Spring has sprung, the bogans are here?

I do like living in Melbourne, it has to be said. But there’s one rather annoying thing that always catches me by surprise in late September every year, and that something would be the AFL Grand Final, and more importantly, all the general wank that occurs in its’ hallowed name.

This year has been particularly impressive; both in my level of surprise, and indeed the ferocity of the celebrations, presumably because it’s the first time in almost ten years that it’s an all Melbourne final. Not that a technicality like that has stopped us as a city in the past – even with the two competing teams belonging to states that we don’t even share a border with, we’ve still held the damned thing in Melbourne. It’s a bit odd if you ask me. But still, here we are, 2008, and an all Melbourne final is bearing down upon us.

The good news is that this means less wankface interstate footy bogans touristing about on our streets. The bad news, is all of a sudden, all those perfectly normal people around you on the train, in your office, in your café, hell – just fucking everywhere, turn in to fully certifiable footy crazed lunatics. They can’t possibly all barrack for one or the other of these teams! No one has even barracked for the Hawks since the Platten years - that was twenty years ago! What the hell are all these people doing?! Where did they, their bogan shirts and their banners and their flags come from?!

But worst still are the footballers themselves. Here are guys the size a minibus who are renowned for getting on the piss and beating the shit out of their mates, their girlfriends, and indeed any inanimate objects that get in between them and their desired destination at any given point. Their adult fans, of equal size but considerably less muscle and considerably more beer gut also get on the piss and emulate this behaviour, probably managing to fight a touch less but yell "Show us your tits!" a whole lot more from the comfort of their large, obnoxious mobs.

Why on earth do we consider these blokes to be the prime stock of Australia? Why, in this particular week of September every year, do they walk the streets of Melbourne kissing babies and ruffling young boys’ hair with a higher frequency than any election fuelled politician could ever muster? Who would let someone like that near their children?! I understand people could certainly admire their physical attributes and prowess on the footy field, but you know what? I admire Choppers’ general ability to make a go of it these days – I still wouldn’t let Uncle Chop-Chop near my imaginary children, let alone my very real cats. And don’t give me that unrealistic comparison crap – the courts have shown footballers to have more filthy fingers in more filthy pies than you can ever imagine; organised crime being just one of those many pies.

Now I have to say that in high school - and indeed now - I had a good friend who shall remain nameless. This friend was extremely fond of the idea of digging holes, particularly if it were to support some kind of retribution or trapping. Towards the final days of our last school year, the time when the best pranks often emerge, this friend was quietly plotting the demise of the school oval, one shovel load at a time. Bearing that enormous and adventurous scheme in mind, I don't think that even he could dig a hole large enough or trap filled enough to deal with the scourge of the AFL finals season, let alone the decent sized handful of pisshead players and fans who'll be up to their usual top notch behaviour.

Still, I do maintain that it's significantly better behaviour than when the interstate fans are in town. If there's anything worse than a footy bogan, it's a bloody sydney footy bogan. But what can you expect from a city where the highest form of entertainment seems to be going down to the local sports club, scoffing your parma, and propping yourself up at either the betting tables or the poker machines for the rest of the night, drinking bloody schooners of all things. Fucking abysmal. No wonder they punch people and yell a lot in Melbourne - they're simply in shock at the notion of people being friendly and nice here.

The simple greeting "Have a nice day!" would obviously be interpreted as "That's what she said!". "Can I help you?" is no doubt something along the lines of "Ya Mum!" and I think we all know what being served a pot instead of a schooner means - that's right, that the recipient clearly must be smaller in the trouser department that the server. That said, if we try and feed them pints instead of pots they just get all giddy and vomit everywhere from the intoxication excitement of it all. Messy bloody bastards. I think we're much better off without them this year. In fact, forget the finals - I'm sending my friend to Sydney to dig up the entire city. Much better.

And on that note I'm heading off now - to weave through the banners and the streamers and the fat met in inappropriately small football strips all the way to either a nice quiet pub or alternatively, my house. If you're in the same boat as I in this terrible football predicament, I suggest you don't bother turning on your telly until at least Monday, and stock up on a lovely range of non prescription...er...medicines, dvd's, takeaway, or perhaps even all three. Certainly sounds tempting to me!


Have a lovely weekend,
The Rantolotl

(I'm actually going to go and put $20 on the Hawks...)