"If a tree falls in the forest..." Season 2020

If a tree falls in the forest...

The good people responsible for the collected ramblings of the species called Wikipedia, refer to this well-worn path through the undergrowth of perception as, a philosophical thought experiment that raises questions about observation and perception. Which, as we may or may not, head into Season 2020 (our 32nd on the trot), leads me to share one of my own with you.

Observation: The world has gone mad. If you're interested in an in-depth take on how and why this shit is playing out as it is in Oz right now, this is a good place to start. http://bit.ly/2TWA7Ve

Unless you've been hiding under a mountain of stockpiled toilet paper, you've already heard the AFL's plans for kicking off the season. As it currently stands it's Thursday night, MCG, Tiges & Blues, 44 players, 100 odd support staff, assembled TV hangers-on and 0 (zero) odd supporters. It makes me wonder who many will be there on the night, and will that constitute a gathering of more than 500?

Perception: Have they totally lost the plot?

Before you accuse me of my usual left-wing ranty pants ramblings that completely ignores the commercial realities of the football industry, let me just say this. Have they totally lost the plot?

Surely there is another way. A way that acknowledges the simple fact that the game only exists because of the fans. A way that doesn't so obviously reduce our place in the football industry to consumers who will continue to buy the product, even when it's clear it's now played to serve forces bigger than the fans.

I know there are 1001 arguments for and against this course of action. And yes of course, you can't expose 80,000 people to the possible effects of this virus, I'm not for a moment suggesting that. But I just wonder this. Might the AFL chosen a different path? A path that involved canvassing the opinions of Club members and the footy loving public and giving them a range of options to think over and perhaps even vote on?

In their rush to take decisive action and provide strong leadership they may have reinforced the perception that we who exist outside the football bubble are surplus to requirements. Throw into the mix the undeniable evidence of your own eyes that the game has become close to unwatchable, and I think the unthinkable becomes plausible...if a tree falls in the forest...  

Discuss.

House keeping

As Dickie boy mentioned in a recent email, some of you are yet to pay dues for last season. Please make good on this before your God strikes you down.

As to dues for this year, I suggest we hold off on paying until we get a better of idea of how this will play out. Heaven forbid, we may even consider this year as our application for amateur status and tip just for the glory of the Cup. More on that when we know more on that. I might even consult you good people and give you some options to vote on... who'd thunk it.

Our first Drunk drink

Happy to take suggestions on possible locations, and then make a arbitrary decision based on what's good for the executive team. Presuming off course we are allowed to gather in groups as large as 10.
Send through your thoughts.

All hail the Dick

We've all been wanting to say it, so I did just so you didn't think I was anything other that totally juvenile. It was round about this time, a long time ago, when I got a phone call from him, wondering what was going on with Punchdrunk for Season 2004. How the hell should I know, or care, I'm in Rome snorting Chianti off a Margherita, I responded. It's been his baby ever since and he's provided fatherly love, guidance and financial support as it grew from preening adolescence to corpulent middle age. So it's only fitting that as one of the fittest late 50's men I know, he has seen fit to change the locks. And so it falls to me to make ready the spare room where it can live out it's daze.

Be kind, I'm new here.

Keep punching.

SEASON 2019 - Another year put in a box and buried deep

Perspective is all important in footy as it is in most things.
From where I've been sitting, this past 28 weeks of footy has been excruciating, nigh on unwatchable and fittingly finished off by probably the worst Grand Final in living memory. Thank god it is done and gone, chucked out with the trash. Let's bury it deep, let's not talk about it again.

My list of personal gripes goes beyond the fact I support the most lily-livered and irreparably broken club on this sporting globe. Although that certainly doesn't help. I find myself falling painfully out of love with the game. I look at my former flame and see now only blemishes, imperfections, really annoying habits, inconsistencies and innumerable unpleasant character traits. Lets start with revised and even less consistent rule interpretations and finish with a fork-tongued AFL propaganda machine and throw Razor Ray, James Brayshaw's inanities and the MRP among other annoyances somewhere in the middle for good measure.

Lets try to look beyond the unpleasantnesses now, however, and look at the joy that some lucky Drunks experienced this year:

It's hard to go past Jim "Richo" Richardson's PunchDrunk World Championship win.

Franco Schena lead for the first 11 rounds, but once Jim caught him in Round 12 he was never headed. Leading by one to Phil, Lee and Juzzy G, until it was pointed out we were heading to one of the closest finishes in Drunk History with only 2 rounds to go. Richo's response was remove his digit and leap to a 4 game lead, completely deflating the blip of excitement that was just starting to captivate each and every Drunk's every waking moment.
Congrats Richo! $1,000 in the hand for you my boy.

Then to Phil, of the Smith variety. 

Phil came in at second for the second year running, following a third the previous year. You'd think this incremental improvement would have him in pole position for season 2020. Until you remember he's a Demons supporter. I'm predicting a bottom 3 finish next year. Just above Penske and Panther. Congrats Phil. $500 is yours.

And lastly Kapt'n Kurtz.

Kurtz rose while others fell around him. Not quite Stephen Bradbury, but a well-timed surge when Phil, Lee and Juzzy couldn't find the gas pedal with those 2 rounds to go. That's 2,500 cents to you my friend.

PunchDrunk Granny

Curts and Phil faced-off for the secondary PD Award, the invisible Grand Final trophy, with Curts guessing correctly the Richmond would pull it off, while Phil may have inflated the hopes of his home-town neighbours to the west just a tad. $100 to Curts, $60 to Phil.

Tiges

And lastly to those (many) Tigers in our midst, Dirk, Brenna, Coxy, Dickwad and Juzzy G. I hope you're happy. You've had your go, now move along please and and let someone else have a go.

And finally, it's good night from me but it's not good night from him.

15 years ago Stavros Hurley went to Rome. He'd been running the Drunk since 1989 and he needed a large carafe of Valpolicella. I sensed his joie de vivre in being Drunk administrator was becoming threadbare, and when he wasn't back 2 days prior to the 2004 season I feared he may be living in a shepherd's hut on the slopes of remote Sicilian volcano and may never return. I did what I felt needed to be done, lest this finest of sporting traditions die with him in a flood of hot lava. I rallied the Drunk troops and kept this bastard alive by whatever means I could.

And now it's my own sporting pulse that grows weak. My thrill that's gone. My Elvis that's left the building. It's me who needs that Valpolicella now, maybe even a Negroamaro. Maybe one of each

Stavros is revitalised, sober and here. More importantly he's ready, willing and so able it's almost embarrassing. It's time for me to hand back the mantle to a (slightly) older man/woman who knows what he/she's doing and wants to do it. That man/woman is Stavros.

So thanks to all of you who rode through my early cringingly self-indulgent enthusiastic early days, and my latter bloody lazy days full of sour rants and regular negativity. Thanks for coming for drinks when summoned, and thanks for talking footy-shit with me and your other Drunks on a semi-regular basis.

Arise Sir Stephen.

PunchDrunk 2019 GRAND FINAL.

This is where it all ended:

And the tracks of our tears:

PunchDrunk Finals 2019. Week 3.

PunchDrunk Finals 2019. Week 2.

PunchDrunk Finals 2019. Week 1.

The 2019 Final PunchDrunk Ladder. And the winner is...

Yep, Richo nabs the cup again, comfortably winning from Phil and Curts.

And everyone fell in line thusly:

Grand Final

Preliminaries: The Good, the Bad, the Ugly and the Really Ugly.

Local fisticuffs and foreign border skirmishes... there are two showdowns left before the ultimate gunfight. This week 2 more teams depart, 2 more Drunks buried at Boot Hill. 

Sadly a couple of weeks back Spencer P Jones, the force behind this wonderful ditty, lost his showdown and preceded them to meet the maker. RIP SPJ.

Here we are: a couple more cross-border contretemps pitting Lloydy against Lee, and Phil against Trobby. No coincidence we have the best 4 teams playing and the top 4 Drunks. 

Week 2: Where there's life there's hope. But sorry, no seats left.

Just going to leave this here, do with it what you will. 

Ins and outs this week: 

Sadly, Leah was killed-off in a cat fight with demons this week and Coxy had his Swan song.
Lloydy and Phil get breakfast in bed all week and pretty much whatever else they want.
Trobby, Lee and Tassy all saw their teams go down on the weekend and yet they bob up again this weekend.

Week 1: Finals bound.

Finals in Melbourne...
I grew up "high on the hill looking over the bridge to the MCG". In those days you could sweep up autumn leaves and burn 'em in the gutter. You could build a jump for your Dragstar out of timber off-cuts and leave it on the footpath for days. The milkman delivered by horse and cart and the Dees were never gonna make the finals.
On footy Saturdays, Dad's business partner Jeff would swing by in his green '67 Chevy Impala and pick Dad and me up and we'd all drive to G. Around the corner, down Punt Rd hill, checking the temp on the Nylex clock high on the silos as we went. They'd disappear into the Smokers Stand, I'd sit in the stands with a pie and the Dees would lose. I'd find them after the game and be drunk-driven home. These were happy days.
Later on I'd walk to the G on my pat but I've never yet walked past the silos on my to watching a Demons final. I was 26 when they first made the finals and, of course, I was bumming around Europe that year, long moved out of home and gone north-side.
But I'll tell you this, if the Dees ever make the Granny again I'm gonna start the day standing on top of that hill and make a pilgrimage past those silo's, before they turn 'em into penthouses.

FINALS WEEK 1

Here's who's doing who in Week One of the finals. Those Drunks below who are still alive please note your game and whether you need to give an odd or even tip.

And this here is the overall lay of the land for the whole finals.

2018: A long way to the top. Lloydy makes it look easy.

This maybe the worst best clip you'll ever see. It's all that used to be right and now isn't.

St Albans Town Hall, '76. I know what you're thinking. How fark'n good was St Albans in '76?
If you weren't there you just weren't there. And I wasn't. But I was at the Music Bowl four months later when Bon demanded the gates be flung open and the people were allowed to flood in. Spilling in scratching and fighting like rats. Sharpie rats. 14th best night of my life.

Enough self-indulgence. I'm a loser and we have ourselves a Winner! 

Momentarily it looked like we may have ended up with something of a fight to the death when Lloydy chose Port over his own Bombers and Lee picked the Dons. This unwise and unseemly act of treachery by Andy had Lee a tantalising one point behind our long-time leader. But there was to be a deliciously ironic twist in the tale as Lee was undone the very next day by his unwavering support for his Swannies as they lowered their flag if not their trousers to those perpetual bully-boys, the Poos and Wees. The circle of fate continued as staunch Hawk Trobby pick against his both boys and against Lloydy's. As the Dalai is always saying; "Fool me once shame on me, fool me twice and I clearly don't know what I'm doing. Could you call me a taxi please?"

So Congratubloodylations Andy "Lloydy" Lloyd, Bombers man, drug-lord and All-Powerful PunchDrunk World Champion 2018.

He's been close before. My God he's been close. And I'll go and look up just how close in a bit, but right now I need to go home...

... OK, in 2013 Lloydy basically led all year and had Jim Richo draw level early in the final round, then pass him in the second last game of the season... the next year he finished 4th. That's a couple of close calls. Other than that he's pretty much finished mid-field, so not as impressive as I'd thought. Bit sad that.

Phil and Lee always seem to be thereabouts too. Nothing else to do in Sydney apparently but run the numbers on footy outcomes.

And congrats also to Paul, yet another Syndeysyder, who knocked off the last remaining jackpot. That's $20 in his pocket.

Stay tuned for the finals games and arrangements. As usual if you finished top 8 and you want in, it's a $20 outlay for a chance to win $110, $50 for runner up.

A small note: I did NOT tip Brisbane over West Coast despite what the results say. Anyway, I guess that saves me losing another $20.

R23: Death or glory and fighting demons

The engraver's whirring diamond-tipped nib hovers poised and ready. He's been practicing his "L" all month. Which is a good thing as it looks like he'll soon be needing two of them in immediate succession and that can be a tricky manoeuvre on tarnished, tin-coated plastic.

Mais attendez! Who are those 3 shady figures lurking conspiratorially just off-stage? 

Bugger me, it's Trobby, Phil and, suddenly, Lee, sweaty after a fast-finishing uphill bike ride.

Each are 2 games adrift of Lloydy with 3 legitimately 50/50(ish) games this week and at least one other 'you never know' game. Death or Glory! It can be done, but who can do it?

Cometh the hour...

Speaking of Trobby, speaking of Demons (weren't we? Oh)... suck on this little beauty.

I was speaking with a time-worn Drunk a few weeks back who, I was surprised to discover, didn't realise that our very own Trobby is honest-to-god Metal Royalty. 

You want proof? Glad you asked:

So there is a Demon after all... 

Yes, 12 years finals-less is a hell of a long time, but nowhere near as long as 54 years flagless. Slim Pickens in anyone's language. But as the Dalai said to me via Skype after the Big Win on Sunday eve "Oh, sorry Dick, I thought I was calling my local Thai".

There we are, still 4 potential winners if you drive your imagination to the top of the Dandenongs point it downhill and take the handbrake off. Lloydy's had it in hand since about round 10. Phil got a finger on it for a bit, but unless it spills from his hand when he hits the ground you'd think it's his.
Good night, good luck and god bless.

R22: It's time to give it up or get rocksteady.

Unfortunately time is up for the brave and tenacious Alex Johnson. 6 years coming back from multiple knee injuries, a meagre 1 game and 20-odd minutes of footy and he's out with his 6th ACL.  I was there, it was a small bit devastating. I could have played 'Loser' here instead but that seems a tad ungracious.

Johnson may be the one person who's had a worse footy fortnight than me. Once again the writing is on the wall for both my tipping year and my Demons. I've called the graffiti removalists, they said there's nothing they can do.

But the bad news doesn't stop there, here's someone else who's given up all things footy, and everything else. This is my favourite bit of Aretha. Thank you Your Majesty.

The Drunk ladder looks exactly the same as before but it's really totally different.

Lloydy still leads next-comer Phil by 2 with 2 rounds to go. But Trobby's come from the clouds like a good Melbourne Cup stayer, he's also just 2 off the lead having made up 5 games on Lloydy in the past fortnight.

Lee's made a charge too and sits 3 games adrift is possibly close enough if good enough.

Coxy Catfish has also made a belated rush, but you'd have to think it's too little too late.

I've plummeted like a greased stone, having lost 7 games by less than a goal in the past 2 weeks, just when I was about to take the lead, so I'm in a deep sulk.

Good luck to all for the homeward journey and may the second best Drunk win. That Jackpot is still sitting there 

Round 19: Pressure mounts. Rides away.

It's all too much. Make it end. The fear of failure, yet again, has killed any notion of joy. Hate trumps love. Trump hates love.