THE SPEW Round 15: Weekend at Hinkleys and Here Come the Jazz Gods

Previously:
Round 14 Round 13

As usual at Port Adelaide hosted games, INXS's 'Never Tear Us Apart' peals out across Adelaide Oval pre the Tigers game and I think what about the poor people forced to endure that song every time they watch Port play, then I realise I'm one of those people. I'll be speaking to the Xenophon Team—the all things to all people party—about this before Saturday.

Anyway, the game starts and Wingard's legs scurry quickly but he doesn't seem to be moving very far. In other examples of bodies not obeying their masters, Westhoff creates a freak goal when his hand incidentally taps the ball onto his foot which happens to be pointed at goal—this is your classic Weekend at Bernie's goal.

At the other end Lloyd has kicked two and one of them is sneakier than the Hamburglar's sneaky cousin Sneaky McSneaksneak's at a sneak convention. By contrast Wines looks like Grimace, hungry for ball but has a pudding knocked out of his lap by Vlaustin.

Perturbed by the paltry cultural offerings at Adelaide, Riewoldt decides to show them how to make football more artful with a definitive, leading edge mark—designed originally by Marcel Duchamp.

It's raining heavily in the 2nd quarter but like the INXS business it looks contrived, like Hollywood rain poured from above the lights. Now it's time for Port theatrics and Dixon—like a hipster circus freak—juggles then kicks a ball through sticks for a goal. Getting into the act again is Port's bearded lady Westhoff who attempts a 'Riewoldt' of his own. Hartlett wants in on the action and when two Tigers try to tackle him he escapes the ensnarement by peeling them off like a banana skin.

Aaron Young, aka young Ned Stark or Calendar Jesus—take your pick—smothers Vlaustin as with a holy cloak and Ellis leaps over Amon like a fleshy hurdle. Martin gets in a dust up with Ebert but when the half-time bell rings it's 56:33 Port's way.

In part two Short keeps up the theatrical theme by taking a Hollywood stunt roll post mark. Impey treats the ball like a faberge egg, he wants that thing and he tackles to get it then goals. Menadue manages to fudge a goal and we are talking Willy Wonka proportions of fudge. When Boak goals he does his impression of Horace Pinker from Wes Craven's Shocker!

In the last quarter Lloyd is spun more times than a sock in a washing machine and like a washed sock somehow escapes. The opportunities for Tigers however are slim tonight and Krakouer sweeps across a potential Riewoldt goal like a windshield wiper on full-speed. The commentary team begin paeans to Rance but on this very Jesus night the team with the Jesus, rather than the God botherer, win.

At the SCG Mr Saxophone Tootler, Will Minson, returns to the Dogs' side to take on the Swans but looks as energetic as a jazz stoner—I mean he is outside like a fence, man, a real killjoy, you dig? Bontempelli can't be bothered waiting so sharks the ball himself. On Sydney's part, Hewett catches Jazz disease and looks statuette but comes to life and goals. Rose gets a miracle free kick but blows it as god intended.

In the second quarter Dwayne has opened his bag of catchphrases. Towers 'finds space where there was none' but then manages to find a goalpost of which there was even less. Dwayne notices a 'shake and bake'—whatever the hell that is. Parker, the uninked Dane Swan, is in everything and goals and Franklin has Pacman levels of hunger and kicks a goal leading into halftime. Sydney hold a 10 point lead.

There are two poor umpiring decisions—one found, one lost—which result in a goal to each team and Dwayne declares the footy gods are here. Pfft, what god delivers you Umpire Schmitt, I ask you?

Redpath is looking like an American worker from the 1930s, a gandy dancer or an iron puddler, while Libba is looking like a cross between John Turturro in Miller's Crossing and Winston Churchill.

Parker spins Jong like a Twister spinner then sits down on him for a breather. This spinny chair humiliation inspires Jong to great heights and he goals. "I'm no chair!" Suddenly Liberachurchill goals again and the Dogs are whitehot, leading 64 to 50. But Franklin's not having a bar of it and puts Morris in a medieval stockhold, all but throwing rotten fruit at him.

The Dogs are getting the raw end of the umpiring and the game becomes hotter than a nude roller-derby played on the top deck of hell where the flames are hottest. Bontempelli is everywhere, perhaps he is the footy god because he's omnipotent. At one stage he becomes the ball. The third quarter ends at 70:57 the Dogs' way.

In the final quarter, Redpath is spun like a Howitzer 90 degrees off his trajectory while Suckling fashions a bizarre 1 ft kick over the boundary. Mitchell, the man with the face of a 30 year old extra from Neighbours blows a goal and looks miserable. Conversely, Minson goals and celebrates with a jazz scat and a saxophone solo a la mode.

But Franklin is having a purple patch which sends Dwayne off his gourd and the score is not 71:76 to the Dogs. Jong resumes his role as Sydney's tackle-bag before Franklin marks and kicks his 5th. Moments later Jong tries to bring Franklin down like an oak but instead slides down him like a coconut tree. With 45 seconds remaining and the Dogs 2 points down, Bontempelli sets up Johanissen who marks and converts, finally felling the robust Swans.

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