PUNCHDRUNK PIE NIGHT and PRIZE-GIVING

Here's the official trailer....


Better version (?) but still with that pesky sound glitch here

Would be grouse to see you all there, let me know I'll reserve you a chair.

FINALS WEEK 2

OUTS:
Matty: His Blues just won by too much in the end to give him the perfect weekend. See ya next year.
Leah: Just one of many people let down by the Sainters.
INS:
Tassy: Lost the battle, still alive for the war.
Dick: Making the most of late-season luck.
Alex: Down but definitely not out
Jesper: Been thereabouts all year and still not going away without a fight.
RESTED:
Steve: His Saints are dead and buried, he's out for revenge, straight through to the Prelim
Logger: Faded toward the end of the season proper, but HE'S BACK!

The TIPS

Here's who went what:


By my reckoning, at this stage (friday night) Logger gets a week off and Alex fronts up next week against the winner of the Jesper v Leah game.

The FINALS

So the top 8 go through to the finals comp. The agenda echos the leagues finals play-offs, a knock-out comp, Drunk against Drunk, depending on ladder position. Two lowest losers eliminated this week, two highest winners to get next week off.
Here's a picture:

Each Drunk to name the winner from their corresponding game and a winning margin. Margin is only relevant if both Drunks nominate the same team as winners.
The first-named Drunk in each game should nominate an EVEN margin, and the second-named an ODD margin. That way we'll get no dead-locks.
Good luck.

Tassy on top of the world!

And there we have it, despite a late lunge for the line from young Alex, despite some last minute nerves and trouser-soiling, and a couple of weeks of mozzing in this here blog, TASSY has pulled it off, and will soon be hoisting the PunchDrunk Cup for the second time.
Congrats mate, if we can find an engraver who can spell your name it'll be scratched into the silverware alongside all the former greats.
Tas tells us this is a good omen for his Swannies to win the Big One, cos that's what happened last time he won, so put your bets on. I'm not sure yet what the prize pool is mate, but I reckon you could just about turn it into a million if that happens.
Thrusting himself into second spot is Alex 'I'mkindofabigdeal' Maxwell with an exciting late surge, and hanging in there for third prize is new-boy Andy 'Logger' Lloyd, who while looking like a winner two or three weeks back, til I mozzed him, has had an outstanding first-up season as a Drunk. He arguably should have taken out the DreamTeam too, and we'll no doubt hear much more from him over the years.
Here's how it all worked out in the end:

Stavros, PunchDrunk elder statesman and founding father proves there's still a little lead in the pencil, though unluckily no more money in the bank, nosing into 4th, and Matt, I reckon has been sitting at 5th all year and stayed there.
Jesper has anointed himself the new Greg Norman and slid from what looked to be an unassailable lead at some stages throughout the season to 6th. Still not a bad effort from someone who has trouble seeing past the round ball.
Making up the numbers for the finals, Leah and I did just enough to elbow Dickwad and Dave out. Leah walking back into the 8 a few weeks after taking a tip-free holiday and blowing her chance to win the whole thing and dropping out of the 8. And myself lobbing for the first time all year at just the right time to go through.
I'll work out winnings when I get a chance, but it's a 60:30:10 break-up of whatever's left after jackpots are paid, and first prize should be just under a grand I reckon, assuming everyone pays up. More on that later too.
Congrats Tas. Apologies for not trumpeting this earlier in the week, just got back from NZ and playing catch-up.

League of Drunks - The wash-up.

Chimps eat Cheese.
In the end it was a matter of survival of the fittest. And it just goes to show that on the evolutionary ladder at least, half man/half monkey is vastly superior to a bunch of mouldy milk molecules and enzymes with a bit of rennet chucked in.
With neither team at full strength, my Champanzees, with five first 18 players sitting watching on from the stands, got up against Jim Richo's Cheesedale, who were similarly under-manned. That's just life in the jungle.
I was absentee coach for the weekend, and sadly missed all the to-ing and fro-ing, but it went something like this:

Champanzees 2,017 def Cheesedale 1,935

Meanwhile further down the food chain....
In the bottom-feeder division we had the near perfect pairing of sausage and egg, with Derek's Weisswursts rubbing up against Alex's Ovaries. Must be a cosy work environment over at MARS.
In a very close tussle The Ovary Punchers came first with the score-line looking something like this:

Ovary Punchers 1,683 def The Weisswursts 1,649.

Drunk on a ladder Round 23

Two weeks back I totally mozzed Logger, virtually handing him both the PunchDrunk cup and the DreamTeam championship. Sorry Andy. Last week I tried it with Tassy, but he just swatted it aside, with a haughty 'I defy your mozz'. He was just too strong.
Still this is the final round, the traditional stumbling-block for many a Drunk. Games don't go according to plan, the footy gods are merciless. Can Logger, Jesper or Alex pull the right lever? We'll all know in a matter of days.
I'm heading to in-law-land NZ tomorrow, I'll miss everything, but good luck to all.

PUNCHDRUNK PIE NIGHT and PRIZE-GIVING

This once-a-lifetime experience will be even bigger and better than last year's version. Don't miss it.
Date: Thursday September 29, that's the thursday before the Grand Final.
Place: TBA, probably no surprises.

Well blow me down. Last week there was almost no way Logger was not going to win this thing. Now Jim's Cheesies have hit him high and hard and he's gooorn!
That leaves the 2 past League of Drunks winners, The Chimps and the Cheesies to battle out the big one. My plan for the Chimps has misfired somewhat with a whole bunch of late season injuries and suspensions and bereft of trade options. And an ill-timed trip to NZ just before the teams are announced. Excuses, excuses. Looking like back-to-backs for Jimmy from Cheesetown.

And down here? Yes there is life on Mars, but it's a lower form of life. It's Derek up against Alex. All the best martians.

Drunk on a ladder. R 22.

Sorry to be late, and brief here. This is all quite full of importance after all. Tassy Kontogianapopoloutzious, the man with the longest name in fotballshowbizness, come on down. He rolled the dice with his own Swannies and came up smelling of roses. Hell, he probably didn't even realise he was rolling dices.... (I rolled the dice with my Demons and fucked myself in the arse. Quite a feat if you can do it. Half pleasant also). Tassy then scooped the Chokito outa the pool aith the Tiges to go screaming to the lead like one of those Mardi Gras drag queens he models himself on.
I gotta go home now, but Tassy congrats mate. It's gonna take a big man....
2 eights too, Tassy at the top of the table, and Harv at the bottom.

And then there were 4.
The Brennas smack the Demonskis, The Cheesies did what they should have against the JCEs.
How will the bye affect the Chimps and the Loggers? Well I can tell you the Chimps are in all sorts with a couple of biggish names out for the season, and a bare cupboard of trades.

And downstairs? The Whatakerfuffles may protest lack of interest, but thay're still in the (minor) hunt against creatr. NWS and Ovaries. Go figure.

We got ourselve's a party....

OMG! (which I believe is Young-People talk for Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Garden, or some-such) there's a party goin' on.
Just when it looked like Jesper and Tassy were heading for an intimate encounter... two men locked alone in a room, bring your own baby oil... we now have a menage a trois. And more than that there are others knocking on the door.... We got a love-in.

Yes, Andy Lobby "Logger" Lloyd, lascivious Lothario of the lens, lilly-livered lover of long-legged ladies with lime lollypops, has lurched to a late lead. And he's also looking the goods in the League of Drunks too. Not bad for his first year.
When he arrived on the scene at season's beginning, of course he was welcomed with customary PunchDrunk warmth and affection. A new brother bearing $60 - One of us.
Logger, what the fuck are you doing mate? The idea was you put money in. Not take it out.
Only joking. Of course. Anyway there are still 3 rounds to go, several each-way bets coming up, and the party is only just beginning.

These days success is found in the least likely places. As is his wont Dirk has once again come through with his customary 'kickin' against the wind' perfect solo 8, taking home a nice slab of cash. I'll work out how much when I get a chance. Just like Dean Bailey, Dirk has a game-plan and he sticks to it. Respect. And bucks.

A small side contest in the Drunk this year is seeing which of our many Tiges supporters finishes in 9th spot... likely contestants this year are Dickwad (8th), Sean 'Catfish' Cox (11th), Juzzy 'the Devil' (12th) and Brenna (14th).

Anyway enough slander.... Let's party...


Not sure what happened to the lip-sync there...

Drunk Housekeeping

PunchDrunk Pie Night & Prizegiving
Put it in your filofaxes now: The date of the Final PunchDrink and Cup-Handing-Over will be, as usual, the Thursday eve prior to the Grand Final. That is Thursday September 29 (I believe). Details to follow, but start sucking up to the Missus (or Mister) now. I have.

Geez! The Money!
I will email you details very soon I promise.

Very much into the pointy end here, and for some it hurts.
I didn't get around to hyping the onset of the finals last week, but you can see what happened below.

In the REAL half The Loggers and The Chimps came through unscathed and earn a week off. Sadly Sean's Catfish and Rob's Mongrels have bitten the dust, packed off home to dwell on their unfinished business til next season.

In the LESSER half, The Weisswursts and the North South Wests did enough to cruise through to the Prelims, while Benny's Whatakerfuffles fell flat and Ando's velocity cats are now buried somewhere in the backyard.

So this week we have the battle of Geelong, the highly credentialled Cheesies out to lick the JCEs in a battle of the pussies. And the oh so evenly matched Demonskis and Brennas locking horns. I'lll be sitting between Mark and Brenna at the G during the final stages of that contest, so hopefully it doesn't turn ugly.
In the underworld we'll see the Ovaries punching Aaaaargh and Creatr wooping the aptly named Heylow. I reckon.

New Dawn Fades

5 months back I bought a ticket on the Demons Love Boat and made my way to my top-deck cabin. Nice curtains, views of nothing but future and glorious tales of the exotic ports our sails were set for.
The food looked good, fellow passengers handsome and well-groomed, if a little plasticky and the band sounded good while tuning up. The captain, first mate and crew the epitome of mutual love and respect. The maps looked very exciting, hope was being sold by the bucket-load. Surely this must be trip of a lifetime...

OK some signs were there, in hindsight. Just out of the Heads there was a strange kind of rumbling coming from below deck. And yeah, the Captain never invited the Purser to sit at his table, and the Entertainment Officer seemed to be dancing to Radar Love while the band was playing Ebony Eyes, but he's just a tad eccentric right? And yes, a while back we passed a sign on a buoy that said 'Bermuda Triangle'.

Seriously, I just don't know where to look. It wasn't meant to be like this. Nobody really enjoys being kicked in face and having 186 teeth extracted, but this denouement is even worse. This fucked-up interpersonal dog-fucking, bitch-hitting. This delusional ego-propulsion, termiting, festering pus-boiled, cancer-ridden, diarrhea-encrusted, life-sucking ship-sinking shit is not what I signed up for. Decades and decades and decades ago.

But here I am. In a leaky lifeboat with a few salty biscuits, a bunch of gloomy fellow travelers and a sextant that no-one knows how to use.

Waiting for sun-up.

Back to the band...

Housekeeping

Firstly: I'm sorry. I did warn you standards would be down this year, but still, seriously.....

Secondly: Thanks to those who popped along to the Pre-season PunchDrink a couple of weeks back. It was a small but high-quality turn-out. It's always enjoyable to talk shit in knowledgeable and attractive company.

Thirdly: Details for PunchDrunk payola. It's $60, plus $10 for the top 8. I'll give you direct deposit details soon, I'm not darn fool enough to broadcast it over the internets machine though (it's the same as last year if you've kept those details). I was throwing an idea around the table at the Drink about a different approach to finals prize-giving, but we'll look at that next year. (Unless I go the way of Dean Bailey).

Fourthly: I'm still sorry.

Drunk on a ladder R19

After an unacceptably long absence, finally word from the tally-room.
Unfortunately the incremental ladder was driving me a little incremental, and I left it too long between updates, so we have a lo-fi version here. Just the ugly truth in all it's glory.

It's tempting to say nothing much matters any more, all is hopeless, but there are a few people who won't share that sentiment.
There's a fairly steep step for those sitting 9th or below to get over to bust into the eight. I could complain how close I'd be except my tips hadn't registered week before last, so I lost the unloseable friday night game. But I won't, cos it's whinging and boring and it's happened to a few of us before. I could rue the last minute tip-changes to 2 the previous 3 friday games from a winning to a losing tip. But that would be self-indulgent. Fuck it.

Anyway, here we sit with Jesper and Tassy still tussling it out like a pair of bikini-clad jelly wrestlers. They've been at it all year and it's just starting to get a little exciting. But lo! Look out for Logger and Alex, both on the cusp. Logger has a truly outstanding margin and will sweep to lead if the other 2 slip on that jelly.

With 5 rounds to go it's worth reiterating that the PunchDrunk Cup goes to the leading Drunk after 24 Rounds. That there shall be only ONE winner.
A finals series will commence for the top 8 Drunks only, on the receipt of 10 (TEN) dollars at PunchDrunk HQ. Winner of the finals comp will take home all $80 dollars in a small unmarked envelope unless they wish to spill it upon the bar at the Punch Drunk Prize-giving Pie Night. Said Prize-giving will take place on the evening of Thursday 6th October, which is the Thursday prior to the Grand Final. Venue to be announced, but there shall be no surprises there.

And here we are, last game before the finals commence... How the hell did that happen?
However, there is no question as to the top 8, with a gulf of 3 games 'tween Brenna in 8th and Dirk's Weisswursts in 9th (he's a Tiger supporter after all).
The Minor Premiership would, without doubt, have to be handed to Logger too, if only there was one.
Let's take a languid glance at this week's games:
Champanzees v Brennas: Based on last week's scores there's 21 points in favour of the Chimps. That's nuthin' in modern football.
Catfish v Loggers: 144 points difference in favour of the Legends on last week's showing. That's nuthin' in modern footy.
Creatr v Ovary Punchers: 320 points to Creatr... that's starting to be a fair bit IMF.
Whatakerfuffle v NWS: The W's a mere 99 points adrift of the NWS. Easy!
The Velocity Cats v Demonskis: 763 points to the 'Monski's. Dees revenge over The Cats.
Heylow v Weisswursts: 234 points turnaround by the 'Lows? Nah.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh v JCE's: 359 points in favour of the Joels, A bridge too far methinks.
Mongrels v Cheesedale: 638 points to the Cheesesticks. Percentage, percentage, percentage.

So next week, you're either in the top half finals, or the bottom half. One means something, is it unkind to say the other means nothing? Every kiddie goes home with a medal.... winner or loser.

Drunk on a ladder R14

It's all a little like the 1938 Melbourne Cup here, when Gunsynd took on Light Fingers in one of the races of the century. I remember it like it was yesterday... two steeds battling it out, one of them a mare, or a filly or something. Cheek by jowel all the way up the straight, bobbing head alongside bobbing head. Very Deep Throat. Only 2 horses could win....
Until out of the clouds, in a flurry of furious hooves, came the one true champ... Vo Bone Rogue Crusher winning by a long short flat white.

It looks for all the world like Tassy and our very own code-jumper, Jesper, have got this one between them. BUT we should never forget what Ali said in the Rumble in the Jungle: "Ouch man! I'm gonna get yo ass".
Beware the rope-a-dope.

Oh and to clear up any confusion, I didn't write last week's Tigers entry. I stole it fair and square.

Dreamin...

It's been a little while since we cast our eye over the DreamTeam goings-on... Seems it's pretty much a case of the haves and the have-nots. The ever reliable Cheesies and the Chimps have been joined by comparative new chums Logga, The Mongrel and Demonski, with regulars Catfish, Brennas and JCE's being thereabouts.
But you knew that.
This week's game of the round: Demonskis have their second make-or-break game in a row, this time against the Mongrels. Otherwise not much shakin'.

PunchDrink #1.

Found truths...

Borrowed words are so much sweeter. so much easier. Why write when you can steal?

Youse guys refuse to gimme a chop-out, I exhausted my supply of dubious humour last week to no avail, so...
Here's a reblogged, repurposed, recycled piece of prose with an internet pedigree purer than the Battenburgs... PunchDrunk via Demonland via Big Footy etc etc. I don't know who the Biffinator is, but I like the boy.
And also, yet another Rennie Ellis shot showing Tigerland as it was, in 1974, a slimmer, more desirable place than it is now. But isn't everywhere?
I've already run this past some of the PunchDrunk Tigers for sign-off, so it's ok, it's even got a Shakesperian reference:

“At the heart of every Richmond supporter there lies a streak of self-loathing – that is why they turn on each other like wild animals.”

This ex-cathedra maxim was ringing in my ears as I logged off from PuntRoadEnd.com, where I am an agent provocateur (and this is true). One of life’s simple pleasures is pretending to be a (rabid) Richmond supporter, the aim being to throw petrol onto the fire and then stand back in awe to behold the conflagration.

Anyway, I was feeling rather pleased with myself when an SMS came through from Deestroy.

“Biff, stop being so bloody smug! Your challenge this week, should you chose to accept it, is to infiltrate the Richmond Grog Squad – the mob who congregate behind the Punt Road goals and sing various dirges as the Tigers (sic) take it up the arse on the field. Your mission: create havoc. Bonus points if you shag Big Shazza, the Queen of the Richmond ferals.”

I accepted the mission on the spot. That left six days of preparation. I bought an old duffel coat from the Opp Shop. Soon afterwards, I purchased a number ‘8’ from Spotlight which I half-stitched onto its back. There was some junk mail in the letterbox that featured a pest control company. I cut out the word ‘Cockroach’, sticky-taped it to the back of the duffel coat and then (lightly) scribbled out the first four letters. Once done, I let the mutt sleep on it for the remainder of the week. I stopped having showers. Eschewing toothpaste, I brushed my teeth in coca-cola. I became a stranger to dunny paper, underpants and razors. It was out with the Mozart and in with the hard rockin’ pub songs and the High Art of Jimmy Barnes. Much to my wife’s anguish, I staged a few domestics which necessitated a visit from the Cop Shop. Come Saturday morning, I was ready. My own self-loathing was in floodtide. Come on the Tiges!

Now Richmond were playing the Dees. My first stop was the Cricketer’s Arms on Punt Road. It was midday. I barged through the front door and shouted hoarsely, “Who thinks Dusty Brownlow Martin is a ****ing deadset legend, eh?” I was immediately befriended by five bona fide members of the Richmond Grog Squad: Shane from Scoresby; Wayne from Wantirna; Mike from Moe; Rob from Rowville and Karen from Cardinia. Collectively, they held down one part-time job between them. Rob was an inveterate scratcher: he warranted a flea-bomb. Mike, who had a squint, had travelled all the way from the West Moe Caravan Park to support the ‘Mighty Tigers’ – a Pilgrim’s Progress indeed. Shane & Wayne looked as if they were born to play the roles of Banquo’s killers in Macbeth:

“I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed that I am reckless what I do to spite the world. . . . . And I another, So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune, That I would set my lie on any chance, To mend it, or be rid on't.”

The less said about Karen the better, lest cycling metaphors be invoked.

Now the quintet was thoroughly intoxicated; the cans of UDLs that were strewn at their feet bore testimony to their liquor of choice. We were all in agreement: whoever barracked for the Dees was a poofta and Jacky Watts was a tranny at best. The remaining hour or so was spent betting on the Warragul dogs or baiting other Richmond supporters at the bar. Twice I had to avert a cat-fight between Karen and another Richmond slag. It was boob-on-boob action in every sense.

Come 1.30, it was time to lurch over to the ‘G. With the assistance of some healthcare cards – thoroughly fake - we trooped through the gates with little damage to our pockets. Karen had stashed a few cans of UDLs down her blouse; given the aesthetics, they were safer than the gold in Fort Knox. Once inside, we spotted one of the Bay’s most prominent Richmond supporters, Buddha Bing, primly making his way towards the Amway Superbox. He was a sallow looking guy. Hair-gel was trickling down his forehead like sweat. He was also wearing one of his famous Roger David reversible suits with an elastic tie. Sure, he barracked for the Tigers, but to the quintet he was an ideological enemy in a cheap pair of shoes. In no uncertain terms, Mike informed him that he was a ****ing goose – Richmond or no Richmond, only toffs sat in a superbox. And Buddha Bing had better stop trying to foist the Amway soap-powder on his old dear back in West Moe, no less.

It took us ten minutes or so to hobble our way over to the Punt Road end of the ground. In doing so, we profusely abused the opposition supporters that came our way – any buccaneer on the Spanish Main would have been shocked by their language but it was par for the course here. Additionally the spittle was a’flyin’. Ditties proclaiming the heroism of Richo or Dusty Martin were coined on the spot. To evade detection, I breathed incessantly through my mouth, made strange animal noises and walked with a limp. Our destination was at hand: the Richmond Grog Squad. The quintet introduced me to their peers. I was promptly accepted as one of their own, particularly when I screeched out: “Scully and Trengove ain’t worth a bum hair on Dusty’s ring!” Much like the Black Hole that lies at the heart of our own Milky Way, I could sense the presence of Big Shazza, but for the moment, a phalanx of uber-bogans stood between the two of us.

The game started not long afterwards. True to form, Richmond started to take it up the arse. The on-field debacle did not bother the Grog Squad who sang on regardless. It was time to initiate my mission. As it so happens, I am no mean ventriloquist. I targeted a particularly virulent section of the Grog Squad and let fly with the following

“Dustin Martin’s tatts are fake. He got ‘em from Cornflakes packet. His mummy rubbed a ‘em on with a twenty cent piece.”

A brawl erupted spontaneously. Haymakers were legion. A few unfortunates were kicked as they lay on the ground. The police soon waded in and nabbed the participants, much to the delight of the remaining members of the Grog Squad who sang the usual refrain.

Good but not great I thought to myself. I turned to another section and pitched:

“Chris Newman is more of a Western Star job than Joel Bowden. He’s as useless as a condom on a dog.”

Another brawl erupted, It was more vicious than the first. Minutes later, the main antagonists were hauled away by the constabulary. Stretchers were used to carry off the worst of the casualties. The ranks of the Grog Squad had thinned, but not to the point where I could readily approach Queen Shazza at the epicentre. It was time, therefore, to drop the P-bomb, however untrue it was:

“There won’t be any father-sons from Richo – he’s too busy hanging around the dunnies at the Robert Peel Hotel. ‘Fleet’s in, time to sin’ is his motto!”

Another fight erupted. The Colosseum itself never viewed brutality of this kind. Not even Leigh Matthews would countenance the king-hits from behind that were being dished out like lolly water. Tannin-stained teeth clattered to the ground. The mist of brain matter saturated the air. Some of the Richmond wenches disappeared into the affray, only to emerge seconds later with big clumps of pubic hair in their hands. The Fight Club re-enactment lasted some five minutes or so, leaving the Grog Squad decimated but undaunted. Accordingly, I pushed my way towards the centre. And there, enthroned in her bogan glory, sat Queen Shazza on a bean bag.

In the universe, matter is counter-balanced by anti-matter. As I beheld this anti-regal figure, I realised that she too, in a feral sort of way, was the antithesis to Queen Elizabeth I as portrayed in the famous Armada Portrait. Each one of her monstrous thighs could have been sponsored by Samboy Chips. There was no bra in existence that had the tensile strength to uphold her gigantic mammary glands – nay, bovine udders. Nicotine patches had been attached to her nipples for whatever mad reason. Her skin was covered in blotches, acme and self inflicted scratch marks. Intrepid though I was, I dared not look below her navel to the Valley of the Werewolf. Verily, Queen Shazza was regnant over all that she surveyed. She did not need to see the game itself – she was randomly screeching out imprecations at the opposition as she sipped away on a UDL.

“Queen Shazza – so we meet at last. The circle is now complete. The Self-Loathing is with You!”

She flicked a toxic glance at me.

“What do youse want? I aint gonna suck your dick if that’s what youse wants. I aints no slag!”

I looked at her more deeply. It was not hard to foresee that one day she would drown on her own vomit or be smothered to death by one of her own boobs. Even so, the image of the Oracle from the Matrix flashed into my mind. Perhaps there was an affinity to be explored.

“Shazza, will the Tigers ever come good?”

She looked darkly into her can of UDL. The wellspring was dry. She threw it away and started to spit on herself, Richmond-style.

“The Toiges are always gonna be [censored]. [censored] – [censored] – [censored]!”

I then realised that the second of Deestroy’s challenges was a ‘Bridge too Far.’ Assuming my hydraulics were sound – an advocate of fat sex I ain’t – I had neglected to bring along a miner’s lamp, rope, and grappling hooks, the second assumption being that the target-area could be safely identified. Failure was mine. It was time to flee from her august presence. Like one of her courtiers, I spat on the ground, adjust my crotch and croaked out:

“See’s ya down at the pokies, Big Girl.”

Stupefied by the grog, she vomited all over herself and gave me a thumbs up.

I rejoined the mob. Sylvia, who loves to play against the Yellow and Black, was running amok. Towards the end of the match, sadness overcame me. Standing with the Richmond Grog Squad would make anyone rethink their position on eugenics. Each of its members – indubitably - is a downpipe for DNA of the most degraded kind. Erroneous or otherwise, there is a belief that Man was created in the image and likeness of God. As I encompassed the mob around me – Come on the Mighty Tiges – this viewpoint was entirely redundant. It was the Triumph not of the Will, but of the Swineherd.

The match came to a dreary end. Much to everyone’s relief, the siren sounded. Wretches one and all, the Richmond players hobbled off. Sure they wore the same jumpers as players such as Captain Blood, Royce Hart and Hungry, but the comparison went no deeper. This was no Gotterdammerung – the Twilight of the Gods, it resembled, rather, a Requiem for the Pullets. Befittingly, the Grog Squad sang a dirge. Other than a surreptitious vomit on the Moe-bound V-Liner, there was nothing to look forward to. I quietly slipped away. Once home. I washed the Richmond excrement off my personage, apologised to my wife and regained my humanity.

The World will hold its breath. Dees by 10 points.

Biffinator.

Thank you Biffinator, thank you ball-boys.

Drunk on a ladder R13

The 8's keep coming. No prizes, but sometimes an 8 is enough.
Hat's off to the other Dick, Dickwad, for a totally perfect couple of weeks. Two 8s and two weeks of picking the crucial margin exactly, as in zero. That's good tipping and it sees him enter the 8 with a bullet (3 green arrows means 3 weeks of upward mobility in a row).
Tassy has elbowed his way one clear of Jesper again, and there are about a million drunks milling around at the bottom of the stairs just waiting for a chance.

I haven't got round to doing the Dreamteam bizzo again this week. But anyone who wants to know, does already... Maybe next week.
Likewise I'll send some PunchDrink guff through asap.

PunchDrink #1. Officially well overdue, but now well on its way.

I miss you guys like stink. Let's get together and have a vastly belated drink.
Pop this in your electronic brain on your computer machine thing:
Thursday July 7 2011.
Details to follow.

AFL Supremo mid year report

A fellow PunchDrunker found this document blowing along Docklands this morning, apparently from the desk of The Great One. We thought it only fair to share:

Hello underlings. Big boss here with a mid-season review of all I survey.
It is my happy task to reassure you all. Our game is in the best of hands and in a wonderful condition.
Yes, I hear concerns from those beneath me, from the man in the street, the woman in the kitchen, but let me tell you, you must agree with everything I say. Things could be no better.
I will present some issues that have been raised with me, and respond with a very truthful answer. It may not appear to be truthful, you may not believe me. I really do not care. I have top job and you don’t.

1. “The Easter round and the following round wherein we had games on pretty much every day of the week for 2 weeks was just ridiculous and played havoc with my tips”.
Stiff. I don’t care. How can too much football ever be too much? We do these things for reasons you do not need to concern yourself with. You are not that smart really. Just rest assured we do it for the good of the game. Think of Rugby League. You wouldn’t want that to happen would you?

2. “The Jack Trengove suspension of 3 weeks for applying what all pundits describe as ‘the perfect tackle’ was a case of the league sending a message, by making an example of a player from a club with a poor supporter base and no political clout. By contrast Daisy Thomas deliberately punches a bloke in the face, gets one week, Jarrad Waite deliberately kicks a bloke in the balls, gets nothing. 50 other examples of the same Trengove tackle, some with worse injury consequences, get nothing but applause. I could go on.
Do you think maybe the AFL should get back to FOOTBALL and put the moralising and lesson-giving a bit of a break?”
Look, Melbourne deserve what they get. Everyone knows they’re silvertails and public sympathy for them is ultimately as deep as a Justin Bieber song. Who would you rather bastardise? In fact we’re particularly proud that in both games since Trengove has come back we’ve had one of our umpires deliberately back into him, just so we can gouge an extra fine from him each week for umpire contact. Oh yes, he may be an upstanding individual, but we must teach players not to question the ultimate authority. Football is no place for upstanding individuals who question. Them and their little tweeting mates.

Back to Melbourne... The Scully thing. When... if he leaves, it’s their own fault. They were never supposed to stage an off-field recovery anyway. Bloody Jim Stynes. They should have merged with the Hawks back in ‘96. Then they would have ‘won’ a flag in ‘08. And my Kanga’s wouldn’t have to look to Tassy because there would be less competition in the local scene. Everyone knows the new GWS team, which, look into my eyes, deep into my eyes, will become a much loved part of the local community, will be far more important to the longevity of the game than the founding and oldest club. Everyone.
Did I mention the Demons are silvertails?

3. “Umpiring just seems to get worse and worse each year. The new ‘advantage’ rule seems to be drawing criticism weekly, the holding the ball interpretation is a constant problem, and umpire consistency is frankly a joke. Umpires are like acting. You don’t notice good acting, but you sure as hell notice bad acting. Has someone ever explained to them no-one shows up to watch the umpiring?”
Umpiring today is of the highest standard ever. If a player is pinged for holding the ball, while in fact his tackler is the only one with hands on the ball, both hands, as I saw last week, this is a true interpretation of the rules. True interpretation. I can’t explain why, but I don’t need to. If a player takes advantage, and it’s not... well it’s HIS FAULT. The more fault that lies with players, the better it is for us.

4. “What was your opinion of Eddie McGuire’s claim that a fellow spectator’s comments were racist, when in fact, if anything the comments simply referred to a player's criminal record without the merest hint of race. Surely it was Eddie himself making an instinctive and racially bigoted link between criminality and aboriginality?”
Look, Eddie is Collingwood. I only make scathing observations of the more poorly supported clubs. Do you take me for a fool?

5.”With the recent re-election of Sep Blatter as head of surely the most corrupt sports body in the world, the question should be asked what are the terms of your tenure, and how can we get rid of you?”
Sep is a good friend and mentor of mine. It’s NOT HIS FAULT that some dodgy African and South American officials were caught. I’m sure they will be more careful next time. I’m staying here, you can’t get rid of me, I have a stronger power base than Gaddafi.

6. It seems that the worst thing about AFL football at the moment is the AFL itself. Surely your focus is on money and personal power rather than the welfare of our on-field game, its supporters and grass roots?”
That’s just silly.

Drunk on a ladder. Round 12.

Oh yes, so much has happened since last we met. So much and and so little.
Apologies once again for being a dirty stop-out. You see what often happens is I just get the ladder done, it's home time, I have nothing to say (never did really). Then I just miss the presses basically.
That and my spiralling love and respect for our beautiful game at the moment. The year is not quite what it was meant to be, for many of us....
Anyhoo, here we are.
And my goodness, the drought is well busted isn't it? A solitary eight up til round 10 and then a whole heap of 'em all on top of each other. But the one that matters, the only one, was Fordy's magnificent solo effort in Round 11. For this he wins Uncle Doug's hamper, a Tontine pillow, a size 8 frozen chicken from Tegel and around about 80 or so bucks. Congrats mate.
Apologies and commiserations to my old mate Dirk, who in the interim pulled out a perfect 7 (in a week of 7 games). Last time I looked 7 is not 8, but if you want to get a petition together to have 7/7 considered an 8 I'll be happy to view it thus.
To the rest of you, about ten of you, who picked up 8 last week, well done, but due to a crowd of you reminiscent of the 112 Tram, stiff, you get nothing. Timing is all.
Anyway here's the latest state of play. Tassy and Jesper tussling it out a couple clear and the eight looking pretty consistent, but quite a few not too far away.

I notice with shame I last posted on here 4 weeks back. That is not very good is it?
Thing is I don't have much to tell you, you don't already know...
Here's the ladder. It's been quite a while, so you'll notice a few changes. First among them is we have a new leader, and a deadlock at the top.

Yes, that's Tassy up top there, in a 3 way leadership brawl with Jesper and Coxy.
Exciting times.
Overall it's nice and close most of the way down.

I was considering quite a rant on how politics, posturing and agenda has completely imposed itself on our beautiful game. I awoke to find an article werein, Jeffery Kennet, of all people, shares my mindset. Now that is a dire development.
Anyway luckily I've run out of time this week. There's beer to be consumed and some Demons to watch.

League of Drunks

So much, and yet so little, has happened since last we spoke. I can't think what it was though...
Injuries cruelling the dreams of Dreamers. Curnow, Tappy and the widebeast, Sandilands affecting just about every team you'd think. Wouldn't you?
Anyways, the only 2 undefeated teams this week, Rob's Mongrel Cunts and my Champanzees, up against each other in the King of the Pile battle.
Go Chimps.
Nothing else really matters.

Drunk on a ladder. Round 5.

Sorry for the gap again, thanks for the other Dick for filling a yawning void...
Here's the ladder. I'm going home now to watch the Dees LIVE on FREE-TO-AIR!!! That just never happens, neither part of the equation. I'm gonna live it up; whiskey, slippers, pipe, roaring fire and wet dog.
Jesper's still out front, but really, he does this regularly, so don't fret everyone... I'm still shizen...

Tigers

Well with Dick on paternity leave I thought I'd better step up to the plate. Firstly why aren't the Saints playing the Demons on Good Friday? Perfect opportunity to have a crucifixion as the pre match entertainment. Can you imagine St Nick nailing the drunken Dee Maloney to the cross (Maloney honorary member of Punchdrunk and more on him later).  And if it's good enough for them to play the other game in Rome on this most holy of days why not at the other cathedral - the MCG?

Easy answer of course - it's because Hitler, I mean Stalin, I mean Idi Amin, I mean Colonel Gadaffi (although he might melt), I mean George Speight (very bad example), I mean Saddam, NO I REALLY MEAN DEMETRIOU down at the Awful Football League doesn't want it.


When is the UN going to realise that we want rid of this dictator? They could organise an attack on his Jolimont compound or just do what Mossad did - find, drug, blind fold, offer 2 choices, and fly him to Nuremberg for trial, which is very efficient. They could also come to a deal with him and find a country of refuge to take him (watch out for the 747 full of gold flying out with his Mrs the day before though).

Enough of that drivel though.

Now I'm a Tiger and I'm celebrating a rare victory this weekend even though it was only over the shin boners. My father in law and brother in law are shin boners and I have copped a lot of texts etc about the man boy with neck tatts free kick in the last minutes. I've told them with all due respect (which means none) to go and get absolutely stuffed. The poor shiiiiiiin bonerrrrrs being ripped off again. The world owes the shiiiiin bonerrrrrrs something according to them. Get a life and go to the games I say. There was more Tigers at Etihad for their home game than Roos.

It also goes in swing and round abouts - look at the kick against McGuane in the Tigers/Saints game which even the Awful Football League in a rare moment of honesty said was incorrect. At any rate the there was no guarantee that the shiiiiiiiin bonerrrrrrs would have won if that kick hadn't been paid, and the same goes for the Tigers against the saints.


Don't their supporters know that they're going broke? Evidently they don't because only about 3 supporters turn up. Junior Eddie (Jaaayyy Beeeee) and his board have filled the joint full of debt with just about no way of paying it back if they don't turn up - that is of course without moving to Ballerat, Hobart, Tiwi Islands, Tripoli or anywhere that'll take them.

Anyway the Tiges had a win and now inevitably are talking finals. Talk about getting ahead of themselves. They've beaten 1 team and they're currently bottom of the ladder. Hard to not get excited by Martin, Cotchin, Delidio, Reiewoldt et al though.

The other games played so far this weekend:-

Saints v Brisbane - boring
Purple Haze v Bulldogs - bulldogs are flat track bullies
Gold Coast v Power - Power are pathetic and the shiiiiin boneeeeers will notch up their first win next weekend.
Pies v Bombers - I, as a good Tiger abhor both these teams, but hard to see any other team beating the pies. Bombers have been good but compared to last year they're not far higher up the ladder so it remains to be seen.

One last word on Maloney. He might not be welcome in the leadership group at the Dees but he's welcome at Punchdrunk as far as I'm concerned. After all, all he did was get blind, piss on a bar and get asked to leave a pub. That's practically all my friends.

Also congrats to Dick and Sharee on new Dee in the world Arlo, and congrats to Megan & I on the new Tiger Howard.

Now really enough of that drivel.


Hopefully I haven't offended too many majorities, minorities, shiiiiin boneeeeeer

Bring back El Nino...

Apologies for little-noticed absence last week, we're back on air and bouncing around like Elizabeth Berkley in Showgirls.

I don't know about you guys, but this tipping thing's just not working out for me. I'm just not meant to be sitting one of the bottom of the ladder. I blame El Nino's little sister La Nina, or is it his wife? Or is that White Stripes? What the fuck am I talking about?

I could go on about missing all the close ones, but it won't do anyone any good. Let's just forget the first 3 rounds never happened and start from here.

Apologies for the silence especially to Jesper, who pulled an 8 out of his Corn Flakes pack in round 2, Good news for him is he wins the jackpot. Good news for the rest of us is it's only $20.
Jesper is still sitting out in front however, and looking like his code change is going a helluva lot better than Issy Folau's.

Remember if you can't really see this, just click on it and sit back quick.

I'm still watching, waiting and hoping for a chop-out with some posts from fellow drunks. Alright the Saints are shit, but for god sake tell us about it. I'd tell you about the Dees games I've seen, but I'm not a sympathy-seeker.

League of Drunks

Still coming to grips with this bye thingy. I find I've asked 6 of my highest scorers to take time out on the pine sitting in their official Champanzee bag'o'fruit and tie.
Anyway... didn't quite get around to posting last week, so here's 2 weeks of value right here...

Round 2:
Dr Demonski looking the goods sitting alongside two other new-comers Lobby 'Logger' Lloyd and the Mongrels.
Right on their heels, and also undefeated, the local champs from the past 2 years The Cheesies and the Chimps.


Round 3:
The good Dr's dropped one against the stinky Cheeses. Logger and the Mongrels still lead the way however.

Drunk on a ladder - Round 1

And we're off.
35 Drunks took up their spots to commence the tussle for the world's most sought-after sporting trophy. The PunchDrunk Chalice. The Cup of Dreams. Ye Aulde Mugge.

This year we've got 2, count them two, brand new Drunk challengers... the already slightly introduced Andy "Logger" Lloyd, and also the as yet un-introduced, but statuesque Garth Oriander. Welcome chaps, but don't expect to get things your own way. There is a long list of Drunks who have been trying for decades to get their name scratched into the cup's mottled silver-plate surface, not to mention a shorter list who have been there before, but want more.

A quick scan of the talent following an opening round of close encounters shows, the possibly very aptly named, Leah Champion sitting out in front with a 7, just a nasal hair to the good of that Danish bloke who's very rapidly trading his love of the round ball for a deserved fascination with our beautifully out of whack elliptical kangaroo-skin.

Last year's champion, Franco, is sitting second last and the new boys 11th and 12th. If you click on the table above it'll get real big so you can actually read it.

DreamTeam

The supplementary, but incredibly, massively important League of Drunks DreamTeam league is for the first time full to the gills with domestic teams. No strangers, no highly paid celeb coaches who end up walking off with the prize, like that handsome mate of yours who keeps pinching your best girlfriends.
All are Drunks, with the exception of two Drunk invitees, Ben and Mark, who sit beside me every week while I rant and spit chips at the yellow maggots from my leather upholstered seat in The Members.
Early days yet, Kurtz' NSW's have taken an opportunistic lead, but the perennial great form of Jim Richo's boys from Cheesetown looks to be holding up, with Mark just pipping his score.

Welcome fellow Drunks to another season of pure Drunkness.

As I've said elsewhere, this years Drunk looks like being a tad leaner and meaner than previous years.
For one thing, my input will be reduced a little under a new father/son rule. This is a good thing for all of us. I've been assured of editorial comment from other Drunks, which I'm really looking forward to.
There'll be no Celebrity Head this year, in its place I've settled on a masthead featuring what has to be the best footy shot ever. Smokin' Robbie McGee. The classic shot by Renie Ellis, used totally without permission, but at least with this acknowledgment.

Stripped back a little also in terms of number of Drunks this year.
33 Drunks have come through the turnstiles this year, down, I think, from 39 last year.
One new chap this year, welcome Andy 'Logger' Lloyd, who's already provided safe haven for a few slow Drunks who failed to make the cut in the League of Drunks DreamTeam league, in his league.

The first game is down, we have about 180-odd to go. If we take them one game at a time we'll be here all year, and that's good enough for me.