Brownlow Live!

Perky Girl has been a fan of the Brownlow Show for several years now, this evening she lured me in with dinner and it’s 30 minutes in and we’ve laughed and cried.

 

The most notable style is elasticised calves on all players suits and tight ankles all round. Hamish, his breeding should have prepared him for this, is showing a big chunk of white shirt below his jacket button, it’s been there for a while. Isn’t some flunky supposed to look out for this?

 

There were a few hilarious horrors that had us in stitches, Daisy Pearce and Kate Riewoldt looked great, classy outfits, great colouring.

 

Now there’s a skinny girl hollering some overwrought song. By the beard of the prophet, glad I’m not there. An awful lot of blue light, do they eat dinner in there? That’d look unusual.

 

Aragorn is making a speech, it isn’t memorable. Now it’s highlights of Round One and he’s reading the votes, reasonably quickly but I dive for the CD cupboard and Bruce Springsteen is strumming and singing ’bout how it takes a red headed woman to get a dirty job done.

Natural or bottle, Bruce?

 

The count goes on. Players are occasionally seen to sip a beer, mostly they sit there, trussed up in white shirts and bow ties, looking mighty uncomfortable and doubtless envying their teammates in Greece and Mexico who at least get to choose the colour of their T-shirt.

 

We went out for a smoke and a talk about food. Back in the loungeroom and the E-Street Band are thunking away, jeez, this is corporate programmed rock at its finest.

 

King Northern Soul, phew! That was close. Junior McCants is singing and Sarah Perkins is on telly. Now there’s a kid eating an ice-cream, somewhat less highlights of the round and back into the ballroom of the uncomfortable.

 

There’s Ben Brown, in the regulation shirt and bow tie. Rory Sloane is leading the count, Dustin’s hair is near mohawk, give it twelve weeks and dye it yellow and black, it’ll look great.

 

Betting shops finances will also be looking wobbly if this keeps up, twelve for Rory, eight for Dustin, the AFL website has got R5 up as the teev hit R8.

 

Highlights of ex-footballers, where is Roaming Brian? He adds a dash of witty sophistication sorely missed this evening. Brendan Fevola got a look-in early on, Erin and Shaun are on now, what’s their caper?

 

Worst tackling attempt award presentation and it’s being accepted by Dan Rioli on behalf of the bloke who missed him.

 

Kids are doing some ints, a few players, Bob and Jarryd, kneel down and talk face to face.  I’ve been thinking about Bob, would Footscray have won one flag if he hadn’t been injured? No-one, especially not those at the centre, will ever be able to quantity the effect he had on the rest of the players.

 

Take another step, would he be Beloved Bob if he’d been recruited by Collingwood?

 

Oh, there’s Johnny Platten, his hair has only changed colour. Perky Girl reviewed the 196 songs I’d selected for her birthday party and was very happy with the result.

 

Isn’t that wonderful? You know how it is when your wife does something and you’re thrilled with it and she says that it’s no big deal and then you spend hours going through the files putting a playlist together and it aint really a big deal cos  going thru song lists is really good fun but especially when you’re doing it for her, so shrug and grin.

 

AAAGGHHH!!! The dreaded BT! Must. Flee. Loungerooooooonhnhneerr….

 

Darcy and Marcus are up now, Marcus, fix your jacket. Joe Daniher has a medal draped around his neck,  he’s had a haircut and some locks have been inexplicably glued to the left side of his forehead.

 

Dustin’s out in front, bookies breathe a bit easier. Willie Nelson’s on the stereo, thanks, “it’s my life” I don’t want anyone yelling at me. Can’t much bear Marshall stack rock these days.

The helicopter camera sweeps across the blue lit room, cinematography learnt a lot from Vietnam War combat photogs.

“Testosterone and oestrogen.  They’re all young and skinny” says Perky Girl.

 

Dane Swan in an old Iron Maiden T-shirt. Another ad for the Michael Hutchence doco, which seems horribly necrophiliac. Bloody hell, it’s 22:24 and this still aint done, it’s only R16.

 

We’ve been shooting the breeze for a bit, it’s R22, Dangertrick is ahead but Dustin can’t lose.

 

“There’s Daisy, she’s gorgeous!” we chorus from the couch.  “She’s the Sally Field of football,” says Perky Girl.

 

Dusty’s onstage, just refused a tray of schooners.  He’s wearing a tie. Ah, so’s Dimma. Only two I’ve noticed going against the code, delivered to every invitee by three heavily armed standover professionals in a black AMG, Dustin laughed ’em off.

 

I loved watching him play this year, he runs and shoves like an All-Black, onstage he drains water and shuffles and bounces out of his skin, puts his hand in his jacket and I flick the sound to catch his short speech, focussed, honest.

 

The kids ad, do the players portrayed receive royalties and how does Malcolm Blight’s rate compare with Moana Hope’s and will two plucky u/11s recreate the Brereton-Yeates collision next year?

 

Time for new music, I looked in the cupboard and everything seemed really normal… but, here’s Brisbane’s finest guitar girl gang, Gazoonga Attack. Great album… okay, just one more little glass of wine, agh no, too much! guess I might as well have it now.