The Spew Round 20 - ​Killer Bees in the Woods and Battle of the Cock Honkers

Previously:
Round 19
Round 18

After Richmond's calamitous unravelling against GWS last week and subsequent media pitchfork stalking, it is a case of kill or be killed on Friday night against the Pies at the MCG. Astbury isn't certain he wants to do either. Pre-game he is on again and off-again like an indecisive bishop.

The Pies go coco bananas early kicking 3 goals, but looking to interrupt the celebrations is Cotchin who is attempting to be an enforcer. However Trent Cotchin is as hard as Terrence Trent D'Arby so his muscle moves are casually brushed aside. Not so easily brushed aside are the Markov/Markon Mr Miyagi combination who are waxing clever everywhere. The Pies have all the momentum but two monumental brain farts by defenders—Brown passing the ball directly into Cotchin's stomach, then Reid centring the ball to a Richmond hydra—kills any sexual vibe the Pies had instigated and the quarter ends 32:18 Collingwood's way.

'Markon, Markov, understand? Also, Mr Miyagi's commode needs to be emptied. Hmm? Good.'

Pendlebury is somewhat quiet but still has future vision and is able to weave his way between dimensions and players. However it's all very Tigerish this quarter as Riewoldt puts the bees in front. Collingwood's defence looks as though it's being organised by Bonkers the Clown. The bees are all over the Woodsmen like killer bees, not those fuzzy honey ones. Half time can't come quick enough but arrives just when it said it would. The bees lead by a goal.

In quarter 3 Martin tries a fend-off on Varcoe who'll have none of it and tries to take an arm home as a memento. After trying some hard man stuff earlier, Terence Trent Cotchin is dancing all over the ground—no-one ruffles his scalable hair. The man who ruffled the bouffant last time, Treloar pirouettes near the boundary line but soon is running in at goal. He's the go to man for a clutch running point. To provide a sense of symmetry with the backs, Collingwood's forward line play shit football.

In the last quarter Collingwood score the first two goals and Cloke pats Blair on the flank like you would a robust Jack Russell but one of the few Pies that deserve a hearty flank pat is Aish who is having a patch of football purpler than Alvin Purple's purple bits. When Rioli goals Channel 7 commentators go into insta-waffle, with Carey stating 'it's what you expect from Rioli'. Really? Anyway, after Ellis goals there's a rash of bees stings to Woodsmen bottoms and they run away with the game 92:77. Hardwick gets a stay of execution and as is natural the heat moves elsewhere as some pimply would-be kingmaker from Collingwood with a 7-year 3-game membership calls on Eddie to resign. All has returned to normal.

On Saturday afternoon a young Demon outfit host Hawthorn at the MCG and after a hyperbolous Dwayne Russell intro the opening bounce is recalled. But nothing dents Dwayne's enthusiasm and ability to go from first to fifth gear in one grating move. As though inspired by Dwayne, the Demons hit top gear via Hunt who speeds to goal. Very soon Gawn has marked and is lining up for goal. Gawn, we learn 'is a real character' presumably because of his endlessly talked about beard, just as Yahoo Serious 'was a real character' owing to his zany hair.

A real character.

Anyway, first gamer Sam Weideman marks with his first touch and goals with his first kick and the Dees look sharp. In case the Dees are inspired by their sponsor New Age Caravans, Rioli delivers a clarifying sliding elbow to the bodily area of man-cherub Clayton Oliver to remind all and sundry this isn't the new age.

The Hawks are taking some risks by rolling everyone up. No-one's in their defensive 50 when the ball goes in there, twice, and it takes the length of an Andy Warhol film for anyone to arrive. It looks like a Russian steppe and I expect to see grain blowing in the wind but instead see Melbourne cavalry tearing through there to goal. Hawthorn soon fix the problem but Harmes, who looks like a 50 year-old cousin of William H Macey, goals and the quarter ends 32:21 Melbourne's way.

Dwayne goes into deep staccato mode as Petracca goals early in the second. Gunston rights the Hawthorn ship after a Brayshaw gaffe but he looks like a plucked, hungry chicken—the Kate Moss of football. Toward the end of the quarter Bernice Vince cops a massive Hitler blood mo from Sicily and Smith boots a monster goal to put Hawthorn 5 points behind. It's half-time.

Trying to find a likeable underdog in this game is like choosing between William Randolph Hearst and Otto von Bismarck. Luke Hodge manages to find inspiration down his pants and sets in train a fair amount of cock honking. The Hawks are practiced cock honkers and it does the trick. Gunston goals once, then lines up for a second. I worry he's going to blow away with a strong puff of wind.

But it's a false dawn and Melbourne edge back. I'm enjoying this see-sawing contest but after that's finished I come back inside to watch the rest of football, see-sawing will have to wait. There's plenty of visceral thrills: Petracca mistaking Gibson's head for a dragon egg, Bugg zipping forward to goal like a dragonfly, Stretch doing 3 successive twirlybirds without leg-warmers. The final break has Melbourne a goal up.

Melbourne have foregone tugging their forelocks to Hawthorn which has usefully freed up their hands. Gawn is popping up everywhere like a hairy sprinkler and there is an ominous Hitchcockian moment of avian proportions when Viney scatters a number of birds, tearing along the wing.

This omen was foretold when Mitchell received a bird plop on his head which he ran with the whole game. In a desperate attempt to shake the curse, Rioli bundled Weideman up like a Christmas turkey in a tackle, taking two wings and a thigh. But there's too much pace in the Demon's side and too much inexperience in Hawthorn's and the Demons run away with it 110:81 as Dwayne rounds out his call with ramped up sexual allusions that make me get all Van Goghy in the ear department.

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