radical to eat vegetables, Travis Cloke tweets about Maxibons, Swan talks about crisps and transparent toasters, Grundy likes to ride his bike. Ding, ding! There's nothing going on inside Bucks, it's up to you to fashion something out of this rawest of raw material. Hop to it man!
On the other end of the scale to Bucks is Chris Scott who is a tinder pyre waiting to catch fire. Just as everything is a nail to the hammer, everything is a spark or petrol to Chris Scott. On Saturday night he quietly strode over to Hamish Hartlett with his stovepipe pants on and suggested they meet after the game in the car-park where Scott could really explain in minute detail his game plan. We were reminded of a more recent coach/opposition player fracas when Mick Malthouse suggested to Stephen Milne he reminded him very much of a 'funky Papist'.
Waves of Mutant Elation
It has been a talking point that so far this season many players over 30 are still playing some terrific football – Waite, Harvey, Mitchell, Gibson, Scott Thompson, Enright. This geriatric wave are like zombies, the football undead that still have the power to frighten opposition teams and fans. The prospect of having to enter the general economy as baristas, 7-11 workers, Uber drivers or cleaning up backpacker vomit has no doubt been clarifying and an inspiration to all mature players.
Clokasaurus hunting for quarry
At one time stalking the tundra badlands and eating 12 feet chicken, the Clokasaurus has been spotted out of his natural habitat, driven from his hunting grounds by the Buckleyadactyl and munching on your 9 feet hamsters down at Victoria Park. Allowing predators to steal the much vaunted ovoid eggs from their territory, Clokasaurus needed to mow down some tender prey if he was a chance to munch on the greener pastures of Domainus Stadiumis next week.
Ding-Dong, it's Alex
It was believed that Rance was going in for the 'I thought I was knocking on another door with Watchtower' defence after smacking Watts in the back of his head on Sunday night. To me it looked more like a light hammer blow one might witness in any crucifix making workshop. But alas, the AFL didn't see it that way. Why Alex hath been forsaken after all his labours is God's own private mystery and they'll be time to pound the pavement and doors in coming weeks as Alex takes a rest on the sidelines.
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