Below my ode to the 2013 season delivered GF eve in the heart of Melbourne suburbia.
March Two thousand and thirteen, eighteen teams, one dream.
The Giants will finish last says the vast majority,
Demons a sorority,
tough year Dogs, ditto Saints, ditto Port,
everybody ticks a box beside Swans and Hawks.
Lionised Lyons’ Dockers tough to beat with a full pre-season,
Buckley v Malthouse the sub-plot whiff of treason
Geelong to ebb, stands to reason,
Tigers, North, Bombers a smidgeon ahead of Brisbane, concern over MCG pigeons,
Suns young guns to run out of puff the usual column fill stuff
then in a moment of self-aggrandisement Brendan Sanderson says I’m the man to land us one,
nobody believes, really, you have to ask exactly what object his hand is on.
Before you’ve had time for a slash, a smell foul, rank, fingers pointed at septic Dank,
sceptics detect a conspiracy plot of astronomical proportion to make the Bombers barely gestated season an abortion,
dishwater bureaucrats from obscure government agencies instant celebrities and the how fuck is anybody gonna beat the Eagles?
But somehow Port do and at Alberton they’re rocking in the Koch-pit while at Hill Windy there’s more smoke in the cock-pit,
Cats the surprise packet, whatever a footy club needs Melbourne lack it, they’re already looking to two thousand and twenty and priority picks a plenty, a whole season of tanking, or Danking or Banking if you’re Buddy the ten million dollar man Sheedy’s hoping to land,
Eddie suggests Goodsey’s the perfect gimmick to promote King Kong, I was waiting for the banjo, blackface and sing-along, a little Mac Sennet and
the Hawks still can’t break curse Kennet,
Goodes season turns bad, bad turns to worse for the Grand old Flag, Josh Kennedy’s got the Fred Flinstone shuffle going and I told you here come the Eagles.
Port are hanging on, Demetriou’s banging on, Malthouse boys shithouse, Giants exalt Jeremy Cameron,
Ablett should win the Brownlow, new rules confusing as tacklers slide downlow,
fidgety boards find an axe to wield on Voss and Neeld, word that Hird’s fate’s sealed,
and then Bang
it’s a Bomberless finals and Carlton stumble in while there’s all this Roos-Demons rumbling and Woosha’s job prospects go tumbling.
Mad Monday’s pretty quiet, Saints set a dwarf alight but as the Clash sang that’s entertainment and let’s face it you gotta do something while waiting for Stevie Milne’s arraignment.
Finals week one, Tigers undone,
Dockers sent to Kardinia might as well be Sardinia
but when the final siren blows the sardines on toast are in blue and white hose and Eddy, we didn’t even have to move Wallabies v Argentinia because Port was far too good aginya.
Blues overestimated routed by swans decimated, valiant Port fall short.
Hawks overcome the curse, Swans have rarely played worse or Dockers better so here we are one schooner out of the gutter,
Two clubs left standing, who gives a stuff about AFL branding,
this time tomorrow there’ll be a new premier and then it’s November
new season’s on again and I can’t wait to see if the AFl schedules the grand final replay for Launceston. And can anybody tell me what the fuck did happen to the Eagles?