“I don’t do drugs. I am drugs.”
“People are strange . . .”
Prologue: May you eat six chicken focaccias and jump in the deep-end of the pool (or, the impious self-regard of a sugar daddy)
I should give up writing about the Carlton Football Club but I don’t. This is not typical of me. In all other areas of my life, I abandon whatever activity I’m engaged in when it becomes difficult or complex. I have six ex-girlfriends whose names I cannot remember. They were great. All of them. Although they were left behind once the effort required exceeded ‘minimal’.
On Thursday I gave up on another story about another football club – although this has little to do with disinterest and more to do with the after-effects of using an AIDS drug off-label. Rather than reduce fatigue, it simply gave me a rapacious appetite, followed by an ephemeral sense of impunity. After calling my supplier to see if he had anything ‘anti-obesity’ I went to Visy Park to get a chicken focaccia fix from my sugar daddy at the Dr. Geoffrey Edelsten Café.
Three hours later my hunger was replaced by the self-loathing exclusive to six chicken focaccias, two bottles of unpleasant blue Powerade and a call from my supplier to say he won’t be able to come through on the anti-obesity gear as there is a bit of heat on at the moment and that I should delete all my text messages and replace the sim card on my phone. I was a little confused, but what with the emotional turmoil from Carlton’s listless loss to the Western Bulldogs last week, the last thing I needed was the Australian Crime Commission crawling up my arse.
I needed exercise. An antiquated concept. Thankfully the Dr Geoffrey Edelsten Café was within stumbling distance of the Dr. Geoffrey Edelsten Pool. Thanklessly I was sluggish after the six chicken focaccias and my arms were numb from all the needles. Hexarelin is amazing in growing new muscle fibre, but the reduction in fat tissue makes it lousy in regards to flotation. This leads me to the observation that drowning is euphoric much in the same way erotic asphyxiation is – although no way near erotic. It can actually be a little scary.
But as I was at the Carlton Football Club, there was no need for panic. Stephen Kernahan was poolside and in his Old Testament monotone told me someone would soon save me. Somebody from the Pratt family – if not a Pratt, than certainly a Mathieson.
In the end it was Dr Geoffrey Edelston himself who pulled me from the water. I thanked him for saving my life, but told him I couldn’t forgive him for such towering, impious self-regard.
The First Quarter: Why Josh Bootsma requires the patience that cannot be provided by the use of a Mexican drug to treat muscular dystrophy from a doctor now struck off the medical register
Saturday afternoon and the weather is warm enough to not wear a coat, but cool enough to wish you had. If I were elegant and refined, it would be the perfect day for a crisp linen suit. This is the round-about-indirect way that Michael Malthouse has asked me to describe weather. I’m not too sure I’ve mastered it yet, but am enjoying the process.
Jack Reiwoldt kicked the first goal. I missed it as I was thinking about something the American memoirist Augusten Burrows once wrote – something about being made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions – although my concentration is broken by the squealing of broken-hearted Carlton fans sitting behind me, upset that Josh Bootsma slipped over, or was outmarked, or was hopeless, or something.
I pay them little regard. I like Josh Bootsma. I have a Josh Bootsma badge – it contrasts my unseasonable tan better than any other player currently on our list with the possible exception of first-gamer Nick Graham. And there’s no point dropping all that money on Melatonan II if you can’t show off the results once in a while.
But Josh is not having a good day.
Carlton is five goals down, although I am not too concerned – it’s clearly a media beat-up.
The Second Quarter: Understanding that Mitch Robinson is utterly wolfshit crazy, despite having never tested positive to WADA listed crazy pills
Lately I’ve started to get a better hold on crazy, what with the boosted sex drive from the Melatonan II and my renewed fascination with erotic asphyxiation, despite it not being quite as euphoric as drowning. It can actually be a little scary.
And then there are the nightmares. The one where BT is commentating with hand puppets – Wowee! and Foot Candy. Actually they’re not really puppets, they’re just old football socks, but with BT’s funny high voice they become ‘puppets’. And then there is the one where Matthew Knights is interviewed out the front of the smouldering ruins of his house day after day.
But there is S-2-WADA-Category-induced crazy and then there’s Mitch Robinson crazy – the kind of crazy that blocks the chemical that kicks in to trigger self-preservation. The kind of crazy that breaks a game open. The kind of crazy that sees Brock McLean kick three goals in a quarter. The kind of crazy that makes Bryce Gibbs look like a number one draft pick with a rookie-listed haircut.
The type of crazy that sees Carlton less than a goal down at half-time. Or at least that’s what the AFL is choosing to strategically drip-feed the MCG scoreboard attendants.
The Third Quarter: Levi Casboult has a build of farmers’ integrity
Carlton – I won’t lie to you – is hard at the contest. Think of the hardest, most ferocious you’ve seen a side attack the contest. Okay, not that hard, but almost that hard, that’s my point. Tom Bell cleaning up Trent Cotchin hard. Zach Tuohy towelling Dustin Martin hard. Understanding how Dustin Martin is asking for $600,000 hard. Although who am I to talk value for money? – I once hired a man with links to organised crime to weigh my spaghetti Bolognese.
Levi Casboult on the other hand represents good value for money.
I’m a proud breeder, but seeing Levi clunk two big marks and kick two goals sends the blood rushing to my loins — or maybe that’s just the Melatonan II again. Anyway, that is some hunk of man.
The Final Quarter: I take full responsibility for this article. I’m shocked to be writing it actually
In the end Carlton win by ten points and I have to throw out the pre-prepared piece I was working on — the reheated Robert Walls stalking horse bit about how he doesn’t like Michael Malthouse, but with more swearing.
The happy ending has encouraged me to revisit the story I gave up on last Thursday — the one about the golden-haired boy from the land of Ne’er do Wrong who represented truth and light in the middle of a mainstream media maelstrom. The story continues to build and build — and then, at the very end, there’s a page you can lick and it tastes like Kool-Aid.
RICHMOND 8.2 10.3 12.7 14.12 (96)
CARLTON 3.2 9.4 13.4 16.10 (106)
Richmond: Vickery 3, Riewoldt 2, Ellis 2, Petterd, Vlastuin, Grigg, Jackson, McGuane, Maric, Rance
Carlton: McLean 3, Henderson 3, Casboult 3, Gibbs 2, Menzel 2, Robinson, Simpson, Tuohy
Richmond: Deledio, Jackson, Astbury, Conca, Foley
Carlton: Curnow, McLean, Robinson, Gibbs, Casboult, Tuohy
Umpires: McBurney, Wenn, McInerney
63,825 at the MCG
3. C. Judd E.Curnow (Carl)
2. B. McLean (Carl)
1. B. Deledio (Rich)