The Final Countdown

Fine. I’ll just say it. Get it out there so we can move on. Brad the Tradie is a Collingwood supporter and therefore, by the laws of our vows, so. am. I.

For those still reading (for I fear the news has disgusted most and motivated them to move on to another blog), you must know what this means after yesterday. Yes… condolences. The Team, The Boys, Mick’s Mob…they got the CollyWobbles in the second half of the Grand Final and let the Saints sneak up and claim a fecking draw. A DRAW. Which, in stupid Australian Rules, invented by some Victorian moron back in the days before life was worth living, means that the Grand Final has to be replayed next weekend. The whole. Damn. Thing.

Brad the Tradie was, as they say… Devo. Maaaaaaaaate. Such an unexpected outcome. And yet, we’re all upset that we didn’t put twenty bucks on a draw. Would’ve paid for the flight to Melbourne to watch them all play the bloody match over again. In every other sport, they just play extra time. Nope. Not Aussie Rules. It’s a do-over.

It’s all rigged, I reckon. By party pie companies and QANTAS. Just to make a crapload more money out of people squealing at grown men running around a paddock.

Blossy’s not really an Aussie Rules kinda gal. Even though I live in The West, I like Sydney papers. Ones that don’t care whether AFL exists really. In my childhood town of Bush Boganville in outer New South Wales where the dust shines as bright as the sun, there was no AFL. Never heard of it. There was just Footy. But now we have to distinguish between TYPES of Footy. My type is now called League. I can’t get used to it really. I still call it Footy. With a big ol’ pigskin, a scrum and a goal kicker. It was good for the town thugs. Gave ‘em something to do. A reason not to drown babies with thick necks at birth. “Oooo!!! Look at this one Sharon! Little Bill could be a Prop! Play for Australia with that neck and those thunder thighs! Better get him a jersey!”

So when I met Brad the Tradie, naturally I had to covert. Like marrying a Jew. I had to learn the rules of the game (there aren’t’ many apparently), learn to stand up and belch at quarter time, half time and three-quarter time, memorise the words to the club song (yes there was an exam…) and basically promise BtT that if Collingwood ever got into the Grand Final, then we would go to Melbourne to watch it. Seemed a safe bet. They don’t generally do very well. And we only lived a comfortable morning’s drive from the holy grail anyway.

And so, typically, the year we move to the other side of the bloody country, his team get into the Grand Final. Bless him, BtT turned to me last Sunday arve (in his Home Theatre recliner, stubbie of Jim Beam and coke in hand) and sincerely announced, “Well babe, I guess I’m goin’ to Melbourne next weekend.”

Ummm… no.

“Yeah babe. You agreed. If The Boys ever made it, we’d go to the G and watch them.”

Ahhhh… no.

“BABE. We agreed.”

Yes hon, before we moved to The West. Before Grand Final ‘packages’ cost three grand! I didn’t actually let fly that it’s only bloody football and that really, quite FRANKLY, if I was to go to Melbourne it’d be for an emergency shoe top-up (a la modelling shoot in major national magazine or similar situation…obviously…), NOT to watch football.

Grown men don’t sook with dignity.

I had a teensy little window of time in which to make it all better. There was only one choice. (no… not Melbourne… geez!!!)… GOOGLE.

I Googled and Googled. Combinations like ‘what do people who live in Beachvillea do on grand final day?' and 'what makes a Collingwood supporter happy?' Score. Got it. We would go to the movies. Uhuh. There was my solution on the flat screen monitor in white and… black. Hoyts, in the Bogan-ist part of town was offering a Grand Final screening in THREE D. With unlimited popcorn, self serve fizzy drink and a hot dog. We could even upgrade and get a ticket to the mezzanine level where the comfy chairs and slaves are kept. DONE. PHEW.

So there we were. A vision of Collingwood-ness, be it with more teeth than the average supporter.

All going swimmingly in our big old chairs, hot dog juice dribbling on our Collingwood tops whilst diving into unlimited popcorn, watching teenage employees clean up after us. I was quite rapt with the 3D. Slightly weird watching a heap of footy supporters wear the nerdy glasses usually reserved for kid’s movies, but there were advantages (beyond the catering obviously). In 3D, on the big screen, The Boys were HUGE. The ball popped out at us. The ground was ‘right there’. The goalposts were realllllllllly freakily 3D. And I managed to find a free newspaper and swipe the weekend telly guide to take home. Score!

Turns out that there is a limit to how much popcorn you can actually eat.

Three buckets. But I filled it up again anyway to take home to the teenager (and the dog as it turns out). Had to go fill it up again half way through the last quarter when Collingwood started looking really wobbly because BtT’s arms began flailing and he knocked our food and drink into my handbag (suede… yes. I KNOW.) Thank goodness it was dark.

So, as they say, that's now history. The game was a draw. Everyone was speechless. BtT’s iphone started beeping with condolence messages. I tried to put a positive spin on it for him on the car on the way home, but instead he just used road rage as an outlet.

And, no. We’re not damn well doing something special all over again next weekend. Bad enough we have to dedicate another Saturday afternoon to this insane sport. It will not be in 3D. We will NOT be in Melbourne. Just in the Home Theatre recliners with some sausage rolls and RTD’s. It’s the final, FINAL countdown. I bloody well hope.

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The Final Countdown, Europe, 1986.