The Spew Round 17: Tropic of Dangerchaun and Muscle Membrey

Previously:
Round 16
Round 15

The Cats are visiting the Dockers at Domain Stadium for Andrew Mackie's 250th game. He runs out with his kiddies and Basil informs us Mrs Mackie is expecting. I don't know what she's expecting, but if it's someone who can chop wood or carry a sack of potatoes on their shoulders she's going to be disappointed.

The game begins and Mzungu in his earnestness sends the ball out on the full in Geelong's forward 50. The look on Ross's face is very serial killer.

Guthrie drags the ball in but even in his light jazz ballet ensemble he can't extricate himself, or Mackie's 250 game jumper, and is penalised for holding the ball and the Dockers kick the first goal. Speaking of outfits, Dangerfield will not be outdone and is working a leprechaun aesthetic quite hard with some green shoes for that extra 1% magic they provide. Nevertheless, the Dockers end the quarter 25 to Geelong's 9.

In the second quarter the Cats are suddenly on their game and you anticipate a slow strangulation down at the bayou and Zac Smith—looking very much like a demented southern preacher—is at hand to minister the Lord's work. Despite Dr Connor Blakely scoring his first AFL goal, the imp we shall refer to as Dangerchaun sneaks a couple of goals and el Rosso is not happy. Dangerchaun is so far over the boundary-line at one point he enters another solar system. Despite these tribulations, the Dockers trail by 1 point at half-time.

As the game resumes Channel 7 trawls up an obscure stat: 'most wins for a 250 game player', with Mackie sitting second. More apt perhaps would have been who's had the shittest 250th because this might feature as well. For some reason Brian Dennehy is not playing a fat cop in another American stink-bomb but is on Freo's bench to look at Barlow.

There's a touch of ultra-violence on ground with Walters kneeing Mackie in the stomach— all Hodge-Crane style—while Ballantyne and Ibbotson sport racoon eyes.

The Cats pull away and the final quarter opens with a 14 point gap. Hawkins is having an ordinary night and I've seen enough to suggest he plays his best footy when he's a plumpikins. Freo keep coming, admirably, but don't bodyline an important passage late and Zac Smith, the bayou preacher man, pretty much seals their fate with a late goal. Testify! Cats win 78 to 61.

The Demons have found it impossible to get over the Saints in their last 13 encounters. Etihad is like a dungeon for them, or if you look at the darkened state of it, a teenager's room. Inexplicable and ugly things go on there under the cover of dark, only lit up by the occasional sliver of LED lighting. And to keep us in this dark, noir mood, Hamish McLachlan is commentating like he's reading a Raymond Chandler novel. I'm expecting him to talk about button men and ambitious twists.

Anyhoo, the Demons aren't haunted early. Hunt runs out of St Kilda's forward 50 like a bat out of hell and soon Garlett registers a goal, the first of a 6 goal Demon haul for the quarter. Hickey looks agile for a 201cm man, moving like he's 198cm. After their 4th goal the Demons look more shocked than elated.

But through the muscle memory of Membrey the Saints peg the Dees back. With Riewoldt, Wagner, Hunt, Vince, Watts and Gilbert tangling up out there it's starting to resemble a convention for Nordic pornographers. Every time the Saints get the ball, Melbourne are crowding them like randy bears but the Saints manage to end the first quarter with a respectable 38:21 score-line.

It appears that things might continue as per the first quarter when a skyball in Melbourne's forward 50 isn't contested, in spite of the fact a manage a power nap before it descends to earth. The Saints are getting creative however and work on a new tactic, handballing the ball onto your team-mates foot. The Saints cannot get a break from the umpires here on their domain. As we all know the umpires are in league with Satan, the great red one, but Montagna reminds these luminous devil-cherubs of St Kilda's storied off-season history and their flaming hearts soften.

Membrey's getting knee deep in scoring and after Bruce goals, a gloved German tourist enters the ground to offer him a refreshment from his own bum-bag.

There are more awkward moments when Tim Watson speaks about Petracca's thighs with a nervous laugh that sets my teeth on edge. Thankfully Geary snaps two goals to bring the half-time score to 54:41 the Saints way and we can forget about Watson's eroticised commentary.

The second half begins with Gawn and Hickey in violent agreement; both tapping the ball in the same direction. They may as well come to a back-of-the-envelope Churchill/Stalin agreement on territory and be done with it. If you were expecting a Lazarus comeback from Melbourne, you'd be disappointed with this term. Clearly St Kilda has called on the ghost of Ricky Nixon in a Faustian deal which will give them ascendancy over Melbourne but keep them at Etihad in perpetuity.

I notice a child in the crowd sporting a batman costume, undoubtedly a more entertaining figure than anything on the field. But what's that, it's a rarely sighted Grimes Pickachu?! Or is this just some GPS apparition?

There's something of a mini revival as Gawn—who looks like an awful San Franciscan wheat-germ guru—marks and goals. Soon after Viney, your classic private school thug, goals and the Saints carry an 11 point lead into the last quarter.

When Gawn goals first in the last, Demons go into raptures but a flurry of Saints goals rights the ship. Gilbert turns back the clock, to about 7am when he's still half asleep. On the boundary line Gresham handballs you think with the intention of getting it again because no-one's there but he runs off like he left his iron on. The Saints are unassailable today and thrash the Demons by a demoralising 36 points. All hail the dark lord, Richard Nixon.

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