mad monday

Long-sufferers,
So, a 12th fruitless season comes to an end, and Mad Monday finally arrives.
At least we can now put on women's clothing and drink heavily.
Said it before, say it again...jeez...Balmain are a hard team to follow.
It's exhausting when you are in a death fight with Newcastle for months on end to avoid the Wooden Spoon, which [wipe of brow] they did, and actually leapt into 14th on the table on percentage in a 16 team comp, after winning the last game of the season
However, when you are just about the first team of the year to have no hope of making the top eight, that makes it tough.
Seven wins in a 24 game season is a long time between drinks in a bitter winter.
And it makes it even worse when quite a few of the really important games were lost by small margins, never mind finishing near the bottom of the ladder...there aren't even any draft picks as compensation as there is no draft in the rugby league...money does the talkin'.
Just two finals appearances in the last 12 seasons.
None in the last six.
The Stats Guru also reckons that in a 13-a-side game, the Tiges fielded no less than 29 players in first-grade this year.
Not exactly a "settled team".
The appalling litany of hideous woe goes on.
It still hasn't ceased to amaze me how a team can look a million dollars on paper for years, and still can't get anywhere with it.
The worst team money can buy?
Surely not.
It seemed the season just lurched from one disaster to another - as usual.
As everyone knows, the season got off to a magnificent auspicious start, with the dysfunctional board finally sacking coach Squeak Taylor at long long long last for being a fool to himself and a burden on the football community, not to mention just being a very difficult turd.
Ivan "Clearly It's" Cleary is plucked out of obscurity to coach, on a not great record viz-a-viz the ol' win/loss track record - and then does nothing at all for the rest of the year to improve it.
Then the club's three best players walk.
Moses throws the Tablets down from the Mount in a hissy fit and worms his way out of the rest of his contract and goes to Parramatta, where he finds a purple patch helping the Eels into the Top 4 for the first time in eons, so he now has a reasonable chance at berth in the Grand Final [that everybody knows will be won by the Storm].
The best full-back in the known world, James Tedesco, then immediately signs on the dotted line for a King's Ransom at Eastern Suburbs, but finds his Balmain contract is as water tight as Huon pine, and he has to play on in the Black and Gold for the rest of the year, but to his credit, has a very good season under trying circumstances to prove he is worth every cent that the Roosters can pay him.
Good luck to him, he wants to win a Premiership too, and why not?
Anyone would pay Teddy big money, and Easts finished second on the ladder this year without him - who knows what they'll do next year with him.
Chances are he'd be waiting all career at Leichhardt, ending up without so much as a sausage.
Captain Woodsy links up with the evil Canterbury-Bankstown mob, plays on at Balmain, but only gets about 20 mins game time in the State of Origin's, and loses interest in club football as the season wears on, and then finds karma could come back to bite him on the arse.
Seems while he has a contract at the 'Dogs, Woody's deal is yet to be signed off at League HQ until they have had a very good look at Canterbury's salary cap arrangements, and if the cards fall the wrong way, Woodsy might not be able to fit in under the cap at his current price and Clearly It's Cleary has made it clear "we are not going to retain Woods in a fire sale. There is no offer on the table..."
Aaron's plaintive cry of "I would never have left if I knew Cleary was coming" has obviously fallen on stone deaf ears.
Ah...rugby league - a brutal game on the field and a cruel one off the park - that's why we love it!
And there's never any shortage of palace intrigue, rumour and innuendo, unconscionable conduct and sheer bastardry.
Won't even mention the time mid-season when some players were arrested on "affray" charges after an all-in brawl in some seedy bar spilled over onto the Balmain Road, and spent overnight in the local lock-up to get sober.
A real traffic-stopper.
Only Luke Brooks of "the big four" remains for 2018, but while there's no doubt he's 'the goods' - he's had an ordinary '17 struggling with chronic niggles.
Cleary, at least, has brought in a few reasonably good journeymen on a couple of matchday beers and a cut lunch contracts and blooded a some promising youngsters, but hey - where's the quality full-back, five-eighth, whole pack of forwards, not to mention a new Captain for '18?
There are a couple of new Islander boys who are built like brick shit houses - really athletic men mountains who can play - they'll go far, you'd think.
The 18-year-old debutant Moses Suli, and the imported Tuimoala "The LoLo" Lolohea come to mind.
It's the way the game is going anyway; the side with the biggest artillery usually wins.
Then the whole damn caper comes full circle with the announcement that the Prodigal Son, The Great Benji Marshall, will make a return to the club next year in only god knows what sort of capacity at the real arse end of his career, at age 32.
Been warming a bench somewhere while he's been away.
He should never have left anyway, but that's another long, tawdry story you can read elsewhere in this thingy.
Only half jokingly, Benj says he's coming back on board to play "18th man".
And in a very bizarre twist, Benji's brother, 21-year-old Jeremy Marshall-King made his NRL debut for the Tiges in the final game of the year.
My head is spinning.
Among the flaming wreckage of the season - special, notable and honourable mention should be made of Chris Lawrence who struck me as such a "Try Scoring Freak" early on in his career in the centres, that it became his middle name.
The quintessential club man goes and equals Benji Marshall's all-time try scoring record for the Balmain/Wests Tigers joint venture.
Club Life Member, 209 games, 76 tries, in an 11 year career - turns 30 next year, and is newly contracted for another two seasons to end his illustrious career in the second row.
A dead-set genuine champion who never gets the credit that is his due, which may have something to do with his nick name "Rowdy"; he'd rather break yr back and tear yr throat out than look at you on the field, but he is the meekest, mildest-mannered kind of regular guy you could ever meet by all reports; the compleat gentleman, off the paddock.
Something every footballer should aspire to; sheer class, modesty...there are more than enough show ponies in the game as it is.
But as they say in The Classics - "there's always next year" - even though the prospects for '18 don't augur that well.
Supported this mob through thick and thin for more than 30 years now [for three grand finals and one premiership]; you do that, and you learn all there is to learn about hope.
Take it up the middle, and scream down the blindside.
Go you Mighty Tiiiiges!

The very last match played in the NRL regular season 2017 - Game No. 192.

WESTS TIGERS 28. Tries: Naiqama (2), Lolohea, Marsters, Nofoaluma. Goals: Lolohea (4).
NEW ZEALAND WARRIORS 16. Tries: Kata, Tuivasa-Sheck, Nicoll-Klokstad. Goals: Luke (2).
At Leichhardt Oval.
Crowd: 10,231.

Shock! Horror!

Loyalists,
Oh no!
Shock! Horror!
A whole weekend without any football?
In Melbourne?
Have they gone mad?
The good burghers of the Athens of the South will be beside themselves with absolutely nothing to do, as the AFL in its infinite wisdom again deciding to take the weekend off ahead of the finals.
There are Veteran's and Ladies matches scheduled to try and fill the gap, but it's not the same.
OK, it' been a long season for the players -- the poor things - but you'd expect that, at peak match fitness, they would be itching to rip into each other in the race for The Flag, while the fans are left bereft.
It's beyond me.
Still, Melburnians better get used to it, with only two Melbun teams in the top eight - there's two from Sydney, two from Adelaide, and one from the Golden West, while Geelong is certainly not in Melbourne by any stretch of the imagination.
Tell that to anyone down Corio Bay way, and they'll deck you.
It really is a minor miracle that the Swans are in the top 8, after losing their first six games of the season.
It didn't take long for the Stats Guru to work out that no team has ever achieved the feat in the 23 year history the top eight finals system.
And who cares that its been almost 20 years [Crows, 1998] since a team has come from outside the top four to win the Premiership?
If anyone can do it from sixth, Sydney can, after winning 14 or their last 16 games of the regular season.
As the Guru points out - if they had only won those two stupid games against Hawthorn, where they lost by a bloody point, and then a single goal - Sydney would have won the Minor Premiership.
In the back half of the season, the Swans beat all of the teams who finished in the top four -- so, surely, with Super Coach Horse calling the shots - they fear no one.
No one at all.
So, let's have a brief look at these jokers in the top 8, and their chances of thieving the Big One off the Swans.

1. Adelaide (9/4). Will probably win it, have the best team, but also a long history of shooting themselves in the foot, to wit, losing last game of the regular season to West Coast. The Curse of the Minor Premiership to contend with. Go close.
2. Geelong (5/1). The Bogey Man team. No-one likes playing the Cats, with good reason. Top chance if the cards fall the right way for them.
3. Richmond (5/1). Enigma. How did they finish 3rd? Who knows? They must have had a dream draw while no-one was looking. Likely to go out early, or could surprise, again.
4. GWS (4/1). Has the team to do it, but must return to early season form. Less than ideal warm up for finals losing last two games of regular season. Hankering for this. Top chance.
5. Port Adelaide (12/1). Dark horse. Been lurking around the top eight all year, and an outside chance of saluting the judges at good odds.
6. Sydney (4/1) In form team of the comp, sweeping all before them, except for one hoodoo side. Playing Champagne football at the pointy end of the season. Should be outright second favourite. Will go deep into September.
7. Essendon (40/1). Pretenders. Little hope.
8. West Coast (50/1). Very lucky to be in the finals at all, squeezing into the top eight on a 0.08% differential on for and against. No hope.

And who knew that L.Franklin would kick a bag in one of the best performances of his stellar career in the final match of the minor round?
Well the player and the coach did, from the outset, for mine
No one has kicked ten goals in a game in two years, and the highlight reel has been sent straight around to the National Film and Sound Archives.
My reading of it is it was all a well laid plan involving a bit of quid pro quo between Buddy and SC Horse.
Longmire might have said to him "now look Buddy, we'll make this Carlton mob toast, so what I want you to do is play like an old-school full-forward, don't stray out of the goal square or your pocket, and I'll get the mid-field to put it on yr chest so you can kick as many as you like and win a fourth Coleman Medal, but in return, I want you to win the Premiership for me".
Buddy would have jumped at the chance.
[It's not like the olden days, when proper full-fowards used to boot 100 goals a season, e.g. Plugger did it for the Swans in '98 and Warwick Capper did the triple figures twice in '86 & '87].
A bit of bling around the neck and something else for the trophy cabinet never hurts, but Lance is looking for redemption and sweet revenge after being unable to play in the 2015 finals through illness that was no fault of his own, and he experienced the unspeakable cruelty of being ROBBED BLIND in last year's Grand Final against the Western Bulldogs, who this year have been exposed as the frauds that they always were, failing to make the top eight.
The Stats Guru says it's been eight years since the reigning premiers have not featured in the top eight.
At long last the Swans mid-field is on fire - they could afford to rest the Hannebery Kiddie and the Papley Pearl in the last game after they'd been bashed from pillar to post in the back half of the season.
It's always handy to have two ruckmen - everyone knows it's the last chance saloon for Tipsy, while Sinclair is one of the most under-rated players going 'round.
Remember, West Coast traded Sinclair for Lewis Jetta, who can hardly get a game.
Guess who got the best end of the pineapple out of that one?
With Odd Head McVeigh and Old Man Grundy in form - what they lack in a yard or three of pace they more than make up for with footy smarts, both having football brains the size of watermelons - the backline is even more impregnable.
Appointing The Great JPK as skipper was a masterstroke, while the Coach's Pet, the Goal Kicker for North Adelaide in the form of Will Hayward can have just three touches in the game and score three goals, or something or another like that.
It's in his contract.
You have to be very very sorely tempted to take the 4/1 being offered about Sydney.
What's not to like?
So, relax, get mellow, knocked out, copastatic, this weekend - there's nothing else to do - and then we'll see what happens, eh?
Bring it on.

SYDNEY: 3.4, 6.7, 13.10, 21.12 (138). Goals: Franklin 10, Hayward 3, Rohan 3, Tippett, Reid, Kennedy, Heeney, Newman.
CARLTON: 1.0, 5.1, 8.4, 8.9 (57). Goals: Boekhorst 3, Curnow 2, Kruezer, Casboult, Pickett.
At Sydney Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 38,965.

Cheer, Cheer.

the most enormous reserves bench on the face of this earth

Football sides are meant to be made up of 18 players with a few reserves on the bench, right?
So what is wrong with the above photo?
Had the good fortune to be at the annual Strayan Rules Reclink Community Cup grudge match at Henson Park, Marrickville, between the Sailors and Whalers, on a picture-postcard perfect late winter's day in the Emerald City last weekend.
The Musicians had the team called the Sydney Whalers, who took on the shonks in the Media who had the moniker of the Sydney Sailors.
In the five previous editions of the match, the Muso's had never won; outsmarted, outmaneuvered and played like a fiddle by those shifty, shady types in the meejah.
There's always an artistic argument about who gets the most airplay and which band or that gets high rotation etc etc etc.
So, it was on.
A full, properly umpired, 18-a-side serious Strayan Rules football match of four full quarters, mixed-sex with local rules [i.e...the boyo's were not permitted to smash the gals in a tackle, but the ladies could take on a bloke - and there were some big tattooed bruisers among them, who took great delight in tackling and dumping hefty men into the turf - and when the ball was being contested by two players of the same sex, it was anything goes - and the most enormous reserves bench on the face of this earth], for both sides.
It was the second year in a row since happening upon this extraordinary thing, and found myself again supporting The Red and The White Sailors - same colours as the beloved Swans AND, of course, could only show my solidarity with the media team, being a prominent retired disgraced former Sydney radio & TV journo.
A couple of old friends from London were in town and decided to tag along to the ball park, on the promise of a carnival atmosphere.
What they call in the tourist brochure's: "the quintessential Aussie experience for a tenner'.
Five dollars in, and a fiver for an Official Program, with free parking inside the ground for earlybirds and cripples.
["I wouldn't park there if I were you mate, the ball could dent a few panels where you are"].
One of the Poms had never seen a game of Strayan Rules being played before, and appeared to be quite taken with the highly unusual nature of it.
Once you'd gone through the mantra of "and it's six points for a kick through the big sticks and a point for anything between the little sticks" stuff, he eventually made out the rules about half way through, but the difference between "holding the ball" and "dropping the ball" eluded him to the end
"where did this game originate from?"
"oh, there is much debate about that, but it goes well back into the 1800's , and basically it's a game some dude dreamt up to give cricketers something to do in the winter".
"ah, that makes sense now. very clever."
There were about five or six thousand folks in for the match; of all sorts and stripes, from babes in arms to creaking ancient folk, extended families, picnickers, millennials, yuppies, hippies, funny drunkards, old stoners and too many dogs, yes dogs; a couple of loose hounds had to be shooed off the ground at the start of the Champo, after it had been taken over by hundreds of spectators [and dogs] for a big Kick-to-Kick at the long break.
Footies flying everywhere.
There was someone dressed as a jester in the crowd, there was a hula-hoop girl, cheer squads with pom-pom girls for both sides, water boys, ambulance personnel and an army of volunteers, as well as an attractive merch stand, two bars, and typically rudimentary toileting arrangements; old style latrines and things underneath the brick Scorer's Box near the tennis courts.
In a sad indictment of the times, you could not buy a meat pie for love nor money, and yet vegan hot dogs were freely available.
You heard me right - yes, vegan hot dogs, with real American mustard.
Go figure.
But, the carnivores among the carnival goers were well catered for with whopping wood smoked burgers in a brioche bun - straight in, down the gullet, thank you very much.
No idea what was going on in the Mexican food van, but they probably came from Melbourne.
The Bloke from London was most impressed with the lay-out at the "old brickpit" at Henson Park, being an aficionado of historic architecture.
Particularly the original King George V Memorial Grand Stand, built in 1936, the year the King died, after the sports field project was finished after filling in the quarry as a Great Depression work-creation project in 1933.
And he's still there, apart from the odd lick of paint - hasn't changed at all in 80 odd years.
You can still see the brick walls of the old pit up in the north-western corner of an expansive spectator hill, but it's better sitting on the aluminum bleachers in the shadows of the old King's stand as the sun goes down behind your back.
The Whalers got off to a blinder with a five goal first quarter; a blitzkrieg, whip-sawing the Sailors, who struggled to even get the ball to their end of the ground.
The Sailors steadied the ship in the second quarter, but were still a few goals behind at half-time, and with the early ascendancy for the Whalers, things were looking a bit grim for meejah.
The Member for Grayndler, the Hon. Anthony Albanese MHR aka "DJ Albo" played for the Muso's team last year, but a lack of commitment to training this year saw him assume the role of assistant coach of the Whalers.
He was obviously very good at it, brooking no possibility whatsoever other than a glorious victory for working men and women playing musical instruments.
A punter near me on the bleachers was leafing through the Official Program, and, pointing to the team list in disgust, cried out loud.
"How did so-and-so get a game?? He's no bloody musician. He's just a drummer in some band, you know?"
Albo was in good form on the Tannoy, describing the Sailors as the "Evil Murdoch Empire" or just calling them "the Murdochs" for short.
And decrying the fact that the Federal Gumnut had just given FOX hundreds of millions of dollars in free taxpayers money to cover "minority sport", but he did acknowledge that the Tories had also tipped in a fair truckload of cash into the charity [Reclink provides sporting and educational opportunities for disadvantaged yoofs], and he was pleased with that bi-partisan support, which he promised would continue under a Labor Government.
A consummate retail politician is Albo, who lists his main recreation as "beating Tories"; and a jovial bloke to boot, always ready with a smile and a joke, at ease with his popularity among the good burghers of his electorate; the faithful.
The Bloke from London learned that there are still a lot of Pinko's left in the Marrickville area, even after the yuppie scum bought in.
It used to be solid working class; factory workers, Greeks, Italians, Portuguese mainly, living in worker's terrace houses that now go for north of a million smackeroonies, baby.
It wasn't until after the game as we walked out behind a set of goal posts that the Londoner realised what an important & difficult job the goal umpire has to do, give the quite small, but a very tall target - in theory, infinitely tall.
The scoreboard never lies.
At one point the Pom had to be corrected when he yelled out "good catch" when someone took a screamer, being informed that it was more correct to call out "oooaah, whaddascreamer!" or just "onya, great mark there, mate!" would do, if he was playing for your team.
At another point felt myself compelled to yell out in contempt " 'BAALLL!! whaddya reckon'bouthatforajoke - UM-PIIIRE?!!" and the other Pom with us turned to me knowingly with a sunny smile on her face and said "I have absolutely no idea what it was you just said".
Assured her that there would be no point even beginning an explanation, let alone a long discussion on the finer points of barracking.
There was an entirely naked male streaker in the third quarter, clearly drunk as per tradition, no security required here; raised a good laugh - "show us ya donger!" - and there was a fair degree of a hootin' and a hollerin' when a, female - - how do you say this? - "rather shapely" female streaker appeared on the ground in the last quarter - fully nude - except for a picnic rug draped over her shoulders, which she then wrapped herself up in at at the completion of her run across the ground - the match, of course, continued as normal as if nothing was going on.
The Ground Announcer said on the Tannoy "ah, ya gotta love the RecLink Cup, where too much nudity is barely enough!"
Boom Boom!
Happens every year.
Reliably informed that the beer ran out just after three-quarter time after rationing of two cans per person was introduced at half-time, due to the unexpected size of the crowd.
But what did that matter with the historically & creatively named Henson Park Hotel just up there by the back entrance to the ground?
It was a bloody good well contested, well umpired, game of footy too...excellent standard for a social match...some could really play...good talls among the men, a couple of top goal kickers, and there were some first class crumbers and rovers among the women, who generally had better kicks-in-play on them.
The Sailors put up a good fight in the Champo but they could never get ahead with catch-up football and the five goal margin remained at the finish.
Local legend and on-field hard bastard, Freddy Crabbs, of the Whalers was awarded Best on Ground, to much acclaim.
It was noted that Shane "Mummy" Mumford, formerly of the Sydney Swans, now of the Greater Western Sydney Giants, was at at the ground, and found out that both teams had been training together for this for many weeks under the guidance and tutelage of the Great Mummy, who was a towering figure at the Presentation of the Cup, the day after playing for the Pygmies in the AFL game in Canberra.
With about a minute to go, and the result clearly beyond doubt - all of the 80 footy players listed in the Official Program, 40 a side + "emergencies" as well as the coaching staff and hangers-on, cleared the bench, and ran onto the ground - everyone - for an all-in free-for-all: Suburban Strayan Style.
And the crowd went ape-shit.
A happy chaos, mad minute.


SYDNEY WHALERS: 11.6 (72).
SYDNEY SAILORS: 6.3 (33).
At Henson Park, Marrickville.
Crowd: 6,000 [est.]

what's the score, Jimmy?

High Fliers,

The Boeing 737 touched down at Bauerfield International Airport in Port Vila just before 11:30pm on the Saturday night.
During the three hour flight from Sydney, the Swans were in the process of whimp-sawing and whumping St Kilda at the SCG.
As much as fever pitch ever gets in Australian Rules football circles in the Emerald City, there was some keen expectation that The Red and The White would come back from a 0-6 season start, then win 10 out of their next eleven, giving themselves a red hot go of making the finals with five games to play.
The Good Lady Wife decided to wear a Swans team shirt on board just to make sure everyone knew that she was Loud and Proud, even though we were already aware that Air Vanuatu was yet to discover a way to connect the aircraft to the internet; everyone was in the dark about the wash-up at the game as the plane hit the deck.
As the jet rumbled along the taxi-way, got a clear view of the bloke waving the paddles to bring the Big Bird into its parking spot at the terminal.
He must have spotted the GLW as we disembarked, because by the time we'd gotten to the bottom of the gangplank to the tarmac, he was waiting at the stairs, and with a smile on his face said without any introduction, and much to our astonishment -
"Do you want to know who won?"
"Ah, yes. That'd be great! Who won?"
"YOU WON!" said Paddle Man over the din of the winding down turbines.
We high-fived.
"How much did they win by? Do you know?"
"Too many", he said, with a look of faux sadness on his face.
Turns out this chap was an Australian from Melbourne - he was a FIFO worker, and an avid St Kilda supporter.
He was a happy kind of a fellow, and after we offered our thanks for the info and our commiserations, he just said "yep, you thrashed us", and we we're on our way.
Small world, eh?
Welcome to the great Republic of Vanuatu.
It wasn't until the next day that we learnt that Callum Sinclair kicked a bag, and the Swans punted on to a very comfortable 42 point victory.
During the week, we happened to be driving in from east Efate, and came past the brand spanking new athletics/sports stadium they are flat-out building, in time for the 11th edition of Pacific Mini Games to be held in the first and second weeks of December.
It's been literally carved out of an old cow paddock on the outskirts of town; the architecture is quite interesting and the superstructure is in - but there's still a lot of heavy concrete pouring work to be done out the back of the stands and in the seating...and they were getting on with it, as hundreds of workers crawled all over the thing.
Right next door, we spied eight distinctive poles - a dead giveaway - and remarked almost in unison "look! there's a footy ground!"
The bus driver pointed out that it was the not only the only Australian Rules Football ground in Port Vila, but the only one in all Vanuatu.
It is a big ground, well marked out and maintained, and appeared as lush as anything in the dry season.
It had the regulation four posts at either end, there was no grandstand or bleachers, but there was a mighty fine spectator's hill all along the northern boundary, that is heavily shaded by large banyan trees and cocnut palms, and it's been graded up to a fairly sheer volcanic rock face.
One of the more picturesque football grounds in the world, you would have thought.
A small group of boys off in the distance at one end of the ground were playing soccer, using the space between a goal and a behind post as their goal.
On cross-examination, the bus driver intimated that the ni-Vanuatu were prepared to give Aussie Rules a go, but it didn't really catch on and is now played mainly by ex-pats, as rugby union was more their thing [they're playing rugby sevens and soccer at the Mini Games], and they have a side interest in the rugby league that's played over there in Polynesia.
Right next door to the footy ground there were four well-appointed cricket nets, all going in full swing.
There are many cricket grounds in the 87 inhabited islands of Vanuatu, which has a proud history and love of the game.
It was something to do with the British trying to establish their superiority over the French, after they found themselves in the appallingly impossible position of jointly ruling the archipelago as the Condominium of the New Hebrides for more than 70 years.
The Poms and the Frogs didn't get on, so how they worked that one out was with crazy stupid duplicate bureaucracy gone mad.
But that's another story.
However, as us Colonials in Australia did, the locals fell for cricket, and pinched the game off the Poms.
It's particularly notable that cricket was first played by ni-Vanuatu women, before the men, and even today the serious top-class female cricketers are apparently considered better and more stylish than the men, and have a very good following.
They're the stars of the game.
But the boys aint bad either; Vanuatu has an excellent chance of playing in the ICC's Division 5 World Cup.
Didn't see any cricket being played, but social games by all reports are generally free-for-all free-wheeling mixed-sex affairs, but the women batting in the much favoured social uniform of the ol' Mother Hubbard dresses are allowed the advantage of using their calf-long bell-bottom garments as very effective fly swats against the LBW rule.
In those get-ups, slow bowling would appear to be de rigueur.
But back to the next question at hand - what's the score, Jimmy?
Fast forward six days to the following Friday night and me and the GLW found ourselves around sunset gazing out over the limitless azure of the sparkling south-west Pacific Ocean, as gentle waves broke over the reef.
After a quick saunter down the darkening road to the dingy, dimly-lit, dirt-floored kava bar for a couple of shells of the really good gear they serve there - just to get in the mood - found myself wandering at a much more leisurely pace back to the place where we were staying, which was in a small cove on the Pango Point Road out there, sheltered from the constant sou'easterly trade winds - the weather it was fine, and it was about 25°C all the time, 24-7.
Perfect.
[Kava certainly makes being an idler easier, and it's true, the stars do shine brighter for one thing; the Milky Way appeared to stick out like dog's balls...that sort of thing.]
However, the joint boasted but one small colour television set which was situated in the appropriately named "TV Hut"; but most fortunately, it was somehow linked by two tins cans and a piece of string to the satellite-thingy that brought in the AFL telecast through Channel Seven's digital transmitter in Darwin, of all places.
So with the GLW again donning her Swans merch, we settled in to watch Sydney go around against the evil Hawthorn side, away, at the MCG.
We were soon joined by a goddamn Hawks fan, for chrissake - wouldn't you know it - but he was a magnanimous man who knew his football onions - and couple in their 60's from Hobart -- the husband barracked for the Saints, while the wife - for some reason which was never asked for and of course never explained [how could it be explained?] - was a Port Adelaide fan.
As the match meandered in the second quarter, the bloke from Hobart - slumped on the lounge with a stubbie holder of Tusker beer in his grip - began to wax lyrical about how he played against the"Riewoldt boys" in the Hobart U-19s comp back in the day, and claimed he could have gone on with it to greater heights, if only he hadn't become more interested in girls and the drink.
He described the Riewoldt's as a bunch of hard bastards, but noted that that was back then, when what happened on the field stayed on the field.
"And, Christ, could they drink piss after a game", he said in passing.
And who knew that Jack Riewoldt's father Chris [eventually a Tassy AFL Hall of Famer - 297 games for Clarence] went by the nickname of "Cabbage".
"Jeez, that's an odd one. Why was he called Cabbage?"
"Because he had this big head on him that looked exactly like a cabbage, but he was built like a brick shit house, mind you - great ruckman".
After a slow start the Swans were in trouble at quarter time and then in real strife at half time - four goals down in a low scoring game - as Hawthorn dominated the mid-field, and played man-on-man to a tee in their backline, and anxiousness was starting to set in as the kava began to wear off.
At half-time, the Hawks supporter said "there's really nothing in it, you know, your blokes could be in the lead in four minutes".
And so it almost came to pass as the Swans got off to a blinder in the Championship Quarter, and despite Hawthorn not scoring a goal in the stanza, the Bluds were then ground down to a halt and forever had to play catch-up football for the rest of the night and that was that; they fell short - the distant sound of the Fat Lady singing could be heard amid the barking of the local dogs about ten minutes from full-time with the Hawks getting up by single solitary goal, after earlier in the season beating Sydney by a single solitary point - a bloody point.
Hawthorn are a '17 hoodoo side now, with form going back decades, so it's little wonder we hate them with a passion.
The Hawks fan shook our hands and said "A good game, that - your blokes will take some beating in the finals".
"That's if we make the finals".
"Oh, you will make the finals, don't you worry about that".
Mr Hawthorn then added offhandedly "aaah...I think I'll stay on for the team song", but it was nearing midnight, that was beyond the pale anyway, and for us, the carnival was over...for now.

cheer cheer at Spotto

Loyalists,

Sydney Olympic Park was "mayhem" on Saturday night, with 130,000 odd people packed into the precinct.
About 80 thousand were in at Cathy Freeman Stadium to watch the visiting Arsenal soccer team beat the Western Sydney Wanderers 3-1, me and the Good Lady Wife were in next door with 20,000+ others at Spotless "Spotto" Stadium [aka the 'new' Sydney Showground] to witness the Mighty Swans beat the Hapless Western Sydney Giants, another 20,000 were in at the Olympic Indoor Stadium to gasp at the Disney On Ice Spectacular, while another 8,000 or so were in the Exhibition Halls at a trade show called the "Man Cave Experience".
WTF?
All at the same time.
Yep...and it all worked perfectly - seamless - transport arrangements on-song, no crowd crushes, no queues, a low key security presence, and the only police we saw all night were two cops mounted on horseback.
Indeed, the place looked only moderately busy.
It was all designed to work like that 17 years ago, and it still does - a classic example of 'if it's not broke, why fix it?'.
With much trepidation, paid good money for some cheap tickets just before the match was sold out a few weeks ago, after going to the same game last year only to see the Swans lose by six goals, their biggest loss of the entire 2016 season.
Dreadful, it was.
But my presence was now required to reverse The Mock, otherwise there'd be a ban on me from ever going again in case they lost and it was my fault.
JPK won the toss and decided to kick towards us in the cheap seats at the Scoreboard End.
Yippee...that means the game will be down our end during the all-important Champo.
Then there was a minor "brush with fame" as the GLW, who's superlative at these things, spotted Steve Bisley moving along the row of seats in front of us with a tray of beers.
She described him as "looking rather shoddy", which was about right, and seeing he was sitting in the cheap seats, we concluded that he must be a bit short of work at the moment.
Toby "Fucking" Greene kicked the first two goals of the match for GWS, and was then barely sighted for the rest of it, after SC Horse instructed Reg Grundy to tag him and take him out.
What he might lack for a yard or two in pace now as an old man, Grundy of course more than makes up for in vast experience and footy smarts, he squashed Greene, who in my book is the dirtiest, filthiest player of his generation - fined and suspended already this season, so won't be winning no Brownlow.
Don't get me wrong,Tobes is a very good player, no question, but he's a thug - so Reg stood over him and was constantly in his face.
Half way through the last quarter, Toby was fully cooked and the Swans players were continually pushing him around off the ball like a rag doll for no reason, and he had a hang dog look on his ugly face betraying that he was very sick of it, because he couldn't fight back, as he was too buggered.
J.Patton for GWS was also taken care of after the first break by Rampe & Co, before he did himself a mischief and couldn't kick any more.
Bonus.
Odd Head McVeigh, also an old man with an old head, had a great game - to see him in possession dancing around opponents as they darted at him from very which way - it's like McVeigh has eyes in the back of his strange looking head - was a pleasure to watch,
JPK toiled manfully all day, as he does every week; the heavily tattooed growler the Jones Boy [the GLW's favourite], L.Parker, the Cardiff Zucchini and the Hannebery Kiddie had the mid-field nailed down flat, only Callan Ward for the Pygs was any match for them.
Solid match fitness from a basically unchanged side for weeks now is probably what won it for the Swans in the denoument, with two evenly matched sides both basing their games on impenetrable defence, with only a couple of talls up front to kick goals.
Things were tense at half time, with everything to play for.
The Swans were in a position that seemed insanely impossible even a few weeks ago, having the chance to vault up a log-jammed ladder with their sixth win on the trot, to go 9-7, after starting the season with an inexplicably awful 0-6 before they even troubled the keeper of the Premiership points.
The Stats Guru, as you can imagine is beside himself; he almost wet his pants...Sydney were looking for their ninth win in ten matches.
The Pygs, in stark contrast, couldn't win a rigged raffle, having in the previous weeks been the first team to suffer two consecutive draws since 1921.
That inability to win was messing with the Giants heads, for mine, well, at least hoping it had.
So, at the long break, found myself chugging on a ciggie to relieve the nervous tension while wandering around the expansive Smoking Lounge at the Scoreboard End which was thick with the acrid smell of tobacco smoke mingled with the sweet pungent aroma of Cannabis Sativa, when two blokes approached me unannounced.
The first tapped me on the shoulder and said "hey mate, I love your scarf!"
"yeah, it's a good one, isn't it?"
[quizzically] "yes, but it's a St. George scarf!?" [obviously he had noted the 'retro' red-and-white 'hoop' design of the rugby league team of the same name].
"I know; but my wife stole it".
Which was true.
LOL, and then he wandered off.
Next, a young bloke with long matted half undone dread-locked hair and wild and crazed eyes came up to me and pushed me on the buttons on my jacket [there were two Adam Goodes, and one Barry Hall button among them, along with other various pin-on memorabilia - fully merched up] for no reason at all.
Taken aback, he pushed me just enough to almost put me off balance and dead-set, was fearing that he was about to kill me; but no, he thrust his face close to mine, smelt the marijuana on my breath, and with a huge idiot grin on his dial just barked "Go Swannies!"
As the GLW was quick to point it, he was obviously on drugs.
Why do these people pick me?
The Champo was one of the best quarters of footy seen at the ground in many a year, as the match ebbed and flowed, trading goal for goal, with patches of fully-fighting defensive work.
It wasn't until L.Franklin kicked an impossible set shot from the boundary line 70m out that sailed high wide and handsome through the big ones that Swans fans began to relax a little, and then to cap off the quarter, Tom "Pearl" Papley took a terrific mark just inside centre, physically broke free through a ring of defenders and took off...had three bounces as a raced towards goal before reaching the goal square and dribbling it through without a hand being laid on him.
Worth the price of admission alone.
Always had a lot of time for Paps; he's grown up so much since first seeing him in the flesh the last time a year ago, and he could be anything - if only he would shut up.
A serial pest; the Pearl just cannot stop yabbering and needlessly getting himself into stinks by calling opposition players names.
Needs help with niggle management.
Of the assembled masses in a ground where they were hanging from the rafters, about 80% were Swans fans travelling to an away game, that used to be called "the Battle of the Bridge", but now had a much more politically correct and boring title "Derby XIII".
And you hear some odd things come out of football crowds.
During a crucial moment in the third quarter as the mob were hushed for a moment in anticipation, a shrill female voice pierced the night sky with "I love Mellican!"
He had a good game...but...
Lewis Mellican?
With that face?
Surely it must have been his mother.
The standard of umpiring was appalling, as usual.
At several junctures, the Bamfords, of which there are far too many, appeared to have lost control of the game with all of them standing around blowing their whistles and pointing at each other as the players continued on their merry way, taking no notice of them at all.
You had to be there; another one of the many moments that are not captured by the television camera's.
In the last quarter the Umps were completely out of their minds when they gave Franklin a dubious free kick right in front of goal for Buddy just being Buddy in a marking contest, and then minutes later gave another free kick for only-God-knows-what to former Swans player Shane "Mummy" Mumford, again right in front of goal, right in front of us.
As he lined up the big sticks, the booing from the rowdy seats was the loudest that'd passed my ears in a while, and have to confess to joining in with gusto.
Shane's a nice bloke and a very good ruckman, but not at that moment.
[Mummy was excellent against his old team - which he left only because the Swans got involved in a frightful debacle and paid a huge amount of ridiculous money to get Tipsy, who's now fallen right out of favour and can't even get game. He smashed Naismith in the ruck, and Sydney still won - go figure?]
And towards the end of the match, when the Giants were finally pinged by the Bamfords for holding-the-man in the Swans backline, an ordinary looking bloke stood up in the bank of seats across from from us, pointed accusingly at the Umpire, and shouted very precisely in a stentorian disgusted English-accented voice "they have been doing it all day, Sir. All day!", and then promptly sat down.
It was probably the only thing this bloke yelled out all night.
Chose his moment.
Well said.
When the Fat Lady starting to sing a few minutes before full time with the Syds two goals up and the Pygs fast running out of time in a quarter that went for over 34 minutes, could not resist joining in with a rousing rendition of the old soccer hooligan ditty "Wots it like!? Wots it like!? Wots it like to lose at home?! Wot's it lie-eyek to-oo lose at home?"
Haven't been able to do that for years.
No-one hit me.
GWS probably lost the minor Premiership right there, while the Swans lived to fight another day.
Sunday morning Smoko down by the Magic Waters would have been a relaxed affair for the first time in months.
As former Super Coach Sheens, in the rugby league caper, was fond of saying "we'll take our wins, and learn from our losses."
For now, victory is sweet.
The Green and Golden Bell frogs were being very noisy in the Brickpit as we wandered off into the night.
Cheer, cheer.

GREATER WESTERN SYDNEY: 2.4, 5.6, 8.8, 12.11 (83). Goals: Greene 2, Patton 2, Kelly 2, Johnson 2, Mumford 2, Scully, Smith.
SYDNEY: 4.4, 7.5, 10.9, 14.12 (96). Goals: Franklin 4, Papley 2, Lloyd, Smith, Kennedy, Robinson, Parker, K.Jack, Hannebery, Jones.
At Sydney Showground.
Crowd: 21,924. [Ground record].

"Swans rise from the ashes"

Cardiac Arrestee's,

The headline on this bloggy-blog-blog thingy was going to read "One for The Ages", thought that's pretty clever, but then consulted the Official Match Report on the Sydney Swans website to get the scorebox, only to find that it was already taken - their media department had thought of it first - so another cliché needed to be found.
Thought "Miracle Win! Swans take cliffhanger in dying seconds!", yep , but nah, old hat, what about "Snatching victory from the jaws of defeat", nup, been done to death, or maybe "Phoenix rises from the ashes", or as my Spy at the Ground helpfully suggested "Swans rise from the ashes".
That'll do.
The whole dang shooting-match was worthy of ancient Greek legend.
Appropriate, of course, given that who would have thought after the frightful sight of Sydney going 0-6 at the start of the season, that the Swans would, with a lot of luck and a fucking unlucky shocker against Hawthorn of all bastard teams (the classic "the one that got away") somehow sneak into the top 8 [albeit temporarily] after a one-point final-second last-gasp win over Essendon at HQ, to go 6-7 just past the half-way point in the season.
Who would have thought, indeed?
Phew.
Things like this don't happen, do they?
Down 19 points with a few minutes to go, and they pull the frypan right out of the fire.
Nurse! Brandy!
It was good in retrospect that the last quarter ran to 31 minutes; the Swans were running out of time to rescue the game in a big hurry, and they left it to the last few clicks of the stopwatch.
A fiercely contested, well fought football match, but also a laughable comedy of errors that would have left any forwards' coach with agonised tears streaming down his cheeks.
Both sides had numerous chances to just put the game away, but neither capitalised; in retrospect the game was there to lose, not to win.
According to the Stats Guru, among the host of crazy digits, the number of intercept marks was completely silly, and he very much doubts that he's ever seen 11.20 beat 12.13.
Which again brings the time-honoured Rules scoring system into conjecture.
Coming up to half-time with kicks for goal being sprayed, hooked and shanked everywhere, the GLW remarked on the number of behinds that had been scored but added "but they all add up, don't they?"
They certainly do, 28 points in behinds by the end of the Champo; but the game certainly has always put a big premium on goals.
But, really, having six straight kicked on you late in the piece while being utterly unable to find the big sticks you'd think you were dead, buried and cremated.
And they were.
By three-quarter time, Buddy was a shot bird.
Sydney were in big trouble.
He had lost all confidence after being tagged stupid all night by that clever No.12 Mark Baguley of the Bombers, but at least with the settled brain Lance has now, he could just admit it to his team and say "I'm gone, I'll try my best, but it's up to you to do the heavy lifting" without causing a problem, because he already had, by kicking 0.6...the poor bloke could just not kick a goal to save himself.
If he'd been on target just once or twice, it would have been all over red rover for the Bombers.
But he wasn't the only one, and it doesn't help when you are carrying passengers, when whatever Plan A was wasn't working.
While JPK was outstanding with a very heavy workload, had to give Isaac Heeney "The Cardiff Zucchini" Best on Ground simply because he went flying in a tackle and landed flat on his back and smashed the sea anemone that he has growing on his head into the turf - his brain box bounced, a time or two - but instead of going straight to the Head Injury Assessment [HIA] room to be inspected by the medics, he got straight up, dusted himself off, went back in to the play and booted the goal that may well have been the match-winner.
Don't get me started on the Bamfords.
Please, just don't.
Without doubt the worst umpiring display seen at the SCG this season.
The officials did their level best to hand the game to Essendon on a platter with gift free kicks, technical nonsense like penalising a swift clip over the ear, finding infractions that weren't in the rule book, that sort of thing.
It made it very difficult to follow what they were thinking, or if the fools were looking at an entirely different game on another planet.
In fact, with five minutes to go, the Swans had been robbed blind by the Umpires plain and simple, and officialdom could take the brunt of the blame when they lost.
The whole match was bizarre, how bizarre.
SC Horse could not look at the last 30 seconds or so - he had his head buried in his hands in the coaches box - [which now looks more like a crude movie set from NASA] - refused to watch, there was nothing he could do knowing that the entire season rested on getting the four Premiership points with a single kick, bang smack straight in front, after the siren.
There was no need to watch it anyway; the last minute was all a blur of colour and movement even if you were just glued to the Crystal Bucket, and you could read any number of versions of what happened in the papers the next day.
After it was all said and done and the Fat Lady had sung, Longmire just ran his fingers through whatever hair it is that he has left on his head with the look of a stunned mullet.
Could see him in my mind's eye the next day at Sunday morning smoko down by the Magic Waters, quietly puffing on his pipe and gazing out to sea, as one of his many forwards' coaches [most likely Plugger] used huge ice-tongs to hurl massive blocks among the players in the already icy sea pool, just for a jolly jape.
That would've woken them up.

SYDNEY: 2.5, 5.11, 8.17, 11.20 (86). Goals: Heeney 2, Newman 2, Parker, Papley, Reid, Hannebery, Hayward, Florent, Rohan.
ESSENDON: 2.4, 4.9, 7.11, 12.13 (85). Goals: Stewart 2, McKernan 2, Daniher, Zaharakis, Bellchambers, McKenna, Orazio, McDonald-Tipungwuti, Colyer, Hurley.
At Sydney Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 34,575.

"Always get a good QC"

Nostalgists,
May his name live long in infamy.
You can imagine my shock this morning upon being awoken from a deep slumber to learn that the Great Big Bad Barry Hall has been inducted into the AFL Hall of Fame.
Never, ever, in my wildest dreams, thought that the day would ever be seen.
He is now an officially sanctioned reformed recalcitrant
All his offences, sins and long record of bending, snapping, breaking and riding roughshod over the Rules of The Game must have been forgiven, or at least put to one side, because there is nothing surer, they will never be forgotten.
What a player!
Christ, could he break things!
Bloke's backs, joker's arms, even bowled over a Bamford or two.
He was very big, very bad, and very Barry.
When he came to the Swans after being forced out at St KIlda due to salary cap constraints, they thought they would be able to reform and tame him through the "Sydney System"; oh, how wrong they were.
No regard whatsoever for authority.
Super Coach Roos essentially came to regard him as "un-coachable".
For all his grand service, he was eventually pushed out of the Swans, also, and wound up playing the twilight of his career at the [now very ironically] Western Bulldogs, before finally seeing the writing on the wall.
Upon hearing the news of his surprise induction, the Stats Guru was on the phone first thing telling me he'd reached deep into the record books and found that for all the wonderful games Bazza played and all the six-pointers he booted, he was suspended for a full third of his playing career.
In other words, for every two games he played, he was rubbed out down at the Tribunal for one.
One course the nadir came when he had a "brain explosion" and king hit Brent Staker of the Weagles at Cathy Freeman Stadium for no other reason than he was also a serial pest; Brent went down like a sack of potatoes, and Barry went to the naughty corner for seven weeks.
Saw it with my own eyes [just]:
http://crazycraves.blogspot.com.au/2008/04/all-over-bar-shouting.html
It is the one thing in his long illustrious career that he truly regrets...it haunts him now because for Staker "people he doesn't even know will be reminding him of it, he has to live with that, I have to live with that"
By reports filtering in from the Colonies, where the induction ceremony was held, Baz also remarked that he should not have played in the Miracle Year's 2005 Grand Final, after a beating a striking rap; clocking a St Kilda player, ironically, in the prelim.
Got off on a technicality, only because he called for silk.
“It sounds funny, but there was a bit of a clause, we had a good QC. Always get a good QC. [ed note: Terry Forrest QC - now a judge of the Supreme Court of Victoria]. The number one ticket holder at that stage got us a private jet, he wanted no fuss. Put us on a private jet. We got a limo from Essendon Airport, out the back of the tribunal, got off the charge, back in the limo — on the private jet back home, quite enjoyable.”
Unfortunately, Barry didn't remark on the quality of the Champagne on the return journey.
However, he was without doubt one of my very favourite players at the Swans during that era 2002-09 [you only have to enter "BBB Hall" in the search engine on this bloggy blog blog thingy to see]...had all the skills, could turn on a dime, outmuscle anyone, a master exponent of the hip'n'shoulder, a brutal tackler, enjoyed a snap shot through the big sticks as much as a 70 metre set shot; and, most importantly, crikey could he kick goals or what?...a lot of them...all 467 for Sydney in a career tally of 746 big ones [which "only" brings him in at 15th on the list of the all-time greatest goal-kickers].
Talent to burn, charisma to set fire to, and a prime example of why footballers should not be required to talk to the press...he could hardly string a sentence together in any interview after a game.
But he never quite got to the 300 games that automatically qualifies you for Life Membership of the AFL, whether they like it or not; "only" played in 289 matches...but, of course, he would have easily hit the magic number if he wasn't such a bad boy.
He, like everyone else, thought that there would never be any acknowledgement from the Powers That Be of his career as an out-and-out Football Star.
Now he has reached the Pantheon, he can reflect on the fact that he was never ever like other great players who will never be admitted to the Hall of Fame, because maybe they won a Browlow on drugs or something like that [no names, no pack drill].
Off the field, Barry was a complete gentleman, never got into any scandals.
All of the above said tho', he was very impressive, for mine, on the panel on the two-part Insight program on the SBS television dealing with mental illness in retired sports stars.
Hall struggled for a long, long time with clinical depression after finding himself "basically unemployable" when he gave the game away.
A very brief career in boxing did him no good, as did running around with a suburban footy team at training - he could just not see a way forward; lost in space.
However, much to his credit and those around him, he sought professional help, found a degree of peace, got married, and is now a recently minted father at the age of 40.
All power to yr oars, Bazza.
Now, you are an all-time giant of the footy caper.
Bravo!
For all your human frailties, you will be long remembered as one of the genuine, true characters of the game.
And it's such a shame; there are not many of them left now, in this day and age of a homogenized sporting world.